a/n: So I spent all day yesterday surrounded by fanfics and fanmixes and fanvids and I I just couldn't NOT write a little story for Stiles and Lydia. I hope you guys like it!

I don't own Teen Wolf or any of the lovely characters!

The knock on her door comes late at night, just as Lydia Martin is settling into bed.

She's tempted to ignore it and burrow into her soft purple sheets, but then it comes again—more urgent this time. She sighs in annoyance but rolls out of bed anyways, lest it be some sort of pack emergency. Without her (and maybe, possibly Stiles) they'd all just be a bunch of bumbling idiots.

She can see a shadow pacing on her porch through the frosted glass cut-out on her front door, and she quickens her strides a little bit, pulling open the door and finding—

"Stiles?"

The sight of him, haloed by the moonlight is enough to bring every feeling, every memory she's been trying to suppress slamming back into her. He pauses mid stride and turns to face her, his eyes taking in her appearance slowly, from her messy bun to her silky sleep shorts to her bare feet like she's the best thing he's ever seen. She feels kind of like she's been punched in the stomach.

He swallows hard, his eyes lingering on her in some sort of numb disbelief. "That's—That's my sweater."

She looks down, feeling herself blush at the sight of the over-sized sweater she'd borrowed from Stiles earlier that week. She'd completely forgotten she'd put it on—but really, she's allowed to sleep in whatever she likes. And his sweater smells good.

"I was cold," she lies.

"You look…" He lets his eyes drift up to her face. "You look adorable."

Her cheeks flush even more and she breaks eye contact, feeling completely frustrated with herself. She hasn't blushed this much since sixth grade—but then again maybe that's because sixth grade was the last time anybody ever called her adorable.

She presses her lips together and looks back up at him. "Why are you here, Stiles?"

There's a part of her that believes (or hopes) he's about to say something completely cheesy and romantic—the kind of stuff they say in movies—but then he murmurs: "My dad got a call about a gunshot one street over."

Her heart sinks (just a little bit). "And you want to know if I heard anything? I didn't—"

"No," Stiles interrupts. "I—I wanted to make sure you were okay." The November wind picks up and swirls dead leaves around his feet. Goose-bumps prickle over Lydia's skin. She shivers.

"Here, come inside," she says, holding the door open wide.

He does, and when Lydia shuts it behind her, the quiet is almost overwhelming. Stiles has his hands in his pockets and he's just looking at her in the dim light of the hallway lamp, something flickering in his brown eyes that she doesn't try and decipher.

It's like this every time they're alone together now; which is, admittedly, not that often since Lydia spends a lot of her time avoiding situations like this.

The last time they were completely alone together was two weeks ago and Stiles had a panic attack and she kissed him and she felt…things.

"Lydia?" Stiles asks. He's looking at her expectantly.

Shit. "What?" she asks, straightening up and crossing her arms over her chest. She wishes she would've taken an extra minute to put on a bra.

"Are you okay?" he asks again.

"Yeah. Yeah, of course."

"Good. That's good…I mean I figured you would be, but you never know." he rubs his hand over his face. His fingers are long—the type of fingers that a girl notices; the type of fingers that makes a girl wonder what kind of patterns they could sear into her skin. She averts her eyes and realizes that Stiles is looking at her (or rather her in his sweater) again.

"What?" she asks, a little harsher than she intended to. "Haven't you ever seen a girl sleep in your sweater before?"

He raises his eyebrows. "No."

An equal shot of affection and annoyance shoots through her. Stiles is always saying things that surprise her—mostly because he's honest. And sure, that's endearing, but Lydia likes to be in control. She doesn't really like surprises. That's why her "relationship" with Aiden was so convenient and the kiss with Stiles was so…not. Not that any of that really matters anymore.

"Aiden and I broke up today," she tells Stiles for no real reason other than to fill the silence. Silences are bad. Especially when Stiles is involved, because Stiles likes to look at her.

He nods. "Yeah, I heard. Are you—you know, alright with that?"

"Of course I'm alright. I broke up with him," she tells him, though she doesn't tell him why. "Besides we were barely dating anyways."

"So why date him in the first place?"

She stills, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. Maybe she shouldn't have brought this subject up. "I wanted a distraction."

"But—"

"Stiles," she says shortly, quirking an eyebrow in her most dangerous fashion. "What. Do you want."

He swallows heavily. "I. Well, I mean—I wanted to talk to you."

"About?"

"Stuff."

She's getting kind of pissed off here because she was just about to snuggle down in her bed and have a really good night's sleep—but then again there's something horribly alluring about Stiles when he's all stuttering and nervous like he is now.

She stares at him for a moment. "Stiles—"

"Lydia, why did you break up with Aiden?" he asks abruptly.

She blinks, her hands twisting together behind her back. "Who says I had a reason?" She gives him a bright (and totally fake) smile. "Maybe I was just bored."

"Aiden told Scott that you told him that you needed to sort out your feelings for someone else."

Shit. Shit shit shit. "Wait—" she says, hoping she can at least stall for time. "Who said what now?"

Stiles rolls his eyes and takes a step closer to her. "Come on, Lydia. Is it true, or not?"

"Aiden is such a girl," she complains, instead of answering. She crosses her arms and looks away from Stiles. The yellow hall light is making his face practically glow, and she can't stop thinking about the way the afternoon sunlight fell on his face in the locker room, like he was some kind of angel in sneakers and a soft jacket. "I hope he didn't tell everyone."

Stiles winces. "Well…the way Scott put it, it sounded like the only person missing was Deucalion. Apparently Cora thinks you made a mistake."

Lydia blew a piece of hair away from her face in exasperation. "Wonderful," she said dryly. "Advice on love from a Hale. What could possibly go wrong with that?"

"Wait—" Stiles says, like he's just now realized something. He shakes his head like a dog does when its fur is wet. "So it's true. You are trying to sort through—I mean…you have feelings for someone else?"

Lydia purses her lips. "Maybe. Maybe not."

With a huff, Stiles takes another step towards her. "Dammit, Lydia, just tell me. I was going to come see you anyways, alright, even before I knew about the gunshot thing, but I didn't come over here to have you blow me off like we're back in ninth grade again. Things are different now. I…you kissed me." And there it is. The words are like a slap to Lydia's face but there's always been something about the way Stiles talks to her when he's annoyed. She likes it. Actually, she really, really likes it. It's refreshing and different and even though he's annoyed, he usually manages to make her smile.

Then again, his words tonight aren't nearly as nice as Lydia, get off your cute little ass and dance with me now.

Stiles lets out a shaky breath before closing the remaining distance between the two of them. Without her trademark high heels on, the height difference between them is noticeable and she has to look up at him—she has this insane urge to run the other way, but Lydia Martin doesn't run from her problems.

Usually.

Anyways, there's a difference between avoiding and running away.

Besides, this is Stiles. She shouldn't be nervous.

Then again—this is Stiles. She should be nervous as hell (which coincidentally, she is).

She wishes feelings were as simple to understand as math problems.

"You—kissed me," he says again, and there's something very, very bad, but also very, very good about his proximity to her and the timbre of his voice.

"Yes," she says uncertainly. "I did."

"Because of my panic attack."

"Yes."

"But it made you—I mean…I saw the way you looked at me afterwards."

"I was…surprised," she says, and if that isn't the understatement of the year, she doesn't know what is.

"So—I mean…" he pauses, takes a breath, looks like he's about to jump off of a cliff: "Basically I came here to ask if...I mean, I thought that I might be the person..." he trails off and takes a second to collect himself. Her hands feel all tingly with anxiety. "Lydia, do you like me?"

He looks so vulnerable asking the question, she doesn't want to lie to him, but her mouth is moving before she can send it the message. "No," she murmurs. The word feels wrong in her mouth. Stiles drops his gaze to the floor.

She opens her mouth to correct her mistake, but nothing comes out. This whole telling the truth thing is a lot fucking harder than she thought it would be in her head.

Stiles is still looking at his shoes, his long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. It hits her—not for the first time—that Stiles is attractive. Maybe it's his longer hair (she's always liked hair she can run her fingers through), but maybe it's just the fact that she knows him now. And he knows her too. And for the first time since he's been professing his love to her, she's not on a pedestal anymore. He's seen her cry and he yells at her sometimes and they talk about werewolves and she's just Lydia, but he's still here, tripping over his words and smiling at her.

Stiles always smiles at her. It's only recently that she's realized she's been smiling back at him.

"I get it," he's saying. "No, yeah—I totally get it. Sorry if I woke you up—"

"Stiles," she interrupts. He lifts his gaze to her. He's watching her with that look he gets—when he's stripped away every other emotion and left behind just the ones he feels for her. When she's standing this close to him, she can see past the way he lets his eyes rove over her face in this unabashed, completely unashamed way. There's a glint in his eyes—a defiant sort of fierceness in his eyes that's daring her to look away, or pretend like she doesn't understand what he feels.

But the thing is, she does understand. And maybe that's what makes everything so hard. She doesn't want to get his hopes up just because she's been having some weird, completely uncalled for feelings whenever she sees him.

"Stiles, you don't get it," she finally says. His eyes widen minutely and she can feel her cheeks redden almost instantaneously. "I mean—God, stop looking at me like that—"

"I'm not looking at you like anything."

She rolls her eyes. "I'm trying to tell you something serious."

"So tell me."

"I can't concentrate when you look like that."

"Lydia, I'm not looking like anything! This is my face; this is just how I look—"

"No—"

"Lydia, just tell me! Or so help me God—"

"Okay, I'm having feelings about you, alright? Are you happy?"

Her tone is a little bit snappy (like it always gets when she's scared), but it's fine because Stiles looks like he can't comprehend anything at the moment anyway.

"You're having feelings," he repeats dumbly. He staggers backwards a step. "You're having feelings about me."

Lydia doesn't move, just continues to stare at him in apprehension. She's vaguely aware that her heart is beating about two speeds too fast, but in the grand scheme of things, that seems like pretty minor issue.

Because she just told Stiles Stilinski that she's having feelings about him.

And now he's grinning like he's just won the lottery and she knew this would happen—

"Stiles, wait," she says, holding up a hand as he moves towards her. He looks like he's ready to hug her or possibly kiss her. "I—I don't know like what kind of feelings. So just—"

Stiles's brow furrows. "You don't know what kind of feelings you have?"

Lydia shakes her head.

"Well do you like me or not?"

"I don't know."

"How can you not know—"

"I don't know, I just don't, Stiles!"

He shuts his mouth, but he's still looking at her like he's trying to stare into her soul. Finally he murmurs: "Can I ask you something else?"

She nods grudgingly.

"What do you want to do?"

And of course, that was not what she expected to hear—and that was what was so great about Stiles. He was giving her a choice; he was letting her try to be in control even though these feelings are making her feel completely out of control.

"Well," she says slowly. "If we're being honest—"

"We are," he cuts in hastily.

Despite the fact that she hasn't really been able to breathe since Stiles opened his mouth, she manages a weak laugh. "Right. Well, okay, I mean, I liked kissing you—"

"You liked kissing me," he says in this dazed sort of voice.

He takes a step closer to her and Lydia lets him because she can't remember the last time someone looked at her the way that Stiles is looking at her now. Like she's some kind of precious thing that might vanish from his sight at any second.

His hands find her cheeks and even though he has every right to be shaking and scared and a complete mess like she is, his touch is warm and firm and his eyes are boring directly into hers.

They flick down to her lips.

Her breath catches.

"Stiles…"

He swallows hard. "That's good. Because…because I liked kissing you." He pauses. "You know, obviously."

She laughs softly, but it turns into a gasp as his fingers start to trace along her skin lightly and she sucks in a breath. She lets her eyes fall closed because she thinks that keeping her hormones in check will be easier to do if she can't see the expressions on his face—but of course it doesn't work. Of course the cool touch of his fingers sends tingles shooting through her veins like wildfire, and of course he smells really fucking good and she's suddenly feeling very nervous again. One of hands leaves for a second to brush a strand of hair behind her ear, but it's back to cradle her face in almost no time. His hands are surprisingly gentle for a person who's always so restless and twitchy.

Her eyes are still closed but she can feel his face come closer to hers. His breath ghosts across her mouth, and her lips part of their own accord and her mind has just gone completely, deliciously blank.

She feels his hands tighten ever so slightly on her cheekbones, and she wonders if he really is going to kiss her. She doesn't know if she wants him to or not. Her stomach does a sort of swooping motion and she can't remember the last time her stomach swooped. She feels like her heart might beat right out of chest and land in Stiles's hands.

"Lydia," he murmurs, and her name on his lips sounds like a prayer. She shivers again.

In another second his thumbs are gone and his lips are there. His lips are soft against the skin of her cheek and the unexpected pressure of his lips so close to her mouth but also so far away makes her eyes fly open in surprise. He lingers lingers lingers there. She doesn't know when Stiles got so bold, but when he finally pulls away and lets out a ragged breath, her eyes are wide, her breathing fast.

She doesn't know where Stiles got the power to affect her so much.

And maybe that's what scares her.

He looks down at her, like he looked at her in the locker room after they kissed. She can feel the rapid beat of his heart against her own chest, and she finds that her hands are resting on his chest suddenly. He looks down at her hands for a moment, then back at her.

He hesitates for a moment, just a moment, and then his lips come down on hers.

His mouth presses against hers carefully and firmly, as gently as his hands were touching her seconds before—though it doesn't stay that way for long. His lips move against hers and it's like that movement breaks whatever illusion of soft and sweet he had constructed at first because suddenly his lips are harder, more insistent against hers.

She lets out a pleased, surprised gasp as his tongue runs along her bottom lip and it's like that sound makes something snap inside of him because suddenly his hands are in her hair and he's walking her backwards until she's trapped between his body and her wall.

"Lydia," he says against her mouth.

His tongue swipes along her lip again and she opens her mouth immediately, meeting his tongue with her own and it's quickly becoming the hungriest, most desperate kiss she's ever been involved in—all teeth and tongue and heavy breaths. It's not manufactured or faked in anyway and she doesn't have to tell him where she wants his hands to be, or what she wants him to do because she can't even think that clearly right now. Besides, he's doing a pretty good job all by himself.

His hands have left her hair, but now they're everywhere else, touching her sides, her spine, her waist; the hem of the sweater lifts slightly and his hands are suddenly moving under it, splaying warm and lovely across the bare skin of her back.

His hands slide up and down and back up again and when it registers in his mind that she is wearing absolutely nothing under his sweater, he stills for a fraction of a second. A groan sounds deep in his throat and it makes a zing of desire shoot through her whole body. Then he's pulling her closer to him and kissing her even more frantically than before.

She arches against him and his arms tighten around her; she fists her hands in his hair, kissing him urgently. She imagines that this is the type of kiss lovers give each other when they can't control their passion—but she doesn't really understand why that is because he's not her lover, he's just Stiles, he's just—

His lips move to her jaw, heavy and open-mouthed and clumsy and she sucks in a shuddering breath, sighing out: "Stiles."

He lets out a sound that somewhere in between a whimper and a moan. He buries his head in her neck, kissing and sucking, and then: "Lydia," he says roughly against her skin. "I've wanted to do this for so long."

"Don't stop," she murmurs, and dear God, she sounds like she's begging. "Don't stop don't stop don't stop—"

He cuts her off with another searing, wild kiss and somehow his hands slide down to the back of her thighs and he hoists her up. Her legs wrap around his waist and his fingers are digging into her skin and Lydia can't stop thinking: What the fuck. She doesn't understand how Stiles (goofy, idiotic Stiles) can be so good with his hands and so good with his mouth and so good at everything. He can barely even walk down the hallway without tripping over something, and yet here he is making her moan and his tongue is doing wonderful things with hers and he's rocking against her and—

"Lydi—aa…"

She thinks that might be one of the most beautiful sounds she's ever heard.

Everything is so completely out of control, but she doesn't even fully register that because everything is Stiles and he's pressing into her everywhere and gasping into her mouth with this sort of eager sound of complete abandon. She tightens her legs around his waist, sliding her hands up under his shirt and holy hell he has lacrosse muscles. Not very many of course, but she can feel them, corded and hard under his heated flesh.

She's just about to do away with his shirt for good (and then do the the same with hers) when the front door bursts open and Allison runs inside, yelling something about Deucalion.

Stiles and Lydia jerk away from each other, but they aren't quick enough, and Allison's voice cuts off abruptly as she stumbles to a stop in front of them.

"Oh my—God," Stiles says, yanking his hands away from where they rest on Lydia.

Lydia blushes brilliantly, scrambling down away from Stiles, who's trying to hastily adjust his pants, and as if things couldn't get any worse—Mr. Argent is standing behind Allison, gun half-assembled, staring up at the ceiling and looking very much like he'd rather be anywhere else.

"Hi," Lydia says sheepishly. Allison looks away from them—looking like she might start laughing any minute as Lydia straightens her—Stiles's—sweater..

"Sorry," Allison says quickly. "I should have—uhm, I guess I should have knocked…"

No one says anything.

"Well…" Stiles chuckles nervously, trying to flatten down his mussed up hair. "This is…sufficiently awkward. Nice to see you Allison. Chris. Can I call you Chris? No—alright, Mr. Argent it is, then—"

"I'm going to wait in the car," Mr. Argent says, turning around and walking stiffly back down the driveway.

Lydia steals a glance at Stiles out of the corner of her eye, trying to tamp down the pull in her heart that's telling her to kiss him again and again and again. She doesn't even know how everything escalated so quickly like it did, but there is absolutely no part of her that even regrets because Stiles is pretty much the best, most passionate person she's ever kissed. Which—she doesn't even know how that's possible so she's really confused and turned on right now.

"Uh, the twins—" Allison broke off, shaking her head in disbelief. "The twins royally pissed off Deucalion. I'm not too sure what happened, but Isaac just called me and said that Deucalion is about to kill Scott, so I thought we'd come over and tell you on our way."

"Is Scott okay?" Stiles asks, his hands clenching nervously by his sides. Lydia has the sudden absurd urge to take his hand in hers until it relaxes, but she pushes it away. She wonders vaguely if Stiles has ever had a girlfriend. It feels like something she should know. He probably has—no one can be that good of a kisser just from practicing with their pillow. The thought that he might have kissed someone else like the way he just kissed her sends a spike of jealousy straight through her stomach.

"Yeah," Allison's saying. "He's hiding at Derek's right now. You guys can meet us there if you want." She looks away again, and this time a mischievous grin is playing along the corners of her mouth. "Just don't take too long—"

"Allison!" Lydia hisses.

"Right. Sorry. See you at Derek's."

She turns and dashes away down the driveway, looking tall and warrior-like and beautiful in the silvery moonlight, and Lydia is left with Stiles.

"So," he says, before she can even open her mouth. "That was—uhm…hot. Right? Or was that just me? I—"

"No," she says shyly, and Stiles looks like he might collapse with happiness. "It wasn't just you."

"You—" he shakes his head in amazement. "Jesus Christ, you're perfect, Lydia."

She stares at him, trying to decipher if he's being sarcastic or not—but he's completely sincere. "Thanks," she says sheepishly.

"I'll, uhm. I'm gonna go wait in the car," Stiles says, stumbling his way over to her front door. "You need to get dressed right? See you in a minute or two."

She nods her goodbye and is about to turn to climb the stairs, but Stiles catches her hand and tugs her back towards him. He looks like he wants to bend down and kiss her again (and she wants him to also) but then he just wraps her in a tight hug. She turns her head to the side and presses a chaste kiss on his neck and she feels him shudder.

And despite everything she's feeling and not feeling and confused about, there's something relaxing about being held by Stiles.

She thinks she could get used to it.