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crack_van2013-05-17 08:10 am
turnonmyheels.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2013-05-17 08:10 am
compound a compound by scoutshonor
Fandom: TEEN WOLF
Pairing: Stiles Stilinski/Lydia Martin, Allison Argent
Length: 5390
Author on LJ:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
scoutshonor [friends only]
Author Website: At AO3
Why this must be read: Read the author's note, heed the warnings there if you have triggers. This fic got some flack when it was posted, people either seemed to really identify with/love it [me] or hate it. It's all about being lost and not knowing what you want and ... how you may or may not *want* to do what you're doing in the meantime, even if you're doing it without objections. Here's the thing, I like realism in my fic. The dirtier, grittier, truer to life that they are, the more I like it. I don't know very many people who haven't -- at least once -- been with someone because they were there and available. Lydia has to come to terms with how this makes her feel about herself and the people around her who can't see that it's not what she actually wants to be doing.
Everyone knows that Stiles Stilinski has had a crush on Lydia Martin since the third grade. Beacon Hills is a small school in a small town with a long memory for gossip; by the time they’re sixteen, people treat Stiles’ crush as scientific fact. Stiles has brown hair and brown eyes and a crush on Lydia Martin. It’s nothing to remark upon. That’s just how things are.
She acts like it’s embarrassing because it is, kind of. He asks her to dances, tries to get her attention in the halls, shows up to her birthday party with outsized presents and promises, with stars in his eyes every time. She sighs and shrugs and tries to ignore him because she can’t even imagine what it’s like, to be him: it must be humiliating.
What she doesn’t let on is that it’s also awful to have someone want you so passionately and exclusively when you are singularly unable to return that ardor. It’s not like she hasn’t thought about it, mostly as part of schemes to make Jackson jealous, but when she looks at Stiles she feels her heart stutter, slow: he just looks like a lost boy, big whiskey eyes and close-cropped hair, snub nose, round cheeks, innocent and affectionate and useless.
“You should give Stiles a chance,” Allison said once, when they were still getting to know one another, when she was still moony-eyed over Scott’s dopey smiles. “He’s really—he’s sweet.”
“I have a boyfriend,” Lydia said, smiling her sharpest, ugliest smile. She didn’t want Allison to be dumb like everyone else, and maybe she isn’t: she dropped it, anyway, hasn’t mentioned it since. But now Lydia doesn’t have a boyfriend, anymore. Jackson told her he loved her and then let his parents move him to fucking Ann Arbor. Michigan. She misses him, of course, but she also she misses the way he protected her, the way she could just say I have a boyfriend and everyone would shut up and leave her alone.
Compound a Compound
Pairing: Stiles Stilinski/Lydia Martin, Allison Argent
Length: 5390
Author on LJ:
scoutshonor [friends only]Author Website: At AO3
Why this must be read: Read the author's note, heed the warnings there if you have triggers. This fic got some flack when it was posted, people either seemed to really identify with/love it [me] or hate it. It's all about being lost and not knowing what you want and ... how you may or may not *want* to do what you're doing in the meantime, even if you're doing it without objections. Here's the thing, I like realism in my fic. The dirtier, grittier, truer to life that they are, the more I like it. I don't know very many people who haven't -- at least once -- been with someone because they were there and available. Lydia has to come to terms with how this makes her feel about herself and the people around her who can't see that it's not what she actually wants to be doing.
Everyone knows that Stiles Stilinski has had a crush on Lydia Martin since the third grade. Beacon Hills is a small school in a small town with a long memory for gossip; by the time they’re sixteen, people treat Stiles’ crush as scientific fact. Stiles has brown hair and brown eyes and a crush on Lydia Martin. It’s nothing to remark upon. That’s just how things are.
She acts like it’s embarrassing because it is, kind of. He asks her to dances, tries to get her attention in the halls, shows up to her birthday party with outsized presents and promises, with stars in his eyes every time. She sighs and shrugs and tries to ignore him because she can’t even imagine what it’s like, to be him: it must be humiliating.
What she doesn’t let on is that it’s also awful to have someone want you so passionately and exclusively when you are singularly unable to return that ardor. It’s not like she hasn’t thought about it, mostly as part of schemes to make Jackson jealous, but when she looks at Stiles she feels her heart stutter, slow: he just looks like a lost boy, big whiskey eyes and close-cropped hair, snub nose, round cheeks, innocent and affectionate and useless.
“You should give Stiles a chance,” Allison said once, when they were still getting to know one another, when she was still moony-eyed over Scott’s dopey smiles. “He’s really—he’s sweet.”
“I have a boyfriend,” Lydia said, smiling her sharpest, ugliest smile. She didn’t want Allison to be dumb like everyone else, and maybe she isn’t: she dropped it, anyway, hasn’t mentioned it since. But now Lydia doesn’t have a boyfriend, anymore. Jackson told her he loved her and then let his parents move him to fucking Ann Arbor. Michigan. She misses him, of course, but she also she misses the way he protected her, the way she could just say I have a boyfriend and everyone would shut up and leave her alone.
Compound a Compound
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