Summary: A collection of drabbles and one-shots about Stydia Martinski. Ratings vary from K-M.
hello everyone! this is my first story here on FF, but I have been on here for a decent amount of time. I love writing, and although I am pretty busy with college, I do try to write a little bit now and then. lately, I've been obsessed with Teen Wolf, and after seeing the lack of one-shots, I figured might as well put this one out there.
this will become a collection of one-shots about your favorite couple, Stydia Martinski. if you think some of them should continue into maybe two-shots or three-shots, feel free to tell me! also, this collection of one-shots is looking for a beta, so if anyone would be willing to step up to the plate, that would be greatly appreciated. requests are taken and I love writing songfics, so don't worry about requesting anything.
reviews are amazing! ;) enjoy!
Disclaimer: All rights belong to the creators of Teen Wolf, and the characters are not in any way my own minus the situations that I put them in.
thantophobia (n.) : the phobia of losing someone you love.
She was running. And she was cold. That was all Lydia Martin could register in the moment and it was enough to terrify her.
Within moments, she could comprehend small things. Her feet pounded on damp grass and sharp twigs that dug into the normally smooth balls of her feet, her hair flying behind her in a flurry. She heard her gasps and her panting breaths, but never stopped. She didn't dare turn around. Whenever someone turned around, they would slow down, and if she slowed down, she knew she would be as good as dead.
She peered around as much as she could without distracting herself too much. She was in the woods, that was a sure fact, and even though she wasn't even close to the Nemeton, she could still feel its power, even in a dream, thrumming through her chest, making it seem as though she had two separate heartbeats. Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.
It was surprising how much Lydia could feel in a dream, but it wasn't surprising that she tripped over a body. It also wasn't surprising when the body was Allison's.
In her dreams, it was always Allison, her best friend whose bravery she could never match and the one who died too soon. The one who should've had a lifetime.
(she had a lot of nightmares nowadays. if she wasn't found without dark bags under her eyes, it came as a shock to everyone.)
Allison's chocolate brown eyes stared up at her, empty and unseeing, and her naturally pale skin seemed to glitter white in the pale moonlight. Lydia could feel her eyes getting mistier and mistier as she stared at the thin trickle of blood that exited Allison's mouth, and she allowed a tear to fall after she registered the bite marks on her torso, red liquid seeping through her dark blue sweater. Lydia knew that wasn't how she died, that that wasn't how she met her untimely end, but it didn't prevent her from being any less affected from the sight of Allison. Allison.
She heard a growl. She tore her eyes from her friend's unmoving body to be met with a mouth of bared teeth, crimson blood dripping from the sharp incisors of the werewolf. She didn't have to look up any further to know who it was, didn't have to look directly into their eyes to understand who was inside the beast.
Peter.
(why the people in her dream were the only ones Lydia knew for sure were gone, she didn't know.)
He stalked forward and Lydia felt herself gasp. An itch swelled in her throat, one she couldn't scratch as she slowly tried to back away. The itch grew, turning into a full-on burn that ignited her mouth and her esophagus until it felt as if she was burning from the inside out. Lydia couldn't hold it back any longer.
She screamed. And the beast lunged.
She felt her world go black and empty as she understood in her final moments whose death she screamed for, whose life was taken.
It was hers.
-
Lydia was awake after that, waking up with a start and a dry mouth. Her eyes were still filled with tears and her hair was a mess. She could've sworn that she was still dreaming, yet when she counted her fingers, all ten were there. She pulled the covers up to her chest, hand blindly reaching for her phone on her nightstand. She didn't remember when she opened her phone, didn't remember when she dialed Stiles' number, but she did remember him picking up.
(of course she would call him. in a time like this, she would call the person that she needed the most. the one who she knew could comfort her in a way no one else could.)
She knew he was sleeping before she called, could tell due to the husky voice that spoke through the phone. "Scott." He stopped, not bothering to read the caller ID obviously, and she could picture him running his hand across his face and scrubbing at his eyes to wake himself up.
(she didn't know how she suddenly could picture what he was doing. she could hardly gather her thoughts, yet she could imagine him.)
"Why the hell are you calling me at-" he paused once more, probably to check his clock, "-three in the morning?"
Lydia felt her throat closing up at the thought of her recent nightmare, and her unoccupied hand shook as it clutched the sheets beneath her fingertips. "Stiles," she breathed out, pain laced in her voice. She didn't know what else to say. The only word that kept echoing in her head was Allison. Allison. Allison. Allison. She heard a thump in the background, and whether it was him falling off the bed or dropping the phone, she didn't know. Lydia only knew that somehow, her phone ended up on the bed and she could no longer hear Stiles' voice through the device. If she had been thinking rationally, she would've understood that, indeed, Stiles had dropped his phone and had jumped in his Jeep, but how could she?
Allison. Allison. Allison.
Lydia got out of her bed at some point, unconsciously moving towards a framed photo, one that contained herself and a dark-haired beauty. She smiled more when she was around back then, but she couldn't find it in herself to even be happy without her. Her first genuine friend, not some girl who would pretend for the perks of having Lydia Martin as her best friend.
(not that that mattered anymore. people stared at her, and it wasn't because of her beauty anymore. it was because of the rumors of the voices in her head that were anything but false.)
She faintly registered the glow of Stiles' headlights through her window, and she became more aware of his presence when she heard the door close downstairs, his footsteps coming nearer and nearer. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. They had sixteen steps. He had taken them two at a time.
(Lydia would eventually recount that he remembered where she told him the spare key was, and just that fact would be enough to make her smile once more)
Lydia was still in front of the photo, although this time, she was holding it in her hands, clutching it as hard as she could. She felt the delicate wood begin to chip slightly under her fingertips, could see some of the dark, cherry stain on her fingernails.
The door opened. Stiles, looking as disheveled as ever appeared in her doorway. Of course he still managed to wear some form of plaid, wearing navy blue and dark green plaid pajama pants and a white tee shirt. She turned her head to face him, her normally bright eyes dull with only the glisten of fresh tears allowing them to shine just barely as she slowly and shakily placed the frame on her dresser once again. He took an intake of breath and before she knew it, his arms were around her, her nose was buried in his chest, and she was sobbing.
Allison. Allison. Stiles.
Lydia felt Stiles pull her to her bed, whispering soothing words into her hair as he combed his fingers through the tangles comfortingly. Her body would shake with sobs, and he would only pull her closer. "Shh," he murmured, "I'm here, Lydia." Her limbs felt as if they couldn't move, and she felt as though he was pulling all of her weight as he moved the two towards her stack of pillows and messed-up covers. Lydia tried to form words, tried to turn her thoughts into a simple sentence, but she failed. She only managed one word.
"Allison."
Stiles obviously understood. The entire pack had been affected by the Argent's death, but Lydia and Scott, he knew, had been left damaged. Lydia lost, quite possibly, the only true friend she ever had, and Scott lost his first love. He was able to be there for Lydia, much as he had been there for Scott. Stiles Stilinski always gave a shoulder to cry on, even though now, it was more so his entire torso.
Lydia, despite being in his comforting arms, and warm embrace, couldn't help but feel her breath quicken. She knew what it meant, but she couldn't think. Her hands gripped his tee shirt tightly as her body shook violently.
Allison.
"Lyds, listen to me," Stiles spoke, trying desperately to stay calm, but he could hear the slight tremor in his voice as he tried to comfort Lydia. His Lydia. "You're having a panic attack. Y-you have to listen to me, okay?" Lydia nodded, but it was lost in the spasms of her chest. She tried to focus, but she kept hearing the pulse of the Nemeton, the same beat from her dream. Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump. "Lydia, please. Listen to my voice, okay? I'm not going to leave. I won't leave. Not until you tell me to, and even then I'll stay. I'll always stay, Lydia."
Lydia's breathing remained erratic, hardly ceasing to stop as her eyes remained wide and her hands almost dug holes into his shirts, her fingernails practically tearing the soft material. Stiles tried to talk to her, tried to get her to calm her breathing but her panic never ceased. Without thinking, he leaned forward and crashed his lips to hers.
Lydia immediately stopped, her body still against his for the moment before she finally melted into his kiss, his lips warm and soft against hers. When he pulled away, his forehead remained pressed against hers, his fingers moving from their place on her back to move and caress her cheek.
Stiles.
His eyes moved up to hers and Lydia found herself drowning in the pools of gold and green and brown. He managed a small smirk before he spoke words she knew all too well.
"When I kissed you, you held your breath."
Stiles tentatively reached forward to brush the tears that escaped her eyes, allowing his fingers to trail down her cheek to wipe away the tracks the orbs of saltwater left behind.
"You won't leave?" Lydia's voice quivered as much as she had a few minutes ago.
"Never."
That one word calmed her fear for the time being and she nodded her head, unintentionally leaning into his touch before she allowed herself to collapse into him. She was tired. So tired. But he was her crutch and always had been and she needed to lean on him.
He let her, both emotionally and physically, her body curled into his side and her hand trailing to seek solace in his, needing another form of warmth and comfort. Her head was tucked under his, her curls tickling his nose, but he never moved away, only breathing in her scent of vanilla and strawberries. His arms were around her, his unoccupied hand tracing circles on the back of her purple tee shirt. Stiles stared off straight ahead, whiskey eyes falling on the frame Lydia previously was holding. He missed her. They all did, but there was nothing they could do now except move on. It was what Allison would want.
When he had gathered his thoughts, he looked down only to find Lydia in a deep sleep, her lips parted slightly as soft sighs escaped her. He couldn't help but smile and pull her closer.
"I'll never leave."
It wasn't a surprise when Lydia woke up at nine the next morning. When she turned her head in the slightest, she found the hollow of Stiles' throat with her nose, feeling his heartbeat thud briefly under his skin. He smelled like cedarwood and spearmint with a hint of cinnamon, the woods and rain and just Stiles. She heard a rumble come from his mouth and looked up to see a thin line of drool trailing from the corner. She couldn't resist chuckling. Doesn't snore, my ass.
The pair had shifted sometime in the early morning, her lavender sheets now over both of them. Their legs were tangled together, and his arm was thrown haphazardly over her stomach, trapping her in his warm embrace. Lydia moved ever so slightly and she felt his grasp tighten, his fingers lightly gripping her tee. She rolled her eyes some, moving her foot from its position beside his to ascend up his leg towards his knee, her pink-lacquered toenails scraping his skin.
"Lydia," he spoke, "I swear to God if you move one more time, I'll-"
"You'll what?" she cut him off, slowly shifting in his arms until she was face to face with him, chest to chest. His eyes were open now, drowsy and hazed over with sleep.
"I'll…" he trailed off. Obviously, he hadn't known what he was going to say beforehand, and she could tell when he finished his improvised statement with: "not make pancakes."
"Pancakes?"
"I make some mean chocolate chip pancakes, Lydia Martin, and there's no way in hell that I'm not gonna make them." At her raised eyebrow and inquisitive look, he continued. "No joke, they're the bomb. I mean, normally I just add some chocolate chips to some pre-made batter, but still-"
"Shut up, Stiles."
"Okay." He stayed silent for a couple minutes and the two were content just staying in each other's arms. Lydia nuzzled her head into his shirt and he lifted his hand to run through her hair, gently combing out the snarls that had been created after her tossing and turning early in the morning. He could see her struggling to say something, opening her mouth now and then only to frown. Stiles wanted to be there for her, wanted to be the one always there, and now was his chance, but he knew that she needed the space, that she wanted the silence in order to contemplate her thoughts.
So, he waited.
Finally, she spoke, and her voice sounded so soft and so much like a whisper, he wouldn't have been able to hear it if it wasn't dead silent in the room.
"I had a nightmare."
He nodded some. He had figured as much, but he wouldn't press her for details.
"I was...running. Through the forest. And-" her breath hitched, "-Allison was there. I-I tripped. Over her." Lydia moved closer, needing to be near to him, needing the comfort that came with being with Stiles. "I wanted to save her, Stiles, I really did, but...she was already dead. I wanted to save her b-but I was too late. And Peter was there, that son of a bitch." Her eyes welled with tears and she swiped at them. He had already seen her vulnerable, last night for example, but it was a habit from years and years of hiding her true feelings behind a dumb façade.
"He came at me, a-and I wanted to scream. I wanted to scream so badly, Stiles, but I didn't know why. Or for who. And so I screamed, and he came for me, and then I woke up." Lydia looked at Stiles, the boy who had always loved her, before she spoke again.
"I screamed because I died."
Stiles furrowed his brows together, thinking with fervor about what her dream could mean. It could be a manifest of some fear, he knew that, but dreams had a way of telling the dreamer something. He just didn't know what it was.
"Lyds," he finally spoke, "I have no clue what your dream could mean, but if I know anything, it's that if you could have done anything to save Allison or-or even save yourself, you would have. You're the smartest person I know, Lydia. You would have found a way." Stiles tried to give her a smile, albeit a weak one, and turned her face to look at his. "I know you. And whatever that dream meant, it doesn't matter right now, because-" he paused, struggling to find words to phrase the emotions he felt, "-I would never let anything happen to you. I will never let anything happen to you. Because Lydia, if you die, I will literally go out of my freaking mind."
He had said those words before, but Lydia never truly believed them. Guys always had a way of leaving her whether they wanted to or not. But looking into Stiles' eyes, really looking, she could see that everything he said was true. She could see into his swirling depths, the raw passion that was on display. He sincerely meant it.
And Lydia Martin swore that that was the moment she knew she was completely and irrevocably in love with him.
It wasn't because of what he had said, per say, but more so that he wasn't lying, and just that phrase that he had said stirred feelings in her chest that had been there all along yet had been buried beneath layers of denial. She loved him, and she had for a long time.
Lydia pulled away from him for a second and sat up. Stiles shifted some so he was eye to eye with her, his expression a confused one. He had hoped since he was young that his feelings would eventually be reciprocated, but he had to admit, him completely admitting the emotions that had been in him all along could always have some sort of repercussions.
(of course, he hadn't admitted all of them. he hadn't admitted that he had loved her for years and had never stopped.)
Lydia's eyes shown with fresh tears, yet this time, they weren't of sadness. They weren't even tears of joy, but tears because she registered that after all this time, she loved Stiles.
Stiles. Stiles. Stiles.
"Lydia, I didn't mean-" He never finished. Instead, Lydia's lips were on his and her fingers were tangling in his hair, Stiles' eyes wide in surprise. Within the moment, Stiles relaxed into her touch, his eyelids fluttering closed as he pulled her closer.
The two stayed that way, their lips seeking the other's warmth, and their hands weaving through each other's hair as if they were afraid it would slip through their fingers and disappear. When Lydia pulled away, Stiles' whiskey-colored hues stayed trained on her lips for a moment before traveling up to meet her eyes, his pupils blown wide open in the same way that she was sure hers were. His fingers trailed along her jaw and hers remained in the dark locks of his hair.
"Stiles," Lydia began, the two so close that their noses were gently grazing each other's, "I think I'm in love with you, and I have been for a long time." His breath hitched as if he would've never believed it and he whispered a single word against her lips as he took them once more.
"Finally."
Lydia.
If someone were to ask Stiles what he had been thinking of in that moment, he wouldn't be able to answer. The only words that were running through his head were the ones that Lydia had spoken just before. I think I'm in love with you, and I have been for a long time. He could only think of Lydia's soft lips. He could only think of Lydia's strawberry blonde hair (not red) that seemed to catch the light wherever she went. He could only think of Lydia. The Lydia that could pierce someone's skull with a glare. The Lydia who could wreck him with a single pout. The Lydia who was a hurricane, not a mere storm, and could tear him apart.
Yet she was also a girl who was broken, just like him, and together they could pick up the pieces to make each other whole again. Because being human means being broken and broken is its own kind of beautiful.
Stiles.
Lydia had loved Jackson. She had loved Aiden. But she had never loved the two like she loved Stiles Stilinski. She loved the way his freckles reminded her of constellations in the night sky. She loved the way his smile could make her grin even in the darkest of times. She even loved the way he wielded a baseball bat to defend his friends, to defend her, because Stiles was loyal and always had been.
When the two kissed, it was as if flames ignited wherever they touched, as if every brush of a finger was a spark to light up the darkness that had been in them before they realized that they loved each other. They didn't want to leave each other, didn't want to leave the warmth and comfort and pure love of each other's embrace, but they did, parting with swollen lips and gentle stirrings of lust in their wake. The pair panted heavily, not wanting to let go as they pulled away from each other ever so slightly, wanting to stay within the confines of each other for as long as they could.
"If you didn't notice," Stiles began, his voice breathy, "I've been in love with you for as long as I can remember. I've just been waiting for you, Lydia Martin."
He would always wait for her.
Lydia couldn't help but grin brightly, her hazel eyes bright with a newfound happiness that hadn't been there in the early morning or when she woke up, bright with love. "Stiles," she responded, "I think those chocolate chip pancakes sound good."