Multi-Fandom One-Shots Part 2

Strange Symmetry - Stydia (Teen Wolf)

i.

Lydia Martin is 28 and she is going to murder her husband.

It should not take forty-seven minutes to put on a suit. There are literally only three pieces he has to put on--a whopping total of three buttons that need doing. Three . There is no physical reason it should take a grown, able-bodied man forty-seven minutes to button three buttons. But, then again, God knows if anyone could make a deal out of putting on a suit, it would be Stiles Stilinski.

"Are you done yet?" Lydia sighs through the door, inspecting her perfectly polished carmine nails for the hundredth time. "We have to leave for the gala in twenty minutes."

She hears momentary shuffling on the other side of the wood before it's thrown back and there he is, his suit immaculately done up and his tie wrapped loosely around his ears. Lydia stifles a laugh behind her palm, taking care not to smudge her lipstick. Other than the misplaced tie, he looks good . He's brushed his hair back into something respectable, he finally shaved that godawful excuse of a beard he's been trying to grow for two months, and the crisp lines of the dark suit Lydia chose for him accentuate the long line of his body.

"Is it really called a gala ?" Stiles huffs, reaching up to yank the tie off of his head and ruining his hair in the process. "It just sounds so pretentious. I mean, why not just 'benefit' or 'event' or 'terrible room full of money-grubbing, snobby--'"

"Did you forget how to tie your tie again?"

Stiles sighs dramatically.

"Do I even need a tie?"

Lydia reaches out to smooth the ends of his lapel. He doesn't really need the tie. He's young enough to get away with not wearing one. Ties are for the old researchers and doddery lawyers. Not for Stiles.

But it's fun to play with him.

So, Lydia gently takes the tie from his fingers and pulls out the sloppy knot in the fabric. She daintily slips it around her neck and masterfully executes a double Windsor knot while keeping unblinking eye contact with her husband. His mouth contorts into a facade of displeasure, but she can see the gleam of loving pride in his eyes and the indent of his cheek where he has sunk his teeth to keep from smiling.

"You think you're sooo smart, don't you?" He asks, crossing his arms over his chest. Lydia lifts the tie over her head and throws it on the end of their bed.

"Genius, remember?" She replies with a smirk.

"Could never forget."

Stiles steps forward, his hands snaking their way around her waist. He pulls her close and inhales deeply, taking in the flowery smell of her perfume and the fresh tang of her shampoo and the intoxicatingly sweet scent that is all hers. Stiles would shatter worlds for just a hint of that smell. He would crumble mountains and shake the stars from their seats and part the entire goddamn ocean for it.

But he doesn't have to because she chose him just like he chose her and every night he gets to curl up in their bed and bury his face into the soft expanse of skin between her shoulder and her neck and fall asleep floating in the grace of Dr. Lydia Martin.

In this moment, in the final ten minutes before they have to leave for the achingly fancy gala thrown in Lydia Martin's honor, Stiles is overflowing with admiration for his wife. He wants nothing more than to pull her face in his hands and kiss her senseless but he loves her enough to not ruin her makeup. Instead, he presses his lips briefly to the delicate wisps of hair at her temple and drifts his hands down to intertwine his fingers with hers. Some days he really can't believe his luck.