Hey hi hello I haven’t been able to indulge in any fan art in a while since I got busy with work/moving/life, but this fire for dancer class Xanlow still burns. Still thirsty for that Xanlow content… and Leoniles…
i love going into stores and seeing colors like bright orange, sunshine yellow, cherry red, hot pink, and vibrant purple! these colors look soooooo good on woc ♡ when i see girls with dark and/or brown skin serving some neon, they ALWAYS look beautiful! And of course neon always looks good on girls with jet black hair and compliments yellow undertones so well :)))) i’m so over boring white flowy dresses and beige elle fanning pastels.
In spite of everything I love
Harley Quinn but, damn, writers treat her so badly. I swear, the temptation to
make her actually stupid must be terrible because it’s so often implied, or
explicitly stated, that she slept her way through school. First of all, it
does not work like that. Second, she’s
not a therapist or a psychologist, she’s a psychiatrist, she’s a fricking MD
and a damn young one too. Managing pre-med and collegiate gymnastics that she
relied on to keep her scholarship? Harley is fucked up, but she’s not the dumb
blonde she plays. (also stop making her stacked, she’s a gymnast. she is 4’11”
of pure muscle and is not top heavy)
If you want a good Harley
backstory it’s simple. She’s ADHD but medicated and slightly robotic because of
it. I want to take special care not to demonize meds but, rather, people’s
disapproval of neurodivergence and a lack of focus on what is best for a
patient rather than what is most convenient for others. So, maybe, around ten
years old Harley is a hyperactive space cadet who’s brilliant at tests but
sloppy at coursework, who would be a gymnastics prodigy if she could actually
focus on technique and put in practice time instead of fooling around. Then the
meds come and it’s actually really cool because she can do the things she needs
to do instead of just wanting to do them, doing something else entirely, and
getting in trouble. People are proud of her, she’s proud of herself. But now
there are expectations. Family and teachers and coaches overschedule her, find
worth only in her success and don’t care about her mental health at all as long
as she’s performing and castigate her when she does fail. Fuck if you don’t
internalize that. But she doesn’t look unhealthy and she’s doing amazing. She
actually has to choose between the Olympic trials and continuing her grad
studies. She probably has some issues with self-harm but it either doesn’t look
like self-harm or is well covered up.
When Arkham accepts her, fresh
from her residency, it’s not a mistake. The woman is amazing. All they can see
is a mountain of achievements rather than the seething ball of nerves,
self-loathing, and imposter syndrome boiling just under the surface. That’s
when Joker comes in. He’s got the Hannibal Lecter shtick down. Where everyone
else sees an intelligent driven young woman he sees a frightened overwhelmed
girl who is working her hardest to convince the world she’s anyone other than
herself. Sending her into a nervous breakdown would be too easy so he doesn’t even
bother. Instead he’s open with her, almost friendly. The other doctors are
amazed, Harley is amazed, she’s not done anything particularly revolutionary
but, for the first time in forever, it looks like the clown prince of crime is
showing progress. He unravels her and it’s a challenge, she flinches back and
gets very serious when he comes too close to the real Harley under the
professional. Still, soon she’s questioning everything. She doesn’t even really
like her co-workers. She hasn’t had a real friend in years. She’s forgotten how
to have fun. Did she ever want this to be her life or did she just do it for
other people? It starts so slowly that it looks, at first, like she’s getting
better at self-care. Maybe something totally silly one weekend, a trampoline
park where she can enjoy the way her toned body moves without stressing out
over landings, a face painting booth at a street fair, some garishly colored
downright tacky decoration that clashes with her sensible apartment. Suddenly
she realizes how much she hates knowing the difference between cream and ecru.
The beigeness of her life is repulsive. She hates the person she’s pretending
to be even more that she hates herself which is really saying something.
After her weekend of freedom she
would have called in sick if it wasn’t so suddenly important to see him. The
relief she feels at talking to one of Gotham’s most infamous supercriminals is
disturbing but it is relief and she’s been swallowing a slow-motion panic
attack for hours. She admits, though she shouldn’t, that she took his advice
about doing something fun and he teases her, what would straight-laced Doctor
Quinzel do for fun? Did she realphabetize her sock drawer or buy a new
clipboard? It’s not important to impress him, it’s really not. He’s dangerous,
cruel, and he looks so proud when she admits that she bought a lamp shaped like
a lawn flamingo. The only mistake, he says, is that she should have stolen it.
She hopes the wicked thrill it gives her doesn’t show on her face. It does. She
almost even laughs. He likes it when he can make her laugh and she likes it
when he likes things.
It’s wrong and unprofessional,
the relationship she develops, and she knows it but her whole life she’s been
so high strung. Nothing she’s done has been for her, she’s not sure she knows
how to really do selfish things anymore, but he knows the selfish things she
needs to do. It feels good when she follows his advice even when it’s small
things like the rainbow striped socks she wears concealed under her very bland
slacks and sensible shoes. She’s so happy, almost giddy, and he loves her
happiness, he loves her, he loves the real her that she’s had to beat down and
hide for so long, the her that even she isn’t able to love. She is able to love
him, though, and since he loves her she’s able to love herself for him, to
protect and nurture something so important to him.
When the choice comes between
her old self, the tedious endless labor of making the world proud, and Him, the
spectacular man that brought color into her life, it’s not even a question.
She kills Doctor Harleen Quinzel, she throws away the version of her that let
herself burn just for medals and hollow accolades. She embraces Harley Quinn
and it’s so much a part of her nature she can’t even see that she’s still
living her life for someone else’s approval, except this time that person is a murderous
clown. She hasn’t let her hair down, she’s just put it in pigtails instead of a
I’m the humble lil baker who is busy most of the time and will sometimes bake lil treats for Captain Haddock because of my crush for the guy. He doesn’t know mostly because I’ve yet to make ya know. Any advantage
Hello mister, My ex 'daddy' was mentally abusive towards me and now I've developed an eating disorder. I feel like if I were thinner he wouldn't have said nasty things about me at the same time I know that's wrong. I guess the question I'm looking to be answered is Am I a bad person or a bad little for taking his hurtful words to heart? He said I was to large to be a little. (5'5, 180) Is there any way to combat these thoughts?
a former sub of mine was 5′5 and 180lbs… she was a true delight and incredibly beautiful. I cherished every single inch of her pale soft skin, and there was never a time when she felt that any part of her was wrong when she was in my hands.
I would venture to think the same thing about you. I bet you probably look amazing in a corset, or leggings… you probably have cute eyes and a bright beaming smile. Youre probably soft.. and nice to touch.
We take these things that affect us.. done by other people, and we have a choice.
We can let whats happened to us define who we are… or we can use whats happened to make a decision on who we shall become. You see, when you really examine why people do what they do.. say what they say.. and why they tear you down, you have to not angle the lens on yourself, but look at the accuser with a glint of both curiosity and compassion.
Why exactly are THEY saying these things?
Its like a junkie syndrome. A junkie wants you on the junk.. and they want you to become a junkie. Why? Because then they dont have to feel bad about themselves. If they can find flaws and such to point out about you, then they can turn the spotlight away for a moment and feel better about themselves while tearing you down.
Its more than likely that this “daddy” was even more insecure and had feelings of inferiority than you ever will. Maybe he was even.. jealous.
I know littles that are 5 foot tall and 100 lbs… I also know littles that are 5 foot tall and 300 lbs. Whats the difference? Nothing.
Because your little side is not defined by size, color, creed, shape, form… etc… its defined by the soul that lives deep inside you. The one that thirsts to be let free and find itself among your happiest of times.
Am I a great daddy? a majority of my followers would say I am the best daddy ever. That i am the archetype.. that I am the highest of bars to be set.
I’m 6′4 and 225 lbs. Would I still be the same if I was 325 lbs… If I was 5′9… if i Had multiple piercings.. what if I didnt have all these tattoos? Would that disqualify me? Am I not the daddy I am if I dont have this voice you hear in stories i post? What if it was a pitch higher? What if I had an eyepatch? a fake leg?
What difference do all those things make?
All too often we get ourselves caught up in whats superficial according to the standards of someone who usually doesnt deserve to be critiquing us in the first place. and that goes double for an abusive prick who erroneously took the mantle of being a “daddy” and spray painted it a tacky color of gold.
it’s almost that time of year where we shove baby Jesus into a slice from a subpar sweet bread wreath covered in sprinkles of the most tacky color palette known to man, and then cheer as the king or queen nearly swallows and chokes on icing covered plastic.
You are expecting something like the sweet chirping of birds, or a warm ray of sunshine to be what stirs you from your slumber. Maybe even a soft, loving kiss from Taehyung. All of those possibilities are pleasant and realistic.
What you are not expecting is a hand the size of a fucking baseball mitt slapping against the back window of Taehyung’s truck. You immediately jolt alive and sit up in the bench seat, the rhythmic pounding of a hangover quickly settling inside your brain. You squint at the blinding white light of the sun and bring a hand up to your forehead.
“Ughhg…. What the f- ahh!”
Another hand slaps on the glass, harder this time. Who the fuck has hands that big? And what are they doing in the bed of the truck?
…What happened last night?
A naked Taehyung grumbles behind you, his arms snaking around your middle, not ready to let go of his ‘little spoon’ just yet. You glance down at him after rubbing the haze out of your eyes. His hair sticks away from his scalp in all directions, and a healthy puddle of drool sits next to his cheek. You smile a little, your hand gently pushing his hair away from his eyes.
You look down at yourself and realize you’re naked, too. As you search around for your shirt, your memory starts to trickle into your brain like the last few drops of wine from a bottle.
Need to plump out your collection of stones? Museum and amusement park gift shops often have a “fill a bag” option where you get to cram as many tumbled stones from a shallow bin as you can fit into a little drawstring pouch, for a fixed price of five or six bucks. Many of the stones will be agate dyed in a range of incredibly tacky colors, but if you know how to spot it, you can find amethyst, rose quartz, naturally colored agates and jaspers, onyx, tiger’s-eye, and hematite!
Rogue never cared about fancy underwear. Beyond the cute, matching sets she’d buy that made her feel put together, back when no one got to see anything, it felt pretty pointless to give it any thought beyond practicality. Even after she started having sex, it still wasn’t relevant, because, usually, she’d go from fully clothed to ass naked at the speed of light. When she finally gave lingerie consideration she went to Victoria’s Secret, and kept going for years without giving it a second thought.
When Emma Frost finds out, she’s appalled. Utterly unimpressed, she stares at the rhinestone-infested, cheap-lace covered, tacky-jewel-tone-colored abominable pieces she owns and decides that Remy Lebeau must have really loved the woman if he went along with those. The White Queen will not have that and takes her to La Perla and Agent Provocateur. Because, Rogue, you do not put bumper stickers on a Bugatti.
Rogue doesn’t know much of textiles, fabrics, or designers, but even she can’t help but notice the difference, or her appreciation and awe at the obvious artistry that goes into the craft of premium chantilly lace, the decadent, rich velvet trimming, and the beautiful, delicate, beadwork some of these pieces have. It strikes her as utterly decadent and is, if only for half a second, kinda mortified at the though that she, had essentially, worn generic for a man like Gambit, because, ‘Oh God, she’d been feeding a chef LeanCousine the entire time’. Then, she remembers he’s Remy and he’d like her in a trash bag, and promptly gets over it.
She tries on her favourite in all the boutique. A beautiful Agent Provocateur set of beautiful sheer black tulle, with black velvet piping, and black and dark ruby coloured tiny beads embroidered through the bra. The tulle is utterly transparent, and wearing it, it looks like scarlet-beaded, black-lined flowers are tattooed all over her bosom. She’s absolutely in love with the whole thing. Emma loves it on her ‘Good eye. Beyonce wore that bra under the mustard yellow Roberto Cavalli she wore in Lemonade’. Rogue Doesn’t know what she’s talking about, but she doesn’t care. She feels like a Bond Girl in it. Mainly, though, its the subtle, almost unnoticeable twinkling of red the beading glints with when the light hits, that she likes the most, it reminds her of-AND she sees the price tag. The three-piece-set cannot be a pound in weight, and at just shy of a thousand bucks, it’s still on the mid-range price at the store. She decides its a lovely store, with lovely underwear, and she gets it, really. She’s not lacking in money, but for her, it’s just too much. She walks out without a problem, but she’d be lying if she didn’t admit that putting the set back in its place, made her ache in the place in her heart where her very real, pure, feminine frivolity inhabited.
A dejected Emma gives up, sighs, and rolls her eyes ‘Ugh,just go to For Love & Lemons dot com and click on SKIVVIES. Knock yourself out with those, if real craftsmanship offends your modest sensibilities’. Rogue does not get what Emma was scoffing all about when she enters the website. Sure, it’s nowhere near as sophisticated, she guesses, but it’s still beautiful in a whimsical sort of way, with the tiny flowers and adorable motifs. It looks something a wood fairy might wear in bed. Besides, each piece is, at least, a hundred bucks cheaper, and though still expensive, it’s reasonable, or at the very least, justifiable. Plus, their pieces have the whole transparency-thing she saw in the more expensive stores, and she loved that. She gets two sets: The first, sheer, nude tulle, blush velvet trimmed, underwired, high-waisted, with cut-outs, and embroidered white blossoms that strategically cover the tips of her breastskindof. The second is a more to the point, basic black, lacy, and strappy. Both bras she could wear with high-waisted jeans, and under a bomber, she figures. Win-Win, really.
Rogue never cared about fancy underwear, but she does now, and kinda loves and owes Emma for it. She decides she most certainly loves her when, not much later, she’s delivered a gift, a pale pink box with black, smooth-textured lettering, wrapped up in the signature black silk bow,and finds the ridiculously expensive three-piece-set she had spotted at the store that had immediately put a special someone’s eyes at the forefront of her mind.
That last set DOES glint red in the light up close and personal and looks killer with high-waisted black trousers and a structured blazer.
So uh is it just me or is the attempt to make ur tank as similar to a Natural Emviroment not actually a big deal?
Like. As long as u meet tge needs of the fish i feel like they dont actually give a shit if their hidey space is a ~natural piece of driftwood vs like a fuckin fantasy ass castle like as long as it serves the purpose? It doesnt seem like a big deal correct?
notes from angie: another multi-chaptered fic because i love starting what i can’t finish :D as always, feel free to leave concrit and comments in my askbox! au fusion: supernatural / guide pairing: kim taehyung / reader word count: 0.7k
crumpled cups, all empty and cheap styrofoam. used napkins weak against the city wind. flattened packs of cigarettes, stains of old tobacco in the creased crevices. the occasional failing business card, with tacky design and annoying colors. scattered arrays of bottle caps, so many that you’d believe the sidewalk was watered with alcohol.
no one can see why you like the city. nearly everyone you know hates the barking traffic, the intensity of neon, the grime and crime that soaks every inch of pavement you walk on. the city takes you with a perfect smile and an offer to dance, but you wake up the next morning drugged, drowned, feeling like you were spit out by some monster of urban magic.
and yet, there’s something so homely about the loud cars that, strangely enough, rocks you to sleep at night, the allure of flickering lights on a twilight stroll, the assurance that you can rise above a filth only the city churns out. it’s an elevated sight compared to most views of the skyscrapers and stuffy streets.
your hand hangs in front of taehyung, a pack out for him to grab. he takes and sticks it in the corner of his mouth, tucking his hands in his pockets nonchalantly. shoulders scrunch up to his neck as he shivers with eyes screwed shut.