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stretchjournalemerson · 6 years ago

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The Lost and the Holy People: Worship of Musicians as a Religious Behavior and Possible Substitute for Religion

By Chloe Callahan -

I was last in line for The Struts VIP experience. In the small, dark space that was the Paradise Rock Club, I stood at the top of the stairs, looking down at the stage. I was starting to get bored; I had been standing in line for three hours. My then-boyfriend and I had been at a Red Sox game earlier in the day and we were exhausted, but I had been dreaming of this day for so long I resolved to push through the discomfort.

The VIP manager, who had disappeared nearly half an hour earlier, came back into the stage area and announced that “the boys” were coming.

Suddenly the whole line was energized. I watched hungrily as The Struts came from underneath the stairs opposite me, one by one. Luke Spiller, Adam Slack, Jed Elliott, and Gethin Davies. My heroes. A scream went up from the VIP line. There were only about twenty-five of us, but we filled the club with our excitement.

My eyes locked onto Luke, all but forgetting my poor boyfriend behind me.

“He’s even prettier in real life,” I sighed.

However, as I waited my turn to meet the band I had been worshipping for four years, I noticed something: they were wearing their street clothes. Luke Spiller, known for flaunting fabulous ensembles worthy of Freddie Mercury, was wearing a Jurassic Park t-shirt, a sherpa-lined jacket, and Keds. Looking down at him from the top of the stairs in the dim lighting, he looked human.

A little part of me sunk in disappointment. I wanted to feel the hot pink silk of his famous angel kimono; I wanted to be dwarfed by him in his glittery, high-heeled boots. The man standing before me was a mere two inches taller than me, and we were practically wearing the same outfit.

When I reached the front of the line, Luke was the first to hug me. He was solid, yet I felt I had been touched by a divine being. I hugged the rest of the band, and they asked me questions, joked around with me, and told me maybe I could drum with them one day. They really were human, I saw, just real people I was having a conversation with. The fact would be lost slightly when they emerged later in their heavenly stage ensembles, but for now they were just chatting with me like we were old friends.

It was a conversation worth the three hundred dollars I paid for it.

***

Celebrity Worship Syndrome is a psychological condition that has been heavily studied in recent years. Defined as “an abnormal phenomenon whereby individuals become virtually obsessed with one or more celebrities,” it affects a wide range of people who may or may not realize that they are affected (“Extreme” Maltby et al. 247). There are three levels of Celebrity Worship Syndrome (CWS), which are often measured using the Celebrity Attitude Scale created by Dr. Lynn E. McCutcheon, one of the leading researchers in the field of celebrity worship. The first dimension is entertainment-social, which is a healthy interest in the works and career of a certain celebrity, and the desire to share such interest with friends and family. The second dimension is intense-personal, which includes “intense and compulsive feelings towards one’s favorite celebrity.” This dimension is associated with some psychological disorders such as depression and anxiety, neuroticism, body-image issues, and poor relationships. The final dimension is the borderline-pathological dimension, which is associated with extreme dedication and “maladaptive forms of admiration” that push individuals towards “criminal behaviors and addiction.” (Zsila et al. 654)

Several studies have linked religious behaviors to celebrity worship syndrome, though not a lot of research has been done on whether certain religious behaviors fall into certain dimensions of CWS. Therefore, this essay will not focus on extreme degrees of behavior; rather it will focus on how CWS affects the average person. More specifically, it will focus on the music fan.

Rock stars have long been the standard for fame. Particularly in the latter half of the twentieth century, to achieve rock star status would be to achieve the ultimate level of success. In recent years, as the popularity of rock music has faded, the pop or rap star has risen as the new standard. However, this essay will be primarily focusing on rock musicians, as rock and religious behaviors were intertwined for so long.

This essay will explore how people who worship musicians may substitute music for religion, what behaviors come of this, and why this behavior might occur.

***

Music and religious worshippers have long shared similar behaviors. The most important of these is the ritual of the concert. The rituals differ between each band or musician, just as rituals differ between each faith of branch of a religion. However, one thing that is universal is the presence of some form of preacher spreading their message to an eager audience.

Rupert Till is the Associate Dean International in the School of Music, Humanities, and Media at the University of Huddersfield (“Rupert Till”). In his essay “The Personality Cult of Prince: Purple Rain, Sex and the Sacred, and the Implicit Religion,” Till notes the way in which Prince overtly played on religion in and conducted his concerts as if they were sermons. In particular, his film Let’s Go Crazy begins with the phrase “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today,” which “places [Prince] in the position of Christ or deity, marrying, possessing, and becoming one with his worshippers…” (Till 148). This kind of intimacy between musician and fan mimics the connection to God religious worshippers seek when attending church services.

In addition to connecting with their idol, the concert is also one of the best ways for fans to connect with each other. I created a survey with Google Forms to gather information about people’s associations between their favorite musicians and religion, as well as their level of celebrity worship through the use of the Celebrity Attitude Scale. The survey was posted in a Facebook group for Struts fans called “Strutters - The Struts original authorized fan group.” At the time of this writing, the group contained 4,996 members. Of the fifty-three respondents to this survey, thirty-two said they enjoyed listening to their favorite musician while with a large group of people (Callahan). The feeling of being part of something larger than oneself is clearly appealing to both religious and musical worshippers. Till mentions how Prince has his audience “mimic his hand movements,” which allows the audience to feel connected to Prince and to each other (Till 148). The connection between all these separate souls could very well be seen as a spiritual experience. One respondent to my survey wrote, “The front row of a Struts concert is very much like a religious experience. I liken it to Rapture- a total euphoria of the senses that at the same time controls you and heightens your emotions while moving your entire being…” (Callahan). Both concertgoers and churchgoers can exalt in this sensation of losing themselves among their faith during their respective rituals.

Some music worshippers invest so much of themselves in these rituals that they make pilgrimages. Author Kevin McCarron traveled to five major rock and roll attractions in England. While two of them “official” tours and museums were made for tourists, the other three “unofficial experiences” held a sense of sanctity (McCarron 169). Strawberry Fields, where John Lennon’s ashes were scattered, the house where Freddie Mercury died, and the site of Marc Bolan’s car crash have all been converted into shrines to those artists. There are no “official” tours to these sites, so individual travelers have to make their own way there to leave offerings such as flowers and messages on nearby walls. (McCarron 169) At the site of Mercury’s death, among countless messages, one in particular perfectly summarizes the theme of the comments: “Freddie you are a God” (McCarron 170). These pilgrims, as McCarron refers to them, clearly had deep, intense personal connections to their favorite artists. They were willing to travel from great distances to pay their respects, just as religious pilgrims might. In Islam, making the pilgrimage to Mecca is a form of dedication to Allah. It is a long journey to prove one’s devotion to their religion. A pilgrimage to Strawberry Fields or Mercury’s house suggests a similar level of dedication.

***

Why do people form these intense religious bonds with their favorite musicians? There are several reasons one might be drawn to these behaviors and allow music to fill the role of religion in their lives.

The relationship between religion and CWS was studied by Dr. John Maltby, another lead researcher in the field of celebrity worship. He found that the tendency to worship celebrities decreases as religiosity increases (“Thou” Maltby et al. 1157). This might suggest that those who worship celebrities in similar ways to how one might worship a god are using celebrity worship as a substitute for organized religion. This aligns with celebrity mental health expert Donna Rockwell’s theory that celebrity worshippers are looking for guidance and a sense of identity that they cannot find within themselves (Rockwell). Those who subscribe to recognized religions often worship their gods for a similar reason. They are asking for help and guidance from their god.

In agreeance with Rockwell’s theory, Till argues that music fans feel that something is missing from themselves, so they turn to musicians to fill that part of their identity (Till 143). He describes in detail how similar this is to religious practices:

“This is preceded by katharsis or purification, the emptying out of self, addressing the void, stillness, and space, so that the “divine” popular icon can indwell the empty vessel. The process is also similar to the concept of theosis in Christian theology, the transformation of believers into the likeness of God, including transforming the mind, character, and self, as well as the imitation of, or union with, God (Finlan and Kharlamov 2006). . . . As members of the audience imagine themselves being or possessing a pop star, they are then embodied as larger than life characters, godlike beings, possessing the star as they consume them and becoming possessed themselves by the character of the star” (Till 144).

This is the greatest appeal of worshipping a musician: the power that comes with admiring such a powerful being. When I asked the Strutters what they found most appealing about their musician, the large majority said stage presence, personality, or lifestyle (Callahan). People are drawn to the exciting life that comes with being a rock star, and they wish they had that form of power. Therefore, they look to musicians to fill that hole in their identity.

There are several things that make the rock star lifestyle so attractive. Maltby found in his study that respondents tended to choose their favorite celebrity based on entertainment value (“Thou” Maltby et al. 1168). This correlates to the answers from my study, particularly for the twelve respondents who named stage presence or some variation thereof (energy, live shows, interactions with crowds, etc.) as the most appealing factor of their musician (Callahan). The excitement of watching someone with such lively energy tends to create a desire to mimic that energy.

In fact, the love of a performer’s energy might stem from a fan’s desire for sensation. Patrick Litle and Marvin Zuckerman of the University of Delaware found that “high sensation seekers,” or people who have a higher desire for stimulation and thrills, prefer to listen to rock music and dislike religious music (Litle and Zuckerman 576). This is consistent with Maltby’s negative relationship between celebrity worship and religiosity. Those who worship musicians, particularly rock musicians, are craving a higher sense of excitement than traditional religion can provide.

In a similar vein, Maltby also found that there was a large overlap between “intense personal feelings” towards a celebrity and the celebrity’s sex appeal (“Thou” Maltby et al. 1169). The arousal caused by a musician’s stage presence certainly lends to a fan’s attraction to them. Till noted how Prince used his androgynous, homoerotic sexuality to set himself apart from other musicians (Till 144). This played into his “mediapheme,” or his persona as a cultural icon, and was a major contributor to his success (143). Most stars today incorporate their sex appeal into their personas to attract the kind of attention Prince had. Three respondents in my survey claimed sex appeal or appearance as the most appealing quality of their favorite musician (Callahan). While this may not seem at first to have any relation to religion, Till writes that a widely recognized definition of religion is “that relating to the sacred and profane” (Till 142). Many people view overt sexuality as “profane” or offensive to their religion. By playing off of this and emphasising their sexuality, then combining this with the sermon-like nature of their concerts, musicians create a perfect blend of the sacred and the profane.

***

Another strong appeal for music fans is community that comes from other fans. Maltby claims that religious individuals seek “protection or comfort” and “participation in a powerful in-group” from their religion (“Thou” Maltby et al. 1159). A religious group finds strength among its numbers; members of churches tend to form special bonds between each other and their god. They hold church events, such as potlucks, extra prayer services, drama productions, and fundraisers. They form an exclusive community for those who think the same way they do.

Music fans seek the same community. For most of music history, concerts were the way to find that community. Now with the advent of social media, community does not have to stop at concerts. It can be found in Facebook groups, Reddit threads, and Tumblr blogs. In my survey, thirty-seven of the fifty-three respondents agreed that they love to talk to other people who admire their favorite band or rock star. In addition, forty respondents said they enjoy just being around others who like their favorite musician. (Callahan) These fans find comfort in being part of an “in-group” as Maltby phrases it. When asked what they find most appealing about their favorite band, several people mentioned the community of fans surrounding the band. One respondent said “They have a great fan community, and I’ve met people who I consider lifetime friends now. Karl, who is like a member of the band gets us into venues early when he’s able and the fanclub, takes great care of us” (Callahan). Members of these fan groups help each other out, just as a church group might help a member.

Considering that people who worship celebrities tend to be less religious, it is likely that people seek out the community of a music fandom when they feel alienated from other religions. The youth audience, in particular, tends to turn away from religions that might alienate them for various reasons. They may be LGBT, struggling with issues that cause them to feel abandoned by their family’s god, or disillusioned with the church’s teachings. For many of these individuals, music fills the void in a more relatable way. Indeed, in my survey, 54% of respondents between eighteen and twenty-nine said they might associate religion with their favorite musician and 54% said they definitely would associate their musician with worship. This was a larger positive response than any other age group. (Callahan) People in this age group are, at the youngest, just moving into college, and at the oldest, usually still figuring themselves out. Their newfound freedom might help facilitate a break from their family’s beliefs and lead them towards musical worship.

My Chemical Romance, one of the hallmark bands of the emo genre, appealed most heavily to people around this age, particularly if they came of age post-9/11. According to Sia Michel’s article for the New York Times, “...the hit single ‘I’m Not Okay (I Promise)’ became a rallying cry for a growing base of alienated kids weaned on war, school shootings, and constant terrorism threats” (Michel). Religious institutions might be hesitant to approach these issues beyond offering “thoughts and prayers,” but bands like My Chemical Romance address them openly, offering comfort and hope.

Similarly, Hayley Kiyoko rose to stardom through the worship of young people. Her first hit single “Girls Like Girls” was an anthem of sapphic love, and Kiyoko gained so much popularity that people started referring to her as “Lesbian Jesus” (Pollard). The LGBT community has been historically alienated from most religious communities, so it appears that young LGBT people have sought out their religion in a musician who sings about feelings and sensations that they can relate to.

***

Most people would argue that they are not celebrity worshippers. They may not realize how much CWS affects their life. Maltby found that “many religious persons either ignore [the Christian teaching to worship no other Gods] or, due to compartmentalisation, they fail to perceive that celebrity worship is actually a violation of that teaching” (“Thou” Maltby et al. 1170). This implies that people who exhibit any of the aforementioned behaviors may not actually realize that they are acting religiously. In other cases, they may realize they are doing so, but be hesitant to admit it. One respondent to my survey wrote, “My intellectual side knows better than to ‘worship,’ but it’s such a ‘special’ thing when you love the music and message of an artist and that feeling can sometimes be so strong it borders on worship!” (Callahan). Whether one is willing to admit it or not, there are clear connections between the worship of musicians and religious behavior. It may not be a recognized religion, but music has the potential to fill that role in someone’s life, particularly if they are looking for community or identity.

***

I never got the name of the woman standing in front of me at the Struts concert, but if Luke Spiller is the Jesus of rock and roll, then she was an apostle. She was older, probably in her late forties, and her 80s-style perm was starting to gray. She held a handmade sign that read “Pittsburgh to Boston, 17 shows.” This pilgrim had been following The Struts around the country for two months, and she had been at every show since the Body Talks Tour began.

This was my first Struts show, and the woman welcomed me into the community. She let me hang my bag on the front row barrier with hers so I wouldn’t keep tripping on it, and when someone in the back threw a beer at my boyfriend, she pushed us in front of her protectively. I was delighted to learn that the Strutter community was just as friendly and welcoming in real life as they were online. Among fellow fans, with the woman’s maternal protection, I was free to enjoy the religious experience that was front row spots at my favorite band’s concert.

I wish I had asked that woman her name, and more than anything, I wish I had her life. I would have loved to become a pilgrim like her, travelling around the country to hear the words of my rock gods, surrounded by fans who felt the same as I did.

Unfortunately, the concert ended and I was beckoned back into the real world. However, from that moment on, the Paradise Rock Club became a sacred place for me, a place where I had felt for the first time like I truly belonged to a religion, singing and dancing along to the messages from the band that meant so much to me.

Notes

The title of this essay, “The Lost and the Holy People” comes from the song “People” by The Struts.

The survey “Rock Idols Survey” was posted in “Strutters - The Struts original authorized fan group,” which contains 4,996 members at the time of writing, on March 30, 2019. The survey contained two parts. The first part gathered general information. Questions included age, gender, level of dedication to traditional religion, number of times the respondent has seen their favorite musician live, how far they would be willing to travel, how much money they would be willing to spend on tickets and merchandise, their experience meeting their favorite musician, and if they would ever associate the words “religion” or “worship” with their favorite musician. Part two contained the Celebrity Attitude Scale, created by Dr. John Maltby. The scale is comprised of 34 statements and asks respondents to choose a number between 1 (Strongly Disagree) and 5 (Strongly Agree) to indicate how strongly they relate to the statement. 53 people responded to the survey.

Acknowledgments

Thank you to Luke Spiller, Gethin Davies, Adam Slack, and Jed Elliott for providing me a religion. Thank you to Professor Mary Kovaleski-Byrnes for her insights, as well as my Research Writing classmates for their excellent workshopping skills. In particular, thank you to Eitan Miller, Matthew Pifko, and Rachel Lamarre for their in-depth peer reviews. Thank you to the 53 Strutters who took my survey, and finally, thank you to the nameless Strutter woman who made my first Struts concert a magical experience.

Works Cited

Callahan, Chloe. “Rock Idols Survey.” Survey. 30 Mar. 2019.

Litle, Patrick, and Marvin Zuckerman. "Sensation Seeking and Music Preferences." Personality and Individual Differences, vol. 7, no. 4, 1986, pp. 575-87. ScienceDirect, doi:10.1016/0191-8869(86)90136-4. Accessed 9 Apr. 2019.

Maltby, John. "Celebrity Attitude Scale." University of Leicester, www2.le.ac.uk/departments/npb/people/jm148/scales/celebrity-attitude-scale/view. Accessed 9 Apr. 2019.

Maltby, John, et al. "Extreme Celebrity Worship, Fantasy Proneness and Dissociation: Developing the Measurement and Understanding of Celebrity Worship within a Clinical Personality Context." Personality and Individual Differences, vol. 40, no. 2, Jan. 2006, pp. 273-83. ScienceDirect, www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S0191886905002552. Accessed 9 Apr. 2019.

"Thou Shalt Worship No Other Gods — Unless They Are Celebrities: The Relationship between Celebrity Worship and Religious Orientation." Personality and Individual Differences, vol. 32, no. 7, May 2002, pp. 1157-72. ScienceDirect, doi:10.1016/S0191-8869(01)00059-9. Accessed 2 Apr. 2019.

McCarron, Kevin. "Pilgrims or Tourists?: Rock Music and 'Shrines' in England." Critical Survey, vol. 7, no. 2, 1995, pp. 165–171. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/41555911.

Michel, Sia. "Fresh From the Garden State, in Black Leather and Eyeliner." The New York Times, New York Times Company, 22 Oct. 2006, www.nytimes.com/2006/10/22/arts/music/22mich.html. Accessed 9 Apr. 2019.

Pollard, Alexandra. "How Hayley Kiyoko Became Pop's 'Lesbian Jesus.'" The Guardian, Guardian News & Media, 22 Feb. 2018, www.theguardian.com/music/2018/feb/22/hayley-kiyoko-on-her-lesbian-pop-this-is-bigger-than-i-thought-it-was. Accessed 9 Apr. 2019.

Rockwell, Donna. "Celebrity Worship and the American Mind." Huffington Post, Verizon Media, 9 Jan. 2018, www.huffingtonpost.com/donna-rockwell-psyd/celebrity-worship-and-the_b_13794782.html. Accessed 28 Feb. 2019.

"Rupert Till." University of Huddersfield, pure.hud.ac.uk/en/persons/professor-chill. Accessed 9 Apr. 2019.

Spiller, Luke. “People.” YOUNG&DANGEROUS, Interscope Records, 2018, track 6. Spotify, open.spotify.com/track/2UX7vJSvl4fVHaFoHY9meL?si=hhVvza3xTCuq_RdIj8ZZNQ.

Till, Rupert. "The Personality Cult of Prince: Purple Rain, Sex and the Sacred, and the Implicit Religion Surrounding a Popular Icon." Implicit Religion, vol. 13, no. 2, 2010, pp. 141-59.

#culture #research #celebrity #chloe callahan #stretch2019

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siderealxmelody · 2 years ago

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It grinned tilting its head at the pair of them. It could just answer him, tell him yes and be done with his little history lesson. But this - that wouldn't be very fun now would it?

It turned its eyes to Anastasiya, Cassandra's heir if there ever was one. More than that brute of her sister was anyway - the one that lived anyway.

"Your her blood. Do you know why she was betrayed by her own people?"

"I'm sure you'll tell me Dunyasha."

Her tone was as harsh as Aleksander's, cutting and cold. It looked to the rafters, to the spirals it had watched be made by fae from its prison.

"Long ago a god slumbered. A thing that had many names but no awareness of its many followers. It was given many names, The Void, Urd, The Empty. A thing who was so vast its power wound between the worlds like a force. A secret language of the universe that only the stars spoke."

It was lost in its memories, what hazy ones it had from those brief moments of awareness. It didn't know if they spoke suddenly it didn't care. It had to tell someone this story - probably the most important story in the universe.

"Races would meet in it, set truces and pray in it. A neutral ground of sorts. A holy ground fit for all."

It dragged its eyes to them, to two people who seemed to complete each other so well there was room for nothing else. A balance and universe all unto themselves. Was that it was chasing? That feeling of oneness in itself that had been shattered and twisted?

"The Asteri found me and like everything else they do - they covet and subsume. Some of their ilk had told me they'd known me. Had worshiped me by title of Mother and their Dam eons before I woke. But it didn't matter, they woke me. They cleaved me open, shattered me. Forged a vat around a bit of my power. I was taken here, this pretty little valley - or it was then. I watched that castle of dragon glass be erected. I screamed as they tore me apart to wring me dry of every morsel of Firstlight and Secondlight they could."

Anastasiya swallowed, her voice shook and she made no effort to hide it. She had a horrible feeling of how this story was going to end.

"What does this have to do with my blood?"

It smirked leaned back against a table. The silence of the Fold outside defeaning.

"Clever girl to say your blood and admit that ugliness lives in you too. I see why your sister fears you. The Asteri conquered worlds, whispering of me the Wyrdchild, the Runechild - the Timelesschild. Legends get conflated with truths. I was no longer the thing they worship but the child of it. A blessing and gift for them being the favorite children of a Goddess that may or may not have ever existed."

It looked back to the journals scattered on the table. The silence hung between the three of them.

"They broke me in ways only something of flesh could be broken. Do you understand that? I was a think of infiniteness, I neither knew the pain of being violated like they did. Or the acute helplessness of being shackled and made to watch as someone I'd consider a friend tortured me for greed. She did in the end, Heketah was sent to study and befriend me. She did, 30,000 years I was under their thumb and a little sickly witch wormed her way into my being. I helped her stabilize the witch genes. And in return she had me strapped to a table and dug into my fork till I screamed and the firmament wept."

It closed its eyes feeling that deep pain, that echo it had been running from since it woke in this nightmare. A bone deep weariness that hung onto it like a shadow - neither of which it had.

"Asteri are matriarchal, they hold a tournament every 2,000 years to crown a new queen. Nearly 2,000 years ago Cassandra won hers. 500 years she tightened her reign. 500 years she gave fae more and more power, even let those Saints of yours into her court. She'd raised them, loved them as her own children."

Their eyes opened, hollow and broken. Crystals shattered by a cold and capricious child. Anastasiya wondered if this was its true form - or if there was ever a form it would feel that could reflect it. She was trembling, the grief was raw, horrible to even contemplate. How had it survived that? How had it even had enough sanity to peice itself together?

"I was granted my freedom if I could help destory her. I overpowered and possesed the gaurds and slipped free. But I was so weak, so incredibly tired and I withered away. Reborn again into some Asteri or another. I was reborn as Kheto, sister to the current High Lords of Night and Summer if those types of things matter to you. Kheto was furious, Kheto wanted revenge....and she got it. She taught Olenna of the Fae to make Fionn's little swords. And, well you all know how that ended. 500 years into her reign and Cassandra was toppled. She is alive, crawled away like the roach she is."

Its lips twinged, she'd been nice to it once before. Giving it honey and milk, trying to see if it liked their screeching noises that was apparently music.

It tapped the journal again and looked to Aleksander.

"Yes to your question. I didn't mean to make him go mad. He reminded me of Heketah, she was insatiable for the knowledge. But he didn't seem malicious in his thirst like she did. Perhaps you both would hold better with such knowledge and sight. The Asteri blood in you perhaps will protect you."

Anastasiya swallowed, she couldn't focus on any of that now. She'd let Aleksander answer the more pressing questions. She focused on Dunyasha, or whatever this thing was.

"We know you as Dunyasha. What does Dunyasha want?"

It tilted its head and smiled a tiny one at her.

"Dunyasha is how you will always know me child. And all I want is to wrought as much fear and horror as was done to me. I do not have the energy to be hunted so I chose to accept your summons. Do you still want me to work with you?"

Can you handle what I am?

Dunyasha looked over Ilyas words. The wayhis handwriting shook and twisted the deeper in the journal it looked. It turned to Aleksander, a gleam in its eyes.

"Now I remember you. Your power speaks to me like your grandfather's did. Do you know the origin of your powers? Both of you?"

Anastasiya stepped toward the woman though she didn't look like one now. Too devoid of the light of a mortal. What had Cassian called her? A goddess of Death? A child carved from ivory and amber.

"Heketah. She birthed the Saints, their blood flows in -"

She tisked giggling to herself as she touched the journal. Her nails had dried blood under them. Anastasiya noted that the blood seemed intentional as if she relished the way it felt on her skin.

"Not just her blood. That little aptitude for Merzost doesn't come from Heketah or the Asteri blood in her."

She looked to them again. Stepping away to open her arms wide. The runes glowing a sickly silver in the dimly lit room. Like dirty snow on the bottom of a mountain.

"She ran from Cassandra 20,000 years ago. She ran to my cell and destoryed herself. Her power ripped at my body then. I was so weak, so tired and I let myself perish."

She spoke as if this made any sense, as if this was fact. Anastasiya stepped closer to Aleksander her hand gripping his. Not in fear she didn't need him to sheild her. No, no it was a warning. This woman may be the best assassin in centuries. She may have some power to sustain injuries not even a fae could - but she wasn't mentally well.

Dunyasha continued smiling at them. Seeming to relish having a captive audience.

"I came back soon enough anyway. But my blood mixed with her children. 11 of them born from her blood and mine. 11 children capable of feats no witch had before them. 11 witches able to break through the barriers and touch the cold and unfeeling stars. Witches that could have been Asteri in their own right if their masters had let them."

Dunyasha tapped a sharp nail on the page. Anastasiya half feared she'd pierce the page.

"Ilyas found me 1,000 years ago. I was newly free delirious with all the possibilities at my fingertips. He asked to share my knowledge to tell him how to make amplifiers. They could make weapons and magic that could cut an Asteri down. But no, no he wanted more than that. He wanted to become like them, to feel the world in the ways they did. Wholly and fully. So I showed him, I taught how to See..."

She grinned at Aleksander, teeth showing. Anastasiya leaned closer squinting. Was it a trick of the light or were her teeth filed to points?

"As you can see he didn't take it well -"

𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐒, rapt with focus, but trying to appear as if everything she says is something he knows, something he's heard before.

It isn't.

All of it is new, but then, his mother hadn't ever been very forthcoming with tales of the past. No matter how often he'd asked, as a young boy, the answers were always vague. He'd wondered if she'd done so intentionally, hoping he'd drop it. And after awhile, he had. Tired of not getting the right answers...

How does this one know so much? he wants to wonder, wishes it was possible to think, maybe, that she wasn't knowing so much--

Until she mentions his grandfather. Until that name falls from her lips as she nearly cuts through the journal's pages. That fingernail of hers almost clawing through the scrawled words of madness that Aleksander hadn't figured out yet.

❝ Was it you? ❞ The questions leaves his lips in a harsh tone, but an equally curious one, too. Anastasiya's hand in his is something he uses to ground himself. To let himself know that this is still real. All of it.

This assassin might not be all there, all right in the head. But what she says is something he needs to know. To understand.

❝ Were you the one that led him to madness? ❞

mention // @an-endless-saga

#MY TAKE ON THE EMPTY #AND LOOK SASHI'S WEAPON HAS ARRIVED!!! 🤩🤩#summonshadcw

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antemortem-rp-blog · 5 years ago

Photo

WELCOME, Ness !! You’ve been accepted for the role of Faye Chamberlain. We’re so excited to have you join the ante mortem family. Please look over the checklist and make sure to send in your account within 48 hours. We look forward to seeing you on our dash.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Name / Alias: Ness.

Age: twenty.

Pronouns: she/her.

Timezone: GMT.

Anything Else?: just that I want to worship the ground you walk on for making this roleplay.

IN CHARACTER

Desired Character: Faye Chamberlain.

Why?: I’m gonna preface this by saying the second I stumbled this roleplay I screeched. I love every single show incorporated in the plot and I’m in awe at how you’ve managed to merge all the shows and the characters so seamlessly. I actually don’t even know where to begin expressing my love for Faye. Honestly I hadn’t heard of TSC until about 2 years after it aired. My main reason for watching it was because I had a character with a Phoebe FC at the time and I kept stumbling upon gifs from the show. I remember watching the very first episode and I’m not gonna lie at first I hated Faye with a passion. But as the season progressed, my adoration for her blossomed. With her mischievous nature and offhanded one-liners, she easily became one of my favorite characters. Faye is such an intriguing character in the sense that there’s so much more to her beneath the steely glareand sharp tongue—she’s not the one-dimensional bitch character we’ve seen portrayed so many times. There are so many layers and complexities to her with so much potential for development to the point where I simply couldn’t dream of applying for anyone else. It would be an honour to undertake Faye’s role and bring her character back to life.

Character Pronouns: she/her.

Sexuality & Ships: Bisexual. I’d be absolutely honored to plot with anyone in regards to ships whether it be as a friendship, a romantic setting, pure unadulterated hatred or anything else in-between. I’m a huge advocate for ships based on chemistry. I never want to rule out any ships because from my experience it’s always the ships I don’t expect that I have the fondest memories of.

Occupation: After dropping out of college, Faye is focusing on herself and trying to get back into a positive headspace before even thinking about enrolling again. Although her mother supports her financially, Faye works as a nanny a few days a week. She has a soft spot for kids and she’s a child at heart so I can easily see her keeping the kids entertained with her exuberant nature.

Headcanons:

Faye has always been someone who fails to be described in few words. She is the definition of a free spirit—she’s super adventurous and audacious but also soooo reckless to the point where you’d think she constantly has a death wish. She has a mindset of ‘what’s the worst that could happen?’. This is the main excuse for her reckless behavior because the repercussions of her actions never cross her mind. She’s one of those people who would do literally anything for someone she cares about and wouldn’t give it a second thought. Even if it meant running into a burning building with a survival rate of 0%, she would do it. And when everyone is saying ‘Faye no’, her brain would be screaming ‘FAYE YES’.

What most people fail to notice is that Faye has a softness within her, a brokenness that does not prevail outwardly—one she deals with alone. Consequently, she is possibly one of the most guarded people you could find on the planet. There is a void in her heart, one filled with pain, grief, and trauma. It is a void so profound it that remains with her every single day of her life, no matter how much she would prefer to disregard it. She views emotions as a form of weakness and has developed an ability to mask her feelings so nobody can look past the facade and see how truly broken she is. She’s a walking contradiction: a girl who feels everything so intensely so she pretends not to have any feelings at all. It’s her defence mechanism. Peel back those layers, however, and you’ll find a scared, insecure little girl who wants nothing but to feel loved. Not that she would ever admit it, though.

Faye and her grandfather shared a bond like no other. Both a father figure and best friend rolled into one, he played a vital role in his granddaughter’s life and Faye loved him dearly. Some of her fondest childhood memories were spent at her grandfather’s lake house. But Pine Lake was also the setting of two traumatic events Faye can only dream of permanently eradicating from the crevices of her mind. The first being her near drowning incident. And the second was gazing into the darkened eyes of her grandfather in that very same spot. She often finds herself awakening in the middle of the night, screaming, reliving the memories in her subconscious. To the extent where it’s a rare occurrence for her not wake up to nightmares stricken by these memories.

Powerlessness is one of her greatest fears. When the circle was bound, Faye was left to her own devices which landed her in multiple life-threatening situations where she was left defenceless. So, she decided to take matters into her own hands by learning how to protect herself. She enrolled in martial arts and self-defence classes so she’d be able to hold her own in a fight without her magic.

Although she isn’t psychic per say, I see Faye having some kind of precognitive ability. On more than one occasion, she has made jokes or assumptions that have turned out to be true. For instance when she had her suspicions about Jake when he returned to Chance Falls and that Eva was lying about Lee skipping town. She also guessed that John Blackwell was really evil, and that the curse on the Conant and Blake families wasn’t real. Long before Faye discovered her magic, I can imagine her blurting out random things and making predictions which ended up really freaking people out, including herself. But at the time, she blamed it on intuition or a simple coincidence.

‘Damaged people are dangerous. They know they can survive’ sums Faye up. All of the events throughout her life; all of the trauma and heartache, has hardened her and made her resilient. She has learned the true value of independence and how the only person she can truly rely on in any situation is herself. Pair that with her determination and her magical abilities. She’s a force to be reckoned with and is one of the last people you’d want as an enemy.

Para Sample:

The last few days had been torturous for Faye. Nothing could have prepared her for her grandfather’s passing. It was a concept she couldn’t seem to comprehend—her grandfather was dead. Just like that. The person she had known since she was born was gone and she would never see him again. There were so many things she didn’t have the chance to tell him—things she will never be able to tell him. She would give anything to see him again, even for a fleeting moment. Just so she could say goodbye.

Sleep had become a foreign notion. The vivid memory of seeing her grandfather’s body still remained deeply ingrained in Faye’s subconscious thoughts. No matter how hard she tried, the girl just couldn’t seem to forget. Images of that night never faltered to flash in her mind, over and over again, on a seemingly never-ending loop. She would awaken in the middle of the night so many times—to the point where she could no longer she remember what it felt like to have a full night’s sleep. Sometimes she would even reach a point where she could no longer distinguish her dreams from reality. She felt broken—beyond broken. All Faye could feel was the numbness swarming around her heart and the unbearable guilt whenever she remembered she lost the chance to tell her grandfather just how much she loved him before his death. The smile on her face had long since faded and she just wanted to forget. Forget about being a witch. Forget about all of the drama in Chance Falls. Forget everything. She didn’t just want to—she had to. It hurt too much. But, much to her dismay, it was easier said than done.

Now even the image of her grandfather’s face was slowly erasing itself from her mind, as if he was gradually becoming nothing but a distant memory. Sunken eyes and a tear-stained face had seemed to become permanent features of Faye Chamberlain. Everything was taking its toll on her and it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep herself together. She had grown weary of all the apologetic glances and supposed words of ‘comfort’. With each passing day, more and more texts and phone calls from her friends and family went unanswered. For a girl who spent a fair chunk of her life glued to her phone, it was completely out of character. But she didn’t even have the energy to care anymore. She had shut herself off entirely from the world, even from her own mother. Probably one of the most baffling things was that Faye never saw her mother grieve. It was as if she was entirely devoid of emotion. As if she didn’t even care about Faye’s grandfather at all. All she could feel was this overwhelming sensation of rage towards her mother that only seemed to heighten as the days went by. She was the reason her grandfather rarely ventured away from his home to Chance Falls. The reason Faye and her grandfather’s relationship suffered throughout her teenage years. And Faye would never forgive her mother for that.

Her fingertips drummed on the porcelain of the bathtub to the beat of the music that was playing faintly in the background. Though she wasn’t really listening, certainly not amidst the seemingly never-ending array of thoughts that were circulating around her mind. She descended into the water, feeling the warm liquid cling to every inch of her skin. Faye’s throat felt dry and chest felt heavy, as if boulders had been squeezed through the small little bronchial tubes and straight into her lungs. A shiver travelled down her spine and she felt her breath catching in the back of her throat. Breathe, she told herself. But it was easier said than done. It was something so simple yet so difficult—but it felt as if she couldn’t quite remember how. Faye finally emitted a tremulous breath as she diverted her gaze to the ceiling. All she could feel was the dull, nauseating ache resonating in her chest and the quickened thrum of her throat. So, she screwed her eyes shut.

Then the memories came flooding back.

A bolt of lightning crackled across the blackened sky and the sound thunder boomed through the air. Sky-fallen trickles were plummeting downward relentlessly and the wind battered through the late autumn air. The brunette’s entire frame was drenched, the coldness seeping through her clothes onto her skin. But Faye hardly took any notice. The weather was the last thing on her mind.

Panic ripped through her as she scrambled towards Cassie. Her chest had tightened until it felt as if she wasn’t even breathing—which she was, rather laboriously, in fact. Her feet skidded to a halt as she reached the edge of the wooden dock. And that’s when she saw him. Her grandpa. At that very moment, Faye could have sworn she felt her heart disintegrating into tiny fragments. She remained entirely motionless as her mind attempted to process the sight that beheld her.

“That’s my grandpa,” she rasped out, the words not quite registering in her mind. She felt her legs collapsing beneath her body and instantly clung onto Cassie in an attempt to stabilise herself. “No” was the only word she could muster the inner strength to say. “No, no, no—” she repeated as her normally pleasant demeanor gradually altered and her face crumbled, consuming nothing else but heartbreak. Faye could hear her own voice crack as every wall of composure collapsed and tears began cascading down her cheeks. Her breath hitched and her entire body convulsed as a sequence of sobs wracked through her frame. She inhaled deeply, attempting to regain her composure to some extent, but only seemed to fail. She screwed her eyes shut as she remained enveloped in Cassie’s embrace.

Faye’s eyes snapped open, her vision blurred by the fogginess of the water surrounding her. She shot upwards almost instantly, gasping for air, as her hands clutched the edges of the bathtub. Her forehead crinkled in desperation and she strained her eyes, frantically analysing her surroundings. A breathy exhale fell from her lips just then. Her hazel orbs lifted upward for a few moments and she pursed her lips into a line, as the liquid clinging to her eyelashes began to glide along her skin. “I love you, grandpa,” she muttered in a barely audible tone. Those few words brought her an instant sense of relief, knowing that in a world that can be so bleak and cruel, she could find solace in speaking to her grandfather. But that still didn’t change the harsh reality that he was gone and was never coming back.

Now all Faye had left was an unbearable ache in her chest, tearing her to shreds every single time her thoughts lingered on her grandfather. She would have to learn how to live in a world without him by her side—a world without him there to hold her afloat.

Anything Else?: I threw together a pinterest board HERE and I have an old account HERE I’ve repurposed over the years for an original character who is very reminiscent of Faye personality-wise.

#tsc rp #witch rp #supernatural rp #crossover rp #rp #accepted #c: faye

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accidental-ducky · 6 years ago

Text

Like Fire in Your Blood--pt 1

After Peter’s home and family are burned to the ground he makes a wish, calls upon the demon his great-grandmother had spoken of so reverently. Ink dark hair and bright honey eyes that can turn burnt gold in a second of rage, a sharp tongue and magic sparking at fingertips the color of moonlight, a creature of myth to be feared and worshiped.

Peter never expected to find all of that encompassed in the skinny frame of a teenaged boy, but stranger things have most certainly happened.

You can also read it on Ao3 here.

Peter remembers the agony of fire scorching up his side, the feeling of his flesh bubbling even as it tried to heal; it was repetitive, cruel, and it was driving him half insane. The pain wasn’t even the worst part, he reserved that title for the screams torn out of his family as they died around him.

Fire sears through him, through his veins as his vision turns a bright, vivid red and familiar ties snapped like twine. He writhes on the basement floor, the concrete scratching at his bare skin as his clothes turn to ash. Beside him, his wife goes still and her back thumps to the ground for a final time.

Peter can feel his teeth lengthening as the Change overtakes him, fur sprouting and claws spearing into the cement as his back bows in agony. Far away and muffled is the sound of husky laughter, the huntress that started the blaze enjoying her work from a safe distance outside. Peter knows what that means, the fact that his ears can pick up the noise, but he refuses to think of his sister as dead just yet. Talia is strong, his Alpha, she has to survive even if no one else does.

Some point after one of the support beams collapses on top of him, Peter remembers the stories his great-grandmother used to tell him. He’d been small and she’d been the Alpha at the time, they would curl up near the lake in the woods and she would tell him stories of Fae beings. One in particular had been her favorite, a tale from ancient times in Poland—a fairy tale and prophecy all rolled into one.

(Sometimes, if you close your eyes and wish hard enough, he’ll come to you. how will i know it’s him, nan? You’ll know him by his ink black hair and burnt gold eyes that glow in his terrible rages. He has a sharp tongue and magic that comes in bursts around fingertips the color of moonlight. You must not summon him unless you have no other choice, Pup, creatures like him always expect a heady price in the end)

Peter craves revenge for what’s happening to his pack.

He squeezes his eyes closed, teeth bared in a snarl, and Peter wishes.

When he opens them again, the space around him is dark and his body is suspended in the air and he thinks—hopes—that he’s died. He stares around him, resigned to the blankness of the afterlife if it means the screams are gone with the pain. He releases a sigh, just a quiet whisper of air that forms into a pale vapor.

It’s cold here, but cold is so much better than searing heat that burns and tears and destroys.

“Who are you?” The voice catches him off guard and his gaze snaps in the direction it came from, crimson instead of an icy blue. “Why does a ‘wolf summon me?” There’s a flash in the darkness, like a lighter shade of black against the impenetrable void.

“Revenge.” Peter’s voice is little more than a croak, vocal chords strained from screaming for what feels like hours.

“That’s all anyone ever wants.” There’s a brush of soft fur against Peter’s face, but it’s gone just as quickly. “What makes you so special?”

“Nothing, I’m sure. But I’ll pay whatever price you demand. I’ll give you anything.”

“What if I want the soul of your firstborn?” Peter freezes and then there’s laughter, dark and rolling like a thunderclap. “Relax, ‘wolf, the souls of children are hardly interesting. Besides, you have that particular scent of loss that means your firstborn has already passed. What was its name?”

“Jackson.” It leaves his lips on a sob and the tears he manages to shed float upwards in cloudy droplets. “His name was Jackson and he was just murdered by hunters along with the rest of my pack.” There’s silence and Peter is beginning to think that the stranger has left until he feels the swish-flick of a tail against one of his hands.

“You want revenge on those hunters?” It’s not a question even if it’s phrased like one, more statement of fact that’s long been acknowledged. “I’ll help you.”

“What’s your price in return?” A sharp claw runs along his cheek, the tip of it skimming under one of his eyes. Peter doesn’t flinch away from the sting, it heals fast enough and it’s nothing compared to what he’d felt just minutes ago. Or maybe it was hours. Time means nothing when you’re immersed in torment and thrust into this other realm.

“This I’ll do for free. Hunters killed my mother and I take a special sort of glee in watching the life leave their eyes. You need to wake up, ‘wolf. Open those pretty red eyes for me.”

Peter’s eyes flicker open (again? or maybe he never had them open to begin with) and he takes in the glittering stars far above his head. It’s a different sort of darkness than before, not clogged with smoke or unreality. He sucks in deep breaths of clean air and the burn eases in his chest.

“What’s your name? I can’t exactly call you ‘wolf for however long this takes.” Peter’s gaze flicks to the voice from that other place, taking in hair that’s just long enough to hang over the being’s forehead and the predatory curve of his smile. And his great-grandmother’s words come to him again.

Ink dark hair and bright honey eyes that can turn burnt gold in a second of rage, a sharp tongue and magic sparking at fingertips the color of moonlight, a creature of myth to be feared and worshiped. Peter never expected to find all of that encompassed in the skinny frame of a teenaged boy, but stranger things have most certainly happened.

“Peter Hale,” he rasps out. “What’s yours?” The smile grows wider, too many teeth that are too sharp to be human. Peter can appreciate it, the sharp points of the creature’s nails even as they turn dull and intelligence that brightens his stare. The creature tilts its head to the side, a vulpine gesture of curiosity.

“Stiles Stilinski.”

Peter remembers Christmas nights that he used to scoff at even if the sight of his children happily tearing into presents made him feel like the happiest man on earth. Jackson and Malia and Scott used their claws to rip the silk wrapping paper and that was probably the part they loved the best. Next to them was Laura, older and the heir apparent to the Hale fortune and so calmly unwrapping her presents one by one.

There would be garlands of bright gold and red twining around the bannisters and a wreathe hung over the mantel. Talia’s kids run rampant, the pups digging into the desserts that have been piled on a table by loyal servants—humans mostly, but a couple are Betas.

After presents was a hunt, the ‘wolves set loose in the expansive woods that surrounded their house. Peter would shift as well as he could, in charge of keeping the pups safe and crowded for the first two hours before his brother-in-law took over and Peter could go find some small woodland creature to sink teeth and claws into.

He wouldn’t return to the mansion until the sun was cresting on the horizon, copper heavy on his tongue and all but his trousers missing. Jackson, Cora, and Derek would be passed out on the sofa, but his baby girl would be bright-eyed as she ran over and jumped into his arms.

Peter lived for that moment, the unparalleled joy in Malia’s brown eyes (her mother’s eyes, her brother’s eyes) as she grins up at him. She was only four, unable to make even a Beta shift, but there were faint ridges over her brows and a golden gleam to her beautiful eyes. She would demand a fairy tale from him and he would take her to that lake hidden deep in the woods, surrounded by lush trees and greenery, and they would sit on a log that Peter’s great-grandmother had dragged over when Peter was small.

They would sit there for hours afterwards, even after Malia’s heartbeat slowed with sleep and her head rested against his shoulder. He would run careful fingers through her hair, the intricate braiding undone by then anyway with a few dead leaves caught up in the thick mass of it. He would carry her back up to the house by noon and he’d settle her in the large bed Peter and Melissa shared before heading downstairs by the siren call of cooking meat.

The day after Christmas is for recovery, lazing around with no worries to gnaw at them and still moon high from the night before. Peter would take Scott into the woods to look at the small creatures as they went about their business, his son watching with wide eyes as a small bunny disappeared into its burrow while Peter’s gaze strayed towards the flash of dark fur as a fox ran into the trees.

That afternoon, he’d take Jackson into town to visit with the other children and let him put on his human guise that he loves so much. Jackson is his firstborn, the one Peter fought to keep alive the first year after his birth, so Jackson could get away with most everything even if it means roughhousing (and sharing his first kiss years down the road, though peter swore to never tell) with a human boy named Danny.

The evenings were reserved for Malia. He’d take her up onto the roof to look at the stars and the moon and Peter would tell her an old Polish story-turned-prophecy of a creature with moon-bright skin and long fingers capable of granting wishes after a price has been taken. He told her about wishes and sparks of magic.

Jackson was only thirteen when he died, Scott was eleven, and Malia was seven.

And Peter wishes.

III

“How old are you?”

“Older than you.”

“But you look like a teenager.”

“Magic.”

The first hunter to be killed is a man named Garrison Myers, a lord that’s gambled most of his fortune away and is suddenly rubbing elbows with the finest people in Beacon Hills. The man never expects it when Peter shows up uninvited to the man’s stately new home least of all when Peter’s eyes flash the same red as the man’s blood when it hits the cream wall in an arterial spray. For the first time in years, Peter savors the taste of warm blood as he sucks it off his claws.

Myers is half-dead on the floor, mouth opened in a scream that he can’t quite force out past the blood spewing from his lips. It’s a good look on him and Peter’s wolf can always appreciate a bared throat when it’s offered up to him. He doesn’t sink his teeth in, though, just watches as Myers’s body gives one last shudder before collapsing completely.

(his wife goes still and her back thumps to the ground for a final time)

Stiles comes out of the parlor, a glass of liquor in hand and curiosity turning honey eyes to whisky. He holds the glass out to Peter, but his eyes don’t leave the body. He almost looks…. Disappointed?

“You could have dragged that out a little.” Yes, disappointed. Peter’s used to having that sort of look sent his way.

(he was never the favorite child, never strong enough or fast enough for his mother’s liking)

“I’ll make the next one suffer a little more,” Peter says, and neither of them mention the promise in his voice. Stiles watches him for a moment until Peter finally takes the glass and downs it in one gulp, not even wincing as it goes down. It’s brandy of some kind, expensive, missing the touch of Wolfsbane that would allow him to lose his sobriety.

“I could have poisoned that.”

“You could have. You won’t.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because you still have need of me.” The curiosity never seems to leave Stiles, gaze bright as starlight and the color of flames that warm and destroy. A weaker person could fall in love with those eyes, but Peter isn’t weak anymore. Peter’s strong now, he can feel his newfound power pulsing in his veins as he flexes his hand.

It’s still covered in blood when Stiles takes it, admiring the color before producing a handkerchief from the pocket of his waistcoat and wiping the tacky substance off. Peter lets him, soaking in the creature’s touch like it can cure the aching in his chest. He used to be touched all the time, Werewolves are tactile, but it’s been so long since he felt a kind hand against his own.

Stiles doesn’t do touching or personal space, which are really two things that shouldn’t go together so well. There were nights in the beginning when he would wake to find Stiles perched on the edge of his bed watching him sleep with his head tilted in observation, but there was no hand reaching out to brush a stray hair off Peter’s forehead or even the slightest brush of shoulders when they walked together.

Stiles doesn’t do touches and Peter is beginning to crave it.

His touch doesn’t linger, hands returning to his sides once the blood is gone and the handkerchief has been tossed away. Peter feels a surge of anger at the loss and throws the glass across the room, watching as it shatters and glittering shards sprinkle across the rug like diamonds.

(he’d bought melissa a diamond engagement ring when they were seventeen, but it’s in the family mausoleum with the rest of his family now)

“Burn the house down,” Peter commands, though his voice never rises over a murmur. “I don’t want to chance the murdering bastard coming back.” He turns and walks out as Stiles summons a small blaze that catches on all the wooden end tables Myers has lining the wall of his entrance hall. He can’t look back, can’t chance the bad memories that parade through his mind whenever he sees dancing flames.

He goes to a park three miles away and stares up at the crescent moon and the stars.

It takes nearly three and a half years to get the family mansion rebuilt to Peter’s ridiculously high standards, everything restored from the faulty stove in the kitchen to the squeaky floorboard up in the attic that Peter used to hate. He even went and found a family of mice to set up in the spare bedroom on the second floor in memory of Scott and his fondness for animals of any kind.

(he brought home an injured fox one day. its foot had been caught in a trap and scott’s eyes widened and shined with tears until not even talia could refuse him)

Stiles thinks it’s all silly, the lengths mortal men go to in order to have a structured life. “It’s downright irresponsible,” he says one night, nimble fingers picking apart a lifeless bunny. “Your lifespan is so short, yet you prefer to stay in one place instead of travel.”

“Not all mortals can afford to travel.” Stiles sends him a disbelieving look, like currency is something he’s never dealt with before. And who knows? Maybe Stiles gets things for free in that other realm, the one beyond the veil where everything is dark and still. “Believe me, you’ll be happy to have a roof that doesn’t leak once Winter arrives.”

Peter spends hours drawing up the blueprints for the house, supervises the work crew personally in case they tried to skip over any details. The days are long and the work is hard, but Peter finds himself rejuvenated whenever he looks at the sketches of what’s to come.

He’ll have his home back soon. He’ll build a pack. He’ll have his revenge. He keeps the words repeating in his head as he lies awake at night, trying his best to control his shift. Stiles never mentions the gouges in the blankets, just quietly asks a servant employed by the hotel to bring up fresh linen.

When the house is actually finished and Peter can run his hand over the smooth mahogany of the winding staircase, the emptiness in his chest eases somewhat. Stiles comes to stand next to him, hands in the pockets of his greatcoat with the brass buttons along the front gleaming in muted sunlight.

“Not bad,” Stiles admits, taking in the grandeur that would intimidate most people. But Stiles isn’t most people, he’s a Demon with no concept of what time is appropriate to sing an old song in a language Peter doesn’t know.

Still, he takes the victories where he can find them these days.

The next hunter to die is found strung up by his ankles from a light post outside the police station, bled dry and covered in claw marks. It had taken him hours to die and his home is ashes by the time the fire crew make it there.

Surprisingly, there isn’t an investigation and Peter puts it down to Stiles’s magic until the police chief shows up at their hotel room with a grim set to his mouth and amusement in his eyes. Peter tenses, sure he’s about to be arrested, only to have the chief march straight past him to embrace Stiles in a tight hug that’s actually returned.

“Hey, Pops,” Stiles mumbles into the man’s neck.

“I take it this is your work.”

“I might have had some help.” They pull apart and the chief turns shrewd blue eyes to Peter, raking them up and down from the sleep-mussed hair to the bare toes peeking out from under his sleep pants. The chief takes a step forward and extends his hand, his grip firm and confident when he shakes Peter’s hand.

“John Stilinski,” the officer introduces.

“Peter Hale,” the ‘wolf copies. He keeps his head up like he was taught as a child, not showing any weakness despite the gnarled scars that cover most of his right side all the way up to his hairline. He’d asked Stiles if he could heal them, somewhere near the beginning of this whole ordeal, but the Demon had shaken his head and walked off into the woods.

“Those men, the two who’ve been murdered and had their houses burned down, were they hunters?”

“Yes.” There’s no point in lying, not when the chief so obviously knows about the supernatural.

“They’re the ones that burned your family.” Peter winces at the reminder, phantom pain lancing through him like a lightening strike. John doesn’t apologize or look at him in pity, he just nods like that’s all the confirmation he needs. “I’ll make sure these murders stay buried. Just take care of each other.”

“You don’t think I deserve to hang for my crimes?” John gives him a long look, searching and seeming to find something that makes his gaze soften. Still no pity, just a bone deep understanding.

“Hunters don’t deserve their lives.” And he walks out after one last glance in Stiles’s direction, the door closing softly behind him. Peter doesn’t ask about the elusive mother, the one who might have died just a few days ago from how fresh the pain is in the Demon’s posture.

But Peter wonders.

VII

“You don’t sleep?”

“No.”

“And you don’t eat or drink?”

“Only if I have to look human.”

VIII

Peter wakes one night and finds Stiles curled up in the window seat across the room, head titled back against a glass pane as he looks at the sky. It’s too cloudy to see the stars even with Werewolf vision, but Stiles is enraptured by something all the same. He’s all soft lines like this, suddenly looking far too young to be helping Peter murder grown adults.

“What are you looking at?”

“You don’t see it?” Peter’s brows furrow and he climbs out of the bed, goosebumps breaking out over his arms and bare chest from the cold. The fire’s gone out, he’ll have to hire a servant to tend to it. Outside, all Peter can see is faint wisps of cloud that are just thick enough to hide the moon from him. It’s not full yet, but nearly, maybe another week.

“See what?”

“The Wild Hunt.” Peter’s heard of them, more old stories his nan would tell him by that lake in the woods. Faeries that run through the sky on an indefinite quest to claim the souls of humans close to death, recruiting them to the hunt or just devouring them. Next to the Demon, the Wild Hunt was Nan’s favorite topic.

“You’re just hearing the wind, Stiles.” Stiles quirks his lips in a smile that’s not quite a smile, whiskey-dark eyes turning over to him instead of the clouds. There’s a knowledge in that gaze, heavy with all sorts of implications. He knows far more about the Hunt than Peter ever will, that’s what that stare means.

(the fair folk are tricksters, pup, and they have lifetimes of knowledge to create those tricks)

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, ‘wolf.” Stiles crosses the room and gets a fire going using only a snap of his fingers, curling up in front of it with his chin resting atop his knees. All the softness has gone out of him, the fire throws harsh shadows against the smooth plains of his face.

Peter lets the discussion drop and goes back to his bed, a massive thing for only one person, but he’s a creature of comfort above all else. The two heavy comforters he has draped over him serve the purpose of keeping him warm and tricking his subconscious into thinking he’s not alone.

He dreams that night—the wind howling like wild horses and pale pink lips that curl up in mimicry of a smile.

Peter’s come to appreciate the way it feels to tear a throat out, lapping up the blood as it pulses in rapid spurts from the wound. The man’s name is Unger, he is thirty-four years old and half-dead from opium. Peter’s just doing him a favor at this point, murder saves his immortal soul.

He laughs, the sound almost too loud in the quiet house. Stiles glances over at him but says nothing, just continues to browse Unger’s impressive collection of drugs. They’re laid out neatly on the dining room table, a vase of dead flowers just a few feet away and a glass of fine brandy soaking into the pristine table cloth.

Unger gives one more twitch and goes still at Peter’s feet, eyes still wide from the surprise. Across the table, Stiles sets down a small vial of laudanum and wipes his hand on his pants leg. His gaze flicks up and seems to take in Peter’s face for the first time, the crimson drenching Peter’s chin and the ridges set above nonexistent eyebrows.

“Blood looks good on you.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment,” Peter asks, the words coming out slurred around his fangs. Stiles gives him that mysterious not-smile, tucking gloved hands back into the pockets of his greatcoat and walking out.

Peter’s gonna take that as a compliment.

Stiles sings when he thinks Peter is asleep.

The first servant they hire is a Kitsune, full of bubbling energy and laughter that can even make Peter smile on occasion. Kira Yukimura is all the best parts of her parents, but Peter can see the darkness in her, the way her brown eyes flash orange in the quieter moments when she remembers.

Kira is seventeen years old, barely surviving the fire four years ago when her mother pushed her through an open window before hunters stormed inside. Inside her is the same fire that keeps Peter going, the drive for revenge and blood on her hands. He lets her take Reddick apart piece by piece and she looks like a goddess come to earth, divine in her wrath.

They spread Reddick out over a series of weeks, drawing in more hunters with each limb uncovered but the one they want isn’t showing a sign of interest. Stiles and Kira have taken to coming up with strategies in the library, bonding over their shared interest in magic that Peter can’t understand since, by nature, Werewolves can’t wield it.

They find their second servant completely by accident, a young Omega whose Alpha had died, cut in half in the woods with his blood still tacky on the boy’s face when Peter runs across him. His clothing hangs limply off his frame and he’s covered in grime that’s at least a month old, but his eyes glow blue and his mate is crouching just behind him with eyes dark as pitch.

It takes time, but Kira manages to draw information out of their new guests until Peter is satisfied. Liam takes on the role of gardener, the repetitive work helping him with his anger and control issues while Mason dives into research on hunter families in the area. Peter leaves him to it, content with the pack bonds slowly growing between all of them.

The emptiness in his chest eases.

XII

Unsurprisingly, it’s Mason that discovers exactly which Argent set Peter’s house on fire. The surprise comes five minutes later when he and Stiles come racing down the hallway, pushing and shoving and trying to be the one to tell Peter the news first. The Chimera wins after hooking his foot around Stiles’s ankle and sending the Demon face first over the stair railing.

The indignant squawk is the most human sound Peter’s ever heard Stiles make.

XIII

Peter remembers the bond he shared with Melissa, that unwavering loyalty that was seared into his instincts. He remembers how possessive he got when she was pregnant with his pups and how fiercely he’d fought to keep her alive when the hunters raided their home. He’d thought that was the most intense emotion he’d ever feel for a person.

Then he woke up one night to the sound of a muffled whimper, pained. He’s out of bed and rushing downstairs before he even knows what’s happening, finding Stiles kneeling in the entryway with a skinny man standing over him, an amulet swinging in one shaking hand. Stiles has always been pale, but this is downright ashen, his eyes almost blank and his breaths coming out in sharp gasps.

Peter bares his fangs and lets a reverberating growl echo through his home. In just moments, his Betas are at his back and shifted. The man wavers, but he holds firm and doesn’t bolt like most humans would in his place. His jaw tightens and he chants something in Latin and then Stiles’s back is arching and a pained scream is torn from his throat.

“Come any closer and I’ll banish him back to hell,” the man says, voice cracking near the end as tears make his green eyes shine. Derek had green eyes, but Kate Argent plucked them right out of his head and left him for dead outside the mansion just one day before the fire. Peter’s eyes flash and he can feel the Change coming over him, but he shoves it back for now.

“Do him anymore harm and I’ll feed you your own heart.” Peter’s voice is steady, low and calm and holding the promise of violence. That skinny little snake will not be leaving this house alive. “Who are you?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Why are you here?”

“Clearing a debt.” He’s sweating, it’s soaking into the plain clothes he wears. Peter remembers him, a professor that’s always hated the Hales for what they have. He gave Derek bad marks in school simply because the boy was loved by anyone he encountered.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do! She said I’d stay alive if I got rid of your pet Demon!” Harris swallows so hard it’s almost as though he’s trying to take the words back, eyes going wide. They’re sunken and have dark bruises underneath them, like he’s had quite a few sleepless nights lately. Don’t worry, Harris, you’ll sleep for eternity when I’m through with you.

Peter lets the red bleed back into his eyes, taking on that soft tone that makes people feel all warm and safe. Talia used to say he could charm snakes right out of their skins with that tone, a gift that not a lot of ‘wolves inherit. “You don’t have to do this, Adrian. She can’t get you here.”

“That’s not…. I can’t—”

“Just stop the spell, Adrian. We can all walk away from this.” The stiff posture relaxes inch by inch, eyes beginning to cloud over as the amulet falls from lax fingers. Almost there, just one more nudge. “No one ever need know.” The spell shatters like glass, Stiles sucking in deep gulps of air as Harris drops to his knees and bares his throat in submission.

Peter catches Stiles as he falls sideways, only vaguely registering when his Betas go in for the kill. Harris doesn’t even get a chance to scream before Mason is coiling a thick cloud of blackness around his throat and squeezing. The Demon is staring up at Peter with something akin to shock.

“Are you okay?”

“Why did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Save me.” The answer is on the tip of Peter’s tongue, but he swallows it down and just gives Stiles a shrug in response, helping him to stand up. They don’t talk on the way up the stairs and Stiles doesn’t fuss when Peter dresses him in a pair of sleep pants that hang low on his hips. Stiles sleeps deeply that night, regaining strength as Peter keeps watch. Inside him, his wolf is howling one word over and over again.

Mate.

XIV

Pod pierzyną czarnej nocy W blasku srebrnych gwiazd Gwiżdże swoje kołysanki Rozśpiewany wiatr.

The day Kate Argent comes into Beacon Hills is the same day that the newly rebuilt Hale Pack finds out that Stiles is afraid of spiders. They find out because they hear a shriek and then a blast of magic destroys a large portion of the dining room table, taking out Peter’s bacon along with it.

“Uh, Stiles…?”

“We’re not speaking of this,” Stiles grouses, setting back to work on his eggs.

“But,” Peter tries again, pointing at the jagged area that used to be his breakfast.

“Nope.” And he stuffs his mouth full just to drive the point home. Peter lets it drop and leans back in his seat with a frown, ignoring the way his stomach growls. When Stiles is sure no one is going to say anything, he scoots his chair closer and offers up the plate of food he doesn’t actually have to eat. It’s become habit since Kira moved back in, eating just to be part of the routine.

“You’re actually going to share your food? Last time I tried to take a piece of your toast, you almost bit my fingers.”

“You all need your strength.” Peter cocks his head to the side, blue eyes searching brown until realization dawns on him. Stiles nods in confirmation, then turns to face the Betas to explain the silent conversation. “Argent is back. She came in by coach just twenty minutes ago according to a Reaper friend of mine.” His brows scrunch up and he gets that not-smile again. “Finstock wasn’t exactly pleased to be dragged away from his bed when I gave a call.”

“We’ll hunt her down in a week. I want the Betas to have more training first.”

“I want to play with her while you do that. She took something from me, so I think I’ll take something from her.” Peter dips his head in a nod, remembering those early days when he’d overhear Stiles talking in Polish to someone that isn’t alive anymore, saying his mother’s name like a prayer to bring her back. He never got an answer in return.

“Her family has a home in the middle of town,” Mason informs him. “It’s right next to the library and the window that leads into the parlor doesn’t close properly since someone broke the lock two days ago.” There’s a gleam in the teenager’s eyes that makes pride fill Peter’s chest.

“I’ll be sure to check in on that. We wouldn’t want anyone to break in and harm Miss Argent, after all.”

XVI

It’s close to one in the morning, the time when rational people are all asleep in their beds. Peter’s laying on his back and staring up at the silk canopy over his head when he hears floorboards creaking under someone’s foot. Stiles appears by his bed a moment later, pale skin seeming to glow in the moonlight flooding the room.

“Can’t sleep,” he asks, reaching out slender fingers and stopping just short of grazing the stubble along Peter’s jaw. Peter aches to rub his face against that hand, scent mark Stiles until pale skin is a delicious red from beard burn.

“Too many thoughts in my head.” Stiles nods and sits next to him, still within touching distance. His fingers twitch, then they cup Peter’s face and he’s leaning down and his lips are almost pressed to Peter’s, but then the bedroom door is flying open and Stiles falls backwards with a squeak of surprise.

The Betas don’t even seem to realize what they interrupted, all three of them piling up next to Peter and snuggling under the covers until they’re all touching in some way or another. A puppy pile, a newly regular occurrence that Peter can’t find himself denying. Stiles rises from where he’d fallen, brushing off his clothes with a frown making his plush lips twist downwards.

Peter holds out a hand, an invitation for him to join, but Stiles shakes his head and returns to the window seat. The wind’s howling outside, but Peter knows without having to check that the trees are motionless. The Wild Hunt is sweeping through the clouds, circling like they have for the past three nights.

(they sense these things, scotty, when a war is brewing. They claim the souls of sinners because they’re the easiest to steal)

Stiles stares up at the Hunt with wide eyes and hope and Peter wonders if his mother used to ride with the Fair Folk.

They pass the rest of the night like this, the pups curled up around him like they’re afraid to be left behind, Peter watching Stiles, and Stiles watching the sky. There’s no talking, just the sound of the Hunt and the soft snores that escape past Kira’s lips. Peter lets a content hum rumble through his chest, soothing the pups as they relax further against him.

Stiles leaves the room when daylight starts creeping in from the east, faint rays of it illuminating the bedroom in gold. An hour later, Peter can smell breakfast cooking and the pups begin to stir against him. Liam is the first one to wake up, blinking the sleep out of his eyes and twitching his nose as he sniffs the air.

“Is Stiles cooking venison?”

“And ham,” Mason says, the words slurred from where his face is still pressed against Peter’s chest. “And the last of the sausage.” Kira’s the next to wake up, wiping the drool off her chin as she gets out of bed. She doesn’t say anything, just shuffling out of the room and not even noticing the way her nightgown has slipped off one shoulder to reveal tan skin.

Once the other two have gone back to their room, Peter gets up and dresses for the day in his finest clothes. They’re his funeral clothes, black and stiff and smelling faintly of mothballs. He thinks they’re appropriate since the day won’t end without him or Kate Argent dead. In the kitchen, he can hear Stiles quoting Shakespeare as he starts in on making pancakes.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.

XVII

There’s a conversation while the Betas are frolicking in the woods, far enough away to keep them from eavesdropping. Stiles’s eyes blaze and the simple conversation turns into an argument of epic proportions, but Peter comes out the victor all the same.

XVIII

It’s dark when they manage to draw Kate out into the woods, the Betas limping and sore but still strong. They’re snarling and growling and Peter’s so proud to have them at his side. They circle the huntress, lashing out randomly to keep her on her toes and dodging her own attacks with the ease of practice.

Stiles is nearby, eyes glowing a burnt gold as he uses his magic to throw Kate to the ground. She hits hard enough to drive the air out of her lungs and Peter can her the faint snick of a bone breaking.

Kate’s teeth are bared in a snarl of pain, almost animalistic as she draws something out of her jacket. Peter’s moving on instinct, shoving Liam out of the way just as the bottle collides with his back, soaking funeral clothes in whiskey. Mason charges at her and slams his fist against her cheek, shattering the bone and knocking out most of the teeth on the right side of her head.

Argent howls in pain, but she’s still moving and Peter meets her halfway, fully shifted. This is a fight he’s been expecting for six years now and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t draw some blood. They collide in a mass of tearing claws and growls, Peter knocking her to the ground and sinking his fangs into the meat of her shoulder. He wants her to suffer the way his family did, he wants her to burn.

He barely even notices the knife she plunges into his side, crimson eyes moving to the Demon panting a few feet away. Stiles looks hesitant, fingers curling around something in the pocket of his waistcoat. It’s a vivid red against the black of his clothes, a conscious choice to match his Alpha’s eyes. Peter dips his head in a nod and Stiles pulls the object out slowly.

Stiles tosses the lit match onto the ground right next to Peter and Kate, the flame catching on Peter’s soaked clothes and settling into a wild blaze that Stiles’s magic encourages. The pain catches Peter off guard, but he keeps his teeth locked into Kate so she can’t escape the fire that’s ravaged Peter’s life.

Somewhere outside of the flames, the Betas are snarling and snapping and sobbing, trying their best to reach Peter. The fire grows hotter, blistering Kate’s skin until Peter can see the white of bone in her forehead. She’s still alive, eyes rolling wildly in her head.

Peter waits, ignoring the pain licking up his back until the rapid thump of her heartbeat begins to stutter. That’s when he releases her, plunging a clawed hand into her chest and ripping out her heart, throwing it to Stiles before the fire can reach it. He watches as Stiles bends down to pick it up, gold eyes meeting red and his lips quirking up in that familiar mockery of a smile. There are tears on his cheeks, glinting like diamonds in the soft moonlight.

Above them, the wind grows louder and Peter can almost hear the hoofbeats as a green, ghostly hand reaches down to snatch Kate’s soul out of her body, searching around in the hole in her chest and plucking a wisp of dull light. Peter watches with wide-eyed fascination as the Wild Hunt circles the group once and then takes off back into the sky, whipping their horses and driving them far away from Beacon Hills.

And Peter howls.

XIX

“Forget it, I’m not doing that to you.”

“Then do it for Claudia. Why should that Argent bitch get to live when our loved ones have been decimated by her family for the simple reason of being born something other than human?”

“How will I explain it to the pups?”

“You’re clever, Stiles. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

Peter remembers the agony of fire scorching up his side, the feeling of his flesh bubbling even as it tried to heal; it was repetitive, cruel, and it was driving him half insane. He’s able to handle it this time, knowing his Betas will heal and find a new Alpha, maybe even the Talbot boy that Stiles seemed fond of whenever they traveled into town.

When he opens his eyes again he’s back in the darkness, floating and serene and cool. It’s like being suspended in water, though he wishes he could feel the waves moving him to and fro. Just one last time, this one last thing.

“You didn’t summon me.” The voice doesn’t surprise him this time and Peter’s eyes can pick out the form sitting near his feet. It’s a black fox instead of a teenager, black fur soft where it brushes against Peter’s ankle.

“I didn’t need to. My revenge is done.”

“Maybe I wanted my payment.” Peter arches a brow, watching as the black fox sidles up near his face.

(a small bunny disappeared into its burrow while Peter’s gaze strayed towards the flash of dark fur as a fox ran into the trees. the fox’s foot had been caught in a trap and scott’s eyes widened and shined with tears)

The fox’s face is right up next to Peter’s, close enough that even the darkness can’t obscure the eyes that are as familiar to him as breathing. Honey through sunlight, burnt gold, whiskey, Stiles.

“Come back to us,” Stiles asks, breath cold against Peter’s cheek. “Let that be your payment to me, ‘wolf. Stay alive for your pack and for me.” The realization is slow to set in, that the softness hasn’t gone away with the moonlight and Stiles is looking at him with almost adoration in his eyes.

Mate.

Mine.

Peter heaves a dramatic sigh and reaches out to comb his fingers through soft fur. “Well, I suppose I will since you asked so nicely.” Stiles laughs, nuzzling against his cheek as the darkness slowly begins to break apart like clouds. “So, what did you tell the pack about why you set their Alpha on fire?”

“That you told me to do it.”

“And when they didn’t believe you?”

“Ran for my life.”

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.” Stiles shifts and takes Peter’s hand, dragging him upright so that they can walk side by side. It feels nice, holding hands, the touch-starved part of Peter yearning for more. He wants to take Stiles somewhere quiet and then take him apart, finding out which places makes him moan and which ones make him scream. He’s so consumed by his thoughts that he never quite notices when ink black gives way to a small beach surrounded by greenery.

The Betas are sitting on a couple of logs dragged up to the lake and Peter has a vivid flashback of three other children sitting like that, pushing and shoving playfully. When it fades back to his Betas, that ache in his chest almost disappears. He has pack again, family and a mate, Peter can relax.

Peter moves on.

#Steter #murder husbands #stiles stilinski #Peter Hale #stiles x peter #dark stiles #creature stiles #alpha peter hale #liam dunbar #mason hewitt #kira yukimura

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