No Luck

See You Later

Everybody's tryna be a billionaire

But every time I look at you I just don't care

'Cause all I wanna be, yeah all I ever wanna be, yeah, yeah

Is somebody to you

(Yeah you!)

Look at me now, I'm falling

I can't even talk, still stuttering

- Somebody To You, The Vamps

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Lydia stares at the TV with interest, her knees brought up to her chest and a pint of ice cream clasped somewhere between her knees and the crushed chip bag staining her purple sweater. 

Malia sits next to her in the same position, the only difference is that she has chocolate ice cream rather than strawberry. They don't even have to look at each other to quote the show. 

"I'm a survivor, staying alive is my speciality." They say in unison, making Heather groan on her way to her room. Comfortable silence falls over them as they watch in a way that Lydia's mom says will rot their brains. 

She's probably right, but then again, Lydia has an IQ of 170, and she's been watching TV like this since she was 7, and her mind is definitely not rotten.

"I would totally fuck Katherine Pierce." Lydia comments through a spoonful of ice cream. Malia glances at her quickly, making sure she doesn't miss anything. Even as a pizza delivery girl that looks like she's dying, Katherine still somehow looks hot and classy at the same time. 

"Is this your way of coming out to me?" Malia questions, raising an eyebrow. "Nope." Lydia pops the 'p'. Malia smiles devilishly. "Okay. I just had to make sure that your still in love with Stilinski." Lydia bumps her friends shoulder against hers at the word love, she barely even has a crush on him, love is a little too strong of a word.

Prada the dog comes bouncing in, making small whimpering noises as she approaches the girls. "Prada, not now. Just wait until commercial." Lydia murmurs. Prada doesn't care about the show and barks at Lydia. 

At this point, Lydia's not sure who's the human and who's the dog, as Lydia follows Prada's beck and call. "Pause." She mutters, quickly grabbing the dog and carrying her out the door to the backyard. Her dog makes a noise of appreciation and runs out the gate, where she normally does her business.

Lydia waits patiently, tapping her foot against the porch. "You only weigh 60 pounds, how long does it take?" She crosses her arms over herself, she doesn't enjoy the cold. Her strawberry blonde hair blows slightly in the wind and her cheeks flush at the night air. "Prada?" 

Lydia slowly starts to walk off the porch in search for Prada, but stops when seeing Stiles waltz in the gate, Prada in his arm. He glances up at Lydia and has to look back down at the dog upon seeing her in one of those overly large sweaters she wears that doesn't tell him wether she's wearing anything under them.

Is such sexual torture even legal?

Ignoring her sex appeal, Stiles focuses on his goal at the moment, besting her in one-liners and remarks. "Is there a non-rapey reason for why you're in my backyard, or should I just call the police?" Lydia asks, arching a perfect eyebrow. 

Stiles hums without looking up, scratching Prada's belly. He read somewhere that dogs judge character and are smarter than they look, and so he assumes Prada can feel or sense - or whatever her dog senses are telling her - their relationship. He'd only seen Prada once and she was already trusting him, letting him scratch behind her ear.