"Uh, woah, woah woah..woah.." Stiles blurted out at first, but the more he spoke, the more his voice tapered off in surprise. Between the two of them, Stiles wasn't entirely sure who was more startled, but he was definitely a little confused, and inappropriately intrigued that some sketchy gypsy-hooker was checking Scott's 'chakra' by grabbing his junk.
Stiles eyes were wide, and his eyebrows were damn near raised halfway up his forehead as he kept up the very real struggle to do the following, all at once;
A. Find something to do with his hands. He opted to just kind of flail them, like he was thinking about intervening, but.. Scott wasn't really protesting. What the shit. B. Try to look away, because what the shit, no And finally, C. Stare. Because this was all too weird to be real. Stiles wasn't really standing next to his best friend in a whorehouse while he got felt up. D. Try to remember what porno this whole situation reminded him of or if this was just a replay from a weird sex dream and E. Be totally mortified on everyone's, everyone's mothers behalf but the shameless gypsy.
"Uh, yeah, okay," Stiles cleared his throat loudly, dropping his hands to his hips as he looked up at the ceiling. The safe, safe, ceiling. He let out a low whistle.
"Pre-tty sure Deaton never had to do this," Stiles stage whispered before another weird thought practically steamrolled his concentration, causing him to quickly snap his head in Scott's direction to look at him with wildly concerned eyes. "Deaton never had to do this, right, Scott?"