Chapter Text
Jackson is so full.
Senior year is coming to a close, and while his peers have been worrying about which college they’re going to choose, which of their friends they’re going to lose and which they’re going to pretend to keep for the foreseeable future, and (though there are very few worrying about it) passing all of their classes in this final year, Jackson and his mates have been worrying about much more important things. For starters, the fact that they’re mates is weird enough and has taken a bit of adjustment. It was always easier when they were alone—when they weren’t in the real world—to just be together; however, just as with their first time almost eight months ago, their agreement to try and, well, be a couple (is there even a word for what they are, Jackson’s mind hazily wonders) as of just under four months ago was all well and good until they got to school the next day. It had almost all fallen apart again, but the day was saved thanks to Stiles pulling Isaac and Scott each into a hug at the school’s entrance.
Any doubts had evaporated then. Or, to be more accurate, he supposed, any doubts had been shoved to the back because there wasn’t room for them in such a situation. They didn’t have to act like boyfriends at school—nothing said they were required to, after all (a conversation later that night would decide that it would be best if they just behaved normally at school)—and Jackson, for his part, was less-than-willing to explain to the entire school body that, no, he was not cheating on Stiles with Isaac and Scott, nor was Stiles cheating on him with the other two werewolves. Too much of a headache, in his opinion. So, for all intents and purposes, the friendship between the four—which had been strained to near the breaking point, which people did notice—had been magically repaired, seemingly overnight, much to the delight of their mutual friends (Danny, Lydia, Allison, Ethan, and Aiden) who’d apparently grown absolutely weary of avoiding the other couples in casual conversation. In fact, Ethan, Aiden, and Danny had strolled up right after the hugs and, as one, let out a sigh (because that hadn’t been eerie or anything) before Danny told them that it was about damn time.
But right now, none of that is on his mind. No, right now Jackson is riding the high from the fact that they just won nationals. He and his mates had helped win the national high school lacrosse championship and it had felt so good. As the entire team had streamed, screaming in elation, back into the locker rooms, Jackson and his mates had found each other through the mess of bodies and exchanged hugs that lasted longer than was strictly necessary. However, what had pushed them over the edge was Scott. Scott had been unusually handsy—not that he wasn’t usually handsy, but among all these other people it was uncharacteristic, to say the least—practically groping Jackson through his jock and whispering huskily in his ear, “Showers. After everyone else leaves.”
So they had all just so happened to fall behind as everyone else slowly trickled out, then wound up in the showers together once they’d made sure they were alone. Even though they’re still not one hundred percent back to where they were in public (Jackson knows that, for his part, he still sometimes catches sight of Scott or Isaac in the hallway and he can hardly believe that this is his life) and they still sometimes have the occasional awkward, stilted conversation, sex has always been a media through which the four of them can communicate their feelings to each other.
Which is why Jackson is currently on his knees, straddling Scott as the brunet supports his own upper body on his elbows with Stiles positioned behind them both, Scott and Stiles’ cocks buried inside of him and Isaac’s cock down his throat where the taller blond is kneeling in front of him. The streams from several showers—now abandoned but still throwing out steaming water—fall onto the tiles beneath them. Jackson spares a thought wondering what the fuck was probably growing on these tiles—given that this shower is old enough that it’s in the old ‘communal’ style with no stalls or partitions—but has enough presence of mind to reason out that that’s why Scott, the werewolf with insane healing powers, is on his back and Stiles isn’t. But then Stiles and Scott thrust into him in tandem and all coherent thoughts are gone.
He’s dimly aware that, beneath him, Scott is craning his head up to lap at the base of Isaac’s cock as the blond practically fucks Jackson’s mouth, his tongue brushing over—and sometimes between—Jackson’s spit-slick lips. Jackson can feel Stiles etching marks into his back, the brunet using his lips and tongue to soothe the skin before punctuating his actions with a luxurious scrape of teeth as Jackson leans into the sensation as much as he can. The pleasure coursing through him in indescribable, having all three of his mates around him—in him—at once is a feeling of fullness that Jackson can’t even being to describe. It feels so right in a way that is so deep it’s beyond sexual. The pleasure coursing through his veins as Stiles and Scott lose their synchronous rhythm—no doubt getting off on the feeling of each other and Jackson’s well-stretched hole at the same time—and alternatingly assault his prostate is magnified tenfold by the sheer intimacy of the moment. Jackson feels tears—actual fucking tears—well up in the corner of his eyes, and he moans happily around Isaac, looking up at the blond and watching the flutter of muscles across the other beta’s stomach as he thrusts deep into Jackson’s mouth, hoping that his mates will understand that the tears are not sad. He feels Scott smile as the brunet mouths at Jackson’s neck; feels, too, the words, “We know, Jackson. We know,” that he whispers into Jackson’s skin. Jackson realizes with a start that he’s so deliriously happy—the thought is accompanied by another wave of near-blinding pleasure—and he moans again, louder, and Isaac hisses above him.
“Jackson, if you keep making noises like that I’m—oh god—I’m not gonna last long.”
In response, Jackson pulls back until just the head of Isaac’s cock is in his mouth, then hollows his cheeks and sucks, slipping languidly down his mate’s length until it brushes the back of his throat. Scott and Stiles apparently decide to regain their former pace, because they both slide home into Jackson in one, hard thrust, together, that pushes Jackson forward onto Isaac’s cock until it passes through into his throat as he moans aloud. Isaac’s growling, screaming incoherently, and Jackson can feel the cock in his mouth swell even more and he can’t help how his entire body tenses in anticipation, squeezing his mates’ cocks as they’re fully seated inside of him. He’s swimming in his mates’ arousal, in their scents, can feel them all about to lose themselves thanks to him, and—
“Hey guys, is everything alri—holy shit.”
Jackson starts at the familiar voice, his whole body tensing in surprise. His throat flutters and constricts around Isaac as he loses what little focus he had left and gags. His eyes fly upwards to see Danny standing in the doorway between the showers and the locker room, the Hawaiian boy’s face a splotched mess of deathly pale and cherry red, as if he can’t decide if he should be terrified or aroused. Danny’s scent is completely haywire, shifting too rapidly for Jackson to pin anything down. He feels mortification, shame, regret, and sheer terror all vie for room in his skull, but the only thought that can cross his mind is, ‘Really?’
Of course, that’s exactly when Scott comes, and Jackson can’t hold back a moan when he feels his mate’s release filling him, cock twitching against his belly as Scott’s length pulses inside of him.
The moan seems to break Danny out of his trance, and he mutters something unintelligible before he turns and runs back into the locker room. There’s silence for two of Jackson’s quickened heartbeats before it’s broken.
“Oh shit,” Stiles whispers, frozen. “Oh shit, oh shit, Jackson, shit—Jacks’, we need to—oh fuck—Jacks’, what—”
Jackson pulls off of Isaac’s cock with an obscene slurping noise, and practically growls, “Out of me, now.” His voice sounds strange to his own ears, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on that now.
Stiles and Scott comply so quickly Jackson is almost afraid he gets rug burn—not that it would really matter, given how fast he can heal—and before he can think of anything else he’s scrambled to his feet and is running after his best friend.
“Danny,” he calls out, cognizant of the fact that he hasn’t heard the external door open or close. “Danny! God damn it, Danny, wait!”
He’s running in an almost blind panic, and, even though he can’t pin down the exact cause of that panic—that they’ve been found out before they’ve even talked about telling anyone, that it’s Danny who found out, that Danny basically just found him in the middle of sex, that he has absolutely no idea what to do in this situation—a part of himself is aware enough to kindly point out to him that it doesn’t matter. What matters is that he needs to find Danny. The panicked part of his mind, though, still pushes him past the aisles of unfamiliar lockers, bare feet slapping against the tiles of the floor, until a flash of color stands out on his left amidst the drab grey-green. Jackson whirls to a halt, stumbling on still-wet feet, and only manages to right himself due to his enhanced reflexes.
Danny is sitting on a bench in the second to last row of lockers, duffle closed at his feet, his head in his hands. Jackson can see his friend’s eyes staring, wide and sightless, at the row of lockers in front of him, moving back and forth as his lips twitch slightly, almost as if he’s speaking to himself.
“Danny?” He tries to make the word soft, but his tone is rough and gravelly—he sounds like he’s been deepthroating someone while getting fucked into next week, his brain helpfully supplies—and, in the midst of the silence between them, the question is as loud as a gunshot. Danny flinches slightly, but doesn’t move otherwise.
Something warm runs down Jackson’s thigh, and he realizes with a flash of heat that it’s Scott’s release, slowly dripping out of his stretched hole. Which is when he suddenly becomes quite cognizant of the fact that he’s still completely naked. And hard. The heat in his face suffuses down into his whole body. He must make some sort of noise—perhaps he sucks in a breath involuntarily—or else Danny is scarily psychic, because his friend finally opens his mouth and breaks the silence between them.
“You never were one to think much before leaping.”
Jackson isn’t sure how to respond to that, so he doesn’t. Instead, he stays rooted to the spot, knowing that the full-body flush that’s covering his body is probably getting even darker; he feels like he might spontaneously burst into flame. The trail of warmth crawling down his thigh reaches his knee, and he turns his body slightly to keep it hidden from Danny’s sight. The motion, however, must catch in the other teen’s peripheral vision, because Danny looks up at him and then looks away almost instantly.
“You’re, uh,” he whispers, “wow, okay, uh, can’t say this is how I pictured this talk going, but alright then.”
“Wait, you’ve imagined us having this talk before?” Jackson asks, incredulity coloring his words. Danny knew? How could he have known? They’d been so careful to not be overtly affectionate at school or around the rest of the pack, hell they’d restricted the majority of their affection for times when they were absolutely sure they were alone, and, given that three of them were werewolves, it wasn’t like it was hard to tell when someone was listening in. Danny, for his part, waves his arms in a sort of vague motion, face finally deciding to settle into a warm blush.
“I mean, more like I was wondering when you were gonna actually talk to me about the ‘you and Stilinski’ thing, since, y’know, you still haven’t explained to me how that happened. But, that,” Danny gestures behind him, back towards the showers. Jackson can hear his mates making their way towards him, and he lets out a subsonic growl to tell them to back off and go back to the showers. Thankfully, they listen—at least, Scott and Isaac do, and they must pull Stiles with them.
“That,” Danny continues, blinking rapidly, “was completely not what I… yeah, that… just… wow, I don’t even know what to say.”
Jackson stands there, keeping his silence; he doesn’t know what to say, either, so he elects to count his heartbeats until Danny speaks again. He reaches fifty seven—at one point he’d heard a soft, mewling sound that had been Scott checking on him, and he’d answered it with an annoyed huff beneath the range of human hearing—when the Hawaiian stiffens before turning to face him dead-on, straddling the bench. Jackson doesn’t miss the way Danny’s eyes flick down his body for a millisecond, but he lets it slide because this is Danny and also because there’s suddenly fire in his friend’s eyes.
“Are we even still friends anymore, Jackson?”
Jackson’s heart just about breaks at the words, because, again, this is Danny. Danny who has been his best friend for years. Sure, they haven’t always gotten along, and, sure, Jackson may or may not have been a royal douchebag to the goalie on occasion, but they were still always friends at the end of the day. That Danny would begin questioning that physically pains him, and he doesn’t realize he’s letting out a soft whine of distress until there’s an answering growl from a few rows over. Danny’s head snaps to the side at the sound, and Jackson takes a seat on the bench in front of Danny—careful how he positions his legs and which parts of him he lets touch the cool wood—before yelling out, “It’s okay, Scott. ‘M fine.”
Danny looks back and forth between Jackson and the direction the noise had come from—Jackson can hear Scott stalking back towards the showers—before he eventually just looks at Jackson, flabbergasted.
“Yeah, that’s… Part of being a werewolf is better hearing, and, uhm,” Jackson falters, looking down. “Your question, it, uh, well it hurt. And I might’ve been… whining.”
Danny looks torn between confusions and laughing in Jackson’s face. “You were whining?” Then, the goalie does something Jackson didn’t expect: he rolls his eyes. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Dude!” Jackson gets out before Danny starts laughing at him. Laughing. With Jackson sitting there with him, naked, cum dripping down his leg, and his werewolf boyfriends—and singular human boyfriend—cleaning up in the shower. Jackson squirms uncomfortably on the wood until his friend quiets, the mood sobering with the intrusion of silence.
“Stiles and I happened last summer,” Jackson finally says. Danny arches an eyebrow as if to say ‘what?’ so Jackson elaborates.
“He was one of the people that saved me after I… died… and we hung out a lot after that because I didn’t like staying at home too much. We got closer. It became a thing. That’s about it.”
“So, no werewolf magic or anything like that involved?”
Jackson coughs uncomfortably.
“Uh, now that you mention it, not really, but sort of?”
“O…kay? Care to be a little more vague?”
“The… thing… you walked in on,” Jackson explains. “That has werewolf magic stuff involved. Sort of. Derek calls it ‘mates,’ which I suppose makes sense. Basically, two wolves can meet and their more animalistic sides can… be compatible or something, I guess. Either way, when that happens, they can take things to the next level—sex, basically—or not. If they do, they form a mate bond, and they’re pretty much stuck with each other. It’s supposed to be a way to add wolves to a pack that will actually mesh with the pack. And, sometimes, if it’s, y’know, a guy and a girl…”
“They’ll make babies, gotcha,” Danny finishes for him.
“Right,” Jackson murmurs, blushing. “So, uh, the four of us are mates or something. And, uh, the first week of school we kinda, maybe, sort of, accidentally all formed a mate bond. Together.”
Danny blinks at him.
“I thought you said it was when two wolves recognized each other as compatible. A wolf, Stiles isn’t.”
Yeah,” Jackson draws the word out, rubbing at the back of his neck awkwardly, “about that. We don’t actually know how that happened or how it worked. Stiles thinks it’s because there were the three of us wolves involved—which isn’t supposed to happen, either, by the way—and that somehow we, I dunno, make up for his lack of ‘wolf-ness’ or some shit. The three wolves part he thinks works because I was the kanima lizard thing, but that’s just a wild guess.”
“So what you’re saying,” Danny finally says after a moment of silence, “is that you have three boyfriends slash mates and that you’re stuck with them, but you have no idea why.”
Jackson shrugs. “Pretty much.”
“And you didn’t tell me this why?”
The brunet’s words from before crash into him, and Jackson winces.
“I’m still your friend, D’. At least, I like to think I am, I guess. I’m just a shitty friend, okay? Plus, none of us have really talked about… telling anyone… yet. This whole thing,” he gestures between himself and where his mates are standing a few rows over, having finished up in the showers, “this whole us thing… it’s still really new to us.”
A scoff answers his words. “You said you guys got together over eight months ago at the start of the school year.”
“Yeah, but we spent the next four-something months avoiding each other. Danny, you know what people would say if they knew we were each dating, like, three other people. This might be California, but no one here would be okay with it. Especially since it’s three other guys.”
This time he gets an eyeroll.
“And since when has that ever stopped you from doing what you wanted?”
The words make Jackson stop and think in a way he hasn’t since this whole madness started. Damn. Danny was right. Son of a bitch.
“Since just over eight months ago, I guess.”
Danny claps a hand on Jackson’s shoulder loudly, wry grin in evidence.
“Glad we had this talk, man. For the record, I still haven’t forgiven you.” The goalie stands. “For now, though, I’m gonna go wait on the bus while you guys get cleaned up. We will be talking about this later. When you aren’t, y’know, naked. Or leaking.”
Jackson has enough time to squawk indignantly before Danny turns on his heel and practically runs out of the locker room. Jackson hears a soft shuffling and whuffing sound behind him, and it’s then that he realizes that it’s Scott—now fully clothed—trying to contain his laughter.
“Shut up,” Jackson practically yells, pulling at his boyfriend’s arm towards the showers. “It’s your fault I have jizz dripping down my leg, so you’re gonna fucking help me clean it up. Asshole.”
“Jackson,” comes Isaac’s voice, and the tone of it sobers him immediately. He stops playing tug of war with Scott’s arm and instead crosses his own arms over his chest.
“Are you gonna be okay?” the taller blond asks, stalking forward and pressing a warm palm to Jackson’s cheek. Jackson nuzzles into the touch before he realizes what he’s doing, but the damage is already done: Isaac is grinning, though the worry is still there in the tautness around his eyes. Jackson sighs and drops his arms to his sides, pushing and leaning into Isaac’s outstretched hand.
“Yeah,” he says after a moment of thought. “Eventually. At least, I hope so.”