#tw: anorexia

[dolcesart]

[moonogre]

okay but how many more days am i meant to just heave myself through this bleak, exhausting horror

[darklydeliciousdesires]

Light on the Darkside - An Original Story.

Well, guys, here it is! I've been planning this premise for a while, but very recently the pieces of it all fell together, the main characters virtually materialised by themselves, and here we have it. I won't lie, it will be quite dark for the first couple of chapters, and if you are easily triggered by depression, suicide or anorexia, I'd give it a miss, but I have injected a lot of love and heart into it, and some comic moments as well. It does start to lighten considerably by the third chapter.

I had to AI my main characters in their appearance, unfortunately, since I can't really find anyone in reality to face claim them to.

So, here we go. Please remember to be kind and give me a reblog on this, as original fiction is so very overlooked on this site, any help promoting it would be greatly appreciated. I would love to hear your thoughts, too!

Tag list - In the comments. Please DM to be added/removed.

Words - 4,137

Warnings - 18+ throughout. Topics cover depression, suicide and eating disorders. Minors DNI!

The fateful swing of a pendulum; some say it is as precarious as this, the thing that bridges the gap between life and death. Swing too far and the darkness engulfs you forever, eternal sleep settling over a body, whether willingly or not. Not enough, and it swings you back into the light, again, whether willingly or not.  

For James Kingston, on the 21st of March, 1997, it wasn’t willingly.  

The wings of death had opened to him, shrouded him in the alluring caress of her inky, feathered shadows, enveloped and lifted his consciousness away from it all. His body should have followed.  

It hadn’t.  

“James Nathaniel Kingston, twenty-three years old, found almost asphyxiated on the bathroom floor by the 999 caller twenty minutes ago. Both forearms slashed and approximately thirty co-codamol and twenty ibuprofen tablets imbibed with half a bottle of tequila.” 

Light. Dark. Noise. So much noise. Pressure lifted from his arms, applied once again when the wounds began to gush. More shouting. A light shined into his eyeballs in turn. A tube down his throat.  

“Just let me fucking go.”  

It had been quiet, where he’d temporarily found himself. Quiet and devoid of everything, exactly what he wished for, a slither of peace finally filling the void of emptiness that had opened within him to such an extent, nothing could fill it comfortably. And god, how he’d attempted to.  

In the end, the burden of existence had weighed upon him with an immovable, unfathomable pressure, his resolve breaking, toppling, his foundations crumbling like an ancient tower under the brutal duress of a wrecking ball. Slipping into it, he’d taken the large knife, just about coherent enough to open both arms and watch the river of red flow, witness his life draining out in a gush of crimson that glittered sticky over his dark clothes. 

Vomit, a surge of it exiting his mouth into a receptacle held by a man in hospital clothing, telling him not to fight it. Charcoal. God, that was foul. He’d been so close, happily floating his way into the eternal embrace of death. How dare they interfere with it. 

“James, come on. Lie back, buddy. Let the tube go.” 

Heaving again, he yanked it from his throat, his fist connecting with the doctor’s face, vomit and blood splashing all over. Hands pushed against him, held him down.  

“I need all available staff in here to hold him still!”  

Oh, no. “Get the fuck off me!” His booted foot lashed out, connected with someone, something, a yelp sounding, his bloodied forearm hitting a nurse in her throat. “Get off me or I’ll fucking break your neck!” 

Multiple hands fought against his thrashing, the tube plunged back into his throat. More charcoal. More vomit. “Okay, his stomach is clear. Sedate him so we can actually stitch his arms up.” 

It took six members of the A&E staff to hold him still, until the effects of the drugs injected into his system sent him back into a world of pure, beautiful black, his body stilling. He was finally under control, his blood type attained, three units of AB negative lined into his arm, the nurse who he’d kicked in the chest beginning to stitch him up.  

She showed him all the care he likely wouldn’t have thanked her for, remarking to herself that what she was witnessing was no simple cry for help. This young man, he’d wanted death, sought it avidly, the cuts she stitched so deep, she was surprised he’d survived going on those alone. Twenty-three and he was so weary with whatever he carried mentally, he’d only seen this, something so horrific, as a viable exit plan.  

In the waiting room, two of his friends were seated, the young men revealing a little background on him when she’d gone out to give them the relieving news that he’d survived. They were members of the same band, a band who by all accounts was just beginning to take off, James the lead guitarist of the outfit named Nocturnal Descent.  

She’d tentatively asked if they had any clue why he’d done it. The taller of the two, with full sleeves of tattoos and two bleached streaks in the front of his long, dark hair had shaken his head. “He’s a bit moody sometimes, bad tempered an’ all. Unless he’s been drinking then he’s larger than life, but nah. Nothing that’s made me think he’s about to do himself in. He cuts himself sometimes, likes the pain, he’s into the whole blood letting thing and whatever, but nah. No idea.” 

Witnessing the older scars that flecked his arms, she could believe that. 

“He’s been quiet for a bit,” the other man had confirmed, while he’d sat picking at one of his long, ginger dreadlocks. “Wasn’t nothing that made us wonder if he was alright or not. Just gets like that sometimes. Especially when he’s tired. Jim likes his sleep.”  

How close he’d come to finding that eternally, the nurse thought, finishing up her stitching. She then cut him out of his vomit stained, blood drenched clothes, giving him a little wash down so at least he was fresh and comfortable when he did finally come around.  

“God, fella,” she marvelled, “I’d bloody kill for your hair.” Poker straight, jet black and only a few inches from reaching his waist. He likely did little to keep it so beautiful, too, such was the injustice there when men possessed lovely hair, or amazing legs, and it not be anything they particularly put an effort into.  

“Well, that’s you all sorted. I certainly hope you’re more pleasant than you were before when you wake up again.” With that, she left him there in the room he’d been moved to in the side ward, likely to remain until he was assessed by doctors. Bodily, he’d need some time to heal and recover from the physical trauma of attempting suicide, but it’d be what was going on up in his head that would be subject to the deeper assessment.  

It was an hour before he finally began to come around a little, able to hear voices outside of the room he was in. He groaned faintly, his thoughts all plummeting down into the very depths of the dark once more. 

“Fuck. Still alive. Steve’s a prick.”  

Steve, he guessed, had likely been the one who’d found him and called an ambulance. It wouldn’t have been Snedders, who’d already been too stoned to move more than three feet when James had decided to lock himself in the bathroom and end it all.  

No, once Liam ‘Snedders’ Snedderley hit the weed, his speed decreased to that of a tranquilised sloth. Amazing really, for a man who could drum with such velocity, a whirlwind of ginger dreadlocks swirling as he did. This? It was definitely Steve. His best mate, who at that particular moment he loathed.  

“Just wanted to die, but no. Selfish bastard couldn’t even let me have that. Top grade twat.” 

Whether there’d be a time to come where he’d lighten such hostility, he didn’t know, attempting to lift his arm and scratch his nose but finding he couldn’t. Opening his eyes, the lights of the room obnoxiously bright, he grumbled, looking down to see his bandaged arms both fastened into wrist restraints.  

“Usually got a bird on my cock when I’m bound up.” His thoughts were accompanied by a little smirk that quickly faded, tuning his ears to the voices coming from outside of his room. “Ahh, fuck. The duchess is here.” He’d recognise the shrill tones of his mother even through a lead lined box. 

And she was on form, as usual.  

“It's this whole scene he’s gotten himself into, that’s what’s brought it on! He started listening to this black metal nonsense when he was fourteen, had started a band by sixteen and now his entire life revolves around the darkness of it!” 

The doctor she was talking at rather than to cleared his throat, wanting to at least attempt a little diplomacy in how he handled the balance of fact, and remaining tactful with a woman whose son had just made a serious attempt on his own life. “Mrs. Kingston, it’s a little more complex than that when we are dealing with clinical depression, of which I am inclined to suspect your son is suffering from severely, should we take his actions into consideration.” 

Her ranting to the contrary continued. Truly, nobody knew it all like Carole Kingston, James lying there wishing he’d stabbed himself in the ears so he didn’t have to listen to her. His music was his solace, something he could pour the darkness within himself into, make the noise in his head and the bleakness in the epicentre of him a little more bearable to deal with. She’d never hear that reasoning, though. Never hear him.  

“Carole,” he heard his father speak tersely, not even needing to witness him to know that he was likely pinching the bridge of his nose after removing his glasses. It was an Alan Kingston go to when aggravated. “You know he’s gotten a lot better since he started the band. The doctor is right, though. I think it’s been going on longer than we wanted to admit.” 

Thank fuck his dad wasn’t working nights and he wouldn’t have to deal with his mother alone, with his head torn to pieces. That strong Liverpudlian lilt that most found either comedic or grating never failed to soothe him. 

“For how long, would you say, Mr. Kingston?” 

“Ahh, probably since he was about eleven or twelve, you know. We just thought it was teenage hormones, moodiness. They didn’t talk about it when we were kids, all this depression stuff, so we didn’t really know it was that we were dealing with. Well, I think I always had an inclining, but I just shoved it down, you know. He needs us to acknowledge it now, so we can get him well. Whatever that looks like going forward.”  

“I want him back home with us,” she spoke hotly, “where I can keep a flippin’ eye on him!” 

“Should’ve definitely gone for a fucking noose.” James thought darkly, actually snorting a small burst of laughter through his groggy state. 

“Carole, he’s twenty-three,” Alan began in reasoning, “he’s a grown adult. You can’t babysit him every last second of the day.”  

He smiled at that. At least his dad always fought his corner.  

“I’m afraid that likely won’t be an option for him currently. He needs to be further assessed once his sedation wears off, but I personally will be recommending that James is sectioned under the mental health act.” 

“Sectioned?�� Carole spluttered, her mouth dropping wide. “You want to throw my son in some asylum? And what the bloody hell has he been sedated for?” 

“Woo, I get to go to the funny farm,” he thought, his thoughts raining sarcasm. “Better than wrath of the mother, though.” Sarcasm was the drug-addled response, his temper placated enough not to begin vying for escape at the thought of being committed against his will.  

Out in the corridor, his father feared for whoever was charged in actually moving him to the psychiatric facility he knew James would likely end up in, though. He might have been slight, but he was all lithe muscles and long limbs at six feet three. And god, he’d seen his son fight before when finally growing a backbone against his school bullies.  

Sedated might be the best way to keep him, as much as it pained him, knowing his precious boy only had confinement and a course of medication that would probably zombify him in his immediate future.  

“Mrs. Kingston, James was in quite a state while having his stomach pumped. He became extremely violent with a number of staff members attempting to treat him, so sedation was the only logical course.”  

Sedation and restraint, his wrists burning beneath the padded leather cuffs that tethered him to the bed. Well, he had kicked one nurse in the chest and threatened a second with breaking her neck, he could just about remember. He felt bad about that. While he might have been a brawler when presented with anything that threatened him, James had never, ever been the type to hurt a woman.  

Quite the opposite, he liked to think.  

Women and his treatment of them were the last of his worries at that moment, though, listening for a little longer to what the doctor had to say before succumbing to the need to doze. He felt tired down to his bones. When he did come around again, he saw his dad he sat sitting at his bedside, Alan smiling wearily at him. In all of this, he was the last person he’d wanted to hurt. Truly though, he’d thought of little else as his life had faded upon the bathroom floor. Only his elation to leave it behind.  

“It’s quiet. Where’s the duchess?” 

At least his sense of humour was intact. “Gone to get herself a cuppa,” he confirmed, shuffling his chair closer as he reached to rest a hand on his arm. “Scared the bloody life out of me, you did. How you feeling now, kidda?” 

“Sick, but not like I want to throw up or anything.” 

Alan nodded, his forehead creasing with a deep line of concern. “Not surprising, with the number of tablets they had to pump out of your stomach.” His eyes saddened, thumb pressing against his inner elbow. “Why’d you do it, lad? You know you can always come and talk to your old man here, if you’re not feeling right, eh? Always said that, haven’t I?”  

His mouth twitched, James trying to find a way to word it that wouldn’t hurt his dad more than he already was. Truly, there was little adequate recourse to the truth of the matter. “Just don’t wanna be alive no more, dad. It’s fucking meaningless, innit?” 

“Here now,” he soothed, his hand reaching to grip his shoulder. “Don’t you say that, me lad. Got the bloody world at your feet, eh? The band’s starting to take off, you’re out there doing what you want to do. It’s got all the meaning in the world, mate.”  

He sighed through his nose, his eyes falling down to momentarily gaze upon where he was restrained. “Nah. Don’t feel like that. Just feel fucking empty, dad.”  

“Well, that’s apparent. The doctor thinks he knows why, and I happen to agree with him. Getting it through to your mother, though, different story. As you might guess.” He paused for a second, drawing himself up a little taller in his seat. “They think you’ve got clinical depression, kidda. If I’m honest, I reckon you’ve had it a while, you know. I blame myself, for seeing it and not doing anything, watching you become withdrawn and all that.”  

James shrugged. “Ain’t your fault. Just the way I am, innit?” 

“It doesn’t have to be, mate,” Alan stated, James seeing it there in his face, the fear, the anguish he’d caused. And he was still here putting him through it. Yeah. Fuck Steve for calling that ambulance. Fuck himself, too, for being like this in the first place and putting people through all of the worry. “They can treat it with pills, try and mend whatever it is in your head that’s broken. It doesn’t have to be like this, eh?” 

“Wouldn’t be like this at all if people just let me die, like I want to.” He didn’t say that aloud, though, staying silent for a few moments, his eyes flitting over to the other side of the room.  

“You want me to leave you alone for a bit, son?” 

“Nah,” he sighed, turning back to his dad. “Can you undo these straps, though?” 

“Can’t, mate,” he lamented, “you pose what they’re calling a significant violence risk. Apparently, you went full Vinnie fucking Jones on the team who were trying to save your life. Little shite.”  

You little shite; it had been his dad’s go to since he was about three whenever he played up. His mouth twitched, something resembling a small smile curling the corner of his full lips. “Ain’t that little no more though.”  

“Yeah, the nurse with a boot shaped bruise coming up between her knockers knows all about that!” 

He puffed his cheeks, eyes widening a little. “Doubt I’m popular.”  

“I’m sure she’s had worse than that in her time, kidda.” 

“Yeah, but kicking her in the tits?” James exclaimed, snorting a little laugh. “That ain’t my style, dad. Not unless they like it a bit rough.”  

The little snap of teeth his son followed that statement with had Alan wheezing with quiet laughter. “Bad lad. I’ll never bloody forget you coming down the stairs with that girl Helena, and the poor lass is doing her best to cover the bloody bite marks all over her chest with her hair. And then your mother sees ‘em and gives you the death glare. ‘So, you’ve been up there shagging all afternoon, have you?’ she shouts, and I’m sitting there trying not to laugh at the smug look on your face.” 

God, Helena. That had been a while ago, the girl he’d been with for just over a year at sixteen. “Said she looked like someone had flung her in a piranha tank.”  

Alan’s wheezing amped up considerably at that, a small slither of relief settling in him to see his boy smiling a little. It was a momentary reprieve in a harrowing situation. God, if Steve hadn’t been there. Alan had hugged him tightly upon arriving in the waiting room, thanking him over and over for kicking the bathroom door down and acting quickly, clearing the vomit from his mouth, wrapping his arms in towels and calling an ambulance. He’d saved him. He’d always been a good lad, Steve.  

“Look at you now, though. Grinning like an idiot, being that smug little shite I love with all my bloody heart, mate. Can’t be that bad all the time, can it?” 

James didn’t blame his dad for seeking out a silver lining at all, although the truth wasn’t so simple. “Doesn’t matter, dad. I can be onstage with the band, out drinking, biting on tits while I’m shagging some girl ragged, laughing my arse off and all that, but underneath I’m still the same. Still got all this shit I can’t get rid of.”  

“I just don’t understand it,” he huffed, scratching his thick beard. No. And that was the problem. Nobody did. “We’re going to get you some help though. You just need to sit tight with it. You aren’t going to like this one bit, lad, but there’s talk of having you sectioned. I think the doctor wants to have you further assessed and they’ll go from there, but personally I think it’s the best place for you right now.”  

“Do I have any say in that?” 

His mouth straightened into a thin line, shaking his head. “No, son. Chasing thirty co-codamol and twenty ibuprofen tablets with half a bottle of San Jose and then opening up both your bloody arms takes that away from you. You need help, James. Help I don’t think you’d actively go and seek on your own.”  

The hidden undertones were clear, rippling in worry just below his father’s strong surface. If he was allowed to leave the hospital of his own volition, he’d simply go and finish himself off and actually accomplish it. It was true, too. James had already earmarked the motorway bridge over the M6, should he find his way out of the looming threat of being sectioned. He doubted he’d survive a truck smacking into him at seventy miles an hour.  

The door opened, revealing his mother, a steaming paper cup in her grasp. As soon as her eyes found his, she did what he least expected. She sobbed. He was expecting rage, a tirade, a full-blown stream of haranguing. For that moment, at least, it didn’t materialise, Carole striding around to the other side of the bed and placing her tea down, her throat pinched as she cried, reaching for him and stroking his hair as she kissed his forehead repeatedly.  

“You, and it, and you could have...” Only squeaks followed, Carole hugging his head as she broke down. “You nearly died, James! You nearly flippin’ well died, you silly bloody thing! Why did you do it, love? What happened?” 

He winced, feeling slightly smothered, the scent of her very strong perfume a little too much for his senses as she continued to hug him. “Like I just said to dad, it’s how I feel all the time. Just hollow, innit. Don’t wanna be here.”  

Straightening, her hands went to her hips, cocking her head. “That’s bloody absurd!” 

Oh, here she was.  

“Carole,” her husband warned, “go easy. He doesn’t need chewing out right now.” 

“I beg very much to differ!” Turning back to her eldest, she stared at him with wide eyes, James desiring nothing more than wishing he could unfasten himself and put some distance between them. “James, you need to snap out of this. Acting glum is one thing, but trying to kill yourself, without a second thought for your family?” 

“Carole,” Alan spoke again, looking exasperated. 

“It’s all this bloody black metal, isn’t it? Corpse paint and death! Bleakness and sorrow, you’re bringing it on yourself!”  

Alan was just about to speak, his son getting in first. “Mum, I love you to bits, I do. That isn’t anything to do with it. Stop looking for things to blame it on. I’m not happy and I could listen to all that pop music shit like Sam does and it wouldn’t make a fucking difference, I-” 

“Language!” she cut in with. 

“Oh, piss off!” 

“Don’t you bloody talk to me like that, my boy!” she raged through her tears, Alan standing up and moving quickly to her side of the bed. 

“Come on, this isn’t happening now. He ain’t in the state to hear you being irrational. Go wait outside for me. Drink your tea and have a ciggie, calm down a bit, eh.” Picking up the paper cup, he steered his wife in the direction of the door, shushing her when she made further attempts at protest. “I know you’re upset, petal, but this isn’t about you. Go on, now.” 

Shutting the door, he turned back to the bed, taking a very deep breath. “Better?” 

“Yeah. Thanks, dad,” he confirmed, the unpleasant feeling in his stomach that his mother’s tirade had left beginning to sink again. It wasn’t her fault really; she was just very highly strung. She only did it because she loved her children deeply, but he and his younger sister Sam did often feel either stifled or prickled by Carole’s particular brand of parenting. “Can you do something else for me?” 

“Of course I can, lad.” 

He beckoned with a little jerk of his head. “Can you scratch my nose, just above the piercing? It’s driving me more mental than I already am.” 

Alan beamed, wheezing a soft laugh. “Must be, kidda.” Reaching, he scratched at his nose, patting his cheek gently once done before he sat down again. “I remember when you did that. Ice, a whacking great bit darning needle, and blood all over the sink. Daft sod, eh.” 

A doctor came in to check on him not long afterwards, telling him that for the immediate moment, he was being restrained under the mental health act on a temporary hold, subject to further assessment come the morning. He wouldn’t be allowed out of his restraints, or transferred to a ward. He would stay where he was until a bed was found at a psychiatric facility, the doctor assuring him they’d attempt to find somewhere within the Warwickshire area.  

His dad only stayed a further ten minutes after that, James feeling woozy again after being administered a sleeping pill, the doctor feeling it best for him to stay medicated in order to rest after his ordeal.  

“I’ll come by tomorrow on me dinner break to see you. Love you all the world, lad.”  

Not being particularly affectionate, he didn’t expect to hear the same back, but the smile his son gave confirmed it. Poor kid, he truly couldn’t comprehend just how bent out of shape he was at that moment, but he could at least take some comfort in the fact that the problem he’d tried to pretend didn’t exist for so long was finally being treated.  

As for James, all he could do as he fell into a synthetically delivered sleep was despair that he was still there to be treated at all.  

[ashdoeswhump]

Tw: anorexia, abuse

What about a ballet dancer whumpee? (I specify ballet, since that's my frame of reference, but you can do whatever you'd like with these)

What is whumper's relationship to whumpee? Dance teacher? Obsessed parent (all of us in dance knows at least one)? Maybe they're whumpee's dance partner. Or maybe, they're an obsessed fan who can't get enough of whumpee's dancing. Maybe they're rich or famous or a political leader who likes the idea of free personal entertainment.

Does whumper force them to dance for them? Do they put whumpee up on a giant music box and make them twirl for hours without rest?

Or maybe it's a g/t whump, and the music box is normal sized. Does whumpee sleep and live in the box? Are they ever allowed out?

Does whumper take them to parties to dance with them, showing off their prize?

Does whumper beat or cut the soles of whumpee's feet so they can't dance anymore? Or maybe cut them in such a way that they have to walk en pointe all the time to avoid the pain of stepping on the soles of their feet (which leads to even more pain)?

Does whumper force whumpee to starve themselves so they can have that "perfect dancing figure"? Does whumpee look in the mirror and see ribs and still think they're too fat? Do they willingly refuse meals to try and get thinner?

Does whumper even know that whumpee dances? Has whumpee kept it to themself so they can still have this one piece of themselves, this one things that they love, that whumper can't corrupt? Does whumper find out later? How do they react?

Let's talk about the physical effects of dancing as well. Trembling, aching arms. Bruised and bleeding toes. Legs that feel like jelly. A face that hurts from smiling too wide for too long. So Many Foot Cramps! Let me tell you, those hurt. When your toes cramp, it feels almost like they've been dislocated. If whumpee is forced to go en pointe too early in their life, before their body has properly developed, it could lead to ankles and feet forming wrong, so you can't walk correctly. If they go en pointe before they have the necessary ankle strength and training, they could sprain/break their ankle and cause permanent damage. If their shoes are broken in wrong, they're form will be wrong which will also lead to injuries. Also, it is incredibly difficult to walk in pointe shoes. Whumpee could twist their ankle walking down the stairs, or even just crossing a room.

Does caretaker go to great lengths once whumpee is free to help them love dancing again, because it used to bring them so much happiness? Or is it too much for whumpee, the memories so attached to the act that they can't separate the two? Does whumpee ever dance again?

[ofdinosanddais1]

Eugenia Cooney has never told people that they should look like her. She said they should feel comfortable in their own bodies. She said people should not try to look like her. If a kid looks at Eugenia as thinspiration, the eating disorder was already there. She didn't cause anything because she tells her audience that people should not try to look like her but learn to be comfortable in their own bodies. That is the exact opposite of promoting anorexia.

Eugenia saying "this is just how my body is" is not promoting an eating disorder. She's stating a fact. She has a condition that is visible. She has a condition that makes her body look a certain way. Her stating that does not make it promotion.

If you want to criticize Eugenia Cooney, criticize her with the correct information not whatever y'all make up in your head to justify your harassment.

[the-stage-manager]

I know that everybody prefers plus-sized Gale, but please consider: underweight Gale. He spent his time sulking in the tower miserable and refusing to eat—thats the reason he fucked up and got caught in the portal, he was weak from not eating for days on end. He LOVES cooking for people, and especially loves the look on their faces when they eat something delicious, but saw no reason to do so after Mystra abandoned him.

Look, just give me a Gale who has to be reminded to eat. Let Tav and Karlach make Gale little snacks to eat on the road because he gets dizzy and lightheaded when he doesn't eat. Tav, with their eyes big and worried, gently asking Gale if he's eaten. Let Gale be anxious about his appearances because he's too thin. Let him bury his face in Tav's shoulder as they stroke his hair and reassure him that they love him as he is, but that a little glucose in his blood will make him feel better.

Plus size Gale is broke. The real magic is underweight Gale who needs to be coaxed into eating.

[raging-violets]

"Please never do that again." + dealers choice!

Big Time Rush: Life on the Line | Prompt | Logan Mitchell and Rhuben Jackson-McGuire (OC)

Authored by: Rhuben

A/N: SOOOO sorry it took so long to get this one done. The idea for it came very very recently. Really had no idea how to end this one, but here it is! Set during Big Time Cameo

otp prompt: protectiveness | Prompt List

“What’s everyone saying?” 

“I don’t think it’s a good idea if I show you.”

“Logan, please.”

“You just got home!” 

Rhuben let out a huff-sigh of annoyance. Partly in response to the push back, and partially in annoyance at the lackadaisical way the chair Logan was settled in slowly rocked from side to side as he pushed himself. As if none of this was a big deal.

Logan let out a quiet sigh in response. He watched her pensively as she shifted from one seated position on her bed, to stretching out her legs, to pulling one knee up tapping the mattress with the sole of her sock-covered foot, to sitting cross-legged. Even in her own bedroom, in her own home, she couldn’t get comfortable.

“I have to know. You know I’ll find out eventually.” She had figured the second she got back home from inpatient, she’d be brought into her dad’s office for a meeting on the plan for damage control. But, no.

It was all hugs (an exuberant “Yayyy” from Sydney as he pushed through his brothers and sister) the usual sibling needling, and laughs. She needed that, and wanted it, more than she thought she would for someone who was barely away from home for a week. Truth be told, she hadn’t ever been away from her family for more than two days at most. Perks of being in a family band. And liking being around her family. (For the most part. Patrick did test that pretty often.)

But sooner rather than later, she’d have to face reality. Noah had slipped a quiet “They’re talking about you” into her ear the next morning, miming holding his cell phone as they sat at the breakfast table. She had only nodded in response.

“Paps are starting to line up at the gate,” her dad had announced shortly after as he sat down at the head of the table. “Security’s making sure not to let anyone in unless they’re an approved guest.” 

“Great.” Rhuben had given the only verbal in response as her brothers and sister nodded.

Paps. Did you hear him? Paps. At our front door. Because of what you did! 

Logan had thought he had given her and her family enough time and privacy before going to visit. There was some sort of energy that was off that he could feel as he stepped into the Jackson-McGuire home. It was as noisy and crazy as usual, but there was just something in the air that struck him as soon as he stepped over the threshold. The questions had started the second he had released her from his hug, his “Welcome home” barely out of his mouth.

“Gustavo and your dad have bene talking; they’re figuring it out,” Logan explained, still twisting in the chair. “It’s ok.”

“How’s Dara?” Logan’s lips shifted upwards into a slight, sad smile. Rhuben was always thinking about others, something he really liked about her. But it was always at the expense of herself. And she was thinking about herself, as recent events have shown, it wasn’t always in a nice way.

“She’s ok. She’s safe. The conditions of the Coco.0 set are being looked into.”

“And your cameo?”

“It’s ok.”

Rhuben grabbed her pillow and hugged it to her chest. “Logan!” she said, sharply, in contrast to the pout that was coming to her face. She blinked her blue eyes at him. It was the same look her older brother had taught her to give to their parents whenever they wanted to attempt to get what they wanted. A lot of the time, it worked, too.

Logan stopped twisting in her desk chair and stretched his arms above his head. His chest lifted with a deep inhale, and upon exhaling he crossed his arms over his chest. And crossed his legs at the ankles. “We’re getting some blowback about it.”

Bingo.

Her cheeks puffed up with a heavy sigh. She pressed her lips together and grabbed fistfuls of her pillow before flinging it at the wall in a hard strike. “God…damn it!”

“Hey, stop.” Logan pulled himself out of her chair and quickly crossed the room to sit beside her on her bed. He reached out his hand and took Rhuben’s, gently squeezing it. “Fans are still excited that we have a cameo on Coco.0. And they’re excited for the new song.”

He had to bite his tongue to stop himself from rattling off everything swirling around in his head that he could find out about eating disorders. He had made that mistake after initially finding out about the Jacksons’ abuse and thinking he was helping by quoting facts, statistics, and literature to her. He wanted to be a doctor; he just wanted to be knowledgeable and have good bedside manners. And as her friend, he wanted her to know he cared.

Rhuben fought the urge to pull her hand out of his grasp. She could feel her body tensing up, her upper lip curling slightly. She didn’t deserve any of his softness or support. She had put his career in jeopardy. And Dara’s, too.

“It’s okay,” Logan insisted in her silence.

“Stop saying ‘it’s ok’,” she all but snapped. “I hate that.”

It was just as annoying as “How are you?” She had a breakdown. How did everyone think she was? And it was all said in the same soft tone, with the same stupid soft look in their eyes and ugh! It was all just so…nice. As if everyone was worried she really was as fragile as glass. Hadn’t she proven, despite everything she had been through over the years, that she was strong? Adaptable? Capable?

“But it is.”

“No, it’s not!” Rhuben pulled her knees to her chest. She pulled her hand out of Logan’s to wrap her arms around her knees, she lifted a thumb to her mouth and started biting down on the nail. “This is...” Rhuben shook her head, her words dying on her lips.

Unacceptable. 

Unprofessional 

Your outburst was inexcusable. 

That voice could’ve been harsher. It had always used to be harsher in the past. Always lurking at the back of her mind, waiting to jump out and tell her exactly what she was doing wrong, or how she wasn’t good enough. Always at just the right time. She didn’t know when, but at some point that voice had changed. It was no longer the deep, sneering, low drawl of Robert. Now it was too much like her own voice. Or maybe it had always been that way, feeding off of Robert’s words, and now that he was gone, it was just making itself heard.

Logan frowned, watching the crease that formed between Rhuben’s eyebrows as she fell silent. Watched how her eyes squinted slightly. How, at the same time, her face went blank. He recognized that look now. It was one that came to her face when the intrusive thoughts were starting in. When she became calculating. When, if she wasn’t stopped fast enough, her thoughts could take her into a tailspin.

“A blip. That’s all. Just a blip,” Logan reassured her, messing with a thread on he bedspread. “You know how quickly these things blow over. Look at all that stuff with Gustavo and Belgium. No one really remembers any of that happened.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “We’re all more worried about you than our cameo. Ok?”

Rhuben shook her head. “No,” she said flatly. “Not ok.” It was impossible to ignore how small she felt. Embarrassed. She embarrassed herself, her family, everyone that worked at Phoenix Records, Big Time Rush, Roque Records, and the producers at CoCo.0 to boot.

Logan sighed through his nose, feeling his shoulders drop. Both with the weight of sympathy for his friend and frustration of not knowing what to say. Or how to say it. Or what was even the right thing to say right now. In a way, he could understand it; the embarrassment of Gustavo’s slip up with Belgium, not to mention their gaffe with the pitched reality show, and the bad press with the proposed idea that Lucy’s angry-rock songs were about Kendall; Carlos allegedly taking his anger out his anger on older women; and Logan’s affinity for robbing older women. Only James managed a scandal that put eyes on the band in a good way.

“Just…please, never do that again,” Logan said quietly.

Rhuben scoffed through her nose. “Which part?” she asked, flickering her blue eyes towards him. “The not eating part? The not telling anyone part? Or the disappearing part?”

“All of it.” He had gone over the past years so many times. How hadn’t he noticed? He could spot a developing cold or flu from a mile away for crying out loud. Or had he become more caught up in the glamorous Hollywood lifestyle that he lost sight of his dream? Or was it just so normal in Los Angeles, New York, and this industry, to keep in top shape, and eat the right thing and follow the right diet, that he didn’t notice? Or maybe he didn’t want to see it. Or was he still annoyed that James knew before him? And he was supposed to be her best friend.

Or as was the case as he came to find out in his readings, is that it all came down to the fact that she didn’t want anyone to notice.

He bobbed his head back and forth. “The blowup part wasn’t that great, either.”

It had really come out of nowhere, and just at quickly had finished. In the silence following, the Jacksons quickly left the set, and went low contact with everyone just as fast. No call backs, texts weren’t responded to, and for a family that usually had everyone around to their home, they weren’t wanting any visitors, either.

The incident. Six million views. Across all platforms. Because she forgot that everyone had cell phones glued to their hands.

Her lips pressed into a tight line.

Often, she’d been told she was too clinical, her humor too dry, smiles too rare. That’s just how she was at work. No nonsense. Get work done now and play hard later. Her mind was usually just on her work. Others thought she was an ice queen. Or a bitch if they were more blunt. And, boy, was she blunt when telling Dara’s stepmother everything that was wrong about her and how controlling she was.

Los Angeles was where dreams came true. And Rhuben did whatever she could to help her and her siblings reach that dream. To be the best. To go as far as they could with their music the way they wanted. No one would take that away from them. And she wouldn’t let anyone take it away from her friends. It was born out of protectiveness; she couldn’t sit by watching another rising star get their dreams crushed and ground into dirt before it even had the opportunity to be thought up. Especially not by an overbearing, evil, witch of a step-mother like Dara’s. She had spent enough years witnessing that kind of treatment first-hand and she wasn’t going to stand by and watch an up-and-coming star like Dara Washington’s exuberance get ground into the dust before she even had a chance in the industry.

Rhuben hum-laughed. That was just how she was. She made sure everyone else was ok. She got her work done. She did everything to the best of her ability. She did everything as close to perfect as she could make it. She met every deadline and expectation thrown at her. All the while keeping her thoughts and feelings to herself until it came out in one blow up of carefully crafted words and anger. She didn’t want anyone outside of family to know she was in treatment, not even her closest friends.

“Sorry, Logie, I can’t promise you that.”

Logan grabbed the abandoned pillow and hugged it to his own chest. “Which part?” he asked, starting to play with the tag on the side.

“Any of it.”

Logan let out a low chuckle. “Yeah, didn’t think you could. Not now, anyway. I mean that what therapy is for, right? To get you to that point?”

“And outpatient treatment,” Rhuben agreed with a nod. She unfolded herself and settled back into the rest of her pillows, crossing her arms over her chest. She swallowed, staring up at the ceiling. “Yeah, got it in one. Something like that, anyway. It’ll be all about how not meeting expectations isn’t failing, and that no one will think less of me if things aren’t perfect. How to not get sucked in by all the pressure.”

Logan silently nodded. That he could understand. That overwhelming pressure that had been on and off ever since he, Kendall, James, and Carlos got to Los Angeles. The right songs had to be put on the album in the right order with the right person singing the right part to make a great album. Then their marketing strategy had to be top notch; interviews, television appearances, social media posts, collaborations, cameos. On and on and on. Doing more and more and more for the chance at fame.

Sometimes Logan wondered if it all was worth it; doing whatever you could for an industry that didn’t love you as much as you loved it. As he looked over at Rhuben’s solemn expression, he knew when it came to people in his life, it always was.

-

Tag List: @partiallypearl

[willowylady]

Unidentified doll, emaciated and armless with blond hair, 1990-1996, by Greer Lankton

Courtesy of Mattress Factory

[half-shadowgalra]

Body/Anatomy practice sketches

tw: self harm scars (they are very faint but better safe then sorry), and Anorexia

These are mainly all my OC’s

These two are ENBY beans and I LOVE them <3

they are also both Acesexual and Ken is aromantic as well :)

E. Is meant to be intersex but I wasn’t 100% sure exactly how to show that, but I tried, just making a note

Charri is ace lesbian and she is insane but we love her

I love these girlies, they’re all lesbians, specially tragic lesbians. Also, just as a note in case anyone cares, Vex is trans! 🏳️‍⚧️🥳 also aro-ace :)

Max is a trans masc and Wendy is a trans fem. They are in fact besties

(Wendy is also on the aromatic spectrum)

Alex is my child and I love the little poor bean, he’s the one with the self harm scars and anorexia. I know he’s fictional but I love him and would die for them.

ALSO MAX AND ALEX ARE BOYFRIENDS!!! :)))

[withacapitalp]

Rexie

I'm gonna toss this one under a readmore just to be safe bc I jump right into a heavy topic TW: Eating disorders TW: Disordered eating TW: anorexia

Steve knew what an eating disorder was. 

It was something girls had. Specific kinds of girls. It was the pencil thin girls that Carol used to look at and smirk about.

‘Looks like Rexie got another one’ she used to sneer whenever she saw a cheerleader bring in a salad for lunch, or watched as another one of their friends skipped going to the cafeteria altogether. Steve tried to get her to stop saying that, it didn’t seem all that nice, but Carol told him he would never get it. Rexie never came for boys after all. 

So Steve knew he didn’t have an eating disorder. 

He just…didn’t like to eat sometimes. 

It wasn’t that he couldn’t force himself. He could have if he wanted to. There was nothing stopping him from eating, he just didn’t want to. Simple as that. There were just certain days where every food he saw looked completely disgusting, and the thought of eating a cookie made him want to vomit. 

The feeling always came on suddenly. Sometimes he would get through making an entire meal only to have to throw it away as soon as it was done because the sight of the full plate made him queasy. 

But it wasn’t a problem. Hell, there were moments where it even seemed like it was a good thing. Where other guys on the team would get out of control and order five burgers after practice, eventually getting fat and losing their spot on the team, Steve would have a lemon water and stay in perfect shape. His teammates always asked him what his ‘secret’ was, and Steve would always have to say he didn’t have one. 

Because it wasn’t really a secret. Steve had never tried to hide that he stopped eating sometimes. No one was ever home to see the trash can get full when it shouldn’t be, and if Steve skipped actually grabbing a tray at lunch, no one batted an eye. 

Rexie never came for boys after all. 

[moonogre]

It’s so crazy how sometimes I’ll eat and be like “damn it’s like you’ve been in a three year long binge” and I’m like no girl you’re just in remission from active anorexia like CALM DOWN

Need to go back to therapy… 🤦🏿‍♀️

[darklydeliciousdesires]

Light on the Darkside - Chapter Three.

Thanks to those who've offered commentary on their reads so far. Big love, guys :) And if there are any people out there who wanted to read but were put off by the bleak first few chapters, well, with this chapter it lightens up considerably. I can send you an abridged summary of the first two chapters so you can go into this one knowing what you need to, if you like? Let me know.

Previous chapters - One Two

Tag list - In the comments. Please DM to be added/removed.

Words - 3,136

Warnings - 18+ throughout. Topics cover depression, suicide and eating disorders. Minors DNI!

“Telling you now, I would murder that bloke for his hair.” 

Ella glanced up, seeing the fella that she and her friends were referring to as new boy over in the corner, sitting on the windowsill. He’d either read a music magazine or stare aimlessly out of the window, staying for a short time before leaving for the male ward once more. There was never any deviation. 

“Yeah, those are some mint locks he’s got.” 

“He’s pretty fit, actually,” Tiff continued, trying to catch his eye. “Well, for a mosher.”  

Ella raised an eyebrow. “Bit backhanded, that? Shouldn’t matter what music someone is into if you find them attractive.” 

“Suppose.” Picking at the very last of her nail polish, Tiff looked over at him again, then back at her friend. “So, how was your session?” 

“Pants,” she confirmed, folding her arms around the baggy sweater she wore. All her clothes buried her, which made her feel more confident, hiding what she perceived to be rolls of fat. “No one bleedin’ listens in here! I tell them that I’ll eat stuff if I can like, have skimmed milk on my cereal or something, but no! It has to be that full fat stuff. Told them it makes me feel sick but they don’t care!” 

“Yeah, but Ella, you’re fucking tiny. I wish you’d start listening to people. I know, I know, I know, they can be twats sometimes, but they’re doing this for your own good. There’s room on this planet for a little more Ella, you know. Telling you now, you can take up a bit more space, mate.” 

Of course, Tiffany wouldn’t get it. She wasn’t there for an eating disorder, the patients of which kept apart from one another so that encouragement of restriction couldn’t be participated in. The only time they saw one another was during group therapy, where the discussions were of course supervised.  

“And you can stop listening to the voices that tell you to start fires, but you don’t,” she quipped, Tiff snorting with a little giggle. 

“I like my voices,” she reasoned, sighing on a lament. “Denzapine has silenced my friends, though. Boo hiss!”  

“No, not boo hiss,” she stated, reaching to pinch her cheek affectionately. “It means you’re less anxious, doesn’t it?”  

“Suppose.” 

“Not being anxious is better than climbing the walls.” their third cohort spoke, Andrea sitting opposite them with her nose in a magazine. 

Indeed, Tiffany’s extreme anxiety was what had led to her lighting fires in order to quell it, Naturally, it was not the healthiest impulse to relieve her extremely acute panic disorder, the hypermania she suffered leading to her penchant for pyromania.  

“Do you ever think of like, doing fire breathing or something? You’d still get to play with fire, but in a way that doesn’t lead to you nearly burning your parent’s house down?” 

That was quite typical of Ella, wanting to offer a solution to someone’s problems, yet failing to see how ridiculous she was being in combatting her own. Case in point, causing a fuss over something as small as whole milk. “Yeah, I’ve thought about it. You wanna know the saddest thing, though? I’d be scared of the fire getting that close to my face!” 

A snort sounded behind them. “A fucking pyromaniac who's scared of fire? What are you, a walking contradiction?”  

Oh. New boy spoke. With a voice so deep, it sounded like someone drilling into a lead pipe.  

“Yeah, new boy. Apparently so,” Tiff called as James walked over to the refreshments table, grabbing a can of Fanta.  

He turned to her, frowning. “Who the fuck are you calling boy?” 

“Er, you!” 

“I’m twenty-three. That ain’t no boy, dickhead.” 

“Ooooh! Someone’s feisty! Better hush your mouth, or I’ll burn your house down!” Tiff continued to banter, James curling his lip while swallowing a mouthful of orange fizz. God, what he’d give for it to be a beer.  

“My house is your house right now, princess, or did that sail right over that fat head of yours?” 

“Harsh!” 

“Deserved.” 

Their little back and forth had Ella in mild fits, James looking past the girl he was enjoying a bit of verbal sparring with to notice her. Fuck, she was tiny. Very cute, but so, so frail. No prizes for guessing why she was there.  

“You’re so fucking rude, new boy!” 

“Yeah, I am.”  

“You’ve got sexy hair, though.” 

“Yeah, I have.” 

“And nice arms. Give us a flex!” Andrea piped up, emerging from behind her magazine. He obliged. Oh, the biceps. “Oooh! Are you that muscly all over, new boy?” 

“Yup.”  

“I bet you’ve got a big dick too, haven’t you?”  

“Andrea,” Tony, one of the orderlies called, “settle down now.” 

“Yeah, don’t answer that question, new boy. She’s a sex addict,” Tiff chimed, looking to where Andrea was practically salivating. 

“Seriously?” James asked, beginning to grin. “Shitting hell. Good to know, that.” 

Once again, Tony intervened. “James, get that tone of voice off your face.”  

“What? Just having a laugh. Better than me trying to batter you, innit?” 

A pointed finger directed him. “Go on, back in your corner. Andrea’s only just been allowed to mix freely; she doesn’t need you getting her amped up.” 

His mouth tilted into a crescent, nodding over to her. “Yeah? Kinda looks like that’s exactly what she needs.” Tony continued to point, his mouth tightening. “Alright, bloody hell. I’ll scuttle off again, fucks sake.” 

“No! You’re actually quite fun, come sit with us!” Tiff spoke, shuffling down the sofa and patting the spot between her and Ella.  

“Yeah, new boy. Come sit next to me!” Andrea chirped, her grin nothing short of lascivious.  

He paused. Andrea could practically feel herself levitating on a cloud of sexual anticipation. Ella laughed behind her hands. Tiff looked expectant. Tony wanted a double Bacardi straight up.  

“Andrea, cool it. James, corner. Tiff, be quiet. Ella, as you were.” It was like herding cats. Or toddlers. Maybe both together. Truly, nothing was ever dull with the mentally ill. 

“No fun wanker.” 

“That’s one, James. If we get to three, common room privileges are revoked.” 

“Suck my fucking dick.” 

“Two!” 

Andrea didn’t miss a beat. “I’ll do that for you, James!” 

Oh, to be Tony Jenkins on that particular morning. Up until that moment, James had posed absolutely no issue in the common room, but give him a little female attention, it seemed, and he’d come out of his gloom like a roar of wildfire. He’d been trouble before for being violent and aggressive. Now on altered doses of meds, he was still very much trouble, but for entirely different reasons. Dr. Beaumont would be made aware of it.  

“Sorry girls. Gotta do as the gestapo orders, innit.” he spoke with a salute to Tony, who was severely considering going to three and sending him back to his room.  

“Tiff, I’ve got to take you to therapy now, come on. Andrea, you’re going back to your room for a time out.” Tony was met by two eye rolls and a triple-delivered ‘I know’ from the former, the girls getting up and leaving the common room with him obediently, leaving Ella at a loose end. Picking up the magazine Andrea had been reading, she flicked through, not finding anything particularly of interest within its pages.  

Looking over to the corner, what did interest her was still there, staring out of the window. New boy. Or James, as she now knew him to be. He’d been funny. He had a chip on his shoulder the size of the facility itself, but he was funny. The magazine was abandoned. 

“Do you mind me sitting over here?” she asked, pulling a chair over and turning it the wrong way before plonking herself down. 

He shrugged. “Free country, innit?” 

“So,” she began, biting the tip of her tongue between her teeth, “did you pay full price for your attitude problem, or did you get it on sale?” 

He met her with a look half of incredulity, half entertainment, the tiny girl continuing to grin at him. “Yeah, gotta pay full whack for an attitude problem as big as mine.” 

She laughed softly, rooting her fingers in her messy, pale blonde waves and scratching her head. The way her forearm flexed made him feel uncomfortable, seeing just how thin she truly was. It was a shame. She was really pretty. It was made even more shocking because she was reasonably tall, too, likely around five six or seven he guessed. “So, are you the guy who threw a fire extinguisher at Gus last week?” 

“Nah, that was big Keith. They’ve got him sedated again.” 

“Ahh, okay. I was just wondering, like, with what you said about battering Tony,” she spoke, looking him up and down. She could imagine he could do some damage to a person, being so tall and obviously physically strong. “So, what are you in for?” 

He rolled his eyes, pointing to one of the seven-inch long, still red and angry looking scars upon his arms. “Ain’t it obvious?” 

“Alright, sorry,” she snorted, feeling a little affronted at his crisp sarcasm. She was going to ask why, but knew that would likely not be a question met well, so chose more carefully. “How long have you been here for?”  

“Two and a half months. I think.” 

“You think?” 

“Yeah,” he muttered, levering the ring pull of the can back and forth with his thumb. “I was out of my head on Lithium for weeks, so I ain’t entirely sure. What about you?” 

Lithium, Christ. He must’ve been bad. “Almost four. I spent the first two bed bound, being force fed because I was so weak. It was pants, still is.”  

“How’d they force feed you? Shove a burger in your gob until you chew?”  

The thought of a burger made her instantly nauseous. Oh, the calories. 625 with cheese, 585 without. “I had a port in my stomach, but they’ve taken it out now.”  

“What,” he frowned, not familiar with the term, “like an IV, but into your stomach instead of your arm?” 

“Similar, yeah. I’d show you, but I don’t like people seeing me under my clothes. I’m disgusting. So bleedin’ chubby.” 

He snorted. “Like fuck, you are, Ella. You’re tiny. One of my legs probably weighs more than you do. What total bullshit.” 

“See, everyone calls me tiny, but I don’t see it. I just see a big, fat minger every time I look in the mirror, so I’m not allowed one. Or scales.” 

“Seen more fat on a fucking skeleton.” Looking up at her, he felt a bit bad for that, her face dropping. “Sorry. I’ll probably say the wrong thing a lot, innit. Never met anyone with what you have before. What do they call it, bulimia?” 

Well, at least he was apologetic there. “No, I have anorexia. I compulsively count calories, restrict my diet and throw up if I have too much, whereas bulimics binge and then purge, so like, they’ll stuff themselves with food and then throw it all back up again.” 

If nothing else, he was getting an education into the various ins and outs of several mental illnesses while he was there. “So, what stops you from seeing that you’re really not fat? Because you aren’t, you know.” 

She tapped the side of her head, a cute, lopsided little smile curving her lips. “That’s all up here. It’s part of the disorder, me not seeing what others do.”  

“Do you still feel hungry, or has that gone?”  

“No, I do. I’d love nothing more than to inhale a bag of marshmallows, or have a chip sarnie, but it terrifies me. Just can’t do it.” 

“Fuck, chip sandwiches are the best. You’re missing out. I put peanut butter and chili sauce on mine too, best hangover cure ever,” he revealed, his stomach rumbling at the thought of it. The food in there wasn’t too great. Then again, his diet outside of it wasn’t brilliant either. “Sorry, probably not what you wanna hear.” 

He was trying at least. She had to give him that. “You're alright. Talking about food sometimes makes me feel sick, but then it makes me miss what I love less. Don’t know how that works, but it does.” She felt a little uncomfortable, feeling like she couldn’t ask him questions over why he was residing there currently, seeing him as only a semi-approachable person. It seemed he enjoyed being intimidating, although his humour did reveal there to be a much less frosty person beneath it. She sensed it would take a little time to come out.  

“So, black metal is your thing, huh?” she asked, pointing at his t shirt, recognising the emblem belonging to the band Darkthrone.  

He was surprised she knew. Most people couldn’t even read it, let alone have a clue who they were. “Yeah, it is. I listen to it and play it. My band’s called Nocturnal Descent. You into the scene too?” 

“Nope, but my sister is. I’m a raver. Give me The Prodigy at high volume and I’m a happy camper,” she chirped. “What do you do in your band, then?” 

Her sunshine was met with a slightly curled lip. “Lead guitar. And really, you like all that crap? Can’t bear that dance shit. Sounds like a car alarm going off.” 

“Oh, and screeching about blood, corpses and death is really the height of artistic excellence, isn’t it? Fucking church burner.” 

The laugh she provoked in him made her jump, a sudden boom exiting his mouth. A lot of black metal fans could be rigorously defensive about the genre, and he was to a degree, but that was funny. “Oi, my name’s James, not Varg.” 

“Is that his name, the little twat who burned all those churches down and then stabbed the other fella to death a few years ago? Jane told me about it all, but I wasn’t really listening,” she revealed, speaking of her elder sister, who lived and breathed the music. 

“Varg Vikernes, yeah, that’s him. He’s a twat for killing Euronymous, but not for burning the churches. Fucking can’t stand Christianity. Pious bullshit.” 

She nodded rapidly. “Yeah, I agree with you there. I don’t like religion. I find it oppressive. So, are you into all the Satanism and all that?” 

“Nah, not really. It’s all image, truthfully. Even a lot of the lads who pioneered it all over in Norway ain’t really Satanists. It’s just what the media paints us to be, innit.” 

“You say innit a lot, don’t you?” she observed, James moving a hand to scrape his curtain of silky hair from his face. God, Tiff was right. It really was sexy hair.  

“Yeah, I do.” He paused, watching her fiddle with her sweater sleeves, wondering how she could handle wearing something like that when the weather was warming so much and the facility was always kept so warm. It then clicked; no body fat to keep her warm, so yes, she likely felt the cold more than most. “So, what other music are you into other than those dickheads from down Essex?” 

Narrowing her eyes, she made a fist to shake in his direction. “I’d have you for that, if you weren’t three times my size.” 

“I’d put you over my knee and smack your arse, princess,” he quipped. 

“Oooh, might enjoy that.” They both laughed then, the tiny little slither of something bordering on flirting making pleasant little ripples run through them. “As for who else I like, Groove Armada, Underworld, Jamiroquai, Darude, Donna Summer, ABBA, The Chemical Brothers, Fatboy Slim, bit of Britpop here and there, too.” 

“All awful,” he snorted. God, he was so rude!  

“Shut your hole, church burner.” Again, that made him laugh. “So, are you into much else other than black metal?” 

“Yeah, a bit. Other genres of metal, classic rock, stuff like Black Sabbath and Led Zeppelin, Hendrix, then there are a few classical composers I’m into as well. I tend to like epic shit,” he explained, “especially when I’m burning churches. You get a good bit of flame up if you accompany it to Beethoven.”  

“I’m sure he’d agree,” she laughed, her face a picture of bemusement. “See, you’re so funny, and you don’t take yourself too seriously either. It’s really strange to like, see you as this person, even though I don’t know you at all, but then remember you were sad enough not so long ago to want to end it all.” 

“Fair comment,” he sniffed. “It’s cos’ I’m really well medicated, though. Everything is shit and I still wanna die, just a bit less than before, innit.”  

She shook her head in wonder at that statement. “Why though?” 

“Why do you think you’re fat when clearly, you ain’t?” He tapped the side of his head with his finger, raising an eyebrow. Hoo. That made him look about ten times more gorgeous than he was, for some reason. And he wasn’t even her type. “Broken brain. Guess it remains to be seen if I’m fixable, or for the scrap heap.” 

“Yeah, me too.” 

He snorted, looking out at the window. “Shitting hell. I bet we’re fun at parties.” 

“You know, I actually am. When I’m not obsessing over how much sugar the pop has in it,” she revealed through her laughter at his joke. 

“Not much of one for the booze, no?” he asked, his brain suddenly clicking. “Ahh yeah. Calories.” 

“Got it in one. I miss a nice, cold pint of Strongbow,” she confirmed.  

“Ella?” the voice of Gus, her favourite of the orderlies called. “Therapy time.”  

“Oh, joy,” she moaned, standing up. “Well, it’s been nice having a chat, James. Don’t be a stranger, sitting here on your own all the time either, like. Come chat with me again, or I’ll come to you.” She paused then, loitering a little. “Oh, and the fact that you can still find humour in things makes me think that you aren’t for the scrap heap, you know. If you were unfixable, you’d still be gloomy no matter what. You just have to want life more, I suppose.” 

Her words could have come off as trite, but for James, they actually gave him something to think about. Did he honestly think the things that genuinely brought him joy were merely glossing over how he felt inside, discounting them because the bleakness of life was so much vaster? Did it truly make them less genuine?  

For the first time in a long, long time, a sentence of very simple delivery had gotten through. Profoundness from an anorexic incapable of seeing her own mess, but being scarily accurate over how he could begin fixing his own. Who’d have thought it?  

[wtffanfiction-de]

Fandom: Harry Potter

„So wie Snape seine Tochter betrachtete glaubte er, dass sie Magersüchtig war.

Da Wynnes Körper einem so vorkam, als ob sie Magersüchtig war.“

[baratiddyappreciator]

Hey, can I ask you for headcanons from the s/o in which it is the Reader, who has an eating disorder (specifically anorexia).

Thenk you!

I hope everything is spelled correctly, I'm average in English.

Your spelling is fine! I can get this one written out no problemo! I feel it important to mention that if you're struggling with anorexia to seek help. You're not alone, and it's better to have you in this world, no matter how hard things may be. TW for eating disorders, continued under the cut.

Baki:

He worries about you all the time. He notices when you're looking more tired or pale than usual, he knows you're already a light person, but he notices right away when you feel lighter. It's not just that he's getting stronger, but you're losing weight, and he's not going to let that slide.

He will absolutely try to get you to eat more, he doesn't want to watch you wither away in front of him. He loves you, and while he knows you're going through it when you do eat, he does hold your hand and encourage you.

He knows what it's like to wake up that thin, to have your bones hurt because you haven't eaten enough, though his was for a different reason, he still knows who to call. Retsu's cooking has straight up healing powers, and they're both going to make sure you finish a meal.

He gives you a lot of "safe" foods to snack on during the day. Crackers, granola bars, all that stuff. He wants to make sure that you're eating something over the course of the day, though he would prefer it to be a proper meal.

Hanayama:

That's not going to fly with him. You need help, and he's going to get it for you. He'll drag you to the hospital and get you a doctor that can help you start to recover. He wants you to be well.

He has stashes of your safe foods around the house and he expects you to at least have some throughout the day, if not a proper meal. He hires some of the best cooks so that you get to eat the best foods, and while you may not like it, the food is delicious.

If he finds out that you haven't eaten, he's going to hand you a snack and watch you eat it. He'll hold you the entire time, make sure you feel safe, but you're not going to be able to get away with not eating around him.

Seeing you so thin and sickly looking reminds him of how his mother looked before she passed, and he really doesn't want to lose someone else, especially if they're shriveling away.

Chiharu:

He doesn't really get why you're struggling with an ED, you'd be beautiful to him regardless of what you looked like and food tastes good, but regardless of that he is there for you. He hypes you up at every meal because he knows it's hard for you, but you've gotta do it.

You want safe snacks? The entire house has safe snacks and foods all around in little cubbies and baggies. He's even added hangers around the house in visible spaces so you can see your safe snack and a baggie of little love notes he wrote for you.

You don't want to eat because you think it'll be too many calories? He'll get two servings of the thing you think looks tastiest and he'll let you pick at his food, he'll encourage you to do so. He'll take the calories for you, as long as you're eating, he's happy.

If you start losing more weight he'll pull you aside and admit how scared he is of losing you because of it, he'll even get down on his hands and knees and beg you to eat something. He'll be strong for you, but he'd like you to be strong for him too.

Katsumi:

He's got resources to get you help, be it a psychologist or a doctor. He wants to help you get better, because he doesn't want you to feel sick, unwell or unworthy. He loves you with every fiber of his being.

He's got safe snacks in the kitchen, but not an overabundant amount because he's not wanting to pressure you into eating too much, but they're there and he only checks to see if he needs to grab some more.

He does buy a lot of fruit and vegetables for you, and will, at random, walk up to you with a fruit bowl or a veggie platter so you can both have a healthy snack. He'd rather you have something small than nothing at all.

Big meals are scary, he knows that, but he needs you to try, for him and for yourself. He doesn't expect you to finish the plate entirely, he knows that that's not always reasonable, but he does ask that you at least have a few bites of each thing on the plate.

Jack:

He himself was had an ED when he was younger. He wouldn't eat a lot and would train himself to the point of passing out, so he understands your situation better than anyone here. That being said, he's going to help you get better no matter what.

Be it safe snacks in the places you frequent the most, as well as some less safe snacks in the kitchen, or if it's packing a bit of food onto a large plate to make it seem like there's only a little bit, he's doing his best to help you slowly get back to full health.

He knows you won't always finish a plate, but he won't eat until you have three bites. That's when he knows that you're actually eating, and he'll start on his own food, which he deliberately packs thick on a smaller plate so it looks like he's eating a lot (which he is).

There's some point where he notices you getting a bit thinner and more tired, and he'll come lay with you in bed and be incredibly vulnerable with you. He promises that he'll hold you accountable if you help keep him accountable.

Kosho:

He goes to his big brother for help, first and foremost. He knows you were unwell, but he didn't know that you had an ED, and he's not afraid to admit that while he doesn't know how to handle it, Kureha might. He'll help you, he promises.

He doesn't really know about safe snacks, but he'll have snacks available to you. Fruits, granola bars, cheese, meats, all of it, he's got them packed in little containers that you can take and nibble on.

He knows that meals might be hard, but he tries his best to get you to eat something. Also, his bathroom scale mysteriously goes missing. Did he throw it away or simply hide it, he'll never tell you.

If he notices that you've been having a rough time, he'll take you out on a walk, holding your hand and taking you somewhere quiet. He wants you to see how much he values you being around, and he wants you to know that all of these views he's showing you would be much more dull without you there.

Kureha:

He figures it out pretty early on, and while he's willing to wait for you to tell him, if he notices that you're getting worse or deteriorating, he will get you help. There's no ifs, ands or buts about it, if he feels like you need it, he'll even get you under a hold if he feels it's necessary.

He gets you a treatment plan, and he helps you stick you it religiously. You're not skipping any meals, and they start small, working up to full ones as you recover.

The only weigh-ins are the ones you get when going in to the doctors for a check-up, he doesn't want you to worry about your weight, he just wants you to focus on recovering. If possible, he doesn't let you hear what the results are, but he does encourage you.

Lots of silent staring at you. He's not disappointed or anything, he's just watching you, making sure that you're really still there with him. He'll be a lot sweeter, kissing you on the forehead at random. He wants you to feel loved.

Retsu:

Blind panic. Is his food not good enough? Did someone say something to you? How long has this been happening? How didn't he notice sooner? He's in a panic and just winds up hugging you so tight you can't breathe.

He wants to help you, so he sits you down and has you go through a list of safe foods that you're willing to eat. He'll make them for you, snacks, meals, all of them, but he wants you to get the minimum caloric intake every day, and he wants that to be done with your preferred meals.

He knows that there are good and bad days, he wants you to know that he's there for you regardless, but on bad days, he helps you have smaller, lighter meals so it doesn't feel like you're eating as much while still getting the needed calories.

He can't sleep unless he's holding you. He needs to know that you're safe and still with him, and he won't let go until the sun rises.

Doppo:

You mention it and he sits you down to talk about treatments. Therapy, being hospitalized, all of that, he talks to you about what you're willing to do. He's thankful you told him that you're struggling.

He'll try his best to help you. Once there's a treatment plan in place, he's shockingly good at following it. Not for himself, mind, he's terrible when it comes to himself, but for you? It's like a new religion.

Snacks? Of course! Just come with him to a store and pick out ones that you like, but he'll get you some that he likes too so you have some variation. Much like Retsu, he wants you to get the minimum caloric intake at least, so if your snacks aren't enough, you can have his. Meals are taken care of too, don't worry about those. He'll help you math it out so that you can have the minimum while feeling comfortable.

He tells you that you're beautiful all the time, at random. He'll just look over at you with a love-filled look, smile and tell you that he loves you, that you're beautiful. He'll then drag you into his lap to hold you for a minute.

[merryslilhobbit]

as much as i adore 2022 dando content it just breaks my heart seeing how unhealthy daniel was at the time :( the difference between then and now is absolutely insane

This is so true. And the thing is, we didn't see it at the time. It's only with hindsight and seeing how healthy he looks now, that we realise where he was at. It's not always that noticeable in 2022, but the pictures of him dancing with Lando (how is that a sentence I get to say btw?!), for me, make it really stand out.

I have a very good friend that I've known for over 20 years and the situation reminds me of her. When we were teenagers, she was super skinny. To me, that's the way she always was. It wasn't until we were in our 20s or 30s that I discovered she was anorexic. Looking back at old photos, I've no idea how I didn't see it. Apologies for going a little sideways on this, but I haven't mentioned it before.

[withoutaconscienceorafilter]

This is a post about my friend's kid's eating disorder, because I need to vent about this somewhere.

You can see the tags. Don't click if you don't want to know.

This child is in such a bad place. Not only does she have full-blown anorexia with all the mental health implications that go with that, but she's also reacting to every intervention in the worst way possible.

She hates that her parents are requiring her to eat, requiring her to drink water, making her attend a program to try to get better. Her solution is to run out the front door through the neighborhood screaming at the top of her lungs, "Help, my parents are molesting me!!!"

She also tries variations of this every single day when they enter the outpatient clinic.

She is threatening to cut herself. She told her parents that they should stop killing her slowly and just do it quickly. She seems to be in the middle of a major depressive episode, basically sobbing for 8 hours at a time and saying all the things that parents are warned to watch for to know that their child is suicidal.

She tries to get up and exercise in the middle of the night. She tries to wear as little clothing as possible, hoping that her body has to work harder and burn more calories to stay warm. She will blow her nose during meals so that she can surreptitiously spit mouthfuls of food out in the tissue.

She's so malnourished. Her body is in constant pain as it cannibalizes itself. She gained half a pound so far in a week of outpatient treatment, but the eating disorder is so much in control that her only reaction was that she could feel the fat in her thighs, she was going to get fat.

The doctors have essentially said they've never seen a patient present quite this way, especially with the screaming for CPS. The course of treatment at the moment is to stabilize her weight, then they'll be better able to deal with the mental health stuff. But omg she needs help with the mental health stuff!!!

My friend is both terrified that her kid is going to die ... and that her kid is going to get the family in trouble with CPS, get taken to foster care, and no longer receive any of the help she needs for the eating disorder. So that she dies.

This is a shitshow of epic proportions.