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.
“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.”
Stiles was flabbergasted at her hinting — forget that, she wasn’t hinting, instead she was very forward with her words and wants. His lips parted, coming to the conclusion, and nodded eagerly. “Priv-Private booth? I saw some…” He hoped she could hear him over the music. He nervously took her hand, taking her through the crowds until they went down a hall. The booths weren’t exactly… private.
She trusted Stiles to know where he was going. She didn’t frequent places like this enough, and even if she had, she was too high right now to pay attention to anything other than Stiles. She played with his fingers as they went down the hall, unruly imagination contemplating what he might be able to do with them. “Hurry,” she urged, barely audible over the music.