thesunflowersqueen reblogged
thesunflowersqueen reblogged
I need a fic in which Derek is Superman, dating FBI agent Stiles, but hasn’t told Stiles that he’s Superman. To Stiles’ knowledge, he’s just dating some nerdy reporter who really likes science and doesn’t even bother with politics.
Except Stiles is not a fucking idiot. He’s been 82% sure Derek is Superman since, basically since he met Derek. Two weeks later Superman plucks him off a freight ship that’s about to explode and Stiles 87% sure. At the end of their second date, when they kiss and Stiles clings to Derek’s deliciously muscular arms, familiar deliciously muscular arms, he is 97% certain. And when he’s next rescued, shielded from gunfire that he’s already shielded from because “I’m a trained agent and know how to take cover, DEREK.”
Super man freezes, in a very un-Superman way, and, of all things, of all things, tries to actually say, “What- I’m not- Who’s Derek.”
Like. What the fuck.
Stiles just stares at him, flatly, and says, “I’m insulted on so many levels right now. So you better make sure you pick me up at 7:30 sharp on Thursday, have a really fucking amazing date planned out, and present me with roses, or chocolates, or some spectacularly rare rock from your planet as your grovel for thinking I’m actually this big of an idiot.”
Derek takes him to the most expensive restaurant in town and offers to make out with Stiles in his suit.
After a long silence, gazing out the window of the gigantic sushi restaurant they’re in, Stiles looks again at Derek. Derek raises his eyebrows, expectant. Stiles says, “Another question.”
“Knew it,” says Derek.
Stiles ignores him. He goes on, “Do your glasses even do anything? What do they even do?”
“If I recall your exact phrasing,” Derek drawls, nudging the glasses up the bridge of his nose, “they make you f - ”
“ - eyyy, hey hey,” Stiles cuts him off, sitting back up. “You know - shut up. You know what I meant, an - and pretending you don’t is a continuation of the exact bullshit that landed you here - ”
“Oh, like you’re really mad in the first place.”
“I am! I am mad, Derek, if that’s even your real na - ” He pauses. “Is it your real name?”
“What is ‘real’?” wonders Derek, to which Stiles rolls not only his eyes, but his entire existence. “Well? I dunno what else to tell you.”
“How about sorry for concealing my identity, Stiles?”
“I’m not, though,” says Derek. “What’s the point of having a secret identity if you don’t keep it a secret?”
“You don’t keep identities secret from somebody you love, dumbass!” Stiles hisses, a hoarse sort of projection that would be a shout if Stiles had an ounce less self control. “You total moron!” It only seems to dawn on Stiles several minutes later what he’s just said; and he goes a unique shade of red and looks angrily down at his lap. “I mean, I get it,” Stiles adds eventually. “You had to know if you could trust me.”
“I do,” says Derek. The way Stiles looks at him, Derek considers saying it again. Instead he carefully pushes the remnant husks from Stiles’ edamame to one side so he can lean in a little. “Next time I develop an alternate identity to protect myself and the people I care about,” Derek promises, “I’ll jeopardize your life and tell you immediately.” The expression on Stiles’ face is one of aggravation and affection and barely repressed impulses: one that Derek never gets tired of seeing, quite frankly. “Deal?” Stiles reaches tentatively across the table and holds Derek’s knuckles. If they were better at things, Derek might turn his hand and they could hold hands like a normal couple; instead he twists his hand up and they end up with their palms pressed together, fingers laced. Very Romeo and Juliet.
“Throw in a promise to quit carrying me bridal style,” says Stiles, leaning in toward him, “and you’ve got yourself that deal.”
“No deal,” says Derek. “You like it.”
“Do not.”
“Sure.”
“I don’t.”
“Uh huh.”
“Turns out?” says Stiles, directing his free hand into a jabbing sort of pointing motion at Derek. “You’re really shitty at groveling.” No arguments from Derek. “Also?” Stiles goes on. “Turns out I don’t like romantic dinners.”
“No?” He seems to have had a pretty good time. The noise he made when he crammed an unagi roll into his mouth was memorable enough that Derek can see himself unearthing that recall for personal use in the future.
“No,” says Stiles. “They always stick a table between us.”
Derek tells him, “I think they do that on purpose.”
“Mm,” answers Stiles. “You wanna do me on purpose?” An interesting proposition. “Ooh, wait,” gushes Stiles. “You know what I’ve always wondered? Can you, like, do it in mid-air? In the f - in the fucking sky?”
“Can or should?” Derek says. “What’re you, fourteen? No. We’re using a bed.”
“Well, I don’t even want to anymore,” sniffs Stiles; but he pounces the second they’re inside his apartment all the same.
thesunflowersqueen reblogged
I need a fic in which Derek is Superman, dating FBI agent Stiles, but hasn’t told Stiles that he’s Superman. To Stiles’ knowledge, he’s just dating some nerdy reporter who really likes science and doesn’t even bother with politics.
Except Stiles is not a fucking idiot. He’s been 82% sure Derek is Superman since, basically since he met Derek. Two weeks later Superman plucks him off a freight ship that’s about to explode and Stiles 87% sure. At the end of their second date, when they kiss and Stiles clings to Derek’s deliciously muscular arms, familiar deliciously muscular arms, he is 97% certain. And when he’s next rescued, shielded from gunfire that he’s already shielded from because “I’m a trained agent and know how to take cover, DEREK.”
Super man freezes, in a very un-Superman way, and, of all things, of all things, tries to actually say, “What- I’m not- Who’s Derek.”
Like. What the fuck.
Stiles just stares at him, flatly, and says, “I’m insulted on so many levels right now. So you better make sure you pick me up at 7:30 sharp on Thursday, have a really fucking amazing date planned out, and present me with roses, or chocolates, or some spectacularly rare rock from your planet as your grovel for thinking I’m actually this big of an idiot.”
Derek takes him to the most expensive restaurant in town and offers to make out with Stiles in his suit.