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It had been a good night.
He, Lydia and Jackson had gone to the movies and then to the diner (Stiles pouted and threatened to withhold cuddles until she gave in, even if she turned her nose up at his burger), there was hand holding and popcorn and curly fries. Stiles was pretty content.
That is, until they get to bed.
Stiles is sprawled out on their king size on his stomach, one leg bent and head resting on his forearm, facing away from his partners. He’s waiting for Lydia or Jackson to cuddle him, like they usually do, when he hears Jackson groan.
He knows that groan, has heard it a hundred times over. It’s the groan that means Lydia is touching his dick.
Stiles narrows his eyes, glaring at the wall. They couldn’t wait until he fell asleep? Actually, that would be kinds gross. But did they have to do that while he’s in the bed with them?
“Animals,” he mutters. If they hear him he’s ignored, as Jackson starts thrusting, making the bed move slightly.
He stays awake the entire time, unable to sleep because they’re loud, like Lydia always is when she’s been drinking and Jackson is just an asshole. Stiles spends that time planning he revenge, and by the time they’re finished, he has a fully formed plan.
Stiles wakes up feeling vengeful.
He slinks out of the bed as quietly as he can, padding to the bathroom while grumbling under his breath.
After he’s finished with his morning routine (read: peeing, washing his face and brushing his teeth. Jackson and Lydia have long since given up trying to make him try their expensive moisturisers and shit.)
Stiles grins at his reflection. This is going to be good.
He practically skips to the kitchen, giggling quietly to himself as he finds the pots and pans, all neatly stacked together. He picks two round, thick pans that feel heavy in his hands and mimes slamming them together.
Perfect.
He creeps back to the bedroom like a cartoon villain until he stands at the end of the bed, a pan in each hand.
Stiles takes a deep breath and without hesitation, bangs the two pans together.
Satisfaction and mirth fill him as Jackson rolls off the bed with a scream, and Lydia bolts upright, making a noise that’s something between a snore and a scream.
“Good morning,” Stiles says, smiling innocently at them. “Did you sleep well?”
“You’re an asshole,” Jackson grumbles, crawling back into the bed and throwing a pillow over his face.
Stiles nods. “An asshole who got no sleep last night because some people decided to have loud sex right next to him.”
Lydia runs a hand through her hair, expression sheepish. “We’re sorry, aren’t we Jackson?”
She slaps a hand against Jackson’s stomach and he lets out a deep snore.
Stiles is ready to bang the pans together again, eager to, and the only reason he doesn’t is because Lydia widens her eyes pleadingly at him.
“Put down the pans,” she says evenly. “Come back to bed, I’ll cuddle you.”
Dammit. Lydia knows he can never turns down cuddles.
“Fine,” he says, climbing over her and shoving Jackson across the bed. “But I’m the little spoon.”
Lydia smiles. “Done.”
Stiles ends up between his partners, Lydia at his back with an arm tight around his waist, and Jackson wakes up long enough to curl against his chest.
“M’Sorry,” Jackson slurs, eyes closed. “If we ever make you uncomfortable you can say something. Instead of being a dick an’ doin’ that.”
“Asshole,” Stiles says fondly, and presses a kiss to Jackson’s head. “Love you both.”
“Love you,” Lydia murmurs sleepily.
Jackson snores.