#and my job is more sedentary

[wetslug]

every month i go 'im gonna take control of my health and eat better and im gonna lose weight' and then it lasts approx 1 day before i give up . bc i dont ~really~ care that much and im not rlly motivated and theres never truly an ultimatum or strong motivating factor so its like 😭😭what will it take

[transcendentalmaggot]

Work has been going well but I am so utterly exhausted I'm pretty much taking care of my base needs and collapsing into bed at night. Goodwill seems to exist for two reasons: for us to throw away your trash you either don't have the heart to or honestly believe the poor would be grateful for your garbage and the make middle class folks with more useless items than sense feel better about owning more than they could ever possibly have use for while convincing themselves they're generous people. But after all these years cooped up at home, I'd rather be dealing with difficult people than nobody at all as strange as that sounds.

I'm sorry, I've been in work mode so I'm bursting with disdain towards our current system, bad customer stories and the usual problems that come with retail. I found a half eaten hard-boiled egg, shell pieces scattered all through the bin, in one of our carts to clean up to give you a good idea (and that's the nicest story I can think of).

[viiridiangreen]

uh cw fatphobia ig lol

me: i got a stationary bike

my partner's parents each time we've met since incl at the family gathering. also the entirety of my social feeds outside this app: OH YOU HATE YOUR BODY? I HATED MY BODY TOO OMG!! YOU WANNA LOSE WEIGHT? YOU WANNA B U R N F A T???? RECIPES TO SLIM DOWN! THIS ROUTINE GOT ME SHREDDED IN A MONTH! BECOME UNRECOGNISABLE! SHRINK GET SMALL FUCKING DISAPPEAR <3

●_●

[agayconcept]

.

[110orlower]

Don’t mind the sleep stat just check out my steps

[orcelito]

the hilarious thing will be if me being back in school actually Improves my productivity with writing. bc i have so goddamn much free time rn, but what am i doing with it? fucking anime and crochet. i really do need to get my ass in gear for cleaning and also writing this reverse bang fic. but really. im probably going to be able to do more writing once im back in school

How, you may ask?

procrastination is a powerful drug.

[motheyes]

my hips hurt from sitting and laying. they’d hurt if i was walking more. they always hurt regardless

[rileyslibrary]

No, soldier, no.

Synopsis: You have been transferred to a British military base to work with Ghost on a new mission. As a non-native English speaker, you are not very keen on British slang/culture and need some time to pick up on things. Ghost tries to help you navigate through your language barriers and finds it rather amusing in the process. 

Relationship: Simon “Ghost” Riley x GN!Reader

Word Count: 1,287

Notes: 

Dedicated to all the non-native English speakers like myself who are trying their best and to the native English-speaking friends who teach us without judgment.

I’m not good at writing combat and action scenes yet, so I gave them another sedentary job once again.

You voted fluff; I give you something similar—a cute crackfic.To those who voted angst, I’ll give it to you next time, promise.

WARNING: Swearing. Again.

Want more?

———————————————————————

“And this,” you point at the spread map on the table, “is the enemy’s safe house.”

He looks at the pinpoint with furrowed eyebrows, giving small and repeated nods. 

“Did we get clearance on what time to strike?” He asks, his eyes fixed on the mark as if he’s conversing with that little red pin. 

“No sir, not yet,” you reply, “the Captain will come shortly to brief us on that matter.”  

 He stands up straight. His focus is still fixed on the map, trailing with his eyes along the road you marked. “Who’s coming with us?” He asks.

“Captain left some files on your desk, sir,” you explain, “he said that we should go through them together and choose the right recruits for the job.”

“Together?” he turns at you with the same expression he was looking at the pinpoint.

“Yes, sir, together.” 

“I can do that on my own, soldier.”

“Of course, you can,” you say, “but this is a joint mission, and I get to have some saying as well, no?”

“No.” He states.

“No?”

“No.” He repeats. “I’ll lead them, so I’m the one who gets to choose the right people for my team,” he claims, walking to his desk to check on the new recruits’ files. 

You clear your throat. “And my side has to have a saying to that, sir.” You reply with as much authority as you can. 

He gives you a side eye, opens a file and begins to read, ignoring your statement. 

You knew he was difficult; they told you that much. Simon “Ghost” Riley likes to work alone, they said. And when you asked them what this so-called Ghost does when he’s on a joint mission with other forces, they replied with the same statement; that he’s being difficult. 

But you have worked with difficult people before. Most of them are like that in the force, especially regarding hierarchy. Little did he know that you had the upper hand in this situation. Difficult people hate having to deal with other difficult people.

“No problem,” you say, acting agreeable, “I just want to warn you that some of the people in those files are not very obedient and don’t like to be ordered around.”

“There’s no such thing in the army, soldier.”

“Oh, but there is, lieutenant,” you say, hiding a smile, “especially if they’re the Captain’s godson or the General’s nephew; they tend to slack a lot.”

“Fucking bastards,” he swears and rolls his eyes. He leaves the file before him and picks the rest of the pile, swearing profanities. He begins shuffling through the papers with eagerness. You speculate he’s trying to find the people you’re referring to. A sign that indicates a blood relation with the General, birth certificates, notes that specify who baptised who, perhaps. Of course, he can’t find anything, and he gives up. 

“Which of these fuckers are they?” he finally asks, throwing the papers on his desk.

“May I approach your desk to show you, Lieutenant?” You ask out of politeness.

“Oh, no, no need to do that, Y/N,” he replies sarcastically. He looks at the mess he created with the scattered papers, “just point them to me telepathically, and I’ll discard them.”

You stare at him, and he meets your gaze. You didn’t get any definite answer from him, so you are waiting for a clear answer, just like they taught you to do ever so obediently. Unfortunately, he misunderstands your stance.

“Please tell me you’re not actually trying to send me information via brainwaves, soldier,” he comments with a desperate tone.

“I was just waiting for an answer, Lieutenant.” You explain. 

He keeps staring at you before he lets another exhale and rubs his eyes. 

“Yes, Y/N,” he says, opening his arms wide, almost theatrically. “You may approach my desk and pinpoint those brats at me, just like you did with that checkmark before on the map.”

You nod and do as you are told. You sit opposite Ghost’s desk and start sorting out the messy papers. “Apologies, sir,” you say, “sometimes it’s tough to understand when you’re being sarcastic.”

He looks at you dumbfounded. “At what point did you think I wasn’t being sarcastic when referring to telepathy?” He asks.

“Well, it was between sarcastic or angry, sir,” you explain, looking embarrassed, “and I didn’t want to take my chances.” 

He rubs his forehead and stays still for a while. You peak at him from the corner of your eye; he looks like he’s calming down, contemplating. As if he’s reflecting on his actions.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says, “I sometimes forget we have a language barrier.”

“And cultural.” You add.

“And cultural.” He agrees.

You both begin to collaborate on the recruits’ profiles. You discard the ones you know are not fit for the job (i.e. the ones that will clash with Ghost and his personality) and hand him the shortlisted ones. He begins muttering something about “CROW bags”, and you look at him like a puppy trying to understand the “sit” command. He patiently explains that “CROW bags” stand for “Combat Recruit Of War”, which, in the British army, is a soldier fresh out of training, a newbie, and therefore not fit for the job. When you ask him what the “bag” means, he shrugs and says he doesn’t know. You shortlist five profiles you’re both happy with and agree to wrap them up. You lean on the desk and stand up.

“Sir,” you say, still leaning on the table, “you need to change your desk.”

“What’s wrong with it?” He asks.

“It’s wanky, sir.”

You’ve never seen him turn with such force to look at you. He shakes his head vigorously like he’s forcing thoughts to travel from his brain to his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he says, trying to suppress a laugh, “my desk is what?”

“Wanky,” you repeat with confidence, “all this time that we’ve been going back and forth with the files, the table was wanking.”

“The table was…” he leans back in his chair and covers his already concealed mouth with his gloved hand.

“…wanking, sir,” you complete his sentence, “here, look,” and proceed to shake the unsteady desk.

“You need to either get a new desk or screw this one better, sir.” You advise him, now examining the desk’s legs. He pinches his nose’s bridge and murmurs something like “table, you fucking wanker” under his breath before finally gathering the courage to explain.

“No, soldier, it’s not—“

But as he speaks, Captain Price interrupts your conversation and walks into the office. He looks at Ghost, who is almost teary-eyed from the suppressed laugh and then at you.

“What are you two up to?” He asks with a smile, holding his tactical vest with his thumbs in its pockets. Ghost gestures for him to stop talking.

“I was just telling the lieutenant—” you begin, but Ghost interrupts you.

“The table is wonky, or rather wobbly, and I need to tighten the bolts.” He says and gives you a meaningful look. Epiphany strikes you, and you widen your eyes.

Price shakes the desk and looks at you both. “Look at that,” he says, “you’re right, Y/N”, and shoots you one of his signature smiles, only to be met by the red hue that has spread across your face from embarrassment and eyes threatening to bolt from your head. You lower your head in response. Price moves his gaze from you to Ghost in confusion.

“We managed to shortlist a few, Capt,” he says to Price changing the conversation.

“Very well,” Price says. “Any good?”

“Yes,” you reply, “only the good ones—no CROW bars.”

“It’s bags, kid,” Ghost whispers, and Price chuckles slightly, “CROW bags.”

———————————————————————

[uzumaki-rebellion]

Spinning the Block Part 1

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Officer Jessica "Jess" Sims

Warning(s): 18+, Angst, Mentions of Racial Tension.

Summary: Jess Sims attempts to pay her respects.

Word count: 3.2K

"Turned into an inconvenience

You only want me when convenient

I know that I could probably block you

But for some reason, I wanna see you

And you know I give a damn about you

You got me sittin' here thinkin' about you

And how your name triggers all my emotions

Into my eyes, into an ocean"

Normani – "Insomnia"

Jessica Sims knew in her heart she had no right to be at Michael Simmons' mother's house.

She'd driven an hour from Shelby Springs into Greenwood carrying a homemade lemon pound cake in the passenger side of her slate gray Dodge Durango. Her mother's recipe had her SUV smelling like fresh butter, sugar, and citrus.

The closer she got to the neighboring town, the tighter her fingers gripped the steering wheel, worrying if she'd see Terry Richmond again. He'd been on her mind for weeks…haunting her. She lost sleep and her nerves were so bad she had to get a prescription for sleeping pills just to function daily. Jess tried every home remedy from chamomile tea to a glass of warm milk before bed to fight insomnia.

Nothing worked.

Each night she crawled between cool sheets and stared at her bedroom ceiling, wishing things were different. Wishing she'd done things differently. Terry's smoldering sea-green eyes always came into focus, taunting her, preventing much needed rest.

When he walked into her police station to file a robbery complaint, she'd believed her department ran a tight ship. Her training had taught her to be fair but firm in following the law by the books. Chief Sandy Burnne had been her mentor, the one who recruited her straight from the police academy. She planned her law enforcement career while in college, joining the police academy a year after graduation. Her family wasn't too keen on the idea, preferring she use the hard-earned sociology degree to get a regular job and start a family like her older brothers. Jess had other plans. She wanted to be the first Black female police chief in Shelby Springs.

Wielding a badge and a gun allowed her to protect her own community. She had a certain charmed way of speaking to people that let them know not to test her, but that she'd hear them out with their problems whether they were in the wrong or right. Her excellent reputation around those parts gave her access to places that would unnerve the average person. She grew up a tomboy running around hunting with her father and brothers, physically fighting anyone who crossed her. She abhorred a bully, and that caused her problems with some of her colleagues that used their badge to sling their dicks around. Jess didn't go along to get along, but she picked her battles carefully to achieve her long-term goal: to run the department herself one day.

Men tested her all the time, and she did her job ignoring the micro and macro aggressions. Chief Burnne always had her back despite the cracker ways he tried to keep under wraps. He came from an era of uneducated Cajun rednecks filling up the department. Nowadays, there were more cops coming onto the force with education, melanin, and sometimes a vagina. A lot of old-school men didn't like that. Chief Burnne didn't either, but he accepted her and showed Jess respect when she did her job well. She impressed him, and he took her under his wing. She never revealed her goals to have his job in the future. Staying quiet, observant, and efficient worked to her advantage. Chief Burnne opened up more that way, spilling his tips on how to handle the job and people his way.

That is…until Terry Richmond showed up.

Jess misread his intentions from the start.

The second he strode into the office, she sensed a cockiness in him that smoldered beneath the surface. Most Black men in Shelby Springs were older and paunchy from a sedentary lifestyle and good Country Cookin', or lean youngsters with hustler's dreams of getting away from small town life. Terry was built strong and muscular, like a brick shithouse. He carried himself different. Spoke with controlled diction. He was a country boy for sure, but one that didn't work around Shelby Springs. She would've noticed his striking looks at the bars or cookouts broadcasting that he was living mighty fine. Employment was good with the new petrochemical plant ten miles away, and the Black community she lived in thrived with folks making good money, something that hadn't happened in over thirty years. Black folks, especially the men, being flush with cash and a pride about themselves irritated the white community. Negroes were acting a little too uppity lately. Buying new cars and scooping up property. Getting their homes built from scratch. Purchasing big fishing boats to use on Lake Tremblay. Sending their kids to college.

Tensions erupted in bars, public gatherings, and even football games at the local high school whenever white and Black people mingled in the same spaces. That's where Jess worked her magic. If she caught word of trouble brewing, she'd make a phone call to family and friends, giving a warning about police sweeps and rednecks making a commotion. The community grapevine activated and her people acted accordingly to stay far from trouble.

When it was her time to do patrols, Jess stayed visible in the white areas a lot. Her paternal great-granddaddy Adelore Seraphin was a fiery white Cajun who never married her great-grandmother, so she never gave their only child, Jess's granddaddy, his surname. The Sims family were proud Black Cajuns who turned their nose up at white trash. Adelore was considered trash because he wouldn't divorce his wife to marry Zema Sims. There was something about her Paw Paw's wife not giving him a divorce on account of them being Catholic. Granny Zema was an African Methodist and didn't give a damn about what Catholics thought about divorce. Paw Paw left that white lady and built Granny Zema a house to show that he was for real about building a life and family with her. So that's what they did. The white wife kept the marriage title, but Granny Zema kept the man.

It was a scandal, and as far as her Paw Paw was concerned, his only issue was that he didn't want that other woman to get part of his pension. She never did because she died before him, a bitter alcoholic, still screaming about the Black bitch that stole her husband. Technically, Granny Zema didn't steal him. She had him first, but back in their time, they couldn't get married because of miscegenation laws. So they broke up and Paw Paw married the white woman…and lived miserably. He started tipping out and one thing led to another. Jess's granddaddy, Hebert Sims, was born.

Jess's connection to Adelore Seraphin meant she had white Cajun relatives all up and down Shelby Springs. The kin on that side, who knew the family tree had an extra dark branch, tolerated Jess when she made patrols or answered calls of domestic disturbances in that section of town. Nothing on her screamed Seraphin except for her eyes. She had Paw Paw's discerning eyes. So did her daddy. She moved in the world like a Sims, but them pale kinfolk recognized her as the great-granddaughter of that trouble-making Seraphin behind her back. That gave Jess intimate knowledge of how outsiders perceived the proud, flourishing Black community. Trouble.

So when Terry Richmond rode his fine ass into Shelby Springs, he was already a problem before Lann clipped him with the police cruiser.

When he sat down in front of her while she typed in his descriptions of who robbed him, his tone was confident. His demeanor crafty. She was shocked that he recorded their conversation, equally shocked by Chief Burnne's sudden aggression toward him. Lann was an asshole to everyone, overcompensating for some deep-rooted male insecurity. Her first thought was that the Chief might've known something about Terry that she didn't, and she expected to be filled in on the matter. Drug couriers were a thing within small towns, and it wasn't above suspicion that drug runners would use a decoy disguise to pretend they were regular citizens going about their day. She went back and forth in her mind about Terry's reason for carrying so much cash in a backpack on a bike. It looked and sounded suspicious, especially with the drug busts they'd done a few months previously on the bridge during a police chase. She had picked up her own distant white kin at his house, the run-down place full of meth and illegal fentanyl. Opioid use was up. Drug dealers were racking up millions transporting that cash economy and product moving across state lines in Louisiana grew. Chief Burnne's own nephew had died of a drug overdose ten years ago, so anything that had a whiff of drug activity got his hackles up.

That was the hard line story they fed Jess for five years as she accepted civil forfeitures as a necessary part of police work. Portions of white and Black men from Shelby Springs and other bordering towns thrived in the drug trade. Sex trafficking, too. Her department prided itself on breaking the supply chain.

It had all been a lie.

Chief Burnne's lie. His department…his rules.

Jess had been inadvertently complicit.

A rule follower, and a staunch believer in the church of right and wrong, she turned a blind eye to activity that should've raised suspicions. Instead, she quietly looked out for her people on the domestic front, dousing potential flames of racist attacks, especially with all the MAGA crowd flaunting their bigotry and jealousy. Jess was more worried about racist attacks happening. Red necks were openly riding around in trucks carrying lynching ropes with right-wing slogans for bumper stickers. The south was always going to be the south, and America was always going to be America…the United Racists of America.

Jess literally couldn't be bothered if suspicious men passing through town carrying ridiculous amounts of cash got hemmed up. She damn well wouldn't coddle grown ass Black men if they got busted for doing crimes. Her daddy instilled in her a strong bullshit detector for her dealings with that.

"Sweetheart, Black men have to decide for themselves if they want to do right in the world. Black women can't keep the cape on forever, or come running with mops and brooms to clean up their messes. If Black women can get up every day and build up their community in the same terrible conditions as us, then they gotta stop babying these men who tear it down. There's no excuse for a Black man not wanting better for himself or his people. We done come too damn far to be the new terrorists against our own women and children."

Jess listened well. Applied it to Terry.

Something in her gut knew something wasn't right, but she didn't want to put herself out for some stranger who might've been tearing people's lives apart transporting thirty-six thousand dollars in cash. Black people always suffered the most with drug addiction and drug crime because of generational poverty and the predators who took advantage of that. Terry could've been lying to cover his ass for a drug cartel. She didn't know him, didn't know who his people were. He came into her life that day and turned it upside down. The only silver lining she clung to in the end was that she saved his life twice. Once when Officer McGill almost blasted him with a rifle when Terry dragged Marston behind a cruiser to safety. Jess slammed her hand on the weapon. McGill looked shell-shocked by the turn of events. She felt the same. Her boss had shot a fellow officer and made a speech to them all about how he would cover it up. If Chief Burnne harmed a white man that easily, he wouldn't blink twice before taking her out. The second time was when she carried out a PIT maneuver and knocked Burnne away from Terry, providing his last escape. The death of his cousin and the treatment he received in Shelby Springs were irredeemable. All she hoped for was peace in her own mind that she acted on the right side of judgement.

Jess followed her SUV's navigation system and pulled onto a street full of cars parked everywhere. She passed by Rosa Simmons' single family brick house with a large manicured lawn. Mourners milled about the front and the entrance door was wide open. After all the legal and medical inquiries, along with the criminal investigation, it took the Simmons' family three weeks to get Mike's body returned for burial.

She parked two blocks away and smoothed out her most subdued black sheath dress. It was plain and appropriate for the occasion. She carried the pound cake in a round Tupperware container and listened to her kitten heels click-clack on the narrow sidewalk. Her stomach churned, nearing the home.

"Hi..hello…hiya doin'?" she said, passing people she didn't know on the walkway to the house.

Heads nodded at her with sorrowful eyes and stooped body postures. The atmosphere inside the modest home was thick with heartache. Jess contemplated doing a pivot right back outside, but an older woman in her fifties with short-clipped hair sitting on a recliner noticed her.

Mike's mother, Rosa.

"My condolences, Mrs. Simmons," Jess whispered.

She didn't want to bring attention to herself and stepped forward, past a throng of people carrying plates of sliced ham, potato salad, and baked beans.

"Thank you for coming…oh you brought something, how thoughtful."

Rosa stood up.

"I can take that," Rosa said.

"Ma'am, I can put it with the other food."

"Mm-hmm, yes, the dining room table is right back there. Did you go to school with my Michael?"

"No, ma'am. I knew him from somewhere else. I'll put this away."

"Okay, baby. Fix yourself a plate while you're in there."

"Thank you."

Jess's eyes darted away and took in the other mourners. Her heart thumped a triple rhythm. It was best to put the cake on a table and leave. The stress of feeling like a traitor to her own wore on her nerves.

Delicious odors of soul food guided her nose to the dining room. The dining table could've buckled under the weight of so much food. Folks old and young helped themselves to fried chicken, crawfish, turnip greens, gooey macaroni and cheese, and a pot filled with smoked chiltlins.

She pushed a crock pot of brown gravy aside to make room for her cake next to a half-eaten sweet potato pie.

"Who let this woman in here?!"

A light brown woman with soft, shoulder-length curls glared at Jess, her lips curled into an angry snarl. Everyone looked at Jess curiously, wondering what was going on.

"Mama! Who let this dirty cop into our house?"

Rosa rushed into the dining room. Jess held out her hands.

"I just wanted to give my condolences—"

"You're the reason my brother is dead! Who let her in? Who?!" Mike's sister screamed.

The anguish in her voice brought tears to Jess's eyes.

"I'm sorry…everyone, I'm sorry…Mrs. Simmons…"

In her peripheral, Jess noticed Terry coming from a back room wearing a dark suit. She ran away as fast as her kitten heels could carry her. She knocked into people and brushed past other family members on her way out the door.

"Jess!"

Terry's deep baritone called to her, and she pumped her legs faster. Reaching the car, she fumbled for her key fob and unlocked the SUV. She jumped in and Terry banged on her window.

"I'm sorry I came. I didn't mean to upset your family," she said, starting her vehicle.

"Roll down your window."

His commanding eyes stared right through her. She rolled her window down partially. Wiping tears away from her cheeks, she faced her front window, unable to look at him.

"I know it wasn't easy for you to come here."

She shook her head, and a violent sob choked her throat.

"Listen…give me your number. I'd like to speak with you about all of this… at a better time—"

"No…this was a mistake…I'm sorry…I have to go—"

"Fucking bitch!"

Mike's sister threw Jess's cake on the car. The Tupperware container burst open and the pound cake crumbled all over the hood.

"Livia! Stop!"

Terry walked toward his cousin, and she ran from him toward the sidewalk. Other family members had followed them to watch the scene. Jess's stomach sank to the floor of her car.

"You did this to Mike! You goddamn greedy cops sent my brother to die and I fucking hate you! Get outta here, you murdering bitch!"

Livia picked up a heavy rock and threw it at the passenger side window, fracturing the tempered glass. Terry lifted his cousin up by the waist and carried her away. Jess drove off quickly. Cake crumbs fell away from her hood and she screeched her tires with a hasty exit.

She didn't hold back on crying, allowing her tears to wash away the shame and embarrassment.

Back in Shelby Springs, she paced the floors inside her house, drinking whiskey, and pondering her fate. Mike's burial was only the start of her troubles. Next came a lawsuit Terry filed against her department. It would probably finally bankrupt them like the last legal settlement they paid almost did. With the dashcam evidence, plus her, Summer, and Marston's testimony, Terry was sure to win a large payout. Her career was in jeopardy, and their department possibly disbanded.

She downed a half glass of Uncle Nearest whiskey and looked at her black dress. The audacity of her showing up in Greenwood thinking she could dip in and out without consequences.

Jess had to face her part in Terry's life being traumatized forever. Losing her job was a small price to pay for his lifetime of pain.

She leaned her head against her living room window in the dark and watched a swarm of fireflies do a light dance outside. Her grandfather used to say seeing fireflies brought good luck. Jess desperately needed that to be true.

Crawling into bed with her dress still on, Jess stared at her ceiling again, semi-drunk and all cried out. She thought about Terry calling out her name and running after her. He didn't sound mean or angry when he spoke to her briefly. Asking for her number surprised Jess, because…why? What could they talk about that would fix the wide valley between them? Maybe he wanted to yell at her too, get his justified anger off his chest. She deserved it.

Jess curled into the fetal position and thought of Terry. Even in mourning, he looked handsome in his suit. For the first time in weeks, she fell into a deep sleep without having to use medication.

Part 2 HERE.

Masterlist.

Taglist:

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@kindofaintrovert

@thedondada05

@blackburnbook

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[am-i-the-asshole-official]

WIBTA for breaking up with my boyfriend because he likes my body?

TW for ED but please hear me out:

My bf (30m) and I (28f) have been together for a little over 5 years. When we got together I had an extremely stressful and physically demanding job. Shortly after our relationship started I relapsed with an eating disorder that had been a problem since prepubescence; I started restricting heavily at age 11 and had struggled with it on/off since then.

After quitting that terrible job and regaining some agency in my life, I spent a couple of years really focused on recovery. Without giving specific numbers (cause triggering) I'll say that I was extremely underweight to an unhealthy level for at least a year and experienced severe health complications because of it. I nearly died from heart problems and had a big wakeup call that caused me to change my whole life. I've done the work of recovery without medical help (history of omission with doctors) but have had support from my bf, and am currently at the highest weight of my life.

at a recent checkup my Dr talked a lot about "healthy lifestyle" and mentioned my weight gain over the past couple of years. I'm still within the "normal" range for my height and build, but the after visit summary/chart notes denoted risk of becoming overweight. Idk if my Dr would have brought it up if my history of ED was in my chart, (and I did switch primary care practices a few years ago, so they weren't treating me at my thinnest) but it still shook me a bit and I will admit to feeling very triggered.

The job I moved to is quite sedentary compared to the previous terrible one - I wfh, and very rarely have to be on my feet or do strenuous activity. In addition, I have chronic pain issues that make exercise difficult, and so historically have just restricted to maintain/lose weight because it's easier for me physically to just be hungry than to work out. I didn't want to go down that road again though because of how intense and scary it got last time.

My bf is a personal trainer and specializes in working with low ability clients and people recovering from long illness/injury. When I told him that I wanted to start exercising more often and get a good cardio routine going, he was really excited and started immediately putting together an "action plan" (what he calls it w his clients idk) for me. Then he mentioned how I'd need to add on a bunch of meal supplements and snacks to avoid losing weight and I got upset.

We're a plant-based (vegan) household and live with a roommate (bf's friend) so mostly eat/cook communal dinners and have various breakfast & lunch plans on hand, so we already eat pretty healthy and make sure to have a good balance of macro/micro in the meal plan. My intent was to eat the same but increase my activity level to get out of the danger zone without restricting. I don't generally snack and rarely eat dessert, just the 3 squares.

I told my bf that I needed to lose weight and be more active according to my doctor, and that I wasn't comfortable with having protein supplements, smoothies, and snacks in addition to regular meals because that would defeat the purpose. He got really sad and said that he likes the way my body is now, and while he supports being more active, he doesn't want the size of me to change. His exact words at some point were "you look so good now, I love the amount of you that there is and I like the way you jiggle." It kind of made me feel sick and wonder if he has like a secret size fetish or something?

So I've been thinking of breaking things off with him and moving in with a friend or back in with my parents, but idk if this is actually a red flag or just the disorder talking? He did help me a lot with recovery but if he's going to keep me from being healthy or wants me to gain even more weight then maybe it's better to leave - would this be an asshole move? I honestly don't know.

[skelotom]

So 2024 was kinda wild.

Below is the long-winded and sappy ramblings of a lich (me), so feel free to continue scrolling. I hope 2025 treats you well.

I didn't really start making art until March, but made nearly 200 renderings over the course of the year. I think I made maybe 10 total in 2023...so it is safe to say this year was more productive. I barely knew how to use blender at this time last year, I still barely know how to use it, but at least I know slightly more now.

Not every project was a wild success, I still have *a lot* to learn about making music. I also doubt my book will ever get published...but even just getting those projects done is a win.

I also met tons of people I never imagined I would talk to, let alone become friends with.

2024 hasn't been all sunshine and rainbows (I'll spare you specifics), but it is still miles better than my average year. I can't complain.

This year I will probably slow down with the renderings. But the posts I do make will be a bit longer. I like my longer form multi-frame comics and stories. I hope you do too.

I also have a day job that will start taking much more of my time. I really need to start studying/taking exams to get licensed as an architect. The six exams will suck. And studying will eat quite a lot of time. That will also suck.

Also shockingly, living a near completely sedentary lifestyle is not very healthy. I need to fit going to the gym into my life somewhere so I don't waste away completely. Being a skeleton irl is actually not very fun at all.

This year looks hectic, and kinda scary. Fascists are scary...But we'll get through it. Thanks for reading this far, and thank you for coming along for the ride.

Potential Projects for 2025:

-Online store with prints, buttons, and stickers

-Erin finally learns grease pencil in blender

-More short stories and comics

-Another attempted book? one that might actually get published? (more on this later)

-????

[snapscube]

How rigorous can an exercise bike be? I'm looking into getting some kind of workout equipment, would the bike be worth it?

i mean for my PERSONAL needs, like just wanting to have some way to stay healthy and get my body the stamina and Extra Brain Chemicals it needs while i work a job that is heavily sedentary, it has been MORE than enough. i've been taking my time w it so i haven't even scratched the surface of the intensity i could eventually reach on this thing. but it really just depends on what u need out of ur own routine and you would know that a lot better than i do! i can give you anecdotal recommendation based on my own experience that my bike has genuinely improved my perspective on exercise and my willingness to participate in it, but that's all i can give you. i'd recommend doing a LOT more research and getting opinions from sources who actually know what theyre talking about before making a real purchase haha.

[icycoldninja]

FLUFFCEMBER DAY#30: (Nero x Reader)

I made soup

Nero knew you worked hard all day, all week, 365 (and sometimes 6) days a year. You helped him kill demons, vanquish beasts, and occasionally seal portals, all while maintaining a day job--you were truly a force to be reckoned with, and so the noble young man decided he would do something nice for you. He would make a comfort food staple: chicken noodle soup.

While Nero's culinary skills left much to be desired, he was confident he could complete this mission like he completed all the others, the only difference was that instead of killing, he was cooking, and instead of slicing up demon flesh, he was cutting chicken. Rather than roasting demons alive with his sword, he would be boiling broth. Yes, this would be easy.

After pulling up a simple recipe on a website he saw you looking at once, Nero began to collect his ingredients. Carrots, celery, onions, chicken, of course, egg noodles, and chicken stock, all of which could be found lying around in the pantry. After locating some seasoning, Nero pulled out his sword, which he sanitized earlier, and began awkwardly slicing the chicken into small cubes. Sure, the counter and cabinets got scratched a little, but who would notice?

Once he was finished chopping up the counter top, cutting board, and the vegetables, he added the latter items to the pot and began to cook them, growing more and more impatient by the second. You would be home in around 20 minutes, and the vegetables weren't even close to being done yet. He would have to speed this up artificially if he wanted to be done by the time you got home. Naturally, the most efficient way to do this is through his sword, Red Queen, and it's ability to extrude fire from the handle. Nero placed the metal monstrosity right in front of the burner, revved the "engine", and superheated the pot, allowing for the vegetables to cook quicker. He also ended up setting part of the oven on fire, but managed to put it out before too much harm could be done.

Next came the broth and water, which was promptly poured into the pot. The excessive heat from Red Queen caused the broth to sizzle and steam; the steam filled the kitchen, setting off the smoke alarm and obscuring Nero's vision. Thankfully, he managed to blindly grope his way over to the nearest window, fling it open, and watch as the steam slowly exited the house, billowing into the air and dispersing harmlessly in the evening sky. Quite pleased with his culinary prowess and quick thinking, Nero shut the window and resumed his cooking.

You returned from an exhausting day of sedentary labor about 15 minutes later, only to find your kitchen absolutely demolished, broth and water all over the floor, deep gashes in most of the furniture, and bits of crushed egg noodle all over the countertops.

"Oh my God!" You shrieked, placing your hands on your head and surveying the damage in pure astonishment. "Nero, what did you do?! Was there a demon attack or something?!"

"Course not," Nero told you indignantly, spinning around with a big steaming bowl in his hands. "I made soup."

[roach-works]

hey roach, no answer needed, but i'd value your perspective. i was talking to a friend about gender, and we got stuck. he said that statistically men are more common in certain manual jobs due to physiological differences - differences that are important to acknowledge in the effort towards true equality. i said that men and women are more alike than not, and if we focus on the differences that's all we see. is there anything you'd add to this? i respect your opinion, is all. have a lovely day!

men are more common in certain manual jobs largely due to HISTORICAL AND PRESENT DAY DISCRIMINATION AND RAMPANT UNCHECKED SEXUAL ABUSE OF THE WOMEN THAT DO SHOW UP.

like, yes, there's certainly a lot of women's jobs that don't involve manual labor, and arguably a lot of women work jobs that don't involve manual labor. but like so do finance jobs, programming, engineering, trucking, data entry, being a fucking CEO? which are male dominated, but are mostly done sitting down.

there's a lot of jobs thought of as feminine, like nursing and waitressing, that involve hauling ass all fucking day, and this is not thought of as hard manual labor, because women do them. similarly, keeping house? cooking, cleaning, caring for children, getting groceries, running errands: these are not sedentary tasks for weak little ladies. this is exercise.

it's like the low pay. women don't take low paying jobs. women are paid less than men, regardless of the job they take. women don't take 'easy' jobs that 'aren't physical'. they're considered to have easy, non-physical jobs because they are seen as weak.

i gained a lot of weight and muscle going into welding, because HRT made it faster and easier for me to get the benefit of the strength training i was deliberately putting myself through. if i had stayed a girl, i would still have become just as strong. it would simply have taken me longer. even now, five or six years in, i don't have the skeletal build for pronounced upper body strength, but i have the ass of a dump truck, and the thighs of two more dump trucks. i can lift whatever i need as long as i can use core strength to heft it, no manly biceps necessary. there's no reason i couldn't be doing the same thing as a woman. one of my friends who is a nurse hauls people around all day and they can pick ME up without trying and they've never done T at all.

tl;dr: women are seen as weak and therefore their jobs are seen as easy. neither perception is actually true.

[roller6262]

Hey! Skinny white guy here wishing I was something more exciting!

I can sense you've been touched by the power of many transformations before, perhaps you are a master of transformation as well? Usually I'd be wary of using my power on those like you, in case it rebounded on me, but this request is too tempting to pass. Fine, I'll make you more interesting. You're sitting at home when to hear loud rock coming from outside. You open your front door to find yourself in a suburban neighborhood with a young South Asian man sitting on your doorstep with a speaker.

You want to ask him what he's doing here, but after noticing some angry glares from your neighbors, you think it's best to tell him to turn the music down first. "Turn it down?" He scoffs, "Man, you're the one always saying to turn it up. Listen to this!" He grabs you by the ear and pulls you closer to the speaker, as if standing across the street wouldn't still be a fine distance to hear the track. You curse when you feel a sharp pain where he grabbed your earlobe, but as the sound reverberates through your skull you find that pain turning to pleasure.

You nod your head to the booming drums as your ear lobes grow, craving more of that sound, then filling with large gauges. You tell him he's right, shit this good deserves to be played at max volume. "Hell yeah, especially when it speaks to taking down a broken system. That's what it's like for brown men in a white man's world." You're confused, is brown men referring to you too? You feel your body electrified like a guitar, your body warming up and your skin darkening in turn. Your hair stands on end until the blackened strands curl into a mess much like the man's, though you like your streaked red and sides shaved. You grin, looking at your fellow south asian with your deep brown eyes in newfound familiarity. You can't help but agree that there's nothing more punk than an immigrant.

After a few minutes of listening, your neighbor's annoyed stares become more obvious to both of you. "Man let's ditch these posers. Is it cool if I take this to Zayne's house?" You get excited, recognizing the name of another punk who lives a few blocks down. You agree, noting you're excited to listen there too. "What?" he chuckles, "no offense Man, but I don't think Zayne invites anyone your age to rock out." You wonder what he means by age before looking down at your arms, ever hairier than before. You think you're seeing things, adjusting your glasses out of habit without realizing you weren't wearing any before. Your facial scruff becoming a thick beard. Your clothes turning into a brown polo tucked into white khakis, baggy at first but stretched tighter as your time as a slim youth grows distant from years in a sedentary desk job. Your adjust your polo, trying to give your moobs more room while they jiggle along with your gut to the speaker. Despite your new clothes, you're still a punk in spirit, but a man needs to dress a certain way to work when he's got bills to pay.

you look at the man, now recognizing him as your son. You're a bit sad he keeps calling you "Man" instead of Dad, but a part of you swells with pride as a sign he's inherited some of the anti-authority spirit you grew up with. You sigh, allowing him to go rock out with his friend, but reminding him to come home before dinner and hoping you can jam with him after too.

"Ah kids" I say, stepping out of the house next to yours, looking like a typical suburban man "no matter how cool you are, they always choose their friends." You laugh deeply, clutching on to the bouncing polo that threatens to untuck from your khakis and reveal the furry carpet below. You say your son is probably just going through a rebellious phase. I laugh in kind, "With a rebel dad like you, I'm sure 'rebellious phase' is an understatement!" I'm unsure if you recognize me, or the request you made to me, but I am sure that this life is at the very least more exciting!

[ntls-24722]

Hey so... Have you thought much about how disability is treated in your various societies? Like with the Debus and stuff? I've been thinking about it for a little bit and got curious 👀

Yes actually!

For disabilities involving mobility, I had sketched out some really clunky ideas for a Debu crutch and some accessibility for their mountain cave-dwellings awhile ago, so I revamped them! The crutch was specifically made for the situation where, say you have an arm compromised, but it's an inconvenient arm like a back or front arm that's mostly tasked for stability, so your balance is off. So there would be a crutch/walker for that, where you could bring support to the back or front and balance yourself better. And for their cliff dwellings, there could be these adobe-rock torons to help climb up with your arms and your mouth. Ideally, a settlement would have terraces up to your residents, but that takes awhile, so torons and pulleys could be an option. (I got inspired by the Great Mosque of Djenne for the torons)

Then there's wheelchairs!

So, just a disclaimer, some of these wheelchair designs might not be around at the time that homo mousike is set in, homo mousike is set around when history just began and as you can imagine, technology isn't really that far yet (the first self-propelled wheelchair was invented 1655)

The bottom design was my first design before i realized, "hey, don't... dogs... have wheelchairs... why don't I just do it like that." The first/top design was my second try which eliminates most of the problems with the first, the main one being: Debu are really goddamn heavy. REALLY heavy. So heavy, in fact, that they can't actually lay down for long periods of time, because their own weight will cut off their blood circulation and get pressure wounds. It's why Debu caves are filled to the brim with bedding so they can lay down for longer - and why my first try at a debu wheelchair was less a wheelchair but a bed on wheels. I guess it's still viable and its design feels/looks more vintage to the point I think that this might become the OG Debu wheelchair that would've been present around now.

Then there's blindness and deafness. Blindness is actually much better to have in Debu society??? Debu are actually not that great at seeing in the first place - their eyes are uniquely sensitive to color, but not to sharpness. And besides, Debu dwellings are in complete darkness except for one room. And because of the fact they live in complete darkness, Debu are historically inclined towards tactile language rather than sign language, which is a mode that deaf and non-deaf individuals alike usually communicate through. Written language is actually equally tactile in some cultures, with valley debu writing stories with beads that can be read by being felt, or read "aloud" by dragging the hoof across the text.

I also find it cool that alphabet letters are physical objects so you can go and buy a bunch of A beads. Defeated teacher at the store, buying a lot of C's and D's after a spelling test

Now onto zebramen.

When it comes to mobile disabilities, interestingly... you'd have a lot less problems in zebraman society out of all of them, which is ironic considering they're constantly on the run.

Before I go into that, I have to describe zebraman society: Instead of civilization forming once populations began to settle down into one place permanently and grow their food, zebraman civilization began when they left sedentary settlements to herd animals, leaving behind the seeds of swaths of crops months in advance in order to harvest them during circular trips around their massive, plains territories. Zebramen are similar to humans where they're able to run for very long periods of time, and they use this less to be persistence hunters but to guide their massive herds along "crop stops" that both they and their herd gather and eat from. They do run along their herds on foot, but those are generally zebramen with the specific job for doing so.

When it comes to the rest of zebramen, they practically live in their carriages, drawn by cloe-mena. They're not particularly fast, but they're really damn strong. As a mountain cow, they were originally built for hoisting themselves up mountains and are perfect picks for drawing carriages for one or two zebramen - or a massive brigade carrying an entire community.

That is all to say that since zebramen spend most of their time riding in their carriages, not being able to walk isn't too much of a damper. Zebramen are, still currently in their ancient Sumer-adjacent technological era though, so they might instead have a wheelbarrow, or smaller wagon with a service animal that they ride instead of a wheelchair since those might still not be widely made/widely available. There may be a cultural result to this where people in wheelchairs are seen as wise and down to earth, the same way we see people with glasses as smart, since they'd have a closer relationship with animals, which is a big ideal in zebramen.

But in the future, Zebramen's wheelchairs would end up looking really similar to ours, except there's more footrests in the front to accommodate their frontmost and middle legs, a cutout in the back to rest the back legs, and the lack of an armrest. Zebrapeople naturally keep their arms in a mantis posture, so having an armrest would just get in the way of trying to propel themselves.

Zebrapeople have generally the same crutches as us, too.

Zebrapeople are inclined towards sign since they're more visually oriented than Debu, so that's another similarity between us, but also because their fingers are stupid flexible and weird freaky cool signs are able to be made. Zebrapeople have the benefit of their sign languages being less species-exclusive between them, since zebraelves and zebramen have the same hands and much of the same languages, they get to share the same sign languages.

Zebrapeople do struggle with written language for the blind though, since paper's a very recent and very popular invention that has yet to find itself a widely used tactile way to read its text. The ones currently around similar to moon type where letters are instead raised curves and angled lines.

So onto what zebraelves have different for mobility impairments!

So, the zebraelf wheelchair might be a little different. Their butts are at an angle, which is why they can seamlessly go from octopodal to hexapodal, so they sit as if they're leaned forward. And that gave me an idea because this was the first self-propelled wheelchair invented by Stephan Farffler when he was 22 and this fucks severely.

That's COOL. This is COOL. And it's the same principle that bikes were improved with, so thank him, every cyclist ever

But, I kind of get why this didn't completely stick around. You kind of have to reach forward for this, which you might not be able to do. You see where I'm going with this?

Zebraelves live in trees though, carts like this are primarily for walking on ground. Yet, I would argue this only makes things better for disabled zebraelves because zebraelves are also really good at living in trees.

Their bodies are small and compact, and their bodies are adapted for both walking and swinging/generally hanging on and across branches. Having monkey bars on just about everything is used by everyone. Even if you're without the use of arms, your legs are morphologically the same as your arms, and you're free to use those, too. When you can't use either, there's still pulley systems to help you to get places.

And to answer your other ask, happy disability pride month!