a-confused-dragon · 1 year ago
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I want to try sewing my own clothes ✨
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jolapeno · 11 months ago
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stockings and stars
javier peña x f!reader
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summary: Still need the star putting on the top of the tree. ive got other plans for you Because I’m the star? yeah you're my star and youre not going anywhere but on your back
from the late night texts world - but can still be enjoyed on its own. chapter warnings: allusion to/mentions of smut. no actual smut. javi undresses you, though. flirting. fluff. reader wears red lingerie and a dressing gown. javi flirting. sexy talk, romcom vibes ofc ✨ wordcount: 3k
an: to @goodwithcheese merry christmas from me, to you. thank you for everything, for the tuesday fun we have - i wanted nothing more than to have this out sooner, but life, you know? but, i adore you. and I'm so glad we found one another. ahuge thanks to @thetriumphantpanda who cheerleaded for me throughout.
text key: bold is you/reader | italics is javi
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Will I be seeing Santa Javi today? I want to decorate my tree.
one time I come to yours in a red shirt
You also had the tree under your arm and a bag of baubles, I’d class those as gifts.
keep talking baby and you can decorate your tree alone
Think I’m gonna wear that shirt you left here while I do it. Make sure I have to get up on my tip toes. Hope it doesn't rise up...
you don’t play fair
I think I’ll be in stockings too…
youre killing me
Maybe they’re white and red, and…
baby if i wasn’t putting this thing up for Pop, i’d be driving over right now
Hope you hurry up, I need someone tall to put the star on top of the tree.
how am I gonna eat you out when youre perched on the tree baby
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The last thing on his to-do list from his Pop is to hang the front porch garland.
He had learnt there had been a huge difference in the front and the back porch garlands. A fifteen-minute-long difference when he'd timed the response given to his sarcastic answer.
Javi learnt there was not only one for the back porch and the front, but one which sat across the fireplace and one on the staircase.
He learnt that after he'd made a joke about mixing them up—earning himself a very pointed glare, and the task of the front porch.
Now, it’s a battle he’s losing.
Tremendously so.
While he’d never want his Pop to do the more challenging tasks, he did rather hate he hadn’t thought to trade this one in for the back porch at the very least—because that had looked fucking easy.
Holding the garland in hand, he’s suddenly hit with a second wave of nostalgia, the first having arrived when he'd pulled down the box and peered into it.
It did the same thing as it had done then, all but rushed over him, layering itself on his shoulders, sitting, nothing short of a comfortable weight on him. Letting his gaze fall out over it, he smiles at the tuffs of fabric, all the bows tied by hand, all in an array of sizes and shades.
Over time, he can see how they've become sun-dyed, remembering the first year they'd been sewn into the faux greenery by his mamá, memories of her all hunched over, humming carols.
Smiling, he rolls his lips, letting out a heavier sigh than he intended as he drags it to the post he’d begin at.
But, all he wonders is whether in the years he wasn’t here, whether it was occasionally hung—or if this year is just that special.
The mere hint that he was going to ask if you wished to spend Christmas at the ranch had sent his Pop into overdrive. Practically yanked him out of his chair like he’d been electrified, a bunch of orders being flung from under his white, wiry moustache that they needed to get ready.
He wasn't sure he'd get the image of his Pop suddenly scrambling around like a man half his age, to drag the decorations out from the cupboard, would ever be erased from his mind. Least of all the sound you'd made aww'ing down the phone when he'd given you a condensed version of the story.
Because he hasn't asked you yet, not properly.
Even though he's spent the last two days at the back of barns and spending a ridiculous amount of time at the hardware store—because we need to make sure the lights stay up, Jav.
He just hasn't found the right time to ask you. A promise each time he goes to see you left in the air. Not that his Pop remembers that, instead he's just busy thinking up ways to make it special: one of which includes decorating the trees at the entrance to the ranch.
An idea having sprouted with the newest ranch hand—one which, if Javi overheard correctly, involves rope acting like tinsel and a cowboy hat being the star on the top of the trees.
Feeling his phone vibrate, he temporarily ignores it as he begins to weave the beginning of the garland around the wood—already knowing, before he tries to move it around the spindles, that it isn’t going to be easy.
Because nothing ever fucking is.
Least of all when you’re waiting for him.
His mind begins to concoct images of you in bows and sheer material, lips painted, sat waiting, smelling nothing short of heavenly as you call out for—
“Fuck,” he shouts, dropping the garland to the ground.
It had pricked him, stabbed him right in the skin—hand shaking the pain out, face likely all scrunched. And, if it didn't have sentimental value, he's sure he'd have kicked its protesting ass with everything he had. Instead, he just narrows his eyes more than he had done moments ago as he begins again.
He feels his nostrils flare when it begins to undo itself. The sound of faux bristles on wood grates him before it will even attempt to do what he needs it to.
And it makes him want to quit, to throw it back into the box and tell his Pop it isn’t worth it. But he knows it is. Knows that his mama didn’t spend hours bent over under flickering light for it not to be seen.
Javi also strongly suspects you’d love it. Likely run your fingers over several bows asking who made it. He can even imagine the look of joy on your face when he tells you.
It’s why, if he didn’t already suspect it anyway, he’s pretty sure his Pop loves you more than him. Because even the first Christmas he was back, there weren’t this many decorations; not nearly as much need to have them all out, either.
Not that Javi really minds—or blames him.
There’s a notable shift in energy when you stay over. Even more so in him. He can see there’s a cheer and a glow to the place—one Javi hates watching vanish when he takes you back to your place.
It's why, when—and where—he can, he fights for you to be here. Practically finds convincing ways to do so, including, crossword puzzles, dinner, and two-person showers. But, at some stage, your clothing dwindles, underwear runs low, and he has to make the painful drive into town to return you to your place.
Your fingers in his hair, practically clambered into his lap as you whisper that you’ll be back before he knows it. His fingers on your chin, thumb stroking out the words he says right back—that he’ll miss you all the same.
Javier Peña. Texan softie—what will the world think?
He only thinks one thing when he drives back—a response which had been there on his lips. Guess they’ll see just how much I love you. A thing you know, comment on, say back to him first thing in the morning and last thing at night. An array of promises there, sometimes spoken at a normal level and sometimes whispered.
You always keep them, just like the one that you are always back before he knows it.
He likes it when you are. Enjoys it when you’re nestled beside him, arm across his chest, hand close to his ribs—strumming them, tracing lines and words he tries to understand before sleep takes him.
He still always sleeps better when you’re beside him. When his breathing can mirror yours, when he can feel for you in the night when he’s awoken with nightmares and things he knows won’t ever come true.
Now, he’s fighting a different battle. One to get to you.
Halted in his path to freedom by the garland which refused to be hung, and could be labelled as giving him more grief than the horses which had banded together. A phrase he never thought he’d admit out loud, never mind think.
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You still fighting with the garland?
baby its torturing me on purpose
Do you want me to come and help?
will you come in the stockings
No!! Your dad is there.
then stay there actually lie down, but do not begin without me
Still need the star putting on the top of the tree.
ive got other plans for you
Because I’m the star?
yeah you're my star and youre not going anywhere but on your back
Hurry then.
i’m hurrying
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He does hurry—practically scratched up by the time he’s parking his truck outside your place.
As he takes the step up to your door, Javi realises how much he misses it here when he doesn’t visit. A place less frequent and often spent time in, even under your insistence of renting it.
It is always usually a stopping point, him parking up, letting you go in and grab what you need before you're back in his truck, heading back to his.
He does like your place though, likes how small it is, how cosy. Plus, it has all the things which make you, you. A thing his place is currently missing.
Although, as he steps through the door, and calls your name, he does have to admit it currently looks fucking ridiculous.
On a good day, he’d describe your place as crowded, but right now, it’s claustrophobic.
The tree you’d forced him to get is shoved into a corner, branches fluffed out, surrounded by the piles of unpacked boxes you’ve tried to discreetly hide. Your remaining floorspace is overtaken by a bit of rug, several piles of books (you have no room for, but continue to buy) and odd bits of furniture you find and attempt to restore.
For the most part, you’ve decorated. A thing you did inform him of.
You’ll be pleased to know when you get here your only job is the star. managed it all yourself, did you I’m a very competent woman, Javi. oh i know baby ive seen you with a crossword Does that do it for you? Me finishing a crossword. does something to me Get over here. im leaving now
There’s a warm, comforting glow spread out across the place from the fairy lights you’ve hung and the array of mismatched decorations—both bought and handmade—hanging from branches.
He breathes in the scent of orange which hangs in the air, his eyes finding the culprit on your fireplace, a garland—one not dissimilar to the one he’d been battled with—places there, mocking him due to the ease of which had been laid, with oranges and little beads all entwined within it.
Snorting, he glances back at your tree, spotting the things he's been with you when you've bought. And, as promised—and informed him through text—there’s nothing at the top of your tree.
“You finally made it!”
Spinning on his heel, he comes face to face with you, and fuck if the sight of you doesn’t make it all worth it.
Dressed in a red, silky dressing gown, all tied in the middle, you're a vision. Then, there's the fact your lips are painted a shade he’d now famously dub Christmas red, a colour he wants nothing more than to be stained with. A path of it from his mouth down to the space where his jeans meet his hips. A thought which seems to only make how tight his jeans are even more uncomfortable.
“Cariño, you’re…”
You sway a little, letting the fabric move—allowing his gaze to land on the stockings. The ones he’s been thinking about all afternoon. The ones he can’t wait to feel under his palm and know whether they’ll create friction when wrapped around his waist.
“Fuck me.”
“I’m kinda banking on it,” you say, biting your red-painted lip. “But first…”
His hand crawls around your waist, feeling the smooth, soft texture under his hand—swallowing, dragging his eyes up and down you, unsure how he could ever be so lucky—how something so good could ever be here for him to unwrap.
“I need you to hang the star,” you continue.
“Right now?”
Nodding, you ghost your lips over his. “I’ve been so good waiting for you.”
“You're never good. You, baby, are a menace.”
“I’m your menace.”
Snorting, he presses a kiss to your lips. “Damn right, you are.”
Moving from you, reluctantly, only to pick up the gold star he assumes you want to hang, getting a nod from you that he’s right.
“Need to ask you something too.”
And even though he’s only taken a mere short step from you, he’s floored all over again about what a picture you look like when he glances back. That you’re standing all for him, dressed in nothing but cheer and ribbons all for him.
“Go on.”
Turning to your tree, he flattens his hand to the wall for stability. “I wanted…”
His concentration slides in—suddenly aware he doesn’t want to knock anything from the branches. Doesn’t want to force things to be misplaced from where they were expertly hung.
He’s also sure he’s wanting to swallow the question. A part of him, all the way deep inside of him, having been bracing—and waiting—to hear you’d be apart for the holidays. A thing the two of you have rarely been since you moved here, not a day going by he hasn’t seen you for at least an hour.
“Wanted to know if you—shit—” the star almost sitting atop, before at the last minute protesting. “I wanted to know if you wanted to spend Christmas with me—with us, me and Pop. At the ranch.”
The star slides into place, sitting more comfortably with another shove, more branch supporting it.
But he doesn’t turn, not immediately. Not as the question hums around him, swirls in the silence of you not immediately saying yes. So much so, that it takes him a second to move on his heels, to face you—to read the answer before it’s delivered.
What he sees is something his heart couldn’t have ever prepared for.
You, grinning—a silly, almost goofy, smile spreading out as you bite down on your lip, forehead slightly crinkled.
“You… you want me to spend the holidays with you?”
“Of course—cariño, I want nothing more than for you to be with me.”
It all quick to leave his mouth, mirroring the movement to be back in front of you, fingers under your chin, lifting your eyes—those beautiful, fucking eyes—to his.
“Do… do you—wanna spend it with me?”
You pull a different face before you’re nodding. One more excited, one which begins to expel out over a smile and a bunch of escaping phrases such as I can’t believe you want me with you and of course.
“Why wouldn’t I want to be with you?”
Shrugging, you scrunch your nose—an act he finds just as cute as the first time he saw it. “Guess it’s a big deal. It’s… a thing people do with families.”
Pulling you close by your hips, your hand lands flat on his chest. “You are my family.”
“Javi,” you whisper, making each letter feel so individual the way you say it, that it makes his heart double.
“It’s true. You’re it for me, cariño. All I’ve wished for.”
Eyes widening, your eyes shimmer under the lights—more so than normal. Taking a deep breath, you lift your chin before pressing a kiss to his mouth. One which turns hungry, desperate—your mouth searing, a thing he’s craved since he woke up before the sun even rose.
“Baby,” you whisper.
And he hums.
It vibrates out, able to feel it from the way his fingers cup your cheek.
“Undo me.”
Releasing your lips with a pop, he opens his eyes, studying your eyes, moving from one to the other.
“Go on,” you urge in a whisper, more breathless, more tinged with something that makes his skin hot.
Sliding his fingers over the knot, he barely has to tug before it comes undone—unveiling you, like a curtain which wishes to part. If he’d thought you’d looked good before, he’s sure every bit of you is a sin now—a Christmas sin.
Red and lace. It’s all he sees. It sitting there, against you, hugging your breasts—sitting on your hips. His mouth is suddenly dry at the thought of running his tongue over the place it meets your skin before pulling it down.
Your fingers follow his eyes, sliding between the valley to land on the bow in the centre, twisting the edge of the tie around your index finger—palm skating over your stomach, allowing him more chance to take in how you’re stood before him in see-through fabric and promises.
“How’d I get so lucky?” he asks, more to no one, than to you.
His fingers teasing the fabric sat on your hip—marvelling, unsure how to think straight until you clear your throat, forcing his eyes to meet yours.
“Hey,” you whisper, tightening your hold on his hands, bringing his arms more around your waist, pressing your front to him, feeling the heat from your skin through your clothes. “You’re all I wished for too.”
Smiling, he looks at your tree, before landing back on you. “You look so good.”
“I know. Could look better though?” His brow arches as you slowly begin to smile, the tip of your tongue sliding over your upper lip. “Everything is held in place by bows.”
Groaning, he closes his eyes, letting his hand slide down your lower back, over sheer material before his fingers find the ribbon on your hip.
“All for you.”
“Mine,” he answers, slotting his mouth over yours—staining the four letters to your lips.
His fingers slide around, brushing over soft skin, until he finds the first bow. Undoing it with ease, licking into your mouth, only to grunt against you when you whimper as the fabric falls to your feet.
“Yours,” you say back, your own hands beginning to undo him.
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an: merry christmas, love you
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synthshenanigans · 1 year ago
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Ive remade my designs for HMSW! Ive had these brewing since early-mid may so im happy to finally be done with them lol. Mind Soul and Whole will come out eventually as well (hopefully) (also maybe less human looking designs at some point)
Heart Redesign!
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Headcanons + Stims below!
(Btw, the stims I put are ones I think that fit, but are also ones that I have since I know those the best. But I'd be happy to hear any other ideas!)
Stims/Habits:
• Arm and Wing Flaps
• Has a chewy biting necklace (in the shape of a Heart or Moon)
• Bites fingers/skin
• Tapping on arm (heartbeart rhythm of course)
• Twirling and playing with hair
• Makes that lil noise at the end of The Whole World and You
• Fidgets with his hoodie strings, the beads on the strings and lose threads on his clothes and scarf
Headcanons:
• Also uses the name Juno
• He/They (I don't know many neopronouns, but i feel like Heart would use moon based ones and maybe flower or petal based ones?)
• Are the marks on their chest cool marks, normal scars or trans scars? Sure! I flip between which I believe but I think all are interesting
• Deer tail and ears are very expressive! Tail wags like a dog when excited
• Is very warm and likes to be warm. Wears hoodies and scarfs to be toasty
• Fear of Thunder and loud noises
• Has sewn in hearts on his hoodie sleeves
• Likes taking care of small plants, mainly succulents or any hanging plants
• Uses the lil emotes. Like :) :D and :> or the more detailed bigger ones like ´・ᴗ・`  ̄^ ̄ and (づ ̄ ³ ̄)づ
• Only one that can play the saxophone in the trio (THA is the only song with an actual sax in it so I think it makes sense)
• While Heartaches are his main pains, they also have shoulder and back pains
• Also has sometimes gets really tense and shakey. (made a fic talking bout this if your curious)
• Loose and soft movements. Only really moves fast when angry (arguments and fights with Mind)
• Much more aggressive than Mind. While Mind never strikes first, Heart still has some marks (mainly bruises) from him
• Very touchy and affectionate. Sometimes just randomly hugs Soul or Mind
• When sitting next to one of them, enjoys/feels calmer when touching them. Like leg lightly touching or holding onto their arms or hands. Just likes being near another person
• Likes Pokemon and life sim games (stardew, animal crossing, sims etc.)
• Hates being alone and in the quiet. Even when angry at Mind, they still prefer to stay in the room with him.
•Hair can change looks based on emotion!
-Sad: Goopy & Drippy
-Angry: Flame like (oddly feels cold)
-Happy: Poofy and Cloud like
-Fearful/Startled: Spikey and Sharp (when jumpscared/startled, small pieces can shoot out like a porcupine)
-Affectionate/Calm: More curly and poofy.
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revoltinglittleworm · 1 year ago
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Some ramblings about future/life choices
I’ve been working on my FIT (fashion school…) portfolio. It’s due on Nov 1 lol and i still have a decent amount to complete. There’s the first portion, which is a sportswear, or ready to wear, design. That consists of a jacket, skirt, pants, and top. I already have the design, i just keep going to sketch it and hating the sketches. I don’t know. I’ve made several mock ups, and none of them are fully speaking to me… its more of an illustration issue than a design issue. I like the outfit i designed. But i feel so disconnected from my actual sketches. I guess i just need to remember that I’m not trying to be an illustrator or artist in that sense. I want to go to school so i can design and create and sew the actual garments. The sketch is part of the process but is it actually as important to make it look ‘perfect’ in my eyes as i am putting as much pressure on? I’m so awfully perfectionist that i struggle to have anything look subpar or incomplete. My sketches are rather simple, and i suppose that’s all that really matters anyway; being able to see the design of the garment clear enough, and the actual illustrative component is secondary.
I’m just gonna keep telling myself that because i need to move past this part and continue on with the portfolio. The next portion is my own designs, just whatever i want to share. I have plenty of designs I’ve made in the past that i like, ill just have to redraw them and color them, etc. and the last part is the biggest section: a sewn project. Luckily i already made my auto bonnet, but it requires 2-3 pieces, so I’m going to have to make at least one more piece. This is obviously the most important section/the most work, and ive been putting it off all day…
I think i am just already frustrated with my sketches that I worry ill get to sewing and get even more frustrated with the project. (I’m a very amateur seamstress, i know little to nothing.) so it’s easy for me to not know what the hell I’m doing, and I don’t know if I have the patience right now. But i need to get it done before nov 1……. Ugh
This is an important thing for me to do though. I have no idea if ill get in tbh. My past experiences with college have led to poor GPAs and attendance, ive been so depressed at those points in my life, and I’m worried it’ll effect FIT’s decision in my application. Plus, I can’t help but think about all the amazing people probably applying… but anyway. This is something that I want for myself, i can see myself making money and making things i love and feel proud of with this kind of knowledge and experience. Do i necessarily wanna go back to school…? I don’t know. But i figure I’ll apply to see what happens anyway. I can always just. Not go.
I have plans for this, i really want to have my own independent fashion line, simply made in my own studio. Original pieces and one of a kind things, i can actually picture it and have faith that i can make a good amount of money… because I’d be charging a pretty decent amount for my stuff, i want it to be high quality and unique. I look at my designs in my sketchbook and i see so much potential for interesting garments and such. I think my biggest thing? Overcoming my impatience and taking the time, learning, and working hard to make quality items. Ive been learning more and more that my impatience is the greatest thing hindering my work; making it amateur and flawed… i need to really take my time!!! Why is that so hard???
The answers from the poll i made earlier are interesting. I think i will in fact go with “Fallen Scrub” though “faint get up” is a close second. I want something that feels connected to me and my identity and vision. Obviously scrub gender is something that really speaks to me and who i am… lol
Thanks for reading if u got this far. I have high hopes for myself and future even when it feels like I’m never gonna get there, or that ill never been good enough. It’s like, in the back of my mind, ill always believe i have the power and capability to succeed, and make art that i love. I see it rarely in my stuff. Like, extremely rare. But with the auto bonnet i sewed, while it wasn’t perfect, there was something about it that felt… right. Felt like it was coming from an authentic place of, this is who i am, what i make, and what i want to share with the world. Anyway!!! I should really get back to work, lol ;/
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snekdood · 2 years ago
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Ive heard some people say that "masculinity is the default for everyone so thats why people dont recognize you as your assigned gender" and idk i gotta disagree?? Masculinity is the default, yes- but is it the default for everyone? Id say its the default for what the default type of person is considered, which is often a cishet white man. The default for those whom have womanness pushed on to us is dresses and heels. I am subverting expectations somewhat when i dress in pants and a button up shirt, but thats old news, thats what feminists did back in the day, however, its that exact association- the association with the cis girl feminists who rebelled against the norm, thats been locked in with ppl afab. When i wear pants and a pixie cut and act more masculine- im seen as a subversive, cool, hip, feminist woman. Thats the most that im allowed. Its not the default for afab people, but its accepted at this point, and is now more or less a default clothing style for everyone however its originally designated for the "default", cis men. If it were the end all be all default, though, we wouldnt still have tradwives about, now would we? Plenty of people still think women should be in the kitchen wearing dresses with their mouths sewn shut. That is still the default many people *want* me to end up in. So now, me wearing pants is just me being "a rebellious woman". That is the two extremes to many people and they only ever allow themselves to see me on either end of each spectrum. They never allow themselves to see me creep over to the spectrum of man. Im only either a traditional woman or a woman thats "trying to be different" to them. Unless im capable of passing as a man and they dont know im trans by default and i have to reveal it to them for them to realize "women" can become men, but id think only extremely passing trans guys could ever get away with that, and even then, when they find out, theyll start eyeing you up and down and pretend to notice parts of you that actually reveal that you're afab, in spite of not seeing it there before, as if i said the magic words that suddenly *unveiled* my "disguise". And once again im locked in the role of woman for them. And once you're locked in that role for a lot of cis men, you cant get out of it, because theyve found a million excuses to not listen to anything "women" say. You minus well be mute. Ive only ever been treated like a human by cis men like this when they dont know that im a trans man and think im cis too.
No matter how hard i try to prove my masculinity, when i dress as a man people have to dismiss it as me being butch. I can never be a man but just a female version of whatever man they think im trying emulate. Im a masculine man? Then im a butch. Im a sporty man? Then im actually just a cool tough tomboy sporty girl actually. Im an expressive and artistic man and it shows in the way i dress? Then im just an eccentric alt woman whos more willing to bend my gender expression. I can never just *be* a man. I only get to be the "female" version of whatever man they think im trying to be. Im allowed to dress like a man, im even allowed to be a butch woman in plenty of cases for cis men, but im never allowed to actually identify as a man. They see it almost as me playing pretend and playing dress up when i dress masc and when i cross over that border of manhood then suddenly i crossed over into accepting my life as being a half goat demon man or whatever. Suddenly thats when things get serious and its code red and everyone has to hit the deck and start doing their best effort to get me to Not start identifying as a man and stop living as if i am and stop trying to get ppl to recognize me for who i am. Im allowed to dress however i want insofar as people can think im just playing pretend.
And bc its old news for afab people to wear pants n shit, I also sort of feel like a lot of cis people see amab people becoming feminine as more dramatic of a change than it is for someone like me to be masculine, which makes me seem like a tomboy or whatever to them. Me dressing with pants and button ups and such is seen as this ~whatever~ thing because im allowed to explore my gender expression so long as i dont try to claim to be an entirely different gender. However, since it is such a dramatic shift for amab people in cis ppls eyes, and because masculinity is seen as so prized, people will assume that if an amab person decides they want to be a woman then that means she really means it, because "no truly masculine man would do that" or whatever.
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sparrowjaywrites · 3 years ago
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Forget-Me-Not
-Spencer Reid x Female Reader-  Plot: When the team is caught in explosion you wake up with no memory of who you are, or who anyone on your team is.
Y/N = Your name
Y/L/N = Your last name
H/C = Hair color
Heat burned around her as the young woman stumbled to her feet; her vision was hazy, blurred. There was a part of her who wondered if the blurriness was from her pounding head or her missing glasses… glasses moments ago she hadn’t even known she wore. Her feet kicked against debris small stones and smoldering pieces of wood; she could see an opening… a doorway red and blue lights flashed through it. She coughed as she moved, she needed to run, to get out faster… yet despite her desperate need to escape, a need she didn’t understand she couldn’t make her feet drag any quicker over the soot covered floor.
She stumbled through the doorway the red and orange haze of smoke quickly replaced by police lights that blinked fast enough she wasn’t sure if everything was washed in blue and red or possibly purple as her vision began to blur more each time she coughed. A man… no two men raced towards her shouting words she couldn’t make out past the ringing in her ears. Her knees gave out just as one of the men a handsome black man with kind eyes reached her. The other man was just as handsome though in another way… cute with curly brown hair and a singed sweater vest over a buttoned up shirt that she was sure had once been white.
She let the men drag her towards the ambulance slumping into their arms her boots dragging on the black cement. She was placed on a stretcher the second man, the nerdy one she dubbed him simply climbed in with her holding her hand tightly in his. She didn’t know why he held onto her so tightly but she found she liked it; it was comforting for some unknown reason.
The drive to the hospital seemed to pass in a blink of an eye… or maybe she’d just passed out for a moment; that was more likely she mused as she was rolled through the ER doors. Nerdy man followed her inside but was quickly rushed away by a nurse. The nurses were speaking to her asking questions she still couldn’t fully hear though she could now make out the low hum of their voices. They quickly stopped speaking to her just offering her comforting smiles as they worked. She knew she must have been loud with her hisses and yelps of pain as they began to remove blackened pieces of cloth from her legs and chest, and small pieces of metal from throughout her body.
Nerdy man was back as soon as the nurses let him past. Again her hand was in his as he talked to her and tried to smile at her. She blinked at him blankly, she couldn’t hear him… the nurses must have said as much, a doctor had even looked in her ears. Why was he bothering? Who was he, why did he seem so upset by her blank stare? He lifted a hand from hers and brushed his fingers along her cheek, she jerked her head back at the motion. Holding her hand was one thing, to touch her face when she didn’t even know him was another. The man quickly moved his hand back looking at her questioningly; hurt clear in his brown eyes.
A nurse quickly joined them injecting something into her IV, it wasn’t until her eyes began to shut that she recognized the burn in her throat and realized she had been yelling. What she had yelled she had no idea, nor did she care as her eyes drifted closed.
---Line Break---
The next time the young woman awoke she was in a room. She scanned the room with squinted eyes, she couldn’t see much of anything clearly, no she would need her glasses for that. Glasses she had left behind in the burning warehouse she had woken in originally. She cursed her stupidity her eyes landing on a man reading a book beside her, she could hear the turn of the page every few moments, far too quickly for anyone to actually read she suspected. Blinking back the haze of sleep… or drugs, yeah definitely drugs, she recognized the man.
Why was Nerdy man by her bedside again? She blinked at him staring silently until he glanced up as the beeping of her heart monitor sped up as she tried to figure out who he was. Those brown eyes that seemed so very precious to her though she knew not why locked with hers. A relieved smile split the man’s face as she immediately set the book he’d been holding aside.
“Y/N?” His voice fit him, his long lanky form straightening as he grasped her hand once again. Y/N? Who was Y/N? Was she Y/N? The woman blinked fear flickering through her as she realized she didn’t know… what was her name? How old was she? When was her birthday? Who was the man sitting next to her? “Whoa, hey it’s okay, you’re safe, we’re safe.” Nerdy man quickly reached out cupping her cheek in his large hand his long fingers gently caressing her skin as she began to hyperventilate.
“Who are you?” She managed to rasp out past her smoke damaged throat. Brown eyes widened at her question his hand quickly falling from her cheek as he gazed into her eyes worriedly.
“Y/N? It’s me, Spencer.” Spencer… the name fit, recognition pinged in the back of her mind, though the sensation was short and fleeting gone before she could grasp it.
“I… am I Y/N?” She swallowed thickly speaking her words slowly, she could hear the fear in her voice, it was almost solid it was so thick. Nerdy man… no, Spencer closed his eyes clearly blinking back panicked tears as he took a deep breath then nodded.
“Yes, you’re Y/N. I’ll be right back.” He quickly stood striding out of the room in long strides on long legs. Though blurred Y/N couldn’t help but note he had a very nice ass… shut up, Y/N, this isn’t the time. She chastised herself surprised how quickly she accepted her new… or old name. It felt like a long while before Spencer returned followed by two men, one clearly a doctor in a white coat the other a man in what was clearly a suit, though he had the tie and jacket draped over his arm.
“Hello, Agent Y/L/N, my name is Doctor Lynn; Spencer here tells me you don’t remember him?” The doctor asked slowly giving her a content smile. Y/N shakes her head silently noting the deep frown on the suited older man’s face and the pain that quickly covered Spencer’s face. “Agent Y/L/N do you know where you are?”
“A hospital… is Y/L/N my last name?” Her eyes move to Spencer as she asks the question, he had stood by her through everything from the moment she’d stumbled out of the warehouse too lying in the bed she was now in. He was who she trusted to answer her honestly.
“Yes,” Spencer said clearly though his voice rasped with unshed tears. Suit man placed a hand on his arm reassuringly.
“Agent Y/L/N, can you tell me what you remember about yourself?”
“I… I have H/C hair…” She responds after a moment of thought, small flashes of cutting off long H/C locks in a bathroom, a school bathroom as a teenager flashing through her mind, “I wear glasses… I left them in the warehouse… I couldn’t fully remember them so I didn’t pick them up.” She adds after a moment.
“Well you’re correct on those counts. Agent Hotchner, Dr. Reid could you please wait in the waiting room?” Both men shared wary looks but nodded leaving the room. The suited man shooting her a caring smile on his way out. The next few hours… at least it felt like hours were spent being whisked through the hospital from one machine to another then back again. Nurses explained what they were doing every step of the way, every hour she was asked if the remembered the three words the doctor had told her before her bed had been rolled from her room. Spoon, House, Rock. She passed with flying colors or so her Nurse, Rebecca Jones informed after each memory check.
“It seems you have amnesia Agent Y/L/N. We believe it was caused by the head injury you received in the blast along with brain damage caused by multiple seizures you experienced in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.” Dr. Lynn explained slowly and simply making sure she nodded before continuing. “You seem to be forming new memories and retaining information perfectly well, which is a surprise considering your ADHD, making us believe your experiencing retrograde amnesia, your bouts of recognition also assure us your symptoms are temporary.”
“So I’ll get my memories back?”
“You should, I can’t promise you’ll get them all back, you’ll likely never remember the moments before the blast, but overall we have high hopes for your prognosis, Agent Y/L/N.” They discussed more technical things such as bringing in a social worker and psychologist to determine if she is mentally sound enough to be in charge of herself or if her medical power of attorney would need to be brought in. It was quickly determined she would need to be placed under her medical power of attorney’s power until she at least remembered more about herself and her life. From there though she was informed of everything being done and all conversations she was not a part of them.
Normally she’d have been furious about this she suspected but considering she couldn’t even remembered her damn birthday let alone what medications she was one, where she worked, or any of her family she agreed this was probably for the best. She didn’t see Spencer or suit man again until the next day; they came into the room cleaned up and in fresh clothes.
“Hey, Y/N how you feeling?” Suit man asked smiling at her.
“Like I was blown up… which I was so that seems pretty apt.” She shrugs in response. She had learned she had second degree burns covering both her legs and a good portion of her chest. She had also been riddled with shrapnel though all of it had been removed and the cut’s either sewn or glued closed and covered. She was told she could be released in about forty eight hours when she’d been woken for the billionth time by her nurse that morning. All her wounds could be managed outside the hospital but they wanted to keep her a few days due to her concussion.
“Memories or not you’re still you.” Suit man snorts with a small grin.
“Good to know. So which of you is my medical power of attorney? They said you two were handling my affairs so I assume it’s gotta be one of ya?”
“I am, I uh… we made each other our power of attorney’s when we moved in together.” Spencer spoke up nervously. Y/N’s eyebrow rose at his words… moved in together? Her mind flicked to the sense of comfort she got from him clutching her hand, the way her mind immediately jumped to… less than appropriate thoughts when looking at his very fine ass, and the way he hand caressed her cheek. Oh… oh, that made a lot more sense now.
“Dating, engaged, or married?” She asked calmly smiling as he immediately turned bright red and started stuttering over himself.
“You two are married.” Suit man snorted. Y/N nodded slowly, thinking hard she could remember a wedding dress, blue flowers… forget-me-nots… huh ironic she snorted at the memory before smiling. It may have only been flashes but the memories brought joy, so very much joy.
“What are you smiling about?” Spencer finally found his voice sitting beside her in the same chair he’d been sat in the night before.
“I was trying to remember, forget-me-nots… at our wedding? A bit ironic now wouldn’t you say?” She asked with a small laugh. Spencer’s face lit up at her words as he chuckled along with her.
“I’ve never known anything to fit the meaning of the word better.”
“I mean, the odds, we tempted fate with that one didn’t we?”
“Clearly...” He took her hand in his squeezing it. “Do you… remember anything else?”
“My dress, at least I’m assuming I was the one in the dress,” She raises an eyebrow her eyes moving up and down his slim form. “Though I’m sure you’d look very beautiful in one.” The laughter from her other side was sudden and quickly covered up with a cough as suit guy quickly left the room.
“Your dress… I don’t wear dresses” Spencer quickly confirmed his own amused smile blindingly bright. Maybe, just maybe she could get through this after all?
 ______________________________________________________ AN: Hey Everyone I know it’s been years since I posted but I’m back with this little story I suddenly had the urge to write at 3 am. I plan to post the original version of this which is with my original character as well for anyone interested in that. I may make a part 2 if people are interested, and if not then the one with my character will probably at least get a part two. I hope you all enjoy!
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vonnyphant · 4 years ago
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To Blog or Not to Blog?
“You should start a diary and write about your experiences. It may help people going through the same thing.”
Honestly? If there’s one thing I discovered about this diagnosis, it’s that it makes me pretty damn selfish. I don’t want to help other people (not just yet, anyway). But putting some thoughts down about this time in my life may be of some sort of therapeutic value, and I do want to help myself. 
(Maybe for once, saving the world can wait. Do you remember how, soon after the pandemic hit, people stopped avoiding plastic and single-use items? When your health is at risk, suddenly rainforests and polar bears and the planet are deprioritised- not that anyone will admit to this. But this is my diary and I can say what I want!* Writing for myself it is.)
Having established my less-than-Mother-Theresa-like reasons for this blog, my conscience cleared, it’s time to start. This is where the Lifetime movie shows me, in a half daze, mellowed out on drugs while they sew a mediport into my chest to start administering chemicals. A fast lane to my bloodstream. A docking station. The soundtrack? Hopefully ‘Across The Universe�� by the Beatles (possibly Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. If I get a say in it, I veto The Walrus) Time to pump this body full of drugs that’ll make my hair fall out. 
Wait, what?
Voice Over: “Yep. That’s me. You’re probably wondering what I am doing here…” //record scratch - freeze frame - fast rewind to the psychedelic outtro of A Day In The Life//
Two months ago, during rub-a-dub-in-the-tub (less naughty than it sounds, was just washing myself), my mind inexplicably went to an episode of Beverly Hills 90210, s1 (aired in 1992- yes, I am that old), where Brenda Walsh has a breast cancer scare. I say inexplicably, because my usual shower fantasies do not include Ms Shannon Doherty - if I was going to pick a shower lady, I’d opt for Charlize Theron, Kiera Knightly or Winona Ryder in their short-hair phases, but that is neither here nor there. 
Say what you want for 90s television- weird outfits and ponytails notwithstanding, in their AfterSchoolSpecial PSA way, they dedicated a whole scene to the girls giving themselves a breast exam, including how-to instructions**, and eventhough I was only 11 years old when I saw it, I remembered what to do, and for the last 30 years, every now and then I have randomly carried it out while wondering how I always preferred Brandon over Dylan and how my tastes have changed over time.
But this time - my hand actually found something.
I took a deep breath and calmed myself down the same way I did after finding spots on my skin, lumps on my head and every time I sneezed since covid-19; by telling myself to fucking snap out of my hypochondria tendencies. One cannot go to the doctor every damn day after all. Breast tissue is pretty lumpy and I assumed it was just imaginary. I made an appointment to see a therapist, and  put it out of my mind until a few weeks later, when one of the kids came crashing down on me (literally) and faceplanted in my boob (as they do). 
Now this always hurts af, but it just hurt that little more that day, so that I grabbed the appendage in question and went “WHAT THE--!” And I felt it again- the lump, more defined than a few weeks before. 
Cue a lot more freaking out than the first time, and after a sleepless night, imagining what my funeral would look like (as one does), I decided to go to the gynocologist the same day or risk never to sleep again.
After a long wait and an ultrasound, my doctor assured me that while there really was a mass, it had every indication of being benign. We should keep an eye on it. If I was worried, I could schedule a second screening, but would not likely get an appointment before April. I scheduled one and tried to focus on preparing our first lockdown Christmas. 
But over the holidays, the lump started hurting, even when I wasn’t poking it or having a kid catapult themselves into my chest. I’d be Netflix and Chilling, and suddenly - ZAP - like someone stuck a hot needle into it. Repeatedly. My nipple would go numb or start tingling like a bodypart that fell asleep. It freaked me out, and in the new year, I realised I couldn’t wait until April - I had to get it checked out again or I may worry myself to death.
My gynocologist did another ultrasound and again, told me not to worry. I told her it was way too late for that as I had been worried for weeks, and I wanted the thing biopsied (they gave Brenda Walsh one too, after all! It’s the only way to be 100% sure). She referred me to the hospital. At the description of my symptoms, I could come directly, and the radiologist told me in no unclear terms: “I will not let you leave this room until we draw blood and take several biopsies.” Okay- not exactly what one wants to hear at that point, but at the same time, I figured knowing would be better than guessing by the shape of it.
Test results took a week. I went in, being prepared to be told (like Brenda) it was a harmless clump of random cells or a cyst we could have removed like a wart. Only it wasn’t. It was breast cancer, an aggressive, fast-growing kind, and had I waited until April, that could have had disastrous consequences.
While the doctor explained we now needed to determine the scope of the spread and take more tissue to determine what kind of chemo (if any) could be applied, all my 2020-PTSD brain could think was: 
“.............of course”. 
Didn’t hear much of what she said afterwards.
Another harrowing 4 days went by, with a CT screening with contrast solutions that gave me an intense stomach ache as well as a migraine, and finally, a fully rounded diagnosis and treatment advice could be made. 
Thankfully, all my organs as well as lymphnodes were clear, so it appears to be a localised tumor. And here we are - to fight this thing with chemicals and then cut out whatever is left. Genetics testing to see about the likelihood of a recurrency (and a possible double mastectomy if so - ‘pulling an Angelina Jolie’, ‘not saving the tatas’, insert ‘Think About It meme’...can’t have breast cancer if you don’t have breasts! THINK ABOUT IT***). 
Chances are good. I need to cling to that while I wait for this port and treatment to start. I have accepted the inevitable hair loss, have scheduled a ritual ‘crazy hair cutting party’ with my kids for this weekend (as I would rather shave it off in one go than clean up clumps and strands over the course of weeks and look like Gollum), and I have sewn several funny little hats for inside wear and ‘going out’ (though where will I be going in pandemic, idk). 
I was going to end this post on a light and happy note - but I must admit my confidence just took a really big hit in real time, as I googled how to spell Shannon’s last name for this blog entry and found out that she was treated for breast cancer in 2015, initially succesfully, but it reappeared metastasized in 2020 (again: ‘of course...when else’) and she is now in stage IV. Fuck 2020.
What are the odds that the woman whose character made me discover my own breast cancer is now, in fact, dying of the same disease? This will surely haunt me for a long time to come.
More tomorrow? Or soon? It may take a while. Until then: outro to It’s Getting Better.
*also for the record I would like to state that I’ve sewn my own masks from upcycled pillowcases and continued using fruit- and vegetable nets to avoid plastic; maybe that makes up for me being utterly selfish at the moment. Karma +1?
** https://youtu.be/pkgYXITkrfw (the scene from BH 90210)
***cis men / trans women without breasts can also get breast cancer (even though it’s rare) so this meme doesn’t really hold up, but that’s the whole point of the meme ;)
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crewhonk · 6 years ago
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If you do not mind taking a Nameless series (which I whole-heartedly loved, by the way) prompt. What would have happened if the reader were to be captured by Hydra alongside Bucky. Would they remember more things together? Would he still be protective? I'm just generally curious about what would have taken place if that were to happen.
NO ENDGAME SPOILERS
Nameless Blurb!
Pairings: Nurse!Reader X Bucky Barnes, Nurse!Reader X Winter Soldier
Words: 1.7K
Nameless Masterlist
Everything hurt. Bucky’s body screamed at him every time his lungs tried to expand for air. His face was pressed into the dirt of his cell, and he watched the dust that was kicked up after every exhale. It danced and twirled in the sunlight provided by the one barred window and he watched it, losing track of time and waiting. Just waiting. 
They had taken his arm last week-- a tactic to try to break him and leak the information that the Howlin Commandos were privy to, but nothing worked. If Bucky Barnes was anything at all he was stubborn. 
Or he was until they opened the cell door. 
You were there, held up by two HYDRA soldiers before being thrown in without much care for your unconscious body. 
No, no, no, no. This wasn’t how this was supposed to happen. You and Steve and Peggy were supposed to get out and look for him. Yo were supposed to break into the base and rescue him like the damsel he felt like. He tried to crawl over to your body, praying to whatever God that was out there that you were breathing, and they hadn’t just thrown your corpse in with him. 
That would suck. 
He was about a foot away before the chain shackled around his wrist held him back and he let out a hoarse cry. If he had his arm-- if he was still a whole man he would be able to reach you. 
“Y/N!” He shouted, tugging at the chains and crying again when they wouldn’t budge. He collapsed in on himself and screamed until your nose wrinkled and you let out a whine. 
“Shhh,” You whispered, eyes still closed and brow furrowed. “My head hurts.”
Bucky’s head shot up and he pulled on the chains again, trying to get to you. 
“Y/N,” He said, snot dripping from his nose and tears falling over his cheeks. “Baby, get up. Show me you can get up.”
You groaned and rolled over onto your side to face him, gasping when you opened your eyes to see him. 
He was filthy, only a few slivers of skin shone from the blood and dirt caked on his face. He was shirtless, a few poorly sewn stab wounds littered his torso where there would be no vitals hit, and his pants were ripped and torn. He was barefoot too, toenails missing and infected looking. 
That wasn’t what made you scream though. 
There was a bandage over his shoulder, covering what used to be his arm. There were strips of skin missing, peaking out from the bandage and across his chest. They were browned with dry blood and the skin around them looked hot and irritated. 
“James.” You cried, pulling yourself up enough to crawl over to him. “What the hell did they do to you?” Your soft hands cradled his cheeks and he sighed. It was the first gentle touch he’d felt in months-- maybe years. 
“They tried to break me, Babygirl.” He whispered, shining eyes looking up at you. You surged forward, capturing his weak lips in your own. His breath tasted like a mixture of sour and blood and you cried into his mouth. 
“You’re so strong, James. I’m here now. We're gonna be okay.” You wept, pressing your forehead against his. He let out a cry. 
You were never supposed to be here. Not like this. 
“Tell us where the Tesseract is.” Growled one of the masked men. Bucky spat at him, blood and phlegm coating the eye sockets of the mask. 
“Fuck you.” He repeated for the ninth time. He didn’t know where Steve or Peggy would have put it. They wouldn’t know that, though. He still had leeway-- the information he may or may not know could be the very reason Bucky was still alive today. 
“Fine.” Growled the man who picked up a knife from the table and twirled it in his gloved hand. “Bring her in.”
You were brought in, then. A fresh bruise blossoming red on your cheek and a wild look in your eyes. They had treated you better than himself, thank God, but now the man was walking towards you and he wanted to scream. 
“Don't touch her! Don't you fucking touch her!” Bucky screamed, pulling at the ropes that bound him to the metal chair under him. 
“Then tell us where the Tesseract is, or I’m gonna make her fuckin’ scream my name.” The man said, smirk in his voice, and Bucky’s vision went black around the edges. He looked to you-- stunned and scared but still defiant and shaking your head no at him. Whatever he knew, he couldn’t tell them. But then the knife went into your thigh and you screamed so loud the walls around you vibrated. 
Bucky yelled. 
“I don’t know! I don’t fucking know, okay! I know nothing!” He cried and his face crumpled when he pulled the blade from your thigh and watched your pants slowly grow with red. 
“I figured.” The man smirked. 
Bucky’s brain felt like mush. Like electrocuted mush. Mush that hurt and stung and made him want to curl up into a ball and die. 
He was on the thin mattress in your shared cell-- everything seemed very far away though. The dripping from the leaky pipe echoed around the room a mile away and the cell door opened and closed. It could have been seconds or years before he felt a very familiar hand on his face. Why did he know this touch?
He opened his eyes, squinting a the light still streaming through that damn window and looked at the person touching him. She was beautiful, but she looked tired, and his brows crinkled in the middle. Why was someone like you in a place like this? 
“Bucky?” She whispered, hands warm and soothing on his aching skin. Everything hurt. 
“Who’re you?” He whispered, foggy mind unable to place a name to the face. He could see your heartbreak by the expression on your face. 
“Y/N.” She said, without hesitation. “I made you wit four months before I told you that.” She tried to smile but it just looked painful. 
He blinked slowly. Once, twice before recognition flooded his eyes. 
“Doll. Shit, I’m-- I’m sorry. Today was--”
“Intense. I know. I’m here for you. I’m not goin anywhere.”
“You should though, go somewhere.”
“You and I both know that’s impossible.”
Thirty years had passed. It was a time of bright pants and big hair and frankly, the soldier didn’t care much for the ugly shirt that he had to wear or the bangs that were in his face and eyes and wouldn’t let him get a clear shot. 
He just wanted to get home to Y/N. He didn’t remember her, or why he had started calling her that, but she smiled when he did and it was nice to know that he was good to someone. 
He fired the gun in his hand and stayed still as people launched into action. Blood was covering the backseat, and a woman in pink was crying and screaming. 
He wanted to go home to her. 
So he packed up and climbed into the black truck waiting for him and sat silently while the SHEILD agents cuffed him, put that damn muzzle on and drove. 
He was home soon enough, the long hallways bathed in ugly green light and he winced as he felt the all too familiar pressure in the front of his skull-- another headache brought on by the fluorescent lights. 
The cell door to his room was opened and he was shoved in, stumbling only slightly before looking up and seeing her on the bed. No matter how many times he had to be frozen or put into the chair, he never, ever forgot how good she was. 
Y/N. 
She looked up from where she was reading a book from her place on the bed and smiled. Her thirty-year-old t-shirt was full of holes and hung off her body due to the weight she had lost, but her eyes which were full of relief at his return was enough to make his head spin. 
She jumped off the bed and wrapped her arms around his neck, and he didn’t hesitate to wrap both arms around her, burying his face in her neck and breathing her in. They were nicer to her than they were to him-- allowing her showers and actual meals rather than IV fluids, and it made him happy to see that she was better off than he was. 
She hadn’t spoken to him in decades-- they had tortured her one hour for every word she spoke when they were first captured, and she had eventually been conditioned to stay silent. 
He knew her though. 
She pulled him into their bed shortly after, stripping her shirt off and allowing him to trace her skin with whatever he wanted. He kissed each puckered scar on her body and was gentle enough that the callouses on his fingers tickled her sides, eliciting sweet sounds of laughter through her moans. Good reward for a good mission. 
They were put under once more the next day, only seeing each other when they were needed. Each time, wordlessly exchanging looks and touches to convey that while they didn’t have the best life, they were together.
It was 2014 when Soldat didn’t return home on time. She was waiting for him in her usual spot, patient as ever when she heard the gunshots and the screams. She looked up in fear when the cell door was blown off its hinges and thrown into the wall beside the bed, revealing an angry, and desperate soldier. 
He stalked forward and she backed up on the bed to try to avoid his aggression before he caught her ankle and pulled her to the edge of the bed, gathering her in his arms and carrying her out of the room. She hadn't left this room in decades, always chained or sitting and the muscles she once had had long since disappeared. She would certainly need her cane for the rest of her life rather than the short stint Howard Stark had recommended all those aeons ago. 
“We’re gonna get you out of here, Y/N. We’re gonna go far away from here for a long time.” His voice was gruff, but there was something there. Something minuscule that reminded of her best guy from the war. 
They were gonna be fine. 
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angrylizardjacket · 6 years ago
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ask your destiny to dance [16] {Roger Taylor}
[masterpost]
“I can’t speak to her.” Roger’s got his head on a bar in a pub that’s not Ash’s.
“Can I go back to pretending I don’t know what was going on?” Brian asks, taking a long sip of his drink and gazing out at the crowd. It’s been over a week since Ash had stayed over, and they hadn’t seen her since. It’s not like she’d even asked about him, or made a move to contact him; sometimes they go a full fortnight before seeing one another, but Roger’s been fretting for almost eight days internally, and for the past twenty minutes externally, since he’d finished his first drink.
“She said she loves me.” Roger groaned, lifting his head to weakly order another pint. 
“From what you’ve told me, she wasn’t even fully conscious; it’s not like it counts.” Brian had never seen Roger downright distressed like this, it would be funny if it wasn’t bordering on annoying.
“No, that means she was extra honest,” Roger groaned, downing half his beer in on go, to which Brian could only roll his eyes.
“Or she was still asleep and thought you were Jack Nicholson.” After a beat, Brian goes back to watching Roger brood over his glass. “Boo hoo, Rog,” he shoved the blonde lightly, to which Roger just leveled a glare at him, “a girl you’ve been seeing for months maybe has feelings for you. It’s not like it’s the end of the world.”
“It’s only been since I broke up with Kristin,” he’s adamant about that and Brian lets him have it, for now. In retrospect, he feels like an idiot for not seeing it sooner; Brian’s not sure when it started, but it’s definitely a lot longer than Roger’s willing to admit. “And it doesn’t mean nothing, but it also... it’s never meant something. Like it’s something but it’s not something. It’s just fucking around and having fun.” And Roger swivels on the bar stool, joining Brian in looking out over the crowd, before they spot Freddie crashing through the door, making a beeline for them once he’d spotted them.
“Alright, what did I miss?” Freddie asked, though the other two were quiet as he ordered a beer. Before either could get a word in edgewise, Freddie props his chin on his hand on the bar, and announces; “Roger you look like shit, what’s wrong?”
“I’m pretty sure he’s in love with Ash, and he thinks she’s in love with him.” Brian says blithely, and Freddie nods with understanding as Roger tells them to both sod off, and he stalks through to join the crowd on the dance floor. “She said she loved him in her sleep.” Brian explains, taking the chair Roger just freed, sliding into place beside Freddie.
“I’ve never seen him this worked up about someone before.” Freddie admitted, and Brian nodded in agreement, the two of them barely able to see his blonde hair for the crowd, and they lost sight of him soon enough.
“What do you think? Has Ash said anything?” Brian’s gaze slides to Freddie’s who just rolls his eyes.
“I think my dear Ash has never in her life loved a man who’s deserved it,” Freddie mused, though his lips twisted into a smirk, “that’s not to say she’s a saint, far from it, but compared to the others, Roger is a breath of fresh air.” 
“Isn’t that a sad thought.” Brian said faintly, before heaving a sigh. “Well, I know we haven’t been here long,” he got to his feet, finishing off his drink and looking around for his housemate, “but if I don’t drag him home he’s going to do something stupid in his current state.”
“Like that pretty, brunette thing over there?” Freddie asks, pointing to where Roger’s already got his lips on a wavy-haired brunette at the side of the room. Freddie’s pretty sure he sees Brian’s soul leave his body for a moment, and watches everything play out like a terrible Shakespearean comedy for which he was the only audience member.
“He’s a danger to himself.” Brian takes Freddie’s drink from his hands and takes a long gulp before passing it back, though Freddie doesn’t seem likely to complain.
“He seems rather fine,” Freddie watches Roger go in for a hickey on the girl with a morbid, voyeuristic interest, taking another sip of his drink, “and you know he and Ash aren’t technically exclusive.” 
“Yeah but there’s three options here; Ash finds out and gets pissed and I have to hear about it because apparently now that I know I’m all in on this disaster,” Brian lists on his fingers with a theatricality Freddie had rarely seen from him before, though he’d rarely seen Brian this exasperated before, so perhaps it was merely that, “two, Ash isn’t pissed, sleeps with someone else, and Roger gets pissed because he’s in love with her-”
“Which is unfair, what a tremendous double standard.”
“Yes, we all know Roger’s a hypocrite.” Brian sighed, casting a glance over his shoulder at Roger, before turning back to Freddie.
“And three?” The other man prompted, and Brian picked up his empty pint glass.
“I kill him with this glass because I’m sick of his sulking.” He says bluntly, and Freddie’s all for the third option, but he begrudgingly helps pull Roger away, to which the drummer complains the whole time.
“Where are we going?” Roger demands to know when they head in the opposite direction of his apartment, a sentiment that Brian mirrors, though he doesn’t seem inclined to question Freddie’s direction outright. Freddie always had a plan. The man in question wrapped an arm around Roger’s shoulders.
“You’re going to confront your problems, Rog.” He sounds so decisive, as if it wasn’t a plan he’d come up with as they were leaving the bar, and Roger tries to scramble his way out of it, but Brian’s fed up enough with Roger’s complete inability to do anything but run from his problems that he’s willing to take Roger’s arm in an almost iron grip.
“It’ll do both of us a world of good.” Brian tells him as Roger glowers at his housemate.
“You don’t get to decide what’s good for me; what’s good for me was that girl at the bar, she smelled nice and was about three minutes away from banging me in that bathroom.” Roger snarled, wrenching himself out of their grips, though he didn’t run this time, crossing his arms over his chest as he walked with them.
“Rog, we’re not gonna let you ruin a good-” But Brian’s gentle sigh was cut off by more of the blonde blustering.
“That’s so presumptuous!” He stopped in his tracks, scowling between both of his band-mates. “You’re both wankers, selfish fucking wankers. This is kidnapping.” He snaps.
“Fine; if you want to leave, we’re not stopping you.” Freddie offers, gesturing freely at the path behind them. “We’re just trying to help.” 
Roger stomped the entire walk to Ash’s apartment. 
“What the fuck, guys.” She opens the door with her hair in a messy bun, wearing a pair of sweat pants and a ratty, oversized Beatles shirt. “How did you get in?” 
“Your RA let us in; sorry for the interruption, just had to deliver this idiot.” Brian gave Roger’s shoulder a nudge. Roger is looking at anything but Ash. His latest drink had hit him about the same time as he got to her block, and now that he can smell the vanilla candle she likes to burn in her room just beyond her, he just wants to curl up and go to sleep under her duvet. Or fuck her. He’s not quite sure.
“Can I return to sender?” She asks without hesitation, and Roger rolls his eyes. Freddie shoves him forward.
“No.” 
Ash doesn’t move, just frowns as Roger stumbles into her space, and she’s automatically got a hand on his chest to steady him. Roger doesn’t seem like he’s there completely of his own free will, but he doesn’t move away from her, even as both Brian and Freddie leave, muttering something about him being ‘her problem now’.
“Care to explain?” She asked, gently walking him backwards and closing her door behind herself. The two of them make their way to the common area, and Roger sits up on the kitchen counter as Ash pours him a glass of water.
“Not really.” He said, sipping the water loudly and swinging his legs so his heels kick the cupboards below. Ash looks like the very sight of him exhausts her, but she rests her hands on her thighs, pressing herself against his legs to still them. “We can fuck whoever we want, Ash.” He says, seriously, and he sees the exact moment she realised the reason for his forced meeting, and he watched her expression fall.
“Yeah of course.” She agrees, crestfallen expression turning quickly to faux apathy. “Did you have fun?” But her heart wasn’t in it.
“They pulled me away, brought me here before anything really happened.” He huffed, taking another long sip. Ash stepped away, yawning loudly and sinking into a chair at the dining table. After a beat, Roger hums thoughtfully. “Ash, what do I mean to you?” And it’s so nonchalant it actually hurts Ash a little.
“I think that’s a really shitty thing to ask right now.” Her answer is automatic, she can’t look at him. “And I think you’re drunk.” 
“Ash...” It does register in his mind that he’s said the wrong thing, and it breaks his heart to see her too tired to repress her emotions like she usually would in this situation. Perhaps she assumes he won’t even remember this tomorrow. “Ash, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Yeah, I know.” She says softly. “You’re always sorry, and I’m always sorry, and there’s always someone else that feels like a mistake, even though we don’t technically need to apologise.” Shaking her head, she sighs deeply. “This isn’t the time for this conversation.” She admits, and standing, she takes his hand. “Come to bed, Rog.” 
When they’re back in her room, she pulls off her sweat pants and offers them to him without even thinking about it, and he’s quiet, forlorn when he takes them, changing into the borrowed pyjamas. Ash is already tucked into bed when he turns back, back to him, pressed as close to the wall as she can get with her head pillowed on her hand, not even attempting to co-opt some of the pillow for herself. There’s sewing equipment out, obviously still in use in the corner of her room, a blouse half sewn and still in the machine where it was left when it’s creation had been interrupted by a knock at the door.
When he slides into bed beside her, reaches out to rest a hand on her shoulder - an apology? a reassurance? just a need for human contact? - she shrugs him off, murmurs a quiet ‘don’t’. 
“I panicked.” They’re back to back, and the bedside lamp has been turned off. Roger isn’t even sure if Ash is still awake. He speaks into the silence, made honest by the hour and his inebriation. “You told me you loved me and I panicked.”
“Roger... I never said that.” Ash’s voice was confused in the darkness, and Roger feels like his whole world has fallen out from under him. He’s spent over a week considering whether or not she’d remember; if it had been real, whether she’d really meant it, but he’s never quite sure which answer would hurt more.
“You... were mostly asleep.” He admits, and he can feel the way Ash sighs heavily, the shift of her back against his as she tries not to hear it.
“Wow, imagine what kinky shit you and the girl from the bar would have gotten up to if I’d meant it.” She just sounds tired, as though she was trying to end the conversation, as though she hadn’t just shattered Roger’s heart. After a beat, she laughed humorlessly. “What are we doing, Roger?”
“I think Brian’s right.” And his words are enough to startle a weak laugh from Ash. “I want this to be about more than sex, I think.”
“You’re drunk and panicking; don’t worry, I’ll still work with the band if this goes south.” Ash says. Roger won’t take that, can’t let himself fall into the trap of panicking like he’d already fallen into that night. Turning, Roger presses his lips to the back of her neck, and Ash doesn’t like to think about how good it makes her feel.
“I’m sorry-” He tries, but she cuts him off.
“I heard you the first time.” Voice terse, she crosses her arms awkwardly over her chest. “Roger the idea of being with you fucking terrifies me.” She admits, raw and honest, glad he can’t see how conflicted she was. “You were so worried that I was in love with you that you almost slept with someone else, and for what? Were you worried you were losing control of your life? Didn’t want to be tied down?” Roger’s got an arm on her shoulder, rubbing comfortingly as she speaks, and he can feel her shaking.
“I know I’m not a saint, okay, love?” Roger admits, and Ash takes a long moment to consider his words, leaning back a little into his touch, before answering.
“Neither of us are, Roger, and that’s why what we have is so good right now.” Her voice has softened, and Roger stays quiet. “We can talk about it tomorrow.” She says gently, before reaching to link her fingers with his where he’s got his hand on her shoulder. She pulls him closer, and Roger makes a low hum, pressing a quick kiss to her shoulder.
When the morning comes, things are quiet and golden. Neither one knows what to say to the other, but Ash still gets him a cup of tea in the morning, and when he sees the cup with the little cat face on it, Roger feels something tighten in his chest. 
“Let’s try this, please.” He asks, expression sincere when he looks at where Ash is tucking herself back into bed, pressing herself against his side. The look she gives him is confused, and then it blooms into something hopeful. “I’m not fucking around here, I mean it.”
When she kisses him, her hand is warm where it had been holding her teacup, and she’s smiling against her lips. There’s a tension in her shoulders, and he can’t stop playing her words back over again in his head, ‘the idea of being with you fucking terrifies me’ and it’s clear that feeling hasn’t vanished over night.
But she’s willing to try.
the ususal suspects: @deakydickfanpage @hollyissuchahoe @laueecakee @smittyjaws @crystalshines2909 @i-am-sarah @legendsaresooftenwarnings @2ptonpt @benhardy24-7 @maiilovely @mickey-yr-a-goner @butter-times @heyyouitskay @tired-eyes-fairy-lights @yepimthatperson @missieluvsmurder @ironqueen98 @ceruleanrainblues @banhbao329@fantasticchaoticwho @ko-kitty @seven-seas-of-hi @mimisfangirlfantasy @aadjuric @rogmobile @cardybenhardy @snacfu @perriwiinkle @the-strange-fan-girl @finite-incantatem-7 @tapetayloe @florencewelchmybiggod
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tatticstudio55 · 6 years ago
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Daenerys as an anti-Cinderella?
Another asoiaf/fairy tales meta
It’s always fun to wonder which fairy tales goes best with which asoiaf characters (especially the girls, for some reason). For Sansa and Arya, the references are overflowing. With Dany it’s… trickier. Only two – or maybe three – classic tales really fit. Two of those I’ve already talked about in previous posts (Thumbelina and The Fire Bird). There are some general “clues” pointing to Cinderella…
-Viserys, the Anastasia & Drizella duo to Daenerys’s Cinderella
-In ADWD, Cleon the “butcher king” of Astapor make a marriage offer to Daenerys and gift her with a pair of slippers, but
Irri slid the slippers onto Dany’s feet. They were gilded leather, decorated with green freshwater pearls. Does the butcher king believe a pair of pretty slippers will win my hand? “King Cleon is most generous. You may thank him for his lovely gift.” Lovely, but made for a child. Dany had small feet, yet the pointed slippers mashed her toes together.
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-Cinderella is named as such for her habit of retreating close to the ashes-filled hearth once her work is done (from “cendres”, the French word for “ashes”). Bettelheim view Cinderella’s behavior as a product of sorrow and grief for her dead mother. For Dany, ash is also linked with sorrow and, first inverted trope, with the mother mourning her dead child:
She could feel the heat inside her, a terrible burning in her womb. Her son was tall and proud, with Drogo’s copper skin and her own silver-gold hair, violet eyes shaped like almonds. And he smiled for her and began to lift his hand toward hers, but when he opened his mouth the fire poured out. She saw his heart burning through his chest, and in an instant he was gone, consumed like a moth by a candle, turned to ash. She wept for her child, the promise of a sweet mouth on her breast, but her tears turned to steam as they touched her skin. – Daenerys, AGOT
There’s also the “Queen of ashes” nickname Dany is sometime dubbed with (more so in the show) and the fact that Cinderella herself is a “queen” of the ashes, somewhat (hence why she’s called “Cinderella”).
-Mirri Maz Duur is an inverted fairy godmother to Dany.
But these are details. Overall, Dany comes off as the anti-Cinderella of asoiaf. This becomes especially apparent in ADWD, where she’s, essentially, a glorified slave to her duties who dreams of escapes with her “prince charming”, i.e. Daario. This all reach a culmination point when she goes to the “ball”, i.e., the grand reopening of the Daznak’s pit. Unlike Cinderella, who’d give anything to attend the ball, Dany would give anything to skip it:
“Even if the pits must open, must Your Grace go yourself?” asked Missandei as she was washing the queen’s hair.
[…]
She would rather have drifted in the fragrant pool all day, eating iced fruit off silver trays and dreaming of a house with a red door, but a queen belongs to her people, not to herself. – Daenerys, ADWD
Whereas the ball meant dreams and freedom for Cinderella, for Dany, it’s the perpetuation of a nightmare. They both present themselves at the event under a veil: a literal one for Dany,
“And over it, the long red veils.” The veils would keep the wind from blowing sand into her mouth. And the red will hide any blood spatters. – Daenerys, ADWD
A metaphorical one for Cinderella, garbed so elegantly that her step mother and half sisters don’t recognize her. This idea of disguise is interesting. For a start, it contrasts with Dany’s refusal to put a veil between herself and Astapor in ASOS. To borrow Clapton’s words on Dany’s white garments in the show, the purpose of the veil is to “remove herself (Dany)” from the situation. Dany’s choice of clothes is a mean of non-attendance, while Cinderella’s costume allows her to go incognito and enjoy the moment. There is the contrasts of colors: Cinderella wears an immaculate, pure white dress (at least in the Disney version), whereas Dany wears yellow silk and a blood-colored veil. Finally, in some versions, the ball attended by Cinderella is a masked ball. This could be significant, since the reopening of the pits prove to be its own kind of masked “ball” (and even more so in the show, where the sons of the Harpy creep inside the pits wearing literal masks):
At the base of the Great Pyramid, Ser Barristan awaited them beside an ornate open palanquin, surrounded by Brazen Beasts. Ser Grandfather, Dany thought. Despite his age, he looked tall and handsome in the armor that she’d given him. “I would be happier if you had Unsullied guards about you today, Your Grace,” the old knight said, as Hizdahr went to greet his cousin. “Half of these Brazen Beasts are untried freedmen.” And the other half are Meereenese of doubtful loyalty, he left unsaid. Selmy mistrusted all the Meereenese, even shavepates.
“And untried they shall remain unless we try them.”
“A mask can hide many things, Your Grace. Is the man behind the owl mask the same owl who guarded you yesterday and the day before?
How can we know?”
“How should Meereen ever come to trust the Brazen Beasts if I do not? There are good brave men beneath those masks. I put my life into their hands.” - Daenerys, ADWD
Behind the drum marched Brazen Beasts four abreast. Some carried cudgels, others staves; all wore pleated skirts, leathern sandals, and patchwork cloaks sewn from squares of many colors to echo the many-colored bricks of Meereen. Their masks gleamed in the sun: boars and bulls, hawks and herons, lions and tigers and bears, fork-tongued serpents and hideous basilisks. – Daenerys, ADWD
In fact, some descriptions of the event, when taken by themselves, almost make it sound like there’s an actual ball happening inside the pit:
Across the pit the Graces sat in flowing robes of many colors, clustered around the austere figure of Galazza Galare, who alone amongst them wore the green. – Daenerys, ADWD
We could even dig further: dancing, in asoiaf, is often used as a euphemism for dying, or is used in scenes going heavy on the death-related subtext. What do people do in a ball? They dance. What do people do in the pits? They die.
“Barsena is very quick,” Reznak said. “She will dance with the boar, Magnificence, and slice him when he passes near her. He will be awash in blood before he falls, you shall see.” – Daenerys, ADWD
Cinderella’s ball is a dream and Dany’s “ball” is a nightmare, but both are woken from it, for the twelfth stroke of midnight will lift the charm. Fun fact, if I’m not mistaken, there were twelve fights planned that day: Khrazz, the Spotted Cat, a “Lysene youth with long blond hair”, an elephant, a bull, a mock battle, a folly with dwarfs, Barsena, a folly with old women and “three more matches”, according to Hzdahr… yup, that makes twelve. Each fight is a “stroke of midnight” for Dany, pulling her from the nightmare, urging her to wake up. At Barsena, she snaps. The charm falls, her carriage turns into a pumpkin and her gown into rags:
She lifted her veil and let it flutter away. She took her tokar off as well. The pearls rattled softly against one another as she unwound the silk.
“Khaleesi? ” Irri asked. “What are you doing?”
“Taking off my floppy ears.” – Daenerys, ADWD
In her haste to flee, she loses a shoe:
“Let me go!” Dany twisted from his grasp. The world seemed to slow as she cleared the parapet. When she landed in the pit she lost a sandal. Running, she could feel the sand between her toes, hot and rough. Ser Barristan was calling after her. – Daenerys, ADWD
The aftermath finds her alone in the grass sea, wearing literal rags (again, not unlike Cinderella), in a dream-like state and wondering what just happened. Unlike Cinderella, Dany has no desire to relive the ball and would much rather stay where she is, with her rags and her animal companion. Both girls experience an unpleasant return to reality. Cinderella must go back to being a slave to her step-mother and half-sister, while Dany knows she must go back to Meereen (which doesn’t quite work out, but).  
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Yet for everything nightmarish about it, the reopening of the fighting pits meant something Dany deeply dreamed for and desired: peace. No more bloodshed in the streets of Meereen. The safety of her people. She wanted it and she got it, until the whole farce blew up in her face and the pit of Daznak turned into a pumpkin. I think that’s when she realized it: that the peace was never real, that Hizdahr’s “peace” was an illusion (as many before me have pointed out), a veil that got lifted with the twelve death blows of the pit.
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megadimension · 6 years ago
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A brief defense of the most genius duo in anime history
In anime, being known for consistent quality is something of a rarity. Amongst bland seasonal adaptations of the same tired ass manga, most of us lay our hopes in those few legendary creators that have yet to let us down. Currently, my hope lies in the next Hiroyuki Imaishi/Kazuki Nakashima project, Promare. I've seen a lot of people very excited for this, because these two as Director/Writer respectively, has yet to produce anything not largely heralded as some of the most genius pieces of media to have ever been produced. But within this wide acceptance of expertise, exists a narrowly held, yet strange caveat: Kill la Kill wasn't good.
There are quite a few common and strange complaints leveled against Kill la Kill, from the animation being low quality, to being outright misogynist. The latter has always struck me as a strange conclusion to draw from the show. It’s a reasonable conclusion to draw if you’ve never watched the show, and only know that it’s an anime and the women don’t wear many clothes. These two things are generally a recipe for an objectifying male fantasy. However, the show is not an objectifying male fantasy, and that is the failing of the entire concept. The idea that Kill la Kill is misogynist is born from a misunderstanding of what makes women in anime poorly depicted: The secret to moe waifus that fill the porn folders of degenerates all over the world is not being scantily clad, but rather reductionist moe fetishing. I'm going to use Eromanga Sensei as an example for your standard fetish filling object show, marking the first time it's ever been involved in something good. Sagiri is, by all marks, not a human being: she is a loli fucktoy, and the show makes no question of this as they introduce her interests: porn, and trying to fuck some self-insert degenerate bastard. That's literally all she does. She exists for no other reason than to fulfill a fantasy. She has no aspirations beyond serving a man. This character is then dropped into numerous situations where she’s attempting to court her brother by flashing her panties and being generally perverted for the enjoyment of the viewer. Conversely, in Kill la Kill, our heroine, Ryuko is a high school delinquent-type character who seeks revenge for her father's murder, and, over the course of the show, is forced to reconcile with the world her father left for her and what her role in life really is as she fights through to see her father avenged. She spends the whole show growing, fighting, and eventually reasoning that the woman's role is not to be decided by the culture, but by the individual. In these senses, Ryuko very much escapes the trappings that reduce her to a fetish object.
It would be disingenuous of me to not cover the elephant in the room that is “Okay, but why the hell do they still dress like that?” It’s a pretty fair question, honestly. It’s no secret that in our society, a woman showing a lot of skin is regarded as an erotic object, serving the male fantasy to ogle them. Kill la Kill, however, dresses the women like this to outright challenge the concept that a scantily dressed woman is scandalous and erotic in a genius scene early on in the series, where Satsuki hounds Ryuko for being embarrassed to show so much skin because she naively believes it to be a sexual exposure. The show posits the concept that there's nothing inherently sexual about the naked body, or a partially revealed woman, to be more specific. Kill la Kill then goes on to establish throughout the show that clothing is a vehicle of subjugation, in the most literal possible sense. In the metaphorical sense, however, it expresses that clothing in the real world is a vehicle men have used to subjugate women: It hides the body to offer males exclusivity to the nude body, causing the female form to become coveted and sexual. Kill la Kill in general has a tendency to use clothes as allegories for the ideals imposed on women that exist to bind, like when Ryuko has a wedding dress forcefully has a wedding dress sewn onto her body, obviously parroting the pressure on women to marry and live a subservient life of child-bearing and house upkeep.
In the end, the interpretation of Kill la Kill as a genuine exultation for sex positive feminism or a misogynist nightmare lies in how you read the show, and I’ve always felt that reading it in a way that suggests misogyny requires some level of inability to read subtext, or flat out personal incredulity. I’ve never seen my thoughts more concisely presented on the matter than the reply by YouTuber and good media liker Harris Bomberguy to a curiouscat anon who decried Kill la Kill as a demeaning show to women, so I suppose I will leave you all with an excerpt.
“Not to be rude, but I think your version of reading places the expectation to be narratively coddled, TOLD who is the bad guy, over your own duty to decide the meaning of the text. You want Kill La Kill to point at you personally and explain why narrativisation of feminist empowerment stories still contains exploitative and reductive generalisations that affect not just your perception of real women, but women's expectations of themselves, in straight-laced terms, and thereby shirk the burden of actually interpreting a story in which a woman is sewn into a wedding dress and it controls her mind. “
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prettylittlecostumers · 6 years ago
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WIP
Last weekend’s project was a personal favorite of mine. I’ve blogged before about Burgundian Gowns when I wrote about the DOTW French Court Barbie.  They’re my favorite 15th Century style. It was nice to go back to history for a weekend, while we waited for some other fabrics to arrive. Though, TBH, this design has been in my mind for a long time as part of our LOTR Costume Project. It’s something I see the Princesses of Emyn Arnen wearing at some point in the Fourth Age. But this is my headcanon speaking and not actual Legendarium chronology by any means.
1 - Research
That’s easy. I’ve been researching and hoarding images of Burgundian Gowns since forever.
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Above: Retour d'Isabelle de France en Angleterre. Grandes Chroniques de France, enluminées par Jean Fouquet, Tours, vers 1455-1460 Source: Paris, BnF, département des Manuscrits, Français 6465, fol. 338v. (Livre de Charles IV le Bel).
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Above: Detail of The presentation of Christ in the Temple by Hans Holbein The Elder. Kunsthalle Hamburg. Source: Wikipedia
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Above: Workshop of Rogier van der Weyden, Portrait of a young woman of the Burgundian gentry. National Gallery, London. Source: Wikipedia.
These are just some images out of my research. They teach us two things about Burgundian Gowns: The partlet usually comes in contrasting colors, and Burgundian Gown are always accompanied by a very specific headgear: the hennin. So, to complete my doll’s look, I made one too.
2 - Sewing Process and Results:
For my Burgundian outfit, I’ve chosen the conical hennin, more common around the 1430′s. I also love the truncated hennin, but I want a truncated hennin in darker colors, and since I’m going for light colors here, and for a “fairytale princess” look...
As far as color references are concerned, Burgundian Gowns’ paintings often show them in darker tones, jewel tones, or black. But I went out of what’s shown in sources and made a Burgundian out of the same taffeta I used for the last Sideless Gown mock up we’ve shown some weeks ago. The plastron was done in the same green silk as the Sideless Gown’s bust. But as you’ll notice in some pictures, I’ve forgotten to stiffen the silk properly by adding a buckram layer to the lining. Ugh. Things that lack of time do to my brains...
The hennin also didn’t get as good as I wanted. It ended up not covering the doll’s hair properly. It needed to be larger to accomodate the hair inside and still go down to where it should be on the doll’s head. A modern doll’s hairline is different than what was fashionable in the 15th Century - a more receded style, that you can see in the research pictures above. Think Faye Dunaway in “The Messenger” (1999).
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In order to achieve that look I needed to have sewn a larger hennin, that would fit the doll’s hair inside and still come further down on her head, and I also needed to add lappets to it. But I forgot. The original pattern in “Patterns For Theatrical Costumes” lacks them. But I knew that “Patterns for Theatrical Cosumes” is not a source of historically accurate patterns and I knew I needed to design the lappets to build them into the hennin pattern provided by the book. And still I forgot to do it. I’m very sorry about that guys. I’ll do better next time around.
And here comes the tricky part: Most Burgundians I’ve ever seen have fur details at the neckline, wrists and/or hem. That is actually because these dreses were lined in fur. Sometimes in all these places, sometimes in two out of three. But fur (faux or real, though I’ll never use real fur for anything in my life) gets too brute and too big for the proper scale on a 12 inch doll if you’re not sewing something big like a cloak with a large shawl collar, or a hippie fur-vest. But there’s a trick that works pretty well in these moments: velvet. It’s “furry” enough and small enough to look in scale. And I had just the right caramel shade to go well with eggshell and green!
Here are the results! As always, this is a modern doll, so please forgive the smoky eye and blue eye shadow. It’s not period and it feels misplaced. I’m working on gettin more “period adequate” dolls for our photoshoots.
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poeticsandaliens · 7 years ago
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In Dreams
Rating: Mature
Genre: Set post MS IV, but really an introspective fic.
Summary: The life of Dana Scully as described by her dreams. Some are smutty, some of horrifying, some are beautifully mundane. Many of them are of Mulder. This is another of my Barns-Courtney-album based fics (really, that album is inspiring), set to Golden Dandelions. 
Consider this another one of my late night ramblings, as I procrastinate multiple papers. Apologies to Jess Mabe who I do not know for referencing her fic but I couldn’t help it. It was too good a chance to pass up.
Tagging @today-in-fic.
As a child, Scully dreams novels—legendary things, epics worthy of the ancient Greeks, brimming with pixie dust. She dreams a cherry tree with a different woman’s face on each blossom, a plethora of talking dragons, web-footed fey creatures that catch flies on their tongues. She dreams the looming sorcerer of her nightmares, with three fingers on each hand and a scarlet cape. The names of knights spill over her tiny lips, and when she wakes up, she’s sorry if she can’t recall them.
She hardly remembers the dreams of her adolescence. Maybe she’s too tired; maybe she can’t distinguish them from reality. Her teenage years are a blur of spiked jackets and Marlboros, making out with Larry Monsoon on the roof of her parents’ house and Missy taking credit for the condoms Ahab finds in the car. There are at least a hundred dreams of tests, more anxiety-inducing than the exams themselves. Sex dreams a plenty, probably more pleasurable than the sex she’s having at the time. Every once in awhile, a puff of mysticism, to counteract the strict diet of rebellion and heart-guarding rationality she keeps to in her waking hours.
More memorable and certainly more nagging are her dreams of Mulder. The wet dreams, the wild fantasies from their earlier days of working together. Restraining herself at work, she goes home to a ten-dollar vibrator and errant thoughts of her partner. When she dreams, it is sensual and extravagant; it is of parts of him. Taut pectorals, ripe lower lip, hazel eyes that never stop seeking. Hands before hips. Hips before hands. Once, after she watches Mission: Impossible, she dreams that he walks into their office in that red speedo, abdominals glistening, leans in to kiss her—and then whips off his Mulder-mask to reveal Assistant Director Skinner. After the Eddie van Blundht incident, she shoves that dream to the back of her mind.
However wild her sub-conscious fantasies become, they never measure up to the real thing. It’s worth noting that after they finally cave, when she smashes her mouth to his in the front seat of a shitty rental car, when they fuck in some dingy middle-of-nowhere motel, she dreams of him markedly less often. No. That’s not true. She still dreams of him, but her dreams settle comfortably in the mundane. She dreams of him popping a giant gum bubble and its pink splatter getting on her paperwork. She dreams Skinner calls them onto a case in the middle of a tropical vacation, and the hassle of catching a flight home wakes her. She dreams of facing him at the altar, wearing emerald green, and then running away before she can give her vows. She dreams that he forgives her, and they drive off into a desert sunset and live happily ever after in unwed sin. Sometimes, in the ever-changing narrative of her dream-life, Mulder dies of cancer, but sometimes it’s Scully in the coffin, watching him grieve for her and seeking the words to describe him like an omniscient narrator. She hates being the mournful storyteller more than anything.
When she’s pregnant with William, sleep is a reprieve. Going through the motions at work, she yearns to cast herself onto Mulder’s vacant couch, palm pressed against her growing son, and retreat into the world her brain creates for her. Scully has always been confident in her mind’s ability to provide what she needs to survive, so she pretends her dreams aren’t making things worse. Her dream world, once a land of magic and heroes, restricts itself to a green, loose-shingled house on the edge of an empty planet. There, the leaves are always blotted auburn and muted yellow; the wheatgrass is always dry and rustling in an autumn breeze. The dragonflies are always overgrown, swarming in clouds of violent blue and indigo, the sheen on their backs so bright she almost has to avert her eyes. A worn swing-set rocks gently in the front yard. A gangly, red-haired boy in a plaid shirt chases beetles the size of rats. Mulder is there, some nights a wise face etched into the only oak tree, dispensing loving words to his family, some nights tossing a baseball to his son, on the best nights turning dust into fireflies with a touch of his palms. Scully watches them from the rickety porch—always the porch—and marvels at the setting sun. The sun is always setting. The sun never sets.
On the run, she dreams of the fountain of youth spilling liquid gold, and Spender emerging from it with a lit cigarette between his fingers. She dreams of monsters, always monsters, babies with the black eyes of aliens and her own dry skin shedding into copper scales. She is surprised these dreams never caught her earlier, while she was neck deep in the X Files and her rational reality chipped away. Mulder’s arms sooth the assault of distorted creatures, but she still dreams of horns sprouting from William’s soft baby-skull and a dragon’s muzzle from his snout. She still sometimes imagines Mulder’s arm around her shoulders wrinkled and rotted and turned to dust in a matter of minutes, then turns in the mirror to find her own body reduced to a bonesack with a head of red hair and a cross dangling into her ribcage.
When she leaves him, it’s all sex dreams again. The wacky ones from her youth, intermixed with something more tender and mature. There’s more stroking in these fantasies, greater exploration and less hammering into the headboard. Somewhere, filed in the recesses of her brain, is a pegging dream that still makes her blush, but it’s the one where he fucks her in an empty airport Chili’s until she cries out his name that jolts her awake with an orgasm she isn’t prepared for. That’s the one that leaves her wet and aching for him, after all their time apart. She’ll never admit it, but that’s the one that makes her cry.
She stops dreaming when she sees him again. Except for one night, when a picture of their home in the dead of winter appears clearer than if she were actually seeing it. Inside, she is reading the newspaper; he is smoking a curved pipe. A deerstalker hat sits on their kitchen table. She turns to him and asks, with all sincerity, “do you mind if I practice my violin?” It doesn’t matter that she’s never played the violin in her life. It is an urgent matter. Outside, she hears the scuff of a horse and carriage in the snow. She tells him later, and he tries to convince her that no, he’s the Sherlock Holmes in their partnership more than she is, since she’s a medical doctor and keeps his feet grounded in reality. Scully calls bullshit. She is always Holmes, and Mulder will never be one hundred percent grounded in reality. It’s one of the reasons she fell in love with him.
She has a hazy summer, rosy and heavily pregnant with their daughter. The August heat is unbearable; her tank tops are too small, so she fans herself all day and in the evening lets their baby feel Virginia sunlight. Her shoulders are tan. Her belly is smooth as a skipping stone. She lies on their sky-blue adirondack chair for hours on end in a sort-of half-conscious state, listening to the hum of dragonflies. If her eyes close for a few seconds, she dreams of rivers and wildflowers. The murky Potomac, a slender brook, a roaring mountain cascade with her mother’s face etched into the current. Where she sits, facing the setting sun, fey creatures rustle in the untamed grass—little girls with freckles, Mulder’s eyes, and butterfly-wings, wearing skirts sewn of autumn leaves and carrying thumbtack swords in their hands. She dreams of weatherbeaten horses the color of ripe buckeyes galloping towards her. Fox Mulder rides to her in a suit of armor, shaggy and noble, his stubble greying but beautiful as it ever was. He takes off his gloves and presses his cheek against her rounded abdomen. He tucks a dying dandelion behind her ear. On the other horse is her son, a ranger-boy—a wiry, green-caped adolescent Jackson who hasn’t yet solidified his place in the world. Elfish ears stick up through his hair. She notices—from both their backs sprout the wings of crows, for they have died and lived to tell the tale. She embraces them.
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