rivers_bend

Title: Snapping at your Heels
Fandom/Pairing: Teen Wolf, Scott/Jackson, Lydia/Jackson
Rating: NC17
Words: 4750
A/N: for dauntdraws, because she wanted top!Jackson, and I adore her rather a lot.
Content Notes: contains full-moon, partially shifted werewolf sex
Summary: "Hi," Lydia says. "You need to sleep with Jackson."

Scott looks at her. She looks pretty certain. Not just the way Lydia always looks certain, but, like, certain. "I what?" Scott asks.



Because of the trees that grow too close, the asphalt in the back corner of the parking lot is cracked and broken, and Scott hates having to park his mom's car there. He always worries he'll get a flat tire. He's peering at the back left one when someone says his name, startling him. It's Lydia. Her left hand is on her hip, and she's pointing a stern finger at his chest. Despite the pavement, she's not wobbling at all even though she's wearing really tall shoes with really tiny heels. It would be an exaggeration to say he's scared of her, but Scott is pretty glad that she got back together with Jackson, and Stiles is moving on.

"Hi?" Scott says, wondering what she wants.

"Hi," she says. "You need to sleep with Jackson."

Scott looks at her. She looks pretty certain. Not just the way Lydia always looks certain, but, like, certain. "I what?" Scott asks.

"Sex. With Jackson. You need to do it."

No one seems to be lurking in the trees or behind the cars to explain what she's talking about, and past experience leads Scott to believe that asking Lydia for an explanation isn't going to do much unless giving one was part of her plan all along. He might as well try, though. "Why?"

"Because werewolves," she says. "The full moon's Friday."

"What does that have—"

"Allison needs more time," she adds. Which, Scott knew that. But there's been plenty of full moons since she said she needed a break, and Scott's been just fine.

"Yeah. But what—"

"Friday," she says again, and she spins, stalking across the lot before Scott can stop her.


Stiles has his whole head in his locker when Scott finds him. "Hey," Scott says. "Have you talked to Lydia?"

"I told her I liked her shoes and she said of course I did," Stiles says, emerging with his advanced-bio book.

"She didn't—" Scott's not sure how to bring this up. Stiles seems to be over the whole Lydia's-back-with-Jackson thing, but Scott still tries to avoid the issue. "Um. She didn't say anything about Jackson?"

"Like what?" Stiles heads down the hall towards their English classroom.

"Like that you have to have sex with him?"

That stops Stiles in his tracks. "Jackson hates me. And she's having sex with him. Why would I have sex with him?"

"I don't know," Scott says. "Something about the full moon?"

The bell rings and Stiles starts walking again. "Last thing I'm thinking about when it comes to the full moon and you guys is sex," Stiles says, low enough so the other people rushing to class can't hear him. "I'm more about trying not to get killed."

"I'm not going to kill you," Scott says. "I haven't tried to kill you in forever."

"I thought we were talking about Jackson?" Stiles says, and then they're in class and Mrs. Elton is telling everyone to get in their seats. Jackson is sitting by the window. The look he gives Scott doesn't clarify anything.

*


"So," Scott says while Dr. Deaton is getting the new shipment of drugs put away, "is there anything I need to know about mating and the moon?"

"Are you and Allison back together?"

"No. Not yet. Just—"

Deaton turns to look at him, which doesn't help at all. "Just?"

"Never mind," Scott says.

*


The sun has dropped behind the mountains, and though the sky is still light, the woods are dark by the time practice is over and Scott's made it to the Hale house. Derek's outside, head and shoulders under the hood of his car. Peter's nowhere in sight, but Scott asks if he's around just to make sure.

"What do you want with Peter?" Derek asks.

"Mostly to avoid him," Scott says.

"So why…"

"I wanted to ask you something and I didn't want him sneaking up on me."

"You're a werewolf. He shouldn't be able to sneak up on you."

"Okay," Scott says. "Whatever. But he's not here, right?"

Derek drops the hood and wipes his hands on his shirt. In the shadows the oil stains look almost like bloody handprints. "He's out. What d'you want?"

"Is there ever a, like, a reason why a werewolf would have to have sex with another werewolf on the full moon?"

"What?" Derek says, leaning a hip on his car. "I mean they can. But why would they have to?"

"I just—" Scott doesn't understand what's going on. Lydia had seemed pretty clear, but no one else seems to know what she's talking about. Maybe it has something to do with how Jackson used to be a giant lizard.

"Stiles didn't put you up to this, did he?" Derek asks.

"Stiles?" What does Stiles have to do with anything. "Why would—?" Scott doesn't want to ride that train of thought any farther.

"Spit it out."

"Lydia said I have to have sex with Jackson because the full moon is on Friday." When he says it out loud it sounds kind of stupid. Except for how his wolf doesn't think it sounds stupid at all. When he says it out loud, his wolf thinks it sounds pretty awesome. "I don't even like Jackson," he says, because that point seems to be getting murky.

Derek laughs. Or curls his lip and makes a choking sound. "Pretty sure she was kidding, Scott. Just ignore her."

"Yeah," Scott says, trying to sound more confident about that plan than he feels. "Okay."

"Anything else?" Derek wipes his hands again, on his jeans this time.

"No," Scott says. The sooner he gets out of here the better. Besides, his mom is home for dinner tonight and she's expecting him.

*


Wednesday, Scott finds Lydia alone in the library. "Derek says I don't have to have sex with Jackson," he tells her.

She looks at him like he's crazy. "Why would Derek want you to have sex with Jackson?"

Now Scott's even more confused. "But you, in the parking lot Monday. You said—"

"Yeah. For me."

Scott decides he needs to be sitting down for this, and pulls out a chair.

"Did I invite you to sit?" Lydia says.

"What do you mean for you?"

"It's hot. I want to watch."

Scott can't think of anything to say to that. Possibly because his mouth is too busy remembering the feel of Lydia's kisses. It might not just be the wolf that likes the idea of Lydia watching.

*


Jackson tackles Scott three minutes into practice, though the ball is at the other end of the field. "Did you say yes?" he demands, face guard pressed to Scott's.

"Yes to what?" Scott has decided that the best thing to do about the whole situation is to assume Lydia has gone crazy again. That way there's no risk of further humiliation. Talking to Derek was quite enough.

"Lydia's idea," Jackson says over the sound of Coach's whistle.

So much for ignoring it. "I didn't say either way," Scott says, pushing Jackson off his chest, hoping that's the right answer.

"Whittemore, what the hell was that?" Coach yells.

"Nothing," Jackson calls back. Then, prodding Scott's hip with his stick, he mutters, "Make up your mind by the end of practice."

There's no hint in Jackson's tone which way he hopes Scott goes. Which sucks, because Scott's instinct to say no is butting up against the pull of the moon and the memory of Jackson's muscles flexing hard under Scott's hands as they fought for dominance. Last time, Scott wanted to rip and tear and defend. This time will be more fun, his wolf whispers. Why couldn't Jackson give him a clue? This would be easier if someone else made the decision for him.

Because the thing is, Scott likes girls. And he's in love with Allison still, and doesn't want to date anyone but her. But he's pretty sure Lydia and Jackson aren't asking for a date, and sex at the full moon is amazing. Even better, he bets, when you can let go, not worry about turning, hurting anyone.

Maybe that's what this is about. Jackson's new, and it's not easy to control yourself at first. He probably turned, tried to bite Lydia or something. She was in pretty bad shape after what happened with Peter, and Scott can't see her liking it much if Jackson tried to bite her, even if she is immune. Scott hates it when he wakes up naked in the woods, and he's a werewolf.

"Stiles," Scott hisses when they pass each other in the line to take shots on goal.

"What?" Stiles says back. But then Scott has to take his place at the end of the line and there's six players between them, and Stiles doesn't have superhuman hearing, so Scott will have to wait.

"Stiles," Scott says again as Stiles comes around to the end of the line. Now there's only three people between them, but Scott doesn't want Greenberg or Taylor or Roman to know that Jackson's girlfriend wants to watch them have sex.

"You said that part already," Stiles says. Scott sneaks a peek at Coach, whose busy talking to Danny, so Scott lets the three guys between them cut in line.

"Do you think Allison would be mad if I did something?" Scott says as quietly as he can while still being loud enough for Stiles to hear him under his helmet.

"That probably depends on what you're planning," Stiles answers, shoving Scott a little so he keeps moving forward with the line. "If you're talking passing your bio test, I'd say, no, but if you're thinking slashing all her dad's tires, or climbing in her window and stealing her underwear, then probably."

"That was only once, and I didn't steal it. I just hid a present in her underwear drawer."

"You dug through until you found her favorite pair—which how did you know? Wait never mind, please don't tell me—and wrapped a box of condoms in it like Christmas come early."

"Yeah…" They'd had really great sex with those condoms. Super, awesome, wild sex. Scott misses sex. Sex is his favorite thing ever.

Stiles shoves him again, harder this time. "Stop it," he says.

It's Scott's turn to shoot on goal. Then it's Stiles'. Once they're back at the end of the line, they resume their conversation.

"I meant," Scott says. "Someone asked me to do something. Like, a werewolf thing. A sex werewolf thing. Do you think she'd be mad?"

"You should absolutely definitely not have sex with Derek," Stiles says. "Or I'll be mad. Don't make me mad."

Why would he— "Who said anything about Derek?" Scott asks. "No one said anything about Derek."

"Oh," Stiles says. Scott thinks maybe he's blushing. Or he could just be red because of practice. "Then who— Wait. Is this about what you said before English about Jackson? You hate Jackson. Why would you have werewolf sex with him? What is werewolf sex, anyway? This isn't another bestiality thing, is it? Because I told you not to tell me anything about that."

"You fucking dogs, McCall?" Greenberg turns around to say.

"Greenberg!" Coach yells before Scott has to think of a comeback. "You're up."

"It's not about that," Scott says. He's pretty sure.

"I think you're the one who knows her, dude," Stiles says. "Do you think she'll be mad? How would you feel if she did it with Jackson?"

"McCall! We don't have all day, here!" Coach is giving them the didn't-I-separate-you-two? look.

Distracted, Scott throws the ball too hard and it whizzes past Danny's shoulder and breaks through the net.

"What is with these nets?" Coach says, stalking down to examine the hole. "Don't make things like they used to."

Scott catches Jackson looking at him over Danny's shoulder. "Can't break me anymore," Jackson says. Scott can hear him from the other side of the field.

"You can't break me, either," Scott says back.

"What?" Stiles says.

Coach calls practice and sends Greenberg for a new net from the equipment shed.


While they're showering, Scott has a little extra time to think. Jackson has his back to Scott, and everyone else is busy doing his own thing, so Scott can take a look at what he'd be turning down. Or saying yes to. Jackson is, just objectively speaking, really fucking hot. For a guy. For a wolf, his wolf says. It's not like with Allison, where the wolf wants to curl up at her feet. It wants to snarl and snap its teeth and push.

He doesn't have to think about Stiles' question. He'd be jealous as hell if Allison did anything with Jackson, but that's different. Jackson tried to take Allison away from him. Besides, Jackson's a werewolf now, and Allison isn't.

"Well?" Jackson says, pushing past Scott to get to his clothes.

"Yes," Scott says.

*

Scott rings Lydia's doorbell with the moon at his back, the pull of it sharp against the cool blue sound of Allison's voice in his head. When Lydia answers it, her red hair is a riot of tangled curls, and the right strap of her dress is hanging loose. "Scott," she says, smiling like he's never seen before—something between genuine and an alligator welcoming you into her swamp. She reeks of sex, hitting Scott with want. "Come in."

He steps through the door as Jackson appears from the kitchen, sniffing the air, eyes flashing, hands curling threateningly. Unbidden, a growl hums low in Scott's chest and he can feel his own cells shifting, nails turning to claws, teeth growing longer.

"Now, boys," Lydia says. "Play nice."

That was Scott's intention when he came over here—but Jackson's growl is a challenge, and the moon is high. No chance Scott's going to turn belly up without a fight.

Even Scott doesn't know who pounces first, but they meet midair and go crashing down onto the oriental carpet in Lydia's living room, Jackson snarling and snapping, Scott using his experience to twist out from under, keep his arms from getting trapped.

"Or that," a voice says, purring, soft, distant. Not Allison.

They roll, knock into a table, back the other way, bump into a couch. The smell of sex is stronger, tangy-sharp and rich, and Scott wants to rub his face in it. "Be still," he growls, and Jackson freezes long enough for Scott to pin his hips, but then he heaves up, throws Scott on his back and is on him, reversing their positions.

Scott has run and fought and cowered and howled with the moon, but, careful of Allison, he hasn't let himself give in to the throb low in his gut, and he's surprised when Jackson's move makes him want to roll over, show Jackson his soft underbelly. Jackson has him by one thigh, claws piercing denim and gouging skin, and Scott kicks out, fights him off, but more to see how far he can get Jackson to push than because he wants to get away. Jackson does let go, but only enough to get a fresh grip on Scott's waist and drag him closer.
 
Instinct sends Scott's claws ripping through Jackson's shirt, tossing aside the tatters, and then Scott's mom's voice breaks through, reminds him of the cost of jeans, and he goes for his own fly, pulling back the wolf long enough to work the button, get a start on the zipper, push them down his thighs. He can hear Lydia say, "Yeah," and then Jackson growls, the sound rumbling in Scott's chest.
 
Freed from heavy denim, Scott's own scent hits his nose, thick and familiar, overpowering Lydia and Jackson's smells before blending with them in a stew of sex and need. Jackson clearly smells it too, following his nose to Scott's crotch, snuffling, wiping his mouth messily across Scott's stomach and down over the fabric of his briefs before tearing them aside to get at Scott's cock underneath.
 
Allison's good about not using her teeth, and the few times she's gotten overenthusiastic it's nothing that's gotten Scott going, but Jackson's fangs aren't putting him off at all—he thrusts up at Jackson's face, grabs for his hair, but misses when Jackson surges up to lick his chin. Scott wants to laugh, punch Jackson's chiseled, perfect jaw, knee him in the balls, wrap his legs around Jackson's waist. Instead, he bares his throat and spreads his thighs.
 
"You gonna let him fuck you?" Lydia asks, and Scott doesn't know which one of them she's talking to.
 
"Fuck him," Jackson says.
 
Even with his blood up, cock hard, whole body aching with want, Scott doesn't expect the words to hit him as hard as they do. There's not enough space and there're too many clothes, and he rolls, takes Jackson with him, pulls and rips, kicks and pushes  until they're bare skin over muscles straining as Jackson tries to put Scott on his belly, and Scott tries to get there without a broken nose or a fractured arm.

"Fuck him," Jackson says again, words little more than grunts into Scott's shoulder, a prelude to a bite.

Teeth dig in, hurt, but don't break the skin until Scott lashes out, catches the side of Jackson's head with an elbow. The pain flares, sharpens, and Scott's nose fills with the scent of blood, but he can feel himself healing as soon as Jackson pulls away to headbutt him in the ribs, knock him the rest of the way over.

Lydia's voice breaks through the roar in Scott's ears. "Fuck him, not eat him."

But Jackson's lapping at the blood sticky on Scott's spine, licking up the sweat pooling in the small of his back, and Scott's just fine with being eaten if he's right about where this is heading.

He's totally right. Scott gets his knees under himself just in time for Jackson to push them as far apart as they'll go, lick down over Scott's tailbone, trail spit down his crack.

Scott's watched some of the porn on Stiles' laptop, strayed a little when he's going down on Allison, and loved it, but he's been tentative about asking her to return the favor. Jackson is not tentative.

By the time Scott's drawn two shaky breaths, he's got spit running down this thighs and Jackson's tongue and what feels like a couple fingers up inside him, pulling at his rim, stretching him open like Jackson wants to get his whole face in there. A flash of movement to Scott's right turns out to be Lydia hiking her skirt up around her waist so she can get both hands working her pussy. The smell of her makes a growl cut through the whine coming from Scott's throat.

When she moves again, Jackson gets distracted from Scott's ass and reaches for her, ripping her skirt as he pulls her closer, close enough to nose her fingers aside and get a taste of her. Scott snarls, his wolf jealous and his body needy, even as his boy wants to settle back and watch Jackson make her come.

"Later," she says, pushing him away. "Want to see you fuck him." She tilts her hips so they can both see clearly as she sinks three fingers inside her pussy to the last knuckle. The look on her face says she thinks maybe they need a reminder about what fucking means.

Scott has never been less likely to forget.

He wants Jackson's tongue back. Wants his fingers. "Fuck me, then," he demands, canting his own hips in an instinctive mimicry of Lydia's move. He doesn't get fingers, but he does get Jackson's dick, hard and slippery in the cleft of his ass, bumping up against his nuts. Jackson hauls Scott's hips up and back, pushes forward, slipping past his hole, and Scott tries to spread his legs wider, let him in.

"It's not a cunt," Lydia snaps, exasperated. "You have to—"

Her hand is small, and cooler than Jackson's on Scott's flank, her fingers soft in his crack, and then the tip of Jackson's dick is a blunt, hard press, breaching him this time instead of sliding by. She stays as Jackson pushes forward, rubbing a little, bumping Scott's balls, distracting him from how fucking big Jackson feels going in and in. Her tickling touch and the pressure raise the hackles on Scott's neck, freezes his spine, then Jackson starts to pull out, and Scott's claws tear at the rug as he shoves back, trying to take Jackson in again.

That gets him a slap on the leg, Lydia, because Jackson's hands are still tight on his hips. "Be a good boy," she says, getting matching snarls from Scott and Jackson both. She retreats, but Scott's only dimly aware, because Jackson starts to move with intent, hips snapping forward and dragging back, and that's all Scott's got room for.

Every month, the moon's an itch in Scott's bones that wants to run and rut, fuck and fuck shit up, and it's never felt like this—this need to dig his teeth into the dirt and shake his ass at the sky, show off his goods. The itch wants to be rubbed, faster, harder, wants to be chased and caught, dug open, pulled apart, chased again, and Scott gives in.

Jackson tries to keep him still, digging claws into Scott's flanks, his hips, but Scott can't stop moving, trying to get Jackson deeper, get more, more more, and the pain is just another way to howl at the moon. Eventually, Jackson gives up, or realizes that Scott's not trying to get away, and he grabs Scott by the shoulders instead, pulling him up back-to-chest, nuzzling and nipping at his neck and making sounds no one could mistake for human. Scott feels small and huge, engulfed by Jackson yet engulfing him, and he grinds on Jackson's lap, full, so full, and it's perfect.

The hand on his cock takes him by surprise, makes his eyes fly open when he didn't even know they'd closed, and Lydia is right there in nothing but a bra now, one hand working hard at her clit while the other tugs a nipple through pale-green lace. Scott reaches for her, needs to taste the deep rich sex smell coming off her in waves, but Jackson hauls him back, pins his arms to his sides, and starts thrusting again, faster and rougher, the way Scott's needed since they started. It rocks Scott up into the hand Jackson still has on his cock, and the wolf and the boy both have what they want.

Scott howls when he comes, rattling the windows and making Lydia's eyes go wide, but not giving Jackson pause. He gets a better grip when Scott's legs go too shaky to support his weight, holding Scott where he needs him to keep up his short, sharp thrusts, sets his teeth in the base of Scott's neck to keep him from slumping forward to ride out his aftershocks on the floor.

"Fuck, fuck fuck," Lydia says, nearly her whole hand up inside her now, just her thumb free to rub her clit, and the smell of her, fuck, if Scott could move, he would take her down, bury his face up in there and lick and suck until there wasn't a trace of that maddening delicious scent left. And then she's coming and the smell is even better, and Jackson's grip is steel, and he's grinding, grinding, up and up, lifting both of them until Scott's knees are barely on the floor anymore, and his howl is a strangled cry into Scott's hair.

For the space of a breath, there's nothing but the sound of three heartbeats keeping syncopated time, and then Jackson shoves Scott off roughly, sending him sprawling on the rug, thighs slick, while Jackson crawls to where Lydia is dropping to sit on her discarded dress. They reach for each other, she for his head, he for her hips, and Jackson takes what Scott wanted, tongue straining toward her pussy as they close the distance. She cries out, bucks up into his mouth, the flush that had started fading from her cheeks and breasts coming back.

Scott knows he shouldn't, but he can't help moving closer, wanting to see at least, even if she's not his to taste. One foot, two, and they're an arm's length away, and no one's moved to stop him. Another few inches, and he can see where Jackson's lips are sealed to her, see the twitch of his jaw as his tongue moves. Scott breathes deep, licks his lips.

With a soft sound, Lydia reaches out and pushes fingers sticky with her own come into Scott's mouth, and yes—yes—that's what he wanted. As eagerly as he spread his legs for Jackson's cock, he licks the taste from her fingers. She doesn't pull away, and Jackson doesn't protest, so Scott takes her arm, moves her hand this way and that, chasing the taste at the edges of her nails, in the creases of her knuckles and on the webbing between her fingers. He follows a still-slick trail over her palm and down her wrist, catching the pad of her thumb between human-blunt teeth and flicking with his tongue so he doesn't miss anything. Her noises are constant now, staccato ah, ah, ahs interspersed with drawn out moans, and she's curling her fingers against his tongue, hooking them under his jawbone. Jackson's right hand is working between her thighs, and the other one is pressed hard above her pubic bone, trying to keep her from bucking him off.

Or maybe she likes it. Allison sometimes digs the heel of her hand in there when Scott's eating her out. He should try doing it for her next time. If there is a next time.

Like she noticed Scott got distracted, or because she's too close not to, Lydia pulls her hand out of Scott's loose grip and grabs Jackson's hair in both hands, hips coming off the floor despite his hold. Her legs shake and she swears an impressive streak when she comes.

As Jackson pillows his head on her thigh and she pets his hair, Scott starts to notice that Oriental carpet and nudity is not exactly the most comfortable combination, and he moves to sit up.

"Told you it was a good idea," Lydia says, watching him. Jackson ignores him.

"Yeah," Scott says. "I— Yeah." His underwear are shredded, but his jeans are okay if you ignore the little tears in the thighs. People pay shitloads of money for jeans that come like that brand new, so it's no big deal. He really needs a shower, but he's not going to ask for one; he can do laundry tomorrow while his mom's at work. His shirt's torn down the back, but it's good enough under his jacket to get him home, so he tugs it over his head and looks for his shoes. Jackson still doesn't say anything.

"Under the armchair," Lydia murmurs, pointing with her toes to the wingback chair near the fireplace. His keys are still in his hoodie pocket, and he left his wallet in the glove compartment.

"Bye," he says from the doorway, half turning to wave, because that's polite.

"See you Monday," Lydia answers. Jackson huffs a sound that might be, 'catch you later,' and might be 'just fuck off already.' No change there, then.

The moon is high when he gets outside, and Lydia doesn't live far from the edge of the woods. But the itch is little more than a hum and his need to run has burned off. When he turns to listen, Scott can hear the murmur of Lydia and Jackson's voices. No words, just the steady rise and fall of conversation. Scott turns the key, and the car starts first try. He thinks about stopping by Allison's on the way home, but remembers his promise to Stiles after the last time Mr. Argent caught him over there, which makes him think of the promise to his mother, and he stops to fill the gas tank instead.

~fin