this strange effect.
Title: this strange effect
Fandom: Mad Men
Characters/Pairing: Stan, Peggy, Ginsberg; awkward UST
Rating: PG-13
Words: 879~
Notes: Takes place during 5x07.
Summary: He’d never thought that an assignment on women’s underwear would make him contemplate suicide. But this one’s coming close. The creative team’s at odds over Playtex.
I blame the internet for this.
(whyyyy do I have a new OT3, i really don't need one rn)
He’d never thought that an assignment on women’s underwear would make him contemplate suicide. But this one’s coming close.
He doesn’t know what’s worse: the noticeable lack of beer in the supply room, the grate of Ginsberg’s accent in large doses, or the excruciating way Peggy keeps running her fingers over the sample material.
The argument’s getting tired. His cohorts have been debating the merits of sexy bras to spinsters and dowdy bras to teenagers for two goddamn hours, now. When he chimed in his own two cents - whatever gave him an excuse to draw a Jayne Mansfield lookalike was fine with him - the withering looks shot in his direction were enough to make him scout the office again in search of more beer. (He had to settle for swiping a bottle of Bacardi from Crane’s office, which was thankfully unlocked.)
He contemplates turning the sample merchandise into a makeshift slingshot (erasers would make fine ammo), maybe liven things up, but Peggy’s still holding onto it, sliding her fingers over the fabric and frowning.
“Older women want to feel sexy, too. I don’t think that’s a desire that just fades with age.” She’s draped over the couch, ankles crossed on the armrest. Her fingers keep twitching in a way that says she’ll be asking for a cigarette soon. “And I think comfort should be emphasized. I know that’s very important to me when I’m buying bras.”
He opens his mouth to say something, then wisely closes it. Because although she admirably deals with an array of shit from him on a daily basis, he thinks this particular comment might have gotten him castrated with some form of office equipment. Like the stapler sitting on the edge of the table.
Ginsberg, the little denim-wearing fungus, has no such qualms.
“The comfort angle? Geez. Y’know, I never considered, but those things must be painful sometimes. With the wire? Like an iron maiden for your bosoms.” With clawed hands and a grimace, he mimes cupping invisible breasts.
Peggy’s smile is wry. “Yes. Although maybe we should try to put a more positive spin on it than that.”
“You give us an edge on this sort of thing. Your feminine expertise. We’re lucky.”
A shadow briefly passes over her face. “I don’t know about that.”
Ginsberg beams at her. “I do.”
Stan eyes the stapler; considers performing a little amateur surgery himself.
“You should try it on,” Ginsberg adds. “Give it a test-drive.” Peggy laughs softly.
“I already did. It’s… okay. Nothing to write home about. The cotton isn’t terrible or anything, but I prefer something smoother against my skin. Silk, maybe.”
Ginsberg nods. “I know what you mean. Scratchy underwear puts no one in a good mood.”
“I keep thinking of Maidenform. We used to do their work, at the old agency. But not the ads I’m thinking of.” Peggy presses a hand to her temple. “’I dreamed I went to work in my Maidenform bra.’ The woman’s sitting on her desk, in nothing but that and a pencil skirt.”
“Provocative, but too gimmicky,” Stan says. Ginsberg shrugs.
“I dunno. I remember those. I liked the one with the elephant.”
Peggy bites her lip. “I don’t mean the whole shock angle. What I liked is how they brought comfort and sexiness together as the selling points. I think that’s what’ll do us the most favors.”
Tossing the bra onto the table, she begins to write furiously in her notebook. Ginsberg taps his foot to a tune that only he can hear, staring at the ceiling. Stan takes a sip of rum.
He’d tried sketching her, once. After that whole thing at the hotel. The rest of the weekend had been disappointingly tame, mainly because he was- ashamed, too winded to try anything.
The end result was shitty, anyway - something out of first year art school. Nude, obviously. Breasts, hips, arms, legs, toes, clean lines, perfect proportions, but still amateur. Mainly because he couldn't bring himself to finish the face. The eyes.
(And why even bother? Because the real thing could stare back plenty. Did a damn good job of it.)
For a while, he’d been paranoid that every time he looked at her, he’d see her naked. He didn’t. What happened was almost worse.
When he looks at her, he doesn’t see bare shoulders and pale breasts; he sees that edge of aggression, of quiet carnality, lurking beneath that veneer of feminine modesty. When she smiles at a client, stretching out a delicate hand to shake theirs, he sees the shadow of somebody as coolly cutthroat as any man he’s ever worked with, just straining to get out.
It’s powerful to watch; her outburst at that Heinz shitbag only confirmed it.
It kills him, sometimes.
“If you two are finally done bitching about brassieres,” he drawls, “I’d like to order some dinner. I would kill a man for a four-course meal.”
Her pale eyes flick up to him, smirking. “When wouldn’t you?”
“Chinese gets my vote,” Ginsberg chimes in, stretching in his seat. “Peggy?” She nods without looking up, the movement barely perceptible, still writing.
“I like lo mein. We should get extra. Abe’s stopping by, later.”
He turns to Stan. “How ‘bout you?”
“Sure. Gimme four orders of everything and I’ll be set.”
Ginsberg hiccoughs a laugh at that; Stan grins back, reaching for his wallet, remembering the stretch of bare calf beneath a desk, knee almost brushing his.
Fandom: Mad Men
Characters/Pairing: Stan, Peggy, Ginsberg; awkward UST
Rating: PG-13
Words: 879~
Notes: Takes place during 5x07.
Summary: He’d never thought that an assignment on women’s underwear would make him contemplate suicide. But this one’s coming close. The creative team’s at odds over Playtex.
I blame the internet for this.
(whyyyy do I have a new OT3, i really don't need one rn)
He’d never thought that an assignment on women’s underwear would make him contemplate suicide. But this one’s coming close.
He doesn’t know what’s worse: the noticeable lack of beer in the supply room, the grate of Ginsberg’s accent in large doses, or the excruciating way Peggy keeps running her fingers over the sample material.
The argument’s getting tired. His cohorts have been debating the merits of sexy bras to spinsters and dowdy bras to teenagers for two goddamn hours, now. When he chimed in his own two cents - whatever gave him an excuse to draw a Jayne Mansfield lookalike was fine with him - the withering looks shot in his direction were enough to make him scout the office again in search of more beer. (He had to settle for swiping a bottle of Bacardi from Crane’s office, which was thankfully unlocked.)
He contemplates turning the sample merchandise into a makeshift slingshot (erasers would make fine ammo), maybe liven things up, but Peggy’s still holding onto it, sliding her fingers over the fabric and frowning.
“Older women want to feel sexy, too. I don’t think that’s a desire that just fades with age.” She’s draped over the couch, ankles crossed on the armrest. Her fingers keep twitching in a way that says she’ll be asking for a cigarette soon. “And I think comfort should be emphasized. I know that’s very important to me when I’m buying bras.”
He opens his mouth to say something, then wisely closes it. Because although she admirably deals with an array of shit from him on a daily basis, he thinks this particular comment might have gotten him castrated with some form of office equipment. Like the stapler sitting on the edge of the table.
Ginsberg, the little denim-wearing fungus, has no such qualms.
“The comfort angle? Geez. Y’know, I never considered, but those things must be painful sometimes. With the wire? Like an iron maiden for your bosoms.” With clawed hands and a grimace, he mimes cupping invisible breasts.
Peggy’s smile is wry. “Yes. Although maybe we should try to put a more positive spin on it than that.”
“You give us an edge on this sort of thing. Your feminine expertise. We’re lucky.”
A shadow briefly passes over her face. “I don’t know about that.”
Ginsberg beams at her. “I do.”
Stan eyes the stapler; considers performing a little amateur surgery himself.
“You should try it on,” Ginsberg adds. “Give it a test-drive.” Peggy laughs softly.
“I already did. It’s… okay. Nothing to write home about. The cotton isn’t terrible or anything, but I prefer something smoother against my skin. Silk, maybe.”
Ginsberg nods. “I know what you mean. Scratchy underwear puts no one in a good mood.”
“I keep thinking of Maidenform. We used to do their work, at the old agency. But not the ads I’m thinking of.” Peggy presses a hand to her temple. “’I dreamed I went to work in my Maidenform bra.’ The woman’s sitting on her desk, in nothing but that and a pencil skirt.”
“Provocative, but too gimmicky,” Stan says. Ginsberg shrugs.
“I dunno. I remember those. I liked the one with the elephant.”
Peggy bites her lip. “I don’t mean the whole shock angle. What I liked is how they brought comfort and sexiness together as the selling points. I think that’s what’ll do us the most favors.”
Tossing the bra onto the table, she begins to write furiously in her notebook. Ginsberg taps his foot to a tune that only he can hear, staring at the ceiling. Stan takes a sip of rum.
He’d tried sketching her, once. After that whole thing at the hotel. The rest of the weekend had been disappointingly tame, mainly because he was- ashamed, too winded to try anything.
The end result was shitty, anyway - something out of first year art school. Nude, obviously. Breasts, hips, arms, legs, toes, clean lines, perfect proportions, but still amateur. Mainly because he couldn't bring himself to finish the face. The eyes.
(And why even bother? Because the real thing could stare back plenty. Did a damn good job of it.)
For a while, he’d been paranoid that every time he looked at her, he’d see her naked. He didn’t. What happened was almost worse.
When he looks at her, he doesn’t see bare shoulders and pale breasts; he sees that edge of aggression, of quiet carnality, lurking beneath that veneer of feminine modesty. When she smiles at a client, stretching out a delicate hand to shake theirs, he sees the shadow of somebody as coolly cutthroat as any man he’s ever worked with, just straining to get out.
It’s powerful to watch; her outburst at that Heinz shitbag only confirmed it.
It kills him, sometimes.
“If you two are finally done bitching about brassieres,” he drawls, “I’d like to order some dinner. I would kill a man for a four-course meal.”
Her pale eyes flick up to him, smirking. “When wouldn’t you?”
“Chinese gets my vote,” Ginsberg chimes in, stretching in his seat. “Peggy?” She nods without looking up, the movement barely perceptible, still writing.
“I like lo mein. We should get extra. Abe’s stopping by, later.”
He turns to Stan. “How ‘bout you?”
“Sure. Gimme four orders of everything and I’ll be set.”
Ginsberg hiccoughs a laugh at that; Stan grins back, reaching for his wallet, remembering the stretch of bare calf beneath a desk, knee almost brushing his.