Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/515189.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Lydia_Martin, Peter_Hale/Lydia_Martin
  Character:
      Lydia_Martin, Derek_Hale, Peter_Hale
  Additional Tags:
      lydia_is_still_a_bamf, Marking, Scent_Marking, look_a_sequel_that_i_never
      should_have_written, what_am_I_doing_with_my_life, Mildly_Dubious_Consent
  Series:
      Part 2 of wax_and_wane
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-09-18 Words: 2648
****** like the tide against the shore, we break ******
by argle_fraster
Summary
     Peter still wants her, and Lydia refuses to yield; or maybe she does
     yield, and Derek is the one to get her to bend against him.
Notes
     Sometimes I write things and I just think, hmm. Self. Why do you
     write these things. HAHA OH WELL. <3
She's not sure what part of the odd, low pangs of self-preservation she ignores
the most often. She lives in a world of legends that attack children outside a
school, and yet here she is, leaving her bedroom window unlocked and half-open.
She likes the feel of the breeze, and she likes knowing that she's given him an
opening.
There's a box of wolfsbane beneath her bed. Stiles gave it to her. He said it
was from the doctor, the vet - Lydia doesn't know anything about the vet, but
she knows what the blue flowers are. She sat for a long time with them at her
desk, running her hands over the markings on the top. She keeps them beneath
the mattress because having them makes her feel safe. Safer, at least, and
that's the most she can hope for.
She likes being reckless. She keeps her window open.
Three nights in to the routine, she wakes to the feeling of skin prickling over
her arms. It's awful; she can taste it, on the back of her tongue. Lydia wants
to tear it out of her veins and let it drip along the floor, but she doesn't.
She claws a bit at her throat, at the canine-punctures that weren't deep enough
to require anything other than a scarf covering them for a few days. She thinks
about the adrenaline singing through her blood.
She gets up and goes to the window. There's a figure outside in the lawn. She
knows him before she really recognizes him - it's her own traitorous body,
stretching out to reach him. Lydia gasps, steps back, pushing at the
windowsill. He's really here. Peter's face is bathed in moonlight, and he's
staring up at her open window with his hands shoved deep in his pockets.
She doesn't belong to him.
Some part of her knows he's come to claim her. Or reclaim her, maybe, and that
makes her feel good - she broke something. That day with Derek in the Hale
house snapped a bit of the tenuous control Peter had had over her, and she's
suddenly swept with fierce pride for it. She won't be his.
"No," she whispers. Her hands are on her arms, fingernails digging into the
skin. It gives her something to hold onto. Lydia steps away from the window;
she shouldn't have left it open. And even now, knowing this, she doesn't close
it. She hates the part of her that likes the invitation - the danger. The
thrill of it. It's sickeningly sweet, and she hates how much she craves it now.
At least it makes her feel something.
Something is better than nothing, and she hates that she knows that.
Lydia goes to her bed and gets the box of wolfsbane. Just clutching it in her
hands makes her feel better. She's not a cowering flower. She is the blue
between her hands; she is the poison that Peter will come to fear. She might
have been his chosen soldier, but now she's leading the mutiny against him. She
sits on her bed and stares at the window, and he doesn't come through. For a
long time, she waits.
When she gets up to check once more, he's gone. She keeps the wolfsbane box out
anyway, just in case.
She can't sleep after that, so she goes to her desk and takes out a pen. It's a
nice pen - an expensive pen, the kind her father gets for her when he goes on
fancy business trips for weeks at a time and thinks that some fountain ink will
make up for the gaping hole caused by his absence. She takes the ink out of it
and the tip is sharp enough to carve into the wood.
She carves mathematical equations into the box. She integrates the numbers that
represent them - Derek, prime, unable to be taken apart, and herself, a
multiplier that leads to an always even number. Peter is zero; he can't be
integrated or divided, and anything pushed against him always results in the
same nothingness. It feels good to create something she knows with it. Peter
might be a constant, but he's a constant that can be erased with addition.
Lydia will add everything to her life if it means taking Peter out.
--
She wakes to him straddling her on the bed two nights later. She should have
locked her window.
When she comes to, his hands are around her neck. Lydia hopes he feels the mark
Derek left there - she hopes he hates it. She tries to gasp and can't get
anything out, and she kicks up with a knee instinctually, managing to catch
Peter square in the back. It's hard to hurt a werewolf; it doesn't do much.
Peter is snarling. Lydia rolls and somehow manages to get near the side of the
mattress. He's going to kill her - he's going to claim her. She'll never be his
again. She can feel the awful weight of him settling on her waist, and she
wants to be sick. She remembers the way he tasted that night he kissed her.
It gives her an idea.
She can't hurt him, because he's too strong, but she's smart. She knows his
angle, and he knows what he wants - he has a weakness, and she isn't afraid to
exploit it, even if it means exploiting herself. She lurches up into him and
that does catch him off-guard. She finds his mouth with her own. It's enough -
enough to confuse him, enough to rattle him. The grip around her neck goes
slack because he's cupping instead of choking, and it gives her an inch or two
to wriggle free with.
Lydia lunges for the side of the mattress, pulling out the box. It's wood and
heavy, and she slams it against the side of Peter's head. Either the charms on
the ash work or it's the contents; she knows she doesn't have enough upper body
strength for it to be her. Peter howls, awful, like an animal, and falls free
of her. There's enough of a moment to push him off the bed, and then Lydia is
scrambling upwards, pulling the lid of the box open.
"I'll kill you," she seethes, with fingers crushing a handful of blue flowers.
She knows he can smell it - hell, she can smell it, with senses that shouldn't
be hers and aren't really anyway.
Peter is laughing, on all fours on the floor. "You can't kill me."
"I can," she says. "They killed you once."
"And look how well it worked out for them," Peter replies. He stands, arms out
to either side like he's bowing after a performance. His whole life is a
performance. "I'm a part of you, sweets. I'll always be a part of you."
Lydia opens her fingers, lets the breeze from the open window move the
wolfsbane bits across the room. "I'll carve out every remainder you left,
then."
He starts to wheeze. She hopes it hurts; she likes thinking that it hurts.
Maybe it burns his lungs when he sucks in air, eroding from the inside-out just
like he did to her. He burnt out the parts of her that used to be good and left
her with nothing.
"You'd rather be his?" Peter chokes. His hand is around his own neck now.
"I'm not anybody's," Lydia says. "But I'd rather be his than yours."
The bite mark on her neck pulses with the truth of it. She feels like she just
swore an oath beneath the full moon, something binding and permanent and
tangible.
Peter spits on her bedroom carpet. "Fuck you," he hisses. "I made you."
"No," Lydia tells him. "You unmade me, and you won't be the one to put it back
together."
He crosses the space between them and kisses her again, hard - piercing. He
kisses her so hard that it hurts, and she bites his bottom lip just to hear him
curse again. It's bleeding when he pulls back, wiping at his face with the back
of his hand.
"This isn't over," he says.
"For you, it is," she tells him.
She still doesn't lock her window, even after he's left. She doesn't bother,
because she leaves the house anyway with her mother's car keys and no shoes,
and doesn't even care.
--
He should know she's there - heightened senses, and all that. But she finds him
on the stinking cot he calls a bed, unwilling to get up, even though her
footsteps have to sound like a herd of animals to his wolf hearing.
He still doesn't move, not even after she's climbed up on the bed over him.
"You smell like Peter," he says, lazily opening his eyes.
"He's your fucking uncle," Lydia replies. She's pissed about it, and she
doesn't know why. Blood only goes so deep, but hers feels like it's burning her
from the inside-out.
Derek stares up at her. She can't read his expression. "So you came here?" he
asks.
"He wants to claim me," she says.
"And you want me to fix it?"
Lydia grabs his jaw, fingers tighter than they should be. She can't hurt him -
not like this, anyway, and that's really the part that matters. They all just
rail at each other without thinking about it. Lydia doesn't want to think about
it; not tonight.
"You can't claim me," she hisses. "I'm claiming you."
"I'm an Alpha," Derek growls. She notices that he doesn't try to escape her
grasp. He easily could, and they both know it.
"So prove it."
He growls again and flips her, faster than she thought possible, with enough
force to send the bedcovers flying. He pulls her down so she's beneath him,
between the rippling muscles of his arms - he could tear her apart, limb from
limb. She wants him to. She reaches up to grab his face, to bring him down to
her level. His mouth is already open for her. He doesn't taste like Peter,
doesn't taste like rotting decay and the sickly-sweet tang of betrayal. She
licks his mouth open at the corners, digging her fingers into his hair because
she can. Because this is something she chose.
She can feel the sounds rumbling through his chest, up to his throat.
Animalistic, full of desire - she swipes her tongue between his teeth and feels
his canines emerge. It sends a wave of fierce want through her form, like she
did this. This is hers.
Derek's hand slides up her leg, and she's both relieved and annoyed that his
claws aren't out. His fingers slip easily up beneath her skirt, the fabric she
pulled on before leaving just to get something over her nightgown.
"You don't get to make the rules," Derek whispers against her jaw. He finds the
elastic of her underwear, pushes it aside. She's arching up into his touch
before he's even there, and he's taking his sweet time, thumb twirling lazy
circles against the inside of her thigh.
"There aren't any rules for this," she replies. She tugs on his hair, trying to
get him to move faster. "I'm not a wolf. I'm not under your control."
"You can't keep coming to me for this." But it seems like he doesn't believe it
himself, not the way his breath quickens against the side of her face when his
finger finally finds her, dips between her, swipes a long stroke upwards just
to make her muscles hitch. He presses his mouth against her jaw, down her neck,
licking his way down to the hollow of her collarbone.
Lydia just bites her lip, lets him work. Lets him work her open, lets his
fingers take her apart. It's different, being undone when she wants to be -
he's fixing the seams of the pieces Peter left behind. She moans when he curls
a finger inside and pulls it back, dragging long and hot, thumb circling her
clit.
His teeth are still extended, half-wolf, half-shifted. He bites at her
shoulders, lightly, barely scraping the skin, and then works down to the swell
of her breasts beneath the cotton material of her nightgown.
"You're not a wolf," Derek says, against her breasts, and then slowly drags his
tongue back up towards her collarbone again. "But you've got part of the wolf
inside you."
"What does that mean?" Lydia asks. It comes out higher than she anticipated -
she's moving beneath Derek's fingers, bucking against his thumb. She needs him
to go faster, harder; she needs him to mark and proclaim. She wants his name
etched into her skin.
Derek laughs - it rumbles against her form, through her arms. He moves,
shifting, sliding his finger in further to get a better angle. He finds her
mouth again, kissing her hard. It doesn't leave any room for argument.
"Stretch out," he orders, and nips at her bottom lip. "You are more than what
you pretend you are."
Lydia can't do much with the way he's stroking her open. She's close, and she
tries to focus. It's hard to concentrate when she's fighting the swell of
pressure against her back.
"Use the senses given to you," Derek tells her. He's tugging at her ear with
too-sharp teeth. "What do you smell on me?"
"Me," Lydia groans. Oh god, she's close. Her whole body is vibrating with the
force of it, the buzz of the impending onslaught. "Desire. Power."
"You think you can control this?" He's whispering again, mouthing the words
into her skin. "You think you can control me?"
She arches, grinding down on his fingers. "I think you want me to."
She gets a snarl in response, another shallow bite to her shoulder, and she
comes with a cry that she manages to mute only by clenching her jaw. He seems
to like it when she digs her fingernails into the muscles of his back; they
aren't claws, but she can still put some force into it. He lets her ride it
out, which is more than she had been expecting.
When she opens her eyes again, the last bit of pleasure slipping down her feet
into her toes, Derek's just looking at her. Lydia can't read his expression.
"There's a reason Peter wants you," he says.
Lydia just tugs her underwear back up, trying to smooth her skirt. Her heart is
still thudding loudly in her chest - that she can feel. She knows Derek can
hear it, too. "Because he's a sick fuck," she replies.
"You're going to be powerful."
She gives him a smile, the knowing, sweet smile she used to give the boys in
school before she stopped caring about them. Before her world became about the
moon and blue flowers. "I'm pretty sure I already am."
She leans forward to kiss him again. It's missing the anger and the furious,
desperate ache their previous entanglements had, which is why it's so jarringly
wrong, and that's why she does it. It'll throw him off-balance, and if Lydia is
being honest, it throws her, too. He moves up against her, mouth parted, eager
in a way that happens when someone knows the worst parts of you and is
smoothing them over with the sharp lap of their tongue.
"Lydia," Derek groans.
"If Peter comes back," she says against his lips, "don't kill him. That's for
me."
She wonders when she got like this. She feels like a lioness sleeping with a
pack of wolves.
Derek's expression is oddly open when she pulls back again, patting his cheek
with the palm of her hand as she slides off the cot. Her legs feel vaguely like
jelly, knees weak. She feels good.
"Lock your window," he growls.
She knew he'd notice that.
"It won't keep him out," she says, and she can tell by the thinning of his
mouth that Derek knows it's true. "I'm not afraid of him anymore."
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