gray tanktop

anonymous asked:

Can I get a roxy strider? I had dirty blond hair (my hair is longer than canon) the side of my head shaved and I wore a gray tanktop with roxys cat symbol (but with dirk glasses) and it was orange, then I also had jeans and orange converse -rs

TG: yo rostri whats poppin
TG: i hope i got everything accurate for ya i kinda just based this off my bloodbent roxy strider i already had ready so yes
TG: hope you like it B)

River Song's Wardrobe (Updated for “The Husbands of River Song”!)

So after my post on Martha Jones’ wardrobe got unexpectedly loved, and before I wrote about Rose’s Series 1 clothes, I thought I’d continue to put my two favorite things together (costume analysis and Doctor Who) and see what I could come up with. Because this is my specialty, yo, and it makes me happy.

So: let’s do River Song!

Now, there’s a small difficulty here. Either I can analyze River’s outfits in the order we see them, thus revealing the writer/viewer’s arc of her character’s trajectory, or we can look at them in the order River wore them from her perspective, going all in-universe and watching River’s wardrobe progression in the order it happened for her. I’ve decided to go with the second object, because then we can admire how the costume team managed to keep certain threads (oops, pun) consistent in a story that’s all out of order and out of time. And then you can go back and piece it together in order if you want! What nerds we are!

So, anyway, what’s River wearing when we first meet her? Well.

I’m sure it’s the height of baby-fashion, whatever it is. One nice anon pointed out that it looks like something called a Halo sleep sack, though, so there’s a thing for you. Baby fashion, guys. It’s complex.

River/Melody appears a few more times as a child, but her clothes are so little seen that I can’t really build anything solid off of them. River’s wardrobe only really starts to come into its own when she’s under the name of Mels, larking about with her parents:

What a lovely gif. You can’t see the outfit terribly well (because I chose this gif over closer shots, sue me), but it’s a gray tank and a black leather jacket. Not much to go on, but tank tops tend to be for active people and leather jackets always signal “tough person,” unless David Tennant is wearing one and looking like a wet adorable rat.

He is so smoll.

But the color palette for Mels’ clothes is already important: despite being a very colorful person, River sticks to a neutral palette most of the time, relying most heavily on beigey colors or muted earth tones, often with a shot of black to spice it up.

Kinda like the above outfit, actually. While we’re looking at it, note the pattern on her dress: how weird it is, kind of skeletal. It’s bold, but not an easily identifiable print like polka dots or stripes or florals. It looks like rows of spines, or barbed fencing. Something fierce and weird and not to be trusted.

Ah, good, now Alex Kingston is wearing it! Look at how the fit changes: that’s the River Song shape, right there, from the knee-length hem to the v-neck neckline to the drapey bodice. There’s usually a lot of draping in her dresses; I think it’s to add to the drama of it all, that appearance she has of living life on a very great stage.

In the above picture, River’s showing off her great lace-up boots, too. Here is someone who came dressed for murder. She totally looked in the mirror today and said “And that’s how an assassin looks!” to herself, while dancing to punk rock. Or to the screams of horrified civilians, as happens with her next outfit.

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& it’s just so hot lately.  The humidity seeps, coats, invades.   Soon your shirt is sticking to your chest and back.  Sweat drips at odd intervals, and you only feel a ghost of it, suddenly, down the edge of your torso.  You spend more time outside, even if it’s just on the porch, reading, but you can’t seem to keep your attention on the page.   You catch yourself staring off into the distance, across the street, or maybe to the left or right, and you’ve already been doing this for some time.  Not really thinking about anything.  It’s too hot to think of anything.  The heat gets inside your skull and expands.  It’s a semi-delirium, the heat.  Muggy, foggy, hot.  And the noises of summer are rising; the oscillating crescendo of the cicadas, rising, then falling, rising, then falling.  This constant burr of noise in your ears.  The weight of the sun on your bare arms and chest.  You’ve taken your shirt off, and you’ve had it off for some time.  When did that happen?  You probably just got too hot to have a shirt on.  It’s always a little too hot to have a shirt on when it’s this comfortable to be shirtless.  Rising, then falling.  Your muscles are bunched inside of their sheaths, they are coiled, demanding animals that are whining, scraping at their cages, to be used.  You can recall fondly the last time you worked out.  The pleasant buzz and hum of endorphins singing in your brainblood.  The ache of torn muscle tissue.  That was just a few hours ago, wasn’t it?  Hard to recall.  It happens so often.  You almost always seem to be in a daze lately, either a post-workout daze, or a post-fuel daze, or a heat daze - seems like everything you do is about your body, whether it’s cooling down or fueling up or working out.   There just isn’t that much time to focus on much else, and you just don’t have the effort to do anything other than workout, fuel up, and cool down.  It’s just too hot.  

Someone is walking by.  Maybe a neighbor, or something.  It’s one of the bros from the frat house down the street.  You can see the big Greek letters on his gray tanktop.  

                                                        ΣΝ

He has his cap on backwards, and he’s probably heading to the store for a beer run.  “Sup, bro,” he says to you as he walks by.

“Sup, bro,” you say back.  “Fuckin hot out.”

“Fuck yeah.  Gym later?”

“Fuck yeah, bro.”

“Seeya.”

“Later, bro.”

The cicadas, again, their rise, their fall.  God, it’s like everything in nature is ganging up on you, and you’re just so heavy and relaxed.  The fan is going back and forth.  It hums and whirs as it passes, there in the background, this whole time.  You don’t remember when you got so friendly with the bros in the house down the street, or even how you met them.  You laugh as you remember the noise complaint you filed with the cops as a prank.  They were all good bros at Sigma Nu, though it didn’t really seem like they actually went to college, just worked out and fueled up and chilled out.  One or two of them even work at the gym you go to.  You’ve seen a notice on the door lately, NOW HIRING.  You’ve caught yourself considering it, but just once, maybe twice.  For some time now.  Just as a joke, a little one, inside your own head, maybe imagining it, you in the gym’s t-shirt, behind the counter.  It sure would be a whole lot easier than uh, your day job.  

The same bro is walking by, back from the store, a glistening, shiny six-pack of tallboys in his hand.  The sun glints off of the cans, off of his shiny watch, off of the black mirror of his sunglasses.  “Yo,” he says, clearly.  Catches your attention.  He flexes, right there, grunting cartoonishly as he does.  

You catch yourself standing up, flexing back, holding the pose.  He’s been gone for a long time now, and you’ve already been doing this for some time.

anonymous asked:

Can I get a roxy strider? I had dirty blond hair (my hair is longer than canon) the side of my head shaved and I wore a gray tanktop with roxys cat symbol (but with dirk glasses) and it was orange, then I also had jeans and orange converse -rs

hecc yes…. hopefully what i made is okay hhh

Samson

Title : Samson

Pairing : Sam X Reader

Word Count : 1,596

Prompt : Song “Samson” by Regina Spektor

Originally posted by bloodiedpalm

“Whoops.”

Whoops?” Sam twisted on the stool that you had set him on in front of the bathroom mirror.

You bit your lip, looking at the lock of hair that fluttered to the tiled floor. Sam’s hand flew back to his hair, feeling the brown locks until his fingers found the extra short strand on the back of his head. He held up the hair with a conceited grin. He cocked an eyebrow at you. “Really?”

You shrugged apologetically, the scissors held lightly in your fingers. “Sorry.”

“Sorry? Y/N, I told you I wanted a trim!” He snarled, trying to conceal the laughter in his voice.

“Chill out, Sam!” You said, feigning dejectedness at his scolding, breaking out into a smile. “I’ve never done this before.”

Sam let out a sigh as you went back to cutting his hair. “Why did I let you do this to me?”

“Because,” you said with a smile as you snipped the soft strands between your thumb and finger. “If I didn’t, Dean was going to do this instead.”

“Oh, right.” Sam said, rolling his eyes. “I have never seen him look so disappointed in my life.”

“Well I couldn’t let that jerk take a razor to your head, he’d leave nothing there.” You said with a laugh.

“You think that is a joke?” Sam tried to turn to face you, his eyes bright. “Once he chased me through the house with the scissors.”

“Always been jealous of your hair, has he?” You asked, finishing off the layer you had been working on, dusting off his soft brown hair with your hand.

“Who hasn’t?”

You gave him a light smack on the head affectionately. “You’re a dork.”

Sam chuckled softly in front of you and you brushed off his shoulders. “Done.”

He raised a hand to feel his hair. “Really? Awesome.” He stood up, pulling off his plaid flannel in front of you and shook it out, trying to clear away the hair by brushing off the shirt.

You bit your lip in a smile as he frowned at his shirt, shaking it out, standing innocently in front of you in a gray tanktop and his jeans, his hair fanning out from his face. You watched the muscles in his back move as he worked and you leaned against the sink. He had never looked better.

“Well,” Sam finally turned to look at you, a dazzling smile on his face as he rolled up his flannel under one muscular arm, “How do I look?”

You took a step toward him. You set down the scissors, pursing your lips perceptively as you reached up and ran your fingers through his hair. Sam’s lips parted as he inhaled softly at your touch. You stepped forward until you were a few inches away from his broad chest, mentally cursing the tank top that separated you from him. As you dug your fingers into his soft hair, he subtly tilted his head into your hand, a contented smile on his lips. The smell of Old Spice was light on the air as you gazed up flirtatiously into Sam’s eyes.

“Sexy.” You purred lightly, biting your lip with a cheeky grin.

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anonymous asked:

so i found ’I know you steal my Wi-Fi to watch porn but it’s kind of hot idk’ AU on a list of AUs and i just think it's fucking brilliant (you don't have to write it ofc i just felt like sharing it with someone)

This was well timed, anon! It worked with some other smut I wanted to do, ie, oops, you found me snooping for porn on your laptop. So here we are.

AO3!


It is genuinely an accident the first time.

Well, okay, scratch that. It depends on how far she goes back, and the definition of accident.

It isn’t really anything to start with. How it starts is that three days after she moves into her new apartment, someone knocks on her door and greets her with, “Uh, hi, so, this is awkward.”

“It wasn’t until you said that,” she says, amused. All she’s really done since she got the apartment is unpack and sleep, so she hasn’t met any of the neighbors, but she assumes he’s one of them. He’s not dressed in a uniform or a suit or anything, just wearing a gray tanktop and a pair of too-long flannel pajama pants, and it’s really too late for deliveries or outside business. He has messy black hair and glasses, black ink on both arms, not a lot, just a few words and images she can’t really examine in detail, but wants to. If he’s a neighbor, she thinks she’s going to like this building. “Now you made it weird.”

“My specialty,” he says, with a wry smile. “Uh, so–you’re the new wifi that showed up, right? Slythergriff?”

Clarke does not flush; she likes giving her shit silly names. She’s not ashamed. “Did you come over at nine o'clock at night to make fun of me about my wifi name? Because that is awkward.”

“Uh, no, I–” He huffs a laugh. “I’m trying to submit a paper and my net crapped out and I was hoping I could steal yours so I can get it sent off before midnight. Which I know is weird to ask someone I’ve literally never met–”

Clarke leans against the door frame, considering him. “Honestly, my number-one question is why me, yeah. Have you borrowed everyone else’s wifi and they won’t let you do it anymore? I’m not sure I should trust you.”

He laughs, which does some great things for his face. And his face doesn’t really need the help. “Yeah, uh, Mrs. Doyle lives next door to me, she doesn’t have the internet. I had to fix her computer once and tried to hook it up for her and she told me if she wanted pictures of strange men’s penises, she would buy pornographic magazines like God intended.”

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Homestuck: The Highest Form of Flattery

Summary: Dirk’s only ever seen photos of Jake English before. He thought the boy was mildly attractive–model material, sure, but nothing special. No alluring mystique, but enough enthusiasm to make up for it on an amateur level.  In real life, he is perfect.

(High School Models AU)

Length: 8726 words

Notes: Really, this is the same plot I keep obsessively coming back to, which is: character is a bit of an ass and screws up terribly, then has to deal with it.
I still don’t think I have Dirk’s character completely down–slight changes had to be made to him and some of the other characters to make the story work in the setting. Jake, for instance, had to be slightly more gullible than he was in canon in order for him to agree to the kiss without the pressure of saving his friend’s lives. We don’t see much of Dirk’s emotional responses to these events in Homestuck proper because he’s so cagey about stuff, so I had to sort of feel my way along with that until I got to the rooftop scene, which is faithful enough to his final confrontation with Hal in the comic.
Rambling and caveats done with, I hope you dig the story.

On Ao3

(If you want to make sure it’s something you want to read, please look at the tags on Ao3. Bits of this story are not very nice.)

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