#give her two really different modes that still sort of flow together

[retroautomaton]

🍓✨🔧

[crisalidaseason]

Family chaos on christmas and a birthday

Notes: I thought I had posted this here, apparently I did not. Dumb cris!!! This is a christmas special I posted on AO3

So, this was sort of a request from @spookyspicedchai here on AO3, and I loved the idea so much that I went full author mode. Also, It's finallt december 25th here in my region soooo MERRY CHRISTMAS or HAPPY HOLIDAYS for the ones who do not celebrate Christmas specifically. I based this story on a few movies, but also my experiences with this holiday so if you find something different it's probably my latine agenda going on. Anyway! I hope you enjoy it!

Kenny groaned loudly at the traffic jam.

“Fucking holiday season” he muttered under his breath, pulling his phone out of his pocket and calling his husband.

“Love?”

“I’m close to your office, but stuck in the traffic. Might take a bit longer than usual to pick you up”

“Hmmm, I told you to leave earlier. There’s a mall and supermarket in the area, people are probably panic buying gifts and groceries for Christmas”

“Yeah, I know, just didn’t think it would fuck up the traffic this bad”

Uri chuckled on the other line, like the annoying man that he is. Kenny didn’t need a ‘told you so’ moment, even if Uri insistently warned him about the potential traffic issues on December 23rd.

“I’ll wait patiently for you, like I always do. I can grab you a coffee if you want to”

“I could use the caffeine”

“Alright, ring me up when you get here, handsome”

“Tsk, bye Uri”

Kenny heard the blond man laughing before he hung up. Kenny ignored his flushing face in the rear view mirror, how the fuck that man still makes him blush in almost 7 years together. He blamed it on the fact they recently married, about three weeks ago. Kenny fondly recalled their ‘wedding’. There wasn’t a ceremony at all, they just signed documents and had dinner in a fancy restaurant while Frieda and Historia were babysitting Levi for the evening. Despite their long relationship, a small document stating their marriage left them in a stupid bliss as if they were two teenagers.

“Finally!” the traffic started to flow again, distracting Kenny from his thoughts.

Arriving at the office building Uri worked at, he called him again. This time Uri didn’t answer, but before the Ackerman could call again he saw his husband leave the building and approach the car.

“Good evening, sir” he said, entering the car.

Uri leaned over and gave Kenny a quick kiss on the lips. Adjusting himself on the seat, he handed the taller man a styrofoam cup with the hot coffee, which Kenny immediately accepted and took a sip.

“What kind of coffee does your office buy? It tastes like shit” Kenny commented, taking another sip.

“I have no idea, but does it really matter if you drink it almost everyday you pick me up?”

“Caffeine is caffeine, taste is an afterthought” Kenny said “so, is everything okay for all the events of the 25th? Do we need anything?”

“Not really, everything is set. We just need to pick up the cake tomorrow afternoon”

“Alright, let’s go home and free the babysitter from the little brat. Besides, we better have a head start on things for tomorrow’s dinner” Kenny said, finishing the coffee and starting the car.

Celebrating Christmas at home was a recent event in Kenny’s life. Him and Kuchel used to celebrate by going to the local church's dinner in alliance with the orphanage, but they never had strong emotional ties to this particular holiday season. It brought them sadness because it was supposed to be a time spent with family, which the siblings lacked. But then Kuchel gave birth to Levi, on a stormy December 25th, and while the woman was still high on painkillers, she said to an also tired Kenny beside her:

We’re gonna give him the Christmas we never had, right Kenny?

And they did. The Ackerman siblings would decorate the christmas tree, make dinner (Kenny can be a very good cook), bake cookies, exchange gifts and dress baby Levi with outrageous Christmas outfits, which Kenny snapped pictures to use as future embarrassing material. At the same time, they also celebrated Levi’s birthday, with cakes and balloons and more gifts. When Uri joined Kenny’s life, he also indulged in these celebrations, and when Kuch sadly passed away, they decided to keep the tradition alive in respect of her efforts.

_________________

"You two are late, that's gonna cost extra time for Historia"

Uri and Kenny watched as Levi was sitting on the couch, teddy bear print pajamas on and recently showered. Historia was beside him, combing his hair. She smiled, already used to the boy's bickering with his uncles.

"We were stuck in traffic, sorry" Uri said "and don't worry boy, your babysitter will have an extra"

Both adults paid the girl, with an extra for her Uber and the hour of overtime. After saying her goodbyes to Levi and wishing everyone happy holidays, she left the house.

"Come here brat, kitchen duty" Kenny announced, after changing to more comfortable clothes.

The child quickly perked up and ran to the kitchen. Last Christmas, when Levi learned how to read, he became a part of a tradition Kenny and Kuchel established years ago: checking all the ingredients. Kenny would read the list they made weeks in advance and Kuchel would locate the item in their pantry. Not something they needed to do, but a habit they built as a starter for their holiday celebration. With Kuchel passing, Levi did the reading and Kenny checked the cabinets.

"We have everything" Levi commented.

"Yes, thanks to Uri's memory"

"Like an elephant" the child said.

"What?" Kenny said, confused.

"Elephants have good memory" Levi explained, as if Kenny was a toddler.

"Huh" the man said "makes sense, with their big heads and all"

"You have a big head and uncle Uri is smarter"

Kenny didn’t have a quick response to that. That evil little spawn got him there. Before he could say something, Uri appeared in the kitchen, oblivious to the insult Levi just threw.

“Do we have everything, Ackerman boys?”

“Yes” Levi replied, smiling like the angel he wasn’t.

“Perfect, what are we doing first?” the blond man asked Kenny.

“Baking the cookies, they are a pain in my-”

“Do not finish that sentence, love” Uri's serious tone sent a chill down Kenny's spine.

Of course, the little rascal will melt at the sound of a swear.

The evening was spent making the sugar cookie dough and cutting it into funny shapes. Levi absolutely hated the sensation of making the dough, only accepting to cut the shapes and decorating with the icing. The child was very enthusiastic about putting everything in the dishwashing machine in an organized mess. Kenny and Uri recently noticed he had a strange fascination for cleaning supplies, he even had a mini broom in his room. He loved to see the dishwasher working, usually spending a while looking at the machine (he also did that with the washing machine). Kenny would not admit that, but he used to do the same thing as a kid.

“Cookies done” Uri said, while putting the last ones in a container “Levi, prepare for bed. Tomorrow we have more work to do early in the morning”

The boy went to the bathroom. Kenny sat on one of the kitchen chairs while Uri put the last of the dishes away. When he was done, Uri sat next to his husband and rested his head on the man’s shoulders.

“Tired?” Kenny whispered.

“A little, but nothing a good night of sleep with my handsome husband won’t fix”

Kenny shook his head and gave him a kiss on the forehead before standing up and taking Uri’s hand.

“Let’s put the brat to sleep and I’ll tuck you in”

Levi was already in bed, putting fuzzy socks on. He looked at the two adults on his bedroom door.

“Ready?” Uri said.

“Hmhm, I’m tired” the child nodded.

Kenny turned off the lights, only the small table lamp on to bathe the room in a bluish dim light. Uri covered the boy in a warm blanket and wished him a good night, alongside Kenny. Both men went to their own room, finally resting from the full day of work.

______________________

December 24th was also a full day, like every year. The married couple spent the early morning on the balcony, drinking their tea and coffee. Kenny had bought some fresh bread from the bakery across the street, sweet and salty pastries for Levi to try when he woke up.

“We have the cake to pick up today” Uri said “do you think he’ll like it?”

“Considering he speaks non-stop about the animal kingdom, he’s gonna love it”

They both laughed. It was sweet but tiring to keep up with Levi’s hyperfixation. He would enjoy things almost obsessively, but also briefly. Uri hoped a zoo themed cake was still a hype, just like the zoo visit they took Levi a few weeks ago.

“Let’s start a few things in the kitchen, we can leave the turkey for later” Kenny said.

Both men started to steam the vegetables for the Christmas chicken salad, while also chopping some garlic and onions to put on the rice. Kenny was always the one with onion duties since he never cried. Levi soon woke up with the delicious smell of food, already peeking his head inside the kitchen. December 24th was always spent at home, cooking and eating bits of food here and there. Levi would perform taste tests as an excuse to eat more of the well seasoned chicken Kenny was so good at. Uri went out after lunch to pick up the cake, and trying to hide it in the fridge without Levi noticing was a hard task. That boy is suspicious of everything, but eventually it worked and they managed to hide the cake at the very top of the fridge.

Soon enough, it was time for them to take a shower and put on fancy clothes to just stay home on their couch, having dinner and watching animations with Levi. This year, they put fancy pajamas on, the ones made of silk. Uri had them custom made by Frieda, who was an exquisite seamstress and stylist despite being so young. Kenny still remembers when she said that making a pajama set for him would cost more than Uri and Levi’s set because of his height. He couldn’t really complain, it was indeed a lot of fabric just for his legs, but in the end the set was very nice and cozy. Kenny had to congratulate Uri’s niece with a gift.

“Tomorrow is the big day” Uri whispered while watching a random Christmas episode on television. It was already past midnight and Levi was fast asleep on the couch, with many pillows and fluffy blankets around him.

“He’s been trying to open the fridge alone, I think he suspects there’s something there” Kenny whispered “We better celebrate this brat’s birthday quick before he tips that thing over”

Uri laughed, he had caught Levi once or twice trying to do that.

____________________

December 25th arrived. Kenny woke up on the couch, with Levi’s head on his stomach and Uri already in the kitchen, most likely brewing their morning beverages. The man looked at the small boy sound asleep. They must have forgotten to get to bed, Kenny's back was going to kill him later on, but instead of moving he just stayed there, looking at the boy and thinking about how time flies. It’s been two years and a half caring for him. The second Christmas and birthday without Kuchel. Levi was turning seven today, still so young but with an already complicated story. The ackerman sighed, running his fingers softly on Levi’s black strands.

“Don’t move” he heard Uri whisper.

Of course he moved, but just enough to see his husband snap a picture of him caressing Levi’s head. Kenny smiled, this picture was going to haunt him and Levi in the future, he can already see Uri pulling it up everytime the two ackermans start to bicker.

“Can you bring my coffee? We don’t want the brat waking up early do we?”

“Oh lord, no. I’ll be right back”

Kenny tried to place Levi’s head on the pillow, a slow and very quiet process, and the child almost woke up once but soon snuggled into the pillow.

“Here” Uri handed him a steamy mug of coffee.

The morning was quiet, with Levi sleeping while the couple decorated their dinner table with paper decorations, a few plastic animal toys, and the beautifully decorated cake. Uri placed the number seven candle right on top, the ones that sparkle and die on their own since Levi wasn’t a fan of blowing candles (Kenny joked ONCE about how you spread germs all over the cake and the boy was terrified for life).

“Wow” said the boy when he woke up.

“Did you like it?” Kenny asked “there’s a bunch of animals”

Levi nodded, climbing on the chair to see the cake better. His face was still swollen from sleep and his hair was all over the place.

“I knew it was the cake in the fridge” the child said “can we eat?”

“Yes, but brush your teeth first and wash your face” Uri said.

Levi did as he was asked quicker than any other day, almost jumping from excitement when he climbed and stood on the chair again, right behind the cake.

“Do you want to sing happy birthday, Levi?” Uri asked.

The boy hesitated. Last year he didn’t want to, which was understandable since his mother was always the one to sing and light the candle for him. But surprising both adults, he nodded and Uri was about to light the candle when Levi stopped him.

“Can we…” he began, sitting on the chair “Uncle, can we bring mom?”

Kenny looked at Uri and then at Levi. It took a while for the child to understand that the small urn inside the couple’s room was his mother entirely, but lately he had been going there a lot to stare at it. Sometimes, he even spoke with her.

“Of course, Levi. Come on, let’s pick her up together”

Kenny placed Levi on his forearm and went into the room, taking the gray and small urn with the other hand carefully and placing her on the table, right next to Levi.

“Ready?” Kenny asked.

Levi nodded and Uri finally lit the candle. The familiar tune of ‘happy birthday to you’ echoed in their living room, Levi smiled while cutting the cake with Uri’s help and they served a small slice in memory of Kuchel.

Happy birthday, Little Spawn. Merry Christmas, Kuchel.

[thesublemon]

planning ≠ coherence

I talk a big game about liking coherence in art, and it’s probably clear that I have an apophenic tendency to enjoy textual interpretation. And this might lead people to think that I have a preference for carefully planned and plotted art, or that I look down on the messy and improvisational. But this is actually almost the opposite of the case. Not because I don’t really like coherence, but because artistic coherence is something more complicated than planning, and isn’t even necessarily possible to achieve with planning.

The thing about improvisation, is that at its best it’s about finding the choice that feels right. I listen to jazz more than any other kind of music, and one of the reasons I like it so much is the exhilaration of someone landing on a musical idea that simultaneously makes a song feel bigger and more complete. A solo isn’t fun if it’s just a bunch of disconnected ideas (similar to how whimsy isn’t fun if it doesn’t also “work”). It’s fun if it picks up on the things that the other players are doing, or ideas that showed up earlier in the song, and then makes them feel like they go together. Even if they “go together” in the sense of being coherently discordant, eg repeating ideas that don’t work multiple times. If beauty is fit, then the joy of improv is finding fit in unexpected places.

This goes for narrative too. In long-running stories like comics, book series, and TV shows, much is often made about whether certain choices were planned from the beginning. If things were planned, that’s a reason for praise, and if things weren’t planned, that’s a reason for derision, either towards the showrunners or towards people attempting to interpret the work. Say, “This plot point only happened because an actor wanted to leave the show. Therefore it has no meaning to read into.” But making things up as one goes is not what makes a story lose its plot, so to speak. Making things up is only a problem if the things the artist makes up don’t go with what came before.

In Impro, a very excellent book about the craft of improvisation, Keith Johnstone calls this process of making-things-go-with-what-came-before “re-incorporation”:

The improviser has to be like a man walking backwards. He sees where he has been, but he pays no attention to the future. His story can take him anywhere, but he must still ‘balance’ it, and give it shape, by remembering incidents that have been shelved and reincorporating them.

Johnstone is big on the idea that satisfying narrative depends on a sense of structure, and that reincorporation is one of the most important tactics for creating structure. To paraphrase him, a story where a character runs away from a bear, swims across lake, and finds a woman in a cabin on the other side, and “makes passionate love” to her has no structure. It’s just a series of events. Whereas if the bear then knocks the cabin’s door down and the woman cries out that it’s her lover, then suddenly it feels like a story. Because not only has the bear been reincorporated, it has been linked to the woman. From this perspective, if a story has no sense of reincorporation, or new developments don’t make sense with what came before, then it will feel incoherent, no matter how planned out it was.

I also keep thinking about Paul Bouissac’s discussion of gags and narrative in The Semiotics of Clowns and Clowning. He explains that what makes a scene funny is not whether it strings a bunch of gags together, but how those gags are organized. To use an example from the book, it’s one thing for a clown to pretend to hurt its thumb, and ask for an audience member to kiss it. It’s another thing for it to keep hurting different parts and then finally hurt its groin and act scandalized at the idea that someone might kiss it. Bouissac calls this sort of repetition “anaphor”:

Anaphor is one of the main tools of textual consistency. In linguistics, it designates the use of pronouns or any other indexical units to refer back to another word or phrase in the text. It links together parts of sentences and bridges the grammatical gaps between clauses, which is a consequence of the linearity of language. In rhetoric, anaphors are repetitions of words or structures that build up the cohesion of discourse and create momentum toward a climax. In multimodal communication, words, gestures, objects, or musical tunes can play the same role by reminding the receiver—that is, the spectator in the case of a performance—of signs and events produced earlier in the act.

One of the things that fascinated me about Farscape as a teenager, was that in contrast to other scifi of the time, it made no pretenses of having been planned—unlike say, Babylon 5. Or even shows like The X-Files, Lost, or Battlestar Galactica that gave you the “feeling” of a plan whether or not they had one, or were capable of following through. Farscape felt incredibly coherent, both in terms of theme and plot, but this coherence came about purely on the strength of the writing’s ability to ideate and then reincorporate. It would take someone’s weird costume idea, like the villain having glowing rods that screw inside his head, and snowball that into a whole storyline where the villain is a half breed of one hot-blooded race and one cold-blooded race, and can only stay alive by thermo-regulating the inside of his brain. And then decide that his vendetta against the hot-blooded race has motivated his obsession with the protagonist since the first season. Yet these twists never feel like “ret-conning” in a pejorative sense, because it all feels narratively and thematically sensible. (Unsurprisingly, making the show was described as “more like improv jazz than plotting out a symphony”).

None of which is to say that I dislike planning or polish, either. Stephen King, as a so-called “discovery” writer, famously writes off the cuff, without outlines. As he puts it in On Writing:

You may wonder where plot is in all this. The answer—my answer, anyway—is nowhere. I won’t try to convince you that I’ve never plotted any more than I’d try to convince you that I’ve never told a lie, but I do both as infrequently as possible. I distrust plot for two reasons: first, because our lives are largely plotless, even when you add in all our reasonable precautions and careful planning; and second, because I believe plotting and the spontaneity of real creation aren’t compatible. It’s best that I be as clear about this as I can—I want you to understand that my basic belief about the making of stories is that they pretty much make themselves. The job of the writer is to give them a place to grow (and to transcribe them, of course).

But his best stories feel like whatever bloat might have been generated from this narrative improvisation has then been pared down to what that improvisation was really getting at. And I can’t lie, I get a particular joy from reading or watching something and feeling without a doubt that the artist is in complete control of my experience. It was one of the most gratifying aspects of rewatching The Wire recently: the feeling that the little meanings and foreshadowings I was seeing in each choice were almost certainly intended. Nothing is more satisfying to an apopheniac than feeling like the patterns you see are actually real. And nothing is more annoying than a story that tries to pull some sort of reveal on you (“Dan is gossip girl!” “Angel is Twilight!” “Rey is a Palpatine!”) that doesn’t make any sense because it wasn’t intended from the beginning. Just because those characters existed in the story before, doesn’t make it good reincorporation. So if a story is a story because of structure, then if the choice is between a planned structure and no structure, the former is almost certainly going to be better.

Point is, it’s not really the process that matters. All creativity is improvisational in a sense, because all creativity involves making things up. What matters is how dedicated an artist is to the integrity of their work. If a writer has carefully planned their whole story out, with every twist and every theme clearly in mind, but can’t adapt if they start writing and find out that something they planned doesn’t actually work, that’s one kind of failure mode. The narrative equivalent of designing a perfect castle and then building it on a swamp. On the other hand, if a writer tries to go with the flow, but can’t reincorporate that flow, then that will be another failure mode. To the extent that I respond to improvisational art, it’s because improvisational art is often more attuned to these questions of whether something is moment-to-moment right. But what matters, above all, is the rightness. That’s what defines coherence. Whether there is a sense in the work that it is oriented around something, and whether the choices contribute to that something.

[spencers-renaissance]

Mayhem

Summary: Imagine that scene in S4E1 when Derek is driving the ambulance loaded with a bomb about to explode, except it's Spencer on the other end of the phone and they finally get their shit together. 

Tags: canon divergence, spencer is the tech analyst, death-bed love confessions, getting together, mutual pining, insecure spencer, angst with a happy ending, fluff

Pairing: Derek Morgan x Spencer Reid

Word Count: 4.2k

Masterlist // Read on AO3

A Gift For: @habs252117 — anybody can request fics in my ask box :)

A quick recap as this follows S4E1 which is technically a follow-on from the last ep of S3:

The BAU was called to the NY field office to investigate a series of random shootings in the city, often on subways and shit. They realise that this is actually a terror cell practicing for their big attack, and as this fic starts, they believe that the shootings were all in locations they planned to bomb in order to test 911 response times. Kate Joyner is Hotch's old friend, the blonde English one from Scotland Yard and Lisa is Lisa Bartleby, the NY field office tech analyst assigned to help Penelope in the show, Spencer in the fic.

The case had been stressful enough from the beginning. Spencer doesn’t often get to join the team in the field, usually staying in his computer den back in Quantico, so he’d initially been quite excited: he’d get to spend more time with Derek, plus visit New York, which he’s always had a strange sort of affinity for, as well as see his team in action. But then he’s working with equipment that isn’t his and they slowly piece together just how complicated this terrorism ring is and things seem more… bleak rather than exciting. 

They’d all been starting to make their way back to the hotel when the news of the bombing hit the networks, and Spencer’s heart is in his mouth as he rushes back to his post, meeting Lisa Bartleby with harried nods of acknowledgement. Almost as soon as he’s settled at his desk the phone starts ringing.

“Spencer,” Rossi greets as soon as he picks up, “you’ve seen the news?”

“Yes, I— do you know where anyone is? What should I do?” he asks, feeling the panic settle on his chest, his stomach clenching in fear he doesn’t dare try and address.

“I’m here with Penelope, she’ll handle the media,” Rossi says, and Spencer realises that he can hear her low, steady voice she always employs in moments of extreme stress in the background of the call. “I need you to call homeland security and direct them to every site of the recent shootings. Tell them to pour troops in. If our profile is right we’re looking at eight suicide bombers who are about to hit every one of those locations.”

“Actually, if we’re correct, there’ll be sixteen suicide bombers,” Spencer realises with a start. “We predicted they’ll hit the second wave of first responders, too.”

Their conversation is interrupted by the news reporting that the bomb was inside a black SUV near the Federal Plaza and Spencer is pretty sure his entire body stops for a moment: cells stop replicating, blood stops flowing, hair and nails stop growing. This is his family. And he doesn’t know where any of them are, spread across an unfamiliar, dangerous city.

“Right, Spencer, do you have eyes on the Plaza?” Rossi asks, controlled urgency colouring his voice as he tries to keep himself and everyone else as calm as possible.

“Uh— yes, I’ve got like three hundred cameras there,” he says, glancing at Lisa, the NY field office’s contribution to his technological complex, as they jump into action, “give me a minute.”

“I’m here with Penelope, but I don’t know where anyone else is,” Rossi says, and for the first time Spencer can hear the panic rising in his voice. It’s quickly suppressed, but it’s there, and it does nothing to help him calm down. “Find them.”

He instructs Lisa to find every camera feed 20 blocks out concentrically from 26 Federal Plaza before fiddling with his headset, taking a deep breath, and, naturally, trying Derek first. His name has been circling round Spencer’s head like a prayer ever since they heard that it was potentially one of their own hit by the bomb, and the knot in his chest starts to unravel when he picks up the phone.

“Yeah, I’m still here,” Derek says, sounding impatient and stressed, but Spencer doesn’t mind. He’s alive. He’s okay. 

“Thank God,” Spencer breathes. He keeps him on the line while he tries Emily, who sounds just as anxious when she picks up. He doesn’t mind though, he’s keeping a tally of everyone he knows is safe and it’s the only thing making him any less panicked. When JJ doesn’t pick up, the knot tightens a little and he tries to ignore the little string of ‘no no no’s dancing through his mind. 

He hears Emily’s distressed exhale and closes his eyes for a second before forcing himself to get his head back in the game. The phone goes dead mid-JJ’s voicemail message, and then Emily drops off the call, Derek following, and that’s it. He’s lost contact with his team, JJ and Hotch still unaccounted for. Before he can actually lose his head, Lisa is calling him over, and he finally has eyes on the bombing. 

He has to watch the man he sees as a father projected through the air by the blast from the bomb, and all he can hear for a solid five seconds is the fear buzzing in the static electricity around his ear. 

⭐️

Derek arrives at the site of the explosion riled up in a way he hasn’t been for a long time, his only consolation being that he knows Spencer is safe. God, you can definitely count on working a terrorist attack in New York City to accentuate your crippling crush on a coworker; a subtle burn has settled itself across Derek’s chest, the urge to hold and protect Spencer far too distracting for the circumstances. 

He reports immediately to Captain Warner but before he’s even able to identify himself, he hears Hotch shouting desperately for help and he slips immediately into rescue mode. 

“Hey! This area’s restricted,” an ESU shouts at him, as soon as he dashes for the barrier, and he forces the blinding anger flaring in his stomach to simmer down as he turns to the Captain again. 

“That’s my boss down there,” he shouts, making himself as intimidating as possible. 

“I have my orders,” the Captain replies simply, eyes hard and unrelenting. 

“I don’t give a damn what your orders are.” He’s finding it increasingly hard to restrain his anger as he hears Hotch shout again, turning to look hopelessly down the road at him. 

“Look, I get it agent,” Warner attempts to placate him, “but we’ve been told by you that responders are the targets. So until the blast site is cleared, no-one goes in.”

Derek spins around to face him again. “You’re Marine Corps, right?” By the look on Warner’s face, he’s found his way in. “Right?”

“Please, go back to the marshaling point,” he replies, the fight draining out of him. 

“I’m not doing it,” Derek yells stubbornly, furiously. “I’m not just gonna let my man lay down there like that.” Conveniently, Hotch’s miserable call comes down the road again and Derek meets the Captain’s eyes with a hard gaze. “Never leave a man behind. You do remember that, don’t you?”

“Help us!” Hotch screams again. “We’re here! Please!”

Derek glares at the Captain, and sprints as fast as he can towards Hotch as soon as he nods his okay. His boss is clearly disoriented and in a state of obvious distress but he doesn’t look terribly injured. Kate, on the other hand, is clearly a different story, and any hope Derek has for her survival melts away as Hotch explains her arterial bleed and he has to tell him that they can’t expect an ambulance any time soon. He tries to tell the kid crouching down by Kate to leave, but he seems reluctant. 

Derek doesn’t have the headspace to analyse why until he’s finally got him to run off and Spencer’s ringing him to tell him that he’s the bomber. 

⭐️

As soon as Spencer hears Derek run off after the bomber he feels his stress levels rising again. If Derek dies before Spencer finally works up the courage to tell him that he’s in love with him, he’ll never forgive himself for being such a coward, and he’ll never forgive Derek for leaving him. 

Immediately, he patches into the marshaling point and tells the rest of them, who have only just all reunited, what’s going on. 

“The bomb,” he explains, talking as fast as he can, “it was under Kate’s SUV. Hotch is out there with her, he seems okay but Kate is really hurt; they haven’t been able to move her.”

“Where was her SUV parked?” Rossi asks as they all gather around the computer.

“Two blocks east of Federal Plaza.”

“Two blocks east and they target Kate’s SUV?” He sounds incredulous. “Have you identified the bomber?”

“Lisa’s running him through VICAP,” he says, but shrugs hopelessly. He knows it’s a lost cause.

“Call Homeland Security,” Rossi instructs Penelope. “They should be at all the murder sites. See if they found anything.” She nods and stalks away on her heels, still managing to stay cool under pressure. Spencer would envy her, but he knows it’s only an external front, only a mask she has to wear out of complete and utter necessity.

“Okay, okay, but Morgan,” Spencer says, feeling more impatient and stressed than before, “he’s run after the bomber.”

“He’s run after the bomber?” JJ asks, bewildered. “Why?”

“He was at the bomb site,” he replies. “I’m trying to trace him on the city's CCTV network, but the feeds are grainy at best and completely severed at worst.” This is feeling more and more hopeless by the second, and the light at the end of the tunnel is only dimming. 

“Keep trying,” Rossi says, and then he’s turning to the rest of the team. 

Spencer takes a few calming breaths and focuses back on the computer in front of him. Find Derek, he thinks. Find Derek and, when this case is over, stop being a coward and tell him how hopelessly in love with him you are. The pool of dread and fear weighing his stomach down only seems to deepen as he searches relentlessly through the CCTV feeds he can access, looking for Derek and the bomber chasing through the streets of the city. Eventually, he finds him and follows his movements down to the subway station. He watches with baited breath as Derek looks around the empty platform, clearly shouting to the unsub, though Spencer can’t hear what he’s saying. He speeds up the feed, seeing as it’s delayed slightly and fast forwards to Derek entering the tunnel, his sense of dread only intensifying as he loses visual. 

Trying desperately not to panic, he fast-forwards until he’s watching in real time, but Derek still hasn’t emerged, and neither has the bomber, both still hiding in the secrecy of the depths of the city’s transport network. There’s a vague spark of light — which he later finds out was the bomber electrocuting himself on an exposed part of the railway — only barely visible on the poor quality of the camera feed, before Derek emerges, looking rattled but very much alive. 

He doesn’t have much time to celebrate Derek’s livelihood, however, because JJ and Penelope are patching him back through to their conversation. 

“Spencer, Homeland Security has poured tactical teams into all the locations on the geo-profile — SWAT, bomb techs, HRT, hazmat, the works — they found nothing,” Penelope says, clearly puzzled and frustrated.

JJ’s about to reply when something catches her eye. “Yeah, all except one,” she says. “Kate’s SUV — none of the shootings were near it.”

“Maybe it’s personal,” Penelope muses. “I mean, this death card they gave us; they delivered on it.”

“No,” Spencer jumps in, realising what JJ’s getting at, “that’s just it — they haven’t. A cell as large as this one and multiple targets to choose from, they target a single SUV?”

“It’s a diversion,” JJ says, “Everything that’s happened so far has appeared to be something it’s not. The seemingly random acts of violence, Emily’s suicide by cop to make us believe it’s all over. Hotch and Kate as an endgame; they want us to think this is over. They’ve deliberately skewed our profile to make us believe they would be at the sites of the shooting.”

“You’re right. That was memorable” Rossi says, finally chiming in as he gestures to a picture of the twin towers on the wall. “This is not. There’s something else.”

⭐️

As soon as Derek manages to calm Hotch down, he summons the rest of the team to St Barclay’s and for the first time since the bomb went off under Kate’s SUV, the team is back together again.

“Are you okay?” Emily asks Hotch as soon as the team walks into the hospital. He’s scratched and bruised all over, visibly shaken, and clearly in a lot of pain but, Hotch being Hotch, he’s stubbornly refusing to accept the necessary medical attention and probably just wants to see the back of this whole ordeal, not unlike the rest of them. 

“I’m fine,” he says, clearly not fine at all but shouldering his jacket on anyway. “I just want to understand why I’m still alive. Did you identify Sam, the bomber?”

“Spencer put Sam and the other dead unsub into every known database,” Penelope offers. “Nothing.” At the mention of Spencer, Derek feels his heart clench in his chest. God, Spencer’s intelligence is so attractive to him, even though he knows it’s something his pretty boy can be so unreasonably insecure about it. He can’t wait to see the end of this night and touch him, reassure his aching, restless heart that he’s safe, alive, protected. 

Once again, he thinks cynically, nothing like a terrorist attack to leave him on the brink of finally telling Spencer how he feels. 

They quickly get back on topic, deducing as a team the terror cell’s real endgame: they’ll use a single chemical bomb planted in the ambulance. If Sam wasn’t calling 911 every few minutes but a number that went dead minutes after he died, then there’s only one reason he stayed with Hotch and Kate. To make sure the ambulance got to them. The ambulance they drove into a hospital, with the paramedic’s help, housing someone important enough to have the Secret Service protecting them. 

Derek doesn’t think. He runs. 

“Spencer?” he says, into his ear piece as he runs down the stairs, refusing to let fear come to the surface. “I need you to jam the frequencies in this cell block for as long as possible, okay?”

“What’s going on?” Spencer asks, clearly concerned, but Derek can hear him already tapping away at his computer.

“Just,” Derek pauses, takes a second to feel, process, and then suppress his panic, “just… I need you to do this for me, alright, pretty boy.”

“I’m already on it.” Spencer sounds exactly he does: carefully, artificially calm. He runs down the last few flights of stairs and into the parking garage, locating the ambulance before he hears Spencer again. “Morgan?” 

“Yeah, baby,” he says, panting half from the exertion of sprinting down far too many flights of stairs and partly from the pressure of the situation settling on his chest — the stakes actually registering for the first time. 

“You sound stressed,” Spencer says, deliberate and light. “Where are you?”

“Not where I want to be right now,” Derek replies, a little self-deprecatingly. Really, it’s just deflection; a last ditch attempt at avoidance of the likelihood he dies tonight. “Reid, take this down for me: FDNY 108.”

“That’s an ambulance, are you okay?” His voice is quick and rises ever so slightly in pitch. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just track it for me.” Tentatively, he opens the door to the ambulance, heart sinking and blood pressure rising as soon as he clocks the monumental bomb stowed neatly in the trunk of the seat. “Reid, how long can you keep jamming the cell block?” He knows he’s sounding breathless now and he knows Spencer is probably panicking, unable to know what’s going on but clearly reading enough of the situation to understand that asking would be decidedly unhelpful right now. 

“Uh, maximum of a few minutes, Morgan,” Spencer replies. “Why?”

“I’m going to have to get this ambulance out of here.” This is it. The culmination. 

“Or you could just evacuate the building like everyone else,” Spencer says urgently, sounding outraged at the idea. 

Derek cringes at the disapproval, but he doesn't have a choice. “No, as soon as the airwaves are clear, this thing’s going up.”

“Going up?” Spencer doesn’t bother concealing the outright panic in his voice anymore. “That’s like… in three minutes, that’s when the satellite moves position.”

“Reid, listen to me,” Derek says, climbing into the cab of the ambulance and beginning to fiddle with the wiring. “I need you to find me an area of town I can drive this thing, and you tell everybody, you hear me, everybody that I’m coming.” He finally gets the engine to start and begins to drive out of the garage. “Alright. Talk to me, Reid.” He prays desperately that they get this right, that Spencer helps him, that they manage to subvert this terrorist attack. 

“Okay,” Spencer says, back to his measured, calm tone of voice, and Derek sighs in relief at the sound. “Okay, head north… and floor it. I’ll tell you where to turn.” He’s almost out of the garage when the ‘paramedic’ starts shooting at the back of the ambulance, screaming in rage as Derek manages to escape both van and bomb unscathed. “What was that?”

“It was nothing,” Derek shouts, heart pounding in his ears as he turns the sirens and lights on, stepping on the gas as he heads north, “it was nothing. Just… talk to me. How am I doing, Reid?”

Derek hears Spencer ask Lisa for an update before exhaling hard. “1 minute, 50 seconds,” he replies, despair spilling into his voice. “Why does it always have to be you? Why do you always have to do this?” His stomach clenches at the sound of Spencer on the edge of tears and feels himself tearing up in response, swallowing his grief in lieu of actually replying. “Derek, you don’t have much time. Please be smart about this. Signal’s coming back on line, there’s thirty seconds until full coverage.”

Derek’s never driven so fast, his hands pinching at the steering wheel and every muscle tensed. He tries very hard not to think about the fact that there’s a bomb only a metre behind him, set to explode in less than half a minute.

“Derek, drive to the opening and then get the hell out,” Spencer says, no constraint to his emotion at this point, he’s almost shouting down the phone, very clearly crying, now. 

He swallows. He has no choice; he has to tell him. “Spencer,” he says, nearly choked off by a sob, “there’s something I really want you to know.”

“Save it,” Spencer shouts. “Just get out!”

“No, you know what Reid? If I don’t make it out of this alive, I need you to know that I love you, alright?” he says, finally confessing to the secret he’s been holding close to his chest for so long, but as soon as the words are out of his mouth, he’s throwing himself out of the ambulance and running as fast as he can away from it, still not outrunning the blast picking him up and tossing him across the field. 

Slowly, getting back to his feet, he turns to face the fire as he catches his breath. He has no idea how he’s still alive. 

Fiddling with his earpiece, he tunes back into Spencer’s line to hear him crying on the other end. “Oh, God, Derek, I love you, too,” he sobs as soon as he hears Derek click back into the call.

“Spencer, I’ll tell you what you are to me,” he says, relief and warmth and love blooming across his chest, driving out the crippling fear and panic previously rooted there, “you’re my God-given solace. Baby, you promise me one thing… whatever happens, don’t you ever stop talking to me.”

Spencer laughs wetly, and it’s the most beautiful sound Derek’s heard so far. “I’m so mad at you, right now,” he says, but his happiness is written across every word, “I’m so angry. But… I love you, too.”

Derek laughs, too, the relief of being both alive and loved by Spencer almost euphoric as he walks away from the still blazing ambulance. He guesses he has a terror cell’s failed attack to thank for his long overdue admittance of his love for Dr Spencer Reid, and the frankly wonderful news that it’s actually reciprocated.

⭐️

Derek and Hotch arrive back at Quantico 12 hours after everyone else, having driven home instead of taking the jet with the others due to Hotch’s rather inconvenient ear trauma. That only gives Spencer more time to panic over seeing him for the first time since their deathbed love confessions; they’d spoken briefly on the phone the morning before Derek and Hotch set off, promising to talk about it in person as soon as he was home, and now he nearly was.

Penelope had made a beeline for Spencer as soon as the others had arrived and taken him out for coffee, despite their mutual exhaustion. She’d deduced the situation based on Spencer’s incredibly cryptic HELP. IT HAPPENED. text message almost immediately after the explosion, having been the only one Spencer had confided in about his feelings for Derek. No matter how much she promised him Derek felt the same, he refused to do anything about it, leaving her to watch her two favourite people pine miserably for one another, and actively choosing to remain in said misery instead of confessing and being happy. 

He now actually felt bad for her. 

“Just tell him what you want,” Penelope says over the top of her latte, croissant crumbs littering the table in between them. “You want to get married and have lots of babies with him.”

“Okay, first of all,” Spencer says, fixing her with a look, “you know that neither of those things are true. And, secondly, it’s not that simple. What if he isn’t looking for a relationship or anything? Why hasn’t he said something before now?”

To her credit, Penelope avoids slamming her head into the table in frustration despite how much he looks like she wants to. “Spencer,” Penelope says, levelling a look right back at him, “Derek thought he was about to die. And in that moment, all he felt like he needed was to be sure that you knew he loves you. How could you possibly be that in love with someone and not crave a relationship with them?”

Spencer finds it hard to argue against that. 

Derek reclines on Spencer’s sofa, comfortably surveying the organised chaos of his living room, while Spencer tries to gather the snacks and drinks as calmly as possible in the kitchen, finding it much harder to assume the seemingly unaffected air Derek pulls off so easily. He walks back to where he’s sitting, and he almost drops his only slightly wobbly tray at the blinding smile Derek sends his way. 

“Oh, pretty boy, you’re spoiling me,” he teases, sitting upright and leaning forward to survey the snacks Spencer had rushed out and bought earlier that afternoon. Naturally, he blushes immediately at the compliment and sits next to him on the sofa, grabbing a drink for something to do with his hands. 

“Well, if all it takes is some cheese puffs from Walmart to make you happy then I think this is going to be alright,” Spencer says, trying for cool, calm, and collected and hitting somewhere near nervous and frenzied instead.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Derek scoffs as he breaks off a piece of chocolate and takes a bite. “I’m here for you, not the refreshments, luxurious as they might be. I don’t remember confessing my love to snack food in the moment I thought I was going to die.” He ruffles Spencer’s hair as his face heats up even more, smiling bashfully over at him. 

“No,” Spencer agrees, feeling all warm inside, “you told me.”

Derek looks serious all of a sudden. “I did,” he nods, leaning forward to put the chocolate down on the tray so he can focus all his attention on Spencer, taking his hands in his own, “and I meant it. I’ve probably been in love with you since you joined the team, Spencer, but I realised it properly last year, and I was always too scared to say anything. I’m sorry it had to be in that moment, and I’m even more sorry that if I’d died you would have had to live with that for the rest of your life.” He pauses and looks down at his lap for a moment. “That was unforgivable.”

Spencer smiles at him, gripping Derek’s fingers a little tighter. “I’m not mad about any of that, Derek,” he says, “I’m just glad it finally happened. And so is Penelope, apparently. She’s been telling me you loved me back for years but I never believed her; I didn’t think this would ever happen.”

Derek chuckles fondly at that and brings his hand to Spencer’s cheek, brushing his fingers across the warm skin for just a moment, but Spencer can’t help but lean into his touch, eyelids fluttering half-closed as they meet in such an intimate manner. “So, pretty boy,” he says, smile warm and eyes bright, “shall we give this a go?”

Spencer looks back up at Derek and takes a second to let the moment he’d daydreamed about for so long sink in, let himself marinate in the love that Derek has for him. “Yes,” he replies. “Please.” And then Derek’s lips are on his own, his hands around his face, and the future’s never looked so bright.

taglist: @strippersenseii @criminalmindsvibez @drinkingcroissants

Just a note: a lot of the dialogue was stolen directly from the episode and Derek & Spencer's conversation on the phone is almost an exact transcript; it's from my notes though so it may not be perfect. It also follows the case very closely and none of that is mine. 

[tact-and-impulse]

Basically, since I saw the novel translation that Akane meets with Kougami’s mom, my mind ran wild with speculation. Spoilers for up to First Inspector.

Stouthearted

Tomoyo is accustomed to living alone. Wake up, brush her teeth, have breakfast, check the news offered by her AI secretary.

The golden starfish cheerfully spins as it announces her Hue. “Mint green!”

“Thank you, Hoshiko.” She finishes her coffee, the bottom of the cup sweeter than the rest. She has a lengthy schedule for the weekend but just before she can bring it up, there’s a knock at her door, loud enough to scare Hoshiko into vanishing.

She fastens her bathrobe and runs a hand through her unruly hair. No one’s visited her in a long time. Uncertain and cautious, she only opens the door a crack, enough to see who this stranger is. “Hello?”

“Good morning!” Her visitor is a young woman, whose face is briefly obscured when she bows in greeting. Behind her, a storage drone patiently waits. “I’m sorry to disturb you. Inspector Tsunemori, from the Public Safety Bureau.” She holds up her ID in confirmation. “Are you Kougami Tomoyo-san?”

“Yes…please, come in.” Tomoyo pulls the door further. It’s best that whatever conversation will follow, it should happen inside.

“Ah, just a moment.” Tsunemori unlocks the drone and removes a box from the metal interior, almost too big for her to carry.

“Do you need help?”

“N-no, I’ve got it.” She sets it down and sighs with relief as Tomoyo closes the door.

“I know who you are.”

“Eh?”

“Well, a little.” She concedes. “Shinya called me now and then, and your name came up often. He said you were a good boss.”

It’s comforting to put a face to the name, and she does look young, but tragedy colors a person in a specific, indelible way. Tomoyo recognizes it as Tsunemori’s gaze clouds over. Her answer is strained. “Not as good as I would have liked to be.”

An awkward pause follows, before Tomoyo offers. “I was finishing breakfast. Would you like anything?” Even as she asks, she heads into the kitchen and grabs a cup.

“I don’t want to bother you-”

“No, not at all. It’s been a while since I’ve had a guest, so I apologize for the clutter. Tea? Coffee?”

Tsunemori gives a little smile. “Coffee, please. And I don’t mind, my apartment is far from organized. Oh.”

“What is it?”

“I just realized I might have made things worse for you. Um, the box has books and clothes. Personal items. Not the dishes though, the Bureau took them for reuse. Anyway, I thought, since you’re his mother, you would like his things.” The girl is very nervous, stumbling over her words, but she doesn’t break eye contact. It reassures Tomoyo.

“I would. Thank you very much.” She softly replies. “For now, unpacking can wait. Have a seat.”

They sit across from one another, Tomoyo having refilled her own cup halfway. She’s unsure of what to discuss; there must be protocol to adhere to, and she doesn’t want to make things more difficult for Tsunemori.

Thankfully, Tsunemori speaks first. “I’m sorry, if I interrupted any plans.”

“Nothing urgent. When you live alone for a long time, plans become flexible. I should be the one apologizing, if you’re on the clock.”

“No, it’s okay. I haven’t taken time off before, and this had to be done.”

Hm. She decides Tsunemori isn’t bad.

They sort through the box together. Tomoyo doesn’t recognize most of the books, the titles unfamiliar. The clothes also seem foreign, tinged with bitter cigarette smoke. She never did approve of that habit, and she frowns as she piles the different articles around her. And yet…underneath the acrid smell, it still smells like her boy.

One of the bulkier items is a fur-lined coat, something for the winter months. She sees the way the girl’s fingertips brush over the collar, how her eyes become weighted with melancholy.

“You can keep it.”

“Eh?” Tsunemori looks up at her, startled.

“I can’t keep everything in my place, and besides, you were his boss. Thank you for looking after my son.”

Tsunemori murmurs a half-hearted protest, but she folds the jacket in her lap. It goes with her when she leaves, and Tomoyo assumes that’s the end.

***

But it isn’t. Tsunemori continues to visit, every month or so. Each time is fairly short, enough to drink tea or coffee together. She’s a sweet young lady, unfailingly polite and conversational. They talk about nonconsequential things. The weather, novels, cooking tips. The latter proves to be a bountiful topic, since Tsunemori is inexperienced.

Once, Tomoyo asks about her work. She’s curious if anything’s changed since Shinya was an Inspector. It really hasn’t, and it doesn’t surprise Tomoyo, yet she can’t help but feel disappointed.

In turn, she describes a little of her job, that she analyzes data sent from the local hospital. The majority of her work is remote. She does not share why, though she’s certain Tsunemori can guess. Although the Sybil System can insist it only punishes criminals, family inevitably suffers too. They are carriers of some insidious factor or ticking bombs of the same defective nature but with longer fuses.

Tsunemori also doesn’t ask, though she receives an interrupting message. “Something just came up. I’ll see you later…Kougami-san.” It’s not the first time she’s hesitated addressing Tomoyo.

“Please, ‘Tomoyo-san’ is fine.”

She visibly relaxes. “Then, you can use my name too. It’s Akane.”

“Akane-chan it is.” And for the first time in a while, her smile feels natural.

***

On a rare night, she wakes up crying.

Hoshiko, dimmer in night mode, hovers over her. “Your Hue is Aquamarine. Would you like mental care?”

“This is my mental care. Tears are like stagnant water; sometimes, they need to flow out to feel better.” Satoru told her that once. She couldn’t remember where he read it from, but in moments like now, she could easily recall his voice. “And tears tire me out, I’ll go to sleep soon.” She forcibly shuts the AI down and dabs at her swollen eyes.

It takes an hour, but she does fall asleep again. In the morning, she dusts Shinya’s old room.

***

On her visits, Akane offers to help around the house, but she insists that the younger woman sit and relax.

“It’s enough that you keep an old lady like me company.”

“You’re not so old, Tomoyo-san.”

She gives Akane a flat stare. “But you must have friends your age, or a boyfriend or a girlfriend.”

“I do have friends, we meet up sometimes. As for a boyfriend, I’m too busy for one.” She pauses. “I hope your husband doesn’t mind me intruding.”

She’s perplexed for a moment before she remembers the steel band on her finger. “Oh, this isn’t a wedding ring.” Out of habit, she gives it a twist. “It’s an old gift from Shinya’s father, Satoru. We grew up on the same street, although he was ahead of me by two years. He helped me in my literature classes. Shinya has his father’s scholarliness. Always reading, always thinking inward.” She remembers glancing up from her essays, light pouring from her childhood bedroom window, to steal looks at Satoru’s thoughtful profile.

“It sounds like you still think highly of him.” Akane carefully says.

“I always will. When I was young, they had just introduced the compatibility matches. Satoru and I were a good match, but he had a better one with someone else. A rich girl, in the city across the lake. He left by boat to speak to the family in person, to explain that he couldn’t accept, but there was a bad storm. He drowned.”

There had been an investigation, a pair of detectives who had questioned her. In hindsight, they were very kind to her, but she was aggravated and terse and though she didn’t know it at the time, hormonal.

“You must have been very upset.” Akane softly says.

“My Psycho-Pass was…volatile. Crime Coefficients were not available then, and I’m not sure what mine would have been. But after I found out I was pregnant, I committed myself to living for the child.”

Her son was born in the dark, cold, early time before sunrise. Towards the end of her labor, she had been so exhausted, it took effort to breathe. Her eyelids felt weighted when the doctor urged her to see her baby. One look upon Shinya’s squalling little face, and she was no longer tired.

“My parents helped before they passed. Satoru’s family had pushed him to accept the other woman, so we weren’t close. But they sent money to Shinya, at least until he was an adult.” They cut off ties completely after his Hue clouded. “And now, he has no one, wherever he is.”

Tsunemori’s expression is troubled, but she doesn’t speak.

It’s been one year since her son vanished into the outside world. She wonders if he’s eating enough.

***

She dreams of traversing her high school’s corridors. She doesn’t know why she’s here. The faces of long-gone teachers and classmates blur around her. She has to leave, she can’t stay, though she doesn’t know why. She decides that it’s because Satoru isn’t here. The hallways seem so much longer, and the stairs widen at an exaggerated angle. Other students crowd around her, and it’s agonizing to finally reach the exit at the ground floor.

She opens the door, and runs headlong into the rehabilitation facility’s visiting area, almost colliding against the glass screen that separates her from her boy. Shinya’s in white robes, his face gaunt and unshaven. When he looks up at her, his eyes are shadowed from lack of sleep. His darkened Hue floats above his head, and she relives this memory, the dread of learning her son’s become a latent criminal.

He smiles at her in recognition, but it quickly turns bitter. “Sorry, Mama.”

***

“Your Hue is very clear. That’s quite surprising. Most parents in your situation fare worse.” Her therapist marvels.

“I do what I can. I get by.”

“Well, I think you can excel in group therapy.” A short explanation follows. “The advantages are well-documented. I believe you’d be a good addition. You can take your time to think it over.”

She’s given a pamphlet, which she pockets and leaves on her kitchen table. It stays there while she’s eating. This time last year, she would have thrown it away by now. She’s been self-sufficient for so long, it’s become her gut instinct to reject anything that disrupted her carefully crafted solitude. However…Akane’s presence has reminded her it could be pleasant to talk to other people. Healing.

She’ll go once, and then she can reevaluate if she needs to. After dinner, she has Hoshiko add group therapy to her schedule.

***

“You smell like cigarettes.” Tomoyo points out. “Have you picked up smoking?”

“Not exactly.” Akane looks embarrassed. “I just light them and leave them on an ashtray.”

“Secondhand smoke is still dangerous.”

“It isn’t too often. Only to help me think.” The connection to Shinya is blatantly obvious. Not for the first time, Tomoyo wonders what their relationship was. From what she recalled, Shinya had thought well of Akane; he had said she had an optimistic perspective and a detective’s instincts. Once, he mentioned she was kind. That was high praise from him. Tomoyo couldn’t forget it.

“I didn’t like it when Shinya started and I still don’t.” She bluntly says. “But as long as you’re careful, I won’t say any more.”

Akane nods. It’s not a promise to quit.

***

There’s a period of time when Akane doesn’t visit for three months. When she finally knocks on Tomoyo’s door, she’s welcomed with open arms.

“How are you doing, Akane-chan? I assumed your work was keeping you busy.”

“It was.” She stares blankly for a moment, before she crumples and begins to cry.

Immediately, Tomoyo helps her in and sits her down in the nearest chair. She grabs a tissue box and pushes it toward Akane, as she murmurs. “There, there. Take your time.”

Eventually, after a handful of wadded tissues, she’s able to speak. “…My grandmother passed away.”

“I’m sorry. You said you were close to her.”

She nods. “It was…very sudden.”

“Have you had mental care?”

“I have. My Hue’s alright. It still feels difficult though.” She looks so young, and Tomoyo remembers she’s only twenty-two.

“It might feel that way for a while, but it should pass. Your grandmother wouldn’t want you to suffer for her sake.” She reassures. She brings tea and water and crackers, while Akane recovers herself.

“Thank you.”

“Of course. Any time.”

Before Akane leaves, she seems pensive, in the way a question is brewing in her mind. But she doesn’t, only reiterating her gratitude. Tomoyo suspects she was going to inquire about how she copes. In truth, she doesn’t have a definitive mechanism. Maybe, she’s just accustomed to carrying the pain, so tightly embedded in her Hue that not even Sybil can filter it out.

***

“Even artificial flowers brighten up the place, hm?” Tomoyo says out loud, as she arranges a vivid bouquet in a vase. There is no reply from the porch. Sae stares emptily into the distance, the wind ruffling her hair.

Now that Nobuchika-kun’s become an Enforcer, he reluctantly requested that should she happen to be near Okinawa, that Tomoyo visit his mother. “She always seems a little better after she’s had company.”

Tomoyo wasn’t confident, but she wasn’t in a position to judge and she trusts Nobuchika-kun. Her work had no issue with extending her trip by a day, since it was for mental care. Well, she never said who it was for, but as long as it was to help someone else, she had no qualms about bending the truth.

Satisfied with her work, she steps out into the fresh air. She adjusts the blanket over the woman’s lap, though it’s hard to tell if she’s comfortable. A set of beautifully crafted chimes sways and emits a haunting melody. Sae doesn’t react, and Tomoyo feels an irrational anger. They’re not alike at all. She could never imagine being in such a state, she’d rather be dead. But it wasn’t Sae’s fault either. The other woman never asked to be like this, not her or the other eustress victims.

Tomoyo sighs. “I’m sorry. I’m not a very good companion. But…we do have something in common. We’re among the countless women in history who were left behind by the men we love.” Akane’s face also pops into her mind.

Movement in her peripheral vision draws her attention. Sae’s lips purse, as if she’s about to speak. But her expression relaxes again into a blank slate.

Her hands itch with the need to do something useful, so Tomoyo takes hold of Sae’s wheelchair. “Let’s go for a stroll. The weather’s so nice, isn’t it?”

At the end of the day, she tucks Sae into bed. The woman falls asleep almost instantly, like a child. Tomoyo leaves her be, with the drones to care for her.

***

“I met him in Shamballa.”

Tomoyo’s throat goes dry, as emotion floods over her. “How is he?”

Akane smiles. “He’s well. He’s alive and intact, the last time I saw him. He’s on the move, helping people. I told him I visit you, and he said thank you. And that you never show any weakness.”

Shinya’s alive. Four long years, and finally, she has something to hold onto. “As long as he’s still breathing, that’s enough for me.”

“I thought you would say that.” Her good humor slips. “I wasn’t able to bring him back though.”

She reaches out, to reassuringly pat Akane’s back. “To be honest with you, that might be for the best. As much as I want to see him, his Psycho-Pass…”

“I know. I just wish there was a way. And now that I’ve met him again, I don’t think I can give up. I’ll keep trying, Tomoyo-san.”

A thank you pales in comparison to the intensity of her determination, so Tomoyo bows her head. “I believe you can. In the meantime, we’ll wait. We’ve already done plenty of that, haven’t we?”

“Yes.” Akane agrees. “But I hope not for too much longer.”

***

Her son is home.

He’s more solid now, but his face hasn’t really changed. Her nose wrinkles at the tobacco clinging to his clothes; she hugs him tightly anyway.

“Hi, Mama.” He says, and she fights back tears. She won’t cry in front of him, or Akane, or their friends looking on. And definitely not out in a driveway. “I’m sorry for leaving you alone.”

“I’m just glad you’re here.” She answers, ignoring her clogged sinuses. “And I haven’t been alone, not in a long time. Akane-chan’s been visiting me.”

“Akane-chan?” He repeats. His eyes dart to Akane, brows lifting. “That’s funny, I didn’t hear about that either.”

“Well, now you know.” She beams. “Come inside, Tomoyo-san.”

As he takes her jacket, Shinya mutters. “She calls you ‘Tomoyo-san’, Mama.”

“And?”

“I don’t get that same treatment.”

“If it upsets you, you should do something about it.” She dryly responds. Her son’s unamused expression makes her laugh, and she pats his cheek as she heads for Akane’s living room.

There’s a pair of women who she’s met today, sitting on the opposite couch. They’re friendly enough but she’s most familiar with Nobuchika-kun, who strikes up a conversation with her. His countenance lightens every time she sees him. He’s changed very much since his school days with Shinya, and she’s as proud of him as if he were her own.

She’s happy. Truly, unbelievably happy.

In the kitchen, Akane is making coffee for everyone, and Shinya’s stepped over to help her out. She’s never seen them together before, and now that she has, it’s like they’re tethered by a gravitational pull. It stirs the romantic in her to life after so long.

It is also the last time they meet for many months.

***

In the ensuing whirlwind of events, Tomoyo does her best to occupy herself. Group therapy has helped in that regard. She’s taken more of a mediating position as of late. It’s not long before an unfamiliar couple joins the monthly session. They introduce themselves with the name Tsunemori, and Tomoyo maintains a stoic expression. She treats them neutrally, trying to parse them out. They’re about what she expected: subdued and fearful of uncertainty, especially with regards to Akane.

Afterwards, she takes her time putting on her coat, watching everyone else walk out. When the Tsunemoris emerge, she strides a little ahead, so she can turn to them and speak.

“Your daughter’s strong. Have faith in her.” They blink at her in confusion, but she continues. “She’s helped me so much. If you have time, would you like to have tea?”

***

She calls him after washing her breakfast dishes. “Today’s the day, right?”

“Yeah, finally.”

She can hear the restrained impatience in Shinya’s voice and smiles. “Is your car clean?”

“Mama.”

“I don’t want Akane-chan to be driven out of that place in a dirty car.”

“Of course not. Don’t worry.” He grumbles.

“Well, I do. She’s like the daughter I don’t have.”

“…working on it.”

“What was that?” Of course, she knew what he said, but she wanted to hear him say it clearer.

“Nothing. We’ll see you at dinner tonight.”

She purses her lips. “We’ll talk more then. Have fun, be safe.”

He sighs, but his reply is fond. “Alright. See you later.” The call ends.

Hoshiko announces her Hue for the day. “Powder blue! Would you like me to pull up your shopping list?”

“In fifteen minutes. Thank you.” The starfish blinks out and she exhales. She’s alone, but not for long. She finishes her coffee with a smile.

[mlpdestinyverse]

“One November Eve”

One stormy eve, when Dream Flow mysteriously doesn't show for their meet up, Skychaser heads to his friend's home to find out what's keeping her. What he discovers isn't quite what he expected.

Feat. Skychaser, Dreamaria Flow

Related Chapters: Little Monster, Newcomer, Impasse

~Destinyverse Archive~

Skychaser isn't usually one to fuss when it comes to Dream Flow's occasional tendency to arrive late to their hangouts.

He's long accepted it as an on-and-off habit of hers, oversleeping or losing track of time. It's not like they've ever been in a rush, so it's never truly bothered him. Besides, it's easy to imagine her getting caught up in a busy, tiring schedule as an Emotion Counselor.

The latest he can remember her ever arriving was about thirty minutes past their designated time, and even then she came to him apologizing profusely before insisting on treating him to make up for the tardiness. He can tell that she's since made a more conscious effort to be more punctual, despite his assurance that he really doesn't mind.

An hour and twenty-two minutes late...now that's just plain out of character.

It's nearing 6 PM now, and it won't be long before they'll have to officially reschedule their sauna day for another time. Sky is still sitting at a cafe table, tapping his hoof against the wooden surface, the vibrations causing his long empty cup of mint chocolate chip ice cream to shake. 

He'd been looking forward to relaxing within the embrace of hot steam on a chilly autumn day. More so than that was his eagerness to behold Dream's first heavenly sauna experience, as a mare who apparently had never even known of their existence until a week ago. She had mirrored his excitement, giving him a date where she'd be completely free. But that's all quickly becoming rather trivial compared to his growing bewilderment.

'Did she go on a last-minute errand run?? What is going on?'

It's only when a large droplet of rain nearly jabs his eye that he knows that the fall thunderstorm Ponyville ordered for the sake of building atmosphere towards Nightmare Night has begun. And it's at that moment that Sky knows he has a time limit before the rain starts pouring. So with a frown, he swiftly makes his way to a new location...

By the time he's in front of the door to Dream's house, the boughs of leafless trees have begun groaning and Sky's thick mane might as well be mauling his face, thanks to the whipping winds. Honestly, if it wasn't for the sheer absurdity that was the concept of being "stood up" by Dream of all ponies, he would have thought to arrive sooner to check on his friend. But looking at the house, the windows are completely absent of any light, and that becomes even more prominent with the darkening grey sky above him as the sun dips away and the clouds prepare to-

-drench him. Just...all at once. A waterfall-like sheet of rain crashes onto him, and he hisses a curse as he instinctively tries for the doorknob, despite knowing it won't open.

Except it does, and Skychaser has to blink a few times at that.

'Guess she went out and...forgot to lock it behind her...?'

A flash of lightning and Sky all but scrambles inside and shuts the door before the accompanying boom of thunder can deafen him.

As he enters the threshold, and his eyes adjust to the brief lightning flash followed by the interior darkness, he almost swears a separate faint light catches the edge of his vision. But it's gone before he can fully acknowledge it, and it leaves his mind as soon as he winces at the booming thunderclap.

"Hokay then..." Sky mutters. He shrugs off his hoodie and hangs it on the nearby coat rack. Having visited Dream's house numerous times before, finding and flicking on the closest light switch isn't too difficult. The warm lighting reveals the large, decently furnished living room he's grown quite accustomed to, as a place to spend time with his friend as well as a safe space for a few of their counseling sessions together: television and couch set up to the left, first-floor bathroom to the right, her open kitchen towards the very back, next to the polished curving staircase... "Wait for Dreamers it is..."

At least, he hopes Dream isn't still trying to make it to their sauna day. Once she realizes he's not at their meeting spot, she'll either look for him at the Cutie Mark Sanctuary if only to frantically apologize like the sweet doof she is, or she'll make the better call and head back home in this weather.

Unless she's forgotten their plans entirely. Then well...at the very least, she'll absolutely return straight home and they'll figure it out from there.

'Unless...an emergency...?'

Sky vigorously shakes the worrisome thought out of his head, only to flinch and curse again when water droplets fly everywhere and cling to the nearby wall. This isn't the time to go into Anxious-Brother-Mode™ when he should be hunting down a towel unless he wants to create a puddle in the middle of Dream's living roo- oh, a puddle's already forming, goddammit.

He carefully maneuvers himself towards Dream's towel closet on the right-most wall, right beside her bathroom door. But he sighs and gives up midway on tip-toeing when he realizes he's leaving a trail of rainwater anyway, making a faster beeline for it. Without pause he yanks it open and pulls out a fluffy towel with cute little sea motifs, aggressively drying his cursed sponge-like mop of hair; the true perpetrator of the puddles...a symbol of freedom and majesty now fallen from grace. For shame.

He sighs with relief once he feels sufficiently...less wet, albeit his feathers are sticking in almost every direction and his inner pegasus shrieks at him to preen- which, speaking of, is it weird to preen in your friend's house when they're not there?

Shower Thoughts with Skychaser.

Sky lets the towel hang around his neck and grins to himself over his dumb mental joke- but upon closing the closet door fully, something he hadn't noticed before immediately greets him.

A single orange sticky note, attached to the door at eye level.

He's genuinely confused at first, but once his eyes flit over the words written on it in black marker, he near-instantly recalls the counseling session he'd shared with Dream not even a month ago. In this very living room, funnily enough:

"Sticky Note Affirmations" she had called it, suggesting it to him like many other forms of therapy they've given a go through the course of their friendship. He remembers her explaining it as a method of using positive affirmations in one's daily life, to "move the mind away from persistent negative thoughts" and "set in a more positive way of thinking".

"Positivity takes practice!" he can practically still hear the confidence in Dreamaria's voice from that day, her beaming face forming in his mind. "We may be our own worst critic, Sky, but we're also the one person in life who can be our most faithful supporter. So try cheering your future self on!"

It sounded a little silly at first, the idea of sticking notes around his room and expecting them to do anything. Dream Flow did say the results varied for everyone.

Now, Sky has a small collection of post-it notes that have given him just the slightest boost needed to help deviate that self-deprecating corner of his mind; more often than not, at least. Who knew that reading something as simple as "I Am Worthy" on his bedroom door every morning could make a difference in his outlook for the day? He sure didn't.

But maybe Dream being the source of the idea made her feel a little present within each of his notes, believing in him just as much as he was encouraging himself.

Dream specifically offered the idea of writing down kind compliments for himself. There were also reminders and encouragements for daily tasks, saved for the heavier days where such chores often felt impossible or pointless. Now one particular note near his comb encourages him to brush his mane each day because otherwise, he'll deal with knots that resemble a pile of tangled earbud cords - or worst...Astral Dusk's spikes - and risk shaving it all off in frustration (Monochrome would have a field day).

Anyway, that aside, the note on Dream's towel closet reminds him of that sort of encouragement:

"Because a hot shower organizes thoughts and helps warm the soul!" it motivates, in curvy writing that he definitely recognizes as Dream's.

It shouldn't be a surprise that Dreamaria would practice her own suggestions, maybe to test the effectiveness for herself; but at the same time, how effective could testing it be? In his friend's case it felt hilariously redundant, like a mere flashlight's beam merging in with an already blinding sunray of optimism. Or...something. He's not as poetic with words and comparisons as Eventide.

Point is, the living embodiment of positivity just setting up more positive inspiration for her "future self" is incredibly funny to him and wholesomely endearing.

Skychaser backs his way into the middle of her living room, bumping up near Dream's couch there, and gives the room a good squint - and to his delight, his eye catches the pastel colors of more sticky notes dotting the mare's kitchen.

Well, at least he has something to distract himself with while he waits on Dream Flow. And if there's anypony he'd love to read some encouraging wisdom from, it'd have to be the counselor herself.

So he starts at one end and slowly saunters through her kitchen space, from one note to the next, feeling his grin and amusement growing with each one.

"Because an uncluttered sink helps with an uncluttered mind!" a pink note above her sink declares, where a few glasses and plates have been left to sit.

"Use me! Because you've come so far as a cook, and I exist for a reason!" the green note on her spotless stovetop-oven all but shouts.

"Because your body deserves nourishment, and Uncle wants you to eat well. Don't forget to keep a full fridge!" one blue sticky note insists on her refrigerator. Skychaser slyly opens the freezer door to better gauge the sorts of things his friend prefers to indulge in, for the noble cause of future birthday bashes (he genuinely half expects a compartment full of ice cream). His eyebrows fly up when he sees it's empty besides a tray of ice cubes.

'She REALLY must have gone out for some serious grocery shopping, geez...'

Now that he thinks about it, it's curious, really. Because while Dream's session on the notes had been held a month ago, Skychaser had visited just a week before and he's certain these little reminders hadn't been present that day. But the folded corners and slight creases on the notes suggest that they aren't recent either...?

Huh. Weird.

Sky hears the rain audibly thrum harder on the roof. He glances at the door, then at the time on her microwave.

6:42. Still no Dreamaria.

Hooves clacking across the tiles, Skychaser turns to leave the kitchen. In an effort to set aside his uncertainty, he considers what distractions he could find on Dream's T.V. That is until he finds himself pausing by the kitchen island.

Skychaser now notices that amongst a clutter of unopened mail envelopes, a single letter has been left out. Were it not for the rather official-looking white and blue mailer with a broken gold wax seal, or the fancy thick yellow parchment of the letter itself, Skychaser would have overlooked it.

He fights with himself, eyes flicking back and forth between the rest of the living room and the strange letter just...laying there.

...his need for answers wins over. Because surely a small glimpse and the quickest skim just to understand the subject of such an out-of-place letter couldn't hurt. It just may be the very clue he's been seeking as to the whereabouts of his friend.

'An emergency', his mind supplies nervously again, the feeling intensifying when he picks out on the envelope's face that the mailing address is from Reinsford; Dreamaria's hometown.

'Yeah, that's not comforting...'

So sure enough, he sets his now-folded towel onto the counter and leans over the parchment, giving the sentences a quick once-over. He searches for names, keywords, the last line of the letter-

He stops.

He reads the last line again. Then a third time, his eyes widening with each reread.

'Hold the fuck on, am I-?'

Sky swoops the letter up into his wings. He squints harder, darting his orange irises back to the beginning. Because maybe context would confirm whether he's crazy or he just read what he thinks he just read.

"Dear Madam Dreamaria Flow,

I hope this package and its contents have found you in good health. 

It has been a lengthy two years since your departure from our beloved coasts. Your absence has been profoundly felt by your fellow residents and myself, even to this very day.

While I would not dare to take up more of your time than necessary, I first wish to extend my deepest apologies for not reaching out to you sooner. Your uncle has shared a tale or two of your exploits in Ponyville, and though I am sure you have found success and a great sense of fulfillment in your new career - a hearty congratulations to you, may I add! - I have felt that a hefty debt was left unpaid the day you left this town.

It is only right that I follow through on my word. It took some time, but after vowing to properly reward you for your unforgettable deed, I am happy to announce that I have made great use of my authority to finally deliver:"

Halfway through the letter, the storm outside gives another bright flash of lightning, followed seconds later by a booming crack of thunder that almost shakes the air. A barely present corner of his mind registers something...slightly different about it; like a subtle sparking undercurrent of sound had joined in for just a second. But right now he's focused on this letter, too immersed in speed-reading the sentences to consider it as anything but a one-off:

"Enclosed is your very own Reinsford-sanctioned Certification of Arcane Excellence. Please do brandish this certificate with pride as a prior member of Reinsford's community. I believe such high credentials could prove useful and bode well if presented and proven to Princess Twilight Sparkle herself.

While losing someone as gifted and valuable as yourself thoroughly saddens us, we are quite pleased knowing our talented Dreamaria is still putting her skills to good use.

Remember that this town will always be your home. It has been far too long since we have last seen you. Never hesitate to visit, and if anything goes wrong, know that we will gladly welcome you back with open arms."

And then finally, he reaches that line again. Except he isn't sure if context has at all changed the amount of bewilderment and awe his discovery has brought him.

"Nonetheless, Reinsford will continue to miss its - official, as of this letter - dear Wizard, and its citizens whole-heartedly wish you well with your personal endeavors.

With gratitude, Mayor Bight"

A thunderclap of merciless lightning shatters the sky, and in that very instant, darkness falls around him.

The blackout startles Skychaser enough that he drops the letter and braces against the kitchen island with a soft yelp. He's thankful that the nearby streetlamp is managing to stream in just enough light through the windows to allow him the vaguest visual of his surroundings; shapes and desaturated colors and shadows, more than anything.

But now there is an eerie, deafening silence, with the background whirring of every appliance coming to a complete hush. The rain, the slightest shifts of his body, and his breath are suddenly much louder, almost reverberating through the room.

Whatever sense of confusion and wonder over Dream's letter has momentarily fizzled out, replaced by goosebumps and an immense sense of vulnerability. He feels small and uneasy - a single breathing body in an expanse of black and greys.

'Maybe I've uh...outstayed my welcome... If preening in your friend's empty house is weird, standing around for them in the darkness of their home may deserve a restraining order.'

He'll just have to table his questions and intrigue for another day, as exasperating as it is to have even fewer answers now than before.

For the sake of his boggled mind, he settles that Dream is out shopping. Or doing awesome-secret-wizard-shit, if this letter and her disappearance aren't just some strange, elaborate prank Dreamaria has set up just for him. Unlikely, yeah, but he's also learned that Dream Flow is pretty up there in terms of surprise factor.

Maybe he'll see enough faces on his way back to the Sanctuary to ask around about his friend. But before that, if he wants to even make that journey, he decides that a borrowed umbrella might be a good idea right about now. Or ooh, a cute, tiny raincoat he can drape over his head as he elegantly races through the streets before ducking underneath an awning and meeting his soulmate? Surely Dream had one or the other around somewhere.

The attempt to lighten his own mood somewhat works as he's able to blindly locate her letter, replace it on the counter, and urge himself forward through the low lit room. The air has been quick to drop temperature without its heating unit, only adding to the strangely oppressive atmosphere.

Thankfully the street light bounces off of the far wall - the one he had previously borrowed his towel from - preventing him from running face-first into it. If he's remembering right, and he traces the wall towards those curving stairs in the back corner...

The wall stops short. Tucked into the large alcove that follows, he finds his sought-after mystery door right near the foot of the stairs.

While aware of its existence, he admittedly has never seen the room's interior nor ever had a reason to check it out. He's only ever assumed it to be some sort of coat closet, so naturally, any form of raincoat or umbrella would surely be stored within. Most likely??

But as he steps up to the door, all too ready to prepare for his leave, he yet again is brought to a halt. He makes out a familiar small square shape in this shadowed corner of the house, attached to the door a little higher than the usual eye level.

'Oh. Even here?'

He almost chooses to ignore the sticky note with his priorities at hoof. But something about it draws his eye - and he realizes that, even in this lighting, he can faintly make out words. It's due to the writing itself, displaying neat and meticulous letters, as opposed to the other affirmations that were more hastily scrawled.

'"Because"..."you"...?'

Sky has to lean in until the bridge of his scrunched muzzle is just inches away from the note. His eyes have adjusted to the dark, so he's able to read the bleeding inky words:

"Because you'll prove them wrong."

.....

Skychaser allows himself a moment to give the note a good, long stare.

Maybe it's due to his current circumstances: the storm, the week of Nightmare Night, Dream's absence, standing alone inside a dark, deathly still building on a cold November eve. But the sharp change in tone from Dreamaria's previous notes definitely forces Sky to acknowledge just how unsettled he feels.

One step back and he's boring his visible eye into the closet door before him. That eye then falls to its silver door handle.

...this....is a closet that he just found that note on. Right?

Sky very quietly, very weakly laughs to himself. He moves to turn the handle before he can overthink it.

'Maybe this is where Dream keeps all the dead bodies.' he jests, pushing the door open a sliver.

It creaks under his hesitant grasp. With that crack, Sky notices a light source within, out of sight, in a room bigger than he honestly pictured; faint. Orange. ...pulsating?

BANG!

Sky releases an indecipherable shout right as the door in his grasp SLAMS back in place in one explosive movement. He stumbles backward but he doesn't get far, because in a whirlwind there are glowing blue lights flying around him in literal ribbons, erupting from the floor, grabbing him, coiling around him so rapidly that he doesn't get a chance to even unfurl his wings as he rears up, because now they're being tied to his back and his forelegs are bound up securely against his chest-

He's lifted, hoisted right off the ground and jostled about in the process of being turned. At this point he's stopped thrashing and has kept his eyes squeezed shut and his teeth painfully clenched. Upon the movements stopping, he cracks his eyes open to look down at himself.

Instead, his irises flash to his lower left, where the end of one ethereal ribbon is gradually creeping around his neck without actual contact: a silent threat. He can't control the pitifully strangled noise he lets out, desperately leaning his head as far away as possible, which isn't far at all.

'What the fuck, what the FUCK, I WAS FUCKING JOKING-'

He would be breaking down into hysterical laughter right about now if he wasn't so shaken. The only reason he hasn't entered a full-blown panic is that the ribbons have completely ceased their motions, and while tight, it's not enough to restrict his breathing. He's fine. He's okay.

Look at him. Those positive thinking exercises have been working...haha. ...coping with humor at a time like this probably isn't the healthiest, though, even if it's working to keep his sanity intact.

Maybe it's not fully hitting him. It all feels too unreal, like some realistic fever dream-

Violently swishing fabric rolls through his ears next, too pitched and harsh to be born from his imagination. Skychaser jolts, because in a single blink, the safe beams of the streetlight filtering in from each of the house's windows have been cruelly snuffed out. The curtains have all been pulled shut in one sweep. He's been left in true, absolute pitch darkness.  

And then he sees it.

A set of white, glowing pinpricks of light, waiting in the shadows straight ahead.

Staring right back.

Watching him. Sky registers that this is real.

Body and throat seized up in terror, he doesn't even scream. He can't find his voice, only listening to his own labored breathing while those two glows eerily sway and grow closer. He catches the sound of slow, careful steps. Hoofclacks.

As his mind processes, the glowing orbs stop just outside of the light from his radiant restraints.

And they speak.

"...state your business."

The voice is low. Soft and husky, yet it carries in the quiet amongst a backdrop of rain. It's formal, frigid, and completely foreign to him.

Skychaser shivers.

"I-I..." he struggles out, his own voice hoarse but miraculously coherent despite his scrambled brain. "I was...l-looking-"

He snaps his mouth close when he hears a sharp inhale in front of him. It's followed by a much gentler, far more familiar tone.

"...Skychaser?"

Sky's eyes bug open, only for him to cringe away when a flash of light nearly blinds him. He blinks against it anyway, urging his pupils to focus in on-

Dream Flow.

The tip of her horn is illuminated with a small beacon of magical light - a beacon that closely resembles whatever the hell she's done to her pupils, filled at the centers with the very pinpricks of white that had shaken him previously.

The unicorn looks thoroughly dumbfounded. Wide-eyed, mouth open, head pulled back. When she seemingly confirms his identity for herself, her eyebrows knot even further.

"...you're...my intruder?" she slowly sounds out. "How did you...why are you here?"

Sky's remaining brain cell has long fizzled out by now, so he sputters at first before he exclaims back;

"Me?? I came here looking for you! You didn't show for our sauna meet! Where in Equestria have you been?!"

Cogs seem to turn in his friend's head for a few seconds before realization settles in.

"Oh." She murmurs, blinking owlishly at him. "That...yes. You're right. I...oh..."

More beats of silence pass. Sky shifts uncomfortably in the ribbons' grasp. Before he can even ask, the motion has Dream breaking out of her stupor. As if just realizing the state he's in, dismay flickers across her face. And yet she lets out a laugh, one he can only describe as stressed in this context.

"Oh Celestia, what a horrible...horrible misunderstanding!"

With a blue spark of her horn, Skychaser watches as the magical ribbons begin to shimmer and dissolve away, gently lowering him down as they do. He turns his head about at the rather pretty display, with sparkles left behind in the spell's wake before those dissolve in thin air too. Skychaser doesn't get to admire for long as he clumsily has to catch himself with his front hooves those final few inches to the floor.

He shoots her a perplexed look, but he doesn't think she sees it, because she's too busy aiming a secondary laugh at the floor. In his gut, he has the distinct impression that she doesn't actually find this humorous. Not with the way her shoulders have gone rigid.

"I am...so terribly sorry, Skychaser. I genuinely thought someone had broken into my house and...well, I was prepared for a confrontation!"

"I noticed!" he wheezes out, half-exasperated, half-jokingly. "You also look ready to shoot lasers out of your eyes, and I nearly peed myself because of it."  

Dream winces, then squeezes her eyes and sets her horn sparking blue again. When she reopens them - thank God - her actual pupils have returned. The spectrum of colors in them are discernable again too - downcast, he discovers that the azure in her irises appears more pronounced. Or maybe it's the low lighting.

"They say intimidation leaves an impression," she quips, the corner of her mouth barely quirking up. She's still not looking at him. "Guess it worked, huh?"

Sky mouth pulls down into a deep frown, his gaze roaming over his friend. Dream's blue mane is unusually unkempt from what he's used to. The mare's form hasn't even moved an inch from its tight, almost closed off stance in the past minute or two - a significant contrast to the conversational cadence of her voice.  

He doesn't think he's ever seen Dream so...physically withdrawn before. In a way, it was understandable in the aftermath of what's looking more and more like one very awkward, very startling mix-up. But it's also not like she hurt him.

"Hey, Dreamers, it's okay. You freaked me out, sure, but I'm WAY more relieved to see you. I was starting to think something serious happened."

Shortly afterward, Dream finally meets his eye, but only to offer a sad smile.

"I apologize for that! It seems I just..."

"Overslept?" Sky grins humorously, only to pause when Dream's expression dips into guilty. "Wait what?"

"I'd only meant to close my eyes for an hour or two at most-" she confesses, glancing up towards her stairs. "-and take a short rest before meeting up. But the murky weather must have lulled me." A chuckle bubbles out of her and she shakes her head. "I think my sleepy haze made me forget everything else once a 'threat' entered the picture. But that's no excuse. I won't let something this careless happen again, I promise."

Sky rubs his forehead. Not because he has a headache, but because the small puzzle pieces he now possesses are struggling to mash together. "So...you were actually upstairs? This whole time?"

Dream nods. "Yes, I woke up when..." Her eyes trail over towards the front door.

She goes quiet. Almost as soon as that answer fades out, another question begins. "....Sky, how did you get in anyway?"

"Your door was unlocked...?" he provides, letting the question in his tone voice his own confusion. "Which I thought was weird."

Dream answers with a short, disbelieving laugh. "Oh wowy! Seems I didn't lock it behind me when I got the mail today..." she breathes out a sigh. "I'm glad you got out of the storm, but I'll need to be more mindful."

Mail.

An opening presents itself to him. A way to find answers and ease tension, he hopes, as his buried intrigue and curiosity rises from the depths.

"Hey, don't sweat it! But I gotta say...that was a preeetty cool trick you did back there," A knowing grin spreads across his face, and he leans his head forward with a conspirational whisper. "Miss Wizard~"

Dreamaria doesn't respond right away. It takes her one steady beat before she slowly turns her head back towards him.

A blank stare greets him.

"...what?"

"You're a Wizard, Dreamy!" he chirps, bouncing between his hooves. "Congratulations! Even I couldn't believe it when I spotted your letter, but all that fancy-shmancy magic you did sure confirms it." He taps his hoof to his chin, humming playfully. "It sounds like you've had a bunch of snazzy spells up your sleeve for a while! Why'd you never-"

He's so lost in his giddy mental world of excitement and thrill that he almost misses the way Dream stiffens. Almost.

Because her smiles are gone now.

"You...read my letter."

It's less of a question and more a statement she's allowing to sink in. Caught off guard by her abrupt monotonous tone, he finds himself self-conscious in his reply.

"Yeah it was...lying on the counter, and I thought it could be a...clue...but um..."

With each word, Sky begins to recognize the breach of privacy he had committed and how weak of an excuse he really had to snoop on a clearly personal letter. Even if it felt justified at the time. It's his turn to wince guiltily. "Yeah no that...sounds pretty bad actually."

Dream doesn't react, gazing back vacantly in a way she's never done before. It makes him retract a hoof, an uncomfortable knot forming in his stomach. "...Dream?"

She inhales, almost painstakingly slow and deep. The breath is held for a few seconds longer.

Then, after an exhale that's just as prolonged, the smallest smile ghosts across her muzzle.

"I see. You were worried and it just kind of happened. Right? I'm the one who left it out and created this whole mess. So really, it's my own fault."

What? Sky insistently shakes his head. "No way, it's your house. I should've held off...I'm sorry."

Dream reaches out to touch his shoulder, smiling sweetly. "Apology accepted! What's done is done, eh~?"

Uncertainty lingers despite himself; to think he managed to elicit that response, out of Dream, which made it undeniably that much more nervewracking. Regardless, Skychaser wills himself to relax.

How Dream can consistently be that quick to forgive will remain out of his realm of understanding. Good thing, too...he didn't think he could handle impairing one of his most cherished friendships all because of his own ever-present idiocy.

"...can I ask...??"

Sky's a little dubious on where to put his footing down from here, but he trusts Dream enough to be forthright with him about where her lines lie. Thankfully the corners of the mare's eyes crinkle back cordially.

"Yes, Sky?" she invites.

"...does that mean you're like that one guy?" He leans back in, side-mumbling to her. "Star Whirl the Bearded or whatever-"

Dream laughs, loud and hearty. "OH, heavens no! Starswirl was an arcane prodigy. I'm nothing like that." Dream Flow turns away from Sky to walk towards her front door. Curious, Skychaser follows after her. "In fact, despite what that letter claims, I'm not a Wizard."

"What?" Sky laughs out, shooting the back of her head a doubtful raise of his brow. "But they gave you-"

She smiles back at him over her shoulder, serenely closing her eyes and shaking her head.

"I'm not a Wizard. Being a Wizard suggests that I'm some grand expert who plays with different fields of magic for a living! I'm just an Emotion Counselor who happens to have some extra prior study on the side." For some reason she begins to glide an absentminded hoof against the carved wood of the doorframe. "Reinsford legally naming me their pet Wizard doesn't change that."

...pet? "Now excuse me for a second!" Dream says, aiming her horn towards the entrance. "I really need to reset this before the mental buzzing gives me a headache."

Her horn illuminates - an odd mismatch of bright blue with tinges of her magic's usual orange - and Skychaser gapes as the unassuming decorative markings carved into the door's wooden frame begin to light up brightly, one by one, until it's covered with these glowing elaborate lines and shapes completely unfamiliar to the pegasus. Dream turns back to him, coaxing him with a nudge of her head towards the display.

"If you don't mind, Skychaser, could you please touch one of these runes? If I add in your magic signature, we won't have to worry about another silly mishap."

Sky has literally no idea what any of that means. But Dream looks composed and attentive, so he follows her instructions. This "rune" he touches brightens, casting a warm halo of white light around his hoof. Then it all fades away, dimming the room back to just Dreamaria's light spell.

He glimpses at the unicorn and takes in the unexpectedly soft way she's looking at him.

"...thank you for trusting me." She expresses with warmth, placing a hoof over her chest in some form of relief.

"I mean yeah, always, but that was...?"

Dream perks up. There's a playfulness to her demeanor as she casually shrugs.

"A magical alarm. Just in casies. You activated my runes when you walked in," she giggles. "That's what alerted me and woke me up! But now that I've included you into the formula, you're my trusted exception. No more false alarms if something like this manages to happen again."

Okay. Sky's mind is officially boggled.

"Wait, so you're over here trying to convince me that you're NOT a Wizard-" He gestures incredulously at the door. "But you can do crazy shit like that?!"

Her ears twitch back, enough to catch his attention. Just like that, she's back to averting her gaze.

"Ah...this isn't as complicated as it looks, actually!" Dream defends cheerfully, strain returning to the smile she's wearing. "The initial set up was more tedious if anything. But I appreciate the compliment!"

With that, she strides away from the front door and back into the house, presumably towards her kitchen. However, her attitude regarding the subject bugs him. It's not like he knows much about unicorn history and titles and whatnot, but still...

"I thought being called a Wizard would be like...the highest honor for a unicorn or something." He scratches his head, a little embarrassed over his own lack of knowledge. "So I guess I'm not getting why you're..."

"Being called a wizard is a compliment to a unicorn's abilities." Dream supplies for him, slowing her gait to a halt. She turns her head without facing him, choosing to speak into the air instead. "Being named a Wizard is different...just something silly they began labeling me one day." More jovial laughter shakes her shoulders. "It was a little much! So Ponyville became my home of choice."

Despite her light-hearted, almost whimsical tone, Sky's ability to read body language doesn't fail him. He sees tension retake her frame.

"So you don't want to be one." Sky notes with a frown, eyebrows pulled back. Hooves clacking against the hardwood floor, he stops just beside her to brush a soothing wing against her shoulder; something he realizes he's never had to do, because comfort has only ever been given the other way around. "Too much pressure?" He prompts quietly.

Dream Flow is staring off, a distant look on her face. There's a slight shift to her jaw.

"I...don't have time to..."

She's deep in thought. Contemplative. Choosing her words carefully as she lowers her head to one side.

"...humor their fantasy of me."

A tense silence follows, along with a creeping feeling of personal familiarity. Sky tries to work a response through his mind, but he doesn't get enough time to when Dream's gently pushing his wing away and beaming up at him. "But never mind that. This weather must be doing things to me. It's not like me to put a damper on the mood! I've never been the biggest fan of rain."

"It's not a damper..." Sky tries, because really, when has Dream ever opened up to him like this? It's never even crossed his mind that she even had things to open up about, as stupid as that was.

But it's clear to him that Dream's finished, with the way she holds up a hoof and how the curve of her lips eases. "I wouldn't want anypony getting the wrong idea about me here either, actually. So I hope we can keep this between us? No more ‘Dream the Magical Wizard'?"

Dream drops her pitch a few decimals just to exaggerate the title, and it's so out of the blue that it wins her a short laugh from him. "Of course." Sky answers without hesitation. If she's shared all she's willing to, enough to return to her usual self, he won't push it. That's how she's always been when it came to him, after all. "You're just 'Dreamers the Dork" to me."

A grin breaks across Dream's face at that. "I like that better, actually."

"Ooooh no, don't say that, or else I'll start greeting you like that. Everywhere we go."

Dream giggles and continues her trek to the kitchen with Sky in tow. He now sees that she's heading towards that little area directly beneath her stairway; a side room to her kitchen used for her laundry appliances.

...memory swears that the folding doors to this room were closed earlier.

"Okay, let's fix this..." she hums and steps into the crowded space, leaving Sky standing at the threshold. He never identified it until now, writing it off as some random metallic plate on the back wall, but Dream Flow snaps it open and reveals it to be a door to a breaker box.

Confused, he's about to stop what should've been a futile attempt at bringing back power, but just like that, Dream flicks the top-most switch and the house comes back to life around him. Light refills the room, the microwave lets out a beep of relief, and Sky meanwhile is whipping his head back and forth between the main room and Dream herself.

"Wait, I thought the storm took out the power, how did you??"

"Oh, no." Dream grins sheepishly, gesturing towards the circuit breaker behind her. "That was all me."

Oh, how the surprises never cease with her. When did she even get downstairs to pull this stunt on him?

Well, she could teleport. But even that made noise. How he never heard her even once is-

Oh. Thunder.

"This was...one elaborate plan, Dream."

"That's true. But when you've never lived alone before, you sort of...end up a little paranoid." Dream rubs her foreleg shyly. "I saw lights on downstairs, sensed someone I couldn't even see walking around, and had no clue what they wanted. Naturally I assumed a break-in, so I took the necessary precautions to keep safe and take action."

If Sky didn't feel bad earlier, he's certainly feeling it now.

"Damn...didn't mean to scare ya, sis."

"That goes for two of us..." Dream Flow sighs dramatically. "Causing fear in you...I'd never wish for that again."

"Hey, I'm just glad it wasn't anything paranormal!" Sky exclaims, backing up to let Dream join him in the actual kitchen. When she does, though, she turns her head towards her appliances.

"...oh. Well this is embarrassing." She says, looking straight at one of her sticky notes. "These were meant to be private, but wow does this explain why my 'intruder' was so entertained by my kitchen."

Skychaser snickers. "Hey, I for one appreciated your wise words. I think it's cute that you're messing around with affirmations yourself."

Speaking of...that reminds him.

"I was wondering, Dream," Sky motions his head back towards the very space their face-off had played out. "What's that room by the stairs? I thought it was a coat closet, but..."

He trails off, wondering if Dream will catch on.

"Oh, that? That's just my private study! I've stored a bunch of very personal memories from Reinsford in there." She smiles. "I take it you read my note. It's basically a little reminder for myself to keep moving forward."

Ah. Move on from a town of expectations? That made enough sense to him. And he sure was glad all of the wild threads tonight were finally ending with answers.

"And like everything else, I can only guess that creepy orange glow was you too?" he teases. "I only got a glimpse, but it definitely was a distraction before everything broke loose."

Dream doesn't say anything at first, as if waiting for him to continue or deliver some punch line. When he doesn't elaborate she gives him an inquiring eyebrow raise and a tilt of her head. "Wait, what glow?"

Sky stops. Just in case, he searches Dream's face, but she looks sincerely clueless.

"The...one inside the study?" He provides, hoping for any sign of recognition. "Something was glowing, but it was faint and I couldn't see anything."

Dream looks taken aback. Eyes darting sharply towards the door in question, she gives it one disbelieving look.

"'Glowing'...?" she whispers breathily, and the goosebumps that had long faded away are now returning to Skychaser's pelt. He blanches.

"Oh Gods it wasn't you..." Sky tugs at his hair and makes some sort of makeshift curtain to hide half of his face behind. "Oh Gods, what was that then?!"

Dream's multi-colored orbs snap back to him. "A-ah! Well-" her voice carries a slight tremor, one she catches and visibly swallows down (as if that'll hide how she's just as freaked out as he is, she's not fooling him). Then she laughs it off, giving him a playful grin. "It's probably not ghosts?"

"Probably?!"

"It's more likely some old runic project of mine! Responding to the electrical energy in the storm." She waves her hoof towards the ceiling. On cue, a rumble of thunder reaches them. "Elemental conversion and all!"

"Lady, I still don't get your magic talk, but if you say so..." He heaves out a breath. "Anything but ghosts...or dead bodies."

Dream gives him a quizzical look at that last comment, but apparently decides against asking. "Well hey! You know what'll lighten the mood?" Dream claps her hooves together, eyes glittering now. "The storm won't stop for another hour or two. So it's time for me to begin making it up to you, starting with a movie night! I still have popcorn in the cupboard and plenty of soda~"

Sky squints at her from behind his mane-wall.

"...'Dogs Don't Dance'?"

"A classic." Dream nods sagely.

"And you'll restock your dang empty freezer first thing?"

"Whoops...don't worry! I'll stop slacking and do that tomorrow~"

Skychaser carries himself to the DVD storage shelf her television sits on. It's thankfully on the literal opposite side of the room from Dream's private study, a place he's sure he'll now associate with tension and spooks after the events of the day. Keeping away is proobably for the best, especially right now. Because reassured or not, the pegasus doesn't think he'll be completely shaking off his jitters tonight. A scary movie would probably do him in at this point.  

Dream must be experiencing something similar, because after tapping the popcorn setting on her microwave, he sees her lean against the counter and restlessly gaze off towards that very door behind him. Warding off any surprise demons with her magic stare, he hopes.

But enough jokes. He leaves Dream to it, turning his full undivided attention on the vital task of sifting through DVD cases and finding his favorite comfort movie of jiving animated dogs. They both probably need it.

_________________________________________________________ This...this is a dense chapter and I'm kind of living.

I'm so curious to know what theories and thoughts people have drawn from it, so don’t be afraid to hyper-analyze. Nothing brings me greater joy... I recently fell in love with a few different writing styles and decided to play around with it myself here! I had a lot of fun with it, HEHEH. These probably constitute a whole separate lore upload, but for now, below will be a list of headcanons on Wizards in Destinyverse! For those interested!

-----------------------

Wizard/Sorcerer/Sorceress are all synonymous and are used based on preference. “Wizard” is the go-to gender-neutral term of the three.

The title of “Wizard” has altered throughout time. In pre-Equestrian days, when the Unicorns were all competing to understand magic and develop their power and prestige, the original Unicorn Royal Family were quick to employ the most powerful and innovative mages as advisors. These were the first Wizards - they were gifted high societal status and became the first nobles, whose wealthy descendants still live in the uppercrust of Canterlot to this day.

Thereafter, Wizardry became a profession that certified one’s expertise and allowed a unicorn to work alongside the most prestigious spellcasters and researchers (sometimes working for the crown, but not always). Aspiring Wizards then only earned their own title if they were lucky enough to have their talents acknowledged by the royal family  (in the special case of the mighty prodigy Starswirl himself), or by the authority of an existing Wizard (ie. the sorcerer Clover the Clever, first student of Starswirl the Bearded).

After the three pony tribes integrated into one society (and the Unicorn Royal Family abdicated for the reign of Celestia and Luna), unicorns stepped up in villages all across Equestria to offer magical consultation and arcane services to their fellow ponies. From time to time, an especially studied specialist with a wide range of knowledge would prove their skill or accomplish an incredible feat; thus began the practice of local governments certifying their very own Village Wizard for townsfolk to go to for any magical needs. Not all Village Wizards dedicated themselves to one singular town; in fact, it was considered an honor for a village’s Wizard to proudly represent their town and aid others across Equestria.

The decline of spellcrafting and spellcasting over the centuries has led to Wizards being few and far between. The desire to pass down arcane knowledge still exists, as seen with Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns; so these days, only those with a thirst for knowledge (or even rarer, the desire to pursue arcane advancement) study magic. Even fewer who graduate Celestia's school have gone on to become Wizards, either becoming professors at the princess' school or private tutors of upper-class Canterlot.

The modern Wizard is now defined as a certified practitioner of multiple fields of magic who is consulted for arcane services and/or researches for the sake of arcane advancement. Famous present day Wizards include!

Mage Meadowbrook and Mistmane (both once designated sorceresses of their respective villages). Meadowbrook was the very first non-unicorn to become a mage, and then named Sorceress for her potion-making and item-enchantments.

Starlight Glimmer (sorceress; professor at Twilight’s School of Friendship and occasional aid for Uni-Tech)

Sunset Shimmer (sorceress; royal scientist; founder of Uni-Tech who works for societal advancements in magitech)

Sunburst escapes the definition by a thin hair, due to not being an actual spellcaster or crafter. But he is a valuable magic advisor with his keen mind, and a proud member of Uni-Tech.

[animalkingdom-an0nymous]

Cruel Summer

Disclaimer: No gifs or photos are mine unless stated otherwise.

Warning: It’s a smutty, filthy, NSFW Tom Holland AU and he just can’t seem to keep his hands off his best friend’s sister. No. Really. It’s a problem for both of them.

Subject: Tom X Y/N

"Why can't you watch the beach house, Jordan?" I asked my brother with my phone tucked between my ear and shoulder, wet dishes in between my palms.

"Because you live closer, you don't have a toddler running around, and you got out of doing it last time."

"Bringing JJ into this is low, even for you. Scumbag." I laughed, not serious in the slightest.

Jordan was two years younger than me but was probably more put together than I'd ever be. He ran his own construction company, had a beautiful wife, and had given me the greatest gift I'd ever known; my nephew, JJ.

Staying at the beach house was far from a hardship, but there was a storm coming and based on the news reports it was going to get ugly. Mom and dad wanted someone there to keep an eye on things and they were getting a bit too old to handle the responsibility of tending to the beach house on their own. I didn't blame them, and I didnt blame Jordan, he was right. I did live closer, but I was also looking forward to spending this weekend's storm curled up in bed watching old Audrey Hepburn movies and eating my weight in Pizzeria Regina. My phone was gonna be on airplane mode, absolutely no disturbances. Maybe a few orgasms, a little porn.

But even as I was scrubbing dishes and getting ready for my relaxing weekend, I knew I'd soon be packing a bag and getting in my car to head to the beach. Shit. “Fine. Fine. I’ll head out soon, but if this storm turns out to be nothing I am returning your birthday present and you’re responsible for mom and dad’s anniversary dinner.”

“If you really want to trust your dear brother in the kitchen then that’s your fault.”

I laughed, drying my hands with a towel before grabbing the phone. “Jordan, can you promise me one thing?”

“What’s that, Y/N?”

“Promise to give that kid the biggest kiss for me. Leila, too.”

“Thank you for not stealing him away!” My sister-in-law’s voice traveled through the phone like a song, her Japanese accent soft.

“Love you both. Stay safe tonight.”

“Text me when you get there.”

I ended the call, tossing my phone on the bed and quickly rummaging through my closet. Thunder rumbled in the distance and the tv could be heard faintly from the living room, alerting me to the weather report. Sixty mile per hour winds, flash floods, possibility of power outages, and a storm warning was already in effect.

I quickly yanked on a pair of denim shorts and an old UMass hoodie, the maroon material worn and comfortable, and definitely not mine. There may have been a storm rolling in but the summer air was thick with humidity, so all I grabbed as alternatives were a bathing suit, another pair of shorts, and a t-shirt, tucking the materials into my backpack along with my toothbrush and phone charger.

Within minutes I was packed and ready to go, pulling the hood over my head and catching the familiar scent of someone I hadn’t seen in a while. Or, maybe it was less of a scent and more of a memory. Shrugging it away, I locked the door and bounded to my car just as the first few drops of rain began to fall.

Music flowed through the speakers as I took back roads towards the coast, something tugging at my heart a bit as I thought of the last time I’d been at the beach house. My parents, Jordan, Leila, JJ.

Tom.

I rolled my shoulders, trying to relax as an old song came on.

Fuck this. I turned the radio down, alone with my thoughts. I hadn’t allowed myself to think about Tom since the last time I saw him, since I said too much. It wasn’t a hookup, it was nothing more than a conversation. Which was fine, Tom and I were friends. Sort of. Not really. He was my brother’s friend, his best friend. And that was it.

But that didn’t mean I wasn’t sitting there suddenly drowning in thoughts about our last encounter, both of us out on the back deck long after everyone had gone to sleep, the first real conversation we’d ever had in our adult lives. I hadn’t seen him in nearly two years when we were both still in college, Tom at UMass Amherst while I attended USC. He’d moved from London to the States with his family when he was thirteen, making fast friends with Jordan and becoming like a part of the family. He was around on holidays, weekends, he practically lived at our house during the summer. He would drink my orange juice and bother me while I tried to read. I’d known him when he was annoying and pimple faced, when he was an absolute dick to anyone who wasn’t JJ, when he was going off to college. Tom had been a major part of my childhood, my formative years.

He was also the biggest player I had ever met.

From an early age he knew that girls were drawn to the accent. He used it to his advantage, had girls hanging off his every word. I’d seen his social media, saw him shirtless on beaches with different girls, in clubs with different girls, in dorm rooms with different girls. I wasn’t jealous, but only because I’d known him for years. However, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious about the hype.

From the day I met him, I knew Tom Holland was trouble.

But that night, long after everyone had gone to sleep and we were two bottles of wine deep, something shifted. Maybe it was the topic of conversation, maybe it was the way the late June breeze wrapped around us, maybe it was the fucking wine. But something changed that night.

But that was two months ago.

We hadn’t spoken since.

I shook my head, telling myself to stay focused on the road, on the drive. I could still have the peaceful weekend I wanted, if only I could turn my brain off for just a bit.

I was pulling into the driveway of the beach house forty five minutes later and the rain was coming down in buckets. It was flying sideways, splashing against the car hard enough that I couldn’t see out the windshield. Thunder boomed overhead and it felt as though it was straight out of a movie.

I yanked my hood up once more and killed the engine, gripping my backpack and holding it against my chest as I looked at the house. The two story, wood shingled home was every bit the beach cottage. It was located right on a dead end, a path leading straight down to the beach.

The lights were off, the furniture on the porch scattered from the wind. I knew I’d have my work cut out for me if I needed to make sure everything was secure, so without thinking twice, I threw open the driver’s side door and jumped out, the broken shells in the driveway crunching under my sneakers. I made a beeline for the side door, running up the steps and throwing open the storm door as the wind howled around me, A regular thunderstorm was bad enough. A summer storm? It could leave the house flooded.

Unlocking the door, I threw myself inside and slammed it behind me, leaning back and catching my breath as the silent stillness of the house settled around me. Thanks to modern technology, I turned the central air on before I got there, so the air was cool against my bare legs.

I went through the motions and turned some lights on, made sure the basement was shut with bags of sand by every entrance to soak up any flood water or other leaks. The fridge was empty, but I wasn’t hungry anyway. I knew I’d disappear up to my room with a bottle of wine and Netflix on my mind soon enough, I just needed to make-

Headlights bounced off the living room walls, a sign that someone had just pulled into the driveway. Surely it wasn’t my parents, they both hated driving in the rain, and it couldn’t have been Jordan, unless he was so concerned by the weather that he felt compelled to drive over an hour to check on me.

I quickly pulled my phone out of my back pocket. No missed calls or texts. Oh, so you’re saying it’s a murderer? My mind was quickly going into overdrive, covering all the possibilities of who would be there to murder me and what I could use as a weapon to defend myself. But hey, could you blame me? Twenty five years old and alone during a storm, 20/20 basically already had that episode mapped out for me.

A car door slammed shut.

Shells were being crunched under shoes.

Pounding footsteps up the side stairs. A shadow appeared on the other side of the door and my heart leaped into my chest. I was more than prepared to call the police when I heard the familiar sound of a key being inserted into a lock. I was standing in the doorway of the living room when the side door swung open, revealing someone I most certainly wasn’t expecting to see.

“I… Tom?”

He was squinting, his face and hair soaked by the onslaught of rain outside. “Y/N? What are you doing here?”

It was evident that he was just as surprised to see me as I was to see him. Tom’s accent seemed to thicken when he was angry or confused, and right now he seemed to be a mix of both.

I took in his appearance, trying not to be too obvious. He was wearing dark washed jeans and a pair of black Nikes, a simple black hoodie over a plain white t-shirt. Completely fucking effortless and still the most good looking guy in a fifty mile radius. His brown curls were matted to his forehead and he pushed them back, running his fingers through the thick trusses.

“What are you doing here?” The words came out accusatory and I cleared my throat. Relax. You’ve been in this house with him plenty of times before. “Are you... is there a girl in your car or something?”

“What?” Tom scrubbed a hand over his face, still clearly shocked and confused. “What do you- Jesus, no. You think I’d bring a girl back to your parents’ beach house, Y/N?” He finally looked at me, drops of water still catching on his long lashes. “You think I’d- hey, my jumper.”

“What?” I responded before looking down. Fuck. Me. Sideways. I was still wearing the UMass hoodie, the same UMass hoodie he’d given me last time I saw him. “Oh! Yeah, I… I brought it back to my place with me. And then Jordan called me and asked me to come here and it was right by the door, so I figured I’d… you know, bring it back here and… leave it… for you?” I was making it sound like a question.

Why was I making it sound like a question?

Are you having a fucking stroke? I asked myself as Tom blinked at me a few times, saying nothing. Lightning struck outside, momentarily blinding me as the lights flickered. Damn, losing power meant no Netflix. No Netflix meant Y/N’s chill weekend was about to go to shit. Technically, it already did because I 1) wasn’t even in my own home and 2) no longer feeling chill thanks to one british Tom.

“Jordan asked you to come?”

“Yeah, why?”

He looked around, peeking out the window. “Your parents called me and asked if I’d come make sure the house was secure.”

My parents? I was confused. Jordan specifically called me and asked me to go because he couldn’t. Why would my parents call Tom? Questions were flying through my head and I was already shrugging out of the hoodie, suddenly feeling like the material was too heavy, like I was drowning in it.

I held it out to him as he turned to face me again. “He probably didn’t call them to let them know I was coming, you know how he is.”

Tom smiled then, revealing straight white teeth. “Your brother’s a space cadet.”

That smile had my stomach doing backflips and I ached to calm down. It never used to be like this with him. He was cute, yes. Very. He was charming. He had nice looking hands. But he was Tom. He was Jordan’s Tom. He was the same Tom who fucked Missy Turner under the bleachers at the Homecoming game and the same Tom who let Rochelle Adams suck him off in the janitor’s closet during school. He was that Tom.

So why was I looking at him like he was Netflix and I’d had a long ass day?

I realized I was still staring, not saying anything. “I’m sorry you had to come all the way out here. We can kill Jordan, if you want. I feel like that’s good payback?”

Tom nodded, still smiling and playing along. “Yeah, we could. But then Leila would do away with us and I’m far too handsome to die this young.”

“True.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and jerked his chin at me. “And you… you have more of my jumpers to steal.”

I cocked my head to the side. “I didn’t steal it. If I remember correctly, you offered it to me.”

“I did.”

I was still holding the hoodie out to him. “Here.”

He made no move to grab it, hands still in his pockets. “Keep it. Looks better on you anyway.”

My stomach dropped and I found myself speechless. “I… you sure?”

He nodded. “Yeah, no worries.”

I nodded my head, heat flooding my face as I looked down. What the fuck was going on with me? I didn’t act shy, not around other guys and definitely not around Tom. During college, I finally found my confidence sexually and I took hold of that. I was not the shy girl.

“Do you want to head out before the weather gets really bad?” I asked him

.As if on cue, thunder cracked loudly overhead, releasing a loud boom followed by flashes of lightning. The lights flickered again and Tom met my eyes across the room, blinking those chocolate pools at me. “I don’t think I’m going anywhere, darling.”

His voice was quiet, almost too quiet. I could have sworn I could hear the waves crashing against the shore, or maybe it was the blood rushing in my ears. We stood, staring at each other for a moment, and I opened my mouth to speak when there was a loud crash at the back of the house.

I jumped with a yelp, my heart slamming against my ribcage. “What the fuck was that?”

Tom moved past me, absentmindedly reaching out to touch my arm as he went. “Stay here, I’ll be back.”

Um, that’s what people say right before they murdered. Even though I had come to terms with the fact that I was irrational, I wasn’t going to take any risks. Turning, I followed close behind him, catching the earthy, musky scent of his soap. Or, was it his laundry detergent? I didn’t know, but I enjoyed it. He smelled woodsy, warm. Safe.

Back the fuck up I cleared my throat, telling myself not to look at the way the material of his jacket stretched across his shoulders. There was a small crash again as we made our way to the back door.

“It’s a shutter.” He laughed and opened the window, screaming wind filling my ears as he grabbed the shutter and slammed it, closing the window. Turning, he had a smug smirk on his face. “You’re a big baby.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “No, I’m not.”

He started to laugh, tilting his head back. “You screamed like a banshee.”

I flipped him off before turning my back on him, retreating as his laughter followed. “You’re a dick.”

My response only made him laugh harder.

Everything in the house seemed to be in order. The windows were shut and locked, the basement was set. The only thing that needed to be brought in was the outdoor furniture, but we needed the rain to let up a bit first.

When I walked back down the stairs after checking the second floor, Tom was rummaging through the kitchen. Seeing him there immediately brought me back to that night, the intimate conversation, the almost.

TWO MONTHS AGO

My parents had gone to bed nearly an hour ago and I was in my room listening to an old Rolling Stones record. Jordan was somewhere, possibly in his room with Leila and JJ, or possibly drinking down on the beach with Tom. It was one of the first weekends at the beach house, one of the first weekends of summer, and the air wasn’t thick yet. There was a breeze floating through the open windows and everything felt warm. New. The summer solstice was upon us and I lived for family weekends at the beach.

Funny thing about family weekends? Tom was there almost every single time.

“You’re still up?” I asked his back as I entered the kitchen, watching as he struggled to uncork a bottle of wine. He was wearing black basketball shorts and his old UMass hoodie, somehow still looking like an ad for an Abercrombie summer collection.

Tom sighed in defeat, slamming the bottle down on the granite countertop before answering me with a huff. “First weekend here and your brother’s already in bed.”

“Dad life.” I said with a laugh.

Tom smiled at the mention of our godchild. The day Jordan and Leila asked us to be godparents I’d been so emotional I cried for nearly an hour and, though I knew he wouldn't admit it if pressed, Tom was emotional about it, too.

“I love that little monster.”

I reached out, taking the bottle and finessing the cork for a moment before it finally released with a soft pop. “Jesus, Tom, you need to be slow with her. Gentle.” I chided as I reached into the cabinet, producing two glasses.

He took the bottle in a wide palm, tilting it to fill a glass before passing it to me. “I don’t know, she doesn’t like it too gentle.”

I rolled my eyes even as I felt my heart speed up. “Are we still talking about wine, or has the conversation moved to your latest conquest?”

Tom put a hand over his heart and threw his head back as if he’d been shot. “For your information, there hasn’t been a so called conquest in over a month.”

I feigned shock. “Over a month? Tommy, are you feeling alright?”

I was still laughing, but Tom paused to glare at me for using his little nickname. He hated being called Tommy and always had, but for whatever reason he never corrected me, never told me not to call him that. He’d glare, sure, but he never told me to stop.

“Feeling just fine, love.” He took a sip of the cool white wine, his brown eyes looking at me over the delicate crystal glass he held. “Fancy going outside for a bit?”

We were the only two left awake. I could faintly hear the pitter patter of feet upstairs as Jordan or Leila hushed a crying JJ, and then looked at Tom. “Yeah, let’s go.”

And that’s how we ended up on the back porch, the sound of the sea crashing against the shoreline as a soundtrack for our conversation. The wind had picked up but other than that the world was silent. It was just the two of us, and after not seeing each other for so long it felt like there was a million things to catch up on, yet I didn’t know where to start. I could ask him about graduation or what it was like to live in a big city, but in the grand scheme of things did those questions really matter? Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the atmosphere. But I wanted to know about Tom, about how he was doing, how his life was. If he was happy.

If he was single.

The thought was fleeting yet it caught me off guard nonetheless. I had no reason for caring if Tom was single, but there I was wondering if he was. He had changed over the two years I was away, his eyes sharper, his jaw more defined and making him look older. Still five eight but no longer the skinny boy he used to be. There was more definition to his arms, his chest a bit more puffed up. I took in the breadth of his shoulders and the slope of his neck, too caught up in staring at him to notice that he was actually speaking to me.

“What did you say?”

He laughed, leaning back in his chair. “Daydreamer. Are you listening to me at all?”

I shook my head. “I’m sorry!” I laughed, draining my glass and then reaching for the bottle. “This wine goes right to my head. I’m all ears, what were you saying?”

He grabbed the bottle from me, refilling his own glass. “I was asking you about being home. Are you and… Bryan… Bobby… doing the long distance thing?”

“His name is Ben, and no.”

Tom snapped his fingers and pointed at me. “Ben! That’s right, Boring Ben.”

I wanted to defend my newest ex, but I couldn’t. He truly was one of the most boring, insufferable people I’d ever been around. We dated for the last two years of college, maybe out of convenience, or maybe because it was because I’d gotten comfortable. People assumed we would get married, but the thought of walking down the aisle to him made me sick to my stomach. We literally had nothing to talk about, his friends didn’t like me, and the sex was mediocre at best, leaving me disappointed with myself for getting so comfortable that I was settling for bad sex.

I took a sip of my wine, looking down at the glass for a moment.

“I… what did you just say, love?”

I furrowed my eyebrows, confused.

“Did you just say that you settled for bad sex with Boring Ben?”

What? What? It was quite possibly the biggest mistake I’d ever made, saying those words aloud. But it all honesty I didn’t think I’d said anything. I wasn’t drunk, definitely not drunk enough to make that sort of slip.

I was mortified.

My eyes widened as I looked at Tom. My face and ears felt hot and I tried to sputter out an apology. “Holy shit. Tom, listen, I didn’t mean to say any of that out loud. I-”

“Stop.”

I paused, my heart hammering in my chest. He leaned forward slightly, placing his glass on the table as he regarded me seriously. “You didn’t mean to say any of it out loud. But you were thinking about the bad sex you settled for?”

I took in his words and felt my face heat even more. It sounded pathetic, embarrassing, but I was so focused on school that the relationship had taken more of a backseat. It was nice to have someone at the holidays and during family and university events. It was nice to not feel so alone in California while my friends and family were three thousand miles away. It was all… nice. Convenient. Words that shouldn’t always be associated when regarding a relationship.

But it was my truth. Ben was boring, I was settling, we got stuck.

“Can we pretend this never happened?” I blurted the words out, hoping Tom would be agreeable. If he told Jordan they would rag on me for the rest of my life and having to suffer through it now was bad enough.

“I don’t think I can do that, darling.” He was already shaking his head and my stomach was sinking. “Because it breaks my heart that you settled for less.”

I didn’t know what to say, caught off guard by Tom’s soft tone and sweet words. I shouldn’t have zeroed in on him calling me darling, but I couldn’t help it. He’d never done that before.

Ever.

I shivered, not knowing if it was from the breeze or the way he was looking at me, but he noticed. Quirking that one, whacky eyebrow at me, Tom asked, “Are you cold?”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, the wind is picking up.” I rubbed my hands over my arms.

Tom stood, reaching a hand behind his back in between his shoulder blades, pulling his hoodie off. I tried to avert my eyes as the front of his shirt rose, revealing a strip of skin above his shorts. I couldn’t help but stare at the defined V of his hips or notice the way his ab muscles contracted with every movement.

He handed me the sweatshirt with a boyish smile on his face. “Take it. I’m hot anyway.”

You have no idea, I mused silently, thanking him and slipping the material over my head. It was soft, worn, the inside of it felt warm from his body heat. I could feel his eyes on me as I adjusted the material, pulling the hood up so that it framed my face.

“Looks good,” he quipped.

I smiled, taking a very large sip of my wine, thinking I was out of the clear.

“So how bad was it?”

I nearly spit the wine out at the question. “Excuse me?”

“The sex.” He deadpanned. “How bad was it?”

If I was the fainting type I would have been on the deck floor. “Tom, I’m not fucking telling you about my sex life.”

“Sounds like a LACK of a sex life, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t ask you.”

He smiled, but it quickly faded as he regarded me seriously. “Really, Y/N, how bad was it?”

I wanted to blame my honesty on the alcohol or the late hour, but really I think I just wanted someone to talk to. Someone to confide in. Tom may have been an asshole playboy to some, but never to me. Thinking back on it, he may have even been a gentleman to me. Sure, he would annoy me when we were kids and barge into my room without knocking, or he’d go through my purse looking for gum, and there was the time he accidentally ate my birth control thinking it was a mint.

But Tom was also the guy who punched my high school boyfriend in the teeth for dumping me the night before Homecoming. He was also the guy who made an obnoxiously huge sign with Jordan for my graduation. He was that guy.

“It wasn’t… bad.” I found myself starting to open up a bit, pulling at a thread that was sure to unravel if I didn’t stop soon. “It was just routine. It was always the same thing, Ben wasn’t very adventurous. He didn’t like to try things, he hated anything new. He was just…” I took a breath, trying to choose my words carefully. “Set in his ways, I suppose. And that didn’t work for me anymore.”

“So, you ended it?”

I nodded, draining my glass once again. “Yeah, and that was when he showed his true colors.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

I thought back to the breakup. We’d been in Ben’s truck and it was raining. We were parked at a diner that was pretty much in the middle of nowhere. “He confronted me. He knew I was acting weird and he refused to drop it until I told him. I tried to explain that it wasn’t him, that I felt we just weren’t compatible. Ben lost his fucking mind. He was screaming at me about how he had all these plans for us, how I was fucking things up.” I paused, thinking back on the way he looked at me, like I was trash. “He called me a cunt, told me to get out of his car, and then I walked two miles back to my apartment.”

Tom’s eyes widened at my admission. His cheeks were tinted pink and I assumed it was from the booze, but when his mouth pulled into a tight line I realized it was because he was angry. I’d even say he was pissed. “He what?”

“I know, I know, it was a shitty thing for him to do. But the thing is, I’m not even all that upset about it anymore. I finally got to see who he really was and, oddly enough, the only thing I felt on that two mile walk was relief. It was finally over, it was like Ben was my last attachment to California. I could finally come home.”

He was silent for a moment, taking a sip of his wine before speaking. “Do your parents know about what happened with Ben? Does Jordan?”

I shook my head.

“Then why tell me?”

Our eyes met, held. Tom’s face held a look of concern, confusion, and something else. Something I couldn’t quite place. He was leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees as we stared each other down.

“Because honesty comes easier when it’s dark out, Tommy.”

He swallowed, not looking away from me. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my ears, the wine making my lips tingle with the familiar buzz. Everything suddenly felt hot, burning hot, like it was on fire. Like the whole world was about to go up in flames.

Maybe mine was.

“I won’t tell them.”

“I know you won’t.” I reached out, gripping his hand. “You’re a good guy, Tommy.” I gave his hand a quick squeeze, meaning to let go, but then his long digits were wrapping around the back of my hand and it suddenly felt like we were magnets. I couldn’t let him go. His skin was warm, somewhat calloused against the soft skin of my knuckles.

His voice was so soft and quiet when he finally broke the silence, I had to lean in to hear him. “Y/N, what were those things you wanted to try?”

“Huh?” I felt as though I was in a trance.

“You said Boring Ben never wanted to try new things. What were they? He raised his eyebrows expectantly, fingers still stroking over the back of my hand.

It felt like a distraction, a very chaotic, overstimulating distraction. It was the smallest, simplest of movements, but feeling his fingers dance across my skin was hypnotic, and it was only my HAND. But I couldn’t ignore the question and it made my stomach turn. I didn’t want to tell him the things I wanted to do with Ben, the different versions of sex I wanted to explore more of. Sure, I tried things with different people before Ben and I got together, but it had been so long. So long since I got the attention I was craving.

So long since I’d done something reckless and new.

So long since I’d been touched by hands that were actually interested in making me feel more than a grip.“Tom…” I breathed out his name, suddenly overwhelmed. The scent of him was on the sweatshirt I wore and I could feel his knee bump mine as he moved closer.

“Tell me. I can keep a secret, love.” His words were hushed, quiet as he leaned just a little closer, our faces mere inches apart.

“I…” I started, my eyes flickering down to his lips before moving back up. Tom saw the movement, his lips curling slightly. “I wanted… something new.”

“Something new or someone new?” Tom responded.

“I don’t know.” I answered honestly, feeling his fingers tighten around mine.

“I think you do. I think you know exactly what you want, Y/N, you just need to say it.” He leaned even closer, his nose brushing mine, and when I went to back up he brought his free hand around and reached into the sweatshirt, knocking the hood off and cupping the back of my neck, his hand gentle but firm, kneading the soft skin where my neck met my shoulder. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” I gasped, suddenly struggling to breathe, overwhelmed by the sudden turn of events.

“Then tell me what you want. Say it.”

I was so wrapped up in Tom, in the moment, that I didn’t care about anything. Fuck the neighbors, fuck Boring Ben, fuck my family that was literally sleeping only feet away in the house. I wanted Tom. I wanted new. I wanted him to touch me the way he touched the girls who told stories about him. I wanted him to kiss me like he’d die if couldn’t.

“I want y-”

“Y/N? Tom?” a soft, sleepy voice came from just inside the house.

We sprang apart like we’d been electrocuted, Tom standing and walking to the edge of the porch while I pulled the hood back up, trying to look nonchalant and failing beautifully just as Jordan poked his head out from the screen door. “What are you two doing up?”

Tom didn’t answer, still looking out towards the path that led to the beach. “We couldn’t sleep, figured we’d devour a bottle of wine and then crash.” I laughed even though I felt anything but amused, standing up and heading over to the door. “I’m gonna try to sleep, though. I’ll see you both in the morning?” I brushed past Jordan, standing up on my tiptoes to hug him before turning to Tom, who had finally turned around. The look on his face was strained and frustrated, his arms crossed over his broad chest.

God, he was so far from the boy I used to know.

“Goodnight, Tommy.”

PRESENT

“Earth to Y/N.” Tom waved a hand in front of my face, laughing. “You with me?”

I shook my head, pulled out of that very intimate memory. “What? Yeah, sorry. It’s been a long week.” I laughed and tried to play it off like I was fine, but my stomach was turning in knots. We’d both slept under the same roof before, hundreds of times, but now things felt different. Heavy. It was like I’d spilled something last time and there was still a stain that wouldn’t come up no matter how hard I scrubbed.

“You have your pick of bedrooms.” I said casually. “Jordan’s, my parents’, the guest room. Whatever you want.”

Whatever you want. It was an unintentional double entendre, but I noticed the way his eyes darkened slightly.

“Where are you sleeping?”

“My room.” I clarified.

He nodded his head, moving around the center island as he shrugged out of his jacket, throwing it over the back of the couch. “Y/N, can I ask you a question?”I shrugged my shoulders.

“Go for it.”

He looked at me then, his jaw clenched as he braced his hands on the back of the sofa, fingers spread in a way that looked almost vulgar. “Why the fuck are you looking at me like you’re scared I’m going to kill you in your sleep.”

“I’m not.” I started to defend myself, straightening my spine. “I’m just freaked out because of the rain.”

“Bollocks. You’ve loved the rain since we were kids.”

I shook my head, sensing the anger in his tone. “Don’t do this whole angry british thing tonight, Tom. I’m in a mood.”

“Clearly.”I narrowed my eyes at him, my hands balling into fists at my sides. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“My problem?” He huffed at me, his cheeks flushed. “You’re the one who can barely look me in the eye, Y/N. So, you tell me what the problem is.”

“I don’t have a problem.” It was a lie. A blatant lie. But I wanted to move past whatever this was with him. I had to move past it. I couldn’t crush on my brother’s best friend. I read those books. I saw those movies. It would ruin everything.I had finally come home, had finally gotten my old life back. No matter how much I wanted Tom- and believe me, I fucking craved him- I could never have him. He would always be just out of my grasp.Which was a good thing.

“Okay, you don’t have a problem. That means we can discuss what happened last time we were here, yeah?”

I froze, no words coming out of my mouth. He said the words so casually it was as though he was talking about the weather. “I... “ I was struggling, slipping, losing my composure. “I don’t know-”

Tom was shaking his head, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Don’t even fuckin’ say it, Y/N. You know exactly what I’m talking about.” Tom looked at me, eyes blazing. “You wanted it, I know you did. I felt it.”

My breathing was labored as I blinked at him. I had no idea how to respond. I didn’t want to acknowledge what happened, I wanted us to forget it and move on. It was a moment of weakness, it was late.

“It was the wine.” I said quietly. “We were drinking. W-we weren’t thinking straight.”

“It was the wine.” He repeated my words, his arms crossed over his chest as he stared at me. “It was the wine.. That’s a joke, innit?” When I didn’t respond, Tom walked over to me, the tips of his sneakers touching the tips of my bare toes. “The truth is, Y/N, you didn’t drink that much. Neither did I. I knew exactly what I was saying to you and I was sober enough to see your reaction.”

“Tom-”

“Why won’t you be honest with me?” Tom’s voice was so soft it felt like a blanket.

The question felt like a knife to the gut? He was right to be confused. I never had any issue speaking my mind with Tom, with Ben, with anyone. I was opinionated, I said what was on my mind. But I was completely frozen with him. I just couldn’t push the words out of my mouth, couldn’t tell him that all of this was killing me, draining me. I couldn’t be open and honest and tell him that I’d spent the last two months thinking about him. That it never stopped. That the smell of him was haunting me, the feeling of his fingers on my skin was a memory I wanted to drown it. Tom had been in my life for over a decade.

Why now?

As if God was finally on my side for once, we were interrupted by the sound of furniture scraping across both the front and back decks. “My parents are gonna kill me if we lose any of those deck chairs.”

He stared at me for a moment and said nothing, his eyes searching my face. Eventually, he took one step back, seemingly giving up

.I hated the relief that went through me. But more than that, I loathed the disappointment that tugged at my heartstrings. I felt his eyes on me as I walked to the front door, pulling open the door and bursting outside with a deep breath, appreciating the way the rain hit my skin. I needed to cool down.

We were both silent as we got the stuff from the front and put it in the living room, turning the normally spacious room into nothing more than a cramped closet. Then came the back of the house, something that would be more difficult. The furniture was heavier, we had to walk up and down stairs, the thunder was clapping so loud I feared I’d go deaf.

I glanced up at Tom as he bounded down the porch steps. His shirt was completely soaked, the white material now stuck to his skin, nearly transparent. I could make out the tight muscles of his shoulders and the way his back tapered down to a lean waist.

Stop, stop, stop. I was screaming at myself, my feet slipping in my flip flops. I angrily kicked them off and then stormed down the stairs, suddenly furious about the rain and having to come to the beach house, and I was angry at Tom for not leaving well enough alone. More than that though, I was angry at myself for letting any of it happen in the first place.

He was dragging chairs by me when I stopped and wheeled around, facing him. “Why would you go and do this now?” I had to shout to be heard over the rain. “Why couldn’t you just leave it alone?”

Tom paused for a moment, his jaw clenched, rain dripping down his face. Releasing the chairs, he slicked his hair back. “I… I don’t know. Okay, I don’t bloody know, Y/N. I saw you here for the first time in two fucking years, and I missed you. I missed you so fucking much and I didn’t even know it. And then you were here and I couldn’t get enough of you. I wanted to catch up, I wanted to talk. I wasn’t even going to try anything, not that night, but then you mentioned Ben and everything you didn’t do with him, and I just couldn’t help myself. I’m sorry, alright? I am. But I’m not gonna sit here and play this bullshit game with you. You let me in that night and you can’t take it back.”

You let me in that night and you can’t take it back.

His admission left me stunned. He looked vulnerable and honest, the words heartfelt. I knew he meant all of it, that he didn’t mean for anything to happen that night. Not that anything really happened, but it felt as though that conversation changed everything. There was a shift, one that neither of us could stop.

“It doesn’t matter.” I finally responded, my voice laced with disappointment. “We can’t do this, Tom. Whatever that night was, whatever that conversation was, it has to stay there. It has to stay in that night.”

“I can’t fucking do that!” He shouted, the rain still pouring down around us. “I’m not going to sit here and pretend I didn’t feel something, Y/N.”

I was aching for him to stop. I knew he meant all of it, that he wasn’t trying to play me or hurt me. Tom would never risk saying the things he said if they weren’t at least party true.

I was beyond frustrated as I turned, grabbing more things to bring inside. Tom was huffing and puffing ahead of me, mumbling to himself. He was clearly angry, his jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed. We were both soaked from head to toe, my feet bare against the deck as we lifted the glass table, maneuvering it up the stairs to the back of the house.Tom’s eyes were on me the whole time and I was too cowardly to look in his direction. Carrying that heavy glass table while thunder roared and lightning flashed was stressful, to say the least. But I didn’t even care about the storm, I cared about the absolute hurricane that was my situation with Tom. I wanted to fix it, needed to.

“Why are you so stubborn?”

His question caught me off guard. We’d put the rest of the furniture away and I was outside searching for one missing flip flop, rain hitting me sideways as I turned to stare at him. He was leaned against the door frame, arms crossed with that white shirt sticking to him like a second skin. I could make out the line of the chain he wore, could see where it fell against his chest. Tom looked like the cover of a romance novel, a few stray curls falling around his forehead. Even in my terrified, angry confusion, my attraction to him was undeniable.

“I’m not being stubborn. I’m being smart. What, you want me to admit that I’m attracted to you? Fine, Tom. I am. But attraction doesn’t change things. We can’t cross that line, now will you please help me find my other flip flop?”

“Jesus.” He stormed past me, pointing a finger in my direction as he went. “This conversation’s not done.”

I shouted his name as he walked back down the stairs in no urgency because he was already soaked. His jeans sat low on his hips, probably weighed down by the water as he bent down, pulling something from one of the hedges at the end of the property. My flip flop. Turning, Tom walked back up the stairs slowly, purposefully, his stance all man and making me feel very, very small. I was waiting at the top when he finally stepped up, crowding me, holding my shoe in his right hand. Our chests were touching, just slightly, and I could feel my nipples harden from the slight contact.

“Thank you,” I said quietly, reaching to grab it from him.

Only to have Tom pull it towards him, away from me. “Have you thought about kissing me?”

“What?”

“Have you thought about me touching you?”

“Tom…” I backed up three steps with him following my movements, keeping us close, chest to chest.

“Those things you wanted to try, have you thought about trying them with me? Because, fuck, I’ve thought about you.”

His admission made me weak, my breath catching in my throat. We were getting close, so dangerously close to something we couldn’t turn back from.

“I’ve thought about you every day. I’ve thought about your eyes and your mouth and the way you look in my fucking jumper.” Tom’s hands grabbed my face roughly, cupping my cheeks, fingers tangling in my hair.

He was holding me there as my breathing went ragged, our eyes finally meeting. His pupils were blown out, water dripping down the bridge of his nose

.It was all so intense. It was overwhelming. I wanted him so bad it was physically starting to hurt, my hands going up and gripping his wrists, prepared to pull his hands away. “You are… so fucking infuriating.” I was breathless, weak, but I still noticed the smile that pulled at his lips.

“Darling, I’m a fucking devil.”

I knew what was coming, knew I should pull away, but as soon as his lips came down on mine in a bruising, hard kiss, I knew I was gone.

Tom’s lips were hard, demanding, his tongue eagerly licking at the seam of my mouth and begging for entry. His hands still held my face hard enough to prevent me from backing up, but even if he let go I knew I’d stay, the brief taste of his lips so intoxicating it felt like I was in a trance.

He pulled back, his eyes opening. Our noses still touched and I could feel his breath fan across my lips. Our eyes met and for the briefest moment I thought he was going to pull away, but he spoke instead.

“What do you want, Y/N?”

I paused, my throat dry and my breathing ragged. I couldn’t lie anymore, to Tom or myself, so I opted for honesty instead. “You, Tom. I want you.”

That was all he needed to hear before his mouth was on mine again. He slanted his lips over mine, tilting my head back. When our tongues touched I felt like my body was on fire and I couldn’t help but wonder why we hadn’t done it sooner. Tom tasted like mint, like a secret, like my deepest, darkest fucking fantasy.

All of a sudden he was pushing us, walking forward while I stumbled back, our mouths still fused together as he let out a soft groan. I wanted so badly to memorize the sound, to hear it again, but I was too focused on not falling over. Something sharp dug into my back and I winced, gasping into Tom’s mouth.

“What the fuck was that?” I gripped my side and turned. The doorknob.

“Shit,” he muttered, reaching to lift at the edge of my shirt. “Is it going to leave a bruise? Let me kiss it better.”

I rolled my eyes and laughed, opening the door and ushering him inside. “I’m fine. Really.”

“No.” Tom’s hands gripped my hips. He was looking at me with mischief in his eyes and it made my stomach do a backflip. “Really, love, let me kiss it better.” I felt his fingers skim over my bare flesh as he dragged the wet material of my shirt up and over my head, dropping it to the ground.

My chest was heaving as he looked me over, eyes zeroing in on my breasts. I was wearing a simple black lace bra, nothing fancy. But Tom was looking at me like I was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen and my heart swooned.I thought he was going to kiss me again, but instead he sank to his knees and my breath caught in my throat as he looked up at me. I was wearing my shorts, my underwear, and a barely there bra while Tom was still fully dressed. I felt vulnerable, small, but in that moment I fucking loved it.

Tom’s breath fanned over my hip as he kissed the spot where the doorknob had jammed into me. “Better?” he asked, looking up at me through thick, dark lashes. All I could do was nod, and his smug smile told me everything I needed to know; Tom knew exactly what he was doing.

His hands skimmed over the backs of my thighs, traveling down. When his fingers touched the backs of my knees they wobbled, and I knew he felt it. “This alright?”

I nodded my head, reaching one hand out and tangling my fingers in his wet hair, feeling his head nudge into my touch. “Use your words, Y/N.”

“It’s okay.” I managed to gasp out. He’d barely touched me, barely kissed me and I was still completely breathless.

“Do you want more?”

"Fuck." I gritted my teeth, suddenly frustrated he was moving so slow. "Yes."

He smiled, soft lips trailing over my hip, his teeth biting at the denim that hugged my skin. "How about we play a game?"

I huffed, my fingers stilling in his hair. "I'm not in the mood for games, Tom."

He stood then, nails lightly scraping up the sides of my legs and making my skin break out in goosebumps. Every single part of me was ignited and I was on sensory overload. "What if I promised you win this game?" He kissed my shoulder, one hand trailing over my side and traveling up my back, tracing my vertebra. "What if I told you that you win quite a few times?"

I gasped, drunk on his words as he leaned in, kissing me again just as he reached up and unclasped my bra. The straps fell down my shoulders slowly and as his lips grazed mine I reached bed between us, tugging the rest of the material down.

Like any straight, hot blooded male, Tom leaned back and looked down, taking in my naked breasts. "Shit," he breathed, leaning down and sliding his tongue over the curve of one globe, mouth warm and tongue wet. I was already arching into his touch when his mouth closed over my nipple. I thought he’d be gentle, thought he’d start slow, but he sucked HARD, yanking my nipple to the roof of his mouth until I yelped.

Tom groaned against my skin, releasing me with a pop. “Mhm, I liked that sound. Didn’t picture you as a screamer.” He smirked at me, his mouth red and his lips swollen.

I laughed and leaned in, my arms wrapping around his broad shoulders as we stumbled through the dining room. “Yeah? You’ve been thinking about the sounds I make?” I licked a fat stripe up Tom’s neck, feeling him shiver against me.

“I’ve thought about much more than that.” He grabbed me by my hips, now in the kitchen, and lifted me, my ass landing on the counter as the wind howled outside.I watched, mesmerized as Tom lifted his shirt over his head and tossed it to the side, revealing the smooth expanse of his chest. His abs were hard, tight, and I wanted to leave hickies scattered across his collarbones.

“I’ve thought about you. Here.” He tapped one finger against the countertop. “And I thought about what it would be like to fuck you while everyone slept upstairs.” He took a step forward, his hands going to his jeans, fingers deftly undoing the button and zipper. “Me, telling you to be quiet, putting my hand over your mouth.”

Tom’s long fingers reached out, sliding over my chin, across my cheek. When they traveled over my lips I couldn’t help but poke my tongue out, tasting the tips of his fingers. He stopped for a moment, leaving them there, eyes glued to my mouth as I repeated the motion, this time holding eye contact as I tipped my head back, letting his index and middle fingers dip into my mouth, my tongue wrapping around them and sucking softly.

His hand twitched slightly, I felt it, and I smiled around his fingers, groaning softly when he pulled back. The truth was, I wanted them deeper. So much deeper.

“Fuckin’ minx.” Tom’s voice was rough and his hands were the same, gripping my thighs hard and pulling me to the edge of the counter. My legs hugged his slim waist, my hands settling on his chest. “You want me to fuck you, Y/N?”

I nodded my head. Consequences be damned.“Fine. I’ll fuck you any way you want. But you have to tell me one of those things you wanted to try first.”

“Tom…”

“C’mon.” His voice was soft, smooth. Charming. When he spoke again his accent was thicker and I physically throbbed for him. “Give me a little bit, love.”

“I…” I started, suddenly very self conscious of my own sexual desires. It was different when I was having sex with Ben because it was always the same thing, and it was different sleeping with a stranger because I’d never have to see them again. But I would have to face Tom in the morning and every day after that. I didn’t want his opinion of me to change. “I want to suck your fingers while you fuck me.”

The words were so soft I wasn’t even sure he heard me. He was silent, eyes staring at my mouth before looking up, meeting my gaze. “That’s it? That’s what you were so nervous to tell me?”

I shook my head, unable to help myself from laughing. “Oh, man. No, you have no idea how many things I want to try. We’re just not there yet.”

Yet.

Why was I implying that it was going to happen again?

Tom’s hands were sliding up and down my thighs while my ankles were locked at his waist, his fingers eventually popping the button and zipper while I waited for his response. “You like hands?” When I nodded he continued. “You like my hands?” As if to emphasize, he slapped one hand roughly over the side of my thigh and I jumped.

He shushed me, pursing his lips softly. “Relax, darling. We’re about to have fun.”

Without another word he unwound my legs and pushed his hands against my shoulders until I was laying flat against the cold quartz counter, arching my back and gasping. Tom hooked his fingers into my shorts and underwear, pulling both down and leaving me completely naked in one swift move. I felt vulnerable and open, but he quickly forced me to move past that as he spread my legs, his fingers splayed across my thighs.

His groan sent shivers through me.

“You’re like a fucking dream.” His words were hushed even though we were the only two in the house. “Oh, shit, did I just see you clench up for me?” His eyebrows furrowed in concentration as I threw my hands over my face, mortified and turned on all at once. He could see every part of me.

“Tom!” I practically shouted. If he didn’t touch me soon I was going to-

My body tensed up and every coherent through flew from my mind as Tom licked a fat stripe all the way from my ass to my clit, groaning and sending vibrations through me. My legs twitched and he repeated the motion, my nerve endings on fire.

Tom Holland’s head was between my fucking thighs.

His lips closed over my clit, sucking at the same time as he pressed his tongue flat against the bundle of nerves, and my hips pretty much lifted off the counter.

“Tommy!” I gasped, the sound ending on a choked moan as he looked up at me, brown eyes nearly black.

He pulled back for a moment and I could see his lips, glistening and wet from my arousal. “You know, you’re the only one allowed to call me that?”

My head lolled slightly and I looked at him, reaching down to run my fingers through his hair. “Why?”

“Because I like the way it sounds when you say it.”

His admission did something to my insides, made me just a little weaker for him. I was the only one allowed to call him Tommy, the only one to have that little nickname. Something possessive soared through my veins and I quickly sat up, seeing his shocked expression as the fingers that were in his hair traveled down, grabbing the back of his neck and tugging him towards me, our lips attaching. I couldn’t stop fucking kissing him and when I tasted myself on his tongue I wanted him even more, sliding my tongue into his mouth and dominating the kiss.

“I wasn’t fucking done with you yet.” He spoke against my mouth.

“But you said this was about me trying things. There’s something I want to try, Tommy.”

His eyes shut briefly, his jaw clenched, concentrated. He was coming undone for me in the same way I was for him. “What’s that?”

I ran my fingers over his collarbones, tracing the delicate bones with my fingers. I was nervous, forcing myself to push the words out anyway. “You know how when you were in high school being sneaky and fucking in a girl’s parents house was fun? And, sometimes, when the parents weren’t around you and the girl would sneak up to her parents’ room?”

His laps traveled over my jaw, down my neck, and I felt him smile against my skin. “You want me to fuck you in your parents’ bed?”

My face heated and I nodded, burying my face in his shoulder.

Tom laughed softly, pulling back and helping me off the counter. I was acutely aware of the fact that I was completely naked while he still wore jeans and black Calvin’s but I no longer cared. In fact, there may have been a part of me that enjoyed the way I felt knowing I was the only one who was naked. It made me feel small, soft.

“What are ya’ waitin’ for then?” He arched a brow and nodded towards the stairs. “Move your ass.”

I practically sprinted past him, moving before he even finished speaking. His eyes were on me as I moved, my hips swaying a little more than usual. Tom was hot on my heels as I bounded up the stairs, one of his hands reaching out and giving my ass a swift, harsh slap. I welcomed the sting, pausing on the stairs and turning to look at him as a gasp escaped.

“I fuckin’ knew it.” He marveled, a smirk playing at his lips. “I knew you liked it a little rough.”

I began backing slowly down the hall, facing him. “Oh, you have no idea.”

He arched a brow, molten brown eyes looking me up and down. “Is that right? You feel like telling me any of those deep, dark fantasies, or are we not there yet?”

I couldn’t help but laugh as he threw my words back at me. “Not yet. I like surprising you.”

I stepped into my parents’ room and Tom followed suit, looking around as the wind rattled the glass windows.

The air suddenly felt thick. The king sized bed loomed behind me and it all felt real. Terrifyingly, brutally real. I was about to get into that bed with Tom, I was about to take a huge step off a very large cliff. Whether it was good or bad- although I prayed it would be good- didn’t matter. We would never be able to come back from this.

“Believe me, you’ve done nothing but surprise me tonight, Y/N.”

“I actually think it’s your turn.” I said with a small smile as I crawled onto the bed, looking at him over my shoulder.

Tom was too busy taking in the view of my naked backside to comprehend my question. “What?”

I sprawled out across the bed and rested my chin on my hand, looking at him. His jeans were undone and his hardened cock pressed almost painfully against the denim material. “It’s your turn. I’ve been very honest about what I want to try, but what about you, Tommy? What do you want?”

His eyes locked on mine and my breath caught as he moved forward. “I want you. I want you to say my name while you come, I want you to wrap those beautiful legs around me and squeeze whenever I go just a little too deep. I want to fuck you the way I’ve dreamed about fucking you since I was fifteen years old.”

His candid admission left a pang in my heart and I quickly tried to stifle it, leaning up as he leaned down, our mouths fusing together once again. It seemed that I couldn’t keep my mouth off his. Maybe it was because I had been fantasizing about that mouth for so long, maybe it was because Tom was just that good of a kisser, but either way I didn’t care.

“Fuck me. Now.” The words were mumbled against his lips.

Tom’s lips traveled down my jaw to my neck and he bit the skin where my shoulder and neck connected. His sopping wet jeans pressed against me and I hissed out a breath as he pulled back, laughing down at me. His brown hair had begun to curl at the sides and he looked boyish, young. His cheeks were flushed and I couldn’t even remember why I’d tried to fight my attraction in the first place.

He jumped off the bed and began the painstaking effort of removing wet denim.

“God… fucking… dammit!” I watched him struggle, biting back a laugh as he hopped around the room, kicking one leg free and then the other. When he looked back up at me his eyes narrowed and he glared. “Are you laughing?”I shook my head, sucking my bottom lip into my mouth.“You’re laughing at me right now.”

I shook my head, backing up on the bed as Tom came forward. “No, no I’m not. I’m-” I shrieked as his hand wrapped around my ankle and he dragged me down the matress.

I struggled against him as he leaned over me, covering his body with mine as his hands tickled at my sides. I gasped and laughed, nearly headbutting him at one point. “Tom, please, I was-wasn’t laughing.” I was trying to explain myself when his hips settled between my thighs, his hard cock pressing against my clit, right where I was aching for any kind of attention, or friction, I could find.

“You’re not laughing anymore,” he whispered against my mouth.

“Not really finding anything to laugh at right now.” My response was just as quiet, my fingers linking behind his neck as he braced a hand on either side of my head. Our eyes met as he ground his hips against me, my mouth falling open in a quiet moan as Tom settled on a good rhythm. He wasn’t even inside me yet and I was already on the edge, my thighs trembling as they squeezed his trim waist.

Tom seemed just as eager as I was, his arms wrapping around me and then unwrapping, hands trailing up and down my sides, over my breasts, gripping my thighs. My own nails scratched lightly over his shoulders and I reveled in the way he shivered on top of me. His breathing was heavy, chest heaving as I lifted my hips, grinding harder, needing more.

“I…I don’t…” Tom trailed off and I stopped my movements.

My heart sank at his tone. He was about to tell me he couldn’t do it, he couldn’t sleep with his best friend’s sister. I, of course, would be mortified and naked and ashamed as he got dressed to inevitably leave, where he would get into a car accident and die because there was a storm raging outside. And then I would have to explain to my parents and Jordan that I killed Tom because I-

“I don’t have a condom.”

What?

“What?”

“I don’t have a condom.”It was a split decision, and normally I would argue with myself about practicing the art of safe sex, but I had waited too fucking long for this and I was thankful that he wasn’t about to leave me naked in the middle of my parents’ bed.

“I’m on the pill.”

He arched a brow. “You’re cool with…”

I couldn’t help but smile. I hadn’t seen him bashful very often, but I had to admit I found it completely adorable. “Tommy, I’m cool with anything that involves you being inside me.”

“Thank fucking god.” He sat back on his knees between my splayed thighs and I watched as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of his briefs, shoving them down so that his cock sprang free, slapping up against his abdomen. My eyes widened as I finally got the first glimpse of what had been grinding against me for the last thirty minutes, of what I’d been dreaming about all summer. His cock was long, a pulsating vein across his shaft.

My mouth watered at the sight of the pre-come that gathered at his crown and I reached forward with every intention of wrapping my fingers around him. But Tom’s hand snapped forward and he grabbed my wrist, halting my movements.

“I want this to last longer than fifteen seconds and, honestly, if you touch me right now I’m going to fucking explode all over you like a fifteen year old .I don’t want to ruin this.”

I looked up at him. He was panting, his cheeks tinted pink. He looked rumpled, worked up, his eyes dark, and I’d never wanted him more. Leaning up, I gave him a quick kiss on the lips, darting my tongue out to taste his quickly. “Get on with it then.”

Tom smiled against my mouth and then he was pushing me down again, covering his body with mine. His skin was warm and the hair on his legs tickled my thighs, but all I could really focus on was the deep, intense throbbing that had settled low in my stomach. I actually feared that I would die or combust if he didn’t fuck me so-

Too wrapped up in my aching body, I didn’t notice that Tom had reached between us and lined himself up at my entrance. When I felt his knuckles brush against my swollen clit I stiffened, a weak whine leaving my mouth.“I want to hear that fuckin’ noice on repeat for the rest of my life,” he whispered against the damp skin at my temple.

I was about to open my mouth and give a half assed witty response when I felt his body surge forward, his cock sinking into me in one long, swift, nearly painful because it was so good move. I gasped, my thighs squeezing Tom’s hips and my nails digging into his sides.

His groan in my ear sent vibrations through me and I shook underneath him, trying to find my breath, trying to acknowledge the fact that it was Tom inside me. Tom Holland. My brother’s best friend. But at that moment in time someone could tell me I didn’t actually have a brother and I would have believed them. I would have believed the moon was actually made of cheese. I would have believed anything… because none of it mattered.

In that moment the only two people who existed were Tom and me. Just us and the storm. “Tommy.” My voice shook as he pulled nearly all the way out, just holding the tip of his cock inside me.

Tom looked down at me with his eyebrows furrowed, mouth hanging open. He looked serious albeit desperate and I could completely understand why. It felt as though all the air had been sucked out of the room as soon as he pushed inside me. “You good? You need a minute?”

I shook my head. “You feel so good.”

Something snapped in him then. I watched it happen. His eyebrows relaxed, the hands that were on either side of my head clenched into fists, and his hips snapped forward as he pushed in to the hilt, repeating the motion twice more before a rough grunt escaped his lips.

I slammed my head back against the pillows as a moan tore from my throat. He’d barely been inside me two minutes and I already felt like I was on the verge of an earth shattering orgasm. But it was true. Tom had kept me riled up so long, far longer than just this messy afternoon. My body had been waiting for this for so fucking long.

Tom’s teeth sank into my shoulder. Hard. He didn’t let up until I yelped, and then he pulled back with a devilish smirk. “Look at you,” he said, breathing heavily as he lowered his head, our noses brushing. “Screaming underneath me whilst I fuck you in your mum and dad’s bed. So, so naughty.”

He was taunting me, teasing me, and his words spurred me on. My hips lifted, another rough moan leaving my mouth at the new angle.

Tom must have liked it too, because soon enough he was thrusting so hard it nearly hurt, so hard I swore I could feel him in my stomach.“You’re. So. Fucking. Perfect.” His voice was gruff, the words barely audible. Our moans and breaths mingled, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room. It may have been pornographic, may have been downright filthy, but I was too far gone to care.

I was fucking drowning in Tom.

So close to coming harder than I had in my entire life.

When he reached between us to rub his thumb over my clit it felt like too much, my back arching as I shook my head. “Tom, Tommy… no. I-”

“Shhh.” Tom’s focus was between us as he looked down, sliding his now soaking wet digit over my clit again, reveling in the way I shook under him. “Been dreaming of this for years. For years, Y/N.” He was so transfixed on looking down at where we were joined, I truly didn’t know if he realized he was speaking. “Do you want to come on my cock, love?”

He looked up at me then, our eyes meeting. His pupils were so blown out there was barely any brown left. No longer able to form a coherent sentence all I could do was nod.

“Good.” He pressed his thumb against my clit, harder than before, and watched my face as a scream erupted from me.

“Tom!” I went to grab his hand and he quickly grabbed hold of it with his free one, slamming it down against the mattress near my head, resting his full weight on me.

“You’re going to come for me just like this. My cock inside you, my hands all over you.” He released the hand he was holding and grabbed a hold of my hair, yanking my head back in a move that shocked me. I hadn’t expected him to be so rough, but the move sent pleasurable shockwaves through my scalp and down my back. I felt him everywhere.

I was close, so fucking close, words and moans and broken pleas leaving my mouth. I wanted it so bad I could cry, my desperation palpable as Tom trailed rough, wet kisses down my neck, never once letting up on my clit as his hips pistoned forward in short, quick strokes. He was close too, I could feel it in the way his pace began to stutter, in the way his breath was hitting my neck.

I ran my fingers through his thick hair and his pace quickened. “Come, Y/N, please.” Tom’s voice was raspy and I knew he was serious. He was waiting for me, holding back for me, wanting to please me… and somehow that was everything I needed to finally let go.

My orgasm hit me like a freight train, knocking the wind out of me. I came with a silent scream, my mouth falling open with no sound coming out, my breath stuck in my throat as Tom’s grip on my hair tightened. Vaguely, I could hear his name coming out of my mouth on repeat, my entire body tensing up underneath him. It was like nothing I’d ever felt, like every nerve in my body was on fire.

“Fuck… fuck… fuck.” Tom’s back muscles tensed under my hands, his entire body going still as he held himself deep inside me. The feeling of his pulsating cock sent delicious aftershocks through me and I clenched around him, loving the small groan that erupted from him as he slowly relaxed, resting his full weight on me with a long, heavy sigh.

We lay like that for a few minutes, the thunder and wind having calmed at some point during our tryst. Tom was resting his sweaty forehead on my chest and I ran my fingers through his hair as I stared up at the ceiling. Everything would be different now, everything would change. But I was too lost in my post orgasm glow to care much about anything.

“Was that too rough?” Tom’s voice was soft, the question catching me off guard.

“What?”

He lifted his head to look at me, shifting his body weight as he examined my face. “Was I too rough? I get carried away sometimes, don’t always know my own strength.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. If he only knew half the things I wanted to do to him, or what I wanted him to do to me. Shit. He’d probably have me arrested. “No, Tom, no. Believe me, it was perfect.”

He arched in eyebrow in a cocky way that only Tom fucking Holland could do. “Perfect?” His accent was thick. “Just wait for round two.”

I was about to respond when he leaned in for a kiss, capturing my lips and holding me right there in that moment with him. It was crazy, it was stupid, it was reckless. And I didn’t give a flying fuck.

A noise from downstairs startled us and I jumped. “It was probably just the wind.” Tom reassured me.

I nodded my head, but when I heard the telltale sign of keys hitting the countertop my heart leapt into my throat. “Tom? Y/N? You guys here?”

Tom’s eyes met mine and in unison, we said, “Jordan.”

Oh, fuck.

[sadzcv]

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[thistangledbrain]

Ok y’all, I’m sorry I’m having to catch up! We got a new foster in a few days ago - a particularly broken soul - and my mind has been *entirely* on him. But he’s settling in a little now, so here’s the last 3 days in one post ☺️

Autism Acceptance Month

Day 10!

“Sensory Life”

This is sort of hard to describe, but I’ll try! This is different from the next entry about stims, though both are sensory related.

It’s like being on microdosed ‘shrooms *all the time*. If you don’t know what that’s like, I’ll try to describe (this is collaborated with a friend who regularly does this - I don’t...it would probably be far too overwhelming).

Colors are far sharper to me & I emotionally react to them far more than most people. That results in some colors being genuinely offensive - not just “I don’t like that color”, but it will make me intensely angry or physically sick. This makes me curious about chromotherapy, but I haven’t really looked into it that much. My tolerance of certain colors can ebb and flow depending on my emotional state/mindset. (This crap is so sharp, I’m actually getting a twinge of irritation just *thinking* about my most hated colors LOL 😂 🤦🏻‍♀️)

Textures/skin sensations are another big one. (By now you may be asking, how TF did this chick manage Marine Corps training/exercises?!) I guess if you want something bad enough, you can shut down some of the overwhelming aspects of the sensory thing...this ability to disassociate probably isn’t what NT’s would call “healthy”, but it’s quite handy if you’re autistic, and those of us who have been through real trauma seem to be especially skilled with our ability to just shut off all circuits and “embrace the suck”). Like...I’ll nearly panic to get out of a store or something if my underwear starts feeling uncomfortable, but I’ve literally been soaked head to toe, covered in mud and sand in my *everywhere* (and I HATE SAND anywhere but on my feet) AND I pissed myself, because nobody’s gonna stop shooting/training just because you have to go potty 🙄), and I remember literally giving zero fucks about it...so it really is entirely a mindset thing. But let’s talk about when I’m NOT in “Marine mode” (cuz let’s face it, it’s been close to two decades since I got out, and I no longer HAVE to tolerate overwhelming sensations).

Sensory input is just basically dialed to 11 & the knob’s been snapped off. Bright lights, loud discordant noises, too much touching/not touching the right way, things like that. I am particularly sensitive about body hair (my own). I *strongly* prefer to have my head shaved on the back and sides (but I leave the top long). The only time I haven’t done this, was in the Marines (it was considered “eccentric” and not allowed, so they made me grow it out). Even though I leave the main part long, it’s *always* in a bun or ponytail - well, unless I’m super dressed up for something, but even then I prefer some sort of updo. Despite the fact that I like my long hair (well on the top anyway), I can’t *stand* the way it feels on my neck or especially my face - I HATE IT when my hair touches my face. If I wasn’t married...there’s a decent chance I’d just shave it all off and be done with it LOL 😆 My ponytail pulled through the back of a baseball hat is I guess what they’d call my “signature look”.

And you think NT’s have bad misophonia? *I’ve jumped out of a moving vehicle before* to get away from the noise of someone chewing loudly/smacking their lips in the back seat (he was a coworker and punching him in the mouth - which is what I DESPERATELY wanted to do - would have gotten me fired 😕)...but humans eating, or dogs licking their junk, makes me want to crawl out of my own skin. It’s mostly humans though....you have *no idea* the level of self discipline it takes to keep me from either rage crying or actually getting violent around someone smacking their mouth during a meal. I *cannot* be around my husband when he’s eating breakfast cereal even though he’s a very mannered eater - I don’t know why, but it’s *so loud* (and I’m terribly hard of hearing) - it sounds like he’s chewing rocks. It took us years to work this problem out LOL - he thought it was dumb that I had such a deeply emotional reaction. Then he tried to “chew quietly”, which all that did was slow down the rock tumbler inside his mouth 😂...gradually, for everyone’s sanity, we realized that cereal eating should not be done in close proximity to each other lololol....and now, when it’s time for family meals around the table, I’ve learned to either keep the range hood fan going (white noise is definitely my friend), or have the TV on. If it’s just mainly the sound of everyone chewing, I simply won’t eat at the table. I lose my appetite. (And all of my dinner guests/family are very polite diners. It’s MY hangup.) Phone calls are another big one. I could probably come up with several reasons why I hate it...I LOATHE it. This is one sensory hangup some people in my family just refuse to accept. I don’t think they realize I equate unexpected or immediately demanded phone calls to running naked though a mall or getting a root canal. Hissssssssss!! Give me some time to prepare myself for this shit please - you’re actually asking a *lot* from me. (And when I do have a call? Ugh I babble and am so awkward, because I’m so effing uncomfortable, which I also hate.)

But here’s an area where my “sensory overload” serves me very well:

Dogs.

I am usually *intensely* dialed into the energy and body language of an animal, but particularly dogs. I’m *so* sensitive to them, that I often actually can feel things even happening behind my back - can basically sense the energy in the area shift. (Roughly 75% of the time. I’m spacey sometimes too LOL.) The work I do with “behaviorally challenged” dogs is the biggest area where I am *grateful* for my autistic mind. I don’t think I could really do the things I do without it, successfully. (I can do this to a large degree with people as well, as can my youngest son. You cannot lie to that boy about your feelings or mood.)

We all have different levels of sensory sensitivity and different triggers, but every autistic I know has several “sensory hangups”. It often is one of our biggest hurdles to deal with, when it comes to “normal functioning”. So, many of us constantly have headphones (or muffs) on, some of us wear sunglasses *all the time*, etc (I wear a baseball hat - and I genuinely don’t like going anywhere where I have to get dressed up and can’t wear my hat. Been like that since my early teens. That hat shields me from all sorts of real and imagined sensory triggers.) You do what you can to mitigate, you know? But my “microdosing shrooms” and “knob dialed to 11 and snapped off” is really the best way I can summarize. (And that’s not all bad - my trips into a new natural space, like the redwoods, is an absolute *thrill*. I also occasionally love sensory overload - many auties do - like rollercoasters. My youngest son and I can ride till we pass out LOL!) So sensory life is love/hate, really....but I don’t think I’d change much about it.

Except the fucking misophonia. I hate that I go into almost a murderous rage over someone just chewing food loudly 🤦🏻‍♀️ - but seriously. It’s impolite anyway. Don’t do it. 😆

———————————————————

Day 11!

Stims

This is one of the biggest areas where neurotypicals struggle to understand us.

We all have stims. Stims are basically any stimulus that brings us joy or comfort. It could be rocking, flapping, walking in tight little circles, clicking your fingernails together, spinning, making weird sounds or whistling, etc. And it’s usually repetitive - that’s the part that gets on people’s nerves.

I’ve found that most *women* hide most of our stims. We only let go and stim our little hearts out when we’re alone. I do that, because some of my stims grate on my husband. Sometimes I don’t WANT to feel “watched” anyway...I’ve noticed males don’t have quite the same issue with that.

I have quiet stims I do to soothe myself, and happy stims. One of my quieter stims when I’m trying to soothe myself (like in public) is clicking my teeth, particularly my right canines. I also have this silicone bite stick I wear around my neck sometimes, that I chew on (my sons like the bite sticks as well). I carry a little bag of fidget toys in my purse, to soothe myself with when I’m stressed. There’s a thing sort of like a fidget cube, a little cowrie shell and twine bracelet that I fiddle with almost like a rosary, a small stuffed axolotyl (her name is Blossom), and a few other toys. My little stash also comes in damn handy when I encounter a bored child LOL!

One of my sons makes funny little sound effects randomly (and he’s grown & still does it). The other used to randomly shriek when he was younger - then he learned how to whistle, so he couldn’t say a whole sentence without punctuating it with little whistles (we actually thought it was adorable).

My favorite stim is putting my headphones on, putting on some favorite music, sitting with my legs crossed, closing my eyes, and rocking. I’m happy to TELL you about this stim, but it’s one I do alone, because I like to get completely lost in it and I can’t do that if I feel I’m being watched...and you’ll damn near give me a heart attack if you touch me while I’m lost in that world. (And boy does it irritate me to get yanked out of that before I’m ready, for some bullshit non emergency reason.) Better to just isolate myself (except my dogs are always with me). Another one I do alone - and I have no idea why i like it so much - is squeaking my bite stick across my teeth. (This one is weird to me because I usually HATE my teeth being touched...yes dentists are a problem.) This one I enjoy doing kind of mindlessly while I read, but damn would it irritate anyone in listening distance LOL...I mean, it would irritate the shit out of ME if someone else was doing it, because *other people’s* repetition, especially if it makes noise, gets on my damned nerves. 🙄 Figures lmao!

Stims can be damaging sometimes, though. Like I used to twist and twirl my hair when I was younger so much that the areas I usually grabbed were frayed and broken (I also chewed my hair sometimes). One stim I cannot break myself of even though sometimes it’ll make me bleed, is chewing the insides of my cheeks or my lips. That’s my most frequent (several times a day) one, and the one that is both gratifying *and* soothing. It’s also the one that’s hardest to suppress.

Some auties are either unaware or literally don’t care how you feel about their stims, but I am and do. I’d like to think I’m pretty “appropriate” *most* of the time with my stims and other people around, except the lip/cheek chewing. If my husband notices I’ve gotten pretty furious about it (even using my hand to push my cheek into optimal biting position), he’ll gently put his hands on mine to bring me back to awareness - if I’m gnawing away, I’m either super stressed or way lost in thought. Either way, I can accidentally hurt myself, so he gently guides me away/distracts me.

Stimming is an important part of Autie life and should not be discouraged unless it hurts Your Pet Autie ™️.

And if you’re looking for a neat gift for an Autie? They actually make stim toy packs. Get them one, they’re fun. ☺️ (Most stim toys are designed to withstand being put in mouths and bitten/chewed, too - LOTS of us have oral fixations.) And hey, even if you’re a NT, try stimming sometime (lots of normal people have stims, they just don’t realize that’s what they are - like nail biting. Bite your nails a lot? Get a bite stick!! God they’re so satisfying!)....

Happy stimming!

———————————————-

Day 12!

“Favorite Autism Charity”

This one is short and easy: ASAN. Autism Self Advocacy Network.

“The Autistic Self Advocacy Network is a nonprofit organization run by and for individuals with autism. According to its mission statement, the Network’s goal is ‘to empower autistic people across the world to take control of our own lives and the future of our common community, and seek to organize the autistic community to ensure our voices are heard in the national conversation about us.’”

————————————————-

Day 13!

“Family”

Well that’s kinda ambiguous, isn’t it? 😒

I’ll start with this tack:

Being an autistic mom with autistic kids.

I mean for years, none of us KNEW LOL - and maybe that’s what took me so long to get around to pursuing a formal diagnosis for my youngest. To me, for the longest time, he was just sensitive and different like me (same with my oldest, for the most part, but I’m pretty sure that was me buying into the “brilliant people are just fucking weird ok” mindset also), yannow? So it was like, “well mama always told me I’d have one like me & then know what I put her through” 🙄 My oldest got lumped into the “all bright kids are quirky” category - but as I learned about ASD through my youngest and myself, it became damn obvious the oldest was also in our camp. (He’s taken the prelim test now anyway, but is not formally diagnosed.) I genuinely believe that our “shared weirdness” binds us very tightly to each other - and I’m super pleased about that.

It brought a whole new level of understanding and awareness within our little family when we realized it was ASD I guess - and acceptance. (I 100% believe that diagnosis - or even affirmation - is critical to our self acceptance and understanding.) I wouldn’t trade my little family for anything, and consider myself remarkably blessed. I can talk about how complex and brilliant my boys are ALL day (and often do LOL). Hubby is neurodivergent, and can identify with (or at least sympathize with) MANY of our hangups....but he’s “normal” enough that he’s been able to guide us (mostly me) with things like how to use tact (not often a skill we naturally possess lmao). My heart breaks when I read posts by auties whose families either don’t understand or don’t accept them & are constantly trying to basically mute who they are. Auties “live out loud”, and some people find that off putting. I know growing up, I was constantly getting my ass chewed for being “dramatic” or too sensitive, too, so I shut down and hid my sensitivity far, far away. I’m only *lately* (last few years) discarding that silly tough girl mask. (I can still be quite the little wolverine at times, but I’m not afraid to show my soft sensitive actual self anymore...to stay soft in today’s fucked up world takes actual courage - a lot of it - and strength. I was looking at the concept of being “strong” entirely the wrong way.)

I swear my husband has lived with nearly as many phases and facets, as years we’ve been together. Sometimes I ask him if this ever bothers him. He says no, because who I am at my core never changes...and he grins and says “and you damn sure aren’t boring” 😂

But since I’ve known I’m autistic, I’ve given myself more freedom to discover who I am without these socially dictated parameters. And permission to be precisely who I am, without cringing apologies when the real me shines through awkwardly.

And my husband and boys have been there every step of the way, embracing me, as we do with them. ♥️

Yeah. I love my family. We’re some pretty cool people. 😁

[ncisladaily]

This Sunday will be twice as nice for fans of CBS’ NCIS: Los Angeles, which is serving up not one but two fresh episodes, beginning at 9:30/8:3oc.

In the second hour, titled “Raising The Dead,” a prison break lets loose a man with designs on killing the President of the United States, so Special Agent Kensi Blye (played by Daniela Ruah) is forced to grill the other, captured escapee, David Kessler, for a possible lead. Thing is, Kessler is a bit of a Kensi Blye “superfan” — and a very twisted one at that — seeing as she was responsible for his prison stint to begin with.

TVLine spoke with Ruah about the intense face-off ahead, acting opposite NCIS: LA writer Frank Military, and her newly announced directorial debut.

TVLINE | What was your reaction when you heard Kensi would be getting her own Silence of the Lambs moment? You know, I don’t know that I even made that connection at first. First of all, when I read the script, I thought, “They’re going to have to hire a really strong actor to play David Kessler,” because the character’s so beautifully written — and it wasn’t until I walked into hair-and-makeup and saw Frank Military, who is the writer of the episode, walk in as well. I was like, “Oh, hey. What are you doing here so early?” He was like, “I’m playing David Kessler,” and it blew my mind.

I was so happy and excited, because who better to play to play this dark, twisted character than the guy that thought him up? Frank was an actor 20 years ago before he became the incredible writer that he is, so to be able to go back to those chops…. It’s interesting because now that he’s a father, I think age gives us a certain gravitas, a certain weight to certain types of storytelling. So he was just incredible, and I was honored, really. That’s the word — I was honored to work with him in this capacity.

TVLINE | How would you describe Kensi’s strategy when she is first sent in to talk to Kessler? You talked about Clarice in Silence of the Lambs, but I think there’s a big difference  — and when I explain this, you’ll see why. The difference between them is that Kensi is not green in her experience in dealing with sick minds, right? Clarice was in kind of a discovery mode, and it was almost like a weird “love story” between those two, and that’s not what’s happening here at all. Kensi is an experienced agent. She doesn’t have a young mind that is easily manipulated. Much to the contrary, she’s very aware of this man. She’s the one who put him in jail for 30 years, and it was the case that got her into the Office of Special Projects, it was the case that got Hetty’s attention. So, she knows exactly what she’s doing when she’s going in there, and she knows exactly what kind of language he’s going to use, but that doesn’t mean that she doesn’t crack. When he starts talking about her inability to have children, and how he can tell her “hips haven’t cracked” yet, it’s still sick. It’s still shocking because she obviously is a fundamentally good person fighting for good in everything she does. He definitely manages to create some cracks in her, but that’s so fascinating to me, to watch this journey between them. And then the end is a complete twist.

TVLINE | When I watch a scene like this, I often wonder if there is a moment before you start filming where Frank “pre-apologizes” for all the really awful things he’s about to say? I don’t know how it would work if it were a movie or anything, but not here. I mean, Frank and I are good friends outside of the show. We are couples that go out to dinner together. The incredible thing about Frank is that he writes the darkest of episodes that we have. I can’t remember what season it was, but the young girls were being buried alive, and the guys that were cut up and stitched back together in different body parts. That’s all Frank. So, that’s a pretty dark place to go when you’re writing an episode, and Frank Military in real life is the complete and absolute opposite of that. He is a ray of sunshine! And he is the most loving, calm, wonderful husband and father. It’s really fascinating to see where he’s able to go in spite of his real personality. He once told me that the darker you go, the more the light shines at the end of it, and that just made so much sense to me. He’s essentially super dark so that he can then brighten up.

TVLINE | While all this is going on between Kensi and Kessler, she’s also got some drama going on at home with Deeks. They’ve got financial issues and job concerns to deal with…. Exactly. Kensi and Deeks are looking to buy a house, and they’re wanting to have children, and all that obviously requires some sort of financial planning. But now, all of a sudden with all the police reform, Deeks’ LAPD liaison job is in jeopardy. There’s definitely a lot weighing in on their personal lives, which always seems to ebb and flow. Like, last season Kensi got really paranoid and freaked out about the fact that she wasn’t getting pregnant after three months of trying. But anybody who’s had children knows that it probably takes a lot longer than that. And yet this season, we see her sort of as a ray of sunlight, telling Deeks, “It’s going to be OK. We’re going to figure it out. We’re going to have a baby, and we’re going to get a house.” It’s interesting how he was driving the positivity last season, and so far this season Kensi’s the one who’s turned the page and is like, “This is going to happen for us.”

TVLINE | Speaking of Kensi and Deeks, I was curious: With COVID and everything, is your husband [costar Eric Christian Olsen’s brother, David Paul Olsen] “on standby” to race to the set and do an intimate scene if needed? [Laughs] You know, just like the rest of the season has been adapted to accommodate the pandemic — you’ll notice that you don’t have the whole cast in the OPS Center like you used to, and there are a lot of phone calls — Eric and I are very conservative quarantiners, especially because he has a newborn at home.

TVLINE | That’s right. Yeah. And all four of our kids are homeschooled right now, so there isn’t any external influence. Really, Eric and I are the only ones really going out of the house for work, but we’re in masks all day, the crew is in a mask all the time…. When they come in to adjust certain lighting, we leave the set, and then they sanitize everything, and then we come back in….  The fact that we’ve made it thus far, to Episode 9, unscathed is a miracle, and we’re very grateful and thankful and everybody’s pushing for it to stay this way because we all want this season to go to the end.

TVLINE | Knock on wood. Knock on wood, for sure.

TVLINE | Tell me everything you know about the episode you’re directing, to air in February. Yeah, it’ll be my first experience directing television. It is not a big jump, I don’t think — I mean, living in a show like this for 12 years is essentially like attending film school, right? If you open your eyes, and you open your ears, and you pay attention, you’re going to learn most of what you need to know on a theoretical basis.But then it’s a question of putting it into practice, and I am surrounded by people I trust blindly to help me, to collaborate with me on everything. I know how hard it is to get a job like this to begin with, and I’m very fortunate to have my first experience be with my family because that’s what it is.

TVLINE | Do you know if you’re getting, like, a helicopter chase or…? I don’t think I’m getting a helicopter chase [Laughs], but I don’t think that’s because of me, I think that’s just the general logistics of that. No, I have [the script] for almost the whole episode, and thus far it’s pretty wonderful.

Also, just in the last few years, [showrunner] Scott Gemmill and our other producers have been, I think, more creative with how the show is put together. We are a network procedural and you have to have those boundaries that we fall into, but I feel like they’ve made those parameters a little wider than they used to be, and I find that directors are coming in and being able to be a bit more original with what they are able to shoot, and how they are able to shoot. So, I look forward to being creative and collaborating with my family.

[ziamhaze]

Hi, I hope you're well! I just want to start off by thanking you for all the wonderful fics you have blessed me with!

I just finished Red vs. Black and was hoping you wouldn't mind answering some questions I have. As someone who risks his own life to save others, how does Liam justify being with someone he knows has killed innocent people? It'd be one thing if Zayn had only killed those directly involved with what happened to his family, but he's killed innocent civilians over minor inconveniences (such as the teenagers in the convertible). Does Zayn still think he is justified in doing so? Does he ever feel guilty about it? If not, how would Liam and Zayn be compatible if their moral compasses are so different?

Also, did Zayn's father ever make his way to the UK? Or was that just a lie he told Zayn to comfort him? Does Zayn ever find his family, especially his younger sister?

I know it's a lot, but I'd really love to hear your answers if you want to give them! Again thank you for all of your wonderful works!

So sorry it’s taken me this long to reply, but I didn’t forget!

To start I’d like to thank you for clicking, and finishing, Red vs. Black.  It isn’t the shortest of fics, nor is it the most delicate - to put it lightly.  For the latter alone, thank you.

These are such poignant, important questions.  Ones that are nearly word for word what I asked myself while planning the ending.

                         SPOILERS FOR ALL OF RED VS. BLACK

1)  How does Liam stay with Zayn after learning of all his senseless killings?

Honestly, I questioned this the most when feeling out the concept.  As a fic writer it’s expected of me to write not only a romance, but also a happy ending.  Of course fics exist that do neither, but they’re very rare and not exactly well-loved.  And truthfully, a massive point that I wanted to get across - and which in effect answers this question - is that despite people’s pasts, they cannot overcome them without being given the opportunity.  100%.  No ands, ifs, or buts.  For a prisoner to assimilate back into society and not go back to their old ways, they need to be trusted with a job.  With a salary (no matter how small), they need to trust themselves to be able to not buy anything that may contribute to poor habits: drugs, alcohol, weapons, gambling, a means of transport that will give them the ability to visit bad influences (more of a psychological thing, but still).  A lot of prisoners are never given this opportunity (especially in the United States), and therefore fall back into their old ways, which are more often than not coping mechanisms to deal with the fact that they can’t fit into society as easily as privileged people to begin with; it’s a terrible cycle.  However, there are plenty of success stories of those that truly wish to change and are lucky enough to stumble upon an employer or mentor or sponsor of some sort that hands them an inkling of hope/trust that they use to fight their way back up.  The fic is fantasy, and while Zayn’s story is rooted in real world PTSD, I think the prisoner analogy is easy for us to envision and therefore, understand why Liam acts the way he does.  I also made it a point in the last scene when they’re talking things out to have Liam voice his contingency: if Zayn so much as spits at anyone, he’s done for.  That’s to say, he’s not wiping his slate clean just yet.

2)  Does Zayn still feel his useless killings were justified?

I’m going to answer assuming that you’re referring to the time after the fic ends.

Looking back at his actions is something that would be inevitable when he starts therapy, and this is a perfect example of one of the questions his therapist would ask.  You may not like my answer, but as an author I find it imperative that I speak of my characters realistically and to keep them true, not how I want them to act.  That said, yes, Zayn would still find justification in why he’s done what he’s done.

There are a few instances in the story where this is actually explained.  Take the scene in the bar with fancy mixologists.  Zayn begins to get aggravated over the people in the room simply because they’re ignorant to the feeling of significant pain.  There’s also the scene where he’s back home in Cheshire and Harry straight out tells him, he may be furious at the unfairness of the world, but he needs to learn how to come to terms with it.  It’s not going to change.  This right here is what a therapist would work with him to do, and also why I had Harry be the one to bring this up in the story - he is one.

I know it sounds incredibly foreign to the average person, but trust me when I say that people struggling with anger problems founded in (un)fairness, exist.  I’ve spoken with professionals about it.  Add on crippling childhood PTSD and a villain like Zayn can definitely be born.  It’s why treatment is needed, and why the answer is ‘yes’ in the beginning of Zayn’s journey to peace.  When his answer switches over to ‘no’, that’s when it’ll be outwardly apparent that he’s beating his ailment.  Unfortunately, for many, the inner battle with mental health is lifelong; the answer ‘no’ will never turn solid.

3)  Does Zayn feel guilty about the above?

Again, there are a couple times when I write Zayn to literally mention how he feels zero guilt.  However, if you really really pay attention you’ll notice that these instances aren’t villain related.

For example, meeting Liam’s parents:

After handing his father and Zayn each their tea, Liam looks between them suspiciously. "Leaving the two of you in a room together was a bad idea."

"Don't know what you're on about," Geoff replies innocently. "We were just talking about cars, weren't we Zayn?" Even with all eyes on him, the pressure of lying doesn't get to Zayn. It never does.

"Yeah," he agrees, bringing his drink up to his lips carefully, "cars."

Or, after Zayn walks out from the comedy club:

"It takes a lot of courage to get up there and do something like that, don't you think?"

"Not really."

Liam looks to the side, hoping that he can interpret more from Zayn's answers by seeing the expressions that go with their frankness. "So if I signed you up, you would do it?"

"Why would I want to make a room full of strangers laugh?" Zayn retorts, his right eye scrunching up in distaste, like it's a mannerism of his provoked by moronic questions. "I don't have a superiority complex." Liam thinks he might, but. "I know I'm better than those people, no mediocracy to cover up here."

So we’ve got those, but then we’ve also got this massive character point:

Right as the last of the snake's body emerges, Zayn snaps his fingers, triggering heavy hip-hop music to flow through his headphones and drown out the man's blood curdling cry.

If he could permanently damage people who deserved it, not always because they did something to Zayn, but because he liked to play god and throw them a massive curveball like life had done to him, then why shouldn't he? So long as he pulls his soundproof headphones off the little robot on the inside of his right arm to avoid listening to the pain his choice brutality caused, there's no valid reason he shouldn't take advantage of the gift he was given.

From where he's sitting, he probably won't be able to hear anything, but he fastens the equipment over his ears just in case.

All at once, the atmospheric sounds of central London, mixed with the terrified screams of those in the burning building beneath them, hit Zayn at full force. The sensory overload alone would normally be enough to piss him off, but tack on his protection from audible trauma being taken and being spoken to while in villain mode, and he's seeing red as deep as the pits of hell he knows he's destined for.

I wrote Zayn’s headphone usage as a way to alert that the reader that he does, in fact, feel villain-related guilt.  He can’t act on his anger without them on.  He’ll have his victims screams stuck in his head, and he’d never be able to handle that a.k.a. there’s zero satisfaction from their literal pain.  Think about that and it’ll answer your follow-up question.

4)  What happened to Zayn’s family?

Zayn’s father meant what he said - he’d do whatever he needed to reunite his family.  That wasn’t a falsity at all.  The problem is money.  And politics, but let’s start with the issue of money.  It took Yaser nine years to save up the amount he paid to have Zayn and Waliyha smuggled across the border.  The whole concept of smuggling is that it’s a cheaper option than the legal one.  So if we look at this, you can see how long it would take him to save for three adult visa fees, three adult plane tickets, and enough to stay afloat for a month or so when they get to England.  Now add in the politics of the early 2000s and the Afghanistan/Pakistan region.  We know that Yaser fixed air conditioners for a living.  No person with that average of a background is going to have an easy time immigrating anywhere.  Even so, would it really take him over 18 years?  While it’s plausible, perhaps a man with such determination would find another way.  Or...was that unnecessary because he was fed lies?

Think about it.  After several weeks and no word from his children, don’t you think he’d cause a riot?  He’s the type to drive over to Badar’s house and demand his relatives get in contact with him to find out what’s going on.  But, given the flashback Zayn has, it’s obvious that Badar never planned on accompanying any of the children to the UK, and if that’s the case, he clearly couldn’t return to Quetta.  I imagine a fully rehearsed story was told to all of the children’s parents about how they were killed somewhere along the way.

As for Waliyha, her whereabouts were told to my gang over on Patreon a while ago.  In short, yes, she’s still alive and I plan on pitching the book’s sequel to publishers as a graphic novel series revolved around her location.  Louis’ dark web bot finally found a hint as to where that might be, so Zayn and Liam go on a journey across Europe to find her.  Each issue would (probably) take place in a new city and involve both fighting a single bad guy.

Just a quick reminder to anyone who reads this, Red vs. Black and all involved characters are my intellectual property and cannot be replicated, manipulated, or stolen.

Again, thank you for your question and time!  I know my fics aren’t short and take a huge time commitment to finish.  If you have any other questions, don’t hesitate to send them my way!  I’m super busy writing the next story and doing critical work, but I promise I’ll get around to it.

[holy-mountaineering]

Here’s the full Qabalistic Tree of Life Spread that I do and here you are. What I’m going to do is go through and briefly explain each card, its position on the Tree, and then I’ll give you a summary/synopsis of the spread as a whole. You know the routine.

Think of this spread as a sort of quantum map, or even the land of a regular map, everything is happening at once, in each place. It’s important to think of yourself as moving “through” the map but you are also simultaneously everywhere at once. For the sake of this specific experiment, think of this as a map. Maybe as a person, the Qabalistic Adam Kadmon.

Where we’re starting the journey from is Kether, the monad, the first sign of creation. We’ll call this your hometown, since it is where you’re from originally. Here we have the 9 of Cups, Happiness. 

I call this ‘mutually beneficial relationships’ or expanding influence (Jupiter) going or being pulled both ways (Pisces). Each cup has its own source but everything is flowing into each other down to the base of the 3x3 structure. There is a lot of water and all it represents and it hasn’t reached its peak yet and is still driving upward and outward.

Cultivate relationships and connective feelings that aren’t lopsided or just giving/taking. Keep building, you’re not done yet.

In Chokmah, which is like your freeway getting you out onto the road out of  your hometown is the 3 of Wands, Virtue. 

This is not a moralistic idea of Virtue, this is the idea of formulating a basic mode of action to build from. Virtue unto yourself and your Will, as in doing what you do because it’s what you do. Astrologically, this is Sol in Aries or springtime. This is the energy of the Sun close to Earth creating new growth from the stagnate winter. You can also read a message of centering on new growth in your life.

Create a basic plan like a farmer might for spring. You’re no sharecropper, this is your land so plant the fields only according to your Will.

In Binah, which is ruled by Saturn and for the sake of this reading we will call the first stop on your roadtrip. You haven’t really arrived anywhere but you’re stopping and getting a chance to repack your car in a more efficient way. Sitting in Binah is the 2 of Disks, Change. 

This is the old saying, “The only constant is change.” This is finding stability in the aforementioned changing. In other words, when stuff gets different, strap in and hold on, steady yourself, and get ready to go into the unknown. Look a bit before you leap but understand that position is king, not appearances. You’re building toward the unknown and pretending to know is not the kind of posturing you should bother with. Not looking for the result of the change, being in the motion, and enjoying, embracing the motion toward the unknown is where you should position yourself. 

Disks are Earth, matter, the material world, your everyday life and 2s are the suit trying to formulate into something from the rawness of the Aces or the beginning of the idea of Earth. Astrologically, the influential and expanding Jupiter is in the highs and lows of the Goat-Fish Capricorn, think rollercoaster, possibly one that goes underwater. And like rollercoasters, they’re scary but probably not going to be the cause of your death. Unless they go underwater, that sounds dangerous. This is a great time to be aware that you’re moving around and kind of always will be. Enjoy the twists and turns of the ride and don’t stress yourself about how and when it will end.

In Chesed which is ruled by Jupiter and again for the sake of this experiment we’ll say involves your influence and benevolence in your current trip is the 10 of Swords (mental and communicative) Ruin. 

Astrologically, this is Sol the Sun or your center being split by the duality of Gemini or duplicity. This is like making a decision by not making one. Your intellect is collapsing in on itself due to building duality or otherness conflicting with how you think of you. This is being “of two minds” but they duo doesn’t seem to work together very well. The good news is that they’re damn near done working together at all. 10s are the highest number card or as intense as it gets. 

Try to integrate your splitting and increasingly destructive thinking and/or communicating, make meaning out of this chaos. And hey, don’t worry, it’s peaked and now you have to slide down the mountain of crazy you just climbed.

Across the Tree in Geburah, which is Mars Town, where you find your drive and what you’re trying to accomplish/conquer is the 5 of Swords, (mental/communication) Defeat. 

Like all 5s this is the microcosmic or human card, if you don’t believe me stand up and stick out your arms and legs, boom, you’re a pentagram. Swords are mind, thought processes, communication and the like, and this is mental growth limited by its mundane focus or dwelling on the limitations of yourself and other individuals. 

Realize your limitations and the limitations of others. You are seriously just a human and so is everyone else. Try to focus your mind on bigger picture things instead of mundane/shitty people, ideas, thoughts, and ways of thinking.

In Tiphareth, the Sun and center of gravity holding all this in place, the heart pumping the blood through this, your heart is the Ace of Disks, the root power of Earth or the material. 

This is the foundation which all your solid structures are and will be built on. This is the very root of your real world/material life situation. While this doesn’t mean you must tear everything down or that there is nothing in your material world that you've built, it does mean you must look at the source from which you've built your material and everyday world. If you have no foundation you can have no structure. If you have a shoddy foundation, you'll have a shoddy structure. Look to what things were like  before you began building. Is there sand beneath you? Are you in a swamp, building castles of stone that will bind to the mud and be pulled down much sooner than later? Did you account for the raise in elevation when you laid your foundation? Look down to the base of what you've made and what you've made it upon.

This is an engineering job, you’ll need tools to measure and level everything out. The occult might not be the best place to find these tools and it is possible that you have issues much more base than you're willing to cop to. There are many tools you can use to look at your foundation provided in psychology and meditation from other sources. The Universe throws us extreme situations and more often than not, this is the only way people see their basest of instincts and behaviors really act out. If you can, take a look at what connects you and what you’re building to the Earth before an earthquake, tornado, volcano, or other act of G-D forces you to pray everything was fine. Check the strength of your foundations before the strength of your foundations are checked.

Get down to the base fundamentals of what is going on in your material (things, money, living situation, literal stuff) and build from the ground up if you must.

In Netzach, Venus town, where you have the realization about how this is going to change you as a person with a personality is the Queen of Cups, the watery part of Water, total emotion and intuition. 

This Queen looks through her reflective eyes at the ripples on a pond at the reflection of the moon which reflects the Sun. She isn’t so much interested in looking directly at a thing as she is looking at the effects. The tides being ruled by the Moon was discovered by observation of the correlation of movements of both Lvna and the comings and going of the tides. Her animal is the Ibis, who on one leg intently stares at the surface of the water. This was perceived as meditation and contemplation by the wise people of Khemet and they attributed the ibis to Djehuti or Thoth the wisest of their pantheon. But like ibis you have to act when the fish swims by or you’ll starve.

Do not look directly at a problem or situation you feel strongly about. Look for effects and not the causation or the point of impact.

In Mercury Town Hod-ville, where all the Universities are and everyone has real intellectual shit going on is IV The Emperor, Tzaddi, Aries.

The Emperor is the activating consort of III The Empress. He is King of Spring, the sign of Aries being his energy. He has the energy of the Sun, who in spring gets closer to the Earth and revitalizes the plant growth. The Emperor is formulated, active energy that causes force and growth.

This is new growth brought about like the spring that Aries heralds. Like the season of Spring, this card is activating the potential growth of the Earth, that is to say, the time is right to spring forth and grow as you can, with what you have.

Get formulated and active. Put things in their place or notice the NATURAL orbits of things. What works is that which grows from your energy.

On the Moon in Yesod, the receptive and reflective place that is alot about the feelings that you’re picking up from all this is the Princess of Cups, the earthy part of Water. 

We could consider this the substance in water or water hitting substance head on. This is the idea of the canyon wall being ground down over the millennia by moving water. The nutrients and minerals in the earth are transported down river to the fertile delta. This is the natural, “following your feelings” within your daily life. Try not to fool yourself, follow your intuition, not just passing whims. Feel, don’t necessarily react immediately.

Go with what you feel and intuit, let yourself go with the flow, if you will. Allow your situation to move with your emotions and be patient with your progress.

Down here in Malkuth-istan, the everyday life mundane, waking up pooping, and going to work world is XVIII The Moon, Pieces, Qoph. 

This is the ‘Sun at midnight where you stand shines on the other side of the world’. The pull of night and day eventually rising, illuminating what was once dark. As opposed to the old Aeon idea of the Sun dying, this is the cyclic motion of the push and pull of the day and night. The dark gives the light context and vis-a-versa.

See the light in the dark, accept the cyclic push and pull, if you don’t like what “time of day it is” in your life I assure you it will change like the tides.

So, we’re starting from a place of having the emotional resources to set things up in a healthy and beneficial way. A way that creates a path to enacting your Will and being aware of and in the flow of the real world Change you are a piece of. 

That’s all fine and dandy for being in your personal world, however you’re going to find that expanding outward from there will be met with the fiercest of resistance, namely that of your own mind. When you begin to build your world outside yourself, you will find that people, even yourself, may have limitations in understand your goals and your way of Working, do not focus on the limitations, focus on the Work. Then and only then will you be able to start from the foundation you wish to lay out and truly build from and on top of! 

Your personal growth or how you view that will not be a straight line. If you look at your growth as a linear process, you’ll miss all of the subtleties that are really building your world. And again, even outside of yourself, this is only your world, only take possession of that, and activate or work within that world, let others build their own. And if you feel force pushing against your force, roll with it. Allow your river to flow in its natural direction, do not try to dam the river, or worse yet, redirect the natural flow to meet some preconceived notion from others on how it should wind and turn, that is only for you and nature to decide.

Speaking of flowing, this natural process of growth and movement is, as stated earlier, one of subtle force. The ebb and flow of tides can only be predicted once one understands the effects the Moon has on the material world, This is not direct, it is not a lit path made clear to all. This is a force that is directed from Other and is only showed to those who first understand the subtleties and reflection that is made clear through study and intuition. Remember the Queen of Cups, remember the dowsing rod that while we don’t understand how it works, it will lead you to water, if you allow it to.

Ta Da! Hit me up with any questions!

[rockmiyabideusexmachina]

2020 Megaman Valentine’s Day Contest - Cat. 1 (Talent) Results!

Thank you to everyone again for your patience! This is getting posted way later than I wanted to. As much as I try to keep it short and sweet, I never do, so bear with my walls of text. 

For the talent category this year, the theme was about killing Mega Man with kindness. More specifically, entrants had to create their own original love/Valentine’s-themed Robot Master or equivalent boss character that was created to defeat Mega Man with the power of love! Even though the theme title and concept alluded more to the classic Robot Master character contests, designs for any series were acceptable. But other than one Navi and one Reploid entry, everyone stuck to a Classic-series themed creation. So you were all pretty consistent! 

There were a total of 16 entries for this category this year. Thank you all for your participation! It was extremely hard to choose winners for this category, because you all had really clever and creative concepts based off of this theme. So thank you for thinking up such clever and cool characters!!

Also thanks to Reploid 21XX for the coloring book prizes and for some additional insight. 

Again, raffle prize winners will be contained in both posts, so keep an eye out between your name and your art. Not all raffle prize winners are contained in this post. I’ll be contacting all winners soon enough, so sit tight! Might be late after work tonight, so don’t panic if you don’t hear from me right after this is posted.

Your category winners and full gallery of entries are right here, after the break:

Category 1 (Talent) -  Dr. Wily’s Greatest Creation: Killing Mega Man With Kindness

[Full Talent Gallery]

1.) @mo-sketchbook​:

*For coming in 1st, mo-sketchbook has won $100 via Paypal, or a prize of their choice up to that value AND a Rockman 7 Coloring Book.*

First and foremost, I appreciate all the effort you put into covering so many aspects of your creation, from the various design viewpoints, weapon get form for Mega Man, and showing the weapon in action. I really loved all the things you integrated into the design to give off the feeling that it is a love-based character. The “love bug” form, cherub-like Heat/Plug-type facial features, and how you utilized hearts in different ways for his design and powers. 

I’m no Keiji Inafune, but I feel like this is a concept he would greenlight, in terms of it following his Robot Master design formula. It doesn’t need to be super detailed or flashy, but still fits the mold very well! The thought of the hearts missing their target and love energy then getting weaker is actually pretty clever, too. Cute, and I wuv it. 

2.) @peachycircuits​:

*For coming in 2nd, peachy has won $50 via Paypal, or a prize of their choice up to that value AND a Rockman 7 Coloring Book*

As usual, on the technical side of things, your art is one of the more polished and clean entries of the bunch. Combining a couple different aspects - swans as a creature known as a symbol of love, bonded for life like in marriage, and turning that into an inseparable pair of Robot Masters, was a clever way to think about your design, in terms of the theme of this category. 

And then echoing that with the iconic Swan Lake, making them ballet dancers, is like taking Tundra Man and Gemini Man’s concept up another notch. Plus, not gonna lie, amused seeing Mega Man getting equipped with a tutu. LOL So even if it’s not as heart-themed as most of the other entries, I totally liked how you thought outside the box a little bit for this. 

3.) Komito Amae:

*For coming in 3rd, Komito has won $25 via Paypal, or a prize of their choice up to that value*

I figured a cupid-styled arrow theme would pop up in a bunch of entries, but your Reploid, Beta, here caught my eye. Both in terms of the hearts, arrows and wings incorporated into her armor, and the pretty sweet looking buster that she and X both have equipped. 

While I’m not sure how it would play out in the game, I think it would be interesting to suddenly take control of random enemies in a stage, and be able to change perspective as them for a short time, after you have shot them. Whether it would be to take out an enemy horde, or perform a task X can’t that the enemy could, it would be different! Can’t see it quite having the same powerful effect on a Maverick boss, but it’s certainly neat to think about how that could work!

And the rest of the wonderful entries, in alphabetical order by alias: 

@autobot-bumblebee​:

*Raffle Prize Winner*  Dreamwave Comics: Issue 4 Page 15

I’m sorry you didn’t win a cash prize this time! Please don’t take me hostage! I totally loved the creative vintage chocolate factory mascot backstory, along with making your entry like an Ariga-styled character sheet page. Certainly get that retro feel with her clothing design. Her rose blade kinda reminds me of other hand-turned-blade-like-weapon characters, such as Alan Gabriel in the Big O or Ed transmuting one in FMA. Which is always a snazzy transformation for a robot!

@drewblossom​:

In all honesty, if I hadn’t placed you in the humor category, I think this would have very likely been somewhere in the top 3 for this category. A cuddly teddy bear with a massive Ariga-Quick Man-sized heart for a chest, extending flailing tube arms, who just wants to hug Mega Man to death is so amusing and awesome of a design. Hugs for everyone!

FluffyFrostyFury:

Your take of heat-seeking arrows and the added high jump powers were certainly a different take compared to the other cupid-styled creations. Definitely would be nice gameplay bonuses when equipped. I like how Mega Man also has the wings sprout out of his head, to mimic Cherub Woman’s pigtails, rather than the usual spot you would assume, on his back. 

HealerCharm:

Hahaha, I love how your creation has caused Mega Man to wave the white flag after falling in love...wait, it isn’t White Day, and he should be giving her a gift if it was! XD Her hair tied up into a heart was a creative touch, much like how her dress flows into all those heart shapes. Adorable!

@inanehipsterslang​:

Um, can...can I count on you to vote for Bernie this election year?

Remember kids, it’s what’s on the inside that counts, looks don’t matter. Everyone deserves love, even those you consider ‘vermin.’ This was certainly an unexpected take on the theme, and gave me a good laugh, too. ‘Boiling-hot water...with a hint of citrus!’ It burns, but it smells so lemony-fresh!! XD But the two different moves fit together well, to protect and attack. 

I like how you still incorporated a heart shape into Rodent Woman’s design with, both in her chest shape and the “nostril” area which is echoed in the Rodent Rover. And also props for giving her the non-armor form, unique compared to other entries. 

Mattasaurs:

On the one hand, your design feels so different for a Robot Master, and maybe more Navi-like. But then I get the Astro/Galaxy-type eye vibe, and sort of a Plant Man~ish body with Devil hands feel, and see how it’d fit into Classic. It’s a unique look, and I liked it the more I inspected it. I really do love the idea of the heart bubble entrapping more and more enemies, and the big ol’ group hug ending up bursting their love bubble. It’s a different concept that stood out!

Minnie:

Our Navi of the bunch combined the love bug and cupid design, but your concept changed up the attack to suck out the energy of it’s target. Which almost made me think she should have an arrow-like mosquito nose, to feast on her target that way. XD I liked your wing shield concept and RiCO-styled skirt of hearts. Rock gets some cool shades in his Love Soul/Cross form, and I get the ProtoSoul vibe, with the shield transferring to his arm as well.

@pstart​:

Another Heat/Plug-type design Share Man looks cute and sleepy, but is also “clumsy and weak.” His ability is to share body parts, so “the danger is in him sharing his less than ideal parts with his opponents.” It’s a totally neat concept, to see Mega Man lose his buster almost by accident, and now be powerless to stop Share Man. His split color scheme drives home the concept that his parts might not all be his own, and sort of a Frankenstein bot at times. Props to that idea!

While his weapon gives Mega Man the power to make enemies docile and sleepy, I really almost want to see Mega Man get dumb parts of enemies, too! Helmet switched to a Met helmet, Batton wings, a big Suzy eye! It’s now I’ve got your power...but...but what am I supposed to do with it? XD

RetroNinjin:

Unlike most others, your entry pushed the heart theme heavily in her armor design around the entire head and shoulder parts, so I definitely felt the love vibe. The color scheme fits well. Just would have liked to have had seen a little more information about her attack and concept.

RoninApprentice:

Mega Man having a “Wing Man” to set him up is a hilarious and clever idea! I give you kudos for thinking outside the box a bit on your concept and theme here. The shipping chart certainly drives the idea home, too. You still give him a classy/formal look, and keep the wing man aviation origin apparent in his attack style. Certainly a different idea having the heart bowtie transfer to Rock’s helmet in the form change, but it really doesn’t look that bad there, opposed to around his neck like it would be normally.

@star-crossed-swords​:

Different from the other cupid concepts, Eros Woman utilizes a Search-Man like targeting system to hit her targets. I like the heart scope addition over her and Rock’s eye when they go into firing mode. You took a different approach to the wing concept compared to others, echoing Cinnamon’s hairstyle in many respects. But it certainly fits with the rest of her design nicely, and looks good for Mega Man’s equipped form.

@star-shaped-soul:

Love that you were able to both include a drawing and your own sprite, to mix in with the weapon equip ones. That is one powerful crush Mega Man has on his enemies now! I feel bad for Crush Man with how big and heavy those snare trap hands of his are. This seems like a Robot Master too cute for Wily to design; more like he stole him and added horrible, cruel hands onto him! This is taking a crush on someone to a whole different level! XD

Yuri Kadry:

When equipped with Cupid Man’s power, I like the visor Mega Man gets. I think this is also a clever use of the weapon, having enemies shot attracted to one another, causing them to collide into each other. Well thought out! Love the original sprite art, and he stands out nicely against the pinks and purples in the background. 

[serahsanguine]

Vacation Series Pt. 1 - Let The Games Commence. Ch, 4

This is the first book in a two-part series. This book is a six-part story which will be upload daily for the next week. After that, it will be Book two following the same pattern. it was originally made for the Summer Fanfic Exchange.

Tumblr - pt. 1, pt. 2, pt. 3 All chapters can be found Here on Ao3

This Chapter Rating; NC-17 NSFW

Tagging; @skullsmuldon @today-in-fic @baronessblixen @peacenik0

***********************************

             Chapter 4: Day Three; The Storm.

Scully woke up. Her body groggy and slightly sore from horseback riding the day before, her body sticky for the sweat during the night. The air felt humid, more than it held the last couple of days. She realised the sun wasn’t streaming through the open window. She looked but her eyes were still sleep ridden. She peered over, seeing the thick grey clouds forming on the horizon. She sat up trying to rub the sleep out of her eyes: it didn’t work. So she took off her sweat-drenched pyjamas and walked to the ensuite shower. 

It didn’t take long for the shower to heat up, she stepped in letting the water hit her face and cascade down her skin. The memory of being flirty with Mulder and kissing him came back to her, the corner of her lips turning up into a smile. She hadn’t a clue what had come over her to be so bold like that, but it was a split-second decision. The timing was right, both in her heart and her mind but more importantly, in her soul.

The shower soon finished, her body clean and refreshed. She found the lightest dress she could find. It was a pale yellow dress flowing down just above her knees wrapping around her waist and hugging her shoulders. 

She walked over to the coffee maker putting the costa Rican beans in the filter, placing the jug underneath and letting it do its thing. Since Mulder made her breakfast the day before, she wanted to make an exotic fruit and salad spread for them today. Yes, he may at first turn his nose up at it but she wanted to prove that this kind of fruit could be delicious and filling and not clog his arteries at the same time.

Not even 10 minutes later, he walked down in t-shirt and boxers, his hair going in every direction. To say the least this was a very cute look on him. 

“I smelled coffee,” he mumbled.

“Yes, there's a fresh pot just brewed I will get you a cup.” 

She turned away pouring the coffee into a cup. She turned back around and Mulder had sat at the table, staring at the fruit platter in front him eyeing it up, not knowing what to make of it.

“Took one, trust me.”

“Always.”

She handed him a cup of steaming hot coffee. He placed different kinds of fruit on his plate and took in. She smiled and then did the same. Some time had passed and he looked like he was enjoying it and soon finished. 

“My God, I didn’t know fruit could taste so good and be so filling! So, what’s on the agenda for today?”

“I don’t know, it looks like a storm is heading our direction.”

He peered past her shoulder, looking out of the clean glass doors.

 “It looks like much more than a storm, it seems like a tropical one,” his face broke up on a full grin. “Hope you’re not afraid of lighting. Maybe it will rain sleeping bags.”

She broke out into a full belly laugh. “You’re incorrigible”

They spent the next few hours playing chess and she found out even with Mulder’s high IQ she could still beat him and he was a very bad loser.

The Lone Gunmen had phoned about an hour ago asking them around to play some board games, maybe I game of charades. Frohike had once again cooked a full meal for them all and they got a couple of beers for everyone to share. She thought it was a good idea, being like they could not go outside. It had started to rain quite heavily now.

Mulder grabbed the golf umbrella, opening it up, covering not only himself but her as well. Mulder looked at her, pulling her close, his hand snaking for her back around to her hip, making small circles. She put her head on his shoulder feeling the heat radiating from his skin. His aftershave mixing with the smell of fresh rain and wet sand sent her libido into overdrive.

They arrived inside the main house and Mulder shook off the umbrella and stepped inside after her. Frohike was slaving away at the kitchen stove, where Langly and Byers were setting out the cards for charades. 

Mulder sat down at the table first and she could not help but stare at the nice firm buttocks hugged by his low hanging levis, boy does he know how to pull them off. She unconsciously licked her lips and Frohike caught her in the act. She blushed furiously. 

They all sat down at the wood table. Frohike placed the three different types of meat in different sizes and some even on skewers, fresh fruit, and veggies, some steamed and some smoked. It was all laid out in front of them.  

Scully sat down next to Mulder, near the foot of the table. And, in tradition, the chef sat on the end which meant next to her. Frohike saw that Mulder was chatting away to the guys and gave her a little nudge, speaking to her in a small whisper.

“So, he finally got up the courage and took it to the next level.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean, Scully” she knew the tone of his voice, and she knew he wasn’t teasing her. 

“No, he didn’t.” Frohike went to open his mouth but she spoke before he could, “I did” 

The shock on his face was priceless. She had never seen him speechless. 

“Close your mouth, Frohike, you’re catching flies,” she laughed and the three reaming men looked at her and Frohike went bright red.

“What’s so funny Scully?”

“Nothing,” she was still laughing hard. 

In the end, she managed to calm her breathing down and eat the food in front of her. 

As soon as they finished, all five of them sat on the sofa and chairs, beer at hand ready to play a game of charades. The teams were Mulder and Scully vs The Gunmen. The guys thought they had the advantage, little did they know.     

The first topic was music, Byers had put four size straws in his hand: whoever picked the shortest straw, went first. Frohike got the longest, then Scully got a shorter one, Langly’s was a medium length and Mulder’s happened to be the shortest straw by far. He growled to himself. 

“You’ll be fine Mulder, I believe in you,” she whispered in his ear and felt him relax next to him. 

Langly went off to find some more beer that would mean they were on their third. Scully was feeling the effects already, her whole body felt warm and tingly, sitting there for five more minutes waiting for the games to commence. She looked out the window and the rain was coming down hard against the glass, the sea was thrashing against the sand. It really is a tropical storm, she thought to herself.

Finally, Mulder picked a card out of the bowl. He stood there for a while contemplating how to go forward. A couple of minutes later he held out his finger. 

“One word!” Scully yelled, so excited.

A nod, then he stood there, with his hand above his head trying to signal something and for the life of her, she could not think what it was. He started moving his body forwards and back, trying to do the air guitar. She couldn’t help but laugh. He carried on trying to convey the word and then he did something different: he stomped his feet twice and clapped his hands. She instantly got it. 

“Queen!” She shouted, hard and loud.

“Thank god, Scully, I don’t like being a dancing monkey,” and with that analogy, she laughed even harder. “No fair, you’re not supposed to laugh.” 

She wiped the tears from her eyes, “I’m sorry, but you looked so damn adorably cute standing there.”

“Well, at least I made you laugh.” 

She beamed him a radiant smile and kissed him on the cheek. His hand clasped around hers and their fingers entwined. 

It was Langly’s turn to dive his hand into the bowl, frowning at the card he had pulled out. 

He stuck his hand out sticking two fingers.

“Two words,” Frohike shouted out. 

Langly and he nodded and started jumping from one leg to the other, throwing his hands together, crashing into things. 

“The Clash,” Scully whispered into Mulder’s ear, no one else able to hear her.

Mulder didn’t say a word to her, but looked deep within her eyes, nodding he had already come to the same conclusion. 

Frohike was shouting all sorts of things, each of them wrong. She could tell Langly was getting more and more defeated and soon the time was up.

“It was The Clash, man, how did you not get that?”

“You’re rubbish at giving hints!”  

“Boys, it’s just a game, no need to fight.” 

Scully gulped down the last of her beer and walked over to the fridge to grab herself another. Quickly looking over her shoulder she noticed Mulder’s was empty so she grabbed him one too. 

She was definitely feeling the effects of alcohol. Her skin was on fire from every touch of Mulder, which she was noticing a lot more now, the beers had definitely lowered her inhibitions. It was her turn next. She was a little apprehensive but she stood up nonetheless.

She followed the routine, sticking her hand in the bowl. Her whole face went very hot very quickly at the sight of the card. She knew she was blushing, damn the alcohol and her Irish skin. She stuck her hand out and held up her index finger and forefinger out. 

“Two words.”

She nodded and turned to the side thrusting her hips back and forth in the air.  Hoping Mulder would pick up on it quick. The embarrassment was at an all-time high. 

She heard Frohike wolf whistle in the background.

Oh god. 

She pointed both her index fingers and her thumbs in a mock gun position and started to pretend she was shooting into the air. As she kept thrusting. Mulder seemed to be enjoying her performance and he finally let her out of her misery when he shouted out. 

“Sex Pistols!”

She quickly sat down next to him looking him right in the eye and on full embracement mode. The game carried on for another hour maybe two. Mulder and Scully won with 15 to the Lone Gunmen’s 7. They were not sore losers, all in all, everyone had a good time and many drinks. 

She then convinced everyone to play poker and Mulder, with all his wisdom, decided to make it strip poker. She agreed reluctantly. 

They sat down at the table, Mulder getting shots of whiskey for everyone. He watched in awe as Scully gulped hers down greedily, not even flinching and the burning sensation he knew she would have. He gulped his drink down too and went into the kitchen to pull the cards out.

Mulder sat down in the exact spot he had sat down at lunch, right next to Scully’s side. He shuffled the cards like a professional, lucky he had some practice, even if it was years ago. 

“This is Texas Hold’em with a twist. The twist being unlike in normal poker, where you play to win chips or money, the objective in strip poker is to keep your clothes on while the losing players remove their clothing one piece at a time. Simple. I am going to deal out the cards and we are going to all play that hand with no betting. And the player with the highest hand wins and everyone else is required to remove a piece of clothing.”

He dealt the cards face down one at a time to each person sitting at the table until each of them had two cards. 

He held up his cards, he had a 2 of spades and 3 of clubs.  He looked around seeing everyone had looked at their cards. Then he dealt five cards face up and instantly knew he had lost. Each player kept a straight face revealing their cards. Scully had an ace and two of spades, and won with a straight flush from 1 to six of the same suit. 

She beamed and all of the men took off their shirts. Mulder caught her staring at him. She was staring directly at his chest dancing over each muscle. He watched her lick her lips and turn her eyes away. He felt his lower extremity twitch and harden. Shit, any more of that and I’m going to embarrass myself. 

Langly was next to deal. Mulder looked at his cards and knew again he was going to get nowhere with them: a 5 of diamonds and 7 and spades. The five-card was sat on the table face up. And one by one each person revealed the cards, and yet again she had won. This was not going well for anyone but Scully. How could she be so lucky?

Frohike was next dealing the cards. This time Mulder had a good hand and managed to keep his clothes. The boys took off one sock and since Scully didn't have much clothing, to begin with, she took off one shoe. 

The game went on for another 30 minutes and everyone apart from Scully was down to their last items of clothing. Scully had just lost the next round and she did something that would shock him. He saw her reaching underneath her dress, making sure he was watching, and gliding her finger up and down the smooth expanse of her legs before and lifting her hips a little she pulled her underwear off,  placing it on his lap.  

His cock twitched and went rigid, his senses went into overload. He had her panties. And she was sitting there looking all flushed, knowing her underwear was on his lap. He had to do something to get rid of his erection and fast, it hurt. 

Mulder quickly stood up, his hands covering his boxers, and moved to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He needed to relieve himself, so he put his hand down the hem of his boxer shorts and grabbed his aching cock. He wrapped his hand around it, feeling the precum seep out of his tip. He was just about the do the deal when he heard Scully’s knock at the door. He removed his hand and opened the door peeking at her. He saw it through her thick eyelashes and hooded eyes: pure desire and lust.    

He grabbed her hips and brought her into the bathroom, closing the door behind her, pushing her against the back of the door, his lips seeking her out, devouring her. She tasted of whiskey, beer and mango. Her hands felt like they were everywhere and nowhere all at once. Her touch was like fire on his already heated skin. He suspected she could feel his straining cock against her stomach. But at that moment he no longer cared. He lifted her up, looking for the nearest place to put her: the sink. He sat her down and lowered the straps on her dress, realising she had no bra. No wonder she didn't want to get rid of the dress. He took one breast inside his mouth, taking her ruby red nipple, swerving his tongue around it before biting hard. He felt her arch her back. He slipped his hand to the apex of her legs finding her juices flowing around his finger, so deliciously wet and hot, ready and waiting for him. 

“Ooooh, Fuck. Mulder, please,”  her breath was ragged, her skin hot and steamy, sticky and sweet. 

He needed no more encouragement: he attached his lips to her other breast while his fingers found her clit. Thrashing his finger back and forth while his mouth flicked and played with her coral nipple. He soon felt the moisture seep out of her and her stomach and pelvis convulse around him. He didn’t stop, not a chance he could stop even if he wanted to. 

“MM...der” she shouted breathlessly, and it made him explode in his boxers. He couldn’t help it, he had never heard or seen anything so beautiful than his redheader partner has an orgasm.

He looked away, feeling embarrassed. She brought her hand to his cheek letting him know there was nothing to be shy about. She brought his head to hers, kissing him gently. 

“Let’s go to the annexe. I’m not done with you yet, wait here.”

She put her dress back where it was meant to be, it was slightly more ruffled now. But still okay and she left the bathroom. Leaving him with his thoughts for five minutes.

He cleaned himself up as best he could and she soon returned with his clothes, he got changed and she lead him by the hand down the stairs. 

//

She couldn’t believe she had just done that. Their hands were entwined as she led them down the stairs. Thoughts were flooding her brain like oncoming traffic: It’s still raining. Oh, god, I'm not wearing any underwear. He just made me... Oh, god. 

Luckily Mulder grabbed the umbrella, she didn’t know if she could handle that right now. She was desperately trying not to show, but her body was still twitching from the pleasure. They quickly managed to say bye to the Gunmen before quickly exiting. Mulder hugged her close under the umbrella, his touch was electrifying, exhilarating, it was creating more desire to have him.

Mulder led her upstairs. She couldn’t believe she wanted him so much, she just wanted him to have the pleasure that she had felt no more than 15 minutes ago. She didn’t want to think. Where had thinking got her all these years? Sexual frustration, unfulfilled fantasies, vibrators and bullets. Now the real thing was standing in front of her. His usual hazel eyes were dark green now, it was the look of desire. 

He lightly placed her on the bed, not laying her down but sitting there. His eyes sorted hers out, asking a question. Without a single word spoken, their eyes did the communication. 

Are you sure?

I’ve never been surer of anything in my life. 

He stood in front of her and she slowly and seductively undressed him. When he was fully nude she sat there and admired him. She knew he was big when he was flaccid and she had some idea when she felt it against her stomach. But seeing it now, she thought he beautiful, his girth was a little bit above average and so was his length. She had assumed that he would be circumcised, and was not surprised to find out that her suspicions were right. She licked her lips as she saw clear liquid flowing from his tip. She reached out her finger and he twitched in pleasure at her touch. He smelt like the ocean mixed in with shower essence. Something she could only summarize as Mulder-scent. Knowing this, she couldn’t help but do further investigating. 

She brought her mouth to his cock and darted her tongue out to taste him. It was salty but sweet at the same time, a bit like popcorn. She ran it on the underside of his cock making him pulse. Her hand made its way to his balls, lightly squeezing them.

“Fu—”

He lost the ability to form words, she thought wickedly. 

She wrapped her lips around him swallowing him whole. No pause for breath, she felt him at the back of her throat. She felt his hand grab her hair, not to force her, but to see what she was doing. If she could have smiled she would have: she hollowed out her cheeks. And moved her head in slow motion up and down, moving her tongue from side to side, up and down. All she could hear was grunts and groans. Her hand was still squeezing his balls making him squirm.

“Scuuuuullly stooop, noooot like thissss.” 

She stopped instantly and looked at him. He bent down and kissed her. He took the straps off her shoulders, brushing his fingers down her arms in the process. She felt goosebumps on her skin as he kissed her shoulder. He carried on, lowering her dress and placed small kisses on her clavicle, then the top of her each breast, then her stomach. She lifted her hips and he trailed the dress past them and placed it on the floor somewhere near his feet. He lightly lifted her up again, now she was further up on the bed and Mulder placed himself on top of her. He found his erection and placed it at her entrance, slowly guiding himself into her. 

Her walls were hugging him, gripping him; she was exquisitely tight, and so helplessly wet for him. It was truly a delightful feeling, filling her up completely. Her power was overwhelming him. How can such a tiny person be so beautiful and erotic? He could feel her breast and nipple gently glide across his sweaty skin. She arched her back and he could not help but start to thrust a little harder. He took his eyes off hers and buried his head in the crook of her neck. 

He listened to the sounds of her skin thumping against his own, the rain slamming against the glass windows. The thunder booming in the background. He started to feel her walls clutching him as her climax was about to happen and then he felt her body convulse and twitch around him. He buried his head further into her shoulder. It was a moulding of two souls like planets aligning. Like supernovas exploding as their climax hit. The room flashed with a bright white light illuminating the room. As he filled her with his seed.  

They laid together and he slowly slipped out from inside her.  He laid on his back and she curled up in his arms, resting her head on his chest, and fell asleep. His other arm grabbed the thin sheet and wrapped it around both their naked forms and then followed her into the world of slumber. 

[bitsandbobsandstuff]

A love that never leaves (2)

Summary: Sometimes when you go looking for the past, you find things you never expected. When an accident brings him face to face with something he never knew he lost, Bucky Barnes begins to understand an age old truth – it’s so easy, sometimes, to love the things that destroy us.

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: Bad language. Sad Bucky.

A/N: The plot thickens. Bucky recovers from a shit situation and learns more about the person who found him. Remembering is really hard and memories do not cooperate.

I’m planning to post a chapter a week, on either Saturday or Sunday. I tried to tag everyone who reached out, but if I missed you, it was unintentional, so please send me a DM or ASK, it’s easier for me to track. Otherwise you can find the new updates each weekend!

MASTERLIST ALTNL MASTERLIST

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Previously...

The figure halts. A gloved hand reaches to pull back the hood of the white coat and a woman’s face appears. Even through the howling wind, Bucky hears her question clearly and he doesn’t understand why the two syllables feel like a knife ripping through skin and bone and thick sinew, straight to his heart.

“Soldier?”

She speaks hesitantly, her voice tinged with a peculiar hint of hope. Bucky wants to ruminate further, but his fingers are rubbing the slippery edges of his gunshot wounds and the snow around him is greedy, lusting for the hot blood he spills.

He wants to answer. He tries to answer, he really does.

Instead, he falls face first into the soft snow.

*****

MISSION REPORT

CONTACT MADE BUT RESPONDENT ELIMINATED. BASE DID NOT REVEAL INFORMATION REQUIRED TO PROCEED TO NEXT RENDEZVOUS POINT. HOLD AND WAIT.

WITHOUT ADDITIONAL SUPPORT MISSION FAILURE IS IMMINENT. REQUESTING BACK UP FOR – 

For what? The words evaporate. Smoke in the wind. The pencil clatters to the floor and rolls away and his notebook follows. He goes to his knees in front of the brick wall and he slams his fist against it again and again, until his knuckles are shredded. 

He screams.

****

Bucky’s entire body is on fire.

Burning hot, scorching him from the inside out. This can’t be right, he’s done. He’s supposed to be done with this shit, what are they doing now? Bleary eyes open and he tries to speak. To tell them no, to leave him alone, to please just fucking stop. Heat races through his veins, suffocating him and he feels rivers of sweat coursing down his face, down his chest, down his arms. 

Above him, floats a blurry face, both intensely familiar and completely foreign. She wipes a cold cloth over his face and Bucky sighs in relief. 

Darkness comes again.

*****

We’ll meet again…don’t know where…don’t know when…but I know we’ll meet again, some sunny day…

The melody flows like water inside his head and Bucky follows it slowly, swimming languidly into consciousness. When he breaks the surface, his brain comes to life, but his eyes stay closed.

It’s a trait he perfected over the years, waking up without anyone realizing. Back then, he’d quickly discovered if you’re flat on your back and don’t know where you are, your safest bet is certainly not to show them you’re awake. Once they know, you lose your advantage.

That’s usually when the pain starts.

Instead, he starts his internal assessment. Ears straining for any hint of sound, he waits, listening for anything. The intake of breath, a quiet sniffle, the whisper of fabric, a footfall. Anything. The silence stretches and he’s finally forced to conclude – either his captor is just that good, or he’s alone. 

Cracking an eye, he draws a soundless breath, taking stock of his surroundings.

This is – interesting.  

The room he’s in is dim, suffused with swaths of muted daylight streaming in through the massive window in front of the bed. His eyes track the expanse of clear glass, stretching from the floor, extending up the vaulted ceiling and ending in a wide skylight. A small fireplace is tucked into the corner, a basket of logs piled next to the dark slate tiles, and the soothing pop and crackle of wood lulls him toward a sense of false security. 

Snow still falls outside, but it’s no longer the wailing blizzard; instead, fat, wet flakes drift quietly by, piling onto the tall evergreens hugging the window. 

Feeling the silky sheen of satin against his skin, he peeks under the sheets to find himself nearly naked, wearing nothing more than a crisp white bandage and skin-tight boxers. 

“What the sweet fuck is this shit?” he mutters, dropping the sheets and struggling to sit up. The bed is wide and covered in all shades of blue – a dusty blue duvet, sky blue sheets, a midnight blue quilt – and suddenly it all mixes into a watery blur when his vision goes sideways. Pain rips through him and he flops back, whining softly. Pressing gently against the bandage, the pain flares so fast, he digs his heels into the bed, spine arching unconsciously. He can feel it, actually feel it, the tugging sensation of his skin knitting itself back together. Sweat instantly pours down his face.

“Don’t scream,” he hisses through gritted teeth, “don’t scream you fuckin’ baby, don’t.”

Clamping his lips together, he swallows the sounds he’d desperately love to howl, focusing on counting the snowflakes drifting past the window. He loses count of the deep, calming breaths he takes and long minutes later, the worst appears to pass. For now. Bucky’s rigid muscles begin to relax.

He appreciates the whole healing fast thing, he really does, but the process is just fucking unpleasant.

Swinging his legs over the bed, toes curling into a plush rug, he wobbles to his feet. Looking around, he searches for his clothes, but he comes up empty handed. He doesn’t actually mind the lack of clothing, it’s more the lack of pockets for weapons that irritate him.

But a good solider can make a weapon from anything, so he snatches a log from the basket next to the fireplace, rotates his arm until the plates shift smoothly, and creeps from the bedroom.  

Tiptoeing down the steps to the first level, he stops short. 

The small town he’d infiltrated was derelict, gritty, downtrodden.

The home he finds himself inhabiting is the polar opposite.

Wooden steps lead down into a cosy stone and log cabin. The small kitchen has an island with a couple hand-hewn stools and an oak butcher block in the middle, burnished copper pots hanging from a rack above. The floor is a deep russet red, the wide-planked floorboards containing a myriad of knots and whorls. Above him, thick beams stretch the expanse of the room, with dark iron lighting fixtures casting a rosy glow through the room. In the centre wall of the living room, flanked with tall vertical windows, stands a fireplace, the uneven shapes of grey river rock fitting together seamlessly. From the tall windows, he has a clear view of a foggy mountain range. Another fire crackles and pops merrily in the calm silence. 

A cracked white pitcher filled with pine boughs gives off a sharp, clean scent and Bucky finds himself struggling to remain overly vigilant, because it’s beautiful. It’s a home. 

Beauty means nothing though. A lesson he learned the hard way through the years.

Slinking into the kitchen, he rummages through the silverware, turning up three finely sharpened knives. Two, he tucks into the elastic band of his boxers, feeling instant relief at the feel of the blades hugging his hip. The third, a large butcher knife, he flips around and holds outward, ready to swing.

Switching into stealth mode, he goes to work.

Rifling through kitchen cupboards and drawers. Lifting throw pillows and blankets from the sofa. Scanning rows of books arranged in alphabetical order. Searching a small linen closet. Ears perked for the sound of footsteps outside.

And yeah, he finds a few things.

A few weird things.

It starts in the small closet. Buried under a pile of quilts, he finds a heavy metal box. Pulling a bobby pin from the perpetual tangle of colorful hair-ties he keeps around his wrist, it takes a few tries before he has the lock picked. Lifting the lid reveals a perfectly folded pile of worn t-shirts. Shaking each out, he scans the logos – emblazoned across each one is a different city from Bon Jovi’s 1986 Slippery When Wet European tour. 

They’re just old t-shirts, the kinds you find people hawking at concert venues or in the bargain bin at a thrift store. Nothing special or expensive. Yet here they are, folded into neat squares and tucked into a box that could probably withstand an explosion. 

His confusion spirals, but Bucky fights a small smile. It seems odd, but hey, he really likes Bon Jovi too. Maybe he would do the same.

Re-folding the tissue thin cloth, he locks the box and stuffs it back in place.

Trying the bookcase next, he pulls books out, feeling behind them. Knuckles rap at random, tap, tap, tap, until he hears an unexpected thunk. The hollow sound gives it away and with a shove, he shifts the back panel and finds another small locked box. Holding it under his arm, he fiddles with the bobby pin again and the lid cracks. Two items appear.

A crushed red velvet jewelry bag.

A handful of cheap vintage postcards in a clear plastic bag.

Crouching to the floor, he shakes the contents of the jewelry bag free. A handful of silvery-blue pebbles clatter out and in the middle of the pile, a necklace. Bucky holds the worn chain up to the light. Spinning slowly on the end is a round disc, a little dingy and rubbed smooth, but he can see the outline. 

Bucky wasn’t exactly a good little Catholic growing up, and yeah, religion wasn’t the sort of personal expression Hydra encouraged for the Soldier. His knowledge of saints was spotty as a kid and is extensively worse now, but he recognizes the medal – he knows Steve had one, wore it during the war and was wearing it when his plane went down. He donated it to the Smithsonian when he returned. Most of the military seemed to have one back then and Bucky assumes he had one as well, although he has no clue.

On the little medal, is the image of Saint Michael. The patron saint of Soldiers.

Fingering the medal pensively, he tries to summon a memory, any memory. He figures he must have something in there that could build off this particular war-related trinket.

But no. Just like always.

Setting it gently aside, he opens the clear bag instead. Pulling out the postcards, he lines them carefully up in front of him, internally translating the languages.

Covered with palm trees, an exuberant statement in French: Welcome to sunny Nice!

A colorful boulevard linked with green trees in Spanish stating: The Beauty of Barcelona 

A laughing cartoon caricature of a man holding skis in Swiss German: Enjoy your Winter in Zurich

The solemn announcement in Italian, written over an image of the Coliseum: Hello from Rome: The Eternal City

Orange and red leaves, covering a giant beer stein in German: Oktoberfest in Munich!

And the dogged mantra of the stoic English, tall white letters against a soft pink backdrop: Keep Calm and Carry On

But the one that piques his interest the most, is last in the pile. A hand-painted postcard, the paint chipped and faded through time, of the Brooklyn Bridge at night. The title above in carefully printed letters reads: Brooklyn, New York – Thank God It’s Not Jersey. Bucky feels his heart stutter at the words, because he’s pretty god damn sure he and Steve used to throw out that same phrase. 

On the back of the Brooklyn postcard, he finds the inked shapes of two hearts tangled together.

Bucky stares hard at the image, so simple but vibrating with some unknown meaning. Flipping through all the other cards, he finds them blank, nothing more than a pretty collection. Bewildered and careening toward frustrated anger, he gathers them together and slips them into the bag. He bangs the box shut and hides it away again.

He finds three more locked boxes in his search, each containing innocuous items. One with a thin, moth-eaten baby blanket. One with a random assortment of old Life magazines.

After stowing away the final box, housing an envelope with three sepia toned photos of a tall man and a small girl, he spends another ten minutes searching for clues. Finally, he’s convinced the room has shared all its secrets - until he notices the crease in the rug below the coffee table.

Shoving the table aside, Bucky flips up the rug. In the middle of the floor, he finds a plank of wood slightly thinner than the others, with a small chink in the edge. Crouching down, he runs his thumb around it and nudges it up, finding a hidden space below.

There he finds one more box. His beleaguered bobby pin gives a final brave attempt and with a quiet snick, the lock pops open. 

Inside are three dusty books. Peeling gold letters line the spine of each, showing a single word, followed by three different numbers. 

Journal, 1967 Journal, 1968 Journal, 1969 

From the pages of 1969, a ticket stub flutters to the floor.

*****

Under the fall of lacy snowflakes, she walks. Circling the small cabin for hours, her toes are damn near frozen, but she finds herself unwilling to go back inside. He has to be waking soon and the thought of facing him makes her chest ache. Instead, she walks the narrow path along the bank of the rushing stream bordering her home and argues with herself.

Go inside. Ask him. Talk to him. See if he remembers. Tell him the truth! He deserves to know. Maybe he doesn’t want to hear it. Maybe he’ll just kill you and be done. Probably not though, you’re not that lucky.

Hysterical laughter bubbles up and she digs the puffy gloved heels of her palms into her eyes. She really needs to get out more. This constant talking to herself thing will get her institutionalized someday.

But she literally has no one else to talk to. And that right there, has always been the problem. 

Brushing the snow from a giant boulder, she gingerly sits. Bending forward, she drops her head to her knees and wraps her arms around her legs, trying desperately not to give in to the panic attack threatening to drive its anxious fingers into her brain. Memories begin to swirl and even after all this time, the sound of his voice rises so easily to the surface, a sweet, drawling Brooklyn twang that turns her stomach to knots.

“Je vais avoir de la chance ce soir. Il y a de belles femmes en France qui ne m'aiment pas?”

“Can I walk you home?”

“Wait for me darlin’, okay? Will you? I’ll come back for you. I promise I will.”

“You’re what I want. You’re what I’m always gonna want.”

“You and me, this kind of love, it lasts forever, okay? It’s never gonna leave.”

“Dammit. Shit shit shit,” she chants to herself. Thick and heavy, the memories press down until she buckles under the burden of remembering. Tears begin to fall, hot trails down her face and she wipes them away, her hands shaking. 

She stays on the frozen rock, letting time pass while the cold seeps through her clothes. The air is so icy, it makes her lungs seize.

*****

The butcher knife lays beside him, within easy reach. Bucky sits cross-legged on the floor, flicking through the pages at random. He pauses now and then, digging deeper, losing himself in the faded ink of another’s life.

19 May, 1967

America is strange. I arrived in Los Angeles with no goal, just rented a car and drove. First to the coast and saw the ocean. It was different than the first time Papa took me – I’ve never seen anything so blue. I tried not to think about it, but it was in my head. It’s always there. Blue everywhere. The water, the sky, his eyes. I can never leave it behind.

The songs on the radio here, they’re different too. It feels like the heart of this country is screaming and I see why. Vietnam is different. This war, it’s unexplainable maybe, but there’s a frustrated weariness in the words. 

But then again, is it really that different? No matter the fight, Soldiers still give their lives and leave their sweethearts crying in the streets. They promise to come home, that ridiculously naive optimism of youth, and instead they die in a battle they never wanted to join. It’s the universal truth of every fight, since the beginning of time. The tears should be enough to stop this all from happening, but no. War keeps coming, one after another, and soldiers answer the call.

I still remember what he said that night. It’s stayed with me more than anything else. They’ll run out of soldiers eventually, he said, like he was nothing more than a cheap commodity. He was so tired by the end. I should have helped him.

11 April, 1968

Last week I was walking by the book stalls down at the Seine and saw a bargain bin of English language books. I found a book of poetry and I swear to god, that damn thing fell open on this:

He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun, Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood; For nothing now can ever come to any good. W.H. Auden

I don’t think I could find a better articulation of my mood. Either Fate has something against me, or I’m just that unlucky. I bought it. I couldn’t help myself.

21 July, 1969

Sometimes, I think miracles do still exist in this world.

Down at an old hotel, the entire town was crowded in the dining room. They had a TV balanced up on a shelf so everyone could see and they caught the BBC1 broadcast. The entire room was dead silent. It was overwhelming, I can still hardly imagine it. A man walking on the moon!

The whole time I kept thinking how much he would have loved this. How he would have laughed. How he probably would have tried to sign up to be a spaceman! The more I remembered, the more I thought about that night by the river, after we first met. All those stars in the sky. Decades later and I still wonder about it – how it’s possible to be so in love with someone – but then again, how could anyone fail to love him? He was so warm, so full of life and excitement and dreams. God. We had so many dreams, so many plans for the future. We were so naïve, thinking the world might owe us a little happiness. What a joke.

And now here I am. Alone with nothing but memories – just like always. That life we wanted, it’s as far away as the moon. Unreachable and impossible.

1 January, 1970 We never He was I thought A Soldier with a metal arm?

The journal ends there. 

Bucky looks at the ticket stub that fell from the delicate pages and the words bring forth a wavering reel of images, brand new and unfamiliar.

Moulin Rouge New Year’s Eve Ball Admittance: 1 Individual 31 December, 1969

The black lacquer of a piano. Silver sparkles reflecting from crystal chandeliers. The scent of fizzy champagne and the tang of blood and a dark apartment overlooking the twinkling lights of Paris.

Disoriented, Bucky sets the book down. What the hell is this? Who is she? She must be Hydra, she has to be. How else would she know the Soldier? Why did she take him, what does she want? Why does she have journals from so long ago, what do they mean?

It’s the eternal tragedy of his god damn life – always questions, never answers. He looks around the warm, peaceful little cabin and scrubs his hands down his face. He needs to plot his next move, but the bullet wounds throb with fresh, fiery pain and he’s suddenly and overwhelmingly exhausted.

So, he remains seated, surrounded by pages upon pages from someone else’s life.

Blinking back frustrated tears as he stares at the books, he knows without a doubt, that these three years of writing hold more memories than he could conjure in the lifetime he’s lived.

Distantly, he hears the slow crunch of boots on snow. Rousing himself from the miserable train of thought, he scrambles to his feet, turning to face the front door when footsteps hit the porch steps and begin to climb.

Bucky wipes the tears from his eyes. And he lifts his knife.

*****

Pacing back and forth across the small porch, she stops in front of the door and reaches for the handle.

And draws away again. Curses and keeps pacing. Tries again, pulls back.

“Open the door, you god damn coward,” she whispers harshly.

Squaring her shoulders, she turns the knob and pushes it open before she can lose her nerve. Stepping inside, the room is silent, just as she left it. Orange flames flicker in the fireplace, the smell of smoky wood and pine needles hangs in the air. She shuts the door quietly, shakes out her coat and hangs it on the rack. Taps the snow from her boots and unwinds her scarf. Rubbing her temples, she takes a deep breath and starts for the stairs, determined to face him.

She takes three steps, before the wind is knocked clean from her lungs.

The heavy body hits her from behind, one arm curling around her chest, the other pressing her butcher knife against her throat. The voice in her ear is so gut wrenchingly familiar, she nearly faints. 

“Leaving a strange man alone in your bed with access to knives – not your best move.”

When he was lying unconscious wrapped in her quilts, she thought he seemed smaller than she remembered. Now, the breadth of his body against her back makes her realize just how wrong that assessment was. 

“Yes. I should have hidden the knives,” she tries to speak. “Something to remember next time.”

“Tell me who the fuck you are.”

She should be terrified right now. The most prolific assassin of the 20th century has a razor-sharp blade sitting at her throat and a metal arm digging into her chest. With the slightest move, he could crush her lungs or slit her throat. He wouldn’t even have to try. 

She should be terrified, but she’s not. Because the years, the decades, have been nothing more than an empty echo without him, and now he’s here. Against all odds, he is here with her. Relaxing in his arms, she leans back and closes her eyes.

Bucky stiffens abruptly at the movement. 

Her hand floats up and reaches for the wrist flexing at her throat. She feels his grip tighten further, but for some reason, he allows her curious touch. Fingers trembling, they find the thin ridge, running down the long white scar curving from his right thumb across the back of his hand. 

It’s nothing more than a gentle caress, but – 

Like a hammer to his skull, his head splits head open. With a frightened snarl, he shoves her away and she stumbles forward, catching herself against the sofa. Slowly, she turns to face him fully. 

Dark hair frames his face in sweaty tangles and his blue eyes are wild. 

“What the fucking hell was that?” he hisses. The knife is held outward and he scratches at the scar, trying to scrub away her touch.

“I’m sorry,” she says, rubbing her throat. “I wasn’t – I’m sorry.”

“How the hell did I get here?” Bucky barks. “Last thing I remember, I was gut shot and bleeding out in a god damn blizzard.”

“I found you. Brought you here.”

“Yeah, obviously. Except I’m fuckin’ heavy and no offense, but you don’t look much like a super soldier. So, I’ll ask again - how the hell did I get here? Who else is working with you?”

“No one, it’s just me. And I’m not working. You – I don’t know, you just followed me. When you collapsed in the snow, I rolled you over and shouted your name, and your eyes just – they opened and you got to your feet.”

Bucky glares at her. “Convenient, that you knew my name. And how to wake me up.”

Jaw clenching, she glares back now. “I didn’t know how to wake you up. You were bleeding everywhere, but you stood there like you were waiting for something.”

Biting the inside of his cheek, he grimaces. He thinks he knows what’s coming.

“Say I believe you. Then what?”

“You asked for instructions, so I told you to get in my truck and I brought you here. I’m sorry, I didn’t know – I wasn’t sure what to do. When we got here, you wouldn’t go upstairs. You just laid down on the dining table and – ”

She pauses, but he sighs resignedly. “Keep going.”

“Both bullets, they were still – inside. I had to dig them out. I got bandages and tried to stitch up the wound. You were awake, I thought you were awake, the entire time. You were telling me what to do. Kept asking if – you kept asking if I was new.”

Bucky feels his face heat in embarrassment. Shifting uncomfortably, he grudgingly explains. “That was a secondary protocol. Something happens to the Asset, it’s programmed – I mean I was programmed - to help fix the problem.” 

The cabin is quiet for a drawn-out moment. 

“Oh,” she finally says. Her voice sounds small. 

“So? You’re former Hydra then?”

She blanches at the comment. “What? No! I was never with them.”

“Really,” Bucky says sarcastically. “You just happened upon me and knew my name and brought me to a cabin in the middle of nowhere for no reason? That was all just luck?”

“Stop being a jerk. I said I don’t work for them,” she snaps, anger seeping into her voice. “I’d slit my own throat first.”

Bucky goes quiet, considering the statement. His loses some of the hostility when he replies, but his tone is still suspicious. “But we know each other. You know him. Or – me. The Soldier.”

“Yes. I know the – Soldier.”

“Well, I don’t remember you,” Bucky says harshly, and he watches her face fall. He feels a pang of remorse at her disappointment and almost points out that she’s not unique, he never remembers. But he holds his tongue.

Eyes dropped to the floor, her shoulders sag. “I didn’t expect you would.”

An awkward silence fills the room. Bucky feels that strange ache in his chest once again, a desire to smooth the unhappiness from her face, and an apology tumbles from his lips. 

“I’m sorry I don’t remember. Trust me, it’s definitely not you.”

“No. Please don’t apologize,” she says quickly, looking up. She shakes her head like she wants to say something more; instead, she swallows the words and offers an olive branch. “Do you want to know? I mean - do you want me to tell you?” 

Bucky considers the offer. Before him stands a lovely woman. One who knew the Soldier, who met the worst incarnation of himself, but without the security of Hydra to help her. He comes to a swift, depressing conclusion.

Chances are, he did something shitty to her.

Does he want to know then? Does he really need another gruesome memory clogging up his brain? 

Sure. Because Bucky never knows when to quit.

“Yes,” he says firmly. “Tell me. I want to hear it.” 

“Okay, I can do that,” she says softly. She motions him to sit on the couch, but Bucky hesitates.

“Can I, uh, have some pants first?” He asks stiffly. “This is sort of awkward.”

The surprise on her face makes Bucky think for one fleeting moment that she might laugh. But then she nods and disappears through a small room off the kitchen. When she returns, she’s holding a neatly folded stack of fresh laundry and he recognizes the contents of his backpack. 

“Here,” she sets it cautiously on the dining table. “I’m sorry I went through your bag, I didn’t have any men’s clothing, so…anyway, I washed it all.” 

Bucky snatches his ragged Captain America t-shirt and black sweats from the top of the pile, shimmying into them. Pulling a rainbow colored band off his wrist, he ties his hair back and drops to the couch. 

She takes the armchair across from him, as far away as she can get in the small living room, and tucks her hands under her legs. Bucky knows he’s unlikely to enjoy whatever she has to say, but he folds his fingers together and waits. She stares down at her feet, appearing to gather her courage before meeting his grim stare head on.

Her voice is steady, as she starts to speak.

“Paris was cold that December and it snowed early. It was New Year’s Eve in 1969.”

*****

Next Chapter

*****

Tags are open right now, if you want one, please send me a DM or ASK.

[3d10fire-damage]

red sun summary 7/2/2020

the party awoke in the aqueduct cave, fully rested. zoroe, in the night, had coiled gently around calypso, but didn’t want move to undo that before calypso woke up. as they were heading out, calypso mentioned that she had a weird dream involving a boa constrictor wrapping around her. zoroe was mildly flustered. in their further exploration, the party heard someone’s beautiful singing and discovered a pretty elf woman, bathed in the light from a driftglobe, putting together a flower crown. cluk approached, joining in the elf’s singing with her lute. it felt a little like the party was interrupting a private moment. the elf woman introduced herself as Feher, a druid. calypso commented that someone like Feher didn’t seem the type to be hanging out in such a place. Feher said that she was exploring the area, observing the plant life, and that she entered from the west. phosphorra asked where she was from, and Feher answered that she came from the far west. she came through a desert west of the Abban Serru/Parikh border, and that she didn’t stay because of the very aggressive creatures there. calypso understood what she meant.

Feher explained that there were “bad vibes” in this ruined city, that some sort of bad plant life originating from the east (though, she’s uncertain of their exact origins because roots run awfully deep). since the party said they were trying to take down the King’s troops and/or the bad plant life, Feher offered some potions of poison resistance to help them. Feher also grew a little flower for phosphorra, though phosphorra wondered if that flower was actually natural, since magic was used to grow it. the party then continued exploring the tunnels (which was some fuckery-- there were many questions about the water flow in the aqueduct and phosphorra clipped through a wall) before finding a series of bridges and halls guarded by skeletons. the skeletons didn’t react at all to the party’s approach, and the party could hear the sounds of three people arguing down a hallway. calypso not-so-stealthily went up to a door, passed another unresponsive skeleton, then waved the others on to follow her. one path led to a watch tower over a dried up river bed, and the other path led to the people in the middle of an argument. calypso saw that these people were wights, and told phosphorra to keep her pants on. phosphorra checked to see if her pants were falling, then called out a greeting and apology for interrupting.

the wights explained that the skeletons were their soldiers, and that their last orders, as city guards, were to find and destroy a rebel cell in the aqueduct. they were arguing about whether they should keep looking for the rebels and continue guarding this outpost, or if they should leave since everything is cleared out, mostly. the wights knew of Ku-aya but didn’t take orders from her, and they said they were alive at the same time she was, so... they’ve been dead for a long time. phosphorra said that there wasn’t anyone to rebel against, and one of the wights, Erishti, insisted that they need to know what happened to the rebel cell and then they could leave, freed from their last orders at that point. she wanted to search the aqueduct, but she didn’t want to be alone and the others weren’t giving her any of the skeletons. phosphorra suggested to the party that they go looking for some proof of the rebels in this area, and the party agreed.

heading back into the large room where they fought the oozes, cluk, with her eagle eyes, spotted a hidden door that led to a long-abandoned hideout. zoroe fought some gold and silver in the room, but other than that there were just very old fragments of supplies and dust. returning to the wights, Erishti relaxed at what the party reported to her, saying that she and the others could leave this place and go home. phosphorra told them that the world was very different now, and that maybe Ku-aya would be good company. she also... said that she herself could be good company, maybe at dinner or something. calypo nudged cluk like, “she’s flirting with the ghosts.” she also teased phosphorra to keep her pants on, again. as the party headed out of the aqueduct, calypso complained that she hadn’t punched anything in like 12 hours, and cluk offered to take a punch from her. upon taking said punch, she said it was refreshing. the party went back to the mining commission office and got the key from the tiefling Mistral, who kept saying things in French for some reason. she suggested that the party could use the aqueduct tunnels to sneak out since they run all over the city. she said that she and her associates used the tunnels sometimes to pester the King’s troops... with weapons. calypso and Mistral exchanged winks, and then it was “au revoir.” calypso asked zoroe what that meant, and was disappointed that it didn’t mean Mistral was coming on to her. zoroe asked to commission a map of the tunnels from Mistral, who took up the offer for 15 gold pieces. with the key now in their possession, the party set out for the mines.

upon approaching the entrance, the party noted a couple of watch towers, which appeared freshly built. hidden behind a pile of dug up rock, the party made a plan: cluk would cast Silence on the lone sentry outside and the party would take her out and go in, ideally without rousing much suspicion. zoroe mentioned that she would use the password: Inflict Wounds. calypso chimed in that the other password was her fists, to zoroe’s approval. cluk ran up to cast Silence and spotted two more guards past the first one, but the party still took a surprise round. zoroe cast Fire Ball and took out one of the guards. calypso, with Step of the Wind, rushed up and threw her javelin but missed. phosphorra, with her initiative of 0, finished off another guard with Fire Bolt. the party continued fighting the guards, though they didn’t notice that the guard in a watch tower had noticed the giant goddamn Fire Ball going off and ran down from the tower.

cluk dropped Silence so that the spellcasters could actually cast their spells. phosphorra kept doing surprisingly good damage with her cantrips, because her two burdens in life are being really cute and having incredible powers. her powers come from her cuteness. calypso ran up further into the entrance and saw numerous other cultists and a shadow creature. she caught an arrow out of the air... and then caught a few others with her body, looking a bit like a pin cushion. the cultists were in full defense mode, taking cover behind palisades. the shadow looked impatient as combat continued. cluk stepped up and said it was time to get loud, high fived calypso, and cast Shatter. phosphorra cast Fire Ball in the room, taking out several cultists and also hitting calypso. but calypso seemed to appreciate the spell, shivering a little. “yes!” “boom.” “YES!” zoroe used a radiant attack on the shadow, but it didn’t seem to take any damage. zoroe told calypso to look for an artifact like they found in the cultist hideout previously, and to destroy it.

at this point, several wisps emerged from the walls, attacking the party. calypso disengaged from the shadow to look for the artifact, leaving the combat behind momentarily. meanwhile, phosphorra attempted to protect herself with Sanctuary and zoroe healed cluk. the wisps started using some sort of cold breath attack. calypso, upon finding the artifact, ran up and punched the shit out of it. the shadow in the other room weakened. she also spotted several additional cultists in defense mode, along with another shadow creature and artifact. calypso shouted about this to the others, and zoroe called back that she should come back. calypso ran and hid in a corner, and meanwhile the wisp’s attacks continued. cluk, for like the fourth time (she had been trying to get the cultists to feel bad and stop attacking her), busted out sad puppy dog eyes, to get zoroe to heal her. phosphorra also dished out some healing, trying to maintain.

we then cut the combat short, and we will pick it up next week aaaaa