Sterek One Shots

got the walls kicking

got the walls kicking by dansunedisco

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Stiles woke up drunk. It was the only explanation as to why he didn't immediately wake up, puke his guts out, and then die. He'd had so much—so much—to drink last night.

Lydia had kept passing her unwanted drinks off to him whenever they were bought for her, and Scott had kept offering him "sips" of his (and Stiles had to dutifully take long, large gulps because Scott could not handle five tequila sunrises, three long islands, and two blue frogs on his own. It was a bro code mandate). Not to mention the pre-gaming their crew gotten up to a Kira's before they had all crammed into a too-small cab and went to the club. Summer break reunions were capital-A awesome, but Stiles wasn't eighteen anymore. When his hangover caught up to him and his liver, he knew he would be wrecked.

He pulled himself out of the comfort of his bed, scratching idly at his stomach, eyes half-lidded and lazy, and promptly walked into the doorjamb. Stiles bounced backwards, scrabbling to steady himself on the dresser, and immediately dropped into panic mode because he wasn't supposed to have a dresser there.

In fact, he didn't even have a dresser in his old bedroom anymore. His dad had kept the old bed and the desk, but had mostly converted Stiles's childhood bedroom into an office after he'd gone to college and officially moved out. He spun around, which was a mistake because whoa, dizzy.

"This is not my room," he croaked, raising his hands to his face in horror. "Holy. Shit. Fuck."

He was alone, thankfully, but there was no knowing how long that would last. A pile that looked like his clothes were lying haphazardly on the ground, and he scrambled to hop into his jeans lest the owner of the bedroom waltz in. Because Stiles absolutely, totally, did not at all remember going home with anyone, nor spending the night, presumably getting it on. He didn't feel like he had had sex, though; just felt a little achy and out of it, but he was sure that had more to do with the alcohol leaving his system. But, just to be safe, he didn't want his first sober encounter with her—or him, who knew?—to be done in the nude.

He grabbed his cell and shot off a message to Scott, who was supposed to look after him and was totally going to die when Stiles saw him next. who did i go home w/ last night?!

Scott texted back within two minutes. DEREK. HALE. details? but nothing specific !

Stiles whimpered. "Oh no."

Derek Hale had been a few grades above Stiles and his friends in high school. He'd been one of the popular kids. Not because he'd flaunted it (unlike Jackson Whittemore, that douche), but because he was... good. Everyone had liked him. He'd played basketball, sat second chair violin in band, and never let anyone pick on anyone for who they were or what they liked to do. He'd ruled the school with deftly sculpted eyebrows, the king of cool.

It didn't hurt that he'd totally been the best looking teenager in Beacon Hills, either. Or that he was the son of the town's mayor, Talia Hale.

Stiles had nursed a low-level crush on him for years. But Derek had graduated and gone to college in New York before Stiles could confess. They hadn't been close—exchanging Facebook messages every now and then, or hanging out by proxy because his younger sister, Cora, ran in Stiles's social group. Sometimes.

But it had been a solid year since he'd last seen the guy and now he was, allegedly, in his bedroom. He needed to get out, and fast, while he still had a shred of dignity left. He slipped out of the room and tiptoed down the hall. The apartment was spacious and sparsely decorated, with only a few picture frames hanging here and there like afterthoughts.