“Yo, Hoech,” Dylan called, knocking on the trailer door. Hoechlin didn't reply but the door was ajar so he shrugged and opened it all the way. “Hoech?” he said again, glancing around. Still no answer. Huh. Well, it stood to reason that he must be around somewhere if the door was open, so Dylan flopped down on the couch to wait for him. He missed hanging out the way they had when they lived together and, on top of that, he was bored as fuck. He kicked off his sneakers, because he wasn’t a total asshole, and then put his feet up on the table, leaning his head on the douchey Afghan that Hoechlin kept on the back of the couch. He thought he might catch a nap whilst he waited, but when he tried to get comfortable, something hard dug into his back.
“Ow,” he said, more out of reflex than because it actually hurt, and he fished around under the cushions until his fingers connected with something. Pulling it out, he could see it was a notebook, one of those Moleskine ones that coffee-shop hipsters carried around to write poetry in or some shit. He snorted; if any of his friends was a hipster, it was definitely Hoechlin. Without even thinking about it, he flipped the notebook open. The pages were covered in Hoech’s neat handwriting, lines and lines of it. He had just decided he probably shouldn’t read it – what if this was his diary or something? It definitely wasn’t cool to read your bro’s diary – when a name caught his eye and he found he couldn’t help himself.
Stiles flicked his gaze up to Taylor’s, biting his lip, he read.
What. The fuck.
Dylan sat up straighter, gaping down at the page.
Taylor couldn’t help but be drawn to the press of teeth into that soft flesh. Stiles’ lips were sinful; pink and full and glistening where his tongue had swiped across them. Taylor wanted to know what those lips tasted like, how it would feel to
Dylan slammed the notebook closed and took a deep breath. Maybe this wasn’t what it looked like? Maybe a fan had given this to him. It wouldn’t be the first time they tried to give them this fan fiction shit.
But no, his treacherous brain supplied, this was definitely Hoechlin’s handwriting. And the fans usually gave them stuff about “Sterek”, not this Taylor chick, whoever the fuck she was supposed to be.
Sinful lips. Jesus.
He put the notebook back under the couch cushion and stood up. He should probably just leave; Hoechlin wasn’t here anyway. He shoved his feet back into his sneakers and got as far as opening the door.
“Fuck it,” he groaned, and reached under the cushion for the notebook again, this time flipping it open to the first page.
Taylor strode through the doors of his new school, trying to make himself look more confident than he felt.
Back up. Taylor wasn’t a chick? Dylan was starting to get a really weird feeling about this whole thing, but he carried on reading like the masochist he was.
He had just moved to Beacon Hills that week and he didn’t know anyone yet. It was nerve-wracking being the new kid, especially in senior year when everyone was part of a clique already. He pulled his sweater down nervously over his hands, fingers worrying at the thumb holes in the sleeves.
“Man the fuck up, Hartlin
Dylan laughed out loud as the pieces clicked into place. Taylor Hartlin, Hoech, seriously? The asshole had written himself into the Teen Wolf universe.
“Man the fuck up, Hartlin,” he told himself, and fixed his brightest smile on his face. He walked up to the administrator’s office and introduced himself, telling the nice lady there that he needed to register. He was busy filling out the forms when a whirlwind in the form of a person nearly knocked him on his ass.
“Oh, dude, I am so sorry!” the whirlwind exclaimed, grabbing Taylor’s shoulders to steady him and brushing imaginary lint from Taylor’s chest with long, tapered fingers. “Hey, wow, are you new here? You look kind of like a friend of mine, except happier. I thought you were him for a minute, only Derek would have been all grr about me bumping into him, and also he’s kind of, uh, solid. Moreso. Than you.” He gestured with his hands throughout this speech and didn’t seem to pause for breath at all. “I’m Stiles, by the way. Stiles Stilinski. And, ha,” the guy – Stiles – blushed, looking up at Taylor with the most gorgeous honey-coloured eyes Taylor had ever seen, “people say I tend to talk too much. As you can probably tell. Especially when I’m nervous. I’m going to shut up now.” He held out his hand for Taylor to shake.
Taylor gulped. This guy was beautiful, all long, slender limbs like a gazelle and a line of moles
Dylan felt his face heat as he stared down at the words in disbelief. Hoechlin had a secret writing habit and what he chose to write about was Dylan’s goddamn moles? No, not even Dylan’s moles. Stiles’ moles. Stiles who was supposed to be seventeen. They were officially in creeper town, population: Hoech. He flipped forward a few pages.
Everybody on the baseball team was just so nice. Taylor looked around the table at them, taking in their laughter at whatever inside joke they’d just told, and thought that he could be good friends with them. The only problem was, Stiles played lacrosse and the two teams had a long-standing rivalry
Ugh. Dylan flipped another couple of pages.
Taylor loved hanging out with Stiles. He was funny in an unselfconscious way, cracking jokes a mile a minute and firing off the kind of clever puns that Taylor would have had to spend hours thinking up. When they hung out, Taylor always ended up laughing until he cried.
Dylan snorted. This stuff was almost worse than Hoech waxing lyrical about Stiles’ sinful young body, though it was nothing he hadn't heard the guy say in interviews over the years. He rifled through the pages one more time.
Taylor sank to his knees. Stiles looked down at him, his beautiful eyes wide and disbelieving.
“Tay, are you sure about this?” he said. “I mean, not that I’d ever turn down a blowjob, no sir, assuming blowjobs are on the table and I’m reading this whole situation right, which I might not be – tell me I’m reading this situation right?”
“Stiles,” Taylor said fondly, tugging down Stiles’ zipper, “shut up and let me blow you.”
Suddenly Dylan found himself imagining Hoechlin on his knees begging to blow him and his dick jumped in his pants. Shit just got a little too real. It was like something was compelling him to keep reading, though, and hey, when it came down to it, porn was porn.
He pushed down Stiles’s pants, letting his hard cock spring free. He had a beautiful cock, six inches long and tapered like
Okay, no. There were some lines he didn't want to cross. Dylan skimmed a little bit further on.
Stiles had been driving him crazy with his smart mouth and his wisecracks and his restlessness, always doing something with his hands or tapping his feet, unable to sit still for a second. Taylor wanted to pin him down, to still those limbs and to see how those pretty pink lips looked stretched around his cock. But right now, what Taylor wanted most of all was to taste him. He flicked his tongue lightly over the head of Stiles’ dick, making him groan long and low above him. In one smooth movement he swallowed Stiles down, ignoring his gag reflex and not stopping until his nose was buried in Stiles' coarse thicket of hair and Stiles’ cock was touching the back of his throat.
“Fuck,” Stiles said, bucking into his mouth, “shit, Taylor, that feels so good.”
Taylor dug his fingers into Stiles’ narrow hips to keep him still. He swallowed around Stiles’ cock and was rewarded with a whimper. God, the noises Stiles made. Taylor could listen to him
Dylan flailed, doing his best to shove the notebook out of sight, but it was way too late. Hoechlin had clearly seen what he was doing; the dude looked mortified.
“Heeey man,” Dylan said, in the worst fake-nonchalant tone he'd ever heard. Jesus, he was an actor for fuck’s sake. “’Sup?”
Hoechlin looked as though he didn't know what to do with himself. He just stood in the doorway wringing his hands.
“Hey, look,” Dylan said, feeling insanely guilty for putting that kicked-puppy look on Hoechlin’s face, “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have messed with your stuff, man, that was a dick move. I just came over to hang out.”
“I, uh,” Hoech said, and, holy shit, he was blushing as red as a fire truck, “I know it's weird, okay? I started off writing some Sterek stuff but I kept getting these comments that Derek was out of character. They said I wrote him too 'gentle'.” He gave a self-deprecating kind of shrug, not meeting Dylan’s eyes.
“No, dude, it's cool,” Dylan said, waiting for Hoech to look up at him and flashing him a grin.
“Really?” Hoech said flatly.
Dylan tossed him a wink, aiming for as obnoxiously Stiles-like as possible. “Yeah. I, uh, kinda wanted to find out how it ended anyway. Taylor had the whole,” he made an obscene gesture with his hand, “deep-throating thing going on.”
Hoechlin’s sly smile could only be described as sinful.