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Jackson wakes to blunt, human teeth digging into the back of his neck, and Derek’s weight settling over him. He goes instinctively limp, mouth pressed, open, to the pillowcase. Derek’s hand pushes underneath his body and up the front of the t-shirt Jackson wore to bed last night, fingernails scratching over his chest and stomach. No hint of claw, but the threat is always there. Jackson wants to tremble, he wants to ask for something, anything, but he won’t. Derek will tell him what he wants.

Derek’s mouth moves from the back of his neck, leaving behind dull pain, and then he’s breathing against the shell of Jackson’s ear.

“Jackson,” he says, low, his lips brushing Jackson’s ear. He pushes his hips against Jackson’s ass, a slow roll, and Jackson’s hands fist in the sheets, but he doesn’t move. He can feel the warmth of Derek’s body through the sheets and the fabric of his boxers. It’s spring, and too hot, so he’d left the window open, his comforter on the floor, and that must’ve been like an invitation.

Derek rolls his hips again, and Jackson’s breath stutters in his chest. He thinks about the last time Derek fucked him, three days ago in the bombed out loft apartment where Derek’s been squatting. Derek had bit his lip until it bled and then made Jackson ride him, Jackson’s hands tied together behind his back with Derek’s belt. The cut had mostly healed by the time Derek came, but Jackson’s mouth had still tasted like salt and copper. And he’d liked it. The problem with everything Derek has done to Jackson is that he’s liked all of it.

“Wh-what,” he starts, maybe to say what do you want? or what should I do?, but Derek cuts him off with a hard hand gripping his chin, holding him still. Jackson swallows, and tries not to push his hips into the mattress like he wants to.

“Quiet,” Derek says, and then rolls off, easily finding his feet. Jackson stays face down on the bed, hands fisted in the sheets, but he turns his head enough to watch Derek walks over to his dresser and start to open drawers. He wants to ask, but Derek told him to be quiet and – Jackson won’t take shit from most people, because he’s better than most of them, but Derek’s the alpha, and Jackson’s learned the hard way to listen to him. It’s better for both of them this way.

Derek pulls out a pair of black boxer-briefs, one of Jackson’s pairs of jeans. He pulls out a pale grey henley, which Jackson has never worn, because it’s Derek’s. Jackson stole it the first time he stayed the night at Derek’s place. Just picked it up off of the floor and stuffed it in his backpack. He liked that it smelled like Derek. He hasn’t even washed it. He just folded it up when he got home and stuck it in with his shirts. Derek doesn’t come to his place very often. Jackson hadn’t thought to hide it.

Derek snorts, looks over his shoulder at Jackson, and puts it on the pile with the jeans and the boxer-briefs. He’s got that crooked, menacing smirk on. Jackson feels his face burn.

“Well, well,” Derek says. “I was wondering where that had gone. It’ll serve nicely.”

Derek’s told him to be quiet, but Jackson can’t help asking, “What will?”

“Put these on,” Derek says, instead of answering. “I can wait while you shower.”

Both are orders, so Jackson sets his jaw and scrambles up, heading for the bathroom.

 

Derek’s still in his room when he gets out of the shower. He’s sitting in Jackson’s desk chair, flipping through one of Jackson’s chemistry texts. Jackson’s pretty sure he’s not actually reading it.

He spins the chair to face Jackson. “Well?”

Jackson looks at the clothes now piled on his bed. There’s a belt there, too. He drops his towel onto the floor, and picks up the boxer-briefs. He looks over at Derek, who nods, eyebrows raised, expression amused. He tugs them on.

Derek watches while he gets dressed. When Jackson pulls the shirt over his head, he can still smell Derek in the fabric, and it makes him a little dizzy. The shirt fits decently, but it’s a big in the shoulders where Derek is broader than he is.

Derek picked out his clothes for him. Derek is making him wear Derek’s own shirt to school. Jackson dresses himself precisely every morning, to perfect effect, and Jackson wants to be indignant about what this will look like, what the people at school will think when they see him, but he mostly wants to swallow his own tongue. He can feel the curl of arousal through him, like a smoldering ember, at the idea that Derek can dictate this much of his life. That if Derek tells him to do it, Jackson will.

And Jackson will.

“No hair gel,” Derek says, “and no cologne.” He stands, and Jackson stays motionless in the middle of the room while Derek approaches. Derek pushes a hand into his hair, gripping it in his fingers, and pulls Jackson’s head back. Jackson whines, can’t help it, and he can feel Derek’s smile against his jaw, the barest hint of sharp teeth. “Mmm, good. You’re going to smell like me all day.”

Jackson shudders, has to work to keep his knees from buckling, and then Derek’s teeth are sinking into the column of his neck, and his eyes are sliding closed. And then Derek is gone.

 

Jackson sits on the edge of his bed for half an hour, convincing himself not to jerk off before he gets to school. He’s almost late for first period. He pulls into the parking lot just before the bell, and looks at himself in the rearview mirror. His hair is soft without gel, and the shirt looks good, but not like something he’d wear. He smells like Derek. McCall is going to know the moment he gets to Chemistry class. Jackson feels the heat of the blush that spreads through his face, watches it bloom across his cheeks, but he doesn’t rush, doesn’t run. He walks into school the same way he always does, with purpose. He’s the best. He’s not ashamed of anything.

World History and English are both okay, because no one else in the pack is in his section, but Danny gives him a look of calculated skepticism. Danny knows about the werewolves, even if he doesn’t run with them, and he knows that Derek’s fucking Jackson. He raises one eyebrow, and Jackson shrugs a shoulder.

“Something you wanted to ask?” he says, low, while Mr. Fletcher has his back turned.

“No,” Danny says. “I don’t think I have to.”

Jackson swallows the retort he wants to make, and thinks about Derek’s hand in his hair less than an hour earlier, how Derek is all he can smell when he breathes in. He grips the edge of his desk with both hands, fingers digging into the wood hard enough to make it creak. Danny doesn’t say anything else, but he’s right. He doesn’t have to.

 

Jackson gets looks in the halls, not just from the other guys on the lacrosse team, but from the band nerds, and the potheads, and the debate team. He feels like there’s a sign painted on him that says property of Derek Hale, though none of these gawkers know that. They only know he looks different than normal, but they don’t matter. He keeps his expression cold, haughty, and they look away.

He does see Erica, though, watches her inhale, watches the grin spread slow across her face. She waggles her eyebrows at him, and he balls his hands into fists, slams his locker closed.

 

In Chemistry he sits at the back with Danny the way he always does, but he keeps an eye out for McCall. He wonders if McCall will be able to smell the arousal on him as well as Derek. He’s been half-hard all day. He’s not sure which he’d rather.

McCall walks in with Stilinski and Allison, and it takes less than thirty seconds for him to turn his head and look at Jackson. Jackson stares back, keeps his eyes even, because McCall may be stronger than him by virtue of practice and time, but Jackson is just as stubborn. McCall’s jaw goes firm, and then Jackson can see him force himself to relax. McCall is second in command, it’s just how the pack works, but Jackson doesn’t listen to him unless he absolutely has to.

Stilinski puts a hand on McCall’s arm. “Scott?”

“Nothing,” McCall says, terse. He glances at Stilinski and wilts a little. “I’ll tell you later.”

Allison pulls him over to their desks, and Jackson lets himself feel a little trill of triumph. He brings the sleeve of Derek’s shirt to his nose, breathes in. He spends the rest of class smiling.

 

Lydia slides in next to him at lunch, takes one look at him, and says, “Wow, you really would do anything he’d ask, wouldn’t you?”

Jackson feels the curl of it in his stomach, that feeling of being useful, owned. Needed.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says.

Lydia snorts. “Mmhm. You’re wearing his clothes, Jackson. At school. Bet that caused a scene with your little pack.”

“They’ll have to take it up with Derek,” Jackson says. “I don’t give a shit.”

“Sure you do,” Lydia says, and takes a bite of her apple, pauses to chew. “You like that it pisses them off. It means Derek might even like you more than them. Scott’s his second in command, but he’s still fucking you, right?”

Jackson hates how well Lydia knows him, the deadly accuracy with which she can predict his thoughts and motivations. She understands him too well. At least he never has to explain himself to her.

 

Jackson gets the text in Calculus. He goes into the bathroom to check, and it’s from Derek.

skip practice, it says. my apartment, 3:30. don’t be late.

Jackson wonders what Derek will do to him if he’s late.

He cups his dick through his jeans, the jeans Derek picked out for him this morning, and has to lean his head back against the tiled wall, close his eyes. He takes a deep breath, lets it out. He splashes water on his face, and heads back to class.

 

Finstock just waves Jackson off when he says he has a doctor’s appointment, because Finstock doesn’t care as long as he’s good, and he shows up to games. It’s not lacrosse season anymore. Nothing matters to Finstock more than lacrosse.

He has to work hard not to speed over to Derek’s, but he manages. He climbs the steps at 3:25, lets himself into the apartment with the key Derek gave him. He’s only allowed to use it when Derek has invited him over.

When he gets inside, the toes off his shoes, pulls off his socks. The room is huge and full of afternoon sunlight. There’s very little furniture, just a table and chairs near the kitchen nook, and Derek’s mattress against the far wall. It smells like Derek and dust and the curry left over from whoever stayed here before Derek.

Jackson crosses to the center of the room, and kneels the way Derek showed him to. He settles in to wait.

 

He’s not sure what time it is when he hears the door open and then slam shut. Not more than twenty minutes, probably. He stays still, but he can hear Derek moving around behind him. He can smell Derek, and his sweat from the heat of the day, and the soft undercurrent of soap.

Derek comes to a stop behind him. Jackson’s spine is so straight that it hurts, and he’s still hard.

“Good boy,” Derek says, approval in his voice, and Jackson feels the pleasure swoop through him. He swallows. His heart is beating too fast, has been racing since he heard the door open, and he’s been hard for so long. Derek crosses in front of him, walking a slow circuit, and Jackson keeps his hands fisted on top of his thighs.

“I –” he starts, but doesn’t know how he’s going to finish it, so it’s just as good that Derek cuts him off.

“On your feet,” he says, and Jackson scrambles to obey. He sways a little, standing, and Derek steps close, hands going to Jackson’s belt and undoing it. He pulls it out of the belt loops and throws it aside. It hits the floor with a clatter. Jackson is focusing on breathing when Derek’s fingers undo his jeans, button and then zipper, and push them off of his hips. Derek looks at him, cups a hand around his dick. “You’ve been hard since this morning, I bet. You better not have jerked off, Jackson.”

“I didn’t,” Jackson says, hips pushing into Derek’s hand, and then it’s gone, like it wasn’t even there. Derek’s tugging the boxer-briefs off of his hips, to pool around his ankles with the jeans.

“Step out.” Derek’s voice is firm, and Jackson obeys, stepping out of his jeans and boxer-briefs, until he’s standing naked from the waist down, wearing Derek’s shirt. Derek’s hand presses against his stomach, pushes up underneath, and his teeth dig into Jackson’s lower lip. Jackson can feel the moment the skin splits. He whimpers, and then Derek’s tongue is in his mouth, and they’re kissing. Derek is kissing him, all hard teeth and biting pressure and possessive tongue. Derek’s hand is pressing up, his fingers finding one of Jackson’s nipples and twisting hard. Jackson gasps against Derek’s mouth, pushes into the pain even as he tries to pull away. Derek’s other hand slides around behind, skating over Jackson’s thigh, over his ass, pressing between his cheeks, two fingers rubbing over his hole. Derek swallows Jackson’s moan, licking into Jackson’s mouth, and Jackson wants to rut against Derek until he comes, but he can’t, because Derek hasn’t give him permission.

Derek breaks the kiss, scrapes his teeth over Jackson’s split lip, presses his fingers a little harder against Jackson’s hole. “Going to fuck you while you’re wearing my shirt,” he says. “Then you’ll really smell like me, all over.”

Jackson shudders at Derek’s words, at Derek’s hands all over his body, and whimpers again. “Please,” he says, though he doesn’t know exactly what he’s asking for, except more.

“Shh,” Derek says, pulling away entirely. Jackson has to work not to reach out to him. “Okay. Hands and knees.”

Jackson falls gracelessly, knees hitting the floor with a hard thunk. If he still bruised like a human he’d probably would’ve from the impact. He pushes himself to his hands and knees.

He hears the snap as Derek opens the tube of lube, but still isn’t expecting the first cold finger to push against his hole. It slips inside easily, because they’ve done this enough times, and it isn’t long until Jackson’s pushing back into it, whining for more.

“Needy today,” Derek says, and pushes two fingers into him in one long, slow slide. “Wondered what being hard all day was going to do to you.”

Jackson doesn’t have the coherence for words, right now. He meets every thrust of Derek’s fingers inside him with a shove of his hips. Derek just plays with him for a long time, two fingers crooking up to brush against his prostate over and over, until Jackson’s arms are shaking. Then Derek uses three fingers.

Jackson’s sweating, Derek’s shirt sticking to his back, and he makes a noise every time Derek slides his fingers in. He’s panting with it, heart pounding, and he can hear Derek behind him. His heart rate is a little faster than usual, and he smells like sweat and lube and arousal, but Jackson can’t predict how long Derek’s going to use his fingers for. Long enough to drive Jackson crazy.

Jackson’s nearly sobbing, biting into his already split lip to hold the sounds in, when Derek pulls his fingers out completely. Jackson feels the loss like a piece of glass sliding into his guts. He can hear the jingle of Derek’s belt buckle, the individual teeth of his zipper going down, the rustle of fabric, and then Derek’s pressing in close behind him, spreading the cheeks of his ass and lining up his cock. The fabric of Derek’s jeans rubs against the back of Jackson’s thighs. Jackson can feel the blunt head press against him, the slow push inside his hole, and he lets his head hang between his arms, panting.

They haven’t used condoms in months now – Jackson’s certainly not fucking anyone else, and he’s almost positive Derek isn’t either – but Jackson still isn’t used to heat of it, the slide of skin into his body.

Derek presses in in one long push, his teeth settling into the side of Jackson’s neck, one hand rucking up the shirt Jackson’s still wearing. His claws drag over Jackson’s stomach, just hard enough to leave welts and stinging pain behind, and then he pulls almost all the way out just to slam back in. He sets the pace hard and fast and brutal, the way he likes it, and Jackson rocks forward on his hands and takes it.

Jackson’s breath is heaving in huge gulps, and he’s so hard, has been for so long, he’s not sure how much longer he can stand it.

“Please,” he says again, the word torn out of him, mangled. “Please.

“You want to come, huh,” Derek says. He hooks his chin over Jackson’s shoulder, mouth pressed to Jackson’s ear, still thrusting into Jackson over and over. He fists one hand in the back of Jackson’s shirt, wraps the other, now fully human, around Jackson’s cock. Jackson’s eyes slide closed, and he shudders all over. “You can come whenever you want to,” Derek says, thumb spreading the precome beaded at the head of Jackson’s cock, “just tell me who you belong to, first.”

Jackson gasps as Derek pushes into him and tightens his hand on Jackson’s cock. “Y-you,” he says like it isn’t already obvious to everyone that matters, voice stuttering on it, the force of Derek’s thrusts pushing him forward. “I’m – yours.”

“Good boy,” Derek says, again, for the second time that evening, and Jackson comes just like that, hard enough that his vision whites out around the edges, all over Derek’s hand, and the floor, and the shirt. He clenches around Derek’s cock, and Derek moans, a sound that Jackson relishes more than almost anything else. It means he’s doing a good job.

Jackson sags forward, not entirely able to hold his own weight anymore, and Derek keeps fucking him, just as hard, just as brutal. Each drag of Derek’s cock over his prostate makes him tremble, overstimulated, but he doesn’t mind. He likes being what Derek needs.

“Say it again,” Derek says, an order. His pace is still punishing, and Jackson is having a hard time feeling anything but Derek fucking him. He’s grateful.

“Yours,” he says again, the word ending in a groan. “I’m yours.”

“Mine,” Derek says, savage, and sinks sharp teeth into the joint between Jackson’s neck and shoulder. Jackson’s exhale is more a sob than anything, but he can feel it when Derek starts to come. Derek's fingers are still wrapped in the fabric of his shirt, Derek's other hand pressed flat to his belly, spreading through the come splattered there, and Jackson can feel the pulses as Derek comes. He stays there, still, for a long moment, tongue licking flat over the bite he left in Jackson’s neck. The wood floor is hard underneath Jackson’s body, and Derek is heavy on top of him, but he’s perfect. Content.

Finally Derek rolls off, and Jackson can feel Derek’s come sliding out of him. He makes a face, but he sort of likes the feeling of it.

He hears Derek shuck off his jeans, and then Derek lies down next to him, tilting Jackson’s head toward him so that he can kiss Jackson again. It’s slower this time, sated, and this is about as close as Derek gets to post-coital warmth. There’s an easiness to it. Jackson writhes, a little, when Derek slides three fingers down the base of his spine and between the cheeks of his ass, pushing into him again.

“Always better when you’re stretched open like this,” Derek says, fucking Jackson a little with his fingers, where he’s sloppy with lube and Derek’s come. “I can just slide back in easy as anything.”

“Ah,” Jackson says, the noise wrung out of him. He can feel himself flushing.

“What if I told you not to shower?” Derek asks, like he’s curious. “Would you go to school smelling like sex and my come?”

His fingers are slow and smooth inside Jackson, not brushing his prostate, but just filling him up, and the thing is Jackson probably would. He would if Derek asked him to. He shudders, pushes his face into Derek’s shoulder.

“Hm.” Jackson can almost hear Derek thinking. He doesn’t say anything else, though, so when he kisses Jackson again, Jackson just lets him. Derek winds the fingers of his other hand into Jackson’s hair, holding him still, and licks into Jackson’s mouth. “You’re staying here tonight,” Derek says, when he pulls away. “You can tell your parents in a bit.”

Jackson nods, lets his eyes drift closed. He can feel his sweat drying where the shirt is sticking to his body. He doesn’t think he’ll have to wait long for Derek to fuck him again. He’s already anticipating it.