#what prompted this post was my friends from the choir I left last year talking about how much they have to do

[aptericia]

How to explain to people that I absolutely love performing but I absolutely hate attention?

Me: I’m gonna try my hardest at this and go above and beyond what was asked of me, because I love the stage and want to put on the best show I possibly can!

Director/Conductor: Everyone, did you see what aptericia did there? Try to do that too!

Audience member: Hey, great job up there! I couldn’t take my eyes off you!

Me: AAAAAAAAAAAHHHH NO DON’T LOOK AT MEEEEEEE *curls up into a ball under the table*

[mrslittletall]

For the Bloodborne bingo, can you do "Be careful what you wish for" with Micolash? :>

Fandom:BloodborneCharacters: Micolash/Rom, LaurenceWord Count: 1.667AO3-Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18718291/chapters/48983936

Summary: Micolash and Laurence have a drink and Micolash admits to seeingthings…

(Author’s note: I didn’t really know where to go with this, so I worked a fewheadcanons about my friendship of Micolash and Laurence in it. I alsothink that Micolash and Rom once have been a couple, so that is whythe ship tag is there.  

I pretty much just wrote down what crossed my mind. I hope it is stillenjoyable.) 

Blood vials have already been filled out, Madman’s Knowledge have already been requested/planned. Feel free to send me a prompt and a character for any unmarked prompt to fill out. I have been in a Healing Church mood though, so characters from there are preferred.Written for @badthingshappenbingoAccidentally answered the wrong question! Sorry anon, this was the prompt for hallucinations! I will post the fic for Be Careful what you wish for without the answered question then, argh! I didn’t look closely enough!

As the knock on the door sounded, Micolash interrupted his work and tiredly rubbed his eyes.

After he hadn’t moved from the spot for a full minute, the knock got repeated and Laurence’ voice sounded: “Micolash, are you there?”

Micolash finally moved to the door, spied through the keyhole and indeed it was Laurence standing there, with a bottle of wine. Micolash opened the door a tiny bit and asked: “What do you want?”

“Just wanted to come around for a drink, like the good old times.”, Laurence said.

…Why not? Lately Micolash and Laurence rarely had spoken with each other, the latter being too busy with running the church as a Vicar and Micolash to captured in his own research.

“Come in.”, Micolash said and opened the door completely. Laurence pretty much waltzed into the room and grabbed two wine glasses from the cupboard, putting them on the table before pouring wine into them.

“You haven’t changed the layout of this place in five years.”, Laurence said, sipping on his wine, looking around.

“Has it been five years already…?”, Micolash asked. Time seemed to be a strange construct lately. Sometimes it felt like yesterday as they all had been children and played in the lake around Byrgenwerth.

“Yes, indeed. Time really feels like it flies, right? It has been ten years since we discovered the holy blood now..”

Ah, Laurence’ favourite topic. He hadn’t gotten tired of it back at Byrgenwerth, he wouldn’t get tired of it now that the blood practically made Yharnam into what it was now.

“How is the church doing?”, Micolash asked, taking a sip from his own glass.

“Oh, like always.”, Laurence said. “People come to us for the blood ministration, we are searching for funds to keep everything going, which means I have to attend a lot of aristocrat parties and Florence gets upset with me because I drink so much at them, but they are so boring, nobody wants to talk about research there and we have to organize the hunt regularly and still no success in finding a cure for the beastly scourge.” Laurence closed his mouth once all this words had pretty much poured out of him without pause and then took another sip from his wine. “And what about you? How is your research going?” Laurence paused and glanced at Micolash. “And when will you finally change out of this old Byrgenwerth school uniform? It is completely tattered already.”

“I like my uniform.”, Micolash said. “It’s comfortable. I don’t want to wear something else.”

Before he could answer the question about his research, Laurence had already spotted the cage. “Is this what you are working on? What are you planning to do with this?”, he asked.

“I believe this cage can act as catalyst for communicating with the Great Ones.. and even reaching their realm.”, he answered.

“Are you planning to wear this? This must look overly stupid.”, Laurence said. “Besides, we already have the choir for this. Why don’t you join them when your research is practically the same?”

“…I don’t like their methods.”

“Not having a good enough singing voice, huh?”

“No… it’s… the blinding.”

Micolash glanced to the side, wanting to look anywhere instead at Laurence. He never had liked the dark. Too many bad memories from his youth. The choir attempted to communicate with the Great Ones by blinding their eyes, to develop eyes on their brain.

While he agreed that they had to develop eyes on their brains, he preferred another method though. And that is what the cage was there for.

Laurence didn’t knew about this, but he had found a small following and they usually would meet up in the unseen village. Micolash truly believed that his group would surpass the choir at all points. And Laurence would have to admit it too.

Even after all this years, their rivalry had never ended. Micolash had to admit he looked forward on seeing the look on Laurence’ face when they succeeded with their ritual.

“Well.. it’s your choice.”, Laurence said, already pouring a second glass of wine for himself. Micolash was still busy with the first one.

Micolash wondered if Laurence only had come by to tease him, but he felt that his friend seemed to be genuinely concerned for him. He just never had an easy time to admit it.

Maybe it was the time to confess something particular to him.

“Say, Laurence, have you ever… seen things?”

“Huh?”, Laurence asked. “What do you mean?”

“Like.. shadows. Or creatures. Or… gone loved ones.”

Micolash’s gaze was directed at a corner of his room.

He actually hadn’t stopped seeing her for a good while now.

Was he going mad…?

“Shadows, yes, I’ve seen them.”, Laurence replied. “Just hallucinations from sleep deprivation though. Nothing of this is real. It should vanish when you go to sleep.”

“Doesn’t it concern you that we are both seeing shadows?”, Micolash asked, having a hard time detaching his gaze from the corner.

“Pure coincidence.”, Laurence said. “Who even says they are the same shadows? You have to ignore them. They are not real.”

This reply frustrated Micolash. For a man looking for a way to ascend into the stars, Laurence could be awfully rational. He probably wasn’t able to see the great one on Odeon Chapel yet.

And even if, he probably would deny it was real.

And he surely wouldn’t be able to see the image of Rom staring at Micolash from a corner, with her long black hair and her dark eyes.

“Why do you ask? Are you having trouble sleeping lately?”, Laurence asked. “I mostly start to see things whenever I haven’t slept for days. Do you want some medicine to take care of it maybe?”

“No.”, Micolash shook his head. Even sleeping didn’t make the picture go away. He was sure that the shadows and the great one on Oden Chapel were real, but Rom? She shouldn’t even be here. She had stayed in Byrgenwerth… And one day, she had vanished completely.

Micolash hadn’t notice that his hand had started to tremble and he had knocked his wine glass over, the reddish liquid dripping onto his cloak, the glass rolling from the table and shattering on the floor.

“Oh damn, are you alright?”, Laurence asked, getting up. “…How about you dry yourself up and I go clean up this mess?”

“I suppose.”, Micolash said, pointing at a cupboard where he kept his cleaning supplies.

A short while later Micolash’s cloak had been dried as good as he had managed (he still should wash it later) and Laurence had wiped the table and floor and put all the glass shards into a trash bag. Now Laurence was going to fetch another glass, as Micolash stared at Rom again.

Or was she staring at him?

He turned around however when he heard a loud thump and a muttered “Fuck” from Laurence side. Apparently while trying to get a new glass the Vicar had knocked down a crate.

“Sorry.”, Laurence said, intending to put the crate back in place, but froze as he looked into it. He picked up a certain item from the crate and turned to Micolash with a darkened face. As Micolash saw what it was, he froze too.

“…This is the Byrgenwerth seal….”, Laurence spoke. “Micolash, have you been spying on me? This whole time? I thought we were friends!”

He had shouted that last word, gasped, probably at his sudden outburst, clasped a hand over his mouth and Micolash thought he could saw tears prickling at his eyes as Laurence turned around and rushed out of the room before Micolash could even finish saying: “Laurence, wait, that is a misunder…”

With the intensity the door had been slammed shut, Micolash knew that Laurence wouldn’t be able to talk rational to him for now. Maybe he would have calmed down enough the next day so that Micolash could clear up the misunderstanding.

He sat back down at the table and filled the wine glass that Laurence left back to the brim, drinking half of it at once.

“What? Don’t stare at me like this. You are the one who suddenly vanished.”, Micolash snapped at Rom. He had the feeling her dark eyes stared at him rather reproachful.

“..I probably should have expected him to react like this.”, Micolash spoke further. “He broke all bonds with Byrgenwerth and especially Master Willem. It’s true that I wrote to this place, you know this, because all the letters were directed at you.”

So, he was sitting alone in his room, talking with the hallucination he had from his girlfriend. Great, he surely was getting mad.

“Just what happened to you?”, Micolash spoke further. “You seemed to make such a good breakthrough. But the last time I visited you, you were just sitting there, staring into nothing. Not acknowledging me at all. You know, that did hurt a lot.”

Unleashing all his hurt feelings at the hallucination of his dead girlfriend, he had to become crazy. How else could he explain this behaviour?

“…I am sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”, he said. “Master Willem told me that you ascended… this sounded like you died. But maybe he meant it literal? But… if that is the case, maybe you are not a hallucination at all? But a part of you still watching over me? I don’t know…”

Micolash refilled the wineglass and took it over to his night stand, flopping down on the bed.

“I just wish I could hear your voice again…”

Rom stared at him. Her eyes never stopped following him. Did she always had that many? Micolash waited for her reply, but as always, only silence remained. He sighed.

“It seems like you are just a hallucination after all…”

[cinnamaldeide]

#Hannigraham Meet-Cute Challenge: Infos

After having successfully concluded our Accidental Hannigraham sex initiative, and survived Christmas holidays, @fhimechan and I decided to promote another monthly project to fill this 2019 with delight and amusement in the form of fanfiction. This may not become that kind of party, but there’s still some promising ideas we recently found out, and we can’t wait for you to see them as well!

As you can read, this challenge will focus on meet-cute scenarios, universes where Will and Hannibal meet for the first time in an entirely different way. No analytical ambush, rather a serendipitous meeting in a coffee shop, an awkward moment in the libraty, a casual encounter in the middle of a fresh crime scene. We know you are very creative, there would be no need for us to provide prompts for your imagination to work, but this is a challenge after all (˘⌣˘ ) there should be something challenging. We selected twenty prompts from @meetcuteprompts for you to choose. You select one, you write your wonderful story, we collect it and promote your work in a post with the other entries of that month (◕‿◕)☆

#22: A is having a quiet night at home – that is, until A’s apartment neighbour begins blasting music. Frustration levels rising, A goes to knock on the neighbour’s door to ask them to keep it down… at the same time B, the resident on the other side, is about to. Need more detail? Click on the post.

#32: A checks into a cozy inn while on a cross-country road trip, beyond tired and ready to collapse. When A gets to the assigned room, he or she is in for a surprise! Someone else, B, is already in the room. Uh-oh.

#117: A is a professional assassin hired to take out a client’s cheating husband. But the client also spoke to B, a close friend, who has made it his/her’s own mission to also kill the husband. Unfortunately, both A and B have chosen the same night to do so, and it just so happens that B is a bit clumsy… and keeps getting in A’s way.

#143: A’s blind date just left, mumbling some sort of excuse about leaving the stove on. Confused and feeling rejected, A sits orders another beer at the bar, wondering where s/he went wrong. B, who had witnessed the situation, goes over and says sympathetically, “I think I know what went wrong… there’s something in your teeth.”

#162: A is interviewing potential roommates and is having very little luck. When it comes to B, A says, “I’m so sorry, I don’t think this is going to work. I can’t live with someone that I’d like to ask out.”

#166: A is at a coffee shop and sits down at a table, only to find a book on the chair. Intrigued, A starts flipping through it, and realizes it’s actually someone’s journal that had been left behind! And it’s fascinating. Unfortunately, B, the journal’s author, rushes back to retrieve it… and is horrified to see A reading it. But A, having gotten a feel for this person through his/her writing, asks if they want to go out sometime.

#176: A works at a pet store and is utterly surprised when B bursts through the door in a hurry and walks up to the cash without looking around. Out of breath, A says, “Please don’t ask why, but what do capybaras eat?”

#180: There has been a series of recent break-ins in A’s neighbourhood. B, a cop, knocks on A’s door to recommend safety measures and to ask if A has noticed anything peculiar — A hasn’t really seen anything, but invites the cop and his/her charming smile inside for coffee and a bit of false information so s/he might stay a while.

#207: A meets B and falls immediately for them, but B clearly doesn’t feel the same. After being rejected, A calls on Anteros, the avenger of unrequited love, to exact vengeance on B.

#210: A is a writer struggling to find inspiration for their next book. The publishers are breathing down their neck and the pressure is almost more than A can take. When A comes across an old Greek book in a thrift store, A brings it home and flips through the pages.... only to come across an old chant that was supposed to bring inspiration to those who read it out loud. A gives it a shot and... oh dear. Oh, oh dear. Somehow that summoned B, one of the Muses, to A’s living room.

#215: A is brought in to the police station for questioning about a crime they know nothing about and is put in an interrogation room… with B, who is another suspect in this particular case.

#231: A is hanging out with a friend but ends up stopping to look at some lingerie in a shop window. A is still chatting away, thinking that their friend has stopped with them also, and turns to where they assume their friend is to jokingly ask: “Wouldn’t I look sexy in that?” But it turns out that the friend had kept walking and it was B, a total stranger, who A had spoken to.

#232: A is in a public place and temporarily leaves their things where they are seated so that they can use the bathroom. When A returns, A notices B, the person sitting at the next table, putting A’s phone back on the table. A demands to know what they were doing with their phone, and B tells them that the phone was ringing non-stop and it was bothering everyone. Also… “Your friend is drunk and I think they want to sleep with you.”

#234: A and B are both looking for a movie to rent and, coincidentally, they have the same movie in mind! They reach for it at the same time and, oh, there’s only one copy left! After a few minutes of ‘oh, go ahead, you can have it’ from both sides, they agree to rent it and watch it together.

#239: A is sitting in a cafe trying to casually read their book, but is distracted by B’s loud phone conversation at the table over. B tells a joke over the phone, which makes A crack up unexpectedly – B looks over at A, annoyed that they were eavesdropping, but also appreciative that at least someone liked their joke! B hangs up and offers to tell A another.

#240: A stops at the pub near their house to pick up some food on the way home (they make the best fries in the neighbourhood) when A receives a phone call – and some terrible news. A starts crying and B, the bartender, asks A what’s wrong. As A opens up to them, B gives A a drink on the house, and helps talk them through it.

#246: A was fatally wounded in an accident and suddenly finds themself looking down at their own lifeless body in confusion. B is a reaper and offers A guidance… but A doesn’t want to do the whole follow the light bullshit. A wants to flirt with the cute reaper.

#248: A is a barista and has come to recognize the regulars and their orders. One day, B walks in and A greets them, starting to prepare their order, when B stops A with a sigh: “I’m not who you think I am.” After receiving a blank stare from A who has no idea how to respond to that, B continues, “I have a twin. I’m the other one.”

#251: A is in their backyard enjoying the nice weather when an animal saunters into view. A looks for a collar and finds nothing, but it lets A have a few cuddles before going on its way. The same thing happens for the next few days until one day, B appears trailing behind! “Aha! So this is where you’ve been running off to.” Ah, one more thing. The animal is B’s familiar.

#252: A is in the public library and notices a strange book that looks like it doesn’t belong in this section. A moves along to another genre, but it seems that this book is in every section… almost like it’s following A. How peculiar! When A finally picks it up to see what exactly it is, B appears out of thin air, and simply says, “I’ve been waiting fifty years for you.”

These awesome ideas have been selected arbitrarily among many others, which are as great and intriguing. If you’d like to fill a prompt we haven’t included, you’re free to do so; let us know and we’ll welcome your work in our collection, if not in our monthly update post. But if you’re willing to fill one of our choosing, you can choose the next: we will in fact substitute the filled prompt with another (of your choosing of ours, if you don’t have a particular preference), gradually running as many of them as possible, always trying to propose something new for you to sink your teeth into :D Our mission will be to achieve as many stories as we can obtain during the whole year with your help, our beloved fanwriters and fanartists!

That’s right, you’re welcome to provide fanarts as well as fanfictions, my deers ♥

Everyone can write or draw as many fanfictions or fanarts as preferred, and as long as you like, but please remember this is still about the meet-cute trope, so every work shall involve the tag Different First Meeting. Any rating, any length, any warning, if adequately tagged, will be accepted. We only ask of you to not be disrespectful and to stick to the prompt you choose, and honour every part of it :9 please include a link to it in your work, so anyone can read it!

We won’t book prompts, but we’re confident you’ll find something inspiring among our selection ;) and if you don’t, we’ll appreciate your reblog and hope for the following month to be more fortunate! In respect of our past initiative and our own preference, we’re concentrating on Hannigraham works. We know this is not as exciting as the Accidental sex, but don’t forget there’s no reason you can’t evolve the situation into something more... compromising ;) you’ll decide if there’s inevitable sex in store for us this time around!

Since we all know how Tumblr works, I’m tagging everyone I tagged in my last Accidental Sex post and hope that some of you are interested in pursuing this project with us. So here we are @a-hannibal-mess, @allionne, @ambar-gris, @andiemerizein, @angelchild1302, @avegetariancannibal, @ayden5956, @blackrose34, @bloodyilaria, @blueeyednightwing, @bonfire-choir, @cinelitchick, @crisisoninfintefandoms, @cutaneousmarginalpouch, @diemetzgermeisterin, @doyouacheforhim, @electrarhodes, @erodingthebluff, @eonblueinmay, @evolvingmydesign, @ethicsbecomeaesthetics, @fleeingdawn-blog1, @fragile-teacup, @gampire-thoughts, @gaycannibalbuddies, @grahamsdogs, @h4nnibalism, @hanfangrahamk, @hannibalatemyheart, @hannibalsbattlebot, @hannibalsimago, @hannigramfam, @hannigramfanfic, @hannigram-a-b-o-library, @hannigramwich, @hanniwinsagrahamy, @hunter-and-star-chaser, @ishipthemsogoddamnhard, @jadegreenworks, @jackalope-in-glasses, @janespetticoat, @kiyofan, @kobayashihatori, @krey-9-jorce, @louistennbookmarks, @mazephoenix, @maxaminkle, @mefistox, @mcsci4518, @midnight-stag, @purplesocrates, @saralecter77, @shaeshae-style, @slashyrogue, @snakesnlace, @stagswag, @sweetthingwithfeathers, @thatredbean, @thesilverqueenlady, @the-winnowing-wind, @tiggymalvern, @tinyenthusiasttriumph, @thenecronon, @whimsy-by-joja, @wiith-my-hands, @wlectergraham, @xcheekbonesandblueeyesx, @yes-yeah-yesh, @zigzag-wanderer many thanks for having indulged us so far, please bear with us a little longer if you please ^^ In @fhimechan’s or my next post, those who reblogged this one will be tagged again, and so on, trying to keep involved those who show their interest and support to us, leaving alone those who’d prefer not to be involved any further. I hope this will prove an efficient strategy, everything considered. We’ll handle things differently on Pillowfort, where we created a special community for anyone interested (o´▽`o )

In the hope of having said everything I needed to say, let me with you all a promising New Year, rich of amazing experiences and the loveliest fanworks. Fannibals are not done yet!

[lostinfic]

Part 1 and 2  | Ao3

Pairing: Roderick Peterson (Nativity 2) x Alison Crosby (The Canterbury Tales).

*You don’t need to have seen either film.*

Summary: Alison wants to boost her pop music career whereas Roderick needs to restore his reputation in the world of classical music. Neither of them is above using “irregular” means to get what they want, so when she joins his choir, they are in a unique position to help each other… if only they could get along.

Rating: M  |  Word count: 3,9k

A/N: I’m really excited to start posting this!

At the Blue Bear pub, a handmade banner hangs above the stage, felt-tip marker on the back of paper placemats tacked together, the last letters squished together at one end: “Happy birthday Alison”.

Alison loves her birthday. Every year, she makes sure to remind her friends and acquaintances of the date. So it’s no surprise that many of the pub’s regular clients are wishing their favourite barmaid a happy birthday. One of them, Gerard, even brought her a cupcake.

Alison hikes herself up on the bar to kiss his cheek.

“So, how old are you, luv?” he asks.

“25.”

“Half your twenties gone now.”

“I’ve still got plenty of time!”

“That’s what I used to say.” He drinks the last of his cider. “Sorry, didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Not at all.”

“Hey Alison, you’ll sing us something, won’t you?” asks another patron.

Javier, the pub owner, shakes his head. The place is packed he can’t have a waitress taking a break during the rush. But Alison knows how to get her way.

“Please, Javier.” She cocks her head and pouts. “Just a short one.”

He wipes another glass and ponders her request.

“Let the girl have some fun,” Gerard says.

“Oh, alright. Get up there. You’re spoiled, you are, I hope you know that. ”

Unlike the pub where she used to work in Canterbury, there is no karaoke at the Blue Bear but a stage for bands and Open Mic nights.

Those who know her cheer when she gets on stage. In the front row, Elife, her best friend, is smiling so wide her dental braces catch the spotlight. However, at least half the patrons have their backs to her and don’t seem to care she’s about to sing.

Her mouth goes dry, her throat constricts. She doesn’t usually gets stage fright.

The busser/audio tech starts a music track for her. An acoustic guitar strums familiar chords: G, Am, C, G. An electric guitar joins in. “What’s up” by 4 Non Blondes.

“Twenty-five years and my life is still. Trying to get up that great big hill of hope. For a destination,” she sings but her voice is faint.

Is that it? Her life. Her career. Waitress and amateur singer in a pub where no one cares. She’d come to London to make it big. She’d taken singing lessons and went to hundreds of auditions that amounted to nothing more than a string of inconsequential parts in low-budget musicals.

“And I scream from the top of my lungs. What's going on? And I say, hey yeah yeah.”

One by one, people turn towards her and clap their hands along.

Her voice grows stronger, and she smiles. “I said hey, what's going on?” She swivels her hips, shimmies her shoulders, “I said hey!”, she points the microphone at the crowd, and they sing the next lyrics.

One last year, she thinks. Either her musical career progresses significantly this year or she will give up her aspirations and pursue a regular job.

Now or never.

She’s going to need a solid plan.

♪

Headset on, clipboard in hand, Alison is on standby. She’s volunteering for a singing competition taking place at the end of a prestigious music summer camp. Her sweet smile won her the task of escorting performers on stage. “You’ll put ‘em right at ease. They’ll think it’s good luck,” one organizer declared.

“Jamie to Alison,” says a voice in her earphone.

“Yes?”

“Presenter coming. Ten-four.”

“Okie-dokie.”

With a small torchlight, she guides the director of the music camp through the dark backstage area.

“Break a leg.” She smiles brightly at him just as he’s about to go out on stage, and he nearly loses his footing.

She’s not volunteering out of the goodness of her heart, she has a plan, and that plan is sitting at the judges table. She cranes her neck to see him from the prompt corner. Roderick Peterson, thick-framed glasses, slicked-back hair and lips in a rigid line. He reads his notes while the other judges chat. He will be giving out the lowest scores every time, she’s sure of it.

She has done her research on him, she won’t be throwing herself at the first man who says he’s in show business. Not again.

Although, he’s a world-famous composer and conductor, she’d never heard of him until recently. The pub where she works is a popular hangout for teachers and students of the nearby Royal Music Academy, and Roderick’s name has been on everyone’s lips: for the first time in many years, he won’t be directing a children choir but an adult one.

Since her birthday, Alison has watched dozens of videos online in which he conducted choirs and performed his own compositions at the piano. His intensity was mesmerizing, the way his whole body moves with the melody, the utter focus on his face, the lithe movement of his fingers across the piano keys. She has fallen for more than one would-be rock star musician in her life, but none of them were ever so in-tune with their music. When Roderick gives interviews, however, the spell breaks: he sounds like a pompous arse.

Alison doesn’t care about that. What she cares about is that some of Roderick’s former pupils have recorded albums and become famous. So choir singing may not be exactly what she had in mind, but it could be a stepping-stone and a significant progress. The auditions are next week, and succeed she will have to tip the odds in her favour.

During the intermission, Roderick stands up and heads to the catering table. Alison beats him to it and offers to relieve the volunteer already there.

She greets him with one of her bright smiles, but he barely acknowledges her. She grabs the coffee pot before he can take a hold of it.

“Coffee?”

“Black, thank you.”

“These kids are all so good, don’t you think?” Alison says.

“There is much room for improvement. But it is a decent cohort this year.”

He wiggles his styrofoam cup which she has yet to fill. She pours the coffee deliberately slowly.

“I was in a choir too, when I was young, at my school. I’d forgotten how powerful it is when all the voices come together. It gives me chills.”

There’s a flicker of interest in his eyes that gives her hope.

“They say the whole is greater than the sum of its parts.”

“Yeah, it really is. I don’t know how you do it, being a judge I mean, I wouldn’t be able to decide which ones are the best.”

“That’s why they hire professional judges.”

“Yeah, like you.” She slips her hands in her back pockets in a way that thrusts up her chest. “You’re a real pro. A hotshot even.”

“Yes, that’s what I was saying.”

“I’m Alison, by the way.”

“Roderick Peterson.”

“I know, I love your work,” she pitches her voice higher and giggles.

“Thank you.”

“So, what are you doing after this?” she asks.

His eyes widen slightly.

She twists a strand of hair around her index. “I know a nice place where we can talk some more about the power of coming together…”

“I don’t engage in intercourse with the staff.”

She flinches and straightens her back.

“Oh, I don’t work here, I volunteer, see?” She displays the identification card which hangs from a lanyard right in front of her cleavage.

“Okay.”

“I’m actually a singer.”

He narrows his eyes at her. “Do you intend to audition for my choir? Is that what this is about?”

“Er, yeah, I was thinking about it.”

“But you don’t believe you’re good enough to be chosen on account of your talent alone.”

“I hadn’t thought about it that way.”

Glasses halfway down his nose, Roderick scans her from the top of her bleached hair to the tip of her high-heel sandals.

She bites her thumb nail and shifts her weight from one foot to the other. She’s never had a man look at her like that— assessing.

“I will see you next week,” he says, then turns around and leaves.

♪

“What an utter arsehole,” Elife says after Alison has told her the whole story.

She sits next to Alison on the old couch in their shared flat.

“I’m so humiliated!”

“’I don’t have intercourse with the help’,” Elife repeats, mocking his posh accent. “What kind of classist horseshit is that? Tosser.”

“Yeah.”

Elife ties her abundant curly hair in a bun atop her head, waiting for Alison to elaborate and get angry. “You don’t think so?” she insists after a moment.

“I said ‘yeah’, didn’t I?”

“You just don’t seem so sure.”

“I don’t think he meant it that way. Like a class thing. It was basically his work place. The man’s got principles.”

“So? Javier at the pub is always hitting on you and you never minded.”

“I put up with it because he gives me time off whenever I need for an audition or a show. You see, Roderick, he wouldn’t cross that line.”

“Why are you defending him?”

Alison shrugs. Plenty of men would have taken advantage of her in that situation, but Roderick had not. Sure, being rejected was humiliating, but so was being used.

All her life, boys and then men, even before she was of legal age, had gone to great lengths to get under her clothes. None of them as much as Nick the Prick, who went as far as pretending he was in the music business, he’d even set up a recording session in a studio and drugged her then-husband, John, so they could shag in peace. After he got what he wanted (stealing thousands of dollars from John in the process), he just left. And she waited by the side of the road, for hours in the cold rain, hoping he would pick her up and take her to a better place as he’d promised. She couldn’t show her face in Canterbury again, she’d lost everything, so she’d gone to London for a fresh start. That was three years ago, three years since she figured she might as well use her sex-appeal to her own advantage if men were so desperate to get it.

“To be fair though, not your smartest move, girl.”

“Thanks, I hadn’t noticed.” Alison groans and hugs a throw cushion to her chest, she hides her face against it.

“What were you thinking?”

“It might have worked, but I came on too strong and that made him suspicious.”

“Will you do the audition for his choir anyway?”

“How can I even show my face there? I don’t know… Right now I just want to curl up on the couch with chocolate and my favourite Bollywood movie.”

“Bride and Prejudice?”

“Yep.”

“If you decide you want to do the audition, let me know, and I’ll help you practice.”

“Thanks, El, you’re a sweetheart.”

Their friendship started when Alison was looking for a singing coach but couldn’t afford a professional one, a client at the pub suggested she looked on the Royal Music Academy message board. Elife studied harp there by day and played in a metal band by night.

They have already started preparing her audition for the choir, but Alison is in no mood to work on that now.

As the movie plays and the Indian actors sing their hearts out, Alison’s mind replays her encounter with Roderick.

His comment that she doesn’t think she’s good enough to succeed makes her shove more chocolate in her mouth. He’s right. Her self-confidence has dwindled over the last years with every rejection and failure.

She pauses the movie and searches the kitchen for more sweets or crisps. Frustration rises in her when she can’t find any. Then it grows into anger. Anger at herself for acting so foolishly and ruining her chances, and at Roderick for being so arrogant. But what if he didn’t reject her out of principles but because he simply wasn’t attracted to her.

“Or maybe he’s gay.”

On her mobile, she types his name in the search engine bar combined with boyfriend/husband/girlfriend/ wife. She finds pictures of him with the Welsh singer Angel Matthews who broke up with him last Spring according to gossip.

She follows one link after the other, diving deeper into the world of classical music. It’s like glimpsing another dimension full of celebrities and controversies she’s never heard of.

One bit of news in particular keeps resurfacing in her research. It’s a video from the competition “A song for Christmas” in Wales last year. One of the choirboys from St Cuthbert's College— Roderick’s former choir— sings an emotional song while holding a baby, it’s followed by a clip of a rehearsal at Oakmoor School in which a student performs the same song, thus proving that St Cuthbert’s stole the song to win the competition. Some bloggers even claim they kidnapped the baby.

Regardless of their veracity, these articles highlight how famous Roderick is.

“Fuck it, I already made a fool of myself, I might as well go to the audition.”

♪

From the second floor of the Lux Aeterna Theatre, Roderick studies the people in the street below who wait in the late-August heat to audition. Although the queue wraps around the west side of the building, it’s not long enough for him. There should be twice that number of people who want to participate in Roderick Peterson’s choir, but his reputation has taken a serious hit last year with the “Song for Christmas” scandal. His methods were questioned, and former pupils spoke against him leading to his ban from the Youth Choral Association and the loss of his job. And of his girlfriend who didn’t want to “associate” with him anymore.

He rubs the back of his neck. Fidgeting makes you look weak. He crosses his wrists behind his back, just how his father used to tie them for him the night before a competition. Shoulders back. Chin up. Eyes to the front.

With the right choristers, he will win the next European Choir Games and restore his reputation.

He has half-a-mind to delay the beginning of the auditions, let them wait a while longer, let them worry he will not hear them. But he can’t bear tardiness. Ten minutes to nine, he has better get ready.

In the auditorium, Roderick sits with two colleagues while contestants perform on stage.

It’s past noon, when a young woman with bleached blond hair comes on stage. She introduces herself as Alison Crosby. Her voice rings a bell for him. It has a childish sort of quality he can’t imagine has a good range.

She fidgets on stage, waiting for her song to start. She twists a strand of hair around her finger— she’s that girl who tried to seduce him.

The song she chose is a pop song he’s sure he doesn’t recognize. Although her striped dress has a turtleneck, its length makes it risqué. This is entirely unsuitable, more appropriate for Britain’s Idol— or whatever it’s called— than an audition of this caliber.

He rolls his eyes and leans forward to speak in the microphone and dismiss her. But her pitch changes drastically, the original song is a male-female duet, and Alison is singing both parts. He has to revise his earlier judgement: her voice has more range than he expected.

As she sings, Alison strides across the stage with an impressive sway to her hips. He can’t help but notice her legs, not thin ones like a flamingo’s, but strong ones. He’s never wanted to use the old-fashioned word “gams” before now.

His colleagues give her points for stage presence. Roderick does too. A doubt creeps in: is he lowering his standards? She’s good, but not that good.

Perhaps he could use someone like her. He already has a singer in a wheelchair for emotional appeal. So why not add sex appeal too? She had no qualms about using it to her advantage. She might do the same for the choir.

Roderick adds Alison to his list of potential choristers.

Ten more participants and the auditions are over. Roderick and his two associates meet in the office to discuss their selection. Even though he’s picky, he has more names on his list than he needs in his choir, so they review audition tapes.

“Crosby is a loose cannon,” Vera, the theatre manager, says, “either she disregarded entirely proper audition etiquette or she doesn’t know anything about it which means we would have to teach her.”

Roderick sits on the edge of the table, arms crossed. Alison Crosby: rash or bold?

A year ago, he would have agreed with Vera that it’s a risk to take her. But what if having good singers isn’t enough to win the competition?

♪

Alison stands in front of the Lux Aeterna theatre in Marylebone. She has no control whatsoever over her smile, and this time it’s not because of the ABBA song playing in her earphones (well, maybe a little). She did it. Roderick chose her for his choir, and he chose her because of her talent.

“So, are you planning on going in?” asks someone behind her with good humour. It’s a young man in a wheelchair, a checkered scarf covers his scruffy chin.

“Are you here for the choir too?” she asks him.

“Yeah. I’m Marcus.”

As they are both early, they decide to get a coffee across the street. She follows Marcus around the building to find an accessible entrance.

The coffee shop is busy so while he finds a table, Alison orders. She chooses a lemonade, she really doesn’t need caffeine in her current state, besides, it’s bad for vocal chords.

At the end of the counter, Roderick is also waiting for his drink. Despite, the warmth of early Autumn, he’s wearing a turtleneck shirt in a thin knit fabric that hugs his torso.

He refuses to repeat his name for the barista. When he sees Alison, he takes a step back.

“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna flirt with you,” she says.

His laugh, however brief, both surprises and charms Alison.

He schools his features back into a stern mask, and asks, “How are you doing, Miss Crosby?”

“Oh, you can call me Alison.”

“I would rather not. Let’s keep things professional.”

Well, there goes his charm.

“I’m excited to begin,” Alison says. She toys with the plastic straw in her drink.“And I wanted to say thank you for giving me a chance, despite… you know.”

“Don’t make me regret it.”

She chokes on her lemonade and nods vehemently.

“Hiya, Maestro,” Marcus says as he sidles up to her.

Roderick nods at him but can’t seem to recall his name. Alison has that feeling again, that he’s assessing her, both of them actually.

“I will see you in—” Roderick glances at his watch— “thirteen minutes.”

As soon as he turns his back, Marcus mock-salutes him.

“I reckon he chose me because I’m in a wheelchair.”

“D’you really think so?”

“You saw how he looked at us, the man’s got a plan. Roderick Peterson always has a plan.”

“Does it bother you, then?”

Marcus shrugs. “It’s discrimination against bipeds, but I can’t help that I was born with an unfair advantage… Seriously, though, he must have thought I have a good voice too. That’s what’s important, I suppose. Why did he choose you?”

“I— I thought it was for my talent.”

“With legs like yours?”

Alison crosses her legs self-consciously as if it would hide them, but with a pink skirt on, it makes no difference.

Eleven minutes later, they’re inside the theatre on a stage that overlooks about 500 seats. The owner repurposed a Georgian church, but the interior is much more modern than its exterior, all sleek shades of white and pale wood. Of the old chapel, only the painted ceiling remains, faded cornflower blue with golden stars and pale pink clouds.

Alison sticks close to Marcus.

Roderick walks in at nine on the dot. “I’m Roderick Peterson, OBE, and your choir director. My goal is to win the national competition next January in order to represent the United Kingdom at the European Choir Games,” he announces. “And of course I want to win the games as well. You will have to work harder than you have ever worked before, and I will not tolerate laziness. I expect you to dedicate your life to my choir.”

He asks them to introduce themselves. The choristers aren’t content with stating their names, they list their whole bloody pedigree of posh private schools and musical achievements. Especially Clarissa de Santo, a tall, wispy blonde with wet blue eyes, wearing Burberry from head to toe. She studied in Milan and just completed a residency in New York. Roderick looks at her like she’s his prize pony.

When her turn comes, Alison lacks anything remarkable to boast about, but that doesn’t stop her from naming the choirs she was in, however modest, and listing the song contests she won.

“Thank you, miss Crosby, that was… thorough,” Roderick says. “As you have noticed, there are more people in this room than I need. Four of you will be evicted before the end of the semester.”

Alison’s stomach sinks. She looks around her, at her competition, her adversaries.

Jutting out her chin, she puts her hands on her hips to pretend the news doesn’t affect her.

Wouldn’t it be better to quit now than suffer the humiliation of rejection?

Roderick is still speaking, but her mind is searching for an excuse to quit. Ideally, something that would make her look good— Stop it, you’ll be the star of this choir in no time.

Based on a chart he made, Roderick arranges them in three rows, divided into sections according to voice parts: sopranos to the far left, then altos, tenors and basses.

He takes Alison by the shoulders and leads her at the front and centre of her section, a step farther out than the others. She doesn’t hesitate to take another step out and smiles. Told ya!

“We’ll try it this way for now. But I’m usually right,” he says. “Let us begin with warm-up exercises.” He sits at the piano at the front of the stage. “No vibrato, starting with E.” He presses a key and they sing the note, then move down semitones.

Alison is used to this kind of exercises and quickly finds her bearings. But she hasn’t sang in a choir since secondary school, so when they move on to blending exercises, the polyphony confuses her. It takes all her focus to not deviate from her part.

Two hours later, they’re ready to tackle their first choral. Roderick hands out partitions: Lacrymosa from Mozart’s Requiem. “I expect you all already know this one.”

Alison vaguely remembers it, she’ll have to sight-read which isn’t her greatest strength.

It takes a few tries, and then it happens. Their voices rise together as one in a powerful crescendo that brings tears to her eyes.

“Whoa, that was awesome,” she whispers and the person next to her nods in agreement.

“That was disappointing,” Roderick says.

♪ ♪

Part 3 and 4

[underappreciatedsterek]

UnderappreciatedSterek 2017 Masterpost

I can’t believe it’s been almost a year since I started this blog, or that I’ve managed to rack up a total of 108 recs so far!

Special thanks to @notvirginawoolf for the many recs they sent in over the year, and also to every other person who made a submission. I still have plenty to get around to, so keep an eye out for many more recs to come!

I’ve started the list with some of my personal favourites, with everything under the cut in rec order (sorry in advance for mobile users!) I can guarantee no matter which fic you pick, you’ll find an overlooked gem on the other side.

(I ended up having trouble whenever I exited edit mode when making this post where all the links would disappear. I had to remove some of the author tags to keep them working, but then they disappeared if I used the banner I’d made. So if the links aren’t there when this goes live... I’ll try working on it again T_T If you find any mistakes, please let me know, though I’m honestly loath to touch this again!)

A Bid from Midnight by Zercalo | 5572w | General

Derek’s been holed up in the middle of nowhere for a few months now, so Stiles makes a detour to check up on him. Because Scott is worried. (Scott is not that worried.)

And Pink Shoelaces by LupusScintilla (inkandblade) | 8842w | Mature

It was Derek’s turn. It had to be. He looked at the comm-disc in his hand. Even if he had to debase himself with going to this damned matchmaking service, he was determined to find his mate.

Any Other Name by twobirdsonesong | 979w | General

Stiles just wants to know what he smells like to Derek.

Counting Kisses by carolion | 327w | General

Derek has not kissed anyone in a very long time. But this is the first time he really wants to again.

Dealing with Werewolves by foolish_mortal | 2565w | General

In which Stiles runs away to live with the dragons and meets a werewolf.

In spite of all you knew and said by Azul_Bleu | 2700w | Mature

The road streams behind them, mile upon mile until Stiles can’t say where they even started, and Stiles talks so he won’t have to remember.

Or, Derek and Stiles deal with being the ones left behind. They’re not great at it.

(Set post an imaginary S3, where the Alphas win. Spectacularly.)

i've got someone else in mind by blueinkedbones | 2845w | General

“That’s just a mutual thing we have going on!” Stiles argues. “Like an unspoken arrangement, you know?”

Erica is generally smug at him. Stiles slumps.

“Of love, you’re saying. We have an unspoken arrangement of love, and it’s so unspoken neither of us knows about it.”

Keystone (3-part series) by Chandri / @chandri | 106,961w | Explicit

A world without parents is a lonely, portless world with no safety and no justice - this is a truth Stiles Stilinski learned when he was very young. But at nine years old, at twelve, he couldn’t understand just how true it was; that the powerful, indefinable wrongness that obscured his memories of his mother was more than a child’s sense of unfairness at having his mom taken away.

It’s not until a globetrotting great-aunt blows back into town after a many-years absence that it starts to dawn on him: that his mother’s death was anything but natural; that it was certainly anything but fair.

Reindeer in the (Library) Closet by Rainfallen | 3247w | Teen

Derek just wanted to put the spare network cables away and escape from Erica, not get accosted in the storage closet by a boy wearing the most atrocious Christmas sweater he’s ever seen. On second thought, though, the accosting maybe wasn’t such a bad idea.

The Field by Gimmie | 1625w | General

When he turned back to the field, he zoned in on the sudden appearance of Derek Hale, being led by the hand toward the meadow. He looked hesitant, but the girl was smiling with her head tilted and persuading him, pulling him along. Stiles stopped eating, stopped breathing, and stared as the older boy that he always noticed, as if he had a radar that could detect his presence, was finally led onto the field. The delay was not for lack of trying by the human girls of Beacon Hills High.

the pivot point by subnivean | 461w | General

Don’t be nice to me.

We Pick Ourselves Undone by StilesInTheGlade | 1583w | General

It was a habit, maybe even a compulsion, that Derek noticed in the aftermath of the Nogitsune. Stiles would periodically count off his fingers. One by one, from the thumb of his left hand to the thumb of his right, long fingers ticking as he marked them off, lips silently moving along, one, two, three…

when i look at you (oh, i don't know what's real) by verity | 1304w | Mature

Scott slows his pace during cross-country and falls back from Isaac to join Stiles at the rear of the group. “Hey, have you seen Derek recently?” Scott says, faux-casual like Stiles hasn’t watched him try to lie to their parents since they were five.

“Nope,” Stiles says. “Haven’t seen him in a week.” Unless he counts the Derek he dreams about on the regular, but if Stiles has learned anything from Lydia Martin and his umpteen-year-plan, it’s that the people in your dreams and the people in your reality are never one and the same.

Fuck Me in the Ass Cause I Love Jesus by WriteByNight | 3370w | Mature

Now that Stiles was a college graduate and still living at home, he had decided to help out as the organ player for the duration of the summer. The last organist had unexpectedly kicked the bucket and although there were a few people with more experience than Stiles, no one had the free time that he did so he’d reluctantly accepted the position.

Stiles thought it would put him back in the big guy’s good graces after all the fucking up he’d done as a kid…teen…okay, his entire life.

There wasn’t really another benefit to the arrangement. Stiles didn’t even have a keyboard at home, so he had to come to church every Wednesday and Saturday and practice for the Sunday services. Luckily, some of the more experienced players covered the choir practices for him. Playing and hearing hymns three times a week was more than enough for him.

However, about a week and a half into his time as organist he’d come across another perk. The groundskeeper and maintenance man, Derek Hale.

You’ve got me slippin’ and a slidin’ by ElisAttack / @iamonlydancing | 3683w | General

The snowmobile stutters to a halt on the banks of the river and Derek smiles when he sees a few ravens flying in circles in the distance.  The salmon are here.

“Seems like I’m your lucky charm,”  Stiles says with a wink.

Or the one where Derek lives in the middle of nowhere, and is probably in love with his delivery boy.

The Truth Behind The Pictures by Boy_On_Strings | 7796w | Explicit

Stiles learns to paint. Derek learns something about Stiles.

Ember by heavy_cream | 2825w | Explicit

Sleepy sunday morning sex.

Never Been Kissed by TheLittlestBoho | 2103w | General

Derek and Stiles touch, but they don’t kiss.

"My Wolf-Man" by write_light | 12,935w | Mature

Forest and castle, wolf and man, a vengeful spirit and true love, so much misfortune and so many masks. And a tray full of desserts. How do happy endings work? Prince Stiles, a human; Derek Hale, a werewolf; Talia & the ghost of Derek’s father; Uncle Peter and Evil Aunt Kate; Stiles’ parents, the king and queen.

The Time John Stilinski Learned To Knock by 42hrb / @exhuastedpigeon | 819w | Mature

John Stilinski comes home from a long shift and just wants to relax, then he hears a noise coming from Stiles’ room. (Prompts: 76. “Please put your penis away.”)

Like Immortality by Idday | 4815w | Teen

Dear Derek,

All these words, and what I’m trying to say is simple.

I want to love you like you deserve to be loved. I want to share your triumphs, your burdens, your full moons and your new. I want you to be as sure of my love as you are the phases of the moon.

I want to love you like the moon loves you.

(I told you that one day I would write you a love letter).

…

OR, Stiles and Derek, in letters, through the years.

carry me to love again by nighimpossible | 3000w | Mature

Stiles picks up Derek on the side of the road. Post 3A.

Thin Mints and Meddling by myhomeboy_stilinski | 5388w | Teen

Stiles would be the first person to admit that living in a small town had its drawbacks, with privacy being non-existent and sneaking around near impossible. But there was something to be said about the solidarity and loyalty that filled a close-knit community. People stood up for one another. They contributed and helped. They loved each other. Truthfully, Stiles pitied those who incited the wrath of someone from Beacon Hills.

To Stiles’ eternal gratitude, he had never prompted said wrath.

That is, until he met Derek Hale.

**** The one where the people of Beacon Hills realize that Derek Hale deserves nice things (in case you missed the tags.)

Whiskey Haze by Piscaria | 3221w | Teen

Stiles blinks drunkenly up at the ceiling, wondering who he knows who’s over 21 and a little bit shady.

Stiles had been dreading this day for years.

Leap of Faith by Batwynn | 710w | General

Derek watches his somewhat-friend become weather worn and tired, and thinks, ‘Why Stiles? Why him?’

Okay Will Get Us Through by clotpolesonly / @clotpolesonly | 41,955w | Mature

It was supposed to be a peaceful fucking protest. Stiles heard the first shot loud and clear, though, and was too boxed in to duck, even as his stomach felt like it fell out of his body entirely. For a second all he could think was “Scott is gonna be so mad, I said it would be fine, I promised,” and then he was falling.

First Born Unicorn by dragon-temeraire / @dragon-temeraire | 1982w | General

Something mysterious has returned to the preserve, but for once it’s not dangerous.

Decision by verushka70 | 17,398w | Explicit

Derek goes out to bars wishing he’d never been born and gives himself to almost anyone who wants to take him home. He wets his face in the sweat that runs down men’s chests and doesn’t shower after. Back home, the scents dare Laura to say something. She never does.

Derek grabs her in a quick hug. “I’m fine,” he murmurs, face tucked into her hair, scenting sister, pack, family, love. They both know it’s not true. But she lets it go.

The Devil You Know by verushka70 | 14,629w | Explicit

“So,” Derek says like it’s utterly obvious. (It’s not, it’s totally not). It’s hard to know how to take someone you can’t really read.

His tongue licks between Stiles’ lips like all of this was never in question. Was it? No, not really, because: Derek.

Gut Feeling by Chubstilinski / @chubstilinski | 29,842w | Explicit

Stiles was maybe, possibly, mildly obsessed with his favorite regular, Deputy Derek Hale. But in his defense, Derek seemed just as obsessed with Stiles. Or at least, Stiles’s baked goods, if his appetite for sweets and increasing waistline were anything to go by.

Comfort Drabble by wildwerewolfweirdness | 100w | General

They didn’t get on, Stiles and Isaac.

Happily Ever After by endoftheline7 | 3080w | Teen

The Sheriff finds out about Derek and Stiles, and doesn’t react well. At all. In fact, he ends up asking for the worst.

Family dinner.

Peter Plays The Long Game by HurrahForSmut | 2314w | Teen

She’d almost forgotten Peter, which is always a mistake.

Unchained Melody (2 part series) by swing set in december | 3825w |

Teen

Haunting requires skill and showmanship. Something werewolves will never understand.

Amber by cobrilee | 1283w | Teen

Derek stood by the bar, ostensibly waiting for the bartender to swing by and take his order, but in reality, he couldn’t care less if the bartender ever noticed him. He just wanted to have a legitimate reason to not have to hang out with his friends.  

A Taunting of Ravens to You by keelover | 17,830w | Mature

Stiles, plagued by uncertainty, would like to know whether or not he would be strong enough to survive the bite. Lydia, awake, but not entirely the same after her ordeal, offers him some insight with that tricky moon mirror of hers. And what does Derek think about all of this? The hell if anyone knew.

the wilderness (3-part series) by ceserabeau | 9202w | Explicit

When Stiles pictured Derek’s return to Beacon Hills, he never imagined this: late night in the cereal aisle at the grocery store, Stiles in sweatpants and a shirt long overdue a wash, glancing left from the Captain Crunch and Lucky Charms to find Derek Hale, four feet away, pulling a box of muesli off the shelf.

Lock Me Up by FairydustOnRoses | 3410w | Explicit

Stiles is home for Thanksgiving break. He traveled across the country from Columbia University and is looking forward to spending time with Scott and his dad and stuffing his face on Thursday. He is not looking forward to running into a certain broody werewolf that he may or may not have left in bed after a hookup only hours before he got on the plane to New York back in August.

Swallow by carolion | 469w | Teen

Stiles looks good when he swallows. Derek tells him so.

He’ll bleed you ‘til you’re just bone and skin by ElisAttack | 2236w | Explicit

It’s moments when Stiles feels the dull pull of the bruises on his hips, moments when he can’t sleep on his stomach because the throbbing ache does nothing for a good night’s sleep, it’s those moments that make him feel worthless.

Makes him hate Derek with a passion that burns brighter than anything else he feels.

Or the one where Derek doesn’t know his strength, but Stiles knows he deserves it.

Moon Fever (10-part series) by mytimehaspassed | 30,612w | Mature

Derek moves into Stiles’ old house on a Monday.

Jacket by thatmcbastard (blueb1rd) | 335w | General

Stiles just keeps shivering and looking all vulnerable and pathetic. It’s annoying, alright?

Scream Wolf by grangerinvestigations | 13,966w | Teen

Someone’s taken their love of werewolf movies one step too far.

what in carnation? by haleofStilesheart | 2985w | General

Deliveryman wasn't exactly Derek's dream job but it helped put him through school so he couldn't complain. Especially since it helped him meet the love of his life.

Breathe a Little Easier by Scavenger | 3492w | Teen

Five years ago, he would never have imagined life being this easy, this good.

Take A Breath, Let It Out by northern | 2703w | Teen

Derek can smell the discomfort radiating off of Stiles. What going against his instincts is doing to his sweat and his breath. But as long as Derek can’t smell hesitation, it’s fine. He can deal with Stiles hating himself a little. He can’t deal with having killed Stiles.

We Den Our Hearts Here by LadyLade | 1921w | Teen

Somehow, having a pack of wolf pups has made Derek’s life easier.

Staying by secretagentwolf / @secretagentwolf | 4571w | Teen

Stiles shows up at Derek’s apartment door one day asking to stay. Derek surprises them both by accepting. He does his best to make Stiles feel safe and he doesn’t ask. Eventually, though, Stiles tells him.

This Will Definitely Hurt by write_light | 285w | General

That time when Stiles pulled a back muscle and Derek and the Sheriff had a (thankfully not literal) pissing match about how to take care of him. (est. relationship, Sheriff knows)

Seven Wonders by dadvans / @dadvans | 2988w | General

Stiles sees Beacon Hills through ancient parallels. Derek thinks he’s cursed.  

The Amazing Part Is by TroubleIWant / @troubleiwant | 2407w | General

You’re in love with a beautiful boy, and the amazing part is that he loves you back. He’s all dark honey eyes and buttermilk skin, moles down his neck that he lets you kiss and kiss again. He’s all sharp laughter and too wide sweeps of his arms, and it’s been ten months but you’re not thinking about your first anniversary, you’re thinking about forever.

and in your hand a skeleton key by faerielissa | 5474w | Teen

How was it that, of everyone from home, besides his dad of course, he missed Derek the most?

Find Me Sitting Fireside by kaistrex | 13,282w | Teen

With the news that an Alpha wants Beacon Hills for their own, Derek and Stiles are forced to attend a couples retreat at a ski resort to learn their enemy’s identity. However, the threat is the least of Derek’s problems when he’s expected to fake a relationship, share a bed and suffer through candlelit dinners with the man he’s secretly been in love with for the past four years.

At Least Our Theme Song Rocks by Deviousness_Carter | 907w | Teen

After years of being a technician, Stiles finally passes his field exam and gets to save the world. Unfortunately, he gets neither a mask nor a tux.

punitive acts by subnivean | 3881w | Explicit

Two idiots, both alike in indignity, or something, whatever.

Let Me Catch Your Laughter Upon My Tongue by monopolizeme | 1295w

| Teen

Stiles doesn’t laugh.

It’s not something that Derek has ever put much thought into before, because he’s never had a reason to focus on something that’s never been there before. But Stiles doesn’t laugh – he snarks with sly lips and snorts in indignation when he thinks that he’s heard something completely foolish and he huffs out a noise of victory when he succeeds at something but Stiles doesn’t laugh.

Laura Was Right by Sheepnamedpig | 1446w | Explicit

The first and last time Derek and his ghost boyfriend ever have sex in front of a mirror.

(I Will) Remember Your Name by saraubs | 1088w | Mature

Forced onto the sands to pay for his crimes against the Empire (also see: avenging his family), Derek just fights to unleash the anger, not caring if he lives or dies. Well, that is, until he comes face to face with a certain smart-mouthed body slave, and finds there are still some things worth fighting for.

I Know by Nival_Vixen / @nivalvixen | 1050w | Mature

Stiles has lost himself, he’s drowning, and he doesn’t know if he’ll make it back up to the surface.

The - Mistake by kaistrex | 504w | General

Four-year-old Derek mistakes Sheriff Stilinski for his mate.

That's Where It Is by LupusScintilla (inkandblade) | 22,815w | Mature

At twenty-two, the age of a Master-Builder according to the Number Law the Elder Council used, Derek was at the perfect age to break away from his family’s over extended pack and construct his own. As with all Alphas ready to take that step, he needed a Mate: no pack could be led by only one mind.  

This Must Be What Going Mad Feels Like by LadyLade | 902w | Teen

Then Derek twitches, sees Scott looking at him, and glares. “What?” he snarls.

Does…does Derek look a little guilty?

Oh Jesus. This is not happening.

-

Teen Wolf kink meme prompt: Holy shit, Scott thinks, horrified. Because Derek isn’t staring creepily at some unidentified point in the distance. Derek is staring at his best friend’s ass.

Know Thy Worth (2-part series) by Ishtar12 / @mommalosthermind | 15,983w | General

His Dad’s been snatched by a rival pack. His first kiss with Derek anchored his magic, sealed him to the pack, and maybe even Derek himself. Stiles has no idea what’s going on in his life right now, and less time to figure it out.

Day 4: On a date by starkology (jawnwatson) | 501w | General

Stiles and Derek try to go on a date.

With You (You'll Find Me) by CigarettesandCider / @kieren-fucking-walker | 1993w | Teen

“I need a fic of Stiles leaving Beacon Hills to find Derek because he can’t deal with that town and it’s people anymore. I want Derek doing some grocery shopping and then Stiles scent hits him hard and he just kinda whimpers and follows it till he finds Stiles there looking at him. I want Derek asking Stiles how did he find him and Stiles just shrugs and says he had a feeling. I want Stiles following Derek to his car when Derek tilts his head motioning to the parking lot because they don’t need words. And then finally when they’re inside Derek’s little apartment (there’s nothing fancy about it but it’s homey and there are pictures of Cora and him on the walls) Stiles finally crumbles and Derek just holds him.”

Meddling Ghosts by haipanda / @haihaipanda | 1837w | General

Stiles would like to remind everyone that he is not crazy and he does not see hallucinations. The fact that no one else can see ghosts is really not his fault and the rest of the world could be a bit more understanding.

Corpse Flower by Spikedluv / @spikedluv | 2253w | Teen

Stiles thinks that having sex with Derek will make him less distracting.

Lightsabers and Leverage by SourwolfSymphony | 581w | Teen

Stiles avoids studying for exams by calling Derek to rant about Star Wars; he doesn’t realize it’s 3am. Derek is worried and displeased.

REASONS I WOULD DATE DEREK HALE by Idday | 7284w | Teen

When Stiles moves back to Beacon Hills after college, he pretty much immediately decides to convince Derek Hale to date him.

Unfortunately for him, it seems as though they’re not on the same page. Like, Derek thinks Stiles hates him (and apparently, so does everybody else). And surprisingly, none of Stiles SUPER ROMANTIC (screw you, Scott) plans to woo Derek seem to be working. Probably because Derek still thinks Stiles is making fun of him. Or something.

But Stiles is nothing if not stubborn. He’s going to win Derek over. No matter what.

His 10 point lists are definitely going to help (no matter what Lydia says).

Get Me With Those Green Eyes, Baby by penlex | 2110w | Teen

Stiles wakes up alone, but that’s okay because he has to go to school anyway. Right. It’s totally fine.

“What’s your problem, Stilinski?” Jackson barked, right when Stiles blurted, “I feel like my life’s soundtrack is made up of Taylor Swift hits.”

Nightcall by oldestcharm / @oldestcharm | 3086w | General

Getting as far away from Beacon Hills as humanly possible is much easier when you have supernatural friends… acquaintances… err, something.

Can't Control Myself by JueJueBahn | 10,940w | Explicit

Stiles is showering innocently but then omg a wild Derek appears and might or might not be intoxicated with weird supernatural stuff.

This Was How Legends Were Made by Delta_Immortal | 108,501w | Explicit

Caught between the Hales and the Argents in their war, Stiles finds himself a slave of the great Hale pack. Stiles spends each day working hard, hoping to earn his freedom and see his sick father. It also seems each day he’s capturing more and more attention from Derek, the young Hale lord. Stiles tells himself it’s mostly because Derek is merely trying to figure out how to send the annoying, useless slave away- not because of affection, despite the tales coming from the rumor mill.

It doesn’t matter what Derek’s intentions are. Stiles can’t bother with love right now. He’s got to keep his head down and survive long enough to keep his promise to Kate Argent. After all, she’s promised to keep his father safe.

Occasionally Domestic (Series) by Little Spoon (JaydenNara) | 36,523~w | Explicit

The day of graduation, Stiles left Beacon Hills behind when he hopped into Derek’s car and never looked back. He’s living in New York with Derek and attending Columbia University on a partial scholarship. Only, no one seems to realize that Derek and Stiles are very much together, and sickeningly happily so, because that had never been on anyone’s radar.

(or – Stiles and Derek, occasionally domestic.)

No Filter by kaistrex | 1213w | Teen

When Derek was hired to photograph some up-and-coming novelist for his book jacket, he was expecting someone stuffy, middle-aged and, well, bookish.

That’s not what he gets. At all.

Beacon Gills by kitsunequeen | 4226w | Teen

When Stiles accompanies Scott on a trip to his uncle’s beach house, he gets more than he bargained for after running into a pack of mermaids with a particularly attractive leader…

Last Word by Sheepnamedpig | 953w | Explicit

Someone is wrong on the internet.

Bravado by orphan_account | 3545w | Explicit

Something good finally happens to Derek Hale.

(Spoiler alert: that something is Stiles.)

Put a spell on me please? by ssleif | 3154w | Explicit

Derek has a dilemma, and figures Stiles, sneaky clever Slytherin that he is, might be able to help. Or: Teenage wizards having an illicit first-time rendezvous while their dorm mates are elsewhere.

Gnashing Teeth and Criminal Tongues (conspire against the odds) by

LadySlytherin | 14,269w | Mature

When Stiles mouths off to the wrong set of witches, he finds himself unable to control his tongue around a certain alpha werewolf. As Stiles struggles with the lesson the witches want him to learn, he knows it’s only a matter of time until the truth comes out. It always does.

Tie [taɪ] by LupusScintilla (inkandblade) | 5164w | Mature

Unable to talk his way out of attending the Wordsmith’s Masquerade, Derek thinks he’ll have to suffer through in silence. Luckily, someone else is there to do the talking for him.

Everything to Destruction by MajorAccent | 559w | Teen

Potentially evil. Potentially good. Just this huge powerful potentiality waiting to be shaped.

Wooden Smiles, Raging Sea by dedougal | 3466w | Mature

Stiles had no idea where the black smoke had come from and he had a feeling he really didn’t want to know.

Make us laugh (or nothing will) by rohkeutta | 31,005w | Teen

When Derek Hale left Beacon Hills at 18 to become a kickboxing champion, he thought he would never return. But here he is, seven years later: trying to salvage something from the ruins of his life, eighteen months after the house fire that killed his parents and left him limping and without a future. Enter Stiles, a college dropout Derek might or might not have been friends with in high school, and the unexpected interest he manifests towards the love of Derek’s life.

The Theory of No Control by howl-to-the-wind (greenleaf) | 27,989w |

Mature

“–kick your scrawny butt all over the Muertes Archipelago, Bilinski! Get out of there or I will feed you to a Stegosaurus!”

“First of all, having me come out from here and then tossing me to the dinos kinda defeats the purpose of it all, since I already am in a dinosaur cage. Second, Stegosauruses are herbivores, which means they will definitely pass on biting my rear end. And third, my butt is not scrawny, though I didn’t know you were even looking, Coach. I’m flattered.”

“BILINSKI!!”

Derek groaned. “Oh no.”

“Oh, yes.” Scott grinned. He ran off, no doubt excited to watch his reckless best friend and cheer him on. He was such a damn enabler.

trick or treat (say something sweet) by dyobrienz (Muffintine) | 2712w |

General

“And,” Bat Kid sniffles, “a werewolf stole my candy, mommy – a werewolf!”

or: Three Halloweens from Derek’s perspective. Past, Present, Future.

Haleoween by redhoodedwolf | 6952w | Teen

“So what are you looking to get?” he inquired.

“Alright, well, the theme I’m going for is Badass Little Red Riding Hood.”

Derek arched an eyebrow, not judgingly, but curiously. “Interesting. Skirt and all?”

Stiles’ cheeks flushed at the joke. “Pfft, nah, not for this one.” Derek’s face flushed at that.

temporary tattoos make meaningful love tokens by Siriusstuff | 2126w |

General

Trick-or-treating with young Stiles, Scott, Derek and his sisters.

The Best Thing Since Peanuts by phlossie | 2042w | Teen

At this moment in time though, with gyrating attractive people who were not even remotely interested in gyrating in his vicinity also pretending he didn’t exist, Stiles felt that maybe the several month long moratorium should come to an end.

At least that way they could be miserable together.

Spell It Out For Me by chubstilinski | 14,766w | Explicit

But now Stiles was, well. He was fat. Not extremely so, just a little chubby, really, but it was exaggerated, every curve highlighted by the tightness of clothes made for a slender body. His Clark Kent slacks clung to thick thighs and cut into his hips. A substantial belly and small muffin top spilled over the waistband, stretching the buttons on his clean shirt. Derek could see the swell of his chest where the Superman logo peeked out from the undone top buttons, and he felt like he was going crazy. Stiles was gorgeous.

Or, on Halloween, Stiles gets jinxed by a hoodoo practitioner into gaining weight very rapidly. Derek thinks it’s sexy. Stiles thinks Derek is sexy. Shenanigans ensue.

Tricky to Treat by khasael | 2524w | Mature

Stiles loves Halloween. Derek hates it. Luckily, Stiles has a plan.

who nursey says is dead by demonicweirdo | 6357w | Mature

“I’m fine,” Stiles mutters, gritting his teeth through the searing pain. The hand pressed to his neck comes away drenched in blood. “Maybe not. I’m going to die here, in this shitty house, on Halloween.”

Haunted by kitsunequeen | 436w | General

First thing’s first, Derek is a liar.

1) Stiles is absolutely not afraid.


2) He did not shriek. He may have gasped, like, once. 


3) Clinging to Derek’s arm is in no way an indication of fear. He just really loves his boyfriend, okay? Really really. And his arm is comfortable to hold on to. That is all.

Rescue my cat from me by Hepzheba | 897w | General

Firefighter Derek has to retrieve a cat from a tree. He’d rather ogle the cat’s owner, despite the ridiculous sweater said owner is wearing.

Halloween by MissDizzyD | 903w | Teen

Stiles and Derek spend Halloween night watching horror films and dishing out candy.

Hallowe'en at Hale's! by lunaraindrop | 635w | General

After months of not hearing from Derek, Stiles decides to throw a Halloween Party at Derek’s loft. Could Stiles have ulterior motives besides dressing up and dancing?

Garbage Bag Ghosts by twisting_vine_x | 759w | General

This is literally just Stiles and Derek being dorky boyfriends and decorating for Halloween.

One Of These Days by dedougal | 552w | Teen

Stiles knows he shouldn’t just walk in on Derek. Anyway, Derek should hear him coming.

It Takes Time by kingandmoon | 3585w | Teen

He had no job, his pack had scattered for college, and he paid the delivery guy extra to unload all his food into his kitchen. So really, what was the point?

Take-out Turkey Day by captaintinymite (augopher) | 3071w | Teen

Graduate Student Stiles Stilinski is  alone as he studies in New York- well, aside from his only friend in the City. Derek lives in the same apartment building, and circumstances mean they will both be spending Thanksgiving alone. When Derek suggests they spend it together, Stiles jumps on the idea.

The only problem? Neither one of them can cook.

a fable of some sort by thatworldinverted / @thatworldinverted | 5706w | Explicit

Stiles isn’t stupid. He knows something’s wrong with him, something rotten at the core like an apple in a fairytale.

He just doesn’t care. Not as long as he has Derek, as long as he can look up from the knife and the steel table and meet wolf-bright eyes and red-tipped claws.

And I Promise You Kid, I'll Give So Much More Than I Get by nerdyderekhale | 4855 | General

Stiles and Derek have been roommates for years, friends for longer. When Derek decides to bring Christmas spirit to Stiles for a change, unintentional wooing leads to Christmas confessions.

A Modern-Day Christmas Carol by Peasantaries | 2876 | Teen

Derek Hale is an adult: he doesn’t drink beverages with the title ‘Christmas Cookie Latte.’ 

Catahoula by zjofierose | 6761 | Teen

A late flight, an ESL Uber driver, and a simple mistake are all it takes for Stiles to have his most… memorable… Christmas yet. 

New Traditions by baneofawolf (InTheArmsofaThief) | 4576 | General

Stiles fiddled with his phone, absently closing and reopening the same app over and over. He’d been thinking about this day for months. Well, for years, if he was being honest with himself, but the actual plan for this actual day had only started forming a few months ago. He’d been thinking about this ever since he found out where Derek was. 

No Objections For Stiles by kaistrex | 2168 | General

While fighting a witch on Christmas Eve, Derek and Stiles end up stuck in a snow globe. Deaton says it should take a few days to wear off, but perhaps there’s another solution… 

all I want for Christmas (is you) by BansheeLydia | 647 | Teen

Stiles just wants to get home in time for Christmas.

Lover's Eyes by yodasyoyo / @yodas-yo-yo | 3792 | Teen

Derek has a complicated relationship with Christmas at the best of times, Stiles may be the one person who can make it better. or Five Christmas Days over the years told from Derek’s POV

[5am-the-foxing-hour]

First Shot at a prompt!! Okay... Small angst but happy ending. It's Virgil's birthday and Remy, Logan, Roman & Patton are planning a surprise birthday party for him!!! But... Them keeping it a secret makes Virgil think that they forgot.

*sips warm chocolate* You seem to know me far to well XD(angst and fluff is so my jam)

((It is waaaaaaaaaaaaay longer than the previous prompts (and a bit more world building.. idk) so A LOT of it is under read more))’

*looks at all the words**presses post button*YEEEEEEEEEEET!

Remy entered the cafe he knew Virgil’s friends were at, Virgil would have been with them if he wasn’t currently home due to a nasty cold. Remy looked around before he caught sight of the trio. Logan sat with his head in a book, Roman was clearly telling a story with how much his body moved, Patton listening with rapt attention nodding along with a blinding smile.

He waltzed over a big grin on his lips.

  “’Sup Gurls!” he called, Logan looked up from his book, Patton let his eyes leave Roman to look at Remy and he waved with a smile in greeting, Roman closed his mouth having clearly been in the middle of explaining something overly dramatic explanation of what had happened.

  “HI Remy!” Patton said grinning back.

  “Salutations.” Logan stated

  “Greetings.” Roman responded once he’d realised who it was that interrupted his epic story.

Patton moved closer to the wall to give Remy space to sit on the couch at the table. Remy smiled and sat down, taking a sip from the drink he had gotten before moving over to them.

  “What brings you here, Remy?” Patton asked “Is Virgil okay? he wrote that he’s sick.”

  “The kid’s fine, he just caught a nasty cold, the most he’s doing is moving from the bed to the bathroom.” Patton opened his mouth to ask something but Remy already knew and started talking before Patton could ask “And i made sure to leave enough rations for him to eat from, a thermos with soup and tea and some sandwiches. He’ll be back to normal in no time.” Patton closed his mouth and smiled. “But that isn’t the reason as to why I came here.” Remy said and leaned his head forward to look over his sunglasses. “It’s ma baby bro’s b-day soon, and what do you three say about helping me throwing him a surprise party?”

  “OOOH! I’D LOVE TO!” Patton cheered

  “That will be satisfactory.” Logan said giving away one of his rare smiles

  “It will be EPIC!” Roman said in his dramatic flare. Remy grinned.

Virgil would surely love it!

Virgil woke up with a groan, checking the time on his phone, he groaned louder when he saw the time and the date.

It was 7 in the morning and his birthday.

  “To frigging early.” Virgil grumbled as he rolled over to his side closing his eyes, showing the world that he was gonna go back to sleep.30 minutes later left him no closer to sleep than before.

his phone suddenly pinged causing Virgil to groan and roll over again grabbing the phone to see three messages, he pulled his phone closer squinting at the to bright screen before he lowered the intensity to see three messages, one from Thomas, Joan and Talyn, and one from Thomas alone, and to Virgil’s surprise one from Lilly. He unlocked his phone to see what the messages said.

The one from Thomas, Joan and Talyn said nothing but Happy Birthday in all caps and surrounded by heart and party emojis. Virgil smiled slightly at the overuse only causing him to snort. the message from Thomas alone was almost an whole essay on how much he wished Virgil a happy day and how happy he was for having him as a friend. Virgil would deny any claim that he cried a bit. the one from Lilly was a short gif of her giving the phone screen a fist-bump with the letters “You got this.“ Virgil smiled, she was the one who had given the advice to try therapy and had found Dr. Pecani’s place, Virgil hadn’t thanked her enough for it. even if it took Remy to literary drag him there the first time due to Virgil almost succeeding in barricading himself in the bathroom due to the stress of meeting someone new and god forbid TALKING!

Virgil answered the texts before he sat up and decided that he would just get bored if he stayed in bed any longer if he couldn’t fall asleep again.

The house was silent and Virgil groaned for the third time since he woke up to see the world covered in white.

  “We live in Florida, how the fudge is there snow outside!” he grumbled before entering the kitchen fixing a sandwich for breakfast before starting the tv and aimlessly watched the early terrible shows on it, to lazy and uncaring to change the channel or start Netflix.

  “What in Starbucks names are you doing awake?!” a sleepy voice suddenly said from the stairs causing Virgil to look up at a disgruntled Remy, his hair was a mess and he was still half asleep.

  “My body decided that 7 am was the time to wake up.”

  “That was 3 hours ago.” Remy groaned before he entered the kitchen. the sounds of him fixing breakfast filtered into the living room.

  “Wait.” Remy suddenly said leaning out from the doorway, holding a cartoon of milk and the box of cereal in his hands, looking more awake than when he came down from the bedrooms. “Don’t you have a session with Emile today?”

  “Not until 14.” Virgil replied. Remy nodded before he returned into the kitchen. Virgil felt a small sense of confusion, why hadn’t Remy said anything about what day it was? he was usually quit good at keeping tabs on things like this. Sure Remy did have a tendency to go a bit overboard with the gifts, but he never forgot a birthday, but still, now when Virgil started to think about it, Remy, Logan, Roman and even Patton hadn’t even mentioned his birthday approaching.

Virgil didn’t notice Remy sit down on the cough next to him, holding his bowl of cereal in one hand and spoon in the other, he looked at the tv screen before snorting and reached for the remote and changed the channel to Cartoon-Networks. he sent a look to Virgil only to stiffen, he knew the face Virgil made when he was thinking to hard and to dark. Remy put his bowl on the table before the cough before he turned to face his little brother.

  “Virgil?” he called, and got no reaction. “Hey, Virge.” Remy placed his hand on Virgil’s knee, feeling him jolt at the sudden touch. Virgil blinked before looking at Remy. “What’s wrong?”

  “… Nothing…” Virgil said looking away.

  “Hey, please don’t lie to me.”

  “It’s nothing really.”

  “Virgil. if you don’t want to tell me what’s wrong, could you at least tell Emile, just to not bottle it up?” Remy pleaded. Virgil sent him a look before exhaling.

  “Fine.” he grunted.

Emile picked up on Virgil’s distress instantly when he entered the room.

  “Hey Virgil, do you how do?”

  “Fine… i guess” Virgil said and shrugged

  “OH! its your birthday today isn’t it?! Happy birthday Virgil!” Emile said throwing his arms out and grinning.

Virgil smiled but it was a bit strained. Emile noticed even if he didn’t point it out until a while into the meeting.

  “What is troubling you Virgil?” he asked “I noticed you seemed more ‘agitated’ when you first walked in.” Emile said in a calm tone as he sent Virgil the question, Virgil stiffened, opening his mouth to day that it was nothing, but he had promised Remy to talk to Emile about it… and Virgil was not someone to back out of a promise without a very good reason to.

  “It’s just-” he sighed fiddling with his hoodie “I-”

  “Hey, It’s okay to express yourself. Take the time you need to gather your thoughts.” Virgil sighed slumping in the sofa before he rubbed his hand against his neck.

  “It’s kinda stupid.”

  “Humour me.” Emile said with a serious tone “No feeling is stupid.”

  “It’s just… it’s my birthday today… but only you, Thomas, Talyn, Joan and Lilly has said anything…” Virgil’s voice cracked

  “Hey, it’s okay, grab some tissues. Let’s work some issues.” Emile said as he moved the tissue box over to Virgil who took it with shaking hands

  “I’m scared that the others have forgotten… they haven’t even said anything about it… nor asked me what i want, like they did last year…”

Emile grimaced behind his notepad “You can be a bit to good in keeping secrets, Remy.” Emile thought before he gave Virgil a smile.

  “I’m doubt they have forgotten about your Birthday, Virgil, they love you very much, and i can say that from a personal view point. we all love you.” Virgil snorted slightly as he rubbed one of the tissues under his eyes, smudging the eye shadow way more than before and making the tissue turn grey.

  “Thanks-” he croaked out.

Virgil had decided to walk home from the meeting with Emile that day, to clear his head, he most often than not did this, and now with the snow still covering the ground the cold helped him keep his mind from spiralling.

He halted once he could see the apartment he and Remy shared when both of them started at the same college, tho ten years apart. there were a few cars to many at the drive way, Remy’s old slightly rusted Lamborghini stood as normal on the driveway, but it was the two other cars that caused him to halt, Remy hadn’t mentioned anything about them having visitors.

  “Remy you are so dead.” Virgil growled as he walked over to the door, pushing his anxiety down as he opened the door the apartment was silent and… dark? Virgil blinked wasn’t Remy home?

  “Remy?!” Virgil called as he removed his jacket and boots “If you’re passed out on the cough again i swear i’m not to be blamed for whatever happens to your face!” he thought he heard a stifled snort from the living room. Virgil stilled, before he moved closer, then the moment he entered the lights were turned on

  “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” a choir of voices called. Virgil startled taking a step back as his eyes widened and he took in the scene, Patton stood in the middle with a beaming smile, holding a gigantic birthday cake full of burning candles, with the purple letters “Happy Birthday Virgil” with a heart written on it in Logan’s organised yet beautiful writing. Logan stood next to him with a smal smile of his own. Roman was grinning there he stood next to a table full of presents. Thomas, Joan and Talyn was there as well all smiling at him. Emile was there as well and he gave Virgil a small wave still smiling. Remy was no where to be seen. 

  “You knew?!” Virgil asked the therapist who gave away a sheepish smile

  “Yeah… but i was told not to say anything, and i wanted to tell you right there and then… but I didn’t wanna spoil the surprise.”

  “Wait.” Virgil said looking around, instantly on guard “Where’s Remy?” just as the name left his lips two strong hands grabbed him from behind hoisting him up in the air. causing Virgil to scream

  “No touching the Face!” Remy laughed as he pulled Virgil into a bear hug, still keeping his feet from touching the floor.

  “GUAH! LET ME DOWN!” Virgil barked struggling in the hold. laughter echoed in the room and the sound of a camera. Virgil was put back to the floor and Remy just ruffled his hair.

  “Happy birthday, Virge.”

  “Now!” Patton called gaining everyone’s attention “CAKE!”

[yuniesan]

One-Shot - Through Her Eyes

A/N: I haven’t written a one-shot in a long time...... There are a few notes below the cut. This is only going to be posted here for now because I haven’t decided if I want to share it with the world just yet.

Through her Eyes

Prompt: It’s been over a year since Maya last spoke to Riley, the triangle broke apart their friendships, Lucas won’t talk to any of them, Farkle transferred to a different school, and Maya has gotten new friends, she’s the popular girl in school, she sits at the popular table, laughs and smiles with everyone. But is seems as if something has been missing from her life something that has been missing since that fateful night almost two years before. After an accident leaves her unconscious, Maya is sent back to the past to relive everything that happened since yearbook, but through Riley’s eyes… and what she sees makes her realize just how big of a mistake she had made by breaking her best friend’s heart.

A/N: This is an AU so some things will happen in the same way they had on the show while other things will be completely different.

Sophomore year of high school was half way done, and Maya couldn’t believe she had gotten as far as she had. Everyone in the school knew who she was, she was popular and as crazy as it sounds she had good enough grades that she didn’t worry about disappointing her mother. But as the year came to a close she felt something pulling at her heart, something that had been missing since middle school and she couldn’t understand why everything had ended the way it had. It happened the year before as well right around the holidays, as the lights around the city began to glow with festive fairy lights, and those little pop up shops appeared everywhere.

She missed Riley.

The one person that had always been there for her, through the hurt and the pain of her father leaving, through the uncertain times she had once had with her mother, through the good and the bad. She couldn’t figure out where everything went wrong and she lost her best friend, everything had been fine until the summer after the end of middle school. After those two months had passed without Riley who had spent it with her brother at their grandparents’ place. Everything changed after that, Riley had let go of their friendship, Farkle had gone to Einstein Academy with Smackle, Lucas stopped talking to everyone, and Zay just tried his best between the bunch of them. They all separated from one another, and Maya couldn’t understand why it had happened.

At the end of the first month of freshman year Maya went to see Riley to ask about what had happened and why she wasn’t talking to them, to talk about what was happening. Their friendship ring, Riley’s ring was sitting on the center of the bay window, pillows no longer there no bears, no stuffed animals, no color at all. The window was bare, a curtain covering it from the room, she couldn’t see into Riley’s room anymore, the windows had been sealed shut.

It had hurt Maya, more than she let anyone see, but instead of dwelling on how everyone in her life abandoned her, she pushed forward and moved on. Just like when her father had left so long ago. She no longer saw the Matthews, unless she went to see her mother at Topanga’s. She didn’t talk about them, she moved on because she didn’t want to deal with what had happened. She sealed her heart away… she didn’t need these people.

Yet when the holidays came she could feel the pain in her heart, the pain of something missing. Christmas with the Matthews, seeing Josh and acting like she was cool and mature, talking with Riley over hot chocolate at the bay window which was covered in decorations. It hurt to think about it, so she tried to push it aside.

Lucas, Zay, and Riley all went to the same school, but they never saw one another, she never saw any of them at all, the school was too big. Some days she swore she saw the flutter of Riley’s long brown hair, the top of Lucas’s blonde hair in the crowd, or she could hear Zay’s loud voice in the hallway. But they were almost always out of reach. So, she stopped looking for them, and started living her life. Art Club, choir, drama club, keeping herself busy was the way to go.

Everything was going to be fine.

Until it wasn’t.

It had happened on December 8th of all days, Riley’s birthday, Maya hadn’t been paying too much attention as they finished the sets for the school play. Romeo and Juliet. The memory had been playing at the back of her mind, Riley and Lucas that moment just before he kissed her as she lay dead in the play. Just before Farkle interrupted everyone just so he could stop Lucas from kissing Riley. It had been during happier days, in what felt like another world. She knew that she shouldn’t have been distracted, she should have been paying attention, she should have heard them calling out to her telling her to jump away. Instead a piece of the set fell on her and knocked her unconscious.

And this is the story of how Maya learned the truth about what happened to her friendship

When Maya woke up she was looking out into Riley’s bedroom, the room before the forced remodel, before Riley had wanted her room to grow up with her. With bright colors, and swatches of purple and blues all over. She was confused, why was she in Riley’s room, but as her body began to move Maya had realized that she wasn’t in control.

I want to show you, a voice said to her. The truth of how your friendships ended.

Maya was confused, she couldn’t understand why this was happening, but as Riley jumped up and smiled into the mirror, looking at a picture of her and Lucas from their first date, and then a picture of her, Maya and Josh at Christmas, Maya had realized that if she was being shown something, this would help her understand her friendship with Riley and what had gone wrong.

So, she watched, as the day went by, it was the day of the yearbooks, the day where Maya had been named best couple with Lucas. That’s when she felt something inside of her breaking, but it wasn’t her emotions… they were Riley’s. Maya couldn’t understand it, she had lived through this moment with Riley, so why would it cause her best friend pain. But she watched through Riley’s eyes, and felt the hurt inside of her, as Maya’s image stood in front of Lucas and ha-hurred at him, made comments to him. All the while the twinge of pain went through her body.

Maya couldn’t take the hurt anymore she wanted to close her eyes, to shut out the world, but she couldn’t because she was connected to Riley and through that connect she was seeing what she had missed.

She watched as Riley turned dark, and as Maya herself turned into Riley, and there it was again, the hint of pain. The moment Lucas’s eyes had met Maya’s own, the moment where it hadn’t mattered to the whole class that Riley was no longer Riley because Maya could be Riley. She watched as Riley watched Lucas interacting with Maya. And when Maya heard the words.

“Aww, Lucas, you're a very sweet guy. That's why I always liked you since I fell onto your lap on the subway. It's why we should have been favorite couple. Because we're so much alike. You know, it's like we're two sunshiney people from the same sunshiney family. That's why I like you so much. It's like you're my brother. Oh. It's like he's your,” Maya heard herself say.

“What,” Riley had said but the pain inside of Riley intensified.

The rest of the conversation blurred out, she couldn’t hear it over the dull roar around her, the pain of her feelings being pushed aside. This was where it had started, where their friendship had that first real crack in its foundation, this is where Maya realized as she watched the world through Riley’s eyes, this is where she had lost her best friend.

Slowly as the memories flooded through her, as the days passed by, she saw it, the small moments where the cracks began to form. The next happened with the semi-formal, with Lucas not asking her, but the pain became worse after a conversation with Riley’s uncle and his friend, after Riley had seen Lucas dancing with Maya’s physical form. Each passing day the pain slowly grew, as Maya watched on, seeing the world through Riley’s eyes. Acting like Riley during the yearbooks, was nothing like being Riley, like watching the world slowly crumble in front of you.

Riley tried to make herself happy, she had her little awards ceremony after school, she danced around, she skipped in front of everyone. But suddenly the smiles slowly became fake, slowly Riley began to fade away whenever she was alone. When no one else was around.

That’s when the messages began, the texting, the painful moments, a bully.

There was a part of Riley she had never seen during those days, a part of her that Maya should have known, a piece of her best friend that had been hidden away. As Riley stood in front of her mirror every morning before Maya would show up to pick her up for school.

“I am Riley Matthews,” she would begin. “I’m a good person, I can get through the day, I can be happy… I’m fine… I’m fine…”

The mantra would begin every morning as she got up and got dressed for school. They helped Riley with the bully, but in the end Riley had been better about hiding things than Maya could have given her credit for. She had once believed that Riley was perfect, that she couldn’t lie to anyone, but as the days passed she hadn’t realized just how wrong she had been about her best friend. Every morning Riley would tell herself that she was good enough, but would cry herself to sleep at night. With each day Maya could feel the broken pieces of her best friend begin to grow. When they saved the art program, just the act of Lucas saying that he wanted Maya to be happy, a moment shared between the two blondes, had cause a bit of pain. But Riley hid it well, she hid everything.

Once she became a cheerleader, the pain didn’t go away, but it dulled because she was at practice, surrounded by others. She was making new friends, but in the back of her mind it was there, the doubt that anyone truly liked her.

Everything was building up to a single moment, and Maya knew this, but she couldn’t figure out where it was, or where it was coming from. And then, they were in Texas, and Riley understood what Maya had been feeling, slowly everything within Riley shattered into a million pieces. Even though on the outside she acted like nothing was wrong, and smiled like everything would be alright. She saw the moment through Riley’s eyes as she told the world about Maya’s feelings, as she walked away to give Maya and Lucas a moment.

“I can give him up,” she whispered to herself. “Maya deserves to be happy, and if it’s with Lucas… if it’s with Lucas it’ll be fine,” she hiccupped as she tried to regain in her emotions.

Then it happened, something Maya had never known, Riley had seen it, that almost moment between her and Lucas. Riley had walked back to the campfire, she had forgotten her phone and wanted to use it to listen to music. That’s when she saw it, the moment that would define what would happen to them for the rest of the year. Her best friend had known it had happened all along, and all that was left was the feeling of Riley turning around and running as fast as she could. She continued to run until she was far enough from the house, from the campfire, from everyone she knew, and the one boy she loved, she ran until the only sound she could hear were the huffs from the horses, and the sounds of the cows in the pasture.

And when she was sure that no one was around… she cried out to the world, until her voice was hoarse and her body shook.

As Maya watched, and saw everything happening through her best friend’s eyes, she realized just how far gone their friendship had become. The cracks in the foundation were permanently going to be there. For the rest of their lives. There was no going back from this.

So, in the days since they returned to New York, in the days where the truth was revealed to the whole class, Riley’s mantra had slowly become her way of reminding herself that she was allowed to be in pain even for just a little while.

Maya felt the pain, the fractures within Riley growing, as Riley’s own mother passed her along to Maya so that someone else could deal with the problem, as her father tried to teach lessons to them about growing up and moving on. As their friends started to divide themselves trying to figure out where to stand in this new world. As Riley lied to them each and every single day.

Farkle saw, he tried to help, but even he couldn’t see where this was all headed, and Maya could kick herself for not realizing it was happening because she was too lost in herself to notice. Lucas had tried to talk to Maya in the same way that he had talked to Riley, because Texas Lucas no longer existed and that was probably the one version of Lucas that Maya could have liked.

Then the moment she hadn’t expected, it was strange that she hadn’t ever realized that it had happened, but she realized that she never truly knew Riley. The only version of Riley that she knew was the happy go lucky mayor or Rileytown, she hadn’t realized so long ago that the reason why Riley always wore shirts with such long sleeves, was because she had been covering something else up.

It started with a cut, it was small, almost as if she had accidentally brushed up against something, a pain to take away a different pain. It didn’t happen all of the time, it only happened when things built up, when it became too much to watch Maya and Lucas together. They had all missed the signs, they had all missed everything that had happened. Most of the cuts could be blamed on her clumsiness, she had done them in places where no one would question them. But Maya knew the truth, and she hated herself every moment for it as she watched the days go by.

They only increased when Farkle revealed everything to the whole class, and Maya started playing everything back in her head. She had been too busy looking at herself that she had to look back to see the differences in Lucas as well. Maya in the middle, breaking the two of them apart. Even to this day she couldn’t figure out why she had started to like Lucas in the first place, why it had all started in the first place. Why she had hurt her friend so badly. She looked deeper into the recesses of Riley’s memories, and saw them, the looks she sent Lucas, thinking no one would see her, the small moments they shared even though Riley had pushed him away.

It was after the end of the year, the end of middle school, when she had seen someone truly notice something was wrong. That someone was Josh, who Maya hadn’t seen since that day after she had seen him in the dorm when she had made Riley sneak out. The day she told her mother the truth about her sneaking out and making Riley cover for her. Josh who still made her heartbeat just little faster than most boys out there.

“I messed up,” Maya whispered into the void of her own mind.

Maya watched as Josh pulled Riley aside and pulled up her sleeves, his face filled with horror as he saw the scars. The one everyone else dismissed as a part of her clumsiness, he didn’t say a word, instead pulling Riley into a hug and running his hands up and down her back as Riley broke down into tears. Everyone else nearby, close enough that if they had been paying attention they would have noticed that something was wrong. That something had been wrong for so long and they had all missed it.

Instead he pulled her into her bedroom and closed the door, and for the first time since this had all started Maya wished that she could close the gates into Riley’s life and pull away.

“Since when,” Josh said once Riley had stopped crying.

“Since just before new year’s,” she whispered to him, and all Josh could door was look at her with nothing but sadness in his eyes.

“You need to tell me everything, from the beginning Riley, because I want to help you so I want to know what could have caused all of this,” he said pulling her towards the bay window.

Maya watched Josh’s face as Riley told him every detail of every moment that had happened in the time since he had last seen them. He had been too busy with school, working part-time with his father and getting ready for NYU to be able to go back to New York for even a short while. And from the look on his face, he had hated himself for it, because he had missed the chance to help Riley, to help their friendships.

“How about you spend the summer with me and your grandparents in Philly,” he said after she had finished.

Riley had spent the summer with her grandparents, and her little brother, after Josh had yelled at his own brother for missing everything that had actually happened. He yelled at both of the Matthews for not realizing just how much pain Riley had been in, because in the end it was easier to ignore the harsh reality than deal with it head on. No amount of lessons inside of a classroom would have prepared them for what had been happening. He yelled at them for paying more attention to the kids that their daughter was friends with over her, he yelled at them for not being there when she had needed them the most.

“You shouldn’t have let her go to Texas in the first place without an adult there,” Josh had said before rushing off Riley to her room to help her pack.

There had been a fight between the brothers, but in the end, they had all realized just how much they had missed in the months since Texas.

Do you see? The voice said. Do you see how much you have missed?

When Riley went to sleep that night, Maya had woken up in the hospital, a bandage on her head and her mother standing over her, as worry marred her face. She remembered everything, and she wasn’t sure just how much of it had been real.

“Momma,” Maya said looking up at her mother’s relieved face. “I think I messed up.”

Her mother didn’t say anything, Maya wasn’t sure if either of them knew what to say, but in some way Maya understood that her mother had known about what was happening all along and had said nothing. Why would she, Maya and Riley hadn’t been friends in a long long time.

Maya watched as the doctors checked her out, worried about whether she needed to be kept for observation. In the end they moved her into a room and her mother sat down beside her, a look of sadness on her face.

“I know about Riley,” Maya said looking out towards the wall hoping to make herself as invincible as possible. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It wasn’t my place,” her mother said after a long moment had passed. “The Matthews had asked me to take care of the café, they weren’t going to be able to run it for a while, they told me that they needed to take care of their kids. I knew something was wrong, but they told me that I shouldn’t tell you because they were afraid of how you would react.”

“So, keeping me in the dark was better?”

“No, but in the end, that had been Riley’s decision. She wanted time to heal, to get pass everything that had happened, because she wanted you to be happy.”

Maya looked at her mother as the words sunk into the recesses of Maya’s mind, she only saw everything up to the day Riley had left, she didn’t know what had happened afterwards. She didn’t know what Riley had decided to do, everything was meant to show Maya that something had happened, the rest was up to Maya to decide.

A knock on the door drew her from her thoughts, as a familiar blonde boy stood in front of her door, his face filled with worry and sadness.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” her mother said before patting her on her knee. “I’ll be down the hall getting some coffee.”

Her mother left them alone, and Maya couldn’t help but wonder what Farkle’s part in all of this had been. She remembered him knowing about Riley holding back, on her feelings on telling them the truth but she didn’t know how far it went.

“Hey,” he said before sitting down in the chair her mother had been sitting in not too long ago.

“Farkle,” she said as fresh tears fell down her face. “I’m sorry for being a bad friend.”

“Maya you’re not a bad friend,” he said but she shook her head.

“I was a bad friend to Riley, I hurt her, and in the end, I didn’t see what she had done to herself.”

“Maya, we all missed it,” he said before taking her hand. “It’s the reason why I went with Smackle to Einstein Academy instead of going with you all. I felt ashamed for missing it and I ran away instead of standing beside her.”

“How long did it take for you to find out about her cutting herself, about her depression, about everything?”

“Too long, I noticed just before graduation, around the time you three had decided on just trying to be friends, and it hadn’t been working for any of you. I noticed only because she had messed up and cut herself somewhere that was impossible for her to get a cut on unless it had been deliberate.”

“And you ran,” she said softly as he nodded.

“I didn’t know what to do, but she got help, even if it hadn’t been from any of us.”

“Except Lucas had spiraled out of control because of it,” she murmured but Farkle had stiffened next to her. “What is it?”

“Lucas doesn’t know,” Farkle said, sighing to himself. “Zay and I decided to keep it from him because he was already in pain. He missed Riley, and he couldn’t figure out where everything went wrong, and he went and got himself drunk on something.”

“Why didn’t I hear about this?” she asked shocked about being kept out of the loop on something else. She had hurt them both in her quest to find herself.

“It was right after Riley had left for her grandparents, we didn’t tell either of you because she asked us not to, she told me she wanted to figure somethings out, except when she came back everything had gone to hell and she was in therapy. Lucas is still working on himself, I hang out with him and Zay sometimes, but without Riley there I think he’s always going to look for that anchor.”

The tears started coming out, she had been the one to push Riley away the most, after she had come back, just because Riley hadn’t spoken to her, because Riley had spent the whole summer without her, without telling her where she had gone. She had felt abandoned by her best friend and in the end, didn’t speak to her until it had been too late. Riley hadn’t forgotten her, she just didn’t want to burden her with what had been happening. All it had taken was three months of radio silence to make her feel like she had lost her friends.

“How did you know I was here?” she said wiping the tears from her eyes.

“Riley sent me a message,” he said to her. “Maya, I know what you’re thinking and Riley didn’t abandon you, she was hurt and confused and so much was happening to her at the exact same time as the yearbooks, and the semi-formal, and well Texas.”

“I was too wrapped up in myself,” she interrupted him.

“We all were, we all had our own lives outside of our friendships, outside of school, we were all trying, the problem is that in the end, we sometimes miss something important.”

“When did you get all grown up?”

“When I realized I had abandoned you,” he said before pulling her into a hug. “You can fix this, the first step is to talk to her, and Lucas, and Zay, because we all need to start fresh.”

“Where do I start?”

“Well that librarian had told Riley back in seventh grade to start at page one, so maybe that’s where you start. Except go through the front door, the window isn’t open right now.”

“Thanks, Farkle,” she said giving him a small smile.

“It’s my job as your ex-husband,” he said with a laugh.

Maya had been out of the hospital for three days before she had gathered enough courage to speak to Riley. In those three days she had blamed herself for a lot of things that had happened, but in the end of it all what had been the real problem was communication. As close as Riley and Maya had been, they never really talked about what they felt, instead they hid it behind masks until it bubbled over enough for someone to notice.

She knocked on the Matthews’ apartment door, someone had left through the front door as she had walked up so she had used it as an opportunity to take her time until she wanted to knock on their door. Now she stood there as Mrs. Matthews opened the door and gave her a wide smile.

“I was wondering when you would be back,” Mrs. Matthews said before opening the door for her. “Riley’s in her room.”

“You know this was going to happen?” Maya said shocked for a moment.

“Yes, we all did, especially after Riley had started therapy, because in the end it was up to the both of you to mend your friendship.”

“But she locked the bay window, she took off her ring.”

“Yes, but she left it there for you, in your spot, waiting for the moment when you would both be ready for this moment,” Mrs. Matthews said as she closed the door and led Maya towards Riley’s room. “Time for the both of you to talk, without interruptions.”

Maya nodded and stood there for a moment as Mrs. Matthews walked away. Maya could feel in her heart that this was a long time coming, she knew that she should have come back again and again but she had been left behind before so she hadn’t tried. She opened the door and saw Riley sitting at the bay window waiting for her with a small smile on her face.

“I heard you coming up here with my mom,” she said as she slowly pulled on the frayed edges of her ripped jeans. Maya watched as she took in the new appearance of her once best friend. Her short bob haircut, an oversized sweater, things she would never have thought Riley would wear. “I haven’t sat on this window in a long time.”

“I guess you were waiting for me to come back,” Maya said with a smile. “Ring power?”

“Ring power,” Riley answered before she started to cry.

“Riley I’m sorry,” Maya started but Riley held her hand up.

“My therapist tells me I need to learn to talk about things better,” Riley started before patting the seat next t to hers. “She tells me that I can’t hold on to things because it hurts.”

“Do you talk about me?”

“Sometimes,” she answered with a shrug, “We talk about my family, my friends, you and Lucas, actually Lucas started going with me a few months ago after I stopped him from getting into a fight.”

“Are you two… together?” Maya asked wondering if they had repaired their relationship without her knowing. She wasn’t jealous, she was more worried, because he wouldn’t have started down this spiral if they had all just stayed together and worked out their problems. But that was the past, and if Farkle was right they had to start at page one for the second time.

“We’re kind of unofficial again,” Riley said smiling at her. The same smile she had once had long ago. “We’re taking it slow, and talking like we used to, but for now it’s one step at a time.”

“That’s good,” Maya said smiling back. “I realized that what I had felt a long time ago wasn’t the same as what you two have.”

“I want to know something,” Riley asked her. “How did you find out?”

“I don’t know some,” she said, it was the same question she had been asking herself for days since she had woken up in the hospital. “Cosmic power made me see everything through your eyes and from there, I guess I realized that I missed a lot of things.”

“I’m sorry for not tell you,” Riley blurted out.

“I’m sorry for listening to what people were saying,” Maya said back realizing that if she hadn’t listened to her classmates so long ago none of this would have happened.

“Peer pressure is a bitch,” Riley said sighing.

“Since when do you curse?”

“Well, it’s still new,” she laughed. “Blame watching action movies with my dad and Lucas.”

“I feel like I missed out on a lot,” Maya said pulling her legs to her chin. “I was too hurt by everything to figure out that I had missed so much.”

“Yeah well it took a long time for me to get to where I am now, I mean I have the scars to prove it, but it took a lot of work.”

“You don’t cut yourself, anymore right?”

“I don’t,” she said before rubbing her hands up and down her arms. “I have the urge sometimes, especially when I miss my best friend, or when I feel like the world is watching me and judging me, but I have a support system in place. I start by texting Lucas, and if he’s not around I go to my mom, or I email my therapist.”

“My mom knew about all of this, and she didn’t tell me,” Maya said wondering where she had lost control over her own life.

“It wasn’t her story to tell, but in the end, you were always going to come back I knew that for sure.”

They spent the next two hours catching up with one another, filling in the gaps in their lost year and a half, Riley telling her about her time in Philly with her grandparents, about the family dinners with her parents and her brother and the work they had to do to get to where they were. She told Maya about the hardest times she had faced, and learning to live with the scars from her decision to cut herself. Maya told her about her clubs, and he classes, about how she had grown closer to her mother, and lived without her friends by making new ones.

“I missed you Riley,” she said after a while.

“I missed you too peaches, but I think we had to go through all of this in order to find a stronger part of ourselves.”

“So, what now?”

“Now we move forward, it’s a new beginning so we find a middle ground and keep moving until we’re comfortable.”

“Can I go with you and Lucas to therapy?”

“Sure, we’ll bring Farkle, Zay, and Smackle too, it’s time we finally find our happy middle, after a rocky beginning.”

“I hope so too.”

A/N: This was an idea, of a reality based reaction towards the triangle, but mixing in all of the things that could escalate to this. The bullying included. Why did I write this? I grew up in an environment where people swore my family was happy, where both parents worked and raised their children. An environment where my own family missed the fact that I had been bullied relentlessly throughout middle school, where I developed self-esteem issues, where I self-medicated myself as a way to try and kill myself because the pressure had been too much. I received death threats even in high school, where one person said to my face that they would kill me because they had believed that it had been my fault that they had been kicked out of a summer program. I have anxiety because of this, I suffered from depression (although now it’s more well managed), and I have issues with the world at large to the point where it’s hard to truly trust others. It takes a long time for me to pull down those walls and feel normal, but I try my best.

So, when I started writing this story I wanted to make it as realistic as possible, and the most realistic thing is that something like this would break Riley from the inside out, but it would also break their friendships to the point where none of them would speak to one another again. The person who the story would be viewed from would blame themselves no matter what, because in the end we will always blame ourselves if something were to happen to someone close to us and we couldn’t do something to stop it. Although I gave it a happy ended because I will always wish for that happy ending for myself.  

The other side of this is that I handed in my master’s thesis on Tuesday, a thesis project which is a memoir about my time in middle school and high school and how I dealt with bullying. So now I think I’m projecting it into this story.... I don’t know if it’s a good thing or not, I don’t know if people will like it, but in the end, it’s just one story in an endless amount of stories.

[frenchibi]

15, 21, and 25 for the fanfic ask if you don't mind~ Also, what does the 'liberal me' on your page mean?

Hi anon, and thank you very much for asking!

Just to clear up your question there before we get started - “libera me” is latin (”free me”) and it’s a quote from a song that I’ve had stuck in my head for like 3 months because I sang it in my choir xD It’s… rather religious (which I am not) but I really enjoyed singing it? Have a link, if you’re interested (it’s classical, so idk if it’s everyone’s thing lmao); skip to 1:17 if you just want the choir part without the solo beforehand, and to 2:48 if you want the specific part I’m referencing, without the buildup xD

It’s… very dramatic and I love that :D The actual lyrics are something along the lines of “free me, God, of eternal death, on the day of mighty dread” and then “I am made to shake and tremble, I fear that day of calamity and misery” or something, I don’t really know enough latin to confidently translate them :’D It’s all very apocalyptic and super epic to sing in a choir hdfjklahshsdf

Anyway, moving on to your questions, before I get caught up rambling about how much I love choir again - this was supposed to be about fanfiction after all xD

15 something you learned this year

Well. I took on a project, as you may know, of writing one chapter or oneshot per week - and I kept it up until July, when I had a series of huge breakdowns and finally got help for my depression - I’ve since put that project on hold because I can’t handle the pressure yet (it started out fine though! I had fun with it for the first half of the year!) - what I learned through it is that writing, for me, is about discipline. I can always write, and if I want to, I should. I should only write when I want to, though, because that produces the best results. Am I making sense? Idk. I’m resolved to write more than ever, but to give less craps about the numbers - which I was rather obsessed with, regrettably. That made me miserable. So no more of that from now on.

21 most memorable comment/review

Boy, you want me to pick out ONE?

I know this isn’t fair at all because I have gotten COUNTLESS fantastic comments this year and as soon as I start mentioning people I will forget someone, I just know it. But I do want to shout out to some of my favorites…? I hope I don’t inadvertantly offend anyone.

@josai was my writing companion for the better part of the year and while not all of her comments were public, they were the most encouraging thing EVER. You gave me the courage to post my work, you always listened to my ideas, and you had heaps and heaps of enthusiasm for me. I feel like I could never thank you enough.

@hajiiwa always leaves wonderfully thoughtful comments - I deeply appreciate your insight(s) and I absolutely love discussing theories and characterizations and fic ideas with you. We seem to be of similar opinions a lot of the time, which is great and encouraging, but sometimes you open my eyes to things and I’m really grateful for that :D

@greenstickynotes is the champion of keysmashing AND heartfelt emotional responses - your comments are always highlights, but even moreso I enjoy and savor your snapchat reactions because they are full of real, raw emotion that I cannot believe resulted from my writing. Honestly, you are a gift and I hope you never stop yelling.

@joanofarcticmonkeys is wonderful and supportive and takes time to comment even when she’s busy. Also she always sends prompts and she gets so emotional over my writing that she yells to her other friends about it (who are not even in the fandom?) - you are fantastic and I hope you know how much I love you.

@distinguisheddelusions is a recent commenter but their comments are pages long and they’re the most in-depth analyses I have ever received. I treasure and cherish every single word and thought they spend on my writing and characterization. They’ve been going through my works from back to front and commenting on my progress and I could just. weep tears of joy. Thank you so much, it’s the most validating thing EVER.

@marleeb left me a comment that I can’t get out of my head - it took me ages to answer because it made me so emotional? It was incredibly supportive and uplifting and just... exactly what I needed to hear to boost my confidence. I’m eternally grateful for that, honestly.

25 a fic you read this year that you would recommend everyone read

I haven’t been reading many fics actually - if you want recs, you could check out my bookmarks on ao3? - but I HAVE been reading books, and I’d like to recommend some if that’s okay instead…?

Dear Life by Alice Munro is a collection of short stories that is moving and important and just. Stuck with me. She won the Nobel Prize for literature for this book, and I think with good reason. I thoroughly enjoyed it.

The Alchemist by Paolo Coelho is magic, plain and simple. A lovely tale (and it really is that, a tale) about finding yourself and your beliefs and I have re-read it at least 5 times. It’s stunning and beautiful and memorable.

Topics About Which I Know Nothing by Patrick Ness is a delightful collection of short stories - very diverse in the styles, but each one of them works remarkably well and I just loved reading it. So vibrant and colorful!

The Princess Saves Herself In This One by Amanda Lovelace is a collection of poems tying together to paint a stunning and startling picture of a woman who went through a hell of a lot to get to where she is - but she saved herself, as the title says. This book was a gift from @notinvidia and I read it in half a day - I devoured it, and I’m really, really glad I did. I didn’t think poetry was my thing at all, but here we are. Go read it.

Alternatively to that last one, read Milk And Honey and The Sun And Her Flowers by Rupi Kaur - stunning and immersive and expressive and just… important poems, the lot of them. They’re accompanied by art, too, and they’re all just so… full of life (and love and suffering and recovery) and it’s utterly fantastic and beautiful.

…okay, I think that’s enough raving for now. Maybe I should write book reviews? I’d enjoy that tbh. Would anyone be interested in reading them? hasdflasdh I might make some changes to this blog, or make a sideblog for my varying interests…? I’m just afraid I wouldn’t have enough energy to manage several tbh… and this blog is already a mess of everything, but I tag, so… it should be okay? xD Idk man. That’s a question for another day.

IN ANY CASE thank you so much for your questions, anon, I really loved answering them and I’d love to talk more about fics and writing, so feel free to ask away!!

[sinkingorswimming]

congrats dommi!! for a prompt: how about some more fandom au? maybe a little social media part there? i'm a sucker for modern fics ;D

I’m assuming that fandom AU=cosplay AU right? Here we go!

It’s the Friday night before school starts in Loudoun County, so Yuuri is slightly less than 72 hours from his senior year. Per the request of Senior Class President and Close Personal Pal Yuuko Nishigori, Yuuri is at the party bridge with his compatriots.

Phichit is nearby with Seung Gil and Leo chatting about something or other related to Leo being voted Cross Country Captain. Seung Gil is on the team too, since it helps him come Lacrosse season in the Spring. His whole social circle met through the Anime Club, except Yuuko and Takeshi are friends from childhood and Phichit was in Yuuri’s art class in eighth grade.

Yuuri’s also in the Fashion Club because of cosplay and sewing. It’s fun, though, he loves it a lot. He was also made Co-Costume Count with Phichit for the Drama department. (They use royal titles for everything in Troupe 3564. It’s whatever.) 

Phichit’s the Troupe President this year, to absolutely no one’s surprise. He’s wildly popular and he’s a valuable asset to the theater department.

Yuuri sips something the shade of NyQuil from a red SOLO cup, noting that it tastes like apple Jolly Ranchers. There’s talk of ritualistic diving off the bridge eventually which he thinks sounds like a Paralysis Party waiting to happen. Maybe not.

He sips more of the green thing. Maybe after a few more of these?

His phone chirps, and he unlocks it to see his Instagram has been tagged. It’s the artwork for the pair cosplay with Victor. 

v-nikiforov: Coming Valentine’s Day weekend—a special project with katuski-yuu! ;) #clamp #x1999 #fummamonou #kamuishirou #manga #cosplay

Yuuri smiles. He likes the post and comments with the sunglasses wearing smiley. Victor replies to his smiley upping the ante with a blue heart and a kissy face. 

Yuuri turns pink and gives a tiny laugh. It’s not flirting, it’s just Victor, he reminds himself, but his heart marks double-time just the same. He scrolls through Victor’s gallery, careful not to like anything older than a day or two per Phichit’s stridently enforced guidelines. There’s a new one of Makkachin that got lost in the shuffle, and Yuuri likes it.

“Yuuri! Yuuri oh my God Yuuri!” Phichit says. He looks like he might slap his phone out of his hand. 

Yuuri looks at him with an unimpressed eyebrow raise. He sips the punch. “Yeah?”

“Stop doing your antisocial phone stare and come play!” Phichit orders. Yuuri is not given the ability to say no as he’s dragged back to the crowd. Guang Hong just arrived with giant sacks of McDonald’s paid for by the Senior Class Treasury, and Yuuri manages to grab a Big Mac and the world’s largest fries. 

They all scarf the food and chat, including Yuuri. Jean-Jacques Leroy, Spartan Football QB, NHS President, Show Choir and Chamber Choir President, and as of this moment, Class Salutatorian, announces the arrivals of some kegs. His girlfriend, Field Hockey Captain, NHS Vice President, Key Club President, and Yuuri’s fun but abraisive friend in the Fashion Club, Isabella Yang, passes out more cups with a grin and a flash of her perfectly manicured maroon and gold nails.

Bella wears JJ’s letterman’s jacket when winter comes. JJ wears her class ring on a chain around his neck. 

There’s this aura at the party of nothing will ever change and we’ll always be together, but Yuuri kind of feels that’s a lie. Before he can think too much, Phichit grabs him into a selfie, Phichit looking beautiful and Yuuri looking like a sacred deer staring at the end of a hunter’s bow.

phichit+chu First party of Senior Year! Best class beast class! #gospartans #brhs #partybridge #cornfieldhigh 

He tags Yuuri’s handle too, uploading it immediately. Since it’s not quite dark, the photo’s somewhat pretty—sunset, the water as their backdrop, other kids milling about in the background. 

Phichit takes more pics, filtering them and running edits in Snapsneed. His social media, for a high schooler, is really popular for his efforts in curating it. Music begins to blast from this guy Yuuri had in AP Bio last year named Altin’s phone. 

Young hearts, out our minds,Runnin’ ‘til we outta time,Wild childs, lookin’ good,Livin’ hard just like we should!

Yuuri defies Phichit and checks IG. There’s a bunch of comments on their selfie…including one from Victor. He no idea Victor follows Phichit. 

v-nikoforov: Seems like a great party! See you at AnimeUSA! 

Yuuri gets a DM a moment later. It’s a text and emoji message from Victor. 

The sunset makes you look incredible. 

Yuuri bites his left thumb while staring at it. He’s heard of this, the whole sliding into someone’s DMs thing…but Victor is a college junior. He can’t mean that in a flirtatious way—Yuuri’s just a dime-a-dozen 12th grader who hangs with the theater kids and the Anime Club.

Thank you, he replies with shaking fingers.

You’re welcome. Wish I could see this in person! Victor responds with a wiking emoji. 

Yuuri turns the same shade as the maroon of his school.

Oh wow…what if he does?

[seansaboutacity]

#1 collaboration - Ash

(A photo of Ash Layo)

You’re probably wondering, reading this, what’s going on.

As the first post of this kind, let me explain.

So as part of the About A City (AAC) project, I’m going to collaborate with my close friends and fellow creatives to explore the AAC’s themes. It’ll be a great way to shine a light on different perspectives, and explore poetry’s potential to illuminate things previously left unsaid or invisible.

In this first post, I have the great honour of collaborating with Ashley Layo Masing (or just Ash for short). I met Ash in my second year this year and even though we’ve known each other for a short while I feel like I’ve really got to know him through our shared background being both queer and Asian, and also our shared interests in the creative arts and social science.

The way this post is going to work (as with future posts) is that I present the two poems each written by one of us. We then lead onto comments about the poems, and then to more general discussion about the project’s themes and why poetry and the arts is so important in today’s society.

So without further ado, here goes our poems (Ash’s first):

A rainy day in London Town

It’s a rainy day in London Town, and my lover is in the choir room singing the harmony line to my  serenade. He holds a note for  as long as he held his breath when  a storm once forced his head under the pressure of the river Thames - I’m reminded of the spectres of my trauma walking past Russel square: a man who held the traditions of  manhood as high as his fear passes his duty when he abuses the way I hold my lover’s hand.

The echoes in the choir room switches from his sweet serenade to a quiet sob, and his throat becomes haunted by the legacy of some broken body. I meditate in his sadness while I recite an incantation from an unwritten journal. It’s a rainy day in London Town and it houses a refugee of tradition - I’m hiding  underneath her paper umbrella.

Comments

I first read this and thought it was really moving. What inspired you to write this piece?

As I started brainstorming ideas for this poem I started thinking about that vine with that annoying guy singing about rain in London and the TV show Glee, and boom, the first two lines were born. Then as I started writing it, I thought about my melancholic relationship to London and the hardships I faced being in what I thought was the city of my dreams. I was reminded of the horrendous act of homophobic violence that occured on a bus not too long ago as well as the instances of homophobia I personally faced and pretended to be okay with. And so this poem is a kind of ode to that part of my life, I acknowledge it but I don’t give it any power.

You use a lot of imagery about London, like Russell Square and the Thames. How important do you think that is in telling the story?

I think it’s interesting to explore human geography in poetry because it allows us to really imagine a sense of space in writing, allowing us to really breakdown (in our minds of course) the boundaries of time and space and be with the author’s experience.

I’m interested in the juxtaposition of love with violence, usually associated as its opposite. What effect did you want with that?

Sadly, that’s oftentimes the reality of love, it’s never smooth sailing. Romance isn’t what you see in movies, it’s hard work and it’s filled with adversity, especially so if you’re a sexual minority. It’s sad but it’s the truth about being in a non-heteronormative relationship, and we’re not going to be able to start any reparative work if we cannot acknowledge that.

The poem is narrated in first person and talks about (presumedly) his lover. But there’s also a sense that he’s lonely as he ‘meditates’ and ‘hides’. What do you mean by this?

I guess i’m trying to create an image of space and distance that comes with relationships. You’re not conjoined to another person when you love them, you still retain a part of yourself. It’s important to recognise the agency and personhood that still exists between people who are committed to one another

two boys, clinging

city in his eyes pavement in his stride he talks and burns with a little fire

something about feminist theory - I can't remember just his anger brimming like coal as we walk to the station at Oval

it sticks out in my head - I don't know why how the lazy London breeze rustled leaves on the street or it was seeing the Shard on the top deck of the bus jutting out like a sore thumb

it felt a bit like London - nothing really belongs people come and go like Heathrow

but as the sun goes down and he looks at me with false hope that I won't have to - I realise I don't want to go home

so frozen in time we remain to memory to past to dust two boys, clinging

Comments

So first of all, what was the main inspiration for this piece?

The piece was based off a real life personal experience I had walking with a friend in London. He’s an exchange student from Melbourne, and so I really wanted to take his perspective in the story of the poem because I wanted to see London through maybe an outsider’s eyes (being Australian/foreign). I also think the memory itself was poignant for me because I created a close friendship with him really quickly and feels a bit cut off now that he’s returned to Melbourne to study after his exchange.

You use a lot of interesting imagery, with the most significant being references to London - how key is London as a backdrop to the themes of your poem?

I could say that London is very significant as a backdrop to the themes of my poem - but that wouldn’t be completely honest, and that wouldn’t completely capture how I use geography or setting in a poem.

Personally, I don’t notice setting until something ‘dislocates’ me from it. Not to say a ‘real’ or ‘objective’ version of a setting could ever exist, but it’s interesting how our emotions help to construct the meaning of places for us through our memories, associations and who we shared them with.

So more specifically about London, I don’t think London exists, except in the imagination of people who live and study in London - in their hopes, dreams and aspirations for the future.

My experience in London has felt almost like absorption - I’ve grown up, been educated and studied in London all my life from childhood now into adulthood. But equally, my identity as a Londoner has sometimes been challenged - people can’t quite place my accent, and I definitely don’t have the same cultural tastes as people who grew up with me.

So that’s shaped how I use London in these poems in two ways: firstly, I’ve tried to understand London as a character in itself, helping to formulate desires that we didn’t know we had, like for place or belonging. But I also use London as something transitional, in process, that exists temporarily in people’s imagination but always bends towards the future, of something beyond.

And simply put, maybe it’s easier to think that all the weird, jumbled-up, tangled mess of experiences I’ve had happened in the same bubble of London. That’s one way of making sense where I’ve come from in life.

“he talks and burns with a little fire / something about feminist theory - I can't remember”

These are interesting lines that really stood out, how does this develop the subject of the poem?

I think I use philosophical or intellectual discussion to indicate tension. To me, philosophy and psychology are the same because they both ask questions about the meaning and existence of things. I prompt the reader to think about moments when they thought deeply about something - but took so much pleasure in it with someone else, that the idea took on a new life with an immanent, transcendental quality to it.

I think about moments where I’ve had deep conversations with people I really care about. Everything seems to melt away at that point, and it doesn’t matter what that other person says, you just want them to know that you’re there for them and you understand them - intrinsically, not for how clever they sound. It means that you don’t need to constantly appeal for someone’s approval or flattery, but to feel safe being who you are.

General discussion

Sean asking questions for Ash:

One theme I explore in my poems is solitude, which for me is part of the existential condition of human nature. What are your thoughts on solitude and aloneness? Is it something we need to be afraid of? Or learn to accept and overcome?

Like Agustus Waters in ‘The Fault in Our Stars’ I fear oblivion, and as much as I hated him and that book, he had a point that resonated with me. Western, capital ‘L’ Liberal, society emphasises this need to be this individual who will be this great person that will leave a lasting impact on the greater scheme of things, and that has really affected the way we relate to one another and the trajectory of our lives. Sometimes for the worse, sometimes for the better. I’ve spent so much time thinking about my individual success and the lasting impact I can make on our culture that I forget about the little things - caring about things beyond just us. Loneliness, for me, is a symptom of this perceived existential failure we might have when we think we’ve done nothing great in life and will eventually fade away into oblivion. But once we focus on the things we love and the people who love us, we can find alternative routes to overcoming loneliness.

Following on from the previous question, is the importance of friends. What conflict do you think arises from the need to be alone but the need to stay socially connected? How can that be managed?

A friend of mine once told me that everything in life is transient. Sometimes people come and go and we need to accept that. But if you care enough about a person, no matter how distant you’ve become, emotional and physically, reuniting with them will feel like no time has passed whatsoever. Sometimes it’s a matter of putting in the hard work to maintain the relationship. Other times, it’s just there.

My poems also talk a lot about desire as its core theme, related with themes of sexuality, erotic desire and love. What do you think of the importance of desire? How do you personally connect with the theme?

I think desire and passion can be sexy. Not just intimate desire, but desire in general. It shows that you care about something, and oftentimes that something is beyond your own needs. And to put someone else or something else before you, so much so that you would do anything to pursue its happiness is a trait that we should all be embracing, especially given the state of our politics.

I approach poems as a practice of remembering/forgetting - we choose to remember the memories we want to and express them openly. How do you personally use poetry? 

I use it as a form of ‘emotional essay writing’, as a way to express my ideas when prose is not enough. There’s something powerful and evocative about writing in metaphor, it can really help someone understand your point of view and perspective of the world. I guess you can say that poetry carries ethnographic value.

I’m worried in today’s society we don’t express ourselves fully and openly as we ought to, and it correlates with a wider depreciation of the arts and creative writing in general. What do you think about this?

I think that due to the need to generate capital and profit, we’re becoming estranged from the things that make us human. Today, art and culture is only valuable to the extent that it can be fetishished (in the Marxist sense of course). Creating and indulging in lowbrow culture could be a potential form of praxis. But that could also fall into the trap of class-based appropriation; I mean we’re already seeing rich ppl spend ridiculous amounts of money to appear working class because it looks cool. If you wanted to look cool you would redistribute your wealth, just saying. Anyways, art and culture should be appreciated for what it is and not what it can be valued. I guess revolution might be the only way to ensure that my dude.

Ash asking questions for Sean

Starting with a basic question, what impact are you hoping to achieve with your poetry?

I want my poetry to make a connection. It could be a connection with the personal meaning in the poem. It could be a social connection, to make people think, talk and act differently.

I think it’s exciting because it’s the first time I’ve really done something like this. I think I just want to throw a pebble into the water - and watch where the ripples go.

I use my poetry as a form of ‘emotional essay writing’ so to speak; as social scientists I believe we can stand to benefit from poetry as a sort of window into our culture, do you think poetry has a stake in changing the way we discuss the pressing issues we face today?

That’s a challenging question.

Because what even is social science? I mean, is Social Anthropology really a social science? I think it is - but it’s the most humanities of the social sciences. We’re really special as a subject because we draw from literary theory and cultural theory to ask deep questions about what it means to be human from alternative perspectives. 

As a result, I’m interested in the literary theory of Anthropology - of societies as texts, a la Clifford Geertz. I think the whole point of Anthropology is to understand that things can be different - and only then can you start using those differences to challenge the current status quo.

So then poetry can make a social difference. Poetry starts off for me as something very intimate and personal - I can’t lie when I write poetry, I feel like each poem is a bit of my soul, has a bit of my truth in it.

But each poem then walks along this Mobius strip of change, where meaning shifts into something different. I make sure to encourage this change myself, to make meanings outwards-bound and move towards the social exterior of the individual - I think Rilke said once that when you write constantly about sex in your poems, that’s when poetry goes to die. Because you lose what’s at stake in poetry - how often language captures a certain alterity from what’s material or tangible.

I’m going to keep pushing in my poetry for that idea of alterity, and difference, and immanence. All of those things characterise the social world for me - how the meanings we interpret from it are contingent on a sub-text which has been pre-scripted for us, but doesn’t need to completely determine how we play with them if we embrace a playful, crafty attitude.

I’m fond of the Mobius strip idea in general. If you like something, just do it. You’ll find a way to justify yourself in a narrative later. If you really want to change society all along, you’ll find a way for poetry to do that.

[freyalor]

I know I'm about two million years late for the prompt thing, but could I ask for Trevilieu, "a visit from an old friend"? Thank you! (And feel absolutely free to say no if you so wish!)

I have finally filled your prompt, Doctor!

Enjoy:

 The Rosary of Loudun (also on AO3)

2700words. A few tears maybe.

For those who sent messages and asks - I ALWAYS TAKE PROMPTS!Keep them coming, I guarantee I never forget anyone. I have post-it notes.

He gave me thatrosary on the day of the Paix de Loudun.

I was nothing morethat the Bishop of the dirtiest town of France by then, nothing morethan a shadow in the Medici’s footsteps. I was twenty-five at most,my eyes were barely looking up to the King’s Council with vaguedistant hope, and he was already the fiercest Capuchin of France.

But the raging warbetween the Queen and Condé made us meet almost every month, and wefound ourselves smiling at each-other’s wits more than once. I hadto bite my lips a thousand times not to finish his sentences, as hemost annoyingly failed to do the same for mine.

He struggled andschemed to be seated at my side at every banquet we were both invitedto, making a show of eating an absurdly small amount of food, in awooden bowl and in complete silence, only to make the opulence ofeveryone else’s plate look positively sinful.

It made me smileevery time.

He was looking foran ally of influence inside the Royal Palace, and I had my own seatnext to the Queen’s. I was looking for information about the tradesand alliances between the great Lords of France, and he had aspiderweb of Capuchin informants covering the whole Kingdom.

We didn’t meet. Wecollided. We merged together.

I think, beyond theobvious symmetry of our purposes, that we were both craving for theintellectual stimulation. Let’s face it, at that time, we were bothsurrounded by idiots.

He mostly paidvisits for political advice at first. He came in with information,reports, news and letters. We discussed, sometimes for hours, oftenfor whole sleepless nights. Then, exhausted and satisfied, he alwaysasked for a glass of wine, and though his capuchin discipline was anexample for all, he never watered down the first glass I served him.

Then, with time, hestarted to visit more and more without a clear reason, without anyreason. He started to just barge in my rooms, sit in the same chair,ask for the same wine, and speak.

He’s always beenthe travelling man, while I barely left Paris. So he had a lot todescribe me. The winters of Russia, the forests of Prussia. Thesun-crushed villages of Italy, and the seashores of Sweden. He neverforgot to bring me small mementos, for my Cabinet of Curiosities,where almost every item has been a gift from him. Some of them areunique, some of them are precious, but none of this has more valuethan the first thing he ever pushed into my hands.

The rosary ofLoudun.

He came back toParis this day, with the peace treaty held tight against his chest,and ran straight to my room in the Queen’s apartments. Before heeven showed the document to the Medici, before he even announced thePeace to the palace, he wanted me to read it first.

-“Are yousatisfied with it?” I asked.

And I remember hejust shrugged.

-“It gives Condéan insane amount of money, but that’s all this rascal wanted.” Hegrumbled. “The only redeeming feature of this thing is that I madesure to strip Concini of half of his titles as a peace offering tothe Princes, because it gives you more space, you know, for later.”

He had the certaintyof my becoming a Cardinal, and a Minister of the King, long before Iever did.

He always had morefaith in me than I could ever have.

-“You weresupposed to work for the Queen and the Pope,” I reminded him; “notfor me.”

He smiled, then,and pulled those worn out, plain rosewood beads out of his darkrobes, whispering:

-“I live andbreathe for two things. Church, and France.”

With that, he gentlyplaced the rosary in my hands, closing my fingers around it andkissing them twice, looking up to me with quiet confidence as hesaid:

-“And I know, oneday, for me and for the whole world, you’ll be the embodiment ofboth.”

Am I, now?

Am I?

I have becomeCardinal. I am the head of the King’s Council. I am Minister. I ameverything.

But am I Church,am I France?

I softly graze theshining beads with my fingertips, sitting in silence on that highchair in the guest rooms of my own house.

Well, if I am inmy friend’s eyes, that’s enough of a blessing.

I hear the doorclicking open and I get up from my seat, wincing. God, how long haveI been sitting here? It must be dreadfully late.

I take a furtivelook out the windows, to my gardens al’italienne. I had the servants lighttwo hundred torches in the alleys between the fountains and themassive Arch, so they could be seen all night long, and around a hugebrazier, a small choir is singing hopeful prayers in the orchardbelow the rooms.

He always loved mysmall house in Reuil, so I wanted him to enjoy the beauty of it everysecond, even in the darkest hours of the night.

The physician stepsout and holds the door open for me. I do my best to steel myselfbefore I look at him in the eyes, but when I do, I still fail tosuppress a whimper.

It’s over, hisstern features say.

It’s over.

No.

I have a glare ofpure anger for the rosary, because sometimes, even I can’tunderstand God’s reasons. Even I sometimes feel he’s just playingwith our hearts like a blind child beats a drum. I squeeze my eyesshut and rub them with my fingertips, sighing.

-“How much time?”I ask the physician.

The old man musthave sensed the untamed hope in my voice, and he gently shakes hishead, crushing it before it rises too high.

-“A few hours, nomore.”

Oh, Lord, no.

Not now, not sosoon. Our work isn’t done yet, there is still so much to do, somuch to talk about. Tears rush to my eyes, a wretched sob threateningto shake me, and I clench my jaw around it. I promised I wouldn’t.I owe him nothing less.

I dismiss thephysician with a nod, and, wiping my face one last time, I get in andclose the door behind me with a fake smile plastered upon my lips.

Lost in a room toowide for him, lost in a bed too large, lost in covers too thick, isthe frail, dying body of my only friend.

Joseph.

-“Your Eminence.”He greets me with the ghost of a voice, and I think he wants tosmile, but his gaunt face only twitches.

I wish I could walkquietly to him, but who am I fooling. It is nothing more than adesperate run, and I throw myself on my knees beside his bed,grabbing his cold hand in mine. He feels the rosary between myfingers, and doesn’t even have to look down to recognize it.

His mouth twitchesagain, the damages of his brain attack having destroyed what used tobe such an expressive face, but I understand his intent to smile somemore.

-“It is always apleasure to have a visit from an old friend” he muses softly, hisweak hand giving mine a short squeeze.

For the first timesince I’ve met him, I fear I have no idea what to say, but I don’thave to search for long, because after a while he gently speaks somemore, gesturing towards his desk:

-“I have receivedthe latest letters from Sweden and Germany concerning our greatenterprise for the borders of Europe. Sweden is proposing Münster asa location for the negotiations. It’s a lot further than Cologne aswe first suggested, but it seems to gather a more positive response.Maybe we could…”

-“Joseph.” Iinterrupt, tears threatening my eyes once more, my hands shakingaround his, but he doesn’t hear me.

-“… accept thelocation as a show of goodwill. The United Provinces are claimingtheir independence as non-negotiable, which drives Spain into statesof fury. While they fight about this, I am confident we could squeezeAlsace and Pignerol out of Germany without too much of a…”

-“Joseph!”

I am clearly cryingby now, and I think that’s the only reason why he finally stopstalking.

-“Your Eminence?”He stutters, unsure.

-“Please, myfriend.” I beg. “The treaty can wait. Europe can wait, and as faras I’m concerned tonight, the whole world can crumble down topieces for all I care, but please, I implore you. Just speakto me.”

He frowns, about totell me that’s exactly what he was doing, for sure, but he’salways been brilliant. Surely a lot more than me. My meaning sinksin, and he gives me this twitch of a smile once more.

Silence fills theroom for a while as he looks like he’s searching for something inthis incredible memory of his. While he does, I check his view of mygardens. Yes, the torches are magnificent, highlighting his favoritefountain, and the Arch he taunted me about with the sin of vanity,but still admired for hours.

The choir singsrelentlessly, in soft soothing notes, the Latin words rising in thecold December air through the ajar windows.

In the hearthinside, the fire is roaring, filled with incense and sage, warming upthe room, singing his own kind of praise.

I hope he likes it.I did all I could. I owed him nothing less.

I am pulled out ofmy reverie by his hand, obviously the only one he can still move,freeing itself from my fingers to brush the red silk of my robes withtender care. His eyes, his bright, ardent eyes, still untouched bydeath, shine with fondness in firelight. My dear Joseph.

-“I remember whenyou first wore these.” He breathes. “Not one week after the newsof your nomination. They fit perfectly on first try. You didn’teven look in the mirror the tailor provided, you just turned to meand asked me how you looked.”

-“And you said‘you look like the future of France.’” I chuckled. “Mediciwas right behind you, and she was furious.”

-“I never likedthat witch,” he spits with enough violence to have me jump insurprise; “you deserved so much more than the filthyway she looked at you. But as the King needed time to realize whereyou truly belonged, I guess she was the only ladder you could stepon.”

I frown, lowering myeyes. Joseph has always been the one to remind me all I did was for ahigher purpose, but that hasn’t been enough to erase my burningself-disgust. Among the countless shameful things I’ll have toanswer for sooner or later, selling myself to the Medici as a bashfullover and bedroom toy for more power and one more seat closer to theKing is written in letters of fire.

-“Speaking ofgetting what you deserve,” he whispers in a teasing voice;”how’sthat Gascon soldier of yours?”

I know my facelightens up like a child’s, darting up a thankful glance to him,but I don’t care much.

Joseph never fullyapproved of my love for Jean, of course. He was a Capuchin monk, andwrote four thousand verses in Latin about how everything the CatholicChurch doesn’t approve of should be eradicated.But somehow, he came to appreciate the man Jean is. And though hecould hardly bear to hear, let alone see a single cue of ouraffection, he slowly grew accustomed to the sight of us together,welcoming Jean’s blunt, though good sensed opinion, even upon thehighest matters of diplomacy.

There have beennights of lively debates the three of us spent in the PalaisCardinal, where Joseph took his first glass without water, but alsothe second and third. There have been nights of peaceful talk wherehe laughed a lot more than he cared to admit. Once, I think, as thework was done a few hours before dawn, I found myself staring indisbelief at Jean teaching Joseph how to play cards again, as my dearCapuchin has forgotten everything of his soldiering days.

-“Why on Earth didthe two greatest warriors of France leave the army before they reachthirty to put on robes and read old books?” Jean laughed once, andhe didn’t notice Joseph’s look of sheer bliss at what heconsidered the highest praise he ever got.

I think I onlylacked the King to have everything I love in one room, and thosenights may have been the happiest of my life.

I don’t reply, Ijust smile, because his question wasn’t a question, it was the giftof acceptance, and I cherish it as a treasure.

He pales, suddenly,and I realize with pain how time is nothing but sand between ourfingers. I grip his hand, my whole body refusing to let go, but hewhispers something about God’s will, and I nod bitterly.

We talk some more,mostly about the gardens, and he says something strange about thetorchlights, each one being like a good memory from the past, guidinghis thoughts to the future. He thanks me for the choir, he thanks mefor the whole house. He thanks me for many things, and I have to kisshis hand and beg him to stop, because the tyrant he is made mepromise not to cry.

He pales, his voicegrows weaker by the minute, and that agony in my heart is about toburst. Because I promised, I bite my lips on my sorrow, holding hishand, asking if he can see the stars from where he lies.

He says he does, butI can barely hear him. I want to speak wth him, I want to speak somemore. I want to speak of every moment of our lives, from the Rosaryof Loudun to this very bedroom, I want to revive them like I couldblow on dying embers, I want to lay them all at his feet and make himsee everything we accomplished, every battle we fought, every victorywe squeezed from fate.

I want to thank himfor every acre of land, every year of peace France owes him just asmuch as it owes me.

I want to promisehim a statue, a shrine, an Abbey with his own name, but I know, Iknow.

He’ll dismisseverything with a wave of his hand.

So I just gently laythe rosary on his thin twitching chest, and slowly sign his forehead,whispering a blessing with the last words I can utter before thetears burn my will to ashes.

He pales, but hiseyes remain bright, alight with resolve, right until the end.

He pales, but hisfingers still graze my face as he breathes:

-“I told you oneday, you’d become France, you’d become Church.”

And to hear therest, I have to lean so close my face almost touches his.

-“I told you you’dbe everything I lived for.”

With that, his eyeslaugh, and he speaks no more. He pushes me away with his tremblinghand, his stare fixed upwards, and I understand his last conversationis meant for God alone.

-“Goodbye,Joseph.” I cry as I step back.

-“Goodbye Armand”His silent lips mouth, and at this very moment, something in meshatters.

I rush to the door,close it behind my back, lean against it and slide down to the floor.

They must have heardme scream asfar as the last torchlight of the gardens.

I screamed indespair, I screamed at the gaping wound of loneliness already tearingmy insides apart. I screamed in anger at God’s own face, I screamedfor the only friend I ever had.

I screamed until mylungs hurt, until I almost passed out at his door, until twophysicians came begging for me to get up. I haven’t. I fought andhissed long enough for them to retreat next door and simply wait forme to wear myself out.

It surely took a lotlonger than they expected, because the last thing I remember beforeexhaustion took me is the timid sun of December above the gardens atnoon.

[izzy-b-hands]

True Crime

A drabble request from Sammy on the DL Server, in return for helping me edit my chapbook! 

Prompt/Synopsis: Brian is going through a true crime phase, and it’s fine. Really, the other lads don’t mind at all.  Except when he scares himself too badly to sleep after marathons of true crime docs, and drops the occasional horrific fact in otherwise calm and small-talk levels of conversation (sometimes about random cases, other times about ones he’s particularly interested in), oh, and if he panics a bit/also wants to play detective when they wind up snowed in during a tour in the US and a prisoner escapes from a local high-security facility...

Then it gets interesting.

My love to all who read/like/reblog!

“It is three in the morning, and I still hear the TV,” Freddie grumbled into his pillow. “I love my friend. I do. I love him.” 

He reached a hand up, and slapped at the hotel wall as hard as he could. 

“I’ll turn it down!” Brian called through it. 

“No! Go to bed! I am not hauling you out of here tomorrow morning!” Freddie shouted. “Because John will already be hauling me and Roger, and he’s got enough on his hands with that!” 

The TV volume next door dropped, but Freddie could still hear the high strings as soundtrack to another true crime documentary. He dropped his head into his pillow, and sighed. He was going to sleep if it was the last thing he did. 

For half an hour, he slept hard. Not hard enough to ignore the knocking at his hotel room door, however. 

“Hi,” Brian looked exhausted. “How’s your night going?” 

“It is-” Freddie leaned back into the room to check the clock on the wall. “Five in the fucking morning. How do you think I’m doing?” 

“Great,” Brian nodded. “Feeling lonely?” 

Freddie rubbed at an eye and sighed. “Look, if you’re coming onto me, I’m fine with that. But just be straight out with it, if you’re doing it now.” 

“I...I’m flattered,” Brian blushed. “But I didn’t mean that, actually; thank you though. It’s-well-have you ever thought about how easy it is to die?”

Freddie shook his head. “No more of those documentaries after a show. It’s too late for you, obviously.”

Brian looked to his feet. “I guess, yeah.”

“Don’t just stand there,” Freddie murmured, and opened the door wide. “Get in. We both have...technically two more hours to sleep. But if we pretend we don’t hear John knocking, we can probably make it three.”

---

“You know, the first-”

“No,” John cut Brian off quickly. 

“What? I’m just saying-” 

“That’s alright, you can tell me later,” John tried again, incredibly conscious of the fans watching them, eagerly awaiting signatures on their shirts and other merchandise.

Brian frowned. “I was only wanting to tell them something interesting I learned last night. Did you ever hear about the first murder committed with a handgun in England? Because I hadn’t, and-”

“And they found who did it, and now we’re all much safer,” John smiled widely, quickly signing the merchandise they handed over, and shoving it into Brian’s hands until he finally signed too.

The fans dashed off, not upset, but wearing quizzical looks, and John let out the breath he’d been holding.

“Why do you do that?”

“Do what?” Brian asked. “Make conversation? Yes, how dare I talk to fans.”

“That is not what I mean, and you fucking know it,” John said. “Those girls were maybe sixteen! They just wanted to look at us, get our signatures, and run off giggling. Not hear about a murder from 1800!”

“It was 1536, actually,” Brian noted. “But that’s what I was trying to talk about; most people I think wouldn’t expect it to have been that year, they’d been thinking, ‘oh 1800 or 1900 or something later’, but no! It’s wonderfully interesting.”

“To you, yes,” John sighed. “Not to kids who, let’s be real here, are only interested in us because they like our music, and we’re decently pretty.”

Brian frowned. “If the latter, why didn’t they ask for Freddie and Roger?”

John gave him a hard look. “Did you just insult your own looks, so you could insult me?”

“I sacrifice what I must, when I must,” Brian replied. “Also, I sort of meant it.”

“Is there a documentary I can make you watch to fix your self-esteem?” John asked, exasperated.

“No, but! Let me tell you about this other one I watched. Fairly recent actually, but part of how the victims were baited in had to do with self-esteem and things like that. So...”

John smiled, and nodded, and listened for the first five minutes of Brian’s lecture. He couldn’t help that he faded into working on riffs in his head after that, it was simply the natural reaction to such a lecture.

And if he got part of a song out of listening to Brian cheerfully tell him about someone being gutted, then he could at least claim the conversation as productive.

---

“Are you really going to spend all night looking out the window?” Roger asked, as he fought with the vibrating bed. “Christ, I hate this place. Come lay down, will you?”

“I’m just keeping an eye out,” Brian said. He had been up against the window of their room in the shitty motel, peering out the blinds, into the snowstorm that had stranded them in the American Midwest.

“That escaped prisoner is not going to come here,” Roger sighed, jamming his fingers at the remote for the bed. “Can you at least help me turn this fucking thing off? You barely accidentally sit on a remote, and this is what you get! Meanwhile we have to punch the remote for the television; I’ll have to kick the door to open it next!”

Brian sighed and trotted over, barely pushing the button on the remote.

It turned off violently, nearly tossing Roger off of it, but Brian didn’t notice, already back at his post at the window.

“What good is worrying over it going to do?” Roger asked softly. “Are you prepared to fight him off, or something?”

“If I had to,” Brian replied, not turning away, though he shivered as a gust of wind blew at the window.

“What makes you think he’ll show up here anyway?” Roger sighed. He didn’t exactly want to entertain Brian when he was in this sort of a mood, but ignoring it didn’t seem to be useful either. On top of all that, he was making him nervous, even as he knew that it was silly to feel that way.

They were hardly a target for an escaped prisoner, after all. That the man was reported to be violent, and had been put away for the serial murders of many local and regional musicians was unnerving, but that alone couldn’t possibly be a reason for panic, or everything Brian was doing.

“He escaped from somewhere that few people have ever escaped from before,” Brian scoffed. “And he’s in a snowstorm, probably freezing to death as he travels. And we’re only five miles from the facility. Where would you go, if it was you?”

“I...don’t really want to contemplate anything to do with that hypothetical,” Roger replied uncomfortably. “The things he did to those people...I could never.”

“No, I know that,” Brian said, and finally came over to sit by him on the bed. “I couldn’t either. It was horrible; he treated their bodies like-”

“That’s alright,” Roger interrupted him and swallowed hard. “Hearing it the first time over dinner was plenty, thanks.”

“Right,” Brian nodded. “I mean, he might not. He might just die out there before he gets anywhere at all.”

“Good lord, they should put you on the news,” Roger muttered sarcastically. “A bundle of cheer and joy, you are.”

“Well, they said it’s what, negative twenty Fahrenheit, with the windchill? I’m sure he isn’t in a winter coat of any kind.”

“I think we need to talk about something else,” Roger mumbled and lay back on the bed. “Something happy.”

“I’m not trying to worry you, honestly,” Brian said. “I’m sorry if that’s what I’m doing.”

“It’s alright,” Roger sighed. “That said, what’s the cutest animal you’ve ever seen, hm? Let’s give that topic a try.”

“Saw a fox in the garden before we left home,” Brian said with a shrug. “He was cute.”

“He? You’ve named him, haven’t you?”

“Chester, and he’s a delight, don’t you rag on him,” Brian replied indignantly.

“I’m n-”

The door to their room shook as someone banged on it, hard.

“Um. I’m not ragging on him,” Roger continued shakily as he tried to ignore the sound. “Just funny that you-”

The doorknob shook, and the sound of hands scrabbling at it made them both jump.

“Someone’s out there drunk, at the wrong room,” Brian laughed nervously. “They’ll go soon, I’m sure.”

Roger nodded, and gulped. “Yeah. So, about Chester-”

The door jolted in its frame, as if it was being kicked.

“Chester is wonderful, but what’s really interesting is how movable that dresser probably is,” Brian said, already climbing off the bed towards it.

“Fantastic point,” Roger jumped up and followed him, helping to drag the dresser in front of the door. “What else could we stack here, if we were so inclined?”

The sound of someone at the window was what finally did them both in, and Roger didn’t feel an ounce of shame at nearly leaping into Brian’s arms.

“May I say,” Roger whispered as they backed away from the window. “If we’re going to die, I’m glad it’s with you.”

“Because I knew the murderer might show up here, so you were sort of forewarned?”

“Because you’re my friend, and it’s a comfort to have you with me,” Roger scoffed. “Honestly Bri, we’re going to die, and-”

“Open the fucking door!” Freddie’s voice was like a choir of angels, even as he screeched. “It is freezing out here, and this fucking spare key won’t work, and-”

They ran to move the dresser and yanked open the door.

There stood Freddie and John, their suitcases in hand, covered in a crust of wind-blown snow.

“Oh, it’s only you two,” Roger sighed. “Thank goodness.”

“Only us?” John muttered. “Move!”

“Why on earth are you two out in this?” Brian asked as he forced the door shut behind them, the wind fighting him every step of the way.

Freddie whipped around, tossed his suitcase to the floor and gave them both frenzied look. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. The motel staff were supposed to call you!”

“Our heater broke,” John said. “We’ve been trying to huddle down in our room for hours, but we couldn’t feel our hands or feet. The motel has no other rooms open to move us too, so they said they’d be calling you guys and letting you know we were going to share with you.”

“I’m so glad it wasn’t the prisoner,” Brian sighed happily. “We’ve been sitting in here, scaring ourselves out of our wits, thinking he might show up here!”

“If you hadn’t opened that fucking door, there would have been a murder,” Freddie muttered. “And enough of this true crime shit. This is all it gets you, scared and willing to let your friends die in a blizzard as a result.”

“We wouldn’t have let you die,” Roger scoffed. “Why didn’t you shout earlier, instead of trying to break the fucking door down?”

“I didn’t know if you would hear u-”

The room phone rang, and Roger rushed to pick it up. “Yeah, we know, they’re safe with us n-. Oh. Thank you. We’ll keep our door locked, yeah.”

He set the phone down gently. “Erm. They’ve spotted the prisoner about a mile from here. We’ve been advised to lock our door and make sure the window is closed tightly. Apparently the woman he carjacked an hour or so ago might have mentioned we were in town.”

Silence fell for a few moments, and four sets of eyes shot to the door, then to Brian.

His eyes went wide, then he took a deep breath. “Dresser in front of the door to start. Then we’ll see what else is heavy enough to put on top of and in front of that. Maybe we can find something to cover the window, and we could keep the lights off...”

“Did you by chance watch any documentaries where the victims survived?” John asked as they started to move, tearing apart the room to create their barricade.

“No,” Brian winced. “But there’s something! We could be the first to survive at the hands of this man!”

They frowned.

“Um. We’ll just not talk about that for now,” Brian continued. “At least we’re together?”

“Yeah,” Roger said softly, and patted his shoulder. “Now help me carry the TV to try and block the window.”

[etalablog]

Et Al a Blog: Presumption of Innocence, Presumption of Truth.

Let’s be clear, I am not a lawyer. I am neither bragging nor complaining, just stating a fact. And being of an age from those halcyon days of jurisprudence when we learned law collectively at the hands of Perry Mason,  Atticus Finch and Thurgood Marshall, in roughly that order, I have an admittedly imperfect sense of the legal standards to be had in our Country.

But I have long known, and as we have heard a lot of recently, there is a Presumption of Innocence in criminal proceedings. Of course, there were certain exceptions, such as skin color, national origin, etcetera but in general, your average white guy could get a fair trial in which the burden of proof was on the prosecution.

Until the advent of almost universal video recordings, this “burden of proof” could be fulfilled by any number of pieces of evidence. There is forensic evidence, foot prints, finger prints, blood type and such of course, but the most persuasive evidence was when the witness dramatically points across the room at the defendant and says… “He did it!  That guy! I saw him do it!”.

At which point there was only the sentence left to be determined.

But see? I was wrong. We now have it on the highest authority, that the mere fact of a victim’s identification of the perpetrator is not (are you ready for it?) “proof of guilt”.  Obviously, times have changed. Well, except for, if there is a choice in the matter, the white guy is still innocent.

“But wait! There’s more!” as the Vegamatic guy used to say. You see the reason for the tsunami of “Presumption of Innocence” roiling through Trumpian Media Silos, was NOT a criminal trial, but a confirmation hearing to determine if someone is sufficiently beyond reproach to become a Justice on the Supreme Court of the United States.

And here, there is a different standard. That is, a “Presumption of Truth” of testimony by witnesses resulting from the very real penalty for “Perjury”. But in this case, and by now you know I am talking about the Brett (aka “Bart”) Kavanaugh confirmation hearings, there was conflicting testimony.

Or was there?

Well, I and many of my non-Trumpian silomates, would suggest not.

One witness, Dr. Ford has a very specific and credible memory of a sexual assault which occurred one evening some 36 years ago when she was a vulnerable 15-year-old girl. She had shared this memory some six years prior with her therapist and husband, naming him specifically.

She spoke in a trembling voice with such credibility and conviction that even the Bully in Chief could not help but gush “She was very compelling”. Yes, she was Donald, you got it right the first time.

The other, an angry, unrepentant Judge Brett Kavanaugh, his face alternately wet with tears and spittle, lashed out at the temerity of those to even suggest he, a lifelong, hard working model of cleanliness, godliness and selfless sacrifice on behalf of our Great Nation would do such a thing! This was an “orchestrated hit by … Democrats… angry over the election …. And seeking revenge for the Clintons.”

Implied, if not precisely spoken, was the assertion that he could not have done because he did not remember doing it.

Unfortunately, Judge Kavanaugh, there is, as we like to say, “compelling” evidence that it was distinctly possible there was another reason for your perhaps not remembering it. You were drunk. You didn’t actually penetrate her, so there was nothing memorable about it for you. It was just one night in a summer of numerous such episodes. That this is so, is amply established through your own words. Brett, both in the yearbook and the letter you wrote (signed “Bart”) arranging for a beach rental for “obnoxious drunks and prolific pukers”.

And, of course, your running mate and named accomplice Mark Judge wrote a thinly disguised biography of your days  at Georgetown Prep, comprehensively described in its title, “Wasted”.

So where does the “Presumption of Truth” lay here?  There is little doubt it resides solidly with Dr. Ford. And for the confirmation for a life time appointment, THIS is the only standard that need apply.

So, if this so clear cut, how can so many of our fellow Americans have a view of Judge Kavanaugh and his beautiful (white) family as the victim here? “Where is the proof of this?” “Where is the Presumption of Innocence?”.

I have an answer for you.

It is this place. It is the news media and social media silos you share with me.

Our knowledge base, our “facts”, our sense of what is important, of course comes from thenews media at large. You and I, we have conditioned ourselves to believe only what we read and see in rational and independent sources of information with journalistic integrity. The Free Press is our First Right. And this is our silo.

And, well, we should believe this, of course. You know that. I know that. But “they” do not.

“They” get their news from Fox News, Hannity, and even InfoWars.  

In social media, Facebook, Twitter and the rest, our newsfeeds are populated by things we are pre-disposed to agree with. This creates a much more satisfying experience. Every visit, we are rewarded for our wit and keen insight. People, quite literally, like us. And we like people like us.

Sometime ago, after I had digested what had happened to us in the 2016 elections, it became obvious that silo’d nature of social media had created massive echo chambers.

I realized there was little benefit to sharing my keen insights while “preaching to the choir” and ceased political posts on my FB page, limiting them, instead, to my blog, which, if I shared it on FB, seemed a more appropriate place, at least both of my followers assure me it is.

But Facebook, more than any other media, is one of those places where the silos occasionally occur together. It is in this place we “cross the streams” in Ghostbuster parlance. Our Social Media connections can be found in myriad ways not necessarily related to politics such as family, hometown, etc. who may find their “news” in a different silo. 

Unfortunately, “crossing the streams” on Facebook does simply result in the Stay-Puff Marshmallow Man, but rather in memes and shared posts (never an original thought or opinion) such as flooded our newsfeeds in the 2016 Russian attack on our democracy.  Typically, we find somewhere between annoying and appalling and generally ignore them.

Alas, being human, I find myself, on occasion,  taking exception to the more ludicrous (obviously, in my opinion) ones and commenting on them. Inevitably, because I am now in an alternate reality silo, someone responds accordingly.

So, it was recently on a “story” shared by the new fiancé of a dear, and utterly apolitical, friend concerning the cultural war prompted by the Kavanaugh nomination, to wit: the plague of unfounded assertions of sexual assaults by women upon fine and honorable men.

I am sure you appreciate just why I felt compelled to comment and you can well guess the nature of those comments.

Consider this response from a random “tin hat” poster on my new friend’s shared story:

RESEARCH. The privileged girls of her school proudly documented that they were hard partying drunks who PREYED on younger boys at the all male prep schools. Go look it up. The school and Ford both scrubbed their social media but NOT fast enough. No, we call her a liar with overwhelming proof. She LIED about her remodel that happened in 2008 not 2012. She put in a second door for the RENTAL unit she added to her home that she was renting to interns at Google. She deliberately obfuscated what her REAL job is: She works with the CIA's program at STANFORD. Her grandfather and father both are LONG TERM employees of the CIA. She LIED about not know that she could have had the Judiciary come to her. When Grassley stated that she did not react in shock at all or look at her attorneys with the appropriate "What didn't you tell me this!" response. Some of us have actually done our due diligence and care about the FACTS. The last bimbo worked for Ford's father for TWELVE YEARS. There is no such thing as a coincidence in Washington, D.C. She also LIED under oath about never coaching anyone on how to beat a polygraph. One of her attorneys was the very person that she DID teach how to beat the polygraph.

Funny you should mention a phone// I had opined that, unfortunately the assault was not captured on a cell phone// as that is one of the statements she made that CLEARLY PROVES she is a liar. Cell phones were not available until 1986. She claims this happened in 1982. NO ONE HAD A CELL PHONE IN 1982. The grocery store she claimed to go to wasn't opened until 1986 as well. FACTS MATTER.

Where does one even start with crap like this? When confronted with the assertions of a flat earth, attempting to describe the Spring Equinox is rather pointless.

We are being asked to not believe our “lying” eyes.

This is where the “Presumption of Truth” is in 2018. I have no solution, no answer but this:

Vote Blue and encourage your friends to do so too.

Truth and reality are under attack by this President and the Alternative Fact media silo. Help me defend them.

[yellow401]

Do what?

It’s been a rough couple of weeks for me. Taking on a new job while desperately trying to simultaneously not do my old job and train my old team to do my old job has proven very emotionally draining. It turns out there’s a lot to do at my new job, especially in building and repairing broken relationships, which is fine, and which I knew going into it; but there’s still a lot to do, and I am tired. I am also fighting to keep this workload from affecting my sleep, and I’ve been mostly but not entirely successful.

I read this post a few weeks ago, and I felt the weariness of a thousand souls descending upon my shoulders. I felt happy and sad for the Weeds and their kids, I felt sad for the many who struggle between LGBTdom and Mormondom: those whom Josh has worked with as well as the many I know. I was able to find my measure of personal peace in this matter, but it still felt like I was expected to keep running after the wind was knocked out of me.

(Thanks to the many of you who will read this who reached out publicly or privately to say kind words and offer support. I didn’t thank all of you as well as I should have, but I am deeply grateful.)

The world outside continues to not be an exactly reassuring place. The school shooting in Florida this past week has made me hold my littles a bit closer even as I despair of sending my oldest to school this year.

This week in particular, I have witnessed the warning signs of depression creeping in--feeling drained for no good reason, not being able to type the four-digit code into my phone to unlock it, being afraid to weigh myself in the morning for days on end. And my heart has just felt heavy, like I’m dragging it behind me everywhere I go. I don’t remember it being heavy like this since I first began my missionary service fourteen years ago--that was from being in a new place, with a new schedule, so far away from anywhere I had been before, and it got better as time went on (I had help). This? I told myself that it had to get better, because it always has, but I wasn’t sure if this would ever go away, because this is my life now--none of these circumstances are going to change in the near future. By Friday or Saturday I was in a pretty dark place, internally. I knew I needed help.

God sent me an answer, as so often happens, in a completely unexpected way yesterday. As part of the help I know I need to seek for depression (one of the warning signs of depression is seeing the other warning signs and trying to downplay them to yourself) I had toyed with the idea of asking for a blessing at church but I didn’t have a definite plan. But as I walked out of choir practice and past the bishop’s office I felt--oh, how shall I describe this feeling? Like my heart had grown a head of hair and something was pulling my heart toward the bishop’s office by the hair; like if I kept walking it would be ripped out completely and I’d be left with a hole in the middle of my chest. Sorry if that sounds macabre, but it was a completely agonizing feeling. The executive secretary was sitting in the foyer, so I asked him if I could slip into the schedule and talk to the bishop for a moment. He said I was in luck--Bishop had cleared his calendar for a financial audit that wasn’t actually happening until next week.

A meeting got out and I entered the office. Based on how I had been feeling, I wasn’t sure if I was about to unload all my angst on my bishop, or if I needed to confess to something, even though I couldn’t think of anything in particular (old custom of being gay and Mormon, I suppose). But as I walked in and sat down, I felt the previous week’s despair sort of fall away, and all I said was, “I’m not really sure why I’m here, just that I felt like I should come talk to you.”

Bishop said it was good I had come in, because he needed to tell me a story. Okay. He told me how, when he was a new missionary, he had had the opportunity to teach someone who was gay (further details not necessary) and was told that he wasn’t to go back--even though he felt like going back, to tell him more. Though he hadn’t forgotten this experience, it had recently been brought back to his mind, and he wanted to tell me this story to ask my advice on a particular method of achieving restitution (again, the details are not important) for this circumstance that occurred twenty-eight years ago.

I admit I was taken aback that I might have felt prompted to visit the bishop to offer him advice, but I gave him my frank opinion (which was that he should go ahead and do what he had been considering doing). And, for what it’s worth, I told him I forgave him.

Bishop asked me, “How do you do it?”

“Do what?” I returned, completely flattered by his question.

“You just always seem so put together, like you’re in a good place.”

(the façade is strong)

“What was it that made you decide to come back?”

My answer surprised me--I suppose I don’t actually talk about it that much in real life. I explained that even when I was at my most disaffected from the Church, the Gospel, the Lord, that I knew in my heart of hearts that what I had learned was true, and I could never completely turn my back on it. I had a lot of experiences to bring me back--an institute teacher that told us many stories of when he followed specific spiritual promptings. Roommates who lived the Gospel but didn’t trumpet it. A friend/girlfriend/fiancée/wife who is hardworking, unselfish, loyal, and completely committed to her beliefs. “Jake” giving me a blessing. Going to the temple and just . . . staying there for a long time--not receiving any great visions or the like, but feeling like I should stay for a long time. My fiancée suggesting that perhaps it was because God had missed me, hadn’t been able to talk to me for a long time, not really talk to me the way He wanted to. At times it felt like God was shouting me that He loved me. Meeting my wife, that it finally felt right. That when it looked like things were getting serious, I dropped the bomb on her. We didn’t speak for several days, then told me she prayed about it, annoyed, “It feels like Heavenly Father is taking your side.” Many late night talks, after which we knew it was God’s will that we should get married. And then--well, you just live. Like the hymn we sang in church yesterday, “Come, cast your burden at His feet.” When it gets to be too much, I have to give it to God. I’ve had to do it a lot, sometimes, even thought I’m stubborn, hard-hearted, and prideful, and slow to obey. But some people only have one leg. Some people live with terminal illness. The Atonement covers . . . everything.

Bishop said that it sounded like I had a lot to be grateful for, and asked if I would say a prayer. I did. I prayed that God would ease Bishop’s mind about the matter we had discussed, and give him the strength and courage to do the things he felt impelled to do. I left the meeting floating on a cloud.

Walking home from church, I felt to whisper aloud several times, “I forgive you.” It felt so good to say. I was not the one who had been trespassed against, but I felt so much love and respect for my bishop to share this experience with me. I felt like God has been waiting for us to catch up to Him on the whole gay question for a long time now, and I felt like it was finally happening. I felt like I could do anything.

Well, I have to go back to work tomorrow, and I can already feel the dread creeping back in. I promise, I solemnly promise, that I’m going to take steps to manage and address anything amiss in my mental state. But I have already thought back to this experience several times in the last day-and-a-half, and I will cast my burdens at the Lord’s feet again and again. As many times as I have to.