creep shame

hermione still flinches when ron’s hands brush her neck and she doesn’t understand why she does, because the cold, metal sting and everything that happened later, is painfully different from his soft palms. she stops wearing perfume, and starts casting protection charms.

remus despises his nature so much that the scars on his body are from his own hands. he knows what the taste of wolfsbane is when it doesn’t quite work; bitter and unmistakably sweet—it’s sirius’s blood when he goes too far.

ginny’s hands shake uncontrollably when she writes for hours at a time. the words will start to swim across the page and mix and scramble into anagrams. hi, i’m tom. what’s your name? hi, i’m tom. what’s your name? hi, i’m tom. what’s your na—

pansy knows what it’s like to cast unforgivables on first years. she learns how to enunciate the words with refined perfection, and learns how to want to hurt them. she throws up in the abandoned washroom after every lesson, and finds comfort in the absent arms of moaning myrtle.

ron faints everytime he apparates. he’ll wake up in hermione’s lap; his hair wet against his forehead, and his arms heavy with sweat. he always reaches for his shoulder and visibly relaxes when blood doesn’t rub off his fingers. he doesn’t know how to control his anger either, and feels the shame creep into his skin whenever hermione looks at his chest. he knows that she’s looking for the locket because he wishes that was what he could lay his blame on.

tom falls in love at the age of twelve—watched glimmering jewels glide down his own hand and pool at the bland tiles in the orphanage; started fires just to keep things lively. he collects followers like sheep in a mindless herd and finds that the acclaimed intricacies of a human brain is much more dull than he had imagined. he holds fear like a baby would with a blanket and spends nights wishing he had more time. he dies knowing he never had enough.

draco knows what it’s like to have your mind violated and out bare for all the world to see. he remembers severus saying that veritaserum has no taste, and discovers that he was wrong. the so called non dimensional potion is much too similar to the taste of the silent pleas he shouted when he watched snatchers salivate at the sight of his mother, or the copper droplets of red that sprinkled the surface of his cracked lips when he watched children slaughtered in the blink of an eye.

sirius has spent his entire childhood without the warmth of a mother’s embrace or the reassuring words of a father. he tells himself he’s okay with it—that he would rather have no family than one that wished his friends dead. he doesn’t know what to think when he has neither family or friends alive—the only embrace he will ever feel again is the one that lurks behind bars in his azkaban cell.

luna stops searching for wrackspurts, and instead, starts organizing her fathers office. she should be relieved when people stop calling her loony lovegood but all she feels is the absence of her imagination. war, it seemed, was not an adventure, but an old friend that came at inconvenient times in history.

harry doesn’t want to start a family because every father he has ever had has been hurt at his own expense. ginny rocks his body against her chest and brushes the tears away from his eyes as soon as they fall. she tells him that he’ll learn how to be a father—that it will come as naturally as magic had. the sharp pain that lodges inside of him whenever albus retreats back into his room is reflected so blatantly on ginny’s face. he wishes that he were a blind man so that he never had to see his mistakes out in the open, and rubs at his fading scar.

despite the years that had passed, it seemed that all was not well.

@froekenpest (is it working now?) and I are talking about Draco’s characterization, specifically having lots of life history and dealing with it.

Every now and then, Draco stumbles with his feelings. It’s shitty and he’s the worst person to be around ever because he’s moody and cruel and nasty and self-destructive, but he’s the type to disappear when that happens. He doesn’t want to be around anybody, and he doesn’t want anyone to see him–for vulnerability reasons, but also because he knows it’s not fair to lash out at people, even if he wants to (and he does).

I have this scene of Draco with his back to Harry. Harry trying to get Draco to talk about it, but the more he tries, the more infuriated Draco gets.

Harry just doesn’t get it. He couldn’t possibly understand the things Draco’s grappling with, because their lives have just been too different. He wouldn’t understand the way Draco needs to push at the bruises he’s harbouring until they hurt and feel like they’re bursting open, because that’s his catharsis: remembering every single mistake he’s made, every fucking choice that has led him to being where he is today, every cursed, wretched thing he’s ever done that make him this ugly amalgamation that’s more beast than human sometimes.

Harry couldn’t possibly understand, and that infuriates him even more. Harry, the perfect human. Harry, who is lauded as amazing, who saved the world and is treated like a hero, Harry who can do no wrong.

He’s so angry and bitter, and the next time Harry opens his mouth to say something, Draco jumps down his throat.

“Don’t treat me like your charity case, Potter,” he snarls, and behind him, Harry’s mouth clicks shut in surprise. There’s a second of silence, and then he exhales sharply, sounding angrier than Draco expects when he speaks next.

“Is that what you think this is–what you are? Charity?”

Draco smiles cruelly to himself, feeling the bitter words crawl up his throat and spill out of his mouth.

“That’s what you do, isn’t it, Potter?” he sneers Harry’s surname acrimoniously, and doesn’t have to be facing the man to see how he flinches at the animosity. “You take in the strays, people who can’t get by without your help. Isn’t that what you did with the  Weasleys? Pathetic and contemptible, too poor to even feed their children but too stupid to stop having more.”

Harry’s silence speaks louder than any words he could have said then. Draco feels the shame creeping up his neck, making his cheeks burn like he’s standing in front of a blazing fire.

See? He wants to shout into the silence. See what I am? Not so eager to help now, are you?

The quiet continues, and Draco tenses and relaxes at the same time, waiting for Harry to explode, to shout abuse at him, to hit him, assault him, call him exactly what he is and what he deserves.

Harry doesn’t do any of that. What he does is breathe, raggedly at first, and Draco counts the inhales, synchs up their breathing without really noticing.

Then, after what feels like a lifetime, Harry says:

“I won’t be here if you’re going to behave like this. When you’ve calmed down, I’ll be in the living room.”

He leaves, then: leaves Draco to his miserable desolation, and Draco triumphs in having driven him away. He’s fiercely glad that Harry’s left and incandescently angry at him at the same time. How dare he leave–how dare he not get angry–how dare he walk away?

He’s so bitter and angry and resentful in that moment, because Harry is supposed to be different. Harry isn’t supposed to give up on him, isn’t supposed to leave him alone: that’s just not what Harry does, and Draco is incensed.

How dare he be like everyone else? But then… of course. Of course he is. That’s what Draco wanted: he wants to be alone. He wants to push people away, because that means he’s right, that Draco is as big of a mess as he feels–that he isn’t worth staying for, and the thought burns and burns at him, making him even more furious.

Draco feels like a volcano is about to erupt inside him. It’s hot and angry and bubbling dangerously like if he so much as twitches, he’s going to burst and breathe fire more savage than fiendfyre, and he wants to let it–good god does he want to just let it out and let it consume him and burn the whole world to the ground.

It won’t come, he knows, because it never does, even when he’s burning brightest and wants it most, it refuses to manifest and Draco is trapped with it simmering just under his skin, zinging through his veins until he wants to tear at his own flesh to make it stop. But he can’t, because this is what he is. This is who he is–and that thought winds him higher.

(Of course, when he does come back down and regain sense of himself, he goes out and stiffly, unhappily apologises. He knows he’s wrong, he knows what he said is terrible and not true, but apologising still hurts, even if Harry–and the Weasleys–deserves it.)

I think that’s how Harry would handle Draco’s self-hating episodes. After the first couple times of them winding each other up and blowing up together, Harry would get smart and not engage when Draco was like that–just walk away and talk when he was less awful about things. And Draco would learn (conditioning, Harry is absolutely treating him like a dog, haha) that responding like that isn’t appropriate or even a good way to handle things, and they’d end up doing better together. And that’s how Harry helps.

tremble

ao3

“You’re holding back.”

Zoro’s feet skidded across the deck as he is pushed backward from the sheer power of Sanji’s kick. “You’re imagining things, cook.”

Sanji spits his cigarette, his expression twisted with anger. “Bullshit," he snarls. "I have kicked those shitty blades thousands of times for the past two years. ‘Imagining things’ my ass.”

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anonymous asked:

Hellooooooo I need a jealous Ros who finally understand she is in love with ben! It's for science ! And my sanity ! Next monday is to far away 😭

Rosaline has never considered herself a possessive woman – how could she, when she possesses so very little? She shared her bed and clothes with Livia for far too long, and sold off most of her earthly possessions after their father’s death, in hope of gathering enough for a dowry. They’d only keep their mother’s most precious jewels, since neither she nor Livia had the heart to sell them.

Getting her title back – and with it all the privileges due to her rank – has left Rosaline confused and breathless. Once again, she finds herself at the market, comparing fabrics and necklaces while Livia bothers her to buy a particularly lovely pair of shoes. Once again, she gets to wear different dresses for different occasions. Once again, books pile on her bedside table and on the shelfs Benvolio installed for her. It doesn’t make Rosaline more materialistic, but she cannot lie – she likes having things she can call her own once more.

Still, nothing had prepared her for the deep gnawing feeling in her stomach as another woman laughs, her hand on Benvolio’s arm. The four weeks since the wedding ceremony gave Rosaline plenty of time to learn his smiles – the sarcastic ones were first too come, then more genuine ones, finishing by the smiles she thought for her alone. The ones where he shows very little teeth but with dimples in his cheeks, the ones that are both soft and caring, the ones she came to think as her own.

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anonymous asked:

Can you do an imagine to the reader being a guard to Noct & whilst guarding at camp, she sneaks off in the night to ward off the empire. The bros panic and look for her in the morning and find her seriously injured, wondering what to do next.

Okay, so I should explain that I got a bit carried away with this one— uh, a lot carried away actually. I think I just read “Noctis” and my sleepy-prince obsessed self just forgot that this was supposed to include the rest of the gang. Forgive me for that. Oh, and forgive the sinful fluff as well.

Hehe!

—Leigh

{1,654 words}


It had been just like any other night after everyone had their fill of Ignis’ cooking and retired for the evening. You were camping somewhere in the of south of Duscae, a small, remote little place, niched in between a thick forest and a steep crag, giving you ample protection. That’s probably why you had let your guard down more than what you often did— the false sense of security. You should had known that nowhere was safe with the Prince of Lucis in your party.

You bade Gladio a goodnight as he followed after Ignis and Prompto inside the tent, but Noctis lingered briefly outside, picking around the beans in his stew before setting the bowl on the folded table. With a check over his shoulder to make sure the guys weren’t coming back out anytime soon, he made his way over to you— a glint in his eyes.

“Hey,” he purred, hooking a finger in your belt loop and pulling your hips against his. You gave him a cheeky smile in return, your brain still subconsciously on high alert.

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A Gentle Mind - Part 2 - Neville x Reader

Part 1 

Masterlist

@idle-lanes @sgarrett49 @murderyoursoul @moonlight53

Warnings: Physical abuse and slight swearing

Please let me know if you guys want another part to this and thanks for reading!


You made your way out of dinner when you heard something faint grow louder. “Y/N!”. You heard your name being called down the hall by the familiar accent of Seamus.

He rushed towards you, slightly catching his breath. He quickly looked around and grasped your wrist, guiding you to the side of the corridor.

“We need your help again”. His voice became a little hushed.

“Did his wounds open back up?”, you had figured your spells went well enough from several days ago.

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Nightmare’s Bite

The Warden finds herself in the midst of a rather violent archdemon dream.  When she wakes it’s Alistair she turns to for comfort.

Alistair x Warden Surana (pre-relationship)

I’ve been sitting on this one for quite a while because I thought it was waaaay too indulgent, but dangit, I’ve grown to like it… so here it is.

Or read it here on AO3


She stood at the peak of a steep valley, peering down below her.  Masses of Darkspawn swirled below and filled every space between the two walls. Even the sides of the cliff seemed to writhe with them.  They lined the bare rocks like fur on the back of a Mabari.  Some even attempted to scale the precarious rocks around them.

Despite better sense she found herself creeping closer to the edge, drawn by some unseen force.  Down in the middle of the horde she could make out something different, something not rotting and seething with the Blight. It glinted with clean steel.  The sun above her was dying, orange and weak, but she could make out a shield.  Alistair. With widening eyes she began to notice the distinct color of his hair, the blue and white gryphon pattern sprawling across the face of his shield, and the familiar movements of his sword.

There were hundreds of Darkspawn pressing in on him.  They reached for him, pawed at him with oily hands, their claws marring his armor. They pushed and thrashed against him, pinning his sword and shield against his body where they became useless no matter the effort and strength he poured into repelling them back.  They were pressed so thick he was struggling just to lift his sword and shield to defend himself.

She threw out her hand to cast a barrier over him, but nothing happened.  She struggled to find the thread of magic within her but it was dark and full of droning whispers.  The longer she searched, the louder the whispers grew, the more pressing and urgent they became.  They called to her, coaxed her, bid her come closer.  They lulled and sang and made promises like demons across the Veil.

She shook the thoughts away. Alistair fought on below her, disappearing a moment as the Darkspawn surged against him.

There was a ledge that wound its way down into the valley.  It was narrow with few handholds, but was the only way to traverse down short of falling.  She scrambled to reach him, to be of some help.

The path was dangerous, the cliff face crumbling and corroding beneath her as she stepped with as much haste as the treacherous ground would allow.  It was hundreds of feet to the bottom.  Rocks splintered beneath her feet, making her slip and fall in her urgency to descend down to where the Warden fought.  She caught herself on bloodying hands and knees, but pushed herself up and forward each time.

Above her a shadow darkened the sky.  A great dragon soared over the opening in the valley, blotting out the sky above and casting a cold shadow over everything below.  It was not the dragon of fairy tales, with gleaming green and iridescent scales, but a dragon of nightmare.  The creature was mostly bone and where skin remained it was leathery and peeled away like armor that had seen too much sun.  Beneath lay rotting bones that protruded in unnatural ways. The whole beast seemed held together by cottony webs, sticky puss, and perverse shadows that shimmied under her gaze.

There were hundreds of Darkspawn below, but she felt the beast’s eyes fall upon her alone.  It roared and she felt her teeth clatter together.  It roared again and she felt her bones answer, traitors within her own skin.

The dragon folded its wings against its body and descended into a steep dive.  It was headed for Alistair.  He was so busy fending off the Darkspawn around him he had not noticed the dragon above.  She screamed his name; screamed for him to run, but the dragons cry blotted out her voice.

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A new beginning

The sunlight coming through the shabby window above his bed illuminates the dust swirling in the air, raised by Ian’s hands rummaging in the dark, and apparently very dusty and dirty space between the frame of his small twin bed and the floor.

His fingers grasp a set of paper, torn and ripped. He pulls it out from under the bed and discovers an old porn magazine. According to the numbers at the edge it is nearly six years old.

Although he has done way dirtier things than looking at naked bodies in a magazine even before he had bought this thing he feels a slight blush of shame creeping up his cheeks as he stares at the obscene pictures. It’s less because of the magazine itself but more of the memory that pops up in his head at this discovery. He hadn’t had to pay for this shit since he had been fucking his boss at that time and getting porn for free was one of the advantages that had come along with his secret love affair with his married boss.

Back then he had participated very eagerly in this whole thing and even thought that maybe he was in love.

That was until- No. Ian doesn’t allow himself to finish that thought.

Instead he looks down at the magazine in his hands. The pages are lose, the clips holding them together bent or missing. The thing is a mess as it reminds him of his old days as a mistress.

He had been a happy mistress, not really caring about the family his boss had or the fact that there was an age gap of ten years and he had been a minor.

Thinking back, though, it is fucking embarrassing and disgusting. One of the early things on his long list of regrets.

Ian forces himself not to think about how fast the whole love affair with his boss had become an annoying inconvenience he wanted to get rid off the second he met-.

Or about the fact that the largest part on his long list of regrets involves one certain person.

He has ignored those thoughts for almost two years now. Has moved on.

That’s what he tells himself every night when he lies awake and pushing the memories and nagging voice in his head away doesn’t work. At night there is no distractions like work or his family and shit and despite repeating I moved on over and over again, the thoughts and dreams come back every night.

But now, it is the middle of the day and Ian takes a deep breath. No. Stop thinking.

“Ian!” someone screams from behind and then Ian’s eyes are covered by sticky hands, patting his skin.

“Who am I?” his little brother yells right into his ear and Ian winces at the high as hell volume.

But he decides Liam having a sugar shock and bouncing off the walls is a welcome distraction of the unwanted ghosts lurking in his mind so he lets out a gasp as if he is surprised about the attack.

“Uhhm” he lets out, pretending to be thinking really hard, “Are you Carl?”

“Nooo!” Liam squeals. Holy shit, that kid must have eaten a shitload of sugar. According to the smell of his sticky fingers still above Ian’s eyes he’s had chocolate cake at Sally’s birthday party. Well, that was probably only one thing.

Ian is getting a little tired of his little bro pressing his dirty hands into his face so he says “I know who you are. You’re my cute little shit of a baby brother Liam!”

The sticky hands leave his eyes and Ian quickly shoves the magazine that is still on his lap back under the bed since its content isn’t quite the adequate literature for a first-grader.

He turns around to said first-grader who glares at him, his chin tilted forward and a stern look on his face. He’s pouting.

“I’m not a baby anymore” he states, drawing his brows together, obviously waiting for his big brother to take that back.

“Yeah, I know buddy” Ian assures him, “You’re six years old and a big boy” but he can’t resist to add “You’re still a cute little shit though.”

Liam looks like he wants to argue and opens his mouth to counter but Ian is saved from a face-off with his very stubborn youngest sibling as Fiona’s voice calls “LIIIIAAAM!” from downstairs.

Liam shuts his mouth and Ian can’t help the corners of his mouth tugging upwards as he watches him contemplating whether he should let Ian off the hook.

“Liam, I thought you wanted to watch ‘Ghostbusters’, it is on right now. And leave Ian alone so he can clean up the mess that he calls his part of the room!”

Fiona didn’t really have to add the second sentence since Liam is out the door the second he hears ‘Ghostbusters’ but Ian knows that second part was for him. His big sister made it pretty clear that she is fed up with the weird smell coming from the boys’ bedrooms she’s making all of them clean up. Even though Lip and Ian switch beds every once in a while, technically the ratty ancient twin bed is still his, same as all the shit surrounding it.

They have cleaned up several times during the last years, Ian still remembers Car’s rage when he discovered that Fiona had thrown all his knives away before her PO had checked the house a couple years ago, but somehow the magazine must have slipped through her searching hands and sat under the bed for years until just now.

Liam is gone so he pulls out the crappy thing again to throw it into the garbage bag next to him on the floor, already filled with old socks, Gatorade bottles and other stuff some of which Ian has no idea how the hell it got into the room.

As he shuffles the pages out from under his bed he raises up more dust and sneezes.

Opening his eyes again and looking down he sees something lying right next to the tattered edges of the paper.

It is his old phone.

The black iPhone he stole about three years ago when he had been a manic mess dancing in strip clubs and getting high off his ass.

The phone he lost in the hazy days his meds had started to kick in again, when Fiona had finally forced him to take them and the phone she got as a replacement, the new shiny silver thing he owns now so he can call at any time.

He had protested, mainly because of the price and the fact that they couldn’t afford expensive shit like that but his sister had talked him to the ground and stated that she wasn’t giving it back and that he would better take it or she would call his doctor and tell her that he was acting out.

Ian had been pissed as hell but taken the phone.

 

But now there is his old one, sitting on the dirty carpet, dark and threatening although it is turned off.

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that the thing is silent and the screen is black.

He knows it holds a shitload of memories.

Memories he’s desperately been trying to lock away somewhere in the back of his mind during the last two years.

Memories he has been running away from because facing them would be too painful.

But now a flood comes crashing down above him because this phone contains some of those memories.

Missed calls. Ignored calls. Text messages. A few pictures, taken in the secret hours of dawn or late at night with booze and weed in their veins. They were never the kind of couple to document every move they made.

Ian doesn’t know how long he stares at the phone, five minutes are as possible as five hours.

He presses his eyes shut, trying to keep the tears from spilling out that suddenly form in the corners of his eyes.

You moved on

 

Liar

 

Eventually Ian moves, not really thinking, his hands just find the charger of Lip’s phone on the small desk next to his bed. Lip’s phone is the same version as Ian’s old one so Ian plugs the charger into the phone and the other end into the plug socket. His fingers are numb, stiff and cold and he keeps fidgeting with his hands in his lap as he waits for the screen to light up. Because in the end it’s not really a question if he turns the damn thing on.

The room is silent except for the light sounds of ‘Ghostbusters’ and Fiona rattling pots in the kitchen downstairs. Ian barely hears it.

It takes a little while but then the phone vibrates and the white apple appears, announcing that it still works and is about to be ready to use again soon.

He’s fingers are shaking, filled with nervousness and anxiety but they get the name that is the code to unlock it right at the first try. The first tear runs down his cheek, wet and warm, leaving a single salty stain on his skin.

The screen shows the familiar sight of his home screen and Ian sees the small amount of apps in their rows, patiently waiting to be used again.

His finger hovers over the icon that contains all his texts, his mind blank, trying to prepare him for what is about to come.

After a few seconds of failing to calm down he finally touches the icon and the screen fills with his contacts and the last messages he shared with each one.

The first one is Fiona.

Then Lip.

They are the only two Ian texted after he had turned his back at the gun shots ripping through the air and the sound of two people insulting each other in the worst ways possible, one of the voices being the most beautiful he’s ever heard.

Ian’s fingertip taps the third contact.

‘Ian please’

 

It’s the bottom of a flood of texts like this, a week-long one-sided conversation, filled with worry and despair.

And the refusal to give up on him.

Ian’s sight is blurry. His eyes hot and sticky with tears, dropping to his cheeks and sliding down his face.

He scrolls up.

Reads every single word they ever sent each other.

And it happens. What he knows would happen the second he would allow himself to do anything about the memories eating away at him from the inside of his skull, happens.

It hurts.

It hurts so much more than it is already hurting.

And it hurts so much less, because he thinks back not only of blurry days, fogged with dull nothingness but also of the smell of Whiskey and cigarettes, and rare and beautiful laughing and pale skin and black hair and luminous blue eyes, looking at him like Ian is the sun.

His fingers move faster than his brain can follow, closing the icon and going back to the home screen before opening his camera roll.

A small toddler is smiling at him, his toothless mouth laughing silently and familiar eyes staring right into his own. Yevgeny is sitting in his high chair, a small red plate with baby food in front of him but half of the food is smeared around his smiling lips.

A choked sound escapes Ian’s throat.

 

He swipes to the next photo.

He doesn’t breathe for a while after that.

Mickey is laying on his side, his lower half covered by the sheets, skin almost glistening in the semi-darkness. The quality is shit since Ian took the picture in the middle of the night when only the moon was illuminating the room but that doesn’t matter.

His eyes are heavy with sleep, his dark hair a soft mess, lips tugged into a tiny but honest smile as he’s looking at the camera. At Ian.

Fuck

 

And as he looks through the small number of pictures of Mickey, or him and Mickey, or even Yev and Mickey or all three of them and one also includes Svetlana, the voice in his head, that he has been trying to shut up for so long now, gets louder and louder, until it screams and shrills, echoing in his skull.

 

You fucked up

You fucked up

You fucked up

YOU FUCKED UP

YOU FUCKED UP

YOU FUCKED UP

YOU FUCKED UP

It’s ripping him apart, tearing his heart into pieces, cutting into his soul.

Svetlana paid me’

 

‘My boyfriend wasn’t much of a talker, his idea of a conversation was to insult me a bunch and then punch me right before we banged’

 

‘The only wedding I’ve ever been to was when my closeted boyfriend had to marry this pregnant hooker that he was forced to fuck at gunpoint so this isn’t so bad’

 

‘This is it. This is you breaking up with me.’ ‘Yeah’

 

And at the same time it feels good.

Finally admitting it. Finally allowing himself to feel it. The pain.

Finally not only admitting that he not only missed Mickey, like he had told Mandy, but missing a piece of himself. That part of him is in prison. Rotting away in a cell, with no one visiting.

‘I hate the meds. Will you make me take them?’

 

‘You get fucking nuts when you don’t’

 

And now he’s swallowing them every day, okay with it by now.

Ian doesn’t know why exactly in that moment but suddenly he remembers.

A voicemail. A voicemail he never listened to, at first because he was too busy driving through the country with a kid in the backseat and later because he was caught up in the fog of his pills and then everything went to shit.

He presses the home button and then the icon with the little phone.

There’re are only a few voicemails and only one that still has a little dot with the notification he hasn’t listened to it yet.

He tips at the screen and picks the phone up, holding it against his ear, his heart pumping loudly through his body.

‘Alright shithead, this is like the two hundredth time I’m calling and you’re not picking up I’m starting to get fucking homicidal. Call me the fuck back, Ian.

 

I’m worried about you.

 

I love you’

 

He gasps for air. Desperately tries to get it into his lungs. Breathing heavily, muffled sobs coming out of his sounds although his fist is pressing against his lips.

 

Ian thought it would be hard. That letting himself think and remember would come along with hard decisions. Questions he wouldn’t be able to answer.

But in fact it is pretty easy.

 

He asks Debbie. About the Sammi incident, what exactly happened, what they had planned and what they had done afterwards.

Because in the back of his mind he has always wondered. About how Mickey could get fifteen years of prison.

And he hates himself for it but he was too focused on trying to move on, too focused on throwing himself into the first opportunities of new relationships, too focused on himself, too selfish.

It is one thing to try to find yourself again and get your life on track.

But is a whole other thing to let yourself get paid to see the love of your life who went to prison for you and then throwing it in his face.

It’s a whole other thing to not visit after that.

It’s a whole other thing to tell lies about the love of your life.

It’s a whole other thing to tell a basically stranger about your soulmate being raped and then half-ass smiling about it.

It’s a whole other thing to lie to yourself and get involved with whoever is available.

 

He breaks up with Trevor the same night.

He has some money saved. He tells Lip and Fiona his plan.

He has a plan. He is not off his meds, not manic, not depressed. He is heartbroken.

His siblings get that.

Lip uses his connections and gets Ian an appointment with Benjamin Jones. A young top lawyer who actually wants to make a difference and does more pro-bono than all his colleagues together. Yeah, people like this exist.

“There’s no guarantee” Jones warns, “but I’ll try my best” he promises. And Ian can see the fire in his eyes. The guy is a shark, worst fear of every judge, according to Lip.

Jones digs. Deep. And discovers step by step that the court fucked up. No proper procedure, just lock up.

 

The neon lights sting in his eyes as he waits. The whole rooms smells like bad breath and cheap soap and dirt, the seats are packed with people of all kinds, mothers with children, old people, guys with cold eyes and scars, girls with piercings and dyed hair.

An eternity later he steps into the visiting booth, sitting down on one of the metal stools, grabbing the phone and pressing the cold black plastic to his ear, hands shaking.

He doesn’t breath again until the door opens.

Mickey looks tired. Incredibly tired and Ian’s heart shatters.

Mickey sees him and freezes. Just stands there for a long time before slowly walking to the stool on his side, sliding down and then hesitatingly reaching for the phone.

For a moment Ian thinks that he’s not going to talk to him, that Mickey will just stand up again and leave.

But Mickey isn’t Ian. Ian leaves. And Mickey stays.

So Mickey takes the phone and holds it to his ear.

“Hey Mick.”

His voice is weak and quiet but at the same time beyond relieved.

They’re on the phone again.

Ian called again. But this time it is not to break things off.

It is to start a new beginning.

“What do you want?”

“I’m getting you out of here.”

A trimberly fanfiction

So as I said, I am writing a trimberly fanfiction and here is part 1. Don’t be too harsh on me as I rarely write.  I just love this pairing so much ya know? That I thought I would try my hand at writing again.

So let me know what you think ok? Forgive any mistakes as I have only seen the movie once and I’m going off of my fantastic memory /sarcasm.

Italics = past events.

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Always Mine

Pairing: Lucifer x Reader
Word count: 1,049
Warnings: Smut. Unprotected sex. Cussing. Drinking.
Request: ( Anonymous ) Could I request a oneshot of Dom!Lucifer involving coming from just thighriding
Request: ( Anonymous ) May I request a Luciferxreader oneshot where they have an argument and the reader storms off to a bar and when Lucifer goes to get her, he finds her flirting with another man and becomes incredibly jealous and when he brings her back to the bunker, he presses her against her bedroom wall and just really dominates her in bed, tying her up, using his grace on her to make her orgasms stronger, being a little shit and slowly drawing out each orgasm sort of shit. Thanks luv


Important Authors Note:  Here’s what I’ve learned working on this request – I don’t write Dom! very well. I’ve tried for three days and it always ends up soft and fluffy. I can do angry sex, romantic sex, food sex, kinky sex, or drunk sex but dom sex I don’t seem to have !

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The Ranch (Part 8)

@tane-p made another piece for this fic. Go check it out and give her some love for talent!

Note: Took me a bit to figure out how all this was going to go down. Had to give Keith a kick in the rear, so he didn’t get too comfortable. The guy in this chapter is kinda the Ranch’s medic. He’s not a specialist with formal training of any sort, but for most things that could go wrong with a centaur’s health, he knows what to do.

<< First < Prev.


““Kneel,” The order doesn’t have the malice or irritation to it that he’s come to expect from the ranch hands. If anything the human sounds a bit like he’s going down a mental checklist. The lack of open hostility is a relief. After his run in with the evil eyed human, the hands had run him hard. Past exhaustion to just wanting to lay down in the middle of the training yard and die. Their daily ‘exercise’ always left him tired, but there had been spite behind the number they’d made him run today. They’d wanted to show him off as their tame mindless centaur. His attempts to escape the evil human’s grasp had upset them greatly.

Keith carefully does as he was asked. Getting to his knees and hocks laying his underbelly against the ground, “John, support his arms.” The disinterested human orders, and the ranch hand who’s been leading him around all day jumps to obey. The one ordering is different from the normal ranch hands. He’s stood out from the second Keith spotted him waiting by his stall. Not because of size, physical appearance, or even the cloths he wears. All were only minutely different from the other humans, but something about his presence projects calm and importance. An aura that says this is someone that should be paid attention too, “You,” The human makes sure he catches Keith’s eyes before continuing, “Don’t try to move on your own, once I cut the ropes. You’ll only hurt yourself.” 

The human stays within Keith’s line of sight, as he slowly pulls out a knife. Keith can’t help the way all his muscles tense at once. Rationally, killing him just as he starts to do what they want makes no sense, but the blade is sharp and he can imagine how easily it could slice his flesh, while he’s unable to do anything to stop it from his current position, “Easy now,” The calm human soothes, “It’s just for the ropes,” Carefully, slowly, making sure Keith can watch the whole time, he moves the knife back to Keith’s arms, “Remember don’t try to move once they’re off.”

The human is as gentle as one can be when sawing so close to somebody’s skin, the ranch hand holds his arms up as the support of the rope falls away, and Keith grits his teeth against the sting in his skin from their removal. Soon enough, the only thing holding his arms behind his back is the ranch hand. He can’t quite see the way the calm human runs fingers along his abused forearms, but he can feel every disturbed rope burn and bruise as the human comes across them, “You like to pull don’t you,” The human says softly. It takes Keith a moment to realize he’s the one being addressed and a response is expected. No one here but Shiro goes through this much effort to address him kindly.

“They’re the ones who tied me to a post,” Keith says in his defense. The human shakes his head with a sigh. Keith doesn’t like how childish and petulant that response makes him feel. Like he’s a colt shouting ‘they started it’ at a rival.

“Your arms are a mess of bruises, but you’ve been very lucky and avoided any major bloody spots,” The human pets his lower back. It reminds him of Shiro trying to keep him calm, “In the future, please be careful. Pulling on your lead, like you have been, could very easily lead to open wounds and infection. If no one catches it in time, you could get very sick and possibly even die.” The man chastises, but gently, like he’s actually worried about Keith’s well being. Shame creeps up on him. He has a tendency to act without thinking. Most of the time he gets by on quick thinking, but sometimes, like now, he just hurts himself for no payoff.

“Alright,” The human pats his back, “Lets get these arms stretched out. I’m sorry, but this will hurt. If it gets to be too much, tell me and we’ll stop while you catch your breath. Ready?” The human puts his hands on Keith’s bicep and forearm, but waits for Keith’s nod to begin.

The flood of pain as his elbow is unbent steals his breath away. He thought having his arms bound and pulled on for days on end was the height of pain. He was so wrong.  His eyes water, as the human carefully straightens his arm and checks to make sure everything still has full range of motion. Each joint and muscle yelling their protest at the now unfamiliar movements. When the human finally lets go, Keith’s gasping for air like he’s just ran a race, “There you go, you’re alright.” The human is rubbing his back while Keith catches his breath, “We’re halfway done. You ready for the next one?” No, but it’s better to get these things over with. Keith grits his teeth and nods again. It’s just as bad as the first time.

Even after his arms are fully stretched out and hanging limply by his side, the human doesn’t leave immediately. He sends the ranch hand off for a bucket of clean water, and then carefully washes the raw skin on Keith’s arms. Getting rid of the dirt and grime so he can examine them again for anything that might need more attention. Only once he’s certain that Keith is going to be okay, does he get up to leave.

He finds himself speaking without meaning to as the man closes the gate, “Thank you,” He’s been the kindest human and the most interested in Keith’s welfare since he came to this forsaken place.

“You’re welcome,” The human smiles at him, “I’ll check on you again soon, to make sure everything keeps being alright. Just remember what I told you about pulling,” The human waves as he leaves, and for a few minutes he finds himself looking forward to seeing him again in the future.

The man had been nice. He could have just cut Keith free and left him be to deal with the pain on his own. The extra presence had helped, made things much less miserable than they would have been otherwise. He was grateful for that…grateful…grateful for a scrap of kindness shown in this hellish place…grateful one of the humans working at the ranch had spent a few minutes worried about his comfort…grateful…Keith stares at the black bruises interspersed with the red rope scratches mottling his arms. He needs to get out of here. He needs to get out of here now. 

He’s becoming like Shiro. Starting to see light spots in his captivity. Beginning to even like some of his captors. Forgetting everything else they’ve done today because one person treats him with the mildest standard of kindness. If he stays here much longer, they are going to own him. He can’t wait anymore. Next time he sees Shiro, they have to escape.

pasdechat  asked:

Say'ri/Tiki - sunbathing

Say’ri finds Tiki sprawled across a rock, sunning herself in a manner thoroughly unbefitting of her station and virtue. 

“Milady,” Say’ri says, fighting to keep her voice even and stern. Tiki finds great enjoyment in teasing her, and Say’ri does not wish to give her further material for her pranks–especially not when she has Say’ri at such a disadvantage. Say’ri takes a knee, determined not to raise her eyes. “If you wished to rest, surely the tent would provide more pleasant housing.” 

“Mmm? Oh, Say’ri.” The rustle of cloth, and Say’ri dips her head even further, shameful heat creeping up her neck and cheeks. She can hear the smile in Tiki’s voice. “But the sun is so warm, and the sky so clear. It would be a shame to hide myself away on such a beautiful day, don’t you think?”

“Of course,” Say’ri says. Her gaze is still firmly affixed to the ground, but Tiki has begun to shift on her rock. Her bare legs, patterned with scales the color of forestry, sway before Say’ri’s eyes. “I shan’t ask you to deny yourself the pleasure of a day so fine, but ‘tis dangerous to rest so far from the army. And you are… unarmed.” Bare of weaponry and clothing both, in truth, but she isn’t uncouth enough to say as much.   

Tiki’s hand brushes the underside of Say’ri’s jaw, jolting her from her thoughts. A clawed thumb strokes her cheek, and Say’ri shudders at the sensation of scales against her skin. Gently, more gently than those dagger-tipped hands ought to be capable of, Tiki guides Say’ri’s chin up to meet her gaze. 

“You should join me,” Tiki murmurs. Her eyes gleam as they flicker about Say’ri’s face, a hint of satisfaction in its depths. “It’d do you good to be away from the bustle of march, I think.” 

Say’ri wets her lips. Tiki follows the motion, looking very much like a cat presented with a dish of cream. 

“If that is what milady wishes.” 

Iron Will (Part 9)

Tony x Reader

Summary – Tony Stark isn’t a man who takes no for an answer, even if his feelings for you complicate an already delicate situation.

Warnings – Sadly, no Tony in this part… lots of angst, though and one (?) curse word

Word Count – 1,484

Notes – This is the next to last part of this series.  I can’t believe that we’ve come to the end! I had only planned this to be a five part series, but of course, my imagination ran away with me and it doubled! The response for this fic has been so overwhelming!  To everyone that has stuck with me to the end, thank you so much!  As always, I appreciate all of your feedback and questions!

Part 1  

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

Originally posted by livingstills


Previously:

The hallway was quiet for a moment after (Y/N) had left, neither man knowing just what to say.  Steve finally broke the silence.  “Oh, man, I definitely got that wrong.”  He let out a small chuckle.  “I should have known that she’d be the one to break your heart.”

“Shut up, Rogers,” Tony said halfheartedly as he walked back toward his room, the swagger in his step noticeably absent.



 

You’d finally caught up to Bucky as he stopped by the lake.  He had his back to you, but from the angle of his head, you knew he’d heard you approach.  You stood beside him as he stared out over the glassy surface of the lake, not sure what you were going to say.

“Why him?” he whispered after a moment.

You closed your eyes as the pain behind his words brought tears to your eyes.  “I never meant to hurt you, Bucky.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” he quietly reminded you.  “Do you love him?”

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anonymous asked:

I'd really love it if one of you amazing mods wrote a shrunkyclunks one, or one where Bucky goes against the social norms of being an Alpha to please Steve more. Thanks :D

I hear your shrunkyclunks or nonconventional relationship and raise you shrunkyclunks AND nonconventional relationship. :) - Mod Jay

Bucky Barnes had always been stereotyped, he was big and bulky and alpha, and all of those brought assumptions. Other alphas assumed that he’d want to jostle and compete with them for standing and dominance, omegas and betas assumed that he’d want to be the dominant partner and either treated him accordingly or avoided him altogether. It wasn’t like Bucky couldn’t play the part, playing up his chivalry to show his dates a good time, or using his natural intimidation to get jackasses at the bar to leave other people alone.

But it felt like he was missing something, from his relationships and from his life. It made him feel unsettled or untethered the world. He went through the motions, working his engineering job at Starktech Industries and the occasional date, just vaguely depressed and detached from it all. He really had no idea what he was waiting for until all 6 ft 2 inches of it dropped into his lap.

Literally.

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She flinched when he reached out to push her hair back from her forehead, feeling shame creep up her neck the second her body reacted this instinctively, caving in like a house of cards. She hadn’t meant to pull away, not consciously, not so violently that he noticed. Pain flashed in his eyes. It was something that kept happening and was completely out of her hands, like every part of her body knew to withdraw at his touch, even though her brain, her rationality, told her not to. And she shouldn’t have, because her brain also told her that he was where she felt safe, that he was home.
“What is it?” He was careful, afraid that she wouldn’t want to talk about it, that she would grab her coat and walk out the door without explanation like she so often did when she got upset. Her mind was pure chaos, her head was throbbing painfully. The urge to leave, to run from the situation, made her legs itch and her heart pound faster.
“I-” The words wouldn’t come. She’d never voiced them, never said what fear had been buried inside her for so long. The right to know was his, as was the attempt to finally understand her. So she spoke.
“I feel so incredibly selfish.” It wasn’t what he’d expected at all, she could see that. His brown eyes were wide, his gaze questoning. “I need time. I always need a lot of fucking time to let someone in.”
“I know that.”
“I’ve been hurt in the past.”
“I know-”
“But I know it doesn’t give me an excuse to act like I do. To run from you when things get hard or when you get too close and to be so goddamn unapproachable. Everyone’s been hurt before, everyone’s heart’s been broken at least once and I feel so egoistic to wrap myself in my sadness and use it as an excuse when it’s not.” He waited for her to nod when he reached out again and when she allowed his touch, his fingers entwined with hers. She exhaled with a deep sigh.
“I just don’t think it’s fair of me to always say I’ve been hurt when others have it worse. I don’t think you should be the one that has to endure my moods.”
“But I love you. You’re scared and that’s okay. We have all the time in the world if you want to take things slow. Besides, what does it matter that other people have it worse, as you said? You have the right to remember and to cry and to complain. You have the right to take your time to heal. There is no shame in admitting that you don’t feel ready to open up again.” She glanced up at him with teary eyes and squeezed his hand.
“The pain we feel doesn’t get better or worse if we compare it to other people’s pain, remember that.”
—  excerpt
n.j.

tjlcisthenewsexy  asked:

Hi! I was wondering if I could pick your brain a bit about Victorian queer history? Could a man theoretically be obviously gay (not neccesarily openly gay) as long as he was never caught engaging in sexual acts with a man? Was it just the physical act that was illegal, rather than the sexual orientation? So hypothetically, a gay man who was openly "bohemian" and "flamboyant" could potentially be safe from persecution if he remained a virgin? Hope that makes sense, thank you! xo

Hi @tjlcisthenewsexy​!! Thanks for thinking of me for this question! Over the past few days I did a bit more research also taking into account some of the additional info you sent me, especially your questions about sodomy being a punishable crime via evidence of sex versus being convicted for “being gay.” You’re right - it’s a big question! And of course this answer isn’t totally comprehensive; these are just a few short examples of research on these topics. I’ll add some bits and bobs from recent books I’ve read…

In terms of anti-sodomy legislation (“sodomy” as a blanket term often covering various sex acts) in the Victorian era:

Britain still stood out for the savagery of its anti-sodomy legislation in this period. England and Wales hanged fifty-five men for the crime between 1805 and 1835 (figures are missing for 1818-19), one-seventh the number executed for murder. Sodomy remained punishable by hanging until 1861 (1889 in Scotland), but after 1835 the government routinely commuted death sentences. The Offences Against the Person Act of 1861 (repealed only in 1967) reduced the penalty to a prison term of ten years to life, which was still more severe than anywhere else in Europe. [Gay Life and Culture: A World History (2006), edited by Robert Aldrich]

The key was whether or not there was sufficient proof of sexual act(s) taking place:

Medical science began showing an interest in sodomy from the late 18th century, not in order to construct the ‘homosexual’ or ‘invert’ as a distinct type, as would happen one hundred years later, but rather to discern the physical traces that sodomy left on the body… This was because the courts looked to forensic medicine for proof of anal penetration… [Gay Life and Culture: A World History (2006), edited by Robert Aldrich]

Clearly some aspects of this were completely subjective or otherwise uncontrollable (e.g., it was thought that “men who practised fellatio had crooked mouths, short teeth, and thick lips.”) So even if there was no proof of a sexual act, a rather flamboyant or bohemian or camp man still might come under suspicion for not only his behaviour but additionally for physical characteristics he had no way of controlling (or alternatively, could enhance, if he so wished. Many men liked using cosmetics…but I digress).

Whilst sodomy was illegal, not everyone who engaged in it was subsequently convicted. In many cases, witnesses’ testimony and the own men’s confessions played a role in charging them with a crime:

Of course, the letter of law is one thing, enforcement quite another. Where sodomy remained a crime, there were probably relatively few prosecutions, although we frequently lack statistics. On the other hand, in countries with no penalties for sodomy the police could still use laws against public indecency to harass those men who cruised for sex in public places…Graham Robb argues, however, that on balance ‘nineteenth-century homosexuals lived under a cloud, but it seldom rained’. They suffered less from legal persecution than from 'the creeping sense of shame, the fear of losing friends, family and reputation…the social and mental isolation, and the strain of concealment.’ [Gay Life and Culture: A World History (2006), edited by Robert Aldrich]

For example, being caught on a particular bench in a particular park at a particular time of day could lead to being arrested, but the death penalty or prison sentence could be avoided if there wasn’t sufficient “evidence to substantiate penetration” or other aspects of sexual encounters. In many - if not most cases - where sexual acts occurred within a “consensual and clandestine relationship” there just simply wasn’t enough to support a charge of sodomy, even if the relationship and sex acts were brought to the attention of the authorities.

However.

Even rumours of same-sex desires, relations, and relationships could cause men to be exiled from society or motivate them to flee the county, which many did. Being caught with another man “with his breeches ‘round ankles” most frequently led to extortion and blackmail, sometimes suicide.

In many societies, openness or indiscretion about sexual habits could perhaps cause more outrage than the sex act itself. The shock was not so much that he had been with a man, but that he had been caught - and not for the first time. This reaction could turn into panic if the scandal risked implicating the Establishment. [A Little Gay History: Desire and Diversity Across the World (2013) by R.B. Parkinson]

“Intense discretion” was absolutely necessary. Some men, like Edward Carpenter, lived publicly and openly with their male partners but most men were not able to/were not comfortable doing this. Men who perhaps privately realised their same-sex desire but did not ever act on it were likely in good company during these times; on the other hand, some men were also starting to push the boundaries of expressing their sexuality more openly. Clearly some were more comfortable being camp or flamboyant or bohemian than others, but this bravery still ran some serious risk.

Another quick thing before I go: the way people conceptualised sexual desire/identity in the nineteenth century seemed to be slightly different than how we think of it today. Starting around this time “there was a growing sense that sexual acts between men could be signs of a distinctive and sometimes exclusive identity” but just the same, many men who had sex with other men - and loved and had relationships with other men - didn’t necessarily think of themselves as “gay”:

But where do we draw the line between all these different types of love? And do we have to? These uncertainties show how impossible it is to impose absolute categorisations, and they also show the diverse forms that love and affection can take. Sexual acts and roles also vary, but these too have often been shaped by societies in rigidly distinct and mutually exclusive ways. […] Actions are, of course, not necessarily the same as identity. After all, who is more 'gay’, the man who has sex with another man because there is no woman available, or a man who wants to have sex with other men but doesn’t because he has a wife? Identities are never simple. [A Little Gay History: Desire and Diversity Across the World (2013) by R.B. Parkinson]

So we can see how concepts like “virginity” and “sexual identity” are hard to pin down in an historical sense. Is a man a virgin if he’s only ever had sex with men, never a woman, or vice versa? Is he a virgin if he’s engaged in some sex acts and not others? Is he a virgin if no one could ever “prove” that he’s had sex based on the presence or lack of physical characteristics on his body? People would have had quite different answers to these questions, depending on their beliefs, and we can only interpret so much from the existing historical record.

How many love letters and tokens found their fate in the fire, we’ll never know. Of course, much of what we do know about issues related to sexual behaviour in the nineteenth century are “frequently known only from the records created by the very institutions that were attempting to suppress them, and which of course do not present an unbiased picture” [Parkinson, 2013]. 

So yes: sexual acts between two men were illegal. Liking certain things, doing certain things, being flamboyant or bohemian or camp (and certainly privately loving another man) wasn’t illegal in quite in the same way, and yet, in what ways did those actions and love manifest? Did they spill over into a public sphere? Did they cause suspicion, speculation, rumour? Whether or not anything had been physically acted upon in a “provable” sense, even if it was so much as implied, men’s safety could still be at risk.

Whew. That’s a long answer! Feel free to take what you want, leave what you want - I hope it’s helped in some small measure. Thanks again for this ask! <3

Intro to Upper Class Culture, Part 6: Fashion Show Etiquette

“Dress shabbily and they remember the dress; dress impeccably and they remember the woman.”

Coco Chanel

I remember the first time I put on a Chanel Dress. I was 19 years old and it was my friend’s mother’s; she figured we were the same size and before I knew it, she was pulling up the zipper and spinning me around in front of a mirror telling me how stunning I looked-and I did. I remember how the dress felt hugging me, as if it had been painted on me, and I remember feeling like I was the most elegant creature who ever lived. That day, this former tomboy girl became a woman.

In all seriousness, I was hooked on fashion. I still am. I spend an inordinate amount of time perusing fashion blogs, skimming through fashion magazines, and watching interviews with my favorite fashion insiders. I also spend way too much money on my addiction (let’s call a spade a spade). It’s gotten so bad that I have an entire bedroom dedicated to housing my clothing and it still isn’t enough; I look at that room and realize that people have real problems and as I feel that burning shame creep up my spine, I look at my beautiful vintage Chanel dress and that melts away.

But enough about me being a shopaholic; I’m writing this segment of “Intro to Upper Class Culture” on Fashion Show Etiquette! Why? Because I think if you’ve never been to a fashion show you don’t really know what to expect and I’m sure it seems exciting but also intimidating-it did for me. I am by no means a fashion insider nor do I work in the fashion industry, but some of my friends do and they have been gracious enough to score me a few invites to fashion shows and I wholeheartedly thank them, it’s a dream come true. So, without further ado, here is my guide to Fashion Show Etiquette.

First, like any other invitation, you should respond to an invitation to a fashion show promptly and accurately. If you say you’re attending, you need to attend (unless there’s an emergency, obviously). Having empty seats at a fashion show looks bad and it’s embarrassing for the designer so out of respect for them (and whoever scored you that invite) you need to keep your commitment. Try to arrive on time. Most fashion shows start late (think at least half an hour) but it’s still good to show up on time. If you arrive after the show starts you might lose your spot or not be allowed in.

Second, on the note of invitations: seating is a privilege. Most of the time seats are assigned, at least in my experience. So, if you get an invitation and it doesn’t have seating information on it…your invitation might be standing room. A lot of people get standing room invitations to fashion shows, it’s not uncommon by any means, but yeah, it kind of sucks. Especially at big shows your chances of getting a seat unless you’re a big wig in the industry are slim to none, but I promise standing room is still a great experience and you’ll still be way cooler than any of your friends who didn’t go.

Third, we’re going to go over how to dress.

Wear comfortable shoes, flats are actually a good idea-or your most comfortable heels. Why? If you’re in standing room, that’s self explanatory. Also, pretty much unless you’re Anna Wintour you’re going to be spending a lot of time standing in line. Fashion shows are usually a mess and more than likely you could be standing in line anywhere from ten minutes to over an hour. Then you have to actually get to your seat, and more often than not, that in itself is a mess. So, wear shoes you can actually walk in, and shoes that are comfortable. Or don’t-but don’t whine about your blisters to me.

Don’t be afraid to dress up a little. I’m not saying this is the time to break out your priciest couture, but you don’t have to dress like you’re “too cool to care”. Fashion shows are a “celebration of fashion” and you’re taking part in that, so dress stylish. I know that isn’t really much help, but, and here’s the answer nobody wants to hear: how people dress at different shows varies from designer to designer, and the time of day, etc. You’ll see a huge variety of fashion at fashion shows not just on the catwalk. My best advice I can give is wear something you feel confident in, and don’t be afraid to push the boundaries a little bit.

No hats. Don’t do it. They block people’s views, they’re annoying. Same with big hair-avoid having big crazy hairstyles because you don’t want to block people’s view.

Dress appropriately. Don’t show too much cleavage or have a skirt on where people can see your underwear. Keep it classy. Also, on being appropriate, dress appropriately for the weather. If it’s freezing outside, don’t wear a short dress with thin tights. If you get stuck standing in line outside, you’re going to regret that decision.

Don’t bring a massive bag. For one, it makes you more likely to get stopped by security. Also, it clogs up the aisles and fashion shows are already a mad house, no need to make it worse.

Fourth, if you happen to be dressed super cute and you’re walking into a fashion show, your picture might get taken by a Street Style photographer! These men and women photograph stylish regular people and post their pictures on blogs for real people style inspiration. It’s kind of cool to get photographed by these people, especially because some of these bloggers have huge followings, but if the person does not photograph you right away, don’t stand around. Why? If they don’t stop you right away, they aren’t going to stop you if you keep standing there, and if you’re standing around, you’re getting in people’s way. As stated before, fashion shows are a mad house, don’t make it worse.

Fifth, be polite to the PR people. It’s easy to get frustrated with them when somebody’s in your seat, or if they tell you the show is at capacity and you can’t get in, or you’ve been waiting for over an hour for the show to begin, but know that their jobs are super hectic and stressful and they’re doing their best. Being rude to them is not going to help anything, and it just makes you look bad. So be polite, be patient, be kind. Don’t yell, don’t name-call, etc. Act like you would in a professional environment, even if your feet hurt (that’s why I told you not to wear heels!).

Sixth, we’re going to talk about cell phones. Now normally my advice is always to put your freaking phone away and turn it off, and honestly, unless you’re a person in the industry that’s still my advice here. But you don’t have to, it will not be rude or abnormal for you to be sitting there on your phone. I wouldn’t necessarily recommend sitting there texting people about how exciting it is to be there instead of you know, actually participating in being there, but if you really want to get pictures on your phone or videos or be tweeting and instagramming pictures then that’s fine. You’ll see a lot of people doing that. A note on pictures: make sure your flash is off. There’s flashing going on in the photographer’s pit, but it’s going to look weird when there’s a flash coming from an area there isn’t and it’s just kind of embarrassing, so just check to make sure that’s off. As far as posting on social media, try not to post blurry bad photos. It just doesn’t represent the show well and there’s no need to clog up social media with pictures that don’t show anything about the collection.

Now, I know some people will even answer calls on their phones during shows, but unless it’s a loud show I wouldn’t recommend doing that. Which brings me to my seventh point, which is talking during the show: it really depends on the show. I’ve been at shows where talking is kept to a hush, I’ve been at shows where people carry on normal volume level conversations. Talking used to be a faux pas and isn’t so much now. If you’re going to make a comment on the collection, try to keep it positive because don’t forget: this is somebody’s art and they’ve put a lot of work into making it great so be respectful. Also, this isn’t the time to whine about the show starting late or how hot it is, etc. It’s rude.

To my ninth point: stealing a seat. As a good rule of thumb: don’t do it. Don’t pretend you didn’t know it wasn’t your seat, don’t argue with them. You might get thrown out for doing that and it’s embarrassing. However, if you’re in standing room and see an open seat you can nab that seat. As I stated before: if you don’t arrive on time to a show, you lose your seat and probably won’t be allowed in. Therefore, if the lights are dimming and a seat is open, you can take it. If possible, check with one of the PR people first to make sure it’s ok, but it’s usually fine. If you’re worried about it belonging to some VIP, just know the show doesn’t begin until those people show up so if the lights are dimming, you’re fine.

Tenth, regarding goodie bags: if it’s at your seat, you can take it. Sometimes they have really cool stuff. If there isn’t one at your seat, don’t take one from somebody else’s seat. It’s rude, it’s embarrassing when you get caught and that’s stealing! No goodie bag is worth the embarrassment of security asking you to return it.

My eleventh point, if you see a celebrity, this isn’t really the time to ask for an autograph. It’s not good form and they don’t want to be harassed while trying to enjoy a show. If you want to try to strike up a conversation with them, the best way to do it is something like this: “Hi Miss/Mr. So-and-So, my name is Such-and-Such and I just wanted to tell you I’m a big fan of your work. Your last movie/song/game/whatever was really impressive and I think you’re a wonderful actor/musician/athlete/whatever.” A lot of celebrities are really friendly and might strike up a conversation with you; some will probably just say thank you and leave it at that. Either way, keep your cool, and don’t start snapping their photograph unless you want to fall into the “annoying fangirl” category.

Finally, my last point is concerning applause. This is yet another point of differentiation depending on who you talk to. Some people say it’s ok to shout and whistle and cheer during the show. Some people think nods of approval and a golf clap at the end are plenty enough to suffice. The atmosphere at every show is different, so you’re going to have to use your best judgment. I say err on the side of cautious and then follow the crowd. Some shows are subdued, some are raucous, it really depends. I recommend applauding enthusiastically at the end of the show no matter what because for designers, they really are an important event and a big pain to put on, so encouraging them is always a good thing to do.

And here are some pictures of fashion shows just because!

[DRABBLE] DatingScandalAU!Jisoo (G)

Word Count: 2,616
Genre: Angst
Warnings: None

A/N: Got this about 75%-ish done before I took a study leave, and finally got a bit of time to get this completed. Decided to finally write a Jisoo drabble because this kid is amazing

Do let us know what you think, and I hope you enjoy reading this :D

wooed

Originally posted by jisooosgf



At first it had been thrilling.

Being in the centre of attention for once, you actually enjoyed it. People congratulated you, wished you the best and prayed for your happiness. The man that accompanied you through all of these was nothing short of kind, caring and protective, unwaveringly staying by your side throughout the drama. You lavishly lapped up the fame, and you thought that you might actually enjoy this.

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