#halestormrising

halestormrising:

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"Hell is just a frame of mind" ~ Christopher Marlowe, Doctor Faustus

Claudia Stilinski was pale, frail and far too thin and tiny in the stark largesse of the hospital bed—the woman so much more colorless than the bleached sheets she lay upon. As the minutes ticked by and the bed’s railings seemed to loom higher and higher over the sickly woman, the unsettled feeling burrowed deep within Stiles Stilinski’s belly reared its ugly head once more. The empty space separating him and his mother yawned widely, feeling almost like an impossible distance to surmount, and it took far too long a time to muster up the courage to actually move. The eight year-old reached across the would-be bottomless pit between the uncomfortable chair and the bed, skinny fingers tangled with his mother’s. She was sleeping, lashes dark upon her cheeks, and the child watched the steady, pulsing beat of the heart monitor with a razor-sharp focus that most others would have found out of character for the young boy.

It was nearing the end of visiting hours and Stiles had been there since school had been let out hours before. She had been asleep for the entire time, restless and making muted sounds of pain that the morphine couldn’t quite dull: each whimper broke Stiles’ heart a little bit more and the boy had to constantly blink to hold back tears, free hand curling tight over his jeans as he fought to keep his hold on his mother’s hand gentle. He hated seeing her like this, hated having to visit her here in the hospital; more than anything, Stiles wanted her home and well and smiling while she sang lullabies beneath her breath as she baked sweets while he was away at school.

"Stiles."

The boy glanced up from his still vigil, amber eyes nearly dark with too many thoughts as his gaze caught his father’s. The Sheriff’s face was tight with stress and concern, but the father tried to offer his son a smile as he nodded towards the door to indicate that it time to leave. And this—this was Stiles’ least favorite time of the day, when it was time to leave his mom behind, alone, left to suffer in her hospital room until he came to visit again tomorrow.

Gently, Stiles untangled his fingers from his mother’s, setting her hand down next to her hip—carefully (not wanting to accidentally leave behind bruises, as he had in the past when care hadn’t been taken so strenuously by the boy) patting the thin skin over her wrist—and padded on silent steps towards his father, sneakers cat-quiet over the linoleum. Finally at the Sheriff’s side, John’s hand settled over his son’s nape, fingers flexing reassuringly as he guided the child out towards the hallway. Both were silent, neither able to say a word as they headed down towards the patrol car.

Tension thrummed between father and son and Stiles spent the entire ride back home staring out of the window, lost in dark thoughts as Sheriff Stilinski turned the police scanner down low so that it was only a background murmur that set a certain type of mood between them. It didn’t take much longer before they were pulling into the driveway, and Stiles followed after his father like a lost duckling as the Sheriff unlocked the front door. Hugging his dad goodnight, Stiles headed upstairs to get ready for bed—slipping into pajamas quickly and grabbing one of the library books he’d borrowed the week before. They were—books he didn’t really want his dad to see, books on religion and heaven and hell and angels and demons: perhaps a bit advanced for him, but Stiles had always been rather precocious. 

Curling around the book that discussed the various hierarchies of angels and demons, Stiles brushed his fingers over the section on archangels, chewing roughly on his lower lip when he got to the chapter on guardian angels—and held back a rough shiver as the boy flipped a page and the words ‘crossroads demon’ caught his attention. Unsettled, Stiles glanced away and closed the book, deciding to just sleep for the night.

The next day, Stiles’ mother took a dive, health crashing dangerously low—visitors denied entrance into her room while doctors and nurses worked at trying to stabilize her into something resembling good health (or close to faking it). Denied the chance to visit his mother, Stiles headed to the library to return the stack of books he had taken out just the week before. It was as he was handing the pile over to the elderly librarian that the boy paused, fingers brushing the spine of the book that discussed the hierarchies of demons and angels. He lingered for a long moment, remembering the night before when he came across the passage about crossroads demons.

Deals with devils.

…for his mom, though, any deal would be worthwhile.

Swallowing roughly, Stiles pushed the books towards the old woman and headed back towards home: he let himself drift in thoughts, plans and patterns and ‘what ifs’ branching off into possibilities—wondering and considering and weighing the chances of… well, this actually working. Desperation tugged low at the boy’s belly: but his choices were few and far between and his mother only seemed to be getting worse, not better. And Stiles wanted his mom to come home.

The rest of the day was spent gathering together the supplies the he knew he’d need, the things that the book mentioned; it probably wouldn’t be everything because why would a book published and easily accessible actually list everything needed to summon a demon? But… Stiles could still try. Room to room, the boy gathered what he needed until all that was needed was time: time to pass, time to wait, time to say good-bye as his father headed out for the overnight shift down at the police station. Time to tick away on the digital clock on his bedside table, numbers all aglow as midnight began to slowly approach.

At 11:45, the boy made his way down the stairs and through the front door, holding a large shoebox full of various things close to his chest as he made his way down to the part of the street where men were doing construction work. The asphalt and concrete had been torn up, revealing the dirt and mud down below and making it easy for the child to dig through the ground to bury the box in as deep of a hole as he could make: hoping, hoping—please, please, please—hoping that something would happen once midnight struck true.

Minutes passed and Stiles spent them staring at the upturned earth where he had buried the small offering that he prayed would be enough to attract someone’s attention. As darkness loomed and shadows stretched, curling ‘round his young body, Stiles became a jittery mess of nerves and energy, fingers twitching and knees bouncing and toes wiggling in the confines of his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle sneakers: he could feel his heart racing, faster than when he took his Adderall, a put-put-puttering, hummingbird presence against his ribcage that spent every beat trying desperately to escape.

Midnight struck, finally, and the breath that Stiles had been holding escaped him in one long, drawn-out whoosh of air; nothing stirred, no animal sounded, no bug chirped, and the hairs on the back of the child’s neck rose in sudden, marrow-deep terror even as a pair of Hell-hot hands settled over the slim curve of his shoulders. “Well, isn’t this a sur~prise? In all of my years of striking deals, never have I come across someone as young as you able to summon someone like me.”

Head tilting back, Stiles spotted a fall of loose curls, vividly rich red hair, matte, ebon-dark eyes, and the knowing curve of a smile that could have been effortlessly sweet, and the female demon leaned lower to press a kiss to the pale, mole-speckled plain of the boy’s cheek. “Well, hotshot. Let’s hear what you’d be willing to sell your soul for. Popularity? Sweets? A girl to notice you? Smarts?”

"…my mom," Stiles whispered, mouth suddenly dry, and the demon’s smile suddenly turned that much sharper. He knew that this was a bad idea, but he had nothing else left and nothing else to lose; if this didn’t work out… then it didn’t matter what came afterwards, not really. Stiles just wanted his mom. Anything, everything—for his mom.

"Then let’s make a deal, sweetheart~"

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Two minutes to midnight and fifteen year-old Stiles Stilinski couldn’t help but wonder with an idle sort of curiosity if sixteen was going to feel at all different than fifteen. He honestly doubted it (after all, what was the difference between ‘sweet sixteen and never been kissed’ and ‘fifteen and never been kissed’?), thought it just be hype layered upon a number that so many other teenagers attributed a sort of magic to; it was stupid, mindlessly so, and all it meant to Stiles was that this was just another birthday that his mom was going to miss.

Years later, nothing had managed to dull the bitterness at the fact that his mother had ended up dying mere weeks after making the contract with the crossroads demon; she had promised that his mom would live, sealed the deal with Stiles—and his mom had still died. ‘A waste’ seemed… an effortlessly cruel understatement, and remembering the events that had occurred oftentimes brought still-furious tears to his eyes. But: another year gone, another year missed, another birthday his mother had not lived to see. A milestone in Stiles’ life he could not share with the woman he loved so desperately.

Sweet sixteen. Such an important age to every teenager. What a joke.

Snorting quietly to himself, Stiles rolled over to bury his face into his pillow and burrowed beneath his thick sheets just as the clock struck twelve o’clock. Unexpected, unanticipated: energy surged through the teen, power running through Stiles’ veins as a Spark that he had inherited from his mother’s line, passed down from the Nephilim and put under demonic pressure through the contract he had made with the crossroads demon erupted into a Divine wildfire, burning solar-bright as it flared into Grace. Stiles’ body bowed tight, spine shifting into a perfect arch—and the teen managed one muffled, agonized scream into his pillow before the pain finally forced him to pass out.

He didn’t stir for hours, night passing into dawn and early morning, but the very foundations of Creation had been rocked with the teen’s coming of age—light and dark stirring and coming to the foreground, rising to arms to see just what bit of Divinity had Sparked to life at the witching hour. Oblivious to the chaos that was now focusing in his direction (and the hunting horns calling for either his blood or body or power) and the contract that had been rekindled, its timeframe shortening by several years so that he could be dragged downdowndown, down into the Pit, the now-sixteen year-old Stiles made his leisurely way downstairs for breakfast: he was sore, horribly so, and only managed to pick halfheartedly at his waffles before giving the food up as a lost cause.

Tossing it away and sending out a text to his best friend Scott to see if he’d be interested in meeting him down at the high school for a late morning-early afternoon lacrosse practice—because, yeah, weekday practices were brutal but maybe if they added in practices on the weekends, too, they’d actually manage to finally make first string—Stiles changed into gym clothes and grabbed his gear before heading down to the school.

It felt… odd… going through town. Different, but not. Quiet and busy, all and the same and the opposite: like reality was just this slightly twisted on its side, and Stiles couldn’t help but feel the barest bit off-balanced. But everyone still looked like they were doing their usual Saturday morning routine, so—it had to have just been him feeling this way, and yet he couldn’t shake the subtle sense of wrongness that settled over his shoulders and pounded against his temples. It was something that roiled within his gut and brought a jittery sense of anticipation to Stiles’ limbs, but there didn’t seem to be anything wrong. Trying to shrug off the pervading sense as he slid into his usual parking space, the teen grabbed his gear and hopped out of his Jeep before heading towards the lacrosse field at a ground-eating jog (because, if nothing else, Coach’s suicide runs were good for something).

And yet… that feeling remained.

jacksonisnumberone

stillderekhale

wewereoncenobody

halestormrising

Lydia wandered for a moment a soft heels on her shoes clipped together as she shuffled her feet across the concrete ground; she held her purse firmly in one hand with her books in the other as she looked around for a second taking in her surroundings. As she continued to walk she heard a sudden snap of twigs behind her she turned suddenly on her delicate heels her hair moving in time with her as she smiled at the figure in front of her "Hello" she muttered

You need a hug. *hugs*

Weirdly enough, Terminator is one of my favorite love stories. Kyle and Sarah are together so briefly, but god that first kiss… ‘It’s you Sarah, I came across time for you. I love you, I always have.’

omG DON'T GET MY STARTED I MIGHT START CRYING

i love them so much and i don't even really know why. yes, it should be creepy that he fell in love with a photo in a way but he never forced anything. she initiated that first kiss, everything, and they found love, albeit a brief one, in the scariest of times in their lives.

( halestormrising adriangreyeyes mundanedaylighter khantsleep lady-killer-trevor iamyouralphanow gunshotsanddogtags isaacnr14lahey )

I am incredibly sorry for my selective-ness and just being incredibly slow in general this week.... Muse has been a bit hard to come by this week. I just wanted to tell all of y'all that I swear I'm jumping on those replies asap. And sorry. Again.