Don’t // Druig X Eternalfem Reader

This is my plea for more Thiam v. Pack angst fics !

You totally do not want to get in between Glen Powell and Zoey Deutch when they’re competing cos they’re totally brutal and savage with each other and everything else is collateral xD… // Set It Up | Cast Takes The Assistant Challenge | Netflix

Two’s Company, Four’s a Crowd // Robert “Bob” Floyd

Based off of: the Hot Writer Summer Challenge hosted by @mermaidxatxheart

TW: drinking, reference to sex

Prompt: “It never stops hurting, does it?” “What?” “Giving someone the best of you and watching them choose someone else.”

Addtl. information: background Hangster, background unrequited!Rooster x Reader, background unrequited!Floydsin; your callsign is Mercury

TOP GUN MASTERLIST // ROBERT “BOB” FLOYD MASTERLIST // BRADLEY “ROOSTER” BRADSHAW MASTERLIST

It’s been a month since the newly-minted Dagger Squadron has been back from the leave following the debriefing, the group of fifteen—fourteen if you don’t count Maverick—having been permanently assigned out of North Island NAS following the mission completion. It’s near the end of the day, and the group has been dismissed, each heading back to their dorms—nicer than last time, as they’re all single-person. You decide to get some cleaning done while the others shower, knowing that you’d rather wait until they’ve cleared out and not have to deal with fighting for the next spot in line.

You put some music on as you work, humming along. You had had some friends in your room for a movie night last night, and hadn’t really had a chance to clean up after they left until now. Needless to say, it’s a mess. You forgot how slobby your friends can be.

As you deal with the trash and food and various other objects left behind, you find a jacket that you instantly recognize as Rooster’s, passed down from his dad via Maverick back when Bradley was taking care of his mom. Checking the time, you sigh; it’s too late now, you’ll give it back to him tomorrow morning.

And so, the next day, in regulation makeup and bun, you head over to Bradley’s room, aviator jacket in hand. You raise your hand to knock just as the door opens, and you’re met with a barely-awake Jake Seresin.

“Merc,” he greets, unfazed at your presence.

“Sup,” you respond lamely, glancing away awkwardly. You’re tense, unsure of how best to react to this… development.

“Roose, you got company,” the Texan calls back into the dorm.

Rooster appears suddenly, hair mussed and shirtless. You keep your eyes decidedly straight ahead, taking every ounce of self control not to glance down. “Uh, here,” you tell him, thrusting your hand forward. “You left this last night.”

“Thanks.” He takes it, rubbing the back of his neck as you stand there, flushed and tense.

“I’ll, uh,” you finger gun awkwardly. “Let you guys get back to whatever you were doing. Uh, I’ve got concealer in shades that should fit each of you, if you want. Don’t ask why, I have like every skin shade concealer ever. But, uh, yeah.”

“Thanks,” Jake responds with a wink. “We probably need it.”

“Right.” You jut your thumb behind you, beginning to back away. “I’ll, uh, I’ll just go now.” Swiftly, you turn, making sure you’re in the comfort of your room before you allow yourself to break down.

You see, you’ve been in love with Bradley Bradshaw for years. It began when you were just starting out, assigned to the same squadron as him. You had a friendly rivalry for a little while that soon turned into a genuine close friendship. Then, he got called to Top Gun, where he met Hangman and Phoenix. You had already had a crush on him for a little while; had come out to each other as bi; had had a crush for long enough that you knew it surpassed the usual definition. You weren’t an idiot; he loves you platonically, not romantically. Still, you’re quite accomplished at hiding your feelings, continuing to be the best friend, secretly pining. Intellectually, you know he isn’t interested. And yet you naïvely held out hope.

Now, you’re facing the consequences of doing so; the results of your optimism. Jake and Bradley are together—as anyone could have seen coming—and you’re in the best friend zone. Where you’ll stay. You were Bradley’s therapist when he ‘hated’ Hangman; his confidant when he began to come to terms with how much he loved liked the fellow pilot; and you’re sure you’ll be there for the rest of it.

Fuck.

A knock on your door breaks you from your misery. You quickly take measures to make sure you don’t look like you’ve just been crying before opening it to reveal Hangman.

“Hey, what’s up?”

He rubs his neck awkwardly. “Were you, uh, serious about the concealer?”

“Yeah, of course.” You open the door wider, letting him in, before digging through your makeup container. You quickly find a few shades that you think might work, having him hold his arm out for you to test them. Once you’ve figured it out, you pass him the container and applicator, assuming he’ll show himself out.

He doesn’t.

He just stands there awkwardly, watching you clean up. Finally, you’re fed up with it. “Need something else?”

“Just, uh… you won’t tell anybody about, uh, me and Bradley, right?”

You pause and meet his eyes, winking. “Tell them what?”

Jake smirks cockily, eyes showing how relieved he feels. “Thanks, Mercury. Real trooper.”

“My pleasure.” With that, he takes his leave, concealer in hand, and you’re left to finish getting ready.

That evening, you sit alone at the bar at the Hard Deck, sipping your drink and watching Rooster and Hangman play pool across the way.

“You caught them?” Comes a voice from your side. You start, beer spilling and dripping on your shirt.

“Shit,” you curse, immediately grabbing napkins. “Can’t sneak up on me like that, Bobert.”

“Sorry,” Bob apologizes, passing you more napkins to assist.

It’s then that you process. “How long have you known?”

He shrugs. “A while. They’re really bad at being discreet, I’ve gone to shower and had to turn around far too many times.”

You furrow your brows. “Do you think anyone else knows?”

“Nah,” he refuted pensively. “If Nat did she’d’ve told me, the rest would be spreading the information if they knew and are generally oblivious. Maybe Coyote, that’d be the one exception.”

“Gotcha,” you nod, humming in consideration. The jukebox cuts out suddenly, and Phoenix appears to drag Bob to the piano to dance with her as Rooster plays. You sip from the drink in your hand as you watch, pang in your heart as Rooster grins over at Hangman, who subtly winks back. Unable to take it, you swallow down the last of the contents of the bottle, waving down one of the bartenders on shift and getting a refill before heading out the back door of the Hard Deck.

You stare up at the sky from your spot in the sand, sitting with your knees hugged to your chest. The moon’s normally benevolent brilliance seems to mock you now, the former source of comfort now its antonym. Its light scatters across the waves, pushing and pulling them, prodding them in and out, in and out. Coming closer but never touching, receding but never disappearing, only to start the process over again. You don’t know how long you sit there, condensation on the bottle as you peel at the label, zoning out and staring into the darkness of the open sea where you can’t tell where the sky ends and the water begins in the navy midnight.

You feel rather than see the shifting of sand, gentle breeze floating through your hair as someone sits beside you. You know who it is without looking.

“It hurts, doesn’t it.”

Your answer is silence as you both watch the water, minds and hearts stuck inside the brightly lit bar as you sit in barely-illuminated darkness.

Bob takes a sip of his own beer before he elaborates at your unspoken behest. “Giving someone the best of you and watching them choose someone else.”

“Yeah.” You glance backwards, easily spotting Rooster and Hangman dancing together, grins more blinding than the sun’s reflection off a car. You watch them for a moment, every second breaking you anew, over and over, Prometheus of the heart. Living through the pain of it slowly chipping away, the pain of it growing anew, the process as repetitious and torrent as the tide in a storm.

You shift to look at Bob, the light from the bar illuminating his back and casting a shadow over his face. The dim moonlight barely gives you enough to make out his silhouette; the bridge of his nose, curls of his hair.

“You love him, don’t you?”

Your words are quiet but meaningful, mind going to the resident Texan. Bob sighs, glancing down and picking at the label on his drink.

“Yeah.” No explanation is needed. “But he’s with…”

“Bradley. Who is with…”

“Jake.”

Your mutual pain overwhelms the two of you, a tsunamic version of the waves before you, leaving you drowning, swimming up and up and up in an attempt to breach the surface but disoriented and only descending further into the murky depths of loss and love, of the juxtaposition betwixt the two. You don’t realize that your snapping your hair band against your wrist until Bob reaches out and covers it gently, effectively barring it from happening further.

“I get it,” he says eventually, breaking the silence, the dark void. His voice breaks in turn. “I really, really do.”

You shift to rest your head on his shoulder. “It fucking hurts, Bobby.”

“I know,” he agrees, tears dripping onto your hair as your own find their way to his shirt. He shifts to bring an arm around you, pulling you into an embrace. You cling to each other, a lifeline, a tether, the only thing keeping the both of you from falling fully and never resurfacing. “Christ.” He laughs wetly.

And so you stay like that. You don’t know how much time passes as you sit in the sand, wind picking up until it’s stinging your skin, but you stay nonetheless, unbothered. Neither of you can bring yourselves to drag back into the bar, into the light and the revelry that so clearly exists as if in defiance of your pain and pining. So you stay in the darkness, soaking up comfort from your friend as he does the same. It’s a sort of mutualism, a dependency, a bond forged in the sudden knowledge of the other, of being two in the same broken self-isolation. There’s a heavy feeling, as if you’re the only ones stranded on a desert island; as if you’re the last two survivors following total apocalypse; two people in a frozen, barren, monotone wasteland, huddling together for warmth, for survival.

“I hate this.”

“Me, too.”

“It fucking sucks.”

You sigh against him. “Yeah,” you agree quietly, “it does.”

When you wake the next morning, your head is pounding. Memories filter in as slowly as the light through the blinds, forming a path on the carpeted floor. You had gotten drunk with Bob—not drunk to where you were blackout, but drunk to where you both had extremely limited brain power.

Which is when you realize—your bedroom floor is hardwood. Not carpet. Right. You groan as your mind flashes back to after a few too many shots of tequila—it always messes with your decision-making abilities.

“Bobby.”

“Hm?”

“I jus- jus’ had the greatest idea. Like, of all ever. Like, I’m a fu-” You pause, hiccuping, “fucking genius.”

“What?”

“We,” you gesture to the both of you, Bob in a very similar state to you. “Should fuck. Y’know, we’re both heartbroken, we both wanna get laid, problem solved.”

“Tha-” He stands, almost falling off of his bad stool in the process. You two giggle together at his mishap, the man quickly righting himself. “That’s genius.”

Which is how you’re here now. Thankfully, you two had had the wherewithal to take a cab to Bob’s place, and apparently made good on your decision, if the ache between your legs is anything to go by. And the dried-on-

You decide to not waste time on it and just shower. Passing by a mirror, you note the marks on you. Jesus, Bobby. Last night wasn’t great by any means—you were both incredibly drunk; there were, inevitably, a lot of coordination struggles. Yet he made you finish—more than what you can say for a lot of people—so you can’t help but wonder what he’s like sober.

You’re pleasantly surprised to see that Bob isn’t the kind of guy to have three-in-one shampoo. Sure, you’re stuck with men’s shampoo and body wash, but you make do; there’s not really an option to not.

A knock sounds at the bathroom door. “Y/n?”

“Yes?”

“Just checking. Is it okay if I brush my teeth while you shower?”

So sweet. “Sure thing.” Which reminds you… “Sorry about not asking.”

“No, no, it’s fine. Mi casa es su casa ‘n all that.”

“Thank you.” You hesitate, then add, “You don’t have to wait to shower. We’ve already seen each other naked,” you joke, to lighten the heaviness of your offer.

There’s silence for a moment, and you know Bob is processing, shocked. Then, shuffling, and cold air hits you as the door is pulled back. Bob is one of the lucky ones—he has a house on base instead of a dorm, which comes with its own bathroom. More than one.

You shiver, goosebumps erupting across your skin at the sudden change in temperature. You pass Bob the shampoo as you grab the body wash, wincing when you note your handiwork.

“Sorry.”

His grin doesn’t reach his eyes. “I did worse.”

You shrug it off, an attempt at comfort. “It’s fine, really.”

“If you’re sure.” You know it’s a deflection, but don’t know how to approach it. So you don’t.

“Want some help?” He offers as you struggle to get all of the places on your back.

“Yes, please.” You turn, rinsing your hands of the wash before balling up your shampooed hair so it won’t touch it, allowing Bob access to your back.

His touch is gentle, light, as he rubs it in, pressure growing as he massages your skin. You let out a soft moan at the feel, tension releasing, causing his movements to stutter but not stop. Once finished, he steps away.

Dropping your hair, you let the water run over you, miniature rivulets across your skin as you tilt your head back, eyes closed. “Want me to do you?”

He nods slowly, hesitantly. You’re gentle in your ministrations, treading lightly over the scratches on his marked-up back. “Hey.” Your voice is gentle as you turn him back to you, moving your hands to cup his face as you gaze at him with concern. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” His attempt at a reassuring smile falls flat.

“Bob, seriously.” Your hand runs up to play with his hair. “What’s wrong?”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard, droplets of water forming on his lashes that are decidedly not from the shower currently cascading over your back. “It’s…” He trails off, but further speech is unnecessary as it clicks into place.

“Oh, Bob.” In an instant, you’ve pulled him into a tight embrace, one arm rubbing comfortingly along his back while the other cups the back of his head, cradling it gently and bringing it to rest on the crook of your neck. His body shakes against yours with the force of his sobs. Last night, he had held you as you cried in his bed, the sting of unrequited love washing over you as surely as the water from the spout does. Now, it’s your turn to do the same, holding him close and lending what little you have as comfort through the waves of loss and pain.

Eventually, you’re both drying off together, and Bob finally speaks, having said less than a word since the shower.

“It hurts.”

“I know.”

“I hate living like this.”

“I know.” And you do. You do know. You know what it’s like to watch the person you love be happy with someone other than yourself, to have the internal war of he’s so happy, be happy for him versus but he could be happy with me.

You know.

Somehow, your one-time tryst turns into a thing. Most nights, you’re either at Bob’s house, or he’s at your dorm. You two usually tend towards the former; there’s far more privacy when you’re not sharing a hallway with a bunch of your coworkers.

And you were right—he’s fucking amazing sober. You by no means expected Bob to be this good.

You two don’t label it. In your minds, you’re just friends; if you had to put a name on it, you’d both say something along the lines of ‘fuck buddies’. As it is, though, your friendship is platonic. In these stolen midnight moments of seclusion is found a sort of mutualistic comfort, two lost souls grasping at straws to avoid being fully enveloped in the soul-sucking black hole of the agony of unrequited love, two twin thin threads tethering themselves together in an attempt at survival.

Soon, the veiled, darkened gentleness begins to come out into the light. Moments between flights, sitting on the tarmac together after a set of push-ups, knees to your chest as the sun begins its burning descent. Then, this tentatively budding friendship between you grows bolder, more courageous, spreading; appearing in your passings in the afternoon sky, sun riding high; in the morning brightness, sitting together in the rec room and lazily listening to the flights of the others; at noon when the sun is at its apex and the two of you eat lunch together. It’s a new familiarity that you grab onto with everything you have, clinging for dear life to this one thing as Bradley spends more of his time with Jake. Phoenix and Halo tend to hang out more and more as well, so the both of you are left alone to find solace and camaraderie from each other, mutually abandoned.

And so, the darkness slowly fades to light. The sun that set on your friendship with Bradley as he and Jake become Rooster-and-Hangman, a unit, not two separate beings, slowly dawns with Bob by your side.

And yet you cling to the night.

It’s subconscious, really; not a matter of thought. Yet, as much as you push against the current, you’re swept out, pulled deeper into the riptide until you’ve forgotten what it was like to not be. Holding on to and throwing away in equal measure, a yo-yo of emotion as you’re tossed to and fro like a football in the hands of a group of middle school boys.

You’re a pendulum, swinging back and forth from height to height; the human Newton’s Cradle. And you don’t know how to get yourself stop moving.

You feel the bed shift as Bob rejoins you, pulling you flush with his chest as your legs tangle together. He spoons you from behind, tracing your arm lightly while gently kissing the parts of your jaw and neck to which he has access.

“If you don’t stop that we’re not getting any sleep,” you grumble, not opening your eyes.

You can feel the reverberations of his chuckles through your back, the man pausing in his ministrations. “Sorry,” he responds, not apologetic in the slightest. He resumes the path of his fingers, up and down, trailing across your arm with a feather-light touch.

You two lay there in silence, the only sound that of breathing as you’re lost in your minds, separate, miles away, despite the physical closeness. Finally, Bob breaks the silence, quietly, tentatively.

“Hey.”

“Hmm?”

“What is,” he pauses, subconsciously running his tongue over his lips to wet them as he tries and fails to come up with a better way to say what he means, “…this?”

Confused, you shift your body so that your head can turn easily and meet his eyes. “What is what?”

“This.” He gestures between you two. “Us.”

A cold, sinking feeling forms in the bottom of your stomach. No. Please, no. You decide to play dumb, opting for humor. “We’re friends who fuck. Fuck friends.”

He shakes his head, scoffing as his eyes meet the ceiling. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

Unfortunately, you do.

Unsatisfied with your silence, Bob presses the subject. “Y/n. Please.”

“Just stop, okay?” You grumble, shifting your body to face away from him.

He sighs. Shuffling is heard, and then he’s resting his head by the crook of your neck. “Just… talk to me?”

“Please,” you beg. Your eyes trace the outlines of the blinds over the windows, one after the other. When he doesn’t move, you move yourself. It’s… easier. To speak when you can’t see the target, to think when he’s not taking up every crevice of your physicality and mind.

Finally, you begin speaking, words weighted carefully until they begin tumbling from you without inspection. “You’re… a good guy, Robert.” The rare usage of his given name is a glimmer of how serious you are in the moment. “You deserve better. You deserve someone who can love you completely. Fully. Be completely, utterly in love and devoted. And I…” you hesitate, swallowing hard. “I can’t do that.”

“You think I deserve better.” His voice is rough as he repeats the phrase, a question phrased as a statement.

You nod your confirmation, feeling his eyes burning into the back of your head.

“Y/n… you are better. Better than I deserve.”

“That is categorically untrue, Bob.”

“See,” he chuckles with no humor, “that’s the thing.” He rolls over, and is hovering above you suddenly, resting his arms on either side of your head as he pushes himself up above you. Instinctively, you shift to lie flat on your back, gazing up into his intensely blue eyes. “You seem to think that just because Rooster was too blind to see everything amazing about you, that that means that it’s not there. Not that no one will, but that you imagined it. And that? That’s what’s ‘categorically untrue’. You deserve someone who loves you fully, completely, unfetteredly.”

“And you’re not the same?”

He chuckles with no humor. “Maybe. Probably. I just… with everything else going on, I don’t have the energy to care. If we can have something good, I can’t spend so much time on how what’s good can go bad. You have to take it sometimes. And… what you said goes both ways. I don’t know if I’d ever fully be able to give you my heart—Jake might have too much that I’ll never get back. But… I think that the possible good outweighs what can go bad. I think it’s worth it to at least try.”

“What happens when it doesn’t work? When we inevitably lose each other? You’re all I’ve got left, Bobby, I can’t.”

He scoffs, dropping back to your side and staring up at the ceiling. “That’s bullshit. We can’t lose each other just as easily with this? I mean, what’s the difference? We’re practically dating already, Mercury. Wake the fuck up.”

“We’re not!” You explode, sitting up in bed and hugging the sheets to you for comfort. “We’re not! We’re friends. There’s a difference.”

“If I go down tomorrow, you’re telling me it’s not going to hurt the same way it would if we were dating?”

That’s not what I meant, you want to say, followed by, yes. But your tongue tangles, ties, lips stalling, either unwilling or incapable of movement for anything other than what comes out. “No.”

“Christ,” Bob murmurs, more to himself than you as he runs a hand through his hair. “See, this right now? You’re pushing me away.” His voice turns desperate as he shifts to look at you, hand falling away. “Please, just stay. Stay with me. Everything else has gone to shit, can’t we just have this?”

“Bob…” You can’t. You can’t do this. So, you say as much. “I-” you glance away, at where your fingers fiddle with a thread falling from the hemline of your shirt. “I can’t.”

His voice drops, softening, as gentle as a light caress. “Do you want this?”

“This?” You hesitate. “Yes. Do I want the inevitable fallout?” You glance back, meeting his eyes once more as your breathing quickens. “No. I can’t handle that. I can’t handle not being enough, not being what you deserve, not-”

“Hey.” He reaches a hand up to cup your cheek. “Deep breaths.” Exaggerating his own, he waits until you’re back to normal before continuing. “Are you willing to deal with me not being enough? Not being able to give you all of me, give you everything you should have?”

“Of course. I mean, I object to the premise-”

“Then why wouldn’t I?”

His words are like the eye of the storm, the moment of calmness at the center of the whirlwind. They still you, slamming on the breaks of your brain so fast that you get whiplash, coming to a stop. You lay there for a moment, eyes and mind distant, Bob’s hand tracing it’s way down your cheekfacejawneckshoulderarm.

Finally, he breaks the silence, voice even and easy as he brings you back to earth. “Are you willing?”

“Always.” The answer is quick but unsure, the emotion in it a dead give away of vulnerability. You try to mask it but don’t have a chance before Bob has pushed himself up, the gentleness in his touch simultaneously directly in line with and directly in contrast with the kiss that he <plants> on you.

He pulls away gently, resting his forehead on yours. “Thank you.” The words are whispered but an olive branch, a trade off to the peek behind your mask.

Your hand comes up to brush away a tear that slips from his eyes, resting on his cheek. A bleary smile, and you respond, “Always.” Which, much to your pleasant surprise, turned out to be true.

Always.

Robert Bob Floyd Taglist

@ireadthensuetheauthors @notanordinaryprincess95

Bradley Rooster Bradshaw Taglist

@itscheybaby @monkeyyellowsunshine @yogabigooby @halfofwhatisayismeaningless @babyhoneystvles @evanthefunky @fangirl-316 @marvel-f1-and-more @arieltwvdtohamflash @shouldershimmycity @someone-pls-kill-me @claudie-080102 @straightforwardly @fandomstanner24 @gaedre @worldmadeofmemories @blue-aconite @fangirlofallthings22 @dempy @iefitzgerald-blog @mizzy-pop @rrrinaa @averyhotchner @smokey102 @haljordangreenjedi @littlebadariell @hope-love-equality2 @chaoticassidy @lunamoonbby

Top Gun Taglist

@4margaritasalex @blessupblessup @n3ssm0nique @luxebeautystyle @americaarse @datingbtr @qardasngan @earth-to-lottie @luckyladycreator2 @paintballkid711 @lt-b-rooster-bradshaw @wanderingmaximoffs

General Taglist

@thelifeofthelifeofme @falcvns @get0ut0fmyr00m

a concept that i've been exploring off and on for the last 8 years is the idea that blake and hunter live in a really shitty apartment that's like literally falling apart (bc they literally make min wage at storm chargers and they live off it somehow?) and lowkey gross (bc blake and hunter are adolescents who arent masters of taking care of themselves yet and also athletes/superheroes who SWEAT... A LOT...).

and blake is super proud of that apartment bc hes like "THIS IS OURS! WE PROVIDE THIS FOR OURSELVES!" but hunter has a lot of defensive class anxiety and won't let any of the other rangers come over and see it bc nothing he ever does feels like its enough when hes supposed to be the one taking care of blake (even though hes literally one year older).

Faces

this is a happy face    :-)

this is a sad face        :-(

this is Voldemorts face          :)

Family business (Reader!Winchester x Spencer Reid)

Requested by: Anon, Forever tag: @missmelodramatic, @spxce-frxckles​, @theletterhart​, @alex–awesome–22​, @elllie-does-the-posts​, @floatlosers​, @coupsnflower​, @edgysewerrat​, @queen-of-books​, @glimmering-darling-dolly​, @denkisclown​, @lov3ontour

Read part 2 here!​ & part 3 here! & part 4 & part 5 & part 6

Spencer entered sighing loud as he threw a casefile on the salon table. You were startled by it, coming out of your comfy position where you had curled your feet up with you in the sofa. You watched as Spencer lifted your feet up, coming to sit where they laid. You lifted your upper body a bit up to see what you could read on the file. Spencer let his head fall back, closing his eyes for a moment while his hands rested on your legs. – “You okay Spence?” – you asked, moving a bit of hair aside, then moving your thumb to his jawline to touch him. – “I have no clue.” – said he, slowly opening his eyes. You bit your lip, glancing over to the thick casefile on the salon table. – “May I?” – you asked, needing permission to read the rapport. Spencer shrugged his shoulders, letting you know it was alright. You grinned, seating yourself better as you reached for the casefile. It felt heavy as you picked it up with one hand. Groaning a bit, focused you on not letting it drop on the floor. You retrieved your feet from Spencer’s lap, sitting up straight. You opened the casefile, careful that nothing fell out. On the left were some notes and photo’s clipped onto the side. On the right of the file were paper after paper, giving details about the case.

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I'm watching for the plot

The Plot:

CHAPTER FIVE! 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, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Drinking, Past Stiles Stilinski/Original Character(s), Masturbation, Meet-Ugly, Alpha Derek Hale, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Wrong number, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Sexual Tension, Wolf Derek Hale, Hunting and Providing, 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, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, Mates, Mating Bites, Moving In Together, Erica Reyes is a Little Shit, Fandom Trumps Hate 2020 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?

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genuinely though what the fuck was going on in tommy's head. "now that the competition is gone" bitch you're standing in his house. he's in the fucking walls.