âmes pétillantes ~ classic rock imagines

• Ringo Starr •

Warning: Body dysmorphia, eating disorder (I think?), mentions of weight – this is a big warning, guys, this is a real heavy piece (with lots of fluff towards the end), please do read with caution.

I always try to keep my little corner of the internet as wholesome as possible, but this just spilled out of me. I hope I handled this topic with the respect it deserves – please tell me if otherwise.

(Also, it's super fucking long)

Peace and love, man, look after yourselves.

--☆--

You checked yourself over in the mirror once more, the fourth or fifth time in the last half hour. Every time, you prayed you'd look different. But every time, the mirror couldn't lie.

Recently, your own body had started to feel like a stranger to you. The curves and lines, once so familiar, had blurred and merged, until you couldn't be sure what you were seeing and what the world saw.

And now, your worst nightmare had come true. Richie had asked you to go out to dinner. God help you; you had settled. You had grown comfortable with the side effects of Ringo's fame – the late-night dinners prepared earlier and warmed up in the microwave, the dining table of your shared home illuminated by candles and crowned with flowers, the dress code of pyjamas, ample playsuits, and baggy lounge wear. At least, when he looked at you then, he couldn't see your insecurities.

But a dinner out? That meant dressing up, his arm around you waist as you slunk up the paparazzi-crowded steps, making an agonising choice from a menu half of which you couldn't understand, a chauffeured drive home with his hands in your hair, and, finally, tumbling into bed, locked in an erotic embrace. You couldn't face it.

And it wasn't just the way you looked. It was the food. What you ate. More importantly, how much of it. Not only was your relationship with your body in tatters, so were your feelings around food and your diet.

It wasn't that you were hungry, as such. But there was a rumbling ache inside you, behind your stomach, that nothing could alleviate. Not distraction, or hobbies, or exercise, or talking to friends. Not Ringo. Not even the food.

It was the act, the movement of your hands picking at your favourite foods, bringing their taste into your mouth, letting your taste buds drown in it, feeling it go down your throat, and finally the heaviness in your stomach as it hit home. Nothing about it was satisfying. You only felt it was... necessary. To fill the hole. To soothe the ache.

But you hadn't had the heart to say no to his adorable eyes. And so, you found yourself, at 4:00 pm on a Friday afternoon, back and forth to the mirror in a dress you had deemed suitable after tearing your wardrobe apart, trying to see if anything about you had changed in the last few minutes. Other than the slivers of makeup you were adding during each anxious interval, nothing did.

You didn't know how you were going to get through the night. You wanted, more than anything, to spend time with Richie – it had been so long since you'd been able to see each other properly. And yet this, in part, had been a blessing. Why on Earth would he want to see you like this?

As you stared at your reflection, twisting and morphing as though you were in front of a carnival mirror, your vision began to blur, body disappearing behind your tears into shapeless, colourless blobs. You couldn't go out like this.

Before you could stop yourself, your tears began to overflow, and a heavy sob escaped your gasping lips. Shivering and sniffling, you collapsed onto the plush chaise lounge of your dressing room, wanting nothing more than to drown yourself in your bed sheets and never come out of them.