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Birthday Boy

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"Erica's birthday is next Thursday," Boyd says, all werewolf grace and intensity in a black leather jacket as he slips into the study carrel next to Stiles.

"Okaaay?" Stiles lets the chewed cap of his yellow highlighter drop into his hand. "I'd get on that, if I were you. You know there's a Harley dealership up in Cliffside, right? I hear they have a whole line of leatherwear."

Boyd rolls his eyes. "You are nowhere near as funny as you think you are, Stilinski."

Stiles caps his highlighter with an aggressive click. "Was there a point to your little announcement, or did you decide to pick up a new part time job? Because I'm not really on board the bug-Stiles-for-fun-or-pay train."

"There's a point." Boyd tips his head back, like Stiles has seen Scott do so many times when he's trying to scent someone out, then cocks his head to the side like he's trying to get his ears to do the swivel-flick-twitch radar thing that four-legged canines do. Finally satisfied, he leans forward into what is so totally Stiles' personal zone, the space clearly demarcated by the flakeboard partition.

Werewolves suck.

"Erica's had a crush on you since the fourth grade," Boyd says, and Stiles is holding up his hands before Boyd gets the whole sentence out.

"Okay, whoa, no. That is not on me, dude. I haven't had a single prurient thought about—" And crap, one of these days he's going to learn not to let his mouth get away from him in front of living, breathing lie detectors equipped with fangs, but alas, today is not that day. "I mean, Erica is totally hot, which you know, being her boyfriend and all, but I have no designs on her, I swear."

Boyd snorts. "Relax. I'm not planning on pounding your face in."

"It's amazing how reassuring you don't sound when you say that."

"Do you want to know what I'm here for, or do you want to sass me all day?"

That's begging for a pointed comment about how he didn't start this conversation to begin with, but Stiles knows that if he lets it out they'll just keep going round and round in circles until he has no hope of remembering the vague essay outline he'd been composing in his head before Boyd so rudely interrupted. Stiles goes with the more productive option and mimes zipping his lips.

"Me and Erica are tight." Boyd doesn't actually hold up two fingers twisted together, but it's clear they're implied. "I'm not worried about you trying to steal her away from me. Besides, she's been over you since she took the bite."

"Wow," Stiles says, unable to stop himself. "You might want to slow down before my ego gets too big. I mean, we're talking Goodyear blimp territory, here."

"I'm thinking she might like seeing you with a ball gag," Boyd says, and yeah, all hopes of keeping that outline in his head are toast, because what the actual fuck?

"Um, what?"

"I know exactly what I want to get her for her birthday," Boyd says. "And that's you, me, her, all enjoying some personal time together, if you get my drift."

"A threesome?" Stiles blurts. "You want me to be part of a threesome with you guys?"

"Not so loud," Boyd hisses. "You know how hard it was to find a time to talk to you where the rest of the pack couldn't hear?"

"Okay, but." Stiles takes a deep breath, then lowers his voice to his best attempt at a whisper. "But didn't you just get done saying she's over me?"

"Just because she doesn't want to date you doesn't mean she doesn't want to fuck you." Boyd sits back after dropping that bomb, crossing his massive arms over his massive chest. "You never really stop having a thing for your first crush. I thought maybe you could empathize with that."

"Yeah," Stiles rasps. He's been over Lydia for a while now. If he's being honest with himself, he was probably over her before that whole clusterfuck of a night when Lydia's love turned Jackson into a real werewolf, even if his head hadn't realized it until then. Being over her doesn't stop his heart from giving a stupid little judder whenever she aims a smile his way, though. "Yeah, I get that."

"Good." Boyd's smile is almost friendly. "So, are you in?"

"Uh." It suddenly occurs to him that this is a thing that is real. That Boyd doesn't actually seem to be fucking with him. Well. Maybe actually fucking with him, and that is a thing that doesn't make sense. "I didn't know you were into guys?"

"I'm not. Not one bit."

Stiles can't help being offended by the quick, flat denial. "I think it's a little hypocritical to invite me into a threesome and then pull the 'no homo' card, dude."

"And I think you could try keeping your assumptions to yourself for a change," Boyd says, more than a little pissily. "I'm straight. Deal with it. Doesn't mean I won't suck your cock if that's what Erica wants. I just won't get off on it."

"Holy hell," Stiles squeaks. He really, really needs to adjust himself right now. Boyd smirks—and right, there's no hiding how turned on he is from stupid werewolf noses. Just for that, Stiles does reach down. His hand is hidden by the desk from anyone who might be casually strolling through the library, but what he's doing has to be more than obvious to Boyd.

"Made up your mind yet?" Boyd asks, still smirking.

"Um." The proposition is more than a little intimidating, to be sure. Frankly, Erica and Boyd have only made it onto his fantasy list a time or two, in that quick wow those two are really hot together, I wonder if kind of way. But it's not like he has anyone else inviting him into their bed, and, God, Stiles really wants to get laid. "You're sure you're not going to kill me if I say yes?"

Boyd slaps him on the shoulder; Stiles takes it as a good sign when the blow doesn't knock him off his chair. "Just make Erica happy, and we're good from here on out."

"Yeah, okay," Stiles says, even though part of his brain is insisting this is some magic-induced delusion. "I'll do it."

"Great." Boyd stands up. "I'll pick you up at your place next Thursday, around eight. Cool?"

"Cool," Stiles murmurs.

It's as he's watching Boyd strut away that it occurs to Stiles that Boyd very clearly said make Erica happy. Which, hey, no problem—except for the fact that Stiles is still very much a virgin, and he's pretty sure what he's learned from porn and extensive googling will only take him so far. In his sad experience, watching and doing are worlds apart. Stiles thunks his forehead down onto his notebook.

"I'm dead," he mumbles. The smell of ink and bleached paper under his nose might as well be from his own death certificate. "So very, very dead."