#grandma gajos

[jade-bright]

Just so yall know,

There's some versions of my same age sterek au in my head, where Stiles' grandmother, Claudia's mother, is a(n) seer/oracle (someone with the ability to see what will happen in the future).

Anyway, in some worlds, at some point, Grandma Gajos sees how Claudia will lose herself and die when Stiles is still fairly young. She doesn't do much about it since she's had to grow up reminded and reminding herself to live in the moment, but it all comes to a head when Stiles loses most of his spark, (as the price for bringing Paige back from the dead) that's when she knows Claudia will soon not be her Claudia anymore.

So she let's her grandson and his friends have some time to recover from their friend's death and resurrection, and let both the Stilinski and Hale families process the fact that the other is part of the supernatural world, before she starts getting herself involved with Stiles' relationship with Derek.

Firstly, this is a born werewolf of a strong pack and a long line of Hale's, she is going to walk up to the Hale house and demand strongly suggest and recommend that Derek officially and correctly court her grandson, (Stiles can whine all he wants but a spark deserves no less than a proper courting, especially her own grandson).

After both of them have proven themselves worthy mates to the each other and their families, with some help from Peter (because he's the only reasonable one hadn't tried to talk her out of this whole thing, and willingly helping with little to no fuss) she starts to plan a mating bond ritual combined with a handfasting ceremony.

Both parents of the boys try to reason with her, in that they shouldn't be tying their sons together so early, when they're both still so young, but she knows her daughter won't be able to be at her son's wedding (doesn't yet see that almost all the Hale's won't be either), and that if there's one good thing about her power is that she knows Derek is it for Stiles, she's seen several versions of her little Mieczysław and there's not one where he doesn't end up with Derek Hale.

She continues on her mission of getting them married through spark and werewolf means, she knows even if it'll only be recognized by those of the supernatural world, it won't matter because this is much more meaningful to both families.

When she's sitting in the front row during the ceremonial ritual and can see right in front of her, the deep true love these two boys have for each other, she's more than happy to have gone through with this. And when she's at the after-party watching as Claudia and Talia get to dance with their new sons, she's truly reassured in that she'll never regret her decision in doing this.

This adventure of Grandma Gajos ends with howls and sparks of light going into the night, and for some, it'll be the last good moment they'll have for a long time...

[kissedbyaphrodite]

I just made a family tree for a Sterek idea I had the other day, and fell down the rabbit hole regarding Stiles and his polish ancestry. So, I thought I'd write it down to 1) Make sure I don't forget anything I just found, 2) To also maybe help anyone who wants to write a Polish Stiles fic, 3) Someone who is actually polish could help me, because even though I am of Polish descent, my great grandparents were Polish and nobody in my family knows the language/culture. So if you're Polish and I made a mistake, please let me know.

1) Stiles' name. The whole show we hear slightly jokes about how Stiles' name has too many consonants, how it's hard to pronounce for Americans and how, as a kid, when Stiles tried to say his actual name, he could only say the word "Mischief". When Stiles is taken by the Ghost riders, Sheriff Stilinski reveals that Stiles name is Mieczysław. But, the name doesn't seem so hard to pronounce? Like, obviously someone who isn't Polish would butcher it and pronounce it as "Miech-Sis-lau/Miech-sis-law" but you could kinda make out it's pronounciation just by reading it; obviously, none of those is correct, since the ł letter is actually pronounced as a W rather than an L, so the name is actually pronounced "myeh-CHI-swaf" . So, while obviously hard for non-Polish speakers, it's not unpronounceable, and while it does only have three bowels, you can use them as a guide to try and pronounce the name; plus, the pronounciation isn't really similar to the word "Mischief". I looked for other names, and found the name "Mścisław" which has less bowels, looks harder to pronounce (Again, for non-Polish speakers) and it actually does sound like "Mischief", since it's pronounced "Mshchees-waf". So, to summarize, in my heart and head, Stiles name is Mścisław.

2) Noah's and Claudia's last names. Now, this one is actually very interesting since both last names, Stilinski and Gajos, are highly similar to Polish last names, Styczyński and Gajdoš. With the last names I wasn't looking into as deep as I did with Stiles' name, because this is something I've seen a lot in my country, we have many immigrants from countries like Poland, Belgium, Germany, etc, so I am no stranger to anglicised names, my grandparents on my mom's side and great grandparents on my dad's side are immigrants and I had a teacher who's grandfather was an immigrant, and they all had to slightly change their last names + names to fit in. And so I find it believable that Stiles' grandparents/Greatgrandparents anglicised their names to make sure they fit in with everyone. The Styczyńskis changed it to Stilinski, which is easier to sound out and say than Styczyński and the Gajdoš let go of the d and the š and switched it to Gajos. I do headcannon that both Claudia and Noah's great grandparents were immigrants and then they had Elias and Claudia's mom/dad in the US, since the more drastic changes to names and surnames that I've witnessed usually happened around the 30s until the early 40s. Like, my grandma immigrated here in late 1940 and she simply had to change the pronounciation of her name, but my great grandparents, who came here around 1930 or so, changed their last name drastically.

Again, this is all just from what I could find online and my experience as the grandson/great grandson of immigrants, if you're Polish/son of Polish immigrants and closer to the culture and language, feel free to add anything you want

[scribeoffate]

24. A and B swap stories about their worst dates. + scott and lydia

Thanks for the prompt!

Lydia leans back and takes a sip of her drink. "Truth."

"Worst date you ever been on?" Scott sips carefully at his own drink. The wolfsbane laced punch can... pack a little bit too much of a punch if he's not careful.

But he's also safe, surrounded by pack and family and Stiles and Derek had agreed to stay sober during this party. He figures by his second drink, he might even be able to convince himself it's a good idea.

"Hands down, the time Stiles thought we should go paintballing. That man did not expect to get absolutely annhilated. I haven't any idea why, he knew Allison had been giving me lessons."

Scott takes another drink. The two of them are quiet for a moment, lost in thought and memories of Allison.

"Your turn, truth or dare?"

"Truth."

"Your worst date?"

His worst date isn't appropriate for this. His worst date is the cause of too many nightmares even years later.

Stiles walks up to him and slides into his lap. "Scotty thought it would be a good idea to go to BINGO night with me and Grandma Gajos. I didn't know how serious you were about paintball," he pouts at Lydia, "but it's nothing compared to BINGO."

"It wasn't that bad," Scott says softly, smiling as Stiles cuddles against him. "Mhmmm. Don't try and pretend you didn't cry the entire way home." Scott laughs and mock pushes Stiles off. His boyfriend looks affronted before looking at Lydia's lap.

She crosses her legs primly and places her manicured hands on her knee. Stiles whines, but grins and pulls up a chair. "Is either of you ever gonna pick dare?"

"Why?" Lydia stares at him.

"So I can get one kiss tonight?"

"What if I dared Scott to kiss Derek?"

"I can hear you," Derek grumbles from across the room, where he's playing Monopoly with Liam, Mason and Malia. Scott's honestly surprised it hasn't devolved to violence yet.

"Maybe I should dare Scott to kiss you," Stiles says, eyes darting between them.

Scott's startled when Lydia smiles. "I might like that."

Request a Ficlet

[future-rp]

STATIC’s lead rap & sub vocal taewoo

verve creative; lyric-writing 05 vocal / 10 rap / 05 dance

TRIGGER WARNINGS: domestic violence, alcohol abuse, physical abuse, death

AS TIME PASSES,

“what did i say about playing in dirt?” the noise of a scrub brush and the feeling of the bristles against the tips of his fingers was soothing to a five year-old taewoo. back and forth, back and forth, never too rough but just enough pressure to pick out the pieces of clumped dirt from under his nails: he loved it. taewoo didn’t mind being yelled at (he didn’t mind being scolded), because it meant that his mother was worried about something other than that evening, something other than when his father would come home.

december is a cold month, even colder in a tiny village named changho on the northern tip of a tiny island named gajo (a place no one would be able to point out on a map). but december can be warm, too, at least december 10th for ahn taehee, kim soonhee, lee youngja, ahn youngsik, and ryu kyungsoo; it was the day taewoo was born. taehee finally had a child, a baby boy that she prayed for night after night for what seemed like years (and actually was). soonhee and youngja finally had a grandchild, one they could feed and love and make clothes for. youngsik and kyungsoo were finally grandfathers with a grandson they could teach how to fish and work and play guitar and be strong, to carry on the family legacy and maybe be someone.

taewoo’s parents – taehee and hyunwoo – fell in love, hard and fast; they lived that way, too, until early 1996 when a few too many drinks led to a missed period and a shotgun wedding that followed suit. ahn taehee would spend the majority of her time looking after her only child. he was too precious to let go of even for a second, too delicate and beautiful and everything she could have ever imagined and then some.

it was supposed to be impossible, she was told. becoming a mother was something doctors said was unrealistic time and time again since she was young. due to an illness as a child, ahn taehee was deemed infertile. but she believed in miracles. ryu hyunwoo, though, didn’t.

he never wanted a child. he didn’t want to bring one into this world where jobs were scarce and it was hard enough to feed himself and everyone crowded in the ryu family home. three generations lived under the same roof in changho, and with both hyunwoo and taehee’s aging parents, it was up to hyunwoo to bring in most of the money. youngsik, taehee’s father, and kyungsoo, hyunwoo’s father, couldn’t do hard labor anymore; they’ve done their fair share over the years anyway, but having a body close to 90 and working on fishing boats or doing construction work on geoje or in tongyeong or goseong or changwon or busan was too much. even the nuclear power plant in eoui-ri, on the island over, would turn away their applications for work, claiming they weren’t fit. soonhee, taehee’s mother, and youngja, hyunwoo’s mother, could sell vegetables and homemade items, but everyone else on the island was just as bad off as they were. it was useless to even try.

all of them relied on hyunwoo, so hyunwoo relied on alcohol.

IT BECOMES MORE RUINED;

all of taewoo’s childhood memories about his father consist of him leaving before the sun came up and coming back home well after it had set. sometimes the scent of alcohol would already be on his breath by the time he stepped through the door and other times he would stare at the black, crashing sea with a bottle in hand and drink until his eyes were glazed with something not human. when taewoo’s mother told him to go sleep with his grandparents (which was almost every night), he knew exactly why. the walls in this house weren’t thick, the heat in the summer and the draft in the winter were proof to that already, but the screams and the crashes and the pleading? that was all more than enough. all of them – taewoo and his grandparents – were unable to sleep most nights, at least until the crying stopped.  

there was an anger that built up. a detest that festered and flourished whenever he even thought of the name “hyunwoo”; taewoo was disgusted knowing that he – in name and in dna – was half of that man. this anger started at an early age, around seven. it had flipped from fear to rage and one night he couldn’t take it anymore. his long legs and arms kicked off the blanket that five people shared and left the room despite the wrinkled hands that tried to hold him back. with any more force, the sliding door of the bedroom would have broken off. hyunwoo was too busy screaming to pay any attention, cursing taehee for having a child, for bringing her parents to live here with them, for both of their parents still being alive and bleeding them dry of every cent they had. taehee was on the ground, hands and knees, with blood still dripping from her nose and a fresh bruise forming around her eye. taewoo could see it from where he was, he could see the fear in her eyes, too, not from hyunwoo’s terror but from taewoo standing there, watching. so he didn’t watch. instead he ran, jumping onto his father’s back and hitting him with tiny fists, kicking him with tiny feet, jabbing elbows into shoulders and heels into thighs and groin. in taewoo’s victory, hyunwoo stopped yelling and hitting taehee. in hyunwoo’s drunken state, he fell backward and landed on taewoo, and taewoo landed on broken glass from a bottle that was thrown earlier. a thick shard had slid its way into the back of his left shoulder – even now he can’t remember the pain if he tried. all he remembers from that night was his attempt at stopping his dad and then making it worse; his mother’s arms wrapped around him to protect him as she was kicked, finally stopping as his grandparents got in the way.  

he tried calling the police once. they laughed at him. taewoo’s grandparents had tried to tell him that calling the authorities wouldn’t do anything. his father was too close to all of the police officers on the island and officers outside had their own cases to look into. it was useless, he was useless. taewoo had to find his own way out, he had to save his mother by himself.

IT’S COLLAPSING AGAIN.

nights are horrible – they still are – but days? that’s when taewoo was formed into who and what he is.

before he was old enough for school, his grandparents would baby him; grandfathers taking him out to fish and learn how to tie special knots or learn how to hunt or, specifically with his grandpa kyungsoo, learn to play the guitar even though his fingers were still too small. his grandmothers would show him flavor after flavor in the kitchen and in the forest and fields behind their house – they’d teach him about plants and cooking and with grandma soonhee, about literature, art, philosophy, and poetry. he’d spend his days making up rhymes and reciting them to plants, hoping that maybe one day he’d be able to be up there on the list of great korean poets like seo jongju or kim sowol.

when he started school, his days were then filled with learning about the world. it was also filled with the world learning about him. his home-life wasn’t a secret for others in changho-ri, especially for those on the street he lived on. but other kids from other streets had no idea until people started talking about it at school, naming him the “kid with the dad who hits his mom” – they were cruel and he tried to not pay any attention. they’d become silent over the years anyway, with taewoo growing taller and stronger than them.

it was after a couple years in school that the teachers asked him with what he wanted to be when he grew up. that question was terrifying: he wanted to do so much. he loved writing and reading poetry, so that’s what he wanted to do. he also loved playing the guitar and singing a few tunes, so he wanted to do that, too. he also loved cooking and eating and gardening and hiking and his kindergarten teacher, so he wanted to be all of those things, too. grandpa kyungsoo listed to young taewoo’s worries one day and came up with the best idea taewoo ever heard: “why not be a singer?” he could write his own lyrics, which (in some respect) is poetry, and play the guitar at the same time. everything else could be a hobby and he could easily volunteer to help at places with kids in need, even be able to donate money to charities. “with that money, i could move us all off of this island, right?” he asked his grandpa. kyungsoo replied with a ‘it’s possible’.

taewoo now knew what to write down on the paper his teacher asked him to fill out about his future: a singer.

EVEN THOUGH THE END IS VISIBLE,

ryu taewoo was eleven for the majority of 2008. it was the year he began seriously researching about how to become a singer and quickly learned that the only way to really do so was to go to seoul. he would spend lunch breaks and hours after school looking up everything he could on the school’s computer about being an idol singer. it would take him about seven hours, multiple buses, and more money than he had to get from changho to to seoul. and even if he made it there, he would still have to find a company, audition, get in, train, and hope to debut.

that summer he learned that his grandpa kyungsoo tried to become a singer before. after world war two, there were many hardships and a lot of pain. singing and playing the guitar took some of that away. his success, though, was barely comparable to a lit match: singing in changho (where kyungsoo grew up) and on the bigger island of geoje in small bars and such was the farthest he reached, family tying him down back to changho and to fishing boats. yet even from the short-lived local fame, he learned to keep tight lipped and let family things be family things. everyone wanted to know about who kyungsoo was and where he came from, what made him who he was and where the emotion in his voice came from. he told taewoo that if he was going to do this, he needed to be smart. he needed to keep whatever happens in their house solely in their house. “the truth can become a weapon,” he muttered and taewoo listened. later in the summer, grandpa kyungsoo passed away, leaving behind a broken family, his guitar, and some money, just enough for a ticket to seoul.

at the funeral, taewoo’s father didn’t even appear sad – taewoo remembered the look, it was more relief than anything. the only thing that went into hyunwoo’s lips was alcohol and the only thing that came out, muttered in a slurred voice, was “one down, four to go.” taewoo knew, too, that he was one of the four. his father’s mother, his mother’s parents, and him: those were the people hyunwoo was counting down. taewoo thought that maybe – just maybe – if he left for seoul, things would get better for his mother; he was convinced that he was the reason everything went to shit anyway.

EVEN IF IT’S A VAIN DREAM,

it was february of 2012 when taewoo finally went to seoul; he was fifteen and desperate. a lot had happened in between the time his grandfather kyungsoo passed away to when he decided to leave. his father only has two left, besides his mother, to provide for, but nothing was getting better. hyunwoo was only getting more drunk and more angry and more violent and taewoo was losing his patience – if he stayed any longer, he had no idea what he would do. both is grandfathers had passed away, kyungsoo in 2008 and youngsik in 2010, and his maternal grandmother, soonhee, passed, too, in 2011. the majority of the people who have shaped him were dead and he felt himself dying along with them.

the night before leaving for the big city, his remaining grandmother and mother talked with him, held him, told him to forget about them while trying to make his dreams a reality. what they didn’t know – what the secret his grandfather kyungsoo died with – was that all of this was for them. “i’m leaving, but i’m not leaving you,” he said, holding both of their hands.

at fifteen, he was already taking shape: broad shoulders, long legs that would grow longer, and a face he saw more and more of his father in every day. both his mother and his grandmother assured him that he was handsome enough and talented enough to get into any company he tried to, but taewoo knew the truth. there are a lot of pretty, talented kids and he would have to work for it.

they gave him money for the trip, as much as they could save. between the money his grandparents left him when they passed, the money given to him now, and the amount he saved up while working part-time on fishing boats whenever he could, he had enough to spend a month in seoul and look for anywhere that would take him in.

the bus ride to seoul was horrendous; he held back tears at the thought that this could have been his last goodbye; the secretly-packed snacks and handwritten notes didn’t make it any better.

in seoul, he found a place to stay – some cheap room that was no bigger than a closet – and every day he went around auditioning with his guitar to almost every company listed online: numerous ones that were barely starting, a few with groups who were floundering, one named dingbat that said he was too young, one named mobius that criticized his heavy accent, and then he came across verve creative. they must have seen something in him, something passed his desperation, because they asked taewoo to train with them.

the next five years were filled with calls back home, going to a school in seoul, avoiding the past, and learning things he couldn’t even dream of. seoul people were different – they were cutthroat. some trainees would try to sabotage others, some would completely ignore him, and taewoo vowed to keep his grandfather’s words in mind: keep his lips tight and keep his past his past. no one needed to know what goes on back home, no one needed to know why he wanted to become a singer. all he had to do was graduate high school and debut.

somewhere along the line, verve made him start rapping; there were already a lot of solid vocalists training at the company, none of which taewoo would ever be able to compete with, so if this gave him a chance to be in the boy group they were forming, then he would take it. they also let him study the art of writing lyrics, mentioning that the upcoming boy group all of the male trainees were vying for was going to be well-rounded and they wanted members who could produce their own music, write their own songs.

five years were comprised of training and longing: training every area he lacked and longing for debut and to achieve what he really set out to do.

STAY LIKE THIS A LITTLE MORE,

the summer of 2017 was one so much different than summers before. during the hot months, taewoo was often reminded of death, but now he was too busy to let himself sit and ponder for any longer than just a few moments. ryu taewoo was set to debut as lead rap and sub vocal of verve creative’s new group STATIC. there was learning choreography, taking classes preparing them for debut, styling, recording songs, filming music videos, cleaning up their digital footprints, taking photographs, finishing the album and photobook, making signed copies, and so much more that was all crammed into such little time. everything was whirling around him in a pace so much different than changho. he was still growing used to it.

august 25, 2017: a date that will forever remain precious to him. in a way, it was a fresh start. debuting opened up so many opportunities to the point where he was overwhelmed. it felt like he had finally achieved something, even if it was just the beginning. the five cherry-picked boys were more brothers than anything, at least that’s what taewoo wanted to believe. their career (and greed) would test them, though, he could feel it – it was something most of the company seniors he was close with would whisper to him, make light mention of during company gatherings and the like. yet he knew too well how to navigate on eggshells, he’s been doing it since he was born.

there are many things that make ryu taewoo who he is, much of which isn’t exposed to the world, his company, his fans, or even those in STATIC. but there is so much of him that’s new, too, and so much that he does show: he doesn’t hide is love of music or poetry or writing lyrics, he isn’t bashful about how awkward of a dancer he used to be and how much he has grown, and he isn’t afraid to talk about hard topics and let the world know what causes he his passionate about. he isn’t afraid to be most of himself, what is is afraid of is people finding out a bit too much.

one day – sometime more than likely far into the future, no matter how quick he wants it to happen – he’ll free his mother and grandma from the chains of changho. no matter how far he gets, no matter how little or how much he receives, he’ll never stray from what he came for. and so he lives his life like this, close to his roots and close to dirt, uselessly hoping every time his fingernails were a little dirty that his mother would come to him and scold him just like she used to when he was young.

[scribeoffate]

holidays+ parallels+ scott and deucalion

Thanks for the prompt!

it skewed a little sciles, too, hopefully you don't mind anon <3

Until this year, Scott would have ranked the worst Christmas vacation of his life as the one where he had to stay with his dad.

His dad had forgotten he was supposed to be there and he’d ended up at Mrs. Banks house next door reading because she didn’t have a tv. She’d made them frozen turkey dinners that they’d eaten on trays in the living room while she listened to old Christmas music and smiled at him sadly.

She’d been nice.

He’d missed his mom. And Stiles. And maybe even his dad.

This year there’s an Allison shaped hole in his heart, Stiles is avoiding him and Derek won’t answer any phone calls.

This year Scott sits in his own living room with a book open his lap.

Their own tv is still broken.

The absolutely last thing he expects is a text message from an uknown number reading nothing more than “Happy Christmas.”

He presses the buttons to call the number out of boredom more than anything else.

He isn’t surprised to hear Deucalion’s accented voice on the other end of the line.

Or at least not has surprised as Deucalion sounds.

“I hadn’t expected you’d ring.”

“I hadn’t expected you’d text.”

Deucalion chuckles. “Why did you?”

“Why did you?”

“I believe we have reached what Marin would call an impasse.”

Scott bites his lip. Answers with the truth. “I was bored.”

“Ah.”

“It’s your turn to answer now.”

“I don’t believe I agreed to those terms.”

Scott realizes he’s smiling. That he’s enjoying a conversation with Deucalion.

“Well, that is usually how conversations work,” Scott points out.

“Hmmm.”

Scott sighs. It is kind of nice to have someone to talk to. “Are you alone?”

Deucalion makes an indecipherable noise. Something between a laugh and a huff, difficult to understand over the phone.

“Are you?”

Scott’s face feels warm when he realizes how that might have sounded. “My mom usually has to work holidays. Stiles is. He’s around but not really. Kira went back to see family in New York and Lydia dragged Malia to some fancy thing who knows where.”

“So we’re both alphas without a pack.”

“Not everyone has to kidnap their pack,” Scott mutters. “If I needed them, they’d be here.”

If he told them he needed them.

Spending Christmas alone is not an emergency. It’s not the first time, it won’t be the last.

As if on cue, there’s a knock at his door.

Scott recognizes Stiles’s heartbeat and his own leaps. He hadn’t wanted to pressure Stiles to come around- but he’s thrilled he’s here.

“It does appear so,” Deucalion says softly. “Thank you for calling, Scott.”

“Merry Christmas, Deucalion.”

Scott ends the call and leaps to his feet.

Stiles is standing outside the door with a shy grin on his face a Tupperware container in his hands.

Scott opens the door. “Since when do you knock?”

Stiles smile wavers. As though he wants to say: “since I shoved a sword through your gut.”

Scott pulls him into a hug. He’d endure a million swords to feel Stiles in his arms, safe, alive, breathing.

Stiles pushes his way into the house after the hug.

“Are those Grandma Gajos’s Christmas cookies?”

Stiles matches his grin. It’s less strained this time. “It’s tradition, right?”

Scott smiles, something warm swelling inside him. “Right.”