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bionicdragonguardian1 · 4 years

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Voltron Rewritten Defender (1/8)

Also known as My Almost Raging Bitch List for this Goddamn Disastrous Disappointment of a Show

I binged all 8 seasons in under a week, so believe me when I say almost nothing was forgotten between seasons/episodes and I do tend to note that.

If it’s not obvious by the title, I’m planning an entire show AU. I am extremely open to people’s opinions on what I’m currently thinking and when I finally post this I’ll be open to criticism there too. If you would like to avoid seeing anything in regards to this feel free to blacklist #voltron_rewritten_defender because that’s what I’ll be using for this whole thing.

Enjoy, I guess.

Fair warning I am a multishipper, but for this show I leaned towards Klance, so if that bothers you that’s okay, I’m not going to be bashing any other ships (mainly just Dreamworks’ forced Allurance). If you think I missed something for any other ship lemme know! If you wanna have a ship discussion that’s cool too. The only other thing I can think of is that Allura’s attitude in S8 really stuck with me to the point that she bothered me throughout the entire rewatch (I was admittedly one of the people who thought she could be very Mary Sue ish when I first watched this) so that’ll show up now and again.

If you want to look at the Google Doc for the whole show, click the link, if not you can expand this post to see Season 1. I’ll be doing these in chunks, but as some of you know I do a FicRecList on one of my other accounts here @sorcerusdragonbionics so I’m gonna be alternating between that and these for the next couple days.

If you do the Google Route it’ll have you ask me for permission, this is normal and if you request it I’ll give you commenting abilities.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1t30IRJonrBFh0qvs8recf3ayGoQ0rx02y0Tg1e4NTaI/edit?usp=sharing

Key

Things I kinda wanna bitch about

Things I did genuinely enjoy and like

Rewatch Thoughts (basically what I remember from further forward and how I feel like it reflects back on earlier seasons)

Ship Talk (behold my multishipping insanity)

Things I think I’ll do in the Rewrite

Writing Notes (mainly for me or as explanation for what I’m planning)

VA and Closed Captioning Things

Other Fic Thoughts

This ended up being music commentary in S8

Season One

Problems with the Season overall:

To be honest if I hated this season I wouldn’t’ve kept watching because by the time I started S3 had just dropped

Episode 1

Here’s the deal, WHY ARE YOU SO LONG BUT SO EMPTY?!?

Yeah, nope, that’s mostly it

Fix the problem of telling instead of showing about the other Lions and remove Allura’s explanation of the Lions if possible (thank you Kross for explaining why it felt so empty- this vid is actually where I started getting the idea to actually go through with a full series AU)

DON'T RUSH THE LION INTROS

Also let the 5 introduce themselves to Allura and Coran

Also Character Drive to Complete Mission Should Be A Thing

Flesh out Paladin Personalities so that the Aris Arrival is End of Part One (making it closer to the length of E1)

Flesh out Lion intros so part 2+3 are more like full Eps without Sendak

Episode 2

75 degrees… that’s definitely in Fahrenheit, which why?

How does no one have a watch with a date on them?

“A man can be driven to do anything if a beautiful woman is just really really mean to him”

More inbetween scenes bc I can

I will accept the transformation sequence here, I’m just not going to write it

Episode 3

Please watch the use of Earth Time Slices please, because it’s confusing

I love the portrayal of PTSD in this show and I would die before I change it

Bye bye transformation sequence

Pidge’s talk with Shiro can please change

Episode 4

“I say Vol, you say Tron” will come up again if it kills me

Lance, how do you know what hotdog water and feet taste like?

I love how Coran is completely nonchalant about the fact that he’s drinking a hair tonic

Shiro, don’t bring down the mood

Goddammit Sendak, you could stay for this arc, but god I want you GONE!

Keith, having an emotion? Really?

The Pidge plot DID NOT NEED TO HAPPEN LIKE THAT!

Fight me I will change it

Or minimally change the fact that their selfish motivations are revealed to BAD and should be changed

Oh yeah, let’s not give the ONE GUY with notable homesickness a character arc around that

That moment when you realize Allura is like ‘wtf is a peanut’

Allura, don’t push it, some people don’t want to talk about it

You will have something to talk about, BIOLOGY

Decryption happens here, and next attempt to find family occurs… when?

Poor Coran, if there is anyone who was more forgotten than Lance it was him

Keith isn’t wrong, but he also doesn’t know how to say it without getting mad, which mood

Just pointing out Lance is not only smart, but selfless, tell me how he’s not the main character

My inner Shance/Klance shipper is sobbing

“Bomb fuel” mentioned here, occurs… actually it’s ok

Timelines need to be a thing!

Can I make the fight scenes more intense? Yes, I write them for my YJ Scripts. Will I? Almost definitely.

Keith with that much fire your mask should be closed because smoke inhalation is bad

Can we explain Vrepit Sa before s6?

It feels like Coran forgets that 10k years have passed under an evil empire and part of me likes it, but it hurts me

Episode 5

The Katie flashback is hurts me

I want to add Gender Identity

Can we talk about how Shiro is a nickname for Takashi Shirogane?

That’s not how an EMP works

The Coran sitting on Hunk’s shoulders with a machine gun is everything

I know the back x-ray was a joke, but I still don’t like it

Rax is an idiot, just saying

Bonding Moment!!!

Episode 6

“Intergalactic time measuring competition.”

“We had a bonding moment!”

Where is Sendak’s arm?

Fight me, Pidge’s ‘gender speech’

It will be a gender speech if it kills me

Lance, why are you acting the way you are?

“I figured” and “We were supposed to think you were a boy” ARE NOT PROPER REACTIONS!

Rolo, sometimes I want to punch you in the teeth

Lance’s boner is going to get someone killed

Lance had 4sec of logic and then Nyma brings up Keith, which ofc does him in

Let’s expand on the Komar, yeah?

Quiznack means fuck and NO ONE can tell me otherwise

Keith’s ability to fly is impressive and it’s awesome

Friendly reminder that Lance acknowledged the bonding moment

Episode 7

I LOVE the laser gun sound effects!!!

I just realized that Allura has no clue what an Acronym is

We… literally just talked about this and YOU didn’t know that Shiro, I understand the point, but seriously?

LIONS are TELEPATHIC Shiro DID NOT need to say that aloud!

I do actually like the fact that Kieth gets excited before realizing what he did

FIRE and ICE PEOPLE come on! What the hell?! You barely had to try

“Yes sir?” Keith to Shiro, what?

I love them and their cute little arguments

Left vs Right, thank you Zamber

We be lovin’ Hunay bc it’s pure as hell

Thank you Shiro for validating Hunk’s concerns

You could check a little faster, Allura

I LIVE for this scene

Was it actually Rolo?

Do they have teleporters?

Keith being weird is my favorite thing

I love good big bros who argue tradition to save their baby sis

Zarkon is a bit of a moron

THEIR LIVES ARE IN DANGER ALLURA!

They all came through different doors… how?

What if the answer was no?

I’m ok with Lance embarrassing himself when he’s cocky, some people seem to forget that

Bye transformation sequence, I explained you ONCE and that’s it

Prorock… why are you familiar?

Episode 8

I admittedly forgot that they didn’t know these things would be different

Flying fight scenes I can do, teleporting not so much

Poor Shiro he thought he had an idea and he was wrong

I love Coran’s reaction

Also NO SHIT Allura

UHHHH Pidge said that not and of the other three so how did He know?

Allura may piss me off, but I do love this speech

“Your Altean Energy”??? Coran, you’re an Altean, I’m confused.

The “Sacred Altean” thing I get, but you must be more specific cuz it makes Coran sound like he thinks he’s not a proper Altean.

Oof, angsty

Also, I know we can’t kill Allura yet, but...

I love that Hunk forgot they hadn’t formed Voltron

Bye bye transformation sequence

Ummm, they NEED to explain the Bayard Equip bc that’s… two very different things that occurred between Hunk and Keith’s Bayard Weapons

Why is this a scene? It’s not a dog. So, yeah, I’m with Keith here

Episode 9

THIS IS NOT HEALTHY ALLURA!

I just realized that this doesn’t come back until S..7? 8? Whatever, WAY too long

I can’t unhear “Training Dick”

Did they have homework on Altea?

Be still my Punk shipper heart

WHY is he SO pretty?!

Y’know, the glowing red eye is usually a bad sign

I could SO mean and hurt Keith here

That moment when you’re like 90% sure Shiro heard that somewhere

Not what haunted means Coran, but accurate

Why could Lance see Alfor for a second?

I too would like the answer to “where was the Red Lion?”

PTSD IS AMAZINGLY WRITTEN!

It’s a shame this is NEVER treated properly again

Thank you for NOT making the swimming thing a thing

You didn’t need to TRY Voltron, what the hell?!

Here’s the deal, Altea not being Obliterated-obliterated is actually a really interesting idea

Lance still wins, for the record

If she was infected in any way this wouldn’t drive me crazier than a bot on Halloween

But she’s not so this is BULL

Shallura confuses me SO much…

Ok, admittedly the scene with Allura and Alfor is beautifully heartbreaking

Episode 10

The fact that Zarkon was a close friend to Alfor should be addressed

Also Shiro calling himself “an inexperienced Pilot” hurts

Allura’s a MORON!

YES! MASSIVE ISSUE WITH YOU COMING

Nice puppetry Hunk

What happened to THIS Allura?! She’s reckless but not INSANE (or so boring I might cry)!

Is this the same Druid from Season 8? Pretty sure it’s 8… I forget which, but the one Keith fought

“Don’t walk through that door!” / Keith does/ “I think I told him” // “You are a paragon of leadership, Lance”

Hehheh I love Hunk teasing Lance about Allura

I do actually the fact that I can’t tell what size the purple container is until Keith grabs it

Heheh the Allura interacting with the Galra soldier

The computer sounds like Lance

Also Shiro had that “holy shit” moment

I HATE WRITING TELELPORTING FIGHTS

I’m 99% sure that the ONLY reason I didn’t fall into the Galra Keith rabbit hole was the fact that I binge watched

This scene confuses me… so much now that I know Shallura was apparently never going to be a thing

So confused

Episode 11

That hair flip though...

Coran, I get it, but calm down

Okay, but Keith has a point. Seriously, he’s not wrong.

For the record, Haggar scares me

So much makes so much more sense now that we know Zarkon is the Original Black Paladin

That… makes no sense… “enough essence to open a wormhole”

Why are you transforming? More pieces to shoot at is usually a smart idea…

Hey hey, THACE!

Why can’t you have two active at once? I’m honestly serious.

I mean too OP, got it, but you can maneuver around that for temporary stuff

Shiro, use your words, yeah?

“Thinking” uh huh you mean “telepathy” right?

I genuinely forgot that Shiro got booted from Black

Damn! Yes Shiro! Kick some ass!

Ok, here’s the deal, Keith’s not listening to Coran, but he doesn’t have all the info (LIKE THE FUCKING BAYARD), Zarkon’s the OG Paladin, and he’s in distress

I HATE TELEPORTERS!

“Could have been” … uh Kuron exists ??

Also, Shiro with yellow eyes is fucking terrifying

We ain’t ficking stupid VLD

Zarkon’s a fucking idiot

Written properly his power-hungry attitude works even with him destroying his own ship

But it wasn’t so it’s null

You aren’t even subtle about Galra Keith

How can Allura see through Illusions?

Nobody knows!

Shiro, you have no jetpack, how are you so fast?

“Who cares, wormhole!” mood

I… uh… I want to do SO many things with this idea

Preferably not what they actually do...

#voltron legendary defender #voltron legendary disappointment #voltron legendary disgrace #voltron legendary disaster #voltron #voltron rewritten defender #voltron season 1 #ship thoughts #multishipper #episode thoughts #season thoughts #shiro #lance #keith #voltron allura #pidge #hunk #coran

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queenbirbs · 5 years

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threshold | Ethan Ramsey x MC

AN: A canon-divergent AU from chapter 15 and onward. Part three of the metaphor series, part 1 and part 2 are here. Title taken from The National’s Oblivions.

WC: 5,970 Rating: Explicit Warning(s): NSFW, some alcohol consumption

He isn’t even in the city when it happens.

Ethan is as far down and as far east as the Massachusetts state line will allow, holed up in a little seaside shack in Eastham, perched on an uncomfortable barstool, and drinking the finest liquor Josie’s Bar and Grill has to offer. Which isn’t really saying much, given the paltry choices and the unmistakable grime of seaspray that coats every glass.

Why Naveen came out here to die is a mystery to him.

His mentor sits to his left, facing the large windows that overlook Samoset Beach and, beyond that, Cape Cod Bay. Outside the minimal protection Josie’s split-shake walls offer, the waves are a noisy, angry mess. A late summer storm roils towards them from the west, turning that deep, coastal blue into an unsettling gray. Wind knocks at the tacky decorations nailed to the walls, the chipped fenders and plastic seahorses and rusted anchors clanking against the clapboard paneling.

There’s a television above the bar, where a looping clip of a home run plays next to a grinning news anchor.

Ethan chooses to watch the liquor in his glass as he swirls it, before picking it up and taking another sip. He’s lost count of how many he’s ordered, but the bartender hasn’t cut him off yet, so he must not be that drunk yet. Which is unfortunate, really -- because that would make this a hell of a lot easier.

“I still think--” he starts, but he’s quickly cut off.

“Oh, yes, I know. That is the root of all of your problems, I believe.” Naveen tilts his head to grin at him. “You think too much. Sometimes, it’s important to let your brain rest.”

“So, what -- you let yours rest and it somehow convinced you that giving up is the best option?” Ethan mutters. Tossing back the rest of his drink, he sets it down none-too-gently against the gritty bartop and motions for another.

Next to him, Naveen sighs, the line of his shoulders easing.

“This is where you and I part ways. I don’t see it as giving up. I see it as fate handing me the most ironic of cards to deal.”

Ethan shifts in his seat, uncomfortable with the dreamy tone to Naveen’s voice.

“I think it’s time to settle your tab.”

“I’m not intoxicated. My two beers don’t hold a candle to your eight rounds, anyway.” Before Ethan can object to the number (though the numb feeling in his lips tells him it’s likely an accurate count), Naveen continues. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my short time drunk. I want to see the world with clear eyes, take in the beauty it has to offer me.”

Twisting to glance over his shoulder, Ethan takes in the stormy scape that he’s watching and snorts.

“Doesn’t seem like much to me.”

“That’s because you’re viewing it with your eyes closed, my boy. You expect the worst, so you see nothing. Your pessimism has put a knife on the things that held you together, and you have fallen apart. There is beauty in everything, though -- the white petals of the waves, the rolling current, the sound the rain makes atop the water. You see a nuisance; I see a force of nature.”

Across from them, three of the bar’s seven patrons toss back shots of cheap tequila, their University of Delaware T-shirts a searing shade of yellow. The other two patrons are seated at the end of the horseshoe-shaped bar, picking at a plate of mozzarella sticks, disappointment visible in the turn of their frowns.

That Doctor Naveen Banerji, esteemed diagnostician and saver of thousands of lives, would choose such a locale to spend his last days on earth is so depressing a thought that Ethan tosses the fresh glass of scotch back and signals immediately for another one. “Oh, now, that’s a poor response to my waxing poetic to… oh, goodness.”

He looks up just as Naveen’s hand comes to settle on his wrist, squeezing it tightly as he stares just over Ethan’s right shoulder. Turning his head sharply, he searches for what’s brought such concern into Naveen’s gaze. It doesn’t take long to find it.

On the television, a reporter stands at the intersection of Nashua Street and Route 28, her eyes wide and face pale under the camera crew’s bright lights.

A growing horror paralyzes Ethan as he takes in the scene behind her, lit up by the emergency lights. Two subway cars lie on their sides, smashed into the pavement. A third car dangles over the side of the elevated track, clinging to a fourth car that’s crushed between a pillar and the station. Concrete slabs and metal sheeting litter the asphalt from where the cars broke through the station’s barrier. The taillights of two automobiles, their cabins crushed underneath the fallen train, reflect the incessant pulse of police lights. Blue tarpaulin sheets cover the windows of the subway cars, hiding the gruesome scenes inside from the public eye.

Dozens injured in Green Line train derailment, the white text in the lower third reads.

The bar’s music is too loud for him to hear, but the closed captions across the bottom of the screen do little to alleviate his worries, especially when death toll remains unknown tickers across.

“That’s the station most of the employees use, correct?” Naveen asks. But his voice sounds as if he’s speaking through a wall. Ethan can only hear the distinct noise of his heartbeat in his ears that blocks everything else out.

“It is,” he chokes out, his hands immediately scrambling for the phone in his pocket.

It’s the station Sloane uses religiously, despite another being closer to the hospital, because she gets to enjoy a scenic walk down Thoreau Path. The same path she followed him down when he quit, demanding he stop and talk to her. Which he ignored and kept on walking, leaving her behind (and then leaving her in every other sense of the word and god, what an idiot he was for thinking that was for the best). Every ounce of injured pride and disappointment in himself as a doctor pales to the hot twist of nausea he feels as he looks over the accident scene.

Tapping her name, he brings the phone to his ear and waits with bated breath as it rings. There’s no relief, though, when the call rolls to her voicemail. Her cheery tone promises that she’ll return his call just as soon as she can.

“It’s Ethan,” he says after the beep. “I’m out of town with -- I, please call me back and let me know you’re alright. I saw the news about the subway accident and I just… I need you to call me back. Please.”

Naveen’s grip tightens on his arm. Behind them, the storm rages closer; the windows rattle in their panes, the rain pelts at the glass.

“She’s okay, don’t worry.”

Ethan shakes his head, dragging in a strangled breath as panic sinks its claws into him. Dialing the hospital next, he realizes by the sixth try that he’s not going to get through to anyone there -- the lines are too clogged with loved ones, demanding to know if their spouse or sibling or best friend has been admitted. When he tries to access the day’s shift schedule, his work email throws up an error message, notifying him that his account has been deactivated and to contact his network administrator for help.

Text me back. I need to know you’re okay, he sends her, staring at the screen in hopes the three little dots will appear.

No reply comes.

Unable to sit there and wait patiently, Ethan moves down his contact list, worry outweighing the awkwardness of texting colleagues that he left high and dry with his sudden departure. He sends a text to Zaid and Ines and even one to Harper, requesting for them to let him know if all staff are safe and accounted for.

It’s a pointless move, though, given that such a situation would call for an all-hands-on-deck in the ER. And when ten more minutes go by with no responses, he signals for another round.

“If I know our Doctor McTavish, she’s certainly too busy helping out to bother with the likes of you,” Naveen points out, a small smirk lifting the corner of his lips.

Ethan ruminates on his recent track record: losing Dolores, failing Naveen and letting him walk away from a possible cure (that he’s yet to find). It wouldn’t be such a leap to follow the pattern that his life has taken recently and assume the worst with Sloane.

“I want to share your optimism, but I -- I seem to carry bad luck around with me lately,” he mutters. His gaze is set firmly on the television screen, not daring himself to look away in the event they reveal any sort of clue. They wouldn’t announce casualties, not this soon and not without notifying family first. It’s the only solace he can take right now.

“No,” Naveen corrects, patting him gently, “you carry a bad attitude. There is a difference.”

Before he can start up a speech on looking at the bright side and other empty phrases of comfort, the power flickers once, then twice, before succumbing to the storm and winking out entirely. Darkness soaks the bar. Shouts of alarm from the college kids soon grow to rough peals of laughter as the bartender cracks a joke. The only light comes from what little evening sun makes it through the thick clouds, mottling the gray sky with a tinge of bruised yellow.

There’s a flurry of movement as staff search and retrieve candles, setting them on the bartop. Someone hauls out a Coleman lantern and a crank radio and the disappointed couple even joins in, offering to buy everyone a round. Raucous shouts of praise come from the college kids over the snappy vocals of Eddie Rabbitt, professing his love for a rainy night.

It’s the kind of scene that Sloane would insist on joining, would demand he get off his barstool and dance with her, would croon along to the song in that terrible singing voice of hers. The one Ethan only knows about because of the many mornings he’s driven the both of them to work, when it’s gotten too late for her to bother heading home after a night of research (among other things) at his place, when he acquiesces to her demands to play something other than the local classical station.

The thought of never hearing her off-key singing, or never experiencing the comfort of her giving into sleep and leaning against him on his couch, or never waking with her next to him -- it’s a little too much for him and his eleven rounds to handle.

Dropping his phone onto the bar, Ethan covers his face with his hands and tries to shove away the emotions that threaten to make their way to the surface. He pushes them down, stuffing them into the dented suitcase that is his heart and he’s too drunk for this, for thinking in metaphors, for thinking of Sloane behind those blue tarps, bloodied and bruised, far too injured for help, being passed over by paramedics when they realize the same thing, leaving her alone to--

“Oh, Ethan,” Naveen is saying, his palm moving in soothing circles against his back. “It’s going to be alright.”

There’s movement to his left, a pained grunt as Naveen moves to stand, his hand never leaving his back. The bartender comes over and the two talk in low tones about the tab, and then a taxi. Some undetermined amount of time passes, which Ethan spends thinking more terrible thoughts while Naveen murmurs placating words. Then he’s being hauled out of the bar and under the front awning, where a tremendous downpour and a yellow cab arrive simultaneously for them.

He spends the short ride with his eyes firmly shut, listening to Naveen’s soft conversation with someone named Ninut, who promises to call him back if they can find out if Sloane is on shift. Then there’s a tastefully-decorated coastal bungalow and a cream couch with entirely too many throw pillows, the latter of which Naveen leads him to and demands for him to lie down on. Given how hazy everything looks in the lamplight, Ethan follows his orders.

Disappearing around the corner, Naveen bangs about in the kitchen -- opening and closing cabinets, running water, knocking a spoon against glass -- before he shuffles back into the living room. He pushes a glass of water into Ethan’s hands.

“What’s in this?”

“A physician-certified hangover cure.”

He takes a sip, then another, but can taste nothing around the lump in his throat.

“It’s just water, isn’t it?”

“A physician never reveals his secrets.”

“We’re not magicians,” Ethan scoffs.

“No?” Naveen settles onto the couch and tips his head to the side, his eyes softening as he looks over his protégé. “I thought you believed yourself to be one, seeing as you’ve been trying to treat something incurable for the past two months.”

In lieu of a response, Ethan takes another drink of water. Across the room, sliding glass doors frame an image of the bay, where storm clouds still circle overhead. “Go to sleep. Things will be better in the morning.”

“I’m… not sure I want to,” Ethan admits, damning the weak state of his voice. “Things might be different when I wake up and I don’t… I’m not sure...”

Right now, he’s stuck in the metaphorical waiting room, waiting to hear if Sloane is alive, and he suddenly doesn’t want those double doors to open. If they do, it could be the Bad News. If they stay shut, if he never hears back from her, then he could exist here in this limbo, where he’s free to hope for the best outcome.

He thinks of her on that rooftop earlier this year, of how she’d told that man about how important it was to say goodbye. And now he may never get that chance.

This is all a simple overreaction, brought on by the distance between them (the literal and figurative -- both of which are his fault) and his own insecurities. There’s no proof she was on that train or that she was even working today. But he can’t trust being positive -- it’s a viewpoint that’s let him down too many times this past year. So, he considers the Worst Possible Thing and picks at it like a scab.

“When are you going to tell her?”

Ethan can’t help the dry chuckle that escapes him as he shakes his head at the question.

“I almost did, months ago. And now, with everything else... never.”

“That doesn’t seem fair -- to you, or to her. She deserves to know, and you deserve to tell her.”

“It probably isn’t that serious,” he says (lies). “It’s simply a release of dopamine and serotonin, an attachment formed over a high-stress field of work. It’s a normal reaction--”

“Frailty, thy name is Ethan,” Naveen mutters with a sigh. “This isn’t an NBIO class. This is your life.”

He’s too far gone to withhold the wince at Naveen’s words.

“A life I walked away from,” Ethan points out. “I left her, didn’t bother to return her calls, knowing she would eventually stop.”

“And did she?”

“No,” he admits, dragging in a breath at the admission. Staring up at the ceiling, he listens to the rain as it pounds against the back deck. “So why now… this time -- why hasn’t she called me back?”

The cushion next to him rustles as the older man stands, casting a look over him. Ethan resists the childish urge to tug the blanket up over his face when Naveen reaches down to pat his cheek, a fond grin on his face, embodying an optimism that Ethan can’t trust himself to feel.

“You wouldn’t have fallen in love with her if she were the type of doctor to shirk her duties, now, would you?” Before he can come up with a retort for that, Naveen continues. “Now, listen to your teacher. Go to sleep.”

With that, he moves to switch off the nearby lamp and continues on down to the hall. Ethan can hear the muffled noise of him getting ready for bed, and then nothing but the rain. It never slows, instead continuing its steady beat against the house. Eventually, the warmth of the liquor in his stomach and the white noise of the rainfall pulls him into a reluctant sleep.

Forty minutes later, tucked between his fingers, his phone vibrates steadily against his chest once before the battery gives out and the screen goes black.

He wakes to coffee.

Not the smell of it, but a white container of it, the green mermaid coyly smiling up at him from the wicker coffee table. In black marker, Evan is scrawled across the negative space, the boxes all marked correctly.

Sitting up, he takes a sip and tries to will away the immediate throbbing in his head. Outside, the morning is bright. The only evidence of the night’s storm is the color of the deck, still damp and colored a deep burgundy. He makes his way over to the doors to pull the blinds across when a bright spot against the deck catches his attention. It’s a pair of sneakers, a teal-blue, save for the little pink check marks on the side.

Shoving the door across its track, Ethan stumbles out and looks right -- where Sloane looks up from the view she’s enjoying, her own coffee poised at her lips. She’s sprawled in one of the Adirondack chairs, a towel between her and the wet wood.

“Good morning,” she greets.

“What the hell are you doing here?” The words are out of his mouth before he can consider them.

For her part, Sloane simply raises an eyebrow at the rough tone.

“Wow, all right, Naveen was right. Hungover Ethan is not a morning person.” She pushes up from the chair and makes her way over to him as she talks. “I got your text -- and your twenty-eight missed calls -- once my shift ended. I tried calling you back, but it went straight to voicemail.”

He retrieves the phone from his pocket, palming the black screen that refuses to wake at his touch. The phone he forgot to put on charge, given how inebriated he was. “So,” she continues, “I called Naveen, who sent a car for me this morning. He’s gone, by the way -- he left shortly after I arrived, said he was heading for warmer waters in Fort Lauderdale. He instructed me, and by extension you, I presume, to enjoy the house for the remainder of the weekend.”

When he says nothing in return and continues to watch her with that same bewildered expression on his face, Sloane shifts her stance, then shifts again. “I’ve been suspended, for what happened with Mrs. Martinez, and I don’t know if I’ll have a job come Monday, and after yesterday -- or last night, or whatever,” she waves a hand in the air, still foggy after catching five hours of sleep, with one of those being in the car ride across the bay. “And even though I wasn’t sure where we stood exactly, you were the only person I wanted to see after… all of that.”

She stops talking, giving him an opening.

And still, nothing.

Down at the water’s edge, seagulls call out to one another, bobbing up and down on the waves. To the north, the shore curls back towards them, the shadowed land a deep blue. Boxes of white and gray and blue sit atop the sand. Strips of high grass create a frame for the beach homes, the green fronds rippling in the wind coming off the water. Puffy clouds loom to the southwest, a promise of more rain.

“I thought you died.”

The sudden admission from him brings her up short.

“I was working triage for eleven hours. You expect me to pull out my phone and keep up with snap streaks at a time like that?”

His brows furrow at the term he can’t place.

“I don’t know what that means.”

“I know. It’s probably one of those weird things I like about you, but it still doesn’t--” she pauses when Ethan steps closer. He grasps her shoulder, his other hand tipping her chin up to meet her gaze.

“What I meant was that I thought I’d lost you before… anything could really begin.”

Sloane brings her hand up to cover his where he cradles her cheek, gently shaking her head.

“We already had something. And then you quit. You left.” She bites at her lip, silencing the rest of what she wants to say, but they both hear the addition she doesn’t voice: you left me. “And then when I hear from you again, it’s a slew of voicemails of you drunkenly demanding to assure you that I’m alive. Which I understand, but I was hoping you would want to talk to me about what happened. That you would want to talk with me because you wanted to, not to make sure I hadn’t been crushed to death in a subway accident.”

Her harsh phrasing causes him to wince, bringing forth smudged memories of last night’s dreams, of his hands covered in her blood, of her begging him to just hold her hand because there was nothing else that could be done for her.

Unable to stop himself, he leans down and drops a kiss to her forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he tells her, trying to convey so much into such paltry words. “I am. I was selfish. I walked away from Edenbrook because I don’t deserve to call myself a physician, but I… I shouldn’t have walked away from the most important thing: us.”

Stretching up on her toes, Sloane presses her lips against his cheek. His eyes flutter closed at the familiar touch, cursing himself for what an idiot he was to walk away from this woman.

“I still don’t agree with your reason for quitting, but I can’t claim that I wouldn’t have done the same thing in your position, given your history with Naveen.”

“He’s taught me everything I know.” Ethan sighs, tipping his head down to rest against hers. Her arms encircle him, pulling him into an embrace. “The most important of which is that not everything is under my control. Applying and understanding that notion, however, is the real problem.”

He feels her sigh against him, the sound of it a balm to his nerves. How he could’ve ever blamed the love he feels for her on nothing more than neurochemicals causes a bolt of shame to course through him.

“It’ll take time,” Sloane says. “I may understand the reason behind your sudden… departure, but it doesn’t excuse how you went about it. I get the need to burrow into yourself and have some time alone to figure things out, but you can’t shut me out completely in the process. I’ll be right here to help you, but only if you let me.”

Swallowing around the tight feeling in his throat, he murmurs another apology and kisses the crown of her head, ruffling her hair with his next question.

“Promise?”

“Promise,” she assures, humming contentedly as she tips her head up to meet him for a proper kiss.

It’s a catalyst, a spark to the overwhelming need in the both of them. Ethan moves; his fingers card through her hair, hanging onto her for dear life as he backs her up against the door, his lips only parting from hers when his lungs demand it. Taking the detour that the curve of her throat offers, he nips at the skin there, pleased when it flushes pink from his attention. That base, human need to have curls up in his belly and spreads outward, warming his limbs and singing in his blood.

Sloane whimpers under the warm swipe of his tongue as he soothes the rosy skin he’s bitten. Her hands aren’t idle, though; she moves up between them to unbutton his shirt, her deft fingers making quick work of it.

Inside his head, he’s telling her how much he needs her, how much he wants this, wants her, wants them for as long as the foreseeable future allows (and forever beyond that, if that’s something she wants, too). What he says instead is her name, rasping it out when she takes control and pivots them, forcing him up against the house. The shingles dig into his back but he can’t bring himself to care as Sloane makes her own path down his chest, shoving his shirt panels aside and rounding on his nipple. The sudden warm heat of her mouth against the chill morning air is enough to remind him of where exactly they’re trying to have each other.

“Wait,” he croaks out, reaching for her as she pulls away, “not here. Someone… the neighbors, they might see.”

A slow smile spreads across her face, her eyes sparkling as she holds out a hand and wiggles her fingers.

“Come with me, then.”

He takes her hand and lets her lead him through the living room and down the hall, where he teases her that she doesn’t know where she’s going, which she proceeds to prove when she opens the closet door and then the guest bathroom.

They eventually make it to an actual bedroom, where he closes the door while she wanders over to the patio doors. Throwing open the white curtains, she lets natural light fill the space. Outside, the hazy blur of rain has moved closer, hovering just off shore. The clouds mute the harsh light of the sun, softening the lines of the room, lengthening the shadows that play across the hardwood.

Drawn to her, Ethan slides his arms around her waist and tugs her into his chest, enjoying the little hitch in her breath. Her fingers dig into his arm, keeping him there (as if he’d go anywhere else).

Dipping his head down, he trails lazy kisses down her neck. The flimsy cardigan she wears falls away easily, slipping off her shoulders. A ragged breath from her urges him on. His lips explore her newly-exposed skin, where clusters of freckles form constellations along the curve of her shoulder. His hands move underneath the blouse she wears, his fingers grazing the warm skin of her hips. She reaches up towards the ceiling, letting him pull the shirt up and off.

And, as always, she’s five steps ahead of him and already wiggling out of her jeans before he can work those off her.

“I’ve waited two weeks -- I’m not really interested in taking things slow this time,” she admits, glancing back at him with that smug look of hers.

He can’t help but mirror her grin as he unhooks her bra.

Frustrated with his slow teasing, Sloane tosses the garment to the floor and starts to turn around when he stops her with a firm grip on her hips, holding her in place. Keeping his movements slow, he gathers her hair and sweeps it over her shoulder. Planting a hand on the arch of her spine, he nudges her forward until she’s forced against the door. She hisses as her chest presses up against the cool glass. Her palms flatten across the smooth surface, her nails trying to dig in for purchase. Starting at the base of her neck, he moves down her vertebral column, his teeth skimming along her skin. More freckles rest along the stretch of her back, fading as they drift towards her spine. Ethan follows their path with his mouth, pleased when he feels her shiver, when he sees the goosebumps that appear in the wake of his wet kisses.

Leaning back, he takes a moment to admire the view she presents, flushed and arched and waiting. For him, he reminds himself as he presses the heel of his hand against his groin, desperate for friction.

Sloane grumbles his name, glaring at him over her shoulder, those pupils of hers blown wide. Her hips do an impatient little wiggle. He strikes, gripping them tight and holding her fast against him. Tracing the edge of her underwear, he slides his fingertips down the lacy fabric, pleased when he finds it damp. This time, his name comes as a groan as Sloane spreads her legs to give him better access.

The sight of her is almost too much. Attempting to expel the need to have her right then and there, he detours -- nipping at her shoulder before stroking her through the lace. A whine escapes her as she tips her head up and all that auburn hair falls like a wave down her back. It brushes his chest and the flowery scent of it combined with the salty taste of her skin is more potent than any tumbler of top shelf liquor.

He works his fingers against her, fast, and then faster, circling her clit. Her hips make aborted little thrusts; her breath fogs the glass in short, heady pants. She’s so wet against his hand, which he can’t help but whisper against her ear, grinning at the shiver that runs through her, knowing that she’s close.

Then he drops his hand and steps back. Before she can voice the words of protest he sees building in her eyes, he spins her around and crowds her up against the glass.

“You’re such an ass.” Her lips brush his as he kisses her once, then again, so he can feel the smile on her face as she says it. His nerves hum with anticipation as she runs both hands up his chest and across his shoulders, grabbing two handfuls of his shirt and stripping it from him.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he promises. Before she can ask just how he plans on doing so, Ethan drops to his knees.

Sloane cards a hand through his hair, humming at the sight of him. Leaning forward, he mouths at the lacy edge of her underwear; it tickles his tongue as he presses a lazy, wet kiss against her through the fabric. Peeling her underwear off, Ethan drapes her left leg over his shoulder and rubs his stubble along her inner thigh. Like a Pavlovian response, she tilts her hips upwards, silently begging for his touch.

Having mercy on her, he caves, licking a long stripe across her folds. Arousal pools low in his belly at the taste of her, at the clench of her grip in his hair as she guides him to where she needs him most. His gentle grazes along her sex quickly give way to a full-on assault; his fingers part her wider and his tongue flattens against her clit, increasing the pressure as she voices her need for it.

Their gazes lock and he’s overcome with the image of her above him, backlit by the milky light of morning, her skin flushed, her lips parted; his Epione, a Greek goddess come to life.

“Oh, fuck,” Sloane groans, her breath stuttering as she ascends to her peak. The glass squeals under her sweaty palm as she tries her best to keep upright, her other hand holding him steady so he can continue fucking her with his tongue. “Ethan, please, I--”

Cresting, she breaks apart, shuddering as an orgasm floods through her. He guides her down from her high with gentle kisses across her thigh and then up, trailing along the curve of her hip bone. Following the lines of her body up with his hands, Ethan gets to his feet. Where he’s quickly pulled into a messy kiss, the low thrum of his arousal swelling when her tongue peeks out for a taste of herself on his lips.

“I want to fuck you here.” His cock strains against the confines of his clothing. Nipping at the flushed skin of her throat, he groans when she reaches down to cup him through his pants. “Is that okay?”

“More than okay,” she tells him, using that medically-trained efficiency of hers to strip him of his remaining garments. Dancing her fingers up his length, she circles a thumb across the head.

Against his neck, Ethan can feel the bloom of her grin as he bucks up into her touch. His hands wrap around her thighs and lift her until she’s pinned between him and the glass. Here, he considers as Sloane tightens her legs around his waist, as she swipes her tongue at his bottom lip, encouraging him to open up to her for a deeper kiss -- here is where he should say those three little words, stitch them all together into a coherent phrase. Not a half-assed admission after watching her nearly be pulled to her death, or a terrified mantra in a nightmare as her eyes dull and her hand loosens in his.

But now -- now she’s biting at his lip and writhing against him, her breath hot on his skin and it’s all too much to consider anything else but having her. Gripping his cock, he lines himself up at her entrance and drives into her. His hips roll up into hers, pleasure coursing through him as she meets his thrusts, her sweat-slicked thighs clenching around him.

In all his dreams, he’s forced to let go -- he holds on for dear life, now -- now that she’s here and real and begging him to fuck her.

Just beyond the door, they can hear the rain. It draws closer; that soft, gentle hiss drumming against the sand and then the deck and then the glass. The steady noise of it acts as a buffer between them and the rest of the world. The beach and the bay, their worries and their responsibilities -- all of it dulls to a distant blur, leaving only the two of them.

“Sloane,” he calls out her name with a groan.

“I’m here,” she tells him, without him ever realizing it was a question he needed answered until then. “Oh, god, Ethan -- I’m…”

“Come for me,” he hisses, meeting her for another bruising kiss.

Her breathing stutters for a moment, then -- fireworks, explosions, an entire galactic collapse plays out in her heavy-lidded eyes. The feeling of her is too much -- she’s a cocktail of pleasure and adrenaline straight to his heart, leaving him breathless and dizzy as he follows her over the edge.

Gathering her close, Ethan carries her over to the bed and crawls in to rest beside her. She rolls to lay against his chest, one leg draped over his. His breath hitches when Sloane drops a kiss to his chest, right over where his heart pounds.

He opens his mouth to tell her.

“Sloane, I--”

“Oh, shit,” she says suddenly, lifting off his chest to turn her concerned gaze to the patio door. “I left my coffee out there.”

It’s the unexpectedness of it (and the fact that she cut off his admission of love to her to bemoan the loss of her beverage) that draws a chuckle out of him that she joins in on.

“I’ll buy you another when we go into town later for lunch.” He seals the deal with a kiss. “Much, much later,” he amends as he cups her bare bottom. Sloane works herself closer to deepen their kiss.

“What were you going to say, before I interrupted?”

Ethan drags in a breath and swallows back every insecurity-laced deflection that his brain immediately concocts.

“That I love you.”

“Oh.” This time, he gets to see that smile of hers bloom across her face. “I love you, too.”

And outside, the rain beats steadily on.

#ethan ramsey x mc #dr ethan ramsey x mc #choices open heart #open heart #choices #f: the metaphor series #Kaila writes things #please enjoy this very extended sex scene that's probably entirely too long #also hoping this actually shows up in the tag this time #I will properly add the hyperlinks momentarily

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maevefiction · 6 years

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Your Light in the Mist - Chapter 22

Midway through my Chicken Ambrosia the adrenaline high wore off, and I hastily excused myself in order to rush headlong to the ladies room as panic set in. I locked the door behind me and sank slowly to the floor, not giving a single thought as to its cleanliness. The shakes began, my entire body shuddering and quivering, ears ringing and vision blurring. Images of Will cycled through my mind’s eye, like a poorly coded website slideshow that shifted too quickly and transitioned awkwardly, harshly jerking from one photo to the next. Scenes from when we were together, snapshots of the altercation at the viewing. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop them, couldn’t turn them off. Eyes open or closed, there they were.

Doubt overwhelmed me, about what I’d done tonight, and before. About how this would affect Tom once the media latched onto any of it. More than anything else, I felt ashamed. Ashamed of what a shambles I’d allowed my life to become back then, ashamed that I’d never had the balls to face up to it until now, ashamed that my choice of partner had been so abysmal.

Memories of our intimacies surfaced, causing me to feel desecrated and profane. Though short in stature, Will had been attractive when we met, exotic, with a borderline androgyny many men proudly displayed in the late nineties. The beauty that appeared on the outside, unfortunately, was not an accurate depiction of what lay on the inside. Perhaps I’d been too shallow to smell the rotten underneath the surface, or just too damaged. Or too drunk. A composite of all three, maybe. And for the love of all things holy, as well as all things not, how hadn’t I noticed how thoroughly and consummately unintelligent he was?

None of that mattered, I supposed, because if he decided to take any of this to the press, the only thing the public would be presented with was a very carefully selected unflattering video or photograph of the man, with a caption that went something like ‘Tom Hiddleston’s girlfriend, Maude Gallagher, assaults former husband, Will Bonaventura, at mother’s wake’. I could only hope that his lack of wit would prevent him from considering such a thing as a means of vengeance, but such hope was almost certainly false, as he’d always been clever enough to take advantage of anyone and anything that crossed his path if he deemed it beneficial to him in some way.

“Maude, for a smart woman, you sure manage to do some seriously dumb shit. What the fuck were you thinking? Goddess, my ass. More like village idiot.”

There was a knock at the door, and I was about to yell ‘occupied, be out in a minute’ when I heard Tom’s voice, muted but strong, on the other side.

“Maude? Everything okay?”

It wasn’t, but I didn’t think it appropriate to shout out that I was fucked up and in need of a cocktail, so I dragged myself off the tile, stood and unlocked the door. Upon opening it the noise of the band hit me full force my brain’s response was ‘Maude, we need to get the fuck OUT of New Orleans RIGHT NOW’.

Tom’s expression shifted from mildly concerned to genuinely worried upon seeing me, and he gently walked me backward as he pushed his way into the room. Hands on my shoulders, he bent and met my gaze directly, speaking softly.

“What’s wrong, love?”

My eyes squeezed shut as I shook my head, back and forth, back and forth, like a metronome. He leaned into me, body warm against mine.

“Maude, talk to me. Let me help.”

A sigh escaped me as I opened my eyes and found his face inches from mine, his breath on my lips.

“I fucked up, Tom. Royally. Like, really, really seriously fucked up.”

His head tilted to the left, a hand reaching up to smooth my hair back from my forehead. “I don’t believe that for a moment.”

I laughed, a hollow, near-maniacal sound. “I can’t believe it myself, but I did so nonetheless. What I did was so, so stupid. Universally stupid. I wasn’t thinking of anyone but ME. So, so selfish. And STUPID.”

Frowning, he leaned back so his weight was no longer on me, then rested his hands on my hips. “You are not stupid. Or selfish.”

Shaking my head again, I threw my hands up in the air at shoulder level. “Oh, but I am. What happened with Will. Epic mistake. Beyond epic. I didn’t stop to think about the consequences of my actions. Me. ME! Miss social media and PR expert. I didn’t, not for one single fucking second, stop to consider what effect my assaulting him could have on YOU, Tom. We go public with our relationship yesterday, so we’re totally on the radar, and then I proceed to punch my ex-husband in the face and knee him in the balls. In public. With YOU THERE. If he goes to the press with this…my GOD. You have an impeccable, scandal-free reputation, and I may have ruined it in the space of twenty minutes. Christ, what the fuck am I going to tell LUKE? He should fucking fire me…how will this make HIM look? Fucking hell!”

“Maude.”

“What? Even if he leaves out the assault part…BOOM, it’s public knowledge that I’ve been married before, and to whom, plus the rest will all just come out with it, or shortly thereafter. Because I just HAD to shoot off my big fucking mouth to settle a nearly decades old score with someone who means NOTHING to me. Pointless. Stupid. I’ve failed you completely, on a professional AND personal level.”

“MAUDE.”

“WHAT?!” Realizing I’d raised my voice to an unacceptable level for a public restroom, I cringed. “Shit. Let’s try…what?”

“Step back from this. View it as if we’re both your clients and you’re completely outside of it all.”

“But I’m not.”

Both of Tom’s eyebrows rose as he took my hands in his, but he remained silent.

“Okay. Fine. Poof…I’m an outside observer.”

“Now, what advice do you have for us? If we leave this restaurant, or if we arrive at the funeral tomorrow, and the place is crawling with reporters…what do we do?”

“I…Maude…answers their questions. She needs to be truthful. She might want to consider presenting an abridged version of her story. How old she was when she married him, under what circumstances, and that she found out he was cheating on her with her mother and then filed for divorce. That he married her mother as soon as it was final. No need to mention more than that unless pressed. If the assault comes up, she should say punching him was out of line, but that kicking him in the balls was self-defense because he lunged at her. Maybe blame the punch on grieving and stress. You should…”

He interrupted me. “I’ll stand with you, hold your hand, and be honest, no matter what I’m asked.”

I shook my head. “I was going to say you should just remain in the background, actually. Or not be there at all.”

“Not happening.”

My jaw tightened as I tried to hold back the thoughts I’d decided to keep to myself, to no avail. “Thomas. As much as I appreciate your wanting to be supportive, let’s be real…part of you has to be embarrassed, if not downright disgusted, by the fact that I was married to that man. As well as re-evaluating my so-called intelligence, and perhaps my sanity, because I willingly chose such a partner. God knows I am. Though in my defense, I was drunk for essentially the entire duration of our relationship.”

The laughter began in his chest, slowly working its way upward, finally bursting forth from the mouth he’d been fighting desperately to keep closed. My eyes narrowed as a frown contorted my features.

“Maude. Good Christ. I’m sorry, it’s not really funny, but…” He inhaled sharply through his nose, then exhaled through his mouth as he attempted to contain himself, his expression turning earnest. “Maude. Are you embarrassed or disgusted by MY poor choice of previous partners? Not exactly cream of the crop, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“No. Of course I’m not. I’d like to dispatch them without prejudice, but disgusted? No. Not with you, anyway. And as far as embarrassment…they should be the ones who feel that way because of their behavior.”

He rested his forehead on mine, leaning against me once more. “Well, there you go. That’s precisely how I feel as well.”

“Good. But you should know that that I’m disgusted with myself over it. And I’m not just embarrassed…I’m MORTIFIED. I mean I slept…”

His lips on mine interrupted me, warm and wet, his mouth tasting of fennel and wine. He’d hesitated when it was offered, but accepted a glass when I squeezed his thigh under the table, only taking a few sips when Barty proposed a toast, then a few more with dinner. I pulled my hands from his, reaching behind him to grab his ass and propel his pelvis forward. The whine that escaped him was exquisite, and I felt him fully harden against me.

Breaking the kiss, I whispered in his ear. “What’s the matter? Hand job in the car not enough to tide you over until after dinner?”

He answered, the sound somewhere between a growl and a broken moan. “Noooo.”

My tongue traced the shell of his ear, then in behind it, stopping to lave at the spot behind his earlobe that would inevitably make him squirm. “Would you like to fuck me, Thomas? Right here? Right now?”

His hands rolled my dress above my waist, panties absent, having been previously sacrificed to clean us up in the car. I unbuttoned and unzipped his pants and slipped them down over his hips, resting my hands there, thumbs on the indentations just below his belly button. He grabbed my left leg at the knee and lifted, weight pressing me against the brick wall as I wrapped it around his waist and he entered me, sinking in to the hilt as he began to thrust urgently.

“Your hand on me was thrilling, Maude, but nothing, NOTHING can compare to your pussy. Being inside you. So hot. So wet. Clamping down on me…”

I squeezed, and his words morphed into a long, low moan that I smothered with my lips, sucking his tongue into my mouth. His movements grew rougher as he pounded into me, grunting like an animal, and I came, walls clenching around him, trying my damnedest to be quiet. He buried his face in my neck to muffle his own cries, hands cupping my ass and clasping me to him.

We remained still for several moments until his chuckling tickled my neck, and when I began to fidget he raised his head to meet my gaze. “You weren’t kidding about the heels making it easier to fuck you standing up.”

There was a knock on the door, and, frankly, I was surprised it hadn’t happened sooner. I grabbed some toilet paper, mopped up what I could, then pulled my dress down. Tom zipped himself up and began washing his hands. When the knocking sounded again, this time firmer, I replied loudly.

“Sorry, be right out!”

There was no answer, and as I washed my hands and began drying them, Tom unlocked the door and opened it. I peered past him to see a startled young woman, skin the color of mocha, eyes a glowing amber, with black, spectacularly curly hair reaching her shoulders, looking as if she’d seen a ghost.

His face wasn’t visible to me, but I knew the megawatt smile was firmly in place.

“Terribly sorry for the delay. My girlfriend wasn’t feeling very well, I’m afraid.”

She gave him some serious side eye as I peeked over his shoulder. “Yep. I feel much better now, though.”

She laughed, a deep, rich, melodic sound, then looked Tom up and down. “Oh honey, I’m damn sure you do.”

We exited with as much dignity as we could muster, and the woman was still laughing as the door closed behind her. On our walk back to the table, Tom snuck in a slap to my left ass cheek just as my right foot was about to land on the floor. It knocked me off balance, and the heel of my right shoe hit the tile at the wrong angle, slipping out from under me and turning my ankle in the process. Down I went, like a sack of potatoes right in the middle of the restaurant, just a few feet from where Anne and Barty were sitting. Tom was squatting at my side in an instant, panic in his eyes. My first thought was ‘fuck, I hope my cooter isn’t hanging out’, but it was quickly replaced with ‘fucking ow ow ow OWWWWW’ when I shifted and my right ankle moved, sending white-hot, searing pain shooting through me.

Tom ran his right hand through his hair, then leaned in to examine me more closely as he got on his knees. “I’m a fucking IDIOT. Are you all right? Fuck. What am I saying?! I know you’re not all right…I saw your face just then when you moved your foot. Is it broken? Oh my god, I am so, so, so sorry…” He’d begun to tear up as he reached in his pocket for his phone. “Do you need an ambulance? Let me call for help.”

I grabbed his wrist. “Hiddleston, don’t you DARE dial 911. There is no way I’m leaving here on a stretcher. Take off both my shoes and help me up. Please.”

His bottom jaw moved to the right, eyes still on mine, color drained from his face. “You’re hurt, and we don’t know how badly. You shouldn’t do anything without obtaining the opinion of a medical professional first.” Lowering his chin to his chest, he continued to berate himself, mumbling about how stupid he was, that he’d acted like an overgrown thirteen year old and now look what he’d done. I could see his pulse pounding in his neck, and the rapidness of his respirations began to worry me…I was all too familiar with the symptoms of an anxiety attack, that was for fucking sure.

My hand left his wrist and settled on his chest, over his heart. “Tom. It’s okay. I’m okay. It’s just a sprained ankle. Not my first one, either. It’s okay. You’re okay. I love you. Breathe, baby. Breathe. Nice and slow.” I watched him inhale through his nose and exhale via his mouth several times. “That’s it. There you go. Everything’s fine.”

A few nearby tables were staring, and Anne and Barty had made their way over to us. I held my other hand up and proceeded to address the nearby onlookers from my spot on the floor, nearly shouting to be heard over the band.

“Apologies for the disruption. Sprained my ankle. Everything’s cool. High heels are NOT my thing. Party on, folks.” There were shrugs, raised glasses and a few verbal well wishes as everyone went about their business.

Anne pointed at my ankle. “That’s already swelling, kiddo. Looks like you’re going to need a trip to the ER.”

Tom had placed his hand over mine, and when I glanced back at him I observed that most of his color had come back. I made a half-hearted attempt at taking off my own shoe, but he sprang into action and removed the one from my good ankle first, then set about doing the same for the injured one. I winced at his touch, and he cringed.

“Yank it right off, dude. Fast. Please.”

He nodded, and I had to bite my lip to keep myself from screeching like a banshee as he pulled it over my heel and off my foot. When I caught sight of his crestfallen face, I prodded it with my tongue and tasted blood. Barty brought over a chair.

“Here ya go, son. I’ll help you get her up, all right?”

Tom shook his head. “Thanks, Barty, but we’ll be fine.” With that, he positioned himself on my right side, squatting again. “What’s the way to do this so it will hurt the least, love?”

“Stand above me, in front of me, and lift me up by my armpits? I’ll use my left leg for support. It might not hurt less, but at least my dress will stay…down.”

It was a challenge, but we pulled it off in one try, and he lowered me to the chair as if I was a fragile piece of china. Kneeling in front of me, hands on my thighs, he smiled gently. “I’m going to go and bring the car round to the front entrance, okay?” I nodded, and he stood, kissing my forehead along the way.

“I’ll be right back.” A mischievous smile. “Don’t go anywhere.”

My eyes rolled back into my head. “Well, I had been contemplating a nice long run, but…”

Anne brought some ice from the bar and tried to get me to put my leg up on another chair, but I refused. The ankle felt fine just as it was, mainly because I was holding my leg so my foot remained suspended an inch above the floor, and I knew if I moved even one iota that would change in a most unpleasant way. Tom was back in three minutes flat, gracefully navigating his way through the tables toward me. He stood to my left, bent over halfway, slipped his left arm under my knees and the other around my upper back, hand in my armpit.

“Arms around my neck, please.”

“Ummmm…are you planning on carrying me out of here?”

There was no reply, only the sensation of him beginning to lift me. I rolled my eyes again as I wound my arms around his neck. Anne and Barty went out ahead of us to assist with the doors, and the entire restaurant stared as Tom carried me through the building and out the front, and there were smatterings of applause and several whistles.

When we reached the car he set me down so my back was towards the door opening. Balancing on my left leg and using my arms to slow my descent, I managed to sit down and twist to the side, but my injured ankle remained up in the air and outside the vehicle. Tom bent my right leg at the knee, eased the car seat back as far as it could go, then worked my leg slowly into place. When my foot touched the floor I grabbed the sides of the seat, muttering ‘fuck me’ as I held it up again, and Tom ran back into the building.

Anne leaned down, passed me my bag and heels, then stuck her head inside. “Maude, honey…that man is a keeper if I ever saw one. You know that already, though, don’t you?”

“I do.”

She smiled. “Good. The way the two of you look at each other…it makes me want to write romance novels.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You already write romance novels. Granted, the romances are often dark, disturbed, misplaced, unrequited and thoroughly inappropriate…but still. It’s romance.”

Her mouth opened to comment, then closed without saying a word as Tom returned, several small, white towels in hand. He grinned.

“From the kitchen. Only cost me one selfie.” He placed them on the floor in a pile, fluffed them up, and I set my foot down gingerly. The pain was tolerable.

“Nicely done, Hiddleston. Thank you.”

He kissed my briefly, buckled my seatbelt and closed my door. As soon as he got in the driver’s seat and started the car, I opened my window to say goodbye to Anne, then Barty, whom I advised that I’d decided to have him handle all the mortgage bullshit in my absence, as well as any other crap that might come up. He said handling shit was his specialty, laughing as we pulled away.

**************************************** Tulane Medical Center was the closest emergency facility, located approximately 2 miles from Palm Court. Tom wanted to carry me in, but I sent him along on his own to find a staff member to bring out a wheelchair for me instead. Getting out of the car sucked balls, but being pushed around was oddly relaxing. Registration was first, and there wasn’t anyone else waiting, which I took as a good indication that we might be out of there before tomorrow morning. Then came the vitals check, and I could tell that the attending nurse recognized Tom, mainly from the way her hands shook when she took my blood pressure, periodically sneaking looks in his direction and clearing her throat. She escorted us to an exam room that more resembled a pastel holding cell, where we were instructed to wait for further assistance after I hefted myself onto the exam bed. Another nurse appeared immediately, early forties, short, blonde and plump, dressed in light pink scrubs with hearts on them. Her voice was entirely too cheerful, whipping the rainbow sorbet colored curtain shut behind her but leaving the stainless and glass sliding door open.

“How we all doin’ tonight? I’m Sharon. I just have a few questions for you, and Dr. Luthra will be along shortly, all right?”

I nodded. “Hi, Sharon. I’m Maude, and this is Tom.” He was seated in a chair across the room. As I pointed in his direction I noticed that he’d removed his tie and undone the first three buttons of his shirt. I bit my lip, and it stung as the cut there reopened.

Sharon smiled widely. “Nice to meet you both.” Her eyes moved to the chart in her hand, then back up to my face. “So, took a spill, did you?”

“Oh yeah. Three inch heels. Lost my balance. Fell in front of the packed to capacity crowd at the Palm Court Café. Though I think my ankle hurts worse than my pride, for the moment.”

She patted my shoulder. “You poor thing. The tortures we endure to make ourselves pretty!” Her head shook back and forth, and she walked to the foot of my bed to examine my injury.

“Hoo boy, that is swollen. Lie back, please.” She lowered the head of the bed until it was flat, then raised the foot as high as it could go. “I know that feels odd, but keeping the ankle above the heart will reduce the swelling. Dr. Luthra’s going to want an X-ray for sure. Now, how would you rate your pain on a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst pain you’ve ever felt?”

“Right now, it’s a five. But when I put weight on it or move it around it’s an eight.”

Sharon marked her chart and nodded. “Currently taking any medications?”

“Yes. Birth control pills. Ortho Tri-Cyclen. I skip the placebos to suppress menstruation. Approved by my gynecologist.”

She frowned slightly, marking the chart again. I sighed, silently bemoaning how disappointing it was that women still got all fucking judgy about such things. Periods suck, and when you’re on the road all the time, they suck even harder. Why not make them go away? And why care about what I do? It’s my body, after all. “Any allergies to medications?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

The smile had returned to her face, though now I knew that her jovialness was mostly an act. “That’s all for now. The doctor will be in as soon as he’s able.”

Tom got up and dragged the chair he’d been sitting in over to my bedside, turned so he could face me. I held out my hand.

“Hiya.”

He grasped it and squeezed gently. “Hello.” Lips brushed my knuckles. “Maude, I…”

The index finger of my other hand wagged at him. “If you’re going to apologize again, don’t. Shit happens. I could have just as easily wound up this way all on my own.”

The right corner of his mouth curled up in a tiny smile. “Okay. How about I thank you instead?”

“Umm, sure…for what, exactly?”

“It’s my fault you’re injured, and there you were, sprawled on the floor, hurting, and I just…lost it, I suppose. You knew exactly what to say, though. I felt better instantly, calm, ready to do what needed to be done. So thank you for that. I only wish I could alleviate your pain in a similar fashion.”

“You’re welcome. Anxiety and I go WAY back. I know how to shut that bitch down…”

At that moment, Dr. Luthra knocked on the outside of the room’s glass and entered. If I had to guess, he was barely my age. His hair was jet black, eyes a chocolate brown, and sported a neatly trimmed mustache.

“Miss Gallagher, I am Dr. Luthra. It is my understanding that you’ve injured your ankle. How is your pain?” I was unable to discern whether his accent was Indian or Pakistani, but it didn’t matter…it was beautiful, precise and somehow calming. Accents had always fascinated me…the same word, spoken in a completely different way, yet meaning the same thing. To me, they transformed language into music, and our whole world into an orchestra of verbalized thoughts.

“That’s correct. My pain is…eh.”

Dr. Luthra laughed. “Would you like something for it? We prefer to use non-narcotic…”

I interjected. “That’s fine by me. I prefer to not take them.”

He laughed again. “Oh, a tough cookie, are you? I’ll have the nurse come in with some Tramadol before you go, then. It will ease the pain and reduce swelling, which is very important, but normally has no effect on mental acuity. After tonight the maximum dose of ibuprofen should probably do the trick. Have you consumed any alcohol today?”

“Nope.”

“Good. Now, let me take a look at that ankle, okay?”

I nodded. Tom let go of my hand, got up from his chair and began to move it, trying to avoid being in the doctor’s way.

Dr. Luthra motioned him back down. “No, no, you’re fine there. Keep holding her hand. She’ll need to grab onto something, I’m thinking. I’m going to have to rotate the joint and push and prod to gauge the level of sprain, and then we’ll do an X-ray to be sure nothing is broken. If that is the case, I’ll then apply an aircast walking boot. Crutches may or may not be needed…we won’t know until we put on the boot.”

My hand flew up in the air as if I was in a classroom. “I’d like to apologize in advance for the long list of profanities that will soon be assaulting your ears, Dr. Luthra.”

“Thank you, Miss Gallagher. I appreciate the warning, and am hoping I hear something entirely new to me.”

Tom chortled. “There’s a very strong possibility that you will, Dr. Luthra.”

Three hours and a surprisingly minimal amount of swearing later, I was booted, on crutches and ready to get the fuck out of there. The diagnosis was either a first or second degree sprain…the only way to tell for sure was an MRI, which I refused. The boot would need to stay on everywhere but in the shower for at least seven days after wearing it for the first twenty-four hours straight, and whenever I was on my feet for another seven after that. If it didn’t seem to be healing by that point, I’d need to see an orthopedist and perhaps undergo physical therapy. Which sounded like a boatload of fun for my first two weeks in England. The nurse who assisted with the boot noticed that I had no shoes and brought me a surgical sock to wear so I wouldn’t have to wander around barefoot. I’d been on crutches the last time I’d sprained it, back in high school, and back then there was no boot, only an ace bandage wrap. The boot was pretty funky, black plastic with an air splint inside. I could almost put my full weight on it, but Dr. Luthra figured that was because of the Tramadol and instructed me to use the crutches anyway. Tom had paid close attention as to how to remove it, put it back on, and re-inflate the air bags because, despite the fact that it wasn’t supposed to, the Tramadol had made me more than a little loopy and my attention span was close to nil.

On the way to the car I yelled ‘whee’ every time my body swung between the crutches, which Tom graciously ignored, though he did load me into the vehicle and shut the door rather quickly. I whipped out my iPod and plugged it into the auxiliary jack, then turned to him as soon as he sat in the driver’s seat, giggling madly as he started the car.

“Tommy, do you know what time it is?”

“Oh, Tommy, am I? Yes, my love. I know what time it is. It’s approximately eleven twenty-seven. PM. Like it says there on the dashboard. ” He pointed at the lit-up digital clock.

I swiped at his arm, fingers barely brushing it. “No, no. Not THAT kind of time. THIS kind of time.” I cranked up the stereo volume and pressed play on my iPod. “It’s SKRILLEX time!”

The eleven minutes it took to get back to the hotel were probably some of the longest of his life, but he did seem to enjoy Ease My Mind and Breakin’ a Sweat. Kyoto, not so much. He even asked me nicely to skip it. Which I refused to do.

We took the elevator to our room, and I wound up requiring his assistance while changing clothes after getting my dress stuck on my head. After he wrangled me into a T-shirt and some underwear, I flopped on the bed and sang my favorite parts of Closer by Nine Inch Nails at the top of my lungs. He’d quickly stripped naked and slipped into his running shorts, but the T-shirt he’d intended to put on hung limp in his hand once I reached the chorus.

You can have my isolation You can have the hate that it brings You can have my absence of faith You can have my everything

Help me Tear down my reason Help me It’s your sex I can smell Help me You make me perfect Help me become somebody else

I want to fuck you like an animal I want to feel you from the inside I want to fuck you like an animal My whole existence is flawed You get me closer to god

Though it was a challenge, I managed to focus in on his face after he let the breath he’d been holding out in a loud whoosh, the sound stilling my voice. His eyes were closed, cock tenting his shorts, hand around the T-shirt now gripping it so firmly his knuckles were white. I stared, my eyes roaming all over his body, admiring his taut stomach, the curve of his chest, the freckles that peppered his skin. The bed creaked as I began to push myself off of it to go him, and his eyes flew open at the sound. At first, they were almost frighteningly dark with desire, but then he blinked several times, breathing deeply, and the next time our gazes locked they’d returned to normal.

He closed the distance between us and put his hands on my shoulders, pushing me back down on the bed. His voice was unevenly modulated, betraying the war waging within him. “You, my love, need to rest that ankle. I’m going to get some additional pillows from the loft bed, and then I’ll read to you, if you like.”

The reduced processing speed of my mind was astonishing. He’d brought back the pillows and situated me on the bed, lying me down with my leg propped up so it was above my heart, before I was able to formulate an answer.

“Yes. I’d like. Read to me.”

He settled in by my side, Interview with the Vampire in his hand, kissed me softly and began.

**************************************** It was Tom’s voice that had soothed me to sleep, and it was his voice again that awakened me. But this time, there was nothing at all soothing about it. As the fog of dreams slowly lifted, I realized he was on the phone.

“Mum. I know. I’m sorry I didn’t call, and I’m sorry I didn’t mention any of this to you. I was planning on bringing her to meet you in person after we got to London. I honestly don’t see…” A pause, then he spoke again, volume raised and obviously agitated. “That isn’t anyone’s business but ours, now, is it? And you’re divorced yourself…why would it matter to you in the slightest that she’s been married before?” Minutes of silence. “Oh, come on. She’s doesn’t need a dime from me, Mum. She’s got her own career, and her own money.” A long pause, his tone softening when the conversation resumed. “Listen, I appreciate that you care about me and want what’s best for me. So much. Yes, it’s sudden. Yes, it’s all happening incredibly fast. Yes, I do tend to jump headlong into things. I know that. But Mum…this is different. She’s different. This is it. Maude is…she’s…she’s the part of me that I’ve been missing all my life. The other half of my soul.” He’d gotten up from the desk chair, which he’d moved across the room. “No, I’m not overly romanticizing anything. That’s how I feel. And so does she, for which I am thankful beyond words. I can’t believe we’re having a row about this…it’s terrible. Trust my judgement, Mum, and don’t pass yours on her until you’ve had the opportunity to know her. That’s all I ask. Because this is the real deal. I’m asking her to move in with me, and I’m reasonably certain her answer won’t be no.” More silence. I shifted on the bed, and the damn thing creaked yet again. “Mum, I’ve got to go. Again, I’m very sorry you found out that I have a woman in my life because Emma saw it online. I love you. Talk to you soon.”

He hit the end call button, walked over to the bed and sat down next to me. “Good morning, gorgeous. How’s your ankle?”

I sat up, leaning back on my hands for support. “Hurts like hell. So…anything you’d like to tell me?”

Tom sighed, his shoulders slumping. “Nothing I’d like to tell you. But things I should tell you? Yes. How much of that did you hear?”

“Entirely too much.”

He bit his lip. “Okay, then. So, actually, there’s one thing I would like to tell you. Well, ask you, really. I was going to wait until we got to New York, but…I…erm…will…fuck, this is terrifying…no, no, not what…it’s… even though I think I know, what if you don’t…that’s what’s terrifying…”

“Thomas, are you attempting to ask me if I’d like for us to live together?”

His head lolled back, eyes closed. “Yes, thank you. Yes I am.”

“Allrighty then. Yes, I would. We pretty much already are, aren’t we? I said ‘live together’ because ‘move in’ seems weird since we’re both away from home so often, but the particulars don’t really matter. All I know is that wherever you are, I want to wake up next to you whenever possible.”

He began to pull me onto his lap, but stopped when I winced and settled for embracing me instead. “I love you, woman. Thank you. Yes, we already are…I guess I just needed to say the words. I agree, particulars don’t matter. We’ll work that out as we go. Maybe we should look for a new flat, at least in London, something we pick out together? How much stuff do you have?”

I laughed. “Books. I have lots of books. Other than that, not much. My apartment is fucking TINY. So. Anyway. Care to fill me in on how your mother, who obviously hates me already, discovered that I’m a divorcee?”

“Oh. Right. That. I’ve been on the phone all morning…I’m surprised you slept as long as you did. First with Luke. Then my sister Emma, then Luke again, and then Mum. And I’m sorry about her behavior. Once you meet, everything will make sense to her. I’m sure of it.”

A yawn contorted my face, arms stretching way up above my head. I glanced at the clock, figuring it was much too early for Luke to be up, but it read eleven AM. “Shit, it’s that late? Good lord. Oh, sorry. Carry on, Thomas.”

“Luke was up because their flight leaves at eight. And it’s five PM in London now. Anyway, it appears that nearly every publicly available detail about your life has made its way to Tumblr, as well as every other corner of the internet. With no involvement whatsoever from Will, as it would appear.”

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and grabbed the crutches from the floor next to it. “Well. Band-Aid right off indeed, I guess. I have to pee. Would you mind getting my laptop out and putting it on the bed for me?”

He nodded, and I used the toilet without further injuring myself, which felt like a huge accomplishment. The computer was waiting for me, as was my phone. Tom had gotten up and was scrolling through his own phone as he paced. I opened my browser and searched my name on Tumblr. Post after post, the basic facts correct…Will’s name, my mother’s name, the fact that we’d divorced and he’d married her, her funeral details. Other than that it was endless speculation as to the how and the why of it all. There were even photos from when I’d been at my heaviest, taken at various conferences, most likely obtained from the conference websites. And then I saw the pièces de ré·sis·tance…a somewhat racy photo Norman had taken of me, and one of us holding hands at Comic-Con in 2010, him kissing my cheek.

“Jesus motherfucking Christ tap dancing on a fucking saltine cracker. Have you seen…?”

“Yes. The photo of you and Norman, and the one he took of you are on the Daily Mail. Along with the video we made. It’s not an altogether unfavorable story, actually…”

I’d opened the site as soon as he mentioned it and scanned the article quickly.

Tom Hiddleston confirms romance with Prosper PR Social Media Director, Maude Gallagher

- Sorry, ladies…Tom Hiddleston is officially off the market. A video the couple posted on Hiddleston’s Tumblr blog Tuesday confirmed the rumors that have been swirling over the past several weeks. Gallagher’s first task as newly appointed Social Media Director for Prosper PR, of whom Hiddleston is a client, is working solely with Hiddleston to re-vamp his online presence. According to our sources, the totes adorbs pair are currently in New Orleans to attend the funeral of Gallagher’s mother, Mary Bonaventura, who passed away on Saturday. A native of New Orleans, Gallagher left the Big Easy for the Big Apple in 1998 after the tragic suicide of father Sean Gallagher, and shortly thereafter divorced her husband of fourteen months, William Bonaventura. Founder of Maude Gallagher, LLC, an internationally known social media consultation firm with such A-list clients as Anne Rice, Arnold Schwarzenegger, and Robert Downey, Jr., Gallagher is no stranger to the celebrity dating scene, either, having spent some one-on-one time with Walking Dead star Norman Reedus in 2010. The two were snapped canoodling at Comic-Con, and Reedus included a boudoir-style shot of Gallagher in a 2013 exhibition of his photography. Hiddleston is set to begin promo tours for his three soon-to-be-released films over the next two months, Crimson Peak, I Saw the Light, and High Rise, followed by the filming of Skull Island this fall.

“No, I guess it could have been much fucking worse. We even got a ‘totes adorbs’. And I suppose, on some level, I’m grateful that they outed me without my having to do it myself. But was it really necessary to mention that I dated another actor? Like, five years ago? And post photos? Where did they even FIND those? Tom, I did give him permission to include it in his exhibition, but never gave a thought to…”

He looked up from his phone. “Twitter. They found them on Twitter. Norman’s Twitter, to be precise.”

Eyes cast downward, I struggled to grasp what he was saying. Tramadol was officially on my ‘keep that shit away from me’ list. Though at this point, the blame could be placed on a multitude of other things. Like the fact that Tom screaming ‘you’re just a pathetic little famewhore’ in my face kept repeating over and over in my head, like a Vine video, six seconds, endlessly looping. I told myself that I’d forgiven him, that I had no right to mention it again, but the tears began to spill over anyway. I felt his weight on the bed at my side, then his arms around me, cheek pressed against mine.

“Oh Maude…I’m so sorry. It’s reminded me of the awful things I said the other night, and if I’m upset I can’t even begin to imagine how you feel. It’s okay.” His voice broke. “Please don’t think I’m angry with you. I’m not. And if you’re angry with me, I understand.”

I wiped my tears away, sniffing. “I’m not angry. But yeah, it’s circling in my head, like a vulture or something. Sorry. I’ll get over it. I just…I feel like…I don’t know. Like I did something wrong. Even though it was before I knew you. Does that make sense? I guess that’s why I had the breakdown about Will yesterday. Even though I didn’t know you when I was…you know…whenever I think about it, it feels like I betrayed you somehow. Same thing with Norman.”

He nuzzled my neck, stubble tickling me. “Yes. It makes sense. I feel horribly guilty when such thoughts cross my mind. Which has never happened to me before, I might add.”

My logic kicked in suddenly. “How did you know those came from Norman’s Twitter account?”

He leaned back so he could see me, arms still holding me tightly. “He told me they did.”

“I’m sorry…what the fuck do you mean ‘he told you they did’?”

“He phoned me earlier, after he’d seen them. To apologize.”

I could feel my brows rise as my head tilted to the side. “You talked to Norman. On the phone. When he called to apologize.” He nodded. “What was he apologizing for, exactly?”

“For causing us any additional stress, especially at such a difficult time. He noticed yesterday that they were being re-tweeted, and then he saw the Mail article. While he thought it was tasteless that they’d felt the need to use something he considered art as a sensationalist tactic, he was pleased they’d at least gotten the timeframe correct. He said he rang your phone, but when he got voicemail he figured he’d try mine.”

“Where the hell did he get your number?”

“Guillermo.”

“Clever. I can’t ever imagine anyone being pissed at him no matter what he does. Did he actually use the word ‘tasteless?”

Tom smiled. “I believe his exact phrasing was something along the lines of ‘Those assholes, how fucking disgusting is it that they take something so beautiful, a work of art, man, and twist it into a sex sells scandal clickbait bullshit item? No respect for women, man. Or art. Fuckers.’”

“That’s more like it.” Finding myself at a loss for words, I clicked on the photo to enlarge it. Tom stared at the screen and began rubbing my back. I felt compelled to explain the circumstances of how it had come into being, but figured he wouldn’t want to know, so I slammed the laptop closed. “This is really, really, REALLY fucking awkward. I’m sorry it exists, and I’m sorry you had to see it, and that someone I used to date took it…”

“Don’t be sorry. I’m glad to have seen it. He’s correct. It is a work of art. You’re a work of art, Maude. How could anyone resist capturing a moment like that? I took a look at some of his other photography online…he’s quite talented. Everything is very spontaneous, visceral…yet perfectly composed.”

My head turned in order to face him. “This is hurting what’s left of my brain, Thomas. Do you, like, LIKE Norman? Because…that would make it like fucking Seinfeld all up in here. Worlds. Are. Colliding.”

Tom guffawed. “Let’s leave it at I no longer thoroughly DISlike him, shall we?” His laughter ceased, but a faint smile remained. “When I saw his name come up on my phone, I’ll admit it…I was significantly less than delighted. But after we spoke for a bit I realized that it mustn’t have been an easy thing for him to do, either…yet he did it anyway. It was a very kind gesture. When commenting on the article, he blurted out ‘wow, man, I had no idea she was married before’, and in that moment any residual jealousy I’d been harboring simply vanished, because it became clear to me that you’d been absolutely truthful when you said you’d never loved him.” The look I shot him made him blanch, and he let go of me and put his hands up in a defensive gesture. “Not that I didn’t believe you before. That came out wrong. Fuck. Sorry. What I meant was…it…I…”

My hand squeezed his thigh. “I know what you meant. That I never cared enough about him to want to reveal anything of importance finally solidified what I said for you. It was a very kind gesture, though, and I want to say thank you. Maybe we can call him together later?” Tom nodded. “Good. Now I’m going to tell you how that work of art came to be.” He shifted uncomfortably. “It’s actually pretty funny. We were heading out to yet another party I didn’t wish to attend wherein I’d inevitably encounter drunk and angry Norman. I’d met him at his place, having stopped along the way to get a cup of tea, and pretty much as soon as I walked through the door I tripped over his cat and spilled it all over my shirt. His ex-wife kept some clothes there for when she was in town dropping off or picking up their son, and when he told me to help myself I laughed and laughed. Because, Helena Christensen…supermodel. He said she liked to wear oversize stuff when she travelled and that something that would fit me for sure, so I decided to prove him wrong. That white man-tailored shirt was the largest thing I could find, and I put it on and walked out into the living room and posed, my way of saying ‘I told you so, jerky.’ Before I could say a word he grabbed his camera and started shooting. In the end I wound up wearing a KISS T-shirt instead. Much to my dismay. So. There was nothing boudoir about it. At all. Just clumsy me entertaining the masses. Though I guess I do look kind of hot. That’s the only decent thing my mother ever gave me…a really nice rack.”

He swept my hair aside and ran his tongue across the back of my neck. “Mmm. You’re even hotter now. Which reminds me…that song from last night…”

I was perfectly cognizant of what song he was referencing, but was reluctant to discuss it as there wasn’t enough time for a proper fuck fest before the funeral. I opted to make a most likely fruitless attempt at diversion. “YAY, you DO like Skrillex!”

“Well, perhaps, but that Kyoto one is…no, that’s NOT the song I’m talking about.

“These aren’t the droids you’re looking for?”

His eyes rolled so far back all I saw was white. “Closer. THAT song. It took Herculean effort to not shag you senseless, in case you were wondering. But I knew you were impaired, which would have made doing so inappropriate, in my opinion…but perhaps you’ll sing it again for me later?”

An evil grin broke out across my face. “I guess. As long as you comply with my demand and let me fuck you like an animal afterward…”

His groan was interrupted by my phone ringing. It was Barty. I hit the answer button and put him on speaker.

“Good morning, Miss Maude. How’s the ankle?”

“Hurts like a mother f…it hurts bad. But once I have some ibuprofen I’ll be right as rain. Just a sprain, and they gave me a walking boot. Which is wicked stylish, of course.”

He laughed. “I’m guessing y’all haven’t watched any local news this morning. Am I right?”

Tom frowned. “We haven’t. Is something wrong?”

Barty laughed some more. “Not exactly. In fact, I’m of a mind you’ll think that something is very, very right when I tell you about certain events that occurred overnight.”

I poked the phone. “Well, now I’m excited. Spill it, oh great solicitor.”

“Approximately five minutes after one in the morning, the security alarm sounded at the Winchester residence. They’re at 2469 St. Charles…right next to your place. Been there since 2001 or so. It was a break in, and they recognized the perpetrator when they went downstairs, baseball bats in hand. It was none other than one William Bonaventura, drunk, brandishing a knife and raving about how he didn’t care what anyone said, he was taking what’s his. He proceeded to carry several pieces of furniture, several electronic devices and an array of knick-knacks out to a truck in the driveway before the police showed up. He then took off and drove said truck, which turned out to be stolen, down the street and crashed it into a telephone pole. When they arrested him they discovered that he was not in possession of a valid driver’s license, but was in possession of two ounces of marijuana and had a blood alcohol level of two point one percent. I have yet to see the laundry list of charges against him since there’s been no arraignment, but I do know that he will do a minimum of ten years for the armed robbery alone.”

I glanced over at Tom, grinning like a Cheshire cat. As was he. When I spoke, I found it impossible to contain my exuberance. “Soooo…the fucking idiot went out, tied one on, got pissed off and decided to get even, stole a truck and then robbed THE WRONG FUCKING HOUSE? This…this is…ohmyfuckinggod…I know it makes me a terrible human being, but the SCHADENFREUDE. Bwhahahahahaha…”

“Miss Maude, it does no such thing. Stupid is as stupid does, as Forest Gump’s mama used to say. And that boy…all he’s ever done is stupid. Well deserved, I say. You go on and enjoy it. My apologies, but I have a client arriving in a few, so I must be on my way. Give me a jingle when the title for the house is ready for transfer.”

Tom and I both shouted “Thank you, Barty!” and I ended the call.

Speechless, all I could do was shake my head back and forth slowly. I caught sight of the clock, noticed it was eleven forty-five and began to freak out. “Shit. Shit shit shit. We still have to shower and get dressed…” I looked down at my aircast. “Fuck. How, exactly, am I going to shower? It hasn’t been twenty-four hours yet, and I HAVE to shower, because I’m all hospitaly and icky…”

Tom rose from the bed, went to the desk and picked up two garbage bags and a roll of duct tape. “Got these from the maintenance person this morning. We’ll just wrap the boot so it won’t get wet, and I’ll help you stand if you need me to. I already showered, so all I have to do is dress.”

His thoughtfulness reminded me of the depth of my love for him, and he for me. It surged through me, eclipsing everything else I was feeling. “Thomas, you are just…just…thank you. Thanks for taking care of me last night, and all this week, and…”

A kiss cut me off, and he knelt between my legs, cautiously lifting my foot and slipping the bags over the boot. “It’s my pleasure, Maude. Having someone to care for…having you to care for…it makes me feel whole. Complete. And so very, very blessed.” The smile he flashed as he finished taping and held out his hands to help me up turned me into a pile of goo. “Come on, now. Time to get you nice and wet.”

I snorted. “Hiddleston, I’m already nice and wet.”

He rested my weight against his chest, hand slowly working its way down my belly and inside my panties, chuckling as I shuddered when he made contact, fingers delving between my folds. “Of course you are.” I whined when I felt his hand disappear, only to reappear as he brought his fingers up to my mouth, tracing my lips. I stuck out my tongue to lick them, but he pulled them away and thrust them into his own mouth, sucking eagerly for a moment, then releasing them with a pop. “Wet and delicious.”

I gasped, then a throaty moan followed. “THOMAS. PLEASE. STOP.”

He laughed as he grabbed the crutches and handed them to me. “Never, woman. NEVER. Shower time. Move along.”

“Fine. Fucking bastard.”

“I do love you so, my Maude.”

My eyes narrowed as I scowled at him. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” I placed a tiny kiss on his jaw. “I love you too, Thomas. Let’s get this shit over with so we can run away to New York. The Carnegie Deli is calling my name, baby, and you’re buying.”

“I’m buying?”

“Did you honestly think I’d forget about our last bet? About the number of notes on your first Tumblr post? Please. It’s a free meal. That stays on the hard drive for-ev-er.”

His mouth crashed against mine, tongue searching, tasting of me. He broke the kiss within seconds, leaving me even more frustrated than I’d already been. “I remember. And I can’t wait. For dinner, for New York…and everything after.”

I grinned in spite of my case of ball-less blue balls. “Me either, baby. Me either.”

#your light in the mist #chapter 22

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dramallamadingdang · 6 years

Text

Before-bed replies. :)

For @emeraldfalconsims, @tamtam-go92, @scibirg, @didilysims, @penig, @ssatinn, @immerso-sims, and @fuzzyspork...

emeraldfalconsims replied to your link “ModTheSims - (Updated!) Mood Swing + Midlife Crisis”

Tbh, I looked at those and was immediately turned off by the terrible English in the popups. I wouldn't care if it was just the post itself, but I'm the kind of person who wants mods to fix the EAxis grammar errors, soooo...

I get you, but...Really, that's all easily fixable. One just needs to find and rewrite the text strings. I've done that often, especially when I used to use custom careers in my game, many of which included chance cards littered with badly-worded and grammatically-incorrect text written by obviously-not-native-English-speakers. This particular modder is obviously not a native English-speaker and obviously not fully fluent in the language, but I'm all kinds of tolerant when that's the case. With EA? Not so much, but even with them? We all make mistakes and typos from time to time that are missed in the editorial process, even when that process involves multiple people. Also, I'm well aware that my own grammar when yakking online and in forum/blog posts and things like that is far from perfect -- often deliberately so because, let’s face it, “speaking” with perfect grammar just “sounds” weird and/or unbearably pretentious -- so I try to be neither a pedant nor a hypocrite on the subject.

Anyway, yeah...Text strings be totes fixable, m'friend. ;)

tamtam-go92 replied to your link “ModTheSims - (Updated!) Mood Swing + Midlife Crisis”

Those Sound like really great Modus but im always a bit nervous about adding stuff like that to my game...

I am, too, mostly because I already use hundreds of mods in my game, so the outcome of adding new ones, especially those that alter lots of things, is always uncertain.

So, what I do is have a testing neighborhood that I don’t care about. Its associated downloads folder contains a copy of just the Mods folder from my “real” game. I put the new mod in and play with it a bit in debug mode, see if I get error messages or if menu options go missing or any other stuff that’s a symptom of mod conflicts. If I do, I change loading order to see if that fixes the issues. If it does, then I copy the testing Mods folder back over to the folder in my “real” game. If it doesn’t, then I either don’t use the new mod or, if it’s something I really want, I run the Hack Conflict Detection Utility to see if it can tell me what the conflicting mod(s) is/are, and then I decide which I want more. And if the HCDU doesn’t give me any useful info, then I 50/50 until I find the conflicts and then decide between mods. Anyway, this way I find out if I can use the new mod along with those I already have without the possibility of doing any damage to any neighborhood I care about.

tamtam-go92 replied to your photoset “More random captioned pics because, basically, this is a household...”

Hopefully the girls will be old enough when Amalia dies...

Margo was like a day or two away from teenhood when those pics were taken, so no problem. :)

scibirg replied to your post “I'm excited about the olympics too! Especially ski jumping. I love to...”

Did you see the ladies ski jumping? Brave girls!

Honestly, most of the winter events involve bravery. Well, except curling, I guess. *laugh* I guess the worst that can happen with that is you drop a 40-lb rock on your foot or maybe slip and fall on your butt. :) And I guess the cross-country skiing is more physically-taxing than actually dangerous. And I guess the figure skating isn’t that risky, although some of those things that the pairs skaters do look more than a little scary for the female partner. But yeah, the ski-jumpers and downhill skiers and sliders and speed-skaters and snowboarders are all completely nutty in adrenaline-junkie ways that I totally identify with. :D

scibirg replied to your post “dunne-ias replied to your post: I’m excited about...”

Slalom is from Norwegian, meaning ski track with turns. In Norwegian cross-country skiing is called "langrenn" meaning long slide. Probably due to it being used for travelling long distances.

ssatinn replied to your post “dunne-ias replied to your post: I’m excited about...”

We call Nordic skiing "längdskidor" - direct translation would be "long ski". Alpine skiing we call "slalom", no idea where that word comes from though..

Hm, interesting! So in Swedish, any type of downhill skiing is called “slalom?” Because in English that word is reserved for the type of downhill skiing where you’re zig-zagging in a pattern through gates -- as the Norwegian word would imply -- not the kind where you’re just shooting straight down the hill. Or does Swedish have a different word for that, too?

I don’t know why I find stuff like this so interesting, but I do. :) Maybe I shoulda been a linguist or something...

didilysims replied to your post “I'm excited about the olympics too! Especially ski jumping. I love to...”

Woo Olympics! I find just watching the events gives me an adrenaline rush. Watching luge reruns today had me all "oh my-ing" and "oh no-ing" and actually jumping out of my seat a few times. Love those crazy dangerous downhill events. :D

OMG, that poor American luge-slider today! Did you see that? Quite the wipeout she had. Even so, I sooooooooooooooo want to luge. Like, if I could just go and do it once, like how people go skydiving, I totally would. Buuuuuut I suppose it’s something you actually have to learn how to do before you lay on a minimalist sled and zoom down a track of ice at ungodly speeds... :)

emeraldfalconsims replied to your post “I'm excited about the olympics too! Especially ski jumping. I love to...”

It's too bad that marksmanship is so tied in practical applications to killing. It was so empowering for me when I discovered a sport I was actually naturally good at.

That's not really the case, though. I mean, maybe it is in the mind of Joe Q. Public that's been fed a daily diet of crazy people killing other people mixed with glamorized violence in "entertainment," but beyond that, the practical application of marksmanship isn't killing (either people or other animals) but rather marksmanship competitions. Aside from niche things like biathlon, there are all sorts of local, regional, state, and national marksmanship competitions that happen throughout the year, regulated by their own governing bodies. I used to do 3-gun competitions, myself.

Marksmanship isn't about killing anything because when you get down to it, hunting animals -- or even killing a person, if that’s your goal for whatever reason -- doesn't require sharpshooting levels of accuracy, certainly not with automatic weapons. (With those, you just kind of squeeze the trigger and try to hold on while pretending the thing is a garden hose. I don’t like them; I like precision.) Killing just requires doing enough damage, and you can do that without being at all accurate. Marksmanship's about consistent accuracy, often under pressure. Which can have applications in killing things, and can make you better at killing things (ideally things that are legal to kill, of course) but that's not what it's about. I wish more people would realize that. And I wish the NRA would GTFO, but that’s an entirely different subject.

penig replied to your post “Do you know why some custom doors and arches doesn't work in apartment...”

Custom content that was made before AL came out doesn't update and confuses the already-confused apartment code. To reduce annoyance I tend to use Maxis doors and arches inside exclusively. Windows are no problem.

Good to know. :) I guess I never really noticed because I don’t build apartments all that often. Mostly because I think furnishing them is mind-numbingly boring. :) And even when I do build them, I mostly use Maxis interior doors, often add-ons like centered-on-two-tile versions of a Maxis door, but since those use Maxis coding, I’m guessing they don’t present a problem in this regard.

immerso-sims replied to your post “The feel-good song meme. :)”

Thanks. I tried searching for happy songs in my iTunes collection, but I realised I am a total sad/dark/melancholic/whatever songs lover, so I'll pass on the meme :D

HAH! :) But hey, if a sad/melancholy song makes you feel better, I suppose that actually counts as a feel-good song! :)

fuzzyspork replied to your post “Big long reply post about...lots of stuff”

I've had both the high witches (excluding the neutral one because they are apparently very anti-social) on a community lot at the same time several times. If a Sim interacts with whichever arrives first then when enough time passes the other witch will usually show up. I think they must have negative relationship by default, so I've seen them fight! Fisticuffs style though. This is where magic would have been awesome. :/

Really? I don’t think I’ve ever had more than one high witch on a community lot, even when I’ve had playable stay on them for multiple days at a time, like when I send them on a weekend camping trip or what-have-you. Maybe it’s because I pretty much never have Sims interact with the high witches, since I use other means to have Sims become witches? Maybe I should try interacting with them... Although if there’s just fisticuffs as opposed to zapping each other with magic, I suppose there’s not much point. Then it’s just yet another fight between non-playables.

#emeraldfalconsims #tamtam-go92 #scibirg #didilysims #penig #ssatinn #immerso-sims #fuzzyspork #replies

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fordarkisthesuede · 7 years

Text

JOURNAL 3 BLACKLIGHT EDITION REVEALED! (Part 2)

Time to come back where we left off last - GHOSTS! I know you ain’t afraid!

Ghosts!: [All the ghosts in this section glow. Nice touch!] Underneath a photo of a stereotypical ghost it says “Written on a tombstone: Man once thought that death’s release offered a permanent peace. But these ghouls, bold and hearty, prove that there’s an after-party.” I don’t know whose tombstone that was, but damn, I want that as my epithet too.

Category 1: “Ugh! I thought I ditched this guy at Dan’s cabin, but he has followed me home! Just go away, YOU ANNOYING LITTLE CREEP!!!!! No, I don’t want to bake brownies and have a tickle fight! How does that even make sense?! You have no body to tickle!!”

Category 1 adjacent page: “Discovery! Apparently, shining a black light on ghosts results in crypto-translucence, revealing the secret horrors within! Never invite a ghost to a rave. This one is scarier than I realized!” I dunno, Ford, I still think it’s cute! He’s like a little skeleton baby! Aww!

Category 10: “PRAY FOR MERCY!” [There is a drawing of a thin man in glasses over the cloaked spectre. It’s very underwhelming.] “I saw this category 10 once more, but this time I had my black light handy! Not so scary without his cloak! This guy should spend less time reaping and more time at the gym!” Ford…do you go to the gym? (I kinda assumed Ford didn’t start getting buff until he hopped dimensions…) Still I’m pretty sure that his ghost-powers could kill you, you know…

Edit: Forgot to add - the “What Does it MEAN?” page has all the creatures + the question mark glow!

Edit: I missed a page here previously (they stuck together):

Right page of Truth Teeth: “NEW DISCOVERY! That abnormally hairy mailman doesn’t deliver mail on the full moon! And unlike most mailmen, he seems to get no harassment from barking dogs. Does this mean what I think it means? I may need to load up on silver bullets just in case.”

Guess Soos was right after all!

THE LAPTOP’S PASSWORD WAS STANFORD. I CAN’T BELIEVE MY FLIPPIN’ EYES.

“These secret messages written using my black light technique are hidden so well that even my most determined enemy won’t be able to find them! (Except for maybe the bumblebeast, a honey-hunting mutant bee with eyes that can see every kind of light on the spectrum.)” [The bumblebeast resembles a scowling mutant bi-pedal bee with tiny wings and one pair of big beefy arms (and a smaller insect pair beneath them)] “STAY AWAY FROM MY HONEY!” Don’t bogart your honey, Ford.

There’s also something unusual that I have to point out – on that same page, there seems to be a sort of…maze like drawing. If you turn it sideways, it looks like a factory. I THINK LETTERS ARE HIDDEN IN IT? I’ll into it later on.

The Codes page: It actually tells you the cryptogram and meaning of each kind! Cool!!!

But then, of course, there’s something secret on the bottom of the page. A vinegere cipher with the key TRICKY. “The most impossible thing to decode is human social behavior.” [my picture of this was poor and I could not make one better. I’m sorry.]

The Plaidypus! “How to catch a plaidypus:

Dig a hole, fill it with sawdust and/or ham.

Make a plaidypus mating call. It sounds exactly like a bearded man’s deep hearty laugh. You may need to wait until after puberty for this step.

When the plaidypus falls intot he hole, throw pine needles at his face. This will make him sneeze hard enough to shed his pelt.

He will be frightened at this point. Hug him tenderly for an hour to get him to calm down. Kiss his forehead if necessary.

Release! You now have a plaidypus pelt! Perfect for warm jackets, warm socks, or warm tea cosies, if you’re into that sort of thing.”

Ok first off FORD, it’s spelt “cozies”. Secondly, what do you have against them??? They keep tea hot and drinkable! Mine has kitties on it. It keeps my Bill Teapot all nice and toasty, even in the winter.

Island Head Beast page: “Head of household? I don’t think so…” [Shows a masculine island head with a pipe and newspaper and a frustrated scowl; a feminine head with old-fashioned hair-curlers and an androgynous younger head are seeming to yell harshly at him.]

Island Head adjacent page: “F’s x-rays of the lake revealed this family of horrifying heads dwelling underneath the surface. Although their words are indecipherable, their unhappy marriage is clear in any language.” Pointing at the glowing heads is the caption “More refugees from the weirdness dimension.”

So, question – is this Ford’s interpretation of what they look like based off the x-rays? Or is it an accurate reproduction? We may never really know…

The Hide Behind page: has “LOOK BEHIND YOU” spread all across the page, with glowing footprints leading to the drawn pair. :)

Cow Circles page: “I’VE DONE IT! I’VE CRACKED THE CODE! By arranging the cows together, I discovered that their interlocking symbols created a message! According to my knowledge of alien hieroglyphics, the message reads “Come to Glarbo’s Intergalactic House of Pancakes & Weapons! Come for the breakfast, stay for the dark matter hypercannons!” So, that’s it. An alien pancake house. The thought that Earth is being used for extraterrestrial advertisement depresses me deeply.”

Radioactive barrel/The Memory Gun pages: “He used It on me! I’m certain! Memories are returning of my assistant using the ray on himself, then zapping me to cover up his actions!”

[There’s a glowing doodle of Ford’s head being zapped by the gun.] “I’ve had dreams of F wearing a red hood, watching me from the shadows. What if those weren’t dreams?! I believe he hired construction workers to help him build the portal, then erased their memories to keep the job secret! And erased mine, too, so that I wouldn’t chide him for taking the risk! This is all my fault! I should have DESTROYED this GUN WHEN I HAD THE CHANCE!”

The Palm Reader: “The fortune teller was right about everything. I should have looked at the cards more closely when I had the chance! These were the ones I remembered. Something was so strange about them… As thought they were showing me something I wasn’t yet ready to see….”

[I hope you can see this page, because it’s AWESOME. Four people are drawn over the cards shown – Waddles, Mabel, Dipper, and Wendy. Above that, there are two cards, one of Mayor Tyler, and another mysterious one that I can’t make out. Below all this is five cards – Gideon, Robbie, Soos, Pacifica, and Gompers. It’s an amazing sight:

Waddles – Time & Space

Mabel – The Sun

Dipper – The Moon

Wendy – Death

Soos - Justice

Gideon – The Magician

Robbie – The Fool

Pacifica – The Empress

Gompers – Judgement

Mayor Tyler – [UNKNOWN]

The “mysterious card” seems to be Old Man McGucket, as evidenced by his bandaged foot. It’s literally all we can see of it, though.]

See you in Part 3!

[Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3]

#gravity falls #journal 3 #spoilers #journal 3 blacklight #long post #J3 Blacklight Reveal #J3 Blacklight Reveal Part 2

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aslightstep · 7 years

Note

19 - Winteriron

I’m not their hero/But that doesn’t mean that I wasn’t brave

This is honestly a little bit away from the prompt.

Song is:

I’m Not Your Hero

“Take a trip with me,” Tony says, collapsing on top of him, grabbing the remote out of his hand before Bucky can stop him and turning off the TV, cutting Megyn Kelly off mid-sentence on another one of the seemingly endless roundtable discussion on the Winter Soldier’s place on the Avengers roster.

At this point Bucky is pretty sure he can do an accurate impression of both sides of the debate. Bucky the Victim vs Bucky the Assassin. Rarely, they get creative and add in the ever popular (and Bucky’s personal favorite) Bucky the poor unstable woobie, those brave Avengers for taking him in, I hear Tony Stark’s dating him, how precious, now lets keep him away from the weapons but no need to lock him up, of course!

(It’s rarely used because its hard to sum the position up in a snazzy caption, you see. Tony calls it the ‘Bucky the Dog’ argument. ‘You’re like a rescue,’ he’d explained. ‘Apparently we need to feed you, house you, but not let you out because you’ve been raised badly and don’t know any better, and might go gnawing off some poor kid’s arm for looking at you the wrong way.’

Tony hated Bucky the Dog.)

“Ignore the crazies,” Tony wheedles. “Pay attention to me.” He makes grabby hands that Bucky grabs up and uses to drag his boyfriend closer. “So take a trip with me?”

“Why?”

“Because I want to take a trip?” Tony says, affecting an innocent expression. “Because the Tower has access to too many 24 hour news channels? For the opportunity of new and exciting places to have sex? Bucky! Stop with the patient eyebrows.” Bucky mouths ‘patient eyebrows’ to himself, shaking with laughter. “It’s a surprise.”

“Oh, God,” Bucky groans. The last ‘surprise’ of Tony’s was a cake filled with strippers. For Natasha.

Tony seems to read his mind and points an accusing finger at him. “You cannot deny that was amazing and she loved it.”

Natasha had loved the strippers. She knew at least eight new ways to bend now.

“Alright,” Bucky agrees, and accepts his boyfriend’s gleeful, slightly sloppy kisses with a smile.

“It’s not an argument of what James Barnes deserves, that’s a complete strawman. It’s a question of what he can handle. The man has had an incredibly difficult life, one that’s produced well documented instances of PTSD and dissociative attacks. This is not a man equipped to handle the kind of stress the Avengers are put under every day-”

“He was a monster, plain and simple. And maybe we can believe Mr. Stark and Captain Rogers here, maybe the monster has been taken out, but what kind of scars did that leave-”

“I mean, in all honesty, how can he ever be trusted? How will we ever know?”

“Hey.” A foot kicks at his own, knocking Bucky out of his miserable recollections.“I know that face. This plane is a That-Face Free Zone.”

He kicks back at Tony. “It’s nothing, Punk,” he says, mustering up some semblance of a smile. It just makes Tony grimace, then crawl over so he can sit beside him.

“How ‘bout just no faces at all?” he asks as he settles. “For a former super spy you have horrible facial control.” Bucky stiffens up beside him and Tony sighs, taking his hand. “James.”

James. That’s all its ever taken from Tony. His name, said in that fond, slightly impatient tone. “James,” Tony had said, finding James in the aftermath of a panic attack that had ended in the destruction of his living room. “James,” he had said when he built a new arm and the first thing Bucky did with it was play fetch with the bots. “James,” he had said when Bucky had finally surrendered and kissed him. “What took you so long?”

Now Tony sits with him, patient, staring out the window so James feels distinctly unenclosed. He hadn’t been like this at the start of their relationship and its nice, sometimes, to think that Bucky has taught him some things, too.

“They’re not wrong,” he finally says, and Tony takes that as his cue to finally turn and look. “The news. I’m a complete mess three days out of five. I remember all of it, everything I did, so it’s all still there in my head. I can’t be trusted.”

“I trust you,” Tony responds immediately. “Am I an idiot?”

“No.”

“No, James, I am very smart.” Bucky smiles painfully and Tony clenches his hand. “Look, you being an Avenger? That’s always your choice. I’m sorry if we’ve pressured you-”

“You haven’t-”

“Oh, we totally have. Especially Steve. But you’ll need to discuss that with him. As for the rest - those vultures have only ever seen skin-deep, trust me on this. If I listened to them, let them dictate my life, I’d’ve ended up face down in a ditch bleeding Patron by the time I was twenty five.”

Bucky pulls his hand away so he can wrap his arm around Tony and hold him close. “You hate tequila,” he mutters, and Tony laughs.

“See? They don’t know anything. All they saw of me was a drunken overgrown fratboy and all they see of you is the Winter Soldier. Thing is, yeah, they’re not wrong every once in awhile, but they never have all the story. The Winter Soldier is not everything you are. You’re Buck, you’re James, you’re Sergeant Barnes.

“And by the way, you’re only a mess two out of five days. At most. The other three?” Tony smiles at him. “You are the best, the bravest man I have ever known.”

“Jeez, Tony,” Bucky breathes, because he never knows what to do with these pep talks. He wants to believe him, but he is constantly surrounded by heroes nowadays, and he is always reminded of his bloody past and how painfully he falls short, how impossible it seems to ever come back from that, even when he sleeps every night next to a man who did just that. He drops a kiss on Tony’s head and leans back into the chair. “So where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise, Buck. A surprise. Your dementia is showing again, old man.”

“I’ll show you old-” Bucky tips his boyfriend over in the seat.

“Oh God, I’m so glad you believe in stubble-”

“Believe? Facial hair’s not like Santa Claus, doll-”

“James.”

They touch down in Washington, DC. Tony takes them to a hotel first to freshen up, which for some reason means busting out the baseball caps and shades for both of them. Then they hope in a car that drops them off at the Mall. Tony leads them to the National Museum of American History and Bucky stops dead.

“The Smithsonian? Tony, I’ve been here before…”

“Yes. When you had just broken your brainwashing. Somehow I’m thinking you weren’t exactly absorbing all that you could.” Tony looks at the ground, the space where Bucky has taken a step backwards, and grabs his hand. “I just wanted you to see something, but we can leave.”

Bucky stares up at the building. The last time he’d been here was a blur of memories without context and a constantly building terror at what had happened to him. He had been scared. But Tony is with him now. “No, I’m fine. Show me.”

The Captain America is as busy as ever, and this time Bucky notices how many of the exhibits bear a tiny inscription under the description: Donated by Howard Stark and the Stark family.

Tony smirks when he notices where Bucky’s gaze is lingering. “Yeah, let me tell you there is nothing quite like meeting the men your dad quite literally collected.” Bucky waits for a moment to see if his smirk goes sharp and sad, but Tony just wanders on. He’d let go of his anger about Howard around the same time he’d let go of his anger towards Bucky.

They stop in front of the glass wall bearing his name, date of death (which bears a new addendum in tiny print of his miraculous recovery in 2016), height, serial number, rank, and a summary of his life.

“James Buchanan Barnes,” Tony murmurs.

“Five hundred words or less,” Bucky says. He doesn’t mean to sound as bitter as he does, but Tony just smiles sympathetically at him and takes his hand, leading further.

They pass wall after wall of Steve Rogers, Captain America, Brooklyn’s Favorite Son, and American Legend. Bucky can see where the facts have gotten muddled: for example, he knows for a fact that the assault on the HYDRA base on the border of Luxembourg was planned by Dugan, not Steve, and was a smashing success, but facts rarely stand up to myth. “Bet Steve hates that.”

“He does. We’ve been petitioning to make them get their asses in gear and change that for years,” Tony groans lowly.

Tony tugs him further, further into the exhibit, a part Bucky never visited before, too skittish about lingering last time. There is a wall with a long line of booths cordoned off by black curtains. The Howling Commandos: From the Other Side, a banner reads overhead, and Tony leads Bucky into one. They squeeze onto a seat, Tony puts his arm around Bucky, and then he presses play.

An old man appears on screen, looking to the side as if listening to someone. He nods, and chuckles. “My name is Peter Montcourt,” he says, his French accent extraordinarily thick. “I was nine years old when the Howling Commandos liberated the town of Bayeux from Axis control. My hometown.”

“I had lost a brother, a father, already. My town was overrun with Nazis, Italians. People disappeared during the night, never heard from again. Everyday we heard - it might be you. You might be next.

“Then one night we heard gunfire and explosions and I remember thinking that this was it, they had grown tired of watching us, now they were killing us all. A soldier burst into my house with a gun, and I stood over my mother, but the shot never came. He was gunned down.

“I never met Captain America. Steve Rogers did not liberate Bayeux. He was leading another push. Bayeux was liberated by-”

“It was me,” Bucky breathes, tears in his eyes as he remembers, and Tony’s hand smooths down his arm.

“Sergeant James Barnes. The same James Barnes who gunned down the man who wanted to hurt us. He came into our house after that, he told us who he was and that he was a sniper, and asked us kindly if he could take a position in my room upstairs, because it had good sightlines. We of course agreed. He told us to hide, but I stayed and watched him. He remained calm, and efficient. He never panicked. He was very brave.

The man grows a little teary-eyed. “People do not talk about Bayeux much, because the very same day Captain Steve Rogers freed a POW camp near Lyon. But I do not forget. None of us in this town do. We owe Sergeant Barnes and his men our lives. I was very sorry when he died. He was a good man.”

The video freezes and Bucky lurches forward, pressing his hand against Montcourt’s face. “He grew up, James,” Tony whispers. “Had a family. All because you saved him.”

“I’m not him,” Bucky says hoarsely, tears nearly blinding him. “I’m not the sergeant.”

“Mm. But he is a part of you.” Tony intertwines their fingers. “I just…I wanted you to see, know, I guess, that you are…more than the Winter Soldier. More than whatever they call you. That there’s as much greatness in you as darkness. You were a good person, Buck and…we can’t all be war heroes. Sometimes we’re just victims. It doesn’t diminish you or what you did or what you can do. I’m - shit, I’m sorry, I’m so terrible at this. I just thought you should see.”

Bucky is quiet for a very long time, staring at Montcourt. He remembers that little boy and his mother. He had remained in their home for three days, defending it and taking out enemy soldiers. The woman had brought him food that he never ate. The boy kept him awake with conversation. They had been the brave ones.

He withdraws his hand and places it over Tony’s. “Thank you,” he tells him, and the other man smiles tentatively. “I - I get it.” He isn’t the Soldier or the Sergeant. He’s just Bucky now, with shades of all of them thrown in, but maybe…maybe that isn’t so bad. At the very least, he remembers how to be strong and good. And if he needs a reminder, he has Tony and Steve and the Avengers.

They don’t get to decide what he is or isn’t. Only Bucky does that. And he doesn’t have to be a hero. He can just be…an Avenger.

“Are there more?” he asks, gesturing towards the screen. Tony’s smile goes full-blown and Bucky can’t help it, leaning forward to kiss him soundly. “I love you.”

“You, too,” Tony replies softly, pulling away. The moment goes soft and sweet for a moment, but that was never Tony’s particular style and sure enough he pulls away, his grin going positively wicked. “Ninette three booths down tells a charming story involving you, her, Dugan, my dad, two goats, and a modified washing machine. I would love to hear your version of it.”

Outside the booth an old man is waiting his turn with his wife. He steps aside for Bucky and Tony but freezes dead when he catches a good glimpse of Bucky’s face, looking back over his shoulder at the Barnes Memorial for a moment before turning back. Bucky freezes when the man raises his hand, but he merely salutes.

Bucky returns it, sloppily, then heads for Tony, who has been lowly calling his name: “James.”

#alanna writes #drabblethon 600 #winteriron #tony stark #bucky barnes #mcu #anon #alanna talks #song is #i'm not your hero #by tegan and sara #bucky-centric #fluffy

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