Sterek One Shots (boyxboy)

Derek And His Technicolour Derision Cloak

Derek And His Technicolor Derision Cloak by bloodscout
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Stiles needs money. He really needs money. He's falling behind on his bills, with Scott having to pick up the slack, and it makes him feel like shit. On top of that, Christmas is coming in a few months, and so is his Scott's birthday, and he doesn't have even have enough for a bottle of second-rate scotch for his Dad. He knows both Scott and his Dad will understand if he doesn't get them presents, but he also knows that they will have presents for him.

Stiles has to use the final few dollars from his last paycheck to log in to the internet café near his house. Why is he in an internet café, you ask? Oh, that's right, he gave up his internet connection a month ago because he couldn't afford the damned bill.

Stiles has an hour, and the first place he goes is his email. He lets out a frustrated groan that elicits a surprised yelp from the WoW player next to him. There are no emails in his inbox, which means that no-one was under the impression that the oddly-named Garsteaode Stilinski was worth a job offer.

Damn.

Stiles was now back at square one, and he opened up the local classifieds in a new tab. A small fanciful part of him still thought that maybe someone would email him while he was searching, unexpectedly offering him a high paying job that was both easy and fit into his tight schedule. The majority of him, however, felt only distain and resentment toward that - spectuacularly foolish - part.

Stiles saw calls for taxi drivers, - 'no car,' he muttered darkly, as the WoW guy looked on worriedly - plumbers - 'no qualifications,' he hissed - and dancers - 'and definitely no grace.' he snorted finally. Now the owner of the store has joined the twitchy gamer, and was also concernedly observing the strange - possibly insane - man who was at computer terminal two. Stiles whined and slumped back into his supposedly posturepedic chair, scrolling half-heartedly through the ads. He is just about to close both tabs and pay a visit to his sorely neglected Facebook account when his eyes catch on an ad.

MALE MODEL WANTED

Stiles snorts, because obviously he's not eligible for the position. He knows what male models look like, and he is most certainly not one of them. But he doesn't close the tab though, because maybe he might get a laugh out of this. He's wound up over exams and finances and friends, he needs to take humour when it's given to him.

Artist's model needed.

Wednesday & Thursday nights, 7-10pm

$50 per hour

Call D. Hale 555-XXX-XXX

Stiles stares at the ad for a while. He doesn't know how qualified he would be to be an artist's model, but the pay is really, really good - $300 a week good. He quickly scribbles the number on his hand, closes out of the tabs like he's erasing the evidence, and logs out of the session with thirty minutes of connection still left. He's got the possibility of an extra job - he can afford to waste a few quarters.

~

Stiles calls the mysterious 'D. Hale' from Scott's phone when he gets back to the apartment. For the billionth time, he thanks the universe that Scott had prioritized calls to Allison over online COD and had invested in unlimited talk and text for his phone.

The dialing tone makes him nervous, not only because he really needs this job, but also because there is apparently a part of Stiles that is secretly a teenage girl and is imagining D. Hale as a tall, dark, handsome stranger.

'Hello.' A gruff voice greets him. His fantasy is instantly shatter, because the guy sounds pissed off.

'Hi, I'm Stiles Stilinski, I'm calling about your ad in the paper?'