charlene ‘charlie’ roseanne was not known for her sartorial fashion endeavours. her idea of a perfect year-round outfit consisted of whatever old marvel t-shirt she could fish out of the abyss that was her closet, and a pair of cotton shorts that only served to exaggerate the lengthy, somewhat ungainly appearance of her legs.

often paired with male boxers (hey were more comfortable than lingerie), she often rocked up at whatever function she was supposed to be attending with the air of one who just emerged after a lengthy hibernation.

you never saw her dress up; maybe the black dress she’d been forced into for sandra fischer’s twenty first birthday party counted, but other than that, her frame was always artfully concealed by fabric she clearly was in a toxic relationship with.

however one angel of destruction, valentina dior, had returned from a modelling trip with little presents for all your friends, since one perk of being hot (pretty privilege, jesus christ) was receiving free shit. valentina had thought it would be fitting to gift charlie an audatious pair of underwear.

see, a garment in itself couldn’t be attractive— it was strip of cloth after all. but this particular lacy black pair with little white bows seemed to be quite the distraction.

“the audacity of people sometimes, i swear to god.” charlie was in regular animated rant about her day; the crime against her existence this time? a random old lady calling the manager on her.

charlie had leaned against your kitchen island, palms pressed firmly to the granite edge. although you attempted to tune into her tirade, the fact was that her shirt had ridden up slightly over her caramel stomach. the slight lace frill over her waistband was a juxtaposition to her general demeanour.

“like really, what was i supposed to do? how was i supposed to know she’d been coming to that bar for the past forty years?” she continued, a frown pinching her features as she raked her fingers through her petulant cinnamon curls. “i wasn’t even born yet.”