A/N: Hi all! This idea gripped me the other day and would not let me go, and then I went on a three hour bike ride and ended up literally spending the whole time planning out this fic instead of, you know, enjoying the view and stuff. I'm a total loser. Anyway.

EDIT: The rating on this story has been changed from T to M. it's a relatively soft M because I don't go into explicit, porn-esque detail, but you can expect certain parts to be very steamy/sexy. Way too much so to be considered a T rating anymore, lmao. Also, there is some swearing.

Lydia Martin bolted upright in bed, gasping for breath and heart beating wildly.

Her panic was met with silence. She couldn't see a thing in the dark, she had no idea where she was, or how she got here. All she knew was that she was in a bed.

And it wasn't hers.

She attempted immediately to take stock of her surroundings; it didn't help- she was sprawled in a large, foreign-feeling bed, and from what she could see of the bedroom as she squinted through the darkness, breathing rapidly, this was a place she'd never seen in her life. She definitely did not own a baseball calendar. Her window was definitely not on that wall. That was definitely not her dresser, and her own closet (which she would never leave open) did not have men's jeans in it. And what the hell was that piece of furniture covered loosely by a piece of cloth...

Since it was dark, she didn't notice the bed's other inhabitant until he spoke, voice drowsy from sleep.

"Lyds? You okay?"

She whipped her head around, and there, lying next to her where he had no business being, was Stiles Stilinski, blinking his eyes rapidly in her direction.

She opened her mouth but nothing came out, even when he repeated her name again. It felt like thirty seconds ago she'd been fighting with the pack against that witch that was trying to suck power out of the Nemeton (no surprise there). Stiles' panicked yell before she blacked out was the last thing she remembered.

Meanwhile, the Stiles next to her stirred and sat up, rubbing his eyes. "Oh my god, are you in a fugue state? Are you gonna find a dead body? This is so cool. Wait, I'm coming with you." He started fumbling around the bedside table, presumably for the lamp switch. "You're like one of those police dogs that go sniffing for stuff. Except you're sniffing for a dead body. Um. That's a bad comparison, since you're not a dog, you're a banshee. Wow, I am so glad you're in a fugue state right now."

"Stiles," she said finally, his flailing demeanor shaking her out of it, "I'm not in a fugue state."

He stiffened a little, and then turned around, eyes wide and hands placating. "I swear I don't see you as a police dog."

"Stiles," she said again, because his name on her lips made her feel grounded. Her voice didn't feel like her own. This must be a dream. A terrible, terrible dream. Jesus, was she fantasizing being domestic with Stiles? Her mind needed to get a grip. "I… just need to go to the bathroom." WIthout waiting for a response, she slipped out of the sheets and walked out of the room, feeling blind.

Miraculously, the tiny bathroom was right next to the bedroom, and she breathed a sigh of relief before shutting the door and locking it. At least her brain was being slightly logical in her fantas- dreams.

"Okay, Lydia," she muttered to herself, leaning against the counter and squeezing her eyes shut. "Wake up. Just a dream."

She opened her eyes. Her bewildered stare looked back at her, wearing a thin green nightie and… oh god, was that a hickey on her neck?

She squeezed her eyes shut again, not wanting to think about how that got there. "Come on." She pinched herself on the arm. "Just a dream." She opened her eyes. Nothing. She sighed deeply.

She wracked her brain, struggling to remember the fight against the witch- it now felt like a distant memory. Maybe they'd won. Maybe they'd gone home after, and Lydia had gone to sleep. It was possible she just wasn't remembering that, the memory of going to bed overshadowed by the rather explosive evening.

Yes, that was it. That made sense. She nodded to herself. Maybe she should just go with it. She'd had worse dreams, after all. She shuddered at just the memory of what Peter Hale had put her through.

Exhaling shakily, she raked her gaze over her own appearance again. Her eyes fell on another detail she hadn't noticed before- something sparkling on her finger as it caught the light.

A ring.

She thought she might have stopped breathing for a moment.

Not real. Not real, she reminded herself.

"Really?" she muttered to herself after a long pause. She maybe- sort of- possibly- had slight feelings for Stiles Stilinski, back in high school- but now her subconscious was just going too far. She had a boyfriend, after all. And now here she was dreaming about being- what, married? engaged?- to Stiles Stilinski, the resident goofball.

Shaking her head at her own foolishness, she exited the bathroom, turned off the light , and stepped back into the bedroom. Stiles was slumped back on the pillows, snoring lightly.

Feeling like there was nothing else to do, she slipped back into the bed, feeling his arm snake around her waist. It was strangely comforting. Maybe if she fell asleep here, she'd wake up. Or the dream would change. Or something.

She swallowed and closed her eyes. Yes, that was it. Just go to sleep. This wasn't real.

Stiles chose that moment to bury his face into the crook of her neck, his nose rubbing along the skin there. "Mhmmm," he mumbled in his sleep. His lips brushed against her jaw. The sensation sent unwarranted chills down her spine, and suddenly certain things were feeling a little too real for Lydia's liking.

But that was all that happened. Stiles fell silent, nestled against her; Lydia, despite herself, relaxed in his arms. Maybe this dream wasn't so bad. And just like that, she drifted off.

For the second time, Lydia bolted up in bed. The morning sky outside the window was bright, birds were chirping, and Lydia Martin was...

In the same. Damn. Bedroom.

Okay, now she was worried.

She glanced beside her- Stiles was gone. She threw the covers off and bolted out of the room, not even caring that her hair was a mess and all she was wearing was that green nightie (which she didn't think she even owned in reality).

She ran down the hallway and skidded to a stop, realizing this wasn't a house, but an apartment. A rather nice apartment at that. In fact, it was absolutely the kind of home that Lydia would pick for herself…

Breathing shallowly she finally spied the apartment door out of the corner of her eye, and with a single minded focus approached it. What would be behind the door? Would she find herself in another one of her sophomore dance-and-Peter Hale dreams or-

Out of nowhere in her sprint for the door, two large arms enveloped her in a warm hug so tight she was lifted off her feet.

"Where're you in such a hurry to go, Mrs. soon-to-be Stilinski?" teased a voice that was all too familiar. Heart still beating wildly in her chest, she was dimly aware of the kiss he planted on her forehead. "Stay a while. In fact, stay forever." A pause. "And not in the creepy horror movie way. What I mean is..." He exhaled as his mouth ran him into a corner, and Lydia almost had to grin because that was such a Stiles thing to do. "Anyway. I made blueberry waffles. Your favourite." And then he leaned down and pecked her on the lips.

Lydia finally came to her senses. Stiles, her apparent fiancé, did not make her blueberry waffles because this wasn't Stiles and he definitely wasn't engaged to her. "Let go of me."

He stiffened at her tone, and pulled back to look her in the eye with his own whisky brown ones, hands still stroking at her elbows. Now that he wasn't so close, she noticed he was wearing an undershirt that quite nicely showed off his toned arms that Lydia definitely did not see often. "Are you okay?"

"No," she half-shouted at him, and he was so alarmed by her shriek that he stepped back, slipped in a spot of waffle batter on the otherwise spotless floor, and fell backwards into the table with a resounding crash. It would have been funny if Lydia wasn't panicking so much. "You're not Stiles!" she shouted at him, and he looked utterly bewildered from where he was picking himself up off the floor.

"Lydia, what the hell-"

"Get out of my head," she cut him off, hissing. "Just stop. Stop." She rubbed her hands over her face vigorously. "Wake up, wake up," she muttered. A sudden thought struck her.

Aware of his confused and worried gaze following her, she practically flew to the bookshelf and grabbed a random book with shaking hands.

The cover read World War II: Weapons of Mass Destruction. She could read it.

Which meant…

"No, no no," she muttered, sliding down the wall until her butt hit the floor. "No."

Stiles cautiously approached her. "Lydia?"

She finally looked up at him, and she knew how afraid she looked. "Am I dreaming?" she whispered. "Please. Tell the truth."

He squatted in front of her, and for once there was no trace of laughter in his eyes. Only a gentleness that she knew he reserved only for her. He held his large hands up. "Why don't you count with me and find out," he responded.

She swallowed as he brought the first finger up. "One," she said shallowly, voice cracking.

"That's right," he coaxed. Next finger.

"Two."

"Three."

"Four. Five. Six. Seven, eight and nine and… ten…" her voice trailed off, and all ten of Stiles' long fingers were waving at her. Not an extra one in sight.

She exhaled slowly and leaned her head back, and he sat down on the floor next to her. They sat in silence for a minute, Lydia trying to process everything and make sense of it (and coming up blank).

"So, what was that all about?" he asked, his hand now reaching to stroke her hair back from her forehead.

She let him. She was too overwhelmed and didn't even know what to think anymore. "Stiles… I don't know what's going on."

"Nothing is going on," Stiles said with a small grin, now playing with a strand of her hair. "Well, asides from your thesis defense in a month. And our engagement party next week. Surprisingly, nothing supernatural has plagued Beacon Hills in a good two months." He frowned, glancing briefly at her. "Well, I didn't think there was, anyway."

Nothing supernatural? Lydia ignored the engagement party thing to worry about later and gripped her knees tightly. "So there's no witch that we've been dealing with?"

"I can confirm zero witchiness," he replied with a slight smile. "Was that part of your dream?"

Unless her entire life as she knew it was part of a dream, then no. "Stiles," she said hesitantly. "I… I'm not marrying you."

The hurt that instantly flashed across his face was all too visible. She quickly tried to amend her callous statement.

"What I mean is… I don't remember ever being engaged to you in the first place. I don't remember ever being with you. We've never been together."

She watched him slowly register this; the hurt was replaced with a wave of confusion. "Then what do you remember?" he asked softly.

She wracked her brain. "I remember… a witch," she replied, equally softly. "We… the pack, I mean… we were fighting her…" And slowly, the realization dawned. "Oh my god. That bitch…"

She looked up to see Stiles looking baffled.

She took a deep breath. "Can you listen to me and not think I'm crazy?"

He offered her a little smile. "As I've said before, there's nothing you could say that would make you seem even a little bit crazy to me." Well, at least that was real.

"There is a witch in Beacon Hills," Lydia said. "And she is incredibly powerful. We were fighting her. Or, at least trying to." She paused; Stiles was listening attentively, even though she knew how insane this must sound. "I think she did something to me during that fight. Something that made this" she gestured around them, "happen." She took another deep breath because she wasn't sure he was going to take this well. "Stiles… I don't think any of this is real. I don't… I don't think you're real."

There was a long silence. Stiles stared at her, lips parted slightly and eyebrows furrowed.

She bit her lip. She knew she shouldn't have said that. How would anyone take that? She sounded like a crazy person, and Stiles was probably trying to think of ways to create a makeshift straitjacket.

Instead, Stiles rocked back on his heels. "Okay." He got up from the floor and held out a hand to her.

"Okay?" she echoed, hesitantly accepting the hand that pulled her up. Just like that? Maybe she wasn't the only one who was in need of a good stay in Eichen House.

"Yeah," he said in a strange tone of voice, nodding. "I got it. I'm not real. According to you. My entire life is a lie."

"And you accept that," Lydia stated.

"I'm not saying I accept it as fact, exactly… but you're the one with the genius level IQ," he said with a shrug, and she had to marvel at this man, this man who was so faithful and loyal to her that he would follow her to the ends of the earth on her smallest whim. "So let's just say you're right. I mean, let's be honest, you usually are. One of the many reasons I love you." She glanced away from his gaze, awkward from those words even though he said them so easily she got the impression it was something he was used to saying to her. "So I'm not real. All right. What else?"

"I don't know," Lydia said. "I, I just don't." She scrubbed at her face with her hands, suddenly exhausted. "All I know is I need to find a way out of this place. Fast."

"I'll help you," he said earnestly.

She looked up. "Really?" After she'd just told him he was just a figment of her imagination he'd accepted it as law and was now willing to basically… help him not exist? God, this made no sense, even to her.

"Well, of course," he beamed at her. "Real or not real, there's no reality or fantasy where Stiles Stilinski wouldn't help Lydia Martin solve a case." He turned back to the stove. "We'll call a pack meeting today. Maybe we can help you figure things out."

"Okay," she said finally, falling into a stool. She didn't really feel like re-explaining all of this to the skeptics in the pack, but it seemed to be her only option at this point. "Thank you." The words tasted odd in her mouth, but it felt only right to say them.

He waved the gratitude off with a flailing hand gesture that only Stiles would be able to pull off. "Don't mention it. In other news, the waffles are burned, but I have more batter. Would you care for some dream-waffles? I mean, they're already dreamy. You said so yourself when you tasted them for the first time. But now, apparently they're, like, literally dreamy. Because we're in a dream. A magic dream where you can read and I have the proper amount of digits. Man, you know what this means? I'm literally the stuff of dreams to Lydia Martin…"

She knew him well enough to know that he joked incessantly when he was nervous or stressed. But at the moment, she had to tune him out, concentrating on the facts she knew. She still felt like she was missing something. The group had known next to nothing about the witch they had been dealing with. All of her conclusions about this scenario were shaky and frankly, didn't have any basis in fact. She simply thought this was a dream because that was what her past experiences led her to believe.

Her instincts were screaming something different at her though; something that terrified her even more than the prospect of being trapped in her own dreams.

The idea that maybe this was all actually real.

A/N: Please do leave a note if you're interested in the story! It really helps me get writing done, and I love hearing from you.

And I'm arrowcave on tumblr!