100 More One Shots ✔️

Stone Cold >> Lydia Martin X Reader

Title: Stone Cold

Paring: Lydia Martin X Reader

Warnings: none. I chose a PG +13 gif for this part.

Spoilers: none. Completely AU.

Author's note: has anyone figured out I have a thing for gingers yet? As usual, I'm using gender neutral, because for all we know, Lydia is bi and tbh would make the cutest girlfriend to any of you.

If anyone wants me to continue this, I'm happy to! It's a joy writing Lydia.

Also, the prompt came from a post I reblogged on my tumblr. I had to write it. The link is right here:

http://civilstarwars.tumblr.com/post/140538788607/rasleboldetesconneries-mygayisshowing

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"There's a story that goes with all of these statues," your art teacher gestured to the marble cut figures around the gallery floor. "The artist, Michael Fox wrote a biography for each and every one of - for all of them. Every one he's carved, had a bio." She beamed. "Isn't that great? I've been teaching you all this for six months. Can any of you name them?" She paused, and added, slightly louder, "Anyone?"

A short-haired guy spoke up. "That's, uh, The Tragic Spirit," he points to a statue, half turning from coyote to woman. "Her story is as her name suggests; she's cursed to be an animal to atone for what she has been forced to become. She can only be human when she is called -,"

"Whatever, she's a fricken werewolf, big freakin' whoop," the outspoken Jackson interrupted. "Tell us something you don't know, or better yet, don't have a crush on, Stilinski."

The art teacher huffed. "Anyone else want to contribute to something relevant to today's field trip, unlike Mr Whittemore?"

The class was silent.

"So, then, over here..." You couldn't keep up with the teacher's impromptu lessons because you're distracted.

Very distracted.

Your eyes are caught on a statue, hidden away between a carving of a cut tree. It seems nobody notices you breaking away from the group, and nobody sees you weaving your way to the figure you see.

She's standing with her arms parallel over her chest, hair wild with nature adorning the length like a crown. She is bare, her eyes are wide, and lips parted. For a moment, you can't believe she's a carving from stone - she looks like she's caught between breaths, frozen in a moment of terror and confusion.

She can't be a sculpture. She's too ... real.

"What's your name?" You muse, eyes wandering to the plaque on the wall. "Ah, The Wailing Woman." You read, and reassess the cut marble girl in front of you. "Huh, so you're a banshee. You know, I've never heard a really terrible folktale about banshees." You tell her.

She couldn't hear you. She's made from stone. She's stone cold, and there's no pulse on her wrist because she's not real.

"And over here, there's The Alpha -," your teacher's voice carried.

You whip out your phone, and turning the front camera on, position yourself before The Wailing Woman.

"Say 'Prada'!" you tell her, snapping a few with her. You pose a few different times - the prom date, peace signs - and the classic 'kiss on the cheek'. "You're not too bad looking for a banshee," you whisper in her carved ear.

"________! Where are you? What did I saw about wandering off?" Your teacher spied you. Her brow is set. Hands akimbo. Frustrated tone in her voice. You would be frustrated if you were her and had a class uninterested in sculpture.

"See you!" You whispered to the stone woman, and ran back to your group.

But, little did you know, she heard you.

The rest of the day flew by quicker than a flock of wayward birds, and before you knew it, your mother was standing at the end of your bed, bidding you a good night and not knowing that it was the beginning of a new part of your life - a new part for everyone in Beacon Hill's lives - starting.

Not eight hours later, you were in the kitchen, pouring cereal. The note on the fridge said your parents were already at work, and since it was a Saturday, that all your chores and homework and duties were done, you had the day off.

"Finally...a day to be like a normal person," you murmur into your spoon.

"Good morning!" A voice chimed across the room. "How'd you sleep? _______, isn't it?"

You froze. You'd never heard that voice in your life. Who was in your house? Why was the knife block all the way over that side of the kitchen, how could you protect yourself from - wait, was that a girl's voice?

You glanced up.

And paled.

"You - you're -," lost for words, you sat there, utterly and completely dumbfounded.

It was the statue from the art gallery yesterday - except, instead of being made of stone, she - she was right in front of you. And naked.

A colour rises to your cheeks.

"I uh - you're - take this!" You whip around, and from a draw, hand her an apron. "Oh my gosh. Crap. Woah. Gosh. Crap!" You mutter to yourself.

"Thanks, ______." She grins.

Your heart beat could be pacing in your chest, for all you knew; you could hear it in your ears. How- in your kitchen? "How - how are you here? Why do you know my name, how'd you get here -,"

She took a deep breath. "You're freaking out, I don't understand. You broke my curse. My name's Lydia, and that sculptor put me and a lot of my friends under a spell." She explains.

"Lydia." You repeat. "Not The Wailing Woman."

She nods. "That was just a title, but I am a banshee. I was woken up when you kissed me and I heard your name from the teacher who dragged you away from me."

You nodded. "And how did you get here?"

She narrowed her eyes. "Call it a sixth sense, but I followed a feeling."

Your eyes widen. "You walked here? From the gallery?"

She nodded. "My name's Lydia, by the way. Would - could I stay with you for a while? All my friends are statues still, and Isaac got us into this mess ... I mean, if it's okay?"

Your teacher had said there was a story that went with every statue. And so, that's how you found out the story to all of them; just by waking one up. And if playing host to an incredibly attractive, cute girl named Lydia was how the story went, well, that was fine by you.

"I have a camp bed in my room, and spare clothes," you blurt.

Lydia beams. "Thank you!"