thenogitsuneandstiles-deactivat:
Stiles was slammed against the wall, the fiery red headed girl he didn’t even know the name of smashing her lips to his. How had he ended up here? He didn’t know. He remembered being angry that Lydia had dissed him (once again) and walking into a bar, talking to a cute girl, they had danced after a few drinks…
And now he was up against a wall, their bodies pressed together, lips molding into each others and somehow, he loved it. Because he wasn’t worrying, or even caring frankly, about the other red head who had consumed him. Right now, at least, he probably wouldn’t know who she was if she walked up to him.
She wouldn’t’ve pushed him up against a wall ordinarily. But then this was not an ordinary night. He probably thought she was drunk — which she was, kind of. Just not on alcohol.
On lust and anger and a hundred other shades of human emotions. His freckles seemed appealing, and his shyness. Kindred spirit, right? So she maneuvred him until he couldn’t get away and took what she wanted. Until they were both breathless. She was too high on him to think about the consequences of sliding her hand down the front of his body.
Stiles’ wrists ached from her hold, but he didn’t focus on that at the moment. Instead, he slid his lips against hers, his nose brushing against her cheek, his entire thoughts laced with only the way she was kissing him. They were two people with so many problems that now felt like such a perfect time to just forget about everything and anything else.
She bit at his mouth and let go his wrists to curve one hand around the back of his neck. The other closed on the front of his shirt and pulled him in closer to her. Finally she had to break away and gasp for breath. “I didn’t quite catch that,” she managed, with a chuckle. “Would you repeat it?”
“What- repeat…” He was momentarily dazed, his lips parted and eyes half open, staring to her lips, then to her hand that clutched the front on his shirt. He couldn’t remember what he was saying. Something about being the one always rejected.
“Does this place have any private booths?” she asked, ignoring his confusion. She let go the front of his shirt and smoothed the fabric, cocking her head up at him. Shoving herself up on her tiptoes, she hissed in his ear, “Want to see what’s under your shirt.”