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Blue My Mind

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Stiles really likes the way his dick looks in Lydia’s fist. Sometimes her nails are green. Or purple. Or bright red. Or sometimes it’s hard to tell, because they’re glittery and change color in the light. Or there are tiny plastic jewels attached, and it’s like his dick is wearing bling. (The thought makes him giggle like a dork in the middle of sex, and in response to Lydia’s inquiring eyebrow, he says something ridiculous along the lines, “I just thought of a joke I heard earlier?”)

She never cuts her nails short, not for anything, so she’s incredibly careful when she takes the head of his cock between three fingers and squeezes, massages. She’ll play with him until he’s begging for it. It’s best when her lipstick matches her nail polish, and she sucks him down until her fingers touch her mouth.

He’s not sure why he doesn’t just tell her that he likes her nails. Maybe he’s embarrassed. Maybe he’s not embarrassed, but he keeps it a secret so that it feels dirtier. Whatever. The problem is that he’s developing an Pavlovian reaction to Lydia’s painted nails, especially since they moved in together. She’ll come home with a new color, and all he can think about is what those fingers will look like against his skin.

Stiles is not sure Lydia has noticed his fascination, though. She knows that he likes it better when she jerks him off underhanded, but he’s not sure she knows it’s because her nails are facing up.


And then one day she comes home with her nails cut short, no polish whatsoever.

“What’s with your nails?” he says.

Lydia lifts an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“They’re not…you know, you usually have them painted all fancy.”

“Yeah, I’m starting the new experiment tomorrow, the one I’ve been telling you about?”

“Oh, right.”

“Really delicate work. I’m going to get so little sleep the next few weeks.” Lydia says this with relish. And it’s nice, to hear her so excited about something. She’s been talking about this experiment for months, so he feels like an ass, being disappointed over something as stupid her fingernails.

He smiles at her. “ You want pasta for dinner?”


The sex that night is great, obviously, really great, and his fifteen-year-old self is yelling at him across the years, but he can’t help but be just a little sad when she splays her fingers out over his chest while riding him, and her fingers blend in with his skin.


The new experiment means that Lydia’s at the lab every day of the week from eight am to nine pm, and so they don’t see each other much. Which is the point at which Stiles maybe goes a little crazy.

It’s five pm on a Friday, and Lydia isn’t due home for hours, when Stiles gets the idea. He spends about an hour watching TV and pretending he’s not thinking about it before he gets up and goes to dig through Lydia’s vanity.

She’s got a variety of colors, more than Stiles would have thought, with how often she goes to the nail salon: reds and pinks and blues and purples. They all have names like Cherry Princess and Bodice Ripper and Going Downtown. He finally picks up a color called Blue My Mind.

Stiles has never painted anyone’s nails before. It’s hard to stay in the lines, no matter how slow and careful he is, and painting his right hand with his left hand is a complete disaster. But his nails are still blue when he’d done, and that’s something.

He jerks off with both hands, squinting sometimes so that it’s harder to see how he screwed up and painted his cuticles. He comes all over his hands and spends ten solid minutes staring at the come as it goes from dripping off his right thumb to a drying, tacky topcoat over the blue.

And then he rubs his fingers with soap and water and acetone until it’s all gone, and his fingers sting.


He does it a couple more times over the next week. He feels weird about it, even though he shouldn’t. As kinks go, it’s not that crazy, really, and he knows if it were anyone else, he’d be showering them with validation and kink-positivity, but that doesn’t stop him from feeling a little weird, stealing into Lydia’s stuff. He should stop stealing from her, really. He should replace the polish he’s stolen. He should buy his own if he’s gonna keep this up.


He and Lydia are eating turkey burgers together at the table, and Lydia’s apparently absorbed in a journal article she’s got spread open next to her plate. Stiles has finished his food and is about to wash his plate when Lydia says, without looking up from her article, “Go wash your hands.”

“Yes, mom.”

“No. I mean, wash your hands, then go upstairs and get my bag of nail stuff and bring it back down.”

Shit. Stiles freezes, plate in one hand.

Lydia looks up from her article. “I’m gonna give you a manicure.” She bats her lashes. “If you want.”

It’s weird, how she can manage to express I know what you’ve been doing and I know everything and it’s fine and let’s have sex all in one look.

“I love you,” Stiles blurts out.

“I know, baby.”

“Uh-uh. You did not just Han Solo me.”

Lydia grins outright. “I love you, too.” She flicks her fingers at him. “Go wash your hands, then.”

He does, and then fetches her bag of nail paraphernalia and drops it on the table where she’s gone back to reading her article. “What’s your favorite color?” she asks without looking up.

Stiles digs through the bag and comes up with the one called Cherry Princess. It’s just red, as far as Stiles can tell, but he likes it.

“Nice. Come sit next to me.”

Lydia manicures his nails with exacting precision. She files them first, rubs something into his fingers that smells flowery, and then goes back to clip off his cuticles. By the time she gets to painting, he’s been lulled into a soothing little trance, and he watches her layer on the base coat and color with long, slow strokes.

After the top coat goes on, she breaks her silence. “’Kay. Now go sit on the other side of the table and lay your hands flat to dry.” She shifts the article she was reading back in front of her and uncaps her pen.

Stiles maybe frowns at that a little, but he obeys. He settles into the chair across from her and lays his hands flat, and as soon as he does, there’s pressure against his dick. Stiles squeaks.

Lydia doesn’t look up from her article, but she does smirk a little and flex her toes against his groin—her toes, when did she take off her shoes?—in a frankly awe-inspiring grip. “Don’t move,” she says. “Gotta give them time to dry.”

He doesn’t know how long he sits there. Lydia reads and actually appears to take notes for long minutes while rubbing her foot back and forth between his legs. Stiles stares down at the crisp edges of his red nails, and feels his breathing get shallower. The first time and only time he hitches his hips forward, her foot retracts immediately. “What did I say?” she asks.

He smiles, but doesn’t laugh like he wants to. The whole obedience thing is more her kink than his, but fuck, he loves it when her voice gets all low and cutting like that.

“Don’t move,” he answers. He goes still and spreads his fingers more firmly against the table, and she rewards him by working the ball of her foot more aggressively against his erection.

It feels even longer, the stretch of time after that. Stiles shifts his attention between his nails, the scratch of Lydia’s pen, and her toes digging into his balls. His hands are like an anchor on the table.

By the time Lydia reaches the last page of her article and shuffles the papers in front of her, he’s whining. She pushes the papers down to the end of the table and scoots her chair back so that her foot falls away.

“Come here,” she says. Relieved, and beyond ready for whatever she’s about to do him, Stiles lets her arrange his body between herself and the table and start undoing his pants. When his jeans and underwear are completely off, she taps at his nails to make sure they’re dry.

“Perfect. Now take off your shirt and sit on the table.”

The table’s cold under his ass, and not really made for a grown man to sit on, so it rocks a little bit, but Lydia’s already grabbing the back of his knees and bringing his feet up to rest on her thighs.

“You gonna suck me off?”

“You’re the one with the pretty nails, baby.”

Oh. Stiles takes hold of his cock in an underhanded grip so that he can see his nails lined up in a row.

“Yeah,” Lydia says, smiling up at him. “Like that.”

Lydia leans forward between his legs and licks at the tip of his cock while he pulls at it, and her hair matches her lips matches his nails.

Cherry Princess, he thinks, and starts laughing so hard that he comes.