“Did you like kissing me?” idk tbh but byeyeyyeeee
He just couldn't let it go, could he?
It was a drunken kiss. Nothing more, nothing less. Certainly nothing more, at least. Lydia had been drunk, and horny, and in serious need of a distraction from the shit show that was Allison and Scott’s everlasting love. She was tired of being the third wheel, tired of meeting incompetent assholes who wanted nothing more than to garner the attention of the pretty redhead in their advanced calculus courses. She was tired of Stanford being one big disappointment in the dating department, and she was tired of being alone.
Stiles was merely there, a byproduct of going off to college with your three best friends. He was there, and he was equally drunk, and always willing. It was a one time thing, a night that would never be repeated no matter how many times Stiles batted his eyelashes and flashed her that puppy dog stare.
But he just couldn’t let it go.
With a tired sigh, Lydia turned on her heel and gave a quick roll of her eyes. She couldn’t bring herself to meet his gaze, if only because she knew he’d have that goddamn hopeful look in his eye. It was almost as nauseating as watching Scott and Allison cuddled up on the couch, basking in their love. “I hate to break it to you, Sweetheart, but I barely even remember kissing you. Not only was I impossibly drunk, but it clearly wasn’t an event my subconscious deemed worthy of holding onto for a later date.” She flashed him a wry smile, trying to ignore the fact her eyes flittered across his for just a second - a second too long, because she was privy to the way his entire expression had crumbled with disappointment. Lydia was furious to realize it twisted at something inside of her - even more furious than she’d been when flashbacks of their tryst began materializing in her brain hours ago, leaving her curious as to what he would feel like with a little less alcohol coursing through his system. “My advice? Try to leave a more lasting impression next time. I’m sure you’ll meet a nice, boring Stanford girl who would love to see whatever moves I taught you last night.”
After giving his chest a quick pat, Lydia brushed past him and into her bedroom, the door slamming behind her a second later. She told herself she didn’t care that she’d probably just hurt his pride, she didn’t care that the front door slamming meant he’d left to lick his wounds in private. She told herself this was good, this was necessary, because no way in hell could she let herself get involved with Stiles Stilinski after all this time. She told herself she’d done the right thing, that no one could blame her for being so harsh with the boy who had harbored a self-admitted crush on her since the third grade, that she totally hadn’t just a flashback moment to the utter bitch she was during her Jackson Whittemore days.
She told herself that their hookup had meant nothing, would never mean anything, because this was Stiles and the idea of Stiles being anything even close to decent in bed was almost laughable.
She told herself a lot of things, but that didn’t mean she believed a single word.
