Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4599690.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Stiles_Stilinski/Jackson_Whittemore
  Character:
      Jackson_Whittemore, Stiles_Stilinski, Danny_Mahealani, Scott_McCall,
      Adrian_Harris, Coach_Finstock, Matt_Daehler, Lydia_Martin, Allison
      Argent, Isaac_Lahey
  Additional Tags:
      Alpha/Beta/Omega_Dynamics, Alternate_Universe_-_Human, Omega_Jackson,
      Alpha_Stiles, Self-Esteem_Issues, POV_Jackson, Jackson_uses_last_names
      deal_with_it, Mating_Cycles/In_Heat, Knotting, No_mpreg, Danny_is_a_good
      friend, Scott_is_in_love_with_Allison, Kinky_Stiles
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-08-18 Completed: 2016-01-08 Chapters: 5/5 Words: 17770
****** Happy Endings are for Winners ******
by whatthefridge
Summary
     Jackson is willing to kick anyone down who gets in his way to
     becoming alpha.
     Except he turns out to be omega.
     Stiles is stubborn enough to pursue him anyway.
Notes
     Hah, I've written original fiction before, but this is my first
     fanfic ever.
     I encourage you to rate/review_this_fic_on_Goodreads. Constructive
     feedback is appreciated.
     Also, casual reminder that Scott is Latino and Danny is Hawaiian.
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Expectations *****
The crowd screamed as the ball crashed into the net, ending the tie and
bringing Beacon Hills to victory. Jackson stood in the sidelines as his
teammates passed him by, chanting McCall's name. Jackson hated the sound of it,
hated how easily people were swayed. No one expected anything out of McCall,
and now this nobody was their hero. Jackson never had it that easy.
"Scott!" Stilinski shouted, pumping his fist in the air as he ran toward
McCall.
Jackson stepped into his path and scowled as they bumped shoulders, hiding his
delight when Stilinski stumbled backwards, limbs flailing as he almost fell on
his ass. "Watch it, Stilinski."
Stilinski blinked at him with those big, round eyes—intelligent but stupid.
Jackson couldn't get enough of them.
Stilinski's attention span shorted out as his gaze snapped back to McCall,
yelling, "Scott! Scott! Where are you going man?"
McCall was running from the stadium, Allison dashing to catch up. Stilinski was
miles behind, struggling through a blockade of bodies. Jackson's chest
tightened as he stormed to the bleachers.
"Dude," Danny slapped Jackson on the back. "Stop looking like you lost."
"He doesn't deserve it," Jackson said. "None of it."
"Listen, I don't know what your beef is, but you need to drop it. Let Scott
have his moment."
"Why should I? He's been dead weight this whole season. The only way he could
have managed those three goals was if he popped a knot second half of the
game."
Danny gave him a look. "You think he went alpha mid-game?"
Jackson grunted, disgust boiling in his stomach. "I don't think. I know."
Increased sight, sound, and smell; better strength; finer reflexes. Jackson
dreamed of the day he'd finally present as alpha. Dreamed every second of every
day, through every grueling hour of training, and it just dropped on McCall
like a lopsided table.
 
****
 
"I'm starting to think you'll never be alpha," Lydia said as she came up to
Jackson.
"The genes need to be activated," Jackson persisted.
"Burning desire to win, yeah, so I've heard." Lydia batted her lashes as she
taunted him with a smile. "I've also heard you're co-captain now. You're
burning, that's for sure."
Jackson clenched his jaw. Coach thought he was being kind when he'd announced
it during morning practice. McCall was valuable as their only alpha, enough to
get Coach to consider him as captain. Instead, Coach dangled 'co-captain' over
Jackson like an olive branch.
The demotion hurt more than Lydia's jab. She was his girlfriend the same way a
Porsche was his car. They looked good together, and that's all that mattered.
"Who would you like instead?" Jackson taunted. "McCall?"
Lydia kept smiling, finger curling around a strand of hair. "I think I'll sit
with him at lunch today."
Jackson wasn't scared, not of this. McCall may have had the genes, but Lydia's
existence meant shit to him. She'd have more luck catching Stilinski—the guy
swooned like a puppy whenever Lydia was near—but she'd never stoop so low.
Stilinski's only chance was to present as omega, the coveted prize among
alphas. A prize Jackson would one day possess.
But first he had to deal with McCall. Lydia's lunch plan turned into a double-
date at the bowling alley. Jackson wasn't worried because he was a decent
bowler, unlike McCall. At least that's how it was before Allison whispered
something in McCall's ear. The air hummed around McCall as he tapped into his
alpha powers. A sharp scent hung in the air like the kind before a lightning
strike, but the only strike was to the pins, over and over again.
Jackson left for the arcade, slamming the buttons at the pinball machine,
needing something to do before he made a scene.
"Jackson," McCall said, approaching softly like a prowling wolf. "Please don't
hate me."
"I don't," Jackson said with a snarl. "Because this is temporary, and you
better watch yourself. Once I'm alpha, you're back to a nobody."
 
****
 
Jackson doubled his efforts. When he dozed, dreams flickered with bloody
toothless gums and snake attacks on the field. Awake, his reflection taunted
him, showing things that weren't there. But Jackson could taste the hidden
power in his veins. He knew this would all be over once he brought it out.
What if it'll never be enough?
Jackson wouldn't listen, wouldn't let the nightmares get to him either. His
body would catch up eventually, would realize he couldn't remain average,
couldn't settle for second-best.
He had a spot in the field he practiced in, a cup pinned to a tree, its bark
peeling from day after day of missing the mark. Jackson kept throwing, and when
he ran out of balls, he collected and started over. Give up. He drowned out the
words with more power in his swings. Every new miss twisted his nerves harder.
He gathered the balls and tried again. Give up. His movements became erratic as
all he saw was the empty cup, every ping off the bark sealing his fate tighter.
Give up. Jackson fell to his knees, slamming his fist to the ground, releasing
a guttural scream as he lurched forward.
"Holy shit!" a voice shouted, footsteps loud and heavy. Stilinski popped out
from the darkness, flashlight flicking across the scene. "Are you hurt? Are you
dead?"
Jackson shaded his eyes when the beam hit his face. "The fuck are you doing out
here, Stilinski?"
"Not stalking you, obviously. Are you okay?"
Jackson was too tired to glower. He sat in the dirt, rubbing his eyes and
erasing any signs of tears. "Don't you have other people to annoy in your spare
time?"
Stilinski fumbled as he turned off his flashlight. "There's a lot of extra
spare time when your best friend is swelling for a girl. Like literally
swelling. The guy will not stop talking about his knot. Allison isn't even
omega, so this is all on him."
Jackson shuddered, not needing this now, or ever for that matter. The area
returned to the glow from the Porsche's headlights, and a big black dot
remained where Stilinski's light bored into Jackson's skull.
"How's practice going?" Stilinski asked as he reached into his pocket.
"Are you here to rub it in, Stilinski?"
"You know, you can call me Stiles."
"I can also call you Loser."
"You're just mad because you've had a bad day." Stilinski plopped down on the
grass, tearing apart a wrapper to what appeared to be a protein bar. "Want a
bite?"
Jackson gave him no response.
"Fine. More for me."
Stilinski shoved the rectangular bar into his mouth, cheeks ballooning up like
he was a squirrel. As he chewed, chocolate smeared across his bottom lip.
Jackson stared at those animated lips with a growing urge to wipe the smudge
off and lick it. That would just confuse Stilinski, and a confused Stilinski
couldn't shut the fuck up.
Instead Jackson snatched the remains of the bar away from Stilinski.
Stilinski was annoyed for only half a second before he smiled and pulled out
another. "I have a whole box at home. Really good for long nights out of the
house."
Jackson narrowed his eyes. "Doing what exactly?"
Color rose from Stilinski's neck and up his cheeks. "Homework."
"In the middle of the woods."
"No. Derek's house is in the middle. You'd have to be stupid to go to the
middle. More like the sides. Sides of the woods."
"Are you keeping tabs on me, Stilinski? Has McCall put you up to it?"
"No, no," Stilinski vigorously shook his head. "Okay, maybe I am keeping tabs.
But not for Scott. He's obsessed with Allison. Stupidly so. Did you know he's
reset his username and password to Allison? Like who does that?" His eyes went
wide. "Did I say Allison? I meant Amadeus. He's ridiculously into Mozart…"
Jackson put his hand up. "I don't give a shit about McCall's porn."
Stilinski eased up. "Anyway, so I was thinking you're probably having a hard
time, and I figured you'd like the company."
"And what makes you believe I want yours?"
Stilinski fucking smiled. "Because you haven't kicked me out yet."
"But I'm so very, very tempted."
"Oh, come on," Stilinski elbowed him like they were best friends forever, "You
love being doted on."
"Says you."
"Says the entire Beacon Hills population, Mr. Popularity."
Jackson looked away, blinking rapidly to hold back the water in his eyes. More
like Mr. Disposable. Replaceable. Forgettable. He bit into Stilinski's bar to
avoid speaking. Behind the hit of chocolate and sugar was a trace of
Stilinski's spit. Jackson wasn't sure how he tasted it, only that with it came
a weird itch beneath his skin and higher awareness of the body beside him.
"You should leave, Stilinski," Jackson said in a cold tone.
"What did I say this time?"
"Just go already. We'll never be friends, so you can stop wasting time on
whatever the hell this is."
"Are you feeling all right, Jackson? You're heating up."
Jackson smacked away Stilinski's hand. "Don't touch me, Loser."
"Oh, yeah, great time for name-calling. I'll make sure they put that on your
tombstone as your last words."
Stilinski had out his phone, a 911 operator on the other line. Jackson tried to
stand, a light-headedness taking hold as he supported himself with the hood of
his car. Stilinski kept talking, words blurring together as he looked Jackson
up and down, something about sick, an allergy attack or food poisoning. It was
probably a fever, his body finally giving out, the silent countdown reaching
zero.
Sweat dripped down Jackson's back as he couldn't catch his breath. He slipped
in and out of consciousness throughout the ambulance ride, somehow still
remaining aware of Stilinski's proximity. Stilinski kept talking the whole
time, saying things like, "I'll kill you if you die," and, "I can't believe I
forgot my flashlight." Jackson had a vague dread that they'd even held hands.
Sleep was a welcome break.
 
****
 
When Jackson woke up, he was in a private room at the hospital. He'd been
stripped of clothes and put in a gown, an IV drip needled in his arm. A heart
monitor ticked in the background as he sat up, feeling an overwhelming pressure
in his bladder. The nurse that checked on him was none other than McCall's
mother, and Jackson wanted to drop dead then and there.
She freed him of the devices, and Jackson rushed to relieve himself.
As he stood by the toilet, giving himself one last flick, he felt a strange
tickle behind his balls. He reached down to scratch it when he felt something
wet. His heart jumped up his throat. Blood? Oh god why am I bleeding? His
fingers weren't red though. He wished they were. Jackson would have welcomed a
hemorrhage in that moment, anything except the pungent clear fluid.
Jackson collapsed to the ground, holding back a scream. No. He wasn't omega.
This wasn't happening.
McCall's mother came barreling through the door, assisting him back to his bed.
Jackson considered tricking her into overdosing him. That would be a far better
fate than he had now.
"The doctor will be with you in a minute," she said.
Jackson absently nodded, not sure how there was anything left to look forward
to.
The doctor explained what Jackson already figured out. It came with a long
speech about what being an omega meant, what changes he'd have to make, how
he'd be courted by alphas. He shuddered at the last bit, not wanting McCall
anywhere near him. He considered moving out of Beacon Hills altogether.
"Have you been in contact with an alpha recently?" the doctor asked.
Jackson furrowed his brows. He did have a fight with McCall earlier in the day.
Nausea pitted his stomach. "Why?"
"Well, usually in latent cases such as yours, it's typically triggered by
contact with an alpha."
"Typically? What else triggers it?"
"Growth spurts. Accidents. Excessive stress…"
"Stress. It was stress. I'm a hundred percent certain of it."
"Jackson," David said as he rushed inside. "You're awake."
"Ah, Mr. Whittemore," the doctor said, writing notes on a pad. "I was just
about to prescribe your son some medication."
Jackson bared his teeth. "I'm not his son! I've never been his son. I wouldn't
have these stupid genes if I were."
"Jackson," David said. "Your mother and I have always loved you as our own."
"Yeah, and look what good that did."
"There's nothing wrong with being omega," the doctor chimed in, handing David a
piece of paper. "These suppressants should help Jackson during his heat. I
recommend it for all my omega patients who don't have alphas to take care of
them."
Jackson covered his ears. Just hearing the word 'heat' made him ill. Heat
happened to other people. Weak people. People who couldn't take care of
themselves.
"Thank you," David said. "I'd like to talk with my son in private."
"No," Jackson said. "There's nothing to talk about."
"Jackson…"
"No." Jackson leered at David. "We're done here."
"He needs his rest," the doctor said to David.
"We will talk when we get home," David said before being led out.
Jackson brought his knees to his chest, ears ringing from the roiling in his
blood. This was the legacy his dead parents left—genes that left him a walking
target. A piece of meat left out to starving dogs. He could bet his Porsche his
legal parents would discuss homeschooling and bodyguards and other precautions.
All his effort gone to waste.
"Hey," Stilinski whispered as he snuck in. He was clumsy as fuck, moving like
an elephant as hinges squeaked, wood creaked, and metal knocks clanged.
Stilinski flailed as the door finally closed, tripping over his own foot. He
caught himself on the knob, making more noise, before he finally got himself
standing straight.
"How you feeling, Jackson?" Stilinski asked as he smoothed his shirt and made a
face like he meant to do all that.
Jackson glowered as Stilinski's perfumed scent invaded his senses. "What are
you doing here, Stilinski?"
"Checking on you, duh. You've been out for nearly a day."
Jackson took in a deep breath. He's always suspected Stilinski abused body
sprays to seem more manly. The odor hit him harder than ever as Stilinski
approached his hospital bed, and with it came shivers down his spine. Jackson
clenched his ass when he felt the wet trickle again, and he held his hand up to
stop him.
"When was the last time you showered, Stilinski?"
Stilinski sniffed under his pits. "After I got home from the hospital… and I
swear I got this from my fresh shirt pile. My pants… oh god when did I wash
these last?"
Jackson pinched the bridge of his nose. This was his life now. "Nevermind,
Stilinski."
"No, it's not all right. You're going through some serious hormone changes, and
I'm week-old pants guy."
"Just lay off the body spray from now on."
"B-body spray?"
Jackson didn't like that confused tone. "Or whatever Manly Man product they got
you to believe will help your cause."
Stilinski's face turned red. "Jackson, you presented because of me."
Jackson doubled up on his glower. "What?"
Stilinski scratched the back of his head, looking to the door and back at
Jackson. "I may have maybe popped a knot last night."
Jackson's knuckles turned white as he grasped the sheets.
"Listen, man," Stilinski said. "I had no idea. You didn't start giving off
pheromones until we got to the hospital. Please don't hate me."
Jackson grit his teeth. Those words held far more weight than when McCall said
them.
"Because maybe this is good." Stilinski's voice hitched. "Maybe it means I'm
finally good enough. I mean, I'll never, ever be as hot as you—never received
those genes. But if I'm alpha and you're omega, then maybe… maybe we could be
together?"
Jackson's eyes widened. "You're in love with Lydia."
"I stopped crushing on her ages ago." He made those puppy-dog eyes Jackson had
only ever seen from a distance. "I'm not stupid, Jackson. Someone like you
would never go for a nobody like me. I doubt I was any more than a speck on
your radar."
"That's…" not completely true.
"Look, it's fine. I am a loser, and you are above me. It's just, ever since
Scott went alpha, you've been looking more and more sickly. It scared me. I
couldn't think of anything except to keep an eye on you."
"Well, you're not a loser any longer." He hunched over, covering his face. "Go
out and enjoy your alphahood, Stilinski."
"I'd prefer to enjoy it with you."
Jackson sucked in a cold breath. "You should leave, Stilinski."
"I… okay, Jackson."
***** Let's Talk *****
Jackson stared at the blood flowing from his knuckle. When he'd punched his
bedroom mirror, the glass cracked and tore the flesh. Shards spilled over the
floor, distorting his reflection. That had been his response to the 'talk' with
David before he shut himself in the bathroom.
His parents wanted to send him to a special omega care center in London. David
said it'd be a place where Jackson could get the support he needed, mentally,
physically, and emotionally. It was simply a nicer way to call him a liability,
something his so-called parents didn't want to be responsible for any longer.
They shouldn't have adopted him in the first place.
Jackson could feel the changes in his body, how he was becoming one big exposed
nerve. The air thrummed with new life, stronger smells and sounds. The looks he
got when he left the hospital were different from the glances he was used to,
the kind that acknowledged his good looks with awe and envy. The people
radiated desire, hearts fluttering a bit at his passage. This should have
tickled Jackson's pride like when he caught girls blushing when their eyes met,
but all it tickled was Jackson's fear. He was used to craving sex, but this
went deeper, like hunger. And it was calling out for someone—anyone—to appease
it.
Jackson watched as the blood pooled at his feet and drained down the shower
sink. When he was screwing around with Lydia, he did it because it felt good.
He was in control. If he'd been alpha, everything would be in his control.
Alphas had every beta and omega at their fingertips—and certainly no shortage
of eager bed partners. It was McCall who was dense as fuck, chasing after
Allison like that. Jackson was smarter. He would have built a new regime, would
use his power and influence to become legendary. Instead he'd become a prize to
attain, coupled with a yearning for a hard cock up his ass.
Getting shipped off to London wasn't really the worst idea. It was far better
than facing a shattered reputation at school. Omegas weren't leaders. They
hardly belonged outside the bedroom, let alone a lacrosse field. Jackson had
nothing keeping him in Beacon Hills.
Well, except for one. And Jackson could smell him through the bathroom walls.
Jackson wrapped himself in a towel before reentering his room. Stilinski stood
by the remains of the mirror, shards reflecting his puzzled expression.
"You okay?" Stilinski asked as his gaze trailed Jackson's body.
Jackson wavered in his stance, confidence fading as shivers passed through him,
goosebumps dotting his exposed flesh. Something in Stilinski's eyes pierced
harder than any beta could.
"You're not invited," Jackson said through his teeth.
"Yeah, well, I'm already here, so either we're sharing the food or I'm gonna
eat it all myself while staring at your ass. Not literally. Okay, maybe
slightly literally."
Jackson vaguely registered the stack of pizza boxes on his desk, along with a
liter of soda and bag of Reese's. "How the hell did you get past my parents?"
Stilinski shrugged. "Said I'm the alpha who brought you to the hospital the
night you presented. They were all like, 'Oh wait, you're the Sheriff's kid,'
before telling me you had some sort of tantrum and smashed a mirror in. Looks
like you stopped bleeding, but that's to be expected with omega healing. I'm
thinking you can use a massage and a long nap, or we could chill with pizza and
a movie."
"You came to claim me."
"Well, I mean, maybe. If you'd let me. After you stop giving me the death
glare." Stilinski threw his hands up. "Have you considered you're not the only
disappointed one?"
Jackson quirked a brow.
"You don't like me as alpha, well, tough luck. I've been looking forward to
presenting as omega, and this whole switcharoo has ruined years—years!—of
planning. I was going to be the prettiest, most desirable damsel in all the
land, and alphas were going to line up to romance me. If I was treated as
anything but a princess, I made Scott promise to wreak havoc on my behalf. He'd
go from suitor to suitor threatening them bodily harm if they ever hurt me. It
was going to be epic."
Jackson had no doubt Stilinski was telling the truth: his heartbeat had stayed
steady the whole time like he was sincerely peeved his elaborate fantasy was
ruined.
"I'm sure McCall's pleased to be relieved of his duty."
"He's more pleased I'm not distracting him from Allison. I remember this one
time I got sick of waiting and decided to see if I could activate the genes by
force. Do have any idea how mortifying it is going up to the only not-pedophile
alpha in town and asking to suck his dick to check if I'm omega? Derek didn't
even entertain the idea, just slammed the door in my face."
Jackson let out an exasperated sigh. "Only you, Stilinski."
"I'm never getting my tiara now."
"Okay, I get it. You got stiffed. But someone like you marking someone like me?
No one's going to take it seriously."
Stilinski's eyes narrowed as he clenched his fists, the air around him
crackling like a storm cloud. "They will if they know what's good for them. I
may not be the princess, but I sure as hell won't let anyone terrorize whoever
becomes mine."
The electric current amplified Stilinski's scent, made him appear bigger and
fiercer. It was so similar to what McCall had done at the bowling alley, but
McCall never roused Jackson's cock in any way. Jackson rubbed his nose, mildly
impressed by the display.
"You said something about a movie?" he inquired.
Stilinski beamed with victory as he went over to the desk. "I wasn't sure what
you liked so I had to ask Lydia."
"I swear to god I will murder you if it's The Notebook."
Stilinski grinned as he flashed the DVD. It was Hoosiers, Jackson's favorite
movie and the best sports film ever made. The very same film Lydia refused to
watch no matter how many times Jackson pleaded.
Figures. Jackson flared his nostrils and turned away. "Fine, whatever. It'll
do."
It wasn't as though Jackson could concentrate on the movie anyway, not with the
way Stilinski commandeered his bed while Jackson dressed in the bathroom,
rubbing his scent all over the sheets. Stilinski was like a kid in a hotel
room, splaying himself over the kind-size mattress, exclaiming how roomy it
was. Not that it mattered when, either clueless or deliberate, Stilinski inched
closer to Jackson as the movie went on, until they were touching shoulders.
"I'm gonna be real honest here," Stilinski said. "I can't concentrate one bit
on this."
"That would be your usual capacity, Stilinski."
"I just want to get to the good part."
The plea had nothing to do with Hoosiers, and Jackson would know. The pizza did
nothing for Jackson's hunger and the lure of Stilinski's embrace. Just a taste,
Jackson thought as he unzipped his jeans and caught the glint in Stilinski's
eye. A taste to see if it was worth it.
 
****
 
Stilinski was a demon with his mouth, working his tongue and lips around
Jackson's cock like it was his favorite candy. There was no way this was
Stilinski's first time, but it felt too good to fight. Jackson wanted this, and
hell if he was going to stop Stilinski from pushing in a finger or two. He
rolled his head back and clawed his pillow as waves of pleasure rolled through
him.
"So close," he moaned.
Stilinski pumped his hand faster, stoking Jackson's nerves. Jackson didn't
stand a chance as he bit on his knuckle, holding back a cry. Stilinski drank
every last drop like a pro, licking up Jackson's shaft when he was done.
"You're perfect," Stilinski said as he slipped his fingers out and lay kisses
up Jackson's hip.
Jackson steadied his breath, voice weak as he said, "There's no way that was
beginner's luck."
Stilinski sat up and looked at him funny. "What do you mean?"
"How many dicks have you sucked before mine?"
"How many?" Stilinski scratched the back of his neck. "None, besides my own."
Jackson sat up and looked Stilinski in the eyes. "How is that even possible?"
"I was afraid I'd get carpal tunnel, so I started yoga. It's really convenient
once you get the stretch right." Stilinski said it with so much pride Jackson
could only palm his face. "Oh come on, are you going to complain?"
Unbelievable. "I'll assume you've spent plenty of nights fingering yourself as
well."
"Well, duh. It feels amazing."
Jackson couldn't argue with that. It was something Lydia never picked up on,
and Jackson couldn't outright ask her, not when her blow jobs were already
favors.
"Thanks," he said instead. When he went to pull up his pants, Stilinski
clutched the fabric, a hint of pain in his expression. "We can't go further,
Stilinski."
"Because you're leaving for Omega House in London?"
"They told you?"
"Yeah." Stilinski scowled. "Said they're looking out for your well-being.
That's the bullshittiest bullshit I've ever heard. I can hook you up with my
omega street cred. Apps, recipes guides, protective gear. I already know which
brand of meal replacement shakes you're getting."
"For what?"
"For your heat. It's no joke. You won't have the brain cells left for solid
food."
"That's what suppressants are for."
Stilinski crawled on top of Jackson, face inches away. "The suppressants are
shit. Everyone online complains about them. It extends the three days to a
week, impairs your judgment, and feels worse than constipation. It's even known
to screw with future heats. I'd really like to punch your parents for even
considering Omega House. That place is a notorious pill pusher. If they really
wanted to look out for your well-being, they'd connect you with an organization
pairing omegas and alphas for heat cycles." Stilinski cocked his head. "Not
that they'd need to with me around."
"Even so"—Jackson stifled a grin—"I have a reputation, Stilinski."
"You can't run from your pheromones, Jackson. It's always better to smell like
you're having sex than you're missing out on it."
Jackson pressed his lips tight. Stilinski had a very, very valid point, and it
involved Jackson getting laid, and often. Moving out of Beacon Hills meant
finding someone to fill that void. Why bother when I have exactly what I want
staring me right in the face?
"There's one last dilemma," Jackson said.
Stilinski tensed, like he was anticipating the worst.
"There's too much clothing in the way."
 
****
 
Jackson never had a cock up his ass. Stilinski's was long and not too thick,
just the right size for a satisfying stretch. Jackson exhaled as it reached
deeper than any finger, all slicked up and welcomed. He brought his knees up
and wrapped his heels over Stilinski's back. He'd also never had the luxury of
laying back and letting the other person do the work. This was an interesting
change.
Stilinski's expression was somewhere between overwhelmed and overjoyed. He
wasn't going to last long, and Jackson would be a hypocrite to expect better.
Stilinski bent forward, soft lips pressing up to Jackson's mouth. An hour
earlier Jackson would have punched him for trying, but what's a kiss when
Stilinski's already balls deep inside him?
Stilinski's thrusts were erratic, flesh smacking against flesh. Jackson rode
the waves of discomfort, found a place beyond it where his nerves delighted in
the heat and friction. His oily slick coated Stilinski's cock, made sure it
never got too rough.
"Ready for my knot?" Stilinski asked, running his fingers along Jackson's
nipples.
Jackson knew there was no coming back from this. The knot would link them,
physically at first and then becoming something more. Jackson was glad most of
his blood had left his brain. Courage was easy to summon when it'd be followed
by ecstasy.
"Knot me," he said.
Stilinski bit his lip as something thick pushed at Jackson's hole. Jackson
gasped, nails digging into Stilinski's shoulders. The bulbous mass pushed apart
his muscles, opening him up wider than ever before. It ignited his nerves, head
spinning as he couldn't catch his breath. Stilinski kissed him again, holding
him as they rocked together, thrusting gently as the knot made its way deeper.
Jackson let out a high-pitched whine as the knot found his prostate, pulsing
against it. His vision went white as the coiling heat in his pelvis expanded
and rushed out. A jet a cum spilled on his abdomen.
"Oh fuck," Stilinski exclaimed as he pumped his hips faster.
The knot stayed put, holding Jackson at his peak. He hissed as every tug was
like riding a dry orgasm ready to rip him apart. Stilinski finally grunted,
muscles tensing before finally collapsing on top of Jackson. Jackson couldn't
feel the cum inside him, but he didn't need to. He felt Stilinski like he were
a extension of himself—exhausted, hurting, riding a high like none other
before.
"I got you," Stilinski whispered, kissing Jackson softly. He swiped his thumb
over Jackson's eye, wiping tears Jackson didn't knew he had.
"Fuck," Jackson groaned, knot still firmly in place. "What did I get myself
into?"
"I didn't suck that bad," Stilinski quipped, patted his own belly. "Gonna have
to double up on the crunches though. My abs are killing me."
"We should have started in a different position."
Stilinski sighed. "Probably."
"Fuck." He was helpless.
"Shh," Stilinski cooed as he peppered kisses down Jackson's neck. "You're gonna
be okay. Just let me take care of you."
Jackson sniveled as Stilinski weaved his fingers in Jackson's hair, massaging
it lightly as he continued trailing kisses, the wet suction prickling Jackson's
skin. Stilinski's cock was hardening again, its girth filling out his insides.
Jackson whimpered, reaching out for Stilinski's calm.
"That's right, Jackson." Stilinski ran his thumb across Jackson's cheek. "Let
me be your anchor."
Jackson writhed as Stilinski began pumping, more rhythmic than before yet
edging on unbearable pain. The knot was pulsing again, sending out a current
that rose up his spine before dropping to his balls. It pooled in his core, on
and on like it would never release. Rubbing his cock only made the ache worse.
"I can't do this," Jackson muttered.
"It's okay, Jackson. Let it go."
"Stiles, I can't do this."
"Did you just… Jackson, I swear to god…"
Stiles ground his cock into Jackson in short, quick bursts, rattling every last
nerve. Jackson arched his back, letting out a long, guttural cry as the cum
finally sputtered out. This wasn't over though. It wouldn't end until he had
nothing left in him.
"Stiles," he pleaded.
"I have you," Stiles said, a growl in his voice as he doubled his efforts,
dripping with sweat. "Don't you ever doubt that."
Jackson latched on to Stiles's sensations, Stiles's growls growing louder as
stubbornness kept him steady. When he bucked, he took Jackson with him. Jackson
let out a weak noise, the last of him wrung out. He trembled as the knot
finally unwound, breathing heavy like he'd been placed in a choke hold.
Stiles fell sideways and brought Jackson into his arms. Jackson rubbed his
cheek on Stiles's wet chest, Stiles's heart hammering in time with his own. He
was sore and overstimulated and tired. And this wasn't even him in heat.
"It gets easier," Stiles said, fingers tangled in Jackson's hair. "I promise."
Jackson simply nodded, finding comfort in Stiles's reassurance even if he
didn't believe it yet himself.
A chill came over him when Stiles rolled away. It was followed by the rustling
of plastic and Stiles coming back with something in his hand.
"Here," Stiles said, an extra mini Reese's hovering by Jackson's lips.
Jackson let Stiles pop the offering into his mouth, the sugar doing little to
keep his eyes from closing. At least the hunger was gone, purged in sweat and
tears and cum. There was only stillness and the ever presence of Stiles and his
Manly Man perfume, filling spaces Jackson didn't know were empty. He wasn't
sure how he used to live without it.
And everyone was going to know what they'd done.
***** Fallout *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The sun blared over the sidewalk as the autumn chill swept in. Students
clustered by the school entrance, taking in their last minutes of freedom
before the first period bell rang. Just another day at Beacon Hills High.
Jackson checked himself in the rear-view mirror. He ran fingers through his
hair and adjusted the scarf over his leather jacket. He couldn't overlook the
refreshing feeling in his bones or the way his knuckle looked as good as new.
Without the cavernous yearning in his chest, he was almost back to normal.
"You got this," Jackson said as he put on his shades.
He took in a deep breath as he got out of the car, adding a swagger to his step
as he crossed the school grounds. Classmates glanced and whispered, some
pointing, some laughing. They were harmless though, their attraction curbed
alongside Jackson's urges. Jackson was just another piece of hot gossip until
the novelty wore off. He wondered how much Stiles's claim played a part in it,
whether people acknowledged it with any seriousness. How much time would he
have before someone challenged the bond and tried to take Jackson for themself?
"Hey, man," Danny said as they met by Jackson's locker. "You missed morning
practice."
Jackson lowered his shades. "Is that supposed to be a joke?"
"As far as I can tell, you're still on the team."
"For now," he said as he turned the dial on his lock. "What do I smell like?"
"Like Stiles. I'm surprised you let him claim you so quickly."
Jackson quirked a brow. "What's that supposed to mean?" Danny always insisted
Jackson wasn't his type, a blatant lie. If Jackson could get self-confessed
straight guys into him—even before going omega—a strictly gay guy like Danny
was easy business. I'm everyone's type.
"Nothing, never mind." Danny raised his hands. "I'm happy for you, man.
Really."
"Are you?"
Jackson waited for Danny's heartbeat to spike, to uncover the deceit. It stayed
steady and true. Even Danny's scent remained the same, not tinted by any hidden
longing or sharpened fixation, not even a little bit. Not even for his best
friend.
Should I be offended or relieved?
"Listen," Danny said. "I know this isn't how you wanted it, but I think Stiles
is good for you. You'll make the cutest couple."
Jackson scowled and threw open his locker door. He and Danny jumped back when
balloons spilled out, grabbing the attention of everyone in the hall. The only
clue was the pink envelope sitting neatly on top of Jackson's books. Inside the
letter read: "Happy Mating. Sorry for the things I said. Best of luck with
Stiles. I'm cheering for you two! -Lydia xoxo."
Danny smiled. "Cute."
"Shut up, Danny."
"Hey, saves you the trouble of a nasty break up."
 
****
 
Stiles cornered Jackson outside the Chemistry room. Stiles was taller by a
single inch, and that inch made all the difference when he kissed Jackson. What
was PDA when Jackson's scent was a dead giveaway? Like a neon sign advertising:
"Property of Stiles. We're totally banging—see Stiles for details."
"Mr. Stilinski," Mr. Harris said, his face betraying no emotion, "and Mr.
Whittemore. Unlike some of the other faculty, who find your little pairing
amusing, I'm here to remind you this is a learning institution. Please refrain
from exchanging bodily fluids within a hundred meters of the school. In fact,
from here on out, you are forbidden from sitting near each other in my class."
"I'm pretty sure that counts as discrimination," Stiles retorted. "This is
interference with something higher than either of us."
"You mean chemistry, Mr. Stilinski? If you paid half the attention in class as
you do on Mr. Whittemore, you'd know my precaution is for the benefit of the
entire group. Separate. I won't ask again."
"This is illegal," Stiles protested. "I'm gonna call the president. I'll start
a petition. You can't separate us forever!"
Mr. Harris's voice remained level, wicked amusement in his leer. "No, but I can
surely try. Detention, Mr. Stilinski, and I'll have a word with you after
class."
Mr. Harris made a girl by the door swap her desk with Stiles as Jackson took
his place by the window. Stiles's expression twisted as he peered across the
room, bulging eyes and pouting lips. It was dizzying having Stiles so close yet
so far away from arm's reach. Worse, it made Jackson aware of his growing
erection. He looked away only to catch Danny holding back his laughter. McCall
was somewhere between palming his face and shaking his head.
Mr. Harris ended up confiscating Stiles's phone in the first ten minutes of
lecture. He then went off on a tangent on the chemical properties of pheromones
and how they trigger the same reactions in the brain as drugs, emphasizing how
Stiles was on his way to becoming a drug addict. When Greenberg raised his hand
to ask if this was more suited for Biology, Mr. Harris explained why people
like Greenberg were the reason school systems were failing society.
Class felt longer than usual. Jackson made a quick getaway once it was over,
certain Stiles could fend off whatever tirade Mr. Harris had in mind. Jackson
had free period, which meant he could see Coach and sort out the question
that'd been bugging him since becoming omega.
"Jackson," Coach said with a toothy grin, ushering him inside his office. "Just
the man I wanted to see. Sit, sit." Coach waved to the leather seat in front of
his desk. His enthusiasm was laced with an undercurrent of something Jackson
didn't wish to pinpoint. "You missed practice this morning. Wouldn't want our
co-captain getting rusty, would we?"
"Do you really want an omega surrounded by testosterone-driven guys?"
"So you smell a little stronger. I've been re-reading the regulations, and
there's nothing that states an omega can't play. You're one of the best we've
got and there's no way I'm losing you just because you're leaking where the sun
don't shine. Which reminds me, you did the mating thing with, uh, Bilinski? I
tried to move him up to first line this morning, and he said he'd rather quit."
Jackson furrowed his brows. "That bench warmer has been itching for first line
since he started."
"Beats me. The guy goes alpha and immediately quits the team—who does that? See
McCall, he played his cards right. We could really use an alpha double-whammy
on the field. You need to go up to your mate and remind him the thrill of the
sport."
"I'll look into it," Jackson hedged. He didn't need another alpha to compete
with.
"Perfect," Coach said, pumping his fist. "I expect to see you back on the
field, Jackson. We'll crush our competitors across the whole alphabet—A through
Z, alpha to omega."
 
****
 
Practice went surprisingly smooth. Jackson did a mental sweep, noting how Danny
and, thankfully, McCall were the only two apathetic to his pheromones. The rest
of the team was affected, but it tugged at them like a weak gravitational pull,
not enough to overcome their far greater lust for women.
All except for Matt Daehler. Jackson was convinced Matt's crush on Allison
would deter him, maybe cause a fistfight or two with McCall. Jackson could feel
Matt's eyes boring into him, sick with fascination. But Matt wasn't the type to
act out. He'd stay quiet, burning himself up from afar as he held his camera,
taking what little he could for himself. Jackson already had a bet with Danny
over how many gigs of data Allison's image took up on Matt's hard drive. He
wondered how much more he was going to fill.
Jackson focused on the drills, running circles around the other players,
landing every ball into the goal. He didn't care whether it was the sex or the
healing ability that had him feeling this good. Jackson was back on top,
squashing all doubt about his place as captain… co-captain. He couldn't beat
McCall, but he also didn't have to. The more power McCall exerted, the more
Jackson could see right through him, like a radio tuned into a frequency—an
alpha's frequency. McCall had a way he pivoted when he went against the
defensive line, a way he shifted his weight before shooting the ball. It was
enough to broadcast where he'd narrowed his focus, enough for Jackson to
catalogue it for later. Just because Jackson couldn't beat McCall didn't mean
he couldn't find ways to sabotage him.
When practice was over, Jackson kept doing drills as the rest of the players
left the field. They were used to him staying late, didn't question why he
lingered until everyone was gone from the locker room. This time was different,
though. Jackson wasn't about to test how much willpower it took to ignore a wet
and undressed omega. He wouldn't willingly give Matt masturbation fodder.
The locker room smelled rancid from lockers stuffed with sweaty clothes and
gear, from typical guys not giving a shit about their body odor. Jackson always
held himself to higher standards, making this transition easier. He showered
and dressed in fresh clothes before sitting down to thoroughly wipe and
sanitize the rest of his equipment. He figured he had another day before his
uniform needed a wash, another week for his pads.
He didn't need to lift his head to know when Stiles entered the room. Stiles's
soft footsteps were betrayed by his penetrating scent, earthy and fresh, like
the woods after a rainfall.
"Shouldn't you be in detention?" Jackson asked as Stiles came into view.
"Darnest thing how detention has a time limit. Even if that limit gets extended
for asshole reasons." Stiles closed the distance between them, standing between
Jackson's thighs. "How was practice?"
Jackson groaned as he cupped Stiles's ass. "You'd know if you'd been there."
"Okay, bad idea," Stiles said before taking a step back and away from Jackson's
grip. "Can't think when blood's draining from my head."
"Coach wants you back."
"Did he follow up with 'Please, don't make me use Greenberg'?"
"No, but you're an alpha. You're an asset now."
"Jackson, I suck at lacrosse, and you'd be the first to endorse it."
Jackson pressed his lips and nodded. "McCall used to be worse."
"But unlike Scott, I'm never gonna get better. I only started up because that's
what you do in Beacon Hills if you want any hope of popularity, and more
importantly, of getting laid"—Jackson suppressed a remark—"I'm not saying it
was the most successful plan. I just needed something until I presented,
assuming I'd present. Which I did, sort of. Point is, this morning I realized
that A, I'm as laid as I'm ever gonna get, and B, I'm gonna be equally, if not
more, useless when I'm busy staring at your fine ass instead of the ball. I'm
doing the team a favor."
"What will you do instead?"
"Mr. Harris says he'll reconsider his decree if I help him start a Chemistry
Club."
Jackson didn't hide his skepticism.
"Yeah, I know," Stiles said. "It's a long shot. I don't know what his deal is,
but it's not like I'm failing his class either. If fact, Mr. Harris says he's
glad I quit lacrosse. He hopes I'll become a more productive member of society
once the concussions wear away. Then he added thirty minutes to detention
because I asked whether our first act as Chem Club would be cooking meth."
Jackson rolled his eyes.
"Anyway," Stiles continued. "Getting people interested should be easy enough.
All I'd need would be a bucket, a couple of ingredients, and some liquid
nitrogen."
"The hell are you making? Explosives?"
Stiles gave him a look. "Ice-cream."
"Toxic ice-cream?"
"What? No. Jackson, the air you're breathing is like eighty percent nitrogen.
The ice cream would be even less. It's a perfect show of science. Delicious,
mad science. You know what else is delicious?" Stiles bent forward, kissing
Jackson softly. "My dad's out late tonight. I've got a stockpile of sex toys,
and you're going to come over and pick out the ones you like."
Jackson narrowed his eyes. "Secondhand sex toys? You think that'll impress me?"
"Oh, this isn't about impressing you," Stiles said into Jackson's ear. The air
around Stiles crackled as he slipped a hand between Jackson's thighs. Was this
confidence new, or had it always been there, simmering under awkwardness?
"Don't worry, Jackson, my toys are all clean and sterile. But just imagine—they
were once inside me. Countless orgasms as they drove me senseless, body tensing
and writhing. The small noises I made so no one could hear. It's a pleasure
you'll never get from an unopened box, straight from the factory. You have a
conveyer belt of a million duplicates and none of them were ever mine." Jackson
swallowed hard when he caught the glint in Stiles's eye. Stiles smiled, slow
and deliberate. "I want to bend you over so bad right now."
Jackson still had limits. "We're not knotting in this shit hole."
"Dude, we're not knotting for a while. You think I'm some sort of knotting
machine. No, don't answer that. I'm going to screw whatever comment you had
right out of you."
"Not here," Jackson urged, gripping Stiles's wrist. "In your Jeep."
"You hate my Jeep."
Jackson glinted right back. "And I'm going to wreck it."
 
****
 
"Whittemore!"
"What is it Coach?"
"What is this I hear about Stilinski hosting an AA meeting on school grounds?
Is he on some sort of probation?"
"You're thinking Alcoholics Anonymous. Alchemists Anonymous is what he's
calling the Chem Club." A move that also cost Stiles a ten page paper about the
historical significance of alchemy.
"Oh. That's just peachy," Coach said, flailing his hands. "Is it me or is this
whole school going nuts over one lousy ice-cream stall? Is this some magic ice-
cream?"
"I'd say so," Matt said, holding out his camera. There were photos of Stiles
and Lydia in goggles and insulated gloves mixing vanilla and chocolate batches,
an ominous fog spreading across the table and floor. Allison and McCall were
there too, distributing tiny cups and assisting in sign-ups for a long line of
people wanting a piece of the action.
Coach leered at Matt before spitting out, "Submit it to the yearbook! Shoo! Put
the camera away and get ready for the game."
Jackson tightened his expression as Matt followed him to his locker. If Jackson
closed his eyes, Matt reminded him of a water-damaged basement, all sour mold
and rotting wood.
"You never came around, Jackson," Matt said gruffly. "Not feeling like
supporting your alpha?"
"Excuse me?" Jackson drawled. This was one bridge Jackson would enjoy burning.
"Last I checked, what I did or did not do was none of your damn business."
Matt wrinkled his nose. "I was just asking."
"Why don't you run along to your fantasy girlfriend and leave your fantasy
boyfriend to answer to his very real boyfriend about 'supporting,' hm? Oh, yes,
I can smell your hard-on for me from miles away. And as flattering as that is,
let's face it, I'll always be out of your league. Presenting as omega didn't
make me suddenly lose my standards."
Jackson sneered as Matt darted away, guilty and offended.
"And here I thought you'd get milder," Danny said, amusement in his tone before
he lowered his voice and added, "But where's the fun in that?"
Jackson couldn't take the credit though, not for this. He wouldn't even be here
if it weren't for Stiles. He'd be in London, mild and ravenous. Empty and
alone. Hiding from people like Matt because he'd be too afraid of the
consequences. A prisoner of his own wayward lust.
As Jackson got on the field, he saw Stiles sitting in the stands, holding a
poster that read "Jackson is #1" in thick slabs of glitter. Underneath it was
scrawled "No offense, Scott" in smaller, hurried pen. Jackson felt an urge to
preen for him, an urge suppressed the moment he got a whiff of the opposing
team. It was acrid, biting his nose, the sort of stench that preceded questions
over how an omega ended up in their midst and speculation on how he'd perform
in the bedroom.
Jackson closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. He didn't need the added
strength or tight reflexes of an alpha. Jackson was an exposed nerve. Sounds
and smells rippled around him, bodies moving like stones skipping water. If
Jackson concentrated, he could predict whether they were coming or going,
whether they'd stop or pass right by. The stronger the emotion, the easier
Jackson could read their next move, like they were handing him their playbook
and highlighting it too.
Jackson faced off against the other team's captain, a brute whose blood roiled
as he bared his teeth. The guy spat out a slur, loud enough for only Jackson to
hear. Jackson thought of Stiles and how much pride that fool took in his omega
fantasies—everyone adoring him. This guy wanted to crush Jackson into non-
existence, if only to protect his fragile self-image. Tough luck. Presenting as
omega didn't suddenly undo Jackson's years of muscle building.
Jackson had the ball the moment it touched the ground. He shouldered past the
other captain, shoving him off-balance and savoring the sound of his collapse.
Jackson ran freely, dodging players left and right. McCall was open, but
Jackson was taking this to the very end. Two players collided before him, and
Jackson leapt they fell under his feet.
The goalie had a wide stance, loose and ready to stretch. Jackson threw the
ball underhand, shot leaving his pocket just as defense struck his stick and
toppled him. It was already done. The ball flew between the goalie's legs and
slammed into the net.
The stands exploded in cheering, Stiles waving his poster. Next to Stiles was
Lydia clapping.
Coach yelled, "That's what I'm talking about, Whittemore. I knew you had this!"
And he did—for the rest of the game. It may have been a minor match, but it
felt like a championship. By the time it was over, the field echoed with the
chanting of Jackson's name. The Beacon Hills Cyclones won by a landslide and
everyone witnessed an omega lead the charge. Jackson didn't even care how much
more hateful and loud the other team's slurs became. They were leaving in shame
as Jackson raised his arms in glory.
When Stiles ran to him, Jackson kissed the fool before picking him up and
parading him around like his trophy. Stiles was a prize Jackson could be proud
showing off to the world. And Stiles was a man quite content jutting his cock
against Jackson's ribs. They both knew where this was leading.
The perfect ending to the perfect night. Stiles slept over after reacquainting
Jackson with his knot, and once they paced themselves, once Jackson gave in to
the slow burn and Stiles's tender caresses, knots weren't so scary any more.
Hope dangled in front of Jackson, and it was finally within his reach. For the
future. For the heat.
Chapter End Notes
     I can't take credit for coming up with Alchemists Anonymous or the
     ice-cream gimmick. That used to be a real club at my college that
     made ice-cream for club day every year. And I was the one who asked
     if it was toxic.
***** Preheat *****
Jackson didn't need a big, burly alpha to protect him. He especially didn't
need McCall hovering over him like some self-appointed Stiles proxy. He could
could throw his own punches, and he could do it well. His point was proven when
he finally lost his patience and busted up an opposing player's face. It felt
so good Jackson even didn't care about getting benched. Coach only did it out
of obligation as he loudly praised his left hook.
Stiles's protective methods were less orthodox. He didn't need to growl and
flex to be an alpha. He just needed to become buddies with Mr. Harris, the
teacher notoriously remembered as being highly suspicious of real murder twice.
Mr. Harris had been detained and eventually released, but that didn't mean
people believed he was innocent. But leave it to Stiles to go around calling
him "grumpy cat" and "Heisenberg" until Mr. Harris ran out of ways to torture
him. Leave it to Stiles to attend enough private tutoring to give Mr. Harris
reason to treat him as some sort of apprentice.
Stiles was a menace to society, and he was mastering it. He was so good at
playing honest that people couldn't tell when he lied. People who
underestimated the pen chewing, dirty mnemonic writing, straight-A klutz were
also the people who assumed strange shit happened around him by accident. Which
was how most threats to Jackson got settled before a fist fight was even
necessary. It was why Jackson only got into a fist fight once.
Stiles also confused Jackson. He didn't give a shit about hierarchy or
maintaining authority. He only wanted Jackson to accept him, and the
scatterbrain was oddly succeeding. When Stiles declared "I'll be there," he
always meant it. He did it. No thin excuses, no broken promises. Stiles wasn't
seeking favors when he offered to help Jackson boost his grades. He was just
there, always ready and always on top of Jackson's needs. Stiles's neverending
horniness matched Jackson at his worst, but never going overboard. Stiles's
idea of softening the intensity of knotting, when Jackson had to catch a break,
was creating a playlist of terrible music, calling it Fort Knottingham, and
queuing "Never Gonna Give You Up" unironically. Then singing along, because
Stiles was a distraction wizard.
It was as though this relationship would work as long as Jackson simply allowed
Stiles to be Stiles. Which was becoming easier with time. Stiles's antics used
to grate on him, made him want to stomp them out. But what was Stiles without
his flailing limbs and wild expressions? Without his use of peanut butter cups
as the official post-sex snack? Stiles, who enthusiastically watched The
Notebook over and over with Lydia as they plotted how to take over the
world—because apparently she lied about her IQ—and Stiles, who got crossbow
training from Allison as they both whined about McCall and his white knight
complex. The same guy who got them all together for a Girl's Night and came to
school the next day grinning ear-to-ear with his nails painted cobalt blue.
Instead of being startled, as Stiles expected, Jackson offered they start
getting manicures together. It was a Stiles thing to do.
"You're into that?" Stiles asked, eyes wide and searching, grasping Jackson's
hand, the evidence in neatly trimmed and clear-coated nails. "Oh my god, you're
telling me they don't grow out this way? Why you gotta kill the fantasy, man?"
Stiles was lying in his revulsion, swiftly taking Jackson's finger in his mouth
and lapping at it. "We're gonna have to make new fantasies and quick."
Jackson still couldn't get over how Stiles learned to temper his heartbeat, to
shield his intents, but he never did so with Jackson. Stiles only ever lied to
Jackson for performance, when they both knew it was for show. No traps, no
tricks, no conditional terms of agreement.
Whatever doubts tried to linger lost all their traction when Jackson and Stiles
knotted, when their minds mingled in a loop of sensation. Fleeting moments
where no secrets could exist, no walls could go up. Where Jackson had nothing
to give but himself, and Stiles accepted it, as though who Jackson was was good
enough. And Jackson found himself thriving under Stiles's touch, encouraging
the plowing by whining and pleading for more, vocalizing how right it felt.
Stiles didn't make him feel pathetic for it, didn't make it a thing. Like
Stiles understood he'd earned this side to Jackson.
And he'd earned it big time.
 
****
 
"How are you friends with Matt?" Allison asked as the group sat around lunch.
Jackson crossed his arms. "'Friends' may be an overstatement. An inconvenient
acquaintance is more accurate."
"We're in lacrosse together," Danny clarified. "And I also helped fix his
computer once, and now he comes to me every time he needs tech support."
"Yeah," Jackson said. "Plus Ms. Daehler works in the same law firm as my
father. Knowing Matt is an unfortunate byproduct."
"He's kind of creepy," Allison said.
"You're new to this town." Lydia didn't glance up from her nails. "He's fully
creepy. I wouldn't put it past him if he became a stalker."
"Who says he isn't one already?" Jackson admitted. It'd taken all of Danny's
persuasion skills to talk Jackson out of breaking Matt's fucking camera.
Something about backup hard drives and undying wrath. This was best left to
Stiles's expertise.
"What?" The air around McCall crackled as he shot Stiles an accusatory glare.
"It's the way he is," Danny said. "Matt has a way of getting… clingy."
"You mean obsessive," Jackson corrected. "It was pitiful in middle school and
it's obnoxious now."
"Wait," McCall said. "You've known for that long and you did nothing?"
Danny reluctantly nodded. "I'd prefer not to get involved, and Matt's difficult
to shake off once you're on his radar."
"The freak is a parasite," Jackson snarled. "I had a hard enough time avoiding
him before pheromones. He doesn't know when to quit."
"Stiles!" McCall barked. "Why haven't you done anything?"
"I am doing something. I'm waiting for an opening. No, Scott, bad Scott, stop
making that you-can-do-better face. Confronting Matt is like asking for a
target drawn on our backs. Not just me and Jackson, but Allison as well."
Stiles's words hit McCall like a swift kick to the nuts. "What does Allison
have to do with this?"
"Scott, I love you, but really?"
"Sooo." Allison scratched her neck. "I guess I should mention the weird vibes
I've been getting from Matt."
McCall growled as he flared his nostrils, like he was expecting an omega scent
from her. "We have a duty, Stiles," he whispered. "We need to…"
"I know," Stiles cut McCall off. "I don't like leaving things to time and
chance. It's like finding out Matt could have disappeared from Beacon Hills
last year if his mother didn't turn down a position at her firm's New York City
branch. Which, in her defense, is admirable. She doesn't want to uproot her
family from their hometown." A dilemma Jackson's father didn't have, leaving
Jackson here and spending half his time in New York. "The next best option
would be to flush Matt out, but it's risky and could backfire."
"You mean catalyze the crazy?" Lydia mused.
Allison tilted her head in fascination. "What did you have in mind, Stiles?"
The Girl Squad was mobilizing.
"It would need bait." Stiles ignored the holes McCall was glaring into him,
focusing in on Allison. "Which I think is the job for you, Batman. You'd have
to befriend Matt and feed his delusion. Just be nice to him and he'll assume
the rest. I'd ask Jackson, but, let's not kid ourselves, that would set off too
many bullshit alarms." Jackson rolled his eyes. As though Stiles would let Matt
anywhere near Jackson if he could prevent it.
"So you want Matt to lock me in some basement?" Allison asked, rightfully
skeptical.
"Worst case scenario, it'll take you, what, a few hours to escape?"
"I don't know…"
"I won't allow it," McCall snapped.
"I like it," Lydia said. "Smarter to force his hand than get surprised by
creativity."
"This is why you and I get along, Lyd." Stiles saluted her. "Which means you
won't mind if I put you in charge of seducing Matt."
"Excuse me," Lydia exclaimed. "Why am I getting involved?"
"Please, Lyd. A hot girl like you coming on to somebody like him? It's the
perfect forced love triangle."
Lydia scoffed. "And what if I end up in some basement?"
"You won't. Come on. Just do this for me. I'll let you be President of
Alchemists Anonymous."
Nothing ever came for cheap with Lydia. It reminded Jackson too starkly of how
many bargains he'd tried, and failed, with her.
"You want it that bad, huh?" Lydia pouted as she paused to find something to
get in return. "Fine. It's a deal if you let me in on your private study
sessions with Mr. Harris."
"Fine. But I assure you you'd be far safer locked in a deranged man's
basement."
"Stiles," McCall whined. "You can't be serious about this."
"I am Scott. Trust me. I got this under control."
Jackson smirked as the group resigned themselves to Stiles's machinations, even
McCall, who'd grudgingly insisted on keeping an eye out from afar.
Matt was a goner as soon as Allison whipped out her biggest, dimpled smile. She
shot straight for the goal by inviting him out to swim with her. She almost met
a road-block when she discovered Matt was afraid of the water, but, according
to McCall, she'd used an obscene amount of doe eyes and hair flipping to get
Matt into the shallow end. There they talked and talked, with Matt oblivious to
any deceptive reason Allison would approach him, like he genuinely deserved her
full attention and she'd finally realized her mistake.
Lydia, in her spiteful glory, threw a pool party later that week. Matt, torn
between eagerness and unwillingness, was swayed by a preview of Allison's new
swimsuit. Once at the party, Lydia detached Matt from Allison's hip by claiming
she had an old comic book he had to see—a weakness Allison extracted. It
worked, and as soon as they were alone, Lydia put her moves—and lips—on Matt
just as Allison "walked in" on them, prompting an "it's not what it looks like"
misunderstanding. The week after that, it was Allison avoiding Matt because he
was "better off with Lydia."
It was utterly cliche, but Matt ate it up. His idea of a romantic gesture was
to win over Allison by isolating her… forcefully. Stiles anticipated this,
having urged Danny to install tracking devices on all of Matt's devices.
Allison stopped responding McCall's texts around the time she and Matt arrived
at the remains of the old Hale house in the woods. Stiles notified his father,
who sent cops to check it out. They found Allison tied to a chair, almost
finished sawing the rope off. Matt was apprehended, and the rest fell into
place.
Matt was brought into questioning and asked how he intended to get away with
blatant kidnapping. Matt put the blame on Allison, claiming she provoked him,
that he wouldn't have done it if she wasn't so cruel. He needed to make her
understand how much it hurt for her to drag him along for months by dating
McCall, how she was wrong to be friends with Lydia, who'd interfered as soon as
Allison saw the light. Matt and Allison were beta soulmates, couldn't she see
that? He had to make her see. She'd left him with no other choice.
The whole thing was disgusting, and, thankfully, Sheriff Stilinski was no fool.
Matt was forced to get a psych evaluation, a restraining order, and a
suspension from school. Ms. Daehler's shame was so great she rapidly
renegotiated her New York contract, packed the family up and left Beacon Hills,
all before Matt could think of his next move.
A coil of dread unwound from Jackson's gut. He didn't realize how much effort
he'd put into fighting off Matt's advances or how close he'd been to taking
Allison's place.
Matt was gone before Jackson's first heat, and Jackson couldn't be more
grateful.
 
****
 
Jackson checked his heat-tracking app, muttering under his breath. It'd been
over three months since he'd presented as omega, and he was due. He was feeling
it too, a light-headed restlessness as he had trouble concentrating on anything
that wasn't fantasies of Stiles's knot back inside him. It hadn't been more
than a day since they last did it, and that wasn't a good sign.
"You okay, man?" Danny asked.
Jackson grunted and flashed Danny the alert on his app.
"Oh." Danny went silent for a moment as he rubbed his nose. "Yeah, I guess you
are smelling stronger than usual. On the bright side, you get to two excused
days from school."
"It's not the same, and you know it."
"You're just upset you're not attending the dance on Saturday." Danny smirked,
rubbing it in. "The one dance Scott's banned from."
Jackson wanted to say that wasn't the entire reason, but it was a damn big
part. McCall's academic probation meant he couldn't attend the formal, and
Coach even threatened to drop McCall from the team. It was a momentous occasion
made sweeter by McCall intending to crash the party and sneak a dance with
Allison. A trainwreck waiting to happen, and Jackson was missing out.
He sighed and texted Stiles instead.
"Whoa, you must be really bad if you're not grunting at me." Danny clapped
Jackson on the shoulder. "Is there anything I can do? Did you two agree on
where you'll nest?"
"His place. He's got his dad staying with friends. Those paper-thin walls are
no joke."
"I thought you're getting a hotel room."
"I said I'd pay for the suite, but then he sends over this mass of links about
'alpha sanctuary' and 'cocooning.' You'd think I'm coming out of this a goddamn
butterfly."
Danny snorted. "I imagine Stiles wouldn't mind."
"No, he'd go out of his way to make it worse." He pressed his lips tight as his
cock perked up. He needed to get out of school and quick. His phone pinged with
a text. "Stiles says he needs to finish preparations. He'll meet me there."
"What are you gonna do about his bed? I remember something about it feeling
like jagged rocks."
Jackson shook his head as warmth crept up his neck. "I had it replaced a while
back. Give the guy his pillow and he'll agree to anything."
"Well," Danny said, taking Jackson's car keys, "wouldn't want your alpha
worrying about you driving in your current state."
"Not like you to make excuses to ditch class."
Danny shrugged. "Or I'd like to escort my best friend to his first heat."
Jackson punched him. "Unfortunately for you, David's home today and I need to
pick up some things."
"I see," Danny said. "I'll escort you home then?"
"You scratch my Porsche, I scratch your external hard drive."
"I wouldn't expect any less."
 
****
 
Jackson sat in Stiles's computer chair as Stiles zipped up waterproof lining
over the mattress. The mini fridge was stocked with water bottles, Gatorade,
and meal shakes. A twelve-pack of paper towels and the four large tubs of baby
wipes sat by the bed. Stacks of bedding and replacement bedding littered the
floor. Screwed-in metal bars overlayed the open window, letting in a breeze
that did nothing for the smell of ozone in the air.
"Stiles, are you building a nest or a fallout shelter?"
"I'm not taking any risks, Jackson. You're about to become totally helpless,
and I'm not leaving you unattended for even a second."
"Feels like overkill."
"Jackson." Stiles brushed his fingers along Jackson's jaw, the light touch
sending a jolt down to Jackson's balls.
Jackson bit his lip, breathing out very slowly. This wasn't any worse than a
regular knot craving, though, if it were, they'd be naked and fucking by now.
The heat wasn't going to truly hit until after one last round at the bathroom,
and Jackson didn't feel that pressure yet.
Stiles bopped Jackson on the head with a chilled water bottle. "I won't leave
you for a second," he repeated.
"Will there be perimeter checks?" floated from downstairs, David interrogating
Mr. Stilinski.
Jackson chugged the bottle, cooling his insides. He licked his lips, throat
still dry. David was playing overly-protective, but Stiles's dad had him beat.
"Yes," Mr. Stilinski replied. "In addition to our newly installed alarm system,
and metal bars over every window, there'll be a deputy patrolling outside at
all times. And supposing someone did manage to sneak inside, my son knows where
I keep my gun—and how to use it."
Stiles nodded, and from his sly grin, the gun in question was already stashed
somewhere in this room. Stiles even had his metal bat by the door, which
smelled vaguely of pumpkins. There was nothing getting past his alpha, and it
was a new feeling, having someone fret over him.
Jackson tapped his foot, eyes darting across the room as he waited for the
fathers to fucking leave. He closed his eyes to breathe, but all he saw was
skin on skin—skin in skin. God, he wanted Stiles over every part of him.
The doorbell rang, and Jackson perked up. Why was McCall here?
"He won't be long," Stiles assured as Jackson slumped into his seat, more than
agitated.
McCall skipped into the room with several overloaded plastic bags.
"Yo, what the hell, Scott?" Stiles threw up his hands. "You're way late."
"There was a line at the store." McCall dropped his load by the mini-fridge,
opening it to shove more drinks inside. "Dude, what the hell? You said this was
an emergency."
"Jackson's about to go into heat. How is that not an emergency? And why the
hell were you waiting in line if you thought it was urgent? Do you want to give
Jackson Whittemore a reason to hate me?"
McCall's face turned red, scent going sour. "Dude! It's not like that at all."
"Because, Scotty, my brother, my man, the heat is no joke. Jackson will be
entirely dependent on me. I am not running to the store for anything once the
main event begins. And I mean anything."
"Okay, I get it." McCall put his hands up in defeat. "I'm be on call in case
the surplus runs out or whatever. I'll knock down old ladies if I have to. Is
that what you want to hear?"
"You're the best." Stiles pat McCall. "Thanks for helping a brother out."
"Yeah. Sure. No problem." McCall glanced briefly at Jackson. "And, uh, good
luck and stuff… I guess… sorry for disturbing you. I'll be leaving now."
"And take the dads with you," Stiles added.
McCall muttered a "no problem" before dashing down the steps. With the house
empty, it was like this had finally became real. This was happening. Jackson
was giving himself up to Stiles.
"I worry about Scott sometimes," Stiles said as he brought out a bottle of
massage oil. "He means well, but his priorities are sorted all wrong. I don't
think he gets the severity of things until they're staring him in the face or
shaking him down. He won't fully understand until he has his own omega."
Jackson snorted. "He's still betting on Allison presenting. She's more likely
to pop her own knot at this rate."
"You think Allison's alpha material?"
"I can bet on it."
Stiles snickered. "What's the wager? Winner gets a blowjob?"
"No point in betting if you win regardless."
Jackson squirmed as pressure gathered below his stomach. So this was it. It
wasn't a run-before-it's-too-late feeling, just a persistence, like his body
was telling him it was ready. Stiles caught Jackson's expression, heart
thudding.
"Is it time for that which we cannot speak of?"
"Yeah… I guess I should take care of it."
"You, uh, still have the option to stop the heat."
"What?"
Stiles's confidence faltered. "I mean, I don't want you doing this because I
coerced you. You can still drop out. It's better than diving in with a panic
attack."
Jackson furrowed his brows. "I don't think it'll matter once my brain's leaking
from my ears."
"It matters to me."
Stiles still blamed himself for Jackson's panic when they first knotted, even
though Jackson was over it. Stiles brought him through the rough part and
soothed his sorrows, made it possible to look forward to knots. The fear had
vanished.
It was Stiles who had a history of panic attacks. Bad ones, like earthquakes
tearing him from inside. He'd told Jackson how ever since he presented alpha it
was like the cracks sealed, the vibrations no longer strong enough to break
him. Stiles wasn't helpless anymore. There were scars though, a constant
reminder of the battles he'd fought against himself.
Jackson couldn't soothe those. "Moot point since I don't have my pills."
"Oh," Stiles said, pointing to the other side of the room. "I may have snagged
some from your place… just in case."
Just in case Jackson changed his mind at the last second, when it came down to
the final countdown. If his first time knotting was being trapped in sensation,
it'd be only worse now, wouldn't it? Trapped by his own hormones. Okay, that
got his heart pumping in a bad way.
"It's okay," Stiles said, sensing Jackson's uncertainty. "I won't judge you for
taking them. We'll wait out the worst of it, and then I'll teach you the joys
of Call of Duty."
Jackson caught Stiles's arm. "…No."
"No?"
Regardless of everything else, whether he chose the pill or not, one thing
remained absolute: Stiles wasn't going anywhere. He wouldn't abandon him. He'd
see him through. If that wasn't worth trusting, then nothing was.
"Am I worried? Yes, very much. But…" Jackson grumbled, trying to find the
words. Stiles, the sex-addict, was about to go against his own ethics, giving
up a guaranteed sex marathon, just because Jackson was uncomfortable. No one
ever went out of their way for him like that. No one ever cared to.
"I can do this," Jackson finally said. "If it's you, Stiles, I can do this."
***** Formal End *****
The heat wasn't like a lightning strike, searing Jackson inside and out. There
was no distinct point he could say it really began, no point he could separate
it from familiar yearnings. The only thing that changed was how his blood
steadily simmered as the fever grew stronger. Stiles was right to start with a
massage, saving his stamina for the full boil. Jackson understood this, with
what was left of his mind, as his body ached and protested, his ass dripping
with anticipation. He didn't know how much longer he could lie on his stomach
naked and unfucked, hard and wanting.
"Stiles," he said shakily. "Please."
"Not just yet." Fingers dug into Jackson's flesh, neon-violet nails threatening
to break skin. Jackson let out an embarrassing whimper as the stinging pain
reached a place the fire hadn't touched, and, god, was it supposed to feel this
good?
"Stiles! Please. I can't take it any more."
Stiles's voice was low, thick with arousal, as he sighed, "Okay. It's
showtime."
Jackson whined as Stiles grabbed his hips, bottoming out with a single thrust.
"Fuck, yes!" He arched his back, fingers tangling in the sheets. "Yes," he
hissed over and over again as Stiles rammed into him, every spark of pleasure
coiling at the base of his spine.
Stiles's chest was cold as it pressed to Jackson's back, his breath ghosting
over Jackson's neck, teeth scraping his jugular. The room echoed with the slaps
of Stiles's hips greeting Jackson's ass, the world narrowing until nothing
existed outside of need and Stiles and burning heat.
"Oh god!" he choked out, heart skipping as Stiles slammed his knot inside,
followed by a sharp cry as he came hard and fast.
He writhed as the knot buried itself in him, stretching him wide. His vision
spun as the only things keeping him from floating was Stiles's weight on top
and the knot plugging him good and tight.
He exhaled slowly as Stiles whispered, "That's right. Just breathe. I got you."
The current between them surged as Jackson felt how close Stiles was to coming,
biting back the impulse to let it go. He was holding it, nursing it, waiting
until Jackson caught a break. They've been here before. So many times. But he
didn't want it to stop. He wasn't done yet. His thoughts fluttered as Stiles
became an extension of him, the two of them as one. Stiles's shallow thrusts
toggled the knot, and Jackson rode it out, mewling as Stiles kept him on the
high, stoking the fire without letting it consume him.
Jackson's cock was stiff and throbbing, dragging against the sticky sheets. It
was supposed to hurt, to keep going like this. Instead he closed his eyes and
tried not to dwell on more more more, his body yelling for Stiles to fill him,
to empty him, toruin him.
Stiles twisted his fingers in Jackson's hair, tightening his grip until
tendrils of pain curled under his scalp. Jackson bit his lip and moaned.
"You like this, Jackson?"
"Yes."
Stiles grunted. "More?"
"Ye— Aaaah!" Jackson cried as Stiles yanked him by the hair, throwing him into
uncharted bliss as he shot into the sheets again.
"Fuck, Jackson," Stiles rumbled with delight. "You continue to amaze me."
The pace of Stiles's hips picked up, drawing the knot out until it caught on
the rim, pushing it back until it kneaded the prostate. Crashing waves of
ecstasy drawing Jackson under. He needed this to end. He needed this to go on
forever. His lungs tightened as Stiles growled, shooting his load into him,
marking him from inside. Jackson's heart pounded as he gulped for air, another
short jet leaving him.
The knot remained as Stiles went lax above him, nestling an arm under Jackson's
neck. Stiles's labored breath prickled Jackson's skin as he kissed the nape.
"Stiles…" A blanket of sleep descended on Jackson, beckoning him into a dark
furnace.
"It's okay," Stiles said, words thrumming with the current running between
them. "You can go. I'll stay here and take care of you."
 
****
 
Jackson's heat surged, bright white and scalding, as he submitted to Stiles's
will. The more he gave in, the more Stiles took up, and the more incredible it
felt, like releasing a burden. He'd never met this Stiles before, pulsing with
animal ferocity, unrestrained brutality. It made him come and come again.
Violence quelling Jackson's desperation, his struggles urging Stiles to hold
tighter, drive in harder. Bite him. Scratch him. Force him to take everything
Stiles doled out.
He wanted it. Needed it. Couldn't imagine this journey without it. The pursuit
of pleasure and pain consumed him. Filled him up, spread through his veins. It
fed him, sustained him. Starved him. Left him raw, unhinged. Never for long,
never past his breaking point. Stiles's ruthlessness shifting to tenderness so
seamlessly.
Hours blurred between fevered dreams and waking hours, soaking in the stench of
sweat and cum and Stiles. Foggy memories of Stiles's hand in his hair,
wrenching his neck. Of hoarse conversations, snack breaks, speedy showers.
Crusty sheets and damp towelettes. The mineral aftertaste of water and shakes.
Metal cuffs binding him to the headboard, marking his skin, glowing red,
healing, glowing red again. Stiles turning up his playlist and singing like a
drunkard. Stiles snarling and manhandling, guttural cries of release.
Stolen moments before the need swelled and overpowered him, blotted out
everything except the fire in his veins, electric bolts across his nerves. A
controlled explosion in Stiles's trusted hands.
 
****
 
Jackson groaned as he peeled himself off the pillow. His brain memory was shit,
but his body remembered. He shivered as stuff oozed from his ass, some
combination of slick and spunk. The ghost of Stiles's cock thrummed in him like
a jackhammer as he scratched his eyes, crusted over with dried tears. He throat
was still sore from shouting, his skin still pulsing with bruises yet to heal.
Marks burned into his mind even though they'd leave no trace elsewhere.
He was too warm, dehydrated. His body was being too good at converting water to
jizz.
He went to sit up when his left wrist snagged, followed by a loud clank.
Handcuffed to a center bar in the headboard. This wasn't what Jackson had in
mind when he chose this bed frame… though he didn't fully regret it.
Stiles yawned, looking like he wished Jackson had a snooze button. "Jackson?"
"Need a drink," Jackson rasped.
Stiles didn't uncuff Jackson, who was closer to the fridge, as he sluggishly
inched off the bed, dark, heavy bags under his eyes. The floor was littered
with empty bottles, crumbled towelettes, and discarded bed sheets. The place
reeked of sex, like it'd been absorbed into the floorboards. Stiles was right
to refuse a hotel suite; the damages they'd have to pay.
Jackson was careful of the cuff as he rolled to his back and slid up the
mattress, propping himself up with a pillow. Stiles handed him a Gatorade with
a bendy straw before sitting on the edge of the bed, palming his own bottle and
staring into space.
Jackson didn't like how Stiles reeked of worry, like he'd been carrying it for
hours, maybe days. Marinating in it. He took a long pull of the sugary drink
before asking, "You okay?"
"Huh?" Stiles turned his head, meeting Jackson's gaze. "Oh, uh, yeah. Sorry…
tired."
Stiles's heartbeat skittered. What did he have to gain by lying now? He climbed
over Jackson to reach his phone. "Good news is there's only a few more hours
until the seventy-two hour mark. Could be longer. Could be shorter. Not an
exact science." He rummaged under the mattress to retrieve a key for the
handcuff. "I'll take it off if you promise not to wander."
"Okay." Déjà vu. Stiles climbed back over Jackson to unlock him. The skin was
lightly abraded, not even close to the damage there'd be without exceptional
healing. "Would you mind filling me in on why I'm restrained in the first
place?"
Stiles pressed his lips like he were treading on thin ice. "So, listen, every
time I explain this you get depressed, and I don't know how to make it better.
Every couples of hours the heat recedes enough for you to think clearly, like
the heat's not even there. We've had this conversation before. You're so sure
you'll remember 'this time,' but you never do."
Jackson tightened his jaw. "Heat's almost over, though. Maybe this time is
different."
"Maybe." Stiles picked up Jackson's wrist and kissed it. "But forgive me if I'm
skeptical. Do you recall anything about a codeword?"
"Codeword?"
"That'll be a no. Don't worry, it was just a test for your memory."
God, Stiles smelled so defeated. Who knew if his brain would return to mush and
Stiles had to start over.
"I'm sorry, Stiles."
"Every time we go through this song and dance, I'm continually impressed by
your ability to take credit for something completely not your fault. Like, come
on, at this rate you'll burn through a lifetime supply of apologies and where
will that leave us?"
"My memory's shot, but I get fragments." Jackson pointed to his head. "Your
codeword is probably somewhere in here, but it's some dumb thing you could have
said at anytime because you're Stiles."
A smile tugged at Stiles's lips. "Okay, you're right about that."
"Besides, I can remember things like you singing I Like It Rough by Lady Gaga,
but I don't know if that was hours or days ago."
"Oh." Stiles cast down his big eyes as he absently stroked Jackson's wrist.
"Don't read too much into that song choice. I was having a moment."
Jackson rolled his eyes. "Was that moment figuring out that I get off on pain
or that you get off on giving me pain?"
Stiles flushed. "I don't expect it to lead anywhere once we're done with this.
Your brain is just short-circuiting from the hormones."
That didn't sit right. Why would the heat push for something Jackson didn't
want? Why would the lizard part of his brain, the very part thriving on primal
instinct, lean into pain if it got nothing good in return? The binding and the
biting and the bold abandon— it satisfied him on a level he never thought
possible. Things he didn't expect he'd crave, things that suddenly fit so
perfectly. Like it'd always been there, buried under other needs, waiting to
come alive.
"You can list excuses for me, Stiles, but what about you?"
Stiles heart fluttered. "Whatever, I'll deal."
"Stiles," he said, slowly, sternly. "You said so yourself: right now, I'm
thinking as though the heat's not there. And you know what I'm thinking?"
"That I'm a freak?"
Jackson smirked. "That, and if you're going to be a freak," he snaked his arm
around Stiles's waist, drawing him into a hug, "I want a piece of the action.
No, I want a monopoly."
He preferred Stiles with his dark edges, all soft and cuddly until he had an
agenda. The freaky shit they'd done? That was an agenda Jackson wanted at the
top of his list. He didn't need brain cells to confirm it. The answer sat in
his heart.
Stiles whimpered, sagging in Jackson's arms. "If your memory was better than a
sexy goldfish, you'd know to hate me. I fucked up, Jackson. I promised I
wouldn't leave your side, and then you bludgeon yourself while I'm out cold.
The cuffs… I couldn't think of anything else…"
"Wait, back up. I bludgeoned myself?" Jackson didn't feel any traces of the
injury, and calling upon the memory was like gripping sand, grains slipping
through his fingers.
"It was on the first day. You went to stretch your legs and tripped face-first
into the fridge. I'd been passed out until you screamed." Stiles shuddered. "My
god, if the heat didn't boost your healing… I'm the worst alpha imaginable. I
wasn't there when you needed me most, and then I had to restrain you to make
sure I didn't fuck up again."
Stiles's sour mood finally made sense. Jackson fell over like a drunk, and
Stiles was expecting Jackson to snap at him for not anticipating the
possibility. For not being more vigilant after all that talk of research and
preparation.
If this were months earlier, Jackson wouldn't be above striking. Hurting people
was easy as long as he believed they wouldn't think twice about hurting him
first. He was used to only looking out for himself, for blaming others if
things didn't go according to plan. When people were expendable, it was easy to
shrug off responsibilities, to stay on top by throwing people under.
Stiles was something else entirely. All that alpha power and he was looking at
Jackson like a puppy afraid to get kicked. And after everything they'd been
through, what did that say about Stiles's expectations of Jackson?
"Stiles, did I…" he dropped his arms, "was I angry with you when it happened?"
Stiles scratched his neck. "You, uh, were too busy sobbing."
Jesus Christ. If it'd been the first day, and Stiles hadn't been ready for it,
then it meant it'd been the first break in the heat. Jackson must have thought
he was some sort of champion for getting through the worst of it, and then got
a rude awakening with a solid blow to his head. Reminding him how little
control he had. How he was at the mercy of his body. Then Stiles was left to
explain the wound when the memory clouded over, repeating the process until the
only thing remaining were the cuffs and Stiles's dread.
"I'm sorry," Stiles said. "For breaking my promise and leaving you alone. It's
okay if you never forgive me."
Jackson sucked in a sharp breath. No, he wasn't going to let Stiles sink on
that ship. "You think you ditched me, but you don't know what ditching is. It's
my father never making time to see my games. It's secret-genius Lydia watching
me struggle in class and never offering to help. It's people—teammates—hearing
the nasty shit said about me being omega and none of them speaking out. Then
there's you. I'd never done one nice thing for you, and yet there you were,
offering to give me back my life. If it wasn't for your intervention, I'd be in
some Omega House, living on some pills. And here you are again, throwing
everything you have at my heat, and continuing to do so after you decided you
earned my rejection. So, Stiles, believe me when I say you've done the opposite
of ditching. I don't even think you're capable of it."
Stiles sniffled and rubbed at his watery eyes. "I still hurt you."
"Because the impossible happened and the Energizer Bunny ran out of juice.
That's some achievement in itself."
"It's the heat making you insatiable."
"Yeah, that much I got." Jackson steeled himself as he said, "Besides, you also
hurt me in some amazing, terribly embarrassing ways, which I'd like to try
again on a clearer head. Of course I'll have to kill you if you start
broadcasting this news to every person with ears."
Stiles froze, eyes wild and cheeks flushing. "Jackson…"
"I know, you're afraid the heat's going to burn this out of my memory. And if
it does, I'll just have to say all of it again because I'm not taking it back.
Especially the killing part."
Stiles's face was redder than ever as he scrubbed his hands through his hair.
"You really know how to woo a guy."
"I can see that."
Stiles snorted, doing a lousy job of covering his half-mast. "As though I'm the
only one."
"I happen to have an excuse. What's yours?"
"My dick's happy you don't hate me."
Jackson bit back a laugh as warmth crept up his spine. He'd got his normal
Stiles back. "If I wanted to hate you, I had plenty of reason before any of
this began."
"Before I was alpha?"
"Before, when I wanted you to be my omega."
"Damn it, Jackson, you need to save these incriminating confessions for when I
can safely use it against you."
"You think I don't know that?"
Stiles bumped their shoulders. "You're troublemaker, you know that?"
"Your point?"
Stiles sighed, shaking his head. "I sometimes still find myself pining for the
omega life. I mean, don't get me wrong, I am so on-board being alpha. My dad's
treating me more seriously and Mr. Harris is helping me discover my inner
arsonist. Lydia's acknowledging my existence—always a nice perk. And they're
not just humoring me, either. They're respecting me, listening to me. I'm
finding it's easier to concentrate on things when I feel like my input matters.
But sometimes, I don't know, I still wish I were omega. I'm stupid for dwelling
on it, like Stiles Stilinski you have the world and you're still not satisfied?
What's wrong with you?"
Jackson's gaze travelled along the temple of white skin and moles beside him.
If he had his normal strength, he'd flip Stiles to his stomach and gave him a
taste of what the past seventy-odd hours were like. "Could be you just want a
cock in you."
Stiles squirmed, his heart doing acrobatics in his chest. "I suppose."
"Don't suppose. You're the designated brain between us."
"This isn't about me though—well, yes, it is about me—but it's mainly about
you. You have needs, Jackson, and it's my job to take care of them."
"I need you, Stiles." Jackson's voice thickened along with his cock. "And you
need my cock inside you. Like, right now. I've made up my mind, and my body
agrees."
"Oh fuck," Stiles groaned. "Don't say it like that. It'll make me feel guilty
for not thinking to switch it up sooner."
"Well, I'm way into getting wrecked by your cock, so it's not like I'd been
complaining."
"You're… ugh!" Stiles held his hands up. "Okay, hold on. I need supplies. I
don't have a self-lubricating hole like some people. Lucky bastard."
Stiles leapt for his nightstand, going through the drawers.
"Your lotion's right there." Jackson pointed to the bookstand.
"That's for the front-end." Stiles pulled a bottle of lube from inside a sock
overlaid by printed articles. "This is designed for the back-end."
Jackson rolled his eyes as Stiles crawled back with the lube, frowned, and
shoved a second pillow between Jackson's back and the headboard. Jackson
promised himself he was going to pound Stiles's ass into the mattress some day
soon, on his own terms, without worrying about turning to jello.
In the meantime, he was going to savor how Stiles's touch lit up his skin as he
straddled Jackson's lap. Stiles led the pace, squirting the lube over Jackson's
fingers and doing eyebrow motions like, "I know where you want to put this."
Jackson dipped his hand behind Stiles's balls as Stiles threw his arms over
Jackson's shoulders, lips tracing Jackson's jawline. The warmth in Jackson's
spine advanced, threatening his focus as he slid one finger, then two, past the
tight rim of muscles, Stiles making lewd noises against his throat.
"Oh, like that, yeah," Stiles mumbled, rocking into Jackson's hand.
"Stiles," Jackson groaned, words trapped in his throat. He pressed against the
pillows, doing his best to breathe as heat gathered in his pelvis. He hissed as
Stiles brushed up against his erection, grinning like the devil.
"I think," Stiles said, low and rough in Jackson's ear, "you don't need my cock
to get wrecked."
"Fuck me," Jackson exhaled.
"I'm so on it."
Stiles wiggled his way off Jackson's hand, repositioning himself over Jackson's
engorged tip, licking his lips like he'd been preparing for this day his whole
life. Jackson threw back his head with a strangled moan as Stiles pushed down,
sinking around the thickness, hot and snug and everything right in the world.
Stiles tangled his fingers in Jackson's hair, hauling him in for a kiss. Even
distracted, Stiles had the mouth of a demon, sucking and probing, caressing and
teasing all while rolling his hips in a steady rhythm.
Jackson lost himself to sensation, clutching Stiles like nothing mattered
outside of this, outside of Stiles taking his hard length with greedy
enthusiasm. Lines of sweat dripped down Stiles's chest, brushing past nipples
and moles and curving down abs, as his leaking cock bobbed in the air. Stiles
shooed Jackson's hand away, pressing himself closer so he could rut against
Jackson's belly.
The current between them sparked and spread, different from a knot yet somehow
just the same. The filling of an emptiness, nerves buzzing, taking Jackson to a
safe place embraced wholly by Stiles. Full of erratic kisses and wanton noises,
of Stiles driving them both to the edge.
Jackson could get lost in this feeling, but he also wanted a part of it. The
fire in his veins subsiding enough for him to thrust up as Stiles pushed down,
reaching deeper, drawing out heavier moans. Stiles's body tensed, rhythm
faltering with labored breaths. It goaded Jackson to keep going, to keep
snapping his hips as Stiles thumbed the tip of his cock.
"Oooh… fuuuu…!" Stiles shouted as he erupted over Jackson's chest, panting and
shaking as the sound vibrated through Jackson. Jackson grit his teeth with a
garbled cry, riding out his orgasm under the clenching and pulsing of Stiles's
ass.
What followed were bright lights and weightlessness, an intoxicating hum of
satisfaction as Stiles slumped atop him. Jackson wrapped his arms around
Stiles, inhaling that bold Manly Man fragrance that made no sense yet fit so
perfectly, the embodiment of everything Stiles.
And Stiles flapped his arm in the direction of his phone. "I thought of a new
song for our playlist."
Jackson trembled as laughter overtook him. If this was his life now, he'd be
willing to sell his Porsche to keep it.
 
****
 
The heat left Jackson with the same slow grind as it began. He recalled his
talk with Stiles like the last seconds of a dream before waking up, like
everything from then on became gradually clearer. Including him fucking Stiles
in the shower. They may have washed off whatever remained of body fluids, but
there was no scrubbing out the scent absorbed into their skin, just like there
was little to be done about the biohazard state of Stiles's room.
Stiles opened every window in the house as Jackson changed into clean clothes.
It was officially Sunday afternoon by the time Jackson's appetite came back
with a vengeance. They ordered delivery and settled in the living room, Stiles
pouring out celebratory bourbon from his dad's alcohol cabinet. Their very own
Sunday brunch.
Jackson was biting into his second bacon-cheeseburger when Stiles's phone rang.
It was McCall.
"Scott," Stiles said as he picked up. "How was the form—"
"Stiles, what do I do?" McCall shrieked through the receiver. "I'm cheating on
Allison!"
Stiles exchanged looks with Jackson as he put McCall on speaker. "You're going
to have to start at the beginning, Scott."
Jackson grabbed a handful of curly fries in place of popcorn.
The beginning, as he suspected, was when McCall snuck into the formal and did a
lousy job of hiding from Coach. In the chase that followed, McCall bumped into
Isaac Lahey. There was a spilling of drinks and McCall losing Coach by darting
into the Girls' Bathroom. No girls were in there to scream him out of hiding,
and it just so happened that Allison, of all people, was the first to walk in.
McCall got his slow dance, but he also got a bag of guilt from seeing Isaac sit
in the bleachers with his red-stained shirt and jacket.
The thing about Isaac was Jackson had the misfortune of living across the
street from him and his sob story. Jackson wasn't sure what went on at the
Lahey house, but Isaac's father was a freak, in a bad way. There wasn't a day
when Jackson didn't hear shouting or crashing. Isaac pretended everything was
fine by keeping his head down and mouth shut, even though there wasn't a day he
didn't have some bruise on his face or in places his lacrosse uniform couldn't
conceal. Jackson wasn't about to get himself involved with that guy's shithole
father, but he did have pity. He never hassled Isaac, an exercise in restraint
that had Danny firmly impressed.
All McCall knew was how Isaac smelled of silent terror and he was responsible
for it. McCall and Isaac were about the same size, so McCall offered to switch
suits. Isaac had been weirded out but didn't refuse, and everything was going
fine until halfway back to the dance floor when Isaac started hyperventilating
and smelling strange. McCall took it upon himself to bring Isaac out for air,
at which point the odd scent became obvious—omega pheromones.
So what was an alpha with a white knight complex to do?
"I—I kissed him, Stiles. What sort of boyfriend does that? How can I ever face
Allison again?"
"Hold on," Stiles said patiently. "Did Isaac kiss back?"
"Yes, he kissed back. It got all intense for a minute beforeI remembered I have
a girlfriend."
Stiles didn't skip a beat. "Are you planning to claim him?"
McCall went eerily silent on the other line.
"That's a yes?" Stiles asked.
"Isaac's in a bad place right now. He's telling me all these awful things his
dad will say and do, and it's my duty as alpha to protect him."
"It's only your duty if you claim him."
Another long pause.
"I always thought Isaac was cute," McCall admitted in a small tone. "It doesn't
undo the love I feel for Allison, but you were the one who said omegas who
present due to an alpha tend to stay with that alpha."
"Yeah, it's destiny."
Stiles thought he and Jackson were destiny? Maybe weeks ago Jackson could have
argued their pairing was strictly out of convenience, but who was he kidding
now? He wasn't a sap for destiny, but the feelings he had were real.
"I just…" McCall stumbled over his words. "I barely know him, Stiles."
"That's what dating's for."
"I'm dating Allison!"
"Have you considered a threeway?" Stiles shrugged his shoulders and gave
Jackson a look like, "Hey, it works for some people."
"Stiles! This is not the time for jokes."
"Scott, you're an alpha above all else. Allison would understand."
"I don't want to lose her, Stiles."
"Well, you have no claim over Isaac until you follow-through." Stiles narrowed
his eyes as McCall went quiet. "That means sex, Scott."
"I know what it means," McCall snapped back. "Isaac already assumed it when I
told him to come home with me. And before you say anything, I had Mom prepare
the spare room. I'm not letting Isaac anywhere near his dad for as long as I
can manage."
Jackson gave McCall points for effort. He gestured to Stiles that he had
something to say.
"Uh, Scott," Stiles began, "I sort of have Jackson with me right now, with us
basking in post-heat afterglow and such. I think he has words."
"I bet he's going to say how he'd do better if he were alpha."
"Nah," Jackson said with a shrug. "I'm over it. I wanted the glamour, but it
comes with too much responsibility. You can keep the burden." Stiles gaped at
him; McCall probably did as well. Jackson had a point, though, so he kept
rolling. "Isaac was on the field the day you presented alpha, wasn't he?"
"Yeah," McCall said with hesitation. "What does that have to do with anything?"
"That day, specifically, he got slammed by a roid-rage ogre. Dislocated his
shoulder real bad…"
"Oh, yeah, he did!" Stiles nodded. "Mid-game too… right before you…" Stiles's
face twisted in horrible realization. If only Jackson could see that, or worse,
on McCall.
"I don't have statistics on me," Jackson ribbed. "But some alphas present when
latent omegas are in trouble. Then there's what happened at the formal. I'm
thinking this sounds like true destiny to me."
"I…" McCall sputtered. "I need to talk to Isaac. And Allison. Oh god. I'll call
you back, Stiles. And, uh, Jackson, I'm glad it worked out… Bye!"
McCall hung up, and Stiles elbowed Jackson. "Troublemaker."
"Hey, his decision just got easier. He's Isaac's best option as of right now."
A smile spread on Stiles's face. "You're not as cold-blooded as you let on."
Jackson scoffed. "It's only because Mr. Lahey makes my father eligible for a
Father-of-the-Year award."
Stiles pressed his lips as he nodded. "Well, I believe Scott will be great to
Isaac once he claims him."
Jackson had to agree. Knights needed damsels. It could work.
His phone buzzed with a text from Danny. When Jackson originally sent out Omfg
it's over and I'm still alive he didn't think Danny would reply with an image
of a monarch butterfly and a question mark.
I hate u
<3333 how you feeling?
Like I ran a marathon with my ass
Did you win at least?
Jackson peered over at Stiles who got busy texting Lydia while stuffing his
cheeks full of curly fries. An abundance of emojis in the chat window, most of
them being eggplants.
Define win.
Omg you're gonna kill me w/ cuteness
Which reminds me… Jackson sighed and scratched the back of his neck. "Hey,
Stiles."
Stiles looked up from his phone. "Hmm?"
"Would you mind grabbing my bag from upstairs? But wash your hands first. I
don't want grease stains all over my things."
Stiles saluted him as he got up. "Bodily-fluid stains only, got it."
Jackson pinched the bridge of his nose, stifling a sad laugh. I'm going to
regret this, aren't I?
Stiles was quick to run up and down the steps, refueled by real food and
rampant curiosity. He practically crawled on top of Jackson to see what he was
getting out from the bag. "What's that?"
"I meant to give this to you at the formal."Jackson handed Stiles the squarish
mahogany box. "Open it."
Stiles popped the box open, his emotions all over the place as he inspected the
delicate metal band.
"That tiara is real Swarovski crystals," Jackson noted. "So don't go throwing
it around like a frisbee."
"I wouldn't," Stiles said, choking up, water filling his eyes. "It's gorgeous."
This was not how Jackson envisioned Stiles to react. "You're being weird,
Stiles. Weirder than your normal weird."
"Sorry." Stiles sniffled. "It's just… I always assumed Scott would get me one
of those playtime tiaras, you know, the plastic ones with Princess bedazzled on
it."
"I'm not McCall."
"I know you're not. That's the thing. Scott getting it would be funny. You
getting it means something else entirely."
Jackson's heart skidded as he figured out the dots Stiles must have connected.
"Jesus Christ, Stiles, this isn't a wedding ring."
"I know, I know." Stiles rubbed his eyes. "I guess I decided this dream was as
good as dead." He reverently plucked the tiara out of its case, letting the
crystals sparkle in his hand before resting it on his head. "I'd be fine with
plastic."
Jackson placed his hand on Stiles's thigh. "No princess of mine wears plastic."
Stiles bit his lip. "I'm your princess?"
"My very own Alpha Princess Manly Man."
"Does that make you my Omega Prince Troublemaker?"
"Well, I'd be more of a King."
Stiles giggled, tension bleeding out of him. "Doesn't matter. I've decided I'm
getting you a trophy with '#1 Boyfriend' inscribed on it. But instead of a cup,
it'll be a golden dildo, and I'll shove it up your ass whenever you get too
cocky about it."
"Which would be often?" Jackson asked, not sure if a downside existed.
Stiles pounced on him, covering his face with kisses, and Jackson was certain
he'd won some sort of jackpot.
End Notes
     I'd like to thank Cupcake for nudging me to include bondage. I like
     where this went.
     I was inspired by pandabomb's Eat, Knot Love, the A/B/O Sterek that
     was my very first Teen Wolf fanfic (I'm a perv) and the kool-aid that
     got me into this fandom. There's controversy over pandabomb wanting
     EKL to stop existing, but unfortunately I'm unable to wipe its
     influence from my brain.
     I was also inspired by taylorpotato's emotional It_Gets_Under_My_Skin
     (Take_in_the_Extent_of_My_Sin), which was a Stackson that touched me
     and made me like toppy Stiles.
     --
     You can find me on Twitter: @adrianfridge
     And Tumblr: http://fanfictionfridge.tumblr.com
     You can also express your appreciation in other_ways.
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