#TW BULIMIA

[paloma-ascends-into-hellfire]

eating disorder harm reduction

no one ever compiled this so that it what we are doing today. for people with eds and people whose loved ones do. please note: i’m not a doctor. this is a compilation of things from books and ed resource sites.

for people whose loved ones have an eating disorder:

try to make sure they know these things.

try not to force them to eat, they might feel uncomfortable eating in front of people. also, risk of refeeding syndrome.

if their life is in danger and you are seeking help for them, consult the person beforehand to make sure they will be safe and give them a heads-up so that they aren’t startled (especially if they’re neurodivergent! giving them notice will aid control!)

offer them ways of controlling things aside from food - practice consent, include them in conversations, don’t talk about them behind their back, compliment their makeup or hair.

be patient. the person may be irritable from lack of sleep, feelings of depression, worthlessness, etc., or malnutrition.

keep in mind that you can’t tell if someone has an eating disorder by looking at them. people of all weights do - only 17% of anorexics are underweight - and also, men and non binary people can also have eds.

general:

drink lots of water, especially if you’re drinking lots of caffeine.

drink some electrolytes at least once a week - gatorade, electrolyte tablets, coconut water, doesn’t matter, just get it into your system.

if you are getting dizzy or flushed and can feel your heart beating, quick carbs will raise your blood sugar - sweets, bread, fruit, juice, non diet soda, whatever. keep snacks around pls.

your brain uses 400-500 calories daily. eat more than this.

take your supplements!

you still need protein, have an egg or something.

don’t take adderal or insulin unless you are actually diabetic or neurodivergent, because you are raising the price by buying them and denying access to those who need it.

throw a towel over the mirror. it’s not worth it if it’ll cause you anxiety.

try to limit disordered behaviours like body checking, purging, and weigh ins.

practice good dental hygiene.

put your scale somewhere where you have to actively look for it to weigh yourself.

avoid social media and for your sake don’t go on pro ed tiktok or tumblr or twitter or insta.

get a buddy who also struggles with the same thing if possible to support each other.

get regular medical check ups (if you can afford it)

practice things within your control - makeup, hair, clothing, etc.

push your rules - eat 5 minutes before your time, or 50 calories over your limit.

for people with restrictive disorders (e.g. anorexia):

do weight and resistance training at least twice a week to prevent musculoskeletal conditions such as osteoporosis.

don’t drink on an empty stomach.

try to put gaps between fasting periods.

don’t fast for more than 72 hours.

wear lots of layers to keep warm.

eat an extra 100-200 calories on your period if you menstruate.

have a metabolism day.

take care of your hair.

as horrifying as this is to many people, please go to the hospital if you’re experiencing heart problems or if you’re passing out for more than 30 seconds.

for people with purging disorders (e.g. bulimia):

if you would like to purge, wait 15 minutes first.

after purging: drink lots of water - the emptiness you feel is dehydration. don’t brush your teeth but rinse your mouth out, preferably with an alkaline mouthwash or baking soda mixed into water. do something you want to do, like reading a book or watching a show. don’t smoke. don’t have anything acidic. eat a banana or some chocolate or a rice cake to keep your blood sugar levels in check.

if you vomit blood or your vomit looks like coffee grounds, this is a sign of internal bleeding. you could be drowning in your own blood from a hole in your esophagus, essentially. go to the hospital or call 911/999/the emergency number in your area.

stay safe everyone. i hope this helps. also, i do not use these tags - i have them blocked - but i am using them so that people on these tags will find this because they need it most.

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER THIRTEEN: TEA

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, implied child abuse and more

Read after the cut...

-

For a near week your deceptive submission endures, the hours newly tightened by a schedule your host has contrived to divert you from your anti-appetite.

Days rise from the borderless veil of time like castles from a dawn mist. Made a school child again, you sit before documentaries and foreign art films, take up a journal whose pages bear but glances of your internal woe.

You find yourself wishing that you could write with any particular talent.

As a girl you’d yearned to be an author, never daring to materialise the urge with any substantial effort. Now you can’t imagine you’ll ever be allowed so loose-penned a profession, if any at all, kept covetously home and infantilised until you cannot think beyond a fraction of words.

Why, then, does Hannibal go to such arduous lengths to educate you? Surely it is only so that—before the eyes of peers—you'll be the cultured averment of triumph through therapy.

In the soirees of your doctor's hopes you cleave, willing, to his side, bewitching the throng with smirking witticisms before sucking his cock with that same clever mouth when the last guest steps, merry and ignorant, into the night.

Already Hannibal aspires to materialise that abstraction. You find proof enough of it in the wardrobe he’s amassed for you, which expands as the days progress.

Some of his choices are attractive to you, reluctant though you are to consider this— long velvet gowns in puce, umber, black, blouse and skirt co-ordinations plucked from the runway, some still in boxes emblazoned with designer names.

Others of the selection offend you, however, in their bald intent for closed-door wear. Girlish dresses in light chiffon, corseted silk in flowering lace. Short necks and hemlines, some of them scarcely reaching the knee. Then there are sheer nightclothes stored in perfumed sheets, no practicality but for the sort of sleeping in which no slumber is to be had.

You’re to dress like some obscure young celebrity, a whimsical echo of an era thirty years passed. Still, there is an attempt in this incredible closet to appease you as well as to change, adapting your preferences to a style acceptable to Hannibal’s eye.

It’s of particular note to you that the garments are each the same size, implying that you haven’t gained significant weight since your last awareness of its value. Conceivably the labels might have been replaced, but it’s so unlikely a trick that the theory is quickly thrown out.

Hannibal is inviting you to trust his process with a peace offering of equilibrium, the second-best prize to starvation.

You are not such a fool as to take it yet, though in action you may appear to have done so.

When in the presence of your keepers you remain in unwavering character, an amplified, changeling copy of the child you'd once been. In this way you're allowed your little misbehaviours—pulling a face at food you do not like, or the shrugging rejection of an idle caress.

So long as you sit at meals, and don’t speak in any manner that threatens the illusion of family you are unharmed, and laden with unending gifts. It would be a winning childhood, had you been born into it through a far less insidious violence than that which brought you here.

Still, the awareness that you must simper and lisp for another month before you venture an escape soon wears upon your tolerance.

One Saturday morning, alone in your room, the silence of that cushioned cell amplifies your every thought to a piqued tenor.

You miss when hunger bled like smoke through your skull, ridding its halls of all but its fey shape. With a scalding clarity you behold what you are now: a homunculus, the issue of diablerie, cut small by men’s black magic.

You cast yourself amidst a tide of cushions and mimic your own words upon them in a bitter snarl.

“‘Yes, Daddy’”, ‘no, Daddy’. ‘Little one’. Oh God! It’s all so stupid. Stupid!”

An involuntary laugh chatters through you like a coin thieved from a beggar’s cup, hateful and maniacal. Yet you perform this anger as you do the docile coquette, the bounds between that self and your own a gradient that softens by the day.

It’s become rather easier to be a monster’s daughter than a woman, this you cannot deny. The longer you are extracted from the world the less you’ll remember of how to live within it, if you ever knew, before.

The misery of this thought proves too much to bear.

You cry until your head is as hot about the brow as a horseshoe turned white from the forge. The sobs wrench the muscles of your stomach in two pained halves, and still you weep until you laugh again, thinking how deranged you’d sound to any eavesdropper in the rooms below.

Afterwards you sit very quietly, like an ailing bride in a Victorian novel; you are, after all, very ill, and it suits you well to behave so.

Having nothing better to do, you switch on the television and skim through the channels with neither aim nor interest.

Thin, beautiful women populate the screen, their waists like darner flies, their wrists as narrow as your thumb. Even the history programmes feature experts with trim figures in sensible interview dresses.

Perturbed, you flick on and on until you find something on eighteenth century Paris, hosted by a grandfatherly old professor marked safe from scrutiny in the absence of compare.

You watch until your lids fall, thinking of catacombs full of monk bones, the cloying scent of ancient death, each as forgotten under dust as you are by all those who once loved you, and revered by those who never have.

In the afternoon Hannibal wakes you gently by turning the television off at the set.

“Are you feeling alright, little one?” he asks. “It’s unusual for you to sleep in so late.”

You hum in a noncommittal fashion, scarcely bothering to open your eyes.

Perhaps he’ll let you drowse the day away; you’d dream through all horrors like this, should your insomnia give you reprieve. A week, a month, a year sold to the sandman in exchange for peace— yet the dark would follow you there, also, antlered men in imagined night.

“You’ve been in bed long enough,” says Hannibal, peeling back your sheets with a brisk tug. “Up you get. Alana is visiting us this evening. She’ll have some questions for you.”

Weakly attempting to thieve back the blanket, you say, “I really don’t feel like talking to her. Can’t you do it? Please?”

“Jack won’t be satisfied with a second-hand report. Alana must see that you’re comfortable here. Not a particular incentive for you, but I can provide others.”

You open one eyelid, enticed by this readiness to bargain.

“So what do I get if I say yes?”

“A light dinner,” says Hannibal. “And—depending on your behaviour—perhaps another reward we’ll negotiate later tonight.”

At this you sit up; starving is a precious contraband in the doctor’s abode, worth more to you than every decadent thing under its rafters.

“Feeling better already, I see,” says Hannibal, through one of his charitable smiles. “Please stand by the mirror and allow me to dress you.”

Unbidden there comes the thought of his hand under your skirts, pressing inwards like a starfish sucking at a stone.

“Oh, come on, Dad,” you say, in flustered haste. "Really?”

“There’s a certain picture I’d like to create for Alana’s benefit,” he insists. “One of wellness and serenity. Your selections tend to imply something far more brooding and morose.”

With a testy little sigh you slip out of bed, rubbing your arms free of rising gooseflesh.

“You bought me those ‘brooding and morose’ outfits, remember, Dad? What does that say about you?”

“That I seek to please you,” says Hannibal, touching your mouth with playful thumb. “Today I hope that you’ll return the gesture.”

He holds aloft a pastel blue dress in transparent lace, a beaded line of detailing pointing downwards at the hips in a suggestive v.

“I don’t know,” you say, far more sharply than intended. “It’s short. And I don’t like the colour.”

“The shade will suit you,” Hannibal replies. “And you’ll wear a shift underneath for modesty, if that’s your concern.”

You don’t bother with reproof; he’s guiding you out of your nap-rumpled clothes and into the dress before you can think of an excuse he’ll entertain.

Unresisting, you only glance aside, breathing shallowly so as not to brush your chest against him as he adjusts your collar.

That Hannibal hasn’t made love to you since you shared a bed makes you think that he’s waiting for something, a moment fermented to sweeten the sex. He is, you warrant, as driven by pleasure as any man, being only of a tighter and more methodical restraint.

You can’t decide whether you’re glad of the wait or if you’d prefer he throw you down on your bed and ravish you now to have done with it.

Doubtless Hannibal considers an identical dilemma, turning you before him like a ballerina in a mirrored jewellery box.

“Even the greats couldn’t hope to replicate this image of you,” he says, as he inspects his work. “To attempt it would have them rending the canvas to pieces rather take credit for their failure.”

The compliment is long forgotten when, later, Alana breaches the house, her pretty face above her mulberry blouse like a lily in a violet bouquet.

Her casual manner in kissing Hannibal’s cheek at the door suggests a social visit, as does the gift of white wine under one thin arm. Still, she remembers her duty, taking you aside with a subtle professionalism within two minutes of having greeted her host.

Her kindness is a shingle in a cyclone, dashed away by the futility of its own existence.

“Dr Lecter told me you’re doing a lot better than when I last saw you,” says Alana, placing one of her graceful hands atop your own without comment as to its frigidity. “Are you feeling more positive now, or would you disagree with that?”

Slipping your fingers out from under hers, you say, “Well, I have a TV now. I’m allowed to do a lot more things I’m actually interested in. That helps. Thanks for that, by the way. I know you talked Dr Lecter into it.”

Smiling, Alana says, “I can’t take credit for that. He was already making preparations when I brought it up. He's racked up quite the shopping bill.”

The notion of Hannibal navigating the catalogues of online stores is ridiculous, somehow anachronistic, but then again you’ve witnessed him tapping at a sleek iPad, a jarring sight, on every occasion.

“How about mealtimes?” asks Alana. “I understand you’re working towards a plan that’s easier for you.”

“It’s still hard,” you mumble. “Tough. You know.”

Your eyes are on Alana’s patent court shoes, picturing a blandly organised rack of identical heels in alternate shades. Perhaps ankle boots for the colder days. Simple. Nothing flash.

Alana pauses, quickly assessing your disinterest in the exchange.

“Hannibal says he’d like you to agree to more therapy sessions,” she says. “He feels you’re opening up. I think we both know that’s probably wishful thinking on his side, but don’t shoot him down just yet.”

“I won’t,” you say. “Couldn’t anyway, right?”

Alana rearranges her discomfort into another closed-lipped smile. You can’t envision that lipstick ever moving, striped across her face as yours has been by both of the friends that she holds dear.

“So how are things between you and Will now?” enquires Alana, quite on cue. “Rumour has it you’re getting along like a house on fire.”

Truthfully Will has rather cooled since the night of the seizure, his envy retreating to the black of some inner primordial cave. He seems both caustically amused by your recent performance and cynical of its longevity, yet neither judgement is as severe as before.

The thought of your kindness sits with him, has been taken up with the cagy hunger of an orphan to a heel of bread. Piece by piece you’ve given him more of it in flirting words, but these he’s yet to take, turning each away with a smirk.

“Don’t try so hard,” he’d said, only a day ago, but when you’d thrown an idle foot across his lap as you read a book beside him he hadn’t removed it, only pretended to ignore the intrusion.

“Me and Will are okay,” you say to Alana. “That’s all.”

You must give away something of your successes in your expression, for Alana’s mouth twitches into a coy grin.

“Just okay?”

At that moment Hannibal knocks on the open door, a merciful trespass, setting you free of her.

*

As promised, you’re offered a modest salad while Hannibal and Alana make their way through numberless courses over the gifted wine.

At first you’re too absorbed in the mortification of eating in front of the other woman to pay attention to their mounting chemistry, dragging the same tattered leaf through streams of congealing oil.

It’s only as you’re making a fortress of cutlery across a lump of uneaten meat that you take full stock of the flirting at work before you.

Though attempts are made by both parties to fold you into the conversation they are mild at best, almost neglectful.

Alana glances up into Hannibal’s eyes in frequent, laughing enjoyment, touching his shoulder or forearm lightly; he, for his part, looks upon her lips and the curves of her form and speaks fondly to her, his voice hushed with a want of sex.

You’ve heard it often enough to know it, and should be glad to have his attentions otherwise distracted.

Yet your hands creep under the table, squeezing your thighs and stomach as though to claw out the matter you've ingested through your meat.

"I'm done," you blurt out, cutting across Hannibal's opinion of a recent classical performance he’s attended. "Can I go upstairs?"

It's with difficulty that you bite off the habitual 'Dad' that has replaced 'doctor' in your vocabulary.

Hannibal offers you a near invisible look of disgruntlement at the interruption, quickly mollified by Alana's fingers at his elbow.

"I'm sure we're boring you," she says. "Go on up and relax. You don't have to stick around just to be polite."

You glance at Hannibal, seeking his approval before you stand. His eyes, within so static a face, are black glass in their suspicion.

"I'll come up to speak to you later on," he says, at last. "If there's anything you need, don't hesitate to ask for it."

Rather than go immediately to your den above you linger to watch as the couple drink in the parlour, so close as to almost be in one another’s arms.

You see from Hannibal's relaxed posture that he is not ablaze with a fascinated love for Alana as he is for Will; he holds her merely with the affection of an old friend, and, too, with an uncomplicated desire.

He would never rape Alana Bloom; such violence, to Hannibal, is an entry into a cabal of which she has no part. Her value to him is as representation of his treasured comforts, and all that which Hannibal would not willingly change.

Alana is as used for her parts as you are, in her way, and oblivious to it, like some grinning scarecrow blind to the birds that snicker and creep at its back.

Yet as you watch her lean, murmuring, into Hannibal’s neck you feel a tooth of ice grind through your heart and turn away, feeling numbly for the bannisters behind you.

Almost on hands and knees you climb the steps to your bed, brought low by that astonishing cold.

Pausing at the bathroom you prostrate yourself at the toilet’s mercy, still unable to empty yourself of the pain and bile you'd evict to be naked of your jealousy.

In surrender you rest your head on the cool floor and remain there even after the compulsion to vomit subsides.

If you cannot flog yourself for your sins as the saints did then this will do, sprawled before the porcelain God of another degredation.

Presently the bathroom door creaks open, striking an unwanted rod of light across your face.

“Go away,” you mutter, wiping your face with an angry scrub of your knuckles. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

Hannibal looks at you with a minister’s pious severity.

"I see. So I was correct. You object to Alana and I having a sexual relationship. Any other father would sternly inform you that it’s none of your business, and as your therapist it’s even less so.”

Raising your head, you snap at him as fiercely as you dare.

“What about me?”

“My friendship with Alana is very different to what you and I share,” says Hannibal, and you snort, wiping a stream of clear mucus across your lips.

“I’ll bet.”

Hannibal turns his head at a quizzical angle, and you perceive the very second of his understanding like the unveiling of some trick.

“You must explain yourself, darling,” he says. “What is it about this that has upset you?”

The logical answer should be that you wish to save Alana from him, that you cannot watch her beaming, black-haired head roll out from under the axe.

Instead, you blurt out, “Don’t you get it, Dad? How it makes me feel? You’re supposed to understand me, and I’m pretty sure you do. You knew that it would hurt me. You did this on purpose the way you wave me around in front of Will.”

Using the sink to right yourself you get to your feet, standing on pathetic, defiant tiptoe so that you might gaze into the devil’s face directly.

“If you have to do this, then please, just me. Just me. I can’t stand it. It makes me feel sick to think about you and her together. Knowing you’ll touch me afterwards. Don’t do this to me. Please."

“I see,” says Hannibal.

He speaks with such calm that you deflate from your anger at once.

“Very well,” he says. “I can make an excuse for Alana to leave. Would that please you, little one?”

This time you don’t answer, only stare at him with huge and terrible eyes until he retreats to the stairway.

“Oh, god,” you say, under your breath. “Amy, you’d really hate me right now, wouldn’t you?”

You hear Hannibal and Alana talking in low undertones, the female voice a coo of thoughtful sympathy. In time Alana collects herself to leave, but only when her car propels itself quietly from the driveway does Hannibal come to you again.

By now you’re sitting at your dresser, making a humiliated attempt to recollect your dignity with cosmetics. You know that Hannibal will not like what you’d made of your face—the eyes painted black, your lips the colour of your heart, a sinking, well-bound stone.

Yet all he says as he stands behind you is, “Look at me, little one.”

Your hand shakes, blotting your eyelid with an errant apostrophe of mascara.

“Don’t want to.”

“I know. I’d like you to, even so.”

The gentleness of Hannibal’s voice is an agony to you. You’ve never hated nor been more drawn to him than you are now, this impossible spirit in the vessel of a man.

Stiffly you turn on your chair, meeting his gaze to find it truly repentant.

“I won’t make love to Alana again,” says Hannibal, and you know as you do the reality of elements that he does not lie. “I see that this triggers your fear of abandonment too greatly. But it might not be possible for me to avoid all romantic advances.

“There are rumours abound as to our arrangement already, and it will seem suspicious if I don’t take a lover. But I’ll do my best to be faithful to our family.”

He pauses, watching you battle to suppress your disgust for him, for yourself, for all things in the bracken of his design.

“For now, I’d like you to relax,” says Hannibal. “This level of distress will make you ill. I’m concerned that it already has.”

Taking you by a hand as clammy as mermaid skin he leads you down to the living room to serve you from a pot of fragrant tea.

Though its calorific value is likely near to air you catastrophize with immediacy, unable to touch the cup, let alone drink.

“I’m not doing it on purpose this time,” you babble. “I’m not, Dad, please, you’ve got to believe me.”

Hannibal raises a hand to caress you— that, and only that, and yet you shrink against the couch in expectancy of a blow.

An appalled look tightens Hannibal’s expression, a hypocrisy of which he seems endlessly capable.

“There, now,” he says. “I can tell the difference between unruliness and genuine struggle. You and I both know that tea is only leaves and water— why do you believe against logic that it will affect your weight?”

“I don’t know,” you say, with a helpless shake of the head. “I feel like if I drink it I won’t be able to stop myself. I’ll eat and eat until I’m... big, and then I won’t be able to go back to the way I was. Everyone will see me differently. Treat me like they used to. People can be cruel.”

“And none crueller than you are to yourself,” says Hannibal, and he eases the cup between your hands so that you must take it or scald yourself raw. “There is nothing shameful in having a body of any kind, and any who judge you for that would wear their foolishness like a flag for all to see. Nevertheless, I’ve balanced your weight here, and will continue to do so if that is what’s needed for you to believe in my intentions.”

He aids you to drink, lifting the cup to your mouth over and over until the last drop. From the bitter taste you know it altered by some drug.

For once you do not care.

The night has left you so ashamed of your bearing that you’re half joyful to be done with it, sinking back as euphoria transforms all things that touch you into nirvana.

Your fingers drape across your body in aimless exploration, stopping only as Will enters the room with Hannibal at his side.

The younger man’s eyebrows jump as you giggle and hide your hands behind your back.

“You’re smiling,” says Will. “And I’m not sure how I feel about the circumstances.”

“Our girl is relieved to see you, Will,” says Hannibal. “A familiar face is a balm for even the most taxing day.”

Will looks from you to Hannibal ponderously.

“Alana was here earlier,” he states.

“She was, much to our little one’s chagrin.”

“Do you have to talk about her?” you interrupt, in loose-tongued irritation.

Hannibal chuckles.

“We do not. There are other topics I’d find far more engaging.”

You watch from under heavy lids as the men discuss the Lover’s case in low, library murmurs.

“Tanya Marrow was found washed up by the Patapsco River this morning,” says Will, with a grim regret. “Her wounds were fresh, meaning the Lover only mutilated Tanya and placed her into the doll when he was ready to throw her away. He was content with how closely she resembled the woman he’s desperate to make, for a while.

“But she wasn’t close enough. In the end he had to remind her that she was just a toy to him, and punish her for her lacking.”

The contrast of these dreary horrors with the rainbow light of feeling through your needy cunt should sicken you, but your mind is in disorder, barely one thought akin to the next.

“We’ve made a breakthrough in regards to the dolls,” Will continues. “The well-made ones are expensive; for one person to have so many implies that the Lover is either a wealthy collector, or that he’s able to access them at a considerable discount. Possibly for free.”

“I’m assuming the factory producing these dolls has been identified,” says Hannibal.

Will swallows a mouthful of whiskey.

“There are only four vendors known to produce the style of doll the Lover uses. Jack’s got someone looking into their customers, narrowing down the suspects to buyers in Virginia. Considering how specialised these clients are that shouldn't take long.”

The older man listens with a solemn intensity, scarcely drinking from his own glass.

“I see the Lover almost exactly now,” says Will. “He knows he has to take his bride eventually; he’s circling her, choosing women that are closer and closer to her physical proximity. The next target will be someone she knows.

“It’s a dangerous move, but by now the Lover wants someone that’s stood so close to this woman that he can taste her. Imagine her beneath him when he defiles the inferior victim.”

Fear swims, crocodilian, within you, disturbing your narcotic stupor.

Seeming to sense it, Hannibal says, “Let’s continue this line of conversation later on. I wouldn’t want to give our surrogate daughter bad dreams.”

Will glances at you, watching you fumble idly with the hem of your dress.

“You don’t plan to cast her as our daughter in tonight’s play, do you?” he asks, plainly.

“That would unnecessarily chasten the evening,” says Hannibal. “She’s the woman for whom we are legally responsible, and what we deem fit for her continued health is ours to determine.”

You recline across the couch like an empress, watching the firelight glance shadows across your skin like a garment in a dream. Hannibal slips a hand from your shoulder to your breast, teasing the tiffany lace across your nipple, and the warmth and delicacy of the touch breathes through you a shiver of ermine delight.

Only vaguely do you acknowledge your revulsion, a whisper at a keyhole on the other side of the house.

“What did you give her for her to let you touch her like that?” asks Will, curiously.

His hands play upon the sides of his whiskey glass, and the thought of them upon your thighs or between them drives your lower lip between your teeth with unbeckoned desire.

“I’ve offered her release from her spirited rebellion,” says Hannibal. “Even having promised us fealty, this act she wouldn’t easily endure. I wish for her to experience intimacy unhindered by her mental bounds.”

His fingers glance beneath the neckline of your dress and cross your bare skin as a swan's wing meets the sky, rushing a moan from you more akin to a sob in its juddering resonance.

“Besides,” Hannibal continues, “she’s had a trying afternoon. Her body welcomes this.”

Will’s face, washed honey bronze by firelight, is so neutral that even if you were not high you’d fail to extract the mechanisms of thought behind it.

“We’ve both succeeded in bringing her to climax,” says Hannibal, as his other hand folds your skirt against your pelvis. “But never her consent. Tonight, perhaps we will.”

“In this state she has no real autonomy,” Will argues. “We’re witnessing an illusion.”

Hannibal pauses, his face like that of an antiques dealer slyly unveiling some stolen wares.

“Not exactly,” he says. “Little one: you’ve described me as handsome. Do think that Will is good-looking?”

Your concentration wavers as two digits inscribe an ouroboros in your arousal. The wrongness of it all only enhances the sensation, the thought of being a lovely toy for older men to play with.

Your name on Dr Lecter’s lips recalls his question.

“Yes,” you say. “I— I do.”

You don’t know why you’re honest. Even a child, embarrassed, could lie.

Will smiles, and for a moment there is something almost sweet in his expression.

Then the dark of him slithers behind it again with predatory ease, and he leans forward, knees apart, possessed of a revelation of self-assurance.

This is the self he becomes when challenging Dr Lecter, the arrogant observer of all living things.

“I already knew that,” says Will. “I don’t mind hearing it clarified, though.”

You can’t imagine him ever admitting that you’re beautiful in return. Hannibal would, has done so already in such a succulence of language that your mouth could water with it, but not Will, not in so many words.

All that he will allow thus far is that you are not ugly. Blearily you vow to unwind from him his obsession.

“Puppy love,” says Hannibal, looking into your face with a gentle irony. “You’d like him to touch you, wouldn’t you, little one?”

This you don’t answer, and rather than press you again Hannibal makes you come with three fingers inside you, patient as you cry out and roll your head aside in conflict and delirium.

You cannot decide if he means to reward you for your participation with Will or to humiliate you for that same eagerness. It is bewildering and erotic, this envy they have for one another; to quell it you must kneel to the hierarchy, submissive always to your covetous masters.

“Join us, Will,” says Hannibal, at last.

Briefly you think that he won’t, a scoffing lord, above it all.

Then he crosses the room, sets down his whiskey and kisses you, first your mouth, then your neck, leaving the taste of smoke and almonds wherever his lips meet.

Whimpering, you kick your feet on the couch as each petal of ecstasy comes loose from a branch within you.

Sometimes Will’s teeth push against your flesh, not quite biting; Hannibal, on the other side of your neck, gently does, as though inheriting the expected assault from his would-be lover.

His fingers form a cylinder of delight in you, the pad of his thumb undoing another orgasm in a trio of strokes.

“How gifted we are to receive such delights,” says Hannibal, and as you groan he docks his arousal in your own, filling you so entirely with his cock that you think and feel only the fucking and nothing more, a witless hole.

Will brings your hand to his erection, and there is no uncertainty in that motion, nor in his lips about your breast. His rough tongue, the saliva like a paste jewel on your nipple—

Writhing, panting, you stir through pleasure upon pleasure like the layers of the earth, soft, dark, deep.

Your palm tightens on Will’s cock like a night sea about the lighthouse it yearns to bring down, working him with a knowing purpose. As Hannibal continues his pelvic rolls against you Will draws back, avoiding the early release that your cunning fist would bring.

Not once do the men make contact in a sexual manner with each other, and you don’t understand it, this avoidance of the ultimate lust. Yet perhaps it is that they fuck through you, for when Hannibal achieves his orgasm and moves away Will pushes into you without caution of the other man’s seed still warm in that same place.

He looks up into Hannibal’s eyes as he does it, watching his response as he weaves pleasure from a loom of servile flesh.

But then you make some shapeless sound of need, one hand extended, not quite touching him, and Will's eyes return to you with such intensity that you forget that brief, lost woe.

He mimics Hannibal’s command of your body, hands moving, unrushed, from breast to hip as he opens you further to him. His violence is a mage’s dance, something once done around fire, and charged now through the vessel of a young and studious man.

No wonder, then, that you have neither strength nor will to repel him. You roil, loose-limbed as the dead, only your noise and perspiring response to sensation to evidence your ongoing life.

Hannibal’s arms go loosely around you, holding your head in his lap as Will makes love to you with a brooding fervour. Every touch is like the discovery of a new and indescribable existence, having traversed to some frontier of feeling only sects of pleasure have previously founded.

You know yourself wanted by both men, now, feel it through their mutterings of ecstasy, the unending pressure of mouths and hands upon your skin. They crave your wanting of them in return, lap up your slightest sign of it, tainted as it is by Hannibal’s poison.

Will pours in you his ending, his breath a kiss against your eardrum.

You come again with both men gazing upon you, their faces as close and beautiful together as stringed pearls.

Dimly you fear that they will succeed in their work with you, no matter how fiercely you defy their twofold will.

“Hey,” says the younger man, nudging your shoulder lightly. “Snap out of it. You’re bleeding. Did we hurt you?”

Your first thought is, “yes, of course you did.”

The next, having looked down at the red dart through the milk of semen on your thigh, is the same nip of terror you know from an unexpectedly high number on the scale.

The final cognition—and one almost certainly true—is that this carnival of sex has brought that crimson forth like the incitation of bacchanalian madness.

The shock of it wrings you near dry of the doctor’s drug, a bald winter sobriety.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “It’s my period. I haven’t had one in years.”

[feelingemotjons]

I just found out that viv fetishized ke$ha's eating disorder at one point

Screenshot credits:

So her having ke$ha voice the queen of gluttony and having her co-write a song about overindulgence and eating tons of food years later (there is nothing wrong with eating tons of food and what not. I just pointed this out because she could have possibly triggered kesha's ed) is more gross when you think about it. she seriously could have had ke$ha voice any character but she chose the queen of gluttony KNOWING ke$ha has had to battle with anorexia and bulimia and even had to go to rehab for it

The rumors of viv possibly driving away ke$ha and scaring her might actually be true

[sockmeat]

Hey, Can You do a Alastor x reader who has bulimia? Where Alastor and thé reader are in a relationship, and hé liké, finds out? Only If You feel comfortable tho ♥️

𝐆𝐍 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 --  𝑨𝒏 𝑺/𝑶 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒃𝒖𝒍𝒊𝒎𝒊𝒂… (𝑯𝒂𝒛𝒃𝒊𝒏 𝑯𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒍)

(𝐰𝐜): 391

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Alastor finds out you have bulimia and helps you cope with it.

(𝐀/𝐍): First time writing something like this, I tried reading up on how to treat it but idk IM NERVOUS

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬): Bulimia, eating disorders, OOC Alastor, DO NOT read if you are not in the right headspace

                                                        𓆩♡𓆪

♡ Alastor suspected it, he had been watching your behavior after noticing how strange it was, but that didn’t make the confession any easier.

♡ Alastor’s love language is food–he absolutely loved making things you would enjoy, making things you haven’t tried yet, making you things when he felt like it, etc.

♡ However, he began to notice how you would eat everything he offered, then suddenly you would get very ill to the point of rarely being able to leave the bathroom, and wouldn’t eat anything he gave you.

♡ Safe to say, he was worried.

♡ He went through trial and error trying to figure out what was happening; he would pay extra attention to your plates and food, making sure there wasn’t any poison, anything raw, or anything you were allergic too, he would watch you and make sure you weren’t eating too much food at once and unintentionally making yourself sick, but nothing he tried worked.

♡ Eventually, he just settled on asking you directly. He could tell immediately it wasn’t something you wanted to talk about–you looked nervous and tried to use every excuse in the book, but Alastor wasn’t letting up.

♡ Finally, you just sighed and told him. You cried your heart out when you told him about your insecurities and why exactly you were getting so sick.

♡ For once, Alastor felt his chest squeeze.

♡ There weren’t any reliable therapists in Hell, so he went out and got as much information as he could on Bulimia. He hadn’t been in a situation like this before, so he had to build his knowledge from the ground up.

♡ He sat you down once again, where he explained that he would support and love you unconditionally no matter what and would do his best to help you in this rough time.

♡ He became a safe space for you to go to when you didn’t feel safe with yourself, he helped you build a better self esteem through encouraging words, helped you see through a different perspective, and would eat with you/share meals with you so you wouldn’t feel as guilty.

♡ Eventually, when you’re more stable and comfortable in your skin but still wanting to lose weight, Alastor will encourage you to use more healthy methods, such as exercise.

♡ Of course, you’ll have slip-ups occasionally, but Alastor will be there for you every time.

                                                        𓆩♡𓆪

[nekrosdolly]

healing

leon comforts you after you relapse.

cw; BULIMIA, eating disorder talk and mentions, vomit, afab!reader, unspecified age gap, older!leon, alcoholism mentions and references, recovery, relapsing, binging mentions. please, under any circumstances, do not read if any of this may trigger you.

a/n; this was a request from an anon, and though i told myself i wasn't taking requests, something in me felt compelled to do this one!

you really did try, but recovery has never been linear. leon has told you that same thing before, too. with his alcoholism, it was the same story. he'd do great for a few days, weeks even, and then it would all crumble at the mere scent of alcohol. all in all, he knows that while recovering, someone is more fragile. sensitive, so to speak. you're no different.

you'd been doing great so far- no binging, no vomiting, and less exercise. you hadn't been so hypervigilant about how you look. your boyfriend, leon, has been a great help. he's always reassured you whenever you had doubts about your appearance, lapses, or whatever comes up, he's there. he knows you've struggled with this for a long time and he doesn't make you feel bad or weird about it, unlike the other people that had come before him.

he's different in the way you need, and you appreciate that.

you knew today would be bad, but you still held out hope. even when you woke up to not one, but a few new zits on your face, and your hair awry and seemingly unmanageable. even when you did your skincare routine and somehow your cleanser got in your eyes, which burned like hell. even when the shower randomly went cold and ruined your morning. everything was out of your control and that had triggered something in you. you'd never been much of a control freak.

except for this. where you are now, retching up your breakfast as quietly as humanly possible so as not to disturb leon. but that's the thing with trained agents. their hearing sharpens, their senses heighten, so it's no surprise that after you're done ridding yourself of your stomach's contents, that he's entering the bathroom. and you're still there, kneeling before the toilet with bile coating the innards of your mouth and esophagus, your face sickly and somewhat grey.

he's concerned, as any good boyfriend would be. he grabs a washcloth without a word and wets it, then kneels down beside you to wipe the bile off your lips. to you, it feels like a waste of effort. to him, he's showing he cares.

"i'm sorry." are the first words to leave your mouth, "i said i was going to get better a-and now i'm not."

"we've had this talk before, baby." he murmurs, setting the washcloth in the sink.

"c'mon, let's get you some water." he pulls you up from the floor with gentle and warm hands, then flushes the toilet's contents.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡♡˚

in the kitchen, you rinse your mouth out with the cup of water he's provided for you in a desperate attempt to get rid of the bitter yet sour taste lingering on your tongue, and the feeling coating your gums. he rubs your back slowly, his warmth seeping through the thin material of your shirt. you haven't changed out of your pajamas since you woke up, and by the likes of how the day is going, you aren't going to. he presses a kiss to your hair and wraps his arm around your waist, trying to make you feel at least a little better.

he takes the hand you'd been using to force yourself into throwing up and rinses them off, even though there's nothing on them besides dried saliva (and the slightest bit of stomach acid.) you lean against him, a soft sigh leaving you.

"you know, i'm not mad at you." he says, now patting your fingers dry with a kitchen towel.

you look up at him, a little confused.

"you apologized earlier."

"oh."

"yeah. i just want you to know that i'm not mad at you for relapsing. y'know, it happens, and i'd be lying if i said i didn't think about doing it either." his words somehow bring you a small sense of comfort, that familiar warmth in your chest sparking.

"i'm glad you didn't." you mutter, a slight rasp to your voice.

he chuckles dryly, "yeah, so am i. it's hard, i know, but you can do it. someday, you won't even think about it anymore."

you shake your head softly. "it's not the same as drugs, or alcohol. it's rewired my brain."

he nods his understanding.

"well, whatever it is, you're not alone in this. i'll always be here to support you in any way you need me to." he gives your side a small squeeze and you rest your head against his shoulder.

you know, deep down, that he's trying his best to help. at times, namely today, you find that he's succeeded in his mission. he's seen you at your worst as well as your best and he's stayed. the promise ring he gave you a few months prior proves that he's more than likely staying for the rest of your days.

that thought, in and of itself, warms you up a little more.

[derangedfujoshi]

Not the fucking bulimic/anorexia glorifiers in my sebaciel post qtrt-

He has a tiny little waist cause HE'S A SHOTA and also he doesn't only "eat sweets" I'm begging yall to stop projecting and start reading or to make your own fucking OCs ffs OR AT LEAST DON'T COME WITH THAT CRAP IN MY PERFECTLY CURATED LANE 😭

@puppyfan9000 was right with that bingo card about the shedtwt my god-

[inanotherunivrse]

In another universe, I wouldn’t have relapsed

I would be stronger than bulimia

In this universe, I’m not

[thelunarsystemwrites]

Not fun.

TW: Restricting, venty stuff, eating disorders!

Ughhhhjggv I haven't eaten like at all today, and, I'm extremely moody because of it and I was a huge bitch to my irl folks, and I accidentally vented like 7 years worth of built up pain to someone which felt nice but they weren't supposed to know about the bulimia thing

Idk I'm just waiting for my body to adjust so I'm happier again jvphocxhoohydo7ts

[dotster001]

hello ^_^ i am new here hehe can you do headcanons for solomon + simeon + asmo with mc who struggles with bulimia and is trying to recover? you can avoid this request if it makes you uncomfortable

CW: BULIMIA. DO NOT READ IF THIS IS A TRIGGER FOR YOU. I WILL NEVER BE UPSET ABOUT YOU CARING FOR YOURSELF

3k followers event masterlist

Here's the sad truth about Asmo. He's been there. As much as he thinks literally every breathing thing is the sexiest thing alive, he can't apply that belief system to himself. So he either already knows you're going through this, or is in intense denial.

When he does find out…he makes sure that he doesn't tell Beel. Cause, see, when Beel found out Asmo was forcing himself to throw up his food after parties, Beel force fed him, and sat on him to make sure the food stayed down. This…while sweet in intention…is not a good way to solve the issue. And for a human…😬

Asmo, like I said, thinks anyone is sexy. He just has to make sure you understand that. He's gonna tell you everything he loves about you. If you're a thiccc king/queen/liege, he'll tell you about the parts of you he loves to squeeze. He'll hold you in place, caressing your sides, hooking onto the meaty parts of you, biting his favorite spots. If you're a skinny mini,  he's cupping your ass, caressing your sides (again), nibbling your neck, and whispering all the parts of you he finds irresistible.

He knows it won't be easy to love yourself. But if you can see how he loves you, he hopes you can at least accept yourself. Even if it's because he is "selfish".

Simeon is not going to know unless you tell him, or unless he catches you purging. He has rose tinted glasses. You're perfect already, nearly angelic. Why would you need to change?

When you tell him/he finds out, he won't offer to help right away. He wants to take some time to do research, and listen to your reasons, before he accidentally does something that might upset you and make things worse.

He decides the best thing is to just be there for you. Support you in your recovery methods, be your shoulder to cry on if you have a relapse. The main thing he does, is a little spell he uses when he's taking care of humans. It just fills you with a sense of peace. Is it technically cheating? Maybe. But if it helps you relax a little, you never have to know he's doing it.

Again, Asmo has been here. And Solomon has had to be there for him, especially as they got close. He's a little bit more on the tough love spectrum. When he finds out, which doesn't take long, he offers to hold you accountable. Whether it's by cursing you so that if you work out too hard you're frozen in place until he comes and gets you, always being there when you eat so you don't throw up, giving you a disapproving finger waggle if you make a self loathing comment…he'll tough love your way to recovery.

Thing is, it always works on Asmo, so he knows there's something viable to it. But if you feel he's gone too hard, be honest with him. He means well, but tough love isn't for everyone. He's an adaptable fella, he can try something else. Whatever makes you feel loved and supported.

That said…if he thinks you are hurting yourself past what usual methods would fix…he's not above a spell to make you forget ever being bulimic. If that's what it takes, he will not hesitate. He loves you too much.

[paloma-ascends-into-hellfire]

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 unless you don't fit into their boxes.

[fairycosmos]

soooooo fucked that throwing up is one of the only ways i feel like im tangibly lightening myself of any burden and purifying myself in the process. like none of that is real. i just give myself possible stomach and oesophagus ruptures due to my my own delusions. absolutely not a vibe and also a waste of time and energy

[zeeckz]

This OC is called Pluto, he's a mage's assistant. Said magician, Dio, got him "for free" (slave trade) because he was pretty much half dead, so he didn't really have any worth.

Dio is also the one who named him (he didn't have a name before) and who gifted him the earring he always wears, kind of like a symbol of a new life?

Pluto originally didn't know how to talk nor read, but could more or less understand what people said; thus, he started learning with Dio all sorts of things on top of the magic stuff. He's still incredibly quiet and submissive, but it's not something forced onto him anymore and he could be as loud as he wished if he really wanted to, it's just how he is

[oldcoyote]

.

i have bulimia. took me a long time to admit it to myself, but i do. i told myself i was just being sensible, just getting rid of overeating calories, that it was smart

i bought a little counter that goes up in count once a day, so each day i add one to the count. the idea was to let it increase until i threw up, then reset it back to zero if i did. if i made it past 30, i didn't have bulimia, i was just being sensible

i've had the counter for a month. it hasn't made it past 3, not once in the past four weeks

not until today, today i hit 5 for the first time

i spent the entire day today suffering a cptsd episode, on top of a violent autoimmune and fibromyalgia flare-up that has been going on for weeks, and all i want to do is throw up. i just need that relief so badly

but i didn't throw up today, not yet

i just needed to tell someone. i know it's stupid and insignificant but i need it to matter

[love-geeky-fangirl]

I saw people claim that Eleanor was abusive to Blair because of the comments she made about eating in season 1... we really started to toss these words around and use them very liberally huh. Yes, she was mean to Blair and her "why aren't you eating? What do you mean you're not hungry?" and then: "eat the low fat yogurt not the croissant" comments were confusing but consider this- Blair had bulimia, an eating disorder characterized by not eating until getting extremely hungry and then binging, eating a lot at once until you are so full, sick and feeling ashamed of yourself that you vomit it/force yourself to vomit it or otherwise purge it. So maybe Eleanor telling Blair to eat was to prevent her from getting extremely hungry later on and telling her to eat a low fat yogurt instead of croissant was so that she doesn't eat too much sweets at once and feel the need to purge? Just a thought. Only when she told her to eat a desert at Thanksgiving was weird and I genuinely don't understand what she was trying to achieve with that but I doubt the goal was to make Blair vomit again. I think it was more just an insensitive comment that she didn't think through than anything deliberately malicious. Besides after season 1 she became completely different- there were no more comments like these, she seemed to genuinely care about Blair and in general seemed more like an overly permissive parent than an abusive one. So please let's stop throwing these harmful words around and calling everyone who makes an insensitive comment about someone else "an abuser".

[cookiereading]

Anorexia is regal, in control, all-powerful. Bulimia is out of control, chaotic, pathetic. Poor man’s anorexia. I have friends with anorexia, and I can tell they pity me. I know they know because anyone with an eating disorder can tell when anyone else has an eating disorder. It’s like a secret code you can’t help but pick up on.

Mccurdy, Jennette. I'm Glad My Mom Died (p. 209). Simon & Schuster. Kindle Edition.

[crazybagelbitch]

this is so embarrassing to admit because i was doing so well for so long but ya girl is currently working on enrolling in IOP for her bulimia