#Allison is perfect the way she is and i’m sure she wouldn’t keep that style anyway so whatever

[simonsrosebud]

Alright — this is very important — what’s the wedding party look like? Do either of them get walked down the aisle? What do the bachelor parties look like? What’s the first dance like? The cake cutting? OR! Do they just elope?

Either way, the most important thing of all — what are their vows?

i’m going to warn you:  i’m afraid this is going to be a very long post.

the wedding is in january, before playoffs have the chance to start up.  it’s easier that way also, because most of their friends either play exy or coach it, so they’re all off too.  and dalton’s professor friends are off for winter break.

that being said, they’re on a time crunch for bachelor parties.  and since kevin doesn’t drink or anything, the idea of the “typical bachelor” party is out of question.  kevin doesn’t care for a bachelor party for himself, anyway.

however, when andrew is added to a groupchat with the whole wedding party, he sends two texts.  not to the group, but to allison.  she’s the one handling it, anyway.

the first text is a link to elton john at madison square garden, the second is a text.  

hamilton on broadway friday the 14th, concert 15th.

(ik the timelines don’t technically match up, but since this is all fictional who cares)

it’s perfect.  allison checks with dalton to be sure, and he lights up.  apparently kevin has gotten really into hamilton because duh it’s history, and elton john is one of his favorite artists, especially after dalton introduced him to “your song” in college.

dalton goes with him because they know kevin would want him there, unlike normal bachelor parties where you spend it without your fiancé.

as for dalton’s, he gets taken to florida (it’s only like a 5 hour drive i think but they could fly also) and his friends, who for the most part are straight besides emmie, a blazing proud lesbian, take him to gay bars on gay bars, and then go to star wars land in disney world for a day- kevin’s idea.  dalton is very excited about this because in this ask dalton reveals he’s a star wars fan and says he’d like to go see it someday.  they also get drunk in disney, don’t worry.

they both have good sized wedding parties.  for dalton, it’s carmen, bella, and his best friends jenna, reid, and sam.

for kevin, it’s andrew, neil, and dan.  if anyone asked kevin in college if he’d thought she would be in his wedding party- or even if they’d leave college being friends, he would have said no, but he was stupid to think the foxes would ever lose touch.  if anything, he got closer.

he’s also gotten closer than he ever would have probably wished to allison.  there’s something to be said for the both of them having good taste.  all it took was one trip of clothes shopping for a banquet for them to realize they’d had a lot more in common.

the only reason they never realized it was because they’ve both got the same level of stubbornness.

which is why she somehow ends up being asked to be in his wedding party, too.

kevin isn’t worried about asking neil.  a little about andrew, but he can always get neil to talk him into it.  he stops them both from leaving after practice, one day.  “will you be my groomsmen?  both of you?”

neil really doesn’t look surprised.  not even phased.  he’d been matt’s best man, after all.  “yeah, sure.”

kevin looks to andrew, who hasn’t moved a muscle.

when he does, it’s to swing his bag around his shoulder.  "no speeches.”  and before he gets to the door.  “and no one’s wrapping their arm around mine down the aisle.”  and that’s more than okay with kevin.  he doesn’t really want them speaking, anyway.

and then there’s dan and allison.  he isn’t worried about them, so all he does is text them and they agree.

there’s no more than 70 people there.  the actual ceremony only about 30.  it’s not big by any means, but they didn’t want it big anyway.  plus, kevin doesn’t have a whole group of family to invite like dalton does in the first place.  he doesn’t mind, though, because he’s grown to consider dalton’s family his own.

kevin doesn’t get walked down the aisle.  he never saw himself doing that with a woman before he realized he was bi and could potentially marry a man, so he’s never cared for it.

wymack, however, officiates the wedding.  he’s very proud of it, too.  he never seems to show nerves, and he doesn’t let kevin know, but this is something that causes him great stress.  he can’t fuck it up.

he doesn’t, of course.

he’s standing beside kevin when dalton gets walked down the aisle by his mother, and kevin told himself he wouldn’t get emotional.

he lets out a breath and a soft laugh, then looks up at the ceiling to blink away the sudden wetness in his eyes.

when anne hands him off, she kisses kevin on the cheek and whispers.  “all yours now, love.”

kevin wants to kiss dalton so bad.  so so bad.  but he has to wait.  instead he gives him a wink and takes his hands.  he expects them to be a tiny bit sweaty like they sometimes are when he gets nervous, but they’re not.  dalton’s grip is firm, and the only thing kevin can see on him is glee.

kevin feels he barely can pay attention to the words his father is saying until it’s time for the vows.  he’s first.  he takes a deep breath.pays attention to what his father is saying, too busy staring at his fiancé.  until they get to the vows, that is.

kevin is first, and his heart has never beat this fast.  he memorized his vows, but just in case, he unfolds the paper from his pocket and takes the microphone.  “i’ve made plenty of bad decisions in my life.  going to the club the night before a game, trying to fix the kitchen sink by myself.”  he smiles when dalton laughs at the memory.  “d, i knew from the moment i told you about my demons and you stayed, that choosing you was the best decision i’ve made in my entire life.  your are the strength i didn't know i needed, and the joy that i didn't know i lacked.”  dalton mouths i love you.  “thank you, for supporting and loving me unconditionally, i know i haven’t always made it easy.”

dalton gives the slightest shake of his head at that one.  loving kevin comes as easy as breathing.

“thank you for showing me how to accept myself, and showing me what it’s like to find peace, to know what it’s like to feel wanted and loved.  thank you for helping me to better myself as a man and a partner.  you make me a better person in every single way, and i promise to put it all to use and give back every single day of our lives.  i promise to love you through every hardship, to love you for who you are and who you are yet to become.  i promise to support and help you in every new adventure, and to always be at your side.  i promise to be patient and loyal.  i promise to remember to show you every day how deeply i care for you.  i promise to share my whole heart with you, to love you fiercely— for the rest of my life.  as long as you’ll have me.”

dalton blinks away tears, and after taking a moment, he accepts the microphone.  "kev,” he whispers, and takes a breath.  kevin knows he has his written down, but he doesn’t take it out.  he doesn’t need it.  “i used to think that i just got lucky that some random hot kid asked me for help with his homework.”  kevin grins.

“but i’ve realized now that the universe put you in front of me for a reason.  you have filled my life with happiness and have given me a sense of peace that i’ve never known.  you are my best friend, my biggest supporter, and the best co-pilot in life that i could’ve ever wished for.”  he smiles.  “today marks the start to the rest of our lives, whether we’re ready or not.  i will not take our time together for granted. and because words can’t do it, i promise to show you, for the rest of my life, how much i love you.  i promise to encourage you to follow your dreams.  to support you through any of life’s obstacles.  i promise to make you laugh when you’re taking yourself too seriously.  i promise to hold your hand through the good and the bad, to keep you afloat when you feel you’re drowning.  i promise to share the weight on your shoulders like it’s my own.”

a tear drops from kevin’s eye, and dalton reaches to gently wipe it with his thumb before grabbing his hand.  “i promise to never stop making up my own lyrics to songs i don’t know. although, i know you wish i would.  i promise to look back on our lives when we’re old and gray and have no regrets.  i promise, from this day forward, kevin day, that you will never walk alone.”  he lowers the microphone, whispering.  “as long as you’ll have me.”

it’s a very emotional ceremony, that’s for sure, but they’re grinning by the time the rings go on, and dalton barely holds back from jumping kevin before he can say, “you may now kiss.”

kevin has his arms around dalton’s waist and dalton’s hands on his cheek and the back of his neck, and they’re both smiling into the kiss less than two seconds in.  but kevin doesn’t care.  dalton’s laugh is the best thing he’s ever heard and he relishes in it as he crushes him in a hug before tearing back down the aisle.

their first dance is to “your song” by elton john.  is it probably overused?  sure, but kevin isn’t into music enough to know or care about that.  it’s the song that

it’s always been dalton’s go to song to sing in the car, and whenever he does he tends to just kind of grab onto kevin’s hand while he sings.  he’s no harry styles but he can hold a tune just fine.

it then turned into a song kevin listened to on bus or plane rides, and when he entered the pros dalton started sending him voice memos on text of him singing like two lines from the song before his every flight.

kevin also played it in the car back to the cabin after he proposed.

it’s their song.

dalton pulls kevin to him for the first dance, with one hand holding kevin’s and the other pressed against the small of his back.  and dalton’s singing along just loud enough for kevin to hear.  it makes him smile at his dork of a husband, and halfway through the song kevin lays his head on dalton’s shoulder and slides his arms around his neck.  he closes his eyes and ever so quietly sings along.  

dalton kisses the side of his head and wraps his arms around kevin’s waist.

when the song is coming to an end, dalton kisses kevin and smiles as he sings the last lines to him.  “how wonderful life is while you’re in the world”

kevin smiles.  “sweetheart,” he whispers.

but then the song ends, and kevin leans back against their table as dalton takes the floor with anne for the mother son dance.  he sends a thought up to kayleigh.

“i’m incredibly proud of you.”  it’s abby at his side, sliding her arm around his waist.  she kisses his cheek.  “i know you know this already, that you foxes are family to us.  but... you have always been like a son to me.  and you always will, even if not by blood.”

kevin is looking at his feet, but eventually he meets her gaze.  “you’re the closest thing i’ve ever had to a mother.”  he squeezes her hand, and, “do you want to do the dance with me?”  he doesn’t know how he hadn’t thought of it before.

abby’s a little teary, but nods.

dan rests her head on wymack’s shoulder.  “he’s done good.”

wymack nods.  he doesn’t respond, because he’s got… something… stuck in his throat.  not emotions, definitely not emotions.

kevin smears cake all over dalton’s lips when they cut the cake, and in return he presses a messy kiss to his cheek.  it’s sickenly sweet.  the whole thing is, especially compared to the kevin day that some people know, and the one they see on television.

i can’t think of other things i may have missed, but please please let me know if there is anything else you guys want more insight on, or prompts regarding these!

oh yeah, kevin throws one of the bridesmaids little bouquets as a joke.

and carmen catches it.

[anxiousstark]

S1 05 | Wolf’s Bane

MASTERLIST

Stiles Stilinski x Reader! Half-sibling!Mccall

Word count: 2958

Warnings: Mentions of injuries, swearing (always).

"So wait," I said while stealing some of Stiles's food. He pouted but offered his tray for me to grab some more. I grinned at him, and he stuck his tongue out as an answer. "You guys are telling me that Jackson knows that you are a puppy?"

Scott rolled his eyes. "Ugh, I've been telling you since last night. I'm not a puppy." He was right, puppies are cute and not mean like him. "Uhm, he's watching us." Stiles and I glanced at the table where Jackson was sitting down with his friends. He was gazing at Scott.

Both boys tried to dissimulate, they were getting nervous. But I just continued to look straight at him. "I heard him." They looked at me, confused. "The night at school while I was with you." I glanced at Stiles. "Scott was talking to Allison. I heard him talk in my head. I heard Jackson talk to me inside my head. He knew I could hear him."

"Did he say something?"

"No," I answered back. "He just said that he knew I could hear him."

"Jackson's talking to me. He knows I can hear him. Look at me. Just talk to me. Act normal. Pretend that nothing's happening." Scott was getting even more agitated. "Can you hear him?" He asked me. "I think he kind of controls my thoughts or he can invade them. I only hear him when he wants me to."

Scott peered down at his tray of food, his eyes moving from side to side, and we assumed that Jackson was speaking to him. His hands clenched around the tray, and he ended up splitting it. "Scott," Stiles whispered when he noticed that everyone was watching us. Jackson wasn't in the same room anymore. "Listen. I'm going to go home and try to investigate. Keep an eye on Jackson and Y/N."

"I'm right here, Stiles."

"I know." He reassured. "Jackson wants something with you. We don't know what, but something is going on with both of you." He looked back at Scott. "You have swimming classes, right?" His attention was on me, I nodded. "Jackson and Allison go to the same class, so it is the perfect opportunity, okay?"

We both nodded, parting ways.

After changing into my swimsuit, I went outside, slowly getting into the water. I could see Scott sitting on the bleachers, his eyes focused on Jackson and Allison, who seemed to be talking. I started swimming slowly, enjoying the water. It was peaceful. When I was a child, I used to get into the public pool in my city and play around until I was exhausted. I would get into the water and imagine that my legs were transforming into a beautiful mermaid tail.

I noticed Scott getting uneasy, and I concluded that it was because Allison and Jackson were laughing while they rested on the side of the pool. "Hey, guys," I said when I swam next to them. "Jackson," I faked a smile. "I didn't know you were in the swimming class."

"I'm starting to like it a lot." He said while eyeing Allison. Quite gentle, Jackson. "I suppose you like it too." He said, glancing at me. "Is that a tattoo on your chest?" A tattoo? I didn't have any tattoos.

I was confused, looking down at my chest. Something red was there, and I tried to remember if I had scratched myself too roughly. My fingers softly touched my chest. It was hard.

"Oh my god," Allison said with a big smile. "It's so original. My dad would kill me if I decided to get a tattoo." She looked at it closely. "Are those scales? You must like water a lot to get scales on your chest."

I nodded while swallowing. I had scales on my chest. I peered at Jackson, he was grinning. My eyes searched for Scott, but he was too busy to meet my eyes. I needed to talk to Stiles. Now.

I ran to Stiles's house, and after talking a little with his father, I hurried upstairs. I opened the door of his room without giving it a second thought. He jumped from his chair, staring at me.

"Stiles, what the fuck is going on with me?" His eyes were wide, and they got even wider when I took my shirt off. I was still wearing my swimsuit. "What is this?" I went closer to him while he was getting further from me, pushing his feet against the floor, sliding the chair he was sitting on. "Are these scales?!"

His eyes went from my eyes to my chest, repeatedly. "U-Uhm." His eyes focused on my chest, cheeks getting red as seconds went by. "D-Derek." I saw something move behind me and turned around.

"You!" I pointed at him and went closer. "What is this?" I made a gesture so he would look at my chest. His eyes narrowed, hand moving closer to touch the scales on my chest.

"Woah, Woah." I heard the other boy getting up from the chair. Within seconds he was next to me, slapping Derek's hand before he could touch my chest. "W-what are you doing? D-don't touch her with your sourwolf hands!"

My chest rose up and down. "There are red scales on my chest. Jackson saw them, and he wasn't surprised about it." I paused to breathe. "They are hard. They are real scales, Stiles."

"Have they been there for long?" Hale asked while still looking at the scales.

"No. When I woke up this morning, there was nothing." I let my mind run. "I think they appeared in the swimming class."

"Okay." Derek swallowed, frowning. "I told you, I'm not sure what you are, I need time to investigate." His voice was firm. "I need to investigate a lot of things." I nodded, sitting on Stiles' bed.

"There are scales on my chest, and you are telling me that I'm not fully human, but you also want me to wait to know what the heck am I?" Derek hummed as if it wasn't that important. "What are you both doing here anyway?" I knew he didn't have any information. Not yet. That's why I tried to calm down and change the topic.

"The night we were trapped at the school, Scott sent a text to Allison asking her to meet him there," Stiles explained to Derek.

"So?"

"So it wasn't Scott." He turned around and started clicking on his computer.

"Well, can you find out who sent it?"

"No, not me. But I think I know somebody who can."

I was sitting on Stiles's bed while he talked to Danny. He was cute, and he was part of the lacrosse team. I have never seen him before in school. Although, I have only been there for a couple of days.

"I came here to do lab work. That's what lab partners do." I snorted. Poor boy.

"And we will, once you trace the text." He was looking at him with his hazel puppy eyes, if it was me, I would probably have fallen and helped him with whatever he asked me for. But Danny was harder to convince.

"And what makes you think I know how?"

"He looked up your arrest report." I intervened while still laying down on the boy's bed. Danny glanced at me, his eyes knitted in confusion. "His dad is the Sheriff," I smiled. "And he is a hard-headed boy who always gets what he wants."

"I-I was 13. They dropped the charges." His voice cracked. Imagine being 13 and being able to do that. "No, we're doing lab work." Danny sat next to Stiles while I turned around to look at Derek.

"Does it mean that Jackson isn't human?" He glanced up from the book he was looking at. "Jackson was the boy I met the first day I came to Beacon Hills. We were both attacked that night at the video store. He has been...odd since that night."

"What do you mean?" He closed the book, letting it rest on top of his lap.

"He asked me if the wound was hurting." I paused. "He smelled like death." I swallowed, fiddling with my hands that were now resting on my lap. I needed to ask something, but I was scared that he wouldn't answer me.

"You don't smell like the dead." He replied as he knew what I was thinking. He sighed. "I'm not sure. I know werewolves, were coyotes, foxes, and a lot of creatures. I could identify their smell from afar. But I don't know what you are, yet."

"But you already knew I wasn't human anymore since that night, right?" My eyes searched for an answer in his. "You told Stiles to bring me to school the night that Scott howled." He nodded.

"Hey, Miguel." Stiles turned around in his chair, his gaze directed to Derek. I wanted to snort, but he was a werewolf and could probably rip my neck. "I thought I told you you could borrow one of my shirts." He made a gesture with his face to where his wardrobe was while Derek tightened his jaw; throwing the book to the bed and hitting my leg, bitch. Stiles was going to end up being killed by him. "So anyway, I mean, we both know you have the skills to trace that text, so we should probably-"

"Uh, Stiles?" Danny and I were completely distracted by Derek Hale, sorry, by Miguel, not having a shirt on. He was quite fit.

"Yes?"

"This. No fit."

"Then try something else on. Sorry." I rolled my eyes and went closer to Stiles, resting my hands on his shoulders, and whispering in his ear that Danny was gay.

Stiles got the idea. "Hey, that one looks pretty good, huh? What do you think, Danny? The shirt."

"It's-it's not really his color." Derek took the shirt off. It wasn't his color, to be honest.

"You swing for a different team, but you still play ball. Don't you, Danny boy?" He grinned, while he went closer to our 'new friend'. "You're a horrible person."

I laughed loudly. "I know. It keeps him awake at night."

Stiles grinned at me, slapping one of my hands that were resting close to his chest. "Anyway, about that text."

"Stiles! None of these fit." I walked back to Derek and started looking inside Stiles's wardrobe. "Ugh, he only has plaids." I snickered. Their styles were too different, and their bodies weren't alike. Stiles wasn't bulk, but you could notice that he was fit.

"The text was sent from a computer. This one." After choosing a shirt for Derek, we went closer to both boys.

"Registered to that account name?"

"That can't be right." My eyes widened. Melissa McCall. It couldn't be her. Why would she do that? She didn't know anything about Scott being a werewolf, but she was the only one who could use her account in the hospital, right?

I was sitting in the back of Stiles's jeep while he and Derek were in the front. I tightened my arms around myself, feeling a little cold. Thankfully, Stiles had let me borrow one of his red hoodies, which calmed me down, even though I felt uneasy.

Derek clutched the phone and Stiles's hand, trying to talk to Scott, who was on the other line. "Hey, is there something on the back of it? There's gotta be something. An inscription, an opening, something." Scott was in the lacrosse match while the three of us were sitting inside the jeep, and outside the hospital where Melissa worked.

"No, no, the thing's flat. And, no, it doesn't open. There's nothing in it, on it, around it, nothing." He now referred to Stiles. "And where are you? You're supposed to be here. You're first line." We heard Coach in the background, but what he was saying could not be understood clearly. "Man, you're not gonna play if you're not here to start."

"I know. Look, if you see my dad, can you tell him-tell him I'll be there, I'll just be a little bit late, okay? All right, thanks." I examined his face from the rearview mirror. Stiles was so excited to finally play lacrosse that he didn't mind that Coach was calling him Bilinski. But now, he wasn't going to be able to play.

"You're not gonna make it."

"I know." He talked fastly. "And you didn't tell him about his mom, either."

"Not till we find out the truth." As I believed, Stiles was a great friend. He was putting Scott's feelings before his. He was finally going to play, and his dad was going to be there to see him. He wanted his dad to be proud of him. I'm sure in his little head, he was thinking that his dad was going to be mad. Stiles's dad was already proud of him, I could tell. It must be nice to have a dad that loves you.

"By the way, one more thing."

"Yeah." We both turned our heads towards Derek. He had put his hand on the back of Stiles's head, and pushed him against the wheel, hitting him.

"Oh my gosh, Derek!" I hit his shoulder. "Stiles, are you okay?" "Oh, God! What the hell was-"

"You know what that was for. Go." He pointed at him. "You too." He was now looking at me, Stiles was already out of the car. "Go!"

"What?" I said. "Are you going to hit me too?" I crossed my arms in front of my chest. "Because I will grab your fucking neck and-" I was pushed out of the car by Stiles. "No, no. He needs to be given a lesson." Stiles continued dragging me while Derek smirked, and I glared at him.

"Yeah, I said I can't find her." Stiles was on the phone talking. We both have walked around the hospital, but it was too quiet and there was nobody. We went inside a room, it was empty. "Yeah, well, he's not here either." I walked further into the room. Nothing. There were no personal items, and the bed was perfectly made. "He's not here. He's gone, Derek."

I hear Derek raising his voice from the phone. I turned around to find Stiles with wide eyes, his hand falling from his ear. "Y/N, we need to get out of here." He ran the little distance that was between us, grabbing my hand and pulling me out of the room.

"You must be Stiles." I swallowed when I saw a man with a half-burnt face. His eyes glanced at me. "And you must be the new creature." Stiles grip stiffened on me. We both started walking backward, turning around to run away.

"What are you doing here? Visiting hours are over."

"You - and him. You're-you're the one who- Oh, my- and he's- Oh, my God, we gonna die." He ran his free hand through his hair. As soon as he said that, Derek appeared, elbowing the nurse on the face. She fell to the floor, unconscious or dead. I can't tell.

"That's not nice. She's my nurse." Peter Hale lectured. The day I was told that Scott was a werewolf, was the day they updated me of everything. And without knowing Peter Hale, I already hated him. "She's a psychotic bitch helping you kill people. Get out of the way."

"Oh, damn." Stiles brought me to the floor, his chest pressing against my back as I was sitting between his legs. Derek's eyes became an ice blue, like mine were when we were at school the other night. His fangs came out, and I couldn't help but gasp.

"You think I killed Laura on purpose? One of my own family? My mind, my personality was literally burned out of me. I was being driven by pure instinct."

They both started fighting. Peter threw Derek against the wall, creating a hole in it. Stiles and I started moving on the floor, trying to get away from them. We could still hear them fight, and it seemed like Derek couldn't hold up with Peter's strength.

Stiles started looking around. "What are you thinking?" I asked in a whisper. "Don't do anything crazy, Stilinski."

He continued searching around. "We need to help him."

"That is a psychopath. We are humans!" I tried to make him look at him.

"We are humans, but that doesn't mean we don't help." He grabbed a computer screen from a table, and with determination started walking towards Peter. Derek stared at me, his eyes then focused on Stiles when he saw my expression.

"Stiles!" I called for him but he continued to walk towards the oldest Hale. Peter turned around, smirking. He started walking towards Stiles. I got up from the floor, falling when I stepped over myself. I followed Peter with my eyes while I got up from the ground again. Stiles threw the computer screen at him, but Peter dodged it. His fangs came out, and he ran towards Stiles. But I did too.

I didn't know what happened. But I made a hole in the wall with Peter's body. My right hand was grasping around his neck, he was trying to set himself free, but he couldn't and gasped for air. "S-s-scales." I looked at the arm that was stretched out, choking him. Red scales decorated my wrist. I turned around, terrified by myself.

"Hey." My eyes went to Stiles. "You are okay. There's nothing wrong." Stiles came closer to me, and he made me let Peter go while Derek went to Peter.

"I-I don't know how I-"

"It's okay." He embraced me, my face hiding on his chest.

.

.

TAGLIST: @og-baby-ob14 - @savemypostcards​ - @cas-loves-pizza​ - @used-avocado​ - @mvrylee​ - @bilesxbilinskixlahey​ - @honeydoll-stark​ - @arieltheworldisamess​ - @softpeteparker​ - @kit-kat-katie99​​ - @thatsuperherosidekick​ - @bexbetterxthanxwords​ - @big-galaxy-chaos​​ - @littlemiss-forgotten - @enchantedcruelsummer​ - @coldfreakeggsexpert​ - @merla123​ - @sammypotato67​​ - @weirdowithnobeardo​ - @maggiesblogsblog​ - @itskindyl​​ - @bobo-bush - @moongoddesskiana​​ - @multifandxm353​​ - @irwxnhugsx​​ - @xoprincessmel - @iclosetgeek​​ - @andreagf956 - @niawoods​​ - @anerroroccurrrrred​ - @perrytheplatypus11​ - @trustfundparker​ -

People in black means it doesn’t let me tag them.

[lovetorn]

drunken football [college!harry]

college!harry styles x fem!reader

summary: a weekend getaway with harry and your friends [part 1?] warnings: swearing, alcohol words: 1.2k a/n: really random blurb i came up with - might make it into a small series?? idk yet but lmk! :))

The warmth from the fire was nowhere near as hot as Harry’s hand that rested on your thigh. He was laughing along with his friends, Niall, Marcus, and James, about some snide comment one of them had made, a near-empty beer bottle in his other hand. You were occupied with your third can of some alcohol that your friend, Grace found for you, while you sat out in the backyard with your boyfriend and his friends. Your friends were inside the cabin behind you doing God knows what—most likely something to do with a card game and shots.

You and Harry’s friend groups decided on a joint ‘getaway’ for the weekend. A weekend full of drinking and relaxing, with a side of potential hookups and weed supplied by Marcus. The cabin was two-storey with a numerous amount of rooms, perfect for the group as a whole. You and Harry had snagged a room to yourselves while your friends, Allison and Kayley, got stuck in rooms with Niall and James—not that they were complaining about the added company. Grace and Marcus had gotten a private room also, your other friends not wanting to ‘accidentally’ stumble into their rendezvous if they were to share together. 

It was the first night of the trip and in classic college fashion, it was a piss up. You felt Harry nudge your side, his eyes wide with evident intoxication and an adorable grin on his cheeks. Seeing him like this reminded you of when you had first met. He was on the college football team as a striker—a position that required one to obtain a decent amount of strength, speed and control—a perfect spot for Harold. You and him shared a lecture for Psych until he dropped for reasons still unknown to you, but it was the ticket to your relationship, and you were grateful your tutor recommended the class to you. 

You were about to answer Harry but were instead interrupted by him slipping his beanie off his head and onto yours; mumbling something about the temperature dropping. Your cheeks warmed before you felt Harry’s hand on your wrist as he moved it into his curly locks. You giggled as he sunk his head into your lap whilst his eyes closed in content, holding his bottle high above his body to avoid spilling it over yourselves. You stared at how child-like he looked; so innocent and naive—a complete contrast to his everyday exterior. His eyes fluttered slightly as he sighed, snuggling his head further into your lap before your moment was rudely interrupted. 

“Aye, Styles,” James called from the opposite side of the fire pit. Harry lifted his head quickly, your hand falling out of his curls in the process.

“What do you say we play some football?” He asked as Harry’s eyes lit up, looking towards you for some unspoken approval. Considering his state, as well as yours, the idea of your drunk boyfriend playing football was the greatest idea of the night. You nodded, a cheeky grin playing on your lips as he shot up from your lap, stumbling slightly when he was on his feet. You only laughed as you fixed the beanie on your head and followed the boys to the open area behind the fire pit. The floodlights from the roof of the cabin lit up the grassy patch as you found a spot on the ground. 

Squeals and giggles suddenly filled the air as your friends stepped out of the sliding door, their concoctions of what you guessed were rum and coke sloshing out of their glasses. You turned around to wave at your friends, “Y/n!” Kayley screamed as she and the other girls sat themselves down next to you. You then turned your attention towards your boyfriend whose laughter could be heard for miles as he stumbled around the oval, his friends following in suit as they clumsily kicked the football around. 

Said ball came rolling at Harry’s feet and without a second thought, he kicked it. Harry over-dramatically shielded his eyes with his hand in an attempt to see where the ball had gotten to, “well boys, s’gone” He laughed. The boys groaned collectively, “Styles! What the fuck,” Marcus yelled throwing his hands up. Harry only giggled and took a swig of his beer, clearly unbothered by the disappearance of the ball. The boys shook their heads, taking their beers with them as they went towards the trees to find the ball.   

“Baby! Come ‘ere, I wanna show ya somethin’,” Harry yelled to you, his words slightly slurred and his cheeks blushed. Your sticky drink sloshed out of the can as you stood before you placed it in the grass carefully, making sure it didn’t tip over in the process. Harry grinned as you made your way towards him, copying your actions with placing his drink in the grass behind him. 

“What’s up, gorgeous?” You asked as you stood in front of him. Harry gave you a boyish laugh and pointed at the tree behind him, “the ball’s in there—the lads are gonna be lookin’ for a long while.” Your jaw dropped in fake shock as you grabbed his hands and swung them around. 

Rustling from the trees across the backyard pulled you and Harry out of your moment, and suddenly the complaints from the boys were the funniest thing in the world. 

“I think I’ll leave them searchin’ for a little longer,” Harry’s eyes swam with mischief and moved his hands to your hips. 

“Get a room!” Niall had yelled when Harry leaned down to place a sloppy kiss on your cheek, the two of you simply ignoring his comment.

“Bub,” You said, pulling away from his grip. Harry looked close to devastated as you stood in front of him and it made you giggle harder at his expression. 

Harry slapped his hand over his mouth as he struggled to keep his laughter in. 

“You’re pissed.” 

“No, I’m fine! Look, I can walk in a straight line,” You held your finger up and placed your left foot in front of your right one, and so on, successfully completing your word. Even in his dazed state, your boyfriend was surprised, his eyes wide and his mouth opening slightly. 

“Wow! You did s’well,” He rushed towards you to throw his arms around your head. Harry was sweaty but neither of you cared, finding the moment intoxicatingly sweet instead. You both giggled together, your arms around his torso and head against his hard chest. 

“I can do it too,” Harry whispered in your ear, his lips causing shivers down your spine as they brushed against you. He pulled away abruptly, moving to show you he could, in fact, also walk in a straight line. You stood giggling at him as he stumbled around failing miserably, his hair falling in his eyes. 

Unknown to the two of you, the rest of your friend group stared at two of you in drunken disbelief, clearly entertained by the two of you. Niall had turned to James, “I want what they’re havin’”, who nodded in response. The two, along with Marcus, stood in the middle of the oval as they observed the random interaction between their friends.

“Oi! Stop that you two,” James yelled as your mouth met Harry’s in a rushed kiss. The girls gagged from their spots on the grass as they finally finished off their drinks, alcohol dripping from their chins. Harry gave them the bird as you pulled away, foreheads sticky against one another, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Feedback is always appreciated xx

[florenceandthemachine]

so i binged all of 911 over the span of like four days and now i can’t stop thinking about paramedic/firefighter jackson (whichever you prefer, both are Very Good) and police sergeant stiles help me

leave it to @jacksonstilinskis to come up with the truly transcendent asks. Because as much as you KNOW I love a paramedic (or any medical field) Jackson, I actually bought a 2020 Firefighters Holding Kittens calendar (that’s a link, I really hope it worked). So you know that’s all I’m picturing. 

Whats even funnier, though, is the fact that Stiles (who would look damn good in his LAPD uniform) absolutely fucking HATE Jackson in the beginning, in a way that would go way past the typical “police vs fire” rivalry. 

It would have started with an attempt at a friendly greeting, a smooth dismissal, something about a fire bug, Jackson’s offhand comments about cops and doughnuts, but that would all have been fine. It would have taken one offhand comment about Stiles’ father (”back in Beacon County? how has he not been shot yet?”) and that would have been it—Stiles would have had an enemy for life. 

Their first post-hatred, on the job interaction would be at the scene of a pretty violent assault—Stiles would have the victim curled up on the front steps of her building, a shock blanket over her shoulders, sitting beside her as Scott finishes taping the area off, while Kira and her team took pictures of everything they could inside—the dents in the walls, the broken window, overturned furniture, everything.

Stiles would have called for some paramedic assistance—the girl had cuts over her palms and a pretty deep laceration on her shoulder, but it was nothing compared to the corpse in the living room. He would be doing his best to try and comfort her, but there was no easy way to say “hey, it’s okay, I’m a great shot, so your abusive husband didn’t suffer when I blew his brains out!”.

Fire would have been on scene before any ambulance or paramedics, which made sense—they were all trained in first aid anyway—and Stiles would have felt his heart fucking sink when Whittemore stepped out of the truck, because the last thing he needed was this asshole with a jaw made of marble and a heart made of coal fucking with this poor girl. 

But then Whittemore is crouched down, and he’s speaking slowly to her, softly, and suddenly she’s letting him stitch up her arm, and Stiles is almost dizzy with how quick things have snapped around. 

So Whittemore could be nice to civilians. That was.... decent of him.

Their next on the job interaction isn’t on the job at all, which is almost funny. Stiles walks into the bank in his civvies and gets in line behind a very, very nice ass. 

It’s wiggling, for fucks sake, as the owner moves his hips ever so slightly to whatever music is playing through a white pair of earbuds. Stiles allows himself all of three minutes to stare before he realizes that that ass is attached to a nearly perfect V of a gorgeous torso... clad in an LAFD tee shirt.

All beneath a blond, cropped haircut, that—unfortunately—Stiles would recognize anywhere.

Stiles isn’t sure what he hates more—the fact that he’s been blatantly ogling a fireman, or the fact that he was ogling Whittemore, for fucks sake—but, thankfully (unfortunately?) his attention doesn’t linger for long. 

At the front of the line, there’s a man standing in a dark coat and jeans, rolling on the balls of his feet—and if the anxious motions weren’t enough to give him away, the panicked smile on the tellers face was enough to set him on high alert.

Sure enough, he only had a half minute to wait before there was a flash of metal, and he pushed back from his heels as he let out a shout. The distraction worked, thankfully—the would-be robber spun on his heel, the teller dove beneath the counter, and Stiles had his arms around Whittemore’s shoulders, throwing him to the floor as a bullet rang out above them. 

His heel may have dug into the firemans leg as he sprung forward, but he’d apologize for that later—his shoulder connected with the mans abdomen and they were both down on the ground in a tussle of arms and legs, Stiles gripping at his wrist, forcing him to unload the gun into the marble flooring of the bank. 

It felt like the struggle lasted an hour, but in less than a second Stiles had the man pinned, gun knocked far from his hand, and Whittemore—fucking finally—had his earbuds out, speaking in rapid fire tones to what Stiles assumed was the local Los Angeles dispatchers.

The good news, no one was hurt. That was the only good news, he decided, as he started to take stock of things when the on-duty officers took over the scene.

The bad news, it was Stiles day off, and now he had about a ton of paperwork to fill out. He fucking hated paperwork. 

Plus his arm hurt.

Plus, he was still mad at himself for spending a chunk of his morning staring at Whittemore’s ass. 

So, needless to say, when he felt eyes drilling into his head, he didn’t have the most pleased expression on his face as he turned.

Whittemore was smirking at him from across the room, eyes dragging over Stiles now-rumpled form, and somehow that made Stiles even more grumpy.

Somehow, knowing that the fire fighting dickwad was checking him out after taking down an armed robber did little to boost his mood.

—

Their third encounter was somehow the most dangerous.

Which was ironic, considering their last encounter had involved a fully loaded gun fired at them.

Stiles, being the great person that he was, had offered to switch duties with Scott for a week so Scott could spend time with Allison (in all reality, he did anything that he could in order to get Scott to shut the fuck up about his perfect love life).

No good deed went unpunished, though, because Stiles was now stuck on evidence duty.

No good deed definitely went unpunished, because less than twenty minutes after he logged “attache case, locked, recovered from Union Station” and he had slid it on the shelf next to “axe, bloody” and “Argent, bank records” when the case started to smoke.

The evidence hall was cramped—it was this tiny, narrow space, full of clothing, papers, baggage, weapons, and it didn’t take long for a huge portion of it to go up in flame. Stiles, bless his heart, was a fucking idiot, because immediately threw himself over the smoking suitcase to try and save some of the evidence in the shelving behind it. The Argent dossier had taken he and his team months to fully compile, and while most of the data was backed up on several servers brought the district, these bank records were the latchkey to the entire case—and he would be damned if a suddenly incendiary briefcase took that work away from them.

Stiles was almost thankful when he heard the fire alarm go off... and was less thankful when he beat the flame off of a folder of paper, kicked open the door to the bullpen, and—

—immediately came face to flame with a wall of fire. 

It was probably foolish to assume that his own little firebox was the only incendiary device left in the building—anyone desperate enough to burn some evidence certainly wouldn’t leave it all to one briefcase—and he would have been really upset with himself if he wasn’t launched straight into panic. 

Shoving the file into his shirt, he threw himself to the floor, ducking low beneath the smoke that was quickly filling the floor. He could go for one of the extinguishers along the far wall of the building, but new fires were popping up everywhere he looked—through the vents in the floor, from a desk in the pen, and Stiles could already feel his lungs heavy with smoke as he made his way to a stairwell. 

The handle was hot, but the stairs were his only option—and he tried to keep himself as low as he could as the smoke pooled into the stairwell, his chest tightening as he suppressed a coughing fit.

As he descended the first flight, he only had a moment to be thankful that he had switched shifts with Scott—with his asthma, Scott would have been unconscious five minutes ago... and wasn’t that a terrifying thought.

Not that Stiles was faring much better. He was less than halfway down to the main floor when his head started to swim, smoke clinging to his clothing and soot singed to his flesh. He had tears streaming down his face as he finally burst through the main floor door, and was thankful that he was already crawling on the ground, because he couldn't have stood if he tried.

Even crawling was hard.

His eyes were completely blurred, burning, and he still had two rooms and the main hall to go through before he was home free, and he didn’t even know if he could make it to the doorframe, and suddenly, his body was swung into the air, a pair of arms tight beneath his knees, moving incredibly fast—seriously, what the fuck—out of the building. 

He clung to what felt like a brick wall, somehow knowing exactly who was beneath the helmet, coat, respirator, mask, and other loads of gear. He was honestly thankful that Whittemore was wearing so many layers, because as soon as they hit the cool air, Stiles took a huge, greedy breath in, and immediately retched. His lips were stained with soot and bile as he tried to prop himself up, the world swimming in and out of focus as he was unceremoniously dropped down onto a gurney, an oxygen mask fitted over his face. 

By the time the world was clear again, Stiles had some soot cleaned off of his arm where an IV was stuck into his arm, he was gulping down oxygen like it was going out of style, and if he hadn’t just come dangerously close to being a human marshmallow he would have laughed when he finally found Jackson in the crowd.

He was standing at attention, looking as perfect as ever, but had an expression that was very alike to a kicked puppy—standing stock straight as his fire chief (a truly terrifying man named Hale) shouted at him. Stiles couldn’t be too upset, really—Jackson had just saved his life, after all (and huh, when had Whittemore become Jackson?), but his lungs were still charred and his chest was too heavy to laugh.

His chest was really, heavy, actually.

And just like that, the files stuffed into his shirts burst forth into his mind. 

The poor medic (a beautiful man with beautiful dimples that Stiles would have been flirting with, helplessly, if he could catch his breath) probably thought he was having a seizure as he started smacking him in the arm, but thankfully the desperation in his eyes must have translated universally, because Danny (even his name was cute) was waving Jackson, Hale, and Stiles’ captain over.

Seriously, Lydia managed to look beautiful, even in her pajamas, her captain’s badge draped on a chain around her neck. She was the first to yell at Stiles for trying to take his mask off—with Jackson right behind her—but thankfully, they all shut up once Stiles slapped the folder from his shirt into her hands, the red “ARGENT” across the charred manilla getting everyone’s attention.

The last thing that Stiles sees is Lydia’s shocked expression, Hale’s muted fury, and... Jacksons cool, grey eyes.

Except they’re electric blue.

Blue?

He passes out.

—

When Stiles regains consciousness in the hospital, Jackson is there. Jackson asks why Stiles saved that file in particular, and Stiles fires back, asking what the fuck was going on with Jackson’s eyes, and they’re both silent for the rest of the night as Stiles swims back in and out of sleep.

Stiles is immediately pulled off the case, and put onto desk work, stuck at the 43rd Precinct while their building is getting cleared by the fire marshal.

The plus side—the only plus side—is that Jackson hovers. If he didn’t know any better, he might have suspected foul play—Stiles was the only officer reassigned to the 43rd, which happened to be painfully close to Jackson’s fire house. 

Weirdly enough, he wasn’t complaining. 

Jackson keeps dancing around him, giving him exaggerated looks, like he thinks Stiles is in on some big secret, and Stiles normally would have been absolutely livid about it—but somehow, Jackson makes it adorable.

Subtlety may not usually be Stiles’ strong point, but he can make it work when he needs to, and his interactions with Jackson proved that. Hale was a good topic, he learns—Jackson lights up when Stiles asks how his team is doing, and brings in lunch for them both the next day. Stiles takes note.

Work is a good topic. Stiles mentions that they caught a mole—a janitor named Daehler, who was caught on camera planting a few of the firebombs in their building, and had financial ties to Argent out the asshole. They’re finally, finally moving to prosecute—and Jackson looks like he’s so happy he could cry, even though Jackson really has no... reason to be. 

At least, not that Stiles knows.

He’s still watching, processing paperwork, and he’s proud of his detective work, okay? So he’s almost embarrassed when he’s totally blindsided by Jackson one Tuesday afternoon.

“Stiles, what are you doing on Saturday the 28th?”

“Hmm? Nothing, Lyds gave me weekends off—”

“You know she hates it when you call her Lyds.”

“—to make up for taking me off the case. Why?”

“I want to invite you to the Firemen's Ball.”

“You—what?”

Holy fuck, was Jackson actually asking him out?

“The Fireman's Ball.” Jackson says, slower, rolling his eyes like he was explaining it to a child. “Chief Hale wants you there, as a guest.”

Stiles feels his heart slow a little, his face flushing red, the embarrassment of his immediate assumption just an afterthought in the next few seconds. “Oh, uh, sure, I can do that. You know inter departmental unity and all. Sounds fun!” he said, forcing a smile, and Jackson just grinned back at him lazily. Stiles distracted himself by taking a far too big bite of the sandwiches Jackson had brought up for lunch.

Fucker.

“Good.” Jackson said, still wearing the same shit eating grin. He stood and swung his coat over his shoulder—free of soot, Stiles was pleased to note (and hated how happy he was)—and started walking backwards out of the precinct. “And for the record, if Chief didn’t ask me to ask you, I would have asked you myself. Just so you know.” he said, winking as he turned and pushed through the door, leaving Stiles to choke on his sandwich.

He actually winked.

Fucker.

—

Decked out in his dress blues, pins and insignia tacked proudly to his chest, Stiles was actually a little proud of himself for feeling so proud, even as he parked his cruiser in-between several fire and rescue SUV’s.

He looked damn fine in his dress uniform, if he did say so himself, and Lydia had helped him style his hair and even talked him into a neutral lip and a darker brow (she was more excited than he was, and she wasn’t even going). Point is, he looked damned good, and felt a small thrill of excitement when Jackson met him at the entrance to the hall. 

“Hang on, we... we can’t go in yet, I have to wait for.... Stilinski, you look amazing.” Jackson almost purred, and Stiles felt pride pool in his belly—and no small amount of arousal—as he did a quick turn, letting Jackson take in every angle. The low thrill only grew when Jackson offered him his arm, checking his watch as Stiles slipped his arm into Jackson’s own, letting Jackson push the door open for them... and apparently, right in the middle of a speech, because—

“...thanks to his brave work, putting the people before his own wellbeing, we now have a family of serial arsonists behind bars. Give it up for our guest of honor, Detective Mieczysław Stilinski!”

And then people were clapping, and Stiles was honestly too shocked to move—thankfully, Jackson was beaming bright enough for the both of them steering Stiles effortlessly across the floor. 

“Breathe, dipshit.”

Stiles sucked in a breath as Jackson guided them to their seats, which was VERY near the front of the hall, a nervous smile finally making its way onto his face as Jackson pulled out a chair for him. 

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think you would come—” which, fair point, “—and you don't have to give a speech or anything—” another very fair point, “—and the Chief and the Argents have had bad blood since one of them burned Derek’s family alive in his childhood home, so he wanted to express his gratitude.”

Which... holy fuck. Stiles did his best to keep his expression under control as his eyes snapped to Derek, but he must have failed, because Derek’s press-smile slipped into one of actual gratitude, tilting his head as he rose a drink in Stiles’ direction.

The night went by in a blur. Jackson introduced him to the rest of his company, Stiles got a very fancy piece of glass with his name on it (spelled correctly, even!), the dinner was superb. He told some of his better work stories, including the one where he and Jackson had almost been involved in a bank robbery—and pretended he didn’t love the feeling of Jackson squeezing his arm at the table while he laughed.

Eventually, the night died down, until it was just Jackson’s company left, crowded around the last set table in the hallway, laughing and cheering as they swapped stories and compared scars (a busty firefighter named Erica was, by far, the champion there, with a wickedly impressive burn on full display in a gorgeous, backless dress). 

At some point in the evening, Derek had joined them at the table, laughing along with everyone else as he sat. When he stood, though, the rest of them immediately quieted down—it was like a switch had been flipped—and Stiles felt that laser like focus aimed to him when Derek caught his eyes.

“Stiles...” and god, what a relief that it had taken next to no time to talk them all out of calling him Mieczysław, fucking seriously. “... I know that this was all... a little unexpected for you, but I want to thank you personally, for how well you are doing with all of this.” he said, gesturing to the table at large, and Jackson was fucking preening next to him, even as Stiles was a bit clueless. After all, it was just a dinner, right?

He waved Derek’s thanks aside, smiling himself, feeling a little more comfortable as he shrugged it off. “I don’t need thanks, you know that. Any good person would have acted the same. The only hardship for me has been hanging out with Jackson.” he said offhandedly, and Derek laughed again, even as Jackson pouted.

“You’re modest, and that’s okay. But still—it only seems right that given the circumstances, we show our gratitude. Stiles...” and suddenly Derek’s gaze was almost hypnotic, burning into him. “...we wanted to give you the opportunity to join us. It’s rare we find someone so worthy so quickly, and it would be an absolute honor to have you.” he said, and something.... felt off.

He loved being a cop. He always loved being a cop—and while he couldn’t certainly understand the appeal of being a firefighter, he would never leave his precinct. Not willingly, at least. He stumbled over his words when he tried to explain this to Derek—well, more to Jackson, really, but the look of confused humor on Jackson’s face was not the expected result. 

“Stilinski...” he started, in the same tone he used whenever he was describing an incredibly simple task to a brick-brained Stiles over lunch, “...we’re not asking you to become a firefighter. We’re asking you if you want to be able to join... us.” he said, and Stiles would have been frustrated if he didn’t give him a slow blink, his eyes suddenly an electric blue once again.

Uh.

“Jackson...”

Stiles turned away, trying to confirm what he was seeing—and Erica stared back at him with golden eyes. And she wasn’t the only one. There were a few more golds, a few more blue, and Derek, with burning, intense red eyes. 

“What the fuck is going on?”

—

Werewolves.

Derek had immediately pulled him aside, out of the main hall, and Jackson was close behind. He had explained everything—or, “as much as he could”, when they were safely away from any hall staff, and Stiles felt his head swimming with new information. 

Fucking werewolves.

And, apparently, hunters. And kanimas. And magic, and rituals, and more than Stiles could even begin to process.

And then Derek said he would give them some time to talk, and just... left them.

Jackson, for his credit, looked like a kicked puppy. He had explained that he thought Stiles knew from the very beginning, and just hadn’t bothered to confirm it—they were usually in public, around sensitive ears and prying eyes, and Jackson thought he had confirmed it all as well as he could nonverbally.

He was still a wreck, though, and Stiles decided to finally just head that off at the pass. 

“Jackson, if you apologize again, I’m going to punch you in the face.” he said, and Jackson’s—still blue—eyes widened in surprise. “So you’re a werewolf. I can... work with that. All in all, this is not the worst first date I’ve been on.” he said as he kept pacing, and Jackson’s jaw dropped.

Stiles had been trying to go for levity, but as Jackson stared at him, he felt his own nerves start to bubble up. “Well, if you don't want, I mean—”

“Stiles, this is our third date.”

“What?”

“First date was when you moved me out of the way of a fucking bullet, which I now realize you didn’t know I would heal from immediately. Second date... well, pick any of the lunches I brought for you, even though I now realize you didn’t know I was kind of... providing for you. This is the third date. At least. Maybe fourth.”

It was Stiles turn to gape, and he did his best to ignore the fluttering in his stomach. He took a steadying breath and slouched down next to where Jackson was sitting on the floor.

“Look, we still have a lot to talk about. Like, for one, I’m going to be keeping my humanity” Stile started, and that was the understatement of the century. “...but, if this is our third date, does that mean you're finally going to kiss me goodnight?” he asks, and Jackson laughs, letting his hand tangle with Stiles as they sit on the floor. 

When they finally rejoin the rest of the team, Derek looks cautious around him, but Stiles doesn’t care. They’re probably going to have to have their own long talk later, but for the moment, Jackson is smiling at him, and that’s all that he cares about. 

(When they walk back to Stiles’ cruiser, Jackson kisses him goodnight.

With tongue. And fangs.

Everything really was going to be alright.)

[hermitreunited]

TUA Feedback Fest!

💜💜 Favorite Fic Writer 💜💜

I could have split these all up to go under various rec theme posts, and maybe I will, but the gosh darn truth of it is that I love every fic by @sunriseseance​ aka Oceansweather so dang much that I needed to make a post about all of it. A very detailed post. It’s long, but she and her work deserve it. <3

A Hard Rain’s A Gonna Fall

Summary: In 1963, most citizens of Dallas had no idea where Vietnam was. He knew that because none of the people he passes as he walks look particularly dead inside. The sidewalk scorches his feet even though the sun hangs low in the sky. The air is hot and wet and it feels like a jungle growing in his chest.

aka, A Fourth of July fic about Klaus, trauma, family, and history. Takes place in 1963.

Rating: NR⎜Pairing: Implied Klaus/Dave⎜Word Count: 4k+⎜Complete (1/1)

This is true for all of her fics - the writing style is so engaging and good and smart! This fic in particular, though - WOW the narration is incredible. Gets you very deep into Klaus’ headspace for a gripping, panicky experience. He’s dealing with the fallout of a traumatic event that is about to happen to most of the people around him. So complicated and sad and intricate!

He wants to warn her that, hey, in 6 years your little boyfriend is going to get drafted and he’s going to go to a country you couldn’t pick out on a map and he’s going to kill people who he shouldn’t kill and every week he’ll write you a letter promising you that when he gets back you’ll move out of the city and your baby will have a real forest to play in and then he’ll kill some more people he’ll go to hell for killing if there’s a hell to go to, and then, well, he’ll get shot in the chest and the blood will come out of his mouth, too, and you’ll have to know that you weren’t there, weren’t fast enough to hear his last words or offer him some last comfort and he’ll be dead and for what? 

Happy Birthday, Johnny

Summary: It’s a nice place. Allison made sure of that when she chose it the first time. Three stays ago. God, they’re only 23 (And they are 23 now, or close enough). Three times? She may as well be lighting her money on fire.

Still, the chairs are comfortable. The visiting room is empty, of course, apart from a man with deep, heavy bags under his eyes. Fluorescent lights hum above her as she waits. They wash everything out, cast everything in a harsh shadow. Not that anything about the experience isn’t harsh. This is stupid. She knows it, now, as she feels her heart beating in her throat and the backs of her legs and her fingers.

What if he doesn’t want to see her? What if he was asleep for, what, the first time in 13 days? That’s how long it’s been this time, right? What if he hates her? (What if he’s right to do so?)

Rating: NR⎜Pairing: Gen⎜Word Count: 3k+⎜Complete (1/1)

Get ready for your heart to break from the Allison and Klaus feelings (and hold onto them, because she’s going to do this again, Allison and Klaus feelings is her brand). Being Hargreeves siblings is complicated, so so complicated, especially for these two, whose circumstances could not be more different, but when it comes down to it, they are quite similar. It’s pre-series, so it’s Sad, but boy is it ever a detailed look into these two excellent characters.

On their 13th birthday, before everything went wrong, Klaus snuck into her room at midnight with a magazine he stole and a cake he made. The smell of smoke stuck to all of his clothes, his skin, his hair. He gave her the cake, all of it, and the magazine. The smile that accompanied them haunts her.

He asked if he could sit with her, and she said yes. He asked if she’d ever smoked before, and she said no. He asked if she wanted to, and she said yes. He asked if she wanted weed or a cigarette, she said cigarette. That’s what the movie stars did. He gave her a look, a laugh, and showed her how to hold it so it didn’t burn her fingers. Not that he’d lit it yet. He wanted to make sure she had it down before he set her on fire.

Slow is in My Blood

Summary: Dave touches him, sometimes. In dances through root systems lit by a diffused moon, Dave puts a hand on his lower back, his arm, his shoulder. To help, he says. Your balance, he says, it isn’t good. I don’t want you to fall. These pits are endless, he says. You don’t like the dark. A touch to help. It helps.

aka, A meditation on Klaus and allowing himself to be loved. Dave doesn't die at the end.

Rating: NR⎜Pairing: Klaus/Dave⎜Word Count: 1k+⎜Complete (1/1)

I am biased, I suppose, because this fic was a gift to me. But like!!!! This fic!!! It’s sad and beautiful and lovely and so perfect. I can’t not think about Klaus and Dave’s relationship without thinking about the dynamic in this fic, about how Dave initiates and Klaus keeps himself from running away. It’s gorgeous.

Maybe it’s not one sided. Maybe he touches Dave on the back of his neck just to watch his skin react. Maybe he hopes the reaction comes from the touch itself, and not the chill Klaus carries with him. Maybe he lets the touch linger long enough for Dave to smack his hand away. Maybe he knows, somewhere, that smack is the wrong word. Dave doesn’t smack. He holds, and moves. He lacks a violence somewhere at his core. Maybe it’s the only way Klaus has something Dave lacks, and maybe it’s the only thing Klaus wouldn’t share if Dave asked. 

I’ll Be Cleaning Up Bottles With You on New Year’s Day

Summary: Sitting behind him on the windowsill, in a truth that still feels false, is Dave. Quiet, right now. Rubbing Klaus's neck. Kissing it occasionally. New clothes, even, though still only things Klaus saw Dave wear in life. The closest he came to fancy enough for New Year's was the outfit he wore on the night they first kissed. The dates still get muddled in his head.

Dave still smells like Dave. Klaus can bring that back, too. The earthy-clean skin, the slight scent of sweat, the cotton of the polo. Something else, underneath all that. Something that Klaus could recognize anywhere, could follow to the end of the world, could die to protect.

Rating: NR⎜Pairing: Klaus/Dave⎜Word Count: 1k+⎜Complete (1/1)

OKAY Okay okay. This fic was the equivalent of a bottle of wine when I read it on New Year’s Eve, because it just took these 1092 words, and suddenly I was crying and telling my friends how much I loved them. Me talking about it here is not going to do justice to the warmth and love that you will feel from this. You just have to read it. If you want to experience a moment of perfect contentment and peace that will probably put happy tears in your eyes, read this.

His family is together. Really. They sit in the living room, wearing out couches that have lasted centuries. Allison spills her champagne. Luther only moved Klaus to the slightly-opened window when Klaus started smoking.

Diego's puzzle, which he insists isn't his, keeps finding more pieces. Five and Diego work on it together. He watches them work on it together. He watches Luther help, before getting up to change the record on father's phonograph.

Karma, Leave These Kids Alone

Summary: Klaus is right, because he usually is. Their childhood was worth fearing. But it wasn’t all bad, she thinks, and some guilt pangs her. I wouldn’t wish this on us, but I’m glad I got him out of it. I’m glad Claire is safe.

She holds out her hand for him, and he takes it.

aka, A meditation on Allison and her traumas, guilts, fears, and loves. Centered around her and Klaus, their love for one another, and how that changes her love and fear for Claire.

Rating: NR⎜Pairing: Gen⎜Word Count: 2k+⎜Complete (1/1)

Allison and Klaus complicated feelings part deux! Now with added Claire feelings! The story centers around Allison’s fear of her daughter having powers, which I would read 100 fics about, and because it’s an Oceansweather fic, it doesn’t stop there. The Hargreeves are adults now who are trying to understand their childhood, and how they relate to each other. It’s complex and sad and it hurts but also it’s healing and growth and love.

He laughed that familiar laugh.

Why would she see the dead? Well, she has an imaginary friend like you used to. She has nightmares. Klaus, I am terrified for her. How did you know it was real? He was quiet, and then he said, well, I could see them. I always could. If she doesn’t see them, she doesn’t see the dead, right?

And Allison said yes. That makes sense. And then Klaus was quiet for a while longer, and then he gagged, and then he said, well, why are you terrified for her? She heard the venom in his voice.

Same As It Ever Was

Summary: He tries to love the heels. Really, he does. He knows Dave loves him in them. He knows, hey, it’s his job to look good. Right? Dave fixes cars and Klaus fixes dinner and cleans the house and looks oh so pretty. So, yes, he has to wear the heels. He doesn’t own any other shoes and he can’t go walking around barefoot. Not with his toenails painted black. Why were they black again? And, say, why did his wrist look so blank? He traced a shape that he couldn’t place onto his skin and waited for something to appear. Like invisible ink. aka, Life is perfect for the Hargreeves, which must mean something is wrong. How fortunate that Klaus is smarter than anyone gives him credit for.

Rating: NR⎜Pairing: Klaus/Dave, Diego/Eudora, Five/Delores⎜Word Count: 8k+⎜Complete (1/1)

This fic is so. freaking. cool. It’s closest probably to a horror story? It’s definitely creepy and uneasy, but it’s also melancholy and thrilling and - very importantly -it features Smart Capable Underestimated but Badass Klaus! I am willing to bet you have not read anything else in the fandom like this, and that you are going to be absolutely captivated. I know I am!

Klaus doesn’t want to see Dave, which is not a feeling he should have. He knows this. He knows he wants to see Dave every day for the rest of his life. So why is he running? Why are his feet carrying him to the bathroom? Why is he locking the door? The tumblers clang into place. His hands shake and he’s going to fall over and brain himself if he doesn’t catch his balance. He can only remember feeling so terrified twice in his life—except he can’t. He can’t remember it at all. So he can’t remember ever feeling this terrified.

It’s just Dave.

[kl4us4]

YOUNGER SIBLING HC’S

A/N: i’ve had a lot of requests for sibling!reader hanging with the hargreeves so here are some general HC’s!!!

You’d take things from the rest of the gang all the time, sometimes you’d ask, sometimes you wouldn’t. Depends on the time of day and the mood you’re in.

“Yeah, I know Allison has clothes but she has a basic sense of style.” You admit, shuffling through the various messy clothes in Klaus’ room, “Plus, I only need a shirt.”

Klaus gives you an incredulous look, placing his headphones around his neck, “I’m like 7 sizes bigger than you.”

“Yes, exactly!” You exclaim, eyeing the different patterns and styles until you come across a thin black button up shirt with white roses on it. “Perfect. Thanks, bro.” You smile mischievously, rushing out of his room and back to yours.

Since you’re significantly younger than the rest of the academy, when Five comes back you actually have someone your age. You both immediately become close. But sometimes he’s just a regular old man.

“Hey, Five.” You grab his attention as you both sit in front of the tv watching the morning news and eat Peanut Butter and Marshmallow Sandwiches.

“What?” He questions, frowning but never taking his eyes off the TV.

“Do you think maybe we can watch something other than the news for once?” The glare you receive gives you a clear answer.

A tradition of piggyback rides with Luther because he’s always been strong as heck

“Where to today, Mrs Y/N?” Luther asks hands resting on his hips as you both stand in the living room.

“Hm... depends.” You mumble.

“On?”

“What’s the weather like in Diego’s room today?” You ponder, furrowing your eyebrows.

Luther widens his eyes comically, “Very cold. It’s snowing there today.”

“And Vanya’s room?” You ask next.

Luther shakes his head sadly, “Vanyas room is very quiet today. Not busy at all.”

“Well then, to the kitchen, good sir!” You laugh, pointing towards the far left door. “And hurry!” Picking you up, Luther sets you onto his shoulders and begins to turn corners and run around.

“Yes, ma’am!” He shouts back, twisting and leaning in every direction whilst keeping a tight hold of you. Laughing the whole way, he runs around quickly and makes aeroplane noises before setting you down onto the kitchen bench.

Vanya teaching you a few notes on the violin

“Ugh, how are you not deaf from holding this so close to your ear?” You cringe, eyeing the violin on your shoulder.

“Not quite deaf yet.” Vanya laughs at you, “Though most violin players do tend to lose their hearing.”

“What?” Your eyes widen, “Really?” When Vany nods, you gently place the violin down. No thanks.

Allison doing your hair, though you protest against it

“I brushed it this morning.” You argue, glaring at her via the mirror.

“You sure?” She widens her eyes, standing behind you and playing with your hair, figuring out the best way to style it.

Lips parted in shock, you let out a laugh. “Wow, that’s rude!”

Allison laughs back at you, hugging you from behind. “I’m kidding!” She repeats, a smile on her face. Shaking your head to yourself, you let her braid your hair. If it were anyone else, you’d tell them to piss off. But you know Allison is missing having Claire around. So you sit in compliance.

You, Diego, and Mom eating pancakes early in the morning before Diego has to leave

Yawning loudly, you turn to Diego with a sigh. “Do we have to train today?” 

“Yes.” Diego answers. Well, that’s definitely not what you wanted to hear. “Saving the world doesn’t take a break, young one.”

Sighing, you sit back in your chair. “And apparently neither do we.”

“Breakfast time!” You hear mom announce, walking in with two full plates. No one else has woken up yet but Diego is adamant to teach you everything he knows.

“Thanks, mom!” You shout, smiling at the fruit smiley face in your pancake. Though mom can sometimes be a bit airy and not all there, she always showed kindness towards you and your siblings. 

Everyone sneaking out during the night to get doughnuts together from Griddy’s, though there’s no need now that Reginald is gone. But they take you anyways to carry on the longtime tradition.

“This place is shit now.” Five states, putting his coffee down on the booth table, “Wish I could go back in time and get a doughnut from 1998.”

Klaus shrugs, stuffing a pink doughnut into his mouth. “It’s not that bad!” He smiles, sprinkles shooting from his mouth. Allison lets you take a sip from her caramel milkshake and Vanya tries it too, only being invited to sneak out a handful of times when they were children. Diego and Luther argue about who��s paying whilst Klaus eggs them on, but you’re all here together as a family and that’s the most important thing.

[walkineternity]

Day 3: Delirium

(The Umbrella Academy x Sandman)

Klaus knew he was in trouble.

He had overdosed again. He tried to stay clean, for Ben and Vanya, for his other siblings, and for Dave. He so very much wanted to see Dave.

 But. He tried, okay. Tried so very fucking hard, and everyone was so focussed on Vanya that his efforts weren’t exactly…supported. Ben, of course, knew. And Klaus was grateful to have him. And he didn’t really blame everyone for not paying attention to him. They never really did that in the first place, unless he was causing trouble. And this time, it was because Vanya had nearly ended the world and he got that. He really did. He was trying to be there for them.

 But. He was an addict, okay. He can admit that. And…it was so hard to stay clean. He was so fucking high right now. He was so fucking sick right now. And Ben was yelling at him again.

 “Fuck! I can’t do this again, Klaus! You were doing so well! Fuck! I can’t even pick up the phone to call the ambulance can I! No! You are going to die in this alleyway and then I’m going to have nobody to talk to and, and, and you can’t leave me alone! Please, Klaus, please! Shit, okay, I’m going to try and get help, okay? I’m going to try.”

 Klaus felt himself drift. Ben was still talking, but then suddenly everything was quiet. He didn’t really get how he could still hear Ben with all the drugs in his system, but the other spirits had quieted down. And now, finally, Ben was gone too. He was going to die alone. Like he fucking deserved. His eyes shut, closing over tears that never fell and let the fog take him…

 Next thing he knew there was something licking his face. Okay, still alive. Still dying. Probably. He opened his eyes.

 Well. Where was he? This wasn’t the alleyway anymore. Maybe he wasn’t dying and he was already dead. But this wasn’t heaven. This was…he wasn’t sure. There were explosions of colours and shapes twisting in and out of existence and he felt simultaneously the highest he’s ever been and stone cold sober. He felt like he was awake and dreaming at the same time.

 And in the midst of all this madness, there was a rather ordinary looking dog, who was licking his face.

 “Well, hey there, boy. You wouldn’t happen to know the way back to reality now, would you?”

 He didn’t know what to expect at this point. And yet it still startled him when the dog stopped licking his face and spoke back. “Ah. You’re awake. Good. You don’t taste very good.”

 Klaus frowned. “Actually, I’m a snack. A delicious- wait. I’m…awake.” He sits up and looks around. Nothing was solid. There was no up and no down and he had no clue what he was sitting on because reality kept changing. Okay, he was definitely going crazy. “I don’t think I’m awake.”

 “Hm. Well. In a manner of speaking. And in another, you’re dead.”

 “Huh.”

 “You don’t sound surprised.”

 “Well, I’ve been dead before. And really, I was asking for it anyways.”

 The dog tilted its head, considering him, “I should be more specific. You’re only mostly dead, this time. This isn’t Death’s realm, but her sister’s.”

 “…mostly dead? What am I? The man in black now?” Klaus hadn’t seen the movie until his teens, when he was homeless and couch-surfing. Or rather bed-surfing. And old lover had the movie on VHS.

 “I don’t know what that means.” The dog huffed and then said, “I’m Barnabas, by the way. Not that you asked.”

 “Aw, what an adorable name!” Klaus tried to pet him, but Barnabas looked mildly offended and ducked his head away. He looked like he was about to say something snippy when a bunch of brightly coloured fish swam past his head. Klaus had been trying to ignore his surroundings for the sake of his own sanity, but this caught his attention.

 And then the…strangest voice followed after. “Ohhh, fishies! Come back here! …Hi, Barnabas!” He couldn’t really describe it. He could understand it, and for the most part it sounded like a young women’s voice, but something was distinctly…otherworldly. The voice sounded how this world looked. Chaotic, ever-changing, pitches and stresses in all the wrong places. It would have been called musical, if it wasn’t so discordant.

 And then a figure stepped out of the swirls of colours and then he realised that nothing was ever going to make sense in here. She was colourful herself. Rainbow hair cut in an odd style. Two different coloured eyes and the oddest combination of clothes.

 Though, honestly, he couldn’t say anything about his clothes. Currently, he was sporting the same outfit he wore in the real world and, frankly, wasn’t to off from this figure’s choice of clothes.

 Well, at least they had something in common. “Nice shoes,” he tries.

 The woman (girl? Young lady?) was talking to the dog and the fish, but turned to him at the sound of his voice. She drifted closer and peered down at him.

 “Well, hello there, traveler. You seem a little lost.”

 Klaus shrugged. She giggled. “Welllll, I suppose that’s, uh, that’s what you call life, now, isn’t it? Just a little bit lost and a lot bit lost! Go-ing on Forever!”

 Barnabas came a bit closer to her, to sit beside her, not quite touching, but close. Like he meant to offer her comfort. She absentmindedly scratched his ears, but still didn’t look away from Klaus. Oh, was he supposed to offer a reply?

“Well, I’m hoping that’s not the case. I’ve been trying, lately, you see, to settle down a bit. Stay clean and, y’know, be there for my family. Try to…have a home, a proper one.” His voice grew more unsure as he continued to speak.

 She was staring at him as he spoke, but not in his eyes. Just looking there briefly and then looking at his shirt and then his hair. Listening, but just couldn’t keep completely still. As she did, her nail polish changed colour and her ears changed shape and the rainbow in her hair shifted. This whole place was topsy-turvy. Strange how a talking dog named Barnabas was the sanest thing in here.

 She looked back up briefly into his eyes and then down at her feet. “It’s Nice to do things for fa-mi-ly. I have many Siblings too. I like to help them sometimes. You said I have nice shoes. Would you like to wear them? We can trade!”

 “Um.” Klaus wasn’t really sure what to say. “I don’t think our feet are the same size?”

 She frowned. “Oh, what does that matter? Its just for fuunnn. C’mon!” And she proceeded to take off her shoes. Which, were just as colourful as her hair. Rainbow boots that had really neat buckles shaped like the fish that swam around their heads.

 His were a solid black heel, stolen from Allison. They pinched his toes, not being the proper size, but they made his legs look gorgeous.

 Allison probably wasn’t going to be happy to learn her shoes were traded away, but then again, she probably wasn’t going to be happy with him either way. If he ever made it back, that is.

 He decided he should probably say all that out loud, and then he did, because they really weren’t his shoes, but the girl in front of him just sat down to better take of her shoes. “Oh, you’ll get out of Here eventu-ally. I like you, but you’re not mine to keep.” She finally managed to pull off both her boots. She was wearing mismatched socks, but those seemed to vanish. “And your family is just worried about you. If your sssister is mad, it’s only because she cares. You should ask them for help.”

 He shrugged and easily kicked off his own shoes, accidently kicking it too close to Barnabas. The dog just looked long-suffering.

 “They just think I’m useless and crazy. Well, maybe not Ben, but I’m not exactly doing my best there, y’know? He deserves to follow someone else around. Someone who won’t disappoint him again.”

 The girl hummed. “They say I’m crazzzzy too. But that’s alright. Mad-ness isn’t always a Bad thing….it helps when I know too much. Sometimes its nice to have a break from san-i-ty.” Here she started to slip on the heels and gestured at the boots, so Klaus grabbed one and put it on, stamping a little to get his heel in. Huh. Perfect fit. She continued, “And just because I’m mad, doesn’t mean my siblings don’t care about me. Doesn’t mean I don’t care about them. We aallll make mistakes, even Beings such as us, even little ones such as you, and we…oh, shoot, Barnabas! What’s the word? The- the Big one.”

 She glanced around as if the word she was looking for would suddenly appear. “You know. When the butterflies are iiiinn your body instead of outside them. Like stepping off the edge of a cliff, but knowing there is Someone to catch you, or for you to catch them.”

 Barnabas opened his mouth to say something, but she snapped her fingers (which made Klaus do a doubletake when the snap sound created visual shockwaves of colour, like they were in some sort of comic book), and then said, “Oh! Love! It’s lo-ve. We all love each other the same. They loved me when I was Delight, and they still love me as Delirium. I mean, look at Bar-na-bas!” She gestured with a heel in her hand. The dog sat a little straighter. “He was a gift to me from one of my bro-thers, to care and look afterrr me, and we’ve become such good friends! Destruction cares in his own way, and I know your siblings do too. You just got-ta….gotta ask, okay?”

 Barnabas smiled slightly. It looked a bit weird on a dog, but it seemed gentle. “I think we are the very best friends, my dear Delirium.”

 She put the other heel on and bounced up onto them, smiling at them both, at the world around them, at the tiny fish swimming above her head. The black of the heels swirled with spots of colour, but mostly stayed the same.

 Klaus finished doing up the buckles on both shoes and stood up too. He reached a hand up and the fish swam through his fingers and around his arm. The rainbow shoes felt warm and comfortable on his feet. He felt a bit giddy. He gave her a big grin and said, “Yeah. Okay. Sure. If I ever manage to get out of here, I’ll ask. Why not!”

 She gave him a grin in return. To match. Though hers stretched a little too far on her face. Still friendly, but not exactly a human smile. Her eyes changed colours too, but never the same colours at the same time. A fish swam in front of her face and this distracted her from him.

 “Well, how do I get out of here anyways? Not that I don’t mind your company, I should be getting back to the real world.”

 She looked back at him and seemed to startle a little bit. “Ohhhh, what were we talking about?”

 He blinked and looked at her and then looked at Barnabas, who said to her, in a reassuring manner, “It wasn’t important. Klaus was leaving soon anyways.”

 “Hm. My he-ad hurts. Was I talking Rightly again? That always Hurts.”

 “Yes, Delirium, but you don’t have to anymore. Why don’t we help Klaus go home and then play with the fish?”

 Klaus frowned at Barnabas in confusion. Delirium laughed joyfully and said, “Well, hell yeah! There’s only a few swimming around, buuuut I can make more!” She proceeded to spin around and do exactly that.

 Barnabas sidled closer to Klaus and said, “She does that, sometimes.”

 “What? Forgets?”

 “No. Remembers. The advice she gave you? How coherent she spoke? Does not happen often. You should take heed. The knowledge she has…is vast. So vast that it seems to…hurt her. Now, it’s time for you to go.” He didn’t say this roughly, but there was a sadness when he spoke.

 “Thanks,” Klaus said, heartfelt. “And thank her for me, too, even if she doesn’t remember.”

 Delirium wandered back over with a great many more fish swimming around, some bigger than others. Some so small he could barely see in the swirl of colours and shapes. “Oh yes! You!” She tapped him firmly on the forehead and said, “Say the magic words!”

 “Um, please-”

 “Wrong, so wrong. Try again.” And here she clicked her new heels three times.

 Klaus couldn’t help it. He laughed. He saw that movie too. And then he copied her action and said the “magic” words, “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no pla-”

 And then he was in an ambulance, the paramedic’s expression triumphant and relieved. Ben, hovering over him on the other side, looked similar.

 “Klaus, don’t ever do that to me again. You are so lucky there was this goth lady around. Apparently, you aren’t the only one that can speak to the dead. She was pretty Zen about the whole thing. Said it wasn’t your time and managed to find a nearby payphone. She didn’t even ask why I couldn’t call the ambulance myself!”

 Ben sounded a bit hysterical. The paramedic seemed to be chattering away as he checked Klaus’ vitals. Klaus felt himself tearing up. He could still feel the drugs in his system. “I’m so sorry, Ben. I can’t do this-”

 “C’mon, Klaus! I know you’re stronger- what about Dave-”

 “No, shit, Ben, just- I can’t do this alone, okay? I-I really need. I need help. I want to stay clean. Please. I just- please. I can’t do this alone.”

 The paramedic wasn’t paying attention to his babble, too focussed on actually keeping him alive, but Ben was listening intently. He tried to lay his hand on Klaus’ shoulder, but his hand passed through. Klaus shivered. Ben looked disappointed, but not surprised. He settled for leaning over, close to Klaus’ face, and said, “Never, Klaus. I’m here, okay. And the others…we’ll ask for help from them too. We’re all trying to be a family, right? And….and whatever you need.”

 Klaus felt tears in his eyes and with a rough voice he said, “Thank you, Ben. I always knew you were my favourite brother.”

 Ben rolled his eyes, but a smile tugged the corner of his lips. “Oh, please. I’ll remember that next time you say that to any of our other siblings.”

 “Why would Allison or Vanya be my favourite brother?”

 “Fuck off, you know what I meant.” Okay, definitely a smile now.

 And then Ben happened to glance at his feet. “Klaus, where the hell did you get those?”

 Klaus looked at his feet and saw that he wasn’t wearing Allison’s heels, but rainbow boots. Huh. So not a drug-induced dream.

 “Klaus?”

 “I’ve been thinking, Ben.”

 “Oh no. I didn’t know you could do that.” He gestured at the boots. “Are you not going to answer?”

 Klaus ignored him and stared at the boots. “I’ve been wondering if they might allow aquariums in rehab.”

 Ben stared at him a little. But he was also long used to Klaus saying weird stuff. “Well. If we manage to use some of dad’s fortune for rehab, they’ll allow us as many fish as we want. If…if that’s what you wanted the aquarium for.”

 It was…so fucking nice to hear Ben using “us” and “we” like that. He knew Ben was stuck with him, but it felt…. like he wasn’t alone. That Ben meant it. That he was going to have help this time, from the whole family. And if they used dear old dad’s money…well. That would be icing on the cake. Petty? Yes. Deserved, even beyond the grave? Hell yes. He’s glad that he didn’t have another visit from him. He doesn’t think he could stand anymore revelations or disappointment from him. He’d take a bizarre realm of multi-coloured girls and fish and talking dogs any day.

 Though, he really didn’t want to go back any time soon. Being mostly dead was exhausting.

 “Yeah, Ben, fish. Lots of colourful fish.” His voice sounded further away, like hearing himself through a long tunnel. Klaus could feel his eyes droop closed.

 Ben laughed softly. “Anything you need, Klaus. Have some nice dreams for me, will you?” Klaus’ eyes were closed, but for a flash, he thought he saw someone above him. He couldn’t see features, just a strange helmet and black robes. A pale hand sprinkled shining dust onto him. Onto his closed eyes. And then the figure was gone.

  And he swore, right before he drifted off to sleep, that he felt Ben’s hand on his shoulder. But then again, it could have just been his imagination.

[thisdiscontentedwinter]

Bad Blood - Chapter 5

You can read it here on AO3 or find the Chapter Index here. 

***** 

Allison Argent is like a ray of sunshine, and Stiles is… well, Stiles is like a vampire, he guesses. He’s deathly allergic to rays of sunshine. He doesn’t feel happiness whenever Allison visits, even though he wants to, because it’s Allison. She’s sweet and funny and genuinely seems to care about Stiles, even though she hardly knows him, but all Stiles feels when she talks is a weird sense of envious disdain. She talks about school, and how she worries that she’s not fitting in, and how she misses her old friends in Phoenix, and Stiles is above all that, isn’t he? It’s petty teenage bullshit, because Allison doesn’t even know there’s a war going on—Allison doesn’t know anything about werewolves, or the multitude of other nightmarish creatures that actually stalk the world—and the stuff she cares about is childish and irrelevant, and Stiles wants to laugh at her for it, except he can’t, because whenever he tries to he feels a burn of pure jealousy in the pit of his stomach because she’s so normal. And he knows he shouldn’t want the things that she does, he knows he has a higher purpose, a birthright, but he remembers back when he thought he was just a normal kid too, and… and he thinks he was happy back then.

It’s hard to remember.

It’s harder still to evaluate his memories, because every single one of them has been tainted by his father’s betrayal. Every single one has been poisoned by the shame and the anger and the hatred Stiles feels now.

There was a time when Stiles thinks he remembers loving his father, but what the hell did he know back then? Nothing. He was just a dumb fucking kid.

“Stiles?” Allison asks, her forehead creasing. “Are you okay?”

Stiles jolts slightly. “Sorry. I zoned out. What were you saying?”

Allison smiles and elbows him. “I’m saying that there’s this boy and I think he likes me!”

“Of course he likes you,” Stiles says. “Who wouldn’t?”

They’re sitting on Stiles’s bedroom floor with their books and schoolwork spread out around them. Stiles’s curriculum doesn’t quite mesh with Allison’s, but it’s still fun to have someone to do homework with. Well, Stiles guesses everything he does is technically homework since he’s homeschooled, but it still feels nice. It feels almost normal.

That’s the trap, probably.

There’s a locked box under Stiles’s bed with his Kel-Tec PMR-30 and four clips of wolfsbane bullets in it. Stiles is still getting used to the Kel-Tec, but he likes the European-style magazine release.

Allison dropped a pencil a little while ago, and it rolled under the bed. She touched the box getting the pencil back, and she doesn’t know. They’re sitting here talking about schoolwork and a boy she likes, and she doesn’t know Stiles is a hunter. She doesn’t know he belongs to a very different world than hers. There’s something absurd about it, something jarring. It’s unsettling. Stiles has spent the last six years around hunters. He’s forgotten how to pretend to be a regular person.

Allison laughs, the colour rising in her cheeks. “That’s so sweet!”

“Totally true though,” Stiles says. “You’re smart, and pretty, and just about the nicest girl I know!”

She raises her eyebrows appraisingly. “Am I the only girl you know right now?”

That startles a laugh out of him. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Her expression softens into something uncomfortably close to pity. “I wish you could come to school with me.”

Stiles blinks down at one of his textbooks for a moment. “Yeah, Me too.” He doesn’t know if it’s a lie or not today. He forces a smile. “Anyway, tell me about this guy again. Is he cute?”

“Adorable,” Allison says. “He almost stabbed me with a pen the first time he met me.”

“That doesn’t sound very adorable.”

“It was an accident!” She laughs again. “I don’t even know how he knew I needed one, and then he shoved one at me so fast he almost fell over his feet. Maybe he tries to impress all the new girls with pens.”

“Ah,” Stiles says. “The mating rituals of the awkward teenage boy.”

“Do you have some experience with them?” Allison asks.

Stiles feels it again: that jarring, dizzying sensation. He shouldn’t have asked if the guy was cute, because is Allison… is she asking if…

Stiles flinches before he can stop himself.  

“You seem like the sort of guy who’d accidentally stab a girl with a pen,” Allison says hurriedly, the rush in her words like she realised what she was implying, and backed the hell away again because she saw the flash of panic in his eyes.

“Yeah,” Stiles says with a weak laugh. “That sounds like me.”

Allison hesitates. “His name’s Scott,” she says at last, and Stiles feels a swelling of affection for her for not pushing. “He has floppy hair, and his jaw is a little crooked, and he has the most beautiful smile!”

“He sounds nice,” Stiles says.

Allison ignores the rasp in his voice. “He’s invited me to a party on Friday night.” Her eyes widen. “You should come!”

Stiles shakes his head. “I don’t think—”

“No, it’s perfect!” Allison exclaims. “Because Mom and Dad are being all weird about boys, as per usual, but if I say that you’re going with me, they can’t say no!”

Stiles bets they can. He also bets that Chris and Victoria’s reluctance to let Allison out of the house after dark has less to do with boys and more to do with the fact that there’s a werewolf pack in this town.

“I’m supposed to be concentrating on my schoolwork,” Stiles says.

“Stiles!” Allison rolls his eyes. “It’s one night! Ask Grandpa if you can come with me, please!”  

God. Put him in a dark forest with an entire pack of werewolves and he knows exactly what to do. But navigate the social quicksand of a high school party? Stiles has no fucking idea how to do that.

Not that it matters, of course.

Gerard won’t approve, so it’s never going to happen.

“Sure,” he says. “I’ll ask.”

***

There was this boy, once.

Just a boy on the street in Budapest.

It had been winter, and everything was bleak and cold and grey, and this boy had been wearing a red coat, a flash of colour. A red coat, and a blue woollen hat, and he’d laughed, and Stiles had looked over at him—

He’s beautiful.

—and Gerard had followed the direction of his stare, his eyebrows tugging together in a scowl, and Stiles had torn his gaze away from the boy.

Gerard’s stare had settled on Stiles like he was seeing him for the first time all over again, except that this time he wasn’t pleased with what he saw.  

Stiles never looked at another boy on the street again.

***

Stiles lands on the mat, and all his breath is knocked out of him. He rolls onto his side and gets his knees under him. He tastes blood, and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.

Shit.

Gerard might be old, but he still has moves.  

Not that Stiles has ever been stupid enough to underestimate him.  

“Get up,” Gerard says, a growl in his voice. “If I was a werewolf, you’d already be dead.”

Stiles climbs to his feet. He sucks in a breath and rolls his shoulders. He dodges Gerard’s next punch, but a jab to his ribs has him twisting the wrong way, and Gerard punches him hard on the jaw.

Everything flares white with pain.

Stiles gets his gloves up in front of his face to protect himself. His vision is swimming, and he’s clumsy on his feet now. Still, he knows Gerard is right. A werewolf isn’t going to give him a chance to walk it off, is it? It’s fight or die in a hunter’s world, and if Stiles can’t handle a few punches from Gerard, how is he going to survive the real thing?

This time he takes a punch to the gut.

And a voice in the back of his head asks him: But if he keeps punching the shit out of you like this, how will you be in any fit state to go on a hunt at all?

Stiles ignores it, and sways on his feet for a moment, trying to find his balance.

A blow to the temple sends him down onto the mat again.

“Useless,” Gerard mutters. “Get up, Stiles!”

Stiles grunts, and tries to roll over. Flops onto his back again instead, and blinks up at the lights in the ceiling. There are more of them then there should be. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment to try to clear his vision.

“Useless,” Gerard says again.

Stiles opens his eyes and squints up at Gerard.

Gerard is unlacing his boxing gloves. “What the hell is wrong with you tonight? You’ve got worse form than a goddamn child.”

Stiles wishes he could say the words sting more than the cut above his eye that Gerard just opened up, but that would be a lie. “Sorry, sir.”

“You’ll get yourself killed out there!”

Stiles nods and swallows, and tastes blood again.

“You think that Kroměříž counts for anything here? You think that the Novákovi are anything like the Hales?” Gerard sneers at him. “You won’t last a second against the Hales unless you get your head out of your ass and remember how to goddamn fight!”

“Yes, sir.” Stiles tries not to wince when he breathes.

Gerard huffs and shakes his head. “We’re done here.”

He tosses his gloves down on the mat, and leaves the basement.

Stiles lays there a while longer, waiting to catch his breath.

He’s not sure how long it is until he’s able to climb to his feet, but the sweat is chilling on his body when he finally manages it. He stoops to pick up Gerard’s gloves, and places them back in the cabinet. It takes him longer than it should to unlace his own, picking at the knots with his teeth.

Gerard’s right.

He was useless tonight. He barely landed a hit before it was all over for him. He needs to train harder. He needs to get better. He needs to remember who he is, and what he’s here for. He’s a Stilinski, and he has a birthright. He’s a Stilinski, and he’s going to make that mean something again.

Something more than cowardice and betrayal.

He makes his way slowly up the steps, and into the kitchen. He fills a glass with water from the tap, and drinks it. Then he grabs a piece of kitchen towel and wads it up to hold against his split eyebrow.

He thinks of Allison and her normal life and her party and her crush on that boy who almost stabbed her with a pencil.

He doesn’t want that.

He doesn’t want anything like that.

He doesn’t.

He’s a hunter, not a kid.

Except later, when he’s curled up in bed trying not to move because it hurts, he finds himself texting Allison back and forth for a while and pretending, just for tonight, that he’s a regular kid after all.

And that, he discovers, hurts a lot more than any of his bruises.

[mrevaunit42]

Untitled Project

Hello everyone, Mr.E wishing you a fantastic day and week and hope it’s going great for you! 

So first off, happy birthday to @hipster-rapunzel and @xxinfamousxx321 WOOO! HAPPY BIRTHDAY (throws confetti) 

so this is my birthday gift to @hipster-rapunzel who wanted me to write a story about an oc i previously told her about. so i was like alright and here it is.

So this is just a little thing i wrote, it’s okay in terms of writing because I didn’t want to world build too much but the basic premise is a girl is attending a magical school but has been stuck in the remedial class *Which she is the only one student in* for the last 6 years because her magic isn’t strong or even functioning properly. Magic here operates under different styles and is created through a combination of focus and imagination. its a lot to explain.

so that’s really it. I mean if you all like it, maybe i could more into details but for now, this story is just it. So have an amazing week, stay awesome and here we go. You are about to read one of the oldest OCs I ever came up with. I hope you enjoy!

@artgirllullaby @hains-mae

The village was quiet as the sun slowly rose into the sky. People were sleepily making their way out of their houses, tiredly rubbing at their eyes while greeting each other with a lazy wave or grunt.

“Heads up everyone, it's 7:45!” Someone called from the window

Everyone gave a sleepy nod as they shuffled this way and that, hiding in any little nooks and crannies that they could find. Some took shelter behind carts or against walls while the sound of hurried and panicked footsteps against the cobble road filled the air.

“Morning everyone!” a 16 year old girl called out to everyone in the square as she sped her way past.

“Morning Penny” the square replied.

Petunia Allison Maxwell or as she preferred, Penny, was once again late to class though she wasn't too worried. This wasn't the first time and she doubt it'd be the last.

Penny's stormy gray eyes darted back and forth as she made her way through, her hand a frantic blur while she waved hello to every single person she could manage to spot.

“Mr. Turner, Miss Audery, Mister Stevens, Bob.”

“Penny” Bob replied, the massive giant of man gave a slight nod before continuing on his way.

Penny skidded to a stop in front of the bakery, her medium length midnight purple hair swaying back and forth as she took a long deep inhale of the freshly made bread that wafted through the air.

“Late again Penny?” a friendly voice called out as an older man of 40 with black hair and a thick mustache walked out of the backroom carrying the latest batch of pastries, gently placing them on top of the counter.

Penny gave a sheepish smile, shrugging innocently as she approached the register “It's not considered late if it's a daily thing, right Mr. Athos?”

The older man simply shook his head “I'm pretty sure the school won't see it that way. Hey I noticed a lot of students were heading out earlier than usual. Anything special today?”

Penny gave a nervous chuckle “It's PE day.”

“P...E? Like physical education?”

“Oh no no no, it stands for Practical Exam” Penny explained “It's the only way to get into a higher class.”

“Ooooh right, Cyn was tell me about that last night. Didn't explain it as well as you did though. You think this is going to be your year Penny?”

Penny sighed tiredly “I sure hope so. 6 years stuck in the same place isn't exactly great for an up and coming spellcaster you know?”

Mr. Athos gave a reassuring nod “I'm sure you'll be great. Here, one Bear claw for the studious young lady.”

“thanks!” Penny beamed cheerfully

“And one moldy, three old day bread for bribing.” Mr. Athos handed over a carefully wrapped package which Penny took gingerly.

“Awesome, you're the best! Wish me luck! Bye Mr. Athos!”

“Good bye Petunia”

“DON'T CALL ME THAT!” She shouted in response as she ran out of view.

Penny could feel the beads of sweet run down the back of her neck as Merlin's Academy for the Magical Arts came into view.

The school was surrounded by large, intimidating iron bars that seemed to stretch high towards the sky. The buildings ranged from short and squat to towering skyscrapers that leaned a little too dangerously to one side. Each one was painted a different color represent one of the different magical arts and the lessons one could expect to find within their hallowed walls.

Not that Penny actually knew what was inside each of the building....

“Almost there” Penny told herself, huffing and puffing “Almost there!”

Crash.

Penny let out a frustrated groan as she found herself face first against a watery clear surface that appeared out of nowhere. Ripples spread out from where Penny's face made impact.

“Oh come on!” Penny whined, rubbing her aching nose.

“Well” A booming, gruff voice called out as the sounds of stone scrapping pavement became louder and louder “That's what happens when people are late for school.”

“Well....” Penny shrank into herself as a figure waddled out of the security booth.

It was a massive creature made out of stone. Its face was smooth and life-like despite being made of rock. Two large carved teeth protruded out of its lower jaw, its eyes were smooth and pupil-less though she could feel its stare on her. Two stubby, short horns fit neatly under his little blue cap, its body was muscular under the pale blue uniform and obviously the one feature the artist went to great lengths to perfect. Penny gulped anxiously as its two bat-like wings basked her in their shadow as the creature scooted  forward on its circular base.  

“Why are we late today Petunia?” The gargoyle asked in an exhausted tone.

“It's Penny Bart” the teen answered with a finger raised high “And my alarm clock broke.”

The creature nodded in disbelief “I thought you fixed that yesterday.”

“A hydra destroyed my bathroom.”

“Those hydras are quite troublesome...and don't live in the village.”

“Would you believe that I'm just lazy?”

“Oh definitely” Bart agreed “You know every time you lie, you get another freckle on your face?”

“Don't say that I have too many already! Come on Bart, let me through! It's PE day and I need to get to Miss Hart's class before she decides just to flunk me.”

Bart let out a bellowing chuckle “You're late Penny, those are the rules.”

Penny sighed dramatically “I guess I'll just take this moldy bread and feed it to one of the river statues. They love the treats I bring them.”

Bart smacked his lips hungrily “I mean....it would be a shame if you were to forced to stay in the remedial class just because you couldn't take the exam.”

“thank you!” Penny beamed as she tossed the disgusting treat high into the air and taking a step back.

Without warning, Bart unfurled his wings and took off high into the sky, spiraling after the snack before munching down on it with a mighty crunch.

The world shook violently as Bart crashed back to earth with a deep thud, embedding himself a good foot into the ground.

“Okay Penny” Bart sighed contently “You may pass....after the checklist.”

“Yes yes, I am wearing my standard issue uniform” She gestured to her long white sleeved collared shirt, light blue vest, black skirt with black socks and loafers “And I have my pencil and my insurance card.”

“Check and check” Bart nodded “Okay, good luck Penny.”

“Thanks!” Penny replied, her face shining brightly before falling into panic once again “I'm totally going to fail....”

Penny's mad dash resumed as she passed by the beautiful, 2 story red building of the alchemical laboratory and made her way to a little tiny shack far off to the side away from any sort of civilization, its paint peeling and revealing an earth brown color scheme that would've never worked in any sort of environment.

She was nearly at the door when she noticed a familiar person awkwardly shuffling towards the same location.

Penny dug her heels in as hard as she could and nearly tumbled forward from her sudden stop. She could feel her heart beating loudly in her chest as the person turned around slowly.

It was a boy about her age with messy black hair and the coolest shades ever covering his eyes. He wore the dark brown version of the school's blazer/dress pants instead of the unoriginal black with a reddish brown tie.

He tilted his head back and forth almost like he was trying to hear for something though his gaze never fell on the unmoving Penny.

“Phil?” the boy called “Phil, is someone here?”

A squawk replied from the boy's shoulder as a pudgy, stout but beautiful gold and crimson colored bird cried out in response “AH somebody's here, somebody's here!”

Penny glared deeply at the bird, putting a finger on her lips in an attempt to silence the bird but there was an evil twinkle in Phil's gold iris

“It's Petuniaaaaa”

Penny clenched her fist angrily as a chuckle escaped the boy's mouth.

“Penny, is that you?”

“Heeeeey Fredrick!” Penny nervously answered, already feeling her cheeks burn brightly “How are you doing good old buddy old pal?

“Haha I'm good. Heading to class” Fredrick gestured to thin air on his left rather than the building on his right “And you? Late as always.”

“W-well I...personally wouldn't say...late...per....say”

“So late it is.” Fredrick grinned mischievously

Penny sighed in response “Yeeeeeeah Fredrick. Today's PE day and I...just couldn't sleep”

“Well, Petunia, I'm sure you'll do fine”

“It's Penny Fredrick”

“No” Fredrick scratched his chin thoughtfully “I think it's Petunia. It's easy to get confused since you keep calling me Fredrick.”

Penny's flush worsen “I...”

“So I'll call you Penny and you call me Fred, deal?”

“Deal” Penny mumbled.

Phil snickered at Penny's discomfort.

Penny bit her lip, taking a slow, deep breath. She couldn't strangle Phil despite the syrupy urge to. Seeing eye birds were expensive and she didn't want Fred to wander the halls helplessly.

“So, since we're late” Fred spoke up “I think we should get going. See you around Penny.”

“Bye Fredr...Fred!” Penny corrected herself before giving him the most enthusiastic wave she could muster.

Fred chuckled once more as he groped for the door's handle and disappeared down the hall within.

Penny smacked herself “He's blind! Why did I wave at him?! Ugh I'm going to kill that stupid bird. After the test.”

Penny sighed and pulled open the front door only to find herself staring at an empty classroom and a very displeased Miss Hart waiting for her. The older woman was in her late 20s with reddish brown hair, piercing green eyes and a scar that ran down her chin.

“Miss Maxwell.” Miss Hart spoke soft but firmly “I believe you are late.”

“Hee...” Penny timidly chuckled “Well you see I...”

“take your seat.”

Penny gulped “Yes ma'am.”

Penny played with the tiny miniature sword she had created while Miss Hart was talking about the necessary safe precautions about taking the Practical Examination.

“Miss Maxwell”

Penny shot up quickly but flinched as the minuscule weapon slid out of her fingers and landed on the floor with a barely heard thunk.

“Y-es Miss Hart?”

The older woman's gaze narrowed “Are you ready for the Practical Examination?”

“Umm....yes?” Penny replied, unsure what the correct answer was “I mean I've taken it 6 times so I'm very familiar with the whole process....”

“Then all students prepare for the examination.”

Penny looked to her left, her right and behind and as usual, found empty pews and tables in the remedial classroom.

“I'm ready ma'am!” Penny nodded excitedly

Miss Hart rolled her eyes as gestured to Penny's desk and swiped with her hand.

The desk was flung sideways without warning and broke into dozens of splinters.

“Umm Miss Hart?” Penny asked in an anxious, quizzical tone “Shouldn't we move this out of the classroom? I mean Practical Examinations aren't really supposed to be conducted within the...”

“I want to get this over with” Miss Hart interrupted, gesturing Penny with a finger.

The air surrounding the teen began heating up rapidly

Penny dropped to her knees as flames sparked into existence, swirling for a moment before being promptly extinguished

“Miss Hart!” Penny cried out as she rose to her feet “I really don't think...”

“Are you going to sling spells or just sit there?” Miss Hart answered, swiping the air in front of her.

Penny gulped as 3 massive broadswords impaled themselves into the floor just inches in front of her face.

“I guess we're not doing this by regulations” Penny murmured to herself, pointing directly to the approaching teacher.

The air sparked and crackled with fiery embers. Penny bit her lip in concentration, willing the air to catch ablaze but despite her best efforts, the sparks did not burst into flames.

Miss Hart shook her head, unsurprised by the result of Penny's spellcasting.

“Look Penny, if you want to do magic, you need to feel it!”

“I AM FEELING IT!” Penny shouted, unable to keep the desperation out of her voice.

“Remember the four fundamental styles of magic.” Miss Hart yelled back, closing her open hand into a fist “Alteration.”

Penny gasped, stumbling backwards while the wooden panel flooring sprouted vines that snaked towards her feet almost like they were alive.

“Manipulation!”

Penny covered her face as a fierce wind raged inside the classroom, scattering papers every and nearly knocking her off her feet.

“Transformation!”

Penny gasped, falling backwards and barely managing to scurry away from the broadswords that fell over, transforming mid-swing into large, imposing battle axes that sunk into the floor just in front of her

Penny could feel the tears well in her eyes. She was failing once again. 6 years of being stuck in the remedial class. 6 years of trying everything she could, studying and willing her magic to grow, to become more powerful and nothing. Nothing to show for it and another year of being stuck in the same class, a class that only existed because her magic was so sub par! This wasn't fair, this wasn't fair!

Miss Hart slowly approached the fallen student, her eyes cold and distant.

“And of course the most powerful, rarest of all....” she spoke slowly as she lifted her hand “Cre...”

Penny let out a horrible scream, one laced with all her failure, all her anger, all her despair and shot up to her feet.

Miss Hart's eyes widen as Penny's gray pupils shifted, becoming an icy white as her hair transformed from purple to a shimmering gold.

Penny's stare was empty and lifeless but before Miss Hart could react, she simply gestured to her teacher.

Penny fell to her knees, coughing wildly as she struggled to figure out what happened.

The last thing she remembered was Miss Hart preparing a creation spell and now she was on all fours, coughing her brains out and her mouth having a very unpleasant ashy taste.

Penny coughed as strains of golden hair intermixed with the sea of purple hung freely in front of her

gold? She didn't remember getting highlights.

Penny shook her head. Maybe she was just tired and imaging things.

“Miss Hart” Penny weakly called out, brushing her hair out of her face “I don't know what spell you used but you need to restrain yourself a bit.”

Penny looked upwards and felt her heart drop.

Miss Hart's simply stared at her, her jaw clenched tightly. She was surrounded by large, circular stone pillars that seemed have formed out of nowhere and if Penny didn't know any better, she would've said they almost looked like a hand reaching out for her teacher.

“Well...” Penny spoke quietly “I..guess...I passed?”

Miss Hart's eyes flared angrily “You failed.”

Penny scoffed “Failed? I like to point out that I clearly obviously evidently performed a creation spell and made...stone...fingers....or something! My magic is getting better and I shouldn't be stuck in the...”

“You failed” Miss Hart repeated coldly “Now get out of here.”

Penny felt a cold icy feeling spread through her body as Miss Hart's words echoed dully in her head.

“...I.....yes Miss...Hart.”

Penny could feel the tears building but refused to let them fall in the presence of her teacher. She didn't want to give her the satisfaction

Penny gathered her scattered belongings and bolted out the door, barely able to keep herself in check as she raced home.

Ripley Hart let out a tense, nervous sigh she had been holding. That was too close. Far too close for her liking.

She stared at the stone fingers that appeared from nowhere, running her hand over their smooth surface.

“....these are perfectly cut” She muttered to herself “Expertly crafted with an impressive detail.”

“It's bad isn't it?” a new voice asked carefully.

Ripley turned to find an elderly old man sitting patiently in a nearby seat. His beard was thick and bushy, probably to make up for the lack of hair on his skull. His sliver eyes peered thoughtfully towards Missy Hart as he waited for an answer.

Ripley nodded in agreement “It's really bad. Sir.....I think he's waking up.”

“....Well shit” the old man answered.

[sytycdrankings]

Top 8 Rankings

Probably the best show yet. Mostly due to the contestants finally dancing with each other.

12. Bodak Yellow (Robert/Taylor hip-hop), Luther Brown

This was awful. There is no way around this. This was actually, completely, and totally terrible. I was embarrassed watching this. Taylor’s ponytail was a mistake. Everything Robert did was a mistake. I’m more bitter that the judges passed this off as a good routine than anything. Because it wasn’t. 

11. Respect (Cyrus/Kaylee cha-cha), Val Chmerkovskiy

Alright, so Cyrus wasn’t good, but we’re gonna ignore him. Kaylee surprised me. I didn’t expect her to have a feel for this at all, but I really thought she did. Val is also very good at choregraphing things that will look good on whoever, so they lucked out in that respect. It was super basic, but at least it was danced pretty well (by Kaylee). Dem hips.

10. Handclap (Marko/Koine jazz), Mandy Moore

The best part about this routine was the look Koine gave to the camera at 30 seconds. I also felt terrible for her dancing in those heels. With all that turning and jumping and leaning, it looked really painful. So, this was good. I feel bad putting it this low, but there was nothing that made it super amazing, I guess? As always, these two have perfect chemistry and they’re good at their own style, but maybe the choreography could have been more interesting? It makes me worry for Koine since she was already in the bottom last week. 

9. Pop HD (Jenna/Kiki jazz), Travis Wall

This was almost really cool. I loved the outfits and makeup, and the concept was at least unique. I like when Travis does mildly creative stuff as I’ve said before. But again...Kiki doesn’t really do much. At least he did more than last week by having an actual turn and the bit where he held himself up on the couch, but besides that, he was mostly carting Jenna around the stage yet again. I also didn’t find their chemistry super amazing in this routine. Also, why was Jenna barefoot? I hate when one person is barefoot and one isn’t. Also also, the judges need to stfu and actually talk about Kiki during critiques instead of tongue bathing Jenna. It’s getting really fucking old.

8. Shadows (Kaylee/Logan contemporary), Travis Wall

I wanted to like this more, but for some reason, it didn’t completely click with me. The idea was cool, and I liked the choreography, but I don’t think it did Kaylee any favors tbh. Up against Logan, you can see where her technique is somewhat lacking, not to mention she was painted and dressed in dark colors, so it was hard to even pay attention to her. As always, Logan was great in his own style, and I did think they had good chemistry. It was just the kind of routine I see and go “huh, that was really cool” and then I never watch again.

7. Tilted (Dassy/Mark hip-hop), Christopher Scott

Imagine being Chis Scott, seeing that you have Dassy and Mark, and giving them this routine to do. Not only did he give them unnecessary props, but he forced them to dance with them for the entire routine. It was at least a real hip-hop routine, but I don’t think it individually showed off Dassy and Mark at all. Anyone in the cast probably could have done this routine. (Alright, an exaggeration, but still.) The only reason it still ranks this high is because Dassy and Mark are adorable and completely sold it. It was just so cute. When I got over how bitter I was, it made me smile so big. Chris Scott always does this when he gets specialists and I need him to stop.

6. Say You Won’t Let Go (Allison/Logan hip-hip), Christopher Scott

This was also cute. I guess Chris Scott was just in a cute mood last week. It also looks almost exactly like the routine he did for Jess and Clarice in season 8. Like almost exactly. I think there was even a mirror prop there, too. I guess it’s hard to come up with lyrical hip-hop routines that are supposed to look different from each other, though, so I’ll let it slide. I’m not surprised at all that Logan is good at hip-hop and I’m glad we saw him show off his breaking somewhat. I wish there was a little more, but I’ll take what I can get. Of course Allison is good at hip-hop considering who her husband is. Speaking of which, this definitely didn’t feel like a routine about married people at all, so I’m just gonna act like it was about Allison and her little brother.

5. Breathe (Fik-shun/Dassy contemporary), Jaci Royal

Okay, so this is more like it. That routine with Sydney during week 2 was just a fluke. This was really cool. The visuals created made the entire routine, like that spin lift where Dassy turned her body and when he held her up on his legs at the very beginning. I’m so glad we saw Dassy in a serious routine before she left to prove that she wasn’t one note, and their chemistry didn’t suffer at all. My one complaint is that I feel like there wasn’t a ton of dancing going on here. Just a lot of lifts and poses. Also, #JusticeForDassy.

4. Work Song (Gaby/Lex contemporary), Mandy Moore

I wanted this to be amazing and transcendent. Instead it was just...really good. Not entirely sure why. Maybe it was the choreography? At times it seemed a little too busy, and I think I wanted them to breathe with the music a little more. But Good lord, Lex. I wish that leap had been shown at a different angle because he looked like he got 20 feet off the ground. For once, I feel like he got to outshine Gaby. I didn’t really feel much of anything from Gaby during this dance, which is a first. It made the chemistry a little unbelievable, which is probably another reason this wasn’t amazing and transcendent. (That and when they got slightly out of sync during the only moment they were separated.) But this was the show off moment I wanted for Lex. Now all he needs is hip-hop.

3. Criminal (Comfort/Mark Broadway), Spencer Liff

I almost put them at #1 anyway because I think they’re amazing and deserve it, but my honest opinion puts this routine right here. If I had just watched this with no context, I wouldn’t have a clue that either of them are hip-hop dancers. Especially Mark! I love when Spencer doesn’t hold back because those leaps! Those turns! Those lines! Bboy where? Bboy who?? And of course, their chemistry is amazing as always. It was actually an entertaining, sexy routine like it was meant to be, and I hope Spencer was pleased af. Mark for the finale. (Also lmao at Comfort breaking the handcuffs and just holding her hands together for the rest of the routine.)

2. An American in Paris (Taylor/Lex jazz), Spencer Liff

I wanted them to dance together, but I wasn’t expecting them to actually get to do it. Also, I’m not sure if the showed actually admitted that they were dating or not. It sounded more like “oh we know each other and are super close, so this routine about being in love will be sooooo hard!” it was a little weird. Why not just say it? But anyway. Nigel exaggerated the fuck out of this, but I did actually think this was a great routine. They looked so happy to be dancing together, which made the chemistry perfect, which made me forget that it was supposed to be about two actual birds, because really, Spencer? Birds? And the dancing was really amazing. (All that control!) Not a surprise since this is their style, but when Taylor is choreographed to her strengths, she’s something else. I know it’ll keep her safe this week, which I really don’t want, but whatever. This was awesome. 

I feel like I have a lot of explaining to do putting Kiki at #1. Bear with me.

[halestil24]

I Wanna Be Sedated.

Pairing: Stiles x OC Rating: M Warning: Depression, isolation.  Words: 2,876.

A/N. Don’t be too harsh… K.

“You wanna know why I still look so tired Scott?”

The voice was probably louder than it should have been, but she would have recognized his voice anywhere.

“She sneaks into my room at night.”

“And does what?”

“You tell me!”

From where Brin was standing she could see Stiles lift the back of his shirt and expose something to Scott. The problem was she didn’t have to see it to know what Stiles was talking about. Derek had mentioned something about Malia and Stiles reeking of each other lately. Brin tried to believe differently but what she just witnessed was enough.

Things had been starting to be okay. The Nogitsune was gone, and with it was the threat of losing her best friend. Sure the ancient spirit, had done a number on everyone, but Brin was hoping that with the spirit fully gone and Stiles starting to get back to his normal self, the nightmares would stop. The problems she was having would stop.

But this was Beacon Hills, and she was part of a Pack and that isn’t how things work. Of course Scott and Derek had welcomed Malia to the pack, and Stiles was trying to help her adjust to life as a human. But no matter what they tried, she was always so pushy, and harsh. In fact, she was straight up rude. Allison had mentioned something about Malia complaining that it took her so long to recover from being stabbed.

Stiles had just brushed it off with being happy Allison made it, and Brin tried. She really did try to get back to normal. Yet something felt off. Deaton had said that Scott, Allison, and Stiles would have a darkness weighing down their heart when they sacrificed themselves to find their parents. Brin had to be hallucinating it, but she felt like a darkness was filling her instead.

Hearing Stiles talk to Scott about his bedroom escapades with Malia was not the best way to start her Friday. It was bad enough that when she woke up her parents were gone with a note saying they were on a business trip for a week, and that her aunt would check in on her. So she was alone. More alone than she really had thought, in fact she couldn’t remember the last time her and Stiles had a movie marathon or just hung out doing homework together.

With a heavy sigh, Brin walked into the school and straight to her locker. The whole walk there she felt a heavy pit in her stomach, and the walls were swimming around her head. Once at her locker she took a deep breath to steady herself. Not hearing Stiles as he moved to lean against the locker next to her.

“Hey.” his voice startled her. “Whoa, Brin… you okay?”

His brow furrowing in confusion. Something else flashed across his face as he searched her face.

“Uh…” Brin shut her locker. “Yeah. Fine.”

As if the world was reading her mind, for the first time ever, the bell rang giving her an excuse to get out of the conversation with Stiles. Luckily she wouldn’t see him until History.

+++ Stiles POV

Something was different. Usually when Stiles startled Brin she would smack his arm or fake yell at him. This time, there was nothing. Not even the faintest emotion in her voice, but that wasn’t bothering him as much as how she looked. She had these dark circles under her eyes, her shirt hung off of her shoulder a bit exposing her collarbone, which Stiles was pretty sure had not been that prominent before.

In fact, Brin looked skinnier than she had been. Her wrists were even smaller, by the looks of it. Yeah, you heard that right. Stiles notices her wrists. Stiles notices everything about her. How her dishwater blonde hair is tossed about her shoulders, reaching down her back. How her green eyes looked a little duller than they are supposed to. How her clothes were looser than they should be.

Many a time, Stiles heard Lydia mumble on about how Brin has the perfect shape. She is perfectly proportionate. Narrow waist, athletic frame, small but not too small breasts…. Okay Stiles was getting distracted. Something was wrong. He and Brin had been friends since 4th grade. She knew his mom. She was there when his mom died. If something was wrong, it was almost impossible for her not to spill the beans to him. Never had she just left it at “I’m fine.”

It was driving him nuts all day. She didn’t join their table at lunch, but that wasn’t something that was entirely new. Malia had pushed away a lot of their friends, and Brin was one of them when it came to seating arrangements. He would have his chance in History. Mr. Yukimura wouldn’t say anything if they talked in the back of the class. The problem was, she didn’t show, and she never came to her locker after school.

Stiles was about to head home and fester over chips and soda when he got a call from Melissa.

“Hey momma McCall, whatever it is… I didn’t do it.”

“Stiles… I need you to be serious.”

Dread filled his chest. His first thought went to his dad. Something must have happened.

“It isn’t your father. As far as I know he is fine. Maybe sneaking a few Big Burgers… but I need you to come to the hospital. I want to talk to you. Just you.”

“Y..yeah… Sure. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Stiles looked down at his phone, his brain going a mile a minute trying to figure out what Melissa would want to talk to him about, and why it was just him. Unless it was supernatural research related. He also noted her info on his dad sneaking burgers which he will have to address at a later time, but you better believe your ass it will be addressed.

It was only a matter of minutes before he was strolling through the triage doors looking for Melissa, who must have been looking for him.

“You are killing me here. What is going on?” anxiety filling his chest.

“When was the last time you talked to Brin?”

“Excuse me what?” His heart in his throat.

“Brin. When was the last time you talked to her?”

“This… this morning. What’s going on… where is she?”

“When was the last time you actually spoke with her, not just in passing?”

“I…. I don’t…. Melissa….” His hands were shaking. Stiles did not like where this was going. He knew something was wrong.

“Stiles.” Her voice was low as she lead him to a closed door. “Brin came in about an hour ago. Remember when you came to me, not long ago….”

Stiles nodded. Not really wanting to remember the time the Nogitsune made him think he had his mother’s disease, but Melissa was going somewhere with this.

“You sedated her?” His voice was calm and quiet.

“Yeah.” She swallowed thickly. “The last time she slept more than an hour or two was about the time you were possessed.”

After a quick calculation in his head, Stiles figured that Brin hadn’t really slept in a month, maybe two. If she wasn’t sleeping then she probably wasn’t eating right.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“Clinical depression. Night terrors, sleep deprivation… the only thing she seems to be is hydrated.”

“Why did you only want me here?”

Melissa just gave Stiles a knowing look. Scott would have made it a bigger deal, involving the pack, blaming someone. But Stiles would take care of her.

“She is going to be out for a while longer. Beacon County is having issues and has to send patients here. I can’t keep her here. I need you to take her, whether that is to her house, or yours… just… Stiles don’t leave her alone.”

“Yeah… okay. I can do that. Dad’s on a double… I’ll take her to mine.”

“Good. I’ll get a wheelchair.”

Stiles lifted Brin from the bed noting how she felt so much lighter than he remembered, to the chair, and then out to the Jeep. Melissa thanked him and kissed him on the cheek before he drove off with Brin propped against his door asleep. Much like many stake out nights that they shared before.

Stiles carried Brin bridal style up to his room, and placed her in his bed. Once he pulled the blanket back up over her, she rolled to her stomach nuzzling into his pillow. Stiles felt a little creepy as he stood there looking at her. She wasn’t as frail as he expected her to be after talking to Melissa.

God she was still so fucking beautiful. Even with the dark circles under her eyes. Brin had been so distant lately, and all Stiles wanted was to have her back. Now she was here, and he was taking care of her, like she took care of him and it felt right. Seeing her in his bed, relaxed, felt right. God he really hoped his pillow would smell like her.

That’s when it hit him. His room would smell of her, his bed would smell of her. Even if he couldn’t smell it himself, Malia would. And that was cause for disaster. Stiles needed to do something about it. Explain himself. Without a second thought, he stepped out of his room and pulled his phone from his pocket. Dialing Malia’s number.

“Stiles. Where are you?”

“I’m at home. Listen Malia… I… I need to talk to you about something, and no I can’t do it in person. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t care. What is it.” There was the bluntness to her voice.

“I can’t keep up our little arrangement.” “Why.”

“Because….” it wasn’t realization, because Stiles had known it for a while now, but he never said it out loud. “I love someone else, and that person needs me right now.”

“It’s Brin… isn’t it.” There was no anger in her voice like he expected.

“Yeah. It is.”

“I was wondering when this would happen. Okay.”

“Okay? No argument?”

“Stiles… what is the point of arguing? It was fun. I’ll see you later.”

Before Stiles could say anything else the line clicked. That was easier than he had expected, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to complain. When he stepped back into his room, a light whimper came from Brin. Her breathing had picked up, and Stiles was by her side in an instant.

Taking her hand in his until she calmed down. Without much thought, Stiles slide down, sitting with his back against the side of the bed, his hand still in Brin. It didn’t take long before his head was tilted back and his eyes slipped shut.

+++ Brin POV

Brin’s eyes opened and she wasn’t where she had been when Melissa sedated her. She still felt exhausted, so moving wasn’t an option. She took a deep breath, sucking in the smell of oak and fresh rain. The smell she associated with Stiles. Brin’s eyes shot open, evaluating her location. The whole room was familiar. The blues and blacks. The MacBook sitting on the desk littered with books. She was in Stiles’s room. In Stiles’s bed.

Then she realized that her hand was resting on the side of the bed, next to where Stiles’s head was flopped back. Melissa must have called Stiles, which really didn’t surprise Brin. What did surprise her was the lack of everyone else. The heavy feeling in her stomach was back, but she was too exhausted to worry about it. In fact, all she wanted to do was run her hand through Stiles’s dark hair. And she did. It was softer than it looked. Her nails scraped lightly against his scalp, pulling a groan from him.

Stiles shifted on the floor a little. His eyes peeked open, locking with hers. Then they shot open and he was fully turned looking at her.

“Brin. You… you’re awake. Don’t worry… Melissa called. I didn’t know if I should have taken you home or not…”

“Hmm.. yeah.” her voice was rough with exhaustion and sleep. “This is better.”

“I… you are scaring the crap out of me Brin... Melissa started throwing out words and I…. I don’t… how did I not know?”

“I tried not to let you know.”

“Why?”

“You know why Stiles.”

Brin’s eyes dropped a little. Melissa had said she would sleep a lot after the sedative, it was her body’s way of attempting to recover.

“Dad’s not going to be back for a while. You can stay here.”

“And where will you stay?”

“The floor is fine.”

“No.”

With all the energy she could muster, Brin scooted over and patted the bed. She didn’t know if Stiles would accept, or what would happen next. But she wasn’t in the mood to care. Stiles slid in next to her, not hesitating at all. What he did next surprised her. Stiles pulled her into his chest.

“Malia and I aren’t a thing anymore.”

“Oh.” With a surprised expression, Brin craned her neck a little to look at Stiles.

“So… what brought this on Brin? Why did you think you couldn’t tell me?”

“I just…. Void really played me, and I couldn’t deal. I wanted to tell you but… you know… you were busy getting your back mauled. Please tell me you washed these sheets.”

Stiles tried to stifle a laugh. “Yes… I did.”

Brin scoffed, running out of energy to stay awake. “Imma go back to sleep.”

“Yeah, okay. Should I call your..”

“No… ‘heir not ‘ome.”

“For how long?”

“Week.”

“You’re staying here, or I am staying there.”

“‘Kay.”

“I’m not letting you go again.”

“I ‘ove you… ‘iles…”

Stiles sucked in a sharp breath. He wasn’t going to get his hopes up, because Brin is exhausted and under the influence of a sedative, but dear god. He loved this.

“I love you too Brin. More than you know. Get some rest.”

Brin burrowed her face into his chest, and winded her arms around his waist. The next big bad could come in his room right now and kill him and he wouldn’t care because the girl he loves is asleep in his bed wrapped in his arms. Finally.

[nickscorza]

This is a story of mine I’ve been unable to find a home for.  I don’t normally do this, but I’ve decided to post it here, because it seems kind of scarily relevant in a way it wasn’t when I first wrote it:

To the Backers of the New Tongues Anthology of Poetry in Translation

This morning I received a package—a jumbled scree of handwritten notes, in no discernable order, stuffed into a Manila envelope that looked like it had passed through three layers of hell.  The handwriting is Allison’s.  It is the last word I have received from her, and I am afraid it is the last I ever will…

Forgive me, let me start again.

I owe you an explanation, or at the very least an apology. You have generously shared your support for literature that as I’m sure you know receives far too little attention in the English language, and now it’s my unfortunate duty to inform you that there will be no New Tongues anthology.

As to why that is, well, I will share with you the same information I shared with the police.  Perhaps you will be able to make sense of it where they or I could not.

The anthology was to consist of poetry from twelve languages little-read in English, translated by Allison, myself and ten other poets of note, each paired with a native speaker and scholar of her or his nation’s literature.  It is a reflection of the high esteem I hold Allison’s abilities as a poet that I chose [redacted] for her.  I understand it is somewhat notorious among linguists.  It certainly had nothing to do with our history. As for the country itself, I hear it is one of those tiny European principalities whose main industry is serving as a tax shelter.

The thing is, I know I did research when planning New Tongues, but I can hardly recall anything about [redacted].  I can’t even seem to find it on a map.

For weeks, my messages went unreturned.  When I came to her apartment, no one would answer the door. Then I received the notes.

I have tried my best to put them into readable order, and to take other precautions I hesitate to believe are necessary, yet which I cannot also bring myself to do without:

--M                      

…just my luck this ‘Mr. Note’ lives miles from the nearest subway, in a part of Brooklyn that’s all dingy old townhouses like rows of molars.  It’s the kind of place you can’t tell is safe or not from first glance because it’s so quiet, like a De Chirico painting with uglier buildings – a blank street that could be anywhere in the world.

What kind of a name is ‘Mr. Note,’ anyway?  Is he English?  I thought I was supposed to be working with a native [redacted] speaker.  Then again, I wouldn’t put it past Malcolm to beg me to participate in his little project, then give me an assignment designed to make him look good by comparison.  Good one, Mal.

I feel compelled to point out the falsity of this.  I chose [redacted] for Allison because she is the greatest poet I know.  The past is dead, and I harbor no more hard feelings.            -M

Mr. Note’s building looks just like all the others – four units each, with buzzers by the door.  His just says ‘NOTE,’ an imperative sandwiched between three other names whose ethnicity I can’t determine.  Maybe we’ll hit it off and he’ll let me call him by his first name. Maybe it’s ‘PostIt.’

“Who are you?” his voice crackles in the speaker, old and gruff.  What kind of accent is that?  I can’t place it.

“Allison Mandel, the poet, from the anthology.”

“The what?”

“New Tongues, the poetry anthology.”

“New tongues adorn the palace gates.  They blacken in the sun.”

The speaker dies in a burst of static.

A few moments later, the door unlocks with a buzz like angry wasps…

“You are a poet?”  His first words are a brusque question, as if he cannot believe what he sees.

I grimace, bracing myself for a fresh pile of old world macho bullshit. I’ve heard it all before; all the bitter, fungal professors that see your mere existence as a desecration of their favorite literary corpse-host.  Every university seems to sprout at least one.

Watching Allie lay into a pompous Pound scholar at a faculty luncheon is among my most cherished memories of our time together.   -M

Cable news is on a constant drone in the background. Oh lord, Mr. Note is some kind of political nutjob.

Then something in his pinched little face softens, and I think, it’s not that, it’s something else.  He’s small, no taller than my shoulder, and stooped.  His skin is etched everywhere by age, creased and blotched.  Only his hair could be called beautiful, fine and almost pure white – so delicate it is like the ghost of hair.

“Forgive me,” he says.  “It is only that poetry means something different in our language.”

Well, I have my work cut out for me.

Most good translations are the work of a poet and a scholar – and both will tell you good translations are impossible. Classical Chinese poems, for example, gain significance by their characters’ lateral as well as vertical arrangement – a web of meaning we can’t echo in English.  Languages have different tenses and thus different views of time.  Vestigial lumps in one tongue are the beating hearts of others.  If you keep at it long enough, you start to think we’re not all living in the same world.

I brought a copy of Bridal Flats with me in case Mr. Note wanted to read my work. He stares at it, confused, through little half-spectacles, as if I have handed him a pinned insect.  At his shirt cuff I can see the blue-black lines of a tattoo that must creep further up his arm.  I wouldn’t have picked him as the tattoo type.

He smiles as he reads my collection, real delight showing in his face, and I feel bad for my early appraisals of him.  Then he seems to remember something troubling – I can almost see the other shoe dropping in his brain.  His face sags into a frown.

“This will not work.  It is a terrible idea,” he says.

I swallow all the things I want to say to him. Instead I point to the table.

“Show me.  Teach me about your poetry.”

He laughs, short and bitter, but he obliges me.

We open a musty old book in his language. The alphabet is Latin, but the words are flecked with accents and strange marks I can’t guess the significance of.  Neither my fluent French nor my smattering of German is of any use.  Not a single word evokes anything familiar.  I cannot even imagine the pronunciation.

“What do you know of [redacted]?” he asks.

“Nothing.”

“I am not surprised.  We are so small, and ours is an orphan tongue, with less family than even Finnish, Hungarian or Basque.”

He hands me a battered spiral notebook.

“These are some transliterations I began.  In [redacted] the originals have a rhyme and meter which is quite complex.”

I am surprised he has done even this much—he seems so opposed to the project, but I think I can see a glimmer of desire as he watches me read over his rough, literal translations.  Some secret part of him has wanted this very much.

“The apple has a radius of

1.9 inches.  It is light red,

The variety known as Gala….”

Here I picture the perfect, questioning arch of Allison’s eyebrow, the subtle narrowing of the opposite emerald eye.  A look I knew well...                    -M

“What’s the significance of this?” I ask him. “Are they big fans of William Carlos Williams in [redacted]?”

“The apple is something real.  Something on which to hold in troubled times.  It is… safe.  Read another.”

“There are precisely 740 steps

In the National Stadium, provided

Of course you do not neglect to

Count the two emergency stairs,

Which many often do.”

He nods at this, though he winces slightly at the words ‘National Stadium.’  What kind of government does [redacted] have, anyway?  I remember Malcolm saying it was one of those little countries that never bothered to abolish the monarchy.

Something on the TV sets Mr. Note off, and we turn away from the book.  On the screen one of those dictators the West pretends is not a dictator because of favorable trade agreements is addressing the UN.  Nothing to do with [redacted], as far as I can tell, but Mr. Note is engrossed, shifting as he watches between anger and an acid, hopeless humor.

“Kim Jong Un spends millions to bring basketball stars to his birthday parties while his people starve.  They say his father forced them to listen to him sing rock and roll songs, dressed as Elvis Presley.  Saparmurat Niyazov of Turkmenistan erected a golden statue of himself that rotated so as to always face the sun.  Moammar Qadafi, before he was deposed, was guarded always by a harem of warrior women.  There are stranger things, worse things.  You do not understand, here, what it is like.  An absolute ruler styles himself a father to his people, when in fact the opposite is true.  He is a child, and nothing is so terrifying as to be ruled by the cruel whim of a child. You want to laugh, but heaven help you if you do.”

He speaks these words in anger.  Then, after they have escaped his lips, he grows pale and looks around the room nervously.  When he sees nothing out of the ordinary, he smiles.

“Let us read another.”

He leans over the notebook.  I can see the lines of the tattoo peeking out of his collar, creeping up his neck.  It’s strange, but they almost seem to be moving—little drops of blue-black blood flowing in reverse.

He lets me take his notebook home with me to read. I confess I’m surprised by the trust. He was happy when I left; smiling like a little boy who’s just founded the world’s greatest and most secret club. I’m glad at least one girl was allowed.

It’s raining outside, and the streetlights make the drops of water on my windows into little flecks of light.  Inside my apartment is small and empty.  I remind myself I can get a pet of some sort anytime I want to.  I can leave all my clothes in a big pile in the middle of the room.  I can paint the walls whatever stomach-churning color I desire. Malcolm is gone.  Why, after two and a half years, does it still feel like he’s looking over my shoulder?

I’m sure I was hard to live with.  I don’t pretend otherwise, but if only-  

No, I have run out of words on this subject.  Perhaps if I had listened and kept my mouth shut more often, the past would have been different.    -M

I stare at Mr. Note’s precise, blocky handwriting, trying to imagine what the poems of [redacted] sound like in their native rhythm.  On the page they seem constructed to be as flat and dead as possible – a poetry of the mundane.  According to his notes these go back hundreds of years, unchanged.  When everyone else was writing dense, metaphorical sonnets, the poets of [redacted] were talking about the ideal type of wood for barrel construction. They were either modern way before it was cool or else the world’s most boring culture.

The square of [redacted] contains

34,000 bricks, and a fountain…

And that sort of thing.

In the town of [redacted] they grow

Barley, and their little lives rise and

Are cut down like stalks of grain

Beneath their master’s scythe…

That’s odd… I was trying to copy a poem in Mr. Note’s manuscript that was all about agriculture in [redacted]—I don’t know what made me write those creepy lines. Looking back at the original, they’re not there.  It’s all about the yearly size of barley crops.

Reading too many of these poems must be numbing my brain.  I’m spending more time staring at my desk than reading.  Stupid Malcolm, I bet he did this on purpose.  Anything to look good in his own anthology.  

Then, as I stare at the wood of the old desk, I see something… a face.  Funny I never noticed it before, it’s uncanny—not just jumbles of lines that look kind of like eyes and a mouth, it’s an unmistakable face.  It’s simple, abstract, but every time I look at it I see something more.  The mouth and nose are an impassive mask, but the eyes…  I can’t believe what I’m looking at is just the grain of cheap wood. I have never seen eyes so hard or so cruel… I quickly look away, back to the book—only all the poems have changed. I can barely bring myself to scan the words.  Everything is blood and death.  The square is lined with crow cages, the palace walls with severed heads.  New tongues adorn the palace gates.,,

I have to leave the room after that.

The next morning, yup, nothing but the plain old wooden desktop, with two knots in the wood grain that might have been those eyes that freaked me out so much.  The poems are all as boring as I remember them.  Am I becoming one of those people who sees the risen Christ on a piece of toast?  Way to go, Allie.  Malcolm would swoop in here with the word pareidolia, then explain that it means the human tendency to see patterns and images in random nature, even after I tell him yes, I know what it means.

Of this I am certainly guilty.   -M

But I can’t forget seeing those eyes…  It’s crazy, I know, but some part of me thinks they saw me too.

I try to start planning for the fall semester, maybe even start on a new poem, but I can’t.  Whenever I sit down to write I see those eyes.  The only words that come to me are the ones I saw in the changed notebook, all blood and power and madness.  What’s going on here?  What was Malcolm thinking, giving me this?  

This afternoon I ring Mr. Note’s buzzer until he opens the gate and keep it ringing a few seconds longer for good measure. I’m furious and still shaking from last night.  This is too damn weird.  He looks happy to see me at first.  His smile crumbles when he sees the look on my face.

“What is going on here?”

He stays silent; his face drained of color. At least he doesn’t pretend not to know.

“What is the big secret with these poems? What’s your real name, anyway?”

“Names are not given lightly where I’m from.”

“Are you a refugee or something?”

“To be that, I would have to believe in refuge.”

“Ok, this isn’t going to work unless you tell me some things.  Who or what is the prince of-“

“Do not say it!”

His face is white, his body trembling.  He is feeble, a dry old leaf, but his hand reaches out to grip my arm, and his fingers close with a desperate, shocking strength.  The blue-black lines of his tattoo stand out like fresh wounds.

He starts to talk.

“Once, perhaps we were like other places.  We knew history.  We knew the freedom of our own language.  His poets changed past and present, meaning slipped away from the words we used, replaced with things we did not feel in our hearts.  Now he has always been there, and always will be. He leaves nothing pure, seeping into every corner of our lives.  With a few strokes of the pen, so much is gone.  People are gone.  You never see them again.  He has eyes everywhere, hounds trained for the hunting of men, and traitors hang from his palace wall.  You have already seen too much.”

“Don’t worry.  Take your notebook back,” I said.  “I’m done.”

I practically throw it at him.  I don’t need this in my life.  He lets it drop to the floor.

“It was foolish to want this,” he says. “Forgive me.”

As I turn away he stoops to pick it up.  The ink from his tattoo has crept down his hand and on to the page, its blue-black tracery spreading across the papers he is holding.  Something is putting down roots…  I do not stay to watch.  I cannot.

My walk home is silent, and I fight to keep from breaking into a run.  The first chill of fall is in the air, and the sky looks like it could rain on a whim and stop a moment later.  Everything is gray and waiting.  I met a Czech poet once, one of the samizdat guys, who said there were always two types of secret police – the ones everyone knew were secret police, there to remind you, and the ones no one knew were secret police, there to deal with you.

Oldřich—I always hated the way he looked at you.   -M

I keep my eyes on the street on the way back, try not to meet anyone’s gaze, and when I get home, I lock and bolt the door and collapse against it, breathing heavy.

For a moment, I almost consider calling Malcolm. Luckily, that foolishness passes quickly.

I wish you had.  Oh Allie, what happened to us?  What happened to you?  -M

In my dream, I am in a dark place.  I have forgotten the light.  I know myself by feel, but the face I touch does not feel like mine, nor do the hands that touch it.  My body is no longer related to itself, its parts are discrete, unknowing. Mr. Note’s voice is in my ear:

“The worst thing is how easily it happens. The people are willing to believe, to do whatever is asked of them.  You must merely present it as normal, as the logical choice, and it has always been thus.”

Then there is light—ghastly, painful, and white corridors, and hands on me, washing me, a mirror.  Is that really my face?  So thin, so lost.  There is a humming by my arm, and a burn as I feel the first bite of the electric needle, see the blossom of blue-black ink on my flesh, the lines that are taking shape… words, volumes I dare not read are scrawled on my skin.

[redacted]

[redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted]

I will not leave the apartment.  When my phone rings, it is all clicks and whispers, the whirr of listening machines.  I have unplugged it from the wall.  When I creep out to get my mail I find it has been opened.

I will not leave the apartment, but I can’t stop thinking of Mr. Note, the last look of sadness giving way to terror on his face as the blue-black lines spread from his hand to the pages he held.  One day I cannot stand it anymore, and I take the subway, then the bus, then walk to where he lives.  I know I am followed every step, though I see no one.  When I get there, I find another name on the entrance to the building.  I ring the buzzer, and a woman answers, speaking a language I cannot recognize. I speak into the box, asking about Mr. Note, but there is no response.

The new semester will be starting soon.  I have already missed two faculty meetings. I don’t know what I will do once classes start.  It’s been days since I’ve written, and I’m too afraid to read even the newspaper.  I know what words I’ll find there.

My chair is heavy wood, old, scarred and pitted and stained-over many times.  It was purchased at a yard sale.  My desk- no, don’t look at the desk.  The eyes. The face.  My apartment is about 600 square feet, pre-war, with off-white plaster walls.  My walls are lined with bookshelves, some dark wood, some that cheap wood-composite stuff you get at IKEA, a mix of plastic and organic.  My books are the only thing I really keep organized, alphabetical by author, poetry and fiction and theory and general nonfiction.  The titles are all familiar and dear to me.  The Complete Works of Emily Dickinson, Millay, the Rossetti’s, Elizabeth Bishop, Lyrical Ballads, Self Portrait in a Convex Mirror, Four Quartets, Les Fleurs du Mal, The Glory of the Ruler, The Exalted Prince of [redacted], the baying of the hounds, the heads of traitors hung from his walls, wreathed in flies.  New verses are writ each day in his honor.  New tongues adorn the palace gates, they blacken in the sun.

That’s the end.  But there is more, or there was.  When I read these notes the first time, there was a poem in ink on the back of the last page, a true translation.  I confess it chilled my blood.  It is gone now, and I would not reproduce it here even if I could.  Allison is gone with it.  Not even a trace remains.

It is seventy-five steps from my office to my car. The sun is setting.  The parking lot is empty, but I know I am followed all the same.

[brady-personal]

1-10 reflections

these posts are so funny to read in hindsight. i want to respond to the previous posts, as if i’m answering questions from the future. which i suppose i am.

1

there’s a lot of pain in this post, likely because this was the year i really started forcing myself to analyze my sexuality. 

i still find it so fascinating how clear it was to me. while i might argue i still don’t understand my sexuality (and likely never will), there was no period where i really thought i was straight, at least once i hit the age of fifteen, three years before this post. i remember getting off to porn, watching the guy, falling in love with his grunts and his machismo, wanting nothing more than to be held by him and be looked at like how he was looking at the girl. like a meal ready to be devoured. but there was nothing i was ready to do at that time, so i told myself to “wait until i was in college to figure it out” and consequently wasting a ton of time in high school

although i suppose we never truly “waste time” as sometimes things aren’t ready to happen and we have little control over that

i think this is about allison. i’m unsure (and maybe a later post would clarify this), but this beautiful theater girl was interested in me, and i think, if anything, this was a confusing confidence booster for me. this was the first year where multiple people were pining for me, mostly bc i exuded asexuality (bc of my confused sexuality) and this was when i became a little flirty, a characteristic i hold to this day. 

this is evident from my reaction to people online thinking i’m cute. now, i know i am attractive, but that also comes from me growing out of an awkward stage and developing a style of my own, something very few high school seniors have. but there is so much hatred in these words, looking at how shocked i was that people could be attracted to me. 

i started learning that i could be a sexual creature, but was not ready to actualize that and feel whole about it. something i still struggle with to this day.

tbh, this is pretty self aware though. i’ve always been pretty self aware, maybe because i have generalized anxiety and look at every angle of every situation. i want to understand the full picture. either way, reading

“but i have interest in being with this girl and i can’t tell if it is because she’s so interested in me or because it is truly what i want“

is remarkable, because i was right. while i was a little sexually curious, i think it was more that she liked me and that felt good. 

this is an exciting post, because i had SO much in the future i had no idea about that would provide some clarity. but wow, the confusion is real

2

little did i know how marijuana would fuck up my mental health. i’m happy i didn’t have a joint in this post, and it’s funny to see how drinking black tea made me feel “so zen” when i struggle to feel that way now without weed.

i remember so much about the timing of this post--this is right when i met lincoln, the first boy who ever expressed interest in me (that i was aware of). he was from tumblr. not sure if i discuss this later, but we eventually met. 

i remember being locked in my house bc it was so cold outside, and spending so much time talking to this boy online to pass the time.

also, no one is reading this blog as it is password protected, so i’m unsure who i thought i was talking to in the last paragraph. but here’s where the ego started :)

5

ok brady you do this to people all the time. sometimes people just don’t want to talk!

like i get so annoyed at people expecting my attention all the time, especially with how connected we’re forced to be with the internet. if i could go back i’d tell brady to chill out and stop personalizing everything bc, while i don’t remember the exact context of this post, it’s very likely that someone is just sleepy and doesn’t want to keep up a conversation

but also lol this is kind of cute

7

i’m so curious who this is about??? 

to my understanding, i came out to ria first in the sonic parking lot and then came out to sonia in her living room. but i wouldn’t describe either of them as “not one of my best friends but someone i love very much.” i really don’t know who this is about........!!! gonna keep thinking about it

but i think what i was feeling was acceptance, and that’s a beautiful thing.

omg i remember lincoln answering those questions. in hindsight, it’s so perfectly timed that i cannot believe that just serendipitously happened. that boy totally asked himself those questions and hoped i would see it. i cannot believe that worked HAHA (of course i could be wrong but i’ll never know so it doesn’t really matter)

lol @ “this is all happening really fast” like for seventeen year old brady probably but in reality nothing had really happened. but i miss this romantic excitement--i rarely feel this anymore

also i didn’t end up taking ap macro so CRISIS AVERTED

“happy someone of each gender likes me” (no probably about it) shows i was kind of just ego tripping here, collecting these experiences to choose what path to take, ultimately taking neither really. but that all comes out later :)

8

i don’t remember him meaning that much to me. but this is kind of nice to read. i never had that experience of waiting by my phone for texts, which should have said something about my feelings for him versus the girls.

“see him and kiss him” aw that’s so cute

“or if he’s just a horny guy” is where this all began, putting criticism towards that horniness as if it’s a bad thing, thinking it’s bad that a guy could maybe just wanna fuck me and that being a bad thing. but we have so many types of human connections, and sometimes all we’re meant to do with someone is fuck. not that i would know..........

9

ROSENDO! ugh this was one of the best nights of my high school life. it was easter i remember, and i felt so unholy and that was exciting to me

feeling like a “bad boy”

(i’m going to read this in five more years and cringe at that term but i guess i mean it tongue in cheek. not “bad boy” like jesse katsopolis but allowing myself to do things that are pleasure focused)

an older mexican man. seemed like perfection, right? to think that i thought of him as so mature, when i’m now almost 23 and he was only 20! i can’t believe rosendo was only 20. wow. such a baby, and the fact that i thought of him as such an expert in this world. sure, he was more experienced than i was at 20, but he was such a baby. i remember him turning 21 and thinking it was so crazy that he could buy us alcohol.

he was a really good kisser

10 

there’s a lot to unpack with this one

kyle was incredible, unfortunately he moved and i was kind of a dick about it and he cut me out and hasn’t talked to me since. i think we texted once about a year ago but he has pretty actively tried to get some distance. he lives in LA now and is super into video games. his mental health is still not great i think. i wonder about him sometimes and i hope he’s doing well-- he really was a sweetheart.

i didn’t get into UROP

and that friend group was super dangerous for me, so learning that it’s ok that they didn’t want to hang out with me was super substantial. cutting the cord was great. now sean lives in vancouver and i’ve tried relentlessly to see him but alas he’s distant and hard to reach. even my own mother told me to stop caring about him haha. so i guess mom knows best, as usual

and, to this day, flamboyant men still make me uncomfortable, even though i am one of the now. mostly because they are so confident and sure of themselves, and i am not. i look it though, and i know many people would be surprised to hear me say that i am anything but confident. but it’s a facade we all put on one way or another, and one day i hope to be one of those flamboyant out-and-proud gay men who i secretly looked up to, even five years ago

[medialiterates]

Kelly D: Response to prompt #2

Ever since I was in high school, I have been referencing blogs for different reasons—sometimes for recipes, other times for style inspiration, and other times for DIY how-to guides.  One time, though, my friend and I were debating over what one should wear to a job interview in a specific field... and when we typed our question into Google search, a blog came up that was from a genre I hadn’t looked at before.  This blog, AskAManager, had all of the answers my friend needed for her interview—everything from what to wear to when to send a thank-you note to the interviewer. My friend ended up using the advice, and she still talks about how that blog is an example of “great advice from a total stranger.”  The AskAManager blog is still up and running today, and once in a while, I browse it to see if the author posts anything interesting.  Although I originally stumbled upon this blog by accident, I’m so glad I did so.  Since referencing it with my friend that one day, I have learned a few interesting pieces of wisdom from the author, who is a former HR manager and contributing author to several websites related to HR.

I’ll explain in more detail: almost every day, the author of the AskAManager blog publishes questions that her readers have sent in, which she then answers and posts for all to see (keeping the questioning readers’ names anonymous, of course).  These questions are always related to career advice, and range from questions like the one my friend had (“What do I wear to an interview?”) to ones that are more serious (“My co-worker drinks on the job; should I say something?”).  Sometimes the questions are even specific to a certain industry—for example, someone from the retail industry might ask, “what do I bring to the company party if I only get paid $9 an hour and can’t afford to buy more than a bag of chips?” No matter what the question is, the author of AskAManager answers it in a way that provides insight into overall perspectives on maintaining a great career and adhering to Human Resources codes. Although those topics might sound boring, they’re sometimes helpful, and it’s often interesting to read about issues that adults face in their own career.

I believe the author of AskAManager is successful in her goal to educate people on career and HR advice.  One thing that reveals how successful she is: she has a large following on her blog; almost all of her posts get hundreds of comments, and a lot of the comments reveal that her readership is extremely loyal (for example, some people will comment and say, “Thanks for answering this question; I love reading your blog every week!”).  Another thing that reveals the author’s success is the fact that she regularly gets featured on sites like Forbes.com, where they either quote things she has already said, or they have her answer questions to their own readers who have written in.

I think the reason behind the AskAManager author’s success is that she maintains a consistent voice throughout her blog. She sometimes gives advice that is unexpected or especially interesting, but she never writes in a way that seems monotone or inconsistent with the tone of her other posts.  She has a clearly developed “personality” on her blog, and I think that is refreshing to people.  She is also professional at all times, while still making room to make jokes once in a while, when appropriate.  Finally, the author is sometimes harsh with her readers when she answers questions (for example, she might say, “Why did you go out for drinks with your boss?  Readers, don’t do this—it’s not a good idea,” etc.).  However, she doesn’t resort to calling people names or getting personal, never reveals their work information or personal information in general, and she also enforces a strict “appropriate comments” policy for her readers, while still allowing them to express their true opinions.

This blog relates to the Carol Dennis article in that it is an example of a blog where people go to learn; Dennis studied these types of blog for her research, which she wrote about in the article. Although this blog is not one for which there is an organized structure for people to engage with one another, the commenters often communicate with each other on posts, sometimes even asking one another questions that are related to the one featured in the post they’re commenting on.  Therefore, the AskAManager blog is somewhat of a blog that is related to collaborating with others, and Dennis studied these blogs in her research too.  Also, Dennis discusses the fact that the bloggers’ public is not a public for everyone in the literal sense; instead, it is a public that is intended for one type of readership.  Similarly, the AskAManager blog is intended for people who have jobs or are currently looking to get one, either now or in the future. It is also somewhat tailored to people who have a high interest in moving up within the organization or company that they work for, and for people who are highly motivated to succeed at their career in general.  Therefore, AskAManager is a blog that fits in with Dennis’ belief that no blog is literally intended for everyone to read.  Further, when Dennis discusses blogging as a public pedagogy, she says that individual authorship is a very personal dimension, and I think the blog I chose to write about is a perfect example of one that has one author; further, this author does a great job of teaching her readers something without seeming too formal or boring.  She doesn’t make it a diary, but she still adds a personal touch to every post, typically with sarcastic humor and a friendly and familiar tone.

What I’ve learned from the AskAManager blog is that it’s important to maintain a consistent and unique voice when taking a public pedagogy approach to blogging.  If I want to be successful in my attempt to gain readership—and loyal readership at that—I should be at least somewhat consistent in expressing my personality; I doubt anyone wants to read an extremely boring blog (I know I don’t!), and the author of AskAManager does a great job of making what could be a boring topic into an interesting one.  Another thing I’ve learned from this blog is that people see value in information that is not readily and easily available to them.  Sure, we could all go through our employer’s HR books, but a lot of times, those books don’t cover the gray areas—the ones we’re too nervous to ask about.  In those times, the internet rules, and AskAManager is an example of a space that fills a niche; the author of this blog provides people with information that they can’t always just ask their coworker about, either because they feel uncomfortable or because the coworker wouldn’t know anyway.

 Sources:

·      Green, Allison.  “Is This Job As Suspicious As It Seems?”  Blog Post.  Ask A Manager.  http://www.askamanager.org/.  4 February 2017.  Accessed 4 February 2017.

·      Dennis, Carol.  “Blogging as a public pedagogy: creating alternative educational futures.” International Journal of Lifelong Education.  12 February 2015.  Accessed 5 February 2017.