It’s all in the way that girl/boys shirts are made.
Girls shirts have less armpit room then boy’s do and are generally shorter so pulling it off over your head is more practical because by lifting your arms all the way up you make enough room for the sleeves to just slip off.
Boys shirts have more room and are generally longer so it is easy to slip them off over your head.
but if you take a girls shirt off like a boys shirt you will get your arms caught because there isn’t much armpit space.
and if you take a boys shirt off like a girls shit you will still have your head in it when you’ve lifted your arms all the way up because of the shirt’s length.
It has nothing to do with us. It is entirely to do with how our shirts are made. I figured it out for you. YOU’RE WELCOME!
I love that like, GoopSMP, today was the 1 year aniversary, and we celebrate it by getting amazing new artifacts, a new fishing update, AND THE WORST MERCHANT EVER, it was hilarious, and the fact that this guy was what ended up driving Frost to choose violence too?? like she always tries to see the best in people and give them the benefit of the doubt, and even beyond that, she tries to never attack people, BUT THIS MF, even Corven, Ouro and Fate were suprised T^T
wc: 1819 // based on this request
disclaimer: there's a lot of technical breakdance and dancehall terms in here, so sorry if you need to pause reading and check what the hell that move even is
“This better be fucking worth it.” You rub your prickly arms, pouting at your roommate after the queue to the nightclub’s door hasn’t budged an inch in twenty minutes.
“I’m telling you,” she flicks off her cigarette, “the longer the wait to the club, the better it is!”
“I know, but an hour?” You take the cig from her fingers and inhale quickly before regretting the decision immediately and coughing. “For women?!”
She almost rips the cig from your hand. “Yeah. It’s because mostly women come here.”
You know she’s not wrong—the majority of the line consists of other extremely skimpily dressed women. The queue even rounds the corner of the building, and you wonder if the people at the end will even get inside. But that’s none of your worry, the most important thing is you get inside and get to dance the night away.
After ten minutes or so, the line finally moves and you start nearing the entrance, slowly but surely. Even before you get inside you can feel your body wanting to groove, the loud music slipping through the tiny cracks in the wall.
Once you’re in, you’re greeted by stuffy air, lively chatter and bass thumping under your feet. The dancefloor is quite full, but not too crowded—just enough space to move and show off a little. You didn’t spend years in dance classes to now just sit your ass at home or dance in your room when no one’s there to bear witness.
Your friend gestures that she’ll get a drink for both of you and you tell her that you’re heading straight to the stage, right under the DJ’s booth where the heat is the highest. Dancing on your own is cool, but what a club’s great for is finding a partner to sway together with.
Surging through the ocean of bodies proves quite easy, you know your way around clubs and what’s the etiquette on the dancefloor. The closer you get to the center of the dancing space, the louder and clearer some cheering shouts become. You’re instantly intrigued and squeeze between people faster, curious who’s stealing your spotlight.
What you see is a stupidly good-looking redhead with a man-bun doing the Coffee Grinder move on the floor, sending lazy but overtly confident looks towards a group of women gaping and giggling. You would join them as you’ve never seen anyone actually do it, let alone this graciously. He then proceeds to spin on his back, doing the windmill, before finishing with a few Kick Outs, to finally jump up to his feet and freeze with his arms spread out. A few people start clapping and he bows, clearly loving the attention.
But you know better than that, so you just roll your eyes and scoff, which to your demise is louder than you wanted and lands exactly on a song fade. Everyone—including the hot, obnoxious dancer—turns their attention to you.
“I bet it’s the only move he knows,” you shrug and turn to leave, but you’re stopped in your tracks when someone’s hand grabs your shoulder. It’s, of course, the tanned b-boyer. You flick your eyes up and down, judging the authenticity of his fit. To your dislike it looks legit, nothing try-hard or fake. Same as his face, the cocky smirk on it seems real, not rehearsed.
“You always insult people at the club?” He tilts his head when you cross your arms over your chest. Somehow, standing his gaze proves difficult.
“Only the ones fishing for applause,” you say casually, though warmth blooms under your cheeks and you thank silently for the dimmed club lights.
“Bet you can’t move like that.” He points a finger gun at you, which under any other circumstances would be lame, but somehow suits him and feels even… weirdly cool.
“You did not just say that.” Trying to sound offended doesn’t really work when you almost squeal at his words.
“Oh, but I did. What, wanna prove me wrong?”
“With pleasure,” you reply with a grin, shoving him to the side and stepping slowly into the empty space left after his performance. You came here to dance anyway, a little challenge only adding to the thrill of the evening.
Not taking your eyes off of him, you start with a slow, measured Pretty Wine, rolling your hips deliciously into the rhythm of a Sean Paul duet with Tyla, PUSH 2 START. Not giving him a chance to interrupt, you sway your hips from left to right, accentuating the move by lifting your heels from side to side. Then, immediately, you lift your arms up and start isolating your hips back and forth, almost like you’re twerking. The man is giving a silent nod of approval and comes up to you, clapping slowly with intent.
“How’d you like that?” You ask with a devilish smile.
“More than you know. I’m Rex, by the way.”
You spot your friend with your drinks with the corner of your eye, clearly examining the situation. You quickly wave at her, gesturing that you’ll come over in a moment.
“And I’m gonna let your little crowd fawn over you and try not to steal your spotlight,” you retort, slowly stepping away and pointing with your head to your roommate.
“Where do you think you’re going? You owe me.” He squints his eyes, mischief glistening behind what seems to be green irises.
“You think I’m gonna spend the night with you just because you liked my moves?”
“Nah. You owe me a dance off.”
Your stomach drops to your ass—you came here to have fun, not dance-fight with an obnoxious dude.
“Unless you’re scared,” he adds. That gets you riled up in an instant.
“If me winning means you get lost, then so be it.”
He doesn’t seem to be any bit offended by your choice of words.
“And if you lose, I get to spend the afternoon with you tomorrow. You in?” Rex stretches his hand towards you and just waits, measuring you calmly with his gaze.
“Sure,” you grab his palm; his skin is very rough and calloused. “It’s good to have dreams.”
You shake hands and someone from the crowd cuts the deal. Another person must have somehow come up to the DJ and let her know what’s going on, because she turns the volume down and grabs the mic to announce the competition you found yourself in. Quickly before the whole ordeal starts, you run up to your friend, grab the drink from her hand and drink half of it in one go.
“I’m sure you’re glad now you waited to get here.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“You’re the best dancer I’ve ever seen, you got this.”
“Yeah, but you haven’t seen him. He’s good.”
The Moves like Jagger by Maroon 5 starts playing and Rex gestures to the empty space with a wink. “Ladies first.”
Before you can realize you’re actually a little stressed, your body takes control and starts moving like it’s second nature. With deliberate steps, you get into the center, surrounded by tipsy, chanting club-goers. Beginning with the Kushie Wine, you get low on your knees and step to the side, then to the front; following with the One Knock move you recently finally mastered. When you’re done, the crowd is cheering loudly, almost shouting over the music. Emboldened by the adrenaline and the applause, you graze your finger along the line of his jaw when you make room for him to show off.
“Not too bad, beautiful. But watch this.”
He gestures to the people gathered around to step back and you’re already wondering what kind of acrobatics he is going to do.
Well, the man does exactly that—fucking Simone Biles level gymnastics. He drops to the floor and starts airflaring like a spinning top. Then, he proceeds to do a few Backsidekickspins before getting up while jumping over his leg that he’s holding by the heel. He finishes off rather modestly compared to his previous moves, with a simple cross step, moving his hands from his head to the floor. You have to give it to him, he’s extremely fit—he didn’t even break a sweat, unlike you. The people gathered around chant and clap, the sound reverberating in your ribs.
Begrudgingly, you have to join them this time, trying to conceal the fact you’ve been fidgeting with your fingers during his whole routine.
“I bet you want my number already,” he grins, bumping you with his arm on the way from the center.
Crossing your arms over your chest, you lift a brow, hopefully hiding your admiration. “Are you always this lame?”
“I’m gonna be even worse when we go out tomorrow.”
Before you have a chance to retort, the DJ fades down the song and asks the crowd for their vote. It’s only then you’ve realized that there are live feeds of the dancefloor on monitors hanging from the ceiling around the club.
“Will the dancehall queen please step out?”
Suddenly, shyness washes over you, your ears and cheeks warming up despite the AC going.
“And can the b-boy master stand next to his beautiful opponent?”
Rex walks up to you, chest out and all proud, waving like a fucking rockstar to the screaming girls. You can’t help but roll your eyes—there’s a fat chance you’re gonna have to meet with this dork tomorrow, if you’re not dying from a hangover, of course.
“All those in favor of the new lady?”
It feels like almost the whole club screams, with a definite lead of male voices. Of course.
“Now all those in favor of our usual star guest?”
That’s when it hits you—you’re not the first, and definitely not the last dance off this devious, insanely good-looking redhead had in this club.
“Wait a min—” You’re outyelled before you can finish, and this time definitely the whole club is going apeshit, everyone cheering, scanting and jumping like they are rabid.
“Don’t drink too much, sugar—I need you fresh and clean tomorrow at three p.m.” He fishes out something from his pocket and discretely puts it into your hand, closing your fist around what feels like cardboard. Still shocked you don’t check at first what that is, and Rex uses the moment to steal a hasty kiss on your cheek. “I hope you’re an honorable loser,” he mutters into your ear, voice low, vibrating against your skin down to your stomach. And then he’s gone, swallowed by the crowd.
Your friend comes over, both of your drinks already empty. “Don’t give me that look, I was stressed as fuck.” She glances at your hand, still holding whatever that ginger asshole gave you. “What is it?”
You uncurl your fist to see… a business card?
“You gotta be fucking kidding me.” Your shoulders start to shake as you laugh with disbelief.
The card says:
Rex Splode — Pyrotechnics Connoisseur & Breakdance Virtuoso.
Snowcloud oneshot based off early scene with Frost and Sylph, where he fell asleep for the first time in a long time resting his head on Frosts shoulder. These two move at breakneck speeds, unlike bluescreen, so this is already old news, but still cute.
As always, both players are cool with me writing this, and I was asked to write this.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Stoic mystique doesn’t come from nothing. It takes considerable effort to think of exactly what may charm people into deals. And while Sylph does have a way with words, that comes with the unfortunate trait of over thinking. A devil's advocate perched on his shoulder, nitpicking endlessly. When you need to debate constantly, you master the techniques.
‘Why do you care?’, it whispers, when Frost grasps his hand, beckoning him to sit on a bench with her. And the answer comes easy, as he smiles at her:
‘I don’t. It’s something to do. And if I don’t care either way, and she clearly does, then shouldn’t I just put up with it? She’s the easiest person to read, shockingly so. But yeah. I don’t mind. She wants something to fix and help, and while there’s nothing wrong with me that can be fixed, the effort she puts in is admirable. She only fixates on helping people because she wants someone to treat her the same way. It’s probably just a way for her to project.’
‘Projecting is for people who can’t get what they want.’
He remembers the shock on her face when he offhandedly mentioned not sleeping in years during their wander about Laniss. She was easy to worry, and stubborn as a mule. It was either sit on the bench for a moment, or her trying to haul him into a bed. No amount of teasing comments of exactly that scenario would have deterred her, only prolonged the inevitable– stuttering the whole time as she dug her heels into the ground as she would try throw him under the sheets, and when she inevitably trips herself from this effort, making him feel ever so slightly bad for her, and relenting anyways.
Sylph sighs, in faux annoyance at the hypothetical (a force of habit at this point). He fails to suppress a smirk. Frost’s too pushy, despite the shyness. Might as well make it easy on them both, and humor her.
‘Not that it was all bad’, he thinks, eyes catching rays of sun over the horizon in between slow blinks, the light leaving slowly, casting a warm purple hue over the lake. Her stubbornness was less of an annoyance, and oddly endearing. Inconveniencing? Perhaps. But her unrelenting kindness, even towards those that don’t deserve it…
‘Her motivations are selfish. She likes the praise and attention of being a good person, but can’t perceive how others feel. Only how she wants them to feel, for her narrative. You’re no more a person to her than an idea,’ the critic hisses. Sylph feels his hand twitch, squeezing her hand in his, unable to stop himself from openly reacting to– what Frost perceives– is just them holding hands on the bench, watching a sunset. It wasn’t his intention, to react to what he thought of her; the critical part that analyses everything to death. But now that he’s reacted, he needs to perform.
“You feeling better, now that we’ve rested a moment?” he asks softly, turning to look at her. He can see the vapor evaporate from where she grips the armrest of the bench, the tension in her body. She’s dissatisfied, and seems a bit nervous when his eyes meet hers. Sensation is slightly dulled for both of them, but Frost naturally is cold. He could feel her sapping the heat from the bench, chill creeping around where the two sat.
“It’s not quite what I had in mind... I figured you’d be more… I dunno. Just not. What I thought…” She mumbles, looking askance. Ice shards prickle and melt where their hands are clasped. ‘Oh she is so obvious…’
“No? Did you figure we’d do something more on the bench? We’re still in public, sunshine, how scandalous!” he mummers softly, watching her flinch at the accusation. Despite the teasing, he reaches over before she can object, gently prying her fingers off the armrest, leaving an indent of icicles where she gripped it. Without any force, but with a smooth, and rehearsed confidence, he coaxes her into reclining on the bench more, scooching himself on the bench into a half lean, and press his face into the crook of her neck. He shushes her, half heartedly when she stammers, shepherding her fingers through his hair. They’re cold as ice, but they gently work through his hair, avoiding anywhere that would hurt if touched (like his band and bolts), finding a rhythm with little guidance.
She is easy to rile up, and it is amusing to watch her react. But, if he acts too teasing, she’ll give up. And that’s not what he wants, just yet.
It’s all a balancing act.
When he’s certain she won’t stop, he lets go, letting her do as she pleases, while he shifts one last time, getting as comfortable as one can on a bench cold enough to sting. Turns out, he can get shockingly comfortable, when it’s her. And she must be too. Despite his teasing, she seems to titter to herself about getting him to relax so much. ‘She’s so easy to please,’ his mind purrs. It’s an observation, not an insult, he decides.
Frost takes care to be still as she can aside from the hand combing through his hair, and let him rest for the first time in centuries. And as he finally stops shifting and his breaths even out into long, quiet rhythm, she can at last hear the wind rustling gently through the leaves, instead of her own heartbeat.
And she would think she’s warm, the way he leans into her.
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