#starve-cut-purge

[nanamis-bigtie]

Trust Me

Character: Geto Suguru Reader: afab (aka reader with a vagina; no gendered pronouns, ambiguous body, word "cunt" used to describe genitalia) Word Count: 1.3k CWs: explicit nsfw content, pwp, vaginal sex, breath play/choking, size difference, power imbalance, implied mind break, open ending A/N: repost from failed kinktober attempt; unlike the other two this text I actually like so decided to not purge it from existence jjk masterlist // ao3 version

“What are you doing?”

Geto’s hips stutter, then completely stop, and the haze around you thins out. The air is still sticky like tar; your chest heaves hard as you fight for each draft of it, trying to soothe the first pangs of exhaustion in your lungs. You’re not sure for how long you’ve struggled but your ecstasy-ridden brain is already balancing on the line of a complete black-out. No wonder you need a longer moment to even realize sex has stopped, then another one to focus your blurry vision on the face of your lover hovering right over yours. Limited air supply doesn’t help your case either—neither does the pressure cease in the slightest as seconds pass.

Geto smiles softly and grabs your wrist, “You’re suffocating yourself.” 

He peels your hand off your face, you realize when you're finally able to breathe free again. Forced, hungry breath suddenly expands your lungs, and you start coughing, tears pricking in your eyes—from exertion and from the intense wave of embarrassment crashing over you. How could you miss the fact it was you who was cutting oxygen on you all this time?

Geto waits until you're finished, silent but clearly amused with the whole situation. He sits on heels, back straight, to give you more space—and better views. By this time his robe has completely slid down his back, revealing his toned, and adorned with dark hair, chest in its full glory. Still holding your wrist, he guides you to trace his collarbones and up, along his neck and jaw. Short and rough five o'clock shadow tickles your palm as he nuzzles his cheek into it, smirking down at your puzzled and messy state. He keeps smiling even when pressing a hot, wet kiss to the inner side of your wrist.

"Don't give me that look, love." With a free hand he reaches to wipe sweat off your forehead. "I wouldn't stop, if I knew what was going on."

You cough for the last time, your throat finally finding ease, "H-how bad did I—"

"You started getting pale."

You frown as your oxygen-starved brain struggles to put all the puzzles together. Well, you're not that unaware to never notice you like holding breath or pushing your face into pillows during sex. You just couldn't pinpoint when and how exactly it was happening—and couldn't grasp the difference between all those little moments and the situation from a minute ago. Why did he stop? Geto is not one to treat you in bed like a crystal. He dominates over you with ease, his charm drags out of you shadows and secrets you've been not aware of until he presents them to you on an open palm. He welcomes every new kink you discover thanks to him with irresistible enthusiasm; no, it wouldn't be in his style to withdraw once you put yourself on a set road.

So, were you in danger? Were you harming yourself?

Collecting your thoughts now, calmer and safer, you're sure you weren't. No, it felt good and not threatening by no means. Just: intense, intoxicating and, obviously, suffocating. You were fighting for breath for real, you struggled—but also enjoyed, you have to admit that.

"You've been doing this before but never that far." Geto explains, as if reading questions forming in your mind. "If I knew you would, I would play it differently."

He's close again, broad chest filling the space between the two of you with ease. It's not hard to feel small against a huge man like him, especially when pressed harder into the pillows, your knees pulled close to his chest. Dim candlelight dances with shadows on his face, once gentle and smiling, once dark and dangerous, full of intense, feral even, need. A mix you know well—a promise of the most exciting sensations.

When Geto places hand on your throat, you simply gasp with enthusiasm, your cunt spasming tight around him.

"If you want to continue with it, I don't mind." He answers you with a smirk, his voice soft like velvet, sharp like a katana. "But we're doing it on my terms."

The hold is adjusted—slightly, but you immediately feel the difference when he squeezes you just a little. Adrenaline and lust in your veins perk their hungry heads up at the pressure, blood rushes towards your head and starts filling your brain with a new dose of addictive haziness.

The sensation disappears as soon as it has appeared. 

"Do you—" You start a question, cut short with a mewl when he ruts hips against you, his cock sliding deliciously deep into you. 

"Of course it's not my first time." Geto leans close and kisses a stray droplet of sweat off your temple. "Wanna try again when the fire is still burning? You don't need much for a finish."

The hunger for the sensation is strong, you realize, when your mewls for more sound embarrassingly like pleading. Your lover looks down at you with adoration, warmth and love—and unsettling gleam beaming from his dark, almost black eyes.

"Here's the rule." Explaining patiently, he adjusts your position the way you don't sink anymore, instead firmly facing him. "If you feel like you're flying away, grab my arm. I will stop."

His big hand finds its way to your throat again. Your breath hitches at the lightest touch, anticipation giving you almost as much of adrenaline as suffocation. 

"I'll be gentle…for now." Geto continues, rubbing thumb at the side of your neck soothingly. "Just a testing touch. I need to know you better from this side before I go a little crazy…"

He cuts the distance again, his hot breath grazing your cheek, then ear he nibbles on with sadistic precision, "All those sweet faces you make drive me insane. I might slip too hard, if I lose control…"

You're caught mid needy gasp, his hand grabbing you harder, again focusing pressure on points that immediately rush your blood towards the right places. Surprised, you jerk and twitch under him—a move he quickly crushes in the bud with his weight. In this position, he wouldn't have to squeeze your throat to choke you. Knees pressed to your chest, dull pain in tense thighs, and his chest bearing down on your ribs—he tears the air out of you just being between your legs, towering over you with sheer difference of size between you two. Even his presence is suffocating, forcing you to hold your breath back in awe and anticipation, in blind submission, one stronger than trust.

If he told you to keep your throat closed, you would listen, past your capability and safety.

"Breathe." Geto orders instead. And you listen, of course you do, such an obedient thing gazing into the darkness of his hungry eyes. You open your mouth, drool pooling at its corners, and gasp for air: truly a greedy, overzealous draft.

And then you realize. He still keeps the hold; two merciless fingers control the flow of blood as you struggle to fill your lungs with oxygen. Air squeezes past the little pressure at his palm but it can't relieve your mind, the most starved of it of all. 

"Breathe. Keep breathing." Geto's voice turns sharper at the sight of hesitation in your eyes, but his smile doesn't fade. "Show me how pretty you are when you struggle."

You empty your lungs and try anew, harder, your throat constricting on your own doing, until the flow of air turns into desperate wheezing.

"Does it hurt?" The more you struggle, the softer his expression becomes, the softest you've seen in a while. "Does it hurt when you fill your lungs all you want but still can't breathe?"

Geto wipes drool from your chin, pushes fingers between your parted lips and deeper until you start gagging. Tortured throat squeezes tighter and keeps spasming even after he withdraws, as if you started drowning. It's bad, it's really bad, your consciousness starts slipping, flying… But hell, it's too good to stop. Too addictive to be enough. Too much and too little at the same time.

"I wonder," he muses, his gentle, kind face fading with your vision going blurry, "if this is why they call it a small death?"

[codywanweekspotlight]

Weekly Spotlight

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[k9ribs]

i hate that as a society were so desensitized to literally everything. suicidal and saying 'i want to die' had no meaning anymore, i will never be able to express how badly i want to be wiped off the face of the earth because anything in relation to suicidal ideation or even mental health in general is just so normalized that it goes over the tops of societies head. i feel like things like self harm and eating disorders have become so much more severe because theres no one that cares enough to try and help them out of that rut, so individuals cut deeper, starve longer, purge more, isolate themselves, argue more, just for that attention they crave from people that care the least, because once, just once in their lives, do they want sanctuary.

[maahtigor]

Monster acht

Prettiest of pleases 🤞🫰😋

Apologies for the wait kind ma'am, I was unfortunately busy with walking my fish 💔 alas, here is your serving of the Amalgamation™️ from the hit novel Toonlicious in Splungeon 🍴🐺🔥

(big infodump under cut lmao)

Acht was originally a tall-man with no feathers nor hooves, who one day found themself very fond of a girl that went to their school. Callie was, however, an elf, a race known to have the quadruple lifespan of the average tall-man.

Acht despised the thought of leaving her to be by herself until the depths of hell decided to purge her soul from the land of the living, so they began studying every form of magic they could possibly use to elongate their lifespan. When they learned about chimeras and how the length of their lives changed depending on the creatures that were combined, they decided to, uh, curse themselves for eternity.

Well, it backfired. Now they lurk in dungeons hiding away from monster-hunting adventurers and has really itchy unpreened pin feathers on spots they can't reach. Also, having to chop off extra limbs that keep regrowing every other week wasn't really a concern they ever thought they'd have before. Acht never has to worry about starving in the dungeons though, those wings are worth at least a month supply of chicken nuggets 😋🤞✨

[nxposure]

On my last blog, I wrote about my eating disorder at great length. I think it's time to do it again. If you don't like long text posts, feel free to skip this, but don't skim read it and reply because that's not nice.

TW if you need it, eating disorders, self harm, body dysmorphia.

----

People seem to think that eating disorders don't really apply to men. I spent my entire childhood listening to just about everyone passing judgement on other people's weight. As a boy, my apparent role models were all athletes, thin or muscular actors, skinny popstars and guys in music, and any husky person was either funny or tragic.

As I got older, I noticed these attitudes getting worse. Muscular men between acting jobs would stop cutting and starving their bodies, but would still look like peak physical condition but would be referred to as having a 'dad bod'.

Older still, I'd see people waggling their little fingers making jokes about small dicks, or laughing about people who cum to quick. People were too tall or not tall enough. Then they'd be too skinny if they were too fat. Then, laughs about baldness or their bodies being too hairy. It went on and on.

It melted my brain. I wanted to be whatever this idea shape was and deep down, I knew it wasn't possible, and I developed an immovable self loathing that I suspect I'll carry with me through my whole life.

I'd hear women getting similar criticisms, and the criticisms came equally from women and men, gay and straight, and of all races and creeds, and I think somewhere in my thoughts, I gave up trying to find a peaceful way of navigating this and began to purge every time I ate. I was playing a lot of team sports and would vomit before every game. I'd then go home, eat, and repeat. I became dangerously thin and people would tell me my body looked great.

I would pass out a lot through exhaustion and my eyes became dark. At some point I collapsed and hit my face on a shelf, then a radiator, and pretended to everyone that I'd just been in a fight.

After a short time thinking I'd fixed myself after scaring myself when I'd collapsed, it started again. I switched out bulimia for anorexia. I was now not eating at all. I remember hitting my hand with a spoon over and over when someone brought me some food to work, anxiety in overdrive as I hoped they wouldn't notice me not touching any of the food they gave me. That happened a lot and the back my hand was frequently purple with bruises.

I've kept a photo of a more recent period so I have something to check, in case I've dropped too much weight. This was me not that long ago, irresponsibly thin and I'd made myself very poorly. The skirt is cute though.

It was around this time that I'd collapsed again, this time in public. I was rushed to hospital with malnutrition and it was in the middle of lockdown so hospitals were swamped and everything was weird.

I was given a COVID test and while the nurses went to do my test, I sneaked out of the hospital because I didn't want them to tell me anything about how thin I was, even though they'd already clocked me. I walked home and collapsed three more times in the street, and twice more at home. I managed to get myself back to hospital eventually and spent the night under observation and was fed sugary gels and put on a drip to try and replace some of what my body had been missing for months.

I again discharged myself and ran away from the problem.

I was disgusted with myself. I was being irresponsible. I thought I looked enormous. I then made myself more depressed because I shouldn't talk about people's bodies like that. I loved people of all shapes and sizes and here I was, judging someone for being fat. I didn't eat or drink a single thing for two weeks after being in hospital. I was going mad. It was time to tell my friends what was going on, and it turned out a number of them had already worked it out.

One of the things I needed to fix was some of the people I sought advice from. I'd found people in secret who also had eating disorders and people who self harmed. It sounded like we were helping each other from the outside in, but the reality was that we were all enabling each other. Some call it trauma bonding. I call it unwell people egging each other on and even being competitive about it.

One girl said to me that my eating disorder wasn't as bad as hers. She gave me tips on how to act like I was getting better to other people. Saying you're trying is as good as actually trying, she added. It's all part of the performance.

I didn't want to be ill. I just wanted to not feel violently sick when I thought about my own body existing. I wanted to not be perceived at all, and to be left in darkened rooms, wasting away. While I spent all those nights, just lying there, I realised that this illness wasn't like other illnesses. Cancer wants to devour you. Broken bones want to heal. This eating disorder wanted me to stay alive but maximise the suffering in a prolonged bout of self harm. Me being dead was no use to my dysmorphia. I did just enough to stay alive, so I could maximise the suffering. It was like an endurance sport with no medal.

At some point, my name was put forward to appear on a news programme on national television. One of my supposed support network worked in TV and was asked if they knew anyone who had what had been rebranded as 'manorexia'. It's funny - even when showing concern, people still do stupid things like giving an illness that applies to anyone a ridiculous name. We don't call it blokeaemia do we?

After speaking to the genuinely respected and very nice journalist who I'd seen on television a lot, she was heavy handed in her questions. Things like "is it just vanity then?" is one that sticks in my memory. After 3 days of back and forth, the news story was dropped because a panda had given birth in a zoo somewhere. My sense of the absurd and gallows humour kicked in, mercifully. Men's eating disorders, relegated beneath a captive animal having a baby.

Another friend who was genuinely being well-meaning told me how brave I was, "going around telling everyone you have a woman's disease". I wasn't angry because I knew what they meant, but to someone more fragile, it could have gone horribly wrong. Another friend simply said "I don't want to ever talk about this - it's too upsetting."

I became aware of famous men talking about their eating disorders. A politician called John Prescott spoke of his and everyone laughed at it and made jokes on panel shows, based entirely on the fact that he wasn't thin enough. Everyone laughed at Hugh Jackman on talkshows when he spoke of the starvation and duress he put his body under to look a certain way for movies. Thin women were pointed at when they put an ounce of weight on. I heard women sniggering about other women saying "what does she look like in that dress?"

More recently, people would berate the 45th president of the United States for being "fat", rather than going after more pertinent things like his whole personality and terrible views. Fat, in this instance, was the ultimate sin, not being pro-fascist. I noticed how many larger men were clowning around at their own expense, and women would coo about them online. People like Jack Black - talented, good looking, charismatic - would be met with "I don't care that he's fat".

So where am I now? Mentally, the damage is done and I don't think I'll ever lose the will to harm myself. However, since my last collapse, I swore I'd never go there again. I rigidly eat three times a day. I've actively learned to enjoy the cooking process. It's been incredibly difficult, perhaps in part because I stubbornly refuse any professional help. I looked around for a psychiatrist who would help at one point, but every single one told me that they weren't taking men on.

Way back when, I started sharing photos of my body on Tumblr in a state of undress because I wanted to normalise how I looked. If I sandwiched myself between everyone else's nudes which I thought were beautiful, then I gave myself a chance to think the same of my own. It certainly helped. There's something about the kind of people this site attracts that celebrates a variety of people and I can be flooded with dopamine when my photos get complimented. They're compliments from people that sometimes get it, and that matters. Some people just think I'm being thirsty, and sometimes, they're absolutely correct.

My stomach has grown. There's fat bits on my back which I've never seen before. My neck got chunky where my jawline used to be razor sharp. At long last, I'm learning to love this. I love the softness of people's bodies, and it's taken me decades to realise that I'm just people too. I wear soft clothes that feel nice against my skin. I've collaborated on photos with wonderful people. While my dysmorphia is so bad that I doubt I'll ever find it easy to sexually pleasure myself, I've been shocked to find that people on here have actually had me feeling like a viable and sexy person! It's a completely new feeling to me and I'm trying to get better at taking compliments instead of pushing them away.

I've written about this before and at some length, but I feel it's important to do it again so it doesn't get lost. It might help someone. It might help people understand me better. It might help someone understand what their friend is going through. It might just be enough to offer an interesting perspective and nothing more.

I'm doing better than I've done in memory and it's weird and makes me feel vulnerable. I don't want to get complacent and writing this reminds me of how far I've come and not to let this terrible illness sneak up on me again. I've been through some horrendous emotional stress recently, and that's exactly the kind of time where a thing like this can reintroduce itself into my brain.

I'm doing okay though, genuinely. I can only write about these things when I'm in a good place. I hope you are too. If anyone ever needs to speak to me about anything like this, I can't promise I can fix you, but I can definitely empathise and I will root for you.

(please forgive any typos or garbled language in this - I wrote it in one take, off the cuff, without editing)

[cherrydi3tcoke]

my poem about anorexia:

"ana"

my caved in chest

and chicken arms

my pencil thin legs

and all my scars

my hollowed out cheeks

the rituals begin

the bags under my sockets

the definition of my chin

the fatigue every morning

the dizzy every night

the hunger pain

and the shivers

triggering myself

ana is the boss

find a way to cope

weight loss

decreased testosterone

or the absence of your period

workout routines

food diaries

nausea

sudden death

making others worried

shortness of breath

constipation or diarrhea

cut out food groups

weigh in every day

osteoporosis

my hair falling out

lanugo on my skin

bruises on my legs

my collarbones thin

my spine visible

my sternum is too

my bicep non-existent

daydreaming about my meals

every calorie counting

working out for hours on end

stomach flat

unable to keep a friend

a kilo or a pound

obsessed with the numbers

check each ingredient

water instead of oil

unsweetened almond milk

or a rice cake

oatmeal

scared to attempt to bake

blueish fingers

yellow-tinted skin

anemia

distorted self-image

feeding all my friends

counting while I eat

portioning myself

starving is my treat

women

men

children

and teens

big

tall

short and small

haunted by her curse

"have you eaten today?"

"I'm worried about you"

"Do you want some food?"

"Eat a burger"

memorize the macros

"i am not a dog, food is not my treat"

cry yourself to sleep

"but I've seen you eat"

hours in mirrors

isolate from others

heart palpations

and restless nights

incurable thirst

intermittent fasting

binges or purges

all effects are lasting

normal on the outside

dying on the inside

questions from passersby

self-harm

"just one more hour"

"just one more meal"

"i already ate"

"it's not that big of a deal"

suicidal thoughts

being underweight

scared of being healthy

scared to get too sick

feeding tubes

hospitalization

thinking about food

hyperventilation

racing thoughts

loneliness

using laxatives

diets

going to the gym

going for a run

bodychecking

never having fun

infertility

cracked, dry skin

thin, brittle nails

weakened teeth

ruining my life

ruining my relationships

ruining my future

unable to eat a bag of chips

eating disorder speaks in my place

therapy

"just eat"

excuses for each meal

obsessed with my intake

obsessed with the math

obsessed with my weight

following this path

ice

water

gum

coffee

hoping that they notice

never tell a soul

hide it all from others

staring at my empty bowl

atypical or not

never feeling valid

covering my body

starving till I'm on my deathbed

recovery is useless

"i want to stay this way"

I'll have to fight my whole life

to keep her voice at bay

searches on the Internet

headaches

vitamin deficient

aspartame

comparison

"no cal is better than low cal"

refeeding syndrome

"I'm not good enough"

"once on the lips forever on the hips"

quick ways to lose weight

calculate my BMI

freak out about what I just ate

hide my secret

hide my body

keep on the low

till I'm skin and bone

ana,

oh how she will lie

she doesn't want you to be skinny

she wants you to die.

-zsc

[emmg]

Did you write that Elgar’nan/Lavellan thing yet? Asking for a friend 👀 (the friend is me) and if not fully can you share a wip for the starving masses? I may or may not have reread pretty bait several times oops

Yeah, let's not talk or mention my earlier writing lol. Doesn’t exist. Never happened. That’s all ancient history, like some cursed artifact I’m this close to chucking into a digital volcano. One day, I’m just gonna snap, delete the whole lot off ao3, and purge my soul of the cringe that is my old writing. The pre-2023 stuff? Especially cursed. It’s a miracle I haven’t rage-quit and wiped it from the face of the earth yet.

But as far this particular thing is concerned—not finished I'm afraid and I'm not entirely sure when it will be since I'm still trying to piece together the plot I want it to have. If you want to brainstorm with me, be my guest and slide into my dms. Rn I'm just trying to figure out a reason for keeping up the veil with Solas trapped inside because I'm not killing the egg lol

But yeah sure, here's an excerpt that features him and a very angry Ellana below the cut lol

She will carve a path through every Venatori fool enough to fall under his spell. She’ll slit one’s throat, string another up like a butchered animal, disembowel the next—and when she reaches Elgar'nan, she’ll fucking stab him. She’ll carve him into ribbons, strip him bare, stretch every piece of his skin in the sun to dry. She’ll keep him alive, make him watch, force him to witness as she devours him piece by piece, the way the Veil now feasts on Solas. 

She will be rage unbound. She will be a blood-soaked revolution. 

He may have pulled the sun from the heavens in Dalish legends, may have been the first light of creation itself, but she will shatter him. She will break his bones, drink his blood, make him feel the hollow ache of ten years of endless, aching want. Ten years spent searching, only to find Solas, touch him, and watch the Fade claim him once more. Watch him wither, watch him fracture, watch lives fall around him like leaves. Ten years, ten years— 

"Perhaps," Emmrich ventures, wringing his hands, glancing between them, "Magister Pavus and I should speak to the Evanuris alone. You need rest." 

She knows what he truly means. Someone ought to separate Dorian and Inquisitor Lavellan—she’d overheard him murmuring it to Harding before they set out. And he’s not wrong. They’re poison to each other like this, feeding off each other’s anger, each other’s sorrow, locked in a spiral that can only lead to ruin.

But she doesn’t care. And Dorian doesn’t care either. They don’t even glance at each other as they stride toward that garish table, its every detail designed to dazzle and offend, where Elgar'nan lounges like a king, already assuming his victory. Behind him looms Ghilan'nain, a monstrous shadow of her own making. Her very presence chills the air; she’s a nightmare incarnate, Blight oozing from her wounds, staining her blackened eyes, twisting her form into something no longer natural. Just seeing her is enough to freeze the blood. A true horror. 

"You, I know of," Elgar'nan says, his voice slow and serpentine, each syllable unfurling as he points a jewel-encrusted finger toward her. "The Inquisitor, they call you. Child of my children, lover of Fen'Harel." 

His gaze drifts to Dorian. "You, however, remain a mystery, an unfamiliar face amidst this tangled web, though you do carry the stench of this land deep in your bones." 

Finally, he turns to Emmrich. "And you—I’ve seen you trailing behind the wolf's little disciple. Both of them, wandering the Fade now, yes?" he asks, feigning innocence, every word dripping with the sickly-sweet pleasure of a man who already knows every detail, who has woven the strings and now watches them dance. 

"Sit," Elgar'nan says, sweeping his hand in a grand, careless gesture. "Be my guests." 

Reluctantly, she does. Wine stands between them—a full carafe, glasses set out in some mockery of hospitality. She doesn’t hesitate. She pours a glass for herself, another for Dorian. They both drink, empty their glasses, and drink again, as Emmrich sighs, and Elgar'nan watches, one eyebrow arched, amused but silent. 

The first hazy edge of inebriation tugs at her, and she clears her throat. 

"Well then," Emmrich begins, doing his best to sound diplomatic. "We are, of course, very grateful that you have not torn down the Veil. Naturally, we must discuss what your… ahem… arrival means for Thedas as a whole. I hope you understand that our reality diverges from yours, and while I sympathize with your loss of—" 

Elgar'nan raises a hand, wincing, cutting through Emmrich’s stream of words. "It will come down," he snaps, dismissive. "Once it finishes draining the Dread Wolf. Make no mistake, mage." 

Ghilan'nain’s tendrils twist and coil around the back of Elgar’nan’s throne like snakes, furling and unfurling in an eerie, silent rhythm. Her head tilts, but she doesn’t speak. 

"And who do you belong to?" Elgar'nan asks, his gaze gliding over her. "I see no markings on your face. Whose sigil did you wear?" He gestures idly, as if this were merely a tiresome ritual. "A simple formality before we proceed. You see, in my time, we respected the boundaries of one another’s possessions. ‘Meddle not, take not’—a matter of decorum," he finishes with a careless shrug, as if such notions were etched into the very fabric of existence and she, too dumb, has somehow forgotten them. 

To him, she is nothing more than property unclaimed, an object waiting to be sorted into its proper place. 

"Not yours," she snaps, feeling for the first time like the dog he’s trying to make her. "Your vallaslin was too damn ugly. No one wanted that marring their skin." 

She watches Dorian lean back, cross his legs, and swirl his wine with a disconcerting casualness. "Ellana," he says, his tone light, far too light. "Your people hail from the Dales, do they not?" 

"Many elves do," she replies. 

"Splendid," Dorian says, a wry smile creeping onto his face. "Perhaps we could extend these two," he gestures grandly toward Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain, "a polite invitation to fuck right off back there. Tevinter has enough tyrants as it is." 

She hums, considering. "I was thinking somewhere a bit more permanent myself." 

"Oh? Do enlighten me." 

"Into the fucking abyss," she says with a shit-eating grin. 

Elgar'nan’s gaze sharpens, the amusement fading. "You are the first of your kind to speak to your creators in such a manner," he remarks, coldly. "It is unbecoming." 

She shrugs, rolling one shoulder. "Unfortunately, I have no more fucks left to give," she says. "What about you, Dorian?" 

Dorian makes a grand show of it, looking around as if he might find some hidden reserve of care—patting himself down, peering into his pockets, even reaching into the folds of his vest. He lets out a theatrical sigh, throwing up his hands. "Alas, I seem to be freshly out as well," he laments. "A tragedy, really." 

She’s hated before. She’s hated many people in her life—mostly because hate comes easily to her. Righteousness was never her compass, just a habit formed by the good intentions of others pulling her toward the right choice. Her instinct was always for the simple path, the selfish one. But this hatred, the hatred she feels for Elgar’nan, is different. It’s new, raw, pulsing. She stares at him as he lounges there, head resting on a closed fist, his gilded, horned crown catching the light, the brightness almost blinding her, tangling with the gray of his hair. She’s glad he’s sitting—if he stood, she wouldn’t be able to reach that face, ageless and ancient, to claw it off. 

She slams her glass against the edge of the table, shattering it with a sharp crack. Her hand closes around the jagged shard, fingers gripping tight. She doesn’t care—she lunges across the table, every fiber of her body coiled and ready, her focus narrowed to a single, blinding point. 

Ten years. Ten years she’s played the diplomat, the peacekeeper, the politician. Ten years of forced smiles, of patience, all to find Solas. At first, she wondered if he would even want her when she found him, but that worry faded. Her desire didn’t matter—she didn’t have any right to his want. She’d made peace with the idea that she’d be alone even if she found him. But she wanted to speak with him, to hold his hand just once more, maybe embrace him. Even if he walked away after, she would have that, she would have closure. 

Ten years. Ten years for fucking nothing. 

She makes it all the way to his throat before anyone moves, her grip so tight on the shard that her hand is slick with blood—hers, his, she can't tell, and she doesn't care. His collar is high, stiff, his armored robes a fortress of pomp and arrogance, but she jabs the glass forward anyway, feeling it scrape as she hunts for bare skin. Voices shout behind her, someone catches her ankle— 

Then her face is slammed against the table. 

Dazed, she catches a glimpse of his wrist—Elgar'nan’s wrist—before a hand grips the back of her neck, smashing her head down again into the wood. 

"A mutt and his bitch, snarling and snapping," he hisses as he grinds her face against the table’s surface. "Where is your civility, Inquisitor? Where is your respect?" His grip tightens, fury leaking into his voice, his breath hot against her ear. "For all his faults, let me tell you this—Fen'Harel knew how to wield his wrath. He was always precise, always ceremonious."

He lifts her just to slam her down again, harder, his voice coiling with rage. Wine splashes over, the carafe cracks, its fragrance mingling with blood in the air. "The wolf bared his teeth only when cornered," he spits, voice cutting, disdain smoldering beneath each syllable. "His tongue was honeyed, his words weapons, chosen to tear and gut as sharply as any blade." He presses down on her harder. "A mastery you, it appears, utterly lack." 

She knows this is madness. She knows it’s reckless, short-sighted, utterly stupid. She knows Solas had no choice but to trap these monsters in the Fade—it was all he could do, all anyone could do. She knows Elgar’nan bleeds Blight, that the poison is woven into him, that he’s made of something ancient and wrong, something that defies names. 

She knows it, feels it like iron shackles around her chest. And yet none of it matters. Not here, not now. Somehow, this shard of glass in her bare hand—not the one that once held the Anchor, now made of brass and runes, but her flesh and blood hand—feels like the only weapon she’ll ever need, the one that will end him. 

She sees his other hand, the one not holding her by the neck, and with a wild thrust she drives the glass through it. Blood splatters across the table, black and thick, seeping into the wood. He snarls, some foul curse in that ancient, broken language, and his grip falters, just for a moment. 

Then a pair of arms is around her, dragging her back. It's Dorian, pulling her out of the reach of Elgar’nan’s claws. He’s beside her, staff flashing, blocking one of Ghilan’nain’s writhing tendrils, lightning crackling at its tip. He’s shouting, furious, words spilling out rough and raw, not at her, but at them. If anything, she realizes, he’s spurring her on, his voice cutting through the red haze of her rage. 

“…the barest taste of what you deserve!” he’s sneering. “Come a bit closer, why don’t you? You’ve got a few too many limbs for my liking, you eldritch monstrosity.” 

[n7cloacadestroyer]

Very true. I also have doubts that the thorian that Shepard fights on Feros is well and truly dead. Shiala and ExoGeni's recovery team are the only sources we have that confirm its apparent demise. ExoGeni has a vested interest (as well as a demonstrated willingness) to lie. They were willing to purge the colony to protect their secrets and probably would have if Shepard hadn't intervened. So we know that we can't trust them.

Shiala, on the other hand, seems trustworthy at first. She's vital to the plot of ME1, as the prothean cipher would be lost to Shepard after the thorian's supposed death had she not intervened. She wishes to stay with the colonists to atone for their suffering which she feels responsible for. Even if you take the renegade option to kill her, it still reflects well on her character.

But something we often overlook is that she was definitely indoctrinated by Sovereign, following Matriarch Benezia to join Saren. A reminder that Matriarch Benezia was so far gone that she couldn't stop herself from trying to murder her own daughter. Sovereign probably couldn't have exerted any more control over her without turning her brain into pudding.

Indoctrination is stated to be a degenerative condition by multiple characters throughout the series, but we hear about it first from Rana Thanoptis, who was studying the phenomenon at Saren's base on Virmire. We learn that Sovereign (and later, all reapers) emit a kind of energy field undetectable by contemporary technology that subtly alters brain waves and thought patterns, making organic minds more susceptible to suggestion by slowly removing the capacity for independent thought.

If we take the narrative at face value, Shiala remains the only character in the entirety of the Mass Effect series that has experienced any degree of remission in their level of reaper indoctrination. This isn't extremely suspicious on its own within the context of Mass Effect 1, but given what we learn about it going forward? Gigantic red flag.

It's also worth noting that Saren offers Shiala to the thorian in exchange for the cipher, a fate she willingly accepts as an indoctrinated slave. Saren then betrays the thorian, as he has a reputation for. No surprise there. What is surprising is his apparent lack of target priority.

If Saren/Sovereign wanted to breach the colony to destroy the main thorian node beneath it, why didn't they just bombard it from orbit? Instead, they send the geth to attack the humans in the colony and the nearby ExoGeni building. "Killing the flesh that would tend the next cycle," as the thorian says.

There is another creature within the Mass Effect continuity that reproduces via spores--the Thresher Maw. That's the reason we find them on so many different worlds in-game. Their microscopic spores are hardy enough to survive dormant within the vacuum of deep space and atmospheric reentry, so they are unwittingly spread by space travelers, both past and contemporary.

What if Saren was cutting off the thorian's vectors of propagation without directly attacking it? Because large-scale disturbances like bombardment risk throwing its spores into the atmosphere or worse--into orbit where it could cling to passing vessels along with other bits of magnetized space dust.

I also suspect that the geth platforms on Feros were so entrenched because they were never intended to leave. If the thorian's influence can indeed overpower reaper indoctrination, as it seems to be doing with Shiala, the machines have a very good reason to be concerned and act accordingly. They seemingly intend to starve it out/quarantine it--a smart move, all things considered. Especially if my suspicions are correct.

We meet Shiala again on Illium in Mass Effect 2. Her skin has turned green, and she seems fatigued, to put it mildly. We learn that the colonists continue to experience strange side effects and rudimentary linked nerve signals, even sharing sensations like heat and pain when near one another. In addition, they experience headaches and muscle spasms similar to when they were under thorian control seemingly at random. She also notes that her biotics have become 'unstable'.

The colonists contacted a Baria Frontiers survey group to perform some medical scans to diagnose and resolve their chronic issues and were offered a contract to get them for next to nothing. The problem was that they had unknowingly agreed to "invasive follow-up procedures" at the company's behest. With enough charm or intimidate points, Shepard can help Shiala by convincing the Baria Frontiers rep to revise the contract.

Now we're led to believe that these procedures are being forced on the colonists simply because an uncharacteristically racist asari just wants to see them suffer… but what if the initial scans showed some kind of anomaly? If there are parasitic spores within their bodies controlling (or at least influencing) their minds, discovery of this fact would certainly spell doom for the parasite in question. So would it not be in the parasite's best interest to avoid anyone looking at the colonists too closely?

Furthermore, it's strange that the symptoms result in biotic instability for Shiala, an asari commando who has been training her biotic abilities for at least a few hundred years. Unless the thorian spores have begun to sprout and grow throughout her central and periphery nervous systems, thereby disrupting/altering the path that nerve signals must take to reach the eezo nodules in her nerves?

In Mass Effect 3, we meet her on the Citadel presidium after the evacuation of Zhu's Hope. She confirms that she is indeed indoctrinated, but says that her connection to the colonists through the residual thorian spores "is louder" than the tell-tale whispers. She and the colonists have seemingly adapted to the presence of the thorian spores and can now "feel" one another, and "act with one mind" as they fight against the reapers, "ignoring pain when the need arises." They can share some degree of learned experience as well, as Shiala further elaborates, "with one mind, the untrained fight with the skill of veteran commandos."

She's also, notably, still green. So it seems like the colonists just abandoned the whole "let's get medical care" idea and just learned to live with their new hivemind? Yeah, that's extremely suspicious given everything we know about the thorian.

Conclusion: Shiala and the colonists are simply an extension of the thorian, and this is how the creature propagates itself. Feros was not the Thorian's home world, and it was likely carried there by the protheans or a space-faring civilization that predated them as spores within their bodies. When they die, their bodies will be consumed by the spores within them and begin a new "cycle" for the thorian. (got to thinking about this reply from @dragonflight203, but it got a little too big for the reply box.)

[bonefall]

BB!Clear Sky

[ID: A ref sheet of Clear Sky, also called Skystar. He is a light gray cat with a big chest, tufted ears, shoulder 'burls,' and vitiligo dapples on his body and left eye. The image has a fullbody and a foward-facing headshot.]

DOTC is a very different arc from canon, with several big changes. One of them is that Skystar never experiences a redemption arc.

In BB, he is meant to be understood as toxic family. He's a person who Gray Wing loves against his better judgement, allowing that to blind him to the fact that Clear Sky, and his mindset, are an infection in the forest. Of course Clear Sky never apologizes for his actions-- he's ALWAYS believed he's right!

Every time he casts someone out, he thinks he's purging weakness. He has a fragile ego and finds excuses to justify why it's actually noble that he smacks, humiliates, and abuses the offender. He thinks he's the only one capable of making the 'hard choices' to dictate who lives and who dies.

Anyone is capable of change, but only if they choose to. Gray Wing must learn a very hard lesson... that there comes a point where second, third, and fourth chances become enabling.

But, in spite of the opposition, ultimately, Skystar goes down in history as a Patron of War. One of the most powerful spirits in StarClan. The Clans develop into a battle culture largely in thanks to him and his aggression, and he is frequently invoked in mass before large battles.

He also has vitiligo. He begins the story with only a few spots, until his pelt is a swirling storm of white clouds.

Much more under the cut!

The Beginning

Clear Sky causes the Clans to split into Sky's Clan and Shadow's Clan with an act of great cruelty...

In the beginning, there was only one Clan that came from the settlers down the mountain.

When Shaded Flower died, Clear Sky and Gray Wing came to unofficially run this group

But when Jagged Peak fell from a tree and broke his leg, Clear Sky called for him to be exiled.

His mate, Bright Storm, and Gray Wing refused to allow this cruelty, and left with Jagged Peak into exile to keep him alive.

But, they failed. They couldn't save Jagged Peak, and he succumbed to the cold and starvation.

When Bright Storm gave birth to Clear Sky's kittens, there was only a single survivor.

The kit was missing a leg in the exact same place where Jagged Peak had lost his.

They came back to the group, beaten and starving.

Clear Sky refused them, telling them to leave along with the child.

It was in this moment that Tall Shadow spoke up, shaken. This was a sign from their ancestors that the Clan had been cruel. Throwing out Jagged Peak was a mistake-- and this kitten was sent for a reason.

It was surely a sign, she tried to reason with Clear Sky.

But still, he refused. Tall Shadow was clearly wrong. There had been no mistake, he explained calmly; Jagged Peak had been unable to survive because he was, regrettably, weak. If they started accepting every cat who couldn't pull their own weight, soon they would all starve.

"But this is your kit!"

"No. It's not."

Tall Shadow composed herself, before spitting at his feet. "It's a special kind of snake that hisses calmly as it drips venom."

Their ancestors would look down on them in shame if they refused to learn this lesson. She would not stand by and invoke their wrath.

Tall Shadow and those who agreed with her split off in that moment, forming Shadow's Clan.

Believing fully that every cat who stood against him was now his enemy, Clear Sky vowed that they would live to regret their choice.

As the story went on, Clear Sky became possessive of his territory just like canon. But, this time around, there are no rogues to recruit. There are two cultural groups in the forest-- Park Cats and Tribe Cats.

Park Cats, at this point in time, speak Parkmew. There's a language barrier between the two groups, and Clear Sky is completely and utterly uninterested in trying to bridge it. All the cats in Early SkyClan are from the Tribe, with some cats like Petal and Fox now having names to reflect that. That's Petal Claw and Fox Claw.

Thunder Storm Visits the Group

Later, when Thunder Storm is grown, Clear Sky tries to lure him to his group.

Of course he does... Thunder is missing a leg, but he's proven he "doesn't let it hold him back." He's strong in spite of it. He's useful now.

Thunder Storm felt uncomfortable about this, and turned to his father for guidance.

But Gray Wing... believed it was a good idea to learn from him. To seek the good side in Clear Sky. After all, he had made his cats strong, he must have some fresh ideas, or perhaps secrets.

It was an opportunity, and Gray Wing told the young boy, "and... he is your true father. It's okay to be curious. I understand that."

Gray Wing didn't pay attention to the way Clear Sky was already belittling Thunder Storm, making him feel cowardly for having doubts, calling him names, but building him up as strong and capable when he did anything that pleased him.

Joining Sky's Clan was hell for Thunder Storm. Clear Sky kept him close and played mind games to test how much control he had over him.

One of these games ended up being getting him to wear a peg, custom built by Sunlit Frost. Clear Sky insisted it was because he would need another leg for battle moves he was going to learn; Thunder Storm was positive it was because he didn't like looking at his nub.

His short temper was exploited, used as an example of how emotional he was being, how he needed to put those aside and how it reflected his 'poor judgement...' and why it justified every choice Clear Sky made for him.

And in spite of all this, he tried so hard to please him, to be what he wanted, and learn as much as possible, "see the good side" like Gray Wing told him to

But when Sunlit Frost was severely injured and used as a pawn in yet another mind game, exiled so that he'd be left to die of infection or starvation... Thunder Storm realized there was no "good side" to how Clear Sky rules. Just power and control.

He'd learned the most important lesson of all-- that he NEVER wanted to be like this.

This was something so sick and disgusting it was worth fighting against.

And shortly after that, ThunderClan was formed. Clear Sky attacked the exiled Bumble, and found himself dogpiled by Thunder Storm and his group of supporters.

For months, he tried to squash the ragtag Clan, chasing them all around the Forest as their alliances shifted and changed, but never being able to fully pin them down. Eventually he was able to make a move in their little game...

The First Battle

By capturing River's Ripple, of the River Kingdom.

One of their little allies, who was lending them aid near the western border.

He was calling for a negotiation meeting. All of the groups, the three Clans of Sky, Thunder, and Shadow, plus the River Kingdom and the Wind Coalition.

All five leaders, at the five great oaks, they'd set official borders and end these conflicts.

When they told Clear Sky to let River's Ripple go, that he was a Prince and not just any cat, he was dismissive. Happy, even.

No one tells him what to do, especially not an asthmatic loser wimp, a meowing kittypet, and their three-legged excuse for a leader.

He didn't plan for the meeting to actually end with agreement. Of course not! Clear Sky was always getting ready for a fight. He didn't need to negotiate borders, he would win what he deserved.

Negotiation is for the weak and cowardly.

And, of course... the First Battle took place on that horrible day.

Only StarClan could break the battle. Clear Sky did not call for it, ready to fight to the bloody end, assured he would have been victorious. The starry cats begged for the carnage to stop, that the bodies needed to be buried, and that the Clans must unite or die... and to do that, every leader would be given 9 lives and be blessed by the stars.

Clear Sky heard "power" and accepted this deal. But... first, the bodies needed to be buried.

It was mid-summer, and the sun rose over the blood-soaked grass and baked the meat rotten. Corpses piled high, beginning to reek, too many to be buried all in one day.

The smell of death summoned an evil creature, which would serve as his reckoning... but the story of One Eye is a tale for another day.

TRIVIA

I tried to make him look "front heavy." I know in canon he's supposed to have big back haunches but I think it's better he has a big strongman chest lmao

The "burls" are shared by all of Quiet Wing's children now. Jagged and Gray will have those too.

Thunder Storm looks a lot more like his mom than the Wingkin side of his family.

They also have a little curl at the end of their tails.

I think it was ridiculous how they turned around on Canon Clear Sky in the end and tried to pretend like his actions were based on actual fear, when there were 3 entire books showing us how it was him being an abusive control freak with a fragile ego lmao

"I'm just trying to protect everyone!!" Is an excuse. No, he's not. Not in-canon and especially not in BB. It's not about protecting anything but his pride.

Even though he does, fully, believe he's telling the truth. Even when he lies. He HAS to believe himself... because if he doesn't, then that makes him the bad guy.

And he can't be the bad guy, because he's always the victim.

His retaliation is "justice." When someone stands against him, especially children and other people who can't fight back, hitting them is "discipline."

Nothing is wrong if he does it. Others "attack," he simply, "defends."

For him, power is security. He will do anything for it. He bellows that he gives everything for his Clan, but in reality, his Clan is for him.

Control is a comfort. Punish anyone who makes you feel bad. Make people do anything. People flock to you and you can do anything you want to them. Power reveals that about him.

"I'm not greedy, I'm just strong."

[rrskinny02]

I fucking relapsed with purging and cutting.

All because I can’t just fucking starve myself or seek to lose weight. I can’t lose weight I DONT GET WHY I can lose the same 5 fucking kilos and gain them all back in a week after dieting for 20 days. Every time. For months now.

Now today I’ve purged 3 times and I’ve cut myself again ALOT my whole arm is under cuts and I have to be on the beach with my friends Sunday and Monday. But I don’t feel like stopping it feels good to be doing it again. It teallly does release stress bro. Fuck I’m getting worse again

[spirkisreal]

Having thoughts about what if Oliver lied about other things instead of saying he had dead druggie parents and one of the thoughts that keeps popping up is what if he developes an eating disorder to lure Felix in? Venetia has bullimia so I think Felix, in extension, would also be extra sensitive towards things like that as well.

We all know Oliver lied about being on the rowing team to his parents, but what if he actually was on the rowing team. They have strict weight maximums, and the rowers can't go above a certain kg. At first, he just says things like oh I can't eat this/drink that or that I have to maintain my figure for rowing etc. But as competition season draws near Oliver starts cutting weight and Felix notices that he's looking increasingly gaunt and his clothes are even looser than normal. This escalates to a point where Oliver stages Felix "accidentally," seeing him vomiting up food. Felix confronts him about it saying that he needs to get help but Oliver refuses because he's on the sports scholarship, and if he doesn't maintain the weight and stay in the team then he'll lose the scholarship.

Felix would probably try and ply Oliver with food always giving him snacks and watching him to see if he sneaks off to the bathroom. Maybe when they get into an argument Oliver intentionally starves himself and purges so that Felix would feel guilty and come running back to be his saviour. And maybe Oliver does derive some sick enjoyment out of cleansing his body to make him "pure" for Felix and that if he lost enough weight, he'll be like the pretty and dainty girls that Felix always hooks up with.

[bipolarmango]

I hate how bad medical doctors are with eating disorders, how limited their understanding of EDs is, and how much it circles around one's BMI.

I have suffered from anorexia (both restrictive and binge-purge) and orthorexia since I was fourteen years old in 2004. While I have sometimes gotten better, even for years sometimes, I have never since had a healthy relationship with food, and I have been sick for years at a time. However, I have never been sick enough to end up in a hospital. At lowest, my BMI was 17 (178cm/55kg or 5'10/121lbs) which, for me, meant that you could count every single one of my ribs and my tighs were the same size than many people's arms because I had no body fat left. When I tell this to doctors, though, they just say I was a "bit slim" but still "normal".

Because doctors don't consider me never having been skinny enough being a real anorexic and because orthorexia is not a real diagnosis (many doctors have even suggested to me that it's an ideal way of living because they have no idea what kind of a hell it is to live with, really), they don't take it seriously when I say things like "I don't want a medication that causes weight gain because of my ED history" or "I can't go on a super restricted diet because of my ED history" or "I think like this because of my ED history". I have even been told, multiple times, that I don't have an ED history. That I don't have an ED, even when I have starved myself for days, weeks, and months, counted calories, purged everything I've eaten, starved myself to the point of passing out when I've had to do things like walking, cut everything out of my diet, done nothing but exercised and thought about my diet and exercise plan, hated myself for eating, defined my entire self-worth by my weight, been so afraid of food that the thought of if has made me sick, been so obsessed with exercise that I've cried when I've been hurting and it's been time to exercise and I just couldn't skip it.

What I try to say, I guess, is that I would appreciate if doctors would educate themselves in different body types and in how EDs (even anorexia) are not defined in just being super skinny but being fucking preoccupied and obsessed with food. It's not normal. And thanks to my team of insensitive doctors who put me, a recovering ED sufferer, on meds that made me gain 25kgs (55lbs) and fuck up my metabolism despite me begging for them not to, and then telling me that I just need to eat less and exercise more to drop the weight, I'm now back in the point where I don't eat, or where I want to binge-purge, or where I run and look my reflection in every reflecting surface and tell myself I'm a disgusting pig who doesn't deserve anything good in life, and who literally cries everytime there's a need to put on clothes that are not oversized sweats or look myself in the mirror, and yet my medical team just keeps reminding me that I need to drop the weight and eat less.

I had somehow pulled myself out of this (mostly) and found a balance (somewhat) where I exercised and ate and was (mostly) happy with myself and then a fucking MEDICAL TEAM pushed me back into a full-blown eating disorder because they didn't believe I had an eating disorder in the first place. What a fucking time to be alive.

(I'm not even joking. I'm being told to take weight loss meds. I'm being told to do a restrictive diet. I'm being told to count all calories. I'm being told to do exercise I hate. I'm being told to cut out whole food groups and all treats. I'm being told to avoid eating out. All the things that are super bad for someone with an ED are being recommended to me by my medical team.)

[brandwhorestarscream]

Knockout ❤️

Knockout for the illness thing is a perfect start actually!

Years and years ago, I was definitely projecting lol explored the idea of the good doctor struggling with anorexia. It was unfortunately a pretty common thing on Velocitron, about 1 in 10 mecha struggling with some sort of fueling disorder at some point in their lives. Velocitron's culture values success, speed, and beauty above all else, where the best most upstanding people are the award winning racers and super models, and the crushing pressure drove a lot of people to seek less than savory ways of self improvement.

Desperate to get ahead and to remain the best, Knockout started cutting back on fuel. It wasn't a big deal, he reasoned at first, because he could easily finish a whole race on ¾ of a tank. And with enough pushing and training, he got down to ½. Then ⅓. Then ¼. Then less. Til the point his body was constantly running on fumes, and he was well and truly addicted to the painful starving sensation.

He convinced himself that he was fine: he's a doctor, after all, he knows his body better than anyone. It's nothing he can't handle. If his paint starts to peel and flake he'll just redo it with a fresh coat. If he's constantly shivering, then he'll keep the clinic extra toasty warm. If he finally can't resist the urge to have a meal, he'll purge it back up once he's done to make sure he stays as perfect and lightweight and as fast as possible. He even got to the point of removing parts of his body: nothing vital, just "filler" that he didn't technically need to survive

He did get help and went through recovery before the war started, but the stress of constant fighting and threat to life sometimes caused him to relapse. He'd go days without eating because he had so many patients to fix and the idea of food just sounded miserable and disgusting. It was a shameful secret he'd always try to avoid, telling himself that, I'll fuel in just a bit, just a little longer. Thankfully, Breakdown was there when he first went through a rehabilitation program and was super supportive: he knows the signs and is always watching his conjunx closely. He knows Knockout is still occasionally embarrassed by his aversion to energon when it crops up, so always gently pesters him to eat together. Claiming that fuel just tastes better when they're together, and tells him to, "Let me know if you wanna throw up, ok? I'll distract ya." Knockout couldn't be more grateful for him, he's the best partner anyone could ask for 💖

[your-average-teenage-mess]

So, like... To the Tumblr people who got into ana/mia as a form of self harm, judge their "how sick are you REALLY" status by the number on the scale and are also into the sandman/dead boy detectives:

Despair is the fucking goddess of pain. She understands torturing yourself better than any other being in the universe, she UNDERSTANDS why it gives you a feeling of power to try and chase out the emptiness with more emptiness until you can't see hope anymore. And she doesn't look like fucking thinspo. She doesn't look like regal queen ana. She isn't skinny. She's fat. Because why wouldn't she be? There are so many people who are self destructive and miserable and also overweight, what the fuck is stopping her from being that?

If the fucking goddess of pain can look, not like a 19th century tortured starving artist or like an emaciated goth with no joy left in their eyes, but like a middle-aged fat woman in baggy clothes who sometimes cuts herself to feel something, then your pain is not any less fucking valid if you look more like her than like those fake, imagined thinspo images.

Recovery from your ed won't mean you aren't sick, or miserable, or struggling. I'm not even telling you to get your life and mind together, I know you might really not be in a position to do that. But these disorders could cause damage to you body down the line that there will NEVER be a way out of. (And that's besides the point, but this also applies to drug abuse, so just keep that in mind. Despair of the endless would visit millions of people, every day, who don't need a drug addiction to see her. NOT ALL the cool mentally ill kids are doing this, and neither would you have to to be one of them.) Recovering from the shit that fucks up your body to the point where you can't use it later, will only make it less and less hard for you to get back to the way things were, to when you were able to feel joy and not worry all day every day, one day when you will be ready to try and make your way there.

I'm in recovery now. I've stopped purging, I no longer restrict to the point where I barely have the energy to function. I got out before my body got irreversibly damaged- not that it would matter if I wouldn't have, because this shit can always get worse and you can always put the line as high or as low as you want. And despair still visits me every day, and the misery she brings with her is still real, I haven't suddenly gotten fixed and replaced with a mentally healthy version of myself that doesn't get to complain, I'm STILL SUFFERING, but at least now I A), know that the validity of that doesn't depend on a fucking number, so at least I've got that off my mind, and B), when I will eventually get better and want to, like... Be a functional person, I'll have a body waiting for me to live that happy life through, that will be able to help me with it better than it would have if I kept going. I don't really want to get better just yet, but I do want to want to get better, and one day when I actually will, I'll at least know that my pain on the way there was fucking valid and deserved fucking treatment. Because it always does. Pain always makes you worthy of help against it, no matter what it looks like. Just remember that, and try to stick to the stuff that still leaves the window open for happiness in the future.

[jacksdinonuggets]

Why Won't You Let The Burden I Am, Starve?

Summary: Charlie tries to help out with Blake's eating disorder but ends up making him purge instead. he regresses afterward aswell.

Tw: Eating disorders, sh mentions, vomitting

Blake sat at the mess hall in the hotel. He was scrolling through his phone, looking at his “inspo”. He basically just made multiple collages of photos and affirmations to help him lose weight. Charlie didn’t know he had this. If she found out he made them almost every day, she’d probably take away his electronic privileges. Today he had nursery school too. He just hoped his stomach would stay quiet during it.

Charlie watched her little from the other side of the mess hall. She hoped he would eventually give up and go grab a plate but she was wrong. She was talking with some of her littles and their caregivers but excused herself so she could walk over to Blake.

“Hey, sweetie, how’d you sleep?” She sat down next to him. He quickly shut off and hid his phone when she sat down. It got her suspicious but she didn’t think to question it too much. She didn’t want to seem like a helicopter caregiver.

“I slept well. I just, uh, finished my breakfast early,” He nervously laughed. Charlie knew he was lying, never once seeing him get food. She knew he didn’t want to seem like a burden to her, no matter how many times she’s told him he’s not. It was just upsetting that he barely accepted any help.

“Come on, lets grab you a plate,” She stood up and gestured for him to follow. Trying to be a good little, he followed.

“You want eggs? Or my dad’s famous pancakes?” She asked. He fidgeted with his fingers. He tried to think about which one would be easier to throw up later. 

“Uh, Eggs, please,” He replied.

Charlie put a small amount of eggs on his plate.

“Do you want bacon?” He shook his head. Bacon was mostly fat!

“How about a biscuit?” She asked. He sighed but nodded.

They sat back down at the table. Blake picked up his fork and stared at the food in front of him. Charlie noticed him struggling to stab the eggs.

“You can do it, sweetheart,” She encouraged. He didn’t want to disappoint so he picked up a piece of the egg and put it into his mouth, chewing on it, before swallowing. It was actually really good and he wanted more. His cravings got the best of him and he finished his whole plate.

“Great job, buddy! I’m so proud of you,” She petted the back of his head. It was comforting and he did feel proud!

However, that proud feeling ended soon. When he attended nursery school, He was too busy focusing on how much better everyone looked rather than focusing on playing. Then, he felt that awful full feeling. He could feel the food in his stomach. He hated it. It was causing him distress. He really wanted to purge, cut, anything! Anything to make this feeling stop. Regressing wasn’t working for him right now!

“Ma- Chawlie?” He wanted to avoid using the ‘Mama’ caregiver name because he didn’t want to make others feel bad.

“Yes, Blake?” Charlie focused her attention on him.

“Can i use the potty?” He asked.

That was strange. Blake never went to the bathroom. He usually used his diaper. Maybe he had to use the other kind of bathroom use.

“Uh, sure, sweetie, you can go,” She gestured to the bathroom inside the room. He got up and walked in, locking the door. Finally, he could purge.

He stuck his fingers into his throat while leaning over the toilet and threw up his breakfast. It didn’t all come out in one vomiting. He had to do it again and again. Unfortunately, his fingernails had tickled the back of his throat. He tried to fight the urge to cough but he was too late. He fell into a coughing fit before loudly retching. The coughing made him throw up in a way he couldn’t control his volume.

Once Charlie heard this, she immediately jumped out of her chair. She should’ve known he was gonna do this!

“Blake, Baby, I’m coming in,” She warned before barging inside of the bathroom. 

“M sorry, mama, M sowry!” He cried when he had been caught. He didn’t want to be beaten with a glass beer bottle again. He knew what he was doing was bad. And if you’re bad, you get punished. 

“Sh, sh, it’s okay, I’m not mad, sweetheart,” Charlie slowly made her way towards him, to not scare him.

He cried apologizes and pleads for mercy. Charlie could tell it was a trauma response and tried to comfort him the best she could. She sat on the floor with him and rubbed the back of his head. She held the clean hand that hadn’t been in his mouth and squeezed it.

After a while, he seemed to have calmed down, realizing that Charlie was not going to hurt him.

“Wh-why aren’t you huwting me?” He asked, looking up at her.

“Because you shouldn’t be punished for this. Sure, I wish you would’ve told me you wanted to purge, but I’m not gonna punish you if you don’t,” Charlie explained. His lip quivered and his eyes were glossy. No parental figure was ever this kind to him. He didn’t feel like he deserved it. It was overwhelming that all he could do was cry into her chest.

“Sh, sh, you’re alright sweetie,” Charlie rubbed his back and kissed his forehead. 

He slipped younger and younger until he eventually stopped crying, too young to fully understand why he was crying. Charlie had her phone in one hand and was texting Lucifer to see if he could take over for the next couple of hours, as she would need some one-on-one little time with Blake.

“Lets get you cleaned up, okay?” She said, putting her phone away. She tried to help him stand on his own but him feeling about the age of a newborn, it was kind of hard. So she leaned him up against the sink and helped him wash his hands after flushing the toilet.

Charlie walked out of the bathroom, holding Blake close to her chest. Lucifer was already there, putting on a magic show for the kiddos. She carried Blake all the way to his room. Once they were there, Charlie summoned a bottle filled with water for him. He was bound to be dehydrated after throwing up. Blake sat in her lap on the bed and snuggled up against her chest while she bottle fed him. It felt nice and relaxing to just get some one-on-one caregiver and little time. She was always so busy and he felt like a burden just by asking.

Once the bottle was empty, she put it on his nightstand to refill later. Putting his pacifier back in, she tried to move him off of her lap but her just clung to her, not wanting her to leave.

“I’m gonna get Spikey for you, sweetheart,” She tried to explain. But he just wasn’t having it.

“NuAaaGh!” He whined. 

Charlie sighed and picked him up. She went over to his toy hammock and lifted him up so he could pick Spikey, the Raptor, off. When he got his favorite plushy, he gave it a snuggle. It was his first ever plushy from Little Town in hell.

“You like your raptor, Blakey?” Charlie asked, lowering him so he’s against her chest again. 

“Mhm, mhm!” He nodded happily. If he was feeling a little bit bigger, he would be telling her all the raptor facts he could but he was a little too tiny to talk at the moment. 

Blake had regressed for the whole day. Charlie didn’t want to keep him inside, so she got out the stroller and they went for a walk. He made happy noises when they walked past a few flaming ducks. It was adorable how happy he was. And of course, Spikey came along with them. 

They stopped by the bathroom of the park so she could change Blakes diaper. Since they were in Little town, every bathroom had sized up changing tables so it was very easy to change him. She felt a little guilty leaving him in a wet diaper all morning but hoped that he would forgive her. He had a bit of a problem when asking for changes, so Charlie would have to check, which is why he almost never wears pants.

Once he was in a fresh diaper, she buttoned his snap-crotch onesie and they washed their hands. She wanted to make sure he was being at least a bit sanitary. 

They arrived back to the hotel shortly after Blake had woken up from his stroller nap. Charlie put on the tv so he could watch some cartoons and baby shows so she could get a little break to be on her hellphone.

Blake had regressed from the morning to the end of the night. The day was filled with ups and downs. Although it was a bit bad in the beginning, it doesn’t mean that it was fully a bad day.

[barclaysangel]

rant (tw for body issues, sh, ed)

I’m sorry I just need to get this off my chest, to scream into the void

I was just showering, washing my body, and had this horrifying realization that my stomach was huge. It absolutely triggered something in me because my dad made me weigh myself this morning and I’m at my highest despite only eating twice a day. I know I don’t exercise, especially that often, and I haven’t been able to go on my 2 mile walks because of me getting sick and the heavy rain we’re having. But something just set my brain off and I started scratching and punching my stomach while crying.

This isn’t the first time I’ve done this. I punched my stomach like a week ago because I also realized then that my stomach looked like I was 4-5 months pregnant. And some sick part of my brain liked it because I want to have babies but the other part of me freaked because I’m obviously not pregnant, I’m just fat.

The funny thing is that I want to be pregnant. I want to experience that. But now I’m terrified of gaining weight with the pregnancy because I’ve heard my dad say shit about overweight women in general but also women who don’t lose the baby weight. Will I just become something else for him to talk about?

I don’t know why everything is hurting more. I’ve TRIED to lose weight. I’ve gone to the gym frequently in the summer and NOTHING happened. It’s harder for me to go during school time because I get so busy and just want to sit in my room and do homework. Why can’t I lose the fucking weight?!

There’s nothing wrong with me, I’ve been checked out, nothing is making me gain weight, no hormone or chemical imbalance. It’s just me. Despite only eating twice a day with occasional sweets a few times a week, I’m the one who is doing this to myself and I’m now at 164 pounds because of it.

I fucking hate it, I wanna take a pair of scissors and cut off my entire stomach, I wanna hurt my stomach until it’s flat, I wanna starve myself until it hurts. But nothing works. I’ve tried when I was younger to have an eating disorder because I was spiraling but I can’t cut off food and I hate throwing up. I attempted once to purge when I was in middle school but panicked and couldn’t go through with it.

I don’t even know why I’m sharing this. Who even cares? I’m the one with fucking issues. I guess I just can’t tell anyone about this. My mom will think I’m stupid and crazy. My dad will probably think the same and try to make me exercise more. I don’t know. I’m fucking tired and every time I try to be more confident and comfortable in my body, something happens and tears me back down.

If you actually read this, thanks. I’m gonna try to distract myself so I don’t hurt myself anymore and try to forget this until the next episode hits.

Sorry again.