#cw eating disorder

[ayeforscotland]

Fucking Christ.

[tangledinink]

Hopefully they are able to accept this healthy(and delicious) bento. The old man has been very worried the kids aren't eating.

it is very much appreciated. they'll find some quiet corner of the @tmntaucompetition to hide in so they can eat.

[enbywerewolf]

I just never put these in one post

[cuubism]

Zero [complex math verse]

cw for disordered eating eating disorder storylines can be very triggering so please mind this content warning as it applies heavily to the entire fic

---

Hob is almost to his data structures section—running a bit late, as per usual—when he gets a call from Death. He picks up as he’s rushing up the stairs to the Comp Sci building.

“Hey, Hob,” she says before Hob can even tell her that he only has like thirty seconds to talk, actually. She sounds fatigued. “Can you go pick up Dream from the Maths building?”

Hob pins the phone between his shoulder and ear as he tugs open the door. “‘Pick him up’? Is he okay?”

“He asked me to come get him, but I can’t leave this patient right now.” Hob can imagine her leaning against the wall, hand pressed to her forehead. Why didn’t Dream call him?, Hob wonders. He’s usually much more available than Death, at this hour. “I asked if he wanted an ambulance, and he said no, but if you can’t go get him then—”

“Wait, wait.” Hob stops in the middle of the hall, stomach swooping. Someone walking behind him swears as they have to swerve to avoid hitting him, but he ignores it. “An ambulance? I thought you said he was okay.”

But... she hadn’t said that exactly, had she?

“He will be,” Death says, which doesn’t fill Hob with much confidence. But he turns around and heads back for the door, heartbeat picking up with each step.

“I’m going now, I’m not far.” The undergrads are just going to have to cope with not having discussion section today. He doubts they’ll be too unhappy about it.

“Thanks,” says Death, with relief. “Text me when you find him? And you should bring some food, if you have it.”

Oh.

Fuck.

Hob had been afraid something like this would happen. But he can’t exactly force Dream to pick up better habits. Horses and water, and all that.

“Yeah, yeah, I will, thanks,” he says, and walks faster.

Hob is going to be upset with him.

The thought circles Dream’s mind as he sits crumpled on the bench outside the classroom he’d been working in, head on his knees, hands clasped behind his neck. Nothing feels real. Everything is spinning and swaying. He might pass out. He might throw up. He hates throwing up. Hob is going to be upset with him.

It’s exactly what he was trying to avoid by calling his sister instead. Death will be upset with him, too, but she’s chastised him before. Dream is used to it. The same words coming from Hob will be a different matter.

He should have known that she would be busy, and would call Hob. Even if she could come to get him she would likely call Hob after. He should have known. He sits with his head pressed to his knees and waits for the inevitable.

Either Hob was very close by, or more time slips past Dream’s notice than he realizes, but it feels like only a few minutes before he hears Hob’s footsteps coming quickly down the hall. He doesn’t know what it means that he can recognize Hob’s footsteps. Or that Hob had known which classroom to go to. The one Dream always prefers to work in.

“Dream?” Hob crouches in front of him, trying to meet his eyes, but Dream can’t lift his head from his knees. It’s the only thing keeping the world from tipping over on him. Hob lays a hand on his arm. “Hey, love. What’s going on?”

“‘m dizzy,” Dream murmurs, voice small. He hadn’t realized how much his shoulders were shaking until Hob touched him. He thinks that’s distress more than physical shakiness. But Hob’s presence soothes him more than he’d expected. Even if Hob chews him out, he doesn’t want Hob to leave. He wants Hob to hold him. He just wants Hob to hold him.

“Okay.” Hob’s voice is quiet and calm. He brushes Dream’s hair behind his ear, though it’s not long enough for that to do much. “Sit up for me for a sec? I’ll help you.”

Dream is helpless but to follow Hob’s voice. He starts to sit up. His vision is still spinning. Hob wraps an arm around his middle and bodily lifts him up until he’s leaning back against the wall, then sits beside him on the bench, their thighs touching.

He meets Hob’s gaze. Hob is close enough that he doesn’t appear to waver as much as everything in the background. He looks beautiful, he’s a savior, an angel.

Dream’s brain is not working very normally right now. Not that it ever is.

Hob looks more concerned than angry with him. But Dream doesn’t have much time to study his expression before he’s turning to dig in his bag and pull out his water bottle. He uncaps it and hands it to Dream.

“Drink that. At least half of it. Slow.”

He goes back to digging in his bag as Dream sips the water carefully. Hob is very steady, underneath the concern. No panic. Good in a crisis, Hob. That’s interesting.

Hob watches him drink the water, then hands him a package of cheese crackers he’d pulled out of his bag. Despite himself, Dream laughs, weakly, as he takes it. “Do you always have food with you?”

“You’re not the only one who forgets to eat lunch, I just accommodate for it.”

‘Forgetting’ is… not exactly it, Dream thinks as he picks open the package and takes a cracker, eating it slowly. He still feels more nauseous than hungry, but he knows Hob won’t let it be until he eats it.

No, he has witnessed Hob skip a meal when in the throes of some engaging problem, but he always makes up for it later. Or by carrying around snacks, apparently. Whereas with Dream… it is not exactly forgetting.

He eats the crackers one by one, mechanically. Barely tasting them. Fortunately, the food cuts the edge of nausea in his stomach instead of exacerbating it, and he no longer thinks he’s in imminent danger of throwing up. Or passing out. That would certainly upset Hob.

“There you go, love,” Hob soothes him. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

Hob could have gone into the medical field instead if he wanted to, Dream thinks, somewhat deliriously, swallowing his final cheese cracker. His bedside manner is very good.

Or perhaps this is just because it’s Dream.

The thought makes him want to cry, but he doesn’t. He just stays still as the world starts spinning a little less, and Hob takes the water bottle and empty snack package back and shoves them in his bag, then tugs on Dream’s arm.

“Alright, why don’t you lie down.”

“This is a public hallway,” Dream complains, albeit weakly.

Hob sighs in exasperation. “We’ve slept on classroom tables before. Besides, this is a university, everybody’s seen weirder shit in public than this. Lie down.”

Dream acquiesces, and Hob guides him to lie down on the bench, his head on Hob’s lap. It’s pleasant, like that, and the world spins less and less. Hob pets his hair, and Dream closes his eyes.

“Are you going to make me go to A&E?” he murmurs, after a few moments of quiet.

“Depends how you feel in twenty minutes or so.” He sighs, and there’s a shake to it. “But I think you’ll be okay, love. Just give it a moment.”

Dream will be okay, until Hob decides he’s recovered enough to chastise him for his behavior. For now, he just lies there quietly and enjoys the settling feeling of Hob’s hands in his hair.

Hob doesn’t ask him what he did to himself, or why. Perhaps he’s judged Dream too tired or incapacitated to talk about it right now. He just keeps steadying Dream, quietly, his hands ever-moving.

When several minutes have passed, Hob asks, “How are you feeling, darling? Do you want to go home?”

Darling. Hob calls him such sweet things when Dream is nothing but difficult to him. “I would like to go home. Please.”

Hob helps him sit up, bracing an arm around his shoulders. But the room, thankfully, has stopped spinning. He gets Dream to his feet, and Dream doesn’t sway. Hob picks up both his bag and Dream’s from the floor and slips them over his shoulder. He wraps an arm around Dream’s waist. And silently, relieved to be standing again, Dream follows Hob home.

~~

Dream’s flat is closer to campus, so Hob takes him there, gets him settled on the couch and makes tea and pushes a box of biscuits into Dream’s hands, and all this before even telling Dream off for his behavior. Dream is not a child, he knows perfectly well how much sustenance a body needs to sustain it, he knows that it is unwise to go without eating, so why doesn’t Hob tell him so? Chastise him for his foolishness?

Dream sits curled up on the couch. Turning the box of biscuits over and over in his hands, unopened. Finally, Hob sits beside him with his own tea.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.

Dream can’t manage to get himself to open the biscuits. He sets the box in his lap, but picks up his tea as a compromise that will hopefully ease Hob’s worries. It does not work, based on Hob’s expression as he watches him do it. Dream sips his tea anyway. Hob’s put a lot of honey into it. Correctly deducing that Dream hasn’t had enough sugar or anything else today.

Instead of responding, he tears up.

Hob puts both of their mugs back on the coffee table and pulls him into his arms.

Dream presses his face into Hob’s shoulder. Tucks his hands in against the warmth of Hob’s body, pressed between his back and the couch. Crawls halfway into his lap. Hob wraps his arms around him and holds him close. Dream feels like his soul is pattering around and only staying contained by the boundaries created by Hob’s body. He doesn’t know what that feeling is.

Hob strokes his hair, murmurs against the shell of his ear, shh darling, it’s okay. Dream is a pathetic cowering creature soothed by Hob’s touch. That feeling. It’s fear. He’s scared. Scared of himself. That he can lose such control while grasping so tightly for it.

“Thank you,” he finally manages, something he should have said earlier, but means more than he can say, “for coming.”

“You could have called me, you know.” It’s not accusatory, but a little hurt. “It’s okay if you’d rather have Death, just—”

“It is not that. I—” He pulls back to see Hob’s face. Hob wipes the tears from his cheeks. “Death has told me her feelings on the matter before. I was… apprehensive to hear yours.” Death, also, has seen Dream at lower points than this. She can hardly think less of him. The same is not true of Hob.

Hob looks sad to hear this. “My feelings are that I’m concerned. Did you eat anything today?”

“…No.”

“What about yesterday?”

Dream thinks. He must have, surely? “I think so.”

“I can make you stuff, you know,” Hob says. “Whatever you want. I don’t mind.”

This is the last thing Dream wants. For Hob to think this is somehow his fault.

“If you’re forgetting I can just come get you whenever I’m eating,” Hob continues. He’s only growing more distressed at Dream’s silence.

How can Dream tell Hob, who cares so much and wants to help, that he does this on purpose? That he doesn’t forget that he’s hungry, but rather ignores it? Or worse, relishes in it? That he has done so for a long time. That it makes him feel sharper. In control of himself.

That once broken, habits are, it turns out, very hard to pick up again. Even when that habit is eating.

“It is not so simple, I’m afraid,” he says, ducking his head.

“No, I guess it wouldn’t be.” Hob bites his lip, looking away. “Why, then? I want to help you, but I don’t…”

“It makes me feel better,” Dream says. “Until it doesn’t.”

Like today. He pushed too far. But it’s only when he does go too far that the reality of what he’s doing comes back to him. It’s easy to forget, when he is used to it.

Ironically, he knows from experience that it will be easier to eat better in the next few days, now that he’s shocked himself back to reality. It will be easier, until he slips again. He doesn’t know how not to slip.

When he finally looks back up, Hob is already looking at him again. He looks sad. Dream doesn’t want him to be sad.

Hob takes Dream’s jaw in his hand, strokes his thumb over Dream’s lower lip. “You scared me, seeing you like that.”

Dream should probably apologize for his behavior. Instead, all he can do is lean in again to press his forehead against Hob’s. He knows Hob wants to fix it, to offer solutions, but all Dream really wants is his touch. Hob’s touch fixes more for him than anything else.

“I’m gonna stay over,” Hob says, cradling the back of his head. “And we’re going to have dinner.”

It is, in fact, almost dinnertime, Dream realizes. No wonder he felt overcome, after having nothing until now. Hob will insist on him having something, he knows. It still feels… strange. To be having something.

He tucks his face into Hob’s neck. “Very well.”

“Will you eat some of it?” Hob asks, petting his hair again, tugging the short strands between his fingers. Dream thinks it must be soothing to him to do so.

“Yes,” he says. “However. I don’t want you to think that this is your responsibility to fix.” Or that you can. Hob is very very good at taking things apart and fixing problems, but if he digs his hands into this one he is going to get his fingers jammed in the unsteady gears of Dream’s brain. He is only going to get hurt in trying.

“Maybe not,” says Hob, and, like he heard what Dream didn’t say, continues, “but I can feed you one meal so let’s start with that?”

Does Hob understand how much comfort he brings? Can he possibly?

“I love you,” Dream murmurs, almost unintelligible for how close he’s pressed himself to Hob’s body.

Hob kisses his head. “I love you, too, my darling.”

He bundles Dream closer so their limbs are all tangled together. Dream loves that, how he can feel each pressure point where they touch. “Will you tell me more about it? When you feel up to it. The more I get how you feel, the more I can help you.”

As a child, Dream’s favorite number was zero. Some mathematicians would insist zero was not actually a number, but rather the absence of one. That was exactly what Dream liked about it. The nothing defined by the everything around it. Zero was foundational, and yet it was not even properly there at all.

Sometimes Dream felt like zero. The less he ate the more he felt it. It was easier to be nothing than to let the everything in.

“You are insistent upon trying to help me,” Dream says.

“Yup.”

“Because,” Dream realizes, with a hard swallow, “you love me.”

“Exactly. You get it.”

Dream twists their fingers together and squeezes. If Dream is zero, Hob is like infinity, so boundless that he can’t help but let it engulf him.

Perhaps one day Dream will be able to explain it all to him in better words than that.

[gingaswag]

soldier in a dark room eating (expired) beans. he doesn't like it.

[luveline]

I saw this one post where this girl was showing a pack of pastries that her boyfriend got her - but he ripped off the label w/ the calories bc he knew she struggled w/ eating - I just think that’s really sweet and maybe you could write this with Remus or James??

If not that’s totally okay!! Sorry if I made you uncomfortable.

remus bf forever love u cw mentioned struggles with eating / disordered eating behaviours ♡ fem!reader

The best part of any day is when Remus comes to see you. Usually to stay the night, sometimes quickly before a shift. Remus always makes time for you no matter what's happening, and he loves to bring you treats.

It doesn't matter how big or small, he always has something. At the start, this had usually been simple things. A bar of chocolate or a cold can of your favourite drink. Anything. Sometimes flowers, one time a flower he'd picked on the way.

It's been a while since Remus brought you something edible. It's been a bad struggle lately, but as you're getting better and food is getting easier to eat, he's slowly eased back in. He's supportive, and patient, and he doesn't push you but he also won't let you hurt yourself quietly.

You open your door and Remus smiles so wide it looks like it hurts, taking the one step into your door and cupping your face in a warm, big hand.

"Dove," he says, oddly soft, "look at you. You look really good today."

It's a funny sort of compliment. You know what he means when he says it. You want to give him the good news he's expecting. You can't, though. You haven't managed to eat much today already and any healthy glow you hold is from a good day yesterday.

He sees your wince and rubs your cheek with his thumb reassuringly. "Pretty girl," he praises.

You hug him right there on the stoop and bend under his weight. The plastic bag in his hand crinkles as he brings it up to the small of your back, whatever it is that's inside bumping into your thighs.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

You pull away. "I'm good," you say, sort of meaning it.

Remus' first triumph is dinner. He sits you down at the table and works around your kitchen with ease. You try not to look at anything he's doing while he does it, figuring any knowledge of the ingredients inside will cause more harm than good. You listen to oil sizzling in a pan and grimace.

"How are you, baby?" you ask him, fingers inching toward the plastic bag he'd brought with him.

"Fucking tired." A pepper grinder clicks. "Happy to he home with you."

You look up to trace the shapes of his light brown hair. "Me too."

"Do you want to eat by yourself or with me?" he asks, pouring half the content of the frying pan onto a plate. He adds some bread. You can see from here that he hasn't buttered it.

"With you, please."

You make sure there's ample room for the two plates on the table and Remus sets them down. He makes you a small glass of water and a bigger one for himself. You love how he insists on sitting next to you rather than across, and it makes it easier to manage.

"What's in the bag?" you ask, stalling, cringing as the smell of food hits you. There's an instant nausea that arises with the knowledge that you don't have to eat it, but you should, and you're going to.

Remus' turn to cringe. "For you, dove. Forgive me, I didn't realise that you- that today was a hard day."

You raise your eyebrows and part the bag open slowly, unsurprised when you find some bits and bobs outlining a paper bag of pastries from the bakery counter in the supermarket.

Weirdly, they look easier to manage than the plate of food in front of you. You can't tell whether you're still stalling or if you actually want to know, but you pick up the bag of pastries and your eyes search for the calorie information on impulse, only to find it missing.

Torn off.

Remus is watching you carefully when you turn to him.

You can guess what's on your plate just by looking at it, but the calories inside ready baked things like this are unpredictable. The information being missing before would've put you off completely no matter Remus' intentions. You'd always assume they were a hugely ridiculous amount so you didn't go over.

"Sorry," he says, resting his hand tentatively over your thigh.

He's so pretty, inside and out.

"Do you want half with me?" you ask. You don't sound very convincing, your throat dry as cotton.

"Now?"

"Hm." You open the bag and pull out a flaky pastry. Your boyfriend, your lovely, sweet, over-attentive boyfriend, you want to eat something for him. Because it was a gift, and because he cares enough to rip off the calories.

He squeezes your thigh with a soft pressure. You know it's his way of saying, Only if you can.

You split the pastry in half and you and Remus eat it right there in front of your cooling dinner.

He kisses you as soon as your done. You both have sticky lips.

"Alright?" he asks after he's pulled away, hand at your neck and cheek touched to your temple.

You ease back and pick up the fork for your dinner. It won't be easy and that sucks, but you always have Remus in your corner.

[mona-liar]

Also es gibt keine konkreten Canon-Infos über Leo außerhalb der Arbeit aber sehr viel Material für Headcanons und zum mit Arbeiten, denn neben Leos schon recht manischem Herangehen an diese "Ermittlungen", seinem iwie... Schutzsuchen bei Henny, was schon was mütterliches an sich hatte, das ewige Kontrolle an sich reißen und alles alleine erledigen müssen, der Fokus auf Leos Sportlicheit...

Worauf ich eigentlich hinauswill: das gewollte Kotzen auf der öffentlichen Toilette des Casino erschien schon sehr geübt.

[pluralcultureis]

Eatting disorder + plural culture is every alter being disgusted when they see other alters do things related to the eating disorder until it’s them.

.

[disventurecamptakes]

i hope grett kicks yul in the dick for commenting on her weight. i hope grett gains weight back, not bc of anything like stress eating, but bc she loves herself enough to not starve herself for yul.

.

[tangledinink]

Good luck on the competition!!

more gifts to accept and people to meet? no problem, the gems know this song and dance~

oh, there's more? that's fine, no problem...!

wow, there sure a lot of people at this event, huh?... sure... no big deal... great chance to get some good PR in, right?... the gemini toottalllyyy have this handled...

yayyy... they're having sooo much fun at the @tmntaucompetition and aren't overwhelmed or stressed at ALL. they know how to do this! they just have to... keep going... and not fuck it up...! easy!...

[ai-yo]

Yeah they are definitely gonna have to pull out my tooth that cracked. Don't develop bulimia kids now I'm down 2 teeth 🥲🥲

On the same side too. Fuck it I'm getting an implant so at least I can smile.

[eluvion]

roy family eating disorder is like. kendall bouncing from fad diet to fad diet and being obsessed with each one and taking diet pills and teas and then the drugs make him thinner and sharper and so much fucking better that at some point the diets dont even matter. shiv thinks she has such a better eating disorder than her brothers because shes clean and thorough and doesnt leave fucking teeth marks on her knuckles, roman, shes so much fucking smarter than that and what does it matter of caroline looks her over once and says you know, darling, you look a little haggard shes fucking good at this and no one can convince her otherwise. and roman. roman is messy. kicked dog bleeding out on the floor that no one touches. all the scars and body checking and popped blood vessels and he wants so badly for someone to comment on it—why does shiv get a comment but he doesnt, just because shes a girl doesnt mean she throws up everything and he does, so why are people talking about her body its not fair—and its teeth and teeth and teeth. teeth spat out in his hand and teeth worn away by acid coming back up and teeth meaning masculine and sharp and right.

[akindplace]

Beth Evans  

[cirqueduroyale]

Episode 10: The King's Monster pt. 4 (part2)

10 minutes later:

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[stellastarprincess]

Being fat means a lot of clothing companies just pretend you don't exist. And I just love that so much. Trying to find a store that treats me like a real person is a godforsaken slog. Most types of clothes are locked out to me. Anything that's like cute or lolita or fun or colorful or fucking whatever is just not made for me.

Being fat means a constant struggle between trying to embrace myself and be proud of myself or ******** myself to get thin enough to wear what I want.

[naavispider]

What if in modern au Spider had problems with eating like in "If you play..". And let's just assume he wouldn't want to eat when he's stressed out meeting Quaritch at the waffle shop and that motel and where he and Lyle met and on the way back to the Sullys. Would Quaritch try to get him to eat or comment on it?

Ultimately, there's not a lot that Quaritch could do. He'd be pretty powerless in this scenario because he's the very reason that Spider doesn't feel able to eat. Quaritch is a shrewd man - he'd be able to work out that he's the source of Spider's stress at the moment and from that, deduce that the kid won't eat around him.

At the waffle shop, Spider would refuse to order anything, so Quaritch would just order for him. He'd watch Spider mess with his food without eating it, and eventually suss out that the kid just wasn't feeling it.

In the motel, Quaritch would probably prepare something that he thinks would be easy for Spider to eat (eg soup) and sit him at the table. Although uncomfortable, Spider would probably cave under the pressure and slowly force himself to eat without Quaritch having to say much more than a stern word. At this point, Quaritch would probably ask Spider why he doesn't appear to eat a lot. I think Spider would be honest - he'd explain that when he's stressed he can't eat and it makes him nauseous. Quaritch would nodd while pursing his lips, deep in thought. That night he'd be researching all kinds of eating disorders trying to diagnose his son, and if they ever ended up living together he would pretty much coerce Spider into therapy/counselling.