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Jackson has a lot going on.
Jackson likes being the guy who has a lot going on. It's interesting, and mysterious, and Jackson enjoys thinking about people gossiping, wondering what the captain of the lacrosse team is up to these days. He hears murmurs, girls wanting to know if he's dating anyone else yet, guys talking about his car, his ex-girlfriend, his clothes.
He knows they're jealous. He likes that.
Right now though, having a lot going on blows.
Right now he's got some creepy, trippy-ass, amnesia-riddled supernatural shit going on, and it's fucking with him. It's fucking with his image. It's getting harder and harder to use the cover up make-up stick Lydia forgot at his house a few months back to conceal the bags sweeping under his eyes. There's only so much blending he can do. There's only so much make-up can do.
He needs some distraction. He needs some good, teenage fun, and he needs to spend some time with someone who's not a werewolf or a werewolf hunter, or his immune to the bite ex, or fucking Stilinksi. He needs someone he can just chill with. Just hang out for a while. Failing that, he needs someone to throw a party so he can get wasted.
He grabs his cell, scrolls down, hits dial. “Hey, Danny? Yeah, it's me. Let's hang.”
Jackson thinks about calling Danny back once Danny agrees to come over, telling him bring his ID and stop by the store on his way, but they've got a match tomorrow night; Jackson wants them both on their best form. There's no need to show up hungover and give McCall even more space to show off. Instead, he texts Danny to tell him to let himself in and paces. Jackson does a lot of pacing these days, since he started waking up in the middle of taking midnight showers. He's restless and he's freaked out, and as long as he keeps moving, he can focus on that rather than how he's teetering on the edge of something and doesn't know what's waiting for him if he falls.
As soon as he hears the front door open, he arranges himself in a carefully lazy sprawl across his bed, pretending to be dicking around on his laptop as he yells for Danny to come on up.
Apparently it's just not convincing enough, because Danny takes one look at him and says with that I'm-not-prying-or-fussing-dude thread of concern in his voice, “Hey, what's up? You look... You're looking a little rough.”
Jackson laughs, sitting up, stretching his arms out as though he's been in one place for too long. “Oh, thanks man.”
Danny just pins him with a look, not taken in at all. “You look like shit.”
“I'm just – I'm getting pretty psyched for the game tomorrow, you know? It's a big one.” He closes his laptop. “Gotta get pumped.”
Danny nods, and Jackson is glad for every display of rampant perfectionism Danny's ever witnessed from him, because it means it holds up. “Did you wanna work out or something?”
“Yeah,” Jackson says. “No. I don't know, I think – we should probably keep rested for tomorrow? Do you wanna just hang? Wanna take the Porsche out somewhere, go for a ride, get out?”
“I don't know how you can end up going stir crazy in a house like this,” Danny says with a laugh, “but sure, whatever, that's cool.”
“Stir crazy,” Jackson repeats as he pushes himself up off his bed. He seizes on the phrase. “Yeah, it's something like that.” The idea of insanity is a whole lot less overwhelming with that sort of preface.
He feels better as soon as he's in his car. He knows his car. His car looks, smells and feels the way it should – beautiful, expensive, the engine purring – and has none of the mystery that's invaded his bedroom. This is him, driving the best car in town. It's him and his best friend, his iPod plugged into his top of the range speakers, the windows rolled down just enough to let in a breeze but not enough to mess with his hair.
He's still Jackson fucking Whittemore.
“Dude.” Danny has to half-shout to make himself heard over the music, and Jackson raises his eyebrows in acknowledgement. “Where are we even going?”
It pulls Jackson back to the moment, and he takes in where they are, their surroundings and not just the road. In truth, he doesn't have anywhere specific in mind. Beacon Hills isn't exactly a hive of activity. “Where do you wanna go?”
“What? I don't know.”
Jackson shrugs. “I'm just driving. Pick a place, any place.”
He keeps his eyes fixed on the road, but out the corner of his eye he can sense Danny twisting around, looking out the window. “Uh – okay. Take the next left?”
They wind their way down a couple of roads that make Jackson wince for his Porsche, and then they're in a part of Beacon Hills he's never been to before, way out in the wilderness but in the opposite direction to the Hale house. That's probably the reason Jackson was heading out this way in the first place. The trees here are planted more sparsely than around near Hale's. More sun filters through, everything tinged green from the leaves.
It's nice. When his life stops impersonating a bad horror movie, he thinks he'll bring his next hook up out here. He kills the engine, looks around and says, “Sweet setup. How do you know about this place?”
Danny gives him a little grin across the roof of the car as they get out, just shy of a smirk. “I was seeing this guy for a while, we came up here a couple times. It was nothing really,” he adds quickly in response to Jackson's questioning look – he didn't know Danny had been seeing anyone after the ex situation – and shrugs. “Didn't work out. Anyway, over here, look...” Jackson follows Danny's lead, picking his way through flattened undergrowth, not quite a path. They come to a clearing. “Good view, right?”
It is. Jackson can see the whole town from here, set out like a postcard, picturesque in the orange glow of the sun as it begins to set. Jackson forgets sometimes that Beacon Hills is a decent place to have grown up. It's taken a turn for the out of this world weird and dangerous in the last few months, and Jackson can't wait to graduate and take his money and his car and get the hell away from this place he's lived all his life, but seeing the town like this, he still can't resent it as much as he sometimes thinks he should.
“Wait.” Jackson checks the grass around him and then sits, satisfied he's not going to stain his pants with anything unfortunate. “Have you taken me to some gay make out point?” he asks. He raises his eyebrows. “Totally flattered and all, but...”
Danny rolls his eyes, grinning as he sits too, stretching his legs out in front of them in the grass. “You're not my type.”
At this point it's kind of like reciting lines from a play, they've had the conversation so many times. Jackson maintains that he really is everyone's type, has been hit on enough times by enough people that he's confident in that at least, but this time he pauses. “Why am I not your type?”
Danny looks at him. “What?”
“Seriously, man.” This is what Jackson needs – a moment of distraction, taking his mind off of himself for once. “What is your type? Do you really like Matt? Kind of glued to his camera all the time? Were you checking him out?”
Danny turns his attention back to the view. “He's just a cool guy.”
Jackson nods. He purses his lips, considering. “He's not even that hot.”
Danny laughs. “Were you checking him out, Jackson?”
“No.” Jackson frowns, then smooths his expression out. He does not need those worry lines. “I'm just saying. You could do better.”
Danny is looking at Jackson strangely, but he doesn't comment on the unusual subject matter. It's not that Jackson doesn't care, he met the ex, and they got on okay before he turned into a jackass and made Danny unhappy – it's just that Jackson spends a lot of his time talking about himself and his business or the team, and they're both used to that. “I'm just waiting for college, man. There's barely a scene here, especially with guys our age.”
“And you could do better than some old creep.” Jackson stretches his own legs out, kicks lightly at Danny's shin. “You're kind of hot shit, bro. No--”
“Shit, please don't say no homo,” Danny says. He shakes his head. He's almost definitely laughing at Jackson, but Jackson doesn't mind so much. He'll let Danny get away with it. “Whatever. It's not a big deal.”
“So why am I not your type?”
Danny frowns. “Can we not?”
“But look at me, dude.”
Danny looks at him. He looks a little pained.
“I'm hot shit too,” Jackson protests, and then grins.
“You're an asshole, is what you are,” Danny tells him, but Jackson can see his mouth twitching as he tries not to laugh. “That's why you're not my type.”
“So it's not my looks?” Jackson asks seriously.
Danny rolls his eyes. “No. You're hot shit too, you can chill.”
“I know. I'm kind of offended you keep going for these douchebags when I'm right here, man.”
“Oh my God. Shut up.”
This is the most relaxed Jackson has felt in a long time, the most normal, even with the edge of nerves in the pit of his stomach, a twisted feeling he can't pin down to one specific cause. He doesn't want to shut up. “We'd be hot together.”
Danny straightens up next to him. “Are you... Is this like, some sexuality crisis, Jackson? Just because I'm gay doesn't mean I'm an expert or anything.”
“Dude, I know I'm not gay,” Jackson says, and his stomach squirms some more, sending a rush through him not totally dissimilar to the buzz he feels right before a match. He's not sure where it's coming from; it's not relief, but it's close, secluded up here and a world away from the strangeness that plagues him at night. “Just – I'd be a way better option, that's all.”
“I don't know why we're having this conversation,” Danny says, “because you're not an option, are you?”
“Would--” Jackson swallows. His mouth is dry. He feels like he might be on the verge of freaking out, but it's for such a normal, teenage reason that he feels it from a distance, listening to the beating of his heart as though he's hearing it through a wall. “Would you want me to be an option?”
Danny sighs. “You're not my type because straight guys aren't my type, Jackson. You're good looking – you know you're good looking, don't even. But whatever, I'm not an idiot.”
“I want to be your type.”
Danny raises his eyebrows. “Jackson, you want to be everyone's type. You probably are for most people.”
“No, I...” Jackson doesn't know where this is coming from. Jackson has no idea, except Danny is the only person he can stand to be around these days and Danny deserves the best and Jackson is an asshole, but he's not the sort of asshole who will mess with his best friend. He wants to keep those assholes away. “I wanna be your type, I want you to have a better type than old guys and assholes.”
“Are you serious right now?”
“Fuck you, come on, you think I'd joke about this shit?”
“What--”
“Can I kiss you?” Jackson asks, the words stumbling over each other, and his heart is in his throat, but he still remembers to pitch his voice low, the rough mumble that always used to make Lydia bite her lip and then bite Jackson's.
He thinks there's a chance he's actually stunned Danny into silence, so instead of waiting he shuffles closer, wary of grass stains, and lifts his palm to Danny's cheek, presses their lips together. Danny's skin is smooth and his lips are soft, and for a moment it's not that different to every girl Jackson has ever kissed, warm and dry and good, a promise of something more.
Then Danny says, “You jerk,” and this is different, this is Danny's tongue into Jackson's mouth and Danny wrapping an arm around Jackson's waist in one smooth move, rolling them so he can press Jackson into the ground. With the exception of Lydia, girls don't tend to do that – girls don't have the strength, or they don't have the confidence, and it turns out Danny has plenty of both. Jackson slides his hands over the width of Danny's shoulders and kisses back, because he gives as good as he gets.
Danny is a good kisser, and Danny is thorough, and Danny knows Jackson well enough that he doesn't question it when Jackson spreads his legs and presses down on Danny's shoulders, encouraging him to rest more weight on him. Jackson scratches his blunt nails over the back of Danny's neck, fingertips brushing the ends of his hair, and Danny makes a low noise.
It's a dude noise, no two ways about it.
The nerves are twisting into something hotter.
They make out like that for a while. Jackson doesn't know how long, his sense of time sliding away under the wet heat of their mouths, the damp breaths passing between them, pants and soft moans – his mouth feels swollen when they pause for longer than just a second or two to breathe. “What did I tell you?” He's hard. Danny is hard. Jackson can feel it.
Danny groans, half the exasperated noise Jackson is used to, half something else. He presses his face into Jackson's neck, and the heat of his breath skating over Jackson's throat makes him shiver. “Stop talking, Jackson, Jesus.”
“Make me,” Jackson says without thinking about it, and then he is thinking about it, how many ways there are that Danny really could make him stop talking; he's the one groaning as Danny surges back in and kisses him again, dirty and open-mouthed.
Danny is a kisser. Jackson spreads his legs out wider. It's different, arching up and having a hard body pressing back into him, an even harder pressure between their legs as they rub together, and Jackson grinds up into it. He's seen Danny workout, and as he worms a hand between them, slides his hand up under Danny's shirt, he can feel the effects. He's admiring, envious and turned on all at once.
“I mean it,” Jackson says. He noses at the hinge of Danny's jaw, kisses the soft skin under his ear. “Make me, get in the car, can I blow you?”
Danny's hips shove down against him, hard, just once. His voice comes out rough. “Jackson--”
“I want to,” Jack says, and he does. “I've never done it before. Let me try, I'll make it good. Come on.”
Danny gapes down at him. “You're unreal.”
“Thank you,” Jackson says. “Car?”
He's tempted, once they're both standing, to shove Danny back against the car and kiss him again, but Jackson's not willing to risk the paint job. He opens the passenger door instead, leans in and reclines the seat right back, then steps back out of the way.
“Get in,” he prompts.
“Are you sure?”
“Danny.” Jackson fixes him with a stare. “Do you think I look unsure?”
Danny gets in the car.
Jackson pauses for a moment. He's sure he wants to do this, definite, right now, but not sure of the best way – but he's not given to hesitation, so he ducks down and climbs in after Danny, throws his leg over his thighs and settles into Danny's lap. It's the first time he's ever resented anything about his car, the top of his head brushing the roof even as he hunches over; there's not enough space to get comfortable until Danny leans back on the reclined seat, slides a hand up through Jackson's hair and pulls Jackson down on top of him.
This he could get used to, shifting around until the stick isn't digging into his thigh anymore, the teasing brush of Danny's mouth, a hint of teeth over Jackson's bottom lip and then the hot, wet slide of Danny's tongue against his own. It's hot – not just what's left of the sun shining in through the windshield and warming his back, but a heat that's building inside of him, pooling down low in his gut.
When he moves just right he can feel it again, how hard Danny is against his ass now.
“I want to blow you,” he repeats, and Danny says, completely sincere, “Fuck.”
And he nods.
Jackson hasn't thought it all the way through. He shuffles back as far as he can, feet down by the pedals, knocking his hip against the steering wheel – it's cramped as fuck, urging Danny's legs apart so he can lean down into the V of them and rest his hands on the waistband of Danny's pants. He's going to ache tomorrow like he does when he doesn't warm up before lacrosse, but Danny is staring down at him with wide, dark eyes, biting his lip, and it's worth it. Jackson would do a lot to keep people looking at him like that.
Jackson knows good head, knows from experience what makes it feel great. It doesn't matter that he fumbles with Danny's fly or that it's a struggle for them both to tug Danny's jeans far enough down his thighs. What matters is Danny's cock, straining against his underwear, the pale blue material lighter where it's stretched around the hard shape of him except for the darker spot that marks the head of his dick. Wet, Jackson thinks. Wet for him.
He licks his lips and above him, Danny lets out a shaky breath.
He cups the base of Danny's dick in his hand, feeling its heat, the shape of his balls, and leans in to taste that wet spot on his underwear. One small lick, the cotton rough against his tongue, and even that much is starkly different to a girl. Jackson tugs at the elastic of Danny's underwear and pulls it down just far enough for the head of his cock to spring free and then he bends his head again, tastes that too.
It's stronger, sharper. The taste reminds Jackson of the way his bed smells when he jerks off a lot before the sheets get changed. Then again, it could just be the smell – Jackson breathes in deep through his nose and licks a wet stripe over the head and is overwhelmed, just for a moment.
“Jackson,” Danny says softly, touching his hand briefly to Jackson's cheek, “Jackson,” and that's right. He's Jackson Whittemore, and he can do this, and he wants it, and so he gets Danny's cock out all the way and wraps his hand around the base, skin on burning skin.
He tries to go down too fast at first. Danny's pretty well-hung, hard in Jackson's hand; in Jackson's mouth he feels bigger, and Jackson's focusing so much on not letting his teeth get in the way that Danny's dick bumping against the roof of his mouth, closer to the back of his throat than he anticipated, doesn't make him gag but means he has to pull back fast, gasping in a damp breath.
Danny's cock is shining, precome and spit, dark and flushed, and Jackson licks his lips again. He feels a mess already. The whole thing is wetter than he thought it would be, going down on a dude. It's hotter, too. Jackson is acutely aware of the throb of his pulse through his whole body, how hard he is in his pants. His mouth is watering. He swallows. It doesn't feel like it does a lot, so he wraps his lips back around the head of Danny's cock and swallows again, sinking down a little lower – slower this time – as he does it.
Danny groans. Under Jackson's other hand, his thigh twitches, like he's focusing hard on not thrusting up, and Jackson appreciates the discipline, whether it's from all the lacrosse training and working out or it's just because Danny gets a lot of play. Jackson slides right up so he can rub his tongue over the head again, tastes a fresh drop of precome, and then tries to get a rhythm going, not quite bobbing his head but movement, at least, taking in as much as he can and wishing he could take more.
Next time, he thinks, distantly, and his dick throbs, leaking in his boxers, and he doesn't even register that he's moaning at the thought around the dick in his mouth until Danny swears from the vibrations.
It's messy. It sounds messy, sounds like porn before the fake moans drown the rest of the noise out. Jackson drools; he's obviously unpractised, so clearly not the expert he made out he could be. His chin feels so wet he could be going down on a girl – except he couldn't because that's nothing like this, a whole other world – but his spit on Danny's cock means he can move his fist in time with his mouth and the slide is easy, slick, and each time he swallows now the taste of Danny is stronger and his own spit in his mouth feels a little thicker, like a hint of what's to come.
“Jackson,” Danny gasps. His voice is low, rough, strangled – Jackson has never heard him sound like that before, not in all the years they've been friends. “Jackson, fuck, look at me,” and until that moment Jackson hadn't even realised he'd closed his eyes. He opens them, cuts his gaze up to Danny's face and takes in how he looks. He's flushed, beads of sweat around his hairline. He looks the way he does after a hard workout, except his lips are bitten red and swollen from kissing, and he's staring down at Jackson like he's never seen anything like him.
Jackson knows it's a getting-his-dick-sucked look, the expression of awe and ecstasy any guy has when there's a hot, wet mouth on him, but it sends a low rush of pleasure surging through him anyway. Danny looks like that because of him; it's Jackson who's making him feel so good, his occasional inexperienced chokes and pauses included.
“Jackson.” And now Danny sounds choked, and his hands are fists down by his sides like he doesn't dare touch Jackson. Jackson wishes he would, wishes he knew how to say it - you can pull my hair, Danny, I want you to fuck my mouth - but it's still his first time, after all, and so instead he just pulls off with a wet, sucking noise.
“Come in my mouth,” he says, because he wants him to, because it's hot, because it's not like he can risk getting Danny's come on the upholstery of his Porsche – and Danny swears even more roughly and cups Jackson's cheek with a hand so gentle that Jackson's eyes flutter shut again as he leans into it. When Jackson speaks, his lips brush Danny's cock.
“I – I'm gonna,” Danny manages to gasp out. His voice sounds almost as wrecked as Jackson, as though he's been sucking dick too. It's a warning, a last chance for Jackson to back off if he changes his mind, but he's going to do this right. He sucks, and sucks harder, and then he feels it as Danny comes against his tongue, swallowing on instinct against the thick, overwhelming taste, bitter and unpleasant but so much like sex that Jackson doesn't care about the taste at all.
He doesn't catch all of it before he pulls off. He coughs, then licks his lips and tastes it even more where the last spurt has caught on his bottom lip, and his whole mouth feels stretched, raw and used in ways it never has before.
It's all that's in his mind. He's reduced down to feelings, purely physical, the ache in his jaw and how hard he is, a desperation shaking its way under his skin. He presses his face into Danny's thigh, breathing deeply, still smelling him, smelling sex, newly aware of the cramped space he's twisted himself into, and Danny runs a hand through his hair. Danny strokes his hair, and Jackson moans softly, muffled in the denim of Danny's jeans.
This is it – this is what he's needed.
He's panting. When Danny curls his hands around his shoulders and urges him back up, Jackson goes easily. Danny's palms are warm, his hands large, and he slides them up to cup Jackson's face and kisses Jackson like he doesn't give a shit about the taste of his own come.
Danny's not inexperienced, that much is clear. Danny unbuttons Jackson's pants one-handed and takes hold of his cock in a sure fist. He jerks him off with quick, steady strokes, grip tight enough to get Jackson's toes curling in his shoes, the heat surging through him. Danny pauses to lick his palm to ease the slide of his hand and rubs his thumb through the precome gathering at the head, and Jackson comes all over Danny's hand far too goddamn fast with a shout and a snap of his hips, with his mouth open and panting damply against Danny's neck, sweat gathering at his temples, across the small of his back.
“What did I tell you?” Jackson's words come out slurred, lazy and fucked out. “I'm a good type.”
Danny laughs.