high up shirt

i just love the concept of stiles not being aware of his own attractiveness like

doesn’t notice immediately how his body has filled out in all the right places when he finally hits the big 18

doesn’t notice derek almost dropping several plates while they do the dishes at a pack meeting and stiles stretching lazily, arms high up in the air, shirt riding up, exposing his happy trail and sharp hipbones

doesn’t notice derek almost having an aneurism when stiles licks ice cream straight off those god damn fingers on a hot summer day

doesn’t notice the wood of the headboard of derek’s bed splintering under his palm when stiles bends over and down to pick up a college book that he dropped off the bed while doing homework at derek’s loft

doesn’t notice the ridiculous pink colour of the tips of derek’s ears when stiles shucks his shirt full of grime and blood in front of him after getting rid of the monster of the week

he does notice derek getting pissier and more irritated with him, avoiding him a little, clipped off answers and avoiding eye contact, bitching at him even more than usual and stiles just yells right back, “what the fuck is your problem lately, dude?!”, slightly hurt; he thought they were past this, and derek can smell doubt and slight fear on him, and that’s the fucking final straw and derek just backs him up against the door of stiles’ room, grabbing stiles’ face in both of his huge palms, snarling “you, you and your god damn– everything! your stupid forearms -and don’t even get me started on those stupid fingers- and your dumb pretty brown eyes and that god damn mouth of yours and y–”, he doesn’t get much further than that though, too busy being mauled by said mouth. 

not that he’s complaining. not anymore.

Mob Psycho 100 AU where everything’s the same except Teru wears the Generic 90’s Cup Design™ at all times

Desert Island Top 5 Break Ups from High Fidelity at The Paramount (2/25/17)


welcome to the rodeo

Things I associate with hogwarts houses


Worn out books, messy buns, 100% phone battery, quiet music, perfectly sharp pencils, full moons, hour long phone calls, the smell of paint, scented candles, walking on train tracks, vintage clothes, old cars, wood floors, forest cabins, cold sunny days, books all over there rooms, dying flowers, cuddling with dogs, movie marathons, old converse, messy yet beautiful makeup, science puns, full library’s, lying in wheat fields, star gazing on roofs, ink stains on there hands, long showers, detailed tattoos, high necked button up shirts, paint stained overalls, flowers in there hair

anonymous asked:

I think jmo at the con last week gave a glimpse Into the recent wardrobe decisions. She said all Emma had when first coming to SB where a handful of clothes and now shops regularly in snow's closet/80's style thrift shops. plus she said Emma incorporates hair style from memories like the WishAu!. I think the no makeup is a JMO personal thing..IRL she doesn't wear much anymore either.

Thanks, Wardrobe!Anon, but then JMo is doing the character of Emma Swan a massive disservice because on TV, costumes send powerful messages about character. Emma’s foray into white lacey button-up high-collar shirts is coded as sexual repression– I’m pretty sure that’s not what’s intended. (Even the expression “buttoned-up” is shorthand for repressed.)

Originally posted by lumadreamland

And you get a button! And YOU get a button!

These kind of shirts are wildly impractical for sherrif-ing or savior-ing: they limit your arm movements, they don’t handle sweat well, the lace is scratchy, and the itty-bitty fastenings take ages to put off and on. Not to mention it would take Hook forever to unbutton her one-handed. They’re the type of shirts worn by women who DON’T have to swing broadswords down main street.

Originally posted by onceland

That’s more like it!

In fact, if you want your wardrobe to say “open to love” you put the character in soft silks and cotton and open v-necks– open necks are a sign of vulnerability. You know, like Emma wore in S1:

Originally posted by onceuponadaily

Originally posted by fyesthesavior

This is sexy and functional and very Emma

Coupled with Emma’s lack of makeup, these white starched high-collared shirts put her firmly in the “beginning” section of the Repressed Schoolmarm Who Has a Sexual Awakening trope. The only reason IN A ROMANCE for someone to have their hair pulled up that severely is for her lover to take it down; the only reason for a woman to have buttons up to her neck is for her lover to rip off said buttons later in a moment of passion. 

Originally posted by onceuponadaily

*bow chicka wow– wait*

But “The Ravishment of Emma Swan” is not what we’re seeing, is it? On the contrary, the show goes out of its way to avoid any confirmation of consummation and has Hook hang back from Emma’s repeated invitations to come in for Netflix and chilling. The overall effect is weirdly re-virginizing. WHY?

Originally posted by miloventimglia

Freulein, defy your father and refuse to join the convent– your feelings must compel you!

Originally posted by glorianasjane

How could I give my heart to a man so blind to the concept of honor? 

And now Hook has to win Emma’s father’s approval AND Emma’s approval and regain his honor. This is now the story of a disgraced knight fighting for redemption through Brave Deeds and the woman waiting for her love to come home. Nothing wrong with this trope. I’m fine with this trope. I’ve read some lovely books on this trope … but S1-3 Emma WAS the brave knight! You can’t pull a switcheroo like this on the audience and not expect them to notice.

Originally posted by onceuponadaily

When will he return? My lost, lost love!

It looks like I’m pouring salt all over CS, but I’m not– if you put Emma in her S1 wardrobe and keep the dialogue exactly the same the scenes in Emma’s house this season take on an ENTIRELY different feel. You lose the “virginal schoolmarm waiting for daddy’s approval” aspect completely. The tonal mismatch is all on the makeup and wardrobe– which are changing the reading of Emma’s entire character in a way I don’t think the show runners intended.

CONCLUSION: Someone take the costume choices away from JMo because she’s changing the entire feel of the CS romance unintentionally into something rather Victorian– and it doesn’t scan with the Emma Swan we signed up for.

I Lit A House On Fire (Just To See a Painted Sky) CH2

“and every night my mind is runnin’ around her…”

A day later, Lydia Martin woke up in her queen sized bed, pulled on her robe and padded barefoot into her own bathroom away from her parents and did not think of the boy on the cliff.

Three days later, she sat in a classroom in the proud building of St. Mary’s School for Girls and took notes on molecular biology, drew shapes and constellations and trees in the margins and did not think of the boy on the cliff.

By the time a week passed and Lydia had started and completed all the essays that were due in a month’s time, she’d still not thought about the boy on the cliff.

She’d studied for her physics test, made Malia help her shop for new shoes at the mall, argued with her mother exactly twenty four times and watched her father sneak back into their home when the sun hadn’t risen yet.

She’d cleaned her room, colour coordinated her wardrobe, fell asleep with her headphones on as her parents yelled into the night and had not thought about the boy on the cliff.

And then she would close her eyes and surrender to the night and the darkness that her duvet brought, slid her way down her sheets until cotton and her own mint and lime shampoo surrounded her.

And then.

And then.

She would think about how he had looked like summer and smelled like rain, a human version of those April showers that left rainbows on the roads and in the skies, the ones that make navy grey clouds a little bit brighter.

But she didn’t think about the boy on the cliff.


Of course not.

She stayed away from the forest and the cliff and the overlook that was her throne above the town. She stayed away from the night skies and tried her best to sleep under blankets instead of the stars. But the late night hours created a hum in the air that was electric and it refused to let her sleep.

And when family dinners with parents seeped past seven o'clock, bitterness and resentment leaving more acid in their mouths than the wine, Lydia would leave the table and walk past the melting raspberry gateaux in the kitchen, sit in her garden instead. She’d shred blades of grass with her fingers, turn up the volume on her iPod until her mother and father were screaming silent curses at each other from behind their double glazing.

The girl would sigh, watch with boredom and resentment and familiarity as her mother clattered their fine china into piles, half eaten dinners scraped into the bin as the man she called her father followed, red in the face and lying through his teeth.

Lydia was smart, she was clever, intelligent beyond her years. And at nine years old she was learning French, solving equations developed for high school students and living with the knowledge that her father had sex with women that weren’t her mother.

When she grew older, she realised that her mother must have known too. Because Natalie Martin was sharp and knew secrets that weren’t her own, kept them close to her chest like a weapon that she wouldn’t use until she needed to.

So Lydia would watch her father come home with lipstick smudged on his shirt, smelling of perfume that she didn’t recognise. He’d avoid her gaze, spend hours in the shower and let his wife scream at him until the night turned into morning and a new day came round. It would turn from dark to light, Monday became Tuesday, the earth rotated on its axis and the same thing would happen the next month.

Except, a week later, when her mother was yelling and her father refused to be remorseful, the older Martin woman would be wearing a new diamond necklace and throwing the latest Chanel clutch from the Spring/Summer 2017 collection at her husband.

Because, you see, Lydia’s mother believed in marriage before love, but not sex before marriage and everything was statuses and popularity contests. Who had the best outdoor pool? Who had the biggest summer home? Susan Jancarski across the street had eight pairs of Manolo Blahnik’s but Natalie Martin had eleven. Susan also had a husband who loved her but apparently that wasn’t as high on Lydia’s mother’s list of priorities.

But she had a five bedroom home, two and half bathrooms and a foyer that boasted a crystal chandelier that Mr Martin purchased after his long “business” weekend in Cancun. Her outdoor pool was heated and her fridge boasted a magnificently expensive collection of wine.

Imported silk curtains in every room.
Egyptian cotton pillows in the lounge.
The best champagne from France.
Pearls from Singapore.
Leather handbags from Italy.

It only made sense that her daughter attended the most prestigious school in California. The grand building of St. Mary’s school for Girls held the best of the best, talented girls who were hidden from boys and the treacherous gazes that they had.

Because, marriage before love but not sex before marriage, remember?

And from Monday to Friday Lydia pulled on her plaid burgundy skirt, inched it higher with every passing year she attended the school. Paired with the knee high socks and buttoned up shirt that hugged all the curves she grew as she powered her way through elementary, she was a walking, talking hot mess of irony wrapped up in a tight sweater emblazoned with a emblem of a saint.

Mrs Martin didn’t want the white picket fence dream, she aimed higher - wanted more. The Martin household was a white brick and marble manor, a blue lagoon pool and custom made gates with their family name engraved on a plaque.

It was a castle.
Natalie was the queen.
And Lydia was the cliché.

The long haired princess with a dirty mouth who was fucking dying to escape her ivory tower.


Stiles dreamt about her.

The girl.

The one he saw in the dead of night.

He had spent all week trying not to think about her. How her hair was impossibly bright against the night sky. How her eyes were so green they stood out against the backdrop of stars and lights. How her legs were long and smooth and splayed out lazily across the rock he spent his early morning hours upon.

She’d stolen his private sanctuary, taken root, stubborn and pretty like the wildflowers that grew in the summer months.

He’d walked the hilltop every night, spent hours above the town with the stars even higher above him and a book in his hands. She had never shown up.

He tried to night after he first met her and the night after that. He tried at two am, stayed until four before giving up and following the white lines in the middle of the road back home. Four nights later he sprawled himself in the middle of that big rock, still slightly warm from the sun that had set only an hour or so before, he watched the colour fall from the sky, smiled as lilac leaked into navy. Then the stars came came out and somewhere way, way up high Venus shone a little brighter than usual.

But the girl didn’t show and suddenly the night didn’t seem all that worth it anymore.

So the boy spent his night in his bed, slept until late morning and wondered why the hell rose coloured curls had gotten him all caught up. She was a fantasy, a fleeting moment in the magic and darkness of the night. In fact, sometimes when Stiles was staring at his ceiling, he wondered if she was even real.

Then he remembered her smile and quick words, sharp and cutting with a pretty, pink switchblade to match.

He padded around his house barefoot on Saturday mornings, waited for his dad to come home from the station so they could eat lunch together. He spent his Sundays in the towns auto shop with his jeep, trying and willing to piece it back together.

During the week he spent his time in between the classes he was supposed to be attending, passing his tests with flying colours when he did show up. He collected books from the library to read late at night, spoke about lives left behind with Scott on the courtyard floor, took shit from Isaac and gave it back with a smirk on his face, drove Kira home from lacrosse practice when it got too late after school.

And the whole time he tried not to think of the girl on the cliff that he met in the middle of the night. By god, he really tried not to.

But when the night came round again, familiar and dark and the air still smelling sweet like summer, he thought of her.

He didn’t see her again. And in a town as small as his, he marvelled at the notion that this girl was almost lost forever. He’d considered asking his friends about her, describing her to them. Then he thought better of it and kept her tucked inside his mind, just for himself. Stiles had decided she wasn’t from here, a visitor, a stranger, someone on vacation probably.

He didn’t see her again.

Not for another two weeks.