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Of Lace and Werewolves

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You know, it’s funny, because he really should’ve caught on. He should’ve realized why she was so eager to take him to the store, why she asked his opinion with every pair of pretty panties she picked up. Why she always raised the hangers up to his skin instead of hers. He can be excused, though, because he’s too caught up in the fact that she’s here, she’s here with him, and how that makes here the only place he wants to be. He supposes that’s why she doesn’t mind the way he hangs off of her, his chin where neck meets shoulder, red curls tickling his cheek.

He blames the wolf in him, that strange other entity in the back of his mind, for his unusual clinginess. He knows, though, that that’s not the whole truth.

Plus, how can he pay attention when all he’s imagining is Lydia in every bit of lingerie she shows him? He can’t help but think this trip is a lot more for him than it is for her.

After ten minutes, Lydia is still caught between these two pairs of underwear, the same cut with lace and frills and bows and thongs, but different colors. She raises the green one, scrutinizes it for a moment, then lowers it in favor of the pink one. Then, she repeats.

Jackson wraps his arms around Lydia’s waist, brushes his lips across her ear. “I like the green one,” he offers, eager to help.

She glances back at him with pursed lips and drawn brows, incredulous. “Why?” she demands.

“I—I dunno. It’s cute and goes with your hair, I guess.”

Her expression doesn’t change and—dammit—even though he’s the werewolf, he feels himself draw back somewhat, submit. But, then she gives him this smile and suddenly it’s all right, because it’s her, it’s Lydia, and she’s turning, pressing a kiss to his lips. It’s chaste for the most part; Jackson can’t help but chase after her when she pulls away. “Soon,” she promises, and soon can’t come soon enough.

So, no one can really blame him for not being able to put two and two together as they continue on in the store, different colored laces and satins and silks brushing over his arm and Lydia making small, thoughtful noises. Soon, though, does happen in the form of a handful of panties on hangers, a cold changing room, and the knowing wink of the salesperson, a man with a trim goatee and gold earrings.

He presses Lydia into the stall and crowds her against the mirror, but when he leans down to kiss her, he gets a swat to the nose. He blinks, receives another.

Lydia shakes her head, curls bouncing everywhere, and smirks.



“No.” Jackson deflates and fights so, so hard not to whine. “Not yet,” Lydia amends, combing her fingers through his hair. “I need you to try these on first.”

He finds himself grinning, then—

“Wait, what?”

But, she’s already gone, her laugh ringing through the air.

He suddenly recognizes the signs he’s missed, like the fact that most of the other customers were men and the sizes Lydia chose would be too big on her. When Jackson tentatively reaches out for them—a pair of panties that’s so soft to the touch, he can’t stop rubbing the material between his fingers—they look like they could fit him perfectly. Not that he’s going to try, of course. Even when Lydia returns—with corsets? Are those corsets?—he plasters his best “Are you fucking kidding me?” look.

Lydia only smiles, curls a hand into his side, and starts working at his zipper with the other.

So, Jackson learns quite a bit about underwear that day, because Lydia always gets what she wants.

Like thongs? They may look hot, like really hot, but they feel like you have this constant, permanent wedgie. Lydia giggles at his complaint and points out how he can’t keep his hands off of himself, which is true. He’s looking back at the mirror, at the stretch of cheek the scant panties show off, and he’s running his palms over everything. Jackson never thought he would ever say it—the thought never, ever crossed his mind—but, you know, they don’t look too bad. He likes the way he looks in them.

Lydia feels the same if the way she squeezes his ass has anything to do about it. He feels her press up behind him, feels her try to replicate their earlier embrace. She has to rise a bit on her toes to kiss the lobe of his ear and whisper, “You look beautiful like this.”

It’s really simple, short and sweet, but those five words make Jackson’s heart beat a mile a minute and he’s so grateful that Lydia isn’t a werewolf, can’t hear the rising pounding in his ears. Then, he looks at her in the mirror, sees her hands tug up the shirt he’s still wearing, exposing the trail of hairs that lead into the lump in pink panties, and he knows she knows. Things with Lydia were always like this: they may not say what they mean all the time, but they make up for it with touches and looks.

He’d been wrong earlier. This isn’t for him; it’s not even for her. It’s for both of them, the two of them, and maybe –


Jackson’s not really sure when Stilinski became a frequent partner in his bed, a familiar weight over him, but somehow he has. It’s so strange, because Stiles is not Lydia, not like any of the girls he’s taken, not a girl, and Jackson’s not one hundred percent sure if he’s bi or if he’s just really into Stilinski. (He doesn’t know which idea’s scarier.) He blames the wolf for this, too, blames it for the way he lets the other guy press him back onto the sheets, lets him tower over him, lets him fuck him into the mattress. Again, he blames it, but a part of him knows that it’s not something he’s hasn’t thought about in the past.

Lydia does know about it, about this—this thing the two of them have. And, she lets it happen, encourages it even with barely stifled laughter, and Jackson doesn’t get that. He barely understands the thing between them, this kind of intimacy that only people who fuck and fuck often that have to keep them linked to each other.  Lydia doesn’t mind it, though. Jackson cringes every time she spots the dark bites and bruises along Stilinski’s neck and smiles pointedly at him.

The part of it that really gets to Jackson is how he doesn’t mind it either. He doesn’t mind it when Stiles pins him to the bed, doesn’t mind the way Stiles bites jokes about his wolfy powers, doesn’t mind the fact that Stiles likes to bite at all. And, he likes the way Stiles’ cock feels inside him, thick and almost too big and oh god, there’s actually a penis inside of him. Jackson can almost hear Danny’s “I told you so,” every time their hips touch with every thrust forward.

With this mess of a relationship, Jackson kind of figured that Stilinski would find out about, you know, the pretty pink panties he feels way too comfortable in now. He’s balls-deep in Jackson when he does, their bodies, limbs tangled and intertwined and joined. At first Jackson’s too caught up in the sloppy wet open-mouth kisses Stiles presses across his neck to notice the hand sliding under his pillow.

Then, those hips stop.

Jackson is this close to whining, to growling, “Fucking move, Stilinski,” with all the ferocity of the wolf, but then there’s this frilly pink thing hanging from the other teen’s fingers. Wait—fuck—that’s his frilly pink thing. They exchange looks: Jackson with a stiff jaw and Stiles with wide-eyed wonder.

“Are these—” Stiles’ voice cracks. “Are these Lydia’s?”

Relief. Jackson settles back into the pillow, rolls his eyes. “Yeah, they are,” he barks fiercely. “Now lay off them.”

When he doesn’t, Jackson really does growl this time and swaps their positions. Stiles’ dick slips out in the move, hitting Stiles’ stomach with a wet slap, and they both groan at the loss.

“Fuck,” Jackson hisses, scrambling for it with shaky, shaky hands. “Fuck, get it—Yeah—”  Stiles echoes his moan as their joined hands position his cock where it belongs, pressing and sliding and in. Breath and heart fluttering, Jackson sinks lower, rolling hips setting a quick, rough pace. He likes this, likes how he can be in control despite his wolf’s need to be taken, likes raking his nails down that chest.

Oh Jesus, it’s good, so good. Not just the way Stiles works inside him, but this power Jackson has over him, something he doesn’t—could never have—with Lydia. Stiles tosses his head back, his lips mouthing pointless words and sounds, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Jackson hums at the bared throat and sucks at the skin until it’s pink, blue, purple.

His legs, his arms, his body starts to shake, pleasure building and threatening to crest. Hands settle on his hips, big brown eyes meeting his, and this is how it works with them, too. They never say what they mean, but they make up for it with touches and looks. Like right now, Stiles is making this face, his face twisting and his cheeks puffing with harsh breaths—

Man, this guy has the worst come face.

“Oh shit—Oh fuck—Jackson, I’m—” And, then he his, warmth flooding his insides. Jackson closes his eyes, can almost see Stiles’ cock spurting white into the condom, into him, and he moans, reaches down for himself. Stiles’ body still twitches and spasms through orgasm when Jackson starts stroking his erection, slick with precome and spittle; he doubles over at the touch, sparks of pleasure spreading through him. There’s a heavy breath, a sigh, as he twists and squeezes, and he comes at the sleepy of murmur of, “Yeah, Jackson, yeah. Come on, Jacks,” across his face.

Jackson’s yowl is loud, filthy, and totally embarrassing.

He lowers from his orgasm slowly and is eternally grateful for the arms that accept his body when he slumps forward. The smell of sweat and come and sex is warm, comforting.

Goddamn,” Stiles gasps. Jackson smirks in response.


It doesn’t take long for Jackson to get over it, to worm his way out of Stilinski’s arms and shower. When he returns with a blast of steam and wet warmth, a towel around his waist and another mopping over his hair, he finds the other teen sitting at the end of the bed, still naked. And, holding those damn panties.

Jackson bristles. “Hands off, Stilinski.” Normally, Stiles would listen, would shout and flail and drop whatever he was holding. This time, though, he just looks at him, lips and brows dipped in a frown. Jackson quirks an eyebrow. “What?”

Stiles stares at him a moment longer before licking his lips, glancing back at the panties in his hand. “This isn’t Lydia’s, is it?”

It’s unbelievably difficult not to sputter. “What makes you say that?” he manages.

“Exhibit A!” Stiles twirls the frilly pink panties around a finger, then stops, pointing out the tag. “These aren’t in her size.”

“You know my girlfriend’s panty size.” Not a question. Just sheer disbelief.

Stiles ignores him. “Exhibit B! This is a men’s size.”

A lump lodges itself in his throat and Jackson can only stare, dumbfounded.

“Exhibit C,” the other teen continues, tugging further at the tag. “This place is, like, the one stop drag shop. From what I’ve heard,” he adds hastily. His eyes, serious and baffled and—and something else, level with Jackson’s. “These are yours,” he concludes, awed.

Jackson refuses to say yes, but he also can’t bring himself to say no, like a part of him—that damn wolf—actually wants Stilinski to know. “How would you know?” he blurts instead. “About that store.”

Stiles shrugs. “I, uh, know a few people,” he states simply. Then, he displays the frilly thing, holds it out by his fingertips. “So, do you actually, you know, wear these?”

Cheeks burning, Jackson stomps forward and snatches the article away. “I never said they were mine!”

“You didn’t deny it, either,” Stiles counters, rising to collect his clothes.

Jackson scoffs and moves to his dresser. They dress in silence, Jackson’s back to Stiles and—fuck—when did his heart start to pound like this, like it’s ready to just burst from his chest. He gathers his composure just in time to catch Stiles pulling his shirt on, covering the red scratches that reach all the way down to the sparse trail of hair.

His eyes flick up when Stiles shifts; brown eyes bore into him.

“What?” Jackson spits, defensive.

A beat, then Stiles starts bouncing on his toes, like he’s psyching himself up for a game, or for this conversation. He starts, “I just—” then stops to rake fingers through his hair. He looks like he’s fighting the words, but they eventually leave him, soft, almost not there. “Will I ever see you in them?”

Something flutters in Jackson’s stomach, like when Lydia was pressed up against him, whispering sweetly about how beautiful he looks.

It’s only them, the two of them, who do this to him.

“Just—Just go home, Stilinski.”


After Lydia licks the come from her lips and Jackson sucks the slick from his fingers, they decide on getting the pink thong, the one he tried on first. It’s simple, pastel, with three layers of lacy, white ruffles running along the sides. Jackson can’t help but fiddle with it, fingers flicking the frills back and forth, as they walk up arm-in-arm to pay. Shame overcomes him when he meets the cashier’s raised eyebrow, but then Lydia is holding his arm tighter, leaning up to kiss his cheek.

He’s always stronger when she’s around, even when he’s between her thighs in nothing but the panties, even when she has him wear them during the day and dips her hand into his pants to touch them. And, after a while, he actually starts to like them, likes the way the feel, likes the thrill that goes through him when he wears them. He likes fucking Lydia in them the best, likes the way her bare legs wrap around him, likes the strain of the panties when he thrusts and thrusts and thrusts.

She just moans and gasps in his ear as she clutches at him. Words like ‘yes’ and ‘more’ and ‘god’ and ‘beautiful.’  And, he always blushes, because he does feel beautiful when they do this. It’s hard not to when her fingers run over his ass, when she tugs at the thong until it’s taut over his hole, his balls, his cock, and he whines so pitifully.

He doesn’t feel like a pet, exactly. He feels cherished, cared for, loved. He remembers when he hated that, hated it because he didn’t deserve it, not with the way he acted. Now he can’t imagine surviving without it.

If anyone’s truly beautiful, though, it’s her when she comes with an arch and her hair flowing over her shoulders. Lydia whispers his name into the kiss, into him, and he thinks that’s what keeps him together on full moons. It keeps him him.

“What did you say to him?”

Jackson doesn’t hear her at first, too caught up in his thoughts, with what he’s doing under her dress, between her thighs. He hears—feels—her shuddered sigh as he noses at her clit, lapping her folds purposefully. It’s not until the dress is flipped back, exposing him to the cold air, and a hand pulls him away that he even cares to listen. Lydia smiles when he licks his lips and she clears his nose with a long swipe of her tongue.

“God, I love you like this,” she mewls, tilting his head up by the chin. “But, you didn’t need to be so mean to Stiles.”

A frown pulls at Jackson’s lips. “What’re you talking about?”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “Don’t give me that. He’s been out of it since your date last week.”

“It wasn’t a date!” Jackson growls. “They’ve never been dates!”

Brown eyes narrow and Jackson actually cringes, draws back the slightest bit. “You’re going to apologize,” she says firmly. Jackson’s in no place to say no, so he nods with his eyes downcast. She presses at his chin again and leads them into a deep kiss, their tongues tangling through parted lips. They separate with chuckles and moans. Content, her hand guides him back into place; he eagerly goes back to making her toes curl.

His tongue flicks back and forth over her clit, two fingers coming up to join the party. A moan tears through the air, flows over Jackson’s bare shoulders, and leaves his skin tingling. Arousal pools in his stomach, makes his erection strain against the silk of his panties. And, they’re damp and it’s so fucking filthy and—

“Oh fuck, Jackson!”

Jackson smiles into her folds, his tongue wetting his fingers further as he twists, thrusts. With a slight arch, she digs her heels into the carpet, presses his nose into the folds, and Jackson lets out a moan. He slides a hand up beneath her dress, reaching beneath her bra for a nipple. She comes with a heavy groan, her knees squeezing Jackson’s head as he laps up her slick through her shivers and spasms.

He licks his lips, eases back to admire his handiwork.


Werewolf training kicks his ass. Derek kicks his ass, up and down and sideways and though the broken arm and ribs heal, the anger doesn’t. It continues to course through his veins, tighten him like a bowstring. He trembles through his rage and tries so, so hard to think of Lydia, to be taken down by that anchor, but the thought of Derek’s face broken in is just too appealing.

So, he charges back at Derek with a roar, claws and fangs and bright blue eyes bared, only to be flung aside like he’s nothing. He hits the wall with a crack and lands on the ground with a thud. There’s the crunch of gravel, then a boot on his chest. He can hear his ribs fucking creak.

Derek growls; Jackson whines.

“What the hell was that, Jackson? I thought you had control of it!”

Jackson whines again, saliva sliding down the side of his mouth. “I do have control,” he tries, but then the boot presses and there’s a third, even more wretched whine.

The pressure on his chest eases, but then there’s spittle across his face when his Alpha hisses, “Not from what I just fucking saw, you idiot.” He pulls at his hair, sharp pain striking Jackson, pulls at his head up. “What happened to your anchor, huh? Lydia?”

“I did,” Jackson insists. “I thought about her—I did—I’m trying—”

Trying isn’t good enough! Trying won’t help you against an Alpha pack!”

Hellooo—whoa, hey.”

It’s Stiles, his breathing accelerating, his steps quick. He reaches gravel and hovers a few feet away, shifting from side to side. And, beneath the fear, there’s pity, wafting off of him and stinging Jackson’s nose. He squeezes his eyes shut, because the stink is enough on its own—he doesn’t need to see it as well. “Fuck,” he swears when Derek lets him go, lets his head hit the ground.

He hears Derek stalk up to Stiles, hears the teen take a step back.


“Look, I know you guys have, like, super healing and stuff, but—”

“What are you doing here?”

“—Don’t you think you’re being a little harsh? I mean you never did this to Scott, right—”

“That’s because he isn’t mi—What the fuck are you doing here, Stiles?”

The spike of rage with that underlying hurt makes the wolf, and in turn Jackson, curl into himself and whimper. He covers his ears and the responding wave of pity makes him gag.

“I just, um.” Though he’s stuttering, his voice is surprisingly strong. “Lydia asked me to check up on him. And, I guess I can tell her that you’re beating the shit out of him; she’ll be thrilled to hear that.”

“This is exactly how I trained my pack, Stiles. You didn’t care when Isaac and Erica and Boyd had to go through it.”

“I—I didn’t know. There was a lot of shit happening then.”

“And there’s even more shit happening now!”

“But, this is—he is—”

The word ‘different’ hangs heavily over them and Jackson can’t stand this anymore.

There’s still that strange pull as his bones knit back into place. Jackson grits his teeth through it, pushing to his hands and knees. “Stiles,” he grunts, settling into an all-too-familiar kneeling position. “Stiles, seriously, fuck off. I’m fine. I—”

“Just take him,” Derek barks, stomping off with harsh crunches.

The wolf in Jackson takes the rejection hard; Jackson takes it even harder. He almost cries.

When he gets into Stiles’ Jeep, he does.

The ride to—to wherever they’re going is long and Jackson bawls his eyes out though all of it. The tears, the phlegm, choke him and he smears the mess across the window without a fucking care in the world, because to the wolf? This is the end of the world, the apocalypse. Jackson thought he was over this insecurity shit, but Derek’s rejection fucking hurts, reminds him of the parents that abandoned him without knowing him.

Stiles is unusually silent, only huffing through his nose now and again and—fuck—Stilinski is pissed at him, too? He really doesn’t need this, he doesn’t—

The stupid bastard slams on the brakes—sending them skidding for a few feet—and Jackson scrabbles at everything.

After a frantic moment of fighting pretty fucking hard not to wolf out, he finds his lungs. “What—What the fuck, Stilinksi?” Jackson turns and suddenly the other teen is so close, leaning over to take his face in his hands, to bring their lips together.

The kiss is fierce, passionate, but unlike their other kisses, it’s . . . sweet and totally Stiles-y. Jackson’s face is sticky and wet and gross with bodily fluids, but Stiles doesn’t seem the least bit fazed by it, even going so far as to wipe away Jackson’s tears when they pull apart. Stiles tries to smile, the corner of mouth quirking, but doesn’t quite make it; Jackson only stares, brow drawn.


“Why,” Stiles says gently. His breath ghosts over Jackson’s lips which is almost a kiss in itself. “Why are you both so pretty when you cry?”

Jackson doesn’t understand, but it soothes the wolf.

They make it to his house eventually, and he knows he should be irritated by the way Stiles walks him to his front door. Instead he’s flattered, those feelings of being cherished and cared for pushing forth, making him drunk. Stiles stands awkwardly before him, shifting from foot to foot, and Jackson reaches for his hands, places them on his waist. He leads them down to his waistband, then to what’s underneath.

Stiles’ eyes fly open; his jaw drops.

“A-Are those—” His voice is a squeak.

Jackson laughs, nods. “Yeah.”

They must look ridiculous with Stiles’ arms around him, his hands shoved down the back of his pants, but Jackson’s too distracted by the way those tentative hands grope at his bared ass, fiddles with the thong between his cheeks, the ruffles along the sides. Stiles pulls away after a second, nothing but awe in his eyes.

“Wow,” he breathes, wanting.

“Thanks,” Jackson returns, delirious.



Jackson pauses from tugging off his t-shirt in favor of casting a questioning look at the naked girl lounging on his bed. He frowns. “Huh? What do you mean?”

Lydia shifts to prop her head with her hand, the duvet falling from her shoulder and exposing her breasts. She absently runs her nails over the silky skin as she scoffs. “I mean, what happened next? You did bring him up to your room after that, right?”

Rolling his eyes, Jackson crawls onto the bed to kiss her cheek. The smile that graces her face quickly changes when he mumbles, “No, I didn’t.”

She pulls back with a frown, her face all righteous disapproval. “So, you didn’t fuck him?”


“After he felt you up on your front porch, you didn’t fuck him.”

“. . . No. No, I didn’t.”

Lydia closes her eyes like she feels a headache coming on and exhales deeply through her nostrils. He wonders if she caught his lie when she shakes her head. “I honestly thought I trained you better than that.”

“Oh, you’ve taught me better. Doesn’t mean I can’t be a bit rebellious, right?”

“Such a bad puppy.”

A beat, then Jackson chuckles with Lydia joining with sweet laughter not long after. Her hand curls around his arm and Jackson lets himself be pulled down to wrap his arms around her, to kiss the smile on her lips. They exchange small kisses and laughs until Lydia claims her place atop him and continues to rid him of his clothes, the kiss ending only to pull his shirt over his head. After Jackson kicks his jeans off and they land on the floor somewhere, Lydia looks down and her smirk is filthy.

“You really like this, don’t you?” she coos as she curls her fingers into the panties, pulling them down to free Jackson’s half-hard cock.

Jackson’s shrugs, lip quirking. “They feel nice.” They make me feel nice, he doesn’t say, but he knows Lydia understands, her smirk melting into something gentler. He hums at the lips that kiss and bite and lick their way from hipbone to hipbone; he moans when those lips return to the middle and quest downward to his balls.

She runs her tongue over his sac in long, flat strokes, chuckling when Jackson groans, his heels digging into the sheet. “We could get you more,” she offers. “We could even invite Stiles.”

“What? Why’d we want to do that?”

A frustrated sigh. “Because he’s your boyfriend, of course!”

“He isn’t my boyfriend! Besides, it’s you he likes, remember?”

“But, I’m not the one he’s been fucking for two months, am I?”

“That’s—!” Jackson deflates, falling back onto the bed. He scrubs at his face, voice small when he mumbles, “I thought you weren’t angry about it.”

Lydia draws away from his crotch to lie along his side, the arm she slings around his chest as possessive as it is comforting. “I don’t mind sharing you,” she assures between kisses along his neck, jaw. “I just wish you would tell me about it. I don’t know what you two do.” The stripe she licks up Jackson’s cheek pulls a whimper from his throat. “I get jealous sometimes,” she admits.

Jackson’s heart aches. “I can—”

“No, it’s too late for that,” she chides with no real malice. “Besides I like the idea of the two of you together too much. You must look gorgeous when you’re inside him.”

Again, Jackson laughs and she laughs, too, but they’re laughing for different reasons.


Jackson doesn’t expect the fingers that hook into his belt loops or the way he’s pulled back against a warm chest. He’s never sure what to call him at moments like this, whether he’s Stilinski or Stiles or something else, so he settles for not calling him anything at all. He just turns to pull him in a kiss, his human side cringing at the taste of onions and blue cheese and roast beef and his wolf side reveling in it.

“Are we, uh, you know,” he asks, eyes darting everywhere and his breath coming in puffs. “Are we doing this? Now?”

With a rumble, Jackson nods, noses at his ears. “Right now.”

A thick swallow. “Can I—Can I see them?”

The look that pulls the other teen’s face makes Jackson think Stiles over any other name, over anything else. He nods again; Stiles pulls back to let him work at the placket of his trousers, to unbutton and unzip.

Jackson has never felt uncomfortable stripping for an audience and now, as Stiles stumbles back into his computer chair, is really no different. He draws close until his legs touch Stiles knees, until Stiles looks up with him in wonder, in hunger, and starts to pulls his jeans down. The slack-jawed expression encourages him and he shimmies with slow, slow movements, steps out of his pants with a smirk.

He’s in frilly pink panties that stretch over his half-hard cock. And, he forgets that there’re still tear tracks down his cheeks.

“Like what you see?”

Stiles continues to gawk, but eventually manages a small, “Fuck yeah.”

“Would you fuck me like this?”

A moan. “You don’t even know.”

After Stiles takes him over the desk, with fingers pulling the thong out of the way so he can thrust and thrust and fuck and fuck, Jackson thinks he has some idea.


Next training session, Derek greets him with a stiff, obvious sniff and it takes Jackson everything he has not to leap back about a mile.

“What the—”

Derek draws back, eyebrow raised. “You and Stiles?”

Jackson’s sentence ends in an incoherent sputter.

“His smell’s all over you,” Derek explains as he pulls off his jacket, like it’s not something that Jackson should be hyperventilating over, but totally is. “You reek of him.”

The teen spends a few more moments just staring before steeling his jaw, shaking his head. “What’s it to you?”

Derek shrugs, already walking away. “Don’t fuck with your anchor, Jackson. I need you focused.”

And, Jackson just stands there, watches him go. Because, fuck, he doesn’t know what to say that isn’t a lie.

Despite that bit of awkwardness, though, training goes off without another hitch. He honestly thinks he’s getting better and sometimes he thinks Derek thinks the same thing, but Derek still thoroughly kicks his ass in the end, leaving him panting and drooling and aching on the ground. Jackson coughs around the tang of blood in his mouth as Derek circles round him.

Instead of the taunts he expects, he gets a huff as Derek crouches beside him. He groans when knuckles knock at his head.

“Does she know?”

Jackson starts to sit up and spits. He wipes his mouth, mutters, “About Stilinski or us?”

Eyes flash red, but Jackson doesn’t have the energy to cower, to fight off the biting kiss Derek forces on him.

The Derek thing is even stranger than the Stilinski thing, because at least with Stiles things are consistent. They talk, meet somewhere, and sex happens—simple. Naturally, things are never that simple when it comes to Derek. Jackson never knows when it’s going to happen, when Derek will throw him against a wall not to choke him, but to kiss him. It’s strange and erratic and Jackson spends most of his time denying that it happens.

Jackson threads his hands into Derek’s hair before the Alpha can pull away. “Don’t you think—” he gasps against dry lips, “Don’t you think they’ll smell me on you?”

“Not Stiles or Lydia,” Derek concludes after a moment. “Nice work fucking around with the only two humans in our pack.”

Two things are said there. One, he counts Lydia as pack. Two, he doesn’t count Allison. Before Jackson can point this out, Derek is wolfed out and humming—purring?—deep in his throat.

“So which one do you wear this for?” Derek tugs at the strap of pink peeking from Jackson’s trousers. Jackson flinches when Derek lets it go with a snap. “I can see Lydia being into this, but Stiles? I don’t know.”

Jackson glares. “I wear it for me.”

There’s a tense moment, then Derek claims his mouth again, definitely growling into the kiss.

Derek doesn’t fuck him—never does. He just marks him a bit more, kisses a bit more, then kicks him out. He does grant a parting gift as Jackson leaves.

“Lay off of Stiles, Jackson. Or just don’t let me smell you on him.”

And, Jackson wonders how his life got so fucked.


Jackson doesn’t have a word for it yet, these ties that connect them all. He knows that they call the almost tangible bond between Derek, Isaac, Boyd, Erica and him pack, but he thinks their definition of pack is different than his own. Because whatever he has with Derek is different than what the others have to him; and what he feels for them is different than what they feel for him, too. Then, there’s Peter. He says he’s pack, too, but Jackson can’t really bring himself to get comfortable with him (though, sometimes, he’s the only one that gives him the time of day).

Derek though . . . Fuck, he doesn’t know what he feels about Derek. He hates him, despises him sometimes, but the wolf in him wants nothing to submit. He’s just tortured by the wolf’s need to impress its Alpha. Then, Derek does things like that, kisses him, and while the wolf keens, it just makes Jackson hate the bastard a little bit more.

He doesn’t—he doesn’t hate Scott like he did in the past, not after the way he defended him, the way he had wanted to save him over—over killing him, but things with Allison are more or less neutral, even though his pack is dangerously wary of her. Sometimes, Scott even feels like pack, like family, and it’s unnerving as much as a relief.

Then, there’s Danny. Danny is his best friend, will forever be his best friend, but this whole werewolf thing has put a massive block in their relationship. Still, even though he’s adjusting to this whole ‘my best friend is a werewolf’ thing, he still picks up the phone when Jackson calls, and Jackson can’t be more grateful for that. And grateful for Stiles who’s easing him through the whole transition.

It’s Stilinski, Stilinski. Jackson’s been forgetting that lately, but it’s hard when Stiles touches him like he’s the most delicate thing in the world, then fucks him through the floor like a pig. Besides the sex, there’s something in the way blushes, smiles, kisses that makes Jackson want him to stay long after they’ve come.  He doesn’t lov—like Stiles the way he likes him and Stiles always looks so painfully used to that.

Because of Lydia. Things with Lydia are . . . well, they’re still tense at times. Sometimes he’ll catch her just looking at him, her face reflecting the words that cycle through his head every day. I care for you, I’m glad I have you, but how did things end up like this? Why are things so much harder now? It stabs at his heart, and that’s usually when Jackson leans down to kiss her, to kiss that look off of her, because it hurts too much to see. Sometimes, though, they’re even better than when way back then, before—before everything. He likes being her pet, being hers. He belongs there.

And, his parents. Since the day they told him was adopted, he could never say it. To this day, he still can’t say it. To anyone. To the people who matter most.


Jackson tries—and fails—to hide his excitement when Lydia drags him off to that lingerie shop again. He doesn’t even hesitate to skip Derek’s training for it. He thinks about all the pages of panties he’s scrolled through in the past month, thinks of the different styles and cuts he could try, wonders the colors that he thinks will suit him, and he’s far too excited to be upset by himself. Mm, maybe a simple bikini one, or better yet something in a tanga style. Looks like a bikini, but with a bit more cheek. Maybe a boyshort? They cover more skin, but with enough ruffles they can be cute as—

What—What the hell is this?

Jackson freezes on the spot, but Lydia strides towards Stiles like she doesn’t notice.  “Stiles! I’m glad you could make it!” Stiles perks when she wraps her arms around his, then recoils when he meets Jackson’s scowl. Lydia nudges him, turns the attention back to her, and smiles, really smiles. “Ready to shop?” Stiles can’t manage a coherent sentence, so Lydia drags him inside with no further pretense.

And, Jackson just stands there, because this cannot be his life right now. Seriously. Please, someone—anyone—take the reins.

Eventually, though, he does end up walking in, because he really, really wants to see what they have in stock. Plus, the wolf can’t bear the thought of disappointing his mistress girlfriend.

Somehow, Stiles manages to pry himself from Lydia (or the reverse; it really could work either way), and they are in opposite ends of the store. Naturally, he beelines towards Lydia with all intents to demand why the fuck Stilinski is here, but then she shoves this really hot yellow v-string in his face and— Okay, seriously? This might be a real problem now.

“These are—”

“I think they’re cute,” Lydia interrupts, putting the material against his skin. “And, I think the color suits you.”

Jackson can’t help but smile to himself. “Yeah?”

“Mm-hm.” Lydia leans up for a kiss, and suddenly, it feels like when they’d first walked in a month ago. He’s delirious with the way he wants to have her in his arms. Then she whispers, “I asked him to stay the night.”

That stops Jackson in his tracks and he jerks back, holds the panties as far away as possible, like they personally betrayed him. “You—You what?”

God, Jackson is fond of the smug little smile that curves Lydia’s lips, the confident way she whips out her compact and touches up her lipgloss. “Well, you weren’t telling me anything about the two of you so—” She snaps the compact shut, tilts her head with her lips slightly parted. “I just took the initiative.”

Jackson hates moments like this, when he’s caught between yelling at her and kissing her, so he settles for folding his arms and scowling in Stilinski’s general direction. He just catches the other teen’s head bobbing through the mannequins and racks, his fingers running over the slips and robes and Spanx. It’s . . . not what he expected, actually. He’d thought that Stilinski would stick close to Lydia or huddle in some corner and try his best not to stare at the breast inserts.

The shock must show on his face, because Lydia nudges him with a chuckle. “You were at my birthday party. You remember the drag queens there, right?” She points to Stilinski. “He invited them.”

Jackson vaguely remembers it, very, very vaguely, but he doesn’t have the heart to tell her that it really wasn’t him at the party. At least, not for very long.

He swallows thickly, nods. “Okay.”

Stiles meets up with them eventually, carrying almost as much in his arms as Jackson. But, those aren’t panties in his pile.

“What are—”

Lydia steps up to Stiles and pulls a packet away. “Ooh, stockings! Good idea.”

Stiles beams like Christmas has come early. “Y-Yeah, I just thought, you know, they’d look good on—” He meets Jackson’s eyes for a moment, then quickly looks away, cheeks flushed. “I picked up some garterbelts, too,” he blurts, and Lydia hums in approval.

Why does he always feel so out of the loop when they’re together?

“What are you two even talking about?” he tries again through gritted teeth, because they can’t be—Those can’t possibly—They better not think that he’s—Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. “I’m not wearing those,” he growls at Stilinski, because at least he’d get a response out of him.

Sure enough, Stilinski staggers back until he bumps into a mannequin, making the guy working the counter bristle. Lydia only tuts and swats admonishingly at Jackson’s shoulder—it takes everything he has to swallow the whine that threatens to break loose—but, then she soothes it with a firm rub.

“It was my idea,” she declares, her knuckles moving soothingly up and down his arm. “Since you said you liked the panties—”

“I said I liked how they felt,” Jackson intervenes.

Lydia only smiles. She gestures and Stiles, eyes wary, steps up like he’s approaching a wild animal. She grabs the packet of stockings, tears it open quickly, and Jackson flinches when she presses the material to the back of his hand. “How does this feel?” she whispers.

And, it feels good. Soft. For a moment, he thinks about—

“Imagine this stretching over your legs,” she coos, her lips grazing his jawline. “Clinging to your skin.”

That. He searches her face, unsure of what to say, then, “What if I look stupid?” It’s not the most eloquent thing he’s said, not the most mature, but it’s the only thing nagging at him that he’s willing to share.

“You won’t.” Surprisingly, this is from Stiles who sidles beside him, places a tentative hand on his arm. He stands tall, eyes locked on Jackson’s when he continues, “I—I think you’ll look beautiful. You always look beautiful. Why don’t you get that?”

Again, Jackson is left speechless, but, then, so is Lydia, her eyes wide. He doesn’t seem to be talking to just Jackson anymore.

Jackson doesn’t really like talking about things, about himself. Lydia, though in a different way, is the same. But Stiles? Stiles is different. Stiles doesn’t shut up. Stiles blurts more things out than he keeps to himself. Sometimes he says these disgustingly profound, stupid, sweet things that make Jacksons’ heart flutter, his fingertips tremble. And, his eyes are so earnest, so painfully earnest. Sometimes he kisses Stiles to thank him as much as to shut him up.

Now is one of those times. Stiles goes stiff when their lips first touch, but quickly loosens up and cups his face. Jackson loses himself into the wet, slick slide of their tongues, lips, his hands clutching at the other teen’s shirt, nails threatening to tear through them. It’s not until a warm weight settles against his side that he remembers that Lydia’s still there, watching.

He almost doesn’t want to turn, to see the jealousy on her face, but then she’s kissing him, too, so it must be alright.

When did things in his life become alright?


It’s true that Derek has never fucked him, but he’s touched. He’s run the pads of his fingers over the line of Jackson’s jaw while they’ve kissed, has thumbed at nipples, groped at hips. Once he’d honestly thought they were going to actually go there, do it, when Derek had shoved him against the fragile, burnt walls of the Hale house. He remembers the erection that ground against his ass and he remembers the words bitten into his neck.

“I could fuck you right here, Jackson. Mark you. Cover you in my scent. Make you mine.”

Even though Derek smells of arousal and Jackson, hard in his jeans, must reek of it as well, it never happened. But, that only made him want it more. Sometimes he wonders if that was the idea in the first place, to make Jackson want and want and want until he can’t stand it. And, in some disgusting way, he does want it.

Though there’s no real bond between them, nothing besides that of Alpha and Beta. He knows that Derek will never claim him like that, will never make him his mate, but sometimes . . . sometimes he just wonders. His human side gags at the mere thought while his wolf side writes Mr. Jackson Hale in big squiggly hearts.

But, Derek wants Stiles. Jackson knows that.

It’s why when they leave the shop, the three of them hand-in-hand with Lydia in the middle, Jackson just stops. He stops, because he smells Derek, close, angry, and the two sides of him don’t know how to react. Fuck, it’s like he’s right here, standing next to him.

Stiles says something, but he can’t hear it over the pounding of his own heart. He moves, though, when Lydia tugs at him.

They barely make it to Lydia’s kitchen before she starts, her words encouraging Jackson’s ear, her fingers all over his sides. “You’re going to look so beautiful,” she murmurs, breath ghosting across his heated skin. “Like—Like a princess. Or a bride on her wedding day.”

“Or a magical girl.” Stiles rears back at the frowns he receives. “Well, she called you a princess.”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “Anyway,” she intones, turning Jackson’s face back to hers. “What we mean is, you are going to look gorgeous in what we bought you, sweetie—”

“Like an angel,” Stiles blurts again, but this time Lydia hums in approval, her eyes searching Jackson’s.

“Mm, yeah. Like an angel.”

And, Jackson just sort of stands there, Lydia in his arms and Stiles’ hands on his back, and this is just so fucking surreal. Then, fingertips on both sides are creeping under his shirt and leaving these tingling trails of flame across his skin. The wolf claws at him, howls, because this is everything it could want, to have two masters, to have that familiar press of being cherished, cared for, and loved hit him twofold.

No one can blame him for the whimper that leaves his throat, and, if the way they draw into him is anything to go by, no one does.

He gasps, “Upstairs,” and two very different hands—one delicate, warm and the other slim, long-fingered—grab his.

When they manage their way up to Lydia’s room, she disappears off somewhere, which leaves Stiles to entertain him. He does with kisses and licks, those deft fingers taking care of his shirt and jeans and socks and shoes. Leaving him in those pretty frilly pink panties. Jackson pulls back from their loose embrace and just looks at him, Stiles’ brown eyes large.

The arousal is heavy in Jackson’s nostrils.

“Did you mean it?” he finds himself asking.

“Mean what?”

Jackson scratches at the back of his neck, bites his lip, and somehow Stiles understands.

He nods, his throat working. “Yeah. Yeah, of course I meant it. I mean, you’re—” There’s this strange flailing motion that Jackson’s become accustomed to, but is no closer to actually understanding. “You’re gorgeous, you know? I mean, I know you know, but I think you should know that—that these things,” he flails in the general direction of the fancy shop bag, “These things only make you look more gorgeous, not less. Did—Did that make any sense?” he falters towards the end.

Jackson laughs. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

Stiles smiles dopily in return, shrugs, his fingers curling into the lace. “Let’s get you ready for your wings, huh?”


Jackson is far from an angel. He knows he is. But, the sentiment sends a tingling through him, makes him copy Stiles’ stupid little grin.


Stiles’ hands deftly hike up the white lace stockings a little higher and attach the garterbelt straps to them. He pulls back with a dark flush across his cheeks. “So . . . yeah,” he breathes.

Jackson doesn’t answer. He just runs his hands over his thighs, his knees, over the intricate lines and curls of lace and sheer white that grip his skin. It’s just so . . . strange, but it feels so good, especially with elbow-length gloves—white, lacy like everything else he’s wearing.

He—He just feels so pretty.

Fingers tip his chin and lips cover his and they’re Lydia’s and Jackson feels himself go limp, feels four hands ease him onto his back. Then, she pulls out the collar and—


Oh fuck.

Jackson doesn’t know what to say.

When he first came to terms with the three of them together—shortly after the kisses, but sometime before the changing room—he thought that things would be awkward, you know? Especially for Stilinski. Yet, somehow, even though Jackson has fucked the other two more times than he can count, he’s the one lying in his bed, in lacy white panties and lacy white gloves and lacy white stockings held by a lacy white garterbelt and nervous as fuck, while Lydia and Stiles tower over him.

Then, Stiles asks him it and she goes to get it and—

He—He might be hyperventilating. A bit.

He knows that he’s more than a little hard, more than a little naked, and more than a little shocked, but when Stiles asks him it, asks him it again, his mind just sorta goes blank, like it can’t handle the (really pretty simple) question and taps out. Stiles asks for third time and he must really need answer if the way he clutches his arm is anything to go by, so he just stares, nods dumbly.

“Are you sure?” Stiles presses, voice serious though his arousal is thick in the air. “We’re not forcing you or anything, Jackson. Seriously, I don’t want you to flip out.”

Don’t want him to—He’s already flipping out, you ass! And, why is Jackson always, always out of the loop? He rakes his fingers—dressed in gloves that make him feel elegant and, hell, angelic—through his hair, trying to get the edge off of his anxiety. “It’s just weird, you know?” he offers to Stiles’ insistent brown eyes.

Lydia rises from where she retreated a little ways off just as Stiles shoots him a sympathetic half-smile. Jackson misses that last bit, though, because his eyes are glued to the thin, white collar she holds with a delicately curled finger. His mouth goes slack when she—it—draws closer.

“It’s not like anything will change between us,” Stiles insists, rubbing his arm in a comfortingly. “You don’t even have to wear it all the time! It’s just, you know, a symbol, I guess. That you’re . . .” He glances at Lydia for input.

“That you’re ours.”

“That we care.”

When Jackson just stares, Lydia tilts her head, all those gorgeous curls and moist lips. Her arms wrap easily around Stiles’ chest, making the other teen twitch slightly at the breasts pressing against him before easing into the embrace. “I didn’t think it would scare you—”

“I’m not fucking scared,” Jackson bites though he can’t turn his eyes away from it. “I just—” He just shouldn’t want it as badly as he does.

Lydia places a hand on his treasure trail, so, so close to the red cock in white lace. Her eyes bore into his and Jackson, with a bit of shame, knows that she knows as she draws back with a gentle smile. “Kiss him,” she barks, moving back to lean against her desk, arms crossing.

Stiles frowns. “But, he—”

“Just come here,” Jackson hisses impatiently, pushing himself to his elbows. His heart pounds in his chest and if they don’t get started now, he could very well bolt. “I need you to kiss me. Now.” Please.

There’s a tense moment, a fluttering breath and a quick glance in Lydia’s direction, then Stiles moves to straddle Jackson, his hands, lips, scorching Jackson’s chest, face. The kiss starts easy before intensifying into smacking lips and moans and tongues and wrapping legs and trailing nails and nipping teeth and the bed dipping by his head and pretty manicured nails scratching his scalp.

Lydia gently nudges Stiles away to claim Jackson’s mouth with her sweet tongue, her thumb pulling down his bottom lip.

“Such a good pet,” she whispers between his lips; “Uh, yeah,” Stiles agrees against his neck.

The wolf yips at the words, preens with a stretch and an arch, and it’s not until he meets the shock and lust in two pairs of brown eyes that Jackson realizes that he’s actually done all that. Humiliation builds in him in a dark flush, but the fierce kisses he receives—to his mouth, his throat—stop it from cresting. In fact, Jackson’s the happiest he’s been in, well, a while.

He wants this. He needs this.

So when Lydia offers the collar again, he sits up, gives a slight nod. He holds his head proudly as Stiles’ arms wrap around him, as Lydia fits the strip of leather around his neck and fixes the clasp. It doesn’t fit too snugly, but doesn’t shift too much either. It’s enough to remind him that it’s there, that he’s—he’s owned, that he belongs somewhere.

Jackson touches it, amazed, with his fingertips; two mouths fight for his.


He’s never really given the whole thing any serious thought. He knew that Lydia liked to call him, “Pet,” liked to scratch behind his ears and give him commands, but he didn’t realize that it meant anything. He definitely didn’t realize just how attached he—the wolf, not him—had become to the idea. To the point where if he was around Lydia and she didn’t pat his head or direct him to do something, he got anxious.

The collar comes as a . . . relief of sorts.

So when she starts issuing commands from her place, her throne, sitting against the headboard, Jackson dives to obey. “Kiss,” she says, and Jackson claims Stiles’ swollen lips mid-ramble; “Lick,” she says, and Jackson laps all of the salt from Stiles’ skin. Letting go of control, of usual expectations, of—of everything is just so liberating, Jackson’s close to coming without really being touched, his cock hard beside Stiles’.

Stiles pants beneath him, pupils blown, face wrecked. Lydia only giggles above them both, pretty nails catching on her brown nipples.

“Good boy, Jackson,” she mewls. “Isn’t he a good boy, Stiles?”

Jackson can’t restrain the expectant whimper, the wolf desperate to know if he is making Stiles proud as well.

Fingers tangle into his hair. “Heh, yeah. Yeah, he’s, uh, a good, little, wolfy angel.” Jackson beams unabashedly and Stiles snorts, covers his face with his hands. “Oh god, this is—I didn’t believe it when you told me he could get like this.”

Lydia rolls her eyes, reaching for Jackson’s face, and he sighs at being so close to her. “Look at me.” And, Jackson does, takes in the curve of her eyelashes, the arch of her nose, and wants, wants, wants to give her what she wants, wants her. He willingly follows when she leads him to settle in her lap, he breasts against his chest and his cock against her stomach. It takes everything he has not to rock his hips when she murmurs about the feel of the lace, sheer, on her.

There’s a sharp flare of arousal behind him. He hears Stiles shift, feels warmth as he shifts closer.

“Jackson,” she says, “Jackson, can you tell me something?”

A bit lip and a frantic nod. “Anything.” The word is hesitant, rough, like he’s forgotten how speaking—not yips or yowls or whines, but actual words—works.

Running a pink tongue over her lips, Lydia asks, “Do you like being mine?”


“Do you like being Stiles’, too?”


“Hm. What do you like about being ours?”

This proves difficult to answer to the point where Jackson can only stare into those eyes and worry at his lip. He thinks of an answer, he honestly does, but he’s too caught up in the images of touches and kisses and moans. Lydia frowns and her disappointment forces Jackson to lower his eyes, head.

“The sex,” he answers honestly, though he knows it’s not the whole truth.

Stiles laughs over his spine, fingers tickling up his sides. His erection slides up his back. “Same here, man.”

Lydia’s frown turns into a full-blown scowl for a moment, before flipping into a tight smile. “Why am I not surprised,” she drawls, focused firmly on Jackson’s downturned eyes. Only after Stiles’ hands flutter down his sides to settle on the garterbelt, making Jackson growl in his throat, does her gaze shift. “Do you want Stiles to fuck you, Jackson?”

Twin moans; definite yeses.

An annoyed huff coupled with a dismissive wave. “Well, go on, then. Do it.”

Stiles moves away instantly, but when Jackson instinctively moves with him, Lydia pulls him back, keeps him in her lap, puts her lips on his. He parts his lips and she devours him greedily, curling her tongue and nipping his lip and chuckling at his filthy whine of need. He should be ashamed by how pliant he becomes when she asserts control over him, how he readily rolls over and shows his tender belly, but the reward of her excitement, her beating heart, the sweet smell of slick between her legs, chases the petty fears away.

He purrs when he realizes he wants to taste her, to eat her, to fuck her with his tongue and get fucked in return, until the bed dips again, a chest lines against his back, and that second pair of hands moves back onto him. Those hands snap at his stockings playfully and the wolf inside stamps impatiently.

He’s losing it, control sliding through his fingers like water.

“Up, up,” Stiles declares cheerfully, his smile all over Jackson’s neck when he complies, now on hands and knees over Lydia. “Let’s get to the good part, yeah? I’m not really into all this foreplay stuff. No offense!” he offers hastily when he gets a not-too-nice kick from Lydia.

But, then, Jackson—the wolf—really wails, a sound that fills up the air, makes it heavy. “Come on,” he grinds through gritted teeth, rutting against air, “Just—Just do it, Stilinski. I—I—fuck! I need—” Warm hands cup his face and he closes his eyes into another helpless whine, earning two frantic heartbeats.

A hiss. “Stiles! Stiles, he’s—”

“Whoa.” A shuddered sigh. “Okay. Okay, I’ll just—”

There’s the click of a cap, the wheeze of a bottle; a manicured finger pulls the lacy white panties out of the way and another hand with bitten nails spreads a cheek. Then, there’s a cold trickle, sliding down his crack, over his sac, and Jackson just sort of . . . unfurls, relaxes into the arms that wrap around him.

Jackson,” two voices breathe.


“Have you ever thought about it?”

Jackson, fourteen and three years bitter, tears his eyes from the starry sky to his best friend beside him. “Thought about what?”

Danny gives a one-armed shrug, the crackling fire casting sharp shadows on his face. “I dunno.”

A snort. “What? Something else you’d like to come out about?” He snickers when Danny elbows him, but answers it with a punch to the shoulder to have the last word.

“Don’t be a dick.”

“Course not. You’d like that too mu—ow!”

Jackson feels himself blush at his yelp, rubbing where Danny pinched him, which hurt, really hurt. He—He might have deserved that. He might not show it, but he knows he deserved it. The silence that follows stings—a bit. Only a bit.


Danny doesn’t answer; he just turns in his sleeping bag, his back to Jackson.

“Danny, hey—”

“Fuck off.”

Jackson winces, shrinks into himself.

“Look, that was stupid. I’m—I’m, you know—” The words drift into the air, into nothing. This is it, he thinks. He’s finally pissed Danny off enough, has finally made Danny realize that Jackson isn’t worth his time.

But, then, Danny is turning back to him, his lips thin.

“It’s okay.”

Jackson releases the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He nods numbly.

“What did you want to talk about?” he asks, eager to change the subject.

Danny shrugs again and, just like that, they’ve returned to square one. “Love,” he says finally.

Snapping his head towards his friend, Jackson gapes. Could this—

Danny rolls his eyes, laughs. “I’m not in love with you, you ass. Calm down. I was just—” He sighs, shrugs for a third time. “Never mind. It’s stupid.”

“No.” Normally, Jackson would be aching to drop a loaded question like that. In fact, he really wants to, but, masochist that he is, his mouth keeps going. “No, it’s—You can tell me.” He tries not to cringe under Danny’s scrutinizing stare.

Then, Danny smiles. “I guess I’ve been wondering what it’s like to be in love. What it feels like.”

Now, Jackson smiles. “Another crush?”

“How did you know?”

A snort. “You’re way too easy to figure out.”

There’s a pause, then, “So, what do you think?”

And, Jackson—Jackson honestly has no idea. He shifts to stare back up at the sky, chewing at his lips until he tastes blood.

It’s not until about three years later that Jackson finds out that love is the smooth taste of Lydia on his tongue and Stilinski’s fingers doing fine things to his ass. He doesn’t think his younger self would ever understand it.


Stiles starts gentle and thorough as always, easing one finger in and out, then spreading with two, and then, twisting with three. When he adds the fourth and final finger, the slow rhythm falters into something vicious and sharp. Then, they’re removed in favor of a plastic-y, blunt press. Jackson moans, arches, twitches, into the touch, moans inside of Lydia who sighs in turn, her hands pulling him closer.

A hand moving to Jackson’s hip, Stiles exhales loudly, but doesn’t move further.

Lydia gives a pleasured hum. “What are you waiting for?”

“Nothing,” he says, his voice unusually husky, rough. He slides the head of his cock up and down his cleft. “I just—I’m just admiring the view, I guess,” he finishes with a chuckle.

Jackson pulls away with a soft squelch, face wet against Lydia’s navel. “Don’t get sentimental on me, Stilinski. Just fuck me.” Lydia’s hand pushes him back to the gentle dusting of red between her legs, but not before he catches the look she shoots at Stiles. He can’t see Stiles’ face, but when he’s shoved down into the bed, his erection between his stomach and the sheets, Jackson figures he caught her glare, too.

Stiles plants his knees on either side of Jackson’s hips and positions himself. “Your wish is my command, angel,” he murmurs under Jackson’s moans, pushing past the tight ring of muscle with ease.

It’s not until Stiles is in him all the way to the hilt that he smells it again. Derek. Not as close as before, but definitely not too far off. Instead of the terror he expects, his heart pounds in anticipation, at the risk of it all, and that only adds to the pleasure thrumming inside of him. He eagerly rocks back into the other boy’s slow, preliminary thrusts and grinds his cock into the bed like a whore with every thrust forward.

Because if Derek’s out there watching, he’s going to give him one hell of a show.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” Lydia gasps, her hand between her legs, fingers stroking around her clit with sure, calculated movements. Jackson leans forward, noses at her hand, and whines until Stiles reaches out and scratches behind his ear. When he leans, yowls, into the touch, anxious laughter bubbles up from Stiles.

“Tell me about it. I’ve never seen him like this; I never thought I’d see him like this. Like, ever.”

“Neither have I. It’s—” Her thumb gives her clit a slight press; she gasps and her hips jerk. “Well, I like it. A lot.”

Stiles grunts, shifts to all fours so he can drive into Jackson in earnest. “Me, too.”

Above him, Jackson can hear them exchange a slow, deep kiss Stiles moans into that raises more questions. Like how long this, the two of them, has been going on. But, then Stiles is so, so deep in him, deep enough that Jackson can swear he could feel him in his throat, and all that seems to matter in the world is the smell of arousal and Derek in his nose and how close he is to coming.

Stiles drops down to his forearms and dives to work on a hickey right below the white collar. His thrusts turn savage, the smack of skin on skin loud in the air, joined by Jackson’s whines and Stiles’ groans and Lydia’s breathy encouragements. It isn’t long before Jackson is grinding back with as much fervor as Stiles thrusts forward. The tremors start in his legs, his stomach, and he’s ready to just let the mounting wave overcome him, to let go—


Stiles and Jackson freeze at the same time, bark “Huh?” in the same breath.

Lydia only smirks at their distress, plucks a finger in her mouth and sucks it clean. “Jackson is not allowed to come yet,” she declares simply, word law. Jackson very nearly sobs when Stiles pulls out, leaves him empty.

Stiles looks equally distressed. “B-But, um, you know, I can come, right? Like right now, because I kinda—” He casts a sheepish glance on his erection that’s trailing strings of precome over those lacy white panties.

“Of course you can.” Lydia ignores Stiles punching the air in victory. “In fact, I want you to come on his face.”


“Bullshit,” Jackson mutters sullenly.

Still, Jackson lets himself be pushed onto his back, lets Stiles straddle his chest, lets his cock, rosy at the head, rest on his lips. He gladly opens his mouth for him, his tongue flicking out to the hot, velvety skin, earning him an appreciative, strangled noise, but it doesn’t stay there long, because Stiles has got himself in hand, stroking with sharp twists. Stiles comes quickly, with jutting hips and a gasp—“Oh my fucking—yeah.”—white spurting across Jackson’s cheek, his swollen lips, his tongue.

“Fuck, that was—You’re so fucking gorgeous like this,” Stiles sighs in his relief, but Lydia doesn’t give him the chance to bask in his orgasm, elegantly shoving him off and climbing over Jackson’s face to take his place. He collapses easily and curls on his side around Jackson, his pants harsh in Jackson’s ears. In a breath, Lydia tears open a packet and slides a condom over Jackson; he whimpers when her hand smooths lube down his restless length.

“Lydia,” he mewls feebly to her back, ginger hair cascading down the speckling of honey freckles on her shoulders. Stiles soothes him, swipes his fingers over the streaks of come still on his cheek, presses it to Jackson’s mouth until those lips accept him, that mouth sucks him clean, swallows greedily.

Never one to be ignored, Lydia makes quick work of sinking down on him, taking him inside of her. He’s swallowed by her heat, her wetness, and Jackson throws his head back, groans low in his throat.

She laughs to herself, her hands running approvingly over his stockings. “Good?” He can hear the smirk in her breathless voice.

“Hell yes,” Stiles answers muzzily into the white collar when Jackson’s vocal chords fail him. There’s something in the fact that Stiles is touching it, this thing that’s binding him to them and vice versa, that makes Jackson even more breathless. He eventually does manage a warbled, “Oh my god.”

 Lydia laughs again and moves, rolls her hips in slow circles that sends electricity down his cock, makes his body spasm pitifully. Her nails scrape down his calves. “You can’t come,” she hisses over her shoulder.

Jackson doesn’t stop his frustrated growl. “Are you crazy? I can’t just—” There’s a tearing sound, his newly formed claws slicing easily through the lace gloves, the sheets. Fear and anger prickles in the air, Stiles’ fear and—fuck—Derek’s anger, but Lydia doesn’t bat an eyelash.

She just stops, casts a dark, dark look on him and stops, and that’s enough to send the wolf yelping, retreating quickly with its tail between its legs. His claws retract instantly, as well as his wolf fangs, the hair down his face, the piercing blue eyes.

A breath.

“Jackson,” Stiles breathes, voice shaky.

Jackson fixes his eyes onto the ceiling, swallows his shame to mumble, “Sorry.”

He winces when nails dig into him sharply. “You’re buying me new sheets. Understood?”


“I said, is that understood?”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Jackson nods frantically. “I’m sorry. Yes. Yes, I understand.”

Lydia stabs his legs again, but quickly rubs over the crescent-shaped dints in the sheer. “Good,” she says firmly before grinding her hips down.


Derek had told him once, after a very rare satisfactory training session that still ended with Jackson drooling across the floor, that he’d had pretty decent control over his wolf. Far better than Scott did when he was first bitten. Jackson remembers milking the compliment for all it was worth, remembers the wolf being giddy as well and, uh, licking his Alpha’s face in elation. Unsurprisingly, Derek took back the compliment, but he had still said it. Once.

He supposes that’s really his only claim to fame as a werewolf. He isn’t the strongest or the smartest or anywhere close to being Derek’s second-in-command—all realizations that still hurt him—but, he’s got control, which, really, is the most important thing, right? Somehow, everything about being a werewolf, about the wolf that claws at the back of his mind, came so naturally to him.

So losing control now, like this, it . . . it just . . .  


The fear, the humiliation, and the gentle, reassuring brush of Stiles’ lips on his neck, the collar, grants Jackson a better grip on his self-control. When she works her body over him now, he doesn’t feel like he could break at any moment. However, the fear and humiliation are also what keeps Jackson scratching lines over his stomach instead of the sheets or, worse, Lydia herself. Thankfully, Stiles solves that, too, curling his hand around both of Jackson’s.

“You’re okay, Jacks,” he whispers into his ear, warm and tired. “We know you won’t hurt us.” His heartbeat skips—a lie—but, Jackson is just thankful for the sentiment. He turns his head and Stiles takes the hint to kiss him.

Lydia takes that moment to clench around him; Jackson moans into the kiss.

“I’m close,” she huffs, her fingertips stroking at the hood of her clit. Those seem to be the magic words, because Stiles pulls away and moves towards her. They’re so far away from him now,  their lips on each other and Stiles’ hands on her breasts, that Jackson instinctively sits up to join them, his arms wrapping around her waist.

She thrives in this, sandwiched between the two of them, Stiles dropping to suck a nipple while gently pinching at the other one and Jackson clutching her tightly and lapping at her back. It’s when he drifts a hand down to join hers a little clumsily, getting the fingers of his gloves damp, that she comes with a groan, her body pulling taut and her twat contracting around him for a moment as she rides through her orgasm.

Even as she lowers from it, her body relaxing into their touch, Jackson continues to rut, aching to reach the finish line, his cock so fucking hard it hurts. He pants, open-mouthed, against her spine.

“Lydia,” he moans pathetically. “Lydia . . .”

The woman in question gives a leisurely arch, her hands drawing slick up her stomach. “Mm, yes?” she answers slowly as she leans into Stiles’ kisses.

Jackson thrusts a little harder, his feet digging into the mattress; she gasps in return. “Come on.”

“Come on what?”

Stiles stretches his arms around the both of them, his hands just reaching Jackson’s back. “I think he wants to, you know, come.”

Jackson whines, but Lydia sighs, shakes her head.

“I think I got that, Stiles. But I don’t think he’s asking correctly.” She pulls off him, out of Stiles’ embrace, and Jackson’s prick slaps his stomach hard. It takes everything he has not to let the wolf grab for her or really howl in distress. It settles for falling back onto the bed and crying with real tears, though, which might be just as bad. Lydia collapses besides him; Stiles hesitates, but eventually takes the other side.

He doesn’t want to beg. He really doesn’t want to beg. Especially not when Derek’s scent is still thick in his nose.

Stiles licks his lips, his arm draping over Jackson’s chest for lack of anywhere else to put it. “Don’t you think this—”

Running over the contracting muscles of his abdominals, Lydia sniffs. “He knows what to do; he’s just being stubborn. You want to spoil him,” she adds teasingly.

“Lydia . . .”

“Please,” Jackson hears himself beg—dammit—voice rougher than he expected.  He turns his head to Lydia who grins wickedly at his jerking hips. “Please.”

“Please what, pet?” she murmurs, tossing a smug look in Stiles’ direction. “What do you want?”

Jackson sobs with no restraint, “I want to come. Please let me come.”


“Hm. I don’t think that was—”

“Of course,” Stiles butts, ignoring the pout sent his way as he reaches down for Jackson’s cock, tugging the condom off and stroking his palm through the fluid trail of precome oozing from the slit. “C’mere, let me . . .”

Jackson impatiently shuffles closer into Stiles’ space and though his hand isn’t close to being slick enough, he’s too far gone to notice once it begins to pump. With shaky whimpers, he thrusts into that circle of fingers once, twice, then comes on the third, a wail tearing from his throat when the hungry knot in him finally snaps. He arches into a fierce bend at the force of it, sticky sperm streaking across his stomach, two voices whispering sweet encouragements in his ears.

“Fuck!” Jackson babbles. His hands run down his body of their own accord, needing to touch; his leg spasms, his toes curl, as he rides out his orgasm. “Oh fuck—oh please—oh fuck—fuck!”

Lydia stifles her giggles with kisses along his jawline. Stiles chuckles himself, pats Jackson’s arm with a soiled hand.

“There you go, angel.”


Somehow, in this mess of red hair and slack lips and panties, they just sort of fit together.

Stiles is a welcome weight behind him, arm warm where it curls tightly around his waist, his snores faint and comforting; Lydia is a welcome weight in front of him, her skin warm where their fingers lace, her eyelashes dark and delicate resting on her cheeks; and Jackson’s content to lie there—Stiles’ breath on his neck, Lydia’s hair tickling his nose—and take anything they give.

He thrives on being the center of attention, especially when it’s theirs. He figures that he’s been theirs for a while now. He just never realized until the—the collar.

Derek’s still out there somewhere, restless and angry and lethal just outside that window. Jackson wonders what Derek will do when he sees it, the thin white collar with the gold ring perfect for attaching a leash. Sure Stiles told him he could take it off whenever he pleased, but the idea of having this, having something to shove in his face. Plus, there’s that whole, “Don’t touch Stiles,” shit that Derek left him with. He supposes this is a pretty big breach of that.

As if reading his thoughts, Derek’s anger seems to flair into full-out rage and, fuck, he’s going to have to go out there at some point, isn’t he? Before the guy totally flips his shit and dives through the window in some sort of frenzy or something.


His heart hammers in his chest as he moves to face his inevitable ass kicking, but when he makes to worm his way out from between him, a hand catches him on the arm. Lydia.

“What are you doing?” she mumbles over Stilinski’s snores. Mm, this is when he likes her best, her eyes hazy and unfocused, her voice soft, thick with sleep. Jackson smiles slightly, combs his fingers through her hair; she scowls with all the ferocity of a kitten. “You’re not leaving,” she says shortly.

Jackson swallows thickly. “I’ve got things.”

“ . . . Things.”

“Yeah, just—things.” He gestures ambiguously, then shrugs. “Werewolf things.”

She shuts down at that, always does at the ‘W’ word, and she lets go. But, when he tries to move, Stilinski’s arm remains steadfast around him.


Jackson frowns. “I can’t.” He’s right the fuck outside, he wants to say.

“He’ll get over it. Seriously. Just . . .” Stiles tugs at his waist, presses kisses to the collar, and Jackson relaxes into the touch. “Stay? With us?” Lydia wordlessly takes his hand as well, kisses his fingertips, asks the same question.


He wants to, he really does, but he shouldn’t. He can’t

Stiles licks his lips. “I just—I’d like to wake up with you next to me for once. Both of you.”

Jackson flinches. Sure, Stiles has always been this sort of sentimental sap that’s stared doe-eyed at Lydia for as long as he’s known him. And, of course, he hasn’t been quiet about how attractive he finds Jackson, or how he likes to be around him. This, though, is different. Bigger. This is so dangerously close to that word that lost meaning to Jackson the day he’d turned eleven and his ‘parents’ had told him the truth.

He—He doesn’t know what to do. So, he remains silent, eyes trained on Lydia’s hair.

Lydia’s tightens her grip on his hand, gives him a reassuring squeeze. Stiles exhales deeply against his back.

“Look, Jackson, we—”

“I’ll stay,” Jackson suddenly bursts, blood rushing in his ears, because it was hard enough to take from Lydia once let alone Stiles. “I’ll stay, okay?”

After a moment, Stiles nods. “Okay.”

“Thank you,” Lydia murmurs.


The morning after is not as awkward as Jackson expected it to be. It’s full of gentle touches and glances and murmurs and tender goodbye kisses on Lydia’s porch. It’s . . . Well, it’s nice. Especially when coupled with Derek’s scent, stale on the steps.

He’s not surprised when his scent spikes the second he gets on the road. He’s also not surprised when he’s slammed into the driver’s side door, face against the metal and—fuck—please say that isn’t a dent.

“Derek,” he wheezes against the pressure crushing his lungs, the creaking of his ribs. “What—”

“You let them collar you.” Derek’s rumble is hoarse, thick with disbelief and—and something else.

Jackson only swallows. Derek’s words are not a questions, so he doesn’t answer.

“Like some pet.”

“I’m no one’s pet,” Jackson snarls. Despite his ferocity, there’s still that skipped heartbeat, that strain in his voice that makes Derek bristle behind him and dig real claws into his arms. Lie. “I—All right. But, it’s a good thing, right?” he amends a little sullenly. “You’d said my wolf was submissive.”

Derek swallows, the sound loud to another werewolf. “It is,” he agrees. “But, that’s fucking pathetic,” he growls against his neck.

That stings. Jackson scowls into his car’s paintjob and huffs a sharp breath through his nostrils. “Why—Why do you care? This has nothing to do with you!”

“This has everything to do with me, Jackson.”

With a sudden burst of energy, Jackson slams back against the Alpha who staggers backward more in shock than anything else. “Why, Derek? Because of Stiles?”

There’s no answer, but Derek, for his part, suddenly looks tired, exhausted, and the wolf in Jackson wants nothing more than to back down and offer its comfort. Jackson, though, is not the wolf.

“Is that what this is all about? You’re jealous?”

“No—” Derek grits.

“Are you fucking kidding me? And, you call me pathetic—”

A roar tears from Derek’s throat and Jackson instinctively launches back to his car. His eyes flash red, but in another breath they’re back to normal. Derek scratches a hand through his hair. “Get in the car, Jackson,” he orders in a controlled voice.

Jackson swallows. “No. Fuck no, you tell me right—” The hand around his throat silences him.

“The car. Now.”

There’s a pause, then Jackson stuffs his hand into his pocket and unlocks the Porsche.

They drive to—to somewhere for ten minutes without talking, Derek at the wheel and Jackson too irritated to really argue that. They catch each other’s eyes in the rearview just one too many times for Jackson’s patience and he slams his fists onto the dashboard just to take the edge off. But, he doesn’t actually say anything; because, he doesn’t know what to say.

Derek barely spares the outburst a glance. He licks his lips. “Look. I didn’t come here to argue.”

“No, of course not,” Jackson scoffs. “You were too busy spying on a bunch of teenagers through a window which, by the way, I could get you arrested for. Maybe sued?” He clucks his tongue and offers a side-glance. “Father’s a lawyer, remember?”

He catches Derek’s grimace and laughs.

“I just want to . . . talk,” Derek insists.

“And, we’ve been doing a lot of that since we got in the car, right?”

“You know, right now is a pretty good time to let that submissive instinct kick in, Jackson.”

“Or, what? You’ll kill me? Bullshit.”

“Try me.” Derek’s voice carries a dangerous lilt, but they both know it’s an empty threat.

Silence falls over them again until Jackson clears his throat, his eyes on the stretch of trees flying by. “Well?”

Derek’s eyes don’t stray from the road; he gives an explosive sigh. His jaw tightens and he practically grits, his voice low, “I was—I am—I—” Jackson ignores the glare burning through him, opting to continue feigning disinterest. “I’m worried.”

Jackson can’t ignore that. “Huh?” he sputters eloquently.

A shrug.

“You mean you’re worried about the Alpha pack, right? Because I think I’m doing pretty well at this whole werewolf thing.”

They drive off the road at some point and they move a little ways off from the decrepit Hale house. The question hangs until Derek puts the Porsche in park, slumps back in his seat.

Then, he turns to Jackson, swallows thickly. “I’m worried about you.”

Jackson stares. “Why?”

“We’re pack, Jackson.”


Derek carts both hands through his hair. “Because, you’re unstable! Ever since this . . . this thing you’ve been doing, you’re control has gone to shit. You—” He turns to level a firm stare. He doesn’t look angry, not his usual grumpy self, and that may be why Jackson can’t meet his eyes. “You lost control back there, Jackson, I know you did. You could have hurt that girlfriend of yours. Or—Or—” Or Stiles.

“But, I didn’t, Derek. I stopped myself. They stopped me.” Jackson wipes his hands on his thighs, wipes away cold sweat. “I have two anchors now, I guess.”

“And look what good that’s gotten you.”

There’s so much of that unnamable something in that one sentence that Jackson can’t bring himself to be angry. Ever since he’d shifted from the kanima to the wolf, this sort of connection formed between himself and his Alpha. Something that Derek seems to know all about, but doesn’t seem keen on divulging to anyone, though Scott had mentioned something about eye colors. He doesn’t understand it; he’s caught on early, though, that things are better if he just rolls with them.

Jackson stares out into the trees. “Look, things were, I dunno, up in the air before. They’re only just starting to make sense to us.” He reaches to touch his collar and knows that Derek doesn’t miss the gesture. “Things are going right finally; we just needed to figure things out.”

There’s this moment where Derek scrutinizes him, eyes narrowed as he searches for hint of a lie and narrowing further when he can’t find any. Eventually, the wrinkle between his brows smooth and he nods. “Okay.”

When they kiss, there’s something terribly familial about it, even as it deepens with slow strokes of tongues and swallowed moans. Derek’s hand is firm on the back of his head, but it’s not controlling; it’s merely directing, which both Jackson and the wolf can get behind. His other hand creeps down his back and dips below the waistband of his jeans.

Jackson pulls away; Derek’s slight laugh ghosts over his lips.

“You still wearing these?”

“They are mine, you know.”

Derek smirks slightly. “Am I ever going to see you in them? Everyone else has, right?”

“Not today.” Jackson rolls his eyes at Derek’s disgruntled grumble. “Now get me home; I’m tired.”

Derek frowns, but moves to start up the car.


Jackson doesn’t know how things ended up like this, but Jackson doesn’t—he doesn’t dislike it. He doesn’t hate it like he knows he would have only months ago. Somewhere along the way, the way Lydia looks when she slides her hands over the frilly pink panties, the way Stiles looks when he pulls up his stockings, the way Derek looks at him when he spots the collar still around his neck—they all became something everyday for him, something normal.

It’s not to say that Lydia’s really adjusted to this werewolf thing or that Stiles doesn’t piss him the hell off or that Derek’s frequent, furious, jealous glares don’t make him want to curl into himself. He’s just—he’s okay with all of that now. It just adds another layer of this weird thing that connects the four of them—yes, Derek counts in this—together. Despite everything that’s wrong with it, the wolf—his wolf—is content, and Jackson figures he should be content as well.

As long as Lydia still holds his hand and Stiles still gives him that doofy smile and Derek still rubs his shoulder after training, Jackson figures that all’s well in his world. He has somewhere he belongs.