#which my disordered eating ass does NOT need

[dovesndecay]

I'm so fucking tired of being in this kind of pain. I can't keep fucking doing this. I thought this was fucking done with after my gallbladder, and I don't fucking want to be back to this. It was bad enough before recent weeks of puking, but this shit is unfuckingtenable.

[stxneflxwers]

avolition.

⋯⁂ summary. suffering from a particular problem, some days you just couldn't care less what goes on—surrendering to your mind's desire for peace.

⋯⁂ a/n. short and sweet post here; so im not really worried about small grammar errors, word count, formatting, or what have you. i've been struggling with avolition lately (in which i mean my ass is getting OBLITERATED.) and if u need more info on what avolition is, i can give a VERY quick rundown: "Avolition is a total lack of motivation that makes it hard to get anything done. You can't start or finish even simple, everyday tasks."

⋯⁂ characters. neuvillette. gn reader.

⋯⁂ cw. reader suffers from a disorder that has avolition (lack of motivation.) reader is going to display a lot of apathy toward life. neuvi biggest sweetheart ever, even when he's away. hurt/comfort.

neuvillette.

life isn't so easy, everyone knows this. but some days are even harder than others, to the point they pass slowly and painfully. and lately, it's felt like forever since you've managed to get through a day without too much struggle.

neuvillette quickly realizes this.

he's also doing his best to support you, even while away from home. he'll send a melusine or two to go periodically check up on you. he knows you'll forget to eat and drink otherwise.

what he didn't expect is the day when he returned from his office around dinner time, much earlier than usual.

all of the lights in the home were off, much to his surprise. usually you'd leave a light on, should have you been up and about. he hadn't sent a melusine today to check up on you around lunchtime since you told him you were feeling fine.

it finally dawns on him that what you said was possibly a lie. or maybe misguided hope? he's not really sure which it is. and to be frank, he doesn't even care which it was at the moment.

he quickly puts his things away and takes his coat off, almost haphazardly dropping it to the floor instead of hanging it up on the coat rack. his hands tremble and so do his breaths, but he does his best to remain as calm as a stormless day. even when it starts raining outside from his uptick in stress alone.

he takes big yet quiet strides to the bedroom, where he finds you still in bed—staring off into space.

he sighs in relief when he notices your steady but shallow breathing causing your body to rise and fall. why he assumed the worst is beyond him, he simply did without a second thought.

when you seemingly don't notice him, his brows furrow and his frown tightens. he's not too sure what to do or what to say. and yet again, without a second thought, he approaches you,

"my dear?" he mutters, voice on the verge of shattering under the weight of seeing you so helpless.

you don't respond. totally nonverbal.

but, at least, you glance at him—even though your eyes are lightless, he's so happy to have you acknowledge him in this moment. he smiles a little from it as he slips his arms around you, cradling you carefully. he rests his head against the flat of your chest, letting out a long sigh.

"oh, how you worry me..." he mumbles, almost sleepily, "i love you very much. but i do understand that today is harder for you. therefore, i will not scold you. nor would i at any other point." he reassures, his voice soft and sweet as one of fontaine's infamous cakes.

your lips twitch a little, threatening to break out into a smile. even your eyes soften, laden with relief. heart filling with love, you begin to feel a little bit more rejuvenated,

"i...love you too..."

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER SIXTEEN: CHAMPAGNE

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, Daddy kink, suicidal ideation

Read after the cut

-

“Hannibal’s hosting a soirée tonight,” you say to Will as you stand lining your eyes with a black pencil before your bedroom mirror. “Did you know about it?”

Will sits in a nearby chair, looking at you from behind his glasses. Having come fresh from a lecture he has not quite shaken off the mask with which he conducts public business, working through a measure of whiskey clutched in one restless hand with an eagerness to cut through to comfort again.

You think of method actors unable to ease out of an accent learned and feel a tail of ice switch your shoulder blades.

This man you'd once thought a victim struck down and made wary of society. Now you see in this slow adjustment of self that while this is not entirely untrue, Will dresses himself in shying gestures so as to keep the world at a purposeful length from him.

You wonder if his spectacles are fitted with prescription lenses, or if they’re formed of ordinary glass. Perhaps his Virginian hermitage is equally constructed, as much to discourage him from seeking dangerous connections as to ward unexpected company from his doorstep.

This man suspires for touch, for love; through each exchange you sense the pull of it, and the ground-heel stubbornness of his restraint.

“Hannibal’s been organising some kind of event for weeks,” Will says, abruptly. “He does this, now and then.”

“Aren’t you coming?” you ask, pausing in your work to glance at his reflection.

Will laughs shortly, the sound scoured rough with scorn.

“It’s not really my scene. Champagne and social climbers— I’d rather stay home with my dogs.”

You envision Will in a sea of wriggling animals, the iron fortification of his false self come down in open laughter, and you see something in this obscure pretender to like beyond superficial things.

“I wish you were coming,” you say, and again Will laughs aloud.

“Don’t kiss my ass.”

“I’m serious. I need you. Hannibal says he wants me to go downstairs for a couple of hours tonight.”

“And what did you say?” asks Will, watching you finish the adornment of cosmetics with the interest of having never before witnessed the process in motion.

“I said, ‘no thanks, Dad,'" you admit. "But here I am, getting ready to go anyway. I figured I’ve pissed Hannibal off too much lately to turn him down. Did he tell you what I did?”

"He didn’t go into the details. All he said was that you stepped out of line, and that he had to do something about it.”

He sets his whiskey glass on the floor, an act that would likely have your older jailer cringing in pernickety affront.

“You insist on butting heads with Hannibal,” Will continues, “even when you don’t like where you end up. Or maybe you do.”

You whirl round, brandishing an indignant hand in his direction.

“I do not!”

Will takes off his glasses, his gaze beneath both cynical and toying. You recall his fingers investigating your arousal post-spanking and look away again, itching beneath three tiers of lavender and ebony lace.

“I’m not trying to embarrass you,” says Will. “I’m trying to figure you out.”

“Yeah, well,” you retort. “I’ll bet you’ve done that already. If you can get inside the Lover’s head then mine shouldn’t be a problem.”

Moth like, Will’s eyelids flutter towards the window’s fading light.

“What’s wrong?” you ask. “Still haven’t cracked the case?”

“Not yet. The investigation into the factories and the vendors using them is going way too slowly to be viable. Jack thinks the dolls were purchased years ago, likely under a false name. We can’t rely on that to find the killer. He planned this more than a decade in advance.

“At this point he’s either waiting for the perfect chance to abduct his true target or he’s lingering to enjoy the thought of her being afraid. It could be both. He’s a cruel lover.”

Will blinks, and his brows close together in a frown.

“You’re changing the subject, Little One.”

You jolt to hear the moniker in full, and now with an accusatory edge.

Twitching, you say, “Yeah, I am. ‘Cause it’s embarrassing.”

“Hannibal doesn’t think so.”

Shoving your makeup bag aside you round on Will again, unimpressed. There is something of his old jealousy under the amusement, the stirring of a sleeping and cantankerous god. His attraction to you still does not change that he seethes to think of you and Hannibal alone together, of the nights he and his friend had once committed only to the other.

Will ultimately relishes that you were degraded, a consolation in his displeasure.

He brings his chair towards you, eager to chase the conversation further with his proximity.

“Hannibal knows it’s embarrassing,” you say. “That’s kind of the point. You’re both so smug about this.”

Will reaches out to pull you gently into his lap.

“Maybe just a little," he says, and you squirm against him, suppressing the silt of disgust in learning to win him this way, for wanting the affirmation of his desire upright against you.

Will adjusts you to straddle his thigh instead, a knowing participant in your game.

You turn on his knee, putting your arms about his neck to look into his face, close enough to see your silhouette in the rock pools of blown pupils.

“Will,” you say. “Do you think Hannibal loves me?”

Will starts, all the humour absenting itself from him at once.

“Do you want him to?” he asks, quite incredulous.

You dither over your answer, which is no longer as distinct as it once was. Hannibal’s adoration is a statement of lasting security, yet to be the darling of a man willing to orchestrate a killing in the name of therapy is a thought like venom in the blood; should you concede you too will die in all but physical form.

Aloud, you only say, “I could ask you the same thing, Daddy. What if Hannibal felt that way about you? Would you like it?”

Before Will can confirm, deny, or deflect with some pithy comment your bedroom door opens, and the moment is knocked through like a stoned pane of glass.

“Sorry to be abrupt,” says Hannibal, mildly. “Staff will be arriving soon to help prepare for my guests. If you’re not staying, Will, then you may wish to make yourself scarce.”

The younger man rises from his seat with a haste that surely does not go unnoticed by the other.

“Sure,” says Will. “I’ve got papers to grade, anyway. I’ll try and make the time to visit tomorrow.”

Your captors exchange glances, Hannibal with his usual, unshielded ardour, Will with a curiosity that, in other circumstances, might amuse you. Somehow, in all of this, he had not consciously entertained a belief in Hannibal’s attraction to him.

Now, through your question, he considers it, but says nothing, taking leave of you both with his opinion on the matter an enigma.

*

Like an enchantress at her oriel you observe as the workforce arrives, shaking rain off their umbrellas at the front door. Some hours later the vision is repeated with the expensive and largely beautiful attendees of Hannibal’s party, some glancing up at the house and nudging one another as they notice you above.

You feel a lurch of anxiety to think that you are expected to go among them, to smile with saccharine manners and pretend to them that you’re no more than a patient to the venerated Dr Lecter.

All this, surrounded by canapés and flowing drinks that will tease and taunt with scents and flavour— your stomach bellows in anticipation of it, for though you’ve eaten it is, as ever, not enough.

It seems a fickle thing to find yourself so oppressed while living with a man that has offered to help you maim and slaughter another, and yet between the horrors of illness and this it is satiation that you fear the most.

Still, you fear Hannibal also, this creature in his costume of human flesh and pleasantries.

That he has not spoken of Leland or Amy in two days only underpins the intelligence of his evil, a thing that he can fold away into himself just as he likes. You’ve continued your act as daughter-wife only in that to display your horror of him openly will mark you as not of his ilk but as prey, a delicacy procured from the forest.

Thus, with effort you brush the pounding of your heart and the agony of the cane under the rug of memory and watch the glittering people under a marquee of rain clouds until they’ve all entered, leaving the night empty again.

You listen with one cheek to the floorboards to the clink of glasses and droning conversation below, the instruments of hired musicians at their haunting work.

Surely you will not meld easily with such company as seethes beneath, even gowned as you are in grey silk and lace from a fashion house few can afford. Your mouth will open, and you will reveal yourself clumsy-tongued and unsuited to their guild.

The terror of it has quite gnawed you through by the time Hannibal ascends from the soirée to collect you.

“Are you ready to meet my guests, Little One?” he asks, taking your clammy hand with its nails bitten down to their ends.

“Not really,” you mumble. “Not sure I’m one of them.”

Hannibal lifts your arm to kiss your inner wrist where a vein strums with lurching adrenaline.

“You’re beginning to resemble Will in your attitudes,” he says, his voice a vibration on your skin. “But I disagree. My friends and acquaintances will find you as charming as I do.”

There is an implicit and unworded warning not to embarrass him in the compliment, a flash in the peat dark of his eyes. Gulping thickly, you fasten yourself to Hannibal’s side as you take the stairs, poised to wince under the observation of the many gathered below.

Hannibal’s house is made a palace by their decoration, men in crisp suits and women in forests of jewellery stepping from room to room, their chatter like another kind of music. Servers go about with trays of extravagant food and champagne, and in one corner a band plays a rendition of some famous classical piece whose name you don’t recall.

Overwhelmed, you glance back up the stairwell, ushered on by Hannibal’s hand upon your arm.

“I understand your reservations,” he murmurs. “It’s been a long time since you’ve been in the presence of so many people at once.”

Yet is not the quantity that perturbs you, but the agony of inevitable comparison. You feel like some vast and bloated airship amidst the slenderness of so many of Hannibal’s peers. Placing a hand across your stomach you attempt an awkward smile as you’re introduced to each guest the doctor approaches, thinking of the front door—surely locked, now, or guarded—through which you’d take flight, had you the chance.

A familiar voice anchors you amidst your desperate thoughts.

“Well, now, look who it is.”

Turning, you gasp with delight.

“It’s nice to see you again, Jack,” you say, going eagerly forth to shake his outstretched hand. “I like your suit.”

Jack grins, holding out the arms of his jacket in a playful gesture.

“Why, thank you. I’ll have to tell Bella you said so. She bought it for me a few years back.”

Hannibal subtly brings you closer to his side, keen to intercept in case, as before, you attempt to communicate your struggle to Agent Crawford.

“Bella has excellent taste,” he says. “In suits, and in her companions.”

“You know she does, Doctor,” says Jack, and turns to peer into the crowd. “Hold on a moment. I’ve just seen Chilton over there. I’ll be back.”

As he wades through the throng you gaze after him, yearning to give chase. He, of all men present, you trust entirely with your safety, myopic though he is to the evil around him.

Steering you in the other direction, Hannibal says, “Perhaps you’d like to introduce yourself to my guests independently. It’s important for you to develop confidence in your social abilities.”

You start violently at the suggestion. To be left alone at this event is a risk that shrieks of Hannibal's deiform arrogance; they know, these guests, of your madness, the sympathetic injury that may well twist you against your caregiver.

The staff, too, are likely prepared, told you’ll lie to them or feign hysterics so as to be led away from this place by any that would believe in your performance.

Should you betray your attacker you would find yourself amongst enemies, yet it does not cross your mind even to attempt it.

For the first time you find Hannibal an ally: he has always regarded your weight with a neutral disinterest that even your disorder cannot twist into derision. The women that eye you up and down, however, reinforce that you are a failing thing to be judged, and so you read into even the most innocuous look a malice.

“Can’t I stay with you?” you ask tremulously. “I barely know anyone here.”

A little smile graces Hannibal’s lips, and he leans in to speak softly at your ear.

“We mustn’t provoke any more speculation about us through unorthodox proximity. Miss Lounds is likely no longer alone in thinking us lovers. For now we must suggest that we are not.”

“But—"

“Hush,” says Hannibal. “Be a good girl and do this for me.”

You think acutely of his mouth upon your cunt earlier that morning, taking you fresh from the shower against the bathroom wall as you’d bitten your fist against weak and hopeless cries. He had not hurt you, not threatened, merely knelt and pushed your leg over his shoulder, relying on your startled fear to keep you pliant.

He’d made you come with sensation like the taste of sparks, a sudden, pulling burst around him. You’d taken it like a morsel from his fingertips; a gift from him, making things up to you after your whipping, so that you can never think him only cruel.

This pressure now upon you to be grown: it is not mean for meanness’ sake. He desires evidence that you are capable of bearing his secrets without lapsing into betrayal, for only then will you be worthy of his love.

“Okay,” you say, at last, and Hannibal lets you go off in your silver dress like a piece of loose smoke whipped away by the wind.

You watch him through the crowd—sleekly handsome, and effortlessly entertaining—in defeat. He has worked to make you dependent on him, but you are ashamed of the success with which he’s so quickly achieved that very goal.

A woman attempts to speak to you, a gallery owner of the eccentric, elderly type; a young man, a scholar, comes at the other side of you with a question you don’t quite hear. Bewildered, you utter what vague answers you can summon at a whim and excuse yourself, cupping a hand at your eyes to blinker yourself against a passing tray of confections.

The lights, the noise, the bodies that press about you like a rising flock of pigeons disturbed on some night street— overcome by panic, you find yourself up against the stupid urge to weep.

Another server edges by you with a battalion of golden champagne glasses on a teetering plate. Thinking of the warmth of Will’s Irish coffees you take a glass in hand and look at it, paused only by the immediate calculation of figures wrapped about your brain like a band.

Seventy calories on top of the four hundred from this morning, then the three hundred of what you ate of dinner, the one hundred and eighty in fresh juice—

Guilty as a murderer you sip the champagne to its end, ducking out of Hannibal’s view as you take a second measure from another member of his staff. The day is already ruined beyond salvaging, you reason; whatever calories you drink no longer count.

As with the whiskey you feel yourself warm, adrift from the cutting mouth of your perpetual nerves. The vast rooms soften, taking on the glazed appearance of a gala in a dream. By the time you sneak your fourth glass it is almost easy to return a hundred curious smiles, to answer shallow questions with equal shallowness.

“Yes, it’s a beautiful house. Yes, I’m doing much better now that I’m here. Yes, Dr Lecter is awfully kind. Oh, Will’s really a great guy once you get to know him.”

Gradually you see the guests accept you as they might a quaint exotic pet, certainly not their equal, but pleasant enough to understand their host’s affection for. That he, the saint they fawn over, has forced his mouth upon your soaking cunt that very morning makes you laugh now that you’re drunk enough.

Such idiots this man pulls about him, art curators, literary critics, the blood of old money, all equally duped as you never were, not once. These friends of his know only a character he plays, fanatics following a myth.

In this, at least, you are superior, the child Antichrist groomed by devilish fathers for a coronation in evil.

Caught between this grim lucidity and a certain gloating you stumble into a red-headed woman in a Verdigris gown like copper made lovely by deep water. Muttering an embarrassed apology you turn away, stayed only by her small hand at your elbow.

“Well, hi,” she says. “I didn’t think Hannibal would let you out for this. I heard he keeps you under lock and key. I’m Freddie Lounds, by the way.”

Stupid with drink, you attempt to gather yourself in the face of this revelation.

“I know you!” you cry. “I’ve read your stuff. Some of it, anyway. And yeah, I was surprised he let me come, too.”

Your eyes meet Freddie’s, searching for the same thing she hopes of yours: an understanding between you. The union of a shared opinion.

“I take it you’re not thrilled to be under his care,” she says in a lowered voice. “I have my own professional opinions about Hannibal and Will Graham, and I’m not the only one. That’s partly the reason I came. I had a hunch I’d find some answers here.”

In bilious regret of the champagne you list against a nearby wall for support.

“Answers? What do you mean?”

Freddie leans in conspiratorially, blocking you from Hannibal’s sight should he glance in your direction.

“Not long ago I received an anonymous email from someone claiming to know you,” says Freddie. “They were hoping to secure an interview to set the record straight regarding a recent article published on the Tattle Crime website. I never turn down potential information, so I said I’d do it, but they never responded.”

She pauses, alert to the change in your expression.

“Last night a young woman was abducted in the same way all of the Lover’s victims were taken. My research seems to point to her being an old school friend of yours. I was wondering if you’d heard anything about her disappearance.”

Horror bowls you down as though from the uppermost step of a spiral staircase.

“What... what happened?” you stammer. “Please, I need to know.”

Freddie's eyes—the clever blue of a Collie bitch—cup your face in their keen hold.

“The victim was abducted from her home after opening her door to someone at around 11pm,” she says. “There was a struggle— furniture was overturned, and police say it’s likely the kidnapper sustained some kind of injury, although no blood was found at the scene. I imagine Will Graham performed one of his infamous recreations to figure that out.”

The room seems to rotate around you like hell’s carousel, sickening, searing.

“The victim,” you say. “What was her name?”

You know before Freddie speaks her answer, have known it from the moment you’d placed your hand upon Hannibal’s telephone, as though fate itself by psychic puppetry had directed your hand.

“It’s Amy Glass,” says Freddie, and she makes a hunting gesture, as though searching for an invisible notepad. “So can you confirm that she’s a friend of yours?”

Shaking your head, you jerk away from the wall, swerving out from under Freddie’s arm as she reaches out to you, her face almost soft with concern. She calls you back to her, but you are already striding across the room to the beast in his mortal attire, deaf to all but him.

“Hannibal!” you shrill above the music. “Hannibal, I need to talk to you!”

People turn, startled and intrigued, anticipating a spectacle, the lunatic girl in full bloom.

Hannibal glances about, rapidly assessing the danger you threaten. An emotional scene could sully his reputation, an indelible stain on his house.

Addressing you by name, he says, “What’s wrong? Has someone upset you?”

“Yes,” you say, through gritted teeth. “You.”

Hannibal’s eyes shift, finally interpreting the length of rage and terrified abjection unreeling within you.

“Come with me, then,” he says, quickly. “Let’s discuss this upstairs.”

Your mouth opens, and you imagine instigating a scandal, screaming of the abuse and other foulness invoked upon you.

Then you think again of flesh and killing and nod your head coldly, allowing Hannibal to guide you to your bedroom with a murmured excuse to his guests.

Once alone, he sits you down on the bed, his tight jaw easing as he feels the violence with which you shake at his light touch.

“Tell me what happened,” he says. “Tell me everything.”

Your fists squeeze as one in your lap.

“Amy is missing. Freddie Lounds told me. What did you do to my friend? Where did you take her?”

Hannibal’s visage changes subtly, the humanity in it retreating to reveal that other self, the stag of putrid dreams.

“I didn’t take Amy,” he says, flatly. “I assume Freddie informed you of the details of her abduction. Amy injured her attacker, and I don’t bear the mark. You saw nothing upon me this morning.”

Indeed you had not; his nude body, knelt between your legs, had been as fresh parchment, white and clear, but still he is no innocent.

“You must have told the Lover about her,” you insist. “Left some sign for him somewhere. You did this. I know you did. You did this to punish me, or to see how I’d react. Well, congrats, Dad. This is it. I hate you.”

Your breath rips in and out of your lungs like the proboscis of some terrible drill, and as you lean into Hannibal’s face you see your own spittle jump the air in the force of your emotion.

“If you let her die I’ll starve myself,” you say. “I’ll go on hunger strike. You can do anything you want to me, I don’t care. I’ll do it. I’ll kill myself.”

“I won’t let you,” says Hannibal, calmly.

“I’ll find a way. I’ll make you regret what you did.”

He shifts back from you a fraction, and you comprehend in that subtle motion that he believes it.

“You care so strongly for this old friend, then,” he says, simply.

“Yes. You feel the same way about Will. If Amy gets hurt or dies because of me— I couldn’t handle it. I can’t. I can’t. You know what the Lover does to people. How could you send her there? How could you do this?”

Your voice wavers, threatening sobs, and you curse yourself for your fragility, the little girl you cannot help but be. Hannibal finds a handkerchief and touches it to your face, his previous compassion returning, and with dismay you accept that while your anger will not move him entreating him as your father will.

“If you ever want me to trust you and your way of living then bring her back, Daddy,” you whisper. “Please, Daddy. Please. Please.”

Hannibal's head turns aside, examining you with a renewed interest.

“You believe me to be such a God as to be capable of this.”

“Yes. You can do anything you want to. You can help her. I know you can. If you don’t you’ll ruin everything you want with me and Will. This is all I’ll think about when I see your face.”

Your jailer doesn’t answer, only reaches out to take your sweat-damp dress down from your shoulders. On a repulsed and foolish instinct you slap his hands from you.

“I can do it myself.”

Hannibal snatches hold of your wrists, and for a moment you see him consider violence, his eyes blackly wild, like Will’s, as though absorbing his lover’s approach.

“I’m sure you can,” he says, at last, and he lets your hands fall, unharmed, into your lap. “Please stay in your room until my guests leave tonight. I wouldn’t like you to upset them or yourself any further.”

“What about Amy?” you ask. “Are you going to find her?”

Without answering Hannibal turns to re-join the party, pausing in the doorway to impart his final direction.

“Please don’t mention what has transpired to Will. He doesn’t know that you and Amy are still so closely connected, and so it should remain. Obey me and you’ll receive no punishment for disturbing the festivities. The fault lies with me for allowing you to encounter Freddie Lounds while unattended, after all.”

You want to scream after him, tear at his carefully ironed shirt collar and rend from him an answer to your request. But he only leaves you alone behind your locked door with thoughts of Amy cut apart to fit the body of a doll. Defiled, as you've frequently been.

[radfemsiren]

The parodox of eating disorders and both escaping and conforming to womanhood:

Studying eating disorders in women and girls is so fascinating to me because there is a paradox. Eating disorder (and other self harm) communities are dominated by women, and there are 2 different distinct sides with opposite goals.

On one side you have the wanting to feminize yourself. You have “I want to be tiny. I want to be petite. I want to be picked up easily.” They have the Victoria’s Secret model worship. They have the “I need to wear outfits, but I can’t wear them because I don’t have the body for that yet.” The “I want be fragile. Pretty and loved.” The tinyspo, fawn-like, coquette, dainty type of anorexia and bulimia. This want to be anemic and pale and frail and delicate. This was very popular mainstream pro stuff for a long time.

But now, on the other hand, you have another side of it, which is the wanting to defeminize yourself. It’s more brutal and honest. The relinquishing of womanhood and the seeking to be less obvious of a woman. “I want my breasts to go away. I want my ass to go away. I want to look sick. I want to be weak. I want people to feel bad for me. I want people to worry about me. I want to look sick in the way of how I feel inside. I don’t want to be sexualized. I want men to ignore me.” Bonespo, deathspo, wanting to not look like a girl, not look alive even. It reminds me very much of this drawing: “Just take them and leave me alone,” by Raoof Haghighi

It’s this asking to finally be free of the female markers. I want my period to go away, I want my teeth to rot, my arms and legs to grow hair, I want to be repulsive and look the way I feel. I want to be ignored as a sexual object, and I want a different kind of attention finally: see me disappearing and worry about me like a human.

And if you look at edtwt and other pro ana spaces, you will see a very large portion of these girls fall into either one of these two sentiments, often simultaneously. This is what’s so fascinating to me about this. Is that the disorder and the starvation does the same thing to your body. There are no 2 sides really. It both takes away your breasts, but it also makes you small and petite. You look sickly and lose your teeth and grow hair and feel tired and cold and lose your period, but you are also fitting into the outfits like the models and mannequins do and meeting the beauty standard.

The paradox of relinquishing the markers of womanhood while adhering to the standards of femininity! How strange! How unwoman it has become to be feminine!

[b0njourbeach]

Azul Ashengrotto Character Analysis

I have many thoughts of Azul, yet not a single word comes to mind when I try to write them down but I will try my best.

There are certainly a few topics that are questionable or even judged upon the fandom, some also seem to forget that Azul is more than his contracts and his shady ass business. Some view him as manipulative while I believe he just saw stupidity in humanity and took this weakness of mankind and turned it against those who were foolish enough to not ask questions. Azul has never lied in his contracts, not a single time. He provided what he had offered and taken what he was entitled to take. Let's take the main issue of Book 3: The contract Ace, Deuce, Grim and many others had signed: Offering their magic for a study guide - If they'd make it to the top 50, they'd get their magic back. If not, they become the Sea anemones that are to follow Azuls every order. He provided the guide and it helped everyone who has gotten their hands on it - Did he lie? He didn't. All he did was *exactly* what people had asked - Nothing less and nothing *more*. And that is the exact point: He didn't give information if he wasn't asked for it. Or Yuus contract: He took Ramshakle, he provided what the Freshmen needed - He didn't lie. In fact, he offered more than he had to: The Potion. The twins interfered but was it against the contract? It wasn't. As I see it, Azuls contracts are much like the wish of a genie: If you wish, be most specific or live with the consequences. You don't want anyone interfering with your stealing? Should've said so, simple as that.

What Azul made the "Villain" was the naivety of those who signed their name on the contract.

But there's more of Azul than this. I think it's justified of what he does. People are stupid, people are naive but most importantly: People are cruel. Especially kids are worse than any demon from hell. If you're being bullied as a child or even up to being a teenager, you'll be emotionally fucked for a long time, if not forever. You'll become insecure of whatever you've been bullied of for something that'll feel like eternity. You want to avoid this very thing, no matter how important it is supposed to be in your life. It'll cause you to break down at some point just for you to pretend like nothing happened afterwards - Especially if you've built up the very picture of someone who's got it all together like Azul did. While he pretends there's no issue, I refuse to believe that he doesn't have an Eating Disorder. Being bullied for your weight as a child (which is - in his case - not even really justified since you basically compare an octopus to a fish. A comparison that is found in every sense of the equation) leaves a mark. A deep, burning mark. Avoiding mirrors, pictures, tight clothes or being seen by anyone without your clothes. You can't tell me he's willing to get rid of his childhood and not have an eating disorder, that he wants to pretend the little healthy octopus child didn't exist and that he can look in the mirror without suffering. It's Canon that he's strictly taking care of his weight - But it's also Canon that his favorite food is fried chicken, possibly the worst choice for strictly keeping your weight. A diet is all good and stuff but strictly starving your body of certain things will only cause mental distress.

I can see he's a sensitive soul, trying to hide behind the mask of sheer confidence and superiority. His only friends are the two weird guys who didn't leave him alone - Sure, they're not the best choice but having two eels by your side is better than being alone. Whether the relation between these three is toxic or not, they depend on each other - especially Azul depends on Jade and Floyd and by the way the twins reacted to Azuls overblot, I'm confident to say that they also depend on him. After all, they might "Can't stand" each other as they'd say, they still stuck around even though there are many reasons to be "like the others" and turn away.

There was something else I had in mind but it just won't come to me right now, so I'll leave it at that for now. All I'm gonna add is that I'd really like to hug Baby Azul and tell him that he's perfect the way he is. To be his friend and let him know that it doesn't matter how he looks like because no matter how much you Weight, if your nose is crooked or if you're otherwise labeled "ugly" by modern society, it's your heart and soul that is meant to be you; not your mortal vessel (this applies to anyone reading this as well).

[happysparklingshadows]

𝙻𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚎 𝙼𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚠𝚜 𝙷𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚜 ('𝟿𝟼)

Note: Sorry for being away for so long, depression came and kicked my fat ass this month. Chapter 4 of Certain Hunger is coming out September 25 so watch out for that, and i hope you like these headcannons! Comment your own and reblog if you like!

𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝙻𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚎 𝙷𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚜

♡ Lottie is a Pieces Sun and Libra Rising 

♡ Lottie’s favorite color is Purple, Royal purple, to be specific. 

♡ Lottie is a cat person through and through. She likes to be very gentle with animals and take things at their speed. If they didn’t want affection, that was okay, they will eventually want something, and Lottie will just be content. 

Lottie's spirit Animal is the Bear.

♡ Lottie, for sure, had a pet cat that was her best friend as a child. Her mother wasn’t emotionally available, and her father thought throwing money at problems would fix them. Lottie grew up believing she was messed up and wished she could just be how her parents wanted her, but she never really understood what was wrong with her. 

♡ Lottie is a Extervert. She loves connecting with people and talking in general. She is the type of person who always makes little friends in public places. It could be an old lady, a frat dude, or a little girl. It doesn’t matter because she is now their friend, and they are talking. 

♡ Lottie likes spicy food a lot, and she would be the person to proudly eat chili without flinching infront of people. 

♡ Lottie’s favorite food is a Spicy King Crab roll and Miso Soup from her hometown Japanese restaurant. She likes to add wasabi to all her sushi, even the Californian roll. 

♡ Lottie's childhood was not horrible, but it was very lonely. Lottie had all the toys, Nannies, and friends to fill her time. She never went without, and she never really had to worry about her basic needs not getting met. But her mother was emotionally absent because her father was a very intense control freak about how the family should be. Her dad came from money, and her mother did not, and she was the collateral damage of two different philosophies about raising kids. She didn't get any reassurance, and she was seen as messed up in some way. If she wasn't perfect or had opinions against her father, he would throw her mental disorder in her face. Lottie loves her parents and will follow what they say to the word, but she holds so much resentment towards them.

♡ Laura Lee, Taissa,  and Van are her closest friends on the team. In high school, Van, Tai, and Lottie always sat together in classes and at lunch. They were their own cliche in the team, and Laura Lee was the innocent add-on they all had a soft spot for. 

♡ Lottie's sex drive is pretty normal, it isn't all that crazy. Lottie likes to have sex 1 or 2 times a week, and she likes to have wholesome intimacy in between. Lottie is a Switch! in her normal setting, but she does lead towards Top! most of the time.

♡ I think Lottie’s main vice that she uses at a party, which might be crazy but hear me out, is cocaine. I believe this because she is 1. a girl from NEW money 2. It’s an upper drug 3. It’s the fucking 1990s. 

♡ ⚠️Unpopular opinion⚠️ I think that Lottie is not ashamed of being rich and taking her father’s money. It’s the culture of her family and their upper-class peers. She is thrilled that she doesn’t have to work or struggle, and she grows to learn that it is a profound privilege never to have to work or struggle in her early adulthood or ever really. 

𝙳𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝙰𝚄s/𝚄𝚗𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎s

♡ Royalty AU! Lottie Matthews would be a Merlin or Head Mage of the castle. I can see Lottie playing some kind of magical role in a fantasy setting and that she would be someone who is seen as crazy still because I feel like it is core to Lottie’s character. She would give you healing potions, and she would give you a protective rune for your armor or a necklace for your journey. She would be watching out for you through a looking glass. 

♡ Delinquent AU! Lottie is a hardcore shoplifter who got busted for stealing $670 worth of clothes from the mall. She was arrested, her parents paid her bail, and she kept doing it. It gives Lottie feelings that she usually has numbed through her many medications and uses Shoplifting to thrill her in her watered-down, milquetoast privileged life. 

♡ Supernatural AU! Lottie is a forest witch for the reasons above in the Royalty AU.  

♡ Superhero/Marvel AU! Spiderman. No other words. 

♡ College AU! Lottie would be a pothead in college and would get into spirituality. I think in every timeline, Lottie gives off goop vibes and would become some kind of spiritual influencer. She would be on Witchtok for sure. Lottie would change majors a lot. I see English, Communications, French, and even a try in Gender studies. She will eventually drop out because she has her dad’s money to fall back on.

𝙿𝚛𝚎-𝙲𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚑 𝙷𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚜

♡ Lottie would be the one to tell you that she likes you first, and she would be very blunt about it. Lottie wants to take bandaids off as quickly as possible, so when she has feelings, she just wants to shoot her shot and lick her wounds as quickly as possible. 

♡ Lottie is a firm believer in retail therapy. Lottie has always really liked to go shopping and go to the mall. She likes to try on clothes and make you try on different looks. Want to try goth, preppy, sporty, chic? She would never be shy to buy you some things on her dad’s credit card. 

♡ Lottie likes to take you out on dates to restaurants and lovely places like ballets and theatres. I see Lottie taking you out for a good dinner and going off to see the Nutcracker with hot chocolates around Christmas time.

♡ Lottie is the more anxious partner in the relationship. She will call you and try to talk when you are away from her. She wants to ensure you are always okay and doesn’t like her favorite person being away from her. 

𝚆𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝙷𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚜

♡ Lottie leans on you for support when she runs out of her medication. She entirely relies on you to tell her what reality is anymore because she can’t tell with her chemicals being misplaced. Her delusions become very real, the voices seem more real and responsible, and she doesn’t trust herself. Even with her connection to It, Lottie doesn’t trust her perception of anything. She doesn’t ask you about things most of the time. 

♡ Lottie always tells you about her dreams at night, how they happened, and the surreal plots of her mind, and she wants to know yours. She grows to believe that everyone’s dreams tell you something that could bring the Yellowjackets more food and breaks from the wilderness. A deer must be nearby if you see a deer in a dream. If there was a conflict with people or the girls on camp in a dream, that indicates there must be some bad times coming your way (small or big could cast lives) 

♡ Lottie cuddles with you all the time in the wilderness for warmth. Lottie is always cold, even in the summer. She likes to have you physically near her to feel your heat. She is very physically affectionate out in the wilderness. 

♡  Lottie gets jealous quickly, even before the crash, by giving something or someone more attention than you give her. She doesn’t like it. If you are hanging out with your friends on camp, Lottie will wander into the conversation seamlessly. But if you are getting flirted with, or she perceives someone is flirting with you, she goes a little crazy. She gets confrontational, and she becomes somewhat aggressive in her words, but she always comes to her senses and apologies.

♡  Lottie has more sexual desire now in the wilderness, and the freedom of being in love with you makes her want to have sex anytime you move. In the wilderness, Lottie develops a primal kink and a breeding kink out there and begs to get you pregnant (which can't happen).

[scarletlilyy]

Topic of Today: Pretentious feminism online and the slow development into internalized misogyny.

Popular terms/ideologies in Girl world I feel contributes to this!

1. Girl dinner

2. “I'm just a girl”

3. Girl Math

4. Pick me

5. Girls Girl

1. Girl Dinner: As defined by urban dictionary GIRL DINNER is a tik tok trend where girls eat random food which is comforting and or is a childhood food. Basically a combo of some random foods. Like every other trend it started off pretty innocent until it was repackaged as a means of promoting eating disorders. Extremely low cal food that lacks every bit of nutrition is romanticized with a cute pink bow.

2. "I'm just a girl": The phrase “I'm just a girl” was kind of a spin to “let boys be boys”, something we've all commonly heard in the past when a young man does something stupid but is still excused for it. I watched this video essay by Alisha not Alisha and in the comments someone quotes "You're not "healing your inner child" - you're regressing into ignorance.” and that's exactly how I feel about this trend.

"I'm just a girl" should be a fun quote to piss off men who hate traditionally feminine things, not a hoax to justify your shitty behaviour.

3. Girl Math: The third one has to be my least favorite, especially as someone who loves math. It just reinforces the whole dumb blonde ideology, infantilizes women and justifies bad financial decisions/overconsumption. The whole overconsumption issue is probably one of women's bigger issues. Like I saw multiple videos of where girls tried to use girl math to justify the ridiculous amounts they spend MONTHLY on clothes.

Yeah, let's not....

Trends like these easily turn into a marketing ploy for brands and we just end up spending money on useless shit cus the caught ur short ass attention span lmao.

4. Pick me: I feel like the term pick me became popular around the pandemic (I might just be too young lmao), so I'm just gonna start around there. At first it was to actually call out women who were in fact pick mes. A pick me is a girl who brings down other girls for male validation btw.

It's as simple as that.

It's not a girl who has different interests from other girls and a lot of people have failed to understand that. The entire point is not that pick me's have different interests from other girls, it's that they weaponize their "different" interests to gain attention from the opposite gender. So no, a girl who isn't so feminine or doesn't practice stereotypical feminine things isn't a pick me, neither is she trying to be "different".

The word has been really thrown around and 60% of the time it's just cus the accuser doesn't like the accused.

5. Girls Girl: A girls girl is the opposite of a pick me, a girl who supports other girls. But guess what my support is very much conditional!

Girls are humans.

Humans suck, they are capable of being bad ppl and making bad decisions. Aside from the basic support like providing menstrual products when In need or defending each other from misogyny, my support is conditional. That was originally the intention of the whole girls girl thing, understanding female struggles and supporting each other in those aspects.

Not dick riding each other and giving our unconditional love to people who don't deserve it. It has turned into a thing where women are immune to criticism from other women. And anytime a woman calls out another woman for something genuinely bad they aren't a “girls girl” or they are “hating like a man” .

Women, just like men aren't immune to criticism.

Overall, all these trends always start with the innocent intentions of enabling women to enjoy themselves. They slowly develop into toxic trends that do absolutely nothing for the feminists movement and allow for internalized misogyny. Trends like this will forever pop up, let us be careful with the media we consume. I'm talking about it because I've seen it in real life and it affects how women and especially young girls coexist with one another.

That's it,

Au Revoir.

[call-me-a-simp]

Heal My Wounds

Surprise (part 13)

Rhea Ripley x Reader

Tw: physical and sexual abuse, toxic relationship, selfharm, eating disorder

Summary: You are in a toxic relationship with an abusive man but manage to run away. A tall, black haired woman picks you up from the streets just in time so your ex doesn't get you. But who is she and why does she seem so familiar to you? As you get to know each other you start to notice weird feelings you never had before whenever she's around.

Rhea walks back into her locker room. She just lost a match and is super frustrated and angry at herself.

"Hey babe, you did great out there" you try to cheer her up. She huffs "oh really? Then why'd I lose?"

You just stand there awkwardly, not knowing what to do or say. "I'm sorry darling" she sighs "I think I just need some time alone for now.. Will you wait in the car until I'm finished changing?"

You nod and grab the keys. You walk out the door and head for Rhea's car. You open it and sit down on the passengers seat.

About 20 minutes later you hear a knock on the drivers side window. You unlock the door and Demi gets in." Sorry you had to wait so long" she apologizes.

"It's fine, let's just get home." you brush it off. "why in such a hurry?" she looks at you confused. "mmh let's just say I have a surprise for you" you whisper and smirk.

"Is that so?" she grins. During the car ride she keeps her hand on your thigh. It's almost like a ritual now.

She trails her hand up and down, knowing your limits by now. You arrive at her apartment and get out.

"Soo, what is your surprise?" she asks, failing to hide her excitement. "Be patient babygirl" you tease her. She groans and follows you inside.

"Y/nnn" she begs. "Don't tease me like that". You chuckle "well, what about you go grab some snacks and meet me in the bathroom?"

Rhea looks a little confused but does what you say. You go and run a bath with lots of foam and sit down on the edge of the bath tub waiting for her. Stripped. Naked.

The door opens a few minutes later. Demi was looking down at the bags in her hands, seeming very concentrated.

"I didn't know what you meant by snacks so I just brought everything I found and-" she looks up and her jaw drops.

Everything she was carrying just moments before falls down onto the floor. You laugh. "I- uh- you.. What?!" Rhea stutters.

You walk toward her and cup her cheeks. "I thought you might like a surprise like this" you say grinning and kiss her.

She finally finds her words again "Oh, I'm gonna show you how much I like it" she growls and smirks.

She quickly gets rid of all her clothing, not bothering about the mess on the floor. "Come here baby" she says, her voice full of lust.

She grabs you by the wrist and pulls you in for a kiss. "How far am I allowed to go?" she groans. "Touch me where ever you'd like"

"Hmm but you don't need to do this just because of me" she hums and kisses you passionately. "I know" you breathe out.

Rhea picks you up, squeezing your ass making you moan into the kiss, which just turns her on even more.

"Fuck y/n I don't know if I can hold myself back" she whispers, panic seeping through. "Would you stop if I tell you to?" you ask her, keeping your calm.

"Always, I'd never hurt you on purpose" Rhea looks you deep in the eyes. She's dead serious. You smile and kiss her. "Then why don't you continue?" you smirk.

---------------------------------------------------

Decided to let you suffer a little longer until the smut comes 😇 here's part 13

Taglist:@babybatlover @legit9thlunaticwarrior @thatonepansexual2000

[powderblueblood]

BEAUTIFUL!

ronnie ecker recounts the last first day of the worst of her life or i wanted to rewrite beautiful from heathers the musical, hellfire and ice version. warnings: first person narrative (ronnie's pov), swearing, era-typical misogyny, bullying and slurs, mention of eating disorders, everyone's a dick, everyone's kind of gay for lacy doevski. wc: 3.8k

September 1st, 1984. 

First day of the end of your life. It’s hard not to get a little intro-outrospective.

If I was a diary keeping person, which I’m not because I don’t like to leave a paper trail outside my own goddamn academic brilliance, I’d write something like this. 

Dear diary, I believe that I’m a good person–y’know, relatively speaking, if you don’t count that one time I bit that one kid for catcalling me. But, here we are! First day of senior year! And I look around at these kids I’ve known all my life and I ask myself–what happened?

We’re in the hallway, bottlenecking toward the cafeteria. It’s right around lunchtime, so everyone’s getting a real good look at everybody else, categorizing who they hate, who they hate more, who got boobs over the summer. God, do we ever stop slinging shit at each other, even when we think no one’s listening? There’s a constant cacophony in the hallways of Hawkins High.

Freak! Slut! Burnout! Bug-eyes! Poser! Lard-ass!

And no one does anything about it. 

It’s pretty sad, considering where we came from. 

We were so tiny, happy and shiny, playing tag and getting chased.

Freak! Slut! Loser! Shortbus!

Singing and clapping, laughing and napping, baking cookies, eating paste. Especially me. I was crazy for that shit.

Bull-dyke! Stuck-up! Hunchback!

Then we got bigger, that was the trigger, like the Huns invading Rome. “Shit, my bad!” That underclassman I just walked straight into looked terrified. And for good reason.

Welcome to my school, this ain’t no high school. This is the Thunderdome. 

Trailer trash!

For the very first very last time, I crane my head around the swamped hall and try to recall where my new locker is. First star on the right, and I wiggle in my combination and dump my books inside. I take a second, shoving my head inside the cool metal darkness (voluntarily, for once) and mutter, “Hold your breath and count the days, we’re graduating soon–”

“–Christ. College will be paradise, if I’m not dead by June.” 

I crane my neck out. Two lockers up from me, elegant fingers pull open an identical door to mine except hers, of course, already has a vanity mirror hung up inside. She checks her reflection, not like it ever needs checking. One of her faithful little redheads stands beside her, smacking bubblegum so loud it makes my ears pop.  

“You are so melodramatic, it’s crazy.” 

“What was that?”

“Nothing…”

It sucks how the chrysalis of adolescence has made most of us completely obnoxious. I try not to be a sucker for nostalgia, but I can’t help but remember how much easier this was in middle school. Waking up on a weekday didn’t have to be like living in a segment of Creepshow. 

I know, I know, I know, life can be beautiful. No plastic Jesus on my dashboard (or… handlebars, I guess) but I pray, I pray for a better way. If we changed back then, we could change again… 

Then I get a whole shoulder of dork, right to the face. Bubblegum snaps between snorts, I can see that he’s been shoved my way. Yeah, we could be beautiful…

“Ow!”

Just not today. “Hey, are you okay?”

This Jansport sporting asshole twists his face up right in mine. “Get away, nerd!” Jesus Christ.

The choir of angels go on–I’m just trying to make it to the cafeteria and grab a fucking chicken pot pie. I’m starving, and I could use a little less soundtrack.

Freak! Slut! Cripple! Homo! Homo! Homo! 

But, listen. It’s not a total nightmare. There’s light at the end of the tunnel. Things will get better soon as my letter comes from Harvard, Duke or Brown–

–or, NYU, if we’re being really serious. 

“Wake from this coma, take my diploma–” God. This chick’s voice seems to cut through the din of the hallway like a bell, “Then I can blow this town. Dream of ivy covered walls and smoky French cafes…”

“Sooo uber pretentious!”

“Watch it, freak!” I don’t even need to turn around to figure out who that’s directed at. But, I’m a little preoccupied with singing my own tune, here! Muscling through to the lunch line, grabbing a tray while I–

“–fight the urge to strike a match and set this dump ablaze. Hey, Ronnie!” 

Dude, shut up! I swing around, trying to spot the owner of that very different, very familiar dulcet tone when some duckbill hat wearing dickwad upends my lunch tray. Dressed in Hawkins Tiger green and gold, this is one of many prize dickwads. 

Bear with me, I’m trying to place him.

“Ooops.”

Andy Sweeney. Indiana’s worst point guard… “whose true talent lies in being a huge dick.”

Did I mention before about that lack of filter between my brain and my mouth? I patch it up pretty good most of the time, but sometimes…

“What did you say to me, skank?” Andy demands of me all darkly and shit. It’s scary. Even if I’ve got a foot and a half on him.

“Aaah!” I recoil, looking at his flexing fists, “Nothing.”

I back up from him, way way up, leaving my mess of a lunch tray on the ground. Even though that makes me feel shitty–when did I become the guy who left stuff for the already harangued janitorial staff to clean up? 

We were kind before; we can be kind once more… 

Head down. Stalk through. Find the Hellfire table. But, not before someone chucks me lightly on the arm. 

“Agh!” I holler before I register him. I am totally on edge. “Hey, Eddie.”

“Hey,” he grins in a sardonic way that says I cannot believe we’re putting ourselves through this again. 

Eddie Munson. My best friend since pre-pube. The closest thing I’ll ever have to a brother, unless Granny finally lets me get that gecko I’ve always wanted. I’m almost eighteen, for Chrissake, I should be allowed. 

Anyway, Eddie rocks. We know this. Look at him. 

“We still on for movie night?” he asks.

I beam. Our first day of school comedown tradition. “Shit yeah, you’re on Jiffy Pop detail.”

Eddie’s got a little pep in his step and it jangles his wallet chain. Dude can’t help but attract attention– almost all of it unwanted. “I rented Evil Dead.”

“Hohoho, again? Wait, don’t you have it memorized by now?”

“What can I say?” Before I can even warn him, Eddie’s backstepping straight into– “I’m a sucker for a gory ending.” 

“Eddie Munson, king of the trailer park! What, you didn’t qualify for free lunches this year?”

A hand comes down hard on the age-old tin lunchbox Eddie’s carrying. The clatter it makes against the lino makes me want to cover my ears and hide, especially when I see Eddie’s face. Total resignation. It’s humiliating. 

This guy?

Tommy Hagan. He’s the smartest guy on the basketball team, which is kind of like being the tallest dwarf.

“Too goddamn easy, man!” he guffaws, and I would try to figure out what farm animal he most resembles, but apparently I’m too busy–

“Hey! Pick that up! Right now!” –being the hero.

“I’m sorry, are you actually talking to me?” Tommy also tries to tower over me, but I’ve got a decent number of inches on him too. 

My cheeks blaze.

“Yes, I am. I wanna know what gives you the right to pick on my friend. You’re a high school has-been waiting to happen. Tell me, Tommy, do you actually have a personality outside of sticking your nose right up Steve Harrington’s ass?”

Tommy gets closer and closer. So close that I can see the nose hair move as he huffs through his freckly nostrils. His finger points right between my eyebrows.

“… you have a zit right there.”

Cue rapturous laughter from the peanut gallery. 

Dear diary…

Why do they hate me? Why don’t I fight back? Why do I act like such a creep? Why won’t he date me? Why did I hit him? Why do I cry myself to sleep? 

Somebody hug me! Somebody fix me! Somebody save me!

Send me a sign, God! Give me some hope here! Something to live for!

The doors of the cafeteria burst open and Tommy’s attention is thankfully wrenched away from me. Everyone’s attention is wrenched away from me. Because we’ve all been waiting for this.

They enter the caf in a solid formation, so solid that people part for them. Some gazing, some gawping, some glaring. The name calling ceases, the bullying pauses. 

This is the royal court. They float above it all. 

Tina Burton, head cheerleader. Her dad is loaded. He sells engagement rings. 

Heather Holloway, runs the yearbook. Badly. No discernible personality, but her mom did pay for implants. 

Even the lessers are notorious. Carol Perkins has been having sex since, like, seventh grade. Cass Finnigan’s been pretending to save it for Jesus but giving a backdoor key to whoever buys her peach schnapps. Nicole Summers invented three new slurs last year alone. 

And finally, Lacy Doevski. 

The Almighty. 

She is a mythic bitch. 

These girls, they’re solid Teflon. Never bothered. Never harassed– 

“I would give anything to be like that.”

And I know I don’t sit in that thought alone. Glancing around the tables, the coagulation of cliques, I can hear the desire coming from my classmates. 

I’d like to be their boyfriend. If I sat at their table, guys would notice me. I’d like them to be nicer. 

“What’s the over-under on one of those harpies getting kidnapped, taken to some abandoned warehouse to be photographed naked and left for the rats?” Eddie mutters into my ear as we slam ourselves down at our regular table. 

I roll my freakin’ eyes. “I told you that your Barb Holland theory was insane.”

Eddie shrugs, flipping open his recovered lunchbox. “Just sayin’... They never found a body. Anyway, my money's on the ice queen. If everything they're sayin' about her dad is true, she is prime ransom material.”

“You are so unnecessarily twisted.” But my eyes are still following the crown jewels. I notice that Lacy, Tina and Heather all rise to the girl’s room immediately after they finish their minimal lunch. 

I interrupt Eddie and Gareth’s too-intense-for-lunchtime debate about the morality of posthumously publishing The Silmarillion. “I have to take a leak.” 

As I gently push the door of the bathroom open, I can see Tina standing nervously at an open stall door. Heather is ralphing like her life depends on it. The reptilian arch of Lacy Doevski is bent towards the mirror, touching up her lipstick. 

“Grow up, Heather,” Lacy says in this voice that could weirdly be misconstrued as concerned,  “Bulimia is so sophmoronic.” 

Tina grimaces. “Maybe you should see a doctor, Heather.”

From inside the stall, Heather’s voice echos. “Yeah, Heather– I mean, Tina. Maybe I should.” 

I’m about to open my mouth, say something about ginger ale or peppermint tea, but Mrs O’Donnell enters behind me. I dive into a nearby stall, pretty confident I haven’t been spotted. But, I leave just enough of a crack in the door to watch everything that unfolds out there.

“Ah, I should have known–”

Heather vomits again. Damn, how can she pull trig so much on so little?

“–the witches from Macbeth always travel in a trio.” Her heels click over the cracked, yellowing tile, but the way Lacy turns from the mirror gives even O’Donnell pause. “Perhaps you didn’t hear the bell over all the vomiting. You’re late for class.”

Hey. Idea. I dig around in my backpack and scribble on a piece of paper, leaning against the bathroom door.

“Heather wasn’t feeling well.” Lacy says. Again, confusing enough to sound kind! “We’re helping her.”

O’Donnell chuckles all airly. Like she’s any match for her. “Not without a hall pass, you’re not. Week’s detention.”

That’s my cue. I scurry out of the stall, presenting O’Donnell with–

“Um, actually, Mrs O’Donnell, all four of us are out on a hall pass.” I gulp and glance at Heather, who’s finally hauled herself off her knees. “Yearbook committee.”

It’s super hard to breathe as O’Donnell inspects my handiwork. It hits me that this could go horribly, horribly wrong, and I can feel Lacy’s eyes boring into a hot spot on the back of my head.

O’Donnell arches her eyebrow. “I see you’re all listed. Hurry up and get where you’re going.”

She goes to hand the note back to me, but Lacy intercepts. Once the coast is clear, she takes her time looking it over. 

“This is an excellent forgery,” she tells me. A drop of freezing sweat runs down my back. “Who are you?”

“Uh, Ronnie– Veronica Ecker,” I stumble. “We were lab partners last year?”

Lacy’s eyes narrow. She doesn’t remember taking the lead on coolly dissecting a frog in front of me, it seems.

“Doesn’t matter. I crave a boon.”

She holds her glare on me. Jesus, why do I feel like I’m about to have my throat slit? “What boon?”

“Um. Let me sit at your lunch table. Just once. No talking necessary. If people think that you guys tolerate me, then they’ll leave me alone…”

What? It worked for Nancy Wheeler. Even if she had to boink Steve Harrington to do it, but I can't quite stretch that far.

The girls all chorus in laughter at me. Oof. 

“Before you answer, I can also do report cards, permission slips and absence notes.” Dude, I cannot tell you where this boost of bravery (or foolhardiness) is coming from.

“How about prescriptions?” Heather asks.

“Shut up, Heather,” Lacy cuts. 

“Sorry, Lacy.”

Then, she zeroes in on me. Takes slow steps toward me, just like Tommy Hagan did. But her stare is tearing strips right through me. I even freaking hunch as she gets closer.

“For a greasy little nobody,” Lacy says, her voice dropping low so I have to strain to hear her, “you do have good bone structure.”

Tina and Heather must already be tuned into this Lacy-only frequency.

“And a proportional body,” Tina adds. “If someone didn’t catch you during a basket toss, you’d probably only kind of fracture your spine. That’s very important. 

“Of course, you could stand to de-hobo your wardrobe.” Heather goes so far as to flick the flappy pocket on the front of my overalls. “Salvation Army much?”

“And ya know, ya know, ya know…” the shiniest jewel in the crown hums, tapping her lipstick tube against her cheek, “This could be beautiful.” Her painted fingers pinch my chin and turn it down toward her–because I’m fucking tall. “Mascara, maybe some lipgloss and we’re on our way. Get this girl some blush– and Heather, I need your brush. Let’s make her beautiful.”

A manic looking Tina produces a vanity bag out of absolutely nowhere. “Let’s make her beautiful…”

“Let’s make her beautiful?” Heather snarks, but Lacy shoves a hand in her face. 

Her eyes turn on me again. Dark and sparkly and… and… smiling. At me. “Okay?”

“Okay!”

Then, whaddaya know, smash cut, it’s the next freaking day. I don’t know how that works, but I don’t see another goddamn narrator so pipe down. 

The halls are their usual shitshow– Billy Hargrove shoves the new Hellfire freshman, Gareth, into a locker. Eddie hauls him up by the collar and they run headlong into a gaggle of girls, who all scream because every nerd that plays a fantasy game is contagious. 

“Don’t you dare touch me!”

“Get away, pervert!”

“What did I ever do to them?” Gareth yelps, exasperated. Hard not to feel bad for the kid.

But Eddie’s sage about it, even though he knows it’s as unfair as I do. “You’ll get used to it, freshman.”

“No, dude!” Gareth pushes back, verging on a panic attack, “Who could survive this! I can’t escape this–I think I’m dying!”

O’Donnell, hot on the tardy check, appears behind the both of ‘em. “Who’s that with Lacy?”

“Damn. Someone got a welfare increase,” Nicole Summers hatefully snarls.

“Who’s the babe?” says Andy Sweeney.

But Eddie Munson, oh-ho, Eddie Munson settles his eyes into slits. Anytime, any place, he’d know–

“Veronica?!”

“Veronica?” Cass and Carol caw.

“Veronica?” Steve and Tommy mimic. 

And Lacy Doevski… she looks to her dutiful right, and smirks. “Veronica?”

And you know, you know, you know, life can be beautiful! 

My whole life, I haven’t had a choice but to be one of the boys. My best friend’s a boy. I’m in a band with all boys. I’m surrounded by boys all the time who make gross boy jokes and do stupid boy shit. Nobody, not even my Granny, even though she fucking rules, ever asked me if… if I wanted to put on a skirt and get my goddamned nails painted. And it’s not as if I mind being on the more masculine side of things but, shit, is it so wrong to want something? Even if I believed what I was pretty much dragged up to believe, by all my friends and the world at large around me–that being a chick was totally dumb. Couldn’t I try it on?

You hope, you dream, you pray, and you get your way! 

Lacy beckoned me into her walk-in closet, which was about as big as my bedroom and smelled of gardenia, and put me in a pleated skirt set that she said didn’t fit her temperament anymore. ‘But it’d work for a novice.’

Ask me how it feels, lookin’ like hell on wheels–

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” Eddie seethes as I pass, carried on the cloud of Lacy’s perfume.

‘My god, it’s beautiful!’ I’d said, spinning around in the stupid, flippy skirt. 

“Those bobbleheads totally morphed her!”

‘I might be beautiful!’ I mumbled, fingering the diamond studs she put in my ears that she made Heather pierce.

“She looks like–like–” Gareth chokes.

And when you’re beautiful…

“A girl!”

… it’s a beautiful fuckin’ day!

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Now, at first, I think I’m fucking flatlining, expecting to wake up with goddamn tubes down my throat and shit– but I’m not. I’m in my regular old bed, with my regular old alarm clock screaming at me. I smash my hand down on it and jerk up, out of the covers.

First place I go is my wardrobe. 

I feel the physical sensation of my heart dropping like a lead kite when I flick through my old thrift store samesies and Granny Ecker hand-me-downs to find no such minty plaid skirt set. 

Just a dream. 

Which is such a bullshit conceit. Sorry to break it to you. 

I admit defeat and pull on my overalls, scrunching my ballcap over my head and muscle out the door. I’m already late, for me. 

But–then, there’s an apparition hovering at my mailbox. 

Someone who excitedly takes notice and waves when she catches me staring, arm stretching out of her fur-trimmed peacoat–which is looking a tiny touch shabbier than it used to these days. 

“Happy early acceptance day, asshole!” Lacy Doevski sing-songs. Sing-songs. Which is… something I have to readjust to, given the liminal version of her I just experienced.

“Oh.. jeez,” I mutter, feeling dazed still, “I forgot that was today.”

Lacy’s brow gets all pinchy. “You okay? You look like steamed dogshit.”

“Thank you so much,” I drawl sarcastically, “It’s nothing, I slept funky. Where’s Eddie?”

Lacy shifts in herself a little, tucking hair behind her ears and avoiding my eyes. “How should I know?” Right. That. The daylight version of this little tryst they pretend they’re not having. Honestly, if the two of them would just bang it out– well, maybe things might be worse off and this weird little platonic ménage à trois of ours would be totally ruined forever, but at least I’d have to stop tiptoeing around them. “Come on, are you gonna open it or what?”

Oh, right. There’s a whole gravity of a situation supposed to be happening here.

I kind of feel the saliva gathering at the hinges in my jaw, you know the way you do when you’re about to puke your guts up? But then, I remember. Bulimia is so sophmoronic. 

I yank open that rusty mailbox and a thick, thick envelope with a New York University imprint sits inside. I yank it out.

Lacy stares at me like I’m the dude holding the thing the Ten Commandments were written on. 

I’m not drawing this shit out. I am not teasing myself, dude, you couldn’t pay me to–savagely, I rip the envelope open, which makes Lacy cringe. She probably has a little knife for these sorts of things, knowing her. 

Dear Veronica,

Congratulations! I am delighted to inform you…

“Holy fucking shit.”

“Well…?”

I thrust that hot, heavy paper right into that pretty girl’s face. “Full. Goddamned. Ride.” 

Lacy gasps, grasping the letter so hard it leaves claw marks. Her eyes shake back and forth, reading and re-reading the whole acceptance ream. It’s weird, and I know it’s weird, but I’m standing there, looking at her and trying to make her make sense with the Lacy that showed up in my dream. That girl existed, and she was mystifying, in a horrifying way. A total reign of ice cold terror. But now, I’m staring at Lacy, who’s all short, weird angles and specific enthusiasm and… it’s hard to see how those two girls ever lived in the same body. 

She’s a little Whitman. She’s got those multitudes. And, actually, so do I.

“I knew it!” Lacy hisses, “And I want you to know that I’m not at all bitter. While I should be celebrating early acceptance with you, I’m glad–”

I grin at her. “You’re a little bitter.”

“Fine, I’m a little bitter, but I’m mostly excited. New York City, Ron! That’s transformative!”

“Yeah… speaking of. Lacy?”

“Yes?”

Dreams are meant to be prophetic and shit, right?

“Doyouwannagivemeamakeover?”

She cocks her head at me. She still hasn’t let go of that acceptance letter yet. “What?”

“Do you.” I take the envelope from her hands. I know she’s capable of identity theft. “Want to give me. A makeover.”

“Huh?” Her fingers stay curled around imaginary paper. Oh, my god.

“You heard me! And I hate repeating myself!” I flail a little. I get like that, quick to bug sometimes. “Look, you said it, New York is gonna be… transformative. I’m going to be a freaking lawyer, dude, fingers crossed, all going well.”

Lacy nods, not a hair out of place, with perfect confidence,“You are.”

“And when was the last time you saw a lawyer wearing fuckin’ overalls?! Huh? The people vs Howdy Doody?”

“I like your overalls.” I know she’s saying this because it’s the right thing to say, and she’s been practicing doing that really hard. She also might like them now, after repeated exposure, in a Stockholm syndrome sort of way. 

“But they don’t scream esquire,” I impress upon her. And it’s true. I truly do believe that I can’t set foot in New York fucking City looking like I just fell off the back of a turnip truck–nor do I want to. 

It takes a big fat beat, but her face changes. Lacy looks almost dastardly–dark, sparkling eyes like Lacy from the dream. She looks me right over, making the calculations of how to reupholster tragically unfashionable me in her mind. And then she arches her eyebrow.

“Well, remember… you asked, Veronica.”

[paperstreetlocal]

Please expand on your Narrator neurodivergency hcs too if you're willing!! I love the ones you did for Tyler.

this isn't just neurodivergent shit its also like other issues sorry i cant stay on topic

autism wise i dont think he really gets overstimulated ? not the type to have a sensory meltdown or something i feel like he just kinda blocks out everything around him if its too loud or whaetever.disassociates a bit.Textures though……thats a whole other thing i think he ust wears simple somewhat tight clothes.half the reason cuz hes boring and has no fashion sense the other half is he just cant stand having anything excessive on him

ithink he stims in more subtle ways cuz he masks a lot Mostly just taps his foot or bites his nails or fidgets with pens/longer objects and flings them around on accident.i feel like he would touch his hair a lot and always keeps it short and tidy cause he cant stand it eing longer.scratches his forearms Generic stuff like that

his ocd gets really bad tho his brain runs literally 24/7 which pairs w his insomnia and the guy just thinks about bullshit constantly.intrusive thoughts galore I dont think hes a perfectionist by any means but he has to keep certain things tidy/closed or it drives him up the wall.specifically his work cubicle which is a mess but organized to nobody but himself n i think he gets extremely paranoid at times especially right around when he moves in w tyler cuz of the lack of lock on the front door and tht stuff

also when it comes to compulsions i think he bites (previously mentioned) and eats his nails and completely decimates them for several reasons and picks at his skin/scalp/teeth/eyes a lot and not in a hygienic way (do i even need to put this in here? nothing about their house or them is hygienic) and having to move into tylers house fucked up with his routine super badly hedidNotlike it in the slightest

e strikes me as the type to be anemic and always be freezing cold (unlike tyler whos a radiator) and overdresses while outside (him in his silly puffy jackets) and i think he sweats waaay ay too much bad eyesight had glasses at one point but switched to contacts and then got his apartment blown up now he gets eye infections cuz he doesnt have any neww ones

for the schizophrenia stuff i mean. somebody hcs him as schizophrenic somebody as a did system .. . personally im either not sure or he has both but i mostly go w the notion that the whole runtime of fight club was the narrator having a schizophrenic episode and i do think tyler may have appeared earlier on in his life in a different form and he just forgot or wasn't aware it was him.i dont think chuck did his best repping either of the disorders so whatever goes honestly lol (my main issue is you can have alters and be schizophrenic but having an alter AS a hallucination is incredibly odd to me? is that even a thing /genq) neeway dont have any special hcs just whatever happens in the book/movie u know abt that already

also extra stuff for tyler i forgot b4 i think he likes sniffing him.his mind cannot comprehend Not Smelling Like Fucking Shit 24/7 (narrator is somewhat cleaner and thus smells ok sometimes. mostly like sweat though) CONTRARY to that id card (ifykyk) i think his handwriting is AWFUL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! his ass does NOT write in perfect cursive ik his shit is barely legible Fuck You and he cannot spell longer words like Wednesday what do you think this is ? Spelling bee ?

[the-cat-and-the-birdie]

Tryna write this post about Hobie's Black-Cat OC MysStray and like 😭😭 I'm Strugglin' I really am

ummm I'm too lazy to go and finish it and make it all nice so imma just infodump about her and Hobies past and dynamic heehee

Anyway 😈 her name is pronounced Miss Stray or Mystery. And Myssie is just Missy but Boujee

Spider-Punk x Black Cat: MysStray - Miranda Straizand

Her real name is Miranda but everyone calls her Myssie. Only Hobie calls her Miranda and that's only when they about to start arguing.

[she be like 'don't Miranda me, ya dickhead. If I start calling you Hobart it's gonna get embarrassing 🤨']

She's 22, an exotic dancer, bud dealer, and credit-card scamming hacker.

HOWEVER

Not only is her faceclaim Rico Nasty but she's also his ex and I have no idea how to write her without ppl being like 'damn why she so mean to him 😐'

Like nooo she means shut the fuck up affectionately. She means tosser in a nice way 😭😭 she's telling him to roll hey blunt cause her love language is acts of service I promise

But uhh yeah they meet as civilians a couple years back but didn't get into it until Hobie was in a tight spot money wise and needed a place to stay - this was right after he got his powers and was patrolling 24/7 to the point it was wearing him down and he had no interest in making money.

And his friend Harry was like 'you can stay with my bud dealer but she might have you working for her'

Hobie ended up staying with her as her pseudo-body guard and blunt roller until he started hitting on her.

Which, she was like 'that's fucking bold of you. You sleeping in my crib, eating my food and now you wanna sleep in my bed? AND YOU'RE BROKE?'

But somehow it worked. He has the rizz. I'm serious.

He got a 'promotion'.

Though Myssie would never say they're dating or that she's his girlfriend.

She'd always say specifically "Hobie's my boyfriend."

And if you asked him, he'd specifically say "I'm her boyfriend."

ie, He's hers. Like not in a possessive way but in a 'She ain't his any-fucking-thing. She ain't nobodies nothing' kinda way - do that make sense 😭

They dated for about a year, with Myssie finding out he was Spider-Man on her own a couple months in.

She was not thrilled. She wasn't mad. She just -

That crawling on walls shit night be cute - but being out in them streets fighting some punk-ass cops talking about 'I'm an anarchist suicide-machine'?

No, no I think not.

Originally she was not into it. That righteous shit was not for her. Her and Hobie had been handling business smoothly, Myssie had moneying come in. The whole circle was eating good - why was he trying to be a hero?

She much preferred he did it on his own time like before. The webs can stay though, she likes the webs.

Hobie on the other hand was like 'okay fuck whatever'. It's not like he needed to be held and babied 24/7. And he knew how Black Cats were, but still - damn.

He'd come home after the shittiest patrol, and she'd act like it was a bad day at the office. A blunt can't fix everything.

Eventually as Myssie learned that Hobie being Spider-man didn't mean he was trying to force righteousness on her - or looked down on her for not seeking it, she got more comfortable with the idea.

And then she got her ass locked up.

All of a sudden she's like 'Hey Spidey come get me 🤣🤣🤣'

Of course he comes. But of course he's like

"I should leave you're arse here but I won't because I'm a good person."

And she's like "You won't because you know better - I'm just joking stop playing and get me out babes 😭😭'

So they had a few good months of crime and justice. Having government systems, stealing funds. Myssie dancing and dealing on the side while Hobie does shows.

They dated maybe a year, a little over that.

Eventually she broke up with him. It was a harsh one. Myssie has Borderline Personality Disorder and although she really loved Hobie, after finding out he was Spider-Man the concern and worry and stress it put on her was too much and she choose to look after her mental health instead.

She's not the type to patch him up when he comes home bloody. Waking up to that shit genuinely stresses her out.

Sitting around waiting not knowing if he would make it home really fucked with her head every night.

She's not trying to take down a system. She's trying to put food on her table and money in her account and live her life fucking quietly.

Eventually she was like 'I'm sorry. I love you, but you're driving me nuts.'

Hobie couldn't fault her. But damn it hurt. Especially because it wasn't like a 'oh btw maybe we should break up' kinda thing it was a 'i can't take this shit anymore' type thing.

He actually felt bad for putting her in the situation because she signed up to date him not Spider-man. And Myssie was never a hero to begin with, she doesn't have a righteous bone in her body.

And then it came to the topic of - UH OH you now live with your ex-boyfriend (plus he's broke and reckless)

Myssie offered to pay for a place for him but Hobie was like 'fuck no' and took off.

Eventually through Harry, Myssie learned that Hobie got a place - his boathouse - making a steady income on his band's mixtape and merch. She was happy for him, but she still kept her distance. Cause like, how do you even approach that?

After breaking up with a dude then low-key kicking him out your flat? It's not like she just stopped having feelings for him. So she kept her distance, for both of their sakes.

No hard feelings, but doing what she has to do.

So that was it. Until one day, Hobie shows up at her job.

Mind you, Myssie dances. So Hobies options were coming to her house unannounced, or show up to her strip club unannounced.

He meets her backstage but, she refuses to see him unless he pays like everyone else.

He can either buy a dance or buy some weed, but she'll only link with him as a customer. They can't just be hanging to hang, y'know?

So Hobie leaves and the next day, he turns up to her place early with the money - having gotten an early advance from a performance.

He buys a quarter of buds from her, and while he rolls a blunt he tells her that he needs her to hack an extremely sophisticated system.

One more complicated than anything they've ever seen.

He can't pay her for the job. He's asking her as a friend.

He tells her that if she takes it, she's going to have to learn a lot about him being Spider-man, and that it might change a lot of things for her, but it's something he can't do on his own.

Reluctantly, Myssie agrees.

He shows her is Spider Society watch - and tells her he needs help hacking the system and disabling the AI on it.

He wants to find the backdoor that leads to HQ's mainframes, and deconstruct it from there.

He tells her about what it can do, and the other Spider-people. Myssie agrees to do the job, but stops him from telling her more, because she'd rather live not knowing everything about the universe.

For a couple weeks they work on it together, and surprisingly they don't rip out each other's throats. In fact, it's kinda nice.

Then Diane enters the picture.

Myssie isn't jealous. She's just very confused.

For one, it's very obvious Diane is from a different planet. She acts like it. There's nothing punk or edgy about her. She's very clearly not from 138.

But she's Spiderwoman. The idea that there's more of them? A whole multiverse of them - a whole multiverse of Black Cats - Myssie... isn't with it.

And secondly, Diane is the opposite of Myssie. Myssie has never heard her say a joke that wasn't well-meaning.

The first time Diane heard Myssie tell Hobie 'Shut the fuck up' (within ten minutes of meeting her) Diane audibly gasped.

Myssie was like 'girl you too tf 🤨 shit both y'all pissin me off'

It's not that Myssie doesn't like Diane - it's just that half the time when Diane speaks Myssie is like

Diane is nice and all - but where the fuck did he find this chick? Why she always here?

Why does she like Hobie so much? He's a lame!! He's broke!! He tells wack ass jokes!!

Like yeah Myssie dated him and loves him but also ????? Groupie??? Girl get a grip!!!!!!

But anyway Myssie helped Hobie hack Spider Society's systems.

They're currently defined as 'Exes' in a nonexistent situationship. Diane has floated the idea with Hobie of them getting back together, now that Hobie has her to support him in the Spideystuff (they're polyam) but Hobie is like 'that ain't up to me'

What happens to them? Idk.

But they've started hanging out to hang out again, so that's a start.

And she's been flipping him off more, which is like her way of flirting.

But like.... That's cute and all - but in the moment she's so mean.

He says a stupid joke to mess with her and she's like ' shut the fuck up and roll the blunt bruv 😒🤨' even though she's stickering and cackling.

But I don't want y'all to think she's just being mean to him just to be mean 😭😭 noo

The way they talk to each other is mad aggressive

Like when he makes a bad joke and she calls him 'one daft bastard' she means he's funny and cheeky and being a silly little guy

Noooo when he calls her a hell spawn or a demon he means that affectionately 🥺🥺 he's making a funny

Nooo they're not fighting they're wrestling over the blunt and also getting play-hits in and also accidentally trashing Myssies place

She's like 'Quit talking shit and come cuddle me. Arsehole.'

He's like 'How about you calm the hell down and give me a kiss 😐'

He calls her Pryssie like prissy because she's highstrung as fuck

She calls him bug boy and pipsqueak even though he's like a foot taller than her

They're just rough around the edges okay them telling each other to go to hell means I love you okay

Mysbie aka StrayPunk or MysPunk idk which one I like more

Oh ALSO Myssie and Hobie have had the Spiderman PS4 timeline

ie Myssie lied and was like uhhh I need money for my son that's why I'm running game

And Hobie was like fuck is that kid mine I cannot a dad and he starts stressing out

Only for her to be like 'first of all I lied second of all why would you think it's yours? That's bold of you. You ain't the only dick on dial 😐🤨'

Okay but I PROMISE They're cute together I promise TRUST ME PLEASE

[watermelinoe]

Sorry if you've been asked this before, but I was curious since you mentioned manga - what are some of your favorite shoujo works? Thank you in advance and have a nice day.

i have been asked this before but you have no idea how desperate i always am to talk about shoujo 😭 so i'm gonna split my recs up kinda by genre and i'll note whether it's completed or not, i'll try to include some of the more recent ones i'm reading

my fav shoujo manga is kimi ni todoke (completed), i especially love the female friendships in this manga and it's an incredible coming-of-age story, i think this one is more well-known but it deserves it!!

another well-known shoujo with a great female protagonist is of course kamisama hajimemashita (completed), i would die for nanami

something that i love abt shoujo is that the female leads may not be physically powerful but their actions shape the narrative and they are shown to be powerful because of their qualities, i think for girls you want to see girls kicking ass of course but you also want to see that girls are not passive, that they will do what they can and that their actions are powerful

my fav isekai manga, kanata kara (completed), has a protagonist like that, it's a really underrated gem that does a lot of world-building and the female lead even has to learn the language of the world she's teleported to, she can't communicate with the male lead or anyone else at the start, and i love her she's so clever and resourceful and compassionate, it's one of those "good beats evil" stories

i am so behind on it but i also love akatsuki no yona, incredible world-building, intricate character relationships and growth, it's so so good i need to get caught up, but if you like this one i also enjoyed kusanagi's other work mugen spiral (completed, short and cute demon/shrine maiden romance)

other recs: watashi no shiawase na kekkon is a cute cinderella story, colette wa shinu koto ni shita (completed but not online yet ;_;) is a touching persephone/hades style story where the female lead finds new appreciation for her life and her skills as a doctor, sayonara rose garden (completed) is a historical shoujo yuri where you really root for the couple...

isekai manhwa recs (somewhere between shoujo and josei imo) :

for better or for worse (completed) is classic shakespearian romantic dramedy imo, the miscommunications are a genre standard, it's fun and the female lead is drawn with fangs like a rough and tumble anime boy and i love that for her the villainess is a marionette, closer to josei probably, kayena is a certified Girl Boss and hellbent on revenge and she has a lady squad backing her up + devoted pretty moid a wicked tale of cinderella's stepmom, female lead is almost 40, lots of focus on the daughters coming of age and who they want to be, "cinderella" not wanting to be with the prince the villainess flips the script, i just really love judith she's so funny and she's athletic and accidentally kills a guy not-sew-wicked stepmom, snow white story, deals with misogyny and disordered eating and also it kinda looks like there's gonna be yuri on the side rn ?? two female characters confirmed to be into women master villainess the invincible, our girl is so badass.... and the original heroine is also bloodthirsty and she rocks too, also i personally think the male lead is hot tbh and usually it's just some guy to me the crow's prince is just really funny to me, how did they make that crow so expressive... and if i had a nickel for every isekai where the female lead spends a good chunk of it as a bird i would have two nickels which isn't a lot but it's weird it happened twice but anyway the falcon princess is also a lot of fun with birds

and i'm also really into how to hide the emperor's child bc astelle is insanely cunning but the male lead does not deserve her at all

my anilist is miniblin and i have logged basically every manga i've ever read on there lol so if ur curious

[applesandbannas747]

Sarah Rees Brennan's additions to the Fenceverse were peppered with classism, ableism, biphobia, and racism (what else can I call the erasure of Eugene's Filipino heritage?), but one aspect of it that's at once more subtle and more obvious is Coach Sally Williams's inappropriate behavior with her students, and I need to talk about it. Fence is marketed toward a young adult audience--kids who have teachers, maybe even teachers like Williams...and, hopefully, who know to report teachers like her to someone.

Let me make clear that my condemnation of Williams as a predator is only relating to the novels. In the comics, she's fantastic and badass and caring. In the novels, she takes it too far. There are several instances of her being what I'd call a shitty teacher throughout the novels, but there is a moment in Fence: Striking Distance where she sexually harasses three of her students. Can you think of when?

If you thought of the punishment she issued to Seiji, Nick, and Eugene for failing in a trust fall exercise, you would be correct! I want to be entirely clear here; there is no question of whether that was sexual harassment against her students. It was. Definitionally, it was. That's not up for debate. Let's get into why and fill in some context that makes the whole scene even more disturbing.

Williams issued a punishment to three of her students which involved them stripping. Asking students to undress is in itself sexual harassment (unless you're a chemistry teacher telling someone to get their ass in the 'i fucked up' shower but that's basically the only exception). It is inappropriate and unacceptable for a teacher to demand their student take off their shirt. Williams does. And then dresses them in raw steaks to send running around the woods. Their punishment isn't running. Their punishment is humiliation. And she's made it a sexual thing by disrobing them and dressing them so specifically and strangely. This isn't having them put on a little dunce cap and do jumping jacks kind of thing, this is a bizarre setup that, while not written as a fetish, can certainly be read that way. For whatever reason, Williams decided to have them wear raw steaks and the only real explanation is for her own pleasure--amusement, the characters and readers are supposed see. And the readers are meant to laugh along at this strange humiliation utilizing the partially naked bodies of minors.

Let's talk a little bit more about the raw steaks. The purpose of them seems to be humiliation, and if that's where Williams derives pleasure, perhaps my next points satisfy her goal intentionally. Either way, being made to strip and wear raw meat against their bare body is bound to be a massive trigger to people with sensory issues, body image issues, and eating disorders. The unique blending of unpleasant sensory, nakedness, and food would feel gross to anyone forced to abide by this punishment, but for people with pre-existing issues, it multiplies tenfold. And it is similarly disturbing in a new way to consider those who do not eat meat being forced to wear raw steaks around their necks. There are so many people for which this punishment would be even worse than you'd think at first glance, and it can absolutely be read as part of Williams's design. If you saw reports of Willimas in real life, wouldn't you assume this was intentional?

Another thing to note here is the needless escalation of the punishment to the crime. Eugene's meant to catch someone in a trust fall but turns to try and catch someone who's actually falling--Nick and Seiji being the reason and the faller in question. It is for this crime that they are punished. And, yeah, good time to talk about how your behavior can cause real harm to others (hell, it's a great metaphor for trying to learn in a rowdy classroom--reacting to the rowdiness/trying to calm it and sacrificing the thing you were doing to manage it), but an appropriate consequence would be an apology from each to Harvard. It was not a malicious or intentional attack and didn't warrant a punishment at all beyond natural consequence. Williams took this opportunity to enforce a major punishment that is entirely unrelated to the behavior nor is it beneficial to fencing the way running suicides is. Why change the terrain to the woods? And if you want to argue for the woods, I'll even give that to you. Why require bare chests and raw meat? Those conditions in no way add anything but humiliation. And, arguably, to Williams's pleasure.

I know it's 'not that deep' -- or rather, I know it wasn't meant to be. I know that this scene was not crafted with the intent to frame Williams in such an unsavory and upsetting light. I know that to assign intention behind the sexual harassment may seem presumptuous. But if this was happening in real life? Those intentions are almost guaranteed, even on a deep 'unknown' level to the teacher issuing such perverse and power-proving punishments. It doesn't matter if it wasn't written to be that deep, it has some seriously gross undertones.

Bottom line is that Williams used her power over children who were under her charge and protection to have them undress and endure the press of raw, bloody meat against them as they ran through the woods. That's not funny. That's sexual harassment.

[panelshowsource]

this is such a great episode!

for anyone who hasn't listened yet — it deals with some heavy things including food addiction and eating disorders, death, and more, so anyone who wants to check it out should be aware it's about richard's own history and his self-identified "failures", and it's not particularly light-hearted or funny even though it's endearing and inspiring in many ways

i really appreciate his honesty and how carefully he speaks. he has every right to be angry — with his father leaving, with his relationship to food and shame, with the ever-present confines of modern masculinity making life so lonely for men — but he never seems to be. he just cares about being the best, healthiest version of himself. and i appreciate that he doesn't talk at people, preach, act like he knows more or best; he just knows what he knows all while seeking to always be learning more. i really appreciate him!

i've never heard of a podcast by tailors, how interesting! i listened to the episode with alex and it was really sweet! i'll post this in case anyone else wants to check it out :)

(of course 💜)

same, i'd only really heard of it because i got a bunch of messages about it! (i was a little unplugged from scripted tv when the first series came out 😅)

TOTALLY AGREE about jon pointing! his comedic timing, his facial expressions, he is just too hilarious — even though...can i just say...why was that old ass man playing a uni student X_X

anyways — i knew him from plebs!! that's quite a famous itv2 series, so you should check it out and see if you like it! i love tom basden ugh and if you check my non-panel shows masterpost i have live at the moth club and he does standup in ep1!

i am somewhat familiar with it as someone who likes to watch some of the nextup specials (alistair barrie was one i enjoyed recently!) and tries to keep abreast of the festival nominees & winners, but i don't have as much time as i'd like to really weed out my favourites only because there isn't enough time in the day and i'm already trying to watch 100 things a day 🥲

one thing i find funny is how i pay more attention to who would do well on tv opposed to who is just GOOD. like, i didn't get john kearns until stopped thinking about him in the context of dictionary corner and started acknowledging his written set as a very, very specific piece of work that really shouldn't be disassembled and consumed in morsels. but i do see my interest in — and potentially my preference for — panel shows reflected in some of the circuit guys i like, such as alasdair beckett-king, huge davies, larry david. i just know they would kill panel show world if they were pushed properly :')

i find that i like standup a lot more live than i do on screen — which i think a lot of comedians would understand!

as well, i find the discourse about how difficult it is to get started/off the ground now that edinburgh fringe is becoming less and less accessible extremely fascinating and try to listen to all of the podcasts/convos about that that i can. it's costing comedians upwards of 5k just to debut a modest set at edinburgh — which is madness. here is tom mayhew talking to bbc news about this just a couple of weeks ago...

anyways, is there someone you wanted to recommend? i would love to check out anything 😚

—

daniel sloss standup — added a couple of those to drive! god i looooooved him when i was in high school and still do! highly recommend him on roast battle uk if you need extra sloss content. i'll work on the others over the next couple of weeks

alma's not normal — added to drive!

here we go — i know exactly where this is so i can hook you up but imma need you to dm/ask me off anon for the deets!

hold the front page + the unofficial science of home alone — sorry anons i don't have these on me but they're very easy requests someone can hook you up with on r/tv_bunny, so post them there!

—

PANEL SHOW WATCH LINKS / NON-PANEL SHOW WATCH LINKS FAQ / TAGS / ASK

[yumiblogs]

TW // Eating Disorder, Diet, Cravings/Self-deprecation, self-bodyshaming

____________________

Diary entry #1

So I'm starting a diet today, Monday, it's called "the military diet". It does have good dishes but since I have to eat dinner at home or my family will notice I started a diet... Then instead of eating three times a day, I'll eat two times a day, breakfast and dinner, no snacking in-between.

I am over 200 pounds, this is the fattest I've ever been, I used to weigh around 175-180 before the pandemic which is still overweight but I wasn't like I am now. My ideal weight would be 150 pounds which I've NEVER been this weight before but I feel like I'll feel comfortable at 150 pounds... I could go lower if I ever do reach that though.

My body will never be the same, I have stretch marks all over my body, my stomach, the sides of my stomach, my arms, luckily my legs don't have stretch marks but I know they will start to appear if I don't do something about it.

I ate two eggs with avocado, toasted bread and water. I'll try my best to stop snacking. I eat everything, I did research and I think I have emotional eating disorder? I know it's bad to self diagnose but honestly that is what sounds more like what I do. Instead of crying or stressing… it’s more of the boredom. I need something to do.

.

.

.

I want to eat something. Today I had breakfast at 10 am then my dad got off work early so we ate dinner at 1pm… it’s almost 8am and I want food. I’m craving everything. I live in a Mexican house hold and if you do to then you’ll know that we have snacks… EVERYWHERE. Chips, cookies, fruit, sweets, junk food… like it’s a big ass problem that today alone I’ve almost relapsed about 20 times into eating anything that is in front of me.

I could just get myself some snack suplementos but let’s be for real, I would binge eat them. I don’t have control over myself so I rather starve. I’ll drink water as a supplement so much that I’d fill myself up with water that I vomit it. In between the diet I’ll throw up some of the food to speed up the process.

The military diet is supposed to make me lose weight fast, I saw someone try it and they lost 10 pounds in not even a week.

Okay imma go now, I’ll let yall know how I’m doing in the next entry :)

[lumine-no-hikari]

Dear Sephiroth: (a letter to a fictional character, because why not) #88

Today is the day. I'm going to try to write about ACEs. It's a big topic, and I'm pretty exhausted, so my efforts might be clumsy. Sorry in advance.

So, ACEs is short for Adverse Childhood Experiences. An organization called Kaiser Permanente conducted a study that involved thousands and thousands of people, the purpose of which was to look at how adverse experiences in childhood, especially in the absence of appropriate support, impacts the development and health of the resulting adult.

You can find lots of information about it here:

…But the short version of it is basically, the more kinds of abuse and adversity that a person experiences during childhood, the more likely a person is to have significant health problems when they get older.

The mechanism for that is basically this: children get adrenaline and cortisol in their bodies when they're hit, screamed at, neglected, abused, or needing to withstand living in tense, unpredictable environments, and growing brains cannot develop properly if a child has adrenaline and cortisol coursing through their blood all the damn time. And this does not only affect a person's mental health as they get older - it also impacts the brain's ability to do other important stuff, like regulate blood pressure and composition, regulate insulin levels, regulate various hormone levels, regulate digestion, regulate the sleep cycle, regulate immune system function, regulate the metabolism overall, and SO MANY MORE THINGS, because chronic exposure to adrenaline and cortisol ACTIVELY INTERFERES with the development of the parts of the brain that control these very basic bodily systems. When the parts of our brain that are responsible for the functioning of our basic organs do not grow in properly, it has widespread effects on a body's health and on the body's ability to maintain homeostasis overall.

So essentially, whether or not a person was abused during childhood or went through difficult shit without much support DIRECTLY AFFECTS whether or not the organs in a person's body get to function properly. Pause here and let that fucking sink in for a moment. Sit with it, and with all the ugly, horrifying implications that come from it. Take all the time you need.

Just to drive the point home, here is a handy-dandy infographic that can explain a lot of this FAR more succinctly and completely than I can:

Then there's this little page, too:

And yeah, you read that right in the previous link: if you have an ACE score of 6 or more, there's a decent chance that you'll take a dirt nap 20 years earlier than most other folks, and that's not just from risky behaviors like substance abuse, eating disorders, and whatnot. No, you get 20 years shaved off your lifespan just because if your body can't properly do things like regulate its blood pressure, insulin, hormones, sleep cycle, immune system, and all that jazz, it causes damage over time, which means that a person's cells will need to divide more frequently to repair the damage, which shortens a person's telomeres (and can also lead to cancer!), which results in, you guessed it, less life to live. Hoodathunkit.

You can find more sciency stuff about all this in this spot:

…Like I said in my 86th letter, this rabbit hole is HUGE. If ACEs impact even base functions (all it takes for this is an ACE score of 1), you can bet your ass that a person's higher functions (such as emotional regulation, decision-making, executive function, and all that fun stuff) are ALSO impacted, because these systems are even more delicate than basic things like "making sure your heart beats properly". Untreated ACEs FUCK. PEOPLE. UP.

Fun fact: my ACE score is at least 8. The questionnaire we were given when I studied Early Childhood Education is woefully underinclusive (it doesn't include things like living as a marginalized human, for example), and I think there are better ones out and about now, but it still covers most bases. You can find it here if you wonder what your ACE score is:

So here's a caveat: I know that this all probably looks pretty bleak, but recovery is ABSOLUTELY possible, and awareness of this stuff is the very first step on that road. Congratulations - you've been made aware. Now you can DO something about it. You can start today. You can start tomorrow. You can start a year from now. Whatever. It's NEVER too late. It's NEVER too late to try something new, to walk a different path, and to choose a healthier and more wholesome life for yourself, no matter how you've suffered before, and no matter the mistakes you've made before.

So get on it; if some derpy-ass autistic chick from an unremarkable, backwater planet can walk this difficult road, then someone amazing like you sure as hell can! You're a lot smarter and a lot more resilient than some nobody like me could ever possibly hope to be. So if you choose not to walk down this road, then you'll have to admit that some random noodley weirdo like me is braver, stronger, and more flexible even than you in all the ways that matter (yes, even if by some wondrous and merciful miracle you manage to zoop yourself all the way over here and use that fancy sword of yours to liberate me from my defective meat-mech), and LITERALLY NO ONE WANTS THAT TO BE THE CASE. So for fuck's sake fix it already, willya? Goddamn!

Anyhoot. I'm tired. So I'm gonna call it quits here for today. If you got questions about any of this stuff, go ahead and ask me and I'll try to answer it in my next letter to ya. Assuming any of this ever reaches you, or that you could ever reach me. Impossible, I know, but I'm going to hope for it anyway; after a childhood like mine, I fucking deserve to believe in magic sometimes, even if other people think I'm weird and crazy for it; I'm getting too old and cranky to give a crap about what someone who has no intention of understanding my circumstances thinks about my existence.

I love you. And I'll write you again tomorrow.

Your friend, Lumine