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Jackson is sick of this shit. He’s sick of the sad, pathetic looks Isaac shoots Scott across the room, the wounded puppy noises he makes every time he catches him kiss Kira out of the corner of his eye, and he’s sick of the tart, fermented smell of sadness perfuming off his skin day-to-day.
Why would anyone in their right mind be this sick over McCall? He’s short, naïve, and kind of dumb. No one’s noticed because he has Stiles at his side all the time who uses his wit the way Kira uses her sword; swift, stylish, and violent.
Jackson supposes Scott has other qualities. Good ones, but he couldn’t care less about them. He only cares about the shitty ones that have turned Isaac into a wet mop for the last few months, because he doesn’t get it.
Isaac is tall, cautiously optimistic, and smart. He has sky blue eyes like pools, wavy blonde hair that looks like valleys of wheat at dusk, and such a wide, inviting smile that Jackson tries not to stare at for longer than he should.
But he can’t help it.
He notices him.
He notices how when it’s his turn for "Pack Movie Night," he always picks something artsy, or foreign. Everyone but Stiles and Derek complains at first, but halfway through they’re either on the edge of their seat, or crying buckets of teas.
He notices how he always helps Stiles cook dinner and do the dishes. Without being asked.
He notices how he never snaps back at Erica when her teasing, and bullying, goes too far. He just leaves the room; tackling her shit with silence until Stiles lays into her and makes her apologize.
He notices when the tea jar is missing a bag because he had another nightmare, and he and Stiles stayed up all night talking about it until Isaac felt good enough to go back to bed.
He doesn’t know when he started noticing these things, simply that he does. That he gets it. Far better than Scott ever can. He knows Isaac, despite what he may think, he knows him. Understands him. And just needs the scarf-wearing hipster to let him in, the way he let Scott in. Only this time it’ll be different. This time Isaac will get everything he wants.
This time he’ll get kissed awake when the sun rises. He’ll get breakfast in bed, and foot rubs and trips to the new art gallery opening, open mic nights in noisy coffee shops, hugs for no reason, and sweet, throbbing love making that’ll last for hours but leave him humming for days.
Jackson would do that for him. He’d wipe away all traces of Scott McCall with a trail of kisses along his whole body. Hard hands that turn gentle, rolling him over on his stomach and spreading him open, licking him wet and loose with his tongue. A rock hard cock pushing past the entrance and breaching him, making him full and needy, until he’s nothing but cries and whimpers. The room smelling of them. Their cum, mingled together and scenting the air hot and ripe.
And Isaac will fall fast asleep tucked into Jackson’s arm as Jackson scratches his head until his heartbeat is steady with rest, deep in sleep.
And Isaac would wake up to Jackson reading the book Isaac’s been telling him about for months, and now he’s finally gotten to it. He’d watch Jackson for a minute then smile wide at him, teasing him about twist ending, pretending to spoil it for him. And Jackson would tackle him, rolling them around, naked and laughing.
He’d kiss him, soft and deliberate, like how the girl in the French film they watched last night kissed her lover, and made him shiver. He’d do that to Isaac. And they’d make love again, this time even slower, so Isaac can feel every drag of Jackson’s cock slide in and out of his pucker. He’d beg Jackson to go faster, harder, give him more and be brutal, because it’s too much. He’s feeling too much, of everything, and its all so overwhelming and scary and he’s exposed like a raw nerve. But Jackson keeps at it, slipping back and forth, feeling Isaac tighten around him then come all over his own stomach with Jackson’s name stuttering out of his mouth, and a tear rolling out of the corner of his eye.
He’d hold him afterward, when he’d come at the sight of his boy’s wet face and tingling body. He’d hold him, petting his hair and whispering ‘I love yous’ into his ear.
He’d rid Isaac completely of Scott, making him whole again. Holding his hand, sneaking kisses in corners, and fucking him under the heavy, fat moon.
He fantasizes about Scott happening upon them in the preserve while they run. All wide, dopey eyes and stammers as he’s rendered frozen in place by Jackson snapping his hips into Isaac, clamped down on his neck with a salacious bite that’ll leave a bruise for weeks.
He’d smile at him first, a wicked grin that tells Scott everything: “He’s mine. You didn’t deserve him,” then growl at his pack-brother, snarling for him to leave. Show’s over. You’ve seen what you lost and now you have to move on.
And Scott would, because he’s a coward that wouldn’t fight for the only thing worth fighting for. And Jackson is surprisingly grateful, because it makes Isaac all his.
He could be all his. He could keep him. They could keep each other, and be happy.
So, Derek calls them all out to the Preserve after dinner. They strip off their clothes, feeling suffocated in their garments under the full moon’s power.
Derek takes off, giving chase, moving like black lighting through the trees with hardly a sound as though he were a bird that took flight. The other wolves follow.
Isaac usually runs last, but Jackson nods toward the woods, telling him to go.
Isaac shrugs, shifts, and takes off into the darkness. Jackson grins, all predatory and lustful.
Because it’s always better when your prey gives chase. Makes the hunt that much more satisfying, and the capture even better.
He’ll have this. He’ll have Isaac. And keep him forever he thinks, as his eyes burn gold, looking for hair like valleys of wheat at dusk through shadowy brush and tall trees like buildings.
He’ll find him, bring him to the ground and lick into his wide mouth all the things he’s wanted to say for months now, but couldn’t find the words.
I’m better for you.
I’m the one you want.
I’ll make you happy.
I love you.