Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/506087.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Stiles_Stilinski/Jackson_Whittemore
  Character:
      Jackson_Whittemore, Stiles_Stilinski, Derek_Hale, Scott_McCall, Peter
      Hale, Isaac_Lahey, Erica_Reyes, Boyd_(Teen_Wolf), Lydia_Martin, Allison
      Argent, Danny_Mahealani, Matt_Daehler
  Additional Tags:
      Nightmares, Sexual_Tension, Awkward_Conversations, Scent_Marking,
      Existentialism, one_sided_Matt/Jackson, Hate_Sex, Strained_Relationship,
      Wolf_Pack
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-09-07 Words: 11534
****** Metamorphosis ******
by ahab2692
Summary
     It's a thing born of hate and desperation.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
I.
Here’s the cold, hard truth about enlightenment: it wears off. There’s maybe a
week or so - two weeks, tops - after his resurrection from death during which
Jackson really finds himself believing that, hey, things might actually change
from this point on. And then it all goes to shit. 
Fast forward exactly three weeks from the night he returned to life, shuddering
and gasping and naked on the ice cold floor, and he can barely even remember
what the hell it was that he felt in that moment. With no small measure of
dismay, he regards the slow slide of his internal barriers rearranging
themselves, senses his guards and insecurities tightening a noose around his
soul. It won’t be long before they’ve got him in a stranglehold once more.
He makes up a story: some bullshit about Mrs. McCall being able to get his
heart running again after removing his body from the lacrosse field. Something
about dumb luck and good hospital care, and who knows what the fuck else. And,
amazingly, people believe it. Danny hugs him and cries a little bit, punches
him in the shoulder and tells him to ‘never do that to me again, asshole.’
Rumors float around school for a while, whispers in the hallways about him
being ‘clinically dead’ for varying amounts of time. (Some of the weirder kids
seem to think he’s made a pact with the devil or some such nonsense.) 
It’s a good feeling at first, actually. He’s always hungered for attention,
craved it to the point of starvation. So he shrugs off the unsavory rumors, the
suspicious stares. They’re insignificant. Things really do seem to be okay for
that short span of time; his love life back on track, no longer under the
control of a bloodthirsty master. And he’s a proper werewolf now. Just like he
wanted.
Except, things start sliding into focus: Lydia has been changed by her
experiences, made into something new. It’s subtle - discreet enough that he
doesn’t notice straight away - but it’s real. It cuts deep. Her ‘ice queen’
charade isn’t quite as convincing. She’s just as confident as ever, but with
less venom in her bite. Her wit is razor sharp, but it lacks the casual
coldness of her former life. She takes notice of people outside her social
circle, walks with a less pompous air.
She’s different. And Jackson isn’t.
He can remember giving consent, nodding once and allowing himself to die.
Allowing Derek and Peter to kill him. But he can’t for the life of him remember
why. To prevent himself from being used as a weapon? To take back some small
measure of control in offering himself up as a sacrifice? To just end all the
pain? Everything that seemed so clear at the time is murky once more. And all
the love and peace and gratitude for existence he’d felt later that night,
lying in bed with Lydia in his arms...
...where has it gone?
  
II.
Derek comes to see him three days after the confrontation with Gerard. Just
slips in through his bedroom window about half past midnight. Jackson startles
badly, jerks back and bangs his head against the headboard.
“Fuck...” he growls.
“Let’s try this again,” Derek says. He crouches on the edged of the bed, knees
jutting out to the side, looming in the shadows like some nightmarish bird of
prey. His eyes gleam in the dark. “You’re with me now. You’re one of us. For
real this time.” He cocks his head to the side. Jackson can see the wet
gleaming of his canines bared dangerously behind slightly parted lips. “Any
objections? Do you still have ‘your own agenda,’ Jackson?”
Any other day, and Jackson would snap back without missing a beat. But he’s
still living in the haze, hasn’t quite gathered his cocky composure. So he nods
tightly. “I’m with you.” He swallows. “I don’t think I want to try this on my
own.”
Derek leans back, looks satisfied. “Good.”
He sounds more relieved than smug, but Jackson still can’t help himself.
“Although, I suppose I could defect and join McCall’s pack instead,” he says
casually, lifts an eyebrow in challenge.
Derek doesn’t even blink, mouth twisting into a full blown smirk. “Right.
Because you’d take orders from him.”
Jackson dips his head in grudging assent. “Point taken.”
Through the crack in the half-opened window, he can hear the whistling noise of
the breeze shaking the leaves on the tangled branches of the backyard tree.
Twin orbs of a nightbird’s eyes stare out at him from the darkness of a ovular
hole in the trunk. He can smell blood and flesh on the bird’s talons, maybe
even the scent of dead rat on its breath. Every sensation feels amplified,
jacked up.
He’s startled out of his thoughts by Derek’s fingers snapping in his face. “Pay
attention.”
Jackson shoves his fists in his lap, rubs his palms together for warmth. “Yeah,
okay.”
Derek’s forehead creases, brow furrowed. Scowling seems to be his default state
of being. “There’s an Alpha pack in town,” he says calmly, monotone. “My uncle
thinks Boyd and Erica may be with them. As hostages, or...otherwise.”
“An Alpha pack?” Jackson queries. “What-”
“You don’t need to know right now,” Derek interrupts. “I’m only telling you
this as a courtesy. I’m keeping you apprised of the situation. You’re sitting
out on this one.”
Jackson straightens up, fingers twisting angrily in his pillow sheets. “I
thought you said I was with you now,” he mutters. “I let you fucking kill me,
douchebag. You still don’t trust me?”
Derek glares. “No. And even if I did, it wouldn’t. That’s not what this is
about.” He shifts closer, scooting further up the length of the bed. Jackson
shrinks away instinctively, bops his head against the wall. Derek pauses. A
small smile quirks at the edges of his mouth. “You’re still afraid of me.” 
“No,” Jackson lies, knowing the pointless of denial and not caring. Derek
reaches out and wraps his hand around the boy’s throat: not tightly, not
threatening. Almost playful.
“It’s okay. I can actually use a pack member who knows how to roll over without
a fuss.”
And he’s teasing - it’s a joke, in so far as a guy like Derek Hale actually
tells jokes - but the remark makes something unpleasant turn over inside
Jackson’s stomach. A buried memory surfaces in the back of his head, tries to
swim to the forefront of his conscious mind. Jackson promptly drowns it. He
knocks Derek’s hand away. “So you want me to sit out,” he says stiffly. 
It’s a rhetorical question, but Derek answers anyway. “For this one, yes.” He
nods. “We don’t have time to train you properly, and it wouldn’t be wise to
bring a newly turned human into a volatile situation like this.” He backs away,
leaps up to the windowsill with an eerie sort of grace. He looks over his
shoulder, eyes still smoldering like embers in his sockets. “Just sit tight.
Don’t be a hothead. I’ll come around for the next full moon, but if you need
something before then...” He shrugs. “Scott will help you. Even though you’re
not part of his pack.” Something akin to disdain - or maybe it’s jealousy -
flashes across his face. And then it’s gone. “It’s a character flaw, if you ask
me.”
He jumps down from the window, disappears from sight.
 
III.
So Derek is still Derek, but he acts more like the Derek from before. Before
the drama with Peter. Before becoming Alpha. He’s just as damaged as he ever
was, still an asshole, still frightening sometimes. But the arrogance seems
diminished somehow. There’s a willingness to listen, to think before acting.
The results are manifesting themselves in small ways, but it’s undeniable that
he’s learned from his experience. Just like Lydia.
Just like everyone except Jackson.
He doesn’t love Lydia, he knows that now. Or rather, he doesn’t love her in the
way that he claimed to in the heat of the moment. He doesn’t love her in way
that makes him possessive, drives him to stay faithful and make the
relationship work. His eyes stray. He finds himself looking at other girls at
school, fantasizing about the shape of their lips and the curve of the breasts;
everything that makes them notLydia. He thinks about sex more than he can ever
remember, and while part of it is simply a self-destructive gesture, at the
core, he’s afraid that this is honestly who he is. Once an asshole, always an
asshole. Earth-shattering revelations are for people with the capacity to grow.
In his head, he’s always been able to justify his behavior as actions spawned
from a place of insecurity. [I’m adopted, I need to be the best, I need to be
loved, I don’t have a real identity.] But the mask has been removed now, all
his darkness laid bare. And it doesn’t matter that McCall looks at him with
kindness now (that insufferable, infuriating kindness), or that Isaac has
started sitting with him during lunch, or that Derek doesn’t want to kill him
anymore, or that Lydia still calls herself his even though he can tell she
fucking knows he doesn’t really love her (and probably feels the same way). It
doesn’t even matter that he’s a God damn werewolf. Because the mask is off, and
he can’t see whatever the fuck everyone else seems to see. 
Underneath the evil, there’s just deeper evil.
 
IV.
Stilinski is the only one who gets it. The only one who doesn’t treat Jackson
like he’s made of glass, like he’s somehow a better person just because he died
for, like, a second. Sure, part of it is jealousy. That’s to be expected. He
doesn’t think Jackson deserves Lydia - thinks hedeserves her - and he resents
him for it. 
And he’s right.
The kid is smart. Jackson isn’t sure why he was never able to see it before. So
Stiles is a bit of a spastic, can’t quite stop all of his thoughts from running
together, doesn’t know when to shut the hell up. So he isn’t the suavest guy,
isn’t the strongest of the group. He’s the only one of the bunch who can still
see straight through Jackson’s bullshit. The only one who still hates his guts.
Jackson clings to that hate like a lifeline. It fuels his own lust for
destruction, satiates his desire to be despised. Those dark urges aren’t
getting their fix anywhere else. Might as well revel in the contempt of the
Sheriff’s son.
 
V.
It’s takes nearly a month, but the day eventually comes, and he arrives home
after school to find Peter waiting for him in his bedroom, sitting on the
swivel chair by the desk with his legs crossed and hands folded together in his
lap. 
“Umm...” Jackson starts.
“It’s over,” Peter says, silky smooth. “We’re ready for you.”
Jackson’s backpack dangles from the crook of his elbow, swinging gently to and
fro. He lets it drop to the floor. “So...the other pack?”
Peter shrugs, presses his tongue briefly into the corner of his cheek.
“Handled. The family is whole again.”
“The family?” Jackson frowns. He jerks away as Peter rises out of the chair,
moves close into his space. The older werewolf's breath tickles at his skin,
raising the hairs on the back of his neck. He feels a little nauseous.
“Boyd and Erica,” Peter murmurs. “They’ve returned to us.” His eyes flicker
over Jackson’s face, appraising. “Pack is family.”
Nervous and irritated, Jackson places his palms flat against Peter’s chest,
shoves him slowly away. “Whatever you say, dude.”
Peter snorts. Turns. “Tomorrow. Bright and early.” And then he’s exiting,
leaping out over the roof’s edge, dropping out of sight without a sound.
 
VI. 
He’s always gotten a thrill from manipulating his body into performing
incredible feats of strength. It’s why he got involved in sports in the first
place. Most everyone who knows him probably assumes it’s a narcissistic thing,
that he just wants people to admire him, strive to be him. To lust after him.
At times, it feels like even his parents share that mindset. The truth goes so
much deeper. It’s not just the adrenaline rush or the popularity; it’s about
being able to do something, and do it well. Lacrosse is something he can look
at and think, Yeah. This I can do.
So it’s a disappointment to discover that werewolf training doesn’t give him
the sense of self worth he so desperately needs. 
The sun is a fiery blot stain splayed out in rays of light across the bluest of
skies, visible in all its radiant color even through the thorny nest of
intertwined branches and brittle leaves clinging to thick spiderweb limbs.
Hunched in the shade of the slanted trees, he darts right and left, dodges
Derek’s swiping claws and well-aimed nips, rolls between his legs to jump up
from behind. He wraps his arms around the Alpha’s middle, buries his face into
the curve of his neck, feigning a killing bite. Derek stops, taps his arm as a
signal, and Jackson releases him, drops away into a submissive crouch.
He’s breathing hard, heart hammering away in his ribcage. The smell of bark and
sweat fills his nostrils, the taste of honeysuckle lingering on his tongue as
he inhales through his mouth. Everything is sharp, crystalline.
Derek grunts approvingly, lips twitching into the slightest of smiles. “You’re
doing very well,” he says sincerely, claps a hand down on Jackson’s shoulder.
“You’re catching on a lot faster than the others.”
It’s the sort of compliment that used to stroke Jackson’s ego, and it still
does, to a degree. But it feels strangely lifeless, dull. And Jackson can’t
help but think, Is this it?Because becoming a werewolf - that was never the
endgame. That was always a means to an end, a path to greater happiness. What
he really wanted...what he really wants is to be someone else. Anyone else.
Anyone other than himself. 
All these powers have done is transform him into a stronger, faster version of
the person he already was.
Jackson forces a smile. “Well, it’s not like I’m starting from the ground
floor. I was the kanima for a while.”
Derek waves that off. “You weren’t aware of it.”
Jackson rubs his bicep, stands up slowly. “Still. Sense memory, you know? My
body remembers being able to do all of that crazy shit, even if I don’t.”
“Hmm.” Derek nods, gestures for Jackson to get in position. “Again. Once more.”
The heat beats down on them as the day wears on, and they strip down to their
shorts as the clouds begin to part. Jackson’s legs sting with sweat, turn dark
with powdered dirt. Derek’s claws rip shallow slashes into the sensitive skin
up the length of his arms, further down near his hips. They circle each other,
half-playful, half-feral. They wrestle in the muck.
Derek gets the upper hand and manages to pin Jackson to the forest floor, back
slammed up against the protruding root of a great oak tree. His fingers dig
into the flesh of Jackson’s shoulders, drawing streams of blood. His body
presses down into Jackson’s hips, holding him in place.
Jackson’s stomach lurches, and he feels his body start to seize up. “Get off!”
His voice comes out hoarse, strained. He can’t manage to control the note of
panic in his tone. “You win, okay?! Get off!”
Something in the way he says it must sound convincing because Derek backs away
almost immediately, jumps to his feet instead of asserting his dominance.
There’s an odd look in his eye, expression indiscernible, distant. Jackson
stands shakily, not meeting the Alpha’s gaze. He wipes the dirt and leaves off
his arms in quick, angry brushstrokes. The cuts in his shoulders are already
healing.
“You win,” he mumbles again. “Want to go again?”
He glances up. Derek stares at him, shakes his head. “No. I think that’s good
for now.”
They redress in silence, looking pointedly in opposite directions. The wildlife
has fallen eerily silent. 
Walking back up the trail to the road, Derek clears his throat, reaches around
to scratch the back of his neck. “So...” he starts, obviously uncomfortable.
“Yes?” Jackson snaps. Then, more respectfully, “Yeah?”
Derek still isn’t looking at him. “So, do you remember anything? About your
time under Matt and Gerard’s influence?”
Jackson glances over, shakes his head once, firmly. “No.”
 
VII.
He does. He’s been fighting it back, pushing the memories away when they blink
into existence like a scattershot slipstream, trying to tell himself it’s just
his imagination. Just feverish dreams. 
But he knows that’s a lie. 
The killings aren’t so bad, as horrible as that is to even think. But that’s
mostly because those memories aren’t the clearest; they’re fuzzy, indistinct.
He was fully shifted during the murders, completely out of his mind. Whatever
visions of blood and terror dance before his eyes in the dark of the night are
quick and quiet and soon forgotten. He wasn’t himself. That’s the mantra he
repeats in his head, over and over again. It’s the only way he knows how to
manage the guilt: by not allowing himself to feel it. Accepting moral
responsibility for the kanima’s crimes would only drive him to madness.
No, what keeps him awake is...the rest. The things he remembers in a state of
half-shifting, living in a state between man and beast. Under the spell, but
aware of it.
He sees it: his own face distorted in the bedroom mirror, foreign and strange.
Monstrous with its reptilian eyes, pupils stretched into thin slits. Watching
dark green scales receding back into his skin, peeling away from his cheek and
dropping to the carpet. Feeling that cold, clammy hand on the back of his neck.
Matt’s voice. 
“You’ve been so good to me. So helpful.” The hand again, thumb rubbing in slow,
smooth circles. “I feel like I should thank you for everything you’ve done for
me.”
The other hand on his chest, pushing him back on the bed. His brain broken,
confused, unsure. Disliking. The hands together, moving up his arms and coming
together to undo the top button of his shirt. The voice, murmuring in his left
ear, “I’ll make it so good for you. Just stay still. Enjoy it.”
And now the mouth - the tongue, wet and warm and licking a path up from his
collarbone to his jaw. Breath in his ear, kiss to his cheek. Then lips against
his own, the tongue invading his space and suffocating him, the taste of juice
and smoke and boy all intermingled into a single flavor. The hands on his body,
on his skin. 
Then undressed: the mouth on his neck, the hands moving his legs apart and
bending them back. The cock, searing heat, frightening alive in a way...
The memories usually come in flashes, not all at the same time. But the pieces
are all there, easy enough to put together. Multiple instances, if the visions
are true.
And Jackson knows they are. Why else would they be swimming around in his
subconscious? Nevertheless, he dares not speak these thoughts aloud. There’s a
word for this, a word for what has happened to him, but he refuses to dwell on
it, to think of it. That is something for other people. There’s no room for any
more poison in his life, and he can’t allow it to be real. It isn’t real.
[Except it is. All too much.]
 
VIII.
The people he knows live in boxes in his head.
There’s one for Lydia - a large one, a significant one - and the walls are
strawberry blonde, slicked down with paint and permeated with the aroma of
lilacs. There are words here: girlfriend, lover, friend, burden, salvation,
human. Everything that Lydia makes him think and feel, all crammed together in
a single space. Just for her.
There’s another for McCall, smaller but present, and the walls chart the
progress of their slowly shifting antagonism - not friendship, never that.
There’s one for Danny, one for his parents, one for Derek. For everyone he
knows. It’s a method to manage the madness, to keep up some internalized system
of organization. To keep his mind as clear as it can be.
His thoughts, he notices, tend to revolve around his perception of others,
rather than their perception of him. That means something, of course, but he’ll
be damned if he’s going to open any more doors than he has to. He knows he’s
damaged. Why poke the bear with a stick? Let him rest.
The other thing: there’s a box in the back, kept open at all times for easy
access. It belongs to Stiles Stilinski, and Jackson goes to exist in that space
sometimes. There’s a comfort in the lack of pretension, in the utter simplicity
to their relationship. It’s mutual hatred built on self-loathing and failure
with love. 
What could be more perfect?
 
IX.
“You know, I haven’t asked you about this at all...” Danny begins, toweling off
his hair and pointedly not looking in Jackson’s direction.
Jackson represses a sigh, glances around to make sure the locker room is
actually empty. “Uh huh?”
The tap in the shower stall at the end of the row hasn’t been turned all the
way, and the steady drip of the water beads on the tile starts to drum a
bleeding tattoo into his eardrum. Danny plops down on the bench beside him,
thrusting his arms through the sleeve holes of his grey t-shirt. His eyebrows
knit together, lip caught between his teeth. “Is it true that you were, like,
clinically dead? On the field, before they revived you?”
Jackson considers lying, all for a second, but he just ends up shrugging and
saying, “Yeah. What about it?”
Danny’s lip looks like it might pop, he’s biting down so hard. “Just...what was
that like? Being dead?”
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Jackson stands, pulls the strap of his backpack across his shoulder. “I’m going
to class.”
 
X.
It’s Stiles’ birthday, and somehow he’s been roped into attending. Something
about being invited by association with Lydia. The kid opts for a small
gathering at Scott’s house, no decorations, no big fuss. Scott’s made him a
giant cake, and it looks simultaneously delicious and profoundly disgusting.
Derek actually shows, and Peter too. Jackson would poke fun at the supposed
adults spending their free time hanging out with teenagers, but he can’t find
the energy. 
Casual nastiness isn’t as fun as it used to be.
Allison is there, surprisingly enough. Jackson wasn’t aware that she’d
continued being friends with Stiles after her split with McCall. She’s lurking
in the back with Lydia, gossiping and keeping away from her ex, not even
glancing in his direction. Scott responds in kind.
The party turns out fine, far less irritating than Jackson had imagined. Derek
broods in silence, glaring at the wall and pretending to listen as Stiles
babbles on and on about something or other, Peter standing close by and
watching with amusement. Erica drifts between eavesdropping on their
conversation and participating in the chatter between Isaac, Boyd, and Scott.
Jackson sits alone in the armchair by the fireplace, gazing into the empty
hearth until the talk dies down and Stiles announces that it’s time to cut the
cake and open gifts.
Scott’s mother is working the graveyard shift, but he still insists on shooing
them away after two in the morning. “What, do you guys want to sleephere?” he
grumbles. “And have her walk in on you? Yeah, right. Everybody except Stiles
has to leave.”
They file out in a cluster, stepping over the torn shreds of wrapping paper and
deflated balloons on their way to the door. Lydia sidles up beside Jackson and
snakes her arm around his waist, leans her head on his shoulder in a mock-
sleepy gesture. He immediately turns, looks over his shoulder - like a purely
reflex move - meets Stiles’ eye. The boy’s jaw is set, tight, but there’s
nothing in his expression beyond that to betray a hint of what might be going
on in his head. 
They stare at each other for a moment, a few seconds that seem to last eons.
And then Jackson turns away, lets Lydia drag him outside as she waves goodbye
and flashes Stiles a white-toothed smile. 
“Well, it’s the best party without booze I’ve ever been to,” she remarks drily,
practically the instant the door closes. “I’ll give it that much.” She steps up
on her tip-toes and presses a kiss against his cheek. He tries not to shudder
away from the contact. “Let’s go pick up some drinks.”
He nods, cheerlessly compliant. He looks to the left, watches the rest of the
pack recede into the darkness. Erica and Boyd’s eyes flash briefly, observing
him with detached amusement. Derek and Peter are pressed close together,
talking in voices too low to hear.
Lydia pokes him in the side, frowns. “Or, you can go hang out with your
friends,” she offers delicately. It’s an uneasy subject between them; the
werewolf thing. [Short version: she wants as little to do with it as possible.
Understandably so.]
Jackson shakes his head. “I’d rather drink with you than ‘hang out’ with them,”
he answers honestly. “Even if I can’t get drunk.”
Lydia beams at him, hums in quiet satisfaction. They break apart at the end of
the driveway, moving around to opposite sides of the car. Jackson lets out a
soundless sigh of relief, finally able to breathe in his own space. He looks to
the windows, tries to spot Stiles. The blinds are closed.
 
XI.
He’s drifting through the reeds. 
In school and at home and in life, his thoughts all run together in a constant
stream of uninterrupted gibberish. He wonders vaguely if this is what it’s like
for Stilinski all the time. Just scatterbrained ideas and dreams and feelings
bouncing around like a whiz-bang game of pinball. 
Large chunks of each day are filled with pornographic visions, all layered over
one another in repetition: sweat and skin and the smell of soap and lavender,
legs spread wide and breasts laid bare, heavy breathing. The works. There’s no
heat behind it, though. It’s just white noise, meaningless visuals. He doesn’t
even get hard.
Still, he can’t keep his mind off of it: sex, forever on the brain.
In practice, his drive has all but sputtered to a complete halt. He can’t stand
to touch Lydia anymore, can’t handle being touched. She’s noticed, of course,
even if she hasn’t had the heart to bring it up to him in conversation. It’s
all in her eyes; the look of pity and concern, frustration and insecurity. He
really ought to give her the speech, say, It’s not you, it’s me. No matter how
cliché that may sound. She deserves that much.
But he can’t, and he won’t. Because that will just lead to questions, which
will lead to things better left buried. Private things that belong to him, that
not even Lydia Martin has the right to know.
It’s spring now, but the world has never felt colder. Deader. Only in his
dreams does he feel the heat: spearing inside of him, filling him up, trailing
up his chest and neck and into his mouth.
He keeps these things within the confines of the icy cage that has formed
around his heart, silently hoping that they won’t be exposed come summer thaw.
 
XII.
“You know Derek is probably going to get annoyed with you if he can smell me on
you,” Scott says conversationally, popping open the top of his juice box with
the sharp end of his straw. He nods in the direction of the table in the corner
of the cafeteria, makes brief eye contact with Boyd, Erica, and Isaac. “Not
that I’m sending you away or anything, but it just seems like you would want to
sit with your own pack...right?”
Jackson fidgets in his seat, glances over his shoulder at the back table where
Stiles is chatting with Allison and Lydia. None of them notice him. “Why don’t
you want to join up with the rest of us?” he asks, turning back to Scott.
“Strength in numbers, and all that shit...”
Scott slurps his juice, takes a bite of his apple. He chews slowly, tilting his
head, forehead creasing with wrinkles as his mouth turns down in a thoughtful
frown. “I don’t like the way Derek does things,” he says after a while. “And I
don’t trust Peter.”
“Neither do I. On both counts.” Jackson opens up his lunch bag and pulls out a
turkey sandwich. “The point remains. A larger pack is a stronger force.”
“A stronger force,” Scott repeats. His frown deepens. He leans forward
slightly. “What exactly do you think this is? Who is it that we’re supposed to
be fighting? Peter took care of the Alpha pack. Boyd and Erica are back safe.
You’realive. Chris Argent isn’t going to start any shit so long as we don’t.”
He leans back, shrugs. “Wartime’s over, man.”
Jackson huffs, annoyed. “What, so there’ll neverbe another threat? You really
think that?”
Scott sets down his juice. “I didn’t say never. But I’m not sure what it is
you’re worried about.” His mouth slants up at the side. “I mean, come on, Derek
went to Stiles’ birthday party. Is that not a clear enough indication that
we’re living in peaceful times?”
“Whatever.” Jackson rips viciously into his sandwich. Scott’s frown returns.
“I don’t understand you,” he sighs. “Things are good. Do you want to be
fighting for your life again? Wasn’t dying once enough?”
Jackson pauses, looks up at him. They stare at each other for a moment, then
Jackson snatches up his lunch bag and stands abruptly. “Nothing’s ever enough,”
he retorts, then walks away.
 
XIII.
Scott is wrong, as it turns out. Peter is the one who ends up being annoyed
with Jackson’s behavior.
“Woah! Okay, what? Am I missing something?” Jackson blinks in bewilderment,
suddenly finding himself being steered backwards through the living room and
dumped unceremoniously on a ratty mattress. Peter is looming over him, eyes
glimmering with dark fire, and Jackson maybe starts to panic a little bit
before the older werewolf slowly backs off.
“Obviously, we will not forbid you from interacting with your friends,” Peter
says smoothly, totally nonchalant. “However, it is pertinent that you smell
like pack. You are one of us. Start acting like it.”
He snaps his fingers, beckoning the others in from the other room. Boyd drops
down onto the mattress beside Jackson, casually allowing his arm to press up
against the other boy’s shoulder. Erica flashes Jackson a winning smile - or
maybe it’s a smirk - and sinks down between his knees, curls up and rests her
head on his thigh. Isaac moves in from the other side, tucks Jackson’s head
underneath his chin. Blinking in the dark and the dust, Jackson stares
determinedly at a spot on the ceiling, painfully aware that everyone in the
room can hear the pounding of his heartbeat.
“So. This is a regular activity then?” he mutters. Derek rises up out of
nowhere, standing alongside Peter and staring down at him with a creepy sort of
focused intensity.
“You’ll learn not to mind it after a while,” he says, and it’s almost like he’s
trying to soothe Jackson. To make him okay with this.
Peter scratches his chin absently. “You’ll grow to like it, I think,” he says,
exuding self-confidence. He turns on his heel, vanishes from Jackson’s line of
sight. “I’ll leave you kids to it then.”
Derek remains, arms folded across his chest, watching his Betas curl around one
another on the ratty mattress. His poker face is unmoving, stone-like. His eyes
never leave Jackson’s.
It starts out okay, for perhaps twenty minutes. Jackson just lets it happen,
tries to think of it as taking a nap. Boyd is the easiest to put up with: he
just lies on his back, pressed up against Jackson’s side, but not touching. Not
invading his space. Erica stays uncomfortably close to his groin, but she’s
asleep fairly quickly, doesn’t tease him. Jackson tries to relax and slow the
pitter-patter of his heart, to hone in on the soothing noise of air whistling
in and out through Isaac’s nose. But then Isaac snuggles in closer, lazily
throwing an arm across his chest and clutching tighter. Jackson stiffens.
It’s all too much: a hard body against his own, flat planes of muscle where
there ought to be soft flesh, the frightening closeness of another’s face near
his [another’s mouth near his], the warm furnace radiating against his skin.
Jackson jerks away, scrambles to his feet. Isaac makes a surprised sound,
backing off, and Erica startles awake, scowls at him for interrupting her
slumber. Boyd just raises an eyebrow.
“I think I’m good for now,” Jackson grits out. “I’m sure I reek of you guys.”
He looks to Derek for permission to leave, and the Alpha nods in assent. The
werewolf’s expression hasn’t changed, but there’s a familiar flicker in his
eyes that makes Jackson’s stomach turn over. Because he knows that look; it’s
the one he’s grown all to accustomed to getting from Danny, from his parents,
from Lydia. From damn near everyone he comes in contact with nowadays. It’s
pity.
“Start interacting with the pack at school,” Derek says. “And you won’t have to
do this as often.”
Jackson nods tightly, leaves without a second glance back. He doesn’t need
their concern, can’t stand the nauseating sympathy. He’d rather have
indifference. Or hate.
[Or Stiles Stilinski.]
 
XIV.
They’re alone in the locker room when the tension boils over - because of
course everything inevitably comes to a head. Jackson doesn’t even notice that
it’s just the two of them until Danny claps him on the shoulder and says he’ll
swing by the house later in the afternoon when he’s finished with homework. The
door creaks and snaps shut, and Jackson looks up, and he’s sitting by himself
on the bench. And Stiles is changing at the end of the row, head buried in his
locker, rummaging around inside.
Jackson chews on his lip, staring. He’s not sure what it is he’s doing here,
but he goes for it anyway.
“So I’ve been wondering,” he says loudly, watching for Stiles’ reaction. The
boy pauses, listens, but he doesn’t look over. Jackson clears his throat,
continues. “So I’ve been wondering, are you still head over heels for my
girlfriend, or have you finally substituted that fantasy for something a little
more realistic?” 
‘My girlfriend,’ he says. Like Lydia is a fucking car that he owns.
Stiles closes his locker, turns to face him. His expression is as blanked-out
and distant as Derek’s trademark glower, but it lacks any trace of pity or
understanding. Jackson drinks it in. “I’m not doing this with you,” Stiles
says, tone a masterwork of forced calm. There’s a muscle pulsing in his jaw,
the skin across his knuckles turning white with the exertion of restraining the
urge to lash out.
Jackson stands up, peels off his lacrosse jersey. “Doing this?” he says
innocently. He pulls on a clean t-shirt, runs a hand loosely through his damp
hair. “Doing what?”
Stiles rolls his eyes, bends down to start cramming his dirty clothes into the
back pouch of his book bag. “What do you want, dude? Are you trying to get me
to fight you? That’s stupid. Like, you’re a werewolf, okay? I’m not going to be
able to beat you. I don’t even understand why you’d think that would fun. It’s
not like it would be a challenge.” He stands up, brushes off his knees. “Or are
you just bored, and picking on me is just something easy to fall back on?”
The kid has never been especially afraid of Jackson, never really seemed to buy
into the ‘cook guys run the school’ mentality. But Jackson can’t remember ever
seeing this level of confidence before. Can’t remember this degree of disdain.
It’s a thing of beauty.
“No, I’m just genuinely curious,” he drawls. “Do you really think you’ve got a
chance with her? Even now?”
Stiles looks for a moment like he might just storm away, flip him off. Maybe
punch him in the face. But then the tightness around his eyes loosens, turns
sly. His mouth twists into something new, almost nasty. “Eventually she’ll get
bored of you,” he replies, enunciating every word carefully, injecting every
syllable with venom. Aiming to hurt. “She’ll see what apparently only I can
see. That you’re not any better than you used to be. That you’re still a jerk.
That she deserves better.”
The words cut deep, simultaneously cathartic and painful. Jackson’s eyes flash.
“What, like she’d be better off with you?” he sneers. And then, without
warning, the thing that’s been crouching in the murky shadows of his heart
decides to swim to the surface. “Don’t forget that I heard you that night,
Stilinski. I heard you.”
Stiles’ bitter smile vanishes, replaced by confusion. “Heard what?”
Jackson swallows. There’s a lump in his throat, and he’s not even sure why.
“You wanted me dead,” he whispers, spitting the words out. “Remember? You
wanted to kill me so you could have her for yourself. And you really think
you’re a better person than me?”
Something strange, something alien flashes across Stiles’ face. Guilt, perhaps?
Pain, embarrassment? Weariness, definitely. “That’s so unfair,” he says
quietly. “You know that’s not true.”
“You wanted to kill me,” Jackson repeats stubbornly, stepping closer, eyes
boring holes into Stiles’. “At least have the fucking balls to admit it.”
Stiles’ jaw clenches. “I didn’t know you weren’t in control of yourself,” he
says after a moment’s pause. “I thought you were killing those people
because...” He trails off, gets a distant look on his face. His shoulders sag.
“I’m not sure what I thought,” he sighs. He straightens up, angry again. “But I
didn’t want you dead so I could steal your girlfriend, you idiot. I’m not a
psychopath.”
Jackson shakes his head, crosses his arms, folds them protectively over
himself. “Maybe you didn’t think of it that way, but that is what you wanted.
You would have slit my throat and left me for dead in the woods, and you
probably wouldn’t have shed a God damn tear over it.”
Drip. Drip. Drip. The water flow in the last shower stall never ceases in its
ambient tempo. The boys stare at each other, stone-faced. Jackson can hear the
hitch in Stiles’ heartbeat.
“It’s not like you’ve given me any reason to mourn you,” Stiles replies. His
left eye twitches. “But for your information, I would have felt like shit. I
still have nightmares about that day, even though we didn’t actually do it. We
came really close, and it fucking haunts me that I almost killed you. So don’t
you dare say differently.” He steps closer, jabs his forefinger into Jackson’s
chest, hard. “You’re an asshole, and we’ll probably never be friends. I don’t
want to be friends with you. But if you really think I’d kill you to get a girl
- even a girl like Lydia Martin - then you’re even more screwed up than I
thought-”
Jackson cuts him off, clocking him across the jaw with a balled up fist. He can
feel the shift rising up, the claws coming out. His eyes are blazing, mouth
twisted into a snarl. 
But he’s caught off guard when Stiles wheels around on him, face contorted in
fury. The kid snaps, leaps at him and shoves him back against the locker,
throwing punches in a sort of manic frenzy. And like that, Jackson feels the
shift recede, and the wolf dies down. Dies down to the point that it almost
feels like it’s gone, and all of his instinct to fight back just evaporates. He
stands frozen, doesn’t move as Stiles’ fists pound into his face, into his
stomach. His nose breaks, drawing blood, then promptly heals, bone snapping
back into place. He gasps in pain as Stiles’ knee connects with his ribcage.
Crashing backwards to the floor, he reaches up out of reflect, hooking his hand
around the nape of Stiles’ neck and pulling the boy down with him. And then
they’re on the ground, lying in a heap and breathing hard. Stiles’ eyes are
wide, like he’s shocked by his own actions. His hands are planted open-palmed
on either side of Jackson’s head, framing him in place.
Jackson looks up at him, breathes in deeply. Searching past the pungent stench
of his own bloody nose, he finds himself drowning in the scents of soap and
earth, fresh cut grass and Cherry Coke. There’s the smell of boy as well, but
it’s different than...before. [Than with Matt.] It’s real and it’s human and
it’s here, and Jackson needs. He needs, even though it’s another hard body and
another mouth, another chin with pinpricks of stubble and arms with lean
muscle. It’s everything he has no interest in beyond owning himself, beyond the
narcissistic pleasure of examining his own body in a mirror. And yet.
And yet, he needs.
He pushes up, acting on instinct, crashes his mouth over Stiles’, sucking the
boy’s lower lip in between his teeth, nipping - not hard enough to cut the
flesh, just enough to sting. Stiles gasps, jerks away almost immediately. And
Jackson can’t help the soft whine that escapes him at the loss of contact.
They stare at each other, wide-eyed and frozen. Jackson lets his head drop back
against the floor, squirming in discomfort. His cheek flush red, burning with
shame. He closes his eyes, feeling the lump rising up in his throat once again.
“Hey.” Stiles’ voice, speaking softly, hardly more than a whisper. Jackson
shakes his head, eyes still shut. “Hey...” Even softer, gentler. Jackson
blinks, eyes opening as Stiles’ palm comes up to cup his cheek. The boy still
looks bewildered, but the harshness behind his eyes seems diminished. “What was
that?”
“Are you really asking me that?” Jackson mutters, irritated. He suddenly finds
the will to move again, pressing his hands against Stiles’ chest and pushing
him away. He sits up with a grunt, scoots over to rest his back against the row
of lockers. Stiles moves closer, sits beside him.
“I mean, I know what it was.Obviously. I guess I’m asking, you know, why?”
Jackson can’t meet his gaze, afraid of what he’ll see there. He stares instead
at his own hands, clasped together and resting on the bridge of his knees. “I
don’t really know,” he admits.
They sit in silence for some time, hunched over and exhausted, resting against
the lockers. The flow of water from the tap in the last stall continues in its
never-ending rhythm of monotone dripping. It’s the sound that echoes above the
muffled commotion of students outside finishing up with their end-of-school
chatter in the hallways.
Stiles fidgets, picking at his nails, blowing on his knuckles. He whistles
tunelessly. Pausing abruptly, he asks, “Do you want to talk about it?
Whatever’s wrong with you? Because clearly something is.”
He doesn’t say it like it’s a bad thing, isn’t trying to be mean. And for a
split second, Jackson actually considers taking him up on the offer. But then
his lip curls in defiance, and he’s standing up and brushing off his sleeves.
“Talk? To you?” He snorts, lifts his backpack over his shoulder. “Yeah, right.”
He stalks away and doesn’t look back. And he feels lucky that Stiles’ isn’t a
werewolf and can’t hear the cadence of his heartbeat, the rhythm betraying his
lie.
 
XV.
His movie nights with Lydia have grown increasingly awkward: cheesy rom-coms
watched in the velveteen darkness of her living room, sitting on opposite sides
of the couch, not touching. She sits at an angle, head resting on the fluffiest
of the couch cushions, curled up under the weight of a patchwork quilt. He sits
upright, hands folded in his lap, rigid. Like he’s even forgotten how to just
fucking exist in peace for a couple of hours.
“You deserve better, you know,” he says on one such night, not taking his eyes
off the television screen.
He feels more than sees Lydia turn to look at him, her face twisting into
frustration and annoyance. “What?”
“You should be with someone better."
Lydia snatches the remote off the coffee table, pauses the movie. She turns her
whole body to face him directly, blanket yanked up to her neck. She scowls at
him. “Okay, so is this your way of breaking up with me? Again.”
Jackson sighs, rubs his hands up and down his face. “No, I’m not breaking up
with you. I’m just saying.” He tilts his shoulders into a one-sided shrug. “I’m
not...” He trails off. “I’m not good at this. I don’t think I know how to not
be selfish.”
“You’re not perfect, yeah,” Lydia replies easily, brow still furrowed. “You’ve
got your issues. But so do I. And so will anyone else I might want to date. I
like you. I like what we have, even if we have to work at it a lot of the
time.” Her mouth purses into an O-shape, slightly parted. She licks her lower
lip, slowly, thoughtfully. “I wish you’d talk to me about stuff, but I know
that’s not how you do things.”
“You could be with someone who does,” Jackson says. He tilts his head back,
stares at the ceiling. “I’m sure Stilinski would be plenty happy to talk your
ear off.”
Lydia glares. “Are you sure you’re not trying to break up with me?” She runs
her fingers through her hair, tucks a stray lock behind her ear. “Stiles and I
are closer now, but I don’t have romantic feelings for him. It’s just that
simple.”
Jackson nods. “I guess it is.” Lydia leans over, and he digs his fingernails
into his thighs to refrain from flinching when she kisses his cheek. 
“Stop thinking so hard,” she murmurs, slowly pulling away. “We’re gonna be
fine.”
And that’s the end of that conversation. It’s a fucking cop out, and it
resolves nothing. Story of Jackson’s life.
 
XVI.
It’s all helter skelter: listless days of monotony and routine, training with
the pack and trading meaningful glances across vast rooms, lying entangled on
the mattress in the dark and trying not to scream at the skin-crawling
sensation of his fellows pressing close and breathing in his ear, shaping his
body into a tool for lacrosse and for show and for the fucking sake of it, and
going to bed at night and doing the whole damn thing over again in the morning.
Derek treats him like china, partly because he seems to think Jackson’s weak,
partly because he’s afraid of falling prey to arrogance again. He relies on
Peter’s guidance for most of his decisions nowadays. Jackson doesn’t understand
how the two of them can possibly get past their history, but they make it work.
Somehow. [At least on the outside.]
Jackson is a part of the pack, and he’s treated like such. But he still feels
like an outsider. Standing together, the hierarchy feels like DerekAndPeter,
and BoydAndEricaAndIsaac. And then Jackson. Separate but equal.
So not equal at all.
And maybe it’s just in his head, just his own neuroses playing tricks on him,
but the feeling is still there, very palpable and very real. Most of the time -
as hard as it is to admit to himself - he’d rather be with Scott’s pack.
Meaning Scott and Stiles.
[Meaning Stiles.]
All the while, the nightmares continue. He’ll shut his eyes and lie back, sink
into the sheets and hear that sickly sweet voice: “Good boy,” it will say, a
cacophonous sound from which he cannot escape. “Just like that. Such a good
boy...”
 
XVII.
He likes to run through the woods and pretend it’s a jungle. He’ll stampeded
blindly forward, inviting the whipping of tree branches against his face,
imagining them to be great leaves in the brush. His ears are so sharply attuned
to the noises of nature that it’s not too difficult to think of the mosquito
whine and chirping of birds as the soundtrack of the Amazon.
There’s peace in this fantasy because it removes him from the real and
transports him to a place far away. Somewhere where his demons can’t haunt him.
He runs to the river and strips down to nothing, gooseflesh breaking out all
across his arms and chest, and he breathes in the sharp aroma of water foul and
shallow muck, listens to the splashing of fish surfacing and slapping up on the
slippery rocks. He dives into the deep, swims down to the bottom and sits
cross-legged, allowing his body to slowly drift back up into the light.
Afterwards, he lies on the riverbank, and it is here that it all comes together
in his head. Where his need finally outweighs his pride.
Redressing, he allows the shift to come, charges through the undergrowth
leading up to the highway. Shaking off the leaves that cling to his cotton t-
shirt, he forces himself to walk as he turns onto the street, heading for the
house down on the left with the crooked mailbox. As he approaches, he breaks
out into a quick jog, cutting through the bushes and scaling the side wall.
“I need you to touch me,” he says in lieu of a greeting as he drops in through
the window into Stiles’ bedroom, crouching on the carpet and staring
unblinkingly into the eyes of the surprised boy in the chair by the desk.
Stiles’ eyebrows shoot up. “Sorry, what?”
Jackson stands, moving further into Stiles’ space. “You heard right.” He
presses in close, enjoying the hitch in the other boy’s breathing as their lips
ghost over one another, almost sealing together. “Come on,” he murmurs. “Danny
always said he got a vibe from you, even though you aren’t his type. Don’t tell
me you haven’t thought about it.”
“About you?” Stiles shoves him away. “Are you being serious right now?”
Jackson shakes his head, swallows thickly. “About guys. You play for both
teams, don’t you.”
Stiles looks torn between annoyance and embarrassment. His cheeks tinge pink,
mouth turning down into a scowl. “What the hell is this about, Jackson?” His
eyes go wide as Jackson leans over him again and tries to pry his legs apart. 
“Please,” Jackson says, hating the desperation in his voice, but not enough to
stop. Acting on impulse, he tilts his head and opens his mouth against the side
of Stiles’ neck., pressing a kiss against the flushed skin there. “Please don’t
say no.”
He rocks his hips forward, presses his groin into Stiles’ leg. “Jackson...” the
boy says, shaky. It’s not an invitation, but Jackson can smell the tentative
arousal cutting through the anger and frustration.
“Come on..."
Stiles stiffens, right on the verge of either giving in or shoving back. He’s
switching between the two, and that’s good; Jackson wants to make him snap. He
wants to push Stiles over the edge, drive the boy to punch him again, to pin
him down against the desk and fuck him senseless, fuck him until he bleeds. He
might want to be touched in a good way, to feel normal again - he might longfor
that, even - but what he needs goes deeper. 
He needs to be wrecked.
“No.” Stiles’ hands are on his chest, pushing him away again. His expression is
clouded, calculating. “No, okay? I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but this
is fucked up, even by our standards. You don’t even like me, remember?”
Jackson huffs - whines, really - toes curling, hands clenching into fists at
his sides. “What the fuck does that have to do with it?” he asks, teeth gritted
together. 
Stiles is looking at him with something akin to horror. “Jesus...” he murmurs.
“What happened to you?”
The air conditioner kicks to life, whirring rotors creating a sort of ringing
in Jackson’s ears. He feels like his head is spinning. He flinches, anger
draining away. Schooling his expression into something obscenely neutral, he
nods jerkily, backs up a few feet. “Fine,” he says. “See you around.” 
He’s ducking out through the window, ignoring whatever it is that Stiles is
calling after him. The ringing echoes in his head for the entire run home.
 
XVIII.
The downtown arcade is closing in two weeks, and Jackson wants to get in all
the game time he can before then. Call it nostalgia.
“These graphics are terrible,” Danny grumbles at his right, squinting over the
barrel of the blue plastic pistol and squeezing the trigger as the pixelated
deer leaps out from the dark green bushes.
Jackson hums indifferently. He holds his pistol out in front of him, arm
straight and rigid.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
“Lydia texted me this morning, said she wanted to go bowling later,” Danny
continues. “That sound good to you?”
Jackson nods wordlessly, lowering the gun as the screen flashes Game Over in
bright red letters. He closes his eyes for a moment, and the crimson color
bleeds into his mind: the hair-raising screams cut short as the kanima’s claws
slice through skin and soft tissue, spraying forth geysers of blood and
injecting poison into bulging veins. 
He opens his eyes and loads another pair of quarters into the slot, starts the
game up again. He raises the gun.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
 
XIX.
He’s sure there’s something to be said about the fact that full moons actually
come as a blessing for a guy like him. But he’s not going to try and examine
that too closely.
Sure, the full shift is unbelievably painful, and the lack of control is
especially frightening. But the pack is with him, and they provide comfort. And
there’s a freedom in being able to get outside of his mind for a single night,
to escape from the ceaseless train of misery and hatred and despair. Given the
choice between psychic wounds and physical agony, he’ll take the latter every
time.
Pain he can deal with. Soul-searching is a living nightmare.
“Wake up.” Derek is rapping his open palm against Jackson’s cheek, and none too
gently. 
“Morning, sunshine,” Peter calls from one of the other rooms.
Jackson blinks rapidly, sitting up and surveying his surroundings. The other
Betas are slowly getting dressed, yawning and moving about groggily, exhausted
from the stress of the previous night. “No one got hurt, right?”
Derek opens his mouth to respond, but Peter cuts over him. “Of course not. But
it’s cute that you asked.” Derek glares at the wall, a low growl rumbling in
his chest. He turns back to Jackson, expression softening, almost
imperceptibly. 
“No,” he says. “Everyone’s fine."
Jackson nods, buttoning up his pants. “Alright then.”
  
XX.
The overhead lights shine through his eyelids, and he startles awake, returning
to consciousness. The ceiling fan casts a cool breeze throughout the bedroom. 
He looks around, bewildered, freezing up at the sight of Stiles standing by the
door with his hand on the light switch. “Stilinski, what the fuck?”
Stiles frowns, holds a finger up to his lips in a silencing gesture. “Quiet, do
you want to wake up your parents?”
Jackson sits up all the way, uncomfortably aware of his semi-nudity, especially
given the nature of their previous encounter. He crosses his arms protectively
over himself, glaring. “They’re not here. What the hell are you doing in my
house at...” He looks at the clock. “One in the morning? What do you want?”
A beat. Stiles frown slips away, expression contorting into uncertainty, doubt.
He looks like he might just back off and leave without explanation, but then
his eyes harden, turning steely with determination. He closes the door quietly,
coming all the way into the room. Standing on the carpet before the bed, he
looks down into Jackson’s eyes. “Okay,” he says.
“Okay, what?” Jackson rubs his forehead tiredly. He stiffens in alarm as Stiles
sits down on the bedspread beside him.
“Okay, I’ll fuck you,” Stiles answers casually, like this is a totally normal
situation. As if this is something they do all the time. Jackson can hear the
kid’s heartbeat, so he knowsthat Stiles is as nervous as he is. But the boy’s
face betrays no hint of his anxiety.
Jackson takes a deep breath. “Yeah?” he fires back, trying for the same
casualness, failing spectacularly. His voice manages to break even within the
space of a single syllable. He juts his chin out in challenge. “Who says you
get to do the fucking?”
Stiles gives him a skeptical look. Which is weird, since he can’t actually read
minds, doesn’t really know what Jackson has been fantasizing about over the
past few weeks. Whatever. Jackson isn’t going to push his luck.
“Do you have lube, or something?” Stiles asks, no preamble. Fuck. If Jackson
wasn’t so sure the other boy was a virgin...
“In the nightstand,” he replies. “Top drawer.”
He throws back the sheets as Stiles retrieves the bottle, stepping up to yank
the chain on the fan and turn the lights down dim. He drops back down,
shivering slightly as he lies on his back. Still clothed, Stiles scoots closer,
lying on his side with his elbow propped up on the pillow. 
“I think it’s going to hurt at first,” he says, and there is a slight waver in
his voice now. That gives Jackson’s self-esteem a mild boost. “That’s what I’ve
heard, anyway. That it hurts.”
Jackson nods, staring at the ceiling. “I know.”
Stiles raises an eyebrow, but he tactfully doesn’t ask questions. His hand
slinks over Jackson’s leg, crosses over his hips to wrap around his waist. He
trails the tips of his fingers upward, over Jackson’s chest, his neck. He lets
them graze against the boy’s cheek, curl in his hair. “I’m gonna...” He
swallows. “I’m going get undressed now.”
Jackson rolls over, burying his face into his pillow. “Just do it,” he says,
voice muffled.
His breathing starts to steady, heart rate slowing as he listens to the sounds
of Stiles removing his clothes and throwing them aside. And when the other
boy’s skin comes into contact with his own, he doesn’t feel the expected rush
of panic.
It’s all just a blur after that.
 
XXI.
It’s another hard body covering his. Another mouth, another tongue. But instead
of fear, there’s only need and desperation.
And not just his own. 
Stiles is on him like a wild thing, frantic and frustrated, unable to get
enough. His lips are stung red, visibly swollen even in the semi-darkness, and
he buries his face in the crook of Jackson’s neck, suckling and biting at the
tenderest of spots. He’s more muscular than Jackson expected, and that should
be weird, but it just seems irrelevant. It’s just a shell. A decaying vessel
very much like his own, rutting and pistoning and fucking in search of a
climax: that single crystalizing moment of bliss before everything comes
crashing back down to reality and consequences. Who cares if Stiles is a boy?
Jackson groans, bucking upward, shuddering at the sensation of Stiles’
fingernails digging hard into his hips, manhandling him into whatever position
best suits their respective needs at the time. It’s all skin and sweat, searing
hot [tongues/mouths/cocks]. There is pain, but it’s manageable, and it’s
insignificant in the face of their immediate gratification.
He can feel Stiles’ palms burning against the muscles of his chest, can hear
the strangled panting behind his head. His fingers seek out contact anywhere he
can: reaching up to grasp at Stiles’ biceps, curling around his neck, threading
through the dusky hairs below his bellybutton. They're face to face: Stiles
bending over him and knocking their foreheads together, Jackson grabbing his
shoulders and pulling him closer, pressing his nose against the other boy's
neck, his armpit, into the center of his chest. Sensations abundant.
“Fuck!” Jackson throws his head back, winces as he bangs against the headboard.
Stiles spears into him, gasping brokenly, eyes screwed shut, hips twitching in
rhythm. He’s good at this, although Jackson will never tell him that. 
It’s over in probably minutes, though it feels far longer, and Jackson tense up
at the grossly sticky feeling of warmth filling up inside of him, cringes at
the wet sound of Stiles withdrawing.
They lie together on top of the sheets, breathing hard, blissed out.
It feels like nirvana. Like catharsis. Enlightenment.
 
XXII.
Of course, the thing about enlightenment is this: it wears off.
Later, cleaning themselves up in the bathroom, reality seems a lot less sweet.
“What’s your excuse?” Jackson asks, sitting with his back pressed up against
the cabinet under the sink, knees curled tightly to his chest. The floor tiles
feel cold against his naked ass, the air muggy from the smell of sex.
Stiles raises his head and gives him a look. Sprawled out in the tub, his
shoulders are foaming with soap bubbles, cheeks still flushed with heat. “My
excuse?” Jackson nods.
“I know my reasons for...you know, this. What are yours?”
“Ah.” Stiles lets his head fall back, clunking dully on the rim of the tub. The
water’s surface ripples as he splashes his face, wets his cheeks down. “You’re
attractive,” he says easily, like it’s no big deal. Shrugs. “It’s not like you
needed me to tell you that, stroke your titanic ego any more.”
Jackson frowns, rubs his thumb against his kneecap. “That’s it? You don’t know
any hot people you actually like? Besides Lydia, I mean.”
Stiles shrugs again, but it’s less casual this time, more for show. He looks
uncomfortable. “It’s not like there are people lining up to take a crack at
this.” He gestures vaguely at himself. “You were willing. Actually you were
begging.” He sucks on the inside of his cheek, staring at the wall. “You seemed
like you needed it.”
“Hmm.” Jackson looks away, picks detachedly at his toenails. “And Lydia? You
don’t think of this as betraying her?”
Stiles shoots him a sharp look. “Youdon’t?” he counters. Then, looking away,
anger fading just as soon as it appeared, “She’s never going to date me.” He
glances discreetly at Jackson out of the corner of his eye. “You think I don’t
know that, but you’re wrong. I’m not an idiot.” Jackson bobs his head in
agreement.
“You’re not an idiot. You’re just annoying as shit.” Stiles chuckles.
“I’ll take it.” He leans over the edge of the tub to prop his elbows up on the
rim. “I have my demons, Jackson,” he says, suddenly serious. “You think you’ve
got a monopoly on being fucked up, but that just isn’t true.”
Jackson rolls his eyes. “I’ve never thought that.” Stiles grunts
disbelievingly.
“Whatever you say.” He sits up straighter. “So what’s your excuse? I’m guessing
not gay experimentation, since you’d probably do that with Danny. Or maybe not,
since he’s your best friend...”
Jackson opens his mouth, closes it again. There are all sorts of things he
could say, long and short, with varying degrees of truth. What eventually comes
out is, “Matt raped me.”
Stiles draws in a sharp breath, heart skipping a beat. He closes his eyes.
Jackson clenches his jaw, prepares for the inevitable condolences, the
sympathies.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Stiles asks softly. Jackson huffs a bitter
little laugh.
“No.” 
Stiles chews on his lip. “Okay.”
They don’t talk for a while. Stiles finishes bathing, sloshing soapy water up
onto himself, washing away Jackson’s smell. [That makes Jackson’s chest ache a
little bit. Which is stupid. He doesn’t comment on it.]
When he’s done, he stands and dresses, and he steps over Jackson’s legs,
pausing at the door. “I’m going to go home now,” he announces uncertainly.
Jackson looks up at him.
“This is never happening again,” he says in response. He doesn’t sound
convincing, even to himself.
Stiles gives him another look - the worst look. The typical one. Pity. And
somehow, that’s worse than everything else that’s happened. “I’ll see you
around,” he murmurs. And then he actually bends down and presses a kiss against
Jackson’s temple before ducking his head in embarrassment and exiting down the
stairs.
Jackson steps into the tub as soon as he leaves, sinking down beneath the
surface and holding his breath. 
There’s no sound in this place. The bubbles rise to the top.
  
XXIII.
The Whittemores don’t have family dinners very often anymore, but when they do,
it’s generally a barrage of questions about each other’s day - most of them
directed at Jackson, trying to draw him out of his shell.
He usually responds with one-word answers, but tonight he provides details,
talks at length about everything his parents want to hear. And when their
plates are empty, he wipes his mouth with a napkin, stands, and says, “Thank
you.” Then, pushing his chair back into place, “I love you.”
His parents freeze, stunned. They stare at him for a moment, baffled, then
break out into wide smiles, radiating happiness. Like he’s just made their
fucking week. “We love you too, son,” his mother says, voice thick with
emotion.
Jackson forces a smile and leaves. He hears the two of them whispering as he
ascends the stairs.
 
XXIV.
He sits with Scott again at lunch on Monday.
“Careful now,” the dark-haired boy teases. “People are going to start thinking
you and I are friends.”
“You should move on from Allison,” Jackson says, ignoring the comment. “It will
never work between you.”
Scott blinks at him, stupefied. His smile turns into an annoyed grimace, and he
ducks his head to stare at his lunch. “Wow. Great opener. Also, none of your
business.”
“You’re just going to end up hurting each other more,” Jackson goes on.
“Why do you care, exactly?” Scott grumbles, stabbing his straw into his juice
box.
Jackson makes a noncommittal noise. “I don’t.”
Scott glares. “Then why are you telling me what to do?”
Jackson frowns thoughtfully. “I don’t really know.”
Scott takes a sip from his drink. “Good talk, buddy.”
 
XXV. 
“I’m worried about you,” Lydia says, sitting in the passenger’s seat with one
foot out on the grass, the other planted firmly inside. Jackson’s fingers curl
on the steering wheel.
“Don’t be,” he says.
Lydia shakes her head stubbornly. “You’ve been acting really strange. Stranger
than usual.” She flips her hair. “I just want to emphasize again that you can
always come talk to me if you need to.”
He scratches the back of his head. “I know that. Thanks.”
She studies his face carefully. After a minute or so, her shoulders slump in
defeat. “I can’t help you if you won’t let me. No one can help you if you shut
them out.” She touches his arm briefly, squeezes. “People care about you,
whether you like it or not.”
He turns and gazes out the driver’s side window. “Goodnight, Lydia.”
 
XXVI.
He has a wet dream. It’s feverish and confused, and he doesn’t remember
anything about it.
But he wakes up with the taste of Stiles on his tongue.
 
XXVII. 
He sits in the locker room after practice, surrounded by the droning buzz of
his teammates slamming metal doors and chattering about school and work and
parents and sex. His gaze is unfocused as he stares in through the grate of his
personal locker, peering into the blackness within. It’s the abyss, and he’s
sinking deeper and deeper still. 
Everything is decay.
He hears a startled laugh and turns to his left to see Scott wiping furiously
at his eyes, Stiles doubled over in laughter with a peeled orange clutched in
his hand. “Sorry, dude! I didn’t mean to spray you.”
Jackson turns away and looks down at the floor tiles. He pinches the bridge of
his nose, lets the memories flow. There’s no use fighting them anymore. They’re
with him always: the voice and its body, the killer and its claws. 
The void yawns.
He feels a hand touch down gently on his shoulder, looks up to see Stiles
standing above him, chewing on his last slice of orange. Glancing around, he
sees that they’re the only ones left in the room.
“My demons are acting up again,” Stiles says quietly, no traces of joking to be
found. “I was wondering if you might know a remedy?”
Jackson almost laughs. Almost.
He tugs Stiles down to sit on the bench beside him, breathes in the smell of
limonene on the other boy’s breath. “This isn’t a thing,” he says.
Stiles shrugs. “Whatever you say.” Jackson glares.
“You don’t want it to be a thing.”
“Neither do you.”
Jackson’s eyes flutter shut. “Yeah,” he agrees, lips parting as Stiles’ mouth
ghosts against his. “Neither do I.”
And they crash back into oblivion.
End Notes
     Ugh. This is probably a lot stranger and bleaker than you were
     wanting, but I hope you like it anyway.
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