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#tw anorexia
marmorada · 4 months
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Hope this moid dies an ugly and humiliating death. Like to charge reblog to cast
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Everything now. Season 1 Episode 2. People think anorexia is all about wanting to be beautiful. Wanting to be thin. And believing they're the same thing. But it wouldn't matter how thin i got when i still feel this wrong. Like there's something missing in me. Something that reaches far deeper than delicate hands and elegance and estrogen. You are incorrect Mia. Incorrectly feminine. You must have been sick that day they taught you how to be a girl. A real girl.
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theredofoctober · 29 days
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MANNA- CHAPTER TWELVE: FRUIT
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Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic
TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, implied child abuse
This is chronologically the twelve chapter
READ AFTER THE CUT...
-
You ascend to your room alone, glancing back over your shoulder in the paranoia that one or the other man pursues you like night after the sun.
Neither have taken you by way of carnality since Will rutted you against the wall. It seems an unnatural strike of fortune, and one unlikely to last.
There is too much lust between these beings, hunger of such echoing depths that the sensual urge is but one chained within. Their eyes all evening have picked you to the bone like carrion set at by desert birds. Your cunt parts, empty, about the memory of Will’s fingertips; there is a sense of art unfinished, a crescendo in the crashing of keys only the hands of men can bring into violent birth.
In dread of missing the sound of their approach across the landing you lie quiet in your bed, no music nor comforting hum of the television as your night-time companions. Yet footsteps only halve the house when your captors go to bed, each in their own room, an anti-climax. 
You think of Hannibal, tossed amidst the curse of unsung ardour, then of Will, crushed under the density of an unsated sleep. Such lonely men, in their way, divided by what lies unchartered between them, and with you.
Though by now settled, the skin which Will has touched—struck—still seems to burn with him. Five fingers, the rounded oblong of a palm, a hand that feeds dogs, has fired a gun, has rocked you, fucked you. A hand that Hannibal Lecter reaches for across dead miles of darkness to know as you have, and to love what you have loathed.
Unsettled, you roll on your stomach, but the pulse you hear when overwrought seems to peal through your very bones in its jeering song.
Filth, sin, soil: you taste your shame in its salt, as you have each night since long ago. Yet before your taking for the purpose of this ritual science there had never been pleasure in it, only the experience of staring always at the edges of things. The corners of ceilings, the light at the top of a door, a wall torn to grain by the night, liminality your legacy of innocence.
With Will, with Hannibal, you cannot look away, are made to witness and to partake in every aggression and gentleness with the same focus of attention. For that is what they want, your immersion in the devil’s playhouse. For you to be a doll, a daughter, embraced after the most inclement incident into a state almost soothed.
You cry yourself to sleep, wanting such a practice of love from someone who’s never once hurt you.
*
Hunger wakes you in the night, a restless drumroll that compels you upright in its rallying beat. As you stretch, thinking morosely of the marvel it is to have gorged and still not be full, you hear someone stumble in the nearby hallway, thudding against the adjoining wall.
A fight? Some drunken struggle? An intimacy overheard? No—
There is but a sole pair of scuffing footfalls on the floorboards beyond, too unbalanced to be Dr Lecter’s.
In consternation you go to your door and try the handle. It gives way easily under your hand, allowing you to peer out into the black mystery beyond.
Will lists against the right-hand wall, his eyes glazed and rolling under twitching lids. As you stare, abashed, his limbs fall under him, and he sprawls thrashing in unconscious spasms of animation.
There is blood on his face where he’s bitten his tongue, ebony in the negation of light. An oil spill on a seabird, drowning. A splash of mud on a bog's sunken dead.
You should let him suffer, step over his convulsing form and dart for nearest open window or outer door, but horror shakes you senseless of the thought before it takes full form.
Will’s fit continues, throwing the young man’s slim frame about like a machine caught in the throes of grim malfunction.
God help you: you pity him. He is human, and you are, as well.
“Will?” you say, stepping gingerly towards him. “Daddy? Can you hear me?”
It occurs to you that Will’s death is also yours, your lifelines enmeshed, a symbiosis in which only he would survive your parting. You kneel with your palms hovering over him, recalling very little that you know of First Aid, and entirely terrified of making him worse.
Hannibal’s voice comes from your left, uttering your name with a softness that somehow bears all the authority of a bellowed command.
He steps up quickly behind you, his hair disrupted from its usual tidy arrangement.
“Will’s having a seizure,” you say, in despair. “I don’t know what to do.”
“I’ll help him,” says Hannibal. “Go back to your room.”
You stare at him, dumbfounded by his apparent calm.
“But—”
Again Dr Lecter says your name, without raising his voice, or with any particular emotion. Yet you scuttle back the way you came, jarred by the suggestion of temper in that subtle repetition.
You hear Hannibal calling to Will, the sound of him lifting the other man and carrying his dead weight back to the spare room. The door closing, the subtle murmur behind it of Will rousing, his friend's soft, reassuring reply.
Silence, as of an exhibition ended.
Half an hour edges by, and not once do you stop shaking despite the heat of the autumn night.
Presently a knock comes at your door, and the doctor enters, his eyes lowered in remorse.
“I apologise if I spoke harshly to you. I know that you weren’t being deliberately disobedient. It wasn’t my intention to imbue your evening with additional distress.”
“It’s not your fault,” you say, quite disarmed by the apology. “It’s nobody’s fault. I mean, I shouldn’t have left my room, but I couldn’t just not go out there and see what was going on.”
Hannibal’s expression is opaque, a mask of ivory.
“I detect a concern for Will that isn’t entirely manufactured for my benefit,” he says. “Could it be that such a little cynic loves something other than her hunger?”
“What choice do I have but to care about Will?” you ask, shrilly. “What’s wrong with him?”
Adrenaline runs so high within you that you see the room on a tilt like some demented circus mirror reflection.
“What’s wrong with him?” you ask, again.
This time Dr Lecter answers, his tone low and even so as not to incite further upset.
“I suspect that Will is suffering from a combination of stress and fatigue, although I can’t deny the possibility of a neurological disorder.”
“Jack said he was sick,” you mumble. “And the other night, when I— you know. He looked awful.”
Will's face is punched into your retina like a flash of light, all blinding awfulness.
“And he’s been getting so angry with me,” you say, in a panicked rush. “Even though sometimes he’s almost nice. Is that why? Because he’s not well?”
“Will’s health has certainly contributed to his recent outbursts,” says Hannibal, smoothing your rumpled coverlet with fastidious hands. “The absence of control he feels amidst his fever leads to acts of impulse, particularly when in an environment he’s uncertain of, or feels threatened in.”
“I’m not threatening him,” you insist, hotly. “How could I?”
“I don’t mean in the literal sense. Will has very few close confidants, and those he possesses he guards dearly— that, or it is he himself that Will defends against his competition.”
You look up sharply, and Hannibal smiles, all benign conspiracy.
“Yes, little one. Having considered your thoughts on Will's dislike of you, I suspect that he also fears you may supersede him, or else share intimacies with me that he alone would otherwise possess. Yet Will’s envy is more complex than mere romantic ire, for unlike other rivals he has contended with, Will finds himself in the position of dizzying power over you.”
Dr Lecter pauses, his head at a rueful incline.
“For my part, I admit that it was rash to elect Will as the disciplinarian between us without taking all factors into account. It seems that I underestimated how antagonistic your relationship would become as his immersion in your treatment progressed.”
This you do believe, at least in that the doctor’s dissuasion of Will’s most outrageous verbal lashings is clearly genuine. Your bickering, in its familial likeness, he enjoys: an outright skirmish, repellent it its indecency, he does not.
“As you’ve indicated,” says Dr Lecter, going about your room to address its customary disorder, “Will’s becoming aware that his resentment is not entirely warranted as he finds himself increasingly sympathetic to your case. Such feelings are at odds with his desire to be alone in my company— an intricate conflict for any mind, let alone one so fiercely ablaze.”
“Ablaze?” you repeat. “What do you mean?”
“If my suspicions are correct, then Will’s condition may have been agitated by the ingredients in various dishes served in my home these past few weeks. The symptoms are closely matched to Will’s behaviour— disorientation, loss of consciousness, personality changes, mood swings. It’s unfortunate that I didn’t notice this much sooner.”
There is something performative in Hannibal’s guilt, his unshed tears like the glass eyes of a taxidermy animal. He’s known of Will’s ailment far longer than he suggests, and as he turns his back to close your chest of drawers you feel relieved, no longer forced to entertain this show of lies.
“You mustn’t mention any of this to Will until he’s received a formal diagnosis,” says Dr Lecter. “It may be that he’s simply mentally unwell, which would be a far more complicated outcome to navigate. But what you’ve seen of him lately is merely a conjunction of symptoms and heightened territorial emotions. Will’s true self you’ve yet to meet.”
The assurance is of little comfort to you, being that the nearest you’ve come to perceiving Will at his most natural and honest is in his private conversations with Dr Lecter. Through these you’ve glimpsed a complex creature, one that approaches evil with a newborn’s chary exploration.
You want to believe, for your own sake, that the sensitivity you’ve received from him sporadically evidences the continued persistence of his soul. Yet you cannot decide if he began a good man, changed through Dr Lecter’s influence, or if he’s always been a hunter, each kindness a flash of marsh fire luring you to drown.
The image of Will—twitching, defenceless—ultimately overrides this dilemma of thought.
“So what do we do now?” you ask. “We have to help him.”
Pleased by your concern, Hannibal leans across the bed to kiss the downturned corner of your mouth.
“I’ll reschedule tomorrow’s appointments so that I can tend to him. Will needs rest, first and foremost. As for his role here, it would be safest for him to delegate the majority of his more strenuous duties until he's recovered. I’ll continue them, in his stead.”
Choosing not to linger on the implications of this, you ask, “What about me? What can I do?”
“Healing Will is not your responsibility, little one.”
“But I’m making things worse,” you say, fretfully. “I know it. How can I make him like me?”
Not without humour, Hannibal says, “You can begin by tempering that sharp tongue a bit. Like Will, you rarely attempt to sweeten your words. I’ll never encourage you not to bite, but it is important that you roll on your back when we bid it. You must be our good girl, above all else, or if not good then charming, at the very least.”
You roll onto your side, crushing your face into a valley of pillows.
“I guess I really haven’t been playing along enough,” you mutter.
Hannibal chuckles.
“Not nearly enough, for all your promises. But it’s early days yet, sweet girl. We’ll see how you are once we're used to one another.”
*
 
Morning comes rudely, stalling the excitement like an opera’s intermission.
You take breakfast with Hannibal, only distracted from the usual struggle of eating by the presence of Will’s vacant seat. Having thought of him without respite for hours you’re in state of nervous delirium, your flinching knee a seismic force under the table.
“I want to see Will,” you blurt out, at last. “I want to see if he’s alright.”
“I’ll be taking a tray up to him in a few minutes,” says Dr Lecter, scarcely bothering to hide his delight in this new interest. “Don’t ask him too many questions. No doubt he’s feeling somewhat delicate this morning.”
You watch as Hannibal prepares a separate meal for the other man, cutting fruit and stewing tea leaves with loving ceremony. When he puts a strawberry to your lips you take it, your tongue rasping the juice gamely from his fingertips.
The shock of the previous night has amputated your mulish declination to humour him; even the disgust that meets your every concession is hushed, made redundant by a renewed vow to leave this house on soft feet rather than screams.
Other women have befriended their keepers and lived, as will you, if you can bear to pander to Dr Lecter as long as they.
*
Accompanying Hannibal to Will’s room you find that you’re oddly excited, even gleeful in anticipation of the visit. You’re taken with the notion that his seizure will incur some unknowable change, though whether in Will himself or the dynamics of the households you cannot predict.
Never have you seen him so utterly fragile, the dilapidation of a man. You think of a child, foisted on a detached father by a mother Will had never seen fit to name.
Will he be ashamed that you’ve seen that self so clearly? Will he be angry, indifferent, or else fear the power his weakness allows you as though your thumbs press deep in the fluttering dell of his very throat?
There is another possibility, however, the one your morning-fresh hopes hang onto by their nails: that he’ll remember how you’d crouched at his side and called to him as he shook in the darkness.
“Wait here for a moment,” says Hannibal, as you crowd up behind him at Will’s bedroom door. “I’d like to speak to him alone first.”
You hang back as Dr Lecter goes in, pressing your ear to the door the moment it shuts at his back.
“You’re awake,” says Hannibal, simply. “How are you this morning?”
There is a pause as he sets down the beautifully arranged tray somewhere in the room.
“I feel like I could sleep for another forty-eight hours,” says Will, his voice thick and slightly nasal, a sickbed tenor. “I should probably get up and head home. I need to check on the dogs.”
“I called Alana and asked her to look in on them,” Dr Lecter replies. “It’s inadvisable to drive in this condition. Try to eat. You’ll revive much quicker if you line your stomach with something.”
“Yeah, well. I can’t make any guarantees of keeping it down.”
You hear the metallic scraping of a fork about Will’s plate and writhe in envy. Even unwell he eats without thought of the fat that disallows your enjoyment of any meal. You live vicariously through him, in that moment, imagining the liquor of fruit across his tongue, the forbidden pearls of white sugar.
What you’d give not to be a slave to thinness, the goal whose end will never form.
Hannibal says, "Present issues aside, I can't help observing that you've been conflicted, as of late, Will. One might even say confused."
"Have been since the start of all this,” says Will. “The clouds still haven’t cleared. A bilious forecast.”
"Yet you've no wish to abandon this project for brighter climes."
Will gives a little snort of derision.
"I'm too enmeshed in this household to extract myself now. The night I first touched her was my signature at the end of the page. Indelible ink. No taking it back."
You flatten your face to the door so as to better interpret Hannibal’s silence.
"You feel a genuine duty to our little one, for all your misgivings,” he says, at last. “I was beginning to question if I’d made a mistake."
"She's abrasive,” says Will. “Not exactly malleable. I believe you know what you’re doing, but on paper it seems like an ill-fitting adoption."
"Children are reflections of their parents, and so far she’s shown herself to be a mirror of you. Towards me she is cool, distant, and distrustful. With you, there is an attraction of sorts. Not sensual, nor even familial, but it’s enough that, in spite of your every rebuttal and harsh word, she’s beginning to develop something of a rapport with you."
Laughing tersely, Will says, "Not sure I see it."
"You don't allow yourself to,” says Hannibal. “But you’re aware of that truth, all the same. Each time you relent into even momentary tenderness you turn against her in savagery that is vastly unearned.”
“You asked me to punish her,” Will says, sharply. “Encouraged me to— relish it.”
The admission does not move you; these men have knifed ecstasies of you like oyster flesh enough times to have indicated their tastes.
It is the why you listen for, the object they skirt about with the same flirting avoidance of a tryst that cannot be.
“I’m not referring to punishment,” says Dr Lecter. “This I have openly supported. It’s how you address our charge that’s beginning to make her feel displaced.”
“Are you criticising me, Dr Lecter?” asks Will, with a smile in his voice.
“Certainly not. I’m merely observing a pattern of behaviour, and its impact upon my patient.”
To this Will says nothing, but the tension between the two men is as visible as the door that stands between you.
"If you yearn for the hours that you and I once spent alone, I'm able to accommodate by replenishing that time together,” Hannibal says, at last. “But the blame for that neglect is solely mine. I've foisted our little one upon you without consideration of what response such an abrupt change would elicit."
"You don't have to apologise,” says Will, as surly as ever. “It’s an adjustment. I’m getting used to it.”
Your ears catch the delicate action of him lifting the tea cup on his tray, then of setting it down again.
“I spoke to her alone last night,” he says, abruptly. “Told her of my intentions to stay part of this. For a moment it felt like we connected. Like that was the promise she was looking for. But when I refused her something she wanted, she accused me of being ‘like him’. I figured you'd know who she was referring to.”
“Yes,” says Hannibal. “I can make what I imagine is an accurate guess.”
“Whatever parts we try out here, I don’t want to become the unnamed shadow that stands at her shoulder. It made her the way she is. There’s a tastelessness to that kind of evil.”
"I know. It’s more than apparent that you repel her less through genuine hatred, and more through the necessity to protect yourself from what it would mean to know her, and for her to know you in return.”
As Will replies you hear the huskiness of genuine emotion forced out between gritted teeth.
“All this would be a wasted effort if she were ever taken from me.”
“That won’t happen again,” says Hannibal, at once. “The pillar of salt left when you looked back at Abigail will never form with our new charge. When our second daughter turns to me with the same thirst for intimacy she’s developed for you she’ll be, at last, our Chloris, the nymph turned mistress of flowers."
He speaks with such tender compassion that it starts an ache somewhere in the underwing of your ribcage. What necromancy he conducts here to wake your dead and mangled innards into a living heart you cannot guess, only fear the compassion you’re capable of towards such creatures as would destroy you.
"Our little one would like to speak to you, it seems,” says Dr Lecter, closing the previous subject with a seamless finality. “Should I let her in?”
Will shifts uneasily on the bed, creaking its springs.
“She asked to see me?” he asks.
“She did.”
You imagine the younger man scraping a tangle of hair back from his temples as he gathers his thoughts.
“Where is she?”
Thus your cue to enter announces itself: you open the door, peeping at its edge, oddly shy.
"Hey,” you say, in a semi-whisper.
Will is as grey and moist with feverish sweat as deep-sea stone. His vast eyes nest in violet shadow, the whites a thread work of capillaries.
You pity him, this shambling experiment of Dr Lecter's creation, one of many, no doubt.
"Hello,” says Will, dully. “Sorry about last night."
Edging into the room, you allow Hannibal to slip discreetly away behind you with a light pat on your shoulder.
"Are you okay?" you ask. “How are you feeling?”
"Tired, mostly,” says Will. “I'll get over it. Need to. I’ve got a case to work on."
He scrutinises the half-empty tray before him from under lowered lashes.
"I'm surprised you helped me. You could have run off. Hit me over the head with one of Dr Lecter's vases."
"I wouldn't do that,” you retort. “You even said so. That I— can't."
"No, but you could have gotten away. So why didn’t you?"
There is no surprise in his voice, nor even suspicion, which you’d expected. He merely sounds ill, and trying to be interested, in spite of it.
“I don't know,” you admit. “I felt bad for you, seeing you like that. I didn’t want to leave you."
A weary cynicism twists Will’s features into momentary ugliness.
"You were afraid of being alone with someone you could never hope to understand without me."
"Not just that,” you insist, alarmed by the truth of the insight. “I was scared for you. Really. You should go to a hospital. You need tests. Meds. Scans and stuff, maybe.”
Will searches your face with eyes like dull rain, and some of the guardedness falls away from them.
"If it gets any worse, I will,” he says. “Just not today.”
You see how much he detests his own weakness, the potential to be devoured like an animal fallen in a savannah. If you strike, he will struggle, and sick as he is, you will lose.
So you offer him the gift of submission instead, the cunning exertion of a child's mite power.
"Okay, Daddy.”
You feel rather than see Will straighten in response to the word.
"Don't think I'll ever get used to that,” he says. "It’s alright to use my name. There aren't any rules against it."
"No, but he wouldn’t want me to.”
“When have you ever cared what Dr Lecter thinks?”
Shrugging, you mumble, “I guess I’m just sick of fighting all the time.”
The sick man scrutinises at you for so long that you hop from foot to foot in discomfort, itching your sole against your calf.
“It’s going to be hard for me to trust you,” says Will. “You’re probably just going to pretend until you see an avenue to get out of here.”
“Everything’s pretend, here,” you say, smartly. “Nearly all the conversations in this house are about myths and dreams. Dr Lecter talks about them like they’re real, or something.”
Amusement lights the sunken dark of Will’s gaze.
“He finds their philosophies more valuable than the moral structures most people follow.”
“And me?” you ask. “Am I valuable to him?”
Being that you’re still convinced that your worth to Dr Lecter is entirely reliant on Will’s continued interest, you only ask to discern if he himself understands this, or if he believes Hannibal would love you of his own accord.
With a tired caution, Will says, “Right now, I think you entertain him. What else he feels about you I don’t know.”
“And what do you feel?” you persist. “Still don’t like me?”
At this the young man laughs and shakes his head.
“Ask me again once I’ve gotten to know you. If you can agree to a truce, that is.”
“Fine,” you say, and you put out your hand for him to shake. “Truce. Let’s try that.”
With a wry grin Will accepts, letting go almost at once with a sharp inward breath.
“You’re freezing!”
“Haven't you noticed?” you say, hastily stuffing the offending hand under one arm. “I always am.”
It’s an unfavourable symptom of your hunger, this blood and touch of ice. Under even the sweltering gasp of summer’s heat you’ll shiver, knock-kneed, and suffer at the slightest feather of a draught.
Still, that cold affirms you. Were you to be warm again you’d hate yourself, having regained enough of the weight your system craves to regulate its heat.
Glancing up, you notice Will examining his own hand as though he shares your temperature, his fist a twin to frost.
"Come along, little one," says Hannibal, materialising in the doorway again. "Will needs more rest. Perhaps you’ll see him later on.”
But by late afternoon Will has dragged himself home without saying goodbye, and as before his absence eats a crescent into the house.
*
Some days later you pass an evening with Hannibal like so many others, yet unlike for the new state induced in you through his medicinal enterprise.
You're accustomed to the concoction of drugs that regresses you to a needy youth, the sleepers, the stimulants, the tea that lowers you from the electric heights of righteous hysteria into something slowly numb.
Yet whatever element comprises the pill flushed down by water from today’s gently tipped glass elevates you to orbit a heaven above you, so removed from your imprisonment that you observe all below with an objective eye.
Dr Lecter has bestowed upon you the rare trust that you may eat without prompting or assistance, and you have done so, temporarily rescinding your disordered agitation to a mycelium half-dream.
Thus entranced, you watch yourself drape the tines of your fork back and forth across your half-eaten plate, enthralled by patterns on the porcelain that are not there.
Your eyes drift repeatedly to a painting on Hannibal’s wall, mounted coyly for any dinner guest to comment on.
Naturally, you’ve seen the piece many times before, and have been, in turns, startled and disturbed by its subject.
Now you find yourself dully intrigued, as you were by the Japanese prints. This attention does not go unnoticed by Dr Lecter.
“What is it, little one?” he asks, intently. “Do you have an interest in art?”
“I don’t know,” you say, confused by the banality of the question. “It’s just this picture. Isn’t it... rude?”
Hannibal smirks, eyeing the image with a fond appreciation.
Its focus is a supine young woman, draped, half-naked, on a rumpled bed towards which a curious swan approaches with its curved neck bowed.
Likely it is the original painting, procured at auction, its price unimaginable; all things in this house are ripe with expense, even you, its demanding charge.
“Artistic nudity is only considered rude by children,” says Hannibal, blithely, “or else by shallow and ignorant adults. Does the depiction of genitalia offend you, my darling?”
You gaze up at the cowrie of a cunt under its shadow cap of hair, pinkly presented on spread silk, and think how often your own has been arranged likewise for Will or Hannibal to admire.
“Why is it in this room, specifically?” you ask.
You struggle with the syllables of the words, spitting the sibilants in a manner unbecoming of so distinguished an event as dinner with Dr Lecter.
“Doesn’t it put people off their food?”
“I find it makes for an amusing conversation piece,” says Hannibal, pouring himself another generous glass of wine like the blood of some celestial giant.
You attempt to grimace, none of your muscles quite taking to the motion.
“I don’t think it’s funny at all. Just creepy. Sad.”
“Are familiar with the story of Leda and the Swan? Zeus, a virile and insatiable God, looked upon the queen of Sparta and desired her. So, in order to seduce her, he transformed himself into a swan so that she would be fooled by his beauty and appearance of vulnerability to take him to her bed.”
“He tricked her,” you say, quietly. “He didn’t seduce her, at all.”
Dr Lecter’s face scarcely moves, but there is something of laughter in the lines of his strange beauty.
“So it’s the deception that unnerves you,” he says. “The pretence that he was an innocent creature rather than the all-powerful and lustful deity he truly was.”
You nod, not wanting to admit that you see your own face mirrored in the brushstrokes of the damned queen.
Prophet-like, Hannibal interprets the gesture with flawless vision.
“You empathise with Leda. Recognise the parallels between her story and your own.”
“Is that why you put it there?” you retort, emboldened by the miles between you and the girl slumped in the dining chair. “Because you think you’re the swan?”
“The bird is a shield for the truth, remember,” says Hannibal. “So what would the swan be, in me?”
Dropping the fork with a discordant clatter, you consider.
“The polite, handsome doctor,” you say, at last. “You fool everyone: Jack, Alana Bloom. My parents. They would never have left me here if they knew what you really were.”
Hannibal turns his head at a slight angle, as though by doing so he might uncover some mystery in your face.
“And what am I, little one?”
“I... don’t know,” you admit; a killer, certainly, though there is more to him even than that. “There are a lot of things you’re hiding from me.”
“Tell me your perceptions, then. There’s no need to spare my feelings; after all, you so rarely do.”
Amidst your mushroom-made divinity, you are fearless in your answer.
“You’re a bad person. You’ve done things that would get you into a lot of trouble. Hurt people. Not just me. Not just Tobias. And you don’t feel bad about it. You think that everything you do is right, somehow. Like you should be allowed to do it. Like you’re the gods in all these stories.”
Hannibal absorbs this with the silence of having been sated by your answer.
“And what about Will?” he prompts, some moments later. “Is he, too, a starving monster under the cunning guise of a tender animal?”
“No,” you say, with less certainty. “He’s... sick. You're using him, making him think that this is what he wants.”
Your captor laughs over the rim of his wine glass.
“That’s where you’re wrong, little one. The Will you think you see is only one wing of a swan. Soon, you will glimpse beyond that fragile veil, and feel the mythic need of all immortals to plunder from the weak, merely for the pleasure of knowing that they can.”
A sudden sadness tugs you back to earth like a choke chain, iron-like the lump in your throat.
“So you don’t want to help me, after all,” you mumble. “It really was all a lie.”
Taking your hand across the table, Hannibal presses a thumb to the pulse at your wrist, a soothing motion.
“Not at all,” he says, firmly. “I’m quite fond of you. I wish you to be strong. Each time you find yourself resenting Will and I you must remember that Leda did not die after Zeus bedded her: she became a mother. In you, I seek another outcome. More than one, and not all of them so horrible as you imagine. There will be beauty in this conversion, as well.”
You gaze at him with disbelieving eyes, close to rejecting the hope he grooms in you.
“What other outcomes are you looking for, Dr Lecter? How can I become all the things you want if I don’t understand them? What’s really going on?”
Hannibal kisses your knuckles and places your fork back into your hand.
“Nothing you need to think about at the moment,” he says. “Now, finish what’s on your plate. I’d like you to move on to dessert.”
Just like that, you are his little girl again, the moon having passed across the sun.
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people love their ghostly, frail anorexic friend until her hair thins and she looks genuinely skeletal, or until she throws up or binges.
people love their hyper adhd friend until he forgets your birthday because he was daydreaming.
people love their quiet, honest autistic friend until they shut down, or visibly stim, or are a bit too blunt, or they weird out your other friends.
people love their tidy ocd friend until she tells you about her intrusive thoughts or trichotillomania (how the fuck do you spell that)
people love their sad-boy depressed friend until he shows you his sh scars or gets admitted to a psych ward or you’re scared he’ll actually kill himself.
people love their gay friends till they get a partner before you.
people love their trans friends until they’re a bit too out there, or they don’t quite pass.
people love their brown friend until he brings up colonialism.
people love their disabled friends until their disability impacts them.
people love their fat friend until she starts loving herself.
people love you, but only if they can step on you to get higher than you.
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teathattast · 11 months
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dailyashleighraichu · 5 months
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“B-but… how…? She never had issues with food before!”
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“….I knew there was a reason she wanted to lose weight…”
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"I can't say with certainty as she didn't tell me, but these things can happen suddenly. One traumatic event can be all it takes for something like this to develop.”
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"If you talk to her directly about this now, it may push her away further. And, if you will permit, I’d like to talk to her first on her own to better understand her mental health at the moment, and then formulate a plan for both everyone here,” he gestured around the room with two of his tails, “and also for herself. Does that sound fair to everyone?”
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“I’d say that’s pretty fair.”
Coro and Taima nod in agreement. Ash still looks incredibly worried, however.
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"I don’t want to lose her, Dew-!"
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“I take this very seriously, as both a consulting doctor and a parent. Which is why I am going to make sure everyone knows what to do, so that Joule can begin the healing process.”
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"If she needs to be hospitalized for a time, I can make sure she is well looked after with my co-workers, But I will only know how to best work with her, and everyone here, until after I assess her.”
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"Now then, could you please show me where Joule is? I will speak with her now.”
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"Y-yeah. Of course."
He starts to show Lucky to Joule’s room, but is stopped as Taima joins him.
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"Tai...?"
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"She’s not just your sister, knucklehead. I want to listen too."
Coro nods, and the twins show Lucky down the hall to Joule’s bedroom.
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bodhrancomedy · 4 months
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I didn’t even know I was following #motivation and I got recc’d a pro-anorexia post. Love that.
I do love how people tag here/sac.
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goldenheart-supremacy · 7 months
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But what if Ambrosius had anorexia during puberty until adolescence because he was pressured to watch his weight and got scolded if adults like the director thought he was eating too much?
Cue Ballister the moment they started dating cooking the best things on earth that Ambrosius has no choice but to eat because GREAT GLORETH Ambrosius could just inhale everything
And Ballister would go feral if anyone questions it like
"Shut the fuck up, that's why we have muscle training. LET HIM EAT."
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He even snapped at the director once and apologized later for the disrespect BUT not for what he said.
It was the first time he talked back to her and the director was shookt and a little A LOT terrified.
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cloudxxiii · 6 months
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WHAT'S THAT? A NEW OC?!
Yep, that's right!
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This is Mortimer Walten! A 32 year old guy who just needs a hug and some therapy. //TW: Anorexia, child manipulation (??)// All of my posts of him will be marked with a trigger warning for Anorexia, even if it doesn't include anything about anorexia, due to the disorder playing a big part in his character.
I'll put more about him in other posts. This is only a little introduction to him.
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yikesharringrove · 9 months
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ed steve being ghosted by billy and assuming it's bc of his body or weight
tw: eating disorder (anorexia) btw this is angst with happy ending
"So, um, yeah. Just call me back if you want to do something tomorrow night."
Steve hung up the phone, wiping his sweaty palm on the leg of his jeans.
He had had plans with Billy last night. Plans that, when Steve texted to confirm, never actually happened.
He had texted to see if Billy wanted to do something tonight.
No response.
Texted to say that he was free all weekend if Billy was available.
No response.
So, the phone call was his last-ditch effort.
He called Billy, said it's okay if he's too busy, but they could hang out tomorrow night. Steve's parents would be gone.
Usually, the promise of sex had Billy chomping at the bit to spend some time with Steve. Even if they weren't together they were mostly dating. Their hangouts didn't feel all that platonic, especially when they ended with serious make-out sessions, or with Billy spending the night in Steve's bed.
He bit at his nails, tossing his phone down on the bed next to him, flopping back to lie down.
He was trying not to overthink.
Billy is probably just busy. He's on the basketball team, and he's on the fucking Model U.N., and that stupid club (that Steve doesn't understand) eats up time like nothing else.
The bitchy voice in his head tells him that he's just too busy for Steve.
He's probably bored of him, anyway.
Steve really only has a handful of interesting things to say, and he tells the same stories again and again.
Plus, he's kinda gross.
He used to be good-looking, back when he was on the swim team and working out for hours every day.
He's not muscular anymore, he hasn't been in a while.
Once he quit sports, he was toeing the line of fat, and at least he isn't that anymore.
Well, he still is. Toeing the line, that is.
He's constantly trying not to put on more weight.
It's hard, when it seems that everything he eats goes right to his tummy, or his back, or his stupid stupid thighs.
He's been trying to keep everything under control.
He only eats once a day, if that, and he's been trying to skip when he can. He's been on an every-other-day eating streak for the past few days, and he's thinking, if Billy is so utterly disgusted by him, that he won't even respond, maybe he needs to widen that gap. See if he can go two days between.
The weight should stay off, and maybe, once he finally gets thin enough, maybe he can try again with Billy.
Once he's not quite so big, maybe he'll even let Billy fuck him with the lights on.
Or, maybe, Billy is simply done with him.
He's sick of Steve and his gross, ugly body, and ghosting him is the easiest way to do it. He doesn't have to even have to see Steve again. He can just go away and never have to look at him-
The window rattled, and Billy tumbled in unceremoniously, leaves in his hair and a cut on his cheek.
He grinned at Steve from the floor.
"Hey, Stevie."
"Billy, shit. What are you doing here?"
Steve sat up quickly, yanking the blanket over his legs, not wanting Billy to see him in such short shorts.
"My dad took my fucking phone. Something about breaking curfew, and I was super grounded last night, so I missed our date. He's fucking passed out by now, so, I thought I'd ninja my way in here."
He stood up, shaking the leaves out of his hair and dusting off his jeans.
Steve was still more than a little bit caught up on the missed our date part of what he'd said.
"Sorry? Date?"
Billy stared at him.
"Don't tell me you forgot. We were supposed to go to a movie yesterday."
"Yeah, I remember. I guess I just. I didn't know it was a date?"
And Billy, bless those big blue eyes of his, just kept staring at Steve.
And Steve was starting to feel a little squeamish about how much he was looking at him.
"Why wouldn't it be? I mean, did I just climb up that fucking stupid tree just to have you dump me, because that really-"
"No!" Steve said, wincing at how loud his voice was. "I just, I thought we were friends."
And then Billy's face went bright fucking red, and he looked down at his boots, probably getting dirt and mud on Steve's bedroom floor.
"Oh. Well, I'm sorry. I guess I misread, I mean. I'm sorry-"
Steve decided he'd have to throw caution to the wind here.
He tried to ignore the sight of his own legs, walking up to stand nearly toe-to-toe with Billy.
"I didn't think you liked me like that."
Billy looked back up at him, making quick eye contact before looking away again.
"I know what people say about me, but I don't just sleep with anyone."
"No, I mean I didn't think you liked me like that. I didn't think I was." Steve stopped himself. Now it was his turn to look away.
"What? Didn't think you were what?"
"Good enough," Steve breathed between them. "I'm not. You can do better."
Billy didn't say anything, and for one terrible moment, Steve thought he was going to agree. He was going to agree and leave the way he climbed in.
"Nah. Nothin' better than you."
Billy kissed him tenderly, and holy shit, how had Steve thought they were friends this whole time? Maybe he's a fucking idiot too-
"Stop thinking. Just let me kiss you, Baby."
It was easy to stop thinking while Billy kissed him. Because Billy kissed him like he was special.
Billy kissed Steve the same way Steve kissed Billy.
Like he loves him.
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loz-tearsofahomo · 9 months
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Ao3 is in Danger of being Banned
US senators from both sides of the aisle are aiming to limit information online. The KOSA act (Kids Online Safety Act) is aiming to censor content, this includes limiting or banning sites like wattpad, Tumblr, Tiktok and more. Now why is this bad? Protecting children online doesn't sound like a bad thing? And you'd be right, online activity can be dangerous for kids, exposing them to things that they didn't ask for can be terrible. But this act will not fix it. There is no meaningful way (currently) to regulate the internet to extreme extents, these policies often limit LGBTQ sites and support. The Heritage Foundation is in support of KOSA for just this reason.
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Transphobia resulting from these policies is likely. Extremely likely. Not to mention KOSA will not only limit these for children but also adults, a violation of the First Amendment. The EFF has sent letters of concern for this act. And reasonably so, there is no meaningful way to discern 'good' speech from 'bad' as online filters have shown us again and again. We know bans don't work, we learnt from here! When tumblr tried to ban pro-anorexic content, it backfired in people changing their lettering to get through filters and thus making it easier to find by creating tags like 'thynspiration'. US states are currently banning books 'inapropriate for children' by limiting information about race, sexuality and gender discrimination, I'm afraid this act is seeking to do the same thing. Sites like ao3 that are archives for LGBTQ youth are likely to be threatened. Both Democrats and Republicans are in support of this Act, as well as big brands such as Dove who put Lizzo as the face of it. When the US bans sites, they are often unavailable everywhere else as well as a result.
What can you do?
Spread the word!!! Tell friends and family about it!
Contact your lawmakers now to tell them to reject KOSA.
Sign a petition!
I have set up a mini archive on google drive for ao3 fics you want to preserve if this bill gets passed! Fill out this form to submit fics to be saved on an organized spreadsheet and on hard drives. You can access all the other fics people have saved and submitted from this spreadsheet! The spreadsheet should be up to date soon!
🚨🚨Please reblog to say no to censorship!🚨🚨
KOSA articles and links under the cut
Information about KOSA and similar Bills:
The Kids Online Safety Act is Still A Huge Danger to Our Rights Online
Lawmakers update Kids Online Safety Act to address potential harms, but fail to appease some activists, industry groups
Congress is flooded with bills for childproofing the internet / But civil liberties groups are spooked many of the bills could cause more harm than good.
Kids Online Safety Act Remains a Threat to Minors and Free Speech
How far should the government go to control what your kids see online?
Congress proposes anti-child abuse rules to punish web platforms — and raises fears about encryption
The Kids Online Safety Act Is a Heavy-Handed Plan to Force Platforms to Spy on Young People
LGBTQ Activists Call On Lizzo To Drop Her Support For Kids Online Safety Act
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lilbabjojo · 6 days
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if you're open to angst, maybe you could do a fic where Carmilla finds out that Vaggie has anorexia and has to confront her about it. the confrontation makes Vaggie regress but a good thing is that she is able to eat a little bit normally when small
Absolutely! I did my best, as I do not have anorexia myself.
TW: Anorexia
No one noticed anything was wrong, and Vaggie wanted to keep it that way. She needed to maintain her shape. She couldn't gain weight. She just couldn't. She thought it would be easy...
Until she passed out while training.
"Mija!" Carmilla called out, trying to wake up the girl on the ground. She placed a hand on her forehead, but felt no fever.
Vaggie woke up after a few minutes.
"Vaggie, what happened?" Carmilla asked.
"What do you mean? I just uh..." Vaggie froze when Carmilla took her arm.
"Mija... What happened to you? I haven't been this close in weeks and you're so thin! Have you not been eating?" Carmilla asked. Vaggie went silent, tears filling her eyes. "Vaggie..."
"I..." Vaggie started.
"Vaggie... Why?" Carmilla asked, as calm as she could. "Why would you...?"
"I... It's really silly but... When I was an exorcist, we all had to be really small and..." Vaggie started to sob. Carmilla pulled her close.
"There is NOTHING wrong with how big or small you are, Vaggie. Please... You're hurting yourself. Do you have any idea how dangerous this is?" Carmilla asked, holding Vaggie as close as she could without hurting her. Vaggie felt so... Fragile. "Is this why you've been avoiding..." Vaggie nodded.
"'m sorry," Vaggie cried.
"Shhh. No, Mija. I'm sorry. Someone should've checked up on you... I should've checked on you," Carmilla soothed, her own mother's guilt showing through. Vaggie cried harder into her shoulder, hugging her mother tightly, feeling the fuzziness creep into her brain. Carmilla rubbed her back gently, before carefully lifting her.
Vaggie squeaked, looking up at her.
"Let's get you something to eat, carina," Carmilla said softly. Vaggie looked confused, not comprehending what was said. Carmilla gently set Vaggie in a chair, quickly preparing some applesauce for her.
Vaggie looked up at her, not her usual happy Little self. When Carmilla lifted the spoon, Vaggie started crying again.
"Mija... You need food. You don't want to fall down and get hurt again, do you? And you certainly can't be feeling well without it," Carmilla explained. Vaggie calmed down slightly, sniffling and opening her mouth. "Good girl. You're doing such a good job, dear."
The feeding went smoother after that, Vaggie managing to finish half the bowl before refusing.
"Alright, but you need to let me know if you feel hungry, ok dear?" Carmilla asked. Vaggie nodded shyly, reaching up her Carmilla. Carmilla picked her up, kissing her head. "You did so well today. You were so, so brave."
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sad-cinnamongirl · 4 months
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i hate talking about this but when i started this blog i was very sick. i had horrible anorexia and i started this blog to originally find tips to further starve and destroy my body. this was less than a year ago. a few months into the blog i started to interact with feminist blogs and i realized my worth is not based on how small i am. i am by no means recovered. i have such a long way to go to break old habits, however all of the amazing people i have interacted with, all of these blogs, have helped me start to realize my worth. but i am so much better than before. i have started eating three meals a day again and i am working my way to a healthy weight. every amazing woman that posts about feminism on here, i want to thank all of you. i dont mean to be dramatic but you guys may have saved my life. to anyone struggling, please know that you can always talk to me, and there is always someone here to listen.
international resources:
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theredofoctober · 7 months
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MANNA— CHAPTER FOUR: TOAST
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Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic
TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, mild Daddy kink (it'll all make sense). Cannot stress the ED/anorexia warnings more strongly for this chapter guys!
This is chronologically the fourth chapter in the series
--
You sit with your back to Dr Lecter as he readies himself to leave for his morning appointments, feeling like an ancient sacrifice to some forest beast, blindfolded and anointed, its snail-fed bride; the dread of unseeing, of not knowing what he does as you stare at the wall is so clever a punishment that you comprehend entirely why more brutal forms were inflicted before it.
He is ingenious in his malice, this man. The fear of the worst of things is the stick that will make you the supplicant to his merest whim.
In cyclical paths you think of Hannibal’s attack at the breakfast table, how he had intuited your intent to cut his throat before you had finalised the thought. The gymnast's grace with which he’d caught you, the psychic recognition of revolt— he has held others captive, before you, surely.
Likely he has killed.
There are many like Dr Lecter, in the medical field, rapists and murderers in their masses, scything the weak, and allowing their names to fall through the cracks in the system, where few care to retrieve them. Already you feel yourself staggering into that hopeless black, soundless as your gaoler guides you back into the en suite by a hand at your nape.
“You may take a bath, if you wish,” he says— how had he known you’d only stood at the sink that morning? “I have provided toiletries for you. No razors, I’m afraid. If you desire to shave, then Will or I must be present, which I doubt you would prefer, at this time. Besides, I have to leave for my first appointment in a few minutes. I trust that you will enjoy the solitude.”
You keep your back to him, half-swooning under your dread of those pitiless eyes.
“I hope that you will not do anything unwise, while I’m away,” says Hannibal, into the frigidity of your silence. “There is no mention of active suicidal ideation in your records. I would be surprised if you drowned yourself; of all the poetic figures you resemble, Ophelia, in her madness, is not of their number.”
“Why?” you whisper. “After what’s happened, I should want to die.”
Hannibal’s arm glides past you, twisting the faucets of the bath until water beats a war drum rhythm against the porcelain.
“But you do not,” he says, his voice so close to your ear that you jump. “Death, to you, would be an unfortunate symptom of the habits you keep. You are ambivalent about life, at the best of times, yet your goal is not to leave it. Your inherent belief is that you can maintain starvation at such a balance that you defy both those who have hurt you and God Himself.”
You watch hot water spin the air into steam, and a tear condenses on your left cheek, quite as warm.
“Does God even exist?” you ask. “If He did, He’d get me out of this.”
Dr Lecter unscrews the top of an expensive soap bottle and pours it into the bath, smoking the room with the scent of dusky vanilla; of course, his perfume for you would be gourmand.
“God kills and aids with equal relish. Who is to say that it is not your suffering that he would prefer?”
“That’s what you want?” you ask, in a whisper like a fragment of snow. “For me to suffer?”
“No, little one,” says Hannibal, touching your quivering lower lip with a gentle thumb. “If that was so, I would have left you to die in your parents care. What I want is for you to eat, and gain trust in those that yearn to help you.”
He straightens, smoothing down an imaginary crease in his suit.
“I have prepared lunch for you to eat while I am at work. I expect to see that you have eaten it.”
Your stomach, hard with breakfast, is nevertheless hollow enough to moan.
“All of it?” you ask.
“Yes,” says Hannibal, though not unkindly. “It is only a light portion. Will is joining us for dinner tonight.”
You sit down on the edge of the bath, your voice rising to a petulant note, as though Will were an unsavoury family friend, and not a man driven to rape by a whisper in his ear.
“I don’t want to see him.”
“Nevertheless, you will,” says Hannibal. “Like hunger, he is the spectre you must face, regardless of your fear of him.”
Hannibal switches off the taps and smiles down at you, undeterred by your unchanged, fearful disgust.
“Goodbye, little one,” he says. “And be good.”
You don’t reply, refusing to turn as he pats your shoulder and quietly retreats from the room. His leaving should be a relief, but his presence drenches the house like blood through a shroud. He scarcely seems to leave it at all.
You bathe rapidly, loathing to be at one with your nakedness, seeing it through your captors’ eyes.
Another set of clean clothes has been set out for you, a perfume of further vanilla, a clear bag of cosmetics, a weighty tome by Dostoevsky, and lunch in a pristine Tupperware box, which you avoid as you would a sleeping asp.
The bedroom door is locked, the sole, small window barred— new additions, you note from the shine on the steel. Hannibal has made definite your inability to escape; the only hope left bare to you is to draw attention from passers-by.
Desperate, you write a haphazard ‘HELP ME’ message in lipstick upon the window, hoping that the letters are large enough to be glimpsed from below.
That done, you sit in a convent-goer’s silence, cowed by the enormity of danger that has found you. The only thing that protects you from the engulfing depths of your abjection is anger, defiance that Dr Lecter thinks himself dictator of what may enter your body, food or flesh.
With a reedy surge of courage you vow to challenge his every attempt on your autonomy, even if you must do so quietly.
You begin with lunch. With a percussive gusto you throw the Tupperware into bathroom bin, thinking you’ve done well to avoid another round of narcotics, and to deny yourself what you do not think you deserve, after failing to abstain at breakfast.
The pasta smells delicious, of cloves and some ingeniously mixed sauce you know would break across your tongue in a tide of exceptional flavour. You pace from the bedroom to the en suite, close to retrieving the plastic tub from the clean trash bag and eating from it, unashamed of such a low; you’ve done worse, in your time, giving in to an animal urge to forage.
You lean against the wall, breathing in and out with trembling difficulty. Then you prise the Tupperware from the trash can and empty it out into the toilet bowl, flushing again and again until every remnant of food is washed down where even you cannot salvage it.
You are exuberant in your resolve, barely weakened under the burden of your captivity.
You shouldn’t be hungry, so soon after breakfast, yet you are— not in the way other people feel hunger, the ordinary cues having been lost to illness, long ago. Your desire for food is like that of a man-eating animal, driven more by a taste for flesh than necessity to eat.
That Will and Hannibal have given you a secondary conflict to wage war against your obsession is almost a gift— there is no longer much room amidst your crowding fears to pine over the food in your stomach.
Yet, there is enough. Purging has never been your particular habit—you’ve found it too difficult, requiring water you are too afraid to drink more than a glass of for fear of the added weight on the scale.
The French toast lies upon you like a sleep paralysis apparition in its density. Hanging over the toilet bowl, you choke on acid spittle, and promptly abandon the venture. Had there been laxatives, they would have been a fair alternative, but Hannibal has kept you as simply and functionally contained as a vivisectionist’s subject, which, to him, it seems, you are.
You bow to your defeat, on this count, allowing yourself another indulgence of tears. Only the fear of the calories you must burn thrusts you back on your feet, striding laps of the room until your vision swims with sparks.
Light-headed, you sprawl on the bed—the same that you were raped in, you think, and move to lie on the floor instead, comforted by the changed perspective of the room.
As a child you used to lie on your back like this, imagining that you could walk upon the ceiling. You’d lived years in such imagined lands, and would have remained in them, still, had they not grown dark, and overgrown by infiltrating matter. As you stare at the ceiling now it seems to blacken at the edges as though with a quickening mould, or else the fingers of some unseen thing, folding over your eyes until they shut.
*
You start from unsettled sleep to the gentle purr of an expensive car drawing in at the front of the house. Recalling your lip-sticked message, you blunder in a drowsy panic to the window and rub at the glass with your dress sleeve, spitting on the hem when the cosmetic merely smudges obstinately under your ministrations.
You cannot tell if the monster in the sleek Bentley below can see the window clearly, but you work rapidly, your breath sawing a panicked melody through your throat.
Though your dress is black, the cosmetic shows tellingly on the fabric. You wrestle the garment over your head and hide it at the back of a drawer, shoving on an almost identical item as movement stirs in the house below.
You sit down on the bed, picking the skin at your fingers as Hannibal approaches. When his key clicks in the lock you start, tearing a hangnail up to the cuticle. You suck your thumb like a child to soothe the wound, aware how infantile you must look.
“Hello, little one,” says Hannibal, politely, as he enters the room.
“I ate it all,” you say, in an all too eager rush. “The food. You don’t have to punish me.”
Your jailer looks at you levelly. His eyes are crow’s eyes, clever, and gelid.
“Let me see.”
He picks up the Tupperware, examining the box. Abruptly he circles the room, then the en suite, his slow tread an axe-man’s gait.
“You have lied to me,” he says, suddenly. “Lunch was disposed of. The toilet, I presume? Please do not insult me by claiming to have eaten it.”
You stare at him, nonplussed.
“I... how did you know?” you falter.
“I have a keen sense of smell. The scent of herbs is very clear in the air. An unusual aroma, for this particular room.”
There is a humour in his voice, but of a sinister kind you know well to fear.
“I’m sorry,” you say. “I couldn’t. I already ate so much, and you said I have to have dinner, so I...”
Hannibal shakes his head gravely.
“You must never waste food, if you can help it, little one.”
On a whim, you reach out to sieze one of his hands in yours.
“I didn’t mean it. Please don’t hurt me, Dr Lecter.”
He shakes his head regretfully.
“That is not for me to decide.”
You squeeze his hand as tightly as you are able, aware of how cold your fingers are in comparison to his hale warmth.
“Please, I’ll stay in solitary, or... or forfeit stuff, like they do at regular hospitals. Just don’t... touch me again. I can’t take it.”
“You discredit your endurance,” says Hannibal, smoothly. “It has presented itself as your greatest strength. It would be startling to see it fragment so early into your induction.”
You snap your hand back from him, cradling it as you would a broken bone.
“What’s wrong with you?” you hiss, and Dr Lecter releases a little grunt of amusement.
“I can only echo the interrogative. You have never opened up to any therapist about the most crucial traumas in your past. I am intrigued by their mysteries.”
You glance away, lips tightened. You will give him nothing of your secrets, not even the sheerest slip. He will use them against you, this you know.
“I must prepare for dinner,” says Hannibal. "Come along, little one. You will assist me. It will do you good to be in the presence of food through its preparation.”
*
As anticipated, your presence in the kitchen is fraught with excruciating temptation. As you grate vegetables and slice meat you often clear your throat to mask the thunder of starvation in your abdomen, which Dr Lecter politely ignores.
Though he maintains a flow of light, one-sided conversation, you know how narrowly he watches you, analysing every twitch and attempt to mentally detach from the scents and sumptuous plenty spread out on the countertops before you.
At last, he relents, an unexpected mercy.
“That’s enough. You may wash your hands and sit at the dinner table.”
You linger, gawking at him, not quite believing in your release.
“Go on,” says Dr Lecter, chuckling slightly. “I will join you presently. Our guest will be arriving, soon.”
Blinking, you say, “I’m... allowed to sit in there alone?”
With an almost fond glance, Dr Lecter says, “Certainly. You will not run, for you know that I will follow.”
Will arrives half an hour later, smelling of night rain and cologne. His expression is sullen and furtive as he greets you, his eyes floorwards, lashes fluttering behind his glasses.
You clutch the sides of your chair, silent, sickened, resentful; the man behaves as if it is he who was injured by the assault, as though the shame gnaws down to the core of him, leaving him raw and naked before you.
He sits in the chair closest to the door, whether to guard the exit or to forge the path to a quick egress you cannot say.
Hannibal sets a glass of wine before him; you he only gives water, as though you are not old enough to drink.
“The first course will be served presently,” he comments, surveying the tension at his table. “I hope that you will both enjoy it. You must be hungry, little one.”
You shake your head, afraid that if you open your mouth to speak you will only scream. This meal isn’t meant to tantalise the senses, but to torture: you know it from the unwilling reunion of his guests, of the punishment that leers from a narrow future upon you.
A quivering shrew, you stare at your untouched glass as Will clears his throat, pressed by the pains of your silence to speak.
He invokes your name, making it as foul as a curse.
“I don’t claim to be a master at first impressions, but the other night...”
“Please don’t talk to me,” you whisper, and Will flinches, pushing his glasses up his nose with bumbling fingers.
You’ve upset him, you realise, with a cold start of revulsion. Him, the violator, bruised by his own brutality, as though he’d no choice in the matter. Had he expected you to be his friend, to care for his sensitivities?
There is something wrong with Will Graham, you think, like a flaw in some creaking ship apt to annihilate the vessel, under pressure. That, or bleed all around him in his shrapnel, while he tends to their many pieces with all the moroseness of Beauty’s beast.
It strikes you that you should make him your ally, this hopeless Caliban, if you can stand it. You will need his favour, against Dr Lecter, to convince him to set you free.
Still, you cannot yet bring yourself to earn it. When Hannibal returns to set the first of many plates upon the table you are wordless in your terror, your fork as slippery as a salmon in your grip.
Will and Hannibal make conversation about a murder case in the area— both seem intricately involved in the psychology of the killer, discussing at length his motives in the poetic lexis you are becoming accustomed to, in this prison.
Still, their eyes and words wind back to you with a potent eventuality, displayed before them in your borrowed dress like a goldfinch chained to an elaborate perch.
Your food remains on your plate, flattened beneath your knife, a childish attempt to conceal your inability to eat it. There is too much weight in these scarce morsels, calories that would swell you into some fantastic horror, or so your thoughts inform you.
If you could eat, you would do so; even to save yourself it is beyond you.
Only water do you swallow, the bottom of the glass thick with a bitter sediment.
“We should talk about her, shouldn’t we?” asks Will, reluctantly, his gaze darting to your plate.
"Indeed we should," says Hannibal, his hand tracing the stem of his wine glass as he would the length of your throat. “Specifically, your response to her residence here, and to her treatment. You feel guilt for having carried out a punishment you feel was not entirely deserved.”
Will swallows, the click of saliva in his throat like the folding of a leaf underfoot.
"That's the problem," he says. "It did feel deserved. Violence for violence. There was a righteousness in defending you. I've felt it before, with GarretJacob Hobbs."
The name holds significance you cannot grasp. Who was this man, and what does he mean to your wardens?
"And like that day, protecting Abigail," Will continues, "I'm left looking at my own hands, repulsed by my own readiness to engage in a taboo and... enjoy it. But she isn’t like either Hobbs."
This, directed at you with a glance of murky guilt.
"She's unwell. Confused. And, as far as your patient was concerned, she was as in her right to protect herself as I was in correcting her."
"Stop,” you say, quietly.
Both men turn to you, startled by your sudden interjection.
"You disagree with Will's analysis of last night's events?" asks Hannibal, with interest. "By all means, tell us what you see. There is no sole analysis of any art; what picture do you glimpse from within the canvas?"
"I'm not yours," you say. "You can't correct me, like I'm something you own, that you made."
Dr Lecter examines your face with a dangerous patience.
"But we are making you. Or remaking, it you prefer. That is why you are here: a construction of what we two will define from mortar and broken glass."
You cannot respond to such unhinged logic without lowering yourself to entertain it, an undeniably clever tactic.
Hannibal brings another course to the table, another, another; Roman emperors could not have gorged like this, yet the two men—both lean, and Will particularly small—clear their plates as though swallowing mere air.
You pretend to eat, chewing food and spitting it into napkins or an empty glass when the other diners look away. It is only when Will barks at you suddenly that you realise he's been watching you, all along.
"What are you doing?" he asks, sharply.
"Nothing,” you mumble.
Will scoffs.
"Nothing? Nothing is not why you're here. You’re starving yourself. Why?"
Disgust pours from him like a vapour, tainting the air you breathe with his unearned judgement.
"Because... it's just what I do,” you say, limply. “It... helps. It's taken over everything.'
“Then stop letting it,” snaps Will; you don’t understand why he’s so affronted, why he has suddenly taken up the reigns of the game. “You're giving into this, letting it cut holes into you. You'll die trying to achieve some abstract state of being that you will never reach. Do you want that?"
Strange, the echo of your conversation with Dr Lecter by the bath.
"I— don't know,” you say, after a strained pause. “Sometimes I'm not sure if I care what happens to me. And sometimes, I get scared."
Will speaks through gritted teeth.
"So let go of it."
You could laugh at so preposterous a command, but instead you say, "I can't."
The atmosphere at the table has subtly changed, all players on the board at last.
"Why not?” asks Will, softly.
You perceive something like care in his voice, an impossibility.
"Because it makes me feel better," you say. "Stronger. I don't want it to go away."
Hannibal sits back, listening in purposeful silence.
Will removes his glasses, placing them into his pocket.
"Today, at this meal, you’ll try,” he says. “Appreciate the effort that was made for you."
At this you do laugh, a soft, broken sound.
"Go to hell. You're a monster. You did what he told you to, and— and you jumped like a dog to do it. Aren't you ashamed?"
Dr Lecter’s posture tightens slightly, and Will flounders, losing a little of his confidence.
"I know it's probably not what I should have done,” he admits. “It’s a radical treatment. And dangerous. But I— we can't take it back. And if I can contribute to you evolving from this then I'll do whatever it takes."
There is honesty in this confession, somewhere, even empathy.
"Don't act like you care about me,” you mumble, and shove your plate away from you, across the table, knocking over your glass in the process.
The effects of whatever drug was in the water are taking hold, making you feel loosely unstable, your inhibitions cast down, and forgotten.
Hannibal’s smile has fallen.
"Will,” he says, curtly. “I think you have tolerated quite enough from our obnoxious guest. I suggest that you consider discipline. She has already broken the rules in place for her today. A meal discarded, a message for help written on her window— It is fortunate that no one came close enough to the house in my absence to see it."
You stand up from your seat, swaying slightly, your heart shuttering like cards on a bicycle wheel to find yourself caught you in your efforts to escape.
"I hate you,” you say. “I want to leave. Let me go."
"Hannibal,” Will cuts in; his face is white, and greasy with anxiety. “I'm not ready to handle this again."
Dr Lecter’s expression shifts darkly.
"Then I will fulfil that responsibility on your behalf."
He rises from his seat and is behind you for the second time this day before you've the sense to run. Shunting you forward onto the table top, he tears your dress methodically up your back, his free hand holding you down with the same carelessness with which he’d handle unsatisfactory meat.
"You are sure that you do not wish to participate?" he says, over your shrieks of protest.
Will shakes his head. His eyes are rolling like a bull’s in his distress.
"No. I— can't."
Hannibal stills; you feel his hand between his belt and your behind, on the precipice of setting loose his sick lust.
"Then should I choose another punishment? There are many at our disposal."
"Don't leave it up to me to decide,” croaks Will. “I feel... precarious."
"I forgive you your uncertainty,” says Dr Lecter. “I, however, have none."
A drugged swell flows through you, looping a weird ecstasy about your abdomen as Hannibal leans down to speak to you directly.
"You are a very disobedient girl. You know the consequences, and yet you do not abandon your misdeeds."
"I'm not playing your stupid game,” you whine, dimly away of how foolish you sound. “I'm not playing.”
“Of course you are,” says Hannibal, coldly. “In time you'll forget that it was ever a game, to begin with.”
He forces himself within your cunt in a smooth and gliding viciousness, sending another brocade of sensation through your loins. The drug you’ve ingested makes the pain a most succulent wonder, playing your nerves with all the sinister beauty of the Theremin.
You sob as he fucks you, slow, and sure, and deep. It should not possibly be pleasurable, is intended only to exert power, and to humiliate— but he cannot help but create art, casting you on the stage of his design.
As Hannibal hurts you, he is looking at Will, whose face bears a quickening darkness. It strikes you quite suddenly that Dr Lecter wants the other man’s approval, perhaps even his jealousy; you understand that you are a disposable object that holds the temporary interest of these two.
It may not last.
Should they tire of you, what then? Thrown back to your parents, perhaps, more broken than you arrived. Surely not, for you may spill their secrets to the world, and ruin their lives.
Something worse, then.
You circle back to that earlier thought, and terror flies back in all its night glory.
Suddenly you twitch and shake in horrified spasms, and though Hannibal continues to fuck you something alters almost imperceptibly in his pace.
"Stop," says Will, suddenly. "That's enough."
"You cannot leave a deer half-killed, Will,” says Hannibal; glancing back over your shoulder, you are horrified by how calm he appears, even now. “Maimed, it will stumble, weakened, until another predator picks it from the herd. I must hunt her to the end, Will. It is all that can be done."
You see your tears soddening the tablecloth, mucus pooling beneath your cheek.
"Don't kill me," you whimper. "I don't want to die."
Hannibal stills a moment, pulling your head back to look into your eyes.
“We do not intend to kill you, little one," he says. "Only for you to accept what you are. You will humour what we ask of you?"
"Yes!” you cry, with a delirious bray in your voice. “I— I’ll try!"
Blue eyes, black eyes, both pairs so equally bright.
"Good girl,” says Hannibal, and resumes his use of your flesh, his cock making a gauntlet of you, every thrust grinding you against the elaborate tablecloth with such intelligent pressure you groan beneath him, juddering with the effort it takes not to come.
Will's gaze has changed, and there is colour in his cheeks. He grips the edge of the table as though to prevent himself from falling, or else rising to join his companion in your debasement.
"Please stop," you stutter out, wanting to bite your own tongue off for the embarrassment of the utterance. “I won’t be bad anymore.”
Hannibal slows deliberately, his cock withdrawing to the point it almost slips from your cunt before he sinks it in the lake of your arousal again.
"Come, then," he says, simply. "And you may go to bed."
In a wailing convulsion you climax at once, scrabbling at the floor on steepled toes as the pleasure rolls from your cunt through your thighs. Hannibal waits for your last twitch to cease before he finishes within you, utterly soundless as he leans down, kissing the back of your neck in a gesture that is curiously gentle.
He steps away from the table and helps you stand, holding you to his chest as you whimper in the after bursts of sensation.
"Are you still troubled, Will?" he asks, over the top of your head.
The other man looks shell-shocked, his pallor an almost grey.
"I'm... undecided."
You pull away from Hannibal, remembering with a flare of insane joy that you are released from the table, that you need not eat, after all.
"Then I am mistaken in perceiving another response in you," says Dr Lecter.
Will looks hurriedly away, and it is only as you push past him to flee for your room that you understand Dr Lecter's meaning. The younger man adjusts himself, flushing, sitting as close to the table as space will allow.
He is hard, having watched his friend fucking you.
Will Graham is not so repentant as he'd taken such pains to seem.
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dysphoria-things · 9 months
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“Ms O'Brien said when Noah first told her about his new gender identity she thought he was being influenced by a friend or someone online.
'But the longer that time went on, we just saw, no, it was definitely just him, who he was,' she told the program. 
Noah started to restrict his eating in a bid to delay the onset of puberty.
He was admitted to Westmead Children's Hospital in Sydney's west where he was discharged after a day, with a recommendation to seek support for gender issues.
Ms O'Brien went to his GP to get a referral but did not realise that he would be pushed down the waiting list because he had started puberty.
Noah was again treated for anorexia at Westmead Children's Hospital and was assessed by a social worker who suggested he needed to be seen by staff who could help with his gender dysphoria.
But that was halted by a senior staff member outside the gender clinic who said clinicians needed to focus on dealing with his anorexia in isolation.
Four Corners reported that Noah 'was effectively denied any specialist gender support by the hospital'.
Noah was increasingly anxious about returning to school in his new gender and took his life in January.”(source)
this is a bit old but i’m. fucking devastated. i have a story too goddamn similar to this to not be devastated. this is what we mean when we say lack of access to care is going to kill us.
here’s his family’s gofundme. it fucking misgendered him.
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linnorabeifong · 3 months
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Some Sad Young Lin I'm Working on For An Old Fic
Massive tw for grief, implied self harm, suicidal thoughts and anorexia.
She looked at the letter crumpled up in her hands, and Tui and La how she wished she could allow herself to crumple like that as well. To finally collapse after standing so strong for so long, what a relief it would be. A delicious moment of rest. Rest she would never allow herself of course.
So she stands tall like she always has and cries silently. Cries without making a fuss, without creating a disturbance. She'd hate to be a nuisance, to make someone notice her pain. So she takes her hurt and makes it small. She cries silently, so no one will notice. No one at all.
"Beifongs don't cry" she's not a little girl anymore but spirits, does she feel like one. The ink runs as her tears splash the paper. It's ruined, ruined like-
Sobbing, how pathetic, how unbecoming.
She cannot even allow herself the tears. She wipes her face and takes out her frustration on the paper. She throws it into the fire place viciously. The flames lap at it. It curls up and blackens as the fire consumes the words.
It is reduced to ash and so is she inside. She runs to bed to hide.
It is there that finally she allows the tears. She curls up and crumples. Doesn't she deserve to collapse ? After all of this. After the worst news a girl could receive.
She feels like a little girl. All curled up and small, vulnerable.
In the morning she rises. The letter is no longer there to abuse. Her body takes its place.
She is too depressed to eat, or drink or bathe. Soon the abuses cease being an accident of her stupor. Instead they become the goal. They become the point of it all.
She cannot cry but... she can die.
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