#looking at me like i am an insignificant bug she's about to flatten with her foot

[morebird]

my beloved murder wife (who is definitely not about to step on me)

[lihikainanea]

Could you write about BFF!Bill finding out about Tiger being insecure about her stretch marks and/or scars? This may be a bit of a self-insert but holy fuCK I'm in love with BFF!Bill and I need more of him 🥺 I just recently started getting into the fandom and I honestly??? Could not have fallen harder for him than I did reading about BFF!Bill, so thank you, amazing author, thank you

Baby thank you so much for the kind words

Look man, tiger is like all of us and she definitely gets insecure about her body. But I feel like there’s this whole other layer here too, because she’d be a little insecure regardless, but she’s literally hooking up with a dude who makes a living off of his looks. Yes, Bill is talented. But there’s no way he’d be a Hollywood actor if he wasn’t ridiculously attractive. And his costars are ridiculously attractive--women who literally just look perfect in every way--and he has to do all these lovey, sexy scenes with them and seriously sometimes it just gives tiger such a complex.

And maybe she always had stretch marks on her thighs or her breasts or her stomach, maybe she’s always been a little uneasy about them. Or maybe it’s after that wonderful sun-filled vacation they took (check the extensive blurbs in my Masterlist :-P) and it was full of rum cocktails and too much food. And I don’t know about you guys, but I always gain a shit ton of weight on vacation. I don’t work out as much or as intensely (or uh, even at all) when I’m away and I literally just eat whatever I want so like, when I came back from New Orleans I legit am still carrying around a little buddha belly filled with crawfish boils, beignets, and hurricane dranks.

But like, look. Tiger’s got some extra cushion for the pushin’ that really only she’s noticing, but she’s poking around a lot and kind of cringing whenever she gets a glimpse in the mirror before a shower or something. And it’s a little easier to ignore on vacation because as soon as she starts to get a little down about it, somebody (Bill) is shoving another rum cocktail in her hands. But it’s a bit of a different story when thy get back home and all the magic of vacation is just...gone.

And it doesn’t take long for Bill to be shootin’ his shot. It never takes long. But the plane ride back was torture because she was cold so he bundled her in his sweater, but there she was looking all cute and cuddly in his gigantic pullover and she curled up into him and put her head on his shoulder but they were on a plane surrounded by their friends, and all he wanted to do was snuggle her and kiss her but he couldn’t do shit. So they get home and haul their suitcases up, and tiger’s probably all bloated from the plane and not really feeling her best self. It’s stupid, right, but it happens--hell something so insignificant as just my yoga pants rolling down a tad and giving me a muffin top is enough to really put me in a bad mood.

Anyway, Bill asks her if she’s hungry and it’s an immediate, pretty grumpy no. And that’s fine, but when she mentions she’s going to take a shower he smirks, hugs her from behind, starts walking with her to the bathroom--she tries to smile and shove him away playfully, but there’s an ounce of worry and seriousness to it. She was around a shit ton of people today, she says, and kinda just wants to be alone for a few minutes. Bill’s not hurt by it, he knows she likes her space so with a final peck to her lips, he pats her butt as she closes the door behind her.

And he’s not worried until she emerges from the bathroom in a towel, and when he playfully goes to grab it and pull it from her, she legitimately panics a little--he doesn’t like the fear he saw on her face, the way she desperately grabbed it and held it to her. He offers her food again because she really didn’t each much today but she quietly refuses, so he fixes a snack and plops it on his lap, pulling her to the couch to cuddle. She doesn’t nibble on it despite him handing it over to her every now and then. When he’s done he puts the plate on the floor, pulling her over and plunking her in his lap, her back to his chest. He loops his arms around her and lifts her shirt a tad to rub her tummy, but she immediately grabs his hand and loops hers through it, keeping it to the side instead. Bill frowns.

“Everything okay, kid?” he murmurs in her ear. She nods, turns her head a bit to kiss him.

“Just tired bud,” she says, “Tired and a little grumpy.”

“Do you want to go to bed?” he asks, and she nods. And listen, Bill really wants that closeness with her, just wants it to be all soft and slow and needy because god he’s feeling a little possessive and protective over her, but it’s not going anywhere tonight and he knows it. So instead when he lies down he just tucks around her, and he frowns when she keeps her (his) shirt on.

“Off with it tiger,” he mumbles, tugging at it, “Skin, please.”

But tiger is feeling way too self-conscious to be topless.

“I’m cold,” she says as an excuse. He tugs at her shirt again.

“I’ll keep you warm,” he says.

“Bill...” she growls in warning, and he sighs.

“Fine, grumpypants,” he mutters. And he curls around her more, but when he lifts the shirt just a tad to trail his fingers along her bare stomach, she grabs his hand again and moves it away. He doesn’t like it, but trying to talk to her about it when she’s grumpy and snappy will likely get him dead--so he lets it go.

But listen, the next morning? We all have those few seconds--moments, if we’re lucky--of sleepy bliss. The first 2 minutes when you wake up are the most glorious of the day because you literally can’t remember a single thing that would make you stressed. So maybe when Bill hugs her a little closer, nibbles on her neck, maybe tiger stirs awake and pushes back a little into him. He groans softly, rolling his hips into hers and when she whimpers a little, reaches her hand back to run through his hair, he turns her over onto her back and eases on top of her. She pulls him down for a kiss and tilts her hips up into his again, so he reaches for her shirt--this stupid fucking shirt that stopped him from feeling her soft skin pressed to his last night--and pulls it up over her breasts.

But it’s like the alarm button, and suddenly she remembered all the stupid issues she’s having lately. So she grabs it and pulls it down, sitting up and pushing him away. And that’s quite enough, for Bill. He’ll let her stew all she wants if that’s what she needs, but she got herself into a bad place and she’s just staying there...which is a no-go in his books.

“Tiger, what’s going on?” he asks softly.

“Nothing,” she tries, “I just don’t want to.”

“You wanted to a second ago,” he says, as he reaches out and tucks her hair behind her ear. Her eyes go hard.

“What, I’m not allowed to change my mind?” she challenges. Bill’s jaw ticks, because he knows what she’s trying to do. But her eyes flit down to her lap and she pulls her knees up to her chest, curling in on herself.

“Tiger, look at me,” he commands, but she just keeps her gaze averted and she bites her lip.

“Now, tiger,” he says more sternly and she sighs, closing her eyes for a brief second before she looks up at him. He puts his hands on her knees, pushing them down so she’s cross-legged and he can lean in closer.

“You can change your mind at any time and you know that,” he says softly, “But that’s not what this is.”

She goes to look down again but he tucks a knuckle under her chin, keeping it up.

“What’s going on?” he tries again. She huffs, but he keeps a hold of her chin.

“It’s stupid,” she mutters.

“If it’s bugging you, it’s not stupid,” he murmurs, “Please, kid. Is it...us? This? Do you not want to anymore?”

And you know, tiger has her faults, but Bill does too. And whenever she pulls away a tad or shirks his affections, his mind immediately goes to the fact that maybe she doesn’t want him anymore. And it breaks her heart. So she closes her eyes, cups his face gently in her hands and kisses him.

“No bud, it’s not this. I still want...us. It’s just that I..” she trails off, swallowing hard, “I gained a lot of weight vacation.”

“Tiger, it--” but she puts two fingers gently on his lips, silencing him.

“No. Don’t do that thing where you say it doesn’t matter, or that you didn’t notice, or that you don’t care,” she says but it’s not unkind, it’s just honest, “Because I notice, and I care, and I’m really uncomfortable about it.”

She lowers her fingers from his lips but he’s just watching her, taking it all in and trying to read her.

“I want...you. I want--shit, I need--that closeness with you. But I’m just really, really self-conscious right now and I don’t want to be naked,” she says, “I just have all these new soft bits and these marks that weren’t there before and--”

Tiger still has a lot of issues she needs to work out for sure, but sometimes her honesty and candidness still completely fucking flattens him and god he loves her for it. There’s a fine line, though, between honesty and self-deprecation, and she’s crossed to the other side when she starts listing off what she hates. So he gently puts a hand over her mouth, silencing her.

“Can I say something now?” he asks, raising his brows. She kisses his hand, pulling it from her mouth to thread with hers as she nods.

“As long as it’s not--”

“It’s not,” he cuts her off. He goes silent for a minute, waiting for her to meet his gaze and when she does and holds it, he speaks.

“I’m only going to say one thing,” he murmurs lowly but sternly, “I love you, tiger. You. Got it?”

She bites her lip, doesn’t say anything.

“Hey, am I talking to myself kid?” he flicks her nose,”Got it?”

“Yeah bud,” she says, “I got it.”

“Good,” he says and pecks her lips, “Do you want to continue?”

And she does, god she does, but shit she’s overthinking it all.

“Yes,” she admits, “But Bill I--”

“Hush,” he cups her cheeks with his hands, “Are you more comfortable with your shirt on?”

“Yes,” she mumbles, and he could tell there’s more but she goes quiet again.

“And?” he prompts.

“And,” she sighs, “Can you just....keep your hands up here? Hold mine or something. I’m not ready for you to be grabbing...stuff.”

“Sure, kid,” he says. And he wants to tell her that he hates it, that it’s the worst idea ever, that all he wants to do is run his hands all over her body and make her feel good. Wants to shake her and tell her that he doesn’t give a shit if she’s skinnier or thicker or softer or harder or any of that. But he knows it’s not the time, and that it won’t help. So instead he weaves his hands through her hair, pulls her head up for a kiss.

“And if you change your mind? At any point?” he asks.

“I’ll tell you,” she promises.

“Good,” he pushes her back down on the bed and juts his chin at her waist, “Take your panties off for me, kid. My hands will stay right here.”

“Oh,” she mumbles and blushes a little, “Uh, you can do that.”

He quirks a questioning brow at her, and she blushes deeper.

“I like it when you do that,” she admits, embarrassed. And she squeals when he grabs the waistband in one hand and all but RIPS them off her in one fluid motion.

And you know what? I’ll bet there’s no immediate fix to this, because it’s so deep in her head. And Bill hates it, hates that she’s so self conscious, but the only thing he can do that will help is to just...not push her limits. To give her all the affection she needs and wants but in the way that she wants it. If that means sex with a shirt on for like a month, then that’s what he’ll give her. If it means no soothing tummy pats or rubs, no hands running over her glorious body--it’s fucking torture for him, but that’s what he’ll give her. And he’ll go heavy on the praise, he’ll be really loud and enthusiastic about how good she makes him feel whenever she does want him a little closer, and it’s a slow process but eventually it’ll just help get her feeling a little more comfortable and safe again.

[castlehead]

[identity vices]

[who the fuck were we?, we didn’t know, but when we had a shred of a notion, it was the biggest thing in the real world, i get my shreds and move on think of something about myself as im quietly stocking shelves and the whole time it’s just there, in my heart, and I’m just doing what I do cuz nobody cares I say, how was your weekend ah, slept in, didn’t do much the mundane is the single most common mask, precisely because it is what it says it is, it’s foolproof, locked I mean people do care, friends do, but you don’t pay people to be your friend, and that’s what ****** was: just a bunch of fucked up rich kids thinking they were making way, myself included, because we paid people to congratulate us for the most insignificant shit       hahahaha hahahaha that’s not psychology it’s pedology it’s infantile So basically, they were making up for us all having fucked up parents?        or fucked up childhoods?                      there’s something my mom says to me: "it’s never too late to have a happy childhood" I think that’s the best piece of advice I’ve ever gotten. As crazy as it is, I feel like I’ve stabilized in a way. Maybe it’s premature, but I feel like that level of depression is behind me, not because I won’t ever be that fucked up again, but because I can rationalize it and deal with it better now. And the past is just that — it’s something behind me.         I feel powerful, like I have a choice in my own life again. that’s amazing and that’s giving credence to your will to move at all it starts not with the choice but with the belief that there is one, after all. inertia means powerlessness, fated to be nothing, do nothing, achieve nothing just a marble rolling across frictionless space that’s for the universe to give a will to, if there even is a thing so wild the will to salute yourself      that’s what I’m glad you’ve found I mean, our own interpersonal relationships weren’t compliment based, I don’t think   in a way, they were but they were also driven off of needs that we still have to this day I think between you and I, there’s one night in particular that comes to mind

you were crying in ***********

and I consoled you         it was a very human experience for me but I’m not complimenting, just saying that the seeing of choice in one’s life through the depressive whatever-fog, is maybe a shred I’d keep close, because it’ll always be the first thing people who are depressed will need to do before they act: find the will.           .  [SIDETHOUGHT: [The ‘proper’ way to read a poem or novel should be interpreted by the majority who read it, not the minority consisting of scholars and schoolmarms. The good perception of words is what effect taken in by the greater good. That, after all, is why she^ lasts. The greater good has taken its opinion over to sit with her after you slept all night on the park bench, wouldn’t even get up to let the great hunk of their collective ass hunker down next to you—once you moved that silly raincoat, it already stopped pouring five seconds ago. On top of your drenched body, the common good reads The Wasteland as your skull slowly crushes beneath the incontinent hams of a bubbling, a farting girth of what even though just metaphor must weigh as much as the continent itself, or western hemisphere if you prefer a lil meat. On bones.]]] ? ?           .  Who: Kafkazzzo, Freckett K. Where: Frumple of a/my bedroom, (a) Earth, getting ready to head to—a party— When: 4:42AM. Though it’s probably already happy hour somewhere. As the saying goes. What Dimension: Third Possibly Askew And Flattened Like A Very Delicious Pancake Into What Dimension: 4th, time Background: Mobile lamp way too bright. Cigarette resting in glass ashtray. Empty glass of water, purposelessness, general purposelessness. I am evading that space of it tho. And silence only stopped by the glum entreaty of the air conditioning system. Noises, kds. playing baseball in the courtyard, downstairs. Drugs Ingested: Pot. Any Pharms?: Klonopin, maximum required dosage, Lithium, Cymbalta (duloxetine HCI)               And I punch him in the face. You by me a soda YOU BUY ME A SODA "You buy me soda?" Said RANDOM FRENCH GUY. “Sure.” Reached into pocket. Gave RANDOM FRENCH GUY four dollars. My Wallet has Hawaii on it. There are two pictures of HAWAII on each side of the wallet. They are the same picture. Somewhere there is a person who I am a reflection of, a year’s ago same picture, and everywhere I see and repel this sameness if that is I see it in others, however small the observation. Except, of course, if I observe such things in her. I do not wish however for others to have the same glitches. Human character is diverse enough to go a night at a party without reminiscence, eh? She is in the left ventricle of my heart, clearly seen by microscope, eating away at the cement walls there. That to the human eye, is mere idiosyncratic dominion. They say. And they say to me should I just gulf out one person from another if I have some chick who used to have big boobs chewing on my left ventricle, by now a block of pure cement fresh from the whisking mixer? How could I tell them that if so then both aren’t to be found again in the other, which is me, together; I lose her I lose myself. Then who would we be, remain as? Perhaps it does not matter to her. Or like to be even, who would I get to be if I can grant myself that? I guess what I am trying to say is that I “I need more dollar. Buy pizza.” “Only because you’re French. Consider it a war bond for the next time those Germans come to kick your sorry ass.” I gave him three dollars without thinking about it. Don’t think about it. Not often. Always willing to spot. Never have money to spot with. Because I spot so much. Drunk thinking. Here’s half a forty I’m chugging. The liquid goes down my esophagus. It is meant to be drunk to make you drunk. Everything should have meaning. That is how life should work, but it doesn’t work that way at all. It’s groping for good in life and scratching [searching] out for crumbs like tickets, no lotto, again, and the chaff of once purposed greatness led on its way up higher and higher from conscious desire, throwing away everything, only to come upon none other than unconscious desire: and then the desire is all that remains, ah so I guess that is what I would be. A lustfiend. Surviving in and of himself as a medical-grade loner. Him the result of his own destruction, the result itself, seen safely from a distance of billions of miles into his head, somewhat like a black hole. And I am like a dog forever biting its tail in an effort to gnaw the thing off. Except we are MAN, and so we hack off our tails with bare bodkins and pursue our efforts and dismays daily, diffusing it all as like a poison of the tragically mundane. Life goes well spooned together with a nice molasses of confused sensations to create the pastiche that is for our lives and for life, yes, but this becomes rather what we see in life: it might be equally as false or true, it might be: LIFE, yes, that grand, technical, way-out-there celebrity in gloves, and hardly enjoying himself at the awards ceremony, his smile attempting to reach to the ceiling, and to look maybe for a vent or some means of escape or even a deadly event as tragic as ever: well yeah who cares he is merely at a cheap height of the cosmos after all is said and done but no one knows where exactly it is done saying, so this image goes and rakes in the cosmopolitanism around him anyhow. Hungry, not for that, but having no other means to sate himself. Well, nothing like the stacks of cash this demiurge counterfeits on regular to land a celeb in jail. All the time? For years, yo. Nobody figured it out. And well don’t you know, I might say back, that God doesn’t do cash, that’s some stairway to heaven shit. God says this to me, in a toys-r-us of course, buying his fifth monopoly game board this week, opening it up, and stuffing the monopoly money in astounding pants. I suppose he is just as anyone who does this would be, now, officially desperate to pay rent:

GOD say: For, we whom are not yourselves live in coves, and do not disrupt the willing men and women of the surf to splash upon our chapped land and get up foot to foot and dust off themselves, off. It is they do not bother. The only off is on in the cave of the Removed. Stalactites filled in full rings by the petrifying jelly of screams and shrieks, of you—clear, consumptive squawks. You continue to at least darken this prison cell with your resignation, bars thick enough to shrink the teeth of my steel monster, you all beneath my skin, lingering on the meddling cusp of what I don’t know—what I don’t understand, perhaps we don’t, I know I don’t—I look at the world as though on a merry-go-round that blurs things. People smiling and looking with pleasant face. Every still phantasm, you, staring back and looking into a deep lecherous void in my eye I see. Meanwhile, it is OK: we the Removed have already supplanted that steel monster with a giant, happy frog to distract you [when you weren’t looking]. It gaily farts and bubbles in the mud and says with his blank eye [as though frogs could speak at all!] no, that we cannot go, o no, o no, NO, cannot go to heaven. Enough of farce. I’m listening to twee music. What does it matter. What does any of it matter any more. Twee crap blends in with the rest of this mess. I’ll try and get sleep, later. So many memories. Touching me. Wresting my heart from its bone prism. All the horrible memories, the forgetting me by friends I thought would stay, the forgotten sadness I too have let pass painlessly out of recollection. Sadness, sadness, deep sadness. Friends out somewhere getting wasted all alone, [as I was, am, tho it used to b among people] with just their good company to keep. Eaten by the night. Wake up, scratch leg, bug bite. Lighted I am and my recollections only by the perfidious youth sense nowadays and leaking out with regularity. Anyway let them say that was all they ever had. Ha! And yet already as I see them in my mind’s eye, through film: musty, shitty film that ratchets against the projector like a master the axe to hitch in his steed the leftover stump from last Spring, doubled with mosses for whatever reason considered consumptive to the land, or was it, they were poisonous?, my friends, they are all so very old. I am so very old.