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Summary
Stiles has a tendency to make stupid bets. It’s probably the amounts of beer he’s drunk since starting college that’s playing with his brain cells, but it seems very easy to start making bets when you’re three sheets to the wind, and then when he loses, he doesn’t like not to honor said bets. He’s kind of an upstanding guy that way.
Which is the exact reason why he’s now crossing the threshold of Beacon Hills’ tattoo parlor, all the while feeling a little queasy. And there is Derek. Derek Hale, on the other side of the counter, with ink stained fingers and a look between confusion and disbelief on his face. What is Derek doing here?