Title: You're Not In On The Joke
Pairing: Dylan O'Brien/Tyler Hoechlin (Teen Wolf)
Word Count: 4,159 words of bullshit
Summary: Dylan brings Tyler breakfast while Tyler mocks his dietary choices and I hate writing summaries.
Disclaimer: The people are real, but they clearly never did any of this, no matter how much they sit in each other's laps in pictures, the teases.
Author's Note: I swear, I wasn't even trying to do this! Except for how my brain tricked me into writing it and turned me into a fucking liar. Unbeta'd and completely obvious that I know nothing about how TV works.
Dylan's pretty sure it doesn't say 'breakfast wench' on his resume, so he has no idea why he's in line at Krafty, waiting for breakfast while everyone around him looks tired and cranky, and Holland's practically asleep and drooling on his shoulder.
Wait, scratch that. He knows exactly why he's here and it has to do with Tyler 'Ridiculously Spelled Last Name' and his amazing eight-pack. And the fact that Tyler was stuck in a make-up chair and begged Dylan to get him something before his stomach caved in from hunger, those strange light eyes of his practically compelling Dylan out of his chair and into the Kraft Services tent.
Dylan curses himself for being so easy and so difficult at the same time. He could've had a crush on anyone -- the entire cast is full of impossibly hot people that appeal to his sense of aesthetics as well as his dick -- but he had to fall for Tyler 'I Have 17 Letters In My Last Name Just To Mess With You'. And because his life sucks and the universe hates him, it's more than just a crush, more than just wanting to get off with a hot guy, more than just how much he wants to lick Tyler's belly and suck his dick. There might actually be feelings involved in this, which is kind of terrifying because the only commitment in his life so far is the Mets, and he's not even sure about that some days.
He wishes this were just about a pretty face because then he could've gone for Colton instead; at least the guy is more his type, all farmboy fresh and pouty-lipped sensuality, and he'd be okay with just getting off with Dylan and then playing Halo or something. Dylan's used to casual, mostly because he's twenty fucking years old and fickle, so having a relationship, especially with the way his life is going with the acting gigs, is out of the question.
But Tyler is nothing like that. Tyler believes in romance and long-term relationships and the sanctity of baseball; he believes in being a gentleman and helping old ladies cross the street and whatever the Boy Scouts believe; preparedness and surviving on berries and creek water, probably. He's an old-fashioned kind of guy, practically Captain America in some ways (well, without the parts where he fought Nazis and was frozen in ice for sixty years), and Dylan is helplessly charmed by him, even if Holland says he's kind of boring on a date. Dylan thinks that Tyler could do nothing but talk baseball stats all night long and he'd find it endlessly fascinating. Posey mocks him all the time for his crush, but he's been trying to get into Crystal's pants since filming started, so really, fuck that guy.
He starts when Holland nudges him and he realizes the services woman is holding out a paper plate with a muffin and a bagel on it, as well as a cup of coffee. He grabs both with a nod of thanks and waits for Holland to get her fruit cup before heading out. "Thinking about your boyfriend again?" Holland asks, delicately spooning a piece of melon into her mouth.
Dylan watches in fascination as her mouth closes over her fork, the scarlet of her lips brilliant and blinding against the white plastic. He isn't attracted to Holland, but there are some things that you have to appreciate, regardless of how you feel, and the lush beauty of her mouth is one of them. "What?" he says, feeling slow and stupid when she looks over and grins at him, clearly aware of her effect on him, even though it wasn't deliberate. Some days, it feels like he's sixteen and helpless all over again, turned on by anything and everything and ready to lose it at even the thought of someone touching him. Maybe that's why they chose him to play Stiles; he already acted like a horny teenager.
Holland shakes her head and spears a grape, offering it to him. "Hoechlin," she says, deliberately not adding in 'duh', although Dylan knows it's implicit.
"Not my boyfriend," Dylan responds automatically, although he doesn't know why he bothers. Everyone on the set already knows he has a thing for Tyler, what with the way he's pretty much living in the guy's lap, and the only reason that Tyler doesn't know is that he's completely oblivious to people hitting on him. It's part of his charm, or at least that's how Dylan's rationalizing it to himself.
"Uh-huh." Holland looks skeptical, but she lets him have his illusions as she heads toward her trailer and Dylan heads toward Tyler's, knowing that's where he'll be after his make-up is done. He has a feeling in his stomach that's equal parts nerves and lust and something that could be hope if he'd let himself acknowledge it.
Tyler's sacked out on the couch, looking tired and bruised, although Dylan thinks most of that is probably make-up. His head lifts when he sees Dylan walks in, and he waves him over. "Finally," he sighs, pushing himself up into a sitting position. "I thought I was going to have to start chewing on my own arm before you got here."
Dylan tuts sternly at him, taking a sip of the coffee and waving the plate at him. "Now, now, you know all those calories aren't good for you."
Tyler laughs, one of those short huffs that always make Dylan feel accomplished. "Gimme my food," he mock-growls, and everything inside Dylan tightens at the sound of that.
Stupid body, he sighs, and hands Tyler the plate. "Here you go, you animal." He drops down on the couch next to Tyler and looks over at him in time to catch the disapproving look on Tyler's face. "What?" He looks down at his clothes, his shoes, his hands. "I didn't track any mud in this time."
Tyler shakes his head and gestures at the bagel and muffin. "Carbs," he says like it's an absolutely filthy word. "I can't have them, dude. You know I'm on Atkins."
Dylan tilts his head and looks at Tyler's belly, seeing the defined lines even through his shirt. "I think you'll be fine with one bagel and one muffin," he says dryly, reaching over to carefully pat Tyler's stomach, feeling his skin flush and his heart race when Tyler doesn't stop him. "Not even carbs would dare to stretch out your eight-pack."
Tyler mumbles something beneath his breath, probably unflattering to Dylan, but more likely, it's him calculating how many sit-ups he's going to have to do to work off this breakfast. His sharp white teeth flash as he takes a bite, and Dylan thinks, not for the first time, that the casting director did a great job with Tyler as Derek. Sometimes, he'd swear that Tyler was half-wolf just from the way he moves, but then the guy talks about getting sick on a rollercoaster when he was twelve and how he's going to be the most awesome baseball player when he goes pro, and the moment passes.
"Here." Tyler holds the plate in front of him, offering him the muffin. "Eat."
"I'm fine, Mom." Dylan isn't really into breakfast as a concept or a reality, but then again, he doesn't understand the difference between dinner and supper, so he figures the general rules of food are lost on him. Plus, he can't eat when he's around Tyler; he's usually too nervous to be hungry around the guy, and he needs all his wits about him so he doesn't do something stupid, like fall to his knees and blow him through his jeans. Wardrobe would kill him for that.
Tyler just keeps holding the plate out to Dylan. "Shut up and eat the muffin before you collapse from hunger on the set," he says, sounding irritated and amused, which seems to be the story of Dylan's life: clueless straight guy, Odd Couple friendship, and him endless jerking off until he falls for the next clueless straight guy.
Dylan eyes the muffin. "What happens if I say no?"
"I cram it down your throat."
"See, that's the problem with us," Dylan sighs, grabbing the muffin and picking at the top. "There's just no romance between us anymore. Before you used to ask me and now it's all demands and threats." He looks up and sees Tyler pressing his lips together, trying not to laugh. "You don't bring me flowers anymooooooore," he starts singing, and Tyler loses it, throwing his head back and laughing hard. It's not really hard to make Tyler laugh since he's a pretty easygoing, funny guy, but it makes Dylan feel good that he can do it.
"I'm not even going to ask how you know that song," Tyler says once he's done wheezing out the last of his laughter. He holds out his hand and makes a 'gimme' gesture to Dylan. "Coffee me."
Dylan rolls his eyes and gives him the cup. "So much for manners. And my mom used to sing that song all the time when I was a kid."
Tyler sips the coffee and makes a face. "How can you drink this much sugar and not go into a diabetic coma?"
"Are we questioning my dietary choices again?" Dylan takes back the coffee and shoves the muffin back in Tyler's hands. "Just because I refuse to live on grass and wheatgerm--"
Tyler gives him a look. "I told you before, sugar and fat aren't actual food groups."
"Says you," Dylan mutters, defiantly drinking his coffee and making happy noises as the sugar and caffeine hit his system. "I want a second opinion on that." Snorting, Tyler crams the top half of the muffin in his mouth and bites down, and Dylan is half-awed and half-disgusted by the whole thing. "Seriously," he says, watching Tyler work his mouth around so he doesn't choke on fruit and muffin, "I know we're guys and everything, but that's just fucking gross."
"Jealous?" Tyler says through a mouthful of muffin, which makes Dylan shudder. He reaches over and plucks the cup of coffee from Dylan's hand, washing down the whole mess, and Dylan is really glad he never ate anything because his appetite is just gone.
"So you've just killed food for me," he says, leaning back in his seat and watching Tyler finish off the rest of his muffin and most of his coffee. He wants to make a 'growing boy' joke, but Tyler would just counter with boring facts about his metabolism and the need for regular meals, and Dylan doesn't hang out with Tyler every day for health tips.
Tyler gets up and goes to the kitchen to dump everything in the garbage (because he hates being messy and has an almost pathological need to live clutter-free, and Dylan is almost convinced that Tyler is either a fastidious, forty-year-old man in a twenty-four-year-old man's body or an alien from a more advanced civilization who's learning everything about humanity before the eventual takeover) while Dylan lounges on the couch and ponders making better life choices, like not falling for an almost painfully straight guy with a girlfriend and maybe not considering Cheetos as an acceptable meal replacement. In retrospect, giving up Cheetos would be more impossible to do.
He starts a little when Tyler flops back onto the couch next to him, sitting closer to Dylan than before. "What's up?" he asks, feeling a little out of sorts when Tyler reaches over and puts his arm around Dylan's shoulder, dragging him closer until he's tucked into Tyler's side. "What's with the first date routine?"
"I've been thinking," Tyler says, sounding thoughtful and serious, so Dylan doesn't make the obvious joke. Also, Tyler's not stupid, so that joke wouldn't work anyway. "We do this every morning, don't we?"
"What, have breakfast? Yeah, that's what the majority of the world does, hello." Sarcasm isn't his best option, but this is starting to have ominous We Need To Have A Talk vibes, and Dylan would rather get thrown into a wall again than talk about his feelings; at least the important ones.
Tyler presses his thumb into the vulnerable spot of Dylan's throat, and Dylan feels his breath catch as he feels a nail scratch the edge of his jaw. "I mean, this sitting around and having breakfast and talking thing," he says, his voice sounding rougher, and shit, shit, this is not the time for an awkward erection.
Dylan thinks about fake blood and gory movie scenes and baseball stats until he can breathe again. "You know," he says, hating how uneven his voice sounds, "when I said we should have more romance, I was thinking more along the lines of you bringing me flowers and asking me to go steady."
Tyler shifts so he can look at Dylan in the face. "Go steady?"
Dylan grins despite himself. "We could hang out at the malt shoppe and twist the night away."
"I love how everything you've learned about the '50s comes from 'Grease'," Tyler sighs, scratching his nails through the short hairs at the base of Dylan's head, making him shiver.
"Travolta's my hero."
"Wanna go steady?" Tyler asks, his thumb stroking the smooth skin of Dylan's nape.
Dylan laughs. "Yeah, right." He pauses when Tyler just keeps looking at him, not smiling or laughing, just waiting for the answer. "Wait, you're serious?" His voice rises to an unmanly squeak and he doesn't even care because Tyler's nodding yes, oh Jesus Christ. "But you're straight," is all he can think to say, and that's when Tyler smiles, that big, open grin that always breaks Dylan's heart because Tyler's beautiful when he smiles.
"Not that straight," he says, and Dylan shoulders himself away from him, feeling confused and turned on and always, always that wretched kernel of hope inside him.
"But you have a girlfriend," Dylan tries again, and his heart sinks when Tyler nods.
"Yeah," he tells Dylan, destroying all hope with that one word. "I do, and I love her, but--"
"I don't like cheaters," Dylan blurts out, feeling twitchy and anxious when Tyler looks at him. "Just putting that out there. You know, in case. You were wondering. Or asking."
Tyler cautiously moves closer and reaches out again, stroking his fingers down the line of Dylan's neck in soothing, calming movements when Dylan lets him. Dylan wishes he would stop because it's completely throwing him off, but he also doesn't want it to stop because it feels good to have Tyler touching him so blatantly instead of living on those friendly, too-brief pats to the head and back he's been getting all this time. "I don't cheat," Tyler says, his words deliberate and careful, a hint of anger that's quickly bitten off at the word 'cheat'. "She and I have an agreement," he continues, his hand cupping the back of Dylan's neck, lifting his head up to look at Tyler. "I get to bring home a guy if I want to, as long as I tell her everything and be discreet about it."
"How many guys have you brought home so far?" Dylan doesn't really want to know because he doesn't think his heart can take it, but if Tyler's done this before, then maybe he isn't just fucking with him, and Dylan can finally crawl into his lap and kiss him like he's been dreaming of since he met him.
Tyler considers this. "Including you? One." He smiles at Dylan. "If you say yes, of course."
Dylan blinks at him. "Wait, you've never done this before? Oh, my God, you're a virgin?" He hides his face in his hands and groans because really, why is he surprised that his life plays out like a mediocre romantic comedy?
Laughing, Tyler pulls Dylan's hands away from his face and leans in to press a brief, chaste kiss to Dylan's mouth that feels sweet and affectionate. "I meant that you'd be the first guy I'm bringing home since I started dating her, idiot," he says, sounding fond and amused. "I've had sex with guys before. And," he adds, "being a virgin isn't the worst thing in the world."
And okay, all of this is just blowing Dylan's mind. His awkward erection is back, insistent and demanding, and his mind is providing as many mental pictures of Tyler naked and fucking a guy as his body can handle. "I'm. I need a minute," he says weakly, and Tyler thankfully backs off a little, moving way so that Dylan can take a full breath again that isn't scented with Tyler.
"You can always say no too," Tyler says as Dylan considers if hyperventilation is a valid reaction to getting everything he'd ever wanted. He looks serious when Dylan looks over at him, his brows knit together in thought and his hands clasped in front of him. He looks older than twenty-four, and Dylan's reminded again that Tyler grew up in the business and managed to make it to adulthood without a substance abuse problem and a contentious relationship with the paparazzi. By Hollywood standards, that makes him a veteran and a success story.
Dylan's an impulsive guy, used to rushing headlong into things before thinking about the consequences because that's just his personality, but this is different; this is Tyler, and Dylan cares. "This isn't going to be casual, is it?"
Tyler shrugs. "I suck at casual, but we can try if that's what you want." And Dylan knows that it won't work like that, that Tyler isn't built for just fucking without emotion (the guy gets attached to his make-up artist, for God's sake), and Dylan figures that he's probably going to get his heart broken into a million pieces if he does this because this can't end well. Summer lovin' and all, and he really needs to stop his brain from putting him in Sandy's hoop skirt and Tyler in Danny's greaser jacket.
"Tell you what," he says with an easy smile he doesn't really feel, feeling scared and nervous while his heart squeezes tight at Tyler's answering smile, "come over here and kiss me again, and if it's good, we do this."
Tyler huffs impatiently, but he slides over to Dylan, cupping Dylan's face with his huge bear-paw hands and kissing him gently, sweetly. Dylan opens his mouth a little, licking at Tyler's lower lip, and okay, yeah, Jesus, that was what he wanted, the kind of dirty, open-mouth kissing that leaves Dylan breathless and shaky. Tyler's fingers cup the back of Dylan's head and his mouth is rough against Dylan's lips and he's pressed so tightly against him that Dylan thinks he may have a permanent imprint of Tyler on his body.
"Okay," he wheezes when Tyler breaks the kiss, shivering when Tyler kisses just under his jaw, "okay, first, that was spectacular," and he can feel the curve of Tyler's smile against his skin. "Really, A-plus for technique."
"Shut up and kiss me," Tyler rasps, his hands sliding under Dylan's (Stiles's, his mind corrects, and seriously, shut up, brain, getting laid here) shirt. "Before we have to be on set."
Dylan kisses him, all filthy-mouthed and eager, his fingers sliding over the long, smooth line of Tyler's back, his knuckles pressing into the dip just above the swell of Tyler's ass. "You know we can't wreck these clothes, right?" he says because he can't help himself, he's a talker, it's his curse, he was raised in New York, for fuck's sake. Also, this is somehow Tyler's fault because Dylan was never responsible or neat before Tyler and now he's worried about wardrobe and keeping clothes clean when a hot guy is sucking on his tongue.
"Shut up," Tyler says, and okay, Dylan can do that, he totally can, he is all for shutting up and making out on the couch until one, or both of them, comes in their pants. Tyler stops and Dylan makes a questioning sound. "I can hear you think," he tells Dylan with a faint smile, and Dylan just keeps staring at Tyler's pink, swollen mouth, willing him to come back and kiss him stupid again.
Tyler sighs and moves away and Dylan protests, reaching out with both hands to pull Tyler back. "No," he says frantically, "wait, I'll be good. Come back and put your fucking hand down my pants."
Tyler laughs and leans back to kiss Dylan thoroughly, letting out a little hum of contentment when Dylan melts into him and kisses him back. "C'mon," he says, pulling away with an obvious reluctance, "let's go before they send a PA to track us down and I have to shove you out a back window for the sake of my reputation."
"Like you weren't going to do that anyway," Dylan says sulkily, letting Tyler pull him off of the couch and adjust his clothing like the big mother hen he really is. "And thanks to you, I have an inappropriate erection that my shirt can't hide."
Grinning like the dickhole he is, Tyler reaches down and palms Dylan's dick. "Don't you always have those around me?"
Dylan narrows his eyes at him. "Who told you? And don't tell me you noticed. You don't notice people hitting on you until they actually sit in your lap or kiss you."
Tyler's laughing, but he doesn't deny it. "Posey told me," he finally admits, and Dylan makes plans to murder Posey in his sleep and make it look like an accident. He could've smothered himself with a pillow at night, right? "He says he got sick of watching me moon over you."
Dylan's taken aback by that. "Wait, really? I thought I was the only one mooning over here. You were into me?"
Tyler gives Dylan a look that says he should know better. "Yes, dumbass, why do you think I hang out with you so much?"
"How am I supposed to know?" Dylan retorts, throwing up his hands. "You're a friendly guy, you hang out with everyone. Hell, you and Colton go out for drinks every evening. How am I supposed to get 'he's so into you' from just hanging out?"
"I don't do breakfast with anyone else but you," Tyler snaps, shoving his fingers into his hair like Dylan's frustrating him. Which is entirely possible, Dylan does have that kind of personality. "I thought that would be enough for you to know."
Dylan bursts into laughter, he can't help himself. "Oh, wow, you are so crappy at this. How did you even get a girlfriend with this kind of technique?"
Tyler scowls and mutters, "My friend set me up with her. And shut up," he yells when Dylan starts laughing again. "I'm trying here."
Taking a deep breath, Dylan clamps down ruthlessly on his laughter. "And I appreciate it," he says as sincerely as he can.
Tyler snorts and slides his arm around Dylan's shoulders, tugging him toward the door. "No, you don't, you liar," he says, sounding more amused than anything. "You're going to mock me forever for this, aren't you?"
"That's what I like about you, Hoechlin," Dylan says with a cheerful smile, briefly sticking his hand in Tyler's back pocket as they exit the trailer into the usual sea of activity and confusion. "You know me so well."
"Uh-huh." Making sure that no one can see them, Tyler reaches down and pinches Dylan's ass, grinning when Dylan yelps and elbows him in the chest. "You know you're going to be the little spoon in this relationship, right?"
"Oh, fuck you," Dylan protests, ignoring the ridiculous smile on his face when Tyler puts his arm back around his shoulder. "This is unfair. I want a vote in this. Just because I'm two inches shorter and don't have a stomach you can crack walnuts on does not mean I have to be the little spoon." Tyler just giggles because he's a big girl sometimes, and Dylan blows out a breath and jams his elbow into Tyler's ribs once again just because he feels like it.
"That's the last time I fetch you breakfast, you walking stereotype," he scowls and tries not to feel comforted or pleased when Tyler tucks his index and middle fingers into the collar of Dylan's shirt and strokes Dylan's neck. He's officially this easy.
"You adore me," Tyler says with no hesitation, and he smiles when Dylan doesn't deny it. "Knew it."
Fuck, Dylan thinks as they walk into the lot where they'll be filming today. He is so in over his head here, and he's pretty sure he likes it more than he should. "You'd better give really good blowjobs," he mutters, and groans a little when Tyler laughs and murmurs, "I do."
He's so, so doomed. But fuck it, it's going to be amazing if he can survive it.
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