#literally-lydia

[ sms; Lyds ] No, that is not how Stiles became my nickname

[ sms; Lyds ] But now I kinda wish it had been. Ha.

[ sms; Lyds ]  ....Because there’s nothing better than Shrek? Hello.

[ sms; Lyds ] Who doesn’t love an ogre?

𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐒  𝐎𝐔𝐓  𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒.    🔪

( lydia. )

[ 📱 — Malia 🌵]: while i *was* kidding

[ 📱 — Malia 🌵]: now i’m thinking about it

[ 📱 — Malia 🌵]: and i have gotten intimate with a few Hales.

[ 📱 — Malia 🌵]: which truly is sad

[ 📱 — Malia 🌵]: no offense, but i’m a bit better than *that* 💋

[ 📱 — Malia 🌵]: I mean, Peter (🤢) kissed me when he was being a manipulative sack of…

[ 📱 — Malia 🌵]: then of course there was a short little thing with Cora

[ 📱 — Malia 🌵]: which was awakening to say the least.

[ 📱 — Malia 🌵]: Derek’s definitely hot, but he seems to have a thing for evil women

[ 📱 — Malia 🌵]: and there’s you, but i don’t know where we stand. it’s very blurred.

[ 📱 — Malia 🌵]: so, i really need to stay away from your family. you’re all terribly confusing

[ 📱 — Malia 🌵]: and attractive, which really makes it all much harder 🙄

LYDIA.

❝Are you okay?❞

The strawberry blonde asked as she wiped her eyes, trying not to sound as sleep deprived as she felt. However, she must have woken up an idiot because he was calling her. Jackson didn’t call anymore. Jackson didn’t do much when it came to Lydia anymore, so it obviously had to be pretty important. Why else would he call her. Jackson didn’t have the capacity to miss her. If he did, he would have called weeks ago with a sorry and a cup of coffee.

❝Don’t dignify that with a response, just tell me where you are.❞

Lydia put her emergency clothes on. It was an outfit she had strategically placed to the side in case she needed to look like she was winning the break up. After all, to them, appearances had meant everything. More so now than ever. She looked over the outfit and then to her vanity. It obviously wasn’t to return it, right? He wasn’t going to make her give it back, was he? They were only on a break, it wasn’t an official break-up. Wake up, Lydia. Get ready.

He’d be blind to fully break up with her. Besides, they worked well together.

She put him on speaker phone, placing him on her desk as she started changing. She wanted to ask why he didn’t have his key, but she didn’t need Jackson to go full pissy-mode when she hadn’t had all of her beauty sleep. She had slept about as well as an eight might. And Lydia was not an eight, so she didn’t need to take any crap from one. So she reluctantly held her tongue and refrained from asking any more questions. She just needed to find her brush and put on a light amount of makeup. She’d get ready faster than he’d think.

Just to prove him wrong about his more typical opinions of her.

Usually, she wouldn’t rush perfection, but for once she would. Because she was winning this break that they were on and he should be able to tell. He should see her and want to take her back so badly that he’d be worried when she’d say that she’d sleep on it. Lydia had a ten step plan for every single way the night could go down within a matter of minutes. She just needed to look good.

❝I just need to get changed before I can meet you. This isn’t exactly the finest hour to call, you know.❞

He wouldn’t have called unless he was desperate—and he was very desperate. 

This was different from his other types of desperation. It wasn’t a “It’s three in the morning and I need someone in my bed right now” or a “I haven’t gotten laid in a while and I know you’re still awake” kind of need. No, this was a “my dad is going to take away my car keys if he finds out I snuck out again”. Jackson wouldn’t be caught dead in the passenger seat of his dad’s car or on the disgusting body odor infected school bus. He sure as hell wasn’t walking all the way to school. Not only was his Porsche essential transportation, it was a status symbol. Him without his Porsche was like Batman without his Bat-Mobile. Or him without his killer jawline. Or if Lydia suddenly showed up to school bald.

People would lose their freakin’ minds.

❝I’m at my house, where else would I be?❞

He needs to be on her good side (if he still has any wiggle room left to consider himself on her good side), so he’ll have to hold his tongue. Play nice.

He shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath and starts a new approach.

❝I wouldn’t  be calling you if it wasn’t important and I didn’t need your help. I know it’s a bad time, but I need you and I need your key. Fast.❞

He glances down the street, making sure that there’s no sign of his parents.

❝Preferably before my parents get home and realise I was gone.❞

ANGST MEME || @literally-lydia

If he was the same Jackson from two or three years ago, his first response would be to get angry. Defensive. Tell Lydia off for thinking she knew better than him. He was the one dating him, he should be the judge of if someone was good for him or not.

But, he doesn’t fly off the handle. He chews on her words, the hinge of his jaw popping out as he really considers what she’s saying. She’s not trying to be a bitch, she’s bring it up because she cares about him.

“He…he was all I had,” Jackson admits quietly. It’s the first time he’s said it out, “After I left, left you, left Danny, it felt like everyone moved on from me. I was miserable, Lydia. I had no one. I tried to fill that void with partying and drinking and material shit that didn’t matter and it…it didn’t help.”

literally-lydia

“More importantly, why are you here, Jackson?” She turned to him, feeling unsettled by his presence. “Shouldn’t you be paying someone to leak your nudes or something?”

Lydia didn’t need to answer to him; she didn’t need to think of a reason that she was here that would be acceptable to him. He didn’t own her. She wasn’t some caged bird that sang on command and demanded to be looked at. Still, she probably should have done something- anything else- besides start a fight.

Oh whatever, it was cathartic in it’s own little way.

plotted with @literally-lydia​ ⟶ Lydia ♕

IT HAD HAPPENED. Jackson Whittemore had fallen from his throne and been cast to the peasants below awaiting their retribution. In less dramatic terms — his parents cut him off. Clean cut. Tossed him to the side. Left him for the dogs. 

Well, okay, technically they cut off his funds for the activities he was doing in London. Apparently, they didn’t approve of him using their money for clubbing nearly every night, throwing wild keggers and basically doing any fun shit that a teenager with access to a loaded bank account would do. But hey, he was coping.

They were the ones who had uprooted him from Beacon Hills and moved him to London of all places, where he didn’t have anyone. Did they have to leave behind their friends? Their team? Their jersey? Their co-captain status? Their girlfriend? Their pack? (If he even had a pack. Derek wasn’t much of an Alpha). Their killer parking spot? No. No, of course not. They could afford to pick up and leave everything behind. They thought money could replace everything. Money couldn’t replace the one girl who had actually LOVED him. Money didn’t mean shit to him, so he spent it accordingly.

A charge here, a charge there. Broke that vase? Put it on my tab. Oh, a new Versace shirt? I’ll take ten. The credit card bills started piling up and his dad was livid. He confronted Jackson, who was just coming in from a night at a club he was too young to be at. His balance was off kilter, his clothes smelled of liquor. He demanded that he stop this “frivolous spending” and that they weren’t “ATMs for his leisure”. He basically told him to cut it out or else. Jackson, less than eloquently said “fuck that” and that he didn’t need his money anyway. His mother, teary eyed, begged the Whittemore men to just stop. Jackson couldn’t stop. Once he saw red, it was full speed ahead. 

So technically, he didn’t get kicked out, but he made the executive decision to leave. He scraped together the last of the money in his account to buy a plane ticket back to California. His dad revoked the keys to Porsche, he’d get them back when he learned to be appreciative. Fine. He was never meant to be in London. Beacon Hills was the place he needed to be. He’d get his real parent’s insurance settlement money when he turned eighteen, which was only about five months away. He just...had to figure out how to survive until then.

He hated to admit it, but he didn’t know where to go. His old house wasn’t his anymore. He tried Danny’s, but his family hadn’t returned from their vacation yet. Oh right, it was still summer break. Who would still be home? Well, there might be one person...

As he approached her house, he saw the light in her window was still on. Heavy raindrops pelted every inch of him as he dragged himself to her front door. 

There had to be somewhere else he could go. Maybe a homeless shelter wouldn’t be so — okay gross, he wasn’t that poor and desperate. Would he really rather face Lydia Martin than curl up under a bridge for the night?