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Of Mourning Doves and Nightingales

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Sunlight drifts lazily through a window, illuminating the three men sprawled asleep on a king size bed, though, in truth, two barely qualify for that. The other, with his naked form drawn protectively over the other two, seems intent on warding off some unseen evil that seeks to harm his companions.

The curly haired boy is pressed flush against the other, slighter teen, who is comfortably sandwiched between the others. They each take the time to shift in their sleep, repositioned so that the boy in the middle is now curled into the eldest man’s side and being spooned by the other.

On the balcony outside, a mourning dove sings softly.


Derek had sprung through his window yet again, Stiles noted, no longer surprised but perhaps a bit annoyed. It was difficult for a teenage boy to control his arousal in the best of situations, let alone the bed where he had jerked off countless times to fantasies of the wolf that now occupied said bed. What did surprise him was that Isaac had joined him.

“Who's dead?” Stiles asked as he entered the room.

“What?!” Derek demanded.

“I'm used to you invading my bedroom, but since Isaac is here I'm guessing you need his more delicate sensibilities to break the news to me, seeing as, and no offense Derek, you suck with your words.”

Derek moved to leave, but Isaac's hand flew out to stop him.

“Remember why we are here.” He murmured softly to the other wolf, before turning to address the human in the room.

“No one is dead, don't worry. But you're right about needing to break some news.” He said. “You're not stupid, Stiles, you can probably guess that since Derek and I have been living together for months now, things have… happened.”

Stile had in fact suspected such a thing, but to receive confirmation was vindicating, and hot as Hell.

“And, Stiles, we want to invite you into this.” Isaac gave him a moment to process.

“Wait, like a threesome?” He asked, arousal filling his scent in record time.

Derek scowled, and finally spoke.

“No, Stiles, like a relationship. With both of us.”

That was enough to actually shut up Stiles, a rare feat indeed.

Isaac rose, and took Stiles’ hand, urging him to sit on the bed, and smiled gently at him.

“Let me explain…”


Isaac is awake first, which means he gets breakfast duty, as per the unspoken rule of the loft. He flicks on CNN in the living room for noise, and cracks open some eggs, cuts some peppers and thanks the cooking gods that Derek remembered to buy cubed ham, because vegetarian omelets suck.

He places out the ketchup for Stiles, who drowns his eggs in the stuff, usually so much of it that the scent hangs in the air over the table for hours afterwards. He pours everyone's juices, orange for Derek, grapefruit for Stiles and cherry for himself.

Upstairs, the boys are just now stirring, stretching and murmuring. Someone goes to take their morning leak while the other gets dressed. Dressed, of course, meaning boxers and a pair of socks, since Derek has floors colder than a witch's tits in a brass bra.

They descend from the bedroom together, still half asleep. Both of them thank Isaac for the food, and Derek seems to wake up a bit as the news carries on about something or other that interests him. Stiles, on the other hand, seems about ready to fall asleep on his ketchup omelet.

Isaac heads to the miracle machine that he had to practically beg Derek to buy, the Keurig. A few minutes and one K-cup later, Stiles is clinging to the coffee like it holds the secrets to life, the universe and everything.

“Thank you, so much.” He says, gratitude eternally evident in his voice.

“You're welcome.” Isaac smiles. “How'd you two sleep?” He asks.

“Fantastic, hence why I was so eager to get back to it.” Stiles announces.

“Just fine.” Derek replies, still enraptured by Michaela Pereira’s report on some new space telescope.

“Good, I'm glad.” Isaac says, bending down to kiss the other men's cheeks. “Derek, we're almost out of eggs, can you pick some up later?”

Derek nods in reply.

“Derek, how do you feel about me blowing Stiles right here in the kitchen?” He asks, knowing full well that Derek does not approve of sex in the kitchen.

Again, Derek nods.

“Derek, what's that space telescope called?” Isaac queries.

“ATLAST, they just launched it a month ago and the first pictures are coming back.” he replies, voice fascinated.

Stiles and Isaac bust out laughing, and Derek, having had a hyperfocus to give Stiles a run for his money, is totally confused.

Still chuckling, Isaac kisses Derek on the cheek. “You need to buy eggs, okay?”

“Alright, I'll buy eggs.” He says.

“Good, we worry you'd forget to buy food one day and just die of starvation because you found something too fascinating to leave it without us to boss you around.” Stiles speaks.

“The only things too fascinating to leave are you two.” Derek says, exaggerating his ‘lovey dovey’ voice to the extreme.

“You say that, and yet you have to go to work.” Stiles bites back. “You don't care enough to be with us!” He wilts dramatically.

“Okay, Shatner, tone it down.” The older man urges.

“Hey! William Shatner is the greatest actor the world has ever known!”

At that, Isaac smacks Stiles upside the head, because Patrick Stewart is so much better than Shatner.


Derek had never expected Isaac to be his boyfriend, mate, whatever. It had started after Allison’s death, one hazy night with a Cheshire Cat Moon looking into the loft. Isaac had woken up screaming bloody murder.

He'd rushed into the spare bedroom Isaac had claimed as his own, even as the nightmares of his father, the Kanima, the Nogitsune, and every other creature of the night they had encountered tore apart his psyche. So, Derek did the one thing he could for the traumatized Isaac: he’d gathered him in his arms and held him until it passed, the shakes gradually subsiding to barely-sensible tremors, his heart still hammering the whole way through. It was the first time Isaac had learned touch could be a source of comfort.

Werewolves, by a matter of nature, are extremely tactile. In his childhood, Derek had always been pressed against someone or other, happily nuzzling and scenting as his nature demanded. After Kate had ripped everything away from him, he’d restrained his touchiness to Laura alone, and when she had died, he’d clamped down on that part of him, the very same part of him that screamed when he was around the Pack, screamed for him to touch and nuzzle and scent and throw all social convention out the goddamn window. He had suppressed himself so much that it became second nature.

Isaac, however, his instincts had never quite formed right. They were kept under tight lock and key from the moment Derek had bitten him, always buried so deep he didn’t even know. His brutal years with his father had ensured him of that. The night under the grinning moon changed that. When Isaac learned touch could be good, the hold his past had on his instincts evaporated like snow in the sun. The damage didn’t go away, and it probably never would, but Isaac gained a new perspective on it. He learned that he didn’t need to let his father haunt him, he finally realized that his father was dead, that he could never hurt him again.

After that night, Isaac became the world’s biggest cuddlebug. Touch suddenly became his primary mode of communication, from important messages to idle chitchat, he had a manner of physical contact for almost everything. He happily bear-hugged Scott, patted Lydia’s hand understandingly when she complained about her car’s clutch dying and having to ride the bus for the first time in over two years, he even shook the Sheriff’s hand without flinching.

But the person he touched the most was Derek.

Derek had, at first, been resistant to this. When Isaac would settle his feet in the other wolf’s lap when they watched television, Derek would pull his legs underneath himself, ignoring his wolf’s whimper at the loss of contact and the cramp in his calves. When Isaac rested his head on top of Derek’s from behind as he read a book, Derek would decide to suddenly crack his neck. Isaac, however, was determined. He reasoned that if little gestures were what made Derek irked or otherwise slightly perturbed, it was time to go big or go home.

One night, as a thunderstorm raged outside, Isaac came into Derek’s room just as the man was settling in to go to bed, and slid under the covers and pressed himself against Derek’s side. Derek, on his part, stiffened, and almost violently addressed the teen.

“Isaac, what the Hell are you doing?!” He’d demanded.

“I don’t like thunder.” The other wolf replied, snuggling further into Derek’s side.

Derek was splitting himself in half with his internal debate. On one side, his wolf was singing, screaming and begging for him to wrap Isaac in his arms and to scent and cuddle until he finally felt sated. However, the darker, more sinister part of him whispered that Isaac being allowed within even a proximity of him was a risk, that Isaac was either trying to hurt him or he was going to get hurt by being near Derek.

In a desperate effort to gain some clarity, Derek had deeply inhaled through his nose, and was brought up short. The scent in the air, it was… right. It smelled as right as it could, as right as anything had in years.

“Isaac.” He'd whispered. “Do you smell that?”

Isaac gave a perfunctory sniff, and raised his eyebrows at Derek.

“What?” He asked.

“No, really inhale.” The older wolf instructed, to which the younger complied.

To Isaac, the scent had been completely natural, something he'd stopped noticing weeks ago since his campaign of touchiness began. But now that Derek was realizing it, it had assumed a more full form, with depth and breadth far beyond its preceding counterpart.

At approximately the same moment, give or take a few nanoseconds for the synoptic calibration differences of all living organisms, they realized what the scent meant.

Derek pulled the younger man into a searing kiss, finally letting his instincts free, finally feeling closer to whole since Laura had died. That moment, as thunder and lightning rolled just outside their window, was their declaration of a beginning.


The boys get back to the loft from school before Derek is off work, so they content themselves to homework, snacking and gaming, normal teenage activities for most. For Isaac and Stiles, this is foreplay. Months prior, the two teens had figured out that the illusion, the lie of domesticity, the whole cat-and-mouse game of fake normalcy? It's kind of a turn on.

Even if only for a few hours, they're able to pretend they're not burdened by their knowledge, their experience or even their species, and it's wonderful. But, when their lips finally touch and the mask falls away, there's a sense of relief, a sense of right. The filthy words they mutter to one another as they twist on the couch or the carpet together fueling both of them on to completion.

The days when they're too sated, too comfortable to get up from wherever they'd been making love, those are the days when Derek will walk in and smell the two of them and sex and he's all over the two of them, nuzzling and adding his own scent to the mixture, and one or both of the two teens will suck him off and they all lie there content, basking in the afterglow until their stomachs dictate that food is required. Then, and only then, will they leave their dogpile.


Stiles never expected he'd find a home in Derek and Isaac, nor did he expect the Pack to take it as they did. Scott and Kira had been supportive, though Scott threatened Stiles with one of Deaton’s hour and a half long lectures on the bravery of the Druids in the past magical wars if he spoke of their sex life in his presence and threatened Derek and Isaac with mountain ash in their meals if they hurt his best friend.

Conversely, Lydia had taken Stiles out to lunch one day, her treat, and promptly demanded every detail possible, and he'd delivered. Boy had he fucking delivered. At the end of his steamy tale, she had crossed her legs, fanned herself and tried to force the blush down from across her face. Jackson, however, had really not cared, though he said if Stiles started talking about sex in front of him he was going to shove him out of the nearest window.

Danny had been, simply put, delighted. He'd laughed and laughed and, when he finally regained his composure, hi-fived Stiles, saying he was his role model and his hero. Then came the fun part, informing the Sheriff.

The Sheriff had taken about as well as could be expected, finding out not only that his son was bisexual, but also in a three way relationship with two werewolves, one of whom was several years older. Stiles had flinched at the way John had reached for the pistol still latched to his belt. He'd been worried not so much for Derek and Isaac's safety as he was for having to clean up the mess that was made when his father tried and likely failed to kill his mates.

Rather than make an unnecessary mess on his kitchen floor, John had a long and frank discussion with the two wolves which Stiles was by no means allowed to listen in on, though he did try. Ultimately, Sheriff Stilinski gave his blessing to the relationship, even if he did have difficulty understanding it.

Peter had been the only one who took it negatively, and that was of no surprise to anyone. He'd looked over Isaac and Stiles, and shook his head.

“Damaged goods, all around. How wonderful, and to think I was hoping you could finally begin rebuilding our Pack. What would your sainted mother say, Derek?” Peter said.

“She would tell you to rot in Hell, but since you indirectly caused her to be burned to death, I’ll say it for her. Rot in Hell, Peter. And get the fuck out of my house.” Derek snarled back.

Peter left without another word. Derek had then gone to his room and sulked for a few hours. By that point, the two teenagers had learned trying to talk Derek out of that state was a waste of time and effort, so they gave him space. Stiles ordered takeout, and left Derek's portion in front of his door, heartened a bit later when he saw that the food had been taken by the otherwise recalcitrant wolf.

They would be alright.



Derek has gotten back from work, his jumpsuit stained by oil and gasoline. He takes a shower as Stiles preps three chicken breasts to be covered in spices and seared and Isaac is on the phone with Scott, listening as he informs him of whatever new threat might be around the corner, the information relayed to Scott by Deaton. As a properly-dressed Derek emerges from the bathroom, Stiles snaps his fingers in the direction of a cabinet, his sign to get the plates out.

“Alright, well, thank you Scott, I’ll be sure to pass along the message to Stiles and Derek. Yep, uh-huh, you too. Later, dude.” Isaac said as he hung up the phone.
“Deaton says something might be coming, something big. Scott wants to meet at the vet's office tomorrow.”

“Of course something big is coming, something big is always coming.” Stiles mutters to himself, setting the now cooked chicken on their plates, and pulling out a crock of instant mashed potatoes from the microwave.

“We'll deal with it, we always do.” Derek assures his boyfriend, kissing him as a thanks for the meal.

“Yeah, I know. I still don't like it.” The teen says.

“Hey, we'll be okay, really. I promise.” Isaac says, pulling the two men into a hug.

They sit for a meal, and when finished, retreat to the living room. As Isaac made breakfast and Stiles made dinner, Derek gets stuck on dish duty, which he finishes with all due diligence. Afterwards, as a not-quite-full moon fills the loft with silver light, the three fall in a tangle of limbs and murmured declarations of love, kisses and wandering hands turning into more.

At the end, there's a moment where the boundaries between the three blur, their scents lose all distinction, and they cry out together. Then, the moment passes as reality and the laws of physics reassert themselves. In the glorious afterglow, Isaac winds up being spooned by Stiles, and Derek wraps himself around both of the teens. It's a pretty wonderful moment, one free of monsters of any variety, one filled with the kind of love that's the subject of epics and novellas, one we all aspire to. As the boys say their goodnights and I love yous, they are ignorant that somewhere across town, something is happening.

At the Nemeton, a Celtic knot carves itself into the exposed wood of the stump, like a brand. A triskele, wrapped around the figure of a howling wolf's head.

Deaton stares at the stump with concern, realizing the pattern is complete. Three triskeles, one centered on a miniature Earth, another over a maple leaf and now the third over a wolf? He's seen this symbol before, a long time ago. Something's coming, something more powerful than anything he's ever encountered in his life.

“God help us.” He whispers.

Overhead, in the trees, a Nightingale sings.