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evanesdust · 4 years

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for a good time, call...

*moodboard made by @sterekficrecs for a good time, call...

Chapters: 1/10 Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Malia Tate, Lydia Martin, Derek Hale, Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Isaac Lahey, Erica Reyes, Vernon Boyd, Original Male Character(s), Sheriff Stilinski Additional Tags: POV Stiles Stilinski, Omegaverse, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Drinking, Past Stiles Stilinski/Original Character(s), Masturbation, Alpha Derek Hale, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Wrong number, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wolf Derek Hale, Derek Hale Takes Care of Stiles Stilinski, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Stiles Stilinski in Heat, Kissing, Explicit Sexual Content, Knotting, Minor Stiles Stilinski/Original Male Character(s), Possessive Derek Hale, Protective Derek Hale, Oblivious Stiles Stilinski, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, Mates, Mating Bites, Moving In Together, Erica Reyes is a Little Shit Summary:

Stiles unlocks his phone to send out a quick text asking his father what he wants to eat, even though he’ll get salad regardless, and notices a strange number on his recent call log.

His face scrunches in confusion before realization dawns on him.

Oh shit.

Events from the night before peek through the hazy fog of his mind. Stiles thought, or he was hoping, that the phone call was a dream. But there it is, staring at him in the face—a one minute and 57-second call to an unfamiliar number.

Oh God.

Did he seriously call someone—possibly an alpha werewolf!—for phone sex?

...Or the one where Stiles drunk dials a very grumpy alpha werewolf and propositions him for phone sex. Hilarity, misunderstandings, and feelings ensue.

this was written for fandom trumps hate for @kalika999 - hope you like it!

Stiles stumbles into the bathroom, squinting against the glaring fluorescent lights that illuminate the small room—a stark contrast against the darkness of the bar. The speakers are blasting a vaguely familiar pop song from the 90’s—a welcome reprieve from the grating voices of inebriated patrons crooning to their favorite songs just outside.

Yay for karaoke night!

Stiles groans and makes a mental note to thank Lydia later since she’s the one who picked the place.

The walls mute the too-loud music, though there’s a dull thud from the bass of whatever song is spilling through the speakers. It makes the little pool of water in the bottom of the sink ripple with each rhythmic thump.

Stiles massages his temples while examining his reflection in the mirror. Despite the scuffed and dirty glass, he can still see the exhaustion and irritability that plague his features. He left the table when the incessant ache behind his eyes wouldn’t stop throbbing when yet another patron awkwardly stood on the bar’s make-shift stage, passionately belting off-key renditions of their favorite songs like they were auditioning for American Idol.

“Sorry. You will not be going to Hollywood,” he mutters in his best impersonation of Simon Cowell as he splashes cold water on his splotchy cheeks. His whole face is warm; though he doesn't feel near-drunk enough for how much alcohol he's consumed thanks to his friends, Lydia and Malia, shoving drink after drink into his hands. It should have been more than enough to ensure a good time. Unfortunately, Stiles is far too pissed. The alcohol has likely burned out of his system with his rage over being dumped.

Fucking dumped.

Not that Stiles is all that surprised about it. Connor always talked about going places—exploring and seeing more than what Beacon Hills has to offer—while Stiles remains adamant about putting down roots and staying near his father.

Malia’s painfully blunt words from earlier as she dragged him from his bedroom replay in his mind. “You must have known on some level that this wasn’t gonna last. He didn’t even like curly fries. Said they were bad for your arteries.”

Lydia agreed but took a more gentle approach. “You two always wanted different things. Besides, did you really want to spend your life with someone who hated so many of your favorite things?”

The thing is, Stiles was lonely when he met Connor. Going through high school and watching all of his friends pair off and fall in love, Stiles wanted someone to date, and Connor was cute and thought Stiles was cute. And funny!

It was also nice to have the attention of an alpha, something he’d never experienced before.

For years, it was good. Sure, it turned out they didn’t have much in common beyond a love of Han Solo and baseball. And yeah, they disagreed on some pretty big issues. But Stiles was happy at the prospect of not having to play third-wheel while Scott and Allison made heart-eyes at each other, so he brushed it off. A boyfriend he tolerated was better than no boyfriend at all. Especially when it came to heats and not having to spend them alone anymore.

Did that mean Stiles didn’t want someone to love and cherish, or to be loved and cherished himself? No, of course not. Stiles wanted to find his person, but time kept passing and he fooled himself into thinking an agreeable companion was just as good. Too bad Connor didn’t feel the same and pulled out the ‘it’s not working out’ card.

Stiles sighs heavily as he stares at his reflection. Water drips off of his face and he wonders what the hell he’s doing. He’s not having fun and his head is pounding with every beat of his heart.

“Fuck it,” Stiles says, pushing away from the sink after he turns off the tap. “I’m going home.”

Though, when he stands up and reaches for the roll of paper towels placed on top of the empty dispenser, his bladder screams.

Oh, what the hell, he thinks. He’s leaving anyway, so it doesn’t matter if he ‘breaks the seal’ and takes a piss.

Being considerate, Stiles lifts the seat because while he doesn’t feel drunk, he does have to brace a hand on the wall to hold himself up so his aim probably isn’t going to be the greatest. It’s a little difficult to pop the button of his jeans, get his zipper down, and pull his dick through the slit of his boxers with one hand, but he manages.

Staring down into the toilet bowl, he has a moment of complete drunkenness and wiggles his hips in an attempt to spell his name. The stream of piss arcs and Stiles snorts at the sound it makes as it plops into the water below. His mom, may she rest in peace, probably shouldn’t have made peeing a game when she was potty training him.

He does another little wiggle, adding in a jiggle—but no more than three shakes or you’re jerkin’ it, his mind supplies—before tucking himself back into his pants, making sure to zip up and button before turning to leave. Yes, there have been a few embarrassing moments where he did not, so now he’s extra vigilant when he’s any level of inebriated.

His eyes glance over the wall behind the toilet as he flushes. He shakes his head at all the messages and crude drawings scribbled across it. None at all noteworthy until he sees a red heart drawn with what he can only assume is lipstick based on the raised texture. He presses a finger against the crumbling wax and rolls it between his fingers, smearing it.

There’s no name, just a number etched into the tile with a promise of a good time. There’s absolutely no reason Stiles should save it. None at all. Except that he just got dumped and a good time sounds, well, good. He pulls out his phone, saves the number in his contacts, and walks back to the sink to wash his hands.

Stiles is assaulted by yet another cringe-worthy performance of Don’t Stop Believing as he steps out of the bathroom. His face must convey just how much he doesn’t want to be there anymore because Lydia is already calling for the bartender to close out their tab.

He grabs the whiskey he’d been nursing and downs it in one gulp, choking on its warm burn when Malia suggests they head back to his place to crash. She slaps his back, barely looking concerned.

Stiles waves them off, shaking his head emphatically as he wipes the drool off his chin. It’s a nice gesture but the last thing he wants is to host an impromptu slumber party. The last time that happened, Lydia convinced him to wax. It was traumatizing and no one should ever experience stubble on their ass cheeks unless it’s accompanied by a tongue in their asshole.

-----

Twenty minutes later, Stiles sighs when he finally stumbles into his apartment. He barely felt the buzz earlier—that warm, cozy feeling where he practically vibrates out of his skin—but now that he’s calmed down, there’s no doubt that he’s drunk. And, as he’d found out after the first college party he’d attended, a drunk Stiles is a horny Stiles. A fact made evident by the slick currently leaking out of his hole.

All Stiles can think about is hands gripping his ass, or tweaking his nipples, and he needs to be naked yesterday. Holding onto the edge of his dresser with one hand, Stiles attempts to not fall over in the process of kicking off his shoes. Next are his clothes—t-shirt, pants, boxers, and socks—which are strewn carelessly across the room as he peels them off on his way to bed.

Stiles plugs his phone in and tosses it on the nightstand. His mind has provided him with a wonderful image of beard-burn between his thighs, and neither his dick nor his asshole remember that they no longer have a boyfriend to call, so his fist and fingers will have to suffice. With the way his asshole slicks and clenches around nothing, it’s apparently okay with that.

Throwing his covers back, Stiles slides into bed, sighing at the cool sheets against his warm skin. He bites his bottom lip as he looks down his body, takes in the flush over his chest, and the way his nipples pebble in anticipation. His eyes are drawn to the way his dick bobs as his arousal grows. It doesn’t take much to get him hard, never has, and tonight is no exception.

His breath hitches; his legs spread automatically as he presses a finger against his slick-covered rim and pushes it inside. With his other hand, he brushes his thumb over his nipples—left then right—and sighs softly before running his hand down to his stomach, the dark bristles of hair prickling against his palm, until he’s fisting his dick.

Soon the room is filled with a wet, squelching sound as he strokes himself with one hand while pumping two fingers into his hole with the other. His back arches off the bed and he twists his wrist trying to find that spot, that little bundle of nerves that send jolts of electricity through his body, but he groans in frustration because the angle is wrong and his hand is starting to cramp.

His fingers slip out of his ass and he balls his hand in his sheets as he plants his feet and thrusts up into his fist because he can at least do this, he can jerk himself off. Except it’s not enough. He needs more. Something like words of encouragement and praise, a hot breath whispering dirty things into his ear, promises of— Wait.

It creeps forward from the back of his mind, tugging at his subconscious—the promise of a good time.

Stiles grabs his phone, yanking it off the charger, and scrolls through his contacts to find the unknown number. This is probably the stupidest thing he’s ever done and that’s saying a lot considering he once convinced his best friend, Scott, to search the woods for a dead body. Before he can second guess himself, the phone is ringing and his hand is slowly pumping his dick.

There’s a gruff ‘hello’ and Stiles’s brain provides him with the perfect imagery of a guy with dark scruff and muscles. Muscles everywhere. Certainly enough to hold him up or pin him down. He moans and pumps faster because all he can think is wall sex, wall sex, wall sex. “Are you fucking kidding me? Who the fuck is this?”

The hostility of the words should kill his boner but Stiles won’t let it detract from his goal. “Whoever you want me to be,” he says, lowering his voice to a breathy whisper. “Now tell me, what are you wearing?”

“What the fuck? Who is this? What do you want?”

...And there goes his boner. “I was promised a good time,” Stiles says with a pout because there’s only so much yelling he can take. Especially if it’s not the fun, sexy times yelling.

“Oh, I’ll give you a damn good time as soon as I find out who this is. Then I’m gonna go over there and rip your throat out. With my teeth.”

“Mmm... So you're a 'wolf, then. Bet you're an alpha too, huh?” Stiles can’t help the desperate, lust-filled omegan whine that escapes his lips. His body craves an alpha’s touch—this one in particular, who’s rough, throaty growls send extra waves of hot slick gushing from his achingly empty hole. “Bet your big fat alpha knot would fill me up so g—”

There’s a steady beep as the call disconnects. Stiles lets the phone drop to the mattress as he thrusts into his fist because fear boners are a thing and the guy growled in a way that sent a shiver through him, making his dick jump back into action.

The mattress creaks as he writhes on the bed, hips jerking as he mindlessly fucks into his fist. It doesn’t take long before he groans and feels the warmth of his release on his stomach. He blows out a ragged breath and melts into his sheets, too content to move and clean up.

-----

Stiles groans as he blinks awake, head pounding. The sheer curtains do nothing to block the sunlight that streams into the room, blinding him. It hurts his eyes and he curses, wondering why he hasn’t gotten black-out curtains yet. He hates himself, life, and every choice that has brought him to this moment. What the fuck happened last night?

The room spins when Stiles sits up too quickly; though, if he’s being entirely honest, he’s gotten off easy in terms of hangovers. Sure, his head throbs and the dog barking outside is grating on his eardrums, but at least he isn’t nauseous. It’s probably because Scott wasn’t there—and isn’t it ironic that he got dumped on his best bro’s anniversary?—since they tend to try and outdrink each other.

Eventually, the spinning stops. Stiles slides to the edge of the bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes. There’s a clatter on the ground and he looks down where his phone sits on the floor. He must have knocked it off the bed as he moved. It’s a slow exhale as he leans over to pick it up. “Shit,” he says when the screen brightens and shows a 30% charge. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to work today—he also wouldn’t have gone out last night if he did. Stiles has done some pretty stupid things in his life but he’s not a total dumbass. Plus, his father would reprimand him for being so irresponsible.

Speaking of which, it’s almost noon. Stiles should take lunch down to the station since he hasn’t paid his dad a visit in awhile. He also misses chatting with Marge at the front desk—not only does she regale him with tales from the bullpen, but she always keeps him up to date on how often his dad sneaks burgers and curly fries.

Stiles unlocks his phone to send out a quick text asking his father what he wants to eat, even though he’ll get salad regardless, and notices a strange number on his recent call log.

His face scrunches in confusion before realization dawns on him.

Oh shit.

Oh God.

Did he seriously call someone—possibly an alpha werewolf!—for phone sex? And talked about his knot! Stiles has never craved a knot before, never even thought of them since Connor didn’t have one—no human alpha does. Sure, Scott’s mentioned them, talk about a surprise the first time he popped one after being bitten! Google informed them that it’s a trait of alpha werewolves. He facepalms at the memory of begging for the stranger’s knot. Stiles has never done anything so impulsive, he absolutely does not count that impromptu road trip to Mexico during junior year of high school.

Stiles contemplates, albeit briefly, calling the number again and apologizing. Yes, this is a stranger who doesn’t know Stiles from any random person walking down the street, but just knowing someone out there—this person in particular, though he has no idea why—has a negative opinion of him, might think him some kind of pervert, leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

No. Actually, that’s all the alcohol he drank.

The bed creaks as Stiles gets up, his joints popping into place as he stretches his arms above his head. Dried bits of cum flake off his stomach when he scratches at the dark patch of hair below his navel and his thighs stick together from all the slick. “Gross.”

Before heading to the bathroom, Stiles grabs the charging cable from the floor and plugs his phone back in.

Later, he thinks. I’ll call later.

-----

Later comes and goes, and Stiles can’t stop fiddling with his phone. He manages to take a brief break from his pathetic new obsession with staring at his call log when he joins his dad for lunch. Unfortunately, new habits die hard, and, after about ten minutes of small talk, he’s back to staring holes into his phone.

At one point, when Stiles is otherwise occupied taking a particularly large bite of his sandwich, his dad plucks it from his fingers and checks the screen. In exchange for getting his phone back, Stiles has to swallow his pride and promise to let his dad get steak on his salad at their next lunch.

Even Scott notices something is wrong when they hang out—which is saying a lot, considering Scott's mind has been preoccupied with planning his proposal to Allison. Stiles, of course, lies and is eternally grateful when Scott doesn’t call him out on it—despite the fact that his werewolf ears no doubt heard the jump in Stiles’s heartbeat.

It’s not until the sun has set and the street lights come on, casting an eerie yellow glow on his neighborhood, that Stiles decides to bite the bullet and put himself out of his misery. As he jogs from his parking spot to his apartment, he thinks, ‘fuck it,’ and pulls out his phone. The lone unsaved number stands out against his contacts in his call log, making it easy to find. His thumb hovers over the call button as he inhales sharply and finally hits the phone icon before he can chicken out.

After six unanswered rings, Stiles contemplates hanging up and preserving his last remaining shred of dignity while he still can. Just as he’s about to pull the phone away to end the call, there's a click, followed by a threatening, “What.”

Stiles startles, opening and closing his mouth like a fish-he genuinely didn’t expect the victim of his drunken exploits to answer his call...again. “I...you didn’t block my number,” he says dumbly.

There’s a long, drawn out sigh on the other end of the phone, reminiscent of his father when he’s tired of Stiles’s shit. “I don’t know how.” It’s muttered so quietly that Stiles is sure he wasn’t actually meant to hear.

“I can tell you,” Stiles says quickly. “I can tell you how to block numbers.”

“What? Why would you do that?”

“Well, I mean, it’s the least I could do after last night. Which, dude, I am so sorry!” Stiles grunts as he falls back onto his bed. “I got dumped and my friends took me out drinking and I get so fucking stupid sometimes…”

“Don’t call me dude.” There’s rustling followed by an aggrieved sigh before the man speaks again. “How did you even get my number? Who are you?”

“Um, yeah...” Stiles’s face grows hot with embarrassment and he scratches his neck in an old, nervous habit. “I, um, gotitoffabathroomwall?”

“Did you say ‘off a bathroom wall?’”

“Er, yes?” There’s a growl over the line that absolutely should not have slick soaking his boxers, but it does.

“Fucking Erica! I’m gonna kill her!”

Propping himself up on his elbows, Stiles stares down his body, scowling when his dick jumps in his jeans. “Before you go all alpha and start planning out her murder, you should know that I’m the son of a sheriff. I’d be obligated to give my dad your number if any persons with that name suddenly turns out dead.”

There’s a loud snort followed by a cough. “I’ll keep that in mind, little omega.”

Stiles shivers involuntarily at the man’s words, a little too affected by the ease with which this stranger called him little omega.

God, I need to get laid. Thankfully his brain-to-mouth filter kicks in so he doesn’t accidentally say it outloud—something that has been known to happen in the past—because wouldn’t that be embarrassing?

Instead, he asks, “How’d you know that?” as he pulls himself up to a sitting position at his headboard. “That I’m an omega.”

“I heard you last night.” Which, duh, shouldn’t surprise Stiles since he’d already surmised that the guy was an alpha werewolf. “Slick sounds different from lube,” the man admits, though it seems rather reluctant.

“Oh.”

Stiles blushes and groans internally before remembering that the guy can’t see him. When a few seconds of silence pass, he assumes maybe the mystery man hung up on him but as he pulls the phone away from his head to check, a throat clears across the line.

“I’m Stiles,” he says awkwardly.

“Stiles?” It’s clear by the lilt of the man’s voice that he’s amused.

Stiles has heard the phrase ‘what the hell is a Stiles?’ more than enough times to be annoyed so he preempts it by saying, “It’s a nickname. Trust me, buddy. You’d never be able to pronounce the real thing.”

“Okay. I’ll trust you. I’m Derek, by the way.”

Instead of hanging up, they both stay on the line. Stiles learns that Derek hates his friends, specifically this Erica person who is the likely culprit of his phone number ending up on a bathroom door. Apparently, she likes to do whatever she can to keep Derek on his toes. Stiles suggests that maybe Erica did it for his attention but Derek laughs it off, informing him that she’s his beta and happily married to her high school sweetheart—she just thoroughly enjoys making his life a living hell.

The mention of her being Derek’s beta confirms Stiles’s assumptions that Derek is both an alpha and werewolf. Curiosity gets the better of him and, for a moment, he fears it will get awkward to ask about werewolves; so he takes the time to explain that his best friend was bitten in high school. Derek sounds genuinely surprised when Stiles says that Scott doesn’t have a pack.

“That’s why you shouldn’t trust Google, Stiles. You’re his pack,” Derek tells him.

Stiles has a few more questions that Derek takes in stride, readily answering them. The conversation flows freely and easily after that, like they’re old friends catching up. By the time the phone call ends, Stiles completely forgets that he meant to tell Derek how to block his number and falls asleep on the couch.

masterlist - next chapter

#sterek #sterek fic #fandom trumps hate #WIP #for a good time call #chapter one #holy shit i wrote something

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