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Stiles felt the color flush to his face and his ears full of cotton for a moment. This certainly wasn't happening, he thought, I am having hallucinations from a stroke or something. He realized his mouth was hanging open and snapped it shut. Stiles and Jackson were sitting on opposite sides of a poker table in the Whittemore's spacious screened-in-porch. Cards and chips and beer cans littered the surface. Jackson's iPhone plugged into speakers quietly playing some alternative band that was pensive and artful in a way Stiles assumed Jackson never was.
Jackson returned for summer vacation (he called it 'summer holiday,' which drove Danny crazy) early July, and spent nearly all of his time with Danny, and since Danny was now spending nearly all of his time with Stiles, the two found themselves drinking together, alone, after Danny called it a night and stumbled off to sleep in the Whittemore's guest house. This left Jackson and Stiles alone in the early August heat.
It'd been an unusually muggy and humid summer, and this night was no different. Even though it was the early hours of the morning, the air was thick. The ceiling fan quietly cut through the air above them, but failed to make much of a difference.
Stiles's eyes were locked with Jackson's, who arched an eyebrow. "I said, hands and knees, Stilinski." Jackson's voice was measured and cold, but with a lilt of playfulness. He sipped his gin and tonic, a favorite drink after a year in London. Stiles felt himself thicken in his shorts.
"Uh... I-"
"Didn't tell you to talk," Jackson cut Stiles off and swirled the lime slice in his drink. "Don't make me tell you again." His voice was harder this time, and Stiles felt a force pulling him down.
"Y-yeah..." Stiles stood up and drained the rest of his beer. It was his seventh or eighth of the night. His X-Men boxer-briefs felt far too tight against his half-hard cock. Again a flush overcame his face. "Where do," his voice cracked, "where should I go?" Stiles felt silly, asking Jackson that, playing along, but at the same time, more turned on than ever in his life.
"At my feet." With Jackson's simple reply, Stiles felt a head rush. Jackson turned his chair so he was facing away from the table, giving Stiles room to maneuver. Stiles slowly walked around the table, like he wanted to keep from startling a deer, to stand in front of Jackson. Jackson was wearing one of his proud smirks and nodded at his feet. Stiles awkwardly dropped to his knees, then after a beat, fell to his hands.
The wood flooring was warm to the touch and crickets and summerbugs hummed in the woods behind the Whittemore's house. Stiles couldn't tell if it had been two seconds or two hours since he got on all fours. He realized his eyes were closed, blinked them open and slowly turned his head to the left to look up at Jackson. He was wearing a fitted white tank top and loose fitting silver gym shorts. Jackson sat with his knees wide apart and for a split second, Stiles could see up the leg of the shorts and caught a glimpse of Jackson's black briefs.
"Eyes forward, slut," Jackson's voice was almost a purr, low enough that Stiles wasn't 100% sure he hadn't imagined it. "You don't get to look at me unless I want you to," Stiles snapped his head forward anyway, and the insult sent a pleasurable tingle shooting through his back, starting at his shoulder blades working down to his crack. Jackson had insulted him hundreds of times throughout childhood, but this was the first time Stiles actually liked it.
Stiles was short of breath and rock hard in his pants. He felt warm pressure on the small of his back. Jackson used his toes to push up Stiles's worn baggy t-shirt to expose the small of his back, then rested his bare feet on him like he was an ottoman. "You makes better furniture than a human," Jackson said, barely a whisper as he took a sip of his drink. Stiles felt a swell of humiliation rush over him. Why the hell was he letting Jackson talk to him like that, let alone treat him like a footstool?
"Slow your breathing," Stiles didn't ever realize how fast he'd been breathing until Jackson brought it to his attention. "You're safe, I won't let anything bad happen to you." Jackson reached down and scratched the nape of Stiles's neck. Stiles let his head drop down and he closed his eyes.
"Why are you doing this?" Stiles couldn't help but ask. His voice was small, lacking the aggressive sarcasm he usually had toward Jackson. He unconsciously spread his knees a bit and arched his ass toward the ceiling. "Why am..." Stiles'a mind was blank, he couldn't think of a single remark. Absent of language, he felt glued to the spot, like Jackson's feet anchored him to the spot, but also weighed nothing at all.
"Because," Jackson's voice was low and slow like honey; Stiles felt himself hanging in every syllable, more conscious of the throb of his pulse in his cock than anything else,"it feels right."