Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

💋 Sugar in His Fangs 💋

(Teen Wolf × The Vampire Diaries | Stiles x ??? | Vampire Spark AU | Crossover | Exes to Enemies to ?? | Dark Humor | WIP)

"Everyone has that one ex.
Stiles Stilinski just happens to be the one your ancestors warned you about."

"Everyone has that one ex.
Stiles Stilinski just happens to be the one your ancestors warned you about."

Five hundred years ago, Klaus Mikaelson made a mistake.
Not the kind you forget.
Not the kind you forgive.

He dumped Stiles Stilinski.

The supernatural world learned one thing the hard way
Don’t date Stiles Stilinski.
Or if you do, don’t lie. Don’t cheat. Definitely don’t try to rip his heart out.

Klaus Mikaelson broke all three rules.
Now he runs.
And everyone else? They know better than to ask.
Stiles isn’t just some ex with a grudge.
He’s the original chaos—spark magic fueled by belief, bloodlust sharpened by betrayal, and a memory that doesn’t forget.

He didn’t spend centuries chasing Klaus because revenge was his whole life.
But when the man you trusted rips out your heart and expects you to still stay, well… let’s just say grudges aren’t the half of it.

Now, after years of silence, Stiles rolls into Mystic Falls with nothing but a crooked smile, a carefully honed plan, and a warning:
He’s here to stir up more than old ghosts.

Maybe it’s Klaus he’s after.
Maybe it’s something—or someone—more complicated.

Either way, Stiles isn’t here for closure.

✦ Welcome Playlist 🎧

“Control” – Halsey

"Losin Control"-Russ

“Black Sheep” – Metric (Brie Larson ver.)

“Daddy Issues” – The Neighbourhood

“Bury a Friend” – Billie Eilish

“Kill of the Night” – Gin Wigmore

“Sweet but Psycho” – Ava Max

“The Way I Am” – Charlie Puth (Nightcore ver.)

“House of Memories” – Panic! At the Disco

"Trouble" – Valerie Broussard

"Control" – Halsey

"Bones" – Imagine Dragons

"Kill of the Night" – Gin Wigmore

"Horns" – Bryce Fox

"Daddy Issues" – Demi Lovato

"Play With Fire" – Sam Tinnesz

"Believer" – Imagine Dragons

"Bury a Friend" – Billie Eilish

"No Body, No Crime" – Taylor Swift ft. HAIM

"Monster" – Meg Myers

"Run" – Daughter

Disclaimer:
I do my own versions of The Vampire Diaries, Teen Wolf, and The Originals. Any original characters (OCs) are 100% mine. No copyright infringement intended—just having fun with these worlds.

Chapter Text

“Let’s talk about Klaus Mikaelson.”

Sigh.

“No, really. Let’s. Take a seat. Light a candle. Say a prayer. Throw a salt circle. Whatever helps you process ancient, demonic exes, because what we’re dealing with here is not just a narcissist, not just a thousand-year-old man-child with a god complex—no. What we have here is the walking embodiment of unresolved trauma in an Italian leather jacket.”

And yes, I dated that.

Not in passing. Not once. I loved him. I bled for him. I broke every rule of sense and self-preservation to be at his side. And in return?

He shattered me with the kind of poetry that only monsters know how to write.

But we’re not there yet. Let me start simpler.

You ever hate someone so much it gives you clarity? Like, spiritual-level clarity. Like, the kind of divine insight monks meditate decades for?

That’s what loving Klaus Mikaelson did for me.

Hi. I’m Stiles. And I hate Klaus Mikaelson.

No— hate isn’t the right word. Hate is what I feel when someone spoils a show finale or touches my books with wet hands. What I feel for Klaus Mikaelson is older than hate. It’s deeper. It’s Biblical. It’s mythic. It's been carved into stone tablets and whispered through bloodlines. If the Fates had a group chat, I’d be the pinned message titled “Things to Unleash Upon the Hybrid.”

Because, see—he didn’t just hurt me.

He rewrote me.

He took the boy I was and turned him into something colder. Something precise and dangerous and sharp in all the places I used to be soft.

He ruined me in such a beautiful, meticulous way I almost didn’t notice it was happening—until it was over and I was standing in the ashes of my own identity, wondering how long it had been since I smiled without flinching.

That’s the thing about Klaus. He doesn’t destroy you all at once. He erodes you. Slowly. Carefully. Like water wearing down rock.

And the worst part?

He loved me.

In his own twisted, feral, deeply fucked-up way… he did.

He just didn’t love me the way I needed. He loved me like a possession. Like a secret. Like a weapon he didn’t want anyone else to touch.

And I let him.

I let him carve his name into my ribs and call it devotion.

I let him whisper promises into my mouth while holding a knife behind his back.

I let him kiss me like salvation and curse me like a prophet.

Because when Klaus loves you, he means it. He just also means to destroy you in the process.

It’s not personal—it’s just Klaus.

He’ll tell you it’s the world’s fault. His trauma. His family. His eternal suffering. He’ll make you feel guilty for wanting more. For asking him to be gentle. For not understanding that his rage is love, his violence is protection, and his betrayal is just how he shows he cares.

And for a while, you’ll believe him.

You’ll believe it when he tells you the world is cruel and he’s just surviving it.

You’ll believe it when he says you are different. That you make him better. That you are the reason he’s still sane.

Until you realize “better” means obedient, and “different” means disposable when convenient.

Until you’re on the floor, heart in your hands, watching him walk away like he didn’t just rip you open and call it affection.

And the thing is—I should’ve known better.

I did know better.

But I’m the kind of idiot who looks at a hurricane and thinks, “Maybe this time, it’ll be gentle.”

I fell in love with the storm. And now, every time he breathes, the winds still howl in my bones.

Let’s talk about his voice.

That fucking voice. That smug, slow, British-accented seduction that makes people forget he’s a genocidal maniac with mommy issues. The way he says “love” like he’s consecrating you. Like the word is a gift and you should be honored he said it at all.

He calls everyone that. You know that, right?

Everyone.

And it works. It works because he’s beautiful. He’s magnetic. Because Klaus Mikaelson walks into a room and suddenly everyone’s IQ drops fifteen points and their legs part like it’s muscle memory.

But me? I knew better. I saw it all. The cracks. The hunger. The ancient, bitter hollowness behind the gold-tinted eyes.

And I still kissed him like it wouldn’t burn me.

I still believed I could be the one to fix it. To fix him.

Spoiler: you can’t fix Klaus Mikaelson.

You can only survive him.

If you’re lucky.

He doesn’t do love the way people should. He does it the way animals do. Claimed and clawed. Brutal and possessive. It’s not a relationship—it’s a war with pauses for sex and whispered promises of eternity.

He thinks vulnerability is weakness. That softness is an invitation for betrayal. He doesn’t trust kindness. He doesn’t understand patience. If you cry, he’ll hold you like a lover but think like a general: Where are your weak spots? Where can I press next?

He doesn’t know how to receive love.

He only knows how to consume it.

And yet. And yet.

I still remember what it felt like when he looked at me like I was the first sunrise after centuries of darkness.

I remember the way he used to say my name. Quiet. Reverent. Like a prayer with too much teeth behind it.

I remember the soft things. The rare, impossible moments when he was almost human.

And it kills me.

Because those moments were real.

They were .

They just weren’t enough.

Not for him.

Not for me.

Not for the kind of love we needed to survive each other.

.

Well.

That’s enough about my shitty ex.

Let’s pivot. Not because I’m done talking about him—please. I could build a cathedral out of the wreckage he left behind and still have enough leftover trauma to sculpt a second one with tragic stained glass and mood lighting. The acoustics alone would weep.

But I’m trying this new thing called emotional maturity .

Gross, right?

I picked it up somewhere between getting a doctorate in psychiatry and setting my sixth ex’s car on fire in a fit of avant-garde vengeance. Growth, apparently, is learning to monologue instead of murder.

Anyway, I have more letters after my name now. Real ones. Fancy ones. Dr. Stilinski, PhD. Certified in the fine art of unpacking other people’s trauma just to avoid looking directly at my own. It's cute. Like therapy, if therapy also occasionally involved spellwork and minor property damage.

It’s cute.

I’ve learned to breathe through the homicidal urges. To meditate. To self-reflect. I’ve even come to understand that maybe— just maybe —spending four hundred years chasing Klaus Mikaelson across continents like a demon with a vendetta weren't exactly healthy coping mechanisms .

Do I understand that?

Yes.

Do I care?

Not even a little.

Let’s be very clear: My vendetta is earned . This isn’t some petty breakup grudge. This isn’t about getting ghosted after a century-long situationship. This is cosmic retribution, divine punishment, karmic balance. I’m not obsessed—I’m justice with a pretty face.

And if you’re thinking, “Well, it sounds like you’re still obsessed,”—congrats! You’re halfway to understanding Klaus Mikaelson's impact on my mental health.

But let’s not get too caught up in him .

Let’s talk about me.

Hi. I’m Stiles. Just Stiles. No, it’s not short for anything. My full name is older than your ancestral bloodlines and twice as cursed. If I ever whisper it into your ear, it’ll either be a declaration of love or a hex. Possibly both.

I’m 664 years old.

I’m a vampire. And a Spark.

That’s not a metaphor. That’s my supernatural classification. Yes, it sounds like something Tinkerbell might cough up, but trust me, there’s nothing soft about it.

 Literally. I’m what happens when belief becomes flesh. A wish made real. Born from the kind of raw, ancient magic that predates rituals, circles, and the word witch itself. A Spark is power that believed in itself so hard it decided to be a person.

I am that person.

Magic. Immortal. Incandescent. And, let’s be honest—objectively hot.

I’m the monster under your bed, the miracle in your prayers, the chaos in your stars. Killer wardrobe. Excellent taste in women. Appallingly self-destructive taste in men. (We’re working on it. Kinda.)

This morning I woke up in Beacon Hills.

The air was off. It tasted like betrayal. Like burnt sugar and old spells. The kind of day that makes your teeth itch. And then I knew.

Klaus Mikaelson was planning something.

I felt it in the marrow. In the twitch behind my left eye. In the quiet, cursed part of me where I still remember how he used to look at me—like I was something divine. Like I was worth saving.

Spoiler: I wasn’t saved.

I was used.

Let me tell you something: I gave that man four hundred years of revenge. Four. Hundred. Years. Of symphonic, poetic, infernal retribution. I cursed his lovers. Haunted his dreams. Made his victories taste like ash and his regrets taste like me.

And then I stopped.

I gave him a break.

I let him have it.

I let him live without me.

I took a break from revenge.

I rested .

In the meantime, I tried this little thing called healing. I went to school. Became a licensed psychologist. And anesthesiologist. Because why not? If you’re going to dismantle a person, it helps to understand how their brain—and nervous system—work.

That’s me healing .

I opened an orphanage. Burned down a city hall. Bartended in Vegas. Married a human. Fell in love with an Alpha. Learned to crochet.

 I made friends. Real ones. I found a pack. I built a life.

I was… disturbingly well-adjusted.

And then what does Klaus do?

He dares to be happy.

He dares to love again, to plan, to smile like he hasn’t buried me behind every regret he refuses to face.

No.

Absolutely not.

That is against nature .

My nature.

Because if I don’t get peace, he doesn’t get joy. If I can’t rest, he doesn’t get to rebuild. Every breath he takes without guilt is theft. Every step he takes toward healing is an insult. And every sweet little smile he gives to some new fool is a reminder that he thinks he can forget me.

He can’t.

I won’t let him.

So I packed a bag.

Told the pack I was taking a vacation.

Derek raised an eyebrow like he knew better. Scott offered to come with me. Erica offered to kill him. I adore them. Truly.

But this?

This is personal.

This is a reckoning.

I’m not here to kill him. Not yet.

I’m here to haunt him.

To be the itch he can’t scratch, the shadow in every plan. I want him to feel me in his bones. I want the be shure he still flinches every time he hears my name, to wonder where I am, what I’m doing, who I’ve cursed lately.

Chapter Text

Mystic Falls was about as chill as a vampire bite to the femoral artery.

Which is to say—not very.

Not with a girl missing, a witch MIA, one Salvatore  vibrating with such tightly wound moral panic that even a minor inconvenience could probably send him spiraling into another decade-long brooding session.

And somewhere, deep in the woods of Mystic Falls, the magic shifted

.

Mystic Falls looked like a low-budget Hallmark movie threw up on a Civil War reenactment and forgot to clean up after itself.

Seriously. Stiles had seen fake towns in old Westerns that felt more authentic than this place. It was all antique street lamps, too-clean sidewalks, and painfully quaint storefronts that looked like they were built for vampires to dramatically brood in front of. He half-expected to see a mist machine pumping theatrics into the background just for atmosphere.

Stiles half-expected to round a corner and find a recently divorced woman from Chicago rediscovering the meaning of Christmas with a rugged lumberjack and an orphaned golden retriever.

Instead, all he found was humidity, suburban repression, and supernatural energy that clung to the air like smoke after a fire.

“Charming,” he muttered, stepping over a cracked sidewalk that looked like it hadn’t been redone since 1952.

The flight from California to Virginia had been brutal. Sure, he’d flown first class—because standards—but no amount of legroom made up for the stale air, the dry skin, or the fact that blood bags tasted even worse at 35,000 feet. He could’ve compelled a stewardess or two, batted his lashes, tilted his head, made them feel special—but then there’s always the clean-up. The mind-wipes. The whispers. The questions.

Too much hassle.

And if there’s one thing Stiles Stilinski hated, it was hassle.

Which is probably why it annoyed him so much that he was here. In this town. Because being here was a hassle in itself.

A few dead witches had decided to wake him from a very cozy, very decadent midday nap—whispering through the walls of his consciousness like graveyard wind.

"He’s doing it again", they’d hissed, "he’s close, closer than he’s ever been,"

They didn’t say who—because apparently the spirits of ancient witches are all about aesthetic and not so much about helpful details. But Stiles knew. He always knew.

Klaus Mikaelson.

That infuriating, impossibly smug, British-accented war crime in pants.

Apparently, the bastard was trying to break his curse again. And apparently, this time he might actually succeed.

Which begged the question: why Mystic Falls? A town so bland it might as well be called Genericville, USA. A town whose supernatural street cred had gone silent decades ago. He hadn’t even thought about this place in centuries.

Until now.

Now, it itched at him.

Magic lived in the bones of this place. Old magic. Forgotten magic. And that was never a coincidence.

He sighed as he reached the town square—if you could even call it that. It looked like a set designer had Googled “quaint town aesthetic” and then panic-built the entire layout overnight using whatever stock imagery they had saved to their desktop.

Benches. Brick. Overpriced antique shops. That one sad fountain that probably hadn’t seen real water pressure since 1998.

And—of course—the Mystic Grill.

Because even the names of buildings here were aggressively generic.

He pushed the doors open and stepped inside.

It was loud. Busy. Smelled like teenage hormones, mediocre beer, and old magic desperately pretending it wasn’t there.

Perfect.

He swept through the entrance like he owned the place—because, in essence, he would. Soon. Probably by next week. He just needed to find the right pressure point and push.

He slid into a booth near the back, facing the room. He never sat with his back to a door. Not in towns like this.

He flagged down a waitress—young, pretty, nervous—and ordered a soda he wouldn’t drink and fries.

The witches hadn’t told him why Klaus might succeed this time—but they’d sounded afraid. And if dead witches were afraid, that meant something truly apocalyptic was brewing.

He leaned back in the booth, eyes half-lidded, scanning the crowd.

His phone buzzed.

A message from Erica:
“You alive?”

He smirked and typed back.

“Alive, annoyed, overcaffeinated. This town smells like pumpkin spice candles, sweat and repressed trauma. Will update soon.”

Another message buzzed in immediately after.

“Get him yet?”

“Not yet. But I’ve located the local grill, so clearly, we’re progressing.”

Erica sent back a skull emoji. Followed by a knife. Followed by a heart. He smiled.

God, he loved her.

His thoughts drifted again—to the witches, to the whispers, to the brittle edge of dread clinging to the town like fog. He could feel it.

Something was coming.

And deep down—beneath the sarcasm, the hunger, the centuries of trauma wrapped in silk and fangs—he knew exactly what it was.

Klaus.

His name thrummed like a heartbeat against Stiles’ ribs.

It hurt. Actually hurt. Like biting tinfoil. Like an old filling touched by cold water. The thought of him was pressure in his teeth and heat behind his eyes and static under his skin.

The syllable cracked through him like a whip when he let it. So he didn’t.

Stiles stirred his fries instead, poking one through the ketchup with as much violence as a soggy potato stick allowed. His shoes were kicked up on the edge of the chair, fingers idly flipping through something on his phone, but his mind wasn’t on the screen. It was drifting again. Dangerous places. Bloody places. Soft, warm places too—but those were the worst.

He shoved them all down.

Then—like fate wanted to keep things interesting—he heard that voice.

“What the hell are we supposed to be doing, Stefan?” a familiar tone snapped.

Stiles stilled.

He looked up slowly, a wolf catching a scent in the wind, and his lips curled into a slow, razor-edged grin.

Well.

Well, well.

Now this was interesting.

He stood, smooth and silent, like something carved out of charm and violence, and drifted toward the source of the noise. The Mystic Grill was half-full, mostly locals—nobodies with dead-end problems—but that table stood out like a sore thumb.

Two familiar faces. Two very familiar faces.

And two he didn’t recognize. One older, rugged, arms folded like a man constantly on edge. The other was younger—scruffy, sullen, and already shooting him a look like he was the apocalypse in skinny jeans.

Cute.

Stiles zeroed in.

Stefan looked the same as ever—brooding like it paid rent. Damon, meanwhile, had aged like milk in a too-hot sun: still pretty, still reckless, still full of that smirking little-boy bravado that made Stiles want to sink his teeth in.

Literally or figuratively? Depends on the day.

“Well, well, well,” Stiles sang sweetly, like a threat dipped in sugar, “if it isn’t two of my favorite fledglings.”

Damon froze. His head jerked toward the sound like he’d been slapped, eyes wide, jaw slightly unhinged. Stefan looked up from his drink—and there was a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze.

The strangers were staring, too. Of course they were.

“Hm,” Stiles mused, sweeping his gaze over the table. “Quite the crowd. You boys always drag your trauma into public or is this a special occasion?”

“Stiles,” Stefan said slowly, the name tasting like unease. “What are you doing here?”What are you doing her

Damon recovered fast. “No. Nope.The hell are you doing here?”

Stiles didn’t answer right away. He was eyeing the older brunette across from Damon now—tall, salt-and-pepper hot in a rugged-professor kind of way.

“Who’s this one?” Stiles asked, smirk deepening. “You trading up, Damon? Finally realized you need someone with a spine and a license to carry?”

“Don’t,” Damon growled.

Stiles raised his brows, then—without hesitation—lifted one foot and kicked Damon square in the thigh, knocking him off balance. Damon flailed, swore, and hit the floor with a graceless thud.

The younger stranger’s jaw dropped. The older man barely blinked, like this wasn’t even in the top ten weirdest things to happen today.

Stiles sank into Damon’s abandoned chair and crossed one leg over the other with practiced ease. “There we go. Much better.”

“You gonna sit there while you’re on the floor?” he asked, smiling down at Damon. “Or are you into the whole groveling thing now?”

Damon glared daggers as he got up, brushing dust off his jeans. “You’re such a—”

“Careful,” Stiles warned sweetly.

The two strangers were still staring.

Stefan sighed. “Stiles.”

“Yes, Stefan?”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Stiles tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. “Didn’t answer the first time. Not gonna now.”

Stefan’s expression pinched.

Damon was still bristling beside him, rubbing his leg. “I should throw you through a wall.”

“You could try,” Stiles said. “Wouldn’t end well. But A+ for confidence.”

He reached  without asking and plucked Damon’s drink from his spot. Took a sip.

“Ugh. Bourbon? In this humidity? Have you no standards?”

“Hey!” Damon protested.

“Hey is for horses,” Stiles said, deadpan. “Are you a horse, Damon?”

Damon’s jaw worked furiously.

Stiles winked at him.

The older stranger finally spoke. “Who the hell is this?”

Stiles turned his head with a slow blink. “Oh, I like you. Grown man. Tired eyes.”

“Stiles,” Stefan said again, voice taut with tension. “Seriously. Why are you in Mystic Falls?”

Stiles yawned, dramatic. “If I didn’t answer the first time, I don’t see why I have to now. But points for persistence, golden boy.”

“Are you stalking us?” Damon snapped, straightening his jacket.

Stiles raised a brow. “Please. If I were stalking you, you’d be dead. Or worse—addicted to my attention.”

He turned his gaze on the table. “So. What’s the tea? I heard the little demon whining from across the room—” He pointed to where his fries and soda sat unattended. “Couldn’t help myself. Came to spectate.”

Jeremy made a noise. “Little—who?”

“Not you,” Stiles said without glancing at him. “Yet. Don’t ruin it.”

The two humans turned their heads toward where he was pointing, then back at him, clearly overwhelmed. Stefan, meanwhile, just stared at Stiles like he was a puzzle someone handed him already half-exploded.

Stiles leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin in his hands.

“What’s missing?” he asked, eyes on Stefan. “And how bad is it?”

Stefan hesitated.

He thought about lying. About brushing it off. But… this was Stiles.

He was dangerous, yes. Unpredictable. Deeply dramatic. Very much psychotic.

But also useful. If—if—you could keep him on your side.

“People,” he said finally. “Two. A witch and a girl.”

Stiles raised a brow. “Witch and a girl. Sounds like a bad knockoff fairy tale.”

Damon sat back down—on the opposite side of the table this time—still glaring.

“What’s missing,” Stiles repeated, dragging Stefan's drink toward himself. “And how badly do you want it found?”

Stefan didn’t blink. “Badly.”

“Hm.” Stiles sipped, then made a face. “Ugh. terrible.”

He turned his attention to the others now. “So what’s this? Boyfriend, bodyguard, or bait?” he asked, pointing a lazy finger at the hunter-looking one.

“Alaric Saltzman,” the man said with a tight smile repeating himself. “I teach history.”

“Oh,” Stiles purred. “A teacher. God, I love it when they lie.”

Jeremy frowned. “And I’m Jeremy.”

“Good for you,” Stiles said, already bored.

He leaned back, letting his head tilt to the side. “Listen. I’m feeling generous today. Jet lagged, peckish, and sort of curious about what the hell you three amateurs are fumbling around about.”

“You’re not helping,” Damon muttered.

“I could help,” Stiles corrected, then pointed at Ric. “If you can provide a nice, piping hot meal for me. Something with spice. Something with kick. Smoky, maybe. I don’t know. Surprise me.”

Alaric narrowed his eyes. “You mean blood.”

“Well, yeah,” Stiles drawled. “Unless you want me to go full 'Snatch, Eat, Erase' in the parking lot. But hey, I’m flexible. Make me an offer.”

Jeremy leaned forward. “We’re not going to just—feed you strangers.”

Stiles turned toward him with a lazy smile.

Jeremy shut up.

“Look,” Stefan said, trying to bring the tension back to something manageable, “we need to find them. Bonnie and Elena. They’ve been missing for over a day.”

“Cute names,” Stiles said. “Do they come with backstories, or are we just skipping to the tragedy part?”

“They’re in danger,” Stefan added.

“Obviously.”

“And you can help,” Damon said tightly. “Even if I’d rather slam my head into a blender than admit that.”

“You’re so cute when you beg,” Stiles told him. “But fine. Give me a name. A full name. I’ll see what the winds whisper.”

“And in return?” Ric asked, arms crossed.

Stiles grinned, flashing fang. “I told you. Dinner. Or… we can make other arrangements.”

The way he said it made Jeremy look away, ears red.

“Elena Gilbert,” Stefan replied. “Bonnie Bennett.”

Stiles nodded. “Pretty. Alright. I’ll see what I can see.”

He stood abruptly, finishing the drink in one last dramatic gulp. “You’ve got until sundown to decide how you’re feeding me."

Then he turned on his heel and sauntered away, humming under his breath.

The Salvatore brothers watched him go, unease thick in the air.

“He’s a nightmare,” Damon muttered.

“He’s worse,” Stefan replied.

.

.

.

Damon watched Ric’s gaze trail after Stiles as he disappeared out the front doors of the Grill, his stride unapologetically smug, like he was leaving behind a crime scene instead of a half-finished drink and a room full of confuson.

“Don’t,” Damon said flatly.

Ric blinked, torn from his thoughts. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t get involved,” Damon muttered, finally dragging his gaze back to the table like it took effort. “Seriously, Ric. Don’t try to get involved in that.”

Jeremy raised a brow. “That? He came in like a wrecking ball, stole your seat, insulted everyone at the table, drank your whiskey, and then just left. Who the hell is that?”

Damon didn’t even look at him. “That,” he repeated, with the long-suffering weight of someone who had once danced too close to the sun, “was the devil incarnate.”

Jeremy scoffed, half-laughing. “You’re exaggerating.”

Damon turned to Ric, deadly serious. “He will be the most psychotic, unhinged, clingy, drama-wrapped ex you will ever meet in your life. Doesn’t even matter if you date him or not. He’ll haunt you.”

Jeremy blinked. “Wait—did you date him?”

“Oh, hell no,” Damon said, too fast. Then added, “Well. Sort of. Not really. I mean, it was—it was complicated. Brief. Temporary insanity, maybe. A few weeks. Months. Shut up.”

Jeremy’s mouth dropped. “You dated him?!”

“Sort of!” Damon snapped again. “And I still have trauma flashbacks when I see beach houses.”

“Why beach houses?” Ric asked cautiously.

“Because he burns them. When he’s mad. Or bored. Or being poetic,” Damon muttered, rubbing at his temple like the memory gave him a migraine. “Let me tell you something, Ric—there’s one rule in the entire supernatural world that anyone who’s been around longer than a Starbucks menu knows by now. Don’t. Date. Stiles Stilinski.”

“He’s that bad?” Ric asked, disbelieving.

“Oh, he’s worse,” Damon said, grimacing. “And it kills me to admit this, but—not only is he powerful, not only is he old, but he’s also the snarkiest, sassiest little cunt you’ll ever meet."

Stefan exhaled heavily. “If I had a list of people I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole, Stiles Stilinski would be number two.”

Jeremy raised an eyebrow. “Who’s number one?”

“Katherine,” Stefan and Damon said in unison.

“Right,” Jeremy mumbled.

Ric was still squinting toward the door. “Did you ever date him?”

“God no,” Stefan muttered. “But I’ve seen the aftermath.”

“Like?”

“Like a mansion full of warlocks turned inside out. Like a vampire hexed into vomiting their own teeth. Like a cursed locket that made an witch rip out her coven's throats because she dreamed they were traitors. All him.”

Jeremy went quiet, visibly unnerved. “Jesus.”

“You’d think hunters would’ve caught wind of him,” Ric muttered.

Damon looked at him, serious now. “You haven’t heard of him?”

“No,” Ric admitted, frowning. “The name Stilinski rings zero bells.”

“Damn,” Damon muttered. “I hate to say this, but he might be the most powerful vampire on the damn planet.”

Jeremy choked on his drink. “Excuse me?”

“He’s not just a vampire,” Damon said. “He’s a witch.”

“That’s not possible,” Ric said flatly.

Damon spread his hands. “And yet.”

“You can’t be both,” Ric insisted. “A vampire’s nature cuts off your tie to magic. That’s why witches and vamps don’t mix. You turn, you lose access. That’s basic.”

“Yeah, well, Stiles is the exception that proves the rule,” Stefan said, almost grumbling. “And before you ask—no one knows how. No one knows what the hell he did to keep his magic. But it’s there. Active. Alive. And he knows how to use it.”

“And he does use it,” Damon added grimly. “With style. Pun intended.”

“Why didn’t you just lie earlier?” Jeremy asked.

“Because lying to Stiles,” Damon said, “is like hand-delivering your own death certificate. Stamped. Dated. Wrapped with a pretty bow. He will know. He will make it personal. And he’ll probably leave a fruit basket at your funeral with a note that says ‘Oops, teehee.’”

Stefan was quiet for a moment.

“He once cursed a guy to hiccup Latin insults for ten years because he called him ‘babe’ without consent.”

“Jesus Christ,” Ric muttered.

“And now,” Damon said, spinning his empty glass. “We’ve got to work with him. Congratulations, boys. You’ve officially hit the emergency option.”

Jeremy raised a brow. “Why him, though?”

“Because he’s the one who can find Elena and Bonnie,” Stefan said. “Faster than any tracker, any locator spell, any psychic.”

“Because Stiles doesn’t look for people,” Damon added. “He pulls them.”

“So what’s he doing in Mystic Falls?” Jeremy asked.

“Honestly?” Damon sighed. “I have no idea. He just shows up."

There was a beat.

“So,” Damon said, nudging Ric with his elbow. “You up for a little dinner date with our resident nightmare on legs?”

Ric gave him a look like Damon had just asked for his firstborn.

“No.”

“Oh come on,” Damon grinned. “He’s nice! Great conversationalist. Probably won’t kill you. Great control he won't even drain you.Afterwards he might even make cookies.”

“Cookies,” Ric echoed flatly.

“And compliments!” Damon added. “He’s big on praise if you bleed well.”

“You do sound like an obsessed ex,” Jeremy said, bemused. “You want us to leave so you can cry into a silk pillowcase?”

“I’m not obsessed,” Damon snapped. “I’m just—looking out for you.”

Ric rolled his eyes. “Fine. But someone’s supervising. No way in hell am I letting a vampire suck my blood just because he asks it.”

There was a brief pause.

“…But I do have vervain in my system.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Stefan said with a faint smile. “Stiles will be just fine.”

Jeremy groaned. “Alright. So how are we gonna find him?”

The three men exchanged glances.

There was a silence, long and knowing.

“…Oh, shit,” Damon said.

They all stood at once.

.

Outside, the sun was low—gold bleeding into red across the skyline. Mystic Falls was quiet, too quiet again, and the breeze that blew down the street carried something a little too sharp in it. Something electric.

“Where the hell did he even go?” Jeremy asked as they crossed the square. “He was just here. Like, five minutes ago.”

“He moves like smoke,” Damon muttered. “One second here, the next, across the country, screwing your boyfriend and laughing about it.”

Ric gave him a sharp look. “You really are still hung up on him.”

“I am not!” Damon insisted, indignant. “I just remember what it felt like when he showed up in Venice and burned down my safehouse.”

“That was you?” Stefan asked. 

Damon looked betrayed.

Jeremy cut in. “Okay, you’re all insane. Where would a terrifying ancient vampire-witch even go in a town this small?”

“…The cemetery,” Ric said.

“…The woods,” Jeremy added.

“…The high school,” Stefan finished. “He’s probably already on the roof setting off fire alarms.”

“Let’s split up,” Damon said quickly. “Ric, you take the cemetery. Jeremy, school. I’ll hit the woods.”

“I am not going to a cemetery at dusk to meet your nightmare ex,” Ric snapped.

“Then we’re drawing straws,” Damon replied, reaching into his coat.

“Do you carry straws?”

“Don’t question my preparedness.”

Jeremy just groaned. “God. Mystic Falls sucks.”

.

All four of them were wrong.

While Damon stormed the cemetery like he expected Stiles to rise from a fresh grave, and Jeremy grumbled about fire alarms on the high school roof, the very subject of their search was wandering through Mystic Falls without a care in the world.

He had no destination. Just instincts.

And a flair for breaking and entering.

Stiles had no intention of staying in a motel, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to haunt the woods like a common feral. He planned to be in town for a while—long enough to get involved in something messy and satisfying—so he needed a place that matched his tastes.

And then, like divine inspiration, he remembered the Salvatore Boarding House.

Old, isolated, already haunted by bad decisions. Perfect.

By the time he reached it, the sky was streaked with orange. The porch creaked under his shoes, but the house stood stoic, wrapped in silence. He doubted it had protective wards—neither Damon nor Stefan were the defensive type—and even if it did, magic bent to him like old velvet.

Stiles raised one hand and murmured a soft unlocking charm. The door creaked open like it had been waiting for him.

Inside, it smelled like dust, old whiskey, and regret. He wrinkled his nose.

“This place could really use a gay eye,” he muttered, flicking the light switch and letting the chandelier sputter to life. “Dark wood paneling and leather chairs? Someone has commitment issues.”

He wandered through the main floor like he was touring an Airbnb. Upstairs, he poked his head into a few rooms until he spotted Damon’s—sheets rumpled, the scent of bourbon soaked into the mattress—and then Stefan’s, neat and cold like no one really lived there. He chose a sixth room, unused and unremarkable, and set his bag on the bed with a satisfied nod.

“A spark needs privacy,” he told no one, stretching out like a cat.

Then his stomach growled.

The kitchen was a different story. Stiles popped open the fridge, immediately wrinkling his nose. “Blood bags? Cold? How barbaric.” He pulled one out anyway, sliced the corner, and poured the contents into a wine glass like it was Merlot. “If I’m going to slum it in the suburbs, I’m doing it with class.”

Apparently, despite their brooding habits and blood-drinking lifestyle, the Salvatore brothers kept a suspicious number of human baking ingredients. Flour. Sugar. Chocolate chips. Vanilla extract. There were even eggs, which begged questions he wasn’t willing to ask.

“Wow,” he said, digging out a mixing bowl. “For a pair of emotionally constipated immortals, they sure do shop like soccer moms.”

Within minutes, he had flour on his fingers, butter softening on the counter, and chocolate chips melting into dough. He hummed while he worked, tailing old witch melodies into pop lyrics. Baking was meditative. Nostalgic. A soft ritual from a time when kitchens were hearths and not steel cages.

Forty-five minutes later, the house smelled divine—brown sugar, vanilla, a hint of magic.

Then the front door slammed.

“Where the hell could he be?” Damon growled, storming in and making a beeline for the bar cart.

Stefan followed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “He was right there and then gone.”

“How can one person be somewhere and then go next?” Jeremy asked, confused.

Then he sniffed.

Jeremy froze mid-step, eyes narrowing. “Wait—what is that?”

They paused.

A scent curled into the air—warm, rich, chocolate.

“Are those… cookies?” Jeremy asked.

Then they heard footsteps.

And Stiles appeared from the kitchen holding a plate stacked high with perfectly browned cookies, steam curling upward like a halo. He beamed.

“Hi hi,” he said sweetly. “Welcome to my place.”

“Your—what?” Damon blinked. “Your what?”

“Your place?” Ric asked, eyes narrowing.

“My place,” Stiles repeated, waltzing into the living room. “I moved in. Found a room upstairs, tossed my stuff down, made myself at home.”

“You—what the hell do you mean, you moved in?!” Damon demanded. “This is our house!”

Stiles blinked at him. All fluttery lashes and guileless innocence. “Oh, well, it was such a hassle trying to find a new spot to crash, and then I remembered you guys live here. Figured it was only polite to stop by. Picked one of the open rooms—hope you don’t mind!”

He held up the plate. “Cookie?”

He smiled sweetly, stepping into the living room like he’d lived there for years.

Damon stared, mouth slightly open, then gestured wildly. “You—you broke in! That’s not how this works!”

“You want the cookies or not?” Stiles asked, holding the plate up.

Damon paused. Took one. Bit it.

“Damn it,” he muttered. “It’s good.”

Jeremy took one too. “Mmh. Really good.”

Stiles grinned. “I’ve had centuries to perfect the recipe. If you don’t think I make a banging chocolate chip cookie, what have I wasted 600 years on?”

Stefan finally spoke. “We’ve been looking for you for almost an hour. Why would you vanish after telling us to get you blood?”

“You could’ve called,” Stiles said, genuinely confused.

No one spoke.

“No one has your number,” Damon snapped. “You’ve been MIA for a century.”

Stiles frowned. “You have my number, Damon. I haven’t changed it since they were invented.”

There was another pause.

All three of them—Damon, Stefan, and Jeremy—turned and glared at Damon.

“…Oh,” Damon said, then coughed. “I guess I should’ve tried that.”

“You think?” Ric said dryly

Stiles turned toward him with a grin. “Well hello, salt-and-pepper snack.”

Ric sighed. “Don’t start.”

“Am I getting my meal now?” Stiles asked, stepping closer.

“Yes,” Damon said loudly, grabbing another cookie “Ric volunteered.Go ahead. Feed. Take Ric. Do your thing”

“I didn’t volunteer,” Ric muttered. “I agreed. Under supervision.”

Jeremy glared at Damon. “You’re eating all of them.”

Stiles raised his brows. “You should be fighting him for them. They’re baked with love."

Jeremy shoved another in his mouth.

“Stiles,” Stefan said, exasperated. “Now that you’ve got your snacks and real estate, can you please tell us where Bonnie and Elena are?”

Stiles nodded. “Witch in the woods, doing some very intense silent retreat thing. Probably didn’t hear your calls. Your other girl—Elena?—I’ll give you the address after my meal. She’s fine. Bit tied up, but not dead.”

Stefan let out a sigh of relief.

“Now,” Stiles said, tilting his head at Ric. “You. Wanna go somewhere a little more... private?”

Ric opened his mouth to argue—but paused. His gaze locked with Stiles’. Something flickered.

“Private, huh?”

“Mmm.” Stiles batted his lashes. “Unless you want to give me a public show, I’m very open-minded.”

Damon groaned. “Here we go.”

Jeremy stared in fascination.

Ric looked back at the group, pleading with his eyes.

Stefan rolled his. “Get it over with.”

Stiles winked. “Come on, professor.”

Ric sighed. “This is not proper vampire procedure—”

“—it is when I’m the vampire,” Stiles said cheerfully, dragging him up the stairs.

Damon followed with a groan.

.

The sound barely echoed before Stiles turned, deliberate, smooth, like he already knew how this was going to go. He released Ric’s wrist with a faint drag of his fingers, trailing down Ric’s palm like an afterthought. The touch was light—mischievous, almost reverent—and Ric was left staring at the space between them like it had just caught fire.

The room was dim, the air warm and tinged faintly with sugar, blood, and something darker. Candles flickered gently from the dresser where Stiles had clearly lit them earlier, their glow catching the gleam of a glass still half-full on the bedside table. The contrast between cozy and supernatural was jarring, but that was probably the point.

Ric stood stiffly near the door, arms crossed. “You better not pull any tricks.”

In the corner, Damon rolled his eyes dramatically and flopped down into an old, chair like he couldn’t believe he was still in the room. His leg bounced, his expression screamed boredom, but the way his eyes stayed fixed on Stiles was anything but casual.

“Oh, relax,” Stiles drawled, a hand pressed to his chest in mock offense. “I'm the perfect gentleman. Aren’t I, Damon?”

“Debatable,” Damon muttered.

Stiles grinned wider.

Then he turned his full attention back to Ric. Without warning, he pushed him back onto the bed, the motion fluid and unhurried. Ric fell with a soft grunt, wide-eyed and instinctively bracing with his elbows. He stared up, unsure whether to punch or bolt—or both.

Ric sat up slightly. “You’re not going to compel me?”

“Oh honey.” Stiles laughed, soft and almost cruel. “If I wanted to compel you, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. You’d already be moaning my name and handing me your credit card.”

“I’m honored,” Ric said, voice dry.

“Don’t be,” Damon mumbled from the corner. “He’d eat a sewer rat if it wore a leather jacket.”

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, love,” Stiles replied without looking back. “Though I suppose it never really did.”

Damon muttered something unintelligible and reached for a glass of bourbon that hadn’t been there ten seconds ago. He sipped loudly.

“Anyway,” Stiles said, refocusing with a brightness that didn’t reach his eyes. “Let’s get down to business.”

He stepped closer. Ric, to his own surprise, didn’t move.

“Why me?” Ric asked, a little too quietly.

Stiles tilted his head, his expression softening just slightly. “Because I like your voice.” 

Ric looked anywhere but at the vampire-witch hybrid in front of him, but his breath caught when Stiles stepped into his space, fingers already brushing against his collar, gently undoing the top two buttons of his shirt.

“I prefer the neck, if you don’t mind,” Stiles said, blinking up at him sweetly. “It’s the oldest tradition. And I’ve been so, so good lately. I feel like I deserve a little treat. Don’t I?”

Ric nodded once—more instinct than permission—and Stiles smiled like he’d won a game that no one else realized they were playing.

Without ceremony, Stiles climbed into his lap.

“Don’t worry. I won’t take too much. I already had a blood bag. I’m just topping off.”

“And I get a cookie?” Ric said, half-smirking despite himself.

Damon groaned in the corner, louder this time. “The hell. This is porn.”

Stiles gave him a wicked look over his shoulder. “Don’t flatter yourself, Damon. You’re not nearly lucky enough to watch me do porn.”

Damon muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “unbelievable.”

“Do you mind?” Stiles snapped without turning. “Some of us are trying to make dinner special.”

Damon raised his hands in mock surrender and slouched deeper in the chair, muttering even more darkly now.

His lips pressed to Ric’s neck.

Then his fangs sank in.

Ric flinched, not from pain but from the sheer intensity of it. His jaw tightened. Stiles didn’t bite like other vampires—he fed like a ritual, like something sensual, something sacred. His breath was warm, his body pressed flush, and his magic bloomed against Ric’s skin like a second pulse.

Stiles didn’t rush. He drank slow, methodical, like he was memorizing the taste of Ric’s blood. His fingers found Ric’s waist, steadying himself, and Ric’s own hands—traitorous, curious—drifted to rest on Stiles’ thighs.

Damon groaned again, louder this time.

“Christ,” he muttered. “It’s like watching a porno written by Oscar Wilde.”

Stiles pulled back finally, magic already sealing the punctures, and licked the smear of blood from his lips with an indecent hum.

Ric blinked up at him, dazed.

Stiles leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Thanks for the meal,” he said sweetly. “And you were very good.”

Ric cleared his throat, not trusting himself to speak.

He climbed off Ric’s lap like nothing had happened and dusted off his knees as if that had been a casual handshake. Ric was still blinking.

“We’ll have to do that again sometime,” Stiles said, smirking.

“Yeah,” Ric muttered, his voice hoarse. “We’ll… pencil that in.”

Damon snorted.

Stiles opened the door. “Come on, Ric. Don’t want to miss the big family meeting downstairs. We’ve got a witch to find, and a girl to rescue, fates to defy. All that boring hero stuff.”

He glanced back at Damon with a long-suffering groan and eye roll. “Try not to brood too hard, Damon. You’ll get forehead wrinkles.”

Damon flipped him off.

Ric got to his feet, still a little shaky. His blood felt warm in his veins, like it had been stirred. His brain hadn’t quite caught up with the rest of him.

Downstairs, Stefan was pacing again.

“Took you long enough,” he said, barely glancing up.

“Private practice,” Stiles sing-songed, throwing himself dramatically onto the couch and tossing a pillow at Jeremy.

Jeremy caught it on reflex and blinked at Ric. “Are you okay? You look like you saw Death.”

“I think I did,” Ric muttered.

Stiles grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Damon gave Ric a horrified look. “You are so going to regret that.”

“Oh come on,” Stiles said, throwing an arm over the back of the couch. “I was a perfect gentleman. Drank respectfully. Didn’t even ask for a second round.”

“Should I be impressed?” Stefan asked dryly.

Stiles shrugged. “I think so. Most people would’ve begged me to take more.”

“That’s because you cheat,” Damon said, standing. “Your aura is practically laced with serotonin.”

“Maybe you’re just weak,” Stiles countered, flashing teeth.

“Maybe you’re still psychotic.”

“Maybe you miss me.”

The room went still.

Even Jeremy held his breath.

Damon’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes did. His gaze lingered on Stiles a little too long, and then he looked away like it didn’t matter.

“Anyway,” Stefan said, cutting in like a scalpel, “can you give us that address now?”

Stiles smiled, slow and shark-like. “Oh Stefan, darling. You’re no fun.”

He pulled a napkin from the side table—who knew how it got there—and scribbled something down with a pen he seemed to summon from nowhere.

He handed the napkin to Stefan and leaned back with a stretch.

“There. My good deed for the week. I expect at least one of you to name a child after me.”

“I’m sterile,” Damon said without missing a beat.

“Thank God,” Stiles muttered.

Ric cleared his throat. “So… do I get my cookie now or what?”

Stiles blinked, beamed, and stood. “You absolutely do.”

He returned moments later from the kitchen with a fresh plate—somehow the cookies were still warm.

Ric took one, bit into it, and gave a faint, grudging noise of pleasure.

Damon glared. “I hate this.”

“You love this,” Stiles said, sliding into a chair beside Ric and biting into a cookie of his own. “You just don’t want to admit it.”

“I hope the witches eat you.”

“Yuck,” Stiles said, licking chocolate from his thumb. “Consent, Damon. You know better.”

And Damon, despite himself, laughed.

Chapter Text

“Well,” Stiles said, licking a bit of cookie from his thumb with the kind of flourish that only made Ric look away and Damon groan dramatically from across the room, “I’ll grab the witch.”

“You can’t give us the location ?” Stefan asked, half a step from the door, always ready to bolt into action like a good boy.

Stiles grinned at him, wide and toothy. “Oh, sweetheart. She’s doing that deep meditation thing—you know, the kind that repels bad vibes. She’s probably out there breathing in moss and aligning her moon chakra or something. You'll never find her.”

He waved a crumpled napkin like it was holy scripture and held it out between two fingers. “This? This is the address for your other one. From what I remember, there were two people. Maybe three. Honestly, I didn’t count. You should hurry, though. It'll be bloody soon.”

Stefan snatched the napkin without a word, and Damon blinked. “Wait. Bloody?”

Stiles cocked his head. “Oh, did I not mention? Yeah. I didn’t get any faces, just—blood. Splattered. Gutsy. Scream-y.”

“You said two people,” Jeremy cut in, stiff. “Is my sister okay?”

“Probably,” Stiles said with a shrug so nonchalant it was insulting. “Didn’t see her dead or anything. She could be the one doing the stabbing. Girl power and all that.”

Damon and Stefan were already halfway out the door, the wind slamming it shut behind them like punctuation.

“Bloody,” Jeremy muttered again, still staring after them.

“Oh, relax,” Stiles said, stretching with a crack of his spine. “Your sister’s fine. At least she was last I peeped. It was weird, though. Magic didn’t work the way it usually does. Really annoying, actually.”

Jeremy frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Just… hard to find.” Stiles said vaguely, starting toward the door. “What is she anyway?”

“She’s just a human,” Jeremy said, following.  

“That’s… boring.” Stiles blinked at him, visibly unimpressed. “Is she wearing anything magical now? Some hand-me-down necklace with a dead witch’s ghost in it or something?”

Jeremy blinked. “I… I don’t know.”

“Magic-adjacent?” Stiles teased, lips twitching. “Is she the kind of girl who keeps crystals under her pillow and prays to the moon on Tuesdays?”

“I don’t know!” Jeremy snapped.

Stiles just grinned wider.

“She’s just a girl,” Ric offered, a bit more grounded. “Nothing supernatural. Nothing that would repel a locator spell.”

Stiles clicked his tongue. “Well, then something else is fucky.”

He said it like he was casually diagnosing a weather pattern.

Jeremy crossed his arms. “So you’re a witch or not?”

“Nope.”

“Wait, what?” Ric frowned. “Then how are you doing any of this?”

“I’m a Spark,” Stiles replied, tossing the word like it meant everything and nothing all at once.

Ric narrowed his eyes. “What does it mean?”

“That I’m a Spark.”

“Not helpful.”

“Correct.” Stiles was already stepping over the threshold of the Salvatore porch, hands in his pockets, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. “I’m not here to give TED Talks on my metaphysical classification. I’m here to help, snack, and traumatize.”

“Can you at least tell us what makes your magic different?” Jeremy asked, following after him.

Stiles pretended to think about it, pursing his lips. “Nope.”

Jeremy threw his arms in the air. “You’re impossible!”

“I get that a lot,” Stiles chirped, swinging into the tree line like he belonged there.

Ric muttered something about his blood pressure and fell into step beside Jeremy.

They walked deeper into the woods, a cold hush settling around them. Stiles didn’t seem fazed by the biting wind or the crunch of leaves beneath his boots.

“You know, I don’t usually do this creepy forest thing,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “Like… I’ve had some bad woodsy experiences. Cults. Ceremonial dancing. Animal skulls. You know how it goes.”

Jeremy snorted despite himself. “Sounds like a Tuesday around here.”

“Oh Mystic Falls,” Stiles sighed dreamily. “So what were you doing before your witch friend went MIA?”

“Wolf problem,” Ric supplied. “We were dealing with werewolves.”

Stiles perked up. “The Lockwoods, right?”

Both Ric and Jeremy stared at him like he’d just recited their credit card numbers.

“How do you know the Lockwoods are werewolves?” Ric asked slowly.

“Dumbass,” Stiles replied sweetly, not even looking back. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I ran with a pack before I got here.”

“You ran with a—what? A werewolf pack?” Ric asked, disbelief cracking through his voice.

Stiles nodded sagely. “Yep. Vamp in a wolf pack. Real Montague-and-Capulet energy. But it worked. We were all a little fucked up and feral, and somehow that made it functional. Bunch of misfits. One guy was a lizard man. Good times.”

Jeremy blinked. “And what, now you’re just passing through Mystic Falls?”

“I’m haunting Klaus,” Stiles said casually.

“Who?”

“Never mind.” He waved a hand like swatting a bug. “Old beef. Ancient history. Nothing to concern yourselves with—unless he shows up, in which case, run. Or don’t. I’d like to see how much you scream.”

Ric gave him a look.

Stiles grinned wider.

They reached a break in the trees where a low fog was starting to roll in like a curtain drawn by invisible hands. Stiles paused, breathing it in like perfume.

“Yup,” he murmured. “Witch vibes.”

“Do you always sense them like this?” Jeremy asked.

“Only when they’re humming this loud,” Stiles said, his fingers twitching like antennae. “This one’s doing deep, ancient meditation. Like, full ‘I-don’t-need-blood-I-need-enlightenment’ bullshit. I’m gonna have to snap her out of it.”

Ric nodded once. “You’re sure you can bring her back safely?”

“Oh I could,” Stiles said slowly, eyes glittering. “But where’s the fun in safe?”

Jeremy groaned.

He stopped, suddenly serious. “You two should wait here.”

“Why?” Ric asked immediately.

“Because she’ll sense you. You smell like weed and disappointment.”

“That’s rude.”

“It’s accurate,” Stiles said, already walking forward. “Just give me fifteen minutes. If I’m not back by then… call someone prettier than me to avenge my death.”

Jeremy rolled his eyes. 

Stiles winked, then vanished into the fog, whistling something that sounded suspiciously like the theme to The Twilight Zone.

The woods swallowed him.

Silence settled in his wake.

“Should we be trusting him?” Jeremy asked, arms folded tight.

“Probably not,” Ric muttered. “But here we are.”

.

Stiles whistled low as he stepped over a thick root, hands tucked in the pockets of his pants. The mist curled around his shoes like it knew him—like it liked him. He arched a brow at the girl on the forest floor, eyebrows slightly pinched in meditation, shoulders slack.

“Oooo,” he said, tilting his head and crouching beside her. “Yes indeed. Looking very much... enlightened.”

He poked at a mossy patch near her hip and grinned. “So this is another one of those famous Bennett witches, huh? You know, these woods were a whole lot livelier when your bloodline meant something.” He flicked his fingers, a spark dancing briefly between them before vanishing. 

The girl didn’t move.

“Hmm. Okay, sweetheart, you are clearly very committed to this comatose earth-goddess cosplay, but I have zero interest in playing prince charming or your fairy god-spark.”

He leaned back on his heels. “Now, I could use magic to wake you up, but it’d be a whole production. And honestly? I’m on cookie cooldown. Too much effort.”

Instead, he made a quick swirl in the air with his hand. A sphere of shimmering water appeared over his palm.

“Ah, yes,” he muttered. “The good old-fashioned wake-the-dead method.” With a flick, the water poured over Bonnie’s forehead.

“Ugh—!” she sputtered, gasping and jerking upright, hands bracing against the forest floor. She blinked rapidly, eyes unfocused, chest heaving.

“There she is,” Stiles sang cheerfully. “Welcome back to the land of the petty and the breathing.”

Bonnie wiped at her soaked face, disoriented. “Who—who the hell—”

“I’m just your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man,” Stiles replied with a wink. Then, with mock-serious gravitas, “Actually, I lied. I’m Batman.”

Bonnie blinked at him, bewildered. Then, instinctively, she threw a hand out—magic coiling with defensive purpose.

“Uh-uh.” He tsked, wagging a finger. “I wouldn’t, Bambi. You’re still all groggy and I’m not the enemy. Well, today, anyway.”

Bonnie narrowed her eyes.

“I’m here to help,” he said, holding both hands up. “Your friends got all emotional about you disappearing. I volunteered as tribute.”

“Friends?” Her voice was still scratchy. “Who even—?”

Stiles tilted his head. “You know—tall, dark, broody. Younger one with a baby face. The tall glass of angsty bourbon,” he listed off casually. “Blue-eyed baby bitch."

Bonnie’s lips twitched. “Damon?”

Stiles lit up. “ I knew I’d like you. Anyone who can clock Damon Salvatore on sight gets a cookie and a gold star.”

He extended a hand. “C’mon. Let’s get you off this mossy yoga mat. It’s terrible for your posture.”

Bonnie eyed him, but accepted the help. “You still didn’t say who you are.”

“Stiles,” he said simply, letting her steady herself.

“Wait, how did you even find me?” she asked, squinting at the fog.

“Magic.”

“That’s impossible,” Bonnie muttered. “The spell I used should have blocked everything—any tracking spell, any locator magic—unless you were…”

“Me,” Stiles said casually.

Bonnie blinked again. “What?”

“So,” Stiles cut her off with a clap. “No more sleeping in mossy circles, yeah? Back to civilization.”

“Are you a witch?” she asked, eyes narrowed again. “Or a warlock?”

“Nope,” Stiles said with a pop of his lips. “I’m a Spark.”

Bonnie froze.

“A what?”

“Spark,” he repeated with a grin, almost bouncing on his heels. “Ask your Grams. She’ll know. It's like… witchcraft’s weirder, meaner cousin who doesn’t care about circles or candles or chanting. More impulse, less restraint. Big bang, no apologies.”

Before Bonnie could press further, Jeremy’s voice echoed through the trees.

 “Bonnie!” he shouted, relief flooding his face. “Are you okay? What happened?”

“I’m fine,” she said, blinking away the last of her haze. “I… I think?”

“What are you doing here?” she asked, staring at the two of them.

“Elena’s been kidnapped,” Jeremy said grimly. “Damon and Stefan ran off to get her.”

Bonnie’s eyes widened. “Wait—what?!"

“Soooo,” Stiles drawled, sliding up beside Ric with a wicked grin. “My forbidden love interest. Shall I be your Romeo to your Juliet? Star-crossed and thirstier than a CW soap opera?”

Ric gave him a warning look. “Don’t start.”

Stiles’ arm wrapped lazily around his, flashing a smirk. “But think about it. You drink the poison, I drink the poison—except I won’t die. You can just join the undead, and we can make brooding look sexy together.”

Bonnie stared at them like she’d walked into the wrong show.

“I mean,” Stiles said, turning to Ric with a wink, “you already gave me a little taste upstairs. I’m just saying, second dates usually involve less clothing.”

Jeremy made a choking noise. “Gross.”

“Aww, don’t be jealous,” Stiles said.

He flicked Jeremy’s ear.

Jeremy yelped.

Bonnie pinched the bridge of her nose. “Okay. What is happening right now?”

Stiles was already halfway turned toward the path again. “Well,” he said with an exasperated sigh, “we head back to the boarding house, see if our kidnapped mystery girl has been recovered—and whether she’s, you know... bloody, dead, mutilated. All the fun adjectives.”

Bonnie’s eyes widened. “Bloody and dead? What are you talking about?”

He shrugged. “You know—strangled, drained, impaled on a conveniently decorative stake.

Bonnie shook her head, still trying to climb out of the fog in her brain. “You’re seriously messed up.”

He turned to her, expression shifting. “And you, Female Bambi, and I—we need to have a talk. You, me… and your grandmother.”

Bonnie blinked. “What?”

“There’s a few things I need to run by the eldest Bennett,” he said, voice dipping serious for the first time. “Witchy cross-referencing, ancestor gossip, possibly a séance. Haven’t decided yet.”

A pause.

“You can’t,” Bonnie said quietly, face tightening.

“What do you mean I can’t?” Stiles asked, brow furrowing as he turned to face her fully.

“Grams passed away,” Bonnie said softly, her voice low and grief-touched. “A while ago.”

Stiles stopped dead in his tracks, his arm dropping from around Ric. “What.”

“I’m the only witch in Mystic Falls now,” Bonnie added.

He blinked, once. Twice. Then drew a sharp breath through his teeth and dragged a hand across his face.

“Well... that’s just fucking inconvenient.”

Ric gave him a sideways look.

Stiles held up a finger. “First off, my condolences. Your grandmother was a bit of a bitch—but she was also a brilliant bitch. Real backbone. Silver-tongued, full of righteous fire. The kind of witch you don’t try to swindle twice.” He sighed dramatically. “This just put a very large thorn in my very delicate ass.”

Bonnie crossed her arms. “You knew her?”

“Only in passing,” he replied. “She didn’t like me. Most witches don’t.”

“Gee, I wonder why,” Jeremy mumbled.

“Anyway,” Stiles continued, looking at Bonnie again, “do you have contact with any of your cousins?”

“What cousins?”

“Laura?” he tried. “Tall. Leather jackets. Spells like a lunatic?”

“No.”

Stiles groaned. “This is just getting worse by the minute.”

“Why?” Bonnie asked, irritation starting to creep in. “Why does it matter?”

Stiles turned to look her over like she was a math problem he didn’t like the answer to. “How long have you been practicing magic?”

“This year,” Bonnie admitted, suddenly self-conscious.

Stiles looked ready to either faint or bang his head against the nearest tree. He blinked slowly, then tilted his face up toward the heavens like he was asking for strength from the ancestors he didn’t believe in.

Jeremy smirked. “So not what you wanted to hear, huh?”

“That’s fine,” Stiles muttered, releasing a slow breath through his nose. “That’s fine. This is fine. Everything’s fine.” His tone made it clear nothing was fine. “Let’s just… go back to the boarding house. I need a drink.”

The walk back was a strange mix of silence and low murmurs. Mist still clung to the woods, trailing after their ankles like a living thing, but no one seemed to notice it anymore.

Bonnie stayed close to Jeremy. Ric kept pace beside Stiles, watching him out of the corner of his eye.

Finally, Bonnie broke the quiet. “Why did you want to talk to Grams anyway? You’ve got your own magic. You clearly don’t need help.”

Stiles glanced over his shoulder at her. “You have a mentor yet?”

“No.”

“Anyone showing you how to use that magic in your bones? Teach you the difference between a spell and a curse?”

Bonnie looked down. “It’s been… trial and error, I guess.”

He stopped walking, turned to face her fully. His gaze softened—not pitying, but real.

“That’s dangerous,” he said quietly.

“I can handle myself.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” he replied. Then, after a beat: “No offense. You’ve got fire in your blood and no one showed up to help you control it? That’s not power. That’s a ticking bomb.”

Bonnie didn’t respond, but she didn’t look away either.

Stiles nodded, like that settled it. “Okay,” he said. “Well. Then I guess we’re going to have to fix that.”

“Wait, what?” Jeremy said.

“You never answered,” Ric added. “Why did you want to talk to her?”

“Well,” he said softly, “from what I’ve heard… Mystic Falls is about to get messier than usual. Lots of bad things crawling out of the crypts. Something’s coming. And if I’m right…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Just winked.

“I’ll handle it. Don’t worry.”

The walk back to the boarding house should’ve felt longer.

Bonnie was still trying to brush off the aftertaste of deep meditation—her limbs heavy, her brain filled with soft static, like she was stuck between dreams. But the strange part wasn’t how fogged she felt.

It was that… she didn’t care.

She wasn’t panicked. Not really. Not even when Jeremy told her about Elena being kidnapped. That kind of news usually kicked her straight into high gear—full-blown worry, emotional spirals, the whole nine yards. But right now?

It felt distant. Muted. Like hearing about a car crash across town and thinking, That’s awful, but then going back to your sandwich.

Jeremy had been on edge all day—heart pounding, ready to bolt, fists clenched tight.

Now he was just walking.

Not relaxed, exactly. But dulled. Like something in the air was laced with soft static and sleepy serotonin. Like the panic couldn’t stick.

And the eye of it all?

Stiles.

He moved through the woods like a fox with a full belly—smug, smooth, totally unaffected by the cold. His arm was still lazily wrapped around Ric’s, tugging the hunter forward like a bored date dragging their escort home from a party.

Bonnie noticed it too.

She’d always been hyper-attuned to people. Sensitive to lies, to secrets, to vibrations that didn’t sit right. But ever since meeting Stiles, it was like that particular compass had gone fuzzy. The sharper instincts she usually trusted to guide her through magical weirdness had been… softened.

Her steps felt lighter. Her breathing easier.

And Ric? Ric should’ve been more suspicious of the vampire currently wrapped around his arm like a lazy vine. But Stiles’ presence had a gravitational pull—warm, irreverent, inexplicably soothing. It didn't smother. It disarmed. It made you laugh when you should be angry and soften when you should steel yourself.

Bonnie didn’t miss how Ric leaned in slightly, like his body was tuning itself toward the sound of Stiles’ voice.

He looked like he might fall asleep standing up.

The moment they stepped onto the boarding house porch, Stiles let out a theatrical groan.

“Oh my god,” he said, exasperated. “They’re still not back?”

He kicked the door open with a little more drama than necessary and swept inside like he owned the place. The others followed—less from intention, more from inertia.

Stiles tugged Ric along as they neared the boarding house, his arm still looped casually through the hunter’s. “Two people. How hard can it be?”

Stiles flopped onto the couch, kicked off his shoes, and immediately made a face.

“What are they doing, reenacting Die Hard in the suburbs?” he muttered. 

Jeremy gave Bonnie a sidelong glance.

Ric just sighed.

“If they’re not back in an hour,” Stiles said, already padding barefoot toward the kitchen, “I’m going to fetch them. Someone has to clean up the mess. I hate being the responsible one. Makes me itchy.”

Bonnie’s brows lifted as she exchanged another confused glance with Ric and Jeremy. There was something surreal about all this. The calm in her chest was unnatural. She’d gone a whole day in magical limbo. She should be exhausted, edgy, hungry—and yet…

“Maybe you should eat something,” Jeremy said, nudging her gently. “You’ve been out for, like, a day.”

Bonnie blinked, slowly registering her own body like it had only just caught up. He was right. She did feel faint. Hazy.

She followed Jeremy into the kitchen.

Stiles stood at the counter holding an open blood bag with the other. He poured the dark liquid into the glass like it was merlot, humming softly under his breath.

Bonnie froze.

“Is that—?”

“Blood,” Jeremy confirmed.

Stiles looked over his shoulder and grinned. “Bonnie, babe. I told you already—I’m not a witch.”

“I know, but—” She gawked. “You’re drinking it!”

“And?” he asked, swirling the glass like a sommelier.

“Doesn’t that—hurt you?”

Stiles tilted his head. “What part of laws of nature don’t apply to me was unclear?”

He took a sip, his lashes fluttering.

“Mmm.” He smacked his lips.

Bonnie stood there, mouth agape. Jeremy, entirely too calm, picked up one of the cookies Stiles had baked earlier and shoved it into her mouth before she could spiral.

“Chew,” he said flatly.

She did.

It was—annoyingly good.

“I know,” Jeremy muttered, reading the expression on her face. “This shit is fucking amazing.”

Stiles gave the two of them a thoughtful look, like he was tasting the mood in the air, then tilted his head.

“Huh,” he said quietly. “Interesting.”

Bonnie opened her mouth to ask what that meant, but he was already walking away, disappearing into the living room with his drink in hand.

Stiles collapsed dramatically into the couch again, glass of blood in hand, legs kicked up.

“Actually i'm giving them ten more minutes,” he declared, “and then I’m storming in there like a gothic fairy sparkfather and dragging them back.”

But he didn’t have to.

Because the front door swung open.

The dramatic ass wind pulled it wide, and in walked Stefan and Damon and behind them…

“Jesus Christ,” Stiles muttered, sitting up straighter.

There was a girl.

Dark hair, wide eyes, clothes  through with a bit of blood

Stiles stared.

The wine glass halted halfway to his lips.

He blinked once.

Then twice.

“Katerina?” he breathed.

The glass slipped in his grip. He caught it, barely.

Damon looked up, already tensing at the familiar crack in Stiles’ voice.

“No,” Stefan said quickly, stepping forward. “This isn’t—she’s not Katherine.”

The girl flinched. Her eyes went to Stiles, wary and confused.

“I’m—Elena,” she said, voice uncertain. “Who are you?”

“She’s not Katherine,” Stefan repeated, firmer now.

But Stiles wasn’t listening.

He stood up slowly, posture stiff, breath shallow. His eyes scanned Elena like she was a alien. He stepped forward once, then stopped, blinking too fast.

And then it hit him.

“Oh my god,” he whispered. “She’s a doppelgänger.”

Damon’s jaw twitched. “Stiles—”

“You didn’t tell me,” Stiles hissed, turning to glare. “You knew she looked like Katherine—you knew what that would mean—and you didn’t say a goddamn thing.”

“I didn’t think it mattered,” Damon replied, raising a brow. “She’s not her.”

“No shit, she’s not her,” Stiles snapped. “But her existence? That means something. You think doppelgängers just happen?”

He turned sharply, face twisting with something between anger and horror.

“This changes everything.”

Bonnie stepped forward, “What does it mean?”

Stiles didn’t answer.

He just downed the rest of his blood in one go, slammed the glass down on the coffee table, and rubbed his temples like he could massage clarity back into his skull.

“Hey,” Jeremy said, finally hugging Elena. “You okay?”

She nodded faintly, still watching Stiles like he might bite her. Which, to be fair, wasn’t a totally irrational fear.

“Oh my god,” Bonnie breathed, stepping forward. “Elena—your shirt.”

Elena looked down at the blood like she’d only just noticed it.

“Don’t worry,” Damon muttered, brushing past them. “Most of it’s not hers.”

Stiles dropped onto the couch again, flopping like a corpse at a wake.

“What happened?” Stefan asked him. “Why are you freaking out?”

“I was told me she was human,” Stiles said, glaring up at Damon. “You told me there was nothing unusual about her.”

“She is human,” Damon insisted.

“Yeah, and I’m a fucking vegetarian,” Stiles snapped. “Doppelgängers are cosmic cannonballs. They don’t exist in a vacuum. If one shows up, it means the universe is compensating for something.”

He blew out a breath, then narrowed his eyes.

“Always you,” Stiles said bitterly, voice muffled into the cushions. “Always you making my life harder.”

“Excuse me?” Damon asked, affronted.

“Wait,” Elena said again, staring between them. “Who are you?”

Stiles blinked at her.

He turned and started walking upstairs, still muttering under his breath.

Ric raised a brow. “Where are you going?”

“Upstairs,” Stiles called. “To spiral in the bath like a respectable vampire.”

He vanished.

Elena’s eyes darted from Damon to the quiet group clustered around the room. The soft sound of running water upstairs and the gentle click of a shutting bathroom door underscored the tension lingering in the air. The familiar hum of energy that had clung to them since Stiles’s departure was replaced by a palpable emptiness—a void that none could disguise.

“Who is that?” Elena asked, her voice steady yet laced with confusion as she searched Damon’s face for answers.

Damon’s gaze shifted between her and the others. His deep-set eyes held secrets that danced between regret and resolve. Before he could respond, Jeremy stepped forward. With a quick, appraising look at his sister, he said, “That’s Stiles.”

A low murmur swept through the room as Stefan added softly, “An old friend of ours… he was the one who helped us find you.”

Elena’s brows furrowed. “Why? Where were you?” she demanded sharply, every syllable laced with disbelief and hurt. Looking at Bonnie.

Bonnie, still recovering from her deep meditation—one that she reluctantly admitted was more than she cared to detail—only managed a quiet reply. “I… I was in a deep meditation. It’s a long story.” Her voice carried the weight of lingering shock, and her eyes darted toward Damon as if silently urging him to fill in the gaps.

“So he’s a witch?” Elena guessed, her tone mingling skepticism with curiosity.

“No,” Damon said immediately, already halfway to the bourbon cart. “He’s… different.”

Elena followed his movements with her eyes, frustration creeping into her voice. “Different how?”

Damon didn’t answer right away. He poured a few fingers of bourbon into a glass, swirled it, and then turned back to them with a dry smile. “He calls it a Spark,” he said, the word sharp on his tongue like something between a joke and a warning. “Which, frankly, means absolutely nothing unless you know how he works—which I don’t, by the way.”

Jeremy shot him a look. “Then why do you talk like you do?”

“Just because I know him,” Damon replied, shooting the younger Gilbert a flat glance. “Doesn’t mean I understand him.”

He took a slow sip and leaned back against the edge of the cart. “From what I do know, it’s less spellcasting and more… belief-based manifestation. He thinks it, it happens. But only under certain conditions. Don’t ask me what they are—he’s never told me. He likes to pretend it’s whimsical, but everything about it is ridiculously controlled. Intention, emotion, focus, timing—there are layers. I once asked him how it works and he told me I wasn’t spiritually evolved enough to handle the answer. Then he smirked and turned into mist for dramatic effect.”

Bonnie frowned. “That feeling earlier…”

Damon blinked at her. “What feeling?”

“That warmth,” she said. “It was like sitting next to a fireplace. Like…” She trailed off.

“Like someone brushing your hair while you lie in their lap,” Jeremy added, shrugging at the others’ looks. “It felt like peace. Not fake peace, but something real. Like, safe.”

“Oh, that,” Damon said, sighing. “Yeah. That’s him. Sort of.”

“What do you mean, sort of?” Elena demanded, a nervous edge creeping into her voice.

Damon turned back to his drink, rolling the glass between his fingers. “Fifty percent is just… him. The other half? That’s the magic. The Spark, or whatever. He doesn’t cast that feeling, not exactly—it’s more like he unlocks something in you. The calm. The serotonin. The safety. Whatever your subconscious craves, he finds it. Amplifies it. Gives you access to it.”

 “Even though he’s a vampire, it doesn’t diminish the truth of that effect. It’s like he channels a part of his pre-vampiric essence, that spark that used to define him. When he walks into a room, it’s as if he reclaims that essence, molding it to your deepest need. I've seen angry hags soften, crying children calm down. But—” His voice darkened ever so slightly, “—the longer you depend on that warmth, the more dangerous it becomes. It’s addictive. 

“And if your subconscious doesn’t want that?” Bonnie asked slowly.

Damon’s lips twisted. “Then it backfires. Hard. That’s why some people can’t stand being around him. If you’re hiding something—guilt, hate, betrayal—it turns on you. Like a mirror you can’t turn away from. Or worse.”

The room went quiet.

Bonnie looked unsettled again. Jeremy ran a hand through his hair. Ric didn’t move at all.

“What do you mean, worse?” Elena finally asked.

Damon met her eyes. “I mean, I’ve seen grown men cry just because he walked into the room. And not sensitive men, either. Tough guys. Cops. Hunters. There’s something about him—if you’re holding something poisonous inside, he’ll bring it to the surface. Not on purpose. That’s just what he is. He reflects you back at yourself.”

Elena’s face twisted with confusion and something bordering on fear. “Wait. You said he’s a vampire?”

Damon took another drink. “Yeah. He is.”

“That makes no sense!” she snapped. “You just said he uses magic. Witches can’t be vampires. And how do you even know him?” she pressed, unaware of the delicate balance the others maintained in their silence about Stiles’s true past.

Damon hesitated—just long enough for it to matter—before finally answering. “He knew Katherine.”

Elena stilled. “Katherine?”

Stefan’s voice broke in, calm yet tinged with something unspoken. “Stiles isn’t a witch, Elena. He exists beyond the conventional laws that govern us—or the supernatural. He helped us once, back when things were so much darker. He checked in on us, kept the line open during times when Katherine was still in the picture… times when we weren’t as united.” His eyes, though warm, hinted at grief for long-buried memories.

Bonnie blinked. “Wait, hold on. If he met you before you were turned—”

“He’s probably around six hundred,” Stefan said, cutting her off. “Give or take.”

Elena’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“After Katherine disappeared,” Damon went on, “he stuck around. Checked in on us. Tried to get us to talk again—me and Stefan. Didn’t really work, but the effort was there. Then he vanished. We hadn’t seen him for decades until today.”

“He’s been MIA for over sixty years,” Stefan clarified. “No calls. No sightings. Nothing.”

“And then just… reappears now?” Elena asked.

Bonnie’s lips parted slightly, like she wanted to ask something but thought better of it. Instead, she said, “And none of you think that’s strange?”

“Of course it’s strange,” Damon replied. “Everything about Stiles is strange. That’s sort of the point.”

Elena paced, hands on her hips, trying to process. “So he’s a six-hundred-year-old vampire Spark thing who used to hang out with Katherine and now just waltzes into our lives like some sort of fairy Godmother?”

“More or less,” Jeremy said.

“And you trust him?”

Damon was quiet for a beat too long.

“He’s not the enemy,” Stefan said firmly. “Not to us.”

“How do you know?” Elena asked.

Now no one answered.

The sound of the bathroom door opening upstairs was quiet, but it snapped the tension like a frayed wire.

Damon exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “Well, I’m leaving,” Ric muttered, already snagging his coat off the back of the couch. He didn't even bother looking at anyone as he double-checked for his keys.

“You’re not even gonna say goodbye?” Damon asked, raising a brow.

“I think I said enough,” Ric said, tone clipped, but not unkind.

There was something unfinished in the way he said it—something that didn’t belong in front of Stefan, or Elena, or Bonnie. Damon caught it, but didn’t comment. Instead, he watched as Ric made for the door, pausing just long enough to throw one last glance up the stairs. Then he was gone, boots heavy on the porch, the door swinging shut behind him.

A breath of silence lingered in his wake. Elena looked like she was biting her tongue bloody. Her eyes darted between Damon, Stefan, and the staircase as though trying to decide which line of questioning would get her the fewest lies.

Jeremy shifted beside her. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “We should head home too.”

He placed a guiding hand on his sister’s elbow and turned toward the door. “Tell Stiles I said bye,” he added over his shoulder, voice unsure. There was a strange note of awkwardness in it,

Elena resisted for a second. Her heels skidded against the wooden floor. “Jeremy—”

“No,” he said, not unkindly, but firm. “You need to relax. Come on.”

The front door clicked shut behind them.

And just like that, only three remained.

Bonnie stood in the center of the room, arms folded across her chest. The firelight flickered against her face, casting her expression into a series of unreadable shadows. She didn’t move to leave.

Damon, lounging against the bourbon cart, raised a brow. “You still here, Judgey?”

Bonnie ignored him.

Instead, she studied Stefan, who blinked at her, surprised she hadn’t been the first one out the door. Her silence was measured now, her breaths slow and even—centering herself. The flighty magic-induced haze from earlier was gone. Her shoulders were no longer taut, her aura no longer flickering. Her feet were planted. Her voice, when it came, was low. Serious.

“On the way back from the woods,” she said slowly, “he said something. He didn’t go into detail, but he said someone—or something—was heading toward Mystic Falls. He told us not to worry, that he’d ‘handle it.’”

Damon and Stefan exchanged a look.

“Classic cryptic Stiles,” Damon said. “Why say what you mean when you can act like you’re in a gothic opera.”

Bonnie stepped forward. “He’s not just being dramatic, Damon. His magic was humming when he said it—like it was already reacting to whatever’s getting closer. You might want to actually listen for once.”

“Oh, I am listening,” Damon said, placing his drink down. “And here’s what I hear: my magical, vampire, terrifyingly competent ex-boyfriend shows up out of nowhere, makes my bourbon taste like sunshine and trauma, and announces that something is coming. Sure, yeah. No big deal. Just Tuesday.”

Bonnie gave him a flat look. “You’re deflecting.”

“I’m Damon,” he shot back, gesturing to himself. “That’s my brand.”

Stefan tried not to smile.

Bonnie rolled her eyes. “You’re acting like a sulking teenager. Grow up.”

“Oh, now you sound like him,” Damon muttered.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Bonnie snapped.

Stefan cleared his throat, mildly amused despite the tension. “Can we all agree that whatever Stiles meant, it wasn’t just a passing comment? He’s not one to make vague threats unless they matter.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Damon muttered. “He’s the king of ominous one-liners. Great. Duly noted.”

Bonnie took a deep breath, visibly grounding herself again. The sparkle of residual magic still shimmered faintly at her fingertips before fading completely. “Whatever it is, we need to figure it out. Soon.”

Damon met her gaze then, and for a brief second, the sarcasm dropped. His jaw tightened. “I know.”

It wasn’t defeat. Not quite. But it was close.

Bonnie nodded once, sharply, then turned on her heel. “Tell him I said thank you. For earlier.”

Damon raised an eyebrow. “You sure you want to give him a compliment? Might go to his head.”

Bonnie didn’t break stride. “He earned it.”

She reached the door, paused, and added without looking back, “And tell him if he turns my brain into soup again without asking, I’ll stake him.”

Damon grinned faintly. “There she is.”

She was gone with a flick of curls and a soft click of the door.

And just like that, the boarding house was silent.

Again.

Only the two Salvatore brothers remained.

Damon crossed the room and refilled his bourbon glass, his jaw still set. “You think he’s really going to handle it? Whatever it is?”

Stefan folded his arms. “He usually does.”

Damon glanced toward the staircase. “Yeah. That’s what I’m afraid of.”

They were silent for a moment longer, the stillness thick now, no longer peaceful but expectant. Like the house itself was holding its breath.

“Do you think he’s going to stay?” Stefan asked.

Damon didn’t answer right away. He took another sip, then looked up the stairs—toward the guest room that wasn’t really a guest room anymore.

Stiles hadn’t asked to move in.

He just had.

Broken into their house, claimed a bedroom, and made himself comfortable like he’d never left.

Like he belonged.

Like he’d always belonged.

“Of course he’s staying, for now at least,” Damon said eventually. “He picked the biggest room, probably rearranged the furniture, and probably spelled the pillows to fluff themselves.”

He tossed back the rest of the bourbon.

“And worst of all,” Damon muttered, “he didn’t even ask.”

Stefan’s smile was small. “Sounds familiar.”

Damon didn’t return it.

Instead, he looked up at the ceiling with an expression halfway between nostalgia and dread.

“He’s back,” Damon said under his breath. “And it’s not going to be peaceful.”

“Damn, Damon,” Stiles called from the top of the stairs. “Is that what you think of me? That I’m not a peaceful person?”

His voice was lazy, but his smirk was razor-sharp. He descended the stairs in a worn hoodie and silk pajama pants, the kind that screamed unapologetically comfortable. His hair was still damp from a shower, his skin clean, almost glowing in the low light of the Salvatore living room. Stiles looked completely unfazed by the tension hanging in the air like a storm cloud ready to break.

“Rude,” he added with a dramatic pout as he sauntered toward the couch.

He stopped in front of Stefan, ignoring Damon’s scoff entirely. “And how’ve you been? It’s been a minute since I saw your pretty face.”

“A lot better since you haven’t been around,” Damon grumbled, already pouring himself another drink.

Stiles clicked his tongue. “Ugh.” He rolled his eyes dramatically but offered Stefan a more genuine smile. “I wasn’t talking to you, Damon. I could give two donkeys’ right ass cheeks about your opinion.”

Damon made an exaggerated show of pretending to be offended. “That’s not even a real measurement.”

“Sure it is.”

Stefan stifled a laugh as he stood, offering Stiles a brief hug. “I’ve been fine.”

“Have you really?” Stiles asked, too sweetly. “I mean, the both of you, living in the same town as the doppelgänger of your ex-girlfriend? That’s impressive. Borderline unhealthy. At least when I chased my exes, I tried to kill them. You two are just chasing after the same punani.”

Damon choked on his drink.

Stefan’s expression didn’t shift—just a resigned blink and a long sigh, like he was used to this sort of thing.

“She’s not Katherine,” Stefan began.

“Oh boy, here we go,” Stiles cut him off, raising his hand. “She’s not Katherine. She’s not like other girls. You love her. She’s different. Blah, blah, blah.” His tone was mocking, but the twinkle in his eye said he wasn’t really judging. “But you can’t tell me it’s not at least a little weird. Right?”

Stefan frowned, and Stiles immediately reached over and pinched his cheek.

“You’re lucky you can’t get wrinkles anymore, or else you’d be the ugliest bag of bones with a permanent frown line.”

Stefan swatted his hand. “I would not.”

“You would, ” Stiles said sweetly, then lightly slapped him on the cheek twice before flopping down into the nearest couch with all the grace of a cat falling off a table. “But don’t worry. You’re still cute in that brooding, ‘I-read-Kafka-for-fun’ kind of way.”

Damon slid further onto the couch beside Stiles. “Are you done insulting my brother, or do you need flashcards?”

“Relax,” Stiles said, stretching his arms overhead. “I trust you’ve both been good little immortals while I was gone?”

“Not Damon,” Stefan replied without hesitation. “But I’ve been great.”

Damon looked personally offended as he slid onto the couch beside Stiles. “How you gonna shit-talk me in the same room, acting like you’re the holiest angel? Your name is not Gabriel, Stefan.”

Stiles laughed loudly. “And you, Damon? Other than chasing after doppelgängers and losing your shirt in every altercation — been keeping your nose clean?”

Damon leaned on one elbow, grinning lazily. “I’ve been on my best behavior. Bestest. Gold-star good. I think I deserve a cookie. Or a kiss.”

Stiles made a face. “Yeah, I’m not buying that for a second.”

“Still,” he said, cracking his knuckles and stretching, “that’s enough of you being cute for comfort. I know you two are dying to ask me a million questions. So go ahead — ask away. Just keep in mind that I will be vague and evasive unless I actually need your help.”

Both brothers exchanged a glance before nodding.

“Yeah, we know,” Stefan said. “So we’re not going to bother with the interrogation. Just tell us — is it big? And will it affect us?”

Stiles hummed, tilting his head as if running calculations in his mind. “Well, with the new info you gave me? I’d say there’s about a 65% chance it’ll affect you. Maybe more, if you stick your noses where they don’t belong. Which… you will.”

He gave them a look.

“If you ignore it, it’ll pass like a blip. Quick and efficient. I’ll handle it, I’ll smile smugly, and I’ll be out of town shortly.”

He paused, voice softening.

“I do have kids to get back to.”

Damon blinked. “Kids? Whose kids?”

Stiles looked at him flatly. “Mine.”

“Wait. Married? Babies? Your babies?” Damon’s voice went up an octave.

Stiles’ smile faltered, and his tone shifted — quieter, sadder. “Damon… we’re vampires.”

The words hung, weighted and cold.

His breath hitched. For a second, he looked vulnerable, something fractured behind his dark eyes.

The brothers said nothing. Damon looked guilty. Stefan watched quietly.

“Yeah,” Damon said softly. “Totally forgot. Sorry.”

Stiles waved a hand, clearing the moment. “It’s whatever. You asked. The answer is — they’re my family. My pack.”

Both brothers froze.

“Pack?” Stefan echoed. “As in—”

“Werewolves,” Damon said.

“Yeah,” Stiles nodded. “But it wasn’t a real pack. More like… found family. People who stumbled into each other’s orbit at just the right time. You know how that goes. And I have to check on the Orphanage too ”

He ran a hand through his hair and stood up. “Anyway, I’m not planning to stick around Virginia much longer. Your town is kind of… generic.”

Damon snorted. “Coming from you, that’s rich.”

“I mean, hell — between our past chaos and this white-picket-fence soap opera you’ve got going on here? I’d take blood and betrayal any day over brooding porch swings and PTA moms.”

Stefan leaned forward. “You said you’ll handle it. But if there’s even a 65% chance it affects us… do you need help?”

Stiles looked at him and — for once — didn’t dodge the question.

“Because it’s you two?” he said. “I’ll give you a heads-up. If anything.”

Stefan nodded, a small, rare smile touching his face.

Stefan smiled slightly. The tension in the room had mellowed, softened like old velvet.

It was something both brothers felt every time he came back.

There was something about Stiles — his magic, his presence, maybe just his chaotic gravitational pull — that warped the very atmosphere. Within fifteen minutes, the room was different. Looser. Easier.

Damon sank further into the couch, muscles visibly relaxing, his glass forgotten.

Stefan exhaled. Then, casually — too casually — he dropped a name.

“Katherine.”

The name hit like a dropped glass.

“She’s fine,” Stefan said quickly, catching the flicker of concern in Stiles’ eyes. “She was here a few days ago.”

“What?” Stiles sat up straighter. “She was? That’s good. Is she still in town?”

“No clue,” Damon said, shrugging. “She might’ve skipped already. No goodbyes. Typical.”

Stiles hummed thoughtfully. “What would you two do if the whole gang got back together?”

A smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. He stretched languidly, turning to face Damon.

His legs extended toward him, only to be stopped when he found Damon’s thigh in the way. He kicked out, not hard, but pointed enough to get Damon to slide over.

Damon clicked his tongue and retaliated immediately, grabbing Stiles’ ankle and dragging him back across the cushions.

“Always kicking me,” Damon muttered, securing a firm grip on his calf. “You want a leg massage, is that it?”

Stiles glared at him, wiggling his leg. “Touch me again and I’ll enchant your bourbon to taste like boiled sock water.”

“I’d still drink it,” Damon said with a grin, already massaging the muscle.

“I can only imagine,” Stefan said, rolling his eyes. “If all four of us were in the same room again… I’d rather drive a pencil through my eye.”

Stiles pulled his leg from Damon’s grip and thudded it dramatically back onto Damon’s lap.

“You’d love it,” he said, grinning. “Oh, yes. I’ll definitely have to go find my Katerina. We’ll have a tea party, just like in the good old days.”

He paused, eyeing both Salvatore brothers with mock scrutiny.

“Back when you two actually had fashion sense. Maybe I’ll dig through my old trunk, find some of your tailored waistcoats. You know — the ones that didn’t make you look like teenagers pretending to be middle-aged dads.”

Damon snorted — but didn’t stop massaging his calf.

“You’re the worst,” Stefan muttered.

“You love me,” Stiles sang back.

Stefan leaned back in his chair, watching them with something like affection, even if his expression remained impassive.

“So…” Damon said, still massaging Stiles’ leg like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You staying?”

Stiles looked over, quiet for a moment.

“No,” he said softly. “Not long.”

A beat passed.

“But while I am here,” he said, voice shifting lighter again, “you two better entertain me. Or I’m dragging you into my mess, kicking and screaming.”

Damon raised his glass again. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Stiles grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

And just like that, the boarding house felt like it had fifty years ago