Rating: M
Pairing: Stiles Stilinski/Lydia Martin
Summary: She's sound asleep, face slack and peaceful, her chest rising and falling with every breath and slight snore. He tracks the movement with his eyes, glued to the swell of her breasts.
Disclaimer: The characters of Teen Wolf do not belong to me.
Warning: Contains explicit sexual references, mild swearing and non-con.
Additional Notes: Set during S105. (I wrote this at 6am on no sleep, un-beta'd, so please be gentle on me)
Stiles Stilinski has been in love with Lydia Martin since the third grade.
By now, it's as much a fact of life as any of the other objective statements Stiles lives his life by. His home is Beacon Hills, on Fridays he and Scott hang out after school, and he's head over heels for Lydia. Stiles isn't entirely certain how it begun; after all, how does one fall for a girl at the ripe age of eight? He likes to think he has a knack for seeing things others don't at first, and he remembers that even back then, Lydia had been exceptionally beautiful. Either way, it doesn't matter – since that moment, he's been hooked. And since then, even after all the years that have passed, she has barely acknowledged he exists.
That doesn't discourage him in the slightest, no. Stiles is dedicated if nothing else, and sure, his plan to win her over has taken longer than expected, but he still has high hopes. He didn't necessarily anticipate Jackson Whittemore swooping in and throwing a spanner in the works, but all great stories involve hiccups along the road, right? Jackson is egoistical, vain, arrogant and a jackass to boot. Eventually, Lydia is going to get bored of him and dump his sorry ass. It only makes sense. After all, last night is a prime example of the type of dick that Jackson can be; he thinks back to the way he spoke to his father, all raised voice and superiority complex. Surely it must get exhausting to be around that all the time.
Naturally, Stiles was the first one to notice Lydia's absence this morning. Jackson slinks into Chem late, hangs his head when Harris talks to him in a lowered voice looking more and more like a constipated Abercrombie and Fitch model, but his girlfriend is nowhere to be seen. Stiles has every right to be curious, but even Danny doesn't have the answers. If Jackson won't talk to his best friend, then there's no chance in hell that Stiles is going to get a response from him. Pushed up against a locker and a few bruises, perhaps, but that's not what he's looking for. Scott's no use either, so Stiles does the only logical thing he can think of.
He shows up at Lydia's house.
The Martin residence is decadent, with French doors and wide windows, a long driveway and a beautiful garden outside. It's nothing less than he would expect for Lydia, but he does feel a little out of place. Her mother answers the door – he thinks her name is Jacqueline, or Judith – and he's led upstairs immediately.
"Honey, there's a Stiles here to see you."
"What the hell is a Stiles?"
Lydia's bedroom would be both everything and nothing like Stiles envisioned it, except he's not focussing on that. Rather, his attention is directed entirely at the red haired beauty occupying the bed in the centre of the room, staring idly at her nails. Her mother offers an explanation; she vacates the room and leaves the door ajar, but Stiles has other concerns and is already making his way towards Lydia's bed. He hovers, nervously, and stammers under the weight of Lydia's gaze. He's never seen her like this before; dishevelled and clearly high as a kite, she licks her lips, before patting a space next to her on the bed for him to sit. Stiles wastes no time in doing so.
Now that he's here, Stiles is unsure of what to do or say – he thinks it's a medal worthy achievement that he's managed to string coherent sentences together so far, especially when Lydia touches his arm and leans in close enough to definitely be breaching personal space. From here, he can smell her perfume; it's light but fragrant, something flowery that suits her. She spaces out for a moment and the conversation turns serious; it ends with Stiles holding out her toy giraffe which she identifies as a mountain lion, before unceremoniously dropping her head onto his lap. She's out of it and he knows it, but it doesn't stop that ragged breath that leaves his lips, or the way heat seems to pool to one, specific area. Above all, he is a teenage boy.
After that happens, he figures it's time to leave. He's halfway out her bedroom door when he hears one single word uttered. 'Stay'. It's in disbelief that he opens the door again and shuts it behind him, asking if she really wants him, Stiles Stilinski, to stay. Lydia's flirty confirmation is something from Stiles' wildest dreams, and as her hands come up to cup his face, Stiles' mind goes blank and he comes pretty close to hyperventilating. Her face is so close to his, and all he can think is that any minute now, she's going to kiss him. Lydia Martin, girl of his dreams, love of his life is going to-
"Please... Jackson."
It's almost enough to kill his boner.
Lydia flops down onto the mattress again after that, knocked out cold, and it's only then that Stiles glances around her room for the first time. It's impeccably neat but otherwise what one would expect of a girl's bedroom and inevitably, his case comes to rest on Lydia's prone form once more. Her hair shields her face from view, but the rest of her body is clear on display. It's not the first time since he walked in that he allows himself to reflect on Lydia's choice of garments; her pyjama set leaves little to the imagination, the neckline low cut and hemline skimming her thighs. He stares at the expanse of her exposed legs, skin that looks soft and smooth and creamy, and resists the urge to reach out and rest his hand on just below the point her dress ends.
"Lydia?"
No response.
Stiles swallows. He knows he should go, leave her to sleep now, but a part of him struggles to process that information in his brain and get up and leave. Rather, all the blood in his body is focused to another organ; one that, as a sixteen year old boy, is bound to dictate some bad, unavoidable choices in his life. He utters her name again, this time a little louder, but receives no answer. Tentatively, Stiles leans forward and eases Lydia a little more onto her back, gently brushing the hair from her face.
She's sound asleep, face slack and peaceful, her chest rising and falling with every breath and slight snore. He tracks the movement with his eyes, glued to the swell of her breasts. At this angle, they seem ready to topple out of her dress, and the mere thought causes Stiles jeans to tent a little further. Just outside her door, he hears voices and then the front door slams; the noise makes him jump, but the sound of an engine pulling away both perplexing and calming. Stiles wonders what sort of people leave their daughter home alone with a strange boy in such a state but frankly, drunk on lust and opportunity, he doesn't care.
He knows it's wrong – he knows it is, but there may never be a chance for him to see her like this again. Stiles isn't stupid (in fact, he's anythingbut) and whilst he'd like to remain optimistic, that doesn't rule out being opportunistic either. Lydia continues to sleep soundly and slowly, as if afraid he'll be incinerated upon contact, he lays a hand on her upper arm. She doesn't even flinch; doesn't move a single muscle. It stays that way for five minutes before Stiles plucks the courage the move again.
This time, he boldly hooks his finger under the lacy strap of her dress, tugging down slightly. It loosens the leverage the straps offer and, like a gift from the Gods themselves, her breasts tumble out of her top. With an overactive imagination and sufficient time staring at her across the classroom on the days she wore low cut outfits, Lydia's rack has played a starring role in Stiles' solo hand time ever since he first started Seeing them for real, however, is something else entirely. It's the first time he's seen a pair in real life – save for the time he accidentally walked in on his older cousin in the bathroom, but that doesn't count – and he isn't sure whether this may be the best first experience or either set him up with unrealistically high expectations for the rest of his life. Either way, it is hands down the best thing that has ever happened to him.
They're bigger than he thought they'd be – more natural, too. It wasn't that he was expecting Lydia to have a porn star chest, but after staring at silicon filled, perfectly rounded breasts for so long, it's almost unusual to see anything else. His hand lingers a few inches from her forearm, just above her right breast. He's straining so hard against his jeans it's beginning to hurt and, hurriedly, he reaches down to undo the buckle of his belt and buttons. When his erection springs free, Stiles is harder than he's ever been in his life; it's almost painful how much he wants this, how much he wants her.
When Stiles curls his right hand around his dick and begins to tug, it's something of second nature. He's done this before a million times and right now, it's the only thing keeping him grounded in what can only be a very realistic, very sick dream. He breathes unevenly, gaze flickering from her chest to her face and then back again, before he boldly grazes the fingertips of his left hand along her breast. Any minute now, she's going to wake up and the fantasy will be over – except she doesn't. There's only a slight pause for less than a second, and then she begins snoring again. Braver now, he carefully cups her in his palm.
It feels so much more amazing than he ever imagined. She's so frickin' soft, and if Stiles didn't think he was in love with her before, he definitely is now. Her face remains impassive but that doesn't matter; Stiles is far too preoccupied with other parts of her. He flicks his thumb over her nipple, watches as the pink coloured bud hardens and his own dick jumps in response. He tightens the hand around it, pulling harder, still squeezing and prodding slightly. It's all too much and he doesn't think he can last much longer but he tries to hold on, twisting round on the bed and gently letting go of her to use his left hand to pull up the hem of her skirt instead.
Stiles can feel the blush that creeps up his neck at what he finds. Whatever he was searching for, he certainly didn't expect to find Lydia bareunder her dress. For a few moments he gapes, utterly in shock, before he places both hands on her thighs. He wouldn't touch her there – hecan't, but he has to see it. Even when he spreads her legs from corner to corner of the bed, she doesn't stir; yet Stiles can feel a hunger in him that has nothing to do with missing lunch. This time, when his hand returns to his own aching member, there's an urgency and black hot desire there as he stares at her wet, slick heat.
It doesn't take long before Stiles can feel it building within him, white and burning and deep in his gut. He manages to stand and comes with a long, low groan, his eyes screwed shut. There's a part of him, surely subconscious, that takes over; when he opens his eyes he realises, staring at Lydia's sleeping form numbly. Thin, clear ropes of semen cover her breasts like some sort of perverted detailing, trailing up her neck. It's partly in her hair too, but Stiles has never seen anything hotter. With shaking hands, he reaches into the pocket of his jeans and takes a picture on his phone.
When he's done, Stiles frantically looks around for something to clear her up with. There's a towel hanging on the back of her desk chair that will have to suffice; he mops up the mess as best as he can before repositioning her clothes, carefully pulling the duvet over her body. It's only when he's that close that he notices a spot that he missed; there, an inch or so from the corner of her mouth. Glancing down at his dick, still half hard and leaking, he doesn't think. Swiping it with his thumb, he smears the residue on his finger and that on her face across her lips.
He wants her to taste him when she wakes up in the morning.
Tucking himself away and buckling up his belt, Stiles Stilinski gets ready to leave when Lydia's phone goes off. He shoots her another glance but she remains dead to the world and, fumbling with the buttons for her post orgasm, he stumbles upon the video of the Alpha.