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You're a Different Man When Drunk, D

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Your phone is the only thing that wakes you up, and your phone is the only thing that gets you out of bed at the fresh hour of 11:38am. You squint at the text, if only to confirm it’s worth putting on actual human clothes. 


Derek [9:12am]: Hey man, can we talk?


Then, an hour and a half later, another.


Derek [10:29am] I’m really sorry


Derek [11:37]: Please tell me you’ll meet me, I’m freaking out, dude. 


You can hear his stress through the phone. Your clumsy thumbs eventually type out a coherent response.


Ryan [11:40]: yeah sorry i just woke up. Wanna meet at Mocha’s??


Derek [11:40]: Yes! Noon good for you?


Ryan [11:41]: i still need to shower. Let’s say 12:15 to account for dick washing time.


Derek [11:42]: Nasty, dude.


Derek [11:43]: 12:15 it is.


You smile at your screen through your hangover. It was too easy to rile Derek up and gross him out. 


Thanks to your tutelage under the most esteemed alcoholics during college, you have an entire pack of coconut waters waiting for you in the fridge. You crack one and guzzle it, and take another to the shower. 


By the time you throw on something half-decent and head out the door, it’s already 12:20. Shit. You jog the rest of the way, cautious not to jostle the vomit demons inside your stomach too much. If they awaken, it’ll be chunder city, and you need all your focus on Derek right now.


The friend who may or may not still be your friend. Fuck. 


Mocha’s is pretty slow for a Saturday afternoon, so you spot Derek right away, having claimed the especially comfy couches in the corner. Oh, and they turned the fake fireplace on. Nice. He waves at you, and you give a wave back, indicating that you’re gonna order something. 


You pretend to stare at the board to decide on what you want. Inside, you’re panicking. You feel the vomit demons rustle a bit, before calming down. You have a lot of friends, but Derek is more than that. He’s your oldest buddy, and pretty much the only person you can talk to about the real depressing shit without being punched on the arm and called gay. 


The amount of times one of your bros have done just that, before quickly saying, “but no offense to you, though!” is too many to count. You shake your head. You’re getting off track. 


Derek. You’re focusing on Derek now. Too much crazy shit happened last night. It’s an emotional whirlwind of mistakes, and now you have to deal with the consequences. Through one party, a laundry room, and a well placed voice recording, you’ve managed to screw up the only meaningful relationship you’ve ever had. Nice one.


You order something with way too much caffeine, and way too much sugar. You drop a few coins in the tip jar after paying. It might not tip the balance anywhere near the colossal fuck ups of last night, but it calms the vomit demons slightly. 


You sink into the old sofa, and fight the urge to wince. There’s no denying that you got railed last night with basically zero preparation. It didn’t hurt last night, probably on account of how drunk you were. You take a look at Derek. He seems tired, though nowhere near as hungover as you are. This is your own fault, after slamming rum with Katherine and sneaking sips of whiskey when Frank wasn’t looking. Still, you’re a little pissed that he doesn’t have the pounding headache you do. 


“Hey,” you start. Either Derek wants to pretend like nothing happened between you two, and ask for advice about Madison. Or, he wants to do nothing but talk about it. You have no idea which one it is, and the suspense is starting to make you sweat.


“Hey, Buddy,” Derek gives you a nod, taking a sip of his coffee. Black with two sugars, like he’s always drunk it. You fight the urge to fidget. “I need to apologize.”


“Okay.” He’s wearing his glasses, which doesn’t happen often. On any other day, you’d elbow him in the ribs and call him a nerd or a hipster fuckboy. You don’t do either. 


“Look, I was hyped up as fuck and somehow it made me go crazy. I’m sorry for acting like some macho douchebag. Madison basically ripped me a new one afterwards.”


You chuckle at that, imagining it. 


“Dude, forget about it. I saw how bugged Amy was. Those pills do things to your brain. You know Cross-Eyed Crosby? I heard he bought some off of his tutor and tried to fight a biker. Ended up in the hospital after the guy pulled a knife on him.”


“Oh shit,” Derek says with a laugh. Gossip has always been the foundation of your relationships. “Who’d you hear that from?”


“Reliable sources that prefer to remain anonymous,” you say, cheeky. The barista from before drops off your sugary monstrosity, and you see Derek judging the whipped cream and sprinkles on the top. “Thank you,” you say to her.


“Don’t look at my coffee like that just because you decided to get something boring.” 


Derek raises his eyebrows. 


“I don’t think it counts as coffee at that point.”


You swipe a bit of whipped cream off the top and lick your finger, giving him the middle finger with your other hand. He laughs.


“After you left, Mads and I had a big talk. We’ve been uh, sleeping together, trying to do the whole friends with benefits thing? So that’s why 


“I know, dude,” you say, and Derek gives you a confused look.


“What, how-”


“Derek you’re a shit liar,” you say. You take a massive gulp of the “coffee” and sigh. Sweet, sweet caffeine. 


“Shit, okay. Nothing gets past you, does it?”


You don’t mention the diary, or the phone, or anything else. However, something else is still bothering you.


“Does she know about us?”


Derek’s smile faulters.




You set down your drink, throwing subtlety to the side. 


“Us. In the laundry room. Does she know?”


Derek doesn’t look you in the eye, choosing to stare out the window. To survive as queer meant to label your male friends as “off limits”, to maintain the boundaries of perceived straightness at all costs. Derek had pushed through those boundaries before, only to clam up afterwards and pretend it never happened. You’re used to dancing around the topic with him, but you’re too tired to play that game right now.


“Uh, no. I didn’t tell her.”


“Okay,” his answer is pretty much what you expected. “Do you think you guys are gonna end up dating?”


Derek scratches his shoulder, tilting his head to the side.


“Yeah, I think we are. We’re trying to just stick to sex and keep it uncomplicated, but man, if I’m being real, I think there’s some real feelings there, ya know? Like, relationship potential.”


Ouch. Well, what did you expect? Despite being unsurprising, it still hurts. You take another sip of your drink, the sugar feeling rancid on your tongue. There’s still a slight air of awkwardness, but at least the matter is settled.


“Well, I’m happy for you, man. She seems like a cool chick.”


“Thanks, buddy. Okay, fuck your ‘anonymous source’, you need to tell me the whole story of Crosby, you hear?”


You lean in and grin. Derek’s going to lose his shit when you tell him you were there that night and saw the whole thing.


Everything is like normal between you two, you realize as you start your tale. Derek interjects every so often, but you’re in the energetic groove you’ve always found. Besides, what matters is that you still have Derek. You just need to stop overthinking it and making things complicated. 


“Hey, man.” Derek says, once you’ve finished your drinks and are halfway through the door, “are we good?”


You swallow that little piece of hurt inside you and nod. Derek is your friend, and frankly you should be grateful you two managed to work through the awkwardness.


“Yeah, man,” you say. “Of course we’re good.”

Chapter Text

The next time it happens, you curse yourself for not expecting it. Derek has you by the waist, pinned hard against the wall behind you. He’s grinding his cock into your hip and you’re thankful you had the foresight to bring a condom along in your back pocket. You thought it might have been the cute blonde who’d been ordering cosmos three hours ago, but oh well.


You both struck out miserably, and apparently sitting in the bar booth slamming shots and brushing shoulders was enough to have Derek on you. You’d stumbled out the back door, and had immediately started making out. 


Derek tasted like bottom shelf gin and desperation. You don’t think about Madison. Okay, maybe you think about Madison a little. It’s easier to shove that line of thinking into the back closet of your brain when Derek’s smell is overwhelming you. When he’s cupping the outline of your cock in your jeans. 


Now, with your cock hard and leaking and Derek’s hands keeping you firmly in place, you wished you’d stumbled into the bathroom instead. As horny as you are, you draw the line at being fucked in a grimy alley. But you’re desperately hard.


You turn your head to break the kiss, and gasp. Fuck. You hadn’t noticed how breathless you were.


“We need to go somewhere before my cock explodes,” you explain. Derek nods, adjusting his pants.


“My place is closer.”


The Uber ride over is agony. Sitting in the back seat in silence, you attempt to look as heterosexual as possible. Nevermind that the two of you are still hard. You think Derek’s still hard, but you’re too embarrassed to catch a look. 


The frozen feeling breaks the moment you both step inside. He slams you up against the door, lifting your entire bodyweight. Your dick pulses at the thought. 


He drags you wordlessly to his bedroom. You wrestle yourself out of your skinny jeans. God fucking dammit, why couldn’t you wear something reasonable for once? The room swims, but you throw the condom at Derek, and don’t even look at him. Your other jean pocket held a lube sample. You tear it open and smear lube over yourself. 


Derek wastes no time. He lines himself up, already undressed. and you feel the first stretch. You arch your back, biting your lip as Derek stutters out a ‘fuck’. You feel full, but nothing hurts. At least, nothing hurts yet. You pull back, making Dereks cock slide out a bit, only to move back so he fills you again. The feeling is like fire inside you. You’re fully hard again. 


It’s been weeks since you’ve had a real cock, felt the burn and the stretch. You’re no way ever close to prepared, but the liquor and lust disagree. 


“Ah! I’ll fucking kill you if you stop!”


Derek seems to get the message, and he starts fucking you in earnest. His thrusts are solid, but you have to shift around, rolling your hips to get the right angle. There! His cock brushes your prostate as it moves, 


“Oh is it here?” He hits the angle and you let out a whine, which would probably be more embarrassing if you weren’t currently tanked as shit and getting some fantastic dick. 


“Tell me, do I have it right?”


He’s teasing you now, grinding up against it slowly, and you’re shaking. Your cock is leading a stream of something that isn’t quite pre-come or come. You aren’t touching it, and don’t need to. The ridge of Derek’s cock is rubbing back and forth inside you, and the feeling is breathtaking. He isn’t even sliding all the way in, keeping himself positioned perfectly. It’s torture.


“It’s good, Derek, oh fuck!”


You squirm below him, and twist around, lining him up again as you’re beneath him on your back. 


He gives you a shit eating grin and goes full force, and you can only hold onto him for the ride. You can feel yourself getting close to the edge, but it doesn’t feel like a regular orgasm. The sensation warms you from the inside, like an unstoppable ocean wave. You can’t stop making noise. It’s too much. You can see Derek’s face through the fog of pleasure and alcohol, his forehead scrunched up in the way that tells you he’s trying his best not to come. 


Your orgasm hits you, and you can’t stop your body from shuddering. Derek pops out, your internal muscles contracting too hard to penetrate. 


“Shit,” he mumbles, lining up his cock again. You whimper as your own come shoots onto your stomach. There are pulses running up and down the length of your dick, and it takes you a minute to come back to the world.


“You still okay?” Derek asks. He hasn’t entered you again. What a goddamn gentleman.


“Yeah,” you say, as Derek pushes inside you. You angle your hips, avoiding hitting your oversensitized prostate, but it still feels good. Being stretched and filled is a pleasure all on its own, and you relax into his thrusts. His movements are stuttering, you can feel his fingers press hard into his hold on your hips. When you lock eyes, you notice the desperate, almost pained look on his face. 


You give him a lazy smile, moving with his thrusts. His chest is heaving, and you can feel he’s close.


“Come on, fill me up. Fucking use me, D.” 


It’s so satisfying watching him come apart. At least you can hold this over him, despite practically begging for him to fuck you senseless earlier. Derek lets out a guttural moan, the final few thrusts of his hips slowing to a stop. You can feel the racing of his heart where your chests are pressed together. You grin as his cock pulses inside you. Derek lets out a noise when you nuzzle his neck and the side of his ear, playfully nipping. 


“Fuck man,” he says. His chest moves up and down, and you give him a smug smile, “That was amazing. Do you have any clue what you looked like?”


“Bitch, I know I look good.” You wiggle your hips a bit, just to be an asshole, and Derek winces. His cock is shrinking and falls out of you, oversensitive. It’s nice to fuck at his place, because it’s goddamn impossible getting lube out of sheets, and you don’t have to wipe off the cum on the blankets. 


“Apparently you’re a cocky bastard, too. I seem to recall you asking, “ooooooh! Derek!”


He does a terrible impression of your whining before, and despite the heat that rises to your face, you laugh and tackle him. Derek just snickers, and you two tumble on the bed for a few moments. After tussling for a minute, you roll on top of him. Your sweaty skin sticks to his, but you’re too satisfied from the sex to care. Feeling triumphant, you pin his hands above his head, but the room spins. You blink, swaying with the motion.


“I’m too drunk for this,” you announce, and flop naked onto the mattress beside him. Derek giggles, giving you a jab in the side.


“Come have a sober shower with me, then.”


You flip your head over to look at him. Derek is a bit shorter than you, but he’s got at least twenty pounds on you from raw muscle. Despite having been hammered before, he’s clearly sobering up. You’re still tanked, but a shower does sound nice. 


The water is warm and while you fully expected things to be awkward, there’s a comfortable silence between you as you rinse off. You lean your head on his shoulder as you rest under the spray. You don’t feel any less drunk, just content and tired. 


“I’m gonna be fucked tomorrow,” you mumble against his skin.


“Come on, bro.” Derek’s always been clingy. Even when he’s sober, he’s always pressed up against you during movie nights, slinging an arm around you at the bar, or putting his feet on your lap when you’re chilling on the couch. Night-time is no different. He pulls you into a bear hug, and you fool around drying one another off. 


The muted sober brain warns him not to lie down in his bed, not to set yourself up for the next disappointment. But the drunk part of your brain says that Derek is warm and his bed is gonna be much more comfortable than the couch with a broken spring. 


Derek locks eyes with you, once you’re both in bed. His head is lolled to the side on the pillow, and you allow yourself to really get a look at him, just this once. You’ve always been jealous of his eyelashes, how unreasonably long they are. There’s something that twists in your chest. The intimacy burns, and you fake a yawn, snuggling into your half of the mattress. 


Derek giggles, whispering, “night, bitch.”


You smile into the pillow, and immediately pass out.


You wake up the next morning with enough warning to hurry to the bathroom, shut the door, and flip on the tap before puking silently as possible. Thankfully, you manage it. Derek’s still sleeping in the room over, and he always throws up in response to someone else, and there’s only one toilet. You heave for another round, finally resting your head against the cool porcelain when you finish. You’re still a little buzzed, but there’s a monster headache pinching from the sides of your temple. You spit in the toilet and flush. 


It’s early in the morning, just before sunrise, if the faded light coming through the window is anything to go by. You look at yourself in the mirror, covered in hickies and swaying slightly. 


You rinse out your mouth and take a few gulps of water from the tap. 


It’s tempting, sitting there in the dark, Derek sleeping on the other side. You could slide back under his covers and sleep off the worst of the hangover. You and D would probably grab coffee and something that’ll clog your arteries at the well-named Hungover Diner and Grill. 


Then again, it would be weird. You’re not stupid, and it sounds exhausting to play Derek’s don’t-talk-about-it game. This is what you signed up for, fucking him, but it doesn’t stop a tiny speck of anger to burn in the pit of your stomach. Or maybe you need to puke again. You breathe, and the nausea passes.


It’s one thing to pretend like nothing happened, but you have way too much pride to hang around him like some lovesick dog. You gather your clothes, phone, and wallet. You can’t find your socks, but it doesn’t matter. You slip on your jacket, sighing with relief when you find your keys tucked safely in your pocket. 


Your phone still has 25% battery, but you don’t bother calling a cab. Your place isn’t far, and it’s nice walking at this hour. The city is still asleep, and there’s a wet chill in the air. It feels refreshing. 


You think as you walk.


Derek is a good friend and a good fuck, but should you really keep doing this? 


No. It was time to stop.