my wrist is fat

Skanky Heels

Description: Reader gets jumps and assaulted by the Bowers gang until the Losers come to her rescue.

Pairing: Losers x Reader, some Victor x Reader

Warnings: Sexual assault, strong language

Word Count: 819

I squirm in my place as Henry and his gang circle me like a pack of horny vultures—catcalling, making derogatory misogynistic comments—and knowing their history I wouldn’t put anything past them.

“Leave me alone, assholes,” I snarl, backing even farther into the covered bridge when one of them slaps my behind.

“Did you hear that, guys? She says we’ll have to leave her alone!” Henry chortles and slaps Belch’s arm for effect, “Guess we have to go then, huh?”

I was just walking home when they jumped out in front of me from behind the sides of the bridge. I silently cursed myself for taking the shortcut despite my better judgement.

“We can’t leave her like this!” Patrick exclaims in fake exasperation, “I mean just look at her weak, skinny legs,” he comments stroking my thigh as he circles me making me shiver in disgust and take a step away, “And those ridiculous heels. Why she won’t be able to make it to town like this.”

“Don’t touch me,” I hiss.

“Now why not?” Belch asks stepping forward, “Don’t you want to be? That’s why you’re wearing those skanky heels, right?” Belch reaches out to grab me but I stumble back and into Patrick’s chest who grabs my shoulders and sneers down at me.

Belch grabs my wrist with one hand—his sweaty fat fingers engulf my small wrist with ease making a wave of discomfort slither up my spine—and tries to touch me with the other, but I start pushing.

Henry walks up, shoves Belch out of the way and replaces him, “Belch is right those things give me goosebumps,” he growls and starts to lean into me.

“Creep!” I screech and start to push, kick, bite—anything to get away.

“Grab her arms!” Henry orders in frustration to which Patrick obliges.

“G-get off! Now! You sleaze!” I cry but am met by cruel laughs.

Victor watches from the side with cold features, but his eyes say different. They’re guilty and conflicted.

“P-please…” I stutter.

“Henry cut it-” he starts but Henry whirls on him.

“Shut up, faggot,” he snarls at Victor. In an act of submission he bows his head. Henry sniggers and goes right back to harassing me.

I struggle even harder when Henry’s hands start to roam my body making my skin crawl but I can’t get free.

Tears cloud my vision and Victor turns away in shame. I always liked Victor. He’s smart and about as nice as you can get when you hang with the Bowers gang. I always thought he has a good heart.

Over Henry’s shoulder I spot a group of five boys my age on bikes. I recognize them from school… the Losers Club? Yeah that’s right.

“Help!” I plea in desperation, tears spilling from my eyes.

“Shut up, bitch!” Patrick yells and shakes me, much to Henry’s annoyance.

When a few moments that feel like forever go by I think that the Losers left me. Left me to whatever these creeps have planned, until Henry grunts in pain and turns around giving me a view of a boy I recognize as Bill. He holds a large stick above his head with a kid I’m pretty sure is Richie and a shorter chubbier kid I don’t recognize flanking him. The shorter Eddie and timider Stanley stand behind them.

Hope blossoms in my chest as I kick Patrick’s shin making him let go of me and scurry behind Eddie and Stanley. I rub my arms as if to remove the creepy feeling crawling all over me like a sewer rat.

Eddie looks at me with concern, “Are you hurt?”

I shake my head coyly.

Bill looks back at me, “A-a-a-are y-you okay?”

I nod slightly.

“You’ll regret that, B-B-B-Billy,” Henry mimics and raises his hand like he’s going to strike him, but Bill hits him again.

“Fuck off, Bowers!” Richie yells. The chubby brunette tenses and raises the rock in his hand.

“You’re next you four eyed queer,” Henry points at Richie aggressively.

“Y/n isn’t worth your time, Henry, lets get out of here,” Victor butts in harshly but stares at me softly. A small smile pulls at my lips and I nod in gratitude.

“Victor’s right! That ugly bitch isn’t worth the trouble, let’s just go!” Belch barks.

I flinch and Stanley puts his hand on the small of my back in an attempt to comfort me.

“Yeah shits like her come dime-a-dozen let’s just leave,” Patrick adds.

“Not worth my time,” Henry scoffs, “Only a skank would wear those shoes anyway. You slut.” Henry spits at me before turning around to walk away.

Rage bubbles in my chest as I wipe the saliva off my cheek and step forward, “Hey, needle dick!” I yell and he turns to face me, “These ‘skanky’ shoes were made to kick you in the ass!” I growl and give him a forward kick—the point of my heel digging into his crotch.

Henry doubles over on the ground and groans in agony.

I look back at my five shocked heroes, “Run.”

I just want to be pretty for him. I dont want to feel my stomach roll onto the bed when we cuddle, or hav him grab the fat on me when he touches me. I want to be able to fit my fingers around my wrist again, and not to have fat rolls on my arms. I want to be able to look back at him when he looks at me, instead of panicking because I know he can see all of the fat. Fat. Fat. FAT.


I’m doing just dandy, how are yall???

My scary truth....

I’m a failure
I’m stupid
Why did I try…
Why did I believe….
All I do is give
And when I tried to receive…….

This happened

And it’s right after i built up all my courage
Right after I started to believe in them
I still believe, but now…. Just doubt fills my mind
Right after I built up my confidence to ask
I was planning to ask them on Monday…
A surprise to make them happy
And when I finally tried to ask……

This happened

I hate myself
I hate how ugly I am
I hate how fat I am
I hate how annoying I am
I hate my thick curves, the bad ones…
I hate my boyish voice

I hate myself
I hate my boring dirty blonde hair
I hate my ugly face
I hate how fat my cheeks are
I hate how big my nose is
I hate how my eyes droop
I hate how blue they are
I hate my fat neck
I hate my wide bulky shoulders
I hate my chubby arms
I hate how they jiggle
I hate my thick fat wrists
I hate my chuby hands
I hate my fat fingers
I hate how my rib cadge is to big
I hate how my stomach is to fat
I hate how I gained thirteen pounds
I hate my thick thighs
I hate having no thigh gap
I hate how they rub together
I hate how it leaves scars
I hate how I am

I hate myself

I know grace loves me
I know she says that I am perfectly ok

But I don’t see that…..

And in truth…
And in truth I’m scared that I never will
That I will become to much for her
That my emotional break downs are to much…..

And she will leave me

It hurts

I tried to ask
I tried to believe

But it hurts

It Hurts a lot….

I am only in this skin for so long and you should see
what I’ve done to it already. I make myself fat, thin,
fat again; my wrists the only true pretty thing on me. 
Brenna told me something the other day, 
something that resonated but I can’t write it here,
I can’t make myself sound out the words; 
only that she’s got part of it right. As for the other half:
you don’t know the good, gentle things we exchange
in the dark. But everything has a pulse to it, 
everything bruises, even the softest moments.
Is this intense enough? Someone teach me. I’ll pay.
I like the subway at night, like crawling down deep
into the belly of the city and ride her hard,
like emerging from her womb smelling like oil,
metal, darkness. A boy stopped me on the street once,
asked whose skin tone he matched better: Mariah 
or Jennifer’s? He wanted to wear makeup and didn’t
know his foundation shade, let me hold his face
in my hands so I could see his undertones under
the light, his clouded blue heartbeat fast in his throat. 
He squeezed my wrist hard when he said goodbye,
thank you. I think about that a lot. If you tell me
to look at the moon, I’ll look at you instead.
—  Kristina Haynes, “I Hope You Get What You Deserve”
Ghastly Truth Ch. 6

Endless thanks to @madfatty, for teaching me and cheering me and telling me when I’m over the top and recieving every iteration of this with joy. You’re the best.


Less than six hours later, he finds himself outside her door. It’s well past dawn, but the it’s so dark and gray that it still feels like the fragile hour just before the sun rises. Everything feels heavy, like there’s nothing in the world that doesn’t want to press him down.

He hates this kind of weather, the frozen stillness where the world is waiting on a knife’s edge for the snow to come, for something to change. It’s the kind of cold that creeps and slinks under windowsills and through crevasses in the doorframe. He can feel it hovering around the baseboards of the endless hotel hallways, each door identical to all the ones before. Walking down the hall gives him the strange sensation that the ground is moving beneath him, like he’s lurching through time just a little out of sync.

He hasn’t really been sleeping, not much anyway. But it’s hard to tell himself it’s the lack of sleep that’s making things feel so strange and surreal. Everything he knew before is different now, so who’s to say that time isn’t bending around him, that the cold doesn’t ooze like a fog? He’d let a ghost loose in his kitchen a few hours ago; his definition of strange isn’t so concrete anymore.

The door opens after the first knock, like she’s waiting right there on the other side for him. This too makes sense.

“I couldn’t sleep.” He says simply, and she holds onto the doorknob with one hand and gestures him into the room. He steps in and Rae glances once down the empty hallway before she shuts the door.

There’s so much he should say, but the words won’t come. His eyes feel cavernously deep in their sockets, his shoulders low and heavy with fatigue. She doesn’t speak, just watches as he struggles for words. Her eyes feel weighty on him too.

“I’m scared.” It’s not what he means to say really, but it’s what he means. It’s what all of this means.

Rae nods, and before he’s had time to process  it, she’s wrapping him up in her arms. It’s a single movement, almost choreographed- her arms slip around his neck, his slide around her waist to press into her back. It’s instinct; he’d always felt that there was so much of them that he’d never had to think about, that just came to them. When there were no words, there was always this- the support of her limbs when his couldn’t quite hold him up. He thinks that this must be what he came here for, and he clings to her.

For a while, it’s enough.

But somehow, things start to shift. He becomes aware that they’re alone, really alone. They’ve been without other people before since this whole thing started, plenty of times. But it’s different now… the walls are down, the anger and hurt that used to be between them has sunk into the fissures of the world crumbling apart. They’re left alone, just the two of them and the hush of the impending snowfall and the shared warmth of their bodies, the shared warmth of their fear.

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I hate myself. I hate myself from head to toe.
I hate my hair.
I hate my eyebrows.
I hate my eyes.
I hate my ears.
I hate my lips.
I hate my teeth.
I hate my face. the way it looks.
I hate my face shape.
I hate my boobs.
I hate my stomach.
I hate my belly button.
I hate my arms. I hate the fat on my arms.
I hate my wrists.
I hate my fingers. I hate my palms.
I hate my thighs.
I hate my knees.
I hate my feet. my toes.
I hate my back fat. I hate the hair on my body.
I hate my personality.
I hate my anxiety.
I hate my depression.
I hate my self-harm scars.
but most of all. I hate how I hate myself.
—  thoughts during class at school.

“The only thing I’m a poster girl for is b e i n g y o u r s e l f. I wouldn’t sit here and say everybody should be my size. Or everyone should be a size eight. I don’t care what size you are as long as you’re h a p p y and h e a l t h y. I like people for their a t t i t u d e, not for the way they l o o k.”