#i put pieces of my heart int these strings of words and AND

[heartofether]

Episode 15 - Elderberries TRANSCRIPT

[You can listen to the show wherever you get your podcasts, or go to our “Listen” page if you’re on desktop.]

AUTOMATED VOICE

[LOWER-PITCHED AND SLOWER THAN NORMAL] Please state your message.

[THEME SONG PLAYS.]

VAL

Three-eyed Frog Presents: The Heart of Ether.

[THEME SONG FADES TO A STOP.]

[PHONE BEEP.]

[INT. THE POPPY GARDEN MOTEL, AGENT MAY AND JUNES’ ROOM, EARLY MORNING.]

AGENT JUNE

Oh, is it on? I dunno how this recording device works. Would have been, like, ten times easier to just record on our phones, but, eh.

Anyways, it’s just me right now, which means I get to do all the talking. Guess I should, I dunno, talk about the mission? Daughtler?

Oh! I know. There’s this candy store downtown that displays massive gummy bears in the window, only it’s so hot outside that the bears have started melting. It’s some mix of disturbing, but also hilarious? Seriously, those bears look so sad, I can’t help but laugh.

Let’s see. Say, what’s that stupid thing he always says? [DRAMATICALLY MOCKING AGENT MAY] This is Operation Saturn, phase 1.2. Conducted by Agents May and June. All recordings are property of the—

[AS AGENT JUNE TALKS, THE DOOR IS HEARD OPENING AND CLOSING. THERE ARE FOOTSTEPS AS AGENT MAY WALKS IN.]

AGENT MAY

Here’s your coffee.

AGENT JUNE

Much obliged! Oh, you got it with oat milk, right?

AGENT MAY

[SLIGHTLY BITTER] It cost extra, but yes.

AGENT JUNE

Aw, hell yeah.

[AGENT JUNE TAKES HIS DRINK.]

AGENT MAY

I’ve never understood the excitement behind alternative milks.

AGENT JUNE

Hey, I’m lactose intolerant. Not that that would stop me from consuming dairy in most scenarios, but oat milk hits, alright? You should give it a shot.

AGENT MAY

I don’t put milk in my coffee, just sugar.

AGENT JUNE

Mm. Gross.

AGENT MAY

[HE HUFFS A SIGH.] Well, I’ll stop judging your coffee order if you stop judging mine.

AGENT JUNE

I’ll agree to that, sure.

[HE TAKES A SIP, THEN] See anything of note in the coffeeshop?

AGENT MAY

[UNCOMFORTABLY] Maybe. There was this girl sitting at a table. She was wearing all-black, which is strange considering the weather.

AGENT JUNE

Uh, ever heard of fashion? Dude, you literally wear a suit every day! No wonder you overheat. I mean, why do you think I skip the blazer?

AGENT MAY

[IRRITATED] At least I wear my tie correctly.

AGENT JUNE

I leave it undone on purpose, alright? It’s a statement.

AGENT MAY

Do you know how to tie a tie?

AGENT JUNE

[DEFENSIVE] Yes!

[AN UNCOMFORTABLY LONG PAUSE.]

AGENT JUNE

So, there was this girl in the coffeeshop.

AGENT MAY

She seemed fairly young. Must have been in either high school or college. She was staring at me over her laptop the whole time. Like she was, I don’t know, stalking prey. It was like her eyes were knives, and she was trying to carve my flesh off.

AGENT JUNE

So, she defo wasn’t just idly looking or whatever. Like, you’re pretty sure she was thinking about killing you?

AGENT MAY

Well, there’s no way I can know for certain, now, is there?

[A BEAT.] She was wearing a black fabric surgical mask, though.

[A TENSE PAUSE.]

AGENT JUNE

Do you think she was—?

AGENT MAY

I can’t say for sure.

AGENT JUNE

I mean, it might have been an accessory, but we’re in Daughtler, Washington—

AGENT MAY

I’m not going back there to check. Okay? If we see her again, maybe we can consider interviewing her, but I don’t feel comfortable going back to see her.

AGENT JUNE

[UNDERSTANDING] Alright.

[AGENT MAY SIGHS.]

AGENT JUNE

[CONT.] Alright. I won’t force you.

AGENT MAY

I—I appreciate that.

[THERE'S A PAUSE.]

AGENT JUNE

Uh, how’d you sleep?

AGENT MAY

About as well as I could in a car seat.

AGENT JUNE

Okay, I can’t just keep letting you sleep in the car. It was kind of funny at first, but now I just— [HIS SENTENCE TRAILS OFF IN VAGUE STUTTERS.]

AGENT MAY

[BEAT.] Well?

AGENT JUNE

I feel bad! Alright? I mean, look at me, I have this whole room to myself, and meanwhile, my partner is sleeping in a company vehicle that may or may not have bloodstains in the backseat.

[BEAT, THEN] Actually, I’d love to talk about those weird dark stains later, because uh, what, but I’ll let it slide for now. It’s still gotta be super uncomfortable, though.

AGENT MAY

We could always take turns.

AGENT JUNE

No, what I’m saying is I don’t think either of us have to sleep in the car! There has got to be a better solution.

AGENT MAY

The Foundation already declined giving us a second room, or trying to transfer us to a larger one. Trust me, I tried.

AGENT JUNE

Dammit.

[A LONG PAUSE.]

AGENT JUNE

It's king-sized, you know.

[ANOTHER LONG PAUSE.]

AGENT MAY

Do you think the motel has spare blankets? I think I could try sleeping on the floor.

[THOUGH UNSEEN, AGENT JUNE LOOKS INTO THE CAMERA LIKE HE’S IN THE OFFICE.]

AGENT MAY

…I’ll go down and ask later.

AGENT JUNE

Good idea.

[A BEAT. THERE'S SUIT RUSTLING AS AGENT MAY CHECKS HIS WATCH.]

AGENT MAY

We should head out soon.

AGENT JUNE

You’re really glued to that watch of yours, huh?

AGENT MAY

Excuse me?

AGENT JUNE

Not that it’s bad, you just check it a lot. I don’t really know what watch etiquette is, but I think you look at it more than most people do. I’ve also noticed you tend to look at it more around specific times? Is there a reason, or—?

AGENT MAY

[MORE SERIOUS THAN THE CONVERSATION WARRANTS] It’s none of your business. Perhaps I simply prefer to keep on schedule. Let’s go.

AGENT JUNE

[SLIGHTLY CONFUSED] Oh, um, okay. Sorry. [UNDER HIS BREATH] Jeez. Let me just—

[PHONE BEEP.]

[RECORDING ENDS.]

[ANOTHER BEEP.]

[INT. THE OPEN EYES BOOKSTORE BACKROOM, EARLY, EARLY MORNING.]

HOLLY

Are you recording?

PHOEBE

Yes, yes, I am.

HOLLY

Kind of weird to be doing this so early in the morning.

PHOEBE

I’m sorry, I know it’s super early. Night just felt…well, it felt more dangerous, I guess? Even Grandma Doe recommended not doing it too late. I wanted to get it done before the shop opened, though.

HOLLY

Oh no, I don’t mind. I guess people usually just consider night to be “the witching hour.”

PHOEBE

This isn’t really witchcraft, though, is it?

HOLLY

Guess not. Most modern witchcraft is a lot more…chill, I guess?

PHOEBE

Right. [A BEAT.] Do you think it’s really a good idea to be doing this in the back room?

HOLLY

Well, it’s not like we have anywhere else. It’d be super shady if we did it right outside, and your forestry friend would be pissed if we went out into the woods to do it.

PHOEBE

[NERVOUS] There’s so much paper, though. I mean, we could easily set the whole thing alight. My apartment’s really small, I know, but maybe we could—?

HOLLY

Don’t worry about it. We did a pretty good job clearing stuff out to make space, I think. It should be fine, I mean, a lot of the most flammable stuff either got moved out or shoved against the wall.

Besides, didn’t she say that it might be good to do it here for like, symbolic purposes?

PHOEBE

Yeah. Yeah, I guess you’re right. [SHE CHUCKLES.] Maybe this will finally give me incentive to organize everything.

HOLLY

[SHE LAUGHS, SOMEWHAT NERVOUSLY.] If this works, then hopefully you’ll be able to do that anyways.

PHOEBE

That’s true, yes. I, um, guess we should get started. Can you read the directions?

HOLLY

Of course.

[HOLLY IS HEARD UNFOLDING A PIECE OF PAPER.]

HOLLY

[READING] The purpose of all of this is energy. You are lighting fire to produce energy. You are grinding berries and eating them to produce it as well. Ether functions under this key desire for vitality. If you can understand this simple principle, this keen need it has, it will treat you much more kindly.

By designing this ritual for you, my hope is that it will spell out as clear as day to Ether what you are trying to achieve. It rarely gives people what they want, rather it gives what it sees fit for them. You must steer it in the correct direction, or else it will choose a different fate for you.

These instructions are similar to what Valencia and I did, as well as symbolic for what you hope to achieve. However, nobody has ever developed an exact science for how these rituals function. We may only rely on guesswork and hope. While I would like to develop more specific procedures and instructions, I do not know if I ever will. Perhaps that could be your task.

[BREAKING READING] Could I skip her whole monologue? We already read it, and I don’t think it’s important in-the-moment.

PHOEBE

Sure.

HOLLY

Cool.

[SHE FLIPS THE PAPER.]

HOLLY

Materials needed: Yarn or string to create a casting circle. Some people use salt, but it produces an awful mess. Several circles of yarn around you and your workspace will work just fine.

PHOEBE

We did that already.

HOLLY

Yup. [READING AGAIN] Three white candles with words carved into them. It does not matter what the words are, they simply have to be legible and completely cover the candle. No numbers. I just wrote out song lyrics on that one.

PHOEBE

Oh, that’s neat! I, um, did poems I like.

HOLLY

Cute. [A BEAT.] A lighter or match of some kind. Someplace to safely burn paper—we got a metal bin, so we’re good. Did you turn off the smoke alarm?

PHOEBE

I did, yeah.

HOLLY

Let’s hope the place doesn’t burn down, then. [CHUCKLE, THEN] I’m joking, I promise. It should be fine. [SHE CLEARS HER THROAT.]

A book—you will be tearing out each individual page, so to save time, I suggest a children’s book. A bowl or container of some kind. Elderberries, I recommend you cook them beforehand, but make sure none of them are pre-mashed. Something to mash the elderberries with. Finally, a few drops of your blood, or something to draw blood with. That’s what the sewing needle is for, right? You sure you don’t want a blade? I have a pocket knife.

PHOEBE

[UNCOMFORTABLE] I get nervous around knives, but thank you for the offer.

Oh—actually, I wanted to ask, um, where did you find elderberries? I couldn’t find them anywhere.

HOLLY

I asked the bartender down the street.

PHOEBE

Huh.

HOLLY

Yeah, they make all sorts of weird cocktails. Are you ready? Once we start, we can’t stop until it’s complete.

PHOEBE

[WITH WEIGHT, NERVOUS, BUT DETERMINED] I’m ready.

HOLLY

Okay.

[HOLLY FLIPS THE PAPER AGAIN. THERE’S A PAUSE.]

HOLLY

Phoebe?

PHOEBE

Yeah?

HOLLY

Whatever happens, I—we’ll be okay, alright? No matter what. I’ll make sure of it, I swear.

PHOEBE

[TENDERLY] Thank you.

[THERE’S A PAUSE AS THEY ARE HEARD KISSING. HOLLY TAKES A DEEP BREATH.]

HOLLY

Create a circle around— Okay, we already did that. Um, Start by lighting the candles.

[PHOEBE IS HEARD LIGHTING A MATCH AND LIGHTING ALL THREE CANDLES.]

HOLLY

Tear each individual piece of paper out of the book. One by one, burn each piece of paper using fire from the candles. Once you have burned each page, burn the cover. Do not attempt to put any of the fires out. This tedious process shows care and dedication. The blood in later steps is there for a similar purpose.

[PHOEBE IS HEARD TEARING PAGES OUT OF A CHILDREN’S BOOK AND LIGHTING THEM ON FIRE. THERE’S A LONG PAUSE AS SHE DOES SO.]

PHOEBE

Good thing this book only has twenty pages. [A BEAT.] What’s next?

[PHOEBE IS STILL TEARING PAPER IN THE BACKGROUND, AND THE BURNING SFX GOES ON FOR SOME TIME.]

HOLLY

Uh—place your elderberries in the bowl and begin mashing them in a clockwise motion. As you do this, speak out loud and ask Ether to grant you knowledge and the ability to see what others do not. There should be no misunderstanding in what you are trying to achieve, and if you have garnered Ether’s attention, it should have already decided what it shall do with you. [MUTTERS] Fuckin’ weird.

[PHOEBE CEASES HER PAGE-TEARING.]

PHOEBE

The book is done. Pass me the spice grinder with the berries?

[HOLLY PASSES PHOEBE THE SPICE GRINDER.]

PHOEBE

Thank you.

[PHOEBE IS HEARD GRINDING THE ELDERBERRIES.]

PHOEBE

[WHISPERING TO HERSELF] Ether, um, whoever or whatever you are, if you are listening to me, please grant me knowledge. Grant me the power to see what others do not. Let me see and know everything.

[THERE IS A RINGING HEARD IN THE BACKGROUND AS HOLLY SPEAKS.]

HOLLY

If this works, the words on the candle should begin to—holy—God!

[HOLLY STUMBLES BACK.]

PHOEBE

Glow?

HOLLY

[FREAKING OUT] Yup? Uh—they’re actually glowing, what the—

PHOEBE

[OVERLAPPING] What’s next?

HOLLY

Sorry, sorry. [SHE RUFFLES THE PAPER IN HER HAND.] Mix a few drops of your blood into the elderberries.

PHOEBE

Pass me the sewing needle.

[HOLLY PASSES PHOEBE THE NEEDLE. SHE PRICKS HER FINGER.]

PHOEBE

[UNDER HER BREATH] Ow.

[SHE LETS A FEW DROPS COME OUT, SUCKS ON HER FINGER BRIEFLY, THEN MIXES HER BLOOD IN.]

HOLLY

Drink the elderberry mash. You must consume every bit of it, or at least as much as you can.

PHOEBE

[GROWING IN A MIX OF PANIC AND EXCITEMENT] This is it—I mean—wait, I’m about to consume my blood, that’s weird, but—this is really it.

HOLLY

[ENCOURAGING] You can do it.

[PHOEBE IS HEARD DRINKING THE ELDERBERRY MASH. THERE IS A PAUSE.]

HOLLY

If successful, the candles will—

[THE CANDLES ARE HEARD EXTINGUISHING.]

HOLLY

…blow out.

PHOEBE

[SLIGHTLY SICK] I think I got it all.

HOLLY

How do you feel? Is—has anything changed?

PHOEBE

I feel…I feel like there’s a part of me that was never there before. Like, my internal self expands farther out than my physical self, like I’m floating, it’s—I need to go lie down.

HOLLY

I’ll take you upstairs. It worked, though?

PHOEBE

I think it did. I mean, Grandma Doe said I would feel some sort of immediate change, but the rest of it would trickle in slowly. I feel different, though.

HOLLY

[SLOWLY, CAUTIOUS] Does this mean you’re not human anymore?

PHOEBE

[A BEAT.] I haven’t thought about that. I mean, I think I might just kind of be human plus? I’m not sure. Grandma Doe was still mortal, after all—she felt pain, she got ill—her mind was just super advanced. Does that make me inhuman?

HOLLY

I…I don’t think so. I think you just have mind powers or whatever.

PHOEBE

I’ll think about it later. I’m just going to try to get some sleep before the shop opens.

HOLLY

You don’t even have to open today, you know. People will understand if you just say you’re ill. Or I could run it for today, since there’s usually less traction on weekdays.

PHOEBE

[SINCERE] Thank you.

HOLLY

Of course.

PHOEBE

[SHE SIGHS.] Okay, time to—

[PHONE BEEP.]

[RECORDING ENDS.]

[ANOTHER PHONE BEEP.]

[INT. IRENE’S HOUSE, MIDDAY.]

IRENE

I just got home from work. Apparently, Phoebe did that ritual early this morning. It went well, from what Holly told me, though Phoebe’s been taking the day off to rest.

Oh, and they also posted that advert on the bulletin board yesterday. You know, for someone to develop Valencia’s film.

That’s not important right now. You know what is important?

This morning, at work, I opened up a folder on my computer and guess what was in it? A new audio recording where there shouldn’t be one. Guess the technological gods have decided to be generous today.

I decided to wait until I got off to listen to it. It’s dated shortly after the incident, so I think it might be important.

Besides, work has been…well, different, since the Spread. I haven’t told Carol or Aden that’s what it’s called, though. The whole incident brought us closer together, but I think that’s a double-edged sword. They know me well enough, now, I think they can tell I’m hiding something. Aden definitely knows I am—I mean, what I told him was pretty cryptic, but Carol I think just…knows. She’s just like that. [SCOFF] Maybe that’s part of her motherly instincts.

Right, that’s beside the point. Back to the recording.

Here goes nothing.

[IRENE CLICKS ON THE FILE.]

[PHONE BEEP.]

[INT. DRIVING, LATE AT NIGHT.]

[THERE IS THE AMBIANCE OF DRIVING DOWN A DESOLATE FOREST ROAD AS THEY TALK.]

UNKNOWN GIRL

Does it work?

ROSE

I believe so.

UNKNOWN GIRL

[SHE SNORTS.] About as well as a cheap cell phone from Walmart could, I imagine?

ROSE

It just has to be able to record and make emergency calls. I’m not too worried about it. Thank you, again. Really, I owe you.

UNKNOWN GIRL

Hey, I didn’t buy it. I just walked into the store and handed your money to the guy behind the counter. It’s not a big deal.

[DULLY SKEPTICAL] You’re trying pretty hard to cover up your tracks, you know. Destroying your phone, not wanting to be seen in public to go get a new one, only paying in cash. Almost makes it sound like you’re a criminal or something.

ROSE

[FRANTIC] I’m not! I swear, I’m not.

UNKNOWN GIRL

No need to get defensive. Look, I get it. We all have reasons to want to disappear. I’m surely in no position to judge.

You know, I know we haven’t known each other for long, but I feel like we might actually have a lot in common.

ROSE

Why is that?

UNKNOWN GIRL

We both don’t know where we’re going, or why.

ROSE

[UNDER HER BREATH] Oh, I know why.

UNKNOWN GIRL

So you do have a reason?

ROSE

It’s not a big deal.

UNKNOWN GIRL

Your secret’s safe with me, you know.

ROSE

It’s nothing. Really. Just…do you have to know or—?

UNKNOWN GIRL

Well, do I have any reason to?

ROSE

No, but do you even have a reason to be helping me?

UNKNOWN GIRL

[DEADPAN] What can I say? I’m a generous soul.

[A BEAT.] Say, why did you want something to record with, anyways?

ROSE

I, um—it’s stupid.

UNKNOWN GIRL

Try me.

ROSE

It’s—well. I guess I don’t want to be forgotten? I want some way for people to find out what happened to me when…if…you know. There’s…if something does happen to me, there’s at least one person who deserves to know.

UNKNOWN GIRL

You think you’re going to get yourself killed?

ROSE

I don’t know. I suppose it’s better to be safe than sorry?

UNKNOWN GIRL

But you have someone you know will want to listen. [CONNECTING THE DOTS] You weren’t a loner before you left, were you? You left someone important behind, and now you feel bad. You owe them an explanation.

ROSE

[UNCOMFORTABLY] Yes. Right. I guess.

[A BEAT.] I don’t want to talk about this anymore.

UNKNOWN GIRL

Who did you abandon?

ROSE

[RAISING HER VOICE SLIGHTLY] I said I’m done.

UNKNOWN GIRL

Alright, alright.

[A BEAT.] If it makes you feel better, I’ll let you prod at me a bit.

ROSE

[HESITANT] Where did you get your name? Wednesday is such a unique name, I don’t think I’ve ever heard it outside of stories.

WEDNESDAY [UNKNOWN GIRL]

It’s certainly no ‘Mary,’ is it?

ROSE

I mean, obviously. My name’s pretty basic.

WEDNESDAY

I actually chose it after I left home. Not like that, just never liked the name my parents gave me. Kept the last name ‘White,’ though. It has a ring to it.

ROSE

Was there a reason for it, or did it just sound nice?

WEDNESDAY

When people meet someone with a weird name, that tends to be the thing that most grabs their attention. “I met a girl named after a day of the week today, isn’t that bizarre?” I didn’t want to be remembered for anything I didn’t want people to see. If one thing was going to stick with them, it would be my name, but not quite the face that goes with it. Just the girl with an odd name.

ROSE

So you want to be forgotten?

WEDNESDAY

Not forgotten, but I want control over the memory of me. I want to fade away into obscurity, but not obscure enough that it’s suspicious.

ROSE

[KIND OF UNCOMFORTABLE] You’ve thought about this a lot.

WEDNESDAY

When you’re like me, you have to.

ROSE

Wh—what does that—

WEDNESDAY

[OVERLAPPING] Do you need me to stop at the gas station up ahead?

[THERE’S A SLIGHTLY TOO LONG PAUSE.]

ROSE

Um, yeah, I have to—

[PHONE BEEP.]

[RECORDING ENDS.]

[INT. IRENE’S HOUSE, EARLY EVENING, THE SAME DAY.]

[THERE’S A LONG PAUSE.]

IRENE

[STILL PROCESSING IT AS SHE SPEAKS.] Okay. Okay! This is definitely a start. A great start, actually!

Okay, let’s see, uh—after you ran away, you destroyed your phone—no wonder the police couldn’t track it—and then you went with some person named Wednesday.

That’s definitely a start. If I can figure out where Wednesday—White, was it?—yeah, Wednesday White. I know Wednesday probably isn’t her legal name, but I might still be able to find her somewhere. If I can find Wednesday White, I might have a good shot at finding you. That’s great news!

[A SLIGHTLY TOO LONG PAUSE.]

IRENE

[HER ENTHUSIASM DYING] I don’t trust Wednesday, though.

[A BEAT.] Okay, maybe I shouldn’t be so skeptical. I mean, you’re not an idiot, Rose. You wouldn’t hitch hike with just any random stranger. Would you? Doesn’t even seem like you gave her your real name, she called you ‘Mary.’

[SHE HUFFS A SIGH.] Maybe I’m just being defensive. Still, she seemed off, didn’t she? That whole thing she said about her name just kind of rubbed me the wrong way. She prodded a lot, too. Almost as if she wanted to make you uncomfortable.

I could be reading into it too much. I guess I won’t know until I find her. Hopefully, she didn’t fade into obscurity too much. There’s gotta be some record of her existence online. If I’m lucky, she might be on social media or something. Who knows? Lots of time has passed.

[A PAUSE, THEN, SOFTLY] That person, you—were you recording for me? You wanted me to know you hadn’t abandoned me on purpose. [HURT] And here I was, thinking you would just leave without reason. That you had betrayed me in some way. I’m—Rose, I’m so sorry—

[JUST AS SHE SAYS “SORRY,” HER PHONE BEGINS VIBRATING. SHE PICKS IT UP.]

IRENE

[SKEPTICAL] There’s an unknown number calling me.

[SHE ANSWERS.]

IRENE

Hello?

CALLER

Hello? Is this the person who posted an ad outside of Open Eyes Bookstore?

IRENE

Oh! Um, yeah, that’s me. Wow, I didn’t expect to hear from someone so fast.

CALLER

I’m an observant person. I like to make my rounds throughout the town. You’ll never know what you’ll find, after all. Or who.

Anyways, you have some film that needs to be developed, right? Well, it just so happens to be your lucky day, because I have a dark room.

IRENE

That’s fantastic. I can pay you however much you want, just—

CALLER

[OVERLAPPING] Oh, that won’t be necessary. I’m studying photography, so the experience is payment enough. No worries!

IRENE

That’s very kind of you, thank you.

CALLER

Of course!

Oh, where are my manners? My name is Sadie. Sadie Creed. And you are…?

IRENE

Irene.

SADIE

Irene! How cute. Where do you want me to pick up your film?

IRENE

Um, I’m sorry if this sounds rude, but I would prefer to meet out in the open? Is that a problem?

SADIE

Not at all. How about Lemongrass Park?

IRENE

That’s actually perfect, yeah.

SADIE

Great! I’m happy to meet you tomorrow night at 8:00, if that time works for you? I know that’s a bit late, but I work at the candy shop until then.

IRENE

That should be fine, yeah.

SADIE

Looking forward to it! Pleasure doing business with you, Irene. Bye-bye!

[SADIE HANGS UP.]

IRENE

Huh. Well, I guess that solves that.

Time to go find Wednesday White.

[PHONE BEEP.]

[RECORDING ENDS.]

AUTOMATED VOICE

Today's quote is: A wave of grass engraves upon the stone: ‘There is more than one good way to drown.’

Sylvia Plath in "Epitaph in Three Parts," 1955.

[OUTRO MUSIC AND CREDITS PLAY.]

MICRO-COSMOS PROMOTIONAL AD [written by Jesse Smith]

[THERE ARE STATIC NOISES.]

ATHENA

This is Communications Athena Romero of OEC #0137-F recording from a… still, unknown location on the infant planet Ophiuchus-22. Though I have my… well, rational, doubts, something in me feels as though this transmission might actually be reaching someone. Might just be desperation, though. Most likely just desperation. Regardless. We would appreciate any and all OC representatives or employees, or individuals otherwise receiving this transmission, to please send a response. We have been recording mandatory and otherwise necessary emergency chronicling logs for days now. Please.

[WE HEAR MILES'S FOOTSTEPS APPROACH.]

MILES

(distant) Athena, are you sending out another transmission? They’re not going to-

[C41 APPEARS WITH THEIR USUAL PING.]

C41

Shhh, let her do her thing, Miles. She needs to set her character up correctly for the new listeners that are hearing this promotional advertisement.

MILES

The new— what?

C41

What?

MILES

What are you talking about?

FELIX

I believe what Cal is doing is called “breaking the fourth wall,” my friend.

MILES

Breaking the what now?

C41

Oh, just forget about it.

[MILES GROANS; WE HEAR ALEX APPROACH.]

ALEX

What about a promotional advertisement?

ATHENA

Guys, could you… [SIGHS] I am trying to finish this log, so could you please give me a moment?

ALEX

Sorry, Starshine, I just got a little caught up in the whole “self-aware and breaking the fourth wall” thing.

ATHENA

It’s… fine.

C41

If I were you, Athena, I would close your log out by telling the listener to tune in to Micro-Cosmos: A Science Fiction Podcast, wherever you get your podcasts! The show is created by a crew of LGBTQ+ people, and features strange infant planets, brief romantic scenes before epic tragedy, cool sci-fi terminology, and adorably talented AI units, like myself!

ATHENA

Micro-?

C41

More information on the show can be found on its website: “microcospod.space”, OR its Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr, or TikTok, which all have the handle “@microcospod.”

MILES

… uh huh.

[THE CREW SITS IN SILENCE FOR A SECOND.]

C41

That’s just what I would say, though.

MILES

… Cal, we really need to figure out what is going on with this new phase of yours.

#heart of ether transcripts

[coldbloodedcreator]

Touch

a little gift for @luminescentlyricist ! i just... have some intense clown brainrot. also, excuse how jumbled and weird it might be at the end, I was passing out (still am) while writing it and im too excited to share it to revise much. fandom: homestuck (oc oriented) characters: othamo oculus (oc), jezakk imetat (friends oc) length: 1426 words pov: 3rd person (jezakk)

touch.

that was one way othamo would communicate with jezakk.

a pat at the shoulders to access where the smaller was, a grab at his arm to signal he needed help walking. he could be a bit rough but usually never meant to harm jezakk, told by the small apologizes that muttered from his lips. he could be verbally affectionate — but they were rarer than jezakk liked. he understood, though. being verbal about feelings was hard. jezakk couldn't get a single sentence out without his voice stuttering and cracking, no matter how hard he tried. he admired how flat his matesprit could keep his tone. sometimes he wondered if he could ask othamo how to control his voice - as othamo was one of the few troupe members who spoke with no rises in his voice at all, and spoke at a moderately quiet level compared to everyone else. but he doubted othamo would, or that it would work for long.

jezakk's internal dialogue was interrupted by a tight grip as his arm. claws dug into his flesh and jezakk had to quickly brief a glance towards his matesprit, before giving his vice gripped claws a gentle pat. "Uh," jezakk sort of grumbled low, to his best ability. he still held his claws over othamos, resisting the urge to try and pry them off. even if he tried, othamo would likely just grab on at a different section of his arm. "hEy.. cOUld yOU Uh... rElAx A lIttlE, Oth?" he sort of stammered. his eyes flickered back and forth from the emotionless grin on his matesprit's face to the near wall, his shoulders tense. luckily for him the claws relaxed and jezakk could feel the blood start to return to his arm. "i gEt yOUr nErvOUs-" othamo blunted overspoke jezakk, claws digging in once more. "im n⊙t nerv⊙us." he grunted. jezakk could hear othamo's breath hissing through his irregular, pin prick teeth, his smile much more open than his resting one. jezakk was near convinced that othamo grinned when he was nervous, and that othamo was a nervous wreck at all times. which wasn't rather farfetched from what jezakk had gathered from previous drops of othamo's cool facade, or the comments he made, but jezakk could hardly tell when othamo was being sincere or not. he couldn't even tell when othamo's rage was genuine. jezakk's eyes landed at the floor, where he could just barely see his foot tapping against the cold cement. he near became fully absorbed with his nervous leg bouncing before an idea sparked in the back of his mind. "hEy, I hAd An IdEA..." he could feel othamo's claws loosen more, before they eventually relaxed and let go. jezakk gingerly touched at where the claws had sunk in and left indents, feeling the small bumps. there was a few greasy smears of the oils from othamo's marionette strings that made jezakk briefly grimace. "what is it?" jezakk could've sworn that was more of a demand than a question. the way othamo's raspy voice spoke was a bit unnerving at times. othamo had told jezakk that when he was younger, he didn't start talking till he was around 6 or 7 sweeps old, which at first sounded somewhat ridiculous. but ... it did make some sense. "I wAs thInkIng.. AbOUt hOw yOU strUgglE wIth shOwIng AffEctIOn?" jezakk tried to word this in the kindess way possible. he could see othamo's eyebrow quirk out of the corner of his eyes. "whAt If I shOwEd yOU A wAy tO dO It wIthOUt wOrds?" "y⊙u mean asl?" for once his voice changed at the end, but went deeper instead of higher. it still registered as a questioning tone, but a grumpy one. "yEAh! wEll, Uh, nO, nOt cOmplEtEly, bEcAUsE.. yOU knOw," he gave a few vague hand movements, even though they'd go unnoticed. "yes. because im blind. i kn⊙w." it almost sounded like a sigh coming from him. jezakk frowned.

"AnywAys. wEll.. I knOw yOU lIkE drUmmIng yOUr fIngErs On stUff, sO mAybE sOmEthIng wIth thAt?" jezakk could see othamo's smile growing more forced, signalling a zone out on othamo's end. jezakk jabbed an elbow at othamo and he straighted up again. he gave no apology for his brief lack of consciousness, simply giving jezakk a smile. "... hOw dOEs thAt sOUnd?" "h⊙w d⊙es what s⊙und." jezakk sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. sometimes his matesprit was so goddamn stubborn. instead of making a mistake like last time where the question spiraled out of control, he just gave a small shake of his head. he reached his claws forward, placing them on othamo's shoulder gently. underneath the three different layers othamo tensed up at the touch. after a brief few seconds to let othamo's shoulders relax did jezakk drum his claws against his matesprit, giving a reassuring smile. "I lOvE yOU." jezakk said gently. he could feel othamo's blind gaze near bore through his skull. the taller's claws drifted forward, resting against jezakk's arm. he drums his fingers against it much gentler than expected, almost lost between the sweater fabric. this caused a wide smile to form on jezakk's face and a gentle flush fill his heart, and he lowered his hand. a few moments passed before othamo moved his hand to jezakk's face and drummed there as well. othamo's smile had visible softened. it was almost like his icy exterior melted away, revealing the personality that jezakk knew as his matesprit. othamo slowly crouched - trying to avoid popping his knees, as he understood the sound wasnt very desirable - and quickly after engulfed jezakk into a hug. he pulled jezakk close as a loud purr begun to rumble from deep within his chest and he nuzzled his face against jezakk's shoulder. his claws drummed rhythmically against jezakk's back, over and over, as he gave the tinkerer a squeeze. jezakk was rather surprised, but also quite elated, at the sudden affection. his cheeks turned lilac as he wrapped his arms around his matesprit, placing his chin on othamo's shoulder. his own claws gently rolled against othamo’s back, able to feel the scutes that decorated the spine of the puppeteers spine. it was a nice feeling. a few minutes pass, and they depart from their embrace. othamo remained crouched for a little bit, simply facing jezakk. the smaller purpleblood didn't move, as othamo still his claws on his shoulders.

"hey jazzy." "hm?" he blinked, tilting his head as a force of habit. "want t⊙ kn⊙w s⊙mething?" othamo asked, grin still present. jezakk lets out a soft chuckle. "sUrE, whAt Is It?" "when i think ⊙f y⊙u, i d⊙nt try t⊙ imagine the bits and pieces put t⊙gether ⊙f what y⊙u might l◎‿◉k like. i think ⊙f the stars. ⊙r at least my mem⊙ries ⊙f them. i used t⊙ marvel at the night sky, enam⊙red by them. they were s⊙ beautiful. y⊙u remind me ⊙f th⊙se stars, jazzy. s⊙ bright, interw⊙ven int⊙ the cl⊙uds ⊙f stardust."

a long pause came from jezakk. he stared at othamo, unable to find words. eventually he found a smile and another giggle leaves his lips. "Oth... thAts sO swEEt. I dIdn't knOw yOU wErE A rOmAntIc." othamo gives a playful nudge, leaning back onto his heels. "d⊙n't get t◎‿◉ c⊙cky ab⊙ut it, ⊙r else i w⊙nt tell y⊙u my pent up l⊙ve p⊙ems at all." othamo holds a genuine smile though, shoulders lax. he leaned forward and gently pressed his cold nose against jezakk's before giving the tinkerer a drum on the shoulders, and then standing straight. his previous fears seemed to have long since left him, his matesprit bringing his mood up significantly. othamo's smile can only widen more as another troll pops into jezakk's practice tent - where the two trolls currently were. he could hear the troll mutter something about "i knew id find you here" before informing the puppeteer his show was to begin soon, and othamo gives a simple nod. he looked to jezakk's direction once more before leaning down to place an affectionate kiss on jezakk's forehead, murmuring a few soft words and then making his way out. he paused at the entrance of the tent, glancing back again. he reached to the nearby beam and gave it a drum, smile perked. and then he leaves, vanishing into the bright big top to preform. jezakk could only watch, grin soft and his heart still beating firmly in his chest.

othamo could communicate verbally with jezakk, too. and boy does he love when he did.

#hhhim so tired but clowns are WAY more important ok #oc: othamo #friends oc: jezakk #The Troupe #fantroll #homestuck oc #homestuck #im basically incomprehensible now #gog this is so awful

[themaskedwriter]

Tear You Apart

Summary: while undercover in a local gang, you have the unfortunate pleasure of meeting the infamous Punisher. 

Frank Castle x Reader.

Warnings: SMUT, some blood, some fighting, and bad language… so nothing new, right? Word count: 3,397 OOF Clues: Number 1. I have a witty url, number 2. I have an obsession with one particular blue eyed Marvel man, and finally number 3. I write mostly smut because I suck at writing fluff lol.

Got a big plan, this mindset maybe its right

At the right place and right time, maybe tonight

You shut your eyes as you let your body roll to the gritty riff of the song. Hands slipped under your oversized blue flannel and ran under your ripped t-shirt. The battered hands caught on the strings of your fishnet bodysuit as they traveled along your skin. He pulled your body closer to his and you ran a hand through your hair as you began to grind your body against his.

And the whisper or handshake sending a sign Wanna make out and kiss hard, wait never mind

“You packing, sweetheart?” His voice was gruff in your ear and his beer tinged breath ruffled your hair. You smiled to yourself and spun around in his arms.

“Always.” You smirked as you wrapped your arms around his neck and his leg slipped between yours. Another set of hands rested on your hips and you found yourself pinned between two men on the makeshift dance floor.

Or maybe this is danger and he just don’t know You pray it all away but it continues to grow

Lips and teeth scraped against your throat and you sighed contently. As the bass hummed in your chest and the lights flashed hypnotically, you began to lose yourself, or rather your persona you had spent nearly six months perfecting. Six months you had spent undercover. Six fucking months.

You had been on eggshells since you had started. Now, you felt like you could breathe! It was dangerous, letting the real you slip from behind your mask, but in that moment, you just didn’t fucking care.

I want to hold you close Skin pressed against me tight Lie still, and close your eyes girl So lovely, it feels so right

It had taken forever to be allowed so close to the gang, but your pretty face was enough to let even the toughest walls fall down. And you were on the younger side (fresh out of the police academy as well) and no man could resist having a piece of fresh meat around to look at.

Though during all your time there, they still hadn’t shared enough with you and what they had shared, wasn’t enough to take them down for good. But you were up for the challenge and eager to prove yourself.

The hands on your bare thighs brought you back to your current position and you shook your head to clear your mind of everything.

I want to hold you close Soft breasts, beating heart As I whisper in your ear I want to fucking tear you apart

The lights shot on and everyone groaned at the light change. The music continued to blast and not even a second after the lights came in, the sound of automatic gunfire boomed. The dance floor dispersed instantly and scattered screams rang out as the women in the room ran away.

“No, no, no, no…” you muttered as you shoved your way through the panicking crowd. You raced around the warehouse and finally spotted the leader of the gang.

“Find him! Fucking kill him!” He shouted at his men. You grabbed his hand and pulled him aside.

“I know a way out!” You shouted over the gunfire and the agonizing screams. His men were falling left and right, but she couldn’t seem to figure out how many attackers there were and at the rate they were falling, she doubted that it would only be one man.

“I’m not fucking running!” He scoffed. He went to turn back around, but you grabbed his face and kissed him hard.

“Please,” you said. “You can’t rule the world when you’re dead.”

He shot a look to his right hand and he nodded his head.

“Go, boss! We’ll get him!” He said. The leader turned to you and nodded as well. You grabbed his hand again and dragged him towards the garage. You shut the door behind you and locked it quickly and then you raced towards a tarp that was laying on the ground and you shoved it to the side, revealing a trap door. You grunted as you yanked it open and you looked at him expectantly.

“Go!” You said. The boss stood there for a moment and his eyes darted from you to the trap door.

“How did you know that was there?” He asked cautiously.

“Does it matter?” You scoffed. “Go or we’ll both die!”

BANG! The door splintered apart and you flinched. The boss snarled as he reached down, pulled you off the ground and held you in front of him as a shield with his arm around your throat. You screamed as you came face to face with the barrel of a sawed off shot gun and a brutish man covered in blood and bruises.

“Back up, Castle!”

“The Punisher…” You breathed.

“And you,” he hissed in your ear as he drew his gun and placed it at your temple. “Reach for your gun and you’re fucking dead. You got that, cop?!”

You nodded your head slowly and wiped your face clean of your fearful facade. Castle’s eyes flashed as he glanced from you to the boss.

“Do what you have to, Frank—” if you couldn’t bring that man to your kind of justice, you’d settle for Frank’s kind of justice. Anything would be better than letting him back out into the world without your keen eye.

“Shut your mouth!” His grip on your neck tightened and you winced.

“Hey, easy,” Frank took a step towards you two and the boss pointed his gun in Frank’s direction.

“Stay where you are!”

You slowly reached for your front pocket and slowly brought out a small switchblade. You glanced at the gun that was still pointed at Frank and you flipped the blade open and sliced at the arm around your throat.

“AGH! You bitch—!” You dropped to the ground.

The boss fell back and hit the ground with a definite dead thud. You scrambled towards him and pressed your hands to the gaping wound in his chest.

“No, no, no, no,” you hissed. “You don’t die! Don’t die! I’ve been working this for too long for you to fucking die!”

Blood bubbled up from his lips as he gurgled and gasped for air. Blood began to pool around his body, soaking your thigh high lace up boots, and the concrete around you. His chest heaved as his organs failed him and he let out a wet exhale as his last breath left his body.

“He’s done, kid.” Frank said.

“You!” You growled. “You’re under arrest!”

You stood up and drew your gun. Frank scoffed.

“I saved your life and this is the thanks I get?” He shook his head.

“Put your weapon down, get on your knees, and put your hands on your head!” You snarled. A door behind Frank and two men unloaded their clips. You screamed as a bullet ripped through your side and you hit the ground hard. Frank spun around with a roar and shot them both in the head.

You sat up as you clutched your side and Frank hurried over to you. He pressed one of his hands to your wound and you hissed.

“You’re gonna be okay, okay?” He said quickly. Without a warning you jerked up your gun and pulled the trigger twice. Frank ducked and another man in that same doorway, dropped dead.

“Shit, kid,” he slipped an arm around your waist and then an arm under your legs.

“Ahh!” You screamed in pain as he picked you up and you clutched onto his blood soaked vest. He stood up and began to carry you out of the warehouse.

“You’re still under arrest, Castle.” You muttered as you rested your head on his chest. Castle walked swiftly towards a big black van.

“Yeah?” He said dryly. “How’s that gonna work?”

He opened the back of the van and then gently set you down. He shut the doors and then walked around and climbed into the front seat.

“We’re gonna get you to a hospital.”

“No,” you groaned. “No hospitals. My cover is blown. They’ll kill me.”

“The only people who knew, are dead.” Frank said.

“There were cameras, Castle. Once they see,” you cried out as he drove over a rather large pothole. “The tapes, I’m done.”

“Shit.” Frank huffed.

“Don’t think it hit anything important,” you said. “Just need it out and stitched.”

Frank muttered something incomprehensible under his breath and he sighed loudly as he ran a hand over his face.

“How much you bleeding?”

“Got time to get out of the area, if that’s what you want to know.” You replied.

“Good. Hang on, kid.”

“I’m not a kid. I’m a fucking cop.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

It took about thirty minutes, but soon you rolled up to a motel and Frank took a second to remove his vest and somewhat clean the blood off his face before he hopped out to get a room. He came back about five minutes later helped you out of the back of the van.

You slung your arm over his shoulders and his arm stayed around your waist as his other hand held your arm.

“Grab that bag, if you can.” Frank said. You grabbed it and you both made your way to your motel room. He unlocked the room and you made your way to the bathroom. You leaned against the counter as you removed your flannel and your shirt.

“Aw fuck.” You muttered as you shakily touched your wound. Frank walked into the bathroom with a suture kit in his hands and he knelt down to examine you. He set the suture kit on the counter along with a bottle of whiskey and you snatched it up and took a long swig.

“This is going to hurt,” Frank said. “You wanna sit, officer?”

“No,” you inhaled sharply as you lowered the bottle. “Just get it out.”

Frank nodded his head and he opened the kit. He grabbed the tweezers and then gripped your body suit with both hands and ripped it where the bullet hole was. You took another sip as he began near your wound with the tweezers. He pressed his hand to your stomach and you held your breath.

“AGH!” You screamed as he dug around for the bullet and when it was finally over you felt about ready to just knock out. “Holy fuck!”

“I’m gonna patch you up now.” Frank said. You nodded your head and looked way as he stitched you up. You took a couple more sips of the whiskey and Frank stood up with a grunt. He reached beside you and pulled a bottle of some pain pills out of the suture kit. He pushed the bottle into your hand and then disappeared into the bedroom. You took a single pill and Frank came back into the room holding a long sleeve shirt. He handed it to you and you took it with a smirk.

“Make you uncomfortable?” You couldn’t exactly wear a bra with the outfit you had on, but Frank treated you like a lady and his gaze never slipped.

“Just tryna protect your modestly, officer.” He said. You chuckled and slipped it on. He went to leave the bathroom again, but you grabbed his hand and stopped him.

“Thanks,” you said. “For everything.”

“Mmm-hmm.” He licked his lips and gave you a short nod. You looked down at your clasped hands and your brows furrowed. His knuckles were battered and bloody and you pulled him closer. You grabbed a wash cloth, ran it under the faucet, and gently rubbed the blood and dirt off his hand. Once that hand was clean you gestured for the other one. He complied and let you clean his other hand.

Now that the pain med was kicking in, you were actually able to take a second to appreciate Frank’s unique beauty. His nose was crooked, probably from being broken a few times, black bruises covered his cheek, his jaw, the side of his head, and his eyes were dark, but not because they were brown. You couldn’t begin to imagine the horrific things those eyes had witnessed, but it was clear it had taken its toll on him. You glanced at his lips and thought they’d be nice lips to kiss for a second, before you shook your head as an attempt to cast the thought away.

Frank Castle was not the most attractive man out there, but god damn it if you didn’t find yourself feeling self conscious and nervous under the same scrutiny you had just given to him. You tried to ignore it his gaze, but you could feel it as if traveled across your features and paused at your mouth.

You cleared your throat awkwardly and let go of his hand. “Thanks again.”

“Yeah…” He murmured. He stood there for a second, contemplating. You weren’t sure what he was contemplating, but soon he shook his head and was about to walk about of the bathroom again. Before he could leave, you grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him down for a soft kiss. Yeah, they were nice to kiss…

He kissed you back for a moment before he pulled back gently.

“You—you don’t have to…” He cleared his throat. “You don’t—”

“I want to.”

“You’re hurt. I shouldn’t take advantage—”

“It’s gonna take way more than a bullet to keep me from getting what I want,” you smirked at him. “And you’re not.”

“I’m older than you…” Frank said sheepishly.

“Are you going to keep making excuses or are you going to kiss me?” You cocked your head to the side and Frank sighed.

“Ah, shit.” He said before he leaned down and pressed his lips to yours firmly. You moaned against his mouth and wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling his body closer to yours. His hands rested on your hips lightly. He tasted like copper as you kissed him.

You backed him up slowly into the bedroom and when the bed hit the back of his knees he sat down and pulled you into his lap. Your hands slid up his chest and up into his thick hair. While he refined the passion in the kisses, his hands stayed frozen at your waist.

“You can touch me, y’know.” You said in between kisses. Frank pulled away from your lips and pressed his forehead to yours.

“I know… It’s just been a while…” He said slowly. You knew the feeling. Maybe not the same way he did (you saw enough of the news to know about what happened to him and his family), but you had spent six months alone. There was no way you were going to risk any type of relationship while you were out in the field like you were.

You pressed a light kiss to his cheek and you pulled the shirt he gave you, over your head. You could feel Frank holding his breath as you grabbed his hands and guided them over your body. You ran them over your breasts and he exhaled sharply. He gave them an experimental squeeze and you bit your lip as you smiled at him.

You leaned in and kissed him again and this time he broke the kiss to place more kisses along your jaw, your throat, and the curves of your breasts, before he moved one hand to make room for his mouth and tongue. You moaned softy and that seemed to give him a bit more courage. His free hand slipped behind your back and ran down your spine as he pushed your body closer to his. Frank growled against your skin as you began to grind against him and one of your hands slid under his shirt. He jumped slightly at your touch, but a second later he pulled away from your chest and pulled his shirt off. He tossed it to the side and you gently pushed him down into the bed and as he laid back, he lifted up his hips and scooted back onto the bed so he was laying completely on the bed.

You ran your hands down his chest and traced the scattered scars across his body. You leaned down and began to press tender kisses to every scar you saw and Frank sighed contently. After you had given each scar an appropriate amount of attention, you pulled a condom out of your pocket (one of the gang members had slipped it to you earlier that day half-jokingly) and held it between your teeth as you slipped off his lap and began to shimmied off your shorts.

You climbed back into his lap and began to undo his belt. Frank chuckled softly and he slipped a finger under the leg opening of your fishnet bodysuit. You swatted at his hand as he pulled it back and let it snap back against your skin.

“How am I supposed to get past this?” Frank asked with an amused look on his face and he pulled the condom out from between your teeth. You leaned in and nipped playfully at his bottom lip.

“Just pull it to the side.” You replied. Frank laughed softly.

“Classy,” he sat up and pressed a light kiss to your lips. “But, no. Hope you’re not too fond of it.”

And what followed that, was a loud, rip! You gasped and Frank quickly pulled off the remnants of your bodysuit. His hands ran over you slowly as he savored the curves of your body and then he began to slide his pants and boxers down. When you tried to get things going before he fully removed his pants, he chuckled and he kissed you tenderly.

“Hey, no need to rush, things, m‘kay?” He murmured in between kisses. You cupped his cheeks as you pressed your forehead to his.

“Sorry,” you said breathlessly. “It’s just been a while for me too.”

“Yeah.” Frank’s dark eyes searched yours for a moment and he leaned up and kissed you hard. You moaned against his mouth and sat up in his lap. He lined himself up with you and you exhaled sharply as you sunk down on him. You were both gasping for air by the time you fully took him in. His fingers bit into your thighs while your fingers grasped his biceps hard.

You moved slowly at first, just testing the waters. Frank’s hips jerked up to meet yours and you moaned softly as you continued to rocked against each other. Frank groaned and he buried his face in your neck as he placed biting kisses up and down your throat. You threw your head back as he bit down on a particularly sensitive spot on your throat and one of Frank’s hands tangled up in your hair.

Without warning, Frank rolled you two over and he thrust himself back inside you rather roughly and you cried out.

“Was that too—?”

“No, no, keep going.” You said quickly. So he did.

The headboard slammed against the wall of the motel room as the bed rocked back and forth with an obnoxious squeaking noise. You grabbed his face and kissed him sloppily as he fucked you relentlessly into the abused mattress. Your skin burned against his and you wrapped your legs around his waist as you dragged your nails down his battered back. Frank groaned as he reached up and grasped the headboard with one hand, but his other hand stayed at your hip.

“Oh god,” you hissed. “Fuck!”

You came with a moan and you dug your nails into his lower back. Your body hummed with pleasure as he worked you through your high and you threw your head back when he slipped his hand in between your legs as an attempt to throw you over the edge one more time before he finished.

You came once again and Frank was quick to follow. You both panted for air and moaned when he finally slipped out of you. He tossed the condom in the waste bin and pulled you into his chest as he setting down with an arm under his head.

“Fuck.” You murmured contently. Frank chuckled and he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“Ditto.”

#fic

[fmdrem]

date: from december 3rd to 19th, 2018 location: seoul, south korea / various ( mars’ dorms ; dimensions’ meeting & dance practice areas ; gocheok dome backstages & stage ) summary: the despair of jeon ahreum warning:  uh okay tbh there’s Some Shit going on and i did my best to tag EVERYTHING i could possibly think of so i still really suggest you to navigate with caution because ahreum’s self-destructive thoughts / warped perception of self AND the way he brings harm to himself are not bloody graphic per se,  but they can totally be something hitting close home due to how my writing has been conveying them. tl:dr: ahreum can totally be a character straight outta d*ngan r*npa. word count: 17006 words.

it all had started with a sighting of small little candles and snail shaped sugar treats on top of velvety cupcake swirls displayed at the front window of a pastry shop, the scent of cinnamon cookies, and a flinch of ghosts of birthdays past in wintry seasons greetings always bringing the loneliness of solitary years of struggle down his mouth as a reminder that he had to work harder.

no, it actually all started with the absence of reaction from one who was known to be all reactions and all flames —sitting nearby oldest member and companion while fidgeting with a shirt too big for his lithe frame and skinny legs, with many thinking he simply hadn’t had his morning coffee because it was widely known that jeon ahreum needed his cheap latte ( or anything with a dose of caffeine, truly ) in order to properly spritz life as he’s usually much more known for. it started wth himself and many others exchanging confused gazes because they were called so urgently and it was early, too early —mingi rubbing his heavily bagged eyes and his own hand clinging still onto minjae’s shirt as he wobbled in, geun and siwon looking beyond in need of another hour of sleep at least, because the melon music awards happened int even a few days ago and they weren’t still over their new schedule, finding himself barely curling a smile out and missing the chair he wanted to sit at least three times, and with not a single laugh from anyone because even he wasn’t in the mood for jokes and silliness.

it started with the executives arriving ten minutes late and looking ready to leave ten minutes earlier —as if looking at them all was almost an insult to their eyes like he was an insult to all of their efforts, a reminder to keep questions short and non controversial for the sake of brevity, jabbing at accidents that totally weren’t supposed to happen, especially on stage— talking, and talking while poor ahreum could feel his guts rot and skin getting itchy at the way the higher ups of them all kept mentioning other companies with the spite of a stereotypical villain because of how plain wrong that whole meeting felt like. 

it was supposed to be fun. it was supposed to make people happy —and he wanted people to be happy. even if it meant performing songs he didn’t like or keep himself awake with iv strings jammed on his left arm while trying to get changed so fast.

yet he would look at minjae almost as if expecting the worst to strike them all, the people pleaser, almost as if the entire routine that kept him barely there was on the verge of shattering once more. minjae would look back wth a worry that felt eons different from his own, give him a pat on the head, but it didn’t feel reassuring at all. nothing seemed to feel reassuring at all —nodding and complying and with every single word feeling like being pulled away from his mouth by a fisherman’s hook, because no matter what he didn’t seem to be able to say no, to say a syllable against the way stars aligned and strings pulled.

not even when his scheduled performance with kang junsu was announced with so much nonchalance by the executives before disappearing behind glass doors —and he was sure, so sure minjae could see the pure horror painting his own face white.

it continued with his forehead meeting the hard floor and the skin bruising blue and violet for the twenty-seventh times in the span of a week. or maybe less. days and nights always seemed to blend together like the millions of facets he’d shatter himself into in order to hide what’s ugly, because that’s what made people happy.

but he was doing something wrong. it must be certainly it. 

so he’d get up. he’d twirl and jump and fall again. he’d get up again, repeating that cycle over and over and making it part of an even bigger cycle —as if punishing himself for breaking down at home a few days prior because of how he broke down in sobs and tears after returning home from a meeting he’d rather compare to a death sentence, even if minjae and mingi and everyone consoled him within those walls —even when they’d reassure the the dying sun that was he to be free to let whatever was being bottled inside his heart even when ahreum knew so well that whatever was inside of him was rotten and ugly and completely shameful to even think about. 

it was a reason for why he’d push himself even harder, he’d chop himself into even finer pieces. just like his head kept throbbing with ache after telling minjae that yes, he was going to get the errands game going, that he was doing nothing except for dilly-dallying even if in his voice could be felt letting go of an exhale of uncertainty —pushing his hair to part so that the bangs would cover the bruises because he didn’t want to bother the makeup artists for some foundation ( it would bring questions, he didn’t want to answer ), putting a hat on alongside the best and most believable birthday boy face he could muster, sending hearts and smiley faces at whoever decided it was okay to waste a message or two to send for his birthday, because admitting that he was happy to see his friends thinking of him was selfish and he couldn’t be selfish at all, that was ugly and he was ugly and needed to stop at once if he wanted to be better and be more useful to others.

( causing problems after problems, stupid ahreum, idiotic puny thing always wasting everyone’s time )

he felt the ripple of anxiety lacerating his spine when there was people at home and his idea was just to get showered and bury himself into the studio, because he felt like the mask had grown thinner and thinner and was on the verge of breaking. or maybe it was a sign that the cycle needed to be broken and he didn’t want to, no. that meant exposing himself with all those missing pieces and pulverized sides —ugly ugly ugly ugly—, it meant disappointing and disappointment never made people feel happy, it meant failure, complete annihilation.

he’d hop from person to person with a smile on his face while inside he’d screech at them all for coming because they were supposed to do better things, things suiting their greatness and worth and not anything remotely associated with himself. he’d look at the cake on his plate and minjae sitting in front of him, give a small smile, open his mouth and letting the truth go for once in god knew how much time. 

the bruise on his forehead still throbbed.

                                         “ i don’t know if i even deserve any of this. ”

kang junsu released songs and pieces of himself were scattered in seven tracks like pieces of himself were now scattered on countless floors, and he felt exposed and disgusted to the core.

why junsu.

( it burns, like boiling water against the skin because he must be cleansed and purged or he won’t be getting any better. )

why.

( it fills the head with pain, against the wet tiles. again. again. again. to punish himself for stupid thoughts. )

why.

( it makes his heart think of himself as a touch number when he’s not. when he craved still the love of someone he was nothing but a stepping stone for. )

why.

its conclusion: gocheok dome could be filled with people to the brim or as empty and desolate as dimensions’ wallet, but jeon ahreum would still feel like he got shoved back in joseon and he was having his last walk of shame towards his last breath, covered in heavy damasks and gold shaped as a cloak to be pulled away from him with virulence and a fake halo fitting the saintly being he was not —gold lining his eyes and the guidelines for tears to follows as the way makeup artists would chirp how much he was pretty when all he wanted to do was to rip off all that gold from himself because it was always and solely meant for someone else.

always someone else, never himself.

he was selfish, ontop of a pipe organ with his whole vision being white and his own balance barely steady. he found himself abhorring. loathing every single bit of this, from the cameras ready to capture every single frame of his contorted despair, the organizations counting revenues over it all, those who were there to even more demean an art he’s given life and soul and happiness just because of his name not holding enough fame, the ceos and their sadism barely fed by money and backstabbing, whoever was the evil mastermind within the troposphere who remotely thought any of this pantomime was a good idea to begin with. hating himself so much for not wanting himself to strive for something better too  —he knew the reasons, he knew, let him throw that tantrum, it won’t resurface ever again, promise—, for having never been able to say no when he had the chance because even more so now was too late and he couldn’t pull back from that unveiling tragedy. it was the price to pay because he was a filthy coward, right? 

( no, tell me i’m wrong, i’m tired, let me out, let me out——— )

he could see junsu’s hands trembling while grasping at the side of the curtain ( do you miss me for real, he’d ask, but his mouth is sewn shut ) and he felt the urge of punching his stomach for even thinking of wanting to hold those hands into his equally trembling ones, because he lost that right three years ago and most likely junsu would be too disgusted to be touched by one like him.

people gasped in collective shock at the way the pulled curtain fell and a tear fell down his eye.

#fmdyearend #━ SELF-P ✦ #self-loathing tw / #self-harming tw / #depression tw / #self-destructive behavior tw / #suicidal thoughts tw / #suicidal tendencies tw / #mental illness tw / #anxiety tw / #unreality tw /

[eternalstereksecretsanta]

Seeing Blind

@anchorsandadderall | AO3 | I hope this is the canon-compliant tale you wanted this holiday season!

The thing was, Stiles hadn't been lying when he said going blind was his greatest fear; he just hadn't bothered to admit some things might be worth it.

The thing is, he wasn’t lying.

Going blind really had been his biggest fear, the thing that haunted his nightmares long before the nogitsune transformed his dreams and days into a waking horror. Before the Wild Hunt erased him from reality, rendered him helpless in a way he didn’t think it was possible to understand until you’d seen everyone you knew and loved walk past you with... nothing... in their gaze.

Losing his vision meant losing his edge, meant losing the only tool he had to make connections, to solve puzzles, to find that one, vital piece of information that would keep them alive to fight another day. His eyes were more than his primary sense, they were the way he made sense of the world. There was a reason his mystery board was a mass of pictures, colors, strings; sight lent the chaos order, signal overload made the random logical.

Even his combat skills stemmed from his eyesight. He would never be able to hear or smell as well as the wolves, or move through the world guided by currents of electricity like Kira. Never be able to track a path with a slight touch here and there along the ground like Argent.

But he could swing a bat, watch for uneven movement and strike at the weak point. He could be the getaway driver, barrelling through buildings and danger to take them far away from the danger (always, forever) biting at their heels. He could be the research guy, sleep and relaxation traded for the final solution.

All of it just part of being Scott’s friend, Derek’s ally, his dad’s back-up, and all of it based on being able to see.

So when his vision started to dim, he naturally ignored it as long as possible and kept the information to himself.

The first inkling he had was in Mexico, Derek on the ground in front of him and the rest of his friends rushing into danger just beyond. At first glance he didn’t see any visible injuries, it just looked like Derek was resting. Stiles knew that couldn’t be right, knew from the sounds of the fight before and Derek’s posture that there mustwounds, but he accepted the wild hope that somehow Derek had escaped the odds again.

Derek told him to go, sent him to help his friends, and Stiles ignored the almost physical pull he felt to go to Derek, to gather him up and drive far, far away from there. Stiles went to aid the others, secure in the belief that Derek was just gathering his strength before following Stiles into the fray.

Afterwards, knowing that Derek’s wounds had been fatal, knowing that it was only by the grace of another supernatural miracle and the resilience of Derek’s own spirit that he wasn’t gone forever, the pull he felt towards Derek bordered on painful to resist. In fighting that impulse, frozen in denial as a flash-fire sequence of terrible almosts ran through his mind, Stiles chalked the momentary darkness that blocked his sight up to nerves and adrenaline after-effects.

But then Derek left, left Beacon Hills and Stiles in his wake. Stiles had to accept the ache he felt for never yielding to his desire for Derek, his need for a deeper connection, was more than just mundane regret.

More than the bittersweet yearning for a missed opportunity, the chance at real, tangible love.

More than longing for a piece of happiness born of a multitude of sorrows.

As his dreams were consumed with increasingly elaborate visions of a life lived with Derek, of languid mornings drenched in sensual touches and days measured in warm glances and liberal embraces seen in his mind’s eye with crystal clarity, his days were filled with increasingly frequent moments when his vision failed.

Finding a way to get his eyes checked without alerting his dad, or Scott, or anyone else had taken a fair amount of subterfuge, but Stiles was nothing if not resourceful. The results offered no answers, the doctor clearly confused at Stiles’ dismay to be told his vision was near-perfect.

Supernatural it was, then. Again. Which wouldn’t have been so dire in and of itself, if Stiles had found a shred of information to suggest there was a solution. Or even a known cause. But Stiles found nothing, and none of his hints and inquiries to Deaton or Lydia had yielded anything, either.

For a while, the episodes seemed to level off. Stiles dared to breathe a sigh of relief his sophomore year in college, following nearly a month of only occasionally blurring vision after hours of reading on top of too little sleep.

That relief was short-lived once winter break ended, and Stiles woke from another dream to the crushing realization that Derek wasn’t really there. And the terror of seeing only vague patterns of light and dark, like shadows through cheesecloth.

While his vision cleared after less than five minutes Stiles could no longer ignore the fact that this problem was not going away, was in fact getting worse. Could no longer avoid contemplation of what would happen if his vision failed while he was in pursuit of someone (or something), while he was firing a weapon. While he was driving in general, but that wasn’t something he was ready to address…

What he could do was figure out a way to reshape his future, to find a path that would allow him to use the skills he had and his affinity for mysteries and protecting others without endangering them with his weaknesses.

Most of all, how to keep putting one foot in front of the other without falling apart and without laying another brick on the backs of his family and friends.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“The FBI internship program?” Scott asked, puzzlement on his face and in his voice.

“Yeah. Figure it’s probably a great way to get my foot in the door, see what options might be out there with the Bureau, you know?” Stiles strove for casual, willing his heart-rate steady in the face of Scott’s suddenly sharpened focus.

The early afternoon sun dappled the grass in front of him, shadows weaving with the intermittent breeze as they lounged on the ground after an impromptu shared lunch break.

“But-- why would you care about that? When you’re coming back to the Beacon Hills PD?”

It was the last day of April, and they were both enjoying a long weekend before the summer semester ramped into full swing. For Scott, that meant another attempt at organizing a weekend getaway with Liam, Mason, and Corey that would somehow resolve the still-awkward limbo that still stood like the elephant in the room when it came to their “pack.” Stiles got it, he really did. It was hard to be “the Alpha”, or even establish an identity as a pack, when you were dealing with a werewolf, a chimera, and...whatever Mason was. Add to that the very small age difference, and the secondary challenges of integrating Lydia and Malia, and Stiles could well understand Scott’s continual dismay at the prospect.

But he could also use Scott’s preoccupation with the task to his advantage when it came to dodging questions that hit a little too close to home.

“Hey, it can’t hurt to pad the resume, right? Anyway, why are you worried, aren’t you going to be tied up with the Pack Junior this summer? And learning the ropes for your assistant coaching gig with Finstick?”

Scott laughed, chuckle turning into a groan as he flopped back onto the ground. “Don’t remind me! Don’t think I don’t see your real motivation.”

“Real motivation? Why, Scotty, whatever do you mean?” Stiles forced a casual laugh, worried for a fleeting second that Scott might have realized, might somehow know.

“You’re running away to D.C. so you don’t have to sit through yet another night of Liam moaning about Hayden, while Corey and Mason make out in the corner.”

“Don’t forget about Malia, sharing in thorough, excruciating detail her plans for international travel and European men!”

They both snickered, chuckles turning to outright laughter until they ran out of breath. Lying on the grass, looking up through the canopy of branches and leaves, Stiles could almost write off the indistinct image as a product of sunny glare and a shifting breeze. Almost, and yet that “not quite” held a lifetime of terror and terrible possibilities. For the moment, it was easier to just close his eyes.

“Well, just don’t decide you want to stay there.” Scott’s words were punctuated with a gentle fist bump against his shoulder. “You know we count on you to be the voice of insanity around here.”

“Ha ha, very funny. You know you’d be lost in a fog of noble intentions and self-sacrificing logic without me. Or something.”

“Or something.” Scott snorted, waggling his eyebrows sarcastically.

Stiles forced himself to relax, storing this feeling for the future. If he was correct, if his waking eyes were fated to grow ever more unreliable while his dreams grew more vivid, then he would make every effort to capitalize on moments like this.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Seeing Derek running through the woods, hearing the instructor capture everyone’s attention with references to a “feral unsub”, Stiles felt the low-frequency hollowness he’d grown accustomed to flare to screaming, excruciating, life.

For the first time in weeks, his vision sharpened to perfect clarity, misty edges growing crisp as if he’d finally been able to blink away the ever-present film through which he’d viewed the world for the past month. More than just visible details, he could see the possibilities and paths before him. And while the routes wound in different ways, the final destination never wavered: Derek.

Over the next days he found himself energized in a way he hadn’t felt in years. He slept less, researched more, gathered facts and intel from reliable and unreliable sources (each less “official” than the last). He maneuvered his way into a field op, managed to leave with Derek with both of them free and (mostly) in one piece, and ultimately drove back to Beacon Hills in time to walk head-first into a melee more deadly and widespread than anything they’d faced before.

The fact that he’d given little thought to Lydia as more than a friend and potential confidante--

The fact that he’d given less thought to the long-term ramifications for his career in leaving D.C. in the midst of his internship and in the open, known company of a prior suspected serial killer--

The fact that his vision never wavered after he saw Derek on the video feed--

That fact that the empty, hollow feeling was filled with total rightness once they were again breathing the same air, even as they hurtled back towards likely mortal danger--

Well, denial was another of his best skills, after all.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Confessing blindness as his greatest fear was surprisingly easier than it should have been, especially after years of hiding both his fading sight and his turmoil about it. Of course, Stiles was counting on their preoccupation with the dangers at hand and the conflicting he-said/he-said stories he and Derek crafted on the drive to distract them from examining his statement too closely.

Derek’s scepticism worked to further divert any uncomfortable questions about his phobia. There was a pulsing sense of happiness that they were so in tune, even if it was completely inadvertent on Derek’s part. Stiles carried that feeling of warmth with him, weirdly confident in their chances for victory given both the scope of the dangers they faced and the brutal losses of the past.

They would win.

The anuk-ite would be defeated.

Gerard’s henchmen/henchwomen… henchpeople… whatever, would be diverted.

He would have the chance to finally follow the impulses he’d been fighting for years, wherever they might lead and however they might resolve. The hardest part of the conversation would likely be explaining to Derek just how long he’d been fighting the compulsion to find him in a way that didn’t sound completely obsessive. Or the connection between his unreliable eyesight and the dreams of their life together in a way that didn’t sound completely delusional. Or the fact that Stiles was increasingly positive he’d been half-way in love with Derek for years, but afraid enough of what a real once-in-a-lifetime commitment to someone with a past as emotionally complicated as his own would mean, that he’d willfully clung to the concept of Lydia-and-Stiles.

Stiles wasn’t naive enough to think Derek would respond with easy acceptance or declarations of love of his own, but he also knew it was no longer a choice to stay silent.

Just as everything he’d never allowed himself to consciously reach for seemed within his reach, his vision darkened to nearly black-out, and Stiles felt like he’d been stabbed.

He refused to consider what that could mean. Refused even the possibility that Derek could be gone entirely, and did what he always did - turned adversity into advantage.

When he faced the anuk-ite, his aim was true. Mountain ash enveloped the creature, the plan worked flawlessly, made possible only because Stiles was not frozen to stone.

Because Stiles was immune to the effects of the anuk-ite’s gaze.

Because Stiles was blind.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“Oh, my God. We did it. We did it!” Lydia’s voice scaled from shock to giddy joy, as she turned to fling her arms around Stiles’ neck. “We did it.”

“Yeah, we did.” Stiles forced a smile, hugging Lydia tightly for a moment before she drew away.

“I need to go--” her voice trailed off, a bit of embarrassment creeping in.

“Why don’t you go find Jackson, make sure he’s okay?” Stiles suggested. The sooner Lydia was on her way, the less time he had to try and hide his sudden loss of vision. It wasn’t rational, Stiles knew, but he couldn’t stand the thought of everyone knowing. Not now. Not yet.

“Thanks, Stiles.” Punctuated by a quick kiss to his cheek, Lydia left in a flurry. He could almost be insulted with the speed at which she accepted his offered out and exited the room, but that seemed petty given his motivation was getting her to do exactly that.

Slumping against the wall, Stiles ran a shaky hand over his closed eyes, ostensibly giving privacy to Scott and Malia who (by the sounds of things) were making sure Scott’s healing continued by duplicating the catalytic kiss. Repeatedly.

Footsteps alerted him to their approach, and Stiles forced himself not to flinch as Scott grabbed his shoulder and pulled him into a near-crushing hug.

“Thank you.” Scott’s voice was quiet, but fervent. “Stiles, thank you so much. I don’t know how you did it, but…”

“Did what?” Stiles asked, genuinely confused. “You’re the one who won, Scott.”

“Trapping the anuk-ite. Facing it head on. Coming back to Beacon Hills. Take your pick.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Scott, like I would let you have all the fun without me? I’ll always come when you need me, you know that. It’s what we do.”

“Yeah, but we couldn’t have won if you hadn’t sprung the trap. Speaking of -- how did you manage it? How’d you get the ash all the way around the anuk-ite without looking at it and getting turned to stone?”

Stiles forced a laugh, patting Scott on the shoulder as he drew away from the hug. Leaning his head back against the wall, eyes closed, Stiles hoped his posture looked like a natural enough pose of tired relief that Scott wouldn’t question it.

“That, my friend, is a long story. Why don’t you go check on everyone, see if we have any more to do here, and I’ll tell you all about it later tonight?”

Stiles breathed a shaky sigh as Scott left with Malia, both of them too focused on each other and the need to find any stragglers or survivors that might need their aid to examine Stiles’ brush-off. The sound of measured steps to his right and the impression of solid warmth at his side alerted him that someone had joined him. The accelerating pulse of near-here-now that flared back to life in his center identified that someone as Derek.

“You okay?” Stiles asked, unmoving except for swallowing nervously. “Not hurt?”

“I’m fine. But you’re not.” Derek’s voice was quiet, sure, his hand coming to gently press against Stiles’ arm. “Stiles, what’s wrong?”

“I can’t see anything. I’m bl-blind.” He stuttered over the words, voice breaking as a tear spilled from his tightly squeezed eyes. “I’m blind, Derek.” Saying the words made it suddenly real, terrifying. “Oh, fuck, I can’t see. What am I going to do, how am I going to-- I can’t see!”

He wondered if his panic would have continued to spiral, anxiety escalating into all-out hysteria, but he didn’t have the chance to find out. He felt himself pulled gently forward, his head tucked underneath Derek’s chin, hands clutching the front of Derek’s sweater as Derek held him immobile in the circle of his arms.

“We’ll fix it, Stiles.” The matter-of-fact words were at odds with the closeness of the embrace, a non-nonsense contrast to the slow sweep of one hand up and down Stiles’ back as his other hand moved to cradle Stiles’ head closer to his shoulder.

“Okay.” Stiles whispered. “Get me out of here?”

Derek hummed in reply, navigating them out into the hallway and back to the car by tucking Stiles against his side, arm snugly around his shoulders. They managed to avoid crossing paths with anyone inclined to ask questions, and the silence continued all the way back to the loft. It felt surprisingly easy to wait for Derek to come around, to slip an arm around his waist and nudge him in the right direction, to lead him to the edge of the sofa and wait for him to sit down as well. It was significantly less easy to answer Derek’s question.

“What happened, Stiles?”

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“I’ve been having… issues… with my eyes. For a while.”

“How long? And what kind of issues?” Derek’s voice was calm, but Stiles could hear the heavy sound of his exhale. A small smile teased the corner of his mouth, ridiculously charmed by Derek’s attempt to stay calm for his benefit.

“Losing my sight, or having my eyes go fuzzy for a while. Since Mexico.”

“Since Mex-- Stiles, that was years ago!” There was the agitation, the edge of fear/anger Derek was trying to hide. “Have you seen someone? What’s causing this?”

“Yes, I have ‘seen someone.’ In fact, several someone’s. As far as any medical professional is concerned, my eyes and eyesight are perfectly normal and healthy. But it just kept happening, and at the same time I was having these really intense, really detailed dreams.”

“Okay, so not a human problem. But what about Deaton? Did he have any suggestions? Or Scott? Lydia?”

“They don’t know.”

There was another moment of silence and then Derek cleared his throat, his voice going tight. “What do you mean, they don’t know?”

“No one knows. Not Deaton, or Scott. Not Lydia. Not my dad. No one. I just… I couldn’t tell them. There was only one person to tell, one person that might be connected. But…” Stiles voice trailed off, words failing him.

“But I wasn’t here.” Derek finished for him, utter certainty in his voice.

Stiles’ eyes flew open, his head whipping in Derek’s direction. “Wh-- how do you know?!” he demanded.

“Because you’re not the only one who’s been having the dreams, I don’t think. I just thought it was wishful thinking.”

“Wishful thinking?” Stiles asked, his voice hushed and hopeful. “You mean you wanted…” Stiles stopped, closing his eyes as he gave a quick shake of his head. “I don’t know what you were dreaming Derek, but I doubt the dreams were the same as mine. Because my dreams? Were of us, you and me. Together.” Stiles gestured quickly between them, before dropping his head, shoulders slumped in defeat as he waited for Derek’s outrage.

But instead of agreeing with Stiles--

“We lived in a yellow, wood-frame house. There were three steps that led up to the front porch, but you always complained that there should have been four because--”

“--because the bottom step was weirdly tall and I stumped my foot on it at least once a month when I was carrying groceries inside.”

Stiles felt Derek shift closer, a solid press of warmth against Stiles’ side as he continued talking.

“You worked for the sheriff’s department, and I was doing some freelance work as an editor but we used to argue about whether or not I should go back to college and finish my degree.”

Stiles laughed, the sound turning into a sob as he leaned over to rest against Derek’s shoulder. “Because I said that you would be the best thing to ever happen to the Beacon Hills High department of English, and it was only fair that you teach the next generation of authors instead of just--”

“--complaining about their poor grammar after the fact.” Derek murmured the words against Stiles’ temple, his arm wrapping around Stiles’ shoulders to draw him closer.

“Oh, shit, you had the same dreams. You had them, too.” Stiles turned towards Derek, half crawling in his lap as he clutched him tightly. “Does that mean-- do you want--- oh, God, do you want me?”

“Other than having my family alive, I’ve never wanted anything more.” Those words, the reality of them, the fact that Derek couched his desire for Stiles in terms that were so completely honest, convinced Stiles more than anything else could have. There was only one reply he could offer.

“Other than my dad, you’re the most important person in my life. And, honestly--” Stiles stopped, swallowing heavily before breathing the final truth between them “--honestly, if the bullets were flying, I don’t know who I’d jump in front of first.”

Derek growled softly, giving Stiles a small shake before pressing his lips against the shell of Stiles’ ear. “Neither. You won’t jump in front of either of us. You will keep yourself safe, and you will stay alive for us. For me.”

It was both completely surprising and entirely expected when Derek followed the statement by sinking his hand into Stiles’ hair, gripping and tilting his head back to take his lips in a slow, deliberate kiss. Stiles exhaled heavily, mouth opening under Derek’s as he wrapped one hand around Derek’s neck and snaked the other between Derek’s back and the back of the sofa.

Stiles felt the world shift, Derek lowering him back to recline against the sofa, shifting himself forward as he lifted Stiles’s leg underneath him until he was lying half on top of Stiles. Derek pressed his face into Stiles’ neck, tilting his head just enough to press a series of kisses against Stiles’ throat. “It doesn’t have to be a dream.” Derek murmured.

“But my eyes, what about the fact that I can’t see? I don’t know…” Stiles trailed off, hope and joy warring with outright terror at the thought of facing the rest of his life without sight.

“I know we’ll find a way to get your sight back. And I know that even if we can’t, it won’t keep us from building the life we’re meant to have. Together.”

And, really, who was Stiles to argue with that? He tightened his arms around Derek, shifting one leg to tangle with Darek’s, as he nodded. “Okay,” he replied, “together. I think that sounds like a dream come true, already.” It wasn’t I love you, not really, but it was somehow so much more.

Derek sighed in satisfaction, growing heavier against Stiles as the events of the day swept them both toward exhaustion. Tomorrow would be soon enough to worry about the details of this new reality, and how (and what) to tell everyone. Tonight was for them, for sharing space and breath that was more than, better than, a dream.

And if the price for this was facing his greatest fear, was losing his sight? Well, nothing less would be a fair price for the possibility of a future this wonderful. For both of them.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

As it turned out, telling everyone was both far simpler and more complicated that he’d considered the night before.

Simpler, because Stiles opened his eyes the next morning to the sight of...sight. The light filtering in through the huge windows was a weak, watery gray. It streaked across the floor in hazy strips, dim enough to lend a damp, subdued air to the room but bright enough to throw the dust into sharp relief. This was a loft that hadn’t seen full-time habitation in a while, and it showed. Still half asleep, Stiles tracked the light with heavy lids, to where small fingers striped across Derek’s back, turning swaths of his hair silver-tipped and casting his eyelashes into sharp relief against the cheek not pressed to Stiles’ chest.

He was truly beautiful, relaxed completely with a faint smile curling the corners of his lips. Stiles raised his hand, tracing delicately down the curve of Derek’s jaw as an answering smile teased hip own lips. Such a wonderful sight, like so many dreams, but--

But--

Stiles stilled, eyes snapping open as the reality hit him fully. This? Was not a dream. He was awake, lying on the sofa in a neglected loft, pressed into the cushions by the solid weight of a fully relaxed Derek. A Derek who had dreamed of him just as he longed for Derek. The werewolf who wanted him enough to consider their dream world - one in which he came back to live in the town where his entire family had either been killed, betrayed, or left him- a desirable future.

The man who held him close, and told him in no uncertain terms that his blindness was a challenge to be accepted, and no barrier to the happiness they both deserved.

The Derek who had been such a huge part of Stiles’ life, whether in thought or in deed, for so long that Stiles had a hard time remembering his reality before him.

The man he could see, in all his glorious imperfections. The small patch of stubble slightly thinner than the rest near the curve of his chin. The dark shadows under his eyes, testament to the effects of recent months of too little sleep and too much stress. The gap in his eyebrow, still too bushy to be fully fashionable but so completely, endearingly Derek.

Stiles inhaled, a soft, shuddering gasp that woke the other man. Derek’s head snapped up at the sound as he turned towards the door, one head clenching into a fist, before swinging his gaze back to face Stiles as he registered the absence of a threat.

“Stiles?” he asked, brows furrowing in concern as he took in the stunned expression on Stiles’ face.

“Don’t frown, Sourwolf. It’s too early for that.” Stiles watched the smile bloom across Derek’s face at his words, had the pleasure of seeing Derek’s eyes crinkle with joy before he bent down to rest their foreheads together.

“You can see me, can’t you?”

“Yes. Yes, YES! I can see you!”

They were both laughing clutching each other and shaking with relief, and Stiles could honestly say he’d never felt more alive than he did in that moment. Every inch of skin pressed against Derek’s felt warm, the rhythm of Derek’s laughter rolled against his belly like the tide, and the hot, damp flow of Derek’s breath against his collarbone sent a shiver up his spine.

He turned his head, nuzzling against Derek’s temple as they stilled, and felt Derek cant his hips closer in response. Stiles rolled his own hips in response, pressing his hardening cock against Derek who shuddered, before surging up the last few inches needed to take Stiles’ mouth in a deep, wet kiss.

Stiles rocked upwards, feeling Derek’s cock hardening against his hip. He slid his hand down Derek’s back, pressing against his ass as he thrust upward as much as Derek’s weight allowed. Derek grunted in response, sound transforming into a near growl as he sank deeper into the cradle of Stiles’ thighs.

Stiles broke away from the kiss, panting softly as he met Derek’s heated gaze. He raised both hands to cradle Derek’s face, stunned at the utter tenderness reflected there.

“I feel like I’m dreaming, like this is too much, too perfect to be real.” Stiles confessed.

“It’s no dream, or if it is it’s one we’re going to share forever.” Derek replied.

Stiles giggled, rolling his eyes. “Dude, that’s ridiculously sappy. Even for you.”

“Even for me?” Derek asked, schooling his face into mock sternness. “I’ll have you know, I am renowned for my sentimental side.”

Stiles snorted, nodding his head sarcastically. “Uh huh, sure. Derek Hale, Giant Softie.” He drew Derek’s face downwards, pressing a row of kisses down his cheek and across to claim his lips once more, the kiss turning from teasing into something hot and urgent in the span of a breath.

And if the rest of the morning was spent in a haze of lust, if Stiles lost count of the number of times he came on Derek’s cock, with Derek’s lips or hands wrapped around his cock, with Derek’s tongue buried in his ass as he screamed into the pillow beneath him, with his cock buried balls-deep in the tight clench of Derek’s ass as he gasped out a mixture of Stiles’ name and pleas of don’t stop, never stop, Jesus fuck-- Stiles!?

Well, that was one secret that they kept for themselves.

#eternalstereksecretsanta17 #esss17 #sterek #fic #submission

[fadekhat-blog]

Prompt for you! While out in the Hissing Wastes, our band (non-mage Lavellan, Solas, and any two others of your choosing) tangles with the Venatori. The Inquisitor gets separated from the rest and spirited away. While captured, she's forced asleep and a Venatori dreamer goes about trying to break her mind in the Fade (in whatever way you choose). Unpleasantness ensues. There's a daring rescue. Then recovery. Or something. I'm never sure if I'm doing prompts right! Cheers!

That prompt is incredible, thank you! I’ve never written a non-mage Lavellan, so I’ll use my original Inquisitor Revanelan (Elana) sans magic as a stand in - let’s say she’s an archer. Not having magic definitely adds something to the scenario… This might be more than you signed up for, but I got pretty into it XD @dadrunkwriting

“Such a pity. To think, the elven empire was once impenetrable.  Your people possessed magic beyond our wildest imaginations, immortality they say, and you are reduced to this. Sticks and stones will not save you,” the woman said, gesturing to my quiver of arrows with disdain.

She didn’t have to introduce herself. It was Mythal, I simply knew. Whatever doubts I once had fled my mind in an instant. My vallaslin, her vallaslin, seemed to dance upon my skin.

The all mother was beautiful - not in a covetous way, though every mother has a sensuous side, but in a way that was love given form. Her face was the face of everyone who had ever touched my heart, a shifting, flickering mirage of familiarity.

Every part of me wanted to please her, to make her sacrifice worthwhile.

“They can do more than you would think,” I said into my chest, explaining myself.

“And yet what do you have, really? Who are you, really? An elf from the wilds who mouths the words of the Chantry’s god. Your lies are written on your face. Do you think you’re human? A person rather?”

“I, what? No.” I said, my tongue unsure which question to answer. “I’m just trying to help them. The breach endangers us all. Mythal’enaste.”

I bowed my head, moving my hands in a clumsy sign of reverence as my keeper once taught me, but Mythal struck out at me, shattering my gesture of piety with a single blow.

“You will get no such thing,” she said with a sneer. “Not when you serve shemlen gods. Wear their colors, live in their halls.”

The slur sounded wrong on her tongue, but I couldn’t say why. My cheeks burned beneath the gnarled scar across my brow and my mouth moved wordlessly.

Suddenly every piece of my red and gold armor felt like an accusation.

“I don’t serve their Maker! I’m only trying to help,” I cried out, anger at myself and at them sparking in my chest.

“But you don’t serve me either,” she said, swooping in so that her perfect nose nearly brushed mine. “You don’t even believe in me.”

“That - that’s not true.”

“I don’t deserve it,’ you think. ‘What goddess would let her people suffer like this,’ you think. ‘One that is either impotent or indifferent.”

Her fingers traced the curve of my jaw as she spoke, and it seemed as if my thoughts echoed around us.

Well aren’t you?

How do I even know this is real? You’ve never bothered speaking to us before now.

I gasped, as if to inhale my words, but I couldn’t stop them. They came not from my lips but from my mind itself.

“Ah, but you forget you were gifted the freedom with which to fail yourselves. It is you that has failed me, child.”

Suddenly I was on my knees. She loomed over me, at once a goddess and a horror, a parent and an executioner.

“I haven’t…” I said. Part of me strained to turn away, to run, but I found myself enveloped in the sticky slowness of dreams. My will was not enough for my body, and I couldn’t bare to look at her any longer.

“Where is your clan?”

“In the Free Marches.”

“Where in the Free Marches?”

“Wy-Wycombe.”

“Why?”

“Because we sent them there. To protect the people - and the city elves. They would’ve been slaughtered without our intervention.”

Her slap rang out like a thunderclap, and suddenly I was thrown up against the ruins of a wall. The remains of an old temple hung around us, the leafless tree of Mythal depicted in colored glass at its center.

“The tree of your people is dying. You are but a lifeless leaf, an arcane warrior born without magic. A single spasm in the death throes of your kind. But you may still serve me.”

I stared into the broken stones that littered the ground, unable to focus on even a single blade of grass, but my mind answered for me.

How?

“Set. Them. Free.”

Her voice was all around me, formless.

“Rip the breach open, let the Fade rain from the sky. Allow Thedas to be realm of true magic once again. There, even you will not be worthless.”

I struggled to speak, to breath. My logic was slow, otherwordly. Her words wound through my mind like muck through a dead river.

“Slave,” she hissed.

There was a flash of pain and light, and then I was running. Roots and branches flew past me, all that was beyond consumed with shadows as my feet carried me forward.

I fled not by moving my legs, but my wishing they’d move. It was small difference, but it was there.

Then I was in a clearing. I was small, and Arlathae was pinned beneath a bear of a man, her left leg crushed into a mass of bone and meat.

“Leave her alone,” I stuttered, but my bow fine longbow was gone. In its place was a silly thing of twisted wood and string, practically a child’s toy.

He didn’t hear me, or simply laughed, and yet the scene didn’t seem to move.

I had a single arrow, I realized in an instant. I grabbed it at the hilt, like a dagger, and plunged it into his neck. Then he was on me, and Arlathae was screaming with rage and pain and I stabbed him over and over again. My hands moved by their own will, a memory of what was already done.

A blade tore across my face, maiming me once, and then again. The moment seemed to skip and pass over itself - at once we were fighting him, but also we were slipping away from camp, and then we were looking down at a corpse, unable to put a name to what we had done.

We won’t return to camp until we have our first kill, we’d promised ourselves. We’d meant a deer.

I saw the arrow in his eyes, once, twice. The blood trailing down his cheek as he finally died beneath me.

“The Fade will fall on them,” a voice whispered from on high.

I rose to speak and the painful light flashed again.

I was on a battlefield, or what I once considered one. The charred corpse of a human militia simmered around me. I’d pushed her - it was Arlathae’s magic, and yet we had both watched them die. Willed it.

If anything, my only regret then was that I had not been able to flay them myself. That my clan had to flee yet again.

“But you will.”

“You will be something.”

“Not a puppet, not a tool.”

“A weapon, a messiah of your people.”

“They will burn, or you will.”

The voices came as if from within me, filling my head as a final flash of blistering light engulfed my vision, bathing me in fire.

And then I was fire. Without and within me, all I could see is flame. My companions stood around me in a circle, and beyond them the masses watched me burn.

“You’ve done all you could,” Cassandra said, “But heathens must be cleansed from this world.”

I screamed and screamed and felt my skin strip away until there was only anchor and bone.

“It will make a nice relic, I think,” Dorian said.

Their every word felt like a dagger beneath my nails. Not in a metaphorical sense - every syllable was punctuated by visceral pain. I wasn’t a person then, but a gaping wound. An unwanted feeling.

“It would be helping to end it,” Cole mused beneath his hat.

“Creatures like her do not deserve compassion, Cole,” Solas said, stepping into the circle with an air of cool certainly. “They know nothing of this world, or what came before.”

When he touched me, the world was at once made of ice.

“You are nothing,” he said into my lips.

Not you.

And then he was smoke, and a second Solas stepped through him.

We were in a windowless cell, somewhere deep underground. I sat up on a wooden bench and my feet brushed the body of a masked Venatori mage.

“Are you okay, ma vhenan?” He moved to touch my arm and I flinched away, the bright pain flashing in my mind.

He said something else, but I didn’t hear him. It was all coming back.

There hadn’t been many of them - just enough Venatori to take out our party with the element of surprise. I had been left standing amidst a circle of my fallen allies wishing, hardly for the first time, that I possessed the barest spark of magic necessary to heal another’s wounds.

Then there was darkness, and light, and darkness again as they pulled me in and out of consciousness, transporting me. There was pain, both real and imagined, and I was covered in scars I didn’t recognize.

Battered, but alive then.

“Are they gone?” I asked, my voice hoarse.

“For now, yes,” Solas said, his eyes pained. “Did they say what they wanted?”

My hands shook, and I kept my distance, shifting over on the bench so he could join me.

“Well, the anchor, of course. He, they, whoever, said I should bring the sky down…”

“For the good of our people,” Solas finished, shifting closer.

“I, yes. But how did you know that?” I asked, a chill kissing my bones.

“It is no small thing to hold such power,” he mused. “I suppose you have never considered what else you might do with the anchor?”

“What else? There is nothing else. We close the breach.”

He laughed softly, shaking his head as he took my hand.

“That is one option. Imagine what we could do together, Elana. With the anchor, we are equals.”

Almost, hung in the air, an unspoken truth.

“You’ve never talked this before. Why is the fate of the elves suddenly so important to you?”

We’re not your people, remember?

He teeth glittered in the darkness as lazy haze of magic rose from his fingertips as he stroked my skin around the anchor. Once again, I was curiously unable, or unwilling, to move.

“Say you’ll do it, for me?”

“For you?” I repeated, in a trance.

“Say it.” His fingers dug into my palm, forcing their way into the strange in-between of the anchor. It flared, turning my arm into a shrieking claw.

“I…”

Was in a cave.

Cole was hunched before me, his form faint, quivering.

“I found you,” he said weakly. “I ran ahead. I felt you crying. Your mother dead, a bear in the woods… only it’s not really a bear, is it?”

“Cole,” I exhaled his name as I fell into him. “Cole, please, just get me out here.”

His arms encircled me, always cooler than you’d expect, as he spoke into my neck.

“But I need help now,” he said, voice hushed.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“I’m unraveling, unbeing before your eyes. Can’t you see it? Will you help me? If the Fade is now, we will always be together. There will be someone who understands.”

“Say it.” His hands closed around my neck.

Blackwall in a tunnel.

Cassandra in a field.

The Iron Bull on a ship, Dorian by his side.

Sera in a back alley.

Varric in a forgotten bookshop.

Vivienne in an attic.

“Say it, dear.”

I tore into the next moment like a woman possessed. Perhaps I was.

The stars hung above us, distant and utterly imperious in every direction. A shadow stepped toward me, but I knew what was coming.

“I won’t say it. I won’t say it. I don’t care who you are. I won’t bring the sky down.”

The words flew from my lips like bile as I pressed my hands over my ears, blocking out their pleas. I felt them close in on me, a touch on my shoulder sending a lance of pain, or a memory of pain, coursing through me.

“Don’t touch me,” I barked, the spiky lip of a battlement pressing against my back. A fallen sword glittered in the periphery of my vision and I dove toward it, putting the blade between me and my attackers. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

There were three, Cassandra taking point with Solas and Dorian on either side. I was breathing wildly, so fast I could hardly think. The bursts of air through my nostrils nearly drowned out their words, but I could see their faces. Looks of worry masked with attempts at comforting concern.

“It is okay, Inquisitor,” Cassandra said, doing her best to sound soothing. “We’ve removed the Venatori. They can’t hurt you anymore.”

I scoffed, my eyes skittering away from their own.

“That’s what happened before, and that wasn’t real. Not ever,” Running my free hand through my short clipped hair. “Do whatever you want. I won’t say it.”

“Say what?” Dorian asked quietly, stepping closer.

“Nothing, shut up!” I shouted, swinging the sword to underline my point. He stumbled backward, eyes wide with fear layered with the seeds of pity.

“I - of course. It’s okay Elana, you don’t have to tell us anything. Let’s just go home, hm?”

Home, and suddenly I was reminded that they could hear my thoughts.

If I said it, I was theirs’. I could feel it in me, the power behind those words. But what if I only thought what they wanted? Was that enough? Could the Venatori possess me the way they had all those tranquil?

As I thought, I stepped back until my free arm was hooked over the wall. We were on a tower. I looked down onto the cliffs below, the sword always between us.

Could I make the jump?

Did it matter?

“Elana,” Solas said, his voice ever soft.

“You don’t call me that,” I snapped. “And don’t give me any of that shit about ‘our people,’ I know you don’t care. Not about ‘wildings’ anyway.”

“Inquisitor, then,” Solas said, his voice even despite my barrage of insults. “You are correct, what you saw before wasn’t real. The Venatori trapped you in your dreams, but they are not in control now. You’re free.”

“Free. You mean free until the next time I wake up,” I muttered.

“Pay attention to your body. To the way you move - not by will, but by action. That is distinction is unique to the physical world. You are not dreaming any longer, Inquisitor,” he said, as if it were any other conversation in his rotunda.

“Mm,” I said, loosening my grip on the sword. It fell to the ground, clattering harshly against the stone. “This is… real.”

“Exactly,” he said, guiding me forward with an arm that never quite touched my body. He seemed to understand that this was beyond me.

“Come Inquisitor, let us leave this vile place,” Cassandra said, leading us out of the tower.

I saw the corpse of the Venatori mage as we passed. I tried not to think how familiar it looked as we rode for the nearest Inquisition camp.

Instead, I focused on the majesty of the stars above and on the friends close at hand.

“I won’t say it,” I whispered into the wind.

Inspired by my very real and intense fear anytime someone pulls that “Wake up, Fakekhat, just wake up!” style prank - how can you know you’re not a brain in a jar (or a dreamer stuck in the Fade)? You can’t!

[kyberled]

Flashback

Send “Flashback” to have your muse see one of my muse’s bad memories || Accepting

(Length warning - 5204 words, cut put in place to save your dashes)

The roof of the inn leaked. He wasn’t sure why he was so surprised; the entire building had screamed ‘cheap’, and the bags over the windows (’to keep the weather out’, he’d been told, but the fact that they were opaque had not been lost on him. He hadn’t complained then, and certainly wouldn’t, now (at least, not much), but it didn’t change the fact that there was water dripping onto his nose. His brow furrowed as he glared at the far wall.

He didn’t know what he had been expecting.

He groaned as he sat up, stretching his arms over his head. He glanced up to the ceiling, and a fat, icy droplet plopped onto his face. He flinched, and grumbled as he wiped it away. A metallic rattling drew his attention to the corner of the room, where R7 was shivering and holding a scrap of cardboard over his dome. He beeped sadly at Braig, swivelling his sensors in the ex-Jedi’s direction.

“I know, I know, I’m cold, too.” Braig sighs as he stands, shaking his head vigorously to send water droplets flying in every direction (much to Tess’s chagrin, and the little rabbit droid let out an irritated chirp).

“Rust!” Tess whined, wiping frantically at his head and shaking back and forth in an off-kilter mimicry of Braig’s own attempt to dry off.

“You’re not gonna rust, Tess,” Braig said, rolling his eyes and pulling the hair tie off of his wrist with his teeth before pulling his shaggy hair from his eyes. “We got you and R7 coated a few rotations ago, back at that one station, you know, the, uh–” He snaps his fingers in the air, scrunching his face up and pressing his forehead into the space between his thumb and forefinger as though that might help him remember.

“The one with the crushed-ice machine,” he gave up with a sigh, shaking his head and keeping his face pointed down as he reached for the door.

“Rust.” Tess sulked again, at the lowest audible range his speakers would allow. Braig paid him little mind. The door opened with a creak almost before Braig’s fingers even touched the knob. He blinked, frowned, patted at his jacket until he was certain he could feel his sabers under his jacket, and checked both holsters to ensure that his blasters hadn’t been lifted.

Still both there.

He glanced to R7, who whizzed over to him with a whistle and opened one of his compartments to reveal a neatly-hidden stack of credits. Braig grinned, popping his eyebrows for just a second before R7′s compartment closed and the ragged trio stepped out into the mould-scented hallway. If the puddles on the floor were anything to go by, the entire building was in disrepair. Braig wrinkled his nose at the sorry state, then turned back to his door. He closed it, then gave it a nudge with the knuckles of his loosely-curled fist. It creaked, and, with a groan of protest and a little more pressure, it opened again.

Braig scowled, pursing his lips into a thin line of displeasure.

“Kriffin’ barve’s just lucky the important stuff’s hidden away on the ship,” he muttered, pushing a few stray locks from his face (though he knew they’d fall back into place as soon as he started walking, again). He stuffed his hands into his pockets, hunched his shoulders, and set off down the hall, giving a nod to signal for his two droids to follow (though they were already all but clinging to his ankles at every step; places like this were magnets for scrappers, and neither of them wanted to be torn apart and sold on the invisible market). Braig sniffed, still blinking sleep from his eyes and craning his neck against the moisture-borne stiffness that was settling itself oh-so-neatly in his muscles. His head throbbed, and he ground the heel of his left hand into his temple as his right fished in the inner pocket of his jacket for the cold metal flask that he kept closer to his heart than a beloved childhood toy.  

It made things easier.

The cap came off with a pop, and the spout was cold against his lips. A nice, if not somewhat jarring, contrast. He tipped the flask back to prompt more of the foul-tasting liquid down his throat. He was about to descend down the stairs, when a slew of voices caught his attention. Normally, such a thing wouldn’t have phased him, but the Force was being particularly insistent that he take heed. His foot hovered over the top stair, and he raised one eyebrow as he stood otherwise frozen in place at the top of the stairs. From where he stood, he could just barely make out the light from the open doorway. At his feet, Tess peered around Braig’s leg, clutching onto the rough material of his trousers, and R7 rolled forwards just enough to nudge at Braig’s side. He paid them little mind, instead craning his head to listen, and felt his blood curdle even as it froze as he understood what was being discussed.

“Oh, yeah, I’ve seen him,” that was the inkeeper’s voice, nasally and phlegm-filled, and yet somehow dry and raspy at the same time. There was a faint rustling sound that Braig could only imagine was the reptilian scratching at those loose, half-shed scales that framed his face like  scraggly facial hair, sending a few flakes falling like fetid snow to the mouldy floor. “Staying up on the second floor, he is. Had a couple of droids with him, too - they worth anything to ya?”

“Negative,” came a second voice, and Braig had to take a half-step back to keep his balance, remembering at the last second that the floor creaked (that was always the mistake they made in holos), and to instead prop his weight against R7 before he could give away their position.

He knew that voice.

He knew that voice very well, had, at one point, known it almost better than his own.

Even worn down by age, by decades sloughed off long before they were due, he knew that voice.

“We’re not interested in clan– in droids,” the voice corrected itself, adding a cleared throat for emphasis. “Just the Jedi.”

Braig turned and ran. He hesitated just long enough to scoop Tess into his arms (rabbit droids were not, ironically enough, known for their speed or agility) and bolted down the hallway. There was no point for stealth now, not with that slagbrained inkeep pointing the soldiers in his direction, not when he could hear their feet pounding up the rickety staircase (he felt a bit of grim satisfaction when he heard the wood splinter beneath a plastoid boot, and a string of Mando’a curses as the soldier struggled to free himself from the poor construction). The whole reason Braig had paid for this dilapidated piece of trash was because he’d been assured of the anonymity of the patrons would be closely guarded, and, having judged by the signatures of those he had sensed bustling in the background, Braig had believed it. How foolish he had been.

And now, I won’t even get in on that ‘cheap’ breakfast, he thought to himself, trying desperately to bring some light to his otherwise desperate situation. The Force let out a blood-curdling shriek to his left, and he threw himself into the right wall just in time to avoid being pierced by a bright green blaster bolt. Tess squeaked at the sudden impact, though Braig wasn’t sure if it had been prompted by fear or discomfort. He didn’t stop to think about it. He kept running, legs and lungs working to put as much distance between himself and the soldiers as he could. Another bolt was heralded through the Force, and he pivoted abruptly, amethyst blade screaming to life in his hand as he did so. The two vivid streaks of light connected, sending the bolt ricocheting off to the side. R7 whistled loudly, and little jets sparked up around his wheels to propel the old droid through the filthy window. Braig followed after him, throwing Tess into the air, clipping his saber to his belt. He hit the ground in a roll. Glass dug into his jacket, scraping at any exposed flesh it could reach. Tess dropped from the air; Braig caught him as he stood, huffing a breath and raising his eyebrows in a silent apology for the rough handling. A shout from behind; more bolts whizzing by. More scorch marks on the wall; they’d blend in with the others. He doubted the chaos behind him would even draw any stares, unless they overheard the shouts of ‘Stop the Jedi!’

…

He really hoped nobody heard.

Another bolt; he swerved again, then noticed R7 bobbing down beside him.

“Sev,” he said, and the little droid turned his dome towards his friend.

“Catch.” Braig said, and tossed an indignant Tess through the air once more. Tess clutched on to R7 desperately, and the astromech bobbed a bit under the sudden increase in weight and booped his offence. As the pair of droids reached an alley that veered off in two different directions, Braig waved them one way and turned himself down the opposite path. Sure, they’d said that they weren’t interested in his droids, but (another bolt) better safe than sorry.

They were friends, and together held the privilege of carrying the legacy of the Jedi in the datachips under their casings (Or, the legacy of the Jedi, from his own point of view).

Another bolt.

That one had come a bit too close, sparks shooting off of the impact site. A few nicked his ear. It burned. The footsteps were getting closer. Shouts; ‘Jedi’, and he could almost smirk, almost laugh. He wished that didn’t sound like an insult.

That it didn’t sound like a death knell.

Another bolt.

He glanced over his shoulder, and the shrivelled, shattered old thing in his chest clenched.

The storm trooper suits looked so much like what the men had worn, back when they were still considered ‘men’. Not quite, though.

He looked forward; a building was coming up. He didn’t bother looking up; Crouched, coiled, and let the Force hurl him into the air.

More shouting, more bolts; One connected with his shoulder. Just a clip, but it still burned. He hissed, swore against the wind that screamed around him. A part of him was numbly aware that he would have gotten into a lot of trouble for language so foul only a few decades prior. The bolt had altered his focus; he hit the ground harder than he would have liked, any further profanity kept locked in his mind as air was forced from his lungs. He didn’t give himself time to breathe.

Stood, pressed his hand over the injury with gritted teeth as he threw the Force around it to suppress the pain.

The soldiers wouldn’t hesitate. He couldn’t, either.

He stood, feeling the ground thundering under his feet as he ran. The voices were louder behind him, though the fact that they had to go around the building slowed them down. He vaguely noted that most of them were different. Not all of them, though.

There was still the one he remembered.

Don’t think about it.

Run.

The good thing about hiding out in the slums was that it wasn’t organised into blocks and districts like the city proper (like home had been); it was a maze of shacks and ditches and shanties, the perfect place to get lost in. The downside was that he didn’t know this place any better than they did - and, if these soldiers were stationed here often, they’d have some idea of how to get around. He, however, did not, and found he had no way of knowing where he was. Didn’t matter; keep running. He wasn’t sure where he was going, or what awaited him up ahead. Didn’t sense anything worth worrying about, and so kept running. He knew he couldn’t keep this up forever.

Hopefully, the soldiers couldn’t, either. He was pretty sure he could hear and sense them falling farther behind. He let himself slow as buildings began to thin out, as dirt-trodden ‘roads’ made way to dried out plains of yellowed grass. He staggered a few steps, then bent forward to rest his hands on his knees as he gasped. He had to consciously remind himself that that was a poor way to regain breath, and stood to correct his mistake. In through the nose, out through the mouth, in measured, increasingly deeper breaths until his lungs weren’t wailing quite so loud. His throat still burned from the run, and he swallowed, hoping to soothe the dry, scratchy texture, even a little bit. He pushed his hair out of his face, ignoring the sheen of sweat that dripped between his fingers as he did so. He looked around, squinting against the light that somehow filtered through the bleak grey clouds that gathered overhead. Nothing but dirt, dust, and grass for as far as the eye could see, in every direction except for behind him. Braig turned fully to face the dilapidated town, mouth still hanging slightly open as his tired body worked to cool itself off and return functions to a normal pace. His brow furrowed, and concentration lapsed in the wake of exertion, and he winced and sucked his teeth as the bolt-burn on his shoulder let out an inaudible shriek through his nervous system. He seemed to scrunch in on himself as he pressed his palm against the wound. It sizzled and oozed and crackled all at once, and he grimaced as he felt the gritty texture of dirt, likely lodged there during the chase. It hurt, but he didn’t want to heal it up, here - that would require him to go into a meditative state, and he wasn’t sure that was such a good idea with Imps on his tail. He glanced to the comm on his right wrist, and was about to tap the button to signal R7 to his position when a distant, buzzing rumble caught his attention. His head snapped up, pupils shrinking to pinpricks as adrenaline hit him hard.

It wasn’t a voice, but it was a very familiar sound.

Speeders.

Of course, they would have speeders.

Braig was already backing up when his fingers found the comm button; its cheery beep seemed grossly out of place given the current situation.

“R7, you there, buddy? Gonna need you to bring the sip around- Like, now-!” He was about to turn and run when the first speeder breached the perimeter of the slums. Braig knew there was no way he’d ever be able to outrun a speeder, not when it was that close, and there was no cover; He caught the birth of a whistle before he shut his comm off. R7 and Tess would be on their way, so all he had to do was hold off until they got here. They just might stand a chance if they could get into the air. He took a deep breath, then drew both sabers, letting them come to life in his hands as more speeders emerged from the alleys he had lead them through.

He had been right; He noted with a bleak huff of amusement that these soldiers really did know the lay of the land here better than he did. No real surprise there; he’d only been here for a little less than a full day. No, the surprise came when the final speeder pulled into view. The others had formed up in a wide semi-circle, spaced evenly and caging him off from the city. These were all white, gleaming in regulation plastoid, just like their faceless, inhuman riders, who all sat stock-still with blasters trained on him, but not firing; That was strange. He didn’t sense enough fear from any of them to justify being literally petrified, in fact didn’t sense much fear at all. They had numbers on their side, and the reputation of the Jedi wasn’t as imposing as it had used to be, but it was more than that… His brow furrowed, and he was about to search deeper through the Force when it hit him like a sewage-coated brick. He almost staggered back, instead compensating the sudden loss of balance by shifting his weight and adjusting his stance. The Force spat at him like a feral cat as the dark grey speeder settled to the centre of the perimeter, its rider’s dark robes billowing out like noxious smoke in its wake. Black leather boots stepped into the dust, a cloak of an equally dark shade swishing around the dark figure’s ankles as they walked.

“What do you know, a real life Jedi!” They said, in a sing-song voice that brought to mind curdled lullabies and ash-covered nursery rhymes. “Perhaps I should call a zoo - you don’t see too many specimens like this, any more.” A sneer decorated a washed-out face, once an almost sky blue, now a dishwater grey. That was what really knocked Braig off kilter - he remembered that face.

He bared his teeth, an instinctive reaction to accompany the snarl building up in the Force around him, but the battered old thing in his chest gave a painful tug when he made contact with those wide, gold-tinted eyes,

(’Padawan Braig, are you sure these jackets will be warm enough? I don’t want to freeze before I can find my crystal.’ Looking down to that earnest face, so full of naive fear and yet brimming with eagerness at the journey ahead of them; clutching fistfuls of his own sleeves, the youngling had alternated between staring out the viewports of the ship, chattering with the others, and posing countless questions and concerns to him, their chaperone, and Braig had smiled down and told him that ‘of course, I’m sure, you’ll be fine–’)

“Ry'Za,” he said aloud, breaking the trance of memory. The Nautolan scoffed, tossing their head to the side. The saber in their hand shrieked to crimson life, and it confirmed what Braig never wanted to be true. Another fallen to the dark side.

(’Look, look, I did it, I found one!’ Bounding out of the frigid caves, little mitten-wrapped hands clutching their crystaline prize to his chest like it was the most valuable thing in the galaxy, and, perhaps to them, it was. ‘I found my crystal! I can be a real Jedi, now, just like you!’ The smile that was directed up at Braig was pure and brilliant, but lasted only for a moment before Ry’Za’s attention was pulled back and away to the chatter of the other younglings; they would still be carrying on long after the last of their group emerged from those tunnels.)

Braig wanted to ask what had happened to that bright-eyed little one, but he knew already that he wouldn’t like the answer; He wanted to ask where that pride in being a Jedi had gone, but he knew there hadn’t been anything to be proud of for a long time.

He wanted to ask what Palpatine had done to turn such brilliant hope into such burning hate, but he knew he had enough nightmares, as it was. All he could do was stand and stare as Ry’Za strode forward, the point of their angry red blade scouring the ground with every step.

“If any of you hit me,” they announced, scowl of distaste melting into a feral, toothy grin, “I’ll kill you.” They said so in such a casual tone that it could have been a joke, but nobody laughed. Braig didn’t have time to; a violent red arc was intercepted by a slash of purple. Sabers clashed again and again. Braig ducked, slashed at Ry’Za’s knees; missed. Ry’Za sprang back onto their free hand, then pushed off to flip back onto their feet. Distance now between the two Forcefuls, the troopers let loose. Flurries of green erupted in an unforgiving gauntlet. Braig stumbled back, throwing sabers up to deflect the onslaught. It should have been easy. But exhaustion was a cruel mistress, and the burned gauge in his shoulder crueller still; a bead of sweat rolls down his temple, and his jaw clenched as he called upon the Force to give him a second wind and force the pain to the back of his mind. He knew he wouldn’t be able to hold out like this, especially not when the Force gave a malicious howl of frenzied excitement over his head. He leaped backwards to avoid being cleaved in two, and even then his sabres came up in an X to intercept the attack. Frustration and pain made a home for themselves on his face, a twisted mockery of the delighted grin Ry’Za sported. This couldn’t go on. He had to get the upper hand, or all Tess and R7 would find when they finally showed up would be a few miserable scorch marks in the grass (where were they?).

Muscles coiled and released as Braig lunged - left hand flipped to reverse-grip, right slashed up at Ry’Za’s chest. Deflected- Turned to parry another round of bolts (realised he was now stuck between Ry’Za on one side, and the troopers on the other - not a good position to be in), flicked his wrist to block, flourish, bring blade down on Ry’Za’s wrist - missed, but only barely; a satisfying hiss from his opponent.

(’Do we get to pick our crystal colour? …. Because I want mine to be green, like Master Yoda’s. I want to serve the Order as long as he has.’)

Another blast from the side. Braig took advantage of Ry’Za’s pain; sabers joined together with a practised flick- hand curled around the darksider’s damaged wrist and dug into singed flesh (a snarl from Ry’Za), pivoted. Knife-edge of his boot met Ry’Za’s knee with a satisfying crunch, throwing them off-balance and into the path of an incoming stream of bolts. Only a few made contact, striking the side of the ribs, the shoulder, the arm. It seemed to be little more than an irritant, and Braig found himself wondering what kind of armour the Imps were doling out, and how he could get his hands on some. Ry’Za reeled from the impact and came up spitting like a feral beast.

“I told you if you hit me, I’d kill you!” There was the fear he had been looking for, rank and vile in the split second before Ry’Za raked their hands through the air and sent three of the speeders careening sideways, crashing into each other with a noise like confused thunder amid the screams and yelps of the men who had been riding them. The dusty air filled with a metallic, sulphuric scent as smoke billowed upwards. Braig used the brief distraction to glance up to the skies, hoping to see his ship somewhere on the horizon, but there was nothing. He looked back down as Ry’Za turned to face him, raising his brows and tiling his head to the side to accompany a shrug.

“That wasn’t very nice,” he chastised the former youngling, and Ry’Za snarled before lunging again. The rage and hate that burned off of him was suffocating (’Padawan Braig?’), fuelled each strike like an exploding star. Slash, block, block, step back- Pivot, turn. Strike, duck, jump back roll duck block strike slash parry (’What is it, Ry’Za?’) At some point, Ry’Za had caught on to Braig’s bad shoulder; most attacks were aimed to that side.

It hurt.

The remaining storm troopers had exchanged looks before helping the survivors from their wreckage before taking aim and firing, though more hesitant this time, lest they once again strike their superior (’Were you ever afraid of the tunnels, when it was your turn to go?’)

Braig’s jaw ached with how his teeth clenched at the smouldering ache in his shoulder. The snarl on Ry’Za’s face morphed into a twisted grin, dancing into a hissing, savage, bloodthirsty cackle. Braig’s blood curdled at the sound. (’Mm, well…’) He jumped a few paces backwards, landing in a roll and bringing his saber up just in time to intercept another near-lethal blow (’Maybe a little. Just don’t tell anyone, okay?’). Ry’Za’s laugh morphed into a chuckle as they pressed down, inching shrieking plasma closer to Braig’s face. Gnarled yellow teeth bared in a victorious smile as the angle shifted suddenly. Braig let out a hiss– His shoulder screamed its own pain through his nerves as the pressure was forced to his freshly-weakened side. His arm buckled.

(’Hey, Padawan Braig?’)

He threw one saber aside, putting both arms behind one to release the strain. He found himself looking up to Ry’Za, and wondering when the little youngling had grown so much - but part of his mind rationalised that the height difference wasn’t just because Ry’Za was taller. They were also forcing Braig to lower his stance, closer and closer to kneeling as though he was waiting for execution - he almost was.

(’You can just call me ‘Braig’, you know.’)

He looked up into those wild, dead eyes, searching for any trace of familiarity, of warmth, of light. Ry’Za only grinned again and leaned in until Braig could feel the rank dampness of their breath mingling with the heat of the saber blades as it danced across his face. He had to squint against the blinding light.

(’Oh, okay. Braig?’)

Ry’Za hadn’t noticed the discarded saber. They likely thought it had been cast aside, and would be ignored for the rest of the fight. And, if Braig had been interested in fighting fair, they would have been right; but, he hadn’t lived through the war by fighting fair.

(’What is it?’)

He pivoted abruptly- Weight was thrown to his rear leg as he turned. Forward leg stayed where it was, taking advantage of the force Ry’Za had been exerting to send the young Inquisitor toppling off balance.

(’Will we see each other again?’)

Braig’s free hand found strands of the Force.

Pulled.

(’Hm… I don’t know.’)

The discarded saber’s locking mechanism clicked, its blade howling as it flew threw the air.

(’I hope so, though.’)

Devouring amethyst bloomed from Ry’Za’s throat, right over where their precious armour had ended.

(’Yeah…’)

Their dying scream was little more than a gurgle accompanied by a puff of steam.

(’I hope so, too.’)

They collapsed to the dust in a heap; their saber rolled slowly to a stop at Braig’s feet as he pulled his own into his hand. 

Silence fell, and Braig felt his shoulders rise and fall as he panted for breath. To him, it seemed as though he was staring at that corpse, the black of their robes making a fitting funeral shroud. The Force around him seemed to grow emptier all the time, and he nearly managed to shudder before a bolt flew by his head, and he jumped back just in time to take another bolt to his leg. 

He snarled as he fell to the ground, bracing his landing on his forearms to keep from smashing into the ground. He looked up through rivulets of sweat and strands of hair to glare at the troopers, struggling to stand even with the Force bolstering his efforts. Blasters were steadied in his direction, and the curse that crawled upon his tongue would have curled the toes of the saltiest spacer died with the sudden roar.

He closed his eyes– The wind tugged at his hair and kicked a cloud of dust into the air. Flash of light.

Screams. 

Heat, explosion. 

He looked up to the sight of the ship touching down. The gangplank hit the ground with a thunk, and R7 rolled out, nearly toppled over as his wheels caught on a rock, and whizzed over to Braig’s side. The battered rogue gulped a breath as he wiped sweat from his eyes, then reached out to pat the astromech’s dome affectionately. 

“Thanks, buddy,” he said raggedly, grunting as he struggled to his feet. R7 beeped cheerily, scooting forward to act as a support when Braig’s freshly-injured leg threatened to give way.

“Thanks again,” Braig said, though exhaustion sapped the emotion from his voice. R7 began rolling towards the ship, and Braig limped alongside him before he stopped and turned to the smouldering heap that had once been the squad of storm troopers.

“Wait,” he said to R7, nearly losing his footing when the oblivious droid kept trundling on for a few seconds. R7 paused, letting out a curious whistle, but followed after his friend, anyways. Braig knew that he should be getting onto the ship, even if only to lay down and rest or drown himself in Bacta, but he had to know.

He had to be sure. 

Dirt and grime dripped into his eyes as he limped forward, and he no longer cared enough to wipe the hair from his face. He kept his eyes focused on the ground, searching for that corpse that had until now been host to that familiar voice. The smell of charred meat reached up to him, but he’d grown used to that from a lifetime of war, and so barely noticed. He stumbled over one, two, two and a half bodies by the time he made it to the one that had brought back memories. He only found a fragment, but, fortunately, it still had its head attached. R7 booped warily, focusing his sensors on the corpse, then on the tired man at his side. Braig muffled a noise of discomfort as he crouched down, used his good hand to tug the helmet aside. His vision seemed dull as he regarded the face - so similar to the others, and yet so different at the same time. 

He remembered the scar on the aged clone’s lower jaw, just as well as he remembered the explosion that caused it (faintly, but he remembered), but more than that he remembered the small tattoo right under his ear. A gentle swirl of spirals, allegedly inspired by the waves on Kamino. Braig felt his face crumple, just slightly, and he bowed his head and closed his eyes as R7 slunk a bit closer.

“Otto,” Braig said simply, nodding to himself. “That was Otto.” He sat there for a moment longer before he nodded again and struggled back to his feet, leaning heavily on R7 as he did. “Let’s go - staying here was a bad idea.” R7 chirped his agreement, and spun his dome to express his enthusiasm. As they walked side-by-side back to the ship, R7 gave a soft, low-toned boop.

“Yeah,” Braig nodded, pushing his fingers through his hair. “I miss home, too.”

#he wanted to be around other people for a bit #that was a bad idea #princessofwar #Welcome to Braig Theatre Leia hope you enjoy the show :D #long post // #death // #violence // #injury // #body horror // #gore // #&& best foot forward; ic #&& far far away; drabbles #&& as best i can; answers #&& lawless abandon; rogue

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