girl braiding her hair

what if medusa was a real woman. i mean: what if the woman with snakes in her hair was once a tiny girl with beautiful braids in her black hair.

what if the stories came from her smooth hands. when she was six she could make pottery that looked like flowers blooming in your palms. could carefully create replicas of any plant she saw.

and medusa was smart. ran from home, tucked up her hair so it looked short, made herself into a little boy. besides, they liked pretty boys. medusa at school with top grades, sending her unknowable stares at the other men. because the whole time she’s learning the planes of their faces, the way they look while they’re thinking, the slight twist of their hand that meant they were lying. 

medusa going home to sketch every little figure. comes to school in the morning with her hands caked in pottery clay. medusa learns. scrubs dirt on her face to mimic their planes. tilts her head the right way when she’s thinking. doesn’t twist her hand when she’s lying.

in her back yard, a little garden grows. statues of ceramic boys only three feet tall. at first, she can’t quite get the faces right. men are not the same as plants. there is something weird about the proportions she uses. medusa frowns.

she starts making animals instead for a bit, annoyed and disheartened. she’d always just been naturally good at it, and the fact she couldn’t just make something felt as if she’d lost her gift.

she makes cats and dogs and her neighbor’s birds and keeps going.

the snake wasn’t her favorite. he just wouldn’t leave her alone, so she gave up and let him sleep on her in the cold nights. besides, he was a small garden snake, couldn’t even bite her hard, just wanted a place of warmth. she let him rest on the angles of her shoulders, right near her neck, even if he sometimes forgot and held her too hard. that was okay. when she was little, she forgot too, sometimes, and shattered the slim walls of her pottery. the snake had a lot of growing up to do.

she loved no one. not because she was cold-hearted. just because it wasn’t something she wanted. she was busy with her artwork.

she chose an apprenticeship under a master craftsman. his sculptures made her breath stop. she was careful in the workshop, kept her things simple, kept her mouth shut. he called her stupid often. she would duck her head. sometimes she would make mistakes on purpose. all the while he only made sculptures of men. said there was no beauty in women. often made savage remarks about those they saw in the market.

and all the while, she watched him. she watched him and she went home and sketched. this is how his hands were when he made a vine. this is how they were when shaping a nose.

and her back yard garden would grow. little boys became her master, over and over and over, until she could get his jaw right. ceramic became sculpture.

he was who took her to athena’s temple. who shouted at her about how beautiful the statues were against her own. every week he’d come back and shame her. asked how the women there were smarter than the man she was supposed to be. medusa ducked her head and grit her teeth.

in her back yard, she made them. she made every god and goddess she’d seen in the city. her favorite was athena. she ached over her features. had spent so long in the world of men, was blinded by the beauty of women.

it was a black night. and medusa thought her master had left the temple before her. she loosened all the bindings that kept her from breathing. took her hair out. worshiped in peace. placed on athena’s alter a small and beautiful thing. the goddess, head tilted, thinking.

when he found medusa, what made him angry was not her small frame. it was the statute. a delicate thing. much better than the ones he had ever made.

he took it and snapped it in half. threw it deep in the temple’s well to rot. pulled her by her hair. demanded to know where it had come from.

medusa, angry, tired of hiding, tired of late nights and being a boy and pretending: medusa, athena-mad, spat on him. “I did it,” her voice is strong and full of hatred, “A woman made something better than a man could.”

He meant to kill her. To bash her head into the temple steps, claim it was an accident - or better yet, the spite of a god made flesh.

when he grabs her hair, the goddess bites back. athena, patron of creators, patron of the arts, patron of girls and those who are smart - she turns medusa’s hair into snakes. 

it is a quick little thing, darts out and draws blood, almost falls from her hair as a result. she catches the creature and runs, runs until she feels numb.

and what if - while her master is making up a story about poseidon and athena’s rage, explaining medusa’s back yard full of frozen men as being evidence of her evilness - what if medusa finds friends in blind women. and they teach her how to feel what she is seeing. how to use her hands with her eyes closed to make maps of whatever she holds. she starts with plants again. her snake is big now, and has babies. she moves on to their little wiggling forms, amused when they make tiny rings around her fingers. she does not live in a cave. she dresses as a man again, goes to market, sells her roses and vines and beautiful (simple) things. buys herself and the women a nice house out beyond all the noise of it. fills their garden with frozen men.

when the men come to kill her - because now her name is known, it is whispered, sticks in the throat - they don’t find her. they find a tall man who tells them: look in the mountains. when they don’t come back, it’s no fault of medusa’s. frankly, she thinks they should have brought more supplies than their swords into the deep woods. she’s not cruel. when they leave, she makes a statue of them, as her version of a memorial.

but one man is not like the others. he finds her with her hair down, humming, dancing around a marble stone. her snakes are warming in the sun.

medusa? he asks her. it’s a name she hasn’t heard in a long while.

she is tired of being hunted. she just wants to make art. she waits for the sword point. but he hesitates. looks at her full in her face.

strikes a bargain. if she makes him a head for his shield, he will tell the others that she is good and dead. and he will sell her art to better patrons when he could - although he suggests at least hiding the signature she has with maybe a little less snake-like scrawl - he would make her name known.

but medusa knows men. knows they will chomp down on a horror story faster than that of the artist. she is already permanent. she says: no, here’s what happens.

after many months, he has his shield. she wouldn’t let him leave with the first nine hundred versions, always found something wrong with them. he grows fond of her in this time, agrees to her terms. even he can’t really look at the shield head-on. she has captured a scream, a rage, too much. it is so utterly human and at once not that it makes his skin crawl.

where medusa’s blood drops, serpents sprawl. or at least, that’s the code she uses. when he finds little girls who can make art, he sends them to her. 

medusa does not expect to be known for the school that she starts. she is a women artist in a time of men, and her name is already dead to them. but i know medusa. i know her. she is known for her work.

after all, who can speak about medusa without mentioning how she froze the world?

tbh i can’t wait until allura and pidge have an episode where they’re paired off together and they just both get to enjoy being girls, away from the boys. allura can teach pidge how to braid her hair and pidge can blab away about her favorite technology while allura listens on with excitement. they can have a sleepover with the mice, with pidge having all the mice in her lap as allura tells stories about altea. they get to talk about how dumb the boys are sometimes together and talking about how they wouldn’t want anyone else in space with them

i just need more pidge and allura bonding moments tbqh

Commander Princess VII

Ok dear writer, 2 things: 1)You have ruined fanfic for me. Your writing is so earth-shattering good I have trouble reading other peoples stuff. Hmm this is not ass kissing, it’s an awful truth. 2)Prompt: Clarke and Lexa’s love for each other through River’s eyes. Ok 3 things. 3) One more time thanks for all of this work. Know that it does make a difference. 

Though the night was dark, the tiny feet still knew their way through the small home. Deft and precise, they padded along as the little girl pushed hair from her face, her braids were taken out at bedtime and now her hair rebelling with its freedom in her eyes and mouth. Her room was suddenly too large, too empty, too much for her little brain to comprehend. She tried to be brave, like her moms, but it was hard.

She followed the murmuring in the other room and when she reached the doorway she froze to hear it. In the dim light of the candles she saw her mother without her braids as well, watched her mom drag her fingertips through it while they spoke and giggled, and River forgot what she was afraid of for a moment. Clarke kissed Lexa’s forehead while she quietly laughed, shaking her head in disagreement. Suddenly, the little girl felt intrusive, with no where left to go other than back to her room and scary dreams.

Keep reading


Winry says that he doesn’t cry, but that is not true.

He cries for the little girl with braids in her hair and a heart big enough to love where love was not deserved. Every night he hears her cheerful voice calling his name, and when he wakes to remember that she will speak no more, he cries.

He cries for the tiny child with pigtails who was the apple of her father’s eye. He remembers how much her brave father loved her, and how brave she now has to be without him, and he cries.

He weeps for the child whose death triggered thousands.

He thinks of a baby boy that came lifeless into the world and made a strong woman weak with grief, and he cries.

He sobs for the blue-eyed firecracker of a girl whom he loves with all his heart—for the parents that were wrenched from her life when she was so small, and for the ache he still causes her every time he turns away.

Most of all, he cries for the boy who can’t cry anymore—the boy whose soul is so warm but whose body has become so cold.

Winry says he won’t cry for himself, but Edward cries for all the bright-eyed children that he has known—and for the bright-eyed child he once was.

single dad!luke trying to french braid his little girl’s hair one morning by her request but he just can’t get it so he tries to persuade her into rocking “a really cool bun…like uncle ashton!” or something but she’s getting upset and starts crying and they’re already running late for school so he panics and picks his little munchkin up and heads next door to your place, knocking frantically until you answer, your own hair still a mess as you grip your steaming mug of coffee in your hands, and luke immediately begins babbling on about how his mum showed him once how to french braid little girl hemmings’ hair but he just can’t remember and she’s still in his arms sobbing and sniffling away until finally you put your hand up to silence him and hand him your coffee in exchange for the four-year-old and you start bouncing her a bit in your arms to calm her and assure her she’s going to be hitting the school yard in no time with the prettiest french braids in town and you sit down on the front step, encouraging her to crawl down in front of you, and luke leans on the railing watching you work your magic on his daughter’s hair and make her giggle as you mildly tease, “oh my, daddy made a mess here, didn’t he?” and you look up at luke and smirk, him simply staring back longingly with so much gratitude, and dare he say, love for you, for always saving the day

Imagine Luke’s little daughter, Lily, acting as the flower girl for you and his wedding and Luke stressing out the day of bc his little girl wanted an actual flower crown and she wanted it braided into her hair but being the nervous and anxious groom he was, Luke’s fingers fumbled all over the place until lily’s golden hair was slightly tangled and she looked like she wanted to cry so luke would look at you with the same pleading crystal blue eyes that his daughter had given him and you would gently take the flower crown hand threaded with the same small white lilies of her namesake and comb your fingers through lily’s hair until it was orderly and soft again and you would carefully place the crown on top of her hair until she looked like a little princess and she would turn to you and say “thank you mommy” before running off into the reception hall and neither you nor her catching her mistake but luke would notice and that was the moment he knew his two girls would get along just fine and he’d smile and straighten his tie before ushering you to your dress fitting, anticipating seeing you in a beautiful, delicate white dress, waiting for him at the alter

I tried writing something a little different, but this is for @blessedirwin’s flower themed blurb night!

Athazagoraphobia ∥ Kim Taehyung

Part : 1/?
Summary as a whole : He didn’t want to be forgotten by the one he loved the most.
Summary for this part: And Just like her father, she was always close to the sea.
Word count: 177

“There was a little door in the basement of our new home. It was decorated with everything that looked like the ocean. Sea shells, waves, sand, everything. The door was purple and white and gold. The door knob was a deep, deep purple and had waves on it. In the waves were golden silhouettes of 7 boys” I said to the little girl in front of me.

Her dark brown hair was braided in two pigtails. Her dress was deep blue and her eyes resembled crystals, just like her father’s. The little girl’s nose was round, just like her father’s. And just like her father, she was always close to the sea.

“DID YOU GO THROUGH THE DOOR?” She suddenly shouted.

Startled, I replied a soft, “Yes.” She looked at me and smiled a rectangular smile.

“You’re so much like daddy, you know that?” I asked her.

“I know!! You say that all the time. But…Where is he?” The my daughter stared outside the window.

“He’s stuck between the past and present,” was all I said.

A/N : like/reblog! tbh idk where i’m going with this so we’ll see if I even continue.

                                      STARTER CALL 2.0 // @trickarrowd

                               ‘i never thought about wanting kids until i met you.’

she’s talking to Lian, not Roy, who she’s seated on her lap to make braiding the young girl’s hair much easier. it’s almost therapeutic to be doing this. sara certainly wouldn’t let her do this and she doesn’t know many girls. so what if her new girl friend is so young. she’s having fun. 

‘i might just steal her from you.’