In the morning, Derek makes breakfast while Stiles stumbles around picking up debris from the night before and Jen throws the sheets (and the couch cover, before the screwdriver Erica spilled on it has time to set) in the wash. Stiles has spent plenty of nights at the loft, falling asleep on Lydia or Cora's shoulder during marathon research sessions, or sprawled on the pack bed with Scott's nose in between his shoulder blades and Boyd always somehow kneeing him in the groin. Derek has gotten the hang of pancakes with Isaac's help, shaking his damp hand over the griddle and waiting for the beads of water to hiss before he pours on the batter. Jen usually takes coffee duty, making pot after pot in the machine with the occasional French press for Allison, who's picky about her brew and her beans. They have a routine.
There's nothing out of the ordinary about it, except that this time, it's not for two or ten; it's for three.
They don't talk about it; there's a few nudged shoulders and smiles (Jen's are friendly, Derek's shy, his gaze cast over his shoulder from beneath those long, Cover Girl lashes), that's all. Jen kisses Derek when he hands her a plate, ruffles Stiles's hair. Apart from the weird looks Isaac gives Stiles for weeks afterward, everything goes back to normal.
The pack scatters for college, Scott and Cora to Davis, Allison and Boyd to Stanford, Stiles to Reed, and Lydia to MIT. Erica and Isaac are the only ones who stick close to home, Isaac training as a vet tech at the community college and Erica going full-time at the bakery where she's worked for the past year. Even Jen goes back to school: she's teaching at BHHS and doing a library science program online at the same time. They email a lot, follow each other on Instagram.
In between classes, Stiles gets trashed every weekend, spends hours and hours in the library, and ends up fuckbuddies with Jo and Sam who live on the floor above him. There's rampant floorcest, which means that his roommate Banji is banging Lin across the hall by the end of the first week. It's… the freedom is a little intense, but Stiles has spent the last few years juggling school and life-or-death situations. He has everything under control until the night he does shrooms with a few of his Anthro classmates and winds up puking in the bushes and flashing back to the night Lydia dosed them all up with wolfsbane punch. He calls her on Skype the next morning, still dazed and shaky; it's three hours later in Boston, and Lydia's already dressed and composed, working on her afternoon latte and irritated that he's pried her from her linear algebra homework.
"Don't do drugs," she says, rolling her eyes. "What did I—"
Stiles sits up in bed, slides his laptop down his legs to the mattress so he can hunch over it. "Everybody else—they were having a good time, I felt like such a dick for ruining it. It's—I don't feel weird here, Lydia. You know how—you love MIT, right? There's people like you. You don't have to explain how you think or pretend you don't—"
"Yeah." Lydia gives him a little half smile, sits down her drink. "I know."
"They weren't—they get me," Stiles says. "They don't know me, though." Jo thinks Stiles's scars are all from a BMX phase in junior year, which Stiles didn't lie about, not exactly. He's learned a lot about lying from from werewolves.
"Not yet," Lydia says.
Pack Thanksgiving dinner is on Friday night. Isaac handles the turkey, Erica and Derek churn out a series of increasingly weird pies (the last one is mango chili), and everyone else brings the side dishes they divvied up last week in a google doc. Stiles brings his dad's green bean casserole, topped with Funyuns and made with love. They all end up piled on the pack bed on the end, Scott groaning about his food baby while Cora shoves him down to make room and Allison tickles Stiles until he screams and knees Boyd in the balls for a change.
Stiles forgets his casserole dish, so he heads back over to the loft the next morning to pick it up.
Jen answers the door naked.
For a brief, horrifying moment, Stiles gets that lurching feeling in his stomach that led to him upchucking outside Rajiv's dorm, like he's fallen into the past and can't claw his way out again. Not that the super hot threesome that happened on the bed twenty feet from him would be a terrible thing to remember in 3D, surround sound, tactile detail, but Stiles would really be okay without anymore flashbacks for the rest of his life, thank you. He slides his hands into his pockets, just to put them somewhere. "Uh," he says, rocking back on his heels. "I left—something?"
"Oh, yeah, your dish," Jen says, already wandering off the kitchen, door open behind her. Stiles hovers on the threshold, uncertain. He can see Derek now, sprawled out on the unmade pack bed and just as naked, something paused on the TV. It looks like Thor, which doesn't help with the whole hallucinatory, bad trip feeling.
"What's wrong?" Derek cranes his neck to look over at Stiles. "You're—your heartbeat is all—"
Stiles swallows. "I'm fine. Totally fine. Nothing at all to—"
"This bothers you," Derek says, frowning. "The—"
"It's been a weird semester, okay," Stiles says. "I don't want to talk about it."
Jen comes back in holding Stiles's casserole dish, scratched 9"x12" Pyrex that's lived in the cabinet to the right of his stove as long as Stiles can remember. She sits it down on the table by the couch, though, and crosses over to Stiles, worrying her lip. "You sure about that?" she says. "You look pretty freaked. Do you want to hang out for a little while?"
Stiles looks down at the smudged toes of his sneakers. "Uh, I don't want to—interrupt."
"No," Jen says. "We're just having a Marvel marathon. And—you're always welcome here, you know that. We missed you. Derek over there—"
"Stop it," Derek groans into a pillow.
"Derek didn't make pancakes for months after you guys left for college," she continues. "He's been—"
"I'll stay if you make pancakes for dinner," Stiles says before he thinks about it. He's easy for pancakes.
"Deal," Jen says, holding out her hand. They shake on it. Stiles tries not stare at her boobs.
The naked puppy pile is weird. People usually kick off their jeans before pack cuddling commences, the girls doing that incomprehensible thing where they undo their bras and pull them off without ever taking off their shirts, except Erica, who thinks everyone should appreciate her rockin' bod. Stiles strips down to his boxers before he climbs onto the bed, leaves on his socks because his feet always get cold, and Jen pushes him next to Derek before she lies down on his other side and tugs the comforter over them. Derek hits play on the universal remote.
Stiles is afraid to move for a few minutes, still choking down panic, but the bizarreness of the whole situation starts to calm him down after a little bit. This isn't anything he's ever dreamed of or jerked off to or hallucinated, just Jen, who rubs his shoulders, and Derek, who slings his arm across Stiles's back after a while. Stiles can't feel Derek the same way the wolves in their pack can sense him as their alpha, but he's still comforting to be around, solid and reassuring, always trying so hard and slowly but surely sucking less. Jen is—Jen, always warm and friendly, but holding herself separate a little from all of them.
Not so separate anymore, though, now that they're not her students. Evidence: she's naked. Also, one time Stiles totally had sex with her and Derek, right here, in this bed.
They put on Captain America after Thor, and somewhere in there, Stiles dozes off, face tucked against Derek's shoulder.
When Stiles wakes up, the TV is off and the light coming through the big window is dimming. Also, he has a serious hard-on digging into the mattress.
He squirms, which makes it worse, the friction of grinding against the bed just this side of painful and totally enough to get him off in two minutes if he humped the bed like a twelve-year-old. Stiles isn't twelve, though: he's totally legal and in bed with two ridiculously attractive, naked people who fucked him out of his mind six months ago, and one of them can smell boners.
"Um," he mumbles.
"Are you feeling better?" Derek asks quietly, so close that Stiles can feel Derek's breath on his ear.
Stiles takes a moment to assess. "Yeah," he says, squeezing his eyes shut. "I'm—I'm good."
"Do you want to have sex?" Jen says in his other ear, not bothering to whisper at all.
"Are you kidding?" Stiles says incredulously. "I mean—uh, yes, obviously, yes, blanket permission, sure."
Jen—snorts; she doesn't laugh very gracefully. "Turn over," she says.
Stiles does, gasping a little when his dick rubs against the mattress. He's still nervous and awkward during sex most of the time, even though Jo and Sam are his friends, worried about elbowing someone in the ribs or choking someone with his dick or just flailing his way out of their lofted twin beds onto the floor. Derek and Jen know him, though; Jen's seen him stick a Twizzler in his nose when he was bored in class and Derek, well. There's no point in trying to impress them. He'd never dig himself out of that hole, but he doesn't need to try.
Well, Stiles tries really hard not to come the moment Derek sticks his hand under Stiles's waistband and pulls out his dick, already damp with precome, but that's just because he doesn't want this to last five seconds, or two minutes; he wants to get fucked until he cries. Again.
"Don't—you can relax, okay?" Jen says, reaching over to tease his nipple, and then across him to stroke Derek's arm. "This is just to take the edge off. Come whenever you want."
Derek's jacking him slow and even, but he speeds up then, thumb rubbing a hot line from Stiles's balls to the head of his dick and back down again. He hasn't bothered to shove Stiles's boxers off, or even down, so his dick keeps rubbing against the elastic and wet cotton behind Derek's knuckles, and, fine, Stiles wants to come right now, yes, please. He scrabbles one hand over to dig his nails into Derek's thigh, bumps against Derek's totally hard—yeah. That's it. He's done for.
Jen kisses Stiles's forehead when he comes; Derek strokes him through it so gently it almost hurts.
While Stiles is still drifting back to earth, Derek crawls across him to climb on top of Jen, and they make out for a while, lazily, each of them reaching out occasionally to pet Stiles, like they're reminding him he's a participant right now and not just a voyeur. Stiles is still on the outside, though; they have a whole private life that doesn't include him, something he can only infer from years of observing casual touches and occasional PDA. He doesn't know why they don't live together, what sides of the bed they take, or whether they've done anything like this before, pulled anyone else into a shared bed. Jen keeps running her fingers over Stiles's chest, aimless and distracted, and Derek rakes Stiles's side gently with his short, carefully-filed human nails.
"Hey, Stiles," Jen says after a while; Derek lowers his head to rest it against her chest, eyes shut, face soft and open. "You seem like—you liked it before, right, when Derek fucked you?"
"I did, I really, really—" If Stiles sounds a little spacey, that can't be helped. That was like the Malibu Barbie Dream House of anal sex. "You want to do it again?"
"If you do, yeah," Jen says. "But maybe the other way around this time?"
Upside down? Backwards? In reverse order? "I don't know what that means," Stiles says.
"I want to fuck you," Jen says, blushing, which is a little surprising from her. "With a toy. If—only if you want."
Stiles—does not have words. Jen waits him out, though, looking at him patiently until he chokes out a fervent, "Yes."
Apparently the toys, unlike the spare lube, live up in Derek's room; Jen goes off in search of this one. After she disappears at the top of the spiral staircase, Derek clears his throat. "She, um," he says. "She really wanted to try that, but I don't—I don't really like stuff, there."
"That's okay." Stiles pushes up on one shoulder, pats Derek's shoulder with his free hand and… leaves it there. "I can take one for the team."
"Literally," Derek says, eyes crinkling at the corners. He gives Stiles a little twitch of a smile.
Stiles never knows what to do when Derek makes jokes, so he just touches Derek, runs his hand over him with the same reassuring, light strokes Jen used on Stiles himself earlier. "That's cool," he says. "I—I like doing stuff with you guys."
Derek turns on his side, puts his hand on Stiles's hip. "Do you want me to—get you ready? So she can."
"Yeah, sure," Stiles says. "That would be—nice?"
It's a little uncomfortable without Jen, with just Derek here, Derek who Stiles jerked off thinking about all junior year, guiltily and furiously. When Derek and Jen got together, that made things easier, turned everything into distant fantasy instead of frustrated aspiration. Stiles has thought about them doing it every which way, bent in improbable positions in the Jeep or spread out on any numbers of beds. Reality, as always, is different; Derek struggles with the cap on the lube, teases at Stiles's asshole uncertainly for a long minute where Stiles teeters between turned on and and confused. Finally, Stiles says, "Stop messing around, just put it in already," and Derek's slow, hesitant pressure gets firm enough for him to push inside the tight ring of muscle.
"You got started without me," Jen says, footsteps sounding on the metal steps. She doesn't sound like she minds. "Keep going."
Derek flicks his eyes past Stiles's shoulder for a moment, exchanging some wordless communication; when he looks back at Stiles, his expression is naked and wanting, so much more intimate than the sight of his naked body has ever been. Stiles doesn't know how to react to that, so he just shoves down hard on Derek's finger and says, "More."
Jen climbs on the bed behind Derek, leans in to suck a mark on his neck that blooms and fades almost as soon as she pulls away. The rhythm of Derek's fingers pushing into Stiles starts to fall apart as she touches him, fingers brushing against Derek's dick, skating up and down his side. "Mmm," she says. "This is—this is good. You're so good, baby."
Derek closes his eyes and just—shudders, his whole body trembling.
"That's enough, yeah," Jen says, nuzzling Derek's neck. "You let me take over. I've got it, I've got you."
When she gets up again, Stiles sees it for the first time, the dildo strapped between her legs, dark curls peeking around the harness that frames it. This isn't one of those realistic ones, veiny and skin-toned: it's pink and knobby and shiny, bouncing a little with her movement. "Wow," he says. "I saw this in porn once."
Jen prods Derek's shoulder until he lies on his back, fingers slipping out of Stiles. "Only once?" she asks as she prods Stiles up, and then over onto Derek, until they're lying with their bellies pressed together, Stiles's legs on either side of Derek's, dicks not quite touching. "I've seen some, too," she adds.
"Um," Stiles says.
Jen is slow and careful, pushing into Stiles. He's never had anything but fingers and Derek's dick inside him, and those were always lively and responsive, not like the dildo, which is cool, unyielding. Stiles isn't sure whether he likes it at first, shoving back against her, taking it—her—whatever—in deeper, faster. The dildo's smaller than Derek, wrapped in a condom, and slick with lube, sliding in easily. It feels impersonal, kind of, but not bad.
Derek, though. Derek's grinding up against Stiles's hip, with a low growl, he feels painfully hard, and Jen's making these little breathy noises, digging her fingers into Stiles's hips. Stiles starts to move against Derek, and Jen's dildo warms up inside him. "You're so great," Jen says, rocking her hips up against his and, whoa, shit, hitting Stiles right in the spot that makes him see stars. "Both of you—Derek—"
Stiles feels smothered and—really safe, somehow, sandwiched between both of them, letting Jen fuck him and Derek rut against him, just use him the way they want. Beneath him, Derek has his head thrown back against the pillows, eyes heavy-lidded. Stiles bends his head to nip at his collarbone and latches on hard enough to suck a quick, dark bruise.
"Fuck, Stiles," Derek groans, pushing his hips up against Stiles so hard that Jen's next thrust punches the breath out of him. Then Derek reaches up, fists a hand in Stiles's hair, and pulls him down into a kiss.
Stiles doesn't have a great track record with first kisses. They tend to be neurotically overplanned during the progression from loaning dryer sheets to hanging out at floor parties to the first tentative brush of lips outside a door, over a drink, on a shared beanbag. This one, though, is like his first—it takes him completely by surprise. There's nothing Stiles can do but go with it, lick into Derek's mouth when Derek parts his lips, press against him and fuck Derek's mouth with his tongue while Jen fucks into Stiles's ass in one frenzied, intoxicating cycle. Derek bites on Stiles's lips, sucks on his tongue, drinks him in like Stiles is—and Jen's thighs are trembling against Stiles's whenever she slams into him. They're teetering on the edge of some kind of mindblowing orgiastic precipice, rocking into and against and all over each other, thrumming like live wire.
Derek comes first, flushing all down his chest as he shoots all over Stiles's belly, making this keening sound that's so human and vulnerable that Stiles has to clutch him tight as Jen shoves into him again and he comes, too. His dick twitches and pulses against Derek for long moments while Jen milks his orgasm out of him, his ass clenching helplessly around the stiff length of the dildo. He's still catching his breath when Jen pulls out of him, flips him over, and gives him a meaningful look.
"I got you," Stiles says, glancing over at Derek, who looks like he's attained some kind of sex nirvana. "Let me—" He tugs Jen down next to him and fumbles with the buckles on Jen's hips, yanks down the leather harness and his new friend until he can slide his hand between her thighs. Her clit's hot and swollen, cunt wet and ready. Stiles slides two fingers into her, presses the pad of his thumb against her clit, and fucks Jen until she sobs and pushes his hand away.
Next to them, Derek's—quiet. Too quiet. Being Derek Hale, probably. Stiles takes Derek's hand and pulls until Derek rolls over, tucking his head under Stiles's chin. Jen cuddles up to them, too, pushing one hand behind Stiles's neck and stroking Derek's cheek with the other. "Sweet baby," she says to Derek. "You're mine."
Derek leans into her touch, lets her pull him further in.
Stiles feels awkward for a moment, like he's intruding, but then Jen drops a sloppy kiss on the corner of his mouth and whispers (not that it matters), "Thanks."
Derek makes pancakes and scrambled eggs and broccoli for dinner, because, who knows; he puts on pants for that. Afterward, Stiles putters around in boxers and Jen loads the dishwasher in an apron and only an apron. "Why are you still naked?" Stiles says, finally, so very belatedly. "Is it—too hot in here?"
"No," Jen says. "Derek just likes, you know—"
"Werewolf thing, yeah, I got that," Stiles says. Sometimes he forgets how different their pack is from whatever Derek and Cora grew up with, their modesty, the simultaneous elasticity and loyalty of their chosen bonds.
Jen puts another mug into the top rack. "Isaac's at his aunt's place. There's not a lot of time to, you know, just hang out naked over here without someone barging in. No offense."
"None taken," Stiles says, passing her a fork.
He takes the casserole dish and a half a pie home with him, and Derek generously throws on a sweater and shoves his feet into unlaced sneakers to walk Stiles down to his car. "See you at Christmas," he says while Stiles digs his keys out of his pocket. "Call if you need anything."
"Sure," Stiles says. He wants to—something, he doesn't know what. He takes the pie from Derek. "Same to you, I mean."
"Oh my god, it reeks in here," Stiles says, dumping his duffel bag on his bed. "Did you and Lin leave at all this weekend?"
Banji grins at him. He's from Long Island and Lin's from Hong Kong; the room smells like they spent the entire holiday in bed. "We camped out in front of Target for Black Friday, but, pretty much. How about you? Good times?"
"Yeah," Stiles says. "Yeah, it was good."