Warnings: AU, underage, anonymous bathroom sex.

Disclaimer: It's all lies and I own nothing.

Stiles pushes his way through the crush of sweaty bodies on the dance floor to get to the bar. The shirtless bartender eyes him appreciatively and he has to glance down at himself to see what's drawn the guy's attention; his gray t-shirt is clinging in dark patches to his own sweat-damp chest making the muscle he's developed as an added bonus to hours of hard work and dedicated practice with Scott in an effort to make first line more noticeable. Of course, had he known working his way off the bench and onto the field also meant working his way up the social ladder and becoming responsible for distracting Danny from his latest break-up, he might've rethought his need for participating in the game.

So, now he's at Jungle, with Danny, getting eyed by the bartender as he leans up against the counter so he doesn't have to shout quite so loud to be heard over whatever dubstep remix is blaring through the speakers with heavy enough bass he feels it in his chest. "Can I get two bottles of water, please?"

The bartender smirks and nods, stepping away to reach into one of the coolers behind the bar to retrieve the highly over-priced bottles. He returns with Stiles' water and a shot glass full of a cloudy liquid.

"I didn't order this," Stiles tells him.

The bartender nods towards a guy at the far end of the counter that Stiles can barely see around the crowd. "Don't worry about it. He's got you covered."

"Um. Thanks, I guess."

The bartender's smirk stretches into a grin. "Don't thank me," he says in obvious amusement.

Stiles wonders how obvious his discomfort is as he accepts the shot – hey, free alcohol – hoisting the glass in acknowledgment before he throws it back. It's smooth and lemony and sweet and, really, pretty good. He meets his anonymous drink buyer's eyes over a more than a few heads and a distance of thirty or so feet and nods before grabbing the bottles of water and steeling himself for returning to the writhing mass of mostly male, mostly half-naked bodies. He'd gotten used to the groping on the journey off the dance floor so he takes the trailing hands and press of fingers in stride as he makes his way back to Danny. Danny, who is well on his way to getting over whatshisname while practically getting on some other guy. He taps Danny's elbow with one of the cold bottles dripping with condensation to get his attention. "Looks like you might need this," he says, offering the bottle.

Danny grins. "Thanks, Stiles. You're awesome."

Stiles has spent half his night in a gay bar dancing with Danny – his awesomeness is a given. "You're welcome," he says, instead. He glances at the guy currently grinding on Danny. "You good?"

"I am so good," Danny tells him with a Look. Stiles thinks he knows what it means.

"Yeah? So I can...?" He trails off as he hooks his thumb in the general direction of away.

Danny nods and grabs Stiles' shoulder to haul him close so he doesn't have to yell. "Thanks for tonight, Stiles. Really. I needed this."

"You're welcome," he says again. "Call me if you need anything, okay?"

Rolling his eyes, Danny gives him another nod.

Stiles offers Danny's dance partner the other bottle of water, which he accepts with a grateful thanks. "I'll see you Monday," he tells Danny. Danny waves him off and turns in the arms wrapped low on his waist and Stiles takes that as his dismissal.

As much as Stiles dreaded coming here when Scott suggested it – before ditching Stiles to hang out with Allison instead – it's not as bad as he thought it was going to be. And it's only awkward because, well, it's making him reevaluate his sexuality a little bit. Yeah, he's seventeen, and just about any kind of friction against his body feels good, he's really not minding what he's seeing, either. Like, for instance, the guy in the black leather jacket and the five o'clock shadow standing in the place at the bar Stiles had previously occupied not even three minutes ago, a shot glass of cloudy alcohol dangling from his fingers. He glances up as Stiles approaches, eyes easily finding Stiles' face in the crowd, and holy god. The look in his eyes hits Stiles low and hot and swift in the gut. He swirls the shot glass and tilts it towards Stiles.

With a deep breath that does nothing to ease his nerves or calm the sudden surge of wantyesplease that rolls through him, Stiles steps forward and takes the little glass, letting their fingers brush in the barest hint of a touch that sends a shock zinging straight to his dick, and knocks back the shot. He licks his lips, catching a lingering drop of citrusy alcohol, and watches the guy's prismatic eyes darken as they track the sweep of his tongue.

The Guy – Stiles is, like, ninety-nine point nine-nine percent sure this (whatever this even is) isn't the kind of situation where names are going to be exchanged, so he's going to refer to the guy as The Guy because – tilts his head towards the hall that leads to the bathrooms and the back exit and judging by the way Stiles' jeans feel suddenly tighter, yeah, this is gonna happen. He is gonna do this. Holy shit, he's gonna do this.

Stiles nods and sets the shot glass back on the bar, ignoring the bartender's knowing Look as he follows after The Guy. He's led back to the bathrooms and that sends a crazy little thrill through him because this kind of thing doesn't, hasn't, will never again happen to Stiles. The minute they're in the door, Stiles finds himself shoved none too gently up against the graffitied wall, The Guy's mouth on his, one hand shoved up under Stiles' shirt while the other fits to the curve of his ass to drag him closer. The denim of their jeans catches and creates a rough friction that has Stiles' hips jerking forward of their own accord. He rocks his hips again, with intent, and it makes him groan, gives The Guy the opportunity to slip his tongue into Stiles' mouth.

"Oh, my," somebody starts, and that's when Stiles realizes they're in a public bathroom with other people in it. The Guy apparently realizes the same thing and looses this growl that does things to Stiles before he's being dragged by the front of his shirt into one of the stalls. There's a hint of sharp teeth in their next brutal, scorching hot kiss as he's pushed up against the inside of the stall door.

"You're fucking mouth," The Guy grits out, nipping at Stiles' bottom lip before pulling away, hands dropping to the fly of his jeans as he backs up a couple of steps.

"Holy god," Stiles manages, swallowing hard as his mouth starts to water. Not even under pain of death will Stiles admit to having a super-secret, only in the latest, darkest part of the night fantasy of exactly this. Because he's not- or, well, he wasn't. But he's definitely seeing the appeal, especially when The Guy gets his jeans open and the waistband of his underwear down just enough to get his hard, flushed cock out. And it's a really good-looking cock, at that. Like, porn-worthy. And Stiles finds himself dropping to his knees without being asked because he wants his mouth on that.

"Fuck," The Guys says eloquently as Stiles takes the wet, shiny head into his mouth and sucks, tip of his tongue pressing into the slit to taste. It's definitely different, but not bad – better when The Guy palms the back of his head and rolls his hips, whimpering at whatever Stiles is doing with his inexpert mouth. He's doing something right, apparently.

Using one hand to shove up The Guy's basic white tee, Stiles curls the other in a loose fist around the base of his dick as he works the rest as far into his mouth as he can manage. His lips meet his hand and he keeps up the motion, bobbing and stroking, until The Guy starts an unsteady rhythm, abrupt, barely held back thrusts that have Stiles' achingly hard cock throbbing with the heavy thud of his heartbeat.

"Come on," The Guy breathes, voice low and rough, tugging at the back of Stiles' t-shirt until his blunt fingernails are raking up bare skin.

Stile gives a full-body shudder, flattens his hand to The Guy's abs to hold him steady as his other hand skims over hip and denim, gripping tight as he sinks his mouth lower, swallowing around the urge to choke and- He groans at the flex of muscle under his fingers as The Guy struggles against thrusting his dick further down Stiles' throat than it already is. The hand on the back of his head tenses and Stiles pulls off a little, sucking in earnest, fingertips digging into muscle, encouraging The Guy to just let go.

"I'm gonna-" The Guy gasps, clutching at Stiles' naked shoulder and his hair, whole body trembling under Stiles' hands and mouth.

It's a heady feeling, the power he has, the control. He's making this guy come undone and fall apart with lips and tongue, barest scrape of teeth and press of fingers. Stiles moans, this low sound torn from deep in his throat and that seems to be what The Guy needs to set him off because Stiles' mouth is suddenly flooded with salty heat and he can't swallow it all, feels it spilling down his chin. "Jesus," Stiles rasps, sounding hoarse and completely fucked-out as he rocks back to sit on his heels, shaking hands fumbling with the fly of his jeans. He gets his cock out, grips himself tight because he's gonna come immediately if he can't get himself under control.

"Show me," The Guy tells him, hand gently palming Stiles' jaw as his thumb swipes over the come that dribbled down Stiles' chin, rubbing it in. "Let me see."

Stiles swallows hard, spreads his thighs a little wider so he can thrust up into his hand, eyes never leaving The Guy's face. He's gonna come so fast. He'd be more embarrassed if he wasn't so turned on because this is literally the hottest thing that has ever happened to him. Ever. He nods, mouth falling open on a gasp, and The Guy takes the opportunity to push his thumb in past Stiles' lips. He moans again, feeling really kind of slutty, curling his tongue around firm, soft skin, sucking on it not unlike he did The Guy's cock.

The Guy's hips hitch forward as he watches Stiles and Jesus Christ, the look on his face. "Come on," he whispers harshly. "Come on and come for me."

Stiles couldn't disobey the command if he wanted to, white-hot desire jolting through him as he comes messily over his fist and the thigh of his jeans in thick spurts. He's still shuddering with little aftershocks of pleasure when he's hauled to his feet, forced to stand on unsteady legs as his mouth is devoured in the most filthy, fantastic way that has his dick twitching already. "Holy fuck," he breathes, the air between them heavy and hot.

With a scrape of sharp teeth, The Guy releases Stiles' bottom lip and pulls away, hands smoothing Stiles' shirt back down before moving to the front of his jeans, gently tugging up his underwear and refastening his fly.

Stiles watches distractedly as The Guy tucks himself away and wonders what happens now. Should he say thank you? Offer his name and number and hope they can do this again? Because Stiles would definitely not say no.

They look at each other for a long moment – and Stiles really looks – before The Guy reaches past him to pull the stall door open. Well, that must be it, then. The Guy hesitates as he passes, kissing Stiles in this slow, almost bittersweet way, then he's gone.

Stiles leans up against the wall and eyes the mess on his jeans as his pounding heart eases to something less frantic. There's not much he can do, any attempt to clean up will only make his predicament more obvious and he's close enough to the back exit he can sneak out with minimal embarrassment. He pushes out of the stall after another minute to a couple knowing smirks that he can't ignore and walks over to the sinks to wash his hands.

The hall outside the bathroom is loud but cool, and Stiles turns away from the noise, heads towards the door with the glowing EXIT sign above it. In the alley behind the club, Stiles' ears ring as he breathes slowly and deeply, sweat on his skin evaporating in the light breeze; each breath brings him a little more clarity. By the time he gets to the Jeep, he's shaking his head at himself, completely mystified as to what the hell came over him because he obviously lost his mind.

Stiles smirks as he climbs behind the wheel, though – sanity is sometimes overrated and he wouldn't exactly object to losing his mind every once in a while.