#thread: banshee :: lydia

[renmackree]

WIP Wednesday

I was tagged by the wonderous @hedwig221b and for once, I'm taking time to do it! Have some more of my Necromancer!Stiles

“She fell down the stairs –” Stiles started, but Lydia was already stepping down to the small stain on the ground. She removed the charm bracelet from her wrist and tucked it into her pocket, resting her hand on the ground. Stiles watched as Lydia closed her eyes and listened to the room around them, getting down on her hands and knees to press her ear against the floor. Minutes passed and Stiles stared at Lydia while she listened with her eyes closed, boredom creeping in like a fog. “Is she singing the Banana Boat song?”  “Shut up, Stiles.” “I’m just asking if you’re hearing anything.” Lydia sighed, “Music, bottles smashing, someone calling her name, someone crying they need to help her – someone saying they should go because they weren’t supposed to be there. And… and… someone asking me stupid questions so I can’t concentrate.” Stiles made a face at the dig. He could take a hint and decided to take a walk around the cellar, trying to see if there was anything else that could find. This part of the investigation wasn’t really something he could help with – while he could directly see and interact with the Eidolon guise once it had been summoned, Lydia was the only one who could find the Klotho. Balance and Partnership, Stiles repeated the mantra his mother said over and over when she was alive.  “Here!”  Jerking his head in her direction, he walked back to where Lydia was on her knees again, pulling a shimmering thread from the floor. It danced in the fluorescent light and looked as delicate as spiderwebs but Stiles knew it was as strong as steel. Nothing could snap the Klotho except a Banshee’s scream. Slowly she grabbed the little spool from her pocket and began spinning it around the wooden dowel until it was completely filled. Lydia handed it to Stiles, clapping her hands together as she stood up. “It’s not as long as we’d like it, but it should give you a good twenty minutes.” “More than enough time to confirm if it’s an accident,” Stiles agreed. He slipped the spool into his pocket and patted it a few times.

Low stakes tags: @cw0ffeefandomaddict; @rugbertgoeshome; @dear-massacre; @violetfairydust;

@endwersed; @thotpuppy; @keldjinfae; @teencopandthesourwolf; @definitivelydrivel;

I'm sure some (all) of you have been tagged already, but !

[venactricisfics]

Bound by Instinct: A Teen Wolf Story

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter List

I woke up with a sharp gasp, my chest heaving as I fought to separate the nightmare from reality. My skin was damp with sweat, and the echoes of Gerard’s voice still rang in my ears.

We find them, we kill them all.

The words twisted in my mind, overlapping with different memories—mine, Peter’s, maybe even Scott’s. It was impossible to tell anymore. The lines between what I had lived and what I had seen through their eyes were blurring together.

I sat up, rubbing my temples, trying to steady my breathing. The room was dark, but I wasn’t alone. A familiar presence was near, watching.

“You’re shaking, Little Wolf.”

Peter’s voice was quiet, but there was an edge to it. He had felt it too—through our bond, through whatever had tethered us together since we were young.

I didn’t respond immediately, my pulse still racing. Finally, I whispered, “It’s them. It’s always them.”

Peter didn’t ask who. He already knew.

I turned toward him, barely able to make out his face in the dim light. “It’s not just my memories coming back, Peter. I feel everything. Yours, Scott’s—anyone I’ve connected with.” I swallowed hard. “It’s like they’re bleeding together, like I’m losing control of what’s real and what isn’t.”

Peter shifted closer, his sharp eyes studying me carefully. “That’s dangerous,” he murmured. “If you can’t separate your own thoughts from someone else’s, you could lose yourself completely.”

I clenched my fists, my nails pressing into my palms. “I won’t. I can’t afford to.”

Peter’s expression darkened. “And if they come for you again? If Gerard still sees you as a threat?”

I met his gaze without hesitation. “Then we stop them before they get the chance.”

He studied me for a long moment before a slow, satisfied smirk crossed his lips. “That’s my girl.”

I buried myself into him, to ground myself into something I knew was real. The connection my pack had with the Hales, my connection with Peter was something they were afraid of, but I still didn’t understand why.

When we form packs, we’re able to keep each other in check, keep ourselves from losing complete control. It’s when we were isolated, alone, that’s when we were most dangerous. 

“We need to bring the rest of the pack home,” Peter said, arms wrapped around me, “we can’t be divided now.” 

“The rest of the pack?” I looked up at him.

“Derek’s bitten wolves,” he said, “Isaac, Boyd, and Erica. They were turned by Derek when he was an alpha. A bunch of scared teenagers. They left when the Alpha Pack tried to get Derek to kill them.”

“I understand why you aren’t an Alpha anymore,” I murmured, “but what happened to Derek?”

“He gave up his alpha spark to save Cora,” Peter responded. 

I absorbed that information in silence, the weight of it settling over me. Derek had sacrificed his alpha status to save his sister. That wasn’t something I’d expected—Peter always spoke about power like it was everything. But Derek had given his up without hesitation.

“We need them,” Peter continued. “Isaac, Boyd, Erica… they’re still pack, even if they ran. We need to bring them back before Gerard or anyone else gets to them first.”

I nodded slowly, my mind already racing. If we were going to war—because let’s be honest, that’s what this was turning into—then we needed numbers. And we needed them fast.

“I don’t even know where to start looking,” I admitted.

Peter smirked. “Luckily, I do.”

“Scott’s pack is strange,” I said watching as he opened his laptop. “They’re not all wolves. Malia’s a coyote, Kira’s a fox, Lydia’s a banshee, and Stiles is just human.”

“Scott also has a Beta,” Peter said, “younger high school kid. Liam, I think his name is. Anger issues.” He smirked at that last part. 

I leaned over his shoulder, watching as he pulled up what looked like an old email thread. “You’ve been keeping tabs on them?”

Peter shrugged. “Call it an insurance policy. You never know when you’ll need to cash in on a favor.”

I narrowed my eyes but let it slide. “So what’s the plan? We track down Derek’s old pack, convince them to come back, and hope they don’t try to kill us in the process?”

Peter smirked. “More or less.”

I sighed. “Great. Just another day in Beacon Hills.”

“With the pack united,” he said, “we can take out the hunters.”

“Should we talk to Derek and Scott before we start dragging back their old pack mates?” I asked. 

“This way is much more,” Peter looked up at me with that smirk of his, “fun.”

I crossed my arms, giving him a pointed look. “Yeah, because nothing screams fun like tracking down traumatized werewolves and convincing them to rejoin a pack that fell apart.”

Peter chuckled. “You wound me, Little Wolf. But I promise you, this is necessary.”

I sighed. “Fine. But if we get our asses handed to us because we didn’t warn Derek and Scott first, I’m blaming you.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” he said with a smirk. “Now, let’s go find some lost wolves.”

—---

“I can’t fucking believe you didn’t tell me you called them,” Derek’s voice was low, laced with anger, as he glared at Peter, who lounged on the sofa in the loft like he hadn’t a care in the world. His smirk only deepened Derek’s scowl.

“She did suggest I tell you,” Peter replied, his tone casual, almost teasing, as he gestured vaguely toward me. “But surprise reunions are more exciting, don’t you think?”

“No, I don’t think,” Derek snapped, his hands clenched at his sides. “Though I am surprised they’re coming. Cora, I understand, but the rest?”

Peter quirked a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement. “You doubt my powers of persuasion, nephew?”

I stepped between them, my voice steady. “Does it really matter how they were notified of this new threat? They’re coming, and we can fight it together.”

Derek’s eyes flicked to me, his jaw tightening. “The problem with us being all in one place,” he said, his tone heavy, “is it puts a target on all of us.”

“There’s already a target on all of us,” I countered, my voice rising slightly. “The hunters are picking us off one by one. We can’t keep pretending isolation is the answer.”

Derek exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “I get that. But do you have any idea how hard it was for them to walk away the first time? And now we’re dragging them back into this?”

“No one’s dragging anyone,” I countered. “They’re making their own choices. And maybe this time, they don’t have to run.”

Peter stretched lazily, clearly enjoying the tension. “See? That’s the spirit, Little Wolf. Strength in numbers. Besides, it’s not like they have anywhere better to be.”

Derek shot him a glare but didn’t argue. He knew we were right. The pack was coming home, whether he liked it or not. I could see the conflict in his eyes—the weight of responsibility, the fear of loss. But underneath it all, there was a flicker of hope. A hope that maybe, just maybe, this could work.

I plopped down on the couch beside Peter, the leather creaking softly under my weight. His arm draped around my shoulders almost instinctively, his fingers brushing lightly against my arm. Like something in him needed to be connected to me. I felt that same pull, that same instinctive need to be close to him.

A pounding at the door pulled Derek away, his footsteps heavy as he crossed the loft. He yanked the door open, and Scott stormed in, his face a mixture of frustration and disbelief.

“Which one of you contacted Jackson?” he asked as he stormed in. He stared directly at Peter already knowing the answer.

Peter smirked, completely unbothered. “I did. You’re welcome.”

Scott looked like he was seconds away from shifting. “Peter, do you ever stop meddling?”

“Not when it’s this entertaining,” Peter mused, fingers lazily tracing circles on my shoulder. “Besides, if we’re reuniting the pack, why leave out the prodigal lizard?”

Scott groaned, running a hand through his hair. “Jackson isn’t just a kanima anymore. He barely even considers himself part of this pack.”

“Yet he’s on his way,” Peter pointed out. “Curious, don’t you think?”

I glanced between them. “He wouldn’t come back unless he thought there was a real reason to. Maybe deep down, he still gives a damn.”

Scott clenched his jaw, clearly frustrated. “You better hope so. Because if he’s not on our side when he gets here, that’s on you, Peter.”

Peter just chuckled, his grip on me tightening slightly. “Oh, Scott. I think you underestimate how persuasive I can be.”

“So when is this reunion going to take place?” Derek asked. 

“Their flights should be landing,” Peter glanced at his watch, “any minute now. One of you should probably head over to pick them up.”

Scott pinched the bridge of his nose. “You didn’t even arrange for them to get here?”

Peter shrugged. “They’re capable of finding their way. But if you’d like to roll out the welcome wagon, be my guest.”

Derek sighed. “I’ll go.”

“I’ll go with you,” Scott added quickly, already heading for the door.

I shifted against Peter, glancing up at him. “Are you sure they’ll even want to stay?”

“Oh, they’ll stay,” Peter murmured, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Because the second they step foot in Beacon Hills, they’ll realize there’s nowhere else they belong.”

His words sent a shiver through me, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he was talking about them—or me. I swallowed hard, my gaze flicking to his. “What about the ones that are already here in Beacon Hills?”

Peter’s eyes darkened as he leaned in, his lips just a fraction away from mine. “We’ll worry about that later, Little Wolf. I just got you alone.”

“Peter,” I breathed, my heart pounding in my chest as my gaze locked with his. “There’s so much that we need to do.”

“There’s always something that needs to be done,” he murmured, his fingers trailing lightly down my arm. “But right now, all I care about is you.”

His lips hovered over mine, the space between us charged with something unspoken yet undeniable. My pulse raced, my body torn between the urgency of our situation and the pull of him—of us.

I swallowed hard. “Peter, we can’t afford distractions.”

He smirked, his fingers tilting my chin up. “Then stop looking at me like that, Little Wolf.”

I exhaled shakily. “Like what?”

His lips ghosted over mine, his breath warm. “Like you want this as much as I do.”

“I…” I started, but my words faltered as his hand slid to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair. I could feel the heat of his body, the way his chest rose and fell with each breath. And then, before I could stop him, before I could even think to pull away, his lips were on mine.

The kiss was slow at first, a tentative exploration that quickly deepened into something far more passionate. His tongue swept into my mouth, claiming me in a way that left no room for doubt. I moaned softly, my hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt as I pulled him closer. His grip on me tightened, his fingers digging into my skin as if he was afraid I might disappear.

The world outside ceased to exist, the looming threat of hunters and the impending reunion of the pack fading into the background. All that mattered was this—was him. His lips, his hands, the way his body pressed against mine, igniting a fire that threatened to consume us both.

When he finally pulled away, his breath was ragged, his eyes darkened with desire. “Tell me to stop,” he whispered, his voice rough.

I shook my head, my own breath coming in short gasps. “I can’t.”

His lips crashed into mine again, fiercer this time, more urgent. His hands roamed over my body, igniting every nerve ending in their wake. I arched into him, my fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against mine.

“Peter,” I gasped between kisses, my voice trembling with need. “Wait.”

He stilled, his eyes searching mine. “Wait?” he repeated, his voice tinged with frustration.

I nodded, my chest rising and falling as I tried to catch my breath. “The others… they could come back any minute.”

A low growl rumbled in his chest, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he leaned his forehead against mine, his breath warm against my skin. “I don’t care,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. “Let them see. Let everyone see that you’re mine.”

His words sent a shiver through me, but before I could respond, the sound of the door opening echoed through the loft. We both froze, our eyes darting toward the entrance.

“We’re back,” Scott called out, his voice carrying through the space. “And we’ve got company.”

Peter let out a low growl, his grip on me tightening for a moment before he reluctantly pulled away. “Later,” he whispered, his voice a promise. “This isn’t over.”

I nodded, my heart still racing as I tried to steady my breathing. But as Scott and Derek entered the room, followed by the rest of the pack, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of disappointment. The moment was gone, but the tension between us remained, simmering just below the surface, waiting to erupt.

Peter’s hand lingered on my waist for a moment longer before he finally released me, his eyes locking with mine one last time. “We’ll finish this,” he said softly, his voice carrying a weight that sent a shiver down my spine.

I swallowed hard, my gaze flicking to the others as they filed into the room. “I know,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. But as I watched Jackson step inside, his expression unreadable, I couldn’t help but wonder if we were walking into something far more dangerous than I had anticipated.

The tension in the room was palpable as the pack gathered. Their faces were a mixture of relief and apprehension—relief that they were all finally together, but apprehension about what lay ahead. The weight of everything we had to face pressed down on us like an invisible force, but the moments that had passed between Peter and me still lingered in the air, charging the atmosphere.

Peter took a step back, his eyes lingering on me for just a second longer before he shifted his focus to the rest of the group. He knew I could feel the pull between us, and it was clear that the others did too. It was as if the room held its breath, waiting for the storm to break, for the tension to snap.

Scott cleared his throat, his voice cutting through the thick silence. "Alright, everyone, let's get to business. Jackson, Isaac, Erica, Boyd, I know you're all back here because you want answers. We all want answers. But we also need to be ready for what's coming."

Jackson’s eyes darted to Peter, lingering for a moment before they shifted to me, something unreadable in his gaze. "You’re not just fighting hunters," he said, his voice low and steady. "You’re fighting something bigger, something that’s been building for years. And it’s coming for all of us."

I swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling over me like a heavy cloak. Peter’s hand subtly brushed mine, grounding me, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were all being pulled toward a dangerous precipice. The reunion with the pack had been inevitable, but the truth—our shared history, the Argents, the wolves, everything—was slowly unfurling like a dark and twisted tapestry.

"Then we fight," Peter’s voice was a low growl, his eyes flicking toward Jackson, who was now looking back at him, the unspoken challenge between them lingering.

"How do we fight something that we barely understand?" Derek asked, his voice laced with uncertainty. "The hunters are one thing, but what if there’s more to this? What if we’re not just dealing with a few rogue hunters?"

"We’ll figure it out," Scott said, his tone firm. "We have to. We don't have the luxury of waiting for answers." His gaze shifted between Peter and me, something unspoken passing between them. "Right?"

I nodded slowly, but the knot in my stomach tightened. It wasn’t just the Argents or the hunters we had to worry about anymore. Something darker, something older, was stirring—and it was watching us all.

The she-wolf, who I assumed was Erica stepped closer to me. Her eyes moved over me like she wanted to challenge me. “Who is she?” 

“That is Nova,” Derek answered, “retract your claws, Erica.”

“You’re not my Alpha anymore, Derek,” she muttered, her eyes glowing gold as she circled me. 

I stared back at her accepting her challenge. I didn’t know this girl. But I could smell her fear, her hatred. A low growl rumbled in the back of my throat but I didn’t back down. 

Peter smirked, clearly amused. 

Erica tilted her head, a slow, almost predatory smile forming on her lips. "Oh, she’s got some fight in her," she mused, still circling me like I was prey. "That’s cute."

I didn't move, my body rigid but calm, watching her every step. I didn’t know her, didn’t know what she wanted from me, but I wasn’t about to let her think she could intimidate me. If she wanted to challenge me, she’d have to do more than posture.

"Erica," Boyd’s voice cut through the thick tension in the air, a warning laced in his tone.

She sighed dramatically, finally stopping in front of me. "Fine," she muttered, but there was still something wild in her golden eyes.

Peter, still smirking, leaned casually against the wall. "I was hoping for a bit more of a show," he remarked. "You disappoint me, Erica."

"Yeah, well," she shot back, rolling her eyes, "you always did love a little bloodshed."

"Not always," he mused, his gaze flicking toward me before returning to Erica. "But it does make things more entertaining."

I exhaled slowly, steadying myself as Erica finally stepped back. I could still feel her eyes on me, measuring, judging. The reunion of Derek’s old pack was proving to be more complicated than expected. There was tension, unresolved wounds, and an unspoken hierarchy still at play.

"Now that we've established the pecking order," Peter said, pushing off the wall, "can we move on to more pressing matters? Like the people who actually want to kill us?"

Erica scoffed but said nothing.

Derek sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "Right. Let’s focus. We have bigger problems than old grudges."

I stole one last glance at Erica before turning my attention back to Peter. The games, the challenges—they were only beginning.

“Where are the others?” I asked looking for the rest of our pack. 

“They’re on their way,” Scott said, “We don’t have time to waste fighting each other. We have to work together to stop whatever is coming.”

As if on cue, a knock on the door announced the arrival. I sniffed the air, it was Kira, Malia, Lydia, Stiles, and another human. 

I braced myself as they joined us. This man who was with them smelled familiar somehow. 

“Nova,” Scott saw the way I was studying the new human, “he’s not an enemy. This is Chris Argent.” 

“You brought a hunter here?” I felt my canines lengthen and my eyes burn. 

Peter’s hand was on me in an instant, a silent reminder to stay in control, but my body was already reacting on instinct. A hunter. Here. In our territory.

Chris Argent stood calmly, his expression unreadable, but I could see the tension in his posture. He knew exactly what his presence meant to me—to all of us.

"He’s not like the others," Scott insisted, stepping between us. "Chris has been helping us for years. He doesn’t hunt like Gerard or Kate."

"That doesn’t erase what he’s done," I growled, my voice barely human.

Chris met my gaze, unwavering. "You’re right," he said simply. "I’ve done things I can’t take back. But I’m not here as your enemy. I’m here because I want Gerard stopped just as much as you do."

I didn’t move, my body still thrumming with anger. Peter’s fingers curled slightly against my waist, grounding me. "We should hear him out," he murmured.

I turned my glare to Peter. "You trust him?"

Peter let out a short, amused chuckle. "Oh, absolutely not. But I do love a good redemption arc."

Chris sighed. "I’m not looking for redemption. I’m here because Gerard has crossed a line. He doesn’t just want rogue werewolves dead—he wants all of you wiped off the map. Supernaturals, anyone who sides with them… even hunters who don’t follow his vision. He’s assembling something bigger than just a group of killers. He’s waging a war."

The room fell into heavy silence.

Scott looked at me, pleading for me to trust him on this. But trust wasn’t something I gave freely. Not to hunters. Not to anyone.

Peter leaned in slightly, his breath warm against my ear. "If he’s telling the truth," he whispered, "we’ll need him. If he’s lying… we’ll handle it."

I exhaled slowly, forcing my claws to retract, my eyes to dim back to normal. "Fine," I said at last. "But if he so much as breathes wrong, he won’t live long enough to regret it."

Chris nodded, accepting the threat without argument.

"Good," Peter said, clapping his hands together. "Now that we’ve established the terms of our fragile alliance, let’s talk about how we plan to kill Gerard Argent."

“Why did he do this to me?” I stared at Chris Argent, “Why does he want to keep us apart?”

“I wish I could explain it all,” he told me, “the Hales were a powerful pack. We heard rumors of a pack up north that was just as powerful, a pack that spent more time as wolves than as humans. Even had actual wolves in the pack.”

“Your father had them all killed,” I said, “my mother, the wolves, the whole fucking pack. We just lived peacefully in the woods.”

Chris’s face was lined with something close to regret, but I wasn’t interested in his guilt. It wouldn’t bring them back. It wouldn’t undo what had been done.

“I didn’t know the full extent of it,” he admitted, his voice low. “Not until it was too late. Gerard always preached control—order. But when it came to your pack, he saw something he couldn’t control. That terrified him.”

“He didn’t just want to kill us,” I said, my voice thick with emotion. “He wanted to erase us. Wipe us from existence.”

Chris didn’t argue. He knew I was right.

I could feel Peter watching me, his presence steady, grounding. He hadn’t let go of me since I’d nearly lost control. I wasn’t sure I wanted him to.

“The thing I don’t understand,” I went on, stepping closer to Chris, “is why he kept me alive. Why he didn’t kill me with the rest of my pack.”

Chris exhaled slowly. “Because you were different. The last of something rare.”

“A Sigma,” Peter murmured, almost to himself.

Chris nodded. “Gerard doesn’t just want you dead, Nova. He wants to study you. Understand what makes you different—what makes you stronger. And when he does…” His jaw tightened. “He’ll make sure no one like you ever exists again.”

I felt my stomach twist.

“He’s never going to get that chance,” I said coldly.

Chris met my gaze, solemn. “Then we’d better make sure of it.”

“How do we stop him?” I asked, my voice steady despite the weight of everything Chris had just revealed.

“Together,” Scott answered without hesitation. “We work together, we fight together.”

“Or we die together,” Peter added with a smirk, arms crossed as he leaned casually against the wall.

Lydia rolled her eyes. “Not exactly helpful.”

“Just telling the truth,” Peter shrugged, unbothered.

Lydia ignored him, her expression growing more serious. “Something is coming,” she said, her voice tinged with the eerie certainty that only a banshee could possess. “And it’s not just Gerard.”

The room went silent.

“What do you mean?” Derek asked, his eyes narrowing.

Lydia hesitated for only a moment before stepping forward. “I don’t know all of it yet, but I can feel it. Something big. Bigger than just hunters with guns and vendettas. Death is coming, and if we don’t figure this out fast… it’s going to take more than just Gerard Argent.”

I felt a chill run down my spine.

Scott turned to her, his jaw tightening. “Can you figure out how soon?”

Lydia shook her head. “No. Not yet. But soon.” She glanced at me, her sharp green eyes searching mine. “And I think you’re at the center of it, Nova.”

I swallowed hard, the weight of her words settling in my chest like a stone.

“We don’t wait for it to come to us,” Peter said suddenly, his voice quieter now, but no less deadly. “We strike first.”

“That’s reckless,” Scott argued.

“That’s survival,” Peter countered. “We don’t sit around hoping for a premonition to tell us when it’s time to act. We take control before it’s too late.”

“I hate to say it,” Derek said with a sigh, “but for once, Peter has a point.”

Scott looked between them, his jaw clenching as he considered the options. I could see the conflict in his eyes—the part of him that wanted to be the leader, the protector, the one who always found a way without becoming a monster himself.

But this wasn’t just about being the hero anymore.

This was war.

—-----

I stared out the window of Derek’s loft. The pack drama had quietened and they were catching up like old friends. I suppose they were. But I wasn’t apart of that. I didn’t know them from before the world went to shit. Before I was the cause of it. 

“You ok?” Stiles’ voice cut through my thoughts. 

“Yeah, sorry I just don’t feel up to pack bonding time,” I said, “they aren’t my pack.”

“They are,” he said, “though I could do without Jackson and his poison-dripping claws. But he’s still pack. I’m the one that really shouldn’t fit here. Being 0% supernatural creature but somehow I do fit. And so do you.”

“Maybe,” I muttered, “but I can’t help but feel like everything is my fault. If I hadn’t come here none of you would be in danger.”

“I know you’re new to Beacon Hills,” he smiled, “this place has endless supply of danger. And Lydia said you were the center of it, not the cause of it.”

“I don’t understand what else she could mean,” I said. “Why am I so fucking important?’

“Well, I guess that’s something we all have to figure out,” Stiles responded, “I know since you’ve been here Peter hasn’t gone on any murderous rampages.” 

I huffed out a laugh, shaking my head. “That’s a low bar, Stiles.”

“Hey, it’s progress,” he grinned, rocking back on his heels. “For Peter, anyway.”

I turned back toward the window, watching the city lights flicker in the distance. “I just don’t get it. Why me?”

Stiles was quiet for a moment before stepping closer. “I don’t think it’s about why. It’s about what. What makes you different? What makes you dangerous to Gerard? Because that’s the real question, isn’t it?”

I swallowed hard, his words hitting a little too close to home. What made me different? What made me dangerous?

Peter’s voice drifted through my mind, the way he always called me Little Wolf like it meant something more than just a nickname. And Lydia—Lydia had said I was at the center of it.

“I don’t know,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.

Stiles sighed. “Well, good news is, you’re not alone in figuring it out. Bad news is, if you don’t, there’s a pretty good chance it’s gonna bite you in the ass.”

I shot him a dry look. “Thanks for the pep talk.”

He smirked. “Anytime.”

For a moment, we just stood there, the weight of everything hanging between us. The pack laughing behind us. The city stretching out beyond the glass. And the unshakable feeling that this—all of this—was only the beginning.

“Hey, um, I know this is going to sound weird,” Stiles said. “I mean, it is weird, but I’m going to ask you anyway.”

“What could be any weirder than everything that’s happened so far?” I shot back.

“Can you spit in this?” he handed me a test tube. 

I looked at him and then at the tube, “Ok you’re right, it is weird.” 

“I just want to test a theory,” he said, “Do you have to be the one doing the healing thing or is it just your saliva? I mean don’t get me wrong if you licking me stops me from bleeding out so be it but it doesn’t seem very sanitary.” 

I stared at him, then at the test tube in my hand, then back at him again. “You seriously want me to spit in this so you can… what? Smear it on a paper cut and see if it magically heals?”

Stiles shrugged. “Basically, yeah.”

I sighed, rubbing my temple. “This is what my life has come to.”

“Hey, it’s for science,” he defended, gesturing toward the tube. “And, you know, survival. What if we can bottle your healing? Emergency first aid, werewolf edition.”

I rolled my eyes but uncapped the test tube. “Fine. But if this backfires and you grow a tail or something, that’s on you.”

“Noted,” Stiles said, watching intently as I spit into the tube. He held it up like he’d just collected the most valuable sample in the world.

“Now what?” I asked.

“Now,” he grinned, “we find out if you’re a walking miracle cure or just really bad at sharing drinks.”

[quiritaetusmoved]

closed // i just think this is too funny not to thread // @razorfst

⸻   wisps   of   auburn   silk   float   behind   her   as   a   breeze   blows   through   the   preserve   ,   tongue   clicking   against   ivory   enamel   as   they   reach   a   large   clearing   .   front   and   center   within   the   trees   lies   an   enormous   tree   stump   ,   roots   creeping   out   in   every   direction   .   ❝   so   this   is   the   magic   scary   tree   ,   ❞   the   banshee   deadpans   ,   shrugging   as   she   pivots   back   to   face   her   boyfriend   .   ❝   and   that   ,   ❞   she   murmurs   ,   petite   digits   curling   into   the   fabric   of   his   shirt   ;   pine   needles   crunch   underfoot   as   she   steps   in   closer   ,   gaze   flickering   up   to   andrei's   countenance   .   ❝   basically   concludes   the   tour   of   lydia   martin's   teenage   trauma   hotspots   .   still   think   i'm   a   catch   ?   ❞

[godsmeet]

* where only love & gods meet.

ind. private multi muse - featuring ... various characters from literature (mostly) + other media. find information under the cut. older muses will be portrayed, despite not being listed. memes before starters. will be heavily focused on plotted dynamics. studies in: first loves, heartbreak, grief, losing hope + finding it again, finding yourself, getting your pink back.

heavily affiliated with: @iridescint (kt) + @norholy (lj) + @leafde (florence) + @ayarn (allie)

currently reading: tba. currently watching: chicago fire + chicago pd + chicago med.

* this blog is mutuals only, and mostly for friends. i run my blog quite dynamics driven. i don't quite need a plot planned for every thread or meme, but if we've talked about the relationship we're writing - it helps me with muse a great deal.

* dni. please don't interact with my blog if you're in the harry potter fandom, if your main focus on your blog is eating disorders or images of self harm. please do not interact if you're below the age of 21.

* memes are the easiest way to get a thread up and running for me. there's no limit to how many you can send me, and bonus points if you send me for more muses than just the one.

* if we've written before, this muse list isn't for you. i'll write anyone i've written in the past or plotted for with my friends, the muse list is for the people i'm starting up things with, and the things that i want to focus on.

⁽*⁾ allie hayes - actress. off campus. ⁽*⁾ aoife molloy - student. boys of tommen. ⁽*⁾ caroline forbes - vampire. the vampire diaries. ⁽*⁾ dean di lauretnis - hockey coach. shadowhunters. - allie hayes (exclusives) ⁽*��� dimitri belikov - guardian / damphir. vampire academy. - rose hathaway (exclusives) ⁽*⁾ isabel conklin - beach bum. the summer i turned pretty. - conrad fisher (exclusives) + jeremiah fisher (exclusives) steven conklin (exclusives) ⁽*⁾ lydia martin - banshee. teen wolf. ⁽*⁾ misery lark - vampire. bride. ⁽*⁾ rosalie belmont - business manager. rose hill. ⁽*⁾ scott mccall - true alpha. teen wolf. ⁽*⁾ shannon lynch - student. boys of tommen. ⁽*⁾ summer hamilton - gym owner + lawyer. boys of tommen. - rhett eaton (exclusives) ⁽*⁾ tessa gray - warlock + shadowhunter. shadowhunters. ⁽*⁾ vasilisa dragomir - moroi / vampire. vampire academy. ⁽*⁾ willa grant - horse rider + nanny. chestnut springs. ⁽*⁾ winter hamilton - mother + doctor. chestnut springs. - theo silva (exclusives)

[spellbcok]

𝐇𝐖𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝟏𝟓 : plot call ( for my sanity i'll make a separate post related to starters ). i won't be dropping any on-going threads, nor will i begin anything new or post any non-headcanon memes until after the event. but feel free to do so on your end. hit the heart and i'll message you for event related plots. under the cut are basic ideas of where my muses minds are at and whether or not they will be involved in any way.

for all muses: i'm up for any or all of my muses getting injured or injuring others (purposefully or not).

anya jenkins: self-preservation will kick in almost immediately. they will be hiding or seeking out someone she has gotten close to who are more fit for combat. most likely, though, they'll be trying to find a way to get the hell out of dodge as it's very much their mo.

ji euntak: she will be out there, jumping in front of swords (metaphorical or literal) aimed at friends, family, strangers. basically willing to save anyone, the self-sacrificial type that she is.

lorelai gilmore: being an extremely privileged upper middle class woman whose biggest hardship was being a single, teen mom (which, granted, was difficult), this will be her first experience with such violence outside of watching it. but mama bear instincts will kick in and she'll be doing whatever it takes to search for/protect rory.

lydia martin: her banshee abilities are really going to go haywire. she'll be drawing strange pictures, finding dead bodies, and maybe have her first scream / wail ? outside of trying to deal with that, she is also part of the fbi so she'll be working out who the killer(s) is/are. definitely would love for her to find bodies as it's kind of her thing, but obviously would not be something we'd know at this very moment. soo feel free to just say 'if my muse dies lydia can find them' and if it happens then i'll include it in her threads and what have you.

nam onjo: she's pretty unfazed by everything and just trying to get through each day. anyone sus will be tased and/or pepper sprayed first and asked questions later. ** new addition: she sees an opportunity to make a quite a bit of money by basically being a errand person for those in hiding. so hit her up on the taskrabbit-esque app if you need some takeout delivered or more alcohol or whatever. there's an injury/death tax so it'll be pricey but at least your muse won't have to take the risk themselves!

sabrina spellman: another self-sacrificial one, but she's going to actively fight people who mess with her loved ones as well as try to figure out who the culprit(s) are. she's been practicing her magic so she'll use that for defense. and, just like riding a bike, she might spout out some more powerful and dangerous spells that could cause injury.

tatia: no stranger to death and chaos, tatia knows how to protect herself. she'll likely stay in her studio or apartment and avoid everything. maybe she'll go to some trusted people/friends because safety in numbers and all. but she is definitely not going out of her way to help anyone or solve anything.

tinker bell: tink is still learning how to use a cellphone and now she has to avoid murderers? how annoying. the fairy is not about that and will fly away from threats. possibly goad and be a little brat about it tbh. she's also learned a bit about capitalism and the whole supply and demand thing, so she'd be willing to sell a bit of pixie dust so your muse can also fly (limited, so far 1/3 taken).

**** new muses

brenda bates: she is enjoying the chaos but feigning disgust and sympathy for the victims. she is likely having a house party or attending one because she's from the 90s and that is what they do in the face of a crazy serial killer being on the loose.

one specific plot idea i have for 1 unlucky muse is for her to injure them while in her hooded mask (image). with all the chaos, her crime will just get lost in the sea of others. however, her crimes emulate urban legends so i can give you a small list or if you have one in mind feel free to send it to me.

chloe decker: she will be investigating. she is not only trying to figure out who the culprit(s) is/are but why this was happening. she's from la so she is familiar with serial murders and strange happenings. but these sudden bursts scream otherworldly doing. she would know since she has spent time with the devil, a demon, and an angel.

[ofcelestialstories]

.｡.:*☆ tag dump Lydia!

[witsserviceablesubstitute]

I'm rewatching Teen Wolf to see if the queerbaiting was that bad and with six years of separation it's not as terrible in some aspects, worse in others.

The shows biggest weakness is the reliance on increasingly bananas plotlines, the inconsistent world and character building (Derek is 19 in the first season, 24 in the third), and its inability to hold onto actors.

The characters are strong though. The narrative allows parents to be people rather than archetypes, and Lydia discovering she's a Banshee is inspired and unique. It just— it doesn't know what to do with all those character threads and even Scott becomes a plot-puppet.

The story shines when it doesn't get too concerned with pairing off its mains into neat heteronormativity and actually takes interesting risks with character development. It needed to keep its pulse on the characters as the heart of the story because, unfortunately, the plot beats become way too erratic to keep audience interest without emotional investment.

The queercatching though...

It's still egregious but without BTS baiting it feels like Stiles has another— mostly unrequited— crush. Which is fair. They're fast and loose with Derek's age but he sees Scott and Stiles as kids at the beginning (who can blame him, with his past) and they are.

I'm not saying the show wouldn't, it absolutely would and has (only no one comments when it's a minor girl with a 23 or 223 year old supernatural man), I just don't think Derek would. Even if he gets himself reasonably together enough to acknowledge his feelings for Stiles are complicated and difficult to elucidate (which they are because of the queerbaiting), he'd let Stiles grow up without putting voice to it.

Stiles's bisexuality though.

The fact this is hinted at as strongly as it is within the text to the bitter end and is never fully realised fills me with a complicated anger, difficult to elucidate.

Other observations:

- Lydia is a bi magnet and maybe polyamorous. (And I'm also still completely in love with her).

- Scott is a better protagonist than I remember. Soft and sweet and imperfect. Low-key bi. (There's a reason he and Stiles find such a kinship).

- I still dislike all the Argents. They're fascists and you can't convince me otherwise.

- Jackson was a really fun asshole. Unrepentantly terrible, humorously so without being comically evil, vulnerable when needed, and a great foil for Scott and Stiles. Strong actor.

- There are many moments where it could be said Stiles has a crush on Derek (and Scott), but it's the last episode that's the linch for me. Him imagining himself as Derek's hero with BI emblazoned clearly on his chest. I mean. Come on.

- Derek's entire character; his emotionality, his journey, his expression... It deserved more careful building. Moments of lightness, time and space to work through the everest of pain the writing kept heaping onto him.

- I wish all the highschool characters were in university. The actors playing Scott and Stiles are 19 at shows start and they're the only ones passing as teenagers. It'd make some of the plotlines less uncomfortable too.

- Teen Wolf is both misogynistic and heteronormative but also queer and fleshes out its female characters in ways irregular for 2010s tv.

- Boyd should have had a backstory. So too should have Braeden. Industry racism is evident in how they're treated. Also, Scott and Derek should be informed by their culture rather than 'ambiguously brown' and 'read as white' (respectively).

- Kira is Scott's best love interest.

[momentofmemory]

FICTOBER 2020 - day twenty-four

Prompt #22: “And neither should you.”

Fandom: Teen Wolf

Characters: Scott McCall, Malia Tate, Melissa McCall, misc.

Words: 2326

Author’s Note: There are seven people in the McCall house when it gets shot up by Monroe’s men. Only two of them can heal. Aftermath of 6x16; Scott POV.

>> six and one

Scott knows, objectively, that the make up of his pack is a little unusual for a werewolf.

Three wolves, a werecoyote, a chimera, a kitsune. Maybe a kanima, or at least part of one. A banshee. No less than four humans if he’s being selective, but in practice, probably a lot more than that.

It’s never felt like a liability until now.

There’s glass all over the floor, floating like icebergs through the garishly red stains that seem to double in size with every passing second. Newly splintered wood creaks; a faint dial tone as the neighbors next door scramble to call the cops. The sound of guns being loaded back into their cases.

Scott knows what a bullet feels like.

The difference between a hit to the arm (muscle, tendon, bone) or a hit to center mass (bleeding, organs, spine). An iron fist at the entry and if he’s lucky, the exit, too. Confusion—it doesn’t feel like anything at first. Then burning, burning, burning.

Lead isn’t cold when it’s swimming through veins. It’s molten.

So when dozens and dozens of bullets had flown into the room, he’d thought he’d been prepared. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been shot in front of his mom.

But he’s never—

He’s never seen his mom—

Malia stirs next to him and he senses the exact second her anger slips into fear.

“Oh, god—”

She’s launching herself across the room and it snaps him out of his stupor, swallowing down the part of his brain that’s screaming to divert the energy into something useful, because—there were seven people in his house.

Seven.

And because he’d chosen to let in non-shifters, only two of them had healing powers.

They’re all awake, which is comforting because it means they’re alive, and horrifying because they’re all so, so scared.

Triage.

Malia goes for Mason and Lydia—their heartbeats sound strong, if fast—and his dad’s got two wounds, one to the thigh and the other in the meat of his shoulder, but they’re not immediately life threatening.

His mom, however—

It’s a chest wound. It’s a chest wound, and it’s—it’s close, it’s really close—

He drops to his knees in front of her.

“Mom, hey, I’m here.” He takes her hand, which had been grasping at air, into his. “EMS is coming, okay? I gotta apply pressure—”

“Wait,” she gasps, and Chris is shifting beneath her to give her more support—Scott doesn’t think he got much more than a graze—“chest wound. Sucking—”

Chris’s eyes widen, but Scott’s already yanking out his wallet and grabbing his mom’s credit card. “I got it, can you breathe out for me?”

She nods—a frantic, barely lucid thing—and exhales as Scott presses the card over the hole in her chest, cutting off the air flow.

The scent of copper is so thick it feels like it’s in his mouth, and he wants nothing more than to tug her gently away from Chris until she’s resting in his lap, but he knows he can’t move her.

It’s a chest wound. It’s a bullet to the chest—and a bullet isn’t a sword, but—

Scott applies as much pressure as he dares with one hand, and starts pulling as much pain as he dares with the other.

It burns.

It burns like fire, like electricity running through his veins and he would know, but he almost cries with relief because if it still hurts then maybe there’s a chance.

He lets go, gasping, when there’s just a little left—enough to take off the edge, but not so much her body forgets it’s trying to heal. She doesn’t say anything—all the pain relief in the world can’t prevent blood-related shock.

His dad groans behind him and Scott’s reminded with painful clarity, seven people.

"Argent,” he says, through gritted teeth. “Chris. I need you to switch with me. Can you—”

“I got it, Scott. Go.”

He’s pale, but his hands don’t tremble when they overlap with Scott’s. Black lines shoot up Scott’s arm almost the second they come in contact.

Chris inhales sharply. “Scott—”

“Keep the pressure on.”

There’s not as much to pull from Chris as there was from his mom, but he takes all of it this time—unworried about interfering with the healing process, since his injury is more stable. Scott pulls away after only a few more seconds, biting back a hiss as the aftereffects burn through his system.

He turns to see Malia pulling pain from Mason, even though she’s got a through-and-through in her calf muscle that’s only half healed.

He doesn’t deserve any of them.

(Seven.)

(Two with healing powers.)

(Only one that didn’t—)

He gets his feet under him and skirts around the pooling blood, patting Lydia on the shoulder as he passes—if he steals a quick line or two from her, who’s counting. He kneels in front of his dad.

“Scott—”

He doesn’t even wait for him to finish his sentence; just wraps his hands around the dish towel on his leg (Malia’s assistance again, probably) and increases the pressure while siphoning away the pain.

His dad’s eyes widen in shock—probably both kinds; there’s a lot of blood. “Scott, what’re you—”

Scott’s head swivels to look at the door; Malia joining his reaction a half second later.

“Sirens,” he says, alerting the rest of them. “EMS should be here any second.”

Mason shudders, one hand wrapped around the gunshot wound that nicked his bicep. “We sure they’re not with the ones shooting at us?”

“Yeah,” Scott says. “Sheriff’s with them. And I recognize a couple of the EMTs’ voices.”

“Okay, then you need to go.”

“What?”

Scott turns to look at Chris so quickly he nearly jerks his hand off his dad’s leg.

“You and Malia,” Chris clarifies. “You can’t—they’ll want to do a medical examination. You can’t explain that right now.”

Scott glances at Malia—her calf is nearly scabbed over by now. “Malia can take the jeep.”

“Scott, you can’t—”

“I didn’t get hit.”

Chris looks at him—they’re all looking at him—with an extra level of scrutiny that makes him painfully aware of how intact his clothing is. The lack of evidence itself proof of his failure to protect them.

“Scott.”

It’s low, thready; but he’d hear his mom’s voice no matter how loud it was. Mason moves to take over applying pressure for Scott’s dad—even though Malia already took his pain, Scott siphons just a tiny bit more as they trade off—and Scott hurries back to his mom.

The sirens are loud enough for the humans to hear now, too.

“Scott,” she says, and at the crackling sound in her breathing Scott’s guilt vanishes under a wave of overwhelming fear.

“Chris, take the card out. Do it now—”

Lydia pulls herself to her feet, Malia supporting her. “What’s happening? What’s wrong?”

His mom’s lips are turning blue and he can see her breaths getting more shallow. “Get her on her side.”

Chris frowns, having only just reapplied pressure after removing the card. “But the bullet—”

“Doesn’t matter if she bleeds out if she dies from asphyxiation first,” Scott snaps.

The sirens are right outside. He can hear the EMTs approaching the door.

“Malia, go—”

He curls around his mom, her head now in his lap. Even with the tension slightly relieved, she’s still struggling to breathe. “Come on, mom. Just a little longer.”

Lydia’s at the door, frantically calling the EMTs in. Mason’s still with his dad.

Scott wraps his shaking fingers around his mom’s shoulder and pulls, forcing the connection to hold even as his body tries to reject a sixth dosage.

The EMTs burst into the room.

His mom stops breathing.

________________________

He traces her heartbeat like it’s his own.

Every blip. Every palpitation. Every stutter.

The slice of the knife through skin.

He doesn’t know how long the surgery takes—enough, in that it’s still going when Malia joins him in the waiting area, the blood from earlier scrubbed clean.

He feels her hand wrap around his, but he doesn’t acknowledge it—can’t bear pulling his attention away from the operating room for even a second, until—

“Hemodynamics are stable… she’s going to be okay.”

Scott feels like his own chest might collapse under the wave of relief that washes over him. He unclasps his hands and brings Malia’s between them, threading her presence into his.

He looks at her and just nods, the air in his lungs too heavy to form words. Then he drops his head into his lap, and breathes in rhythm with his mother.

It reminds him of what she used to do for him when his asthma first starting acting up—back when it was him in the hospital, not her.

It shouldn’t have ever been her.

“It’s my fault,” he says, softly enough to not by heard by anyone but the werecoyote next to him. “I shouldn’t have let any of them—”

“We all made our choices, Scott, and none of them involved getting shot. You don’t choose getting shot. You choose to be the one taking the shot, and that was all Monroe.”

“They don’t heal, Malia,” Scott says. “Not like us. I should have—I was right there, and I didn’t save any of them.”

Malia’s hand tightens around his. “Neither did I.”

“You got shot.”

“So getting shot was the prerequisite to success tonight?”

Scott flinches and looks at the floor.

“Hey.” Malia waits until he catches her eye to continue. “Look, Chris was right next to Melissa, and he didn’t save her from getting shot, either. Do you think he blames himself for that?”

Scott pauses from where he’d been worrying his nails across his knuckles, and gives her a pointed look.

“Okay, he probably does because you’re both weird like that, but he wasn’t the one firing bullets into a house,” Malia says. “He shouldn’t blame himself for it, and neither should you. The doctor said she’s in the clear now, right?”

“Malia…” He doesn’t know how to make her understand. “It’s not just—it could have killed her. She’s going to have months of therapy before she’s okay, and she won’t be able to be at the house by herself or go to work, and the hospital bills are going to be awful—”

“Chris can stay with your mom,” Malia says, “or Mrs. Martin, or something. Maybe the Sheriff can pitch in and we’ll do a rotation. And as for money, I can always bully Peter into paying for your mom’s bills since everything to do with the supernatural in your life is automatically his fault.”

Scott tries to yank his hands away, but Malia doesn’t let him. “That’s not—that’s not how it works.”

“Then stop blaming yourself for Monroe.”

He can still hear the echo of his mom’s pulse, thready and vulnerable, in the edges of his memory.

It’d been close. Really, really close.

He slides one hand out of Malia’s grip, successfully this time, and wipes at his eyes.

“Scott…” Malia sighs. “You can feel sad about it being your mom instead of you. Logically, it would’ve been better, yes. But that doesn’t make it your fault.”

Scott scrubs at his eyes. “It feels like it kinda is.”

Malia tugs at his arm until his fingers find hers again. ”There’s a difference between feeling bad something happened and feeling genuinely guilty over it.”

“Seven people, Malia,” Scott confesses. “Seven. And I’m—I’m the only one that didn’t get hurt. How am I supposed to help if I can’t even protect my own pack?”

Malia’s brow furrows, not out of disagreement this time, but from genuine confusion. “You don’t have to get hurt to save people’s lives, Scott. Did you—did you really not see what you did tonight?”

Scott looks at her in confusion “What I did…? I didn’t even call 911, that was—”

“No, Scott. I mean—everything else. You took so much pain from everyone—”

“You did, too—”

“Yeah, for two people, Scott, and it sucked. It always sucks. But you did it for everyone, which means you’re probably still feeling it now.”

Scott concentrates harder on keeping his hands still, which just makes Malia roll her eyes.

“But that’s still about making yourself hurt. So I’m not even talking about that.”

Scott frowns. “Then what…?”

“Your mom,” Malia says. “You knew exactly what to do when she was having trouble, and then at the end there—I don’t even know what happened—”

“Tension pneumothorax,” Scott says, softly. “It’s when there’s too much air pressure in the chest cavity and your lungs start to collapse. Dogs and cats can get them too, so. It comes up sometimes.”

“Great, well, that’s not average information,” she says. “If you’d been down with a bullet or six, no one else would’ve known what to do.”

It earns a slight smile out of him. “Pretty sure my mom would’ve.”

“Shut up,” Malia says, jostling his shoulder. “My point is… you did good on a really bad night. And you did it because of who you are, not because of what someone’s made you or forced you into doing.”

Scott’s ears pick up Dr. Geye’s familiar gait approaching. “I think they’re going to let me see her for a bit before she’s out.”

Malia purses her lips, and squeezes his hands once more before letting go. “Okay. Just do me a favor?”

Scott looks at her.

“Six people got shot in your house,” she says, enunciating each word to make sure he’s listening. “Six. But there were seven people total. And tonight might’ve been a very different story if it’d been just six, and not six and one.”

Scott licks his lips. Digs his nails into the pads of his fingers: one, two, three, four, five, six—

Seven.

He nods, and his lungs feel a little lighter.

[kryptkept]

(   ellie thatcher ,   female ,   she/her  )   apparently   that's   𝐋𝐘𝐃𝐈𝐀 𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍   lurking   around   town   for   a year .   the   local   psychic   claims   they're   a   𝐕𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐄   (   record store clerk   )   who's   𝟐𝟑   /   𝟒𝟓  years    old    but   she's   always   been   a   bit   unhinged .   whispers   around   town   say   they're   intrepid ,   artful   but   mordant .   honestly ,   they   remind   me   of   using pages of the bible as tinder for a fire , getting a stick & poke in your best friend’s basement , & the liberation of forsaking your savior   which   explains   why   i've   seen   them   with   an   aged rosary . 

𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄.   lydia emerson  ;  born as  lydia anne morgan  . 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐒𝐄𝐒.   lydia myers  ,  sawyer augustine  ,  valerie tatum smith  ,  various others  . 𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒.   lyd  ,  lydz  ,  deetz  . 𝐀𝐆𝐄.   physically 23  ;  truly 45  . 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑.   female  ;  she/her  . 𝐒𝐄𝐗𝐔𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘.   bisexual  . 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐈𝐄𝐒.   vampire  . 𝐎𝐂𝐂𝐔𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍.   clerk  @  quiet riot records shop  . 𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘.

(   tws for  :  abuse  ,  loss of a child  ,  alcoholism  ,  attempted murder  ,  period typical misogyny  ,  if i’ve forgotten to tag anything or you need something tagged please let me know  !   ) lydia was born in 1960 to a moderately unhappy pair looking to save both face  &  their miserable marriage  .  while they had initially been informed that they were expecting twins  ,  lydia’s sibling died in utero  &  thereafter was absorbed by lydia herself in a case of twin resorption  .  while there was little explanation for this phenomenon at the time  ,  lydia’s mother  ,  theresa  ,  was distraught  ,  under the assumption that lydia must have killed her sibling in the womb if only she had survived  ,  and began to view the child growing inside of her as something akin to the devil  .  this belief was only exacerbated by the difficult pregnancy she endured with lydia  ,  anf further stoked by her strict catholic beliefs  . after her birth  ,  theresa’s feelings remained unchanged  ;  she was a withdrawn  ,  angry mother  ,  forced to keep up the act of a perfectly quaint little family in front of friends  &  family  .  unfortunately  ,  theresa fell victim to severe postpartum depression which would devolve into full blown psychosis  .  given the time period  ,  this went largely unnoticed for the most part  ,  written off as the stress a new mother must endure for the sake of her child  .  meanwhile  ,  lydia’s father  ,  richard  ,  was of little help  .  he was similarly withdrawn but as opposed to theresa  ,  this was less rooted in hatred and more in the general apathy he faced most things with  .  coming from a broken home himself  ,  directionless in life  &  uninspired  ,  he’d long since turned to the drink as a way of coping  &  the arrival of his daughter had done little to change that  . in a hazy memory that haunts lydia to this day  ,  she can recall the day her mother wrapped both hands around her throat a the tender age of three  ,  and attempted to squeeze every last bit of life from her  .  all the while  ,  she was shrieking like a banshee about how lydia was a demon  ,  the antichrist  ,  nothing but a  plague  .  her father found them moments before lydia slipped into unconsciousness  ,  and she has little recollection of what happened between them after that  . the situation itself resulted in theresa’s departure  .  this would eventually lead to lydia being left in the care of her maternal grandparents after three more years spent with her father  ,  who spent more time under the influence than he did sober  .  her grandmother  &  grandfather were strict and very much orthodox  ,  though they  did  love her  ,  but their expectations of her were far too lofty  .  they weren’t the affectionate type  ,  but were more prone to physical rewards than words of praise or hugs  .  her childhood  &  adolescence were pockmarked with various attempts at rebellion  ;  talking back  ,  sneaking out of sunday school  ,  sneaking out at home  ,  meeting up with the outcasts in town despite often being warned to steer clear of them  ,  stealing  ,  etcetera  .  lydia was desperate to feel something and in pursuit of pleasure  ,  she continued to act out and do as she pleased  .  she began to dabble in darker things  :  the supernatural  &  the occult  ,  namely  .  she was kicked out of her home at 18 and spent her time couch surfing  . as the 80′s rolled around  ,  she delved into the world of satanism  , urged on by the need to separate herself from her heavily religious upbringing  &  the ways in which her experiences during childhood had effected her  ;  essentially  ,  a big  fuck you  to the majority of her family  ,  and to god himself  .  at this point she was on the other side of the satanic panic  ,  laughing at those that protested and screeched about unholy corruption in things like music  &  literature  . lydia was well known on the scene .  with her sharp humor and devil may care attitude  ,  she was the life of the parties she frequently attended  .  and it was during the aftermath of one such event that she would come to lose her life  :  taken with a perfect stranger  ,  she’d followed him into the darkened alleyways as the party came to a close  ,  unaware of his intentions to quite literally bleed her dry  . when she woke the following night  ,  she was in a haze  ,  wobbling like a baby deer and overcome with a hunger so intense it almost sent her toppling to the ground  .

𝐈𝐍 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍.

as opposed to some  ,  lydia accepted her fate with little complaints  .  in fact  ,  you might say she was a little  too  enthusiastic  ...  driven by thirst  ,  she slaughtered a group of college students and left them out in the open air of the park they’d been having a nighttime hangout at  .  she fled town soon after  ,  leaving behind the sunny shores of california for the emptiness of indiana  .  she began going by the name lydia myers meanwhile  . after that  ,  she never really stayed in one place for too long  .  she loved to travel  ,  enjoying her freedom immensely  ,  and found kin with the people she met along the way  .  most of these relationships were fairly fickle  ,  in the grand scheme of things  ;  most people she charmed out of necessity  .  it was nice to have a friend to call on when you needed a place to stay  ,  or a few bucks for bus fare  .  it was a genuine rarity for her to find herself truly attached to another  ,  because she feared commitment more than anything  ;  she still does  ,  in fact  .  letting someone grow close means giving them the chance to hurt you  ,  to leave you  ,  and lydia is  ...  not about that  .

𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐋𝐘.

though she’d initially vowed upon her departure that she’d never return to cali  ,  lydia has come slinking back  .  if you ask her why  ,  she’ll tell you it’s boredom  ,  and that much is true  —  but a pressing matter remains  :  that of her sire  .  she’s been running from him for 22 years since her turning  ,  but recently  ,  she’s felt a sharp tug on the thread that keeps them connected  .  both curious and vexed  ,  and maybe searching for an answer to a question she’s tried not to ask  ,  she’s tracked him back to ambrose  .  to support herself  ,  she’s taken up a job at the record store   (   one of the things she’s always enjoyed has been music  !   )

𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘.

hello words are failing me so take some bullet point traits  .  :,) +   creative  ,  adventurous  ,  brave  ,  resourceful  ,  charismatic   (   when necessary   )  . -   manipulative  ,  sardonic  ,  evasive  ,  stubborn  ,  dishonest  ,  hotheaded .

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒.

hi please bring me her sire  .  i have  ... honestly too many ideas to list here because i don’t want to risk rambling for like  ,  eight paragraphs about everything lmao  .

i think it would be interesting if she ran into someone she hasn’t seen for years  .  maybe they were one of the people she used  ,  and they’re super pissed at her for how she just ghosted  .  or maybe they look back on her fondly  .

she antagonizes people for fun  .  please hate her

she’s also definitely the type to flat out tell people she’s a vampire  .  and like  ,  given her usual sarcastic  ,  jokey nature  ... people probably just take it as her messing around  .  which is even more hilarious to her  .  this could result in  :  1.  someone who constantly goes along with the ‘joke’  ,  who maybe later on finds out and either also thinks it’s funny  ,  is horrified  ,  or feels betrayed   (   to which lydz would respond with  but i told you  ?   )   2.  someone who is very suspicious of her and Does Not think it’s just a funny joke at all

𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑.

she loves going to the beach late at night  .  like  ,  the sand getting everywhere sucks  ,  but she’ll deal with it  .

she can be surprisingly generous when in a good mood  .  when she says don’t mention it  ,  she fuckin means it

loves motorcycles  ,  wants one someday

has an old polaroid camera from the 80′s that she still uses pretty frequently  .  she enjoys photography  !

i need you all to know i literally came up with her because i listened to kiss the go goat by ghost for hours on end over the span of a few days please help i can’t stop

[theheightofdishonor]

S6a is more or less an homage to a character that wasn’t there at the expense of literally everyone else, and I kinda hated it. 

So imma make a list 

Things I hate

The rest of the older Pack don’t have individual arcs. I’d have loved to see what how Scott, Malia, and Lydia’s personalities and situations would’ve changed if Stiles wasn’t there; there’s a strong case to be made that they’d be drastically different people. The show kind of leans into this with Malia losing control without her anchor but considering they did nothing similar with the other two and the fact that Malia and Stiles haven’t even had a proper conversation since their shoddy breakup gave the change little significance. 

Seriously, Scott and Malia get absolutely nothing this season 

The lack of cohesion between the b-plot concerning the kids and the a-plot of getting Stiles back 

seriously, the kids need atleast a slightly stronger connection to the older characters 

how heavy-handed Stydia was and the general undermining of both of their other/past relationships *queue rant about how Stiles’s relationship with Scott was sidelined for this* 

I swear this post isn’t just going to be about hating Stydia’s execution but the fact they made the “moment everything changed” for Lydia to be their kiss in 3b makes me absolutely furious 

Peter in this season felt more like Ian and less like Peter to me, idk

Douglass- the secretly evil professor thing has been done before, and the flashbacks were boring- I skipped them with Marie-Jeanne and I skipped them with Douglass

Lydia’s banshee powers end up being the end-all be-all of everything supernatural related, like yes, banshee, interesting but also, stop connecting her to literally everything that happens in the supernatural world

I don’t think the show even knew what they were doing with Parrish this season

if the show can focus on Stiles without Dylan being there, why can’t they do the same thing with Kira or atleast mention the girl instead of just her sword?

Hayden suffers from Girlfriend Syndrome where she goes from a character in her own right to Liam’s girlfriend- her relationship with her sister, a driving part of her actions last season, is more or less non existent

Malia’s anchor is someone she hasn’t had a proper conversation with since 5a and she still hasn’t learned to be her own anchor 

Despite Theo being brought back from the dead to help save Stiles, Stiles and Theo don’t interact once and I’m bitter 

On a related note, Theo’s turn from I’ll-leave-you-to-die to fight-alongside-Scott felt too sudden, I’d have liked to see more emotional conflict 

Liam’s arc started to pick up in the last episode or so of 6a but in general, it was clumsy and was occasionally  dropped as the plot required 

Claudia’s existence being a means to fill the void in Sheriff’s life was actually a cool concept- except it’s not done with any other character in Beacon Hills who lost someone important to them and the only character in the show that does something similar is a banshee and the situation seemed tied to her powers 

Deaton disappears halfway through the show and it’s never mentioned

I’m aware this show has issues with consistency and I shouldn’t even bother but Lydia and Parrish’s entire death-related-connection thing was shoved in S4/5 but barely exists in this one-ok then  

Now, for things I liked

Mason Hewitt continues to be one of the most enjoyable characters on the show, and his relationship with Corey meant everything to me

I actually liked a lot of what they did with Corey this season, especially the tension between him and Liam stemming from the fact that they have vastly different outlooks on the whole heroism thing. 

The concept of Liam being the alpha-in-training; poor in execution but it’s a cool idea 

Stiles and Peter wandering around the Station figuring things out 

Ok, i’ll admit, the “remember I love you” scene was adorable 

That scene in the last ep where Scott asks if Stiles wants to split up and he says not a chance 

Malia calling Peter “dad”

when Stiles’s red thread appears and the Sheriff remembers Stiles’s room

the whole Stiles’s granddad thing and look into Stilinski Family History 

Theo and Liam at the hospital 

Chris and Melissa have chemistry, (I’d have loved it more if they built up to it a little in 5b and the conclusion to their plotline was kinda weak but i’ll take it) 

Melissa in general is as badass as ever

the scene where Melissa asks if Mason knows what the seven herbs are and he sprouts off the history and dictionary definition- I fucking love him, he’s so underrated 

Stiles being erased from reality was well-done (would’ve been better if they showed this happening with even one other character but alas) 

Stiles giving Mason his baseball bat and Scott his jeep 

You’ll notice that most of the things on the “I love” category are specific moments, and that’s because the only arc I loved in 6a was Mason and Corey.

Now onto 6b I guess 

[heavensenthearty]

🐑 🧵

Hey, Banshee!! 🤗🤗 That sounds like saying hi to the one and only Lydia Martin 😅 Sorry I took long to reply to you as well, work was driving me crazy 😓

🐑 Sheep: What is a comfort item you own? 

I already answered this one here, but I'll gladly add another one.

A picture from when I was overweight. I know it probably doesn't sound like all that much of a comfort item, but it reminds that no matter how I may feel over my current shape I have come a long way since then.

🧵 Thread: What is a recent creative project that you are proud of? 

Well, I'm obviously immensely proud of my fanfics, I'm not kidding when I say I prefer them to canon sometimes. I'm planning on going on a writing spree, finish my current projects and start some new ones. There's one I'm particularly excited for, although is very ambitious. Have you ever read the Simon Snow books? Or even better, Fangirl? Well, let's just say I'm planning on writing a fictional world, which is featured in another fictional world because the protagonist of that last fictional world writes fanfiction of the first fictional world.

...

It's a riddle, I know 😅

And also, I'm very eager to get some more free time to dedicate myself to my art projects. I'm so full of ideas! 😍😍

Cottagecore asks!!

[starcourtscream]

give   me   threads   with   lydia   seeing   ghosts  !   she   thinks   she’s   crazy,   she   keeps   seeing   them   &   she’s   haunted   but   the   veil   between   life / death   doesn’t   exist   for   her   since   she’s   a   banshee.   bonus   points   if   it’s   someone   she   knows   </3

[writingsbychlo]

Ok, so at first I really liked the idea of stydia but like, when they actually got together I hated it? Does that make sense? But, yeah I liked it at first, especially when she kissed him to stop his panic attack. But I stopped liking it in season 5, or maybe 6. I don’t even know but they got together cannonly and I just didn’t like it? Sorry for ranting lol

okay, so here’s my thing with stydia

In season one, I liked it. Let’s be real, it was a pretty light-weight thing in S1, it’s just a nice little comedy fic about a kid who becomes a werewolf, it’s aimed at young to mid-teens, and it’s just fun, you know? So, having an unpopular and geeky smart kid who’s head over heels for a hot and popular heartthrob of the school who’s in a relationship with a jackass and has features that are only noticed by the geeky kid because that's the only person who truly sees them for who they are, and not their looks and status? Seems about fucking right, and we all ate that shit up.

Then, of course, season two comes around, and we all get a little bit tortured by it and that’s cool too, but there was some super cute moments and that was really nice, it teased us, we were like ‘is it going to happen, is it not?!’ but then Lydia was still falling over Jackson at the end and I totally understand where she’s coming from, but because she didn’t move on, it killed ‘stydia’ as a concept once again, right?

Then we get to the third season, and in the first half of season three, we get a lot of little teasing moments between them, not to mention that fact that she fucking kisses him, but by then, she’s also now with Aiden/sleeping with him/holding a light for other dudes, so once again ‘stydia’ is ruined because she clearly isn’t into Stiles, even a little bit. We’re starting to lose hope. Then Malia comes into the picture, and while I personally don’t go crazy over ‘stalia’ either, but her and Stiles had a connection.

Now, I liked Malia’s little story-arc as an individual - separate to Stiles - because it was interesting. During season four, we were shown her (Malia) developing as a person, and things were never going to work out with her and Stiles, really, because she didn’t even know herself as a person, she was finding out who she was, but Stiles was a huge part of that. Not to mention, Stiles being with Malia was him finally moving on from Lydia. He was also discovering himself. Stiles was no longer just “Scott’s best friend” or “the kid in love with Lydia Martin” or “the sheriff’s son”, but he was Stiles Stilinski, period.

By now, I’m over ‘stydia’. Stiles, for pretty much the first time in his life, isn’t relying on another person. Everything falls to shit for him in season five,  but he learns how to be independent in his feelings. Lydia also starts dating Parrish, that’s a whole thing, and so she clearly till doesn’t have feelings for Stiles. We get a few moments which a lot of people call ‘stydia’ moments, but honestly? In my opinion, that’s just a totally pure friendship forming, Lydia finally feels like she can really call Stiles a friend because he’s no longer in love with her, he just loves her like he loves Scott. It’s platonic, and sweet, and I loved that.

Then suddenly in season six, she loves him? Like, sorry, did I miss something? She went from no feelings for Stiles at all to suddenly being the only one that loved him so deeply that she was the one who remembered him? I THINK THE FUCK NOT. It was incredibly forced, and while Dylan and Holland acted it incredibly, the plot made me feel like it was neglecting his relationships with literally every other character in the show, while also overdoing the whole ‘stydia’ thing. 

The relationship between them in S6 genuinely made me cringe a little bit, because they’d strung it along and made ti as a friendship for so long that I looked at them more as best friends/siblings, so when they got into a relationship it made me feel like they were kissing their cousins. They felt more like a familial love by this point, and it stresses me out that they forced ‘stydia’ just for a plotline. 

We were strung along for so long that it’s evident that their intentions to make ‘stydia’ actually happen weren’t solid until they needed it for a plot, and so what could have been an awesome plot was really thrown off. It still could have been Lydia that remembered him, perhaps some kind of banshee explanation, I don’t fucking know???? But it was rushed, and forced, and in order to make ‘stydia’ happen they had to disregard every other relationship Stiles had, and all the newfound indepence and freedom he got after the ‘nogitsune issues’ in S4 and S5 was thrown away entirely because suddenly, he was once again relying on love for Lydia Martin to make his self-worth known. 

Lydia remembered the boy who had been in love with her for years, but Scott didn’t remember his best friend of over a decade? Malia didn’t remember the boy who helped her find herself? The sheriff didn’t remember his son? 

I’m sure that if it had been conducted better, and the threads had been back woven properly throughout the seasons, that I would love it. But, it's as rushed, and too much pressure was put on it, and so the relationship was really ruined as a concept. It had such good potential, and I loved it at first. I am not in any way stepping on it as a concept, but as an actual ship that sailed, no thanks.

But that’s just my opinion.

[leaughrilke]

allydia + 30

30: Kiss under a full moon

“Ally, help me with these?” Lydia asks, somewhere behind the car.  

Even if they weren’t married, Allison doesn’t think she could resist a request in that sweet of a voice.  She unplugs their phones from the car chargers and pockets them before joining her wife.

It’s the first cool evening of the year, cool enough that Allison almost shivers as she sidles up to Lydia, assessing the bag situation in their trunk.  Their hatchback had the most storage space, so they had been put in charge of the supplies for pack night – supplies that encompassed a truly brow-raising amount of red meat packed into coolers for the wolves in their pack, and what seemed like all the junk food the gas station had in stock for the rest of them.

“I’ll take the coolers if you grab the blankets,” Allison offers.  She can probably balance the snack bags too, right?  

Lydia pokes her in the ribs, narrowing her eyes when Allison yelps and looks at her in offense.  “We can take more than one trip,” she says flatly.  

“Lydia, I’ve died before, so trust that I’m saying this with full understanding of the implications: I’d rather die than take two trips.”

It’s like Lydia wants to be mad at her for that comment, for the flippant reference to dying again, but it’s just too hard to keep it up.  Her smile is warm and a little exasperated, but Allison loves it as much as every other smile of hers.

“You’re ridiculous,” Lydia huffs, starting to collect the bags of blankets and cushions.  “Why do I put up with you?”

“Convenience, mostly,” Allison answers happily.  “I’ve also heard that I’m – what was it?  ‘Hotter than legally allowed?’”

“Shut up.”

…

When the sun starts to set, the clearing they’ve settled in gets colder – sure, if she and Lydia sat a little closer to the fire, it’d be ten times warmer.  But Allison’s never going to surrender an opportunity to have Lydia tucked up close to her, nearly in her lap.

Scott, across the bonfire from them, turns his eyes to the moon and grins.  “Everyone almost done with dinner?” he asks, ever the Alpha, always keeping an eye on the well-being of his pack.

There’s a murmur of assent that goes up from those that are running tonight, people starting to stand and clean up after themselves.  When Allison makes to join them, Lydia tightens her hold on her and lets out what could almost be described as a whine.

“Mm, don’t go,” Lydia says, her voice soft and for Allison’s ears only.  “You’re so warm, baby.”

Well – what is Allison supposed to say to that?  She pulls Lydia fully onto her lap and wraps her arms around her, pressing a kiss to her temple.  

Around them, everyone that’s running starts to stretch; Stiles bounces between them, taking bets on who can make it the furthest into the woods in twenty minutes.  Malia narrows her eyes at him, crossing her arms.

“Who’s going to verify that?” she asks, rightfully suspicious.  

It’s almost tradition at this point for Stiles to undertake an ill-fated gambling venture on pack night.  Sometimes it’s starting a poker tournament with people who can hear your heartbeat and know immediately if you’re lying – sometimes it’s starting a betting pool with no third party to check the results.

“I will!” Scott calls from where he stands, double checking that everyone’s got a set of clothes to change into and a snack to come back to.  “I’ll run ahead to the lake?  First person to reach me wins, how’s that sound?”

There’s some more quibbling over the rules of the competition, over who gets the payout, over whether it’s fair to make different species face off against one another, but Allison tunes it out, the hum of her friends voices a comforting background noise as she enjoys the nearness of her wife and the calm of the evening.

When the moon nears its apex, people start to shift.  Scott takes off like a shot, his years as a True Alpha gifting him the ability to fully shift.  The last sign of him is the flick of his tail as he disappears into the woods around them.  Behind him, the rest of the running pack in different stages of transition start towards the tree line.

Some others in the pack, less touched by the moon but just as entranced, head towards the small lake that they passed a few hundred yards back.  When all is said and done, it’s just Allison and Lydia.

Allison is human, or something like it – honestly, it’s kind of still unclear, even so many years post-resurrection.  But whatever she is: the moon doesn’t call to her in the same way as it does to some.  That’s fine.  She wasn’t generally a night owl as it was and, on any night beside a pack night, she’d be in bed by ten, ignoring her wife’s ribbing about her elderly tendencies.

But there’s something magical about full moons – about how Lydia is limned in white gold and glowing in her arms, about how she seems to come alive under the full moon even if she’s not tied to it in the same way as the others.  

Actually – maybe it’s not the full moon that’s magic to Allison.  Maybe it’s, as always, just Lydia.

“Hey,” she murmurs, almost speechless when Lydia shifts to look at her.  The bright light of the moon almost turns her eyelashes translucent, makes her look a little otherworldly.  She is, Allison supposes.  Her banshee wife, carrying on somewhere between this world and the next.

“Hello.”  Lydia smiles up at her and so easily sets her heart aflame.  “What’s on your mind?”

Allison can’t quite gather the words to say it – she’s not sure she wants to say it.  Not until she has the right way to.  Not until its perfect.

Instead, she leans in, leans close.  She loves this moment as much as she does the ones to follow – the moment of sharing a breath, of feeling the other near and wanting, the honeyed thread of tension that stretches taut between them.

“I love you,” she whispers against Lydia’s lips, swallowing her reply.  “I love you,” she murmurs again and again, grinning when Lydia nips at her bottom lip in faux-annoyance.

“You’ve got to let me say it back, jerk,” Lydia huffs.

“Do I?”

“I love you despite your carefully honed ability to annoy the shit out of me.”

“Mhm.  Can I kiss you again?”

Lydia leans back just a little, trying her best to harden her expression into a glare.  “Fine,” she acquiesces, her smile saying that she’s entirely pleased with the plan.

(If they disappear before the pack returns – well.  The moon makes them all a little wild.)

[mor-beck-more-problems]

What Are Friends For || Morgan & Lydia

After Morgan accidentally strikes a bargain with Lydia, she is invited over to make good on her word. What are friends for, after all? 

@inspirationdivine

Morgan was eager to make a better impression on Lydia than she had at the beach. She brought one of the few bottles of wine she hadn’t wrecked in the house, assuming that whatever was good enough for Deirdre’s luxuriant tastes would suit Lydia as well. She put on a bright floral dress that was hanging in the closet from her old things, too attention-seeking with its sweetheart bust and bright pink belt to do for her everyday ‘don’t look at me I’m dead and depressed’ chic. Which meant it was clean and, mostly, unwrinkled. She did her hair. She checked herself, however self-consciously before the door to the rather intimidatingly large house. When Lydia answered the door, Morgan held out her gift bag automatically. “I brought this for you!” If she had any blood flow to her face she would have blushed. No hi? No how are you? Seriously? “It’s good see you,” she tried. “I thought you’d like this. And, um, there’s a rose quartz plate. I don’t know if you like it, but it is one of the nicer things I made.” It was part of an unfinished commission the buyer only wanted a refund for, but even Morgan wasn’t so frazzled as to mention that.

Lydia smiled as she opened the door, humans kept busy upstairs so as to not disturb them. Almost immediately Morgan was pushing a gift bag into her hands, which Lydia peaked into curiously. “Thank you, darling, it’s good to see you too,” she stepped aside, leading Morgan into the kitchen of her home. Large windows filled the room with spring skies, and a view over her garden. “Look at that, you did put on your Sunday best after all. You look good.”

Morgan stepped carefully into the house, minding not to scuff the tile as she walked in. Windows lined every wall that wasn’t adorned with bright paintings or strange sculptures that seemed to draw Morgan towards them. It put her in mind of an art gallery, or a home in a movie: some mysterious billionaire with a shark tank in the basement. “Have you collected all of this in only four months?” She asked, staring wide-eyed around her. So entranced and distracted, she nearly tripped on her way to the kitchen. “I did!” She said, summoning as much brightness as she had in her. Not much, but enough to sound pleasant. “I like to think I clean up good. Your home is amazing,” she said. “Almost like a museum.”

“No, I’ve had much of it for years. Every time I move, I choose my favourite pieces to bring to the new residence. I change it reasonably frequently.” Lydia looked around, smiling at her collection. For each piece, she could name the Leanan who had inspired it. Some of them distant friends or siblings that Lydia could see in the art itself. Either directly, the planes of their chests carefully etched into wood, or in the colour pallettes of the beautiful baroque scenery. “You do clean up well. I also hope this means you feel the slightest bit better relative to the last time we met.”

“Oh. Sh--stars,” Morgan corrected herself quickly. “It really is like a museum. That’s incredible. And when you say years, do you mean--” She hesitated, wondering if it was impolite to ask about age. Morgan didn’t even know what kind of fae Lydia was. If she was a banshee, she would have more skulls, right? And Deirdre wouldn’t be so lonely. She probably wasn’t like Jeff, Morgan would have noticed that too. “Well, just how many, I guess, if that’s polite to ask.” But, in case that wasn’t-- “I am feeling better, though. Thank you for asking. Still not, you know,” she fidgeted on the counter, “Kickin’ that well. But, better than last time. Haven’t almost drowned anyone since.”

“I’m over seventy years old, although I haven’t been collecting art for quite that long,” Lydia replied, preening herself under Morgan’s compliments. “Are you an art connoisseur, or do you just enjoy seeing it?” There wasn’t any judgment in her tone, for once. It was simply a question to find out whether they could talk art, or simply enjoy it together. “I would be more concerned if you were suddenly completely fine. Although, if pranks become part of your new lifestyle, that remains a good choice for a prank. Would you like anything to eat or drink?”

“Seventy?” Morgan balked with surprise before she could stop herself. Did this mean she and Deirdre would look this good at seventy? Her mind struggled to go in five different directions at once. “I don’t know if that’s especially old for fae, if your family treats you like a kid about it or not, but at least you don’t seem cynical or tired after all this time,” she said, trying to get back on course. “I’ve, um, I’ve taken a couple courses in art history. Came in handy when I was alive, a little, with curse research and the sacred geometry that goes into alchemy. But mostly I just think it’s pretty. I um...I mostly have a weak spot for anything with a dramatic enough emotional statement. There’s a chapel Rothko designed, in Houston? I would go there to think some times, as a weird treat for myself.” She scanned their surroundings again. The house was so open she could see all the way to the entrance still. “That one,” she pointed, “Is that an original baroque or something in the style?” She gave a hapless smile, this is as far as my knowledge goes, but I’m trying. “I’ll just have whatever you’re having. Or water,” she said, to be polite. At least water had never really tasted like anything in the first place.

“It doesn’t directly translate to either of those. I have a lot of life left to live, but seventy years is no short length of time for anyone.” Lydia replied, smiling. “Why would I become cynical or tired of it? The world has so much to experience and live for.” She sat on a stool by her kitchen table, as Morgan described her education. “Yes, I know the chapel. It’s incredibly beautiful.” Lydia looked down the hall and nodded. “It’s a Reubens. I do love the Baroque style.” She smiled, letting Morgan go from the discussion. “Water it is,” Lydia acquiesced, pouring Morgan a glass. “Now, shall we discuss that little deal of ours?”

“Oh,” Morgan said, chewing on the thought. “I guess, just because…” Life sucks and then you die. And sometimes you come back for even more hurt. She was able to think better of the statement and after a few moments of mouthing awkwardly in silence, “Humans do. Get cynical and tired. It doesn’t even take seventy years for most of them. I used to get crap for not being more...bitter, cautious, whatever. I was tired a lot, but maybe energy is different for fae.” She didn’t try to flex what little art factoids she had. Lydia was being nice and, fuck it, she’d let her be. Morgan had given her offerings, she made an effort, and despite Lydia’s airs of propriety, there was something about her that invited Morgan to drop her own pretensions and be herself. She gave a smaller, though more sincere smile and nodded gratefully. “Right! I said I’d do something for you. What kind of thing did you have in mind?”

“There are days that are terrible. Sometimes weeks or even years. To let that colour my entire life would be...wasteful.” Lydia replied, but knew it probably wasn’t what Morgan needed to hear right now. Losing another wasn’t the same as losing your own sense of self. Even if Morgan hadn’t lost her life, Lydia understood she currently felt like it. So she smiled, matching Morgan’s. “Yes. This is really… more of a heads up, if you will. I’m sure Deirdre is very careful with these things, with you. But if you’re to date a fae, you need to be aware that not all of us are as sweet as Deirdre or I, and that you might need to watch your words more carefully.” Lydia clasped her hands. “As for what I had in mind. I was thinking a small painting. I can offer you as much inspiration as you like. I don’t care if you paint the whole canvas blue, or if you throw the paint at it, or if you take rests. All of that is up to you. You could even take a knife to the canvas, for all I mind. Just create something, for me. That’s all I ask to end the promise.”

“Wait--what?” Morgan sputtered with confusion. She thought that Lydia was kidding. She had to be. A head’s up? “We’re always intentional with our promises, yeah,” Morgan said, straightening with a little pride. Their promises were better than any cheesy ring or one-time declaration any other couple might make. They were their trust, their fidelity, something that could stay true and real, even when Morgan could barely get out of bed. They never had to pull on the thread because they meant what they said. It only existed for something sudden, some hypothetical emergency or some time when the compulsion would be a comfort. What else would promises be good for, besides a proof of trust? Her expression wrinkled, confused and scrutinizing as she waited for some other punchline. Then her body began to ache, her insides burning and twisting. That was...weird. “Uh…” Her stomach tightened, and Morgan clenched her jaw to keep from dry heaving in front of Lydia. “Oh-kay.” She gripped the countertop to keep from doubling over. Was this--something fae let happen on purpose? “Canvas?” She asked, voice strained. “Can you, um, show me where, a-and paint, crayola crayons, whatever? Please?”

“Already set up,” Lydia replied smoothly, stepping over to help Morgan. “Darling, there’s no rush.” That would at least ease the ache that had Morgan keeling over, her jaw tight. Lydia tried to feel bad about it. She really did. It was the fae in her, that couldn’t stand to avoid taking advantage of such things. Perhaps it was a bit of a compulsion. She would have done it to anyone, really, and would expect it in return.  “Come along here, and I’ll bring you something you can really taste.” Lydia lead Morgan to a pre-set up canvas and paints. It was a small canvas, A4 sized. If Morgan wanted to, she could cover the whole thing in a couple minutes flat. “There you go. As I said, darling, no rush, take the rests you want, paint what you like.”

Morgan’s insides unclenched at Lydia’s words. She let out a deep gasp, bracing herself again, just so she didn’t go to the floor in relief. She looked up at Lydia, bewildered by how quickly this had turned around into something...not at all like what she shared with Deirdre. Was this the ‘heads up’? The lesson she was supposed to get out of this. “T-thank you,” she said quietly, averting her gaze. She followed her at a distance, still feeling a little clammy, or maybe just shaken. This wasn’t what she’d had in mind when she asked the universe to help her feel again. She looked between Lydia and the canvas and back again. It was all...waiting for her. She wasn’t sure how to feel about that. “Okay. What I like. I can do that.” She tried to smile again, but she was too shaken to feel at ease just yet.

She lifted a drafting pencil and began to sketch out the bones of...whatever this was going to be. Why was this so hard? Of course she liked things. Morgan sectioned off the canvas for a close up landscape and set aside a circle for what she wanted to put in it. She had started on a base coat (she remembered that much from the extra curricular lectures she’d attended) when she worked up the nerve to ask, “So, can I ask--? When you say that other fae are not as sweet, do you mean...that they do this on purpose? For...what, exactly? I just...would like to understand better.”

“I mean that the kind of promise you made could be used for something much crueler than a simple painting.” Lydia sat down a few feet away from Morgan, watching her paint the base. She sat back, her wings fading into view as she considered the question.  “We do it in part because it is our culture. To us, there is little more valuable than our word. That everyone else gives it so thoughtlessly is infuriating. There should be consequences for such things.”  She turned her gaze back to Morgan. “When I was attacked by that vampire, when I was done being terrified, I was enraged. Not just because he’d turned me into a toy, or because he’d tried to kill me. What made me most angry was that we’d made a deal, and he went right against it. That made me more angry than the manner by which he did it.” Lydia shook her head to clear her mind. “I suppose though, perhaps what I want to warn you of, is that many fae don’t like other fae to date other species at all. That a commitment like the one you made to me could have been used to end the relationship between the two of you.”

Morgan could understand, a little, what it must be like to see everyone take for granted what was so essential to you. She still hadn’t been by to see the coven despite saying that she would, she needed to. It was too painful, too infuriating, to witness magic as if it were a matter of course when her power had died in the street with her heartbeat. She switched to a different brush and began to cover the canvas in blue before taking up another and layering a wide swath of green over it for grass. It was more of a clumsy child’s dreamscape than the spot in the woods by the river she had hoped to represent, but Lydia hadn’t asked her for the artistic value of her work. She paused, turning solemn as Lydia recounted the worst parts of her story to her. Morgan shook her head with dismay. “Vampires are the fucking worst,” she grumbled quietly. Then, with a little more poise she said louder, “He should never have done that. He should have to pay, pay to someone for being cruel in that way. I’m sorry, Lydia.”

At the suggestion that Morgan could be promise-tricked into deserting Deirdre, she put her brush down. “They might hate me, for being with her. I’m aware of that much,” she said solemnly. “But...we promised each other first. All she ever has to do is ask for me to come to her, and I will. Wherever she is, whatever else happens between us. Doesn’t that promise matter too?” They were careful. They still didn’t go shouting from the rooftops that they were together. But if fae could sense each other, it would only take one outing down the wrong street, bumping into the wrong person, for them to guess. “How do I keep that from happening?” She asked. “I didn’t...I was being sincere, Lydia, when I spoke to you about doing something. I just didn’t understand that it was possible to bind yourself without the word ‘promise.’” She picked up her brush again, sighing with dismay as more troubled thoughts floated and circled her brain. “I’m sorry for that too I guess.”

“He will. He made a deal, and now he will pay for it. As he should,” Lydia replied, sneering, before pushing the mysterious vampire out of her mind and out the conversation. Morgan had much more interesting things to say. “You made a promise to Deirdre that you would stay in a relationship with her?” Lydia asked. Deirdre could do Deirdre but… how completely bizarre. She’d have to ask Deirdre about it sometime.  “Yes, any such promise has incredible value. There is a separate danger there. When an unstoppable force hits an immovable object, what breaks? Usually, the person who has made two opposing unbreakable promises.” It was rather gruesome, really. It was horrifying. Lydia had seen it happen to a couple humans, but had once seen it happen to a gancanagh she knew, barely eighteen years old. The whole fae population had gone into mourning over it. “You watch your words, carefully. Any time you commit to something, any time you indicate a favour owed. It takes practice. That’s why I wanted you to learn this now.” Lydia leant forward, her eyes softer than the situation should suggest. “I appreciate your apology, darling. I don’t doubt your good nature.”

“Oh, no, that’s--” Morgan couldn’t help but scoff darkly. “That’s definitely not what happened. Not that I would ever fuck with our agency like that in the first place, but Deirdre--” Deirdre had been more livid, more hurt than Morgan had ever seen her before, or since. Everything was vanishing behind one locked door after another. Morgan, with her cursed track record, had feared the worst. All because of some stupid words she hadn’t understood. Morgan couldn’t bring herself to explain the horrible details, the guilt of having caused that kind of hurt still haunted her mind. It rose up, prickling her peace like needles whenever things grew tense between her and Deirdre, and when they were so light and calm, they seemed too good to last. But the unpleasantness of that day in the woods was clear on her face as she stared into the distance before resuming her painting. “She would’ve released me in two seconds if that had been what I was trying. We weren’t in a good place, when I gave her that promise. But I wanted…” What she had really wanted was for all the badness to stop. And for Deirdre to not give up on her own humanity just because Morgan had wounded her by mistake. But Morgan did not know how to tell Lydia any of this, or if she even wanted to.

“I wanted her to know that I would always be there for her,” she said at last. “Even if we never got back to the kind of place we were at before, I would still want to be there for her, if that was something she might...want. Even a little. No relationship conditions, she could have frozen me out for weeks or months, and asked me over for just an hour or a night or a week. When you care about someone enough...when you love them, it shouldn’t matter if you’re in a fight or broken up over some stupid mistake or you haven’t spoken in awhile. If you love them, you want to be there no matter what, as long as they want you to. But that’s hard for people to believe. And not everyone means things like ‘oh, i still wanna be your friend,’ ‘yeah you can still count on me.’ But I meant it. So I gave her a promise. If she ever decided she wanted to see me again, I’d come. She only had to ask for me.”

Morgan began to paint the drop of canvas she’d sectioned off a bright orange. Not at all like the amber fossil kept safely in their bedroom, but close as she could figure from her selections. “We worked things out on our own, eventually. She’s never pulled on that thread, even once. And I’d come without pressing her to take that measure, obviously. But I like knowing it's there. There’s no telling what could happen, and it’s still true, so…” She looked over at Lydia, a little heartened by her softness. She nodded at her words, accepting the gravity of her situation, why she might feel compelled to go to all this trouble. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do here. You must care about Deirdre a lot, to look out for us.”

Lydia listened. This hadn’t been intended to be a backdoor into Deirdre’s private relationship or private thoughts, but as Morgan explained, Lydia began to relax and ease. Not just because she had for a second believed that Deirdre would have accepted such an ethically questionable promise. She listened attentively as Morgan talked, watching the attention by which Morgan painted. She deliberately wasn’t watching the actual painting, willing it to be a surprise, and to ensure that Morgan wouldn’t feel too imposed on. Beyond the literal imposition, of course. “I’m rather relieved to hear that, I must admit. The alternative would have been alarming. For the both of you.” Lydia settled and rolled her shoulders, stretching wing muscles as she did. “It is still a major commitment, but I’m glad you thought it through with her. I’m glad you were there to help her.” She smiled, softly, at Morgan’s comment. “I do. She’s a wonderful woman. Ultimately, I want her to be happy. Everything else is secondary.”

Morgan painted as best she could, which was, honestly, not very well. She began to add what was meant to be a squirrel picking flowers, caught in the lens of the orange drop, but her inexpert strokes morphed the image into a strange brown blob, almost sinister. “You don’t have to worry about that with me. I love her,” she said simply, setting the brush aside. She stepped back from her work. Not an artistic vision by any means, but it was covered. She gave Lydia a sidelong glance, wincing at just how awful it looked next to the art surrounding her. “I, uh, I tried,” she said. “It’s...well, it’s supposed to be things I like, but you should maybe display it out by the dumpster.”

Love. Morgan had used that word twice now, so that it couldn’t be an accident. Deirdre had said many things, but she had said nothing of love. Lydia looked down to her hands for a moment, at the smooth skin and the burgundy nails she wore today. She wondered if she’d be so kind, if Morgan was still human. She wondered if she would have done this at all, if Morgan never had been. Lydia set those thoughts aside. There was an edge to this kindness, that if asked about, Lydia couldn’t deny. One that perhaps they would forget about in time. Morgan turned the easel, and Lydia raised an eyebrow at the monstrosity that Morgan revealed. “I wouldn’t throw it away, this is a gift. We’ll call it… dadaist modern art, and call it a day. I am very grateful, Morgan. For everything.”

Morgan couldn’t help but notice the silence around her declaration. She wondered if it had to do with her being only recently un-human’d. If she had been dead all along, would Lydia believe her more, would she see it more clearly? Or would it only look right to her with a pair of wings at her back and fae blood in her cold veins? She sighed, wrapping her arms around herself to hide the self-consciousness. Lydia was being kind, but it was the sort of kindness that gritted its teeth against something else. She should probably count herself lucky, she reminded herself, that Lydia was trying at all. That she had, in some spare moments, tried to extend whatever counted as friendship for her kind of fae towards Morgan. “I don’t think I’ve done all that much,” she said, side-eyeing her handiwork again. “But I appreciate you taking this time with me too. I’d like to get to be your friend too. At some point.”

“You made more of an effort than I expected. That has value,” Lydia replied softly. She stood up, smoothing her skirt. “I think I’d like that too, at some point,” Lydia replied in turn. Perhaps not today. Perhaps not in a month. Perhaps not while Remmy was made to hate themselves for saving Morgan from her curse. Some point, though. It was an easy, commitment to make. “I also think I’ve taken up more than enough of your time, as pleasant as it has been to get to know you better.” She smiled, looking at the painting one more time. “I am truly happy for you and Deirdre. I’m glad you have each other.” I hope it stays that way. Deirdre didn’t need more heartbreak. As Lydia showed Morgan to the door, she thought that Deirdre wasn’t the only one like that, either.

[scottrecs]

Rec: Moving On

Moving On (1110 words) by Thisisarealtagwhy Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Scott McCall & Lydia Martin & Derek Hale Characters: Scott McCall, Lydia Martin, Derek Hale, Melissa McCall, Allison Argent Additional Tags: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Suicidal Thoughts, Scott is not okay, Hurt/Comfort, Banshee Lydia, she realises, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, PTSD Scott, Post Season/Series 3B, Grief/Mourning Summary:Scott's world comes crashing down as she becomes lifeless in his arms, why can't he take her pain?

Meditation is frankly the only way he can keep the threads of his sanity together and eventually he finds himself at a cliff, the cliff, the one she specified to be cremated at. "Scott?" And without turning, he knows that Lydia and Derek are behind him.

(Scott doesn't cope with Allison's death at all, and Lydia wants to avoid catastrophes)