WHAT WILL HAPPEN? WILL THEY FRICKY FRACK DO THE DOO?
The bar had been dark, smoky and hot, viciously so. Stiles had been that uninhibited drunk that meant he was tipsy, and willing to throw himself all over the place as he danced with Erica, but not stupid. He’d noticed the guy, noticing him. He’d smirked across the dancefloor at him, bitten his lip until it was raw and red and demanding the guy’s attention, draped his arms over the guy’s shoulders when he’d slunk out onto the floor finally, and pulled Stiles up against him.
They hadn’t so much danced as ground into one another until Stiles had needed to pause for breath. There’d been big, hot hands tugging up his shirt, clutching at his bare hips, pressing into him with an intensity Stiles is sure will have left bruises. The guy had been rubbing his cheek along Stiles’, making him shiver and arch into him, beard burn be damned it had felt too good to make him stop.
He’d pulled back, and the guy’s eyes had gone wide, almost panicked, before Stiles had mimed he needed a drink, tugged on his hand and led him through the crowd.
He twists back to lean against the bar, grins when the guy falls into him, their bodies melting into one another.
"What are you drinking?"
"Water," the guy shrugs, "Big day tomorrow."
"Aw, me too!"
"So, you’re out drinking?"
"Is that judgement I detect?"
"No," the guy smirks, drifts forward until his mouth is almost brushing with Stiles’, "I’m happy to be a distraction."