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.
He pressed his lips against hers, instantly losing his nervousness, along with his carefulness. Stiles reached his hands down to the hem of his shirt, hooking his fingers on it and pulling it up and over his head, surprisingly not feeling any self doubt about his body.
“Oh, god,” she rasped, hands sliding over his torso. “You’re just — you — ” She kissed him again, hard and fast with teeth and tongue, and stopped, gasping in breaths. Then she twined her own shirt up just beneath her breasts in a kind of makeshift bra and pressed herself against him again, kissing his throat and down his shoulder.
A throat clearing from behind them startled her into a yelp. A burly sort of fellow, so broad he looked squat, folded his arms at the end of the booth and lifted one eyebrow. “Don’t do that kind of thing here, kids,” he said gruffly. “Go on. Get out of here.”
A blush the color of strawberries brightened Stiles’ cheeks. He nodded obediently, grabbing his shirt off of the ground, keeping his eyes locked to the floor as he awkwardly stepped past the bouncer. He silently asked himself how long the guy had been standing there.
He looked over his shoulder once he was past the buffed up man, looking for the red haired girl behind him. He saw her, the sides of his lips turning up into a half-hearted smile.
Summer scrambled out of the booth hastily, face burning. Trying to reorient herself in the crush of the club, her gaze crossed Stiles’, and embarrassment cramped in her middle. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, then dragged up her courage and stepped closer to say it in his ear. “I’m /so/ sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”