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anaalnathrakhs · 10 months

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oh god ed reddit is having the “uwu anorexia isn’t rooted in fatphobia my mental illness is not abt you” talk again please god help me

fatphobia doesn’t mean “being a meanie to fat ppl” i’m begging you to use critical thinking skills for five seconds and apply what you know about literally any other form of oppression to this situation.

people’s point isn’t that you having anorexia makes them feel bad and therefore you’re a bad fatphobic person.

they’re pointing out how the deeply ingrained fatphobia our society upholds, from misconceptions about health to moralization of looks and weight, including yes being jerks to fat ppl’s faces bc they’re fat, is affecting what you think about your own looks, weight, health, body, clothes, eating habits, etc.

the logic isn’t “you became anorexic because you hate fat people so much you never wanted to be fat yourself (and that makes you a bad person)” it’s “fatphobia is a prism that transforms the root cause of your ed into disordered thoughts, behaviors, and patterns (and unlearning fatphobia will help you with recovery and harm-reduction)”

like. it’s not for no reason that anorexia is a disorder that disproportionatedly affects women. it’s not for no reason that there’s sky high comorbidity rates for eds and ocd. it’s not for no reason that people who need control in their lives so badly that they develop a mental disorder abt it get obssessed with being skinny and not with being a sumo. it’s not for no reason that ppl who feel the need to retract to childhood due to trauma envy things like being skinny light and frail, instead of being a tubby baby. it’s not for no reason that there is an incredibly common anorexic thought pattern (internal and self-directed, don’t make me say what i didn’t say) that associaties restriction and weight loss with moral goodness.

for each of these there IS a number of exceptions, but you can see case by case how the root cause (trauma, need for control, for self-destruction, growing up poor, whatever you think is “unrelated to fatphobia” basically) is processed through the prism of the fatphobic culture we’ve all been raised in. some people just, voluntarily or not, deal with those root causes in different way, which might or might not be healthy. but it’s a consequence of ambiant fatphobia that “i should starve and be skinny about it” is a statistically pretty common response to this distress.

the point isn’t “it’s fatphobic that you don’t deal with your neuroses in a body positive way uwu” the point is that no matter how cool you are with fat people on like, a personal level, you’ve been (like the rest of us) bombarded with fatphobic thought patterns your entire life basically, both directly fatphobic things and reactions to this fatphobia. maybe spoken to you directly, maybe not. maybe about you maybe about other people. you live in a society that places moral values into looks and health, and also pushes some deeply rooted falsehoods about how those things tie into each other. you have a disorder defined by obsessive behaviors. maybe, just maybe, deconstructing the logic that those obsessives behaviors are based upon will help you deal with this disorder. and recover or reduce harm.

basically, anorexia isn’t “getting skinny disorder” it’s “obsession disorder”, obsession with looking attractive, or pleasing your family, or going back to being a kid, or being healthy, or being fit, or being driven and capable, or being worth saving, or having your suffering known, or having control over something, or whatever. the fatphobia that is omnipresent (and i repeat, omnipresent, nobody is singling you out as a bad fatphobic meanie, or even talking about your behavior towards other people around you) in our society picks the direction in which many many people will express that disorder.

of course if you live in a society that tells you “being fat is morally bad” at every turn, when you start developping an obssessive pathological need to control things, without another factor weighting in, most people’s default reaction will be anorexia. food is a regular fixture of everybody’s life, everyone wants to be morally good, and even if we know/understand/believe to an extent the flaws of that “fat = bad” logic we know the world around us still believes it, and nobody wants to be treated like shit. we can think it’s stupid and fight against fatphobia and work to treat fat ppl better in our lives and support body positivity, but in any case, one always judges oneself on different metrics than they judge others, cuz we control our self-improvement. that’s natural. just it doesn’t mesh well with a pathologically obssessive need for control above self-preservation.

#ed tw #ana #notprojusttags #proana #ed #last year i got into an argument abt this that was so potent #it caused me to turn all my childhood attempts of having anorexia into actually having purging disorder #out of fucking spite #guess what you dicks from last year i have anorexia now i still think you're wrong #in an act of good faith i'll say i'm ready to admit that maybe it's just that my debating skills suck #maybe i'm just a shitty argumentative writer #maybe i didn't formulate things right and that's why people got the wrong idea #and that's not a maybe i was not considerate enough of causes of anorexia that aren't related to weight directly #like food insecurity as a child and whatnot #however #no matter how bad the delivery might've been #we're not working with a completely different dictionary here #i remember people actively arguing with things i literally said the opposite of #you can't chalk everyone and everything up to that but man some ppl were really not in a state to have this kind of discussion #come back after your omad #broadcasting my misery #discourse #vent #fatphobia #fatphobia tw

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tennessoui · 1 year

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ganymede & zeus but make it obikin

been a while since i did a ficlet for tumblr....this comes out of a discord convo about ganymede!anakin and zeus!obi-wan......sort of dark tho gods are horrible beings with no boundaries

(for @jswander ) (2.3k)

Every muscle in Anakin’s body feels overextended and sore. He cries out from the sensation upon waking, instinctively trying to curl in on himself—anything to get away from the pain.

“Hush now,” a voice above him and below him and around him says. “None of that, beloved,” it speaks again when Anakin fights to tear open his eyes. “Sleep.”

There is nothing Anakin wants to do simultaneously more and less, but he’s never submitted under another’s thumb without a fight. With a great push of effort, he arches his back up, off the comfortable surface he’s laying on. And with what remains of his will, he wrenches his eyes open to survey his surroundings.

He cannot see a thing. White fills his vision, so bright and heated that it feels as if he is burning from the inside out, as if his very being is disintegrating the longer he looks at the light. It is blinding. It is everything. He cannot look away, nor can he close his eyes. His mouth has fallen open and he can hear himself screaming from the pain of it all, the radiance of the being in front of him.

“You stupid boy,” the voice snaps, sounding absolutely furious as the light coalesces into one solid shape, something that looks like a chest, then an arm, then a hand reaching towards him.

Anakin tries to scramble back, away from what will surely feel like a brand against his skin—and oh gods, doess he know what that feels like—but the hand extends faster than he can move, and even when he turns his head away, it catches him. It covers his eyes.

“Drink,” the voice murmurs, reverberating around him. Only then does Anakin notice that a cup has been brought to his lips. His lips seel themselves into a firm line. No. No. “You stupid child,” the voice snaps, “Do as you are told.”

It is the sheer power in the command that causes Anakin to open his mouth, to tip his head back. He is the lion among men, the Conqueror with No Fear, the Queen of Naboo’s Chosen Warrior, and yet—he opens his mouth and yields to the voice, to the hand over his eyes that burns. It feels like renewal, not pain, though that may be because every other part of his body still feels as if it is on fire, the aches from the first few moments of consciousness burning to ash under the pain of that radiance.

“Sleep,” the voice commands, and this time Anakin can do nothing but listen.

—---------

When he awakens next, he can tell from the breeze in the air that he has been moved. It is cool, and the breeze brushes against his skin like a gentle friend, running over his body to reach every part of him.

It is then he realizes that someone has stripped him of his clothes, his armor. He had been wearing armor. He had been preparing to lead his men into battle. He had—

The breeze in the air twirls around his chest and neck, caressing his skin until his nipples stiffen into peaks from the cold. Almost distantly, it sounds as if someone is laughing, an exhale over and over again that conveys their mirth, and Anakin can suddenly feel the breeze on his lips like a lover’s breath.

“Eurus, out,” a voice roars from somewhere that is everywhere and nowhere all at once. Anakin quakes from the sound of it, but the breeze withdraws, tosses out one last laugh that sounds almost like a cackle, before seemingly winking out of existence.

Anakin lies carefully still. The fabric beneath him feels soft, slippery. He’d been to the palace of Naboo only once to pay respect to the queen he fought his wars in the name of. Her personal chambers had been draped in a material that felt similar. So soft that it had felt then almost uncomfortable to touch.

Anakin had been born a slave. He did not know soft things, nor how to languish against them. The queen had tried to show him how, had made such a persistent overture in the name of pleasure that he had sworn his loyalty to her name—but, privately, to her figure against those silks, the line of her throat, the tilt of her chin as she gave ground and submitted to his desires—and yet he still could never relax in the comfort her status and love had offered. He was not made for it.

He was not made for these silks either, though they certainly felt different against his skin.

“You are too perfect for your own good, my darling,” the voice says quietly, a hand running through Anakin’s hair carefully. The motion is one filled with strange devotion. Tenderness. “Your beauty could start a war amongst the gods themselves, for they would all like to take you, to have you. Yet you are mine.”

Anakin can feel his heart stutter at this declaration. The touch of his hair is no longer tender. It is proprietary. He opens his mouth, wets his lips. “I am no one’s,” he whispers, voice hoarse and cracking.

His defiance makes the voice laugh, a rich sound that reminds Anakin of the sounds of rocks tumbling down a mountainside. “You have sworn yourself to me, Anakin Skywalker, of course you are mine.”

“You are not my queen—“

“You would be wise to not speak of your infidelities so casually,” the voice snaps, and the hairs on Anakin’s arms stand as the air seems to fill with electricity. “You have no queen here.”

Anakin is silent, his mind and heart racing. Has he been captured? Is he a slave again? He would rather die.

“Open your eyes, darling. Look upon me and allow me to see the reward of my labor,” the voice turns soft again, coaxing, and the hand leaves his hair to trail down the side of his face, thumb brushing over the bow of his lips.

“Hurt,” Anakin manages to say. The thumb takes his parted lips as invitation and presses into his mouth to rest against his teeth. Anakin thinks about biting it, but there is something inside him that screams at him to be careful. To tread carefully around this voice. This man.

“I know,” the voice croons, “and I apologize for it, treasure. I had not expected you to wake so soon after your ordeal and was not prepared. Humans cannot bear to look upon my godly form. Those who have have perished. You have frightened me with your recklessness.”

The thumb presses down hard before it withdraws.

“Open your eyes, Anakin,” the voice says. “Your king demands it.”

Gingerly, carefully, Anakin opens his eyes.

He is met immediately with the sight of a man leaning over him. His face is lined with a well-kept beard, short and practical and dark red. His hair too is the same color of russet, pushed up and off his forehead in a rakish cut. His eyes though—Anakin cannot look away from them. They are glittering, electric blue. No—they are the color of the sky before a thunderstorm, whirling points of gray and dark blue. No—they the early morning sky in the north of Naboo, slate gray and bright.

“Hello there, darling,” the man says. He strokes Anakin’s cheek again, resting his broad hand against his skin.

Anakin can do nothing but stare. This man—he is handsome beyond imagination, but there is something in the set of his face, the jut of his lips, his jaw—perhaps something in his eyes that screams danger.

He is so perfect that he is almost unreal.

“I will miss the blue of your eyes,” the man murmurs, looking at him intently. Critically.

Hungrily.

“What?” Anakin whispers.

The man continues as if he has not heard him. “Yet there is something deeply satisfying in seeing your eyes stained gold from my blood. You wear it well, darling, your godhood.”

Anakin shakes his head. The man’s words—they do not make sense though he says them in the manner any sane man speaks.

“Truly you were born to be mine,” the man whispers like a sacred declaration, and this finally causes Anakin to flinch away.

“I am no one’s,” he says again, shifting off the fabrics and pushing himself to stand. He was wrong earlier—he is not fully nude, though he thinks he’d prefer to be. There is a cloth like a skirt around his hips, though the fabric only covers the area between his legs, held together by clasps that lay against his hips. And even then, it is light and transparent and doing little to protect his modesty. His chest is bare, but his upper arms have been wrapped in gold coils, one short and one extending almost to his elbow.

The man before him has dressed him as a child would dress a doll and it infuriates him. He is Anakin Skywalker, a lion among men, and he will not suffer this.

“I am no one’s,” he declares with a snarl, turning upon the man and striding forward. “Release me at once!”

The man arches a singular eyebrow but otherwise appears completely unaffected. Anakin feels like roaring, like taking his face into his hands and ripping it apart.

“Where am I?” He interrogates as he stalks towards the man. Though he is handsome and though he appears strong, his bare torso as visible as Anakin’s and just as well-muscled, Anakin is a warrior and broader than this man, taller too.

Anakin can beat him into submission.

“Why have you taken me? Return me at once, and I will let you live! I am Anakin Skywalker, I am the Resolute, I am the warrior with no fear and the Queen’s intended. I—”

The man, whose face had been unflinching in response to Anakin’s threats, stands at the mention of the queen, beautiful features twisting into a wicked snarl as he suddenly meets Anakin in the middle. The temperature in the room grows cold and the air becomes heavy with electricity. With something that Anakin does not know how to name.

“If you mention your queen once more, I will kill her,” the man bites out, every word weighted with promise. “I will kill her and see her soul damned to Tartarus. I will take her there myself and string her up amongst her kin. Thieves and pillagers and all those mortals who were foolish enough to attempt to steal from the king of the gods.”

Anakin flinches away, some long buried instinct in him insisting that he put space between himseslf and the predator staring down at him. “Who—who are you?” he asks, question catching in his throat.

The man’s eyes, stormy blue now and swirling in his rage, lighten at the question. His mouth relaxes. He appears to enjoy answering, for he takes his time with it. “I find myself offended that you have forgotten,” he says, moving to touch Anakin again.

Like a frightened rabbit that knows it has found itself in the jaws of a lion, Anakin lets the bejeweled hands cup his face.

“I am the man who bought you and your mother from your masters when you were but a child. And I am the boy who sold you fruits that never seemed to bruise, no matter how you handled them as you walked home. I am the cat that lurked outside the god king’s temple as you prayed to him for strength and skill and riches, promised yourself to him in return, promised to wage every war in his name, conquer in his colors. And I am the old man who trained you in battle, showed you how to fight and kill and conquer.”

Anakin shakes his head, struck speechless at these words. They are the ramblings of an insane man, but…but this man knows too much about him. No one knows that he was born a slave. Even when he fucked Padmé, he had made sure that she could not see the brand on his leg.

He latches onto the last words, shaking his head harder. “Ben was a crippled old man. You are—” handsome, is the only word that comes to mind.

As if the man has heard it in his head, he grins, gifting him with a flash of white teeth. “Yes, he was, wasn’t he? And you were so young then, all of eighteen years old and eager to prove yourself. I thought if I took my most preferred form, this form, you would never pay attention to my lessons. And I knew if you had offered yourself to me then, I would not have turned you down. Nor would I have let you leave.” Anakin shakes his head once more, but there’s no power in the motion.

“I was the eagle that flew above you as marched into battle, and I was the handmaiden who bore witness to your betrayal, when you promised yourself to the queen of Naboo, as if you had not already promised yourself to me.”

The scowl has returned, marring the man’s perfect features.

Anakin swallows, wetting his lips. “I promised myself to the king of the gods,” he whispers. “To Kenobi.”

“And he has made good on your promise,” the man smiles, one hand falling from his face to cup his neck. “He has taken you from your battlefield, delivered you to Mount Olympus. I have taken you as mine, I have taken what is mine.”

Deep within Anakin, he knows that the man before him speaks the truth. That he is no man at all. That—that—that he is—

“Kenobi,” he whispers, and the king of the gods lets his eyes flutter shut as if he hearing his name from Anakin’s lips causes him great pleasure.

“Yes,” Kenobi growls, adjusting his hold on him to tug him closer to his body.

Anakin is touching a god. A god is touching Anakin. The king of the gods has taken him from the battlefield, from the arms of his bride to be, from the mortal realm all together.

And he is holding him like he has no intention of letting him go.

#ganymede au #obikin #obi-wan here is very anti padme #that was mostly an accident #anyway i think anakin has some distant god in him so he didn't immediately die when he looked at obi-wan #but also obi-wan has been secretly giving him food and drink of the gods for his entire life #the fates said that anakin would be his eventually #obi-wan just got tired of waiting after 22 years of it #he saw anakin at 22 and swooped down to grab that #also idk i liked the idea of obi-wan's blood turning anakin's eyes gold but also healing him #there was a lot of things going on in my mind that did not make it into the story #most importantly that in a couple of days anakin is thrilled to be there #like it's not really dubcon much #much less dubcon than knocking on the wrong door au #oh also padme is definitely pregnant with the twins and obi-wan is gonna steal them too #ganymede au padme is like that one woman in greek mythology where shes sure the gods hate her specifically #and she's half right because obi-wan absolutely despises here #anyway im not gonna lie for a good two minutes i looked at my tumblr #and i was like oh no no one's sent an ask about this au so how do i post this ficlet??#and then i was like oh yeah #i can just post it no ask required this is the first post in the au of course no one has sent an ask about it yet

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