𝐒𝐓𝐘𝐃𝐈𝐀 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐒

Cut

au he's a director and she's an actress

request by @redstringbanshee

_______

"Cut, cut, cut!"

Lydia rolled her eyes for the millionth time, internally groaning at the same impulsive voice that made her want to rip her hair out. He wasn't exactly facing her, so she inhaled a deep breath and spun around with a pretend smile that feigned innocence.

There he was. Stiles Stilinski. Director. He was wearing a black t shirt with some stupid baseball cap on that made him look undeniably gorgeous and khakis pants that fit just right. Dark circles rimmed underneath his eyes, but the warm, whiskey colored masterpieces were upbeat and lively either due to the progress they've made today or the five cups of expresso.

The actors on set have made phenomenal progress today, and the hour was just about to hit midnight. Working day and night, Lydia Martin was exhausted. Sure—she has been on plenty of sets before and they were hardworking. But Stiles took it to another level. It wasn't necessarily bad—Lydia sort of liked that he was assertive and different—but it was very hard to get used to. Wake up calls at weird times, rainchecks, everything was a project.

Lydia had been casted for the lead in Stiles' new movie, Firepower, which was based on a best seller book that had been about two FBI officers while undercover on one of their missions, and finding out the mission was much more than they bargained for. Lydia played the main character, Rosie, and her new friend Jackson played the other main character, Evan. On screen, it was evident that the two loved each other. But off screen...

Lydia wanted to rip his throat out.

God, Jackson pissed her off. It wasn't the fact that he was a famous actor and felt the need to desire anything he ever wanted, it was because he treated everyone else like crap to put himself up on top. Even Stiles—the director. He was arrogant and didn't care for anyone else, and it made Lydia angry when he'd sass his Hair and Makeup dresser, and leave her all flustered and upset. Lydia would console her to make her feel better.

Sometimes, she couldn't help but laugh about how much of a douche Jackson was. Especially with Stiles. Sure—they were both assholes but Stiles actually could be nice and chivalrous at times where Lydia didn't want to slap him. Lydia thought that directing seriously put Stiles in a focused mood, which it should, and she admired his dedication. Although he could be a little rude, he always better than Jackson.

"What is it now, Stiles?" hummed Lydia, sighing as she leaned against the desk prop.

He pursed his lips and walked over to where she and Jackson were standing. Many of the people watching got the hint that they weren't supposed to eavesdrop, and started to chat amongst themselves quietly to look like they weren't listening.

"Jackson—please, for once in your life, make it look like you actually want to be here and stop whining. God, you're like my nephew," muttered Stiles, looking up at the ceiling in grief.

Lydia rolled her eyes. "You say this everyday, and does he listen?" Lydia looked to her left to see Jackson yawning and playing with his nails. "No. Because Jackson does whatever he wants and doesn't give two shits. Maybe the director should grow some balls and tell him to actually fucking cooperate."

Lydia was annoyed knowing that this scene was taking forever just because Jackson didn't want to memorize his monologue.

"You aren't the most cooperative either, princess."

"Oh, my bad! Lemme just live off of cheap muffins and shitty expresso for three months straight and be a loyal companion to your smart ass twenty four seven just so I can feel cooperative."