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“Why the fuck did you do that?” Jackson is tense and staring at Stiles like he’s just done something incredibly horrible.
“Dude. I just kissed your forehead, chill.” Stiles refuses to give Jackson the satisfaction of seeing his face blotchy with a blush, so he’s just going to pretend that he didn’t accidentally forget himself and brush a kiss across Jackson’s forehead before standing up to go to the kitchen.
“There’s nothing ‘just’ about that, dumbass.” Jackson reaches up to rub the spot that Stiles kissed not even a minute ago. “Wait. Do you kiss McCall on the forehead?”
“Sure. He’s my brother from another mother. I kiss him on the forehead and the cheek and even the mouth.” Stiles doesn’t actually kiss Scott all that often, but there have been times when he’s done all of the above, not in a sexy kind of way, so he’s not lying. He’s learned to keep his statements based in truth when around werewolves because of their built in lie detectors, and the trick helps him escape another inquisition successfully when Jackson narrows his eyes at him.
“I’m not your brother.” Jackson studies him closely. “We aren’t even best friends, are we?”
“Not anymore,” Stiles adds, giving Jackson a pointed look. “And whose fault is that again?”
“It wasn’t mine. You weren’t really sorry for spilling paint all over my new Star Wars backpack because you were just jealous that I got one and you didn’t,” Jackson says, tone snide and pompous in the way that used to grate on Stiles’ last nerve until they actually did become friends again. Not that either of them is to prone at acknowledging the second chance at friendship they’ve been given. “Your mom made you apologize, and I wasn’t going to forgive you when I knew you were lying to me. You’d told me we’d never lie to each other, and you broke that promise.”
“We were nine years old at the time,” Stiles says, agitation in his voice as he glares at the smug smile on Jackson’s face. “I was too young to intentionally break any promises, asshole.”
“Whatever. It was a long time ago, and it doesn’t matter now, does it?” Jackson huffs. “But it’s still your fault our epic best friendship in the entire galaxy was forever ruined and tainted with betrayal and lies.”
“You’re so fucking melodramatic at times.” Stiles snorts and shakes his head. “I said I was sorry, and you chose to continue being pissed off and sullen instead of just accepting that I’d fucked up, the way you had multiple times during the four years we were friends.”
“Five years. And it was best friends,” Jackson interrupts, actually pouting as he looks up at Stiles. “You can’t forget the key word, Stiles.”
“Right. Best friends.” Stiles makes a face. “Anyway, you’re the one who started sitting with perfect Danny at lunch and playing sports instead of video games and being a total jerk face. Also! I know you gave him a Star Wars backpack because he told me when I asked him where he got his.”
“I got it for you!” Jackson snaps, eyes flashing blue before he’s back to pouting. “I was just messing with you by showing mine off, but I’d got my mom to buy you one, too, because Star Wars was your thing anyway, not mine. But then you threw the paint on it, and I was mad at you, and I gave it to Danny because he said you were a mean brat for messing up my backpack, and he was right. If anyone was a jerk face, it was you.”
“Oh.” Stiles blinks at Jackson because he never knew that. Of course, all this happened like eleven years ago, but still. If he’d realized, he probably wouldn’t have lashed out with the paint like the childish asshole he’d been at the time. “Well, okay, whatever. You still started picking on me when I was hanging out with Scott, and you were always trying to make me fight with you because you’re a douche.”
“You were my best friend, not McCall’s.” Jackson huffs. “I didn’t like him getting his wheezy paws on you and calling you his brother and shit. Besides, it never bothered you whenever I was fighting with you. You always seemed to enjoy it, so don’t play now like you were bullied and scarred from my behavior.”
“You don’t get to ignore me and make a new best friend then get possessive because I go out and make a new friend. Life doesn’t work that way.” Stiles picks up one of the pillows off the sofa and throws it at Jackson’s smug face. “I’m getting some juice. You want anything?”
“Yeah, I want to know why the fuck you kissed my forehead, dumbass.” Jackson throws the pillow back at him. “We aren’t kissy friends. You certainly didn’t confuse me with McCall because I’m much better looking and superior in every way possible. God, it disgusts me even having to compare myself with him hypothetically. Look at the things you make me do, Stiles.”
“Your modesty is your best quality, in fact,” Stiles says dryly. “Scott’s way nicer than you are, asshole. And, I already told you, we aren’t discussing kisses of any kind, so just drop it.”
“No. I’m not dropping it.” Jackson is like a damn hunting dog who has smelled blood and won’t leave it alone now. “You can’t escape me, either, because we live together, and I can totally change the alarm code to trap you here until you answer my questions. Don’t think I won’t; you know better. You just need to tell me why you kissed me, and I’ll drop it.”
“I didn’t kiss you!” Stiles turns and glares at him, narrowing his eyes when he sees the smirk on Jackson’s lips. “It was a forehead kiss. Like old people do to their grandkids and like parents do to their kids. Don’t make it sound all suggestive and shit. It wasn’t like I propositioned you for sex.”
“Your lips touched my bare skin.” Jackson is totally getting off on this, enjoying making Stiles a little flustered and defensive, and Stiles wishes he could hate him for it but, fuck, he’d be the same if the situation was reversed. “That’s a kiss. You can Google the definition if you need to make sure.”
“I know what a kiss is, asshole. I said drop it.” Stiles deliberately turns his back to Jackson and walks into their kitchen. Crossing paths with Jackson in DC was a total surprise, but it’s proven to be a good one because Jackson can afford a nice townhouse in between Stiles’ campus at GW and his own campus at Georgetown. The amount of money this place costs is more than Stiles is likely to make for ten years with the FBI, maybe twenty, so he definitely appreciates Jackson inviting him to live in the second bedroom.
Living on campus had sucked ass, so he’d have been willing to do just about anything to get out of the dorms. Living with Jackson isn’t as bad as Scott likes to make it sound, even if they’ve become so comfortable with each other and their animosity has sort of become a flirtatious form of foreplay more than anything mean-spirited and serious. And, yeah, there’s been a couple of years of jerking off to thoughts that are definitely not appropriate for two bros living together as friends, but Stiles is sort of used to finding his friends attractive because, hell, most of them look like they should be models, and he’s a weak human with a lot of hormones that need channeled sometimes. Like twice a day with a little help from his right hand.
“Are you sure you know what a kiss is, Stiles?” Jackson asks, interrupting the momentary quiet of the kitchen because of course he’s not letting this go. “Because you’re denying that you kissed me, but putting your mouth on my skin is the very definition of a kiss.”
“Again you make it sound sordid and sexy instead of chaste and affectionate,” Stiles mutters, cringing when he realizes he just said affectionate out loud. Fuck his life. “I mean, it was just a forehead kiss. Get over it.”
“I already told you that there’s nothing just about you kissing me.” Jackson is quieter this time, less smug sounding, and Stiles turns from the fridge to stare at him. Jackson arches a brow and looks at him with this quiet intensity that makes Stiles’ heart beat a little faster. “But I think you still need a clarification about what a kiss actually is.”
“What kind of clarification?” Stiles asks softly, feeling a tension in the air that he’s felt multiple times over the last three years since they reunited in DC by chance. This time, instead of shrugging it off or ignoring it, Jackson takes a step closer to him.
“This kind,” he whispers right before his lips press against the corner of Stiles’ mouth. Jackson pulls back and blinks at him. “See the similarity now?”
“My mouth isn’t the same thing as your forehead,” Stiles says, staring at Jackson’s lips for a little longer than he probably should but, damn, they’re great lips. He’s thought about them often, wrapped around his dick or kissing him or brushing against his body.
“You said your kiss wasn’t a kiss. That was the corner of your mouth, so it wasn’t actually your mouth, though.” Jackson’s hand is on Stiles’ hip, and he’s not entirely sure when it got there, but he likes the warm weight resting there.
“Same difference.” Stiles licks his lips, watching Jackson’s gaze drop to his mouth and feeling suddenly emboldened because Jackson’s not ignoring or pretending right now. Instead, he’s facing it head-on, and that means Stiles needs to step up or he might get left behind. “Here, I’ll show you,” he murmurs before he kisses Jackson firmly on the lips.
Jackson stiffens when Stiles reaches out to touch his shoulder but then he’s practically melting against him, gripping his hip tight enough to leave bruises and tangling Stiles’ hair around his fingers as he returns the kiss. It’s a little awkward at first, trying to figure out the right position and how to hold their heads, but then it’s just amazing. The first flick of tongue against tongue is electrifying, and one of them whines like a wanton hussy (it’s totally him but he’s never going to admit it) before they’re licking into each other’s mouths and deepening the kiss.
It sort of escalates from there. Jackson growls as he presses Stiles against the cool front of the fridge, his shirt riding up, bare back rubbing against stainless steel, and there’s a leg between his, rolling hips and grinding and kissing until he has to pull away to gasp in deep breaths. He bangs his head against the fridge when he pulls back, Jackson chuckling at his muttered exclamation of pain, and then Stiles is pulling on Jackson’s hair and kissing him for laughing at him. Jackson moves his hands down Stiles’ body, gripping his ass and squeezing before picking him up like he doesn’t weigh anything and, hello new kink.
Werewolf strength is obviously going in the spank bank now.
“We should, uh, slow down,” Stiles stammers, tilting his head to give Jackson better access to his neck. Jackson is mauling him, licking and sucking his skin hard enough to leave marks and nibbling on his throat and totally scenting him, and it’s so fucking hot that Stiles can’t help but roll his hips to seek some much needed friction.
“You don’t wanna slow down,” Jackson murmurs, voice husky against his damp neck. He licks a stripe up the column of his throat, sucking on his Adam’s apple before kissing his way up to Stiles’ ear. “You stink of arousal. You’re so close, aren’t you? Gonna come for me?”
“Asshole,” Stiles breathes out, moving his mouth to Jackson’s neck and biting. Jackson bucks forward, shoving him hard against the fridge, and he feels something wet against his ass. Jackson’s hand must have hit the water dispenser, which makes him start laughing. Jackson mutters before he laughs, too. “We’re all wet.”
“You’ll dry,” Jackson says, pulling back to smile at him, looking so damn beautiful that it literally takes Stiles’ breath away. He leans forward and kisses some of the freckles on Jackson’s cheek, vowing to trace them with his tongue later, wondering if Jackson still has them on his body, too, and moving his mouth to Jackson’s as he thinks about tormenting him with his tongue and hands until he’s begging for release.
Goals are a wonderful thing.
“Are you gonna come in your pants like some horny teenager, Jax?” Stiles grinds against Jackson’s crotch, rolling his hips and licking at Jackson’s mouth. “You so desperate for me that you’re not even gonna get your jeans off? You’re so hard. I can feel you throbbing against me. Bet you wish you were fucking my mouth, don’t you? Shut me up with your pretty dick?”
“Wanna ride you,” Jackson whines, gripping Stiles’ ass harder, claws pressing against the denim of his jeans and snagging the fabric. “Such a big cock. Used to watch you shower. Didn’t know I was there, but I’d watch, and I’d think about tying you up and riding you until I was coming all over that smug face of yours.”
“Fuck you,” Stiles moans, unable to stop thinking about a voyeuristic Jackson jerking off watching him shower in the locker room back at high school. “Wouldn’t have to tie me up. Don’t like that. Gotta be in control. You like watching, huh? Wanna watch me jerk off? Wanna see my big, fat dick leaking all over my fingers? Wanna watch me come all over you without being able to touch?”
“Smartass,” Jackson growls, grinding a little harder, knocking the fridge back into the wall hard enough to leave a mark. He kisses Stiles again, preventing him from continuing to talk. The friction is perfect, the taste of Jackson on his tongue, the feel of strong hands gripping his ass and a firm thigh rubbing against his dick. It’s just too much, especially when he lets himself think about the fact that this is Jackson making him feel so damn good and wanted.
Stiles comes in his pants like the horny teenager he accused Jackson of being. He can feel his underwear and jeans getting wet as his dick spurts, the friction becoming almost too much, too sensitive, and he’s not sure when Jackson comes but he has by the time Stiles is clearheaded enough to think properly. Jackson is still rolling his hips as they kiss, still holding on tight to Stiles, and they stay that wait until it starts to chafe.
“Don’t rub my dick raw, Jackson,” he mutters in between kisses across Jackson’s jaw and sharp cheekbones. “You’re gonna need it in good shape later if you wanna ride it.”
“Are we doing this then?” Jackson’s voice is soft, like he’s not entirely sure he wants to ask but just has to anyway. Stiles doesn’t need to look at him to know he’s got that vulnerable expression on his face, the one that says he really, really wants something but isn’t sure he deserves it.
“Yeah, I think we are,” Stiles whispers, pulling his head back and looking into Jackson’s eyes. “If you want.”
“I want.” Jackson licks his lips, staring at Stiles for a moment before he slowly smirks. “And so do you, of course. I’m a great catch. You’re a lucky bastard getting a guy like me. I hope you know that.”
“Yeah, yeah. Real lucky,” Stiles deadpans, lips quirking as Jackson narrows his eyes and goes in for some neck sucking and scenting. Stiles grins and brushes his lips against Jackson’s forehead, stroking his hair as Jackson makes sure any supernatural creatures within the city limits will know Stiles is taken. “Guess this means you finally forgive me for the paint incident, huh?”
“Nah. You’ve still gotta make that up to me,” Jackson says, raising his head and smiling smugly. “But this is a damn good start.”