waif like

Nordic body headcanons

Denmark: The only one who actually looks like a stereotypical model. He has abs, muscles all round, but not buff, more lean and athletic. He has freckles on his chest and not his face, and tans surprisingly well for a Nordic. Basically an all round sunshine child.

Sweden: Tall, obviously, and thickset, with less chiselled muscles than Denmark. His strength lies in his core rather than his exterior. His skin isn’t as pale as the others more a mellow pink tone.

Norway: Thin to the point of waif-like, and a pale pink skin tone. His body is androgynous, with gentle feminine curves and a flat chest, peach fuzz covering his whole body. He bruises very easily and is always littered with little marks.

Finland: Obviously, chubby, round, soft; Finland is a human pillow and he knows and is proud of it. Not all fat though, he has hidden muscles that allows him to surprise people with his strength. His skin borders milky.

Iceland: Like Norway in the summer, he is thin and gangly, but gains weight every winter so that he has pudge on his stomach and thighs. He has the palest skin, flushes easily, and is littered with freckles from his face to his torso.

youtube

A more practiced version of an idea I’ve been playing with. It’ll probably go through several more iterations before I perform it live.

I’d barter my skin
for a few swigs of gin
I’m a bare-footed better
whimbled by whim
I can no longer fathom
I have no measure left
Am I tested or tempered
To endure my own nets
I cut off my hair
To make line for a fasting
Drifted damned daughter
Give me wine! Give me water!
I’m scarred and I’m sandy
hooked by thimbles of brandy
But I’d sooner bleed out
Than be caught for a martyr.

Quiet & loud, how it leaves out recovery and survivors

This is going to be a long piece on my own personal feelings as someone seeking to get better and as a survivor, so be prepared! Content warnings for mentions of abuse (emotional, mental, and sexual).

People want to change the terms quiet and loud borderline to other words that still give off the same good/bad connotation, without realizing that its more complex than people misusing terminology. The (easily misused and misunderstood)terminology of bpd and stigma of bpd are not mutually exclusive, they work in tandem. Part of the reason there is stigma is because of stigmatized & negative terminology when people talk about bpd. The reason so much of our terminology is stigmatized and negative is because they were created with those views in mind, much like the waif, witch, queen, and hermit - all of which are toxic and mostly sexist.

I fell into the quiet borderline type behaviour when I got diagnosed, I continue to fall into it at times, other times, I don’t. I never heard these terms or had them used against me until I stopped internalizing things and started actively pursuing autonomy, actively stating my boundaries, actively validating myself (all the things they want you to do to recover). To do these things, I had to express myself vocally, externally, outwards, I had to reach out.

Then and only then did I learn the terms and have “loud” borderline used against me. It’s important to realize that no two bpd sufferers will act the same, much like any other human being, but I don’t see why having two polar opposite terms that create an unhealthy dichotomy of good vs bad is necessary or progressive. It’s important to be able to understand that there is not one way to be borderline, that internal things are just as necessary and important as external things in regard to meeting criteria and reaching a diagnosis. Still, this system categorizes complex individuals into black and white groups, many of whom express traits and behaviours from both sides. It continually invalidates our actions and reactions as pathological, as something that needs to be grouped up and labelled for proof, instead of existing as valid emotions.

No matter how much we’d like to have terms to express the different ways our behaviour exhibits itself, time and time again, people are considered a “quiet” or “good” borderline until they are not(speaking up, establishing boundaries, validating their autonomy and emotions). Then they are being “loud” or “bad”. These terms are completely relative and up for judgement to the individual witnessing them. 

They’re not regulated, they’re up to interpretation and personal(often abusive) bias, and it leaves no room for recovery. Recovery includes ceasing to internalize all your grief and symptoms, while learning to express yourself proactively and in a healthy manner. I will never stop being borderline but if I do recover(I have complicated feelings about that term as well) what will I be? Quiet because I will deal with some issues on my own? Or loud because I’m expressing myself externally?

I am incapable of existing in either side of a dichotomy, especially one defined by personal bias. I am a complex individual, a person seeking to get better, this holds no place for me.

Beyond this, much of my “loud” behaviour is intrinsically tied to me reclaiming my autonomy, my power, my respect, and my anger after being emotionally, mentally, and sexually abused. Almost all of my “rages” or “acting out” is me finally allowing myself to be mad about what he did to me instead of blaming myself, not allowing that experience to happen to me or anyone else, and giving consequences to people I interact with with do the same sort of predatory, toxic, and abusive behaviour my abuser did.

All of these actions society already punishes me for because I should be complicit and forgiving of abuse. I get punished further by being the non-ideal borderline, I should be seen, but not heard, I should be a quiet mess and never demand more from others - never demand respect or justice, never hold people accountable and give consequence. I refuse to be pushed into that mindset anymore.

Nevertheless, I still exhibit quiet behaviours far more often, I self hate, I internalize almost everything because I believe so strongly that I am a monster, that I am poison, that I am unlovable - all of these beliefs were enforced by my abuser.

It’s harmful and victim blaming to attribute my anger about my abuse, my rightful cathartic healing anger, as “rages”. It de-legitimizes my feelings, my experiences, it claims my reaction is hysterical and over-the-top, unnecessary. My anger is not a symptomatic “rage”, my anger is real and valid. Attributing that to rages and loud behaviour is unhelpful and hurtful, it removes my autonomy from my own experiences.

Having myself be almost congratulated by being quiet and harming myself sends me into a whirlwind of victim blaming. I need to hurt myself more or else I’ll end up like my abuser, if I don’t hurt myself the only other option would be to hurt others, that I need to internalize all my pain or else no one will like me, I feel the need to destroy myself to meet the trivial criteria of the quiet borderline - to be loved.

I can’t see a way for the quiet vs loud borderline dichotomy to exist without leaving me out in the cold as an abuse survivor seeking recovery, as someone who is loud and angry because of injustice, but quiet and self hating because of trauma.

A thousand blazing Suns

(The TSOA high school AU nobody asked for)

Patroclus is nobody special. He is lanky, has knobbly knees and dark eyes too big for his almost waif-like face.

They call him Owl here and it is almost always a term of endearment.

He is not popular, hated by his father and pitied for his mother who stares at the barren walls of a mental hospital.

He is Patroclus Chironides, adoptive son of the doctor who is believed to have magic singing in his veins.

It is summer, the sun is blazing, with scorching fingers it caresses the ground and makes Patroclus’ limbs hot and heavy and tired.

And on this very day, on which the sun is most brutal, the school is hosting its annual athletics tournament.

People are buzzing around, several lie in the shade and talk to each other in loud, boisterous voices and from where Patroclus is sitting in the shade of an olive tree and handing out bottles of water, he can see the sudden flash of burnished gold dipped into sun-fire that is Achilles Pelides’ hair.

Achilles is everything that Patroclus is not. He is gentle fingers on a harp or a guitar where Patroclus stumbles like a deer on ice; he is swifter and more nimble than Patroclus has ever seen anyone move and he is walking right up to Patroclus, his usual gaggle of admirers watching them with interest.

Patroclus swallows and the water bottle nearly falls out of his hands, slippery with heat and nervousness.
He looks at the young man, whose sun-bronzed face looks as if carved by the masters and swallows again.

Eyes the colour of moss and the sea fixate onto Patroclus face like a hawk would fixate its prey and then Achilles opens perfectly arched, pink lips.
“You are Patroclus. And I have come to get a bottle of water.” he finally says after a silence that makes Patroclus’ fingers shake and his voice is a honeyed blade that wraps around Patroclus’ ears like an unsung melody.

“How…,” Patroclus’ voice stumbles as does his heart when their fingers touch. “How do you know my name?” he croaks, cursing his rapidly pattering heart that feels like a rampaging bunny.

“Your father knows mine.”, Achilles replies calmly, his face showing no emotion but something glints in the depths of his strange eyes. “Will you cheer for me today, Patroclus?” he asks, suddenly.

Patroclus falters and nearly says no because the boy… the young man sounds too sure of himself and he should be, he is the champion of all sports in this school.
But then he sees the foot nervously shuffling on the ground and nods.
“I will. And I will be the one to crown the victor in the end.” he explains.

Achilles nods and clutches the bottle of water like a lay-line, still watching Patroclus avidly as if Patroclus’ eyes hold all the secrets.
“I will not have you sacked for being partial.” he states as if he is king.
“We will see each other after the tournament.”
And with that he is off.

And Patroclus is left staring and almost mindlessly eating a fig he has packed from their own little garden at home.

The tournament begins and before Patroclus knows it, he is cheering with them, louder than he has ever dared.
Some watch him with interest, some with rage and some even grin and cheer with him.

Achilles wins every single game, scoring point after point and he his the last one on the field but Hector Priam, resident champion of the rival school Spartan High.
They will be racing each other.

The whole school is there and they are all shouting for Achilles and Patroclus finds himself joining them.

For one short moment green holds brown in a lockdown and something akin to a smile blooms on Achilles face and then they race.
Patroclus’ blood pounds in his veins. He can taste the excitement, can feel the almost electric buzzing of adrenaline in the air and in his very bones.

There is a distant roar.
Everybody is off their seats and cheering like mad.

Achilles has won and the school rejoices.

Patroclus steps down to crown the winner with a wreath of laurel on his golden hair.
Achilles kneels before him and their fingers and eyes meet.

“I have met you before.”, Patroclus whispers. “When the world was still young and there was war looming overhead.”

There is something in Achilles’ eyes.

The shadow of light, the shadow of a sword. The shadow of love.

“Philtatos.”

anonymous asked:

Rebekah drags Klaus to New York and it's fashion week, and Klaus sees Caroline walking in a show

This drabble was written by one of our new guest writers, @cupcakemolotov! And just between you and me…this one definitely got me hot ‘n bothered ;)

Flashing Lights

You show the lights that stop me turn to stone

You shine them when I’m alone

And so I tell myself that I’ll be strong

And dreaming when they’re gone

-Ellie Goulding

Rebekah liked to collect pretty things.

With Mikael dead, the doppelgänger in her gilded cage, and his curse finally broken, Klaus was mostly indulgent of her whims.

Sometimes she wanted jewelry, sometimes artwork and then sometimes people. Her little menagerie had always been filled with her lovely little pets, with hidden blades. And Fashion Week was the perfect opportunity in all her favorite hunting grounds. London. Milan. Paris. New York. Amusingly, Berlin. All hotbeds of fashion and decadence; vices that killed as often as they satisfied, a deluge of pretty faces and waif like bodies.

Klaus was bored.

Hunting didn’t really start to become fun until they were a little further into the week, when indulgences just started to become desperate vices. When the night life became a touch feral, the ruthlessness of the business on full display. It was amusing, to watch the rat race, too see the new ‘it’ girls clash with the ‘has beens’, all polite smiles and blunt predator’s teeth.

Usually he just ate a few, to watch the chaos explode around him. But he’d inadvertently eaten a favorite of Rebekah’s previously, and she’d retaliated by devouring the minions he’d been so carefully cultivating for their werewolf connections. More of an annoyance than a true blow to his plans, but he had no mood to sift through her bloody wake to do damage control

So he’d sat and studied the colors and styles with a bored, yet critical eye. Until something caught his attention. As Klaus watched the tall, leggy blond walk down the runway, it wasn’t the sharpness of her cheekbones or the figure that reminded him of years past that caught him. It was the fire behind her eyes, that drive that burned and could catch flame.

He ignored Rebekah’s commentary about the colors and model choices, her irritation at being bothered by minions. Lips curling, Klaus tilted his head as the girl spun, the sway of her hips enticing. What a pretty little thing she was, but he was most curious - what was a girl with that face doing with those eyes?

He intended to find out.

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Bless artists who draw Eren and Levi thick and muscular. Do you honestly think soldiers who are constantly training for combat and using 3DMG are going to look like the waifs with thigh gaps that the official (anime) art portrays them as? They don’t look like that in the manga. We’ve seen what’s under the clothes, and it’s not frail and gangly and weak.

Thank you for fixing what the anime fucked up. Well… at least part of it.

Common Misconceptions About: Finland

I can’t believe I haven’t done Finland yet lol.

As I’ve shown you before in my on-going series, I’m going through and knocking down the idea of Ukes. And Finland is perhaps the ultimate Uke.

Fanon does an excellent job in making Finland a perfect baby capable of no evil. But, I mean, Hima drew him with a fucking awesome gun. More historically, he fought tooth and nail in World War II to keep his land from invading forces. And his foundation period was one messed up stew of wars and famine—poor Finland lost a lot of people.

And yet, fandom turns him into a perfect, domestic wife. I don’t want to point fingers, but DeValier’s college!AU had a near-perfect Finland, complete with giant, sparkling eyes and dreams of a domestic life with a white-picket fence.

And that’s how people describe him, too. He’s waif-like, small, and probably wears short-shorts in whatever Fanfic he’s in because people can’t pull him out of Uke-dom. He trails after Sweden, and goodness knows he has to be a virgin. It’s so frustrating to see anything interesting about him bleached out.

I blame the fact that Hima never shows Finland without Sweden. They’re always together, so anything interesting about Finland has to be connected to Sweden. It’s hard to separate a character from his pairing if the source material doesn’t help you out much.

But that’s your job as a writer.

In real life, Finland is nothing like that. He likes alcohol, and doesn’t like being referred to as Sweden’s wife. It’s not funny, you guys. He’s close with Estonia and likes putting on weird festivals. He’s bad at naming things. He’s a quiet, mature nation. He’s nice, a little clumsy and awkward, but that doesn’t equate innocence.

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ok but actually I want to talk about how revolutionary the depictions of women’s bodies in Legend of Korra is

I mean goddamn look at her 

How much do you lift

For once, these women look like they could actually *do* the kinds of martial arts that their characters do in the show

Look at those traps. This is a woman who could make you hurt 

We still live in a world where even on-screen depictions of female superheroes are often waif-like and tiny, where many women are discouraged from lifting weights because it might make them “too big”

we live in a culture where women having muscle is coded as masculine by a large part of society, and women having masculine attributes is coded as shameful 

it might not seem like much, but seeing body types like the women on Legend of Korra is huge–there are plenty who are slender or curvy, but there are women who fight who are actually muscular. Little girls and women alike can watch it and see that it’s not just okay to be muscular and large, it can be admirable. 

So yeah, I’d say that’s a pretty big deal

Growing up mixed-race/indigenous, I rarely saw people who looked like me on TV or in movies, and never ever were women like that in fashion magazines. So I learned to covet waif-like bodies, blue eyes and hair cascading in perfect ringlets – I learned that what was beautiful was, ultimately, opposite of me. Beauty was overwhelmingly white. So when I learned about Native Max magazine, I was beyond stoked. Started in 2012 by Kelly Holmes, a Lakota woman from the Cheyenne River Reservation, Native Max celebrates indigenous people, our diverse culture and communities, and – this is the best bit — our fashion.
Strong women characters

I often think people have a problem seeing Carol with Daryl because they have a problem seeing a strong woman with a strong male lead.

I think this is also the problem many people have with seeing Michonne with Rick. They say they have no chemistry, but I think it’s hard for people to realize someone can be tough and still be feminine.

They want to see these strong men have a weak, defenseless waif to protect. Women like Carol and Michonne who can protect themselves and also be maternal and feminine don’t fit that stereotype.

I’ve heard people say, “I could see season 2 Carol with Daryl, but not now….” and I think that’s because Carol is a lot more badass, now. When she was a lot more helpless it was just easier to picture.

In this ZA world you have someone who has your back and is your equal or frankly, they’re going to die, and maybe get you killed.

Audrey Tautou reading in Amélie (2001). Le fabuleux destin d'Amélie Poulain (original title).

Audrey Tautou, a fresh-faced waif who looks like she knows a secret and can’t keep it, plays the title role, as a little girl who grows up starving for affection. Her father, a doctor, gives her no hugs or kisses and touches her only during checkups–which makes her heart beat so fast he thinks she is sickly. Her mother dies as the result of a successful suicide leap off the towers of Notre Dame.