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Bursting into his room with exhausted, galumphing steps, Stiles dropped his bag and promptly went over to his bed, falling back onto the covers, his feet hanging off the end of the bed. Only seconds later, his actions were repeated by Lydia, who kicked off her heels and dropped her purse before falling onto the bed, face first. Almost entirely in unison, they both let out a fatigued moan, although Lydia’s voice was muffled into the bed.
They were both running on fumes having been up for over 50 hours with only a couple of half hour naps along the way. They had been helping the pack in every way they knew how. They’d spent Friday night and all day Saturday poring over the Bestiary, trying to identify the threat that had attacked a group of middle-school kids during the previous week.
By the time Lydia had found the creature, a cockatrice, within the book, the sun was already shining brightly on Sunday morning, and they both acknowledged that this took priority over sleep. They’d each chugged half a pot of coffee before soldiering over to Derek’s loft to share the information with the pack. From there, they’d stayed busy doing more research and then helping Scott, Allison, Isaac and Derek locate where the creature was hidden.
When the group split in half to cover more ground, Lydia and Stiles had been sent with Scott, while the other three took Derek’s SUV. The jeep had puttered around a fair chunk of the preserve when Scott finally picked up on a scent.
He told both Stiles and Lydia to stay in the car and call the rest of the pack. Once he was gone, Stiles told Lydia to stay in the car and call the rest of the pack. Stiles was barely out of sight when Lydia slammed the door of the Jeep shut behind her, holding one of Stiles’s baseball bats in one hand and her phone in the other. She got in touch with Allison and texted her their location before hanging up and promising not to get in the way. Lydia then proceeded to almost walk right into the middle of a faceoff between Scott and the cockatrice.
Fortunately for everyone, Stiles had his wits about him and grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her back behind one of the trees where he was hiding, knocking her onto her side on the ground, where he whispered angrily that you were supposed to stay in the car why are you here and why are you holding my bat you lunatic. The rest of the pack arrived only minutes later, and when they showed up, it was no big hassle defeating the creature. The afternoon was ticking by, and by the time everyone was on the same page back at the loft, it was almost dinner time, and everyone dispersed to go home.
Stiles had offered his house to Lydia for the evening. The gesture was almost natural at this point since Lydia’s mom usually wasn’t home. They had something beyond friendship, as was made evident through Lydia’s frequent sleepovers, but they never really seemed to spend the night with the other, both sleeping on separate parts of the couches, curled up in chairs, or sprawled out on the carpet. Neither would ever take the bed.
But in this particular instance, their impromptu time together was due largely in part to their impending European History test first thing on Monday morning. It was only 5:30 in the evening, but both of them were beyond exhausted. As they lay on the bed, it became abundantly clear how difficult studying was actually going to be.
“Stiles.” Lydia mumbled, turning her head to the side so she could see him and speak clearly.
“Fuck the test, Lyds,” Stiles grumbled, his eyes still closed. “I lose. I mean, I fail. Shit.” He flapped one arm in the air aimlessly, indicating his surrender. Lydia slowly brought her arms underneath her chest, propping herself up on her elbows, glaring at Stiles.
“I didn’t let you copy all my notes last week just so you could give up on the test,” she said, her stern reproach softened slightly by a yawn.
“You’re going to fall asleep too,” Stiles snickered. At that, Lydia pushed herself up and off the bed, swaying slightly for a moment, but then standing defiantly, hands crossed over her chest.
“Stiles Stilinski, we have to study. Wake up.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Mmm… No.”
“Stiles!” Lydia whined, leaning over and lightly smacking his chest. He cracked his eyes open a lazy smile on his face.
“There are a very limited number of things that could make me get out of this bed right now.” Stiles teased. “And I don’t think that you’re going to approve of any of them.” Lydia didn’t respond, but instead reached down into her purse and pulled out two little plastic bottles, whipping one of them at the bed where it hit Stiles in the ribs.
“Lydia, what the fuck, this-“
“It’s a Five Hour Energy, drink it,” Lydia commanded.
“You’re insane, Lyds. Is this what it takes to be a genius?” He wiggled the bottle between his thumb and forefinger. “Because if it is, I’ll settle for comfortably above-average intelligence.” Lydia stared at him through narrowed eyes as she uncapped her bottle and swallowed it all in a couple of mouthfuls. She then stared at him pointedly.
“I’m going to be your worst nightmare for the next… oh, let’s say the next three hours. At least,” Lydia asserted, wiping the corners of her mouth with the back of her hand. “Whether you’re sleepy or not is up to you.” Stiles stared at her for a moment, frozen where he sat before throwing his head back so it lolled limply backwards.
“I fucking hate you,” he informed her, still staring at the bottle, unconvinced. Lydia looked at him pointedly before shedding her cardigan and crossing her arms.
“I have a proposal.”
“Unless it’s sleep, I’m gonna go with a hard ‘no.’” Stiles snorted.
“Oh, I think you’re going to like this. It’s a game,” Lydia said, checking her perfectly manicured fingernails. Stiles looked at her, unable to contain his curiosity.
“Fine. What is it?” He relented, sitting up fully at the edge of the bed. Lydia began to pull their history books out his backpack before she answered.
“Strip studying,” Lydia replied, her voice cool and unaffected. Stiles’s eyes all but bulged out of his head, his mouth drawn shut tight. Lydia turned around and put her hands on her hips, lips pursed in a delicate, smug smile. Stiles countered by ruffling his hair, feigning indifference and shrugging. He scooted off the bed, the Five Hour Energy suddenly very seriously in his grip.
“I’m just… is… is that the kind of game that one… might expect based on the name ‘Strip Studying?’” He asked, trying not to seem too eager despite the fact that he was now fully awake.
“Yep,” she said, smiling and heading back towards the bed to sit down on the floor, her back against the side of the bed. “And I was even gracious enough to give you a head start.” She nodded towards his discarded cardigan by the door. Stiles looked incredulously between Lydia and the sweater before popping open the energy shot and drinking it.
Lydia agreed that they each got one hour before the stripping started, so they could refresh their memories. But while Lydia glossed over her meticulously neat study guides, Stiles was scrambling through three and a half week’s worth of notes, going between the chicken-scratch in his notebook and the tiny, printed lettering in the textbook.
“This isn’t fair.” He whined, looking up at the clock after 58 minutes had passed.
“Fair’s got nothing to do with it. And I already told you, I’m giving you a handicap.” She shrugged her bare shoulders to prove her point. “Plus, I’m wearing a dress. You’ve got… four things to take off before you’re just in your underwear, I’ve got one.” A dark flush crept up Stiles’s neck as he seemed to work out the mental math.
“Wait, no, I have five.” He countered.
“Your socks come off together.” Lydia responded coolly. Stiles looked at her imploringly.
“Come on!” He argued gesturing at the books on the table with flailing arms.
“You should be studying, not trying to get out of this.”
The timer on Stiles’s phone went off with an echoing beep.
“Aww, fuck.”
“Close your book,” Lydia instructed him, slipping all of her work back into her bag. Stiles did so, but not without a great deal of huffing. Lydia then climbed up on top of Stiles’s bed, and beckoned for Stiles to join her. The irritation he’d been exaggerating before was suddenly buried beneath mixed anxiety and reluctant excitement.
“Do you want to ask the first question?” Lydia asked generously. Stiles snorted before nodding.
“Duh.”
“Then ask away.” Lydia was exuding confidence, and beneath that, a curious kind of excitement. Stiles tried not to linger on that for too long though, and he wracked his brains for the hardest stuff he could remember about the French Revolution.
“Okay. Why did the Estates General meet?”
“French government was going bankrupt.” Lydia’s response was crisp and confident, and Stiles scrunched up his nose in frustration.
“Fine. Your turn.”
“What did the cahiers de doleances demand?”
“Fuuuuuuck,” Stiles moaned putting his head in his hands. “Execute the King?”
“Almost. Government reforms. But not the death of the king.”
“The death of the king would technically be government reforms,” Stiles pointed out, pulling off his sweatshirt.
“Next question,” Lydia said sweetly.
They both got the next round of questions right. The following round, Stiles lost his socks because he didn’t know that The Declaration of the Rights of Man and Citizen guaranteed security of property. Lydia followed up with a correct answer, and when it was Lydia’s turn to ask again, Stiles was starting to feel the heat.
“Why was the Committee of Public Safety established?” Stiles bit his lip while Lydia smiled.
“For public safety?” Stiles asked weakly. His head was starting to ache from the returning exhaustion.
“Be more specific.”
“Ah… I don’t know. Protect the aristocrats.”
“To combat the dual threat of domestic rebellion and foreign invasion. Lose the shirt.”
“You’re never going to get anything wrong!” Stiles whined.
“Then ask harder questions,” Lydia said. Stiles rolled his eyes, pulling his shirt off from over his head. It might have been a trick of the light, but he could have sworn he saw Lydia staring at his bare chest, her eyes widening slightly.
“Who hated the Civil Constitution of the Clergy the most?” He asked quickly.
“What?” Lydia cried, her eyes snapping back up to his. “Repeat the question!”
“Nope.”
“Stiles!”
“You’re never going to get something wrong if you hear it,” he said with faux sympathy. “My hands are tied.”
“Well I don’t know then.”
“Lose the dress,” he mimicked her words from earlier with a sly smile. Lydia stared at him irately for a moment, her nostrils flaring as she bit her tongue. Without another word, she turned around, her back facing him.
“Unzip me,” she huffed, brushing her hair over her shoulder, revealing the zipper on the back of the dress. Stiles couldn’t move for a moment, but he shook his head rapidly a couple of times before reaching out to pull down the zipper tab. The fingertips of his free hand rested firmly on her back as he tugged the zipper down to just below her waist.
Unabashedly, she then turned to face him and crossed her arms across her waist, pinching the fabric and pulling the dress off over her head with practiced ease. Stiles gawked at her openly, his mouth suddenly dry at the sight of Lydia in a light pink bra and matching panties. His headache miraculously dissipated in that very moment.
She then mumbled a question quickly and quietly, and Stiles whipped his head up to glare at her.
“You did not just pull that on me,” he said, his voice deadly. Lydia raised her eyebrows and shrugged, only bringing his attention back down to her chest.
“I can’t repeat the question,” she teased. “Your pants.” Stiles felt his face grow hot as he reached down to unbuckle his belt and shimmied his dark-wash jeans off of his legs before throwing them down to the floor.
This was it. Both of them kneeling across from each other on Stiles’s bed in their underwear. This was where both of them could walk away, all uncomfortable glances and unspoken words. But then Lydia wetted her lips, looking directly into Stiles’s eye, meeting the intensity of his gaze with a smile.
“Next question?”
“What… uh… what’re the rights of the lettres de cachet?”
“Anyone could be put in jail for rebelling,” Lydia said briefly. Stiles cackled.
“Close. The king could put anyone in jail without a trial.”
“Motherfucker.” She reached around behind her to unfasten her bra, and Stiles started.
“You… I’m going to be distracted for my question if you…” He trailed off into silence as her bra was dropped down onto the floor.
“What were the Girondists like?” Lydia asked, sitting back down into a lower kneeling position.
“They… they were really radical and-”
“They were not,” Lydia cut him off. Stiles felt his voice shrivel up somewhere in his throat. “But… if you ask me a question and I get it wrong, then it's a draw.” She amended. Stiles didn’t move to take off his boxers as he wracked his brain for a question. He came up empty, so he asked her the only thing that he knew for sure from this unit.
“What was the date of the seizure of Bastille?” Stiles sighed, defeated. But then Lydia balked. Stiles’s eyes widened in shock and victorious surprise. “Oh my god. You don’t know when Bastille Day is? That’s like… still a thing.”
“I know it’s in July…” She started hesitantly.
“It’s all or nothing,” Stiles said, his expression growing increasingly arrogant by the second.
“It’s not the fourth…” Lydia said. Stiles’s face broke into a gleeful grin, his eyes crinkling joyfully over pink cheeks.
“Give me an answer!” Stiles demanded, rising onto his knees in nothing but his boxers, his eyes fixed on Lydia, whose arms were crossed indignantly over her chest.
“July 24th.”
“NO.” Stiles cackled with unadulterated delight. “We tied!”
“I still won first!” Lydia snapped competitively, rising up onto her knees to face off with him.
“Well, I won second!” Stiles countered, still laughing maniacally. “So I guess we both win!”
“Or we both lose.” Lydia’s voice cut through Stiles’s laughter in a second. He straightened up to look her in the eye, trying to ensure he understood.
“We both lose?” He echoed. Lydia’s arms dropped from across her chest to loop her thumbs under the waistband of her panties.
“I think that’s fair.” Lydia’s voice was lower now, her pupils dilated when she looked back into Stiles’s eyes. Stiles breathed in deeply, his eyebrows shooting upwards and his eyes wide.
“Y-yeah. That sounds…” His voice trailed off as Lydia began inch her underwear down her thighs, picking up her knees one at a time, then sliding the fabric off over her heels.
“You lost too, right?” Lydia said, her voice barely above a whisper, but clearly longing.
“I lost too.” Stiles said, smiling sheepishly. I lose. I mean, I fail. Shit. Suddenly losing didn’t seem to equate to failure at all.
He slid his boxers off with more speed and less grace than Lydia had used when removing her underwear, but she continued to watch him with rapt attention. When he was done scrambling back onto the bed, there was a moment where they knelt in front of each other, less than two feet apart, their breath wisping across the face of the other. By some miracle they kept their eyes locked on the other despite the expanse of bare skin laid out in front of each of them.
“It’s a good consolation prize, I guess,” Lydia finally whispered, looking him up and down before returning to settle her gaze on his face. Stiles breathed out a laugh, his eyes still not leaving hers.
“You’re very beautiful. And I’ll blame the exhaustion for you not kicking my sorry ass-” His words were cut off as Lydia moved suddenly forwards, crashing into him, the contact between their lips and their bodies sent jolts of warmth between them, raising goosebumps across Lydia’s skin.
He had refused to look at her body before she gave him the permission to. He had refused to make the first move. He was better than she was. But she already knew that.
Lydia pulled Stiles towards her as she collapsed back onto the bed, forcing him to fall down over her chest, chuckling at how he caught himself on his elbows instead of just landing on top of her. He was so careful. She loved that. Loved him.
“Kiss me, Stiles,” she said. “You don’t have to be so careful. I want this.”
Her words of permission were all that he needed, lowering his hips down onto hers, their stomachs pressed against each other as he plunged into another, deeper kiss. It was beautiful and powerful and it felt as if the embers of some long-forgotten fire were burning between their chests, between their lips. When Stile finally drew back from the kiss, his head was spinning. Lydia was staring up at him with a lazy smile and he felt as if the moment wasn’t really happening, like it was some crazed, exhausted fever dream.
“I’ve wanted…” He paused to let out a tortured moan as Lydia grinded her hips up against his. “Not fair, let me talk.” He stared down at her devilish smile with all the authority he could wrangle in the situation, which admittedly, wasn’t much.
“Alright,” Lydia breathed, her hands brushing down from his neck to his waist, fingers trailing over his skin all the way down. “Then talk.”
“This is real, right? You want this and it’s not just some dumb mistake since we haven’t slept since… forever ago?”
“I promise it's real,” Lydia said, hands skirting back up to gently cup Stiles’s face on either side. His smile was like the sun, and the gently sucking kisses that he was now planting down the side of her neck warmed like sunbeams. As his lips wandered lower, they found the soft, round curve of one of her breasts, his hand reaching down to squeeze the other. Lydia let out a small, wanting moan, and Stiles broke into a grin, his lips stretching taut against her skin.
“Prove it,” he whispered, breath hot across her chest.
“There’s something... I could… tell you to… prove it.” Lydia admitted, her words separated by her own deep breaths. Stiles had moved his mouth to brush over her nipple before he pulled his lips up to hover over the hollow between her collarbones, laying another kiss to her pale skin, then turning his head up, his eyes meeting hers.
“What is it?” He asked. A million and a half questions had been cycling through his head anyways. His curiosity was piqued by the smug satisfaction radiating from her expression.
“You know… Bastille day…” Lydia lilted, tracing a finger across his chest, her body warm against his. He smirked at the mention of the question.
“The one question Lydia Martin couldn’t answer, and look where it got us,” he teased, hand skirting around one of her breasts, tracing circles. She crinkled her nose, smiling as she tapped a finger over his lips, shushing him, and then responding with laughter in her voice and a sense of finality in her words.
“It was on July 14th, 1789. And it was a Tuesday, if you wanted to know.”