#twc fics

[thee-morrigan]

sincerity is scary

character(s): Holland Townsend, plus a lil Verda at the beginning (technically, Nate's not in this but my god is he living rent-free in Holland's mind) wc/rating: 3.2k / T (swearing) warnings: so many spoilers for Book 3 (all below the cut ofc!) read on ao3 in case anyone’s wondering, Holland still thinks the scariest thing she’s up against is her own stupid heart.

“Come on, Verda, you have to have something for me. I want to do things. I need to do things.”

“You know, some research suggests that feeling the need to be busy all the time is a trauma response,” the pathologist responded mildly, not looking up from the tray of instruments he was busy sterilizing. “That it’s a fear-based compulsion to distract your brain from meaningfully processing traumatic events.”

“You wanna send me those citations, then, and I can distract myself with some light reading?” Holland snapped back, but there was no heat in it.

Verda paused his work then and turned, giving a huff of laughter whose lightness was somewhat diminished by the careful assessment in his eyes as they swept her face. Although they’d started out, as many good friends do, brought together not by fate or fortune but chance proximity, they had quickly discovered bright shared threads of themselves in each other beneath the veneer of professional courtesy and had found themselves fast companions ever since.

He respected her as a colleague, of course; more than he’d expected, if he was honest. She had a stronger background in his line of work than he’d dared to hope in such a small station, which made her a useful colleague to have when he found himself stymied by something. And — perhaps most importantly — she didn’t pester him with questions she didn’t even know were asinine when a case experienced delays. He’d liked Detective Reele more or less, but she’d been marginally tolerable when things didn’t move at the speed she decided appropriate, regardless of whether he could make degraded tissue spontaneously re-materialize when she decided she wanted clearer fingerprints. No, Detective Townsend was a better colleague, that was certain. 

More than just respecting her work, though, he liked Holland in general; she brought a borderline acerbic levity to the station that balanced against Tina’s more exuberant nature and his own tendency to forget to venture upstairs at least once a day. She wasn’t calmer than Tina, exactly — he wasn’t sure calm was a word that had ever been used to describe Holland Townsend. But if Tina was something in the neighborhood of bubbly, all iridescent soap shine and rounded edges, Holland was something sharper, something fizzing, like a live wire.

When he looked at her now, though, he saw less of the bright crackle of energy and more of the kind of nervous energy that led people to market abhorrent devices like fidget spinners. She looked restless. She looked tired.

—

Holland was tired. Goddamn exhausted, actually, if she was honest with herself, which seemed to be almost never these days. She didn’t let herself linger on the way that thought chafed any more than she let herself slow down enough for that bone-deep weariness to press its full weight against her.

It was better to keep moving.

“You know, you’re probably overdue for a vacation,” Verda’s voice, more tinged with concern than it had been a moment ago, cut through her reverie. “I’m pretty sure your promotion to detective didn’t entitle you to less PTO.”

The spark of wry humor in his comment didn’t fully mask the shade of careful observation in his eyes, but…it was an attempt. An easy out for her to muster her usual grinning nonchalance — the irreverent charm Adam had once snarked at her about relying on too heavily.

If it ain’t broke, I guess, she thought, swallowing the urge to sigh as she indeed summoned a half-smile, made herself look her friend in the eye as she tilted her head at him.

“There you go with that concern again, V,” she teased, rising from her perch on the edge of a spare lab bench.

“It’s almost like we’re friends,” he said dryly, although some of the tension in his face eased.

“Which is why I’m gonna let you get back to it and quit bugging you.” Holland moved toward the open lab door and paused, resting one hand against the door jamb as she flashed Verda a more genuine smile. “Thanks, though. For letting me bug you.”

He waved her comment off, though he returned her smile. “Anytime. Besides, I’m hoping things will finally start calming back down with those recent cases sorted. Then we’ll both probably relish any interruptions to the usual humdrum.”

It was all she could do to dredge up a hum of laughter in agreement before stepping back into the corridor, only letting her shoulders slump once she was safely ensconced in her office.

She hadn’t told any of them yet that she was leaving the station. She’d have to soon; she knew that, knew she’d been putting it off far too long already. And, as her mother had pointed out, it wasn’t as if she was never going to be able to see them again. Her friends would still be her friends. They just wouldn’t work together anymore.

Or mostly get to know what she even did for work anymore.

She wasn’t even entirely sure how much she could still keep Tina in the loop, as much as she might wish to. She didn’t have any reason to be particularly suspicious of Agent Pierson, the woman the Agency had sent to spy on Tina from within the station. But as much as she trusted Tina —with her secrets but also to take care of herself— she worried that the balm of having a confidant who was just hers was no longer truly available to her, at least not in the way it had been. Part of that fear, she knew, came from knowing she couldn’t reveal that the so-called new officer was not exactly who she seemed. In all likelihood, the whole arrangement probably really was for Tina’s safety, and probably nothing to worry about, but…Holland still felt like she was lying to her. And not the kind of lying she was comfortable with.

A liar and a coward, she thought as she sat at her desk, chin propped in her hands. She felt that constricting weight begin to settle against her, her skin too tight along her bones, and jerked to her feet again before that melancholia could curl catlike into her lap and trap her there.

She supposed it was useful that everyone had become so inured to her abrupt comings and goings from the station; no one bothered to look up as she walked out into the bright heat of the midday sun, its sticky warmth blanketing her body after a morning spent in the over-conditioned chill of the station’s air.

—

She ended up back in her apartment more out of habit than any real desire to be there. For a while, she found herself drifting, unmoored and aimless, between rooms. She should try to rest, she knew that, knew that if she could sleep she would feel better. 

These days, though, she too often found herself reaching for sleep only to close her fist around endless, empty time. 

She tried to read, to lose herself in another universe for a while, but gave up after she realized that while she’d technically read a whole chapter, she had no idea what had happened in it. 

She thought about playing guitar but figured if she couldn’t focus on reading, she probably wouldn’t fare much better at making anything that sounded like music instead of discordant strumming.

Plus she was already bored of sitting still in the empty quiet of her apartment.

Pushing herself off her window seat, Holland strode to her dresser and tugged out shorts and a sports bra. Experience had taught her long ago that she couldn’t outrun her own brain, but at least she could tire her body enough that she was forced to sleep, at least a little.

—

Because she was already tired, it took longer than usual to find her pace, especially without any music to give her a cadence she could match. In deference to safety, she’d decided against headphones; probably a wise choice   — definitely a wise choice, she reminded herself, hardly a choice at all unless she decided to start actively courting disaster — but one that did nothing to lessen the weight of that heaviness that kept pulling at her, brutal and swift as a rip current. Still, after three miles, she felt some of the tension in her body ebb, some of that near-constant tightness in her chest yielding its grip enough for breathing to come easier, deep and steady draughts of air filling her lungs. 

For a long while, there was only the blessed gentle warmth of summer air, the quiet scraping thump of her sneakers against the sidewalk, and the pleasant ache of her muscles stretching and contracting. Slowly, mile after mile, she felt her body become less foreign, each pounding step bringing it closer to the skin and bones and thudding heart that she recognized as her own. Felt each clenching beat of that too-human muscle in her chest insisting it was where it belonged, safe within its cage of bone and flesh. Felt the reassurance that her heart hadn’t been torn from her chest and left, raw and bleeding, outside her body. 

No matter how it might feel lately. 

A liar and a coward. 

The sharp dig of a knife between her ribs, the claws of that familiar tightness latching into her chest again, and—

Breathe. 

She sucked in air with a sharp gasp, forced her lungs to expand, to draw air in and in and in until she could feel those claws retract.

Until she felt the thought she’d almost had, the one she still hadn’t let herself articulate even within her own mind, retract with them.

Another kind of lie. Another thing she was too much of a coward to confront.

Holland sucked in another breath, letting the sultry weight of that summer air fill her, fill all the cold, empty spaces that lurked within her. Let the warmth of it incinerate the other unarticulated thoughts and shadows of memory before they could turn their baleful, accusatory eyes back toward her. 

Turning her own gaze outward once more, she scanned her surroundings, squinting at a nearby street sign as she passed and trying to decide how much further until she really would need to loop back. Holland’s run had taken her well into the outskirts of town. It wasn’t her preferred route, which snaked through the woods near the Cornerstones and eventually toward the marina, but at least this route hadn’t taken her through Wayhaven proper. Or required her to skirt the station, as her usual path would have. Even if she was leaving — even if no one seemed to really notice or care whether she was, at any given moment, in her office these days — she still didn’t think running directly past the station in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon was necessarily appropriate. 

So Holland found herself instead approaching the winding series of long hills that would eventually lead her toward the hospital. Her knees ached just thinking about those hills. None were particularly steep, but they stretched further than was typically noticeable in a car. On foot, though…no, it was probably past time for her to begin finding her way back home. 

It had been a while since she’d been on a long run. A long while, actually, and she knew her legs would likely ache come morning, even with the shorter maintenance runs she tried to squeeze in whenever she could. Which had been no chance at all these past weeks, between work and what felt like an endless cycle of injury and suffocatingly long recovery. Indeed, she felt the muscles in her thighs protest as she crested one hill before veering right, toward the streets leading back into town. Oh, she would certainly feel the cost of this impromptu long run in the morning.

Although it might be a nice change, she supposed, if her body ached from something other than having the shit kicked out of her by Trappers. Or crumbling buildings. Or winged giants who caused said buildings to end up in pieces on top of her. And those were only some of the most recent aches.

She rolled her shoulders, shaking her arms to diffuse the pressing tension of that memory, her breath a sharp scrape against her throat. 

Fine. She was fine. Despite the strain of these past months, she continued to be perfectly fine. Had gotten through everything that’d been thrown at her. Not entirely smoothly, certainly not effortlessly, but…she had gotten through it. Would continue to do so, perhaps with greater ease than before if her new role indeed provided increased training. She could handle it. She would handle it.

It was the same argument she’d given Nate after the auction, almost two weeks ago now. As to whether she believed it any more now than she had then…another thought she wasn’t ready to have yet. 

I am in love with you, Holland.

Another familiar ache in her chest, one more bruise on her already battered heart. She shut down that train of thought, almost stumbling as she worked to redirect that particular train of thought. To shut out the image that flashed across her mind’s eye, of how Nate’s face had looked in that conversation. The way he’d looked at her, the agony that had streaked across his beautiful face, and how neatly and thoroughly it had eviscerated her. 

That pain. That pain that she had caused.

I don’t know how this is going to work.

She’d had to remind herself how to breathe. Had to remind herself to breathe through the lashing pain of how much she’d hated herself for putting that look on his face. And for knowing that it would likely be far from the last time. 

Because she didn’t know either.

She didn’t know how to avoid it, this hurting him. Didn’t know how to be an easier person to love. 

And as for what she did know, what she’d suspected and quietly fretted over for weeks now…

That hideous weight tugged beneath her ribs and Holland sped up, pushing past the bleating tremor in her thighs, the burning ache in her chest. Pushed that thought out, out, out—

“Fuck!” The word was little more than a hiss as the world tipped and roiled and Holland went flying, elbows skidding and knees barking as she hit the pavement.

Between the subsequent string of violent curses and what remained of her pride, she supposed she was relieved to still be closer to the outskirts than the town center. If running past the station in the middle of a Tuesday was arguably inappropriate, the selection of words that flew out of her mouth as she eased to a seat on the ground was indisputably so. 

She winced as she examined the shredded skin on her forearms, her knees. She hadn’t even fallen well: the most she’d done before splaying gracelessly on the street had been to land more on her arms than her hands. Not her first choice, or at least it shouldn’t have been, but at least she hadn’t broken her wrists. Or anything else, as far as she could tell, looking her latest batch of wounds over as she rose to her feet.

Holland hissed again as she gingerly flexed her left leg, which had borne the brunt of the impact and now sported angry red scrapes along her knee and halfway up her thigh. Just scrapes, but ones that stretched painfully when she bent her leg. 

Swallowing another mouthful of curses, she pulled free the water bottle attached to her running belt, unstoppering it with her teeth before she squeezed a stream of water along first one leg, then the other, and then the smaller scrapes on her arms and elbows. They stung like all hell, but at least they looked slightly better with most of the dirt and grime rinsed away. Naturally, she’d forgotten to bother checking if she’d needed to restock the handful of bandages she usually kept in one of the belt’s pockets; naturally, she only unearthed one after fumbling through every goddamned pocket, the lone bandage too small to be of much use unless she fancied ripping adhesive off part of an open wound later.

She exhaled, sharp and impatient, and raked a hand over the sweat-dampened strands of hair that had broken free of her stubby ponytail and now lay plastered to her forehead. 

No new scars indeed. She snorted as she recalled Nate’s words in that forest clearing, back before they’d even known what manner of myth hunted her. She doubted it had occurred to him that she’d likely continue to rack up scars earned through her own sheer stupidity. God, but that felt like a lifetime ago.

She drained the remains of her water bottle before slotting it back in its elastic holster at her hip. She toed the ground, wincing at her protesting kneecap, and considered. Depending on the route she took, she wasn’t that far from her apartment. The circuitous route she’d intended to follow was obviously out, but she could take a more direct one and be back relatively quickly. Walking, it would take…she did the math, frowning. Walking back, assuming she kept her regular pace, would likely take her the better part of two hours. She stretched her legs again, shifting experimentally from one foot to the other. She was hurt, yes, but it was definitely only superficial, and not so bad she couldn’t probably run home as well as she could walk. Running would be faster, even with what would certainly be a much slower pace. Would likely cut the return time in half, actually, though she knew it would hurt. Of course, it would hurt to walk home, too. 

Holland’s shoulders sagged. Since she’d stopped moving, her body had started to register physical exhaustion, had begun to grow heavy with it, and she wanted to be home. Wanted a shower and her bed and a different kind of silence than the kind that felt like a scream.

She did have another option, some small part of her mind pointed out before she shut that thought out, too. Technically, the warehouse, where she had a bed and a shower and certainly less silence, was a bit closer to her current location than her own apartment. However begrudgingly, Holland had to admit the thought tempted her. Tempted her more when she thought of the magic-imbued salve, leftover from what had been her most recent batch of injuries, stashed in a bathroom cabinet. To say nothing of the vampire whose mere presence soothed her more than any medicine.

Her frown deepened. She was tired of showing up at the warehouse battered and bloody. Really goddamned tired of it. 

She straightened, rolling her shoulders and breathing deep. Her apartment wasn’t that far, and it was only a skinned knee. Well, two skinned knees, actually, and her elbows, but…

Holland released that deep breath and set off,  a tentative jog while she found her new pace, toward the town center and her apartment beyond.

She didn’t much feel like reminding anyone how easily she broke apart.

#this is so maudlin lmao sorry #she's not having a great time #katie writes things #twc book 3 spoilers #twc spoilers #twc fics #oc: holland townsend #ship: your entire heart

[songofsoma]

a little reward

fandom: the wayhaven chronicles pairing: ava du mortain x f!detective (cecilia beck) words: 2,098 rating: explicit

read it on ao3

“Again,” Ava barked.

Cecilia groaned from her spot sprawled along the mats covering the hard floor. Even with the added cushion, she swore every bone in her body jostled at every rough impact. “Ava, please,” she whined. “Have a little mercy.”

Clearly, that response was not well received judging how Ava crouched over her, seriousness hardening her already icy gaze. “Do you think Trappers will have mercy? Or rogue supernaturals? Do you think they’ll see you’re tired and offer a water break?” She scoffed.

“No need to be rude,” she grumbled.

Her face softened at that and she held out her hand, which Cecilia took begrudgingly. Ava planted her hands on either arm, steadying her in place. “You are more than capable. I’ve seen it. But this is still important.” The look that lingered on her face told Cecilia the unspoken words reeling behind that thick skull of Ava’s.

I can’t risk losing you . 

One hand rose to cup Cecilia’s cheek, a calloused thumb brushing along plush skin. Cecilia covered Ava’s hand with her own. A few uninterrupted heartbeats passed between them before she spoke.

“I’ll do it again, but you have to reward me afterward.”

Ava raised a brow. Her grasp dropped, loosely holding Cecilia’s hips. “And what might that be?”

Cecilia grinned and tapped her lips. “I think I deserve a little kiss, don’t you?”

With a snort, Ava rolled her eyes. “I would hardly call that a reward.”

“Why? You think you’re a bad kisser?” she paused. “Or are you calling me a bad kisser?”

“I am saying neither.”

“Then what?”

“I kiss you all the time. Shouldn’t a reward be something…special?” She shrugged.

It was Cecilia’s turn to appear suspicious. “Special?”

She waved her hand dismissively. “If a kiss is what you desire, then a kiss it is. Get in position.”

Cecilia huffed but did as she was told. 

She took her place on the mat, bending her knees like she had been instructed. Her fists were hovered in front of her, ready for whatever may lie ahead. In mission-related circumstances what lay ahead was unknown. But in the training room, it just meant Ava flipping her onto her back in every way but the one she wanted. 

Ava stood across from her, posture mimicking Cecilia’s, as she was mulling over what way to attack this time around. Whatever it was, she would handle it because by god did Cecilia think she deserved at least a little kiss for all her hard work. 

She shook her head, clearing away all the thoughts that weren’t focused on the situation at hand. Even though it was hard not to be distracted by the way Ava’s exposed abdomen rippled with every moment and how her creamy skin was glistening with sweat. Cecilia truly was so brave for sparring with her insanely sexy girlfriend and not jumping her bones the moment Ava had peeled off her t-shirt. 

Her determination to not get distracted almost caused her to miss the first indication of Ava’s step-off. Luckily, Cecilia dodged just in time. She could feel the air of Ava’s hands blow by her with centimeters to spare. 

Cecilia knew she had little luck going on the offensive. Even if she was more than capable of handling herself in a fight, one with a vampire—especially one such as Ava—was a battle rarely won in making the first move.

Ava flew towards her again and Cecilia ducked but managed to get a foot out to send Ava tumbling to the ground. Much to her disdain, she fell too as Ava’s hand wrapped around her leg.

Cecilia swore loudly, but her fall thankfully was cushioned by Ava. They both huffed and puffed heavily for a few seconds before Cecilia planted her hands on Ava’s clavicle to push herself up to make eye contact. And the moment she did, Cecilia busted out into a fit of giggles.

Rolling her eyes, Ava let her head fall back against the mat, but the amused grin pulling at her lips couldn’t be denied nor could the way her hands immediately found Cecilia’s waist. She shivered at the added heat sliding against her already flush skin. Dressed in her small workout shorts and a sports bra, a lot of skin was left exposed to Ava’s touch. A factor she seemed to be taking advantage of.

“Do I get my kiss now?” she breathed, suddenly desperate for it.

Hazy eyes drifted over her face lazily as the tips of her fingers dug into her skin. “Come here then.”

Cecilia lurched forward, hands coming to press against either side of Ava’s head to hold herself steady. There was no time wasted as their lips found each other. Her long ponytail fell over a shoulder, the ends tickling Ava’s neck, though she made no indication of it bothering her. 

Instead, the hands that had been kneading her hips were beginning to slide up Cecilia’s back to teasingly play with the strappy back of her bra. 

“Ava,” she whispered against her lips.

A soft hum was her only reply.

Cecilia could feel that familiar need growing within her. She tried to adjust herself to quench it but slipped and ended up slotted against one of Ava’s raised thighs. 

The immediate friction shot through her, making her gasp, nails digging into the mat. 

It didn’t go unnoticed by Ava who could most definitely feel the heat of her arousal pressed against her leg now. “Something wrong, love?” she murmured, lips beginning to venture over her jaw to the curve of Cecilia’s neck. And to be a real brat, Ava moved her leg a fraction, smirking at the way Cecilia jolted.

“Fuck,” she wheezed. “I-I just lost my balance and now you’re teasing.” Cecilia struggled to try and begin to stand—until two strong hands caught her, holding her in place.

“Who said I was teasing?”

Her eyes widened. “Anyone could walk in.”

Ava’s eyes were becoming dark with desire. “Guess we’ll just have to be quick then.” With her grip, she dragged Cecilia’s hips along her thigh making her sputter a surprised moan.

“Fuck, Ava ,” she whined, beginning to aid her by moving on her own. Cecilia was still hunched over her. The top layer of the mats was beginning to give way and peel from the way her nails were still digging into them. 

Pleasure was radiating through her entire body from the way she ground against Ava’s thigh. The ridges of muscle adding extra sensation with every movement of her hips. 

When Cecilia’s hips were beginning to stutter in their rhythm, Ava took over once again, not once being merciful in her pace. Like before, her fingers were digging into her flesh, this time hard enough that there would be bruises left behind. But Cecilia loved it. 

Ava bombarded her exposed throat with kisses, sucking on the skin until a dark mark was left behind. She liked to mark what was hers. They had been through hell and back to get to this point, no one was going to take what was hers now. 

Cecilia couldn’t stop Ava’s name from falling from her lips as the tension grew. She wasn’t going to last much longer with Ava’s viscous pace and the attention being paid to the sensitive areas of her neck.

 “Come for me,” she rumbled against her skin.

She whined some incoherent response as Ava pressed her leg further against Cecilia’s crotch. That last bit of added pressure was what she needed to send her over the edge. 

Ava sat up right as Cecilia collapsed against her chest in a trembling mess, kissing the top of her head. “My sweet girl,” she praised but the words were lost as the sound of rushing blood filled her ears.

She panted softly, slumped against Ava as she came down from her climax, enjoying the gentle hand brushing over her hair.

“Was that enough of a reward?” Ava murmured into her ear, making Cecilia huff a laugh.

“I like this new training strategy,” she mused.

“If we’re giving out rewards, I think I deserve one too for putting up with you.”

Cecilia drew back, eyebrows raised. But she wasn’t able to say anything before Ava scooted her off her thigh and onto the mats.

She pointed to her cotton shorts with a very obvious wet spot on one leg. Cecilia’s face heated immediately. “You made such a mess. I think I should be allowed to clean it up.”

Her lips parted as she eagerly nodded, not trusting her words. 

Ava moved to kneel in front of her, easing Cecilia’s back against the mat before hooking her fingers beneath the waistband of her soiled shorts. They hooked onto her knees and Ava pushed her legs back against Cecilia’s chest. “Hold them there.”

Cecilia’s view was obstructed by the fabric, but she could feel Ava’s rough thumbs parting her and her hot breath fan over her skin. And then she felt the flat of her tongue drag up the length of her sex. It was agonizingly slow and she just avoided her clit making Cecilia squirm in frustration as she did it again. 

“This is one mess I don’t mind cleaning up,” she teased, clearly knowing Cecilia’s agony of not yet getting what she wanted. 

“Ava,” she whined in protest, but the vampire ignored her, going back to her teasing licks.

She chuckled when Cecilia huffed dramatically, finally appeasing her by circling her tongue around her swollen clit. 

The suddenness of it made Cecilia moan before a hand clamped over her mouth and green eyes were piercing into hers. “Quiet, love. You live in a place crawling with people with extra sensitive hearing.”

Her eyes widened making Ava smirk. She hadn’t even considered that. God forbid if someone heard and came to investigate. Especially if it was Farah who came in to find Cecilia with her shorts pulled to her knees and Ava’s head between her legs in the middle of the training room—she’d never live it down.

Ava went back to her task at hand, wrapping her lips around Cecilia’s clit, sucking and licking until her back was arching. She knew just how to drive Cecilia nuts. The steady pressure moved into her tongue lapping desperately at her wet heat as if she had never had a meal in her life. 

She was already sensitive from her first orgasm and a second one was approaching fast.

“Close,” she panted. “Ava, I’m so close.”

Cecilia couldn’t tell if Ava was trying to look at her face from her pants blocking her view. She knew she had heard her desperate cries and could feel her walls convulsing around her tongue. Ava pulled her hips harder against her mouth, face shaking side to side as she was speared on her tongue, nose bumping against her clit with each motion.

For the second time, her muscles began to quiver. Cecilia nearly sobbed as her grip on her legs loosened, Ava having to catch them to keep her spread open as she finished. Her chest heaved and her hips jolted every time Ava caught her overstimulated clit with her lips or tongue. It didn’t deter Ava from taking her time in coming up for air.

When she finally did, the bottom half of her face glistened with Cecilia’s wetness. And the prideful grin on her face was enough to make Cecilia smile. Though the moment was short-lived as Ava tensed and cocked her head to the door.

“Someone’s coming,” she hissed standing so fast it made Cecilia’s eyes spin. Ava hoisted her onto her jelly legs and pulled her pants up quickly, patting her ass for good measure.

“Your face.” Cecilia grinned, leaning against her side for support.

Ava’s eyes sparkled in recognition as she quickly dragged her forearm over her mouth and chin to try and rid herself of any evidence. 

It was just in time too as the door opened to reveal Morgan.

She looked uninterested in the two already in the room, towel slung over her shoulder as she made her way to one of the wooden dummies. But then she paused and sniffed the air.

“Why the fuck does it smell like sex in here?” she asked, turning to the couple.

Ava shrugged, face a mask of indifference. 

“It’s probably just you,” Cecilia remarked.

Morgan thought for a second, then sniffed her shirt. “Whatever.” She turned away from them, once more uninterested.

It was all she could do to hold back her laughter as Ava hauled her out of the room.

#happy book 3 here's some sex #ava du mortain #ava du mortain x detective #ava du mortain x f!detective #ava x cecilia #oc: cecilia #twc #the wayhaven chronicles #wayhaven #twc a #twc fics #wayhaven chronicles #a du mortain

[hydrngea]

it’s nice to have a friend

a/n : it’s finally here! perfect pick part 2!!! sososososo sorry for the wait. irl stuff got in the way of me working on this. again. severely unedited. sorry 🫣

notes : fic can be read as a one shot or connected to perfect pick 2. part 3 tbd. this one is full of rafe fluff!

summary : maybe rafe was a little bit more than just ur best friends brother.

part one | series masterlist | masterlist

there was a period of time between your tenth birthday and your eleventh where you and rafe were actually friends. real friends. almost comparable to the way you and sarah were.

——

for some reason sleep feels impossible tonight. even though sarah’s deep into her oblivion. even though her ceiling is darkened and even though the room is quiet save for the gentle ticking of the alarm clock on her nightstand.

you decide to blame it on thirst, pulling yourself out of your sleeping bag and carefully slipinhg out her bedroom while walking on the tips of your toes.

you’re familar with the layout of tannyhill. It’s practically been your second home ever since you were born. you’ve had hundreds of sleepovers with sarah and spent many holidays with the cameron’s; your families were just so close.

you make your way towards their kitchen and startle a little when you realize someone else is there,too. you still suck at reading manual clocks but you guess that it’s sometime after midnight.

“ah!” you yelp and the person turns around while agressivly shushing you.

“why are you screaming?” rafe whisper yells as he sets a pint of ice cream onto the island.

“you scared me.” you respond with a much quieter tone, looking down at your feet and avoiding eye contact.

you hear a snicker come from him, “are you wearing unicorn pajamas? aren’t you ten?”

you wrap your arms over your chest, insecurely covering up the horn of the large creature printed into your nightgown.

“isn’t it too late at night to be eating ice cream?” yoy quip back.

rafe gestures to the clock on the wall beside him. “isn’t it past your bedtime?”

“isn’t it past yours?”

you can faintly tell that he rolls his eyes at that, and he brings a spoonful of ice cream up to his lips.

“what flavor it that?” you question, approaching his spot behind the island.

his voice is muffled due to the ice scream still melting in his mouth, “didn’t you say it’s too late to be eating ice cream right now?”

“i’m just asking what flavor, rafe.”

he’s quiet for a moment before responding with a sigh. “chocolate.”

he tells you because he knows it’s your favorite. you’re a chocolate girl through and through- it was the flavor of your birthday cake at your party a couple of weeks ago, as it had been for all your previous birthdays before.

your eyes light up and his chest swells in a weird way he puts off as a delayed brain freeze. “can i have a bite?”

to your surprise he says yes, pulling out a spoon from the drawer besides him and handing it to you. he holds the pint close to you so you can take a scoop, and just when the metal of the utensil touches the cold desert he raises the container up so you can’t reach it.

he’s only a year older than you, but even the slight difference makes him a whole lot taller than you. you hop and chase him all around the kitchen in attempt to retrieve the ice cream and it makes you so angry that he’s having fun in your suffering; almost as much as it makes you feel like you’re gonna melt because he’s having fun. with you.

you let out a huff and stop your chasing, and he finally walks back towards you and let’s you have the pint.

You snatch it out of his grasp, making your way to the kitchen stools with him following closely behind you. he brings his spoon too, and you roll your eyes when he nudges you for some more of the ice cream. you tilt the container in your hands towards him and he digs into it once more.

The lopsided smile he sends you in response is enough to freeze your heart and melt any annoyance you felt towards him.

—————————-

you knuckles rap against his bedroom door. the same pattern as you’ve been doing for the past 4 months, sneaking out of sarah’s bright pink bedroom and into rafes contrasting blue.

he lets you in and you find solace ontop of his large gaming chair, having unofficially claimed it as your own. rafe let’s you take over it without complaint, lately opting to to settle beside the wall across from you instead of his own seat.

you get tossed a dvd case and you barely catch it. your eyes graze over the cover and take in the title. you let out a huff, “why do we always watch the movie you choose?”

rafe pauses for a split second before responding.

“but it’s the dark knight.”

you throw the case back at him, the plastic hitting his arm. “ouch.” rafe mutters, rubbing at the aggictated skin.

“this is a boy movie.”

he snorts. “i’m a boy.”

you cross your arms over your chest. “i’m not.”

it’s true, he always manages to convince you to watch what he picks out. but the dark knight is the best action movie ever. can’t you just let it slide one last time?

you glare at him and rafe relents, as he always does when it comes to you. he lets out a sigh and slides his box full of dvds towards you. “fine. find an alternative.”

it seems like you know exactly which movie you want to watch. you pull it out and feed it into the dvd player, grinning.

“we’re not watching it.”

“why? are you too scared, rafey?”

He scoots on the floor closer next to you. “No. Its just a stupid movie.”

You giggle, pulling his blanket off his bed and wrapping it around your torso. “You’re just a scary cat.” You shrug.

“am not.”

“are too.”

rafe sucks in a tense breath. he knows he can’t get out of this.

“turn it on?”

“are you sure you won’t pee your pants, rafey.”

he reaches forward and grabs the tv remote, clicking the play button.

(surprisingly, rafe proved you wrong. he did not pee his pants. even if there were multiple close calls. you guys made it to the movie without any accidents, somehow shuffled close together and sharing the same navy throw blanket; a comforting warmth shared between the two as he falls asleep with his cheek on your shoulder. his mother catches the two of you in the morning. snaps a picture with her phone without saying anything, and retreating back to her bedroom with a smile spread across her face)

——-

whenever you had sleepovers at the cameron’s, you’d always be the first one up. even if you were the last one asleep.

okay. you were the second one up, after mrs. cameron.

you had an unspoken sleepover routine. you’d usually be up by seven thirty, and there’d be pancake batter on the griddle for you starting at seven fifteen; always the first to enjoy a fresh stack of mrs.cameron’s signature blueberry pancakes.

you shut the door to sarah’s room, rubbing your eyes as you shuffled towards the kitchen.

“morning, mrs. cameron.” you greet while stifling a yawn. you blink a couple times, adjusting to the absurdly bright room.

it’s not mrs. cameron in the kitchen. instead, you’re met with rafe behind the island, again. pouring whole milk into a bowl of cereal.

“moms still asleep.” he says, words rough on the edges.

you don’t respond, opting to climb onto one of the island stools in silence. you watch his brow furrow as he making sure the perfect ratio of milk falls into his breakfast. the feature is similar to the way his mother forhead wrinkles while she meticulously pours a ladle full of bluberry batter onto the griddle.

“what cereal?” you mumble, shifting so your hands settle between the seat and your legs.

rafe tightens the cap of the milk, then shoved it back into the kitchen aid fridge. “pebbles.”

you open your mouth to ask about the flavor, but he responds before anything comes out.

“cocoa pebbles. you want some?”

you nod, begining to pull yourself off the stool so you can make yourself a bowl. but instead, he pushes his bowl towards you.

“have it. i’ll make another.” he offers with a tight lipped smile.

“thanks,” your heart stutters at the gesture. you take the spoon and swirl the cereal around so the milk can become chocolatey. you take a sip of it, enjoying the sweetness on your tongue.

he makes himself another bowl and brings it to the stool besides you.

“why are you up so early?” you question while he settles onto the seat and he shrugs.

“i guess i just wanted to see you before you left.”

the words almost make you choke on your cocoa puffs, the milk almost pouring out your nostrils. you couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

“you really wanted to be blessed with my obnoxious presence this early in the morning?”

“i don’t think you’re obnoxious, y/n.” rafe confesses, voice quiet as if he wanted you to be the only one to hear.

suddenly, it felt like the necklace which laid under your pajamas was burning a hole on your neck. you pull it out and start playing with its pendent in between your thumb and your index finger.

“i don’t think you’re obnoxious either.” you say, because you don’t know what else would be right to say in the moment. he looks expectantly at you with a soft gaze, eyes flickering from your own iris’s to the silver chain you’ve exposed. his lips curve into a smile which mirrors your own.

“yeah?”

“yea.” you confirm, tilting your head towards him with a brightening smile before looking back down at your bowl of now soggy cereal.

“yeah.” he breathes again, bringing his spoon up to his lips to take a bite of his breakfast.

you two remain smiling, even after you’ve departed from tannyhill.

————-

taglist (let me know if u want to be added or removed!)

tagging those who asked to be tagged in part 2 @kkmstblog @spicykimchiiii @whore4drew @diorgirl444 @outerbankspov @maybankslover @writtenwordslover @drewstarkeyirlgf @vert-pomme @octaviareina @everythingmarveltopgun @hangmanshomecoming @fallingwallsh @millies0bsimp @pickingviolets @fulla02 @denise417 @mad-die45 @callsignwidow @leclerc16s @yomnajir @ash5monster01 @spear-bearing-bi-witch @grxcisxhy-wp @iluvpills @user09 @cat-or-kitten @bellstwd @mrsstarkey1 @illicitfixations @willowpains @penny4yourthoughts @book-place @sangytv @sweetestdesire @mvybanks @rafesmoon @a-aexotic

reblog + comment and i’ll do the same for you <333

#rafe cameron #jj maybank #obx #drew starkey #rafe cameron fic #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron imagines #rafe x y/n #rafe angst #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron x kook!reader #rafe outer banks #rafe x you #outerbanks rafe #obx fluff #not twc #hydrngea.txt #jj maybank smut #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank imagines #jj maybank fluff #jj maybank x y/n #jj maybank x you #rafe fanfiction #jj fanfiction #obx smut

[fauville]

sweet dreams

fandom: the wayhaven chronicles

rating: mature

pairings: ava du mortain/female detective (vesper graves), nate sewell/female detective (charlie langford)

chapters: 3/?

A/N: ROOK!!!!!!!!!

taglist: @agentnatesewell, @carriehobbs, @lalizah, @saintalessia (let me know if you want to be added or removed)

summary:

This is what her life is right now, she thinks.

Dreaming of endless and endless breakfasts with her father in limbo. She wonders if she has been forgotten in the waking world after three long years. She wonders if she still matters to the universe.

“What are you thinking about, little dove?” Rook asks her. He has a stain of ketchup on his chin and his eyeglasses are crooked on his nose, which makes Vesper smile a little despite her inner gloom.

read in ao3.

#the wayhaven chronicles #twc #twc fanfic #ava du mortain #nate sewell #vilna writes #fic: sweet dreams

[nat-seal-well]

Idk I find it… interesting? Ironic? That for all that N hates being seen as “perfect” it doesn’t stop them from putting the Detective on a pedestal. It’s just something I like to think about a lot <3

#the wayhaven chronicles #twc n sewell #twc nat #twc nate #fun thoughts to entertain me at night when I can’t sleep #that may or may not show up in a fic at some point

[sixtysixproblems]

aaaaand its more sketchy af commander cody WIPS! this one will probably (someday) get done though. everyone meet The Commander, from @heartofroses112's fic Our Own Choices. And get this, he canonically has a MULLET long-ish hair!! more fun for me, mr hates drawing short hair.

not pictured: bly wheezing in the background

#commander cody #the clone wars #the kalidescope view #twc fanart #clone wars fanart #fic fanart #our own choices #clone wars #star wars the clone wars #i cant do mr morrison justice but boy am i going to try #fuck mouths i hate drawing mouths #my stuff #behold! my stuff

[thee-morrigan]

else fine

the wayhaven chronicles | nate/holland (f!detective) | rated T | read on ao3

Holland is tired of feeling like she's being mollified. Set immediately after the last demo for Book 3 (so, reader beware: here be spoilers).

The ride back to the warehouse had been...tense, to say the least. After the unexpected turn of events with the Annunaki, there had been very little conversation. Even Felix hadn’t tried very hard to break the strange, thick silence that had descended. Muscle memory drove her hand into her bag in search of headphones, and Holland felt the smooth, rubbery tangle of cords under her fingers before it occurred to her that there was little point to them in a car full of vampires. She supposed, somewhat acidly, that she was just lucky they couldn’t overhear her brain, which was teeming: a roiling tumult of nerves and emotions ricocheting off of each other with nowhere to land. 

She leaned her head against the window, half-watching the verdant blur of the tree line as Adam drove them past it, half-watching her own reflection in the tinted glass of the Agency’s sleek (ridiculous, she thought) SUV. Fingers at her throat, worrying the chain around her neck, the dull glint of the gold band hanging from it reflected in the window as she watched. 

Her father’s police academy ring. The only time she’d ever seen him without it, she’d known, even then, tiny and overwhelmed and furious, that it was not him she was seeing. Not her father. Her father never lay still like that, in starched suits like that, quiet and unsmiling. Her father was — he was — 

Her father was; this strange likeness set before her is. A permanent line in the sand, etched by time itself, deep and uncrossable as any chasm.

She’d spent so much of that day furious, her whole body full to bursting with it, the simmering, pent-up rage of children already weary of feeling impotent and either overlooked or overly looked at, frustrated with too many adults with too pitying faces peering down at hers, too many hands smoothing over her hair, squeezing her shoulders. 

Poor thing, they’d said. Over and over, some variation of the same chorus: poor little thing. It made her want to scream. Part of her had wondered if anyone would actually notice if she did. Probably they would just keep repeating their mechanical mantra at her, going through the motions of smoothing over the wrinkles of her grief, draped over her like a mantle, her own shroud, the folds of it too bulky, its fabric much too heavy for her child’s body to bear. 

She hadn’t screamed, of course. Hadn’t caused a scene. She’d stood there beside her mother and let herself be a poor little thing. Like an accessory to Widow Barbie. She’d spent that entire, awful day letting herself be a prop to the funereal spectacle. And then, when they’d finally returned home, she’d promptly snuck into her parents’ room (just her mother’s room, now, she remembered thinking) and stolen her father’s ring. Filched it out of her mother’s jewelry box while Rebecca was elsewhere and hid it in her room. 

Her mother never actually found where she’d hidden it; Holland had already begun to develop a certain sense of secrecy about herself, although it would be years before anyone pointed out that trying to keep yourself tucked away wasn’t necessarily typical behavior. But, still, Rebecca knew immediately that it had been her daughter who spirited the totem away. She never asked about it outright: she knew, even then, that Holland wouldn’t have divulged the ring’s location, or even likely have confirmed it was in her possession. Instead, she gave Holland a small lacquered box a few days later, claiming to have found it when cleaning out some hall closet or another, and suggested it was a good place to store tiny treasures. Then, for Christmas that year, she’d given Holland the gold chain, suggesting it might be useful someday, too, for trinkets or charms.

She never suggested, on either occasion, that Rook’s ring, or any other ring for that matter, might be worth storing in the box or wearing on a chain. She never even mentioned it was missing from her own possessions. If she had, Holland never would have accepted either gift. 

Even now, so many years after the fact, Holland tried not to think about how cleverly her mother had laid the groundwork for her to be able to keep both Rook’s ring and her own sense of pride about it. She knew what Rebecca was doing. 

Even now, she couldn’t decide if she was madder at how deftly Rebecca had handled the whole thing or if she was simply irritated at herself for noticing… and for caring. For the instinctive swell of sentimental gratitude that accompanied the knowledge that not only had Rebecca known immediately that she’d stolen the ring, but she’d also known her daughter well enough to know how to handle it. Most probably, Holland’s annoyance stemmed from some combination of all of the above.

She was almost surprised she hadn’t worn the engravings on the ring smooth by now, she fiddled with it so often, fingers worrying over the necklace like a rosary, the fine gold chain weighted down by the thick, solid mass of Rook’s ring. As if it were prayer beads or some kind of protective talisman. 

Maybe it is, she thought wryly, almost smirking at her own reflection. It wouldn’t be the strangest thing to happen today. Or this year. And it might explain how a perfectly ordinary human woman had managed to survive a kidnapping, a supernatural blood transfusion, and several altercations over the past few months — including tonight’s failed abduction attempt. 

She studied the shadowy smudge of her reflection in the car window, periodically brought into sharp relief by streaks of the streetlights. She did not look like a person who should have been able to physically overpower a being that was almost (maybe more than) twice her size. She looked fragile. At least, she did relative to the situations in which she continued to find herself. 

She looked as incapable of protecting herself as Nate seemed to think she was. As, she supposed, they all probably thought she was. Although the only face she’d been watching in the clearing had been Nate’s, Holland imagined if she had looked at any of the rest of Unit Bravo, she would have seen various echoes of the same expression. 

Poor thing. Poor little thing.

Even the beginnings of the almost-apology Nate had given her in the clearing had felt to Holland like nothing more than a verbal attempt to smooth her over. A hand passing over her hair, squeezing her shoulder, warm and sorrowful and suffocating. 

She was out of the car before Adam switched the ignition off, barely after he’d shifted to park. She wondered if next she’d be warned about the dangers of opening the doors of not-quite-stopped cars. Maybe they could turn on the child locks, she thought, immediately hating it, hating her brain for having such a petulant thought so consciously. Too bad the car wasn’t actually moving; if it were, maybe it could’ve just put them all out of their misery and run her over. 

“I’m taking a shower,” she called to no one in particular, waving a hand over her shoulder without so much as a backward glance. What she really wanted was a long run, but she didn’t have the energy to point out the existence of the indoor track on the second floor of the training room when the inevitable comment about her goddamned safety was made. So a scalding shower would have to suffice. 

She half-heard Adam say something about a debriefing and the imminent arrival of her mother and paused to rub at the bridge of her nose. Christ almighty. If she had to sit and process her mother’s feelings and be subjected to another round of wounded-dog eyes because she was past the point in her life where she wanted her mom, she might track down and offer herself to the fucking bird-man if it meant a respite from feeling like a complete asshole. 

He’d had terribly sad eyes too though, she remembered. And had called her a child. So maybe that wasn’t much of an alternative to a conversation with her mother. 

“So meet without me,” she said flatly, then amended her suggestion at the look on Adam’s face. “Or wait, if that’s what you wanna do. Not my preference, but that’s your prerogative. I’m taking a shower. That’s mine.” 

She turned and resumed walking towards the warehouse, feeling even more like a sulky kid retreating to her room. 

This time, no one stopped her. 

She stayed under the steaming spray until her whole body was flushed and tingling and her skin no longer felt too tight for the skeleton underneath. 

She wondered if they’d had the debriefing without her and, if so, how long they might have (or might not have) waited before giving up. If there were etiquette standards regarding the acceptable length of time to await a person’s arrival at a meeting, Holland would bet money that both Nate and Adam would know them backward and forwards. Her mother probably would, too, for that matter.

Her mother.

Holland sighed. She wondered if her mother were still here. Assuming they hadn’t waited for her and had finished their meeting. She hoped they hadn’t waited. She wasn’t sure precisely how long she’d spent dissociating in the shower, but she’d guess it was the better part of an hour. 

So much for a respite from feeling like a complete asshole. Not that she deserved one, since she was, in fact, being a total dick.

She rifled through the chaotic and limited selection of clothes she’d grabbed before leaving her newly waterlogged apartment, finally settling on an oversized t-shirt and a pair of running shorts. Christ knew what she’d unearth to wear to the office tomorrow, but at least she’d managed to find something approximating sleepwear that wasn’t too embarrassing to wear in common spaces. Although she doubted Rebecca (or Adam, for that matter) would find a shirt whose slogan referred to killing fascists particularly appropriate for most settings.

Now that she’d dressed, Holland debated whether she wanted to be a coward as well as an asshole by staying in her room all night, feeling the familiar anger-hangover of guilt and self-loathing kick in now that she no longer felt like shouting at ghosts. 

She’d probably hate herself a bit less if she checked in tonight. Probably. 

She rolled her shoulders once, twice, to loosen some of the tension that had begun to creep back in as her fingers closed around the door handle. Tugged the door open, only to give a choked yelp of surprise. The sentiment (if not the mortifying sound) seemed to be mirrored on the face of the person standing on the other side of her door.

Holland’s mouth twitched towards a smile reflexively, a breath of a laugh following at the surprise mirrored on Nate’s face, one hand frozen in the process of reaching forward to — presumably — knock. 

He smiled back at her, probably also reflexively. 

“Um. Hi.” 

A brilliant start.

“Hi,” he echoed, lowering his half-raised hand and easing it into his pocket. 

She stepped back from the open doorway, letting her own hand drop from the handle and fall to her side. Resisted the urge to twist her fingers in the hem of her t-shirt, anxious and off-balance. Summoned, instead, the cool charm on which she so heavily relied lately. If she’d thought about it, she might have realized how like her mother she was in this way, in this capacity for performative normalcy. (Which would have, of course, deeply annoyed her.)

She smoothed her smile into something warmer and less frayed, looking up at the man in her doorway, her head cocked. “The whole formal-invitation thing is a myth, right?” 

Without waiting for a response, she backed further into her bedroom, immensely relieved when Nate huffed a laugh and followed her, letting the door shut behind him. 

Holland made herself focus on immediate, mundane questions, like where to sit that wasn’t at the foot of her bed. Or any other section thereupon. 

Her room here was much larger than her actual bedroom at home, and the extra space meant there was room for a loveseat in one corner. This seemed like a reasonably neutral place to land, so she sat there, curled in one plush corner, bare legs folded up underneath her. 

“Do you wanna sit?” She tilted her head toward the other end of the loveseat. “You can sit. If you want to, I mean.” 

Please stop talking, a tiny voice in her brain demanded tiredly.

 Some of the lingering awkward tension seemed to dissipate with the flicker of pleased relief on Nate’s face as he crossed to join her, and for just a moment, Holland felt less like a scratch on a lens, distorting everything around her, making it look wrong from anywhere she stood.

The loveseat was small enough that it was impossible to sit for them to sit without touching, and it took so much of her flagging energy not to just let her body slump fully against his. He was warm, and he smelled good, and she was really, really tired. 

She leaned mostly against the back cushion instead, twisting to face him, her cheek against the upholstery, shins pressed against his thigh. 

“We should talk,” Nate started, then paused, seeming, for once, at a brief loss for words.  

Holland sighed, eyes drifting up to meet his gaze. “Yeah, probably.”

Nate reached for her hand, kept his own soft and loose, his eyes on her face. Watching her reaction, seeing if she’d pull away. She didn’t. 

(She wouldn’t.)

He was right, probably. They should talk about what had happened in the clearing, and everything after. She should apologize, probably. Definitely. 

But she wasn’t sure if she had it in her to come up with the right words tonight. And if she couldn’t find the right ones, she’d probably use the wrong ones, the ones with the ugliest versions of the truth, turning meaner thoughts into words that too readily shot to kill when she didn’t take care. In her current state, she knew she was far too likely to say things she didn't mean. Or worse still: she might say things she did.

Gods, she was exhausted.

Or maybe just exhausting. She couldn’t decide which of the two she felt applied more to her at the current moment. Both, probably. She exhausted herself.

She wasn’t sure she had it in her to rehash the argument of what was or was not in her best interest, and whether it was reckless and foolhardy to throw herself into dangerous situations. 

Not that it had been. 

Another thing she decided against saying aloud. Nothing she’d done today was even close to reckless on the very well-established Townsend Scale of Reckless Endangerment and Dumbassery. But it wasn’t worth mentioning. If he thought defending herself was reckless, it probably wouldn’t be helpful to give him concrete examples of actual reckless behavior. 

Not that it would have changed anything for her if it had been. She couldn’t have acted differently if she’d wanted to. The idea of choosing not to engage, to let others fight her battles for her, when she might be able to help? 

(When she was the reason anyone was in danger in the first place.)

She pushed down the acid-sharp sting of that thought and recalibrated, shoving her mind back into the present, back into focus. Squeezed Nate’s fingers with her own, rubbed her fingertips along the slopes of his knuckles like an odd, living rosary. 

“We should talk,” She agreed finally, voice quiet and hoarse with fatigue. “But can we do it tomorrow? Please?”

Tomorrow, when she might feel like less of an ass. Less maudlin. Less likely to want to apologize for not knowing how to be different than who she was. 

And less worried about what that might mean for her relationship, still so new and fragile and good. 

Maybe it was an inevitable truth of caring for another person. Sooner or later, you would wound them. Become both balm and bruise, desperately hoping to be more of one than the other, and forever unable to not think of its cost. 

He lifted a hand to cup her face, long fingers stroking along her cheek, smoothing into her hairline. And maybe she looked as adrift as she felt, because a long moment later, “tomorrow,”  was all he said. 

#Holland really said 'i can fit so much self-loathing into this one small body!' #katie writes things #the wayhaven chronicles #twc #nate x detective #twc fics #oc: holland townsend #ship: your entire heart

[songofsoma]

all you need is love (and salt)

happy valentine's day!!!! <33

fandom: the wayhaven chronicles pairing: ava du mortain x f!detective (cecilia beck) words:  rating: general

read it on ao3

She had circled the date multiple times in red ink on her little desk calendar. February 14th, a momentous holiday for lovers and to her, for the last nine-hundred-something years, an ordinary Tuesday or whatever day it happened to fall on.

Ava drummed her fingers on the surface of her desk. The only time she had even realized Valentine’s Day had come and passed was when Farah came back with bags full of half-priced candy that she swore would last her until candy went on sale again after Easter—it never did.  

That prospect on the so-called holiday changed once Ava landed herself something she had thought she wouldn’t have to worry about. A girlfriend. And just her luck, it happened to be a girlfriend who adored Valentine’s Day. 

Since the end of January, Cecilia’s apartment had been full of vases of flowers and various heart-shaped decorations. Ava swore she decorated more for this than Christmas which was saying a lot. For a virtually unimportant holiday, the woman even had heart-shaped plates in various shades of reds and pinks she had Ava help her bring from storage so she could use over February.

“I just love Valentine’s Day,” Cecilia sighed dreamily as she replaced her normal plates with the festive ones. “I think it’s my favorite. I just love love.”

From that moment, Ava knew she was in trouble. 

“You’re still worried about this?” Farah chided as she followed Nat into the room who at least had the decency to knock before entering. 

Ava turned in her chair, annoyed at the invasion of her bedroom. She thought that maybe she might find some privacy in her personal space, but clearly, that wasn’t the case.

Nat’s help had been enlisted before in the matter of what to do about Valentine’s Day. She was the one that had actually dated people over the years and was more knowledgeable about human traditions. Ava always thought of being interested in the human world had the equivalent of watching a couple of ants interact. Unimportant and fleeting given how short mortal lives tended to be. Then she just had to go and fall in love with a human so now she begrudgingly knows things like who Doja Cat is and that teenagers no longer aspire to be doctors but instead want to blow up on the Tiktok. She still wasn’t exactly sure how shaking one’s posterior meant getting rich, but that was neither here nor there. 

“Yes,” she growled, angrily scrolling through an article titled 50 Valentine Gifts for Her. Ava should’ve clicked off upon seeing the first thing on the list which was matching His and Hers shirts. “Excuse me for trying to give my girlfriend the perfect Valentine’s Day.”

Farah plopped down on the edge of Ava’s bed. “Why are you looking at sites meant for middle-aged men? You think you’re going to find your answer there?”

“At least it’s a start,” Nat tried to add to quench Ava’s visible annoyance. 

Ava slammed her laptop shut, burying her face in her hands to muffle a groan. “This is ridiculous. Human holidays are absurd.”

“You just hate fun,” Farah teased, picking at the end of a bright purple nail. 

“Why don’t you just ask Cecilia what she wants?” Nat asked, resting a hand on the back of her desk chair.

“Because then she knows that I’m clueless and terrible at this!”

Nat pursed her lips. “What are her favorite flowers?”

“Lilies!” Farah yelled before Ava had a chance to answer. “And you should get one of those stuffed bears that are like huge!” She jumped back onto her feet to show them both about how tall the bear was. “You know, with a card that says I’m sorry I suck at being romantic. Here’s a giant bear. I love you, Cecilia.” Farah then proceeded to turn her back and make kissing noises, her arms wrapping around herself and hands groping her back. 

Nat wrinkled her nose before turning her back to Farah, stepping in front of Ava’s line of sight of her. “What Farah is trying to say is get Cecilia her favorite flowers, maybe put them in a nice vase to match her stuff. Why don’t you two do something together? Cook her favorite meal or take her to a museum.”

“No!” Farah cried from behind them. 

Ava looked down at her sheet of ideas and ran a hand over her hair, the loose ends tickling the skin exposed by her tank top. “I can cook.”

Farah groaned in despair while Nat smiled cheerfully. 

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

When Cecilia opened the door to her apartment, she was immediately hit with the smell of fish. 

She covered her nose with the sleeve of her sweater as she blinked in confusion. It wasn’t that she didn’t like fish, it was just that she wasn’t expecting it. She hadn’t bought any type of fish in ages because of the way it stinks up her little apartment and having little windows that barely opened made the task of ridding the stench even harder. 

“Hello?” she called out in confusion, dropping her purse before venturing further into the apartment. There were only a few people who had spare keys to her apartment so the options on who it was were limited. But the last thing she ever expected to find was Ava du Mortain in her kitchen cooking. 

It accounted for the fishy smell as the sound of salmon sizzling in a pan filled the space of the kitchen as she stood in the doorway. Ava clearly hadn’t heard her come in, which was unusual. Normally, she could tell where Cecilia was from outside the building. But the intense look of concentration on her face acted as an explanation. 

The entire thing was an abnormality.

Cecilia gently set the package she was holding on the counter and approached, wrapping her arms around Ava’s broad torso. “Are you my housewife now?” she teased, kissing the shoulder that didn’t have a towel slung over it.

Ava jumped a bit, startled at her appearance. She recovered quickly, turning to hold Cecilia properly. And when she did, she bent down and gave her the sweetest kiss. “Happy Valentine’s Day, my love,” she murmured, her voice wonderfully low and husky.

She smiled. “You remembered!”

Blonde brows furrowed. “Why wouldn’t I?” she asked, almost sounding offended. 

Cecilia shrugged, moving to lean on the counter beside the stove. “It’s a human holiday. I know you don’t celebrate them.”

“Well,” Ava started and cupped her cheek, directing Cecilia’s gaze to the tiny round dining table where a vase of rose lilies sat. “I wanted to do it for you.”

She gasped and hurried to the table, immediately smelling the flowers before stumbling upon the card and a box of chocolates. “You got me flowers and chocolate?” she said, nearly bouncing in excitement. 

“And I wanted to cook you dinner. But there’s also something in the bedroom for you.” Cecilia raised a brow. “The bedroom?” she said haughtily. 

Ava chuckled.

She didn’t wait for an explanation before crossing the living room to stand in the doorway of her room. “Holy shit. It’s huge!”

On the bed sat a teddy bear that had to be close to her height. It was absolutely massive, nearly taking up most of her full-sized mattress. She ran her hand across its fur, noticing how soft it was, and admiring the red ribbon tied in a bow around its neck. 

When she stepped out of the bedroom and came back to the kitchen, Ava was smiling a bit shyer than normal. “It was Farah’s idea.”

Cecilia shook her head and grabbed the collar of her shirt, pulling Ava down to kiss her. “God, I love you.” She relished in the way the tips of Ava’s ears reddened. 

Dinner was soon done and Ava set her plate in front of where Cecilia sat at the table. She had really gone all out. Candles framing the bouquet as the centerpiece, and an expensive bottle of white wine the worker swore up and down complimented the salmon wonderfully. She had even made sure to dish everything out on Cecilia’s favorite holiday heart-shaped plates. 

Cecilia stole one last kiss before Ava stood up. “This looks delicious,” she commented as Ava poured her a glass of wine. 

“I hope it tastes okay,” she said, sitting across from her to pour her own glass.

“I’m sure it will.” She smiled and cut into the fish. But when she began to chew, it took everything in her to keep her face the same. Cecilia didn’t know what on earth Ava had done, but it was somehow overpoweringly fishy whilst bland at the same time. “Oh, wow. That is delicious.” She took another bite as Ava watched her expectantly.

Thankfully, she didn’t catch the lie because her shoulders relaxed and a pleased look covered her face. 

She hurriedly took a drink of her wine, hoping to chase the taste away. 

It was a battle to get through the meal but Cecilia really loved Ava and her gratitude for the attempt made trumped how truly disgusting the food was. Plus, the wine helped ease it all down and Ava seemed happy with herself.

“Oh! Before I forget!” Cecilia jumped up, running to retrieve the package that she had been hiding at the station. She handed it to Ava. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Ava looked between her and the parcel for a long second before beginning to open it. Cecilia watched excitedly as she pulled out something in a glass casing. When she flipped it over, her eyes widened. “Cecilia,” she gasped.

“I can’t get you the real thing, but I found this and thought you would like it just as much.” She stayed beside Ava to watch her marvel at the model car encased in the glass.

It was the car she had mentioned to be her “dream car.” A 1965 Jaguar in the most gorgeous shade of green. 

Ava turned to look at her wide-eyed. “You remembered?”

“Of course I did, silly.” She kissed her forehead with a giggle. “I commit everything you tell me about yourself to memory because I’m obsessed with you.”

She rolled her eyes, but the smile didn’t disappear from her lips. “Come here.” Ava tugged on Cecilia’s hand to pull her onto her lap, the display car being safely sat on the table. “You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. I am undeserving.”

Their foreheads pressed together, noses barely brushing as Cecilia smiled. “Is this a good holiday now, then?”

Ava nodded. “Most definitely. I understand it now,” she whispered before stealing Cecilia’s future words with a kiss. 

#valentine's day special #ava du mortain x f!detective #ava du mortain x detective #my writing #ava du mortain #ava x cecilia #oc: cecilia #cecilia beck #twc #the wayhaven chronicles #wayhaven #twc fics #twc a #a du mortain

[agentnatesewell]

(Here is the semi NSFT/definitely kink-related headcanon I asked about!)

Sometimes I think about a Nate who fears being the devourer but not the devoured; who allows his detective to sink their teeth into him and leave half-moons that curve just like their mouth on his thighs, the indentations peeking out from beneath his collar and catching someone's - probably M's - eyes before he moves and they sink out of view again.

He would never bite the detective. But they would bite him, teeth catching on his shoulder lazily, his stomach covered in open-mouthed kisses, their lips just barely grazing the side of his throat (where he knows he would be unable to resist drinking if their positions were reversed) before they suck the skin hard enough to leave another one of their marks.

Their entanglement would have evidence. Mostly hidden, but he would know it was there, and the detective would know it was there.

And I think he would obsess over that, look forward to their love bites - both the casual nips at his fingers and the deliberate, intentional hickeys - want to be marked by them again and again.

And he would begin to understand why someone would want him to do the same to them, that as he trusts his detective when he is held in their mouth, they would trust him.

Oh, oh, oh, this is excellent

Wanting to be marked, wanting to be someone’s - but wanting to be theirs, the love of their long life …

I love that they’d be hidden, because they’d fade and fade rapidly, but they would know. And if time and again and there is a pattern, the ghost of the mark, teeth and bruises, there - a phantom feeling

Thank you very much for sharing this! How you wrote us was gorgeous, and the very idea and visual is stunning

#phew i am 🥵 #wanting to be devoured my god! #and suri definitely wants to have the reminders of nate on her skin #and to give him those in return #thank you thank you! #this is making me think of the hickey fic i started years ago and really really want to finish #thank you for the ask #twc #n sewell #nsft ish #<- just in case #anon ask

[tumortain]

NOT THE FUCKING CARGO PANTS PLEASE ENOUGH!!!!!!

#adam du mortain #i need someone to write a fic where the detective sets these fucking pants on fire.... please...... #the wayhaven chronicles #twc book 3 #twc spoilers

[lovelyfoolish]

tbh i’m not really a meta person but i’m a bioethicist by training and i thought this could be interesting to discuss 

i think n and m’s routes both have this underlying, unexplored discussion of bodily autonomy (which is what vampirism is all about when you’re a bioethicist. i am not just here for the sexy fangs, i am here for the ethical questions that will give u a headache!) 

and their experiences diverge and parallel and form this complete picture of what it means to be and have a body and it would be really fascinating to see a love triangle route for them because of it

m’s route, with its focus on the conflict between physical and emotional intimacy (putting aside, for a second, the shallowness of the separation between the two, because to be physically intimate with someone takes just as much bravery as sharing your feelings with them, actually), has to place an emphasis on the consent aspect of bodily autonomy, where choices you make about your body require your complete understanding and allowance, free from undue pressure

n’s route has a preoccupation with their vampirism. there’s this psychological concept called moral injury, where you feel like you’ve done something (or acquiesced to something, or allowed something) that is deeply against your morals/values/life, and your moral injury can become a disorder. it’s similar to ptsd (and often walks hand in hand with it), and people who experience moral injury feel intense shame or guilt about it. i think maybe n becoming a vampire caused them some fictional equivalent of a moral injury, especially considering the circumstances in which they were turned 

so n’s route approaches the question of bodily autonomy from the opposite side, when you have no choice but to consent (which is really common with disability, where you have to do things you don’t want to do because you do want to live) because to not consent would be death 

does that make sense? 

it’s like. m’s route is about what you do with a body. n’s route is about what you do to a body

#twc #disclaimer: i have not read book 3 so i don't know if i missed anything i'm just going off memory #if i delete this it's because i decided i was overthinking it #ptsd tw #idk what else to tw about but i am sure there is something so #ask to tw #long post #sorry for the snippy aside about physical intimacy the discourse on emotional vs physical is just. like really tiring lol #they're inseparable one is not superior to the other #anyway just some thoughts i had while i was working on the flutterby fic

[fauville]

fandom: the wayhaven chronicles

rating: mature

pairing: ava du mortain/female detective (vesper graves), nate sewell/female detective (charlie langford)

chapters: 1/?

A/N: i'm so nervous posting this because i've talked about it a lot here in tumblr. thank you to everyone who has been supportive and excited with me!

tag list: @agentnatesewell @carriehobbs (let me know if anyone else wants to be tagged for new chapters!)

summary:

The beach was the first thing she came up with. She dreamt the large blue waves, the slippery rocks, the hot sand and the white laughing seagulls that fly above her now. It was a feeling she could not describe: creating something like she was a God. It was exhilarating.

Then Rook told her she had been in a coma for three years. That was harder to swallow than the shaping of dreams, somehow.

Or: In theory one should be able to escape limbo by dying. This is not true for Vesper Graves or her father, and Unit Bravo is sent to investigate.

read in ao3.

#twc #the wayhaven chronicles #twc fanfic #ava du mortain #nate sewell #a du mortain #n sewell #fic: inception au #vilna writes

[nat-seal-well]

One thing I think about often is Nat snuggling with the rabbit plush from the carnival. Maybe it happens one night when she’s in the middle of realizing her attraction to the Detective, and it still smells like them, just a little, from that brief time when they were holding it. She’s trying her best to sleep it just isn’t happening so she holds it to her chest, and part of her feels a little silly and foolish, because she’s a vampire of 300 years and shouldn’t need a stuffed animal to sleep. But it’s so soft and when she buries her face in the fur and breathes in, the faintest trace of the human she’s enamored with is still there. It brings her more comfort than she thinks it should—but it works. She holds it to her chest and dreams about a detective she can’t get out of her mind

#the wayhaven chronicles #twc n sewell #twc nat #marin snuggles with it a lot after they get together #so that it always smells like them #I adore nat and she deserves to be comfy cozy #will this be a fic? maybe

[delucadarlingwriting]

♡ last line tag game. share the last line of your wip and tag as many people as it has words.

I got tagged by @deepinifhell ! Thanks!!

I’ve been practicing my teeline shorthand by writing out some fic in my spare time. Lately I've been chewing on an AU where Barbie is 1) does magic with verbal/gestural components (inspired by this post) and 2) is frequently hired by Trappers for Reasons. Mason and Barbie meet when Unit Bravo busts in on some work she's doing for a local group of Trappers, she tries to magic blast him and...:3c

Here's a picture of the last line I wrote:

Writing hasn’t been the hardest part of shorthand, it’s been translating it all back to longhand. Here's what it says:

It’s all she knows, but surely there’s better opportunities for someone as clever as she is.

This bit is after Barbie's been captured and is being taken back to the Agency. She has no plans to stay captured. She also has A Huge Fucking Ego.

Now, for my part in this game...I'm going to tag...@whirly-wind @agentnatesewell @serenpedac @nat-seal-well @evilbunnyking

#darling writing #twc #wayhaven #darling speaks #wip #tag meme #The fic is very disjointed #mostly because the majority of the work is trying to write in teeline instead of long hand #but I'm having fun with it! I may take the pages I've written out by hand and use them for a future fic project #I really really want to focus on In Search Of before I start anything new though #barbara 'barbie' robertson

[thee-morrigan]

ode to a conversation stuck in your throat

The Wayhaven Chronicles Ava du Mortain/Petra Carlisle (f!detective) 4.3k words rated G read it on AO3

Petra hides from her own welcome-home party by organizing her bedroom. Ava plays a word in Scrabble I've only ever seen in Chaucer. Both of these are totally normal behaviors. (also shout-out to @serially-wayhaven for having the Brilliant and Inspired idea that A would use Middle English words in Scrabble. Most correct take of all time, tysm for the inspo 💖)

—

She had been in her room when Ava found her, cross-legged on her bed, somewhat aimlessly rifling through a cardboard box, one of several such half-emptied boxes lining one wall of her bedroom. Strewn across the bedspread next to her lay a scattered sweep of trinkets she'd evidently been sorting through when Ava interrupted her.

"Avoiding your own party, detective?"

"Technically I'm not a detective anymore," Petra replied, looking up from her unboxing and smiling at the woman in her doorway.

Ava shot her a look that suggested she was missing the point. "You're still the guest of honor."

"It's my party, I can hide if I want to?" Petra offered back with a sheepish grin.

Ava rolled her eyes, the corners of her mouth twitching in amused exasperation. "Seems unusual for you, though."

"Unusual times," Petra shrugged, turning her attention back to the box in her lap. "And I think I just needed a break," she admitted.

Ava studied her for a moment, her keen eyes softening as she took in the other woman's unusually subdued demeanor. Tried not to take in the amount of long, bare leg currently on display, thanks to the small white shorts Petra wore.

"I can understand that," she said finally, leaning against the door frame and crossing her arms. "Things have been... turbulent, to say the least."

Petra glanced up from her task and offered Ava a small, lopsided smile. "That's one way to put it."

Ava hesitated, stiffening a bit and looking as if she might be contemplating a retreat. "Would you prefer to be alone?"

"No, stay," Petra said, her smile lingering. "Please."

Ava nodded, once, a hint of something like relief flashing across her face as she pushed herself off the door frame and stepped further into the room, letting the door swing shut behind her. Whether to buy herself time to decide where in the small space to situate herself or from the force of a habit centuries in the making, Ava paused a few steps in, eyes sweeping across the room as though she were considering the strengths and weaknesses of its layout (few and many, respectively).

She jerked her chin towards the box in Petra's lap. "You're...unpacking, then?" She glanced sidelong at the assortment of objects next to Petra's bent knee, trying to determine any possible thematic coherence to the spread, though none presented itself.

"It needed doing at some point," Petra replied, her own gaze flicking across the haphazardly sorted items beside her: a pile of faded postcards and Polaroids, several brightly colored notebooks, and what appeared to be a small, stuffed walrus in an improbably bright shade of blue. Little more than a jumble of memories, and ones she'd been on the verge of re-boxing. "I think this one is probably better left as it is, though."

"Why?" Ava asked. "What's in this one?"

"Other than a mess, you mean?" Petra answered with a huff of a laugh. "I think this one is mostly stuff from undergrad. It was probably in this box already when I had to pack everything up for the...renovations." She pursed her lips, though whether in thought over whether that were truly the word she wanted or resigned amusement at the memories it brought to mind, Ava couldn't quite tell.

"Renovations," Ava echoed dryly, corners of her mouth quirking upwards. "An interesting way to describe your upstairs neighbor's bath crashing through your ceiling."

Petra laughed then, a hint of her usual good spirits sparking in her eyes. "It did result in renovations," she defended, her fingers tracing along one corner of the box. "Not ones I'd planned for or particularly wanted, but renovations nonetheless."

"I suppose that's one perspective," Ava conceded, her gaze softening as Petra's laughter filled the room. In that moment, she looked a little less weary, a little less subdued.

The room became quiet once again, silent save for the soft rustling of Petra sifting through the hodgepodge contents of her college self and the muffled chatter and laughter from the party outside her bedroom door. For a moment, Ava let herself watch her, eyes tracing the curve of her shoulder as she leaned over the box, the delicate lines of her fingers as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, dark strands lined with silver in the dim glow of the lamps she had placed about the room. Her gaze lingered on Petra's profile, features cast into soft relief by the warm wash of light. She felt the now too familiar longing to reach for her, accompanied by an equally familiar ache pushing against her ribs.

She cleared her throat, pulling herself out of her reverie. "Find anything interesting?"

Petra shook her head, not looking up from the box. "Nothing too exciting," she replied. "Just some old papers, some cards from friends, that sort of thing. Oh!"

A faint smile tugged at her lips as she gingerly lifted a worn-out Scrabble box from amidst the clutter. It was worn at the edges but still intact.

She held it up and wiggled the box slightly. "Ava," she started, her grin widening, "Any chance I could interest you in playing a game with me?"

Ava's lips twitched at the proposition, the tension that had settled between her shoulder blades unwinding at the sight of Petra's brightening expression.

She looked at the box, then at Petra, and inclined her head, trying to keep her voice steady. "I think I could be persuaded. Though you would likely find Nat to be a more worthy opponent for such a game," Ava said, although she had already crossed the remaining distance between them, moving to perch at the foot of bed across from Petra, her back ramrod straight as if she needed the posture to keep more than her spine in check.

"Perhaps," she replied with a shrug, shifting the half-unpacked cardboard box off her lap and onto the floor, settling the game box on the bed between them. "But I'd rather play with you."

Though her tone was playful, her eyes were serious as they met Ava's. For a fleeting moment, the world seemed to shrink until it contained only the two of them and that single, sparkling thread that seemed always to stretch and tangle between them. Ava felt the weight of Petra's gaze, tangible as any physical touch as it traced the contours of her face. "Very well," Ava conceded, her voice whisper-soft. She reached for the box, her hand brushing against Petra's for a fleeting moment. A soft shiver ran through her at the contact, and she jerked her hand back as if even that brief touch had burned her.

"I suppose it would be impolite to refuse, especially since this is your party," she added, trying to regain her composure.

"Indeed it would," Petra agreed with a soft breath of laughter, though her grin dimmed a bit, face growing a little more distant, as if she were reeling herself back in.

# The better part of an hour later, and the two were in a deadlock.

“Thirty-two points,” Petra said evenly, though she couldn’t quite hide the pleased grin curling up at the corners of her mouth as she sat back from straightening an e.

“Xebec?” Ava asked, one pale brow arched with obvious curiosity.

“It’s a Mediterranean sailing vessel,” Petra replied promptly.

“Is your memory that good or do you simply make a habit of reading the Scrabble dictionary for fun?”

“A woman likes to maintain an air of mystery about these things,” she grinned back.

Ava laughed then, quiet but open. Petra wanted to bottle that sound and mount it on her wall, like one of those ridiculous, tacky singing fish that were so strangely ubiquitous in the early 2000s — wanted to be able to release that unexpected waterfall of melody whenever she needed a boost of serotonin.

She watched as Ava studied the Scrabble board, her lips pressing together as she mentally shuffled around letters and possibilities. Petra couldn’t help but study her in return, those green eyes alight with competitive focus, her nose scrunched slightly in concentration, which Petra found endearing in a way she couldn't quite articulate.

“Shend. Twenty-two points.” Ava’s voice pierced through her thoughts, drawing her back to the present moment.

"Shend?" Petra asked, tilting her head and raising an eyebrow. "Is that even a word?"

"I assure you, it is a word. Although you are free to challenge it, if you'd like to forfeit your next turn."

Petra narrowed her eyes, tapping one violet nail against the wood of her letter rack, lips pursed as she considered. Ava's face was, as ever, impassive — a mask of cool, collected certainty. But she could be certain and still be wrong.

"Challenge," she said finally, sliding her phone out of her shorts pocket.

Ava crossed her arms and watched as Petra tapped away at her phone, brow furrowed in concentration. And smirked when, after a moment, Petra gave an indignant hiss. "Oh, you have got to be kidding me."

She squinted at Ava. "This should not count."

"So it is once again my turn?"

"It's archaic."

"But an acceptable word."

"It's Middle English!"

"But it is permissible."

Ava's smile broadened, pleased, and Petra couldn't ignore the flutter of warmth that spread inside her at the sight. She turned her attention back to her own tiles. "Just...play your next word," she muttered, the corners of her own mouth twitching upwards despite her vexation.

Those green eyes glittered as Ava drew fresh tiles and turned her focus back to the board. After another moment, she announced, "Waded for twenty."

Petra shot her a teasing grin. "Back in this century, are we?"

Ava rolled her eyes but shrugged good-naturedly. "I didn't want you to have to forfeit another turn simply because you didn't know a word."

"How very considerate of you," Petra replied, lips quirking as she dropped her eyes to her tiles. Her fingers ran over the raised letters as she mentally formed and discarded potential words before scooping up a handful of tiles, arranging them neatly on the board.

"Quetzal." She looked up at Ava with a triumphant glimmer in her eyes, the corners of her lips curling upwards. "For 127 points. Plus la, so one twenty-eight total."

"One hundred and—" Ava started incredulously, her eyebrows raising as she leaned forward to study the board.

"It's a bird," Petra explained, her triumphant smile morphing into a teasing grin. "From Central America."

"I know what it is."

"And a Q and a Z on a triple-word score..." Petra hummed, propping her chin on one hand, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Ava narrowed her eyes at Petra, but there was no real heat in her gaze. Instead, she let out a huff of laughter before shaking her head in disbelief. "I ask again: do you spend your free time studying the Scrabble dictionary?"

"You should know better than anyone how little free time I have."

"And yet you somehow find a way to acquire an encyclopedic knowledge of high-scoring Scrabble words," Ava retorted, her gaze fixed on the board before them. Her lips were pinched in deep thought as she studied the sea of letters sprawled across the game board.

Just as Ava reached out to arrange her next set of tiles, the door bumped open, the no-longer-muffled noise of the party beyond breaking their tranquil bubble and causing both women to look up at the surge of noise.

Tina leaned against the door frame, her silhouette bathed in the soft, amber light spilling in from the hallway. "Well, look at this," she said with a mock gasp, the words laced with humor. "Petra's actually found someone brave enough to face her across a Scrabble board."

Tina’s grin widened as she stepped into the room, a gust of laughter and chatter from the party beyond entering with her, breaking the fragile quietude of their bubble.

Ava raised an eyebrow, glancing across at Petra. To her surprise, Petra blushed, a soft pink dusting her face.

"Hi, Tina," she said, leaning back away from the game and folding her arms.

"Hey." Tina's grin grew wider, her gaze traveling from Petra to the letters scattered across the board. "No wonder we couldn't find you."

"Well, you would've had to look in like, four whole rooms for me, so I can understand the difficulty."

Tina ignored her and leaned back against the door frame, shifting her Cheshire-cat smile to Ava. "She didn't tell you?"

Ava lifted a brow. "Tell me what?"

"We should probably get back to the party," Petra interrupted, unfolding herself from the bed and rising, stretching as she did so.

Tina was unable to contain her mirth, her eyes dancing with delight as she glanced back and forth between a flustered Petra and the bewildered Ava. “Petra here,” she began, jabbing her thumb in Petra's direction, “Used to be quite the sensation on the Scrabble circuit. Nationally ranked, too."

"Yeah, like five years ago! It's not that big a deal," Petra objected.

"No one will play with her more than once," Tina continued, ignoring Petra's protests. "Because she's insufferable about it."

"I am not insufferable," Petra muttered, rolling her eyes, flush deepening.

Ava's eyes widened as she took in this new information, her gaze shifting to the game board then to Petra. There was an amused twinkle in her eyes as she said, "There's a national Scrabble circuit?"

"Sounds made up, right?" Tina tilted her head toward Ava, still grinning as she pushed off the door frame. "But it's totally true. You should ask to see her trophies sometime."

"I don't have trophies."

Ava's mouth curved upwards.

Petra scowled. "I don't!"

Then: "They're medals."

Tina tipped her head back and laughed. "Medals! That's even better," she declared, clapping her hands together.

"Go away, please." Petra groaned, dragging a hand through her dark hair and squeezing her eyes shut.

Still giggling, Tina raised her hands in surrender. "All right, all right. I'll let you get back to your game. Just wanted to check in on you."

"And make fun of me, apparently," Petra muttered, her arms crossed over her chest. The flush still hadn't faded from her cheeks, although the corners of her mouth kept twitching upwards.

Tina gave her a wink. "That's just a bonus," she said, before turning on her heel to exit the room. The door closed behind her with a soft click, muffling the party's noise once more.

Ava’s gaze remained fixed on Petra for a long moment as repressed amusement simmered in her eyes.

"All right, all right, don't look at me like that," Petra said, attempting to muster a glare and sinking back into her seat on the bed.

"I suppose I should feel pleased," Ava murmured, a teasing lilt in her voice. "I managed to play at least one word you didn't know."

"Because it was from the twelfth century."

"Perhaps," she said, her eyes turning back to the Scrabble board. "But a word is a word. Not that I think it has done much to improve my chances of winning this game."

"Admitting defeat already? How unlike you," Petra teased, folding her legs back underneath herself and propping her elbows on her knees, chin resting in her hands as she leaned forward to survey the board and their scant few remaining tiles.

Ava tilted her head and smiled slightly, her gaze locked with Petra's. "Why would I admit defeat when the game is not yet over?"

Petra chuckled lightly, her eyes sparkling with undisguised mirth. "Fair enough," she said, eyes shifting once again to the game board.

# In point of fact, the game had been over for awhile. At least in terms of determining a highest final score, anyway, given the well-padded lead Petra had secured for herself with words like "quetzal." "Hey, thank you, by the way," Petra said, pausing their cleanup of the finished game and wrapping one hand loosely around Ava's wrist.

The other woman's eyes flicked down to Petra's hand, though she didn't pull away. When she looked back up, her eyes showed only confusion. "For what?"

Petra shrugged, hand falling back to her side. "Just...I dunno. Hanging out with me, I suppose." She gave a light laugh, raising her eyebrows at Ava. "And maybe for not being a sore loser."

Ava's lips twitched at the corners, a ghost of a smile. "Consider it a welcome home gift, agent."

Petra snorted softly. "Guess I'll need to get used to your calling me that from now on."

"It will be an adjustment for us all, I'm sure. Though not an unwelcome one."

"Well, original offer stands," Petra grinned, leaning forward and sweeping tiles from the board and into her open palm. "Unless my new job requires I change my name, you're always welcome to just use that."

She brushed a hand over her hair, curving it behind an ear where it had fallen in a smooth, dark sheet across her face when she'd bent over the game board, glancing up at Ava as she did so. "Not that I expect you to. I mean," she corrected, mouth smoothing into a tense little smile as she looked back down at the board. "I know you prefer to...not do that. Which is fine! Whatever is more comfortable for you is fine. I want you to be comfortable around me. I mean I want you to be comfortable in general, obviously," she fumbled, giving another awkward hiccup of a laugh before pressing her lips tightly together and refocusing her attention on the Scrabble board, feeling her cheeks heat as she did so.

Conversations, she thought, unfortunately did not reward one for using all the words they knew in one fell tumble.

Not that Scrabble really did, either, of course. Bananagrams did, though. That game would have been the more apt analogy, she supposed.

...And now she was rambling in her own head, too.

Speaking of Bananagrams, she thought.

She did want Ava to be comfortable around her, though. For lots of practical reasons, of course, not least of which was their increasingly close work together. But also because she liked Ava. (More than liked her, actually, but she shut down that line of thought fast and hard, slamming and dead-bolting that particular mental door before it pulled her in like a tiny black hole.)

But liked her as a person — as a friend, she hoped — too. She hadn't regretted that disaster of a kiss, or any of the rest of it, even if, in hindsight, she might wish to have navigated that whole...encounter...differently. But she would regret it, she thought, if it meant no more evenings like this, no more conversations that didn't feel like playing hopscotch in a minefield.

Ava regarded her for a moment, then another, before she, too, began collecting tiles, perching once more on the foot of the bed across from her. A quiet settled between them, not entirely uncomfortably, the quiet scraping of wood on cardboard, the muffled clink of bagged tiles against one another, and the somewhat less muffled sounds of the party beyond Petra's bedroom door the only sounds.

Ava was the first to break it, sitting upright as Petra slid the lid of the Scrabble box shut, letting it rest on the bed between them. "It wasn't a bad way to spend an evening," she admitted, her tone softer than usual.

Petra blinked, the words sinking in. "No," she agreed cautiously, her gaze flicking to Ava's face and then back down at her own hands, pressed flat against the cardboard box. "No, it wasn't."

"Even if you did neglect to mention your...past accolades when you suggested this particular game," Ava continued, a wry smile once again playing at the corners of her lips.

Petra looked up again, that lingering rigidity easing from her a little, and she arched a brow. "Would you have preferred we played something else? I'm sure Tina had many additional drinking games she'd have loved to pull us into."

Ava shook her head, that almost-smile stretching just a little bit more as she huffed a laugh. "I do not care for losing," she began, and Petra snorted, rolling her lips together to keep from whatever laughter or commentary was itching to spill past them, though her eyes still danced with amusement.

Ava gave her a withering look, though it wasn't terribly convincing. "As you know. But I would rather lose to you in any board game, any number of times, than participate in further rounds of —" she tipped her head toward the noise coming from beyond the closed door. "—that."

The look that crossed Ava's face — deeply, intently unamused — undid her, and the giggles Petra had been holding so valiantly at bay bubbled forth. She clamped a hand over her mouth, but it did little to muffle the sound, warm and bright and infectious, sunlight piercing storm clouds.

"I never realized I was quite so entertaining." Ava tilted her head to one side, arching a single eyebrow at Petra's amusement, but the corners of her lips twitched upward nonetheless. It occurred to her that she hadn't seen Petra laugh quite this openly — this freely — in a long while.

The laughter slowly faded, leaving them in a comfortable silence within the confines of the room—away from the party, away from the outside world. Petra's hand fell away from her mouth and landed back onto the Scrabble box. She smoothed her thumb along one edge of it, eyes settling on Ava again.

"Next time there's a party we both want to avoid," she said, eyes still glimmering with residual mirth, "I promise to let you pick the game."

Ava raised a brow, her smile still tracing the edges of her lips, all the while a soft chuckle escaped her. "A generous proposition," she responded, leaning back and crossing her arms over her chest. "I might just take you up on it."

"I hope you do," Petra said, her voice laced with sincerity.

"I should actually be thanking you," Ava said after a moment, her tone dropping into something softer, something vulnerable. "For providing an excuse for a reprieve from... that." She tipped her head once more towards the door, her gaze following suit, as if she could peer through the wood and paint to the party on the other side.

"It is nice to have something almost resembling a break," Petra agreed with a lopsided grin, although her eyes lingering on Ava were somber as she studied her expression. As ever, she gained little insight from the profile of the commanding agent. "Though I don't imagine we're likely to get many such moments in the near future. You probably least of any of us, I'm guessing."

Ava's lips compressed into a thin line, a faint shadow of acknowledgment flickering across her face. "The nature of our work seldom allows for such... indulgences," she acknowledged, the familiar weight of duty and obligation settling across her shoulders like a well-worn cloak.

Petra nodded, understanding the unspoken burden that came with the roles they played— figures on a relentless, ever-turning carousel. She reached out, her fingertips brushing against Ava's hand in fleeting solidarity before she pulled back again, folding her hands in her lap.

"Ava..." she started, then paused, looking down at her hands again, her restless fingers, for a long moment. “If you ever need a place to go—a place where you don’t have to be decisive and tackle the hard stuff—a place where you don’t have to be the commanding agent—I can be that. If you wanted." She looked up from her hands with another half-formed smile, all blurred edges. "I won't even make you play Scrabble with me again."

“I cannot.” The words fell, quick and solid, from Ava's lips, as if pulled from rote memory, as if she had practiced denying herself the mere suggestion of seeking solace for so long that it had become basic instinct. Weighted by a lifetime of forging herself into something impenetrable.

Petra nodded slowly, a single dip of her head, something like resignation tightening along her jaw, her mouth. She couldn't really say she was surprised, or even truly disappointed, although she felt the bud of something like it pushing against her ribs.

Then Ava did surprise her, just a little, because she spoke again: “I do not know how.”

It was as if the words stumbled out from behind that stoic facade, laced with a vulnerability that Ava seldom allowed to surface. Her gaze shifted away from Petra's earnest eyes, fixing on some distant point, as if she were viewing a tapestry woven with the complexities of her own inner conflict.

“Well if you ever feel like trying…if you ever need a break, I can be that. I will be that place. For you.” Petra said gently, her voice a low murmur in the quiet of the small room.

She waited a beat, then another, and when Ava still said nothing further, she shrugged, rising from the edge of the bed and moving towards the door, the world beyond. As she reached the doorway, she turned, twisting back towards Ava, still seated at the foot of her bed. "If that ever feels like something you might want. Now or five years from now. Or whenever. Standing offer."

The corners of Ava's lips turned upward in a small smile, gaze softening as she looked at the other woman. "I'll keep that in mind, Petra," she murmured.

"I hope you do," Petra said, quietly but not weakly. With another flicker of a smile, small but genuine, she pulled open her bedroom door and re-entered her party.

#this fic brought to you by the time my partner learned why my sister and I aren't allowed to play Scrabble anymore #god help the rest of UB if they ever have a team game night #katie writes things #twc #ship: a light in the dark #oc: petra carlisle

[songofsoma]

a wish to be loved

CONTAINS BOOK 3 SPOILERS set right after the ava kiss scene, at least cece has great friends

fandom: the wayhaven chronicles words: 1,525 rating: general

read it on ao3

When the door shut behind Ava that sick yet familiar feeling of loneliness began to fill the space. It wound through her like tendrils, wrapping around her throat until she felt like she couldn’t breathe and plugging her ears until the rang. All she could feel was the rawness of her lips from being kissed, the heat on her thighs where Ava’s hands had lifted her, and the ache settling deep in her chest.

Cecilia knew what loneliness was more than most. 

It was like a second home.

Every single person in her life who she had truly loved left her at some point.

It happened when she was seven and her dad died. Her favorite person in the entire world cruelly ripped away.

Then every time her mother chose work over her, leaving her with a random babysitter until Cecilia was deemed old enough to care for herself. After that, it was just Cecilia coming home from school to an empty house to cook herself dinner and put herself to bed hoping she might get a chance to see her mom in the morning, even if in passing. 

There was no more childhood after Rook died.

Her poor heart was broken in so many ways, but this time might just be the one to leave it completely shattered when the woman she loved left her.

The dried tears from before were quickly replaced with fresh ones. Since the start of the kidnappings, it was like every time she wasn’t good enough was a new crack in her sanity. She was on the brink of disaster and was only held together by some shitty scotch tape at best.

Cecilia did her best to hide it, putting on a smile and making sure those around her were alright. If she focused on them it would allow her to not think about herself. She knew others could tell from the way Farah stared at her sometimes and even Nat when she thought Cecilia wasn’t looking. No one said anything outright.

She turned and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and suddenly it was like she was a child again. Dad dead. Mom busy working. Left to take care of herself even when she was raw and vulnerable. 

Her eyes slid away from her reflection, unable to handle the memories any longer, and landed on the soft shape of the duck stuffy sitting on top of her dresser. It felt like a lifetime ago since the carnival and her and Ava’s “fake” date. Cecilia remembered her excitement when Ava handed the prize to her, claiming she had no use for it. 

Cecilia loved that fucking duck. She had been so relieved that it hadn’t been ruined in her apartment accident. 

She stood before it now, staring into its little glass eyes and it all suddenly became too much. 

The first sob shook her and the ones following brought her to her knees as she cried.

She cried for her lost childhood. She cried because she was so damn lonely. And mostly, she cried because she wished someone would love her in the way she loved them. 

*

At some point, Cecilia had made it to bed.

She lay on her side in the quiet darkness, stuffed duck nestled in her arms. 

A hesitant knock sounded on the door. It opened before she could respond.

“Cece?” Farah called quietly into the room. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah,” she whispered.

Luckily the vampire didn’t need light to navigate the dark bedroom and crawled onto the bed quickly. “I’ll even let you be the little spoon,” Farah teased, slotting herself behind Cecilia beneath the covers. 

Cecilia was grateful for her best friend’s comfort. A hand curled around Farah’s soft forearm as a few coils of hair tickled her cheek. The feeling of familiarity was a blessing as the smell of her friend’s soap and the slightest hint of cinnamon sliced through the dreaded loneliness. 

“I would’ve come sooner but thought you might need some time,” she murmured.

She nodded. “Thank you,” Cecilia rasped, her voice hoarse from crying.

Farah was silent for a few seconds before saying, “We could always break into Nat’s special room and find her stash of old alcohol. Not like she’s going to use it. Besides, I think she’d let you do just about anything right now.”

That made Cecilia snort. “As tempting as that sounds, my head already hurts enough.”

She felt Farah shrug the shoulder not pressed against the mattress. “Fair. Offer still stands.”

It made Cecilia finally produce a small smile.

They lay there without saying much for a while. Cecilia wasn’t up for talking and Farah clearly understood. With someone else with her, she was finally feeling the exhaustion of her emotions surging forward until her eyelids were becoming heavier by the second. Farah had come dressed in her pajamas, having already intended to stay with her best friend as long as she was needed.

“Hey, Farah,” she whispered.

“Yeah?”

“I love you. You really are my best friend.”

Farah’s arm squeezed her tightly. “You’re my best friend too. I love you so much that I considered kicking Ava’s arms out from under her earlier so she would faceplant into the ground.”

Cecilia smiled, although she wasn’t quite sure what she was talking about. Still, she appreciated the sentiment.

*

She and Farah parted ways the next morning. Morgan had come and banged on Cecilia’s door trying to find Farah so they could go on their patrol. To say Farah was uncharacteristically irritated with Morgan after was an understatement.

Cecilia hugged her goodbye, smiling at the promise they would watch stupid movies later together when she returned.

Knowing it would be stupid of her to hole up in her room, Cecilia made the brave decision of venturing out into the kitchen. She pushed the thought of seeing Ava to the back of her mind while trying to ignore the way her stomach turned at the idea.

Thankfully, there was only Nat seated at the table, squinting at a crossword puzzle with her lips pursed. A pencil twirled absent-mindedly in her fingers.

“What’s the question?”

Nat looked up seeming a bit surprised by Cecilia’s presence. She recovered quickly though, looking back down to her paper. “Who don’t you put in a corner?”

Cecilia crossed the room to stand behind her and looked over her shoulder. “Baby.”

The woman twisted in her seat, a look of confusion pulled at her features. “Why on earth would you put a baby in a corner?”

She couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her. “No, the character’s name is Baby. It’s from the movie Dirty Dancing.” Cecilia took a seat in the chair next to Nat. “Why did you choose a pop culture crossword anyway?”

“Farah printed it out for me. She said it would keep me busy.” Nat paused, long fingers drumming on the table in thought. “I suppose she was right on the keeping me busy part because I have no idea what half of these words mean strung together like this.”

Cecilia smiled—until Nat truly looked at her in her Nat way that openly read I know you aren’t okay. Then her lips curled into a frown. 

“Are you doing alright?” she asked, reaching over to place a hand on top of Cecilia’s. 

She let out a long sigh. Her head still hurt from crying last night and she was sure her eyes were puffy so she looked a wreck. “I guess.”

Nat squeezed her hand. “You don’t have to be. It’s completely understandable.”

“I’m sure you already know what happened then,” Cecilia mumbled, suddenly unable to meet her eyes. Something about their friendly warmth made her feel unworthy. 

“Secrets don’t seem to last long around here,” she said, then followed by, “Farah told me after she saw Ava in the hall.”

Cecilia stared at the pattern in the wooden grains of the tabletop. The muscles in her jaw were already beginning to ache from the way she clenched it. “It just…” she trailed off at first, finger tracing the space where her gaze went. “It just hurts.”

“What does?”

Swallowing hard, Cecilia finally met Nat’s concerned look. “Loving someone who doesn’t love you back. No, let me rephrase. Loving someone who feels the same but won’t let herself and breaks my heart over and over again in the process.”

Nat frowned but nodded in understanding. 

She felt tears flooding her eyes once more. “I’m not strong anymore, Nat,” Cecilia whispered. “I feel like I’m falling apart. I don’t know how much more I can take.” 

By the end, her voice was wobbling and Nat moved from her chair to kneel in front of Cecilia, pulling her into a hug. Cecilia clung to her tightly, willing herself not to break into tears all over again.

“I wish there was something I could do,” Nat whispered.

Out of the corner of her eye, Cecilia caught movement. She turned her head just in time to see the figure of Ava slinking back into the hallway and the mournful look clouding her face. “Me too, Nat. Me too.”

#ANGST #cece and farah snuggle all the time bc i snuggle with my best friends too #the power of friendship #cece is on the brink guys #truly mentally ill #my writing #the wayhaven chronicles #twc #wayhaven #wayhaven book 3 #wayhaven book 3 spoilers #oc: cecilia #ava x cecilia #ava du mortain #farah hauville #nat sewell #twc morgan #twc fics #ava du mortain x f!detective #ava du mortain x detective