Claiming Rights (Teen Wolf, Peter/Stiles)

Stiles wakes up in a bedroom not his own. He jolts upright and stares at his surroundings. He’s in a room that looks like it was taken directly out of a home décor magazine. Everything’s in light colors—tan wood, pale blue walls, blue and white linens. There’s a fucking quilt on the bed. There’s also absolutely nothing personal about the room, nothing to tell him whose room he’s in or, more importantly, why he’s there. It wasn’t sex, that’s for sure. The last person—the only person—he’s slept with was… better not thought about.

He crawls out of bed, his thoughts straying for a moment to the fact that the sheets and mattress feel nicer than his own bed at home, and is glad to find his shoes lined up neatly on the floor. He toes into them and quickly ties the laces—he usually doesn’t bother untying them at all so that’s clue number two that something weird is going on.

The first door he tries is actually a private bathroom. The second is a closet. The third actually opens out into a short hall which he follows into a large open living room, dining room, and kitchen. He blinks and stares at Erica—the same Erica who’s been missing for two months after she presumably left Beacon Hills forever—who’s on the couch eating chips out of the bag. Her bare feet are propped up on the coffee table and she’s watching some kind of soap opera with a woman with dark skin. There’s a bald guy standing at the kitchen island polishing off the remains of a sandwich.

“What the hell?” Stiles demands.