#plaid Catholicism

[redmantic]

The hanger in the wardrobe,

Shows me things I cannot bare.

All its haunting -

Hanging there like a ghost

Of the child that wore that dress.

That stupid maroon dress.

I feel their hands.

>Their small hands

And I feel sick

>How does a child understand that?

It tells me things I don’t want to believe

>They don’t,

I don’t.

Things I don’t want to remember.

But i can’t throw its red stained fabric away.

And so it hangs there

Like the ghost of plaid Catholicism.

[milkteabinniechan]

†Echoes of the Confessional - Felix

(this is a membership exclusive + a preview 👀 you can read the whole sinful story here)

pairing: college student! Felix x fem! reader

summary: At a Catholic College, Felix's devout beliefs are challenging when you show up and challenge everything he has ever believed in. He knows you're trouble but he can't seem to stay away...

warnings: Catholicism, religious imagery, blasphemy, oral (m.rec), corruption

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.

Felix had attended confession three times a week as was mandated by the University. He would finish his last class of the morning, intro to theology, and head towards the chapel with the other boys. The girls mass and confession was held at a different time of day so as not to distract each other from worship. Felix preferred this. He preferred his focus to be completely on his devotion and his faith. That is, until you showed up.

You walked into the all boys sermon on a sunny Tuesday afternoon. You pushed the large wooden doors to the chapel open and the entire room went silent. Your plaid skirt was wrinkled, your knee-high socks already falling down and your shoes scuffed. All the boys turned in their pews to look at you.

“Shit. Am I in the wrong place?” Your voice echoed against the stained glass.

Felix’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head from the sight of you. And the foul language you spewed was like a serpent's tongue come to life. He knew then and there that if the Bible has ever warned about temptation that you were definitely it.

************

....“But if it's bad for me, then why does it feel so good?” Your cheeky smile grew wider.

Felix stepped back from you, creating more distance between you. He wanted to tell you off or quote a Bible verse but the words died in his throat. Instead, he stared at the unlit cigarette weaved between your fingers. Then his eyes flickered up to yours, lingering there for a moment. Your eyes looked like they had seen an entire lifetime that Felix knew nothing about. You terrified him. But the way your clear lip gloss captured the sunlight was something the Bible never warned him about.

Lead us not into temptation. But deliver us from Evil

[intothedysphoria]

It was a joke. It had to be.

Billy had asked him, with a bouquet of flowers in one hand, on a date. Considering the last prolonged interaction they’d had, Steve had punched him in the face, laughing hysterically then slamming the door felt justified.

As happened every time Steve did something stupid, Sofia Harrington knocked gently on his door. She sat on the side of his bed, humming a nursery rhyme he hadn’t heard since they lived in Romania and asked him why he’d been so rude to that nice boy.

Steve suspected not many people had referred to Billy Hargrove as a “nice boy.” Loud, yes. Intimidating, also yes. Unbelievably attractive, absolutely. But nice? Those were the words of a woman who’d taken one look at “King Steve” and asked why her little boy was being deliberately cruel to fit in.

There were many reasons Steve had chosen to think that was some kind of a sick prank. He knew it wasn’t homophobia because he’d seen the bars Billy frequented but goyim were generally not actively seeking out a Jewish partner.

Sofia listened to this reasoning then held his hand and told him that things would work out how they were intended to. Feeling overly emotional and slightly embarrassed, Steve followed her down to observe Shabbat.

Steve idly wondered how Billy would take to Jewish culture, if he had accepted. There was nobody who didn’t know Billy’s faith, considering he would cross himself every time he stepped onto the basketball court and Steve’s only exposure to Catholicism was his great aunt in Texas.

The next time they talked, it wasn’t even a return to normally scheduled programming. It was worse.

Billy stared at him blankly, only making polite small talk for Max’s sake and with an obviously strained smile curling at his lips.

He looked upset, monumentally so and Steve started to realise that he’d slammed the door on someone he certainly wouldn’t mind dating because he’d unfairly branded him as an antisemite.

Spending the majority of Rosh Hashanah bemoaning the fact that he was a fucking idiot had his Bubbe telling him to take a walk and apologise. It was the beginning of a new year, the perfect time to make amends.

Steve didn’t exactly apologise in the traditional sense. Instead he sent an even more elaborate bouquet of flowers with an apology note attached to the ribbon. Roses because everyone loved roses.

Billy did not love roses. At least he didn’t love them in place of an actual apology. They were dumped on the foot of his door as an extra fuck you.

The second apology attempt didn’t go much better than the first. There was nothing left on Steve’s porch but Steve’s attempt to be “cool” about it was not gaining him any favours.

Instead, Billy stared at him like he had a fish on his head and slammed the door in his face.

Karma really was a bitch then.

He had to beg Max to arrange a time where Steve could apologise properly, which she accepted after Steve offered to pay for two separate shopping trips with El and Dustin.

They met on a bench near the woods outside of Hawkins. Billy grunted, clearly impatient to get it over with so Steve talked.

As Steve explained his experiences as one of only two Jewish students through his four years of high school, Steve felt Billy’s hand creeping over to his. The look he got was no longer angry or hurt, but understanding. Steve apologised for the fight in November too and they decided to do over.

Most of the date was talking in Steve’s room. Talking about the horrendously embarrassing things Steve did in middle school, talking about Billy’s family back in Ireland, talking about where they were going to college. Normal teenager stuff.

Steve felt his eyes start to well up when he heard about Neil and how nonchalant Billy was describing the abuse he’d endured. That would never happen to him again. Not on Steve’s watch.

They may have ended the night reaching second base on Steve’s plaid covered bed until his mom decided to knock on his door, demanding to meet the first boy Steve had brought over since Jonathan.

Even after that, Billy still wanted to go on a second date. That was a miracle in itself and proof enough to Steve that Billy was the best date he’d ever had.

*quick note that I am Jewish and Jewish people being wary around goyim is completely understandable, this is just a little ficlet for Rosh Hashana

[erosia-rhodes]

I'm finally reading Gideon the Ninth and someone should have issued me a trigger warning for #Catholicism. I've started reciting the Nicene Creed in my head! I'm having flashbacks of plaid jumpers! I thought I was past all this, but I guess not.

[youknowhowitiswithspaghetti]

Tfw you mourn the boyhood you didn't have even though you enjoyed girlhood and it's not like it would have been good anyway with all the horrible abuse you know you would have had to endure but you can't help but think about the potential universe in which you were born a boy and catholicism wasn't so wretched and you wouldn't have to worry about your dad or teachers or anyone being a freak at you for being a genderfluid amab person and you could have you penis and your tiddies and you beard and your hair and skirts and plaids and rainbows and all of it the entire time and what if it could have been so fun and so free and so real...

But it will never be able to happen. Never will I have a version of this life where I reach my full potential, in gender or otherwise, what with all the oppression. The youthful genderfluid person I could have been was too scared and too... oppressed! Full stop. What a waste.

[redhead-batgal]

🍀St. Patrick's Day Prompts 🍀

It’s the luck of the Irish and the death of a saint apparently

 “I can and will capture a leprechaun” “A small redhead doesn’t count!” “I KNOW!” “They learned from last year

 “Now we drink!”

 “I am going to make a four-leaf-clover crown to enhance my luck!” “Can you find that many?” “I’m dedicated.” 

 “All the green in the world~!” 

 “If I get pinched this year-” “Wear 👏🏻 green 👏🏻 and itwon’tbeaproblem!”

 “Would you kiss me if I said I was Irish?” “

 “I’m making a shamrock shake and putting liquor in it.” 

 “You gotta shake, shake, shake your shamrock.” “What is wrong with you?”

 “I love how we are celebrating the literal death of some saint!” “He was British sooooo yeah.” 

“Oh four-leaf-clover, oh four-leaf-clover bless me I won’t get pinched.”

 “So, you are telling me the reason Ireland is catholic is because of this dude?”

 “Wait, wait, lent is lifted in Ireland on St. Patrick’s Day? Bruh let’s go! I wanna get drunk in the name of Catholicism!” 

 “When I say God is talking to me everyone thinks I’m crazy. But if a saint says it apparently, it’s true.”

 “I’m gonna be so green people will think I’m grass! That way no one will pinch me.” 

 “Somewhere over the rainbow~ there a pot of gold!” 

“So, what did you give up for lent?” “You think I do lent?” “I gave up drinking because I’m gonna get to do it on St. Patrick’s day anyway.” 

 “I swear if you talk in an Irish accent all day I’m going to punch you.”

 “I’m magically delicious.” “No, you’re super cringy.” 

 “Just because I’m a red head does not mean I’m Irish!” 

 “Why- why is all the food green?” “So, it doesn’t get pinched obviously.” 

 “Aw are you dressed up as a leprechaun?” “This is how I normally look!”

“I am having a party covered in green and drenched in whisky.”

“I refused to celebrate St. Patrick’s day it’s a catholic holiday.” “So is Christmas but you have no trouble binging eggnog!” 

“THERES A ST PATRICK’S DAY PARADE?” “Yeah.” “ARE THERE GONNA BE LEPRACHAUNS?????” 

“I FUCKING LOVE BAGPIPES!”

“A clover for you and one for me means more luck after three.” 

“If I have another pint I’m gonna fall over.” “You gotta get to the clover! You can’t stop the drowned clover cuz you aren’t feeling well.” 

“Well I do say plaid looks good on you!” 

“We should watch Brave I bet I could mimic the accents fairly well.” 

“If you suggest we watch Braveheart I’m going to scream.”

“What’s wrong with Braveheart?” “Their accents are tacky as hell!”

“Whoever said leprechauns were lucky?’ 

“You wanna catch a leprechaun? You know there one of the Aos Sí right?”

“This is not what I thought was at the end of the rainbow.”

“That has got to be the crappiest Irish accent I’ve ever heard.” 

“Do you know any Irish chants?” “Why?” “I want songs to sing when I get drunk.” 

“So, do you usually get drunk enough to start talking in another language or is it just because it’s St. Patrick’s Day?”

“Aye, it tis the day of a patron saint’s death.” “Ouch, how did he die?” “Uh well we don’t exactly know.” “WHAT?”

“You like corned beef?”

“Corned beef and cabbage? Were the Irish trying to torture themselves?” “HEY! I like corned beef and cabbage!”

[ophelialoveshandsomemen]

Cristo y Tú vivís en mi corazón.

 Capítulo Dos.( second chapter.)

Warnings: mentions of blood, wounds, seizures, medical procedures, self indulgent use of an ABBA song, Catholicism, maybe a swear or two. If you are under 18…please go to sleep instead and do not read my works!!!!

Medikua; is Basque for Doctor. Espagnole is French for Spaniard. I realize he’s not a spaniard but hispanic however she doesn’t know that and espagnole can sorta mean someone who speaks spanish if you will.

And yeah, I used an ABBA song. Guilty pleasure of mine and -Fernando- just shouts romance with El Catorce for me, so voila! Enjoy!

***********************************************************************************

 Medikua Hermenigilde Hortense, or Doc Hortense as he is more commonly known, is Isabeau's nearest neighbour from 6 and 3/4's of a mile away. A kind 88 year old man of Basque and French descent and the best medical man this side of the Atlantic, he came over to ask Isabeau if she could perhaps spare him an onion or two for his supper. Then promptly found her hunched over a strange, injured Hispanic man almost a km into her 'woods'. Luckily, he rode the donkey cart in. Making the delicate job of transporting said caballero back to the house much more stress free.

 Isabeau sat on the floor of the cart, the ragged cotton quilt he keeps on his seat to fend off the cold now draped across her lap to cushion the patient's head. As his donkey walked the trail to her house, the doc turned his head towards the back. The stranger is still unconscious, and Isabeau gently brushes his hair from his forehead, with her right hand keeping steady pressure on his wounds.

 That punctured lung is worrying him. Not because he doesn't have the equipment to treat such an injury. Of course he has the correct equipment, he is, after all, ex-military and he knows people, for God's sake. But because it's a punctured lung caused by a machine gunshot, something the good doctor can spot a mile away. Those are never pretty or easy to treat and almost always end fatally. How this young pup has stayed alive for this long is beyond him! Must be his guardian angel putting in much needed overtime...

*******************************************************************************************

  Isabeau has officially gone into shock. Or a panic attack. In this situation there can't be much difference, one is just as useless as the other. She vaguely wonders if it's a result of falling out of the cherry tree or of finding a badly wounded, Hispanic man in her woods. Both, in all honesty.

She still cradles his head in her lap and is monitoring his breathing almost constantly.

'"Doc, his breathing is getting to be quite laboured. Can I do something?"

 Doc hears the heavy worry saturating her tone. And makes the donkey pick up his pace.

" Alright, try hanging his legs off the end of the cart, get his blood to rush to his feet instead of into his lungs. And settle his back fully on your lap to elevate his heart level even more. But do it slowly, girl. Slow and steady."

 He turned back his head many times as he ordered her to ensure she didn't accidently jostle the boy wrong. He had noticed her complexion become paler. "Breathe, Isabeau, breathe! I don't need the both of you passed out in a donkey cart on me. I'm far too old to deal with this all by myself."

 She wordlessly nodded. Her returning nausea didn't thank her for it. She subconsciously and minutely tightened her grip around the caballero's shoulders, consequentially pressing his scalp further against her stomach, mildly alleviating her need to lose her guts. She could feel his shallow breath in the crook of her left arm, quick, wheezing in and outs with a few of the inhales resulting in short choking fits. By now, both her arms and her naked thighs made her appear to be a human incarnation of a battlefield, stained scarlet with the lifeblood of young men, ( or of one young man, in this instance).

 His heartbeat, Isabeau could faintly feel thrumming in a rhythm too slow and unsteady for her comfort.

 She began to sing. Softly. For her comfort. For his comfort. In order to forget the pain in her head from the fall. In hopes to ground the wounded man in her arms. To gently guide him back to the land of the living through his sense of hearing. Isabeau knows from both her studies in university and her own brief dabblings in mild hypnosis and lucid subconsciousness that a person who has lost consciousness, either from sleep, or pain, or loss of blood, can still register, deep in the recesses of their mind, sounds and voices and even full conversations. But they especially hear singing.

 So, Isabeau sings.

 The melody is the first that pops up in her brain, a song from one of the numerous cd's she keeps in her 2001 Ford f-250 King Ranch. An ABBA Gold cd, if she recalls correctly. She can't remember all the words, so instead she hums when her mind is blank of lyrics.

Can you hear the drums, Fernando? I remember long ago another starry night like this.

 They hit a tiny bump in the road, not even enough to bother the steed pulling the cart, but more than enough to send a jolt of pain coursing through the caballero.

In the firelight, Fernando

 The pain noticeable in the wince upon his face, causing the girl to expect him to awaken soon. However much she dreads to see the pain etched on his brow, at least he would show more sign of life than now. She continues to hum.

You were singing to yourself and softly strumming your guitar!

 A thought briefly flitters across her mind. She wonders if he plays guitar? Or perhaps he sings? Maybe his voice is strong, loud and boisterous. Or is it smooth and deep? Or he dances? Perhaps none of these and he prefers to sits in the sidelines and enjoy the talents of others instead...

And I'm not afraid to say the roar of guns and cannons almost made me cry!

" Almost there cerisette, which door?" "Uh...the back garden door has no stairs and is the closest to my bedroom." "Oh, your bedroom huh!" "My bed's on the floor. Easier to care for him that way."

There was something in the air that night. The stars were bright, Fernando!

Her chorus much slower and more weary than the original.

They were shining down for you and me, for liberty, Fernando!

The doctor steers the cart off the driveway and towards the house.

Though we never thought that we could lose, there's no regret.

They round the last corner of the house, stopping a few feet away from the door, back end turned to the door.

 If I had to do the same again, I would, my friend, Fernando!

******************************************************************************************* Three Hours Later....

Isabeau was exhausted.

 They'd been barely successful in carrying the still unknown man into her bed before he slightly awoke, only for him to begin having seizures while she went away in her pickup to Doc's house, grabbing the direly needed equipment for the procedure. Mercifully, he'd only had two minor fits before Doc stabilized him enough to treat the wounds.

Which had taken nearly three hours.

 She'd held his hand through most of it. But no one, including herself, could genuinely tell you if she'd done that for his comfort or her own...

She honestly can't recall much else.

 She stood in the bathroom down the hall from her bedroom, furiously but tiredly scrubbing at the blood stubbornly caught beneath her fingernails, staining her hands, sticking to the plush hairs on her arms, seeped deep into the fabric of the old yellow plaid shirt she'd swapped her lacy 70's top for...

 Her thoughts were disrupted by the good old doc gently placing his freshly washed hands upon her shoulder.

 " Get some rest cerisette. The sun may still be awake but you shouldn't be. The caballero is safe now...and so are you. " He sighs. " I am going home for a few hours. Call me if you need me. But get some rest."

 With that, Doc Hortense leaves the room. And yes, he did grab a proffered onion on the way.

*******************************************************************************************

 She carefully pads across her own bedroom, silent as a Trappist monk, to not disturb her espagnole, as she's begun to call him in her mind. She decides against simply grabbing her sleep clothes and changing somewhere else. Instead she stays standing before her dresser, in full view of son espagnole if he were to awaken. Which he doesn't. She swaps her soiled plaid shirt and jeans shorts for a comfortable pair of well-worn navy flannel pants and a soft long sleeved beige cotton undershirt. No underpinnings either. Girl likes her freedom too much to subject herself to that.

 Still a tad too wired up to fully rest, what with the time only being around 8:30 or so, Isabeau cautiously rummages through his minor belongings. Carelessly thrown to the side whilst his life was in danger, now she takes everything in her hands as if it's a precious object. She gingerly folds the white linen jacket, the torn beige button-up, the filthy knit cotton undershirt and the striped wool pants, putting them to the side to be washed later.

 Next come the gun holsters and the bullet belts, made of beautifully well crafted leather, the stitching somehow immaculate. Without a doubt handmade. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Isabeau gets the barest nudge that there is no way in hell this was made within the last 50 years. They seem worn: however, they can't be older than a three or four years.

 What intrigues her the most about the belts and the holsters, besides being nearly completely full, is the embroidered cross upon the pistol holster. No outlaw trusts that much in God, but no soldier dresses like this. Perhaps a revolutionary from Southern America way back...in...the...

 She quickly makes the connection between the guns and the age of the leather and the medallion of La Virgen, the fact that he was shot by a machine gun, mass manufactured and distributed to many governments by Americans in the time she's thinking of.. She may be wrong, but an inkling tells her that she probably isn't. She walks hurriedly back to the bed, sits gently cross-legged on the side where she will rest and softly stares at her sleeping espagnole. Several minutes, or maybe hours, pass and then, she whispers, to the unconscious man, to the dark, to the angels, to God, to herself.

"There's a Cristero in my bed!"

________________________________________________________________

If you would like to be tagged let me know!

[b0ba-chan]

EVERY SINGLE CATHOLIC LEWD HERE HAS ME CREAMING GOD DAMNIT I WANNA FLIP MY PLAID SCHOOL UNIFORM FOR PRIEST-TO-BE!OIKAWA UP SO HE CAN SEE THE WET PATCH ON THE FRILLY LACE OF MY PANTIES THAT HAS A CUTE BOW IN FRONT OF IT

- lovie (if I make a blog I bet u not I'm gonna bombard it with catholicism & I'm gonna tag u in each & every one of it this is all bc of U boba chan)

you were such a pretty and impressionable you girl, fresh out of catholic school. you were about to leave for university but you cant just to let of your favorite teach, oikawa. you would go to all his little bible study classes to get closer to him and show him grown up you are now. but your time with him was limited, as you were going to leave soon. you stay back during on his classes, you two alone his house. you wore your uniform and your prettiest panty and bra set you can find. “o-oi- i mean tooru.” you shyly mumble and walk up to him. he smiles and pats your head. “hello, dear. how may i help you.”

you take a breath in and lift up your skirt to reveal you pretty, frilly panties to him. there was a noticeable wet patch between your thighs and he chuckles. “do you think you were slick, y/n? ive watched you rubbing your thighs the whole class.” his hand traces the wet spot, eyes never leaving your shivering body. “thats it... i can teach you how to feel good.” he sits on his couch and pats his lap. you shyly sit and he raises your skirt as well as pushing your panties for him to inspect you. “let father tooru, help you.”

[copias-thighs]

If u can idc

I’ll only do like a scatter of some lol

2. Nationality: Amewican

3. Age: 21 *dabs* But I act like 5 year old apparently... well that’s what my family says anyways.

7. Sexuality: Bisexual

17. Do you have a crush?: My fiancé, Copia, cumulus, dewdrop, George Harrison, and someone else lol

22. Favourite food and drink: I love seafood and my fave drink is COCONUT WATER

23. What position do you sleep in: I sleep in a ball of blankets cuddled up to a giant stuffed bunny.

28. Any pets?: I have two budgies. Paste and Blue Meanie

31. What was your last awkward situation?: nothing beats, and I mean NOTHING BEATS the moment I met Tom Hiddleston. I tried saying hello, but it came out as a voice crack all high pitched. He mimicked it watching me as I walked over to his side for the photo. TO WHICH I ACCIDENTALLY STEPPED ON HIS FUCKING FOOT OH THOSE POOR SUEDE GREY SHOES HE WORE 😭😭 I can’t even look at the photo without cringing...

44. What’s my religion/thoughts on religion: I had an anon ask in my inbox that I since deleted because it annoyed the hell out of me. It went something along the lines of “If you’re catholic why are you listening to metal bands?” Who cares if I follow Catholicism, the music is banging, every fan in each band I listen to are super hella cool and nice, and I’m not forcing anyone to convert so???? No one’s forcing me to convert to their religion either so why the hell should I care??? As long as you respect me and my views, I’ll respect you and yours. Plus it’s not my fault I love different types of music 😂

49. What does your wardrobe consist of?: Band tshirts, leggings, skinny jeans, pastel clothing, converse, Levi’s, HEELYS, cosplay clothing lol

51. How would you describe your style?: Uhhh.... it ranges to gothic, to sweet Lolita, to punk 😂

58. Songs you’re currently obsessed with?: Mary on a Cross, Toxicity, One Number Away.

59. Song you normally wouldn’t admit you like?: Tu Camino y el mio 😅😅

61. Favourite artist/band/genre?: I go from classical music, to metal, to classic rock, to country, to Hispanic, to RnB, to disco, there’s no in between.

64. Can you sing or play instruments?: I somewhat play the piano, guitar, and violin. I’m not great, but I’m learning.

66. Own any albums?: I own a LOT of albums by the Beatles, a couple of Creedence Clearwater Revival albums, a few System of a Down albums, and an album by the Bee Gees.

70. Your Fictional Crush/Es?: Copia and Cumulus. Fucking fight me.

74. A legend from where you live that you like?: It’s not much of a legend, but apparently beneath the town I live in there’s these tunnels that run all around. I don’t know what it’s for, but all I know is that they weren’t sewers and they’re sealed. There’s an opening somewhere around here, but no one knows where.

84. Favourite holiday?: I fucking love Christmas. Everyone actually gets along slightly better and I just adore all the lights and snow. I’m a sucker for Christmas activities, especially romantic walks in the gentle snow fall. I used to dress up as Rudolph and surprise my nieces when they were small. For a short while my oldest niece really believed I was an elf because I’m able to fold my ears in with the help of spirit gum 😂😂 so I had the elf ears

86. Would you use death note, if you had one?: I have one name on the top of my head, but I would be too scared to even write in it 😂😂

88. Could you survive a zombie apocalypse?: with my extensive gadget collection, yes.

89. If you had to be turned into a paranormal being, what would it be?: THOSE NIGHTCRAWLER CRYPTIDS THAT LOOK LIKE WALKING PANTS, I CAN WALK AS COPIA’S WHITE PANTS 😂😂 Or mothman, that’s pretty cool too.

94. Write 3 things about yourself-only one of them must be true: I used to tap dance, I hate plaid clothing, and I hate stuffed animals.

96. Be a hero or be a villain?: Everyone’s a hero in their own mind.

[maggotmouth]

        hi i’m nora ( 23. gmt. she/her ) and it turns out i really miss playing bridget ! i wasn’t feeling frida bt i wanted to explore som of her backstory more so ive kind of fused bits of her into bridget..... sue me.... for those of u who didn’t know her before i dropped her, bridget grew up in a trailer park in texas, she’s an angsty socialist leftie who gets fucked at the pub and goes off on one about capitalism.  film nerd. got in on a partially subsidised scholarship and works in a bar and a fast food place to pay for her accomodation. here’s a pinboard !! everythin else is below this cut, like this post n i’ll (probably forget to) smash that im button for plots x

application template.

( cis-female ) haven’t seen BRIDGET MATUSIAK around in a while. the MARGARET QUALLEY lookalike has been known to be GARRULOUS & CANDID, but SHE can also be FICKLE & ERRATIC. The 21 year old is a JUNIOR majoring in FILM. I believe they’re living in AUDAX but I popped by earlier and no one answered the door.

aesthetics.

thumb holes poked through the cuffs of your sleeves, roller blades, grazed knees, not eating your greens, smiling with a mouthful of blood, sleeping in a cherry lip balm and scrunchies to keep the wild locks from your eyes. piercing your own ears with a safety pin when your dad wouldn’t take you.

connection to tatiana & did they choose her name during the watershed?

knew each other from the cheer team in bridgets freshman year and tatiana’s sophomore year. had a competitive friendship to start with but then they got into a discussion about politics at a party one night, and maybe hooked up a few times after tatiana had jst broken up w someone. they were sort of seeing each other very casually for a bit, but…. they came from vastly different circles n it didn’t really work. they were in a bad partch at the time of the reaping so to speak, and bridget picked her name For A Giggle but now regrets it big time obviously

tw drugs, teen pregnancy

BACKSTORY TIME.. her mother was from the wrong side of the tracks, was chucked out of home pretty young after a teenage pregnancy, wanted 2 go to art school and started working as an erotic dancer to pay for college but then jst…. ended up staying there. one of those girls u see in the documentaries who had Big Plans but ultimately never got to pursue them n jst got…. sucked in by the money 

her mom n dad met in high school at a parents evening. alice was fourteen, toby was thirty-one. bridget’s mom alice was a roman catholic – uneducated in matters of safe sex, mother mary around her neck, bras hanging over wooden crucifixes – and willing to give it to the first boy who seemed interested enough, gift-wrapped or not. toby was the father to a girl down the road who alice knew nothing of besides her name and the few encounters in the corridors facing a stoney stare that screamed homewrecker. it only happened once, but once was enough. alice was out of the house as soon as her parents knew a child was growing in her womb.

bridget n her mum alice were more like sisters growing up, probably because of the closeness in age. alice should’ve known that you couldn’t have a thirteen-year-old-daughter at 27 without everyone knowing you’d been one of those girls who gave it away fast as a hot potato, and maybe bridget should have known that she’d inherit more than her mother’s wide eyes, that things have a way of circling back to us --- that at fourteen she too would lose it on the floor of a swimming pool changing room, soggy back, polka-dot nylon of a swimsuit pulled down to her ankles.

she grew up in a trailer park just outside of orlando resort, but she was raised in dressing rooms surrounded by sparkly costumes and nipple pasties and leotards and the like. as a kid she’d try to trot about in her moms heels n yearned for the day she’d be able to be on stage. 

if you’ve seen the florida project its a bit like tht.... just kids left to do their own shit.... mother’s a bit all over the place... made money by stealing wristbands off orlando theme park visitors, and bridget was p much raised by the community, to be honest. most of her youth was spent scurrying about half naked in cowboy boots and glasses too big for her face. a smol feral child

gilly (referred to as junior) was born four years after bridget, the son of a carpenter and sculpture artist named gilbert “gilly” senior, her moms latest squeeze. whenever she wasn’t at school bridget would be in gilly’s workshop doin her homework surrounded by parts of furniture or hanging out with the kids who were visiting disneyland but couldn’t afford the hotels on the resort

like her mother, bridget fell pregnant barely out of her gingham print dresses, hair in two plaits down her back, teddies still lining her bed. unlike her mum, she was not box-shipped out to a home for fallen women but rather booked into a clinic, given a pill, just like taking your vitamins.

her mother flaked out when bridget was around fifteen and junior was eleven. they were in the system for a while, before gilly was finally granted custody as legal guardian. the three of them moved to marfa, texas so that gilly could run classes in sculpture and woodworking at the art institute. they’re not sure where their mother went. some say she rededicated herself as a virgin and joined the convent in penance for her sins. some say she works in a las vegas strip club and sells pills to minors. bridget likes to believe that she’s an actress, her name in newspapers and her face in a star-spangled dressing mirror.

bridget used to do sponsored silences and hunger strikes for kids in developing countries. was that kid in school who was always raising money something. i mean its kinda cute but also she just wanted the acclaim and attention so…. and most of the time it didn’t even make it to the disadvantaged kids she was raising it for cos her mom needed rent money or to buy the kids new shoes n they could barely afford much themselves

she’s a strident feminist, an activist for human rights and animal rights, a vocal vegetarian and an all-round soapbox sadie. catch her in the quad shouting about human rights through a megaphone. will most definitely have quizzed your character on institutionalised racism whilst inhaling nos at a party and snacking on a big bowl of cheesy wotsits

aesthetic: big military or leather jackets over tiny little sundresses. always in docs or creepers and a beret with an anarchist symbol painted on it. wears a long green trench coat covered in badges for alt punk rock bands or a red denim jacket that she hacked into a crop jacket with a pair of kitchen scissors. cuffed jeans, thrifted or stolen. white converse, more grey tbh through years of wear. crop tops and plaid shirts tied round her waist. smudged mascara. glitter smeared over cheekbones from the previous night. cigarette smoke shrouding you like a veil, the red string of a thong peaking out purposely from jeans, piercing your own ears with a safety pin when your dad wouldn’t take you, kate moss posters lining the walls of a teenage bedroom, thumb holes poked through the cuffs of your sleeves, feet pounding the earth until your soles bleed crimson.

an aspiring screenwriter. she has a very image-based view of memory and experience. always doing a screenplay or shooting film. her style has a lot of catholic iconography (think virgin suicides style or baz luhrmann’s romeo + juliet if it was done on a super 8 camera) bcos catholicism is one of the few things she remembers about her mother. she’s never actually tried to find her mum / find out about her, jst…. occasionally channels that energy into her work.

struggles with self-image and the need to be Loved By All a lot. uses sex as an affirmation of her worth and also kinda manic-depressive (though not officially diagnosed) bcos her upbringing was a bit unstable, she was a looked after child for a while when the adoption papers were still going through… struggles a lot with feeling unwanted, especially since her grandparents refuse to acknowledge her existence cos she was born outside of marriage….. so she craves feeling wanted,, like despite being a real women’s rights activist and hating objectification, at the same time to bridge there’s nothing better than someone sizing you up with hunger in their eyes

she’s queer, but i guess she favours women, and is incredibly vocal in her support of the lgbt+ movement. often at rallies. has done a face-sitting protest. really is that bitch

there’s a degree of anger for anger’s sake in bridget. she likes passionate, angry music – particularly garage rock, punk and riot grrrl. she loves the slits and skinny girl diet. viv albertine inspired her to take up bass guitar.

back at lockwood she was working two jobs to pay for uni !! at the bowling alley polishing the shoes and fixing the bowling lanes, and also as a burger flipper at mcdonalds. in amsterdam she’s managed to secure a part-time bar job at one of the hendrix university bars

massive film buff. is majoring in film at uni also spends a lot of time at the movie theatre n probably has like a season ticket. is one of those pretentious film nerds who’re like “what do u think of goddard’s work?” but also just really into shitty horror movies

she spends her evenings in downtown bars willing away her boredom, trying to find something that’ll jerk her out of apathetic lethargy. she toys with the idea of becoming a stripper — it certainly pays better than flipping burgers — but she lacks the energy to dance for several hours a night.

she loves b movies and slasher flicks. at parties, she’ll occasionally try to make a horror of her own, on a super 8 camera in someone’s basement, very paranormal activity, but she’ll inevitably get bored, or too drunk and give up, like she does with most things in her life. she lacks drive and motivation. she’s bright but there’s no hunger in her.

she’s fickle and enigmatic. one moment she could be your best friend, the next, she’ll behave like a total stranger. bridget’s unpredictable because she’s still unsure of her own identity, frequently flitting between different characters, like snake skins, before she grows bored of being bubbly and eager and becomes spiteful again. her core personality traits are probably forthright, impulsive, restless, thrill-seeking, selfish, gregarious, easily bored, childish.

SOME ?MILDLY AMUSING? FACTS

writes shitty poems on the back of napkins and quotes dead philosophers she’s never read. romanticises herself a lot. like will be standing there in a ripped t-shirt and her undies smoking a cig like “hmmm… i bet someone is falling in love with me right now”

is vegetarian for environmental reasons but snorts coke at parties like that isn’t shit for the environment ?? sis, it don’t add up

loves dirt. ate a worm once because someone dared her too. shamelessly disgusting.

she’s slightly obsessed with true crime, up late watching documentaries on the manson family murders.

favourite drink is cherry coke

a lot of her time is spent in the record store, plugged into a set of headphones, head-banging in the corner to a scratched record. music, for birdie, is a form of escapism. that and dropping acid in parking lots lmao.

sells nudes on twitter. whenever she gets low on cash she contacts one of the seedy old men who used to visit her mom’s club to venmo her $500 in return for pictures

that girl who’s always harping on about body positivity on instagram while wearing cute underwear and looking absolutely bomb

really good at rodeo bull riding. the club in marfa had one so as a youth she got really good at it bcos she was constantly tryin to outdo her friends on who could stay on for the longest. a video of her staying on one for like 4 minutes after downing several jager bombs went viral once.

micro-doses acid for mild depression bcos she didn’t believe in “that CBT bullshit”, thought that therapists, like her, were jst con artists so always a bit spaced out

volunteers at one of the local galleries but mostly just rants to old white dutch men about how cis white men have dominated art for years :/ is one of those SJW-types , like.... have a day off, jameela jamil......

has a pet rat called popeye

takes photographs of dead animals to use in her art and often posts them side-by-side with stills of women in porn to show the shelf-life of female sex workers in a patriarchal-dominated industry or some bullshit idk

big into spoken word poetry, even if its shit. likes savage depictions of femininity

wrote a thesis on art as an act of masturbation that got published

this bitch HATES capitalism and LOVES karl marx

time isn’t real. nothing exists. the self is a social construct. finger guns.

an awful person, really

plots i want that i mostly stole from the tags

muse a tries to stand up for muse b in a bar but unfortunately cannot fight for shit.

muse a (prob bridget cos works in a bar) works somewhere that’s open late and muse b comes in to take shelter from the storm.

‘I got in my car and you were sleeping in the backseat who the hell are you and how did you get into my car’ 

 umm a wlw plot isnpired by san junipero ! esp this post. could have been a former fling that ended sourly !! cos i dont like ship forcing but still?? give me wlw stuff

 “i just decked you in the face because i’m drunk and you were pissing me off but ow my hand really fucking hurts i think i might have broke it and oh look your nose is bleeding and now we’re both sitting awkwardly in the hospital while i glare at you from across the room. but wait are you giving me sex eyes?? stop that i’m supposed to mad at you??”

“platonically sharing a bed until i wake up and you’re curled round me and my nose is buried in your hair so i’ll pretend to stay asleep to keep this for a little while longer” plots

 “highkey want a ‘someone wrote your phone number on the wall of a bathroom in my dorm with ‘call for a good time’ and i just texted you to let you know that i scribbled it out and oh wait you’re actually funny and easy to talk to and now we’re talking every day and i might have a tiny little crush on you even tho  i don’t even know your name’ plot”

 goddamn its another shippy wlw plot apparently that’s all my tag is but this post

“known for being rebels without cause, MUSE A and MUSE B are synonymous to their fast cars, nights out beneath the stars, empty bottles of alcohol, and loud music. they meet by chance one night and immediately click, and embark on a careless adventure after it despite not knowing each other. it’s them against the world: after all, what could go wrong ?”

any of these sad sour unrequited love plots

‘we take the same elevator every day and due to a misunderstanding I assumed you didn’t speak english and I’ve been talking to my friend about how hot you are for three weeks and apparently my friend has known from the start but you agreed not to tell me bc you both think its hilarious what the fuck’ au

‘I accidentally dropped you while you were crowd surfing and you broke your ankle and now I feel responsible so I’m carrying you out of the moshpit’ au

walked in on my roommate and you screwing except i know you from class and i freaked out a little

i was hustling you in pool for money but you were hustling me for free drinks so who’s the real winner here?

bridgot goes to strip clubs n peep shows like every day, cos she’s writing about the history of pornographic film n its basically research for her, so if ur characters would be into strip clubs they might see her there

i feel like she’d be on student council if they had one of those. shes that kind of bitch, turning up like elle woods with a big feather pen or a light-up heart marker, slamming down some truths before upping and leaving to go for her 11am chai latte break

som1 who attended the art institute in marfa for a summer n maybe knew her when she was a bit younger ??? idk

drama. angst. horror. also nice bike rides in amsterdam please

feel free to im me if u wanna plot, or, like this post and i’ll hit u with a message!

[ravenj84]

It won’t always be this way folks, but after such a long hiatus @jrcashwrites and I felt you all deserved a dump truck full of posting love.  Enjoy!!!

Chapters: 5/15 Fandom: BlacKkKlansman (2018) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Flip Zimmerman/Original Female Character(s), Patrice Dumas/Ron Stallworth, Flip Zimmerman/Original Character(s) Characters: Flip Zimmerman, Ron Stallworth, Patrice Dumas, Chief Bridges, Original Female Character(s), Original Male Character(s) Additional Tags: Eventual Smut, Enemies to Lovers, Medical Examination, Medical Jargon, Past Child Abuse, Single Parents, Past Rape/Non-con, Roman Catholicism, Catholic Guilt, Catholic Imagery, Smoking, 1970s, Kidnapping, Death, Colorado Rockies, Masturbation, Flashbacks, Autopsies, Drinking, Drug Use, It's Flip Zimmerman so lets be real...you know what that means ;), plaid upon plaid upon plaid, Guns, Police Procedural, Detectives, sleuthing, Medical Examiner, Science-y, No I'm not a doctor but I did stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night, KKK, Serial Killers, Slow Burn, Dark, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism Summary:

A series of brutal murders has cast a dark shadow over Colorado Springs. Flip Zimmerman and Sam Fisher, the new medical examiner, now must race against the clock to discover who's behind the gruesome carnage without falling victim to the killer and their deranged beliefs of absolution.

[cuervitodeisla]

The types of people at an All Girl Catholic School (based on what I saw back in 2008-2014)

1) gay. either is gay or looks gay enough to be called slurs/be avoided (people would start rumors and ask your friends if they feel safe around you/how can you be friend with someone like that)

2) the trans boy forced to wear the dreaded plaid uniform skirt

3) the satanist the religion teacher wants to convert back to Catholicism… she’s not satanic, no one knows how he got to that conclusion. Everyone thinks he’s going to far.

4) the craziest party girl who shows up visibly hungover to class, sometimes potentially drunk but we don’t judge… that much

5) actually responsible honor students that everyone respects for the most part. It’s a college prep school so having a perfect gpa while taking all the advanced classes is admirable.

6) the ones who always hanged out at the nurses office, they weren’t sick, the nurse was just cool

7) the choir kids that were either punks or metal heads

8) the religious ones didn’t exist or at least I never saw them with my own eyes

9) the worst psychological/cyber bullying ever, girl had to change schools mid semester because it got really bad, and then the bullies started a rumor saying she left due to teen pregnancy.

10) rich kids stealing MacBooks left and right just cause

[muutosarchive]

between her strict religious upbringing, & wanting to break free of her parents... it’s hard, not to crave something bigger in turn. something organized! however - without the strict, smothering nature of zealots & catholicism. she wants to find herself! wear what she wants. listen to what she wants... be what she wants! though, there’s a fine line between wanting something - & being able to break away from what’s holding you back. when she’d found santiago’s order, it wasn’t exactly pretty - though, she’s come to understand that they were doing these ugly things to make the world a better place for their children. it’s a godly idea, in theory. needs of the many outweighing the needs of the few, & she’s learned to appreciate it, for what it is. especially when factoring in her retained religion -- & the things she’s seen.

there’s not supposed to be a god here, but he still lives in her heart. hidden away... yet, her chin is low as she approaches. fidgeting with her fingers, wide doe eyes widening further still, now that she’s looks up at the imposing figure. the leader... their leader. a little plaid skirt on. green tartan, with soft ivory knee socks. capped with an anthrax t-shirt, she used to have to hide under coats when she went out to gigs. though still, she appears innocent as a lamb. “excuse me ---” she starts - mousy, as ever. smile small, & shy. brows narrowing softly, sweetly. cringing at herself, truly. “-- mister ortega?”

@ithirial​    /  /     asked for judith, to santiago <3 

[toongrrl-blog]

My Style Analysis: Mrs. America Beauty Parlor Scene

*Spoilers Ahead for Mrs. America*

Picture this: 1971, a beauty parlor that is stuck in the year of it’s founding (1962) with no trace of the hairstyles that happened in the nine years since it started.

Those are promo pics for Seasons 3 and 7A of Mad Men which was set from 1960-1970. In fact they have a beauty parlor scene too set in 1962:

Color scheme is the same (pastel pinks and aqua tones) although it looks fresher and more cosmopolitan (check the gold and black touches in the 1962 scene with the atomic fixtures) than in the 1971 scene (plainer, with dated photos, and traditional attitudes about being a wife and keeping your body Cheryl Tiegs-slim even after giving birth to 6 kids and pushing 50) in contrast to this scene from The Battle of the Sexes:

More graphics with the women (both the players and the beauticians with modern hairstyles, even an afro). 

Now that I have set up the interior design, lets go on to the women featured in the Mrs. America scene where I will contrast them with some Mad Men pics:

Betty Draper pastels and cardigan, check. A “gracious lady” expression with some hidden tools, check. Scarf done a la Peggy Olson, check. A more severe and conservative version of Joan Holloway Harris’s updo, check. Eyeshadow done like warpaint, check. She and Joan would never see eye to eye.

This is a woman rigid in her Daughters of the American Revolution background (check that Eagle brooch) and her Catholicism that she can’t see, or rather, refuses to see the need for an amendment that would protect women from different backgrounds from discrimination. Clearly also she is Betty Draper’s country cousin (Main Line Betty living in New York bedroom communities) or Peggy Olson’s wealthy and more assimilated distant relative (Peggy’s older relatives with Brooklyn accents in contrast to the patrician Midwestern accent of Phyllis). 

She smiles away at the younger Pamela’s worries about easing her way into impending mother hood (notice her size), about maintaining a slim figure after having the many children that “God will bless her with”, Alice’s worries about being considered irrelevant as a upper-middle class housewife amongst her husband’s colleagues wives having their own careers and her fears of having to support herself financially and their confusion over how a woman as beautiful as Gloria Steinem would choose to not marry. Phyllis chooses to make such a woman sound deficient, failing to understand (despite being much worldlier than her less-educated counterparts who likely married out of high school) why a woman who can have her pick of male admirers would choose to not settle down. Joan can tell her a few things. Put a pin in that fugly jacket she’s wearing to protect her clothes from hairs. 

Now on to Alice, Phyllis’s friend who worries about the Equal Rights Amendment and what it will mean for her. Alice has what is now called dyslexia and when she was growing up (1930s and 1940s), there were barely any resources to help dyslexics or diagnose the condition; actually most suffered from ridicule targeting their intelligence or work ethic. Lucky for Alice she came from a close-knit community and a family that did love her but hampered her independence (as we see in “Houston” she hardly has dealt with inconveniences like hotel room shortage in her life before that), that family also had wealthy parents (enough to live in those houses) and she was able to lean into the Prom Queen ideal and marry a guy she dated in high school at 19. But think about the experiences of a dyslexic person from a working-class background? One who doesn’t fit the standard of beauty that Alice does. Or one with a darker skin color? Or one for whom English is a second language, there are a lot of privileges that Alice is blessed with what do hamper her independence, confidence in herself, and her view of the world and what other women put up with. 

Now on to Alice’s salon jacket. Alice sticks out for me because in contrast to Phyllis and the others, she wears button down patterned shirts with skirts that look more modern and casual; despite dipping into the neutral tones and pastels worn by her conservative and religious (and somewhat narrow-minded and ignorant to privilege) peers, Alice is seen in bright colors and autumnal tones. She also expresses compassion for marginalized groups (apologizing when she saw how her homophobia can hurt the lesbians serving food in their lounge and speaking up when one of her own peers makes racist comments), she is forced out of her gilded cage more to the point of view of others (like her abused friend Pamela), and she learns that Phyllis doesn’t empower her but rather feeds off of Alice’s fear of the upward trajectory of working women and how it’d affect her. Alice’s salon jacket, unlike the frumpier and cumbersome ones worn by Phyllis and Pamela, is very cropped like an extra accessory and lightweight and light-colored. Also note the light blue with brown plaid ensemble that Alice wears, it and the jacket are costume foreshadowing to Alice becoming a independent working girl. 

Honestly if she talked to Willie (or not possible because maybe Willie wouldn’t feel that secure talking to her), she would see that someone like Willie isn’t threatened by women like Shirley Chisholm succeeding, actually as we saw in “Phyllis”, Willie looked like her heart was singing with joy.

Here is a story that DOES NOT make my heart sing with joy or schadenfreude: young Pamela Whalen. 

She is the youngest and most impressionable of the STOP ERA housewives and this is a woman who CLEARLY needs feminism so bad. This girl from her first scene is straight up told the worst thing she can be after having babies and being married is to not fit into her wedding dress, her role models are old-school women who are in relationships that are toxic or at best unappreciative (Read Re-Making Love’s part about Fundie sex). Her husband is noted to be controlling of her comings and goings, even yanking her at a friend’s son’s wedding, he gets her pregnant constantly, “has a temper” she has to tiptoe around just for her sanity, and controls the house budget.

I’m gonna get right to her jacket because it helps me make sense of her tragic end: same as Phyllis the older woman who tells her that if she is obedient and makes her abusive husband “feel needed” (i.e. she probably pretends to not have an ounce of independence or capabilities that she built up for the then past 7 years) he will treat her decently. This is a girl who is stuck in a different, much more repressive time and with what looks to be a lack of formal work history or education and with her attitude staying in the kitchen, she’s being hurt by the cause she has campaigned for. She has a Betty Draper ending and the lifestyle: this is how young women (even some older than she were doing their hair).

Check the young feminists in the show too and the tennis players in Battle of the Sexes (even the conservative and homophobic Margaret Court is more modern). The Mad Men women likely visited salons but they were going for modern, less time-intensive hairdos. As another example here are some mothers on Stranger Things (who are around Pamela’s age):

The nice thing is that when Mrs. America ends is that Pamela is still a young woman and therefore has a lifetime of risks and opportunities that can be there for the taking and hopefully she keeps her mom, sister-in-law, and Alice as her personal Girl Squad Versus Kevin. 

[jesstheimpaler]

Get to know me

I was nominated by @unclejager for this fun get up. The game is to answer the questions and nominate 9 others you would like to know more about. I nominate @badassjamez6900 @alwaysabeautifullife anyone else who wants to play the game. I know, it's a cop out to not include more people. Most of the blogs I follow are Halloween/Autumnal pics. Sue me. Questions ⏺What's your age? 26 ⏺What's your current job? I'm a QDDP. I work for people with special needs. I hire, train, encourage and discipline staff. I advocate for people who don't have a voice. Also paperwork. ⏺What's a big goal you're working towards (or have already achieved?) I want to be a mother. I want own a home and raise a few chickens and have a garden. Also learn to oil paint. And go back to school to get a degree. ⏺What's your aesthetic? Florals and plaids. The occasional "goth queen" item. ⏺Do you collect anything? Books. Rosaries. ⏺What's a topic you can always talk about? Metal music, Catholicism, animals, crazy things kids do, nature, mental illnesses, developmental disabilities, gardening, video games, biology, literature, my malamute, folklore, gardening ⏺What's a pet peeve of yours? Entitlement. Inability to walk in others' shoes ⏺Good advice to give? God never gives you more than you can handle; with his help. Baking soda cleans teeth, stains, counters and your liver. Use more baking soda. Also, what you do to pay your bills does not define you as a person. ⏺What are 3 songs you'd recommend? Today? "They Say" Scars on Broadway "Grand Canyon" Puscifer "Passenger" Deftones