Starved

Seconds

After he spent the night—and part of the morning—with Derek, Jackson somehow had it in his head that he'd be over him, wouldn't need him anymore. He'd thought things would get better. The nightmares would stop, he wouldn't keep finding himself drunkenly wandering through the woods after school every day... he'd be able to focus on normal shit again.

He'd been an idiot. Such a fucking idiot.

It didn't get better. Not one single thing. In fact, everything just got a hell of a lot worse.

The nightmares became more vivid, more intense. Jackson would wake up in the middle of the night with his dick in his hand, red and burned raw from his fervent unconscious tuggings. And he'd cry and bite down on his lip as he finished it, pumping his fist up and down no matter how much it hurt.

It had been horrible before. A horrible, shameful secret he'd carried around with him day after day and night after endless night. Horrible, humiliating and pathetic, was what it had been. And now it was so much worse. Because now it was more than a sick fantasy, more than just a bawdy nightmare or wet dream. Now it was real. Or it had been real. He didn't need to fantasize about it would feel like to have Derek throw him to the floor and fuck him until knees buckled because it had happened.

And now that he knew what it felt like, what Derek felt like, tasted like... he wanted to taste it again. He'd been hungry before, ravenous even. Now he was starved.

His nightmares aren't just at night anymore, either. Now reveries of Derek Hale plague him during the day, too. Jackson will be sitting in class and suddenly Derek is the only thing he can think of. Thinking about the way Derek can pick him and throw him around like he's nothing, and the way Derek's fingers feel when their digging into his hips. Thinking about the wet warmth of Derek's mouth, and how he looks kneeling in front of him...

And then Jackson's heart starts beating too fast, and he breaks out into a sweat. First his palms, then all over. His back and shoulders stiffen, then his dick. And he's just trapped like that, sweaty and hard and in the middle of chem or history or something.

It's like humiliation has taken itself to a whole new level.

That's not even the worst part. The worst part is fucking McCall. The guy can't mind his own goddamned business. He thinks Jackson has some kind of panic disorder, and keeps trying to talk to him about it. Or telling him to talk to Stiles about it. Stiles knows how to deal with that kind of stuff, Scott says to him. Of course he does, Jackson snaps back. If he had to be Stiles Stilinksi every day, he'd panic too.

After school, Jackson works out in the locker-room. Because he needs to do something. Because he's not going back to the woods. No fucking way. No more. He's done with stumbling around like an idiot, praying Derek will find him or he'll find Derek. He's done with that now. No more woods, no more Derek, no more any of it.

He may not be able to control where his mind goes, but he can control his body—mostly. He can control where it goes, at least.

When he works out, Jackson doesn't get a spotter. It's dangerous and reckless but then again so is wandering drunk through monster populated woods at night. And he didn't just do that, he did that in the hopes that he'd be found by the biggest, baddest monster of all. And when he wasn't, he'd gone looking for him. Found him, too. And then fucked him, in various painful and back-breaking positions that he was still sore from even three weeks after the fact.

So when he thinks about that—and these days there was little else he did think about—lifting some weights alone doesn't seem so reckless after all.

Jackson grunts, feeling his muscles burn and his arms shake as he lifts the barbell high above his head. Beads of sweat are forming on his bare arms and chest. He concentrates hard on what he's doing and counts out his reps. Three, four, five... his muscles burn and stretch but he pushes on... ten, eleven, twelve... not enough, he needs to do more... thirteen... fourteen...

The burn is so bad he can't take it anymore, and Jackson lets the weights crash down in the holder behind him, and his arms flop uselessly down to his side. His arms and chest feel like they're actually on fire, but it's a welcome pain because at least he's not thinking about Derek. Anything but Derek. Give him pain and misery and suffering, but not Derek.

Jackson lies panting on the bench and eventually the burn begins to ease it's way out of his muscles. Just for a moment, Jackson lets his eyes close. Only for a moment though, because as always the moment his eyes shut the only thing he sees in the darkness is Derek.

Jackson opens his eyes up again after a minute, and his heart jumps up into his throat because somehow opening his eyes doesn't make Derek go away. Somehow he's still looming over him, his face pulled into that ever constant glare.

And Jackson looks up at Derek, and he thinks he's finally cracked. His obsession's finally elevated to the point where it's not just nightmares and daydreams anymore, it's full on hallucinations. A helluva hallucination, too. He can't just see Derek standing above him, he can smell him, too. That slightly smokey leather smell Jackson knows is infused into his skin. He can even feel Derek, feel him with that weird, scary sense that had taken him into the forrest all those times, and then later to Derek's house, even when he shouldn't, couldn't have known to find it.

But that's not it, Jackson realizes. He hasn't cracked, at least not yet—Derek is actually standing over him in the locker-room. Jackson might be crazy and obsessed, but at the moment he's not hallucinating.

Instinctively Jackson attempts to sit up, but Derek's hand comes out and slams into his chest, shoving him back down against the bench. "What the hell?" Jackson demands. He's only mildly ashamed to realize he's already fantasizing about Derek shoving him down on the bench so he can climb on top of him and fuck him right here. God, let that that be it. After the hell he's been through the last few weeks, Derek practically owes him.

Derek's eyes flick up, and Jackson follows his gaze up to the barbell positioned above him. If Derek hadn't stopped him, he would have smacked his head right into it. "...Oh," He says. Derek rolls his eyes and straightens up, and Jackson's cheeks burn as he sits up again, careful this time to avoid the weight.

Jackson stands up and grabs his towel from the hook on the wall, glaring at Derek. "What are you doing here?" He asks, making sure to sound extra annoyed about it, as though he isn't salivating at the sight of him. Two minutes in Derek's presence, and weeks of "I'm over him" and "it's done now" are completely out the window. But it's not like he'd ever really believed that, anyways.

Derek crosses his arms and looks him over. "I'm here to talk to you about those panic attacks you've been having," He says. Jackson freezes. "I hear they're pretty bad."

Jackson grinds his teeth. "McCall," He seethes. He's going to murder his flea-bitten ass.

Derek smirks at him. "Scott's really concerned. See, he thinks I've been harassing you, and it's driving you crazy." Derek takes a step forward, and Jackson presses himself back against the lockers. Derek leans in and braces his hands against the lockers on either side of Jackson, staring him down. He's not smirking anymore, and Jackson's heart beat quickens.

"Why would he think you have something to do with it?" Jackson asks, beginning to feel a slight pang of panic. He's 99% sure that "mind-reading" isn't on the list of special werewolf powers. "That doesn't—"

"After you were with me that day, did you go to school?" Derek interrupts.

Jackson furrows his brow. "What—"

Derek slams his hand into the lockers behind him, rattling them and making Jackson jump. "After you had sex with me, did you go to school?" He repeats, louder.

"Yes—no. Yes and no," Jackson blabbers. "I went to school in the afternoon, but—but first I went home, to shower and change my clothes."

Derek narrows his eyes, peering straight into Jackson's. "You showered?" He asks. Jackson nods quickly. "Well, not well enough I guess. Scott could smell me on you."

Jackson's eyes went wide. He hadn't even thought of that. "What—but, he just thinks you just attacked me!" He said. "So he doesn't know. It's okay,"

Derek looks away, and Jackson can see his jaw tighten. "No, it's not. If he'd been any smarter, he would have figured it out." Derek turns back, and Jackson's breath hitches. Derek's eyes are blazing blue, glowing. "That can't happen, do you understand?"

Jackson swallows, and steps forward a little, putting his face right in Derek's. "Do you understand that I would kill myself before I let anyone find out?" He asks.

Derek blinks, and the blue glow fades from his eyes. For a moment, he looks taken aback. Jackson smirks a little, and then pushes his mouth against Derek's in a hard kiss. He feels Derek's hands slide down the lockers and grip his hips, and he tries to jerk them forward against Derek's, but Derek's hands hold him still. Jackson grunts in frustration.

"Not now," Derek grumbles, although he doesn't move away. "Not here,"

Jackson ignores him, putting his hand on the back of Derek's head. "Yes now," He says, pulling at Derek's hair to get a rise out of him. He feels Derek's fingers press into his hips and he kisses him harder. "Yes here..."

Jackson cries out as Derek fingers dig painfully deep into his hips, and Derek pulls back. "Someone could walk in." He says, taking his hands off Jackson.

Jackson grinds his teeth, his frustration quickly boiling back up inside him. Weeks, it had been weeks and he'd needed him so badly. And now Derek was here, and Jackson was shirtless and sweaty and practically ready to keel over and die, and still he told him "wait." "Won't you hear them?" Jackson asks through gritted teeth. "Or smell them or whatever else it is you freaks do?"

Derek glares at him for a moment, and Jackson thinks he's probably debating whether or not to ignore his jabs. "Not if I'm distracted I won't," Derek says, taking another step back like it's just the easiest thing in the world. Of course he chooses to ignore Jackson's attempts to rile him up. Derek is above childish taunts, as always. Above Jackson's furious immaturity.. "Meet me at my house," He says.

Jackson shuts his eyes for a moment, trying to get a gripe on his anger. When he opens his eyes again, only a moment later, Derek is gone.

Jackson doesn't even bother telling himself he's not going to go to Derek's house. Of course he is. He doesn't even bother to shower, he just throws his clothes on and gets out to the parking lot as fast as he can. Thankfully schools been over for an hour now, so he doesn't run into anyone. And on the way to Derek's house, somehow he manages not to run over anyone, either.

When he pulls up to the dark, decrepit house, Derek isn't on the porch waiting for him like he'd expected.

Jackson kills the engine of his porsche, and slowly gets out. "Derek?" He calls, wandering up the charred steps. He looks around, and then goes to knock on the front door. He hits his fist against the wood, the door creaks open on it's own. It's stupid, but the sound of the creaking door sends chills down his spine.

It's against his better judgement to go inside, but so is practically everything he does. The floor boards creak just as loudly as the door as he walks in. He's fighting the urge to flee with every step, but the urge for Derek is considerably stronger so he doesn't. He walks up the stairs, trying not to consider the likelihood of them collapsing under his feet. Or the entire house collapsing around him. Nothing in here looks very stable, and it's all dark and grungy. Why Derek chooses to live in a place like this, Jackson will never understand.

Jackson looks around again, growing increasingly panicky. Why wasn't Derek here? He did mean for Jackson to meet him here now, didn't he? Not like, in a week or something. Now, today.

"Derek?" Jackson calls again, his voice a mix of fear and annoyance. "This is seriously not funny—"

Jackson cries out as something slams into him like a truck and knocks him backwards. His thoughts immediately go back to the attack at the video store, and the school and a fresh wave of terror washes over him as he scrambles to his feet. His mind jumps back and forth between running or hiding, running or hiding. He'll never be able to out run a werewolf, but if he hides it could smell him out—

Before he can make a decision, he's slammed back into a wall. The wall shakes and pain blankets his shoulders and back, but he's never been so relieved. It's not the monster that attacked him in the store, just the one that attacks him in his dreams every night and day. Jackson's really never been so grateful to see someone. "You fucking asshole!" He shouts, because that's how Jackson Whittemore expresses gratitude.

Derek grins at him, all condescension and mockery. "Scared?" He asks, as if it isn't obvious.

"No," Jackson sneers. As if it wasn't obvious.

"Yes you were" Derek says, leaning in a little. He doesn't let go of the front of Jackson's shirt, keeping him firmly pressed against the wall. But now that Jackson's fear is gone, and his anger is ebbing away, he's starting to be alright with it. "I can hear your heartbeat... racing..." He presses he mouth against Jackson's throat.

Jackson moans, and let's his head fall back against the wall, exposing his throat to Derek. "Why did you do that?" He mutters, closing his eyes. Derek doesn't answer for a moment, which is fine because his tongue is licking along Jackson's skin. It makes Jackson forget that he's even asked a question, and when Derek does answer, it takes Jackson a second to remember what he's talking about.

"Because you like it," Derek says, taking his mouth away from Jackson's neck and looking him in the eye. "You get off on feeling afraid—" Jackson's eyes get wide as Derek holds up one hand, and flicks it to unsheathe his claws. He puts a long, sharp nail against Jackson's cheek, trailing it down lightly. Derek's not pressing at all, but Jackson can still feel how sharp it is. "You want someone that terrifies you, shakes you to your core... someone that can and will hurt you, because that's what you need..."

Derek's mouth is tantalizingly close to Jacksons, close enough that Jackson can feel his breath on his lips and tongue... but not close enough to touch. "That's why you're here, with me," Derek continues, his voice dark and low. "And not someone like your friend Danny, or Stiles..."

Jackson had let his eyes close again, but now they snap back open and glare at Derek. "Stiles?" He sneers, caught between being shocked and offended. "Stiles Stilinski?"

"No, the other Stiles," Derek says. Jackson continues to glare. "Yes Stiles Stilinksi,"

"Why—of all the human beings in the entire world—would you suggest that I'd ever have anything to do with Stiles Spazlinksi, ever, at all?"

For a moment Jackson thinks Derek's going to laugh—maybe not laugh, but maybe chuckle, or smile or something. The look in his eyes has just a hint of a smile in it. It's gone in a moment, no laughter to accompany it... but still, it had been there. And not because he was taunting or mocking him. Genuine amusement, a real almost smile. It's not much, but because it's Derek "Ice Cold" Hale, it feels like a small victory. Jackson wants to shout "ha you almost laughed! You do have emotions! I knew it!" He doesn't, because that strikes him as something Stilinski would do and the day he does or says something Stilinski would do is the day he puts his fathers rile in his mouth and shoots his face off.

"Does that offend you?" Jackson asks instead, going back to Derek's original comment. "That I'm scared of you?"

Derek looks at him, and Jackson can practically see the word "yes" on his lips. Just like the laughter, it never comes. "Offend isn't the word," Derek says. That's not what Jackson had expected, either. Jackson waits, but Derek never tells him what "the word" is.

Jackson would press it, but then Derek kisses him, hard and hungry, and he stops caring. He's sick of talking anyways. That's not what he came here for.

Derek's grabs Jackson by the front his shirt again, and he yanks him away from the wall. Derek ushes him over to the bed and Jackson stumbles backwards, his hands scrambling at the mattress as he tries to steady himself.

Jackson's already hard as Derek advances towards him, pulling off his leather jacket and tossing it aside as he does. And Jackson's so ridiculously pent up, he just knows he's going to come in about three seconds.

Derek has one knee up on the bed, and he smirks as Jackson struggles with getting his own jacket off. Somehow it seems a lot more difficult than it usually does, especially with Derek staring at him like he's a piece of meat he'd like to rip into.

"Jesus Christ," Derek mutters, rolling his eyes and taking pity on Jackson. Derek yanks his jacket off of him with ease, and then does the same his shirts and pants. Everything is so easy for Derek.

The air around him is cold, and Jackson shivers now that he's only in his underwear. He swallows thickly as Derek removes his own shirt and moves in—for a kiss, Jackson thinks—but then Derek grabs his wrists and pins them up above his head. Jackson's eyes clench tight, and he knows he can't hold on for much longer. Somehow it feels like he's been holding on for three whole weeks.

Derek's grip tightens on his wrist. "Jackson," He growls. "Don't come,"

Jackson's jaw tightens. "What—"

"Don't come," Derek repeats, like he's asking something simple, or physically possible. He might as well say "Jackson, don't breath for an hour."

Jackson opens his eyes and narrows them at Derek. "Fuck you," He mutters. Derek's grip tightens painfully around his wrists, and Jackson cries out. "That's making it worse you moron!" Jackson's whole body is tensed up, his toes curled painfully and his feet twisting under Derek, and he realizes that stupid as Derek's request, he's actually trying to listen.

Derek smirks, and this time does lean in to kiss him. Derek is straddling his hips, and his warm body is a welcome relief from the cold air. To express his gratitude, Jackson bites down on Derek's lip as he kisses him. Derek's only reply is a snort of laughter, like it's so funny that Jackson is biting him.

"You really do want to be one of us, huh?" Derek mumbles, kissing down Jackson's neck to avoid the annoyance of his bites.

"No," Except yes.

Derek lets go of his wrists, and puts his hands on Jackson's hips and hauls him up. "Tell me how you don't want it, Jackson," Derek says, his fingers pressing into Jackson's back. "Slowly."

Jackson just glares at him. "That's not fair,"

Derek smiles, and Jackson can see his fangs coming out. He feels lightheaded. "Nothing ever is," He leans in, and his lips brush Jackson's neck. Derek opens his mouth wider, and Jackson gasps as he feels the press of Derek's fangs. "Tell me, Jackson..." Derek murmurs, tilting his head down to kiss Jackson's collar bone. He's being slow, and careful, which tells Jackson that he still hasn't retracted the fangs yet.

Jackson groans. "All I want right now is to come," He says, truthfully.

Derek lifts his head back up and grins again. It looks like his fangs have gotten even bigger. Jackson feels one of Derek's hands drift down his front, and he sucks his breath in as Derek yanks down the front of his boxers, and takes him in his hand. Jackson bites down on his lip. If Derek still tells him "don't come" he's going to murder him. "Kiss me," Derek says. "And I'll let you come,"

Jackson hesitates, looking at Derek's sharp, deadly, all-too-capable-of-accidently-ripping-his-mouth-off fangs. His desire to not be maimed wrestles with his need to come, and then he leans in and presses his lips to Derek's. He tries to be careful, but when he feels Derek's hand begin to slide up and down his dick, the kiss becomes faster, and more desperate. Derek's hand is rough and dry, but Jackson's so close it doesn't seem to matter. He could probably get off just looking at Derek, or having Derek growl his name into his ear... actual touch is just a bonus at this point.

Something like curiosity, or maybe a death wish, takes hold of Jackson and he tentatively pushes his tongue into Derek's mouth. He feels Derek start in surprise, and he takes that as encouragement. He flicks his tongue over Derek's teeth, and his shoulders tense as it brushes over a long, smooth fang.

Jackson moans into Derek's mouth as he comes, and his whole body jerks and tenses up against him. His lip snags on one of Derek's fangs, but he's so blissed out he doesn't notice.

Derek does. He swipes his thumb along Jackson's lip, and when Jackson sees the blood on his finger he realizes what happened, but he's still too blissed out to care. He just came; it doesn't matter if he's bleeding. Life is great for at least another 30 seconds.

Jackson looks at Derek's thumb with his blood on it, and flashes back to when he'd wiped a bit of chocolate off Alison's lips in a similar way. He wonders if Derek's about to put his thumb in his mouth, and suck the blood off it like he'd done with the chocolate. If he does, Jackson's pretty sure he's going to come again.

Derek wipes the blood off on his jeans, and Jackson sighs. He lets himself crash back down on the bed, and shuts his eyes. "Help me with my underwear," He mumbles.

There's silence, and he gets the feeling Derek is giving him a look. Probably raising his eyebrows. "You just came," He says, like that's going to stop him. "You're practically asleep,"

Jackson smirks. "So do horrible, degrading things to my naked unconscious body," He says. He knows he'll have his energy back in a moment—it'll take a lot more than coming once to tire him out, especially after three weeks of nothing. But he can't say he doesn't enjoy the thought.

"How about we wait a few minutes," Derek says, sliding down Jackson's underwear as per his request.

"And then I'll bend you over that dresser in the corner and fuck you until you can't remember what a dick you are."

Jackson smiles. "Perfect,"

Jackson chest rises and falls with exhausted satisfaction, and he breathes in deeply and fills his lungs with the musty, slightly smokey smell of Derek's house. It's probably worrisome that it's begining to smell comforting to him, but at the moment he doesn't care.

He's sore all over, and covered in small scrapes, dust and grime. The dresser that had been in the corner of Derek's room had collapsed under their weight, and they'd wound up doing it on the floor, surrounded by the rubble. They'd mostly stuck to the bed after that.

It's not enough, not yet—Jackson knows he'll need more in a few minutes—but at least for the moment, he feels calm.

Jackson feels an arm over his shoulders, and he wrinkles his nose and shrugs Derek off. Why couldn't he be left alone and allowed to enjoy his few moments of peace? Did Derek not get his fill of touching him while they were fucking? "Don't do that," Jackson mutters, squirming slightly.

Derek sighs. "Is this going to be a regularly occurring thing?" He asks.

Jackson feels his shoulders stiffen, and he glances at Derek out of the corner of his eye. Derek's eyebrows are raised questioningly, and Jackson didn't think he'd heard any sneer is his tone. Deciding that Derek doesn't appear to be ridiculing him, Jackson lets himself relax again. "If you don't mind," He says stiffly, looking back up at the ceiling. There's no way he can go through those last few weeks of hell again. Fuck that.

"I don't,"

Jackson nods, keeping his face hard so Derek won't know how relieved he is to hear that. "Then yeah," He says. "It will be."

A/N: "The look in his eyes has just a hint of a smile in it."

Derek is a master of smizing. Tyra Banks would be proud.

Also, this story was listed as "complete," because I kept telling myself it was going to be a one shot, or maybe a two shot, but who are we kidding. I've taken it off complete, and I've got at least three more chapters planned.

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