#this is like something you’d see at a contemporary hotel and stare at it while you’re waiting for something

[missattau]

hi roller

[stylesberries]

Stay With Me

Summary: You meet Harry on his trip to Italy in an art gallery. You fell in love to the art and architecture of Rome.

Genre(s): fluff

Word Count: 3.4k

Warning(s): none. (Except the unbounded sweetness.)

“Why is it so hot?” You whined to yourself, walking along the pavement, trying to make your way around the wide trunks of old stone pines.

You unscrewed the cap of a water bottle off and took a sip. The ice-cold water you bought from a food stall by the Trevi Fountain was already a little too warm for your liking. Trying not to mind it too much you emptied the bottle at one gulp.

“Did the food stall keeper tell me to turn right here or go straight ahead?”

You tried to playback on the conversation you had a little over fifteen minutes ago, but you couldn’t get yourself to focus. It was so hot.

You walked through the narrow side streets of Rome. Little souvenirs shops surrounded you from both sides as you made your way along the lane without turning, trying your luck.

When you reached a wider street that opened to your view as you left the tight space, you could breathe the fresh car exhausts again. There it is.

Barberini Palace.

Home to the National Gallery of Ancient Art - the main reason why you were so determined to find this place.

With newfound determination, you moved along the pavement to walk up to the fenced area that belonged to the Palace. You prayed that it was open today. You checked online, but you still felt a rush of worry fill you when you saw the door closed and not wide-open like it usually was in museums like this. The reason for it being that there were so many tourists at all time walking in and out of these historical places that there was no reason and no point to keep closing and opening the door.

You closed your eyes as you reached for the door handle and pushed it. It is hard to describe the sense of pleasant surprise you felt when the door obeyed the force applied by you.

As the heavy door lets you inside of the little room where the tickets were sold, you let your eyes scan over the interior. The ceilings were tall and a beautiful fresco of heavenly bodies and angels was spread across them.

After you got tickets you walked further into the spacious room and walked up the creme marble stairs that the lady at the door told you to follow.

As you made your way up the stairs, in the corners of which stood tall marble sculptured of Roman men and women, you felt eyes on you.

Eyes of all of the heavenly bodies that dwelt at the surface of the frescoes and those who stood in cold marble prisons and watched you walk by so freely.

“What a beautiful place!” You talked to yourself once again.

You came to Rome alone. A getaway trip - as you like to refer to it. You needed to spend more time with yourself and yourself only. Just you and the ancient art of Rome. At least just for now.

You made your way through the gallery, analyzing every painting a bit too long for most people.

That’s why you came alone. You could now stand by every piece of art for an indefinite amount of time. You could stand by this painting for the whole day until the guards kick you out. Nobody was here with you to keep pulling you to the next painting. You could finally find peace and relaxation.

You slowly made your way to the biggest frame you’d seen so far. There was a place to sit in front of it, so you sat down, as the painting was full of the smallest details, and you were determined to only leave when you take note of every one of them you could see.

You sat there for fifteen minutes and didn’t notice as time went by. You were so focused on the see of little creatures that hid behind tall oak trees, children that ran around the flower field chasing baby ducks and a group of women that bathed in light fabric and wallowed in the warm rays of the sun.

“It’s beautiful,” you muttered under your breath and situated your elbow on your knee, letting it hold your chin.

“It really is.”

A voice took you by surprise and made you tear yourself from the picture.

You turned your head, which was still situated on your hand, towards the sound. There stood a young man in wide-leg white pants, a T-shirt, and a think blue cardigan on top of it. A beige cap covered his hair, but you could still see some curls on the sides of his head.

He didn’t exactly look dangerous, but the voice in your head kept screaming “CREEPY GUY AHEAD OF YOU! RUN BEFORE HE MAKES A MOVE!” Growing up a woman taught you too many lessons.

“Oh! I’m so sorry. You probably want to sit down. I’ve been sitting here for so long!” You abruptly got up from your place and grabbed the bag that you threw to your side on the seat.

“SHOOT HIM A SMILE AND GET OUT!”

You smiled at him and went to turn around, but he talked back to you.

“No, no. You shouldn’t have gotten up. I could tell y’wanted to take some time. I understand. The painting is full of detail. Please don’t go. I didn’t mean to disturb you, I’ve just never seen anyone sit in front of a painting for so long.” The guy smiled at you with his cheeks starting to turn rosy.

The second you heard him seemingly judge you for staring at the picture for too long, you turned back with a frown on your face ready to clap back before he continued.

“You looked very passionate and I would love it if we could sit and discuss it maybe? I know it sounds weird coming from a stranger-” He paused.

“You bet, crazy man.” You thought to yourself and giggled softly, realizing that the possibility that this ball of nerves is a human trafficker is close to zero.

“You just seemed nice.” He finished, paying no mind to your giggling.

“He isn’t trying to come to close. Hasn’t called me anything weird yet. Looks like he reads a ton of Joan Didion. Why not?” The voice inside of your head was now protecting this stranger from you, which happened very rarely.

“We could.” You finally answer him, after making him stare at you expectingly.

It didn’t take you a while to figure out who he was. When you sat next to him to talk to him and finally looked at him properly, without trying to run away, the realization came upon you. You were a fan and you loved his music, but you could tell he didn’t want the conversation to be about him, so you talked about one of your favorite things in the world - art.

You talked about the painting in front of you and after you had already discussed every little detail you noticed, you moved to the frescoes on the ceiling. Harry seemed surprised at your knowledge of art and kept getting more and more into the conversation with every new word that left your mouth. After talking about frescoes Harry asked you about the purpose of your trip. You told him everything as it was. Still, to this day you were surprised about the honesty that you showed a man that you had never met before that.

Later, when you were both making your way down the marble stairs, Harry asked you if you’d like to have lunch with him the next day, to which you agreed to, knowing that you have nothing better to do and you were quite enjoying his company.

In the following weeks, you exchanged numbers and texted whenever you weren’t able to meet. Harry would send you pictures of art and architecture of places he visited for his new Gucci campaign. You would reply to him with pictures of an antique fountain outside the Contemporary Art Museum you went to.

Harry seemed surprisingly normal for a man who starts a conversation with strangers in art museums. He would invite you over to his hotel to go get some gelato together and talk about the highlights of your trip. It became an everyday thing for you to walk around in parks by the palaces or get lost in the labyrinths of tightly packed buildings in the city center.

You spent two weeks of your life with a complete stranger that by the end of the trip seemed closer to you than any friend you had before. Harry would listen to your rants and venting without making you feel bad for sharing certain things with him. He would talk to you about any exciting thing that happens to him throughout the day with an adorable look on his face. You didn’t know what caused the gleam in his eyes, but you were glad he was enjoying his time in Italy just as much as you did.

Harry had never enjoyed a trip to work this much before. He was full of excitement and positive energy. He would wake up every day thinking about you and places he could take you to. It was a little strange to be so vigorous, even for him. Skipping breakfast, in order to have ice-cream with you was something he had never done before for anyone.

What Harry didn’t know that the quivering and light trembling he felt every time he thought of you was none other than aborning love - the kind that gives life a meaning.

Harry knew that you didn’t live in Rome and you would have to go back home after your trip is over. However, the heart-sinking that Harry felt when you told him that your flight was in two days was indescribable. Was this really the end?

He was being a little bit dramatic, as you did exchange numbers, so you would be in touch, but it still wasn’t enough for him. The reason behind it was still a mystery to him.

When Harry invited you for dinner a day before you had to leave back home, you couldn’t hold back a genuine smile that made his heart flutter.

Here you were now - getting ready to go out to dinner with Mr. Harry Styled himself.

After applying a green graphic liner all over your eyelids, putting on a little bit of blush and a lipgloss, you stepped into your rufous-brown flares. You tugged a plain white T-shirt into them and put on a blue linen blazer. You walked out of your hotel room in brown loafers, grabbing the key and your bag on the way out.

You took a taxi to get to the restaurant where Harry was waiting for you. On the way to the restaurant, the butterflies in your stomach made themselves felt, surprising you.

“It’s just Harry. Why am I so anxious?”

When you paid the driver and walked out of the taxi, you could see a beautiful building in front of you. Its exterior reminded you of the Venice style of architecture. Dark olive tree leaves flooded the street, after being torn from the comfort of their branches by the cool wind.

You made your way to the entrance, where the doorman let you in and greeted you. The hostess came up to you and asked you about your reservation.

“Mr. Styles. I think he should already be here.” You answer her.

When she heard the name she turned to the doorman and asked him to escort you to your table. The doorman then leads you deeper into the restaurant, where the private booths are situated and pulls on a curtain of one of them to let you in.

You are greeted by a dreamy view.

Harry sat at the table in a creme colored suit and a white tank top. The candles in front of him illuminated the booth and their light reflected from him collar bones, so you could see the wings of his sparrows tattoo.

“Hi, Y/N! You look beautiful.” He softly smiled at you and you could see a light shade of pink appear on the apples of his cheeks.

“Hi, Harry. You look beautiful as well.” You smiled back at him and sat down opposite to him.

You could see his eyes scan your outfit and makeup.

“Does he think it’s too much?” Immediately, blood rushed to your cheeks as you blushed in embarrassment. “Here am I scaring people off being extra again. Great.”

Before you could let your mind sneer at you further, Harry spoke up.

“I love your makeup. I’ve never seen someone do their makeup like this. I guess it’s out of most people’s comfort zones. Looks beautiful on you. I-I mean everything does.” Harry’s voice died down by the end of the sentence, but you didn’t pay it any mind.

“Thank you so much. I try to experiment with clothes and makeup as much as possible. Makeup especially. I like using my face as a canvas. It takes time to get proper supplies to paint, but makeup is always around so I try not to lose any opportunities to have fun with it.”

While you skimmed through the menus, you discussed how you applied the wings so evenly and promised him to do his makeup one day. After choosing the main courses, Harry started telling you about the Gucci photoshoot that was now wrapping up.

“We’re almost done, so I think by the end of next week I’ll be going back home.” He started.

“That sounds wonderful, Harry. Do you think that you could send me more pictures when I leave? I’ll be far away from this beauty and I wouldn’t want it to leave my sight.”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” Harry muttered to himself.

“Hm?” You asked.

“No, no, nothing. I said I’ll make sure to send you as many pictures as I can.” He tried to brush it off, looking at you intently.

“Weird,” you thought but didn’t worry about it too much.

Throughout the dinner, you and Harry discussed so many different topics that you lost count by the end of it. Harry kept making jokes just to make you laugh over and over again, loving how the corners of your eyes creased when you laughed and how you had to wipe the tears his jokes caused to see clearly.

By the end of the dinner, the laughter died down and Harry’s mood became the opposite of what it was when you entered the booth.

“Hey, is something wrong? You seem upset.” You carefully started.

“No, everything is alright, love, don’t worry.” He quickly answered.

Love. That sounded so nice.

You chose not to bother him further and chose to tell him pleasant stories instead, but he wouldn’t let this weird melancholy go. Even the sweetness of dessert didn’t make it better.

“My mom used to tell me that if even a dessert doesn’t make your problems go away, you’re in deep shit.” You tried to lighten the mood.

You could now see a little smile growing on Harry’s face. The little smile slowly grew into a wide grin, which later on grew into a burst of guttural laughter. Harry kept laughing so hard that he felt the need to cover his face with his hands. Saying that you were proud of yourself was an understatement.

You just sat there with a stupid smile on your face staring at him in awe. “He’s really cute.”

When Harry’s laughter died down he looked at you with a sad smile on his face.

“I will miss y’so much.” He looked at you full of sincerity and tenderness.

You furrowed your brows at him and you let your chin fall on your palm, as your elbow found its place on the surface of the table.

“But I’m here.” You gave him a soft smile and let your eyes run over his frame. He looked completely defeated. There was nothing left of the happy, constantly-beaming-with-life Harry that you’ve spent the last two weeks with.

“You’re leaving tomorrow. You won’t be here anymore.” He let his eyes fall on the candles that slowly melted to their death. As the white wax dripped down the side of the candle, Harry could feel his time with you slip away as well.

“We can still text, right?” You tried to soothe the pain that he seems to be going through.

“That’s not the same.” He lets out a sigh full of frustration before looking up at you with sadness dwelling his eyes.

“I want to be around you. Physically. You made this trip the best one in my entire life just by blessing me with your presence.” Harry felt the now-familiar fluttering in his stomach as he let those gentrice words leave his mouth.

You couldn’t stop yourself from frowning, confused by his honesty.

“How am I supposed to go on with my life when I always feel the need to be around you? And I’ve only known you for what? Two weeks?” Harry speaks again, letting all of his frustration with the situation out.

You kept looking at him not knowing what to say. “If he’s being honest, I should be honest, too.” You thought and let your heart guide you.

“I don’t know why, but I feel the same way. You’ve made these two weeks magical and I don’t think I have ever been happier. I don’t want to leave.” You were the one to watch the candle melting now. With every drop of hot wax, you had less and less time together. It was closer and closer to the time of your departure. You felt unbounded sadness overflow you.

Harry looked at you and you could almost see gears turning in his head.

“Stay with me,” Harry asks you, staring right into your eyes, which were now staring back into his.

“What?” You ask confusingly.

“Stay with me. Don’t leave.” Harry spoke softer this time.

Harry knew it was a lot to ask of a stranger, but he also knew that you were far from being strangers after these two weeks full of tenderness and growing adoration for life. It felt like you’ve known each other in past lives. Like you were meant to meet in Rome and never part again.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, and let yourself reach for his hand, which laid on the table.

“Stay with you?” You repeated his words under your breath.

“Stay with me.” Harry whispered. His face softened as he let his face come closer to yours with the table still between you.

You mirrored his actions and let your eyes fall on his pink lips. He noticed you looking and took it as a sign to come closer.

“I will stay.” You answered him. Your faces were a few inches away. When Harry heard you, his eyes went wide and he moved his face even closer to yours to a point where your lips were almost touching.

“May I?” He asked not allowing him lips to touch yours yet.

What a fucking man.

“Kiss me, you fool.” You spoke into his lips.

Harry chuckled, pushing his lips to connect them with yours.

Your kiss was interrupted by the waiter, who opened the curtains of the private booth. When he saw you kissing, he felt blood rush to his face.

“Oh, Io chiedo sinceramente scusa.“

The waiter seemed so flustered that he forgot all the little English he knew.

Harry moved away from you and turned to the waiter, who stood by the table with the receipt in his hand.

“Non ti preoccupare.” Harry spoke back to the waiter, surprising you both and reached for his wallet.

He placed his credit card in the receipt folder that the waiter passed him and thanked him, turning back to you.

“You speak Italian?” You asked him for completely bewildered by your new finding.

“That’s the Italian I know.” He smiled at you and reached for your cheek.

“That was so awkward, Harry.” You mumbled against his hand, closing your eyes in embarrassment.

“Oh, c’mon. Could it really be more awkward than trying to kiss properly with a table full of burning candles in our way?” He joked before pulling you closer and letting your laughter intertwine with his breath before continuing.

“Let’s pick it up where we left off now.”

——————————————————————————

Io chiedo sinceramente scusa. - I sincerely apologize.

Non ti preoccupare. - Don’t worry about it.

© all right belong to stylesberries. do not repost or modify.

[suitofvibraniumarmor]

If You Just Realized

Part Nine: A Little Overwhelmed

Summary: The day after the wedding, Y/N has lunch with Kennedy; Sebastian and Milena have a surprise for her. Pairing: Sebastian Stan x Reader Word Count: 1910 (excluding translations) Series Warnings: Death, angst, sadness. Lots of creative licensing, I’m sure. Chapter Warnings: Sex talk between friends (nothing detailed), feels. Square Filled: This entire series will fill my realized feelings square for @marvelfluffbingo​. A/N: I’ve much enjoyed writing this series, and I hope all of you enjoy reading it! The tag list is open; requests to be added can be done so here. There are bits and pieces of Romanian throughout the series, mostly from Google Translate and the few things I’ve picked up as I learn the language.

Series Masterlist

“So, did you get laid last night?”

Y/N laughed at Kennedy’s wiggling eyebrows. “It’s not that kind of marriage, Ken, remember?”

She rolled her eyes. “I just figured maybe the wedding would have given you two some reason to celebrate or something. I know it’s been a while for you —”

“Hey!”

“And I don’t know about Sebastian but the guy’s been through a lot, he could stand to blow off some steam.” She took a bite of her salad. “Anyway, I really appreciate that you took time to meet me for lunch before I’m back to the West Coast. We don’t see each other nearly enough as it is, and with you in New York indefinitely …”

Y/N sighed and sipped at her iced tea. “You’ll just have to come visit when you can. I’ll do the same. Seb and I can bring Milena out —”

When she realized what she was saying, she stopped and cleared her throat. She couldn’t think of anything to cover for what she had just said, so she shoved a too-big bite of club sandwich in her mouth instead. Kennedy raised her brow and shook her head. 

“Why won’t you even admit it to me, Y/N/N? Even a little bit? You can have feelings for Seb without being full-on in love with him, you know.” 

She only shook your head. “No, it isn’t — see, honestly, I have never thought about him like that. Ever. He’s one of my best friends and I can be myself around him and count on him, and that was enough. More than enough. But then all of this started happening and he asked me to marry him and … and …”

If Kennedy’s brow went any higher, her eyebrows and her hair were going to get tangled together. “And what?”

“And last night, in the hotel room, we — it was just kissing, okay? He was just out of the shower, I needed help with my zipper. And he stopped it because he didn’t want me to think he was trying to get anything more out of this than what we’ve already established.” You drew in a slow, shaky breath. “So, if we’re just friends, why did I want it so bad? Why did I want him so bad? I’m pretty sure it had nothing to do with how long it’s been, before you say anything about that.”

Kennedy giggled. “I know this has nothing to do with that. Me trying to get you to open up about what you’re feeling towards Sebastian is not some sappy romance thing because the two of you got married and are going to parent this little girl together. I want you to really understand what you’re getting into — a short-term marriage that’s going to end in an agreed-upon divorce with someone who means more to you than only being one of your best friends.”

“But it’s never been like this before.”

“Sometimes … sometimes we need a push to help us see where we’re meant to be,” Kennedy shrugged. “Is that as close to admission I’m gonna get you?”

“This trip, anyway,” Y/N smirked. “I’m still trying to process all of this, I think.”

Kennedy finished off her salad then, giving her a few minutes to think. When the waiter came, she took care of the bill. 

“Shittiest wedding present ever,” she joked, “but I also flew out here last minutes so, that counts, right?”

Y/N nodded and laughed. “Absolutely. Thank you, Kennedy. For being here and for — for everything.”

She smiled. “Anytime, friend.” 

When Y/N returned to the apartment, Milena came running towards the door, blocking Y/N from going any further than the front door. 

“Finally!” Milena screeched. 

Y/N lifted the little girl into her arms. “Finally? Have you been waiting so long for me to come home?”

Milena nodded her head and grinned. “A surprise!”

“Hey, hey, don’t be giving away our secrets,” Sebastian laughed, coming into the room. He put a hand on Milena’s back and leaned over to kiss Y/N’s forehead. “I know you just got back, but if you’re up for a little drive, we’ll leave early before we meet everyone at my parents’ house for supper.”

Y/N shrugged. “Sure, I’m okay with that. Let me touch up my face and I’ll be ready to go.”

Milena wiggled down from her hold to go and retrieve her shoes when Sebastian instructed; Y/N headed to the bathroom to touch up her makeup. She was putting more lip gloss on when Milena wandered in, shoes on her feet and a jacket added to her outfit. 

“Uncle Seb said ’s cold.”

Y/N nodded. “It’s kinda chilly — I’m going to put a jacket on, too.”

“Can I have some of that?” Milena’s finger pointed to the gloss Y/N was re-capping. 

She crouched down to Milena’s level and put the tiniest amount on the toddler’s lips. Milena sat very still while the gloss was applied and pointed to the mirror when Y/N was done. 

“Look at those pretty girls,” Sebastian smiled, leaning into the bathroom. “You ready to go?”

“I think so. How about you, princess, you ready?”

Milena nodded, then wrapped her arms around Y/N’s neck in as strong an embrace as she could manage. “Iubes.” [Te iubesc = I love you]

It wasn’t one-hundred percent correct Romanian, but the adults knew what she meant. Y/N snuggled against the toddler, meeting Sebastian’s eyes. She couldn’t read the emotions there, so she closed her eyes and answered Milena honestly. 

“Te iubesc mai malt.” [I love you more.]

The drive to their destination was mostly silent, except for a Disney soundtrack playing and Milena quietly singing along when she thought she knew the words. Y/N wanted to reach for Sebastian’s hand and hold tight, for comfort. Before, she would have done that without question. Now, after what had happened in the hotel room, she was too worried about Sebastian thinking she saw something in their relationship that wasn’t there. Instead, she kept her hands in her jacket pockets and stared out the window for most of the ride. 

“I thought we had somewhere else to go before your parents’ house?” she asked, realizing they were in the same neighborhood where Anthony and Georgeta lived. 

“We do,” Sebastian confirmed. 

He didn’t offer any more information, so she kept her further questions to herself. A couple of minutes later, they pulled into the drive of a pretty house — one Y/N didn’t recognize. Sebastian got Milena out of her seat while Y/N stepped out of the car and took a good look at the house. 

“What is this?”

Sebastian only took her hand and smiled, balancing Milena on his other hip. He walked them up to the front porch, took a key from his pocket, and let them in the front door. 

The place was large and blocked off from street view by a line of trees; the land was extensive. The construction and decor was all contemporary and well cared-for. The bedrooms were large, each had its own walk-in closet. The master bath boasted a tub she already couldn’t wait to sink into. At the back of the house, the shaded patio led to a swimming pool, and a koi pond even, beyond that. Despite the size of the house and its amenities, the place felt very homey — cozy, even. She wandered back through the slider, meeting Sebastian and Milena at the island in the middle of the kitchen. 

“I thought maybe it would be good to be close to my parents,” Sebastian began, after Y/N had a chance to see the whole house. “The schools in the area are rated well, and it’s a quiet neighborhood. We can look at something different, if you’d like. Maybe I’ll have this house longer than …” He glanced at Milena, then cleared his throat. “Anyway, I put a bid in so we wouldn’t miss out, but I wanted your input, too.”

Perhaps this wasn’t so different than when he was demanding they decide together about what custody of Milena to ask for in the court filing, but for Y/N, it did wonders for him to so simply state that he wanted her opinion on such a big decision. She took a deep breath; she could picture Milena growing older here. She could picture them having family movie nights here. She could picture Thanksgiving and Christmas and New Year’s. Though she knew it wouldn’t ever happen, she could picture late night slow dances with Sebastian in the kitchen and changing one of the extra rooms to a nursery for a baby that would be a perfect mix of both of their features. 

Sebastian put a hand at her elbow, pulling her from her reverie. “Hey, if this is too much …”

“No, no, it’s not that, I just,” she fanned herself and chuckled lightly, “I think it’s a little warm in here, yeah?”

His concerned frown didn’t soften. “Bright Eyes?”

How did that, a nickname she had heard a million times, make her feel even more warm? “I’m okay, Seb, promise. I love the house, I really do. So much. And if you love it, since you’re the one keeping it, you should leave the bid. How’d you get the key without being the owner, by the way?”

His frown morphed into a mischievous smirk. “I have my ways. C’mon, girls — let’s get over to Bunica’s before they start to wonder where we are.”

He held Milena’s hand on one side and Y/N’s on the other. At the car, he opened Y/N’s door first, then got Milena settled back into her seat. Y/N watched the house as they drove away, indulging herself on daydreams that were likely to never come true. 

She was silent again on the way to his parents’ house, thanks to the daydreams, and was out of the car quick enough to get Milena from the backseat ahead of Sebastian. The girls headed to the porch ahead of him, but he caught up before they got too far. 

“You all right? You’ve been flushed since before we left my apartment, you’ve hardly said a word in the car …”

“I’m fine. Probably just tired from the last couple of days.”

She made to move forward with Milena again, but Sebastian caught her by the hand. Georgeta opened the front door with a smile, immediately recognized the tension between the newlyweds, and so she beckoned Milena to the house. When it was only the two of them, Sebastian raised his brow, but Y/N shook her head. 

“Hey, c’mon, talk to me,” he pleaded. “Since when do we keep things from each other?”

Y/N sighed and met his eyes again. “I’m not — I don’t want to keep things from you. I’ve just got a lot on my mind, you know? What Milena said before we left, and the house, the wedding. It’s all wonderful, but I think maybe — maybe I’m overwhelmed. I’m okay though, really.”

Sebastian pursed his lips. “If last night —”

“No, don’t even say it,” she interrupted. “I’m not going to let either of us dwell on that and make things awkward. We’ll have a good time with family this evening, I’ll get a good night’s sleep, tomorrow everything will be back to normal. I’m sure of it.”

He held up both of his little fingers. “Double pinky swear?”

She loosened up and laughed, hooking her pinkies with his. “Double pinky swear.”

“Good,” he grinned, taking her by the hand and leading her into the house. 

AllOfTheThings: @captain-s-rogers​ @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan​ @letsgetfuckingsuperwholocked​ @hurricanerin​ @horsesandbandsforlife​ @im-not-an-armrest-im-short​ @captain-rogers-beard​ @shynara51​ @sea040561​ @pinknerdpanda​ @xtina2191​ @jackryanplz​ @beakami​ @heartsaved​ @fullprunerebelstatesman​ @blackwidowismyhomegirl​ @averyrogers83​ @jennmurawski13​ @connie326​

IYJR: @elsatxx​ @tanelle83​ @amanda-teaches​ @etherealwaifgoddess​ @kmuir1​ @ntlmundy​ @jayankles​ @rebekahdawkins​ @denise1605​ @rhadigen​ @peace-love-hobbitness​ @itsallyscorner​ @mizzzpink​ @auspiciousharriet​ @the-murder-strut-murdered-me​ @learisa​ @tellmewhatyouwill​ @katherinereid​ @lokilokilokilokilokiloki​ @thewolfsenate

[phykios]

people on ao3 were thirsty for this fic so... here you go, tumblr ❤ 

put on the red light M, sex work au, modern royalty au, no powers au  [read on ao3]

🌊🌊🌊

Sometimes, she really regrets being best friends with Piper.

Said best friend still gapes at her from across the table, jaw practically on the floor. “Never?”

Annabeth rolls her eyes. “Never.”

“Not even, like, at school?”

“When I would have had the time?” she asks. “I was attempting a five-year program in four years, and then… well, you know.” And she does know, all about the very exciting drama that went down in Annabeth’s senior year.

Piper is still flabbergasted. “Not even high school?”

Annabeth takes a sip of her drink. “I wasn’t exactly a hot commodity in high school.” She’d been passively pretty all her life, but she hadn’t exactly been what some might call Girlfriend material, capital G. She’d stuck to her fifteen year plan to the letter, eschewing most social contact, working herself into the ground to overcome ADHD by sheer force of will and get into Harvard, a plan which allowed approximately zero time for a boyfriend. Not that there were even boys that she had really liked at the time.

The only boy she had ever considered liking in that way, well. She had lost contact with him a while ago.

“I can’t believe this.”

“Believe it or not, Ripley, it’s true. I’ve never had sex. You happy?”

“I mean, if you don’t mind me asking, are you ace?” Piper asks. “Because that’s totally cool, of course.”

She shakes her head. “Definitely not ace.” She has a minor collection of personal massagers and insertable devices should she ever need to take care of an urge, and plenty of fantasies she can call on whenever the need arises--a system which has worked just fine for years.

“I just…” Piper stares, unconvincingly. “How?”

Shrugging, she takes another sip of coffee. “Just never got around to it, I guess.”

It’s not something she’s proud of, but by the same token, it’s not something that brings her shame, either. It is what it is; Annabeth, a notable workaholic, has never had sex with another person in her life. In some ways, it sucks, sure, but in other ways, it’s been a blessing in disguise. After all, no previous partners means that there’s no one to spread any dirt on the newly minted Princess Anja Elisabet of Sweden.

But Piper isn’t having it.

“Do you… want to have sex?” she asks. “Like, ever?”

As the daughter of one of the biggest movie stars in the world, she knows that Piper has had her fair share of high profile relationships, something that earned her a little bit of a nasty (and, quite frankly, racist) reputation among the paparazzi, which is ridiculous, since Piper is one of the most effortlessly gracious and classy people Annabeth knows. Piper does not go slinging herself and her partners around in the media like some of her contemporaries; instead, she likes to keep her personal details a bit closer to the chest, sharing them only with trusted confidants, like Annabeth, who knows full well how much Piper enjoys the act of sex. Sex for Piper isn’t dirty or taboo, it’s fun and it’s being close with other people, it’s liberating and exciting and intimate, and she extols its virtues whenever asked to give her opinion.

She makes sex sound really good, but never in a way that makes Annabeth feel ashamed for never having done it. Until now, of course. “Well… yeah,” says Annabeth. “I’d like to. I mean, I think it’d be kind of nice, you know, to do it at least once.”

“But then you’d have to start dating,” Piper surmises.

“Yeah,” says Annabeth, glumly.

Dating is a notorious problem for people in her line of work. Royalty, not architects, that is. Dating for architects is easy; just find someone who doesn’t mind the type A personalities and the obsession with work. Dating for royals is… significantly harder, and not really something she wants to engage with right now. She’s only been a royal for a few years, after all—she still feels like it’s a big cosmic joke, that someone is going to unearth some old documents or reveal a couple of forgeries that will bring the whole thing crashing down, and she doesn’t want to bring an outsider into all that drama, let alone deal with it herself.

Piper takes a sip of her drink, thoughtful, then lays out her next question carefully. “Have you ever considered a one-night stand?”

Annabeth stares. “You’re kidding me.”

“I’m not! People do it.”

“Yeah,” she scoffs, “people. Not me.”

“It’s really not hard,” Piper says, “I’ve done it plenty of times.”

“What, you want me to make a tinder?”

She laughs. “God, wouldn’t that be a riot. But no, I mean, there have to be other single royals or celebs around. Why not one of them?”

“Because they’re all insufferable social-climbing jackasses that make me want to rip my skull out of my face every time I’m forced to listen to them at a state dinner.”

“Okay, then.” Never one to be deterred, Piper pulls out her phone, then waits until Annabeth has taken a sip of her drink, presumably to keep her from immediately disagreeing, before dropping the bomb to end all bombs. “Let’s get you an escort.”

Annabeth snorts iced coffee directly out of her nose.

“Shit! Sorry!” Piper shoves a handful of napkins at her. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry, do you need water?”

Wheezing, Annabeth shakes her head. “Give me a sec,” she coughs, fingers covering her mouth.

Thank God she’s got her trusty, anti-pap hat on. If anyone took a picture of her like this, her uncle would probably disown her.

“What the hell, Piper?” she rasps when she can finally breathe again.

“I’m so sorry, I should have timed that better.”

“No, I mean—”  she coughs again. “The other thing.”

She raises an eyebrow. “The escort?”

“Keep your voice down!” On instinct, she glances around the London cafe, looking for any stray microphones. Satisfied that no one is listening for the moment, she turns back to her insane best friend. “Yes, the… that thing.”

“It’s not that crazy,” says Piper, turning back to her phone. “We’ll find you a really nice one, someone super high class and discreet, draw up an NDA, and then you can cross it off your bucket list. Man or woman?”

“Man, but—" she sputters. “I—I can’t see a prostitute! Can you imagine the scandal if it got out?”

Forget the iced coffee thing. The princess of Sweden, caught with a hooker… Annabeth is nauseous just thinking about the media circus.

“Not a prostitute,” Piper corrects. “An escort.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“Same umbrella, but no.” She types away, faster than Annabeth can keep track of. “Pimping is illegal here, but escorts usually have managers.”

“Be that as it may,” because Piper seems to have forgotten the key part of this conversation, “I can’t have sex with an escort.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” The million and a half legitimate reasons not to go through with it all fly through her mind, getting lost somewhere on the way to her mouth. “Because!”

Piper just smiles at her. “I’ll get you a really nice one, promise. Think of it as a late birthday present.”

“It’s September.”

“Early Christmas, then.” And she grins, full of teeth. “Just trust me, okay? Let me take care of it.”

Famous last words, she thinks, popping a bit of scone in her mouth.

***

7PM, the Dorchester Hotel. Dinner first, then… whatever, later.

Annabeth can’t help but arrive early. She’d never been a punctual person before, but apparently now it’s been beaten into her with all the rest of her princess training.

Five-star hotels are still something of a novelty for her, even though she’s stayed in quite a few by now. Thankfully she’s never stayed here before; she’d be too worried someone on staff would recognize her.

She had thought that she’d show up early, psych herself up a little, get emotionally prepared, or at least have a little time to calm her racing heart before her… date… showed up.

Unfortunately, as punctual as she is, apparently, he’s beaten her to the punch.

He’s exactly where he said he’d be, wearing exactly what he said he’d be wearing; black suit, blue tie, gold watch. Her heart is beating so loudly, she’s sure he can hear it from across the room. “Um, excuse me,” she asks, a little more timid than she’d like, sidling up to the man. “Paris?”

At his name--well, she assumes it’s his name, but it’s probably a pseudonym now that she thinks about it--he lifts his head up, his lips already quirking up in a smile that she can only describe as troublemaking. “Bethany?”

Right. She used a pseudonym as well. A second pseudonym—one other than Anja. “Yeah,” she smiles in return, her shakiness easing.

“Hey!” He stands up from his seat in the lounge, leaning in and kissing her on the cheek. “It’s so nice to meet you!”

“You too.” She realizes with a pang; he is so tall. He’s tall, with broad shoulders and a trim waist, startlingly green eyes and thick, curly black hair. And… “You’re American?”

“I am,” he says, unashamed. “The accent gave me away, huh? Hope you weren’t looking for something else.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” she assures him. “I just wasn’t expecting it. It’s fine!"

He grins, crookedly, and she feels her heart skip a beat. “I’ll take it. Shall we head to dinner, then?”

***

Dinner was amazing, of course. The food, the atmosphere, and the company, she fully admits—all exceptional. Paris is an amazing conversationalist, she discovers, smart and funny and attentive, even gently teasing her a little. “You’re American, too, you know,” he’d said, sipping on his glass of wine, “so you can’t give me any grief over my lack of an accent.”

“I don’t live here,” she’d retorted, pointing her fork at him, “unlike some people I could mention.”

“Where do you live?”

“Ah, well—” Covering up her hesitation by taking a bite of chicken, she’d thought quickly. “Grew up in the States, but recently I moved to, um, Sweden, to be closer to my family.”

He’d nodded. “Expat, huh?”

“Something like that.”

He’d listened to her, really listened, chimed in at appropriate moments, made surprisingly insightful comments about her job and her life, and, well, he’s kind of perfect. If he weren’t an escort, he’d make an amazing boyfriend. She tells him as much, in the elevator on the way up to his room.

“Aw, thank you!” He smiles at her, a single dimple popping out under his strong cheekbones. “That’s very kind of you to say.”

“Why do you do this, anyway?” she asks. “I mean,” oh God, that question is some kind of faux pas isn’t it, Christ what the hell happened to all her etiquette training, “you don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to—”

“No, it’s okay,” he says as the elevator door opens. They’re up on a high floor, where the higher high rollers like to stay, and she follows him as he walks confidently down the hallway. “It’s not an offensive question.”

Still, she feels pretty shitty for asking. “I’m sure you get asked that all the time.”

“Most clients honestly aren’t all that interested,” he admits, shrugging a shoulder. “They need something, I can provide it. It can be a little transactional at times, but I’ve met a lot of really cool people, so it all balances out in the end.” Arriving at their door, Paris swipes his keycard, holding it open for her like some kind of butler. “After you.”

The room is enormous, even for a five-star hotel. It is a full-on suite, with a seating area and separate bedroom, a large wooden desk off to one wall, a gorgeous, floor-to-ceiling window that looks onto Hyde Park, full of lights dotted about like mini constellations. “Wow,” she breathes, “look at that view.”

“I never get tired of it,” Paris says, coming up behind her. “No matter how many times I come here.”

“You come here a lot?” she asks. She almost follows it up with a question on how he can afford it, but she ruthlessly quashes that down.

“My clients like it,” is all he says.

“I’m not surprised, all that 1930s deco in the lobby. The façade is a little plain, though, in my opinion.”

“Oh yeah? How would you do it better, Miss Architect?” She gets the sense that he’s teasing her. It feels oddly intimate for the situation—he’s not a friend, or a boyfriend, or even a date. He’s an escort. Providing a service, as he put it. He shouldn’t be so friendly with her.

And yet. “Well, I love Neoclassical, but honestly, I’m not super into hotels.”

“What are you into, then?” Casually, he undoes his tie, sliding it off his neck. She swallows.

“Um.” Focus, girl. “Office buildings, monuments. I dunno. I just want to… I just want to build something good, you know? Something permanent. Proof that I was here, you know?”

“Something permanent, huh?” He speaks softly, a respectable distance away, but she’s drawn in anyway, by his open shirt collar and his easy demeanor and his stupid sea green eyes that remind her so much of— “That sounds really nice.”

Then he steps up to her. His hand, warm and big, draws up her arm, fingers tracing lightly over her skin, and she shivers. He cups her neck, fingering the hair at the base of her scalp, and leans in, his lips parted. He smells like salt, like the perfume of the wine they shared, like the sea on a sunny morning.

“Wait,” she murmurs against his lips.

Immediately, he pulls back. “Is something wrong?” he asks, concerned.

“No, no, it’s fine, I just—” She swallows, her heart racing. “I just need a minute.”

“Of course.” He takes a step back, and she has to stop herself from pulling him in further. “Do you need anything? Water, champagne? They always stock the minifridge.”

She shakes her head. “No, I’m fine. It’s just, I’ve never… done this before.”

“What, hire an escort?” He grins, rakish. “I can tell.”

“Not that—I mean, yes, that too, but I mean—I’ve never—” She huffs, annoyed she has to have this conversation twice in one week. “I’ve never had sex before, okay?”

That shocks him a little. His eyes widen, taken aback. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Chuckling weakly, she rubs a hand on her arm, looking out the window. “So… yeah.”

“So, don’t take this the wrong way,” says Paris, “but, there are easier ways to get laid than by using a professional. I mean, I’m grateful for the business and all, but, well, look at you.” He looks her up and down, somehow simultaneously respectful and entirely indecent. “I don’t think you’d have a problem getting a date.”

“It’s… complicated.” Understatement of the fucking millennium. “My friend thought this would be the easiest way to… go about it.”

Paris laughs. “You don’t agree.”

“I don’t… not agree,” she says. “I’m just. A little nervous.”

He nods. “I’d bet.” Chewing his lip, he looks towards the bedroom suite, and Annabeth tries not to think about how those teeth would feel on her mouth instead. “How about this; why don’t you take a shower? It might help calm you down a bit.”

“Won’t you be lonely?” she quips, a moment of reckless bravery.

“I have a few calls I can make,” says Paris, eyes dancing. “Go on. Make yourself comfortable.”

***

She has to hand it to the five-star hotels; the shower is always outstanding. Amazing pressure, amazing heat, it definitely rivals the plumbing in some of the castles she’s stayed at. And the robes, always so soft and warm, though a little on the small side. This one just barely covers her ass, which she figures isn’t a huge problem for tonight, but still.

When she steps out of the bathroom, she can hear Paris talking. “Uh huh,” he says. “Yeah. No, it’s going great. Professor Kleio said she’d write me a recommendation. She was really impressed with the last build. Yeah.” She runs her fingers through her wet hair, pushing it back from her face. “No, the conference is next month. Probably. Pretty sure I can get Tyson to help, but I don’t think it’ll get that far before the end of the week. Uh huh.”

Paris had taken off his suit jacket at some point; she can see it hung up in the closet on a hanger, perfectly pressed. He’s still in his shirt, but he’s unbuttoned it, the sleeves rolled up around his forearms. It is effortlessly attractive, even from the back. She coughs lightly, unwilling to startle him, and he turns, giving her another up-and-down, this one decidedly less respectful than the first.

“Hey, I gotta go, I’ll call you tomorrow. Say hi to Estelle for me. Love you.” And he hangs up.

“Your girlfriend?” she asks.

He smiles, all soft. “My mom.”

Something in her melts at his tone. “Aw,” she coos. “Is she back in America?”

“Yeah. I don’t get to see her all that often, so I try to call her every day.”

It is so unfathomably sweet, sweet and… humanizing, as weird as that sounds. He’s not just an unbelievably handsome man with a jaw cut like a diamond and a five-star rating, according to Piper, he’s a person with a whole other life that she knows nothing about. It’s liberating, in its own way. She can make mistakes with him, and he’ll understand. He won’t judge her, not against his other clients, or even his other partners.

Swallowing, she slides the robe off her shoulders, slowly, achingly. Maybe he turned the heat up while she wasn’t looking, because all of a sudden, she feels hot all over, from her cheeks to her chest and down, and down. Maybe it’s all coming from him, from the heat of his gaze on her, his pink tongue coming out to wet his lips. She wants it, wants them, wants him, on her and in her and all over her.

But he stays on his side of the room, waiting for her to take the plunge.

She steps up to him, close but not touching, breathing in the heady, strong scent of him, raking her eyes up his body for a change. Even through his shirt, she can tell he’s fit, the exposed skin of his arms tanned a deep brown, thick, coarse, dark hair running up to his wrists. On his right arm, there is a black trident long and straight, crossed by an old, white scar. “What happened here?” she asks, lifting her hand to trace it, leaving visible goosebumps in its wake.

“Sailing accident,” he whispers. “Long time ago.”

There’d been a kid at her summer camp for troubled teens who’d gotten thrown off his boat and hurt like that, once. She remembered so vividly, because she’d been on infirmary duty that day, and all she could think about while wrapping up his arm was how fucking stupid he'd been, how he could have gotten himself really hurt, how badly she’d wanted to kiss him.

She'd moved across the country before she'd gotten the chance, though, and no one else had ever made her feel like that since. Until now. “Got any other ink to show me?”

But instead of answering, he leans down, and he kisses her.

She’s been kissed before. She’s never had sex, but she’s done some kissing in her life. It’s usually pretty awkward, in her experience, too much of one thing and never enough of another.

Nope, not Paris. Of course, he’s also a phenomenal kisser. Why she expected anything else, she’s not sure.

His hands come up to circle her neck again, his thumbs running against her cheekbones. He kisses her, pouring passion and intent into her, his mouth soft and sweet against hers. And then he slips her some tongue, and it’s a whole different ballgame.

“Take off your shirt,” she whispers into his mouth.

He does, effortlessly, without detaching himself from her. It’s a smooth, easy motion, and she is delighted to discover that he is as firm as she suspected he was, the muscles jumping under her touch.

Almost without her realizing it, he backs her up towards the bed, her knees hitting the edge of the mattress. He lays her out against the sheets, his bare chest hot against hers. “Before we go any further,” he says, and she can feel the vibrations of his voice all throughout her body, “tell me—have you ever made yourself come?”

She flushes at his words, the dirty talk which should sound stupid but instead comes out all sultry and sexy. “Yes,” she says, breath hitching as he nips at her neck. “Yes, I have.”

“Good.” He smiles into the skin of her collarbone, traveling down, and down, and down. “I want you to show me how.”

“Isn’t that,” she pants, “your job?”

“Hmm, you’re right.” He pushes her thighs apart with his shoulders, bright eyes staring up at her as he licks his lips. “Let me get to work, then.”

Breathing heavily, she curls her fingers into the ten thousand count sheets, eyes fixed on the ceiling pattern. She can’t look at the dark head between her legs, can only breathe in through her nose as he kisses up the skin of her thigh, higher and higher and higher until…

Jesus fucking lord almighty.

***

“I found the perfect guy for you.”

“Piper, come on.” Theses brunch dates of theirs were starting to get a little repetitive. “I let you set me up with a professional, but I draw the line at a blind date.”

“Have I steered you wrong yet, your highness?” Piper asks, knowing grin firmly on her face.

Annabeth blushes. So what if that night with Paris was the most incredible experience she’d ever had? Doesn’t mean she’s ready for a full-on relationship, yet. “No,” she says, rubbing her temples.

“Great!” Then she does something that Annabeth doesn’t expect—she starts packing up. “So he’ll be here in a few minutes.”

“What?”

“Yeah,” she smiles, so bright it borders on painful, her nose scrunching up. “I invited him to brunch. But he’s really, really nice, I promise.”

“Does he know about—”

“No, he doesn’t, but if you wanted to spill, he’s a fantastic secret keeper.”

“How do you even know—”

Piper glances over Annabeth’s shoulder, eyes lighting up, waving a hand. “Friend of a friend of Jason, he’s a grad student at Cambridge, he’s doing his dissertation on naval history, so you know the king will love him.”

“Piper!” Annabeth half-calls, half-hisses at her friend as she stands up “Piper, you can’t just—”

“Hey,” says a voice behind her. A very familiar voice. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize anyone was joining us.” She turns around. Slowly. “Nice to meet you, I’m… Percy…” he trails off, sea green eyes widening behind a pair of thick, black glasses, beneath dark, curly hair. On his arm, a black trident stood out against his skin, straight and proud.

“Percy, meet Annabeth,” Piper says. “Annabeth, meet Percy. Okay, have fun you two!”

And she waltzes out of there, completely unaware of the absolute shitstorm she left in her wake.

[k0gamis]

Temptation ➝Shinkane Week 2019 Day 4 ➝WC: 7225 / Rating: explicit

Upon his return to the country, Akane visits an old friend to get drinks and catch up.

***

22:19

The mesmerizing lights of Tokyo are one of the things Akane loves the most about the city. At night, when the ink of night backdrops the towers and buildings that each forge a shape unique to every onlooker, she feels the lights are especially dazzling. 

She’d been enamored with the faux magic since her first drive through the city at night, when a last-minute interview for the CID awaited her in the morning, prompting an unexpected trip from her home in Chiba. She remembers the long breath she drew as her eyes settled on the skyline for the first time, watching the buildings shift around each other as the car drove on. She remembers wondering which building would be her hotel and what excitement she had to look forward to once she moved to the city for good; it was not unlike now, except the hotel she searches for in the distance is not hers, and she finds herself admittedly far more nervous than excited this time around.

The car drives automatically, which is unusual for her; Akane enjoys driving and normally likes to switch off the auto-pilot setting. But from time to time, especially at times like these, where her mind feels somewhere else and her eyes wander aimlessly outside the window, she lets the car drive itself.

She approaches the hotel as the car pulls into the parking lot, and Akane’s stomach does a flip. Her gaze flits between lit windows, counting up the rows until she hits floor number six. One of them belongs to room #644, and knowing him the curtains are likely closed, drawn open only enough so that his eyes can briefly dart outside to watch cars zip by on the freeway in between paragraphs of the book he’s reading.

When she steps off the elevator onto the sixth floor, her heart beats with the rhythm of her footsteps--perhaps even faster--as she follows the signs. Her fist raises, clenching once to squeeze out the nerves, then knocks twice and takes an anxious step back when the door opens.

He’s wearing a black bomber jacket that covers a white collared shirt tucked into dark jeans, somewhat reminiscent of the casual style he donned his formalwear all those years ago. She relaxes the second she catches his eye, feeling her shoulders unclench and the corners of her lips turning up; what had she been so nervous about?

He doesn’t offer the greeting of a normal person, and instead steps to the side so she can enter.

“You’re a bit overdressed,” he says, his voice as rough and calloused as ever. She missed the sound of it. “But you look nice.” 

“I came from a dinner party in Chiba,” she explains. Chiba was almost an hour away, leaving no time to change, though she would hardly classify a black pencil skirt and a white ribbed turtleneck as overdressed. She doesn’t argue, and lets him take her coat to hang it in the closet.

The room is small, contemporary, with one bed, a desk with a swivel chair, and a small black chaise in the corner where a paperback book sits open but facedown. The decorations are sleek and modern, brightening the space considerably. A mirror taking up the wall alongside the bed makes the room feel bigger than it looks. She was right about the curtains.

He seems uncomfortable the further into the room they venture. Or perhaps awkward was a better word.

“There’s a bar downstairs,” she says, and that’s all she has to say. Soon she’s back in the elevator and sitting across from him in a dimly-lit booth, ordering a margarita.

“This place seems a little fancy to be holed-up in,” she says casually. “It doesn’t really suit you.”

“It wasn’t my choice,” he says. “And you’re right. The room feels stuffy.”

She giggles a little to herself, as she was thinking he would say something like that. It’s nice to know he hasn’t changed.

“How do the scanners work?” she asks. “Has your hue…?” She isn’t sure how to word her question, how to ask if his psycho pass has improved at all, especially since she is doubtful that it has. But she can’t think of another explanation for how he’s able to be placed here and walk around unsupervised, or to enter the bar without flagging the scanners.

He points to his skull with a single finger, similar to the shape of a gun. 

“It’s classified,” he says. 

“You can’t tell me?”

“It means I can’t be scanned without permission.”

“They’re placing an awful lot of trust in you to not cause trouble,” she says. He chuckles.

“Still not holding back your harsh remarks, I see.”

Before she can think of a response, their drinks are set down in front of them, Akane’s margarita glass standing tall above his scotch. She takes a tentative sip, watching as he downs a couple gulps without haste, nor does he grimace from the sultry taste.

“How are you?” she asks, her voice lowering. He stares into the contents of his glass, held by his fingers at the rim. The last time she’d seen him he wasn’t terrible, satisfied with distracting himself amidst guerilla operations and tactical advising. But satisfied doesn’t translate to being well, and based on one of their final conversations, he hadn’t seemed all that well at the time.

“I’m alright,” he says finally. It’s hard to get a read on him, to see how much of him is telling the truth. He notices the look of concern on her face despite her attempts to mask it. “Really. I am.”

“Have you thought about receiving psychological care?” she asks, not yet sold. 

“I’ve contemplated.” 

“That sounds like a no, then.”

“I’m still exploring my options. I only got back in the country a couple days ago.”

“Yes, I’m sure Poe’s poetry has all sorts of resourceful information about your options.” He smirks at her remark over his glass.

“Are you familiar, then?” he asks.

She shakes her head regrettably. “Not as well as I should be. I do more tactical reading these days.”

“You can borrow it if you’d like.” 

She smiles softly around the salt on her glass. “I’m tempted, but I’m not sure when I’d be able to return it.”

He shrugs. It’s not like she’d be on a deadline, since he isn’t going anywhere now. That much has yet to completely stick with her. It is almost too good to be true, that she has difficulty believing it at times. He had been away for so long, and even then she’d only known him for a few months prior to his disappearance. It feels unreal for him to be anything but gone. 

Did she even have the right to think of him as much as she did all these years, when she’d only known him for such a short amount of time in comparison?

“Why Chiba?” he asks, breaking her from her thoughts.

“What do you mean” she asks.

“Your dinner party.”

“Oh,” she says, her voice turning surprisingly sour. “It was for a school reunion.”

“You don’t seem too thrilled to have gone.” He finishes off his drink and waves a bartender over.

“Well Chiba isn’t exactly nearby,” she explains. “And then having to explain the death of your best friend to everyone who hasn’t heard over and over and…” She pauses, mostly because the bartender steps into earshot near their table, but also because she needs to collect the rest of her thoughts. She hasn’t yet finished her margarita but asks for a second anyway while he’s there, and finishes speaking once he’s gone to prepare their order. 

“Of course there were people who she knew who couldn’t come to the funeral, and some people who just didn’t know it happened at all, but there was an overwhelming amount of reactions that just seemed…” Her voice hangs in the air for a moment as she searches for the right word.

“Insincere?” he offers.

“Yes,” she says. “Exactly. It became all anyone wanted to talk about.”

“That sounds exhausting.” 

The way she swishes down a few gulps at once rather than the polite sips she’d been taking told him he’s right. Then she continues on, mentioning how one of her old classmates in particular was someone she has the misfortune of knowing more than she’d like to. He watches her finish the rest of her drink and wonders what she means by that. An ex-boyfriend, perhaps? Or was he simply fabricating reasons to project onto his dislike of this individual, other than by the way she spoke of him?

“He dated Yuki for...I’m not sure, a month, maybe?” she says, immediately dissolving his hypothesis and leaving him feeling foolish. “They broke up around the time we took our placement exams. Back then he found it just intriguing how he and I were the only two to score an A ranking for the Ministry of Commerce, which he brought up again tonight and wouldn’t shut up about it. That, and his absolutely incredibly well-paying job as a financial consultant.” 

She rolls her eyes and immediately reaches for her second drink once they’re dropped off at their table. He can’t help but feel amused watching her speak. It seemed his hypothesis wasn’t that far off. 

She seems to notice his gaze intent on her but misreads it, by the way she suddenly sits up straight, as though she’s caught herself doing something she isn’t supposed to be doing.

“I’m sorry,” she says, giving him a bashful smile. “I’m blabbering on about it. I’ll stop.”

Kogami shrugs. He isn’t bothered. He’s the one who asked in the first place.

“If you need to rant about slimy bastards who can’t take a hint, then you should rant,” he says simply, flashing her half a grin. She lets out a curt, breathy laugh, though she still looks apologetic. “Dude’s way out of his league, anyway. Doesn’t seem like your type in the slightest.”

“And just what do you know about my type?” She narrows her eyes inquisitively at him over the rim of her glass, hiding her lips behind it.

He doesn’t miss a beat. “I know you’re not into someone with a boring office job, or incapable of holding an even remotely stimulating conversation, and definitely not someone shorter than you.”

For a moment she looks puzzled, and then her face softens into a curious smile. “Your profiling skills are as sharp as ever.”

He can’t tell if she’s referring to herself or to Mr. Financial Consultant, or maybe both, but he shrugs off the compliment anyway.

“Anything else exciting or otherwise noteworthy?” 

Her eyes roll a second time, like the mere act of giving thought to these previous events was as annoying as experiencing them.

“He invited me to his apartment so I could talk more about the tragedy if needed,” she says. The way her voice hardens on one particular phrase, coupled with the lingering traces of anger in her eyes, makes him want to subvert the topic.

“So how did you give him the slip?”

“I told him I had a date to get going to,” she says simply. He nearly chokes on his drink. The gentle rose rising to the tops of her cheeks doesn’t go unnoticed.

He doesn’t remember choosing to lean forward, but then his arms are crossed on the table in front of him and there’s noticeably less distance between them.

“Is that what this is?” he asks.

“Would you call it something else?”

He keeps his gaze fixed on hers, looking for any hints of hesitancy, uncertainty, or even a trace of humor, yet he finds none of that. She stares back at him blankly; it’s a genuine question, and she expects a genuine answer.

“I guess not.” 

He studies her again, but differently this time--as though he’s letting himself truly look at her for the first time in a long time, which he is. Her face is no longer curved with juvenile softness like the first day they met; instead it’s been replaced with hardened edges, with stories he’s yet to listen to. Her eyes have grown more intimidating than ever, though she holds in them a gentleness that hasn’t faded in the slightest.

“Is there something on my face?” she asks. She brings a hand up to touch her cheek subconsciously. 

“No,” he answers. Then he notices she is shivering. “Are you cold?”

Her composure shifts suddenly, like she hadn’t even noticed that she was, in fact, cold, until he said something.

“A little,” she says. She glances up to the ceiling, finding an air vent positioned directly above their table. Just her luck; purposefully picking the booth furthest off to the side had to have some sort of drawback. 

When she turns her attention back to him, he’s shrugging out of his jacket.

“Oh, no, you don’t have to-” But of course, because he’s him, he ignores her protest and passes it over the table. She hesitates, but takes it anyway, thanking him quietly. When she slips her arms through the sleeves, it’s warm and smells like his cigarettes. It’s surreal to find his scent somewhere other than her ashtray.

“Aside from all of that,” he says, referring to her less-than-pleasant dinner party, “how are you?”

“I’m doing fine,” she says. “Though I feel like I’ve talked about myself too much.”

“I don’t mind,” he says.

“I want to hear one of your stories,” she insists. “I’m sure you’ve got plenty to pick from.”

“You’re putting me on the spot,” he says. “Now it’ll be hard to think of one.”

“Did you meet anyone special?” she asks. 

“What do you mean by ‘special?’”

“Like interesting, noteworthy, quirky, I don’t know. Someone with a story.”

He has to think for a moment, though it looks as though he’s contemplating what he wants to tell rather than searching for something to say.

First he tells her of the few temporary comrades he traveled with after leaving SEAUn, who were mostly mercenaries like him skating by and keeping a low profile. She chuckles to herself as she tries to picture him , of all people, keeping a low profile, which she then explains once he questions her reaction. He laughs along with her briefly, but it doesn’t last long.

His eyes change when his story shifts, and he tells her of a young girl he met named Tenzing. He doesn’t tell her much. His story focuses more on the act of saving a bus full of refugees from armed guerillas--which, to her, sounds a lot more like him than in the previous tale--and how he was followed by the young girl, who’d been on the bus, to seek self defense training. 

He tells her she was a cheerful, enthusiastic child with a lot of passion and promise, and that he agreed to train her because she was an orphan of war, and that he felt sorry for her. He pauses there, and she can see the sadness hardening his eyes like steel. She can tell that there is more to the story, but he seems hesitant to continue. So she gives him an out.

“Sometimes I wonder if kindness is actually your true weakness,” she muses aloud. 

That takes him aback. “As opposed to something else?”

“I would have said fear before, but now I might be thinking differently.”

He leans back against the booth cushion and studies her with a calculating eye, crossing his arms over his chest. “You must think you have me all figured out, then, right?”

“Is it rude of me to say that I think I do? To a degree at least?”

“It’s not so much rude as it is ballsy,” he says.

She laughs, but goes on to explain her reasoning. “I’ll admit, you puzzled me when we first met,” she says. “I couldn’t figure you out for awhile.”

“That’s funny,” he interjects. “I used to feel the same about you.”

“Do you think you have me all figured out, too?”

“More or less. To a degree,” he adds with a smirk. “Though I’m not as confident as you seem to be.”

“What it comes down to is an understanding of someone’s character,” she says. It took her a long time to figure that out, though she hadn’t figured it out all on her own. “When you understand their character, you can understand their reasoning behind most things.”

“And when you understand reasoning, you can make all sorts of inferences,” he finishes. “That’s what you were going to say, right?” 

She nods. She gives him a curious smile, seeing the gears turn in his head. She wonders what he’s going to say next.

“Put your theory to the test, then,” he challenges, throwing back the last of his drink and setting the glass down at the end of the table. “If you have me all figured out, tell me what you think my type is.”

It’s her turn to be taken aback, and she feels her cheeks grow warm. She avoids his eyes, at first wondering why this prompt of all things, then supposes it’s his way of making up for poking fun at her regarding the same topic earlier. Either way, she decides to humor him.

“You’re similar to me,” she says thoughtfully, “you prefer someone intellectually stimulating. Monotony bores you, so you like someone who can keep you on your toes--but not someone too reckless, even though that’s rather hypocritical, if you ask me.” He chuckles at the abrupt drop in her tone, riddled with vexation, before she continues. “You have a very protective nature, so you prefer someone that you can easily protect. But you also like when someone has a strong sense of self and can be assertive when they need to be. There’s a complicated balance there, but the right person won’t make it complicated.”

He takes a long moment to consider everything when she finishes.

“I’d give that about an eighty-five percent accuracy,” he says finally. “Maybe ninety.”

“Did I miss something?”

“You didn’t mention anything about physicalities.”

“You’re not materialistic; you value intellect more than anything. I didn’t think things that are particularly important to you.”

“Not most things, but some things.”

Now she’s the one who doesn’t remember leaning forward. “Like what?”

He mirrors her instinctively, with a peculiar repressed grin on his lips--almost coy. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” 

“You’re the one who mentioned it,” she shrugs. She distracts herself by sipping on what was left of her drink.

“Was I?”

She backtracks when she pauses to recall the exchange just a moment before. “It was more of a group effort,” she decides. “But either way, I wouldn’t consider physical preferences as something that can be deduced by one’s character.”

“All right then,” he says. “I take it back. I’ll give you ninety-five percent accuracy.”

“What about the other five?”

“You really don’t settle for less than perfect scores, do you?” 

She laughs, because he’s right, yet she fixes a look on him that tells him she isn’t backing down until she hears his answer. Always so persistent and thorough. He sighs.

“It would be inappropriate to say,” he says quietly, and he almost feels bad for the urge to chuckle he has when the rose hue returns to her complexion. She finishes her drink then scoots the empty glass to sit discarded beside his.

“Is it because you’re shy?” she asks. There’s a ghost of a challenge in her tone that he’s positive he isn’t imagining. He no longer feels bad. 

He chooses his next words carefully.

“It’s...more of a conversation that would be better had upstairs.” 

For a moment, the air between them is stiffer from his implications hanging heavily in it. It takes her a second to process his words, and then she seems to process them a second time to have them finally click, cued by her eyes widening just slightly. Before she responds to him, she checks the time via the terminal on her wrist. He’s surprised by how strongly he anticipates her answer, by how his heart beat with a more vigorous rhythm in his chest than it was just moments before.

“I’m tempted, but,” she says, following her words with a sigh, and he already knows what comes next. “It’s getting late, and I have plans in the morning. I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head, waving away her apology. Her unwavering sense of responsibility hasn’t changed either, it seems. His ego isn’t bruised by any means. The admittance of temptation alone is enough to satisfy him. 

“Perhaps when you find time to return the book, you won’t be visiting too late,” he says. 

“I’ll make sure to leave the following morning open, too,” she says, offering him a smile before she gets up to pay the bill.

Back upstairs, she swaps his jacket for her coat, and even though hers is thicker and more suited for the wintry gusts swirling outside, it’s not nearly as warm. She takes Poe from his outstretched hand and tucks it into her purse, and from there she isn’t sure how to bid him goodnight. She feels a desire to do something, but nothing fitting comes to mind. He doesn’t offer anything other than holding the door open for her.

As she steps through the door, she assures him she will call a taxi instead of driving herself home, and promises she will come say hello in the morning when she returns for her car--if he’s awake, that is--and then he returns her ‘goodnight’ as she makes her way down the hall.

She listens for the sound of his door closing as she approaches the elevator, but she doesn’t turn around even though she never hears it. 

Once down in the lobby, she makes her way to the front door with a taxi service pulled up on her cell phone. On her way, she passes by the bar she was just sitting in a few minutes ago. A smile dances on her lips, warming her from head to toe. It may be the most recent, but this memory is definitely the one she’s most fond of, even if it was rather fleeting in comparison to the others.

And then something about that thought makes her stop in her tracks, just a short distance from the revolving door. Her thumb hovers over the button she’s just pressed, promising a momentary pick-up, but her eyes are fixed on the cancel button in the corner.

Does she really have to leave so soon? She hadn’t seen him in over two years, and she’s already leaving with no definitive plans to see him again after what, less than an hour? That hardly seems fair in comparison.

She turns back to the bar, and from where she stands, peering into the open space, she can see the table where they sat. The bartender is only just now collecting their used cups, preparing to wipe down the table, and she remembers the way his hand curled around the base of his glass when he drank, how his fingertip drew circles around the rim when he spoke, how his eyes shone in a way that matched his glass reflecting the light fixtures above when he gave her an implied invitation back upstairs. 

Perhaps it’s the two margaritas to blame, but she quickly hits ‘cancel’ before she can stop herself. And then she’s walking back into the bar to the counter, and purchases a bottle of Cabernet while she types up a message to Kaori. She hits send, takes back her card and freshly unsealed bottle, and makes her way back to the elevator.

He’s just finished undoing the last button of his shirt when there’s an unexpected knock at the door, barely audible with the shower running. He leans past the curtain to twist the knob, shutting off the water. As he makes his way to the door, he wonders if it’s Akane, but he knows she didn’t forget anything; or maybe it’s a housekeeper, though it seems a bit late for that.

When he opens the door, he’s surprised to see Akane standing before him, holding up a bottle of Cabernet with a look of question in her eyes. They drop briefly to his midsection, then flit back up to his face just as quickly as they fell.

“This isn’t a taxi,” he says, leaning against the door frame. He can see her throat contract when she swallows.

“I don’t need one,” she asserts.

He suppresses a grin and steps to the side, closing the door behind her. She slips off her shoes and drops her purse to the small table next to the closet.

“What happened to your morning plans?” he asks, taking from her the wine bottle as well as her coat. He holds onto the back of the collar while she slips herself out of it.

“I pushed them back,” she says. “Did I interrupt something?” She gestures to his shirt, which still hangs open from his shoulders.

“Just a shower.” With her coat hung properly in the closet, he slides the door shut.

“Well don’t let me stop you,” she says, offering a kind smile. “I can wait.”

“You sure?”

She nods, then pulls the book of poetry from her purse as he turns and heads back into the bathroom, after tossing the bottle safely onto the bed. She can hear the water switch on through the closed door while she surveys the room, and reaches around her neck to remove her necklace.

A small stack of paper cups sit beside a coffee maker on the desk. They aren’t technically proper, but they work just fine for casually drinking wine. She pours herself a small amount, leaving her necklace and earrings on the desk, and curls up on the chaise with his book.

Kogami is quick; by the time Akane reads through only two pages, she hears the sudden absence of pouring water followed by the screech of shower curtain rungs being pulled to the side. She pauses her reading, sipping Cabernet from her paper cup, and decides to wait for him before she continues.

His hair is still wet when he sits down beside her, and he wears the same clothes as before, only his shirt is buttoned rather lazily. The top of his chest is exposed, and she has a nice view of his collarbone. She briefly wonders before deciding with suspicious certainty that he’s done it very much on purpose.

He glances down to read the page where she holds the book open.

“‘Annabelle Lee’ is one of my favorites,” he comments, before swallowing a rather generous amount of liquid from his own cup.

“Really?” she asks. “That’s a bit of a surprise to me.”

“What do you think of it?” he asks.

“I like it,” she says, “but I think I’d like it more if you read it aloud.” He gives her a perceptive smile, obliging, and he dumps back the rest of his wine impressively fast so he can take the book from her hands after discarding the cup to the floor. He invites her to lean into him, draping his arm behind her shoulders across the back of the chaise. She does, with a warm fluttering in her stomach, and curls her legs up onto the seat underneath her, resting her head comfortably against his shoulder.

As he reads, Akane finds that the poem is significantly better read in his voice, which is low and rough, compared to reading it in her head. Something about the rugged resonance of his voice telling the tale of a love so strong and intense that it makes angels envious, a love that ultimately suffers the tragedy of death, brings it to life, as though his voice alone could sculpt the tale into reality. 

He turns the page and continues to read, and she listens. Her eyes follow along with the words as he reads them aloud, and she sips on Cabernet until her cup is empty and she holds it lazily with both hands in her lap.

Eventually, the sound of his voice coaxes her eyes to relax, and they flutter closed. Before long, Kogami notices, and he pauses, craning his neck forward to inspect.

“You’re not falling asleep on me, are you?” he asks. She hasn’t, and her eyes open. Having his answer, he pulls back.

“No,” she answers anyway. “It’s just nice to hear you read.”

“You didn’t come back just to listen to me read.” It comes out as both a question and a statement, but she stiffens nevertheless when she feels his breath tickle her ear. She can feel his eyes on her, studying her, reading her reaction, and she wants to return his gaze, but she can’t bring herself to look away from the book in his lap.

She can speak, at the very least.

“What did I come back for, then?” she asks. Her words come out sounding stronger than she feels. She wants to say more, to help steer the conversation like she had absolutely no problem doing when she sat across the table from him earlier, but the warm shape of his body against hers is incredibly distracting. Her eyes study the shape of his hand, the bridges of his fingers as they rest on worn pages. She wonders what they feel like.

“A stimulating conversation, maybe,” he muses. His voice is lower than normal, and she can still feel his breath on her ear, and his arm draped behind her edges noticeably closer until she feels it against her back and his hand cups her shoulder.

“You are good at those,” she says through a shaky breath. She notices a small movement in the corner of her eyes so her gaze flits to it, and she finds herself eyeing the zipper of his pants.

“So I’ve heard.” Her cheeks start to feel warm.

“I liked the one we were having downstairs,” she manages. Kogami slowly closes the book, but continues to hold it in his lap.

He hums with feigned confusion, and though she cannot see his face, she can hear the smirk he’s undoubtedly wearing. “You’re going to have to refresh my memory.”

“We were talking about weaknesses,” she says, and as she speaks he moves the book to drop on the floor.

“We never did talk about yours, did we?”

She doesn’t know why, but she laughs. Maybe it’s because she’s feeling on edge, anticipating what comes next, and didn’t think this would be it.

“I really don’t know what it is,” she says with uncertain honesty. She watches as his hand reaches for hers, plucking the empty cup from them and discarding it to join the book. “Sometimes I think I’m too cold-hearted.”

This time Kogami is the one to laugh. The sound of it bursting from his chest melts away some of the tension in her shoulders.

“What makes you think that?” he asks.

“Because my psycho-pass doesn’t cloud.”

“That’s the last word I would use to describe you,” he says, replacing the hole left gaping in her hands with his own. It’s big and warm and fits perfectly between hers, and holding it gives her a sudden rise of insurmountable courage, as though it were a chink in his armor that she can cling to for purchase. She turns her body just slightly so she can look up at him comfortably, and his hand moves from her shoulder to hover just over the back of her neck.

“How would you describe me, then?” she asks, hoping to turn the conversation to her favor. He mirrors her, pulling a leg up onto the seat so he can face her too.

Despite her effort, Kogami is impossible to catch off guard.

“Intellectually stimulating,” he says thoughtfully, and though he doesn’t smile, there is an unmistakable hint of amusement in the corners of his lips. “Maybe you can be a little reckless, but you work with caution. You’re careful and thoughtful. You’re small-” and when he says this, a charmed smile bleeds through his expression despite his efforts to suppress it, “-easy to protect. And you’re an independent thinker. You aren’t afraid to do things your own way. And you’re complicated, but in the best way.”

When he finishes, her cheeks are uncomfortably warm and he’s leaning a lot closer than he was before. She does, admittedly, feel touched upon hearing his words, but despite that, her eyes are wide and taken aback. It’s not verbatim, but he’s just repeated her words from earlier to describe her, and it’s a substantial pill for her to digest.

Still, brave words leave her mouth before she even realizes she is speaking.

“I give that a ninety-five percent,” she says, countering him, her tone incongruent with her demeanor. She’s tense, and she grips his hand to keep hers from trembling. He notices.

“That last five percent is making you nervous,” he observes aloud. His voice, though low and rough, somehow has an easing effect with an unusual gentleness. Maybe it’s the fact that he can read her like a book and she doesn’t have to say it that makes her relax, even if it’s only miniscule.

“A little,” she admits. He surprises her when he takes one of her hands and raises it, her eyes following out of curiosity.

“Don’t be,” he says to her skin. “It’s just me.” A kiss to the back of her hand sends an excited flutter rippling through her nerves, raising the hair on her arms as her heart leaps in her chest so loudly that she’s she he can hear it.

He is right, and she’s fully aware of it. She knows she shouldn’t be nervous around him. There exists nobody else in the world that she trusts more than the man kissing her hand, holding her in the ghost of an embrace.

“Although there’d be no hard feelings if you got that taxi after all.”

It is this moment that secures her in place. He’s giving her an out, before they walk over the line that cannot be uncrossed. A line of which she has never strayed across before, not with anybody, ever, nor has it even been as close as it is now, just under her fingertips, encircling her with a tempting hand teasing the back of her neck and a knee guarding her in place. 

Perhaps what makes her tremble is the stark unfamiliarity of senses heightened contrasting with how drawn she is to him, how she longs for nothing but to undo the rest of his buttons and lose herself in what comes after.

It’s sweet, but the idea of leaving now is simply laughable. Her hand travels to his thigh, gripping it with silent reassurance.

Her eyes, wide and brown and eager, say it even louder. His are stormy, and in them she can see the way his heart pounds mercilessly just as hers does, and yet there’s a coolness smoothing his slate sky into something tameable.

Control, she realizes, and she wonders in an instance like this what he’s like without it.

His long hand finally settles at the base of her neck, warm and ever present through the thin layer of her sweater. Her own hand falls from his grip to melt into the crook of his elbow as he moves to capture her jaw instead, and she practically pulls herself towards him by his thigh as he leans into her, until their lips meet and she’s delighted to find his are much softer than they look.

She’s pulled into his lap within moments, his hand cradling her underside and trapping her in place, though she hardly minds. Her fingers fumble awkwardly with the buttons of his shirt, pushing it open as far as his shoulders will allow once she frees him of the garment, her polished nails grazing his skin as she drags her hands up his neck to cup his jaws, holding him close as he kisses her furiously.

He breaks the kiss only to slip her sweater up over her head, and the second she’s free he captures her lips again, forcing them apart with his. His tongue, she finds, is just as soft and inviting as his lips.

Distracted, she doesn’t take much notice of his collection of her wrists, as he gently pulls each of them behind her back until he locks one hand ensnared tightly around them. She jumps at this, faltering from his lips, and rests her forehead against his, still close enough that she can feel his sultry breath warming her face. 

“Too forward?” he asks, and his rough voice is low and just as hot. 

She shakes her head, and she can feel her cheeks glowing with heat; they deepen in color when his eyes narrow curiously and he asks if she rather likes it, to which she nods. And she likes it a lot more when he rewards her honesty with a kiss, but this time he is slower, and more gentle, and as he kisses her his free hand trails down the exposed curves of her body until he’s inching under the hem of her skirt and slowly hiking it up her thigh. 

She shudders when his fingers finally forge their way between her legs, and as he strokes her softly he breathes in every single one of the faint cries that spill from her lips.

“Are you still interested in that perfect score?” he asks, muttering in her ear. To her credit, she gives him a playful smirk despite the distracting treatment he’s giving her in her willfully confined predicament.

“The gentleman would really reveal his secrets to me?” she teases. He pulls back to look at her, shooting her a self-depreciating leer of his own.

“I’m no gentleman,” he says. 

“You are to me,” she counters, meeting his gaze firmly. Looking at her, he can’t say she’s entirely wrong. His hand retracts, and although she can’t see it beneath the fabric of her skirt, her eyes dart down instinctively as if looking to see why he stopped. But just as quickly, he tips her gaze back up to his by the gentle grip of her chin, and he’s smiling at her strangely.

“I wonder why that is,” he says. His stare is warm and inviting, and it leaves her heart fluttering as he leans in, closing the distance between them once more, only his lips are rougher, and more insistent. Then he releases her wrists silently, placing them on his shoulders one at a time, and then he’s standing, lifting her into the air with him. 

He lays her back on the bed, and the lights automatically dim, casting a dull, white glow over them that leaves her bare skin radiant like silver. 

Her skirt is too restrictive, and that’s a problem; before he crawls over her frame, he rids her of it entirely, slipping the black from her silky legs along with her tights. She parts her knees for him eagerly, her lips awaiting his return with heated fervor.

In the dark, it’s easier. Hesitation no longer exists, and neither does the past that kept them apart for so long.

He murmurs in her ear with his hand buried beneath her panties, his touches no longer slow and soft, but fast, and rough with need. She struggles to keep up with him.

“I like someone who wants me to take the lead,” he says gruffly. It takes her only a quick moment to figure out what he’s talking about. “Someone who likes to be submissive.”

She can feel the heat spreading across her face, like his rough voice melts into liquid that drips from his lips to her skin and ignites her all the way down to her core. He lets his words hang in the air for a few long moments, busying himself with leaving wet kisses along her neckline.

When her only response is nothing but breathy gasps, he turns the tables on her instead.

“Why don’t you tell me more about your type?” he goads. Being inexperienced, she doesn’t know how to answer, and his generous attention on her makes it difficult to think. But she likes this, more deeply than she thought she would, so that has to mean something, right?

She blurts it out without meaning to, but it’s not the wrong answer.

“You.”

By the way his lips freeze, lingering just above her skin, coupled by his fingers slowing inside her, she guesses that it was not what he was expecting to hear. For a second, she worries she’s said the wrong thing, came on too strongly, pushed herself too far forward on a weak limb.

Minute traces of panic creep through her fingertips as his hand slips from inside her, but are instantly quelled as he shifts his body completely over hers, and he cups her face with both of his hands. Cracks are starting to form in that smooth gloss masking his storm.

The next kiss is hungry, demanding. He’s quickly losing his will to hold back. His hands can’t sit still, and they trade places between holding her jaw, snaking into her hair, and gently squeezing the side of her neck, his thumbs tracing carefully over her trachea with restraint.  His knees force hers apart, and she works on forcing him out of his shirt despite the mess of his hands, freeing his thick arms for her to grab onto appreciatively for purchase.

He moves back to her neck, twisting her face away with a firm grip of her chin, his palm daring to press deeper into her throat. She gasps at the feeling of his lips, enjoying the subtle pressure of his hand. Her hips start to move, seeking relief for the heated excitement flaring between her thighs, but as quickly as they start, she stops herself. 

It doesn’t go unnoticed.

“It’s okay,” he says softly against her skin. “Don’t be shy. Show me how badly you want me.” His words of encouragement arouse a new layer of heat to her cheeks that she’s grateful he can’t see in the dark, but she gives in, letting her reservation melt away with the kisses he trails down to her collarbone. His hips meet hers as she grinds against him, and with it she lets out a pleased groan that curls his lips.

Soon after his hands glide beneath her shoulders, and she lifts herself to give his fingers room to slip off her bra. Her hands take root in wet clumps of his hair when he dips his head to her breast, taking the sensitive skin in his mouth and dragging his tongue around it until he’s pulling from her a light string of moans that grind his hips roughly against hers.

The tautness of her fingers alerts him of her growing impatience, closely matching his. His hands drift downward over her stomach, curling around the top of her panties and slipping them down her thighs, but then he freezes suddenly, cursing once he realizes he doesn’t have protection.

Luckily, she’s come prepared, and gestures for her purse on the table. He retrieves it for her, and jots down a quick mental reminder to stock up on his own supply, noting the exact brand labeled on the little square she produces triumphantly from her bag, holding it up in the air like a hard-earned trophy.

He takes it from her hands, then he steps off the bed to slip from the confines of his jeans, and she nudges her panties from her ankles using her feet. The dull light shining from above the headboard lights his skin aglow, and she watches the shadows of his large muscles dance along his arms while he unzips his pants and shifts to step out of them. 

He moves at a slow enough pace that she can take in all of him with affectionate, sultry eyes, but not too slow so as to not waste any time. His patience is wearing dangerously thin, and from the gaping distance between them she can see the storm of his eyes threatening to break the glass that holds him back. 

Eyeing her body while he rolls on the condom only makes him eager to ingrain the shape of her to his hands’ memory. She lays with her head propped up by pillows, and she watches him with parted, wet lips and a hungry stare. One hand rests above her breast, as though she were holding her heart in place where it threatened to burst from her chest, while the other squeezes the comforter in anticipation. Her legs are bent, her knees resting together, and he’s not sure if she’s fully aware of the intimate display she gives him or if she’s doing it on purpose, but either way, it’s hidden, cast in the shadow of her thighs.

His hands part them needlessly as he moves over her, and she melds her chest to his as he settles on top of her. She cradles his jaw between her soft hands as he lowers his mouth to hers. The kiss is rough and filled with need, and when he plunges himself into her that need isn’t sated in the slightest; rather, it intensifies drastically.

The first few thrusts are careful, calculating, ensuring she isn’t uncomfortable or hurt, but the way she throws her head back in relief, the intensity of her grip as her hands slide to his shoulders, the way her legs wrap tightly around his waist, all push him just over the edge of caution.

His hips pick up in pace and soon he’s snapping against her in a steady rhythm, and he’s grabbing her wrists to pin her hands just above her crown, their fingers lacing together as he crushes his lips to hers possessively, devouring her pleasured cries in his throat. He has to pull away after a moment to allow them to breathe, and he inches their hands higher above her head, caging her face between his arms. As his thrusts grow rougher and faster, he grunts into her shoulder, and her voice rises higher in pitch, chiming in the air like a blissful song floating through his ears. It only pushes him to move faster, harder, deeper into her to see just how much she can take, how much higher he can guide her cries, until her back is arching sharply and her chest presses roughly into his, and her head is thrown back in a final cry as her body convulses with pleasure beneath his, and he follows shortly behind her with a throaty groan into the softness of her neck.

He rests there for a long moment, holding himself up just enough for her to breathe as deeply as she needs to, to catch her breath while he catches his, taking refuge in her warmth. She pries her hands from under his to hold him. Her fingertips massage his scalp lazily, smiling gently when stray tufts of his hair tickles her nose.

Aside from the dim light above them, the window is the only other source of light in the room, and so her eyes are drawn to the open space between the drapes. The sky outside is darker than their room, illuminated by the very same city lights she tenderly watched pass her by as she drove to see him earlier in the night.

The bubbling nervousness she’d felt then, to her, is simply ludicrous as she lay beneath him now, happy and content and without a care in the world. This isn’t how she’d pictured the night to progress, and she isn’t normally one to give into temptations, especially if those temptations breach her responsibilities. 

But as she looks back down at him, at the scruffy, damp mess of his unruly hair sticking out between her fingers, she can’t help but smile. He undoubtedly is, and always will be, an exception. And she is perfectly fine with that.

[maladaptive-ninja-returns]

Kira (13)

CHAPTER 13: I Don't Want To Be Lonely    

Loki x fem!Reader (Kira)

Series: Will contain fluff, smut, bloodshed, violence, anxiety, tears and the cries of my wilted soul.

Chapter content: Yeah...last time wasn’t good. This is...well...

Warnings: Blood. Blood. Blood?

Word count: Should I be really concerned about the fact that my colleagues think I have had enough ‘days off’ when I was trying to help my family make arrangement for the funeral and he wake? Because I feel like I would be needing a day or two off in the future. For an emotional break. And my boss’ attitude is clearly not making it easy. Anyways. I’m still trying to be positive every day. Music helps. My brothers and sister help too. Hopefully this’ll pass soon. *deep breath* *nods*

MASTERLIST & Taglist in bio, my love

"Can you please change the music. It is burning my ears."

"No."

Loki turns to look at Heimdall with a simmering stare before letting his fingers change the track. The contemporary harps change to classics. While Loki seems satisfied with them, Heimdall rolls his eyes at it.

"Seriously? Could you not be any more of a boring personality?"

"Why? Watching me throughout the day isn't enough for you now?"

"Shut up, Loki."

"Don't even dare turn back that sloppy thing you call musi-"

The harps come back again.

"Is this why Odin sent you out of the country? He couldn't stand you doing whatever you wanted, right?"

Heimdall just sighs. The music is turned back to the classics. The next five minutes of the ride are spent in brooding silence that is diluted by the violin on the speakers.

"I don't even understand why you would consider sticking to me like a fly when you could've been guarding your golden boy," Loki murmurs.

Heimdall swerves through the traffic on the highway, looking at the raven-haired man from the corner of his eyes, wetting his lips, taking his time to answer that question. "Frigga made me promise to look after you."

Loki doesn't say it but the slow blink he does clearly shows all signs of internal shocks he is feeling right now.

"I have my allegiance to the queen way before I came under the wings of Odin. Or Thor. And I've never gone back on my word to her."

Silence.

"I'm sure you haven't. M-the queen knows well to use them wisely. Especially in front of the king."

"Alright. Okay. Stop being so passive-aggressive. Kira is just in being angry at us."

"I'm not-" Loki stops and sighs, letting his arm rest on his window's lower edge while he massages the bridge of his nose. "How did she even know?"

"You recruited her, Loki. She clearly can connect the dots even if it’s slower than you. You should've known it won't be long till she figured it out."

The lights from the small local shops and big hotels next to the highway are a blur to Loki's eyes. He tries to close them, hoping to remember the last time he saw you happy with him.

"I don't think she has it in her to avenge herself."

"She's not weak, Loki."

"She's too pure, Heimdall. She does not deserve that. No kid deserves that. And she does not deserve to be in this perilous world." The eyes aren't even trying to focus at the scenic dusk anymore. "She doesn't belong here," he whispers to himself.

Heimdall's hands grip on the steering a bit too hard. "She's stronger than she looks. I'm sure she can take care of herself. And when she can't...well, she has a lot of people lookin' out for her."

Loki smiles before furrowing his brows. "I think what you call looking out for is practically called being creepy, Heimdall."

Heimdall twists his jaw. "You better watch your mouth before I broadcast your live feed to the world."

"You'd be doing the world a favour."

The groan and chuckle are interrupted by Loki's phone ringing over the SUV's speaker with Robert's name flashing on the screen.

What did she do now, is all Loki can think when he swipes the green icon to take the call. "Robert."

"Loki-"

His name is but a broken sob escaping a set of aching lungs from the other end of the phone, pushing both Loki and Heimdall to the literal edge of their seats. The sobbing doesn't stop. Before Loki can even tell him, Heimdall is taking out the orbs from his pockets, picking up the one that glows vigorously and planting it in a slot right next to the wheel, calling out a screen over the dashboard to pin-point the location for him.

Loki's heart is beating fast, that usual raging ache being replaced by spasms of concern when Heimdall is putting the car in overspeed to reach where that little blimping yellow dot points on the screen.

.

The silence of the hospital is haunting to say the least. Even this early in the night just two people sit in the waiting area under the weak fluorescent lights- one of them flickering at nonperiodic intervals. The receptionist sits laid back with a mobile in their hand, playing a game. A family sits on the upper floor, the kids eating chips while the mother pats the smallest of the children to sleep in her lap. The other mother is preventing herself from nodding off to sleep, time and again removing the crease from the papers in her hands, sitting up whenever she sees a doctor walk by. The floor above that is empty. Most of the lights have been switched off and the janitor is cleaning the floors, making them ready for the crowd that will rush in first thing at the crack of dawn to consult the doctors. The topmost floor is the only one brightly lit. It too is fairly empty- no waiting patients or visiting crowds- but for the doctors and nurses going about. The corridors carry the smell of disinfectants. Two nurses are walking down, laughing and joking about something. The minimal sitting outside the ICU has just one figure sitting there, fingers gripping on to fingers, nails being dragged down the skin on the back of the hands to feel something other than that noise of the heart ripping out of the chest. Feet being unstable- tapped now then due to the restlessness. Eyes being wiped away time and again with the tissues one of the nurses were kind enough to hand out. Now even the little soft paper is crumpled to its last bits, wet and beyond recognition. The cold draft coming in through every open door and exit does not help the already shaken nerves, but it does keep them awake.

The door to the ICU opens and your trembling legs get up from the seat with a wobble, your bloodshot eyes looking behind the doctor before anxiously settling on her. She speaks. The words do not settle in the first time. Nor the second. It takes a couple of repeated loops to understand what she's saying. She's calling out your name really softly, asking you if you're okay. You simply nod. She directs you to the corridor and you watch Robert wheeled out to the same direction she's pointing. He's covered in bandages and respiratory-mask along with more than one IV drip. He's being taken somewhere else. You want to go too. Be with him. But your legs don't move. They can't. You do try taking a step, but it ends up hurting everything inside you.

Don't leave him, your inner voice says, pushing you to walk and stop again. This time your legs stop on seeing Heimdall and Loki standing at the end of the corridor, looking like they've seen a ghost. Or something worse.

One look into Loki's eyes and you can feel yourself wanting to rush towards him for comfort because your frail heart cannot take it anymore. But the mind wants to force every rational thought upon you, instead making you walk towards his figure that is also managing to close the distance between the two of you.

"Are you alright?"

The cracked heart is broken into smithereens at his concern. You just nod because speaking will take a toll on you, gesturing to the room where Robert's been taken.

Loki hasn't missed the red marring your blouse and pants, smearing your neck and hands. His relief in seeing you stand in one piece is diluting the shock he is feeling on speculating what all you have gone through these past two hours. He wants to straighten your hair and pull you in his embrace. He wants to let you know you're safe. But he doesn't know if he any longer has the authority to do so. And he would rather kill himself than cross another line that might end up hurting you.

"The doctor's allowed us to see him," Heimdall breaks the morbid trance between you two, forcing you to walk inside.

.

The beeps and hiss of the machines on the other side of the mirror fill the mute room where you and Loki sit- Heimdall stands, looking out the window, his hands in his pockets, the eyes sharp at any movement outside, his ears listening to the police officials trying to take your statement.

"You were facing the direction of the shooter and Robert was behind you," the officer named Gary breaks off, "but then you say Robert fell over you."

Gary's partner Sasha rolls her eyes.

"As I said," you try to keep your voice smooth, "Robert pushed me away, he tried to cover me and got...he got..."

Gary still isn't satisfied. "Again, was it a push or was it a cover?"

Loki tsks, rolling his eyes and looking at Gary with the will to choke him there and then. Sasha has seen that look way too many times for her partner.

"Gary," she begins, "she's in shock. I think we can give her the benefit of the doubt and carry on our investigation at the shooting point. Come on."

"But-"

"Gary...come on."

"Sasha, be a good officer for once and see this interrogation through. Shock or not, she's gotta recall the events and tell them for what they are. Otherwise, it all looks fabricated."

"Officer Gerald," Heimdall speaks from the window with the authority that the two uniforms are only used to in their office, "why don't we have a word outside?"

Heimdall turns and Sasha can see some wire inside Gary's system trip as his stance changes within seconds.

"Y-yeah. We were leaving anyways. To check out the uh that parking lot."

"Very well then."

Sasha would be lying if she says she isn't feeling something tingle between her legs on watching that man move the entire mood of the room with just his presence.

The officers make their exit and the silence tries to return again.

"I'll talk to Kol to amp up the security. You two should get some rest," Heimdall states before leaving the room.

"Come on," Loki gets up, "I'll drive you home."

"It's my fault."

You look up towards Loki. "He's here because of me." The last word breaks into broken chords.

Loki comes and sits down beside you. "Kira, it's not your fault. You did not know what was going to happen. Robert was there doing was he was supposed to do. And he clearly did his job well. Because you're here. Alive and breathing. If anyone is going to pay it'll be the person who did this to him. Who tried to-" he tries to keep his breath steady- "do this to you."

Loki can see the marks on the back of your fingers, redness painting your skin- a sign he's is quite familiar with.

"Are you okay?"

You bite your lips. pressing your hands against each other. "Russo asked me to come work with him."

Now, this wasn't something Loki was expecting to hear. 

He has to gulp down this information in order to keep his senses.

"Oh. So... you've thought about it?"

You turn your head to look at him, nearly scaring him with that look in your eyes followed by an offended scoff. "I'm not leaving you for him."

He tries to hide it but the positive swell in his chest brings an involuntary smile on his face.

"That man is shady."

"Why? Why do you think so?"

"The file Robert had made had the names of everyone working under Russo in Anvil Corp or for Anvil Corp. Donatella's name was in there."

Just when Loki thought that cliché of a man could not surprise him anymore.

"And him asking me to come away with him then clearly didn't sound like he was just doing it for personal interests."

Now Loki just wanted him dead.

"Miss Kira?" A nurse called out from the door.

"Yes?" You answered, both you and Loki wondering what it was about.

"Are you ready for the examination?"

You blink and sit there frozen for a few moments before nodding a confirmation and getting up, Loki mirroring you.

Both of you meet Heimdall in the waiting area on your way to the floor downstairs.

"Kol's all set up. Four men will be guarding Robert's room."

"Are they trustworthy, Heimdall? I don't want anything compromised for Robert."

Heimdall nods. "They're Robert's men. Believe me, they'll be doing more than we'd ask without us asking. For him."

"Make sure one of them brings him a hot cup of that Manali tea he likes. Along with croissants from The Irish Baker. That's a bakery cum cafe by the turn to Beverly Avenue."

Heimdall has to pause for a moment when he has to retake the moment in and realise the genuine concern in Loki's eyes.

"Yes, I'll make sure of it." He assures. "Come, I'll drive you home."

"No, you go ahead. Kira has her examination right now."

"Loki," you speak up, suddenly realising you've been calling your boss by his name, "I think you should go."

The change does not go unnoticed by the men either. But Heimdall rather not talk about it. Yet.

"No, I'm not leaving you h-"

"Kol can drive me home. Or David."

"She's right," Heimdall acknowledges, only earning Loki's judgmental glare, "for all we know this could be an attack on you. It's not like that hasn't happened before. Four men will be by Kira's side here. And you're coming home with me. Now."

"I'll be fine," you reassure your boss with a weak smile.

"Heimdall will wait here with you then."

"Will you just take him already?" You straightway talk to Heimdall, letting Loki take a very light but hurt gasp.

"Okay fine. I'm going," Loki agrees ultimately, "but you better get home soon."

And in that one soft moment when you're looking into those clouded green eyes, you want to take his face into your palms and assure him that you will. While Loki, at that very moment wants to take your face into his hands and beg you to let him stay and be there for you; for he doesn't want to let anything happen to you. He wants to make sure you're safe.

"I will. I promise."

Your words create an echo inside him. And he has to take that echo with him when he steps away from you to walk away and go home.

.

"So, what do you think?"

"My bet is on Andrews."

Heimdall brings the engine to life. Loki takes out his phone to dial Tez.

"That man never liked me anyway," Loki mutters ever so casually, "but I would not rule out a few other names."

"I'm tightening your security," Heimdall announces, "I hope that's enough for all the people who want you dead."

"Aw," Loki scrunches his nose a bit, "they'll only see me dead when I want to die, Heimdall. You should know that by now."

"Tez," Loki's attention is on the phone now, "I'm sure you've heard of the events by now. This is code sapphire. You know what needs to be taken care of, I presume?"

"Yes, sir," Tez confirms.

"What's code sapphire?" The lines on Heimdall's forehead are somehow working really well for Loki's amusement.

"There are days when I wish you don't know what I am doing by every literal second." Loki fastens his seatbelt. "This is one of those days Heimdall."

.

The plates are cold over your bare skin and the air conditioning is really not helping at all.

"Is this really necessary?" You ask whoever is standing outside the x-ray room. "I just fell on the ground. That's actually pretty usual for me."

No answer.

You sigh and are about to slouch over when a flash works its way throughout the room.

"Anything else?" You- out and dressed up- ask the nurse who's been instructed by the doctor to carry out certain standard check-ups.

"Just a few more minutes," the nurse answers before picking up a pen a board with a checklist.

You groan internally and try to find the energy to go through the interrogation again.

"When was your last meal?"

"Uhh...it was...I don't know the time exactly. It was lunch on another continent so my guess is seventeen hours. Give or take a few." You simply shrug.

The nurse eyes you with a cocked brow and you cannot help but feel a flare of judgment lingering in those eyes.

"How's your eyesight?"

"I use glasses," you point at the ones you're wearing a bit too obviously. The nurse just sighs.

"Are you sexually active?"

"No."

"... I'd suggest you don't lie on your medical report."

The nurse is still moving her pen on the board when she makes that blunt remark that really rubs you the wrong way.

"Excuse me?"

An eye roll later the nurse is watching with a resting bitch face.

"I mean, come on, girl. I saw the man who was with you tonight. You don't need to hide that you're some big hotshot's lady."

"Okay," you raise your finger to address the frustration growing inside you, "it is none of your business who I do or do not sleep with. All you need to worry about is the information you're being provided."

She looks at you before exhaling a 'whatever' and going back to her sheet.

"You don't have to cry just 'cause you're his mistress."

Oh my God!

"Linda, I'd suggest you get out of the room before the patient sues you for harassment."

A sweet voice calls out from the door and you turn to watch another nurse standing there with her arms crossed across her chest, staring down at the other nurse.

"I was jus-"

"You should go," the blonde-haired nurse announces, bringing forward her hand to take charge, "I'll take care of the rest."

The former nurse clearly doesn't look happy but she lets go of the paperwork and walks out saying something snarky under her breath.

"I'm really sorry about that," the new one apologises, "the staff is usually really nice here. I'm Harleen."

"I'm Kira," you respond.

Harleen's presence somewhat lights up the room. And her smile only adds to the radiance she is emanating. She makes the effort to go through your chart and write what all reports are pending.

"We are all done here. Is there anything you'd like to ask me?"

You try to think of something that you might need to know. Your hand goes to your neck and the abnormality in touching it reminds you of something.

"Oh, I had a necklace I was wearing before I went in for the x-ray. I can't seem to find it. I kept it here on the table."

Harleen gestures you to wait and walks around the table to open a drawer and take out a little basket where you can see the pendant Tony had gifted you sitting in a silver loop.

"Thank you."

"No problem, Kira. Here," she takes out something from the drawer and hands it over to you, "take my card and call me if you are in need of any help."

Thanking her, you walk out of the room while closing the silver chain around your neck, nearly scared by Kol's uninformed greeting.

"Kol," you greet the man dressed in a black suit and smelling of a cologne that is surprisingly light to the senses.

"Ma'am," he greets back, so do the two men standing behind him, "this way, please."

You sense the presence of more of Kol's men behind you, curiosity getting the better of you and turning your neck around to watch two more men keeping a considerable distance. All of them are wearing an earpiece, keeping in touch by the second. Kol's auburn hair has been all moved back with a generous amount of gel, which reminds of something that Billy does.

The thought of him sends a shudder down your spine and you force your brain to think of something- anything- other than those dark, endless eyes.

The walk down the lift and towards the entrance is silent but it's made awkward by the foreign eyes looking at the men- and then decisively at you and your bloody clothes- wondering what is going on in the hospital at this time of the night. Your fluttering heartbeat does not help the meandering thoughts either but the chilly air fighting to touch your exposed skin as you step out does help dissipate the unwanted heat rising up inside you.

Before you can cover all the stairs to reach the footsteps of the building, another one of Robert's men is bringing Robert's SUV to a halt.

Kol steps in front to open the door for you before getting in from the other side. The rest of the security gets in another car save for one- who settles down in the passenger seat in your vehicle.

The cars are pulled out of the driveway and manoeuvred through small streets till they hit the road taking them to the highway. The dull yellow lights are the same shade as your heart right now, trying to grasp the reality of one of the closest person to you lying in the hospital. It is my fault, no matter how Loki sees it, you have convinced yourself.

"Robert will be fine, ma'am."

Kol seems to have read the tension on your face. Am I that transparent?

"We'll get the person who did this to him." He is making you a promise. He knows better than anyone- thanks to the years he's served- how it feels for the one who got away.

"Thanks, Kol." Your weak smile is the only gesture you can manage till you are looking back out the window at the lights passing you by. The smooth driving skills of whosoever is at the wheel are putting you to sleep. So, you close your eyes and try to see that which makes you feel safe. The darkness is filled with a lit-up corner where Loki stands smiling at you. "Come home, Kira," he says softly.

I'm coming home.

Eyes closed, the rest of the body is sensing the ups and downs and the turns of the car.

Whenever we are asleep, dreaming of falling- be it from the sky, a bridge, a car, a cliff- we do not feel the effect of that fall till we are reaching the surface, about to hit it with maximum velocity, which then jerks us awake, or sometimes changes the scene to something entirely different. That is what happens to you when the cargo truck hits the SUV from the other side, sending the vehicle to topple on itself and roll over multiple times. The seatbelt keeps you in place throughout as you watch the glass shatter and fly everywhere around you. Your hands are up and everywhere, not being able to find anything to hold on to. All this while Kol has you covered, shielding you from stray glass and gravel- besides anything deadly that could possibly be flying your way at any given moment. Everything registers inside you only when the car- or what is left of it- comes to a stop. Upside down.

First, the breaths go shallow. Next, the body registers the uncomfortable position it is stuck in. The eyes take in the surroundings- a disgruntled Kol freeing himself to fall down on the roof of the car, glass falling down from your hair, a bloodied hand lying hanging from the driver's seat. When that hand comes in view, your eyes do not leave the trail till they see the body hanging upside down with a broken neck.

The already shallow breaths are now turning into hyperventilating streaks. Kol registers the shock you're feeling right now and tries to move towards you. "David," he calls for the man in the passenger seat, "cover us."

The man is already out of the vehicle, up on his legs, disappearing somewhere ahead of the barrels on fire in the middle of the highway.

"Kira," he nearly eats up his groans and pains and when he takes your arms in his, "shh, shh, I'm here. Breathe. Breathe. Breeeathe."

His patient soft voice is readily obeyed by your teary eyes. Just as the third breath is taken in a shot goes off somewhere in the night. This time it is not that easy to be mistaken for a cracker.

"Kol," your cry is barely a squeak.

Two more shots go off.

"Shh, shh, I'm gonna get you out of here. Look at me. Do as I say. Here, fix your hands on the roof. Come on. Yes. You got it. Sure? Okay, I'll undo the belt now. Ready? Three, two-"

You are laying down on the roof, trying to feel your legs while Kol's hands are helping you get up and out from your side of the window.

The shards prick your palms. But the gunshots behind you are a horror that is shutting down every other pain response in your body. The throbbing of your veins is only adding to the understated panic.

Getting up you look behind to watch Kol standing by the wrecked car. You take a faltering step towards him and stop dead as you watch him go down on his knees before his upper body hits the hard road beneath him.

You do not know whether it's the shock of watching your one way to safety go down in one mean swing or the figure clad in black camo behind him, standing with its hands to either side- one of them holding a gun. The dark goggles shield the face beneath. But none of the shades of black can hide the blood dripping from the heel of the palm that holds the gun.

The figure just stands there. Frozen.

You wait for it to make a move. It waits for you to take one wrong step.

It doesn't even look like it's breathing. You are gasping for breaths.

It tilts its head just enough for you to notice. You take a step back into the embrace of foreign arms keeping you in place as a hand tries to cover your screams before netted darkness is thrown over your eyes and your writhing body is dragged away from the remnants of point of intentional disaster.

The goggles come off to let the ignited remnants of tonight’s catastrophe be reflected in dark boundless eyes.

[xerxia31]

Not Real

All Katniss Everdeen wanted was to see the one who got away one last time...

My contribution to the Fall 2018 edition of More Stories to Save Lives, in support of Hope for Caroline. Rated T.  Also cross posted to AO3. 

Commander Katniss Everdeen stood in front of Trident Hyperrealism Industries, housed in a glossy candy-coloured glass building that stretched up to the sky, and wondered for the hundredth time what she was doing. This was definitely not her district, not her scene at all. But she’d made a promise, and Katniss always kept her word. Clenching her jaw, she pushed through the doors. Her perfectly polished uniform boots clicked on the slick marble flooring, echoing through the massive, opulent lobby. Vases of tropical blooms perfumed the carefully climate-controlled air, contributing to the feeling of decadence. Everything about the space, the building, the whole damned city, was an affront to Katniss. It was all too shiny, too gaudy, too fake.

Though she was on Earth, her planet, the Capitol was as different from her home in District Twelve as any of the outer rim planets she’d visited in her two plus years in command of the starship Mockingjay had been. Foreign and loud and filled with people who had more in common with exotic birds than with Katniss herself, the Capitol might as well be in the delta quadrant instead of nestled in the Rockies only a fifteen second teleport from home.

Katniss shook her head. She had to stop thinking that way. The Capitol was her home now. District Twelve was no more than a memory. She made her way to the reception desk, gave her name, and was directed to an elevator bank, a charmingly old school feature of an otherwise thoroughly modern building. The four-floor ascent in a mirrored box took longer than transporting to the building from her quarters on the outskirts of the Capitol. It reminded her of - no. She wouldn’t think of that place or that time. Not now. Not yet, anyway. A man of extraordinary beauty stood to greet her as soon as the elevator doors opened. Tall, athletic, with golden skin, bronze-colored hair, his incredible sea-green eyes twinkled as he reached out to shake her hand. He couldn’t be real, she thought. He must be one of the simulations that Trident Industries was famous for. The reason she was there, though she wouldn’t have admitted that to anyone else. “Welcome, Commander,” the man said, his voice deep and rich, flowing like melted chocolate. She couldn’t help but be impressed. The simulations she’d encountered in her years of training at the academy had been jerky, somewhat robotic, obviously fake. This, on the other hand, was incredibly convincing. He reached out to shake Katniss’s hand and she was startled by how solid he felt. As if reading her mind, he chuckled. “Finnick Odair,” he said. “Owner of Trident Hyperrealism Industries, at your service.” “You’re real?” she blurted, years of studying diplomacy forgotten in an instant. But he merely smiled, unaffected, perhaps unsurprised by her question. “I am indeed, and I’m here to make all of your fantasies come true.” It was that comment, delivered in a slightly smarmy way, that broke the spell for Katniss. She couldn’t argue that Finnick wasn't one of the most stunning, sensuous people on the planet. But she could honestly say he wasn’t attractive to her. Maybe he was too pretty. Maybe he was too easy to get, or maybe it was really that he'd just be too easy to lose. Katniss was somewhat of a specialist in losing people. “Mr. Odair,” she said, pulling her hand from his grip. “Your assistant told me you’d be able to design a package to suit my requirements.” “Of course,” he said, gesturing towards a small red loveseat, then settling himself across from her. “Trident Hyperrealism Industries is known across the galaxy for our fully immersive simulations that allow you to visit anywhere in the universe and have the perfect vacation experience. No transport ships, no bad weather, no bad service, nothing but pleasure at any of our four hundred and seventy-six thousand pre-programmed destinations.” He glanced at Katniss’s Star Alliance uniform. “Though perhaps it isn’t travel you’re looking for?” “No,” she admitted. “I’ve been to all of the planets I care to visit and then some.” When Katniss signed up to captain a two-year diplomatic tour, she’d anticipated seeing strange new worlds and meeting fascinating new beings. Instead, she did nothing but work and sleep for twenty-eight long months. Her small crew was hardly sufficient to keep the ship running and she’d pulled double, sometimes triple shifts to ensure that everything got done and that her people were sufficiently rested and taken care of. Every minute of each highly anticipated planetary landing was filled with duty and obligation. Though she’d been to Rigel Seven, she’d never gotten to see its twin moons. On Juno, she’d only glimpsed the legendary Tower of Inysis from the window of a transport. During her last excursion, to tiny Bacchus Minor, she hadn’t even set foot on the ground, her meetings and resupply mission having taken place on a satellite orbiting the pretty jewel-green planet. Adrift in the cosmos, Katniss struggled with the isolation of life on a starship, the exhaustion, the loneliness.There was no glamour, no adventure. And while there was definitely satisfaction in a job well done, it was hollow when she had no one to share it with. Her few hours not occupied with work she had spent alone in her bunk, staring at the ceiling, remembering. Regretting. So after her tour, she’d resigned her commission and accepted a teaching position at the Alliance Academy. She was due to begin work in just two weeks time. And though it would undoubtedly make more sense to be spending her first week back on Earth exploring or setting up her new quarters, she was sitting on a candy-coloured couch in a candy-coloured office, chatting with a candy-sweet man who made her teeth hurt and her skin crawl. “Ah,” Finnick said, and a wide smile showed every perfect, sparkling tooth. “So you are looking for a more personal experience.” “I was told that you could arrange for me to see someone. Or, to see a simulation of someone,” she mumbled, and Finnick nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, yes. We have simulations of a wide variety of the most popular beings from history, all impeccably programmed with perfectly rendered with historically accurate voice and speech patterns, reactions and abilities. You absolutely will not be able to tell that the person you’re speaking with isn’t the real deal, guaranteed! You can spend time with Elvis Presley, Alabaster Harrington or Henry Cavill,” Finnick said, listing several sex symbols of the past two centuries. Katniss frowned. “Or,” he hedged, “Maybe you’re looking for a more intellectual experience? Maybe Stephen Hawking or Albert Einstein is more your speed?” “No,” she said. “I want to see someone contemporary. Someone who is, uh, still alive.” “Of course,” he said. “Caesar Flickerman is a popular choice.” Katniss recoiled. Caesar Flickerman had to be over a hundred years old. He had been performing on entertainment broadcasts for as long as anyone could remember; his appearance - white face paint, blue lips, and brightly dyed wigs - virtually unchanged in all of that time. “I didn’t know he was even still around,” Katniss mumbled, suppressing another shudder. “But no. The person I’d like to see isn’t famous.” “I see,” Finnick smirked. “A custom simulation.” “Yes. Will that be a problem?” “No, no of course not. We are quite capable of fulfilling all of our customers’ special requirements. As long as he has a digital record, I can produce a simulation so perfect, it would convince his mother.” The slick grin was back in place. “How did you know he’s a he?” Katniss asked. “I’ve been doing this a long time, Commander. And I can assure you that all of our simulations are fully functional, solid, firm, and programmed with a full library of skills.” It took Katniss two, perhaps three beats to understand the subtext of Finnick’s words. Fire raced up her throat, painted her cheeks. “Mr. Odair,” she said tightly, “I am in no way looking for some sick sexual fantasy.” “Of course not,” he soothed, but his lecherous expression was unchanged. “But what happens in the simulators is none of my business, so long as your expectations are fulfilled.” Katniss’s attention drifted as Finnick outlined the specifications of the program, the cost, the amount of time she would have in the simulator, and what she could expect in terms of realism. Her mind wandered, as it often did, to the man she had spent two and a half years missing with every fibre of her being, to the things she’d said the last time she’d seen him. To the things she wanted, needed, so desperately to tell him now, even if it was only pretend. “And where would you like this encounter to be?” Finnick asked, the smarmy tone creeping back into his voice, catching her attention again. “Your quarters?” “It doesn’t matter,” she sighed. “Your lobby, the sidewalk out front, the virtual location won’t make any difference.” “Surely you’d like something comfortable and private. A hotel? A Turkludiaan den, perhaps?” He was all but sneering; clearly he’d made up his mind that she was some sort of sexual pervert looking to get busy with a stranger on whom she had a crush. But he was dead wrong. Not about the crush part, but about the rest. She wasn’t looking to screw a make-believe stranger. She wanted to see the love of her life. To tell him she was sorry. “It’s not like that,” she snapped, half-rising, and his eyes widened, hands lifting in supplication. She deflated, sinking back into her seat and dropping her head into her hands. Katniss sighed. Every rational thought screamed at her to simply leave. She’d known all along that this was a bad idea. But after twenty-eight months of what was essentially a self-imposed exile, twenty-eight months of not having taken a single shore leave, a single vacation, even a single day off, she was at a breaking point. And it was obvious to everyone around her. Even her cousin, Gale, had noted Katniss’s sadness during their weekly video chats. She was tired and worn out, and Gale was worried enough that he’d threatened to come home from school on planet Spectra to take care of her. Katniss couldn’t allow that. Gale was settled on Spectra and was a model student, hardworking, brilliant. Allowing her own heartbreak and stupidity to compromise his future was unacceptable.

So when Gale, who was frugal to the point of being cheap, sent her a Trident Industries gift card two days ago, just before she’d disembarked from the Mockingjay and walked away from her life on the starship, Katniss had promised to actually use it. “Take a virtual vacation,” he’d insisted. She’d tried to tell him she was fine, needed nothing, but Gale knew her too well. “Live a little,” he’d begged, silver eyes shining in the video relay. “You deserve this, after everything.”

“I just want to see someone I used to know,” she murmured to Finnick, staring at her shiny boots. “One last time.” “Someone you can’t speak with in person.” It wasn’t a question, not really, and the soft tone caught Katniss off guard. She glanced up. The leering, lecherous salesman was gone. In his place was just Finnick Odair, still incredibly gorgeous, but with a kind, compassionate expression instead of a dazzling smile. It made him seem more human somehow. More real. “Right.” “I can do that. I’ll need to access his public records, to ensure the simulation reacts as closely to how he would really act as possible.” “I don’t know where he is now,” she admitted. “He was a student at the Alliance Academy, up until a few years ago. Last I heard, he was teaching at the Panem School of Fine Arts.” Finnick nodded. “That will help. There should be plenty of biometrics available. What’s his name?” o-o-o Katniss talked herself into and out of showing up at Trident a dozen times, but in the end her frugal nature won out. Fifty-five hundred credits was a terrible amount to waste, even if they weren’t her credits to begin with. She berated herself as she got ready, brushing out her long black hair and agonizing over what to wear. It was a simulation. It wasn’t going to care what she looked like! She could have - should have - shown up wearing anything; her uniform, her old hunting clothes, even pyjamas. And yet she pulled from her closet a dress that she hadn’t worn for more than two years, a pretty orange frock patterned with autumn leaves. It had been his favourite, another lifetime ago. The building was just as garish as it had been her first visit, but this time Finnick Odair wasn’t there to greet her. A beautiful young woman with an ethereal calmness led Katniss down a long white corridor to a set of imposing silver doors. “Everything has been programmed to your specifications,” she said softly. “The simulation is completely self-sustaining, you don’t have to do anything. But if for any reason you need to exit before the completion of the program, the computer will respond to your commands.” Katniss nodded. She’d studied engineering at the academy before being hand picked for the command program. And while this simulator was leagues ahead of the simple holodecks she was accustomed to, she understood the fundamentals. “Thank you,” she said, but remained motionless outside the closed doors long after the young woman had walked away. Finally she shook aside the lethargy and doubt and entered the simulator. And then gasped. Katniss knew this place, knew every bench, every rock, every flower. She’d spent the past two years seeing this place every time she closed her eyes. The gardens on the rooftop of the academy training centre. Out of every possible place in the universe, how had Finnick Odair chosen this? There was no way he could he possibly have guessed how much this place had meant to her. Had meant to them. It was almost enough to send her running back out of the simulator, down the corridor, back to her spartan grey quarters at the academy. Back to her spartan grey life. But Katniss Everdeen was done running. She stepped cautiously forward, barely hearing the soft snick of the simulator doors closing behind her, immersing her completely in the illusion. She wandered the garden paths slowly, reverently, mouth agape. It was incredible, every detail exactly as she remembered it. She reached out to stroke the glossy green leaves of a hanging vine where it twisted around a pergola. It felt exactly like the vines she’d practiced tying into knots during one of her last visits to the real rooftop gardens. Apple trees perfumed the air. Their gnarled branches just like the ones they’d climbed with abandon during their academy years, playing catch with the sweet fruit. Even the wind chimes tinkling above a lush flower garden were exactly as she remembered them, their gentle chords the soundtrack by which a quiet young woman and a kind young man had made love all those years ago. “Katniss?” She turned slowly at the voice she knew better than her own, the voice of her heart. He was standing perhaps a dozen steps away, an old-fashioned wicker picnic basket in hand, the artificial sun filtering through his ashy curls, crowning him in gold. Peeta Mellark. He was smiling softly, the smile that had always made her feel like the most important person in the universe. As if she could have forgotten how gorgeous he was, how strong and broad and solid. He set the basket down and took a few steps towards her, his grin unwavering. She marvelled at how life-like he was, every detail utterly perfect from his golden eyelashes, so long they brushed his cheeks with each blink, all the way down to the double knots that secured his shoes. It was as if she’d been transported back in time, to those days more than two years ago when life had been perfect, when she’d been happy and loved. All of her pent-up longing overflowed, and she let herself just for the moment forget that it wasn’t real, that it wasn’t really Peeta standing before her, and with a little laugh jumped into his arms. He caught her and spun her around, the arms encircling her just as warm and strong as she remembered. A thousand moments surged through her, all the times those arms were her only refuge from the world. Perhaps not fully appreciated then, but so sweet in memory, and now gone forever. As if reading her mind, he pulled her in close and buried his face in her hair. Warmth radiated from the spot where his lips just touched her neck, slowly spreading through the rest of her body, enveloping her in comfort. It felt so good, so impossibly good, that she knew she would not be the first to let go. “Still the most beautiful woman in the galaxy,” he murmured, and Katniss laughed, a pained little sound stained with longing and regret. The real Peeta wouldn’t be so kind, she thought. He’d still be angry, and he should be. She’d hurt him terribly. But when the simulated Peeta pulled back, he was smiling at her as if she were more radiant than the sun. “Peeta,” she started, but he laid a gentle finger across her lips, halting the apologies that yearned to trip from her tongue. “Shhh,” he said. “We have time. Let’s relax first. Have a bite to eat.” Peeta led her down one of the sun-dappled paths to a patch of grass right at the edge of the rooftop. She wrapped her hands around the railing and looked out over the edge, where the sun hit the glossy buildings spread before them, making them twinkle like a vast field of fireflies stretching to the horizon. He moved to stand behind her, his warmth against her back. “I’d almost forgotten how pretty it is up here,” she murmured. His puff of laughter teased the shell of her ear, made her shiver. “That’s my line,” he said, amusement colouring his voice. “And you always insisted that it’s not as pretty as our woods.” He wrapped an arm around her collar bones, pulling her back against his broad chest. She smiled, leaning into him, letting herself truly live in the memory made real. Eventually, he led them away from the railing, to where he’d lain a blanket over the soft artificial grass. When he opened the basket and started to pull out the food it held, she laughed with true delight and his grin widened. Inside was a feast — fresh rolls, goat cheese, apples, reminiscent of all of the picnics they’d shared in these gardens over their years together. “And the pièce de resistance,” he said almost shyly, lifting a tureen that she was certain contained lamb stew on wild rice. The very dish she had always said was the most impressive thing the Capitol had to offer. She sobered. “You have a remarkable memory,” she said haltingly, regret again flaring in her gut. “I remember everything about you,” Peeta said, tucking a loose strand of soft ebony hair behind her ear. “You’re the one who wasn’t paying attention.” “I am now,” she whispered. “Well, I don’t have much competition here,” he chuckled, self-effacing as always. He never had any competition anywhere, she wanted to say. But she didn’t, because it wasn’t true. He’d always been in competition with her drive, her ambition. It’s why she’d lost him. They sat together in the computer-generated sunshine of an unnaturally perfect day. Peeta fed her bites of bread, slathered in goat cheese and topped with apple slices and they reminisced; about their childhood in District Twelve where they knew each other only by sight, about the friendship that bloomed between them when they found themselves the only two children reaped from their district to join the Star Alliance academy, plucked from their impoverished obscurity and dropped into the garish Capitol to train for the elite star force. A friendship that grew so much deeper when only a couple of years into training, a rogue asteroid destroyed their home district in a hail of fire, leaving them both orphaned and alone with only each other to count on. When the food had been consumed, and the remnants tucked away, Katniss took a deep breath. She’d arranged this simulation for a purpose, there were things she needed to say. “I’m sorry,” she said, and his soft smile fell. “No,” he started, but she wouldn’t let him finish. She knew he’d simply absolve her, the simulation was behaving exactly as Peeta had before she’d left him, kind and forgiving and always putting her needs before his own. “It’s not okay, Peeta,” she said, her voice low but steady. “It never was. I was wrong. I shouldn’t have left. Not without fixing things between us.” She thought back to when she’d been offered the command of her own starship, years ahead of when most young officers were picked to head up missions. It was so unexpected, had flown completely in the face of their plans. They’d always intended on being commissioned together. She would cut her teeth serving under whatever commander headed up Peeta’s first intergalactic diplomatic mission. His talented silver tongue, his ability to paint pictures with words were abilities that made him a star at the academy. They both knew he would ascend the ranks fastest. But he didn’t. She did. And flush with pride, she’d gone to him, excitement about her accomplishment colouring her every word, every thought. He’d been calm, rational, reminding her of their plans, their future. She’d been angry defensive, afraid to listen to anything that could have jeopardized her independence. Unforgivably, she’d accused him of not supporting her dreams. Peeta, who had been her biggest supporter forever. Even as she’d said the words, she’d known they were untrue. But each one flew from her lips like arrows, each hitting her target, piercing him deeply.

The fight had been awful. She’d said so many terrible things, and he’d responded with stony silence. Angry, frustrated, overwhelmed, she’d run. Left him standing on the lawn of the academy stooped in defeat, the waning sun glowing against his dress whites. That image was burned into her retinas, into her heart, and had haunted her for the past two and a half years. She hadn’t seen or spoken to him since. The anger she’d clung to like a shield only lasted so long, replaced quickly by regret. She’d tried looking him up in the database, but he’d left the academy almost as soon as she’d boarded that damned ship, moved on to a new life that didn’t include her. So she moved on too, threw herself into her work, tried not to think about him, about what he might be doing, who he might be loving. Peeta listened, the slight breeze tossing his curls as he sat on the blanket, their knees just touching, the warmth of his presence giving her the strength to say everything she needed to say. He never once interrupted as she poured out her heart in a way she couldn’t have with the real Peeta, the one who had been so angry he’d blocked her access to his communicator, who probably hated her. This Peeta listened attentively as she told him about her years in space. As she confessed to having thought about him every single day. “I knew I could survive without you,” she said. “But it’s a terrible, lonely life.” “Enough,” he said finally, pulling her into his arms, kissing the top of her head. “I’m to blame too. I shut down, cut you out of my life. If I had stopped being so wounded I would have remembered that our relationship was so much more important than my hurt and jealousy.” Katniss whimpered, burying her face in his shirt, enveloped in his scent. She’d loved him, had always loved him, and yet when she’d walked away that awful day, he’d let her go. When he hadn’t contacted her even once those months before her ship left, she’d simply sealed off her heart. Years of friendship, of passion, of love, were walled up, destroyed, and tossed aside like so much trash. Commander Everdeen needed no one. But she’d been lying to herself. That’s why she was here, on a rooftop, tucked into the embrace of a fake version of the only man she’d ever truly loved instead of virtually touring the lavender sand beaches of Astrazaria. She knew she’d never be able to move on without saying it out loud, without telling at least some version of Peeta she was sorry for all of it, even if he’d never actually hear the words. “Do you forgive me?” she whispered, more for herself than for the illusion of him. His arms tightened. “Yes,” he said. “Can you forgive me?” She nodded against his collar. She’d forgiven the real Peeta’s tiny part in their break up years ago. The sun slid lower in the sky as they clung to each other, soft sighs and gentle caresses speaking of regret, but also contentment. Streaks of pink and gold kissed the horizon, reminding her that their time was almost done. That all too soon, she’d be alone again. The dream, her fantasy, would be over. But she’d accomplished what she’d set out to do. She’d told him, and in doing so had freed him from where she’d caged up all of her happy memories. Now maybe she could start to heal. “Ah Kitten,” he murmured, and she froze. Kitten was the pet name Peeta had used when they were intimate, never any other time, and certainly never where anyone else could ever have heard him. How on earth had that gotten into the simulation? It was their secret, something that was only for them. She could feel his soft exhale against her temple. “I miss you so much.” His voice cracked, just a little, and her heart shattered. It was too much, his arms, his voice, his words. It hurt too much. This wasn’t going to help her get over him. “I can’t do this,” she mumbled, tears stinging. She wouldn’t let them fall though, she’d never once cried in front of the real Peeta, not even when she’d left him behind two years ago. She sure as hell wasn’t going to cry in front of this simulation, however real he might feel. His expression when she pulled away and scrambled to her feet nearly gutted her, the confusion, the fear. She turned away, couldn't bear to watch. “Computer,” she barked, listening for the acknowledging beep. Behind her, Peeta gasped. “Katniss?” he rasped. She couldn’t do this anymore, she missed him too much. She was a fool to think that anything could ever heal the Peeta-shaped hole in her heart. This had only made things worse, only made her confront how badly she’d screwed up. How much she still loved him. “End simulation,” she whispered. In the blink of an eye, it all vanished. The rooftop, the gardens, the tinkling wind chimes, all of it disappeared, leaving behind just the bare grey walls. “What the--” a voice from behind her. Katniss whirled. Inexplicably, the simulation of Peeta was still there, staring at her, wide-eyed. “Oh my god,” he whispered. “End simulation!” she yelled, but he didn't so much as flicker. “Shit,” she hissed. What the hell was wrong with this computer? She spun and marched towards the sleek panel on the wall. She'd have to override it herself. Behind her, he kept murmuring her name. And she tried, desperately, to ignore the pleading, disbelieving tone of his voice. He sounded like he had when she'd told him she was leaving. When she had broken both of their hearts. She was trying to manually key in a set of commands when his hands fell on her shoulders, so warm and solid that it made her tremble. This was not supposed to be happening. Finnick promised she could end this at any time. Was it her own desperate need for him holding his avatar there, manifesting him with the force of her desire? “Katniss,” he whispered again, and she felt his warm breath caress her ear. Then he was turning her to face him, and she didn’t resist. Blue eyes roamed her face, as if searching for something crucial. His hands, those hands, so perfectly rendered, long-fingered and elegant, rubbed up and down her arms, shoulders to elbows. Then he smiled, a confused, bewildered little half smile. “You’re real,” he whispered. “Holy shit.” Katniss rolled her eyes, she couldn’t help it. Of course she was real, and this simulation was a little too sentient, it was starting to alarm her. But then he was laughing, he was laughing and pulling her into a tight embrace. “It’s really you,” he choked, laughter mixing with something much more poignant. “I don't know what kind of sick game you're playing, Odair,” she mumbled, voice muffled against Peeta’s shoulder. She knew she needed to push away from the simulation, but surrounded by his warmth, by his clean, spicy scent, his big hand cupping the back of her head in that familiar way he always had, she just couldn't. His chest shook as another bout of rich laughter rumbled from his chest. “I thought you were a simulation,” he said once his laughter had calmed. “But it’s really you. You’re really here.” He pulled back enough to see her face, his eyes twinkling with excitement. Her brows furrowed. “You thought…” Katniss trailed off as finally the pieces clicked into place in her mind. “You bought a fantasy from Trident?” Was that possible, that he’d been thinking the same way she had, feeling the same regrets, the same need to set things right, however pretend the setting? Or had Finnick Odair somehow arranged this, convinced him to show up, to pretend to be a simulation? Her head spun.

But Peeta nodded. “I paid 6 000 credits to relive the best day of my life,” he said, and his words made her stomach flutter, a tide of hope rising. “You did too.” It wasn’t a question, exactly, but there was a hopeful lilt to his voice. She shrugged helplessly. “You’re really here.” He cupped her cheek in one huge hand, his thumb stroking her cheek. “I just got back to Earth six days ago,” she whispered “I thought I’d never see you again,” he admitted. “Are you disappointed? That it’s really me?” She squirmed with embarrassment; It had been one thing to bare her soul to an empty room. Knowing it had really been Peeta, her Peeta, was horrifying. She fought with her emotions, elation at seeing him again when she’d thought it would never happen and terror that he hadn’t meant the things he’d said, had only been playing a role. “You were so angry when I left.” “God no,” he said, pulling her against him again, his joy palpable. She didn’t resist in the least, wrapping her arms around his waist, her heart overwhelmed by the knowledge that he was here, flesh and blood and Peeta. He was here and he was holding her, like he once had. Like he did in her dreams. Her smile was so wide, he must have been able to feel it against his shirt, but she didn’t care. “I was hurt, and scared, and more than a little selfish,” he admitted. “But I meant every word I said in here, Kitten. I’ve missed you so much. I wanted to see you again so bad.”

“Me too,” she whispered. His soft lips brushed across her temple and he sighed, a contented little sound that she had missed so much. “How long are you staying?” he asked. “For good.” She tipped her head up to meet his confused gaze. “I’m home. I resigned my command and took a job teaching at the academy.” The joy that split his handsome face was almost heartbreaking in its beauty, before he schooled his features into a more cautious optimism. “What does that mean? For… for us?” There was no ‘us’ as far as Katniss knew. She’d come here to get over Peeta, to finally be able to move on after years stuck in limbo. But she finally realized that was the fantasy, that was the ‘not real’. She could never get over him. And she didn’t want to. “That depends on what you want, I guess.” She had been so busy spilling the contents of her soul that she hadn’t asked him about his own life. For all she knew, he had a wife and a dozen gorgeous blond babies waiting at home. The very idea was a like a spear through her heart. “I want you,” he said, serious and solemn. “I’ve wanted you since we were five years old, back in Twelve. I’ve never stopped. And I never will.” He leaned in to kiss her, to really kiss her, and the tears she’d spent forever holding back trickled down her cheeks.

“I love you,” she murmured, the words maybe too soon and yet also far too late. He picked her up and spun her again, laughing as he kissed his own loving declarations into her skin, every word and every caress a healing balm. “Let’s get out of here,” she said when they broke apart, breathless and flushed. “Are you sure?” He waggled his eyebrows, voice brimming with mirth. “We could relaunch the simulator to one of Finnick’s fantasy programs. How about a Pfflachlin coital suite?” Katniss laughed, really laughed, her joy overflowing. “No,” she said between giggles. “No more fantasies. I want real.”

[avengershumanresources]

Dust to Dust (7)

Summary: Where did Hydra come from? An idea? A twisted dream? For an organization that spans centuries, it kept relatively quiet until contemporary times.The Super Soldier serum wasn’t dreamt up over night, but was the product of numerous experiments both unethical and violent over the course of the century. It was going to be the end of all conflicts between good and evil. Scientists died trying to determine the next level of the serum, only for it to be stolen by enemies. Back and forth until one side had the advantage.

Mabel Foster was everything the ideal woman should be in 1914. She was well brought-up, wealthy, educated and the heiress to a large fortune. When her father died in a much publicized U-boat attack by the Germans, Mabel made a decision that changed the course of history by enlisting in the French Army during WWI.

After an ambush gone bad, Mabel found herself captured by an early group of Hydra.100 years later she’s discovered in a desolate Hydra base and is taken by the Avengers for safe-keeping and questioning. Little do they realize that all of their destinies and pasts are directly connected through the nest that Hydra weaved.

Pairing: Bucky x OFC (Original Female Character)

Rating/Warnings: Mature- Graphic violence, torture, PTSD, smut

(Masterlist found HERE)

"You wasted all that sweetness to run and hide I wonder why I remind you of the days you poured your heart into But you never tried I've fallen from grace Took a blow to my face I've loved and I've lost."

-Ellie Goulding (Explosions)

Paris, France - October 30th, 1914

“Pierre warned me that I might be receiving a visitor soon,” Marie Garnier grabbed one of Mabel’s bags and hefted it over her shoulder.  “I didn’t imagine in a million lifetimes that it’d be you."

Marie Garnier had been a childhood friend to Mabel while Pierre worked under Mabel’s father in New York.  The younger sister of Mabel’s fiancé eventually returned to Paris to study fashion, though Mabel tried to keep contact, life circumstances got in the way.  It’d been quite some time since the pair had gotten in contact

“It’s wonderful to see you too,” Mabel greeted, tucking a stray blonde hair behind her ear.  The French woman rolled her eyes before pulling the heiress into a firm hug.

“So what brings you to this terrible continent?  I would have thought you’d be begging me to hide in your gilded tower with you,” Marie led the way from the train platform toward a small neighborhood up the road.  Newspapers shouted the latest disasters with bold print and Parisians sat in cafes, smoking and murmuring to one another about the most recent fatality.

“Change in scenery,” Mabel replied cryptically, unsure of the details that Pierre may have passed along ahead of her.  Marie hummed in acknowledgement and continued forward

“Packed a little light for a long visit,” she commented, lifting the bag slightly.  She gestured toward a nearby apartment door and set the bag down, rummaging in her pockets for a key.  “Unless you aren’t planning on staying long.

Mabel remained silent while crossing the doorway into the small apartment.  It had a certain charm to it; Marie had scattered various patterns and fabrics around the room; a half dressed mannequin was situated in the center of her kitchen.

“Make yourself at home,” Marie set Mabel’s bag on the dining room table and began to rapidly tidy up the main living areas.  “I’ve been working on a project; I apologize for the mess.”

“You’re completely fine,” Mabel assured her friend, taking in the decorations and the photographs that lined the small window in Marie’s kitchen.  “I don’t even have that one.”

She pointed to a picture of her and Pierre from last Christmas, the pair of them straining a smile into the camera.  Her mother had been insistent that it be the photograph accompanying their engagement announcement in the Times.

“Pierre sent it a while back,” Marie commented offhand.  “Something about an engagement.  I didn’t bother paying attention to the rest.  Lord knows you wouldn’t willingly marry him.  Who’d want a lifetime doomed with him?”

“You jest,” Mabel began to pull off her traveling gloves and tucked them next to another small bag she’d brought for her journey.  “He’s been very kind and helpful, helping me through everything so far.”

“I did hear about your father’s death, my sincerest condolences,” Marie’s attention was transfixed on a sheer fabric that she only lowered to look at Mabel an instant.  “I’m afraid you’ve picked a bad time to come to the French countryside and grieve.”

“I’d beg to differ,” Mabel casually muttered, lifting one of Marie’s sketches toward the sunlight and setting it down on a nearby counter gently.  “In fact, perhaps that is the exact reason why I’m here.”

Marie dropped her project and stared at the woman like she was speaking another language.

“Do you plan on winning the war as vengeance for your father?” there was a mixture of humor and disbelief in the Parisian’s tone.  “Perhaps I could recommend a good hospital or sanatorium for you to stay in.  Get your head clear.”

Mabel fidgeted with the paperwork Pierre had given her that she’d stashed in the lining of her dress for safe keeping.

“Pierre said it was a terrible idea as well,” she continued, taking a seat in a nearby armchair.  “But he assured me you would be able to help with certain logistics."

That certainly caught Marie’s attention.  She moved a few things aside and sat down next to her old friend.

“Who knows you are here?” she questioned, her brows knitted in concentration.  Mabel realized that her companion was beginning to piece together her unorthodox visit’s meaning.

“Pierre,” Mabel replied simply.  “And now you.”

“Your mother?”

“She is no mother to me,” Mabel shot back, her tone coming out like ice.

“Oh Mabel,” the French woman soothed.  “I know losing your father is difficult… Pierre and I had nearly lost our minds when mother and father were lost but-,”

“It’s not just that,” Mabel interrupted, her face reddening at the outburst.  “There’s more to it.  I don’t just want to do this.  I have to.  The world is crumbling and I can’t sit back watching it from my- what did you call it? - Gilded tower.”

“This is war,” Marie pressed, trying to reason with the American woman.  Her knuckles were white from holding the edge of her seat.  “This isn’t one of your novels or plays.  People are dying."

“What right do I have to sit quietly by while the world moves around us?” Mabel shot back with a frown.

“This isn’t even your country’s fight,” Marie reminded her, but Mabel shook her head.

“It became my fight when they took my father,” Mabel’s voice lowered.  He’d been an innocent bystander.  Sam had been an innocent bystander.  “Who will stand up to the victims of these cruel acts against humanity?”

“You’re not going to save everyone,” Marie was almost hysterical, a laugh slipping past her incredulous demeanor.  “There are no heroes here.  Just dead men and women waiting for the inevitable.”

“You sound so sure,” Mabel shook her head and stood up from her chair, heading toward the kitchen.  “I can stay in a hotel if you’d like.  The decision was made long before I boarded the boat here.”

Marie stared down the blonde woman and sighed, the noise dragging out while she mentally ran through her choices.

“Don’t be silly, you will be staying with me,” she stood up and headed toward a small room in the back of the apartment.  “We’ll have to share a bed, though I can assure you it’ll be more comfortable than the ground you seem to be so set on living on.”

“I don’t have any other choice,” Mabel murmured softly, when Marie shot a look of pain to her friend.

“I think you do,” Marie pointed out while she grabbed an armful of extra blankets.  “I just think you’re being blind due to stubbornness.”

“That seems a little risqué for 1917,” Bucky commented while Mabel was reading a section of A Farewell to Arms out loud.  The particular passage he was referring to described an intimate encounter between the two protagonists during WWI in an Italian hospital.  

“What do you mean?”  Mabel set the book in her lap and glanced up at her companion.  “They're human.  Regardless of the generation.  This sort of thing isn't new.”

Mabel had heard all kinds of stories of men paying for lovers throughout small French villages, often the women had been left behind or widowed by the war.  Or someone powerful had hoped to make a few extra dollars by exploiting youth.

Bucky let out a grunt and repositioned himself in his chair.  

“Did you not take lovers?” Mabel inquired with a small smile.  “I would find that hard to believe with the stories Steve tells of your youth."

“That's not a proper conversation to have with a lady,” he pointed out.  His voice cracked at the statement and he frowned at the floor.  

“I think you forget I spent four years with a group of very passionate and frustrated men,” she simply replied before opening the book to a random page.  “I have a feeling this story will have an unhappy ending.”  

Bucky leaned forward and frowned.  

“Why do you say that?  I think he and Catherine will be able to live happily after the war,” he shook his head.  “They're meant to be."

“Then they'll get to live through another war,” Mabel sighed.  “And watch their children be pulled away by it.  They are the same age as your own parents at this time.  Remember that.

Bucky fell silent before he shook his head and grabbed the novel out of her hands.  

“My parents had a happy ending.  They watched my sister get married and lived long, happy lives together.”

Mabel had to swallow down the envy that rose in her chest.  It was brief.  A feeling of loss that she'd tried for decades to push away.  

“Besides, they wouldn't have known the future,” he held the book up.  “They just know they love each other.”

“What a simple life,” Mabel merely commented before taking the book back gently and flipping through the pages aimlessly. “It must be nice to be able to find love so strong you can hide from the monsters of the world.”

“You sound like me,” he laughed, standing from his seat and snatching the novel out of her grasp.  He held it above her head teasingly.  “Which means I'm being the positive one and that means we need to find something else to do before doom and gloom ruin us.”  

“Perhaps I enjoy being bitter,” Mabel tried, jumping at the book with a small hop before giving up.  Bucky was much taller than her, a fact he loved to tease her about on a nearly daily basis.  

“I don't believe that,” he replied, setting the book back on a nearby shelf and ushering the blonde woman out of their little hideaway.

They stepped into the windowed hallway and paused at the looming landscape outside.  

December had finally rolled around and the weather seemed to have shifted overnight.  

A heavy snow had covered the trees and grounds surrounding the compound, giving the area an almost magical sense of wonder.  

“When do you return to the city?” Mabel inquired quietly.  Tony and the others had tried to be sly about it, but she knew the compound was only used during the warmer months.   The Tower in the center of Manhattan was the Avengers primary base and Stark had been preparing for their return for a few weeks now.  

“Next Monday,” Bucky replied, his eyes still locked on the white blanket in front of them.  

No one had the heart to tell Mabel that she'd be stuck at the compound indefinitely- or at least until her head was a little more under control.  

Mabel nodded at the information and remained quiet.  She wasn't sure how she felt about him leaving.  Certainly the pair had grown a certain fondness between them that she could only chalk up to a friendship.  Yet, an unspoken voice in the back of her head ached at the emptiness that building would yield without her metal armed companion.  

He was, after all, the only constant she'd had for the last few weeks.  

“I can write,” he offered jokingly.  “Or we can video call.  Talk about how things are going with Sam and Bruce.”  

“Or both,” Mabel offered with a shy look in his direction.  It was seldom that she wanted to be selfish, but perhaps letter writing was the one thing from the past she so desperately missed.  She hated how impersonal communication was in this time.  She missed the tangible proof of someone's thoughts in her hands.  

“Of course you want to write letters,” Bucky groaned dramatically.  “Ya know, that was the worst part of the war in my day.  I never know what to say.”

“You just put down your thoughts.  Talk about what you've seen.  What you've done.  Tell me about the future.”

“We’re already in the future,” he chided and Mabel shrugged.  

“It's not tomorrow yet, is it?” she replied with a small smirk.  “Even ten minutes from now isn't promised to anyone.”

“But writing is so boring,” he complained with a huff.  The duo continued down the quiet corridor, undisturbed by anyone else in the compound.  

“I'll be staring at the same four walls, I will take any adventure I can live vicariously through you with,” Mabel admitted quietly.  

“I'm beginning to think you're right.  You must truly love bitterness and sorrow.” 

“I strive to be transparent, Mr. Barnes,” she turned just in time to watch him open his mouth to correct her.  Instead he fell silent.  “When do you think you'll be back?

“Tony mentioned something about getting everyone together for Christmas.  Though I'm not sure where,” he paused in thought.  “Maybe if we're lucky…”

“Even if I can handle life outside of this place, I'm not ready for New York,” Mabel's tone wavered and she clutched at her arm.  “It makes me feel a little childish, admittedly.  At least here everything is a gradual learning curve.”

“You'll have to dive in eventually.  There's only so much a book can explain,” Bucky reasoned and the blonde let out a drawn out sigh.  

“My world was stopped at the end of a precipice that dove into where society is today,” she frowned and shook her head slightly.  “It's as foreign as another planet to me.”

“It'll be okay.  We're all here to make sure you get there,” Steve's voice echoed toward the pair and soon enough the soldier joined the duo.  “I've been working with Tony and things aren't too different.  The foundation is still there- just a little more sparkle to it.”

“Perhaps I should just return to Europe?  They age slower, do they not?  I'm sure the Eiffel tower looks the same.  I'd fit right in.”

“I'm seriously going to shove you in the snow,” Bucky groaned running a hair through his hair and snorting.  “You're worse than this melodramatic fool.”  He shoved a thumb in Steve's direction.  The American hero feigned innocence until Bucky started ahead of the two blondes with a huff.  

“He's just a product of the millennium, too good for nostalgia,” Steve teased under his breath before gesturing for Mabel to go ahead of him.  They went after their friend and ended up in the main living area where a handful of Avengers were lying about.  

“Anyone up for a shooting session?” Clint suggested once Bucky and the others joined the group.  His offer was met with a few shrugs and grunts, though Bucky was more than enthusiastic.  

“Yes.  Please.  Get me away from these saps,” he looked around for any other takers.  “Ah come on.  It's no fun with just Clint and I.”  

“Only if I can spar the loser,” Nat offered and when an agreement was made, the trio disappeared toward the elevators.  Sam and Bruce parted after a brief conversation and the flying Avenger stood at Mabel’s side.

“And I believe we have an appointment,” Sam nodded to her.  She gave an affirming smile in his direction and with a small wave to Steve, they headed toward their designated therapy area.  

Sam had opened up slightly once it became clear what they were working with.  He offered counseling to her, as he did to all the members of the team, though she was the only one who took him up on it regularly.

The therapy area was relatively secluded in the event of another meltdown.   An idea strongly supported by the majority of the team.   Steve later explained that everyone was prone to outbursts from time to time and though she was the primary reason behind its installation, it truly benefitted everyone.  

“Any more nightmares?” Sam asked before they settled into the sofas.  

“Yes,” Mabel replied.  She didn't even know what a full night of sleep felt like.  She probably hadn't had a dream since 1913.  

“What did you see?” He asked, digging around for his tablet that he stored near the sofas.  

“A kid about 17 getting shelled,” she replied dryly.  “And then just pieces of him.  A leg here, an arm there.”  Those had been the lucky parts.  Everything else had turned into a brownish, red mush of organs and mud that splattered around the trench and soldiers alike.  

“Real or fake?” Sam followed up, and Mabel paused in thought.  This was a new game that Tony suggests after talking with Wanda about what he been found in her head.  They needed to dig through what Hydra had planted and what was simply a cruel memory from the war.

“-Felt real,” she confessed, picking at her fingers.  “But we were in German uniforms.”

“Did you see anything similar during your time on the front?”  

“Of course I did,” she leaned into the sofa in irritation.  How was that even a question?  Did he not take American history?   He was a military man himself.  Did he not lose companions in violent and unusual ways?  “No one I knew died that way though.  Mustard gas or bullets usually took out the good ones.”

Sam’s eyebrows perked at the mention of the toxic chemical agent.  The trigger word.

“Who’d you lose to the gas?” he asked, leaning forward, his tablet propped up in his lap. His full attention was on Mabel.  They both knew where this was leading without saying a word.

“A lot of people,” she frowned.  She could feel her expression boxing up, her face falling into that emotionless mask.

“A friend maybe?” he pressed, trying to dig the information out of her.  Mabel knew what she was supposed to be saying, but she felt like repeating that moment out loud would be too much to bear.  It’d make it realer than the montage that played in the back of her mind.

“Steve’s father,” she stated, averting her gaze from the man across from her.  “He pushed through to the very end.  He wanted to see his wife and child.  They smoked him out like an animal.  He didn’t even look like a human when he left this world.”

“Do you feel guilty about his death?” Sam asked once Mabel got the information out and tightened her posture in her seat.  “Remorse?  Regret?  These feelings are completely normal when we lose someone.”

“He got gassed because of me.”

There it was.  The biggest weight that Mabel carried inside of her heart.  Every moment following Joseph’s death was tied to the night she and him were supposed to take down a nearby camp.  

“I was supposed to be his second, keeping an eye on the firefight and covering him.  Only him.  But some kid got stabbed near me and I lost focus for a second.  I didn’t even see that the enemy had abandoned their camp until it was too late.  It was a set up.  He was hit with a high concentration and died a few days later.”

“He made his choice,” Sam gently reminded Mabel, but the woman’s expression remained empty.

“He made his choice with the understanding I would provide back-up,” she corrected softly.  “Unfortunately, sometimes people are to blame in things like this.  I’d agreed to give my all and lost concentration.  I didn’t fulfill my end of the deal.”

Sam’s expression softened with every word Mabel spoke, until finally, he voiced his opinion on the subject.

“I lost a man too,” he confessed.  A flicker of pain shot through his body language and Mabel shifted slightly at the subtle change.  “I was back-up and an enemy target shot him right out of the sky.  I was too far away to do anything, and just close enough where I saw the last flickers of life in him.  I was supposed to be on the lookout for any stray militants on the ground.  I miscalculated and he suffered the consequences.”  

“I’m so sorry,” Mabel murmured.  She didn’t know what else to say.  Truly, she was terrible at handling circumstances such as this.

“War is war,” he continued and leaned back into his chair.  “Steve still kicks himself over what happened to Bucky- and the guy literally lives down the hall from him.  Some of them are aching over recent losses, some are finally beginning to heal from scars caused by those they now look up to.  It’s going to keep hurting, but you can’t let the hurt and anger and confusion… you can’t let it take you down.  That’s how they win.”

They being Hydra, she reminded herself silently.  Or they being the ghosts that haunt her nights.

The session continued for only a few moments more, before Sam received an urgent call and had to excuse himself.  Mabel glanced at a nearby clock and realized that they’d only spent half the usual amount of time in their session.

She had a few hours to kill before she was supposed to meet up with Tony and Bruce to try one of the serums that had helped Bucky during his transition.

Where had the others gone?

She mused the question over before remembering that Clint and Bucky were contesting one another in shooting.  From the stories she’d heard, it could be an interesting way to spend the remainder of her afternoon.

Would it be safe?  She wondered aimlessly, walking toward the direction of the training level.  No one was saying code words-  she’d seen plenty of war documentaries… It should be fine.

A greedy voice in the back of her mind was curious if they’d let her have a try at a weapon.

“Clean shot,” Clint complimented the brunette with a short nod.  “But not clean enough.”

“Millimeters,” Bucky complained with a grunt, glancing over at Nat, who was stretching for a sparring match with the shooting contest’s loser.  He threw an arm over his shoulder, beginning to prep for the match against the Russian spy.

“I haven’t lost yet,” Clint replied with a smirk.  “Primarily because I have no intention of fighting her."

“Because you know you’d hate to lose twice,” Natasha shot back, throwing a stray boxing glove in the direction of her partner.

“One hundred percent accurate,” Clint admitted, catching the glove mid-air and setting it to the side.  “Though I wouldn’t mind fighting Mr. Barnes.”

“You just want to get close with me,” Bucky snorted in response, crawling into the ring and stretching his legs.

“You’re onto me, I just love big sweaty meatheads,” the archer laughed.  “Though probably not as much as Miss Foster.”  He said her name with a heavily exaggerated British accent, snickering at his own humor.

“I get the feeling Mae prefers men who are at least mostly made of flesh,” Bucky swung from Natasha’s legs and the redhead dodged the move with irritating grace.  “And probably closer in age.”

“I don’t know; how many centennials do you know?” Natasha smirked, wrapping her legs around Bucky’s waist and pulling him down.  The brunette rolled with the move and turned it against her, rolling her onto her back.

“She and Steve would make cute little blonde babies,” Clint noted casually.

Bucky wasn’t sure why, but the comment tugged at him the wrong way and he threw Natasha a little harder than expected toward the edge of the ring.  He looked at her in horror and quickly helped her back up, but she responded by dropping him to the ground with a foot in his chest.

He laid there a moment, staring up at the ceiling of the training room before a new set of footfalls entered the room.

“I was under the impression he was one of the most feared assassins in the world?” he heard a familiar voice comment to Clint.  The archer snorted in laughter.

She always sounded so polite, despite the sarcasm and rude comments she let slip.  She could probably insult the pope and he wouldn’t even realize it.

“He’s just getting old,” Natasha commented.  “Besides, I think more people are afraid of me."

“I know I certainly am,” Mabel confessed lightly, a small smile sent in the redhead’s direction.  Natasha crawled out of the ring and approached the blonde, sizing the smaller woman up and down.

“You fight pretty well, at least in the brief moments of brainwashing I saw,” she noted and circled Mabel again.  “You wanna give it a shot?”

“No,” Bucky voiced, immediately shooting up from his laying position.  “I think that’s a terrible idea."

But the group continued their discussion, with Clint edging the soldier on, before finally, Mabel relented.

Why did he even bother?  Bucky groaned, rolling off of the ring and approaching the group.

“Do you even know how to throw a punch properly?” he asked exasperated, trying to convince the woman otherwise.  She narrowed her gaze in offense before throwing a perfectly formed punch into his chest.

Bucky would never admit in a million years, but it nearly knocked him off balance.

“I don’t know Mr. Barnes, perhaps I should go back to my needlework,” she shook her head and pushed past him toward the ring where Natasha was now waiting.

“Girl fight!” Clint cheered mockingly, earning a less than polite gesture from Natasha, before the two women began to circle one another.

Bucky watched silently while they continued circling the ring.  They both had a similar approach.  They were the same size roughly, and probably were used to handling much larger opponents.

Mabel’s downfall, however, was that Natasha had a little more experience fighting other women.

The redhead dove first, going for Mabel’s legs, but the blonde leapt up and rolled to the side, narrowly dodging the attack.  She used Nat’s confusion to tackle her from the side, but Natasha brought up an elbow and pushed the blonde off.

“You fight dirty,” Natasha commented, wiping at some dripping sweat.  “I like it.”

The redhead’s eyes were calculating, while Mabel’s hazel gaze was determined to take down the threat.

They collided again, this time Mabel winning the brief match.   It went on like this for a bit longer before Natasha was, once again, determined to be the winner.

“My turn,” Clint announced once Natasha hopped out of the ring.  Mabel didn’t even have a chance to react before the archer was charging toward her.

Their game was a dance of avoidance.  Mabel moved swiftly away from each of Clint’s attacks, trying to throw a blow in whenever she could.  Unfortunately, Clint was significantly more agile than the heiress, and managed a few more hits.

The fight ended with Mabel leaning against the ropes of the fighting ring trying to catch her breath and Clint rolling on the ground laughing about how they needed to get the kid in the field.

“Buck!  Your turn,” Clint rolled toward his friend excitedly.  Bucky shook his head firmly.

“Not today,” he replied, sending a look in Mabel’s direction.  He expected a smile or an acknowledgement of sympathy, but instead the blonde grinned mischievously.

“It’s ok, it wouldn’t be very fair,” she shrugged and started toward the edge of the ring.  “He’s probably too tired.”

Goddamn it, she knew how to get under his skin.  He pulled his shirt off and tossed it at Clint.

“All right grandma, let’s go.” Mabel beamed, cracking her knuckles.

When Clint announced the beginning of the fight, it occurred to Bucky right away that the enhanced woman had been holding back against her non-altered counterparts.

There was significantly more force behind each hit.

He dropped her, she would subsequently bring him down to her level.

She threw elbows and used knees, which normally would have been called on, but Clint wasn’t judging by competition rules.  This was a fight.

Bucky caught her in the side of the mouth, drawing a little blood.  He paused in concern before she merely smirked, wiped it away and went for his torso.

They stumbled to the ground, her pinning him down for just long enough for Clint to call her the winner.

It was close- and if he hadn’t hesitated at seeing her hurt, he would have easily won.

Mabel lingered a moment, her elbows pinning down his chest, smiling in victory at the assassin.

“You can move,” he grunted in irritation, but she dropped more weight down, pressing further into his sternum.

“Make me,” she taunted quietly before he simply flipped her over onto her back.  He could hear her catch her breath before he pinned her shoulders down on the mat.

“You’re a pain sometimes, you know that right?” he muttered before jumping up and crawling out of the ring.

She remained silent, her eyes trailing him on his walk back to Clint.  Natasha soon appeared at her side and helped the blonde back to her feet

Why had he hesitated? Bucky ran through possible explanations all the way back to the shower.

Sure, he’d drawn blood in his sparring partners before.  Shit, he’d probably made Steve bleed more than a hundred times, yet seeing it on Mabel made his mind go haywire.

He turned the water in the training shower as hot as possible, hoping the burning sensation would help clear his mind and give him answers.

France- January 1918

“We’ve located the German scientist; a local family was hiding him in their crawlspace,” Meyer nudged a pale faced woman, and three children forward.  “What should we do with them?”

Mabel looked the family over for a brief moment before shaking her head.  They’d seen better days, though she couldn’t understand their choice in aiding an enemy so cruel and manipulative.

“Treason is punishable by death,” she merely commented.  There wasn’t a single hint of hesitation in her tone.  “They were assisting a mass murderer.”

The mother dropped to her knees and began to beg for the lives of herself and her children; but Mabel turned on the boot of her heel and started back toward the regime waiting ahead.

“Meyer, you have your orders,” she stated with icy finality.  She barely flinched when the gunshots echoed across the snow covered meadow.  Quick and painless.  Hunger probably would have killed most of the children by the end of winter anyway.

Meyer jogged to catch up, his pace lining up with Mabel’s almost identically.

“A little cruel, don’t you think?” he asked quietly.  Mabel stopped in her tracks and looked him over with a narrowed gaze.

“Their interference allowed Hans to go undetected an additional month and a half,” she reminded him.  “That’s a month and a half of loss time- a month and a half of information we could be pulling from him about their grand project.”

Meyer fell silent and shuffled ahead toward the squad.  The men avoided eye contact with Mabel once she approached.  

“We need to get to Amiens by nightfall,” she ordered and the soldiers began to move, dragging along a stumbling Dr. Hans behind their carts.

Joseph would have reasoned that she shown the family mercy, a small voice whispered in the back of her head.  She kept marching along the road, adjusting her rifle strap slightly.

But Joseph is dead and I am not.

PART 8

[caffeineivore]

Many thanks...

To @apsaraqueen and @antivanonmytongue for helping me plot out this segment of fic. Therefore, dedicated to them because they are awesome ladies :P

Title: Yuan Fen

Ship: R/J AU

Notes: Yuan Fen: Fateful coincidence; destiny which brings two people’s lives together at some point, often through astronomical odds. “It takes hundreds of rebirths to bring two persons to ride in the same boat; it takes a thousand eons to bring two persons to share the same pillow.” A concept related to karma in Chinese Buddism.

Rating: PG/PG13

In which R’s life in NYC catches up with her...

Rachel is dropped off by the hotel by the “Chinese Uber” and returns to find seven missed-call notifications on her iPad’s facetime, all from her ex-boyfriend, Kade Bowen. It’s bizarre and unexpected; certainly, Kade had not made any effort to contact her since their breakup, and seven missed calls in rapid succession hints at a type of desperation very unlike the cool and collected lawyer. Frowning and wondering if something bad has happened in New York, perhaps to her father or maybe some other mutual acquaintance, she returns the call.

Kade picks up after three rings, and his handsome face settles into harassed lines on the screen. “Rachel. It’s half-past nine and I have a meeting in five minutes. I don’t have time right now, I shouldn’t even be answering this at work.”

Rachel’s eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. “Excuse me? I’m just returning your call. I had seven notifications from you. Is everything all right?” By some miracle, she keeps her voice calm rather than shrewish despite the quick surge of irritation at his tone.

“Yes, everything is fine... look, I have to go very soon. Meeting, like I said. Where were you, anyway? I would have thought that you’d have returned to your hotel a lot sooner than now.”

“Out having dinner with a friend, not that it’s any of your business any more,” Rachel snips out, raising her chin. “It’s what normal people do here at seven o’clock or so, local time.”

“You don’t know anyone there. Even if there are some of your grandfather’s contemporaries left in China, I doubt you’d know any of them, considering he was only a young man himself when he’d left.”

Rachel closes her eyes and exhales slowly, counts to ten in her head. It would not do to give Kade the satisfaction of riling her up, not after the nice evening she’d had, and manages to modulate her voice to a tone of bland politeness so pleasant it could freeze a wildfire. “I’m sorry, it’s been close to a month here, in a small group of people that spend lots of time together on a daily basis. Surely you consider me socially adept enough to have made the acquaintance of one or two by now? I would hardly waste it upon you, but I have a more-than-adequate amount of charm at my disposal should the situation require.” The smile she lets cross her lips as she makes this statement is chilly and sharp enough to cut glass. 

“Of course,” Kade seems immune to her sarcasm, and returns her smile with a condescending one of his own. “I never implied otherwise, Rach. Look, I really do have to go, I’ll call you later.”

“Oh, goody. I can’t wait,” Rachel sneers, then disconnects the call before he could get another word in edgewise. 

She deliberately turns on the television and watches an hour of some period drama, complete with wire-fu and swordplay and elaborate costumes, in spite of language barriers and not the faintest idea of the plot, to distract herself before going to bed.

**

Kade facetimes her again, at a quarter to six in the morning, and it wakes her up. Rubbing sleep out of her eyes, she glares at the face in the screen. “What do you want, Kade?”

“I’m sorry if I woke you, but I have a dinner meeting with a client, so this was the only time,” he says, not sounding particularly sorry. “I suppose I should ask you how your trip has been. Hopefully you’ve been taking care of yourself-- I saw a documentary on sanitation standards in foreign countries, and while I’m sure you’re sensible enough to get vaccinated before leaving, you should still take certain precautions...”

“I only drink water out of rusted drain pipes every other day,” Rachel cuts him off with an eyeroll. “And only once did I five-second-rule it when I purchased dodgy street food and dropped it on the ground by accident. Did you need something, or can I get dressed and ready to go about my day?” 

“Go ahead, I can talk while you do all that. I know how long you take in the mornings.” The smug tone in his voice grates on Rachel’s nerves, and she wonders how she’d ever managed to put up with it, let alone for so long. “I don’t have long-- dinner meeting, like I said, so I’m just going to get straight to the point. I want you to come back to me, Rach.”

Rachel pauses, foamy toothbrush halfway from her mouth, and stares at the screen, speechless. He continues, without apparently expecting any response from her. “We’re good together, you know. You’re smart, beautiful, ambitious-- and while I may not have always shown you how much I appreciate those qualities, you should certainly know that I do. Come on, Rach. We’ve known each other forever-- our fathers are partners at the biggest and most prestigious law firm in Manhattan, for godsakes. Your father even dropped in to speak to me after you left me to say how disappointed he was over that whole debacle. His dearest wish is for us to take over the firm eventually. Harris and Bowen will always remain Harris and Bowen-- I’d even let you keep your maiden name if we married, if you liked.”

Rachel sets her mascara wand down before she stabs herself in the eye by accident, and stares at her reflection in the mirror, unsure of whether to cry or laugh hysterically at what she’s hearing. Deliberately, she takes a minute to turn back to the screen. 

“So, you mean to say that you broke it off with Tiffanie. You know, the yoga instructor that you were seeing on the side.”

“Come on, baby! You know that wasn’t-- that was only physical, and...”

“You really called me seven times for this?” Rachel’s voice is vibrating with rage. “So you mean to say that the bimbo, whose g-string I found in the laundry hamper, was ‘only physical’, in the sense that clearly I am not exciting enough in bed for you. But because I am so much more suitable in all other aspects, you’ve, what, progressed from making decisions with your dick to making decisions based on stock portfolio options and the opinions of the country club?! You know what, Kade? I think that yoga instructor Tiffanie with an ‘ie’ is perfect for you.  Congratulations. I hope you two will be very happy together. Goodbye.” 

He calls two more times, and Rachel ignores him both times, but when her father calls, she sighs and picks up. “Yes, dad? If this is about Kade, the answer is no, never again.”

“Well, then.” Trent Harris raises an eyebrow in an expression identical to Rachel’s. “I guess I just got told.”

“Sorry,” Rachel huffs out a breath and takes a seat on the bed. “Kade’s been calling. He’s trying to get back together.”

“I know,” her father says slowly. “I spoke to him the other day-- he’d mentioned that he didn’t really understand why you’d go on this trip, and that he missed you since the two of you broke up.”

“Well, we won’t be getting back together, so you can put that hope to rest if that’s what you’re trying to do.”

“Not completely,” Trent’s voice is low and careful. Rachel has never heard him raise it, except in the courtroom. “I never did the full story on why you broke up, though.”

“He cheated on me,” Rachel says without preamble. “Of course, he says he’s sorry and that it meant nothing. But I don’t feel as though I should have to put up with that.”

“Certainly not,” Trent’s dark brows draw together in a scowl. “My daughter does not have to settle for anything or anybody. I did mention to him that it seemed as though he had made you unhappy, and to fix it. I didn’t know the details, though.”

“Not worth knowing, dad,” Rachel sighs. “Can we not talk about him?”

“Okay.” Trent looks as though he might have something to add, but acquiesces easily enough. “Are you having a good time in China?”

“Yeah, I am,” Rachel smiles her first genuine smile since last night. “It’s beautiful here, even if I’m apparently not physiologically super-compatible with high altitudes. I can see why Gramps wanted to go.”

“That’s good,” Trent nods, then there’s an awkward split-second pause before he speaks again. “I’m glad you’re happy, connecting with that side of your heritage. Your mother would’ve wanted that, too.”

Rachel doesn’t have many memories of her mother, who’d been buried the same year that she’d started first grade, but the solemnity of her father’s expression lets her take his words at face value. Before she says anything else though, her borrowed Chinese iPhone rings.

It’s John. “Where are you? I’m in the hotel lobby, mei nü,” he tells her when she picks up, and she jerks up her head, realizes the time. She was supposed to be down ten minutes ago.

“Crap, I’ll be right down.” She hangs up, then turns back to her father on facetime. “I have to go. I’ll see you back in New York, dad.”

[wildflowerhowell]

I Found, chapter 8

Dan Howell and Phil Lester hate each other, and everyone at the Ida Gatley school of dance knows it. So what happens when the two are paired together to choreograph and perform a duet at England’s most renowned contemporary dance competition?

word count (in total): 22,139

chapters: 12

genre: fluff and angst

tw: none

read on ao3

all chapters

“Does my hair look okay?” Dan stared at himself in the dressing room mirror, which was surrounded with those big light bulbs that you’d see in the movies, trying to fix every flaw in his appearance. He knew no one on the audience would be able to see the wrinkles in his shirt or the tiny patch of powder that had smudged on his leggings, but he didn’t care. They’d arrived at the theater about two hours ago, and the competition was just about to begin. Dan and Phil’s dance wasn’t until the end of the show, however, so they still had another 90 minutes or so to get ready.

“For the 100th time, it looks fine, Dan.” Phil was fixing his own hair in the mirror. The subtle highlight he’d applied earlier reflected off his chiseled cheekbones, and Dan couldn’t help but marvel at how good he looked.

“I just feel like all of the curls are out of place. Eh, whatever. How do you do your eyebrows like that?” Dan referred to the other dancer’s perfectly carved-out eyebrows, “Mine just look like caterpillars. You fill yours in so well.”

“Well yeah, a dancer’s gotta be able to make their face look good for a performance. Come over one day and I’ll teach you how to not suck at makeup, yeah?”

“Hey. I could be worse.”

“But you could also be a lot better.” Phil gestured at Dan’s eyes, which had little spots of mascara all over them.

“Yeah, that’s fair.”

The two boys had about thirty minutes to kill before they needed to start warming up and stretching, so they decided to play a game of truth or dare. They sat with their legs crossed on the tiled floor of their dressing room, facing each other. Phil went first, choosing truth.

“Okay. What was your first kiss like?” Dan giggled, leaning forward, anticipating Phil’s answer.

“Oh God, it was awful!” Phil let Dan laugh again before continuing. “I was 16, and there was this girl who liked me named Kate. I didn’t like her back but I’d never kissed anyone before so when she asked to kiss me I just kinda went along with it. It was really wet and gross and I hated it. When it was over, I wondered how anyone could enjoy kissing if that was what it felt like.”

“Oh no that’s so bad! Pretty funny though. Okay, my turn. Truth.”

“Um,” Phil thought for a second, trying to come up with a good question, “Same thing, what was your first kiss like?”

“Ooh, this is a good one. So I was in my drama class one day when I was 15, and my friend and I thought it would be funny to stage kiss each other. We both leaned in, but when we realized that he and I never said who was gonna put their thumbs in between our lips, it was too late. I was fine with it but I’m pretty sure I scarred him for life.”

Phil doubled over with laughter. “That story is so much better than mine! My turn again? Dare.” He smirked and raised his eyebrows, making Dan giggle again.

“I dare you to go ask the people in the dressing room next to us for something really weird.”

Phil thought about this for a second, then got up to open the door to their dressing room. When he knocked on the door of the room to their left, a blonde girl opened it. Dan leaned on the doorframe of his and Phil’s room and crossed his arms.

“Hey, I know this is weird,” Phil said to the girl, “But I was wondering if you had some water? I completely forgot my water bottle at my hotel, I’m so forgetful sometimes.” Phil kept a straight face while the blonde gave him a confused look. Dan was a bit confused too, as water wasn’t that weird.

“Um, there’s a water fountain right there.” She pointed past Phil to the fountain right behind him.

“Yeah, I know, but I don’t drink water from public fountains. I believe the government puts chemicals in it so they can control our minds.” Phil didn’t show a sign of breaking character, and Dan had to do everything in his power to keep from bursting into laughter. The girl took a second, her false eyelashes fluttering when she blinked. A brunette sitting in a chair in the corner of the blonde’s dressing room looked up from her phone and gave Phil a dirty look.

“Oh, uh, sorry, the only water I have is from that fountain.” The girl started to close the door but stopped when Phil touched her shoulder with a look of concern.

“You really shouldn’t drink from that. God knows what the government is making you think.”

The blonde brushed Phil’s hand from her shoulder. “Yeah, good luck later, bye.” She hurriedly closed the door while Phil enthusiastically waved and wished her good luck as well.

“Damn, Lester,” Dan gave Phil a look of astonishment as the older boy walked past him and winked, going back to the spot on the floor where he’d been sitting before. “You sure you don’t wanna quit dancing to become an actor?” He sat back down as Phil beamed at him.

The two dancers spent another half-hour playing truth or dare. Those 30 minutes were filled with exposing Dan’s guilty pleasure movie (Legally Blonde), Phil sending a blind text to his mom (she replied back within minutes, asking if he was drunk), and Dan trying countless times to lick his own elbow (Phil thought this was hilarious, taking pictures of all the different angles that Dan was trying.) The next 30 minutes after that were spent scrolling through Tumblr, Instagram, Twitter, Facebook. They filled the silence with How To Be A Human Being by Glass Animals because Phil claimed it was one of the best albums he’d heard in years. After that, they stretched and warmed up until a man with ginger hair and circle-framed glasses knocked on their door to tell them they were on in 10 minutes and needed to head down near the stage.

The two dancers stood in a little hallway near the stage entrance. Dan paced around, taking deep breaths. Phil stood silently, staring at his feet.

“Phil,” Dan said, still pacing, “How are you not nervous? I’m kind of terrified.”

Phil smiled, crossing his arms by his chest. “Who says I’m not nervous?”

“I guess I just make it more obvious?”

“Definitely.” The black-haired dancer uncrossed his arms and moved his hands to his hips, clearly unsure of what to do with them. “Actually, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

Dan stopped in his tracks and looked over at Phil. “Oh no. That sounds scary. And we only have a few minutes before we go on.”

Phil let out an anxious chuckle, “Don’t worry, it’s not anything bad. And it won’t take long.”

“Okay...” Dan squinted at Phil, “So what is it?”

“Do you remember yesterday when we agreed to be completely honest with each other?”

“Yeah. Have you not told me something I need to know?” The brown haired boy looked at the other dancer, who was staring downwards again, seemingly unable to speak.

“Phil we’re about to go on and if it can wait then-”

Suddenly, Phil was moving again, grabbing Dan by his shirt collar and pulling him into a kiss. It only lasted a few seconds, but the two boys were both breathless when Dan pulled away. In such a short amount of time, it was as if a million things had shifted inside of him. There were a million new questions, and a million new realizations, and a million new emotions he couldn’t quite put a name on or describe. He didn’t need a mirror to know his face had never been as red as it was right now, and he could probably say the same about Phil.

Phil.

When Dan looked at the other dancer, it was as if he was looking at a completely different person than the one he thought he’d known since he started dancing. He wasn’t able to pinpoint what the look on Phil’s face was conveying, and he suddenly wanted to know every thought that was running through that blue-eyed boy’s head. Neither one of them had said a word since the kiss, and Dan wanted to break the silence with some sort of comforting comment. But before he was able to say anything, the same ginger from earlier rounded the corner.

“Dan and Phil? It’s your turn to perform.”

[davedimartino-yahoo-blog]

Flashback Interview: Radiohead's 'OK Computer' in an Early Computer Age

Radiohead circa 1997 (Photo by Kevin Mazur/WireImage)

“It’s not really about computers,” said Radiohead’s Thom Yorke about OK Computer, his band’s brand-new album. He was sitting in a chair, a video camera was pointed at him, and much of what we know about Radiohead hadn’t happened yet.

“It was just the noise that was going on in my head for most of a year and a half of traveling, and computers, and television — and just absorbing it all, really,” said Yorke. “It’s an absorbing record, for good or bad. It’s whatever was around and picking up on it. It’s not really a personal record.”

Some context, please? The year was 1997, the location was West Hollywood’s history-laden Chateau Marmont hotel, and Yorke and Radiohead guitarist Jonny Greenwood were partaking in a video interview aiming to promote OK Computer — out in the States then for perhaps a month and the band’s highest U.S. chart showing yet.

And of course, there would be much more to come: Grammy nominations, Grammy wins, worldwide critical acclaim, massive commercial acceptance, and a pervasive musical influence that helped launch Travis, Coldplay, Elbow, and any other British band favoring acoustic guitars, high-pitched vocals, and artiness you’d care to bring up.

Radiohead mattered, and continue to matter.

They are huge, they are gigantic, and they are exactly the band entitled to celebrate their history via glorious excess. Such excess comes this week with OKNOTOK, a multi-format release commemorating the 20th anniversary of OK Computer and loaded with good stuff: the original album newly remastered, eight B-sides, and three previously unreleased tracks (“I Promise,” “Lift,” “Man of War”) finally seeing official light of day. Boxed set, vinyl, double-CD, digital — details here, and it’s a beautiful thing.

But let’s not forget that this Chateau Marmont ’97 encounter with Radiohead is also having its 20th anniversary — and when examined from that perspective, portions of it now seem oddly fascinating. The band that many now view as wizards of technology, as industry leaders plugged into all that is new and modern, as a cutting-edge combo setting the rules everyone else now follows…were as mystified as any of us about where it all was heading. Which might be one reason they affably took their seats, patiently answered questions about music and (unavoidably) technology, and participated in their first-ever cover story for LAUNCH — a paperless CD-ROM magazine (which later morphed into a website and, eventually, into Yahoo Music) that one consumed via their computer’s CD-ROM drive.

If one had a computer, that is. And if that computer had a CD-ROM drive.

Radiohead on the cover of LAUNCH, 1997

The point? That passages such as the following made perfect contextual sense when asked on that July afternoon in the Chateau Marmont two decades ago.

LAUNCH: How computer-savvy are you two? Do you ever surf the Net?

JONNY GREENWOOD: I’m a big fan of the Internet — well, not a fan, but a big user. Just yesterday, I went to the Voyager site. It has all the music they sent out on Voyager I, the probe they sent out. It’s got “Hello” in 36 different languages recorded on these aluminum discs. I thought that was wild, just amazing. There’s a lot of good stuff out there.

THOM YORKE: I don’t surf the Net at the moment. The reason for that is I had a bit of a freaky incident where someone traced my email address when I first had one two years ago. And I can’t figure out how they found me because I was using a pseudonym. That really threw me and I got really paranoid about it.

It’s unclear exactly why people talked about surfing the “Net” rather than the “Web” back then, but so be it. Still, that something so integral to contemporary life in 2017 was then regarded as something that might be avoided when desired — a colorful novelty, a sideshow to the main event — is illuminating.

Yorke went on a bit more, cautioning even then about the inaccuracies the Internet might offer. “I hadn’t even written all of the lyrics yet when we began performing some of these songs,” he said. “And we’d be in the studio with one computer on the Web most of the time. We’d go to the unofficial Radiohead sites, and find that people had gone home with these bootlegs of our shows and typed up the lyrics they thought I was singing to our songs. So there I’d be in the studio trying to write my lyrics, and then I’d look on the website to see what other people had written down, what they’d transcribed. That was amazing. It was very odd. I liked that bit of it. That was hilarious.”

To further contextualize, consider at what point Radiohead were in their still-blossoming career: They’d had a huge international hit with their first single “Creep,” the produced a critically acclaimed second album with 1995’s The Bends, which they then promoted in the States while opening for R.E.M. and Alanis Morissette — enviable slots, both. And as for making the follow-up?

“I think there was a general atmosphere, especially in the press, that we were all set up to do ‘the big third crossover album,’ with the pop radio song that would cross us over into something enormous,” Greenwood said. “But it sort of feels like we’ve just made a record for the people who were into the last one, really.”

However, soon after its release, OK Computer was heralded the album of the year. Did Radiohead really not know what they had when it was completed?

“When we finished it and were putting it together,” Yorke said then, “I was pretty convinced that we’d sort of blown it. But I was kind of happy about that, because we’d gotten a real kick out of making the record. Now in terms of people saying it’s ‘the album of the year’ — people say that all the time. In Britain, it’s great: In the space of two weeks, our album was the album of the year, and so was Prodigy’s. Two weeks from now it will be another album. It’s just what people say.”

Actually, two weeks from then, the LAUNCH crew would shuttle over to Washington, D.C.’s 9:30 Club and capture Radiohead’s performance of the OK Computer track “Lucky” during a soundcheck.

But none of us in that room knew that then. Just as no one knew that the LAUNCH CD-ROM containing Radiohead’s performance and interview would be virtually unplayable in 2017 after 20 years of software and hardware evolution. Or that OKNOTOK would be out in 20 years’ time celebrating OK Computer’s original release. Funny how that works.

Anyway, much has been made of the band’s taking a deliberate turn toward the arty side of things at this point in their career — and that isn’t far from the truth. OK Computer drew its artistic inspiration, if not its actual sound, from sources pop fans of the era might not have expected. Including jazz and avant-garde classical music.

“It isn’t pumped full of singles,” noted Yorke, “but then The Bends wasn’t either, or at least that’s what people said. I don’t think it’s uncommercial, in the sense that if we’d set out to make an uncommercial record, we could have done a much better job. I think it has an atmosphere. We had a sound in our heads that we had to get on to tape, and that’s an atmosphere that’s perhaps a bit shocking when you first hear it, but only as shocking as the atmosphere on Pet Sounds. But then the sort of things we were listening to were so removed from all that anyway.”

Who were they listening to?

“We weren’t really listening to any bands at all — it was all like Miles Davis and Ennio Morricone and composers like [Krzysztof] Penderecki, which is sort of atmospheric, atonal weird stuff. We weren’t listening to any pop music at all. But not because we hated pop music — because what we were doing was pop music — we just didn’t want to be reminded of the fact.

“Bitches Brew by Miles Davis was the starting point of how things should sound; it’s got this incredibly dense and terrifying sound to it. That’s what I was trying to get — that sound — that was the sound in my head. The only other place I’d heard it was on a Morricone record. I’d never heard it in pop music. I didn’t hear it there. It wasn’t there. It wasn’t like we were being snobs or anything, it was just like, ‘This is saying the same stuff we want to say.’”

In retrospect, what may have signaled the start of Radiohead fully embracing their Radioheadness may have been their crucial decision to record most of OK Computer on their own, as a co-production with good friend and engineer Nigel Godrich, in a very unlikely location. That would be St. Catherine’s Court, a mansion near Bath owned by actress Jane Seymour and by no means an industry hub.

“We were all of the same age, mid-to-late twenties, and doing a record in the middle of nowhere,” said Greenwood. “And there were no established professionals there. It wasn’t a real recording studio, and we had our friend doing the artwork in the studio at the same time. We were all at the same stage of our life and all working together for something, it was quite a buzz.”

Added Yorke: “We didn’t want to be in the studio with A&R men coming around, nice air conditioning, staring at the same walls and the same microphones. That was madness. We wanted to get to another state of mind — one that we understood and could deal with.”

If it was an experiment, it could not have been more successful: The album reached the top of the U.K. charts, was compared to no less than Sgt. Peppers by at least one enthusiastic press outlet, sold by the boatload, and set the aesthetic tone for what has become one of the most fascinating and unparalleled careers in the music business.

Still, as Radiohead sat in their Chateau Marmont chairs back in ’97, they yet again had to answer questions about “Creep” — their first single, the song that started it all for them, and a success that conspicuously overshadowed much of their other early work. It was an issue for them even then.

When a song becomes that popular, they are asked, does it become a millstone for you? Do you wish you never had to play it again?

“It’s not a millstone now,” Yorke said. “It’s a good song. Ultimately, you know, if you have a song that moves people in that way, you can’t possibly disclaim it or moan about it, because that’s why you’re in this business. That’s why we’re in this business. It’s a pop record.

“It’s not a millstone anymore because it moved people at the time. And what else could you ask for?”

Give us 20 years, Thom, and we’ll get back to you on that.

[taylorfennersbookishworld]

Today I'm helping Vi Keeland and Penelope Ward reveal an excerpt of their next book, MY FAVORITE SOUVENIR! My Favorite Souvenir Release Date: 04/27/2020 A Contemporary Romance Novel New York Times Bestselling Authors Vi Keeland and Penelope Ward Blurb: My planned trip for two unexpectedly turned into a trip for one.  Rather than let my breakup get me down, I packed my bags and decided a week at a luxury resort was just what I needed. But one calamity after the next, and suddenly I was stuck without a hotel room, along with a few hundred other people. It looked like my fancy vacation was about to turn into me sleeping on the hotel lobby floor. Until I overheard a gorgeous man pretending to be someone he wasn’t in order to steal a reservation from a guest who hadn’t shown up yet. When I realized there were two rooms, instead of calling him out, I pretended to be his sister. That’s how the story of “Milo and Maddie Hooker” began.  We were the Hookers. My depressing trip quickly made a U-turn into an adventure.   My fake brother spent the next few days showing me around his hometown. When it was time to leave, neither of us really wanted to go yet.  So, instead of flying back to our respective homes, we ventured on a road trip.  At every stop, we’d pick up souvenirs. But as hot as our chemistry was, we never crossed the line. Milo knew I’d just come out of a tough relationship and didn’t want to mess with a vulnerable woman. So instead, at the end of our trip, we made a pact to meet again in three months.    It was always my intention to meet him. But when I got back home, reality hit in a big way. And I worried I may have lost my handsome stranger forever. Was there a place for him in my future? Or had the memory of him just become my favorite souvenir? Excerpt: “Good afternoon. You’ve reached the Four Seasons Resort, Vail, Colorado. How may I direct your call?”I took a deep breath. “Hi. I checked out early this morning. My reservation was for ten days, but I only wound up staying two nights. Is there any chance you might still have my room available? Or any room, for that matter? My flight was canceled because of the storm.”“Let me take a look. What’s your last name?”“Appleton.” I shook my head. “Actually, the reservation was under Ellis. My fiancé’s last name.” Or ex-fiancé. But I’d let her call me Mrs. Ellis at this point if it meant I could have a place to sleep tonight.“Give me one moment and I’ll check.” “Thank you.”I sat down in the lobby of the Best Western, the third hotel I’d been to in the last two hours. It was dumb of me to check out this morning. Though, at least I was consistent. After making the bad decision to go on my previously planned honeymoon alone, I’d brilliantly decided to check out only two days into the trip…without looking at the weather report for Vail. When I arrived at the airport, I had no idea that a blizzard was on the way. But the airline had assured me my flight was still scheduled as planned. And they’d kept their word right up until five minutes before we were supposed to board, when they announced a two-hour delay. Two hours turned into three, and three turned into five, and when we hit six hours of sitting on uncomfortable plastic seats outside the gate, they finally admitted it wasn’t going to happen. Every other flight had been canceled by then. And now, every hotel seemed to be full.The hotel operator came back on the line.“Hi, Mrs. Ellis?”I cringed at being called that, but answered anyway. “Yes?”“I’m sorry. After you checked out, your room was rebooked. We’re actually sold out for the night because of the storm.”I sighed. Of course you are. “Okay. Thank you.”This was just my luck lately. I called four more hotels, until one said they might have a few rooms available. Apparently they had guests that hadn’t checked in yet and were in the process of making calls to confirm whether they would still be arriving today. Rooms would be freed up on a first-come, first-served basis. So I decided to take a chance and head on over. It was already seven o’clock at night, and there was no point in sitting here anymore. Surprisingly, Uber was still running, even though the airport had called it quits hours ago. Out front, the snow was coming down hard. A giant SUV with snow chains on the tires pulled up in front of the door. I couldn’t check the license plate or get a look at the make and model of the vehicle since it was covered in snow, so I walked over to the car and motioned for the driver to roll down the window. “Are you Hazel?” the older woman behind the wheel asked.I smiled. “Yes.”“Heading over to the Snow Eagle Lodge?”“Yes, please.”Even though the next hotel was only two miles away, it took fifteen minutes to get there. By the time we pulled up, the conditions were almost white-out. It couldn’t be safe driving in this anymore.“God, it’s really terrible out here,” I said as I pulled up the hood of my jacket. “Be careful driving tonight.” “Oh, I will, honey. The next place I’m driving is home. I only picked you up because you were on my way. Good thing you’re at your hotel now. No one is going to be on the roads tonight anymore.”Great. This place really better have a room for me. As I climbed out of the SUV, a gust of snow smacked me in the face, despite the fact that we were parked under the building’s overhang. The wind made it look like someone had shaken a snow globe, hard. Inside the hotel, I wiped flakes from my eyelashes and glanced around the lobby.Oh no.This didn’t look good. A line of at least thirty or forty people snaked five rows deep, waiting to get to the reception desk. I sighed and wheeled my luggage to behind the last person. More than half an hour later, I finally reached the front. “Hi. I called earlier, and the person I spoke to said some rooms might become available, that you were going to contact guests who hadn’t showed and see if they were still coming?”The woman nodded with a frown. “Yeah. I can put you on our waitlist. But we’re still making calls, and to be honest, it’s not looking too good.”My shoulders slumped. “Okay. Well, I guess please add me to your wait list.”The woman lifted a clipboard and set it down on the counter. She thumbed through a few pages and turned it to face me, pointing at the next available line, which was two from the bottom of the page. “Just add your name and cell phone number.”I scribbled both and let the pages above the one I’d been writing on fan back into place. Noticing the sheet at the top looked just like the one I’d signed, five or six pages down, I glanced through all the papers. There had to be at least a hundred names and telephone numbers.“Are these all on your waiting list?”The hotel clerk nodded. “How many people haven’t checked in?”“I think about a dozen.”Oh God. This really wasn’t good. But maybe people had just added their names and left, like in a packed restaurant. Maybe the bulk of people ahead of me on the list had found other hotels.Turning around, whatever hope I’d talked myself into immediately deflated. Every seat in the lobby area behind me was taken. Some were even sitting on the floor, leaning against their luggage. With very few options, I wandered over and found an empty space on a carpeted area of the floor, not too far from the concierge desk. Though I knew it was futile, I took out my iPad and continued to search for a hotel with availability. Even if I found one, getting there would be a miracle on its own at this point.The nearby concierge desk had been empty while I scrolled and made calls, but now two women walked over. One I recognized as the manager, since I’d spent a half hour staring at the people behind the front desk while I’d waited in line. The other had on a nametag and held a clipboard. I couldn’t help but eavesdrop on their conversation from where I sat.“These seven we still haven’t reached,” the manager said. “All of the other rooms have been checked in, or we’ve reallocated them to people from the waiting list.”The employee flipped through the pages and looked around the full hotel lobby. “Jeez. And this storm is supposed to stick around for days.”Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a guy standing on the other side of the concierge desk. His back was to the ladies talking, but he craned his neck, and I thought he, too, might be eavesdropping. Figuring he was probably just as bored as me, I went back to my iPad search—until a few minutes later when I noticed him scribbling something with a pen on the inside of his hand. What the hell is he doing?He wrote for a few seconds and then seemed to go back to eavesdropping. The manager had walked away, leaving the employee to make her phone calls. She hung up from one call and dialed again. “Hi. This is Catherine from the Snow Eagle Lodge. I’m trying to reach Milo or Madeline Hooker.” The minute she said the names, the eavesdropper scribbled on his hand again. Catherine continued leaving her message. “I just wanted to confirm whether you’d still be arriving this evening. Your reservation is guaranteed, so we’ll hold it as long as you need. However, if the storm has perhaps caused a change in your travel plans, we do have a long wait list of guests who could use the two rooms you have booked. My number here is 970-555-4000, if you could please return my call at your earliest convenience. Thank you.”The same thing went on with the next two calls. Catherine left a message and the eavesdropper scribbled. Curious about what he was up to, I kept my eye on him. After the hotel clerk finished making her calls, she went back to the front desk. Eavesdropper picked up his backpack and casually strolled down a nearby hallway. I leaned to watch where he was going, and he eventually pulled up his hood and exited out a side door I hadn’t even noticed was there. I thought it was odd, but I figured the show was over. But a few minutes later, a guy with the same ski jacket walked through the front lobby door. He pulled his hood down, and I got a look at his face for the very first time.Damn, he was handsome. Medium brown hair that was kind of shaggy and needed a cut, full lips, hazel eyes, and tanned skin. His warm skin tone really stood out against the pasty color of most people in Colorado this time of the year, including me. It was a shame I loathed men right now, because he was seriously gorgeous. He dusted some of the snow from the shoulders of his jacket and went to wait in line. It was much shorter now, with only two men in front of him, mostly because people weren’t braving the storm anymore. I had no idea what possessed me to do it, but I decided to get up and wait behind the guy. Maybe I was imagining things to keep myself entertained, but I had the distinct feeling he was up to something.When it was his turn at the front desk, I moved as close as I could to listen without seeming like a stalker.“Hi. I’m checking in,” the man said.“Great. What’s your last name, sir?”He cleared his throat. “Hooker. Milo Hooker.”I squinted. The guy was totally full of shit. I knew it! The unsuspecting hotel clerk punched a bunch of keys on her keyboard and smiled. “I have your reservation right here. Two rooms for two nights, breakfast included. Is that right?”“Uhhh…” The guy nodded. “Yeah. I booked two rooms. But it turns out I’m only going to need the one.” He looked over his shoulder. “Looks like you won’t have a problem filling the other one, though.”She smiled. “No, we definitely won’t. I’ll just need a credit card and a picture ID please, Mr. Hooker.”I waited. This was the moment of truth. If he wasn’t actually Milo Hooker, he was going to have to make up some excuse. The guy reached into his front pocket like he was going to pull out his wallet. For a second, I thought I might’ve been wrong, but then he pulled out a wad of cash.“I lost my wallet on the slopes today. Luckily, I had some cash sent over through Western Union before the storm got too bad. Can I just pay cash?”The young woman hesitated. “You don’t have any ID at all? I’m not supposed to check people in without photo identification.”Fake Milo poured on the charm. He leaned forward and showed off a set of cavernous dimples. “We could take a selfie together?”The woman giggled. She actually giggled. “Let me just check with my manager.”She disappeared into the back and returned with the manager a few minutes later. A crazy idea popped into my head. She said there were two rooms… I made a spur-of-the-moment decision and approached the counter.“There you are, Milo.” I rested my hand on the guy’s shoulder. “My flight was canceled. I hope they still have our rooms.”Fake Milo turned and looked at me with his brows furrowed. He was going to blow it if I didn’t do something, so I turned my attention to the two hotel employees. “My brother and I booked rooms here for two nights, but I was trying to get out before the storm. Obviously I had no luck. I spent the entire day in the airport. Please tell me you still have my room? I’m dying for a hot bath.”Milo looked at me, then the hotel employees, then back at me. I smiled and arched a brow. For a second, I almost felt bad for the guy. He looked so bewildered. Since he still seemed to be at a loss for words, I figured I should continue talking. “We went skiing early this morning and had our backpacks stolen. Between that and the storm coming, I figured it was a sign that I should get back home early. Apparently Mother Nature had other plans. We should have two rooms—Milo and Madeline Hooker. Someone actually just left me a message on my cell asking us to confirm. Her name was Catherine, I believe.”The desk clerk nodded. “That was me. The storm has a lot of people stranded here unexpectedly without rooms, so we were checking in with guests that hadn’t arrived yet.”The manager looked back and forth between Fake Milo and me. “We’ll have to take a hundred-dollar deposit for incidentals on each room since you don’t have a credit card.”I smiled. “Of course.”She nodded to her employee. “Check them in. It’s fine.”The man next to me still had his mouth hanging open. So I dug into my purse, being careful not to show my wallet, which was supposed to have been stolen, and scooped out all of the cash. “How much are the rooms?” I asked the clerk. “Let’s see. With tax, they come to three-hundred-and-forty-two dollars each, for the two nights, and then we have to collect the hundred-dollar deposit.”Shit. I didn’t think I had that much cash. I counted the money in my hand and slid it over in front of Fake Milo. “Can you spot me forty dollars? You know I’m good for it, bro.”“Uh, yeah. Sure.”After we paid and got the room keys, we walked side by side to the elevator bank in silence. It wasn’t until we were alone and the elevator doors slid shut that Milo turned to me. “What the hell just happened?”I laughed. “We just got rooms, that’s what happened.”He shook his head. “But who are you?”“I noticed you standing near the concierge desk and eavesdropping while she called the guests who hadn’t arrived yet.” I reached forward and took the man’s hand, opening it to display blue ink. “You wrote down the names of the guests. I thought it was odd, so I followed you to the front desk to see what you were up to. When you made up that bogus story about losing your wallet so you could justify not having any ID, I knew you were full of shit.” I shrugged. “When the woman said there were two rooms on the reservation, I saw an opening and took it.”“How did you know I’d go along with it?”I smiled. “I didn’t. But that’s what made it so much fun!” I covered my chest with my hand. “My heart feels like it’s trying to ricochet out of my ribcage at this moment. It’s been a long time since I did anything risky like that.”His eyes roamed my face. I got the feeling he still wasn’t sure what to make of me, even though I’d just explained what I’d done. He looked down at my lips, which were still curved in an excited smile. “Why is that?”My forehead wrinkled. “Why is what?”“Why’s it been a long time since you’ve done anything risky? It looks to me like you enjoyed it.”I blinked a few times, not having expected a question that would tug at my heartstrings, and my smile fell. “I don’t know. I guess I kind of turned into a different person over the last few years.”Fake Milo’s eyes locked with mine. We’d gone from pulling off a crazy stunt and laughing, to an odd seriousness. His eyes flickered to my lips and back once again. “That’s a shame. You have a great smile.” Warmth spread through me, and I couldn’t seem to unlock my eyes from the stranger’s—at least until the elevator dinged and the doors opened on the third floor. “This is us,” he said. “Rooms 320 and 321.”“Oh. Right. Okay.” I stepped out and followed the signs to our rooms. Since we were, of course, family, they’d put us right next to each other. We stood a few feet apart as we opened our respective doors. As my lock unlatched and I turned the handle to go inside, something dawned on me. “I almost forgot! I owe you forty dollars for the room.”He smiled. “Don’t worry about it.”“No, don’t be silly. I just didn’t have enough cash and didn’t want to hand the woman a credit card when we weren’t supposed to have ID. I’ll just throw my bag in the room and go downstairs to find an ATM. They must have one somewhere.”“I thought you couldn’t wait to take a hot bath, or was that part of the act?”I laughed. “No, it actually wasn’t. I wasn’t lying when I said I spent the entire day at the airport. A hot bath sounds pretty amazing right about now. But I can grab your cash first. It won’t take me long.”Fake Milo scratched at the stubble on his chin. “I’ll tell you what. I’m going to take a quick shower and then go downstairs to the bar for a drink. Take your bath. You can find me there afterward to give me the money.”“Okay.”We looked at each other for a moment. “Alright, well, enjoy your soak, sis.”I smiled. “Thanks, Milo. I’ll see you later.” PURCHASE LINKS:  Audio pre-order ➜ https://smarturl.it/zh98t8 Paperback pre-order ➜https://fave.co/2WSz22e Add to Goodreads here ➜https://fave.co/2T0vXcS Sign up for Penelope & Vi’s mailing list and be the first one notified when it goes live! ➜ https://www.subscribepage.com/2FreeBooks About the Authors PENELOPE WARD:  Penelope Ward is a New York Times, USA Today and #1 Wall Street Journal bestselling author of contemporary romance.  She grew up in Boston with five older brothers and spent most of her twenties as a television news anchor. Penelope resides in Rhode Island with her husband, son, and beautiful daughter with autism.  With over two million books sold, she is a 21-time New York Times bestseller and the author of over twenty novels. Her books have been translated into over a dozen languages and can be found in bookstores around the world.  PENELOPE’S SOCIAL MEDIA LINKS:  Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/penelopewardauthor Facebook Private Fan Group:  https://www.facebook.com/groups/PenelopesPeeps/ Instagram:  @penelopewardauthor  http://instagram.com/PenelopeWardAuthor/ Twitter:  https://twitter.com/PenelopeAuthor VI KEELAND  Vi Keeland is a #1 New York Times, #1 Wall Street Journal, and USA Today Bestselling author. With millions of books sold, her titles have appeared in over a hundred Bestseller lists and are currently translated in twenty-five languages. She resides in New York with her husband and their three children where she is living out her own happily ever after with the boy she met at age six.  VI’S SOCIAL MEDIA LINKS:  Facebook Fan Group:  https://www.facebook.com/groups/ViKeelandFanGroup/ Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/vi.keeland Website:  http://www.vikeeland.com Twitter:  @vikeeland  https://twitter.com/ViKeeland Instagram:  @Vi_Keeland  http://instagram.com/Vi_Keeland/

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Doing Disney on a Budget

Disney World on a budget can be challenging. Being surrounded by 18 different Mickey ears that all miraculously match your outfit that day, 11 countries with signature food and drinks, and that Stitch plush that stares at you with those big blue eyes (at $75 a pop) all may seem worth it in the moment. But there’s no doubt that it’s so easy to go over budget when you get caught up in the atmosphere. Disney is definitely an all immersive experience and part of that is making sure you want to take some of it home.

Shopping was an epic weakness when I was living in Disney World. There is no doubt in my mind that 50% of what I made at Disney went back to the company by way of food and merchandise...and maybe the 5 times I drank around the world at Epcot. While, at the time, it seemed like I had to have it or I would die, I do have some regrets on how much I spent. So now that I’m home in North Carolina, level headed, and not surrounded by the magic, I can look back and tell you what I wish I had done.

Pack Food and Reusable Water Bottles Little known fact about Disney World, there are water fountains EVERYWHERE. It’s Florida, there’s no way they could get away with not supplying their visitors with a free source of water. And paying $4 per bottle is a little insane. Packing a reusable water bottle and filling it up at the fountains is a great way to save some money. You’d be surprised how many times during your visit you’ll want a sip of water, and it tastes so much better when you don’t pay for it. Also, Disney allows you to bring coolers of packed lunches and snacks! Quick meals in a cooler is a great way to save money on over priced theme park food. If packed lunches aren't your style, I highly recommend limiting yourself to Quick Service Restaurants while in the parks. The food is just as delicious as any sit down, and you're in and out in less than 45 minutes. Pecos Bills in Frontierland (Magic Kingdom) is probably my favorite quick service restaurant in Disney World. And as a Gluten Free customer, all Quick Service restaurants cater to allergies.

Watch Your Ticket Times Something Disney Newbies might not be aware of is that Disney’s ticket prices fluctuate through the entire year. There are helpful calendars to show you when prices are lower. Disney calls this their Value ticket. They’re low the few weeks after special holidays and when kids are in school or studying for exams. But there really is no such thing as a slow season for Disney World. People travel from all over to see the Mouse.

Don’t Purchase Merchandise in the Parks: Shop Disney Parks App This one might be tough to resist, but it’ll be worth it in the end. Ignoring the bubble wands and punny T-shirt’s will be a difficult challenge, but Disney doesn’t keep merchandise for long (except those Rose Gold Ears....those things will never go on sale). Chances are the object you pick out to buy, will be on sale in three weeks for half the price you paid for it. The Shop Disney Parks app is super handy for this. Just watching the sales and free shipping specials can help you save a ton of money.

Don’t Pay for Parking There are ENDLESS ways around paying for Disney’s insanely priced parking. One of the tactics I used, that probably puts my morals into question, is making breakfast, lunch or dinner reservations at any Walt Disney World Resort. They’ll only charge you $5 for each person you reserve a spot for ($1 if you do it on Open Table). From there you’ll show the security guard your reservation number and they’ll allow you to park at the Resort. From there you can hop on the monorail or a bus and find your way to any park. Another option is using the Free parking offered at Disney springs. The bus system at Disney is pretty great and it doesn’t take more than 15 minutes to get to any Walt Disney World park from Disney Spring’s location. This choice is HIGHLY advised for Magic Kingdom Park Days, because no matter what you do it will take three modes of transportation to get to Magic Kingdom (Unless you stay at Disney's Contemporary resort, or park there). Magic Kingdom parking takes you to the Transportation Station where you have to either take the Monorail or the Ferry to get to MK. A third option would be to stay off property and save a little money on your hotel fees. Almost every hotel in the surrounding areas of Orlando has a free shuttle service to the parks or the Transportation center.

Don’t Stay on Property Aside from not worrying about parking, Staying off property has a lot of perks. The truth about staying on property at Disney World is that you don’t always get what you pay for. The lower tier hotels like Art of Animation and the All-Star hotels definitely give off a motel vibe and are definitely sub par compared to places like the Polynesian. As nice as it is the be in such close proximity to the parks, it can often still be a solid 20 minute bus ride to the parks from the lower priced Disney Resorts. Paying the same amount of money for a nicer hotel that has a free shuttle, would definitely be worth looking into. And of the hotels on Hotel Boulevard by Disney Springs are a great choice. And also Marriott Village on Vineland Avenue (this is a great one for family members of Disney College Program Participants due to its close proximity to DCP Housing).

Don't Invest in Character Dining As wonderful as it may sound to have dinner with Cinderella and Prince Charming, it can often just be chaotic and difficult. Unless you have a child with you who is OBSESSED with Winnie the Pooh, character dining is over priced and over hyped. In my 100% honest foodie opinion, there is no such thing as bad food in Disney World. Disney is extremely focused on customer satisfaction, they would not put something on the menu unless more than half of their customers liked it. I have never had a bad meal at Disney, but the least exciting foods are definitely served at character dining just because you receive large portions and it is often a buffet. I have a lot of beef with Be Our Guest. Although the Atmosphere is perfect, the food was very disappointing. We get it, you want us to feel like we’re in France but that doesn’t mean my Ratatouille needs to be the size of my palm. Remy would be so disappointed. But that’s another rant for another day. Over all, I would only recommend paying for a character dinner if you have a non park day. Resorts such as the Polynesian, the Grand Floridian, and Disney's Yacht and Beach Club have amazing Character Dining experiences that don't require you to deal with the insanity that comes with dining in the parks. Character dining can be a wonderful family memory, but it also comes to about $35 a person so it can take a large chunk out of your budget.