Teen wolf: Sterek AU - PG-13 - Drabble
Stiles thinks this is the best idea he's ever had right up until the moment he passes his fake ID to the bartender and gets a steely scowl in return. Shit with a side of holy crap! Danny promised him it would work! Stiles decides maybe he can salvage this and grins at the guy, "I know. I'm totally older than I look."
The bartender, who has this really not at all awesome (but okay, maybe sort of awesome in a way that Stiles is really jealous of) scruff all over his face, side-eyes him silently and ducks down behind the bar. When he comes back up, he's holding a gigantic pair of scissors. So gigantic that Stiles wonders if the guy's ever killed anyone with him. Is he going to kill Stiles? No, okay. He's just going to cut Stiles' fake into a zillion tiny pieces.
"Aw, man! Seriously?" Stiles asks, picking up the shards in one hand and dropping them back onto the bar. It makes him a little sad that he can't hear the noise they make over the thumping rhythm of the dance music. "Come on! I just wanted a little liquid courage! For the guy-ladies! For the ladies! Is that so wrong?" Keep it together, Stiles! You're just here to browse, maybe figure a few things out. Play it cool!
The bartender leans over toward him, those badass scissors mysteriously gone somewhere (probably back under the bar while Stiles was mourning $150 of his hard-earned birthday money) and says, "It is when you're what? Seventeen?"
"Sixteen, thank you very much," Stiles replies before he realizes what he's done. "Shit, I mean eighteen. Yep. That's me. Stiles, the eighteen-year-old."
The bartender points over Stiles' shoulder and growls, "Get out of my bar."
"But-!"
"Get out of my bar before I call the cops." The bartender stares at Stiles with this glare that's both pants-wetting-ly terrifying and totally, insanely sexy. Then his message sinks in and Stiles remembers who will likely answer that call. Shit.
"Yeah, so I gotta run. It was nice meeting you ..." Stiles gestures toward the man, telling him to supply his name. He doesn't. He just sits there with that no-nonsense scowl and those fullish-looking lips and those are things Stiles can think about later when he's not in danger of his dad catching him out at a bar. "O-kay! Alright. Have a nice night!"
Stiles gets two steps from the bar before the bartender calls over the music, "Hey, kid!"
Of course Stiles whips around as fast as he possibly can and ends up overshooting like a complete dork, spinning all the way around again until he ends up facing the bartender. The guy's leaning on the bar and oh, dear, sweet Jesus, those are some insane arm muscles. Stiles wonders if the bartender ever played lacrosse, because with those guns, man he could definitely shoot plenty of goals. Stiles shakes himself out of his awkward staring and raises his brows at the guy to get him to finish his thoughts.
"Name's Derek. Come back when you're legal, 'kay?"
Did ... did the hot bartender guy just fucking say that to Stiles? He must have, because Stiles is walking backward with his mouth open and tripping over his feet, barely avoiding a collision with the ground. "Um, yeah, sure. I'll do that. See you next year, Derek!"
As Stiles beats a hasty retreat, he thinks he hears over the music, "At least two, you little shit!" but he can't be sure. They like the music really loud in that bar. Stiles grins to himself and does a little dance as he goes back to his car. It's not a victory, but it's not a total defeat, either.
Part 2
The bartender, who has this really not at all awesome (but okay, maybe sort of awesome in a way that Stiles is really jealous of) scruff all over his face, side-eyes him silently and ducks down behind the bar. When he comes back up, he's holding a gigantic pair of scissors. So gigantic that Stiles wonders if the guy's ever killed anyone with him. Is he going to kill Stiles? No, okay. He's just going to cut Stiles' fake into a zillion tiny pieces.
"Aw, man! Seriously?" Stiles asks, picking up the shards in one hand and dropping them back onto the bar. It makes him a little sad that he can't hear the noise they make over the thumping rhythm of the dance music. "Come on! I just wanted a little liquid courage! For the guy-ladies! For the ladies! Is that so wrong?" Keep it together, Stiles! You're just here to browse, maybe figure a few things out. Play it cool!
The bartender leans over toward him, those badass scissors mysteriously gone somewhere (probably back under the bar while Stiles was mourning $150 of his hard-earned birthday money) and says, "It is when you're what? Seventeen?"
"Sixteen, thank you very much," Stiles replies before he realizes what he's done. "Shit, I mean eighteen. Yep. That's me. Stiles, the eighteen-year-old."
The bartender points over Stiles' shoulder and growls, "Get out of my bar."
"But-!"
"Get out of my bar before I call the cops." The bartender stares at Stiles with this glare that's both pants-wetting-ly terrifying and totally, insanely sexy. Then his message sinks in and Stiles remembers who will likely answer that call. Shit.
"Yeah, so I gotta run. It was nice meeting you ..." Stiles gestures toward the man, telling him to supply his name. He doesn't. He just sits there with that no-nonsense scowl and those fullish-looking lips and those are things Stiles can think about later when he's not in danger of his dad catching him out at a bar. "O-kay! Alright. Have a nice night!"
Stiles gets two steps from the bar before the bartender calls over the music, "Hey, kid!"
Of course Stiles whips around as fast as he possibly can and ends up overshooting like a complete dork, spinning all the way around again until he ends up facing the bartender. The guy's leaning on the bar and oh, dear, sweet Jesus, those are some insane arm muscles. Stiles wonders if the bartender ever played lacrosse, because with those guns, man he could definitely shoot plenty of goals. Stiles shakes himself out of his awkward staring and raises his brows at the guy to get him to finish his thoughts.
"Name's Derek. Come back when you're legal, 'kay?"
Did ... did the hot bartender guy just fucking say that to Stiles? He must have, because Stiles is walking backward with his mouth open and tripping over his feet, barely avoiding a collision with the ground. "Um, yeah, sure. I'll do that. See you next year, Derek!"
As Stiles beats a hasty retreat, he thinks he hears over the music, "At least two, you little shit!" but he can't be sure. They like the music really loud in that bar. Stiles grins to himself and does a little dance as he goes back to his car. It's not a victory, but it's not a total defeat, either.
Part 2