#this relapse is temporary

[imposterogers]

I need someone to psychoanalyze harry osborn bc that man is a privileged & conventionally attractive trust fund baby who could have any girl... and he chooses the one he knows his best friend has been obsessed with for over a decade? and treats her like a trophy wife to show off to his dad and shower with gifts, all while saving the domestic and intimate parts of his life/personality for peter (who he shares an apartment with)? that begs the question -- does he court mj bc he likes her, or because peter likes her? and if its the later, for what cause? then in spiderman 2 he's been broken up with her for a while with no hard feelings, and asks peter on what is essentially a date to meet his idol otto octavius and to witness the fusion reactor being turned on. he also suggests to peter 'omg go hit on mj' despite knowing mj is in a very committed relationship. perhaps bc he wanted peter to get over his high school crush & move onto the person who was actually on the market (him). later, he slaps peter twice while crying in front of a room full of ppl bc 'you piss me off. your loyalty to spiderman and not your best friend.... you defend him bc he's your bread and butter' like a scorned lover who found out his partner was cheating. harry babe I diagnose u w 'idiot in love'

[alexa-crowe]

DRAGON AGE II (2011) Act 3 | The Storm And What Came Before It

[llumimoon]

thinking abt ling yao <333333333333333333333

[princeofyorkshire]

i hate that healing is not linear cause i’d be feeling all positive and shit for a while then boom sad sad sad again and why does it feel good to be here why is it so comforting why does it feel like this is who i am and who i was always meant to be just a dumb girl who does not know how to deal w sadness in a healthy way and always end up relapsing and doesn’t even feel guilty about it. is it the familiarity of it all. is it the fact that i’m so used to this sadness that the second i get a taste of it i want more and more and stay here forever because it’s so familiar and painfully welcoming. why why why

[there-will-be-a-way]

My ergo therapist and a nurse drove me to my apartment today to be there for emotional support while I cleaned up the mess ex roommate left behind. The nurse said it was an act of aggression that ex roommate left his belongings at my place - same goes for pissing in my bed and all that.

Yesterday I received a text message from him, stating that the police is informed and that I should speak out. I ignored the message. Didn't do anything illegal meaning there's no reason to be afraid of the cops.

I feel battered nevertheless. Kind of defeated. Hopeless, sad, angery. Not just because of ex roommate but in general. Don't know how to climb out of this hole, this time. I always had a plan. Or an idea on what to do and where to go, but rn I just feel lost. Yeah, I'll go to the living group again but what then? My addiction will still be there. All the other stuff too. I'm putting my hopes in the rehab clinic I'll go to in a couple of weeks.

I just hope I won't be discharged tomorrow. Yesterday I got told they want to keep me here for a while longer so that I can learn to reach out for help and stand up for myself more. But part of me believes they'll just drop me tomorrow nevertheless. Kind of like it's often been.

Yeah, I might be triggered. Feeling raw, as if I have no skin. A nurse took my pocket ashtray because there's a weed leaf on it (yeah I'm cringe, I know) and it felt like the end of the world. These "everybody hates me, no one understands me, the whole world is against me" kinda feelings. Oh man.

[recovery-is-possible]

Fighting so hard against the urge to relapse 🥲

[magnoliamyrrh]

.

[mainfaggot]

tw eating disorder talk in the tags btw. just me being open for the first time in a long time but no numbers or specifics that could be triggering do nawt worry

[ajarofpickledtears]

one thing dad and I have in common is having gotten Abitur (I think it's the best (high)school certification you can get? necessary to get into uni) but not really making anything of it

well, he never went to uni, I am in uni but

yeah

hah

[corroded-hellfire]

Fic request idea baby: what about Eddie with a gf who used to have an ED but she's doing better now but he notices that she's starting to relapse like skipping meals and he brings it up to her and just angst to fluff

+ Hey if ur taking requests:

what about if Effie's gf randomly stops changing in front of him like she's getting into pj and she goes to the bathroom and then starts asking for the lights to be off during sex and he's super confused and asks her about it and basically angst bc she's trying to hide it but may be she had a slip during ED recovery?

+ Hi lovie a lil request! What about Eddie with a gf whose in eating disorder recovery like she used to struggle but it's been a few years since then and she's don't just fine but he notices she's starting to relapse?

These three requests seemed to overlap just perfectly. The beautiful and talented @munson-blurbs was kind enough to write these with me so go shower her with all the love 💚

Warnings: eating disorders, body image issues, relapse struggles. Please, if you want or need to talk to somebody, I'm always here.

Words: 1.5k

You’re fairly certain you’re living on the sun’s surface. 

Logic would say that you haven’t left Hawkins, but the temperature outside begs to differ. 

“Christ, it’s like 1,000 degrees in here,” Eddie mumbles, cracking open a cold can of Pepsi and taking a swig. He plants a kiss on your forehead, careful not to disturb your reading. 

You smile but keep your nose buried in the bridal magazine Nancy had bought for you. Page after page of wedding dresses had you swimming in a sea of white, each more beautiful—and expensive—than the last. 

Oh, well. At least it would give you an idea of what to look for at your bridal appointment in a few weeks. 

What truly caught your eye was an article tucked towards the back of the magazine. Its title boldly declares, “Shedding for the Wedding: Lose that Weight and Look Great!” 

You shouldn’t read it. It’ll only upset you, only bring back the bad thoughts and routines and restrictions that you’d fought so hard to overcome. And yet you’re drawn to it, eyes scanning each fad diet for one that might help you. 

No. Yes. No. Yes. Put the magazine down. Stop reading the diet tips and comparing yourself to the models. 

But they’re so pretty and so skinny. If Eddie saw them, he might not even want to marry you anymore. Not when he saw how beautiful women were supposed to look in wedding dresses. 

Maybe losing a few pounds wouldn’t hurt. One diet couldn’t be so bad. It would be temporary, just until the wedding. 

It was totally fine. 

“What are we thinking for dinner tonight, babe?” Eddie rifles through the pantry and pulls out two boxes of pasta. “We have bowties and rigatoni. I’m personally more of a bowtie man myself, but it’s your call.”

You shake your head. “I’m good. Just gonna have some soup.” Reaching around him, you pluck a can of Progresso off of the shelf. 

“Soup?” Eddie wrinkles his nose in confusion. “It’s hotter than Satan’s tits outside.”

You shrug, trying to play it off casually. “Period craving.”

“You’re not on your period.”

“Well, PMS.”

Something nags at you—if you have to hide your new soup diet from your husband-to-be, maybe it’s not a good idea. Maybe you should put the can away and make pasta instead. But then you remember those gorgeous models, so svelte and sculpted and perfect. 

Soup it is. 

It’s harder to ignore the problem as more symptoms of the illness start to return. The first time you’d gathered up your pajamas and taken them into the bathroom with you, Eddie just assumed you were going to take a shower. When you emerged with bone-dry hair not two minutes later, he was puzzled. But he didn’t say anything, not wanting to come across as overprotective or overbearing. Maybe there was some simple excuse and he didn’t want to make you feel like you have to answer to him about every little thing. 

Eddie can’t ignore that there’s a problem anymore when you slip back into one of your old habits that has always broken his heart. Sex was now lights off and you kept your shirt on. Eddie wanted to see every part of you, touch every part of you. He was going to be your husband and the fact that you didn’t want him to see this part of you—that he has made very clear in the past that he fucking loves—disheartens him. 

Stress begins to build up within Eddie. He feels like he’s toeing the line because he doesn’t want to sound accusatory, but he also knows something is going on with you. And he has a pretty good idea of what it is. You try to hide how you pinch at your stomach and thighs, but he sees. The way you measure your wrists with your fingers all throughout the day. He wonders if you even realize you’re doing it, or if it’s reflexive at this point. 

Though you never mention it, you always have your green journal around the kitchen. Eddie respects your privacy enough not to go through it, but reaching for the keys over your shoulder one evening he notices that you’re making a list of what you’ve eaten that day. His stomach sinks as yet another familiar pattern emerges from the days when your disorder was at its worst. Your fiancé is coming closer to his breaking point and he still doesn’t know what to do or even who to go to about this. 

The final straw though is when you turn down girls’ night with Nancy and Robin at the Cheesecake Factory. You lived for nights out with your two best friends. They knew you almost as well as Eddie did though, so he knew you wouldn’t be able to sit down at a restaurant with them and bullshit your way out of not eating a proper meal like you should. 

Eddie knows now he has to say something. Anything, really. When you walk out of your shared bedroom in sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt, Eddie chews on his bottom lip as he mentally prepares for the conversation he knows needs to happen. 

The moment you sit down on the couch, Eddie sits next to you. You reach for the remote but your hand doesn’t even make it to the piece of plastic before Eddie speaks.

“Can we, um, talk?”

“About what?” you ask, sitting back against the couch cushions. 

Your fiancé leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. He rubs his hands together and his tongue pokes out of his pouty pink lips like it does whenever he’s concentrating on something. 

“I’m worried about you, babe,” he finally says. “You’re not yourself.” 

Eddie doesn’t miss the way you reflexively shrink in on yourself.

“I’m just stressed with wedding stuff,” you say. 

“That’s why you didn’t hang out with Nancy and Robin?” Eddie asks, raising his eyebrows. 

“Mhm.”

“And all the pinching and not eating and not wanting me to see you naked? Is that because of wedding stress, too?”

You turn away from him and pull your knees to your chest, but he moves to face you again. “Baby, I know something’s wrong. And the last time I saw you like this, it was because…”

“I told you, I’m fine,” you snap. “I’m just stressed. Maybe if you spent more time helping me plan and less time planning stupid campaigns for a game you played back in high school, you’d understand.”

The accusation is unfair, and you know it. Sure, you’ve been doing most of the planning, but he’s been there every step of the way.

Eddie winces at your harsh tone. He looks like he has a rebuttal but gives up after a moment “Fine. Let’s just go to bed.”

Guilt from your outburst wracks your body and holds sleep hostage. After tossing and turning for a little while, you hear soft cries coming from Eddie’s side of the bed. 

“Eds?” Your heart leaps into your chest. “What’s going on?” You give him a hug from behind, latching on like a koala to a tree trunk until he turns to face you. 

Even in the darkness, you can see the way his eyes shine with tears. “I know you relapsed and…and I don’t know what to do,” he manages through his sobs. “I don’t know how to help, so I just stand there like a goddamn idiot, but I can’t keep pretending like nothing’s wrong! I can’t keep pretending that you’re not hurting yourself!”

He knew. The whole time you thought you’d been protecting him from the truth, and he knew. 

You wipe at his cheeks, feeling the moisture on your palms. “I’m sorry.”

Eddie shakes his head. “‘S not your fault, I know it’s not, but…you need to get help for this. I can’t lose my girl.” He presses his lips to your forehead and lets them linger there, holding you as tightly as he can. “Please. Please.”

No. You need to lose weight. You need to look good; no, perfect in your dress. All eyes are going to be on you, and you can’t show a single flaw. 

The argument sits on your tongue, defensiveness ready to spring into action. But then you see his brokenness, his vulnerability as he unabashedly wears his heart on his sleeve. 

Skinny. Skinnier. Skinniest. 

But then—Eddie. 

Eddie, who laid his heart out for you. Who let down the walls he’d spent years building just so he could receive your love. Who felt your pain despite your best attempts to shield him from it. 

Maybe you weren’t ready to get better for yourself, but until you were, you could do it for him. 

You nod, pulling back and kissing him softly. “I will. I promise. First thing tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll wake you up the moment the sun rises.”

At this, you have to let out a small laugh. “The therapy clinic doesn’t open until nine.”

Eddie cradles your face in his calloused palms, leaning in to gently kiss your nose. “Then I’ll wake you up at nine.”

[lettuce-seize-the-day]

.

[throneofsapphics]

✧poly!Feysand✧

✧Rhys✧

relapse ↳ part two if you insist small touches chocolate* giving in surprise reunions* a special surprise* the other side stay in the moment with me

✧Azriel & Cassian✧

time is running out up all night ↳ part two points for creativity the ebb and flow of fate ↳ part two* ↳ part three ↳ part four ↳ part five* ↳ epilogue footprints in the snow

✧poly!Nessian✧

a different kind of fear ↳ part two theirs* ↳ part two in and out of dreams* headcannons a present*

✧Mor✧

change the locks* temporary brand* bad decisions* copy me* met you in the bathroom day and night pretty for me*

✧Cassian✧

obsession unconventional weapons

✧Azriel✧

girl's night can't turn down a challenge bad idea easy decisions it only takes three just one more never trust a good deal from the shadows finding you again - prologue ↳ part one

✧Azriel & Rhys✧

desperate* horrible timing yes or no*

✧Rhys & Azriel & Cassian✧

brush away the dust

✧Nesta✧

dating manon and nesta sweet ride* dinner first*

✧Next Gen✧

Nyx nosy parents ↳ part two ↳ part three busybodies a pretty smile Nyx & Sunshine Reader ambushes and invitations misplaced chivalry Nessian's Daughter & Reader passing the test Eris's Daughter & Reader stolen moments and chance meetings ↳ part two ↳ part three

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER FIVE: OATS

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

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink

This is chronologically the fifth chapter in the series

---

The day after the failed feast Dr Lecter enters your unhappy chamber to find you already awake, greasily feverish in the maelstrom of narcotic hangover. Moaning under the dripping cloth of your bedsheet, you wince from the light that punctures the room as Hannibal draws back the curtains with a determined flourish.

"This is what happens when you do not eat and drink enough, I'm afraid," he says, putting a lusciously cool hand to your brow. "The excitement around the table certainly didn't help matters. Had you been receptive, then you would have been hydrated, full-bellied, and ready for the day ahead. Alas, your mulish nature is the portcullis that refuses you entry into better health. I cannot raise it for you."

You haven't the life in you to retaliate to such sanctimonious jibes, and he well knows it.

Humming a strand of Vide Cor Meum, Hannibal glides about you, first plumping your pillow, then holding a glass of water to your lips until you must either drink, or drown. In fractured gulps you salve your chapped throat with it, then part your lips again for a spoon of porridge; to your surprise, the portion spilled from cutlery to tongue is slim, a suggestion of treaty, of a temporary kind.

"I will never make you eat more than is reasonable, little one," says Hannibal, meeting your narrowed stare so frankly that you are almost abashed by the look. "It would do you no good to upset your stomach any further. I will minimise your intake for a few days, at least."

The suggestion is so unbelievable that you search his plain expression for the merest taint of trickery.

"You're not... angry with me," you observe, at last.

Dr Lecter's head inclines.

"Any ill feelings between us were settled at dinner, were they not?"

He helps you to the bathroom, stepping politely outside the door as you list at a sloppy port-wise angle, gripping either side of the bowl with preventative force; you may fall should you let go, humiliate yourself in the necessity of further care.

That Hannibal reverts to a veneer of nurturing aid after an episode of violence with such undisturbed ease frightens you, as does your instinct to accept that profferred assistance. Too many years span from here to the last time you allowed yourself to do so, and though you know well Dr Lecter's malign in having manufactured such frailty, you may never regain the position to resist it without him.

As with Will, your way out of this house is to drive yourself further in.

"I'll return home early today," says Hannibal, as he eases you back into bed in stops and starts to accomodate each shimmer of nausea. "I can reschedule my afternoon appointments for another time."

"Don't bother," you mutter, against your pillow. "I want to be on my own."

"I'm aware of that. Nevertheless, I will be here to monitor you. If you're feeling better tonight, then I will conduct your next therapy session."

Fear flowers at your core, all thorn tipped leaves.

"I won't be better," you say, your lips still crushed to starched cotton. "That promise I made to you about trying— I can't stick to that. I can't be the person you need. And I can't eat. It's too hard for me."

Hannibal lays a hand on your back, soothing you as he might an infant with colic.

"I know," he says, simply. "Relapses are to be expected. Neither Will or I will admonish you for that. What I will not tolerate is rudeness. I have demonstrated what will occur if you do not keep your tongue in check."

At this your head snaps upright against the pull of sickness.

"Aren't you rude?" you ask, sharply. "And Will?"

Hannibal pats down your coverlet, quite unoffended.

"One might argue that is down to interpretation. I pride myself on cultivating elegance, which includes manners, as a matter of course. Will, however, is— unique. I overlook his cruder moments for the complexity layered beneath them. As for what we have done to you, it is unfortunate that you cannot observe the act through our eyes, and perceive its beauty, as well as your own."

To this, you have no answer. You can think only of snaring hands, of Will's stubble scarring your cheek, and the blood broken like bottled wine across your inner thighs, so much ugliness paraded as glory.

"Please drink the water I've left out for you," says Hannibal.

You do, for he will know, if you do not.

*

There was something in that glass, or the oats, you comprehend, for when you are next conscious you are propped upright in a leather chair, only part returned from witless repose.

A metronome clicks at your ear, back and forth.

Lights flash and cease, white and black their blinking through the timeless night in which Dr Lecter has you drown. You sit, or swim in it; you cannot tell. The fungal spell of Hannibal's cooking robs you of both voice and tether to the earth. You could be foam in a Homerean ocean, where men become pigs on its alien isles.

You too might be such a beast, or a child, or some sylph of amorphous matter trapped in such hampering skin.

The sound of your breath comes, shuttered and sharp.

A warm hand cups your chest, and your lungs seem to open to its gesture as though by unknown magic.

Then a voice murmurs from a face before you, its shape without edge, an orb.

"You are safe. You are cared for. You belong."

Like a switchblade across your eye the light comes again, and you are part of it, an impulse that is all life, all one.

Hannibal speaks your name, grounding you to him, as to a stack in some wild sea.

"I'm going to ask you some questions now," he tells you. "They may be difficult. Try to answer them honestly."

There is only a man here, there is only light; you cannot refuse them.

"Okay," you mumble.

Hannibal's pleasure in your answer is a current timed to the swishing metronome.

"How did your eating disorder begin?" he asks. "What did it look like, then?"

"Just a diet, at first," you say. "The meals got smaller and smaller. Then a lot of food scared me. I started counting calories. Throwing food out. Being around anyone eating was like I was being tortured. That's when I knew that something was really wrong with me."

You hear the scratch of a pen on an unseen pad.

"I see. And how did that realisation make you feel?"

"Nothing. I didn't care. Then I started to like it. Challenging myself. The compliments— feeling like I had something nobody else did, that I was so good at— It became everything I was. My identity, kind of."

How easy it is to speak, when you cannot see the expression of the listener before you.

"Trauma frequently shapes us in our formative years," Hannibal comments. "It is a natural response to build oneself in its image. So, let us retreat to older memories. Tell me of a time that you recall being afraid."

The flashing light numbs to an ebbing glow.

"There was this guy," you say. "A guy that my dad was friends with. Still is. His name is Leland Frost. He used to come over to our house all the time. He was always so friendly, but I knew that there was something wrong with him. There was something in his eyes, the way he laughed too much, or stood too close to me. Like he was putting on a rubber Hallowe'en mask of a regular guy, and everyone was just pretending it was fine, but they really weren't pretending."

"Elaborate."

You gnaw at your lower lip until you taste warm iron, and consider spitting out the calories.

"I tried to tell people about it," you say. "But Dad could never see it. He'd just say, 'oh, that's just Lee. Silly old Uncle Lee. That's just how he is.' But I knew. I saw him. I smelled the cheap rubber mask."

"Did this Uncle Lee ever hurt you?" asks Hannibal, softly. "Touch you in an inappropriate manner?"

This memory is dusky, a cobwebbed photograph.

"I don't know," you admit, at last. "I always thought he wanted to, though. I always thought the minute my parents left me alone with him something bad would happen. The waiting was always the worst part."

A pause, in which you sense rather than see Dr Lecter watching you through the dark-light-darkness.

"But maybe it wasn't Uncle Lee that I was waiting for," you say, at last. "Maybe it was you and Will."

The gloom becomes further marred by tears, and you feel a box of tissues being pressed into your loose hand.

"That's enough for today," says Hannibal, rising from his seat. "You've done well for me. This calls for a reward."

He crosses the room to pick up a telephone, glancing at you with an unintelligible heat in his eyes.

"Good evening," he says, into the receiver. "I hope this is a convenient time for you. Yes, that is correct; I'm calling about your daughter's progress. I am very satisfied with her cooperation today. We are approaching some early milestones."

Hearing the tinny, distant voices of your parents, you struggle towards a lucidity that feels so desperately out of touch.

Hannibal crosses the room towards you again and turns the phone away from his mouth to murmur, "I will allow you a few words to them, if you will be sensible."

By this he means: if you do not give the game away.

You nod your head jerkily and extend a fist as Dr Lecter introduces you into the conversation.

"She is here, now. Somewhat tired, but all is well."

You clenched the receiver to your ear, tears coming in such a quick patter that, at first, you can only sit in hyperventilating silence as your parents babble at you, their voices sharp with an underlying guilt.

"How are you, honey? It's so good to hear from you! We love you! Is everything okay?"

Each day you've been parted from them you've missed them as you would your most vital structures, with a sore and deathly strength, yet your love is not so stark as your disappointment in being so abandoned by them.

"No," you say, at last. "I'm not okay, Mom. Dad. How could you send me away and not even warn me?"

The babbling rises, panic in male and female iteration.

"We had no other choice. It was all we could think to do! We tried everything. But Dr Lecter's helping you, isn't he?"

Hannibal's stare is, itself, a warning.

Pressing your knuckles to your anguished mouth, you pass the telephone back to him, not trusting yourself not to scream for help and damn yourself to the harshest punishment that such an executioner of free will might hand to you.

"She is overwrought," says Dr Lecter, apologetically. "I'll call again next week."

He hangs up, and leans across to clean the tears from your face himself, ensuring the tissue is discarded in a wastpaper basket; even in this he must be perfect, organised and pristine. You hate him for it, this performance he makes of his life, preserving such details as no one would be likely to notice but him.

"I wish you hadn't let me talk to them," you whisper. "Now I feel even worse."

"Of course you do," says Hannibal. "Your family betrayed you. It would be much more unusual if you held no resentment towards them at all."

You squint up at him in accusation.

"You did that on purpose, didn't you?"

"Leaving a wound open may sometimes allow it to dry, and subsequently heal. You will not advance without acknowledging the harm your parents have done to you, whether through dispatching you to me without consent, or by ignoring your justifiable fear of Leland Frost. The map to your mental injury is unfurling before us: the continents take shape, as do the names that mark each turn in your unhappy life. In time, I will know them all."

Weeping, you slip down in your chair, not wanting to see the truth that thrusts itself up from the outcrop of evil.

"I will help you to your room," says Dr Lecter. "More sleep is in order, I think."

*

Will Graham enters the house some time in the night; you hear his low voice through the floorboards as you lie in swaying wakefulness, wondering what brings the professor here at so late an hour. He stays for so long that he accepts an invite into one of Hannibal's spare rooms, a fact that you discern from the voices passing your door in the hallway.

Again you sleep, though not pleasantly, your psyche disturbed by the third presence in the building, and by the lasting bruise of Dr Lecter's relentless torments.

In this sleep you dream of an antlered thing burying you in a terracotta wood, its face so darkly passive as soil smothers your airways that you might well be a bone, stored there to be gnawed at some late and starving hour.

When you emerge from this haunted slumber you still feel the threads of it still noosed around you; dream-sick, drug-thick, you stagger across your bedroom and, finding the door unlocked, tumble on into the hallway beyond.

By chance you find Will's room, letting yourself into quarters that smell of night-sweat, and pine, and male musk. You scarcely know what you do as you climb into bed with him against his salty heat, nor why it is he, of your abusers, that you seek.

Will starts awake, wild-haired and horrified as he senses your body beside him. Your name bolts from his lips, scarcely recognisable, the utterance of an animal groomed to speak a human tongue.

"What are you doing here? You should be in your own room."

Keeping your back to him, you drowsily reply.

"Had a bad dream."

Will breathes an ironic laugh.

"And you think you'll sleep any better in my bed? I destroyed you, remember?"

Self-blame, self-loathing, all jagged and tail-swallowing teeth.

"No," you mumble. "He did. Not you, Daddy."

You feel Will sit up behind you, scratching a hand through his unruly curls.

"You're not in your right mind," he announces, gruffly. "I'd better tell Dr Lecter to stop giving you whatever medication you're on. It's not good for you. No wonder you're having nightmares."

Still, he doesn't attempt to turn you out of bed, or to call Hannibal to eject you on his behalf. He only slouches, gazing at you, until you turn on your side to look back at his pretty, troubled face in its nest of brindled shadow.

Will's shoulders still droop in a mode of shame, yet the black of the room deepens the blue of his eyes into a yearning colour through which many a woman would gladly fall. He wants you here, you realise, perhaps likes the power he holds in having you soft and needful beside him, in his lair, after all he's done.

You should detest him for feeling it, and you do.

But recognising that craving within him reawakens the understanding of that power you may yet hold over him, in return, the mistress of a cur that bites all but those that direct the leash.

It is a long way off, this control, but the taste of it will do, for now.

"Let me stay," you implore, fluttering sodden eyelashes in a coquettish attempt to convince him. "Please? Just for tonight? I don't want that dream to come back."

You'll loathe yourself for this, in the morning, but now all you care for is the night. Will seems to be having the same thought, for he lies back down on the mattress again, taking care to leave ample space between you.

How does he compartmentalise his violence—his taste for it—from his revulsion towards you, and further still from the empathy that stirs in him like a stamped out fire?

"Just one night," says Will, sternly. "I don't know what Hannibal is going to say about this."

You pull the quilt up under your chin, almost giddy with your achievement, and with it the comfort that pours over you like a September afternoon. This strange happiness you will remember, and wonder at, when all you should have known were the tatters of despair.

"Dr Lecter left my door unlocked," you say, as Will moves in restless, settling motions at your back, still refusing to make contact with your skin. "So it's really his fault I'm here, you know."

At this Will half-rises again, but whatever question or comment he murmurs is lost to your abrupt slumber.

By morning he is gone, and you are alone again, only the scent of the monster remaining about you to mark out your miserable self-treachery.

He is not there to see you thrust the sheets against your face and inhale their bitter stink, if only to claw back the triumph of having made vulnerable a man so very closed to contact of the most human kind.

He is not there, and he is everywhere.

Will is as part of this house as Dr Lecter, now.

[thornfield987-blog]

I know this has been done before but here’s my headcanons for LU Chronic illness/Disability boys:

Legend(he/they): Hypermobile type Ehlers Danlos syndrome. Frequently dislocates joints and doesn’t see why the others make such a big deal about it, it happens all the time! Primarily suffers from widespread join pain, instability and chronic fatigue. Has as many different mobility aids as they have magical artifacts.

Time(he/him?): Early onset osteoarthritis and partially blind. All of the time travel and shifting forms was not kind to his joints, so the connective tissue was damaged and BOOM. Arthritis. The old man jokes are becoming less and less of a joke every day. Also experiences debilitating migraines.

Hyrule(they/he): Sensory Processing Disorder (often associated with autism but can be caused by other conditions). Their magic sensitivity can often cause overstimulation in their other senses, and they are very sensitive to light, sound, smell and touch. They are semi-verbal because even his own voice can overstimulate him sometimes, but they don’t know sign very well. Also has anemia.

Wild(genderfluid he/she/they): hypertrophic contractural scarring, partially deaf, semi-verbal because of vocal cord scarring. Also prosthetic arm(set after TOTK). She switches between sign and speaking, whichever is easiest for him that day. They have to perform daily stretches and apply scar lotion to be functional, but they aren’t very good at remembering to do so. Often blows out his voice because he gets excited, but can’t tell how loud he is speaking.

Four(plural they/them): Dissociative Identity Disorder(but not really because of magical reasons), damaged growth plates because of Minish magic. They have very similar symptoms to DID, but there are slight differences because it was caused magically and traumatically, not like in the real world. They sometimes struggle to walk correctly because their growth plates are damaged, causing their legs to be slightly different lengths. They wear adaptive shoes to correct this.

Sky(he/him): POTS(Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome), chronic fatigue. He struggles to breathe the denser air on the Surface, but he struggled with it on Skyloft as well. He has a chronically higher heart rate that causes dizziness and (rarely) passing out when moving from sitting to standing, after eating, and after adrenaline rushes. This causes his stamina to be fairly low, and also causes chronic fatigue.

Twilight(he/him): RRMS(Relapse/Remission Multiple Sclerosis). This is caused magically by the Twilight curse eating away at his body’s nerves, but is kept mostly under control by his shadow crystal. Occasionally, he goes through relapses and experiences anything from tingling and numbness in a limb to temporary loss of vision in one or both eyes, balance issues, vertigo and slurred speech. These flares are almost always debilitating, but thankfully they only happen every couple of months and last from a few days to about a week.

Wind(he/him?): A little cliche, but he has a peg leg. He likes to tell outlandish stories about it getting bit off by a kraken or eaten by a cannibal, but the truth is that he got an infection, couldn’t treat it in time and had to amputate. This happened sometime after his quests had finished, and he’s still a little ashamed of the actual circumstances, so he doesn’t open up often.

(edit) I FORGOT WARRIORS

Warriors(he/him): Speaking Disfluency (Stutter). Often repeats sounds, such as “G-g-g-guys”, or extends sounds; “Llllllll-Iove you”. He grew up poor, so he was never able to get treatment for it, so he communicates using sign while Proxi translates verbally, though this isn’t as necessary with the Chain since most of them know sign.

[xzhdjsj]

Tangled in Love

Andrew x Reader

Okay before you continue this, I wanted to let you know this fic mentions description of hair texture. The reader has wavy/curly hair! Additionally, this fic is a rewrite of part 6 of Andrew’s story.

+a lil rant before the actual fic (you can skip the first part but please read the second)

I wasn't going to post this because it's a self-indulgent piece but hey I’m sure someone out there will enjoy it too. I've struggled with my hair for quite a while. It was one of my biggest insecurities, and I never knew how to take care of it. For the majority of my life, I've treated my hair as though it was straight, using straight hair products and styles, because that's what I wanted my hair to be. I hated the 'frizz' which in actuality was just me damaging my curl pattern😭 Thankfully, even though I couldn't see it, the people around me did and helped me manage and properly care for my hair. These days, I embrace my curls, and I love them more than anything! If I'm not rocking my curly hair I feel incomplete, it's become a huge part of me! I still have a long way to go, but I'm beyond happy I was able to finally recognise how beautiful my hair is.

That being said, I want to remind all of you that YOU ARE PERFECT! I know we doubt and pick at ourselves from time to time, but it's important to remember THOSE DOUBTS DON'T DEFINE US! Every imperfection and flaw is what makes you perfectly, uniquely and most of all beautifully YOU. Please remember to be kind to yourself and never ever stop loving yourself ❤️

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

It's been months since Andrew ended things with me. At first, I prided myself in being mature and acted like the entire thing never even happened. I stopped sitting where his eyes can easily find me, I never take similar routes as he would and avoided his office at all cost. It was easy to find a temporary tutor to help with my assessments, that way I didn't even need to attend his tutorials. 

The less contact with him the better. This little routine was good and dandy, getting me by as I immersed myself completely in y work. If I distracted my mind, I wouldn't need to think of Andrew, right? Wrong.

So fucking wrong.

Every other thought, he was on my mind. I wondered how he'd answer questions on my exam preps, and his opinion on every sentence I wrote. I thought of him so much, it was sickening and before I knew it I was tired and relapsing.

I gave university my all until I couldn't anymore. I was heartbroken and ignoring my feelings only made them worst. They burdened my mind, and I spent nights upon nights crying my eyes swollen into my pillows. I knew I had to accept it somehow but the ghosts of him haunts me, even in my dreams.

Last night’s dream was an especially painful one. I vividly remember the look on his face and the way my heart shattered into a million pieces as he drove away that day. What a shit start to my day!

I rolled out of bed, heading straight for the bathroom where I splashed my face with cold water and looked into the mirror. What a mess, my hair was messy and unkept and not in and attractive, quirky way, more closely resembling a bird’s nest. I wonder if Andrew could ever love me even when I look like this.

I sigh, rubbing my temples and trying not to cry again. Maybe a nice long shower would help, so I did just that. I stayed under the running water for more than an hour, then detangled my hair before stepping out. It did help, at the very least I felt clean and refreshed.

Today was going to be more or less going to be simple, there was a single task posted on Moodle and that’s all I needed to get done.

I settled into a comfy set of clothes and started drying my hair, only to be interrupted by a knock on my door. Who could that be? I threw the towel over a chair and opened the door, and my eyes are met with the last person I wanted to see.

“Hi, I’m here to speak to you” His mouth is agape and he looks a bit shocked.

Speak to me? Here to speak to me? My mind roared. Absolutely not. I was about to slam the door in his face, but he steps forward.

“Only as a professor!” He clarifies. “May I please come in?”

“Fine, but make it quick.” I demanded.

He sighs, “Thank you.”

He steps inside and I lock the door behind him. A waft of his scent hitting my nose, God how I missed that.

“I've emailed you several times about booking a tutorial, whether that be online or in person, and I haven't heard anything back. Me being here is a last resort. It's part of my job to make my students are well, and that if they're struggling, I can point them in the right direction.” He paused, finally taking his eyes off me to look around. “You have a nice place. It's what I imagined it would look like.”

“That’s not why you’re here And- Mr. Marston.”

“Yes, strictly business it is then, though, I don't want to treat it as such.” His eyes are on me again, but I refuse to give him the same attention choosing to fidget with my fingers instead. “I'll try and keep things brief for the both of us. You've been attending as usual, on top of your work as usual and nothing on the surface warrants concern, but because this is around the time where I need to be updated on essay plans and what you intend to do, us talking to one another is inevitable and for your records, and my peace of mind, we must.”

“It’s going good.” I replied, monotoned.

“It’s going good? Is that’s all I get?” He pushes.

“It’s an update, is it not?”

“It's a different response. In the past when we had our tutorials, that went on for at least an hour, you were so passionate about your subject, you made your own reading list and clearly planned out your arguments. You talked me through every point and asked for my opinion just to be sure you couldn't look at it from any other angle because you were adamant about not just getting it right but understanding different perspectives. Tutorials are only supposed to last around half an hour. Why do you think I always put you in the last slot? The look you have when you lose yourself to your ideas, when your eyes spark with this clarity I never want to stop you mid-thought or let that light disappear.” He rants and I wish he’d stop describing me that way.

“First and foremost, I am your professor. I’m here to nurture your curiosity and always have you searching for answers so when you don't show up to your tutorials I get concerned.”

“But I attend classes and all my work is completed. Is that not enough?”

“Your work is fine but that's not the problem I-” He paused and sighs for the hundredth time, “I want to ask how you are.”

“Now you’re interested in that?”

“I never had the chance to and even if I did try to talk to you would you have answered?”

Well shit, he’s got me there. I stay quiet and stare at my feet.

“You've been avoiding me for over a month now and I completely understand why. It's enough that you're still going to classes and doing your work, and I can't imagine what you must be feeling having to be taught by me even now. For the pain I still give you, I am sorry. For the pain I gave you that day, I am sorry.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “Is that why you’re here? To say sorry?”

“I didn't come here under the pretense of apologizing but… it's something I’ve been meaning to do for a while now. The rumours have died down but that doesn't change the thoughts people still have. It's not something that we should live with, but we must.” He regains his composure quickly, shifting the conversation back to university. “Anyway, care to tell me anything else about your essay? Any avenues you're thinking of exploring? Any reading material that's caught your eye?”

“What about you? Howe you Andrew?” I finally find his face with my eyes.

“I thought you wanted to keep this strictly business.” He uses my words against me. “Don't worry about me. I want you to focus on your studies.”

He smiles and it makes my heart skip a beat.

“Have you… Have you seen the petition?”

“Yes, I’ve seen it. I considered resigning and letting them win.” My eyes widen at his confession.

“Rumours can get out of hand quickly. Heh, never in my life did I think I’d be called such names. Now people think I let students get close to me to get good grades, no matter the gender. I’m a danger to all apparently.”

He sounds tired too, that’s one thing I can sympathise with him.

“The dean’s comment eased some of the backlash, but this is a burden I’ll most likely carry for the rest of my career.” He continued.

I stay quiet, unsure how to respond to him. I supposed we’ve both been hurting in our own ways.

“Can I be frank with you?” He catches my attention again and I look up from my thoughts. “I don’t regret any of it. It was one of the most honest decisions I’ve ever made. My only regret is not protecting you when it mattered and- and I’ll never be able to undo that.”

Fuck he always makes things so difficult for me.

“When I saw that video, and those comments I panicked. The first thing that came to my mind was how you’d feel reading them and how you’d continue knowing people thought of you that way. I know how that feels, something similar happened to me years ago. It hurts being ostracised and judged on lies and when you wade in that water you still have to hold your head up high, so you don’t drown. But thinking back I was irrational. I let my own fears get the better of me and made a decision that was not only mine to make. I… I should have spoken to you before driving you away. I’m not asking for your forgiveness or pity. I just need to let you know this.”

“So what now?”

“That’s a good question, I would say we continue as we are now, I only have your best interests at heart and that should be more important to me than my feelings for you.”

“You… you still have feelings for me?”

“Of course, I do! You think they just stopped? I tried burying them, stifling them, but every time you walked into my lectures it was impossible not to remember all the things we experience together.”

“Andrew look at me.” I shake my head. “I look awful, I’m a mess.”

“I disagree. You’re still as beautiful as the day I left you. If not, even more. Your hair, I- I’ve never seen it like that. It might just be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

My hair? I haven’t even straightened it like I always do. How could he find this beautiful?

“Still, you said it yourself, this could never work. Why would you-“ “I’m saying my heart wants to follow you again. Despite it all, I still want you.” He sounds so desperate, and I can feel my heart in my throat. “But this isn’t about what I want. It’s up to you. I you want nothing to do with me outside of university, so be it. If you want to give this a chance, a real chance, I’m fine with that too.”

“Andrew I-“ “You don’t need to give me an answer now, or at all actually. Just… do what you feel most comfortable with.”

That day I had a lot more to think of as I stood in front of my mirror once again. My hair was still unstraightened and a thought crossed my mind. I remember Andrew’s words before he left.

“I know I said it before, but your hair really does beautiful. I can’t quite get over it. It suits you.”

Maybe if I was going to give this another shot, it was time to start afresh. No more secrecy and sneaking around. I stare at my hair in the mirror. Maybe it did suit me and it wouldn’t hurt to try something new, would it?

-

Months later I feel so much better, the air is clearer, the sun is shining and I’m finally ready to talk to Andrew again.

I sat the window of the café I asked to meet at, looking over at the door each time the bell chimed. This time I was right, it was him. He spots me quickly and walks over.

“Hi, I know I’m a little early. May I sit?”

“Of course, please do” I urge him.

“I see you changed your hair. It looks really good.”

I run my fingers across the soft curls on my shoulder.

“Less of a change more of an embrace I’d say. I thought it was about time I stopped straightening it and wear my natural hair.”

“Not that you were any less beautiful before, but I find it harder to keep my eyes off you now.”

I smile. My cheeks are probably flushed, I can feel them all warm like the fuzzy feeling in my stomach.

“You know it’s very similar to my decision.” I tell him. “It’s another thing I want to embrace and flaunt to the world.”

“And I'll accept it no matter what it might be. So, what's your decision?”

My ass is off the chair in an instant, and I lean over the table to pull his face to mine. I missed kissing him, I missed kissing him so damn much.

[lefluoritesys]

It's so weird to feel excluded in DID spaces because... we don't suffer 24/7. And I mean we don't suffer so much, we actually have a good experience with DID most of the time, and it genuienly helps us survive. Like we're not perfect, of course, but the good overrides the bad, and most of our problems don't come from alters.

I could pop in to front and ask an alter at front to not talk to somebody, or do something for me, and they would. If they have questions, they'd ask. Like, "Hey, I don't like this person... can you be careful around them?" or "Don't share that info about me", and they'd be like "Okay, cool" and move on.

We found ways to differenciate between each other, and sometimes dissociation actually makes us feel better. Because with too many alters in front, we can temporarily dissociate into one blob that would let us function. Best part? It lets us use all the roles of alters inf ront at once as this one blob. Temporary merging that isn't really temporary merging, to be honest... I have no idea how else to describe it. it is but it isn't. And even if there is dissociation, it's not cause of alters, it's cause of our brain being a bitch.

I sometimes lean back in my chair in the front room when I'm in control of the body, turn to our physical persecutor (who also happens to be my best friend), and go, "Hey, you good if I do homework on your subject today?" And they go, "Sure. You sure you can do it tho? Like, do you have memories of how?" And I'd go, "I think so, I just don't wanna switch rn, I'll call you if I need help, though." And they'd go "Cool."

Like, don't get me wrong, we have had problems. But they were never because somebody was bad, they were because of people's actions that were honestly mostly fueled by being abused, trauma, and figuring out how to properly function. No one was ever the problem. We have alters who are just awful, but that's a separate problem. People in front for us are lovely. Sometimes we have fights, sometimes we have relapses, sometimes we just have horrible things happen to each other or IRL or something else. But no one is ever the problem. We never had that mentality that DID, and our alters, were the problem. Their actions are sometimes, but not them as separate personalities. Actually, we had problems with each other and with DID because people outside told us we should. DID improved our lives, and the areas that it didn't, we never saw it as it "ruined" them, it just... made them harder, and told us there are different ways we need to go about daily stuff and life. To each other, we're literally just people with mental health issues who are trying to make the body functional, but also? We're even kinda happy to be here. And if not happy, at the very least neutral enough not to want to become one.

It's so weird hanging around here, having a blog dedicated to spread positivity about DID, kinda being like:

"Hello, we are actually... functional. And would have always been if people didn't try to convince us otherwise out of their own misery and want for everyone else to be miserable."

We have issues, but they're not because of DID, DID actually helps us with them. It doesn't make us feel invalid, I don't think, but it does make us question whether we belong in DID community. And we have a lot of alters with low empathy, somehow, that makes us more compassionate? It's such a weird problem to have. It shouldn't even be a problem but here we are.

-host