pre worn


some comparison photos i forgot i took!

1st row: pre-op, sports bra

2nd row: pre-op, gc2b binder (medium)

3rd row: post op (44 days, 47 days)

Felicity Smoak 5x15 Dress For Sale! $150 or best offer!

Hello friends! I’m selling one of my Felicity Smoak dresses (5x15 “Fighting Fire with Fire”). It’s in perfect condition. I only wore it once. I loved it so much that I bought it in another color. I don’t need two of the exact same dress, so message me if you are interested. $150 or best offer! First come first serve. Photos under the cut.

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hermionesimmonss  asked:

Can i request 9 from the prompt list please!!

#9 = I had a nightmare about you and I wanted to make sure you’re okay

“Fitz, please open the door!” Jemma calls over her own incessant knocking. “I’m sure you’re sleeping peacefully and I’ll apologize profusely via cheese platters at Deborah’s later but for now—“

The door swings open more quickly than she’d expected, given that it’s nearly 1AM and at this hour Fitz is most likely to have fallen asleep eating gummy candies in bed.

“Oh thank God,” she whimpers, rushing towards him and grabbing his forearms to steady herself. “I just had the most terrible dream and I had to check – you were in the dream, you’d gone on vacation to some beautiful island that normally I’d find idyllic but there were all these men with machine guns and— you know what they say about people dying in dreams and they shot you and there was blood everywhere and—”

She’s only now just processing what she’s actually seeing. Fitz isn’t in his pajamas, or even in the green-and-white plaid button-up he’d worn to work. He’s wearing a suit – he hates suits. And there’s no candy sugar around his mouth; instead, there’s something that looks a lot like a tomato sauce stain at the bottom of his tie. And he smells nice. Like, distractingly nice.


There’s a girl on his couch. Jemma can see her now, peeking around Fitz’s shoulder.

“You were on a date,” she says miserably, feeling truly silly in her bare feet and ratty pajamas, with her childish need to make sure he’s okay when obviously he wasn’t running away from assassins; just because they’re best friends and live just a floor apart doesn’t mean she has any right to— “I’m so sorry,” she winces, to him but with an apologetic glance at his date as well, who gives her a weak and confused smile. “I’m the worst – Given the hour you were obviously mid-snog and I’ve just gone and ruined the whole thing – you really should’ve told me, Fitz, I could’ve called Bobbi with my stupid nightmare and left you alone to – well, I’ll just see myself back up to my apartment, I’m so sorry—“

But she’s choking back tears because it might’ve been a dream but in it she’d knelt over Fitz’s lifeless body and she could really just use a reassurance that the blood she swears she can still feel on her hands wasn’t real—

“Back in a minute,” Fitz says quietly to his date, and then he closes the door part of the way, catching Jemma’s wrist as she makes to turn away. “Come here.”

“What are you doing?” she protests weakly as he makes to hug her. “I’m disgusting and you’re all dressed up—“ It’s true, she’d woken in a cold sweat; there are damp spots around her holler and under her arms and across her stomach.

“Just accept the damn hug,” he sighs.

He slides against her too easily, his shoulders tucking under her arms, hers settling across the broadest part of her back, her hands toying with the intentional crease of his shirt. She feels entirely pathetic for needing this. But there’s his heart, steady against her chest, and there’s his cool ear pressed to her neck, and as she’s running inventory to make sure he’s all here he exhales, just a bit, as if he, too, has never felt more peaceful than when they are right here, together.

“Well, there goes my cologne,” he grumbles good-naturedly, making a show of wiping her sweat from his neck as they separate.

“If she doesn’t want to sleep with you tell her I’ll pay for your next date. Or something.”

“Gross. Go back to bed, Simmons.”

She hesitates until he’s about to close the door, then – “Fitz?”


“I’m glad you’re okay.”

He taps the door handle a few times, smiling softly at the floor. “G’night, Simmons.”


She hears them whispering goodbyes in the stairwell not too long after – it’s the only way she knows it’s safe to descend to his apartment for their weekly lazy, late-Sunday-morning pajama brunch: Bloody Marys, pancakes, slices of avocado and mango. They sit side-by-side at the marble counter of his island, watching pigeons gather on his fire escape.

With her mouth full of pancake so it will seem like an offhand, spur-of-the-moment question, she asks, “What was her name again? I realized after I left that I recognized her from the IT department.”

“Felicity,” he replies without looking up.

“Are you going to see her again?” Casual things that best friends normally ask each other, right?

He shrugs, reaching across her for the syrup. “Probably not.”

She groans and pantomimes face-planting into her plate. “God, it’s all my fault, isn’t it?”

“It is, actually.” His lips press together briefly, nervously. “She said she’d known even before we went to dinner that I would always choose you.”

“Oh, Fitz, that’s—” Mortifying? True? Swooningly adorable? “I can’t tell you how sorry I am, I’m supposed to be your wingman not your cockblock – I’ll go to speak with her tomorrow, clear the air—“

His hand covers hers on the tabletop and she falls silent.

“She was right,” he says simply. “People just don’t understand our friendship, Jemma. But I’m not willing to sacrifice it.”

She thinks about how they must look. Their symbiosis (not codependence, thank you), their routines, their proximity (physical and otherwise). She’s even wearing an old pair of his pajama bottoms; he’d still been growing when they first met, and she likes things that’ve been Fitz-pre-worn.

She can only swallow and nod and try not to think about the syrup his tongue is swiping off his lower lip or how sweet it would taste if they –

His hand shifts so he’s holding hers properly. He eats with his non-dominant hand for the rest of the meal.

Totally normal, best friend behavior.

Jemma has very different dreams that night.

Day 8: Thrift Shop

Nico had come to the conclusion that Piper McLean was the hardest person to shop for. Something thrifty and hipster, but not too hipster, but nothing too lumberjack, and nothing corporate.

That didn’t seem too unreasonable before he had spent half a day in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.

Reyna looked more stressed out that he had ever seen her, and he had seen her in battle. At this point, he was pretty sure that she would prefer a war over another guy with a long beard.

“What about just a gift card?” Reyna suggested. 

“That’s not personal enough,” 

“What if we make a donation somewhere in her name?” 

“That could work, but her name showing up somewhere might get paparazzi attention, since she hasn’t been seen in month.” 

Reyna groaned, and walked into another thrift store. They combed through racks of pre-worn clothing, searching for something in Piper’s size, before analyzing if it would be the one.

“We just need the perfect funny and ironic tee shirt.” Reyna complained. Nico kept pulling though the racks, before laughing. “What terrible thing did you find?”

Nico, still laughing, pulled a black tee shirt off the rack. The front of it said: “My boyfriend is an angel.”

“Oh my god the back has wings!” Nico said, still laughing. He flipped it around to show a small, intricate pair of screen-printed wings.

“Nico,” Reyna said, picking up the shirt in awe, “I think we’ve found it.”

“She is either going to love it, or kill us.” Nico said as they walked to the register.

When Piper opened her gift on Christmas, she laughed at the shirt, instantly pulling off her own shirt, not caring about being indecent, and pulled it on. “What a perfect shirt for the girlfriend of the flying golden boy!”

Nico and Reyna smiled, as Jason punted, looking at the wings on the back.


An old farmhouse near the prison out in Concord needs sprucing before it’s put on the market – fresh paint and tightened banister rails as opposed to the largescale structural updating it badly needs. The roof is coated in large swatches of moss. A sill sinks away from a window and the cool air of this Novembery April leaks in. The couple is getting divorced. The house is getting sold. There are three nervous kids; the oldest one is in seventh grade. This isn’t the first time we’ve been hired to gussy a house for the market in the wake a marriage dissolving. There’s a certain weight to these jobs. “I don’t care about the color,” said the woman of what we’d paint the dining room. “It’s not like we’re going to live with it long.”

We removed photographs of the whole family from the wall to paint. I heard the seventh grader on the phone with his mother. “Mom, they took down all the photographs, they’re gone, I don’t know where they are, they’re not on the wall.” His voice hasn’t broken. It’s high like a girl’s. He sounded scared.

A painting with an image of a house hangs above the kitchen door. “Cherish family” is written on it in loopy script. In the bathroom, on wood pre-worn like jeans you buy distressed, a sign says HOME in large letters. Across that, in slanting delicate print, “Home is where your story begins.”

We painted the dining room yesterday, from a deep teal and a too-bright purple – colors that could only have been picked by the kids – to Coastal Fog, which looked less like any fog I’ve seen and more like melted coffee ice cream, so much so I could almost taste it as I painted. It looked better, but there’d be pain for the kids, we knew. Home is where your story begins. Home is where your story gets weird and sad and confusing. Home is where a lot of questions can’t be answered. The youngest one came home from school, the daughter in second grade. She threw her backpack on the couch and rounded the corner, making her way to a snack. She turned into the dining room and was halted. Her eyes changed as though she’d watched someone tear the head off her favorite stuffed animal. “What?” she said. It was the smallest sound, a mouse squeak. She turned, and the stairs cried out under her small weight as she made her way to her room.


by S. Charlie Weyman

Jeans might be the most common clothing item worn today. But sometimes it seems you need an instruction manual to buy and wear them right. Here is what a glossary for that manual might look like.

Chain stitching: A stitch sometimes found on the leg opening of jeans. Denim enthusiasts like them because of their connection with traditional production, and because of the “roping” effect they give to fades at the leg openings. However, chain stitching is less durable and more expensive than lockstitching. Furthermore, chain stitching machines are rare, and when a “link” in the chain is broken, the whole thing can unravel. But purists will settle for nothing else.

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Rating: G

Timeline: Post Season 9, On the Run

Notes: For @leiascully​‘s weekly X-Files Writing Challenge, prompt: Distance. Thanks to @tofutti-rice-dreamsicle​ for being my beta for the first time. (Being my beta? Does that make you sound like a fish? Sorry.) She’s amazing!

Once the realization is accepted that even between the closest human beings infinite distances continue, a wonderful living side by side can grow, if they succeed in loving the distance between them which makes it possible for each to see the other whole against the sky.

-Rainer Maria Rilke

I walk out of the bathroom after putting on my makeup to find the room is a disaster. It’s bad enough we’re staying in places that make our FBI motels look like the Ritz, but Mulder has to vomit his belongings on every surface, as though the mess will make the shabby room somehow feel like home. He’s in a corner chair now, in his undershirt, dingy from too many laundromats, simultaneously flipping through channels, poring over a case file, and cracking sunflower seeds between his teeth. I collapse at the tiny table, sitting on yesterday’s paper and a pair of Mulder’s not so freshly washed socks. I pinch the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger, and as I try to rest my elbow on the table, it knocks over a paper cup of sunflower shells.

“Mulder! Damn it!” I snap. It feels like the weight of all the objects strewn around the room is sitting square on my chest. I can’t catch my breath. I start lifting piles of paper and junk. “Where are the car keys?”

“Where are we going, Scully?” He pulls the keys out from under a pair of boxer shorts on the nightstand.

We are not going anywhere, Mulder. I am going out for a while. I can’t sit in this dump anymore. I need some space.” He turns into a puppy dog, all hurt eyes and pouting lips, and I don’t know whether I want to punch him or profess my love as he dejectedly hands over the keys.

I understood from an early age, with my father going out to sea, that love doesn’t equal proximity, and I learned to value my own time and space. After the days of college roommates passed, I always chose to live alone. Even when Mulder came back from the dead, we kept our own places, although he mostly stayed at my apartment. Then he went into hiding, and I was alone again. Now, here we are, on the run, together all day, every day. Sometimes it’s stifling. For him, it’s not the same. He’s like a moth to a flame—he seems to absorb all his warmth by getting as close to me as he can. Sometimes I feel like I’m suffocating. I look at those warm brown eyes, all adoration, and I can’t inhale. I love him, but I need space to breathe.

I’m about to park the car at the thrift store a couple of miles from the motel when I realize I can’t do it. All thrift stores smell the same, musty and soaked in the perfume of the elderly, and I can’t face the idea of another bag of someone’s castoffs, the black too faded to be serviceable, the white too dingy to be white. I point the car toward the nicer part of the nondescript town we’re staying in and before long, stumble upon a Target. It’s out of our budget, but I’m the one who crunches the numbers anyway, and I need a splurge.

The fluorescent lights are blinding and for a split second, I’m back performing autopsies. My shoulders relax a little as I shake off the thought and push the red cart toward the aisle I can never skip, hair dye. I choose a caramel-colored blonde, but I can’t help touch my fingers to the titian red. Blondes decidedly do not have more fun. I know Mulder misses my red hair too, feels guilty every time another box of color finds its way to the bathroom counter. As crazy as he makes me, as much as I sometimes need a little distance, in the end, every box of hair dye, and every pre-worn outfit from the thrift store are barely sacrifices if they mean I can spend every day with him by my side. Fine. His penchant for being slovenly may be the exception.

Two hours later, I’m back at the motel, a few bags in hand. Scoop neck t-shirts were on sale for $5 and I have two inky black ones, waiting for me to be the first to wear them. I’m alarmed when I see the motel curtain open. Mulder insists on keeping it closed for our safety. I jog the last few feet to the room and fumble to get my key in the door. When I open it, my jaw drops. The room is spotless and bathed in sunlight. Mulder has even gone to the gas station next door and bought me the least crumpled bunch of flowers they have- yellow tulips.

“Hey, Scully. I’m sorry.” He has the look of a long suffering penitent, and I instantly forgive him, as usual.

“No, Mulder, I’m sorry. To use the worst cliché I can think of, it’s not you, it’s me. You know I need breathing room sometimes. Here. I brought you a present.” I flop down next to him on the perfectly made bed and hand him a crinkly plastic bag.

“Scully! You sure know the way to my heart!” He hugs the new package of bright white undershirts and the tabloids to his chest like I’ve given him the moon.

“I’m a regular mind reader,” I grin.

He kisses me on the lips and we settle in to giggle at the celebrity gossip and tease the truth out of articles with titles like “Elvis’ alien love child.” There is not an inch of space between us, but it’s suddenly too much.

Field Journal: Chupukama Camp Emerges

Chris Filardi is director of Pacific Programs at the Museum’s Center for Biodiversity and Conservation. This month, he’s blogging from the remote highlands of Guadalcanal in the Solomon Islands, where he is surveying endemic biodiversity and working with local partners to create a protected area.

Local people call the remote, sinuous ridgeline where we are camped Chupukama, and as the rumble of the helicopter faded, Chupukama Camp quickly began to emerge. This will be our base for the next week of surveys, exploration, and discovery.

Field camps are like tiny nomadic cities that arise in some of the most far-flung and beautiful places on earth. Each has its own character, but most act as a “city center.” This is where water and sanitation systems are placed, where most cooking, sleeping, working (and blogging) is done, and where the head of the road network that lets us access the forests is located. Here, those are mostly footpaths threading the mossy bamboo arches and breezy glades of the main ridge.

While base camp is home for this trip, it is far from ‘homey.’ Despite abundant rain, water is scarce along the ridgelines. Our water system is a small hand-dug basin that captures flow from a nearby spring, and lies a steep, muddy 100 meter hike down from the main camp. This cold trickle of sweet water is great for drinking, but washing with it can be a long, frigid chore.

Sleeping space for our 10-member team is limited by our ridge-top geography, so three ‘colonies’ of bedrooms are scattered among small flat spaces on either side of the camp center. Bamboo benches and tables provide work areas, and timber-framed plastic tarps that shelter the kitchen and field lab from climatic extremes that range from piercing cold mist and rain to torrid tropical sun. Chupukama Camp is now in place and from there, the survey team has taken to the bush in earnest.

When I arrived, our advance team had the beginnings of a main trail in place. Now that the full team is on the ground, though, that main trail has rapidly developed into a well-worn path. Numerous spurs now branch out into the forest reflecting the different groups of organisms that each team member studies.

Mist nets that trap animals alive (much like fishing nets capture fish) dapple the main trail, aiming to snare specimens of birds and bats. Strings and flags mark additional routes used by the herpetology team as they search for lizards and frogs by night and snakes during the day. Invertebrate specialists and botanists have their own routes that overlap the others.

This network of trails has us ready to work, and there is a fresh feeling of discovery among the team. Despite all of the newness, the paths our feet and bushknives cut are a reawakening of generations old tribal pathways. As trails emerge, one can see tree roots, stones, and even the earth itself, pre-worn and shaped by travelers beyond living memory, ascending to the sacred high point, Popomanaseu.

Now, the local guides leading us down these paths are treading a new history in to this place, their language born and spoken only here, drifting in the big, cool winds falling off the mountain, mingling with the calls of birds and frogs.

This post was originally published on the Museum blog. Stay tuned for more from Chris Filardi in the Solomon Islands!