#i literally know exactly what i'm going to write and i nearly vomit every time i go to actually do the work

[knoxiating]

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[eyesontheskyline]

Love your work, you’re an incredible writer and it’s always a good day when you post 🫶🏼 I’m intrigued on a couple of things. Firstly, who do you find the hardest to write in character? Your characterisation is brilliant so I’m curious as to what you found the hardest?

Also what is your process during writing in general. I appreciate that with no such thing you had the episodes to flip, but when you’re scripting AU how would you go about doing so? I know some word vomit (I mean this nicely) and then mould away whereas others go with a rigid structure.

You’re exactly the kind of writer that inspires me to write myself… but also the kind of writer I’m forever envious of because of your effortless writing style haha!!

Aaahhh this is so kind, thank you! (Sorry in advance, this got long.)

So who do I find hardest to write in character... Out of everyone, JJ, definitely. The rest of them, I feel like the rhythm of their speech is distinct and I know when I've got it. (Obviously someone else might disagree with that and think I'm doing a terrible job of someone else lol, but I feel like I know when it feels right to me, when I can hear it in their voice in my head.) And I'm like, reasonably confident about how they'd react to a situation or etc - although that's obv very open to interpretation, and I'm aware I'm sometimes leaning into a fantasy a bit. But JJ... I don't know if I know her well. I don't know if the writers know her well, honestly. So I always struggle a bit with her.

Process is... mixed? With no such thing I figured out the relationships that were most important to me to 'fix' or develop and then what beats I wanted to hit to get there. For example, I hate that Emily spends S7 trying to win Morgan's trust back without ever finding out about the shitty things he said about her in Lauren. So I wanted her to hear about it, confront him, and give her the chance to forgive him and for them to choose to move forward together even though things aren't quite the same. I hate that Reid just acts out like a little kid about Emily's death / return and then that's that, but then when Emily comes back in S12 it feels like they're on a much more equal footing - so I wanted to give him the chance to be an equal adult in their friendship, because he absolutely has the capacity for that level of empathy, and that depth of love for Emily, and the writers just defaulted to babying him a lot. So I started with those ideas and literally rewatched all of S7 while taking notes then figured out the beats I needed and where to fit them in. (Stupid amount of detail, sorry, but doing it this way meant I didn't get caught up in trying to write around every 'missing scene' or feel pressure to address every single episode equally, which is the mistake I've made trying to write alongside canon before.)

My current WIP reckless (just enough) started out as 'I haven't written pregnancy / birth since doing it, maybe it would be good to try that', and then I also had a vague 'what if Emily was pregnant when Doyle was arrested' thought, and then thinking about how that would change the choices she made when he escaped made me think of doing it as a three part thing... From there, I started trying to write a detailed outline but I kept getting myself lost in the weeds, so I started just writing. There was a lot more trial and error this way - like writing entire scenes and then realising they were completely useless and scrapping them, which I did some amount of with no such thing (and also someone else's solid ground), but definitely less.

The ending of the final part is still unfinished and kind of in the air - it's out of my comfort zone tonally, and I just can't really figure out the transition from where I am to where I'm trying to be. (The solution to that problem is nearly always reworking the thing before the part I'm stuck at but I've tried that about 10 times so far, so... we'll see. Help lol.)

So yeah, I'm word vomiting this time, and I word vomited someone else's solid ground pretty much entirely - that started from like two lines of dialogue and a vague idea of how I felt their characters had grown since we last saw them together and 'I haven't written smut in a while, I wonder if that's a thing I can still do'. If I need a plot-shaped plot, I need to outline.

Write!! Do it!! And please know that effortless is not the word for my writing loool, I put a ridiculous amount of effort into this. And I edit a lot. I write terrible sentences, terrible scenes, I spend half an hour trying to get a character to move from one place to another or describe some specific action before it occurs to me (like it's brand new information every time) that I can just change it so they don't need to do the thing I'm struggling to describe... But once I'm in the rhythm of doing it, it becomes the thing my brain wants to do when I get a little bit of free time, and that's a fun place for me to be, and much healthier than all the 'how to be a perfect parent' facebook groups I squandered several years crying over. I spent a few years without access to the writing part of my brain, and I'm just... grateful to be back here. I still feel rusty - I was getting to a point pre-pregnancy/pre-covid (unfortunately these are the same event for me lol) where I could be a lot more expressive with language than I am right now. I honestly feel like I'm struggling just with communicating ideas at this point - if I can make myself understood, it's a win, at the moment. But I'm so so glad to be working on it and to have people interested in reading my things.

So yeah please write if any part of you wants to write, and you'll get better as you go! And if you ever want to bounce ideas or scenes or whatever off anyone, I'm always open to talking with more people about writing and Hotchniss and Emily Prentiss loool.

[kiridarling]

𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐏𝐈𝐄

d.kaminari and h.sero | f!reader + corruption + weed/shotguning + praise + threesome + more! minors dni!

— 3.6k words

"I knew I wanted you the second I saw you."

Denki’s addicted to the pre-concert high.

His veins hum with a song that has yet to start, fingers drumming some mixed beat on the body of his electric guitar as he assumes his place on the dark stage. The theater’s dead silent, the room suspended in a titilating anticipation—and the steady rhythm Denki's heart dissapates into chaos when the faint crack of Eijirou's drumsticks bounce off the walls, and the click in his earpiece begins.

Eijirou hits the kick drum once. Twice. Then his hands fly across the set in a flurry, the rolling beat echoing into the packed arena and spurring the crowd to explode, fans flying to their feet to render their vocal cords for the night.

As the other instruments fill the blank space, Denki's hand grips the back of his guitar's neck, on hold for his solo, and by the time the electric blond steps up to the mic, pavlov's theory has already kicked in overdrive.

"Who’s ready to feel good tonight?”

“Dude, I’m on fucking fire!” Denki vibrates, nearly glowing in comparison to his bandmates as they sift through a flurry of fans at a meet and greet. It always seems like Denki and Eijirou are the only ones with energy after a good show—but what can he say? Being on stage lights him up like a live wire.

"You said that last concert, buddy," Hanta snorts, before his a fan ran sacks his attention by shoving a tiara into his hairline.

"And? My point still stan—" Denki cuts himself off with a gasp as a bra slings across his face, followed by a burst of pain when the metal hits him in the cheek. He peels the lacy thing off with an eye on the audience and an eyebrow raised in question, unsure of what to do with the undergarment (other than put it on) until someone screams:

“Sign it!”

Denki shrugs and pops the Sharpie cap with his teeth to sign the crest of both cups before flinging it back into the audience—he can only pray it pinpoints its rightful owner before the meet and greet ends.

Katsuki clicks his tongue (because he hates these events) and as the next round of fans lineup in front of their table, Eijirou stretches like this is a sport, saying, “Guess it’s go-time.”

"Go-time is when we perform," Katsuki grumbles in the seat to Denki’s right. "Go-time is when we're in the studio makin' a goddamn album, not meeting crazy fuckin' fans—no, I’m not gonna marry you, you obsessed fuckin—“

“Oh, you're just salty you're not popular with the ladies~“ Denki gushes, wiggling his eyebrows, and a fan hands him a canvas the size of his upper body. “Un—oh wow, did you make this for me—Unlike me, of course.”

"Okay, pretty boy." Hanta rolls his eyes, before signing a phone case and returning it to an overzealous fan. With a hand covering his mouth, he whispers, “Can you believe this guy? So full of himself, I swear.”

The fan giggles and Hanta meets the blushing cheeks with a satisfied smirk. Denki huffs from the disrespect, crossing both arms over his chest. “Full of myself? It’s not my fault I’m sexy—*an autograph? Of course!"

Katsuki chuckles, scratching under his chin with ink blue fingertips, "Call yourself sexy one more fuckin’ time and I'm projectile vomiti—no, I'm not signing your tits, give me a goddamn paper or somethin—"

"What?” Denki scoffs, chest collapsing with the disbelief that one could make such a lie. “I'm literally the definition of I'm sexy and I kno—"

"Um, excuse me?"

His gesticulations freeze at the passive voice, arms stretched wide and to the sky, and Denki knows he has to look absolutely ridiculous as he blinks down at the next person in-line; who's stood with bambi eyes and such a sweet smile the electric blond thinks it might make him sick.

"I-I'm your biggest fan! Could you—um, please sign this for me?"

She comes alive, shoving a poster into his chest with pink cheeks and shifty irises. Out of all the bras, all the breasts he's been asked to sign today, and here you are, with your pocket-sized poster and your lamb countenance. Denki beams.

"Of course, Sweetness! What's your name?"

"[Y/N]!" you say, giggling, and it's so. Cute. Denki opens the Sharpie and struggles to focus on signing instead of your gorgeous fucking face.

"Anything specific you'd like me to say?"

And he knows there's a rule—there always are when it comes to these things, and it's simple: don't fuck the fans. As tempting as it is, don't invite them back to your hotel room because there are too many uncertainties, and if something leaks to the press that’s possibly career ending, that’s it. So, Denki holds his tongue. For the future of himself and the band.

"Uhm, just write what you want! I...I think I'd like it best if it was authentic and came straight from you, so."

Fuck. Of course she does.

And maybe Denki just can't help it when he leans down to speak, perhaps a little lower, "You want something more authentic, cutie?"

You light up like a kid on Christmas, gasping, "Yes please Mr. Kaminari!"

So eager, too.

"Awe, you can call me Denki if you'd like," he coos, and you nod so quickly he starts to worry about whiplash. "Meet me out back, in the alley behind the venue if you wanna get to know me better. Sound like a deal?”

"O-Okay!" You nod, and when he returns your sign you grip it tight between both hands. "I'll um, see you soon Mr. Kami—I mean, D-Denki!"

You flush from the mix up and bow in apology, and Denki knows he's made the right choice when you light up, indicating you have no idea what he meant at all.

"Row row row your boat, gently down the stream," you hum, sniffling. You’re unsure if your nose is running, it's too frozen to tell, and it has you patting to confirm it’s presence. With your hands stuffed in your pockets and a jacket wrapped tight around your body, you'd think you'd be warm, but no.

The alley is dark. It's dank enough that you can smell it and you're positive what you're dancing in is vomit, but none the matter—today, you met your favorite band. Literally the people you'd die for.

"Merrily, merrily," kicking the loose rocks in the gravel every which way, you enjoy the sound of them scattering against the surrounding brick walls. "Merrily, merrily..."

"Life is but a dream," a voice finishes, a yelp rips from your throat and you jump twenty feet in alarm. But you’d know that voice anywhere; Denki chuckles at your reaction and it has you recoiling with timidity, unprepared for the surprised audience. "You have a lovely voice, Cutie. You should use it more often."

"I..." but you're not exactly sure what to say to that, knowing Denki's heard so many professional voices in his career to last a lifetime, and yet yours is lovely. "T-Thank you."

Denki watches your reaction with a hum and a smile, his visible breath escaping between the slit of his lips and into the cool air.

"Of course, Cutie."

Another voice sighs, shattering the friction that fills your gut when Denki gives you that look. You're not sure what to call it, but it makes you shiver, and that's enough to make you to run and hide.

"...Denki, who's this?"

"Um," the blond places his frozen hands in his pockets and swivels his head around to Hanta, guilty written all over his face. "A fan?"

Hanta sighs again, head tilting to the right in exhausperation, “Denki—"

"I know, I know," the electric blond sighs, waving him off. "But it's fine as long as we don't get caught, right?"

Hanta's black hair threatens to fall into his face so he combs through it, and you try not to drool at the sight of his bicep flexing. "Yeah, until we get caught."

A honk blares and it has you shrieking, to reveal a parked tour bus in the alley once the lights flicker on. Denki points the car keys at the vehicle and the doors swing open. "Awe c'mon, don't be a sour puss. It's a one-time thing, alright?"

Hanta's eyes narrow into slits.

"Seriously, dude! I'm a man of my word! On God."

The noirette's shoulders sag, but he waltzes around both of you to get on the bus. Over his shoulder, he warns, "Denki I swear to fucking god—"

"I'll be careful, I'll be careful~" he singsongs, hopping onto the stairs after the pianist. When Denki notices not you're not moving, he stills at the top step. "You coming, [Y/N]?"

"O-Oh, am I um, am I allowed?" You ask, biting your cheek at the thought of what Hanta just said as you peer around the electric blond’s body. Denki snorts, rolling his eyes.

"Yes, you're allowed," he exits the bus, only to tug you on via your collar. "Now c'mon! Let's have some fun, yeah?"

"Okay!"

Denki steers you through the bus and into a space that looks a bit like a living room, with a couch, tv, and a makeshift kitchen in the corner. Following Denki to the kitchen, you look around.

"Where are Kirishima and Bakugou?"

"Out drinking," Denki tosses, flicking open a RedBull. You wonder if this is always the post-concert routine. Hanta fiddles in with something on the couch, but he still has yet to look you in the eyes tonight, even when you ask him:

"What are you doing?"

It seems he didn't realize you’ve relocated from the kitchen to the couch next to him from the noirette nearly jumps. The green stuff in his fingers crumbles, and you scrunch your nose at the smell.

"It stinks," you add. Denki snorts, jumping onto the cushion to your right. There isn’t a whole lot of room and his addition causes your shoulders to slush between the two of them, but it’s strangely comfortable.

"It's weed," he explains like it's obvious. "You smoke, Cutie?"

"Obviously not," you and Hanta say at the same time. You turn his way, and for the first time that night, Hanta looks you in the eyes—and it's a smile, with his eyes crinkling in the corners, but there's...something else. Something else hidden behind the thinnest veil that makes you cower, if ever so slightly.

Something feral.

Denki, unaware of the crushing grip your hand has around your thigh, huffs, and tosses the energy drink down his gullet, "It was a genuine question! Geez."

"What are you doing?" You ask again, and the electric blond whimpers from being ignored.

"Rolling a joint," he utters, lifting the paper to his lips to lick the length. You watch, semi-disgusted, as Hanta finally folds over the last bit of paper around the crest of the joint, gluing it together.

"Know what a joint is?" The noirette implores.

"Yeah," you breathe, shifting at the new closeness Denki provides when you feel his chest against your back. "My roommate smokes, so."

Hanta taps it on a tray, or what Denki describes as "packing it down," before twisting the tip and tossing it back onto the tray in conclusion. Denki cheers.

"Aha! The joint-rolling master has blessed us! Everyone say thank you, joint-rolling master."

"Thank you, joint-rolling master!" You giggle when Hanta's face turns a ruddy red. He reaches over to pop Denki upside the head. Denki gasps, before lunging to return the favor, and you squeal from being jostled between two men.

"Okay," when Denki returns to his seat he's panting and so is the noirette. He picks the joint off the tray and though there isn't much room, turns so he's facing you, your legs smushed against his body indian style. "You ready, Cutie?"

"As ready as I'll ever be," you huff, swinging your arms in preparation despite the lack of space. Just in case.

Hanta snorts, holding the joint to your lips, and Denki raises the lighter and raises it to the end until it's hot enough to burn on its own.

“Now suck."

You do, cheeks puffing, and you blow the smoke straight in Denki's face. It's...a lot.

"Not quite," Hanta chuckles, and flips you via the waist so you're facing him. Denki whines from the change but finds solace in hooking his chin over your shoulder. "Suck, and then inhale. Act like it's a big breath—you gotta hold it in your lungs for a sec."

"Okay," you assert with a nod, eyes burning with a new determination. When Hanta holds it to your lips, you suck and inhale, and start coughing your throat raw, in a flurry of smoke and tears, eyes watering and nose burning. You scramble for water, but by the time you get some, the only thing that's left to soothe is a sore throat.

"Here," Denki offers, grabbing the joint before flipping you his way again. "Take smaller hits, like this."

Denki's mouth wraps around the tip and smoke pours from his lips so smoothly you're determined to do the same. With a raised eyebrow, he passes it back to you, and though it takes a moment, you try again.

The back of your throat tingles but the glide is much smoother, and you find that it doesn't burn on your next exhale. So you do it again. And again. And agai—

"Okay," Hanta picks the joint from your fingers with a click of his tongue, before taking a hit himself. You frown, making grabby hands.

"Hey, wai—"

"Nu-uh," he tuts, pushing you down by your forehead. "You'll feel it soon enough, trust me."

You whine, crossing your arms over your chest. Hanta gives you nothing but a raised eyebrow as he takes another hit, and you're convinced it's to taunt you. "I'm not eve—"

But then the world blurs, a bit, and your legs hum in a way they haven't before; it's warm and it's nice, and it has you blinking down at your hands in bewilderment. Whoa.

"And there she goes," Denki announces, and somehow seized the joint from the noirette when you weren't looking. Your mouth drops to say something, but all you can produce is a light giggle before it melts into a guffaw that only comes straight from the gut, your hands trying to soothe your cramping belly. Tears come to your eyes fairly easily, and when Hanta asks if you're okay he sounds like he's underwater, and that's enough to send you flying through another fit of laughs.

"I—y-yeah, I'm just—just fine," you snort behind a hand, chest spasming as you finally gather yourself enough to calm down. "I'm good. Mhm."

"Yep. Totally fine," Hanta says, but something in his tone suggests he doesn't believe you at all.

You nod, biting your bottom lip to avoid another laugh attack with your hands bunching the bottom of your shirt for extra purchase. Hanta narrows his eyes while taking another hit, so you sock him in the shoulder with a huff. "Stop looking at me like that."

The noirette snorts, "Like what?"

"Like..." you start strong, but falter under his eyes. "Like you want to eat me."

Hanta hums at the comment but says nothing, and you're not sure if your mind fabricated the quick look he gives the electric blond sat behind you. Denki speaks first.

"Do you know what shotgunning is, [Y/N]?"

You frown, "Like a shotgun?"

"So no," Hanta answers for you.

"Here," Denki offers, turning you again. Plucking the nub of a joint from the noirette, he takes a big hit before picking your face up by the jaw and hovering your lips over yours. You're not sure what to do, but once your lips connect, smoke fills your lungs, and you don't exhale until Denki pulls away. You blink, a little dazed.

You just kissed Denki Kaminari.

"Feel good?" He asks, never leaving your personal space. You nod, and he grins. "Wanna do it again?"

Your hands fist his shirt, teeth tearing the inside of your cheek due to the amount of embarrassment this question encourages. "I wan—can we do it again but without the um...without the smoke?"

Denki's hands find your hips and it's hard for him to contain a sly smirk, biting his lips to move in on his prey.

"I knew I waned you the second I saw you."

Denki's lips feel much better when he puts a little weight into the kiss, pinning you between him and the noirette. You're not exactly sure what you're doing but he takes the lead, titling his head and kissing harder, rougher, so your lips are pink and swollen by the time he pulls away.

"A-Another," you whimper, tightening your grip around his tee.

Denki hums in contemplation, picking your head up by your chin. "Ask nicely, Cutie."

Flushing deeper, your eyes dart to the coffee table.

“Another, please."

"Good girl," Denki coos, and he's propping you up against Hanta's chest. You shiver at the comment, finding purchase on Hanta's thighs as Denki kisses you on the lips again. "Wanna feel even better?"

"Yes," you nod vehemently. "Yes please."

Denki hums at that, climbing down your body as his hands glide from your waist to the band of your pants. You frown, "What—What are you doing?"

"Eating you out, Cutie," the electric blond says, hands freezing once his thumbs dip under your waistband. "That okay?"

"Oh okay," you breathe, relaxing against Hanta's chest. "Y-Yeah, that's fine."

Denki rips your pants off at that, tossing them towards the corner of the room and ultimately, to a place you'll probably never find them. Pushing your panties to the side, he licks his lips at the sight of your pussy, and flicks your clit with a smirk. You jump.

"H-Hey, that's not—"

He flattens his tongue against your slit and chuckles when you shudder, and after tossing both of your legs over his shoulders. You're not sure what he does after that though, because Hanta picks your face up by the chin and presses his lips to yours.

Denki slides a finger inside and you squeal against Hanta's chapped lips. You hear the electric blond moan, readjusting himself between your thighs, before you finally peel your lips off the noirette's, chest having from lack of oxygen.

"Such a pretty pussy, Baby," Denki gushes before his warm lips fold around your clit and he sucks, humming in surprise when you buck against his mouth. Hanta hooks his chin around your shoulder with a second joint dangling between his lips—and where it came from is beyond you.

Once he exhales, the joint finds its way between your lips and he instructs you to inhale, and the head rush afterwards has you digging your head into his chest.

"You're so wet, holy shit," Denki pulls away, lips strawberry pink and glossed with slick as he trades his both for his thumb and inserting another finger. It crooks just right and that's enough to make your hips buck, nails carving crescents in Hanta's thighs.

“T-There,” you whimper, wiggling your hips again, and Denki grins, thumb pressing into your clit. Your thighs quiver with the strain it takes to hold them back and Hanta’s calloused hands skip to your waist after dropping the burning joint off in the tray.

“Pull his hair,” the noirette commands, but you hesitate, hands glued to his thighs. Hanta sighs, reaching over you to tug for himself.

“Mph—fuck!” Denki’s eyelids flutter as he moans into your pussy with a new passion, his hands wrapping around your thighs to hold you in place. You gasp at his reaction, fingers scrambling under Hanta’s own to thread through his electric blond hair.

“Move your hips—grind against his face, c’mon,” Hanta’s grip tightens around your waist as he offers the suggestion, and you whimper with a nod before your bucking into Denki’s mouth without abandon. As the noirette trails butterfly kisses up the column of your neck, the coil in your gut snaps, and you barely have time to squeak out a warning before you’re flooding Denki’s mouth.

“Good girl...ride it out—there you go,” Hanta coos, biting your ear. You shiver as Denki pulls away with a final (and obscene) slurp, grinning like he didn’t just shatter you to pieces with nothing but his tongue and fingers.

Denki’s lips are on yours in a blink—you moan, legs still buzzing from the afterglow as you weakly grope for the small hairs on the back of his neck.

“Taste good, don’t ya?” He says with a click of a tongue after pulling away.

“I guess so,” you flush, the humiliation from so shamelessly digging your heels into Denki’s back finally settling in. Hanta reaches under your arm for Denki’s chin.

“What? Want a taste too?” The electric blond giggles, wiggling his eyebrows. Hanta snorts.

“If you could be so kind.”

Denki hums at that, placing a hand on your inner thigh for balance as he slams his lips on the noirette’s for the first time that night. He dives straight for the kill, tongue and teeth and everything, and Denki moas when Hanta’s teeth sink into his bottom lip; you find that you like it a lot.

Though eventually you tired of watching, and press the heel of your hand on Hanta’s hard cock through the fabric of his jeans. The pianist hisses, and you grin—you’ve got their attention now.

“Whoa Sweetheart, what are y—“

“I...I want more,” you assert despite the tremor in your voice. Hanta raises an eyebrow in question which has you pressing harder in hopes he’ll cave just as easily as before. Just in case, you add, “Please.”

Denki redirects your attention by squishing your cheeks until you’re looking him in the eyes. With dark eyes, he says, “You sure you want more, Cutie?”

You nod despite the restriction, “Wanna...wanna get to know you better.”

You watch Denki’s pupils dialate at that, and he can’t even hold back a groan when he says:

“Gods, Baby. We’re going to ruin you.”

unpopular opinion: bakugou's the bassist and kirishima's the drummer. fight me.

not me projecting 12yo sun's fantasy of getting railed in the tour bus by 5sos um—

[rainhalydia]

I wasn't in fandom at the time, so I'm curious about how you felt, as a Throbb shipper, about GRRM confirming Robb didn't love Theon as much as he loved Jon? And how did Throbb shippers in general feel about it?

Well, I can’t say how Throbb shippers in general felt. Not that happy, I’d guess? I can tell how I felt and still feel about it, though I didn’t see that interview until long after the fact so I didn’t catch any drama anyway. To sum it up: I don’t care.

A much longer, rambling word-vomit under the cut:

I think I summed up my feelings very exactly, but I kept thinking a lot about this ask and having lots of opinions, so here we go. I’ll preface this long-ass rant by saying I have no professional training in literary analysis. I just read a lot, overthink everything and had two classes in college about literature.

First of all, this tendency to give great weight - i.e., to care at all - about what writers have to say about their own work is completely foreign to me. I mean it literally - the main framework of literary analysis I’ve encountered throughtout my education was basically centered around the text, and I very much adopt it without even giving it conscious thought. I don’t seek out interviews, addendums, essays, anything at all. Sometimes I read it if they fall on my lap. Such was the case with this interview.

It’s not that writers don’t have things to say, or that those things are not interesting or valuable or sometimes shed a new light on their work. It’s that at the end of the day they’re not important! Only canon is canon. I don’t mean to sound snob or pedantic, like the books are law or something. And any canon has a number of valid interpretations (within limits), they’re not absolute, they allow some wiggle room. But any text needs by definition to stand on its own without writers poking their heads inside the room to say how we should interpret it. If we need imput from the writers to do it, then the text is already bad, it failed, sorry. Interpretation is the reader’s job. In fact, it’s the reader’s prerrogative.

Much of this hipe around authors, I believe, has to do with the rise of social media and how close to the public writers suddenly were. And I feel that applies especially for authors like Martin, who are very talented and have created a very rich world that has become really popular. And ASOIAF is still ongoing. It’s natural that everyone wants to pick at his brain and know where the story is going!

And here I make my second very unpopular point: authors are not specialists in their own work.

He knows more than anyone about it, certainly, and currently Martin is probably the only person who knows how things will end (though we have plenty of bare bones the show left), but he is, as he has admited himself, a gardener. The story was bound to get away from him, given his own writting style. The group of people who will be specialists on his work don’t include him, and they don’t even exist yet. They will only emerge when he’s stopped writing (so probably after his death) and his work has ended (if it was finished or not). Then people can read every single thing he has ever written, which is much more than ASOIAF, and analyse it to death, pick it apart from every single angle, the ones Martin intended to be there and the ones he didn’t.

Again, I don’t mean to come across as snobbish and say Martin does not know his own work, characters, creation, etc. He does! But no writer can leave all their biases behind when they start writing, so these books are not neutral to begin with. Add to it the lots and lots of variables readers will bring when they interpret the text, and any book is always going to be more than the author intends by default.

If my argument seems absurd, let me point out that it has already happened to a certain degree: my own interpretation from reading ASOIAF is that it is full of anti-war, anti-violence messages, and yet from it has sprung an adaptation that, in my own interpretation, glorifies war and violence to a ridiculous degree. I’m not alone in these opinions, btw. They’re pretty common in fandom spaces, so I’m sure I didn’t pull them out of thin air. We can argue until we’re blue in the face that the Ds can’t read anything for shit, they certainly don’t do themselves any favors, but you know, they interpreted the books well enough to correctly guess who was Jon’s mother and get permission to adapt it in the first place. I’ve since seen people (I’m not naming names, anyone still reading will just have to take my word for it, but I swear they do exist) defend that the show is a faithful adaptation of the books and that the glorification of war was there too, and others say that the show didn’t actually glorify war, it had an anti-war message! Who is wrong? Well, I don’t know. As I said, the GRRM’s specialists are yet to come, and I’m certainly not one of them. What I believe, however, is that all of us brought our own biases to the same text, interpreted it according to them, and came to different, often conflicting conclusions.

See also what GRRM said about the partnership between Jaehaerys and Alysanne and what most people made of their relationship from Fire and Blood. See the sept sex/rape scene controversy. See the Dany/Drogo controversy.

Do you get why I put little weight in Martin’s interviews to form my opinion? So given that and my own background, I’ll chose my own interpretation of the text rather than Martin’s apocrypha.

What does the book canon, and the book canon alone, say about Robb’s feelings for Theon? Well, unless new material is released, we’ll just never know for sure, because Robb isn’t a pov character. We do have Theon’s side of things - he has a certain affection for Robb, he’s more of a brother than his own brothers, he wishes he had died with him or at least that he had been there at the moment of Robb’s death, depending on how sincere he feels like being. We also know a little bit of what other characters thought of their relationship. Bran says Robb admired Theon and enjoyed his company, and it’s implied that he finds this baffling. He’s also jealous that Robb spends more time with Theon and other adults doing adult things than with his brothers. And though I’ve talked at lenght about interpretation and wiggle room to understand things, it’s also pretty evident that Robb is down to hear Theon talk about his sexual conquests in some detail as long as his brothers aren’t around.

Of course, Bran is a child and much as he loves Robb, their time together is cut short and Robb is not his main concern anyway. We get most material about Robb and Theon’s relationship from Cat’s pov. There’s a lot we can analyse and Damien had already done a great not-meta about it, but sadly he’s since deleted, thank you to the demons who got on his case, but for me the most damning piece of evidence that Robb feels very strongly for Theon is this:

“Robb will avenge his brothers. Ice can kill as dead as fire. Ice was Ned’s greatsword. Valyrian steel, marked with the ripples of a thousand foldings, so sharp I feared to touch it. Robb’s blade is dull as a cudgel compared to Ice. It will not be easy for him to get Theon’s head off, I fear. The Starks do not use headsmen. Ned always said that the man who passes the sentence should swing the blade, though he never took any joy in the duty.”

So to unpack what is going on: nearly drowing in grief, Cat rambles to Brienne about lots of things, including Theon’s impending death sentence. By Northern dumb tradition, Robb must be the one to behead Theon, his former best friend turned enemy, turned betrayer, turned brother-killer. And she says that it won’t be easy for him to do it.

Now, it can be argued that this is partly because of the sword. They’ve lost their sharp valyrian steel and Robb uses an inferior blade, not as sharp. I reject this interpretation as the only explanation (and here comes my own biases) because she mentions the headsman right after. A headsman might be more experienced, but it’s not like he’d have valyrian steel to do it either. Rather, I think she’s talking about how being able to pass Theon off to be killed by a headsman would be easier on Robb psychologically, but it’s not really an option, so Robb will have to suffer.

At this point, to Robb’s knowledge, Theon has: 1) betrayed his trust and used the ruse of negociations with Balon to escape; 2) attacked the northern shore and enslaved his people; 3) attacked and took control of his home; 4) made his brothers hostages; 5) killed his brothers; 6) denied his brothers the right to be buried in a decent way; and finally, 7) burned their bodies and exposed them for all of the North to see.

And after all this, having to be the one to kill Theon will make him suffer.

We know one of the moments Robb gets the angriest in the books is when Bran is threatened by the wildlings. He is the acting Lord and keeping his little brothers safe is his responsability. He nearly bites Theon’s head off when Theon saves Bran in a risky way and we know that was uncharacteristic because Theon is still sulking about that a whole year later. So his siblings are dear to him, but even after Theon does everything from steps 1 to 4, he’s still sure they’re not in danger and that Theon won’t do anything to them. That’s how much he trusts Theon. It takes literal murder to make him change his mind.

But then he does change his mind. He believes Theon did those awful, awful things to his brothers. After that knowledge has had time to settle in, after he believes the worst of Theon, he has this amazing convo with Cat that I’ll quote whole because it’s amazing:

“Enough.” For just an instant Robb sounded more like Brandon than his father. “No man calls my lady of Winterfell a traitor in my hearing, Lord Rickard.” When he turned to Catelyn, his voice softened. “If I could wish the Kingslayer back in chains I would. You freed him without my knowledge or consent … but what you did, I know you did for love. For Arya and Sansa, and out of grief for Bran and Rickon. Love’s not always wise, I’ve learned. It can lead us to great folly, but we follow our hearts … wherever they take us. Don’t we, Mother?”

Is that what I did? “If my heart led me into folly, I would gladly make whatever amends I can to Lord Karstark and yourself.”

Lord Rickard’s face was implacable. “Will your amends warm Torrhen and Eddard in the cold graves where the Kingslayer laid them?” He shouldered between the Greatjon and Maege Mormont and left the hall.

Robb made no move to detain him. “Forgive him, Mother.”

“If you will forgive me.”

“I have. I know what it is to love so greatly you can think of nothing else.”

Catelyn bowed her head. “Thank you.” I have not lost this child, at least.

So we know that what is going on here is that Robb is buttering Cat up before breaking the news of his marriage to Jeyne to her. One of the possible interpretations supported by the text is that Jeyne is in love with Robb and Robb is not in love with her. It’s a common reading that he married her out of honor and to avoid a possible Jon Snow situation. During their marriage, he seems to grow fond of her - Cat notices he likes her company better, and her brother’s, and that he laughs when he is with the Westerlings - but he also keeps some distance. She’s afraid of Grey Wind, which pretty much means being afraid of a part of him. In turn, he’s attentive, courteous, and a bit touched and annoyed at her public displays of affection.

Then there is this gem:

“His heir failed him.” Robb ran a hand over the rough weathered stone. “I had hoped to leave Jeyne with child … we tried often enough, but I’m not certain…”

And this is more Damien’s not-meta than my own, but once you see it, you can’t ever unsee it. Compare the bolded parts in that quote in the first Cat-Robb convo to the part bolded in the second one, put them side to side and tell me you can’t see the difference. In the first one, Robb basically spells it out that he’s made a mistake out of love, that love turned him into a fool, but it was stronger than him. At that point of the narrative, Robb’s biggest mistake (and notably it was HIS mistale, it was not a case of the narrative screwing him over) was to free Theon. A mistake that caused him to lose his brothers, castle and a significant chunk of political standing. The consequences of marrying Jeyne, which is pretty much only to lose the Freys, don’t even compare - especially because the Stark faction believes they can win their support back.

And this love that made him act like a fool is further described in the second bolded part of that quote. He loved so greatly that he could think of nothing else. That is some passion there, folks. Even considering that he’s trying to get Cat on his side, it strikes me as so sincere and heartfelt. And again, maybe it’s my own biases showing, but that sounds like an all-consuming love, the kind of love that doesn’t go away easily. I don’t see that same depth of emotion on the second bolded quote… they tried often enough. Does it add up with the first part? I don’t think so.

My conclusion, and forgive me if the shipper gogles come in, is that the love that hurt him, that consumed him, is the love he had for Theon. Not for his wife. But it was in the past, one might say. His marriage was just beginning, he and Jeyne grow closer, etc. I’ll quote two more bits:

“I cannot speak to that. There is much confusion in any war. Many false reports. All I can tell you is that my nephews claim it was this bastard son of Bolton’s who saved the women of Winterfell, and the little ones. They are safe at the Dreadfort now, all those who remain.”

“Theon,” Robb said suddenly. “What happened to Theon Greyjoy? Was he slain?”

Here we are nearing the Red Wedding. Some Freys come to pretend to make peace and pressure for a wedding to Edmure and they bring news of the battle of Winterfell. Professional writers don’t often abuse the “suddenly” like us poor fic writers, so when he says it was sudden, i believe it was sudden. I believe it came out of nowhere, in fact, and that Robb was the only one in that room considering Theon’s fate.

Roose Bolton removed a ragged strip of leather from the pouch at his belt. “My son sent this with his letter.”

Ser Wendel turned his fat face away. Robin Flint and Smalljon Umber exchanged a look, and the Greatjon snorted like a bull. “Is that … skin?” said Robb.

“The skin from the little finger of Theon Greyjoy’s left hand. My son is cruel, I confess it. And yet … what is a little skin, against the lives of two young princes? You were their mother, my lady. May I offer you this … small token of revenge?“ 

Part of Catelyn wanted to clutch the grisly trophy to her heart, but she made herself resist. “Put it away. Please.”

“Flaying Theon will not bring my brothers back,” Robb said. “I want his head, not his skin.”

Aside from Catelyn, who is torn, and maybe the Greatjon (I don’t know what snorting like a bull is supposed to convey), no one in that room approves of torturing Theon, they’re all rightly creeped out. But no one would blink an eye if Robb had ordered Theon flayed alive. Instead, he commands the torture to stop. Of course it’s the only decent thing to do, but let’s all appreciate how the character who is always arguing for peace, end of conflict and letting things go for the sake of the living and what can still be saved instead of more violence, is tempted by it. Robb is the only one who shares the full extent of Cat’s grief here, but he’s also the only one to try and stop the senseless punishment.

I joke all the time about how Throbb is canon, and it’s mostly jokes. They are not canon in the sense that Cat and Ned are canon, and I don’t think we’ll have any more facts added to their story together, there probably won’t be any flashbacks that hint at a romantic relationship between them. But looking at the text alone, what we have of it as of now, it’s possible to support a canonical reading for this ship. This interpretation is there in the text if you want to see it. In fact, some things make more sense if Robb was in love with Theon.

And you know, having a ship be supported by canon is not actually a condition that needs to be met to ship anything. It’s just something I particularly need to get into it. But even if you read Theon and Robb as just friends, it’s a reach to say that Robb didn’t love Theon.

Of course, we have Robb demonstrating affection towards Jon in the books too. He is Robb’s chosen heir, to Cat’s despair. Despite all the negative propaganda bastards get and the fact that the mother he so respected and loved disliked and distrusted Jon, Robb considers him a full brother, to compare to Sansa’s constant “half-brother” from the beginning of her journey. They’re seen having a good time together (they have a horse race in their very first appearance in the books, and Mance recalls them getting into trouble together as children), so they enjoy each other’s company.

Yet there’s also an undercurrent of sibling rivalry between them, seen from Jon’s pov. We have this bit with Benjen:

Benjen gave Jon a careful, measuring look. “You don’t miss much, do you, Jon? We could use a man like you on the Wall.”

Jon swelled with pride. “Robb is a stronger lance than I am, but I’m the better sword, and Hullen says I sit a horse as well as anyone in the castle.”

This is hilarious to me. My uncle paid me a compliment for being perceptive, a skill not at all related to martial skills! Time to compare my martial skills to my brother’s, even though we’re both 14 and there’s lots of more tried warriors in the world and we haven’t even had our last growh spurt! This is sure to impress a seasoned ranger!

Of course we know Jon’s rivalry towards Robb comes from his bastard status, but it’s interesting to me that it’s something that centers around Robb alone; he doesn’t compare himself to Bran or Rickon as far as I remember. That can be explained by their very similar ages and growing up together, I think. Jon has the advantage of being older than his other true born brothers.

Jon also says this:

Bastard children were born from lust and lies, men said; their nature was wanton and treacherous. Once Jon had meant to prove them wrong, to show his lord father that he could be as good and true a son as Robb. I made a botch of that. Robb had become a hero king; if Jon was remembered at all, it would be as a turncloak, an oathbreaker, and a murderer. He was glad that Lord Eddard was not alive to see his shame.

To Jon - and to the other Stark children - Robb is often the model to be emmulated. I won’t dig up all the times they hold him up as the ideal of bravery. Jon’s feelings are not unique in this sense, though they are when it comes to the rivalry. They all admire Robb. From Robb’s side, I don’t remember hints of him admiring Jon or any of his siblings. He certainly loves them, likes them, and enjoys spending time with Jon at the very least.

But Theon is the one Robb admires in text. Bran says it, and Theon too:

“There is nothing small about the letter I bear,” Theon said, “and the offer he makes is one I suggested to him.”

“This wolf king heeds your counsel, does he?” The notion seemed to amuse Lord Balon.

“He heeds me, yes. I’ve hunted with him, trained with him, shared meat and mead with him, warred at his side. I have earned his trust. He looks on me as an older brother, he—”

Readers often dismiss this as Theon’s garden variety empty bragging. To be fair, Theon very much distorts reality in his head to fit his own idea of how things should be, but this is one of the few times when he’s not doing that. He’s genuinely proud that Robb thinks so well of him. And since he’s so sensitive about what people think of him and people not giving him the credit he thinks he deserves, I’m ready to believe his account of facts this one time.

What I get from canon, regarding who Robb loves the most out of Jon and Theon, is that he loves them differently. He might even love Jon more by ASOS; it’s a wonder that we have hints that he still cares about Theon at all by the end, after the murders of who we know are the miller boys, but who Robb thinks are Bran and Rickon.

He had different relationships with them. Even if you reject the reading of Throbb as romantic, friends and siblings are not interchangable, even if you’re out there calling close friends brothers or if your brother is your best friend. It’s different sorts of affection. At the beginning of the series, Robb and Theon seemed closer to me than Robb and Jon - let’s not forget that Jon’s favorite is Arya, and the biggest family drama at that time has to do with Jon and Cat. They grow even closer as they go to war together, and then they’re pushed apart by circumstances and by Theon’s actions.

But okay, this is not long enough yet, so let’s say that this is an invalid framework of analysis and Martin’s word of god has as much weight as canon, and that in fact, we’re 100% certain that Robb loved Jon more than Theon.

Why does it even need to be a competition? No one holds it against Ygritte that Jon loves Arya more. Asha has a steady boyfriend that she’d gladly marry, and still she takes risk after risk for Theon. Ned was probably the greatest love of Cat’s life, but her interactions with her brother and uncle are still emotional and moving in great part because of the depth of her love for them.

Robb loving Jon more doesn’t take anything away from Theon. He doesn’t love Theon less because he loves Jon more, love is not a finite resource. And Robb loved Theon plenty, be it in a familial, friends or romantic way. If it diminished, that was a result of Theon’s choices alone.

[spookysanta]

miss you. (g.d.)

part i of ii.

Summary: long distance relationships suck; but especially for (Y/N) and Grayson.

Pairing: Grayson Dolan x Reader

WARNINGS: mentions of sex (not yet), angst??????????????????????????, fluff, bad writing

UNEDITED

YUH look at me on a writing streak :) and let’s all reminisce on fetus baby boy by these precious “date” snaps:

(@trapezoidmouth on IG)

***THIS TAKES PLACE AROUND APRIL/MAY***

i only mention that bc it’s talking about graduation and it’s july so i didn’t want people to make a big deal about it

***

"So," she told him with a big sigh on the phone when she got home from class. "I did my presentation today."

"Oh, really?" he replied, while cooking himself an omelette. It was three o'clock her time and noon in Los Angeles, where he was; so it was brunch time. "How'd it go?"

"It..was awful." She tried to force herself not to cry, because when she cries, Grayson is quick to get up and go wherever she was to comfort her. Which might be good in the moment, but she doesn't want to do that to him (anymore--this would've been the fourth time he'd done that). "Gray, I did everything my teacher told me to! I added the information I needed to, took out some stuff, and I even memorized everything! But when I got up there...I couldn't do it."

"What was your topic again?"

She recited her research question as if it were read out of a book. "How listening to music during pregnancy helps a baby's development in the womb."

"Really? That doesn't sound hard at all."

"It wasn't that my topic was hard, it was that the questions I got asked were too hard for me to answer, and how I answered questions was a big portion of my grade." she was getting a little misty-eyed. She'd been working on this project for months; she thought she'd learned just about everything there is to know about music's effects on child development. "Gray, I really thought I had it until then."

"Listen, baby. Regardless of how you think it went, I'm sure you did better. Because I've heard your presentation and you sounded like you knew exactly what you were talking about. I think it's all in your head, angel." He sighed, flipping his omelette in the pan. He liked omelettes when she made them for him when she visited, because she knew exactly what he wanted, how much of each ingredient to add, and she makes sure they're always cheesy and delicious. But when he makes them, sometimes they're a little...underdone.

"I can't focus." she put him on speakerphone and took off her top, pants, and bra, opting to wear one of his t-shirts for comfort. She has a few of them, but her favorite one to wear is the black crew neck. It's plain and simple, and it fits him like a god. But she managed to take it when she left L.A. the last time; and honestly, she took a little vile of his cologne, too, to spray on the shirt after she washes it. "It's so close to graduation, baby, and I know you're gonna call me a loser for saying this, but I can't do this anymore. I want to drop out." she groaned.

"You're a loser either way, in my opinion." he heard her laugh on the other end of the phone. And that laugh was like air to his lungs, if he's being completely honest with himself. He hadn't heard that angelic laugh in months. The last time they'd been together was when she visited him the last few days of her Winter Break--and that was in January. "But you literally graduate in a month. Shut up."

"Okaaaaaaaaaaaay." she groaned again. What she wouldn't give for his bone-crushing cuddles right about now. That's all she wants. She'd been feeling weepy and anxious and a bit sad all day, but now that she's talking to her man, she's starting to feel the heavy weight of her stress lift. "I miss you." she confessed. "I know we agreed that we wouldn't get all sappy like this but I'm wearing your shirt right now and all I smell is you."

“I miss you, too.”

She heard noise on the other end and nearly vomited at the sound. "Move your mouth away from the receiver, Gray. I can hear you chewing."

He chewed louder, his mouth hovering over the phone's microphone. "Like this?"

She hung up the phone.

***

He called her again later, at around four o'clock his time. He and his brother were outside and he was about to grill some steaks for dinner. "Hello?" he greeted into the receiver. "Baby?"

"Hey." she groggily replied. She'd fallen asleep while talking to her best friend on FaceTime and she woke up about five minutes ago. "What's up, boo?"

"Just checkin' on you. I wanted to make sure you're in better spirits than earlier."

"Yeah, I'm fine." She sat up and stumbled down the stairs and into the kitchen , finding a box of Kraft mac and cheese in the pantry to cook. "I'm just glad everything’s over with."

"I understand. I just don't want you to be all sad and mopey."

"I'm not sad and mopey only because of my presentation, I'm sad and mopey because I miss my boyfriend." she sighed. "I really don't think I can wait until my birthday to see you."

"So what do you want me to do? You want me to come there, or fly you out here?"

"It doesn't matter, honestly. I just want to see you." she stirred some salt in the pot of boiling water, then poured the noodles into the pot, turning down the heat, and shutting the lid. "Doesn't even have to be long. I just want cuddles and kisses."

"I'd be glad to give you that, and you know I would come and see you right now if I could, but I can't right now. We're filming all week this week and both of us need to be here for it."

"I'm dying without my fuckin' cuddles, man." she drained the pasta, hissing to herself when a little bit of water got on her brown hand. She cursed quietly, already assuming that Grayson knew she'd injured herself somehow--as she usually does. She put the pasta back in the pot and added butter, almond milk, and the powdered cheese, stirring it and letting it cool a bit before pouring it in a bowl next to the stove. "I wanna see your pretty face." she spoke, holding the phone to her ear and with her bowl in one hand and a bottle of sparkling water in the other.

"Hold on a second." she heard shuffling on the other end of the phone. He was making a space on his desk for his phone to sit on, but she already knew that that'd been what he was up to, because his desk is constantly cluttered with papers, receipts, pens and pencils, etc. His desk was riddled with stuff. She heard the quiet his of "ah dammit", and then she finally saw it. That gorgeous grin that makes his hazel eyes crinkle in the outer corners. "Hi, honey."

And as happy as she'd typically be to see his face on FaceTime, all she did was sob. "Hey." She grabbed her food and her drink and with cloudy vision, she guided herself to the couch to eat.

His face fell. "What's wrong? Did I catch at a bad time?"

"No." She sniffled. God, she was so emotional today. "I just...I want you."

"Oh, babe. I wish there was something I could do about that but right now my hands are completely tied."

"I just want cuddles and kisses and hugs! And I want to wear that new shirt you just bought because it looks comfy and I bet it smells good."

"Baby I promise—hold out a little bit longer and you can have whatever it is you want." He paused. "Except for that shirt.”

"Why?" She whined.

"Because I bought that shirt last week. It's still new."

"So? I want it."

"You can have every other shirt except that one. At least not for a while."

"Ugh!" She groaned. "You're the worst."

"I've been told."

She looked away from her phone that was propped up on a pillow and turned on the television, turning to a DVR recording of Botched and settling into the couch, fully accepting the fact that she had to cuddle with the pillows next to her instead of her boo. She picked up her fork, sadly poking the orange-dyed macaroni noodles and putting them in her mouth. "I don't want this anymore." She muttered to herself, catching the attention of the boy on the other end of the phone, who'd only just found something to do on his laptop to distract himself from looking at her tear-stained face.

Because if he did, he'd be at her every beck and call and give her exactly what she wanted. And he was a busy guy; he didn't have time to fly across the country to snuggle her like he has the slight habit of doing.

As much as he craved her—her body, her mind, her laugh, her smell (God, the way she smells? Absolutely intoxicating. He finds himself thinking of the inticing scent on the days when he misses her the most, and it's almost as if she infiltrates his nostrils. Ergo, causing him to miss her 1000x more.)—he cannot leave Los Angeles for at least the next week. If he leaves, then that means Ethan would be left with editing their upcoming video's footage, and that's the last thing he needs right now.

"Why not? When we texted earlier, you said you were hungry."

"Yeah. I was. But now...I don't know." She shrugged. She stopped the recording on the TV, picking her bowl back up and setting it in the microwave for if she wanted it later. Then, she trudged her way back upstairs and got in her bed. She sighed, feeling the lump in her throat form again.

[angrygoatgirl]

have you heard about that eating disorder diabetics get when they purposefully don't get insulin so they can lose weight? I'm trying so hard not to start it, but it's like an urge inside me. I'm not "fat" but I would say I'm a little chubby. I really want to lose about 15 pounds before college, but every time I start to exercise and eat right I gain weight since my blood sugar is low all the time no matter how many adjustments I make. Do you have any words to offer me?

This is a topic I have often thought of writing about, but never had the courage to post. Anonymous, I’m doing this for you, please listen:I know exactly what you are talking about and exactly how you feel, because I’ve done it, it almost killed me, and even though I nearly died from it, I’m sometimes still tempted. It’s called diabulimia (if you don’t already know) and while not yet officially recognized as an eating disorder, it is finally gaining the attention of the medical community and even the media; the BBC did a brief documentary on it recently, which I haven’t yet seen. Diabulimia falls under the bulimia umbrella because restriction of insulin is used as a form of purging; one doesn’t have to induce vomiting to have bulimia, as some people think – people may have exercise bulimia (overexercising as a form of purging), use laxatives, or other purging behaviors. For us type 1s, insulin restriction is a unique option. The first and most important thing to know is that you are not alone. You are not alone. And that is worth more than you may realize.   In a survey conducted by Joslin Diabetes Research Center, one third of type 1 women admitted to having manipulated their insulin in an attempt to lose weight. Yes, you read that right: one third. And that is self-reporting, which means it’s probably lower than the real number. The statistics on the incidence of eating disorders in both men and women with diabetes have not yet been nailed down, but the evidence does show that people with diabetes also are much more likely to have eating disorders than the general population. 

To understand one of the possibilities why this is the case, here is a quotation from Ulla Kärkkäinen, a Finnish research nutritionist, defining disordered eating: 

“Eating is disordered when a person arbitrarily decides when they are hungry or full, regardless of how they are feeling; weighs themselves constantly; or drinks non-caloric drinks to keep from feeling hungry. Eating can also be considered disordered if a person meticulously plans each meal long into the future, counts calories and weighs foods, follows an excessively strict diet or cuts certain foods from their diet…”That is the treatment for type 1 diabetes. Whether or not we eat is dictated by a number on a meter, not by how we feel. Meals are planned and food is measured and weighed so that we can dose properly. What and when we eat is almost always at the forefront of our minds, literally so we won’t die. Our bodies are constantly being measured to see whether results are satisfactory. Add to that societal misconceptions about diabetes, the tendency of insulin to make some people gain weight, the recently discovered direct effect of insulin on dopamine levels, and the multitudinous other factors that can make weight management harder for diabetics, and you’ve got a perfect storm. So I’ll say it again: you are not alone.The first time I experienced diabulimia I was fourteen. I didn’t have a word for what I was doing, because the word hadn’t been invented yet. I just knew that before I was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes, I was losing weight and feeling good about my body, and after I was diagnosed and started taking insulin, I gained weight and felt ugly and fat. It was the mid 90s and heroin chic was in, the pressure to be super thin was already overwhelming for any girl, but added to that was the pressure not to conform to diabetic stereotypes: I didn’t want the ignorant kids who thought I got diabetes from eating too many sweets to be validated. I knew rationally that my chubbiness didn’t make them right, but reason couldn’t change how I felt. I was too afraid to restrict my insulin for more than a few days, though…or maybe I was too strong and had not yet been worn down enough? I don’t know. It wasn’t until my twenties that I really went for it. Like you, I wasn’t fat. I was athletic with maybe 10 or 15 pounds of chub that I would have liked to have shifted. My family life was difficult. I was broke and on my own. I had no insurance and was already rationing insulin to try and make it last. I didn’t know at the time that burnout is common for diabetics, but I was suffering my first burnout. I was completely worn down by life and by diabetes, and I just wanted to be able to control one thing. Just one. So I started manipulating insulin. I took control by refusing to control my diabetes.And, oh how I rationalized it! I would take my long-acting and skip the fast-acting, I was still taking some insulin, that was surely better than none, right? I was riding 300s and 400s, but it wasn’t 500s or 600s, so it couldn’t be that bad, right? I’d had perfect A1Cs ever since my diagnosis – that was over a decade! What could a few weeks of high sugars really do? Other people were out of control of their diabetes all the time, and they were still okay. There were type 2s walking around with high blood sugars for years not even knowing! And when it started to work and the weight just fell off, it was easier and easier to rationalize. “Just five more pounds,” I’d say. “Just ten more pounds and I’ll stop.”Of course, one of the side-effects of high blood sugar is extreme hunger, so my eating habits became harder and harder to control. I craved carbs like never before. A whole pizza, an entire box of cereal, two dozen Oreos couldn’t satiate me: and the more I ate, the thinner I got. I never binge ate before the diabulimia, but my body was starving, and so bingeing became a thing for me…especially since it just made me lose more weight. I hadn’t gained control, I’d lost it. Completely.One morning at 5am, after three months of rationing insulin and rationalizing my diabulimia, after a night of nonstop vomiting…I realized I was dying. I was so sick, I lost seven more pounds THAT DAY. I could barely breathe and my heart felt like it was going to explode, trying to pump the sludge that was my acid blood through my veins. I asked my roommate to drive me to the Emergency Room, but before I left, I stepped on the scale and felt really good about how much weight I’d lost. I’d gone from someone whose chronic illness necessitated disordered eating to someone with a full blown eating disorder. And the eating disorder had taken me over.I spent the next 3 days in the ICU wearing an oxygen mask, catheterized, a massive hematoma on my arm from the excruciating arterial blood draws, searing potassium being delivered via IV to the other arm. Five IVs in all. They told me if I’d waited just a few more hours I’d have died. I’m not telling you this in an attempt to “scare you straight”, though. You know the risks as well as I did. Sometimes knowing the risks and even having lived them isnt’ enough. Eating disorder wouldn’t be a mental illness if it was rational. What you may not know is just how quickly and easily and how TOTALLY it takes you over.So I’m going to tell you the one thing that keeps me from going back to diabulimia when I am really struggling: diabulimia doesn’t really work. The minute you start taking insulin again, the weight comes back with a vengeance. It is a fleeting fix – the high blood sugar might as well be the high of heroin or meth: you feel better in the moment, but when you come down off that high it is hell, and everything that pushed you to try it the first time has just been made worse.I’ve been struggling with eating disorders ever since, though I’ve not resorted to diabulimia again. Sometimes, like I said, I feel so down that the only thing keeping me from it is knowing its effects are temporary. I even checked myself into one of the most renowned eating disorder treatment centers in the country…sadly, there is little known about treating eating disorder in type 1 diabetics, and the traditional treatments for eating disorders are in direct contradiction to the treatment of diabetes. In the end, their attempts to help me only made me worse. With hard work and help from a sympathetic endocrinologist and diabetes educator, though, I’ve been recovering. I’ve even gone a few years at a time with the eating disorder tamed. I still have relapses, though. While I can never know for sure, I think that if I had never tried diabulimia, I would never have developed any full blown eating disorders.You asked if I had any words for you and it saddens me that I have so many, and that so few of them are good. I don’t think it is hopeless, though: I have lost weight in a healthy way with diabetes, and without my eating disorder taking control. It was harder for me than for people without diabetes, but it can be done. I’ve had periods where the eating disorder was barely even there. I learned that weight really wasn’t even the real problem, and learned that there were other things to focus on for my mental and physical health. And even though my treatment experience was mostly negative, I took a few really positive things from it: the realization that my eating disorder didn’t have to define me, the realization that I wasn’t alone, and that it was okay to ask for help. You see, just as the stereotypes about diabetes are mostly wrong, so are the stereotypes about eating disorders. Eating disorder is seen as the ailment of the young, white, middle-class, anorexic chick. But the truth is, there was every kind of woman in that treatment center: women from age 14 to 64, of every ethnicity and religion, rich and poor, rail-thin to morbidly obese. And there were so many women there whom, had I not known they were struggling with eating disorders, I would have thought totally had their shit together, were confident, were admirable. Knowing that such admirable women were facing the same struggle as me made me hate myself less. You are not alone. Your weight doesn’t define you, and it certainly isn’t worth developing an eating disorder and potentially losing your life. If you need more help, ask for it, but remember that you have to balance your mental health with your diabetes, and don’t let anyone tell you one is more important than the other. They are both necessary.And that is it. There is no easy solution to this problem, there is not a moral or neat ending to this story, there isn’t a tidy little bow to tie this shit up with. I just hope that you will read my experience and spare yourself going through it, because it’s not worth it.