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A Home at the End of the World

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Stiles considers that even though Scott still refuses to be a part of Derek's pack, they work so well together in taking Stiles apart. He shudders as they slid in together, his ass stretched wide and stretching wider and they slide home, hips flush where Stiles is sitting in Scott's lap with Derek plastered against his back. Stiles digs his nails into Scott's pecs and drops his head back on Derek's shoulder.

They thrust together, small movements, forcing Stiles up on his knees each time in perfect synchronized rhythm. And when Stiles blinks, he can practically feel the wordless communication that sets off their alternating thrusts—Derek's in, and Scott's almost entirely out, and switch, and every few thrusts they slide in together again.

Derek presses against him more insistently, and Stiles can feel the beginnings of the swollen bulge of his knot urging at him.

Stiles gasps and shivers again because each time Derek humps his hips forward, the knot threatens to slip inside, to absolutely wreck Stiles. He shakes his head, biting at Derek's neck and shoulders when words can't be found. Derek wines, honestly just keens deep in his throat, high pitched and pitiful in it's desperation.

Stiles, faintly, hears Scott growl at Derek—but it's a futile effort, because Stiles knows Scott wants it too. Stiles doesn't need to be a werewolf to know what his boyfriends want. Especially when it comes to him.

“I can't—you'll destroy me—I can't—!” Stiles shakes his head, beads of sweat flying in all directions as they all move harder, faster against each other. Scott whimpers, the farce is so up, because both werewolf boyfriends want to put their werewolf freakish yet amazing dicks in Stiles' and what has his life become. “No.” Stiles gasps out and one hand, not his own, too big and rough and hot to be his own, fists around his own dick and strokes fast.

“Please.” Derek hisses against Stiles' ear, licking the salty skin and biting at the fleshy ball of his shoulder. “Please.” Derek says again as one hand comes to play with Stiles' nipples.

Scott surges up in a crunch to mouth at Stiles' skin as well, “please.” He mimics, which is so unfair, because if Stiles lets himself imagine it, lets himself pretend—it's almost like they're all a pack. That he's not only dating two alphas, but two alphas of the same family.

Stiles simply 'hnn's hopelessly and plants his hands on Scott's chest again. He shoves him back down onto the bed to brace himself, nodding slowly.

“Just, lube, lube.” Stiles gasps out again and Derek is two steps ahead and pouring lube against and on and just all over Stiles' ass and their dicks. It's a huge fucking mess, sticky with precome and slick with lube and reeks of sex and sweat and them.

Derek thrusts harder, and Scott retreats until only the thick head of his cock is pressed just inside of Stiles. Derek's nails, blunt and human but still menacing, bite into Stiles' hips as he grunts, growls, nips at Stiles neck until he forces his knot inside.

“Oh you motherfucker.” Stiles shouts, not pleasure and not in mind-blowing sensual pain, but outright anguish. He falls forward, still tied to Derek, and pants and cries against Scott's chest. Derek's hands move soothingly over his back and thighs where as Scott cradles his head and peppers his forehead with kisses.

He's stretched too wide, it's too much, and the thought of taking another knot—though Scott's is a little smaller, proportional to his cock, Stiles knows first hand—has him torn between ecstasy and nausea. Scott nuzzles at his face, and he feels Derek's hot breath on his back and his nose gliding along slick skin. Stiles wants to laugh because for as much as he loves them both, their wolves are downright maddening during sex, they're more wolfish than they'll ever admit, with the nuzzling and the licking and the closeness. Stiles minds none of it, but it's the only thing threading him to conscious and away from insanity as Derek starts to hump against him, knot rubbing at just the right angle but still too much.

“Can I?”

Stiles wants to make a quip about Scott asking even though Scott basically begged for it just a few minutes ago. Stiles doesn't, though, mostly because his words are piling up in his throat and stomach and lust is congesting his veins and lungs, and instead he simply nods. He spreads his legs that already ache from the burn, in doing so he stretches himself wider though it's fruitful when Scott's knot tries to press in alongside Derek's.

Derek bites his shoulder when Scott makes it in, both their knots uneven and rubbing against each other and pressing at Stiles in all the right and wrong angles. Stiles can't breath for a solid minute, if not two. He feels stuff, like he's drowning, like he's being smothered. But, underneath the overwhelming sence of two freakish werewolf dicks inside him Stiles also feels happy, and sated, pleasure flying in rapid little bolts of tantalizing electricity to his lips and fingertips and cock.

“Are you okay?” Derek asks, and it's as Scott is brushing away more tears that Stiles realized they've stopped moving.

Stiles sighs, shudders, grounds himself in the feeling of being wanted and being loved by two of the most amazing people he's ever known. “Y-yeah. Just.” He swallows air greedily, like it's a limited time offer. (And now is so not the time for an existential crisis.) “C'mon,” Stiles pants, rolling his hips just enough to feel the movement of knots against each other inside him, “give it to me.”

Scott keens, much like Derek had earlier, and spreads his knees for better leverage. His hips jerk up fast, unrelentingly fast and harder even though they aren't full thrusts and even though all it does is dig his knot into Stiles' insides, imprinting him from inside out. But it's Scott's way, just like Derek likes to take his time—thrusting slow, like he is now, leisurely dragging his knot to the very rim, and pressing in as far as he can.

Stiles holds one of Derek's hands to his chest, letting it keep him steady just as Scott's hands on his hips hold him up. With one elbow for leverage on the bed, Stiles kisses messily at Scott's gasping lips. He knows the tell, the hint of claws and the breathy moans that Scott only makes when he's buried in Stiles and about to come.

Derek growls in his ear, up and over him and completely covering his back as he pressed Stiles down against Scott with his own weight. Both dicks and knots slide in just that much deeper, just as Scott lets out a howling moan, his come spilling out in rapid squirts, filling Stiles up more. Derek bites Stiles' neck, the fleshy back part that's bent in a agonizingly pleasured arch, forcing Stiles to submit as his own come mixes with Scott's, so much of it from each of them marking Stiles and staying there, locked inside.

Stiles gasps for air, moving his own hips as each of the alphas drink in the aftershocks of orgasm, until Derek squeezes his cock again and the little fine hairs of Scott's treasure trail bring him off, spilling out in an almost pale comparison to the absolute mess inside him.

Gingerly, Stiles sinks until he's pressed flush against Scott, and Derek weighs down on them both.

Derek and Scott mouth at him and kiss him, nuzzling and licking and inhaling deep and greedy in their wolfish ways.

Scott's knot begins to go down first but Derek's follows fast after, and soon all Stiles is left with is the slow slide of come out of him, uncomfortably turning tacky on his thighs.

He grunts when the boyfriends try to move him, maneuvering him into a body-heat rich sandwich. Scott actually snuffles against his neck, grinning and lapping at the pools of sweat on his body. Derek's fingertips trace the come stains on both their bodies, a similar smile in place.

When Stiles has napped for a few minutes, and his mind isn't conflicted with any more lust or pain than usual, he jabs each of them in the chest and flicks their ears. “I hate you guys so much.”

Scott looks pitiful, like the kicked puppies he takes care of. “I'm sorry?”

“I'm not.” Derek adds.

Stiles wants to kick him but feeling in his legs has been absent since the first breach. “Whatever. You guys are bringing me breakfast in bed. I'm not moving for at least a year.”

Derek laughs against his neck, tickling and warm and dreamy. Scott grins again and hugs Stiles close, the sort of hugs best friends share, regardless of what else they may be.

Stiles strokes his fingers through Scott's hair, and holds Derek's hands, and figures having two werewolf boyfriends isn't so bad. As they each doze off before him, Stiles wonders if he can make a deal—they merge packs, and they can do this whenever they like.

Derek huffs another laugh and Scott murmurs something that sounds like 'yeah, right' and Stiles files the idea away for later.