#writergirl8

On the night that Stiles returns from the ghost riders and Lydia didn't have to say it back, the two of them try relearn each other.

It may be like he was never gone, but they've still got a long way to go.

I hope some of you will read it, I think I might be proud of this one??? Or at least parts of it. 

"We're friends." His argument is starting to become less convincing, possibly because he doesn't want to be arguing about this at all. "We… we pinky swore on it."

"Friends do each other favors all the time."

Stiles has to snort at that logic.

"Jesus, Lydia, that's not exactly a story I wanna tell one day. 'How'd you lose your virginity?' 'Oh, one of my friends took pity on me.'"

Finally, Lydia reaches over and presses pause on the remote. The movie lurches to a halt, and she throws the control to the side, reaching over to tug the blanket away from Stiles' lap. Slowly, her eyes sweep the length of his body, staring at him. They pass over his purposefully mussed up hair, his too-loose t-shirt, his Adam's apple, and the semi he's got going in his jeans.

"It wouldn't be a pity fuck," she tells him plainly. "It's just two friends giving each other what they want."

"'Each other?'" He frowns. "What do you—?"

"Your fingers," Lydia says boldly. "I like your fingers. I think they'd feel really good inside of me." Everything goes hazy as Lydia sits up on her knees, appraising him again. Stiles can't feel his face. He can't feel his teeth. He can't feel his toes. She leans forward and scrapes her teeth against the shell of his ear before whispering the next sentence in his ear. "I think I'd be tight and warm around them, and they'd feel amazing when they were in my body." She tilts her head to the side, backing away to appraise him. "Do you want to know what that's like, Stiles?"

rating: g wc: 1.4k+ ship: stydia (obviously)  Link 

Part 2 of the 30 minute fic series

"I really missed you," Stiles says as the sun comes up.

It's been exactly one sunrise since Lydia had stolen him back from the underworld, and she still feels a little bit like he's going to get taken away from her again. Even now, while his fingers are strumming steadily against the top of her hand, Lydia feels the desperate need to memorize the beat.

"You missed me," she repeats, tossing the words around to see how they feel in her mouth. "You missed me."

She turns her gaze over to the boy next to her, wearing baggy gray sweatpants and a very focused expression. Stiles looks absolutely ridiculous doing these moves— she watches him in the mirror, the way his mouth hangs open with a smile, the way his feet clomp heavily to the floor with absolutely no finesse. And it’s funny, for a while. It’s so funny that she has to keep herself from laughing.

It’s funny right up to the body rolls.

Stiles makes all of them take the tram on the way up to Montmartre.

Of the three of them, Isaac is the most embarrassed. He pulls his Giants hat low over his ears, letting his sandy curls spring over the edges of the royal blue cap. While Stiles presses a hand against the glass pane on the tram, panting excitedly against the window, Isaac attempts to turn his face away from the other tourists crowded into the tiny box.

Lydia would tease him about it, but she's in the same boat at the moment. The fact that they're crammed onto this tiny, unsanitary vehicle with a plethora of tourists is one of the most humiliating things about today, only second to the New York Mets baseball hat that Stiles had jammed onto her head a few hours ago. Logically, she knows that nobody in Montmartre is going to point an accusatory finger at her and claim that Lydia Martin is spitting in the face of fashion, but she's still grateful for the big black sunglasses that cover her face.