#but I tend to drift towards combinations that include pink

[wickedgamesoyaoya]

↝ ᴘʀᴏᴍᴘᴛ: having them crash your date

↝ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ: aomine x f!reader

↝ ᴡᴄ: 1500+ 

↝ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: wanting to kill aomine for being aomine, being an ass during a date, kissing, using someone to make another jealous. 

↝ ᴀ/ɴ: first time writing for aomine... hope it’s alright LMAO this is a college au btw. 

The restaurant selected for your date was rated four out of five stars on the internet. It was classified as fine dining and proclaimed to be the ideal location to celebrate a special occasion or to impress a potential client. What the numerous websites did not state was that it attracted a certain type of crowd – those who did not care for the ridiculous prices attached to their small portions. 

When the hostess guided you and your date to your reserved table, the customers you slipped on past raised an eyebrow at you, easily detecting the one person who did not belong. Instead of cowering under their targeted stares, you fixed a smile onto your mouth, ignoring the crawling sensation spreading throughout your arms.

You would survive this one date – you had to. It was your fault for arguing with that idiot, and for accepting an invitation solely to further piss Daiki off. The thought of that insufferable male prompted a hallow melody to dance up your throat, though you were quick to swallow the sound.

How dare he call you undesirable? Coming from someone who lacked any notable characteristics, that was rich. An idiot. Aomine Daiki was a complete idiot.

But who was the bigger idiot here? You or him? He wasn’t the one who was on a date with someone who was probably cheating on their wife, and he wasn’t the one caught in a traditional game of unrequited love.

“Have you found something you like?” The blonde male did not bother to secure eye contact, instead his icy irises scanned the menu ahead of him. “Shall I call the waitress over?”

“I did, thank you.” There was no point in maintaining a polite smile, particularly when your date would be unaware of its existence, yet it remained plastered on your visage. They say that if you smile during uncomfortable moments, it can trick the brain into thinking you are truly happy. And if that did not work, you could always employ your secret weapon – the flask of vodka in your jacket pocket. Under the influence of alcohol, even someone as bland as your date could become interesting, or at least bearable.

“Perfect.” Bringing the booklet to a close, he gestured the waitress over with a short wave. The fluidity of the motion had you questioning how many times he had brought someone here, was this his special spot?

Or were your perceptions merely a product of your imagination?

The following thirty minutes made you realize it was the latter. There was nothing interesting about the wealthy man sat ahead of you. And you almost felt guilty accepting his invite, since he was quite serious about finding a future wife.

“As I was saying…”

Accidentally tuning out the latest story he was narrating, your attention drifted across the establishment. It was at this point that you caught visual of a pair that did not appear to belong, just like you.

Astonishment morphed into disgust when your eyes locked with his – the damn reason you were here.

“Hiii, y/n-chan!” The pink haired girl sang out the greeting, bouncing towards your table with Daiki trailing behind. Those seated around you grunted in irritation at the disturbance, but your date wore a blank expression. Though, from the twitch of his eyebrows, you assumed he was at least mildly interested in those preparing to approach him. “How funny! We were just passing by when we saw you from the windows!”

The deceitful answer was coated with a sugary tone and accompanied by a wide-eyed expression. The deadly combination seemed to have satisfied the man sat ahead of you. In fact, he seemed far too smitten with Momoi to notice the large male standing behind her. But you on the other hand, could not remove your attention from Aomine – not for a single second. Everything about the athlete had your emotions flaring.

How could he stand there so casually?

No longer entertained by the deadly glaring match you engaged him in, Aomine took in his surroundings with a quick scan of the space. It was as if he was evaluating your decision, and most likely critiquing it mentally. 

The last thing you needed was his judgement.

“Are these friends of yours?” The question implanted a wedge into your concentration, guiding your gaze back to the blonde.

Did you accidentally tune him and Momoi out? From the matching expressions painted on the pair ahead of you, it seemed you did.

“Yeah, kinda.” The qualifier was a lackluster attempt to capture the blue haired male’s attention. Surprisingly, it worked. Aomine had shot you a lazy grin in return.

“Then you are welcome to join us.”

The invitation came far too swiftly for you to successfully curtail it. Further, neither Aomine nor Momoi missed a beat, claiming the empty chairs without hesitation. When the athlete settled onto the chair beside you, he inched it closer to yours, before stretching out his spine. The sloppiness of his movements was in stark contrast with the elegant mannerisms of his best friend.

“Thank you so much!” A bright smile was flashed to display her gratitude, whereas Aomine offered an unenthusiastic “thanks.” The blonde simply nodded to acknowledge their words. But it was quite clear that so long as Momoi was present, he would bypass any other distractions. Including the large male who was practically pressed against your side.  

Typical.

Once the pair officially joined your date, the atmosphere loosened considerably. However, the change was restricted to your table. For a moment you soaked in the change with a titter threatening to spill from your lips. Watching Momoi cast a spell on the one who was once set out to woo you was amusing to say the least.

“That’s your type?” The male beside you adjusted himself after vocalizing the question. And whether he was stretching his neck or tilting his head inquisitively was unknown, but the movement brought him dangerously close to you.

Flickering your gaze to the minimal space between his head and your shoulder, you cursed yourself internally for the fluttering sensation inside of your stomach.

“So, what if it is?” A small “hmph” was tactically added to your response.

“Never pictured you being into an old rich guy. Does he know you hate places like these?” The basketball player remained slouched in his seat for a few more seconds before settling into a comfortable position. 

Was he serious right now? 

“Shut up and keep your voice down.” The demands were whispered in a stern tone, but you doubted it would work. 

Unsurprisingly, he returned your hiss with short-lived laughter.

From the opposite side of the table, your date’s attention briefly returned to you – a natural reaction to the vigorous sound. He was seconds from becoming more aware of the scenario unfolding around him, but Momoi was prompt in eliminating his concentration.

“Oh, tell me what I should get!” A menu was then placed before him, to remove you from his line of sight. The artificial behaviour did not catch you off guard, you knew the two of them were scheming – a fact confirmed by the startled expression she exchanged with Aomine prior to opening the menu.

“I don’t know what you’re up to but stop it.” Exhaling a sigh, you propped an elbow onto the table before resting your cheek against your palm. 

But did you really want them to stop? Not really. This was the most enjoyment you had since you arrived. Not that you would let him know that.

“What we’re up to?” He echoed with a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What about you? What are you doing here, y/n? Are you here to prove you’re desirable?”

His words visibly stunned you at first.  

Aomine knew exactly how to push your buttons, and his style of teasing was ridiculously potent. To refrain from acting on your urge to attack him physically, you curled your fingers in and grinded your teeth together.

“Aomine. You ass-”

Your lips were about to complete the curse when he connected his mouth with yours. It did not require much to close the distance due to the limited spacing that existed in the first place. Inside of your chest a parade had commenced, one that matched the metaphorical fireworks that accompanied the kiss. 

You knew it was wrong. Your date was sat right ahead of you, albeit hidden behind the remarkably large menu. Yet, you enjoyed it. 

When you instinctively tried to push away, he placed a hand at the back of your neck, keeping you in place. With each passing second your resolve melted until it no longer remained. A minute felt like an eternity, and when Aomine settled back in his seat, a flustered groan vibrated inside of your throat.

“Oi. Satsuki. Let’s go. I want a burger.” After tending to the crick in his neck, the athlete raised from the chair, purposefully ignoring the bewildered expression being presented up at him.

On cue, Momoi slapped the menu shut and stood up. “Okay! So sorry for disturbing you two. We’ll be on our way now.”

Your narrowed gaze slowly travelled from Aomine to the pink haired girl, who dipped an eyelid into a wink at you.

What the hell.

You could barely comprehend what occurred and watching them leave only increased your bemusement. Across the table, your date questioned if you were alright. Pressing your palms against your face, you shook your head with another groan. 

No, you were not alright. 

You were in love with the Aomine Daiki, the biggest idiot to exist. 

Which meant you... would never be “alright.” 

Taglist: @newfriendjen @yourstarvic @bloody-bella @seijurosempress​ @haikyuusimp91 @chaichai-the-weeb [only tagging those who I know watch KnB lmao] 

#aomine x you #aomine x reader #aomine x y/n #aomine scenario #knb x reader

[venusofthehardsells]

Dreamgirl [part 4]

ReaderxBucky Barnes [part 3] Summary: Bucky tries to adjust to his new life in the Avengers compound. One day he meets a girl who might be everything he needs in order to move on, but is his past really that far away? Warnings for this chapter: typical self-hate, not much else this time tbh, (general series warnings include noncon, violence, mental illness, feels probably) A/N: I can’t believe I let you wait this long for a chapter with this little content. Ungh. Like I already said, I have nothing to say for myself. My writing process is about as fast the plot. I’ll try harder to update more, and if you’re still following this story, just know it really means a lot to me!

When Bucky wakes up it’s three am and Steve is still there, fast asleep next to him. Steve’s arm is resting protectively over Bucky and both of Bucky’s hands are holding onto Steve’s T-shirt, the fabric close to ripping in his unyielding grip. He soften his hold a little and looks up to study Steve’s face.

Despite the serum keeping him young, there are a few lines adorning the face of America’s golden boy that weren’t there during the war. They’re faint and few but this close there’s no doubt. The worry has managed to leave its mark on him and Bucky feels his stomach clench itself into a hard little ball. How many of those fine lines have he caused?

Then again, how many lines separate this weary ghost from the bright young man he used to be?

Steve’s presence has had a good influence on him. The last few hours of sleep have been quiet and heavy. He can’t remember the last time he slept so soundly, but he’s sure it was one of those other rare occasions when he was so far gone in his nightmares, Steve had slept in his bed too.

Bucky is pried from his sleep-heavy thoughts when his stomach growls painfully and he vaguely realises he hasn’t eaten anything the entire day. Well, he’s paying for it now.

A headache is forming behind his eyes and his chest feels as though it’s going to implode into the void of his empty stomach if he doesn’t get some food in him fast. The way his throat is beginning to constrict is almost nauseating. He’s always had a healthy appetite and has often gone hungry, both in his youth and during HYDRA missions, but whatever Dr Zola did to him made him less affected by such things as hunger when he was the Asset. It was as if his mind didn’t fully acknowledge the needs of his body. 

Now, however, the combination of his enhanced biology and not being brainwashed makes the hunger close to crippling.

It feels safe and nice to lie with both of Steve’s arms around him, Bucky realises when he shifts a little, and he almost doesn’t want to leave the bed. Steve mumbles something in his sleep and manages to hug Bucky closer so he’s flush with Steve’s entire body, face squashed against his chest.

“Ftoovh,” he tries and rolls his eyes at the muffled sound that’s all he’s capable of producing without chewing on Steve’s shirt. With a bit more determination, he gets his arms in between them and pushes Steve in the chest, harder than he would a normal person, but not hard enough to hurt.

Apparently, the push is still more powerful than he calculated.

With a yelp, Steve rolls off the bed and crashes into the nightstand that goes tumbling towards the opposite wall. Bucky winces, but is on his feet in a second to get Steve up from the floor.

“Fuck, ‘m sorry, Steve,” he mumbles, feeling his cheeks burn. Steve thankfully looks more shocked than hurt and there’s a redness spreading along his cheekbones, too.

“No, it’s… I’m fine, it’s… everything’s fine, yeah.” He nods as if to accentuate the point and it calms Bucky a bit. Then Steve frowns ever so slightly. “Are you okay?”

Bucky shrugs.

“Just hungry,” he says, trying to sound casual. His stomach betrays him by practically groaning just then and the corners of Steve’s lips twitch. Bucky scoffs. “Fine, starving. Do you think there’s anything left of that dinner I slept through?”

Thinking back on the nightmare, he wishes he had gone down to eat instead. Maybe it wouldn’t have been that bad then. It’s wishful thinking of course, but it helps. Admitting that the nightmares are beyond his control is still too grim a reality.

“Oh, there’s plenty we can reheat. Come on.”

Not long after, they’re both sitting in the empty compound kitchen, steaming dishes of a spicy casserole in front of them. It’s the best thing Bucky can remember eating in a long time and he’s through his second helping by the time Steve finishes up his first, significantly smaller one.

“This is real damn delicious,” Bucky comments, gulping down a glass of water like it’s going out of fashion. He’s only just starting to feel better now that he’s got at least two meals’ worth of warm food in him. “Stark hire a cook or something?”

“No,” Steve smiles and scoops another portion onto Bucky’s plate. “Wanda made it. Traditional Sokovian stew, spent forever on it. She put a ton of spices in I’ve never even heard of, but you gotta admit she knew what she was doing.”

“Sure did.” Bucky is a little hesitant about the next bite. There’s something in the taste that he can’t quite place. A warmth, a lingering feeling of… something.

The spices remind him of when he was on the run, of the place he had settled at in Europe before Steve and that SWAT team had torn it apart. Many times during the evenings, the hot smells of food had drifted through the floor and walls from the other flats around him and made him think of the almost forgotten joy of a home cooked meal. 

Homely, he realises. This kind of food tastes of a home, something safe and familiar that he hasn’t had in a very long time.

“It would mean a lot to her if you told her you liked it.” Steve looks intently at him as he says it and Bucky looks down out of reflex. Can’t look Steve in the eyes when he talks like that.

“Okay,” he mumbles with a light shrug of his shoulders, but Steve isn’t done.

“She says you’re avoiding her,” he begins carefully and Bucky sighs, which makes him pause. “What?”

“I’m kinda avoiding everyone in case you haven’t noticed.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t.” Bucky is staring at him now. Steve’s face is turning slightly pink, but he goes on. “Might be good for you to talk to someone other than me. Not everyone hates you, you know.”

The words feel like a punch to the gut and it takes a second for Bucky to figure out why.

It’s the non-sugar coated truth and Steve hasn’t softened his voice the way he sometimes tend to do when it comes to touchy subjects, hell, the way he did a second ago. 

It’s also a surprise.

He has tried over and over to appeal to his logical self with the reasonable assumption that even if Stark and Fury and very likely also Natasha hate him, the others have no reason to. Yet somehow, he realises that he didn’t actually believe it until now. Steve’s words make a splinter of hope ache in his chest.

“You sure?,” he murmurs, raising an eyebrow at his friend who just hums affirmatively and takes another bite of stew.

“Of course I’m sure. There’s still a person behind all that brooding and scowling somewhere. The others know it too. They know it wasn’t your fault.”

“What?”

“Everything that happened to you.” Instead of sending him a pitying look, Steve just shrugs and for a second, Bucky is sure his friend has lost his mind. “Just think about it. I’m not saying you should invite Tony for a fishing trip, just maybe, I don’t know, show up for dinner. Compliment the chef, even if it’s Clint. You know, engage a little more.”

Bucky grinds his teeth behind closed lips.

He engaged with the pretty girl in the coffee shop and now he’s already having bad dreams about her dying. It’s not that he doesn’t want a little more human contact, really. But he wonders if Steve would have suggested it if he knew how many times he had starred in one of Bucky’s bloodcurdling nightmares.

“I’ll try,” he gets out, poking at the remains of stew on his plate with his fork.

“Good.” Steve doesn’t push him further and he’s grateful for it. They finish the meal in silence.

When they get up to put the dishes away and head back to sleep, the soft light of the predawn is beginning to settle outside. Bucky figures he can squeeze in a few hours before heading out for his daily run. He hopes the food and the talk with Steve will make the nightmares stay away for a while.

Otherwise, there’s always the park, and the coffee shop, and the girl…

He finds himself halfway tempted to ask Steve if he wants to go with him for his morning run. They always spar and work out together at nine, but until now, running has been Bucky’s own thing, the only routine he performs in solitude that doesn’t make him feel, well, alone. When he runs, he just exists. No pressure.

Bucky never gets to ask. Steve’s SHIELD pager pings and just like that, the strained tension between them is as thick as it was in the afternoon.

Steve looks at the little device and groans.

“Jesus, Fury…,” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes that have already begun to droop a little again. “Four in the fucking morning.”

“Mission?,” Bucky asks without looking at him.

“Must be. Better be fucking important.” Steve always swears more when he’s tired, slurs the curses into his other words so they’re a part of a sentence-long word and almost not there at all. Bucky hasn’t been on any missions or to any publicity events with Steve since the forties, but he imagines it’s very far from the image everyone is trying to pin on him. It occurs to him not for the first time that his friend is struggling to hold onto his identity just as much as Bucky is. It’s no mean feat considering all the world’s eyes are always on Captain America, the glorified ideal, but hardly ever considers Steve Rogers, the real person wearing the uniform. 

“Hey. Watch yourself out there,” Bucky cautions just when Steve is about to leave. He sends a half smile with the warning to make it sound more casual. Steve grins wearily.

“I will. Careful with the sentiment though, people might start to think you care.”

Bucky scuffs and rolls his eyes.

“Don’t worry, pal, I think everyone knows by now I only care about you.” He shrugs and pats Steve on the shoulder. “I’ll see you when you get back.”

He turns and leaves before Steve can come up with some well-meant words of concern to make Bucky feel like even more of a burden than he already does and trudges back to his room.

It takes him a while of tossing and turning to realise that he's not going to get any more sleep now that Steve is gone. The bed doesn't feel comfortable at all, just vast and empty. He tries to fold the scarcely used duvet into a sort of substitute for another body for him to hold onto, but it still doesn't feel right.

Annoyed with himself, he finally gets up and automatically puts on a pair of black sweatpants from his stack of identical black sweatpants, along with a grey T-shirt and a hoodie. Bucky swallows when he looks at himself in the mirror and realises that this has become as much of a uniform as all his heavy tactical HYDRA gear used to be. Dark sweatpants, dark T-shirt, dark hoodie. Nothing to make him stand out in a crowd or mark him as an individual. 

It suddenly occurs to him that he has been wearing a uniform practically his entire life. He struggles to recall what it was like to wake up and putting thought into what to wear. He must have done it at some point, he knows that much at least. Back in the thirties, even if his family hadn't had two nickels to rub together on a good day, much less anything near the frankly insane amount of clothes people these days seemed to own, he knows there was at least something vaguely resembling choices. There had been a pair of pants, he remembers after wringing his brain, a pair that had been slightly nicer than his everyday ones and which he only wore on Sundays or when he was taking out a girl. They had belonged to his father before he died and Bucky had naturally inherited them, along with some shirts and a tie he rarely had reason to wear. None of it had been made for him, so his mother had had to adjust the clothes the best she could. The pants had still been a little too tight around his thighs, but they meant he didn't have to wear his often dirty work slacks on dates.

It wasn't much, but it had been different. Hell, everything had been different.

He glances down at his black sweatpants now and bites his lip. He'll have to do something about this feeling somehow. The longer he contemplates this new, unintentional uniform, the clearer the Asset appears in his mind. For a second, he almost swears his dark metal hand looks silver again. Then he blinks and the vibranium fingers are back to normal.

Good lord, he can't wait to get that coffee today.

He runs his usual route in the infant daylight, still trying to shake off the nightmare. It doesn’t feel as bad as it has on other mornings, the food and sleep and the talk with Steve has helped. The coffee will definitely help. And moving his legs, albeit mindlessly, that is helping right now, but what Bucky really wants is to see her. Just to make sure she is okay.

The coffee shop is still closed when he reaches it, so he turns back to do another round in the park. Even though it isn’t physically taxing for him, his heart is thundering a hundred miles a minute. What if she isn’t going to be there?, a little, unwelcome voice whispers in the back of his mind. What if you really killed her?

Bucky almost scoffs at himself. There is no way. It was just a nightmare. One of the worst ones he’s had in a while, yes, but still… If he had somehow brought her into the compound, everyone would know. Steve, Stark, Fury, the entire government probably gets daily reports on what he does. Same thing if he had left to go somewhere else. Besides, he never went anywhere or did anything yesterday after getting back, he’s sure of it. He wasn’t anywhere near her, it was just a dream.

Even so, he can’t stop overthinking every single impossible scenario in which he might have hurt her without being aware of it and his heart is sure as hell not slowing down no matter how many calming breaths he tries to take. He needs to see her.

With his bottom lip caught beneath his teeth, he shoots his watch a look and groans when he realises he's still nearly half an hour early. It's going to be some of the longest minutes of his life. Bucky quickly decides he hasn't got that kind of patience, not with how his stupid heart is trying to beat him into a panic anyway. Instead of waiting, he goes back to the place he first saw her, the park entrance. From there, he tries to remember which direction she came from. If he can just see her on her way to work, he knows he'll feel better.

It doesn't take him long to scour the surrounding streets and eliminate the ones that lead to business and shopping districts. It's a guess, but if she had the money to fund one of the few apartments there, she wouldn't have to work in a café. She must live further away.

For a minute, Bucky considers all the tactical and strategic training he's gone through in his days in captivity with HYDRA, but absolutely nothing that can help him out comes to mind. The park is surrounded by too many tall buildings for him to properly see the streets if he were to seek higher ground and he doesn't have any sort of tech except his phone which won't do him any good.

All he really can do is to keep running and try not to get stuck inside his head. Like yesterday, Bucky tries to focus on the movements of his body and the feeling of muscles clenching and unclenching in his legs with every stride. It's something his therapist has told him to do when he needs to calm down, trying to create more awareness of his body and thereby divert his thoughts from any upsetting or stressful factor. Normally, it's good advice, but right now, his body is a part of the problem.

Before his sweaty palms and too shallow breaths end up filling too much in his mind, Bucky forces himself to observe some other detail, any detail.

He settles for the great, big nothing in front of him.

The air.

It’s not the crisp, crystal clear air he loved about the Wakandan sunrises where he would be the only one up and awake to enjoy the quiet, one deep, fresh breath at a time. But it’s still nicer in here, in the park, than outside on the streets. Bucky is not overly fond of the polluted city. He used to be a city boy, sure enough, but that was a long time ago. Whenever he dares imagine himself somewhere else than the compound these days, it’s almost always some version of the hut he had in Wakanda. Most times, it’s the same hut all the way down to the straw roof and spotted goats. Other times, he imagines a small cabin in the woods next to a lake or a faraway little stone cottage surrounded by grassy hills and sheep.

No matter where he sees himself settle though, it’s always somewhere remote with unspoiled air. Sometimes, Steve is with him, and they both look as if the war never happened, but this morning, it isn’t Steve sitting next to him in front of his little imaginary hut.

It's her.

And she's not wearing her work uniform, but a bright yellow dress that matches her nail polish. She has bare, dirty feet and wild flowers in her hair. She smiles when he approaches. He sits down next to her and kisses her cheek. She offers him a strawberry from the basket next to her, freshly picked from their little garden. He prefers to lick the taste from her lips and mouth instead. It's just the two of them there.

His heart soars at the dreamscape for a moment, but plummets just as far when he involuntarily remembers his nightmare again and suddenly, the scene runs red with blood.

Bucky wills himself back to reality and casts another desperate look at his watch.

Less than three minutes.

He wills himself to take the last part of his route at a slow jog despite every fibre in him screaming that he run like hell. When he once again stands in front of the coffee shop, he's about ready to kick down the doors, but right then, the lock clicks, the handle turns and there she stands. Exactly as beautiful as yesterday, if not more.

She looks up at him in surprise, then a smile spreads on her face.

"James," she says happily and Bucky's heartbeat melts into a rhythm of steady calm.

Tags will be added in reblog

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #marvel fanfic

[selftranszendence]

FeMale?

I never knew what to do with my femininity.

I know I am not the only one.

Recently those topics have come back with greater force and I am trying to make sense of it all. Actually I have a lot of other shit to do but this, well, issues, they won't let me. They've nested in the back of my head and don't shut up, they are influencing me constantly towards the wrong decisions.

Those include: Unhealthy food choices, 'hyper-masculine' behaviour that leads to over-excersion, inability to cater to myself or to take part in activities I could like but feel like I am not allowed to take part in. I've lost track of what I want, I often feel like a failure, pressured, petrified.

Next thing: No, I am not trans. This is something that bugs me extremely about this website: Feeling uncomfortable with your gender does not mean you are trans, non-binary or whatever. I never doubted that I am a woman – I just hated it. I never thought that I am a man in a woman's body. If you scan my brain, you won't find the brainstructure that makes a person to identify as a man. It's a woman's brain, I share „typical“ feminine qualities, of which I've learned to cherish at least some, as for example high empathy and a knack for diplomacy.

So what is the problem?

I feel like a feminine failure. I never wanted to be „a girl“. I started to associate girls with extremely negative experiences, due to mobbing. Everything girly, like dresses, skirts, hobbies like horse-riding oder ballet became the epitome of evil. I cut my hair short. I took part in aggressive sports. I hated my body when my period started, hated it when fat started building up on my body.

But on the other hand I always wanted to be beautiful, I wanted long, lucious hair, perfect skin, nice clothes, wanted to be all smiles and sweetness.

I never managed to be fully tomboy or girly because none felt right. Sometimes I feel like a fucking ugly woman that feels the need to dress manly in order to appear tough and like she doesn't care. But I do. And I hate that.

Sometimes I want to dress femine but feel like I am in disguise. Recently there was this situation: We were taking familiy photographs (don't get me started on photos) and one was with all women and the photographer asked us to make a ladylike posture. I've seldom felt more uncomfortable in my life. That day I had bad skin, I was tired, I felt like a fat wale and in no way able to act feminine. When I feel ugly I tend to act more manly, and in the process feel less like being ugly is an unforgivable mistake I am personally responsible for. Still there is a numbeness left, a feeling that acutally this is not what I want. But when I act femine I feel like a clown. A man or a butch does not need to be pretty. I tell myself that I have other qualities. That I am smart. But to be honest? I could do so much more if I wasn't criplled by those harmful thougts.

Another thing: I eat so much unhealthy shit. My body doesn't grow fat in the medical sense, but too fat for my liking. I'd like to be tall, without many curves, so I could pass as a sophisticated woman or a pretty boy. But I am rather small, not yet chubby but with heavy, feminine legs. Those hips that are so good to birth the children I never want to have because the thought alone horrifies me. I eat because I am stressed, because I don't like the body I live in and it gets worse with every bite. I'd like to be sportive and lean but I somehow can't start because on the one hand I'd like a fit body with muscle, but than again I'd like to be like a petite dancer, to finally look I girl. And in that case I mean girl, not woman. I want to hide, either between the shell of the soldier-woman, no man wants to touch, or the virgin, he does want to touch but never would, because that would meen to sully us both. 

I want those nights with other girls, where you drink girly drinks, when you go out in pretty dresses and talk about boys. About dancing and beauty secrets. All cliche, I know. Also all things, I forced myself to hate because they made me afraid. Being a girl meant being weak, being superficial. I never understood the power in embracing that. I still struggle with it.

When I hang out with men I feel the need to drink more than them, to be tougher, to show them they can't mess with me. But I also want them to desire me, to charm them, to be the woman they dream of. And then I hate that. That is not what women are here for. Being concerned about being pretty or men liking you is weak.

You get the drift? I want to embrace being a woman, but I can't stop thinking in gender roles.

I can't accept that I can be a mix of both – like most people are. Soemtimes I think those men that say that it is just natural that woman are soft and beautiful are right and that I just don't manage to be a good woman. That I am a failure. I am also very bad at being manly because I associate it with things as physical strength and being good at maths – I am not that strong, I am more of a language person. I am a failure at being masculine. I constantly feel judged, be it by men or women.

Over the last years I did at least manage to stop hating on other girls. I like them a lot, have even more female friends than male friends. I am able to accept a certain interest in make up, clothing and the colour pink on my side. I always combine female and male aspects in my fashion. Sometimes that works for me, sometimes it feels like a lie.

I am stuck. For me there is only the femme fatale or the princess on one side and the tomboy and the butch on the other. Both I think have to be thin and perfect. Uglyness is not allowed in any case, though the beautystandards are different for both sides. I don't manage to fit any of them. I am a nothing in between.

I have no identity disorder. Society has just thouroughly fucked with my brain.

#feminism #social issues #identity problems #growing up is hard #man im am 25 #one would think it gets better #but this special thing #nope #no one will read this anyway #which is fine because this is supposed to be more of a diary #but none the less I think there are a lot of people with similar issues and I'd like to talk #also slight #edtw #gender roles #bad english #girly #tomboy #butch #keep on tagging