More magically sexswapped!Jackson, a bit of Peter/Jackson
And when Peter says fine young lady, he means fine. Jackson’s looks were always enough to make Peter drop what he was doing if only just to stare, but as a woman the cheekbones, the lips, the jaw make him salivate, a wolf over meat. He can’t even pin a number on how many times he’s imagined doing just this, getting a firm hand on Jackson with no intentions of letting go until he’s full and sated. Especially when Jackson’s hyped up and furious like this, jaw tight and muscles tight and spines tight like a snake set to spring.
“You’re fucking sick,” spits Jackson without preamble and, well, no real evidence to the accusation either.
Still, a chuckle rumbles from Peter as he buries his nose into Jackson’s throat. “Then fight me,” he says, curling a lick around Jackson’s jawline. There’s a split moment when Jackson’s eyes go wild, when Peter thinks Jackson might take him up on his offer, but nothing more than strangled frustration comes from it in the end.
So when Peter presses a victorious kiss to the corner of Jackson’s mouth, Jackson stiffly returns it and furthers it, parting his lips. He tastes just as Peter imagined he would: all youth and warmth and hate and sex. He tightens his grip, crushes Jackson to him so he can delve further, deeper, relishing the swell of breasts against his chest. Jackson simply goes with the movement, claws the back of Peter’s shirt.
“Fuck,” Jackson blurts, their lips still crushed together. “Jesus fuck. Fuck!” he finishes in a squeal when Peter slips a hand into Jackson’s ill-fitting jeans. His hips jut forward, roll into the curve of Peter’s palm.
Peter purrs against Jackson’s cheek. No panties, no boxers, no anything. He can’t say that he’s surprised.
It’s hotter here, liquid fire licking at his fingers as they venture further and further back through coarse curls to the damp seam of Jackson’s cunt. He rolls his thumb at his clit and Jackson whimpers, eyes fluttering shut, and rocks against Peter’s hand. “Fuck—Peter—”
“Have you touched yourself like this since you changed?” Peter wonders aloud, his teeth finding Jackson’s ear. He expects Jackson’s tight, jerky nod, but his curiosity is far from sated. “Has someone else touched you?”
That doesn’t get an answer right away. Jackson instead pants between them, jaw going slack, and reaches a hand down to encourage Peter’s between his legs. Peter punches a sweet, girlish grunt from him, though, when he pushes at his clit hard.
“Am I your first man, Jackson?” singsongs Peter.
A dark flush creeps up from the neckline of Jackson’s t-shirt. He ducks his head. “No.”
Oh. Peter’s brows shoot up. “Who?”
“Scott,” Jackson sighs after a moment and oh. Oh. Well.
Luckily Peter doesn’t mind coming in second place. He’s always had a dangerous infatuation with silver.
Peter’s grin returns, all teeth. He curls a finger at Jackson’s entrance, wet and ready from the slick that’s already soaking through Jackson’s jeans. “Oh, he must have been so sweet to you, pup. He worshipped you, didn’t he?”
He doesn’t bother waiting for a response. He just eases his finger inside, slow slow slow, and Jackson sighs again, his head nudging up under Peter’s chin, hair soft now that he doesn’t use mousse or anything. He’s fiery inside, hot and wet and beyond perfect for Peter’s cock. Jackson’s cunt squeezes around his finger hungrily; he crooks it, rolls his thumb, and Jackson hums pleasantly, ruts into his hand.
“I’m afraid I won’t be as nice,” Peter promises too low for Jackson to hear.
