i eat men like air, and swallow blood like dust
teen wolf; derek/lydia/stiles triangle ancient greek gods; 1000 words, r | @attractedtosin
Lydia hates that saying wars have been fought over less, because she knows they are thinking of the Trojan Walls, beaten and shattered, fed to the hungry sea, swallowed up callously and carelessly. She hates that saying because there is never a better reason to go to war, then for a woman. Love goes hand in hand with carnage, because the heart is a bloody, vile little thing. She’d held one in her palm once, a parishioner come to her pool. He hadn’t been interesting, then, just another man but he’d been driven so mad for love of her and had ripped his own heart from his chest, dropped the heavy, sticky organ into her pool. From her seat on Olympus, she’d scooped it up and held it, the blood like sap worming down her fingers. She’s been fascinated.
“Widen your stance just a bit,” Derek’s breathe was right on her neck, but there was nothing romantic and intimate about it. Placing his foot against her ankles, he pushed them apart a little more, and Lydia was about to ask why until she realized how much more balance she had like this. In front of her was a punching bag that Derek had rigged up in Isaac’s garage since the alpha refused to let the human go against him in hand to hand. Emerald optics shifted as the alpha moved away from her and stood to the side of the bag, “now punch.”
“What? Right now?” Lydia’s eyes widen a little, Derek hadn’t even shown her how to properly punch yet. How was she supposed to do that now?
“Yes, now, ball your hand into a fist and punch,” Slipping his hands behind his back he quirked an eyebrow, and watched her carefully, “any day now Lydia.”
“Okay okay, jerk,” She muttered, her fingers curling into a fist and she drew her arm back and well…punched. The bag didn’t even move, and Lydia was left feeling a sting in her knuckles. She pulled her hand back and shook it out with a grimace only to hear Derek snort a little.
“Keep punching like that and you’re going to break your wrist,” He instructed, moving to stand in front of her. Derek took her wrist between his fingers, pulling her arm out, and using his free hand to form her own properly into a fist. Again Derek stepped behind her, this time keeping a light grasp on her forearm, and he pulled back, “keep your wrist straight, don’t bend it, ready? Go.” He let go, and Lydia threw her arm forward, the bag actually moving and the sting wasn’t as strong this time.
Lydia let out an exclamation of glee, which had the alpha flinching slightly as the high squeak she had made. Covering her mouth quickly, she giggled, “Sorry.”
“Yeah, didn’t need my eardrums or anything,” He replied, running his finger in his ear for a moment before stepping back, “again.”
Blood magic is bad magic, Lydia is told, but she doesn’t really comprehend. She’s the sort who needs to learn the lesson the hard way, she likes the hands on approach, and there’s no more hands on then opening her magic up in Derek Hale’s chest. He doesn’t even thank her for saving his life, the ingrate, and Lydia trudges home in a huff, and avoids Jackson’s questioning eyes.
She doesn’t understand until later, her fingers moving down her thighs—and her mind conjuring up the image of Derek Hale’s dark head between them, his nails pressing little crescents in her skin, his tongue rougher than a human’s—this isn’t just a dream, she’s had enough experience with them to know when something is a half-real thing, existing on the fringes of reality, only needing one more little push, and somehow she knows that when Derek Hale’s red eyes lift to hers, his mouth opened along the flesh of her inner thigh, this is what shared dreaming is like and somewhere out there, Derek Hale is dreaming about putting his mouth right there and higher still and higher—oh.
Lydia snaps upward, fingers tangled in her bedsheets. “Oh, crap,” she whispers.
It’s her scent that alarms him first, weaving around him, tightening like a noose around his neck. His blood is thick and syrupy, slicking down the crevices of his fingers, as she crouches beside him. There’s a trickle of strength left in him and he uses it to grip her wrist, thumb pressing into the concave of bones at her wrist, and yanks. She falls more solidly against the wall, and releases a soft sound of pain.
“Get the hell out of here,” he snarls, feeling the push of fangs through his gums at the idea of her in danger, of watching her blood stain the floor, being unable to do anything because a poison lightnings up his spine.
Lydia rolls her eyes heavenward, as if entreating for patience. “Men,” she says, “always so dramatic.”
If there’s such a thing as bubblegum laced arsenic Derek thinks it’s Lydia Martin, sitting cross-legged in a skirt that rides up on her thighs just enough to tease that line of a dangerous amount of skin, skin that makes his tongue curl against the roof of his mouth, makes him feel like a carnivore.
“Miss Martin,” he says, and his fingers move over her file, a collection of crisscrossing spiderwebs that somehow vine up around the corpse of one Jackson Whittemore. He shouldn’t have taken the case, it had left a bad taste in his mouth since day one—privileged white kid overdosing on a cocktail of cocaine and meth, the grieving mother and father, and the girlfriend standing unscathed in the wreckage. Yes, it had left a sour taste, she had left a sour taste, caught up between his teeth, sunken down in his gums.
A strand of springy red hair coils around her delicate finger, a look of manicured boredom of her face, lips pursed. Her smile is implacable, but sharp, two rows of pearly white teeth. “Detective,” she says. She’s caught, she has to know it. Derek’s sawed through her steel-enforced web of lies, but she’s still smiling. “Would you believe me if I said he had it coming?”
if i’m a monster then i’ll eat you alive
teen wolf; derek hale x lydia martin; 650 words; prompt fic
She’s sitting on her bed, palms flat on her silky comforter, staring up at where he’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed.
He narrows his eyes and sighs. “I told you already. What part of extended stamina do you not get?”
“And I’m telling you I know boys,” she scoffs. “They can barely last longer than five minutes. Let alone long enough to get me off first.”
A growl and then a smirk, something that shouldn’t look so attractive, but then it’s not the one he usually gives her meaning he’s thinking about throttling her. “I’m not a boy.”
Lydia tosses her hair over her shoulder and leans back on her arms. “Prove it.”
Derek’s watching Usain Bolt leave his competition in the dust when she walks in. Stilinski is making this weird sweeping motion, as if that will speed Bolt on, and nearly falling out of his chair. He’s a pretty damn happy kid, considering his fifth place standing in diving, but the kid had been mostly psyched to just compete, being a last-minute replacement. Derek’s still sorting through his disappointment at his performance in the pool, though he’s young and there’s Rio to think about and he’s already being named “the man to watch.”
Lydia Martin walks in, polished and cheery, and Stilinski goes as still as death before pivoting on his heel and falling face first onto the carpet, a mumbled “Hey, Lydia!” in there somewhere.
Derek watches her take a seat. He hadn’t known America even had competitors for rhythmic gymnastics, let alone that they had managed to steal the gold out from under Russia, until a shocked NBC commenter had made the announcement that, “Lydia Martin has won the all-around medal for America for the first since rhythmic gymnastics was introduced into the Olympics.”
hell hath no fury like a gymnast scorned
teen wolf. derek hale + lydia martin. au. lydia is a rhythmic gymnast. derek is an asshole.
Watching Lydia Martin becomes Derek’s worst habit. Perhaps watching is the wrong term. Studying, taking in each little quirk, mapping out the roads of her (she has this tiny little vein, just above the curve of her left breast that jumps whenever she’s nervous, whenever she’s angry or upset; it’s been jumping a lot, as of late), committing her to his memory, etching her into the woodwork of his mind. She’s caught up in his teeth before he comprehends what ‘obsession’ is.
It’s a wolf thing, or so he tells himself. They’re patient creature, following their prey for miles, categorizing strengths and weaknesses, waiting for the moment to strike. She’s not his prey, but in a way she is. He’s convinced that within the volume of her hair the answer to the question he isn’t sure how to ask is interwoven. Peter said it was her human capacity to love that makes her special (and certainly there is something to be said for it, he had watched her piece Jackson Whittemore back together with her blood and her lips and not much else, fingers moving through his blood and anchoring him to solid ground) but Derek isn’t inclined to put much trust in his uncle anymore because he isn’t inclined to put much trust in anyone anymore.
He was a predator, corded muscles and tight sinew and brilliantly sharp blue eyes, and somehow Lydia had become his willing prey. She didn’t know how it had happened (oh, wait, yes she did; somehow she had gotten sick of watching Jackson and his friends get drunk on cheap, high-calorie beer and arguing over who had superior boobs Scarlett Johansson or Jessica Alba go figure and had left his drunk ass in Danny’s capable hands to trudge back to his Porsche and drive herself home) except that common sense had taken a backseat to hormones.
Run, he’d even told her that, one hand gripping the nearest tree, looking at her like he wanted to swallow her in one gulp, get the hell out of here. And there had been something in his eyes, something dangerous and terrifying and thrilling, and even as the right side of her brain was ordering her legs to obey, the left side was keeping her anchored where she was.