No One's Type
At three weeks of silence, Jackson's patience runs out. He's reached the end of his rope, and if he doesn't do something soon he'll wind up making a noose and hanging himself with it.
Derek just can't do this to him, just cut him out of his life like this. Pretend like nothing ever happened, ignore him so completely. He just can't. This is insanity. Pure insanity, and Jackson is desperate to end it.
He knows he's desperate, potentially more desperate than he's ever been, because of where he's standing right now. Nothing beyond complete and total desperation could have ever made him go to the house of Stiles Stilinski for help. Especially help about Derek.
But here he is, standing on the front porch and getting ready to knock. So he must be.
Jackson raises his fist, but before he can knock the door is pulled open, and Jackson finds himself about to accidentally punch the Sheriff in the face. Luckily he stops himself in time. Getting arrested is not on his list of things to do today.
Sheriff Stilinski looks surprised to find Jackson standing there. "Oh, uh hello—Jackson, is it?" He asks. Jackson nods, and the Sheriff looks around, as if searching for something. "Are you here to see Stiles?"
"Um, yeah," Jackson says. "It's for school. Chemistry."
The Sheriff furrows his brow. "I thought Danny was Stiles' chemistry partner?"
"Uh, yeah, he is. He's why I'm here, actually," Jackson recovers. "He was supposed to drop something off for a project they're doing, but he's sick so he gave it to me to give to him."
Sheriff Stilinski nods, and seems to accept his answer. "Alright," He says. "Well, Stiles is in his room. You can go on up, if you want. It's the first door on the left."
Jackson smiles, and thanks him, and the Sheriff lets him in, and then leaves and locks the door behind him. Jackson heads up the stairs, and takes a moment to brace himself for dealing with Spazlinski before he goes through the door.
Stiles is on the computer, sitting with one foot up on the desk and chewing on a pen lid. He swivels his desk-chair around when he hears the door open, and then topples to the floor. "Wha—Jackson, what—" Stiles babbles, picking himself back up and looking around like he's trying to pretend he didn't just wipe out. Jackson rolls his eyes. "What're you doing here?"
"I need to talk to Derek," Jackson says, getting right to the point. "And I figured since you and McCall like to play Shaggy and Scooby to his Fred, you'd know where I could find him."
Stiles squints at him. "I really don't see Derek as much of the Fred type," He says. "He's more of the grumpy-bad-guy-in-a-mask than—"
"Not the point, Stilinski," Jackson snaps. Stiles smiles at him, and Jackson balls his hands up into fists so he doesn't hit him. He looks around Stiles room, and freezes when he sees a beige file folder sitting on his desk. The folder is tattered and there are smudges of something that could be dirt on it. Dirt or ash. A strange shiver runs ups his spine to the base of Jackson's neck. He's seen that folder before. "He was here," He says quietly.
Jackson lurches forward and slams Stiles back into the wall. He told himself he wasn't going to do that, but he can't stop himself. Derek's been a horrible influence on him, really. "Derek was here," Jackson shouts. "Recently. Why? What was he doing here? Did he say anything about what's been going on with him? Do you know where I can find him?"
Stiles is staring at him with that stupid open-mouthed look of his, and Jackson shakes him violently. "Why the hell do you want to see Derek so badly?" He asks.
Jackson breathes in through his nose. "I just... need to talk to him, alright? It's important."
Stiles grins. "Why, are you two a thing now?" He laughs. Jackson says nothing, and the smile slips from Stiles' face. "Wait—you're joking, right?"
"Just tell me where to find him," Jackson says. "Somewhere he goes that I can run into him or something." He doesn't care if Stiles knows, at the this point. He doesn't care if anyone knows. It's all bullshit anyways.
Stiles shakes his head, and Jackson tightens the grip on his shirt. "No, no way. You're not serious, there's no way." Stiles has a disgusted look on his face, but it's different from the way Scott looked at him. Stiles looks disgusted, but something else, too. Disgusted and... jealous? "He wouldn't do that, way," Stiles is saying. "Especially not with you—"
Jackson presses himself against Stiles and looks him dead in the eye. "Oh, you think so?" He asks. "You'd be surprised, Stiles. There's a lot Derek would do with me," He grins, and sees anger burn in Stiles' eyes. "A lot he has done with me." Jackson waits, but for probably the first time in his life, Stiles has nothing to say. "How long have you wanted him for, Stiles?"
Jackson gets the confirmation he's looking for as Stiles diverts his gaze. He squirms uncomfortably in Jackson's grip.
"Tell me where I can find him," Jackson says, his voice quiet, but sharp. He treats it like a dagger and twists it deep into Stiles' gut. "And I'll tell you everything you want to know, about Derek," Jackson puts his mouth close to Stiles' ear. "You have no idea how good he looks on his knees," He whispers. "How incredible he is at giving head..."
Stiles starts squirming again, harder than before. He tries to shove Jackson away, but Jackson just slams him back against the wall. Stiles glares at him. "Don't pretend you don't want to hear this, Stilinksi," Jackson says. "It'll give you shower-time masturbation material for a month." Jackson grins, because it's not like he doesn't know the reason Stiles suddenly wanted to wriggle away. It's not like he can't feel how unbelievably hard Stiles is. Jackson is pressed right up against him, of course he knows. "Or, maybe you're sick of that," Jackson says, letting one hand drift down Stiles body, brushing between his legs. "Maybe you want some real human contact for a change—"
It was an invitation, but not one he expected Stiles to take. It was only meant as a tease, really. But one moment Stiles is glaring at him, and the next he's pressing his mouth against Jackson's with desperation that tastes all too familiar. His instinct is to push him away, because it's Stiles, but he doesn't. Not only does he not push Stiles away, he kisses him back.
Stiles' mouth is hot and his lips are soft, but his kiss is harder than Jackson would have expected. Stiles pushes Jackson's jacket off his shoulders, and then pulls back and begins fumbling with the buttons of Jackson's shirt. It takes him forever just to get one open, and Jackson rolls his and eyes and pushes Stiles back so he can do it himself.
Stiles leans his head back against the wall and watches Jackson unbutton his shirt. His mouth is hanging open like always, but somehow it doesn't look so stupid now. Now it looks inviting.
Once the buttons have been dealt with, Jackson tosses the shirt aside and presses himself back against Stiles. He bites Stiles' bottom lip, and Stiles makes a noise that's obviously much more pain than pleasure. "Don't do that," Stiles mumbles.
Jackson swallows. "Sorry," He says, as he pulls Stiles' shirt over his head. He'd forgotten, somehow, that Stiles was Stiles, and not Derek. Stiles was human. Fragile. Jackson couldn't be as rough with him. The thought hurt. Not the thought that he couldn't be as rough, but the plain fact that Stiles just wasn't Derek.
It hurt, but Jackson tries to let Stiles' lips smother it. It almost works.
They stumble back onto Stiles' bed together, and Jackson straddles Stiles' hips and pins his wrists above his head. He's seen Stiles shirtless lots of times in the locker room, but he's never really given any thought to how he looked until now. It's not bad. It's not Derek, but it's not bad. His chest is firm and smooth, with a trail of dark hair running down from his belly button and disappearing under the line of his jeans.
For all his not-Derek-ness, Stiles being Stiles does have it's advantages. It's almost a shock to his system at first, the noises Stiles makes when he touches him. He's so used to Derek, quiet and controlled to a fault. Stiles couldn't be more different. He moans when Jackson kisses his neck, and cries out as he moved down his chest, licking and biting—lightly—at his skin.
"Jackson, oh geez—" Stiles moans, arching his back as Jackson kisses his navel, nuzzling the trail of hair. Jackson can't help but think of how it used to sound when Derek would say his name. Stern, controlling. Like Jackson was something that belonged to him, something that was his.
He sits up, and starts unbuttoning his jeans. He needs to get off soon, before the crushing ache in his chest is the only thing he can feel. Jackson gets his jeans open, and shoves his hand inside.
Stiles watches Jackson jerk himself with his eyes wide and his mouth open once more. His lips are red now, and Jackson can't help but think how nice those sweet red lips would look around his dick. He'd bet they'd feel even better.
Jackson closes his eyes and bites down on his lip, pushing those thoughts away. Somehow that felt like it would be crossing a line.
Stiles sits up underneath him, and starts kissing and biting at his neck like Jackson had been doing to him before. He feels Stiles' hand brush his out of the way. Jackson has to bite down harder on his lip to keep in a moan. With his eyes closed, he can almost pretend it's Derek that's touching him, biting at his neck and sliding his hand along him. He'd consider it another deposit in the asshole bank, but part of him is pretty sure Stiles is doing the same thing.
Jackson opens his eyes and shoves Stiles hand away.
"Wh—" Stiles begins, but Jackson cuts him off by pushing him back down against the bed.
"I'm assuming you don't have any lube or condoms or anything," Jackson says as he works open the zipper of Stiles' jeans.
Stiles laughs. "And I would have those things because...?" He asks. Jackson rolls his eyes. "I've got moisturizer and tissue," He points up, and Jackson looks up to see the aforementioned items sitting on the shelf behind Stiles' bed. He grabs the moisturizer and shakes his head disapprovingly while he pumps some into his palm.
"This isn't even good quality," Jackson mutters. "I swear, if I get some kind of rash..."
Stiles shrugs, and puts his hands behind his head. "Hey, gimme a break," He says, grinning. "I have to buy the stuff in bulk from Costco, and they only offer a few brands."
Jackson rolls his eyes again. He gives Stiles' pants a yank with one hand, and they and his boxers come down enough to leave him exposed. That seems to shut Stiles up. Jackson thinks he might even blush a little.
He starts slowly, pumping his hand rhythmically up and down Stiles dick. Stiles shuts his eyes, and Jackson half smiles at the way he starts chewing his bottom lip. He's trying to hold in one of those moans, Jackson can tell. He speeds up, trying to coax it out of him. It doesn't take much. The faster rhythm elicits a symphony of babbles and moans from Stiles lips.
Stiles puts his hand on the back of Jacksons neck and tries to tug him down, and for a moment Jackson thinks he's trying to make him give him a blow-job. Yeah, right, that's not going to be happening, if for no other reason than his dick is covered in a palm-full of cheap moisturizer.
But Stiles doesn't try to force his head down, he just pulls Jackson's head towards his and presses a sloppy kiss against his lips. That's fine, but once Stiles has him down there he doesn't let go, and his grip on the back of Jackson's neck is surprisingly firm. The new position makes the hand-job awkward, so Jackson flips them over so Stiles is on top.
Once they'd adjusted to the switch Jackson increases the speed of his hand again, and Stiles breath turns into short strained gasps against his neck. He starts to stutter something—Jackson thinks it might have been his name—but then his face screws up and he bites his lip again as he shoots his load all over Jackson's chest.
Jackson pulls his hand away, sticky with moisturizer and cum. Stiles hovers over him, trying to catch his breath. His eyes open, and his red face turns even redder when he sees the mess. "I—you—I didn't—"
"It's fine," Jackson says. "Hand me the tissues, will you?"
Stiles nods and does as Jackson asks, then rolls off and collapses beside him as Jackson begins to clean himself up. He wads the tissues up and tosses them in the general direction of the garbage when he's done.
Stiles turns over, so his chest is pressing against Jackson's shoulder. He lazily kisses Jackson ear, licking along the lobe. It feels nice, but then Stiles' arm starts to drift across his chest and Jackson stiffens.
"I should go," He says, sitting up suddenly.
Jackson stands up and starts looking around for his shirt. Stiles springs up next to him.
"You're going?" Stiles asks. "Why—come on, wait—" Jackson stops and turns around. "I just... I mean, you never, y'know..." Stiles glances away. "Finished," He looks back up, and Jackson has to physically force himself not to roll his eyes.
"It's fine, Stiles," He says, "I have to go,"
"To find Derek?" Stiles asks. He sounds annoyed. "Why don't you just go to his house? Not that I'd recommended that right now, considering, but—"
Jackson shakes his head. "I can't," He mutters. He spots his shirt lying on Stiles' desk, and grabs it. "He told me to stay away..."
Jackson pulls his shirt on and buttons it up. He can feel Stiles staring at him. "...was Derek the one who fucked up your car?" Stiles asks. Jackson says nothing. "Oh, my god. You guys are so fucked up."
"Hey, join the fucking club, sidekick," Jackson snaps. Stiles mouth opens a little. He looks hurt. Suddenly Jackson has the strange urge to scream and slam his fists against the walls. This is why he hates people. He takes a deep breath. "Stiles, I—"
"It's fine," Stiles says, turning away. He grabs his own shirt from the floor, and pulls it over his head. "If you've got to go, then get gone." He pulls the door of his bedroom open, and gestures out of it.
Ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching. Jackson turns around to leave, but pauses in the doorway. He puts his hand on the back of Stiles neck and pulls him in for one last kiss. Stiles seems reluctant at first, but after a moment he gives in and kisses him back.
...You want someone that terrifies you, Jackson remembers Derek once telling him. Shakes you to your core... someone that can and will hurt you, because that's what you need. That's why you're here, with me, and not someone like Stiles.
Jackson pulls back, and looks at Stiles. "You're a decent person, Stiles," He says. Then he leaves.