Fic; 'neon lights and slinking purple skies'; Teen Wolf; Scott/Allison/Stiles [drabble]
Title: neon lights and slinking purple skies
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Scott/Allison/Stiles
Rating: G
Word Count: 644
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters; I'm just playing.
Notes: Written for eenaangel's prompt at Merrier the More: a multi-fandom polyamory ficathon: I spent my whole life driving in cars with boys / Riding 'round town drinking in the white noise. Title taken from Slips and Tangles by The Weakerthans.
Sometimes, when it all gets to be too much, Allison calls Scott on Stiles' cell and all three of them go out driving.
They take backwoods roads to nowhere, burning up half a tank with their silence and their worry. Sometimes they spin through Beacon Hills itself, until the lights challenge the stars and someone's head ends up on Allison's shoulder. They take Stiles' Jeep usually; he always seems to be the one to plug the gaps, to provide the bridge between them. Stiles is the person who makes things possible. Allison loves him for that.
Whenever they can, they bring something to share between them. Allison snags a bottle of red wine once, and Stiles drives and doesn't begrudge her and Scott drinking most of it and making out on the backseat. She loves him for that, too.
Scott takes his mom's car sometimes, and they park in empty places where the sky feels too big and they all try to touch as much of each other as possible. They get desperate. Allison sees it in Scott's eyes, she knows he needs the reassurance. Nobody can love as deeply and irrationally as Scott does without craving a little reciprocity. And Scott loves Stiles, as much as he loves her, she knows it. They are their own little security net. They are a constellation of three points. When it's just them, Allison can almost believe that they are invincible, that everything is going to be okay.
-
They are parked behind the mall on a Sunday evening. Allison is lying on her back across both their laps, on the backseat of the car. Her head is on Scott's thigh. There's something melancholic and indie turned down low on the radio. Stiles is sketching a frenetic little pattern on her ankle, talking a mile a minute. Something about starfish, and mutability.
Allison closes her eyes and enjoys the sound of their breathing and Stiles' chatter. It's the only calming thing she has, now. These moments are her favourites, quiet stretches of time when it's just them and everything is just right. Like oases in the daily, omnipresent anxiety. They never have complete silences with Stiles around, but she finds that comforting, too. Everything is okay as long as Stiles is talking about starfish and male circumcision and double rainbows. Stiles is always the one to break a silence. It's incredible, how he dismantles and fixes and rearranges things with nothing but his words, even if they are words about glorified nothing. How he builds on the nothing until there is enough of something to work with.
"We're totally a pack within a pack," Stiles says, apropos of nothing, interrupting Allison's thoughts. "I don't know, like a sub-pack. Right? There's Derek and the others, and it's like they love it, the whole shebang, the killing and wanton destruction. And then there's us, who are a bit more reluctant. Reluctant to get eaten and shot. But we all work together when we need to."
Allison hums, smiling. "A pack within a pack. I like that."
"The lady agrees." Stiles grins.
Scott's looking at them with soft eyes, and Allison's heart flips like always. "I like this pack the best."
Stiles waves a hand. "Of course. There's a lot of awesome making out in this pack." He hooks a finger through Scott's belt-loop, tugging him closer.
"Everything's about the making out with you," Scott says, rolling his eyes, as if making out with Stiles is anything other than the best. But then Stiles is kissing him and the sarcasm is gone.
Allison will never get sick of the way Scott sucks Stiles' bottom lip into his mouth, the way Stiles groans and curls his fingers into the front of Scott's shirt.
They both reach for her at the same time, and she'll never get sick of that either.
Fin
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Scott/Allison/Stiles
Rating: G
Word Count: 644
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters; I'm just playing.
Notes: Written for eenaangel's prompt at Merrier the More: a multi-fandom polyamory ficathon: I spent my whole life driving in cars with boys / Riding 'round town drinking in the white noise. Title taken from Slips and Tangles by The Weakerthans.
Sometimes, when it all gets to be too much, Allison calls Scott on Stiles' cell and all three of them go out driving.
They take backwoods roads to nowhere, burning up half a tank with their silence and their worry. Sometimes they spin through Beacon Hills itself, until the lights challenge the stars and someone's head ends up on Allison's shoulder. They take Stiles' Jeep usually; he always seems to be the one to plug the gaps, to provide the bridge between them. Stiles is the person who makes things possible. Allison loves him for that.
Whenever they can, they bring something to share between them. Allison snags a bottle of red wine once, and Stiles drives and doesn't begrudge her and Scott drinking most of it and making out on the backseat. She loves him for that, too.
Scott takes his mom's car sometimes, and they park in empty places where the sky feels too big and they all try to touch as much of each other as possible. They get desperate. Allison sees it in Scott's eyes, she knows he needs the reassurance. Nobody can love as deeply and irrationally as Scott does without craving a little reciprocity. And Scott loves Stiles, as much as he loves her, she knows it. They are their own little security net. They are a constellation of three points. When it's just them, Allison can almost believe that they are invincible, that everything is going to be okay.
-
They are parked behind the mall on a Sunday evening. Allison is lying on her back across both their laps, on the backseat of the car. Her head is on Scott's thigh. There's something melancholic and indie turned down low on the radio. Stiles is sketching a frenetic little pattern on her ankle, talking a mile a minute. Something about starfish, and mutability.
Allison closes her eyes and enjoys the sound of their breathing and Stiles' chatter. It's the only calming thing she has, now. These moments are her favourites, quiet stretches of time when it's just them and everything is just right. Like oases in the daily, omnipresent anxiety. They never have complete silences with Stiles around, but she finds that comforting, too. Everything is okay as long as Stiles is talking about starfish and male circumcision and double rainbows. Stiles is always the one to break a silence. It's incredible, how he dismantles and fixes and rearranges things with nothing but his words, even if they are words about glorified nothing. How he builds on the nothing until there is enough of something to work with.
"We're totally a pack within a pack," Stiles says, apropos of nothing, interrupting Allison's thoughts. "I don't know, like a sub-pack. Right? There's Derek and the others, and it's like they love it, the whole shebang, the killing and wanton destruction. And then there's us, who are a bit more reluctant. Reluctant to get eaten and shot. But we all work together when we need to."
Allison hums, smiling. "A pack within a pack. I like that."
"The lady agrees." Stiles grins.
Scott's looking at them with soft eyes, and Allison's heart flips like always. "I like this pack the best."
Stiles waves a hand. "Of course. There's a lot of awesome making out in this pack." He hooks a finger through Scott's belt-loop, tugging him closer.
"Everything's about the making out with you," Scott says, rolling his eyes, as if making out with Stiles is anything other than the best. But then Stiles is kissing him and the sarcasm is gone.
Allison will never get sick of the way Scott sucks Stiles' bottom lip into his mouth, the way Stiles groans and curls his fingers into the front of Scott's shirt.
They both reach for her at the same time, and she'll never get sick of that either.
Fin