Black Webs

Painting Flowers

Now we're lost somewhere in outer space,
in a hotel room where demons play,
they run around beneath our feet,
we roll around beneath these sheets.

xxxxx

f i f t e e n:

L y d i a

"Am I hiigh?" Stiles asked, chuckling at absolutely nothing with his head in her lap.

"Sooo high," she slurred, laughing too. "Like, you're lounging in outer space," she giggled some more. The entire room spun, she was quite drunk, but still somehow in her senses.

She'd stopped drinking when she thought she was exceeding her limits because she wanted to remember this night forever - however long that was.

He suddenly shot up and dusted his pants off, dancing about lamely, almost knocking down a cupboard. "You're going to fall and break your head," she muttered.

"Then I guess you'll just have to dance with me to keep me steady," he offered her his palm. She hesitated for perhaps a second before taking it. They swirled around in the candlelit darkness, chuckling and not caring for once - about anything.

They weren't really dancing, they were mostly just stumbling about with their hands clasped together like overexcited children tripping on a sugar rush.

Stiles could barely navigate in darkened atmosphere to be able to move his feet without falling, but his hands were so warm and nice. They were bigger than hers, calloused in places yet soft around the edges somehow.

He had wonderful hands, and the fingers of a pianist. Lydia wasn't sure she could ignore the electricity sizzling between them for much longer. He twirled her around but her foot got caught under his and they fell to a heap on the ground, still laughing.

Stiles stopped laughing when he met her eyes, his own were sending shock waves down her spine.

He pulled her closed by the legs and she leaned in towards him.

"Sometimes I love you," he mumbled, extremely carefully and steadily for someone seemingly drunk off his ass. "Other times I just want to eat you alive."

She wondered if the ground shook at his words or if it was just in her head. He offered her the gentlest smile, his knuckles brushing against her cheek, making fireworks erupt in her gut. God. He smelt like spearmint and whiskey breath, those eyes were a swimming pool of colors in the flame light, ones that revealed her reflection in them.

She opened her mouth to respond, perhaps something sarcastic or witty, but her words got swallowed by a sudden kiss that threatened to have her heart explode in her ribcage.

Her eyes flew shut automatically and she lost herself for a few breathless seconds, in the feel of his lips like the petals of a rose burning hot against her own, like two pairs of lips fighting for domination.

Stiles didn't wrap his arms around her this time. She didn't dip her hands in his hair. They simply kissed with no body part except for their mouths and legs touching. Stiles tasted like whiskey and mints, with that slight hint of salt-water taffy she loved so much.

She always said to herself that there was nothing, but there was. That's when she knew she couldn't give him up.

Stiles

He hadn't been thinking. Or he'd been thinking too much.

God. It had been intense. In that moment, he'd known he wanted her more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life.

And laughing there in a mess of alcohol stained sheets and tangled limbs and fussy hair, in a cheap motel room with the candlelight their only companion, simmering around them with the light of a dozen small sunsets, with the wind and the rain waging wars outside their window and the thunder's electric base and this beautiful, strange, puzzle of a girl shimmering in the midst of all of that, with alcohol blushing her cheeks, he thought he should tell her how much he loved her, he thought he should just go for it.