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knavesflames · 5 months ago

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hi!!! consider wandering into a gym and acting all weak so that pretty ladies will come up and offer to help you

i'm talking pretty ladies with ABS!!! dehya, clorinde, arlecchino, beidou, rosaria (take your pick, pookers)

i'm the weakest mf, i'd ask for a spotter to lift 5 lbs 😇 just to see the pretty women fr

Hi pookie!! I know you’re feeling down lately so I thought I’d try to prioritise this one for now😮 first post ever that isn’t Arlecchino based!! How crazy:0 time to give Dehya some well deserved love, I think..

Word count: 1181

Content: silly reader does not know the gym, dehya is a sweetie but also horny for reader, grinding on abs

Nsft utc!

When you walk into the gym, it’s more than obvious you are NOT a regular. Your appearance isn’t what gives it away (though it doesn’t help), it’s the fact you’re utterly adorable clueless with all the equipment. Even though you’re desperately trying to figure it out, nothing about what you’re doing is correct. From the way you struggle to lift a 4kg weight, to the way you aren’t even tall enough to reach the equipment that isn't the height of your waist or lower. You’re tiny. She feels bad for you in the beginning, and she does what no other woman in the gym does. She goes up to you, reaching to take down whatever equipment you need, spotting you even when you lift the smallest amount of weight possible. She sets the machines up correctly for you too, quietly letting you know that you’re doing it wrong. She doesn’t make it obvious, no, she knows how it could be embarrassing for you. You’re just so inexperienced.

She adores it. She’s been watching you since the day you started coming to this specific gym. Your tight clothes she knows you’re wearing to look more toned than you are. The way you struggle with every machine, the way you look around to copy other people’s motions. The way you stare at her when she’s training her muscles. Dehya is no idiot, not in the slightest, and you’re not subtle in the slightest. If anything, she enjoys the attention she’s getting from you, and she plays up to it. Lifting more than she needs to just to watch the rise and fall of your chest, grunting louder than she usually does to relish in the way your eyes glaze as you think of her grunting as she fucks you. She’s teasing you, and she loves every second of it.

So, she decides, after six long months, does she interact with you directly. Dehya, being Dehya, is just a little bored of watching you react so far away from her. She wants to hear your breathing, hear your muttered responses to her as she makes your mind go blank. You’re shy, though, she’s gathered that much, so she’ll be kind, she thinks. She’ll do it in a way that’s just as good for you both. Before she can think of what she’s doing, she’s tying her locks into a ponytail at the back of her head, careful not to put too much strain on the strands by her ears, and she’s calling out to you from across the gym.

“Hey, pretty girl,” she drawls, loud enough that your head whips around, your eyes wide at the idea of finally being noticed by the girl you’ve been pining over, the whole reason you’re going to the gym. “Come here and help me, yeah? Thanks, doll.”

You drop the weight you’re holding immediately (one you had strained to even pick up), almost scrambling over. You wait, bouncing your foot as you glance at her. You watch as Dehya moves into an exercise you’ve seen her do often, one you’ve always secretly (not so secretly, she knows) admired her doing. She lowers herself down to the floor before her eyes, blue as sapphires, focus on you again. “Sit here,” she pats the area around her hips softly, looking up at you expectantly.

“What?” You manage to splutter out words, looking at her with widened eyes almost in horror at the prospect. Only because you know immediately what’ll happen, and you already feel the coil in your stomach tighten at the idea. Somehow, though, you can’t resist from gingerly perching yourself on the side of her hip, only for Dehya to tut and shake her head with a grin.

“No, straddle me. I can’t exercise if I’m worried you’re gonna fall off, can I, doll?” She raises an eyebrow, just waiting, and eventually, you obey her, moving until your entire weight rests on her. She hums in approval, her hands finding your waist, her thumbs stroking the skin a little too intimately. “Good girl, see? God, you’re tiny.”

The words she says are breathless as she eyes you. She’s not ashamed either, the smirk on her face tells you that much, but a few seconds later, she’s using your body weight to do hip thrusts, grunting with every rep, enjoying your ever flushing face.

After a while, Dehya is past her usual rep count, and you know it, too, but she’s not stopping. She’s barely counting, and she’s more concentrated on the way her hands are squeezing ever so gently around your waist, and the way one of her hands is sliding towards your hip.

She knows it’s late at night, there isn’t anybody else here now. Everyone left a while ago, so she takes the chance. A risky move, and she does it anyway, faking innocence, like she has no idea what she’s doing. Her abs are already slick from the sweat continuously gathering, and despite you being clothed, she moves you gently towards her stomach. Her hip thrusts have slowed to a halt now, though, just to keep up the innocence she’s been feigning, she does another, but only to hide the way she ever so gently glides your clothed core against her abs.

She loves the way you gasp at the feeling of it, the way your lips part ever so slightly. So, she does the same thing. Three times, until her hip thrusts have stopped once again. No longer is she exercising, opting instead to make the pretty girl at the gym gasp and sigh in pleasure. Dehya eventually becomes more bold, one thumb tracing the band of your leggings, whispering sweet nothings about how wants to see you without them. Each word of hers, whispered with so much affection brings you closer and closer to whatever sort of cliff you’re approaching. Your hips? They don’t even need guidance from her anymore, they’re moving by themselves thanks to encouragement and praise from the woman below you.

“Good girl, just like that. Aw, you’re so tiny. So tiny you can move right across them, can’t you? You should come to the gym late at night more often.” She chuckles, moving you faster as you moan into the air. They’re stifled moans, but moans nonetheless, and her eyes light up the second she feels you trembling as your orgasm crashes over you in powerful waves. You grip her hand hard, and the hand that isn’t being crushed by your own comes to stroke your hair, her voice talking you through it.

“Yeah, that’s it. Come on, let it happen, yeah? It’s good, right? My favourite form of exercise.”

You cannot resist the abrupt, hoarse laughter that spills from your lips at her final comment. What an odd way of breaking the ice, you think, though the ice melted the second she gave you that first glance. Maybe you can employ her to be your personal trainer, or something. Maybe you can admit you only come to the gym for her, and invite her to your place.

#🐱 𝔎𝔦𝔱𝔱𝔶 #🔥 𝔎𝔫𝔞𝔳𝔢𝔰𝔣𝔩𝔞𝔪𝔢𝔰 𝔦𝔫𝔟𝔬𝔵 #Dehya #genshin dehya #gi dehya #dehya x reader #dehya smut #Dehya genshin #Dehya genshin impact #Dehya x you #Dehya omg #genshin impact #genshin #genshin smut #genshin wlw #genshin x reader #genshin x you

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cecilysass · 2 years ago

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Pause (5/11)

Read on AO3 | Tagging @today-in-fic

Chapter 5: Survivor

CW: references to suicide attempts

Her mother leaves to go find Scully some clothes, and Mulder has not yet returned. His apartment is very quiet. Scully slumps onto the couch and stares at all of the clutter, all of the chaos he has let pile up around him. It makes her feel closed in.

She feels desperate to be doing something, taking some kind of action. Some petulant part of her wants to make her own dramatic exit—to go for a long walk on the streets of Alexandria to clear her head, to worry and anger him.

Still, she reluctantly agrees: that’s probably not smart. She should be prudent about staying unseen until they know more. So she’s effectively a prisoner, she thinks grimly.

Some sort of physical activity might do her good. She can’t go for a run, but maybe she could lift weights. Work on building up some muscle mass. She runs her palms over her limbs, the waistband of her tight jeans. She’ll need better clothing for a workout, she realizes.

Going on a fishing expedition through Mulder’s bureau again, she commandeers a pair of his plaid boxers. They’ll work fine as exercise wear. She imagines he won’t like it, judging from his strong reaction to seeing her wear his clothes earlier, but she’s feeling rebellious.

As she steps out of her jeans and slides her legs into his boxers, she has an odd, unsettling thought pop into her mind: has he been wearing these blue checked boxers in various half-undressed states with women he brings back into this bedroom?

Imagining this scene—Mulder and these mystery women—turns her gaze over to his bed uneasily. Maybe he’s in some melancholy one-night stand phase, and that’s where the sweater came from. He might undress some beautiful woman he met in a bar right here, kiss her, some look in his eyes that she has not seen.

In the time she’s known him, she’s never really known him conclusively to have a one-night stand. She’s had her suspicions sometimes. And he can be awfully surprising.

There was the attractive ex-girlfriend who showed up out of nowhere and began sharing intimate moments with him. Diana Fowley, who was shot when they were protecting Gibson Praise. Did Agent Fowley recover? All of that seems recent to her, but it was years ago now. She must have recovered.

Scully doesn’t think she will ask after her.

This feeling she’s having now, this corrosive feeling thinking about Mulder and these women, or Mulder and Agent Fowley—this is beyond just worrying about her partner. Or feeling protective. She’s felt this feeling before. She knows what this feeling is. She’s not completely delusional.

Her thumbs run over the material of his boxers on her body. They are very soft, so big on her that they just lightly graze her thighs. She tries not to think about these boxers on his thighs. About the other parts of him they routinely touch.

Instead, she heads over to dig around in his messy closet, looking for the set of free weights she knows he keeps somewhere around this apartment—or at least, he used to, even though he more typically lifted at the gym at work. She discovers the weights in a battered plastic crate on the floor of his bedroom closet behind an untidy heap of his shoes. She drags out a few hand weights, leaving the heavier ones behind.

Thirty minutes later, when she hears the sounds of Mulder entering the front door, Scully is on her second set of bicep curls in the makeshift gym she has created on the floor of Mulder’s bedroom.

She’s tuned in his clock radio to the top-40 station, and now some empowering hip-hop song with all-female singers is playing. It’s catchy. Scully likes it.

She’s pressing the weights to her shoulders, lowering them again, concentrating on a steady, consistent pace, no sudden sharp moves. The driving beat of the song pairs with her motions, giving them shape and speed.

A few moments after he’s returned, she senses Mulder standing in the doorway of the bedroom.

She doesn’t turn to acknowledge him.

No doubt he’s annoyed that she’s now wearing both his tee shirt (knotted up around her waist to get the extra fabric out of the way) and his boxers. Likely he resents the incursion of the impostor into his apartment and his dresser drawers. She imagines he is standing there glowering at her, sulking as only Mulder can.

She pretends not to notice him, pretends to give her workout her full attention instead. To her surprise, she realizes she’s glad she might be making him angry. She’s just so angry herself—she wants him to feel it, too.

“What are you listening to?”

The tone of his question surprises her, and she turns to see him leaning his temple against the door frame, watching her.

To her shock, he doesn’t look in the least bit mad. His expression is soft and curious, almost wistful. There is something else there, too, something she can’t quite name.

“The radio,” she explains matter-of-factly. “I’m trying to catch up on the music I’ve missed.”

“You never cared about keeping up with pop music before.”

“People change,” she says, a sarcastic edge.

He says nothing, but his eyes track her as she blows the baby hairs back off her face and adopts a wider stance to transition into her set of tricep extensions. She lifts the weight above her head on the beat.

“Besides, I like this song,” she adds, glancing back at him.

Mulder’s mint tea eyes run carefully over her again. They linger on the sight of his boxers. There’s still something in his expression she doesn’t fully understand. Conflicted. Something he wants. He spends a long minute watching her, his forehead creasing as if he were analyzing evidence for a case.

“I see why you like it,” he says finally.

“What?”

“The song.” He steps forward. “I was listening to the lyrics.”

“Oh?”

“You’re a survivor. You’re not going to give up. You’re not going to stop—”

“I’m going to work harder,” interrupts Scully, pulsing the weight above her head. “Right. I see your profiling skills are as well-honed as ever.”

“Listen,” Mulder says, changing tone. “I’m sorry. I know that I was acting… well, I’m sorry. This isn’t your fault.”

Scully feels impatient with this apology, which doesn’t even begin to get to the heart of what’s painful in their interactions. “Fine. I understand,” she says, more sharply than she intends.

He’s biting his lower lip again, his eyes moving across her, but he doesn’t say anything else. “I’m, uh, going out again now to ask around about tracking down where the rental car came from and getting the DNA checked out. I guess I trust the Gunmen most with that.”

Scully sets down her weights, dabbing sweat off her forehead with the sleeve of his tee-shirt.

“Are the X-files still closed then?”

There is a pause. “No,” Mulder says, his eyes sliding away from hers now. “They’re open.”

“Do you have a new partner?”

“I’m not on the X-files any more.”

Scully tries to process this, her mouth falling a little open. The minor key paean to the power of survival plays on in the background, voices tremulously layering “ohhhh” on top of one another.

“They’re being run by an Agent Reyes. She seems like a good agent. Different approach from us, but she’s knowledgeable,” Mulder says. “She has a partner I don’t know as well, some former NYC cop, a guy named Doggett.”

Scully is still, but she wants to let loose a scream. She wants to beat her fists on the chest of this frustrating, passive, unfamiliar Mulder. How could you let this happen? Why are you not more upset? Instead, she simply stares at him.

“They’re doing okay, I think,” Mulder says, seeming to note something amiss in her expression. “Reyes calls me for a consult sometimes. You don’t have to worry.”

“It’s not the X-files I’m worried about.”

He smiles sadly, lifts his hand. “People change, right?”

“That’s a significant change.”

His eyes drift off to the side. “You can’t have thought I’d be able to go on working on the X-files after my partner died.”

Actually, Scully absolutely thought he would be able to. She’d expected him to when she had cancer. She’d wanted him to. And if she had died the many other times her life had been under threat, she assumed he would. She thinks of the Mulder who ran into the hallway after her, trying to convince her not to quit the Bureau. He’d claimed he didn’t know if he would be able to do it without her. Even in that moment, she didn’t entirely buy it.

“Besides,” he adds, shrugging, a half-hearted crooked smile, “I had to take some leave. I was benched for a while.”

“Why?”

“Let’s just say it was a rough time.”

“How rough?” Scully replies sharply. She thinks of the Gunmen’s message. No more scares, they’d said.

“Oh, you know,” Mulder says. “Hospital for the people who aren’t okay upstairs.”

Scully inhales a little. “You checked yourself in?”

“Well,” he says, “yes and no. I was strongly encouraged to do so by my employer. And your mother.”

She isn’t sure what to say. “Mulder,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

“No sense dwelling on it. I’m out now,” he says. “They gave me my weapon back and everything.”

“Where do they have you working?”

“I’m teaching at Quantico. Part-time for now. Easing back in.”

“That’s good,” she says, but it seems like an empty platitude. Is it good he’s teaching part-time at Quantico? She always enjoyed some aspects of teaching, but she has a hard time picturing Mulder—at least the restless Mulder she knew—doing it for very long. And if he’s only part-time, how is he spending the rest of his hours? It’s not cleaning his apartment, that’s for sure. For Mulder, work is everything.

Or it was.

Some significant part of her also wants to scream in his face that the partner he apparently grieved so deeply is right in front of him. That if he were that upset about her death, maybe he could see a reason to show some small joy about her return. That it hurts her so deeply he hasn’t.

“Well, you know me,” he says. “I’m a survivor, not going to give up, gonna work harder, all that.”

“Right,” she says, her smile miniscule.

“So I’ll be leaving you to your workout then, and I will run over to the Gunmen’s.”

“Do you want to take some hair samples? So you can begin running DNA right away?” Scully plucks some strands from her head. “Go get a plastic bag.”

“Yeah,” he says, looking as though her helpfulness has surprised him, and he walks out of the room, returning with a Ziploc bag.

“We can always do a swab, too, if you get a kit,” she says, slipping her hair inside as he holds it open.

“Sure,” he says. His attention seems to be caught by the sight of the coppery strands within the plastic.

“Mulder,” she says, carefully. She’s not sure how he will react to this question. “What about… the other body?”

He hesitates. “Cremated,” he says without emotion. “Remember? Your wishes.”

“Right,” she says. During her illness, she had hated the idea of her mother having to deal with a coffin, selecting clothes, making all the painful palpable decisions tied to a physical body. Scully knew well the awkward liminal place a cadaver occupied: still linked uncomfortably with someone’s personhood, yet unmoored from life. Still, cremation leaves evidence frustratingly out of reach. “I meant—maybe records of a post mortem examination?”

Mulder looks very tired. “Yeah, I think so. There was no autopsy though.”

“If you get me the name, I can call,” she suggests.

“I probably can find it for you,” He shrugs. “Call, sure, why not? I’d recommend coming up with a convincing pseudonym though.”

***

Mulder leaves again, and Scully finishes her lifting. Listening, always, to the radio.

In fact, she gives the radio programming her full, careful attention, taking in information as though she is studying for a test. She analyzes the music, the tone of the commercials. She absorbs each detail of the short news breaks they include on commercial radio stations.

It seems to her that popular music has changed noticeably in three years. It’s an absurd, baseless opinion for her to form, as she would be hard pressed even to name one pop song released in 1998, so she’s hardly an expert. Still, this 21st century music just seems to have a different feeling than what she dimly recalls. It’s less angsty. More effervescent. She decides to mull that over.

There is evidently a new president, which is unsurprising, as one of her lost years was an election year. He’s a Republican, the son of George H.W. Bush, the man who was president when she started at the Bureau. She wonders if the change of administration has meant changes at work. She wonders if she still has work, as she is generally considered dead.

When she’s finished with her typical lifting regimen, her muscles twitching slightly with the good kind of fatigue, she’s unpleasantly sticky. Scully sits cross-legged on the bedroom floor, fanning herself with the neck of Mulder’s tee shirt. Maybe her mom will be back soon with some of her things, and she can take a shower and change directly into her own clothes.

“Looking forward to a sweet Memorial Day weekend,” the deejay is saying in a buttery voice. “Highs in the low 80s tomorrow and Saturday, and cooling off to mid-70s on Sunday and Monday. So go out there and barbecue and ‘get ur freak on.’ Speaking of which—here’s Missy Elliot, at number ten this week.”

A very catchy dance beat begins. Scully closes her eyes, blowing air slowly out of her lips. Mulder’s apartment feels warm and stuffy right now.

And small. Like a prison.

Rotating her head around the scattered room again, she feels irritated by the state of the place. She decides to try to get this apartment in better shape. If she has to stay here, she can at least have some control over her own environment. It can at least be tidy.

She rises, walks into the kitchen, and pours herself a big glass of cold water. As she chugs it, she looks around with an evaluative eye. Between her and Maggie’s efforts, the kitchen looks pretty clean already, although maybe the floor could use a sweep. She makes the decision to start in the living room.

First step: finding his radio and turning up the volume on her pop hits.

For the next 45 minutes, Scully gives her full attention to conquering the chaos of Mulder’s living room.

She starts just by throwing out trash—the old newspapers and magazines, the empty chip bags, the junk mail sitting in heaps—and that makes a big difference. She feels lighter already.

Then she starts to consider the piles of papers that seem to have been more purposefully organized at one point, but now are spreading out over the surface of his desk and his table.

One pile seems to be medical bills, insurance statements, and as she examines them more closely, she sees that many of them have the letterhead of an in-patient mental health facility in Bethesda.

Her eyes scan one of the statements for details. Select phrases leap out at her. “Fox William Mulder, voluntary check-in.” “In-patient services, 6/7/00-10/11/00.” “Attempted self harm.” “Active 24 hour suicide watch.”

She sinks down into his desk chair, the paper tight in her grip. Four months. Four months in an in-patient facility is a very long time.

And an attempt to take his own life... well, she had inferred something like this must have happened. “No more scares,” the Gunmen said. She feels something heavy in her chest regardless.

It’s difficult for her even to wrap her mind around, to imagine playing out. She hates thinking about it. How could this have destroyed him so completely? He has survived so much worse.

Scully stacks the papers, making the pile more manageable and uniform.

Another unruly pile seems to be a stack of random old X-files-related clippings, spilling out of a decrepit accordion file, and she begins gathering them together. As she does, she realizes that this sizable heap of papers has been obscuring a small, desiccated flower arrangement sitting in the corner of his desk.

All of the blooms have long withered and browned. It’s rotted in places. He’s probably forgotten it is even there. There is a white ribbon tied in a crushed bow, with a simple card hanging from it. She opens it.

“Agent Mulder, our hearts break for you. - Holman and Sheila Hardt”

Such an eerie feeling, reading cards offering condolences on one’s own death. Scully isn’t sure who the Hardts are, but the wording strikes her as strange. Uncomfortably intimate for the loss of a partner. “Our hearts break for you.” It sounds more like the loss of a family member or a romantic loss. She supposes people never know what to say in these situations.

Scully picks up the ancient flower arrangement and throws it out.

When she has done a passable job of organizing and wiping off the surfaces of the living room, she drags out his vacuum cleaner and begins tackling the dust bunnies, crouching down to reach fully underneath the couch and in the dark and scary corners behind his desk.

She keeps thinking about Mulder holding that flower arrangement when it was fresh, reading that card to himself. Of Mulder alone in this apartment, alone with his grief. Surely someone helped him through it. Her mother? His mother? The Gunmen?

The dust particles—or something—make her eyes smart. Is it strange that she is surprised by the depth of his grief for her? Of course she knew Mulder cared intensely about her, that she was an important fixture in his life. She just wouldn’t have been able to picture this complete devastation, this utter destruction. Imagine if it had been him, she thinks. What would you have been like after his death?

She can’t imagine it. Not really. She only has the sense that it would have unbearable. Maybe the surprise is that it was the same for Mulder.

She’s just finishing running the extension of the vacuum over his Navajo blanket when she discovers she needs to slow down. It’s more than just her eyes being damp with a few tears—she just doesn’t feel very well.

Her stomach is completely unsettled, the way it was yesterday when she was in shock.

All right. She takes a calming breath. Maybe she has just overdone it in warm weather. Or maybe her body is just still having a physical reaction to all she went through yesterday—all she continues to go through today.

As though in a trance, she sets the vacuum down, steadying herself against the couch for a moment.

Some water, perhaps, could help. She walks calmly into the kitchen and pours herself another tall glass. Drinking that down does make things better for a few seconds. But then her stomach again tilts dangerously, causing her to grab at the edge of the sink in panic.

Slowly, cautiously she walks back into Mulder’s bedroom, hands outstretched like she is trying not to spill something.

Lowering herself backwards on the bed, closing her eyes, she concentrates on trying to get the world to stop moving. The radio is playing some bouncy dance song. Her stomach, unfortunately, seems to want to bounce right along. Up, down, side to side.

She places a palm on her abdomen, trying to settle, settle, stop, stop, slow down, settle.

And then at once the movement is too much. She hops up and bolts into Mulder’s bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before throwing up.

When she’s finished, when she has wiped off her face, she creeps uneasily back into the bedroom, feeling defeated and powerless.

Sitting meekly down on the edge of the bed, she wraps her arms around herself. Questions flicker through her mind at record speed.

Do I have a stomach bug? Did I have one before my supposed death? No one mentioned her being ill.

Is nausea a side effect of whatever unknown force it was that took me and preserved me perfectly for a year? Or… is it a side effect of being a newly created clone?

She thinks of all the throwing up she did when she was going through chemo. Surely if her cancer had returned in her lost years, her mother and Mulder would have told her. Surely secrets like that, about her own body, they wouldn’t keep.

Why doesn’t she feel entirely sure about that? Her tendency to doubt, normally a strength, is in overdrive now, pushing against everything around her.

The peppy dance song seems to be winding down and another song fading in. This new song begins with some acoustic guitar strumming, which then erupts spectacularly into big moody electric guitar riffs.

“Look at the stars, look how they shine for you,” a male singer says. “And everything you do. They were all yellow.”

She runs her hands lightly up and down the sides of her abdomen. A love song. Unabashedly romantic. A little melancholy. Not at all what she feels like listening to.

It jogs loose a distant memory: Melissa walks into their bedroom to discover her lying on the floor, age thirteen, listening to a sentimental ballad on the record player and sobbing and sobbing. “Sometimes when we touch, the honesty’s too much, and I have to close my eyes and hide…”

Even back then, that kind of sentimentality was out of character for Scully, but somehow the song’s lyrics had just seemed to speak directly to her. And before she knew it, she was subsumed in some giant wave of early adolescent hormones and the tears started to flow. Melissa, after recovering from her initial surprise, had laughed so hard her face turned purple, and Scully, humiliated, had scrambled to her feet, trying to regain dignity. For years later, Melissa only had to lean over and whisper “sometimes when we touch” in her ear to tease her.

Scully isn’t thirteen now. Still, something—the music, being alone, feeling so out of control—reminds her of the memory.

She hates feeling vulnerable, and she feels it now: a longing for someone who loves her to come and tell her she’s okay — that everything is fine, that she will be taken care of.

She’s ashamed to admit to herself that she really wants it to be Mulder, a man who was never hers romantically. A man who can’t even make eye contact with her now.

Her tears are back with a vengeance. She sits there wracked by irregular sobs, listening to this unfamiliar song’s lyrics and feeling ashamed. The more she cries, the more she is eaten up with self-recrimination.

No more, she tells herself. Stop.

This time, she doesn’t notice that Mulder is standing in the door of the bedroom.

“Are you … crying?” he says suddenly.

His voice startles her. She changes demeanor immediately, sitting up straight on the bed, angling her face away from him.

“No,” she says shortly.

A thick pause. “It looks like you are.”

“The song made me cry a little, if you must know.”

“This song?” Mulder listens. He’s getting as much of an education about current music as she is, she thinks bitterly. “This song about … the color yellow?”

“Yes, Mulder, the song,” Scully snaps, trying to wipe her eyes on his tee-shirt without him seeing.

The singer punctuates that moment with: “For you I’d bleed myself dry,” followed by the cinematic guitar riffs.

Scully finds herself swallowing back aniother involuntary sob, now fixating on the lyric. Of course she would have bled herself dry. As he would have, for her. Because fundamentally that was what their partnership was, always, wasn’t it? That was the level of commitment they had towards one another. Commitment that was simple, total, devastating. At one point, anyway. Now apparently lost.

She sniffs. Why, why is she so weepy? Over lyrics to a song? She’s horrified with herself.

Mulder is stepping into the room, walking towards the bed where she is sitting, apparently at least concerned enough to investigate further. He walks to Scully’s flank, and she can’t avoid his inquisitive scowl.

When he glimpses her face, no doubt splotchy and streaked, he looks appalled, and that makes her angry all over again.

“Okay,” she hisses, “enough. Just stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Looking so concerned.”

“I am concerned—”

“You know, Mulder, you think I don’t understand what’s going on with you, but I do.”

“What do you understand?”

By some miracle, she is able to take a breath and find her calm, reasonable tone of voice. “You look at me, and you see a stranger. Which upsets you, so you feel sorry for yourself.” She wipes her eyes again on his tee-shirt, cursing this persistent, inconvenient fragility. “Just consider, please, that it’s very similar for me. From my vantage point you’re an impostor, too. You’re not the Mulder I know.”

He opens his mouth and closes it, suddenly stricken.

“The Mulder I know would never have given up the X-files,” Scully says in a low voice. “The Mulder I know trusts me. Calls me Scully. He sleeps on his couch, not… in some bed with some fancy sheets with some unknown woman. When it comes down to it, I don’t know you. You’re a stranger. It’s unsettling… for both of us.”

Look at the stars. Look how they shine for you.

He just stares at her, looking faintly stunned. He doesn’t speak for a moment.

When he does say something, it isn’t what she expects. “I … sleep in a bed in some fancy sheets with some woman?”

She sighs and rolls her eyes. “I don’t know. Whatever. I saw some woman’s clothes in your bed when I came in yesterday. It’s not important.”

He looks at the bed, and he seems to realize something. “You’re talking about the sweater.”

She nods, crossing her arms, more tears streaking down her face.

His eyes linger on the bed.

“That’s not really the point,” Scully says. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. It’s just part of what has changed, what feels different, what seems—”

“Scully,” he interrupts her, now turning to fix her with a serious gaze. He repeats it more loudly. “Scully.”

It’s her turn to look stunned. Her name—her actual name—on his lips echoes around the room, in her ears, in her mind, everywhere.

“I don’t look at you and see a stranger,” he continues.

Somewhere, out on the streets of Alexandria, a car horn honks. There is no other sound in the room.

“You’re not a stranger to me,” he repeats. “Everything about you is familiar. Completely familiar. Painfully familiar.”

He looks like he is going to reach out his hand to her for a moment, but he drops it and looks at his feet instead. When he looks back up, she sees his eyes are red.

“But you might be right that you lost the Mulder you knew,” he says. “I don’t know if that guy exists any more.” He turns to leave the room. “I’m sorry, Scully.”

She’s left there with the sound of her name still playing back again and again in her ears. intertwining with the sound of a song on the radio.

#the x files #xfiles fanfic #x files fanfic #dana scully #fox mulder #x files #my fic #pause

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sometimesiwritetoo · 1 year ago

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The Hero Of Peace wears a 36D

Just posting this bc I started and then stopped it and kind of don't know if I'm gonna continue at some point but if ppl find it interesting hopefully it inspires some copycats.

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Katsuki found himself contemplating different words for butt. There was darrier or posterior if one wanted to be polite. Butt was straightforward, almost clinical these days. Booty was found in all of the songs that didn't want to be outright crass. It specifically called to image women with a lot of booty. Ones with very prominent booties. But that was not all. There were other mundane words like buttocks, rear, or caboose. Keister if one wanted to get a little foreign with it. Children sometimes said tush or heiny if they were raised properly, Katsuki wasn't so he'd never used those. Cheeks reminded him of Round Cheeks, and Round Cheek's lower cheeks were not on his mind when he came up with the nickname so he didn't particularly like the word. Finally there were words like ass. And while Katsuki may be an ass he did not usually find his mind occupied with them. Unless they were attached to one Keeper of the Peace hero who's arrival back into Japan came with some… transitions.

One year ago people online began to speculate. The uber fans could get quite occupied with their idols. Every appearance was scrutinized in heavy amount of detail, and heroes were no different. No matter the age. They'd all had weird theories about them floated around, but this one ended up being an iceberg problem in so far as it led down to a much deeper topic. Deku's ass had been steadily growing. The ass in question had always been great, but it was widening a noticeable amount for some months before the theory surfaced online. The first major guesses as to the cause was a new diet. Protein and squats sang the gym bros. In reality they were not wrong, Deku did enjoy squats. Not that Katsuki paid that much attention to them. But no, it was not just the exercises. It was not just a sudden influx of protein powder and egg whites. It was hormones. Estrogen to be specific. Prescribed and taken in secret, which over time gave Deku a lovely set of buns - another word for butt. Eight months after these rumors had begun to circulate Deku submitted a letter announcing not only a transition but a sabbatical. Six months out of country to transition and if everyone could please respect their hero's new identity that would be great kthxbye. Needless to say things had gotten interesting at the office. None of them had known, and Deku was long gone by the time the ball dropped and thus could not be questioned. It was genius if Katsuki said so himself, though he couldn't help but blow up a punching bag or two at the news. His poor mood was a mystery. Deku was gone for six months. And when she came back she jumped right in the middle of a villain attack without her gear, luggage at the train stop she'd dashed from. Through a mix of lack of practice and circumstance she'd been knocked, into Katsuki who'd gotten knocked into a nearby wall. A hilarious conga line of misfortune that ended with Deku's ass planted firmly in Katsuki's face. A 2/10 experience he'd have to let Mineta know. "Sorry Kacchan!" The voice said. Deku had always had a higher pitched voice, so even then it was recognizable. She reached down to help him up. She was still just a few centimeters shorter than him, making her a bit taller than most women in Japan. Before leaving her hair had been growing out, now it was cut in a shorter style with the sides faded. She wore little make up except for a very bold, red lip. Her travel clothes were just a green t-shirt and dark, blue jeans. Completely unsuited for battle. "Holy shit it's Midoriya." Shitty hair belted in his stupid, loud voice. "You look hot!" "Thanks Kiri!" She replied, though her eyes were on the gentleman with the tentacle monster quirk. "You don't look half bad yourself!"

#izuku midoriya #bakugou katsuki #bakudeku #bkdk #dkbk #mha #Trans!Izuku

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addictwoapen · 1 year ago

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then vs. now

there are two versions of my father that exist.

“you can do anything you set your mind to” dad. And “not all men” dad.

as a child I was told it doesn’t matter what other people think or feel, I can do what I want. I can be an athlete, I can be smart, I can do whatever I want and fuck everyone that says otherwise. And while the sentiment was there, two things could not be true, or it didn’t feel like it could be anyway.

When I was a kid, I loved sports. I still do. I love playing sports and learning mechanics, and I have since forever. I was the boy my father never had with two older brothers who never quite learned how to throw a ball correctly. I remember being told I had a good arm in first grade, and how I was faster than the other boys at recess. I remember, even though it’s blurry now, thinking I could not be both a tom boy or a girly girl. How I had to choose if I wanted to wear pink or be good at sports. Even at the age of six I was aware that boys thought girls sucked simply because of my double X’s. I was aware that “boys rule” meant more than a harmless us vs. them type of pride.

So I chose. I decided girly girls were dumb and insipid. I chose to be athletic and school-smart. I was praised and held to high standards. No Cs or you’re grounded, no tennis lessons unless I went to the gym. Because all that could be demanded of me was excellence. As a kid, I thought this was just strictness of my parents beliefs about education and hard work. As an adult, I’ve come to realize it stems from mom and dad’s insecurities. We are at the mercy of grandparents even when they’ve been gone for years.

I hated the color pink from second grade on, and I still do to this day. I hated being called Barbie since I was the stereotypical blonde-haired-blue-eyed white girl. I hated that all I was allowed to be was pink. It felt like no matter which side I looked at, I was stuck in a box. I couldn’t be angry because it wasn’t ladylike, I received much more punishment for swearing as a teenager than my older brother did. It wasn’t until I was 20 in a Jewel Osco during Covid that I told my father to grow up and get over it. I was an adult and I would make my own decisions about the way that I spoke and behaved.

It wasn’t until I was a bit older that I realized that girls and women had the capacity for so much more, but suffered with self-actualization and introspection much earlier than our male friends.

When explaining the waves of feminism to my dad on a bike ride in 2021, he said “I don’t know anything about this waves of feminism shit” and I replied “must be nice”. He didn’t get it.

The first version of my dad loved his daughter fiercely. I was daddy’s little girl who was a little spoiled but wasn’t a brat. We played catch together. We played HORSE together in the driveway where he spray painted basketball court lines for me on the ground to practice my free-throws in sixth grade. We went to the tennis courts to practice my serves in seventh grade. We traveled to Texas in college to watch me play at Nationals. He said I could do anything I put my mind to.

It wasn’t until I was an adult that he said “well...”.

And there it was.

The stipulation that he knew that the world would treat me different and that while it may be unfair-I had to adjust, and it shouldn’t be the other way around. When I talk of creepy men in the gym I had just started attending, it was “yeah but I don’t do that,” when I talk of 60+ year old men hitting on me and asking me out to drinks when I was 19 it was “that’s not that weird,”. It’s invalidation at it’s finest, and understanding that he will truly never get it.

I often think of a memory. I was in elementary school. My dad and I often used to go on hikes together on the weekend in the forest preserves of the suburbs of Chicago. I couldn’t pinpoint my age but I wasn’t fully self-aware yet, so it was pre-fifth grade. He would say “no matter what anyone tells you, you can do anything you want, and it doesn’t matter that you’re a girl”. This was in reference to a woman we passed who was hiking on her own, and even at a young age, I was aware of the danger she could be in on a 5am hike in the middle of a forest with no houses for miles. I remember thinking as a young girl “why would I risk getting hurt?”. It was a memory I would come back to often throughout childhood, as I reminder that I could do anything. But as I approached adulthood, I sometimes revel in my father’s naivety.

There are always stipulations.

As an adult, my dad still thinks I can do what I want, but if I have to work harder to fight prejudice because I am a woman, than that is what I must do. I shouldn’t cry about the injustice I have and inevitably will again face. I should suck it up and power through it. Because as a middle-age white man with a steady job, he has never faced discrimination or prejudice for things he can’t change about himself.

The latter version of my father makes no excuses for his behavior. He says “if you don’t like it, I don’t care”. Despite his secretly hidden desire to be seen, to be heard. He says he doesn’t care what others think, but I think he cares too much sometimes. We are the same in that regard, and it is terrifying. His lack of empathy towards others of different experiences is astounding when he raised a daughter that has an excess of it. His anger is often misplaced and rooted in toxic masculinity and the idea of a traditional family despite a certain lack of religious or traditional upbringing.

There are two versions of my father that exist.

Naïve and Jaded.

#barbie #feminism #femalerage

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hatha-yoga-gear · 2 years ago

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tsivi · 5 months ago

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Also! Little note.

The perception of performance of femininity is so fucking inconsistent.

In the gym, in my pastel blue and pink Thai shorts and hot pink shinguards (above), I’m hyper feminine. I’m the most girly girl in the setting, and , to my coaches credit, I’ve only ever been embraced for it.

Outside the gym, however, I have the same amount of (no) makeup on, same exact unstyled hair, and simply pull sweat shorts over my Thai shorts and go to target? Suddenly I’m very masc in this setting. Suddenly I’m as butch as it gets. You can wear the same outfit, be the same person, and simply exist in two different places the same way and your feminity or masculinity is perceived differently.

Also! I’m still talking apparently! I don’t really have girl friends. I have afab friends, but I don’t really have *girl* friends. My hyper feminity (and raging autism) isn’t well accepted by women! Like at all! They presume it’s ??? Attention seeking, shallow, stupid, idk tbh I’m not them, and it makes it fucking hard to make girl friends who aren’t YK, in a cult. And I’m too masculine for the faction of feminine girls who are scared of queerness. And I’m too bi and ace for queer women to not treat me like a grifter and a leper. So I hang out with people who are as gender non conforming as I am, even if on paper I am fine I guess with identifying as a woman (genuinely don’t feel all too strongly about it, simply care so little I dont consider my identity at all).

also while i’m ranting about gender i always see debate about whether girls are rewarded for being tomboys or not and it’s like. actually girls are rewarded for mirroring whatever the situation demands of them. girls can’t be too prissy and refuse to play in the creek, but girls also can’t show up to girly events covered in mud. girls can’t have makeup art as a hobby or else they’re superficial, but if they never wear makeup they’re a slob and dumpy, etc. it’s not that girls are universally rewarded or punished for being tomboys, they’re rewarded for bending over backwards to always be exactly right for any given situation and punished for breaking those boundaries. so yes a classically pretty girl who cleans up nice is rewarded when she can ALSO be a tomboy. but a girl who is a tomboy all the time is definitely punished for never being able to achieve that prerequisite feminine side. this debate is over now thanks

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keepthatpump · 1 year ago

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hellfiresky · 24 days ago

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Welcome to Interstate Arms. You are safe now.

Welcome to Interstate Arms, where the sun never rises, and city lights are your only source of warmth.

I firmly pressed the pedal as I crossed the city border. The glimmering fluorescent buildings smiled at me from a distance. The sun never rises in this city, huh?

I found the map to Interstate Arms after a long night of non-stop drinking. My girlfriend of six years had left me for another man, my best friend had taken their own life, and my parents had written me out of their inheritance when they discovered I’d been selling my nudes online. I thought I’d never step foot in that little bar down the street again, but there I was, chugging my nth shot of tequila and dancing on a glass table. As I was about to leave, a woman in a tangerine skirt handed me a map of the city. “Best place to bury your pain,” she said cheekily.

Who the fuck names a city like a pub? My head was too dizzy to even think about it. I took a purple taxi home and crashed on my sofa, the cheap find I’d picked up at a garage sale across the street. The lava lamp I’d bought for the sake of “cheering up my inner child” glowed dimly in my cramped living room, as if to remind me that the 90s were over and I was nothing but a 36-year-old stuck in my childhood hometown. I rinsed whatever was left on my face that night with cold water and changed into a shirt I’d been wearing for the past week. As I tried to bring myself to sleep, the crumpled map of Interstate Arms found its way back to me. The map was a piece of worn-out brochure torn from a magazine. The sound of flapping paper filled the room as I clutched it to my chest. There was nothing but pictures of smiling models in front of skyscrapers at night.

On the back of it, there was a fading technicolour photograph of what looked like another picture of a city of skyscrapers pierced by beams of light. The picture was at an angle, the horizon never quite revealing its full length. It was a little fuzzy, and I suppose if you zoomed in and examined it further, you’d see a white line across a darker-tinted block of land. The area looked crowded with people walking and going to work, but I couldn’t really tell who was who. Maybe the women and men in yellow, blue, and red shirts, or the soldiers in green uniforms, or all of them.

There was a headline, yellowed and warped, like the pages of a newspaper you’d fold up and forget in the back seat of your car after reading. The black ink was faded and the words unreadable, the most legible parts being “City of” and “Fever”. Forming words, they were neither readable nor unreadable, but I couldn’t make out what the headline was trying to say.

I had nothing left to do in that town. It was filled with wind, and it was wet, and I didn’t want it. Nothing excited me anymore. I smelled the pills I’d been taking. They smelled like vitamins, iron, and sickness. I didn’t know what they were, but I was glad I could smell them. There was a slight scent of metal and smoke in the room. My clothes were somewhat clean and still fresh. I liked that. I liked the smell of cleanliness: mothballs and dust, old clothes and old books, stale air and rotting food, and mildewed sheets.

What should I do now? My bed was small and rattling. The sheets and blankets were torn, wrinkled, and dirty. Tired, I lay down and pulled the covers to my chest. There were folds in the pages of the map as it stared back at me. I stretched my back and got up. I reached down, my back popping with each vertebra. I languidly packed my gym bag with clean clothes, socks, and shoes. I also threw in the map and some pills I’d been taking. I set my alarm for 5 pm and slept my way through the day — hoping to sober up in between childhood nightmares.

On those days, I would wake with the birds and blush, stinking, to run around in a mad way, with frantic energy I hadn’t felt in years. Dashing and weaving to avoid cop cars, ice-cream vans, and old women pushing their overflowing shopping trolleys down the street. I was one of those lost people again, like when I was a boy. I always felt far more alive in those lost moments. I wanted to feel lost again, like that time when I was in the hospital and they gave me a whole body cast. But I was a boy then, and I wasn’t determined to get well again.

Looking back is a bitch, isn’t it? 93.6 FM of Interstate Arms will only play songs that remind you of your past while making you wistful for the days ahead. What is sadness if it’s not shared? Don’t forget to stop by our studio for an hour of music to heal your wounded arms.

My radio randomly tuned to a local station as I got closer to my destination. A city with no signs. Tucked away behind a broken road near an old petrol station. I was welcomed by a tunnel, lit with bluish neon lights. I let the radio blare upbeat dark house music—it was quite fitting. I didn’t remember seeing this city anywhere, but the entirety of it seemed far too familiar.

I sped my car through the tunnel and finally saw several other vehicles on the road. Great, I wasn’t hallucinating. I looked up at the skylights and cityscapes as I drove through the night. I rolled down my window and tasted the air. It was clean, it was breezy, it was… home.

The city was a blocky and sloped mass of brick with a downtown core of brutalist concrete buildings — some with second-storey balconies, others with no upper storeys at all. Some had been renovated, making the skyline into a jumbled “I’m a higher-up” arrangement. There were balconies on almost every building, like you’d find in Paris or Venice, except here they were made of steel, concrete, and broken iron.

I continued driving downtown. Millions of neon lights blasted my face, like Tokyo after dark. But it wasn’t Tokyo. Interstate Arms’ downtown was devoid of advertisements. It was all street signs, office buildings, hotels, bars, and restaurants. None of the names was familiar to me. I quickly found my way to a car park with no ticket machine. It was utopia, I thought. Everything was right for once, and I had everything I needed with me. I had nothing left.

I parked my battered red car on the third floor and put on my one and only leather jacket. I stuffed in my earphones and tuned into the radio again, letting it guide my way through this alien city, which I had little experience with. I found myself lost anyway. The buzzing lights and noisy streets, the skyscrapers and the midnight-blue taxis. I was in a different world.

I walked, browsing the streets for a bar. I was looking for a bar where I could be alone, where I could stare at the ceiling and tell myself my troubles, my fears. I needed to tell someone, anyone, and the people in the bar seemed like the best listeners.

Don’t roll up your sleeves just yet. The next song is about a painless life and blissful beginnings. Happy New Year to you too, listener number 86. We’ve never seen you here before. Walk slowly, you might be here for a while. The streets around you are crawling with people. The smell of their sweat and their bodies. They are the smell of your normal life, the smell of a hundred sweaty bodies filing through your route every day.

I slowed my pace, completely ignoring the fact that the announcer had just low-key referred to me as “listener number 86.” Eighty-six was the model of my car, and for some reason, I didn’t mind being under tight surveillance. Gone were my anarchist thoughts. The wet ground reflected the streetlights. People in latex and leather marched down the streets like it was an impromptu fashion show, or maybe some fetish festival?

Everything felt cold and warm at the same time. I turned down a side street towards what looked like an underground gig and showed the bouncer my ID.

“You’re new here?” His eyes were waxy and brown, but the rhythm of his voice was like walking through mud, a rhythm I could relate to, a rhythm that anyone could. He chuckled as he patted my pockets.

I carefully scanned the room. No, no familiar faces. It was a bit strange, considering the city was only a couple of hours away. I ordered a gin and tonic and stood there in silence, observing the club.

There was a mix of smoke and sweat in the air, and there were a lot of people. I could hear the music, but it was muffled, too loud for my taste. It was a young crowd. The atmosphere was suffocating, like oxygen deprivation, mixed with the smell of sweat, cigars, and body odour. The cocktail also reeked of stale alcohol, a stench that had lingered here for years. The air was thick with the scent of perfume, cologne, and cheap deodorant. It felt intimate, but not in a good way, like half-asleep intimacy, with someone blasting loud music in headphones next to you.

A woman in a flowing red dress walked towards me. Her hair was the colour of the night sky: deep blue with a hint of grey. She lit a cigarette and offered me one.

I shrugged.

“Are you sure you don’t want to blend in?” she raised her caterpillar brows. Her perfume smelled like thunder, moon, stars, and lightning. It smelled like the blackness of the sky if the sky wasn’t full of glitter dust.

“I’m in transit,” I lied.

My gym bag full of clothes was ready for a permanent move to this eclectic city.

Suddenly, everyone around me looked at me and burst into laughter. “Don’t be silly! Interstate Arms is always our last destination!” said the woman in red.

She flicked her hair before she continued. “Everyone left me last year… to that bloody disease, to marriage, to school, to work, to death.” Her pitch-black eyes consumed all the lights in that underground club. “And then I came here. Everything started to fall into place again.” There were so many people, but I couldn’t see anyone in particular. Everything was blurry as if I were seeing through a thick mist. When I blinked, my vision cleared, but the crowd was still there, just as much as before.

The lights reflected off the woman’s black hair and the flashing colours of her red dress. Her eyes glowed red like the crescent moon on the horizon, like a blazing supernova waiting to explode. She stood in a sea of dancing shadows. Her amber eyes stared straight into my soul before gazing blankly into the crowd.

The radio announcer kept talking in my ears. It was difficult to concentrate on several things at once, but I could faintly hear him talking about the heavens. About gods and life and death. About the light at the end of the tunnel.

I quickly finished my drink and paid the bill. The woman in red was no longer there. Not even her summery scent lingered.

I walked past the crowd. Everyone was hypnotised by the strobe light, which eventually blinded me. I reached out to stop my fall. I touched skin, hard as asphalt. It was like someone had grabbed me and flung me across the dance floor. I could feel the light’s rays right through my eyelids. They burned into my skin like a thousand suns, leaving it ashen and dry.

And boom, I blacked out.

I opened my eyes and found myself in a damp alley. The sound of steel and metal clanking filled the air. My vision was blurry, and my head was spinning. The figure in front of me paced back and forth, the clanking sound growing louder by the second.

Before I knew it, my body reacted on its own. I sat up immediately, only to feel a piercing headache as I crouched back down. A drop of sweat ran down my cheek and landed on the ground, reflecting the fluorescent glow of an EXIT sign.

I couldn’t help but remember the dream. It was the same nightmare I’d been having almost every other night. But this time, the dream seemed more vivid than ever before. As if it were more than just a dream—a memory.

“I’m already late. Let’s go!”

“Who are you?” I whimpered.

I could see flashes of light and tons of different hues. My eyes hurt, and my head spun. The figure in front of me was wrapped in a leather coat, their body tall and built like a Roman soldier. Red, wavy hair cascaded down their back, and they wore a black mask, leaving only their pulsating eyes exposed.

“W-what do you want?” I stuttered.

“Look at you. So much potential,” their deep voice echoed. “I’m giving you a choice. You can either come with me or burn yourself in the bar’s acid waste.”

The words hit me like a brick. I could taste the acrid sting of burning acid in the back of my throat. My lips began to swell. “And what will happen to me if I come with you?” I asked.

“That’s entirely up to you. I have a proposition I think you’ll like.” Their eyes, dark as the deepest depths of the ocean, stared through me.

“And if I don’t?”

“You’ll perish. You’ll be sucked into the crevices of this flammable city, where all you’ll find is torment and agony.”

The figure pulled me up and began walking towards a red, worn-out motorcycle. Its engine roared like a symphony of rusted metal. “Eighty-six, you brought your car here, eh?”

I nodded slowly, though my head was swimming. The surveillance system in this city, I swear—

“Are you going to just stand there like an idiot? Get on the bike. We’ll get your car!” they shouted. The night air felt colder now. I had thought this neon-bathed city was home. My feet were rooted to the ground. I was a part of this city. I was trapped here, stuck like a rat in a cage.

But I didn’t know what else to do. I followed the figure in leather, climbing onto the back of their motorcycle. I grabbed the steel moulding underneath the seat for balance.

“Do you want to get thrown off this bike?”

Fuck. That felt emasculating. I put my arms around their waist instead. The figure sped out of the alley. It felt as though I didn’t exist, as if I were nothing but a ghost in this eternally dark city.

The ride was chaotic. The wind whipped past my face, neon lights flashing by in dizzying streaks. The sound of the engine roared in my ears. We drifted through the streets until we reached a parking structure. The figure parked the motorcycle right next to my now battered car.

“There it is. Get in and follow me.”

I slid into the driver’s seat. The engine sputtered to life as I turned the key. The figure took off ahead of me on their motorcycle, and I followed. It felt surreal, driving through this strange city. The streets were deserted except for the occasional shadow of a pedestrian or the headlights in the distance. Finally, we reached an unmarked building tucked away in a narrow alley. The figure dismounted their bike and motioned for me to park.

“What is this place?”

“You’ll see,” they led me through a heavy steel door and into a dimly lit room. The smell of mildew punched my gut. “What’s this proposition?” I probed.

The figure turned to face me. “Welcome to the heart of Interstate Arms,” they said. “You’ve just taken your first step into a new life.”

We’re glad you’ve made it. The lights are brighter here, aren’t they? The air clearer. But don’t get too comfortable, we know why you’re here. Everyone who finds themselves in Interstate Arms has a story like yours. A life like yours. And an ending like yours. Remember the map? The tequila? The pills? You’ve been driving through the longest tunnel of your life, but don’t worry, the headlights have been switched off. That crash, that leap, that sip was the last thing you had to do. Welcome home, to the city where the sun never rises and no one ever leaves. Welcome to the arms that will hold you forever.

The announcer’s voice trailed off into static, and the room fell silent again. The figure in the leather coat stood still, watching me as if they already knew everything I’d just realised. Interstate Arms was a place to carry it forever. The last stop. And as I stared at the neon lights outside the window, I couldn’t tell whether I was scared, or relieved.

#my fic #speculative fiction #cyberpunk #originally posted on Medium #Spotify

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modaista69 · 2 months ago

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Trendy Women's Clothing: Embrace Style, Confidence, and Versatility

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In this article, we’ll explore the latest trends in women’s clothing, how to incorporate them into your wardrobe, and how to make them your own with a personal touch.

The Rise of Trendy Women’s Clothing

Women’s fashion has come a long way in recent years, embracing diversity, inclusivity, and sustainability. What was once dictated solely by the fashion elite is now shaped by social media influencers, everyday fashionistas, and diverse cultural movements. The rise of digital platforms has made it easier than ever to discover new styles, from Instagram posts to TikTok videos, creating a global community of style inspiration.

Trendy clothing today is about versatility and self-expression. Whether you’re aiming for a polished, sophisticated look or a more casual, street-chic vibe, the options are endless. The key is to focus on pieces that speak to your personality, fit well, and make you feel confident.

Key Trends in Trendy Women’s Clothing

Tailored, Power Suits The power suit is back and better than ever. Tailored suits, once reserved for corporate offices, have become a versatile and fashionable choice for women across the world. From double-breasted blazers to oversized trousers, this trend offers a modern take on sophistication. Wear it as part of a matching set for a polished look, or break it up by pairing the blazer with jeans or a skirt for a more casual outfit. Neutral colors like black, navy, and grey are timeless, while pastel hues and bold patterns bring a fresh twist.

Sustainability Takes Center Stage Sustainable fashion is no longer a niche market but has become a central trend in women’s clothing. As consumers become more conscious of the environmental impact of fast fashion, brands are responding by producing eco-friendly, ethically sourced apparel. This includes using organic fabrics, recycled materials, and sustainable production practices. From organic cotton basics to eco-friendly outerwear, sustainable clothing allows women to embrace trendy styles while making more mindful fashion choices. Pair these eco-conscious pieces with minimalist accessories for a chic, responsible look.

Athleisure and Sporty Chic Athleisure continues to be one of the most enduring trends in women’s fashion. The combination of sporty and stylish, athleisure has evolved far beyond the gym. High-waisted leggings, sleek joggers, and oversized sweatshirts are now wardrobe staples. Pair them with trendy sneakers, statement jackets, and functional accessories for an effortlessly cool, street-style look. Athleisure is all about comfort without sacrificing style, making it the go-to choice for many women who want to look fashionable while feeling at ease.

Bold Prints and Colors If you’re someone who loves to stand out, bold prints and vibrant colors are a must-have in your trendy wardrobe. This season, animal prints, florals, and geometric patterns are making waves. Whether it’s a leopard print dress, a snake-print handbag, or a bold striped sweater, adding statement prints to your wardrobe is an easy way to make a fashionable impact. Similarly, bright, saturated colors like fuchsia, electric blue, and neon green are trending, allowing you to inject a dose of energy into your outfits. For those who prefer a more subtle look, color blocking—mixing contrasting hues in a single outfit—can make for an eye-catching but balanced look.

The Return of Denim Denim has always been a staple in women’s wardrobes, but this season, it's been reimagined with new cuts, washes, and finishes. From oversized jackets and wide-leg jeans to vintage-inspired high-waisted styles, denim is experiencing a revival. Denim skirts and dresses are also making a comeback, giving women a chance to mix things up with casual yet stylish pieces. Distressed denim and frayed hems are still popular, adding a laid-back, lived-in vibe to your look.

Maxi Dresses and Skirts Maxi dresses and skirts are another trendy must-have for this season. The flowy, bohemian look has been reimagined with sleek, modern touches. Maxi dresses in bold prints or solid neutrals can be dressed up with heels or worn casually with sneakers. They’re perfect for summer but also easy to layer in cooler months with a chunky sweater or jacket. This trend embraces comfort and elegance in equal measure, offering a chic and versatile wardrobe option for various occasions.

Statement Sleeves This trend takes inspiration from the dramatic fashion styles of the past, but with a modern twist. Statement sleeves, such as puffed shoulders, bishop sleeves, and bell sleeves, add a touch of drama and flair to an outfit. Whether it’s a blouse, dress, or even a coat, statement sleeves can make an ordinary piece of clothing feel extraordinary. Pair a voluminous sleeve top with slim-fitting pants or a pencil skirt to balance out the silhouette and create a striking look.

How to Incorporate Trendy Clothing Into Your Wardrobe

While keeping up with trends is fun, the key to building a wardrobe that feels stylish and cohesive is mixing trendy pieces with timeless classics. Here are a few tips on how to incorporate trendy women’s clothing into your wardrobe:

Start with Basics: Begin by investing in high-quality basics that never go out of style, such as a white button-down shirt, a tailored blazer, or a pair of black jeans. These pieces can be easily mixed with trendy items to create fresh looks.

Experiment with Accessories: Accessories are a great way to experiment with trends without committing to a whole new wardrobe. Statement bags, bold jewelry, and trendy shoes can quickly elevate any outfit.

Don’t Be Afraid to Mix Styles: Combining trendy pieces with your personal style is key. For example, pair a flowy maxi skirt with a casual graphic tee for a laid-back yet fashionable look, or wear a power suit with sneakers for a street-chic vibe.

Conclusion

Trendy women’s clothing is all about embracing the latest styles while staying true to your personal taste. From tailored suits to sustainable fabrics and bold prints, there are endless ways to express

FAQS

yourself through fashion. The key is to mix trendy items with timeless basics, allowing your wardrobe to remain fresh and versatile while maintaining a sense of individuality. Whether you're drawn to athleisure or love experimenting with statement sleeves, the world of trendy women's clothing offers something for every woman to enjoy. Stay confident, stay stylish, and wear what makes you feel your best!

1. How can I incorporate trendy pieces into my existing wardrobe? To seamlessly add trendy pieces to your wardrobe, start by mixing them with classic, timeless items you already own. For example, pair a bold patterned blouse with your favorite jeans or a statement jacket over a neutral dress. Accessories are also a great way to experiment with trends without committing to a whole new look. Trendy bags, shoes, or scarves can instantly elevate any outfit.

2. What are the most versatile trendy pieces that can be worn year-round? Some of the most versatile trendy pieces include tailored blazers, high-waisted trousers, midi skirts, and maxi dresses. These can be worn in multiple seasons by layering them appropriately. For example, a blazer can be worn over a t-shirt in summer or layered with a sweater in winter, making it a year-round wardrobe essential.

3. Are sustainable trends really worth the investment? Yes, investing in sustainable trends is not only good for the environment but also for your wardrobe. Sustainable clothing is often made from high-quality materials, ensuring longevity and durability. By choosing eco-friendly options, you’re not only staying on trend but also supporting ethical practices and reducing your fashion footprint in the long run.

#ChicAndFierce #StyleWithConfidence #EleganceInEveryThread #FashionForEveryWoman #TimelessTrends #BoldAndBeautiful #EmpoweredInStyle #ClassyAndCassy #YourStyleYourStory #WardrobeEssentials

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atplblog · 2 months ago

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nachiketh11 · 4 months ago

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Activewear by Day, Sleepwear by Night: The 24/7 Guide to Fatigue Rejuvenation

Fatigue is a common problem that many people face on a daily basis. Whether it's due to the demands of work, personal responsibilities, or simply the hectic nature of modern life, finding ways to rejuvenate and recharge our energy levels is essential. One often overlooked aspect of fatigue management is the role that clothing plays in our overall well-being. In this article, we will explore the connection between clothing and fatigue and how choosing the right activewear and sleepwear for men and women can help us maintain optimal energy levels throughout the day and night.

Understanding the Connection Between Clothing and Fatigue

It may seem surprising, but the clothing we wear can have a significant impact on our energy levels. The colours, textures, and fabrics of our outfits can influence not only how we feel about ourselves but also our overall mood and energy.

When it comes to clothing and fatigue, it's not just about the physical comfort but also the psychological effects that our outfits can have on us. From the moment we choose our clothes in the morning, we are making decisions that can set the tone for our day. The act of selecting an outfit can be a form of self-expression and creativity, which can positively impact our mental energy and motivation.

The Science Behind Clothing and Energy Levels

Recent studies have shown that certain colours can affect our energy levels and emotions. For example, vibrant and warm colours like red and yellow are said to increase energy and alertness, while cool tones like blue and green have a calming effect. The textures of our clothing can also impact our energy levels. Soft and breathable fabrics like cotton and bamboo can promote comfort and relaxation, which can be especially beneficial when it comes to sleepwear.

Additionally, the fit of our clothing plays a crucial role in how comfortable and energized we feel throughout the day. Tight or restrictive clothing can lead to physical discomfort and even affect our circulation, which in turn can impact our energy levels. On the other hand, well-fitted and comfortable clothing allows for ease of movement and can contribute to a sense of lightness and vitality.

How Your Outfit Can Influence Your Mood and Energy

Have you ever noticed how wearing your favourite outfit can instantly boost your mood and confidence? This is because the clothes we wear can have a psychological impact on how we perceive ourselves and how others perceive us. When we feel good about our appearance, our energy levels naturally increase. On the other hand, wearing ill-fitting or uncomfortable clothing can drain our energy and make us feel less motivated.

It's not just about the style or brand of clothing, but also the personal significance and memories associated with certain pieces. Wearing an item of clothing that holds sentimental value or positive memories can evoke feelings of happiness and nostalgia, which can in turn uplift our energy levels and overall well-being.

The Role of Activewear in Boosting Daytime Energy

When it comes to daytime energy, activewear plays a crucial role. Whether you're hitting the gym, going for a run, or even just running errands, choosing the right activewear can help boost your energy levels and enhance your physical performance.

Activewear is not just about style; it's about functionality and performance. The right activewear can make a significant difference in how you feel and perform throughout the day. From moisture-wicking fabrics to strategic compression, each element of activewear is designed to support your body and help you move with ease.

Choosing the Right Activewear for Optimal Energy

When selecting activewear for men and women, opt for breathable and moisture-wicking fabrics that allow for maximum comfort and flexibility. Look for clothing that provides adequate support and compression to optimize your workout performance. Additionally, consider incorporating vibrant colours and patterns into your activewear wardrobe to stimulate energy and motivation.

Activewear brands are constantly innovating to create pieces that not only look good but also enhance your performance. From seamless designs that reduce chafing to strategic ventilation for optimal airflow, the details in activewear can make a world of difference in how you feel during physical activities.

The Impact of Activewear on Physical Performance

Studies have shown that wearing the appropriate activewear can have a positive impact on physical performance. The right clothing can enhance the range of motion, reduce muscle fatigue, and even improve circulation. By investing in high-quality activewear, you can maximize your energy and get the most out of your workouts or daily activities.

Activewear is not just a trend; it's a science. The technology and research that go into creating activewear are aimed at helping you perform at your best. So next time you're gearing up for a workout or a busy day, remember that your choice of activewear can make a real difference in how you feel and move.

Transitioning to Sleepwear for Nighttime Rest

While women's and men’s activewear is essential for daytime energy, sleepwear plays a vital role in ensuring quality rest and rejuvenation during the night. Making the switch from activewear to comfortable sleepwear can help signal to your body and mind that it's time to unwind and recharge.

As the day winds down and the evening settles in, the act of changing into sleepwear can act as a symbolic transition from the hustle and bustle of the day to the calmness of the night. This simple ritual can help create a mental separation between daytime activities and the relaxation needed for a peaceful night's sleep.

The Importance of Comfortable Sleepwear for Quality Rest

When it comes to sleepwear for men or women, comfort should be the top priority. Choose sleepwear that is soft, breathable, and made from natural fabrics like cotton or silk. Avoid clothing that is too tight or restrictive, as this can interfere with your ability to relax and fall asleep.

Furthermore, the texture and feel of your sleepwear can have a significant impact on your overall comfort level. Opting for pyjamas with gentle, soothing textures can enhance the sensory experience of bedtime, creating a cosy environment that promotes relaxation and tranquillity.

How Sleepwear Can Enhance Your Sleep Cycle

Wearing the right sleepwear can contribute to a more restful sleep cycle. Comfortable sleepwear promotes relaxation and can help regulate body temperature, which is essential for a good night's sleep. Additionally, special sleepwear fabrics like moisture-wicking materials can help prevent night sweats and keep you cool throughout the night.

Moreover, the act of selecting sleepwear that you associate with rest and comfort can have a psychological effect on your mind, signalling to your brain that it's time to unwind and prepare for sleep. This mental cue can help establish a bedtime routine that primes your body for a restorative night of sleep, setting the stage for waking up feeling refreshed and rejuvenated.

Tips for Transitioning Between Activewear and Sleepwear

Establishing a routine for changing outfits can help signal to your body and mind that it's time to transition from the active part of your day to a restful night's sleep. Try incorporating simple rituals like taking a warm shower or practising relaxation techniques before changing into your sleepwear.

Creating a calming environment in your bedroom can also aid in the transition from activewear to sleepwear. Dimming the lights, playing soft music, or using essential oils like lavender can help signal to your body that it's time to unwind and prepare for a good night's rest.

Selecting the Right Fabrics for Day and Night

When it comes to choosing fabrics for your activewear and sleepwear, consider both comfort and performance. During the day, focus on fabrics that allow for breathability and freedom of movement. Look for moisture-wicking materials like polyester blends or nylon to keep you dry and comfortable during your workouts.

For your sleepwear, opt for fabrics that are gentle on the skin and provide a cosy feel. Natural materials like cotton or bamboo are excellent choices as they are soft, breathable, and hypoallergenic. These fabrics can help you relax and ensure a comfortable night's sleep by allowing your skin to breathe and regulating your body temperature throughout the night.

Maintaining a Balanced Lifestyle for Fatigue Rejuvenation

In addition to considering your clothing choices, maintaining a balanced lifestyle is crucial for managing fatigue and rejuvenating your energy levels.

The Role of Nutrition in Energy Management

Proper nutrition plays a vital role in maintaining energy levels throughout the day. Be sure to fuel your body with a balanced diet that includes a mix of lean proteins, whole grains, fruits, and vegetables. Opt for foods that provide a steady release of energy, such as complex carbohydrates and foods rich in vitamins and minerals.

Incorporating Exercise into Your Daily Routine

Regular exercise is a proven way to increase energy levels and combat fatigue. Find activities that you enjoy and make them a part of your daily routine. Whether it's a brisk walk, a yoga session, or a high-intensity workout, staying active can help boost energy, improve mood, and enhance overall well-being.

The Importance of Adequate Sleep in Fatigue Rejuvenation

Finally, getting enough sleep is essential for fatigue rejuvenation. Aim for seven to eight hours of quality sleep each night. Create a calming sleep environment, establish a consistent bedtime routine, and limit exposure to electronic devices before bed. By prioritizing sleep, you can recharge your energy levels and wake up feeling refreshed and ready to take on the day.In conclusion, clothing plays a significant role in fatigue management and energy rejuvenation. By choosing the right activewear and sleepwear for men and women, establishing routines, and maintaining a balanced lifestyle, you can optimize your energy levels throughout the day and night. Remember, activewear by day and sleepwear by night. Your clothing choices can make a real difference in how you feel and perform, so prioritize comfort and style, and watch your energy levels soar.

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