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yanderechuu · 3 years

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Shower Thoughts

yandere!Class 1A x fem!reader

[3.2K]

Summary: Momo wasn’t as trustable as you had presumed.

Warning: Larceny, nonconsensual touching, masturbation

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You used to spend roughly ten minutes in the shower, only ever needing to soak your body in the water, apply shampoo and body wash before rinsing all the foam of products from your skin and scalp. Shower thoughts simply consisted of the day’s agenda or any special occurrence that had happened the past week, never really drifting off to existential questions and dark notions that would keep you from leaving the bathroom later than usual. You neither necessarily liked taking a shower nor did you dread it, as to you it was only ever a mandatory routine of the day which you handled with a neutral mind.

But now, ten minutes were already a slow thirty, and majority of the time you bothered not to move your arms to make work of your hair, or lather your skin with soap as you normally would do had it not been for the questions plaguing your mind like how your classmates would terrorize your time and space.

Right, your classmates - who would spend every hour of the day with you as if they didn’t have anything better to do. As if you were an important subject of matter next to hero training. You never appreciated it, because from the start, you did not want to have anything do to with them. They smothered and coddled you as if air wasn’t that important to you, disregarding the way you felt about personal space, how it was very significant to you. Rare were the moments of peace as a few of them were always by your side, ‘ensuring your safety’ as they would like to quote it. Why ensure your safety? You had not been a prominent figure in the sports festival, neither did you have a quirk that could be of great utility for the villains unlike Bakugou or Tokoyami. You weren’t a problem child, either. Their justification of following you around like you were some sort of high-maintenance prisoner made no sturdy sense to you.

“There’s this new package of green tea my mother had sent me this week! Would you like to try it, (y/n)?”

“Sure.”

But if you had to choose among your classmates one whom you would tolerate for the following years you’d be in U.A., that would be Yaoyorozu Momo. She was kind and considerate, often determining your feelings before you could voice it out (not that you really had the courage to, most of the time). She was organized and pristine and never had you met someone more befitting for the definition of ‘mom friend’ than her. She was perfect in nearly every way, and even though you’d have the occasional pang of jealousy at some times her perfectionism was displayed (gender envy, isn’t it, (y/n)?), she never seemed to bear mal intent, so you would let the emotions slide. You’d see the galaxy in her eyes if you would stare long enough. Her tea was best substitute for coffee, too.

You never considered her more than a very great friend, though, and to her, that was a problem.

As you sauntered your way over to your dorm with her, you shuffled your bag to take your room key buried in the side pockets. “I’ll go down in a while, but you better make sure you’re in the common room before me.”

You wouldn’t allow your classmates to take advantage of your lone self simply because Momo wasn’t there to fend them off.

“Mhm! Lemon green tea as usual, correct?”

“Yeah. Thanks again, YaoMomo.”

Your use of sotto voce tone on her nickname gave a pleasant shiver down her spine; her eyes almost rolled to the back of her head had she not restrained herself. Having been always kept to yourself, you never felt the need to adjust your volume for others to hear properly, so oftentimes your voice came out in a whisper - not that she minded, of course. You sounded more sensual that way.

“Are you going to take a while or will I have to brew tea right away?”

“Training was more strenuous than usual, and my muscles can’t seem to relax,” you explained, “so I’m going to take a quick shower.”

From your peripheral vision as you were focused on your bag to fish out the key, you saw Momo’s jaw slack upon hearing your plan to take a bath. It was odd, but you didn’t give particular attention to it when you finally took out your desired item. You failed to notice the way she abruptly settled her gaze on the key, inspecting it as if she was deliberating its shape, form, and material, and installing it to memory.

“Oh- oh!” She exclaimed. “I do remember having some body wash that help soothe muscle strains and body aches. I can hand them to you if you want.”

You shook your head, smiling lightly. “You’re too kind, YaoMomo. But I think just hot water will do for me.”

She watched as you opened the door to your room, giving her one more smile before disappearing inside and locking the door with a distinct click. As soon as you did so, she pulled the sleeve of her wrist up, developing with her body lipids a key the exact copy of the one you had held.

You certainly lied when you had said you were going to take a ‘quick’ shower. Already ten minutes into it did you only decide to sleek yourself with liquid body soap, initially absentmindedly rubbing it on your body, before you gradually got rougher with your movements and soon you found yourself scuffing your own flesh with vehement motion.

They were excessively touchy again, your classmates. Denki got too close to your face while delivering a pick-up line that made you wish you didn’t exist in order to hear it, and upon nearing you did Bakugou pull you away from him, cursing at him to buzz off. He took his time feeling up your waist - the part he used to grab you - while at it. During lunch, as you were once again coerced into joining his group to the cafeteria, Izuku refused to let go of your hand as you walked, and Uraraka as adamant with hugging you by the hips with one arm. It was what girlfriends did, she said, and you were not entirely sure whether or not she referred to that word romantically.

And if not, then did girlfriends also normally touch the parts of which you did not want to be touched on? You felt, clear as day, a bare hand resting on your thigh when you sat on your usual spot, dangerously close to lifting your skirt for everyone to see, and when you gave Hagakure’s faceless face a questioning look, she asked you what was wrong. Her uniform sleeve was literally floating on top of your lap, and still she had the gall to pretend as if she was not touching you with lacking consent.

You were not safe from Shoto, either, when he offered to readjust your uniform tie and you were in no place to decline (you had the right to, but they just stripped you off of it), his breath hitching in ecstasy as his fingers brushed your chest; he was, audaciously enough, not hiding his bliss. Then he rubbed your shoulders to ‘warm you up,’ when all he really intended to do was motivate his own fantasy that you were his and he was simply scenting you like some fucking alpha to his omega.

You turned no blind eye to their gesticulations. You never once found it endearing, and wished they would stop with whatever the hell this was called, because you were quite sure this was past the border of molestation and could already be rendered a form of bullying.

But not once did you consider the possibility of having a class obsessed with your quaint self.

So you supposed that until you’d find a way to deduce their idiosyncratic actions and tendencies then you would have to make do with your own bathroom as your safe space. Momo was the only classmate you could confide to, so at least she was there.

Unfortunately, you had yet to see the other side of her coin.

Because as she was just right outside your bathroom door, obsessively taking in every bit of item you owned inside your dorm room like a madman, you were left with the impression that she was all you could ever ask for in a friend. You didn’t know how she was not any better than the rest of your classmates, adoring your very existence to the extent of insanity; how she’d crave for you so often and so terribly that she’d feel herself clench when you do so much as merely spare her a glance. And you had done that a lot today - she would have to relieve herself for it.

She spotted the heap of clothes right by your bed; it became apparent that you had stripped yourself off of it before entering the bathroom and taking a shower. Walking towards it, a portion of your seamless underwear came to view, and she resisted the urge to render into a mound of horniness in order to pick it up and inspect it closely.

It was a lighter color of (s/c). A plain, simple, modest undergarment item, still it evoked a particular feeling on the bottom center of Momo’s hips. The heat came rushing along her midriff and instigated the muscle of her legs to falter, and as soon as she felt it, a hand of hers drifted past her skirt, feeling up the slick accumulated on the fabric of her own panties only with the knowledge that your panties were currently in her possession. She needed release, but you were nearly finished with your bath, and she was still inside your room.

You walked out of the shower the moment she shut the door of your bedroom. You saw it closed, but you didn’t catch the culprit.

This unnerved you to no end. Undoubtedly, you thought, this had to be one of your classmates. Who else was it supposed to be? Aizawa-sensei (...)? You had yet to know their ultimatum, but you were sure this occurrence was another one of their schemes. You had assumed that all their weird, unappreciated antics were just to get you to socialize with them, but now you didn’t understand why it had gotten to the point of entering your room without permission.

You couldn’t keep this to yourself.

So you planned to bring it up to Momo, a representative of your class and someone whom you deemed trustable enough to share it with. Quickly, you dressed into your casual indoor attire, and rushed outside your room to head to the kitchen, where you presumed she’d be in the process of making your tea. But she wasn’t there.

Instead, she was in her own room, your panties muzzled right into her face and her own fingers buried deeply inside her cunt.

“Oh- oh, god- Ah! (Y/n)!”

Oh god, your panties. Oh god, your panties. The object most intimate to your parts of intimacy, soaking every bit of womanly secretion from your genitalia. Of all the masturbation sessions she had done to the thought of you, this was the hottest. She wasn’t quite sure whether to imagine your cunt on her lips in a position of mutual cunnilingus or your fingers thrusting into her in place of hers. She wanted both.

A whine slipped past her lips. To think that moments ago, she was in the same space as you were nude. Oh, to join you in the bathroom, doing inenarrable things to each other with the use of the showerhead. To touch your skin selfishly rather than only watch as she would do during class hours.

She came with a squeal, falling face-down to bite the duvet of her large bed. Gone in her hazy mind was her promise to you of lemon green tea, and as she still basked in the pathological euphoria of getting off, you were in the common room, anxiously waiting for her return.

But just as you had expected, someone was bound to spot you alone and take this as an opportunity to be with you, and they just so happened to be-

Oh. Aoyama.

He offered you a slice of cheese with his usual grin before settling down a few feet beside you, enough to leave you be in your personal bubble. You gave him occasional glances, unwrapping the cheese from its casing and he just sat there, eating his. He was alright, you guessed - another tolerable classmate of yours next to Momo. Perhaps it was because you used to always be alone in the classroom with him during break time that you were at ease with his presence. Or maybe he just seemed so gay and that, for some reason, comforted you. One gay presence could comfort another lol.

“It’s delicious.” Your comment came out inadvertently.

“Oui. Only the best quality for the best person.” He flaunted.

You weren’t exactly sure whether he was referring to you or to himself, but you paid little attention to that as the cheese was certainly delicious; you were not lying.

“It’s odd how your chose to take a bath at this time of the day.” He spoke.

You stopped chewing.

He meant to refer to your damp hair, but having just suspected your class of breaking and entering your room, you thought otherwise.

“I-” You choked on the cheese, ending up needing to gulp it like liquid content instead of breaking it down to fit your throat.

Immediately, he sprang up in concern, stepping over to you to gently thump you on the back. “Are you alright?”

“No- I mean- I just-!” You wheezed, occasionally having to clear your throat. You swatted his hand away from you; you hadn’t meant to appear rude, but you did. You stood up in a rush. “L-look, I have to go.”

“Don’t you want to drink water?”

“I’m- fine,”

With your words, you took off from the common room area and headed back to your room. There were two sets of emotions that mixed to form the bile in your throat. One was wrath and humiliation upon the discovery of Aoyama’s actions. The other was betrayal and confusion from Momo’s absence when she had said she’d be brewing tea for you, and it wasn’t the tea that disheartened you. She knew of your issue with the class, and if she were busy, couldn’t she have texted you a heads-up?

She shouldn’t be surprised when at the next time she saw you, you interacted with her less. Your intention to distance yourself from her was most prominent, and it didn’t help that your classmates took notice of this, because now they were taking advantage of the situation, tagging you along with them in spite of your futile attempts to decline now that Momo was nowhere to tell them off. When she’d talk to you, you would answer, though your voice was back to speaking to her like she was a stranger.

Resentment was stronger than ruing the lack of intimacy between you two. It was as if she had received your panties in exchange for the time she’d be spending with you, oddly enough. After much deliberation, she came to realize that this was your little ‘tantrum’ after not being able to meet with her the other day.

It was pretty cute, she thought, that you’d try and make her acknowledge the fault on her part by ignoring her.

You didn’t walk with her back to dorms as per usual that dismissal. Instead, just like what you had used to do before finding consolation in her, you walked alone, accomplishing being able to avoid your classmates as you did. By the time she reached the dorms, you were in the kitchen, fetching a glass of water to satiate your throat. She took a hold of your wrist before you went back to your room.

“(Y/n),” she pleaded, “tell me what’s wrong.”

You looked at her with a reluctant expression. Perhaps you should. After the short while that you had been hanging out with her, her presence turned into something you came to miss. You wanted her back, but not in the way she wanted you.

“I-it’s just,” you stammered out, “y-you know how I feel being alone in the common room without you. I... I’m not comfortable with our classmates when you’re not around.” She took pride in this. “I don’t take it lightly how you left me alone the other day...”

Your voice faltered out the longer you spoke.

So she was correct; you were certainly having your little ‘tantrum.’ With a guilty smile, she left your wrist to hold your hand tenderly, and suddenly it dawned upon you the feeling of whenever Bakugou held your waist, Shoto nuzzled his face on your neck or Izuku invaded your personal space.

Fear and apprehension.

Before you could preach your objection to whatever she had planned ahead for you, she dragged you along with her and you both reached her dorm room before you could comprehend where she was taking you.

“I’ll make it up to you.” She said, making you sit on her large bed.

Then she proceeded to make you tea, boiling water with an electric kettle situated on top of her study desk; there also laid a tea set next to her three books, which you assumed were those of which would aid her in the utility of her quirk, like encyclopedias. Beside those was a piece of cloth, unfolded, unkept - a (s/c)-colored silk fabric.

Your face drained of color.

She pushed the books towards the cloth, completely obscuring it from your view and leaving the table disorganized. You knew Momo, neat and orderly as much as possible; she wouldn’t do that without reason.

Now that you thought about it, the same day someone had barged in your room, your underwear had been missing from your set of laundry garments. You spent the next whole day actively avoiding Aoyama, thinking he was the culprit to this felony. At the present moment you were reconsidering your allegation.

“U-um, Momo, I need to go-”

“Here!”

She yelled it so giddily, so uncharacteristically, as she pushed the cup of tea towards your way. How she did so was very quick that you had not the time to take it properly, and steaming liquid fell to your décolletage, past the cotton of your uniform and streaming down the valley of your breasts. It was a moist mess. She loved every bit of it.

“Oh! Oh, my bad. I’ll- I’ll clean you up!” She exclaimed, all flushed and excited.

You didn’t find it in you to push her back when she began to do exactly what she had said, taking your blazer off, loosening your school tie and unbuttoning the dress shirt underneath, only ever being able to stare at her with eyes that evinced betrayal, because it slowly occurred to you that she was satiating her own selfish obsession with you all under the ruse of maintaining a decent friendship.

“(Y/n),” She breathed out, “I adore you.”

She was no different than the rest of your classmates, and you were a fool to think otherwise.

#bnha x reader #bnha #boku no hero academia x reader #boku no hero academia #yandere x reader #yandere class 1a #class 1a x reader #reader insert #x reader #yandere bnha #momo yaoyorozu x reader #momo x reader #momo x y/n #yandere #yandere momo yaoyorozu #yandere momo #yanderechuu

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inkykeiji · 3 years

Text

the clock is ticking, running out of time

characters: shigaraki tomura

genre: smut and angst

notes: AAAAAAH HAPPY BIRTHDAY TOMURA!!!!!! sorry i seem to write angst for all of my faves birthdays ehehe. this is technically set in the touya-nii universe!! | title cred: birthday by katy perry

warnings: 18+ minors dni, cheating, implied stepcest/pseudo-incest, toxic relationships, the slightest hint of degradation, noncon/dubcon video recording, extreme feelings of guilt

words: 4.4k

synopsis:

“It’s fine—”

“It’s not,”

“I didn’t come here to talk about Touya,” you say gently, letting your dress drop down as you straighten up. “Let’s—Let’s not think about him right now, okay? Today is your day, and I want to focus on you. Forget about Touya,”

A deep frown mars his face, his nose twitching again. It looks like he wants to say more, but then your hands are on him, roaming across his bony chest and sliding into the tufts of silvery-blue hair at the nape of his neck.

“It’s hard to buy a gift for someone who already has everything,” you’re continuing softly, gazing up at him through your lashes, so close your noses nearly bump together. Sweet breath wafts over his face, a tongue darting out to lick at his lips, as if he’s trying to taste it. “So I thought…I thought the best gift I could give you is me,”

And suddenly, Touya’s wiped from his mind.

You shouldn’t be doing this.

That’s the thought that’s been looping through your head for the past forty-five minutes, for the entire bus ride from Touya’s apartment to Tomura’s, for the walk from the bus stop to his condo complex, for the thirty-seven seconds it takes him to answer the door.

You shouldn’t be doing this.

But you want to.

It’s been months since you’ve seen him last, months since you spent the night with him, months since you’ve spoken to him at all.

4:06. The glowing numbers glare up at you from the screen of your phone, unable to stop obsessively checking your phone, mentally calculating the time you have left over and over again, even though you’ve already meticulously planned this outing down to the very second.

It’s rare for Touya to be out for an exact amount of allotted time, but when he mentioned that he had a three hour full body check up with his doctor that just so happened to be scheduled on Tomura’s birthday…Well, it was too convenient for you not to seize the opportunity.

The door swings open, breaking you out of your thoughts, and your name leaves his lips in a gasp, crimson eyes searching your face in disbelief. A beat of silence passes before he speaks again. “What’re you doing here?”

“Wanted to see you for your birthday,” you say simply with a shrug and he blinks several times, still staring at you incredulously. “You didn’t think I forgot, did you?”

And for a moment you’re terrified you’ve made a grave mistake, terrified that he doesn’t want you here, that he thinks the risk is too big—Touya will murder the both of you if he finds out—too dangerous, his body gone rigid in the doorway, breathing stopped.

But then a brilliant smile is splitting his face, and he’s pulling you into his arms, crushing you to his chest as his fingers curl in the material of your dress.

And you—you practically collapse against him, sighing out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. He still smells exactly the same, just as you remember—like cheap cigarettes and watermelon bubblegum.

The scent evokes thick unfurling remorse, sinking heavily in your stomach, the mantra you’ve been repeating to yourself for the past few days immediately flowing through your mind, a desperate attempt to reassure yourself, to reason with yourself, to justify this decision.

Because you both deserve closure, don’t you? After everything that’s happened? After leaving him without a trace, without so much as a phone call or a quick text to at least let him know you’re okay?

Because Touya’s cheated on you how many times throughout the first six months of your relationship? One more teeny tiny instance of infidelity—the last one, you promise yourself—shouldn’t hurt, so long as he doesn’t know about it.

Right?

Really, this does nothing to dispel the culpability churning in your chest. No, Tomura’s bright boyish smile does that all by itself, sincere in the way it’s stretched across his face as he tugs you inside.

And...And suddenly, none of it really matters. Not in that moment, at least. Suddenly, all of those statements are rendered true; Tomura does deserve this. Suddenly, you realize just how much you’ve missed him.

“I have to be quick, I’m sorry,” your voice cracks under unexpected emotion, but Tomura doesn’t seem bothered by it at all, ecstatic over the fact that you’ve come to visit at all.

“That’s fine,” he’s saying as his hands roam your body, kneading and squeezing with surprising gentleness, eyes shining and wide as they follow his touch, as if he can’t believe you’re here, can’t believe you’re real.

It has your heart shattering in your chest, jagged shards puncturing your surrounding organs, burying themselves deep within you, never to be dug out. A lump lodges itself in your throat, voice frail and full of spit as you speak around it.

“I missed you so much,” the words rush from between your lips without your permission, and Tomura pulls back, smile fading as his gaze searches your face.

For a moment, you can tell that he wants to berate you for disappearing without any contact at all, can see it shining clear as crystal in his eyes as they narrow, as eyebrows knit and his nose scrunches, and you nuzzle your face into him. Guilt, a different kind than that which Touya evokes—this type lighter than the dense acidic guilt that sticks to your insides like thick tar any time sapphire sears through your mind, this type bitter and saturated with melancholy—roots in the pit of your stomach.

“I—I’m sorry I haven’t been able to text,” you mumble meekly, tears pricking your eyes. “Touya—”

“It’s okay,” he cuts you off with surprising softness, fingertips still trailing up and down your spine. “I figured. Uh, how is he? Like, how…How was he?”

The brand of those five letters, now fully healed, scald your flesh, blistering bright and hot as if you had just been branded again. With your bottom lip sucked between your teeth, you contemplate just outright telling him—he’s going to see it eventually either way, but you’re worried about ruining the mood a little too early.

No.

Better to rip it off like a band-aid, to get it out of the way now, instead of interrupting your birthday festivities later.

Your chest swells with a deep inhale, exhaling the words slowly.

“He was…” Livid. Furious beyond belief. Deeply hurt—distressed, distraught, dismayed. Visibly shaken up. In more pain than you’ve ever witnessed before. Terrified. “Upset. Naturally.”

Tomura waits for you to continue, speaking after a few moments of silence. “And?” he prompts, knowing Touya didn’t let you get away with a mere verbal warning, knowing you have more to say.

“A-And—” you bury your face against his neck, hot tears leaking from your eyes and staining his skin as they squeeze shut tightly, forcing the quivering words from your throat. “And he—He, um, he branded me,”

“What?” The word is just a huff of breath as large hands curl around your shoulders, yanking you from the sanctuary of his body so he can scrutinize your face, flashing crimson flying across your features. “He what?”

“His name,” you whisper, eyes still shut, face screwing up in distaste, the words bitter on your tongue.

“Where?”

“My ass,”

“Let me see,”

Eyes snapping open, your head begins to shake, motions cutting off when your stare meets his glare. Reluctantly you turn, flipping your dress up as you bend over a bit, pulling your panties down just enough to show him the slightly raised letters etched into your flesh forever.

Save for the soft, choked noise that sounds in the back of his throat, silence blankets the room, atmosphere suddenly stale and suffocating.

You glance back at him after a few beats, when your chest is beginning to burn from holding your breath in your lungs, and the sight that you are met with has your chest tearing itself in half, ribs caving in, giving way to the deep, dark ache swirling at the very core of your body.

Crimson eyes gleam in the setting sun, a thick layer of tears catching in the golden rays streaming through the window. It’s almost pretty in a way, brilliant ruby that shimmers and shines in the waning beams, practically glowing. But those beautiful, beautiful eyes are transfixed on your bare flesh, unblinking stare etching itself into your skin much like the letters Touya left behind.

His chin trembles just a little, front teeth sinking into his bottom lip in an attempt to halt it, head nodding in minuscule motions, barely noticeable, almost as if he’s confirming something to himself, affirming some unsaid thought sailing through his mind—almost as if he’s blaming himself.

“Fucking bastard,” he spits, though the words are wobbly, lacking heat and coated in sticky saliva. Using the sleeve of his black shirt, he wipes at his nose almost aggressively, quelling it’s twitching as he exhales harshly, nostrils flaring, before he sniffs twice and rolls his shoulders back, gaze finally meeting yours.

“It’s fine—”

“It’s not,”

The glittering scarlet lace barely obscured by your thin dress singes itself into your flesh as his palms cascade over it, tracing every dip and curve of your body as they slide down to grope your ass.

You had bought the set for this occasion specifically—using cash you had stashed away, of course; Touya regularly checks your bank statements and credit card—with the intention of letting Tomura keep it, as a present.

“It’s hard to buy a gift for someone who already has everything,” you’re continuing softly, gazing up at him through your lashes, so close your noses nearly bump together, sweet breath wafting over his face, a tongue darting out to lick at his lips, as if he’s trying to taste it. “So I thought…I thought the best gift I could give you is me,”

And suddenly, Touya’s wiped from his mind.

He surges forward, foreheads bumping together from the strength, and crushes his lips to yours in a bruising kiss, nimble fingers curling in the hem of your dress and yanking, pulling the material from your body in one erratic motion.

He’s just as enthusiastic as he was all those months ago, large hands settling on your lace-clad hips as he guides you—back, back, back, stumbling over your own feet a little as he shoves forward, teeth clacking as his tongue tangles with yours, interspersed drool pooling at the corners of your lips.

A soft cry of surprise leaves your lips as he roughly spins the two of you so he’s the one reversing, collapsing in the overstuffed gaming chair abandoned near his desk and hauling you down with him, wheels rolling against the hardwood from the force.

His lips are plush and chapped, kisses messy with strings of viscous saliva, and you’re reminded of how fun kissing Tomura is, playful giggles spilling from one mouth into another consistently breaking the flow as eager hands paw and pull, snapping the clasp on your bra and haphazardly discarding it, your fingers toying with the silver button of his charcoal jeans.

“Get on with it already,” he groans, impatient and entitled as ever, exactly how you remember, hips rutting up into you clumsily as hands travel up your torso to knead your breasts much too hard. And even though it shouldn’t, his predictability inspires a burst of intense warmth in your chest, burning bright like a tiny sun, heat seeping into your blood and flooding your veins as more involuntary giggles pry their way out of your mouth and into his.

“Think that’s funny, huh?” he asks, and although his eyes are fierce and sharp as they scrutinize your face, there’s a playful little grin decorating his lips, slender fingers tweaking a peaked nipple and snickering at your resulting yelp.

“Just missed you, s’all,” you mumble against him, lips dragging along his jaw then trailing down his neck, tongue peeking out to give kitten licks at self-inflicted scars and tugging pathetic little half-whimpers from deep in his throat, rough and uneven as he tries to swallow them back down.

There isn’t enough time for thorough prep, your only form of foreplay consisting of his cock being rammed down your throat—just get it fucking wet, he had demanded—hips stuttering as he desperately tries to keep from bucking while your tongue laves around the shaft, drenching it in spit.

“Fu-Fucking stop, or I’m gonna cum,” Large fists tangle in your hair, trying to yank you off his cock with a pathetic little whine. Gaping pupils outlined by a fine ring of scarlet observe the way your shining lips pucker around his girth as your mouth slides up, grip on your strands already loosening as his chest heaves, completely absorbed by your actions, breath escaping slightly parted lips in sweet little puffs.

A little tongue flicks against the slit as you reach the tip, placing an obscene openmouthed kiss to the head before pulling away completely. Your mouth hovers an inch above it, allowing a large glob of sticky saliva to dribble from your mouth onto the head, then kissing it again, pressing slippery lips to heated silky skin.

“Jesus Christ,”

The curse is nearly a moan, and you look up from your place between his thighs, batting your eyelashes and offering him a tiny smile. His eyes glitter as he gazes down at you, chest rising unevenly under the force of ragged breaths, a thumb swiping across your cheek in a manner that’s almost awestruck, as if he can’t believe you’re here.

“Get on my cock,” he orders a moment later, when the aching between his legs draws him back to reality, hips jerking up in reflexive, instinctive micro-movements, gleaming cock bobbing with the action. “And take your fucking panties off,”

It’s a little awkward and a lot uncoordinated, trying to maneuver yourself onto his lap while he slouches in that ridiculous gaming chair, unable to quell the way his hips prematurely thrust the moment you’re hovering over him, legs folded and cramped on either side of his thighs.

Pathetic little whimpers leak from your lips as his slick cock stretches your ill-prepared hole, cunt stinging as it struggles to adjust to the sudden breach, your nails digging into the lean muscles of his shoulders as a hiss is spit between clenched teeth.

But the moan he emits, deep and satisfying as you sink down on him, how his eyelashes flutter shut and his head knocks back against the headrest as he bottoms out, long ivory neck and prominent Adams apple on display, and the way massive hands grip your hips, fingertips digging into your soft flesh as he forces you to begin bouncing almost immediately, make it all so worth it.

Because he’s still so pretty, lids lifting a moment later to reveal dazzling ruby gazing at you in an almost voracious manner through thick dark lashes, glued to your face as he memorizes every micro-expression that transforms your features, the way your eyes roll back and eyebrows twitch, the way your mouth forms around those cute little gasps of his name that his rough thrusts punch from your chest.

“Did’ya miss my cock?” his breath is already coming out in short little pants, hips grinding urgently against yours, lacking any kind of finesse or rhythm. “B-Bet’cha did,”

“Uh-huh,” your head nods jerkily, hips rocking just as desperately into his as if to confirm your statement. His cock is pretty, too—a darker pink than Touya’s, half an inch shorter but just as fat, thick veins snaking around the shaft like vines.

“Dick drunk already?” he teases, and you’re positive his voice was meant to be more rancorous, but the large grin it’s spoken through, as if he’s proud of himself, chest nearly swelling with it, dilutes it, disintegrating the bitter shell that was supposed to coat the words. His tongue clicks, fluffy tufts of hair bouncing a little as he shakes his head. “What would your precious niichan think?”

You don’t answer—can’t answer—because it’s already so much, uncoordinated thrusting almost teasing in a way, the head of his cock unintentionally grazing that spot buried deep inside of you, the fleeting sensation mixing with that of the taboo, of the naughtiness of the situation, mewls spilling from your lips.

And you wish, so desperately, that you could take your time, that you could enjoy such amateurish gyrating, crude movements giving way to sloppy squelching that makes your stomach swoop and cunt throb as your clit glides against his pubic bone, but the mention of niichan reminds you of your finite amount of time and you lean back, soft palms finding the edge of his desk, fingers curling tightly around it.

Tomura’s bare feet planted on the hardwood keep the chair from shifting as you begin to really ride him, starting with slow, hard rolls of your hips that have cute little grunts hitching in his chest, bright eyes darkening as they watch, lids drooping a little, your movements increasingly gaining speed with each rock forward of your hips, leaning back against the desk and using it for leverage.

Blunt nails bite into your skin, and you want to remind him not to leave marks, but the words won’t keep their shape as they gurgle in your throat, evaporating into moans that break with each rough buck of his hips.

He finds a rhythm with you quickly, though, your lust-hazed mind dully noting that he’s better than before, the thought conjuring sudden, fierce spears of jealousy that slice through your chest, jaw clenching.

“Fuck, you—you’re still the best I’ve ever had,” he practically whines out, like he’s reading the thoughts on your face, but his voice is genuine, strained and hoarse with the confession. “Will probably always be the best I’ve ever had,” his sentence fades into a growl, almost as if he’s angry about it, hands squeezing your hips.

Nevertheless, you’re unable to stop the little smile those words paint across your lips, giggling breathlessly as bubbly warmth tingles in your chest, a sense of shameful pride rushing through your veins.

“Yeah?” he seethes in a huff, eyes narrowing. “Bet you’re proud of yourself for that, little slut,”

You are, you’re nodding, tongue rendered useless as his hips piston into you, cockhead repeatedly slamming against your cervix, reaching deeper and deeper and deeper the further you lean back, until the sharp edge of the desk is cutting into your back.

“I know you are,” he sneers, callous tone emphasized by his brute force as he fucks you. “V-Vain little bitch, happy she’s ruined me—ruined sex for me, forever,”

It’s getting harder for him to speak now, words punctuated by half-baked whimpers and swallowed, stifled moans, the sentiment under his speech accentuating pleasure for the both of you, dirty humiliation only making everything that much more intense, heady and addicting as it intoxicates your bodies, your minds, your souls.

“S-So the least you could do,” he begins in a keen, pace faltering as he squirms under you, yanking his phone from his back pocket. “Is give me something to—ah, Christ—remember you by,”

You should tell him no. You should cease all bouncing on his cock the moment he presses that little red button on his screen, the moment the flash next to the camera turns on, signaling it’s recording. You should.

But you don’t. You don’t, because he’s right. Because that guilt returns, seeping up through the floor of your stomach and spreading to your other organs, chest tightening as it reaches your heart. Because you took something from him, something he’ll never be able to get back, purely for your own selfish gain, just to get back at the man you love, and that isn’t fair. That will never be fair.

Instead, you look straight into the lens, hips beginning to ride him almost viciously, pushing out your chest further, bouncing tits on display as they heave with your lewd moans of his name, begging him to fuck you, begging him for his thick cum, and oh please, Tomura, please, give it to me, want your cum so bad, need your cum so bad, please!

He chokes on his own groan, the hand holding his phone beginning to shake slightly as the other finds its place on your hip again, his own thrusts pumping wildly as he spits expletives through gritted teeth, your pathetic little mewls egging him on.

“G-Gonna cum?” he whines out, almost as if he’s begging you to say yes, the needy canting of his hips indicating that he’s about to, too, crimson searing into you as you nod messily. “Fucking do it, then, cream all over my cock like the good little whore you are,”

And you’re powerless to stop the loud cry that rips from your throat as your cunt clenches around him, only half of his name escaping in a yelp before your own shuddery gasp cuts you off, choking a little on the intense inhale, air sharp as razors as it rushes down your throat.

He follows less than a second later with a ferocious growl of your name, potent cum filling your aching little cunt, phone clattering to the floor as both hands grip your hips and force you to continue milking him until both of your bodies are shivering from the overstimulation.

You collapse against him, sweaty body melting into his, muscles quivering in exhaustion. Long arms encircle you, cradling you to his chest in a way that’s almost tender, phone laying forgotten a few feet away.

It’s just as nice as it was the first time, being swathed in his embrace, a gentle sigh slipping from between your lips. Nimble fingers trail up and down your spine, pressing into the notches, tracing the smooth, soft plains of your skin.

“Wish you could stay,” he mumbles into your hair, so quiet you nearly miss it—would have missed it if not for the vibrations in his chest.

Me too.

You want to tell him, want to express the same sentiment, to make it known that you desire the same thing, but the words tangle in your throat, that sticky brand of guilt that is specifically Touya refraining them from leaving your lips, yanking them back down into your chest with painful hitching breaths every time you try to speak.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until Tomura coos, pulling back a little to cup your face and tilt it up, big thumbs swiping across your cheeks as they catch glistening teardrops.

He doesn’t say anything—there is nothing to say—instead dipping his head to press his lips chastely to yours in the softest kiss he’s ever given you, mumbling his thanks for the birthday present a moment later.

There’s so much more you want to say, so much more you want to ask, but there’s no more time, opting to kiss him again in response, praying that it conveys all the things you can’t, all the things guilt won’t let you.

And then you’re scrambling off of his lap, collecting your dress off the floor and hastily pulling it over your head, turning back to find Tomura standing, holding out his hand, soaked lace in his grasp.

“Keep them,” you whisper, curling his fingers into a fist around the dainty material. “Happy birthday, Tomura,”

✰ ✰ ✰

You have forty-five minutes before Touya arrives home—that’s cutting it close, you were supposed to have a full hour, but Tomura’s arms were so warm, his gently rising chest so inviting, his entire aura so comforting, that you had allowed yourself to indulge, just for a moment, to let your eyes slip shut and exhale a soft sigh of contentment, snuggling into his embrace and inhaling his distinct scent deeply, holding it in your lungs for a moment, wishing it would stay, wishing it would stick to the gummy walls, take root and find a home there, wishing you could keep a piece of him with you, always.

The water scalds your skin as you step into Touya’s glass shower, hands instantly reaching for Touya’s bodywash and squirting a generous amount in your palm.

You lather your entire body with it, until every inch of your skin is covered in foamy white suds, until your flesh has been scrubbed raw, the sharp scent—something woodsy and musky, like a crackling campfire of burning hickory wood, smoky and sweet—enveloping you entirely, stinging your nose.

It sticks in your throat and invades your lungs, as if cleansing you from the inside out, and you choke on it, are suffocated by it, little gasps and coughs falling from your lips while nails claw at your neck.

That dull ache returns as you rinse your skin, throbbing incessantly at the very core of your body as you watch the last remnants of Tomura swirl around the drain, infused in the soapy water.

It shouldn’t hurt this much, you’re thinking to yourself as your fingers massage shampoo into your scalp. It shouldn’t, but it does, a painful lump lodging itself in your throat, expanding a little more every time you try to reason with yourself until it’s gagging you.

Something stings your eyes—soap from the shampoo as you rinse it from your locks, or maybe the potently fragrant scent from Touya’s bodywash, you try to convince yourself, that lump sprouting tiny spikes and viciously slicing into the gummy walls, that lump forcing saliva still containing traces of Tomura to collect in your throat, that lump reminding you that you’re a fucking liar.

It’s fine. It’s fine. Touya doesn’t need to know everything, does he? What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right? And it was only a one time thing, wasn’t it? It’s alright, isn’t it?

These are the questions that cycle through your mind obsessively, running laps in your skull as you absentmindedly towel off your dripping body in your niichan’s bedroom, the gentle buzz of your phone snapping you out of your reverie.

For a moment, you’re terrified it’s Touya, texting you to tell you that he knows, you little slut, scrambling to snatch it off of the nightstand as trembling fingers hastily unlock it.

It isn’t Touya.

It’s Tomura.

best birthday present of my life, hands down. thank you. i love you.

The resounding slam! of the front door has your entire body flinching violently, the heels of Touya’s heavy boots thumping against the tile as he kicks them off mingling with his smooth voice as he calls your name.

It’s with watery eyes and painful little sniffles catching in your chest that your quivering thumb jabs at that tiny little trashcan in the corner of your screen, watching through blurry vision as the entire conversation disappears into the ether, gone forever—though those three glowing words that concluded the text are etched into the very tissue of your brain, where they will remain, forever.

#shigaraki x reader #shigaraki tomura x reader #shigaraki smut #shigaraki tomura #eeeeee happy birthday baby boy ilysm #hehehehehe #ENJOY ENJOY ENJOY

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buckystarlight · 3 years

Text

A Blessing, Beautiful And True

pairing: bucky x fem!reader

word count: 3.2k

warnings: use of she/her pronouns; swearing if you squint; mentions of death; mentions of food

a/n: this is a rewrite of one of my old fics that i absolutely hated with my entire being. i hate this a little bit less djaksjsjs also pls ignore how i literally cannot write a good ending to save my life.

dedicated to @xsamsharons for lending me her name. i hope i did it justice mi amor ily <3

Bucky learnt to value things.

Not the great, terribly material things people around him seemed to rush after. Not money, not even when he was barely getting by.

No, for Bucky, it was the small, seemingly insignificant things.

The tiny toy WWII soldier figurine he found at a yard sale one Tuesday afternoon, the one with the missing arm. The near-exact model of the car his father used to drive—rusted around the tiny steel axel, the rubber wheels worn from use. That yellow screwdriver set that sat at the very back of the tool cabinet in the garage, unusable because of the cracked plastic handles and rusted steel, that looked exactly like the kit he had once used to fix up the plumbing in his first apartment.

Bucky was used to valuing the broken little things.

He never truly understood what loving something whole, something complete felt like—not until he met you.

You, in your white sweater and blue jeans, hair tossed up in a braid. You, your eyes that dancing with unbroken light, like the rays of the sun on the ocean on a bright summer’s day. You, with the sort of kindness he never truly thought he would ever be worthy of, not until you showed him that he was.

You, the girl he fell in love with before he could ever truly know what love was.

Steve might’ve been the first to notice. He was with him that day, the day he first saw you. They had been hunting for a Christmas present for Tony, and even though Bucky wasn’t exactly thrilled to have to attend, he wasn’t about to show up empty handed.

Steve didn’t even realize that the sly-footed assassin wasn’t by his side until he had walked the two blocks from the mall to his car. Hands ghosting over the gun tucked into the holster hooked into his waistband, Steve retraced his steps, his heart thundering in his throat.

Until he heard Bucky’s laugh.

Not the obviously fake chuckles he used to placate those around him. No, this was the laugh he remembered, the laugh he thought Bucky had lost.

This was Bucky’s laugh—his Bucky’s laugh, before the world stole him away. Pure and innocent.

Happy—so undeniably, inexplicably happy.

The tension eased from his shoulders when he saw you. Steve knew who you were, of course. Everyone did—or at least, everyone who had been around after the Battle of New York. Everyone who had seen you walk among the rubble, bleeding through your jeans, helping dig survivors out of the rubble, guiding them to shelters. Everyone who had seen you do everything you could help those who needed it more than you did, until your legs finally gave way and the only reason you didn’t collapse to the floor was because Steve caught you.

But Steve also happened to know why you’d done it. Because you were kind. Because you were selfless. Because you knew what it was like to lose everyone you loved, and to garner the strength to build yourself up anyway.

You’d lost people too—everyone you loved, killed during the Battle. Your family. Your friends. It might’ve seemed cruel to be spared. Might’ve seemed like a cold, dark twist of fate—and for a time, it did.

Steve had never known anyone to be resilient the way you were.

And maybe, just maybe, he thought to himself, as he watched his friend from through the glass, maybe you would teach him to hold on to the tiniest sliver of hope too.

—

Bucky didn’t even like books.

The only book he’d read—aside from the coursework assigned to him in his school days—was The Hobbit. And even that had taken him an ungodly amount of time to finish.

So yeah, Bucky didn’t exactly like books.

But he still visited the tiny bookstore on the corner every day.

He didn’t even buy anything. He just looked around, running his fingertips over the spines of the books that jutted out of the wooden shelves, the sunlight turning his eyes into uncharted waters of the oceans, swimming with undiscovered secrets and untold lies.

You would talk to him. All the time, and with no trace of the usual pity or sympathy that he heard when he spoke to people. You talked to him in a way that made him feel like himself, in a way that made him feel like he just might rediscover the man he used to be.

That first time he’d seen you was burned into the back of his brain, the image of you standing there with a hip braced against a bookshelf, dressed in a white sweater and jeans, your hair pulled into a braid over your shoulder. He had watched as a strand escaped, falling into your face.

And him—he'd stood there, watching you talk to another woman he couldn't recall because really, how could he look at anything else but you? Bucky was certain he looked like a gaping idiot, both wanting your attention to turn to him, and dreading the fact that he would surely make a fool of himself if you so much as looked at him.

Back in the 40s, things would've been so much easier. He would already have said something witty to make you laugh, he would already have been telling you about the carnival down at the beach and asking if you wanted to go with him.

But when your friend left, and you asked him if there was anything you could help him with, his voice sounded strange to his own ears as he croaked, "Books?"

You had laughed—and he found himself laughing along. A true laugh—for the first time in a long time, the sound didn’t sound fake to his own ears. For the first time in a long time, he felt like himself.

Bucky had taught himself to value that which wasn’t whole—because he wasn’t, either. Love was give and take. Love was equal.

If he was to deserve your love, he would have to be whole again. If he was to deserve your love, he would make himself whole again.

—

There was a sudden shift in the way Bucky viewed the world.

It had been three days since he last saw you, but he walked in through those doors anyway. He had no cause, no reason—he just couldn’t go any longer without seeing you.

You were sitting by the bay window at the very back, reading a book. He took a second just to take you in, to get used to the fact that you weren’t just a figment of his imagination.

The second you looked up, your face split into a grin, like you were truly, genuinely happy to see him. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had smiled at him that way. “Hey, you’re back! It’s Bucky, right?”

He nodded. He couldn't trust himself to speak, not when he was sure he would stumble over his words, not when he couldn't bring himself to string together a coherent sentence in your presence.

"What can I help you with today?" you asked, snapping your book shut and placing it on the table.

"Uh... What're you reading?"

You glanced down at your book before looking up to meet his eyes again. Blue, you thought, supressing a smile. Icy blue, but warm nonetheless—familiar in the way most things aren’t. "Wuthering Heights. You've never read it?"

He shook his head no. "Never been much of a reader, no. Is it any good?"

"It's one of my favourites," was your answer, watching as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The light caught the steel of the chain around his neck—the chain of one of those military-issue dog tags.

And maybe that was how it started—on that dreary cold Wednesday, when you'd stood next to the bookshelf by the window, telling him about your favourite book, but really all he could focus on was the late afternoon sun rendering the hue of your eyes several shades lighter, the soft slope of your nose, the fullness of your mouth. Every little detail about you was etched permanently into his mind—and he wanted to learn more.

He wanted to know everything there was to know about you.

It was about closing time when he decided he had to go. Not because he wanted to, but because he had promised he would have dinner with Sam and Steve. And as much as Bucky wanted to stay, he was a man of his word.

Which is why when he promised you he would come see you as soon as he finished reading the book, you knew he meant it.

—

And you were right.

Two days later, he was back.

It was raining that day, early in the morning when you were just about to open up. And there, standing under the awning in the freezing rain, was Bucky, the collar of his coat turned up against the wind, drenched to the bone.

"What're you doing here?" you asked, eyes wide.

"I just... I don't know," he said. Because he didn't. Bucky didn't even like books—but he did like being around you. There was a strange sort of calm about you, a sense of peace he'd only known in Wakanda. Around you, he was just Bucky—not Sargent Barnes, not the Winter Soldier—just Bucky.

He liked being just Bucky.

You shook your head, but he could've sworn he saw the corner of your mouth tilt upwards as you fished your keys out of your pocket and unlocked the door. "Well, come on inside. I'll turn up the heat and get you something warm to drink. Christ, Buck, you could get pneumonia or something.”

He only nodded once. It didn't matter that he wouldn't get sick—not when the serum in his veins healed his body faster than normal. It didn’t matter that even if he could sick, he wouldn’t have cared, not when you were looking at him like that, with concern in your eyes for something other than your own safety.

You had a coffee machine in the back room, you told him. He followed you, lingering in the doorway as you bustled about, humming a tune under your breath. He recognized it as a song from that one Marvin Gaye album Sam couldn’t stop talking about. He recognized it as a song he wanted to listen to for the rest of his life, if only you were the one singing it.

He recognized that, for better or for worse, you would be his undoing.

—

After that, he came to see you every day.

When the weather got colder still, he brought you steaming cups of hot chocolate from your friend Bella’s café down the street. And on the days when he didn’t, he would head into the back room and make you coffee. You’d never had to tell him how you took it—after that in the rain, he’d somehow remembered what you liked.

You weren’t about to tell him, but you remembered what he liked too.

It started out simple—plum cider that you found on your weekly trip to the farmer’s market. An old vintage copy of The Hobbit from the forties. Rubber silencers for his dog tags that he never used but carried around in his pocket anyway—until eventually, you had something new for him every week, some insignificant thing that he looked at with the kind of childlike awe that made your heart twist into knots in your chest.

He walked you home too. Every evening, with his hands stuffed in his pockets, slowing his stride so that he could walk alongside you. He would stand outside, across the street, hands in his pockets, waiting for you to walk into the apartment you shared with Bella. Only leaving when the lights came on and he knew you were safe.

Bucky wasn’t much of a talker—you learnt that about him. He would spend all day sitting quietly in a corner of your store, reading one of the books he found on the shelf of used copies you kept in the back of the room.

He seemed to love those used books more than the new ones—books someone had already read, books that had already been loved.

He felt a little that way sometimes, too. A little too used for love, not loved enough for use.

But never when he was with you.

And you—you were falling for Bucky Barnes. A little by little, day by day, without even realizing it—not until it all came rushing to you one afternoon, like a dam breaking, like the ocean of his eyes pulling you under, especially when you felt his gaze on you from time to time, watching you as you worked.

That afternoon, a new shipment of books came in. You didn’t even have to ask him for help—he was already on his feet, snapping his copy of Anna Karenina shut, mumbling a soft, “I’ve got it,” as you signed for the order. Hefted the two cartons of books like they weighed nothing at all, and carried them inside.

There was a strange tightness in your stomach as you watched him, standing in the middle of your store—the only thing the Battle of New York hadn’t taken away from you—and you wondered just how it took so damn long to realize that the feeling of familiarity didn’t lie among these books, but rather, in Bucky himself.

—

It was a slow day, so the two of you spent the rest of the afternoon restocking the shelves. He asked you about each of the books, watching your eyes light up as you talked about your favourite ones, until conversation lapsed into a comfortable silence, the two of you basking in each other’s company as you worked.

You didn't even realize how much time had passed until you heard the door open and your friend Bella breezed in. She'd been here the first day Bucky had walked in, had noticed the way your eyes shifted to him mid-conversation like you couldn’t focus on much else when he was around. “Ready for lunch, y/n?”

You looked at Bucky, opening your mouth to ask if he wanted to come along. Not because you didn’t trust him to be alone at the store, but because you wanted his company. Because being around him felt like coming home.

He only waved you off. "Go ahead. I've got plans with Stevie. I'll be here when you're back though."

You believed him. You believed that he would always be around, for as long as you wanted. And you wanted forever.

"Was that the guy from before?" Bella asked, looping an arm through yours as you left the store, walking down the street. She brushed her fiery hair out of her eyes, turning her head slightly to look at you, yellow-green eyes filled with curiosity. “What’s his name?”

"Bucky. He... He's a friend," you said.

"Well," Bella said. "He sure doesn't feel the same way."

"What do you mean?" you asked, confused.

"Y/n, he looks at you like you put the stars in his sky. Are you sure he's just a friend?"

"I... I don't know, Bella."

Because you didn't know what else to call him. Because you and him weren't friends in the way people usually are—you had always been more.

Bucky was always more.

—

"I've barely seen you," Steve said, picking up his can of Diet Pepsi and taking a sip. "Where have you been?"

"Around," Bucky mumbled. Because how could he explain why he was spending so much time at the bookstore with someone he'd only just met? How could he explain the magnetic pull he felt toward you, the inexplicable desire to just be around you?

How could he explain the way you made him feel like himself again?

But Steve knew. Steve always knew. He saw the growing stack of novels on his friend's bedside table, saw him reading at the kitchen table, book propped up against the jug of milk.

He also knew that all this was because of y/n. Because Bucky mumbled that name when he was too exhausted to even know what he was saying. Because Bucky talked in his sleep—and Steve could hear him calling that name through the thin walls that separated their rooms. "You've been at the bookstore?"

Bucky set his drink down. There was so use denying it—his friend would see right through him. Steve had known him for too damn long to believe in his lies. "She's so... I can't even put it into words. She makes me believe that there's good in this world. That all the things I did wrong don't even matter—not when I'm with her. It’s the way she looks at things, the way she’s capable of finding a little bit of good in everything. Like she found something good in me, Steve."

Steve knew it was true. Because he hadn’t seen Bucky this way for a very long time. Because he hadn’t seen that light in his friend’s eyes in a very long time, and ever since he met you, it hadn’t gone away.

—

Bucky had to leave for a couple of days.

He didn't tell you why—just that it was a work thing. How long would he be gone? He didn't know.

"I'll be back soon," he said. "I promise."

And he was. Five days later.

But Bucky was quiet—quieter than usual.

It was a Sunday, and you’d somehow managed to drag him along to the farmer’s market with you. He walked alongside you, hands in his pockets, like he was aching to reach out and touch you but desperately holding himself back.

He’d almost gotten himself killed on that mission.

You took up too many thoughts in his head, too much space in his heart. And when the bullet narrowly missed him, grazing his ribs, his only thought was whether or not you’d miss him if he was gone.

You deserved better than someone who’s life was tied to the death of others. Someone who didn’t have so much blood on his hands.

A few paces ahead of you, Bella walked hand-in-hand with Bucky’s friend Sam. You were glad that Bucky had introduced them, glad that Sam made Bella happy in ways you’d never really known or understood before.

“Look at them,” you said, watching with a smile on your face as Sam quietly slipped a couple of oranges into Bella’s bag. “They look real happy.”

Then, turning to look at him, you smiled, and he couldn’t hold himself back anymore. Because you might deserve better, but he was selfish and stubborn, and the only thing he had wanted in so goddamn long was you you you.

“Go out with me,” he blurted, every thread of self-control he had so carefully cultivated to keep his head in your presence snapping. He felt like he was taken back to that December evening he saw you for the first time, when the words refused to leave his mouth, when you’d rendered him tongue-tied and helpless. Only this time, he couldn’t stop the words from coming out, not as he said, “One date, y/n. One date, and if you don’t have a good time, we can just forget it ever happened and move on.”

His heart shuttered when he saw the small frown creasing your brow, your voice soft as you asked, “Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything. I want to do this for the rest of my life with you, y/n,” he said quietly. “But for now, I’ll take that date.”

“Okay,” you said, nodding slowly. “Okay, Bucky, I’ll go out with you.”

He couldn’t help it. Bucky wrapped his arms around your waist, drawing you to him, lifting you off your feet and spinning you around until you were both laughing, childlike and breathless, blissfully unconscious of the knowing look on Sam and Bella’s faces.

Because really, how could he see anything but you? You had been it from the first day he saw, and you were it now—a blessing, beautiful and true.

tags:

@goldengoddess @wherearethesantreys @ughlantsov @for-bebbanburg @mriddlemethis @xleiaorgana @xsamsharons

if you would like to be added to or removed from my taglist, just send me a message or an ask off anon!

#bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky x you #bucky barnes fluff #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes #marvel mcu

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six-costume-refs · 3 years

Text

2020 to 2021 Broadway Costumes Changes

We finally have enough good photos of the Six Broadway costumes that I was able to write up this post! Shoutout to @lightleckrereins for spending lots of time trying to figure out all of these with me over the last week and reading a draft to correct the things I missed.

EDIT: updated with some additional things from the GMA performance and info that @gavinckss learned from @theboycostume at Showstoppers.

Overall changes and notes: - The big news: all of the 2020 costumes were apparently rendered unusable due to the (lack of) storage environment during the pandemic. All costumes were remade as a result. Explanation here. - One of the changes as a result of this was made to the number of layers of PVC. Sofia and I had been wondering in the past if there were two layers (a regular in that color and a clear over top) for at least one or two of the costumes. @gavinckss was able to confirm this about the 2020 Howard costume via a visit to the Showstoppers exhibit, which supports our theory that all or most of them had this for the 2020 costumes (potential exceptions noted below). However, this was one of the things that caused issues with the storage (information from @theboycostumer and relayed by @gavinckss) and was cut from the 2021 costumes to just keep the solid PVC layer. - All of the principal queens (and possibly the alternate queens) now seem to have two separate pairs of boots: the pair they wore in 2020 and a new, second pair added in 2021. There are also some noticeable design exceptions, noted below. - All of the alternates will have costumes that are identical or mostly identical (possible exceptions noted below) to the principal costumes. The one major exception to this is in the boots: they will all have a different principal crystal design but all in black and white that they wear for 5 queens and then a second pair that they wear for Cleves in the same style as principal Cleves. I made a post here with photos and info on those. - Six used to have sequin and mesh pieces on all of the costumes. However, sequins tend to be really difficult and time consuming to work with. At some point in 2020 or 2021, Six changed all of the sequin material to a new spandex with holographic dots custom printed on to mimic the look of sequins. - While some of the designs previously had stretch panels on the sides, all of the costumes now have one to improve fit and movement. Specifics noted below. (post with additional info about this will also be incoming from me or @lightleckrereins) - Most of the Six materials are not washable in a way that can be done regularly, and the materials can also be affected by things like sweat. To prevent odor and other issues, Six has always attempted to incorporate some system of layers/undergarments to protect those materials and help separate the fabrics from the skin (post about this is upcoming). Several changes were made to address this issue. - While @lightleckrereins and I were able to notice some of these changes there are also quite possibly some smaller details in construction or material that were introduced to help deal with that and to prevent future issues with the storage scenario that aren’t as visible (could be even things like changing the material used for lining or changing the number of layers inside the costume, which we wouldn’t even be able to tell). - The studding was changed from individual glued-on studs to pre-made studded trim (info from @gavinckss) - I previously made a post about the in-ear monitors.

Aragon (L-R: Jade Marvin, Bliss 2.0, sixbliss2.0; Adrianna Hicks, Broadway 2020, mallorymaedke; unknown 2020 alt on display at Showstoppers, Broadway 2020, wintersnowfl8ke; Adrianna Hicks, Broadway 2021, 17 Sep 2021, Marc J Franklin) - The top is now separated from the gold oversleeves. - The construction and general shape of the skirt and peplum has changed: the peplum is much more separated from the bottom layer of the skirt and the shape is slightly different (hard to tell in the photos we have of Adrianna, but you can very clearly see the difference in shape between the 2021 Adrianna and the earlier version in the Jade Marvin photo) - The exact pattern of the diamond cut-outs on the center front panel differs from costume to costume. A change has been made between the 2020 and 2021 Broadway design so that the diamond cutouts stay consistent over the whole panel. - There are stitches in a diamond pattern on the vacuformed panels of the 2021 skirt. @lightleckrereins pointed out that they’re most likely structure stitches. Some or all of them may also line up with the location of the crossed boning in the skirt as described here. - Black stretch panels were added to the underside of the oversleeves (very thin panels were on the 2020, but they were so thin as to be unnoticeable. These are much wider).

Boleyn (Courtney Bowman, West End, 3 Dec 2020, @/courtneybowman_; Andrea Macasaet, Broadway 2020, @/andrea.cesyl; Unknown Showstoppers costume, 2020 or 2021, @/wintersnowfl8ke; Andrea Macasaet, Broadway 2021, 16 Sep 2021, @/andrea.cesyl on Tiktok) - The green PVC has switched from the lighter pea green to a darker emerald shade. The shade change seems to have been slowly in process for Andrea Macasaet’s 2020 costume as well as Kala Gare and Lucy Aiston’s costume, all of which have a fabric between the 2018/19 and 2021 Boleyns. The updated 2021 shade is also in use for the Showstoppers costume. - The cap sleeve on the Boleyn top under the tab sleeves has been gotten rid of entirely (you can see it well on Courtney Bowman’s costume but it is on all of these except for Andrea’s 2021). - The tabs on the bottom and sleeves are lined with the green PVC - this was a change made either for both the 2020 and 2021 Broadway or for the 2020 alt costumes and all 2021. - Small black stretch panels were added to both sides of the top.

Seymour (L-R, top to bottom: Abby Mueller, 2020 Broadway, unknown; Carly Mercedes Dyer, carlymdyer; 2020 alt at Showstoppers, @/wintersnowfl8ke; Abby Mueller, 2021 Broadway, 17 Sep 2021, Marc J Franklin for Playbill; Abby Mueller, 2021 Broadway, 16 Sep 2021, Jamie McCarthy for NBC) - This one is the possible exception when talking about a white PVC and a clear PVC on the original. It’s certainly possible but with the non-holographic white base it’s much harder to confirm that theory. Either way, the white fabric on the bodice is much more shiny in the 2020 photos and more matte in the 2021, which could be because of a second clear layer of PVC or could be because they just changed the white fabric entirely. - The 2020 costume had the usual transparent black stretch panels on the sleeves. This has been replaced by a nude fabric overlayed with the same mesh that is used on the rest of the costume (also want to note that the Showstoppers dress did not have any stretch panels and was purely for that event). - The mesh and spandex part of the cups rises much higher on the 2021 costume, and the trim on the cups better matches most of the other Seymour costumes than it does the 2020 one. - The sleeves on the Showstoppers costume had studding at the end, but neither the 2020 or 2021 Broadway costumes had this. - Abby Mueller has two-three pairs of boots, as explained here.

Cleves (L-R: Brittney Mack, 2020 Broadway, Bryan Derballa for the New York Times; Unknown 2020 Broadway alt, 11 Apr 2021; Brittney Mack, 2021 Broadway, 17 Sep 2021, @/bwaysho; Brittney Mack, 2021 Broadway, 16 Sep 2021, Jamie McCarthy for NBC) - The fit of the jacket is different, and it looks great! That isn’t a design change, it’s just fit differently. - A small black spandex stretch panel was introduced to the side of the jacket - We saw some differing silhouettes for some in-progress Cleves leotards/reveal outfits in the background of photos taken at the costume studio. No idea what the deal with those is. Could be a scrapped design, a small re-design to better flatter one of the alts, or a complete re-design for all of the queens. We may not get answers on this any time soon as the Six costume team has asked that people not share photos or boots of that costume.

Howard (Samantha Pauly, 2020 Broadway, @/sampauly; Showstoppers display costume 2021, @/theboycostumer; Samantha Pauly, 2021 Broadway, 17 Sep 2021, Marc J Franklin for Playbill; Samantha Pauly, 2021 Broadway, 17 Sep 2021, @/klphotographynyc) - Black lacing was added to both sides of the corset as a form of stretch panel. This replaced the prior mesh and spandex stretch panels as seen on the 2020 and Showstoppers costumes. - The hot pink PVC changed in color to become slightly darker; the undertones are now more monochromatic than they previously were. - Studs were added to the criss-crossed elastics. - There are also now two layers of elastics: The bottom one attached to the mesh leotard with a snap in the middle, and a top one attached to the corset with studding on it that snaps into the bottom. The one with studding is attached to the corset rather than the leotard since the leotard acts as her undergarment and is washed regularly. - The closure on the Howard skirt is a tab that is hidden under the mic holster. This was the case for the 2020 and Showstoppers costumes as well, but is different from all other Howard skirts. - The fitting of the skirt is slightly different. On the 2020 costume, the panels on either side of the opening are mostly parallel and with only a slight angle to them. On the 2021, they’re at more of an angle so the bottom of the opening is now much wider than the top (this is presumably for movement).

Parr (Costume: Anna Uzele, 2020 Broadway, @/Joan Marcus; Anna Uzele, 2021 Broadway, 16 Sep 2021, Jamie McCarthy for NBC; Anna Uzele, 2021 Broadway, 17 Sep 2021, Marc J Franklin for Playbill; Anna Uzele, 2021 Broadway, 14 Sep 2021, Sara Krulwich) (Boots: 2020 pair, Anna Uzele, 11 Apr 2021; 2020 pair, Anna Uzele, Jimmy Fallon performance, 16 Sep 2021, Jamie McCarthy for NBC; 2021 pair, Anna Uzele, 14 Sep 2021, Sara Krulwich) - There may have been a change in the color of the blue PVC. - New boots design in addition to still wearing the old ones as well (per the two pairs of boots with one old and one new). The 2020 pair has two wide straps that both split into two smaller straps, leaving four smaller ones visible from the side. The 2021 pair has three straps with buckles from what we can see of the side, but we don’t know what the straps look like in front. They could be like her 2020 boots, which look like two wide straps in the front and only look like four from the side. The 2020 are also taller (similar in length to Aragon’s) while the 2021 are shorter (similar in length to the rest of the queens). - The bottom front corners of the peplum are now rounded rather than the previous 90 degree angle. - The top is much longer and with a steeper point in the center front than it was in 2020. - The sleeves seem to be separate from the top. - There are some black panels on the side of the top. We’re trying to figure out exactly what those are for. First, they seem like the stretch panels as are standard for the rest of the 2021 costumes. However, they also seem to have a zipper in addition to the zipper closure in the back. @lightleckrereins is theorizing that since the sleeves are now separate, those side zippers are so that they can unzip the sides, put the top on over the shoulders after the sleeves have been put on, and then zip it closed on the sides to make it easier to put on. - The stretch panels on the bottom of the sleeves extend through the vinyl section of the sleeve as well.

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andypantsx3 · 3 years

Text

statistically significant | 7 | bakugou/reader

length: 23,490 words | 7 chapters

summary: You’re the scientist who developed a neural net to model the value of assists. Now that your work is feeding into the hero rankings, pro hero Ground Zero has a bone to pick with your results.

tags: romance, enemies to lovers, sexual tension, reader-insert

warnings: aged up characters, eventual smut, m/f threats of violence, problematic behavior

One month later

The Hero Awards certainly did not disappoint the second time around.

Though you’d spent the last few months in the company of some of these heroes, you couldn’t help but linger on the sidelines as they stalked their way down the walkway, staring in awe. As before, they were decked out in their absolute best, glimmering in jewel toned dresses with daring cutouts, or carving dashing profiles in well-fitted suits. Reporters and fans swarmed the sides of the red carpet, roiling like a pot reaching an agitated boil.

Their excitement was so palpable it hung heavy in the air, absolutely contagious. Maybe it was the fact that you knew some of the heroes up for awards tonight personally, but the potential of the evening simmered under your skin, a soft but constant hum of frenetic energy.

Or maybe some of that was due to the fact that this year, you’d been able to convince your boss to shell out the extra cash for the full dinner option. No longer would you need to smuggle snacks into your dress--this evening, you were a solid professional.

Which was a good thing, really, as the dress in question was not altogether any more secure or supportive than your dress from last year. You’d tried to angle for a thicker fabric and a little more of a conservative design, but several people had aired opinions on your choices over the course of the last few weeks, and you’d ended up in a thin swathe of delicate fabric that was really quite pretty, if you did say so yourself, but would support a grand total of maybe two popcorn kernels.

“You’re looking awfully forlorn over here,” someone chirped by your ear.

You startled, whirling to find Mina behind you, looking rosy and radiant in a form-fitting dress only a few shades lighter than her skin tone. Tiny pearls and clusters of glittering pink diamonds were stitched carefully into the fabric, winking at you as she moved, as bright as the conspiratorial grin she wore. She looked absolutely fabulous--she was one of the people who’d bullied you into the snackless gown, and you could begrudgingly admit that the girl had taste.

“Is it because a certain hotheaded blonde isn’t here yet?” she asked, a pink eyebrow going up.

You flushed. “Mina--oh my god, no. Not everything is about him, you know.”

She idly inspected a nail, looking supremely unconvinced. “Someone should tell him that, then.”

You huffed a laugh. The last time you’d been at the Awards, you’d said as much to him yourself. But a year later, the message was still not exactly being received.

“I’m actually thinking about dinner. I’m literally starving,” you complained, trying to divert the subject.

Mina nodded sympathetically. “I have a six pack and I still had to suck in to fit into this shit.”

As if on cue, your stomach growled sympathetically. You weren’t proud of what it was going to be like when you were finally unleashed on that multi-course dinner, but god it was gonna be worth it.

Several shrieks went up in the crowd of fans behind you, and you looked over your shoulder in alarm. Your pulse relaxed slightly when you realized it was just another pro sauntering down the walkway, but then the lights flickered off ashy blonde locks, and your pulse jumped violently. You jerked in surprise.

Mina didn’t even try to suppress her snort as you turned around fully, eyes pulled like a magnet to Bakugou as he stalked down the red carpet. Even looking like he would rather be anywhere else, and moving briskly over the carpet like he was going in for a kill, he still looked better than he had any right to. The charcoal of his suit--stitched with deep ruby flowers so dark they were almost black--brought out the piercing scarlet of his eyes, and your heart leapt into your mouth when those eyes cut over to meet yours.

His expression didn’t change, and he kept moving, but you flushed all the way from your head to your toes at the intensity behind his look.

Mina made a disgusted noise. “You’re both like a dog with a bone.”

You glared at her accusingly. “We literally just looked at each other.”

She clicked her tongue. “Please, he all but just pissed on you to mark his territory.”

Before you could reply, she called out, catching sight of Kirishima, and seized you to drag you over to say hello.

You let Mina drag you around for the next half hour, making polite conversation with her high school friends, a couple of friends from other agencies, and one fashion journalist who Mina had converted into a weekly drinking buddy. Mina kept the conversation light and easy, and you enjoyed yourself for the most part, though you almost passed out when a very distinct head of green curls materialized over her shoulder and then Midoriya Izuku--better known as the number one hero Deku--was smiling at you eagerly.

Things got even weirder when he appeared to not only already know who you were, but knew a great deal about your work, enough to ask some very detailed questions about your training model software that was going into production a couple months from now. Mina had the gall to cut into the conversation to call you both huge nerds, though she’d directly benefited from the model herself.

The conversation was unfortunately cut short when a calloused hand flung itself in front of your face and a rough voice sounded from over your shoulder. “Stop sticking your nose in my fucking business, Deku.”

You whipped around to find Bakugou glaring over your head at his former classmate. His hand closed around your shoulder and dragged you closer to him.

“I was just asking about her model, Kacchan,” Midoriya said patiently. “It’ll be great to be able to compare my movements directly with some of the other heroes in almost real time! Ojirou’s been trying out some new fighting forms and I was thinking I should try to adapt them to work into my shoot style--”

“Just because you couch it in nerd shit doesn’t mean you’re not trying to spy on me, fuckstick,” Bakugou said. “Stop poking your nose into my relationship like the town fucking gossip.”

Midoriya flushed a little, looking slightly chastened when you turned back to him in question. He gave you an embarrassed little smile. “I did want to meet you for reasons other than your model. Kacchan’s been my friend since I was little, and I wondered what kind of person could interest him so much he wanted my perspective on your work--”

“Shut the fuck up,” Bakugou demanded, but he wasn’t fast enough.

You perked up in interest. “He asked you what?”

Bakugou bristled like a cat being dangled over a bath, but Midoriya was paying him no mind. “Right after the last Hero Awards, he’d done all this research and he asked me about whether your model results lined up with some of the personal analysis that I was doing--”

“Deku,” Bakugou’s fingers tightened on your arm, growing alarmingly warm. “If you don’t shut the fuck up right now I’m going to punch all of your teeth straight down your throat and into your stomach.”

“Kacchan,” Midoriya protested, but he was interrupted by a call on the overhead for everyone to start taking their places in the theater interior for the awards to begin.

Bakugou used the distraction to pry you away from Midoriya. In the blink of an eye, he’d gotten you across the theater and was corralling you towards the Miruko agency tables, looking like he’d sucked on a lemon. You stifled a laugh. You’d wondered a couple months ago exactly how and when he’d figured out you were quirkless, and he’d once asked if you thought you were the only one who’d done their research.

If things were anything like you were starting to suspect, your demands that he do better at the Hero Awards had apparently aroused his interest in more ways than one.

You and Bakugou hadn’t exactly settled on formal terms for your relationship yet, and he still more often than not answered any of your interest with the assertion that you were the one with the crush on him. But this was more evidence--beyond the mysterious coffees that showed up at your workstation almost every morning--that your interest was more intensely reciprocated than he was willing to own up to.

By the time you’d settled at a table and been flanked by a grinning Mina and Kaminari, the awards were getting underway. They were thrilling to watch, something you’d had to miss out on last year when you needed to sneak out with a giant hole in the front of your dress. The heroes you’d worked with this year raked in an insane number of awards, and their elation was palpable, so thick you could almost taste it in the air. The pair of men with satyr horns were named the Best Rookie Duo, Miruko was awarded Takedown of the Year, and Kaminari clocked the Fastest Fight Win for a battle last month in which he’d rendered a villain with an aluminum quirk insensate only seconds into the fight.

A very unfortunate match up, you thought.

Mina nabbed an award for Fan Favorite, and in almost no time, it was the moment that you’d been nervously awaiting since nominations had gone out. You’d cheated, doing your own calculations behind everyone’s backs just to get a clearer picture of what his chances were, and you rather liked his odds, but there was always a chance it wouldn’t go how you thought. But this was the moment that Bakugou was up for Most Valuable Hero.

You barely heard any of the words the host was saying as he trotted out the names of the nominees, detailing some of their key accomplishments. He covered Bakugou's latest slew of assists and rescues, stats that made you feel kind of weirdly warm and proud, and then your ears strained for the syllables you’d hoped to hear.

And then:

“The winner is...our explosive number six, Ground Zero!”

It took everything in you not to leap out of your seat in joy, though something like a strangled squeal managed to escape you. Bakugou gave you an evaluating look as he got to his feet, stalking up on stage with his usual intensity.

As soon as he was up there, it struck you that allowing him time for an acceptance speech was maybe not a great idea. Graciousness was not exactly a strength of his.

“Obviously I’m the most valuable,” he growled into the mic. The stage lights glinted off his hair and teeth, making him look slightly more predatory than usual. “I didn’t need you fucks to tell me.”

A choking noise could be heard from Kirishima’s seat a couple tables over, and Mina put her head in her hands.

“What’s important is that I’m number six now and it only took me a month,” Bakugou’s head swiveled in the direction of Midoriya and you suppressed a groan. “Don’t get fucking comfortable. I’m gonna wipe the floor with every one of the top five, and next awards you’ll all be kissing my ass.”

He didn’t seem like he had much more he wanted to say, which was an incredible relief as both the host and nearby security looked about ready to wrestle him offstage.

He leapt neatly down from the stage, and when he made it back to the table, he didn’t take his seat again. Instead, he grabbed your arm, hauling you out of your seat, and then he was pulling you down the aisle and through the door to the reception area.

He pulled you past the snack table and you thought he was steering you towards the stairwell again, but at the last second he took a sudden turn, shoving you through a door into the women’s powder room. You didn’t even have enough time to formulate a question before he had you backed up against the wall, your shoulders hitting the cool stone at the same time his mouth hit yours.

His kiss was hot and demanding as always, and you lost yourself in it easily. He trailed a line of burning kisses down your neck and over your shoulder, making you shudder and shake when he lingered too long over any particular spot.

It was hard to think past the press of his body on yours, but you tried your best to formulate words.

“Katsuki--it’s--we’re in the women’s room,” you panted, embarrassed by the fact that even as you spoke, you were clutching him closer. “This is--what are you--? S-someone’s gonna come in.”

Bakugou broke apart from you just long enough to level a searching glance around the room and--spotting what he’d been looking for--hefting the trashcan in front of the door with a forceful kick to stop it shut.

“There, nerd. Now stop fucking complaining,” he rasped, immediately attaching his mouth back under your jaw. You shuddered.

“What the fuck has gotten into you,” you demanded, seizing a fistful of his blonde hair to pull him back from where he was leaving what felt like a very deep bruise over your collarbone.

He leveled you with a burning, red-eyed stare. “Like you don’t fucking know.”

You looked at him in question. “...I actually don’t.”

He tried to lean in again but you gripped his hair harder. “What? You can’t just keep throwing me up against walls, especially here. What is it with you and shoving me into weird places at the Hero Awards?”

Bakugou growled. “If you don’t shut the fuck up and let me do what I want, I’m gonna burn throught this dress too.”

You froze up, then glared at him accusingly. “I literally write the code that processes your rank. If you ever wanna come within sniffing distance of the top three, you won’t touch a single thread of this dress.”

The hands on you grew hot, but not hot enough to burn. Bakugou slid a calloused hand over the curve of your waist, thumb brushing the underside of your breast.

“God, the fuckin’ attitude on you,” he said, almost reverently.

You felt your face warm under his scrutiny as he leaned closer. “You wanna know what's gotten into me? I wanted to melt that entire fucking thing off you last year. You were so fucking mouthy, such a little brat to me. Wanted to rip your dress off and fuck you right in the stairwell until you forgot you’d ever even heard of numbers.”

You shivered. Bakugou smirked, eyes darkening, leaning back in to bite under your jaw. You realized you’d lost your grip on him and willed your fingers to cooperate again.

“I fucking won that stupid award because I let you boss me around. I've waited an entire year. Now you’re gonna let me do whatever I want with you.”

Your legs went out from beneath you but Bakugou was already there, catching you under your thighs and hauling you up onto the countertop between the sinks. Your back brushed the mirror, glass cold under your shoulder blades.

“Y--you know, if you actually want to be number one, you can’t make speeches like you did,” you babbled nervously as he filled the space between your thighs. “Your public approval rating is part of your ranking, right? It’s weighted right below rescues…”

Bakugou paid you no mind, fingers already searching over your back to find the zipper to your dress. He yanked it down with little ceremony, seizing the front of your bodice to pull it off of you.

“I don’t need to be fucking nice if I’m the one saving the day,” he announced imperiously, leaning down to capture a nipple with his mouth.

Your hips jerked, and he pressed a hand to your thigh, holding you back down against the counter. Dimly, you registered that the words were familiar. “N--not--ah!--not this again.”

Bakugou didn’t deign to respond, instead doing something absolutely mind-bending with his tongue. You swore loudly, catching a fistful of his jacket. “Fuck, Katsuki!”

A hot palm slid up your thigh, gathering up the soft material of your skirt until he could slip a hand underneath. Calloused fingers trailed over your core with obvious intention. You inhaled sharply when he pressed them into you, leaning up to cover your mouth with his again.

Bakugou had you squirming wildly against him in barely a minute, snorting when you tried to get a hand on his zipper.

“Want me that bad, nerd?” he asked, pressing forehead to yours in an oddly tender move.

“If you don’t hurry the fuck up I’m gonna finish things myself,” you threatened, though Bakugou did not look at all as if he believed you.

He helped you get his zipper down, taking himself in hand, but he stopped just as he brushed your entrance, leaning forward to bite another kiss into your mouth.

“Now it’s time for you to make good on your end of the bet,” he growled, a smirk growing over his features. “You’ll tell me I’m the best and I was right all along.”

You stilled underneath him, disbelieving. “Are you--are you fucking serious.”

Bakugou pressed forward, just enough for you to feel the pressure of him on your clit. You fought down a noise like a whimper. Damn him.

“I jumped two ranks,” he said. “You’ll tell me I’m the best if you want me, nerd.”

“I am not gonna beg for you like this,” you announced, though it sounded a little more like a question than you had wanted it to.

Bakugou brushed his thumb over your clit again and little sparks danced over the corner of your vision. “Mmm, you’re gonna scream.”

You felt something like a tension snap inside you. Fuck it. He was so annoying but holy shit if he wasn’t the hottest thing you’d ever encountered. If he needed his ego stroked, well it wasn’t nearly as much as you needed your own stroking.

You grit your teeth. “Ugh, fine--just--you’re the best, and you were right all along. Now will you please--”

You didn’t even get to finish before he was sinking into you, narrow hips fitting flush with your thighs. You swore at the feeling of fullness, and then he was moving, picking up into a frantic pace. He leaned forward, sealing his mouth over yours to swallow all the little noises you were making. It was mere minutes before you were shivering underneath him again, moving your hips to meet his, desperate for more, Katsuki, more.

“Ah fuck--so fucking good for me,” he grunted against your mouth, giving a particularly hard thrust, and that was all it took to unravel you.

You stifled a scream in the thick fabric of his jacket, arching up into him. He cursed and followed after you with a few more short thrusts, crushing you against the counter when he let his weight go slack.

You panted underneath him, catching your breath while your fingers slowly unclenched themselves from the hem of his suit jacket. Bakugou rubbed his face in the hollow of your shoulder, radiating smug satisfaction.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it, nerd?” he rasped, biting down lightly where he’d left the hickey earlier.

You pulled back, looking into his face again. He looked far too pleased with himself, but he was so handsome like this, all messy hair and a kiss darkened mouth. Your irritation with him fizzled out a little.

He flashed you a predatory grin. “You said it yourself--I'm the fucking best.”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t stop your hand from coming up and tangling in his hair. “Shut the fuck up.”

Bakugou, predictably, did not look as if he was going to shut the fuck up at all. So you took matters into your own hands, and leaned in and kissed him again.

#bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki #bakugou katsuki x reader #bnha x reader #my hero academia #bnha #katsuki bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugou

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nomanwalksalone · 3 years

Photo

BOOK REVIEW: RICHARD JAMES SAVILE ROW

by Réginald-Jérôme de Mans

As Troy McClure said about playing the human in a musical adaptation of Planet of the Apes, reviewing this book is “the role I was born to play!”

Simply entitled Richard James: Savile Row, this book commemorates the 25th anniversary in Savile Row of the fashion house and tailors of the same name. A read is somewhat disappointing, full of short essays by what amounts to a rather incestuous school of longtime Richard James fans in British media and entertainment, among them British GQ’s Dylan Jones and Richard’s most notorious client, Elton John.

Elton’s known as a voracious devotee – to not say addict – of his favorite outfitters over the decades, buying out entire shopfloors at times. His twenty-year devotion to Richard James is a key to understanding Richard James’ enormous if unrecognized positive influence on contemporary men’s clothing and British tailoring. Forty years ago Elton dressed head-to-toe in psychedelic Tommy Nutter, switching in the 1980s to over-the-top Gianni Versace glitz. Since the end of the 1990s, he’s evangelized Richard James.

Tommy Nutter, the last tailor-designer in Savile Row, dominated British men’s tailoring in the 1970s. Custom tailoring took a back seat to the cult of the ready-to-wear designer, mostly the Continentals: Pierre Cardin, then Armani and Versace. Nutter had a few isolated 1980s hits, like dressing the Joker in 1989’s Batman, before dying in 1992.

What had become of the British? 1980s attitudes towards luxury and clothing meant regression, selling an image of Britain as Raj, pith helmets, and gin among palm trees, not progress. Ralph Lauren did a much better job selling that ethos in his more expensive lines than any of the British could. Some tried; those of us of a certain age (me) remember seeing cashmere sweaters made in China sold in Bloomingdales under the label of Savile Row tailor Gieves & Hawkes, or blocky ready-to-wear suits at Barneys sold with the name of Savile Row tailor Kilgour, French & Stanbury, although made in Canada by Samuelson. An ersatz Britishness for export markets, an ersatz image and look created by ready-to-wear licensees with little input from the British tailors desperately trying to sell their names abroad.

Into this breach came Richard James. Like Nutter, James is categorically not a trained tailor. What he is, though, is an inspired designer who, since opening on Savile Row, has offered true custom tailoring as well as ready-to-wear in visionary designs. I remember the first Richard James items I noticed, beautiful belts and wallets of gorgeous quality hand stitched in England with contrasting linings in deeply saturated color. I still have one of those belts, in all its magnificence. What did they have to do with British custom tailoring? Nothing – and everything. For the first time a Savile Row name appeared to be doing something relevant, interesting and elegant – and doing it to the fullest extent and the last detail. Savile Row survives by its export markets and by the reputation its tailors have forged for beautiful items of a certain Britishness. No more uninspired licensed items that has as much to do with British elegance as a Sterling car (derided by Consumer Reports for “Industrial Revolution-era” English technology, remember those?). What Richard James has done is modernize British elegance from the creepy colonial-obsessed ethos that today only blinkered Brexiteer bluestockings and Internet edgelords cling to. Even the past James references uses other, more inspired touchstones of British greatness, including his bespoke offer (initially serviced by the Savile Row tailors Anthony J. Hewitt and James Levett before being brought in-house), but also ready-to-wear shirts in stripes that recalled the best of Swinging London; handmade ties whose lush, delicate patterns rivalled the best of midcentury Sulka or today’s Charvet; magnificently, decadently warm alpaca pile ‘teddy bear” coats originally created for 1920s motorists; astonishingly soft leather or suede jackets in the café racer style 1960s London Mods would have died for; and even the made-to-order cashmere socks with custom monograms Corgi used to make for defunct shops of yesteryear like the custom shirtmaker Beale & Inman. It was a vision of Britishness far, far from Lauren’s fantasies, a Britishness that admitted the turmoil of Ted Heath’s premiership, that added much-needed glamor after John Major’s greyness. And James reminded us what was wonderful about the British suit by invoking all that was dashing in its cut. Ready-to-wear suits were made in beautiful cloths from British mills like the impeccable Taylor & Lodge, in unexpectedly evocative colors and patterns: sharp mohair sharkskin, gorgeously patterned real Scottish or Irish tweeds or a French navy that was lighter than the normal shade; even rainbow chalkstripes on a sober dark ground. The cut was always tapered at the waist, double-vented, slant pocketed in the “hacking” style, a look espoused by Patrick Macnee’s subversively too-British John Steed in the 1960s. Richard’s linings were often boldly colorful, to remind us what could be playful about the suit, everything that 1980s pretention (clinging to all the trimmings of colonial oppression) had repressed.

Richard James the book shines in cataloguing those designs in beautiful detail. James really has been the best colorist in the business, as Jones termed him. Even more importantly, this book also shows how James has aced the tricky game of tennis without a net of innovating within the classic: in addition to recreating ruffle-fronted tuxedo shirts like those of George Lazenby’s louche Bond in 1969’s On Her Majesty’s Secret Service, James also invented tuxedo shirts whose fronts (instead of pleats or stiff waffle-weave Marcella) were hand-beaded by Hand & Lock, beaders and embroiderers to Her Majesty the Queen; Corgi (knitters and hosiers to the Prince of Wales) knitted thick, thick cashmere sweaters with hand-inlaid abstract intarsia designs; elegant cufflinks (always double-sided) recalled childhood marbles in the forms of hand-blown translucent glass or semiprecious banded agate (a real “Aggie”) or amber set in sterling silver; and even a travel bag that recalled the bags given away by Pan Am or Concorde in the early days of jet travel was rendered in ballistic nylon with reflective silver piping and brilliantly contrasting linings.

I’ve never owned a Richard James bespoke suit. I know that his ready-to-wear suits were disappointingly half-canvassed or fused, despite their wonderful materials. But they helped remind me that Savile Row could still be relevant, and that those tailors, despite past reputation, could be approachable and contemporary – and that has been my experience with the other tailors of Savile Row, including the impeccable, evocatively named Steed, whom I loved for their name before ever using them.

Every item with the Richard James name carried and carries the same visionary, whimsical design philosophy, a Britishness less fanciful and more romantic than Paul Smith’s, and far less caricatural and cynical than those of Ralph Lauren or Hackett. Socks, always made to a high-standard by Pantherella, are accented in amusing contrast colors or mad patterns. I have a number that are doing fine almost 20 years later. My Richard James Concorde bag has been a beloved, perfect gym bag for years, while his larger, tougher Japanese denim bag (trimmed in the best British bridle hide) is my go-to travel holdall no matter where on Earth I go. My beaded Richard James tux shirt is a prized piece of design genius, as is a magnificently waterproof raincoat made for him by Mackintosh in a beige twill that cunningly iridesces turquoise or orange from certain angles. For years I’ve searched for the same shade of gorgeous Thomas Mason turquoise twill cotton that an old Richard James shirt is in, but most of his materials are specially made for his designs; even the fine-gauge cotton knits that John Smedley or Peter Geeson created for him seemed to be in special colors and to his own patterns.

That wealth, that treasury of a vision and genius, tumbles out of Richard James’ new book, pictures that really are worth thousands of words and that speak for themselves about the importance of this designer’s contribution, reminding us that Savile Row, indeed British menswear itself, still had things of wonder to offer us.

#rjman #reginaldjeromedemans

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kai-n-ali · 4 years

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In the Fields of Asphodel (My Regrets Follow You to the Grave) | Chapter Three

Eleanor Blum didn’t know what to think of this man, this Peaky Blinder devil that made all of Small Heath cower before him, this almost-stranger with his dead wife and dead stare, but she wished he’d stop showing up at the flower shop she worked in. And that he’d stop looking at her with those blue eyes of his.

Follows aftermath of Season 03 throughout Seasn 04. Tommy x OFC.

Warnings: Depictions of child abuse, antisemitism towards OFC (slurs), canon-typical violence, canonical deaths, sexual themes, etc.

Word Count: 12K

Chapter One ❀ Chapter Two

Ao3 ❀ Wattpad

Chapter 3: Celandine (Joys to Come)

She met her uncle for the first time barefoot and half-feral, wearing old blood on her fingers and streaked across her dress.

When they called Eleanor down to Headmaster Grafton’s office, her fingertips were still tender from embroidering dresses at the local dress shop earlier that morning. She rubbed them against the pleats of her skirt as she took the stairs two at a time, willing the sting away. Having left her shoes somewhere under her bed, still caked in mud from the rainy day, her big-toe poked out of a hole in her pantyhose and hit the wool carpet with every step. It scratched.

When she was younger, maybe eight or nine, the sight of the big oak door with its perpetual dust settled into the engraving of Mother Mary would’ve made her break out into a cold sweat, a phantom sting of leather hitting raw skin making her spine stiffen and her eyes water.

But she was thirteen now.

It sent a jolt through her system, seeing the door already open. Usually, the headmaster made all the girls knock before entering, waiting until they started to shift on their toes or rock on their heels. He liked spending long hours complaining to all the teachers, disparaging the young orphan girls’ lack of discipline. Sometimes, if he caught them fidgeting too much, he’d rap their knees with his cane.

Once, when she had been sneaking to the kitchen for a quick snack—she was the favorite of the cooks, but don’t tell anyone—she’d seen him frothing at the mouth over when one of the girls got snot on his new coat, due to some awful crying jag earlier that afternoon. His face had been a very fierce shade of red, she recalled, as he’d paced about in one of the empty classrooms, hands flicking about. The color disguised the faint pockmarks on his cheeks and the paleness of his complexion. Eleanor preferred it. He looked more… human, that way. It was nice knowing he bled like any other man.

Today, however, the door was open. Inside, sat the headmaster with one of Eleanor’s least favorite teachers, Sister Sarah, whose lips pressed into a smear of rosy pink rogue as soon as she caught Eleanor at the doorway, barefoot and with smudges of rust smeared down the cream of her skirt. She liked to say the lip color was all-natural, but Eleanor knew better. Across from them, in an over-large chair of what she knew was buttery-soft leather—she once got in trouble for curling up and falling asleep in it at nine-years-old, near delirious from a nightmare of her dead mother and having snuck out of bed and hunkered down in the unlocked office—sat a man she’d never seen before, his back to her.

The headmaster was a man with light hair and even lighter eyes—this chilled, near clear grey—with a thin, cruel mouth. Slim in that fashionable way wealthy people always were with pearls dripping down the languid lines of their throats or Patek Philippe watches wrapped around the delicate curves of their wrist bones. Eleanor was envious—they never had any awkward bits, no hollowed cheeks that looked scooped out with a melon spoon, no knees that stuck out in knobs of bone under paper-thin dresses.

“Anne,” Headmaster Grafton beckoned, hand waving her inside. Eleanor bit her lip to avoid doing anything stupid, like curse him out or attempt to deck him, and felt the familiar sting of her front teeth sinking into the torn skin. Her knobby knuckles weren’t very good for punching, unfortunately, quick to bleed with the semi-fresh welts stretched across them from Sister Martha, the only teacher who still rapped her with the leather strap when she got an answer wrong. The only teacher who ever called on her anymore.

It said something about her that Sister Martha was perhaps her favorite person here.

Grafton clucked his tongue, waited until she stood across from his desk, hands folded in front of her. She kept her eyes on the carpet, this fluffy, garish thing the color of blackberry wine, and his eyes on her forehead seared into her skin. “Anne,” he said again, and it made her want to tear at her hair, or maybe his eyes, those cold eyes—because, yes, Anne was her middle name, her mother’s name, but it wasn’t fucking hers. And she’d stopped biting at her nails, recently, and they’d grown long enough to do some damage if she tried. She could do it.

Eleanor, apparently, was too Jewish of a name, and while none of the staff or teachers could do anything about her last name, as full-on kike as it was, they could switch out Eleanor for Anne. Saint Anne, at least, was the mother of Mary.

Eleanor, christened Anne, baptized anew.

(There were nights when she was laying in her bed, still damp from when one of the older girls had dumped buckets of ice-cold rainwater into the sheets—or on one particular occasion, from being freshly scrubbed of pig’s blood from the butcher’s a street over; the stains never came out—where she just repeated her name in her head. Over and over again. Mouthing around the syllables, tasting them on her tongue just so she remembered. Just in case. They’d scrubbed out the Yiddish with lye soap, the language of her mother, but her own name she’d keep.)

The next bit of what the headmaster said sounded off to Eleanor’s ears: a record scratch, a jerk of a needle. Nothing but a string of words. And now her eyes were on this stranger.

Even sitting, he seemed towering to Eleanor, a looming presence—a well-built man going soft in the middle. He looked like he could snap Eleanor’s wrist with the press of his pointer finger and thumb, but when she risked a glance at his face, swiveling her neck very covertly, his face was made up of long lashes and crinkles at the corners of his hazel eyes. On his head was a shock of red hair, left wavy rather than gelled back slick and going strawberry blond at the temples. His cheeks were peppered in white-as-snow stubble. This man could’ve been ancient as time itself or, maybe, thirty-five—Eleanor didn’t know.

But what caught her attention most was that word the headmaster said—that word. Uncle. Your uncle. This strange man with too-expensive clothes and a floral lapel pin, this was her family, her kin. Eleanor spun on her heel, away from Grafton and towards this new man, this silent man whose brown leather loafers must have cost more than her entire wardrobe.

“You’re Ma’s brother?” she asked, unable to believe it. Even through the blurred memory of her five-year-old self’s eyes, her mother had been a woman made up of dark colors, brunette curls near black and skin that tanned brown in the sun. This man was all light, all pale gold. But it was the only explanation that made any sense.

She’d seen a photo of her grandparents once, obviously red-haired despite the black-and-white, and thought maybe that explained it. Though they had possessed much darker complexions.

Her uncle—her uncle—blinked. “No,” he said, short and to-the-point but not cruel, and his voice was feather-soft. There was an odd lilt to his voice she’d never heard, a funny way he spoke his vowels. “Your father’s brother, actually. Will Connolly.”

An Irish last-name if she’d ever heard one.

Eleanor stared at Mr. Connolly. “My mother was a whore,” she said, tone gone flat between grit teeth. Grafton hissed. Sister Sarah snapped out a sharp “Anne!”, but that wasn’t Eleanor’s name, so she didn’t respond. On the fine-boned features of her so-called uncle’s face, she looked for any traces of shock. There were none. Not even a furrow of his faintly-lined forehead. “How d’ya know I’m his?”

�� Mr. Connolly only smiled. “You may not see it, but we look a lot alike, you and I. I haven’t a doubt.” She opened her mouth, shut it again. She couldn’t find the words. “He passed, unfortunately. Last summer. But he wanted to know you. Make things right.” At some point, Grafton opened his big mouth again, and some sort of grown-up talk ensued, but Eleanor couldn’t get herself to focus, couldn’t rip her eyes from this stranger’s face.

She tried to be sad—hearing that this man, her father, was dead.

But her head was stuffed with cotton; her very system gone numb.

In a flash, the headmaster’s hand white-knuckled her shoulder, his form too hot along her back, and Eleanor went very still. Felt her limbs lock into place. Her heart stuttered. “Be good, dear,” the man said, and his tone was saccharine, sticky sweet as a bubblegum cigarette. She didn’t answer, didn’t breathe, and in a moment, she heard the click of Mrs. Lynch’s sensible shoes before the door shut behind them both with a heavy thud. Eleanor’s eyes flinched closed.

After a breath, or two, and a silence so heavy it weighed down her shoulders, she sat in a recliner across from Mr. Connolly, crossing her legs at the ankle as she slumped into the velvet material. She could be a lady when she wanted to be. But one foot couldn’t stop tapping against the carpet. The one with the bare toe. Eleanor took in a deep breath. “It’s lavender, isn’t it?” she asked, abrupt, and he arched a brow at her, leaning forward, hands propped up on his thighs and elbows bent. “That pin.” She gestured with the jerk of her chin.

He laughed. It was a low sound, rumbling deep within his chest. Warm. “Keen eye. Aye, it is.” The tied sprigs of lavender were delicate for such a large man, the feathery fronds rendered in silver, and the whole pin perhaps smaller than the stretch of his thumb. It really was beautiful—she wanted to sketch it with the charcoal pencils hidden beneath her mattress. “It was me mother’s.”

Even more embarrassing, she wanted to hear that laugh again. He hadn’t been laughing at her. It hadn’t seemed unkind at all.

But when she looked up from a scab at her knee, she saw his expression didn’t look like he wanted to laugh much anymore. His own gaze was glued at a spot by her right wrist, and for the first time, the man that was probably her uncle looked rattled. His jaw clenched. His eyes perhaps a bit wide, blue and brown and green. There was a flush to the tops of his cheekbones that hadn’t been there before.

She took a quick glance down, then darted back up to stare at him again. Her sleeve had ridden up.

Eleanor bit at her lip. He saw. It didn’t matter. It didn’t.

(“Little pig,” one of the girls said, almost loving, almost fond as she held her down into the dirt and muck of the backyard, and another pressed the glowing eye of her cigarette into the skin of her forearm. This girl’s hair was in pretty blonde braids, frizzed in the summer humidity, and her grip was tight on her wrist. The cigarette steady between her fingers. The flesh sizzled and sizzled while she held it there, and Eleanor thought of the mud caking the back of her hair and of the blue of the sky and of how much she didn’t want to cry. While they laughed and laughed and laughed.

But, no, it didn’t matter now. It didn’t.)

Eleanor tugged down her sleeve without looking away. The thin, healed skin of those circular burns disappeared behind the stained cuff of her dress shirt. Say something, she thought her eyes might have said when they locked with his, and her skin felt like it was burning all over again, hot and too tight. I dare you. Mr. Connoly’s lips pursed. Then he opened his mouth.

“Anne,” he started. And didn’t seem capable of saying anything more.

If she squinted, he really did look like her a little—in the straight arch of his brow, the curve of his top lip. The own red of her hair. The freckles across his nose bridge were fainter than her own, but the shape of the nose itself was the same. A fair counterimage, masculine where she was either soft or gaunt. “It’s Eleanor,” she said after a beat, and her voice sounded strange to her own ears, like from somewhere far away. She flexed her toes against the carpet. Knew there was no place to hide. She’d corrected him—this stranger that wanted to take her across the sea, this man who, from the sound of it, wanted to bring her home with him.

To her eyes, the hands resting on his pressed trousers seemed the size of boxing gloves.

Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, got stuck in her throat. She swallowed around it. But all Mr. Connolly did was cock his head, just so.

“Eleanor?” he asked, and his tone was mild as milk.

“My name,” she explained.

He sounded puzzled. “But they call you Anne?”

Eleanor shrugged, picked at a run in her hose. “Because it’s my middle name,” she said. Because they’re bastards, she thought. “But I wanna be called Eleanor if I’m comin’ home with you,” she told him, pushing onward. Maybe she was imagining it, but she thought the corner of his mouth quirked, just a little. “Not Ella or Ellie or anythin' like that.” She paused. “Please.”

And the stranger that was her uncle smiled, wider than before. “Call me Samuel, then.” And he reached out to offer his hand to shake. She leaned forward to take it. “Eleanor.”

❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

After a month at Sam’s home—what the few staff there dubbed Narrow House due to its long and low layout—Eleanor made her first grave mistake.

Narrow House was the most strange and most fantastical place Eleanor had ever stepped foot upon. While it was in Chelsea, London, a place with a good bit of bustle from the glimpses she’d catch outside the car window, the sycamore trees that sat shoulder-to-shoulder at the front of the house cut off the outside world, blanketing the whole place in shade. It felt like a place for the fae. Not for man. The first two weeks of near silence she experienced, only disrupted by the rustle of leaves and the static hiss of cicadas, had left her jumping at every sound at night, curled up on top of her covers and hiding her face in her knees. Waiting for the monsters to come.

There weren’t any, of course. She should’ve known better—she wasn’t a kid, anymore.

Or maybe they were very shy monsters. Either way.

Truthfully, Eleanor couldn’t recall her reaction towards the place when she first stepped into the house, just the feeling of Sam’s hand settled feather-light between her shoulder blades. The way her eyes were welcomed by warm hues of gold and cream and deep red. A few leafy plants draped over a table just at the entryway; senses itching, she wanted to touch the waxy film of the heart-shaped leaves but flexed her fingers instead. There’d been a similar plant on Sister Agnes’ desk; it had always looked so parched.

(By the time she hit ten years old, she’d mastered the art of tip-toeing on her stockinged feet, having learned which floorboard squeaked, which route ensured the most carpet coverage. There was a single board in the main lobby that shrieked a blood-curdling sound if you hit it with your big toe just so—she’d learned that the hard way.

At night, when all the other girls were pretending to sleep, too afraid of a lashing to even breathe out-of-turn, Eleanor would go to Sister Agnes’ desk with her cup of water, steps hidden amongst the cacophony of gasps. Walking in wide sweeps over the creaks and sighs and moans of the wood and never spilling a drop.

The nun called its sudden revival an act of God. Maybe it was cruel, but she let it die after that.)

The entryway was dotted with chairs stacked high with pillows and throws, and through the open doorway to her left, she caught a flash of what could have only been a chandelier, though she’d never seen one outside of a magazine, all delicate cut crystal spiraling down, hung over a long and dark dining table that seemed to stretch into infinity.

Before she could absorb any of it, however, an electric jolt of fear overcame her, stole the breath from her lungs. A giant mass of dark fur appeared from another room, launching itself in her direction. Eleanor went rigid.

Trapped between her uncle’s hand and this eldritch horror, there was nowhere to turn.

“Sweet-Pea,” Sam said in a stern voice she’d yet to have heard from him, one that came from somewhere deep in his chest, and she flinched so hard she thought her bones must’ve ground together.

But he needn’t have used it, because the shadowy figure had already sat back on its hind legs right at her feet without any prompting, slobbering globs of drool onto her patent leather shoes and looking up at her with big, patient eyes. Its tail beat against the ground.

“Hi, Sweet-Pea,” she said, faint. The big dog near came up to her chin. She had to yank back her own hands when they automatically reached out to pet it—its coat looked so thick she thought that once she buried her fingers into the coarse curls, they’d be done for. They’d sink so far in they’d never come out again.

“He’s still a puppy,” Sam said, sounding apologetic. Tall and skinny with paws too big for his stick-thin limbs, and no longer a blurred-out nightmare created by his quick scamper towards her, the only thing frightening about Sweet Pea was his magnificent height. His teeth were exposed in a doggy grin, tongue lolling as he panted. “He gets excited.” His hand moved from her back to her shoulder, giving an awkward two pats that made Eleanor go even more still. He dropped his hand fast. The next words came out soft, a gentle nudge, “You can pet him if you want.”

And so, she had, resting a tentative hand on his head. His fur wasn’t very soft, she found out, but the feeling of his head butting against her stomach for more attention made a smile bloom on her face before she could bite it back.

Later that day, she’d met the rest of Sam’s pack. Besides Sweet-Pea, his Irish Wolfhound, there was Fennel, a Spinone Italiano; Ginger, a Border Terrier; Lady Susan, a Scottish Terrier; Cricket, a Rough Collie, and Billie, an English Water Spaniel. Though she’d asked after the breeds—more to be polite than anything, because men always seemed to get so worked up over their dog breeds, or at least the headmaster had—all the names spun around in her head, muddled and mixed. Though, Billie’s name was impossible to forget from the start: the stout pup with his chocolate fur was as round and fat as a sausage link, and as soon as she’d offered the little guy a treat, he’d nipped it out of her hand and rolled over for a belly rub.

Very quietly, she’d whispered an “I love you” to her new friend—because how could she not?—and she’d ducked her head at her uncle’s chuckle.

It was still a really nice laugh.

They’d spent a good twenty minutes where Sam would drop treats into her palm to bribe the dogs with, showing her how to make them roll over and sit, to beg with their paws up and to run circles and other tricks. Eleanor learned a lot in that short time. That Lady Susan had a very imperial look to her whenever she demanded treats, arching her head and narrowing her eyes as if to say: “Well? ”. That Fennel had a love for licking between toes, as she’d left her shoes at the door. That Cricket’s fur felt like a cloud. By the time they were done, her clothes were littered with dog fur, white and brown and black stuck to the grey of her dress.

Her uncle had also promised a tour and an introduction to some of the staff, but one look at the overwhelmed expression on her face once they’d hit the sitting room, full of ceiling-high bookcases and couches that could seat a small army, and he offered to show her to her room instead. Her head still spinning over the fireplace as he guided her up the stairs. He left the door cracked open before he left.

“Come get me if you need me, yeah? I’m just across the hall,” he’d said, and she’d nodded like she’d meant it. He didn’t look convinced. “Bathroom’s the door next to this one,” he told her, a wrinkle to his brow, and was gone with the pad of footsteps on hardwood.

That night, she’d slept on top of the covers of a bed that could’ve housed four or five of her fellow orphans. Afraid to disturb that array of artful pillows at the top of the bed, she curled up at the bottom in a tight ball. Velvet and silk and in colors she’d never thought she’d be able to touch with her own hands. She still wasn’t sure she could.

The summer night meant it wasn’t even that cold.

That night, Billie hopped up onto her bed while she laid with her eyes wide open, listening to the wind whistling through the trees, feeling ungrateful and homesick and wanting the midnight roar of Brooklyn’s streets. Wanting her mother. He’d pressed his wet nose against her cheek, and she’d cried into the soft, downy fur of his chest until her eyes grew so puffy, she had no choice but to close her eyes and sleep. Eleanor was only glad that Sam couldn’t hear her. She’d mastered a silent cry years ago. It had taken a while, but she’d learned.

(You see, the headmaster liked to watch. Until it got boring. He’d bring the nuns in to witness. Maybe he spoke—she wasn’t sure. Her knees dug into the carpet; she could feel the indents form on the scraped-up skin there, red and raw and irritated. Bits of fluff sticking to half-formed scabs, still gooey with tacked-up blood. And the belt buckle clinked with every swing. It made more noise than her. One day, she promised herself, she wouldn’t even cry at all. The headmaster liked to watch, so she bit at the inside of her cheek until she bled, until salt and snot ran down her chin and dripped onto that hideous fucking carpet, the color of blackberry wine. Until it got boring.)

But it was different now, weeks later. Eleanor had learned the layout of the place, the few staff that her uncle kept around the house. And she knew his habits—what he liked. What he expected from her. As long as she was good, he’d keep her around, and maybe he’d even end up liking her a little bit.

She’d done so well until now.

It’d began over breakfast, a butter knife dripping marmalade hovering over her burnt toast as her uncle set down the newspaper in a rustle of pages, peering down at her through the thin frames of his spectacles. There was a sense of finality in her uncle’s expression that made her mouth go dry. A scraping sound reverberated throughout the kitchen, knife on toast.

Eleanor didn’t feel so hungry anymore.

It was a shame, too—she'd only just started allowing herself these bits of extra luxuries. Climbing under the covers at night. Picking a mint leaf off the plant in their windowsill to taste. Taking the dogs on a walk without asking for permission. Drawing a bath instead of washing up with the sink and a rag. Running her fingers along the spines of Sam’s books, instead of just using her eyes.

Marmalade. She liked it when the bits of rind stuck to her teeth, chewy and sweet.

“I think it’s time we get you a new wardrobe,” Sam said, and she felt dread wash over her, settle into the chinks of her armor. She knew what that meant; she knew what he was going to say. “I called the family seamstress”—and who the fuck has a family seamstress, anyhow?—“and she agreed to come over today to get your measurements.”

Eleanor opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “You don’t need to do that. My clothes are fine,” she said, voice low, and hoped the defensive bite in her words was heard only by her. No such luck. By the wrinkle that formed at Sam’s brow, that wasn’t the case; if her tone hadn’t alerted him, the way her hand shook the triangle of toast in her grasp was clue enough. The toe peeking out of her stocking met the hardwood of the floor as her whole foot began to tap against the surface in a full-blown jitter.

Sam seemed to piece together his words very carefully. “Eleanor,” he began, and Eleanor’s knees were shaking so bad she feared rattling the table with the force of it. When he got serious, his speech went much more formal. “I am your guardian. I know... you feel as though you don’t need new things. And I’ve held off for all these weeks. But being as I am in a place to provide you all the luxuries in life, I feel as though getting you clothes that do not have holes in them—and aren’t several sizes too small, at that, clothes that actually fit —is more than reasonable.” This had to be the most she’d ever heard him speak in one sitting. His eyes were roving her face, but her face was already directed towards the poached egg on her plate, not him. “D’ you understand?”

Eleanor nodded. Her cheeks blazed.

Sam let out a breath she hadn’t realized he’d been holding in the first place. “Alright then,” he said around a sigh. Like a burden had been lifted from his shoulders after her compliance. Like her opinion had mattered to him. “Good. Mrs. Davies’ll be here at two. Eat your breakfast now, eh?” There was a smile in his voice when he said it, but she scrambled to shovel in the remains of her breakfast anyhow, gulping orange juice and scraping the runny yolk off her plate with the crust of her bread. Smearing marmalade across her face in her gusto. He didn’t say it like an order. But just in case. Her stomach churned.

Orange peel was still stuck in her teeth when the sun hit her face, fifteen minutes later.

It was always coolest out in the early mornings, so that’s when Sam (and now her, it seemed) did the garden work. This was his normal morning routine, he’d explained to her, until the winter frost made it near impossible to go out until midafternoon when the sun was at its height. The mist felt like a balm to her frayed nerves, brushing against her skin; the morning dew coated her shoes in a gloss. Taller blades of grass left wet trails on the stretch of tights over her ankles.

Autumn was just beginning to touch the trees, glimpses of ochre and pinpricks of cherry red among all the green like a child’s finger-painting. The white stone pathway was framed by heather growing taller by the day, sprigs of pinkish-purple, or lilac, that tickled the pads of her fingertips when she brushed through them. Though, she and Sam kept having to replace their mulch whenever the dogs dug it up. Said path led to a man-made pond stocked with fat, happy koi; they nibbled at her fingers for food when she stroked her hands through the water. She wasn’t sure how long she spent knelt by the pond in the first few weeks, just watching it ripple under her hands, disrupting lily pads that were sent bouncing on the waves

Sam had cut her some of the heather to hang upside down in her closet, bundled up with dental floss and left in the dark on a clothing hanger to dry out. It didn’t have much of a scent, but its color had made her eyes sparkle at the very first sight of it. She couldn’t wait to hang it in her room; maybe on one of her bedposts, if it didn’t shed too much.

Besides helping with maintaining the heather, she also pruned the asters planted in clusters out in the sunlight, placed close to the patio furniture. She liked the touches of yellow and purple at their centers best. “You could press one, if you like,” Sam told her one day in early September when they’d just began to bloom. She hadn’t been able to tear her eyes away. “I could buy you a book for it. You could collect any you want.”

Eleanor hadn’t responded, wondering if it was a test—ribbing her, attempting to trip her up into asking for too much—but she hadn’t needed to speak a word. Her uncle plucked a flower from its stem, bright white against the tanned calluses of his hands, and held it out towards her until she offered up cupped palms for him to drop the bud into. It landed center face down.

“I’ll get you one,” he had said as if that transaction settled it, simple as that, and now, weeks later, a leather-bound journal rested on her bedside table. Parchment paper was tucked away in one of the drawers, though she wasn’t allowed to touch the iron without permission.

This rankled at her, sometimes. She’d worked as a seamstress’ assistant, for God’s sake, but Sam insisted, and Eleanor didn’t dare protest. In any case... It felt. Nice. To be worried over.

Among Sam’s backyard and dedicated garden, there were countless other flowers Eleanor had gotten acquainted with, though their names she had yet to quite master. White and pink autumn crocuses, she could identify without a pause or hint of self-doubt, but the miniature yellow blooms with their outreaching pistils she could not, for the life of her, recall any details of. Just that they liked hugging warm walls in the winter, shielded from the biting cold.

Currently, Sam was ruining the fine wool fabric of his trousers, knees sinking into the damp earth, checking on his radishes with careful touches. He patted the spot at his side. Eleanor rushed to kneel. His smile was a small one; she was graced with no baring of teeth. No threat. Not bite. Just a smile. He offered up the bag of mulch at his other side. “They’re not retaining moisture,” he explained, in that voice he often used when instructing her in any way, patient and steady with little variation in tone. No abrupt rises in volume that made her skin prickle with nerves. “Mulch will help with that. But we’ve gotta keep it a real thin layer, y’ see, like this.”

Eleanor heaved in a breath and let it escape in a little puff of air. “Why thin?” she asked, tentative, and watched her uncle’s eyes light up.

“Good question,” he praised, and Eleanor felt her ears burn, felt her cheeks pull with a reluctant grin. Sam grinned right back. “If you’ve got too thick a layer, it’ll keep any water from getting in, from reaching the roots. Ruin all your progress then, won’t it?”

The rest of the morning passed in this manner, checking all the plants, watering and pruning and patching up holes in the mulch from overzealous paws, before the housekeeper, Ms. Catherine Moore, let out the dogs at 11 AM sharp, a pitcher of what looked to be lemonade in hand. Eleanor inwardly cheered: lemonade was her favorite. The dogs chased each other throughout the garden, nipping at their siblings’ tails and rolling in the dirt. From where Eleanor now rested, sweat beading her brow as she took cover beneath the picnic table’s umbrella, Cricket trotted over, resting her head on her grass-stained knee with a flick of her mane and a small yip escaping her mouth. Eleanor dug her hand into the scruff of Cricket’s neck, offering a scratch—that fur was still cloud-soft.

From the corner of her eye, Eleanor watched Ginger, unkempt and often indifferent towards the other dogs, make straight away for Sam. He was lounging in a chair opposite to her, nursing a cigarette; the strands of his hair unshaded by the umbrella lit up a striking red-gold, like fire woven into thread. Her hair never looked so brilliant. “Little monster,” he greeted with a smile, inviting the dog onto his lap for pats. “I know it was you, digging up the mulch. Menace that you are.”

Ms. Moore reached them then, pitcher clutched in one plump fist close to her chest and two glasses pinched between the fingers of her other hand. The ice rattled within its glass container, sloshing the juice near over the brim and swirling the ladle in the pitcher ‘round and ‘round. Up close, Eleanor saw bits of fruit suspended within, sliced strawberries and what looked like quartered peaches, dying the drink more orange-pink than yellow where they settled at the bottom.

The pitcher, then the two glasses, were set against the patio table, cushioned with a pinky. Ms. Moore was a woman even older than her uncle, perhaps sixty years old, with a crinkle-eyed smile that she shot at Eleanor right now, head ducked under the umbrella to escape the sun. She pulled from a pocket in her apron two straws.

Eleanor took one when it was offered to her and watched with eager eyes when Ms. Moore began filling up a glass, holding the ladle still to avoid spillage; the housekeeper then used said ladle to spoon out several more pieces of fruit, slipping them into the glass with barely a splash. “Here you are, Miss Eleanor. You look parched.” She clucked her tongue, and the fine wrinkles around her mouth creased deeper. “Samuel, now y’ know I told you to get that girl a hat, didn’t I? She’s goin’ t’ burn right up at this rate.”

She’d never heard anyone else ever call her uncle Samuel, but being as Ms. Moore had worked for the family since Sam was in diapers, Eleanor imagined she was the exception.

In any case, Eleanor didn’t think she’d burned in her whole life, spending hours beneath the rays of the summer sun, skin growing darker and darker still. New freckles peppering her skin. But it was sweet—that she cared at all. She hid a smile behind the brim of her glass.

The few hours left until the arrival of the seamstress blurred by, her nose buried in a book that Sam recommended for her, a collection of short stories. Her fingers were coated in remnants of juice, having reached into the glass to pull out chunks of peaches, syrupy and dripping. They stuck against the pages if she lingered too long. She was more than halfway through “The Yellow Wallpaper,” wondering at what that smooch must’ve been that the protagonist was seeing, wrapping about her room and marring the paper that was driving her so mad, when Ms. Moore came back again, an odd look in her eyes when she peered over at Eleanor, squinting in the sun. Sam looked tense. His eyes flickered to Eleanor.

“Mrs. Davies is here, Samuel, in the parlor.”

And oh. She’d forgotten. She’d forgotten all about the seamstress.

This was where she mucked it all up.

A subtle shiver taking over her fingers, she tucked her book beneath her armpit before wiping imaginary crumbs off her skirt. Eleanor took a very deep breath, one that rattled in her chest. Mustering up a smile for Sam, one that felt like an open wound stretched across her face, she sat up. Her chair pulled up hunks of grass as she pushed it back. “You don’t need to come,” she said, tried to mean it.

Sam just shook his head. “It’d be rude of me, not welcoming a guest. And Mrs. Davies is an old friend of me mother’s, besides.”

Mrs. Davies was a small and squat woman in her late fifties, shorter even than Eleanor, who stood just a few inches below five feet at thirteen. Her cheeks were round and pink, her hair a dark blond. Barely greying. Her skin looked almost leathery, and those round cheeks pushed her eyes shut with the force of her smile. All smile lines.

“Oh,” she gasped, as loud as a gunshot even across the room, and only the pressure of Sam’s hand at her back prevented her from flinching back and away. Her voice was fairy-soft, airy and light. Like it could just float away with the wind. “She looks just like Winnie! Your mother had the same nose. And her hair, Samuel,”—yet again, with the Samuel, was that an old lady thing?—“such a lovely shade of red, it is.” That bright smile was spun her way. Sam slowly inched her forward, bit by bit by bit, until she was a mere handshake away from the older woman. “We’re going to have such fun together, dear. Every girl deserves pretty clothes.”

Eleanor didn’t know what she deserved, but it didn’t feel like this, trapped in the too-hot room of her uncle’s parlor, baking from the heat radiating off the fire-place. Those red bricks of the mantle, she knew, would be warm to the touch. Trapped in this room, to be poked and prodded. Left exposed. Don’t be so dramatic, she scolded herself.

This is what her uncle wanted.

And shirts that fit would sure be nice. No snags. No missing buttons.

Her uncle’s hand was heavy on her shoulder, this barely-there pat; she was ready for it. Didn’t flinch. There was a smidge of satisfaction burning away in her chest at that. “I’ll be just outside, then. Put on the kettle,” Sam said as if trying to reassure her, and he held out a hand for her to place her book into. With one last pat, a little stronger this time, he was gone with the click of the door behind him. Instead of looking at Mrs. Davies, she traced with her eyes all the titles on the bookshelf behind her instead.

She didn’t seem to mind. Out of the corner of her eye, Eleanor noticed the length of measuring tape curled around one wrist. “Alright, sweetheart, we’ll get into all that you’re lookin’ for—oh, I can just imagine you in dark green, you’d look so sweet, or some rose. So precious! But first, I really do need your measurements.” She beckoned Eleanor closer still, to where she was standing in the middle of the carpet, her little brown heels set against the cream with its deep red patterns, vines and roses twined into diamond-esque shapes. Eleanor tried not to drag her feet.

She was right in front of Mrs. Davies, now. “Thank you, ma’am, for agreeing to do this,” Eleanor said, because she could be a polite little girl if people let her be.

Mrs. Davies cooed. “Marge is perfectly fine, dear.”

“Thank you, Marge.”

Marge stroked her hands up and down Eleanor’s arms from shoulder to elbow, like soothing a startled animal, and Eleanor felt her whole body lock up in reply. “Alrighty now,” she said, and her voice really was just like a fairy, “let’s get to it.” Eleanor tried relaxing at the sweet sound of it, uncoiling her tense muscles bit-by-bit, starting with her toes and finishing with her shoulders. Best to start small and build up. Marge kept pushing onward. Hands still on Eleanor’s arms. “Take off your clothes for me, Eleanor dear.”

Static.

“’M sorry?” Eleanor asked, and her voice was not her own, something stretched thin and alien. The hands were gone, now, and Marge was unrolling that measuring tape from around her wrist. For a moment, Eleanor just counted how many times it unwound: one, two, three, four, five... Quick, practiced jerks that she missed if she blinked too slow. Six, or seven?

“Well, I’ve got to measure you, don’t I? And all that extra cloth gets in the way. We want these to fit you nice, with just a bit of growing room.” Marge went on to mumble something about “Samuel needing to fatten her up, just look at those boney arms,” but Eleanor’s ears were roaring, louder and louder and louder. She couldn’t hear a thing.

She couldn’t think; she couldn’t think; she couldn’t think—

Eleanor must’ve said, “Okay,” must’ve agreed, because her hands were moving on their own accord, reaching up to undo the first button of her blouse without needing any guidance from her mind at all. But they shook so bad, these tremors that jerked at her fingers and strained her knuckles, that she couldn’t get the button free from the loop. Her breath rasped in her throat, coming quicker and quicker: it was like breathing through a straw. She squeezed her eyes shut. It was just a fucking button, just a fucking button.

(Whenever Grafton got irritated, truly irritated, he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. This awful, wet sound. He did that now. Eleanor kept her eyes on the carpet, traced the pattern there with her eyes over and over again. Counted how many loops there were in a sequence. Sixteen. It was an ugly fucking carpet, she thought. She thought that every time. “Shirt. Off,” he said after he was done clicking, and she undid her buttons one-by-one. She did not raise her eyes to the belt. But still, her chest tightened with the anticipation of it, the slap against bare skin, and she couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t breathe.)

She couldn’t breathe.

If she saw the scars—if she told Sam, he wouldn’t want her anymore. Just seeing the burns trailing up her arms made his jaw flex, made his eyes go all dark and wet. She’d saw. It’d upset him. He wouldn’t want her. Eleanor gasped for air, moved her hand up to her throat like she could somehow coax out the breaths trapped within in. She couldn’t breathe.

There was a concerned sound, this slight lilt of a question being asked. A shuffle. A brush of air. And then, there were hands on her arms again.

Eleanor flinched so hard she swore it must’ve wrenched her shoulder out of socket.

The hands left, but it didn’t matter. Eleanor sank to the floor, knees-to-chest, and clapped her hands over her head. Watched the world fall in a blur of colors, even behind closed lids. Like a flicker of flame, red and orange and terracotta. “Samuel,” and this she did hear, high-pitched and hysterical, sounding far off even though it must’ve been shouted right in front of her. Must’ve been screamed to be heard through the water and sludge, the mud that clogged her ears, her throat. “ Sam! ”

There was a bang. The rattling of hinges. “Fuck,” a man’s voice said, and Eleanor thought she must’ve recognized it. Curled up as she was, all the soft parts tucked away, it was easier to focus, a little. “Get out, Marge. Go,” and there was an unsteady pause, “go and turn off the stove, please.”

In response, there was a click of the door shutting once more. And footsteps, sharp and clear before becoming muffled by the carpet, sounding off closer and closer. It was followed by the creaking of old knees. She smelled Sam’s cologne, woodsy and a little sweet. Like vanilla and cedar. But it was so safe, curled up in the dark of her knees, so she just tightened her hands over her head.

A sigh, soft but close enough that it ruffled her hair. “Eleanor,” Sam said. “Eleanor, love, what’s wrong?” She’d never been called love before.

“Please don’t be mad,” she whispered into the skin of her knees.

“What? ”

“Please don’t be mad,” Eleanor gasped, ragged enough that it scraped, and felt the tears welling up in her throat. Salty, like sweat and blood and other unpleasant things. She swallowed them down. “I’m sorry. I tried to be good. I’m sorry—I’m sorry.”

“Eleanor, no, no.”

“I’m so sorry. I-I, I—” She choked on her own breath, coughing and sputtering.

“Hey, hey,” he shushed, and she could hear the fluttering of his clothes, the shifting fabric of the light cardigan he wore. “Just look at me, okay, love? Please just look at me.”

Her arms ached, and her head pounded from the stress of holding back tears with nothing but a fraying strength of will. She let her hands fall from where they, without her knowledge, hand become entangled in her hair. Her scalp stung. “There we go now,” Sam said when she peeked out from behind her knees, raising her head to meet wide, concerned hazel eyes. There was a sheen of sweat on his brow. “There’s my niece.” Eleanor shook her head, though at what she didn’t know, coughing again when she tried breathing in.

“Whoa there. Just breathe with me, okay?” And Sam took in a deep breath, holding it in before letting it out again. Eleanor found her attention hyper-focused on the rise-and-fall of his chest. “In through the nose,” he said, “and now out through the mouth.”

She wheezed on the first exhale, but by the third, it didn’t hurt much anymore. Sam looked almost boneless with relief. Eleanor stared down at her knees, felt her bottom lip begin wobbling. A damning tell she couldn’t shake.

“Eleanor,” he breathed out, sounding like a deflating balloon, and her eyes shot up to look at him again. She would never get sick of hearing her name; she wondered if that was why he said it so often. “Eleanor, you don’t have to be sorry, okay? Not at all.”

Eleanor shook her head, violent enough that her curls went flying. She had to clear her throat to speak, and her voice came out hoarse. “But I think I upset Mrs. Marge.” That damn fucking lip wobble again—it made her feel five-years-old; it made her feel small. “I was bad.”

Seemingly speechless, Sam stared at her, knees on the carpet and hands limp at his sides. He was making that expression she’d feared before, where his eyes went all dewy, and he looked, for all the world, like she’d socked him in the jaw. Wounded. One of his hands, massive enough that it could wrap around her wrist two, three times, reached out. Up towards her face. Eleanor flinched her eyes closed. He sucked in an audible breath.

This was it. This was it.

But Sam just placed a hand on her cheek, cupped her jaw. His palm was softer than she thought it’d be, even with the callouses. It made Eleanor feel strange. Warm. If she pressed in closer, she worried the touch might burn her.

(“Look at me when I’m speaking to you, young lady,” Grafton said, and his fingers had a tight grip on her jaw. She looked. She thought his eyes were very grey, and she didn’t want to think about what else she thought.

Later, when she was in an empty lavatory, scrubbing at the crescent moons on her palms with soap that stung, she thought back to that moment, when his hands were on her chin, thumb and forefinger pinching the skin there. His nailbeds were well-maintained. Clean, pushed-back cuticles. Her mother had always taken good care of her nails. “Look at me when I’m speaking to you, young lady,” he’d said, and she had thought his eyes were very grey. She had thought that if he moved those fingers any higher, she’d bite them clean off, bite through blood and bone. She wondered if she’d done it, if she’d be picking his veins out from between her teeth right about now.

Eleanor ended up throwing up in the sink. God, hopefully, no one heard.)

“Eleanor,” her uncle said, like trying to call to her from underwater, and she blinked. Couldn’t remember where she’d gone. “Eleanor, I’m never going to hit you. Not ever, y’ hear me?”

And Eleanor said back, instant, “I hear you.” It was what she was supposed to say.

Sam’s brows furrowed. “No,” he insisted. Brushed a curl from her eyes with a finger. It had a half-healed cut from what looked like garden shears. “I feel like you aren’t understanding me. Even if you think you’re bad—and you’re not, Eleanor, you’re not. But even if you ever are, I will never hit you. Do you hear me?”

“I hear you,” she said, and she almost believed it, too.

Later, she told Marge that she’d like a green dress, maybe, if that was alright. And that she enjoyed mother-of-pearl buttons. Marge said she could have whatever she liked. She got measured in her shift, and Sam lounged on one of the couches, reading from a large tome with deckled edges. And it was alright. It was all alright.

❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

She wore that green dress when she met her father’s wife for the first time with her two children—her half-siblings, she couldn’t comprehend it—in tow. Whenever Eleanor felt her nerves start to rise, her palms start to itch, she’d trace the daisies Mrs. Marge had embroidered on the sleeves and breathe a little deeper, a little steadier.

When Sam had come to her, hands wringing nervously in the doorway of her bedroom, she hadn’t known what to think. Learning that her father had been married when he was with her mother... Well, that hadn’t been a shock. Married men had laid with her mother all the time; she may have been only six years old when she’d been taken to the orphanage, but she hadn’t been stupid. Or blind. She knew the look of a wedding ring, even if her mother had never worn one herself.

Learning that Sam wanted her to meet her late father’s family, his wife and his children... That had given her pause. Eleanor had stared at him, aghast, mouth agape; her attention entirely torn away from the journal in her lap. Her pen, still pressed deep into the paper, left a spreading stain over the dot of one of the i's, a black cloud of ink. She’d been practicing her cursive, the careful loops of it—Sam was in the process of picking out tutors for her, and she’d sworn to whatever higher power there was out there that she would not be an embarrassment—but how ugly her uppercase S was no longer mattered.

“Sam, they’ll hate me,” she’d blurted, digging her fingers into the fabric of her comforter. Sam had looked at her then, the agitated fidgeting of his fingers slowing to an abrupt stop, and he’d strolled over to sit beside her before she could barely blink.

“It’s impossible to hate you,” he said, which Eleanor knew to be a lie. “And if they tried, they’d be out of our house, wouldn’t they? Just like that.”

And so, here they were.

Josie Connolly was a woman who loomed over everyone around her without even trying, easily above six feet in her lace-up boots, and made all the taller with her hair piled high on her head, its color so dark it was near black. Like Grafton, she was thin in that fashionable way, slim wrists encased in lavender gloves and the curve of her cheek both sharp and soft, silk over steel. She peered down her nose at Eleanor from where she stood behind Sam, near hidden in his shadow. Sam stepped forward to take her coat, and never, never had Eleanor felt so exposed from one pair of grey eyes, so stripped down and flayed. Which was saying something. “She looks more like you than Will,” was the first thing past her lips, the slim line of her eyebrow raised in some sort of amusement gone sour.

To be fair, Eleanor thought, being faced with your dead husband’s infidelity would make anyone bitter.

Her uncle’s smile was a brittle thing. “Josie, good to see you. As always. Hello, Junior. Hello, Lottie. Merry Christmas.”

That’d been another thing Sam had fretted over—whether a Christmas dinner would insult her Jewish sensibilities. Like she hadn’t grown up in a Roman Catholic orphanage. Or, perhaps, she noted, an amused curl to her mouth, that was why he asked at all. He always got scowly at the slightest mention of her time there, though he tried his best to hide it.

It’d been almost cute, watching him leap up from the edge of her bed to pace the length of her bedroom, flinging his hands about in endless motion, his sleeves rolled up and the freckled skin of his forearms stark against the background of her dark green walls, recently painted. It was one of the first times that Eleanor thought they really looked related, like kin. The way he puffed stray strands of hair out of his eyes, his wrists too busy lolling this way and that.

“You’re laughing at me,” he accused, once he’d paused long enough in his rant of telling her, for the fifth or sixth time, that her comfort was paramount, that they could schedule a different date—that'd it’d been Josie’s idea, anyhow, not his own—to actually take a good look in his niece’s direction. He sounded very pleased.

“I’m not,” Eleanor protested, but she was still smiling. “Christmas dinner is fine, Sam, honest.” In truth, she’d liked Christmas back at the orphanage, if only because the sisters were nicer that time a year, less likely to strike out with the leather strap. Christmas cheer and all that. Besides, Christmas dinner was almost always more delicious than any other meal of the year, more plentiful: potatoes and chicken, green beans fresh from the market. One year, they’d even got slices of pumpkin pie. Christmas time was very kind to orphans, even Jewish ones.

It hadn’t compared to making latkes with her mother for Chanukah—her mother had never allowed her to grate the potatoes, and she remembered, even now, watching with saucer-wide eyes as the pile of shreds grew and grew and grew, a small mountain on their kitchen table. The smell of onions caramelizing in Bubbe’s cast-iron skillet, the promise of them being jammy and sweet, almost buttery on her tongue. The bubbling of the vegetable oil on the stovetop. She’d scoop applesauce onto her mother’s latkes, heaps and heaps of it, until Anne scolded her for the mess. Withholding laughter that glittered behind her eyes. “You can’t fit all that into even your big mouth!” Her fingers had always been so tender, wiping at the applesauce oozing from the sides of her mouth, down her sticky chin, that the memory of it all always made Eleanor want to shut her eyes, to wrap her arms around herself and lean into that great love again, even if only the remnants of it.

Not to mention the honey and apples on Rash Hashanah, the perfect treat to her five-year-old eyes and tastebuds. And challah, eggy and so, so sweet: sweet as everything was meant to be in the New Year. The bread perfectly round, braided by her mother’s careful hands. Its top always so crunchy. Her mother hadn’t been a religious woman, not at all, but “Food is the language of love, my sweet, and our family has passed onto us so much of it.” No, Christmas couldn’t compare.

But maybe all Christians were kinder on Christmas, even to the bastard children of cheating, bastard husbands too dead to curse their names. The thought perked her up. It felt like a silly hope, but one she was willing to cling to. “Besides,” Eleanor told her uncle, giving him her most nonchalant shrug, like the thought of meeting the family of the man she hadn’t been good enough for didn’t send a chill down her spine, like it was better than fine, “it’s just a dinner.”

Just a dinner, indeed.

The kids behind Josie were perfect and pretty in the way that made Eleanor’s teeth clench, that made her want to tuck her hands behind her back and scratch at the half-healed scar tissue, scaly and ugly, that stretched across her knuckles. She did not do that.

The younger one, Charlotte, shot her (their) uncle a smile—there was a gap where one of her canines should’ve been. She looked like she belonged in a Monet painting, all strawberry blonde hair and soft pastels. Up close, Eleanor noted her eyes were the palest shade of green she'd ever seen. “Merry Christmas, Uncle Sam!” Their chins might’ve been the same, she thought, as she tried not to fidget when those pale, pale eyes fell on her face.

William Jr., sixteen, was a carbon copy of his mother, already towering over all of them, even Josie, with skin so light it was translucent. “Merry Christmas.” His voice was nasally from what was probably a cold, if the red tip of his nose was any indicator. He didn’t look at her at all, trained his gaze studiously on Sam, on his mother, on the wall coat rack where he placed his winter jacket. On anything that wasn’t her. It wasn’t subtle.

“This is Eleanor,” Sam said—like they couldn’t have known. Abruptly, he was behind her again, his hands curled around her shoulders; his presence warm at her back. It was almost baffling, how quickly Eleanor eased under his touch. Felt some of the tension leach out of her. She’d been grinding her teeth without even noticing it; her gums felt tender. At least I’m doing it with you, she thought. At least it’s you. Josie’s eyes were narrowed in on her. Her own gaze trained on the woodgrain of their floor, Eleanor straightened her spine and choked out some form of a hello, pleased to meet you. And steeled herself for the rest of the day. You’ve got this.

There was one thing she could say about the whole affair: dinner, at least, was delicious. Her plate was piled to the point of excess by Sam, slabs of dark turkey meat, stuffing and gravy, roasted potatoes with garlic, cranberry sauce, and some strange pancake-like side called Yorkshire pudding. By the time she was less than a third of the way through her meal, her fork not even scraping the bottom of the plate, her stomach had begun cramping to the point that she felt vaguely ill.

Normally, she could get away with feeding scraps to the dogs when this happened, slipping them bits of fat among other treats under the tablecloth while Sam looked the other way, their teeth closing around the food so gentle their canines barely grazed her fingers at all. But Josie didn’t like dogs, apparently, so they were all out playing under the watch of Ms. Catherine. Eleanor longed to join them. She nibbled at a Brussels sprout.

The small talk was unbearable.

“Have you gotten your invitation yet?” Josie asked her brother-in-law, cutting her potatoes into dainty, bite-sized pieces. Sam arched a brow as if to say: be more specific. She gave a light scoff in reply, popping a morsel into her mouth and chewing carefully, lips pursed, before speaking up again. “Don’t be daft, Sam. You know I mean Leo Amery’s New Year's soirée.”

Sam shrugged. He looked elegant in a way that Eleanor could never pull off. “I believe so. To be honest—I didn’t pay much attention.”

Charlotte, who had lit up at the mention of the party, made more sprite than girl from the glittering of her eyes, shot an affronted scowl Sam’s way. Her nose crinkled. “You’re so boring, Uncle Sam! It’s going to be perfect this year—Mum promised I could go. The invitation said the theme's A Midsummer Night’s Dream!” It looked, for a moment, like she was about to start waving her hands around, enthusiasm clear in the way she vibrated in her chair, but a cool look from her mother had her settling back down. Her smile shrank. Still, she pushed on, in a much more sedate tone. “Summer in winter. Fairies and magic, isn’t that fun?”

“Very fun,” Sam agreed, shooting her a smile, voice kind enough he seemed almost sincere, even to Eleanor’s ears. Charlotte smiled back, but her eyes were on Eleanor now, her head cocked to one side.

“Are you going to come, Eleanor?” Maybe she was imagining it, but the younger girl seemed almost pleased at the thought.

Josie clapped her hands, a thunderous sound that sent Eleanor into a fit of flinching. “Yes, how about it, Eleanor?” She said her name in this slick, mocking way that made her feel filthy just hearing it.

Eleanor exchanged a frantic look with Sam from where he sat at the head of the table. Will Jr., who up to this point had been silent and motionless at her side besides the steady consumption of his plate, turned to look at her with his mother’s grey eyes. Well? he asked. She opened her mouth but couldn’t find the words to speak. She could imagine nothing more hellish, dressed up just to be stripped to the bone by the sharks of London polite society.

“Eleanor’s got time,” Sam responded for her, and there was a firmness, a finality, to his reply that had Josie straightening in her seat. It was quite the feat—her posture had already been impeccable. “And if I never had to go to one of those stuffy things again, it’d be eons too soon.” His smile had an edge, and Eleanor hid her own, blotting her mouth with her napkin. “Though, fairies do sound nice, Lottie. You’ll fit right in.” Lottie beamed at him from her place beside her mother.

Whatever reply Josie had on the tip of her tongue, it was disrupted by one of the cooks trotting in, a jolly man named Joseph who clutched a large platter in his hands. Following close behind was June, a part-time maid, who darted about the table with whispered apologies as she gathered up plates and used silverware. Eleanor forked over her still overflowing plate with poorly-hidden relief. June stopped just long enough to tut at her, a smile lingering at the corner of her mouth. “You’re too thin by half, miss,” she scolded, quiet enough not to be heard over Lottie, who in a surge of passion, started regaling to Sam her recent sewing project, something about embroidering a landscape into the hem of a dress. If she weren’t her half-sister, only a year out from her father’s death and sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with his widow, Eleanor would want to pick her brain for what exactly that entailed.

“I’m saving up for dessert,” Eleanor lied with the bat of her lashes. June just shook her head and moved on to hoist Junior’s empty plates on top of the pile. Meanwhile, Joseph had sat several dishes in the center of their table: a fruitcake, a Yule log, and to Eleanor’s equal amount of dread and delight, what looked like an apple tart.

This is the end of me, she thought, eyes wide. “Thank you, Mr. Joe,” she murmured as the man walked past, and he shot her a grin before disappearing through the door with a whirl of his apron. By the time she had looked away from him and back towards the table, Sam had set a sizeable slice of apple tart right in front of her, the filling already oozing onto the plate. She shot him a look of betrayal. The corner of his mouth quirked up, even as his eyes blew wide in mock-innocence.

For a blissful moment, there was just the sound of forks hitting ceramic and a pleased hum or two. Even Josie picked through her slice of Yule log with something close to relish, patting away imaginary crumbs or smears of chocolate ganache between bites. It was almost peace, that thrum of tension from the start near silent.

Then Junior opened his mouth for perhaps the first time since they sat at the table, head twisted Eleanor’s way. “D’ you even celebrate Christmas, Eleanor?” Silence. He said her name the same way his mother did: like it was something rotten in his mouth. Like it was something to be spat out. Josie’s face peeled back into a smile.

It would’ve been beautiful if her eyes weren’t so cold.

“Um,” Eleanor stuttered and could’ve heard a pin drop. Charlotte’s head perked up in interest over her tart, and Sam opened his mouth to speak, so she pushed onward. “I did celebrate it. At the orphanage with everyone else, like I’m doin’ with you. But no, um, I don’t personally celebrate Christmas.” She thought it sounded rather diplomatic of her. Sam’s shoulders uncurled, just a little.

“Right,” Junior pushed onward, and he leaned into her direction far enough she could almost feel his breath on her face. The high points of his cheeks were very pink. “Because Da didn’t just fuck a whore, he had to fuck a Jew, too.”

Eleanor didn’t know what to say to that. It was true. Sam looked like he wanted to spit. “William—”

Josie cut in, clearing her throat and scolding, “Now, Junior, language,” but it was the most pleased Eleanor had ever seen her. Lottie looked pale, even paler than usual, slinking back into her seat, sweet tooth forgotten; she looked so much smaller than before, this girl who already had Eleanor beat by a few inches at eleven years old. That thrum rose to a near roar.

Sam scraped his fork across his empty plate, a deafening, obvious screech. It cut through the tension like a knife through butter. “I’m getting awful tired, Josie,” he said like there were several things he was getting tired of right about now. But his tone softened, directed towards Charlotte. “My old age must be catching up to me.”

Eleanor didn’t look up from the tart, uneaten, on her plate. Josie’s voice grated, smooth and polished as it was. “Well, it’s getting late.” Junior didn’t say anything at all; his eyes were still burning a spot into her cheek.

They left with the adjusting of coats and kisses and hugs sent Sam’s way, and only Lottie waving her a goodbye, a simple wiggle of her fingertips before her mother grabbed her wrist and tugged. The closing of the door sounded like a gun going off. Bang.

Staring into the empty space where they once were, Eleanor didn’t really know how to feel, her body slumping into a chair set up against the wall of the wide entryway. She sank, boneless, into the countless throw pillows, covering her eyes with the palm of her hand. Her head pounded. “You didn’t have to make them leave, y’ know. It's okay that they're mad at me.”

Sam let out a sigh that was equal parts exasperated and fond. “Eleanor, what did I say when we first discussed them coming over?”

I know what you said. Still. “But they’re your family,” she insisted, pulling back her hand to glare up at him.

“So are you.”

Sam looked at her, backdropped by the several feet long pastoral painting behind him, and must have seen something in her expression—bewilderment, maybe, or discomfort at that bewilderment—because he let out a great sigh. With a rustle of clothing, he crouched in front of her, his forearms resting against his thighs. The set of his jaw said, look at me. And so, she looked. Really looked. He still had a smile for her, small and warm.

“And I like you better,” Sam told her, eye-to-eye with her now, and his words spoken with that sort of earnestness in his voice and demeanor that he always had around her, that made her ache when she lingered on the thought of it too long. Like poking at a still-healing bruise. Eleanor tucked her smile into her hand, but it didn’t matter: he grinned back.

❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

The Chelsea Physic Garden glasshouses were some of the most beautiful structures Eleanor had ever seen in her twenty-four years. The long glass panels stretched high above her head, matching on either side and meeting in the middle. Plants bracketed her and Sam, the foliage so thick it near shielded their guide from sight, a stout, middle-aged man with his eyes on his watch ever since Sam told him a verbal tour was unnecessary.

Huge benches ladened with terracotta pots, blossoming with blues and pinks and purples and reds. Pops of color so bright they were practically eyesores. She thought The Garden of Medicinal Plants’ section on herbal remedies had been her favorite, based on smell alone, or maybe the pond at the center of the garden itself, chock-full of lily pads and mosses, boggy and messy and alive, rife with aquatic life, but this, this took the cake.

Eleanor was staring, eyes growing bigger and bigger as she tried to take it all in, when Sam knocked into her arm with something sturdy. It crinkled against the sleeve of her blouse—the present he’d brought with him, tucked safely underneath his arm no matter how much she whined and cajoled. “Finally caving, old man?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Just take it, old woman.” He bugged out his eyes, all drama. “Twenty-four! Already one foot in the grave.” She ripped it out of his fingers with a bark of a laugh.

“I doubt you’ve got more than a pinky toe in yours. Gonna outlast us all, remember?”

It was his turn to laugh. “Just open it, Eleanor. Before I go greyer, yeah?”

Eleanor could live the rest of her life without another gift, but the sound of ripping through wrapping paper was still one of her favorites. All the destruction without any of the guilt. She peeled back the final layer and went still. “Oh,” she whispered, breathy, near soundless.

It was a flower dictionary, with deckled edges that fit the tips of her fingers perfectly, the leather of the cover worn and well-loved. The gilded title sent a rush of familiar fondness through her, a rush so strong she was almost dizzy. She laughed. “Where’d you find this? It looks exactly the same.” Exactly the same as the one she’d gotten for her first birthday from Sam, fourteen years old and curious about anything she could get her hands on. Sam hadn’t really seen the appeal in the language of flowers, she knew, but he’d indulged her anyway. It’d been the only thing she’d asked for that year, the only thing she’d really wanted.

She’d used it for years, a great reference for whenever she wanted to sketch a particular flower, but it’d been chewed up by Sweet Pea right before she turned eighteen years old, made a total ruin of slobber and teeth indents, the ink all smeared and the spine cracked clean down the middle. An apparently rare edition he’d scrounged up for the first time at an old bookstore in East London, she thought she’d never see the likes of it again.

“I have my ways.” Laughing again, Eleanor just shook her head, grinning so wide it hurt.

There was an odd bump between the pages, a groove where everything else was smooth, and when Eleanor went to inspect it, expecting a bent page, she found a pressed flower instead. Bookmarking a page of tiny, yellow petals and even tinier rows of font, was a celandine plant, its ruffled leaves still attached. Perfectly preserved.

“I did some reading,” he explained, when Eleanor couldn’t get herself to speak. She shook her head until she could breathe right again.

“You’re such a sap.”

He gave her that smile, the one just for her. And Eleanor tucked the book tight against her chest, holding on. She bumped his shoulder with hers. “Ready to go home?”

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lailaliquorice · 4 years

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may we all be so lucky

We’re back babey!! I haven’t been able to write in a few months because I’ve been so busy with uni and theatre things but believe me I never left the fandom, I’ve still been stockpiling ideas and now my exams are over I’ve had time to write one at last. I’m amazed by how quickly I wrote this. Clearly I love these characters just as much as I ever did.

Here is some very soft Aragon as I’ve promised several people, going back to my routes and writing the mother/daughter aspect of Boleyn (no Aralyn today!). Two prompts combined for this one, the first from an anon being “It’s icy outside– also, can you help me limp to the couch?” and the second from @impossibleclair being 'you look like you could use a hug'. Thank you both!!!

Also tagging @qualquercoisa945 bc I think Maria had an excitement induced heart attack when I told them I was writing again. I love you sweetheart <3

Winter had always been a time of reflection for Catherine of Aragon. Not only did the Christmas period naturally bring around a time for reflecting on her religion and her relationship with Christ, since her second chance at life it had also become a time to reflect on her relationships with herself and those around her. Both Anne and Maria could attest that Catherine was a completely different person nowadays than she had ever been back then, something which she privately thought was for the best, and she knew within herself that she felt happier than she had ever felt in her old life. There were still days she thought she didn’t deserve it, but for the most part she was learning to take what God had been gracious enough to give her and simply enjoy it.

In terms of the friendships she’d formed in this life, it was even easier to see how different they were compared to before. Then she’d only had one true friend in Maria, without doubt the truest friend she would ever have in that life or any other, whereas now she could feel comfortable of her place in the circle of friends that had formed around her. That seemed to grow closer around winter too; everyone’s hearts were lighter, their smiles brighter, and she always wished those warm times could last forever.

There was one drawback to the cold spells though. Catherine had never quite adjusted her body temperature from the Spanish heat she hadn’t felt in centuries, and even though it was warm inside the cold outside their door wouldn’t let itself be forgotten about.

Upon opening the fridge door first thing in the morning, dressing gown wrapped tightly around herself like a shield against the cold kitchen, she didn’t bother holding in her groan at discovering they had no milk left. Her normal breakfast consisted of a cup of green tea and a bowl of porridge and that was hopeless if there was no milk, meaning she would either have to break the routine she’d had set in stone since barely a month into modern life or brave a frosty walk to the corner shop.

After pursing her lips and staring at the empty spot in the fridge door for a few seconds her decision was made. She let her frustration get the better of her for a moment as she gave the door an unwarranted slam, grumbling under her breath as she exchanged her dressing gown for a thick coat decided sweatpants were good enough to leave the house in that once. But she’d barely walked past the driveway of the house before her annoyance disappeared in an instant at the sight of someone heading towards her.

Anne was also wearing a winter coat with what looked like pyjama bottoms and a rucksack on her back, arms wrapped tightly around her torso and her head bowed against the wind. What worried Catherine more than the question of what Anne was doing walking home at a time she wasn’t normally out of bed though was just how she was walking; unsteadily, clearly favouring one leg and barely putting any weight on the other foot at all.

She looked up when Catherine called her name, the smile on her face not entirely succeeding in hiding the pained look in her eyes. “Morning!” she chirped brightly, attempting without much luck to walk normally now she knew Catherine was watching her. “What brings you out- woah-“

Catherine surged forwards to catch her as her bad leg gave way, just about managing to keep them both from falling down. “I think a better question is what brings you out here, and what in God’s name you’ve done?” she asked, her voice serious in the hope that Anne wouldn’t keep trying to play it off.

“It’s icy out here – also, can you help me limp to the sofa?” Anne responded with a sheepish grin.

Despite her worry, Catherine couldn’t help but laugh dryly as she nodded. Anne clung onto Catherine’s shoulder as she hopped alongside her on the thankfully short trip back to the house, clearly grateful for Catherine’s arm tight around her waist. Once Anne had been deposited carefully onto the sofa in the living room and their coats shed, her voice left no room for refusal as she asked “What really happened then?”

Anne shrugged. “Like I said really. Ground was icy, I didn’t notice, I slipped over and landed on my leg. And now my knee and ankle won’t hold up.” She eased her boots off as she spoke, moving painstakingly slow as she pulled her sock off to reveal a purple bruise already spreading across a swollen foot.

“That looks bad, you must’ve gone down very hard” she murmured quietly. She winced in sympathy when Anne rolled her pyjama bottoms to reveal similar bruises forming on the side of her knee. “Let me go and get the first aid kit, I’ll be back in a minute.”

She didn’t wait for Anne’s noise of acknowledgement before hurrying into the kitchen, keen to get an icepack on both injuries as soon as possible to hopefully keep them from getting worse. Her idea to make a hot chocolate for each of them was quickly ended when she remembered they still had no milk, the whole reason she’d been out in the street to find Anne in the first place, but still flicked the kettle on for her customary green tea.

The sound of the kettle boiling meant she didn’t hear Anne creeping into the kitchen until there was a loud thud behind her. Catherine whirled around expecting the worst, but was instead greeted by Anne gripping onto the worktop with her rucksack crashed onto the floor. “Sorry if I scared you, just had a wobble and dropped my bag,” she blurted out before Catherine could say anything.

“Fine, but please let me help you,” Catherine insisted, taking Anne by the elbow and leading her slowly to sit down at the table. A hint of amusement crept into her tone as she added “What do you have in that bag anyway for it to make that much noise?”

Anne brightened considerably as she pulled her rucksack onto her lap and unzipped it. “Milk!” she said triumphantly, pulling out a fresh carton of milk and setting it down loudly on the table. “I used the rest last night and knew you weren’t gonna want to go get more first thing, I know you don’t like the cold. So I thought I’d go get some before you woke up.”

Catherine was rendered speechless for a moment by how thoughtful Anne had been, before she gave her a warm smile. “Thank you,” she said genuinely, glancing towards the kettle as she asked “Now I can make us some hot chocolate if you’d like?”

“Yes please! You always make it best.”

The switch on the kettle flicked off just as Anne spoke, and Catherine took the milk from her before busying herself with finding Anne’s favourite mug from the cupboard and making both their drinks. She placed both of them down on the table beside Anne before she went back to rounding up medical supplies, eventually sitting down beside her with two ice packs and a few things taken from the first aid kit.

“Let me see?” she asked gently, helping Anne lift her leg to rest her foot in Catherine’s lap.

Anne was quiet as Catherine examined her ankle, barely a wince crossing her face as she carefully manipulated the joint to assess the extent of the damage. She just sat quietly sipping her hot chocolate, pale hands wrapped around the mug and her eyes never straying from Catherine’s hands.

Eventually Catherine was happy with her conclusion that it was only a sprain, humming contentedly as she picked up the jar of bruise healing balm that was in constant high demand in a house full of dancers. “Well I don’t think we’ll need a hospital trip this morning,” she joked lightly, not missing how Anne’s chest practically deflated at the news.

“Not broken?” Anne asked quietly.

“Not broken,” Catherine confirmed. After gently spreading some of the balm over the worst of the swelling, she wrapped an ice pack in a tea towel and secured it over Anne’s ankle with a length of bandage material before doing the same to her knee injury. “All finished. How are you feeling?”

Anne pulled a face. “Bloody stupid, that’s how I’m feeling.”

Smiling over the rim of her mug as she took a sip of her drink, Catherine shook her head in fond exasperation. “I meant how is your leg feeling,” she corrected, emphasising the leg as she pointed down at the puffy ankle still resting on Catherine’s lap.

“Oh. Hurts a bit but the ice is helping,” Anne said. There was a beat of silence before she added “Still feel stupid though. I wanted to surprise you and I would’ve gotten away for it too if it weren’t for that meddling ice.”

Catherine laughed at that, matching Anne’s triumphant grin with a beaming smile of her own. “It’s a good thing I’m here and not Jane or I doubt she would get that reference,” she pointed out, making Anne giggle too. Jane’s inability to grasp pop culture references was something they always lightly made fun of, though never without showing her what they meant afterwards.

Their laughter was interrupted with a gasp of pain from Anne as she unthinkingly jostled her ankle, Catherine placing a hand lightly on her shin to help keep her leg still. “Let me get you some painkillers,” she said, lifting Anne’s foot off her lap with the utmost care and placing it back on the chair before returning to the medicine cabinet.

Anne was silent as she took the painkillers with her hot chocolate, hiding behind her mug and refusing to meet Catherine’s eye. “Are you ok?” Catherine asked more seriously, not believing Anne’s quick nod in the slightest. “You look like you could use a hug.”

“Yes please.” Anne’s voice cracked with those two short words.

Careful not to knock her leg again, Catherine leaned down and let Anne throw her arms around her neck. She didn’t react when she heard quiet sobs next to her ear, just rubbed soothing circles into Anne’s upper back as she cried herself out. It was easy to comfort her as Catherine’s maternal instincts rose up and held the younger girl close to her chest; she wasn’t always the most tactile of the group, always wrestling with her physical boundaries, but when one of her family needed her she would always be there to provide whatever they needed.

“Sorry,” Anne whimpered after a while as she drew back, rubbing shaky hands beneath her eyes. “I just don’t like being in pain. It’s scary after… after back then.”

Kneeling down to place a comforting hand on Anne’s uninjured knee, Catherine nodded in understanding. “I know babes, I know,” she said soothingly, reaching up without thinking to catch the tears that continued to fall down Anne’s cheek. “But I’m here, and you’re going to be ok. Give it a couple of weeks and you’ll be good as new.” She knew Anne knew that really, but in her fragile state she also knew that the reminder would give her something to cling onto.

Anne nodded. “Yeah. Thank you.”

There was a shyness in Anne’s small voice then that was very rarely heard, and Catherine gave her a motherly smile. “You’re welcome,” she said softly.

Glancing at the kitchen clock, Catherine knew that they would probably have a couple more hours until any of the other queens came downstairs. It was their weekly day off which meant that only Jane and Catherine were usually awake before midday, but Jane had been harbouring the beginnings of a cold all week and was probably taking the opportunity for some extra rest and she had Anne with her instead. So she looked back over at Anne and suggested “Would you like to watch a film or two? We can get the blanket out and rest on the sofa for a while.”

It was a task getting Anne back into the living room without causing her too much pain, but after a few challenging minutes they were sat on the sofa with a favourite Disney movie of Anne’s playing and the thick movie night blanket spread over both of them. Anne hummed happily as she curled into Catherine’s side during the opening credits, prompting Catherine to wrap an arm around her shoulders and let Anne rest her head on her collar. It reminded Catherine of how she’d held Mary long ago, the pair of them watching a hunt from the window of their quarters, a rare moment where she’d been more like her current self than most people had ever seen back then.

As Anne’s breathing evened out indicating she’d fallen asleep, Catherine thought back to when they’d first been reincarnated and she and Anne could hardly bear to be in the same room as each other. Getting locked in the costume room together after a show by accident had finally made them break down their barriers and now they were here.

‘I don’t know how I got this lucky’, Catherine thought as she rested her head atop Anne’s hair, ‘but I wouldn’t change this for all the world’.

#six the musical #six the musical fanfiction #six the musical fanfic #catherine of aragon #anne boleyn #laila's writing

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plumblossomkun · 4 years

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𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 3: 「𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚢 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎 / 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚒𝚝, 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 / 𝙸 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝙸'𝚍 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞」

word count: 3.2k

setting: student!Taeyong x writing assistant!Female Reader, University!AU

chapter summary: in which Taeyong finds out he’s in the class that y/n helps lead, and the sound of her voice is still his siren song.

a/n: this gif is exactly what i imagine when i think of what taeyong would look like at the end of the last chapter: a little lost and a little breathless and very much devastated. we’re starting at the timestamp in Chapter 2.5 where I link IRL part 5. thank you all so much for waiting ♥

warning[s]: none for this chapter. exposition time.

reminder: i will italicize flashbacks in their entirety & indicate any changes in scene or point of view in bold. and if you’re wondering where the chapter titles are from, they’re lyrics from the songs on the playlist below.

tags: @starxblossom, @nsheeteesmain, @cutehardcore, @bunny-doyounq, @namphyun, @ncttrinities ♥ send me an ask if you would like to be added to this list!

previous | next

9:08am—

—on the third floor of Kenna Hall, in room 306.

Taeyong stares at his hands and tries to steady his breathing. It comes out in staccato bursts, and each inhalation hurts just a little more than the one before, like something is slowly crushing his lungs.

I didn’t know she was still here.

Do she and Johnny still talk?

No, she was always closer to Ten than she was with Johnny.

He unlocks his phone and starts scrolling through his messages to find his last chat with Ten, then stops.

—Who was that boy?

The thought actually makes him wince, and he hangs his head over the desk. Of course you would have moved on, it would only be natural, but he hadn’t expected to see it firsthand, or this soon. From what he had been able to see through the window, the boy had been nothing out of the ordinary, nothing remarkable. Maybe.

But the thing that had pained him most wasn’t that.

Even a fool would have been able to see how you’d glowed, walking away with that boy’s hand in yours, how you’d laughed like you’d never cried a day in your life. And you’d smiled, and Taeyong hadn’t recognized the expression on your face.

How much has she changed, after all these years?

He curls his fingers around the edge of the desk and rests his forehead against the smooth surface as students continue to pour into the classroom, filling it with their laughter and heavy footsteps. His breathing speeds, though he fights the urge to crumple inwards into himself.

How much have I changed, really?

Back to that night 6 years ago—

“So, did you fuck?” Ten asks as soon as the three of them are safely inside the confines of Johnny’s room to wind down for the night, a devious grin crossing his face as he takes a seat at the desk in the corner. His gelled back hair is unkempt, like someone’s been running their hands through it over and over again— knowing him, he’d probably been making out with someone in the shadows at some point during the dance.

Taeyong laughs to cover up the rose-red hue flooding his cheeks. “What? No! I just met her.”

“Yongie likes a girl~” Yuta waggles his eyebrows suggestively, falling back onto Johnny’s bed with an oomph as he yanks the bowtie off of his collar. He smells faintly of alcohol, but tonight he’s a sleepy drunk, his head already lolling against his shoulder.

“I don’t!”

Johnny chuckles as he unbuttons his dress shirt and fans himself with a hand. “But did you get her number so you can, you know, get to know her better?”

“No…” Wringing his hands, Taeyong joins Yuta on the bed, who is dead asleep, chin dropping to his chest as he snores softly.

Ten folds his coat carefully over the back of his chair. “Who were you canoodling with?”

“I didn’t get her name.” Sighing, Taeyong throws his tie on the bed and kicks off his shoes. “And again, we weren’t canoodling.”

Ten drums his fingers against his chin with a cattish smile. “Dude, you never pay attention to girls,” he points out. “What’s so special about this one?”

“Do you find her physically attractive?” Johnny drawls, hand pressed to his forehead in a mocking faint. When Taeyong sends an icy glare his way, he amends himself with a chortle. “—I mean, is she your type?”

“I don’t know. She’s just…” He thinks of your wild eyes, how they’d scorched his with their intensity; he can scarcely remember much else, though, he’d been too dazed by the cold and the suddenness of it all. “I guess…?”

“Is she easy to talk to? Or can she hold a conversation?”

He bites the nail of his thumb absentmindedly, eyes unfocused as he tries to recall the words. What had you said— that if you could fly, you’d see if heaven existed? “You could say that.”

Ten’s lips purse, and he exchanges an exasperated look with Johnny. Both of them know a doomed man when they see one.

Taeyong stares down at his hands, at the little black flower on his left wrist, right at the juncture of the vein that splits off into the palm of his hand. You’d drawn it there in pen, on the bus ride to the Mexican store on the corner of Maple and Grand Avenue.

He just thinks you’re interesting, that’s all.

9:13am—

A couple of minutes later, nearly every seat in the room has been occupied, a handful of skateboards rest against the wall by the door, and Hydro Flasks clink loudly against the desks, while Taeyong massages his temples at the very back left corner of the classroom, just beneath the clock, pushing back the maelstrom whirling through his head. Through the blinds, sunlight flares its first, casting tiny beams of golden light and pricking his skin with faint warmth.

I hope Ten hasn’t told her I’m back.

The door clicks open again, and an older man, presumably the professor, steps into the classroom, a cup of coffee in one hand and a tote filled with books and folders slung over his shoulder. He is dressed smartly in khakis and a turtleneck, and rectangular glasses hang low on his nose as he scans the classroom with a good-natured smile.

After flicking on the lights, the professor looks over his shoulder at the two students on his heels and gestures widely at the whole room. “What do you guys think?”

Taeyong inhales sharply. The girl next to him eyes him curiously, but doesn’t comment.

It’s the boy from the other day, the one who’d had your hand in his— and now that Taeyong can see his face, he can’t help but glower at the kind, shining eyes, the chiseled jaw, lips plump and pink; he scrutinizes the dimpled smile and how he looks like every college girl’s magazine dream. He’s probably a nice guy, but the little green voice in the back of Taeyong’s head wants to drip venom.

How many guys has she dated since I left? It’s an ugly thought, one he doesn’t really deserve to be having, but it burns in his throat anyway. Guys like this?

“It’s alright,” the boy says, tossing his backpack onto an empty desk by the classroom projector’s control panel and leaning back against the windowsill as he scans the room. He rakes his lilac-grey hair back from his forehead and looks to the other student. “What do you think, angel?”

This time, Taeyong has to slap his hand across his mouth to keep himself from crying out. In fact, if he hadn’t been sitting, his knees would have given out, and he would have collapsed inward on himself. As it is, he simply deflates, exhaling all the air left in his lungs and then some, sliding down as far in his chair as he can.

Oh, god.

“I don’t know about this one, Juan. The energy of the classroom just isn’t the same when we’re not in O’Connor.”

It’s her.

A faint smile plays across your face as you stand next to the professor. You look so casually radiant that Taeyong’s heart falters, while the mere melody of your voice renders him unsteady.

“You good?” the girl next to him mouths, but he doesn’t have the wherewithal to answer, just sways in his seat like a ribbon caught in the throes of a windstorm.

The professor chuckles as he passes a stack of syllabi to the front. “I should clarify. Y/n is not saying that it’s your energy she dislikes— just the classroom itself.”

She’s…

You take the stool behind the computer at the front and lean over to talk to the boy with a giggle, and Taeyong has to look away. He doesn’t want to see how the pretty-boy plays with your hair, and the way your hand settles on his knee as the students pore over the course materials warily.

There is something lighter, less tethered about you, the skittish gleam gone from your eyes and replaced by a different shine. And then there’s him. In the blink of an eye, he feels like the same stupid teenage boy he was all those years ago. The only difference is that he knows with absolute certainty that he can’t just walk up to you and apologize.

You are not that forgiving.

The professor claps to get everyone’s attention. His voice bears a slight Spanish accent, and he speaks softly but with a quiet power, not unlike the force of a priest at his altar. “My name is Professor Juan Madrid; you can call me Juan. This is Life Writing. Is everyone in the right place?”

A murmur of confirmation ripples through the class.

“Good. These are my lovely peer educators, Jung Jaehyun and Y/n L/n.” Professor Madrid gestures to the corner where you and the pretty-boy sit. “They are warriors; they are also two of the best writers on this campus. Do you guys want to introduce yourselves and say a little something about the class? Maybe something you learned that you thought was valuable?”

“Sure. I’ll go first.” Jaehyun raises his hand and waves at the class, smiling.

It’s a bright, honest smile, no pride or arrogance, but Taeyong resents it anyway. “My name is Jaehyun, and y/n forced me to be a peer educator with her, but I love the written word. I think it’s a really powerful way to convey emotions, and taking classes with Juan has really helped me express myself better. You can just call me Jae.”

“Y/n, how about you?”

A dreamy, pensive smile curves your lips, and you— there is no better word for it— begin to glow. You look...

...happy.

“The best advice I can give you is that good writing starts with honesty. Anne Lamott, one of the authors you’ll be reading this quarter, calls it ‘radical vulnerability’. You might have to talk about the most devastating moments of your life, and some of the brightest, and you can’t do yourself justice if you censor yourself. There’s a lot of power in being honest.”

The professor nods in approval. “Very true. We’ll talk more about radical vulnerability in a week or two.”

I don’t know her. Taeyong stares down at the packet, not really seeing or processing the words. It seems like you are not just a whole new person, but part of a whole new world as well.

“—the final paper will involve the writing of a short autobiography that engages on your own notion of ‘self’—”

I spent four years discovering myself.

It’s only right that she did too.

“—we will work in small groups called familias. Raise your hand when I call your name, so y/n and Jae can see you, and so you can see who will be in your familia.”

He doesn’t see you slip out the door to use the bathroom, barely thinks to raise his hand when he hears his name called to be in Jae’s group. He looks out the window again, and in the face of the sunrise’s impending radiance, he closes his eyes and exhales.

He called her ‘angel’.

11:30am—

[11:46] Ten: soooooo...

[11:47] Ten: i heard from johnny that u saw she-who-must-not-be-named

[11:49] Ten: ngl, i completely forgot to warn u 😳

[11:51] Taeyong: are you sure you didn’t just choose not to?

[11:53] Ten: 🙄🙄🙄

[11:53] Ten: what kind of friend do u think i am???

[11:53] Taeyong: 😐

[11:55] Ten: OKAY but at least i didn’t tell her that ur back

[11:57] Ten: ….. yet 🤐

[12:02] Taeyong: please don’t

[12:02] Ten: she’s not exactly going to be happy ur back u know

[12:03] Ten: u basically ghosted her for like, four years

[12:03] Ten: u can’t just pop up n be like “hey guess what i’m a MAN now”

[12:07] Taeyong: yeah, you’re right

[12:07] Ten: damn straight i’m right 😤

[12:08] Ten: wait,,, ur not supposed to agree with me

[12:08] Ten: what happened

[12:08] Ten: spill the tea 😠

[12:08] Taeyong: i think she’s dating someone

[12:10] Ten: 😨

[12:10] Ten: well, i mean…

[12:10] Ten: how do u feel about it

[12:11] Taeyong: 🙃

[12:11] Ten: do u need cute puppy videos

[12:12] Taeyong: no

[12:12] Taeyong: i’m fine

[12:15] Ten: [link]

The morning after Winter Ball—

It’s an unspoken tradition for everyone to skip out on class the Monday after a dance, but Taeyong doesn’t realize his mistake until he walks into his first period class and the classroom is missing both the teacher and most of the students. Strangely enough, though, Ten is there, sitting slouched in the teacher’s chair at the front of the room and regarding the green apple resting on the desk with contempt. He nods in greeting, but doesn’t look up from the fruit. “Didn’t anyone tell you not to come to class today?”

“What about you?” he counters, clambering onto the nearest desk and discarding his backpack onto the seat. “Could’ve gone to the movies or slept in late.”

“AP Dance,” Ten says shortly, poking the apple distastefully. Then he leans back, resting both feet atop the desk and ignoring the papers that go scattering when he does so. “Mr. Richards went to go print some papers at the library.”

Then the door clicks, and creaks open. Taeyong turns to look, and behind him, he hears a squeak, clatter, and bang, along with a loud “oh, fuck!” as the teacher peeks his head through the door, eyes glistening with amusement behind his thin rectangular glasses. “He-llo?~”

“Good morning, Mr. Richards,” Taeyong says dutifully, glancing over his shoulder. Ten is gathering himself off of the floor along with the papers he’d dropped earlier.

“Good morning, boys,” the teacher says breezily, dropping a foot-tall stack of papers on his desk. Head tilted slightly, he smiles down at Ten like the boy hasn’t just been caught in his seat. “Hmm. Ten. That chair can be rather uncomfortable. Is that why you’ve fallen?”

Mutely, Ten picks up the chair and places it back in its original position.

“Oh, how kind of you.” Mr. Richards adjusts his tie, tilts his head again, and claps his hands

together. “Do you two have anything to do for this class period? Homework, maybe?”

“Nope.” Ten takes the seat next to Taeyong and slouches down as low as humanly possible.

“No?” Mr. Richards glances at the apple on his desk, ever so slightly out of place, and rotates it until it’s just right. “Mr. Lee, how about you?”

“Not really,” Taeyong replies, though he knows exactly where the teacher is going with this.

“Then you won’t mind helping me put these notes together for next class, when everyone is back from, ah… being sick.” He claps again, then slides a stapler towards Ten. “Thank you~”

A soft knock sounds at the door, and Mr. Richards lets out a little gasp. “That’ll be my favorite student with the rest of the papers~ Can one of you get the door, please?”

Ten groans. “There are more?”

“I’ll get it,” Taeyong volunteers, sliding out of his seat and tugging the door open. For a moment, the glare of the silver morning gloom makes him blink. And then his eyes refocus, and he looks right into the very same pair of eyes that had transfixed him the night before.

The girl looks almost offended by his attention, mouth set in a hard line as she stares up at him with a thick stack of papers threatening to teeter out of her arms. When he doesn’t budge, she nods jerkily at the door, expression shifting into mild annoyance. “Excuse me.”

“Oh. Ah. My bad.” He steps aside to let her in, and wonders why his cheeks heat when she sits on top of the desk beside his.

A smirk crosses Ten’s face as he looks between the two of them and connects the dots. “Hey, good morning.”

“Didn’t think you’d be here today, Ten. Hello to you too.” She drops the papers on his desk with a chuckle. Then she turns to the teacher. “Hello, Mr. Richards,” she says, waggling her fingers in greeting. “I heard I’m your favorite student?”

“Oh, it was just a joke. I think you need to submit your homework on time in order to be my favorite student.” Mr. Richards titters.

She laughs softly— then regards Taeyong with a curious look. Only then does he realize he’s been staring. She doesn’t address him, though, instead looks questioningly at Ten, who meets her gaze with a grin. He opens his mouth to speak, but Taeyong kicks him under the desk before he can.

And as his friend winces from the blow, he seizes his chance.

“Uh— it’s good to see you again,” he starts. “I had—um… it was fun last night.”

Ten cringes so hard that he bangs his knee against the bottom of the desk. With a yowl, he drops his stapler and cradles his leg.

The girl contemplates Taeyong, tilting her head as she studies his features, gaze running along the lines of his jaw up to his temples. And when she finally looks into his eyes, hers light up.

“Ah,” she hums, and there’s a world of understanding in that one sound that he doesn’t share. “You.”

He nods, fighting the urge to gulp. Even though her voice is soft, and she sits at ease atop her throne, he feels oddly small before the intensity of her gaze.

She watches him as he shifts his weight in his seat, then gestures at his arm. “Do you mind if I finish that?”

“Finish— what?”

She raises a brow and points at the almost-gone but faintly-still-there flower blooming on his wrist. Gingerly, he offers it to her, and she gives a tiny nod of approval, pulling a marker from her pocket. When her fingers meet his skin, the warmth spreads from his cheeks and echoes into his chest, and he shivers. He hadn’t even realized he was cold in the first place.

She traces the lines of his wrist, following the thin strands of blood vessels with the point of her marker, gripping his arm tight to keep him from moving.

“I’m sorry.” She says this so softly that he has to lean in closer to hear her better, her breath grazing his ear when she adds, “I never asked you for your name.”

“It’s Taeyong.” He holds back a laugh as her fingers scratch across his wrist and tickle him. “I didn’t ask for yours, either, so I’m just as bad.”

After a moment or two, she sits back, chewing on the cap of the marker thoughtfully. “Done.”

He looks down at his arm. Where there had only been the faintest outline of a little flower, there is now a bouquet of hibiscus blooming across the back of his hand, stems spiraling down his arm up until where his veins vanish, at which point they curl into little swirls.

Feeling the weight of her gaze on him once more, he looks up. Their eyes meet, and as if she’s dismissing some untoward thought, she shakes her head. Then she leans forward, and he feels his heart halt and stutter at her smile. It is easy, unlike everything else about her, and gentle. It perplexes him.

“Nice to meet you, Taeyong. I’m y/n.”

From here on out I will refer to the reader as ‘you’. I intended to keep it as ‘the girl’ and ‘she’ in flashbacks until the point at which they met properly, and this is it. Welcome to the true beginning.

a/n 2.0: what did you think of this chapter? it’s been in the works for so long that i don’t even know what to think about it tbh, so any feedback would be great, thank you for reading! ♥

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aion-rsa · 3 years

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My Hero Academia Season 5 Episode 13 Review: Have a Merry Christmas

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This MY HERO ACADEMIA review contains spoilers.

My Hero Academia Season 5 Episode 13

“It was the prologue to a tragedy…”

It’s Christmas in July for My Hero Academia!

My Hero Academia knows how to have fun and there are several one-off installments that are odes to silliness and the lighter side of these heroes-in-training’s lives. It’s been a difficult year for U.A. High’s students, not because their lives have been endangered by villains, but because of the grueling tests that they’ve applied to each other and the major revelations that characters like Midoriya, Shinso, and Todoroki have made about themselves. “Have a Merry Christmas” is a major change of pace and it honestly feels more akin to the structure and tone of one of the series’ OVA installments. It’s an episode that doesn’t try to hide its dangerously cute nature, but the question becomes if this distraction is worth it–especially at this stage in the season–and ultimately it falls short.

“Have a Merry Christmas” is another low key My Hero Academia episode, which works hard to establish a clear demarcation line between what will presumably be the two major story arcs of this season. At the same time, “Have a Merry Christmas” represents a strange stretch of lethargy for the series and these past three episodes could honestly be pared down to one and a half installments.

I can understand the temptation to not have the series’ 100th episode also double as a Christmas installment, but this run of episodes has killed any of the momentum that was built up by the triumphant conclusion of the Joint Training competition. Clearly big things are ahead, both with the return to work studies and what’s been quietly brewing behind the scenes with the League of Villains, but none of that excitement is capitalized on “Have a Merry Christmas,” which feels just as much like disposable filler material as season five’s expositional premiere.

The highlight of these Christmas festivities is to bask in all of these characters’ joy as they let down their guards and treat themselves to a much-deserved day of celebration. This turns into an excuse to dress up everyone as members of Santa’s workshop and engage in a cute gift exchange. It actually wouldn’t come across as ridiculous if this episode were to introduce that Santa exists in My Hero Academia and that he’s able to spread gifts around the world because of a Quirk, but “Have a Merry Christmas” is a much more modest and simple episode. That being said, it absolutely carries the cloying energy of an episode where Santa shows up to teach a lesson.

Gift time at U.A. High may not seem incredibly exciting, but it turns into one of the sweeter sequences from the season. Every combination between hero and gift is satisfying in its own way, whether it’s something obvious or a strange mystery. Mineta’s present seems to be an autographed photo of Yuga Aoyama, which is perfect, and Eri seems to acquire a massive sword that’s meant for Tokoyami through the Secret Santa exchange. Eri’s presence cannot be underestimated here and her arrival in a Santa costume is almost too sweet to bear (as is the adorable nature of her “Trick or Treat” greeting and her attempts to hand out painted Easter eggs out of confusion). My Hero Academia’s efforts to make Eri more of a natural supporting character continue to work and hopefully won’t be absent during the second half of season five.

Outside of the pleasant Christmas levity, the rest of the episode is concerned with media interviews and a focus on the heroes’ public images, which evidently is a lot harder to manage than their Quirks. Bakugo and Todoroki have just proven themselves as newly-minted provisional heroes, yet they take completely opposite approaches to the media blitz that follows. Bakugo hurls insults at the interviewer and freaks out at Todoroki whenever he exhibits affection or gets so bold as to refer to him and Bakugo as “friends.”

It’s incredibly entertaining for Bakugo to be so concerned over whether his aggressive side makes it through to the public while his Pro Hero image gets established. The audience has seen an increasingly softer side to Bakugo, especially over the past few episodes, so this regression into explosive behavior when he’s put under pressure is one of many enjoyable digressions in “Have a Merry Christmas.” Of course, Todoroki is a consummate professional throughout the interview and views it as an important experience, even if he still gets tripped up over the awkward experience. The glimpse of everyone else’s abject horror over how candid Bakugo gets during the interview is another strong opportunity for My Hero Academia’s more humorous instincts to be fully on display in this episode.

This could have been a quick gag, but “Have a Merry Christmas” really lays into Todoroki and Bakugo’s embarrassment, which helps establish the episode’s playful energy and that the episode’s aim is to just laugh and have fun with these characters instead of stressing over the next big threat. Todoroki is a character who is typically all business and someone that the rest of Class A holds in reverence, so his incredibly literal interpretation of Mt. Lady’s comments are absolutely brilliant. My Hero Academia has struck unexpected gold by pushing Todoroki out of his social comfort zone and hopefully the second half of this season will have more fun with this awkward side to the powerful character.

This focus on interviews also provokes an honest discussion over the pros and cons of whether hero students should show off their signature moves on television, which some think will leave them at a disadvantage and expose their strongest maneuvers to the enemy. This is certainly true on some level, but Mt. Lady emphasizes how a hero’s signature move is just as much a representation of what they stand for as a hero as anything else. It should be an exciting opportunity to reveal themselves to the world. The episode settles on the perspective that it should be exciting to show off for the camera, but “Have a Merry Christmas” slowly introduces doubt over how these accomplishments might actually turn into liabilities.

The episode’s interview portion is meant to be fun and allow these characters to come out of their shell. However, it does trigger some deeper discussions over the public’s current perception of the district’s Pro Heroes. These interviews are helpful sales tools for these heroes’ futures, but they’re also meant to act as a response to what the public expects of their heroes and if the villains have managed to affect the larger narrative. It’s these many contrasting opinions that partly pushes U.A. High to reinstate the work study programs and get the heroes back in the public eye.

Some of the most fulfilling developments to come out of “Have a Merry Christmas” are crammed into the episode’s final minutes. Midoriya and Bakugo express concern over where they’ll be able to do their work study programs since Best Jeanist is out of commission and the Nighteye Agency is still tied up in a difficult period of transition with Centipeder now in charge. Todoroki innocently suggests that the three of them all train under Endeavor, which turns into a fascinating prospect that combines some of the series’ most fascinating characters together.

This accumulation of talent might be more important than this trio of friends even realizes. “Have a Merry Christmas” teases the return of Shigaraki in the form of a devastating attack on Deika City, which only emphasizes how ill-prepared the heroes are for what’s about to cut through all of these lackadaisical distractions. The needlessly sweet nature of this episode, and its ending, almost seems to acknowledge the severe darkness that’s on the way and that Deku may never get another Christmas where he can just relax with his friends and enjoy being a kid for a day. Shigaraki and the League of Villains are ready to prove that the only gift that these heroes deserve is endless pain.

The criticism directed towards “Have a Merry Christmas” may seem a little harsh, which is warranted, but that’s not to say that this episode is without its charms. Those that enjoy whenever My Hero Academia indulges in these lighter slice-of-life tangents will undoubtedly adore this episode. However, this installment still feels needlessly sparse, even for the character-driven entries that shy away from battle. There’s no reason why this holiday celebration couldn’t have also strengthened some of the other themes from this season rather than exclusively focus on “the feels” and fuel for copious Christmas-based My Hero Academia fanart. A heavy, dark future lies ahead in the season’s second half and “Have a Merry Christmas” isn’t the bold finish that’s necessary before this season heads into its endgame.

Also, Hero Critic, Aorio Kuraishisu, is pure nightmare fuel. Who’d have thought the Devil would make an appearance during a Christmas special?

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alexbfmp · 3 years

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Week 2

During this week, it was my first week in fully diving into the final major project and what outcomes I could be envisioning/ creating.

For my project, I personally thought the idea of challenging myself to push my skills I already am familiar with to the most extreme I have done so far. I have always had such a passion for theatrical/ fashion gowns and garments embellished with beads, jewels and crystals. They are beautiful and stunning works of art and labour in my eyes which really inspire me to try and learn those skills so I can create what I am most passionate about. I knew at this point I wanted to do the theme of ‘Patterns and Palettes’ and had the idea of being able to translate those abstract or refined patterns onto the surface of a garment using all of the same materials as these big costumes/ gowns use. I often tend to work in my own colour palette which normally consists of pinks, purples, silvers/ white, blue and occasionally red & black. For me theses colours for some reason are very calming and beautiful to me - the more pastel and paler then the more soft, gentle and calming whereas the more vibrant, bold and rich colours really get me exited and I love the way they stand out in every day to day life. A lot of my projects I have done for my final major projects in the past have been either reds, blacks, whites and very slight hits of others colours such as pink and green on details but never a really rich, bold and striking outcome so I decided after looking at the colour wheel and palettes, that I would work with bold and vibrant purples and blues with their complementary colours which are yellow/ golden shades. This is a combination I’ve never worked with before but always have wanted to so what better time to experiment and go for it. Most of my inspiration for the style or shape of the garment and beading work was mainly scrolling through Pinterest on different images and boards to find inspiration.

Once I had got some inspiration to look at and my new colour pallet, I decided to do some rough sketches and designs inspired by what I had seen but also incorporating elements from visual inspiration to create my own style peice. Two of my designs I used my set colours but my other one was done with Red, black and white just to see if I may have liked the colour combinations better but I was firmly keen on my already decided colours. To also get a bit of an experimentation to start, I decided to include with my sketches some mock up patterns made with or similar materials I myself would be using in the process of creating this outcome. It was also a way for me to see how my ideas would be seen and if I needed to change a tone of a colour more lighter or darker to make the most important thing which is the ‘patterns’ to be able to come across prominently and be seen clearly.

After I had done my designs, I decided on one final idea that I personally thought would be a challenge but also a fun concept to proceed with. To get a full and “life like” representation/ visualisation of what the garment will hopefully look like at the end of this project, I created a digital photoshop rendering of my desired outcome. This was really a way for me to truly see if I liked the outcome enough to proceeding which I was very happy to do so.

Once I had my concept in my head and confident I wanted to go through with it, during our online study groups I had to explain a rough idea on what I wanted to create to in which I received positive feedback which I was very happy about. Afterwards, I then started working on my project proposal which due to the fact I was so keen and passionate about what I wanted to create, I found it easy to explain and talk about. Until it was marked and commented on by Sophie, I wouldn’t known whether it was okay or not but I am fairly confident it is around 70/80% good and explains it well.

Point of My Project:

The whole point of this project and specifically creating a garment is a personal way of mine to express what I am most passionate about and love creating. Its almost a ‘mostly’ calming and sometimes tiring but rewarding experience and I get such an buzz and excitement to create and bring my ideas to life in a 3D physical way that is appealing to the eye. About 80/90 percent of the garments I make are for me to wear on which I plan to do so with this. In another way, this is another personal part of my of how I love to express myself. When I get completely dressed up and transform either with all of the compartments together or separately, I feel my most confident and powerful. Its another form of an escape and a happy place. I feel for this project, It would be a good chance for me to wear the garment and all the other elements to go with the complete look as a whole and showcase who I truly am but also to showcase the garment in all of its glory. Although maybe not everyone will understand that it is a personal way of expressing myself and the reason behind it, I myself know the real reason and as long as it makes me happy then that's the most important part. On a slightly smaller side note, one of the reasons I have also chosen purple as one of my main colours is, not only do I feel like it is such a beautiful and rich colour that I have spoken a bit about beforehand but again, it is another personal reason which comes from my mum. My mum is my biggest supporter and allows me to fully be myself no matter what and she has called my her “Purple Prince” ever since I started dying my hair purple and the fact that she knows its one of my favourite colours. It is a simple little saying but means so much to me. I want to do her proud of what I achieve so having this little but meaningful reason behind it just makes it extra personal to me.

Week 2 Evaluation

Media, skills, processes and techniques - Evaluative section on – Media, skills, processes and techniques that were used/explored – what was learnt – how wide ranging research informed this - and how these met the purpose of the proposal? First section – your planning, themes, specialism and how you have been working.

During this week i experimented with designs and the incorporation of sewing and physical experimentation with creating patterns on certain designs for my outcome. I also used photoshop to create a digital rendering of my final chosen design. Internet sources e.g. google and pinterest were also used for visual research/ inspiration regarding the theme ‘ Patterns and Palettes’. The small sewing part was just an expermination to see and learn what kind of materials I would be working with and how they perform in creating the designs etc.

Purpose/ theme/concept – Evaluative section on the FMP development – the thought processes – the struggle to solve a problem the journey of change and learning – why decisions were made and for what purpose - what is the point/function of the work?. How the FMP could be further developed in ambitious and innovative ways?

I decided in the end to go with a colour scheme/ palette that are my own personally favourite colours and combinations. To me my colours are very stimulating to me in which they keep me feeling passionate and excited but also calm so in a way the whole colour palette and concept throughout will very much be a representation of my passion and what makes me happy. The journey wasn't too difficult in the sense to create ideas but only 1 design in the end really gave me an excited feel determined and passionate to see this through. My first two other designs just didn't end up grabbing me to them in the end, although they would have been interesting and different/ contrasting outcomes, I really wanted to challenge myself to create all of the patterns myself and push myself to create the most elaborate garment to date. I feel creating the patterns myself will allow the outcome to be as custom and as personal to me much more rather than using for instance already patterned fabric in which the scale of my outcome mostly likely would then be too overpowering to try and incorporate as many patterned fabric areas as much as possible.

What are you planning for next week? – How and what are you doing?

For next week I plan to go back to any feedback from my proposal and experiment more with the/ similar materials I will be working with throughout my project. This will then enable me to get back into the motion and headspace for the amount of time, effort, precision and detail that will be in my project.

Evaluation methodology - Evaluative section on the processes of evaluation, feedback, peer assessment, critical reflection and how this IMPACTED on the creative and technical processes.

The feedback i received from Sophie helped me explain my idea/ concept fully to the best of my ability and made me aware of any areas that needed strengthening or visual representation to back up any form of inspiration I took from something.

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liray-stylespk · 4 years

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yourcroweater · 7 years

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A Little Wicked - Part 2

Chibs x Vivi (oc)

Warnings:: swearing, character death mention, violence mention, wee bit of smut.

“Maybe this was a bad idea.” I said, staring at the Red Woody studio. Lyla gave me a little slap on the arm and rolled her eyes.

“It’s a great idea. It’s an actual date, Vivi.” She gave me a little push forward.

I gave tiny steps, Lyla still pushing me. I could hear the loud music coming from inside the studio, loud enough to drown the sounds from the boats on the docks. Harley bikes were parked to the left, a lot more than there usually were and I remembered Lyla telling me earlier that the Tacoma charter was down in Cali for club bussiness.

“Yeah, come to think of it, I don’t do dates.” I stopped suddenly, grabbing Lyla to make her look at me. “In the three years you’ve met me how many times have you seen me go on dates?”

“Exactly. You need it. You called me just to tell me how Chibs hit on you this morning.”

“That’s cause I’m a crow eater.”

“No, it’s not. It’s cause you’re nice, pretty and funny. C’mon, Vivi, if Chibs just wanted to fuck you he could’ve done that a long time ago.”

Slowly I nodded my head.

“Yeak, okay. ‘Sides if he just wants to fuck me it’s not bad either. He’s hot.”

“See? There’s no way this could go wrong.” she said with a laugh.

The moment I set my foot on Red Woody I knew there was a million ways this could go wrong.

The studio was packed with bikers and barely clothed crow eaters. I was wearing a very snug black tank top that exposed my belly button, low waist jeans that clung to every curve of my ass, heels and a denim jacket. But some of the women inside had bras, panties and fishnets dresses - that was it.

Ahead, at the center of the studio, two poledancers slid down the same pole, facing each other and kissed, rendering cheering from the guys.

I searched the place for Chibs, losing all hope of actually having a beer with him. He probably already had a crow eater or two rubbing against him. Tig sure did, I could see. The red-headed one licked his ear and the other one was doing a thorough job in giving him hickeys all over his neck.

I stared at the three, the slightest arousal rising inside of me.

“Let’s say hi to the guys and then we go get something to drink, okay?” Lyla said with a little wink. By “say hi to the guys” she actually meant let’s look for Chibs. As Chucky would say, I accepted that and followed Lyla.

We zigzagged into the studio saying hi to the crow eaters and Diosa girls we knew and to the guys who didn’t have their faces stuck between high-powered silicone titties.

No Chibs.

Lyla and I sat down at the bar and Winsome, serving as bargirl tonight, came to take our orders. Lyla asked for two beers, giving me a little side glance and staying quiet. She probably saw how disappointed I looked.

Or how much of an idiot I looked.

I really didn’t do dates, and that was one of the reasons why. I didn’t trust men enough. I sure trusted them to let them fuck me -- being a crow eater will do that -- but I should know better than trust a man’s word.

They’ll say how much they like you, how pretty you are, how good you make them feel. They’ll say they love you and punch you in the gut. They’ll say how much they’re sorry, and really, that it’s your fault that they hit you. They love you so much, they just can’t help it. That’s how my ex-husband, Pete, did it. That’s how I stopped trusting men.

“It was stupid coming here.” I muttered and took the beer Winsome gave me. I gulped down half the bottle. “I should’ve known better.”

“You gotta stop that.” Lyla said frowing at me. Her blue eyes met my green eyes with a fire I hadn’t seen before in them. She was mad at me, or at the very least, irritated. “You don’t talk much about your ex but I know enough to see how much it affected you. But you can’t let it take control of your life. The moment a guy does something wrong it’s like the world’s gonna end for you.”

I rolled my eyes and started to get up from my seat. Lyla grabbed my wrist and kept me put.

“Chibs is going to show up. Just wait. Don’t go around looking for some dick to ride just to make you feel better.”

“I don’t do that.” I complained as I looked back to all the other times I had sex when I was upset. I didn’t want to admit it but Lyla was right.

“Yes, you do. Have a cigarette, drink more beer. Chibs is showing up, I promise you.”

Lyla let go of my wrist after casting me another hard stare and making sure I wasn’t going anywhere.

I pulled my pack of cigarettes out of my jacket. I couldn’t find my lighter. I shrugged off my jacket and put it in my lap to do a better search of every pocket. No lighter. I stuck one cigarette between my teeth and leaned over the bar counter.

I caught Lyla giving me an odd look. I sure looked a sight with half my body hanging on the counter while my legs swung on the air.

“I’m checking if Winsome left her lighter here somewhere. I need to steal it.” I explained. The cigarette moved up and down as I spoke.

Lyla looked past me and gave a little smirk. I started to turn around to see what was so funny but she grabbed my chin, stopping me from turning.

“What?” I asked.

“Chibs just saw you. He’s staring at your ass.”

“Is he staring lovingly at it or just analyzing the ass-ets?” I raised my eyebrows, grinning with the cigarette between my teeth. Hearing that Chibs was here and that he was staring at my ass did wonders for my mood. Good enough to have me making puns.

Lyla giggled. “You make the worst and best puns at the same time. I don’t know what ‘staring lovingly’ at an ass means but I kinda think he’s doing both. Sit down, he’s coming over.”

I sat down. Two heartbeats later I felt him more than saw him looming over me. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him getting closer and closer until he had his lips very close to my ear. His beard tickled my neck, sending goosebumps down my spine.

“I thought this was a date. Not a chance for ye to try to give a heart attack.”

I caught Lyla looking at me triumphantly. I couldn’t even roll my eyes at her. Chibs so close to me was making me outright nervous and blocking all my potential sass.

I turned around on my seat to face Chibs, maneuvering a little so I wouldn’t bump my face on his. Still, it left me a little too close. Close enough to feel his breath on my face. I took out the unlit cigarette from my mouth with two fingers.

“It’s part of the deal. A date and an attempt at killing you with my looks.” I spoke softly. If we weren’t so close to each other I doubted he would’ve been able to hear me. “How did I do?”

“Ye almost got me.” he said with a wink.

I lowered my eyes away from his with a little chuckle. “Got a lighter?” I showed him my cigarette.

He stuck his hand in one of the pocket’s of his kutte and gave me the lighter. He didn’t let go of it right away and I stopped, my hand around his trying to get the lighter, and looked at him.

“Come ‘ere. It’s too noisy. Let’s go to Lyla’s office.” He gave Lyla a little nod before pulling me from my seat. I grabbed my beer and trailed after him.

“My mom has this thing with French names, think they’re fancy or some shit like that.” I explained, taking a drag out of my lit cigarette. “Which earned me the name Vivienne, my brother earned Jean-Claude and my sister got Juliette. Even the dog didn’t escape. His name was Pierre.” I laughed the cigarette smoke out. Chibs laughed too, his dimples deepening along with his scars. “Your name’s not really Chibs, is it?”

He shook his head. “Filip.”

Feeling more than a little light headed I extended my hand to him. “Well, nice to meet you, Filip.” He shook my hand, feigning seriousness. “That’s not a very good biker name.”

“And Vivienne is a good name for a crow eater?” he shot back.

“Hey.” I laughed, scooting over to his side.

We were both seating on top of Lyla’s desk, side by side, knees and elbows touching. The windows to whatever was going on outside on the studio were covered by closed blinds. The two of us chose to stay away from the party. We had talked for little more than two hours now. When he teased me about not being crow eater material I told him about all the times I had been arrested: arson, assault, vandalism. Allegedly, of course. None of those had enough evidence to convict me, so I ended up paying a large fine for most of them. My assault victim, a “friend” that had slept with one of my old boyfriends, didn’t press charges.

Chibs told me about how he got his scars and when I asked him what happened to Jimmy O’Phelan, he answered without hesitation that he had killed him right after putting the same scars on his face.

I didn’t really think the conversation would get so far. I thought we would end up tearing each other’s clothes of and we would both wake up hangover on the next morning and that would be the end of it. But I could tell Chibs was legimately treating this as a date, he asked me about books I liked to read and I told him I liked good old fashioned horror. He asked me about my family and I asked about his. It was nice talking to him -- easy actually.

“So what brought ye to Charming?” Chibs asked raising one brow.

“Is it that obvious I’m not from around here?” He nodded briefly and swallowed all the tequila on his glass.

“Ye have th’ big city air ‘bout ye.”

“Sacramento.” I answered quietly. I didn’t want to get it into it, but he asked and I was answering it. “My... hm, my ex-husband. He was an asshole. I had to get away from him.”

He had been facing forward, staring at nothing, but what I said made him turn his head a little, giving me a little look.

“What type of asshole?” he asked.

“The type that does this.” I raised the side of my top until it showed my bra strap. I turned around a little so he could see it. I couldn’t see it but I knew very well what laid there. One big scar shaped like a half moon going from my lower back, tracing my ribs and ending just beneath my right breast.

I barely felt Chibs’ hands touching the scar, I had lost most of my sensibility on it. It was deep, like his cheek scars were.

“Jaysus Chriost.” I would have laughed because of his accent if it was another situation. “What did he do?”

“He threw me against a mirror. He picked up a shard and said that he was gonna cut my throat. He was drunk, laughing the whole time. I didn’t think he was serious. When he hit me it was just punches. It had never gotten to this point.” The words started pouring out so fast. I had never talked about it with anyone and now I was speaking so fast, like I was in a hurry to get it out. “But this time.. It was like he was possessed or something. He was just so angry. He beat me so much I could barely see anymore, my nose was broken and I couldn’t breathe properly either.”

My voice got very small and I shook my head when tears filled my eyes, kinda glad I still had my back to Chibs. His hand was resting on my back now. “Pete got distracted and I tried to run for the bathroom to lock myself in there but he went to grab me. Unfortunately he tried to grab me with the hand holding the mirror shard and cut me up. He knew he had fucked up when he saw me bleeding out like I was the red sea, thought he had finally killed me, and he left. Left me there to die. I managed to get to the phone and call an ambulance. One month on the hospital.”

I pulled my tank top down and sat up straight. I cast a tear-filled glance at Chibs and took a long drag out of my cigarette. I looked up so the unshed tears would dry faster. Drunk-crying was the worst thing -- when it started it just wouldn’t stop and I was in no mood for crying in a date. Should’ve stopped myself before I shed my life story on Chibs, too.

“And this... Pete? He in jail?” Chibs asked between ground teeth.

“No. He’s on the lam. Police still looking for him. I was afraid he would come back and finish the job so I got out of Sacramento. Came here.”

Chibs took a deep breath and took the cigarette from my hands. I watched him take a drag from it. He looked mad as hell.

“What’s his full name?”

“Chibs, don’t. It’s been three years, he’s not finding me.” I didn’t feel very confident about that but I felt the need to say it.

“His full name, Vivi.”

“I’m not giving it to you. The club just got into the right track. Keep it that way.”

“I’m not putting this on th’ club. It’s on me.” He leaned close and raised one brow to make it clear.

“No, it isn’t.” I said stubbornly. “It’s my problem. Look, I appreciate you wanting to help and I know that help in this case means you killing Pete, I really do. If he comes knocking you can blow his head off, okay? I’ll even help. But let’s leave things as they are.”

We stared at each other. He with his eyes narrowed and I intensely, hoping he would really listen to me. Suddenly he clicked his tongue.

“Thas why yer a crow eater, innit? To get protection if he comes after ye.”

“Don’t judge me.” I said, snatching my cigarette back from his hand.

“I’m not judging, darlin’. It’s just that if he does comes after ye, it’s not yer problem or mine. It’s club bussiness.”

Great. Now Chibs probably saw me as someone trying to get advantage of the club. Which I kinda was doing but I didn’t expect to grow fond of the guys. Or to make friends with the other crow eaters. Hell, I got so friendly with Gemma she used to invite me to dinners at her place and I helped her cook, too. I had been just getting friends with Kozik when he was blown up. I didn’t expect any of it. I didn’t expect to see them all as family. A family I occasionally fucked a few members of, but still. I could try to explain all that to Chibs but it would sound lame now that he had figured it out.

“Look, I’m sorry. But it was the club or the police and I don’t trust cops.” I flicked off the ash of my cigarette. There was barely anything left, just the butt mostly. I looked up to see Chibs’ reaction. He was shaking his head to the sides.

“Ye don’t have to apologize. I get it. It brought ya ‘ere with me. If ye hadn’t become a crow eater, I wouldn’t have met ye and I wouldn’t be able to do this.” He leaned down and kissed me without a warning.

I let out a little surprised sound which was quickly drowned when I kissed him back. I dropped the rest of my cigarette so I could put my arms around his neck and bring myself closer. His hands circled my waist, touching the bare skin on my lower back, and pressed me closer.

He nipped at my lips and I parted them, granting his tongue entrance. He kissed me deeply, growing rougher when I moaned into the kiss. One of his hands left my waist to grab the back of my head, his fingers disappeared into my blonde hair to keep me close.

I did my best not to break the kiss as I moved to straddle him. I moved my hips against his instinctively and he groaned into my mouth as he placed both hands on my hips. He moved me back and forth on top of him as we kissed. I could feel him growing hard between my legs.

I leaned back for a second so he could pull my top over my head. And that’s when the door swung open.

We broke the kiss to look at Tig, lipstick smeared all over his face. He looked at both of us with raised brows.

“Sorry about interrupting, but Alvarez is here, boss. Says he needs to talk to you.”

“Impeccable timin’.” Chibs groaned and rolled his eyes. “Tell the bastard I’ll be there in a minute.” he told Tig.

Tig nodded and walked out.

Chibs and I looked at each other and sighed. He went to get one more kiss but I climbed off him before he could. He frowned at me, almost pouting. I couldn’t help but giggle.

“If you kiss me again I won’t let you leave. ” I told him with a little smirk.

He handed me my tank top and my denim jacket. I noticed Chibs staring at my boobs as I pulled the tank top on. My loins tightened a little when I imagined all the things we could do. I pulled the jacket on next.

I cast a little glance at the clock and saw that it was past midnight, almost one in the morning. “I should probably get going, too. I have the morning shift on work.”

“Ah, darlin’, yer really gon’ leave me like this?” He pointed at his crotch, his erection creating a bulge there.

I laughed, grabbed his kutte and pulled him close. “I’ll take care of that tomorrow. Lunch?” He nodded. “You know where I work, pick me up there.” I stood on my tip toes so I could speak near his ear. I grabbed his crotch and moved my hand up and down once. “See you tomorrow, stud.”

I backed away and caught Chibs looking at me like I had just poured the greatest treason on him. I chuckled at his bad acting and started to leave.

“Now thas jus’ mean, lass.” he said, following me out the room. He closed the door behind us.

“Just keeping you interested.” I said with a grin.

Chibs gave me a half smile and one last lingering look before he turned towards Alvarez.

I caught Lyla’s eyes when I made my way to the exit. She raised her eyebrows at me and I did a little air humping for good measure. She was still laughing when I got out of Red Woody.

@telford-ortiz-teller

@sam-samcro

@grungedaddykinks

#chibs telford #chibs smut #chibs imagine #filip telford #soa #samcro #samcro smut #sons of anarchy #tig trager #lyla winston #herman kozik #gemma teller #vivi crane #oc #a little wicked

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