Fuck."
The water came rushing from the faucet, followed by the screeching of the pipe. He ignored the sound, cupping is hands at the tap mouth.
"Again." He murmured, bringing his chin down to the bowl.
Bathing his face, he willed himself to relax.
"Fuck."
Eyes back on his reflection, he sighed.
Flushed cheeks, darkened creases under the eyes, that dead stare. He was looking at a shell of himself for what felt like the fifth time this week. Sleep came at a high cost these nights. A payment of sanity, given all in full, each time he set his head to rest.
It would begin normal.
In the halls at school, changing in the boy's locker room, at his car, on the field. The activity was always mundane, nothing out of the ordinary.
Sometimes nights he swore he could even hear coach shouting.
But that didn't matter once it started.
"…Jackson." He'd call.
He nearly wretched at the thought of that voice. Not to mention the fear that his offender might actually know his name in addition to what school he attended, where he practiced, or any other possible identifiers.
It was always so clear, loud enough to drown out whatever else was going on, and yet so smooth.
Then came the approach.
He'd never hide, never come at him from the side. He would just walk up, disregarding all natural sense of boundary.
So close he could smell him.
Jackson bit his lip then, recalling that musky scent from the afternoon after practice. Barely a towel rapped around him, still wet and stripped of all natural odor. Pinned, more or less, to the cold metal behind him by the pillar that was Derek Hale. Terrifying wasn't half the word he would call it, and yet his smell was so savory. It wasn't so much strong as it was bold. Pine… or maybe, oak? -Some kind of tree, and maybe a flower? Whatever it was, it was sweet, and it had stuck in Jackson's head, bidding him to pause every time he came across something remotely similar in his day-to-day.
The scent would wash over him again at the presence of this Derek.
And he would never fail to close the remaining distance between them. Whether he was slamming a locker door or easing him up against the gate by the bleachers, this Derek knew every setting, every detail.
Nowhere was safe.
Jackson splashed himself twice more, feeling his pulse begin to slow.
"Son of a bitch." He hissed, before squinting in the too bright vanity lighting.
Bringing a hand to his shoulder, he shuddered, dreading the path he now tread but knew to be inevitable.
The scrapes on his neck stung angrily at the contact with his bare fingers. Still open, still fresh.
He huffed. 'Dream' Derek seemed to enjoy this part of the torment.
His hair would be pulled next, that was always certain. There would occasionally be the first glance from a far, but it would lead to his hair in a tight fist, turned either way for a better view.
And he'd go quiet, breathing on it, on each cut. Like he was appreciating them or something.
As if they were some handiwork to admire.
His knuckles went white against the marble of the counter as he held fast.
He carefully crossed one leg before the other in anticipation of the next memory.
Derek Hale had caused him pain in reality, but what kept him up at night were the troubles he'd cause in slumber.
He'd press a kiss to each wound, licking any exposed flesh still left to the elements. It would feel strange at first, not painful, but odd. And soon it would begin to feel pleasant.
His fist would loosen its hold on his hair and he'd soon find himself locking lips with his captor.
Jackson urged his groin still, but knew it was futile.
"Fuck." He growled, pressing a palm to the hardness that now strained his shorts.
Derek's kisses seemed to take as much as they gave as Jackson often found himself kissing back with force, almost hungrily.
The kind of kisses he hadn't even shown Lydia in the most passionate of their endeavors.
The sort of kisses that lead to an embrace, undressing and an even deeper string of activity that left Jackson writhing in his sheets, cold from sweat and hot from just about everything else.
The type of kisses that had him changing boxers routinely between trips to the bathroom.
Action would need to be taken, he decided as he peeled off the last of his clothing. He stepped into the tub and turned his back to the cool tile.
Eyeing the still running faucet, he sighed.
He would keep it on.
Something would need to drown out the sounds that would soon follow.