ficlet: Front Enclosure
Borne of today’s extremely fun discussion of brassieres and the regular requests I get for Stella/Scully. Here’s a little more fun.
“Dammit,” Scully seethes as she looks down the freckled plane of her chest, angling the trajectory of her resentment not so much at her body as the thin, lavender, sloping piece of fabric strapped around it.
She tosses the bra into a pile of other rejects – mostly black, simple, lightly padded, boastful of their ability to expertly handle the apparently very specialized and complicated garment of a fucking t-shirt. All bras should look good under a t-shirt, she thinks. That’s what people wear. She’s had it with this shop, this day, this whole fucking task of clothing a body nobody ever touches but her.
The mound of scrapped items is daunting – the hook and eye systems tangled in the loops and scalloping of one another, cups flopped and twisted inside out at their junctures. It’ll take her an hour to get everything back on the hangers and she still hasn’t found a bra that fits properly, doesn’t itch or poke, doesn’t make her look like she’s hung someone else’s boobs on her frame.
“Do you need help in there?” comes a voice – female, smooth as the thick pink satin of Contestant Number 3.
Scully typically rejects all offers of loyalty and friendship from shop clerks, feeling proudly stoic each time she thanks-but-no-thanks-them. But she feels out of her element here, desperate not to fail at the simple task of replacing her everyday undergarments. “You know what? Yeah, one second.”
She grabs her pearly-buttoned blue cardigan and slips it on over her bare winter skin, holding it shut beneath folded arms as she pushes the black velvet curtain to the side. It’s heavier than she would have expected, as if a native well-rooted weed rather than a ham-fisted gimmick to get you to buy shit. This luxury is the natural geography of my biome, you’re the fool who wandered into it.