#leotard lamb

[a-very-fond-farewell]

the way I’m trying to convince myself I am not in pain is getting kind of funny actually. but I persevere! ( *—*) 🔪

[luxthestrange]

DunMeshi Incorrect quotes#20 Chilchuck LAUGHED-

You got captured by a bunch of loons who think your an ogre who escaped a dungeon...now your put in a theatrical execution to the royals of the land much to your annoyance...waiting for your party to rescue you...

M!Royal: Who is this terrible ugly fiend who so rudely intervened?

Actors dance in from the wings, and They Sing"Will Charming Fight? Or will he flee?"

F!Royal*Was cast as the princess demon*"Oh please, rescue me!"

Actors*Singing* "From this monstrosity!"

The Male Royal takes a dramatic pause and sings in an ultra-high voice of a castrato

M!Royal: "Fear thee not Honey Lamb! I will slice this thing up like a HAM!"

Ogre!Y/n**Rolling eyes*Oh boy

The Male Royal relishes the moment, pulling out a sword and aiming it at Your chest, His's voice climbs even higher

M!Royal: You are about to enter a world of pain with which you are NOT-FamiliaAAAAAAR!

He holds the last, highest note. You wince, Goblets, glasses, the queen's pearls, all break in the audience, He smiles, and You look at him with contempt...

Ogre!Y/n: Well it can't be any more painful than the lousy performance you're giving

The audience laughs at Your remark, and The man is thrown by your reaction. From a trap door underneath the stage, A Butler tries to help him out by feeding him his next line-

Butler*Wanting this to be over*"Prepare foul beast"

He clears his throat and tries to get back into character.

M!Royal: Prepare foul beast, your time is done!

Ogre!Y/n*Smirks* Oooh, if you don't mind could you kill me, and then sing?

The crowd laugh, The Man gets in your face

M!Royal: Be quiet!

Ogre!Y/n: Oh, come on, I'm just havin' fun with ya. That's actually a very nice leotard~

M!Royal:*Smiles proudly* Thank you~

Ogre!Y/n: Do they come in men's sizes?

Everyone...EVERYONE starts to laugh, Behind the stage Laios Party works to unchain you but even they start to laugh...Chilchuck ESPECIALLY-

Chilchuck*Is actually chuckling behind the stage lock picking your chains to set you free* He, he- Now that be funny~

The crowd laughs again, You smile, enjoying how you screwing up the show

Part 4 of:

[dayxero]

I might love this character a bit too much 😅

Damnit Mel! What have you done to me!? 😤

im planning a small piece for the bunny suit thing going around the cotl fandom but have a Bell, my narilamb shitten, doodle with it in the mean time. she's more embarrassed that its a submissive outfit and she goes for more of a dom(minatrix?) vibe to keep the cult and enemies in line

[kingofthe-egirls]

TEXT ME: SHOYO x Y/N (part 3)

series

(cw: kissing, shoyo dances ballet w you, reader shiratorizawa game, all fluffy team dynamics, reader hangs with shimizu and yachi, ik the timeline is weird but it’s all i can do, plot)

(a/n: why am i writing a novel)

words: 1.5k

****

The next week comes and goes. It’s a blur of text messages, classes, and ballet practice. The Rose Fairy solo is still in the beginning stages of learning the choreography.

It’s scary.

But you practice every night after school, and give it your all during rehearsal. The costume is going to be pink and fluffy—a traditional tutu—and you couldn’t be more excited.

You’re sitting on the glossy wood floor of the studio you’ve rented for an hour. You’re tying your pointe shoes as you wait for Shoyo to show up. You wiggle your toes into the lambs wool padding, and stand up.

You move to the barre to start a plié/relevé warm up. Your hands move gracefully through the positions. The air feels cool and refreshing as you gently sway through the movements.

Your phone buzzes.

where is this place??

You smile and type out directions. Shoyo is late, but he’s also so cute when he’s lost. Five minutes of texting directions pass, and eventually Shoyo’s sweet, orange head peeks through the studio doorway. He’s wearing his black tracksuit with Karasuno written on the chest. He’s smiling sheepishly.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says as he scratches the back of his head.

“S’okay,” you smile. You’re in a leotard, tights, and pastel pink wrap skirt. He stares at your figure, before blushing and looking pointedly away. You smirk, but

you’re blushing,

too.

“Where should we start?” He asks, hands on his hips. He stands in the middle of the glossy studio, looking around with wide-eyed curiosity.

“Promenade,” you say, stepping over in your pointe shoes to show him the move, “Like this,” you lift up on one leg, twirling around in place as he slowly twirls with you. He’s holding your hand above your head as your leg curves around his back. His other hand holds your waist as he leads you in a slow, gentle circle.

“Perfect,” you say, somewhat surprised, “Why are you so good at this?” His form is sloppy, but his hands are strong and sure as they steady you in place. Safe.

Hinata shrugs.

“I dunno!” He’s smiling wide.

Now that the dance move is over, his hands on your waist suddenly heat through you. You’ve been so focused on technique that your body is only now catching up to how close you two are. You clear your throat.

“Pirouette is next,” you say softly. Shoyo is slightly shorter than you: with a lithe, wiry frame and big hands. He’s radiating heat like the sun, and you can feel your cheeks burn. Every point of contact is a new, exhilarating, butterflies-in-your-stomach feeling.

He gently circles his hands around your waist, supporting you as you spin. You’re dizzy as you land, but it’s not from the pirouette.

His hands are so warm.

“Um,” you say suddenly, spinning in place to face him. His hands are still steadying your waist, and his cheeks are slightly rosy. Slowly, nervously, you lean forward to kiss him.

He kisses you back.

Stunned and dizzy, you melt into the kiss in the middle of the studio.

His hands are on your waist, and you’ve never felt so warm.

“Can—,” you say, pulling back just a bit, “Can I be your girlfriend?”

Shoyo nods eagerly, lips still brushing yours. “Yes, please.”

You giggle, and wrap your arms around his neck. His orange hair is soft beneath your fingers. You stroke it, smiling with your cheek pressed against his.

“Will you come see me?” You ask, “The recital’s in a few weeks.” You’re shy as you ask, voice hidden in his shoulder blade.

“Of course!” Shoyo says enthusiastically, “I’ll bring flowers.”

Your smile widens, and you place a small kiss to the top of his shoulder.

“You better.”

****

The next few weeks are filled with rehearsal, homework, and texting Shoyo. He’s so interesting. So passionate. You can’t ever get bored, speaking with him.

He’s cute, too.

Shoyo visits you on the weekends, helping you dance in exchange for volleyball tosses. You’re passing the ball back and forth as he excitedly tells you about his latest game.

“And then Kageyama tossed to me super quick and it’s like the ball gets sucked right up into my hand, and pow!! I got to spike it and scored a point!” He holds the volleyball in one hand as stares at his other palm. He grins up at you, “Also I hit the ball with my foot when Kageyama missed.”

You laugh, outright. “Your foot?”

He snickers, nodding. “Yep! We scored that point, too.”

“Oh!” You catch the volleyball as he tosses it to you. You hold it in both hands, turning it over. It’s scuffed up and well-worn. “When can I come see your next game?” You smile down at the ball, blushing slightly. “It was fun seeing you at the practice match.”

He beams. “Next game is this weekend! We’re playing…,” his face darkens suddenly, “Shiratorizawa.”

He stares intensely at you, fists clenched. “We’re going to win.”

You nod.

“Yes, you will.”

He straightens, puffing out his chest. He nods, once. “Mm!”

You smile, and close the short distance between you. He stares down at you with a burning ambition. His hands wrap around the volleyball as you hold it between you. Energy crackles around him.

“I mean it.”

****

You fidget in the stands.

Karasuno is facing off Shiratorizawa at the Inter-High prelims. The powerhouse school has a full marching band and cheer team.

You scowl.

Standing, you call down to the boys in navy blue and orange. “Karasuno! Karasuno!”

Shoyo looks up from the court, and smiles.

****

They win.

The game is intense: lasting multiple sets with everyone giving their all. You cheer whenever Shoyo scores. He keeps looking up at you, relishing the sound of your voice.

When the last point has been scored—when Karasuno wins—you erupt into cheers with the rest of the crowd. The team falls into each other: one big puppy pile of laughter and hugs. You’re so proud of them! You run down with Yachi, the new assistant manager.

Shoyo is waiting for you with open arms. He’s smiling, his fiery hair is wild, and he smells like sweat as he embraces you.

“Didja see?!” He bounces up and down in your arms.

“Yes!!!”

He kisses you.

Cheers and taunts rise from his teammates, but neither of you care. You pull away, dizzy.

“I gotta go shower, but then you should come get dinner with us!”

“Mkay!” You happily oblige.

You hang with Shimizu and Yachi while the boys get ready.

The two girls are quiet and friendly, and you find yourselves gushing over how cool this team is, how passionate they all are, how athletic and impressive.

Shoyo is beaming when he comes back with a white t-shirt and tracksuit. His team surrounds him: each boy glowing with pride and victory. He hugs you, and kisses you again. He pulls back, brown eyes bright. You ruffle his orange hair.

“Proud of you,” you whisper.

He smiles, and intertwines his hand with yours as you both walk with the team out of the building. The fresh air hits you with a slight breeze.

The sun is shining brightly in a clear blue sky.

The team is boisterous: jumping and yelling congratulations to each other. Hinata joins in with swooshing demonstrations of his scored spikes.

The tall, black-haired boy scowls, but still looks proud.

The shorter, brown-haired boy is laughing and jumping with Shoyo, and you can’t help but be swept away by their updrafts of team spirit.

“They really are a flock of crows,” you say, staring at their loud, celebrating forms. Yachi hums and nods.

“It’s their greatest strength,” Shimizu quietly says. She sorta reminds you of your younger brother Kenma. All quiet and reserved, but caring deeply. At least, sort of caring in Kenma’s case. You smile.

“Y/n!!!” Shoyo says happily, bouncing up beside you, “Come meet everyone!”

He drags you by the hand, introducing you to his friends. Their names and faces all blur together in a big, happy flock of players.

The brown-haired libero and the shaved-head spiker seem particularly interested in you. They stare openly at your face, all fired up.

“What’s your name?”

“Do you play volleyball?”

“How tall are you?”

You snicker as you all make your way to the restaurant, “Y/n, no, and 5’4.”

They nod sagely at your answers.

Shoyo pipes up, “She dances ballet! She goes up on her tippy toes and spins too!! She’s so good at it!!!” Shoyo hypes you up as you all slide into your seats. A fabulous feast is laid out before you.

The team is warm and welcoming as you join in on their celebratory dinner. Asahi is nervous, Nishinoya is boisterous, Kageyama is scowling even as he eats, and Tanaka keeps staring doe-eyed at Shimizu.

You smile, and eat your food.

****

[napneeders]

horny edizzy t4t ballet au (E, ~700 words)

aka i picked a random square off my @izzyhandsbingo card for inspiration and got sports au. which I thought would be the least inspiring square because I'm not into sports, but then I figured maybe ballet counts and blacked out for 45 minutes. this also (or at least) ticks off the trans box. I should post my card probably.

disclaimer I don't know shit about the ballet world. I did do ballet for ten years but I've forgotten most of both the technique and the terminology.

***

the line of dancers moves in diagonal, balanced perfectly on Izzy's axis as he twirls them and lifts them across the centre, one by one. where skin is just skin, other bodies just white-lycra bundles of muscle, passing through his body like lightning bolts hungry for the black mat under his feet. his heart is beating, alive and grounded, but a charge is building, a climax not written into the choreography but ringing alarm bells in his every fibre. girl by girl it approaches, until his hands close on Ed's waist and ribcage, join their flesh into one thrumming movement, a soaring where he, too, leaves the ground. the glow of Ed's brilliant, focused smile lingers, and Izzy finishes the scene in a daze, comfortable enough after weeks of habituation. he only stumbles when he reaches the stairs backstage.

he watches Ed's final solo from the wings, a water bottle by his elbow. Ed flies through the stage en pointe, graceful and effortless, transformed, so that Izzy almost forgets it's Ed at all, that he's himself at all. he returns to the stage to bow beside her, transferring the beginning of the movement from her hand to the hand of the girl on his left, a staggered swing of arms sweeping them into a bow to the left, centre, right.

"you're tempting fate," he says leaning by the stage door in tights and a fleece. it's a crisp, clear night, raising two sharp points under Ed's threadbare black sweater, too thin for October. which she was probably counting on.

"life is for living," Ed shrugs and blows stark cigarette smoke in his direction. she's never as beautiful as half an hour after a show, in sweatpants and full makeup, pearls glittering in her long fake lashes, still bouncing a little from the adrenaline. she slithers closer with purpose, rests her cigarette-holding hand on Izzy's shoulder. he imagines leaning into it. he has already fallen open by the time Ed bends down to kiss him.

in her dressing room, she presses Izzy into the door, tears off his fleece and t-shirt, arches her back when his hands find her tender budding breasts under the ratty sweater. he's overwhelmed by her smell, sweat and hairspray and smoke. overwhelmed by permission to grab her and hold her and seek her, suck a bruise into her chest, low enough that the leotard will cover.

he staggers when she prances backwards, stripping off her shirt. she leans into the dressing table like a suggestion, and like something more fragile. Izzy swallows, follows, like a lamb who for the wolf will even play the wolf. he's hungry enough; mouth on her nipple and hand charting the long hard line of her cock he's enough. he pulls down her pants, pushes her back onto the narrow ledge of table, and she spreads her thighs, leaning against the mirror. he sits down on the makeup stool, sinks it low with a hissing pull of the lever.

Ed flutters under his tongue, grasps his head close like she's convulsing, flexing him like another muscle. he laves and sucks and licks into her, one hand massaging the head of her cock, until she's trembling and keening.

"Izzy," she moans, and it's always a shock. he rushes back into his body, hot and pulsing between his legs, breath stuttering in gulps, too much. he pants against her taint, leans his forehead on her thigh.

"Izzy –" she whimpers and he knows. his body knows before him, maybe. he pulls her to the lopsided armchair, curses when he realises he's still trapped in his tights and briefs, fumbles them off to fall into her lap, and she's at his opening and she's at – and she's in him – the perfect fit, so smooth, so full, he's almost – they're moving but it feels like being still, wrapped up in each other, skin much more than skin and muscle much more than muscle.

"I'm –" Ed pants and "can I –", as if it's up to Izzy to grant or deny her anything, but he whispers a thready "yes" into her hair, "please, Ed, please." she shoots inside him and he squeezes, grinds his cock into her pelvis, and he's so close he could cry, shoves a hand between them, and whites out on his own fingers.

she twitches when her cock slips out, but doesn't let Izzy go. their flesh is flesh again, damp and heavy and heaving. he lets himself shudder just a little.

[keenie-bopper]

Celebrating 6/9 - @the-delightful-temptation

Ozzie's tower was filled with giggling succubi. The staff chuckled and teased the tiny lamb, who was pushing a cart with a massive cake. The confection was twice the size of the Cherub, but that didn't stop Keenie as she trekked through the halls to deliver her present.

Not long ago, Keenie asked Asmodeus about his birthday. The Sin explained, that he had never really celebrated the day of his creation. Taken aback by this fact, the Angel was dead-set on giving her boyfriend the celebration he deserved.

She wheeled the large cake up to the closed doors of Ozzie's Office. After tucking away into a nearby closet to change into a leotard and a mess of ribbons, Keenie removed the false top layer of the cake and climbed inside. (cut for length)

Taking out her phone, she dials Asmodeus from her delicious hiding spot. When he picks up, she greets him, "Happy Birthday, Your Lustfulness! This is Keenie from Club Sugar Buzzed. I am calling to let you know, that you have a very special delivery ready for your pick up. Please stop by at your earliest convenience!"

Before Ozzie could answer, Keenie promptly hangs up before succumbing to a fit of giggles. Even when she was tucked away inside of the cake, her laughter could be heard from the other side of the office doors.

[awesomelittleprincessjess]

Helen's Uni Diary: Year One

September - Initiation Antics

Alright, diary, here's the tea! Met Nikki during orientation, and we clicked, like, instantly. Our gossip sessions soon fixated on this chap from the opposite dorm. Looked lost, like a lamb waiting to be led. Lightbulb moment? Let's take him under our wing, stir things up a bit! With some sneaky hypnosis and a sprinkle of mischief, our little project began. No more Mr. Guy-From-Across-The-Hall. Welcome, Jasmine.

October - Pretty in Pink

Plan for October? A total wardrobe redo! Hit the high streets with a vision - Jasmine, but like, super femme! Rows and rows of delish dresses called out. Lured her into trying this pastel pink skater dress – think white polka dots, a silky ribbon, and a flirtatious hem. Paired with white ankle socks and cute Mary Janes. She looked like she stepped straight out of a chic mag!

November - Hair-Do Hullabaloo

Alright, that hair? Desperately needed some fab. Nikki's brilliant idea? A total hair makeover! We watched in glee as our fave stylist transformed that mop into an adorable, curly bob. Topped it with a sparkly hairband. Yass, Jasmine, giving us hair goals!

December - Giggles and Goss

Now, December was all about feeling young and merry. Christmas had Jasmine attached to our sides. Carol singing in that transformed voice and her obsession with that unicorn plushie from Secret Santa? Pure childlike joy.

January - Make-up Makeover

For January? We planned a subtler touch. Not just femme but younger, more innocent. Nikki and I played fairy godmothers, introducing Jasmine to a world of blush, mascara, and soft shiny lip gloss. A face that shouted teen spirit!

February - Valentine’s Vexation

A girly-girl Valentine was the vibe. Teased Jasmine with secret admirer notes. Oh, and the outfit? A youthful red dress, short but not too short, and with delicate lacework. She looked like a teen crushing hard for the first time.

March - Dress to Impress

Here's where the age games began. Imagined Jasmine, not just as a teen but younger. Got her a lavender dress for the uni’s spring event - floral lace, puffy sleeves, and enough tulle to make her twirl. She looked every inch the excited pre-teen.

April - Easter Elation

Easter was about innocence. Vision? Jasmine as a kiddo on an egg hunt. Watching her in that pastel yellow kiddie frock, hunting eggs? Pure gold! Her finding the smallest ones? May have rigged it a tad.

May - Ballet Bamboozle

May's plan? Delight in Jasmine’s childlike wonder. Enrolled her in a beginner's ballet class. Her in a tight leotard, fluffy tutu, struggling with basic moves? Adorable doesn't even cover it!

June - Sunny Daze and Plays

June’s mission? A beach baby day out. Pictured Jasmine building sandcastles, and she did! In a frilly swimsuit, her giggles, and that mermaid-themed bucket and spade? Childhood revisited.

July - Festival Follies

For July, the festival scene beckoned. But Jasmine wasn't just attending, she was living it as a free-spirited child. In a boho dress and a flower crown, she was the festival's little fairy.

August - Reflections and Resolutions

Come August, Nikki and I took a step back to admire our masterpiece. From lost lad to innocent child, it was quite the journey! But, diary, we've only just begun. There's more on the horizon, cheekier plots, and plans. Stay tuned!

[9uatre]

リクエストを多数いただいていたJust A Corpseイラストレオタードのキャミソールバージョンが入荷となっております！

イラストレーターのHana Stupicaさんが描いたどこにもないメルヘンなイラストがそのままプリントされたJust A Corpseのレオタード。

「第二便」として到着していたのは長袖バージョンでした。

あっという間に完売となり、その後多くの方々よりお問い合わせをいただいており、

今回は「第三便」としてそのキャミソールバージョンが入荷となりました！

サイズによっては早々に完売しておりますが、まだご案内可能です！！

「気になっていた！！」という皆様、ぜひぜひMaison de 9uatreオンラインブティックをチェック🍒

READING LAMB – camisole leotard with hand braided straps – peach/multicolor

DANCING MARTEN – camisole leotard with hand braided straps – sage/multicolor

[bi-dykes]

They’ve added personality to it- Adora is not a model, but a soldier. She throws herself headfirst into danger, she’s the sacrificial lamb, she was used by The Horde as well as used by Light Hope (manipulated by the good guys and the bad guys) she’s human underneath all of her highly trained strategic skillset. The OG She-Ra outfit is cute, but that’s about it. I could see Flutterina or Perfuma having a fit like that. Adora needs her personality to shine through- the military aspects on her suit, the larger emblem, the badass shoes. I adore the original outfit so much, but the new one is a glowup.

They’ve stayed loyal, paying a tribute to the original (and even have Adora wearing the original outfit in role with it episode in s2) as well as keeping the colour scheme and warrior-princess elements from the original.

This is so sexy and I’m in love, but she can’t really fight crime in a bathing suit, can she? Don’t get me wrong, thick thighs saves lives, but I prefer the shorts included in her leotard in the final version. Also I LOVE the flowers on the shoes, but I understand why they changed it to her wings on the shoes. I kinda wish the kept the hair and gloves tho, I vibe with that…

They should’ve kept the detail on Bow’s outfit, but eh, I also like his final version. No comment on Catra, other than I’m glad they made her hair poofier. Other than that she looks pretty much the same.

This is from 2008??! They were concepting the show for a decade?? I guess that makes sense. Shows take a lot of time to create.

Concept art from She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2008). Catra, Adora, Bow and Glimmer above, She-Ra below. Source linked at end.

Discuss.

[melled42]

Wait, so, Lamb’s wool on their torso is not their actual wool, but a leotard-like piece of clothing makes from their wool…!? I feel like a general idiot for not noticing.

Yep. they can even make different outfits if they want attention from a certain cat

[melmac78]

Cows, lambs and more rabbits.

Cows have their long fur, and usually keep this until the bigger, money-making shows like Houston, San Antonio and Texas State Fair.

Again cool temp barn, fans add additional cooler temps (as some breeds need it), stalls constantly mucked out and they’re walked.

The sheep have most of their wool sheared (as they’re judged on musculature) and therefore have to wear coats. Most are blankets but some had these leotard looking ones. (I thought about Gordon here).

Did I mention I REALLY like rabbits here, as a. I don’t have to cover their judging (long, long … LONG story. NO exaggeration- I could possibly max out the post long) and b. They have so many varieties.

I have some of the crop winners too. Unfortunately most I couldn’t get a shot without the show tag (I.e. identifiers, and here they require full address) so I can’t show.

I think I only can do a millet and hay one. (Well I think it’s hay but it was pretty green so I wondered if they allow hemp entries now. Yes, hemp farming is legal in Texas, but it must fall under a very low THC to stay such).

I need to crop the canned ones, but can show them and a couple of quilts.

Hope you enjoy.

[deafchild2000]

H2O Headcanon #23:

Gracie Made All Of Annette's Dresses

A Word from our sponsor: All dresses can be linked to this IG Page:

https://instagram.com/xtabayvintage?utm_medium=copy_link

Alright, let's get started!

So, I had been thinking about this for a while and I was like: Why not have Gracie learn sewing? Considering she's lived through the 60s, 70s, 80s, and early 90s, it wouldn't be ridiculous thing to pick up maybe a lesser known talent. So, I got to thinking of narratives:

Gracie is a mostly forward person, but even as she grew up, she had a divided taste in fashion, especially in the 80s. On one hand, she loved the vibrant neon colors and fabric that came with the new decade, but sometimes the mother in her turned her head from the more newer designs. Gracie guessed the girl from the 50s inside her preferred more classic and somewhat conservative looks to what else was being worn nowadays [80s]. Just don't get her started on two-piece bikinis! (It was one thing having the top part as a mermaid, where there was nothing to show from the waist below, but the bottom part was something she still needed getting used to.)

But that didn't mean she didn't enjoy new ideas! Working in a restaurant as a manager paid the bills but she enjoyed working on her artwork most of all (tied with spending time with her daughter, Annette.)

However, she wasn't blind. Her daughter was entering her teen years and for the curly, blonde hair she inherited from her father, Annette - to the dimples, high cheekbones, and rose cheeks - got all the beauty from Gracie, which made both of them head-turners, unfortunately.

However, unlike her mother's reservations, Annette was immersed in the 80s trends of big hair, scrunchies, leg warmers, fingerless gloves, leotards , oversized shirts, plastic bangles, large funky earrings in neon shades, mesh accents, fanny packs and pearl necklaces (probably the only thing in regards to accessory Gracie appreciated!)

Gracie HATED it all! The 80s was very materialistic and all about flaunting wealth and who payed the price for all these fancy and designer clothes!? Where did the pearls come from? How much labor went into sewing a shopping out clothes to stores? What about the work laborers and the excessive need to mass-produce at fast rates? What happened to quality over quantity!?

(Annette got these lectures every time she asked for something out of a catalog and just beared with it.)

In some ways, it was lucky enough that Gracie preferred handcrafted quality items, with the occasional vintage jewelry found in second-rate stores and market stalls. She enjoyed the classics, but there was something divine in wearing something handmade. Back when her husband was alive and she lived on the military base with him, she had told this to a friend and fellow army wife one day, who reckoned her an "Old Soul" and suggested she take up sewing if she disliked name-brand clothes so much. At the time, she never considered it, but it wasn't a foreign concept. She grew up in a well-to-do family and her mother always made her dresses for special occasions. From her evening gowns to her school formal, perhaps there was something to it that she could do for her future child. Alas, it wasn't easy, but she had her mother and local wives to help with her exciting projects! Even once she left, she never really stopped making dresses.

If anything, she found it challenging to make dresses to prove to Annette that homemade was better than store brand! And especially bring the 50s to the 80s!

The Debutante Dress (Age 16- 1981)

Ah, the debutante ball. A girl's coming out to society and the elegance of being accepted as a lady - and there was just something about that flowing white, silk dress that Gracie just loved! When she had the first opportunity to be a part of one, it was for charity and her mother convinced her. To be frank, the etiquette lessons were a bore and the only real excitement was the dance lessons. Looking back, those lessons did pay off whenever she had to attend functions with her husband. She and Julia had been selected and their escorts had been Max and Karl (perhaps that was the only reason Julia took fancy to the entire event.) It had been held at the Cloudland Ballroom and been an invigorating event! She danced all night in the gown her mother made for her and she felt like the wind gliding through the air.

So perhaps it was destined that the very ballroom (unaware of its drastic fate) would be danced upon by Gracie's daughter, the very floor where she once danced with her first love and later met and fell in love with her future husband! Annette however wasn't taking being a debutante so well and fought every minute of it. It took time to get her stubborn daughter to get used to the idea and perhaps her hand-sewn dress also helped:

(The pearls were once Gracie's...and she realized she had turned into her mother!)

Halloween Costume

This one caused a fight between mother and daughter. See, while Annette wasn't going all-out Disney, she requested a princess dress that would make her stand out. And Gracie did just that, only it mirrored something more traditional with a red cloak when what Annette wanted was something more glamorous. The fight wasn't bad (compared to the ones they'd have in the future) but it did leave Gracie a bit heartbroken and the girls in separate rooms. Eventually, Annette came around and apologized, saying she'll still wear it. (Which she wouldn't regret seeing as a lot of people enjoyed a more realistic take of medieval fantasies!)

First Date

Annette had her first date! Gracie knew that he was taking her out on a beach date (Sugtons Beach) and wanted to express just that. Turns out her date was the one who was commented Annette on her Halloween costume! Annette had nothing to wear and consulted with Gracie again, this time asking if she owned anything and could modernize it. Well...Gracie did have something, but though she herself thought it could have been done better, Annette loved it! [10 points to whoever recognizes such a design from H2O!]

Year 11 Formal (age 17 - 1982)

The formal was the first dance Annette had gone without a date and was just going with her girlfriends. She turned out to like her mother's sewing skills and told her she didn't want anything too fancy to go in. However, she begged her to make it something 80s-like! But alas, Gracie could only grant that request so much before she had her artbook in one hand and needle & thread in another! [With a reference to a dress Tiffany Lamb (Annette) to rein the 80s!)

Wedding Guest

Annette and Gracie had been invited to a wedding! Well, it was more of a vow renewal, as the couple were old friends of parents back when they lived on the base and had a bit of a nostalgic touch! Considering Gracie was a bit of the same way, she found an old dress she owned when she was 16 and spruced it up a bit for Annette.

Dance Party Dress

After so much time and begging, this would be the ONLY dress Annette got from her that even resembled the 80s glitz and glam they once fought over. To be fair, the glitz existed in the 60s but she wasn't a fan of them. However, Annette was over the moon once she saw this:

Yearbook Photos

Annette may have been getting only a headshot for her school yearbook photos, but Gracie wanted to make memories. With the help of a friend, she and Annette took pictures all over Brisbane to add to the photo album. And once again that pesky beauty the mother and daughter shared cropped up when someone thought it was a genuine photo shoot and tried to recruit Annette into modeling! Gracie herself was a model in her teens and while she can say she had a good experience, there was a reason she never joined the industry full time! Luckily for her, Annette was more into becoming an inspiring chef than photos.

Year 12 Formal (age 18 - 1983)

At this point, Gracie had decided to take her daughter's advice and try to at least incorporate modern 80s with the classic 50s, and at the right time. Unlike the last formal, this time, Annette had a date, Gracie decided to do something to reflect the occasion. It also hit her how much she changed herself at 17 (most, she would never bring herself to tell Annette) and found herself designing a dress that brought back an old memory.

Gracie's 50th Birthday (age 25 - 1990)

There must have been a hint of irony in the world as for as Gracie knew. For weeks, her daughter had been quite secretive and she couldn't guess why. And when she questioned her son-in-law, he had the nerve to be cheeky and not confide in her daughter's secrets (but then again, that's how she knew he was the one for Annette!). However, during that time, she had asked once more for a dress. At the time, it had been year's and the last thing she made was the veil and reception dress for her daughter's wedding (the wedding dress she wore ended up being the one from the Debutante ball.) However, that night of her 50th birthday, Annette presented her a gift: A seafoam blue dress with pearls that she recognized as being something out of the 80s (irony Is that she liked the dresses when the 90s hit!) Annette has made it - with help, as she didn't inherit the skill from her mother and grandmother. She, Annette, and her son-in-law went out to what she thought was some fancy dinner...when it was revealed to be a small dance hall with the theme: Cloudland. Everyone they knew from friends (old and new) to coworkers, and even strangers she befriended who kept in touch, attended the party. She did raise an eyebrow at Annette being fit for the 50s while she was in the 80s...at least until an old song started playing and Annette asked her to dance...dance to the very song she fell in love with her father to. And then, she told her the most surprising news: She was to be a grandmother.

[hale-13]

En Pointe

By Hale13

For the Summer of Whump Day 24 Prompt - Stitches

No matter how much she hates the Red Room, ballet is still Natasha’s go to stress relief. Peter is just curious and eager to learn.

Words: 2311, Chapters: 1/1 (Complete), Language: English

Fandoms: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)

Rating: Gen

Relationships: Peter Parker & Natasha Romanov, Peter Parker & Tony Stark

Characters: Peter Parker, Natasha Romanov, Tony Stark

TW: Broken Bones, Blood

Read on AO3 or below the line break.

“You do ballet?” Peter asks curiously as he watches Natasha tear the shank out of her new pointe shoes. Her old pair is still in pretty decent shape since she only dances on occasion now but its always been relaxing to sew and break in a new pair and it never hurts to have a few back ups.

“Sometimes,” she answers cryptically as she steps on the toe box with her bare heel to flatten it out, Peter watches her fascinated, venturing further into the room and sitting cross-legged a few feet from her. He’s careful not to touch any of her old shoes or the ribbons and other tools and materials spread out in a semi-circle around where she’s sitting. “Why?”

Peter’s fingers are twitching where he has them pressed into his thigh like he’s holding back from touching. “I did ballet as a kid. Just a few months of classes before my parents died and I was terrible but it was fun.”

Natasha hums as she reinforces the toe of the shoe with glue and fans it a little to dry it out. “You probably wouldn’t be so terrible now,” she tells him as she bends one shoe and then the other, enjoying the cracking noise they make as she works them in. She looks over to Peter to consider him for a moment. “Want to try?”

“With you?” He squeaks and its kinda adorable how nervous he is. Nat suppresses a smirk as she puts on her toe spacers and worn out toe pads – the lambs wool she modified these with is absolutely perfect and she won’t even consider using another pair until these designate around her feet.

“Of course,” she answers, standing up and bending first one shoe and then the other before going up en pointe and squatting to work in both shoes. She’ll need to dance on them for a few hours before they start feeling really good but they aren’t too bad right now. Sometimes new shoes just aren’t right no matter how well she prepares them but she has a good feeling about this pair. “You seem mostly coordinated as Spider-Man at least, I think you can handle a few basic positions.”

“Uh yeah,” Peter says, jumping to his feet like an over eager puppy and making Natasha smile a bit. “Yeah that sounds great!” She can almost see his tail wag.

She gestures to the barre running the length of the studio Tony had put in the compound just for her and has them face each other, correcting Peter’s posture as she goes. His sneakers are ratty and falling apart and she wrinkles her nose at them. She taps them with the hard side of the box of her shoe. “Lose those. I don’t have a pair of men’s shoes lying around so you can just go barefoot for now.” Peter hastens to do as she steps into some resin, crunching the small rocks into powder and rubbing it into the sole, box and sides of her shoes. By the time she’s done, Peter has positioned himself back at the barre, barefoot and with the hems of his pants cuffed up to mid calf.

He looks a little nervous and intimidated so Natasha give him a little smile as she hands the barre with her left hand and adjusts herself into first position as Peter stares intently. “We’re going to do some plié to start I’ll show you the positions; this is first.” Peter’s more graceful than she expected, his legs easily falling into place without shaking or him losing his balance like most new students was. She’s almost impressed.

Peter’s a surprisingly quiet student – she’s seen him in the lab with Tony and in the field where the kid is definitely what she would describe as a chatterbox. He asks a few questions here or there but, for the most part, he just observes and follows her lead. He picks up the positions quickly and Natasha puts on some music and instructs him through her usual warm up. By the end he’s sweating a little but he looks relaxed and a little pleased with herself.

“Can you teach me to spin?” He asks her a little shyly but with an undercurrent of excitement, shifting his weight from foot to foot like an overeager puppy and Nat gives him a soft smile.

“Sure,” she says, ditching her point shoes and slipping into some flats. “So you want to start off…”

He falls over the first few times but he nails a sloppy spin the fourth time. He stumbles a little once he stops, arms akimbo and legs spread for balance with a surprised look on his face. He looks at her for a second with a clear expression of ‘did I just do that?’ before letting out an excited laugh and fist pumping. “Holy shit!” He says under his breath and Natasha laughs with him – his good humor infectious. “That was so fun!”

“Try it again,” she says. “And this time keep your arms tucked in tighter and you head fixed on a point. Like this,” she demonstrates again, focusing on a dent in the wall to keep her head from spinning with her body and to keep her from getting dizzy. Peter tries again and cleans up his form a little.

“I think I’ve got it,” he says after another few turns and then he starts again, spinning once, twice, three times and, on the fourth rotation she sees his ankle twist as if in slow motion. Peter lets out a grunt as he loses his balance and, instead of falling, tries to stick to the floor with his abilities. His momentum continues to pull him though and she hears his leg crack in a sound that echos through the studio over the soft music and makes her hair stands on end.

“Fuck!” Peter exclaims and he drops, hitting the smooth wood floor hard and immediately dropping onto his back, face ghostly. His tibia has broken cleanly in two near his ankle and twisted to break through the skin in a grotesque fashion, leaking blood onto the previously pristine floors. Natasha immediately falls back into her extensive first aid training and drops to the floor next to Peter, tying one of her leftover ribbons around his upper calf in a crude tourniquet.

“Let’s get medical down here FRIDAY,” her voice is calm even though her heart rate is elevated. Peter looks about two seconds from passing out but pushes himself up with prodigious effort only to turn green when he sees his leg, turning away from her abruptly to gag and retch. “Get it all out,” she tells him, rubbing a hand across his clammy back.

“It’s…” Peter gags again. “The bone… I…”

“Don’t look at it,” Natasha says firmly, pushing him back to the floor. “Tony told me you were accident prone but I didn’t know you were this bad,” she tells him with humor, pulling off the shrug she had put over her leotard and leggings and mashing it firmly into the wound, making Peter moan and turn white.

“It’s Parker Luck,” he tells her, sounding out of it. He looks like he may pass out and that just won’t do – she needs to keep him awake.

“What’s that?” She asks, brushing the hair off his forehead in a tender gesture and massaging his scalp a little.

“Just my specific brand of bad luck,” Peter says a little sardonically, his voice wavering from the pain. She wants to ask more but the door at the opposite end of the studio flies open hard enough to hit the wall and bounce back as Tony – helicopter mentor extraordinaire – skids into the room and literally trips over his own feet to get to Peter’s side. Natasha would roll her eyes if she wasn’t so concerned herself.

“What happened?” Tony asks her, tone accusatory and Natasha gives him a sharp look.

“We were doing ballet and he spun just a little too hard,” Peter groans from the floor, this time from embarrassment and covers his face with his hands muttering ‘just let me die’ under his breath. Tony flicks him on the forehead.

“Don’t be a dramatic little shit,” he chastises, still looking more worried than anything. “Only you would manage to give yourself a compound fracture learning ballet of all things.”

“Don’t be mean to me,” Peter whines. “I’m injured!”

Natasha can’t hold back her snort at this, the situation would probably be a lot less humorous if she didn’t know Peter would likely be completely back to normal in a couple weeks or less with his healing factor. The kid was like rubber.

“What did you do this time?” Bruce calls from the doorway, pulling a gurney and followed by a small gaggle of nurses. Natasha steps back and away as one of them takes over putting pressure on the still bleeding puncture and pulls Tony with her. She knows that if he had his druthers he would glue himself to Peter’s side and aggravate Bruce and the other medical professionals to death.

The team is quick and efficient in stabilizing Peter’s leg with a temporary splint and loading him on the stretcher, bustling out of her studio with Tony following just as quickly as they came in. Nat isn’t a big fan of crowds so she stays behind, cleaning the tacky blood off the floor before it dries and sets. As it is, the fine grains of the wood are tainted and she knows she has no chance of cleaning all of it out and resigns herself to dealing with flaking blood on the toes of her pointe shoes for the foreseeable future.

Satisfied with her clean up job, she slinks back to her room and showers, washing the remnants of Peter’s blood off her hands and forearms and the sweat out of her hair. She changes into some loungewear and dries her hair and, figuring she’s probably stalled long enough, grabs a book at random from her bookshelf and makes her way to the medical floor.

The halls are silently when she arrives thankfully and the waiting room is empty bar Tony. He’s seated in one corner facing the hall that leads to the operating and recovery rooms and tapping something into his StarkPad, reading glasses perched onto the tip of his nose and in danger of slipping off the end. He looks relaxed which she takes to mean the Peter will be just fine – not that she expected any different.

Tony jumps when she settles into the chair next to him, glasses falling to the floor and nearly fumbling his tablet. He sends her a glare without heat – he’s always complaining about her sneaking up on him but its not her fault he isn’t observant – and sets the tablet aside.

“Well?” She asks, quirking one eyebrow in expectation.

“He’ll be fine,” Tony tells her, relief clear in his voice. “They’d normally have to put in a pin or two but, with his healing, they just want to flush it out really well to prevent infection and then reduce the fracture and throw in some stitches and a brace. He’ll be on bed rest and crutches for the next week or so until the stitches can come out and he can transfer to a boot but he’ll be back up in no time.”

Natasha nods, she expected all of this really and pulls her legs up to sit cross-legged in the small chair. She didn’t do a cool down after her work-out and she can already feel all of her ligaments tightening up – her hips and knees crack as she adjusts and make Tony wrinkle his nose in obvious disgust. “He was doing pretty good for a while,” she says breezily. Kid’s got natural talent.”

“He can’t walk across a flat surface without tripping,” Tony tells her. “Don’t let all of his Spider-Man acrobatics fool you – Peter’s as clumsy as they come. His aunt should have wrapped him and put him in a bubble years ago.”

She laughs, elbowing Tony in the side and dodging his returning nudge. “He’s good for you,” she tells him honestly and Peter really is. She’s known Tony for a long time, considers him one of her closest friends barring Clint and this is the happiest and most settled she’s ever seen him. It makes her happy.

Tony blushes and clears his throat, trying to hide it but she can see the satisfied little smile on his face. He can’t deny his happiness. “Anyway,” he tries, changing the subject swiftly – she lets him. “You’ll have to help keep him entertained since part of this was your fault after all.”

“Not my problem the kid’s an accident waiting to happen,” she says with no heat. She already plans to hang around during Peter’s recovery. She can teach him more about ballet if he wants, he could shape up to be a pretty decent partner with some practice and she thinks it might help him a little with his balance and enhancements. Control of your body is important for both after all.

Later when Bruce leads them to Peter’s recovery room he gives her a knowing look that she ignores in favor of perching on the edge of the bed and teasing Peter about his poor technique. He’s high as a kite from the enhanced pain meds and cackles at her good natured jokes. Tony threatens to put him in a cushioned room for the rest of his life and Peter rolls his eyes like this is all par for the course.

He falls asleep again pretty quickly, drooling onto the pillow and twitching a little as he dreams and Natasha feels her chest feel with warmth.

Yes, she thinks Peter will make an excellent student.

[origamipineapples]

"He want my number, had to hit em wit that mmm"

Hair - Lamb "Olivia"

Skin - XVI "Aila"

Lips - IVES "CryForMe Lipcream" @THE GRAND EVENT

Outfit- MOGUL "Anyza Leotard & Leggings"

Nails - NailPlug "Nature Sage Set"

Purse - DDL "Cherish"

[deco-devolution]

Rough Draft

An abandoned concept for the beginning of chapter two of my BioShock disciple piece, mors tyrannis. Posted for posterity.

He went to Silas first. 

The lanky musician was hunched over the composing desk in his store’s office so closely his forehead was almost touching the wooden surface. When Kyle grabbed Cobb’s shoulder he jolted before jumping upright and spinning to face him, a manic look in his eyes as he came back to reality. Realizing who it was, he pushed his mop of curls out of his eyes and frowned. The tip of Cobb’s nose was smudged, streaked black with ink, and the sight was so disarming Kyle found himself swallowing a sappy grin. He needed to focus, not swoon like a schoolgirl.

“Jesus Christ, Fitz. What?”

“Aren’t you tired?”

The question clearly wasn’t what he was expecting; suddenly uncomfortable Cobb crossed his wiry arms across his chest and fidgeted, squinting in confusion at the words. 

“... I’m always tired,” he finally said. 

Realizing his mistake, Kyle shook his head before reaching up to pull him closer. Under the short-sleeved sweater vest he wore Cobb was radiating heat, and Kyle welcomed the warmth as it soaked into his palms before speaking.

“Tired of him,” He continued, and as one both men turned to the image of Sander Cohen on the wall. In that moment the face on the poster seemed to be alive, seemed to not just be facing them but looking, aggressively plucked eyebrows raised in a show of affronted outrage. Wincing away from the face, Silas rolled his eyes and stepped back, casually leaning against the desk once more. 

“You’re damn right I am. That old aunt has been leaving his smuggled records in my crawlspace and they’ve been giving me a fit every time one of Ryan’s goons comes along.”

“Well, why don’t we do something then?” 

Wordlessly Silas arched a brow at him and made a shrugging gesture at him, encouraging the younger man to go on. Feeling emboldened by the lack of rejection Kyle pressed on, nearly tripping over his words in his haste. 

“I mean, we can’t keep doing this. The city’s a hair away from turning to shit and that asshole still has us on stage in pin curls and tappers! Together we c-” 

“That what happened to you?” Cobb’s thin lips quirked into a faint smile as he spoke and Kyle felt himself flush. He’d been too caught up in scheming to wash up, but now he was hyperaware of how disheveled he looked- he was still wearing his leotard with only a turtleneck covering his chest. His hair was mussed with the effort of dancing in the earlier show, made stiff with sweat in places, and when he self-consciously rubbed at his jaw his fingers came away oily, tips smeared with leftover greasepaint. While part of him still thrilled at the idea of escaping from under Cohen’s thumb Cobb’s comment stung, and shame drove him to cross his arms defensively, bristling. It wasn’t the outfit itself that rankled him, but the message it implied- he had caved again, played along with Sander and his idiotic flights of fantasy, and now he was wearing that proof like a yoke, a mule too stupid to resist. Even as he knew it was pointless his fingers darted up to swipe at the remaining paint, smearing the cursed dye on his leotard between wipes. 

Watching him struggle Silas gave a smug chuckle. “You’ve got some Cohen on your chin, too.”

“Oh, fuck you.” Against his will he smiled. Cobb’s dirty humor always got the best of him, somehow pierced through his anxiety.

“Maybe later.” 

“Anyway...” The companionable air between them died, stolen away by something cold. “Cohen. I can’t do this anymore. Just last week he pressed me into the rehearsals and this week into the show itself. You weren’t there, but... but... you.”

“Me.” Silas’s smile turned wolfish as he watched the dawning comprehension on Kyle’s face, the rising frustration. 

“You got out of it. How.” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know. Can you believe what he told me?” Delighted with the opportunity Silas swept into a grand imitation of the artist, flicking his wrist with an eerie familiarity. “You have the body of a dancer, dearest Si. It would be an honor for you to be part of this troupe.” Satisfied with the impression, he slouched back against the desk, narrow lips curled in a sneer. “Told ‘im I was going to be busy writing my ‘contributions’ to his next album. I actually spent the night listening to the radio with a couple grey-backs in hand, if you know what I mean.” 

“Christ, you’re disgusting.”

“Sure am.”

“Look, let’s not get distracted. I need your help.”

“With?”

“I want to kill Sander Cohen.”

The room went smotheringly silent, and then:

“Okay,”

“Just listen, damnit, I just- okay?”

“Okay.”

Without waiting for a response Silas turned away and strode to the opposite wall of the office. Kyle watched him go, his characteristic straight-backed gait crossing the room in just a few steps. He reached into a small cooler tucked behind a steamer trunk and gave the item a few shakes, turning towards Kyle with his arm outstretched-

“-You can’t be serious.”

Halfway through unscrewing the Quaff-Aid, Silas gave him a mean stink eye before ripping the lid off and shoving it at him. “I am. You’re drunk.” 

“No, I’m not. Honest.” 

Something in his words gave Cobb pause, and he marched back over to Kyle before trapping his cheeks in his hands, pulling him close to stare into his eyes. Kyle looked back at him blankly, trying not to acknowledge the warm breath brushing his lips as Cobb gently turned his head this way and that. Eventually he let go and stumbled back a few steps, landing on his drafting stool. “You’re sober.” 

While the words were something he’d hoped to hear, the expression in Silas’s eyes was concerning, tracking his movements like a wild animal. “Yes.”

“And you want to kill Cohen. Our boss.”

“Yes.”

“And your bright idea was to share this with me, instead of that shrink woman? Goat?”

“Lamb. And no, it was to come to you.”

“...why. The man’s got his fingers in everything, us included.” This said with a wince. 

“Exactly. We could pull a Julius- take him down from inside.” 

[leewhitaker]

I Want to Be Loved like a Canvas

“Her fantasy life appears to have been virtually completely preempted by primitive, regressive libidinal preoccupations many of which are distorted and bizarre.” — Joan Didion 1979, The White Album

I read an article today in National Geographic, suggesting that only a fraction of us regularly use elaborate daydreams as an escape. Until then, I was unaware that it was abnormal to store six or seven worlds inside your head at any given point in time, so perhaps I am also alone in my most preoccupying daydreams of being observed by men.

Not being fucked by them, not sponging a broad set of shoulders in the bath… No. Give me a moment of unadulterated male stillness, and quiet curiosity from across an empty auditorium as he studies the way my body moves in a leotard, bewitched simply to behold it. Give me a top-shelf billiards hall in a dim Brooklyn basement, where the yellow light hits my bones beneath low-hanging fixtures, and the man showing me how to hold a pool cue believes I may be ethereal. I desire profoundly, to be profoundly desired.

The man who accompanies me in these visions is a man I have never met, or rather, some shallow concoction of many that I have. He is my boss. He is a man I passed on the street. He is the lifeguard at my childhood community center. He is the TA in my comparative politics lecture, sophomore year. He is a musician who sings on television, who I will never meet. He is a man whose mind and character could never have organically come to exist in this world as it is.

He’s had countless careers; we’ve lived in countless decades. We mostly meet by chance. He looks for excuses to talk to me, and I see through it, seeking to be sought. I am funnier than him, and if he’s being honest, more clever. He is a year or so my senior, tall, and somebody’s big brother. He likes back rubs; I like the shape of his back, and excuses to touch him. He falls asleep like a lamb when I play with his hair. I guide him gently toward all the correct political beliefs, but the remorse, he is capable of all on his own. He never raises his voice in an argument, and gives love like a wild animal. There are flowers and card stock and blueberry pancakes at every birthday. He knows about what happened that night all those years ago, and gives me his word that he will never let anyone lay a hand me, so long as he can help it.

He is vague, though I can picture his shirts, and shoes, and cock with ease. I can feel him holding my face as he thinks to himself, God damn it, before kissing me hard on the mouth. He lays me down on the bedspread; he is molten in my hips. And right when I can tell that he’s about to shake the stars out of my body, I sigh his name—whatever it may be tonight—and he vanishes. My eyes open and there is: my bedroom ceiling, the sweat on my upper lip, the cadence of ragged breath in an empty room. It is a memory that has never happened, which I revisit to savor again, and again, if only for the way he touches me like I am delicate, and my skin is baby bat’s wings.

We dance slow to Pete Drake in a parking lot, bathed in fluorescent shop light with the moths. We fuck on a collapsed cardboard box in our first tiny walk up with no AC and paint in our hair, because I am simply irresistible in overalls. We catch eyes across the table at a dinner party as the nearly imperceptible twitch by the corner of his mouth translates to I knew you’d react to that anecdote; I fidget with my silverware and sip the wine we brought, peering up at him as though to reply, you’re getting head later, and he has to look away because every time I want him, he wants me back worse.

The first I think I’m in love with you sits on his tongue for weeks like a smooth little pebble, but when I say it back right away, he looks at me and sees a pair of rocking chairs beside each other. He cries holding our daughter for the first time because she is his spitting image. He creeps up to the front door in his boxers, wielding a baseball bat in the moonlight while I crouch by his side. He is every good father, and the opposite of my own. We have too much sex—are in too much love to be tempted by infidelity. I am the lavender vase on his sunlit, tag sale upright piano.

I replay it all in my mind’s eye to help me fall asleep.

You see, we have this innate synchronization, unlike anything he’s ever encountered. Because I myself am the weightless, equivocal dream girl who lives in his imagination, with whom he has grown, and honed since boyhood. I am the lifelong object of his obsession—absorption, so long as I never age, wilt, expand, or eat bread. I do not mind, as I have never been so coveted by bread. I am utterly uninterested in a life partner who would be content with a plain, well-nourished, bread-eating version of me, I think.

Take me in enigmatic matrimony. Give me a figment to have and to hold, for better, for richer, and in health.

— L.W.