(a/n: hi this is a bunch of college aus (starting sophmore year) rolled into one becausei hate myself bye

IM IN TOO DEEP HELP ME

/i/ for one think that lydia will always be the girl that doesnt think much of stiles unless she gets to know him but thats just me so dont kill me bye

its the reason why i wrote from her pov so i hope theres some gradual change you knwo? ? ?

p.s. i want to fight holland for that new photoshoot of her the fuck!

A HIUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGE thanks to lil theresa for beta'ing this for me:) thanks fam [blue heart emoticon]

prompt credits to the tumblrs: perfectly rose & onetruepairingideas)

.

since you came around, i just can't slow down, no
i wanna see you walkin' my way, yeah

.

Lydia Martin wasn't usually a cranky person (a little determined as her friends called it. They used the b-word, actually, beldam of course)—but after a morning in which: she overslept fifteen minutes due to a crazy hangover, couldn't find the complimentary boots to her favorite dress, spilled a much-needed latte without having taken even so much as a sip onto said favorite dress which in turn caused her to run later than she already was to her 12pm Statistics class—no one could honestly blame her for snapping at some idiot waving a purple flyer in her face.

Anyone would've gotten a little b-wordish.

(Bitchy. Just to be clear here.)

"Excuse me!" He exclaims excitedly, almost shoving the thing down her throat as he smiles goofily, another stack of purple flyers tucked underneath his arm. He's lean and tall and she has to strain her neck to look up at his freckled face with an already pounding head from one too many drinks last night. "The lacrosse team is having a party at —"

"I don't really care," she states, a little bitterly, as she steps aside, only to get blocked by the lanky figure as he follows her movements. Apparently the scrunching of one's nose in disgust wasn't enough of a sign to not further approach and hinder said Tiny Angry Redheaded one.

The grip she has on the string of her bag tightens just a little as he raises his eyebrows in excitement, swinging the flyer grasped tight by his long fingers around enthusiastically. "You don't understand, the lacrosse team made it to the state finals for the first time, well, ever."

She feigns a smile, adjusting her sunglasses to the top of her head so he can take a good hard look at her resting bitch face, which she doesn't actually have, she just really does not want to be here and talk to him when she should be halfway the quad by now, on her way towards her class. The class she was already late with to begin with, just to be absolutely crystal clear. "I still don't care."

For some unexplainable reason, he seems to take this as some sort of crazy challenge, his eyebrows disappearing even further into his hairline if possible, as his smile (read: dorky and goofy ass grin) stretches wider. "I know, I know. Lacrosse is a little underappreciated by the mainstream public, it isn't football or basketball or some other sport that requires no real skill whatsoever, but this is a big deal. Lacrosse is hardcore. People have died during lacrosse."

She purses her lips, nodding, if only to satisfy the idiot and dismiss him quietly as she steps to the right, and to the left but he just mimics her moves every time—right, left, right again—so don't blame her for leaving out the biggest sigh in history as she clenches her jaw. "Do you do this a lot?"

"What?" He smiles, confusion evident, which would've been cute if he hadn't been blocking her way in the most annoying way possible. "Hand out flyers? Not really, only if you count Tuesday videogame nights but no one actually wants to attend them except for the usual crowd but it's required so we just hang them up in the cafeteria and—"

"No, talk, sweetheart," she snaps sarcastically as she squints her eyes at him and he swallows hard at the look on her face. Ah, finally he seems to catch onto the don't-fuck-with-a-hung-over-and-already-pissed-Lydia-Martin train. Choo choo, motherfucker. She uncrosses her arms and takes the piece of paper from him, only to scrunch it up and press it against his chest roughly. "My suggestion? Don't do as much of it. As a matter of fact, don't, ever, do it in my presence again."

He gulps, nodding a little stunned as she passes him and she's twenty minutes late to Statistics, earning herself multiple glares and some less than discreet annoyed coughs, so she doesn't really have any more time to think about the astonished glint in his not-so-mediocre brown eyes—not that she would otherwise—definitely not.

.

She doesn't like the term genius, because people always associate 'genius' with socially awkward, fashionably challenged, crazy people with even crazier hairdos. She's none of those—she's popular, sane and most importantly, she is always en vogue.

So technically she did get a Mensa invite at the age of twelve, and technically she is taking three more classes than her regular college friends and still finishes her homework long before it's due, but a lot of technicalities don't add up to an actuality. Her job at a small coffeeshop downtown only keeps her busy on the weekends, nights reserved for insane parties and her friends and well, long story short, she has some time to spare.

So a United Nations Club seems like the logical thing to join into; first of all, it's great credit for her resume and second of all, ruling a country is number one on her list of future plans. Win/win, right?

When she said it seemed like the logical thing, she meant did seem logical.

Until she saw him. Freckled, Tall Guy Who Talks Too Much.

He's sitting in front of a desk nameplate reading 'USA', an American flag brooch pinned to his navy blue jumper. He doesn't even notice she comes in, too actively twiddling his thumbs as he stares down at a stack of paper, highlighter in between his teeth. His eyes are moving so fast from left to right, that if she had not met this hyperactive specimen before, she'd think he was having a seizure.

She clears her throat, as she throws down her 'I like big books and I cannot lie' (that Allison got her for her last birthday along with the 'I use this bag… periodically' + compulsory periodic table picture that she refuses to use in public) tote bag opposite of him on the long rectangle table.

He doesn't look up and continues to flip the page so she clears her throat again, this time more forcefully. He meets her eyes this time, eyes widening in recognition as he scrambles to sit upright, highlighter falling from his mouth and onto his files. In his defense, she invented the 'baby, I'm a nightmare dressed like a daydream' look way before Taylor Swift stole, popularized and patented it. She looks down at the stack of papers as he tries to collect them in a neat pile, which is pretty much entirely highlighted in a hot pink. If you could really call it 'highlighted' anyway.

Without saying anything else to acknowledge each other, she takes out her 'France' nameplate and straightens the skirt of her red pleated skirt before sitting down across from him, connecting and resting her hands on top of the desk.

After an awkward minute of him looking panicked, before going back to almost erratically highlighting every sentence on the source of information in front of him, she decides to break the silence.

She reads over the sticker on his arm reading 'head delegate', wondering why they chose a rambling idiot for president."Am I early or is this your usual turn-up?" If his was the only vote, that would almost make sense.

He just looks up at her dumbly, blinking once, twice, three times without saying anything. She raises her eyebrows, leaning forward on her elbows, "You can speak."

"I wasn't waiting for your permission, I'm just not on speaking terms with the French after what they did to me on the Bread Market. This was all before I forced Isaac to quit. In my defense, if he couldn't handle a little spontaneous debate in front of two-hundred people, he wasn't ready to lead France."

"That's…" She says, shaking her head and pursing her lips together when no more words follow, because she thinks that's just his thing. Being intense.

He continues, not phased by her inability to hide her disdain at all. "To answer your question, usually Malia is here, because God knows she needs the extra credit so we should wait for her before we begin."

As if on cue, a girl dressed in camouflage printed cut-off shorts and black combat boots storms in, paper nameplate reading out 'Rusia' clamped in her hand, door slamming closed behind her. "She's dyslexic," USA explains before Lydia gets a chance to open her mouth, and she turns to glare at him. Like she was just ready to pounce on her for incorrect spelling. Who is he? Literally, who is he?

"This is why your economy is on a never-ending downwards spiral," she bites back and he almost gasps in a dramatic telenovela way, to which she has to bite back a victorious laugh.

"Who pissed in your croissants this morning?"

She narrows her eyes, slamming her hands down on the desk (so much for keeping her cool), "I second the motion to continuer cette discussion en Francais, parce que je détèste vous tellement beaucoup, que je veux fini votre cul, dans plusiers langues." It roughly translates to wanting to murder his ass.

He answers something like, "Bien sur, bring it on. Quelle langue vous préfèrez? Que podía hacer española. Vielleicht Deutsch, wenn Sie wollen. Oh, wait… Do you prefer ASL?" which is just arrogantly displaying the languages he may or may not speak. He rapidly makes some gestures that to her just seem like his usual spastic movements as she seriously considers asking him about his medical history.

"I prefer one!" She smiles tightly, having to force her facial muscles to move into a pleasant expression as she raises her middle finger.

"Okay—no," she vaguely hears Malia say over their inconsistent yelling (something along the lines of "YOU WERE ON GERMANY'S SIDE DURING WORLD WAR 2! THAT'S THE WRONG SIDE!" "WELL, I DIDN'T KILL OFF A 100 MILLION NATIVE AMERICANS TO EARN MY PLACE ON THE WORLDMAP!" "AT LEAST I DIDN'T INVENT THE MONSTROSITY THAT YOU CALL A TURTLE NECK IN MODERN FASHION!") before she disappears back out of the door.

So much for easy extra credit.

.

"Professor Yukimura, honestly I don't really understand. I was first in your class last year, I have excellent handwriting and above all, I—"

"Ms. Martin," he sighs, a bunch of reports stacked under his armpit as he locks the door to his office with his free hand. "I'm sorry, the TA slot is filled. Better luck next year." He sends her a sympathetic smile, which honestly means jackshit to her, before disappearing around the corner.

She groans frustratedly as she balls her fist, glaring at the ceiling. She considers adding a little toddler tantrum and stomping away, but instead takes ten seconds to collect herself. She brushes her dress down and smoothes out her hair, taking a deep breath and ready to calmly walk away, right before she sees him, carrying a stack of 'Folklore and Mythology' reports in both his hands as he whistles on happily. Her stacks of 'Folklore and Mythology' reports, that she was supposed to be grading on her free friday night instead of hanging out with her friends, instead. Not him. Okay, that sOUNDS LAME BUT SHE IS STILL REALLY MAD. FISTS BALLED FROM FRUSTRATION, CHEEKS PINK WITH ANGER, ONLY SOUND I'M HEARING IS THE POUNDING OF MY HEART MAD.

"YOU…" She yells, pointing a finger at him as she stalks over to him. Eyes narrowed, she pokes him in the chest. It's worse enough that they're always the only two ones arguing about the difference between the significance of furies and dracaenae in popular literature since he joined (late, may she add) her class this semester, and now he stole and snatched away her future? No way."That was my TA slot!"

He gives her a weird look, pausing his step before he looks down at her finger touching his left peck. "Okaaaaaay. Well, it's mine now. Present tense of 'to be'. I'm sure you know how grammar works." He flashes her a smile and makes a move to walk past her, but she stops him.

"What's a chimera?" She challenges, crossing her arms over her chest as she tilts her head sideways in which she thinks is success. There's no way in freakin' hell he memorized the 500 page long glossary of mytho—

"It's a fire breathing three-headed monster with one head of lion, one of a snake, and another of a goat, lion claws in front and goat legs behind," he informs her without skipping a beat like the freaking walking 'random wikipedia article'-button he is as he uncomfortably moves from one leg to another and back. He seems to struggle with carrying so many reports at once, which for one proves he's a wuss who shouldn't be TA'ing HER class.

She opens her mouth, eyes wide with excitement and ready to pounce on him, when he casually adds with an idle shrug, "Oh, and the snake tail. Can't forget the snake tail." He smiles so goofily, she just wants to wipe it off his face and shove him against a wall and—kiss him! Yeah! No… wait! That was not what she meant, nor where she wanted to go.

"If you need any tutoring, I can always—" He smirks and she hates him. God she hates him.

She gasps, swallowing down a loud scream of frustration before letting out a sharp breath. "I'd slap you, but that'd be animal abuse."

He laughs, no, actually cackles as he moves past her, shaking his head in amusement, "See you later, Lydia."

She inwardly screams, closing her eyes to collect herself and about to walk away without losing the single ounce of dignity she had left before this conversation and thinking 'well, at least I didn't attack him' when he adds over his shoulder that, "I have some papers to grade." and she can't help but yell at him that she swears she will get back at him for this.

Who needs dignity when you have a TA slot to win back, anyway?

.

It was all her fault. Of course she shouldn't have assumed she could walk across the courtyard with a freshly made smoothie without ruining her new silk emerald blouse. How could she have let this happen honestly?

Well, first of all the Giant Atrocious Eyesore that Stiles Stilinski called an outfit (Halloween was two months ago) distracted her momentarily, to which she then, obviously, had to respond by hyper realistically pretending that she hadn't seen him at all because he was a pain in her ass who did not deserve to know she noticed his existence, nor bothered by it. It was simple girl code really.

So walking straight by him in theory and straight into him in reality was the only way besides the highway, ruining her new silk emerald blouse with a smoothie stain the size of a newborn baby's head.

"You know, Stiles, most of us live and learn," she mutters, already dabbing at the material with a napkin, "You just live." He's apologizing profusely, gathering more (used?) crumpled napkins from his pockets, wiping at the material on her chest. Yeah, you read that right. Wiping. Not dabbing—wiping. Bitterly and under her breath, she promises, "For now."

He pulls on his last and particularly stuck napkin as she swats his other hand of her chest (WIPING!), to which he finally seems to notice he just touched her boobs, to which he freezes, to which the entirety of his skin turns pink, to which he finally yanks on the material in his pocket in a erratic nervous gesture, to which about twenty to thirty condoms fly out and onto the floor.

"I-I," he stammers, turning an even darker shade of pink that she didn't think was reachable with his complexion as he bends down to collect them, shoving them back down his pants' pockets. Leggings? Treggings? Tights? She's not sure (that she even wants to know). "I was just over at, at Health Services and they were free and I, I love free stuff? Sorry I touched your," he pauses, making a circular movement with his hand infront of his own chest, "I didn't mean to. Not that I wouldn't like to, but I generally only like to touch girls if they're in to it and I don't think you'd want me to, so…" His voice trails off as he brushes imaginary dust off his stomach. At least he got one thing right.

She ignores his apology (her blouse was ruined and he just dropped a bunch of extra, extra large condoms in front of her of which she accidentally noted the size of, by the way, and he wasn't the first guy to make up an elaborate ploy to make a move for her breasts. Although she does believe he genuinely didn't notice, like the oblivious idiot he is), holding up a hand to silence his potential further ramblings, "Why are you dressed like this again?"

"Oh," he grins painfully, patting down on his plastic abs, as he waves her off, "This old thing?"

She cocks an eyebrow, dispersing her leftover smoothie in a trashcan beside her, "Nice try. What did you do and who did you piss off this much?"

"We had a bet at the beginning of the summer, but it turned out I wasn't as good at parkour as I thought I was and broke my collarbone and proved once again that Scott is the alpha male of the two of us, which is a word I regularly use for humans. Not for like, lions and giraffes and like, werewolves. Humans." He laughs nervously, adjusting the mask to the top of his head that must be cutting off all of the blood supply to his brain. He reveals two dark circles around his eyes, with faintly makes him look like a raccoon, or herself after a wild night of partying. "Anyway," he continues, clearing his throat, "It proved once again he was Batman and I was Robin so now I have to wear this for a week. I mean, it sucks. Robin died in the new Batman VS Superman movie, so what am I supposed to do with this? I'm a dead superhero sidekick."

"Well," she concludes, pressing her lips together in what she hopes is a somewhat polite smile, kicking herself for even asking, "That story started at the bottom and just seemed to go downhill from there. So, it was once again very nice to see you."

"For what it's worth, you walked into me, but I am really sorry you're wearing your smoothie."

"For what it's worth, you walked into me, but I am really sorry your best friend hates you so much he made you wear this mess of a costume and embarrassed you enough to last at least the next three years."

He gives her a complimentary nod, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips, as he steps aside for her, "Lydia."

She gracefully accepts the exit, copying his nod, "Stilinski."

For the record, she walked into him but let it be noted he's inhumanly tall compared to her and he should've seen her coming, so indirectly, it's still his fault. Off the record, she cut the picture of him—in his costume, posing like a bodybuilder in front of their school's welcoming sign—out of their monthly newsletter and put it in her copy of Ian McEwan's Atonement, but only for future bribery purposes, not because his eyes shine when he grins so goofily and he looks so stupid it makes her smile.

.

Midterms are coming up and since her roommate slash former friend Braeden knows both 'outstanding kickboxing techniques' and 'several ways to pleasure her much older, hot and bearded boyfriend', she decides the library it is. She's already fully stocked on quiet, crumble free snacks, highlighters and a mixtape of classical muzak to stimulate every part of her brain and settled in, when she notices she isn't alone.

"What are you doing here?" She snaps, before she even notices she's snapping. Which happens a lot around him. Oh well.

She slams her books down on the table for the extra dramatic effect, which earns her a complimentary and obligatory shush from Ms. Morell, as she stares him down. Hopefully the library lady has lunch soon because she can't promise they won't break out in a loud argument. Besides, the study room in the library was pretty much two tables, five usable chairs and one computer. She wouldn't be able to escape him even if she wanted to. Was he following her or something?

"Studying," he pauses biting down on his thumbnail just long enough to answer her, not even bothering looking up from his Gender Issues In Academics And Academia folder (which was suprising, to be honest), which is again, mostly highlighted, this time a bright yellow.

"You know it's not really highlighting when you color in everything, right?" She mentions with a sigh, not really up for a fight, as she sits down across and left from him and takes out her self-made summary of Mathematical Methods in Nanophotonics. Majoring in something you actually were already 'bitchin' at' (in her peer mentor baby freshman Liam's words) could be pretty boring, unless you took the extra courses like these.

He just hums in agreement, his nose scrunching up a little as he reads something and for a moment she thinks he actually looks really adorable. Call it temporary insanity if you will.

He's intelligent, a little cute, sometimes even funny. He's wouldn't even be that bad, you know, if it wasn't for the fact he was an incredibly annoying hellbeast from Satan's personal list of friends. He couldn't shut up once he got going, he did practically everything she did and sometimes even dared to be better, and last week in mock UN club, he called Coco Chanel a disgrace to humankind, which was just… the most ugly thing he could've ever said.

She shakes her head, forcing herself to start reading about optical engineering and mathematical numbers and it's nice and quiet for a while. Until she looks to find him looking at her, tips of his ears turned red and neck flushed as he uncomfortably shifts his gaze around. It's then she hears, having been too distracted and engaged in her work to notice before.

There's people—moaning.

She freezes, shoulder stiffening as she pauses her writing, swallowing hard as her eyes meet Stiles'. There's some really awkward eye contact, both inwardly panicking as they forcefully listen to a bunch of noises she doesn't even want to start to describe.

Thump, thump. More moaning.

"I…" He starts, stammering before motioning towards the cases of books on their right. "So you definitely heard that, too, right? It wasn't just me and my dumb fantasies playing out so realistically that I started hallucinating—"

"No," she cuts him off quickly, refusing to think about what his fantasies were about and why he would be fantasizing in front of her, as she purses her lips. "I definitely heard that, too."

"Right." He says, and he looks distracted momentarily before shaking it off and attempting to pick up his highlighter to go back to his work. She takes a deep breath, attempting to do the same when:

"Oh, yes, dear God!"

His highlighter moves from one sentence to the bottom of the page in one swift movement, leaving a nice crooked line through most of the paper, his grip tightening as he avoids eye-contact, instead focusing on the flowery print of her headband. She clears her throat, again putting her pen back to the paper when:

"Yes, please, yes!" It sounds like a stack of books just fell down a flight of stairs and Lydia wonders why the hell Ms. Morell chose this exact moment to leave for lunch—she could really use some of her unnecessary shushing right now.

"Seriously?" She exclaims, throwing her hands up in defeat as she slumps back against her seat.

"Want to have a loud argument about the appliance of continuum mechanics to geobiology so they'll realize they're not alone and hopefully leave so we can ritually pray that the janitor bathes every book in this building with Dettol or that it at least burns down in the near future?" He offers her a hopeful grin she tries really hard not to focus on.

"Stiles… man of my dreams." She reaches out to put her hand on his shoulder, "Sometimes, I think you're okay." He mockingly puts his hand over his heart, pretending to be touched as she continues, "Where do you want to start?"

.

"I have to warn you I had a really shitty chemistry teacher in high school," he informs her as he sits down next to her, throwing all of his stuff everywhere and starts touching all of her stuff. Which, if this had been an analogy, would be really disgusting. He reaches out to touch the natrium chloride as he continues talking about a Mr. Harris that she honestly couldn't care less about, so she swats his hand away as she sighs loudly.

"Why does the universe hate me?"

"I'm glad we're lab partners, too, Lydia," he answers, turning on the gas and lightning a fire. He swiftly and skillfully soaks a piece of paper in a substance before holding it in the fire, turning it into a pretty shade of violet. "Potassium sulfate and nitrate do the job every time. Doing cool stuff with fire is pretty much the only thing I remember from senior year, and the fact that Scott's eyebrow hair takes two entire months to grow back. At least that's a prom picture we'll never forget."

She stares at him in mild surprise as she pulls her labcoat closer together, a dumb attempt at trying to hide her wonder, "You're… half competent." Compared to the 'I bought my way into this college and into being your lab partner because you have a cute ass' and 'I really only joined this class because it'll look good on my resume and because you have a cute ass', he seriously was. A decent lab partner, how refreshing.

"Why thank you," he mocks a gasps, fixing his safety goggles as he smirks. "Was that an actual compliment, for me, average Stiles, from you, certified genius Lydia?"

"You're pretty smart yourself," she says, before she can stop herself and involuntarily winces when she realizes it, too. Way to go, Lydia. Now he thinks you actually like him.

"Oh my God, and it continues," his smile stretches and stretches and she thinks his face is going to implode at one point, "She has more! Please tell me I'm pretty next."

"Shut up," she replies lamely as she swishes a test tube around with a spring clamp, bumping her shoulder into his.

He laughs loudly, not really caring half the class seems to turn around to wonder what the hell's so funny, and she remembers that exact look on his face for a long time after that and she decides she absolutely hates it, or worse, really doesn't at all.

.

"Imagine my surprise when I'm just eating my ceasar salad down on the grass at the quad with my best friend Allison and I suddenly, out of nowhere get hit in the head by a frisbee," she starts the conversation, fixing the strap of her bag on her shoulder as she adds, "Then, when I look up to see who ruined my hair and almost broke my neck, I see you and some other guy running away into a different direction, like two immature children."

He shrugs, turning to look at her, although her gaze is, and has been fixed forcefully on the 'HUMAN LONGEVITY INC.' banner in front of her. Finally, he offers, "I'm sorry?"

"I guess I should be surprised you're at the same career fair table as me, but then again, I should've known," she says instead of accepting his sincere and heartfelt apology as she opens up a pamphlet and holds it in front of her face to read about how HLI is going to cure aging and save mankind. She has a few questions about this subject but their only employee seems to be in a stimulating conversation with another student, so what else is there to do than berate a stranger for throwing a frisbee at her head?

"Well, Scott, the other guy running away from you," he comments idly, like that's the usual way to describe another person to someone, as he fingers some informational flyers on the table. Stammering on, "He recently… experienced… some... stuff. Hairy stuff. So, I'm here... for… science."

To anyone else, it'd look like they were two strangers, standing there side to side in silence, which is just the way she likes it. "Right. Science." She sends him a weird look before putting the pamphlet back down. "I thought you'd just be here for the free pens and the other 'swag'." She comments cynically, raising her eyebrows to herself as she picks up the cheesy 'it's not a long life we're striving for, but one which is worth living' keycord, twirling it around her finger as if to illustrate her point.

"Well, I'm not just excited to see you," he smirks as he pats his pockets with a smirk before it fades just a little. "I'm sorry. That was kind of trashy. I do think you're pretty and I'm sure a lot of guys would be excited to see you—not that I'm not—not that you see a lot of guys get excited—not that you can't get—oh god, I'm just, I'm going to shut up now." He avoids eye contact, his neck flushing a faint pink as he plays with a keychain to distract himself from the way she's looking at him. Which is pretty judgemental in his defense.

Sometimes he's so smooth, and other times he's so… not. Like when it comes to anything remotely sexy, or her breasts.

"That sounds like a good idea," she retorts, shaking her head to herself as she ignores the 'I do think you're pretty' as if she hasn't been told that a thousand times before. It's just… when he says it, it's like he actually means it right down to the deepest parts of his soul. Right, ignoring it. She's here to look for a possible summer internship, not to get flirty with a slightly less smart, brown puppy-eyed dork.

He clears his throat tightly after a second, offering her the keychain and she accepts it, their hands touching for a brief moment before she stuffs it in her bag, also actively ignoring the loud pounding of her heart.

"So, since we're probably going to end up there together anyway, care to walk with me to the Nucleus Scientific booth so we can trash talk their lack of creative and original swag items?"

"If you insist."

.

"You stalking me?" She asks him, nevermind the fact she walked over to him, as she takes another sip of the blue liquid in her red solo cup, forgetting the fact humans aren't supposed to drink blue stuff. Clorox is blue! Clorox is bad for people. He's talking, but she realizes she hasn't really been listening.

"Are you stalking me, Stilinksi?" She repeats, slurring slightly, her vision turning blurry as someone stumbles into her. He steadies her by putting both of his hands on her shoulders and he grins a little, "Like I said, Scott dragged me here. He's studying to be a vet but he's taking French because she's like, I don't know, in that class or something. It's kind of pathetic but here I am, passing on free beer and girls with some very low standards at an awesome party because my best friend asked me to look for his, and I quote, 'future wife', so who's really the pathetic one?"

Is he still talking? His hands are still on her shoulders and his fingers are really warm and now he's eyeing her outfit and she's in that not even wasted enough not to feel uncomfortable in that 'oh, will he still like me now he's seen my sluttiest outfit', but wasted enough to forget 'I'm not supposed to care if he likes me' stage of drunkenness.

He reaches her face and their eyes lock and it's not even as awkward as usual, until her arm moves and she shoves her drink at him in some lame attempt at trying to get him as drunk as her. "No thanks, I'm the designated wingman tonight so I gotta keep a clear head." He taps his temple, grinning, "But you have at it. I have to find Scott to cockblock the hell out of any other guys making a move for his girl, so I'll see you later."

She nods, dumbly, because she's isn't as quick-witted as usual now that her brain is floating around in a pool of alcohol. His hand slide down to her arms, and he squeezes once before disappearing into the crowd. If it wasn't for the look of disdain and illusory superiority on his face, he'd blend in with the regular frat fuckboys well enough; cap backwards on his head, plaid shirt loose around his arms, playful look in his eyes, relatively handsome.

She forgets all about him for at least sixteen minutes, until Jackson shows up with his fake London accent after ONE semester abroad and gelled back hair and she feels the need to throw up (even more than before she saw him). She can't believe she used to be in love with him. Even worse, there's one of those blonde 'I took one psychology class last semester so I know why you prefer coffee over tea and like to throw around the word daddy issues to everyone who's had a father and I don't know what the fuck I'm talking about' bimbos on his arm and he looks good and he's so winning the break-up. Damnit.

She finds Stiles talking to some other bimbo girl and pulls him away from her (what's it with guys and their pseudo Dr. Suess'?) without an explanation as she puts her hand in his and her head on his shoulder, forcing him to sway along to the music.

"Lydia, although I don't mind being this close to you, like literally close, even though we only ever fight and we're not even really technically friends," he manages to squeak out, "Why?"

He uses so many words that aren't words. His palm is a little sweaty in hers as they rest on his chest, so she shrugs against him, grabbing his other hand and placing it lower on her back, "My ex is here. And I know you're not the type of person to roofie my drink." The only two requirements met in order for her to dance with a guy. Perfect.

"That does explain a lot," he answers, sliding his hand back to her upper back, and she vaguely notes 'thinking out loud' is a way too romantic song for them to sway platonically 'just tryna win the break-up with a kind of (but 'not even technically') friend' to. Too late now, she figures, putting his hand back to where she put it originally, which is roughly two inches above her ass.

It's nice, his arms around her and she feels happy. She nuzzles her nose further into his shoulder (he smells really good, okay, like candy and boy and just nice), moving her hand further towards her face. Luckily, she says the least embarrassing thing of the many things playing around in her head right then, "You're warm."

"Thanks," he chuckles against her hair before he says, moving a little to the left, "D-bag with the hipster 'birds of a fratboy feather' haircut on 11?"

"Yeah," she huffs in response as she spots Jackson, moving her head back to look at Stiles, not bad, but good Stiles, "Make-out with me."

"W-what?" He seems alarmed as he starts to pull back. So she's a little tipsy and they're not even technically friends and they're supposed to hate each other? She hates Jackson more.

"You're a boy, I'm a girl, can I make it anymore obvious?" She motions between them, storing how weird they must look right now—holding hands in the middle of a dance floor and not moving as they stare at each other like they're the only ones there—for later, as she gives his hand a tug. She gets on her tiptoes, steadying herself with her hands on his shoulders as she closes her eyes and slightly puckers her lips.

One second passes, and then another, and another and she's about to open her eyes and yell at him for not kissing her right now, when she feels another pair of lips against hers, soft and almost afraid. She grabs his face and pulls him closer, and for a moment almost forgets that she's supposed to make Jackson jealous, not eagerly push her tongue inside Stiles' mouth like she's trying to stake a claim.

Then she pulls away and pats his shoulder, as she watches the look of astonishment on a certain ex's face before waving at him, overly exciting, all the while dismissing Stiles with her other, "Thanks."

"Y-yeah, no problem?" He offers, scratching the back of his neck and she's never been one for long goodbyes, so she leaves him standing there, not thinking much of the devastated look on his face at the time.

She goes over to Jackson and he tells her she looks hot and he was a little jealous of the new guy and she wanted to hear that, didn't she, so she ignores the little voice in the back of her mind that asks her why it's not enough and goes home with Jackson and pretends not to remember how Stiles' lips felt like little sparks on hers.

.

"You pulled the fire alarm?" Just in case the petite strawberry blonde in a flimsy barely-a-pyjama with crossed arms, fingers digging into her COLD pale skin and a glare on intensity level 'basement of hell' wasn't enough of a sign for him that she wasn't amused—she lets out a sharp breath, gritting her teeth together.

"It was an, uh, emergency?" He offers, an half-assed if you ask her, apology, as he rubs his shoulder. His fully-clad shoulder, may she add, because of course he knew what he was going to do and dressed for the barely-melted snow and 30 degree weather. He's even wearing the proper shoes, as in, not an old pair of beat up Uggs that stopped being water resistant three winters ago.

It's been a while, to be fair. She hasn't had a proper encounter (besides short glances of acknowledgement in class) with him since the last semester before summer break, in which they exchanged saliva and she thinks she groped his ass at one point, or multiple. But boy, does he know how to make every single one of their little impromptu get-togethers as annoying as possible.

"The emergency better be a fire," she spits as she pokes him in the chest threateningly, "And by fire, I mean there better be flames the size of a house, or I'm going to kick your ass."

"You know, some might call it faith that Scott and I stumbled onto a gigantic liza—uhm, an emergency, in your exact dorm building." He starts taking unzipping his hoodie, holding it out for her with his eyebrows raised, like she's some sort of damsel in cold distress and he's the hero of the story. She'd hate to break it to him (okay, actually not that much) but he's the villain. The villain that made her get out of bed at 2 am to freeze her butt off while waiting for the firemen to clear the building.

"Wipe that smirk of your face, Stilinski. We're people of science, we know better than to believe in something as implausible as faith. Better yet, I could whip out a mathematical probability criterion within 20 seconds, if you must know the chance of you picking my exact dorm building." She growls, rubbing her arms as a useless means to warm herself up. Bitterly and finally grabbing a hold of the piece of garment in his hands and slipping into it, "Or, you know, we could just call it stalking."

"If it helps, I am really sorry," he says, genuinely as he pulls lightly on the strings of her (she will now claim it for the rest of her life as punishment) hoodie and ties them together, "And I totally didn't make a sarcastic, inappropriate comment about you whipping out mathematical probabilities, so there's that."

"Glad you were able to contain yourself there."

He doesn't skip a beat, smirk only widening. "It was my pleasure really."

"And you just love pleasuring yourself, don't you?"

His neck flushes, but to his credit, he doesn't seem as uncomfortable by her innuendos as before. He clears his throat a little awkwardly, but that's that.

"Just so you know, next time I'm forced out of my bed at 2 AM in the blistering cold, I'm going to cause you some serious physical harm, preferably with something painful, like a bat." She cocks an eyebrow, rubbing the balls of her fists together softly to create warmth. "Where's your partner in petty crime anyway?"

He was smiling like a doofus when she was talking about beating his ass, and now he's brow is furrowed together. Way to be smooth, Stiles. "Scott? Scott is, he is, uhm, he's still experiencing some.. aftershocks from the e-emergency. He'll be… occupied, for the, for the rest of the night." Now there's about ten things wrong with that sentence—not to even mention the tone of his voice—and the most offensive thing of it all is that he actually thinks she's dumb enough to believe it.

"Why do I feel like I just called the IRS to file a complaint and they're not even trying to hide the fact they're blowing me off?" is something she would've said, if she actually cared about what Stiles and his sidekick Scott did in their spare time. Since she doesn't, she just scoffs, and complains some more about the cold and how it's his fault it starts snowing.

She does end up keeping the hoodie, and before you ask, no. The answer to every question possible is no.

.

Besides being a major pain in the ass, Stiles Stilinski apparently also works at the college campus radio. She finds out when Julie Brown's 'Homecoming Queen's Got A Gun' is subtly dedicated to "one strawberry blonde genius phoenix, close to his heart, that needs to be kept away from baseball bats when she's near to him", only to then completely give it away with a sarcastic "not the entire world revolves around you, Lydia Martin, so don't feel addressed".

Nice fire pun there, Stiles.

Also—screw you, Stiles.

.

If you'd asked Lydia Martin six months ago if the universe had it out for her, she would've probably ignored you and made it socially unacceptable to stand next to you. If you'd ask her now, locked in a library with Stiles Stilinski because of a heavy storm and tornado warning for over three (!) hours now (fuck you, February), she'd still point out the inconsistencies of that theory, but at least she talk to you and not turn you into a pariah among your peers.

Of course, it's merely impossible for the entire universe to be working against her, but yes—after an hour of pretending they'd get out of there and continuing to study by dim back-up-generator light (read: she was studying, he was blasting music and air-drumming for fifty minutes), fifteen minutes of internet before all power and connection to the outside world was lost and the remaining 105 minutes spent in more silence, nervous tapping and aggravation (that one mostly on her part)—the universe has been dealing her some exceptionally bad cards because it hates her, probably.

After he raids a vending machine by almost getting crushed to death by it and they share the technically stolen reece's pieces, she starts thinking about what her life would look like if she had to spend the remainder of it in a library with Stiles Stilinski, which isn't even that farfetched from reality, because there's a storm out there that doesn't seem like it's in the mood to end anytime soon. She decides there's better things out there for Lydia Martin than a college library.

So, the logical and probably most irrational thing to do is to storm out of there. Naturally, he follows her not-so-quietly protesting the entire thirty feet to the exit and as soon as she opens the doors that had been rattling all day and she starts forming the words "see, it's not even that bad", they both get hit in the face with a gust of rain, drenching them completely.

"So," he says as he pulls her back inside, struggling to get the doors to close back up because of more forceful blows of wind and rain until she helps him, "besides being completely reckless with your own life," he starts barricading their exit with a desk, "did God grant you with any more party tricks? Like," he shrugs as he peels his button-down off his skin, leaving him in a t-shirt, "I don't know, being able to predict the weather?" He starts wringing the garment before hanging it over a chair, "If not, I suggest you sit this one out."

She huffs, hoisting herself on top of one of the tables as she squeezes some water out of her hair, "I'm sorry, wise-ass, but nobody asked you to follow me."

He rolls his eyes, sitting down next to her, knees knocking together in the process, "Right, because you'd rather wear last year's prada collection than even be found dead beside me."

She opens her mouth to protest as she turns her head to study him, and clamps her lips together as she sees the look on his face. Sure, his tone was light and sarcastic like always, but he actually believes she's that superficial and cold.

Her normal defense mechanism would be a) a sneer, or b) a humoristic sneer, but this time she sighs, making him look away from the stacks of books and at her. "I wouldn't have gone without you, Stiles."

Everything in her screams for her to look away or to smile like it means nothing, but she can't move.

He wipes some of her damp hair from her forehead and brushes it behind her ear, holding her stare like it's the most normal thing in the world. Like it doesn't make her heartbeat speed up, or her breathing uneven. Like he just looks that intensely at everyone, stares right into their soul and full with adoration and wonder, like they hung the moon especially for him.

For a moment, she forgets everything and just sees him, Stiles, for the first time. His sweet brown eyes, his special grin he uses only on her, the freckles on his face she wants to touch one by one and she leans in. Before she has time to process the fact he's leaning in too, there's an explainable rush in her body, a reflex she can't ignore as she turns away from him, and, screams.

.

All her life, she's known things. She's known things because she liked to read and study and research. She loves understanding things, figuring out why it all just—makes sense. One of the many reasons why science is her passion is because it's explainable, reasonable, provable.

Now it all just feels like a lie.

She's been sitting on Stiles' bed for the past hour, and he's been talking for the past hour about werewolves and kanimas and kitsunes and banshees. Because get this, apparently getting the urge to scream and stumbling onto dead bodies randomly meant she was a banshee. Meant she was part of his and Scott's weird little fantasy world pack or whatever. Meant everything she knew, she really didn't at all, and everything she didn't know was considerably more than she'd first estimated.

She's only processing about a quarter of what he says, his words blurring together (and not just because he talks supernaturally fast) as she stares at his roommate's poster of Twilight ("Isaac thought it was funny, and actually went to a store and bought it, which I thought was punishment enough for his bad sense of humour so I was able to save the Nair for later") which was pretty ironic, considering the situation she was in.

"Lydia—" his voice finally comes through in her head as her eyes land onto his, his fingers burning on her shoulder. "I know this is a lot, and it sounds absolutely crazy, but you're not alone in this.

"A banshee?" She looks at him, shrugging slightly, in confusion or disbelief, she isn't completely sure. She's either on the verge of crying, or storming off angrily. She's feeling very conflicting things, and his hand on her skin isn't helping, so she shrugs it off.

He swallows hard, but if he's having difficulty with their situation, it doesn't show on his face. "Yeah, it's an omen of death so the speak, they—"

"I know what a banshee is," she snaps, feeling sorry the second she sees the look on his face. She's confused and he's just trying to be nice, this isn't a conversation about how they almost kissed (although she's fine with ignoring that one), this is a conversation about her, her life. A little lighter, she adds, "You stole my Folklore and Mythology TA position, remember?" She sighs, shaking her head lightly, "Which now makes complete sense. You had more real life experience than me. Since you didn't share your methods to even the playing field, you had an unfair advantage, that thus counts as cheating."

He forces a grin on his face, but it still has a touch of dorky Stiles somewhere in there, "And Mr. Yukimura's daughter is in Scott's pack."

"Right, and that." She tries to mirror his actions but it's like her facial muscles are stuck on depression mode. He notices her effort, putting his hand on her knee comfortingly as he tries to offer her some support by boring his brown eyes into hers. She takes his hand and this, it's way too intimate, but she can't seem to make herself care.

She swallows tightly, not even bothering hiding her worry as she squeezes his much larger hand softly, "So, what now?"

He called it faith, right in the beginning, and she told him she didn't believe in faith. She still doesn't—although it doesn't seem all that farfetched anymore at the moment—but she is thankful that probability brought him to her, because for the first time since ever, she doesn't know how else she would be getting through this.

"Well, firstly, you need to take a blood oath and drink Scott's spit to officially join our—" She digs her nails into his hand before throwing it off her lap, which seems to do the job as he winces, cutting off his sentence.

He rolls his eyes as he rubs his hand, because he probably did notice the small obviously-less-tense smile on her face because of him, "How about we start with you not pretending you're too cool for me in public?"

"I can't make any promises."

.

"How many sins do you think we can commit in the next thirty seconds?"

He looks at her like she just fell from the sky as she crouches down beside him, in front of the washing machine, looking at him with panicked eyes as she mouths the word 'save me'. This seems to jumpstart a different reaction than 'gaping at her in surprise and probably imaging dirty things' as he immediately lets go of his laundry basket and grabs her by her shoulders, his eyes searching her for any sign of a struggle.

"What happened? Is someone after you? Do I need to text Sc—"

"The bible guy in the quad is after me again, okay? He won't quit! I think he's actually following me this time," she explains stiffly nodding a little to the side, where surely, Bible Guy is still creeping in the doorway with his pushy attitude and holy testament collection (after almost three years, you'd think he'd get the message), "He keeps screaming about hell like I don't know it's a place on earth and it's called Sears. I need to get rid of him once and for all."

"Wait, what time is it? Did you come from your Toxicology class? That's like.. You're telling it's ten like PM and that guy's still at it? It's dark outside and he's following you, that's just, it's stalking, it's enough grounds for a restraining order in the state of California, and I would know. Okay, that's—it's a very long story and it involves a van and a dude called Donovan that was out for my dad's blood and in some serious denial about being a little a supernatural," he stumbles, and he's lucky her hearing and auditory cortex have developed enough over the time she's known him to make sense of his fast talking rambles. Also, that she isn't creeped out by the fact he memorizes stuff about her—even trivial stuff, like her shoe size, or important stuff, like her class schedule—anymore. She's a very good friend, if she does say so herself.

She opens her mouth to tell him to pretend to 'take her, in the most friendliest way ever, preferably right on top of the dryer in front of the glass so Bible Guy gets a good, hard look' because that will surely do the job, until something catches her eye in his laundry basket. She sends him a questioning glance, before taking a better look at his laundry basket (not metaphorically speaking). "Could… Why—Is, is that my camisole?"

His serious gaze turns much less serious, eyebrows raised as he pulls the cherry colored item out from under his boxershorts and button-downs like it's the most normal thing ever as he starts talking, "Oh yeah, you left it at my dorm and it was all covered in, you know," he lowers his voice, pointing at a large dark, faded stain on the front, "silver mercury vomit, and you mentioned being tired of losing favorite clothes to supernatural creatures so I tried hand washing it but it didn't work, but I won't let them win so now I'm upping my game, I even texted Melissa and everything, and trying this—"

Something warm blooms in her chest and spreads through-out her entire body, a pressure building up that makes it hard to swallow and makes her thoughts and feelings jumble together like they'd never even been separated neatly before—like the sun came out. She puts both of her hands on the side of his face, and he freezes, pausing mid-sentence as he blinks at her.

"You," she accuses, clenching her jaw to keep from breaking down completely as she tries to find the right words, "You are the most annoying, caring, considerate, sweet human being on this earth."

And that's why she can't casually kiss him now and pretend like it all means nothing, why she'll gladly deal with creepy Bible Guy if it means she doesn't hurt him and gets to be his friend, that's why—a lot of things.

"Thank you?" He chuckles, poking her side playfully and relieving some of the pressure on her chest as she smiles back at him.

(It's also why he digs up a law case from 1982 in a dusty library, goes to the school board with a powerpoint presentation and 300 autographs, and manages to ban any religious propaganda from the quad. Sweet, doesn't really seem to capture it, and it almost feels offensive to call him just sweet.)

"So, you mentioned more of Melissa's magic tricks?"

.

Allison informs her Stiles played her another song last night ("he's so into you" "shut your face" "he wants to do you, so bad" "Allison, I'm telling Scott about that night with his best friend Isaac before you met if you don't shut the hell up right this second" "I thought Stiles was his best friend, you know, the one who wants to propose to you and have your babies"), and she plays it off like it's nothing even though she anxiously opens up the campus college radio website on her phone to find out which song he played as soon as she gets a minute alone (read: the toilet). Everyone probably thinks she's insane, laughing like an idiot by herself in a bathroom stall, but with the metal song 'Jesus Stole My Girlfriend', Stiles really gave her no choice, and she can't even hate him for it.

.

Besides popular believes, regularly saving the world from total mayhem, mass death and supernatural destruction, doesn't mean you're relieved from doing actual college work.

Their Metaphysics teacher informs them the only way they can make up for missing midterms (because being attacked by a homicidal maniac, literally out for their blood so he could use it to stay strong, wasn't a valid reason) is a group project, and since they're paired up with Malia 'track and field athletic scholarship, (born and raised in the woods and apparently also as an animal) this class sounded kind of cool' Tate and Isaac 'I'm only in this class because Allison is taking it even though she's dating my main man crush' Lahey, it all comes down to her and Stiles.

At least, it was supposed to come down to her and Stiles, even though he's kind of freaking out at the moment and blabbering about 'dead bodies' and 'sexual assault'.

Backtrack to two minutes ago when she'd just come out of the shower and was in the middle of changing (read: trying to find her bra while struggling to get into her skinny jeans, already WAY late for their meet-up in the library) when she spotted a spider. She hates spiders. She appreciates their ecological value and contribution to the balance of nature and everything, but do they have to look so creepy? A "Lydia, are you alri—Oh," from Stiles was followed with some more words she couldn't quite make out, and sounded more like a baby learning to form words than anything as he stared at her, wide-eyed and a little afraid of his life.

Fast-forward to blabbering idiot part: "I honestly thought you were being attacked, or like, found your roommate dead in her bed. I didn't, I didn't come here with the intention to like, sexually assault you or anything. I swear I only looked for like two seconds? Maybe like three, at most, I prom—"

"Stiles, they're just breasts," she snarls, partly frustrated at his and partly frustrated at not being able to clip her bra. Finally managing to do the latter, she realizes she's mainly just frustrated he's acting so—dumb (and also, pretty paranoid about that spider because it isn't where it was ten seconds ago). "I'm sure you've seen them before." Because God knows, other guys have seen hers before.

"I," he starts, squirming under her gaze as he tries to look at anywhere but at her, in jeans and a bra, arms crossed over her chest like she's trying to make it as difficult for him as possible, "I, I have, but I, I don't know—" he flushes even more, if possible, "It's just, it's, it's you, and I, I…"

"Dude," she says, even though she never actually uses that word but it seemed nice and distancing and he just basically said she was different from other girls and she doesn't want to think about what that indicates (either a - she's different and he doesn't want to screw her because she's like his sister by now and he thinks it's weird or b - she's different and he wants to screw her more than other girls because he has feelings and she doesn't know which of the two is worse), "you just used a lot of words but barely said anything."

She avoids his eyes, reaching for her top on her bed (after he blindly offers her an orange sweater, staring at the ceiling to which she can only snap inbetween sentences that: 'I'm wearing blue pants, you honestly think I'd be wearing blue pants if I was planning on wearing an orange sweater?' to which he replied with a futile grunt) as she pulls it over her head, taking her damp hair and moving it to one shoulder carefully, as she adds, "If you keep acting like this around female anatomy, you'll never get laid."

His eyes widen as he inhales sharply—even doing that nervous tick he does, rubbing his thumb against his other fingers, arm moving slightly because of it—as she steps closer, and closer, chests almost touching. She doesn't really know why she's doing it, why she's toying with him, but she just wants to know that he—that he hasn't lost all physical interest in her, because guys, they want her, all the time and it would be a real blow to her self-esteem (among other things she doesn't like to think about) if he was above that.

Which is stupid (certainly not genius), but she's still doing it. She tilts her head challengingly, giving him a look and it's the way he's looking at her that makes her realize he doesn't see her as a sister, not even a little (and she'll save the implications of that for later). Finally reaching for her coat right behind him, she raises her eyebrows, "Ready to get our Metaphysics on?"

.

Out of all people, Scott had to bite HER son in the arm. She should've never joined the peer mentor programme to begin with, she knew it was going to bite her in the ass. Pun not intended and not at all appreciated, brain.

It was supposedly an 'accident', a 'necessary evil' to save Liam's life, but she knows Liam and she's experienced some of his outbursts and the last thing he needed was something else he wasn't able to control, like his level of puppy, or his temper.

To make it worse, Stiles thinks it's a great idea to get himself a girlfriend. Her first reaction had been multiple question marks, to which she then had to try even harder to fake any sort of excitement. Thankfully, he casually mentioned it in between 'alli had to sow up scott's stab wound, cuz he wasnt healing' and 'did we have any biochem hw´text messages, so he couldn't read her face. It probably looked pretty spooked at the time.

She tells herself it's because they're in the middle of saving every person in the state from supernatural creatures that feed on nightmares and they shouldn't be wasting time on something as frivolous as dating. She tells herself the girl is a freshman, she's way too young for him, what does she want with a senior? She tells herself he's going to have to hide things from her, it's only going to end up in one way and she's just looking out for him, as a friend, because she doesn't want him to get hurt. In reality, she's just selfish.

Selfish, because she doesn't think she wants to be his girlfriend by definition, but she also doesn't want him to have a different one either. She just doesn't feel like sharing, at all.

It's been almost two years since he ruined her favorite dress with her own coffee in the quad (and many more pieces of clothing have seen the light since, because Tall and Clumsy are his middle names) and honestly, she only ever told him 'never, ever, in a million years going to happen'—not so much with words, but she thinks he still got the message—and they only ever had one almost kiss in that stupid library (the other drunk-and-forced one doesn't count), if that's even what was happening. Other than that, he's just been… He's been there for her.

She doesn't know what's worse—Liam getting his butt werewolfed or Stiles spending time with someone that's not her (or Scott)— which is frankly, very disgusting, and there's not a feminist bone in her body that isn't screaming for mercy.

.

"Lydia, what the hell?" He frowns, jaw tightened as he slams the door behind him. It's almost Christmas—their last one as college students if no supernatural creature in the world manages to shit their daddy issues and god complexes all over her final papers coming up, that is—and he's wearing one of those stupid scarfs with Olaf from Frozen on it, hopefully ironically. God, why is he so endearingly adorable when she's pissed at him?

"This is the girl's wing, if you haven't noticed, and since you're not a girl, that door has to be open," she snaps, throwing her bag on her bed and starting to angrily unbutton her coat, glaring holes into his face.

"What is your problem? Did I do something? Why are you mad at me?"

"I'm not mad at—" he cuts her off by looking at her like he never has before; disappointed, frustrated, angry.

"You're seriously going to deny it?" He exclaims as he takes off his woollen hat, still a little snow caught on it as he stuffs it in his pocket. She raises her eyebrows, shrugging it off as she wisely keeps her mouth shut. She knows better than to deny it when she knows it's true, she also knows better than to think Stiles wasn't ready to recite a list at any moment.

"The other day you got mad at me for taking the last of the froot loops from the cereal dispenser in the dining hall, even though you hate froot loops because, I quote, 'they're so not delicious enough for the amount of calories they consist of' and it was nine pm," he starts loosening his scarf, her eyes getting caught on his large hands, not even really focusing on what he's saying anyway, "You almost got me stabbed last night, because you refused to hand over my bat even though it has my name on it. I know, because I wrote it on there in big, black, sharpie letters." In her defense that bat was stup—shit, why is he wearing her favorite plaid shirt of his? "Just five minutes ago, you verbally attacked me during a class discussion in Chemistry so that we both got kicked out over condensation, literally over WATER, Lydia. Never mind the fact we both know I was right." He stops, panting just a little from his little 'I'm better than you' speech. Voice softer now, fumbling with the material of his jeans covering his thigh, as he shrugs challengingly, "Do I need to go on?"

"Objection, speculation," she spits, lamely (at a lack of anything better to say), throwing her coat somewhere in the direction of her bed, although she's pretty sure it landed right on top of her shoe collection, but she has too much pride to look away from him now.

"It really isn't when I was there, Lydia," he exclaims, throwing up his hands and balling his fist in frustration, as he sighs deeply, trying to collect himself. "How about I just start claiming objections for 'badgering' whenever you get mad at me for no reason again?"

"I'm not—"

"If you would just tell me what I did—"

She tries again, even though every part of her is screaming not to. "I'm not—"

"then I could fix it, or apologize, or anything. I just don't, I don't know what happened, like all I remember is—"

"Stiles, I'm n—"

"we were talking about something and you suddenly left and I figured it was just whatever, you probably had stuff on your mind, but now I'm thinking there was a problem, and if you would just tell me what the problem was, then I could—"

"YOU! You're the problem," she yells, finally managing to get out more than three words as her chest heaves up and down from negative excitation, "We weren't just talking, Stiles. We were talking about my grandmother, who by the way, was also a banshee, which I found out and was trying to tell you, and then she called, and you just had to drop everything to answer."

Realization seems to hit him, his gaze softening and his stance getting less offensive and more defensive, shoulders sagging, "She's my girlfriend, Lydia, I—"

Her eyesight is getting blurry, and she doesn't know why she feels like crying, she just does. "You, what? She's more important than everything? You have different priorities now?" Than me, than me. "You don't care about the pack anymore?" Not about me.

His brow furrows together, like what he's about to say couldn't possibly be true, not even in an alternative universe, "Are you jealous?"

She huffs, about to deny it, but when she opens her mouth, nothing comes, and instead, she's just staring at him like the idiot she is, defeated and hurt and—betrayed. Because she thought that they, that they were, or had a connection, something, and now it just seems—over, and she's never felt so lonely.

"Are you?" He doesn't seem as dazed as before, seems more demandent on a honest answer, even a little angry.

She shrugs, because she doesn't to admit it, or lie, she just wants—she doesn't know what she wants. All she knows is how she feels, and that's broken. God, what's wrong with her? Does she just want what she can't have? Is it really like that? She runs her hand through her hair, and blinks at him for a moment, deciding if it's worth it, and then she surges forward, pressing her lips against his.

"This isn't fair," he breathes against her lips, foreheads pressed together, his eyes still scrunched closed as she studies him, tries to remember every little detail, tries to remember a time when she hated him, when she didn't love him, and she barely can. And it's not fair to him, to his girlfriend or to herself—it's not fair, but she did it anyway.

"I know it isn't, I know it's a lot to put on you, too much, because of so many reasons. You have a girlfriend, we're practically best friends, I never gave you any idea about how I felt, feel—but I have to say it." The last time she was able to convey her feelings into words, opened herself up, she got her heart broken. Part of her thinks she never really got over what Jackson did to her, that he ruined her, a different part thinks the boy in front of her helped fixing her, and he deserves a thank you.

She nods to herself, swallowing tightly before, "I think… I think I'm in love with you, and I don't remember how it happened, I never had some sort of epiphany, a moment where I suddenly saw you differently. One day, I just looked at you and you were smiling and I just thought, I thought, wow, when have I ever not felt this way about you? When have I ever not seen you as the most important person in my life?"

She pauses, hands on the sides of his plaid shirt, searching his face for any sort of emotion, but her brain's too fuzzy to think. Her voice is breaking, "I know you care about her, maybe you're even in love with her," she forces a watery smile on her face, and it hurts, for reasons beyond explanation, "I'm probably too late and I don't expect you to pick me. I know it's selfish, and you probably hate me now, but I wanted you to know, because you deserve to know it. You deserve to know that I really was just a shitty person for making you feel like—like I didn't care as much about you as you did about me."

She looks at him, every beat of her heart broken, feeling helpless and vulnerable.

"See, that's ironic," he chuckles half-heartedly, "because I did—I did have a moment, right the first time when you refused to take my flyer from me and you basically yelled at me for three minutes and crapped on everything I love, but I knew then, that you were it for me."

His smile fades and he shakes his head lightly, all not very good signs, "Feelings are supposed to change, even when you think it'll last, even when you think it's forever, even when you can't imagine a world without feeling that way. Being in love becomes just love, and being in love becomes friendship, or family, maybe even something beyond that." Like he's trying to confirm it to himself, like he said it how he meant it, he nods, mind somewhere else for a moment, "Right."

"I get it, Stiles," she concludes, even if she has to force herself to form the words, even if every word feels like a tiny little cut in her heart. Her grip on his shirt loosens, as she tries to collect herself. It makes sense the only guy she ever really wanted, doesn't want her back.

"No, you don't, Lydia. I still feel that way about you—after everything, everything that happened, all the time that passed… I'm still as in love with you as I was before, as I've always been."

"You never said anything."

"I didn't think I had to."

She thinks it over, even though she always kind of knew. Subtlety was never his strong suit. Suppression was hers, apparently.

"What about…"

"I do care about her, but… She's not you."

"Look at us, finishing each other's sentences," she jokes, flatly, but she's closer to tears than to smiling. "I don't, I don't want you to think I just want you because you're taken. I don't want you to regret this later, or to resent me for it. I don't—"

He places his hands on her neck, thumbs caressing her cheeks as they convey looks into words. He leans down and kisses her, softly, just for a second.

"Above everything else, we're human, okay? At least kind of," he grins, brushing a piece of hair back behind her ear, "And I can't promise you it'll be easy, or there won't be complications. That there will never be times where we hate each other, or wished we'd never done this." How comforting. "There's so many things that could go wrong, but do you really think that when we're eighty-five and in rocking-chairs, we'll care about everything that went wrong? Or do you think we'll regret the chances we never took?"

"Have you been reading Isaac's Philosophy textbooks?"

He smirks, running his hand over side of her face in adoration, the familiar warmth that comes with him spreading from the roots of her hair to the tips of her fingers, "Uhm, objection: speculation."

.

It's been a week since their conversation, and nothing has really happened (beside her obsessively stalking his facebook to see if he was single yet which was pathetic, especially for Number One Cool Girl Lydia Martin with a patent on Not Giving A Fuck). To be fair, they were trying to win a pack war amidst said week, and they didn't get to spend a lot of quality time together over trying to outsmart alphas, stitching up her friends and well, stabbing other evil not-humans with broken-in-half baseball bats.

So it's not an understatement or exaggeration when she calls it a long week—it really isn't. Okay, the 'almost getting hit by a bus because I wasn't looking when I jaywalked across the street to hurry over to my sorta, kinda not, maybe boyfriend' was a little over the top, just a little.

She finds him in his dorm, bopping his head to the beat of a Taylor Swift song (she can make out the lyrics from across the room and somehow 'baby, i know places we won't be found' doesn't sound too bad)—not to forget aggressively air drumming along with it, using his all-too-familiar bright highlighters as props—while he studies, because of course, the free weekend after slaying an alpha pack's collective butt, he studies.

She clears her throat, to no avail, as she unbuttons her coat and throws it over a lounge chair next to the door. "Stiles," she pretends she's trying, but she really isn't.

She approaches him slowly, before sliding her hands over his shoulders and down on top of his pecks to catch his attention as she kisses his temple with a soft smack.

He takes out his headphones, putting his hands on top of hers as he sighs, "Allison, I told you, we can't keep doing this—"

"Shut up," she laughs, slapping his chest before leaning down to press her lips against his cheek, and then another one to the corner of his mouth, for good measure.

"It's over, I broke it off last Tuesday," he blurts out, a faint blush creeping up his neck, as he shoots her an apologetic look, rubbing his hand on his jeans like a nervous tick, "I mean—not that I, I didn't think you were here because of that. I'm not going to pretend I haven't thought about it but—my point, my point is, that it's not like I expected you were coming over because of that, for all I know Scott got a shot of wolfsbane and you were trying to break it to me gently." He pauses, closing his eyes in frustration at his own inability to finish a full sentence without embarrassing himself, "I didn't, I didn't expect anything. I just, think it's important that you know. For reasons, as in the plural of reason. Mainly that I'm not a total dick." He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck in thought before his eyes snap back to hers, "Wait, Scott didn't really get a shot of wolfsbane, did he?"

She laughs, slightly throwing her head back and feeling genuinely happy, which hasn't always been the case, "Like Scott wouldn't have come to you crawling and bleeding on his last dying breath if it meant he could tell you himself so you wouldn't find out from somebody else and be hurt." Those two.

He smiles, and then there's silence. It's not uncomfortable, it's like they're testing each other out, their eyes communicating the words they are afraid to say out loud. Connected, bound—tethered, she decides.

"So.." She states, as she takes a step back, crossing her arms over her chest as he gets up, towering her like always. Although the 'towering' part isn't that hard of a task, considering her vertical challengement.

"So…" He echoes, not giving in. His eyes flicker down to her lips for the tiniest of seconds, mirroring her stance. She doesn't know he can be so stealthy after the hot mess that was his awkwardness a mere ten seconds ago.

She takes her hair tie out of her hair, letting her hair down in waves and eyes still locked on his, "We waited a week, a week is decent amount of time to wait after a break-up, right?"

He shrugs, and he looks like he's at least putting a little effort in trying to hide his smirk, as he pushes his sleeves further up his arms, "Probably not." She licks her lips, eyes following his fingers up to his arms. Damnit, that's really hot.

She takes a tiny step forward, pushing him back so the back of his knees hit his bed, eyebrow hiked, "Do we care?"

"Do we really want to start being the kind of people that talk in the we, our, us-way about each other?" He retorts sarcastically, fingers wrapping around her hips like he doesn't even notice he's doing it as he beams at her, eyes filled with everything she's afraid she won't live up to.

She offers him a shrug of her shoulders in response as she pushes him down onto the bed, pressing her lips to his, hard, instead of talking. She's tired of talking; there's plenty of time for that, later, when they both regret not waiting longer than a week since it makes them bad, slutty people and probably feel like even worse, sluttier people for not regretting it even a little bit at all.

When air becomes a necessity (especially since he seems to have the tendency to hold his breath whenever she kisses him first—this is why God granted them noses, sweetheart), he pulls back. He's panting just a little, licking his already wet lips as he searches her face, "What's gotten into you?"

There's about a million answers to that question; the easiest one of them all equating to he's a boy, she's a girl, can she make it any more obvious and one of the most difficult ones probably involves feelings, and history, and that time she realized dorky, awkward Stiles was pretty sexy. To sum up: she doesn't really know herself.

"I'm a senior, at college, and it won't be long before I graduate and I have to find a job and real life begins," she informs him, tone teasing, straddling him by putting a knee on either side of him. She leans closer, placing a kiss on his neck and below his ear before lowly adding, "So, I've made a bucketlist of things I want to do. Do you want to know what's on the top of my list?"

"Y-yes," he manages to croak out, eyes dark as his hands rest on her hips, thumbs forming small circles where her sweater has ridden up as she kisses her way back to his face, until she reaches the corner of his mouth.

She finally places her lips on his again and after a sweet, much more gentle moment (or two), she pulls away. Her pink lips hovering in front of his slightly chapped ones when she breathes, "You."

.

She's working on an assignment for Mathematical Engineering on her laptop, trying to drown out the sound of her roommate's radio when she hears her boyfriend's voice announce that he, "has a special song for a very special someone, because sometimes things that aren't supposed to go together, work out pretty well, like orange and blue".

As soon as 'How Can I Miss You When You Won't Go Away' starts playing, she bites down on her lip to keep from smiling as she opens up her messages and texts him the following:

Dear anonymous college campus radio DJ that's not Stiles,

I'd like to request a song for my soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend, please take it into consideration:

If The Phone Doesn't Ring, It's Me - Jimmy Buffett

Love, Lydia

P.S. orange and blue clash :/

.

running on sunshine

ain't no clouds getting in my way

i must be running on sunshine
ain't no rain getting in my way

.

(a/n: A COMMENT WOULD VERY MUCH BE APPRECIATED! ! !

songs mentioned: thinking out loud by ed sheeran, the homecoming queen's got a gun - julie bowen, jesus stole my girlfriend - violent soho, how can i miss you when you won't go away - dan hick and his hot licks (this song is actually on fire tho!) and in the title & fic: cake by the ocean by DNC and running on sunshine by jesus jackson but i listened to the golden age version

thanks for reading!(:)