summary: “Just as she thinks she’s done for, just as she thinks she can’t fight anymore, breathe anymore, she hears someone walking toward her. She pulls her eyes open, with monumental effort, but she can’t tell if this is her savior or the man who wanted her dead.
'Don’t give up, come on,’ she hears a man whisper. The voice is younger than before, but she can’t trust her instincts anymore.
'Wha -' she starts.
'Don’t try to talk,' the voice says. He’s not trying to stop the bleeding, he’s just looking at her. Maybe it is the man from before. She finds herself trusting him, not wanting to go against his wishes. There’s silence, not even the sound of leaves crunching, and she tries to figure out if that means he’s gone, or she’s dying. Maybe both."
for: my stydia positivity partner, @rappsberetta!! you definitely inspired me to look at this au version of stydia, so I hope you enjoy this!!
ao3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12179589
“Well aren’t you a pretty little thing?”
The words keep echoing in her mind, and her hands still shake from the contact with his skin. She’s running full-stop now, shoes long abandoned, not even feeling the bite of the chill in the air. Her breath spreads out in front of her, a white mist contrasting the dark forest.
The sound of a wolf howling startles her, and she stops, leaves spraying up under her feet as they scramble for purchase on the dewy ground. There are no wolves in California, she thinks. She’s looking around, hair a tangle, yet still elegant in the moonlight. She squints, trying to discern anything in the distance, but she comes up blank. Just as she thinks she can calm down, she hears footsteps, but before she can even think to run, she’s on the ground.
“Found you, quite tricky aren’t ya?” The man is holding her down, hands on her wrists, and she can smell the alcohol from the ground. She refuses to give him the sense of control, let him think she’s given up, so she stays silent.
“You were much chattier in the gas station, little lady, what happened?” It doesn't seem to phase him that she ran from him. That should have been a clear indication that she was not okay with the situation. He doesn't even realize that she’d punched him to get his hands off of her before.
He leans down and releases one of her hands so that he can brush her hair off her face. Just as his lips begin to touch her cheek, she turns away, and he pulls out a knife.
“Now, don’t go being like that again, little missy,” the man says. His voice has gone deeper, more dangerous, and Lydia feels a tear stream out of her eye, slowly making its way down her cheek until reaching the ground beside her face.
The knife is cold, despite having been secured in his pocket, and he gently slides the blade along her cheek. She feels it bite in ever so slightly, and she can’t help but wince, hissing in a breath.
“So she’s not mute,” the man chuckles. He continues running the blade down to her neck, and the pain becomes warm, the blood blossoming out in an almost comforting manner. She’s not sure how deep it is, but she’s starting to lose consciousness. It could be attributed to the fear, a self-preservation instinct, but she can feel the stickiness of the blood that indicates otherwise.
All of a sudden, the pressure of the man on top of her is gone. She lays frozen for a moment, unsure of what’s happening, or what to do, until she hears the sound of rustling leaves to her right. She turns over, too exhausted and scared to do much else, and gasps at the sight.
The man who attacked her is being attacked by someone - or something? It’s too dark for her to make out any details, but she’s almost sure that it’s another man fighting with him. Almost . She hears screams of pain, but she can’t tell which party they’re from. The moon is retreating behind the clouds, closing out her only source of light, cloaking the scene in front of her so that she can’t discern anything.
Or maybe it’s the sensation of losing consciousness, vision clouding as her systems try to save her, shutting down non essential physical functions.
Just as she thinks she’s done for, just as she thinks she can’t fight anymore, breathe anymore, she hears someone walking toward her. She pulls her eyes open, with monumental effort, but she can’t tell if this is her savior or the man who wanted her dead.
“Don’t give up, come on,” she hears a man whisper as he crouches next to her. The voice is younger than before, but she can’t trust her instincts anymore.
“Wha -” she starts.
“Don’t try to talk,” the voice says. He’s not trying to stop the bleeding, he’s just looking at her. Maybe it is the man from before. She finds herself trusting him, not wanting to go against his wishes. There’s silence, not even the sound of leaves crunching, and she tries to figure out if that means he’s gone, or if she’s dying. Maybe both.
“Lydia, did you not hear your alarm?” Her mom is standing in the doorway, and Lydia is laying in her bed. Without thinking, she suddenly brings her hands up, feeling her neck and face, but there’s no sign of the previous night’s events.
“I guess not,” she answers, not wanting to worry her mother. She gives her a smile, and sighs in relief when she leaves, closing the door behind her.
Lydia waits for a few minutes before getting up, rushing over to her mirror. She’s wearing the bralette and panties from the night before, but her dress is nowhere to be found. No blood or leaves remain in her hair, but she sees a bite on her side, just above her right hip. Her fingers lightly dance over the wound in confusion, and she winces when she feels pain. There’s no blood, and she can feel it healing already. For a second, her eyes glimmer a golden yellow, but she blinks and shakes her head, and when she opens her eyes they’re back to normal.
She allows herself a few more moments to wonder about the wound before stripping off the rest of her clothes and showering, getting ready for the day. Maybe last night was just a dream, she thinks. Unlikely, but she doesn’t have any other explanations. As she washes off her body, taking extra care with the bite, she vaguely remembers the feeling of cool water on her body last night, a washcloth gently running over the cuts on her. But she can’t be sure, considering there’s no way to find out.
After cleaning off her body and savoring the warmth of the steam, she gets dressed, pulling on her favorite skirt and blouse combination. She pulls on her green coat, braids her hair, slips into a pair of maroon Mary Jane shoes, and picks up a blue purse in lieu of a backpack. Taking one more glance in the mirror, Lydia smiles at herself, reassuring herself that no matter what happened, she’s safe now.
Jackson is already waiting out front, his car still running, and he doesn’t even get out of the car to help her when he sees her. She opens the door and sits, pulling the seatbelt over her body.
“Where the hell were you last night?” Jackson asks, not bothering to look over at his girlfriend. He pulls out of the driveway, speeding down the street to get to school on time.
“What do you mean?” Lydia asks, her voice quiet.
“You never met up with me at the diner, remember? I called and you didn’t pick up, so I was left looking like an idiot eating alone. It’s not like sending a text would’ve been that hard.”
“I got sidetracked,” Lydia says, considering her words. “Actually, no, I was attacked. Jackson, some guy attacked me last night.”
He finally glances over at her, but much to her dismay, he scoffs and rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, right. You’re just in one of your moods, trying to get attention,” he says, turning his focus back to the road in front of him.
She doesn’t feel like justifying his words with a response, so she stays silent, staring out the window instead. As the trees zip by, Lydia thinks back to the night before. The last thing she remembers is being told to not speak. The mystery guy was showing more compassion to a girl he had just saved than Jackson ever had.
As Lydia continues her thought process, they finally arrive at the school. Jackson opens Lydia’s door for her, but soon leaves her standing alone when he makes up the excuse of needing to get to lacrosse practice. She slowly walks toward the school, taking in the feel of winter around her, and makes her way to the field. It became habit for her to watch Jackson and his teammates play before school, always his cheerleader. But as she reached the benches, she stopped and turned toward the field.
There were only a handful of boys here today, as most of the team didn’t put in the effort of trying out for first line. There was Jackson, who was the team captain, and about six other guys. Two of them looked extremely out of place, obviously not the athletic type, but she couldn’t critique them for trying.
One had longer, curly hair that framed his awkwardly asymmetrical jawline. The other was different in every way except height. He was skinnier, and his mole-dotted face was blushed in the cold of the morning. His hair was buzzed short, and he had a dorky smile on his face. These must be the two that Jackson was always ragging on.
Lydia also caught sight of Danny, the team’s long-term goalie and most friendly player. He was kinder than most of the student body, and smart as well. If he wasn’t gay, Lydia would’ve chosen him to be her power boyfriend.
Jackson catches sight of Lydia standing there and shakes his head at her before looking away. She isn’t sure what exactly he means, but she finds herself suddenly disgusted with the thought of cheering him on. If he couldn’t be supportive when she claimed she was attacked, there’s no way she should be expected to support him in his high school sport, so she turns tail and walks into the building.
The library is thankfully empty at this time, and Lydia places her bag on a table before falling into a chair. She still feels the exhaustion of the night before, and isn’t quite sure what to do with herself. There really isn’t any way to prove that she was attacked, and she knows from experience that almost any man will disregard the word of a woman if there isn’t hard evidence supporting her claim.
With a sudden realization, Lydia thinks that she never saw the man who attacked her get back up. After the other came to her aid, she didn’t see any other movement. Of course, that doesn’t necessarily mean anything, especially considering how much her eyesight was failing her at the end.
The feeling of adrenaline suddenly floods her system, jolting her to focus. There’s nothing that would prompt her to feel enraged or anything urgent to pull her away from her thought process, but regardless, she feels like she’s needed somewhere else. Following the sensation, she gets up, trying to listen for anything going on.
As she nears the locker room, she can hear shouting and the clanging of the lockers. A few of the players run out as she approaches, likely more due to not wanting to be disciplined than actual fear. Lydia takes in the scene, and she can’t help but stare for a moment. The scrawny buzz-cut dork from the team is the one fighting her boyfriend.
“So you think you can get a chance with her, is that what it is?” Jackson yells before tackling the boy, slamming him into a bench.
“Screw you, Whittemore,” he boy grits out. Lydia starts to say something before she sees him hook his legs around Jackson’s torso and push Jackson, using the momentum to come out on top. He starts punching Jackson, blocking any of the boy’s hits up at him, and Lydia is impressed with his quiet strength.
“Hey, hey, hey! Knock it off, losers!” The coach storms into the room, blowing his whistle, and pries them apart. Danny is standing behind him, his arms crossed in disdain. “Detention for both of you. Now go get cleaned up,” the coach says, giving the buzz cut boy an additional shove.
“Great boyfriend you got there,” the kid whispers, still on the other side of the room. Her eyes dart up to meet his, and he smirks when her eyes widen at the fact that she heard him from that far away. She also swears that the voice is familiar, but she’s not sure where she would’ve heard it before. Not wanting to deal with this, she backs away, heading to her locker to try and distract herself.
The rest of the day goes fairly normal, and Lydia doesn’t see the boy for the rest of it. She thinks he’s usually in some of her classes, but she doesn’t dwell on the thought. She finds herself doodling in the margins of her notes as the teachers drone on, her mind not able to focus on the words floating around her. Finally, the bell rings to signal the end of the day, and she checks her phone to see that Jackson has already RSVP’d Lydia to be with him at the lacrosse dinner tonight. She rolls her eyes before meeting back up with Jackson, and they sit in stony silence on the drive back to her place.
“I can pick you up around 6:00,” Jackson says, still not looking at her. He’s got the beginnings of a black eye and a busted lip.
“I’ll drive myself, actually,” she says, getting out of the car, and marches off before he can respond. She hears the sound of the engine revving before he races off. She considers not attending the dinner, but knows that it would hurt her reputation as much as Jackson’s.
As the night stretches on, Lydia finally gets around to dressing for the night, but when she goes to pull on her dress, she realizes that the bite from the morning is gone . No scar, not even the whisper of a trace it was even there. She shakes her head, not sure what it means, and proceeds to apply her makeup. She even goes so far as to curl her hair before smoothing on her favorite lipstick.
All throughout dinner, Lydia swears she can hear the sound of rhythmic tapping, but she can’t find where it would be coming from. She dares to ask Danny if he hears it as well, but he shakes his head, and she decides to forget it.
“C’mon, Jackson, why don’t you give a toast to us, your esteemed followers?” The scrawny boy seems to be wanting to start trouble again, and Lydia can’t help but wonder why. He’s never cared before, always been on the sidelines, until now.
“Jesus, Stiles, didn’t get enough earlier?” Jackson asks, laughing. He’s putting on a show, Lydia can tell. She’s seen enough of his false moods to recognize one.
“I’m pretty sure we can all see that you’re the one with the black eye, not me,” the boy says, trying not to laugh. He takes his eyes away from Jackson and goes to take a drink, jumping up when it’s tipped forward, spilling the water all over him. “What the hell, dude?”
“I don’t know, why don’t you tell me, egghead? Did Daddy the Cop finally get fired? Is that why you’ve been acting like a little shit today?” Jackson stands as well, facing Stiles.
“Oh, nevermind me, we all know I’m a little messed up. But let’s talk about you, Mister Whittemore. Orphaned because nobody loves you, not even your precious girlfriend. Who, by the way, deserves so much better than you.”
“What would you know about her? You’re too awkward to talk to your boyfriend Scott, much less a girl like Lydia. You’re not even worth the time of day,” Jackson says, and he pushes Stiles back. “Now why don’t you just skidaddle? It’s not like you’re an important part of the team or anything.” He gives Stiles a final smirk before sitting back down.
“Wow, okay, fine. You know, maybe you do deserve each other,” Stiles says, looking at Lydia. He doesn’t give her a chance to respond before storming out, throwing his napkin at Jackson’s face.
Lydia hesitates before getting up, grabbing her purse in the process. When she gets outside, she sees Stiles sitting on the curb in front of his jeep.
“Hey,” she says quietly. She bends down to sit with him, and he looks at her like she’s crazy. “What?”
“I would never have figured Lydia Martin to be one to sit on the curb.”
“Well, after last night you’d be surprised,” she says offhandedly.
“I don’t think there’s much else you could do to surprise me,” Stiles says. It takes Lydia a moment to realize he doesn’t ask what she meant.
“Can I ask you something? Either I’ll be right or you’ll think I’m crazy, but it’s not like I have much else to lose,” she says. She looks into Stiles’ eyes and holds the contact. His hand reaches over to hers, and she intertwines their fingers together.
“It was me,” Stiles says quietly. "Last night." When he looks up, his eyes are scarlet red, and Lydia gasps.
“But... how? What -”
“We’re werewolves,” Stiles says simply. “I’m an alpha, but I don’t really have a pack yet besides Scott. And no, he’s not my boyfriend, your douche of one just likes to mock us for our bond.”
“What do you mean we ?” Lydia asks, already knowing the answer.
“I had to, it was the only way to save you,” Stiles says, and his gaze drops. “I’ve tried to be peaceful, and I don’t just go around turning people. But I heard the sound of you running, the rapidness of your breath, and I knew something was wrong. When I smelled blood, I couldn’t stop myself. You would’ve bled out, alone, if I hadn’t bit you.”
“Is he dead?” Lydia whispers.
“Would you really want him to be alive?”
“It would’ve been nice to be able to hurt him myself, the way he hurt me.”
“You might think that, but you’d be surprised what killing someone does to you.”
“How many have you killed? You know what, I don’t need to know. You saved me, and that’s all that matters,” Lydia says. She brings her free hand to his cheek and leans over to press a kiss to his lips, soft and chaste, before pulling back again. “Besides, you stood up to Jackson, and nobody has done that before.”
“Why are you with him?” Lydia is surprised that he doesn’t touch on the fact that she just kissed him, but she decides to overlook it and answer honestly, something she wouldn’t have usually done.
“Power move,” she says, and she chuckles at the look on Stiles’ face. “I’ve never truly liked him, if I’m being honest. But he was the top of the social food chain, and if I wanted to come out on top as well, he was the one to go with.”
“That’s cold,” Stiles says. “You know, wolves are at the top too. Apex predators and all.” He gives her a smile, baring his fangs for show, and she returns it, running her tongue along the elongated teeth.
“Does this mean we’re bonded or something?”
“Only if you want,” Stiles says. He’s never changed anyone before, as he and Scott had the same alpha before they fought the man and Stiles killed him. He’s not sure how to deal with this part of the process.
“Trust me, I want.” Lydia smiles at him again before standing, pulling him up with her, hands still together. “Now, if you don’t mind, I need to have a word with my soon-to-be ex. I could use the moral support.” She gives Stiles’ hand a squeeze and smiles at him again, flashing her wolf eyes at him.
