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Can You Knot?

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Stiles awakens with a startled groan, the leaden weight of his arm and tingling in his hip telling him that he's been lying in the same position for too long. He goes to shift, roll onto his back and sprawl out, but a warm hand trails around his ribcage, planting itself in the centre of his chest to ensure he doesn't get very far; there's a puff of breathed-out amusement against the back of his neck, fanning out over his skin.

Oh.

Stiles turns his head on the pillow and is greeted by a soft kiss when he opens his eyes. Derek's propped up on an elbow looking down at him, eyes soft and lips quirked in a way that's only noticeable because Stiles has gotten used to looking for it. Stiles grins back and goes to stretch, work out all of the kinks in his back he's sure are there, but stops short when his hips don't seem to want to cooperate. Derek grunts into his ear, his hand sliding from Stiles' chest to curl around his hip to keep him still; he lets his elbow cave, digging his arm under Stiles' body and wrapping it around his waist to keep them firmly pressed together, adjusts his hips minutely as though he can feel Stiles' discomfort and--

Oh.

Stiles releases an involuntary gasp at the sparks of sensation that race through him. "You're still--?"

"I told you it lasts a long time," Derek says, nose buried behind Stiles' ear. "And you've only been asleep for ten minutes."

There's a warmth, a smile in Derek's voice that Stiles has come to know as bashful. He pauses, frowns. "I don't even remember going to sleep."

"You passed out," Derek says, like that's a normal thing to happen during sex, like it happens all the time, despite the fact Stiles has been sleeping with Derek for the better part of a year and dating him exclusively for over half of that and passing out has never so much as been mentioned.

It had been more intense than usual - which was saying something - and that coupled with the bashful-smug of Derek's tone, there's really only one conclusion he can draw. "You fucked me so hard I fainted," Stiles says, his tone as flat as he can make it, scowling when he finds he can feel the way that Derek's mouth unfurls into a grin against the skin of his neck. "That's only a little emasculating."

"It could have been the pain," Derek says, tone supplying that he very much doesn't think so. Stiles glances down to see faint trails of black curling through Derek's veins under his skin as his hand wanders over his stomach and then downwards, palming small, firm circles into his waist, his hip, his thigh; Stiles can feel himself stirring with interest, but he keeps his expression stubbornly stoic.

"Yeah, okay. Three guesses which theory is your favourite."

Derek's chest vibrates with silent laughter, his breath gusting over Stiles' cheek as liquid fire races up his spine at the movement. "Well," he says, not even making the effort to hide the mirth in his voice. "I have been taking your pain since it started."

Stiles squints at the wall; he'd fold his arms and huff if he had any feeling in his right side. "So…"

"So," Derek says, kissing and nipping his jaw until Stiles turns his head to accept a proper kiss. "So, I fucked you so hard you fainted," he murmurs as he pulls away, and his smile is so sudden and blinding that Stiles develops the sort of situational amnesia he always does when Derek's looking at him like that, his face creased in a way that makes him look his age instead of ten years older, the way he does when he's frowning; the sort blankness that eclipses Stiles' mind when Derek's looking at him and he's happy.

Stiles rolls his eyes and reaches up, running his fingers through Derek's flattened hair, still slightly damp from sweat. He's about to make an earnest attempt at getting things fired up again when Derek goes rigid, like a pointer dog, his eyes going wide and fingertips curling into Stiles' skin.

"I thought you said your dad was on a double," Derek says. Stiles is so busy trying to drag his mind through the fog of lust that he barely registers what's been said until Derek lifts his hand away abruptly and Stiles' spine throbs with discomfort. Derek replaces his hand and Stiles relaxes, pain-free, for a moment before yelping when Derek's words sink in.

"He is! He said he was. I made him lunch and dinner so he wouldn't go out. Tell me you're fucking with me right now, Derek, I swear to--"

"Stiles, I know what your father's cruiser sounds like almost as well as I know the Jeep," Derek says; Stiles twitches and Derek's arm slides from caressing his thigh to becoming a bar across his chest, keeping him in place. "We can't move," he hisses, and there's a desperation in his voice that has Stiles stilling. "I told you--I can't stop it--I can't--"

Derek's reaction is what switches Stiles' own mind from potential blind panic to positively zenlike. Though their friends tease Derek for not being particularly verbose, Stiles has never known Derek to be particularly at a loss for words, so to hear him stuttering and stumbling is something that's like a switch in Stiles' mind, working better than any medication to soothe away his own anxieties. "Derek, stop. Derek! Stop. Just breathe, okay? Stop freaking out. It's gonna be okay - I mean, he doesn't always come in here, you know? He's gotten used to me being away at college…"

"My car's in your driveway," Derek says; he's not shaking and his voice isn't shaking, but there's a tenseness to his tone that has Stiles reaching blindly to curl his fingers around the back of Derek's neck, squeezing firmly.

"Calm down," Stiles says. "Derek, relax, okay? It's gonna be fine. He might not come in."

"How are you so calm?" Derek asks, burying his face against Stiles' shoulder. "Last time I saw your father, I was buying peanut butter and Nutella for you and he mentioned you were addicted to mixing it, and I had to pretend I had no idea what he was talking about. I'm about to be caught in bed with the Sheriff's son."

"Hey, the Sheriff's son is perfectly capable of making his own decisions, and if he decides he wants to sleep with his ex-murder-suspect boyfriend because it's the first time he's seen him in months, then said boyfriend can shut up and deal with it, okay?" Stiles snaps, and then, feeling Derek's fingers flex restlessly, sighs. "Sorry. Look, roll over so that I'm facing the door; you can hide behind me and pretend to be invisible if he does come in, if it bothers you that much."

Derek's arms tighten around him, their legs locking as he manoeuvres them both. Stiles has to fight to keep his eyes from rolling back into his head because wow, that's an angle. He grabs for Derek's hand and laces their fingers together over his stomach.

"He just got out of the car."

Stiles nods and strokes his thumb across the back of Derek's hand. "I'm going to have the biggest freakout about this later," he sighs. "The only reason I'm calm right now is because you're freaking out, so I guess I should thank you."

Derek's eyebrows twitch against the nape of Stiles neck.

"Hey," Stiles says, turning his head slightly, enough to get Derek to lift his in order to make eye contact. "I'm not ashamed of you - I'm stupid for you, Derek Hale. You and your freaky werewolf dick, so don't get shy on me now. All good couples have horribly embarrassing sex stories. We have plenty already, so what's one more? Don't think I've forgotten about Scott finding that video--"

Derek snorts and dips his head to press a slow kiss to the back of Stiles' neck. Stiles shudders before catching himself, smacking Derek's arm.

"Dude. Stop it," he whines. "My dad is gonna walk in here any minute and I can not be thinking about sex when he does."

There are a few moments of silence before Derek lets out a quiet groan. "You left our shirts--most of our clothes--downstairs," he says. "Your dad just said you're not even trying anymore."

Stiles can't do much more than laugh, covering his face with his free hand. "I guess it's possible we're Beacon Hills' worst kept secret," he says. "I knew there was a reason he was the Sheriff."

Derek snorts and then loosens his hold around Stiles, who whimpers at the loss of his human painkiller, the aching throb of being stretched too wide returning with a vengeance. Derek kisses his shoulder and then moves them around until he's twisted, his hips staying flush with Stiles' but his leg hooked around both of Stiles', trapping them, his upper body draped over Stiles as best he can with his lower arm curled between them, his hand finding his shoulder blade in order to leech Stiles' pain away.

"What are you doing?" Stiles asks, once Derek tucks his face into Stiles' neck, both of them relaxing.

"If he comes in, he'll want to know why you're not getting up," Derek says. "He's coming upstairs. I'm asleep."

Stiles barely has the time to roll his eyes before, as if on cue, there's a knock at the door. "Stiles?"

"Dad! Hey, dad," Stiles pipes up, not even having to try in order to make himself sound a little sheepish. "Uh, you're home early. I mean, not that that's a bad thing--it's totally cool that you're back early--" Stiles watches in abject horror as the door handle begins to twist. "--You don't wanna do that! Dad, I promise, you really do not want to do that. Plausible deniability, you know? You want to be able to deny this, I can tell you. This is the curiosity that killed the cat and there is no satisfaction you can get from this that's gonna bring the cat back. The cat is your son's ability to look his father in the eye. You know - in case you were wondering."

"Does this have anything to do with the 2010 Chevy in the drive?"

Stiles winces. "There's a Chevrolet in the drive? I don't own a Chevrolet. Do you? Did you get me a new car?"

"Or the Henley shirt over the back of the couch that's just a little too broad across the shoulders?"

"That's… that's, uh…"

"Or is it to do with the leather belt you left on the stairs despite the fact you wear canvas belts?"

"It could be," Stiles says absently. The handle continues to turn. Stiles panics. "I'm running a meth lab, dad. If you see it, you'll have to arrest me. You don't wanna arrest me, do you? Your own son? So you should really just walk away and not open that door right now…" The handle turns all the way and Stiles wrinkles up his nose, rubbing his forehead with his free hand. "It was worth a shot."

The Sheriff leans against the doorjamb, folding his arms. He seems to be taking a moment to drink in the reality that is a man he once arrested on suspicion of murder being curled up around his only son. Stiles is thankful for the duvet, covering everything from their waists downwards - with the exception of Derek's foot hanging over the side of the bed - but he gets the impression that the Sheriff knows exactly what's underneath - or, indeed, what isn't.

"So, hey dad, fancy seeing you here. In the house. Where you live," Stiles tries, receiving raised eyebrows in response - and really, how has it taken so long for Derek and the Sheriff to get together when they both have the same reaction to Stiles' fast talking. "I promise I have a really, really good explanation for this."

He tries to plead with his eyes for his father to leave the subject alone for now. Lying in bed with his werewolf boyfriend's dick literally stuck in him is the last place Stiles wants to be in order to have a heart to heart with his father about Derek's veritable laundry list of issues with trust and intimacy, with a few of his own thrown into the mix for good measure.

The Sheriff sighs, put upon. "I'm gonna go out and get stuff for dinner. Derek drink?" he asks; Stiles shakes his head, curling his free hand around Derek's forearm and pulling it closer to his chest. "I expect you both dressed and presentable by the time I get back."

Stiles nods. "Take the long way?" he asks, voice quiet, just before the door closes fully. "Derek… he drove all night to get here."

The door closes after a second's pause that Stiles decides to take as acknowledgement and he listens to his father's footsteps pacing away down the hallway. Stiles lets out a long, relieved sigh and sags against Derek, who immediately slides back into place, his front flush with Stiles' back.

"Well, that was only endlessly mortifying," Stiles says; Derek breathes out a laugh against the back of his ear, his hips shifting minutely. The knot's beginning to loosen; Derek's teeth graze the shell of his ear. Stiles whines in protest. "My--fuck, Derek--my dad's not even out of the house yet."

Derek shudders against him in response, sucking at the skin under the hinge of his jaw. "Close," he murmurs, his voice like gravel, which he knows does things to Stiles. Stiles really doesn't know what to do with this information; as far as he'd been aware, Derek's orgasm has taken place before the knot and not after. Derek's hand curves over his hip and Stiles smacks it away.

"Derek, my dad is literally--" the front door opens and closes. "--out. He's out. Okay, then. Uh… as you were. C--arry on."

"Fuck, Stiles," Derek says. If Stiles didn't know any better, he'd say Derek was purring. Derek smiles against his ear before rolling them, pushing Stiles onto his front and pulling his hips up. Stiles braces himself on his elbows, his own smile drifting across his face. Derek's fingers dig into his skin hard enough that he knows there'll be faint bruises later, but he can't bring himself to care. His father being in the immediate vicinity had meant that Stiles had been pretty determinedly not focusing on Derek, but now that he's gone, it's like a floodgate has been whipped away and he has nothing to focus on other than his body's natural reaction to pretty much anything Derek does; want and need and oh, God, right there come pouring in.

*

Derek's in the shower when the Sheriff gets home. Stiles has already washed, dressed and tidied up all of their clothing that had been strewn around the path between the front door and Stiles' bedroom. He's just finished setting the table for three when his father deposits a grocery bag on the counter.

"So, Derek Hale. In your bed. With you. Without clothing."

"Funny story, actually," Stiles says, directing his attention to the groceries rather than his father, pulling the chopping board towards himself.

"Really? Feel free to elaborate."

"We've been dating for a while," Stiles says, keeping his voice soft. Derek will still be able to hear if he wants to, but that isn't the reason for his quietness; he wants to reinforce in his father's mind that Derek is not something, for him, that's up for debate; he doesn't need to be firm or demanding because there's no argument to be had. "There are a lot of reasons why I didn't tell you, and we'll get into those at some point, I swear, but right now is not the time. I want dinner to be the first time you meet him, like how it would be if he were almost any other guy on the planet, but obviously that isn't possible, so I just… can we be normal over dinner, and I'll lay out all of my reasoning for you once he's gone home?"

His father sighs, scrubbing a hand over his hair. "Any reason why you felt the need to throw all of your clothes around the house? The Camaro outside was as dead a giveaway as you could have given, but you could have tried to be subtle about everything else."

"I didn't think you'd be home until late," Stiles says, winces, and then opts for honesty being the best policy anyway - in for a penny, as the saying goes. "I hadn't had sex since New Year's, dad! It was an emergency. I don't know how I've survived those almost-six months. Six months, dad. I got back into town, he got back into town from the stuff he was doing out in New York, so I asked him over for lunch, and all of a sudden, uh, well."

The Sheriff sighs. "Really, Stiles?"

Stiles bristles at that. "Really, what? Because I couldn't keep my hands off my boyfriend, or because my boyfriend is Derek Hale? Because yes, really to both. He drove through the night just to be here at the same time as me - he drove from New York to see me because he couldn't get a flight until next week. Dad, he spent just over two days confined to his car just to see me. Do you know how many times I've had a guy drop everything and run for me? Once. This one. He's good, dad - he's good to me, good for me."

Just as the Sheriff goes to open his mouth and respond, Derek pads into the room and Stiles melts. He melts, because Derek's hair is still damp, sticking up like he's been running his hands through it; he melts because Derek's eyes are wide and he's wearing one of Stiles' baggier t-shirts; he melts because Derek is standing in his kitchen, barefoot and the most vulnerable-looking Stiles as ever seen him - and that's certainly saying something. Stiles drops the knife he's been chopping carrots with and ducks around his father to shuffle over to Derek, taking his hand and lacing their fingers together. Derek flashes him a smile, small and private and so, so warm - he's nervous. Derek's nervous at the prospect of having a meal with the Sheriff, as Stiles' boyfriend - more nervous than he'd been when he'd been led away in handcuffs and accused of murdering his own sister. Stiles' heart is in his throat when he turns to look at his dad, wanting desperately for things to go well; wanting desperately to give Derek this.

"You've met," Stiles says slowly, eyes going between them; there's something warm and considering in his father's expression and Stiles feels hope flare in his chest. "But we're turning over a leaf, okay? So, Derek, this is my dad - he's the Sheriff, and he won't shoot you even if it's just because he won't want to do the paperwork necessary afterwards. Dad, this is my boyfriend, Derek - he's spent most of his time in New York for the past six months, but he drove 3,000 miles to be here, just to see me."

It's the Sheriff who moves first, holding a hand out. Derek drops Stiles' in order to shake his father's. "It's good to meet you, son."

Relief must be coming off of Stiles in waves, because Derek shoots him an amused look, gives his father a tiny smile. "You too, sir."

*

Dinner goes well. Stiles keeps up most of the chatter, but that's nothing new: he asks his father how work was, explains certain terminology to Derek, who already knows exactly what everything means but seems happy enough to go along with it; he tells his dad about how Derek's finishing up his Master's in World History and hands over to Derek to talk about it for a while. Derek handles the topic with a smoothness Stiles has only ever seen him use when he's wholly confident about something - none of the posturing or cockiness he remembers from the first time Derek came back to Beacon Hills when Stiles was in high school. Derek talks about history the same way Lydia talks about mathematics, and something funny happens in Stiles' chest when Derek catches his eye and smiles whilst he's in the middle of talking about anthropology and Central Europe.

Stiles looks down at his plate, continuing to eat and content to just listen to Derek telling his father how he took a year to go abroad and found himself in Poland, and then because his Master's program required him to be proficient in a language relevant to his field of study, he picked Polish. He glances up just in time to see the last of his father's reservations drain away, hands loosening around his cutlery, the tension lines around his eyes and mouth smoothing out. Derek must notice, too, because his shoulders loosen in a way that's barely noticeable. Stiles feels his smile widen and he looks back down.

After dinner, the Sheriff shakes Derek's hand and says he's welcome at any time. Stiles stands at Derek's side and watches, heart working triple time, as Derek's smile blooms from one of polite hesitancy to one of genuine happiness. His father excuses himself to go and watch the Dodger's game and Derek ducks into the kitchen to begin washing up. Stiles scoops up a towel and they work in companionable silence to tidy the kitchen.

Once the final plate has been stacked, Stiles pads over to press himself up against Derek's back, a little thrill going through him, as it always does, when Derek lets him.

"I want to do it again," Stiles says, hooking his chin over Derek's shoulder, hands curving around Derek's hips, thumbs looping through his front belt looks. "With zero percent chance of interruptions, next time. Preferably without passing out, too."

Derek turns his head to look at him, hands covering Stiles'. "We'll see what we can do about the fainting. Multiple attempts may be required. Come over to the loft tomorrow - I'll make sure we don't have any visitors."