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I Don't Think Louis Lane Will Stay

Chapter Text

Now Superman just might be gay,
I don't think Lois Lane will stay,
The boys down at the bar all say,
Hip Hip Hooray! Hip Hip Hooray!

- Excerpt from "He's Indiscreet, Check Out His Feet" by Will Rout



The bar is dimly lit and full of harried looking suits with ties at half-mast, obviously out to enjoy the Hell out of the next 48 hours. Stiles’ own tie is in a crumpled mess in the pocket of his blazer, where it will stay until Monday when protocol demands Stiles wrap the thrice-cursed implement of torture once more around his neck.

Fuck dress codes. And fuck Joanna Greene. Fucking dress-code Nazi.

“Professionalism…” Stiles mumbles into his gin and tonic, his voice a mocking falsetto. “ all times, Stilinski.”

The alcohol burns pleasantly down his throat, settling low and warm in the pit of his stomach, clinging sweetly to his tongue.

"Come here often?”

Stiles glances to the man sliding into the seat next to him and almost chokes on his mouthful of overpriced gin and soda water. He doesn’t. Because he’s not 16 anymore and he can handle being hit on by guys, especially guys as stupidly attractive as...nerd-glasses?

And yes, it’s totally fair that’s what Stiles notices first. They’ve practically consumed the guy’s face; thick and black and they don’t perch on his nose so much as it looks like they’ve come in for a landing. Not that they aren’t doing horrible and wonderful things to Stiles’ insides, but the guy’s wearing them more like a shield than a fashion accessory, like maybe he’s afraid of people seeing how hot he is.

And he is smoking hot.

Stiles is pretty sure no one as gorgeous as ‘hiding behind nerd-glasses’ is allowed to use pick-up lines that cliche.

Stiles definitely is going to tell him he should trade the corny lines for contact lenses…

...after he gets all up in that.

Stiles tries to keep the smirk off of his face...well, actually no he doesn’t. Because Stiles is only mostly a nice person when he’s completely sober and this is his third drink.

Being a horrible person is a hazard of working for the FBI, or so Jackson tells him. Although Jackson knows fuck-all about being a decent human being in general, (Which is probably why he’s such a fantastic lawyer.) so Stiles tends to take whatever he has to say with a massive grain of salt.

Stiles leans forward and grabs ‘Nerd-Glasses’ drink and keeps eye contact while he tilts his head back and takes swallow after long swallow. He appreciates the way ‘Nerd-Glasses’ (and shit he really needs to learn this guy’s name before they start getting nasty together.), eyes trail down the line of his throat. A warmth that has nothing to do with alcohol settles low in his chest and Stiles sets the empty glass down between them like a challenge.

He smiles; the one Lydia says makes him look like a serial killer and then says makes her want to jump his bones. So maybe that says more about her than him. The point is it’s devastating and Stiles knows it's devastating and he sees ‘Nerd-Glasses’ eyes go dark before he's swallowing hard and whisper-stammering.

“Do you...can I buy you a drink?”

“Fuck no.” Stiles laughs when he fishes his wallet out of his pocket. He lays down enough cash to close his tab for the night and slips off his bar stool.

“I’ll meet you outside.” He says and heads for the doors, makes sure to sashay his hips a little more than strictly necessary. It’s not often he lets himself act a little slutish, and Stiles feels the tiniest bit self-conscious. But he hears muttered curses and a hasty “Keep the change.” And then there’s a large, firm hand resting at the small of his back and Stiles is being guided out of the lounge.

And damn if that doesn’t go straight to his dick. And maybe his ego. A intoxicant more heady than any narcotic. It makes Stiles bolder, willing to forget the open streets and milling crowds around them when he leans into the man’s hand, when he tilts his head enough to whisper directly into the man’s ear.

“What’s your name?”

“Derek.” ‘Nerd-glasses’ says breathlessly and Stiles is smirking again, lips curving against hot skin. He knows Derek can feel it. Doesn’t care.

“Derek.” He purrs and thrills when the man shivers under his mouth. “I like it.”


“Come on, Derek.” Stiles is practically yowling in frustration, clawing at the sheets and frantically pushing his hips back into Derek, trying to get him to fucking get. a. move. on.

The trouble was, Derek didn’t seem in that big a rush. When he’d prepped Stiles, it was with a patience bordering on saintly, massaging and toying and pressing one and two and three and four fingers slowly inside; until Stiles had threatened to go find someone who was actually interested in fucking him.

Don’t get Stiles wrong, thorough foreplay was fine, considerate even, but they were past the point where Stiles would find this sweet or nice. No, this was well into ‘torment’ territory.

Even now that Derek had seemed to 'get the message' and had lubed himself up, replaced his fingers with the burning stretch of his cock, they were just sitting here. Derek was a heavy weight inside Stiles, thick and sure and unbelievably hot. But there was still a distinct lack of fucking going on.

No, Derek seemed to be having some kind of internalized crisis.

Stiles could feel Derek’s hands on his hips, starting to clench before skittering and flattening to rub soft and soothing over Stiles’ ribs.

Stiles glances back over his shoulder. Derek’s face is screwed up in intense concentration and suddenly Stiles feels a little nervous. An idea flashes across his brain, quick and devastating as a bolt of lightning.

“Holy shit.” He blurts. “I’m not like, your first dude, am I?”

Derek’s eyes go wide behind his glasses, which he’s still wearing because he’d insisted he “...really can’t see anything without them.” and he shakes his head hurriedly.

“No, no, you’re not...damn it, Stiles. I’m sorry. I just…” His lips compress into a thin line and Stiles knows that look. He’s been trained to know when someone’s picking their words carefully. It was extremely handy when he’d first started in White Collar, interrogating lawyers and CEO’s. He just never expected to use that training in bed.

“...I don’t want to lose control with you.” Derek says finally. He’s not making eye contact, which would be a big red flag for Stiles if Derek didn’t sound so damn sincere.

“Sorry, this whole thing was...probably a bad idea.” Suddenly Derek looks a little guilty and he starts to pull out of where he’s still snug inside. “I can still suck you…”

Stiles is not a perfect person and he would be the first to admit it. And he is not above being a little bit petty when his balls are blue.

Right then. Stiles Stilinski’s balls are very, very blue.

“Fuck that.”

Stiles flops himself over onto his back and anchors himself to Derek with his legs, one wrapped around the other man’s solid ass, the other hooked over one sculpted shoulder.

He drags Derek forward until their hips are pressed together and he knows he looks frustrated and a little manic, but he’s pretty sure he’s going to implode if he doesn’t have an orgasm in the next five minutes. And he wants to come with Derek’s cock in his ass.

“Fuck. Me. Derek.” He growls. “Now.”

“Pushy.” Derek says, but Stiles could swear he sounds a little breathless. He looks down at where they’re flush and glances back up to meet Stiles’ eyes.

“Are you…”

“If you’re about to ask if I’m sure, I will shoot you.” Stiles interrupts, he doesn't bother to hide his frustration. “I am a trained Federal Agent with a license to carry and I will use it and I will shoot you and I have an amazing and slightly terrifying friend who will help me hide the body.”

Derek’s smile doesn’t look 100% genuine, but he’s pressing back into Stiles in a single hot slide that forces the air from Stiles. Like there’s not enough room inside of him for Derek and oxygen. His tone is deep and teasing, evening out the uncertainty lingering behind his eyes.

“Well...let’s save my life then.”

Derek pulls out almost immediately, but he barely gives Stiles time to adjust to the sensation before he’s slamming back in with a force that makes Stiles shout. It’s just this side of too much, sending sparks of shivery pain down his spine, telegraphing warning messages to the pleasure center of his brain.

Derek stills and when Stiles manages to pry open eyelids he doesn’t remember closing, Derek is searching Stiles’ face, his own expression uncertain.

Stiles frowns and leans up to grab at Derek’s ass with his hands, rolling his hip up into Derek’s. “Did I say you could fucking stop?”

Whatever hang up Derek’s got about ‘losing control’ or whatever, Stiles’ bravado seems to convince him it’ll be okay. At least he starts back up again, his hips hammering out a pace which has Stiles cursing and shivering and begging for “More.” and “Don’t you dare stop. Don’t you fucking dare.”.

Stiles is grabbing at whatever flesh he can get ahold of and Derek is practically granite under his grasping hands, the line of his forearms and ass tight when they flex. And fuck, it’s amazing. It’s the kind of sex Stiles wishes could last forever, but it can’t possibly because his legs are already getting tired. They’re starting to slip down sweat slicked skin, the muscles burning; but fuck it’s a good burn, blurring with the achy pleasure dancing patterns across his nerves.

And Derek must notice Stiles is losing his grip because suddenly he’s got Stiles spread open, forearms under bent knees faster than it takes to blink. And somehow he’s holding Stiles’ hips off the bed and doesn’t stop, doesn’t even slow his pace. He’s still jackhammering away, their skin slapping hot and dirty and Stiles can only push his hips back and curse and shout and let Derek know just how much he fucking loves this.

In this position Stiles has a perfect view of Derek’s face, brows pinched in concentration, green eyes fixed on where they’re joined.

It’s a little strange to think this is the first really good look Stiles has gotten of Derek. The bar had been a bit dim and the taxi wasn’t exactly stringing LED’s off the ceiling. Of course he’d known Derek was hot, that wasn’t the issue. The thing is, Stiles is suddenly and absolutely certain he’s seen Derek before. He has no idea where or when, or if this is just Matrix level mind-fuckery going on and his sex-addled mind is making this up. But the FBI part of his brain is flashing serious strobe lights and red alerts: There’s no such thing as coincidence.

He’s just about to ask Derek if they’ve met before, but Derek shifts the angle of his thrusts and starts pegging Stiles’ prostate dead on and Stiles decides he has more important things to focus on right now.

Like expressing just how okay he is with Derek’s newfound enthusiasm, which Stiles does with hands and nails and scratching and thrashing and punched out groans of Derek’s name interspersed with ‘yes’ and ‘fuck’.

It’s another few minutes of monosyllabic encouragement before Derek is reaching around, pressing his palm into Stiles’ cock where it’s laying flat on his belly, weeping pre-come.

“Are you close?” Derek asks, his eyes searching, earnest.

Before Stiles can do more than nod, Derek’s re-positioning one of Stiles’ thighs so it’s back over his shoulder and then Derek is leaning in, bending Stiles in half, taking Stiles in hand. Too hard at first, but he loosens his grip when Stiles whines. Then it’s perfect and Stiles would writhe if he could, but he’s trapped by Derek’s unyielding body, pressed down, confined by the sheer implacable weight of him, unable even to meet Derek’s pistoning hips. He can only lay trapped and take the pleasure and it’s almost too much when Derek starts jerking him at the same incredible pace at his thrusts.

And then it is too much and Stiles clawing at the skin of Derek’s back and shoulders, thrashing and clamping down on Derek and he thinks he can hear Derek groaning through the rush of white noise in his ears.

When he finally comes back to himself, Stiles is pretty sure he’s broken. Derek has broken him, Stiles will never have sex that hot again and he will no longer be able to function at work because everything is going to remind him of Derek fucking him. Even Joanne Greene, the fucking dress code nazi is going to make him pop awkward Derek fucking him boners because the sex was hot enough to overrule how not okay that situation would be.

He’s also pretty sure that he'll have to quit work, because he’s never letting Derek out of his bed ever again.

Stiles lets his head list bonelessly to one side to watch Derek tie and toss the condom into the small wastebasket in the corner.

“Shiiiiiiiiiiiit.” Stiles breathes and tries to roll over onto his side. He winces and makes the executive decision that now would be a good time for laying on his back. That would be the best plan, his favorite plan really.

Fuck, this feels worse than the first day of FBI quals. Everything aches, though it’s also been glossed and colored slightly sepia by a cloud of endorphins.

“You weren’t kidding about letting loose.” Stiles murmurs sleepily, running his hand down one thigh to check the particularly tender spots. “I think you broke something.”

Derek is suddenly hovering over him, his face the picture of concerned contrition. He’s inspecting Stiles, turning him over and running his hands over Stiles’ skin in a way that’s supposed to be clinical, but is really getting Stiles thinking that maybe he’d be up for a prospective round two.

The anxiety on Derek’s face is less arousing.

“I was kidding, dude.” Stiles eases up on his elbows, keeps the wince from his face. He’s a motherfucking agent for the United States government. He can handle a little rough sex and it’s important that Derek understands that.


Stiles chooses not to ask: “...what’s your damage?” Even though he really wants to. But that’s like...tenth date territory and Stiles isn’t sure this even counts as a first.

So instead he tries for reassuring and says. “...that was really hot.”

Derek looks like he thinks Stiles is lying. He arches an eyebrow, his hand still laying large and open against Stiles’ belly like an apology.


Stiles grins.

“Super hot.”

He says it and immediately catches a tick, a small clenching and unclenching of Derek’s jaw. But Stiles isn’t sure what triggered the wince. Maybe that was something an ex used to tell Derek. Or maybe Derek still doesn’t believe Stiles is as okay as he claims.

Either way, Stiles makes a mental note not to use that particular phrase again.

He’s curious though.

He files this and the other questions he doesn’t feel like ruining the moment for into that folder in his brain; the new one marked: ‘Derek’.

So he goes for something safe while he lays back down to wallow in what is somehow still working up to be an amazing afterglow.

“What do you do for a living?”

If Stiles is honest he’s expecting Derek to say he’s a mover, or a body-builder, model, or maybe some kind of professional athlete.

“I work for the Daily Planet.” Derek settles down next to Stiles, propping his head up in one hand.

“I’m a journalist.”

Stiles doesn’t even pretend not to be surprised.

“Get the fuck out.”

The smiles that spreads Derek’s lips is coy and makes Stiles’ stomach flip flop like a 12 year old girl’s. Stiles blames the sex hormones.

“Want to see my press-pass?” Derek leans in to mutter the question over Stiles’ neck, where the skin is still sweaty and sensitive. Stiles mumbles his appreciation, combs his fingers through the thick hair at the back of Derek’s head.

“No, no. I…” Stiles hums and stretches lazily into Derek’s mouth as it begins a slow sojourn down his body. “...unless you have like, a thing for fucking guys with it on or something. I could be down with that.”

He grins and taps his fingers idly against Derek’s neck when Derek just huffs out a laugh in response. “So, that means you don’t have to be in to work until Monday?”

Derek pauses just above Stiles belly button and rests his chin on the patch of skin he’d been teasing just seconds ago to stare up at Stiles. One eyebrow arched.

“Pending a major world catastrophe, but yes, my deadlines are are in and I have nothing on my plate for the next two days.”

“Nothing?” It’s Stiles’ turn to be coy, arching an eyebrow, hooking his foot over Derek’s calf, the dark wiry hair prickling over the outside of his ankle.

“Well…” Derek tips his face down to nip at Stiles’ stomach and Stiles can’t help when his breath hitches a little. Yup, he is definitely interested in a round two. And a round four and a round ten…

“ do look...edible.”

Stiles’ laugh turns into a yelp when Derek tugs him down the bed like he weighs nothing, biceps bunching, slanting their mouths together and pressing his tongue in deep to taste Stiles’ groans.

Round ten, here we fucking come.

Stiles officially loves his life right now.


Stiles wakes to the alarm on his phone warbling and the sensation of kisses being pressed down the line of his shoulder blade.

Eyes still closed, Stiles flings his arm out, fumbling with his phone, silencing it and pressing back into the pillows so he can enjoy Derek’s sleepy affection.

“Mm...good morning.” He mumbles.

“Goodmorning.” Derek’s breath puffs warm along his spine as he works his way to the other shoulder.

“I have to get go…ing...” Stiles trails off when Derek starts to add soft bites between kisses.

“I can be fast.” Derek asserts and as if to demonstrate this his hand trails down to cup one of Stiles’ ass cheeks, palming the muscle with apparently has some kind of direct disconnect switch to Stiles’ brain. Who knew?

Stiles starts to melt into the bed, sleep soft and incredibly on board with whatever Derek and his wicked hands and his evil, evil mouth have in mind. Except…


Stiles groans and rolls out of bed, away from Derek, away from the warm and the kisses and...Stiles grabs his phone to confirm what he already knows: he has to leave in the next fifteen minutes or he is going to be late for work.

Stiles curses and tosses the phone onto the bed, stumbling to the bathroom. When he comes back out Derek’s dressed, pulling on his socks and frankly looking a whole lot better than he has any right to since he’s wearing the same clothes he’d tossed onto Stiles’ floor Friday night.

He looks up at Stiles, a little sheepish when he stands.

“I didn’t realize what time it was. I hope I haven’t made you late.”

Stiles stomach flips again and he can’t help but lean in and kiss Derek’s full lips. When they pull apart at last, Stiles breathes against Derek’s mouth.

“You are not allowed to apologize for sexing me up, ever. That is my house rule that I just made up right now: No one will ever apologize for attempting to blow Stiles’ Stilinski's mind with sexy times.” Another kiss, a smacking peck. “Deal?”

“Deal.” Derek agrees, a little hesitant. But Stiles will take what he can get. And he’s maybe not ashamed to push for a little more.

“This means we just need practice.”

Derek’s mouth quirk upward when he gets the implication, but he speaks carefully, testing.

“Are you...saying you’d like to see me again?”

“Derek.” Stiles says seriously, wrapping his arms around Derek’s neck, pressing in close. “Same time, same place, next week? Two interstellar bodies? Forty-eight uninterrupted hours of glorious sexual intercourse? ...And maybe dinner. If we get around to it."

Stiles pauses to consider.

"But don’t bet on it. Honestly. I really think I’d be pressing my luck if I promised to get pizza delivered.”

Derek seems to be mulling it over for so long Stiles starts to think he’s miscalculated, that Derek doesn't actually want to see him and he should take what he can get and be grateful. But Derek grins and tilts his head forward until their foreheads are touching.

“I’d like that.”

Stiles can feel his smile grow a touch lascivious. He can’t find it in himself to particularly care. He leans in to whisper against Derek’s lips.

“It’s a date, Mr. Hale.”

Derek’s phone rings before Derek can close the distance. He shoots Stiles an apologetic look before disengaging and pulling the chittering device out of his pocket.

“This is Hale.”

An angry man begins barking out abuse from the other end and while Stiles can’t catch all of it, he can hear enough.

Derek shrugs helplessly at Stiles before edging toward the doorway. Stiles follows and while Derek is slipping into his shoes Stiles fills a travel mug with some of the coffee sitting freshly brewed on the counter. He grabs a pen on his way back out and catches Derek as he’s easing out the front door.

He pushes the mug into Derek’s hands and there’s a furious, if silent battle between the two of them, Stiles and Derek mouthing at one another (Derek tries to refuse the coffee.) while Derek’s editor is still yelling about some scoop or another.

Finally Stiles manages to curtail the conversation entirely by grabbing the back of Derek’s hand and scribbling his phone number across the flawless skin and wiggling his thumb and pinkie fingers next to his ear, mouthing.

“Call me.”

Derek sighs, but smiles, soft and sweet and he mouths back, his eyes fond.


Stiles watches the door close behind him and when he realizes he's officially five minutes late and dashes back to the bedroom to throw on a suit, his stomach isn’t flip-flopping and full of butterflies.

It isn’t.

Chapter Text

“Well, it looks like someone had a good weekend.” Lydia slides into the seat across from Stiles, tugging absently at the pendant around her neck. She pauses; obviously this is the part of the conversation where Stiles is supposed to chime in with the gory details about Derek’s cock and how amazing he was at giving head. Which Derek was, to all of the above. And Stiles wouldn't normally be squeamish about sharing those kinds of details with Lydia, but he's currently in the middle of digging through the FBI database for a specific case file; he doesn’t have time to indulge Lydia right now.

Stiles pauses. Frowns. Runs a hand over his mouth.

He isn’t smiling wistfully. There’s no drool on his chin. He’s working, not staring off into space which might indicate he’s daydreaming about the fantastic sex he’d had during the weekend.

Stiles looks up at Lydia, ready to ask how she’d known. Lydia’s already rolling her eyes and sighing as if she’s working with a bunch of Cromagnamen. She settles herself back in her chair and runs a single manicured nail up her throat to rest just above the pulse point.

“If you wanted it to be a secret, at least try and hide the evidence, Stiles. He practically mauled your neck.”

Stiles claps a hand over his neck and then drops it when Lydia’s smirk turns positively wicked.

“Very funny. Now seriously, how did you know?”

“Well…” Lydia drags out the syllable for maximum dramatic effect.

“...a little birdie in a bar told me.” Lydia studies her nails. “You pulled a rather hot specimen Friday night and I have it on good authority you weren’t answering your phone all weekend.”

‘Good authority’ being Scott mostly likely. Stiles had to shoot his friend a quick apology via text on the train ride to work for not responding to his '12 text messages and 4 missed calls'. Stiles hadn’t even considered Scott might’ve sent Lydia an inquiry about Stiles’ whereabouts when he couldn’t reach him the third day. Shit.

There are times when Stiles hates how smart Lydia Martin is. Even though he has absolutely nothing to be ashamed or embarrassed about. So he’d gotten laid, a lot, and forgotten to answer his texts between cuddle-naps. He’s allowed; Hell, he’s entitled. It’s been months since he’d had more than his hand and a vague mental image to curl up with.

The point is: Stiles doesn’t care that Lydia knows. He’d planned on telling her anyway.

Stiles turns back to his search with a small smirk.

“Well, all your little birdies happen to be right. I had a fantastic weekend.” He says, distracted as he finds the right file. “And I’m looking forward to a few more.”

Lydia tilts her head, her expression intrigued.


“Really, truly.” Stiles opens the folder. “I scored digits and I have it on good authority he wants to get reacquainted with my person next weekend.”

“Well who is this mystery man?” Lydia urges, her tone light.

“His name is Derek.” Stiles supplies, flipping though the Superman file. The oldest reported sightings are at the front, newspaper clippings from a little city in nowhere Kansas with photographs so old and faded they could claim to be of Sasquatch and Stiles wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.

“He’s a journalist.”

Lydia’s eyebrows arch in surprise. She leans forward. “Pictures?”

“He works at the Daily Planet.” Stiles shrugs, still flipping through backdated articles. “You could probably score a professional mug-shot on their website if you’re really curious.”

This is obviously not the answer Lydia was looking for; it is a great deal less enthusiastic than it normally would be. But Stiles is really concerned about this case right now.

Lydia leans over to read over his shoulder. She doesn’t have to read more than the headline before she’s leveling Stiles that look, the one that promises she will extract the information from him in slow, painful ways if he’s not immediately forthcoming.

“I have’s not a hunch, not’s a...I don’t really know honestly...But I promise if it pans out I’ll let you know.” Stiles promises hastily.

This seems to placate Lydia, at least temporarily and she nods once, a soft incline of her head.

“Well, I should probably go to Cyber division and see if Danny’s made any progress decrypting my hard drives yet.” Lydia gathers her own files and flounces away towards the elevators without so much as a backward wave. She’s probably a little annoyed with his secretive responses and Stiles can’t exactly blame her.

He promises himself he’ll make it up to her later. But it’s just that he’s had this giant fucking bee in his proverbial bonnet since Friday and he’s got to settle it before it drives him nuts. Even if using FBI resources for personal reasons is technically illegal...okay very illegal. But it isn’t like this is the first time Stiles has danced around in the fine lines of law and moral technicality.

‘Cough, cough, police scanner’

Which was a bit of a grey area, especially since Stiles tended to drag Scott to the site of the more ‘exciting’ calls. But hey! He and Scott had found that one dead girl, so hey, high-fives all around.

Well...except for the dead girl. Since she was already dead. And, as Scott had so helpfully pointed out while they were being stuffed into the back of the cruiser: the police probably would have found her eventually. But really, that is all so very besides the point Stiles is trying to make right now.

Which is! That Stiles has this thing in his head and he needs to find out if it’s a ‘real thing’ or if he’s just going insane. And he’s going to use whatever resources he has available to him to figure it out. Which he likes to think is reasonable and justified and not at all creepy and stalker-ish. It’s not like he’s camping out in Derek’s building with a camera.

Not that Stiles can't appreciate the irony of that.

Stiles shakes his head and hunches his shoulders, furiously flipping through the pages, willing himself to be calm.

He’s been talking himself up and down this terrible little sinking feeling in his chest since Derek had left that morning; first convincing himself he was imagining the resemblance, then panicking because holy shit, he might’ve just fucked an alien.

And then he’s face to face with a glossy still, snapped at some press event; probably his first public speech when he’d decided to go public ten years ago.

The man in the image is young; there are fewer lines on his face and his hair is styled a little differently, but the resemblance is so striking Stiles feels his knees start to give.

Stiles sits hard, staring at the picture of Superman; the picture of a man who looks incredibly like the one Stiles had had in his bed only a few hours before.

He might’ve just fucked Superman.

He might be dating Superman.

And then the horrible, terrible thought popped into Stiles’ brain.

Oh shit, what’s he going to tell Lydia?!

“Agent Stilinski.” Agent Greene clears her throat and Stiles bangs his thigh against the table as he springs to his feet, slapping the file shut.

Greene watches dispassionately as Stiles swears and tries to stand professionally and rub at his stinging leg, but just ends up standing hunched over and feeling incredibly stupid.

“Good morning, Ma’am.” Stiles swallows and offers a watery smile. He notes when her eyes flick to the Superman file on the desk and then back to him.

“Agent Stilinski.” Her tone is clipped. “The government isn’t paying you to look at pretty boys. I suggest you stick to your assigned cases. Am I understood.”

It isn’t a question. Stiles feels obligated to answer anyway.

“Yes, Ma’am. Sorry, Ma’am.” He closes the folder and hands it over, doing his best to look contrite instead of just in pain. Which he is. A great deal of pain. Shit that’s going to bruise.

Greene lets out a longsuffering sigh. “I think, Agent Stilinski, Agent Hardin was looking for you in conference room D. I suggest you make your way there. Before we all die of old age.” She strides away from Stiles, her Italian heels clipping a sharp tick against the tiled floor on the way back to her own office.

Stiles barely resists the urge to stick his tongue out at her retreating back, but only because he’s convinced she’s been modified with cameras and sensors in the back of her head. And he isn’t really in the mood to get murdered this morning.

So instead Stiles contents himself with gritting his teeth and contemplating what he’s going to do to her office on his last day while he limps his way to conference D and shoulders inside.

Garrett Hardin and a handful of agents Stiles doesn’t recognize turn to look at him before Hardin’s face breaks into a wide smile.

“Stilinski, glad you could make it. I was a little worried you hadn’t gotten the memo.”

“Sorry.” Stiles apologizes and tries not to wince as he eases himself gingerly into one of the unoccupied chairs. “I with Greene.”

There are a series of conciliatory murmurs and Hardin makes a face.

“In that case, I’m really glad you made it.”

The table shares a chuckle and Hardin’s face and voice take on a more serious tone. He slides Stiles a plain manilla folder, identical to the ones resting in front of every agent present.

“Now...what do you all know about Swank LTD?”



It’s nearly three in the afternoon before Stiles manages to escape the office for lunch and he’s already a mess of exhaustion and excitement and hangry annoyance. Though that last part is his fault and somewhat Derek’s fault for being such a deliciously distracting bastard; because Stiles didn’t have time for breakfast that morning. The other reason he couldn’t leave until now was because it turns out Swank LTD is a giant bag of dicks and has been screwing over their European shareholders as well as their American ones.

Which means the team’s progress had been brought to a immediate and complete standstill while Hardin and a handful of senior agents argued with INTERPOL about fucking jurisdiction while the rest of the team stared resolutely at their computer screens and pretended not to be listening in.

Or maybe that was just Stiles.

Hardin had finally finagled an agreement; which was good and bad. It meant liaisons and babysitting and a whole lot of pussy-footing around (read: time wasted). And if the decision were up to Stiles, he’d just say: ‘fuck it, let’s go get the bad guys, who cares about international fallout, that’s what the CIA is for.’

This is likely why Stiles has not been put in charge of a task force of his own yet.

Two blocks over Stiles spots Jerry, the local gourmet hot dog vendor, pushing his little silver cart. Stiles immediately changes course for the man, his hollow stomach leading the charge.

It’s a testament at how fucking amazing Jerry is at his chosen profession that he has Stiles’ usual waiting for him by the time Stiles has managed to cross the two blocks separating them.

“Bless you, sir.” Stiles gushes and fishes a five out of his pocket before hefting the half-pound monstrosity of beef and bread and assorted toppings. He takes the first bite and sighs, savoring the short ascent into culinary heaven. And it would make sense that he hears Derek calling his name right then because his senses are in metaphorical Nirvana so why wouldn’t the sexy demi-god perfection that is Derek’s voice lend itself to this particular trip into bliss?

Except the voice was coming closer? And it’s starting to sound less like an endorphin produced hallucination the closer it comes. And then it’s right next to Stiles and a tentative hand is nudging his shoulder, which leads Stiles to believe that Derek has been summoned to Stiles through the sheer orgasmic satisfaction of...of...fuck it, words are too hard right now.

Stiles cracks open one eye.

Derek is standing right in front of him, his glasses firmly in place, messenger bag slung over his shoulders; his expression soft and sort of pleased, sort of quizzical. And incredibly lovely.

Stiles reaches out and pokes Derek’s face.

Derek’s stubble pokes him back.

Derek’s face goes adorably blank and they stand there for long moments, neither of them speaking, just staring at each other, Stiles still with his finger jammed firmly into Derek’s cheek.

“Hi.” Derek finally says.

“Hi.” Stiles replies, a little dazed, realizing for the first time that Derek’s eyes are green and it hits him just how much Derek really does look like Superman. And then he remembers that he’s pretty sure Derek Hale is Superman and suddenly he’s frozen, gaping like a codfish and uncertain if he should hug Derek or confront him and rip off those stupid hipster glasses that he can’t possibly need. Because, you know...Superman. Supervision has to be part of that package of awesomeness.

“Not that I mind, but is there a reason you’re, uh…” Derek points vaguely to his face. More specifically to Stiles’ finger, which may still be jammed directly under the sculpted perfection of Derek’s high cheekbones.

Stiles jerks his hand away and takes a hasty step backward.

“Shit, sorry.” He clears his throat and casts about for something intelligent to say. “I uh…”

“Are you done for the day?” Derek asks, saving them both from another long and awkward silence.

Stiles shakes his head and gesticulates with his hot dog hand.

“No, I’m actually grabbing lunch right now.”

“It’s...a little late for lunch.” Derek comments, all sincere and concerned and Stiles really does want to just hug him right now.

“You’re not telling me anything I don’t know.” Stiles takes another bite and waves off Derek’s concern.

“A meeting just went long is all.”

“You should keep something in your desk.” Derek eyes the hot dog dubiously. “Take it from someone who’s constantly being called away for last minute emergencies, it’s smart to keep something healthy on hand. It’s amazing how quickly all the extra calories catch up with you.”

It’s an incredibly impertinent thing to say, especially to someone he’d only known for three days, two and a half of which were spent either sleeping or...well...not talking.

Derek seems to realize this after he’s said it. His eyes go wide and he brings both hands up, waving them back and forth.

“Not that it...I didn’t mean...I’m sure you…” He keeps trying and Stiles decides he’s going to be charmed instead of offended.

“It’s okay.” He jumps in, saving Derek. “I get it.” He takes another bite as if to emphasize this.

“But I didn’t exactly have time to pack a lunch today.” He says around his mouthful and grins when Derek looks guilty.

“Speaking of which…”

Stiles tilts his head to the side, studying Derek.

“Did you go home to change after you left this morning?”

Derek was wearing a pair of pants and an unassuming blue button-down. The shoes were the same ones he’d been wearing this morning and Stiles was pretty sure the jacket was too, but the rest was pressed and looked clean.

“I keep a couple of spares in my desk.” Derek looks a little uncomfortable. “For...emergencies.”

Fuck, this guy is adorable. Stiles really wants to mess up his hair, pull up one side of his collar, give him a hickey in a really obvious place, something to make him a little less...pristine.

“You were a boy scout weren’t you?” Stiles finishes the last of his lunch and crumples up the paper. “Always prepared, got all the badges, brought extra treats for scout meetings, thanked your den I anywhere close?”

“Not really.” Derek looks apologetic. “I just have a habit of...well, I just need extras and my editor isn’t a fan of casual Fridays expanding to include shirtlessness.”

“Obviously he’s never seen you without one.” Stiles tosses the wrapper into a nearby trash can and whoops when it tips in.

Derek is smiling, though Stiles can’t tell if it’s because of the shot or because of what Stiles said before about his partial nudity. And Derek doesn’t seem to feel the need to clarify.

“So what brings you out here?” Stiles asks, wiping at the corners of his mouth with a handful of scratchy brown napkins.

Derek jerks his head back the way he’d come. “I’m interviewing someone.”

“Really? A good scoop?” Stiles asks, surprised to note he’s genuinely interested.

Derek shakes his head. “No, just a fluff piece on new industry, nothing worth a Pulitzer.”

“Have you ever gotten one?” Stiles asks. “A Pulitzer, I mean.” He clarifies when Derek’s brows knit together in confusion.

“I’ve never won.” Derek glances at his shoes, looking self conscious. “I’ve been nominated a couple of times.” He admits.

“Wow. That’s…wow…” Stiles blinks and isn’t sure what to say.

“That’s really great.”

“Thanks.” Derek is definitely blushing again.

“Do you think I could read them?” Stiles pushes before he can second-guess himself. “I mean, if you don’t mind. You can tell me to shove of if-”

“No!” Derek’s head snaps up and he’s back to wide-eyed sincerity.

“No.” He repeats, gentle the second time. “I don’t mind. They aren’t very thrilling, I mean there’s a reason they didn’t win.”

Stiles puts a hand on Derek’s chest, palm flat against his sternum where Derek’s satchel strap slashes across his chest. He can feel Derek’s heartbeat and he risks stepping a little closer, until he can smell Derek’s aftershave; something musky by Dior that makes Stiles’ mouth water.

“I can’t wait to read them. You can bring them over this Friday.” He looks up at Derek from under his lashes.

“Unless something else has come up?”

Stiles feels Derek’s hands ease under his suit jacket to wrap around his hips. He’s leaning forward, slowly closing the distance between them.

“I’ve already pencilled you in.”

It’s supposed to be sexy. Derek murmured it all husky and low and obviously that’s what he was going for. But the line was can’t help it. He presses his face into Derek’s shoulder and starts laughing.

“Nerd!” He crows and laughs some more when Derek protests.

“It’s very important to be as organized as possible. Studies say you forget less, are more likely to be on time…”

“Just shut up.” Stiles interrupts and kisses Derek before he can nerdgasm anymore. And the kiss is really nice and incredibly sweet and when one of Derek’s hands shift to press into the small of Stiles’ back…

Is when Stiles’ phone starts ringing.

Stiles breaks away from Derek’s mouth with a groan of frustration and reaches for his phone.

It’s a work number.

Stiles groans again, but thumbs the ‘answer’ button and pressed the device to his ear.

“This is Stilinski.” Stiles says, but makes no move to extricate himself from Derek’s arms. They really feel nice and it’s his lunch break for fuck’s sake. He’ll leave when he’s good and ready.

A peppy sounding woman immediately starts chattering from the other end of the line.

“Hello agent Stilinski, this is Wilks, agent Sandy Wilks? We met at this morning during the SWANK case briefing?” She rushes ahead before Stiles can speak.

“Hardin asked me to call you. He wants everyone back in the conference room in 5.” She sounds apologetic.

Stiles curses internally, but grinds out what he believes is a genuine enough sounding thanks.

He ends the call a good deal more surely then when he’d begun, but he knows it’s not Wilk’s fault. This is part of the job. If he wanted clockwork lunches and a regular 9-5 he would have and could have sold his soul to Corporate America. But he’d wanted to be noble, to catch bad guys, to save the day. Which is normally what he does and Stiles wouldn’t trade that for the world. He loves his job.

Except Derek’s arms around him is the complete opposite of Stiles’ “normally”. In fact, Stiles could make the case that Derek hugs are the quintessence of extenuating circumstances. He should get excused from life because of these arms.

Has Stiles mentioned Derek Hale has amazing arms?

“Gotta go?” Derek asks, his breath warm across the side of Stiles’ neck and Stiles nods, his face still pressed into Derek’s shoulder. He doesn’t want to move, but there will be Hell to pay if he’s late. Hardin had lost his cherub-like demeanor after the Skype call with INTERPOL.

Stiles traces his fingers up to curl over the rather impressive set of biceps and hums his appreciation. Seriously, they’re like two generously proportioned grapefruit in his palms and are such a strange contrast to the wholesome, non-threatening, nerd motif Derek has going.

“Yeah, I have a meeting in like…” Stiles relinquishes his hold on Derek’s lovely biceps to check his phone.

“...three minutes.” He huffs out a sad laugh. “No rest for the wicked.” He mutters and steps away from Derek.

“I’ll, uh, see you later, dude.”

“Don’t call me dude.”

Derek leans in to place one last kiss to Stiles’ lips and waves as Stiles turns to cross the street. And is immediately and nearly run over by a seriously overexcited black SUV with government plates as it turns the corner.

Probably NSA.


By the time Stiles finishes cursing their vanishing taillights and has made it safely to the other side of the street, Derek is nowhere to be seen.


Stiles manages to dodge Lydia for three whole days by throwing himself headlong into the SWANK case. Which Stiles knows is both unfair and mildly suicidal. But he still has absolutely no idea what to tell her, since he is only mildly certain he knows the truth himself.

Unfortunately, the more he avoids her, the more guilty he looks and the more upset with him she becomes. Which only exacerbates the problem.

The second time he changes trajectory and practically hurls himself into Hardin’s office to ‘talk over the newest details of the case’, Lydia passes the open door and shoots Stiles a look that promises pain and suffering the likes of which he has never before experienced. Which Stiles tries to play off, smiles and offers a wave; both of which he knows are pathetically weak.

Why can’t he keep his shit together when it comes to that woman?

Hardin, because he's a trained Federal agent, catches their exchange. And, because he's also a giant tool, immediately kicks Stiles out of his office citing he “...Don’t want to get in the middle of a Martin shit-fest, Stilinski.”’; which means Stiles has officially lost his only plausible means of avoiding Lydia’s inevitably awkward questions.

He might’ve tried hiding in the men’s bathroom if he weren’t sure she would just follow him in anyway.

So Stiles sits and considers that night, thumbing through the results of his Google Image search, box after box of a man who, if Stiles squints and imagines glasses on them, could look like Derek. But might also be the result of wishful thinking.

But is it just his imagination? Stiles doesn’t know. It isn’t as though he hasn’t had ridiculous flights of fancy before. But little things Derek has said, things he does. The muscles, the extra clothes in his desk for ‘emergencies’, how he ‘didn’t want to lose control’ (of his powers?) while they had sex the first time. All of which could be explained if one simply decided Derek was being a reasonable, rational and responsible adult.

Stiles sighs and tosses his phone onto the table, running a hand over his face.

He’s tying himself in knots over this. And he can’t exactly up and ask Derek if he’s Superman. All of his evidence is circumstantial. At best.

No, he needs something really concrete before he can confront Derek.

Which just leaves Lydia.

Stiles, for one insane moment, feels the urge to volunteer for hazard work over in Gotham. Facing down clinically certified sociopaths with military grade weaponry it might actually be safer.


“I don’t believe you.” Lydia curls her lips around her straw and sip lazily at the caramel frappuccino Stiles had handed her before sitting down himself.

Stiles is pretty sure it’s the only reason he’s still breathing.

He leans back in his chair and throws up his hands.

“I don’t know what to tell you. The theory I had is still just a theory. I have no evidence, no reasonable suspicion. All I have is my gut.”

Lydia closes her eyes, savoring the mouthful of ice and sugar before swallowing. “And what…” She asks, her eyes still closed. “ your gut saying?”

That my boy toy is Superman. Stiles doesn’t say because that would be: A. Incredibly unfair to Derek if Stiles is correct. And B. Incredibly ridiculous/ utterly humiliating if Stiles turns out to be wrong.

“I can’t tell you.” Stiles says finally and Lydia arches an eyebrow. Not ‘Tell me now or suffer the consequences infidel’, but a simple, curious expression. Which is possibly even more terrifying than the former.

“If I’m right then...well...I don’t know.” Stiles admits. He hasn’t actually thought that far ahead. “Then it wouldn’t really be my secret to tell…”

He trails off and then realizes what he’s just said. He jerks his head up and Lydia’s eyes are huge and round and the straw of her frappuccino is pressed against her bottom lip, which is currently as wide as her eyes.

“Holy shit.” She breaths and Stiles jumps like he’s been shocked. “The file on Monday…”

“No!” He waves his arms back and forth, as if he could magically scrub his words from the air. “I didn’t’s not like that…”

“You think you’re fucking Superman?”

She doesn’t say it loudly. In fact she practically hisses it, but Stiles still winces and frantically glances around to see if anyone is listening to them.

“No, I’m not...I am definitely not. I am in no way, shape or form fucking an alien. And I would know. I would definitely be the first to-”

Thankfully, everyone else in the common area seems engrossed in their own conversation. No one’s even looking in their direction and the tinny din pouring from the overhead speakers seems to have drown out the majority of their furious whispering.

“Look, I don’t know.” Stiles leans in close to whisper back, practically begging Lydia with his eyes to drop this, please.

Lydia, bless her, ignores him.

“But you strongly suspect.”

“He’s…” Stiles wipes a hand over his face. “...said things?”

Lydia raises her eyebrows. She’s collected herself, leaning against the back of her chair, gently swirling her straw around, mixing in the whipped cream. She’s obviously waiting for the juicy details.

“I can’t.” Stiles protests.

Lydia just cocks her head to one side, waiting expectantly.

“I...really…” He trails off and puts his head in his hands. He’s going to tell her everything. It’s that simple.

“You. Are a horrible human being.” He says through his fingers.

“I know.” Lydia says, not the least bit contrite. Stiles can hear her sipping away contentedly at her drink.

“It keeps me up at night.”

Chapter Text

“ a cargo ship….

Stiles really needs to talk to Derek.

“...last place anyone would suspect…”

Stiles worries the end of a pen between his teeth and tries to picture the conversation in his head.

Hey, Derek. So I was wondering, and feel free to shut me down if I’m wrong, but have you ever had the urge to wear blue and red spandex? Been described as a bird and/or plane? Leap tall buildings in a single bound?

Yeah... this is going to end soooooooo well.

“Stilinski, are you awake over there?”

Stiles jerks upright in his chair and tries not to look guilty as he casts nervously around the conference table. Yup, everybody’s looking at him.

At the head of the table, Hardin is giving him the stink eye.

“Thank you for joining us.” Hardin says, his words weighted, before he turns back to address the room.

“So we have the warrants for a search and seizure. The team we put in place to stake it out says there’s a minimal presence on board ship at any given time. We’re going in; a conjoined operation with SWAT in 24 hours.”

The entire table sighs and there are several muttered curses and Stiles hears one man say: "You've got to be shitting, me.". Stiles' eyes dart to the clock on the far wall. It reads 3pm. It's Friday night.

Stiles groans.


“So there’s this work thing.” Stiles says as soon as Derek picks up and rushes on before the other man can say anything. “I’m really sorry, but I can’t meet up until Saturday at the earliest. Later if the paperwork turns out to be a bitch...which is usually does. So...I have to cancel. I’m really sorry.”

He shifts and swallows, nervously waiting for Derek's reply.

Finally, Derek says: “Hey, I get it. Work happens.”

He sounds completely serious when he says this and Stiles heaves a sigh of relief.

“Look, I know it’s not fair of me to assume you’d want to try and salvage the weekend, but would you like to have brunch or something on Sunday?”

“Yeah.” Derek’s voice sounds far away and Stiles thinks he hears the scratch of a pencil on paper.

“Yeah. I’ve got you down. You want to meet at your place, or did you have somewhere else specific in mind?”

Stiles can’t help but grin. This weekend might just turn out alright after all.

“Well, that depends, Mr. Hale. Do you actually want to make it out to breakfast?”

“Stilinski! Get your ass out here, you can have phone sex on your own time!”

“Fuck you too, Anderson.” Stiles shouts before ducking back to the phone. “Sorry, I really do have to go. I’ll text you the address?”

Derek’s voice is soft and understanding and utterly fond.

“Go. Save the world. I’ll see you Sunday.”

Stiles is still smiling when they pull up to the pier.

“Ready, everyone?” Hardin’s voice is crisp over the bug in Stiles’ ear. A series of clipped check ins comes in next.

‘Able - 1, ready’

‘Able - 2, ready’

Stiles’ leg is bouncing as he unholsters his gun.

“I’m ready.” He says and the doors burst open.


“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!”

Stiles sprints down the corridor, breath tight in his chest, sweat sticking his shirt to his back and chest.

He can hear the shouts and footsteps behind him, clomping boots, words in a language Stiles doesn’t understand. But they definitely sound upset. And Stiles gets it, he does. This is their ship after all and they’re as surprised to see Stiles here as Stiles was to see them.

Yay! Surprises all around.

In all honesty Stiles’ current situation was the result of an unavailable series of events none of which is actually Stiles’ fault. And Stiles is pretty sure he has a good argument for the universe being a giant fucking bitch. And seriously, how is this his life? He is a badass agent for the Federal government who still manages to trip and fall down strange things like (Just for reference and in no way connected to his current situation) a ship’s main ventilation shaft, when conducting highly important and potentially lethal operations. And he may have ended up in the engine room with these guys who may have had guns which may have precipitated a firefight which might have...okay fuck it. There were bullets and shouting and carnage and things getting broken and gas fires and yes it is all his fault.

Stiles is so fired.

Stiles ducks reflexively when a gun fires behind him and something spangs off the support beams overhead.

“Seriously?” He shouts over his shoulder and keeps running. “Have you guys never heard of a ricochet!?”

Either the two goons chasing him can’t understand Stiles or they haven’t actually heard of ricochets because the second one has his gun out now and he’s taking aim.

“Shit.” Stiles hisses as he sprints his way towards the stairs to the deck, towards the pier and relative safety. “Shit, shit, shit, shit.”

Where the Hell is that SWAT team?

Stiles grabs at the rails and heaves himself up the stairs, ducking again as bullets spang and kick up sparks around him. He feels the breath of one, hot and stinging, against his cheek and the corresponding adrenaline surge makes Stiles dizzy.

He pushes past the fuzziness, the weakness in his knees and forces himself the last few steps to spill onto the deck.

He can see the pier, barely a half dozen years away and beyond that, the SWAT vans. Hardin is standing next to it, gun in hand. He spots Stiles and starts waving, shouting, indistinct through the blood rushing in Stiles’ ears.

And then Hardin is crouching down, pulling the driver’s side door open and taking cover behind it. Stiles can hear the dull report of gunfire and remembers the two guys with guns. The ones who are probably going to be coming up the stairs behind him any second.

Stiles scrambles up, fumbling for his gun. But before he can train it on the stairwell, there’s more shouting behind him in heavily accented English.

He’s been spotted.

Stiles ducks behind a pile of crates and hopes they’re going to be enough to shield him from the impending reign of bullets.

The first of the deadly hale pepper the edges of the unfinished wood, sending slivers of pine stinging along the exposed skin of Stiles’ neck and face. Stiles hisses and covers his eyes. Picking all of those out later is going to be a sonofabitch, but he’s absolutely dead if he loses his vision right now.

The deck heaves, a rumbling upward thrust which nearly costs Stiles his footing. The voices on the others side of the deck grow panicked and Stiles knows they know what he already knows: The ship is going to blow.

And then Stiles has another thought which makes his stomach drop.

What if everyone except Hardin is below decks?

The ship trembles again, and there’s another round of bullets pelting Stiles’ hiding place and Stiles’ brain starts going about a mile a minute.

The ship is going to blow. It is going to blow with Stiles and everyone else on his team on board and they are all going to die and that is such an incredible fucking shame because Stiles would never even got to find out if Derek Hale really is Superman.

And maybe that says something that that’s his one and only regret as he crouches down behind those boxes, eyeballing the distance between himself and the other side of the ship and calculating whether he would be able to swim fast enough to get a minimum safe distance by the time it explodes.

...If whatever bad guys are left on deck don’t manage to shoot him first.

He’s going to have to time it, wait for them to take a break to reload or-

A bullet shatters the crate directly above his head, pelting Stiles with debris.

“Fuck it. Just go, Stilinski.”

Stiles jams his gun back into his holster and pushes straight into a sprint.

He hears a shout and something spangs off the deck under his feet.

It’s half a dozen running steps and Stiles is to the edge. He spares a glance below to make sure he’s actually diving into water, and feels a small stab of panic when he sees the water is something like thirty feet below. But he doesn’t have time to second-guess his exit strategy. Stiles takes a deep breath and he’s vaulting over the side.

He expects the cold rush of air past his ears, the sharp cut of water, maybe stabbing pain if he hits wrong.

He gets the cold rush of air. And a set of warm arms twining themselves around his torso; a very muscular body pressing all sorts of deliciously against his.

Stiles opens his eyes and can see nothing but blackness flashing past him and he flails out blindly, grasping for something, anything to hold onto.

His hands settle on the pair of arms holding him, one travelling frantically up to wrap around what certainly feels like a man’s neck, the other clinging to a very well-formed bicep.

A...very familiar wall-formed bicep.

Actually, the body in general feels vaguely familiar. But before Stiles can spend much more than a wayward thought on that he’s being set down next to Hardin and the SWAT car and released.

Superman offers Stiles nod and one of his outrageously radiant smiles.

“Keep yourself safe, citizen.” He declares before he launches himself into the air and Stiles has to scrunch his eyes closed against the resulting blast of air. He peels his eyes open, and watches as the silhouette of Superman disappears into the ship.

“Oh shit.” Stiles breaths. Derek.

“The ship is going to explode!” Stiles runs forward, not even sure Superman, possibly Derek, can even hear him. But he’ll be damned if he’s going to let his...boyfriend? Alien boytoy? Fuck buddy? fly into an impending explosion, even if he’s indestructible.

Stiles stops in his tracks.

Superman is indestructible.

Stiles buries his face in his hands and sinks down to his haunches, suddenly dizzy. The man with whom he has an unlabelled indestructible.

What the fuck is even his life?

He hears Hardin shouting his name and looks up. The man is running full tilt for him, his face scrunched up in a concerned scowl, his gun drawn.

“Stilinski.” He pants when he gets to where Stiles is crouched. “What the fuck happened?”

“Ship’s going to blow.” Stiles pushes to his feet. “We should probably-”

“What do you mean it’s going to blow?!”

“There was a thing in the engine room-”

“What thing?!”

Stiles stands, waves his hands. “I don’t know. A thing. It got hit by gunfire and it started...pschew…”

Stiles demonstrates the hiss of rapidly venting gas with his arms. Hardin looks rather less than impressed.

“Pschew.” He repeats, without any of Stiles’ emoting, which totally ruins the effect Stiles is going for.


Stiles might feel more annoyed if he wasn’t sure this was his last night as an FBI agent. Prospective unemployment kind of has that effect on him.

Stiles sighs. “Look, the point is bad guys started shooting, bullet hit the pipe, gas starts…” He makes his hand motions again, just slightly smaller.

“...‘pschewing’, bad guys panic, Stiles tries to get the Hell out of dodge and gets rescued by-” He nods in Superman’s general direction because he figures that part’s pretty much self explanatory.

And then, because Stiles is maybe a little too sassy for his own good, adds: “When was I supposed to ask them the gritty details about their ship’s engine? While I was running for my life through a hail of bullets?”

Hardin holsters his gun.

“Greene’s going to shit bricks when she hears about this.”

Stiles winces. He can’t help but imagine how that particular anal reaming is going to play out in vivid technicolor. It’s...unpleasant.

He can practically hear Greene yelling: “You had one job, Stilinski!”

Fuck, Stiles is so fired.

Hardin is yelling something about calling for backup when there’s another forceful rush of displaced air and for a second Stiles thinks the ship is starting to go for real. But then Superman is standing before them, hands planted firmly on his hips, smile bright.

“Agent Hardin, I’m pleased to inform you the ship is no longer in danger of exploding.”

Hardin gapes. Superman keeps smiling.

“The breach in the pipe is sealed and should no longer pose an imminent danger. Though I anticipate the ice will melt again in the next few hours, so you should move quickly to reclaim the vessel. I also took the liberty of incarcerating the felons on board. Your squads are safe and on deck, awaiting your word, I believe.”

Stiles might imagine the flick of eyes towards him before Superman inclines his head and speaks to Hardin, who is still gaping like a fish.

“Thank you for your service. Stay safe.”

And then he is gone.

“Holy shit.” Hardin breathes.

Stiles can’t think of anything to say that would encapsulate tonight any better. So he doesn’t try.


It’s late Saturday night before Stiles is finally allowed to go home. Unexpectedly, he wasn't thrown under the bus and the Bureau seized a good amount of incriminating evidence from the ship. So no one bothered looking too closely on the details of the explosive nature of their near miss.

Unfortunately, Stiles still had a metric shit-ton of paperwork to fill out and file before he was given permission to leave. And it's nearly 4 in the morning by the time he's fitting the key into his lock.

He stumbles into his front door and barely remembers to lock it behind him before tumbling onto his bed face first and falling immediately into unconsciousness.



Someone’s knocking on his door.

Stiles jolts and blinks blearily around, trying to remember what exactly the nagging sensation in his brain is.

The knock sounds again.

And Stiles remembers all at once.

“Shit!” He hurls himself out of bed and practically flings the door open.

Derek is standing at the threshold, arm upraised, probably to knock a third time. He smiles sheepishly when he sees Stiles.

“Hey.” He clears his throat. “I got a little worried when you didn’t answer your phone and you’d mentioned a work thing…” He trailed off, looking embarrassed.

“It’s okay.” Stiles rushes to say and steps aside to let Derek in. “I’m so sorry I slept through our date.”

“Actually, you didn’t.” Derek says, toeing off his shoes and Stiles’ eyes flit to the plastic carry-out bag in his hand.

“It’s just been relocated.”

“You brought me breakfast.” Stiles says dumbly and the giddy, fluttery, totally not 12-year old girl with a crush feeling is back and making a mess of his insides. He has to kiss Derek. There really is nothing else for it.

So he reaches out and cups Derek’s face in his hands and pours every ounce of silly, reckless gratitude he has into the kiss and Derek groans and then Stiles really can’t be blamed if the embrace turns a shade darker than gratitude.

It’s several long seconds of heat and lips and tongues and when Derek has to pull back he’s panting.

“Well, really it’s more like an early lunch.”

“Fuck, shut up.” Stiles breaths and leans in to close the distance again.

And early lunch ends up turning into a late lunch.

Eaten off of Derek’s stomach.

But Stiles is really, really not complaining.

It isn’t until much later, after Derek has shown Stiles what else he brought (The Pulitzer nominated articles and the travel mug he’d borrowed the week before, washed of course, because Derek is a fucking boy scout.), and the ensuing sex; and Derek escapes back to his own apartment with the promise of another date on the horizon that Stiles realizes.

He never got to ask Derek about his Superman biceps.


Chapter Text

Monday is a bit surreal for Stiles. He is, by the sheer absurd coincidence of being rescued by Superman, a minor celebrity in the office. He’s mobbed almost the minute he gets out of the elevator, plied with offers of coffee and donuts and questions all the way to his desk. Stiles accepts the coffee and backslaps and sugary confections readily enough and most of the questions are more funny than intrusive, so he does his best to answer those as well.

At least until Shelly, the little mousy girl with horn rimmed glasses from Statistics and Analysis asks him to describe how Superman’s thighs had felt pressed against his.

Stiles inhales his bite of doughnut and begins to choke; which is probably for the best because the answer that had come immediately to mind and would likely have come out of his mouth otherwise was: “Which time?”.

Which is where Lydia finds him, of course, gaping bleary-eyed after Shelly, who’d scurried off to her own desk after turning a rather impressive shade of red.

The rest of the agents scatter when Lydia approaches and Stiles has a moment to wonder how it is Lydia Martin is able to instill awe and abject terror wherever she goes. And then spares another moment to be completely and utterly jealous of her.

For about the seven millionth time since she flounced into his life as a ridiculously self-assured 3rd grader.

“Having a good morning?” Lydia eyes his half-finished coffee with mild disdain as Stiles manages to dislodge the last of the doughnut from his lungs.

“The best.” He wheezes.

Lydia looks unsympathetic, her eyes sweeping across the dozen or so agents still ‘working’ within earshot; heads bent differentially over their desks, lest they incur her wrath.

“You’ll probably be asked to sit down with George sometime today or tomorrow.” Lydia says, referring to the agent in charge of the ‘Metahuman’ division of this branch of the FBI.

“...add your anecdote to the other useless tidbits they have on file.”

She finally offers Stiles a smile, though it’s made of pure malicious delight as she bats her eyelashes at him, her voice a too sweet parody of innocence.

“You remember the Superman file, don’t you, Agent Stilinski?”

Stiles opens his mouth and takes a deep breath.

“Agent Stilinski.”

Stiles jerks reflexively and bashes his knee against his desk, doubling over until his forehead is pressed against the surface of the pressboard. He yelps.

Lydia shushes him.

“...In my office, now. You too, Martin.” Director Greene adds as she turns to disappear into her office.

Lydia’s eyes go a little wide before she slides them balefully over to Stiles who swallows the last of his lukewarm coffee and struggles out of his desk chair.

“Come on.” Stiles sighs. “Let’s get this over with.” He nudges her shoulder and gets up to limp dramatically to the director’s office, a very annoyed Lydia Martin gliding alongside him. was a nice Monday while it lasted.

Hardin’s standing in a corner when they knock, to Stiles’ mild surprise. He’s wearing the same suit he’d worn on the raid Saturday. And he looks absolutely exhausted, dark rings under his eyes, his face gaunt.

Stiles pauses in the door, suddenly nervous and Lydia bumps into his back, letting out an annoyed huff.

At her desk, Director Greene is rifling through a mountain of paperwork. She looks up from the papers she’s been examining as the door opens, her brows a tightly knit furrow that spells impending doom.

“Don’t drag your feet, Stilinski.” She says and goes back to reading.

Lydia pushes at Stiles until he’s taken two reluctant steps inside. The sound of the door shutting feels like a death keel, no matter how much Stiles tells himself he’s being ridiculous.

Stiles glances over at Hardin, who only nods when he notices the attention, his expression carefully blank.


“Agents.” Greene looks up to study Stiles and Lydia in turn. “I need you to go and pick up Aaron Schull, the former CEO of SWANK. He ought to be in his office. You can take a car, here is the warrant.”

She flips the paper she’d been reading around and slides it across the desk for Stiles to inspect.

“So, Mr. Schull wasn’t apprehended last Saturday when we seized his assets?” Lydia’s voice is cautious and even though when Stiles glances at her, her eyes snap dangerously.

Usually during a search and seizure, it’s standard procedure to dispatch a second team to the company so they could grab the evidence and ‘the man’ all in one go. The whole thing was starting to sound as though it had been completely bass-ackwards.

“There was an omission in the warrants and Schull disappeared.” Greene says. And suddenly Hardin’s presence here makes sense. Greene had probably just finished tearing Hardin a new one. A delay like this might’ve cost them the ringleader.

“So why are we searching his offices now?” Stiles frowns, folding the paper and stuffing it into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. “If he’s already gone.”

Greene leans back against her chair and folds her arms across her chest.

“His secretary confirmed he came in this morning. Either he doesn’t know about the raid on Saturday, and the disappearance was coincidental, or he’s come back for vital assets and is getting ready to run. Either way, we need this to happen now.”

She nods to Stiles and Lydia.

“Now, get the Hell out of my office.”

“Ma’am.” Stiles grins and pushes out the door, Lydia already falling in step. She’s frowning again, that small dip which pinches the skin between her brows.

“What’s wrong?”

“It just seems odd.” Lydia murmurs, more to herself than Stiles. “Hardin’s been on the force, ten, twelve years? I can’t believe he would make a mistake like that.”

“We all make mistakes, Lydia.” Stiles says, and then immediately checks to make sure he’s got his service weapon and badge tucked where they’re supposed to be. Which they are. He heaves a sigh of relief.

“It had been a long week. He was probably tired before all this shit started.” He says the words automatically, and after the second or so it takes his brain to catch up Stiles frowns.

“I suppose.” Lydia doesn’t seem convinced.

“Yeah…” Stiles agrees hesitantly and really starts to wonder.




The ride to the SWANK building is silent but for the soft strains of NPR’s symphonycast humming in the background.

“Did you get to read the report on Saturday’s raid?” Stiles pipes up as they’re exiting the vehicle, pushing their way through the building’s over large front doors. One of the receptionists glances up and asks if they have appointments. Stiles and Lydia flash their badges discreetly and ask for Aaron Schull’s office.

The girl nods, wide-eyed and points to the elevators.

“Top floor.”

“Thanks.” Stiles offers her a close-lipped smile and together he and Lydia head towards the hall and the bank of elevators installed there.

“Are you asking if I read the part where you did your best impression of Inspector Cluzo? Or the part where you were channelling your inner Lois Lane?” Lydia smirks, jumping back into their previous conversation.

Stiles sticks out his tongue.

“I meant.” He redirects emphatically. “About the ship. Intel said it should have been minimally crewed, which it wasn’t. And then there was the engine.”

“The engine.” Lydia repeats, punching the button for the elevator.

“It was running.” Stiles presses his lips together and shoots his friend a considering look. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but those big trawlers, they take time to warm up, don’t they?”

Lydia shakes her head slowly, eyes fixed to the middle distance.

“Only if they’re steam powered. Most commercial ships are Diesel engines and those start up ‘basically’ like a car engine. Though it’s standard practice to let the ship ‘warm up’ for an hour or so before launch.”

Stiles gets a little giddy every time Lydia shows off her brain like that. It’s fantastic to watch her sort through information like a rolodex.

Lydia gives Stiles an inquisitive look and the elevator door slips open with a faint ‘ping’. They step inside and are whisked up.


“The engine was running.” Stiles leans against the wall, his arms folded, eyes trained on the ground.

“Reports said they had no idea we were coming, and there was no reason for them to move the ship. So why were they prep-ing to leave?”

“You think they were tipped off.” Lydia crosses her arms.

“I think someone tipped Schull off and his crew didn’t get away fast enough. And I think that same person conveniently ‘forgot’ to submit a warrant for Schull.”

“Hardin?” Lydia sounds skeptical. And then looks considering.

“But why wouldn’t he warn Schull to stay away from his office? If he’s in Schull’s pocket. Hardin had to know we were watching his building.”

“Maybe Schull acted without telling Hardin. Or maybe Hardin didn’t have time.” Stiles offers. “He’s the head of the task force. He would have been under a shit-ton of scrutiny since Saturday night. He would’ve been in debriefings about the mission, about me, about Superman and then the whole warrant fiasco. It’s hard to be sneaky about something when you’re under constant surveillance.”

“That’s...not the craziest theory that’s come out of your mouth..” Lydia laughs lightly and Stiles jabs her with his elbow.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re hilarious. For the record, I am totally right about straws as a means of global conditioning.”

When Lydia does nothing but smirk, Stiles sighs.

“Let’s just...grab this bonehead and go.”

The elevator emits a soft ‘ping’ and the door slides open.

Reception is a wide space dotted with couches and chairs. Low wooden tables are piled with magazines and ugly modern art deco pieces which probably cost a small fortune.

The reception desk is empty, though the monitor’s still on, displaying the desktop, a freckle-faced brunette holding a pug.

The desk phone is lying off its cradle and Stiles could hear the dull dial tone humming in the air.

Beside him, Lydia lays her hand on the butt of her gun, her stance rigid and ready.

“Something isn’t right.” Stiles mutters, drawing his own gun.

Lydia shoots him a ‘No shit, Sherlock.’ look before making the hand gesture to indicate Stiles should take point. Stiles nods and creeps his way up to the doors at the far end of the room. He presses his ear to the sturdy oak, straining to make out any sound beyond the barrier. He hears nothing.

He glances back to Lydia and shakes his head.

She mimes opening the door, with a ‘What the Hell are you waiting for?’ expression.

Stiles clears his throat and yells.

“Aaron Schull. This is the FBI, we have a warrant for your arrest. Come out with your hands up and we promise not to utterly decimate your ass.”

Lydia puts her face in one hand.

The door next to Stiles’ face explodes outward, showering his face with splinters and distantly, Stiles registers the report of a gun. But his body is already moving, ducking out of the way as more bullets pierce through the door where he’d been standing mere moments before. He sprints for the reception desk and rolls over.

There’s a crash from the door and Stiles doesn’t have time to spare but a fleeting hope that Lydia’s managed to find herself cover before an imperious voice is bellowing from the direction of the door.

“Did you get them? I don’t see them. Damn it! I don’t have time for this! Get your asses out there and make sure whatever’s left of them can’t report back to that bitch Greene!”

Stiles risks a peek over the top of the desk and his stomach drops.

Three armed gunmen are stealing out of the office, past the wrecked wooden door. They’re coming straight for Stiles.

One makes eye contact and shouts: “There’s one.” Before Lydia opens fire from somewhere off to Stiles right and the three are scattering. Two back into the office, finding cover on either side of the doorframe while the third makes a dash straight at the desk where Stiles is crouched.

More gunfire, probably Lydia trying to take out this guy’s legs, Stiles thinks, and watches as the anonymous gunman starts raising his weapon, leveling it with Stiles’ head. But reflex and muscle memory are already pulling Stiles down behind the lip of the desk.

And then the entire East wall bursts open, shaking the building and dislodging large chunks of plaster from the ceiling. Stiles hears a pained grunt and the sound of a body hitting the ground.

He peeks over the desk again and this time his view is blocked. By a back. A familiar blue and red clad back.



...Is standing between Stiles and the gunmen.

...Is shielding Stiles from the gunmen.

...Thinks Stiles needs shielding from the gunmen.

Stiles stands up and punches Derek square in the shoulder blade.

Derek jerks in surprise and whips his head around to stare at Stiles, his eyes wide and round and shocked, like he can’t believe Stiles just hit him. Like he can’t believe Stiles wouldn’t be upset, because this whole ‘damsel in distress’ thing was kind of charming when it was a joke, it is in no way allowed to become a staple in their relationship. And Derek needs to figure that out right the fuck now.

Stiles punches him again.

“Dammit, Derek, I am a trained, fucking FBI agent. I can’t fucking handle myself.”

“Sti-” Derek starts, but Stiles isn’t done. He gestures around to the desk, his gun still in his hand, which is against every gun safety course he has ever taken, but he is focused dammit!

“Do you see this? This is cover. I was in cover. I don’t need and didn’t need you to save my ass, because I was doing that just fine on my own!”

“Excuse me.” Comes a voice from the office. It’s Schull.

“But now really isn’t the best time to-”

Stiles whirls around and yells. “I will be with you in a second, Schull. Just chill.”

Before turning back to punch Derek a third time. It’s not doing much. The man feels like he’s been carved from fucking granite. And while under ordinary circumstances, that has the ability to drive Stiles into a state not unlike a feeding frenzy, right now it’s aggravating because Derek probably can’t even feel it when Stiles hits him; but dammit Stiles just keeps punching him anyway because he’s so frickin’ ticked right now.

“I don’t…” Derek clears his throat and says loudly. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know who you think I am, but I’m pleased to have rendered assistance.”

Stiles can’t even. He grabs Derek by his fucking cape and drags him over the desk to growl into his ear.

“I’m insulted on so many levels right now. So you better make sure you pick me up at 7:30 sharp on Friday, have a really fucking amazing date planned out, and present me with roses, or chocolates, or some spectacularly rare rock from your planet as you grovel for thinking I’m actually this big of an idiot.”

Derek draws away far enough to look Stiles in the eye. He doesn’t say anything, there’s no gesture of acknowledgement, just searches his face for long seconds that make Stiles’ stomach ache with sudden uncertainty. And with a burst of displaced air, he’s gone along with Schull and the three gunmen.




“Promoted. Public commendation.” Lydia laughs into her Whiskey Sour before nudging Stiles with her shoulder.

“Victory looks good on you, Stilinski.”

“Right back at you, Martin.” Stiles murmurs, trying to keep his own drink from spilling. It’s still Monday, though they’d be released from work about an hour ago.

They’d delivered Schull and his killer buddies to the FBI office where they were currently awaiting transport to Leavenworth to await trial. Unless Schull cut a deal, but that’s up to the judicial system.

They also got to see Hardin in a holding cell. Turns out Greene caught him calling Schull to warn him that Stiles and Lydia were on their way. Phone logs, character witnesses, not to mention Schull’s testimony, the case couldn’t be prettier if Hardin had wrapped it with a bow.

Stiles had, for the second time that day, been pelted with back-slaps and congratulations, which he attempted to accept with grace and good cheer. But he couldn’t escape that horrible thought in the back of his mind, the one that said he’d pushed too far, he’d asked too much.

That he’d had a good thing and he’d fucked it up.

“You’re doing it again.” Lydia’s index finger jabs into Stiles’ forehead, where his eyebrows have knit themselves together. “Tell me what’s wrong now.”

“Lydia.” Stiles sighs.

Lydia quirks one eyebrow and studies him for a moment. “Let me put it this way. You can tell me now. Or I can get you sloppy drunk and you can tell me then and wake up for work with a nasty hangover.”

“That might happen regardless.” Stiles mutters morosely and Lydia’s expression shifts from mild annoyance to concern.

“What’s wrong?”

And dammit, Stiles has always had a huge thing for concerned Lydia and he can’t resist her when she’s being commanding, he has absolutely no chance of refusing her when she’s being nice.

He swirls his glass, watching while the ice cubes circle around in the clear liquid.

“I think I might’ve fucked it up.” He admits. “He was just trying to save me and I fucking yelled at him and told him he needed to apologize, why the fuck would I do that? We’ve only known each other, what, two weeks? And all we’ve really done is fuck. And the fucking is great, don’t get me wrong, the fucking is fucking amazing. But I don’t have any right to demand he tells me all his dirty secrets, or beg my forgiveness.”

He puts his drink down. He might be halfway to sloppy drunk already.

Lydia’s looking at him sadly when he glances back up at her.

“That’s what you were whispering to him?” She asks softly, though it’s probably more for him than out of a need to confirm anything on her part.

Stiles nods anyway.

“I told him I wanted him to take me out on Thursday. That I’d give him the opportunity to explain himself.”

Lydia swallows the last half of her drink in one go and signals the bartender for another. She takes another healthy swallow of that before she clears her throat and says.

“Look, he was treating you like a moron. He’s been treating the whole world like morons for the last…” She starts going through her mental rolodex.

“Fifteen years?” Stiles supplies.

“Fifteen years.” Lydia nods. “I mean, it’s not like he’s wearing a mask. And he works for the Media. He’s practically begging to get caught.”

She points at Stiles. “So don’t start second guessing yourself. You’re right to demand he stop treating you like a waif. You aren’t actually Lois Lane.”

“Right.” Stiles sits up a little straighter. “You’re absolutely right.”




He second guesses himself all the way through the next three days.

Stiles and Lydia are reassigned, Lydia to ‘Special Victims’ and Stiles to ‘Meta Human Response’, which has Lydia grinning coyly at him all day. And everything's a blur of new names and faces and departmental procedure and Stiles somehow still finds time to wonder if he’s ever going to see Derek outside of a newspaper headline ever again.

And then it’s Thursday night and Stiles is late off work, wrapping up a horrible case with a rampaging tank of a metahuman inside of a bank vault.

He’s just closed the door and is flinging himself onto his couch when the doorbell rings.

Stiles groans and seriously contemplates just ignoring it. But then his stomach rumbles and the doorbell rings again and Stiles hates his life so much right now.

He ambles to the door and starts to say “I’m not buying your stupid magazines.” But he only gets to: “I’m…” because Derek is standing at his door with a bouquet of roses, wearing a suit and a sheepish grin.

“Derek…” Stiles breathes in astonished pleasure.

“Uh, no, I’m Derek.” Derek has the cheek to joke. And that’s it, Stiles grabs him by the lapels of his suit and his hauling him into the apartment, getting him up against a wall before the door has time to close.

He’s crushing the roses. Stiles can feel the stems leaking moisture down his neck, but he doesn’t really care. Not when he’s got his tongue in Derek’s mouth and Derek’s hand on his ass.

He doesn’t remember how they get onto the couch, or when exactly their clothes come off. But he suspects superspeed might’ve been involved somehow. But that, much like the roses, doesn’t feel like something he needs to worry about right now.

He’s sprawled across Derek’s chest and there’s so much skin and hands and yeah, they’ve had sex before, they’ve had a lot of sex before, but this seems different.

“I’m sorry.” Derek murmurs between kisses. He’s got Stiles’ ass firmly in hand and is encouraging the rhythmic press of their cock’s together.

Stiles whines and grabs and handful of Derek’s deliciously sculpted pectoral muscles and it takes a second for him to remember Derek’s actually making an effort to apologize to him. So he heaves himself up into a sitting position and shit, that’s a visual he’s going to enjoy for the rest of his life, Derek spread out and flushed with sweat underneath him.

Stiles leans down again and kisses Derek, which turns into more making out until Stiles pulls back and clamps a hand over Derek’s mouth.

“Shit.” He pants. “I think you can add magnetic lips to your list of superpowers.”

Derek rumbles out a chuckle from under Stiles’ fingers and Stiles really, really wants to not have this conversation right now. But he knows kicking this can down the road isn’t going to make the conversation any easier. Fuck, he really hopes this doesn’t spoil the mood.

“Or a magnetic dick.” He adds and grinds down on it to emphasize the point. And then regrets it when Derek groans and arches, his eyes slipping closed. Stiles actually kind of forgets to breath for a second.

Fuck...what was he saying?

Apology, right.

“Speaking of dicks, I am really sorry that I was one, even though, to be completely fair, you were one first. So can we call it even and yeah, I know your secret identity, but I swear I will never tell anyone, seriously, I work for the FBI. I know how to keep secrets. Though again, to be fair, you aren’t doing like, the best job of hiding it. You’re so fucking lucky no one’s outed you yet. I can’t believe not one of the thousands of reporters who stare at Superman on a daily basis have figured out who you are.”

Derek gently wraps his fingers around Stiles’ wrist and carefully peels it off of his mouth. And it hits Stiles right then, the knowledge that Derek could literally tear him in two with his bare hands, along with the realization that Derek is being careful with him, has been so fucking careful with him since the beginning. And that floors him, makes his chest all warm and tight.

“I wear glasses.” Derek says, like it’s the most obvious explanation in the universe.

Stiles can’t help the laughter that bubbles out from his mouth. It just pours out. And Derek is looking so confused that Stiles can’t help but lean down and kiss him again.

“You’re a giant dork.” He says into Derek’s mouth.

Derek bites his lip and pulls them back together until they have to separate for oxygen again. Even then, Derek doesn’t make it easy, sucks on Stiles’ tongue. Stiles has to physically lift himself away again to get free. Because dammit, they aren’t done talking yet.

Fuck, what even is his life.

“Are we doing this?” Stiles gasps, gesturing vaguely with his hand. “Because if we’re doing this, and I take your arrival here at my apartment with flowers as a sign that you want to give it a try, then we need to lay some ground rules.

“First,” Derek’s hand trails tantalizingly up the back of Stiles’ thigh, resting just below the curve of his ass, skimming the sensitive skin with the tips of his fingers. And the rest of Stiles’ sentence turns breathy.

“...we need to understand that I am an adult and can take care of myself…”

Derek’s other hand slowly climbs up Stiles’ ribs until he’s thumbing coyly at a nipple.

“Second…” Stiles presses into the touch. “...You should probably know that my job sucks. I work late more often than not, so if you want to head for the hills, I wouldn’t blame you.”

Derek’s fingers touch at his perineum and skim upward, teasing at the cleft of Stiles’ ass.

“Th…” Stiles groans and closes his eyes when Derek stars pinching at his nipple, the other fingers circling the tight whorl of muscle down below.

“Third…” Stiles bites out a moan and pushes into the touch, too dry, and the first push burns a little. But he’s more aware of the pressure than the burn and he really just wants this to happen.

“What was third?”

Derek blinks innocently up at him, like he doesn’t know Stiles’ head is full of fuck all right now. Stiles stares down at him and tries for long seconds to recall what his third point was.

“Fuck third.” Stiles says, without irony and they’re kissing again. It’s all heat and tongues and hands on his skin and that finger tearing him up on the inside. Though, not literally, no that would be horrible and not wonderful and wonderful is exactly what is happening to him right now and he is going to enjoy the Hell out of that.

Stiles grinds down again on Derek’s cock, feeling a little thrill of pleasure when that elicits a groan from Derek, the vibration of it tickling Stiles’ lips. Derek seems to starts searching in earnest for Stiles’ prostate then, curling his finger until he gets the right angle and just goes to town.

And Stiles has to pull away just to keep from biting Derek because Derek isn’t playing around. He alternates between rubbing agonizing circles just at the edge of it and pressing directly against it until Stiles is a mess, laying flat and scrabbling weakly at Derek’s chest.

He registers the noises he’s making and thinks he’s going to be extremely embarrassed when this is all over, but right now he doesn’t give two shits, he just wants to fucking cum.

“Derek...Derek…” He tries and reaches back to put a hand on Derek’s wrist to stop him. He nearly cries when it works.

“I didn’t hurt you…?” Derek looks so unsure for a second that Stiles wants to let Derek get back to it, but that would be counterproductive to his ultimate goal, which is to get Derek inside of him right now.

“No I just...really want you to fuck me.”

Derek has to swallow twice before he manages. “We need-”

“In my bedroom.” Stiles cuts him off. “Here, I’ll-” And he starts to crawl off Derek, but there’s a blast of air and Derek is holding Stiles’ bottle of lubricant and a condom and Stiles is so turned on right now.

“Holy shit.” He claims a quick kiss and smiles against Derek’s mouth.

“Fastest man alive.”

“Second fastest, actually,” Derek says, completely serious. “That title belongs to a man I met over in Central-”



“Shut up and get your cock in me.”

“Right.” Derek’s lips quirk upward and he’s popping the cap open to drizzle a good amount into his palm and then he’s lubing up and pushing back into Stiles with two fingers this time, which Stiles is completely onboard with.

He loses himself in the easy push, pull of Derek’s hand, slithers down far enough to catch the head of Derek’s cock in his mouth. Derek’s whole body jerks like he wasn’t expecting that and Stiles grins around his mouthful.

It’s an awkward angle, he’s really aware of Derek’s arm, stretched out as far as it will go to try and accommodate Stiles’ desire towards fellacio and the getting Stiles’ opened up.

“Sorry.” Stiles places one more apologetic kiss to the tip of Derek’s cock before sitting up. He pulls away until Derek’s hand is slipping out of him and he sighs at the loss. But he’s already reaching for the lube, drenching Derek’s cock in the stuff before he’s loading up.

“Are you sure you’re ready?” Derek’s hand rests on Stiles’ hip, not arresting, just cautious and protective and Stiles cocks his head, looking down at Derek.

“Rule number one.” He says and pushes himself down in one long slow thrust until he’s sitting in Derek’s lap and they’re both gasping.

“Note to self.” Stiles groans, his head fuzzy and buzzing from the sudden rush of stimulation.

“A week is way too long to go without sex.”

“It was only five days.” Derek supplies, ever helpful, and Stiles pants out a chuckle before grinding pointedly down, relishing the way Derek’s cock touches all the right places.

“You’re complaining?”

“Just…” Derek’s curled himself into a half crush, his abs tense and obvious and Stiles wants to lean down and lick them. He promises himself he’ll get to it another day. Right now, he’s got other means of torturing Derek.

He braces his hands on Derek’s biceps and lifts up, dragging the motion out, slowly, slowly until he’s almost all the way up on his knees and then he comes back down again. The full thickness of Derek rub decadently against his rim and prostate, sending shivery delight crackling along Stiles’ spine.

He pauses when he fulls seated again, counts to five in his head and then starts the cycle all over again, savoring every second.

Derek is sweating by the time Stiles comes to rest the seventh time and Stiles almost makes a comment about not being able to handle the heat, then he realizes Derek is actually physically keeping himself in check. He’s fighting off the instinct to grab Stiles and make him go faster. Derek could do that. He’s Superman. But he’s letting Stiles have this, letting Stiles own this, take control of this.

Stiles reaches over to pressed his palm flat against Derek’s chest, pushing until Derek’s laying flat again against the couch.

He grins.

“Good boy.”

And goes to town.

They don’t last long after that, both so keyed up from the foreplay and Stiles’ pre-fuck of death. But it’s fantastic, every minute. Stiles can feel Derek’s fingers curling on his hips and yeah, he’s going to carry those bruises to work tomorrow, but he doesn’t care. And then Derek shifts and they’re hitting Stiles’ prostate pretty much dead on and that shoots stars right into Stiles’ brain stem and Stiles doesn’t last more than a dozen thrusts like that before the humming in the base of his skull turns into a roar. The cascade of hot and yes and need turns violent and expands until he is nothing but sensation.

He blinks his eyes open and realizes he’s collapsed onto Derek’s chest.

“Shit.” He says weakly, reaching for Derek’s cock. “Did you get to…?”

Derek intercepts his searching hand and tangles their fingers together.


“Oh.” Stiles says and repositions his head so it’s tucked a little more comfortably in the nape of Derek’s neck and shoulder. “Good.”

Derek laughs and it’s nice to feel. “I’ve reduced you to single word replies.”

“Mm.” Stiles hums, closing his eyes. He could fall asleep here, he’s so warm and so tired and so fucking strung out right now. He doesn’t think he could move if he wanted.

Which is when his stomach rumbles again.

It isn’t even that loud, but of course Superman hearing. So Derek’s laughing and Stiles groans in displeasure.

“Dammit, we need to do food.” Stiles complains.

“You know, I did make us a reservation for 8.” Derek says conversationally and Stiles shoots upright.

“Shit, are you serious?”

Derek’s smirk says 'As I recall, it was one of the things you told me I needed as I grovelled and begged for your forgiveness."

“Shit,” Stiles curses, running a hand over his face. “Sorry, I got...and you were...and it’s almost 9...and...why are you laughing?”

Derek shakes his head, reaching up to curl a hand around Stiles’ cheek, thumb swiping affectionately against his cheekbone.

“They’d just stick a table between us anyway. This is better.”

How did Stiles get this lucky again? He pulls Derek upright so he can kiss the smile off of his boyfriend’s face.

Stiles breaks away to pant.

“Fuck dinner?”

Derek laughs. “I thought that’s what we just did.”

"You are such a dork." Stiles laughs.

"But you love me." Derek retorts confidently and Stiles has to pause.

"Yeah..." He drawls, eyes rolled up to the ceiling as if considering. "...well, at least your biceps."

He hops off the couch in search of food. Except he only makes it two steps before he's tackled to the carpet and Derek is on top of him growling "I'll show you biceps."

And fuck does he ever.