A/N: I was listening to the Not Another Teen Wolf podcast, and had a sudden flash of inspiration when they mentioned Stiles and his first name. His *real* first name. I just had to write this, and threw in a little bit of a fun, humorous flair because Always Right There (my chaptered Stydia fic that you should totally read) isn't going to be all fluff and happiness.
So, enjoy and review! Always review, because it makes you about 33.215% cooler than everyone else. That number is completely, and scientifically, accurate.
In one particularly boring lecture on wave-particle duality – not boring per-say but it certainly wasn't anything new to her – Lydia had a sudden realization: what was Stiles's first name? That hole in her understanding of him was the annoying kind of half-memory about a solution to a problem, without actually knowing the answer. She had always just called him Stiles, Stilinski, dork, or whatever garbled nonsense came out of her mouth when they had sex. He hadn't even seemed like it was a big deal that she didn't even know her boyfriend's real first name. There had been so much happening between them in the past few years, not even counting werewolves, troglodytic boyfriends, evil druids, and the slowly growing relationship they had was the only constant she could rely on. And here she was trying her damndest to remember if he even had a first name other than Stiles. No one named their kid Stiles Stilinski. It was as easy as just asking him, right? It still bothered her that this basic information had slipped her grasp when almost all of him was quite literally at arm's reach.
"Stiles," she whispered into the back of his neck. She could see him shiver slightly and she rolled her eyes. He didn't turn around,
"What?" It was short and almost annoyed, like he was going to have a serious problem if this conversation kept happening like this. He was too easy. If she didn't actually care about Stiles, and God did that freak her out on some existential level, then manipulating him the way she had her other "boyfriends" would be even easier than it was before.
"What's your first name?" There. Blunt always worked with him. Whenever Lydia dawdled around the problem it'd make him antsy, there'd be an agitated sigh from her, and an argument would happen. Out of nowhere, her eyes would be rolling every third sentence. Normally she didn't mind this – making up didn't seem to bother Stiles either – but it wasn't the time for it right now.
"Does it matter?" It was clear when he was impatient, and he sounded like it was the last thing he wanted to talk about. It took every ounce of willpower to not demand him answer, but class would be over in a few minutes anyways. Instead she looked down at her nails and in a sudden fit of inspiration raked them gently across the back of his neck in simple patterns. She hadn't dug them into the skin, but the light horizontal motion made Stiles's shoulders roll uncomfortably and she saw his right leg come up and cross his left.
This time he rotated slowly, with a look of mock thanks on his face. She returned the smile blithely, still moving her left hand in circles and raising her eyebrows in that 'you did this to yourself' way. She saw him take a deep breath and look back to the front of the class. He didn't uncross his legs for another few minutes. Lydia wasn't even paying attention to the people around her staring at the unusual performance act beside them – their relationship wasn't hidden or remotely private, but no couple at Beacon Hills ever did something like that in class. Usually they just made out or moved their desks suspiciously close. It was a combination of hilarious and sweet that something as small as light touching was making him glow red with embarrassment and the smile never left her face for the rest of the lesson, even as she looked up and pretended that it was startling and new information she hadn't read twenty times before.
Just before the hands of the clock swung to the 3 o'clock position, Stiles turned around and crossed his arms over the back of the seat. His face was smug and was plastered with an obnoxious grin that had all the allure of a 6-year old bully. It only meant trouble was on the horizon, and probably only for him judging by the last few times this sort of thing happened. Whatever he came up with it better be good, she thought as she slipped her right foot out of her heel and set it on the book rest hovering just inches below Stiles's seat. He didn't seem to notice. It left her wondering what this would do to Stiles, the guy that got a boner just from getting a little graze.
"Well, if you really want to know, " he gave a dramatic pause and looked quickly at the clock again, "it's-"
Then the loud buzz of the new alarms went off as the end of the day bell rang out, covering Stiles's words. Lydia really wished that she had bothered to learn how to read lips, because his soft speech patterns left even trying to attempt that impossible. She was sorely tempted to move her foot up just a bit and see where that put the playing field but that was too easy. Rather than setting him on a wild goose chase after her, and possibly ruining a pair of jeans in the process, she answered it by drawing her lips in a tight line and squinting at him.
All right, it was on.