Author's Note: I'm so sorry I haven't been uploading recently. I was backpacking in Europe, falling in love with Scottish musicians, and coming back to school to deal with ex-boyfriends. I've found I can only write when I'm completely alone - if I'm happy or sad over anyone, I can't get inspired. Luckily for all of us, I'm back in that place again. This chapter is one I'm really nervous to post - probably because not only is it Stiles and Lydia, but the dangers of drunk confrontations are ones I've experienced way too recently. Anyway, this is for sure the sexiest thing I've posted in a while which always makes me freak a bit and I really would like to hear y'alls opinion! Thanks for reading! (I promise the next update won't be such a long wait!)
Tilting her head up to the ceiling of Derek Hale's loft, she tries reigning in her thoughts. The bass is pounding in her ears and the lights are dancing across her glazed eyes. She can feel Danny next to her, his body moving in unison with hers as though they've danced this exact dance a thousand times. And in a past life, they had. When all she worried about was getting drunk and playing dumb. She feels transported back in time, her head light and her brain an empty net, casting out into the crowded room and finding nothing to catch her interest but the music and the lights and the giggles bubbling up her throat.
She's drunk. She hadn't meant to get drunk, but now she's here and it feels like the funniest thing to have happened to her in a lifetime. She hadn't even really meant to come at all but then there had been Kira standing at her front door and she had been so nice and soon Lydia was wearing a too-short dress, standing in the middle of the biggest party Beacon Hills had seen in years. She's still moving rhythmically, Danny's hands guiding her when she missteps, but her brow is furrowed, mind trying to trace a line from the dress to the drinking. And of course the connecting link can be summed up in one word: Stiles.
It's not exactly a sobering thought (she's too far gone for that), but it stops her movement almost instantly. Danny stops moving as well, peering into her face. "Are you okay?!" He's shouting at her over the music, the smell of whiskey on his breath. Lydia nods in response, trying to focus on the light playing on his face. He smiles at her encouragingly, taking her hand to get her moving again, and she goes along with it, thinking of how joyful he was to see her. She had forgotten how much fun she and Danny used to have – Jackson went through phases of ignoring them both during those early years, and they were always there for one another.
And Danny was perceptive. He had taken one look at Lydia standing stricken on the dance floor when she had arrived, eyes glued to Malia and Stiles – her hair wild and legs long, his hands tipping a drink to his mouth and lingering on her hips – and stolen her away, shouting about catching up and the absolute need to do shots. So that's what they had done. Scott and Kira had joined briefly, but were soon off in their own little bubble, swaying to music much too fast for that kind of dancing. Malia had stomped over and hugged Lydia tightly, then stole a shot out of Lydia's grip, downing it quickly – she was convinced Scott was lying about the werewolves getting drunk thing.
And Stiles hadn't acknowledged Lydia's presence, talking seemingly to everyone but her.
...
"He's really into this whole 'human' thing," Malia explained, pouring herself another drink, oblivious to the tense sips Lydia was taking of her own in response to this line of conversation. "He says we need to be more social, make more friends. Be members of society. You know, after everything. I'm finding it a little…difficult."
Lydia couldn't help but snort at that, the alcohol making it difficult to hide her reaction. Malia looked a bit confused, but then just grinned over the rim of her drink in Stiles' general direction as he made large gesturing movements to Scott across the dance floor, spilling a bit of beer in the process.
"Was he always like this? Before?" she asks, tipping her head towards Lydia good-naturedly, and Lydia can't ignore the lurch in her stomach at the question. They both appraise him for a moment, watching the two best friends dorky dance, Stiles clearly intoxicated, Scott laughing hysterically, and Kira watching them both embarrassedly.
"Yeah, I guess he was." And she's never more felt more guilty for who she had been before. She had barely seen him – even with the atrocious dancing, he never would have appeared on her radar at this party. She wouldn't have smiled at him the way Malia was.
...
It seems that realization was all she needed to spurn herself on to the state she was in now, pulling away from her dance partner and stumbling out of the crowd. The comforting press of all the people had suddenly turned claustrophobic and she feels overwhelmed. How had she gotten this drunk?
She's focusing on her feet, trying not to trip, moving down the dark hallway towards the bathroom. The music is duller here, merely a throbbing beat she can feel through the floorboards. Someone passes her laughing, and she keeps her head down, long hair swinging to hide her face. She doesn't want to have a conversation right now.
"Fuck!"
Lydia recognizes the voice with a sharp tug of anxiousness and sure enough, it's him, stumbling out of the bathroom. She drunkenly considers just turning around, pretending that she was never here. But he's regained his balance and is looking her way and she stays rooted in place, eyes wide.
She sees the second that his face changes in the dim light – from drunk indifference to frustration – as he sees her, dress rumpled and hair tangled.
"Lydia! Hey!"
"Hey, Stiles." She tries moving past him, pressing her back against the wall to skirt around him. Sensing her movement, he stumbles in front of her, blocking her path.
"I just need to use the bathroom." She can feel the alcohol swirling around in her stomach, mixing with her nerves and the unexpected fear of the boy looming over her.
"Wait, I-I need to talk to you. Or you need to talk to me." His voice is lower, rougher, and all of a sudden she's having difficulty swallowing. She's not sure if she's breathing at all anymore, his face too close to hers to process.
"Yes?" She tries to sound snarky, tries to gain control of her stuttering heart and the situation by sounding assertive and brave and unaffected.
"How could you do this, Lydia? How could you leave? We-I- everyone needed you."
He sounds so angry and broken and Lydia has never felt so small. She can't even bring her eyes up to his face when she answers him, settling for trying to focus her drunken gaze on his collarbone.
"It didn't seem like you needed me." She's drunk and her sadness is too close to the surface, too raw for her to ignore. "It didn't seem like anyone needed me." She realizes with a dull ache that she's crying again, warm tears making their way down her face.
It's only when she feels the uneven breaths on her forehead after a few moments that she realizes he's crying too. Startled, she turns her face up to look at him. Stiles doesn't look down, instead staring ahead at the wall behind her, screwing up his face to stop himself from letting the tears fall.
And it's seeing this hopeless effort to remain strong that propels her forward, both hands grasping the soft fabric of his shirt, tugging him towards her. He falls into her easily, wrapping his long arms around her, one hand instinctively tangling in her hair and the other hard on her hip. She can feel his heart under her palms and the heat of his body through her dress and oh god, it's too much.
Lydia doesn't know how long they stand there, wound around each other. She thinks she could stay here the rest of her life, mind hazy and Stiles' fingers drumming out a soft pattern on her waist. It feels safe: the music distant, the dark sheltering them both from friends and enemies and nightmares. It's just them – for the first time in so long.
She feels his heart speed up against her as he moves deliberately, twisting his head and gently placing his lips on her neck. She can feel his mouth forming words on her skin – it could be I love you or I'm sorry but she can't break the spell by asking questions or telling him they are both supposed to love someone else now. She does the only thing she's capable of, extending her neck and pulling him even closer. He groans into her throat, mouth moving against her skin eagerly. And if she had been sober or less distracted, she would have remembered the exact moment his lips touched hers. Lydia would have stressed over the timing or whether she was doing the right things, a perfectionist no matter what. But as it is, their mouths seem to fall together, already open and searching, and there's no thinking at all. It's all instinct and hands and the taste of salt and moans she can't bring herself to be embarrassed by. It's never been like this.
...
It's only when his hands make their way under her dress and she's stammering out a broken please – sounding more desperate than she ever has - into the hollow of his throat that they come to their senses. Stiles jolts away from her in seconds, shaken out of his trance by the need in her voice, pinning himself to the opposite wall. His eyes are nearly black and wilder than she's ever seen them, tracing a path up her legs to where her dress is bunched around her waist.
"I'm sorry." His voice is raspy and shaking and makes her stomach twist violently.
"Stiles, don't."
"I should go. I-I have to go."
She says nothing and he doesn't try to touch her again. She closes her eyes as she hears his footsteps moving away from her in the dark, hands drunkenly tugging her dress back down as soon as she's alone.
And because things can't get any worse and they so rarely get better for her these days, the alcohol turns in her stomach and she's retching in the middle of the hallway almost immediately, body convulsing and eyes streaming tears of both shame and loss.
Her last coherent thought before sliding into unconsciousness is that Derek was going to kill her for the mess.