#vintage in this case is a bit of a stretch but its like from a significant-ish event

[sharksliveontrains]

seeing someone wearing a vintage hat you can’t buy anymore. screaming crying throwing up

[perceptivehands]

Oooh, hello! "Coffee smell" (or "vintage dress," if you work better if you have ✨options✨) for Phrack in case you do decide to do something with the list 👀☕️💕

Thank you for being the only person who actually sent me something lmao! Appreciated! I picked "Vintage dress" because it reminded me of a silly exchange I had with @ozqueen recently, where we came up with the following scenario. Naturally, I wanted her to write a little something about it but your prompt kind of spurred me on. Does it make sense? Not really.

“Ja-ackk... get it off. Now please.” “I’m trying, Miss Fisher. If you would just stand still for a second, let me —”

A barely audible whimper escaped her quivering mouth as she stomped her heeled foot like a stubborn child that didn’t get what it wanted. On second thought, a child would have been easier to handle than an agitated and slightly panicked Miss Fisher who refused to cooperate even when it was for her own benefit.

Interrupting his musings, she unexpectedly turned around in a flash, fidgeting and flailing with her arms, the expression on her face transforming into one of disgust. “Urgh, I felt it moving! I can feel it crawling on my back, Jack, do something!”

The man in question couldn’t suppress a slightly exasperated eye roll, the one he had reserved specifically for Phryne-is-giving-me-grief situations. “Hold still, woman. I can’t see where it is if you keep moving around like a toddler.” To make a point and to stop her from moving, he did something risqué and stepped on the hem of her dress that, conveniently, reached all the way to the floor. He inwardly prayed she wouldn’t be miffed about it as long as he managed to get the spider off of her. What he didn’t anticipate, though, was that the jumping spider suddenly decided to switch location in one giant leap, only to end up on the side of her neck.

What happened next was akin to something out of his admittedly inappropriate night dreams that featured the lady detective quite frequently as of late. As soon as Phryne felt the ticklish little eight legs against her skin she let out a high pitched scream and leaped, practically imitating her arachnid nemesis, forward, as though hopping about like a bouncy ball would solve the problem. No, it caused another, entirely different one. The stretch between the hem of the dress trapped underneath his shoe and Phryne’s hasty movements caused the elasticity of the dress to yield. The fabric began to tear all the way from the bottom to the top seem where it connected with the strapless bodice hugging the curves of her torso. The dress lost its hold and layers of shiny, presumably expensive fabric fell off her body like the skin of a peeled onion. 

Phryne must have either not registered what had happened or simply did not care. Her fearful eyes flicking to and fro in desperate search for the sneaky creature. It must have escaped for good as it was no longer resting on the smooth expanse of her neck, Jack concluded almost enviously, after he had finally managed to tear his eyes away from her barely clad form.

“I-is it gone?” she whispered. “I think so.” A heavy sigh of relief escaped her ruby lips and her bare shoulders slumped in a relaxed manner. It was only then that she noticed her state of undress, her eyes widening in shock this time. “My dress! Oh no!” “I will get you a new one," he offered remorsefully, "I apologize.” “Ah don’t be silly! There is no need. Madame Fleuri, however, shall never hear of this or she’ll rip my head off. Oh well, nothing the lovely Dot couldn’t fix. It’s vintage and basically irreplaceable...," she paused. "And so is the lingerie. At least that one’s still intact. Perhaps... you could check... just to make sure?” She lowered her eyelashes coquettishly and dropped the remaining fabric that had clung to her frame only a second prior, revealing a rather sheer forest green set of a silk cami set that was covering only the most necessary bits of pale rosy flesh. It left little to Jack’s imagination. To be fair, he had seen her in less, the pink feathers of her dance interlude branded into his memory most likely forever. But the lingerie currently facing him looked outright lethal on her. He closed his eyes, forcing his brain to revert back to professional Robbo mode.  “You’re killing me, Miss Fisher,” is all he could mutter under the circumstances, unsure if it wasn’t just one of his fervent dreams after all. Either way, undaunted by his previous faux pas, Jack decided to take yet another risk. He slipped out of his coat and draped it around her bare shoulders, purposely avoiding her fiery, curious gaze as he pulled, with slightly shaky hands, the first two buttons through the holes. And if his fingers happened to skim her flushed skin underneath in the process, it was entirely accidental of course.

~~~~~~~ * ~~~~~~~~ Trigger for this idea was this picture of Essie. Someone please reassure us that this is in fact badly photoshopped and not an actual chair standing on her dress. Who on earth would let something like that slide? 😂

[carryforthtradition]

Hedge Laying, 5th May, 2020

Hedge laying trip

It was the Great Hedge Laying Trip last Thursday. I’d taken myself and husband Neil, cameraman, up to Richmond overnight. We had no idea where we were as we’d just followed Stephen in our car to somewhere near Bedale in North Yorkshire the next morning. Me and Stephen have known each other since we were born, our mums are childhood friends. We arrived on the edge of a farm where the hedge that they’d laid already stretched off into the distance and fighter jets were flying around from RAF Leaming, so it was quite noisy. I did have a go at this years ago but I couldn’t remember what to do, but was eager to have another go. He had told me this hedgerow was planted about 10 years ago with hedge laying in mind (the farmer he works for is a top man! I hope to meet him one day, he sounds very conscientious and a forward planner regarding conservation, I’d love to interview him and see what I can learn) so now is the time to actually lay the hedge…and all the trees are mainly Hawthorn, Blackthorn a bit of Gelder Rose, a bit of Dog Rose, Holly and Field Maple.

Stephen’s background is a degree in countryside management and conservation work. He works for conservation charities and is now self-employed doing hedge laying in the winter and working for a nature reserve. This job came about from the landowner in Well who knew he did hedge laying and needed hedge laying all over his land.

“Loads of it.” As Stephen put it “He’s passionate about his hedgerows.”

“Let’s talk about tools. What have we got?” I asked.

“There’s two types of billhooks here, there’s loads available, regional styles. This is a Yorkshire billhook, which is probably the biggest, well it is the biggest one.  And that’s a Stafford Pattern. And they’re principally the tools. A pair of loppers, it makes it easier. Obviously chain saw for the bigger stuff.”

He’d bought his billhooks from the Vintage Tool Shop.  The idea with a billhook is that you just cut so far through the tree, enough that it’s pliable enough to bend over without snapping, but not too much that you lose the tree.  (What is a billhook?)

Photo of me using a billhook. Notice the cut, in this case, is on the right of the trunk as it will be laid down to my left. Enough of the trunk is left attached so it doesn’t snap, which needs really careful attention, otherwise the trunk is completely cut through rendering it unable to be incorporated into the hedge. The tree may not die, depending on the species, but would take years to grow to a suitable height for the hedge.

He went on to explain that billhooks are used for the laying. In years gone by, people would have used axes but nowadays they use a chainsaw to speed things up because people have to make a living out of it. Centuries ago, all the agricultural labourers would have worked together on it. Most hedges were planted, and dry stone walls, in the 1600’s mainly, because that was the main ‘Inclosure Act’ of 1773 was passed in this country, where all the land was divided up and farming methods changed. It is still in act today. “Do they have original hedgerows still growing around? Have you ever come across any really ancient ones?” I asked.

And I was really pleased as he said “Yes, I’ve laid one up in Well which was, well they don’t know exactly how old it is but it’s generations and generations, so it’s hundreds of years old.”  And that “it’s been laid before obviously, and by laying a hedge, you’re promoting the length of its life because of the regrowth.”

Interested to know about what management has to be done once a hedge has been laid, as I assumed it would be just like trimming off the tops and the sides he said

“You can let it grow back up and re-lay it, or if, because it’s quite expensive to lay them, you generally let them grow up, keep trimming them and they  just get denser and denser until eventually there will come a point where you will need to let it grow up and re-lay it again. The whole point of laying it is that if you don’t lay them, this is a newly planted hedge about 10, 12 years ago, if you don’t lay them and just keep trimming them, they just get gappy at the bottom. And the whole idea is that it’s stockproof. And if it’s all gappy at the bottom livestock can get underneath it.”

So what livestock, sheep, or just any?

“Sheep, cows. You’ve got various regional styles of hedge laying depending on what stock you have. This is laid in a Yorkshire style, but it’s actually staked in a Lancashire style (laughing) the purists wouldn’t like it, but originally the Yorkshire style would have had stakes down the middle with a top rail fastened on because it’s laid so low, it’s laid much lower than other hedges. Most people think of the Midland Bullock Hedge which is more at 45 degree angle and it’s got the woven hazel on the top as binders, whereas the Yorkshire one just had a rail on. Each region developed different styles depending on what they had. In Yorkshire it was uplands, so there was coppices, no abundance of hazel and stuff to coppice, to weave for binding, so they used to put a rail on, just so it was stock proof for the first season.”

He said it’s just nailed on top of the posts and it doesn’t look very pretty, but it’s not necessary on his hedges, so there’s no point doing it. If you were in a competition you would have to do it because that’s the style but his hedge doesn’t need it because it’s fenced in and next to an arable field, so it doesn’t need to be stock proofed.

Once this hedge has been laid, it will just keep growing forever as long as somebody manages it. They’ll let it grow up to the height they want and then they’ll keep trimming it and it will just get denser and denser and then eventually, probably in 20 years maybe, maybe longer, they’ll let it grow up a bit more and then they’ll re-lay it again.

The thorns of the blackthorn are lethal, I’ve had them in me a few times. They’ve got some bacteria that lives on it’s tips, so when you get the blackthorn in you, it hurts, it swells, and some people get infection from it. So gloves! Always wear your gloves!

Then it was time for me watch Stephen demonstrate how to do it and then for me to have a go. For my first attempt, I was chipping away, using far too many cuts to lay one, which amused the onlookers and Stephen said try not to put my billhook in the soil which made us all laugh! Then I got stuck on the fence so Stephen had to free me.  For my next attempt I made 1 cut to the next tree which was sufficient enough to lay it, getting my street cred back!

Everyone joined in laying some hedge and Stephen was preparing the trees for laying with the chain saw, to which my husband said ‘There’s no stopping him now, he’s off, it’s what he was like driving this morning when we were to keep up!

Bob, who has worked with Stephen for years had joined us at this point. He said “It’s fantastic how it comes again, isn’t it?”

Hedges are laid uphill so the sap can rise. If you lay a tree downhill you’ve got to bend the trunk more so there’s more danger of snapping it. Essentially, it’s like coppicing as the regrowth comes from the base of each stem or the tree trunk, (some regions call hedge laying ‘Pleaching’) and you get regrowth along the stems as well. These are all living because you’ve preserved enough sapwood and bark so they will regrow, but eventually the trunk you have laid will die, but by the time they’ve died, you’ve got all the regrowth from the base.

 My gloves were too big, and kept falling off. I spent time pushing down the branches to keep the laid hedge low and yes, I got black-thorned straight through my glove, straight into my knuckle, but I laughed it off as it is all part of the process!

All in all, we had a fantastic day which I will always remember, thank you Stephen! Photo - ‘I’ve been black-thorned! It really hurts!’

[chartmains]

Omega pocket watch

#OMEGA POCKET WATCH MOVIE#

But even without that strange bit of Q gadgetry, this watch is set to be a surefire winner at auction. No word on whether or not you will also be equipped to detonate your enemy’s eyes after buying this watch. The watch also plays a pivotal role in the movie-spoiler alert-when 007 uses its electromagnetic-blast function to explode his archnemesis’s bionic eye. But the headliner is the Seamaster Diver 300M, the special Bond-edition watch made just for this movie, and that that Craig helped design.

#OMEGA POCKET WATCH MOVIE#

There’s the pretty blue-dialed Aqua Terra 150m Craig starts off the movie wearing. And these are the real deal: two actual watches Daniel Craig wore in 2021’s No Time to Die. The Bond-edition Seamaster Craig wore in No Time to Die Jon StokesĪs part of a “Sixty Years of James Bond” set that includes a whole underground bunker’s worth of spy gear- Tom Ford tuxes! Aston Martin replicas! A friggin’ bionic eye!-Christie’s is bringing two of Bond’s actual watches to auction. Two of James Bond’s watches are coming up for auction Here are the watches worth paying attention to these next few months. This hunter-gatherer approach has teed up the next few months of auctions to be one of the most fun and diverse stretches in recent history. The other reason is that when auction houses can’t find a great watch to sell, they can just make one: calling on special-edition pieces or launching others into space. One reason for this seeming glut is that good results breed good sellers: as auctions continue to perform, people are more eager to dig into their proverbial couch cushions for long-lost treasures. In 1948 the Seamaster was introduced, followed by the Constellation in 1952, the Speedmaster in 1957 and the De Ville in 1960.How is it that there seems to be an endless supply of rare, incredible, one-of-a-kind watches? I keep waiting for a press release from an auction house to hit my inbox that says, like, I don’t know, man, we ran out and got some G-Shocks-you know anybody who could take them off our hands? And instead, without fail, there’s always a one-of-three (!) Cartier shaped like a protective headcloth (!!) that was exclusively awarded to back-to-back victors of a treacherous 6,200-mile race (!!!) someone just happened to have lying around. As a result from these achievements, Omega was appointed official timekeeper for the 1932 Olympics. Omega won numerous medals for precision timekeeping in chronometers trials. In 1903 Omega was employing well over 800 employees and producing over 240.000 watches a year, making it the biggest Swiss watch manufacturer of that era. in 1903, the decision was made to sell al watches produced by the company under the name Omega. Soon after, this calibre was named Omega, the letter that stands for perfection in the Greek Alphabet. The company started to focus on industrializing the manufacturing of watches and making parts interchangeable. The company collected watch parts manufactured by craftsmen in the region and assembled then into complete watches. Omega Watch Co was founded in La Chaux de Fonds in 1948 by Louis Brandt, under the name La Generale watch Co. 601, very good condition, fully overhauled, 12 months warranty Some background information Hands: original hands, very good conditionĬase: very good condition, sharp case, shows signs of wearĬrown: original Omega crown, good conditionĬrystal: original acrylic crystal, signed with Omega logo, no scratches The movement has been fully overhauled and is seems that it’s been used very little since the movement is in fantastic condition.ĭial: fully original and in fantastic condition The nice & heavy case is made from solid 18K yellow gold and it so slim that it will fit any pocket. Pocket watches from this era, like this beautiful example, are very suitable to be worn & used, since they combine the charm of a vintage pocket watch with the reliability & sturdiness of the movements Omega made during the 1960’s. Dressy & classy! This pocket watch by Omega was made in the end of the 1960’s, just before the quartz crisis hit the Swiss watch industry.

[whittakernxjwaters]

How To Identify And Acquire Vintage Clothing

If you want to purchase vintage clothing or perhaps accessories you should assume to pay the identical price as the prices of the newest collection offered or perhaps even even more. The vintage industry like almost any other industry is divided inside two parts: the first part is the particular authentic vintage products market which are usually more expensive tend to be both collectibles enabling you make the fashion statement; and the second element is the produced vintage products market which offers cheap items that copy the particular design as well as the stuff, but which are truly produced very lately.

There are the few things you need to keep in mind when looking for vintage outfits. Most of the times the size is given with regards to hip, waist, plus bust measurements, thus if you simply know your sizing you will possibly not be in a position to buy typically the product. Carefully read all the info provided together with the product. Typically the authentic vintage clothing information will have details about just about all the details with the product, existent damages, material made from, original color and even present color, 12 months of fabrication in the event that possible and also artist. They will likewise provide several images showing the merchandise from different sides so that you can asses the condition.

A lot of times real vintage clothes are already worn, in a great condition. They are called vintage outfits because they are supposed to be to another period of time of times, and it rarely happens that individuals buy clothes and do not wear them from all and do not offer them away. A new or nearly new vintage clothing piece could be a very expensive item such as an evening gown that one can wear only in certain occasions. Plenty of famous people or not so renowned but very abundant people have celebration outfits they just wear once, in addition to give them apart because of diverse reasons. When this can be a case their clothes products can turn out to be vintage clothing products that look extremely good , nor actually look like they've been worn.

Know Your Vintage Clothing Situation

Because vintage clothing is not new, it is necessary that you appropriately be familiar with condition regarding a garment. A few sellers count on the naming system that will help a person assess what you could expect when an individual buy vintage clothing and accessories upon eBay. Here's a record of terms through the Fashion-Era Web site.

*Mint: An object is as best and pristine as when it seemed to be originally made and even shows no indication of wear (mint condition is exceptional for vintage clothing).

*Near mint: A good item shows just the slightest signs of wear.

*Excellent: A specific thing shows typical indications of wear due to be able to occasional use.

*Very good: An product is considered wearable but has a few surface flaws (staining or soiling, with regard to example).

*Good: A good item is wearable but should not be delivered to excellent problem even if fixing are made.

Regarding course, the elderly a piece regarding clothing is, the particular more likely this will display symptoms of its era. Signs of put on can be expected. Although situation ranks as the main buying consideration for vintage clothing, it's not while crucial for old items.

Don't get something that a person consider inferior merely because it offers a popular brand name. Ask the seller to specify any damage or irregularities some sort of garment might have. In addition to don't rely entirely on an issue term if a person are unsure of the quality of the garment.

As intended for size, it can be a new good idea to buy a small big. If a bit of vintage clothing is usually particularly old, that might not stand up to stretching. In addition, may rely on contemporary sizing. Because antique clothing is by past eras, sizes will be different from 10 years to decade and even from manufacturer in order to manufacturer.

https://www.google.com/maps/embed?pb=!1m18!1m12!1m3!1d2512.141342276928!2d11.031020700000001!3d50.976577999999996!2m3!1f0!%20%3Ca%20href=

[kaplanflynn9]

hermes mini kelly 14

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Lastly, the Lettres au Carré Kelly is customary similarly to the Lettre Kellys but carried out using the headband design of the same name. Colloquially known as the “waffle” Kelly, these Kelly luggage are a step above the remainder by method of manufacturing complexity. The method involves stretching Hermès’s heritage Box Calf leather-based over a steel trellis, giving the leather-based an surprising softness. IIn 2016, Hermès shocked some clients when they began to supply a group of luggage that seemed like a particular order, however lacked the iconic and fascinating Horseshoe stamp. These bags have been titled “Verso”, in reference to the contrasting interiors that give these bags an interior shock. Derived from the French word for “flash”, the Éclat collection extends far beyond merely the Kelly line. wikipedia handbags Whether the ultimate product is a silk carréin a kaleidoscope of colors, or a chunky lacquer H-bangle, every Hermès object evokes the posh of the brand. Now, the above is retail pricing … What really blows our mind are the Kelly 20 costs within the secondary market. However steep you could assume $8000, resellers demand multiples of that. It’s common to see these listed with value tags of $30,000 – $40,000. Stitching is not solely one thing that's visible however it plays a massive role in making or breaking the bag. If the stitching is poorly carried out, then 99% of the time bag will not be as strong or safe. Counterfeit brands always have issues in phrases of replicating the fonts. In this case, letters on the authentic mannequin are engraved but not as deep as it is in the proper image. The replica letters are supposed to be bigger however paler simply as shown on the unique model. When it comes to the branded objects, the symmetry and flawlessness of the details is one thing we absolutely adore. To know extra information about Hermes bags and equipment, go to the Hermes Bag Reference Guideand Accessories Guide. Dana is a fragile dreamer, they say, arriving in Paris four years in the past, for love, and the town has been constantly altering her life since then. Hers is a world of books, , expos, long walks sur les quais de Seine, pink skies, nice wine and peonies. For the extra adventurous, the Kelly Cut Clutch has dramatic proportions paired with the traditional Kelly-style sangle closure. “I highly suggest buying a vintage piece from a good source,” notes Koffsky, who deals with Hermès pieces on a daily basis. Auction homes are a good place to begin out for these looking for rarer fashions, with the likes of Vestiaire Collective, 1stDibs, Hardly Ever Worn It and Collector Square all major players in the luxurious resale market. Spotted Fashion was started in January of 2011, it’s a luxurious designer useful resource and information web site for these who are thinking about studying about coveted luxury brands corresponding to Chanel, Celine, Louis Vuitton, Hermes and extra. In 2009, a plaque was positioned on the "Rodeo Drive Walk of Style" in recognition of her contributions to style and fashion. In 1955, Kelly was photographed by Howell Conant in Jamaica. He photographed her with out makeup in a naturalistic setting, a departure from the traditional portrayal of actresses. The resulting pictures have been published in Collier's, with a celebrated photo of her rising from the water with moist hair making the quilt. Following Grace's marriage, Conant was the unofficial photographer to the House of Grimaldi and extensively photographed her, Rainier, and their three youngsters. In 1992, Conant revealed Grace, a book of photographs that he took throughout her 26-year tenure as Princess of Monaco. Many folks prefer Black, but style is all about individuality — you can find Blue, Red and more choices on these pages. There aren’t many items for men if you’re seeking these equipment, as many of the choices available are for women and unisex. This uncommon Mini Picnic Kelly Bag is in Gold swift leather-based and Osier wicker with palladium plated hardware and has contrast stitching, two straps with toggle closure, single rolled deal with and shoulder/crossbody strap. This uncommon Mini Picnic Kelly Bag is in Bleu du Nord swift leather and Osier wicker with palladium plated hardware and has tonal stitching, two straps with toggle closure, single rolled handle and shoulder/crossbody strap. Named after Grace Kelly, late Princess of Monaco, the Kelly bag has a specific story behind it. Believed to be an adjunct used to disguise the Princess’ pregnancy belly, the general public started to refer to it utilizing her name. I knew I simply had to swing and go otherwise John would. It’s tough out there, the wind’s picked up, quite a bit of chatter,” said a wired Seth on the beach. With a history dating back to Quiksilver’s ‘mini-guns’ trips in 2007 , Kanoa and Kelly have a much nearer relationship than you would possibly assume from two men with a 25-year-age gap. Each new version of the bag maintains the identical iconic shape however with fresh color palettes, prints, artist collaborations, and sportier takes to keep up with the times—which means maintaining with the age of the smartphone. This week Hermès debuted the Kelly Mini II, a bag just large enough for your phone and cute sufficient to have you mentally justifying the investment. phoenet.tw replica mini kelly In 2015, Hermès took a delicate twist on the Kelly bag utilizing the resin casing as a point of interest. Often ignored, the casing on an Hermès handbag performs a vital position in shade identification, as nicely as holding the entire leather in place and giving each bag a quality completed look. The Contour line, as it is recognized, comes in Birkin and Kelly silhouettes and pairs a contrasting contour color on a muted physique shade.

[niebuhrcarstensen5]

Fashion Week Must

Chanel belt, size 80, in silver chain with yellow leather-based. It has a hook closure, and a yellow CC charm.The situation of the belt is good. Beautiful Chanel belt 'Paris-Edinburgh', in black lamb leather-based entirely trimmed with many buttons in tweed, aged gold metallic and pearls. Chanel Vintage 90's Runway Collector COCO CHANEL Gold Letters Belt Necklace Rare Vintage Chanel belt from 1993 featured in gold with black leather-based intertwined. ・Due to its classic nature, the merchandise shows signs of normal put on. I had this belt in mind for about two years however didn’t begin checking daily until about six months before I bought it. It was well price the wait because I love how it pairs with my outfits a lot I don’t really feel the necessity to purchase one other. Avvenice selects solely classic merchandise that have glorious conditions, but minimal imperfections aren't excluded. 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From 1970 to 2010, the MP for North Antrim was Ian Paisley, a Free Presbyterian minister well-known for his theological fundamentalism. The town of Ballymena, the largest city in the constituency, is often referred to as the "buckle" of the Bible Belt. Conservative Laestadianism, a Finnish Lutheran revival, is widespread in northern (Northern Ostrobothnia and Lapland ) and central parts of Finland. Chanel bags and purses are carried by every notable woman on the earth, and a pair of Chanel sun shades is the ultimate contact of cool to add to any outfit. Chanel will all the time be relevant, held up as a shining example of what trend ought to be. Authentic Chanel glasses, belts, bags and other gadgets can be found second-hand at REBELLE.com. cheap chanel belt replica Karl Lagerfeld is a German fashion designer, artist and photographer who has labored for numerous well-known houses and been concerned in numerous inventive collaborations. This type has an adjustable chain with oval links and a clasp closure to add a little bit of luster to your denims, trousers, and attire. Hermès is the crème-de-la-crème of luxury, so it ought to be no surprise that the model takes this class. The Kelly 18 belt is sophisticated in that it has a low-profile sliding system, quite than traditional building with holes, for a one-size-fits-all belt that may be worn on the waist or on the hips. Chanel Very Rare Vintage 1990’s Houndstooth Vanity Case Crossbody Bag Black and white houndstooth cloth with black clean leather trim Lid with magnetic snap closure Gold-tone ha... Complete your looks with this superb Chanel belt! Circa Eighties, this belt is crafted from glossy brown crocodile and features a gold plated CC buckle. Chanel Matelasse bags and other Chanel bags can be found on 1stDibs. 70s masterpiece gripoix gold mesh belt in wonderful situation . Claudia Schiffer walked the Atelier Versace runway in a cropped jacket and mini skirt with a bubble chain belt tied tight across her bare stomach. Throughout the '90s, Versace created many influential designs that incorporated parts of jewelry—like rhinestones, chain print, and metallic pigments—with clothing. This merchandise is pre-owned with multiple flaws and/or signs of wear. May included however not limited to, indicators of abrasion, pilling, and tears on seams. Flaws are most probably repairable or already repairs. A new report entitled "" by Market Research Intellect sheds gentle on the dynamics of the industry and current and future tendencies that play a key role in determining the expansion of the corporate. The report also highlights the primary driving elements and constraints affecting growth. wikipedia belt For a complete understanding, the consultants examined regulatory scenarios, market entry methods, trade best practices, pricing methods, the technological and consumer setting, sales and demand prospects. It also included growth estimates to supply users with correct statistics and facts. The report will provide readers with a broader and clear image of the overall scenario. The glamorous mannequin showcased her stunning figure in a sheer curve-hugging top in black as she reclined on the couch, as she continued to nurse her foot damage.

[chomelton76]

hermes scarf replica 15

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hermes pochette kelly 12

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fake gucci scarf 16

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[bananaofswifts]

Taylor Swift Turns on a Facsimile Machine for the Ingenious Recreations of ‘Fearless (Taylor’s Version)’: Album Review

Swift recreates her entire 2008 album literally down to the last note, then gives herself room for stylistic latitude on six never-before-recorded "vault" tracks.

By Chris Willman

Swift recreates her entire 2008 album literally down to the last note, then gives herself room for stylistic latitude on six never-before-recorded "vault" tracks.

There is no “best actress” award at the Grammys, perhaps for obvious reasons, but maybe there should be this coming year. And the Grammy would go to… Taylor Swift, for so persuasively playing her 18-year-old self in “Fearless (Taylor’s Version),” her beyond-meticulous recreation of the 2008 recording that did win her her first album of the year trophy back in the day. It’s impossible to overstate just how thoroughly the new version is intended as an exact replica of the old — all the way down to her startling ability to recapture an untrained teen singing voice she’s long matured and moved on from. It’s a stunt, to be sure, but a stunt for the ages — mastering the guile it takes to go back to sounding this guileless.

There are two different, very solid reasons to pick up or stream “Taylor’s Version,” regardless of whether you share her ire for the Big Machine label, whose loose ways with her nine-figure catalog precipitated this, the first in a six-album series of remakes where she’ll be turning on the facsimile machine. One is to marvel at her gift for self-mimicry on the album’s original tracks, where she sounds as possessed by her younger self as Regan ever was by Pazuzu. The other reason is, of course, to check out the six “vault” numbers that Swift wrote during that time frame but has never released before in any form, which dispenses with stylistic fealty to the late 2000s and frames her “Fearless”-era discards in production and arrangements closer to “Folklore.” Those half-dozen (kind of) new tracks really do sound like modern Taylor Swift covering her old stuff.

But those original lucky 13? It’s the same damn record… which is kind of hilarious and marvelous and the kind of meta-ness that will inspire a thousand more think-pieces than it already has, along with possibly efforts at forensic analysis to figure out how she did it.

It would not be surprising if, as we speak, Big Machine was putting a combined team of scientists and lawyers on the case of the new album’s waveform readouts, to make sure it’s not just the original album, remixed. Honestly, it’s that close. The timings of the songs are all within a few seconds of the original tracks, if not coming in at exactly the same length. The duplication effort doesn’t allow any detours. If “Forever and Always” had a cold open then, it’s going to have a cold open now. If the 2008 “That’s the Way I Love You” had slamming rock guitars with an almost subliminal banjo being plucked beneath the racket, so will the 2021 “That’s the Way I Loved You.” A drum roll to end the old “Change”? A drum roll to end its body-snatcher doppelganger. And if she chuckled before the final chorus of “Hey Stephen” 13 years ago, so will that moment be cause for a delighted giggle now.

Of course, much analysis will be put into whether the new laugh is a more knowing-sounding laugh. And that will be part of the fun for a certain segment of audiophile Swifties who will go looking for the slightest change as evidence of something meaningful. When “Love Story (Taylor’s Version)” first came out weeks back to preview the album, there were reviews written that swore she’d subtly changed up her phrasing to put a contemporary spin on the song. And maybe they were right, but, having done a fair amount of A/B testing of the two versions of the album, I found myself feeling like I do when vinyl buffs insist there are significant sonic differences between the first stamper version of an LP and one that was pressed a year later. If you can spot those very, very, very modest tweaks, go for it.

But my suspicion is that if Swift has decided to turn a phrase a little differently here or there on this album, or done anything too differently aside from brighten the sound, she’s doing it more as an Easter egg, for the people who are on that kind of hunt, than anything really designed as reinterpretation. Because the last thing Swift wants most of her fans doing is A/B-ing the two versions, the way I did. The whole point is to have folks retire the OG “Fearless” from their Spotify playlists, right? The Swift faithful were already threatening to rain down damnation on anyone caught sneaking an audio peek at the old version after midnight. What she intended was to come up with a rendering so faithful that you would never have a need to spin the vintage album again. In that, she has succeeded beyond what could have been imagined even in the dreams of the few self-forgers who’ve tried this before, like a Jeff Lynne.

Is there any reason to find value in the new versions if you couldn’t care less about the issues of masters and contracts and respect in business deals that made all this strangely possible? Yes, with the first one being that the new album just sounds like a terrific remastering of the old — the same notes, and you’d swear the same performances, but sounding brighter and punchier just on a surface level. But on a more philosophical one, it’s not just a case of Swift playing with her back catalog like Andy Warhol played with his soup can. It’s really a triumph of self-knowledge and self-awareness, in the way that Swift is so hyper-conscious of the ways she’s matured that she has the ability to un-mature before our very ears. With her vocals, it’s virtuosic, in a way, how she’s made herself return to her unvirtuosic upstart self.

On Swift’s earliest albums and in those seminal live shows — at the time when she was famously being told she “can’t sing,” to quote a song from the follow-up album — there was a slight shrillness around the edges of her voice that, if you lacked faith, you might’ve imaged would be there forever. It wasn’t. That was partly youth, and partly just the sheer earnestness with which she wanted to convey the honesty of the songs. She’s advanced so much since then — into one of pop’s most gifted modern singers, really — that the woman of “Folklore” and “Evermore” seems like a completely different human being than the one who made the self-titled debut and “Fearless,” never mind just a woman versus girl. It wouldn’t have seemed possible that she could go back to her old way of singing at the accomplished age of 31, but she found and recreated that nervous, sincere, pleading voice of yesteryear. And maybe it was just a technical feat, of temporarily unlearning what she’s learned since then, but you can sense that maybe she had to go there internally, too, to the place where she was counseling other girls to guard their sexual virtue in “Fifteen,” or wondering whether to believe the fairy tale of “Love Story” or the wakeup call of “White Horse,” or proving with “Forever & Always” that writing a song telling off Joe Jonas for his 27-second breakup call was better than revenge.

If at first you’re not inclined to notice that Swift has re-adopted a completely different singing voice for the “Fearless” remakes, the realization may kick in when those “vault” tracks start appearing in the later stretch of this hour-and-50-minute album. The writing on the six songs that have been pulled up from the 2008 cutting room floor seems primitive, even a little bit by the standards of the “Fearless” album; there are great lines and couplets throughout the rescued tracks, but you can see why she left them as works-in-progress. But she doesn’t use her youthful voice on these resurrections, nor does she employ the actual style of “Fearless” very strictly. Of course, she feels more freedom on these, because there are no predecessors in the Big Machine catalog she’s asking you to leave behind. Her current collaborators of choice, Jack Antonoff and Aaron Dessner, divided the co-producing work on these fresher songs, as they did for the two all-new albums she released in the last year. (The “Fearless” recreations are co-produced by Swift with Christopher Rowe, someone who worked on remixes for Swift back in that era.) They co-produce the vault songs in a style that sounds somewhere between “Fearless” and Folklore”… a more spectral brand of country-pop, with flutes and synths and ringing 12-string guitars and a modicum of drum programming replacing some (but not all) of the acoustic stringed instruments you’d expect to be carried over from “Fearless” proper.

Of the previously unheard tracks, Swift was right — she’s always been her own best self-editor — in putting out “You All Over Me” first, in advance of the album. With its imagery of half-muddy stones being upturned on the road, this song has advanced lyrical conceits more of a piece with the level of writing she’s doing now than some of the slightly less precocious songs that follow. Still, there’s something to be said for the sheer zippiness with which Swift conveys teen heartbreak in “Mr. Perfectly Fine,” which has a lyric that shows Swift had long since absorbed the lessons Nashville had to offer about how to come up with a high-concept song — the concept, in this case, being just to stick the word “mister” in front of a lot of phrases relating to her shallow ex, as if they were honorary titles to be conferred for being a shit, while she employs the “miss” for herself more sparingly.

Some of the remaining outtake songs go back more toward the sedate side of “Fearless”-style material; she didn’t leave any real bangers in the can. “We Were Happy,” the first of two successive tracks to bring in Keith Urban (but only for backgrounds on this one), employs fake strings and real cello as Swift waxes nostalgic for a time when “you threw your arms around my neck, back when I deserved it.” It’s funny, in a good way, to hear Swift at 31 recreating a song she wrote at 17 or 18 that pined for long-past better times. The next song, “That’s When,” brings Urban in for a proper duet where he gets a whole second verse and featured status on half a chorus, and it’s lovely to hear them together. But, as a make-up song, it doesn’t feel as real or lived-in as the more personal things she was writing at the time — and the fact that its chords are pretty close to a slightly more balladic version of the superior “You Belong With Me” was probably a pretty good reason for dropping it at the time.

the 18-year-old Taylor Swift is a great place to visit, but “Folklore” and “Evermore” are the place you’ll want to return to and live, unless you have an especially strong sentimental attachment to “Fearless”… which, sure, half of young America does. It’s not irreconcilable to say that the two albums she issued in the last year represent a daring pinnacle of her career, but that “Fearless” deserved to win album of the year in 2008. Has there been a greater pop single in the 20th century than “You Belong With Me”? Probably not. Did the album also have lesser moments you probably haven’t thought about in a while, like the just-okay “Breathe”? Yes. (I looked up to see whether Swift had ever played that little remarked upon number in concert, and according to setlists.fm, she did, exactly once… in 2018. Because she’s Taylor Swift, and of course she did.) It’s not certain that her duet with Colbie Caillat really needed to be resurrected, except it’s fun, because hey, she even roped former duet partners back into her time warp. But there are so many number that have stood the test of time, like “The Way I Love You,” an early song that really got at the complicated feelings about passion and fidelity that she would come to explore more as she grew into her 20s… and just kind of a headbanger, too, on an album that does love its fiddles and mandolins.

It doesn’t take much to wonder why Swift put up “Fearless” first in this six-album exercise; it’s one of her two biggest albums, along with “1989,” and it’s 13 years old, which does mean something superstitious in the Taylor-verse. In a way, it’ll be more interesting to see what happens when she gets to more complicated productions, like “1989” or “Reputation.” But maybe “Fearless” did present the opportunity for the grandest experiment out of the gate: to recreate something that pure and heartfelt, with all the meticulousness a studio master like Swift can put to that process now, without having it seem like she’s faking sincerity. Let the think-pieces proceed — because this is about six hundred different shades of meta. But, all craftiness and calculation aside, there’s a sweetness to the regression that’s not inconsequential. It harks back to a time when she only wondered if she could be fearless, before she learned it the harder way for sure. What they say about actors “disappearing into the role”? That really applies to Taylor Swift, playing herself.

[reidecorating]

Like Ivy

Request: “Being able to see you smile, being in your vicinity, just that is enough for me.” and “Uh, here, this is for, uh, you.” I’m thinking something Christmas-y with Reid - Anon

A/N: I do apologise for procrastinating on getting this out, but I wanted to make sure it wasn’t terrible. Merry Christmas to all of you who celebrate it, my present to you is the longest fic I have ever written. I had so much fun writing it so I hope you guys enjoy reading it! Happy holidays <3

Pairing: Spencer Reid x BAUFem!Reader

Word Count: 7.7k

Summary: Best friends yearning & best friends pining - but make it festive. Entails Secret Santa, the classic penny behind the ear and waltzing.

Warnings: Fluff, proceed with caution :)

The Cathedral of Santa Maria. Spencer had finally put his finger on it. The small glass dome encasing a building, with doors small enough to allow entrance to ladybugs who may practice religion, adorned unmistakable timely Italian architecture and ornamented pine trees, all dusted with flitters of snow. For the past week, Spencer had caught sight of the trinket each time he wandered past where it sat, as one of the few other decorations surrounding the name plate displaying in gold Times New Roman ‘DAVID ROSSI’, on the often unoccupied desk. So, he gathered that it must be important. Filing away his final stack of paperwork for the night, a silver paperclip glistening in the artificial light, Spencer made a mental note to ask the man about it the next morning. Standing from his usual office chair slouch, he stretched his limbs, feeling a series of clicks in his back as he regained his posture, only to bend back down in reach of his satchel. He made his way home giving tight lipped smiles of encouragement to the few agents sprinkled about the room, working over time. Haphazardly, he pushed the arrow pointing downwards with a cardigan clad elbow. As if on queue, his phone buzzed to the simultaneous ‘ding’ of the lift. 

I understand you’re nocturnal, but I hope you’ve gotten home by now! If not, text me when you do so, safely :) 

He didn’t realise he was grinning from ear to ear until an aggravated looking bureau member from a floor above, evidently itching to get home, cleared his throat to gain Spencer’s attention. “Sorry,” he grimaced. Noticing the button for the ground floor having already been lit up, Spencer stepped inside and stood as far away, as was possible in the small space, from the rankled looking man and his briefcase. A dimple appeared on his cheek as he remembered you, two years, three months and seventeen days ago - not that he was counting - offering him cherry scented hand sanitiser from a small bottle, and, only after he’d nodded, gently grasping the tips of his fingers to steady his shaking hand as you poured the gelid liquid into his palm. The act was so pure he chose against telling you that while alcohol based hand sanitisers reduce the number of microbes on hands in some situations, they don’t eliminate all types of germs - making soap and water the most effective way to go. Since then, you occupied his thoughts in the same way ivy grew along bricks of long forgotten towers. In abundance, in the most beautiful way. He turned his attention back to the tiny mobile he was holding. 

On my way right now. I have a date with microwaved leftovers at midnight, can’t miss it. Will do. 

The next time his phone buzzed was when he’d dozed off on the way home, using the concave pane of a metro window as a shoulder to lean against. He waited until his feet landed on the uneven pavement of his stop to open it. 

Tomorrow you have a date with a properly cooked meal, at mine. What is it that Hotch always says? That’s an order, not a request. 

Spencer’s heartbeat quickened as he read what you had written, his brain immediately carrying variables in an effort to slow it down by convincing himself that friends make each other feel this way. However, when he counted the rose flush on his cheeks and nose whenever you were around, the looks you shared which said more than words ever could and the way you held each other nearer than the distance between the sky and the ocean where they met at the horizon after close calls and mentally grappling cases, it didn’t quite equate to being just friends. Dwindling leaves clinging to their branches shuddered as scissors of winter wind pruned the trees scattered about. Spencer’s pale hands slid into his coat pockets, hiding from frostbite. On the short walk to his apartment, he admired the twinkling lights on either side of the streets, feeling as if he were a plane which had just landed upon a runway in the night. Candy canes, reindeer and eccentric portrayals of Santa Claus glowed amongst bushes and on porches, making Spencer wish you were there to see them too. It wasn’t rare he found himself wanting to share everything he did with you. Pretty things made him think of you. Eventually reaching the familiar building, tiredly, he followed wreaths and holly all the way to his undecorated apartment door. 

You? Cooking? I’ll bring a fire extinguisher. Home safe. Goodnight, sleep well. 

He kept his promise, despite seeing the time was nearing to one in the morning and being doubtful you were still awake. 

Hilarious :/ and I will, knowing you’re alive. Goodnight Spencer :) 

Spencer coveted for nights when he could tell you goodnight from right beside you, perhaps with his hand draped around your waist while yours tugged at his hair. He wanted to fall asleep to the scent of your skin and whatever soap you’d picked up from the store that week, not the quiet hum of his vintage fan. His microwave beeped, acting as an alarm to return down to earth from the clouds, presenting him with far less than gourmet potatoes. Realising he would take your burnt cooking over this any day, he settled for a sandwich.

 ∗∗∗

“Did you know that snowglobes were invented in France. They were first introduced as ‘water globes’ at the Paris Expedition Fair in 1889, and, to no surprise, the first snow globe actually contained a tiny scaled Eiffel Tower covered in snow,” Spencer lectured, almost putting the two agents who had struggled enough to get out of bed, back to sleep. The days were slow. Annual leave for a majority of the bureau was looming nearer and files kept them busy as the jet gathered dust. “Glad to hear the French contributed something, other than their opprobrium of a language, to this world,” Emily complained, from her desk. “Well, baguettes… Croissants, parachutes… Aspirin-“ Spencer was halted by the unimpressed look on Rossi’s face, as he hovered on the edge of Spencer’s table, a bushy eyebrow raised in vexation. “What’s with all this talk of snowglobes, kid?” The older man squinted at Spencer, craning his neck towards this, the way he did to suspects behind the glass of an interrogation room. “Since you brought it up,” he smiled smugly, swivelling in his chair from one side to another. “What’s the story behind the Santa Maria sitting on your desk?”

“Yeah, the eighties have come and gone, Rossi, isn’t it a bit late for repentance?” Emily let out a sly smile, walking over to also lean against Spencer’s desk with a steaming mug in hand. “It was a gift from my grandmother, handmade, I take it out every Christmas to help get in the festive mood,” Rossi explained. “Also, that was very funny Emily but now… I can’t help but recall what Garcia told me about the time you got a little tipsy and licked peanut butter off J-” 

“No one told me it was National Congregate Around Spencer Reid’s Desk Day today.” The three agents turned their heads in unison to find who the voice belonged to, Spencer’s breath hitching at the sight of you. You stood before them, an upturned magician’s hat in hand, semi-curious as to what the ending of Rossi’s sentence would have been if it weren’t for you interrupting. “Y/N!” Emily waved, flashing a smile. “You’ve taken an interest in magic and didn’t even think to tell me,” Spencer feigned a hurt look. “Spencer, I knew magic wasn’t for me after I did the card trick you taught me, wrong . Six times,”

“It was seven. Plus, the student is never as good as the teacher,” he suppressed a smile. “Or maybe the teacher just isn’t good,” you raised an eyebrow at him. “That’s a little hostile, someone didn’t get enough sleep last night,” Spencer defended himself, putting his hands in the air. His eyes held a glimmer of mischief as if to say ‘we know something that you don’t’ when they met yours. Emily’s jaw dropped. “That… Didn’t sound suggestive at all,” Rossi pursed his lips in concern, looking back and forth between the pair of furiously blushing agents. “Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t,” you winked at Rossi. Basking in the radiance of your laughter washing over him like the sun, Spencer chuckled along. “Anyway, what’s with the hat?” Emily questioned. “This,” you shook it by its brim, “contains the remaining names for this year’s Secret Santa, courtesy of Miss Penelope Garcia. I was just ordered to present it to you all. She calls it being her ‘little elf’ - I call it unpaid manual labour - but pick a name, any name,” you encouraged. You watched as Spencer’s tongue comically poked out as he eagerly concentrated on picking a name, elbow bent at a worrying angle. “I just want to say that every time I get a gift that isn’t alcohol, I’m slightly disappointed,” Emily turned to you as it was her turn to fish for a piece of paper. “I’ll keep that in mind,” you grinned at her. You watched Rossi’s expression as his eyes skimmed the name in his hands. “Oh, and Rossi, yes, there’s a budget,” you called over your shoulder, causing them to laugh as you gave them a wave. Slinking away from the comity of the bullpen, back to Mrs Claus’ lair, you retrieved the only remaining name. You paused in the hallway to double check if you’d read the glittery scrawl correctly. Spencer Reid. It was just your luck. You were prepared to engage in hand to hand combat with Garcia, seeing her office looming ahead. “Penelope. I hate you. I love you,” you kissed her cheek, placing the top hat on her curls, “but I hate you.” She recognised the tone, beaming at the implications. “Thank me later, beautiful!” She called after you as you rushed away to get started on completing the mountains of reports you had been avoiding thus far. 

The day had come to a close, a headache making a home for itself in your head. Scanning the, now, mostly empty room, you caught sight of the back of Spencer’s uncombed head. Double checking that not enough people were around to be reprimanded by HR for misconduct, you inconspicuously made your way over to him snaking your arms around his neck and burrowing your nose in its crook. “Hi,” he chuckled, amused at the sudden affection, his unoccupied hand immediately reaching to grasp one of your wrists. Spencer had followed your strict, but coffee induced, orders earlier that morning telling him not to distract you unless, one, he was dying, or two, something was on fire, because you were determined to finish the numerous write-ups you had left until today. “Hi,” you mumbled into him. “Ready to go home?” You asked sweetly, arms still slung around him, pulling your face away to get a glimpse of his soft features. Your heart stopped for a little while, at the beauty of him. He was breathtaking. You refrained from tracing the small bump of his nose with your own, and settled for admiring the five o’clock shadow presaging a hidden jaw. The part of Spencer that craved domesticity was enchanted by your simple question, the word home resounding in his head, acting as an old film reel for projections of images of the two of you together; leaving work together, going home together. Little did he know that, as if through an unnoticed telepathy, just a few inches away, the same images occupied your own head. Coming home to an empty apartment had become tedious. You allowed yourself to give into your daydreams of returning home to Spencer - with Spencer. Spencer, with his warm eyes and words that drip like syrup from his tongue. You wanted nothing more than to revel in him filling your senses once the cologne from the day had been washed away, and hear him harp on about the history of mattresses, attempting to retain questions to ask him later in your memory bank, as you capitulate to sleep. “As a matter of fact, I finished most of what I had to do last night so I am ready to go… home,” he tested out the word, to which you had assigned a brand new connotation, feeling a flutter in his chest. You quickly rescinded your arms as you peripherally detected a flock of agents returning from what you assumed was an afternoon break. Spencer suddenly missed your body on his. Having already packed your things, feeling accomplished noticing that the pile of folders on your desk had shrunk significantly, you packed Spencer’s things to save him time, aimlessly throwing the strap of his satchel over his head for him once he had ungracefully shoved his arms into a blazer. “Hang on,” you gently pulled at his shoulders to meet your height, carefully fixing his tag and creased collar. The blush on his face, at the feel of your cold fingers brushing the nape of his neck, said everything he didn’t - save a meek, “Thank you.” You smiled at him in return. “Wait,” his eyes widened, “I need this,” he mumbled, reaching into the bottom drawer of his desk, pulling out a large black bag, decorated in gold intricacies. He didn’t explain it, but you knew that if Spencer had something to say, he would come out and say it, just all in good time. “Now are you ready?” You eyed the thing curiously, and glanced back at him. “Let’s go,” he motioned his arms in front of him, with a small nod, letting you lead the way. 

Afternoon rays of sun fought their way through clouds, battling with the winter air to warm the people mingling outside as you made your way towards the crowded station. “Penny for your thoughts?” You asked, intuitively slipping an arm through his when the sun began to disappear altogether. Your cheeks grew warm as you realised your compromising position, feeling your heart rate return to its usual pace once he relaxed into your touch. “Hm?” He turned to look at you, letting his river coloured eyes unabashedly scan your face. “You look like your mind is far away,”

“What’s on my mind is definitely not very far away,” he said, quietly. That glimmer had returned. You noticed that the crease between his brows had disappeared, indicative that whatever thoughts were rattling through his brain, were good ones. You hummed a smile, content with his contentedness. “So… Hand it over,” he extended a palm a second later. “Hand what over?” You asked, genuinely confused. “A penny,” he said as if it was obvious. You blinked up at him, unfazed by the joke, as he bit his lip provokingly. All of a sudden he stopped walking, eyes still on you. “Just… Hold on a moment,” he whispered, squinting at you as he reached a hand towards your cheek. You remained still, thinking that Spencer had finally lost his mind. “Here it is!” He exclaimed, breaking out into a smile as he retrieved a one cent coin from behind your ear. “What!? You’re kidding! That was brilliant,” you beamed at him, eyes wide in bewilderment. “For a second there I thought you had gone crazy,” you teased. “Magic does that to people,” he nodded, satisfied with how impressed you seemed. “Ah, but alas, you gave me a very ambiguous answer, so I,” you snatched the penny from his fingers, “am entitled to a refund.” Spencer shook his head with a soft smile. “You might need to use that for the bus if we miss the next train,” he informed, hurriedly examining the watch on his upturned wrist. 

No trains were missed, that day, the two of you arriving at your door in time for the six o’clock news. “Here, let me take your coat,” you offered, putting it on the small rack beside the door, placing yours adjacent to it. Spencer relished in the warmth of the place, setting his things down. “So, I’m thinking we get a proper meal in us, and then you can help me decorate this dreary place,” you instructed. He wanted to let you know that anywhere you are is far from being dreary, but something told him that was far too sappy, so he settled for a simple, “Sounds good.” He took in the familiar apartment, its walls embellished in old paintings snagged from secondhand stores and books scattered about on almost every horizontal surface, in a certain disorderliness that said, yes it’s messy, but everything has its place. “Also, I hope you know that you’re only leaving in the morning so make yourself at home.” It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence for the two of you; you falling asleep at his apartment out of feebleness, him at yours, and more often than not, it involved discarded games of Scrabble as the two of you settled for debating the rules instead of actually playing. Lately, he’d been craving it more and more - and so had you. Spencer would never say no to that offer, but he was taken aback. “But I didn’t pack- I don’t have-“

“Eidetic memory is slipping I see,” you giggled at his flustered state. “I told you, I kept finding toothbrushes, sweaters and socks here every time you left, so I made a drawer full of your things, since you practically live here anyway,”

“An entire drawer? I didn’t think I was missing a whole lot,” he responded, nose tinted red. “I have to water my plants quickly, before I put dinner on, but feel free to shower,” you said, still laughing quietly. “Let me help cook, first. You need someone to disassemble the smoke alarm,” he raised an eyebrow at you. One ‘KISS THE COOK’ apron and half an hour of seasoning a chicken, spilling sweet potatoes and bumping elbows later, the two of you stood back from the counter, you boasting to Spencer about how nothing had turned to ashes, and him pointing out that the oven hadn’t been turned on yet. Soon after, you put the oven on high, humming an indistinguishable carol over the shower that could be heard running from the next room. A warm, tingling feeling overcame you.

By the time you had showered, Spencer stood serving - a well timed and flawlessly cooked - chicken, wearing mitts matching the baggy flannel pyjamas keeping him warm on top of the open oven. “Smells good,” you complimented, slightly startling Spencer. He stood at the small wooden dining table, mouth agape at the sight of you. He was sure his heart was a puddle. “I like your sweater,” he praised. You glanced down slightly confused, shortly realising that your sweater, with its much too floppy sleeves, reaching a little way above your knees, was actually his. “Oh, I’ll wash it and give it back to you at some point,” you said shyly. “I was wondering where it went, but don’t worry about it, the colour looks nicer on you than it does on me,”

“Nonsense, you know that’s not true.” Soon enough, you found yourselves digging in - not before you expressed your gratitude towards food that wasn’t charred for the first time in months. You sat across from each other, your reindeer sock clad feet occasionally tapping his beneath the table. Spencer’s heart was full, marvelling at you from where he sat, wishing this could be something he could experience forever, much preferring it over a stale sandwich. You watched him intently through your eyelashes, chin resting on your interlaced hands while he taught you about how the thalidomide scandal emerging from Germany led to safer drugs in the pharmaceutical industry, the lecture prompted by an article he’d read recently. It continued into getting the dishes cleaned up, his rambling only being interrupted by your intermittent questions which incited further tangents, or requests to pass the tea towel. His voice was a ruffled silken sheet, on which you would like to lay for eternity. Admittedly, you found it difficult to focus on retaining any more information than the odd date, due to being too focused on the way his lips moved to form every word he said, hopelessly enamoured by the overly enthusiastic expressions he made to match the tone of what he was saying. Eventually, he wandered towards the living room as you stacked away the final plate, butterflies still spurring in your stomach from when his fingers brushed yours as he handed it to you.

“Spencer Reid effortlessly navigating technology, Christmas miracles really do exist, huh?” 

“Actually, I just remembered watching you choose music, instead of paying attention to the road, that one time you drove me to work,”

“I was most definitely paying attention,” you huffed out a laugh, slightly bashful at the thought of him remembering small things you do. “You hit the kerb four times! That was the day I vowed to never let you transport me anywhere,”

“I see your argument, and I raise you with the counter argument: the kerb hit me.” Sitting with his back against the couch, legs sprawled out over the rug beneath your coffee table, Spencer couldn’t hold back his laughter. After watching you disappear into the kitchen, he busied himself with reading the holiday edition of Reader’s Digest laying on the table. He recounted you telling him that you had accidentally  drunkenly subscribed to it, and never bothered to cancel the subscription, the first time you’d caught him reading an issue. You emerged a short while later, with drinks in both hands. “Bonjour monsieur, on tonight’s menu, we can either open this Merlot or, drink Capri-suns like the sophisticated adults we are. Your pick,” you said, hiding the juice pouches behind your back and noticeably waving the bottle of wine in front of you. “I have a feeling it isn’t my pick,” he let out a laugh, “so just fill a glass with enough Merlot for two,” you were on your way to get a glass before he had the chance to finish. “Your wish is my command!” You called. Spencer put down his magazine once he saw you rushing towards him with a large glass of wine in hand. “Of course you opt for Christmas Jazz over Mariah Carey,” you teased, hearing the music he’d queued floating from the withering speaker in the corner of the living room. It was the kind of music that would play in the diner of an expensive hotel, you noted. “I can change it if you’d like?” He began reaching for your phone, when you halted him by grasping his arm. “No, it’s good, I like your taste.” Spencer grinned sheepishly, taking the glass from your hand as you sat down beside him. 

Hours of conversation and decking the halls with tinsel later, with wine flushed cheeks and twinkling eyes you moved the furniture to cater for your very own dance floor. Carefully, Spencer placed a hand below your ribs, touching you like new glassware, lacing the other with yours. Your unfettered hand, replaced the weight of the world as it rested on his shoulder. You recognised the look on his face as he settled into the close proximity, it was the same look that painted yours when you admired him whilst he failed to notice. The soft glow of a lamp illuminated the man you held, making an indistinct halo of golden light appear above his unkempt hair. “I apologise for any damage caused to your feet,” you giggled, struggling to find a rhythm. “Here, follow my lead,” he looked down at your feet. “The Waltz?” Dazzled, you raised an eyebrow, a few seconds after recognising the box-like steps in unison. Spencer tried to focus on anything but your lips, glistening in the dull light, so close to his. “Mhm, I’m not exactly the most co-ordinated-”

“You don’t say?”

“That’s tough talk for someone I’ve seen fall up a flight of stairs,”

“That sounds made up, but as you were saying,” you laughed into his chest. “It’s simple because its a repeating pattern. Did you know that name of the dance comes from the German word waltzen, which means to turn, or to glide? Some say the dance itself comes from the folk music and dances of west Austria, but others debate that it’s a variation of the Volta, from the 16th century,”

“Interesting, makes sense to debate that though. I’m pretty sure volta means ‘a turning’ in Italian - although that’s mostly in reference to the turn of a new thought or idea in sonnets… I’m thinking of Shakespeare,” you chimed in. “Sonnet one-hundred and thirty being a classic example of that,”

“Of course you would know that,” you shook your head in awe, cheeks hurting from grinning too wide. The incandescence of the smile that hadn’t left his face all day was mesmerising, the honeyed expression tied together with the dimples on his cheeks and creases around his eyes. “What would you like for Christmas?” He mumbled, lifting a moment of peaceful silence. “If you pulled my name out of the hat today you’re going to have to be a lot more subtle than that,”

“Unfortunately not,” he pouted. “Don’t tell anyone I told you, but I have Rossi,” he whispered the words into your ear, neglecting that no one else was around to hear. “What do you get a man who already has everything money can buy?”

“A new wife,” you joked, causing him to scoff. He studied your visage as you pondered his earlier question, still swaying to the soft piano sounds. “Honestly Spencer, being able to see you smile, being in your vicinity, just that is enough for me,” you finally answered, tilting your head up at him. Spencer thought his knees would give way. He thought his knees would give way, and he would hit the ground with enough impact to implode through the earth’s crust. In reality, he only stumbled over his feet momentarily, regaining his composure before you noticed him slowly becoming unhinged. “If that’s the case, I wish I’d picked your name,” he managed to utter, breathlessly.

The music which continued to play was drowned out by the sound of steady breathing, you were too caught up in each other to pay attention to the world. Wordless, you looked into his eyes, his actions parallel to yours. “You look beautiful right now,” he sighed. “Of course, you always look beautiful but, you know.” You shook your head, refraining from averting your eyes from his. He wished you believed it, promising himself to never abstain from letting you know until you saw yourself the way he did. “It’s funny you say that, because I was thinking the same thing. About you of course,” you rushed out the last part, realising the potential for miscommunication. “I love seeing you happy,”

“Well, as long as you stick around, you’ll be seeing a lot of that,” he spoke lowly, on the verge of telling you about all the things he felt for you. You hadn’t realised, but you had unconsciously moved closer together. You could feel his warm breath on your skin, lighting a fire inside your lungs, as he took yours away. Spencer saw all of the signs; the signs that this was not usual for a friendship. Maybe, if it weren’t for his defeated battle with fear, and doubt, he would have told you by now that he had fallen desperately for you. Spencer knew there wasn’t a drop of insincerity behind any of the kind words you spoke into him, he understood that you were his person, but he found it difficult enough to comprehend that someone could feel this strongly for someone. So, the implausible idea that someone could feel this way about him, was one he was not even prepared to entertain. “Y/N? I, um,” he tried, wearily. You gave him a soft smile, both tired arms laced behind his neck now as his rested on your waist. He dropped his sword. Once again losing the fight against his unreasonable insecurities, changing his mind at the last second. “I need to give you something,” his demeanour changed and he vanished from your line of vision. Your heart sank, hopes of hearing him say that the love you had for him was requited, fallen. Before you got too lost in your head, he emerged from the doorway with the same black bag you’d been inquisitive of. “Uh, here, this is for, uh, you,” he tucked his lip beneath his teeth. “Spencer…” you trailed off as he handed it to you. You sat yourself on the carpet, patting the spot next to you for him to join. “I thought I should give it to you now, since I’ll be in Vegas for Christmas,” 

“Spencer, you really didn’t have to-“

“Go on, open it,” he ignored your humility. You gave him a look as you opened it - it being replaced with a look of elation as you realised what it was. In your hands, you held a scarf, long enough to hit the floor, striped in all your favourite tones. “I had to ask my mom for help with the tassels, but-“

“You took the time to make this? For me?” You exclaimed. Without thought, you draped it around his neck to tug him closer to you, throwing your arms around him in a tight hug. “This is the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me, thank you so much,” you lauded, refusing to let go of him. “I think it was last winter, we were walking back to our hotel in Minnesota during a case, and you insisted that the both of us use my scarf to keep us warm, because you didn’t have one,”

“Ah, I remember that, except it ended up being one of the top ten worst disasters in U.S. history due to the height difference, and we both ended up falling face-first into the snow,” you giggled, recalling the way you had used up most of the hotel’s hot water afterwards. “Exactly,” he matched your expression, “seeing as you still haven’t bought one for yourself, even though we lose eighty percent of our body heat through our head and neck, I thought I would take matters into my own hands,”

“Well, I love it. You’ll have to tell your mother I said thank you and that I’m sending my love,” you finally dropped your arms from around him, out of fear of crushing his shoulders. 

Once the zeroes had lined up on the twenty-four clock, Spencer sat where he usually resided on your bed, ardently admiring you as you folded away his gift. “Wait! Spencer close your eyes! Please!” You squeaked, immediately shutting the cupboard doors, realising your unwrapped present for him was hidden within. “Y/N? Is everything alright?” He asked, eyes now sealed shut. “I didn’t want you to see what I’d bought for Secret Santa,” you let out, too exhausted to form a coherent excuse. “We only got those names today - well, yesterday, now - so how did you manage to-”

“Shoot,” you cursed to yourself, knowing his unintentional profiling would lead him to the conclusion sooner or later. Spencer’s eyes slowly opened. “Okay, let’s say if, hypothetically, I had intended on giving you something for Christmas anyway, but then drawn your name today, would you, hypothetically, be able to act surprised when you receive it from me at work?”

“Hypothetically speaking, I would?” He squinted at you, stifling laughter. Your hair was slightly messy and your drowsy eyes were visible to Spencer even without his contacts in. He thought you just looked so adorable, wanting nothing more than to hold you and share your warmth. “Anyway, come to bed,” he beckoned, his voice gravelly, giving way for the day. Obliging, you shuffled towards your bed before sliding your cold feet beneath the covers. Spencer turned to face you, resting his cheek on an upturned palm. “Sorry for ruining the surprise,” you whispered, tucking the duvet under your chin, bright eyes looking through him. “You didn’t ruin anything,” he assured, treasuring the sight before him. There had been a shift in the air between the two of you. Spencer held the wine accountable, but he could sense that you felt it too, a level of intimacy that you had not quite reached during previous nights like this. “Come closer, I need to exploit your body heat while I can.” Spencer listened to your instruction, inching nearer to you, his heart rate so high he was sure you could feel it when you nuzzled your head into his chest. “Goodnight,” you felt his chest rumble. “Hang on, the night isn’t over yet,” you mumbled, “talk to me,”

“About?” He asked, amused by your grit to avoid sleep. “Anything you want,” you yawned. “You’re sleepy,” he stated, coaxing you into getting some shut eye. When you tilted your head up and continued to blink at him, he gave in. “Have you ever wondered why a lot of our most vulnerable conversations happen  at night?” You nodded in response. “Well, a study done by the University of Colorado a couple of years ago concluded that natural light from the sun actually regulates your circadian rhythm, or internal biological clock, which standardises your sleep cycle. According to their study, this sleep cycle coincides with sunrise and sunset, meaning that if you regularly expose yourself to sunlight, your body enhances its internal clock to align more closely with the natural light cycle,” 

“Based on that,” you contended, words slightly jumbled, “our circadian rhythm would vary between seasons, right? And yours would be different, since you’re a literal vampire, to say... someone who surfs down in Florida because of disparity in sun exposure?”

“Precisely,” he raised his eyebrows, “I’m impressed you’re still paying attention, you look like you’re already dreaming.” Spencer nudged your forehead gently with his own, causing you to breath out a laugh. “Alright, so how does all of that relate to being more vulnerable at night?”

“It relates in the sense that the rise and fall of the sun reflects in our physiological, as well as emotional behaviour. During the day, we’re a lot more active, and at night, we become more relaxed and receptive. Hence, since your mind is at ease, all the thoughts and emotions that might have felt jumbled up during the day become clear, making them a whole lot easier to express,”

“Mhm,” you managed, eyelids growing heavy. “Do you… have anything to say now,” you whispered drowsily, eyes now closed, “that you can’t say during the day?” Spencer couldn’t handle it anymore. He was already so fond of you but as his hand settled to rest around your waist, feeling your warmness, he believed his ribs could collapse from the way he felt inside. As you dozed off, gradually, winter became less cold in his arms and dreamscapes of his tea leaf eyes. “And, she’s asleep,” he whispered, minutes after silence, into your hair, “but to answer your question, yes,” his lips planted a chaste kiss on your forehead, “I love you.” Of course, unbeknownst to him, you weren’t asleep just yet.

∗∗∗

A couple of days went by, and as more time went on, the less certain you became as to whether Spencer had really even said the words, wondering if the whole thing was just a fatigue driven hallucination your lovesick mind had conjured up. Waking up beside him the next morning however, tangled in a warm cocoon of cotton and limbs, had left you feeling giddy, smiling like a fool with heart shaped eyes as he attempted to feed you the waffles he’d made - which the two of you gulped down far too quickly than sanctioned, to avoid being late for work. When you didn’t succeed, and the clock had beaten you by ten minutes, you both wrestled past evocative looks from the rest of the team for the remainder of the day, JJ even singing something about the two of you ‘sitting in a tree’ . The soft, shared, smiles and light brushes of fingertips when he handed you coffee in the mornings left you wanting to concede; let him know that you would walk on burning coal for him, the more logical side of you reminding you that professing your devotion to him over an open case file consisting of a double homicide, three days before Christmas, was far from ideal. Spencer wanted the kind of love only the poets could express. This had become evident the evening you took him to a midnight screening of ‘Un homme et Une Femme’. You recalled leaning into him to translate, catching sight of his welling eyes glimmer in the dim lit theatre. Believing his love should be celebrated, you decided to withhold the unsurfaced feelings a little while longer.

Later that week, you all gathered around the BAU tree, a small framed picture of Derek decidedly hanging from one of its upper branches after Garcia had to be heavily persuaded, and eventually bribed, to not place it at the top, arguing “But he’s my star.” Spencer snuck behind you, subtly placing a hand on your back to glide through and place Rossi’s gift under the tree. “I want to let you know that I’ve been practicing my ‘surprised’ face in the mirror,” he discreetly whispered against your neck, making you roll your eyes. “Okay super sleuths, I know we’re all itching to fly away for a break, but hold your reindeer, because we are yet to kick off our annual Secret Santa,” Garcia excitedly exclaimed, shuffling in with two large sparkling bags. “I thought there was a budget?” Rossi quirked. “Yes, sir,” she looked smug, “for you.” The team shared smiles at Rossi’s perplexed look. “So, who wants to start us off?” Garcia chirped. With that, the festivities were under way. You held tight an abnormally large heat sensitive mug, which you were sure would also reveal a promiscuous image once warm - a gift from Emily, who gave herself away by insisting it would help your caffeine dependency - watching as the others tackled ribbon wrapping paper. You threw an impressed look Spencer’s way, that glint of knowing something the universe doesn’t returning to your eyes, when Rossi opened a small portrait of what looked to be a Venetian cathedral, the Santa Maria to be exact. Once the banter and excited chatter had died down, everyone turned to the recipient of the final gift, neatly labelled Spencer Reid, enveloped in brown paper and tied with deep purple ribbon. Penelope looked as if she were about to pass out. Spencer’s shifting eyes landed on JJ as she mouthed a small ‘you’re up’, causing a smile to tug at his lips when he eyed you gazing at him with the soft look he adored. Your eyes lingered on his hands as they swimmingly untied the mauve knot and tore open the paper to reveal a large leather-bound journal. He examined the old looking thing,  trailing his fingers along the convoluted golden details of the artistic interpretation of a moon calendar adorning its umber covers, partially covered by thin leather straps. His mouth was slightly agape, shaking a little at how well you knew him, clumsily catching the matching novelty pen before it slipped out of the wrapping and onto the floor. You had picked it up at a forlorn occult shop after it had caught your eye while looking out of place as it lay surrounded by large crystals. Knowing in an almost divine way that it should belong to Spencer, you had bought it. He couldn’t help but look at you briefly, communicating a silent gratitude. “This is amazing,” he ogled, “I love it.” Your heartbeat was in your throat. He was yet to find out you’d filled the first page for him.

Shouts of Merry Christmas, long hugs and season’s greetings were thrown around the room before, one by one, everyone slowly bade their goodbyes. While helping JJ clear away torn reds and greens of gift wrapping, you caught sight of Spencer, ears and cheeks scarlet, with his nose buried in his new, opened, journal.

“We are asleep until we fall in love," you looked up from Leo Tolstoy’s one thousand page book and recited to me, once. Since you walked into my life, I’ve been wide awake. You know that I’m never far away, but this is for the days you need to let out some of what you hold in, without saying it aloud. 

I love you too, Spencer.

Spencer read and re-read the words until he was sure he could recite them like the Lord’s Prayer. It was commonly Spencer who remembered small details and remembered paltry quotations, but this time, it was you. Sitting in the glow of the afternoon sun, one October, he had been reading War and Peace, and couldn’t help but share the line with you as you sat across from him, chewing through a much smaller number of pages and reading a collection of poetry. The woman he had been so captivated by, admiring from afar that day - and all others, felt the same way he did. In disbelief, he began breathing manually. Making sure he was deciphering the cursive lettering correctly, he scanned the page again. While his eyes were definitely not deceiving him, they remained glued to one word. Awake. The havoc caused in his heart by the train of thought hitting him so brutally, rivalled only Gare Montparnasse. You must’ve heard his confession nights ago. It was the only explanation for the ‘I love you, too’. You most definitely were awake. Profiling tendencies overcame him. With his basic background of graphology, he could make out that the last line had been written in fresher ink than all the others, confirming his hypothesis. For the first time in a while, his mind was quiet, the uncertainties which fought to float in, unable to make their way through as if the thee simple words you’d handed him were a barrier for them. He needed to talk to you.

Walking quickly towards the elevator, an overwhelming wave of anxiety crashed over you. You had subconsciously been avoiding Spencer for most of the evening, second-guessing whether or not you’d heard him correctly, whether he’d even meant the words in the way you’d interpreted, wondering what you would do if this friendship were to ever end. However, a more hopeful side of you contended to quiet those thoughts. He had to feel it too. There was no room in which you hadn’t shared a longing look. The feather touches, and dancing. So badly did you want to believe that he thought this too. A slender arm appeared through the closing elevator doors, tugging you back to reality, causing you to jump before quickly pushing the open button. “Spencer! You could’ve lost an arm!” You yelped. “It’s okay, I have two of them,” he huffed. He avoided your eyes for a moment, before inhaling half of the oxygen in the small lift and turning towards you. “I wanted to say thank you, for this,” he held up the book, “it’s gorgeous, and sort of… exactly what I needed - and not just the book itself but what you wrote… inside it,” he nervously looked at you. “Did you- do you mean what you wrote?” His tone of voice syringed into you a drop of hurt. “Spencer, I never want you to think that I don’t mean it,” your let out in a shaky voice, gently grasping his elbow. You visibly saw his body ease, a smitten smile replacing the lip being chewed at. His throat bobbed as he gulped before he spoke again, heartbeat in his ears. “I want you to know that I’m in love with you, Y/N. I don’t want you the way I want a best friend, I want you in a-” he sighed, clenching and unclenching his fist trying to find the words, “I want you in a way that means I want to fall asleep beside you, and wake up to you the next morning, for as long as the sun rises. I want you. I want you - no, need you, the way the tide needs the moon to rise and fall, I want you-” he swallowed, furrowing his brows at his feet, “I want you, like this.” Hazel eyes fluttering shut was the last thing you saw. Large hands lightly caressed your face, one travelling behind your ear, brushing your neck to delicately tangle in your hair. After years of wondering, you finally knew what his lips felt like on yours. His nose bumped yours lightly as you tasted his soft lips, their slight chap reminding you that winter had kissed them first. Your hands wrapped around his wrists, before one settled on his tilted jaw and another hid in his chestnut hair. He felt warm, everywhere you touched setting electricity through him. Even after you pulled apart, his arms remained on either side of your face, holding you like you were fragile. His breath fanned over your face, as you shivered, the fluttering in your stomach unsubdued. The elevator had long reached the ground floor, causing the two of you to bashfully laugh concurrently. You thought to yourself that Spencer’s crimson flush and wide grin was a sight you would lose sleep to gaze at. “All this time, I’ve been missing out on that,” you teased, watching him shyly bite his lip as he waited for you to say something else. “I’m very glad you said all of that because I’m very much in love with you, Spencer Reid, and, if you’ll let me, I want to love you, the way people love in all the books you’ve lent me,” you told him. At that, he was sure his heart was yours, fearlessly. So, making afternoon plans and debating which train to take, neither of you really caring as long as you were in the other’s company, you finally stepped out of the elevator, oblivious to the mistletoe that was hanging within it, but more than mindful of what was to come. 

[kaplanflynn9]

hermes pochette kelly 22

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[helena-thessaloniki]

unexpected guest.

Summary: Levi gets an unexpected guest on the anniversary of Erwin’s death. Inspired by the narrative in Beyond the Walls when Mikasa mentions accompanying Levi on these anniversaries. Pre-Marley Arc (no manga spoilers).

He had roughly tossed on a clean linen shirt at the sound of her knocking, and only finds time now to do up the buttons. Practiced enough with muscle memory, Levi starts at the bottom and works his way up while watching and waiting for her response.

“You’re right,” she agrees, blinking tiredly. The bag slips further down her shoulder and she lazily hikes it back up, eyes flitting to where his hands meet in the center of his exposed chest for a brief second only. “I wanted to get here before Commander Hange did.”

Levi’s deft fingers stall and stumble on a button, then promptly move on. Though it’s the only outward sign of his discomfort, minor and nearly motionless, her lavender-dusted eyes latch onto his scarred hands with open interest. 

He almost narrows his eyes at her; she’s always been so quick to find his faults.

She looks like shit. Shades of indigo beneath her violet-edged eyelids, dark lashes fluttering weakly in every owlish blink. Her hair is brushed, at least, but sloppily pinned back behind both ears. Looking closely, he can tell she must have cut it herself, the jagged ends uneven against her prominent collarbones. Too prominent— she’s lost weight.

“What’re you doing here?” Levi asks, his voice gravelly from disuse. It’s barely past dawn and he isn’t expecting visitors until the afternoon.

Mikasa isn’t bothered by the lack of warm welcome. She simply starts walking forward, the trajectory of her steps anticipating that he’ll open the door wide enough for her to move through. For that reason alone, he does it.

Or so he tells himself. 

Once she’s standing in his front room, observing its clean and tidy but otherwise emptied contents, he tries again.

“Ackerman.”

She turns back to him, where he stands at the threshold with the door still open, as if it is him who doesn’t belong there. There’s a pack slung over her shoulder, the weight of it further dragging down her oversized sweater. Only weak, natural light filters through the room, and Levi studies the shadows that cling to her, accentuating the hollow of her neck, the dip between her clavicles. 

“You’re supposed to offer tea, ask me how I am,” Mikasa tells him, more absently than rudely. “Not disparage me for being here.”

“You’ve already had tea this morning,” he says, knowing that she takes two cups of black tea with half a teaspoon of honey in each before she fully opens her lids, let alone speaks to anyone or considers leaving her apartment. 

Then, Levi closes the door, his hand still on the knob behind him as he appraises her. “And I know how you’re doing.”

Her frown is slight. “So, we’re skipping pleasantries.”

That actually provokes him to laugh, dark and devoid of humor. “Don’t think you came here for pleasantries.”

He had roughly tossed on a clean linen shirt at the sound of her knocking, and only finds time now to do up the buttons. Practiced enough with muscle memory, Levi starts at the bottom and works his way up while watching and waiting for her response.

“You’re right,” she agrees, blinking tiredly. The bag slips further down her shoulder and she lazily hikes it back up, eyes flitting to where his hands meet in the center of his exposed chest for a brief second only. “I wanted to get here before Commander Hange did.”

Levi’s deft fingers stall and stumble on a button, then promptly move on. Though it’s the only outward sign of his discomfort, minor and nearly motionless, her lavender-dusted eyes latch onto his scarred hands with open interest. 

He almost narrows his eyes at her; she’s always been so quick to find his faults. 

Wondering if she’s waiting for his next slip-up, Levi is determined not to make one. Once he’s finished, he fluffs out and then straightens down his collar.

“Why’s that?” The steel-edge in his tone sounds lacking even to his own ears.

Mikasa dips her chin toward her bag, gesturing to it. “Wanted to give this to you first.”

He takes a wary step toward her, tucking one hand into his front pocket. “What is it?”

She hesitates, her grip on the strap tightening. “I asked Armin if I could borrow it. He said you should keep it, though. Since he—...”

Mikasa inhales sharply, unable to finish aloud.

Since he only has a year left to live, anyway, Levi knows. He nearly flinches, from either the thought he’s finished in his own mind or the way her lips tremble, he isn’t sure. What little bit of lively color brushed Mikasa’s cheeks abruptly drains from her face now. 

Levi is still not certain how she has survived— is surviving— Eren’s loss. Only the shadow of her former self stands before him, and not for the first time, he wonders if she will disappear entirely into the twilight after she loses Armin, too. 

He closes the distance between them, removing his hand from his pocket. 

“What is it,” Levi asks again, quieter this time.

Mikasa shrugs off the bag and offers it to him, silent. Levi takes it, unsurprised that it’s heavier than she made it look, but he keeps his gaze locked onto her.

Levi tells himself his pause is for her benefit, but the truth is, it might be for his own. If she knows about his plans with Hange this afternoon, then she knows what day it is, too. Not just a typical Thursday. 

She takes a measured breath. “Erwin’s vintage chess set. Apparently, he told Commander Hange he wanted Armin to have it.” 

Levi nods, buying himself time. Then, he turns with the bag and walks toward the dining table, setting it down carefully.

“I remember,” he says. “Told Hange that it was to be passed down, Commander to Commander, unless the Scouts were disbanded. Either way, he thought it would— should end up with Arlert.”

Mikasa joins him at his right side. “That’s why they gave it to him after the decree.”

Levi doesn’t answer. The end of the war against the titans unceremoniously led to the termination of their military branch. The decree may have made it official, a flourish of ink penned neatly on clean, ivory parchment, but the reality was stained into his soul. Blood smeared across his forehead, limbs torn, skulls smashed, human and horse innards defiling the grassy plains of Shiganshina. Losing them, losing Erwin, had been the real beginning to their end. 

“Well, in any case,” Mikasa says, straightening out her spine. 

Her nervousness, identifiable only through squared shoulders and her too settled tone, distracts him from the blood-soaked memories. 

She gestures at the gift. “Thought you both might want to- to honor him by playing a match together.” 

Something of a strange sentiment. Levi can’t say he would have thought of it himself. But even stranger is that the woman starving herself from her own grief has managed to put effort into easing his own. She’s always been too helplessly selfless, he thinks, though that largely depended on who was worth the sacrifice. Levi doesn’t allow that line of thought to linger. 

“Hange hates chess,” he finally says, blunt as an old, useless knife.

Noting Mikasa’s surprise, her head tilting slightly toward him, Levi continues. “Too impatient. Can’t sit still, can’t stay focused. Too distracted by other ideas and subjects.” 

Mikasa hums, quietly and briefly. “Right. Sounds like them.”

She frowns at the wooden chest, and Levi watches her from the corner of his eye. Her cold, calm features are no longer difficult for him to read. She’s either trying to find the right words, or more likely, summon the strength to say them. 

Feeling generous— she did bring him a gift first, after all— he doesn’t let her ruminate further on the failed attempt. 

“Thank you,” Levi says, blithe but sincere, as he places a hand atop the set. “I’m surprised you remembered.”

“Of course I remember,” Mikasa says, these words easier, and she sharply looks over to him. “It’s the only reason you’ve come back, isn’t it?”

He sees it through her mind; his growing-in-frequency departures to the outerlands and coastline, compared to his shorter stays in Mitras, only for Hange, only for the orphanages, only for the anniversaries of their dead. Not for afternoon tea on the balcony of her suite, or the extra pair of silverware he polishes for her seat at his dining table, and most of all, not for the barren, barely used house he keeps in Mitras, meant only for moments like this morning, when she stands inside and it hosts everything he needs. 

Levi just shakes his head. “One of them.”

With the same focus he used to finish his buttons and fix his collar, he opens the heavy wooden chest that protects the vintage set. In it are the familiar pieces from days past, stone-cut characters in sleek ivory and ebony beside a checkered marble board. The same set that Erwin used to teach him, and the same set he once used to teach her. 

Levi grips the edge of the chest. “You staying, brat?” 

Mikasa stares at the chess pieces for half a moment, a golden glow over the crown of her head, and then starts to kick off her shoes.

“You remember last time,” she says more than asks, half a smile playing at her lips. 

Of course he does. If he hadn’t, her prideful taunt would have reminded him well enough. Their last game against each other ended with her markedly fast checkmate that actually caught him unaware. 

“Tch.” Levi begins to take out the pieces, shaking his head subtly, while she sets her boots down in the room’s corner. “You’re always too arrogant, Ackerman. Doesn’t suit you.”

“Yes it does,” she counters evenly, but then the rest of her small, satisfied smile unveils itself as she rejoins him. “Unfortunately, I learned from the best.”

Inadvertent it may be, but he thinks it’s the first time she’s verbally acknowledged their intensive training and... untraditional dynamics during the last stretch of the war.  

“Yeah,” he agrees. “That is unfortunate.” 

Mikasa reaches for an ebony rook, he reaches for the ivory knight, and their hands brush in the passing; a sliver of a second that he knows can’t be why her smile lingers, but is the reason he tells her to make herself more useful and set a kettle to boil.

She levels him with a prim glare, but wordlessly sets off toward his kitchen. Levi finishes preparing the pieces on the board, watching dawn’s golden hues reflect off the ivory queen. The crown glimmers, almost winking at him, and Levi tries not to think of her.

One day, she won’t be a waning, dark shadow, but wholly herself. The warmth and strength of the sun's infallible light.

.

.

Author’s Note: Yeah, so, fun fact, I cannot get myself to finish writing the last 5k words until I flesh out more of their history. Before I ever wrote the first chap, I did tons of this, but apparently not enough. It’s all too scattered to be a prologue, so various pieces will be posted here on tumblr, or maybe tethered. 

(For those who may be familiar with my other works. Levi teaching her chess is a direct reference to Out in Search. :) Those scenes, excluding the romantic developments, are also part of what I had written as the back-drop to Beyond the Walls.)

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

HASO, “A Gift.”

Ok, so someone somewhere, I thought asked for Adam/Sunny Fluff. I don’t know where or who that was, either that or I am remembering incorrectly, but either way here it is whether you wanted it or not :)

Thought I’d focus a little bit on Sunny.

Ignore if you are NOT interested in the relationship subplot.

I am trying to do this right, but who knows if that is going to work because I don’t usually write this sort of thing.

The humming of the ship’s engines reminded her of Anin, and reminded her of the distant roaring of the volcanoes as she slept in their family’s little hut at the center of the fertile belt. The feeling the memory provoked in her was a fond one despite being tainted by years and years of her mother's overarching disapproval, disapproval she was only now casting off, shedding it like an alien might shed a second skin.

It was a thing slow in coming, after years and years of constant disapproval, but becoming a Saint had been her last push into shaking off the insecurities of her childhood. The spirits of Anin had chosen her, and that was something even her mother could not deny, it was something sunny herself could not deny, despite her own fears and insecurities telling her otherwise.

She was worthy.

Finally worthy.

It felt good to wake up like that, felt good to sit up in the dim light of her little room aboard the Omen, and know that she was enough. She lay there in the quiet for a moment, in her own small room, with her own little window that looked out on the stars to her side. She rolled over to stare outward watching a distant galaxy spinning past in all of its glory. Adam liked to park the ship in places like this, places that would remind the crew of where they were and what they were doing. 

From this distance that spiraling galaxy seemed so small despite being billions of lightyears wide, dim and distant, though still shedding a faint light upon her from so far away. As she lay there another light pulsed over her body, luminous purple-blue LED strips around the bottom and top of her room, dimmed for the proper ambiance.

She sat up slowly stretching and flexing her feet.

She sat up looking around her room and the familiar space lit by the glowing purple blue neon.

It was a strange mixture of things alien and things familiar.

Beside her bed, a tall, climate-controlled glass case held a large armature upon which her saint’s armor was proudly displayed, little white stage lights shining pearly waves of rainbow across it’s outer metal, beside that a metal rack on the wall held a collection of spears, some worn and used with age, others sharp and new, one glittering with the same pearly white sheen as her armor.

On the headboard of her bed rested a pair of lime green headphones.

There was a Holo-screen on the wall across from her bed and a couple of photos tacked up on the wall across from her. They were hard to make out in the dim bluish lighting, but there was one of Anin and a few of her and her brother, a couple more of her and Adam, and a single image in the middle.

It wasn’t as refined an image as the others, having been hand painted by a crewmember as a commission for her….

An image of a tall golden Drev in mighty war armor.

Just below that image, set back into the wall, there sat a small, almost-shrine, with a spirit light and a few other odds and ends from Anin.

Sunny stood and stretched rolling her muscles and joints as she walked over to the little shrine and knelt before it.

She reached out and cupped the spirit light in her two lower hands as she bowed her head.

She stayed there for some time as the minutes ticked away.

A clock on her nightstand gave her the time in human hours tiny numbers glowing green.

As the clock hit 30, she opened her eyes and turned to the side dipping a rag into the sink and proceeding to rub it over her body.

Drev didn’t need to bath as frequently or as…. Heavily as humans. Where humans relied on natural oils to keep their skin healthy, the Drev had no such problems, and rarely produced the amount of bacteria that humans did. For that reason, Drev didn’t tend to smell, and if they did it had more to do with what they ate than it did with their own festering nastiness. 

She set the rag down and stood, pulling on her headphones and scrolling through her playlist using the implanted chip in her arm, like the humans she had taken up one of the devices to store her information and money, along with the implanted translation system just below her ear. She kept it off most of the time, but she could turn it on when needed.

Scrolling through the list, she paused at one and then hesitated before clicking on it.

Sunny knew a lot about music for someone who grew up without it. It was a piece  of art she thought the Drev were sadly lacking, and listening to the drums and rasping vocals of humans two thousand years dead, she wondered why they had never thought of it.

The playlist, had been one she hadn’t touched in a while. 

It tended to make her sad despite it’s upbeat and powerful music.

It reminded her of Adam.

It was his playlist after all, but she really did feel like she needed something to get her going this morning,

With the music going, she grabbed one of her spears from the wall, and then stood at the center of the room.

She closed her eyes as the blue neon light glowed over her. WIth her eyes still closed she began to move slowly, one foot forward one foot back dropping into a crouch pulling the spear back and then beginning to move slowly remembering the forms, remembering the mountain and the voice of Naktan as he urged her through the new and emerging steps.

***

0400 

Adam sat up, cool air blowing on his skin from the vent above. 

Outside the window the vast spiral of the Milky way glowed in from his viewing window casting delicate yellow light over his skin. He stretched muscles flexing and tensing as he extended his body to a brief maximum before relaxing. 

He sat there for a moment taking in the view, allowing it to bath him in cosmic light.

And some people wake up to a sunrise.

He reached down to the side of the bed, gripping the cool metal and carapace surface with his left hand before socketing it into place over the stub of his missing leg. There was a sharp whirr and then a sudden rush of sensation. He flexed the two toed alien foot of his right leg and stood stretching his legs as well.

He turned and walked to stand before the full length mirror by the window. The light was dim, but it still cast enough illumination that he could see the hills and valleys of his own body set in sharp contrast in the light.

He stood straighter lifting his chin and surveying himself in the mirror. 

He was almost proud of what he saw. Never a slouch, he had always been active, and during training he had been in good shape, but a few years as captain of the ship, with more duties and little time he had neglected his physique for other matters. It hadn’t done anything horrible to him, but he had seen better days.

That was, of course, until his breakup with Sunny. Granted a week of binge drinking hadn’t exactly helped matters, but his following vacation time that had included a stint of time with a human colony of Neospartans had kicked his ass back into gear. A few months and a couple of personal revelations later, and he had made it his goal to mold himself into the best version of himself he could conceive. His body was just beginning to show that dedication.

He bent down, tugging a pair of shoes from one of the drawers under his bed, and sat down to tie them on.

He stood and walked over to the side of the room pressing a button on the wall. There was a sharp whirring as the floor rotated and three large screens slowly pulled down from the ceiling. 

Off to his left waffles opened one sleepy amber eye before heading back to sleep.

He flicked his arm once and stepped onto the small rectangle of floor.

The screens lit up in front of him showing an open mountain landscape and a trail.

The floor below him slowly began to move, and he broke into a jog. The music flipped on at his request as his feet began pounding against the moving floor. He kept his back straight and his arms against his sides as the floor tilted and rolled slightly below him, mirroring the trail on which he now ran.

Sweat rolled down his bare back as, forty minutes later he dropped to the floor, hands held at shoulder width pushing himself repeatedly up and down and up and down. When his arms shook, he stood and leaped upwards, catching onto the padded black bar on the ceiling. The muscles in his back flexed firing as his teeth clenched and sweat dripped down his face onto his shoulders.

He repeated that sequence for some time before returning to the side of the room and picking up the silver metaled spear.

Still breathing hard he pulled on the VR glasses and followed the Drev training simulation twice before putting the spear away.

Waffles at up and stretched.

He patted her head once before passing into the bathroom.

Water cascaded down his body where he sat washing salt and sweat down the drain, only to socket his leg back on again and dress himself. Eyes stared down at him from the walls, vintage movie posters from years long gone.

A replica lightsaber glittered dully in the light where it sat on his nightstand.

He adjusted his uniform cap before the mirror, and whistled once for waffles, who ran up to stand at his heels.

He opened the door just as Simon was raising her hand to knock.

She stepped back in surprise, and he smiled, “Beat you again, Simon.”

She opened her mouth nonplussed and then closed it again holding out her clipboard, “Morning, Sir.”

He took the clipboard and marched with her up to the bridge where he got his work done. Waffles lay at his feet as he gave the morning crew their orders, and inspected their trajectory, reading their orders from the UNSC and the GA,before sending off a few reports. He read through the reports of his chief staff and approved a few important changes.

Once upon a time a day like this might have overwhelmed him.

He stepped down from his chair and turned to Simon, “Command is your Simon, I have a few things to attend to this morning.”

She saluted crisply and traded seats with him as he turned and stepped down the stairs.

***

The sound of the engine was louder down here and his heart thrummed along with her as he stood with his back to the cold metal. At his feet Waffles stared up at him with her big brown eyes, waiting. 

Deep breath.

He turned stepping into the doorway and looking into the small workroom, lined on all sides by unfinished projects and hanging blueprints. He stood quietly in the doorway, watching the light play over her blue carapace, rolling down her like rivers of sunlit water. The way she moved was so steady, and so sure, that it seemed as if she herself were the waters of a mountain river, steady, changing only with the greatest deliberation.

The movement of her hands on metal was so precise and so predictable he might have been able to pound out a beat to her movements, but this was hardly the time. He stepped forward silently over the metal.

“Someone once told me you can only find Gemstones in the darkest of places.”

Sunny turned her head and rolled a great golden eye when she saw it was him, “You know you flirt like a…. Hut being tipped over in a windstorm.”

“How’s that?”

“A mild disaster.”

“How ironic, so are you metaphors.” 

She eyed him up and down with one golden eye, “Where is he and what have you done with him?”

“What do you mean?”

“My Adam is a stuttering idiot, where did you put him.”

My Adam.

He walked over and sat on the bench next to her leaning back against her work table, “Tied up and locked in the closet for the time being.” he smiled and scooted a little closer, “He tends to get nervous talking to pretty girls.”

“Oh, does he?”

She leaned forward a little bit one of her hands brushing up against his leg.

Shit 

Dammit! The stuttering began in earnest  and he felt his face go red to the tips of his ears.

She hummed deep in her chest, “That was a good try, you almost made it a full minute.”

***

Sunny hummed in mild pleasure as she watched him squirm, her superior cones and rods picking up the delicate change in skin tone as subcutaneous blood rushed into his face. The Delicate pattern of UV light that played over his face glowed in green blue pearl patterns, swirling over his cheeks and face.

She knew those pattern well, and guessed she could probably have drawn them from memory if someone had asked.

He ran a hand through his hair, and as he did she could pick out the individual strands of hair and the color changes. A few of the hairs at his temples had bleached white. She wouldn’t tell him that, but the number of white hairs had been increasing rapidly over the past few months. Weather it was stress or genetics she didn’t know.

He cleared his throat awkwardly.

“I tried.”

“You did.”

He continued to rub the back of his neck, “I um…. I brought you… s-something.”

“Oh?”

He reached down beside him and pulled a long black box from the floor offering it up so she had to pull back to let him set it down on the table before her.

He turned to look at her, his one green eye so alive with worry she wanted to reach over and take his hand just to calm him down.

But he remained even, and with a smile of his face, he reached over and flipped the case open. She glanced in, eyes wide with surprise, “What…. This is all for… me?”

“I thought you…. Might like it. I mean they aren’t really my thing you know, but they did, they did make me think of you and I, well I picked up a few things but I…”

One look from her silenced him and he wilted back into his seat, “It was during my little vacation…. I was going to give them to you earlier, but I didn’t want it to seem like I was trying to buy you back. I really just thought you’d like them.” 

“Tell me about them.”

He scooted over to sit next to her, and he was close enough now that she could feel the heat radiating from his body, “This knife, I won in a bar fight with an outlaw, stole it off him while he was unconscious.” She watched him blush again a little, “I would have felt bad about it accept he was kind of an asshole.” he pointed to the next item in the velvet lined box, “That is the revolver of another outlaw I met by the name McBride, bested him in a boxing match on the back of a moving train. That spear was given to me as a gift by the NeoSpartan king for prowess in battle, and that triton was something I picked up free hunting alien sharks.”

He turned to look up at her, “I’m not pushing or anything,” he held up his hands, “Jupiter knows I don’t deserve it, but, it is a gift, and I want you to have them-”

He trailed off.

She stared at him.

He stared back.

She leaned down a little lowering her head and lightly touching her forehead against his. He wasn’t speaking any longer. Her eyes were half closed. She leaned forward, one of her hands resting on his real, human leg. He was warm below her hand, almost burning. One of his hands rested over hers.

They sat like that for a minute.

And then she felt him move. Something brushed over her cheek, soft, human lips depressed against her skin warm and humid. She hummed softly in her chest until the pressure pulled back, and she opened an eye. Before she knew what had happened she was on his feet, gone from underneath her hands.

He stood about two or three feet away skin on his face and hands bright with blood flow.

“I-I have to…. To do a.-something, a- about a thing, but I hope you like…. The gift.” He turned.

“Watch out for the-’

There was a clattering noise as he caught his toe on the step, pitched forward, landed on his hands and knees and then scrambled out the doorway with all the grace and beauty of a meteor collision.

“Step.” She finished to the empty air

She could still hear him clattering his way up the hall.

ON the floor below her Waffles looked after him with a comically confused expression for a dog.

“Well go on after him, and make sure he doesn’t accidentally kill himself.”

Waffles yipped low in her throat and charged off after him

Sunny hummed and turned back to her work bench staring down at the box of items, reaching up a hand to rest on her cheek.

They were getting there.

Slowly.

But they were getting there

[buckysbabygorl]

Best Friend’s Brother (College AU) Part 2: An Introduction

Summary: Y/N goes up to her friend’s ‘summer home’ for spring break to forget about the daily stress of being a student. She’s ready to let loose and have fun, but she wasn’t prepared to meet her friend’s attractive older brother...

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: mild swearing, drinking, sexual inuuendo and themes

Word Count: 2,002

Dedicated to @marvelrose

Part 1 , Part 3

Series Masterlist

Rebecca had been right.

The interior was far more incredible than the outside.

The seclusion and privacy of the estate added to the homey ambiance of the luxurious mansion; the interior was decorated in soft creams and whites, with dark wood furnishings to contrast. The front foyer was immaculate and grand; its staircase leading to the upstairs level was immense and curved along the east wall of the entrance.

Y/N looked to the ceiling and admired the crystal chandelier hanging decadently over them. The delicate glass glistened beautifully with the light, and Y/N noticed then their lack of dust; as if they had appeared there in this moment exactly. Completely untouched.

“It’s quite beautiful, isn’t it?” Brimsby commented.

Not knowing how else to describe the sight, Y/N slowly nodded in amased agreement. It really was beautiful, but somehow beautiful didn’t seem to articulate the sight justly.

Bags in hand, Brimsby motioned for her to follow him to the staircase. “This way, Miss. Your room as well as Miss Barnes reside on the upper level.”

He started his walk, but realized she hadn’t followed him, too caught up in the appearance of the house. A small smile pulled at his lip; understanding the young lady’s fascination with the place; though his amusement had been long ago diluted as his days at the estate passed

“The upstairs is just as wonderful as the down, my dear.”

As she took in his words, she quickly followed him, excited to view more of the architecture and decor.

She trailed behind him, lightly tracing the wood railing as she ascended the staircase.

So polished, she thought. So smooth.

It was evident the amount of care put into the place; each sconce and crevice she had seen so far was catered to with a consistent and loving upkeep. Somehow, it made the place all the more beautiful.

“How long have you been with the family?” Y/N asked.

Brimsby stopped at the top stair for her, waiting to speak until they could walk in side by side.

“Decades my dear. I began working here as a young boy when the children's grandfather was the head of the household. ”

“Wow,” Y/N said, “So the estate has been in the family for quite some time then.”

“Indeed it has.” He spoke proudly as they rounded the second landing, pleased with the effort he had given after all these years.

Y/N tried to picture it; a little Rebcca running through the halls with her brother. That same energy from a kid never leaving her; that overwhelming happiness and the love for this estate...

“You’ve really taken care of the place,” She complimented, “I’m sure the Barnes are grateful.”

He led her down an attached hall of the landing, dark and sturdy doors accompanying them on each side. Bedrooms, she assumed.

“Anyone would agree... Rebecca loves you like family.”

Brimsby smiled at that, “Well, I’m grateful to have them as well. They’ve been very gracious to me, being here hardly feels like work at all.”

Y/N hummed happily, “If you do what you love…”

“...You’ll never work a day in your life.” He finished. 

Y/N chuckled slightly as they came to a stop. Placing the bags on the floor, he turned back to the young girl with his hand on the doorknob.

“And this,” Brimsby gestured to his right, “is your room.”

Y/N hadn’t known what to expect; but she certainly hadn’t expected this.

The entire trip up; Rebecca hadn’t mentioned a word of the appearance of the place. No warning about the massive mansion, the immense space. Y/N pictured a quaint cottage on the water, the average two point five bedrooms, and a bathroom all of them would fight over in the mornings.

But that hadn’t been the case at all; the home had been the definition of opulence. And this room had been no exception.

The room was spacious, much like the rest of the house. It had the same creams and whites, but the furnishings in the room weren’t the dark modern wood she had seen. They were softer in color and lacked varnish; she assumed antique. The massive bed that lay in the centre of the room had plush pillows, and a thick comforter that swirled in patterns of light blues and yellows. As Y/N walked further in: she noticed the props of the room were also vintage; lamps and ash trays on the bedside tables, and the books and ornaments on the shelves looked as though they were pulled from a different time. The far wall was nearly entirely window, a long bench running underneath the sills for sitting. 

“Do you think you’ll be comfortable in here, Miss?”

Y/N turned to Brimsby, who waited patiently at the door.

“It’s incredible. I couldn’t ask for a better room.”

He smiled, entering and setting her bags at the foot of the bed.

“Excellent. I shall leave you to get better acquainted with the room. Do let me know if there’s anything more I can do for you.”

As he was leaving, Y/N called for him.

“Thank you, you’ve been wonderful. I really appreciate it.”

He smiled, “Of course, any friend of Rebecca’s is welcome in this home. It was lovely meeting you.”

“Likewise.”

With their conversation ended, Brimsby closed the door behind him and left Y/N alone.

Y/N made no rush to unpack, instead seating herself on the bench at the window, looking to the trees at the front of the house.

She shook her head in amazement, “Can’t believe this place.” She said to herself.

She knew she’d thank Rebecca over and over again for this experience: the house alone was amazing. A luxurious stay with your best friend, an entire week to yourselves…

Well, not exactly yourselves, she realized.

I wonder what the boys will be like, she thought.

So far everything Rebecca had said was positive; but she may have been biased. Regardless, Y/N figured that she’d at least get along with James and his friends, based on the fact Rebecca and him were cut from the same cloth. Both pursued careers in Law, wanting to ‘make a difference in the world’, and on that notion alone Y/N could respect James. Apparently, he was funny; charming; more rowdy than most, but sometimes he had his moments.

“He gets really quiet every now and then.” Y/N remembers Rebecca saying, “Thoughtful, I think he tries to come off that he isn’t sensitive, or smart. But he is, he really is…”

Y/N smiled at the thought, admiring how highly Rebecca thought of him. Y/N was still skeptical, of course. But at the very least, she would have to give him a chance.

“Steve! You in there?”

Y/N turned at the voice, watching as the door swung open and in walked a young man.

He was dressed casually; khaki pants and a dark polo shirt slightly stretched by his tall, muscular stature. He was quite handsome; with strong features and dark hair. As Y/N made eye contact with him, he startled slightly; his blue eyes widening and his lips pouting in confusion.

“You’re not Steve.”

Y/N chuckled as she rose from the window seat, “No I’m not.”

From his demeanor and dress, she knew he wasn’t someone employed at the estate, and figured quickly that he was one of the boy guests.

“Hm,” He muttered, his hand still placed on the doorknob. He chuckled as he peeked further into the doorway. “I think I’m in the wrong room.”

“You think?” she teased.

He laughed awkwardly as he rubbed his hand along the back of his neck. “Yeah.. I hate to admit it but I’m still getting lost in this place.”

He entered the room and walked towards her, “I’m sorry, I’m being rude. I’m Bucky.”

“I’m Y/N, Rebecca’s friend.” She said as she reached out her hand.

His smile was friendly as her palm fit against his “I figured, how are you liking the place so far?”

Y/N sighed as she admired the room again, “it’s incredible.”

“Yeah?” He beamed at her contentment.

She nodded vigorously, “Yeah. This place is beautiful. Rebecca didn’t tell me anything about this place; it was all secret.”

Bucky chuckled, “Yeah, she has a flair for the dramatic.”

“Have you known her long?” Y/N asked.

Bucky’s brows pinch in confusion, “Yeah, her whole life…”

“Really? I didn’t realize how close she was with James’s friends.” She admitted.

Bucky started to speak but instead he just smiled cheekily. “Yeah, I’d say we’re all pretty close.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize.” She stated. “You’re looking for Steve, right? James’s friend?”

Bucky bit his lip as he nodded, a hint of a laugh in his voice as he spoke. “Um, yeah I am. Which reminds me; I’m still haven’t found him.”

“Oh, right.” Y/N nodded.

The longer Y/N looked at him, she realized how incredibly handsome he was. Sharp jawline, pouty lips, big blue eyes, incredibly fit... if you weren’t careful, you could get lost in a man like that.

“You want some company?” She asked shyly.

Bucky smirked as he gave the girl a quick once-over, “If you’re ‘company’, of course.”

Y/N felt herself blush, stealing a glance at the floor as she lost the words to respond.

If all the boys are like this, then I’m definitely screwed.

Bucky held open the door for her, and tried to exit without making her flustered state noticeable, but couldn’t hide from Bucky’s eye.

“I’ll be honest,” He started as he closed her door behind him, “We weren’t expecting you guys so soon.”

“Rebecca said the same thing actually, something about you guys showing up on Sunday?”

He shook his head at her statement, “No she said we should come up on Sunday; we just assumed that meant she wanted to meet up that day.”

“I guess they both wanted to beat the other to the punch, huh?”

Bucky puckered his lips to stifle a laugh, “Yeah I guess they did.”

Bucky took a moment to really look at the girl. Rebecca had shown him pictures before, but they did not do her justice. She was gorgeous in person, and that voice… he could listen to her talk all day if she’d let him.

“Have you met him before?”

“Who, James?”

Bucky nodded as he led her around the top landing, and started down the stairs. “Yeah.”

“No, but I’ve heard lots about him.”

“Yeah? Like what?” He asked. Bucky stopped and leaned back against the railing, shoving his hands in his pockets as he patiently waited for her answer.

Y/N turned on the stairs and placed a foot on the next step, balancing herself as she met his curious eyes. “Charmer, funny, a big softie once you get to know him… that sort of thing.”

“Seems like a dreamboat…”

Y/N rolled her eyes, “The way she paints him, yeah…”

Bucky tilted his head to the side as his tongue darted to lick his bottom lip. “You believe her?”

Y/N shrugged as she turned away from him.

“I think so. But she might be exaggerating,” she called over her shoulder, “She’s trying to get me to fuck him.”

She heard Bucky’s laughter echo through the foyer, the sound of his footsteps following short after.

“Wow, haven’t even met and she’s already planning the wedding?”

Y/N smiled as she nodded, turning to face him as he landed at the bottom of the stairs.

“You gonna do it?” He asked teasingly.

Y/N bit her lip as she thought, “Not sure yet. Guess I’ll have to meet him first.”

Bucky nodded as his gaze found the floor, hiding the look of excitement and mischief he’d attempted to keep a handle on. But he couldn’t help it; the girl was clueless, she made it too easy.

“I guess you will.”

~

Part 3

OmG wHaT iS BuCkY HidInG o_O

Jk y’all hoes know. We ready for Part 3? We’re getting to the steamy stuff soon ;)