Stiles pov:
"See, watch." I pick up Lydia's hand, shivering like always at her warmth, and she watches in amazement. We sat on the floor in her room, across from each other, as I explain how I can touch her but she can't touch me. I let go of her hand and she goes to touch me, her nimble fingers slipping through my arm. More shivers.
"Why do you do that?" She asks, retreating her hand.
"Do what?"
"Shake when I touch you or you touch me?"
I shrug. "The heat from your body runs through me. Gives me the chills, ironically."
She grins, still messing with her fingers passing through my body as I talk.
I grab her wrist before she can "touch" me again and give me more chills.
"You keep doing that and you'll give me an orgasm." I joke but her expression pales.
"Please tell me you're not serious." She speaks in monotone and I laugh again, standing.
Slowly I make my way across her room, glancing out of the window to see a thick layer of snow and I smile proudly before examining the small trinkets sitting neatly on the wooden surface of her dresser. It'd been a year since I'd "moved" to Beacon Hills and five months since I'd first found Lydia. I'd been in this room a thousand times but now, there was a new light to it.
I pick up a small jewelry box, studying its intricate design before setting it back down in the wrong place and moving along.
"So you're the one that moves my stuff around?!" Lydia gasps, resetting the box before trailing behind me.
"Maybe..." I smirk. My gaze wanders around, looking at the photos along her walls of Allison and Scott, a few with her ex and I pick one up, showing it to her.
"Why don't you throw this out?" I ask with curiosity and she snatches it from me, replacing it.
"If you must know, we're still on good terms." She huffs, falling back on her bed and I let out a laugh.
"Jack-ass Whittemore broke your heart then moved to London. Not to mention how abusive he was verbally and occasionally physically." I somewhat scold her and she rolls her eyes.
"So what, you're like my stalker?" She asks and I shrug before sitting next to her.
"I prefer the term guardian angel." I smirk and she groans at my cheesiness. She goes to punch my arm, forgetting completely that she couldn't touch me, and I let out a whimper of satisfaction at her warmth causing her to make a disgusted face.
There wasn't much to do at this point. Lydia started to do homework and I simply sat and watched her the whole time, like I normally do. Although it did make my body soften when she would glance at me from the corner of her eye, acknowledging my presence before returning to her schoolwork.
"Are you going to watch me the whole time?" She grumbles.
"I always do." I speak without hesitation. She spins around in her chair, elbow leaned against the desk as she squints her eyes at me.
"You always do?" She questions.
I shrug. "Not much I can do. I usually just spend my time following you around."
She smiles at me pathetically before returning to her papers.
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Apparently eating lunch in the snow didn't bother Lydia and Allison that much, Scott refusing to go out in the cold. I sat Indian style on the picnic table, clearing off some of the snow for the girls to sit and they thank me, silently eating their lunches. I create a small army of snowmen on the table, messing around with them like a child.
"How old are you?" Lydia asks as I smash a bunch of the snowmen with my fist.
"Sixteen." I reply simply.
"I'm pretty sure that was a sarcastic question." Allison explains and I shrug, creating more armies.
My happy expression slowly fades as I start to neatly form the snowmen in lines, moving them in tactical positions before bringing them to life. They begin to destroy each other; cutting off heads and limbs, some of them "bleeding out with cries of pain.
"Speak or die." A man with a rather large and bushy beard holds a small dagger to the Adam's apple of my throat.
"But I-I don't know sir." I stutter, trying to contain the fear erupting from my voice. The man smiles devilishly.
"Stiles. Are you okay?" Allison asks, my spacey gaze never leaving the snowmen.
"Peachey." I respond blandly, the last snowman being decapitated by the other team and his killer holds up his head in victory.
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Authors note:
Gave you a tiny bit of backstory for Stiles (since you don't know how he died yet.)
Comment, read, enjoy!
-Chloe
