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farahs-babe · 3 years

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Always, I’ll Care

Fandom: The Wayhaven Chronicles

Pairing: Ava du Mortain x Detective (Elijah Robinson)

Word Count: 1675 words

Warning: None, its just fluff

Author’s note: So this is my first time writing for TWC fandom and gosh I’m nervous lol. Here is to hoping it shows up in the tags🤞 I hope y’all like it ❤

Title Inspiration: Always, I’ll Care by Jeremy Zucker

Ava sat in the empty common room, the night shrouding around her like a cloak.

A lone night lamp was turned on in the corner of the room, which cast against the sharp and rigid lines of her body accentuating the tense muscles and the constant flexing of her arm as she clenched and unclenched her fingers around the pen in her hand.

The others had shortly retreated to their room after the detective had bid good night. She could hear their steady breaths and that helped a bit with the growing anxiety which gnawed away at her slowly and steadily, like rust eating away at iron.

After 900 years of existence, you would think that nothing could bother Ava so much it made her stay awake into the wee hours but... It might be because of a certain blue-eyed detective.

Whenever Elijah's name crossed her mind, a flux of emotions would swirl through her. Initially, it would be an intense sense of longing which tugged at her heartstrings, followed by worry for his safety and concluded by a snort of annoyance on how easily she lets him invade his thoughts.

The entire ordeal with the pack of werewolves and the new revelation of the bounty had Ava so stressed that she had dug tracks into the common room carpet as she walked in circles before finally settling into a chair.

And Elijah being the- how could she place it delicately- the joker that he is, played it off in his usual sarcasm and jest.

But she could see.

She could see everything.

The rising panic in those soft brown eyes with a swirling green... The way his fingers threaded through his ebony black curls and tugging them, a gesture he did when he was nervous... The way he rocked on his heels... Everything.

She knows how capable he is and how determined he is, like Agent Robinson but that's the very thing that could get him killed. And the very thought of living in a world where he didn't exist...

He is more capable than you give him credit for. Mason's smoky voice from earlier, floods through her head which has her sighing.

She couldn't get herself to finish that sentence.

She leaned back on her chair and her hands went to rest behind her head, clutching her tight bun. The action caused a few strands to escape the restraints of the hairband and frame her face.

She looked out of the window to stare into the inky darkness. The sky was clear and you could see the numerous stars glittering over the treeline. Wayhaven looked so peaceful at night that you would be lulled into a sense of security.

But everyone knows, monsters come out at night.

She let out a sigh trying to relax but her muscles bunched up in tension as she heard a familiar heartbeat and the familiar set of footsteps to the common room.

The door opened slowly and the man who had enraptured her, popped in.

"Hey, isn't it late for you?" His voice rasped, which caused the hairs on the back of her neck to rise in reaction.

She cleared her throat and sat straight up. "Well, I should be asking you that question. What are you doing up at 4 am?"

He chuckled. "Fair enough. I was having trouble sleeping. Can't get my mind to calm down."

"I can relate to that."

He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. She could see his naked torso in the golden hue of the lamp and that made her gulp. He was not as built as Ava but he had a lithe and athletic build. The early morning runs which he goes for definitely benefit the detective.

With a huge effort, she got her emerald eyes to meet his hazel ones.

"I know that you are a vampire with amazing strength but you seriously need to sleep."

A smile played on his lips as he ignored the jibe. He walked up to the table and leaned against it. She notices the closeness and she noticed how his heart thundered against his chest.

"We don't need sleep to function, unlike you humans."

"C'mon Ava. Nat herself told me you haven't rested in a week. And I know the entire bounty thing is bothering you more than you admit to."

Guess I'm not the only one who can see everything.

She looked down at her pale hands resting on the wooden table. "It shouldn't have come to this. I was supposed to protect your identity- I am sorry I couldn't-"

His hand cupped her chin, gently bending her head backwards so that he could look down at her.

"I have said this before and I will say it again. It was not your fault. You don't have to be apologetic."

"Bu-"

"Shh…" He placed a finger on her lips and she could feel electric sparks and a steady blush rising to her cheeks. His fingers traced her cheek and continued, captivated by the feeling of Ava’s smooth skin.

Thank the gods he is human and can't see in the dark.

“It was too big an information to be kept under the wraps and it was bound to be out at some time. All we can do not is do damage control.”

She nodded her head. “Yes. That is the approach we are taking.”

His hand dropped and the loss of contact pricked her heart. "Enough work talk. Come with me."

Her eyebrows knotted. "Pardon me?"

"Come with me. I know what can help you relax."

Uncertainty coloured her features but curiosity won the best of her. She stood up and followed him.

He opened the door to Ava's room and gestured her to go in first before following her in.

"So what is your genius plan Detective?" She asked, sarcasm lacing her sentence.

Elijah wordlessly sat at the edge of the bed and pointed at the space on the floor before him.

Ava cocked an eyebrow and Elijah sighed. "I am just going to give you a massage. The knots in your neck is giving me knots. You need to relax and that will help you sleep."

She stood hesitantly by the door, her instincts begging her to just turn and march out but the genuine look in those starry eyes made her want to stay.

"Ava, do you trust me?"

With my heart and life.

Ava nodded and sat down on the ground, in the space between his legs, facing the wall opposite her bed. She proceeded to take out the combat shoes she was wearing as Elijah got comfortable on the bed behind her.

"May I?" He asked as his hands reached for the tight bun.

"Yes."

Slowly untied her hair and the golden locks cascaded down, stopping a little below her shoulders. She let out a sigh of relief as she felt his fingers combing through her hair, freeing the tangled hair. He was so gentle and Ava couldn’t help but gulp at the intimacy, something she wasn’t familiar with.

She was so lost with the feeling of his fingers threading through her hair that she almost didn’t hear him.

"Tina says that if you tie your hair so tight and keep stressing it, your hairline will recede and you will lose hair. It also gives a nasty headache."

"Well, I'm a vampire so I don't think that affects me."

Elijah hummed in agreeance as he pressed his fingertips into her scalp and massaged. Ava let out another breathy sigh, feeling her face heat up, her pulse race and goosebumps on her overly sensitive skin.

"I know the others don't apply to you but, I can literally feel your head pounding."

Well, it's for other reasons. Her subconscious snarked which had her mind overthinking again. And the closeness between the two had her senses on overdrive which didn’t help her cause.

"Ava, I can hear the gears in your head-turning... Relax. Focus on my hands." He chastised as his thumbs circled her temples, applying just the right amount on pressure.

It took all her strength to not melt into a puddle before him.

The way I'm putty in his hand is frightening... But at the same time, it feels like home.

He proceeded to thoroughly knead through the taut muscles of her neck, his magical fingers releasing the knots of tension.

These tender gestures took her back to the way her mother would run a comb through her hair before bedtime. Or how she would help Ava out when she returned from war.

"What are you thinking?" He asked softly, not wanting to break the peace.

"It's just... It's been a long while since someone has done something like this for me."

She didn't need to turn around to see the Cheshire grin on his face. The way his white teeth would contrast his dark skin. The way his eyes would ignite, a captivating mix of brown and green... As if moss were creeping on the rich soil.

"Well, I'm glad I could help you relive the experience."

She turned around and looked up at him, her eyes memorising his face and every minute detail. The freckles dusted on his nose, the curly hair falling against his forehead, the light stubble and his full lips.

"Thank you, Eli. I really appreciate it."

He squeezed her shoulder and gave her a gentle smile, something he only showed her. He reached to tuck a rebel strand behind her ear. "It was my pleasure, Ava. Get some rest, okay? Supernaturals don't take it easy on you just because you are tired."

Her eyes narrowed. "Are you mocking me?"

Elijah took a faux gasp. "I would never dare to."

Her lips tilted up in a half-smile before rearranging back into an impassive mask.

"Good night Detective. See you bright and early tomorrow morning."

"Good night." He said as he stood up and walked out of the room, leaving Ava in a haze of rushing emotions, untethered thoughts and the regret of not asking him to stay back with her.

I hope you liked it and thank you for reading❤

Like, comment, reblog and let me know what you think ❤

Tagging: @lilyoffandoms ; @agentrebecca ; @anotherbeingsworld ; @oshen ; @nathanielhsewell ; @starrystarrytrouble

#anushka writes #the wayhaven chronicles #ava du mortain #ava x detective #twc ava #a du mortain #oc: Elijah Robinson

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edelwoodsouls · 4 years

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all roads lead - ch. 7

When his mother dies, Stiles runs away, straight into danger - only to be saved by Peter Hale. Seven years later, after burying their alpha, Stiles and Malia return home.

Word Count: 4,433 | Also on Ao3 | Other Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 8,

Chapter 7: GROWTH

The next morning, John takes Malia and Stiles down to the station.

"Can we walk?" Malia asks through a mouthful of toast over the breakfast table. "We took the fastest route to get here, and I never want to see the inside of a car or bus again."

Stiles cringes at the instantly curious glint in the rest of the table's eye - the fastest? What were they running from? - but his father just nods.

As the others leave for school, Stiles catches Isaac by the door. He's already regretting it as the taller boy regards him with suspicion, but he also knows that making peace, making friends with the people he's living with - the pack he's rivalling - can only help.

"I just, uh, wanted to say, about last night-"

"Oh, uh-" Isaac flinches back at the reminder; Stiles barrels through before the conversation can derail.

"I don't need to know what happened to you, man. I just wanted to say, if these douche twins are getting you detention for something you never did, it can't really hurt to do the things the school already thinks you're guilty of, right?"

Isaac narrows his eyes. "Are you telling me I should beat up the twins." It comes out flat, less question than deadpan statement.

Stiles kinda likes this kid. "I'm not saying anything, dude. Just something to think about."

As he ducks away to go find Malia, he swears he sees Isaac smirk.

His lighter mood doesn't last long. Whilst walking down the roads towards town, shrouded by foliage and that strangely charged forest air, seems to clear something in his lungs; walking through the centre of Beacon Hills feels like slowly peeling off his skin. With every step, the last seven years seem to flee him. He is shrinking into that scared, angry ten year old who knew nothing of the real world, and it makes him itch like ants crawling through his veins.

Everything feels so much smaller. The long walk from his or Scott's house, usually only completed with the aid of their parents' cars, now breezes by. The buildings that towered over him seem so short he could touch their roofs.

Maybe it's because he hit his crazy growth spurt just after leaving, shooting up inches overnight - at the meagre age of eleven he had already rivalled his alpha, a fact he never let Peter live down. Or maybe it's living in a city full of skyscrapers. Maybe it's just the confidence that comes with knowing he is the most dangerous thing for miles, that anything that could challenge or threaten him now would pale in comparison to- well, everything else.

But that well of confidence seems buried, far from reach as the past crawls over his skin. In a city like New York, everything faded quickly into the background. Buildings came up and down, climbing higher and higher towards the clouds. The names and contents of shops were more like revolving doors than staples of the community. Here in Beacon Hills, time seems to have frozen. There is the clock tower, still broken ten years after it ground to a halt. The ice-cream shop that never seems to have customers yet remains open, even through the winter months.

There is something aching in his heart that he refuses to label.

Stiles had hoped that the long stretch of time since he was last seen in Beacon Hills would keep the watchful eyes of a small town away from him. But while no one recognises the sheriff's son, everyone recognises the sheriff. People look up from their shopping, gaze out of cafe windows, stop in the street to watch the sheriff walking into town with two strange teenagers trailing behind him. Stiles wants to fold in on himself - his anonymity has been a weapon he's wielded for as long as he can remember.

Malia squares her shoulders, grips his hand tight in hers.

As they approach the sheriff's station, Stiles' pace slows. Even with a father in law enforcement, places and people such as these have only ever registered as a threat. Here in Beacon Hills, they are the reason Peter's family was never avenged. The reason Malia had to be broken out of Eichen House. In New York they had all been in the pockets of various supernatural groups. Being arrested had nothing to do with what you did wrong, and everything to do with who you were, or who you had pissed off.

Stiles got off relatively lucky, as a white guy. They still make his skin crawl, and the toxic scent of gunmetal and overentitlement only adds to the sickness growing in the pit of his stomach.

"Stiles?" his father asks, stood in the doorway. The light casts off-putting shadows across his face.

"I'm fine," he swallows, allowing one of his many masks to slip effortlessly over his features. Bright eyes, vageuly concerned smile. He curls one fist full of claws deep into his pocket, the other fastened firmly in Malia's grip.

"You with me?" he asks her, watching her distant expression. Her experiences here, though almost a year ago, have never led to good things.

"Mmhm," Malia nods noncomittally, as if she isn't hearing hollow screams in her ears, as if her claws haven't begun to dig painfully into Stiles' palm.

"We can wait outside," he suggests.

"No we can't. I'm just being ridiculous."

"Malia." He turns to face her, blocking vieher w of the station. "You're never being ridiculous. I would burn this whole place down in an instant if you asked me. You're allowed to find things hard, to say no to things."

"But you-"

"I am hardly the poster boy for mental health and healthy coping mechanisms. Just because I have a habit of exposing myself to my triggers doesn't mean you should force yourself into those situations."

Malia bites her lip, eyes drifting behind him to where John is waiting, no doubt confused or concerned. "I think I can do this." When Stiles doesn't move, she touches her hand to the side of his face. "Really. If I need to leave, I promise I will."

They go inside, ignoring the sheriff's expression. The Stiles who idolised his father and his career is long dead.

The next few hours are a whirlwind of paperwork and curious stares that Stiles barely registers. There's closing his and Malia's missing persons cases, filling out statements that everyone knows are little more than a patchwork of thinly connected lies, filled with more blanks than words. The deputies are all overly helpful, coming over to offer coffee, biscuits, anything that will give them a glimpse to take back for gossip.

Then comes dealing with the school - and dealing with Eichen House. The former is nothing more than a few phone calls, the scheduling of an aptitude test for the next day. An inquiry into the education the two of them have had in the past few years, to which they shrug. "Home-schooled," they say, which is sort of true - if you count home-school as learning to pick out a single voice from an entire city of noise, memorising ancient alphabets and magical herbs.

A far more useful education, in Stiles' opinion.

The latter goes suspiciously easy, Malia's claws gripped into Stiles' flesh the whole time. John leaves him and Malia in the hallway while he makes a call behind the locked door of his office. Five minutes later, he emerges with a grimacing smile.

"Everything's cleared up," John says, talking to Malia but looking at his son, and Stiles wonders just what strings his father had to pull to make this miracle happen. How worried he should be.

But the door of the sheriff's station is lined with mountain ash, so neither of them heard a thing. If he wasn't sure of his father's supernatural knowledge, he is now.

How often has the station been subject to supernatural attack?

By the time the wheels of bureaucracy have been set fully in motion, it's well into the afternoon. The autumn air is beginning to turn cold as the sun sinks towards the horizon, and Stiles feels a weight lifting from his shoulders. He's always preferred the cover of darkness, the way the world gets quieter but never quite still. It feels like a breath of fresh air after months below ground.

"I've got a lot to finish up here," John apologises, glancing out at the sky. "If you kids want to make your way home, go ahead."

"Is it okay if we wander around town a bit?" Malia asks. "We'll be back for dinner."

John hesitates before nodding - having his son back for only a day, letting him out of sight must feel like losing him all over again.

"It's okay, dad," Stiles insists. "We can look after ourselves."

"Just be safe," his father sighs. "There's been a lot of animal attacks in the past few months, even in town." The alpha pack. Of course. But what reason would they have to go after him and Malia when they're hiding their scents?

But the sheriff isn't finished. His eyes dart nervously. "And... it's possible there's a serial killer working in Beacon Hills right now."

That is not what Stiles expected. Even in a supernaturally charged town, a serial killer? That's something saved for cities like the one they just left.

"A serial killer?" Stiles asks, trying to keep his voice nonchalant.

"RItual murderer as far as we can tell, yeah. So please be careful. Stay together. Come home before dark."

"Of course, yeah. Love you dad!" Stiles ushers Malia out of the station as fast as he can appear casual.

"Stiles, you're smiling." Malia looks half amused as they begin wandering aimlessly around town.

"Am I?"

"You know most people don't get excited about serial killers."

"Yeah, but a serial killer in this town, Mal. Ritual murders. That's magical nonsense if ever I heard it. Remember that guy in New York who used blood sacrifices for his healing potions?"

"Of course I remember. Their whole pack was exiled."

"Exactly. We already know there are two packs in town." He'd informed Malia of everything he overheard from Scott and Melissa at dinner, though she doesn't seem half as worried about it as he is. "And every pack has an emissary."

"We don't have an emissary."

"That's cos we have me."

He doesn't know why he's able to do magic. It's hereditary, Peter had told him, and he supposes his mother might have had a gift and never had the chance to tell him- but surely his father would have known? Whatever the reason, his power is significantly weaker than it should be, supposedly since he's no longer human.

Still, Peter had insisted on getting him training; any unexpected edge was a good one in New York. He can't handle mountain ash or mistletoe, but he can conjure a flickering light, or unlock a door. He has enough ability to sense magic in the air, enough knowledge to decipher its workings.

Enough of a spark to draw a trickster spirit like a moth to a flame.

"So you want to investigate? What happened to being normal teenagers?"

"Is that what you want?" Stiles asks, genuinely.

Malia's face twists. "Not really. Especially if there's a threat. I'd like... to find things to care about. People. A place. Something that might be a safe, even for a little while. And we're supernatural- normal was never really our thing."

"Okay then." Stiles smiles. A project, a place to call home, the lack of blood on the air (at least for now) - it's all he really needs to thrive. "First things first we've gotta steal the case files from my dad."

"You haven't even checked the newspapers yet."

Stiles is about to come up with a witty response to that, when he all but slams into someone waiting on the sidewalk by the public library. He leaps back, a mess of instinctual clumsiness and supernatural grace. "Sorry, sorry-"

"It's okay, really," the girl says, brushing herself off, already pushing away. Stiles blinks. It's been seven years, but he would recognise that strawberry blonde hair, those intelligent green eyes, anywhere.

"Lydia? Lydia Martin?"

She frowns, eyes narrowing in suspicion at him. She's grown tall in the years since he left, though the alarmingly high heels may have something to do with it. Her face is a perfectly painted canvas of makeup and confidence. Her clothes and posture are immaculate despite their run-in moments before.

Everything about this girl is practiced and careful.

"Do I know you?" she asks, dismissively, but there's a sharp wariness to her tone.

"Stiles!" The yell comes from across the street, and Stiles flinches a mile, not used to being recognised or addressed. He turns to the source of the voice and finds Scott running across the street - which is thankfully mostly empty.

"Stiles?" Lydia asks, mask breaking in shock. "Stilinski?"

"Um, yeah?" Stiles rubs the back of his neck, suddenly awkward. "I just got back yesterday."

"You just 'got back'? You've been missing for seven years."

"And now I'm not?"

Scott joins them on their side of the street. "Hey, Lyds," Scott smiles to her, and that is something Stiles wasn't expecting, either. Is Scott popular now? When will he stop being surprised by this town? "I see you've met Stiles and Malia."

"You didn't think to mention the small fact that the sheriff's presumed-dead son had turned up back in town? We've been at school for a whole day and it- what, just slipped your mind? Come on, McCall."

"Sorry," Scott looks up bashfully through his eyelashes, an expression even the most heartless person would forgive instantly. He turns to look at Stiles with a stern expression. "In my defence, I was trying to do damage control all day."

"Isaac?" Stiles asks. "Good for him. I hope he made those detentions worth it."

Lydia snorts. "You put him up to that? He drove Aiden's bike into the school hallway and framed him for it."

Okay; Stiles loves this kid.

"You're just bitter cos you're sleeping with the enemy," Scott mutters, earning himself a sharp elbow in the ribs from Lydia. They dissolve into bickering - remarkably like siblings, Stiles thinks - as if he and Malia aren't even there. Their camaraderie is enough for him to do a double-take, to check the scents on the wind again.

Lydia isn't a werewolf, but there's something. Like the smell of dust and grass, the dampness of mist. It clings to her in flickers and starts, as if unsure it belongs to her.

Why does everything in this town have to be supernatural and connected?

Not that New York was much different, in his experience.

Growing up in New York had been good for Stiles, he had always liked to think. That first year had been rough, both he and Peter angry and guilty and filled with so much grief they could barely stand. But when Stiles had stumbled back into their apartment, missing for almost two weeks, with a fully grown coyote pacing at his heels, everything had changed.

He hadn't even tried to convince her to stay in the preserve - he wanted to leave her side as little as she wanted to leave him, but the bond calling him back to New York, to Peter, had been just as strong. Convincing bus drivers to let her on, that she was really just an overly large service dog, had been the real challenge.

Peter didn't even have the dignity to look surprised. His icy eyes blinked between the two of them, as if tracing the newly forged bond tying them together. "A pack of strays if ever I saw one," he smirked.

It had taken several days for Peter to figure out how to force Malia's change. She spent them basking in their attention, lying sprawled across the bed, follwing him around the apartment. She tried to play the piano with her paws - to Peter's infinite frustration - and stood on the kitchen counter while he cooked dinner, stealing slivers of meat from the frying pan.

By the time she was human again, Stiles knew Peter had fallen just as in love with this girl as he had.

Now that there were two of them, however, Peter put his foot down. Stiles had too much time on his hands, and Peter too little. And that meant school.

Forging the papers was easy enough. And in a city as large as New York, being the new kids wasn't that out of place.

But he was the boy who flinched at loud noises. Who never stopped moving or talking, too clumsy or too fast, never just right. And she was the girl who behaved more like an animal; who had missed three years of school due to a tragedy she still had yet to mention. And that made them outcasts.

Which was fine by Stiles. In Beacon Hills he'd had only two friends - Scott, and a quiet, introspective boy named Theo. He didn't thrive off large crowds. He did his school work, excelled at the sciences and utterly failed at English. He knew what he was good at, and bad at, and didn't need anyone else's approval.

Looking back, it wasn't exactly a healthy mindset. But he had been happy enough with Malia. She was funny, and brusque. She spoke her mind and didn't act like she had a care in the world, though he was witness to every flinch and nightmare, and the way she got frustrated and angry in situations that exposed how little she knew compared to her peers. She cuddled him for warmth at night, always shivering, and woke him when his dreams began to drown him.

She hated school as much as he hated the people inside it, always falling asleep in class or ditching altogether. He's sure there are more than a dozen tables covered in deep claw marks around the middle and high schools they attended. And after, she would drag him out to the woods, or to the latest restaurant she'd discovered that served deer. She was such a contradiction of animal and human, filled with a young spirit and an old heart.

Seeing the world through her eyes was as different, as wonderful, as the contrast between his human and wolf eyes.

Every Friday, Stiles managed to keep Malia's attention on school work for two hours - certainly not long enough to cover everything that made her mutilate tables, but enough to ground her, to keep her grades wavering between a C and a D. They had traded this agreement in exchange for Stiles learning how to cast warming charms from his magical tutor. He had sewn them into every piece of clothing Malia owned and she, clearly not expecting him to actually follow through, was stuck in the school library once a week.

A year before Malia left to try Beacon Hills on for size, he sat in their usual spot. Malia had bunked off their last two sessions to see her new girlfriend, whom Stiles was so sure would be out the door before long he hadn't bothered to learn her name.

Which is why he was so stunned to see Malia saunter up to the desk and throw herself into a chair, followed by an awkward-looking girl in cute black pigtails and a tartan skirt.

"What's the subject today?" Malia asked, spilling the entire contents of her locker onto the table.

"Uh, math, as usual," Stiles stumbled over his words, unsure of how to behave around this new girl. "You've been maintaining a D in that for months."

"Just because they can't find the x right there on the page doesn't mean I'm the idiot."

The girl, still hovering uncertainly, let out a laugh - cute, and genuine. Stiles felt a sudden rush of jealousy - no, just protectiveness - rise up inside him.

"Who are you?" he asked with all the force a fourteen year old could muster, not bothering to hide his feelings.

"Stiles, play nice," Malia rolled her eyes at him. "This is Kira. Yukimura. She's struggling with math as well, and since you're such a good teacher, I thought you could tutor us both." The girl gave a small wave and took a seat beside Malia.

Stiles gave Malia what he hoped was the most annoyed glare in the world. Yukimura. His magical tutor didn't talk about much outside of their lesson material, but she'd mentioned her daughter a couple times before. What was Malia thinking, mixing these two antithetical sides of their lives?

Peter had insisted on training Stiles - but their pack had no emissary to do the work. Stiles never asked him where he got his alpha power from, what happened to the pack - and the emissary - left behind. He didn't want to break the tentatively steady ground they'd all found for themselves these past few years. But their pack had been regarded with suspicion for it - new alphas didn't just appear, especially in such heavily contested territory as New York.

Maybe if they'd known his real last name was Hale, they might have been less suspicious. Or more, Stiles can't decide. Whatever the possibilities, their pack had been outsiders on that front, too; no one willing to lend their emissary to this ragtag bunch of strays.

So Peter had turned to an old kitsune, one who had given up most of her power to her child but still had the knowledge to explain the mechanisms and techniques of the craft. She was over nine hundred, after all - there was nothing she hadn't seen.

Stiles could smell the fox on this girl, when he focused. Barely more than a wisp, a spark of power that would no doubt burst into flames over the next couple of years. Was Malia hoping to add to their family? Did she seriously just like this girl?

The answer to all these questions, Stiles would later learn, was of course. Because Malia is a pack animal at heart, filled to the brim with feelings she never really learned how to voice, and a special eye for stray, wounded creatures. She wants to care, if only someone would teach her how- and neither Stiles nor Peter could do that.

But Kira could. She was kind and curious - a lot like Scott, he thinks now. And powerful.

Curiosity had won out. Kira was attentive, asking all the right questions, prompting Malia's work when she was hesitant to ask. He hated to admit it then, but it was the most productive session they'd ever had. He'd even managed to smile Kira goodbye when they left her at the bus stop.

"I knew it," Malia grinned as they made their way back to the apartment. She was practically bouncing.

"Knew what?" Stiles grumbled, more acting the part of annoyed than feeling it by now.

"You're lonely." Stiles started to scoff, but she cut him off. "I've literally never seen you that animated. More arm waving than ever. You stink of loneliness, even if you never noticed. You cut yourself off from people before they can get close to you, that way they never have the ammunition to hurt you."

"You sound like you've eaten a psychology textbook."

"I'm not wrong. Stiles, no man is an island."

"That's definitely from a textbook."

"Actually it's from trivia about The Incredibles. Doesn't make it any less true."

"So you just happened to pick the one girl at school with a known connection to the supernatural."

He doesn't think he'd seen Malia blush until that second. "She yelled at some girls who were teasing me about being stupid."

"You're not-"

"Shut up, Stiles," Malia glared at him. "The point is she's cute, and I like her, and if she's going to be in my life then she's going to be in yours, too. Might as well be friends."

"I think Noshiko could kill me and leave no trace."

"So could I. What's your point?"

And that had been that. Kira had folded seamlessly into their lives, and Stiles had been surprised by the space his heart made to fit her.

Like everything in their lives, that had collapsed several weeks ago in a rush of blood and electricity. He couldn't have know, of course he couldn't, that the nogitsune he let inside had a personal vendetta against Kira's mother.

But her horrified expression is burnt into the backs of his eyelids in the flashes of her flickering foxfire. The easy grin on his face as he drank in the chaos. The riddle he left her with.

What do liars do after death?

He had considered Kira a friend, maybe even pack, and the memories of that first meeting come rushing back to him as he watches Scott and Lydia. Scott, an alpha who has control, who is so effortlessly kind and put together that even other supernaturals flock to him. The way a fox should have made her home with them, if only Stiles hadn't ruined absolutely everything.

It takes him a moment to realise he's been staring into space, and the other three are looking at him. "Hm?" Malia gives him a knowing look that says she's going to try and make him talk about this later.

"Me and Lyds are supposed to be meeting up with Isaac and a couple others," Scott says. "If you wanted to come?"

A couple others. Stiles is pretty sure that's code for pack. Isn't this what he wanted? To ingratiate himself to the resident pack of the town, so that when their charade of normalcy inevitably comes crashing down, they might not kill him and Malia on sight?

Can he start again afresh, or is the blood doomed to follow him?

"Sounds awesome," Malia says. After all, she's always been the most forward of the two of them. The one who builds bridges whilst Stiles burns them down.

But he'd like to see Isaac again. He'd like to meet the rest of Scott McCall's pack, figure out just how much danger this boy has surrounded himself with to remain so kind. He still needs to find Derek and Laura Hale.

Beacon Hills is not New York; so far from it, no matter how tethered Stiles and the supernatural are to the both of them. The other shoe will undoubtedly drop eventually, soon - it's the one fact life has only convinced him of more as the years pass.

May as well make the best of the sunshine while it lasts.

#teen wolf #fanfiction #stiles stilinski #malia tate #scott mccall #lydia martin #sheriff stilinski #own work

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male-reads · 5 years

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Dean Winchester: Return

Part 1

Fandom: Supernatural Pairing: Dean x Male!Reader Summary: Dean won’t stop until you’re back. Request: Umm, yes can I request part 2 of your recent fic... (btw I’m not that handsome guy who quote reblogged it)

Dean was suffering. Sam could see it, Cas could see it. Hell, the whole world could. He wasn’t doing good.

You were gone.

Cas had lost count on how many times Dean had asked him if he knew what had happened. He’d never seen the markings on your arm, the patterns that had prophesised what would happen to you. Cas had visited Heaven, trying to find your family, the ones who had gone, just like you. He had thought that their souls would come to rest in Heaven.

It had shocked Cas to realise how wrong he had been.

Your family didn’t have any places in Heaven. He hadn’t wanted to tell Dean that you didn’t have a place either.

They didn’t have any idea as to where you were.

It wasn’t what you expected.

You expected something like heaven, where you could be reunited with your parents.

It really wasn’t.

It was gruelling, hard work. It was worse than being a hunter. There was no rest, no peace. No way for you to take a break. If something killed you, it wouldn’t be the end. It was weird and confusing. If you died, surely you’d go to heaven?

It was a constant cycle and it was a wonder on how you hadn’t gone insane.

Your parents didn’t recognise you. Neither did any of the family members there. All they did was fight the monsters. And you thought being a hunter had been hard. This was the worst. It was worse than Hell or Purgatory. There were no words to describe where you were. It didn’t have a name.

There was no-one else there to be with you. You hadn’t burdened Dean with the markings. Hadn’t condemned him. He needed his brother more; you couldn’t take him away from Sam.

So you had to go through with it all alone.

You hoped you wouldn’t forget Dean’s face; you were already forgetting his voice.

Dean thought he found something. After drawing the markings so many times, memorising it all, he thought he found something.

No, he had. He knew he had.

“Dean, are you sure?” Cas asked, looking over Dean’s shoulder to look at the ancient book on the table. “This is incredibly risky. If we get it wrong, we’ll blow a thousand mile radius hole in America,”

“Cas, I don’t care,” he said. Dean’s voice was rough and broken. “I … I need to find him.”

Dean knew that Cas and Sam were worried; this was worse than when he’d lost Lisa and Ben. They needed Dean back.

“Do you know the spell?” Sam asked, looking at his brother. “The letters aren’t anything I’ve ever come across. I think it’s a dead language.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Dean said, eyes on the book in front of him. “We have to.” Dean fell silent once more, poring over the book.

Fifteen weeks later, he had a translation.

“We need to do this tonight,” he told Cas and Sam. “We need a half moon and it has to be a minute to midnight.”

“Why a minute before?” Sam said, confused.

“To release the pixies - I don’t know! Because the book says so!”

It was evident to the others that Dean was losing it. The closer they got to the time, the more antsy Dean became.

You couldn’t count how many times you had died in this place. If it even was dying. You had been shot, stabbed and torn apart, among other things. It was tiring. Time wasn’t coherent wherever you were. It was just the constant kill-the-bad-things that surrounded you.

You knew that years had passed, yet you hadn’t aged. No-one aged once the light took them, it seemed. Your parents hadn’t, their parents hadn’t, and all the aunts and uncles, cousins and distant relatives were all the same. The age left you somewhat immortal. Able to come back after dying again and again. But it chipped away at your humanity.

If you were to hazard a guess, you’d say it had been four hundred years, give or take. It never ended and it never stopped. There were bad things in this place that needed to be stopped. They could get out, to the place you couldn’t quite remember. All you knew was that you had to stop them. It would end that old place if they were released.

It was up to your family to stop them. They needed as many as possible to stop them for the rest of time and beyond.

The markings on your arm had faded over the incoherent time. The colour had faded into something like purple bruising. You barely had time to really look at it; in this ethereal place, it was a constant fight. But with each passing day, or with each kill (because each kill was easier to count than the days that passed by), you realised yours looked different because you hadn’t come with anyone.

You were the only one alone in this godforsaken place. Every other relative had a partner or a friend. Someone who had their back. It was no wonder why you died more times than them. You were alone. You hadn’t condemned someone to your fate.

But something happened.

You didn’t really notice at first, trying to kill a nasty faceless ghost that really wanted to get free, or do a good job of mutilating you. But there was something happening behind you. Once the faceless ghost had met its end, you noticed how the ground was rumbling and it felt like the world was shaking. You looked around and saw a vaguely familiar light. It had been so long you had forgotten how it had looked.

It was weird, maybe nostalgic. You had long forgotten the words that would best describe what the light was. But it wasn’t happening like you knew it had. Although you couldn’t quite remember what had happened, you knew the light definitely didn’t come at you and engulf you.

You felt that you were flung through the air. It was icy cold and felt like it tore your skin apart. That hadn’t been the first time your skin had been removed from your body. As much as it hurt, you had grown used to it.

There was a whooping noise when you landed on the floor.

You were quick to gather your bearings. Your Gáe Bulg was raised and aimed at the three in front of you. You thought you recognised them.

“Y/N?” one of them asked. His face and voice brought back faded memories, patched and altered from years of fights. You had tried to hold on to your memories, but they had become discordant.

“I know you,” you said, frowning. You didn’t lower your Gáe Bulg. “But I forgot.”

The man’s face broke, his joy and shock fading to hurt and sadness.

“Y/N,” the angel said. For two hundred years, you had been given the sight to see angel wings. This one’s was broken and the feathers bare. “Where were you?”

“Ethereal land,” you said. You weren’t sure why you trusted this angel. “Beyond anywhere. The old myths live there.”

“Where did you get that?” the tallest of the three asked. His hair was stupidly long. “That’s a Gáe Bulg, right? Or rather, the Gáe Bulg. It’s from Irish mythology, right?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you lowered the Gáe Bulg, holding it away from them. “Where am I?”

“You’re home,” the first one said. He was crying and was refraining himself from coming near you.

You’d forgotten about the word home. Somehow, this place felt like it. And then it clicked. “You’re Dean.”

“And you came home, Y/N.”

#dean winchester #part 2 #open ended #male readers #x male readers #dean Winchester x male reader #male-reads writes #supernatural #my fic #fanfic #spn fic #gae bulg #faceless ghost #mentions of mutilation #no physical damage

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exquisitley-obsessed · 6 years

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Pieces of People - Part 4

Summary: Vampire y/n returns to Mystic Falls after finding out her friend Stefan Salvatore has gone off the rails with blood, what she doesn’t expect to happen is find out her deep rooted connections with the Mikaelson family, in particular – Elijah.

Word Count: 2712

Pairings: Elijah Mikaelson x Reader

Warnings: triggered memories but not any bad memories

A/N: The tea is getting stewed.

MASTERLIST FOR THIS STORY,

MASTERLIST

The house just bled arrogance. From the security guards at the electric fence to the 5-minute drive through thick shrubbery only to open up to a house with a car park big enough for the main town mall. Everything was marble steps, broad balconies and doors so tall they would need at least four people to open them up every day.

“Wow…I already hate this place,” Damon said loudly as he got out of the car, turning up his nose at the sight of people excitedly rushing up the pale steps.

“You can say that again,” Y/n shivered following his gaze, the thin translucent, black scarf currently intertwined loosely with her elbows not protecting her very well against the evening’s chill.

“Okay,” Damon muttered sarcastically, “Wow I already hate this place.” Y/n sighed heavily, tonight was going to be a long night.

“Is it just me or did the temperature drop at least by 20?” Y/n loosely curled her arm through Damon’s own presented arm as she picked up her skirt and tried to make her way up the stairs.

“Now, I think…I think that might have to do with the family that is hosting this lovely party being a bunch of vampires.”

“Shh Damon!” Y/n squeaked slightly hysterical, the nerves had returned with a vengeance. “People might hear you,”

“So, they’ll hear me, hey are you okay? You’re taking like half an hour to climb five steps,” Damon peered down at where y/n was having a slight battle with her silky gown.

“Yeah, yeah,” Y/n sighed, “Just… don't really want to do this anymore,”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Damon said turning her to face him, “You can’t back out now…you owe it to yourself not to back out now.” Y/n nodded, thankful for the support but somehow, she still couldn’t breathe through the butterflies in her throat. “Hey? Is it the dress?” Damon cupped her cheeks in his hands, “Is it not the colour you wanted?”

“Damon,” Y/n half-giggled pushing his hands away.

“Because, believe me, if there was ever a dress to wear whilst confronting the family that could have possibly caused you an eternity of pain and suffering by supernatural means…that’s the dress,” Y/n nodded, now feeling the butterflies begin to dissolve away, she could do this.

“Okay, let’s go in,” She smiled about to walk in.

“Wait…that worked?” Damon raised an eyebrow, “A comment about your deep and emotional confrontation didn’t but a vague compliment on your dress did?”

“Seems so,” Y/n grinned, “And…I wouldn’t call that a vague compliment,”

“Hmm, agree to disagree.” Y/n smiled broadly at him before curling her arm through his once more.

“Come on Damon, let’s go get drunk off some of the most expensive champagne that’ll ever exist,”

“Finally! Someone with a flawless plan!”

“You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were ignoring me,” Klaus Mikaelson pondered as he approached his brother who was currently leaning against the bar.

“Oh, really?” Elijah responded, his drink his main focus, “Because I thought that even you Niklaus knew better and could understand that I am, in fact, ignoring you.”

“Now why would you do that?” Klaus responded, his voice dripping with the usual cockiness.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Elijah murmured, “Maybe I’m finally addressing all the times in the past when you screwed me over.”

“Oh Elijah,” Klaus smiled widely, leaning his back against the cool wood of the bar, “You’re supposed to be the moral one…remember? Leave reckless hatred to those who feel a little bit more than guilt and pain.”

Elijah decided not to respond, sometimes you have to treat Niklaus like a toddler, he needs to understand that the attention can’t always circle him. But maybe Elijah didn’t respond for another reason, that reason being that Klaus was and always right about him.

“You know, I think it’s about time you put your personal issues with me behind don’t you brother dearest?” Klaus smiled into his glass, his arms almost melting into the wood of the bar as his eyes focused on something at the front of the crowd.

“And…why would I do that Niklaus?” Elijah hummed playfully into his own glass.

“Because brother,” Klaus turned and glared good-humouredly into Elijah’s eyes, “Your worst nightmare…just walked into the party.”

With furrowed eyebrows, Elijah swung around from the bar and searched for what Niklaus could possibly be talking about, but he didn’t need to search for long.

He would never need to search for long when it involved her.

Walking in, y/n slowly began to feel the dread inside her like a stormy sea somehow settle into a motionless lake. All around her stood people dressed in similar elegance and grace, all of them chatting, drinking and mingling with some of the most respected people of Mystic Falls. Peering around for any familiar faces, y/n instantly spotted Stefan, keeping to himself in the corner of the room.

"Hey, I'm going to go talk to Stefan," Y/n leant over and whispered into Damon's ear, giving his arm a quick squeeze before making her way through the busybodies. Stefan who had already spotted her was welcoming her over with a warming smile. But just as she was about to smile back she collided her right shoulder with a passer-by.

"Oh, sorry love," She heard a voice whisper low as she quickly regained her balance.

"Oh no, don't worry about-" y/n swung around with a broad smile but as soon as she met his eyes she felt her muscles snap into ice. He was around a head taller than her, with dirty blonde hair that melted down from his temples to his jaw, bleeding effortlessly into a beard. Y/n's gut twisted ungodly fast into a knot and her toes began to curl in her heels, she could almost feel the hair of the beard prickling against her fingertips as she held onto him tightly. It felt so real she didn't know if she was just imagining the feeling.

His eyes were a tainted brown but as the light hit it at certain angles she could have sworn they were blue. An image was spat into her mind, an image of what those eyes would look like as the moonlight pierced them from a place of white sheets and frothy pillows at midnight. He was a stranger, but he felt more like a lover.

"Are you okay?" Even his voice felt like a forgotten memory.

"Yeah," She mumbled, feeling her knees suddenly weaken underneath her.

"Good," He smiled, something knowing in his eyes, "I'm glad."

And then he was gone, disappearing back into the bodies of black silk and golden jewellery. Y/n stood there for a moment frazzled and confused. What the hell just happened? With furrowed brows, y/n turned back around slowly catching sight of Stefan once more and making her way over.

When she looked down she could see her legs moving but her mind felt so far away, it felt as though someone had pulled a screen up in front of her vision and what she was seeing wasn't actually real.

"Are you okay?" Stefan's words cut through the noise of the party like glass, repeating the same words the stranger had asked only a few seconds, but what could have been years, ago.

"Yeah," She mumbled back, taking a glass of champagne of a passing tray, the bubbly liquid splashing against her nose as she took a sip due to her shaky hands.

"Looks like you just met Klaus," Stefan said, his eyes focused on the crowd at where Klaus was standing with the mayor.

"Wait..." The knot in y/n's gut pulled tighter, "That's Klaus?"

"Yeah," Stefan replied, "So do you feel like you're finally onto something?" Y/n's eyes flicked from Stefan to the crowd where it felt like she could look nowhere but Klaus Mikaelson. Just as her eyes fell on him he smiled faintly and flicked his eyes up from the mayor to stare right back, he was nodding along to something Mrs Lockwood was saying but clearly, not listening.

"Yes, I do...but whatever it is. I don't like it."

Since the moment she had walked through the door, it was safe to say that Elijah had passed through the five stages of grief. Denial – he had spent a solid hour flicking from the main staircase to the library, bringing up books on doppelgangers, witch spells to bring back the dead and even working out the actual probability that the woman who walked through the doors was not her.

Anger – after he had somehow settled on what he knew all along, that it was, in fact, her, he had felt anger as though it had come straight from the pits of hell. He stayed in his assigned room, not even able to think of what could have happened to put her in this situation. And not to mention the anger he felt at himself, anger for things he thought he had forgiven himself for long ago.

Bargaining – After he had composed himself, Elijah emerged from his room and almost walked directly into the man who she had walked in with. Damon Salvatore.

“Hello Damon,” Elijah’s voice came out smooth and calm, no one, not even his own mother could be able to tell that there was something up with him if he didn’t want her to.

“Hello Elijah,” Damon stared at him slightly incredulously.

“Come,” Elijah continued, “Walk with me.”

“Sorry, Elijah…old buddy” Damon began a touch of sarcasm laced within his voice, “But I have a situation just a little more important than late night strolls,”

“Is something wrong?” Elijah pondered, leaning out on the balcony that overlooked the party below, his mind instantly snapping to her face.

“No…” Damon murmured, “Why?” Elijah could see her out of the corner of his eye, her black dress catching the light in a way that he had already memorised.

“Good,” Elijah moved slightly closer to Damon, “Because if there was…I’d hope we were close enough now that you’d be able to tell me,” At this point, even Elijah didn’t know what he was eluding to. Damon paused heavily before responding, obviously holding his tongue.

“Sure,” Damon fake smiled, moving away quickly from Elijah but not before flicking his eyes over the balcony, a movement so little and unimportant that even a vampire would be stupid to make something of it, never mind an original. But right now, it was safe to say that Elijah’s head wasn’t on straight, with a growl in the back of his throat he walked right back into his room.

Depression – even the sight of her had opened the floodgates of emotions that had been buried for literally hundreds of years. Pain and guilt be the strongest of the bunch. Images of y/n’s face as she learnt about the secrets of the Mikaelson family, her crying into his shoulder as the moon was high in the sky, all the pain and distress him loving her had caused. Her blood sitting between his lips. Elijah had lived long enough to experience situations like this more than once. Situations where the pain is too sharp, too pure, that you didn’t cry, you didn’t wallow, you simply moved straight into the weight of depression. Depression would forever be the reason for Elijah’s sometimes considerably mechanic behaviour, besides, he had turned off all his emotion after her.

Acceptance – Elijah left his room behind, with its rich brown walls and strings upon strings of leather bound books. There was a problem that he needed to deal with tonight, any new ones that arose would have to wait until the sun rose up again tomorrow.

Y/n had spent the evening drifting from posh person to posh person, vaguely seeing their mouths moving but hearing the conversation Klaus was having with a young woman across the room. Ever since she had found out who Klaus was she had practically stalked him the whole evening, listening in on every word he even whispered using her advanced hearing.

It was funny how quickly the desire to meet Elijah had been replaced with wanting to know Klaus more, it was only towards the end of the evening that the name ‘Elijah’ even passed through her mind. Politely excusing herself from the wine cynosure, y/n spotted Elena across the room chatting with a handsome man in a fitted black suit.

“Y/n,” Elena said softly as she saw her approaching.

“Hi Elena,” Y/n smiled gently, “Look, I need your help.”

“Really? What’s wrong?” Elena immediately looked worried, her brows furrowing and hands beginning to shake.

“Oh, no sweetie,” Y/n immediately responded, “Nothing terrible,” She then looked Elena over, picking up on just how strange and uncomfortable she was acting, “Unless there’s something wrong with you?” Elena simply gave a y/n a look that translated exactly into ‘later’.

“Why do you need my help?” Elena asked.

“Well, I um,” Y/n immediately lowered her voice and moved closer to Elena, visibly flicking her eyes back and forth from Elena to the stranger standing less than a meter away.

“Oh um, sorry I didn’t introduce you two,” Elena mumbled, “Y/n, this is Elijah,” Y/n was just about to drag Elena away and have a conversation in private but that name stopped her in her tracks.

“Elijah this is…”

“Y/n.” His voice melted into the air.

If y/n had thought the image of Klaus had brought back a wave of memories, Elijah’s presence brought a tsunami in comparison. It was almost too much to bear. The worst thing about it all was that there was no real evidence that she had ever known him, just a feeling, and a strong one at that. Y/n’s breath grew shallow and she found herself thinking one thing – I don’t want to be here. That’s why she was so thankful for the mother original to interrupt the conversation.

“Ladies and gentleman…” The woman began causing everyone’s eyes to swim up towards the top of the staircase. Y/n flicked her eyes up to the woman, fiercely avoiding the sight of Elijah Mikaelson. Y/n could barely hear what the woman was saying over the noise of the blood rushing thick and heavy around her body, soon the image of Esther blended and blurred, and it took y/n a full 30 seconds to realise that her eyes were filling up with tears.

Blinking rapidly, y/n felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. She was stronger than this. Glancing around she suddenly noticed that everyone around her was smiling and raising their glasses before taking a sip of the rouge champagne. She caught the eye of a young man across the room, a man who smiled darkly before wetting his lips with the drink – Klaus. Turning away immediately, y/n came face to face again with Elijah. It was just too much.

“Y/n?” Elena’s voice swam from somewhere behind her, “Are you okay?”

Looking at Elijah she could only say one thing.

“I have to get out of here.”

It was somewhere between late night and early morning as Elijah sat in the main room, still dressed in his smart suit, fine whisky in hand, deep in thought.

“I’d thought you’d have given up by now,” Klaus said overly cheerily as he strode in, heading for the drinks table. Elijah didn’t respond for a moment.

“How is she back…Klaus?” Elijah could only stare at the carpeted floor.

“Asking the wrong person mate,” Klaus drank.

“She...” Elijah hated how broken his voice sounded.

“She what?” Klaus furrowed his brows, moving a little closer to his brother. When was the last time they had had a civilised conversation?

“She recognised me.”

“Me too,” Klaus felt his jaw tighten as he sunk onto the couch opposite his brother.

“How can she? Recognise us I mean,”

“We were young when we took away her memories brother,” Klaus sighed, taking another drink, “Not even 100 years old. We were bound not to do a very good job.”

“When you took away her memories, you mean,” Elijah’s voice dropped suddenly, and the words almost came out as a growl. Klaus abruptly stood, cocking his head to the side.

“I was protecting you, Elijah.”

“Yeah,” Elijah winced, lifting his glass to his lips, “Keep telling yourself that.”

next part

tag list: @bcfangirlthatswhy

@superwholock-fangir1

@selena8712

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