Work Text:
Once again, Stiles’ life has decided to take this sharp turn into Clusterfucksville, and he finds himself sitting on the edge of Jackson’s bed, watching as the other teen preens in front of the mirror. Though the silence is thick and awkward, it’s still better than the alternative, which was probably taking a fist to the face. Still, there’s something bugging him that’s making him fidget.
“So, erm, you do this often?”
It comes out a touch more suggestive than he intended and the look Jackson gives him is just so scandalized, so horrified and embarrassed and pissed that Stiles can’t stop the shaky laugh the pulls from his throat. Yeah, normally that look would be enough to send him bracing for a face-full of fist. But when Jackson’s rocking these cute, red shorts that only reach mid-thigh (if that) and this flowy cream-colored blouse with black details over it, Stiles is struck stupid in a perpetual limbo of amused and turned on.
Okay, so it isn’t some elegant form-fitting dress or sexy lace lingerie—and, yeah, he’s a bit bummed about that—but, this … this is still, you know … yeah. Man, there are no words for how attractive (read as: pretty fucking hot) Stiles finds Jackson right now.
Especially when, fuck, Jackson juts a hip out like that and folds his arms and is he taking lessons from Lydia or something?
Jackson’s jaw may be tight, his stance aggressive, but he still has his bottom lip between his teeth and his eyes flick over Stiles’ face frantically, unsure. It appears the douchebag in Jackson is outweighed by the insecure puppy when he says, honestly, “Now and again. More often since, you know, I changed. You’re the first person I’ve told,” he adds off-handedly, like it doesn’t matter, and that’s the closest Jackson’s ever gotten to opening up.
“I—Okay.” Stiles files the revelation away gratefully, nods and licks his lips. “Well, you look good.”
The other teen lights up a bit, though he tries his damnedest to hide it.
It’s not the response Stiles wants. “Like, drop-dead gorgeous, man. You’re beautiful,” he presses.
A blink, then a genuine smile is drawn out of Jackson; Stiles wonders for a moment how those lips would look with just a swipe of tinted gloss, his eyes and lashes dark with eyeliner and mascara. The conjured images offer a tremor of excitement and send blood pooling into his groin, forcing his heart to beat a little faster.
He makes a half-hearted attempt to put a stamp on it, but Jackson’s already caught the scent if his confused expression is anything to go by.
“What the hell, Stilin—”
“So, I was thinking,” Stiles butts with shaky laughter and more confidence than he’s ever thought he had. “What are you planning to do to keep me quiet, Jackson? Because I think I have some ideas—”
Jackson stares for a moment, then sniffs, his brow creasing. “That’s not even funny, Stilinski.”
“Seemed funny to me,” Stiles offers with a shrug and a grin. “Not ha-ha funny, I guess, but—oh my god!” He practically shrieks and scrambles back on the bed when the heel of Jackson’s strappy little black shoe presses against his crotch with the threat of digging in. He barely makes it to the headboard before a hand grips his ankle and drags him back to the foot of the bed with ease. Stupid werewolf strength. “Whoa, wait, Jackson—!”
“You’re not telling a fucking soul about this,” Jackson spits, his nose suddenly barely an inch away from Stiles’. His eyes flash that blue and Stiles is caught—and disturbed—by how hot that makes him. “You know why, Stilinski?”
Stiles only stares, fighting so, so hard not to kiss that nasty look off of Jackson’s face right now right about now and, whoa, when did that actually become an issue in his life?
Jackson continues, oblivious (or simply indifferent) to Stiles’ internal struggle. “Because, I’ll tear your fucking throat out, with—”
“Your teeth?” Stiles finishes, truly laughing now. “Might wanna work on some original threats there, Jackson. Besides, I can’t take you seriously when you’re dressed like that.”
Jackson looks wounded. “Because you think it’s stupid.”
“Because I think you’re gorgeous, remember?” Stiles insists. “Can’t you smell it on me with your crazy werewolf senses or whatever?”
When that pained look of disbelief and confusion cross over Jackson’s face, Stiles really does kiss the look off this time, his hands reaching and slipping into the back pockets of those cute little shorts. And, it feels so perfect, you know, until Jackson jerks away three seconds in. Stiles pulls his hands away, prepares himself for a hit, or a yell, or something from douchebag Jackson, but instead he gets this pathetic, disbelieving twist of lips from puppy Jackson.
“Jackson …”
“You won’t tell, right?” Jackson demands, unable to hide the trembling in his voice. “Seriously, I need to know you won’t tell anyone, Stilinski.”
Stiles swallows loudly as he nods. “Your secret’s safe with me. I won’t tell a soul.”
Jackson’s eyes flutter shut as he scans his heartbeat for the lie, flick open when he finds none. Then, Stiles suddenly ends up with a lapful of pretty, pretty crossdressing werewolf, a tongue lapping its way into his mouth. As Jackson clutches at him, moans into the kiss and Stiles bunches soft fabric of the blouse in his hands, Stiles figures that Clusterfucksville isn’t that bad of a town if this is how the locals treat visitors.