Okay, but this is just “water boy” Stiles. He didn’t make it on to the team, but they all say that he can travel with them, maybe they’ll even let him wear the jersey. And when he gets there on the first game day the team throws him his “uniform” and it’s just this windbreaker and an obviously filthy jock.
The straps are stretched out and the ribbed pouch has started to pill and without even picking it up he can smell it from here. Miscellaneous stains that could be sweat, could be piss, could be cum. He has no way of knowing.
Jackson is fighting a smirk, but his lips keep twitching and Stiles looks to Scott, but his eyes are just cast to the floor, obviously uncomfortable and outnumbered. Stiles is humiliated, but more than that he’s aroused. He bounces back and forth on his feet in front of his classmates, wondering if that’s the point or if he pops a stiffie in this, that they might gang up on him.
The only thing he knows he can’t do is turn around and go back home, tail between his legs. The guys would never let him live it down and he doesn’t think that he would survive seeing his dad’s face break when he realizes that his boy was just being bullied. Again.
He licks his lips and finally just shrugs, undressing as they all stare at him. There’s wolf whistles and crowing when he drops his briefs and they see his unkempt bush and notably small cock. The more they stare, the more it twitches and Jackson’s staring at him like a wolf trying to be patient before it pounces. Practically licking his chops. Cheers and claps ring out every time it twitches enough to bounce and Stiles puts the jack on before he even reaches for the jock, giving them more time and space to drink him in.
When he does grab it, he turns around to bend over and put it on, flashing his grungy, pink teen boy hole at the crowd. Some guys groan, others laugh. Some still are stonily silent in the most incriminating way. Including Scott. Stiles feels wrong showing off to him like this. Scott is practically his brother. But there’s also an illicit thrill to it.
The memories of them as sticky kids playing in the mud. The ghost of all their sleepovers. That unaddressed tension when they hit puberty and Stiles got caught looking, Scott started going on dates, their friend groups started separating. It feels taboo to spread for him, to invite him to stare, to feel arousal when he does.
When Stiles turns back around, he adjusts himself in the pouch for them, lets them see him rubbing the musk of the well-worn fabric into his own groin. Jackson elbows his way to the front and sneers, ever spurred on by the idea of someone else finding confidence. “Alright water boy, time for your first watering.”
He grabs Stiles by the shoulders and pushes him to his knees, fishes his own cock. It’s actually nothing to write home about either. Perhaps longer, but certainly thinner. His pubes are manicured and his nutsack tight, but Stiles can see it fattening at just the prospect of getting to do this. Whether or not it was the other boys’ intention, he sees through whatever veneer Jackson tries to maintain.
So he looks up at the other boy, eyes dark, and smirks before opening his mouth, sticking out his tongue as far as he can manage. He lets drool drip off of it, puts his hands dutifully behind his back and lets a flush travel to his face. He mewls for it, brows knitting, and watches as Jackson gets hard enough at the sight of it, that he struggles to start his stream.
His face screws up in concentration, he changes his weight from foot to foot, stance widening. The boys behind him jeer, ask what’s taking so long, and he has to bark back at them as he shakes his dick, trying to get it to operate how he wants. He closes his eyes for a second and a thin fart peels out to the dismay of the crowd, but the stream finally starts up.
It’s spattering and thin at first, but he gains confidence and pushes, soaking Stiles in the splash. He opens his eyes again to grin, with teeth. Stiles looks past him to see Scott staring, eyes shining, hunched over himself to try and hide his own tenting bulge. Stiles feels feral. He feels betrayed and blissful and angry and lewd. So he catches his best friend’s eyes and winks at him before leaning into it, catching Jackson’s cockhead in his mouth and gulping at the deluge.
Boys clatter against the lockers. Scott starts leaking spunk down his legs. Jackson yelps then groans, reaching forward to take a handful of Stiles’ hair and grind into him. His shorts fall down past his flat, freckled ass and the whole team has to watch as he loses any semblance of control, any illusion this was hazing, and just starts fucking Stiles’ face with abandon.
His back dimples and his ass clenches and he stands on his tip toes as he moans and cums down Stiles’ throat– their queer affair made public for everyone in the school to see. Stiles pulls off of him with a pop and a smack. He laps his cock clean, snuffles at his now sweaty balls, and leans back on his knees to let everyone see him rub the piss into his skin– show off the cum cupped on his tongue.
He pinches his nipples and drinks his load and gropes his bulge and asks if anyone else needs to use him. There’s a tense silence for a moment before a line forms. They’ve only got a half hour before they’re supposed to be on field, and it seems the guys were saving up for him.
He may not have made the team, but Stiles isn’t all that upset about it anymore.
