Dylan O'brien & Other-Smut-Imagines

Sex Dreams (Stydia)

Okay, here's the thing. The thing that Lydia will admit to approximately one person, and that is herself, but barely— She's been having dreams about Stiles since she kissed him.

Mostly they had been sex dreams at first, because as ashamed as she was at the time to be dreaming sexually about the guy who'd had a crush on her since she was like 3 or 4 yrs old, there had been something about Stiles that had snagged her and had never let her go. She would dream of his mouth, of his tongue inside of her as she arched above him. She'd dream about his happy trail; about being in a classroom and waiting until they were alone, then unbuttoning his pants so that she could find out exactly what that trail lead to. And as impatient as she is, there had been a recurring theme of Lydia as a teacher and Stiles as her virginal but ever so eager-to-please student.

The reality of them is so vastly different that Lydia nearly feels embarrassed at her childish sixteen-year-old idea of what her relationship with Stiles was supposed to be. They're eighteen and her dreams about Stiles have long since begun to reflect the reality of what they have. The dreams have turned into talking on the phone until 3 am from two separate bedrooms across town, neither of them willing to hang up. They have turned into watching movies, their bodies sprawled out across Stiles' bed, both of them trying too hard to focus on the movie instead of each other. They have become coffee in the morning and lightly entwined fingers during lunch and making out in the back of the jeep during the sixth period study hall that's just the two of them.

They had gotten together with so much effort, so much difficulty, that by the time Lydia had actually ended up in a relationship with Stiles, she had been a completely different person, and so had he. Her dreams about him had shifted to reflect that. Sometimes she thinks that they're lucky, because as much as they'd grown, they had only grown together. They hadn't changed enough that they didn't fit anymore. They work. Being a couple with him has felt right and easy and exhilarating, and a part of her has been glowing ever since it's happened. And her dreams have become soft and sweet; a well worn blanket pressed against her cheek.

And then... last night. Last night had reminded her rather forcefully of junior year, when she was just discovering how long and sinewy Stiles' fingers were. The only difference is that now she could have them inside of her, if she wanted to. Last night, as he'd fucked her in her dream, she had been able to bask in the startling accuracy of the way he was kissing her, and the feeling of his hand stroking her hair, just hard enough that it's urgent instead of gentle, but still tender because he always is with her.

Her purple sheets are soaked with sweat as she gets herself off, fingers not nearly long enough to satisfy. It's too quick, leaving her desperate for more, so she gets herself off again in the shower, praising a God she doesn't believe in for giving her a detachable showerhead. The careful outfit, hair, and makeup don't help to make her feel less off-kilter. Instead, she closes the front door to her house, sees the jeep sliding into her driveway, and almost considers leaving her panties at home, for all the help they'll be.

Except Stiles is completely oblivious as he grins at her and hands her the coffee that he'd made for her, and when he doesn't kiss her long enough, she's even more tightly wound than she was before. She folds her arms and crosses her legs and sits there with her lips pursed, trying not to think about how incredibly good he smells and how she has a flannel hanging over her desk chair that smells just like him and she may have thought briefly about standing up to put it on in the early moments of this morning.

"God, you are not a morning person," Stiles teases, noting the scowl on her face at a stop light. "You're looking at the windshield like coach looks at Greenberg on his birthday."

"Whose birthday? Coach or Greenberg?" Lydia asks. Stiles spares her an amused frown, his lips tugged upwards. "What? Your syntax was confusing."

He laughs a little. Places a soothing hand on her knee, which honestly just makes it worse as he absently strokes his fingers on her bare skin as they pull into the parking lot. When he slides his hand off of her thigh so that he can shift gears into park, Lydia honestly begins to consider different ways to phrase the sentence "I would like you to fuck me, please" in a way that reserves some dignity. She huffs, leaping down from the passenger's seat as soon as she unbuckles her seat belt. By the time she's out, and has finished smoothing down her skirt, Stiles is already around the car. He blocks her in with his hips, then presses a gentle kiss against her forehead, his hand cupping the back of her head.