Comfortably numb | Stydia fanfiction

Chapter 1

"Where are you taking me? And why are your hands all sweaty?" Lydia groans breathlessly, as Stiles yanks her toward the dark gym.

"This isn't exactly the time to be concerned about personal hygiene, Lydia. In case you haven't noticed, I'm kind of trying to save your life, right now."

"Is this about that weird kanima thing that Allison was researching?"

Stiles stops in his tracks. "You know about the kanima?" He asks, turning on his heel to face her.

Lydia blinks nervously, but hopes Stiles doesn't notice. "Of course, I know about the kanima! What kind of idiot do you think I am?"

Stiles takes a step toward Lydia, his hand still gripping tightly around her wrist. "Lydia, I could never think you were a . . . wait . . . who told you? How much do you know?"

Lydia smirks. She's played this game before. "I've got a better idea. Why don't you tell me what YOU know about the kanima? And, then, I'll tell you if you're right."

Stiles laughs. "Nice try, Lydia. You might have been able to fool Allison or Scott with that trick, but not me. I knew you were bluffing, the minute you blinked. It's your tell. I've been able to tell whenever you are lying ever since the fourth grade."

Then Stiles, stops himself, realizing what that must sound like to her. " I. . . uh . . . hope that doesn't sound too creepy."

Dammit! Lydia thinks to herself. So close. Stupid blinking! "It would be creepy . . . except, it's not true. I DO NOT have a tell," she retorts.

"You totally have a tell!" Stiles says with a grin.

"I DO NOT!" Lydia repeats, insistently.

"Sorry . . . but you do. Remember that time in Elementary School, when you . . ." suddenly Stiles entire body stiffens. "It's him!" Stiles whispers, as he slips beneath the bleachers. "Quick, get under here."

Lydia looks over her shoulder, and sees precisely no one. Then, she looks at the floor, where Stiles is now sitting with his legs folded beneath him. She crinkles her nose. "I am not going in there! Do you have any idea how much dirt, bacteria, and God knows what else is underneath those bleachers?"

"Lydia . . . GET IN HERE, NOWWWW!" Stiles growls.

Something about the frantic look in Stiles' eyes, and the surprisingly gruff tone of his voice, causes Lydia to obey, in spite of her instincts, and inherent fear of dirt. "I'm just telling you, Stiles Stilinski, you better have a good reason for this. Otherwise, the minute we get out of here, I'm going to make you so sorry you ever . . ."

Suddenly, Stiles cups his left hand across Lydia's face, while his right one clamps down on her thigh. Lydia's eyes widen in shock, as she struggles to extricate herself from Stiles' grasp. This, of course, has the unintended consequence of tangling the pair's legs with one another, and causing the unabashedly clumsy Stiles to fall forward, right on top of Lydia.

"I . . . uh . . . that wasn't supposed to happen," Stiles whispers lamely, though he can't quite bring himself to move.

Their faces are inches apart, now . . . his hot breath intermingling with her own, which is still stifled by the pressure of his fingers on her lips. She could feel his heart beating against her chest, and his pulse rising to match her own. She wants to kill him for putting her in this ridiculous situation. In fact, she's about two seconds away from kicking him right in the groin. That is until she sees his eyes . . .

Lydia has never really noticed Stiles' eyes before . . . the small flecks of gold intermingled with warm orbs of mocha fudge . . . the uncommonly long lashes . . . the kindness . . . the concern . . . the PASSION. No one has ever looked at Lydia the way Stiles is looking at her now . . . like she's the most exquisitely sexy creature on Earth. Those eyes do something to Lydia. They make her feel things she hasn't felt before. Her face flushes, and her whole body tingles. And before she can stop herself, she chomps down on Stiles' fingers.

"OWWWW!" Stiles yelps, cupping his hand over his own mouth, when he realizes how loud he's being.

"Did you just bite me?" He inquires incredulously, as he shakes out his now-sore hand. "You did! You totally bit me! What the heck is with everyone biting each other in this town? So savage! Lydia, I am shocked . . . I just can't . . . I mean, you, of all people . . ."

"Stiles?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut up," replies Lydia, as she mashes her lips against his own, and snakes her hands underneath the fabric of his Stud Muffin t-shirt . . .

Lydia awakens in a cold sweat. It is the fourth time this week that she's dreamed about Stiles. And the frequency of these forbidden dreams is leaving her increasingly hot and bothered, not to mention frustrated. No matter what she does, she just can't shake him. It's as if Stiles is holding her subconscious kidnapped. What's worse, between her night time dalliances with Stiles, and her daytime hallucinations of Peter Hale, Lydia is quite certain that she is slowly, but surely, becoming certifiably insane.

Running around the woods naked she can handle . . . scribbling crazy notes on the chalkboard in class . . . it happens, sometimes. But Stiles? Goofy, skinny, sarcastic, motor-mouthed, conversation t-shirt wearing, STILES? She can NOT have feelings for him. Not Lydia Martin, the future prom queen / valedictorian / student council president of Beacon Hills High. That's something that just doesn't happen.

Looking at her reflection in the mirror that morning, Lydia comes to two very important decisions. One: She is NOT going crazy. And two: she's going to put a stop to these so-called feelings for Stiles Stilinski, if it's the last thing she does.