Work Text:
The thing about having a live-in girlfriend is that Stiles’ grades are actually starting to suffer.
He’s never exactly been like Lydia-- material comes effortlessly to him, true, but he doesn’t spend the amount of time with it that she does. A quick glance-over is all Stiles needs before he can go in and ace a test or quiz. He just has a knack for knowing the answers to everything. Lydia, on the other hand, knows her area so deeply and intricately that her contact time with the material has to increase the more she studies. The more she learns, the more she wants in her head. Sometimes, Stiles will come home from school to find her curled up on the couch with a gigantic textbook, sucked into it. Sometimes she doesn’t even notice him walk through the door.
To be honest, he’d probably be insulted if he didn’t know that he’s Lydia’s true love and all that other shit that comes with only wanting to make out with one person for the rest of every eternity possible.
The making out, though, is not helping his schoolwork at all. Sure, material sticks to Stiles like glue, but he has to actually look over it before he can know it. And, lately, it’s felt like his and Lydia’s schedules aren’t at all matching up. As soon as Stiles sits down to study, Lydia is finishing up. He’ll stumble home from class, go to his room to start studying, and, ten minutes later, hear the door crack open as his girlfriend comes to greet him.
She usually hangs out by the door, promising not to come in and distract him more, but then she gets closer and closer and closer which just, inevitably, leads to sex, which is why Stiles has gotten absolutely no work done in months.
This afternoon, he had put his foot down when Lydia had shown up at his bedroom door wearing nothing but pajama shorts with hamburgers on them (okay, they’re his boxers) and a bra.
“I have to study!” he’d groaned, insistent as Lydia crawled towards him and flopped dramatically on top of his chest, her hands folding together so that she can rest her chin on them and smile up at him in a way that they both knew was poison for Stiles’ study schedule. “Shoo,” he had said halfheartedly, but Lydia had persisted until suddenly his shirt was on the floor and the straddling position she had gotten herself into mirrored exactly what Stiles wanted to be doing with fewer clothes on.
But then she’d moaned, and asked “Do you still have to study?” and Stiles had gotten up the willpower to sit up and push a very disgruntled Lydia Martin off of his eager body and direct a stern finger towards her.
“Off,” he’d said, and that’s when Lydia had sighed and slid off of the bed dramatically, tossing a hand over her forehead to properly display her emotions.
“You’re going to stop resisting me eventually,” she had teased, arching her back towards the bed so that she could peer at Stiles upside-down.
“Believe me, I know you’re right,” he’d responded, bending forward so that he could kiss her forehead-- the closest to spiderman kiss they had ever gotten, but there was no way he could reach her lips anyways. “But I’m all yours tonight.”
The scoff that had shot out of Lydia’s mouth had practically bounced across the room as she left it.
“Please,” she’d said. “You’re all mine every moment of every day.”
Lydia had gone back to her room for two minutes before she had returned with her laptop, a bolster pillow, and a shirt pulled over her bra. Then she had crawled under Stiles’ covers and grabbed the third pillow he kept on his bed for her, creating a cozy nest for herself in his room.
She had remained there with him, working on her own studies, until Stiles had closed the enormous, dusty book he was reading and declared himself done for the night. And while he had expected Lydia to immediately crawl on top of him and begin where they had left off, she had instead told him to put on a different shirt because they were going out, and had proceeded to vanish into her own room to get dressed.
So now Stiles has his hand on Lydia’s back as he guides her through a dark, dingy bar, grumpily looking around for a table that they can tuck themselves into.
“Lisa’s over there,” Lydia says, waving at her friend.
“Ugh, you brought other people?”
“Sometimes other people are nice,” Lydia points out, finding his hand on her back and twisting his arm around so that she can entwine their fingers together. Stiles whinges softly at the sight of multiple people returning her wave.
“Other people are nice when they are you and Scott.”
“We aren’t other people,” Lydia points out. “We’re your limbs.”
He doesn’t want to admit how right she is, so instead he lets her drag him up to the bar so that she can flash the bartender some cleavage and get them alcohol.
“I’ll have a rum and coke,” Lydia says. “And you?”
Stiles glances over at the group of guys sitting at their table, all drinking beer.
“A beer,” he sighs, wistfully staring at a cosmo as a bartender passes it to a customer standing next to him.
Lydia rolls her eyes.
“I don’t know why you feel the need to hide your preferences in front of these guys. You’re Stiles Stilinski. You like fruity drinks and Gilmore Girls. What’s not to love?”
“I’m not hiding anything.. My preference is Lydia Martin. That’s all they need to know about me.”
He squints slightly at the guys, scrunching up his nose when he catches one of them glancing in a direction that seems suspiciously close to the general vicinity of Lydia’s body.
“Let’s go, caveman,” she says knowingly, handing him his beer and taking his hand again, swiping her thumb across his palm.
Fuck. He can’t believe she brought him out in public. He’s liable to explode from sexual frustration at any moment. It’s been at least 24 hours since he last got Lydia out of her pants.
“Hey, everyone!” Lydia says, waving their joined fingers at them. She pretends to miss the pained look Stiles gives her.
“Hi!” one of her friends says, standing up to give Lydia a one-armed hug. “It was so great to hear from you.”
“I’m glad you could make it out tonight,” Lydia tells her. “Stiles has been busting his ass, so I figured he could use a night off.”
A night off from what, exactly? Getting off? Because the only thing Stiles has been busting his ass for is sex, and they’re getting really fucking good at it. Like, mind bendingly good. As in, he’s pretty sure he could change his major to cunnilingus because he’d desperately like to earn an advanced degree.
“Yeah, I’m real pissed that Lydia would drag me away from studying,” he says, tipping his beer in the general direction of the guys at the table before taking a swig.
It takes one beer for Stiles to be glad Lydia dragged him out of the apartment, two for him tell the story about how she used to do yoga in their living room to see if he would jump her. He had made himself a model of self control in the tale, but had decided to leave out the series of one-night-stands that were pivotal to getting through that particular period in their lives.
Living with ground rules had been fucking difficult. Now there are different rules. Naked Wednesdays is Stiles’ favorite.
Maybe he should tell the guys about naked Wednesdays.
Three beers in, Stiles is out of his chair, swinging his hips back and forth in the same repetitive motion over and over again while Lydia sways next to him, stifling her laughter. There are only a few other people clustered around him on the dance floor, so Stiles doesn’t have a problem with wiggling his neck and shoulders in a way that causes Lydia to snort.
“What?” he yells over the music, taking a sip of his beer.
“Nothing,” she laughs, shaking her head and standing on her tip-toes so that she can wrap her arms around his neck as the song changes. Stiles perks up, knowing the song immediately, and he grins at Lydia, leaning down so that he can croon the lyrics to her. He feels weightless and airy and happy, but he can tell by the look on her face that she knows he means what he’s singing to her. She sighs and tucks her head into his neck, dropping kisses along the sensitive skin there, and when she leans back to kiss him, she still tastes like rum and coke.
“Love you.”
He says it for her because he knows she’s thinking it. Lydia doesn’t say it out loud as much as he does-- probably because the words are something she is so careful with, so delicate with. But she will climb into bed with him and rub her socked feet over his cold toes because she knows he won’t wear socks to bed. And sometimes, when he is cooking, she will kiss his shoulder or rest her forehead against his back while he works or tuck her head under his arm to try to get him to let her taste something, and he doesn’t ever complain even though she’s slowing him down. This is how she tells him. This is how she says it over and over again, even more than he says it out loud.
And he is extraneous with it. At this point, Lydia knows he loves her. After she had found the ground rules, he had whispered it into her skin a million times, until his mouth was dry and the words tasted like paper and still he said them over and over again with his crinkly voice.
“I know,” says Lydia, smirking, and Stiles groans out loud because she’s not allowed to reference Star Wars when he’s drunk. Some rules are not meant to be broken, and for good reason.
“You can’t do that,” Stiles complains, taking the last sip of his fourth beer. “You can’t do that unless you fucking follow through.”
“Okay then,” Lydia says abruptly, her eyes shining. “Let’s follow through.”
Stiles swallows.
“Are we thinking the same things when you say follow through?”
“Probably not.”
He nods.
“Right.”
“Unless yours is fucking in the bathroom right now, in which case, yes.”
His mouth goes dry. This is definitely another way she says I love you without having to say it out loud.
“Yeah, that’s mine too.”
“Perfect,” Lydia says concisely, “follow me in two minutes.” She starts to pull away from him, but he won’t let go of her hand, so Lydia sighs. “Fine. Follow me now.”
They try to slip away unnoticed, but he has a feeling her friends can probably see them. Whatever. There are locks. They’ll be quiet.
At least that’s what he thinks, until Lydia sits on the black marble countertop in the bathroom, which is lit only by bulbs that circle the mirror, and tugs her shirt over her head. And she’s glowing in the lights, her eyes liquid as she stares at him and waits for him to get even, this ridiculously beautiful smirk on her lips because she wants him, and there is no way he’s going to be able to be quiet because Lydia Martin is so fucking pretty.
“Come on, Stilinski,” she coaxes softly, tilting her head to the side. Her hair tickles her side, and he finds himself wanting to splay his fingers out there, just to see how his fingers can wrap almost all the way around her. “You’re falling way behind.”
It’s not right, because he’s drunk and she’s tipsy, but he wants to get on his knees on the dirty bathroom floor and worship her the way he always has and always will. But then Lydia beckons him forward, dragging him down by his hair, and she tugs off his shirt for him, arching her chest away from the mirror so that she can take off her bra. It falls into her lap, and when Lydia’s hands return to Stiles’ hair, his knees buckle slightly so that their chests are pressed against each other, making both of them groan.
“I wanna go home,” Stiles says, nipping at her ear. “Wanna take my time with you.”
She sighs, languid as she tilts her head to the side and allows her hands to wander down Stiles’ body, winding their way to his belt and tossing it to the floor before her hands find a home on his ass over his boxer-briefs.
“It’s one of those nights, hmmm?”
“Your fault,” he says, lazily trailing his lips down to her breasts. “You keep making eyes at me. It’s making me go all warm and mooshy.”
“What happened to the sloppy drunk Stiles we know and love?”
“‘M only four in. One more and we’d be finished already.”
Lydia laughs.
“I have a new ground rule for you,” she says softly, cupping his cheek. He leans into it, nuzzling her wrist where she had sprayed perfume earlier that night. “When your girlfriend asks you to fuck her in a bathroom, just suck it up and do it.”
He grins lazily.
“You suck it up, Lydia Martin.”
“On a bathroom floor? No.”
“So let’s go home,” Stiles insists, now whining slightly. He lays his head on her shoulder, not caring about the awkward angle his ass is sticking his at, and wraps his arms around her waist. “I wanna fuck on our couch and then I wanna fuck in your bed and fall asleep and wake up at 3am and fuck again and then--”
“That’s ambitious,” Lydia teases. He can feel the shake of her laughter against him. “Are you sure you could get yourself up at 3am?”
“For you, I could slay dragons,” he says seriously, tilting his head up to look at the her.
Lydia leans her head against the mirror and laughs.
“My hero.”
“No, seriously!” Stiles insists. “Gimme a fuckin’ dragon, Lyds. I’m gonna fight him.”
“Okay,” she says patronizingly, cupping his chin. “Take me home, Stiles Stilinski. Take me home just so you can prove to me that you can get up at 3am and ravish me.”
“Yay,” he says, popping up immediately and searching the floor for his belt. “And if I get up at 3am, can we get a dog?”
Lydia frowns, pausing in the process of pulling on her shirt.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“It shows responsibility,” Stiles says, the ‘duh’ very clear in his voice.
Lydia hops off of the counter and crosses her arms over her chest.
“Let’s get a goldfish and see if you can keep that one alive first.”
Stiles, struggling to pull on his shirt, cheers from within its confines. He hears Lydia sigh heavily, then approach him to tug the shirt down by the hem. When his head pops out of the neck, Stiles shakes his head twice, then bends down to kiss Lydia on the nose.
“Fine, a goldfish,” he says, maintaining eye contact with her. “I shall call him Sc--”
“You can’t name him Scotty,” Lydia says, grabbing her phone from the counter before turning to the door.
Stiles is unperturbed.
“Fine. I shall call him Dumbledore.”
“That’s fine,” Lydia says, unlocking the door to the bathroom. “Dumbledore’s already dead.”
Stiles shrieks.
“SPOILERS!”
“You read them every Christmas, you fucking-” She opens the door and wraps her small hand around his wrist, leading him back to their friends. “Hey, this one’s not feeling great. We’re going to have to head home.”
She lies so smoothly that Stiles almost forgets it’s a lie. He rubs his stomach slightly, expecting it to ache. Which it does not. Clearly. Probably. Is that a pang he feels?
Lydia leads him outside, into the cool Boston air. It sobers him a bit, and he swings their joined hands carelessly, which Lydia pretends to ignore, but Stiles can see the smile tugging at her lips.
“You know, as brilliant as you are, you should have already realized that you have to stop distracting me so that I can get a degree and a real job and provide for you and Dumbledore.”
“Well, maybe I want to be the one who provides for you and Dumbledore,” Lydia shoots back lightly. “Ever think of that?”
Actually, no.
“Can’t we both provide for Dumbledore?”
“Not if you fail out of college because you’re too busy getting laid to read any of your study materials,” says Lydia knowingly.
“You’re doing this on purpose!” Stiles gasps. “You want to provide for Dumbledore all on your own!”
“Stiles, Dumbledore is a goldfish that doesn’t exist,” Lydia reminds him gently. “And you can always tell me when I’m distracting you from studying. I can… I don’t know… stop distracting you.”
“What a genius idea,” Stiles says drily. “And how will you manage to do that?”
“We can get a second apartment for me to go to when you need to do work.”
“Or… ya know… your bedroom.”
“It’s lonely in there.”
“Lydia.”
“Okay,” she sighs. “Maybe we need to add some more ground rules. ‘Stop ruining Stiles’ career prospects’ would be one of them.”
“And no cheating at HeadsUp,” Stiles says threateningly, his stomach tingling pleasantly when Lydia chuckles, her expression thrown into sharp illumination as they pass under a street lamp. “You’re out of control.”
“Or maybe you just don’t like losing.”
“Both can be true.”
Lydia nudges him with her hip, breath puffing out in front of her as she looks up at him.
“Just as long as you keep playing,” she says quietly, stopping abruptly and turning to him.
“Yeah,” he says, eyelids fluttering closed. He isn’t looking her as he says, “Yeah. For as long as you want.”
Lydia tugs the collar on his coat up, and Stiles opens his eyes as she pulls him down to kiss her. His lids close again at the first press of her lips against his.
“Come on, roommate,” she murmurs, pulling back when both of them are smiling into the kiss too much. “Take me home.”