A/N: Set around the end of season one, but very loose with canon and the canon timeline.
Jackson's in the locker room, getting ready to take a shower when he hears the noise behind him. He knows who it is before he even turns around, but he tells himself he's wrong. It's not him, it's just the janitor, checking to see if he's done yet so he can clean in here. It's the Coach, or one of his teammates. It's anyone but him.
Jackson squeezes his eyes shut, and tightens his grip on the towel around his waist. His voice is unmistakable; low and dark, just on the edge of gruff. His voice alone is enough to send Jackson's heart racing, but it's the nearness that really makes his pulse pound.
It shouldn't have been possible, for someone of Derek's stature to be able to move so quickly, so silently. He just entered the locker room a moment ago, but when Derek speaks he's already close enough for Jackson to feel his breath on the back of his neck. On the three claw shaped scabs that Derek gave him there. "Turn around," He commands.
Jackson tightens his jaw, and he stays perfectly still for a solid three seconds. Because he's not someone that can just be bossed around, he's Jackson Whittemore. He's in control. If he turns around, it's because he felt like it. Not because Derek told him too.
Jackson turns around, and he hopes that those three seconds sent Derek that message.
Derek's face is barely an inch from his and Jackson finds himself backing up into the lockers behind him. Derek moves in closer, right into the space Jackson had been trying to put between them. Jackson swallows, looking at the flare of Derek's nostrils and the way his eyes are narrowed, glaring with unbridled hostility directly into Jackson's own.
"I-I'm not afraid of you," Jackson says, because the look on Derek's face is telling him he should be.
Derek doesn't miss a beat. "Yes you are,"
Jackson swallows again, listening to the frenzied pound of his own heart in his chest. Derek looks at him, the slightest flicker of a smirk on his face, and Jackson realizes Derek can hear it too. He knows he's lying. There's no point in pretending. Derek can hear the pounding of his heart, and smell the perspiration on his skin.
Somehow, knowing that excites him.
"Look Scott and I aren't friends, okay?" Jackson starts. "I don't know where he is, or where he's going or about anything that he does ever so why don't you just—"
"I'm not here about Scott," Derek cuts in. He's already close but somehow Derek manages to take another step towards him, so he's pressing him firmly against the locker behind him. Jackson's whole body jerks up and he lets out a shocked gasp as Derek puts a strong hand on his hip. "I'm here about you." Derek's fingers curl around the edge of Jackson's towel. The feel of Derek's fingers against his skin makes Jackson's breath quicken, and his chest rises and falls against Derek's. "It's always been about you,"
Derek gives one light pull, and Jackson's towel falls away.
Jackson bolts upright, gasping for breath and looking frantically around him. He lets out a tired, frustrated sigh when his bedroom pulls into focus around him, and he realizes. Not again.
Jackson leans forward, and puts his head in his hands. He won't be able get back to sleep now. Hell, he can barely remember what a decent, full nights sleep feels like.
The dreams have been going on for a month now, even before he knew the truth about Derek and Scott. They started out as nightmares, and in a way they still are. Jackson still wakes up sweating and scared, trembling all over... but in a different way. A hungrier way.
That's the only way Jackson can let himself think about. If he had it his way he wouldn't be thinking about it, any of it, at all. But he's long since given up trying to control where his thoughts go, what his brain obsesses over. So if he has to think about Derek Hale and the world of nightmares and monsters that he comes from, he's at least going to do it on his own terms.
So when he wakes up, night after night with his face wet with tears, his skin wet with perspiration and his boxers—
When he wakes up like that, he refuses to say that it's need or desire that claws—no, not claws, another word—grabs at his chest. It's not. It's hunger. Hunger is the only acceptable way for him to think about it.
Hunger isn't something that can be controlled, it's not your fault if you get hungry—but it's not something that can be ignored, either.
After practice, Jackson wanders around the forrest. He has his fathers flask with him, and after an hour he's stumbling through the branches and tripping over roots. Ever since he started having those dreams, this has been his after school ritual. It's not like he has any other commitments to worry about. Not lacrosse, or school... not Lydia, Allison or Scott. Everything else he used to care about, it's all taken a back seats to the dark, growling figure that plagues his nightmares and makes his whole body shake in more ways than one.
The first few times he found himself staggering through the woods, Jackson told himself he didn't know why. It wasn't random that they were where he'd gone; there had been something pulling him towards them, that he couldn't deny. But it took him at least a week to admit he knew exactly why he needed go to the forrest.
The forrest is Derek's territory. Not just the part that's property of the Hale family, but the woods in their entirety. There isn't a tree Derek hasn't run past, a broken broken branch his feet haven't snapped. He's every where here, in the dirt and the leaves, in the humid air. And something in Jackson needs to breath that in, feel it— feel Derek—in his lungs, in his body.
Jackson trips over a particularly large root and falls forward, a thin branch scratching against his cheek as he crashes into the ground. He manages to get his arms out in front of him before he hits the ground, and his palms and knees absorb most of the impact.
Jackson grunts, and rolls over, falling onto his back. He can see his flask lying in the dirt a few feet away, and retrieving it is the only reason he can see to get up off the ground sometime in the next hour.
Jackson stares up at the trees, which from his current position on the ground seem to stretch up forever into the darkening sky.
Somewhere nearby, Jackson hears a twig snap. He bolts up, looking around wildly in all directions. Jackson strains his ears to hear, even though he knows that if it's him, he'll never hear him unless he wants him too.
Jackson's heart is pounding erratically in his chest, and he leans back against a tree and takes a deep breath. It's not him. He doesn't know what it was that moved, but it wasn't Derek. He doesn't know how he nows, he just does.
Jackson breaths in, and absently rubs at the back of his neck.
There's another reason that Jackson goes to the forrest every day. It's not only to be somewhere he's been, be in a place that's his. It's more pathetic than that, which truly hurts Jackson to admit because he's already all too aware of how pathetic that reason is on its own.
The thought of Derek finding him here—drunk, alone, defenceless—terrifies him. It makes his heart beat like it's trying to escape his body, it makes his eyes go round and wide and fill with hot tears. He can feel the fear in every part of his body, and it makes him dizzy.
Jackson doesn't think he's ever wanted anything more. He hates using that word, want, but he does. He wants Derek to find him, for the same sick reason he can't stop dreaming and thinking about him.
The pounding in his chest has slowed, and he steps away from the tree he was resting against and walks over to where his flask fell.
It's dark now, and he should be on his way home. It's dangerous in the woods, especially at night.
Jackson picks his flask up off the ground, and takes another swig from it as he continues deeper into the woods. If Derek's not going to find him, he's just going to need to find Derek.
When Jackson stumbles up to his property, Derek's already waiting for him on the porch. He has his arms crossed against his chest, and his face is pulled into it's usual glower. It's even more intimating under the harsh yellow porch lights, but Jackson thinks he sees a touch of curiosity in his eyes, too.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
Jackson swallows, and stares helplessly up at Derek. "I don't know," He says.
Derek looks him over, and his eyes narrow. "How did you know where I live? Did Scott tell you?"
"I—I don't know," Jackson repeats. "I just... did." He scratches at the back of his neck again.
Derek continues to stare at him, and somehow the glower on his face seems to darken. "You're not here about becoming one of us, are you?" He asks. "Scott told me you've been threatening him," Derek's eyes flash, and Jackson feels that familiar fear creep up his back. Evidently a threat to Scott was a threat to Derek as well. "Sorry, but I can't give it to you either."
Jackson's blood began to pound in his ears. The words "I can't give it to you," echo in his diseased mind. He ignores the rest.
Derek must have decided that was the end of their conversation, and he turns to go back into the house. Jackson lurches after him, tripping up the steps to his house with clubbed feet. "Yes you can,"
Derek pauses in the doorway, and looks at him over his shoulder. "No, I can't," He repeats. He walks into the house and swings the door shut, but Jackson reaches out and grabs it before it can close. Since Derek doesn't stop him, Jackson takes it for an invitation and follows Derek into his dilapidated home.
"Wait, I need—"
The air rushes out of Jackson's lungs as Derek shoves him against the wall, making it shake. "I told you, I can't give you what you want," Derek all but growls at him. "Why are you still here?"
Black stars swim in front of Jackson's eyes, and he struggles to focus on Derek's face. This was just like all his nightmares, except it was so much worse because it was real. He wasn't just dreaming about Derek shoving him around, pressing his hands against Jackson's chest. Hands that could at any moment turn into claws and rip him apart.
"I-I need—" Jackson stammers, trying to get his head on his shoulder. He shouldn't have come here without a plan. No, he shouldn't have come here period. But Jackson had always been the type that put what he wants to do far before what he should do. "I need you to give—"
Derek bares his teeth and slams him into the wall again. "What part of 'I can't' don't you understand? You're barking up the wrong tree."
Jackson opens his mouth a little, but says nothing. If he'd been Stiles Stilinksi, he probably would have made a joke about that. But he wasn't, thank god.
Thinking about Stiles Stilinksi and his stupid face stir up the slightest sliver of anger in him, and with that anger comes an even smaller sliver of confidence. It's barely there, but it's enough to remind him that he's not Stiles Stilinski, stammering, fumbling class clown. He's Jackson Whittemore.
"You're not listening to me," Jackson says. It comes out with his usual air of self assurance and annoyance, just like he'd intended. "That's not what I'm talking about. I don't want the friggin' bite."
That's a lie, but it doesn't matter. What matters is that isn't what he's here about now. Now he has more pressing things to deal with.
Derek pushes his face right into Jackson's, glaring at him. His breath is harsh on his face. "Then what do you want?"
Derek's so close now, too close. The bit of control Jackson felt a moment ago seems to dwindle and evaporate, under the heat of Derek's breath and the pierce of his eyes. Jackson can't stop himself from doing it, the worst thing he could ever have thought to do. He leans in and presses his mouth against Derek's, as hard as he can.
It's probably the stupidest thing he's ever done, but that's how desperate he is. A starved man will chew off his own arm if he has too. He'll rip out his own throat, just for the relief.
Jackson kisses Derek, not because he wants or even needs to, but because he has to. He kisses him, and in his chest he thinks he feels his heart finally give in and explode. It's sick of fighting, sick of pounding and struggling, and the press of Derek's lips and the feel of his stubble are too much. Jackson's heart just bursts.
All this time, all the nightmares and looking over his shoulder in the locker room, wandering stupidly around the forrest hoping and fearing being found by a killer, he hadn't ever given much thought to what it would be like to ever kiss Derek, really.
Now he knew. Kissing Derek felt like dying.
Derek seems to get a grip on himself and he pulls away, and slams Jackson back into the wall. His knuckles press painfully into Jackson's chest, and his nostrils flare angrily as he breaths. "What the hell was that?" He asks, shaking him a little. "Are you out of your mind?"
It takes Jackson a moment to answer, because his mind is still catching up with what's happening. Once it does, what's possibly the most important thing about the kiss occurs to him. "You kissed me back," He says. He actually manages a smirk.
Derek glares at him a moment longer, then drops his arms from Jackson's chest. "Go home, Jackson." He says, taking a step back.
Jackson's mouth falls open. "What?" This wasn't what was supposed to happen. Derek wasn't supposed to back off, he was supposed to throw Jackson onto the floor, shred his clothes and do things to him that would leave him raw and aching in the morning.
"You're drunk, you're bleeding, and you're a lot more disturbed then I'd have guessed." Derek brushes a thumb over the cut on Jackson's cheek, from where he fell in the woods. Jackson hisses in pain and jerks his face away, and Derek just shakes his head. "Go home, before I do something you'll regret." Derek turns and walks away again, without so much as a look over his shoulder to see if Jackson is leaving. Like he's not even worth that much.
Fury and hurt burn in Jackson's gut, and he storms forward and grabs Derek's shoulder. Derek turns around and Jackson kisses him again, even harder this time. He slams his whole body into Derek's with the intention of knocking Derek back on the stairs, but Derek doesn't budge.
Jackson pulls back and feels his face turn red. "Can you just give it up already?" He shouts. It was never this difficult in his nightmares. He never had to work for it.
Derek shakes his head. "You're drunk," He says again, as though it's something that matters. "You wouldn't be here if you weren't."
Jackson looks at Derek, and laughs. "Of course I wouldn't be!" Jackson says, his laugh shaking and tittering out of his mouth. "Drunk is the only way I could have come here. If I was sober, I'd be at home, slamming my head into the wall and wishing I was drunk so I could just get it over with and come here."
Derek raises one eyebrow at him. "Have you ever even had sex with a man before?" He asks. Something about Derek's tone seems to imply that he has. The thought sends Jackson's pulse racing.
Jackson shakes his head, and leans back in towards Derek. He puts a shaking hand between Derek's legs, and Derek's entire body seems to stiffen. "No," Jackson breaths, looking up into Derek's eyes. "But I don't want to have sex with a man." He says. "I want to get fucked by a beast."
There's not much talking after that.
Derek practically drags Jackson up to his room, and throws him down onto his bed. He doesn't tear off his clothes, but in every other way he's just as rough and forceful as Jackson had dreamed he'd be. He's so strong, so dominant that Jackson doesn't even bother fighting or struggling, even when it hurts so much he almost passes out. Especially then.
Jackson doesn't stop being terrified, not for a second. Not when Derek's mouth is on his, not when he moves it down along his body, dragging his tongue over his chest and licking at his navel. Not when Derek pauses, and comes back up to Jackson's mouth one more time before disappearing back down between Jackson's thighs. There isn't a single moment when he forgets the man he's with is a monster, who's probably killed people before and could kill him now if he wanted to. Derek could do anything to him now, and there wouldn't be a thing Jackson could do to stop him.
Jackson's never felt more free. For what feels like the first time in years, he doesn't need to struggle or fight or work, because there's absolutely no point. It's all out of his hands, and entirely in Derek's. He's completely beyond control.
When it's over, Jackson feels like he's been ripped apart at the seams, and just barely thrown back together. His whole body aches, in ways and places he hadn't felt ache before. He's been flipped inside out and turned back again, emptied of all the worthless feelings and fears he's kept bottled up for so long.
He lies on Derek's bed and stares up at the dirty, flame licked ceiling above him, his chest rising and falling steadily. Derek's lips and the gentle rub of his stubble against his neck, are the last thing Jackson feels before he drifts away to sleep.
It's the best nights sleep he's had in a month.