She's drunk, he's high--they're both in ridiculous states right now. So ridiculous, in fact, that they're willingly touching each other, and that's just weird. He's weird. He also smells like weed, but that's beside the point.
Smirking, Britta leans forward, presses her full lips to his neck (leaving lipstick in her wake, of course), then bites that one little spot beneath his ear, soothing it over quickly with her tongue. Gross. Disgusting. Putrid.
"You're so lame, babe," she slurs, pulling back to grin at him. "And your hair looks like shit."