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“What the fuck, Whittemore,” Scott complains from where he’s sacked out on the couch, arm around Allison, who’s smiling the smile of a person who knows she’s drunk but trying very hard not to let others notice. “Get a room!”
“Shut up, McCall,” Jackson replies belatedly, when he finally finds it in himself to stop mouthing at the base of Danny’s neck. “You’re just jealous you don’t get a piece of this,” he smirks in Scott’s direction, one arm snaking down Danny’s back to cup his butt. Danny laughs from where he’s straddling Jackson, one hand absently playing with the buttons on Jackson’s (very expensive) shirt.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Scott sticks his tongue out at Jackson. “I’ve got one of my own, thank you, and she’s much prettier than yours,” he reminds Jackson, planting a kiss on top of Allison’s hair. She smells of roses and hyacinths. Rather than overpowering his senses, he thinks she smells heavenly.
Allison giggles and Scott feels his heart leap at the sound. Meanwhile, Jackson continues necking with Danny, tongues lapping at each other’s mouths, shirts coming undone.
Jackson's enjoying himself, finding out how Danny tastes, how Danny moves when there's yet another instruction for them to get a room. Jackson reaches out with one arm to flip the stranger, before hearing a familiar, menacing growl.
“What?” He looks up at the sight of Derek Hale towering over him and Danny, eyebrows furrowed together in a fearsome expression. “Shit, sorry, didn’t realise it was you,” he babbles, apologising profusely to the second of the Hale heirs.
“Get off the couch,” Derek orders Jackson peremptorily.
“But there are other couches,” Danny points out reasonably, still in Jackson’s lap, one arm around his neck for balance. Jackson thinks a little resentfully how lucky Danny is to be a vampire and not subject to the whims of potential Alphas.
“But Stiles likes this one,” Derek snaps back. “Now get off.”
“Fine, fine,” Jackson grumbles as Danny slides off his lap and they stumble to the next one. “This is totally bullying,” he complains, feeling aggrieved to have his snogging session interrupted. “So fucking unfair.”
“Did you say something, Jackson?” Derek enquires in a deceptively mild voice.
“Nothing, nothing.” Jackson assures Derek hastily, not keen for one of Derek’s infamous training sessions for the werewolves.
Just then, Stiles bounces in, one hand holding a shotglass glowing green with absinthe and pumpkin juice in the other. Derek’s eyes soften perceptibly at the sight of the young man, and he reaches out to tug Stiles onto his lap.
"Come here," Derek says, voice almost gentle as he brings Stiles closer. Jackson rolls his eyes and mimes vomiting, an action fortuituously missed by Derek in his concern for Stiles.
“Wait, wait, the drinks will spill,” Stiles protests.
“Jackson will hold them for you,” Derek orders Jackson with a simple jut of his chin. Jackson takes the glasses with no small amount of resentment as he watches Derek rearrange Stiles into a more comfortable position in his lap, wincing a little when Stiles flails and pokes his elbow into his abdomen.
“So,” Stiles says when he finally settles down, head tucked underneath Derek’s chin, “Did I miss anything?”