#cw: Disordered Eating Behaviours

[voiceoffenrisulfr]

Multitudes Chapter Four ... Even When Trapped.

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 -> Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 -> The truth will always win out.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 -> 1314

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 -> (E)  Hiding food, confrontation, restraint.

𝐀/𝐍 -> Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. Please read the tags, and proceed with caution. I apologise for any Russian translation errors - I cross-translated between sources for the best accuracy I could get. Here, the Russian is largely explained in the following line, but if that ever isn't the case, I'll otherwise make it clear. Check it out below, or on AO3 here! This snazzy divider comes from @firefly-graphics and I love it <3 <- Previous Chapter (3/72) Next Chapter (4/72) ->

Eating together was routine in the Compound. Breakfast lacked formality, with people coming and going and grabbing fruit or toast here and there, but typically lunch, and especially dinner, was a group affair – much to my chagrin.

I’d skipped breakfast in favour of some – clumsily one-handed – boxing, panting as the bag swung under my blows, exhausted body sweating profusely and burning with a satisfying ache.

But there was no escaping the table now, with most of the team on-site and gathered around the mahogany surface. Clint glanced my way as I sat, only offering me a comforting smile as he piled sandwiches and salad on his plate.

God, there’s so many people… How am I supposed to get away with this?

You’re going  to have to try. You can’t let them win.

I reached for the salad tongs, spreading a layer of lettuce and cucumber across my plate artfully – without dressing, of course – and dropped a pair of sandwiches on top. My fingers began to delicately pick apart the bread, eyes latched on whoever was speaking the loudest at any given time; if I looked invested enough, my actions could be seen to be unconscious, despite the fact that not a word of it was being processed.

First ham, then crust, found its way into my sleeve without raising suspicion. The rest of the bread lay shredded and scattered, seeming for all the world like crumbs from more than I’d served myself. With a satisfied smile, I allowed myself a few pieces of crunchy lettuce, delightfully cool and crisp. Clint was engaged in arguing playfully with Tony about something or another, while Bruce attempted to explain an inconceivable scientific concept to a baffled-looking Thor, who only nodded politely.

Nobody was watching me. I was safe.

I rose to leave the table as the team began to disperse, hoping to find anonymity in the bustle.

I was arrogant, and I made a mistake.

As I reached out to pick up my plate, remaining salad pressed into small lumps to seem less, my grip on my sleeve released, and an errant crust rolled across the table.

My breath arrested, panic kicking in, and I glanced at the two men most suspicious of me, praying they hadn’t noticed and thanking the Gods when I found them engaged in discussion.

“Natasha, if you didn’t like the sandwiches, you could have just said so – you don’t need to hide them!”

Tony’s voice was light and teasing, but my blood ran cold as all eyes turned to me. There was mostly only confusion, but I found the fear and pity in the cerulean depths, along with something akin to anger.

“Tony, keep her there.” Clint’s voice was clipped and measured as he strode from the room, aiming for the kitchen. Panic seized me as I realised his intent and I lunged forward, determined to keep him away from my secret. A firm arm wrapped around my waist, restraining me effectively, and I didn’t have the energy to fight him off – but that didn’t stop me from howling and kicking, scrabbling against the limbs around my abdomen with my uninjured hand.

“Tony, get the fuck off me!” I yowled, hissing and spitting like a wildcat. In his confusion he only gripped me harder, adding to my panic and distress.

Clint was back a heartbeat later, trash can in hand.

No.

No.

He unceremoniously dumped the contents onto the table, revealing my shame for those in the know – balls of compressed noodles spilling from napkins, half-chewed garlic bread that had previously been tucked carefully between scraps and liner.

“Clint, what the hell is going on? What are you doing?” Tony’s voice, uncomfortably close to my ear, made me wince.

“This,” Clint began, gesturing specifically at the masticated and glistening noodles, “is what remains of a dinner I made for Natasha last night.”

There was a brief pause, full of confusion, before Thor stepped forward. “We can’t all be amazing cooks, Barton. Don’t take it so personally – she probably just wanted to spare your feelings.”

There was a murmur of assent from the gathered, unwitting teammates, though I could feel Bruce’s eyes on me, sad and sorry. Only Tony said nothing, the sharp angles of my shoulder blades digging into his chest, fingers unconsciously splaying across the hollows of my ribcage as understanding dawned.

“I don’t remember the last time I saw her eat a full meal,” he murmured, half to himself. “Is that what this is about?”

With a glance at Clint, who nodded his consent, Bruce stepped forward. “Yesterday, Natasha passed out on a run. That’s how she broke her wrist, though I know she told you all that she tripped. We – Clint and I – realised that she had lost weight. A lot of weight,” he added, voice low and remorseful. “When we approached her about it, she managed to convince us she was fine. She relied on her relationship with Barton to get her out of trouble, professing that he should trust her. We agreed to not pursue specialist care, on the condition that she ate dinner with Clint. He… We thought that she had. We were wrong,” Bruce finished, gesturing at my shame littering the dining table.

“Specialist care… For what?” Steve prompted, his all-American boy-scout face furrowed in sweet confusion.

“For an eating disorder,” Clint introjected, his words barely audible and laden with guilt.

The silence was palpable.

Tony, in his shock, slackened the arm around my waist, and I used the opportunity to propel myself away from him, turning to face the team with a snarl.

“I don’t understand why you can’t just leave me alone,” I spat, cursing the tears forming in my eyes.

Don’t cry. You need to make them see that you’re strong, not weak. Don’t you dare fucking cry.

“What I do is none of your business. You’re not my family – you have no control over me. You’re not-” the Red Room, I finished internally, wincing at my almost-slip-up.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Red,” Clint argued, stepping forward, his hands raised diplomatically. “Everyone in this room – and several more besides – we are your family. We love you, and we just don’t want to see you hurt yourself.”

I laughed maniacally, running a hand through my hair. “No. You just want to keep me trapped here.”

“… Trapped?” Bruce repeated, his voice almost a whisper and heavy with grief.

“Мне здесь не место,” I snarled, the Russian flowing easily from my lips.

“Where else would you belong?” Clint pressed, the only one to have understood me.

Clint always understood me.

He doesn’t understand you now. Did he ever, really? He knows the words but he never really listened.

“дом.”

“Natasha, this is your home,” he enthused. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.”

“Мало ли понимаешь! Я должен вернуться!” I hissed, backing away slowly, one eye on the Captain as he inched toward my side, likely intending to cut off my escape.

Clint’s eyes widened with horrified realisation, hands dropping uselessly. “You ‘have to go back’… Back where? Back… Back there?”

“да,” I confirmed with a nod, gaze flicking to the approaching Captain. “дом.”

“Don’t you remember what they did to you?” Bruce offered quietly, an expression of deep betrayal and sadness on his face.

“Они сделали меня сильным!”

“They made you broken,” Clint retorted, his eyes scanning the length of my body, “not strong.”

Liar. He just wants to keep you here. He wants to keep you fat, and weak, and-

“-на твоей милости!” I finished aloud, gaze narrowed threateningly. Clint hesitated, visibly recoiling.

“’At my mercy’? What do you mean? Nat?”

The last word was raised as I turned, shrugging off the Captain with a menacing snarl as he stepped closer.

“Я знаю, ты помнишь,” I threw back over my shoulder, a parting shot as I fled.

I know you remember.

[svramblrdegg]

The feeling of fasting getting easier >>>

[stonerexicfaery]

literally

[silentlosing]

! TW !

I co, znowu coś jesz i nie zapisujesz tego do bilansu? Myślisz, że jeśli tego nie uwzględnisz, to ten tłuszcz się magicznie nie odłoży? Oszukujesz sama siebie. Jeśli będziesz nadal tak postępować, to nawet za miesiąc czy rok nie schudniesz.

Jasne, wmawiaj sobie, że „jedna czekoladka nic nie zmieni”. Jasne, jedna nie. Ale jedna tu, jedna tam, kolejna gdzieś indziej, a sadło rośnie. Powinnaś się wstydzić. Jesteś obrzydliwa. Oszukujesz siebie i innych. Możesz to zrobić, ale swojego ciała nie oszukasz. Nie oszukasz cukru i kalorii z tego batonika. Nie zmienisz się, jeśli nadal będziesz tak postępować.

Szczerze mówiąc, to żałosne jak cholera i śmieszne. Siedzisz cały dzień na tyłku i oczekujesz, że będziesz szczupła. Mówisz, że chcesz szybszych rezultatów, ale nie robisz nic, żeby w tym pomóc. Cały czas tylko marudzisz i narzekasz. I na dodatek masz czelność nienawidzić siebie po obżarstwie. Nikt cię nie zmuszał do obżarstwa, tylko ty sama. Nikt cię nie zmuszał... dosłownie nikt. Ani rodzice, ani przyjaciele, ani nikt inny. Więc możesz próbować przebaczyć sobie ile chcesz, ale pamiętaj, że to wszystko było twoją własną zasługą.

To samo z jedzeniem. Masz kontrolę. MOŻESZ kontrolować ile i co jesz. Więc dlaczego ciągle jesz? Głoduj i już. I nie obchodzi mnie, jeśli mówisz „ale już to robię”, bo oczywiście nie robisz, skoro nie osiągnęłaś jeszcze swojego celu. Jesteś grubą i leniwą kluchą, która nie ma determinacji, żeby osiągnąć swój cel. Smutno mi na ciebie patrzeć, bo wszystko o czym myślę, to to, gdzie mogłabyś już być, gdybyś nie zawaliła tyle razy.

- - - ♡ - - - ♡ - - - ♡ - - - ♡ - - - ♡ - - - ♡ - - - ♡ - - - ♡ - - - ♡ - - -

Dużo bardziej jestem aktywna prywatnie - tam cenzura Tumblra jeszcze nie dotarła - i bardzo chętnie będę Was wspierać i pomagać 🦋

- - - ♡ - - - ♡ - - - ♡ - - - ♡ - - - ♡ - - - ♡ - - - ♡ - - - ♡ - - - ♡ - - -

Kilka lat temu miałam tutaj bardzo aktywne konto, dwukrotnie reanimowane od zera (fatgirlpig). Niestety zdążyłam zauważyć, że tutejsze restrykcje są zdecydowanie zwielokrotnione od czasu mojego trzeciego bana. Nie będę starać się prowadzić na siłę bardzo aktywnego konta, gdyż z obecną cenzurą mija się to z celem. Niemniej będę wrzucać meanspo i porady od czasu do czasu.

[fllavmur]

shit on top of that tomorrow i'll have to have lunch with both my parents at home. i don't want to and i can't eat. help.

[atychiphobicm0th]

MY FRIENDS ARE THE BEST BRO

[ayuayaya]

Summer is so close.

Gotta lock in guys 😔🙏

[bunviiebab3]

only good thing about pain from braces is that eating hurts A LOT😭

[voiceoffenrisulfr]

Multitudes Chapter Three A Widow Will Always Fight...

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 -> Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 -> Sit-down meals were never Nat's forte.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 -> 1162

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 -> (E) disordered eating habits, purging, exercise as self-punishment

𝐀/𝐍 -> Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. Please read the tags, and proceed with caution. Disclaimer - this work is a reflection of our own experiences with negative self-image, self-harm, eating disorders, and suicidal ideation. It is not a portrayal of any other individual's experiences and should not be taken as such. Check it out below, or on AO3 here! This snazzy divider comes from @firefly-graphics and I love it <3

<- Previous Chapter (2/72) Next Chapter (4/72) ->

I found myself sat quite unwillingly, the heels of my hands tucked into the long sleeves of my sweatshirt as best the cast would allow.

Tell him you don’t like noodles. Tell him you’re allergic to sesame. Tell him you don’t eat meat any more. Tell him anything. You can’t eat that.

I don’t have a choice, I argued weakly, spinning my fork through the sauce-slicked pasta, pieces of bacon clinging to the liquid fat stubbornly. If I don’t eat…

They don’t have to know, The Voice replied, oddly soothing and soft. People with actual eating disorders can hide food in plain sight. I know you have less willpower than them, but are you really so stupid as to not be able to get some stuff off that plate without shoving it down your throat?

I can always make myself sick, I protested, avoiding Clint’s eyes as he sat opposite me, watching me calmly.

Be smarter. Operate under the assumption that you can’t – that they won’t give you the opportunity. It’s better to just never take it in to start with.

I nodded minutely, thoughtful, fork still twirling around and around. Clint, to his credit, had opted to eat with me, garlic bread on a shared plate between us, a mug of water on either coaster.

It could almost be a date. If it wasn’t for the fear and force.

Another flash - this time, it was Clint’s face, hard and without sympathy as his hands grasped my wrists.

I took a sip of water to wash away the bile in my throat, devoid of any external reaction as I carefully reburied the memory.

The meal was staggered and slow, with Clint pacing himself with me – no doubt trying to minimise the time he was there explicitly to watch me.

Fortunately, his divided attention turned out to be a blessing. While one of my baggy sleeves wasn’t an option – I didn’t fancy trying to explain ants in my cast to Bruce – the other was free and clear, and slowly becoming inundated with carefully squeezed noodles, flicked from the end of my fork when Clint’s eyes were on his plate. Other pieces were squirreled into my napkin, or chewed up, false swallowed, and spat into my mug. I was cutting, smearing, and spreading like a pro – particularly proud of a thick wedge of bacon hidden inside a burnt breadcrust. There was a shocking amount of pasta sauce plastered in places that one should never have pasta sauce; in the end, however, less than a quarter of my now-empty plate made its way into my stomach, although even that felt like a rock in my abdomen, pressing against the (noodle-encrusted) waistband of my joggers. Clint, fortunately, seemed to eat almost mechanically, reaching for piece after piece of the buttery garlic bread without thinking about the ratio.

I sat back carefully, fingertips clamped over the ends of my sleeves, and delicately rubbed my swollen stomach. “That was amazing, Clint. Thank you.”

Not making a fuss was definitely the better option – I’d never have gotten away with most of that if he had reason to suspect me.

They will continue to be suspicious from here on. You need to get better. You did well… But not well enough.

I’ll keep trying, I enthused, fighting the urge to grin at my meagre success. I’ll keep getting better. They’ll be pleased when I go back, I promise.

“It’s no problem,” Clint replied easily, stretching back in his own chair with a groan. “I’m glad you got some food in you… And I’m sorry if I overreacted,” he added gently, his gaze cutting to mine for a heartbeat. “You were right. I should have trusted you. And you’ve proved me wrong, okay? Let’s leave it alone now, Nat.”

I did smile then, warm and ingenuine. Oh, Clint…

No. He doesn’t care about you. Only the Red Room cares. They’re the only ones who ever tried to make you better. Clint – and all the others – they just want you to be fat and easy. They will never understand you… Not like I do.

“Thanks, Clint,” I answered, that same smile still solid on my lips. “It’s okay. I understand – you were just worried. But see? I’m fine. Just a bit hot, a bit tired, and a bit of a fall.”

I escaped back to my room in peace, after fighting to reign in my enthusiasm about clearing up the plates. Clanking dishes hid the sound of my carefully placing food into the trashcan, dragging Clint’s cooking scraps over the top, effectively erasing my sins.

I sighed as I peeled the food-encrusted clothes from my body, wincing as scraps of noodles hit the floor with a wet splat, thick and unappetising.

You still ate too much. You need to get rid of it.

Another sigh, this time as my underwear hit the ground. “We hid most of it, didn’t we?”

Not enough. Do you want to be stuck here, is that it? Too fat to be of use – to even move? If you can’t get out of bed, it’ll be really easy to-

“Okay, okay,” I muttered, pressing my fingers to my closed eyelids forcefully. “Okay.”

The sound of the shower covered my retching, the gel poured into the running water smothering the worst of the odour as I straightened from where I knelt over the toilet, uninjured hand slick to the second knuckle and clutching the porcelain desperately. I rolled the knots from my shoulders, ribs singing in protest at the dry heaving, and stepped under the spray of the water, tipping back my head to rinse the acrid taste from my mouth.

It was, blissfully and briefly, silent in my mind.

It was the only time I could see my reality.

My gaze lingered on the blood-red cast, carefully bagged and held away from the stream, the slight purple bruising of my fingertips the only indication of the injury underneath. Eyes trailed along my arm and paused on the crossed, cross lines on my bicep, open and angry, the thin layer of bubbled fat starkly yellow against the red maw, visible muscles straining as I moved.

I sighed, scrubbing the last of the food from my body and the bile from my chin before flicking off the shower, trembling body stepping into the cool of the bathroom. Despite myself, I found my gaze moving to the mirror, watching with morbid fascination the popcorn chain of my vertebrae, sharp shoulder blades carved like ethereal wings from marble.

I looked… Sick.

You look strong, The Voice countered proudly, the words a caress on my beaten flesh.

“Oh, you’re back, are you?” I muttered insolently, then bit my cheek, cursing my lack of control.

Push ups. Now. You’re still too fat, too weak. They won’t want you like this.

I let out a world-weary sigh, lowering my abused body to the ground, starved muscles screaming in protest as I began my punishment.

[svramblrdegg]

100% sure my life would be easier if I was skinny. People treat you nicer when you’re thin and people actually think you’re pretty. The idea of being skinny makes me smile inside and out. Please let me get what I want for once.

[stonerexicfaery]

[themoonlikedmyposts]

I feel like I'm stuck, like I can't lose weight...

[fllavmur]

today i only ate dinner, and i don't know why i thought i could overdo it or eat like a normal person. and with that i went over my calorie limit. i want to kill myself. lock me up and let me starve for days. please, i need to lose at least 5kg by christmas.

[atychiphobicm0th]

TW!! (Disordered eating and SH)

I think I just ate around maybe 500 cals and I’m having a panic attack I’ve been gaining weight again and I’m so upset with myself. Im so ugly and fat in the stomach and I genuinely can’t fucking do this anymore. Im gonna cut the inside of my mouth and hopefully it’ll keep me from eating because apparently I don’t have any fucking self control. Maybe I’ll slice up my fat stomach while I’m at it because I deserve the pain. I’ll do my arm too because maybe I’ll hit another artery and actually have the balls to let myself bl33d out this time.

[gummyparasitosis]

why we id as a zombie (HUGE TW)

AUTOCANNIBALISM: we eat and swallow our own flesh! this includes (but isn't limited to; from most normal to grossest) dry lip skin, skin inside our cheek, the skin off our fingers, my scabs, (dermatophagia), my period blood chunks, vaginal discharge

POPPING JOINTS: i have multiple autoimmune disorders that affect my joints, tendons, and ligaments ^_^ my body is constantly creaking and popping like a zombie's!!!! i am also hyper mobile and my joints move/dislocate very easy!!!!

CHRONIC FATIGUE: im always sleepy like a zombie from ME/CFS and constant illness XP also my muscles get tired super easily, making me sluggish like a real life zombie!

SUICIDE ATTEMPT: i shouldn't be alive right now! 2 years ago i took a near-fatal attempt on my life and i personally feel like i've "died" from that. i will never feel alive after it and i don't really want to feel alive. i love being a real life zombie!

(graphics from @ unknown-till)

[deficitcalorico]

✧˖°🌷📎low cal recipe 👩‍🍳