TTwice at Days of The Wolf
Anyone can feel free to write me a story where everyone has to go to the Pacific Northwest Werewolf Symposium and Derek explains it would be BAD FORM for an Alpha to turn up without a mate, especially the ONLY TRUE ALPHA IN A HUNDRED YEARS, and its not like Scott can bring KIRA because duhhhh foxes and wolves don’t get along. Stiles sucks in a breath because he loves this shit, he’s gonna get his FAKE BOYFRIEND on when Derek says, quiet, “I can—you know, stand in.”
"That’s fantastic," Kira beams happily, hugs Derek tightly. Scott claps him on the back, thanks him until the back of Derek’s neck turns red. Fine, Stiles thinks, whatever. He’s still gonna be Scott’s best man someday, he verifies this at least once a week. Best bros forever.
But then the whole experience fucks with him. Derek is a great fake boyfriend. He’s solicitous, brings Scott drinks when he gets his own, guides Scott with light fingers when they’re walking. Stiles watches, infuriated, when Scott points out the photobooth, drags a laughing Derek over to pose.
He’s gonna kill him. Both of them. This is terrible. Who is he even jealous of?
Clearly, he figures out after a tearful drunken night at a bar with Lydia, once they get back, and he can’t stop THINKING about how they didn’t seem forced, how Derek let himself get dragged into the photobooth with good grace and Scott looked so happy, because everyone was getting along, they weren’t supposed to be-
"Stiles," Lydia cuts in, bored enough to be twirling her straw in her fingers, staring at him in that way she does sometimes which he’s come to realise means she thinks he’s being deliberately obtuse. "It’s the twenty-first century, you know."
Stiles pays the tab, because that it the only polite thing to do when your friend tells you to go in for a threesome. “But- but they’re terrible, it’s terrible, they’re just- what if it’s not- what if I’m not-“
Lydia rolls her eyes and confiscates his keys, shaking them theatrically. “Whoops, looks like you need a ride.”
He does, Stiles thinks mournfully to himself. He does need a ride.
When he gets home, though, Derek is there. With Scott. And they’re dancing.
Scott is leading, twirling Derek in wide, useless circles around their apartment’s living room floor to something twangy playing over the speakers. They’re both pink-cheeked from laughing, flushed and happy and easy with one another, and something rises tight and high in the back of Stiles’ throat.
"Hey man!" Scott calls when he stumbles through the door. "Seemed like a waste to do all that practicing for just a weekend, you know?" He spins Derek out dramatically. "And you know this one just loves a good twirl." Derek smiles at Stiles, something sweet and almost curious in it, before Scott spins him back in. "C’mon," Scott says. "You want to take a turn?"
Stiles doesn’t know what he wants, exactly, but it seems easy, just then, to wriggle his way in between their bodies, hooking his chin over Scott’s shoulder and leaning into the warmth of Derek, broad and solid at his back. Their arms come up around him automatically: it’s been a long time since he was the nogitsune, since they all had to learn their way back to one another with careful hands.
Scott slips a palm up to Stiles’ waist, sneaking under the hem of his shirt. “Yeah,” Stiles mumbles. “G’head.” Scott can’t leach drunkenness as effectively as pain, but it’s almost as good as a quesadilla and a glass of cold water: clears his head, lessens the severity of tomorrow’s hangover. Boozy warmth is replaced by something hot and wanting, all the sharp parts of himself that Stiles has been smoothing over for years.
He’s known Scott forever, and they’re— good, they’re fine, they learned how to do this together, it’s not no homo so much as that Stiles loves Scott so much one way that there isn’t room for anything else, anything all that complicated. He feels mischievous and light, darting his tongue out to lick the sharp corner of Scott’s jaw, the unevenness of him that Stiles has always loved best.
Scott gets it because he always does: he kisses Stiles without hesitation, playful and earnest. Behind him Derek’s grasp on Stiles’ hip flashes tight before withdrawing, and Stiles is deeply, eternally grateful that he and Scott have been in a mind-meld since they were five because Scott reaches out past him to stay Derek and pull him in close again.
"I mean," Scott says, when he pulls away long enough to talk. His mouth is red and spit-slick and he looks well-loved, which is how he should always look. "Only if you want to." Stiles can’t see Derek’s face but he can feel him, indecisive at his back, tense in a way that means he wants or doesn’t want— badly.
"This is about you guys," he says. "You don’t have to."
Scott laughs. “Not really.” Stiles can feel his arm moving as he strokes the hand on Derek’s shoulder down his arm, gentle, careful. “We don’t usually. Um. This isn’t like a normal thing for us.”
"Stiles?" Derek is so close that Stiles can feel his breath across the back of his neck, and that’s— kissing Derek is crossing about a hundred lines and breaking more rules, it’s setting himself up for catastrophe, come morning, but it’s worse if Derek thinks he doesn’t want— because he does, of course he— Stiles turns around before he can think about it any harder and loops his arms around Derek’s neck.
He can’t remember the last time he was this careful about kissing someone. Usually it’s all adrenaline, having waited until he can’t wait a minute more. Now it’s all slow and quiet and certain, Derek tilting his head and letting his eyes fall closed. That’s what hooks Stiles and tugs him the rest of the way in, the trust in it, the way Derek stands there, a stupidly handsome prince, just three-day stubble and the darkness of his lashes, waiting for it, patient and unafraid.
(Scott’s perfectly happy to take them both to bed, to watch Derek’s hands trembling on Stiles’ hips, the sloppy desperate kissing as they rut against one another like there isn’t anything else to need, happy to pull Derek back against him and hold him still while Stiles touches himself, dark-eyed and almost too far gone. “He’s gorgeous like this, isn’t he,” he murmurs in Derek’s ear, and Derek nods frantically, and Scott kisses him and kisses Stiles until all three of them are boneless together, sated, a sleepy pack curled up together for the night.)