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asexual-fandom-queen · 6 years

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Keep Me Warm (Let Me Wear Your Coat)

Pairing: Scott McCall/Lydia Martin/Allison Argent Rated: Teen Audience and Up Summary: There are certain advantages, Lydia discovers, to being the smallest person in her relationship. Alternately titled, "two times Lydia's partners shared their jackets with her, and the one time she shared hers with them." Original Prompt: @chillin-like-villains asked “take my jacket, it’s cold outside.”

[read it here on AO3]

There are certain advantages, Lydia discovers, to being the smallest in her relationship.

“Here, take my coat,” Allison says, shrugging out of her quilted parka, the deep navy a stunning contrast against pale creamy skin and cropped dark hair. She and Lydia are sat on the bleachers, breath puffing from their mouths in sparse clouds as the autumn weather takes an unexpected dip into the low forties.

Lydia has long since learned not to protest Allison’s chivalry. She takes the coat and slides it on, burrowing into the welcoming heat and familiar scent of Allison’s perfume lingering in the fur around the collar. Allison pulls her hands up into the sleeves of her sweater, the porous, grey cable knit doing little to shield her against the chill of the wind as it whipps against her open flank.

“Come on, Scott,” Allison hollers, eyeline fixed once more on the pitch. She claps her hands and lets loose a whooping cheer when the synthetic wool muffles the sound of the impact. Lydia watches her for a breath, strong muscles clenched tight against the cold, nose and cheeks turned adorably pink, before she turns to the field herself and cups her hands around her mouth.

“You got this, babe,” she shouts.

Scott looks up from the pitch and offers them both a wave and a shy, embarrassed smile as the team continues their warm up around him. Some players stop to offer their captain a gentle razzing, while others are too focused on the game to register any activity from the stands.

“There are no wolves at Brighton,” Lydia says, looping an arm around Allison’s and cuddling in close, chin resting against her shoulder, both to keep their conversation private, and to pass along as much body heat as she can. She presses a kiss against the sharp line of Allison’s jaw, and delights as Allison hums contentedly. “They should be no problem,” she adds.

Allison purses her lips. “Scott’s been talking to the guys about using their strength on the field,” she replies. “He wants the game to be fair.”

Lydia scoffs. “Because life’s always so fair for us.”

Allison spares her a glance, but rather than let herself wallow, Lydia smirks and meets Allison’s stare with mischief in her eyes. “Don’t worry, Allie, dear,” she says, sweet and sly, like honey and venom rolled into one. “Even if Scott has to play nice with the team, I’m sure I’m sure we can come up with plenty of ways to put all that strength and stamina to good use later.”

Down on the field, Scott throws a practice shot so hard, the ball tears through the receiving player’s net.

Lydia’s smirk turns to a grin.

“You’re gonna freeze,” Scott cautions, taking one look at Lydia on his doorstep in her too-short-for-November miniskirt, then glancing back at Allison, already inside, lacing up her boots, to confirm.

Allison’s eyes rake appreciatively up Lydia’s legs – the desired effect, and Lydia has to bite her cheek to keep from smiling – then raises an eyebrow, straightening to her full height and grabbing her coat from the wall hook to her left.

“You know where we’re going, right?” Allison asks.

Lydia turns up her nose. “Obviously,” she says. “Why else would I have gone wedges over stilettos, especially with this outfit?”

Allison chuckles and shakes her head, fond exasperation dimpling her cheeks in a way that Lydia has grown to know and love so well. Scott still looks at her with eyes wide as saucers, big and brown and wet in the most heartwarming way.

“What if you get pneumonia?” he protests.

Lydia arches a perfectly sculpted brow. “I don’t know what I did to give you the impression I’m the kind of person who would be okay spending their anniversary in hiking gear–” she says it with a sneer “–but there is absolutely no way I’m going out tonight not looking like I’m about to upstage someone with an eight figure modeling contract.”

Scott’s face falls on a dime. “Do you not want to do the Preserve thing?” he asks, like he’s ready to completely replan their evening in the next five minutes if Lydia asks.

“Of course I do,” she rushes to correct. “Are you kidding? It’s sappy and romantic and exactly the way I want to spend my evening with the two of you.”

Allison smirks. “You just want to look good while you do it,” she supplies, zipping the front of her winter vest shut. She looks incredible, blue plaid flannel sheathing her arms, toque pulled over her ears. Scott is handsome, too, tan corduroy lined with thick woolen fleece stretched over broad shoulders.

Lydia pouts. “I always look good,” she says. “I want to look damn good.”

“You at least have a coat, right?” Allison asks.

Lydia shrugs. The white gossamer fabric of her blouse feels flimsy even inside the warmth of the McCall house, but it looks too tantalizing overtop her lace bralette – a deep, rich, royal plum – to dain covering up.

“It’s seventy degrees,” Lydia says.

Allison glares. “Sixty-two.”

“Then you’ll both just have to keep me warm, won’t you?”

Later that evening, when they finally make it to the top of the ridge overlooking Beacon Hills proper, Lydia’s lips are nearly blue under the sheen of her muted coral gloss. Gooseflesh prickles her arms, rough textured skin catching on the silky fabric of her blouse, but she keeps any complaints to herself, too satisfied that her heavy duty hairspray’s held up against the sweat and strain of the hike to admit other defeats.

Allison reaches into her backpack and pulls out a thick, checkered blanket. An unfurled sleeping bag, if Lydia had to guess, something warm and inviting and insulated to keep the dampness of the earth at bay.

Scott kicks off his boots as she lays it down, then settles in at one edge, reaching into his own pack for a long, metal thermos and a bottle of mezcal. Allison sits next, swapping her hiking boots for a pair of slippers she pulls from her bag.

Lydia sits between them, feet aching in her more-practical-than-they-could-have-been-but-still-wholly-impractical heels. Her toes are cramped and rubbed raw, damp from sweat and blisters that have both formed and ruptured during their uphill trek. She keeps them off lest she find herself unable to bear the pain of putting them back on.

“It’s a family recipe,” Scott explains, unprompted, as he pours thick, velvety, hot chocolate from his thermos into an enameled, stainless steel mug. He screws the cap back on and grabs the mezcal, adding a generous, but not egregious, splash, and swills it around to mix. “I’m about eighty percent sure I actually did it right.”

Lydia clucks her tongue and gazes high and left, the way she always does when she’s about to tease someone. “That’s a B-, Mr. McCall,” she says. “I thought you were a better student.”

Scott chuckles, his eyes crinkling adorably in that way that makes Lydia’s heart flip. “Yeah, well,” he volley’s back. “It’s a good thing I didn’t try making churros, then. Otherwise, you’d really be disappointed in me.”

He pulls instead from his bag a container of store-bought pound cake, staled and cut into batons.

“I think your mom would have been, too,” Allison teases, then winces at her own words. “Sorry, that was mean.”

But Scott’s smile never falters as he passes Lydia her mug and starts to work on another. “No,” he says. “You’re right. I’d totally have burned the house down.”

“True Alpha does not a master chef make,” Lydia adds. She eats her words the fist touch of chocolate to her tongue, a groan slipping past her lips despite herself. “Oh my god, Scott, this is delicious.”

Scott flushes pink and ducks his head. “Thanks,” he murmurs.

When Allison gets her own, she immediately adds to Lydia’s praise.

“It’s not that big a deal,” Scott insists, but Lydia sees the way his chest puffs up, the way his smile carves dimples deep in his cheeks, the way pride shines in his eyes.

“It’s a big deal to us,” Lydia assures him, leaning into his side and resting her chin on his shoulder. “Thank you,” she adds, then shifts to thread Allison’s fingers between her own. “Both of you, for this. It’s really beautiful up here. I’m glad we did this.”

Despite her complimentary words and the alcohol pooling hot in her belly, a shiver runs up Lydia’s spine as a breeze gusts through the trees, and Scott feels her tremble against him.

“Babe, you look gorgeous,” he says, like it’s the safest way to broach the subject, and Lydia thinks maybe it is. “But, you look even more gorgeous when you aren’t turning blue.”

Scott’s warm, broad palm wraps around her arm, rubbing until the friction brings feeling back to her numbed skin.

“Scott has a point,” Allison adds.

Lydia huffs. “Fine,” she admits. “Maybe I’m a little cold.” She hold up a perfectly manicured finger when Scott and Allison open their mouths to protest. “Only a little.”

Shaking his head, Scott chuckles, then gets to work sliding his arms from the sleeves of his coat.

“I don’t need–” Lydia starts, but Scott cuts her off.

“I’m a werewolf,” he says. “Remember? I’m not gonna get cold. Just take it, please.”

Suppressing a flattered smile, Lydia lets Scott manhandle her into his jacket. “Okay,” she says. “But I’m not zipping up. In at least one department, the cold is doing this look a favour.”

The way Scott and Allison’s eyes linger on her chest, where the chill of the evening pebbles her nipples to hard, swollen peaks under her flimsy blouse, Lydia knows she’s right.

Scott, always the gentleman, tears his eyes away with a flush, but Allison is bolder, keeps her gaze fixed as a predatory glint sparks in her eyes.

“Oh, no,” Scott interjects as soon as he catches the look on her face. “Allison, come on. I just got her in that thing.”

Allison smirks. “No reason she can’t keep it on,” she replies. “I happen to like the look of her in your clothes anyway, don’t you?”

Scott gulps, pupils blown instantly wide, and Lydia sighs, running her fingers through her hair to fan it out in a halo as she lays back on the blanket and parts her thighs. Allison’s fingers don’t waste time trailing upward from her knee.

Lydia kicks off her heels. Let Scott carry her back, if it comes to that.

“Best anniversary ever.”

Lydia’s scream rattles the Balsam firs that grow dense and thick in the Preserve. Needles rain to the ground in torrential showers, branches snap, entire trunks crack and bow, submitting to the power of her voice.

She’s killed them, she’s sure, the amphibious creatures that rose from the lake and dragged Scott and Allison away. Two are crumpled in a heap on the frost-covered ground, while a dull thud Lydia can barely hear over the ringing in her ears implies a third meeting their end at the business end of Stiles’ bat. They aren’t like humans – not according to Deaton. They don’t have consciences, aren’t capable of higher thought. They don’t pack bond. They don’t love.

Not the way Lydia does.

She feels blood, sticky on her jawline, running down her neck, but pays it no more attention than the nominal amount required to wipe it away on the back of her hand. Instead, Lydia focuses on the lake, where Boyd and Erica help Scott lift a pallid, chattering Allison from the frigid waters. As soon as Erica drags her legs onto shore, Boyd turns back to Scott and helps him leverage his way out, too, Scott’s muscles frozen stiff, even as they convulse under his skin, working to keep his core warm.

“Scott,” Lydia croaks, her voice thready and devastated as she teeters forward on shaky legs. She tries again, this time louder, more urgent, as her legs carry her forward in a sprint. “Scott! Allison!”

Lydia drops to her knees on the ground beside them, wrestling them from their sopping clothes. The earth is damp with fresh water and frost, soaking through the thick denim of her jeans, but it hardly registers in her flury of concern for her partners’ well-being.

“Take my jacket,” Lydia says, tugging off her camel-coloured duster and bundling Scott inside. His arms strain the seams, but it’s cut to fit loose enough on Lydia’s petite frame to be pull closed around the middle, even if the sleeves prove to be short. She ties him in with a double knot, then turns to Allison with wet, worried eyes.

“It’s cold outside,” Lydia stresses, redundant in her panic. The bitter chill of winter is hard to ignore drenched and half-naked, painful winds cutting into flesh like knives.

She peels out of her cardigan and drapes it around Allison’s shoulders, then guides her arms, frozen stiff, through their holes one at a time. It leaves Lydia damp and half-naked herself, shivering in a pair of jeans and a burgundy camisole, but she’s half convinced it’s from shock more than anything, and knows for a fact it doesn’t matter either way. She would walk across the Arctic barefoot if it meant keeping Scott and Allison warm.

“Are you guys okay?” Lydia asks, checking them over for bruises and cuts.

Allison’s teeth are still chattering, but she nods. “Still have all my fingers and toes,” she replies.

Lydia scoffs, but the sound is filled with so much relief, it’s almost delirious. “That’s not funny,” she scolds, big, hot tears streaming down her cheeks as a smile lights her face.

“Scott, are you alright?” Allison checks, reaching out for him with one trembling hand. He grabs hold and tugs her to his side, tucking her under his arm to share the bit of body heat his werewolf metabolism has him already regaining.

“I’m okay,” he promises, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “We’re all okay.”

Lydia registers briefly that it’s true. Boyd, Erica, and Isaac are checking over the amphibious bodies to make sure they’re really and truly dead. Meanwhile, Derek gently coaxes Stiles’ aluminium bat from his hand, grip held so tight his fingers have turned white. His muscles are tense, too, like a loaded spring about to snap.

Lydia knows Stiles is going to need to see Scott soon, to reassure himself his brother in everything but blood is really alive and whole. But for now, Stiles can wait. He can wait while Scott draws Lydia in with a bone-chilling hand around her neck, wipes the blood so carefully from the corner of her ear, and pulls her into a kiss that is so filled with relief and passion and affection it makes Lydia’s toes curl.

“I love you,” Scott whispers as they part. He places another kiss to Allison’s temple and breathes into her hair, wet and plastered to her cheek, “god, I love you so much.”

“We love you, too,” Allison replies. She reaches out to clasp fingers with Lydia, and Lydia brings their joined hands to her mouth to place a gentle, loving kiss against Allison’s wrist.

After, once Melissa’s given Allison the all-clear against possible hypothermia, the three crawl into Scott’s bed, limbs intertwining, hearts beating in perfect time, not in sync per se, but winding and weaving together to create a rhythm, a perfect syncopation, that drums in tandem to the slow pulls of their breath.

“Sorry I stretched out your jacket,” Scott mumbles, on the verge of tipping over into unconsciousness. Allison’s breathing is already steady, a sure sign of sleep.

Lydia smiles. She places a kiss against Scott’s sternum, trails her hand over Allison’s hip. “That’s okay,” she says. “It was my turn anyway.”

#teen wolf #scallydia #scallison #allydia #scydia #fanfiction #polyamory #prompt fill #mine #chillin-like-villains

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