#trigger warning: PTSD

[signourneybooks]

The Sun and the Star | A Nico di Angelo Adventure | Book 17 of Camp Half-Blood | Book Review

Book: The Sun and the Star ( Camp Half-Blood 17) by Rick Riordan and Mark OshiroRelease Date: May 2nd 2023 Tags: Young Adult | Fantasy | Greek Mythology | Roman Mythology | LGBTQ+ | m/m Relationship Trigger/Content Warnings: Violence | PTSDOther books in this series I reviewed The Trials of Apollo As the son of Hades, Nico di Angelo has been through so much, from the premature deaths of his…

[nimbusclan]

Moon 9 Part 1

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NimbusClan is back :)

--

“Fog?” Moonstar calls out from where she’s busy scratching shallow grooves into the earth under a large evergreen bush, the only plant in the area that has more than just a few stubborn leaves still clinging to its skeletal branches. There’s a haze of mist that hangs suspended in the clearing that hides her brother from view, but she knows he’s somewhere nearby, prodding around for moss that hasn’t been soaked through yet. 

In an effort to let Fogfreckle feel useful after his long few moons cooped up recovering from the eagle incident, she’d asked him to assign her a task, as deputy. It isn’t much – there’s not much for them to do that isn’t hunting and keeping an eye out for potential camp spots – but he’d beamed all importantly when he told Moonstar to find somewhere for them to sleep tonight while he gathered moss for their nests. 

A sense of pride had warmed Moonstar like a sunbeam. Eventually, when there’s an actual Clan for Fogfreckle to really boss around (and there will be, swear to StarClan), she knows he’s going to make a great deputy.

“Is that what this stuff is?” Fogfreckle calls back, his voice drifting from the fog somewhere to Moonstar’s left. With a snort, Moonstar backs out from under the bush and heads in his direction, peering through the thick haze until the shape of her brother is visible in the mist. He’s batting at the air like he’s trying to scoop the low-hanging clouds into his paws.

He looks almost like how Moonstar would imagine a StarClan cat outside of a dream to look. His pale pelt is ghostly with the heavy hang of clouds shrouding him, and his cobalt eyes glow with a dim blue halo.

She grins at his antics, suffused with an amusement that chases away the pervasive damp that’s trying to work its way into her fur. Flickering across her mind like a hummingbird’s wings, a sharp pang of nostalgia for their kithood washes through her, painful and heartfelt and gone in less than a heartbeat.

“Don’t be a smart-ears,” Moonstar chides her brother, flicking her tail against his flank. “I’m nearly finished with the dens; do you want me to help you gather moss?”

“That’d be great, actually,” Fogfreckle  mews. “I think I’ve found just about everything in this clearing that’s still dry. I got lucky with a hollowed out log, but we could use a bit more.”

Meowing an affirmative, Moonstar picks a direction at random and trots off into the cold, unfamiliar mist, mouth open to scent her way. The heady smells of damp earth and dripping branches fill up her senses. The blurry, unfocused leaves hanging still and silent in the trees press against her ears and muffle even her own pawsteps.

“I can hardly see past my own whiskers…” Moonstar muses quietly to herself. She squints into the fog. It’s thick like cobweb and sticks to her fur just the same.

Moonstar picks her way across the damp grass of the woods, heading for where the trees thin out on the cliffside. She’s hoping for a bit of wind that may whisk some of this fog away. It’ll be easier to find moss if she can actually see it. The ground starts to slope down towards the cliff, so Moonstar angles herself to slide carefully along the grass.

The silence is eerie. It makes Moonstar miss her Clan - the old NimbusClan - and the hustle and bustle of cats going about their daily schedules. She aches for the regular ho hum of days where she knew what happened next, where the hunting party would return with plump freshkill from the meadow and where she got to work on sparring with her brother and mentor in the shade of the mountain. The constant undercurrent of meows in the camp, days that were never spent in silence.

She puffs her fur against the chill and the memories.

Every day since she and Fogfreckle left the wreckage of the landside behind has been uncertain. Full cycles of the sun and moon filled with the unknown. StarClan decided that she deserved to be leader, but most days, Moonstar feels as incompetent as a bumbling kit. She could run a Clan that worked like a real Clan, she thinks. It would be easy, even, with a plan to follow.

Hissing, Moonstar remembers that she’s supposed to be hunting for moss. She doesn’t do well with this loneliness – she gets too lost in her thoughts. Some leader.

The ground slopes down sharper still, and she adjust the angle of her body and flicks her tail out behind her to adjust her balance. The wet grass beneath her paws isn’t much to hold onto.

A whisper reaches her ears then, a sigh of the wind, except none of the trees sway their leaves and the bushes don’t quiver. All is still when Moonstar jerks up her head, glancing around for the source of the noise.

“Hello?”

The murmur is there again, wet like water and blurry like fog, and Moonstar can feel the thick weight of eyes on her pelt, prickling there like ants. She whirls around, sure she’ll find somebody, some cat, maybe a predator, watching her through the fog, but the damp grass slips out from under her paws.

Flailing, Moonstar looks down in horror as the ground falls away underneath her, the mountain sloping steeply down at the edge of the treeline. Distracted, she hadn’t noticed how close she’d been to the edge.

She hits the scree slope hard, her teeth gnashing together and her paws skidding as she tries to find her footing. The mountain is steep and the gravel underpaw is loose and sprays out from under her as she tries to sink her claws into it.

Larger rocks dislodged from her descent tumble past her like clumsy kits, knocking into each other with bangs and cracks that quicken her pulse and claw at her lungs. The sound echoes across the slope, fenced in by the fog that surrounds her on all sides like a stranger’s breath too close to her face. Memories wreathed in scent and sound clamor for attention in her head, there and sudden and real and bad, bad, bad, bad, bad.

She can smell it. The tang of blood, sharp, filling her nostrils, choking her with the thick scent of it. The wails of her Clanmates and the deafening, roaring crash of boulders falling into camp pound in her ears. Sharp stones dig into her paw pads as she races down the slope but she feels like she’s an entire mountain away, that night rushing back to her like she’s there all over again, living it for the second time.

“What’s happening?”

Moonstar lifts her head, blinking blearily as the earth under her rattles her awake.

“The ground is shaking!”

Her brother is pressed to her side, familiar and warm in the dark den.

“Rocks– it’s a landslide!”

Dark. It’s too dark.

“The apprentice den! It’s blocked!”

She can smell it, now. Blood. Her Clanmates are wailing in fear.

“Fogpaw!”

Moonstar leaps to her paws. The sound is so loud. She thinks her head is going to split open from the thunderous noise.

“Moonp-!” CRACK.

Moonstar’s heart races, thundering in her ribcage as loud as the rocks that tumble down alongside her. Desperately, Moonstar claws for purchase on the slope, but there’s nothing more she can do but open her mouth in a horrified wail as the cliff she’s sliding straight for rushes up to meet her.

She flies off the edge of the cliff, suspended in air for a long, horrible moment until her stomach reacts first, dropping before the rest of her body can follow. As she falls, she feels like she’s going to be sick. She flails her limbs for something, anything to grab onto as the edge of the cliff swallows up her vision.

[Previous] [Start] [Next]

[redisrobinhearts]

TW EATING DISORDERS!! weight, numbers, anorexia

It was never about control, not really. Not the kind the media would suggest, not the way those tired, melodramatic movies tried to frame it. They always got it wrong, anyway. They called it a cry for attention, a plea for control, a side effect of perfectionism. But Tim didn’t want control.

If you asked him, really asked him, he wouldn’t be able to tell you what he wanted. Maybe that was the point.

He didn’t want to feel powerful. He wanted to feel nothing.

And so he chased emptiness like it was salvation.

Hunger wasn’t suffering. It was purity. It was silence. It was the loudest scream of existence he could offer to a world that wouldn’t stop looking at him.

He was addicted to the feeling. To the dull, knifing pangs in his gut. To the dizzy haze behind his eyes, the slow fade of vision when he stood too quickly.

It wasn’t control.

It was surrender.

Every morning he’d wake up, his room a mess and every morning followed the same rhythm, a ritual practiced so often it had long since ceased to feel like a choice.

Wake.

Drag himself out of bed, each joint stiff, each movement an effort.

Stretch. What if his limbs had thickened in the night?

Bathroom. Strip. Use the toilet.

Step onto the scale.

Wait.

Step off. Pace in tight, restless circles.

Step back on the scale.

Compare. Judge. Repeat.

Redress.

Go downstairs.

Smile.

A daily devotion.

Each time he’d glance to his rosary hung lovingly next to his mother’s, send a small prayer that the number on the scale wouldn’t ruin his day.

Because that’s what his days were based on.

Numbers.

That number on the scale was the first and most important verdict of the day.

If it went up? The day was ruined.

If it dropped? A good day. A small victory.

If he binged? Complicated. A good number could soften the blow. But if he binged and the number went up?

He didn’t have words for the way his chest would compress, his head would ring, his body would buzz with hatred.

It was as simple as that.

He couldn’t purge, not anymore at least. His gag reflex was gone, whisked away from years of fingers stuffed down his throat whilst he hunched over a pristine toilet seat.

Despite this, the schedule never changed. The ritual, never changed. He was fully aware it wasn’t normal, but it was necessary, sacred.

Looking at the sweet, expensive rosaries hung on his wall, he thought about if God was needed for his own little shrine of numbers.

But he knew God, or any, wasn’t needed to build a shrine, his existence was a monument to numbers.

In place of mass or communion he’d go downstairs, family already awake. He’d smile at Alfred and playfully roll his eyes at the man’s tutting to his habit of drinking so much diet soda while his first move in the kitchen was to retrieve a Pepsi max.

“Alfred, you know eating when I wake up makes me feel sick.”

It didn’t, but that same line was said every day. Like a prayer.

Damian, always around, would roll his eyes and comment about how unhealthy diet sodas were. Tim almost envied his younger brother, as tall - maybe even taller, than himself and only 14. Tim was 17. Bruce said he’d grow more, Tim knew he wouldn’t.

Tim knew his family knew there was something wrong with him. Tim knew they thought it was PTSD. Well.. he has PTSD, but, that wasn’t what was wrong with him.

He wouldn’t speak it out loud, never, though it had a name. A clinical one. It didn’t fit with a detective, the genius, a bat. Anorexic.

The word felt foreign, medical, clinical. But it was the truth. A truth that lived in his bloodstream, behind his ribs, inside the hollowness he carved into himself each day.

It’s weird to think, that he has this disorder, but he won’t speak of it to anyone. It’s weird that a family of detectives don’t recognise it. But, if Tim can lie to Batman, he can lie to anyone. And lie he will. 

Tim loves his little brother. And even if Damian shows it in this weird way, he knows Damian loves him too. It’s the cups of tea Damian brings him, it’s the attacks that are never to kill anymore - just to test his strength. Tim saves his strength for those, he knows it’s mostly Damian reassuring himself that his older brother is safe. That he can take care of himself.

He knows all of his siblings love him. He knows his whole family loves him.

It’s the way dick will always return home with a soft smile and warm eyes for him, ignoring the deep cutting insults, accusations and whatever else Tim had screamed at him the last time he was there. The way he’d ignore the next ones Tim would throw his way.

It’s the way Jason would tease him, the way he’d always bring a bit extra food for him. The way Jason would get him things related to his special interests. The way he’d pick up evidence for Tim, the way he’d place bugs and interrogate for him.

It’s the way Cassandra would step a bit louder when approaching him. It’s the way Cass would ask if he’d like to join her on walks. it’s the way Cass would sincerely ask about his special interests. The way Cass would happily listen to him for hours.

Tim knew his family loved him. Tim knew Bruce loved him. He knew his dad loved him.

It’s the way Bruce would stockpile Tim’s favourite (safe) foods and wouldn’t ask Alfred to get them. It’s the way he’d indulge Tim and let him sleep in the bed with him on bad nights. It’s the way he learned about Catholicism despite being non practicing Jewish. It’s the way he had a Catholic Church built in Gotham in Tim’s mother’s name. Tim never asked for it, but the gesture carved something sharp and sacred into his heart.

Alfred loved him. The closest he’d ever had as a grandfather. Alfred loved him. It’s the way Alfred wouldn’t clean or enter Tim’s room when Tim had asked. It’s the way Alfred would cook entirely separate things for him. It’s the way Alfred would sometimes not cook for Tim at all and allow Tim to make his own meals. It’s the way he never really stopped Tim from drinking diet soda or energy drinks.

His family loved him. They loved him with all of their hearts. But they never figured it out.

How could they have? Tim went through a lot of effort hiding it. He certainly didn’t want them to.

It was back to his bedroom for him, to sit at his desk and browse edtumblr or edtwt or any forum that fit his fancy.

“Would you like to walk through the gardens with me?”

Cass’ voice was soft. It was kind. It was sweet. She would always ask even though every time Tim would say no.

Each time she would smile, nod and tell him he can join her later if he wants.

He never would.

He’d spend the next few hours browsing, sipping from his rapidly going flat Pepsi max. His stomach clawing and consuming the carbonated fluid while it screamed for nutrients that it wasn’t sure it would get that day.

The hunger. This was how he worshipped nothingness. The gnawing feeling like his stomach was trying to digest itself. The pain. A penance indistinguishable from divine grace.

Tim knew he was pretty at least, if the media were telling the truth he was gorgeous. Likely to be named the most attractive man in Gotham to dick’s disappointment and Jason’s amusement.

He knew people thought he was beautiful. The magazines said so. The tabloids. The comments.

But Tim didn’t think he was pretty in the way he did.

He would stand in the mirror, minutes on minutes. The dark circles, sunken eyes, pointy hip bones, exposed ribs, concave stomach, air between his thighs. His image in the reflection is a reflection of the discipline he’d exuded. The pain a graceful reward for the numbers he’d sacrificed for divinity.

In the mirror, he saw bones. Sharp hips. Ribs like piano keys. A stomach sunken beneath skin that barely held shape.

Each pang of hunger was akin to a code, etching words beneath his ribs: Beauty. Divinity. Grace. Each pulse of hunger a compliment to the cavernous void of where his stomach resided.

His body akin to a temple, he wondered if it were a sort of blasphemy each time he bowed his head. Praying to God for lower numbers felt more like he prayed to the numbers for less, more divinity, the weightlessness would bring him closer to heaven, to God.

While floating in divinity, he floated closer to death.

Like when a morbidly obese bed ridden person continues to eat, they inch closer to death but don’t even realise they’re doing so.

He wasn’t even skinny he’d claim when reading about the dangers. He was smart, he took his vitamins and sure he was underweight but it was hardly skin and bones.

At 5’6” and 99 pounds, he told himself he wasn’t that bad. Not sick enough. Not thin enough. Not dying.

He was careful. Obsessively so. Ankle weights hidden beneath baggy sweats for monthly health check-ups. Protein water before blood draws. Vitamins taken religiously. The illusion of health preserved with surgical precision.

It took him to a swift bmi 16 to a bmi 20.3, Bruce didn’t suspect a thing.

It happened each month and like clock work he would apply the same methods to ensure his safety.

He’d say he wasn’t dying. But he was wrong.

Each day was built around numbers: grams, pounds, calories, steps. Each hour sectioned by rules only he knew. If the number was right, the day was blessed. If it was wrong, the day was punishment.

He lived in a shrine of numbers. His body, the altar. His rituals, prayers. His pain, penance.

Sometimes, in moments of clarity—or maybe just exhaustion—he wondered what he was worshipping. Was it God? Was it perfection? Emptiness? Was it the void itself?

Was he offering his body to a deity that didn’t exist?

He didn’t know.

He only knew that hunger felt like grace.

That the ache in his stomach was the only thing he could trust.

That the hollowness made him feel holy.

He wasn’t suicidal. He didn’t want to die. He just didn’t realize he was dying. But death took the form of a beatific void, inching closer with each number.

Not actively. Not with intent. But slowly. Quietly. Faithfully. Like a monk fasting for salvation that would never come.

Because you cannot eat beauty with a spoon. And you cannot fill a body that’s learned to worship its own starvation.

But the beauty he chased wasn’t for them. It was a private religion, one only he understood.

In the stillness of his room, surrounded by the glow of a laptop screen and forums filled with others like him—edtumblr, edtwt, anonymous boards full of hunger—he felt less alone. But never whole.

Each day he had a schedule.

Each day began with a number, each day was built from continuing numbers. These numbers symbolised who he was. His worth. His divinity.

It has nothing to do with controlling himself. For he could do just that. It was a matter of it controlling him.

Each day it had a schedule.

But for now, in this sole moment, there was the pain.

There were the numbers.

There was the shrine.

And he would keep worshipping.

[allangstnocomfort]

‼️NEW CHAPTER‼️

Fractured Constellations

Chapter 7

https://archiveofourown.org/works/56233000/chapters/168715060

#aftg #aftgficrec #aftgficrecs #andrewminyard #neiljosten #andreil #amnesiaau #allforthegame #norasakavic #thefoxholecourt #theravenking #thekingsmen #thesunshinecourt #ao3 #aftgfic #aftgfanfiction

[irlangelsdiary]

Facts about intrafamiliar sexual abuse, COCSA, and CSA.

• COCSA can happen with children of any age, but potential incidents can increase as children enter puberty and adolescence.

• 40% of Children who were sexually abused the perpetrator was older and or more powerful

• 5% of children have been affected by sibling sexual abuse.

• It is one of the lowest disclosed forms of sexual abuse, meaning the statistics around this are likely to be higher.

• More than 90% of abusers are people children know, love and trust.

• 30-40% of victims are abused by a family member.

[angelicwh0r3]

I wish I've never been touched without my consent, I feel like I've lost parts of myself that have been touched and I will never win them back

[everyandanything]

Summary:

In dealing with the aftermath of getting jumped Darry quickly learns that not all of his scars are visible.

Author's Note:

Anon, this one's for you! This sort of morphed into how Darry dealt with things the first few months after he was jumped. Which, spoiler alert: not well! Hope you all enjoy!

[allbodiesareblessed]

My ED was perpetuated by abuse. I thought I had to starve myself to protect myself from abuse. With each bite of food, I'm healing from all the trauma and hurt. I choose to love my body, even if the people who hurt me didn't.

[ellethespaceunicorn]

📖🫣

Just had to stop reading a fic because I was triggered. Not gonna go into explicit details, but it involved a firearm and fellatio. I double-checked and this was not listed in the warnings of the fic.

Under a cut because this got lengthy...

Full disclosure, fellatio at gunpoint in media (fic, film, music, etc) is a HUGE trigger for me because I've experienced it in a BDSM scene that went a bit too far. Not the kind of thing that is easy to overcome and heal from, even all these years later.

I'm fine with darkfic, I love it. I don't even mind if all of the sexual acts in a fic aren't in the warnings, that's actually great sometimes because then you can be surprised and experience the story in real-time without any expectations of anything.

BUT...I do believe being held at gunpoint or anything involving peril, danger, fear, torture, or even the threat of violence SHOULD be considered a warning. It SHOULD be mentioned in a "trigger warning", along with warnings for rape, non-con, dubcon, and forced sexual acts. [I should include here that if your list of warnings isn't exhaustive or complete, including in the warnings that there will be the presence of non-consensual acts or dubious consent is perfectly fine. You don't owe anyone a full summary of everything that happens in a story. Everyone is responsible for their own media consumption. Including me.]

I don't care if the person propositioned is "okay" with the act, they are a fictional character written by you, the writer. And, as the writer, you have control over everything. Including what characters feel, say, or do.

With great power comes great responsibility, Uncle Ben knew what he was talking about there. With the power of being a writer comes the responsibility of informing your audience when they are about to consume triggering media.

And yes, people can be triggered by many different things. That's sort of the point. None of us have the manual to what exactly every trigger is in the world. The best advice I can give is: if you have a millisecond of hesitation about whether to include it in the warnings, INCLUDE IT. You may not know someone with that as a trigger, but I can guarantee you there most likely will be at least one person.

I didn't mean to turn this into a rant, and I feel like I'm probably just speaking out of the paranoia and anxiety that flows through me after reading a triggering scene. But, I also feel like I'm not the only one who has read something and felt strong emotion, positive or negative.

I am NOT asking for anyone to change the way that they tag their fics. I am NOT asking for anyone reading this to harrass, bully, or annoy anyone on my behalf. I AM asking for transparency, though. No one wants to be surprised with pain and suffering. Unless, they're into that, of course.

I'm shutting up now.

🦄

[m155y-74]

hey gang this is kinda out the blue (i forgot to put it in my intro post whoops) but can you guys all please make sure ur tagging ur posts properly, especially with trigger warnings for addiction and alcohol please, ive just seen a couple posts recently that didn’t have trigger warnings or tags but anyways thank you so so much guys and i love you and sorry for being annoying

[1heartfanfics]

Carlos PTSD fic as promised. *S4 spoilers*

-Set right after Carlos is held hostage and almost killed in S4E4 "Abandoned"-

"Hey baby," T.K. said as he stepped inside their loft.

Carlos, who was sitting on one end of the couch, gave T.K. a forced smile, but didn't respond.

"How are you?" T.K. asked, even though he already knew the answer. Carlos shrugged.

Sighing, T.K. took off his coat and his shoes, setting his bag down on the floor before joining Carlos on the couch. Carlos was staring down at his lap, looking small somehow.

"Hey," T.K. said, ducking his head to try and meet his lovers eyes. When he was unsuccessful, he reached out to touch Carlos's cheek, gently turning his face toward his own.

"Hey," Carlos whispered back, eyes were wet with unshed tears.

"Oh baby," T.K. sighed, his heart hurting, "Rough day?" he asked.

"No. That's the stupid thing," Carlos said, turning away from T.K. The tears had started to slip down his cheeks, but he sounded frustrated.

"What do you mean baby?" T.K. asked, confused.

"I had a good day. I took a walk and ate two whole meals and did some laundry. Like a normal person. But then it got dark and you were just a little bit late and now I'm fucking crying," Carlos explained, letting out a sound that was something between a forced laugh and a sob.

"You can have good days that aren't all good," T.K. told him, taking one of Carlos's hands in his.

"I just feel so stupid," Carlos said, swiping angrily at the tears on his face.

"Hey," T.K. said softly, "Be kind to yourself. Recovery isn't linear, and it looks different for everyone. You are entitled to feel however it is you feel whenever you feel it," he continued.

Carlos sighed, slumping back into the corner of the couch. He looked so small again, all of the anger and frustration seeming to have left him, replaced by exhaustion.

"Why don't we go to bed?" T.K. suggested, feeling pretty tired himself after a long day on shift.

But this was apparently the wrong thing to say as Carlos sucked in a breath, his eyes going wide as he gripped T.K.'s hand more tightly.

"Okay, hey, it's alright. We'll just put on a movie and lay down out here okay?" T.K. amended.

Carlos nodded, relaxing again. He shifted to let T.K. squeeze in behind him then maneuver them so they were both laying down, Carlos leaned back against T.K.'s chest. T.K. quickly turned something on the tv, then wrapped his arms around Carlos, holding him tightly. Carlos fell asleep to the sound of T.K.'s heart beating.

-- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

T.K. woke up with a start, feeling like not much time had passed since he'd fallen asleep. He realized the weight against his chest was missing and forced his eyes open to see Carlos sitting on the floor in front of the couch. His knees were pulled to his chest, slumped forward with his head in his hands, rocking back and forth.

"Carlos, baby?" T.K. asked, rubbing his eyes to try and wake up as he scooted closer to his boyfriend.

He quickly realized, Carlos was hyperventilating, breath coming in short gasps that caused his shoulders to hitch. Shit, panic attack. That woke T.K. up. He quickly got up off the couch, sliding their coffee table out of the way so he could sit on the floor in front of Carlos.

"Hey, I'm gonna touch you okay?" T.K. made sure to let Carlos know before reaching out to grab both of his hands. Carlos still startled for a second before relaxing slightly into the touch when he realized it was just T.K. When he looked up, T.K. could see the fear in his eyes.

"I can't- br-breath," Carlos gasped, one hand fumbling to grab at T.K.'s shirt.

"I know love, but it's gonna be okay," T.K. said, voice steady. He moved Carlos's hand, which had found a fistful of his t-shirt, to rest over his heart. "Feel that?" he asked.

Carlos nodded slightly, but his chest continued to hitch with labored breaths, tears streaming down his face. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut.

"Eyes on me baby, just focus on my heart beating," T.K. said softly. Carlos opened his eyes, locking them with T.K.'s. He managed to take in one good breath full of air, but then lurched forward with a sob, which took away all of his air again.

"Fuck- Tyler I-" Carlos cried.

"Hey, Carlos, look at me," T.K. said, "I know you're scared but I promise you're safe, I've got you. But we gotta get your breathing slowed down baby."

One of Carlos's hands still pressed firmly over T.K.'s heart, which was beating strong and steady. T.K. moved his other hand to hold Carlos's cheek, rubbing his thumb gently to dry the tears that continued to fall.

"Focus on my heartbeat, and breath with me," T.K. said, starting to take slow, exaggerated breaths for Carlos to follow. He knew that if Carlos stayed worked up like this for too long he'd make himself sick.

Slowly but surely, Carlos breaths became less erratic. The steady stream of tears had stopped and his breathing returned more or less to normal.

"There we go, you're doing good baby, just keep breathing," T.K. said, continuing to demonstrate the slow, measured breaths. But then his breath suddenly hitched, facing turning pale in the dim light of the hall lamp.

T.K. was already reaching for the trash can next to the couch when Carlos said, "I'm gonna be sick-". It was in his lap just in time for him to pitch forward and throw up into the bin.

"Easy babe, I've got you. Just get it up," T.K. soothed, moving to sit beside Carlos so he could rub his back as he coughed and spit into the bin. Apparently he hadn't gotten calmed down quickly enough. Being anxious and panicked had always turned Carlos's stomach.

A moment later Carlos slumped against T.K.'s side, head on his shoulder, obviously spent. Between the panic attack and the vomiting he had to be exhausted. T.K. gave Carlos a few minutes to breath, then silently helped him up off the floor, leading him up the stairs to their bedroom. They laid down together, Carlos's head resting on T.K.'s chest, so he could feel and hear his heart beating.

"You're safe here with me," T.K. whispered, running his fingers through Carlos's hair. That always calmed him down. He only hoped that Carlos could sleep through the rest of the night.

[the-sappho-of-lesbos]

I know my ptsd has been really bad lately because I’m just so unbelievably irritated, hyper vigilant and annoyed at things I’m normally better at just letting roll off my back. I’m also purposefully seeking out stuff to “document” it and keep records of stuff because when I was originally going through my ptsd no one was believing me. So when I start feeling triggered I get stupid and seek stuff out that makes it worse.

I hate having PTSD over my sexuality because it just makes everything so complicated. Obviously there is more to be then it but I’m so impacted by it and like reminded of it by just existing and living my life as a lesbian.

I’m just so overwhelmed and irritable and honestly pissed off lately it’s horrible. I feel so wired and ON all the time while feeling on edge and trapped.

[the-kittylorian-writes]

🔹 Fic Updates: If Ever We See The Dawn 4/6; 5/6; 6/6 🔹

This is an entry for @ailesswhumptober but I know it’s super late!! 😅 I only got to finish it now and dropped all three remaining chapters after my last update 3/5. AND YES it’s now six chapters, but it’s finally DONE! And also FINALLY I’ve managed to finish a multi-chapter fic. 😮‍💨 (one down, a bajillion to go loljk)

I’ll be linking to AO3, so here we go:

CHAPTER 4: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58392841/chapters/155221510

CHAPTER 5: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58392841/chapters/155221513#workskin

CHAPTER 6 (EPILOGUE): https://archiveofourown.org/works/58392841/chapters/155221516#workskin

(P.S. I would definitely love and appreciate your support for this fic! It’s a bit of a slow burn at first but picks up by the 4th chapter. I’m a little sad and feel that fics of this nature are often overlooked especially if it’s on a secondary character (like Paz Vizsla), so I’m hoping that any and all kind and curious hearts would give this a chance! 💙💙)