D/J - Jackson is the new inmate that gets Big Dog Derek Hale as his cell mate.
[You said prison, I heard masturbation. This was entirely written on my iPod, so it’s a little, meh, but …]
As far as cellmates go, and Derek has been at Beacon Hills Penitentiary long enough to go through a few, the kid is not that bad. Sure, he’s clearly spoilt and ornery and spends most of his days scowling and sulking in the corner, but as the days, weeks, months past, Derek finds that he’s also fiercely funny when he wants to be and has a knack for pushing Derek’s buttons which isn’t as bad as he lets on. Most importantly, trust doesn’t seem to be a word in his dictionary while self-loathing has a twenty-page entry, and Derek of all people can get behind that.
(The name Kate still haunts Derek’s nightmares, rings in his ears with the words stupid and traitor.)
Anyway, the thing is, Derek actually doesn’t mind sharing the same six by eight foot space with one Jackson Whittemore. He might even go so far to say that he likes the kid. A little. Enough, at least, that he lets him follow him around the yard, sit next to him at meals, work out with him; he even backs the kid when his mouth gets him into trouble. Surprisingly, Derek finds himself glad to take Jackson under his wing, like a wolf taking a stray into its pack.
And, that has nothing to do with his defined cheekbones or plush lips, though to say that that face hasn’t permanently nested itself into the corner of Derek’s personal little jack off reserve would be a lie. That said, sometimes Derek wishes Jackson was a little more discreet with that last bit.
Because he knows, he knows the kid’s listening.
Derek has never considered himself an exhibitionist, has never considered much about sex besides the fact that he likes it and likes it a lot. Still he can’t help but like this, too, like rubbing a dry palm over the length of his erection, and knowing that the kid beneath him strains his ear for every rustle of fabric. That is enough to make Derek relax, ease into a slight doze, into the familiar pressure of his hand, thumbing tight circles just behind the head of his cock.
They’ve been doing this on and off for a month or so, since the boy was first shoved into his cell, nineteen and sullen and blue-eyed and exhausted, for some drug deal gone more than a little sour. He remembers that first night, when he waited and waited and waited until he thought he was going to burst in frustration and he remembers digging his heels into the scratchy sheets and biting back groans as he quickly, quietly, rubbed one out across his stomach. He remembers waking at the crack of dawn to Jackson’s firm stare and chewed lips and Derek just knew that he’d actually put on a show the night before.
And, somehow, he was okay with that. He actually relished the idea.
That’s why now, Derek doesn’t care to put much effort into hiding the movements, the sounds, anything. Sure, he can’t help but feel a little, you know, stupid—a little self-conscious—but, that isn’t enough to stop him from spitting into his palm, from reaching for himself and stroking with tight squeezes. He keeps his gasps and sighs low, quiet, but the fact that he lets them go at all is enough to keep his heart pounding at the depravity of it all.
Snuffling into the pillow, open-mouthed, Derek lets his mind stray from the usual curves and softness of Katefaceless women to the stifled panting beneath him. He imagines the pinched look on Jackson’s face, imagines him biting his lip to muffle the anxious sounds that threaten to burst from him. He imagines him tweaking a nipple under his shirt, resisting the urge to reach beneath the sheet, beneath his underwear. Ooh, he imagines Jackson wanting it, wanting to touch and writhe and moan and come—
“Derek,” comes a hiss.
Everything stops, because that’s not in his head, some figment of his imagination. That’s real, throaty and horny. This, acknowledging this thing that’s been going on the past month, has never happened, was never supposed to happen. Derek suddenly finds himself lost, fingers still curled around his dick in the cold air. He swallows thickly, stays silent.
Jackson gives a strangled noise, sheets rustling. “Derek, don’t—fuck, man—don’t stop. Don’t stop saying my name.”
“What?” Derek rushes despite himself. “I didn’t—”
“Yes, you did! You fucking did!” Jackson swears, desperate, and Derek is suddenly aware of the slight squelching ringing through the air. A sound that isn’t his.
He should stop this now, put an end to it before—before they cross some unspoken line, but instead he finds himself working his erection fiercely with a punishing grip and sharp twists that make his body jerk. There’s nothing but that finish line in the distance and the kid’s breathless whines in his ears.
In the mess of slick sounds, gasps, Derek just barely makes out the, “I can hear you. I could always hear you. Fuck, the things that I—I—”
“What things?” Derek whispers, “What do you think about?”
“You. You with me.”
That earns a deep rumble. “Yeah? What do I do with you?”
A whimper. “Y-You climb down into my bunk and—and—”
“I fuck you,” Derek finishes hoarsely, because it’s everything he’s fantasized since day one. He knows he should refuse him, but what comes out of his mouth is, “Kid, you ever been fucked by a man?”
Jackson moans, low, “Never. You’re the first guy I’ve ever— Just listening to you every night makes me want it so much.” Derek doesn’t realize just how close he is, how tightly anxious pleasure has built behind his sac, until Jackson mewls, “I want you to fuck me.”
A growl tearing from his throat, Derek spasms as orgasm strikes him hard, up his cock and out in creamy spurts over his fist. He throws his head back, arches, and it’s such a relief to be able to let go like this, to give in to instinct and allow his body to take over. As the last of his orgasm oozes from his slit, Derek lets his eyes ease shut, silently wishing Jackson would continue babbling. But, soon the kid below him reaches his peak with huffs and grunts and his name—Derek—and that is just as good, if not better.
The strange quiet they slip into, broken only by pants and rustling sheets, leaves Derek unsettled, the name Kate forming a heavy weight in Derek’s chest. He realizes that this is the first time since—since she framed him, left him, that he’s felt so at ease, so human. Despite the regulation clothes, the dank reek of mold and piss, the bars the encase him, he actually feels liberated. Just because he jacked off for some dumbass nineteen-year-old drug dealer whose snores fill in the empty space of silence. It doesn’t make any sense.
But, somehow, that in itself is a relief to not be bound by common sense or expectations or—or Kate. Too bad it took him a five-year sentence to realize it.
Gingerly wiping spunk onto the corner of his sheet, Derek lets himself be lulled by Jackson’s familiar sounds, and finds sleep faster than he ever has before.