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The Pope Would Brag

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The thing is, Derek's really, really hot. Like, insane levels of attraction. What with the leather and the cheekbones and the stubble and the ass — oh god, that ass — Stiles can't really be blamed, at all for freaking bragging.

The pope would brag if he was dating Derek.

So, by the end of his first semester at college, it's fair to say about ninety percent of the people he's come into contact with have had to sit through at least one session of Stiles waxing poetic about Derek's abs. And Stiles would feel bad except, well, Derek's abs. Stiles dares anyone not to wax poetic about them.

The thing is though, apparently Stiles has been...too enthusiastic?

Stiles gapes. "Come again?"

Rob rolls his eyes. "Come on Stiles," he says. "You're a journalism major - it stands to reason you'd be good at making shit up."

Stiles scowls. "Okay, first of all - that would be creative writing you're thinking because journalism is a font of truth and integrity." Stiles manfully ignores Rob's snort, because he grew up with Lydia and nobody outdoes Lydia for dismissive huffing. "And second - you don't believe Derek exists because I talk about him too much?"

Rob sips his beer and nods. "Yep," he says, leaning closer and seriously, the bar is not nearly loud enough to warrant that sort of proximity and- oooohhh, shit. Rob smirks like one of those models in Rolex ads. "You're over-compensating."

"And you're hitting on me?" Stiles squeaks. Sue him, this doesn't happen. Hot people do not get all up in this grill. Unless hot people are Derek which, considering he's the hottest of the people, Stiles figures it's the universe's way of compensating.

Rob does that one-eyebrow tip thing that makes him look like he's just stepped off the cover of a men's health magazine. Stiles has watched many-a freshmen fall to that eyebrow. It's never been aimed at him though and now that it is, it's fucking terrifying. "He finally gets it," Rob says, throwing his head back to down the rest of his beer. The beer that he's drinking in a bar. With Stiles. On a Friday night. Alone. Oh mother of-

Stiles falls off his chair.

Derek glances down at the caller ID and can feel the smile. It's a Friday night which means there's a good chance that Stiles is drunk-dialing him. Something Derek will never, ever admit to actually loving a little bit. Stiles' brain to mouth filter goes offline really fast when alcohol is introduced and Derek likes to count the number of times Stiles mentions the colour of his eyes.

Derek marks his place in the grimoire he's working through (because Harpies, agh) and flips open his phone. "Stiles."

"Oh my god, I think I went on a date with someone," Stiles says, and Derek feels the entire fucking bottom drop out of his universe.

"I-" Derek stops, presses one hand over his eyes and tries to breathe. "Okay..."

"Okay?!" Stiles yells, and the panic in his voice is enough to pull Derek up long enough to listen. "This is not okay! People think you don't exist! They think I'm making you up because you're too hot to be real! Which is fucking tragic because you kinda are! And then I went for a drink with Rob and no one else was there and he did that stupid fucking eyebrow thing at me and-"

"Stiles," Derek says sharply, because if there's one thing he's learned over the years, it's that Stiles doesn't so much wind down from rants as just continue on until he dies. Derek listens to the tell-tale shift and breathe Stiles does when he's re-setting and feels the familiar punch of longing that comes of needing to touch; sooth Stiles' pulse with hands and low hums.

Long distance relationships are a fuck.

"Okay," Stiles says. "Okay I'm good." Derek opens his mouth to say...fuck knows actually, but Stiles is suddenly continuing. "Actually, y'know what? I'm not. Can we just- I know you have the thing with the Harpies and we were going to wait until the break but can you just-"

Derek tosses the book onto the coffee table. "I can be there by three."

Stiles breathes out, slow and easy. "Good, 'cause I just really need you to fuck me up against a wall or something okay?"

Derek groans. "Stiles-"

"Bruises," Stiles says determinedly. "I want to be covered in them."


If there's one thing college has taught Rob it's that trying to survive an essay without coffee is freaking impossible. Which is why he's lined up at The Brew at ass-o'clock on Saturday morning, squinting up at the menu board and trying to decide if he can justify a toastie with his Americano.

He hears Stiles before he sees him. It's the laugh – Stiles laughs with his whole body and somehow, you can hear it. It's disgustingly endearing. Rob cranes his neck to trace the source of it and ends up peering into the back corner – the back corner with all the booths and the cushions and the ridiculous hippy candles that are lit even during the day. If coffee shops were 1940s townships, the back corner of The Brew would be makeout point. Which is why when Rob sees who Stiles is back there with, he kinda wants to fall over.

Dark hair, leather jacket and– Jesus, how are cheekbones like that even real? Even the the look on mystery-man's face — slightly stupid and soft as he watches Stiles laughing — isn't enough to kill the impression of features you could shave with. The dude looks like porn.

The dude is also looking at Stiles like Stiles hung the goddamn moon or something, which- oh shit.

Derek. This is Derek. Derek who's very real and possibly even hotter than Stiles ever described and Rob is going to fucking die because the dude has serial killer written all over him and Rob hit on his boyfriend.

Rob watches as Derek leans across to swipe at something on Stiles' bottom lip — cream, fucking drool because Stiles has the hottest boyfriend in the universe, who knows — and Stiles grins at him before- Jesus fuck. Rob barely keeps his wounded noise in check as he watches the pad of Derek's thumb disappear between Stiles' lips and how, how is anything in the world fair?

Derek's gaze goes half lidded and the stupid tea-light candles must reflect off one of the millions of decorative chimes and shit they have back there because his eyes almost seem to flash red.

Rob watches as Derek's fingers curl under Stiles' jaw, pressing slightly until Stiles tips his head and wow – holy shit, that is like, the biggest hicky Rob has ever seen in his goddamn life. That must hurt. Obviously not in a bad way though because when Derek presses three fingers into it, just over Stiles' pulse point, Stiles' eyes flutter closed like he's in heaven or something.

Rob turns back to the counter just in time to order a tripple shot and two toasties. He figures he had a near death experience last night. He's allowed this.