#queenitsy

This isn’t just another house party, though. Danny doesn’t throw these often, so he was obligated as Danny’s best friend to show up, police a bit, and, later, clean up. Still, that means that while Danny keeps everyone holed up in his little half-finished basement, the rest of the house is open to Jackson and Jackson only. At least he knows the house enough, knows Danny’s parents enough, to go into the adjoining bathroom, crouch down by the sink, and—aha.

Jackson pulls a bottle of brandy from the back of the cabinet and sighs, relieved.

There are only, like, three or so gulps left, but they go down quick and nice with a burn that warms his chest and stomach and fingertips. He settles on the toilet, the bottle clutched in his barley-sticky hands, and breathes, slow, from his nostrils. He closes he eyes.

Peace.

“Come on, quick!”

Jackson starts from his pleasant doze.

“Lock the door,” comes the voice again in a whisper too loud to be quiet. It’s not Danny’s voice, Jackson realizes after a moment, and is, in fact, a girl’s, and that directs Jackson through the fuzziness for a distance. Not far enough to make much use of himself beyond sitting up and licking his lips to say something, though. Then he fails even that and stops.

Breaths trail through the bathroom doorway, the soft, wet noises of sloppy drunk kisses. When Jackson looks, the bedroom is darker than he remembers, the sun having set at some point while he was out, but the street lights stream in from the windows, thick and yellow. Just enough for him to make out the two shadows pressed close enough to become one, and, when the girl tilts her head to stick her tongue down his throat, just a bit of the face of the guy she’s with.

He realizes, then, that if either of them turned now, turned to look at the only source of light in the room, they would see him, perched primly on the toilet, a sweaty grip on an empty bottle. He almost laughs, almost because as funny as it would be to turn these assholes in to Danny for fucking in his parents’ bedroom, he’s not exactly shitfaced enough to not care about getting caught shitfaced.

Right? Right.

So he sits, still, quiet. He watches.

“Wait, hold on,” the guy stumbles once his chick gets a good handful of his ass. He pulls back, streetlights painting the fluff of the hair curled over his forehead and sharp curve of cheek, but leaving both of their faces in shadow. “Are you sure about this?”

Jackson huffs.

“Are you sure about this?” the girl wheedles with a laugh. The tone is familiar enough that Jackson thinks he might know her. Maybe one of Lydia’s friends, the ones who claw after him, sharp-toothed, now that they’re broken up.

“I just—” the guy insists.

“I know,” the girl says, kinder. “As long as we’re quick and don’t get caught—”There’s the creaking of a leather belt being twisted. A gasp. “I’m good.”

“Good,” the guy murmurs, huskier. He surges forward with hands and lips and the girl returns the gestures in kind, tugging at her boyfriend’s belt with familiar clinking noises.

He’s a bit lax with the thing, and Stiles points out some of the language is questionable, but he’s desperate enough to know he can’t be choosy. He twiddles his thumbs waiting for a response and it’s not until towards the end of the month that someone calls. And that’s how he ends up with Jackson Whittemore, an amateur actor who shows up for the initial meeting and tour in short shorts and aviators and a suitcase like he plans to move in right then and there. Which he does.

Now while it’s nowhere near as awesome as rooming with Stiles, things for the most part are good. Jackson pays his cut of the rent on time, keeps shared space clean tidy (and makes sure Scott does, too), and he responds graciously to the embarrassing as fuck comments Scott’s mom leaves on his Facebook selfies. He can be prickly at times, and they honestly don’t have that much to talk about, but Scott can live with that. So after a month or so of comfortable coexistence, it’s only the neighborly thing, Scott thinks, to invite Jackson to the Stilinskis’ Fourth of July barbecue.

He’s surprised Jackson agrees. On the drive down, though, he starts to regret asking. Not that anything bad happens between them. Jackson works late the day before—doing whatever it is he does as an actor—so they wake early the morning after and make a straight shot for Beacon Hills in Jackson’s sweet Porsche, Scott switching in at the wheel for the last stretch. And, as far as road trips with relative strangers go, it’s not as life-changing as indie films paint them out to be. They keep the radio cranked and while Jackson makes faces with every pop song Scott sings along to, Scott grins when he catches him mouthing Lana Del Rey behind his dark aviators.

Once they pull up behind Laura’s Camaro, though, Scott realizes just how cool Jackson looks in his dark sunglasses, coifed hair, and white button-down with more buttons undone than done. He suddenly turns back into that awkward asthmatic fifteen-year-old that wheezed behind the rest of the lacrosse team on suicide runs, because, yeah, the people in his life are totally amazing, without a doubt, but they’re also super dweebs, too. And did he mention that his mom comments on his roommate’s half-naked bathroom selfies? Because she does that.

His mom doesn’t completely embarrass him, but she does drag Jackson into a bear hug before introductions can be made and spills beer all over him. Just when Scott invites the ground to swallow him up, Stiles bursts forward, demanding to see his replacement. He skids to a stop though once he sees Jackson and mumbles through greetings, arm like a wet noodle when Jackson shakes his hand. He gapes outright when Jackson jokingly introduces himself as Scott’s houseboy, which Scott laughs off.

Scott’s mom drags Jackson over to meet the rest of the gang and Stiles drags Scott towards the house. Once Stiles’ bedroom door slams shut behind them, he starts to pace and demands to know where he found that.

“Craigslist, remember?”

“I knew you made it sound too much like a personal ad,” Stiles moans into his hands.

“If you’re talking about the ‘houseboy’ thing, he was joking, dude—”

“Was he?” Stiles hisses. “Tell me you know who that fucking is.”

Scott blinks for a long second. “…He’s my roommate?”

“Oh my god, you’ve got to know, Scott! You’ve got to know who he is. How don’t you know?” Stiles yells, shaking Scott by his collar.

“You’ve totally lost me.”

Stiles releases Scott with a weary sigh. “Seriously, what am I going to do with you? Think, where’ve you seen cheekbones like that before?”

Scott’s brow furrows.

“Facebook? Instagram? TV? He is an actor,” he says when Stiles throws up his arms.

“Of course he’s a fucking—Just imagine him on his knees, covered in jizz and surrounded by dick.”

Scott stares at Stiles, dumbfounded and a little horrified. But then his mind flips back through every porn vid he and Stiles ever watched together, thigh-to-thigh on the twenty-five cent yard sake couch Jackson tossed out last week, and he lands on a particular Tuesday night and a particular video. HOT young twink gets HOSED. Come thick and sticky eyelashes and splashing across razor-sharp cheekbones and squirting between full, pink lips. A speaker-scratchy, “Yeah, fucking give it to me,” echoes in Scott’s brain, and he has to grope for Stiles’ desk chair before he fucking collapses.

“Oh my fucking god.”

“Right?”

“Holy shit.”

“Right?!”

Scott leaps from the chair. “Stiles!”

“Scott!” Stiles shakes Scott by the shoulders. “You’re rooming with Porsche fucking Ryder, you lucky piece of dick!”

Scott slaps his hand over Stiles’ mouth, and then the other for good measure. They stay like that for a moment, panting, eyes wild.

“Shut up,” Scott says very carefully before he wipes Stiles’ spit off his hand and makes his way back to the party, determined to, well, not flip the fuck out.

See thing is, that video was forty-four minutes long. The first time around, Scott lasted, like, the first six. Stiles fucking lost it when the first dick blew over Porsche Ryder’s face. (No, Jackson’s face, because doesn’t need a side-by-side comparison to know it’s him.) It took Scott and Stiles every night of the rest of that week to reach the end of that video, to come-drenched Porsche Ryder’s wicked hot cumshot, and they’d high-fived sticky, sweaty, lube-y hands afterwards in victory.

For a time, Porsche Ryder was, like, the important thing.

But that had been a year ago, before Malia walked into Stiles’ Microeconomics tutoring session  and Scott was paired with Kira in his summer internship at a local animal clinic. Porn took the back burner to real, tangible relationships.

When Scott and Stiles make it back to the party, of course they find Jackson in the middle of the yard, shrugging off his shirt to the perky nipples underneath. Stiles’ dad holds out a replacement shirt—“Oh no, Dad, not that, anything but that,” Stiles moans—out to him. Jackson thanks the Sheriff with that charm of his, but glares daggers down at the ugly orange and navy polo. He looks up then and catches Scott’s eye.

And Scott? Scott could fucking die.

Despite the embarrassment he feels every time he looks at Jackson, the rest of the celebration goes smoothly and towards the evening they head to Beacon Hills High School for the fireworks show. Erica and Laura warm up to Jackson right quick, the three of them teasing and poking fun at everything and everyone, and Cora throws stones of her own because she decidedly does not like Jackson. Jackson and Isaac recognize each other from grade school, before Jackson moved out of their old neighborhood. Scott is, admittedly, nervous when Jackson socializes with Allison, his ex, but surprisingly can’t find any anger or jealousy when Jackson makes her laugh.

But that could be because he sees Jackson preen under Peter’s attention, all snake-smile and gold chain and too much chest hair. Scott also doesn’t miss Jackson sliding a shade close to Boyd and blatantly ignoring the clear buffer zone Derek put between himself and everyone else. If Scott were one to comment on such things, he’d say Jackson has a type. His mom, of course, makes sure to loudly declare this find to Laura. Erica cackles the loudest out of everyone when Boyd and Derek look at each other and Jackson just shrugs.  

Eventually, Allison shows up and nudges Scott out of his fixation and they leave Stiles to his drooling to wander off and catch up. (He’ll always love her, he knows he will, but they’re just not the people they were before, and he gets that. He still misses her, though, as a friend, and it’s rare for them to meet up when she’s hopping towns and states and countries with her parents, following the family business.)

The fireworks come and go and all in all it’s very nice. It’s not until Scott’s mom suggest he and Jackson spend the night in Beacon Hills that everything from a few hours ago rushes back to him. Before Scott can decide which option is the better of two evils, Jackson mentions that he has work—whatever that might be, Scott thinks again with a new sense of curiosity—and makes the decision for them. Scott leaves Beacon Hills just as anxious as he arrived, but for entirely new reasons. They drive in silence this time, Jackson switching in for the last leg, and when they push back into the flat, Jackson thanks him for the invite and calls it a night. When Scott gets into his own room, he leans against the door and counts to fifty.

He makes it to, like, thirty before he boots his laptop and shamefully opens every Porsche Ryder bookmark he’s ever made.

The shitty thing about year-old bookmarks is the links are more often than not dead. Licensed porn vids on free porn sites have a short shelf life as it is. So Scott goes to bed that night with his hands firmly planted under his pillow, because without the videos, jacking off now feels a lot more like jacking off to Jackson instead of the safer Porsche Ryder. Stiles moans to him about it the next day, but Scott figures it’s for the best. Lines have to be drawn.

Now in the month or so they’ve lived together, Jackson has never once brought someone back to the flat. Scott’s not complaining at all, but after watching Jackson work the room like a stripper on a pole, he waits for the other shoe to drop.

It finally does one day when Scott pushes into the flat and catches Jackson with someone. Though, not just someone, but a dainty strawberry-blonde with fuchsia lipstick and too-high heels. She introduces herself with a firm handshake as Lydia Martin, a mathematician and astrophysicist as well as Jackson’s longtime girlfriend. She’s been in France for the past three months—“For fun, not work,” she says primly—and would Scott be quiet, please, they’re just getting to the best part of the movie. Scott watches in equal parts amazement and confusion as Lydia curls up with Jackson and hits play on the Notebook.

When he mentions the find to Stiles over Skype, Stiles isn’t surprised.  Disappointed maybe, but not surprised. “Of course he’s gay for pay,” he says mournfully. He’s confident, though, that no totally arrow-straight dude can take dick like Jackson can. He has to be bi.

“I don’t think a guy who take dick period is one hundred percent straight,” Scott points out.

“Exactly,” Stiles says with intent and he grins.

So while the links to Jackson’s old videos have been taken down with no torrents in sight, Stiles did uncover the film studio Jackson worked for and they still sell the DVDs he’s in. “But before you pull out that wallet,” (Scott wasn’t. Really.), “I’ll do you one better.”

A porn site has been hosting Jackson’s new video series, apparently. He’s a camboy now, a downgrade if anything, but his latest video from three days ago has already racked up over a hundred thousand hits.

“Wow.”

“Yeah, dude, it’s insane.”

Stiles also links him to Jackson’s Tumblr, full of quick ‘n’ dirty video clips and pics far better than what he posts on Facebook.

Still Stiles isn’t finished, because guess what, Jackson has a show tonight.

But Scott can’t tonight. He has plans to hang out with Kira and some of the folks from the animal clinic. Stiles pushes Scott to get out of it, because come on, dude, don’t you want to see what he does when you’re gone? Or, fuck, heart it live? After some soul-searching and negotiations with his neglected dick, Scott shamefully cancels on Kira and tries to shake off her disappointment as he hunkers down for the night.

(The thing about Scott and Kira is they aren’t off and on like him and Allison were. Scott’s not sure if they’re on at all, or if they’ve ever been on. It’s been a year of dancing around each other and making out, like, every once in a while, but no one ever scores. Basically, they’re the polar opposite of Stiles and Malia.)

So he scrolls through Porsche Ryder’s Tumblr as he waits, suddenly mindful of the pics of Jackson naked and twisted on the sheets with tag lines like, “No video tonight; my roommate has a friend over,” and, “Have to keep quiet. Don’t want to wake my roommate. Or do I? ;)” It’s like a whole secret life being lived around him.

Jackson’s on the phone when he bursts into the apartment, shouting, and it takes a second and a name for Scott to realize he’s shouting at his girlfriend. He learns that, for all his charm, Jackson is kind of a grade-A asshole. Before Scott can ponder this, though, Jackson’s bedroom door opens and closes and the link to the stream pops up on Tumblr. There are already forty viewers when Scott goes in and he watches the number climb steadily until Stiles’ old bedroom lights up onscreen and Porsche slides into view with that easy grin of his.

Porsche lies back in the pillows and spends the next twenty minutes fucking himself with an  inhumanly thick dildo. (“I’ve had such a long, hard day,” he purrs, and it’s so cheesy, even coming from him, but who cares about that when Porsche whines and his hole twitches around silicone.) After Porsche’s balls clench and he shows off the splooge sliding down his stomach to the camera, the stream ends and Scott lets his head fall back. He sits there for a moment, sticky and fiercely satisfied. Then his ringtone blares and he scrambles to answer his phone.

“Did you fucking see that?!” Stiles screeches.

“Hell yeah,” Scott whispers, putting the phone back to his ear. “Hell yeah, I totally did, and I—” He hears Jackson leave his room. “—have to go, bye.”

Scott goes still and catalogues Jackson’s movements. Once he hears the familiar hiss of the shower, Scott gives himself a quick tissue clean up and crawls into bed.

He wakes the next morning, bleary-eyed but rested, to find Jackson frying eggs on the stove, the most cooking Scott’s ever seen him do. He’s further surprised when Jackson offers to share with a casual, “I didn’t even hear you come in last night,” and a tiny smirk. Scott flashes back to the night before, not to the livestream, but to the argument he overheard, and remembers how outright nasty Jackson had been to Lydia. He realizes there’s this distinction between the charming, flirty pornstar Porsche and his ornery, prickly roommate Jackson.

Scott politely declines. And when he heads out to the clinic, he sees a hint of Jackson in the look shot his way.

It’s a little awkward after that, and they live around each other for a few days, until Jackson invites Scott on a night out with his friends. To repay him for Fourth of July. Eager for things to return to what they had been, Scott agrees and invites Kira along with them.

At the club, Jackson’s friend Danny waves them over and, of course, who should Lydia be in a heated conversation with but fucking Allison. Scott side-eyes Jackson, thinking maybe he’d planned this because he’s not quite sure what Jackson’s capable of now, but Jackson looks about as thrilled as he does. There is no foul play, actually. Allison and Lydia met in Paris a month ago—(Allison for work and Lydia for, as she said, not work)—and had hit it off well.

“Not too well, I hope,” Jackson says. Lydia smiles thinly when he kisses her neck.

Scott is unsure what to do as far as introducing Kira and Allison, but they genuinely seem to like each other. Besides, Allison’s attention is on Lydia and vice versa which, for Scott, is a relief.

It isn’t to Jackson though.

Scott watches Jackson grow increasingly irritated until Jackson finally stomps off toward the dance floor with Danny in tow. He doesn’t announce where he’s going and outright ignores Lydia when she asks, and while she seems to brush it off, the smug smile she wears falters.

“Do you want to dance?”

Kira tugs Scott’s arm and though his stomach churns, he goes with her. He neglected her for most of the night.

At the end of the night, they all meet up to say their farewells. Except for Jackson and Danny. Danny eventually turns up and confirms that Jackson’s staying longer, which sucks since he was Scott and Kira’s ride. Lydia is absolutely livid, but lets Allison shuffle her towards her car, and Danny shrugs and offers Scott and Kira a ride home.

The car ride to Kira’s is mostly silent and their goodbye is sweet but swift. The rest of the trip is infinitely less awkward, enogh so that Scott asks Danny if that happens a lot, the whole Jackson/Lydia thing. Danny sighs and says, yeah, ever since high school. And it’s only gotten worse with Jackson’s, uh, job.

Scott can’t help but laugh. “And here I thought dating a porn star would be awesome.”

Danny’s brows glances at him in the rearview. “He told you.”

“No,” admits Scott, “My friend and I recognized him.”

Danny nods, but that’s the end of the discussion on that topic. When he drops Scott off, he imparts, “Fucking a porn star is great. Dating one is just straight up masochism.” He drives off and Scott goes up to bed.

Scott wakes forty minutes later to giggling and slamming doors. For a sleepy second he thinks they’re getting robbed until he hears Jackson’s door open and bodies hit the bed. He rolls on his belly and pushes his nose into his pillow.

Against his better judgment, he rubs one out to Jackson getting fucked a wall over.

When Scott wakes the next morning, the flat is silent except for the shower running. He reaches into the bathroom for his toothbrush when Jackson’s head peeks out from the shower curtain and asks if Scott can make himself scarce today. Lydia is coming over. Scott readily agrees. He doesn’t to be anywhere close when shit goes down.

Scott spends the day at the clinic with Kira, cleaning litter boxes and walking dogs and administering medicine. When he returns to the apartment, he bumps into a hysterically sobbing Lydia. He almost turns on his heel, but steps into his flat instead, unsure of what he’ll find.

When Scott opens the door, he finds the apartment in one piece, just as clean and orderly as he left it. And Jackson sits in the middle of it all, attention to his laptop. Had Scott been just a minute later, had he missed Lydia altogether, he wouldn’t have figured anything was out of the norm. Except when he really looks, Jackson’s still red from neck to ears, blotchy as the flush dies away. The environment is unsettling, the quiet not so much silence as it is the absence of noise. The anti-chaos of it all drives Scott take the trash bag from the bin as and excuse to get the fuck out of there.

Scott finds Lydia outside of the apartment, sitting on the curb and sobbing, and the two of them have a heart to heart. Scott opens up about his relationship with Allison, how even though truly love and care for each other, they just don’t work anymore. They became different people after high school and decided they needed different things. Sometimes it’s as simple as that.

He can’t say much about Lydia and Jackson’s relationship, because he just doesn’t know, but he’s seen and heard enough to figure that Lydia’s better off. She’s doing amazing things for herself; it seems to Scott that Jackson’s holding her back.

“Don’t let him get to you,” he says, patting her hand.

Lydia’s eyeliner streaks over her cheeks, but she manages a smile. “Don’t let him get to you, either.”

She leaves (to Allison’s of course) and Scott heads upstairs absolutely fuming, which is not something that happens often. He almost never gets this angry. But when he finds Jackson still on the couch, curled into himself with his legs tucked under him, that fury just dissipates. Scott instead offers to put a movie on and is surprised when Jackson nods.

He pops in Back to the Future and they watch in companionable silence until Jackson starts to spill about his relationship with Lydia. How they’ve always done this break-up, make-up bullshit, ever since high school.

“Do you think you’ll get back together?” Scott asks at length.

Jackson twists his hands together. “Not this time,” he says.

Scott’s unimpressed by how Jackson’s trying to paint himself as a victim, but he knows what it’s like to lose a high school sweetheart and gives Jackson the same spiel he gave Lydia.

“Allison knows what I’m talking about. She’ll take good care Lydia,” he assures.

“Yeah, that was the problem,” Jackson mutters.

Suddenly that anger—that disgust—rushes back and Scott points out that Jackson’s a fucking porn star. He shouldn’t get on Lydia’s case for sleeping with someone else when he brings guys back to the apartment. It’s a shitty double standard.

Scott realizes he just revealed that he knows about Jackson’s real job, but Jackson doesn’t appear to care. He instead argues that there’s a difference between fucking, especially for his job, and entering another serious relationship, because whatever Lydia and Allison have is a lot more than casual sex. Worked up, Jackson storms out, slamming the door behind him.

His exit is a relief. When Scott goes to his room and wakes his laptop from sleep mode, he finds he still has Porsche Ryder’s Tumblr pulled up, on a recent picture of Porsche: it’s a dark webcam selfie, illuminated only by the blue light of a computer screen, and Porsche smiles at the camera, all fucked-out and pleased.

(“Good night :)”)

Scott closes his laptop. He hates how the picture still does something for him.

Hours later, there’s a knock at the door. It’s Danny, hauling a drunk Jackson with him. Danny tucks Jackson into bed and comes out to apologize to Scott, as well as congratulate him on calling Jackson out on his shit. Apparently it’s all Jackson talked about at the bar. Scott’s not sure what to say to that, and after Danny finishes the drink Scott offers him, he leaves.

Scott wakes in the middle of the night to someone crawling into his bed, pressing up tight against his back. Semi-conscious, he instinctively pushes up into the hand that reaches over his hip to cup his dick. Then reality crashes into him and he grabs the hand before it can worm its way into his sweats.

“What—” He turns and blinks and Jackson looks back at him. “No,” he says firmly, “Jackson, no.”

Jackson looks like he might protest, but relents and silently retreats from the room. Scott falls back into the pillows, not shaken or weirded out or anything he should be. Instead, he feels calm, maybe a little disappointed, and his erection doesn’t go away. Then he just feels gross.

The next morning they meet in the living room. Just when Scott’s about to bolt, Jackson blurts that he can move out if Scott wants him to. It’s surprising; Jackson’s not someone to take responsibility for anything he does. Scott considers it, asking Jackson to leave. It would definitely be a relief, he thinks, until he remembers the approaching end of the month.

“I’m not going to kick you out,” Scott says. “You’re going through a lot right now; I get that. You’re weren’t yourself.”

Scott swears Jackson flinches at that last sentence.

After a moment, Jackson nods. “Okay.”

“Cool.” Scott offers his hand and waits for Jackson to shake it. “Just, uh, lay off the heavy drinking for a bit, and we should be good.”

So things are a little tentative between them, but not terrible. Jackson is on his best behavior: he’s nicer, less prickly, and at least feigns interest in Scott’s life. Though Scott suspects it’s to cancel out the wave of people Jackson brings home nights. Scott doesn’t particularly appreciate it, but he figures Jackson needs to do what he needs to do to cope. Scott was a pathetic mess when things ended with Allison—Stiles could attest to that—and he did some things he isn’t proud of. Again, everyone copes differently.

Scott tells Stiles about those two days and his reaction isn’t what Scott wants, but is exactly what is to be expected from Stiles.

“You actually turned him down?” Stiles squawks. “He practically had his hands down your pants!”

Scott scrubs his face. “It wasn’t right, dude, he was totally wasted.”

“Right,” Stiles sighs, slumping in his seat. His expression turns thoughtful. “Are you even interested in him? I mean, you watch his vids and stuff, but do you, you know, actually want to—” Fuck him, do you want to fuck him, Scott?

“No, I don’t,” Scott says quickly.

Stiles’ eyebrows shoot up, but he nods.

Scott’s not sure why, but he just has this horrible, sinking feeling. So when the night of Porsche’s next live stream comes around, he makes plans to go to dinner and a movie with Kira instead. The date is nice and ends at Kira’s place, in her bed, because of course they’ve been on, they’ve always been on. Kira was waiting for Scott to make the first move, but he just didn’t. And he doesn’t know why.

When he returns to the flat early the next morning, he finds Jackson in Spiderman boxers which, yes, is a little odd, but he brushes it off until who should poke his head out from the bathroom, toothbrush hanging from his mouth, but fucking Stiles.

For a moment, Scott can only stare. Jackson looks between them, then sighs and kicks Stiles out of the bathroom so he can shower.

“You live six hours away,” is all Scott can think to say.

Stiles shrugs a shoulder, sheepish. “You said you weren’t gonna go for him,” he says like it’s an explanation.

“That didn’t mean you could,” Scott almost blurts, but realizes what that could mean and swallows it. “It’s just a little weird,” he says absently.

Stiles’ face twists like he might apologize, but Scott claps him on the shoulder before he can and congratulates him.

(“You seriously drove six hours to have sex with my roommate?”

“For that?” Stiles nods his head at the bathroom door where the shower’s still running. “Hell fucking yeah, man.”)

Stiles promises to tell him about it later, but now he has to hit the road, which he admits is super shitty of him, but he promises the next time he’s in town, he’s all Scott’s. As strange as it is, Scott doesn’t feel sick or betrayed or grossed out or any of the things he suspects he should feel. Instead he just feels a little jealous, which is the shittiest thing in the world, but he can’t help it. He looks forward to whatever Stiles will tell him about fucking Jackson.

It’s sort of the beginning of the end for Scott.

He avoids Porsche Ryder’s Tumblr, his live streams. He tries to throw himself into his work, into Kira, but when it’s not enough, he scrambles for something else to distract him. He comes back home one day, obviously tense and anxious, and Jackson, in a rare show of concern, offers to help. Scott hesitates when Jackson leads him to his room, but Jackson just brings him to the open window and offers an old Marlboro pack filled with hand-wrapped joints.

They smoke a joint between them in an easy sort of silence and it’s kind of a bonding moment. When Jackson flicks the roach away, they tentatively start to open up to each other, about their parents and home lives and childhoods and friends. Scott learns Jackson’s favorite movie is actually Back to the Future. He also loves Twinkies and swimming and once he fucked himself with his own dick.

“Auto-penetration,” he purrs, laughing at Scott’s aghast face.

Jackson talks about getting into porn, about how good it makes him feel. He even asks if Scott ever considered getting into the business—they like expressive, sweet-faced guys like him. He combs his fingers through Scott’s hair and smiles a smile that—that isn’t Porsche Ryder’s at all. Just Jackson’s.

Scott’s breath shakes when Jackson leans into his space, but he jerks back from Jackson’s kiss.

“We can’t.”

“Why not?”

Because Scott wants this, he wants this so bad, but he remembers Lydia, her parting words: “Don’t let him get to you, either.”

And Jackson’s starting to get to him.

See, the problem for Scott is Jackson is dangerous. Not like physically dangerous (Scott hopes), but, well, consider a year ago when he and Stiles first discovered Porsche Ryder. The infatuation was intense for the both of them, but also super quick. One moment it’s all the two of them would talk about, and the next Scott couldn’t even recognize the guy after living with him for a month.

This thing with Jackson is different, though. Slower and more subversive. Like Jackson’s crawling under his skin and fusing into his bloodstream and rewiring his brain. When Jackson’s there, Scott almost forgets a time when he wasn’t, when fucking him wasn’t always in the back of his mind.

Kicking Jackson out starts to look like the better option, but the more time passes, the less Scott wants to do it. And the worst part—the grossest part—is Scott starts watching Porsche’s videos again, avidly, almost addictively, though he never comments during streams or makes a Tumblr to save his favorite of Porsche’s posts. As quiet as he tries to be, he’s still horribly sure that Jackson knows, that every time Porsche looks into the camera and lets nameless guys fuck him up against the window where they smoked and spoke together, it’s some secret message to Scott.

You could be here. This could be you.

His paranoia is confirmed when Jackson sits close and smiles and asks, offhandedly, “So what did you think of last night’s show,” and Scott’s mouth, damn it, answers, “That guy was a d-bag.” Scott freezes, coffee mug halfway to his mouth.

“Who do you think would be better?” Jackson asks placidly.

Scott bolts. And ends up in Kira’s arms.

(Scott knows it’s wrong, that he’s the absolute worst person for using Kira like this, but she feels like his only link to reality, sometimes. He feels most like himself, his old self, when he’s with her. She’s a safe place from Porsche Ryder and whatever other personas Jackson Whittemore might have.)

But no matter how much Kira clears his mind, it gets cluttered up again when he returns to the flat with this desperate want.

Scott first Skypes Stiles.

“Tell me not to fuck my roommate.”

“Don’t fuck your roommate,” Stiles parrots obediently. He pauses. “Unless, I mean—”

Scott hunts Danny down at his bartending job.

“Yell me not to sleep with Jackson.”

Danny shrugs. Maybe you should. Get it out of your system.”

Scott pounds on Lydia’s door, but hesitates when Allison answers. He lets her usher him inside, into a dining chair across from Lydia, but he can’t get the words out. Lydia lets nothing past her, though.

“You did it, didn’t you?”

Scott goes red when Allison turns to him, eyebrows raised. He hates that she knows.

“I didn’t,” he says slowly, swallowing the, “Not yet.”

Lydia nods primly, taking a sip of her iced tea. “Good. Don’t.”

And for some reason, that alone feels enough.

Until his phone vibrates and a pic of Jackson making out with some guy, right next to that damned window, flashes on his screen.

Too much of a d-bag for ya?

Scott shoots out of his seat and says his goodbyes, pointedly avoiding Lydia’s thin-lipped disapproval. He tells himself that he’s not going to do it, he’s not, he is not, even as he races his way to the apartment building, up the stairs, and right into Jackson’s room.

The guy from the pic flips off of Jackson, tries to cover himself with the sheet. “What the fuck?”

“Out,” Scott barks.

The guy starts to argue, but Jackson just pats his shoulder. “You heard him, asshole: fuck off.”

Scott barely notices the guy gather his clothes and scramble out. His attention’s on Jackson who, dressed in a thin layer of sweat and nothing more, stretches into the pillows with an easy smile.

“Hey there, Scott,” Jackson purrs. He gestures. “C’mere.”

Scott does. He crawls up the bed and Jackson easily slots their bodies together, tender, flushed skin under Scott’s hands, rubbing against his jeans. Scott’s mouth beelines for Jackson’s neck, the tendons there, the apple, and sucks bruises so dark they’ll last for weeks, maybe a month if he just sucks a little harder. He feels out of control and ferally possessive of the body under him.

And Jackson encourages him, muttering yeses and fuck yeses and things that curl fire-hot in Scott’s gut.

“Fuck me ‘til I cry,” Jackson croaks, pulling Scott’s hair, and after Scott tears his clothes off, ripping seams and popping buttons, and pushes his jeans down his thighs, you’re damn right he fucking does. He fucks Jackson until he’s shrieking and sobbing, until someone pounds at the wall and their front door. He fucks Jackson until they’re not human anymore, just wild things biting and clawing and snarling.

But after they’ve come, when they kiss, this strange sense of peace wells up in Scott.

That is, until, Jackson wriggles his way from under Scott and ends the stream which—oh fuck. People saw that. People were watching that. There are witnesses to Scott’s lowest point, to Scott giving in to Jackson. And knowing his luck, Stiles was one of them.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Scott hisses, because if Jackson doesn’t recognize how wrong it was, he has to know it was probably illegal not to tell him.

Jackson slides against him with a smirk. “I figured you knew.” He wrestles Scott’s arm under his head and noses into Scott’s armpit.

Scott, suddenly furious—which has been horribly common recently—wonders who he fucked, if it was Jackson Whittemore or Porsche Ryder. It had felt like Jackson at first, but maybe it wasn’t. Or maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe they’re both fucking terrible, awful people.

“Come on, stay,” Jackson bursts, tugging Scott back into bed. “Look, here...” He grabs the Marlboro pack and a lighter from his nightstand and pushes them into Scott’s hands. “Stay,” Jackson presses, hoarse.

Scott pauses, then sighs and gives in. After they smoke the joint down, Jackson’s already snoring into Scott’s chest, and Scott figures that as far as apologies go, this is the absolute shittiest. But there’s something about seeing Jackson like this, all quiet and vulnerable and drooling. It’s not much, but maybe it’s as good an excuse as any for why Scott stays, his fingers in Jackson’s hair.

Scott’s not surprised when he wakes up alone. He is surprised to find Jackson brewing coffee in his sweats.

Jackson grins but Scott jerks back from the kiss.

“Are you fucking kidding?” Jackson complains. “If you plan on saying, ‘We can’t,’ again, I hate to break it to you, but we already did.”

“It’s not that, I just—” Scott falters.

Jackson scowls. “Oh, what, was I not good enough for a second round, asshole?”

“No, Jackson—” Scott grabs Jackson by the shoulders. “I don’t do this, okay?”

“What’s ‘this’?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know and that’s the problem!”

Jackson raises his eyebrows. “It’s just a fuck, McCall, relax.”

Scott knew that, of course he did, but— “I’ve never had sex with someone I wasn’t dating.”

“And now you have,” Jackson says with a shrug. “Christ, if I’d know you’d flip out on me, I would’ve left well enough alone.” He sighs and brushes Scott off. “Whatever. It won’t happen again. …It was fun though,” Jackson adds.

Scott’s stomach sinks, but he nods. “Yeah, it was.”

Jackson smirks and offers him a mug of coffee.

Scott sorta feels like he was just dumped.

“What did you expect? Did you think you were going to sweep Jackson off his feet and the two of you would ride off into the sunset?”

“No, of course not! I just—” Scott points an accusing finger at Danny. “You told me to get it out of my system!”

“Which for anyone else was perfectly good advice. You’re the one who—” Danny gestures abstractly.

Allison combs her fingers through Scott’s hair, smiles. “You’re just a lover, Scott,” she says gently. “You can’t help that.”

“But I don’t love him,”  Scott insists.

“Maybe not,” Lydia says, speaking for the first time since Scott showed up at her doorstep. “But you can’t separate sex and feelings, can you?”

Scott opens his mouth to argue the claim, but can’t follow through.

“I told you not to,” Lydia admonishes with a sigh.

“What’s the worst part about it, Scott?” Allison asks to his silence. “What makes this so bad?”

Scott stares at his hands. The answer comes easy, but he hates how pathetic it sounds.

“Do you—Do you think it was a pity fuck?”

Lydia and Danny exchange frowns. After a moment, Danny snorts. “If Jackson pitied you, the last thing he’d do is fuck you.”

“Jackson wouldn’t do anything he didn’t want to do,” Lydia confirms shortly.

Scott hates, really hates, the relief he feels.

He decides to get serious about Kira.

He spends most of his time out of the apartment, out with Kira either at work or elsewhere, and he spends nights over her flat. And it’s nice, exactly what he needs. He really likes Kira, loves her smile and the little bounce in her walk. They don’t have to have anything planned to enjoy their time together. They play video games and watch YouTube videos and sometimes laugh so hard together that Scott has to clutch his side, tears streaming down his face. The two of them just fit together.

Scott starts to dread the nights he returns to the flat. The few times he does return, Jackson’s either nowhere to be found or out in the living room, friendly and horribly fake, like he doesn’t realize, or doesn’t care, what’s happening. But the worst are the nights Jackson has someone over, when Jackson’s moans are loud and clear and glorious. Because Scott knows how Jackson feels now, under him, on his dick. He knows how his throat tastes, how his whole body tightens around you when he comes, so you can’t move, can’t breathe.

Scott would be lying if he said he didn’t jack off those nights, getting off on Jackson getting fucked by someone else.

(And for Scott there’s a distinction there, between Porsche getting fucked and Jackson getting fucked. Because Porsche is fictional, impersonal, while Jackson’s the one Scott had under his hands. He thinks. Maybe. Nothing makes sense anymore.)

Kira stays over Scott’s place once. She and Scott only just push in when Jackson leaves the bathroom with some guy, both of them wearing towels, thankfully. The noises that leave Jackson’s room make Kira uncomfortable, and rightfully so, it’s all kinds of embarrassing. But Scott doesn’t feel embarrassed. Instead he’s jealous, horribly, intensely, disgustingly jealous, but also so hot for Jackson he seethes with it.

It must show on his face, because Kira breaks up with him not long after. Scott’s devastated, but when Stiles’ dad returns to work and Stiles says he can comeback, he quickly finds something to cling to: a return to normalcy. To a time before Jackson. And it’s the last straw.

Scott approaches Jackson and tells him straight up that he thinks Jackson should find somewhere else to go. He can stay as long as he needs to until he finds another place, but it’s just not working out for Scott. Scott prepares himself for some sort of backlash, accusations that would probably be justified, but Jackson just shrugs and says he can be out by Thursday.

“Are you—Aren’t you mad?” Scott asks tentatively.

Jackson shrugs again and admits he expected this from the start. It came a little later than anticipated, maybe, but he expected it. He smiles. “No hard feelings.”

Scott’s stunned.

“I’d keep an eye on him,” Stiles warns, wearing the same look his dad does when he’s working on a case. “That just doesn’t sound right, dude.”

But over the next day or two, nothing odd seems to happen. At least from Jackson’s end. Scott’s the one who acts strangely because, goddammit, it feels like breaking up with Kira and Allison, the horrible sinking feeling, the regrets. His chest clenches when Jackson starts to pile boxes in the living room, but there’s no reason for him to feel this way, no reason he likes to consider.

The night before Jackson’s set to leave, Scott does the friendly thing and buys a case of beer and orders pizza. Because he doesn’t want things to be worse than they have to be, not now that they have mutual friends and his mom still comments and posts on Jackson’s wall. Surprisingly, Jackson welcomes it, sharing his weed and demanding they watch Back to the Future again. And it’s nice, nice enough that Scott thinks this could really work, that hecan really go back to when things felt normal.

He wipes his palm onto his jeans. “So, uh, where will you be staying?”

“Danny’s,” Jackson says, casually. “His place is probably a wreck since I moved out.”

“Why did you leave?” Scott wonders.

Jackson shrugs. “It wasn’t anything big. I just needed a change of scenery, I guess.” He then laughs and glances at Scott. “You know, from your ad I seriously thought you were looking for a houseboy. It sounded like fun, so I just thought…”

“Aw fuck, Stiles was totally right,” Scott moans in to his palm. “Did I sound like one of those guys when we talked on the phone?”

“No. That’s why I was excited to move in, actually,” Jackson says. He traces a finger down Scott’s cheek. “I didn’t mind being a houseboy, not for someone who sounded like you.”

Scott’s heart rate skyrockets and his body goes hot. He’s just so stupidly attracted to Jackson, especially when he’s like this, sweet and high out of his mind. Jackson’s not—not a good person, Scott knows this, but there’s something in him somewhere. He sees it sometimes when Jackson takes out his contacts and wears his glasses and when Jackson scarfs down Twinkies. And here, in this moment, too. That’s enough for Scott to want him, and it’s why he nods when Jackson asks for a goodbye kiss.

Jackson slides into Scott’s laps easily. His smile, lips splitting to reveal teeth, is a—a Porsche Ryder grin.

And Scott doesn’t want that.

He bites hard on Jackson’s lip and digs his nails into the skin under Jackson’s shirt. Jackson gasps, shudders, and that wild desperation flashes in his eyes, just like that night many nights ago, when Scott fucked him into the mattress. Jackson stares at Scott for a moment, hands planted on Scott’s shoulders.

“Jackson.”

Jackson nods.

“Jackson,” Scott presses.

“Yeah, what?” Jackson breathes.

Satisfied, Scott clutches Jackson’s ass and Jackson dives down for a kiss.

They don’t fuck exactly. Jackson blows with reverence. He doesn’t paint his lips with Scott’s come or gargle or lick his lips or any of the things Porsche Ryder would do. He just swallows Scott’s load and smiles into Scott’s thigh.

“Good?”

Scott pants, nods. “Good.”

Jackson only lasts a few strokes before he blows in Scott’s hand, all over his shirt. Scott pulls Jackson to him and laughs when Jackson complains about the sticky mess and tugs off Scott’s shirt. After he puts Back to the Future on again from the start, Jackson snuggles up to Scott for a kiss and they stay on the couch like that for the rest of the night. Fuck, if they’d had this from the start, if they’d only had this, they could have—maybe they could have—

But no, when Danny comes to the door the next day—eying their states of undress—Scott just helps load Jackson’s things into the car and watches them leave.

Stiles, thankfully, gives Scott some time to work things out for himself before he puts his foot down. But instead of the brusque talking to about pining Scott expects, Stiles approaches the subject with a grave seriousness rare to him. “I think it’s time we talked about Jackson, dude.”

Scott prepared himself for this. There’s no point in talking about Jackson, because there’s nothing to talk about. After Stiles moved back, everything in Scott’s life went back to normal. Most of his time is dedicated to Stiles to make up for the two months or so they lost before the school year comes back around, and while it was a little awkward at first, things with Kira are good, friendly. Everything is good and feels right.

Because he’s over it now. He’s over Porsche Ryder and he’s over Jackson. Totally. Really.

…Not at fucking all. He’s so not over Jackson it’s disgusting.

Something unhinged must show on Scott’s face, because Stiles goes from grave to startled to sad.

“Shit, you’re really serious about him, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know why, though,” Scott bursts, wringing his hands. It’s not like with Allison or Kira. There were clear lines and arrows and directions and reasons and he never had to question his feelings, even when he reached the point of breakup with both of them. Things weren’t always easy, but they at least made sense.

But with Jackson, he’s constantly lost and confused and anxious. Whatever it is Scott feels, it can’t be love, because he knows what love feels like. And this isn’t it.

Stiles taps his thigh. “Maybe—Maybe that’s just what it’s like being with Jackson. Just because it’s different doesn’t make it less valid. I mean,” Stiles laughs, “Look at me and Malia. We had to figure things out with rubber bands and toothpicks, you know? But it isn’t bad. She’s nothing like Heather or Harley, but it isn’t bad.”

At Scott’s pained look, Stiles puts his serious face back on.

“Scott, do I need to go into full ‘my best bro got dumped’ mode?”

Scott huffs a laugh. “Maybe.”

“Then get your tightest skinnies on, bucko, ‘cause we’re going out.”

Scott doesn’t have the heart to tell Stiles that the club he brings him to is the same club where things started to go, well, downhill. It’s not like there are any familiar faces on the dance floor, though, so Scott spends most of the night there, with trips to the bar on Stiles’ wallet speckled in. Everything is great up to the point when these guys burst into the restroom while he’s taking a leak.

Scott chokes. Jackson’s eyes bulge, but he recovers fast.

“Oh Scott. Hey.”

“Hi,” Scott says dumbly, quickly tucking himself away.

After a long second, Jackson looks like he might say something, but the guy still hanging over him complains and Scott rushes out before he lets himself feel something he came here to avoid. He does mutter a little, “Have fun,” over his shoulder, which at first sounds biting and nasty and everything Stiles would be proud of, but once he gets lost in the crowd, he realizes it wasn’t any of those things. It sounded downright pathetic.

He hunts for Stiles, to tell him he taking off, because he can’t do this, not when Jackson’s fucking here, not when he’s still so hot for him, so much so that just seeing him destroyed whatever progress he made to get over him. But just when he spots Stiles a few heads away at the bar, chatting up Danny of all people someone stops him.

Jackson’s lips are swollen and glistening and are the first thing Scott notices, damning evidence of what Jackson had just been doing. But somehow it only makes Scott want him more.

Jackson catches Scott looking and grins, sloppy and lopsided. He doesn’t say anything, though; he just preens under Scott’s attention.

“Where’s your friend?” Scott asks tentatively, and why can’t he sound angry? Why can’t he feel angry. It feels like a month ago all he was was angry, but now he’s just… resigned.

Jackson shrugs. “He took off. His cologne smelled like shit.” His face pinches. “I still blew him though. I really wanted to blow you,” he adds airily, sliding his hands over Scott’s shoulders, linking them behind Scott’s neck.

Scott knows he should put a stop to this. He should push Jackson away before he lets Jackson win, but he can’t. He just can’t. Jackson’s spouting total drunken bullshit, things he knows will lure Scott right back in, and it works, makes his skin prickle with excitement and want. All Scott wants to do is touch Jackson, to hold him and fucking and never let go. Scott just wants to possess Jackson.

Jackson smiles pretty at Scott’s silence. “I’m drunk,” he blurts, “I’m drunk and I want you to fuck me so bad.”

Scott throws a final, futile glance in Stiles’ direction, close his eyes, and breathes.

Call him weak.

Jackson moans when Scott slots their mouths together, pushes his tongue between Jackson’s lips. His mouth’s warm and damp and tastes intimately of a complete stranger, but somehow that doesn’t turn Scott off or scare him. Instead it excites him, gets him angry and horny and two seconds away from fucking Jackson right then and there, in the middle of the crowded club floor.

“Bathroom,” Scott hisses. Jackson shudders and obediently brings them there.

They crash into the stall together—the only stall, the same stall Jackson blew that dude—and Scott shoves Jackson into the door face-first. Scott regrets the action immediately and nearly apologizes, but Jackson just moans and pushes his ass back.

“Do it, fucking do it,” Jackson gasps. He scrambles to push his jeans down. “I want it so bad Scott, fucking give it to me.”

Scott shivers because, fuck, he recognizes those words.

“Okay,” he whispers, hands shaking as he holds Jackson’s hips.  “Okay.”

He fucks Jackson until the stall rattles with every thrust, until Jackson can’t find the words anymore and just huffs and whimpers against the metal door. When Scott comes, Jackson’s the one who shakes through it until Stiles rests his forehead on his back.

“We need to hang out more,” Jackson sighs, and Scott laughs.

After a quick clean up, body still thrumming from his orgasm, Scott wonders if this could work. If doing this every once and a while will be enough to satisfy him.

Then he meet’s Jackson’s eye in the mirror and realizes that, no, this is nowhere near enough.

“I should tell you something,” Scott says slowly, watching Jackson fix his hair. “But I’m not sure you’re going to like it.”

Jackson rolls his eyes. “What, are you going to say we can’t do this anymore?” He sighs. “Do you just get off on saying no to me?”

Yes. A little bit. But that’s something Scott will have to consider later.

“No, I—I told you before that I don’t do this,” he gestures between them, “This casual sex thing or whatever.”

Jackson scoffs. Scott continues, more hesitant.

“I get that it works for you, but it just isn’t enough for me.”

“Okay, Christ, I get it! I won’t bother you anymore if that’ll make you happy.”

Scott grabs Jackson’s arm. “Jackson, I’m not trying to end things with you. I’m trying to—to—”

Jackson turns to Scott then, eyes wide. “Are you fucking asking me out?”

“Maybe,” Scott says in a small voice.

“Scott, you were there when shit fell apart with Lydia. Do you seriously—” Jackson huffs a laugh, shakes his head. “Do you seriously think I want to try something like monogamy again?”

“It doesn’t have to be monogamy,” Scott bursts. Jackson stares at him, stunned. “Look, I’m okay with your job and what you do. I—Fuck, I don’t mind if me alone isn’t enough for you. I just—I just want—” I want to be the main one, though, the one you come back to. The one you come home to. “I just really, really want you, in any way you’ll have me.”

They stare at each other for a long moment. Just when Scott loses hope, Jackson flushes and grins. “Do you really want me that badly?”

Scott only nods, heart a lump in his throat.

Jackson bites his lip. “Christ, that’s hot.”

Scott stares, dumbfounded. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jackson says, pulling Scott in for a kiss.

And Scott realizes, that’s Jacksonese for yes.

The sound that leaves Scott’s throat isn’t human. Jackson laughs at him and Scott makes sure he to wreck him before they leave the restroom.

When they make it to the bar for a celebratory drink, Stiles and Danny greet them, Danny sliding free drinks their way and Stiles giving them a thumbs up. Scott can’t believe that they were set up of all things, but when Jackson grabs his ass and sucks on his tongue, it doesn’t seem to matter.

They last about a week—a very, very nice week spent mostly in Scott’s bed—before Jackson threatens to break up with him.

“This isn’t what you promised me,” Jackson complains, stomping around Scott’s apartment like a petulant child. He burst in a moment ago, seething, and Stiles retreated into his room with a shrug.

Scott sighs. “This isn’t my fault,” he points out.

Jackson ignores him. “ I mean, now Danny won’t let me bring guys home and you’re all weird about me bringing them here.” He throws up his hands. “I don’t know what you asshole expect me to do! How am I supposed to do my fucking job?”

Scott suddenly sympathizes with Lydia; how many years did she deal with this? “You still do solo vids, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but I can’t do just that forever,” Jackson says. He drops onto the couch with a huff. “Sometimes they want to see me get fucked, you know?”

Scott snickers and presses a kiss to Jackson’s forehead. “I think I get that. I mean, I do like fucking you.”

“Yes, you sure do,” Jackson says, eyes sharp with intent.

Scott stops. “No.”

Jackson grabs Scott’s arm before he can run off. “Come on, Scott! This is my job at stake.”

“No, no, I’m just not the porn type!”

“Of course you are,” Jackson insists. “People still ask about that hot stud who fucked my brains out.”

“Scott barks a laugh until he realizes why it’s funny. He’s the hot stud.

Looking Jackson’s earnest face, Scott sighs. “Are you sure about this?”

Jackson beams and kisses him. “Totally. We shoot tomorrow at nine.” Scott watches him saunter out of the flat.

When Stiles pokes his head back into the room, he finds Scott pacing.

“So it looks like I’m gonna be a porn star,” he says absently, and Stiles cackles.

Scott’s relationship with Jackson is still new, a little shaky. So you can imagine Lydia’s unimpressed that she learns about it through a cordial Facebook even invitation, inviting her to watch the couple fuck live. Stiles pales when Scott shows him the terse letter he receives from her.

“It was joke,” Stiles insists.

“It wasn’t a funny one, dude,” Scott hisses, smacking him on the arm.

Scott soon finds himself at Lydia’s dining room table, Lydia staring him down from the other end and Allison smiling benevolently between them. “So,” Lydia starts.

“I’m sorry,” Scott blurts. “Stiles is the one who made the event and I wanted to tell you about me and Jackson, but I wasn’t sure how to tell you, and I wasn’t sure if he wanted me to tell you, and everything’s still so new between us and I just—It’s just—”

“Are you happy?”

Both Scott and Allison turn to Lydia. Her face betrays nothing.

“Are you?” she presses.

It takes a moment, but Scott nods. “Yeah, it’s good. Jackson and I we’re—we’re good.”

Lydia reaches for Scott’s hand. “He doesn’t deserve someone like you, Scott. He really doesn’t,” she says, grip going tight. “Don’t let him make you forget that.”

Scott’s mouth instinctively drops open to defend Jackson, but the fierce protectiveness in Lydia’s eyes stops him and he thinks back to smudged eyeliner and the sweet rank of rotting trash. And he know he can’t just let himself forget that. “He doesn’t deserve me,” he affirms, giving her hand a gently squeeze in return. He adds with a smile, “And I won’t let him get to me.”

“It’s a little late for that, I think,” Lydia laughs. Allison smiles affectionately at the both of them.

Lydia kisses his cheek when he leaves and Allison hugs him for a long, long time before she lets him go.

He’s happy for them.

When Scott finds Jackson and Stiles on the couch, shouting at the screen and each other as they play MarioKart, he wonders if he and Jackson could have what Lydia and Allison have. Jackson crows and shoves Stiles when he knocks Stiles off-course and takes the win. (Because you leave these two together and they’re the biggest losers in the world. It’s amazing how ell they get along when no one’s watching. Probably because they don’t have history in this ‘verse.)

Stiles blows a raspberry. “I just let you win, dude.”

“Don’t believe him,” Scott says. “He’s just a sore loser.”

“My leading man,” Jackson says affectionately. Scott laughs when Jackson drags him down for a messy kiss. Stiles scoffs and Jackson flips him off, drags Scott over him.

  Jackson ignores him. “I mean, now Danny won’t let me bring guys home and you’re all weird about me bringing them here.” He throws up his hands. “I don’t know what you assholes expect me to do! How am I supposed to do my fucking job?”

  “You still do solo vids, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, but I can’t do just that forever,” Jackson says. He drops onto the couch with a dramatic sigh. “Sometimes they just want to see me get fucked, you know?”

  Scott snickers and leans over the couch to press a kiss to Jackson’s forehead. “I think I get that. I mean, I do like fucking you.”

  “Yes, you sure do,” Jackson says, eyes sharp with intent.

  Scott stops. “Oh no.”

  Jackson whirls around and grabs Scott’s arm before he can run off.  “Come on, Scott! I need your help!”

  “No, no, I’m just not the porn type!”

  “Of course you are,” Jackson insists. “People still ask about that hot stud who fucked my brains out.”

  Scott barks a laugh until he realizes why it’s funny. He’s the hot stud.

  Looking at Jackson’s earnest face, Scott sighs. “Are you sure about this?”

  Jackson beams and kisses him. “Totally. We shoot tomorrow at nine.” Scott watches him saunter out of the apartment.

  When Stiles pokes his head back into the room, he finds Scott pacing.

  “So it looks like I’m gonna be a pornstar,” he says absently, and Stiles cackles.

  Scott’s relationship with Jackson is still new, a little shaky, so you can imagine that Lydia’s unimpressed to find out about it through a cordial Facebook event invitation to watch the couple fuck live. Stiles pales when Scott shows him the terse text he receives and takes the headstart Scott gives him before he chases him down the street.

  Then Scott finds himself at Lydia’s dining room table, Lydia staring him down from the other end and Allison smiling benevolently between them.

  “So,” Lydia starts.

  “I’m sorry,” Scott blurts. “Stiles is the one who made the event and I wanted to tell you about Jackson and me, but I wasn’t sure how to tell you, and I wasn’t sure if he wanted me to tell you and everything’s still so new between us and I just--It’s just--”

  “Are you happy?”

  Both Scott and Allison turn to Lydia. Her face betrays nothing.

  “Are you?” she presses.

  It takes a moment, but Scott nods. “Yeah, it’s good. Jackson and I we’re--we’re good.”

  Lydia reaches for Scott’s hand. “He doesn’t deserve someone like you, Scott. He really doesn’t,” she says, grip going tight. “Don’t let him make you forget that.”

  Scott’s mouth instinctively drops open to defend Jackson, but the fierce protectiveness in Lydia’s eyes stops him and he thinks back to smudged eyeliner and the sweet reek of rotting trash. And he knows he can’t just let himself  forget that. “He doesn’t deserve me,” he affirms, giving her hand a gentle squeeze in return. He adds with a smile, “And I won’t let him get to me.”

  “It’s a little too late for that, I think,” Lydia laughs. Allison smiles affectionately at the both of them.

  Lydia kisses his cheek when he leaves and Allison hugs him for a long, long time before she lets him go.

  He’s happy for them.

  When Scott finds Jackson and Stiles on the couch, shouting at the screen and each other as they play Mario Kart, he wonders if he and Jackson could have something Lydia and Allison have. Jackson crows and shoves at Stiles when he wins. (Because you leave these two alone together, they’re the biggest losers in the world. It’s amazing how well they get along when no one’s watching. Probably because they don’t have history in this ‘verse.)

  Stiles blows a raspberry. “You’re lucky you’re dating Scott, dude. I just let you win.”

  “Don’t believe him,” Scott says, finally entering the room and making his presence known. “He’s just a sore loser.”

  Scott laughs when Jackson drags him down for a messy kiss. Stiles gags a little but Jackson just flips him off and pulls Scott closer, forcing him to kneel, thighs bracketing Jackson.