randoms || maybe sp based

Eating Disorder.

if you hadn't been able to tell by the title, content warning for eating disorder related topics. and i mean, MAJOR content warning. written in kenny mccormicks point of view, but not a fanfiction for kenny mccormick.

more content warnings include: sickness, romanticization of eating disorders, foul language, teenage masturbation, masturbation to disturbing content, in depth descriptions of disturbing content. emetophobia* warning. discretion advised.

DISCLAIMER: I AM NOT ROMANTICIZING EATING DISORDERS. i'm basing this short little chapter off of a tiktok i saw about how tiktok ed culture has turned the sick side of having an ed into the desirable trait. this is WRONG, and i acknowledge that. however i, as someone who has had/still has an ed, still believe it's an interesting thing to write about.

word count: 674

* emetophobia: extreme fear of vomiting.
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Kenny was sick.

God, he knew he was. He couldn't go a single meal time without throwing it all back up in the toilet afterwards. He retched and vomited until acid burned his throat, the insides of his cheeks. The taste of half digested food stuck thickly on his tongue and the back of his teeth, leaving a slimy residue, presumably a mixture of stomach acid and dissolved, regurgitated carbohydrates. It was truly vile, undeniably disgusting. It was repulsive in every sense of the word.

And the taste wasn't the only affect. Random bruises appeared on Kenneth's arms, legs, torso, anywhere they could and wanted to. He had so many of the blossoming ovals of ill-looking purple and blue and black, singed and surrounded by rings of mold colored green and yellow, covering every single part of his body. There wasn't a single part of him that wasn't inhabited by at least one of the deepened, blue and black flesh wounds.

Wounds, speaking of, were another thing that affected him. As in, they would not heal. Whatever it may be, a simple paper cut or a fatal head wound, a stab through the kidney or a mere scrape on his knee, it would not heal. They bled, and they bled, and they bled some more. Their scabs, if they ever formed them, were brittle and broke off almost immediately after they had formed, letting the flow of crimson free again, free to trickle down his flesh, free to stain his ratty shirts or dirty pants. It was never-ending. He was always bleeding. They never healed.

Then there were the spouts of passing out. Such little calorie intake, combined with such great amounts of blood loss, created fits of pure exhaustion, bringing Kenny to the brink of completely blacking out. And sometimes he gave in. Fell to the ground, crumpled by the weight of exhaustion that outweighed his own body fat. Never in front of his friends, though, for he knew they would try to help, and God only knows Kenny didn't want that.

See, that was the thing. He was sick, by Gods he was incredibly sick, and this he knew, but he did not want to get better. It was the very last thing he wanted. He hardly ate, he threw up whatever he did manage to chew and swallow, he bruised and he bled and he passed out and he was sick. He was sick, and he loved it. He savored every single moment he puked his lunch up. He licked his teeth afterwards, feeling the grimy residue made of stomach acid and food, his stomach acid and food, and he smiled. He enjoyed it.

He actually got off on it on a few occasions. Okay, more than a few. More like almost every night. He would lay in his bed, one bony hand, the veins stark against the paleness of his skin, tugging his member under his boxers. The other hand typically found itself running over his collarbones, or his hip bones, feeling the tight skin against hard bone. He knew he was violently ill, and he fucking loved it.

A few times Kenny would jerk himself off as he threw up in his toilet after supper. He would gag and vomit and retch, simultaneously bucking his hips into his fist as he desperately chased whatever it was he was trying to catch. Orgasm, death, whatever. Those times Kenny would cum with vomit in his mouth and his nose filled with the stagnant aroma of bile and blood. He would climax with gasps and moans that made him choke on his throw up, making him moan louder. He would lick his lips, run his tongue along his teeth and taste that familiar residue, his stomach acid and his half digested food, and he would whimper.

Kenny McCormick was sick. Kenny McCormick knew he was sick, and he fucking loved it.

Kenny McCormick was sick, and he would never get better, and that's the way he wanted it to be.