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"Why don't we just tell them?"

"Uh, yeah, no, they were pretty clear about who belongs to who. Remember the Lydia thing. How about we try not to get anyone killed this year?"

Danny rolled his eyes as Scott and Stiles went on with their usual perfect example of discretion. It would be right there in the dictionary under clandestine, sub-heading antonyms.

At the moment, they were in the middle of English and were supposed to be spending their time working out the intricacies of foreshadowing in The Great Gatsby. This particular teacher always fell asleep as soon as she finished setting out an assignment, but she had the advantage of not being an evil serial killer, so the administration mostly let it slide.

"It's not going to work, Stiles!"

"You got any better ideas?"

"How about we... uh..."

"Yeah, I thought so."

In the years since he'd first been unwillingly forced into their presence by a fifth grade dodge ball tournament, they'd never figured out how to actually whisper. Danny had heard about everything from Scott's first wet dream to that time Stiles literally got his foot stuck in his mouth.

"Hey, Stiles. Do you think Allison and Kira will..."

"Dude, they totally will."

Groaning, Danny dropped his head to his desk and prayed for it to be over.


In the past two years, Beacon Hills had been weird. Danny had gotten used to it. It was kind of terrifying, when he stopped to let himself think about exactly what he'd gotten used to. Wild animals appearing out of the blue to maul people for no apparent reason. Serial killers, who must have been passing through on their way to more interesting places, popping up to leave bodies lying around like grotesque modern art installations. Teachers who thought schools were meant to be run like prisons.

All of that, and he would never in his life get used to Stiles Stilinski.

"You want me to what?"

"Date me." Stiles stood stock still, nearly at attention. "Or let me date you. However that works, just as long as it's me. And you. Doing date things. On a date."

Quietly, Danny finished shrugging his backpack on, looking around. The three pm crowd was pushing past in an endless stream of people, reeking of too much body spray and too little deodorant. Chatter carried all the way to the ceiling and then some. It was loud enough that it probably disturbed the flies that were feasting on the janitor's body rumors said was still stuffed up there somewhere.

He tried his hardest, but he couldn't spot any of the usual suspects to Stiles' schemes. They must have been there somewhere, though. McCall would be, definitely. Separating those two was impossible on a good day. When something was up, you were better off trying to separate two drops of water.

Since there wasn't anyone obviously listening, Danny turned to Stiles and crossed his arms, inspecting him. Decent hair, clean clothes, jeans that weren't half hole. An effort had been made. There was also nothing in his mouth other than words, though, which did some damage to his overall score. For a guy that said things like hey, Danny, did you know dolphins have incestuous orgies? Stiles had a pretty mouth. It was a shame that he used it to talk so much.

In the back of his head, Danny did a quick calculation of the likelihood of Stiles saying something useful. It wasn't good. Still, he was a teammate, and sort of an acquaintance. "I'm going to give you one chance to repeat yourself. Slowly. In human words."

That mouth pursed in a frown. "I would like for you to date me. Please."

So there hadn't been a Stiles-to-English translation error. Okay then. "No." Shrugging his backpack higher, Danny turned to go.

"Wait wait wait!" Immediately, Stiles scrambled to block his path, throwing his arms wide to keep Danny from just swerving around him. It also caused a couple freshmen to stumble, but they were only freshmen. No one cared. "Hear me out. Please?"

"I did." Danny took a strategic step back, so there was no chance that he'd get grabbed and then force to change his mind in order to get Stiles' ass off his foot or something. He'd seen it happen once before to Coach, and honestly, Danny wasn't sure his dignity could take that sort of hit. "I don't care what you think you're trying to do, the answer is no."

Confusion was the first thing to hit Stiles' face, followed by outrage. "Why not?"

Pointedly, Danny gave him a slow once-over. By the time he got back to Stiles' eyes, the dude had gone from pasty to ketchup red. "Because everyone knows you're stupid for Lydia, and have been since you were thirteen—"

"Eight, actually," Stiles corrected, because he couldn't keep from self-sabotage even when it counted. He must have realized it was a stupid thing to say, because he snapped his mouth shut and winced. Somewhere off hiding in the hallway, Danny imagined he heard Scott groan in second-hand shame.

It would have taken more effort than it was worth for Danny not to roll his eyes, so he didn't bother trying to fight it. "Eight, then," he agreed. "The point is, I'm not going to be someone's rebound from the girl they've been panting after since hopscotch was the cool thing on the playground. I have better things to do."

Ducking down, Danny dodged Stiles' pitiful attempts at blocking him in and headed for the door.

Behind him, he heard the pattering of oversized feet chasing. Stiles skidded to a stop, waving his arms for balance. He nearly grabbed Danny, but one look and his hands went into the air in the universal pose for "unarmed". Probably it was good practice for his inevitable life of crime.
"Okay, look, I know this is really weird—"

"You're really weird," Danny snorted. It didn't have any effect. Stiles just talked over the top of him.

"—but if you won't date me, will you at least pretend to date me for a couple of weeks? Help a man out?" He swallowed, biting his lip and staring at Danny like the last puppy in the store. "It's just—I've loved Lydia since she smeared mud in my hair and screamed at me to go away. And I thought you and me could—but if you don't wanna, could you at least let me try one last thing before I give up and move on?"

"Fail to move on, you mean." Danny sighed. His shoulders slumped. "You want me to help you make Lydia Martin jealous."

Stiles nodded so fast that there was an actual chance of whiplash.

"Lydia Martin. Jealous of you."

Nod nod nod.

It was the pleading eyes that forced Danny to acknowledge the inevitable capitulation about to occur. Stiles' eyes, with the sun behind him and that sad pout and ugh. If Stilinski ever figured out how devastating he could be under the right circumstances, they were all fucked. One of these days, someone was going to stick a bag over his head, and the whole school would cheer.

Thank God McCall wasn't in on it. A man could only take so much.

"The same Lydia Martin who's spent the last year calling you coleslaw?"

"Um." The blush that hadn't ever actually faded from tomato-y red darkened to a color that was probably called heart attack purple. "That's. Actually my name. She got it from school records and won't stop using it. It's Polish."

Sighing, Danny rubbed his face, resisting the urge to claw. That was even worse. That kind of name had to be a form of harassment or something. "This will never work, but... what's in it for me?" If he was going to spend his free time pretending to make kissy faces at freaking Coleslaw Stilinski, Danny wasn't walking away empty-handed.

The complete lack of preparation couldn't have been more visible if Stiles had worn a sign: half-assed attempts at half-assed schemes sold here, seventy-five percent off!

"Okay, um..." Stiles ran his hands through his hair, making it stick out at odd angles. "How about..." An idea lit up his face like Wile E. Coyote finding a new toy in the Acme catalog. "De—my cousin has two tickets to that thing—Moonbought? That you were talking about yesterday. I bet I could get them from him."

Danny's eyes narrowed. "You cousin? Miguel, your cousin?" Or, as Danny tended to think of him, the incredibly hot older dude who was almost definitely Derek Hale and who permanently cemented Stiles' status as a twink. If he was actually Stiles' cousin, Danny would volunteer to carry Coach's spare pads for the rest of the year. But none of that mattered because the dude was hot as the sun.

The thing about Stiles was, he never forgot a lie and was quick to hop-to when it counted. "Yeah! Miguel. He, uh, goes by Derek now."

I bet he does. But if Stiles was offering, Danny could at least get a sweeter pot. "I couldn't take both of a guy's tickets," he said casually, raising his eyebrows. "How about one. And maybe Derek and I can hang out there. Or something."

Stiles' mouth dropped open. "Are you asking me to hook you up with my cousin like he's some cheap piece of meat?" he demanded indignantly.

"Yes."

"Deal." When Stiles held out his hand, Danny slapped his own into it without hesitation. It was going to be a disaster, but at least he'd get a good two-for-one show out of it.

This could only get weirder if it actually worked.


As per Stiles' plans, they started slow. Hand-holding in the hallway. Sitting together in class, which always left Scott looking hilariously like a little kid who'd just found out he had to share his favorite toy. About midway through the week, they started having lunch together.

It only took a week for the creepy stuff to kick in. That was when he rounded a corner and caught Stiles looking through his locker while Scott desperately pretended to be subtle as he failed to signal Stiles of the approaching disaster.

Danny dropped his lacrosse gear in the middle of the hallway. "What the hell, Stiles."

Stiles flailed back like the locker was trying to eat him, tripping on his own feet and having to be rescued by Scott before he cracked his head open.

"It's not—I was just—" Big brown eyes darted around, desperately looking for an excuse that didn't include the phrase larceny.

"You were just what?" Pulling back his shoulders, Danny stalked a step closer. He'd learned that trick from Jackson, back before he'd gone to London. It was intimidating in even good circumstances.

And it worked. Stiles sputtered some more, shrinking down, and blurted out, "Looking for one of your shirts! You know, to wear. Because..." His hands flexed, fingers wiggling.

Slowly, Danny lowered his face to his hands. He was fake-dating a moron. "Or you could have just asked," he grumbled, bending down to unzip his bag. There were always spare shirts in with his gear, in case something got stained or ruined. He dug out one that he wouldn't miss too much and let it fly. It missed Stiles' head, but was saved when Scott snatched it out of the air.

"Just make sure you get it back to me eventually." Zip and heft. The bag bounced against Danny's back as he started walking again. He brushed by Stiles, who looked somewhere between astounded and dick punched.

Just to fuck with him, Danny leaned over as he passed and planted a kiss right on Stiles' stupid mouth. "See you later."

Then he kept walking, timing his steps to the sound of his fake boyfriend choking on his own tongue.


Why does everything weird always happen at practice?

Danny shrugged to settle his shoulder pads a little more as he waited by the goal for things to get rocking. He was literally the only person on the field other than Coach without anything do for the next five minutes while the flags were divvied up, which gave him lots of time to look around. Greenburg was doing her usual Puppy Dance when Coach yelled at her for blocking people from the practice gear. Layhe was making a show of picking the same color as McCall, which—geeze—couldn't have been more obvious if he'd done a strip tease. Morgan had mixed up his left and right shoes. Again. And all the way at the end of the field, a collection of creepy adult strangers were standing around watching teenagers bend and stretch and sweat.

Nothing new there at all.

"Danny!" Stiles, rushed at him, still struggling to tie on his red flag and straighten his practice jersey. He nearly fell on his face as he skidded to a stop, cleats working a little better than he'd anticipated in the soft sod.

Being a good fake-boyfriend, Danny grabbed Stiles before he could eat grass. For a second, they wobbled together. Then Danny got a good hold on Stiles' waist and bodily yanked him upright, dropping his crosse to make the save. They ended up edged together from chest to crotch and hello, when had Stilinski gotten this firm? Danny had seen him in the locker room. There couldn't possibly be that much muscle hiding in plain sight, right?

"My hero." Little shit that he was, Stiles grinned and threw his arms around Danny's neck. "We still on for tonight?"

"What?" Danny frowned. No, they weren't on for tonight, because Stiles had never asked. He was pretty sure that even in fake relationships, you were supposed to ask someone before making it a date.

When he didn't get an answer right away, Stiles' smile faded a little at the edges. "Well?" he asked again, tipping his head pointedly in a little jerk toward the bleachers. "Study date, remember? I know you're a genius and all, but I've got to work to keep that four-point-oh."

Danny shifted his weight to glance off to the side. Lydia and Allison were perched together on the very top of the bleachers, as far as they could possibly get from actual action. It might have been the distance, but he was pretty sure he recognized Lydia's expression as her so done with your shit, Stilinski face. They all had one. Lydia's was just more memorable than most, combining all the charm of a Disney princess with all the patience of a hungry hyena matriarch.

Huh. Was it actually working? What the fuck?

"Yeah," Danny heard himself say from somewhere off in the distance. "Of course we're still on. I'll come by around seven?"

Stiles opened his mouth to either answer or vomit answer-like word noises, but an arm chopped down between them. Coach's arm.

"No sex on the field!" he yelled, looking between them incredulously. "Does this look like a bordello?"

"No, Coach—" Stiles started to say, but apparently it wasn't enough.

"Are you sure?" With a little wiggle, Coach started to push even more between them. It was... actually really disturbing. "Because you know, I think I saw something like this in a place down in New Orleans once time—"

"Coach!" Danny yelled, before his nightmares were guaranteed to get worse. "We were just talking!"

He shoved them both back until he could get hands in their faces and push. They both backed up obediently, hands in the air, because with that much Coach going around there just wasn't anywhere else safe to put them.

"You'd better be." Coach's head swiveled back and forth to stare at them both in turn. With the odd shape of his hair that day, it looked almost like a really desperate flower looking for the sun. "If you two want to have sex, you can go do it under the bleachers like everyone else in this school, got that?"

"Yes, Coach," they chorused in rough unison.

"What? I can't hear you!"

"Yes, Coach!"

"Yes what?"

"YES, we'll have sex under the bleachers!" Stiles shouted at top volume.

Every single person on the field turned to stare. Up in the stands, Lydia bent over and hid her face in her knees. Even the creeps across the way looked embarrassed on Stiles' behalf.

Slowly, Stiles closed his eyes. A blush crawled up his face, turning him bright red from collar to the tips of his ears. "Coach," he finished weakly.

"Geez, you don't have to yell," Coach mumbled, turning back to his team, who were still mostly frozen.

Wordlessly, Danny patted Stiles' shoulder. "Seven tonight," he promised. "I'll bring pizza."


As promised, Danny had a pizza with him when he arrived at the Stilinski house. He'd kept it to the basic pepperoni, since he privately suspected that asking about toppings would result in something like barbeque pineapple spinach. Everyone liked pepperoni, though, except maybe Lydia (who only ate pizza alfredo with chicken and broccoli) and Jared (vegetarian). He figured it was the safest bet.

What he hadn't expected was for Stiles to yank open the door, grab him by the shirt and yank him inside so fast that he nearly dropped the box.

"Dude, what the hell?"

"Sorry, sorry!" Stiles didn't even look at him as he locked the door—three bolts?—and peered through the blinds like some idiot in a high school horror movie. "You weren't followed, were you?"

Followed? "Why would I be followed?" Danny demanded, clutching the pizza to his chest. He was seriously rethinking everything about everything. There'd always been a kind of manic... bizarreness to Stiles, but he just looked messed up. His hair was sticking up at all ends, his shirt had holes in it—was that a bloodstain? Jesus—and Danny was pretty sure he was on some serious shit by the way his eyes kept darting around. "What's wrong with you?"

"It's, ah—" Stiles turned around, back pressed firmly to the door, heels braced and way too many teeth showing for Danny's comfort. "It's just. You know, I have my dad on a diet, and if he finds out that there was pizza in this house and I didn't save him any, he won't eat his vegetables for a week."

"... right." Looking around, Danny found a clear coffee table to set the pizza on. It was still hot on the bottom, and his fingers had a little sheen of grease where it had leaked through. Probably it was going to mess up the table top. He really didn't care. "Maybe I should go—"

"No!" Stiles actually threw himself at Danny. Because he was Stiles, he nearly ended up braining himself on the table, instead, caught himself, and ended up on his knees. "No, we totally need to study, right? Chapter seventeen quiz on Monday in history?"

He looked way too good on his knees, all big eyes and full lips that were bright red where he'd been gnawing at them and—

Danny swallowed. "I'm not in your history class," he mumbled, turning to grab a seat on the couch before things could get even weirder. The Stilinski couch was big, and soft, and smelled faintly of dog, which was weird because Danny was positive that Stiles didn't have a dog. There'd been a whole round of whispering in seventh grade about it, when Stiles' dad had been offering and Stiles had been flat against it because of Scott's asthma. That fight had lasted a month. Danny now knew more about pet dander than he had ever wanted to. "Lydia won't know if I just go home, you know. It'll be fine."

"She'll totally know." Thankfully for Danny's peace of mind, Stiles climbed to his feet in a tangle of awkward limbs and terrible balance that was more adorable than sexy. He flipped open the pizza box and put the kill to any chance of a surprise boner by eating half a slice in one bite. "Lydia always knows," he said, around a mouthful. "She's like, a mind reader or something. Psychic."

At first, Danny opened his mouth to argue that Lydia wasn't psychic, Stiles was just terrible at lying. Then he realized exactly how futile that would be and sighed. "So. You have a history quiz?"


After that, they started pretend-dating in earnest. Dating Stiles was, surprisingly, not the worst thing Danny had ever done. Someone must have been coaching him, because there was no way Stiles could have managed it on his own. They took a couple trips to the movies—Stiles had terrible taste, but at least he paid for both tickets—and going over to each other's houses more often, though Stiles was always weird about that. Really, it was nothing Danny hadn't done with a dozen other dudes. Kisses on the cheek, which were... nice. Frustratingly simple, but nice, in that boy next door sort of way that Danny was only putting up with because the pay was so good. He'd left actual boyfriends for moving as slow as Stiles.

Not that that mattered, because he wasn't actually dating Stiles. Not getting any should have been a bonus.

It all helped that Stiles had A Plan. There were bullet points, color coded days and even a calendar marking the exact day that they'd pretend to amicably break up, which... yeah, that didn't make any sense, which Danny didn't hesitate to point out.

"Wouldn't it make more sense to keep going until Lydia catches on?" Danny asked one night as they sat in the Jeep at some makeout point just outside the preserve and went over the scheduled timeline. It wasn't one Danny had ever been to before, but he assumed Stiles didn't use the usual ones since the cops—and by extension, his dad—were all over them.

"Nah." Stiles tapped his red pen against the calendar date a little frantically. It was only two weeks away. "We shouldn't still be dating when I make my move, right? I mean, Lydia's not that kind of girl. Or I'm not that kind of boy. Or something."

There was no doubtful face doubtful enough for that. Danny tried anyway. As far as he knew, Lydia was exactly that kind of girl—everyone knew about the Scott thing in sophomore year. And Stiles would be whatever kind of boy, girl, or pet orangutan Lydia asked.

"I also don't want the team to kick my ass for cheating on you and breaking your heart," Stiles added, seemingly as an afterthought.

Oh. That actually made sense.

One of Stiles' feet reached out to tug at Danny's on the floorboard, rubbing their calves together in a way that definitely did not make Danny's mouth go dry. "Hey, what do you think about having lunch under the bleachers one day?"


Three days before their scheduled breakup was the second lacrosse game of the season. By some hopefully silent agreement, the entire team shoved between Stiles and Danny to keep them on opposite sides of the locker room. When Danny cornered Tanner on the field, she'd said that they figured Stiles might actually play better if he weren't allowed to use all his energy up getting off right before the game. It had been Hernandez's idea, because Hernandez had always been way too interested in locker room gossip.

After that, Danny decided never to ask anyone any questions ever again, especially not about Stiles.

And of-freaking-course, they actually won the stupid game, too. Not just because of Boyd's amazing save, or Scott actually doing a baseball slide to get a shot in the net, or Greenburg's epic dive out of bounds. Stiles played a pretty decent defense, and didn't trip over his own feet even once. Hernandez looked so proud at the closing line up that Danny kind of wanted to hit him.

Danny definitely wanted to hit him when he stepped out of the shower and found Stiles the only other person in the locker room.

"They all grabbed their stuff and went to the old girls' side. It's still got running water," Stiles explained, voice muffed behind the towel he was using to scrub his hair dry. His shoulders flexed, and the whole line of his back was some sort of perfect arch that was probably illegal under obscenity laws in at least three countries. "They convinced Coach it'd be good to get in touch with their feminine instincts. Greenburg left us some condoms."

"I... really don't know what to say to that." Keeping his towel pulled tight around his waist, Danny went to dig around in his locker. His clothes were right there on the shelf, folded and waiting. He ignored them and just rattled around. As long as he didn't look, he wouldn't get hard, right?

"They're probably the ones she's keeping for the day Coach sweeps her off her feet and ravishes her like the heroine in a bad romance." Metal rattled, and he thought he heard Stiles snap something soft—cloth? A towel, maybe a t-shirt, Danny was not looking.

Maybe just a peek.

Slowly, he leaned around the locker door. Stiles had finished stripping and was trying to balance on one foot while putting on his boxers. He wobbled, and his muscles flexed and God.

There were dimples in his ass. One of them had a freckle right in the middle of it.

Fuck.

Danny swallowed and yanked out his own clothes, slamming the locker door loudly. "I don't think I wanted to think about that."

"No one does, and yet—"

There was a subtle change in air pressure, followed by an increase in the crowd noises outside—the doors opened. Both of them went still. Then Stiles exploded into motion. He leaped across the distance and shoved Danny into the locker so hard that the padlock jabbed into his shoulder blade. Before Danny could decide between clinging to his towel and shoving Stiles off, Stiles had him pinned, their mouths sliding together and...

Oh.

Stiles' hands cupped Danny's cheeks, long fingers curled up and over his temples as he kissed the life out of him. Someone must have been coaching him in that too, Danny thought, kind of muzzily, because Stiles was good. His lips were just firm enough to take it from closed-mouthed to tongues without making it seem awkward, warm and slick and way more than just nice.

Danny wasn't ashamed to admit that he groaned like a virgin getting their first blowjob. His arms slid around Stiles shoulders, dragging him in. His towel dangled between them, trapped by the pressure of Stiles' hips against his. Every time they shifted, the thick terrycloth rubbed across his dick. And, from the way Stiles' mouth stretched across the kiss, the little asshole knew.

The footsteps of whoever had busted them approached. In the corner of his eye, Danny saw an older man with short red hair staring at them with eyes so blue they damn near glowed. Then he vanished, literally between one blink and another. It was so fast that Danny wanted pull away to figure out what the hell had happened, but then Stiles was biting his lip and people moving faster than humanly possible slid all the way to the bottom of Danny's priority list.

When the door closed for the second time, Stiles took a sharp breath and leaned back an entire inch. "Sorry," he panted. His lips were damp, redder than before.

When Danny licked his own, he could feel some sort of waxy residue. Chapstick. No flavoring, no tingle of medication. Just. Chapstick.

It was the chapstick that made Danny yank Stiles back in for another kiss. It was a terrible idea. Which is probably why Danny did it anyway. Bad ideas had a way of blossoming in the presence of Stiles Stilinski. He swallowed the surprised noise Stiles made, sliding their bodies together until they fit just so.

There was a slick drag of skin as Stiles' hands slipped down his chest and stomach, cutting through the damp patches that were left from his shower. He hesitated just above the towel line, fingers drumming across Danny's bare hipbone. "Are you...?"

Danny retaliated by biting his lip, scraping a layer of that stupid, stupid chapstick off with his teeth. It was probably the most disgusting thing he'd done all week, and he didn't even care, he was that far gone.

"Shut up," Danny ordered, and bit him again. "And put that mouth to better use."

It couldn't have been the first time someone had told Stiles to blow them—not with that mouth—but Stiles sucked in a breath between his teeth like he'd been gut punched. The kiss turned hard and slick, messy as Stiles pulled the towel away from where it was barely holding on. His hand wiggled, like he had no idea what to do with a dick and possibly had never seen one before in his life. Which Danny knew with certainty was wrong, because he could feel Stiles' hard under his boxers.

The kiss broke. Before Danny could demand an explanation, Stiles dropped to his knees. It would have been sexier if he hadn't immediately fallen back on his ass, too. Danny had to grab him to keep him from cracking his skull open on the floor. He wondered if good reflexes were a prerequisite for spending any time in Stiles' presence, as much as he'd had to save the guy from himself.

"I'm okay!" Stiles announced to the empty locker room, hauling himself back up from near doom. "I've got this."

"You need training wheels." Danny ran his fingers through Stiles' hair, combing it into damp spikes.

"This is a very likely possibility," Stiles nodded amicably. His new position sitting put him right in line with the head of Danny's cock. He licked the tip and grinned. "But you still want me to blow you."

"I still want you to blow me."

Stiles smiled. That should have sent Danny running for the hills, because a happy Stiles was kind of terrifying. It occurred to Danny a second too late that he didn't even know if Stiles knew how to give a blow job, if he was a complete virgin, if this was going to be a terrible mistake.

But then Stiles wrapped his lips around the head of Danny's dick, tongue cradling the shaft as he slid nearly all the way down, stopping before he choked himself. His fingers wrapped around what was left, giving it a thoughtful little twist that made Danny's back arch. Then he was pulling back again with a suction that hollowed his cheeks.

A whine slipped out of Danny's throat. His hand flexed in Stiles' hair, torn between taking a grip and letting go completely so he could grab the lockers and stay upright. Stiles finished with a lick to the slit and then a little tilt that resulted in Danny's cock bumping the inside of his cheek. Every bob and lick was smooth and eager, messily wet and fuck.

The hand on Danny's shaft moved back to cradle his balls. Wet fingers rubbed just behind them, not pushing anything, just there.

Danny had to grab the lockers to keep from sliding sideways.

He could actually feel Stiles' lips stretch as he tried to grin around a mouthful of dick. The whole time, his mouth kept moving, sucking and bobbing in time to some inner rhythm. Two short strokes, two long and a pause before a third, repeat, two short and three long again, followed quickly by two short and—

"Are you Rick Rolling my dick?" Danny demanded. Or tried to. He got three words in before Stiles started humming the bridge. His head slammed back into the locker with a groan, head hanging. Down between Danny's feet, Stiles had his free hand wrapped around his own dick and was jerking himself off as part of the beat and that was it. Danny managed to get out a half a warning before he was coming so hard he couldn't even moan.

Stiles pulled away the last second, come splattered across the cheek and chest. He rested his head against Danny's hip, hand working hard. Danny opened his mouth to offer a hand, but Stiles was already coming with a strangled sound.

They sat there together for a long, breathless second. Then Danny punched him in the shoulder.

"Ow!"

"Now it's stuck in my head, you ass."

Laughter brushed over his skin. Stiles turned his head to rest his cheek against Danny's hip instead. "Guess I'll have to make it up to you again, won't I?"

"Yeah." Danny ran his fingers through Stiles' hair again. "Yeah, you will."


Later, after washing up again, they sprawled together on half-empty bleachers while the post-win pizza party went on below. Stiles had his head against Danny's shoulder, and it was nice. Boy next door nice. Danny thought he could get used to the boy next door thing. It couldn't be worse than the bad boy thing. And maybe he could get Stiles to get both tickets from his so-called "cousin" after all.

There was just one thing.

Danny tilted his head to rest his cheek on Stiles' hair. It didn't really smell like anything—Stiles used that perfume free, hypoallergenic stuff that cost like twenty dollars a bottle. When Danny had asked, he'd shrugged and just said Scott. That sort of made sense, once Danny remembered the asthma thing. It was easy to forget when Scott hadn't had an attack in forever, but it wasn't the kind of thing that went away.

"I know this whole pretend dating thing wasn't about Lydia," he said.

"Maybe I just wanted to get into your pants."

He rolled his eyes, even though Stiles couldn't see it. "No way. You could have done that weeks ago if it wasn't for your stupid calendar." When Stiles didn't respond to that obvious hole in his plan, Danny continued. "You might as well tell me. I'm going to find out eventually."

The weight against his shoulder wobbled as Stiles fidgeted. "Okay. Well. See, Scott got bitten by a werewolf—"

Danny's laugh cut him off. "Werewolves. Sure. That explains everything." He bumped Stiles' head with his shoulder until he could lean in closer. "All right, I won't push. I'll figure it out sooner or later, though."

"Yeah." Between them, Stiles hand twisted around his, linking their fingers. He sounded weirdly sad, but it was so soft that Danny couldn't be sure. "Yeah, you will."