[fic] No One Loves Me (And Neither Do I) 1/5 (teen wolf, Derek/Stiles/Jackson)
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairings: established Derek/Stiles, unrequited Derek/Jackson, non-con/dub-con Jackson/Stiles (eventual Derek/Jackson/Stiles)
Rating: R (for kink and violence)
Summary: After getting the bite, Jackson had thought that things would finally start going his way. But as Derek gets involved with Stiles, Jackson learns the hard way that werewolves and jealousy don't mix well.
Warnings: non-con/dub-con, verbal abuse, physical violence, chubby!kink, humiliation!kink
Notes: This is a sequel to We Fit So Tight You And I. I wanted to poke some more fun with chubby!Stiles, but Jackson had other ideas and kind of hijacked the story. I have no idea where the hell this story will end up, but here's chapter one. (Name borrowed from a song by Them Crooked Vultures.)
No One Loves Me (And Neither Do I) - Ch. 1
Despite the coach screaming his head off just a few paces away from him, Jackson paid no attention to the man. He kept his eyes on the field, watching his teammates run back and forth between the goals, each team trying their best to score. It was just a practice game and no one was really keeping count, but it was easy to see that Danny's side was winning, his friend's skills as a goalie giving them a clear advantage over the others.
Not that Jackson was counting, either. As the game continued its ebb and flow, Jackson found his attention returning to that one midfielder who kept missing the signs of his teammates and mucking things up with his overly enthusiastic but ultimately unsuccessful attempts at scoring. It was clear that Stiles loved to play, but from Jackson's point of view, that was pretty much all he had going for him.
Jackson watched Stiles as the boy almost managed to intercept a spectacular pass from the other side, only to fumble with his stick at the last moment and miss the catch, letting the ball drop on the faded green of the field right in front of the other team's forward. The groans of Stiles' teammates were loud enough to carry over the field to the benches and Jackson felt a twitch of frustration crawl up his spine, his grip on the handle of his stick tightening as a surge of anger flashed through him.
He jumped when the coach yelled his name right behind his back. "Whittemore, you're up!" the man barked, clapping a hand on Jackson's shoulder briefly. "Show these greenhorns how it's done, will ya? That goddamn McCall better be fit to play on Friday 'cause we ain't gonna lose to a trash team like that," he grumbled as he turned to shout at the rest of the players on the benches.
Jackson gave the back of the coach's head a cold look before getting up. Coach Finstock had made no effort to hide his preference for McCall and his magical skills, but as much as Jackson disagreed with him, there was no point in getting into an argument with the man. He'd tried it before and all it had gotten him was a headache and ringing ears after being yelled at for not appreciating the team’s new genius.
Jackson shook off his annoyance and readjusted his helmet before running to the field to replace one of the forwards on Danny's side of the field. He had just enough time to give a nod to his friend before the coach blew the whistle, setting the game back in motion.
He let his instincts take over. Not the ones he'd recently been blessed with, but the ones he'd spent a lifetime honing: the true athlete's instincts that had made him the star of the lacrosse team long before all this werewolf crap had taken over his life.
A quick glance at the field in front of him was enough; Jackson already knew where the weak points in the enemy's defense lay. He caught the ball as it came flying toward him and passed it on to the side, sprinting his way through the field toward the opposing team's goal. He knew the moves of his teammates too well and fainting his way through the gaps in their lines like running through a field of dummies. There was only one unknown, or rather one unpredictable midfielder that he had to look out for.
He was carrying the ball when he saw Stiles step in front of him. To his eyes, the boy looked like he was moving in slow motion, and it wasn’t just because of his supernatural senses. Instead of slowing his speed and fainting to go around the guy, Jackson hunched his shoulders and gripped his stick tightly, then drove right into Stiles with full force.
The force of the impact knocked the air from the boy's lungs, sending him staggering back. Jackson saw the grimace of pain on Stiles' face as the boy fell to the ground clutching his middle and there was a spark of grim satisfaction inside him as he continued to rush toward the enemy's goal. One skillfully aimed throw later, he’d sunk the ball into the net just out of the goalkeeper's reach.
His teammates rushed to congratulate him, but Jackson’s attention was focused on Stiles as the boy clambered up from the grass, wincing as he held the spot where Jackson had hit him. An odd rush went through him, his senses sharpening as he took in the glimpse of pain on Stiles’ face.
As they returned to their places on the field, Jackson stepped in Stiles' path, knocking the boy with his shoulder hard enough to make Stiles stumble back.
"The hell’s your problem, Jackson?" Stiles muttered, glaring at Jackson warily. He looked winded, his cheeks red from running around the field.
Jackson narrowed his eyes. "Don’t get in my way, Stilinski," he replied, his voice low and edged with threat, "or you might get hurt."
Stiles started to say something, but Jackson turned his back to him and jogged to the center of the field. As he took his place, the look of hurt on Stiles’ face flashed through his mind and Jackson tightened his hold on his stick in anticipation. He was going to have to see that again.
He quickly lost count on the number of goals he'd scored, but if asked, he could’ve easily recounted the number of times he'd tackled Stiles to the ground during the game. He made sure to play by the rules, but with each crash and collision, he found it harder to keep himself in check.
It was on the sixth tackle that Jackson caught the hint of fear in Stiles' eyes, just before his elbow punched into the boy's side in a quick jab. His vision flashed instantly red as he watched Stiles double over from the pain and fall to his knees on the ground. Suddenly, everything around him was still, the rush of blood in his veins deafening every sound except for Stiles' gasps of pain as he tried to recover from the blow.
Frozen in place, Jackson barely registered the shrill blow of the coach's whistle, let alone the tentative are-you-okays and what-the-hell-happeneds coming from his teammates as they gathered around the two of them. His dual-tone vision was zoned in on Stiles, drinking in the sight and sounds of his hurting. The conscious part of him knew that this was wrong, wrong and dangerous on so many levels and that he should get away from Stiles before he lost what little control he had left, but he couldn’t look away. His wolf side reveled in the other boy's anguish and yearned for more.
There was a glimmer of tears in the corners of Stiles' eyes when he looked up at Jackson, but the pain showing on his face was not mirrored in his dark eyes. "Jeez, Jackson, save something for the funeral, won't you?" he gasped through the pain, his effort at joking sounding hollow and forced, but Jackson could sense that Stiles was trying to keep things as normal as possible. He knew that Jackson was close to turning and he kept himself on the ground, muscles tense and ready to scramble away the moment Jackson lost it.
Stiles’ gaze was fixed on him, but his eyes revealed nothing of his thoughts or feelings. Somehow, that unreadable look made the frustration Jackson was feeling even worse. He could feel the burn of the bloodlust in the pit of his stomach and the urge to release the control was almost overpowering.
It took every ounce of Jackson's willpower to leash his wolf side. He turned away without answering and pushed his way through the crowd that was watching the scene in an uneasy silence. No one tried to stop him as he walked off the field, but he could feel the eyes of his teammates following him. It was the coach's words that stopped him just as he was making his way past the benches.
"That's what I'm talking about, team! Killer's instincts, that's what we need!"
The chill that ran up his spine made Jackson freeze.
"Now, I'm not saying you should all go and pile up on Bilinski here, he looks like shit already so good job there, Whittemore, but this is what we need! A fricking massacre! A good ol' fashioned blood brawl on the field should teach those…" Coach Finstock continued to ramble on, his voice growing louder and wilder as he got more and more carried away with his twisted ideas. The rest of the team listened in complete silence, probably too afraid to cut in on the madness.
Jackson forced himself to move and start walking again. His vision was still tinted in red and his heart beating like he had just run a marathon, and he knew he needed to get away from the others before the last shreds of his self control evaporated. He tried to keep himself from running, but he was almost jogging by the time he reached the school. He yanked the door to the building open with too much force and stumbled inside, blindly scrambling through the first door he came across. He shut himself in and slumped against the wall, burying his head in his hands.
Trying to calm himself down, Jackson searched frantically for an anchor that would keep his self control from drifting away, but with the currents of violence that welled up from somewhere deep inside him, it was like trying to keep a flood at bay. The coach's words ran through his head in an endless loop and the irony of the situation didn't escape him; he wondered if the coach would still be praising his aggression if he'd actually ripped someone's throat open in the middle of a match.
He imagined Coach Finstock calling out his wonderful performance after he'd rampaged through their rival team, killing and maiming whoever came in his way, and the dark humor managed to calm him somewhat.
As his vision slowly returned to normal, Jackson felt slightly more in control of himself. He pulled in a deep, uneven breath and leaned his head back against the wall, staring at the messy piles of cones and guards and spare gear that took up most of the space of what appeared to be the supply closet for the P.A. class.
As much as it pained him to admit, McCall had been right. Being a werewolf was not just about power and prowess, but about control. Jackson had thought it would be different for him, but all that self-assurance had waned as he had struggled through his first few weeks as a werewolf. Jackson felt a humorless smile ghost over his lips, his hands tightening into fists. He’d never thought he’d find himself hiding in a musty closet like a coward because he was afraid that he might accidentally kill someone.
Except that it wasn’t just anyone that made the wolf inside him rage and howl, and Jackson knew the reasons behind his faltering control had nothing to do with lacrosse. The moon wasn't even close to being full yet and still just the thought of Stiles made him brim with bloodlust.
Jackson closed his eyes and tried emptying his mind, focusing just on his breathing, but fragments of memories kept surfacing from the unconscious part of his brain. He jerked when a flash of pain pierced his body, the memory of the night he'd finally got his wish still fresh and raw in his head.
He remembered the grim determination he'd felt as he'd stepped through the door inside the rotting corpse of a house that Derek had claimed for his den, remembered the fear and need that had mixed into something new as Jackson caught the red flash of the werewolf’s eyes. The memory of the bite still made him shudder; the agony of it bringing him to his knees, gasping desperately for air and sure that he would die right then and there.
The Alpha's voice had cut through the panicked chaos inside his head, sharp as a blade:
"Welcome to the pack, Jackson."
The words had echoed an ominous sense of possession that he hadn't understood back then, but when he'd looked up and seen the smear of his blood on Derek’s lips, he'd felt a stab of new desire pulse through his body. There was something in the way the werewolf had looked at him that made Jackson want, no, not want, but need to give himself in, completely. The echo of the words had told him what the blood marked lips wouldn't say aloud:
You're mine now, Jackson, all mine.
Voices from the corridor snapped him back to the present. Jackson blinked as he tried to shake the wisps of memory from his head, but he made no move to get up from the floor. He wasn't ready to face the others, not yet, so he waited in silence for the chorus of voices to fade as the team passed the supply closet, heading for the locker room to change.
Suddenly, someone turned the handle of the door, making Jackson tense up. Maybe he’d been too caught up in his memories to hear anyone approaching, but as soon as he recognized the guy coming through the door, Jackson felt his focus come rushing back.
Stiles had his arms filled with spare sticks and gear, the pile of supplies hiding his face from Jackson view. Jackson felt a flicker of pity for the guy, thinking that the coach must be either blind or crazy to make a guy haul all that gear after the beating he'd gotten on the field today, but he quickly brushed away the feeling. The boy deserved everything that was coming at him.
Stiles carefully maneuvered the unsteady load of gear through the door frame, somehow succeeding in keeping the spare helmets from toppling down, but as soon as he was safely inside the room, he discarded the pile on the side of the wall with a huff of relief. He wiped his hands off on the undershirt he was wearing and was just about to walk out, when he seemed to somehow sense that he wasn't alone in the room.
Stiles glanced around, looking spooked by the sudden realization, and when his eyes landed on Jackson, he stumbled back with a shriek. "Oh my God!" Stiles eyes were wide with shock and it took him a moment to compose himself. "Jesus, Jackson, scared the hell out of me," he muttered. His hand shook slightly as he ran it over his head. Stiles turned back to the door, but to Jackson’s surprise, he pulled it shut, closing the two of them in the room together.
Jackson narrowed his eyes. "You think that's wise? I'm not here because I enjoy the fucking scenery," Jackson said, his voice flat from the effort of keeping his aggression in check. Just the sight of the guy made the calm he’d tried to reach fade fast.
"Right back at you," Stiles murmured, throwing Jackson a wary glance. He took a few steps in the little space that was free of clutter and Jackson could read the nervousness in the twitchy manner he walked, but Stiles appeared to have made up his mind about something. He stopped pacing and turned to Jackson, setting his hands on his hips. "Listen, Jackson," he started, his face set in an unusually serious expression, "I know you don't like me, never have, never will, but now that we're all part of the same gang, can't we, you know, at least try to get along?"
Jackson stared at the guy, struck silent by Stiles' sincere words, but the silence didn't last long. "'Try to get along'?" he repeated, mimicking Stiles’ voice mockingly.
Stiles gave him a shrug of sorts, wrapping his arms around himself. He had already removed his gear and the gesture made Jackson wonder if he regretted it now; the light fabric of the undershirt offered no protection against a raged werewolf.
"We're on the same team, aren't we? And I don't mean the Cyclones." He glanced away, then sighed, dropping his hands to his sides. "Look, I was there when Scott went through all this, so I know what it's like, okay? I know what you're going through--"
Rage speared through Jackson spine, his body pulsing with violent intent, and he was on his feet before Stiles could finish his sentence. He caught Stiles' hand by the wrist as the boy tried to shield himself from Jackson, spun him around and pushed him against the wall. "You know nothing," Jackson hissed in Stiles' ear, twisting the boy's hand against his back and reveling in the yelp of pain that escaped Stiles' lips.
His senses now heightened, Jackson's nose was filled with the scent of fresh sweat and fear that saturated Stiles' skin. He drew in the smell, enjoying the sharp tinge it carried, until he realized that the familiar aroma mixed and mingled with Stiles’ natural smell was the scent of Derek.
It was like a slap to his face, the Alpha’s scent like a warning left on Stiles’ skin, but as the initial shock faded, Jackson's grip on Stiles' wrist tightened. The thought of Derek marking Stiles as his made Jackson’s blood boil with jealousy, the scent reminding him of the painful truth that while Stiles was just a human, he’d still got what Jackson, even as a werewolf, couldn’t have.
"Just because you're fucking Derek doesn't mean we're the same, human," he said, his voice distorted with anger. "There's no team, there's a pack, and you're not part of it." Jackson gave Stiles’ hand one last painful twist that made the boy groan, then released his grip and forced himself to take a step back.
Stiles' eyes were wide with alarm as he turned around, straightening his arm carefully to test if anything had been broken. He kept his back to the wall as he rubbed his wrist, but there was a look of defiance on his face that made Jackson want to repeat the previous scene.
"You're wrong," Stiles' voice was silent but unwavering as he spoke, "I may be just a human, but like it or not, we're on the same side."
Jackson ground his teeth to keep from growling as he closed in on Stiles again. He grabbed a fistful of Stiles' shirt and slammed the boy against the wall. He was way past the point where he could just let Stiles leave, frustrated by the boy’s insistence and his defiance. He wanted to break him somehow, to draw blood, but at the same time, he knew that if he started, there would be no stopping midway.
"And what exactly do you think you can do for me, huh?" He gave Stiles another shove, loving the hurt that flickered on his face when he hit the boy’s already bruised ribs. "You want to hold my hand while I cry? Bring me flowers and chocolate after I rip apart some stranger during the next full moon? Because that’s pretty much all you’re good for," Jackson said, emphasizing his words with a stab of his finger in the middle of Stiles’ chest.
"Jackson, you're a--" Stiles tried to cut in, but Jackson didn’t give him a chance to finish.
"I'm what? Crazy? A stark raving lunatic?" he let out a hollow laugh and he jabbed his finger into Stiles' stomach.
"Screw you, Jackson," Stiles yelled, his anger eclipsing his fears. Color had risen to his cheeks, red spots burning on either side of his face and his brown eyes sparked with anger as he glared at Jackson. "You’re a jerk, a goddamn bully and you know what? I take back what I said. ‘Cause obviously the only side you’re on is your own, dickhead."
Jackson could hear Stiles’ heart beating frantically in his chest, but he wasn’t paying attention to the boy’s words anymore. Instead, his attention was drawn to the Stiles’ middle. He pushed his finger in Stiles’ stomach again and frowned in confusion. It was soft, and it wasn't the fabric of the flimsy undershirt that was softening the hit. With a quick yank, he pulled up the hem of Stiles' shirt and bared his stomach.
Stiles' gasp cut through the sudden silence in the room. He tried to reach his shirt to pull it back down, but Jackson swatted his hands away like they were a fly that annoyed him. He stared at the plump flesh he'd revealed and then pushed his finger into Stiles' belly, watching his finger sink into the fat. A strange shiver travelled up his spine, his rage replaced by something different and new.
"Well, well," Jackson said, his voice deliberately soft and slow. "No wonder you sucked at the field today, fat boy," he murmured, giving the pale flesh a flick with his finger and watching the tiny ripples that moved through it. "This is not how a jock should look like, is it? I bet when the coach finds out about this, he'll make you run laps for the rest of the season. You’ll be lucky if he doesn’t kick you out of the team."
Stiles had gone utterly still, but his rabid pulse and shallow breathing rang loudly in Jackson's ears. He glanced up at the boy curiously. The color had drawn from Stiles’ face, leaving his skin white as a sheet, and he had squeezed his eyes shut tightly. Jackson read the signs of panic on the boy’s body and suddenly, he felt an intense rush of power course through him.
Where his previous taunts had failed, this one worked. "You're pathetic, Stilinski, an utterly pathetic fat-ass," he whispered softly, poking his finger into the boy's belly again, and the flinch on Stiles' face just gave him a reason to continue.
He grabbed a handful of flesh when a sudden disturbing thought interrupted him. "Is this what Derek's so into?" he asked, frowning to himself as he squeezed the fat roughly, but not hard enough for it to hurt.
There was no reply from Stiles, but Jackson could feel him tensing up and he knew the boy was hiding something. He leaned closer, his voice a soft murmur laced with provocation: "You're the fat little piggy to his big bad wolf, aren't you?" He gave Stiles' belly a slap and the feel of the supple flesh moving under his hand made him feel strangely fascinated and disgusted at the same time.
Jackson saw the look of horror dawn on Stiles' face just as the scent the boy's arousal registered in his nose. He pulled in the scent, not believing his senses at first, but the sweet, tangy smell was unmistakable.
It was then that Stiles started fighting back, trying to push Jackson away, but he caught the boy's hands and pushed him back against the wall with ease. "You're turned on by this?" he asked incredulously, not able to keep the surprise away from his voice. He let his hand fall back to Stiles' chubby waist and sank his fingers deep into the pudgy flesh, and Stiles responded with a gasp that could’ve easily been a sound of pleasure. Jackson’s eyes flew up; Stiles avoided his gaze, but Jackson could see that his face looked stricken and flushed with mortified arousal.
Without thinking, Jackson's hand moved lower from Stiles' middle, seeking proof for what he already knew.
"No! Jackson, please--"
The sound of the bell ringing made both of them jump. Jackson's hand was frozen in midair, hovering just above Stiles’ crotch, and realizing what he had been about to do made Jackson yank it back like it was on fire. He took a step back, then another and another until his back hit the opposite wall.
Neither of them could break the silence that had occupied the room. Jackson could only watch as Stiles’ knees gave out and he slowly slid down the wall, landing awkwardly in a pile of spare helmets and other gear. The boy wrapped his arms around himself, shielding himself from Jackson’s gaze.
The reality crashed over Jackson like a flash wave. "Oh, no… Oh God, Derek... you can't tell him what happened," the whisper left him almost before he knew that he was speaking. "He'll kill me, he’ll kill me for sure, oh God..."
Stiles' eyes were flat and cold as he lifted his gaze. He was rubbing his arm gently, soothingly, as he looked at Jackson from across the room. "Are you really that stupid?"
Jackson could only stare, his mind completely blank.
"It doesn’t matter whether I tell him or not. He’ll find out." Stiles let go of his arm and carefully peeled back the sleeve of his shirt, revealing an angry red handprint that would no doubt bloom into a horrible bruise. "I'm not a werewolf," Stiles' voice sounded tired, but his eyes were hard and intense, "so this won't heal in just a couple of hours."
Jackson opened his mouth, not knowing whether he wanted to scream or argue, but nothing came out. The horror of the situation was that Stiles was right: Derek would find out, and he would come after Jackson.
And he was going to kill Jackson.
A violent shudder went through his body and he felt sick. "Oh, God..." Just as he had entered the room, he stumbled almost blindly for the door and didn’t look back.
//end of chapter 1 - continue to chapter 2
Pairings: established Derek/Stiles, unrequited Derek/Jackson, non-con/dub-con Jackson/Stiles (eventual Derek/Jackson/Stiles)
Rating: R (for kink and violence)
Summary: After getting the bite, Jackson had thought that things would finally start going his way. But as Derek gets involved with Stiles, Jackson learns the hard way that werewolves and jealousy don't mix well.
Warnings: non-con/dub-con, verbal abuse, physical violence, chubby!kink, humiliation!kink
Notes: This is a sequel to We Fit So Tight You And I. I wanted to poke some more fun with chubby!Stiles, but Jackson had other ideas and kind of hijacked the story. I have no idea where the hell this story will end up, but here's chapter one. (Name borrowed from a song by Them Crooked Vultures.)
No One Loves Me (And Neither Do I) - Ch. 1
Despite the coach screaming his head off just a few paces away from him, Jackson paid no attention to the man. He kept his eyes on the field, watching his teammates run back and forth between the goals, each team trying their best to score. It was just a practice game and no one was really keeping count, but it was easy to see that Danny's side was winning, his friend's skills as a goalie giving them a clear advantage over the others.
Not that Jackson was counting, either. As the game continued its ebb and flow, Jackson found his attention returning to that one midfielder who kept missing the signs of his teammates and mucking things up with his overly enthusiastic but ultimately unsuccessful attempts at scoring. It was clear that Stiles loved to play, but from Jackson's point of view, that was pretty much all he had going for him.
Jackson watched Stiles as the boy almost managed to intercept a spectacular pass from the other side, only to fumble with his stick at the last moment and miss the catch, letting the ball drop on the faded green of the field right in front of the other team's forward. The groans of Stiles' teammates were loud enough to carry over the field to the benches and Jackson felt a twitch of frustration crawl up his spine, his grip on the handle of his stick tightening as a surge of anger flashed through him.
He jumped when the coach yelled his name right behind his back. "Whittemore, you're up!" the man barked, clapping a hand on Jackson's shoulder briefly. "Show these greenhorns how it's done, will ya? That goddamn McCall better be fit to play on Friday 'cause we ain't gonna lose to a trash team like that," he grumbled as he turned to shout at the rest of the players on the benches.
Jackson gave the back of the coach's head a cold look before getting up. Coach Finstock had made no effort to hide his preference for McCall and his magical skills, but as much as Jackson disagreed with him, there was no point in getting into an argument with the man. He'd tried it before and all it had gotten him was a headache and ringing ears after being yelled at for not appreciating the team’s new genius.
Jackson shook off his annoyance and readjusted his helmet before running to the field to replace one of the forwards on Danny's side of the field. He had just enough time to give a nod to his friend before the coach blew the whistle, setting the game back in motion.
He let his instincts take over. Not the ones he'd recently been blessed with, but the ones he'd spent a lifetime honing: the true athlete's instincts that had made him the star of the lacrosse team long before all this werewolf crap had taken over his life.
A quick glance at the field in front of him was enough; Jackson already knew where the weak points in the enemy's defense lay. He caught the ball as it came flying toward him and passed it on to the side, sprinting his way through the field toward the opposing team's goal. He knew the moves of his teammates too well and fainting his way through the gaps in their lines like running through a field of dummies. There was only one unknown, or rather one unpredictable midfielder that he had to look out for.
He was carrying the ball when he saw Stiles step in front of him. To his eyes, the boy looked like he was moving in slow motion, and it wasn’t just because of his supernatural senses. Instead of slowing his speed and fainting to go around the guy, Jackson hunched his shoulders and gripped his stick tightly, then drove right into Stiles with full force.
The force of the impact knocked the air from the boy's lungs, sending him staggering back. Jackson saw the grimace of pain on Stiles' face as the boy fell to the ground clutching his middle and there was a spark of grim satisfaction inside him as he continued to rush toward the enemy's goal. One skillfully aimed throw later, he’d sunk the ball into the net just out of the goalkeeper's reach.
His teammates rushed to congratulate him, but Jackson’s attention was focused on Stiles as the boy clambered up from the grass, wincing as he held the spot where Jackson had hit him. An odd rush went through him, his senses sharpening as he took in the glimpse of pain on Stiles’ face.
As they returned to their places on the field, Jackson stepped in Stiles' path, knocking the boy with his shoulder hard enough to make Stiles stumble back.
"The hell’s your problem, Jackson?" Stiles muttered, glaring at Jackson warily. He looked winded, his cheeks red from running around the field.
Jackson narrowed his eyes. "Don’t get in my way, Stilinski," he replied, his voice low and edged with threat, "or you might get hurt."
Stiles started to say something, but Jackson turned his back to him and jogged to the center of the field. As he took his place, the look of hurt on Stiles’ face flashed through his mind and Jackson tightened his hold on his stick in anticipation. He was going to have to see that again.
He quickly lost count on the number of goals he'd scored, but if asked, he could’ve easily recounted the number of times he'd tackled Stiles to the ground during the game. He made sure to play by the rules, but with each crash and collision, he found it harder to keep himself in check.
It was on the sixth tackle that Jackson caught the hint of fear in Stiles' eyes, just before his elbow punched into the boy's side in a quick jab. His vision flashed instantly red as he watched Stiles double over from the pain and fall to his knees on the ground. Suddenly, everything around him was still, the rush of blood in his veins deafening every sound except for Stiles' gasps of pain as he tried to recover from the blow.
Frozen in place, Jackson barely registered the shrill blow of the coach's whistle, let alone the tentative are-you-okays and what-the-hell-happeneds coming from his teammates as they gathered around the two of them. His dual-tone vision was zoned in on Stiles, drinking in the sight and sounds of his hurting. The conscious part of him knew that this was wrong, wrong and dangerous on so many levels and that he should get away from Stiles before he lost what little control he had left, but he couldn’t look away. His wolf side reveled in the other boy's anguish and yearned for more.
There was a glimmer of tears in the corners of Stiles' eyes when he looked up at Jackson, but the pain showing on his face was not mirrored in his dark eyes. "Jeez, Jackson, save something for the funeral, won't you?" he gasped through the pain, his effort at joking sounding hollow and forced, but Jackson could sense that Stiles was trying to keep things as normal as possible. He knew that Jackson was close to turning and he kept himself on the ground, muscles tense and ready to scramble away the moment Jackson lost it.
Stiles’ gaze was fixed on him, but his eyes revealed nothing of his thoughts or feelings. Somehow, that unreadable look made the frustration Jackson was feeling even worse. He could feel the burn of the bloodlust in the pit of his stomach and the urge to release the control was almost overpowering.
It took every ounce of Jackson's willpower to leash his wolf side. He turned away without answering and pushed his way through the crowd that was watching the scene in an uneasy silence. No one tried to stop him as he walked off the field, but he could feel the eyes of his teammates following him. It was the coach's words that stopped him just as he was making his way past the benches.
"That's what I'm talking about, team! Killer's instincts, that's what we need!"
The chill that ran up his spine made Jackson freeze.
"Now, I'm not saying you should all go and pile up on Bilinski here, he looks like shit already so good job there, Whittemore, but this is what we need! A fricking massacre! A good ol' fashioned blood brawl on the field should teach those…" Coach Finstock continued to ramble on, his voice growing louder and wilder as he got more and more carried away with his twisted ideas. The rest of the team listened in complete silence, probably too afraid to cut in on the madness.
Jackson forced himself to move and start walking again. His vision was still tinted in red and his heart beating like he had just run a marathon, and he knew he needed to get away from the others before the last shreds of his self control evaporated. He tried to keep himself from running, but he was almost jogging by the time he reached the school. He yanked the door to the building open with too much force and stumbled inside, blindly scrambling through the first door he came across. He shut himself in and slumped against the wall, burying his head in his hands.
Trying to calm himself down, Jackson searched frantically for an anchor that would keep his self control from drifting away, but with the currents of violence that welled up from somewhere deep inside him, it was like trying to keep a flood at bay. The coach's words ran through his head in an endless loop and the irony of the situation didn't escape him; he wondered if the coach would still be praising his aggression if he'd actually ripped someone's throat open in the middle of a match.
He imagined Coach Finstock calling out his wonderful performance after he'd rampaged through their rival team, killing and maiming whoever came in his way, and the dark humor managed to calm him somewhat.
As his vision slowly returned to normal, Jackson felt slightly more in control of himself. He pulled in a deep, uneven breath and leaned his head back against the wall, staring at the messy piles of cones and guards and spare gear that took up most of the space of what appeared to be the supply closet for the P.A. class.
As much as it pained him to admit, McCall had been right. Being a werewolf was not just about power and prowess, but about control. Jackson had thought it would be different for him, but all that self-assurance had waned as he had struggled through his first few weeks as a werewolf. Jackson felt a humorless smile ghost over his lips, his hands tightening into fists. He’d never thought he’d find himself hiding in a musty closet like a coward because he was afraid that he might accidentally kill someone.
Except that it wasn’t just anyone that made the wolf inside him rage and howl, and Jackson knew the reasons behind his faltering control had nothing to do with lacrosse. The moon wasn't even close to being full yet and still just the thought of Stiles made him brim with bloodlust.
Jackson closed his eyes and tried emptying his mind, focusing just on his breathing, but fragments of memories kept surfacing from the unconscious part of his brain. He jerked when a flash of pain pierced his body, the memory of the night he'd finally got his wish still fresh and raw in his head.
He remembered the grim determination he'd felt as he'd stepped through the door inside the rotting corpse of a house that Derek had claimed for his den, remembered the fear and need that had mixed into something new as Jackson caught the red flash of the werewolf’s eyes. The memory of the bite still made him shudder; the agony of it bringing him to his knees, gasping desperately for air and sure that he would die right then and there.
The Alpha's voice had cut through the panicked chaos inside his head, sharp as a blade:
"Welcome to the pack, Jackson."
The words had echoed an ominous sense of possession that he hadn't understood back then, but when he'd looked up and seen the smear of his blood on Derek’s lips, he'd felt a stab of new desire pulse through his body. There was something in the way the werewolf had looked at him that made Jackson want, no, not want, but need to give himself in, completely. The echo of the words had told him what the blood marked lips wouldn't say aloud:
You're mine now, Jackson, all mine.
Voices from the corridor snapped him back to the present. Jackson blinked as he tried to shake the wisps of memory from his head, but he made no move to get up from the floor. He wasn't ready to face the others, not yet, so he waited in silence for the chorus of voices to fade as the team passed the supply closet, heading for the locker room to change.
Suddenly, someone turned the handle of the door, making Jackson tense up. Maybe he’d been too caught up in his memories to hear anyone approaching, but as soon as he recognized the guy coming through the door, Jackson felt his focus come rushing back.
Stiles had his arms filled with spare sticks and gear, the pile of supplies hiding his face from Jackson view. Jackson felt a flicker of pity for the guy, thinking that the coach must be either blind or crazy to make a guy haul all that gear after the beating he'd gotten on the field today, but he quickly brushed away the feeling. The boy deserved everything that was coming at him.
Stiles carefully maneuvered the unsteady load of gear through the door frame, somehow succeeding in keeping the spare helmets from toppling down, but as soon as he was safely inside the room, he discarded the pile on the side of the wall with a huff of relief. He wiped his hands off on the undershirt he was wearing and was just about to walk out, when he seemed to somehow sense that he wasn't alone in the room.
Stiles glanced around, looking spooked by the sudden realization, and when his eyes landed on Jackson, he stumbled back with a shriek. "Oh my God!" Stiles eyes were wide with shock and it took him a moment to compose himself. "Jesus, Jackson, scared the hell out of me," he muttered. His hand shook slightly as he ran it over his head. Stiles turned back to the door, but to Jackson’s surprise, he pulled it shut, closing the two of them in the room together.
Jackson narrowed his eyes. "You think that's wise? I'm not here because I enjoy the fucking scenery," Jackson said, his voice flat from the effort of keeping his aggression in check. Just the sight of the guy made the calm he’d tried to reach fade fast.
"Right back at you," Stiles murmured, throwing Jackson a wary glance. He took a few steps in the little space that was free of clutter and Jackson could read the nervousness in the twitchy manner he walked, but Stiles appeared to have made up his mind about something. He stopped pacing and turned to Jackson, setting his hands on his hips. "Listen, Jackson," he started, his face set in an unusually serious expression, "I know you don't like me, never have, never will, but now that we're all part of the same gang, can't we, you know, at least try to get along?"
Jackson stared at the guy, struck silent by Stiles' sincere words, but the silence didn't last long. "'Try to get along'?" he repeated, mimicking Stiles’ voice mockingly.
Stiles gave him a shrug of sorts, wrapping his arms around himself. He had already removed his gear and the gesture made Jackson wonder if he regretted it now; the light fabric of the undershirt offered no protection against a raged werewolf.
"We're on the same team, aren't we? And I don't mean the Cyclones." He glanced away, then sighed, dropping his hands to his sides. "Look, I was there when Scott went through all this, so I know what it's like, okay? I know what you're going through--"
Rage speared through Jackson spine, his body pulsing with violent intent, and he was on his feet before Stiles could finish his sentence. He caught Stiles' hand by the wrist as the boy tried to shield himself from Jackson, spun him around and pushed him against the wall. "You know nothing," Jackson hissed in Stiles' ear, twisting the boy's hand against his back and reveling in the yelp of pain that escaped Stiles' lips.
His senses now heightened, Jackson's nose was filled with the scent of fresh sweat and fear that saturated Stiles' skin. He drew in the smell, enjoying the sharp tinge it carried, until he realized that the familiar aroma mixed and mingled with Stiles’ natural smell was the scent of Derek.
It was like a slap to his face, the Alpha’s scent like a warning left on Stiles’ skin, but as the initial shock faded, Jackson's grip on Stiles' wrist tightened. The thought of Derek marking Stiles as his made Jackson’s blood boil with jealousy, the scent reminding him of the painful truth that while Stiles was just a human, he’d still got what Jackson, even as a werewolf, couldn’t have.
"Just because you're fucking Derek doesn't mean we're the same, human," he said, his voice distorted with anger. "There's no team, there's a pack, and you're not part of it." Jackson gave Stiles’ hand one last painful twist that made the boy groan, then released his grip and forced himself to take a step back.
Stiles' eyes were wide with alarm as he turned around, straightening his arm carefully to test if anything had been broken. He kept his back to the wall as he rubbed his wrist, but there was a look of defiance on his face that made Jackson want to repeat the previous scene.
"You're wrong," Stiles' voice was silent but unwavering as he spoke, "I may be just a human, but like it or not, we're on the same side."
Jackson ground his teeth to keep from growling as he closed in on Stiles again. He grabbed a fistful of Stiles' shirt and slammed the boy against the wall. He was way past the point where he could just let Stiles leave, frustrated by the boy’s insistence and his defiance. He wanted to break him somehow, to draw blood, but at the same time, he knew that if he started, there would be no stopping midway.
"And what exactly do you think you can do for me, huh?" He gave Stiles another shove, loving the hurt that flickered on his face when he hit the boy’s already bruised ribs. "You want to hold my hand while I cry? Bring me flowers and chocolate after I rip apart some stranger during the next full moon? Because that’s pretty much all you’re good for," Jackson said, emphasizing his words with a stab of his finger in the middle of Stiles’ chest.
"Jackson, you're a--" Stiles tried to cut in, but Jackson didn’t give him a chance to finish.
"I'm what? Crazy? A stark raving lunatic?" he let out a hollow laugh and he jabbed his finger into Stiles' stomach.
"Screw you, Jackson," Stiles yelled, his anger eclipsing his fears. Color had risen to his cheeks, red spots burning on either side of his face and his brown eyes sparked with anger as he glared at Jackson. "You’re a jerk, a goddamn bully and you know what? I take back what I said. ‘Cause obviously the only side you’re on is your own, dickhead."
Jackson could hear Stiles’ heart beating frantically in his chest, but he wasn’t paying attention to the boy’s words anymore. Instead, his attention was drawn to the Stiles’ middle. He pushed his finger in Stiles’ stomach again and frowned in confusion. It was soft, and it wasn't the fabric of the flimsy undershirt that was softening the hit. With a quick yank, he pulled up the hem of Stiles' shirt and bared his stomach.
Stiles' gasp cut through the sudden silence in the room. He tried to reach his shirt to pull it back down, but Jackson swatted his hands away like they were a fly that annoyed him. He stared at the plump flesh he'd revealed and then pushed his finger into Stiles' belly, watching his finger sink into the fat. A strange shiver travelled up his spine, his rage replaced by something different and new.
"Well, well," Jackson said, his voice deliberately soft and slow. "No wonder you sucked at the field today, fat boy," he murmured, giving the pale flesh a flick with his finger and watching the tiny ripples that moved through it. "This is not how a jock should look like, is it? I bet when the coach finds out about this, he'll make you run laps for the rest of the season. You’ll be lucky if he doesn’t kick you out of the team."
Stiles had gone utterly still, but his rabid pulse and shallow breathing rang loudly in Jackson's ears. He glanced up at the boy curiously. The color had drawn from Stiles’ face, leaving his skin white as a sheet, and he had squeezed his eyes shut tightly. Jackson read the signs of panic on the boy’s body and suddenly, he felt an intense rush of power course through him.
Where his previous taunts had failed, this one worked. "You're pathetic, Stilinski, an utterly pathetic fat-ass," he whispered softly, poking his finger into the boy's belly again, and the flinch on Stiles' face just gave him a reason to continue.
He grabbed a handful of flesh when a sudden disturbing thought interrupted him. "Is this what Derek's so into?" he asked, frowning to himself as he squeezed the fat roughly, but not hard enough for it to hurt.
There was no reply from Stiles, but Jackson could feel him tensing up and he knew the boy was hiding something. He leaned closer, his voice a soft murmur laced with provocation: "You're the fat little piggy to his big bad wolf, aren't you?" He gave Stiles' belly a slap and the feel of the supple flesh moving under his hand made him feel strangely fascinated and disgusted at the same time.
Jackson saw the look of horror dawn on Stiles' face just as the scent the boy's arousal registered in his nose. He pulled in the scent, not believing his senses at first, but the sweet, tangy smell was unmistakable.
It was then that Stiles started fighting back, trying to push Jackson away, but he caught the boy's hands and pushed him back against the wall with ease. "You're turned on by this?" he asked incredulously, not able to keep the surprise away from his voice. He let his hand fall back to Stiles' chubby waist and sank his fingers deep into the pudgy flesh, and Stiles responded with a gasp that could’ve easily been a sound of pleasure. Jackson’s eyes flew up; Stiles avoided his gaze, but Jackson could see that his face looked stricken and flushed with mortified arousal.
Without thinking, Jackson's hand moved lower from Stiles' middle, seeking proof for what he already knew.
"No! Jackson, please--"
The sound of the bell ringing made both of them jump. Jackson's hand was frozen in midair, hovering just above Stiles’ crotch, and realizing what he had been about to do made Jackson yank it back like it was on fire. He took a step back, then another and another until his back hit the opposite wall.
Neither of them could break the silence that had occupied the room. Jackson could only watch as Stiles’ knees gave out and he slowly slid down the wall, landing awkwardly in a pile of spare helmets and other gear. The boy wrapped his arms around himself, shielding himself from Jackson’s gaze.
The reality crashed over Jackson like a flash wave. "Oh, no… Oh God, Derek... you can't tell him what happened," the whisper left him almost before he knew that he was speaking. "He'll kill me, he’ll kill me for sure, oh God..."
Stiles' eyes were flat and cold as he lifted his gaze. He was rubbing his arm gently, soothingly, as he looked at Jackson from across the room. "Are you really that stupid?"
Jackson could only stare, his mind completely blank.
"It doesn’t matter whether I tell him or not. He’ll find out." Stiles let go of his arm and carefully peeled back the sleeve of his shirt, revealing an angry red handprint that would no doubt bloom into a horrible bruise. "I'm not a werewolf," Stiles' voice sounded tired, but his eyes were hard and intense, "so this won't heal in just a couple of hours."
Jackson opened his mouth, not knowing whether he wanted to scream or argue, but nothing came out. The horror of the situation was that Stiles was right: Derek would find out, and he would come after Jackson.
And he was going to kill Jackson.
A violent shudder went through his body and he felt sick. "Oh, God..." Just as he had entered the room, he stumbled almost blindly for the door and didn’t look back.
//end of chapter 1 - continue to chapter 2