Work Header

the fast dance won't last

Work Text:

Jackson never really felt like he belonged in his own life.

Nothing unusual about that, really. Not for a kid who's been adopted. Even for a good-looking white boy adopted by good-looking white couple, plenty of money, overachievement all around. Sounds kinda like a fairy tale, but Jackson's a smart guy. He knows almost every fairy tale ends badly - forget the Disney bullshit. Less Little Red Riding Hood and more Big Bad Wolf. And Jackson could never get over the feeling that he didn't belong. That he was in the wrong story.

So when he finds out about werewolves, he knows the turn his story is going to take. He knows exactly who he's going to be. A boy into a monster, a boy into a wolf, who will never be lost in the woods or eaten alive.

But this is a twist he didn't see coming. He forgot there's always a price, that everyone pays for their prize. He thought McCall had fucked it up - first, and better - he thought not being able to handle the wolf was the only hurdle in his path. Should have known, right? Should have known even the Big Bad Wolf is scared of something Bigger and Badder. That there are cautionary tales for wolves, and not just little girls.

"Shh," Stiles says, "shhhh, it's okay, it's gonna be okay," trying to soothe him, trying to be nice because that's what Stiles does. Stiles has been trying to be gentle because - god, he's the gentle one, the non-threatening one, and usually Jackson makes fun of that but he's so pathetically fucking grateful for it right now. Stiles's fingers on his face and neck, petting. Trying to make it okay as Derek shove shove shoves into him. It was Stiles who found him. Crouched outside in the dirt, fingers pushed up into himself like that was even going to do anything, and when Stiles bent down to help Jackson tried to mount him - or get Stiles to mount him would maybe be more accurate. Jackson tried to pull out Stiles's cock. Spread himself open with his hands and begged.

Like a bitch.

Like a slut.

It's one thing when people call you names and you couldn't give less of a fuck because you know better. Because you are better. But right now Jackson feels like a slut. Peter makes him feel like one, because he takes care of Jackson like it's a transaction, like it's a chore; one more thing to cross off the list of Alpha duties for the day. Stiles does too, doesn't mean to, but he smells like pity more than anything, and pity is a sour flat smell in Jackson's nose when everything else is sharp and bitter.

Derek is the worst, though. Derek is the worst because he's Jackson's mate, because he wants Jackson already anyway, even without Jackson's heat bouncing back on him like a sunburn. He doesn't like smelling other wolves on Jackson. He doesn't like putting his dick where another dick has already been, he doesn't like the claw marks, the bites so he erases them, he puts his own over them, and if he has to hurt Jackson to do it maybe Jackson should have thought of that before going into heat like the omega bitch he is. Derek makes him feel like one, with his words, with the things he grunts in Jackson's ears as he howls.

He's a slut because he's still begging for it, who knows how many hours in. Because he's still clawing at the ground, howling, arching his back and thrusting his hips. Because of all the bruises, the bites, and he still wants more. Because he's still getting hard, he's still begging, come running down his legs and his own dick standing up and asking for attention. It doesn't matter he's so thoroughly, utterly miserable with it. Whimpering because he's so tired, because he's so sore, because he hurts. That everything is chafed and bruised and bloodied - he's still begging for someone to fuck him, anyone, and he'd kill for it, claw for it, touch hungry and needy for a fuck, and he's burning with shame, or he'd like to think he is, but mostly it's just want.

He just wants.

So when Derek calls him a slut he drops his head into the dirt. Hisses out yes, more, incoherencies and absolutions, whatever might make Derek fuck him even harder, even crueler. Make it hurt until Jackson can pretend he's not enjoying this. At least until he sobs, chokes. Comes all over himself again.

| |

They call Scott, eventually. Have to. The rest of the pack can't keep up the way Jackson wants, the way he needs. He's stopped howling at least. He's had to. He's nearly burnt his voice out, scraped his throat raw. Begging over and over again.

"Fuck," Scott says, "Jackson--"

"Your turn," Derek says roughly, because he's just finished. Dug his claws into the meat of Jackson's shoulder while Jackson whimpers, apologizes for what he needs and then begs for it in the next breath.

"My - I can't. You didn't - Allison," Scott protests.

"Jesus Christ," Stiles says. "Allison doesn't have anything to do with this, are you even looking at him?"

Jackson, with his head down. Hands clenched in fists because if he doesn't he's going to reach back around again, shove his fingers up into himself. Try to fix what can be fixed, fill what seems like can't be filled.

"This is so fucked up," Scott chokes out, and Jackson wants to laugh - forces out a bit of air, because Christ, McCall, you're not the one getting fucked in the ass, here. And that's not even counting the fucked up nature of the situation. That Scott is here to fuck Jackson. Scott. The guy Jackson wanted to defeat, wanted to win again, the guy Jackson always wins against, just to prove he's better. Scott is here to fuck him. Jackson wants Scott to fuck him, and he's not sure if that's ironic or tragic or what, but it's certainly fucked up.

"I can smell you from here," Jackson grits out instead, and the pack falls deadly quiet.

"I -" Scott stammers, and Jackson lifts his head.

He looks like a mess. Lip split where's he's bitten through it. Tears. Snot. Come, because Jackson had begged and begged and begged, at the beginning when it was too much for anyone to ignore, hormones or pheromones or whatever it is that makes this work, and Peter had shoved his cock so far down Jackson's throat he thought he was going to pass out. Wake up to someone else fucking him. Shouldn't have been a good thought.

"You're hard," he rasps out. "We can all smell it. Your dick getting wet. Your heart rate speeding up." And there's a surge that might be arousal, maybe just anger, but Derek seems to have the two pleasantly mixed. "Into sloppy fourths, McCall? Or just me?"

Claws in his hips, a bright painful flash of them, and Derek growls. Like it's Jackson's fault Scott's always been quick with his temper, messy with his control.

Jackson grunts. "This is what you want, McCall," he says. "Always knew it," and he goads McCall into fucking him harder. Growling through it the whole time, when he isn't spitting out insults - good, really, and maybe he starts to understand hate-fucking, because Scott doesn't care, just wants to do it and get it over with, and Jackson's body is on board with that, actually.

| |

After, Scott looks more wrecked than Jackson.

Jackson takes a weird sort of pride in that. He's a slut, maybe, but he knows it, he understands everything he's been begging for. Not in control of his body, but certainly in control of his mind. More than McCall will ever have. He's never going to look down on the person he's just fucked like, how did this just happen?. Like McCall, with that dopey fucking look on his face.

It should be Stiles next, but Peter goes instead. Rubs his nose in the back of Jackson's neck after the first thrust.

Pleased, Jackson thinks. A sudden, wild thought. Knowing Peter, probably - amused.

"Smart boy," he murmurs, and Jackson flushes under it. Growls. "You are a good little slut." Every word of praise - every word from his Alpha carved into his heart.

He might be an Omega, but if they think he'll just lie down and take it - that he won't be better at it than all of them -

They don't know Jackson at all.