[Tawny Vokes]

Tawny was pleased to hear he had no allergies. But before she could mentally run through the contents of her fridge and cupboards to gather what sort of breakfast might be feasible in the morning, she was caught by the thought unfolding so visibly across Noah's features. An idea struck him, presumably an exciting one, and he pulled his phone from his pocket to tap a note into one of its apps. She glimpsed the words on the screen and quirked a brow, breathing a soft snort of amusement at the ridiculousness of it. Perhaps he was more reckless than she had initially suspected. He put the phone away and returned his hand to hers, tipping his face toward her with a positive beam. She couldn't help but nod in agreement at his next words, confirming her own conjecture that Noah would most likely die violently and young.

"Yeah. I don't think you're the type to grow old," she agreed solemnly, lifting her gaze once more to the hair sifting lazily through her fingers, trying to imagine it peppered with grey and unable to. She suspected that, if Noah chose to become a more familiar face in her life — their meetings more frequent and regular — one day she would simply stop hearing from him. Time would stretch a bit too long between their encounters and eventually she'd wonder if he'd been found face down in an alleyway, riddled with holes or reduced to an unrecognizable puddle. Perhaps she'd do a bit of digging and discover he'd become a headless body propped in a dinky motel room somewhere, the other guy a bit quicker than him this time.

She imagined the news, though not entirely surprising, would make her sad.

But before Tawny could grow melancholy at the thought, she barked a short laugh at Noah's mention of including her in his will. Naturally, she assumed it a joke. There had to be other people in his life, friends and his family, to be considered. People who cared about him and whom he cared about much more than her. It'd be terribly sad otherwise. "Your home is very nice. So much potential in all that empty, neglected wall space you have, too. I could certainly remedy that." She narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips, taking a moment to muse exaggeratedly over the prospect of redecorating. "But with so many rooms, I might never see my cat. Bequeath me your coffee maker and your hoody instead. Then I can think of you while I sip my morning coffee on the balcony. Mope about the apartment in my grief, using your clothes as a blanket."

Noah continued and Tawny let her gaze flicker tellingly away at the mention of swimming lessons. She hadn't looked into it. Knew it was unlikely she would. She lifted her brow as he let the admittance of some fantasy die away, intrigued by the roguish smile that pulled across his face once he decided to keep it selfishly to himself. She bounced her leg beneath him, aiming to unsettle him just a bit as her smile tucked into an expression a bit more sly to match. She immediately rectified the action by smoothing her hand over his arm, a bit disappointed at the feel of his sweater beneath her fingertips rather than warm, bare skin. "Yes, it's against the rules. And feel absolutely free to bore me anytime with fantasies that involve you and I."

She slipped her fingers back into his own, considering his questions.

"My opinion," Tawny let the word trail into a thoughtful hum, her eyes drawing back to his face. She thought back to their initial meeting, when he'd pulled her from the lake and taken her to his home. He'd been immediately charming, quick to settle her concerns and coax out her laughs with his constant pull to levity. He had an easy, nonchalant way of presenting himself and was likable. Had made her feel comfortable. Up until the point he didn't. In hindsight, she wondered if it might have gone differently, had he not been made immediately aware of her gift in his possession. Perhaps he might not have been so generous and amicable if not inclined to know what he'd borrowed and what she could offer him. Perhaps he wouldn't be here now. She recalled the sinking feeling of doubt with which she'd regarded him when she'd been trembling and afraid, probing the dark depths of his eyes in a desperate search for reassurance. Uncertain how much of what she'd seen in him was genuine. And despite that, how he'd come to make her feel comfortable all over again, seemingly with no effort. She lifted her gaze to his with decision, her lips quirking at their corners. "Is that you could make anyone like you." She tipped her head slightly, eyes narrowing as she considered whether or not the thought needed to be elaborated upon. "I think for you, it's probably just a matter of if you want them to or not."

She shrugged, deciding the question deserved an actual answer. "But yeah, I think they'd like you. It wouldn't matter what Cooper thinks really, it'd be entirely up to the wife. Elise would grill and rib you mercilessly. Be thrilled that you can give as good as you get." Her lips quirked as she remembered him, blanched but sincere in her doorway when he had to consider the possibility that the toys in the hallway and the shrill screams of children through the walls were attributed to her. "And the kids aren't even that bad. They'll be happy to do all the talking." She pictured her nieces and nephews pawing at him, seeing how far they could push their luck and what he'd let them get away with. How much they could badger him and how much he would give them, before he finally had to put his foot down.

She considered his other question, keeping her lips pulled into an easy grin to balance the grimness of it.

"My family wasn't very religious, not like yours. Maybe my parents became a little religious, when they got sick and before they died." She scrunched her nose, remembering how Dione had taken up an interest in the Bible while bed-ridden. It had been a thick, hefty brick among the kiddy storybooks her father would read while forcing Tawny to spend time with her. Sat on his lap, unable to focus on the story while prickled with dread and resentment at being forced to endure her mother's frail, pained, and terribly sad smile. When she died, the Bible had been shoved somewhere obscure, unseen for years and only taken back out when her father found himself facing his own mortality in a too-similar way. Tawny might not have understood much about the book's presence on her mother's nightstand, but she was much older when her father was dying. Wise enough to know that he was scared. Seeking comfort in the prospect of there being something more as he withered away. If there was something, — if the most fanciful of religious beliefs were true and Dione came to guide him into some great beyond — Tawny only hoped she hadn't robbed him of it when she took his memory.

She shrugged again, curling her fingers into Noah's palm and stroking a thumb across the back of his hand. "There could be something, there could not be. I kinda think it's just gonna be the big nothing. Your brain turns off and that's it for you. But I'm sure I'll hope there's something more when I'm facing my own boring, average death." She let a corner of her mouth tug further upward as she echoed his words. She'd always figured she'd die in a bed, sick and fading away, just like her parents, her genes cursed by their ailments. Maybe she'd be inclined then to pull out her own Bible. Teach her mind just how she should be comforted as the lights went out. She'd nearly died two weeks ago, and as she remembered the tranquility that had seeped across her, she only hoped it would be like that in the end. Maybe her brain would accept its fate and just let dying be easy.

"Okay, I take back what I said." Tawny chuckled shamefully, face brightening as she wiggled his hand in her grasp. "About it being against the rules. I'm not allergic to anything and I'll probably die sick in bed. Or be murdered by some postman. So... what do you think happens after we die?" She wondered whether it would be different for him, considering his gift turned off his emotions when facing stressful situations. Perhaps he wouldn't be so afraid to need that sort of comfort. But then, maybe he was just as religious as his family. In that case, having killed someone, did Noah believe he was going to Hell? "And were you born in Los Eurosia? Or is your family somewhere else?" Her gaze pulled sidelong, to the legs he'd elevated to prop on the back of her too-small couch. "And are your feet asleep yet?"

Noah St Cloud

[Noah St Cloud]

Will or no will, Noah made a mental note to return his hoody to Tawny’s possession. He liked the implications of her having it and he wouldn’t miss it too terribly; he preferred sweaters anyway.

She jostled him for withholding his imaginings and he huffed a laugh, even as her stroke along his arm made him decide he was wearing one too many layers of clothes. He sent her a considering look, unable to contain his smile as he tried to sound like an unimpressed film critic. “Mm, I’m not sure you’d like it. The script was bad and the cinematography pandered heavily to the male gaze.” That particular daydream had started off very innocently, very much focused on teaching her a valuable life skill and having a laugh. But in her absence he’d simply… kept tacking on details. It had been very detrimental to his don’t-think-about-Tawny quest.

She supposed he could make anyone like him, and he met that statement with a pleased little shoulder-shimmy. “Why thank you,” he purred. “I do try.” Truly, he did. As a kid he hadn’t. He’d stolen and demanded, certain that the best way to get what he wanted was to take it by force and damn the consequences. Even when his mom had forced him to play soccer, rather than bonding and strategizing he’d spent most of the time sliding the studs of his boots into the opposing team’s ankles. It seemed obvious to him that injuring them would make winning easier, and he hadn't been able to figure out why everyone got upset. Winning was the whole point of the game!

But somewhere in his teens he realised how much easier life was when others liked him. How much more giving they could be. How useful his peers were when they felt even a shred of loyalty towards him. His early high school years were spent intensely studying popular characters in TV and films, picking apart why the audience liked them, and the crux of it was: smile, joke, and offer assistance (and of course, being pretty helped). This subsequently sparked his interest in psychology and in learning everything there was to know about the people he met so he knew how best to control them. His family were never fooled, but they had an unfair advantage. They’d known him when he was naïve.

Tawny’s family would have no such advantage. He knew he slipped, sometimes, and had moments when he was unsettling in one way or another – smiling too broadly at grim news or staring for too long without blinking. Yet he could usually play it off, say he’d spaced out. People tended to trust his face, especially if he’d already established with them that he was a nice guy. He was sure he could get Elise and Cooper on side if all it took was teasing the wife. However, he wasn’t convinced about the kids. Children made him slip up more than anyone else. If they started to think he was weird and mean, they’d eventually tell their parents and it would all go downhill from there. The mask would unravel, thread by thread, leaving him unsmiling and far too still. But he was getting ahead of himself. He didn’t know he’d ever meet Elise and Cooper. What were the chances he’d be made to babysit their spawn?

His contented expression didn’t waver, feeling no need to coddle and fuss over Tawny when her next answer revealed he wouldn’t have to worry about meeting her parents. Oddly, he was a little disappointed to hear her father was gone – even if he’d had no gifts for Noah to borrow, he’d been such a core part of Tawny’s life that he could’ve offered additional information that Noah wouldn’t be able to find in Tawny’s mind. But considering the apparent dementia of her father in her memories, there really hadn’t been much of a man left to meet. He wondered if, secretly, a part of her had been relieved when he died.

Tawny’s gaze pulled to his elevated legs, asking if his feet were numb. He gave a single nod. “Dead asleep. I can’t feel a thing.” He supposed he should move them. His circulation would probably thank him for it. “Let me just…” He pulled his knees towards him, his feet dropping from the back of the couch to lay flat on the couch seat cushion. Hopefully she wouldn’t mind. He gave her hand a squeeze and put it by his side so he could sit up and drag his sweater over his head, folding it neatly only to throw it onto the part of the sofa neither of them occupied. He settled back, reclaiming her hand, and looked up at her as he gave her knuckles a kiss. He grinned. “There. Thanks for the concern. Though if your bed is as short as your couch I’m going to strongly recommend a trip to Pottery Barn. Or IKEA.” It would probably take all of five minutes for his bent legs to ache and to need to stretch out again, but he figured there were worse places to sleep.

“Okay. What happens when we’re dead… I think the same as you: lights out, show’s over. That would suck though. Being ghosts would be way more fun – I’d love to haunt a really random spot and just, I don’t know, shout Britney Spears’ songs when people go there alone. No one would believe them.” He snickered. Being a ghost was probably the best-case scenario for him. It would it be hilarious, and if ghosts existed he knew there would be gifted out there in the world who could communicate with them. He’d track them down eventually, maybe find a way to possess them or convince them to resurrect him. He’d basically be immortal. “But hey! If the New Testament’s right I reckon we all have a free pass into Heaven anyway, so I’ll get the party started and meet you there. If not, Hell can’t be that bad. I like it hot.” Hell would be the worst-case scenario for him, especially if it were more 'Dante’s Inferno' rather than simply the absence of God. He’d try to escape, try to make any deal he could, but he wouldn’t fool himself into believing he could convince whoever was in charge that he didn’t belong there, that his past transgressions were mistakes and he was pure of heart.

But it was pointless thinking about that hypothetical future. Besides, Tawny wanted to know about the past. “I grew up in Portland in a neighbourhood a lot like West Hook, really, except the houses were a little closer together. I left my family behind, spent some time in Seattle, then bounced around until I came here a couple of years ago.” Though he was pleased with himself for not confirming his family were dead or alive (Schrodinger’s family, he thought with an inward chuckle), he wondered if he should have lied about where he was raised. If she searched his surname and narrowed down the search to Portland, it was likely she would find something on his family. He never read those articles but he could remember the headlines, different variations of ‘Freak Storm Leaves 14 Dead’. Was it better to be honest? Lest she do some research and grow suspicious he hadn’t mentioned it? No. He decided that it wasn’t, that he could keep it to himself and he was probably being paranoid; most people didn’t go snooping around for information like he did. Even his memories of the event weren’t especially damning. He could claim to have been a spectator, far enough away from the house that it could have easily been someone inside who’d made the sky darken and wind whip.

He intwined his fingers with hers. “How about you? And did you always want to be a therapist? Or has art always been your main thing but you thought therapy would be more stable career-wise?” The relatively light questions, he hoped, would help his next one feel less heavy.

In her memories she had spent days laying in bed, letting the world pass by, shutting everyone out. He didn't want to be shut out too. Despite himself, he was already thinking of integrating himself into her life. He wanted to do everything right from now on. Avoid error wherever possible. “When you’re in a bad mood, do you want to be given space? Cheered up? Cuddled? Sat with but not spoken to?”


Tawny Vokes

[Tawny Vokes]

Tawny's lips twitched as Noah admitted his feet were indeed asleep and readjusted. He levered himself forward to pull his sweater over his head and she had to remind herself that she was on her best behavior when her gaze instinctively dropped to catch any glimpse of skin exposed by the shedding. When he settled back, she smoothed his hair back in place and resumed her lazy carding through it, no longer drawing her nails along his scalp with intent, but simply sifting. She huffed a quiet chuckle as he mentioned her bed, wondering if he expected that's where he'd end up tonight. She really had no intention of letting him sleep on her too-small couch, but perhaps she'd wait to see if he asked. Let him smooth talk her into it. Make it his idea instead of hers. Though, while she'd prefer him to make the puppy-dog eyes this time, she knew she would if she had to. After all, it was entirely possible he'd want to taxi home, the proposal of breakfast not enough to win him overnight.

Tawny listened as he volleyed back his own opinion on life after death, similar to her own, and spoke about his family. As she suspected, they were elsewhere. It explained why he had no weather manipulation powers to borrow on a whim. She wondered what he did for the holidays; if he traveled to see them ever or if he was the Emeli of his family, estranged and never heard from. If she had to take a guess from what she'd seen and what he'd shared, she'd assume the latter.

"I'm Los Eurosia born and raised. Maybe one day I'll set off on my own though. Seek some new stomping grounds." Both Cooper and Emeli had fled the city as soon as they were able but Tawny had stayed for her father. She'd considered moving elsewhere when he died and she graduated, but somehow had gotten stuck. There was nothing truly keeping her here — she had friends but made it a point to keep them from influencing her in such a way. Coop had taken over their parents' establishments entirely. And job security wasn't a total issue. She could leave if she wanted to, but she just had no idea where she wanted to go and what she wanted to see. "Therapy was always kind of in the plans. I initially wanted to be a guidance counselor. In an elementary school specifically, y'know... when the kids are still cute and wide-eyed. Not so terribly angsty and thrashed by hormones. But I think my gift, and being encouraged into the Sector as well, really pushed me to therapy. Art's just a hobby," Tawny snorted as she glanced about her apartment. She wouldn't make much money, would she? "I'd have to actually finish a piece in order to sell it."

His remaining inquiry was a bit more difficult. Tawny opened her mouth to instinctively answer 'space', but she pressed her lips back together and took a moment to consider it. She withdrew the hand still nestled in Noah's hair and propped her elbow on the arm of the couch, pressing her temple to a closed fist while she observed the wrestling ferrets in the middle of the living room. When struck by a foul mood or too-frequent funk, she did seek solitude. Shut everyone else away and made herself deaf and blind to their attempts to wiggle inside. But was that because she preferred it?

She pictured herself, curled in bed, expression blank and eyes unseeing as she stared at the sliver of outside between her drawn curtains. She tried to imagine someone being there. A hand to brush the hair behind her ear. Eyes steady on her face as she blinked unfeelingly at them, seeing through them. No words, no pressure, just silently prepared to be present when she came back. She knew there were choice people in her life — both past and present — who were willing to be that presence. Even in a way that was less intimate. A simple text or a kind word. But she couldn't — wouldn't — allow it. Didn't like anyone seeing her at her lowest and most vulnerable. Liked less the idea of relying on them to bring her back out of it. To be a crutch. To cushion her fall or even brush her off when she returned to her feet by herself.

"Hmm," Tawny forced the imagining away and lifted her head to draw the back of her knuckles across her mouth, pinching her bottom lip between a thumb and forefinger before letting her arm fall to dangle off the couch. "It depends on how bad of a mood, I suppose, but space is probably best," she concluded finally, though the words rang with less conviction than she would have liked. It settled something she didn't like in her chest; a pang made familiar by the fact she'd lamented over the question many times before.

She dropped her eyes to Noah's face, offering him an apologetic quirk to her mouth. "I think it's best I clean up my messes myself. No one wants to see that." The mess being herself. The last bit sparked an immediate twinge of guilt within her and she 'tsk'ed. "Or I guess I don't want anyone to see that." She thought of the many friends throughout her life, and the dejected, confused boyfriends and girlfriends, pleading with her to be let inside. For her to help them understand why she pulled away. Stopped responding. They only ever wanted to comfort her, be there for her, and to know she was okay, but that made it worse. Made her push against them harder until they felt bitterly scorned enough to break away from her themselves.

It was a familiar pattern. A dance she choreographed expertly. And always looked back upon approvingly, forcing herself to believe the steps were well-executed and necessary. She didn't want anyone to be what kept her whole. Or to darn her back together when she unraveled. Even in the smallest of ways. Even if it was just to comfort her as she sewed the pieces back in place herself. It reminded her too much of her father and the pain that followed him, unable to be hidden entirely, throughout the long years after Dione died. The ways he'd needed Tawny to patchwork the holes her passing had riddled him with.

"Does that make me a hypocrite?" Tawny laughed and pretended like it wasn't a desperate bid to distract her from her wandering thoughts. To dispel her inward keel to gravity and keep things light. She let the chimes bat away that blip of cold unease in her chest as she tilted her head and pouted exaggeratedly. "A therapist who doesn't like asking for help?" It was ridiculous.

Tawny sucked in a long inhale and squeezed Noah's fingers in her other hand, before wriggling them free and patting his chest. "Okay, that's enough free information." She shifted beneath him, pushing herself from the back of the couch and forcing him off of her as inoffensively as possible. She grabbed her beer from the table as she stood, taking a long, indulgent swig from it before returning it to the table and twirling to face him, eyes lighting. "Let's up the ante." She stepped closer, bending to take up both his hands in hers again. Had he been a bit more sober, or herself drunk enough to compensate, she might have guided them to her waist and let the statement stand there alone; phish for how he thought they might make things more interesting and be happy to go in whatever new direction he pleased. Despite wanting very much to be good, she still considered it — the thoughts made evident by the sly tug to her lips and the brief flit of darkening shadow across her eyes as she swayed marginally closer to him, her gaze falling to the hands between them. But she forced herself to curb the desire — to be patient — and simply curled her fingers under his palms as she raised her gaze back to his face.

"Let's play two truths and a lie instead. Or maybe two lies and a truth, if you think that's more entertaining?" It was a simple game, perhaps a bit juvenile, but it was a good way of getting to know others and with the excitement of added stakes. Noah seemed the type to enjoy a bit of competition. Tawny wondered if she would have an advantage over him with him being drunk. She drug her eyes across his features in a quick, familiar study and inwardly frowned. Probably not. He had a face made for lying, she decided, and she herself was terrible at it. She wouldn't be able to cheat by sifting through his memories either, because he'd know. What a pesky, wonderful gift he had. "We get a point for whatever we get right. Whoever has more points when we get bored or whatever, wins." Her smile spread slightly wider across her face and she allowed a bit of wicked anticipation to gleam in her eyes as she waggled a brow at him. "If you're game, then we just need to decide what to wager?" She imagined forcing him to watch a marathon of rom-coms and chick flicks. Have him clean her car. Or really push her luck and force him to take a salsa class with her or something similarly cringy and date-like.

Noah St Cloud

[Noah St Cloud]

Tawny answered his first questions easily enough, telling him she was born in Los Eurosia, would consider leaving, and had always been interested in therapy. He wondered how young she’d been when the Sector discovered her potential. How much they’d encouraged her, as she put it. It took some time to become a registered therapist; she must have made up her mind before she’d sent out college admission essays, suggesting to him that she’d been prepped for the Sector long before graduating high school. Damn. He was a little bitter, again, that they’d found her so early. That they’d found her before he had.

Her lips parted before promptly pressing shut again. It was clear his remaining line of inquiry required more consideration, gave her more trouble. To the extent that she took a break from stroking his hair, much to his sorrow, leaving him to resist a pout and content himself with playing with the hand she’d left in his. He turned it over, studied the lines of her palm, admired how it looked when he entwined their fingers again, until eventually she told him she would prefer space when she was upset. He cocked his head, watching her closely. She… didn’t sound entirely convinced of it herself, and it wasn’t an answer he liked.

His previous partners (though ‘partners’ would not have been the right word for them; for the most part they had simply been people he wanted to hook up with on more than one occasion) were like pets. They had been chosen for their entertainment value, their aesthetics, what they could offer him. And then he’d looked after them. Played with them. Curved his behaviour into whatever they preferred in order to keep them focused on him, until eventually he grew bored or annoyed and dumped them on the street. If any of them had demanded space he would have been exasperated, sure, but he reckoned he would have accepted it easily enough. He might have even shrugged and gone off to find someone else to occupy him in the meantime. With Tawny… he wasn’t sure he’d be able to do that. It was easier to imagine himself breaking into her apartment (whether via lockpick or outright kicking the door down) and swanning into her room, flopping down on her bed to nap until she was ready to be a person again. Maybe he’d stumble in with his hand over his eyes, claiming he was technically respecting her wishes as she’d said she didn’t want anyone to see her in that state. But if she truly didn’t want anyone near her, if such actions would sour her against him, what could he do? Go about his life and hope for the best like she suggested? How long might that take? Why was he so needy when she was involved?

He expected it was the novelty of someone telling him no. The idea that he was forbidden from going near her, a challenge he couldn’t resist blended with the thrill of being near someone who presented such a danger to him. She could ruin his life. Bring down everything he worked so hard for with only a few words to her co-workers. But she chose not to (he pretended he hadn’t essentially forced her silence) and she returned his curiosity. And she had a powerful, interesting gift that she was willing to share.

Tawny laughed, asking if she were a hypocrite for hiding herself away and refusing to ask for help. He gave a noncommittal lift of his shoulders, though he’d read somewhere that therapists should get therapy too. Partly to talk through the emotional impact of the work they did, partly to become aware of their blind spots, and mostly because they had their own problems and (although they had the tools and techniques to help others) tended not to apply their training to themselves. It wasn’t too far-fetched to believe her days of isolation, unmoving in her bed, could be a symptom for something else – the most obvious guesses being depression or a particular branch of anxiety. Had she ever gotten diagnosed with anything? By a colleague or by herself? Would some form of medication help? And what did she think about while she laid there? Was it simply grief rather than an underlying illness that made her bedbound? How long ago had her father passed away?

She shifted, pulling him from his thoughts, and gently moved him so she could stand up. Noah swung his legs around to sit normally, once again scanning her apartment for points of interest while she drank her beer, committing it all to memory in case she wouldn't let him in next time. But then she spun back to face him, commanding his full attention as she leaned down to take his hands in hers. His eyes, unbidden, dragged down the line of her jaw, the sweep of her neck, over her slender collarbones and her lithe little body in that tank top, her thighs below flimsy, rippable shorts…

She straightened. His stare shot back to her face in time to watch her lips curl, something dark and promising flickering in her gaze. She swayed closer to him and – yeah. Noah was so fucked. So gone on the look of Tawny literally just standing there smirking down at him that it was embarrassing. Ever since she’d descended his stairs in his clothes there’d been a low hum of desire beneath his skin, a quiet curiosity as to what laid beneath, as to what she felt like. But now – that hum burned, transformed into a heady, furious want. To the point where he wasn’t sure he could think of anything else ever again.

He met her darkened gaze with his own unabashed hunger, creeping forwards until he was literally on the edge of his seat. What would she suggest? Strip poker? Sexy charades? Getting straight to it?

Unfortunately, she proposed a game of spot the lie instead, confusing him for a moment with the simplicity of it. Yet the prospect of a prize stoked his excitement again. Noah, drunken sleaze that he was, could only think of one type of reward.

“Two lies, one truth. I’m game,” he agreed breathlessly – quickly, as if she were about to change her mind and his response made it a binding contract. The game shouldn’t be too hard. He told strangers random fibs all the time, just for the hell of it. Yet he reminded himself not to get too cocky; as practiced as he was, he had to spot her lies as well if he wanted to win, and it would be a bit difficult to concentrate with his half of his mind so wobbly and the other half so firmly dunked in the gutter. He hummed, slipping his hands from hers to encircle her wrists. “Okay... I once cut my sister’s hair, I have thousands of followers on Instagram, and I can speak Spanish.” He smirked. “How’s that?”

While he waited for her to think it over, he guided her hands to lay where his shoulders met his neck, leaving them there so his own were free to reach out to her. One hand found her thigh, unable to resist a soft squeeze before skimming down to the back of her knee. The other aimed higher, settling on her waist as he looked up at her, pupils blown, and gave a little tug with the intention of coaxing her closer. As tempted as he was to pull her down into his lap, the thought of her pushing him back and putting herself there was far too enthralling to deny her the opportunity.

When he spoke again he spoke slowly, his voice dipping into a low murmur. “If I win, I want to see what your bedroom looks like.” The hand on her leg trailed upwards, his thumb skimming under the hem of her shorts. “I want to make you… lose your composure.” His eyes locked on hers as he languidly tipped forward, lips parting to press an open-mouthed kiss to her thigh. His pulse thumped. His insides blazed, thrilled by the small taste of her, by the softness beneath his lips. Already, it wasn’t enough. He wanted more. Wanted to lazily drag his tongue higher until she was whimpering for it. But he forced himself to draw back with only an appreciative hum, fighting the smile off his face to school his features into hurt. He tilted his head to one side, brows sloped together. “And I know you’re a good girl, but… I’d feel so lonesome sleeping out here on this couch. Can’t you let me corrupt you? Just a little bit?”


Tawny Vokes

[Tawny Vokes]

Tawny knew she was in trouble and fighting a losing battle as she recognized the unabashed desire wash across Noah's features. She'd been trying so hard to keep her own wanting at a warm, ignorable ember, steadfast in her decision not to take advantage of him, but his roving gaze — openly craving — gave it a fierce, indisputable stoke. She swallowed, wondering what thoughts trailed behind his exploring eyes; what his hands and mouth longed to do where his gaze lingered. But he didn't leave her guessing for but a moment — his hands found purchase, brushing a fine trail along her thigh, and then he bent forward to press his mouth to her skin as well. It was a tease, a brief touch of hot breath to leave her cold when he withdrew, but the answering thrill of anticipation that tickled up her spine earned a considering hum from her throat.

Noah pulled back, gazing up at her with a frown, and it was with difficulty that she kept an excited grin from pulling across her face. He dared her to throw the game entirely out the window. Invited her to crawl in his lap and force the despondency from his lips. But she schooled herself, even as her heart hammered its protests. She let her eyes slip closed for only a brief, stretching second; a stuttering flicker of a blink in which she allowed her forced reservations to slip entirely from her. She breathed a soft sigh of defeat, momentarily disappointed at her flimsy resistance — abandoned so easily at the first hint of actual trial — but the feeling was briskly forgotten when she blinked her eyes back open to find his own, blown dark with unconcealed want. She probed their depths, allowing them to twist something raw and pleading within her.

"Those are some high stakes," she answered, forcing her face and voice to exaggerated severity as she curled a hand from where he'd placed it on his shoulder. She watched her own movements with express interest as she brushed her fingers down the side of his neck, thumb sweeping across the base of his throat while she smoothed fingertips exploringly against his collarbone. They, of course, weren't very high stakes, and a part of her wanted to remind him that wagers weren't meant to be desirable. What was the point in playing at all, if she wanted to lose? But as she wet her lips and drew her gaze back to his face, she decided to hold her tongue — a much larger part of her too willing to gamble.

"Lose my composure." She echoed the proposal thoughtfully, head tilting as she traced her fingertips along his jaw and then brushed them across his lips, observing with subtle fascination at the way they parted. "Entirely?" The inquiry was spoken innocently, even as she felt her eyes gleam when she raised them back to his own and quirked a brow. She planted a knee on the cushion beside him and let the hand fall to his chest, pressing her palm there to coax him further back before bringing up her other leg to straddle him. She tipped forward, choosing not to immediately settle back so as to not only give him a moment to adjust, but to enjoy the view of him crowded before her. Head tipped back. Want scripted open and dark across his features. Lips parted and pliable. She bent down with the intention to meet them, the hand still upon his shoulder snaking to the back of his neck to anchor herself. It was almost too enticing. Too easy for her to whisper against him that they didn't need to play the game after all, but she forced a bit of last-second restraint and only pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth, lips quirking as she whispered instead, "Would you hold on to my gift, so I could do that?"

She wondered if he would be able to. He had seemed capable of keeping the memories at bay back in his kitchen weeks ago — had been so proud of it — but he hadn't yet been tested under more distracting circumstances. If Tawny recalled correctly, he had mentioned the borrowed gifts were returned once deemed unpleasant and she briefly imagined the power exchanging hands between breathy pants and uttered obscenities, unable to be held onto for long. Eagerly surrendered between them; images of the past entirely unwanted in favor of the present.

Tawny straightened, settling her weight across Noah's thighs with a small sigh, pretending to look wistful as she brought herself to consider the facts he'd presented her. She dropped both hands to his abdomen, plucking fancifully at the hem of his shirt and stifling the eager urge to see it immediately over his head. She slipped her hands beneath and contented herself by spreading them against the bare skin and hard planes there, fingers immediately finding and tracing the scar she'd glimpsed weeks ago.

"Instagram, lie." She could certainly imagine Noah being popular on the platform, lapping up praise and likes as he posted shirtless selfies. He had a face suited for pouting and smoldering for the camera. She could just see him grinning with smug satisfaction as hordes of interested parties slid into his DMs. But then... Tawny had seen his phone when ordering her Uber and it had been distinctly boring. There remained the possibility it was a work phone, but she decided not to overthink it, moving on to the two remaining facts instead. It would have been a simple thing to take Spanish courses in high school or college like she had; learning another language as much of a selling point for a legal consultant as it was for a therapist. She imagined the words rolling from his tongue, his brow waggling as he purred them suggestively. But then she thought of her gaggle of nieces and nephews and unfortunate bowl cuts owed to misplaced scissors. Wasn't that just an inevitable thing that happened between siblings? It was a difficult pick.

She covered her moment of consideration by taking up the hand still settled on her hip. She brought it up and unfolded his fingers to press her cheek into his palm, eyes shuttering closed as she imagined him slipping the hand through her hair and to the nape of her neck — putting an abrupt end to the game as he pulled her down to rectify the small, teasing press of her mouth against his. "I think you cut your sister's hair and you can't speak Spanish." Tawny turned her head to brush her lips against pulse of his wrist, her lips curling as she regarded him expectantly. "¿Estoy en lo cierto?"

She shifted on his lap with intent, dropping his hand and arching back with her arms stretched slightly behind, hands resting just above his knees. She figured it was best to put them behind her, grounded and out of sight, before they could explore too long and get her into trouble. "I'll try not to make mine too easy — I don't want it to be excruciatingly obvious I'm aiming to lose." She winked, pursing her lips as she thought of her own facts to present. "I slept with one of my college professors, I had a childhood dog named Bodhi, and I've been arrested. Not sexy arrested," she squeezed his leg. "Arrested arrested."

Noah St Cloud

[Noah St Cloud]

Noah had imagined it plenty of times, but no fantasy could compare to the real thing.

He felt hyperaware of every movement; her gentle sigh of defeat, the soft pads of her fingers gliding across his skin, parting his lips, the swipe of her tongue when she wet her own. Adrenaline rocketed his pulse as she gently pushed him back, sinking down to straddle him exactly how he’d envisioned. He could only look up at her and nod, dumbly, as she pressed for clarification on what he wanted to do to her, her gleaming eyes suggesting she desired it just as much. He was too mesmerized to think of anything witty to say, nearly panting by the time she tipped her face closer to his. His eyelids fluttered and – she missed. She pressed a light peck to the corner of his mouth, and when she didn’t try to rectify herself he realised it had been intentional. A frustrated noise escaped from the back of his throat. He gripped her hips tighter, almost whined. Why was she teasing him so much? (When had he become so pathetic?)

The whispered question of whether he would hold onto her gift made him impossibly more heated. Whether she knew it or not she’d combined his favourite things, and that wasn’t all – he always wanted to be the best, always wanted to leave a lasting impact on whoever he escalated his touches with, and now she’d led him to the realisation that he could offer her something that no one else could. The epiphany reverberated down his spine and settled low, thickening the desire already pooling in his abdomen. He bit his lip. Tried and failed to suppress the eager grin these thoughts provoked. He would gladly hold onto her gift. And he would only get better with practice.

Tawny sat back, allowing him to watch her more comfortably as her hands explored what lay beneath his shirt. Her digits ghosted over his scar and he shivered, remembering the white hot slicing of flesh and the peculiar sensation of leaking that followed it. His blood had felt like warm paint spilling over his hands.

Sometimes, it irked him that he’d been marked so permanently by a stranger. Someone nameless. Unimportant. A nobody. It irked him even more that they were still out there, having suffered no consequences for their transgression. Matters like this made him understand hunters, specifically their desire to purposefully hunt someone down with the intention to destroy. He’d considered it a lot, almost made up his mind to do it when he had the time and knew he wouldn't be required by Blackstorm. But the Sector agent in his lap discouraged him, made him more inclined to let it go if only because of the possibility she would see someday. He wouldn’t be able to excuse it. There’d be nothing accidental about whatever he did to them.

Before he brood too much, Tawny pulled his full attention back to her by calling out his more noticeable lie. She lifted his hand to her face and leant into his palm, brushing her lips across the fluttering pulse in his wrist as she guessed which of his facts were true.

“Right you are,” he sighed. Seated as they were, he wasn’t truly upset that she’d won a point. “I can understand Spanish well enough – random words and phrases that might give me the gist of a conversation. But I can speak about… five sentences. One of them is asking where the library is.” He rolled his eyes, edging into a more joking mood again until she shifted on his lap, jolting him back into hunger. He let slip a quiet, jagged groan, fingers digging into her thighs as he tried to press her down, drag her closer. He craved friction and even the retreat of her hands from his body did nothing to cool him off. Now he could pretend she had her hands tied behind her back and that… that wasn’t offensive to his eyes.

She spoke, offering three statements of her own for him to dissect, and he remembered he very much needed to win this game if he didn’t want to wake up cold and alone on her couch. Alas, it was a struggle to pay attention. Her voice offered no clues and his eyes were too busy roaming her body to catch any tells in her expression. However, her claim of being arrested brought a smile to his face. “I find that hard to believe,” he murmured. His hands ran upwards, over her hips and under her top to her waist, as warm and smooth under his touch as he remembered. His darkened stare briefly flickered up to meet hers. “The ‘not sexy’ part. I think you’d look good in cuffs.”

While he couldn’t imagine her doing anything seriously unlawful, it wasn’t completely impossible that she could have done something minor. Maybe a misdemeanour during her time as a student. Drunk and disorderly or indecent exposure, egged on by her peers.

He freed one of his hands. Contentedly watched himself curl a finger under the strap of her top, easing it over her shoulder before he brushed his knuckles down the upper part of her arm. As his hand dropped to her waist again he canted forward with one determined thought: if she wouldn’t offer him her mouth, he’d put his lips elsewhere. He started with the newly exposed skin of her shoulder and paved a light, leisurely trail of soft kisses along to her collar bone, thinking over her other statements as he did so. What was the second one again? Something about a dog? Tawny was more of a cat person so – whatever it had been – he doubted it was true. Even when he’d suggested getting a dog for himself, she’d been pretty quick to recommend a cat instead. And normally people who had a dog during their youth ended up with one of their own when they grew up.

Noah’s hands glided higher to her ribs. His mouth found the base of her throat, kisses steadily losing their chasteness as lips and tongue eagerly set about exploring the delicate column.

He was loathe to think of her with anyone else but... if Noah were one of her professors – God, he absolutely would’ve been fired for the suspicious amount of extra credit on her record. He hummed thoughtfully, his thumbs stroking even further up as he nuzzled into the crook of her neck. “I’m hoping you didn’t sleep with a professor,” he breathed against her. “Only because that’s a game we could play.” He sucked her skin between his teeth, aiming to make it bloom red, then purple. Maybe it was immature to mark her in that way. The kind of thing teenagers did. But the satisfaction of seeing it – seeing his claim, seeing physical proof that this was all real and she'd let him get so close – far outweighed any protests she might make. He’d have to hide any turtlenecks she had. Forbid scarves. Hopefully the postman and any other interested parties would see it and know to fuck off.

Smirking, he continued his path up her neck, along her jaw. He stopped there, pettily denying her mouth a kiss as she had denied him, and pulled back to study her through lidded eyes. “I can’t imagine you having a dog, so… were you arrested?”

After a beat of deliberating what other lies he could tell, he peeled his shirt over his head. It was promptly dropped on the floor, treated with even less regard than his sweater had been. He glanced down at his torso. Toned but marred by the slim, raised line of his scar. He tilted forward again, arms sliding around Tawny’s back to pull her closer.

“I got this fun little scratch because I insulted a guy’s soccer team. He was so pissed that he pulled a knife on me.” He chuckled into her neck, giving it a nip. “Or… maybe I got it from being pushed into a piece of scrap metal in a junk yard. Or maybe it was when a Poison Ivy type tried to impale me with vines.” He drew back once more, enough to show her his smug grin and waggling brow. “What’s your guess, Shortcake? Want another touch of it? Get a feel for the situation?”


Tawny Vokes

[Tawny Vokes]

Noah's fingers dug into her thighs. Ghosted across the bare skin beneath her shirt. Brushed down her arm to be followed by his exploring mouth. Heat paced in her abdomen like a restless cat. Abandoning their attempt to keep themselves grounded and out of trouble, Tawny brought her hands back up to clutch at him, keeping herself steady as he laved at her throat. Very nearly kneading at him as she swallowed the pleased noises she wanted to mewl. She had to force herself to be patient, to enjoy, to curb the desire to turn her head and claim his mouth hungrily; throwing games and teasing out the window and jumping straight to what she needed. She curled her fingers around his arm as he bruised her skin, choosing to stifle the annoyance that urged her to shoulder him warningly. It would be something to scoff at tomorrow in the mirror, to mutter about as she got ready for work on Monday, but for now, she'd let it slide, not wanting to taint the pool of warmth swirling low in her gut. When he paused long enough to choose a truth from the lies, she felt the needy, impatient impulse to shrug and forget the whole game entirely. To wriggle on his lap and watch his lidded gaze go darker instead. But she swallowed the selfishness and forced herself to comply.

"Mmm," Tawny frowned, drumming a finger against Noah's chest. "Unfortunately, that's incorrect." An incidental glimpse into her professor's mind had uncovered his interest in a number of female students. The lingering glances, the fascination, the muted desire that he did well to hide from most. But Tawny had seen. Invented reasons and excuses to keep seeing. Handing her papers in personally. Dropping her folders upon passing him. Orchestrating events that required an innocent touch so she could read him again. It had only been for entertainment. A secret joke only she was in on. Something to think about and analyze when lectures dragged too long. She hadn't intended to act upon them, truly. But one particularly low, lonely day, reeling from her's father death and unable to find comfort anywhere else (so why not a body?), she'd swooped upon him. She'd felt bad afterward, using the man's memories unwittingly against him; weaponizing his private thoughts — that he, too, had no intention to act upon — to fill some flippant need for distraction. He had been kind. Wracked by regret. And she'd dropped his class sometime shortly after.

"I wasn't allowed pets as a child and I've never been in cuffs. Maybe we can play that instead." Her lips curled. "Only if you win, of course."

Noah pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it aside with little care, and Tawny's lips tucked into a blatantly pleased smirk. "I could get a feel of something." She recalled their initial meeting at the lake, when she'd been quick to turn away when he stripped; slightly embarrassed and wanting to allow him his privacy. How quickly things had changed from that moment. And then changed again. And had once more changed. She studied him openly, her gaze roving over the toned planes of his body; fingers following the paths they made in a featherlight trace. His memories tingled like a static charge beneath her touch, slightly lifting the hairs on her arms, but she kept them at bay. She wondered if there were more horrors to be seen if she dipped in. Another inexplicable scene to send her leaping from his lap like she had before. To change everything yet again.

Briefly, she wondered why it didn't scare her more. Why she invited Noah in. Why she tempted him and let him tempt her. As much as they'd said about themselves, despite the questions asked and answers given, she still felt she knew so little about him — which was hardly an issue; she didn't have to know much about someone to take them to bed — but what little she did know should have turned her away. Made him off-limits. Earned him a door in the face. And yet, she'd returned his clothes. Gave him her phone number. Silently hoped he'd reach out to her again.

Her fingers skipped finally upon the raised welt of his scar and she let the distracted ponderings fall away to curiosity. She brushed a thumb along the marred skin, considering the offered circumstances on how he'd obtained it. All options were plausible, but one was more extraordinary than the others and the abnormality of it was decidedly Noah. She snorted. "Poison Ivy, obviously." The scenario fit well amid the stories he'd already told her. Suited that reckless eagerness she'd witnessed in him as he typed the drunken note in his phone and lit up at the discussion of her family's gifts. She lifted her eyes to his face, a look of playful severity filtering across her features. "Blackstorm should look into hazard pay."

Noah tugged her closer and the playfulness darkened as she eyed him, thoroughly mussed but not looking quite obscene enough for her liking. The abrupt desire to remedy this, to see him breathless, shoved all other thoughts and musings from her mind and she lifted a hand to his hair; filtering her fingers through it as she had before. She squeezed him between her thighs and rocked closer; aware of all the places they touched, of the firm press of him against her, and finding it somehow insufficient. "Maybe it's good you're losing though," she breathed slyly, crowding him once more. The hand carding through his hair curled slightly and she gave it a gentle tug; a ginger suggestion to tip his head slightly back. A suggestion that she further emphasized as she lowered her face closer to his, pausing for only a moment to breathe, "I feel my good girl morals slipping back in." She smirked, before pressing her lips against his and letting the expression smother into something more predatory and seeking. She pressed her body harder against him, breathing in through her nose with hungry relief as the movement rekindled the heat in her gut. She parted his lips with a practiced tongue and her brow crinkled at the taste of tequila.

Abruptly, the speaker above her couch cawed out some obnoxious, screaming advertisement for the local auto shop — signaling the end of her playlist and causing her to jolt. She felt a flash of annoyance shadow across her face, a fraction of a moment before she was whisked away completely; the unexpected surprise enough of a blip for her guard to flicker and Noah's memories to tug her into their ceaseless pull.

Club beats reverberated with a muted dullness in the bathroom, dimly lit by a pink, neon glow. Noah stood in front of a mirror, wringing his hands under a faucet as he mouthed lyrics to his reflection. An impressive feather boa was wrapped around his neck and he swayed on his feet, more apparently drunk than she'd witnessed in her living room. Tawny felt an insuppressible stab of alarm at the scene, instinctively paralleling it to the other memory she'd seen of him cleaning his hands in a sink. Reflexively, she skipped quickly forward, to watch as he slinked out of the bathroom on unsteady feet, raising finger-guns at another man pushing past him. The man wasn't quite drunk enough to be amicable but, judging from Noah's laugh as he shot his finger-guns playfully, he was too drunk to notice or care.

The scene darkened, flickered, then went black, and Tawny returned to her living room, wrestling that peculiar feeling of her gift snapping away from her. Her movements were stuttered as she pulled back, blinking at Noah while she put the memory (and that feeling of alarm she'd felt), immediately from mind. Choosing not to acknowledge it. "Well shit," she huffed a breath, flashing him a quick pout as she settled back with her wrists resting lazily upon his shoulders. "I was really hoping to make you work for that." She frowned, her gaze pulling across his face with the beginnings of returned hesitance.

She dropped a hand between them, slipping a couple of fingers into the waistband of his jeans and brushing her thumb across the button of them, contemplating. Willing herself back to bat. The annoying, attention-grabbing advertisement had ended but now the music app played something jaunty and jarring. And whether it was the music, the glimpse of him horribly drunk, the taste of alcohol on her tongue, or perhaps the skip in her heartbeat that'd come with remembering, when she sucked her lip between her teeth and looked up at him, her look was more disappointed and apologetic than eager. "But you're so drunk. And I'm so not." A bit belatedly, she remembered that it had yet to be tested if he could keep her gift under wraps while intoxicated, and she drew her hands to herself, eyes watching for some reaction.

Sighing wistfully, Tawny wriggled back and removed herself from his lap, stepping off the couch and willing herself to composure, even as her legs trembled beneath her. "I suppose I should think of something to wager." She moved to the other section of the couch, kneeling across it to grab at the offending speaker and switch it off. Her eyes widened slightly as her mind pulled to the magazine with upcoming local events and classes laying open on her dinky dining table, buried somewhere beneath the mess of everything else that'd accumulated over the week. The magazine belonged to her neighbor but had ended up in her mailbox — another casualty of the new postman's apparent lack of experience (or perhaps just lack of care). Tawny had perused it with interest rather than immediately leaving it at the proper door. Her eyes narrowed and she glanced at Noah while stepping across the apartment toward the two ferrets who'd worn themselves out and passed out across his shoes.

"Have you ever been proper dancing before? Or perhaps ice skating?" She scooped the ferrets up, preparing to put them back in their cage for the night, and turned back to him. "If you don't want to play another round — I'm sure you're very sleepy — we can call this a draw?" Considering she had a lead over him in their little game, the offer was somewhat generous, but she quirked a brow invitingly. "You can sleep out here or I can call you a cab?" The hint of a grin returned to her face, tugging only one corner of her mouth awry. "I'm willing to share my bed, but only if you promise to keep your hands to yourself until you're sober."

Noah St Cloud

[Noah St Cloud]

Noah did well to ignore the jealousy that prickled through him, choosing instead to focus on the coquettish offer to play with handcuffs, the way it felt when she’d clutched at him, the feathery trace of her fingers as she did some exploring of her own. Tawny was with him. The past didn’t matter. Except it did – because it was a core part of the game he was currently losing. His truths were too obvious, his brain completely scrambled since his fantasies were within reach.

With ease she picked out the story behind his scar (another point in her favour that had him admitting defeat and scrambling to find a loophole – maybe if he couldn’t win a night in her bed, he could still have her on the couch) and she suggested Blackstorm should offer him hazard pay. He matched her look of playful severity as he nodded. “Mm, they should.” He tugged her close and she rocked impossibly nearer, made him ache with want.

She crowded him, his impulse to reunite his mouth with her neck halted by the look in her darkened gaze. He stilled, transfixed by the way she whispered teases and smirked down at him, and his heavy lashes fluttered as she stroked fingers through his hair. Tugged. Heat blazed through him all over again and his hips gave an involuntarily jerk. A quiet groan shuddered out. He almost felt faint with need, with an urge to supplicate. Was he actually sitting there in her apartment, being touched by her like that? Or was it a cruel drunken dream that he’d wake from in the morning, hungover and alone in someplace completely unrelated? It was all too good to be true. Maybe someone had slipped something into his drink, giving him the best hallucination of his life.

Despite the build-up, despite all their lingering gazes, their sly smiles and playful words and the seamless way one touch bled into another, it still surprised him when she leaned down and kissed him. A small voice in the back of his head remained wary that her generosity was a trick – that she feared him and was only playing along because she felt there was no other option. But the mouth that captured his own was warm and soft, eager and greedy as her tongue parted his lips and deepened their kiss into something more fervent. He drowned in it, mirrored her hunger with his own ravenous need. He reached up to cradle her jaw, to sweep his thumb across her cheekbone while his other hand gripped at her thigh. Faintly he tasted the beer she’d been sipping on, unimportant compared to the general flavour of flesh, of her. A low, pleased hum vibrated in his throat. He was half a second away from laying her on the couch, from rewarding her for her boldness and secret-keeping by gliding his fingers under clothes, murmurs of good girl breathed against her lips while he watched her unravel.

But the music stopped. An advertisement blared in its place and Tawny jolted – the only warning he got before he felt that weight again, one he’d felt a fortnight earlier that nestled deep in his brain. And then he was slipping off into memory-land.

He found himself in a lecture hall, seated amongst rows of students. A few stragglers streamed into the room and settled down into empty spaces, unaddressed by the professor while he got his presentation up on screen. There was nothing to stir up questions. A completely unsurprising scene that could have been one of Noah's own recollections.

Amused, he tried to pull out, to hold her memories at bay as he had done multiple times before.

Nothing happened.

He tried again. Frowned inwardly as he was met with the same results. Rather than the usual river that swept him from fragment to fragment, it felt like he’d been dropped in a peat bog. Mud swallowed his legs, too heavy to lift out of. He struggled but it refused to give. Tawny’s eyes drifted between her notes, the slides of the presentation, the professor giving it… That wasn’t the professor, was it? Her gaze didn’t linger as if she were interested but God damnit, God fucking –

Time passed. Her occasional glances at a clock told him how much. The lecturer droned. The lesson covered a subject Noah was already familiar with; an introductory psychology class discussing the different approaches to human understanding. He wasn’t even learning something while being stuck there and he spent every minute wishing he could slam his head into the table. He couldn’t, obviously, because it was Tawny’s eyes he was looking through and he had absolutely no control over her movements (he tried; it didn’t work). Students shifted and sighed. Pens scrabbled. Keyboards clacked. The presentation eventually clicked to a slide titled ‘Lesson Summary’ and the lecturer ran through it quickly, voice raised over the sounds of students prematurely packing up their things. Tawny got up to leave as well and finally – finally – Noah returned to the present.

Tawny remained where he’d left her: seated upon him, mouth pressed against his. The relief that crashed over him – the overwhelming joy of escaping his miserable prison to a reality far more gratifying – didn’t last for long as she almost immediately broke away, blinking. He smiled, quirking a brow in question. Tried very hard to hide the fact he’d just sat through an hour-long lecture. And he was so focused on appearing unbothered that he almost forgot she’d had to see his memories first for him to be able to see hers.

He swallowed. Noted the hesitance that flickered in her eyes. Had it been something bad? Were they doomed to repeat their first meeting? He didn’t think his threats would be so effective in her apartment, not when one scream could be all it took to prompt concerned neighbours to call the police. But when she spoke, her words implied to him she was annoyed with her own accidental use of her gift rather than something he'd done. He grinned. Dropped his hand from her face to her waist. She’d asked if he could hold onto her gift and he had it... that meant they could start, right? Her fingers slipped into his jeans. Yes, yes, come on –

She pulled back. His smile dropped, heart plummeting at the apologetic look on her face, the disappointed edge to her voice as she brought up their difference in inebriation levels.

It was awful. Far, far worse than if he’d broken a woodcarving in half, one of his few good projects that had taken weeks to get perfect. “Tawny,” he sighed, forehead creased and lips downturned. But he didn’t try to stop her as she slid off his lap. His stare zeroed in on her trembling legs. Fuck. He wanted to feel them shake and grip around him, not watch them carry her away. He groaned, letting his head fall back against the couch. It was ridiculous. He’d never wanted anyone so badly in his life and she was telling him no. “I’d like to amend my earlier statement,” he intoned. “My cause of death will be touch deprivation from you.” It certainly felt like it. Several cold showers were needed.

At least her wager ideas sounded like dates, implying she wanted to see him again and would. Both scenarios she offered would give him excuses to press against her and he’d be able to enjoy her company if nothing else. His lips tugged into a half smile, trying to show some enthusiasm even as he eyed her body mournfully, his head still spinning with all the things he could do to her. “I can skate. It’s been a while though.” He’d tried ice hockey when he was fifteen; another team sport he’d been coerced into that didn’t last. “I haven’t been ‘proper’ dancing. Could be fun – as long as you promise I’ll get you as a partner and not some random old swinger.”

He started to shake his head at the suggestion he was sleepy, but he stopped at the offer of a draw. Did that mean he would still get his prize? He licked his lips, still tasting her there. There was no way in Hell he was getting a cab. “I’ll be good, I won’t do anything… risky.” He couldn’t promise he’d completely keep his hands to himself, but he figured he could keep his touches PG if it meant he could sleep beside her. He sat up, angling his body towards her with a serious crease between his brows. “But I have several questions.”

“One – do I have to sleep with these on?” He gestured down at his trousers. “They're not the comfiest, I have boxers and I can put my shirt back on if you prefer.” He paused. Sighed. “However, I would be willing to keep them on if taking them off would make me too tempting. I understand it would difficult for you to keep your hands to yourself.”

“Two – do you have a spare toothbrush or mouthwash?” He really didn’t want to wake up with the taste of tequila still on his tongue.

“Three, probably the most important – does your gift work when you’re asleep?” His own gift did to a certain extent, a defence that automatically stole for a minute or two. But, being asleep, he wouldn’t be able to keep those borrowed gifts for longer. Would his memories slip through into her dreams and vice-versa? “And what if you wake up and we’re touching? ‘Cause, I’m warning you now, I will end up grabbing onto you unless there’s a pillow wall. Do you just get thrown in? Or can you instinctively turn it off?”


Tawny Vokes

[Tawny Vokes]

Wistfulness gnawed at her as she turned back to Noah with a squirming ferret tucked under each arm. She observed his apparent disappointment. The lingering desire flushed high on his cheeks. The remorseful sweep of his gaze over her body. It was a wonder she could even manage the playful shift of her weight to one hip at his mention of dying from touch deprivation; assuming a look of chiding nonchalance. A look that said it was very much all his fault, after all. It was hard to pull off when her own regret panged in her gut. When she wanted to feel more than just his eyes on her. She tipped her head at his questions, pretending to mull them over as she stepped across the room.

"One. I'll permit the pants removal. Another devious ploy of yours, I'm sure, but I'll do my very best not to play into it." Addressing his quip about her battling her own temptations, Tawny felt the devilish urge to eagerly agree — to dolefully take back her offer and condemn him to the couch after all, teasing voice laden with hammed-up sorrow. But even as the desire occurred to her, she knew it was an act she couldn't convincingly sell. Nor was it a joke she'd like him to seize upon — didn't want it to become a game of bluff or chicken to see who ended up breaking first and begging. So she only pursed her lips and eyed him fancifully.

She stepped into the den, out of Noah's line of sight, and slipped the ferrets into the large, custom-made pen tucked into one corner of the room; as big and impressive as could be managed in an apartment her size. On one wall it stretched from corner to sliding glass door and on the other wall it stretched from corner to the bi-fold door that hid her washing machine and dryer. They had been given to her in something much smaller, but then they'd grown and she'd felt bad leaving them in a small pen for most of the day while she was at work. The ferrets slipped from her arms and immediately clambered into their singular hammock, curling their bodies around one another and settling their heads on each other's backs with tiny, toothy yawns. "Goodnight, my stinky boys." She whispered, clasping the pen closed and returning to the living room.

"Two." Tawny cast Noah a quick glance before picking up the beers and her abandoned bowl of Froot Loops. "I don't have a spare toothbrush. But I do have mouthwash." She whisked them to the kitchen and set them on the countertop, to be further dealt with in the morning. "And I do have a pack of replacement heads for my electric toothbrush. You could use one of those, if you wanted?" She stepped back into the living room and approached the muted TV. The credits rolled now in a lazy scroll and she could almost hear the music that accompanied them, having watched the movie dozens of times.

"And three. I guess the answer is... yes?" Tawny felt a prickle to her palm as she lifted a hand to switch the TV off. It flickered to darkness and she studied the vague reflection of herself in the blackened screen, eye slowly drawing to the even vaguer shape of Noah, still seated on the couch behind her. There was a familiar tug of warm enthusiasm at the inquiry, followed by the less-familiar feeling of receptiveness at the line of question. The peculiar pining, to discuss her gift and have it understood, even in the very little ways it shaped her life, was more muted and tempered than it had been during their initial dive in his kitchen, but it still twirled curiously within her. Licked at her slowly and leisurely, like a seeking cat winding around her legs.

She turned and stepped over to the couch, lowering herself to its arm beside him, upper body twisted to angle toward him. Moving just slow enough to allow him the chance to brace against her borrowed gift if needed, she settled a hand on his forearm; touch gentle and forcibly tame, even as her gaze skipped wantingly at the place where clothes met skin. "I can't really keep the door shut while asleep, so the memories do slip in." Gaze downcast, she watched her own movements as she drew her touch to his hand, settling its weight there and tucking her pinky beneath his fingers. "Not in any way I can control or navigate, though."

There was no surfing. No current to them. They just bled into her own, sometimes indiscernibly. Faces and places she didn't recognize mixed in with those she did. Chaotic or outlandish happenings that'd probably make more sense to the other person, the influence to them being theirs. On the majority of nights when she shared her bed with someone, it was a game of patient waiting. She would close her eyes and mark the minutes until the other person's breath finally deepened and their body grew heavy against her. Then she'd ease carefully out from under the arm they'd slung across her and inch from their warmth so she could relax and fall asleep herself.

"Like dreams themselves, they're far less lucid and linear than normal. It's usually impossible to tell what's real and what's just... influenced nonsense." Occasionally, there was a dream so bizarre, so intriguing, or just so emotional and potent, that it prompted a search for clarification upon waking; fingers brushing gingerly against her bedmate's cheek as they still lightly dozed, searching for the why behind what she'd seen. "And most of them are hard to recall in the morning."

Tawny tipped her head, one corner of her mouth tucking thoughtfully as she finally raised her eyes to flit appreciatively across his face. Dark eyes framed by darker lashes, the depths of them unreadable as they matched hers. "Does yours work while you're asleep then? I bet there's a story there, about how you found that out." Had it been something dangerous? Someone trying to hurt him in his sleep? Had he woken up in a sweat, having set his own bedsheets on literal fire? Or was it something more mundane, like him being curled around someone like her, whose gift worked regardless of any real intent? She supposed most likely he'd found it out young; his siblings creating storms — perhaps warming or cooling the room with a twist of their fingers — while he dozed. "Will you be borrowing my power throughout the night?"

Tawny dipped her head, the tuck at the corner of her mouth tugging slightly wider as she quirked a brow. "Don't suppose you're only cuddling with me to get your hands on valuable Sector information?" Tease was apparent in her voice even as the thought pulled something taut in her chest; something aching and weighty that threatened to dampen her playfulness. They'd promised each other they'd keep those secrets between them, she reminded herself, and she didn't think that was what was happening here — yet the possibility still pulled a thread of cold through her.

She swallowed and licked her lips, gaze dropping from his face to the hollow of his throat as she tried dismissing the empty feeling threatening to yawn within her. "If you're worried about it... or if I should be worried." Her brow threatened to knit as she pondered what her dreams could look like with Noah pressed against her. Nightmares, perhaps, colored by dark things he'd done and seen? The motel room had been an accident. Something she'd convinced herself wasn't the norm of Noah's life. But what if she was wrong? Would her gift even have time to shape her dreams before being stolen, or would it be mostly his dreams influenced? His subconscious the canvas of one of her most abstract paintings; her past the chaotic swirl of colors thrown on by haphazard strokes. She tried another smile, forcing her misgivings into hiding with the upturn of her lips. "I can suit up in thermals? Clothe myself head to toe like a mummy?"

It wasn't ideal. Misgivings aside, she still longed for the feel of his touch upon her bare skin, but it wasn't something she hadn't done before with the more squirrely people who'd shared her bed. She shook her head with a tiny chuckle, then thought back to what else he'd asked her. "If I wake up and we're touching, I'll be thrown in." Just as she couldn't keep the door closed while sleeping, she couldn't wake with it shut either. But the memories that came with waking were wildly different than dreams. Felt almost corporeal in a way the most vivid of dreams could not. "But unless I wake up in some sort of chaotic distress, it's easy enough to just step out of it."

Tawny shrugged before pulling herself from her perch with a pat to the top of his hand. "Let's see what we can do about a toothbrush." She spun and stepped toward the bathroom.


Noah St Cloud

[Noah St Cloud]

Watching Tawny walk farther away was one of the most depressing moments of Noah's year (trumped only by the incident in his home when she’d leapt from his lap, and the instance in her home when she’d stopped kissing him and judged him too drunk to use). Still, she authorised the removal of his pants and offered a spare toothbrush head. All things considered the night could have gone a lot worse; he knew how lucky he was to be there, felt almost blessed to be allowed to sleep beside her. “You’re an angel,” he sighed in lieu of thanks, keeping his stare locked on her (except for during her brief disappearance into the den) as she whisked around the room; putting the ferrets away, turning the TV off, cleaning up. An insight into what was probably her usual evening routine. More little details he could stow away. Useless, but wanted all the same.

She came back, lowering herself onto the couch arm instead of onto him. Unfair. The return of her touch on his skin was more than welcome but not enough when the memory of her mouth was so fresh. Her own memories called out to him, thrumming from within her palm with a little less aggression when he was prepared for them. They reminded Noah of the most dangerous type of water; inviting on the surface with terrible, tumbling torrents running beneath. He was half-tempted to say 'fuck it' and let himself sink in, make the most of his borrowing since he wouldn’t be getting anything else from her that night. But there was a chance he would get stuck again, either in a single memory or in a river of many, and he would much rather have her aware when he was doing it, as engaged and excited as she had been in his kitchen.

The confirmation that she saw memories while she slept was unfortunate but not unexpected. Her relation of them to dreams was a little reassuring, giving hope that she might not recall the disturbing scenes she could stumble across in his head, but not enough to quell the uneasy feeling rising within him. She turned the question on him and he nodded. “I will. The story of how I know is pretty predictable, I’m sure you’ve already guessed it but uh, I guess my gift gets sleepy too. It’ll only take yours for a few minutes at a time rather than the usual half hour or so, but it will keep taking yours back again whenever you use it on me.” He presumed her gift would be in his hands for most of the night, unless she shimmied away from him.

He breathed a soft, disbelieving chuckle at her tease, shaking his head. “Trust me, Sector secrets haven’t been on my mind tonight.” Pointedly, his stare lowered to her legs, dragged slowly upwards to linger on the purposeful bruise he’d left on her neck. Was it foolish of him that he hadn’t thought about the reverse? About her using him to uncover Blackstorm secrets? He supposed it was a little easier for him to trust she wouldn’t, since her forays through his mind were implied to be too short to learn anything substantial and her moral compass seemed stronger than his. More than that, he didn’t think she would want to use him in that way anyway and… would he really, truly care if she did?

The question made him pause. Yes, he supposed it would be a betrayal of his trust. Yes, he would definitely mind if she turned him in for her colleagues to question. But… if she only let slip where a hideout or two were, if nothing changed between him and her and the way they interacted, perhaps he’d let it slide. More than anything Blackstorm was something he supported because they found gifted individuals for him – found gifts for him and actively helped him to gain the trust of their holders. Blackstorm made his motives appear more virtuous than selfish. Gave him a reason to talk to gifted beyond ‘I want to use your powers’.

In conclusion: no. He wasn’t worried about her learning Blackstorm secrets. The far more concerning possibility was that she’d see something dubious enough to warn her away from him for good.

Noah didn’t immediately respond to her offer to wrap herself up, deciding to give it the full attention it deserved rather than blurting out his instinctive desires. She pulled herself from her perch and he dipped, picking up his shirt and then his sweater from the floor and the couch respectively, before getting up and dutifully following her to the bathroom.

He leaned in the doorway, folding his arms. “You don’t have to cover up. If one of us has to it should be me. I’m the one who showed up unannounced.” Whether they decided layers were needed or not, the question of who should draw the short straw seemed obvious to him. Tawny was already doing far more to accommodate for him than he’d want to if someone turned up uninvited at his abode. Sleeping in his every-day clothes wouldn’t be ideal, would probably leave him stiff and covered in indents from seams and creases, but with the alcohol running through his veins he wondered if he would notice the discomfort at all. With any luck, he’d pass out as soon as his head hit the pillow. His lips pressed together. “Obviously I’d prefer it if neither of us covered up but I…” He hesitated. His fingers drummed on his upper arm as he struggled to find the right words. “My memories…”

Frowning, he sighed softly through his nose and dropped his gaze to the floor. He wanted nothing more than to wake up with her warm body pressed against him. To have her curled up and completely at ease, sleeping soundly as he drowsily drew invisible patterns on her bare arm, occasionally dipping into her past. It was… a strange thought. Not his usual kind of fantasy; almost sappy. Regardless, that tranquil scene wouldn’t be happening if she spent the night twisting and turning with images of blood and gore flashing through her dreams. He wished he were a smidge more sober so he could express his concerns in a smart way, one that wouldn’t be damning. As it were, he was finding it difficult.

“The motel room was probably the worst of it,” he said slowly, moving into the room. The cannibalism he’d witnessed there wasn’t great either but if she revisited that grisly scene and glimpsed Rotty eating the guy, at least it wasn’t Noah doing it. Thank God he’d only chomped on his sweater.

He reached out to her, tucking her hair behind her ear, and spoke in a softened murmur as if tone would somehow make his warning less troubling. “I can’t promise you won’t have bad dreams of other things. There’s… fights. Against hunters, against random people in bars who take a dislike to me…” I like to hurt people, he might have told her, if he could know without a doubt it wouldn’t scare her off again. He wasn’t sure how to break the news that he enjoyed fights or whether he should inform her at all. Would it be worse for him to tell her plainly, to have it confirmed to her in words? Or for it to be insinuated to her in his memories? She wouldn’t be able to see him smiling as he whipped a knife from his pocket or swung his fist at someone's jaw, but what if he laughed or said something playfully incendiary? What if his opponent commented on his expression? If he did end up telling her he would need to plan it carefully, not clumsily announce it right before getting into bed with her.

He brushed his fingers down her arm, taking her hand to stroke his thumb over her knuckles. “But if your gift keeps switching between us… maybe it won’t be so bad?” Despite it all, there was still a reckless curiosity gnawing within him, feeding on every word she said, hungering to test and experience and push the limits. He held her gaze, wanting to catch every emotion and consideration that could flash across her pretty blue eyes. “We can give it a try, see what happens. It’s your choice though, and I’ll understand whatever you decide. All I can say is – if you decide to go through with it – remember what I said about context, and that I wouldn’t hurt you like I might’ve hurt… others.” He didn’t want to lose her. Not that he had her at all. Perhaps it was some unique form of self-sabotage that he was willing to risk it at all. Or perhaps it was another test, except rather than poking and prodding her gift it was a direct assessment of her. Of how much she could see of him before it became too much and she turned away.


Tawny Vokes

[Tawny Vokes]

Noah followed her to the bathroom and as Tawny flicked the switch to bathe the small, mediocre space with light, she was happy to find it cleaner than usual. The ferrets hadn't strung dirty clothes from the hamper across the floor, upturned the rug to stuff in one corner against the tub, or any of their usual shenanigans. With a tiny, private smile, she lifted her eyes to Noah in the bathroom mirror; watched him settle in the doorway with his arms folded, fingers drumming thoughtfully.

At his insistence that he be the one to keep his clothes on, she felt disappointment thrum in her chest. She'd half-expected him to disregard safety measures and leap headlong into risk, not unlike how they'd both done in his house weeks before. Her lips parted to protest — not only did she have much comfier, long-sleeved clothing that would suit sleeping much better than his, but she didn't want her bed smelling of the clubs and the discordance of varying perfumes and colognes that clung to his sweater and jeans. But she stilled herself as he continued, his lips tucking into a frown as his gaze dropped to the floor. He sighed and the words that followed were hesitant as they once again cautioned her against what she might see.

He moved into the room and Tawny turned, dragging her eyes from his reflection to look up at his face instead while he tucked her hair behind her ear and brushed a hand down her arm, clasping her hand. He hadn't seemed so hesitant before when they'd taken their initial foray into one another's mind in his kitchen. He'd admitted he was worried about what she might see. Had cautioned her to seek context. But severity had been fleeting then; too dressed in their shared excitement and flirtatious levity to dampen anything. This felt different — softer. More sincere. Or perhaps uncertain. As if, somehow, the stakes were higher. Tawny wondered if it came with the drunkenness. If she'd seen the worst of it, and her silence and promises had passed testing thus far, what more could he be worried about?

Tawny leveled her stare, lowering her gaze to his chest and blinking slowly, considering. None of the people she'd shared her bed with knew that their past played behind her eyes as they dozed. She couldn't imagine a single one of them would be accepting of the idea. Everyone had things they didn't want others to see. Things that'd been done to them and things they'd done to others. Tawny hadn't hurt people in the physical way Noah had, but she'd been harsh and cold to people who sought her warmth and affection. Needlessly catty and dismissive to those who'd only tried to know her. There were unsightly things about her as there were with anyone. Perhaps not as alarming (or condemnable) as the things Noah was worried she would pull from his head, but perhaps she could convince herself it wasn't far different. That the bar fights and whatever else were just an unhealthy coping mechanism not too unlike her own.

The fact that Noah was still willing to go through with the whole thing — to be subjected to her invasive touch at all, was an oddity in itself. He hadn't shied away from her in discomfort like she imagined anyone else would. Even after the motel-scene fiasco and the blubbering, tearful display in his living room, he hadn't attempted to forbid her touch. On the contrary, he incited it — stripping his clothes, seeking her skin, pressing himself against her. He knew what her touch was capable of. Understood it and was excited about it. Even if it was only because he could then wield it himself, Tawny still found it a rare and curious thing. Something she'd never expected from anyone.

And now, the last thing she wanted was to dress it in hesitance. She wanted it to be fine. To be able to dip into that stream without fear of reproach. Wanted to glimpse the things he willed her to accept, for him to know that she'd seen, and for it to be okay. To be able to use her gift freely, have it used against her freely, and for there to be further understanding instead of disdain, disgust, or fear. She wondered if it was possible. She wanted it to be possible.

But what if it wasn't? What if those things he cautioned her against, were really that bad?

Tawny lifted her eyes back to his face, meeting the depths of his searching eyes coolly. Before she could entertain his warnings further and truly consider the possibility that there were things she might see that she couldn't reconcile with, she pressed her lips together decidedly. "I want to try it." She said carefully, the words measured, lips pulling at the corners as she squeezed the fingers tucked into her palm.

Despite the decision and her desires, as the words left her lips, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was repeating past mistakes. Returning to something dangerous just because she'd luckily — miraculously — escaped unscathed the first time. She had been so confident before, so cheeky and curious, as she slipped into Noah's memories on his couch, mere seconds before she was leaping from his lap in terror, vision blurring with tears while panic beat its wild wings in her chest. Why should she tempt that again? Because she was once more curious? Because she fancied that it could be different? That the worst was behind them and it would be okay now?

But still, she did want to. Wanted to wake in the morning, blinking sleep from her eyes as she asked him about his dreams. Listen to him muse over the experience of her gift in his head, much like he'd done in his kitchen before things went cold. Wanted to talk about what they'd seen as they ate breakfast, leveling teases at one another over their eggs instead of threats and teary pleas. As if no matter what she might see or what he might see, it wasn't a big deal.

Tawny opened her mouth, prepared to explain further. To perhaps put him at ease, reiterate her commitment to be cool and understanding, or maybe even try and translate her thoughts into words he could understand. But she didn't know what she would be promising or if she could keep those promises — and the whole thing would probably sound as if she were trying to convince herself instead of him — so she let her lips press closed again and simply turned away, slipping her hand from his and opening a drawer to pull out a new toothbrush head. She handed it over and pulled the mouthwash closer to them across the bathroom's countertop. Then she raised her eyes to once more regard him in the bathroom mirror, as if the reflection were safer than looking at him directly once more.

"If it's so bad that I can't sleep, we can reassess. But we won't know if we don't give it a go." She smiled faintly at the mirror then moved out of the way, shimmying behind him to step out of the bathroom, drawing her hand across his shoulder blades as she passed. She stepped out of the bathroom and across the living room to turn out her lamp and string lights, then retreated to the bedroom. There was the distinctive thud of Myrtle's compact body hitting the floor, taking her cue and preparing to follow as she did every night. Unlike Tawny's living room, the bedroom — though smaller — felt much more open. Cleaner, crisper, and without so much clutter. The walls were similarly adorned with artwork and photographs, but placed with more care and not as overwhelming; all matted by white and framed by wood so that they somewhat resembled a theme. The only semblance of clutter was across her headboard, where a number of fake plants and other baubles resided, including some necklaces and bracelets on those nights when she would only think to remove them after crawling in bed and half-passing out.

Her side of the bed (closest to the bedroom window) was unmade, and across the opposite side there were a number of items that spoke to the fact she hadn't planned to share the bed with anyone other than her cat. A pair of books and a Kindle, a sketchbook and some pencils, a selection of cardigans she chose between each morning, headphones, and the phone she'd purposely forgotten about. She clicked it open and dismissed the number of unread messages and notifications she'd been determined to ignore today, before moving all of the items to the nightstand and hanging her cardigans on the hooks of her closet door. She pulled an iPhone charger from the guest-side nightstand and plugged it into the wall, in case Noah desired to charge his phone. Her nieces had iPhones and she was always prepared for when they visited or spent the night (the little social media stars always needed one and never brought their own).

Myrtle leaped onto the bed with a soft mrrow, immediately kneading as she twirled around herself and settled in a tight curl, purring in the loud, raspy way she had. Tawny smirked at her, stroking the cat's head before lifting her and carrying her to the cat bed mounted high in one corner of the room. She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Listen, if you sneak into bed a little later, that's fine. But for now, settle here."


Noah St Cloud

[Noah St Cloud]

It was different from the last time he’d warned her. Back then she’d only nodded, perhaps somewhat bemused by his request, and a minute or so later she’d contentedly laid her head in his lap as if it had slipped from her mind entirely. Noah imagined she’d thought he was embarrassed about something – a drunken mishap, a bad date, maybe even an anti-Sector rant. Hell, he’d implied that was the case, to keep things light and ensure she wouldn’t ruminate on his caution if nothing odd was seen. Now, Tawny knew that was not the case. She appeared to consider the consequences of looking more thoroughly and her gaze, resting on his chest, made him hyperaware of the thumping muscle within it. To distract himself he tried to imagine what ran through her head, what arguments she weighed on each side of the figurative scales.

He couldn’t. All he could think of was the past two weeks, the unexpected torment they had been – the first because he couldn’t contact her, the second because he couldn’t decide how to. The thought of going through that again but in a much more permanent sense, forbidden from seeing her ever, had him wanting to snatch the decision back from her. To encourage her to bundle up in a full-body onesie and insist he sleep on top of the duvet while she tucked herself beneath it.

It didn’t make sense. He knew that on some level he cared what people thought of him; he looked after his appearance, tried to be helpful and disarming, generally paid attention to public perceptions because it made life easier for him and stopped him from getting locked up somewhere. But when he failed to earn one individual’s favour, it was no big deal. They were a grain of sand in the grand scheme of things, indistinguishable from the next. Replaceable. This – whatever this was – was different. Sure, if Tawny stopped liking him there was nothing (except maybe the threat of her Sector connections) to stop him from showing up to her apartment to borrow her gift anyway. To surprise her, force it from her hands, then go on his merry way to use it however he pleased. And yet, he didn’t want their encounters to be like that. There were certainly things he wanted from her besides her gift but, more than that, he wanted her to like him just for the simple pleasure it would give him to know that she did.

She lifted her stare to his, sounding so very careful as she told him she wanted to try. It was difficult to identify how it made him feel – or rather, it was difficult to coalesce his emotions into a single mood. He was relieved she was willing to try. Tense because she was willing to try. Eager to experience it, to dissect it with her afterwards, and undoubtedly excited to be cuddled up with her, yet also wary it could be the only time he got to do so.

He was hopeful, too, that the ratio of normalcy to violence in his life was considerably higher, that she might only see average memories from here on out and her glimpse of the motel scene was a one in a million chance. And he was annoyed, that he’d gotten in so many fights in the first place and – oh shit, he hadn’t even mentioned his interest in medicine. Hadn’t warned about the glimpses of surgeries she might see from when he was wasting time on YouTube and regretting his choice of university degree. Why did all of his hobbies suddenly feel like something only a serial killer would do?

“Okay,” was all Noah could say. An acceptance of her choice, a reassurance to himself that it would be okay. He took the toothbrush head with a soft smile. “Thank you.” Shoving down the uncomfortable horde of feelings, he decided he would hope for the best and assume it would be fine. ‘Manifest it’ or whatever law of attraction theory those crystal-collecting girls and self-help influencers loved to spout. If he didn't think about the worst outcome, it wouldn't happen.

Tawny moved past him, the stroke of her hand across his shoulder blades fleetingly reigniting that low heat as he imagined her digging her nails in instead. But then she was gone. Leaving him to sigh wistfully and prepare for bed.

He stripped down to his boxers, folded his clothes neatly and placed them to one side of the countertop after rescuing his phone from his trousers. The knife… He could leave it in there, right? She wouldn’t have any reason to look through his pockets – he didn’t need to hide it in a large bottle of shampoo or anything. His eyes were momentarily drawn to her hamper, skeevy, alcohol-fuelled suggestions swimming into his head that he dismissed by physically turning himself away. Nah. He’d leave his clothes where they were, no need to get them lost within her belongings when he’d only be pulling them back on in the morning. She probably didn’t want them in her bedroom (making it smell like booze) either.

With the items and utilities provided he freshened up as quickly as he could. He was half-tempted to call Tawny back, request a shower that he’d then try to lure her into but, alas, the condition for sleeping in her bed was clear. He wasn’t going to risk such a blatant break of her rules when she could easily roll her eyes and banish him to the couch.

With nothing left to do he exited the bathroom, stifling a yawn behind his hand as he crossed to her bedroom. The taste of toothpaste was already nudging his brain into shutdown mode and he willed it to stay awake for a little longer; he needed to appreciate the space he’d been dying to see since he’d arrived. “Done,” he announced with a drowsy grin, dragging his gaze to her surroundings before it could linger on her form for too long and get him distracted.

Her room was much tidier than when he’d seen it in her memories, watching the whole day stretch by as she spent it in her bed, staring at nothing, ignoring calls. There was still plenty for him to look at – books and plants and jewellery pieces – but it was all dotted about in a cosy, organised way that made him think that his bedroom, by comparison, would probably be called empty and unlived in. Cold.

More paintings decorated the area and he wondered if they were her favourites, picked for 'the room of honour' where she would see them every morning, or whether they were simply there because they suited the space’s vibe and colour scheme. Neatly framed photos adorned the walls too, with some faces appearing more than others, and a cat bed was mounted high in one corner with Myrtle already perched upon it, silently surveying. To him, she looked a little perplexed and mildly inconvenienced, as if she wanted to say ‘what the hell are you doing in here?’

He spied Tawny’s phone on a nightstand and tried to hide the way he suspected his eyes lit up. As soon as he had a moment alone he would take some photos, document the occasion and leave some dumb selfies for her to scoff at. Though, sadly, he assumed he wouldn’t be able to snoop through her messages afterwards; unless she’d used a pet’s name as the password or was a rare person who didn’t bother with passcodes at all, he wasn’t confident he’d be able to unlock it, and wasn’t willing to make things awkward by guessing it incorrectly enough times to get her locked out.

And finally there was the bed. He flopped down onto it (as lightly as his drunken body could allow, wary that the frame was flimsier than it looked) and buried his face in a pillow. He would gladly have slept facedown like that if not for the cuddling partner on offer; it was comfortable, leagues more appealing than the couch. And everything smelled like her. Was soft like her. In the unlikely event he was sentenced to death by suffocation, he’d request for Tawny’s pillows to be used.

He rolled onto his back and propped himself up on his elbows, prepared to blithely announce this fact, only to pause at the sight of her, once again struck by where he was. Who he was with. Wow. Perfect time for a cheesy line. “I like your bed, but I’d like it so much more if you were in it with me.” He tried for the come-hither look he’d attempted earlier that night. The results felt much the same; too happy to be seductive. Damnit.

“Hang on –” Eyes narrowed in determination, he shifted over to her until he was sitting on the edge. There was a small voice in the back of his head, warning him not to push his luck, to stop and wait and be content with what he’d already been given, but inebriation and selfishness both drove him to briefly tip himself upwards, hook his arms around her waist, and draw her to stand between his legs as he plopped back down again. She’d been into that position before, hadn’t she? Looking down at him...

Pleased with himself, he at least summoned enough self-control to keep his hands from wandering. “Can I have one more?” he murmured, gazing up at her with lidded eyes. “Just one more kiss, and when you get back I’ll be settled in bed. Best behaviour. Promise.”


Tawny Vokes

[Tawny Vokes]

Noah announced his entrance and Tawny turned to watch as he made a quick study of her room, for a moment a little jealous that she hadn't gotten a peek of his own when she'd been in his house. It was probably very spacious and neat; dark and cozy like the rest of his place and he himself. He plopped himself on her bed, making it look a bit small. For a second he remained still, then rolled over and propped himself on his elbows, shooting her a look and a cheesy line. She stifled an amused snort, desiring for the umpteenth time in the very few hours they'd known one another to assault him with a pillow — all while simultaneously trying to be less conscious of his near-nakedness than she undoubtedly was.

He moved to sit on the edge of the bed and reached for her. She quirked a brow as he pulled her between his legs, trying to appear slyly chiding even as a smile tugged her lips askew. She considered echoing her earlier sentiments about devious ploys and being good, but the words and warnings felt too exhausted already, so she only settled her wrists complacently upon his shoulders, brow smoothing as she gazed down into his lidded stare with a soft, contemplative hum.

His dark eyes, less bleary than they'd been when she'd first pulled him inside her apartment, perhaps tempered by his determination despite his drowsiness, were still imploring, and it was an easy thing to imagine settling on his lap once more. This time though, without the couch to keep him upright, he'd be so easily toppled. She would push him back, following his descent to hover over him, his hands skipping up her sides. He was more vulnerable now, helpfully stripped to his boxers. Perhaps she'd make a slow, tortuous show of bringing herself to a similar state; taking her time and lording the unfairness over him while she teased. She blinked forlornly, her gaze dropping from his eyes to his mouth as she curbed her trailing thoughts. She'd willed the desire back to embers and stoking them once more would only lead to more disappointment. Her resolve was too stated now to rescind. 

She considered saying no. To let a cheeky smile sneak across her face as she playfully denied him and whisked herself from his grasp. Without the thrum of rising temperatures and the absence of adrenaline being thrashed through her veins by a hammering heart, a kiss would almost seem too... soft. Too aimless and trivial when not a means to barrel them toward gratification. If she thought about it too long, it would unsettle her. Make her wonder and worry. Prickle a slight sweat to her palms. But as her eyes flitted across his face, she tucked the unsettling wariness away and simply dipped her head.

She bent slowly, tucking her face close to his and lingering for a moment. Felt the brush of his nose against her and the anticipating brace of his mouth. When she pressed her lips to his, it wasn't quite chaste, but neither was it smothered with the desperate seeking it had been before. She parted his lips with her own but kept her tongue dutifully diffident, only taking a soft breath instead before pressing against him again. Within her chest, an instinctive, familiar urge fluttered, nearly mimicking panic — imploring her to deepen the kiss into something hungry and hard. To make it hot instead of tepid. Her hands were too idle, more accustomed to untucking shirts, unbuckling belts, or pulling her own clothes over her head between breaks for airy pants; not as comfortable with the lazy, uninvolved resignation upon his shoulders.

When she pulled back, she pulled back completely — hands slipping from his shoulders, down his arms, and to his hands; giving his fingers a faint squeeze as she withdrew from their grasp, the corners of her lips curling. "Are we contented with that? No, I suspect not. But I won't be swayed this time."

She flipped on the lamp on her bedside table and moved toward the door, flicking off the bedroom light as she went, leaving the room cast in a warmer, duller glow. Retreating to the bathroom, she brushed her own teeth while studiously watching herself in the mirror, trying to dissect the thoughts behind the eyes trained upon her own in its reflection. Decidedly, she kept them from straying too far from the routine nighttime motions. Didn't dare wonder what the hell she was doing and why. All the reasons she had to be uncomfortable with the situation and why she wasn't. She tied up her hair, replaced the water in the cat's water fountain on the bathroom countertop, switched off the light, and returned to the bedroom.

Stepping to her side of the bed, she tucked her legs beneath the duvet and sat with her pillow behind her back. High in the corner, Myrtle — seeming to understand — had settled with her paws tucked beneath her, a raspy purr low in her throat and her eyes half-lidded. Her tail-tip twitched to and fro to express her indignation toward her displacement, ears angled slightly back. Tawny cast the feline a gracious, tight-lipped smile, suspecting she'd wake in the morning with the cat curled against the groove of her belly or, less likely but not impossible, wake in the middle of the night to her trying to force herself between them, seeking the warmest place to be.

She was aware of Noah's weight settled beside her and — with nothing else to excuse her attention — finally drew her gaze to him. She shimmied down beneath the duvet, turning her body toward him as she settled her head on her pillow. Once more her eye swept in an appreciative raze across the arrangement of features within the frame of his face; lingering in the places she'd traced with her fingertips, brushed with her nose, and where she'd pursed her lips. She lifted the edge of the blanket to conceal half her face and blinked at him curiously.

"So a Sector Agent and a Blackstorm radical are lying in bed together. This feels like the set-up to some terribly-funny, perhaps even cautionary, joke."


Noah St Cloud

[Noah St Cloud]

Tawny lowered her face to his, tantalisingly slow. She hovered, close but not close enough, and for a moment Noah could do nothing but breathe her in, feeling her own breaths caress his parted lips.

She finally closed the distance, pressing her soft mouth and body against his. It wasn’t what he was used to – there was no bruising demand or fervent pleading, no gripping of flesh or ripping of clothes – and something inside him protested that it was not enough, not enough, especially when the plan had been to restoke her fire, make her revoke her decision to put boundaries in place and treat him… well, like a person. One who could feel taken advantage of. But there was another part of him, something quieter and buried impossibly deep, that shuddered in satisfaction against the leisurely entwinement. A part that liked the softness more than he would have anticipated or admitted.

His grip tightened infinitesimally, aching to flip her onto the bed and perhaps even keep the unfamiliar languorous pace as he simply kissed her and nothing more, yet she pulled from his grasp with a smile and a few teasing words, absolutely correct; he wasn’t completely contented. If anything, he’d made the entire situation worse. But he willed himself to stay seated as she walked away, smugly smiling back at her as if everything had gone to plan and he were the one denying her.

With Tawny in the bathroom, Noah had no choice but to lunge across her bed and grab her phone, swiping open the camera to take those ridiculous selfies he’d promised. He took one with his cheesiest grin and a peace sign, another where he winked, mouth open with a finger upon his pouting bottom lip in an exaggerated display of coquetry. The third, he bit his lip, squinting with his brow raised while his hand stroked his chin. He glanced around the room, looking for props. Myrtle met his stare. She seemed to be tolerating him well enough, maybe he could take one that was actually endearing.

He crept towards her, on the alert for any signs of hostility. When there were none he turned his back and lifted the phone to capture a picture of them together, giving a more natural smile. Hm. It was fine, but he could do better. He edged closer, intending to take another. On the phone screen he saw Myrtle flatten her ears. Raise a paw –

He swore, and the final picture he took was a blurred action shot of him wide-eyed and flinching away from a visibly annoyed feline. Being tipsy and more accustomed to iPhones, he couldn’t figure out how to delete it and had to return the phone to where he’d found it with a resigned sigh.

Tawny came back to the bedroom with her hair tied up, allowing Noah’s stare to scour her neck until he remembered his vow to be on his best behaviour. He’d settled in her bed as promised, laying beneath the duvet, each blink feeling heavier than the last. She slipped in beside him and he shifted onto his side so he could look at her, half of her face hidden beneath the blanket as she pointed out the humour of their situation.

He chuckled. When he spoke, his teasing murmur was far drowsier than it had been before. “‘Radical?’ I’ll have you know that my votes have always been cast for the tamer plans, thank you very much.” All those meetings in that corner store backroom, sat at a table for hours and hours listening to one side push for outright war and the other side urge for carefully phased integration. It was a shame. At the end of the day they all wanted the same thing, but the approach was monumentally important and they differed too much on the issue to get anything done most of the time. It was almost like being in his childhood home again; one half of the kids wanting to play Bulldog, the other half wanting Monopoly. Storms would blow either way and more often than not he’d only be a spectator, waiting to swoop in and take what he wanted from it all.

Beneath the covers his hand wandered up to rest on Tawny’s neck and, though he couldn’t see it, he imagined his thumb was ghosting over the mark he’d left. The imagining made him feel good. “But I suppose the Sector wouldn’t be pleased about any of my projects – least of all my current mission to seduce an agent of theirs. I’m sure they’d make it all about them, never mind that I’d still be here if you’d never even heard of them before.”

Her memories pulled under his touch, distracting him before he could be tempted to rant. Would it be possible to fall asleep with them tugging at him? Perhaps he'd have to let her fall asleep first, give the gift back and pull away for a while before he could join her in dreamland. Something within him bridled at the thought despite sensing an inevitability to it. He wanted to fall asleep while pressed against her, feeling her warmth. It wasn’t fair. His hand dipped back down and he draped his arm over her waist, shifting nearer in stubborn rebellion.

Belatedly, he wondered if her comment wasn’t simply a tease. Wondered if there were some lingering worries she held about their irreconcilable groups. He shrugged, trying to keep it casual. “It’ll be fine. What they don’t know won’t hurt them, and I’m far too selfish to share you or your memories with anyone.” Sure, he’d decided to show her off to anyone who would listen if she ever did decide to deflect, but that was with the expectation she would still be his and anything Blackstorm wanted her to do would be brought to his attention as well. He wouldn’t start talking about her to random people – and certainly not anyone he suspected of working for the Sector. No one would hear their secret from his lips. “If someone were to somehow find out, I don’t think anyone on my side would know about your gift and no one on your side would know about mine, so it wouldn’t be a huge deal. No one would be ringing alarms about major security breaches.” He imagined there would be raised brows, disgruntled or scolding looks (and in his case, maybe a few high fives), but what could their respective organisations do about it, really?

Sure, if word got out in the Sector Tawny would probably be pestered to pull secrets from his head, but that could be stopped as easily as claiming he was immune to her gift. Meanwhile, he doubted such news would unsettle his role in Blackstorm. Being one of their main active recruiters who’d spared an abundance of time, money, and investigation skills (a.k.a. willingness to break into people’s homes and cover up 'mishaps') to the cause, he highly doubted anyone would suspect him of spying for the Sector. He could tell them Tawny wasn’t involved in anything useful enough to exploit. And if an individual tried blackmailing or doing anything that threatened Tawny’s livelihood, he would find a way to take care of it. She wouldn’t have to worry.

Noah took a last, lingering look at her, gaze sweeping over her features, pausing on her lips, wondering if he should kiss her forehead or do something similarly fluffy and sentimental that was way out of his usual parameters. Damn. Tawny was right; he really was drunk. He closed his eyes. “Thank you for letting me stay,” he mumbled. “I don’t think an Uber driver would’ve been very impressed with me if I’d passed out in their car.”


Tawny Vokes

[Tawny Vokes]

Tawny could have chuckled — or huffed a soft, incredulous snort — when Noah teasingly assured her that he wasn't the radical that she assumed he was. Even cozied up in bed beside her, his voice soft and quiet, she couldn't associate him with tameness. But his words were drowsy, drawled from his lips in that lilting, languorous way that preceded sleep and, when his hand came to rest on her neck, she let her eyes slip slowly closed and only answered with an amused breath. Perhaps it wasn't entirely impossible.

He continued, admitting that the Sector wouldn't be pleased and they'd make it all about them if they found out. Her mouth tugged at one corner into a pointedly sardonic half-smile and she shrugged a shoulder in simple acquiescence. He was right. Her dalliances with a Blackstorm agent would brook an initial reprimand. A fierce admonishment. But she'd never truly feared getting in trouble with anyone — never tiptoed around supervisors or curbed her tongue to vie for position or favor. It wasn't so much hubris at the fact they needed her — and weren't likely to fire her because they didn't like her — but a simple desire to be valued as more nuanced than a simple tool to their disposal. To be seen as more than what her Gift could offer them. And to remind them she was, in fact, a whole ass person that had to burden the heavy repercussions and emotional toll that came with their (sometimes horrific) assignments.

No, she wasn't afraid of getting in trouble. She'd been chewed out before and she hadn't made the Sector her whole life like some of her coworkers. But she suspected the scolding and reproach would be remarkably brief — just long enough for the big-wigs to realize they could utilize her connection with a Blackstorm agent. With her Gift, she really was the perfect person for it. They'd use her as a shoehorn into the organization's inner workings. Figure out exactly how they operated and what they planned. Then use those findings to orchestrate how best to disrupt them. She could just see it now — they'd make it such a huge, dramatic thing. Any reluctance on her part would be forcibly whittled down to whether or not she took the Sector's missions (and by extension, Gifted-kind's best interest) to heart. Obviously, it would have to be avoided.

Noah continued his assurances — even if they found out, neither party would know of the other's Gift. Tawny inhaled deeply, consciously keeping a doubtful crease from her brow. She supposed that was mostly true. But there were plenty of people out there like her — people who, if given reason to, could sniff out lies (even those presented in simple omissions). Gifted individuals that you just couldn't hide the truth from if the truth was what they sought. It was probably a bit overcautious to think of them immediately... but it also wasn't warranted to think that simply being close-lipped was infallible.

But she was getting ahead of herself. She could feel her thoughts beginning to pace restlessly, stirring noisily — demandingly — in her head, and she silenced them with a considering hum. Forcibly soothing the budding doubts within her, she reminded herself, cooly, that this didn't have to be something to hide, because it wasn't anything. Didn't have to be anything. Wouldn't be anything.

She blinked her eyes back open to find Noah's closed and allowed her gaze to flit unabashedly across his features, made soft and serene as he tipped deeper into that downward spiral into sleep. Safe from his observation, her eye was free to linger appreciatively in all the places it naturally drew. She tried to recall the desperation with which she'd searched them before, weeks earlier when she'd been afraid of him — it was hard to imagine. And then only earlier this evening, when she'd tipped his face closer to hers, wanting to languish in the sultry want swimming in his eyes and the obscene hunger accentuated by his parted lips. That was far easier to recall but still felt somehow misplaced as she gazed upon him now.

Her doubts reared their heads again with an icy, uncertain prickling of coolness in her chest and she clamped them down.

In a drowsy mumble, Noah uttered his thanks, and Tawny's lips pulled slightly tighter across her face, thankful herself for something else to focus on. She lifted a hand to curl her fingers loosely around his wrist and stroked a thumb lightly across his skin, absently wondering if he was still awake enough to resist the pull of her memories. With sleep, their tug and demands became kinder. Still there, but less forceful. They'd lull him into their depths (more calm than choppy). Let him float along the waters instead of forcing him to flail. It wasn't as jarring and sometimes, only sometimes, she was able to let them guide her into sleep.

"Please, it's nothing," she blinked at the chuckled words, wondering if she herself believed them. It'd have been easier, more characteristic of her in some ways, to take advantage of him and then send him on his way in the back of a cab. How they'd gotten here, sleepy and unsatiated in her bed, was really a marvel. An even larger marvel that she'd desired this outcome the moment he'd stumbled through her doorway. But, it really was the least she could do — he'd saved her life. Embraced her gift. Let her in his head. Taken a dive into her own. Then he let her go after she'd discovered what he'd done. And even though he could hardly anticipate what she would do, he'd chosen not to jeopardize her family and friends in consequence. Really, her hospitality paled in comparison to his own. "I owed you one, after all." Her lip curled. "And if the Uber community talks, you've already got the one strike that I know of. I don't want you to be on too thin of ice."

The attempt at humor was weak and, to cover her lapse of certainty, Tawny rolled over and reached out to click off her bedside lamp, leaving them in a darkness only mitigated by the soft glow of both streetlights and moonlight through her window, persisting through the translucent curtains. She rolled back over to angle toward him again, settling a little more comfortably and wiggling down until her head was level with his chest. It was almost unfair — with the absence of her Gift, she might have thrown an arm over him and fallen asleep tucked against him. The thought nearly prompted her to reconsider that, actually yes, perhaps he should sleep with a shirt on. But as it was, she reluctantly resisted, only arranging his arm back over her waist and carefully placing it so it didn't lay against the break between her shirt and shorts. Left the distance there for him to widen or shorten as her borrowed Gift allowed.

"I usually do cuddle." She confided, blinking at the vague shape of him next to her, imagining how she might have drawn her fingers fancifully across his chest as she spoke, had they been different people. "Sometimes I can fall asleep like that but, most of the time, I just kinda scooch away once the other person's out. No hurt feelings if you need space. And for the record, I do own a onesie... if it's just that unmanageable." After a moment, she let her eyes close. "Goodnight, Noah."


Noah St Cloud