This was written for the prompt "anchors have two prongs" by argentum_ls at the Merrier the More Polyamory Ficathon. So, for one thing, I've apparently lost the ability to write comment!fic that is actually the length of comments? Also, um. Somehow this turned into porn? Which... I don't write? But. Somehow this happened anyway. And I'm just going to go crawl under a rock tbh. A huuuuge thank you to ladyrostova for dealing with all the panicking and flailing and existential crises that occurred around this. You are the best, and I love you. And dear argentum_ls, I really hope you don't mind how much I ran away with your prompt,
as the moon waned to crescent we started to kiss » teen wolf. allison/scott/stiles. nc-17. 6,980 words.
allison and stiles are both there to help scott get through a full moon. warnings: threesome, depiction of pain and traumatic events (transformation). mtv owns these characters, not me.
It’s always the eyes first.
The flash of gold is the telltale sign, the tip-off right before the jut of teeth and the choked growls that used to freeze the blood in Allison’s veins but now prompt her into action. Sometimes that means edging back, carefully judging her distance and just talking Scott through it, murmurs of “hey, hey, you’re alright, you’re—Scott, it’s okay, hey,” and sometimes that means pressing herself closer to him insistently, interlocking their fingers or holding his face in her hands and refusing to back down, refusing to tear her eyes away.
“You—you help,” Scott told her once, and she remembers the slide of his thumb on her cheek, his breath warm on her neck. “You help me focus, help bring me back when I get—when it starts to, you know, take over.”
So now it’s her thumb tracing his cheekbone, her mouth pressing into his skin, calming and murmuring. He isn’t triggered as easily anymore, but sometimes it’s the adrenaline and aggression of lacrosse, sometimes it’s a comment from a teacher or another student, and sometimes, like now, it’s just his anger with everything. It’s them having to hide in public and Scott having to be scared of being hunted down like an animal if he’s not careful. It’s Scott never having any choice in all of this and just wanting normal, for him and for both of them.
They’re hidden under the bleachers, away from security cameras and family members and the rest of the gossiping school population. And Scott hates it, the hiding, and she hates it too, but his words get choked up in frustration and his eyes flash gold, and—she is there, hands on his face and calming.
“Scott,” and that’s all she has to say, over and over, “Scott, Scott, hey,” until he stops shaking, spitting out apologies that he shouldn’t have to make.
“It’s okay,” she says, and curls her fingers tighter into his shirt. “It’s okay.”
She feels it when he shudders. “Not okay,” he insists. “Not with you—here.” He bites at his lip. “It’s just, you know, full moon tonight. Guess I’m already on edge.”
“Are you gonna be okay?”
He nods slowly. “Yeah—yeah, Stiles’ll chain me up good, don’t worry. We’ve got it covered.”
She almost wants to laugh at don’t worry, feels like that’s all she does anymore. She can’t even keep track of all her worries, and tonight on a full moon is certainly not when she’s going to be able to just push them out of mind.
“Why don’t I come?” she suggests, and her jaw clenches when she sees Scott start to open his mouth, imagines no, it’s not safe before he stops himself, must remember how much she hates being told that. “I’ll be there,” she decides, before he can say anything, shuts him up with a quick kiss and smiles. “Promise. Okay?”
There’s a second before Scott nods. He leans his forehead against hers. “Okay.”
Stiles gives her a long look-over when she shows up at his house after school, after a detour home to drop off her books and tell her parents she was off to Lydia’s for a sleepover, promising they were also going to get in some studying for the bio test next week. (There really is a bio test – that part’s not a lie – but studying has been pushed to the ‘later’ section of her mind, to be dealt with not now, and god, that section is getting too big.)
“Hey, come on in,” he greets, voice too emphatic, too loud, too slow, and it’s obvious he’s not really sure what to make of her being here. She offers a smile, tries to relax and take in her surroundings as she’s ushered inside.
“Thanks.” The one word sounds stilted between them, and Stiles is fidgeting, fingers locking together and twisting over each other at his sides as if she wouldn’t notice.
“So—where’s Scott?” she asks, tries to keep it light, as un-awkward as possible, even though Stiles can’t stop staring at her like she just doesn’t fit where she’s standing, like she’s out of place right now. It’s not as if she’s never seen Scott transform before, but they’ve never both been there, and she can see why she might seem out of place when this is something Stiles and Scott were dealing with before she even knew about full moons and people who were wolves under their skin.
Stiles looks relieved by the question, though, and nods at the staircase quickly. “Upstairs! It’s starting to get dark early, and moon’s out already, so we were just figuring out how best to, uh... keep him in.” He grimaces, runs a hand over his head and then down his face, tapping his fingers against his mouth distractedly. “He broke out when it was just a handcuff, so I got these chains, but we’re trying to see, do we go with the radiator or will he just rip it off the wall, or—are bedposts getting too kinky about it—”
He’s gesturing rapidly, weighing the options in both hands, but Allison is distracted by his comment about the moon, and she’s looking out the window. She can see it, only pale and indistinct but there nonetheless, ominous. She used to associate the moon only with stars, with I wish I may, I wish I might and her father naming constellations out for her to remember. Now her spine feels cold at the sight.
“I love him, you know,” she blurts out, and Stiles stops talking, his forehead wrinkling as he stares at her. Her cheeks warm. “I mean—that’s why I’m here—I just want to help, I can help, I promise, and—I love him.”
Stiles’ face smoothes out again, and for a second he looks like he might just roll his eyes. “Right, I know, I know, you’re the great love story of the twenty-first century. Someone should write a song about it.” There’s no bite to the words; he sounds tired more than anything, but she must look stung because his expression softens.
“Hey. Allison. I didn’t—” He nods, widens his eyes meaningfully. “I know. I know.” He makes a wide gesture towards the stair. “Come on, loverboy’s up there.”
She tries to smile, and she follows him up.
“So, Stiles, your dad’s definitely working late tonight, right?”
It’s supposed to be a quip, but Allison’s voice isn’t quite steady as she secures one of the last sections of chain in place – they’re going with the radiator again after all – and blinks as she takes in the full sight of Scott tied back with several yards of chain, trapped in place and (hopefully) unable to break away.
Stiles exhales loudly. “Oh yeah.”
Scott attempts a lousy grin, comforting her even when he’s the one with piles of chain weighing on him. She finds his still free hand on the floor and tangles her fingers with his, squeezes quickly and does not imagine his nails sprouting into claws designed to rip and tear. She takes a deep breath, tries not to shudder, and gets to her feet.
“I think this is pretty good,” Scott offers, giving an experimental tug.
Allison snorts. “It looks like we’re about to shoot a really bad porno,” she can’t help commenting, and Stiles barks a loud laugh at that, eyebrows shooting up with surprise.
“Familiar with bad porn, eh? What, times tough?” Stiles smirks – and it’s probably the closest thing to a real grin she’s seen on him ever since she arrived; everything else has been tense and fake and failing to mask the stress and worry.
“Ha ha.” She rolls her eyes, but she’s grinning, even when Scott chucks a stray pillow from the ground at Stiles with an added “Shut up, Stiles.”
Allison just laughs, lowering herself onto the bed behind her and pulling a face at Scott. He makes a silly one back at her, scrunching his nose up, and it’s so stupid but she feels such a sudden rush of love – the kind that almost feels like a secret and makes her toes curl – that she slides back to the ground to crawl over and kiss him. It’s not even just a peck – she’d only intended that at first, but this turns out to be slow and inviting, his mouth opening under hers and her tongue sliding over his teeth, a soft groan slipping into his mouth. She fists her hand in his hair tight and scoots close enough that his free hand can skim her waist and slide up past her hipbones under her shirt.
Stiles coughs. Twice. Loudly. Make that three times.
They break apart, flushed and grinning, and he narrows his eyes at both of them. “Alright, alright, great show, I get it, you’ve got a great sex life way better than any bad porn out there.” He shakes the last chain in his hand emphatically. “Can we get back to business here?”
The warning is gold (the warning is always gold).
Scott’s eyes flash in the middle of a sentence and he cuts off, choking raggedly as his body trembles. Stiles is on his feet immediately, one hand reached out almost helplessly, but Allison is still sitting on the floor.
“Scott...” she starts to say, and that’s when Scott arches back, a hoarse whine slipping out of his throat and the sound of ripping as his teeth elongate and his face begins to reshape itself. There’s a hand on her shoulder suddenly, tugging her to her feet, and it’s Stiles, it’s Stiles pulling her back and away as Scott tries to clenched clawed fists and growls.
Allison’s throat is dry, too dry for words, because this isn’t a small trip, a slip-up, this is the moon taking over, full-fledged transformation and Scott is looking at her with no recognition in gold eyes. She yanks her arm away from Stiles and pushes past him out of the bedroom, her throat shuddering around the air she gulps in. The door clicks behind them both, but she doesn’t turn around.
“You help me,” she remembers, but she feels helpless right now, the snarls from inside the bedroom cutting into her skin, like she can actually make out words, you’re not enough, Allison.
“Just gotta wait it out,” Stiles says behind her, and he sounds hoarse and tired, voice hitching over his words. She turns around, sees him slumped against the wall on the floor, and she slides down the wall facing him.
“H-how—” It’s too quiet, barely more than a whisper, and she sounds absolutely wretched, so she steels herself and raises her voice. “How do you—how did you do it, before, how do you just sit here and—” She shakes her head, wincing as a keening, pained sound breaks through.
Stiles shrugs, looking down and not meeting her eyes. “Had to. Not like he had anyone else to do it.”
And she’s never seen him quite like this, so shaken and honest, all those layers of defence mechanisms, all the jokes and sarcasm, stripped away and only the boy left behind. Scott’s best friend, and she knows they’ve been friends their entire lives, she knows they’re inseparable, but she’s never felt the brunt of that as much as she does now, sitting in Stiles’ hallway and hearing not like he had anyone else, knowing what Stiles’ isn’t adding, that there isn’t much at all he wouldn’t do for Scott.
She trusts Stiles, she does, almost implicitly, because she knows what he’s done for Scott, for her, and she knows that Scott trusts him with his life, and she loves Scott, and—isn’t that what love is? Trust? It feels safe to think so.
“Well,” she says, and she leans her head back against the wall and looks up at the ceiling. “Now I’m here too.” She doesn’t meet Stiles’ eyes either, not when she’s speaking, but then she has to look down, and isn’t quite surprised to see him staring at her evenly.
He nods, a single gesture that seems to cross all the space between them.
“Yeah.” There’s no relief in his voice, but no bitterness either, and when he nods again it seems more like an evaluation, some mysterious conclusion reached, or maybe he’s still deciding. “Yeah, you are, Allison.”
They don’t say anything else, but Allison crawls across the small hallway after a moment and sits beside Stiles. His hand is limp on the ground and she grabs it in hers and he lets her, and they sit there, backs against the wall and Scott on the other side, and they listen to growls and they listen to pain, and they don’t say anything else.
When the noise stops, they go back into the room.
Scott is nearly bent in half, head hanging and practically crumpled, only held up by the chains still binding him to the radiator. His skin is shining and his eyes are dull, and Allison rushes to him quickly, fingers scrabbling with the chains, barely aware of Stiles at her side doing the same thing.
“Scott, Scott,” she murmurs, because that’s what she does, she is the name-sayer, she names him and he is human again—“You help me,” she remembers, and she continues to murmur, alternates between his name and “it’s okay, you’re okay, I’m here,” and trying not to trip over the words and betray how deeply she is shaking. She doesn’t even realize she’s stuck on the last lock, fingers refusing to work, until Stiles’ hands are on hers, gently prying it away.
So she takes Scott’s face in her hands instead, let’s the touch soothe them both. He’s burning beneath her, impossibly hot, and he groans at the feel of her hands, cold by contrast. His eyes flash gold again, but she doesn’t pull away and nothing else changes.
The last chain is undone, and he collapses into her, almost knocks them both to the ground but she steels herself and wraps her arms around him, buries her face in his neck and breathes.
“I’m—” the choked breaths he’s making are words, she realizes, as he pants into her hair. “I’m okay,” he says, but he’s not and she knows it. Tonight was bad, a particularly painful kick, and she doesn’t why or what that means, but Scott is not okay.
“Scott—” It’s not her, it’s Stiles who says it, voice pained, calling him out.
Scott lifts his head, and his jaw is clenched tight, his cheeks flushed red with heat. “I just—it felt so strong, I don’t know, I can’t—I can still feel it.” The wolf.
He’s gripping Stiles’ arm tightly, leaving Stiles to crouch beside them, and none of them move. None of them speak, and there is only silence until Scott can bring himself to continue.
“I’ve never been so scared of what I could do,” he admits, voice dry and rasping.
“You didn’t hurt anyone,” Allison tells him. She sounds fragile to her own ears, too quiet, but there is no waver to her words. Scott exhales loudly, frustrated, and starts to turn his head away, jaw clenched, but she grabs his face, forces him to look at her, both of them breathing deep and only a few inches of space between them. “No,” she insists. “Listen to me, you didn’t hurt anyone.”
“She’s right” – and she would have almost forgotten that Stiles is there too, except for the part where she can’t forget at all because he’s so close, a heavy presence over her shoulder, like a pulsing awareness through her veins – “Come on, Scott, you can’t beat yourself up for—for having urges, man, I mean, you did it, you beat them, nothing happened—”
“Not tonight.” Scott’s still breathing heavily, shoulders rising and falling and rising and falling, and his eyes pulse gold once before he shudders. “But what about next time, and what about the time after that, and what about—I just—I don’t want this for the rest of my life—I can’t—” and this is where his voice breaks, and he does look away, and she lets him. The snarling and the pained whines are still fresh in her head, and she hears Scott’s voice too, over again, the rest of my life, and she feels sick.
But she can see Scott’s eyes, just barely, and there’s gold again, steady this time if not that bright, and he’s breathing more and more unevenly and it’s too soon, he can’t get so worked up right now.
“Scott,” she says, names him, and then she does turn his head again, pulls him closer and struggles closer and kisses him insistently, nothing more than a hard press of desperate mouths and her fingers smoothing the skin over his shoulder, around the back of his neck.
It takes a second for him to kiss her back, but she feels how his body shudders to a slow, shoulders relaxing, because this is just—this is comfort, this is calming, this is bringing him down from the edge and just—pausing.
“Do you—” and it’s Stiles’ voice that causes her to break away from Scott, because Stiles is still there, she is too aware all over again, and he’s talking, asking—“Do you guys want me, um—should I go, you can—have the room, be my guest—”
She opens her mouth, even though she doesn’t know what she’s going to say, even though this is Stiles’ bedroom and Stiles’ house, but that’s when she notices his arm. Or, that’s when she notices how Scott is still gripping his arm, digging his fingernails in hard, and Stiles hasn’t made a sound but she can see blood through torn skin, and—did Scott still have claws when he reached out for Stiles, and Stiles just let him—
Stiles looks uncomfortable, when she looks up from his arm, but it’s not (she doesn’t think), it’s not because of PDA in front of him, it’s not exasperation like that; he looks torn, and he’s staring at Scott, not her, like the question is in Scott’s hands, all down to him. And of course it is, because Stiles will do anything for him, whatever he wants, he’ll do or be whatever he needs, even if Scott’s not going to ask. It’s still there.
So Allison surprises both of them – herself and Stiles, not even looking at her – when she’s the one to speak, when she says “Don’t go.” His head jerks to stare at her, and he knows, she can tell when he meets her eyes that he knows she gets it, and she still told him not to go.
They help get Scott to the bed after that, not really talking but both supporting him for the few feet it takes to cross the room, his arms draped over their shoulders until they can let him down on the mattress. He pushes himself up against the pillows and rubs a hand over his face, biting and biting at his lip and exhaling in short puffs.
His skin is still burning to the touch when Allison trails her fingers down his cheek, down his neck to rub slowly at his shoulder, working at the tense muscle and trying not to frown. She lowers herself onto his lap, straddling him gently, almost hovering, and kisses him again, only this time she is unbearably aware of Stiles, standing at the side of the bed, slowly sitting down on the mattress.
Allison pulls back quickly, and raises her eyes to Stiles even while she lowers her head to the side of Scott’s neck, pressing a gentle kiss there, and then further down against the sharp line of his collarbone, the curve of his neck, the swell of his bicep, the plane of his chest—and over and over, her eyes flick to Stiles, who is staring right back at her.
“Hey—hey—” and this time it’s Scott, murmuring and getting her attention. “I thought—” his eyes flick to Stiles too, and then back at her, and she isn’t sure if there’s still a dim pulse of gold through the iris or if she’s just imagining it now, like a ghost image left behind, seared into her mind.
She straightens up, and she kisses him, the barest brush of lips before she leans back, and she smiles, sliding her hands down, teasing now, trying for playful because she wants that again, she wants Scott pulling silly faces that make her dizzy with how goddamn much she loves this boy, instead of Scott wracked and shuddering and so in pain somewhere far away she feels like she can’t even reach him.
“We,” she says, and the word feels dangerous sliding out her throat, and she’s not looking at Stiles but she sees how Scott does, quickly, so she smiles again—“are gonna make you feel so good—” her voice is breathy and teasing again, and it’s such a cheesy thing to say that if they were in any other situation Stiles would probably call her out for just how ‘bad porno’ she sounds, but she wants that, she wants jokes and laughing and how Scott’s eyes crinkle.
“Okay?” she breathes, and Scott’s eyes are wide, and there’s almost an uncertainty to how he brings his hand to curl around her waist slowly, and then he looks at Stiles. She sees the exact moment that he takes in the scrapes on Stiles’ arm from the way Scott sucks in a shallow breath, but then all she can look at is Stiles’ hand on Scott’s shoulder – she doesn’t even know how long that’s been there, but there’s something tentative about the way he’s touching him, until his fingers press harder against the skin, curving, and Scott’s breath slips out of him—
“Yeah,” is the sound of his breath, the word hanging between all of them for a second, impossibly weighted, and then Scott repeats himself, harder this time, “yeah,” and Allison isn’t looking at Stiles to see his reaction, but she grabs the hem of her shirt and pulls it over her head in a smooth slide of fabric, not caring how it fluffs her hair. And for some reason, she feels dizzy, even though nothing’s happened yet – everything has changed but nothing has actually happened, they’re not over the cliff yet, just standing on the edge and clasping their hands together and agreeing that yes, they are going to throw themselves off it.
She arches her back just slightly, deliberately, and Stiles is staring at her; she can almost feel the slide of his gaze down his skin, over her breasts and pale stomach – it’s not uncomfortable, simply in an overwhelming sort of way, like it would be impossible for him to avert his eyes, like the idea of any of them holding back is impossible now. She meets Stiles’ gaze, sees how his mouth is just the slightest bit open, and he blinks slowly.
He looks down, and she follows his gaze there too, sees how Scott’s hand is on his thigh, his thumb rubbing in a circle – Allison feels almost transfixed as she watches it, around around around slowly. There is no hint left of claws, not in Scott’s hand on Stiles’ thigh, and not in his other hand still at her waist, pressing harder against the skin and sliding down just under the waistband of her jeans.
“Your turn.” She’s proud of how even her voice is, and she raises an eyebrow at Stiles, reaching to tug the end of his shirt meaningfully. She watches him, and she sees the gulp in his throat as he swallows before pulling it off quickly, and then he seems to need to catch his breath too, and it’s just the three of them sitting on the bed, almost suffocating in the close proximity but still not close enough, not yet, and bare-chested—or almost, in her case.
She watches with her breath in her throat as Stiles places his hand on Scott’s shoulder again, firmly this time, and she watches how he blinks almost too quickly to see – blink blink blink – before he runs his hand down Scott’s arm, and – Scott is all eyes for him, she knows it, knows they are both staring, and everything in the room has narrowed down the point where Stiles’ mouth is pressing against Scott’s shoulder, and the point where his fingers are digger deeper and deeper into Scott’s wrist, and all the points where Stiles continues to trail down the slowest kisses, the barest touches – she can see how heavily he breathes every time he pulls away, again and again – and she can’t look away.
Scott whines, low in his throat, the sort of noise that just slips out without warning, and it almost takes her back to other noises, on the other side of the wall while she sat on the floor and Scott—but no, now isn’t then, this is the furthest thing from that, Allison reminds herself, and after one shudder that runs from the back of her neck to the base of her spine, she curves in to match Stiles, and she kisses the side of Scott’s neck lightly, a grin into his skin.
Her nails brush along the skin of his chest without scraping, and she is gentle, they are both are, slow and cool and bright in the remaining moonlight, and they don’t leave a single mark but it doesn’t matter; this is marking them all the same.
And Scott still feels impossibly warm, and this is a mess of skin pressed to burning skin, and when she does pull away for a second, it’s to reach behind her for the clasp of her bra. She rolls off from Scott’s lap, curling in where she fits beside him and tilts her head up to kiss him slowly, even as she slides straps down her arms, pushing her bra somewhere behind her, squished into the headboard or on the floor, she’ll find it later. Scott’s mouth is warm but not burning, and her lips part at the touch, she lets him slide his tongue past them, and she sucks at it, bites at his lip gently when he groans and slides his hand into her hair, and—
“Mother of God,” she hears, and it’s enough to make her giggle, breaking the kiss to stare at Stiles, straightening up fully so that, yeah, her naked chest is completely in full view, and now he is definitely staring, looking a little flushed in the face and a lot impressed.
She rolls her eyes – half at Stiles, and half at Scott for having the most ridiculously pleased-with-himself expression on his face suddenly – and borrows a page from Stiles’ own book, though even sarcasm can’t hide her amusement when she informs him “Yes, I have boobs.”
He raises both hands, looking close to laughing himself, “Hey, I—I was just complimenting, Allison,” but Scott is the one who actual laughs, shaking his head and pulling Stiles closer suddenly, and then he’s kissing him and Allison is watching her boyfriend kiss his best friend and she doesn’t know what she should be feeling, but it’s pretty transfixing all over again. Stiles’ eyes slide close almost immediately, though he’s caught off-guard and half out-of-breath, and Scott’s gripping Stiles around the waist hard enough she wonders if it will bruise, because even when he is human Scott isn’t completely. But Stiles makes no complaint, only fumbles to get his hand around Scott’s neck and almost chokes on his breath when he breaks away.
Scott looks at her immediately with cautious eyes, and she loves him for it, thinks that surely in the silence both boys must be able to hear how loud and painfully her heart is bursting through her chest. But it’s not necessary, any caution between them, any guilt over any of this, and she just squeezes herself closer – closer to both of them, they are all three tangling more and sucking each other in – and she kisses him too, and none of it is jealousy, only reassurance, only it’s okay, this is okay. She wonders, briefly, if he will taste different, if she’ll taste Stiles, but everything is only warmth and soft lips and the same stuffy air they’re all breathing.
She wets her lips after, and she grins when she tells Scott to “lie down,” voice light and close enough her mouth almost brushes his cheek. He’s grinning too, wiggling further down the bed and relaxing back into the pillow, and when he stills is when Allison leans over, her mouth against his stomach and kissing all the way down to his navel, lifting her head only to raise her eyebrows at Stiles.
And she supposes there’s something of a challenge in the gesture, in her face, because Stiles edges closer – and how is it, she wonders, how do they keep finding ways to bring themselves closer and closer; she feels dizzy from the press of it, skin prickling with awareness and constant warmth, rushing everywhere – and he gets one of his legs overlapping Scott’s. He mimics Allison, slowly, mouthing the same path down Scott’s stomach until he reaches jean fabric, and one of them shudders – Scott or Stiles or maybe it’s even her, Allison doesn’t know, only feels it.
It takes two sets of hands to get the zipper undone, in any case, and then Allison is tugging Scott’s jeans halfway down his thighs, and she bites at her lip, bites and bites and then she meets Stiles eyes, and she lets him watch her as she deliberately crawls up the bed, planting her hands on either side of Scott’s head before leaning down to kiss him again, making him tilt up to reach her.
When she pulls back, she looks over her shoulder, blowing her hair out of her face with a quick puff of air, and Stiles is staring at her when she lifts her eyebrows, and this time, yeah, maybe it’s a bit of a challenge – or what are you going to do now, leaving the cards in his hands. Scott’s boxers are tented rather obviously, and she watches as Stiles lowers his hand, watches how slowly he gets his hand around Scott’s dick through the fabric, watches how his thumb skids up and down, reminded of Scott’s hand on his thigh earlier, but now Scott makes a choked sound underneath her, a hiss of breath through his teeth, and she bends down again, swallows the next hiss before it gets out, swallows all his noises into her and wishes it was all that easy.
She mouths along his jaw, and she sucks at his neck – not hard enough to bruise, not hard enough to leave a mark, she doesn’t want that right now – and she kisses down his ribcage, a kiss on every rib, and then she kisses his mouth, swallows more noises and sinks into the slide of tongues and the warm breaths between them.
Scott’s running his hand up and down the line of her leg, slowly, and he curls his fingers into the waist of her jeans, lets them stay there. She feels them like a burn into her skin, and has to bite down hard on her tongue as arousal twists deep inside her, no longer a slow warmth but sudden and piercing, and Scott seems to sense it, fingers scrambling at the button of her jeans now, and his other hand suddenly fitting against the small of her back, his hand splayed against her skin, and his mouth meeting hers again until he pulls back, gasping and arching so his stomach almost brushes hers.
“Shit ,” Scott swears, and his voice rings in her ears, so loud against the near-silence of before, when there was only the sound of sheets rustling underneath them and their bodies adjusting to each other and trying to fit together.
There’s a pleased sound from behind her, almost smug, and Allison looks back to see that Stiles has got Scott’s boxers shimmied down too, and he’s bent over him, with only a light grip on his dick, no longer moving his hand but mouthing at the head slowly, and she watches while Scott pants under her, feels how he tenses, and she watches as Stiles slides his mouth over properly and down the length, cheeks hollowing briefly, and she watches as he pulls back and then resumes, setting a rhythm, and she watches how his eyelids keep lowering, eyes dark and half-lidded, and she watches.
And then Scott’s sliding her jeans down her thighs, and she looks back at him – he’s got his head tipped back into the pillow, a slow groan spilling out his throat, and he breathes quickly through his nose – “Let me—” he whispers, and he pushes her jeans down and she helps, getting them down to her knees before he presses his finger against the fabric of her underwear, in just the spot, and she keens against him, breath stuttering out of her, and—“shit, shit,” she echoes him, sees him grin faintly at the sound.
He pushes her underwear out of the way quickly enough, his finger trailing over her wetness before sliding into her just enough for her breath to hitch in her throat and then sliding out, and his thumb smoothing over thin hair and then finding her clit, rubbing over it just hard enough that she almost collapses flush against him but curls her hands tighter into the mattress instead, feels the strain in her arms from holding herself up and focuses on breathing in and out and in and out.
“Allison,” Scott breathes, and she sucks in a breath uneven, and then he’s pushing his finger back into her, slowly getting into a rhythm as she starts to rock her hips, and then there’s a second finger, and she whines in the back of her throat and lowers her head, trying to kiss him, though their mouths only manage to move lazily, sliding against each other while they stutter on their breath. His hand at her back is rubbing in long sweeps while he curls both fingers inside of her and she buries her face in his neck—“Sc-Scott,” – but then he’s the one gasping, he’s the one going tight and tense under her and she can only just manage to lift her head, sees Stiles pulling off, panting and replacing his mouth with his hand, curling it and stroking up and down, only a few strokes needed before Scott is coming, and she sees it with his fingers still curled inside her, sees him spill over Stiles’ fingers and sees Stiles pull a face before wiping his hand against Scott’s thigh, and—and—
Scott’s thumb is sliding over her clit again, flicking softly, and he tugs her back down to him with a weak arm, his mouth firm against hers as he starts to work his fingers, just a bit faster, and she pushes back into his hand, helping and biting her lip, breath hissing out of her as he curls his fingers again, and his thumb strokes hard, and she feels her muscles tighten almost painfully before releasing, before her body is arching, impossibly taut for a moment while she squeezes her eyes shut, and when she opens them Scott is sitting up under her, hands tight around her back and holding her to him.
Stiles is beside her, and one of his legs is still thrown over Scott’s behind her, pressing into her back, but he’s got his own jeans undone, getting himself off with his hand quickly, and she takes a second to steady herself before reaching over, her fingers slipping in with his and nudging them out of the way as she takes over, feeling Scott’s gaze on her as she slides her hand quickly, thumbs over the head in a way that has Stiles mumbling under his breath, probably swearing too from the sounds of it, and then she’s sliding back up, and down, and up, and down, and a noise rasps in the back of his throat when he comes, and Allison still feels dizzy.
She leans into Scott, where her head fits the crook of his neck, and tries to catch her breath properly, eyes sliding closed even as Stiles grabs a shirt from the floor and wipes their hands clean, and gets Scott cleaned too, and only then do they lie back, and—
“This bed’s a little small,” Allison says quietly, and it’s so ridiculous, that only now does it feel squished, that she can’t help laughing, and Stiles snorts, and then Scott’s laughing too.
“Well sorry, next time we can use your room for the—” Stiles starts to retort, but he breaks off, either unable to put a word to whatever this was, or realizing the next time he said.
There’s a second of silence where Alison shifts against Scott, and pulls the comforter up and over them from the bottom of the bed just for something to do.
“Your bed’s just fine, Stiles,” Scott says then, placating, and he manages to wiggle his arms around them both. Allison reaches her arm behind him too, reaches until her fingers brush against Stiles’ neck, and that’s when she allows herself to yawn and lets her eyes slip shut.
Scott is still warm beside her, but it’s comforting, and she feels cool against him – they both are, Stiles on his other side, still easing Scott out of this with their own bodies even as they drift off. No one is shaking and no one is shuddering, and they fall asleep.
Allison wakes up and Scott is still sleeping beside her and Stiles is gone.
She notices it almost immediately, notices how her legs are sprawled across more room and she’s no longer half-falling off the bed. She frowns, and she untangles herself from Scott’s arm carefully, sitting up and wiping the sleep from her eyes before getting to her feet. She has to blink against head rush, and the floorboards are cold to the touch, but she finds her shirt and slips it on before creeping out of the room quietly. Scott will understand her waking up before him, Scott will understand this, but she doesn’t have a clue what Stiles is thinking right now, about last night and about everything.
When she gets to the bottom of the stairs, there’s a familiar smell coming from the back of the house, and she freezes, unsure if it’s Stiles or his dad, but then she hears a careful “Hello?” and relaxes.
“It’s Allison,” she says, and she follows the voice to the kitchen, finds Stiles sitting at the table with his foot tapping the floor over and over and over, and three cups of coffee in front of him, one half-empty.
“Thought it’d be better if my dad stuck his head in and at least just saw you two in my bed, instead of, you know—” and he gestures wildly between them and then to the ceiling, presumably indicating Scott. All three of us, Allison thinks, and she just nods.
“There’s uh, milk and sugar already?” He hands her a cup, so quickly it almost sloshes over, and she raises an eyebrow at him.
“What, ‘cause all girls like their coffee sweetened?” she teases, and he flushes.
“Um. Mine’s got milk and sugar too?”
She grins, and she thinks it’s a little weird that this feels so un-weird, but it’s also a relief, being able to slip back into normal. “I didn’t even know you drank coffee,” she comments, taking a long sip that warms her straight to the bone.
And Stiles says “I don’t, but I figured as long as I’m trying out new things, you know, group sex, hazelnut blends—” and Allison almost spits out her coffee.
Her throat is burning, and she chokes on the smallest laugh, and Stiles is looking at her a little alarmed and a little confused, but when she breathes out, “Oh my god,” and shakes her head, he relaxes a little, and he laughs, and they’re both still in that state of disbelief, shaking their heads and laughing when Scott comes down and finds them.
And they laugh while they try to make pancakes for breakfasts, and they laugh when Scott burns them terribly, and they laugh when the smoke alarm goes off and Stiles has to get on a chair and flap his arms at it, and they laugh when his dad comes downstairs and finds them, a little bewildered to see Scott and Allison over so early, and they laugh and they laugh and they laugh.
And the next full moon finds them sitting in Stiles’ bedroom all over again. It doesn’t hit Scott quite as hard this time; he writhes and he whines and he growls and his eyes flash gold, but they stay in the room and he sees them. He keeps his eyes locked on them, and Allison talks to him, murmurs anything, “Scott, Scott,” and lets him just listen to her voice.
And when it passes, they still drag him into bed and press kisses into his skin to cool and calm him down. He slots between them neatly, and the small bed fits them just fine. Stiles bites at the back of his neck, but not hard enough to break the skin, and Allison’s mouth is hot on his neck, but not long enough to bruise. They fuck each other into the twin mattress, and they fall asleep tangled and hot and crashing down, and they fall asleep together.