What are the voices telling you? Are they saying that Stiles is dying?
He is, you know.
He's dying.
His words echo down the stone hallway – bouncing on and off the walls until they become tangled with the voices in her head. She gasps for air; the walls are too close, pushing in on her until she can't breathe. She realises she must be having a panic attack - or something akin to one – and almost laughs at the irony.
You won't have to.
You'll be screaming.
When she sees the iron bars blocking her way she stumbles; a shooting pain webs its way around her ankle. Placing her hands on the stone wall for support she sees him behind her slowly descending the steps; as if he's got all the time in the world. They'll find me she thinks to herself. Please God let them find me.
They're all hungry.
I'm the same.
And I am insatiable.
Her blood freezes with his growled words. His tone suggests that he will rip her apart inch by inch; until there is nothing left. Lydia winces from the pain as he presses her into the cold iron; his cheek pressed to hers. She closes her eyes and wishes it was Stiles, his cheek gentle against her own.
She flinches when she feels his fingers press into her thighs. She'd known it was coming but through sheer force of will thought she might have stopped him. She sobs knowing that the monster is wearing the face of someone she couldn't refuse.
Look at me.
It's a whispered request but it is far from gentle. She hears the sharp edge in his tone that marks him as not-Stiles, even with the voices screaming behind her eyelids. His hands are never gentle; wherever he touches her she can feel the bruises that he leaves. She whimpers for him to stop, to let Stiles out.
He's screaming too.
Begging me to stop.
Just pretend he's Stiles she tells herself and not the monster that wears his face. His beautiful face; she opens her eyes and looks at the smoothness of his jaw and the curve of his lips. Anywhere but into those cold hard eyes that Stiles would never wear.
When he pushes into her she breathes through the pain. Thinking about Stiles makes the pain tolerable and soon she finds there is no pain.
You're both sick.
You're enjoying it just as much as he is.
And you call me the monster.
She blocks out his whispered words and begs him for Stiles once more. There must be some shift in the struggle between them because there's a pause and then his hands are gentle and he's whispering her name like it's a prayer.
Lydia.
And finally she looks into his eyes, their faces close and sees her Stiles looking back. He's still against her, neither of them daring to breathe. Thank you, she says, for breaking though. He wipes a thumb over her face where her tears have dried but the tracks are still visible. I was thinking of you, she whispers, the whole time. Discreetly untangling himself from her he holds her shaking body against his and stokes her hair.
Let's go home.