The first time, it was about Lydia and long before Derek became a prominent figure in their lives.
Lydia might have ignored Stiles' infatuation with her or been oblivious to it — he'll never know for sure — but Jackson never did. It didn't matter that Stiles was lowest of the low in the school hierarchy, barely holding on to some meaningful status by keeping the bench warm for the lacrosse team and making grades exceptional enough to be cheated off of during tests (and being the sheriff's son didn't hurt either, to be honest). Jackson saw; he knew. He didn't like it, and he made sure Stiles' life was as miserable as possible because of it. Stiles didn't mind. Love was worth a little pain, and in time, Lydia would realize that he was one of the few people in this whole damn town that saw her for who she was.
But sometimes... You can only take so much before you start wanting to fight back. Before Jackson's taunts start landing too accurately. Before his shoulder shoves and cocky false-apologies start fraying Stiles' nerves.
Jackson doesn't take too kindly to Stiles unleashing his wit — least of all in front of the team — and when he stabs a finger in Stiles' face, saying, "You and me, after school. We're going to finish this," Stiles does the only sensible thing he can think of.
Because damn, he's stupid sometimes, but he's smart about it. He's fast and he's not too shabby on the muscle, but he's no Jackson. Stiles is a bench warmer; he doesn't do those late night lacross practices with the rest of the guys. He runs laps — circles and circles, endlessly until he starts thinking that he should've gone with track and field instead of lacrosse except that you don't get dates doing track and field — especially not with Lydia Martin.
So anyway, running. He's good at that and he's even sneaky about it, going around the school, dodging and weaving through the thickest part of the crowd on his way to the parking lot. He can see his Jeep in the distance. If he gets through the gates, he'll be home free, but Stiles is yanked back by his backpack before he can get out so much as a pre-celebratory whoop.
Jackson doesn't care that he's dragging Stiles backwards, that Stiles' feet are kicking out behind them just to stay upright. And of course, when Stiles gets a look at his face out of the corner of his eye, Jackson is straight-faced and furious even as he grunts with the effort of holding Stiles up and hauling him into the locker room.
When Jackson shoves him against the lockers a few seconds after locking the door behind them, Stiles blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. "Just in case you need the reminder, my dad's the sheriff and no matter how much premeditation goes into a murder, you're gonna get caught and that would do bad, bad things to your potential lacrosse scholarships."
"Don't be an idiot, Stilinski. I'm not going to kill you," Jackson snarls, but he knots his fingers in Stiles' collar and shakes him against the lockers so hard that they rattle. "I'm going to teach you a lesson."
"Oh good, fantastic, great. I'm an excellent student, you know—"
"You're going to stop chasing after Lydia. She doesn't give a shit about you," Jackson says and all the panic drains out of Stiles. "In fact, no one cares that you even exist."
It's not the first time Stiles has heard something like that, but it is something that's always boggled him. If no one actually cared, it wouldn't matter what he did. No one would notice. So clearly...
"Really. Not a single one?" Stiles says, straightening up as he shrugs the backpack out from between him and the lockers. Most people don't notice but Stiles is just a smidge taller than Jackson — tall enough to make a difference this close. "Because—" He smiles and Jackson leans in to be all predatory and imposing. Stiles shoves him back and smooths out the front of his t-shirt. "Because it seems like you're giving a shit right now. What's your problem, Jackson? Can't take a little competition? You afraid that Lydia will trade up?"
"Trade down more like," Jackson snaps and then tackles Stiles around the waist and straight back into the lockers.
They scrabble there for a while, almost as if they're slap fighting with Jackson trying to hold Stiles in place and Stiles making it as difficult as possible by flailing and kicking out, and it isn't until Stiles shoves his hands over Jackson's face and into his hair that he gets the upper hand. Jackson's chin jerks up as Stiles pulls, yanking him to the side, but when Jackson tips over, he takes Stiles with him. They crumple into the concrete, narrowly missing the wooden benches, and Stiles gets in a few good claws and kicks before Jackson is rising over him and trying to pin him to the floor. Stiles never quite stops pulling Jackson's hair; he's got leverage like this and he's not afraid to use it, but a hard yank comes with a groan that doesn't sound pained particularly.
Suddenly uncertain, Stiles glances down to where Jackson's holding him down at the elbows, and at the way Jackson is bowed awkwardly toward him with his hair all knotted up between Stiles' fingers. They're tense and still together, and because apparently Stiles has something of a death wish, he tightens his grip in Jackson's hair — to test the theory budding in the back of his mind. Jackson huffs a hot breath over Stiles' neck, trembling ever so slightly with the strain of staying still. Stiles finds out why soon enough; a shift of his legs in an effort to get comfortable brings his hips right up between Jackson's legs. No damage done, but Stiles feels it all the same — that hard bulge that nudges over his hip before Stiles can resettle, that gets shoved against his thigh when Jackson's hips buck downward.
"Oh," Stiles says.
"Stiles, don't even—"
"Wow, I mean. No wonder you're so into lacrosse, man," he says.
"Fuckin'— Shut up, Stilinski—" Jackson's words cut off with a groan when Stiles pulls at his hair for real this time. Nails right up against the scalp so that both of them can feel the way Stiles scrapes over skin and hair to gather a good handful.
"All that sweat and adrenaline and fighting boys that are bigger than you," Stiles says. He laughs a little. "Taking them down? You like that." He can't push up on his elbows very much with Jackson still holding him down like this, but he can get a leg up. So he does that, gets a leg up behind Jackson and shoves him higher along Stiles' body with a knee. Gets him close enough that Stiles can get a mouth up next to Jackson's ear and say, "Does Lydia know? I bet she does."
"I said to shut the fuck up about Lydia," Jackson hisses and then kisses him.
It's brief and biting, and in the space between that and the second, Stiles has enough room to mutter, "Goddamn," before it spins wildly out of control. It's not what Stiles has ever imagined for his first sexual encounter with another person — those usually involved Lydia, and he supposes she is involved here in some seriously messed up way — but it's way more too. There's more fight in it, in the way Jackson covers him and kisses harder when Stiles manages to make noise or when Stiles tugs at his hair.
Stiles has heard things about what Jackson's done before — hard not to when they share a locker room — but hearing about it is vastly different than being shown it first hand. No pun intended, mind you, when Jackson's hand shoves one of his thighs down and slides between them to cup Stiles' dick.
Talk about spiraling out of control — Stiles tears his mouth away with a gasp and looks down in time to see the heel of Jackson's palm rub down against his zipper. "I knew it," he grunts. "You and Danny totally slept together."
Jackson scowls. "You think about me sleeping with guys a lot, huh? Maybe I shouldn't have worried about you after all, Stilinski."
Stiles' smile is half a grimace, head dropping back to the floor while his lashes dip. Jackson's touch is rough and a little uncomfortable through denim, but Stiles' body isn't complaining a single bit. He's tense with the effort it takes to keep from bucking into Jackson's palm, but he doubt it makes much difference. Jackson can probably tell how close he is just by looking at him. Still, Stiles can't quite give him the satisfaction of letting him know for sure so soon.
So he grabs on with his one free arm, holding on to Jackson's shoulder and digging his nails in through the painfully thin material he's got for a shirt. He holds on so tight that Jackson grits his teeth hard enough to make his jaw pop, and he says, "I think about a lot of things. Mostly Lydia. I'd be so much better for her than you."
Jackson's frown is beautiful. Stiles is gonna treasure that expression for the rest of his life.
"In every way," Stiles adds. "In fact, I'm thinking about her now. God, no wonder you have to be the one that has to talk about the things you two get up to. Why would she bother when this—" here, Stiles carves his nails down Jackson's arm to his hand and he squeezes, folding the fingers into a curve that's more appealing, "—is your idea of foreplay?"
Stiles expects Jackson to fight back. That's just what they do. He thinks maybe Jackson will shove him around some more, but instead Jackson's lip curls. "You know what I think, Stilinski?" he says, eyes narrowing. "I think that you're enjoying this a little too much. You talk big. You think you can handle a girl like Lydia? You think that you can do better than me?"
There's a minute shake in Jackson's words, like it's taking every scrap of his control to keep his voice steady. Jackson licks at his lips, chewing briefly on his lower one before he spits out, "Fine. Think whatever you want. But that's my girlfriend you're thinking about and that's my hand you've got against your dick." Then, alarmingly, Jackson bends to Stiles' neck, inhaling deeply against his jugular and laughing when Stiles bares his throat. "As soon as you figure out which it is that's actually making you hard, you let me know."
Jackson leaves Stiles on the ground like that, so hard that he aches with it, and frustrated, Stiles hits his head against the concrete for good measure. It was a dick move, making it about Lydia and Jackson's relationship at the end. Everyone knew how rocky they were together, how her devotion was directly proportional to his popularity. Stupid to have thought that Jackson would've responded well to a challenge like that and not make Stiles pay for it.