#and I have a side of CPTSD to go along with it

[aureutr]

Health update, featuring: DIAGNOSIS

I have been a chronic pain patient for a few years now. It's difficult to fully articulate how much pain changes your life, unless you are someone who has lived it or had a loved one live it.

Pain sucked away my energy and brainpower. I found myself sleeping more and more, first in naps after work then I was regularly calling out half days just to sleep. All the while, I was seeing doctor after doctor in hopes that someone would have an answer.

No one did. At first, it was almost a relief. It wasn't cancer, after all. But then the relief turned into disappointment and quickly into resignation. Labs were fine, X-ray was clear, CT was good. It should have been good news, except I still hurt all of the time and no one could tell me why.

The pain got worse. It peaked in Autumn 2022, when I finally got my first sliver of relief. Gabapentin kept the pain in control enough that I no longer had to regularly sleep half of the day, but it made me foggy. Still, it was easier to manage than the brain fog from pain, so I took it.

I still take it, and I’m on quite the high dose. It’s given me a semblance of a life back, but it’s not the answer or a cure. I still napped, I still hurt too much to even walk around a store for more than an hour or so. And, if I did, it would be my only activity for the day.

I lost my job late last year. I don’t believe it was because of the time I had to take, it was a mass layoff, but I’m certain it did not help. That, at least, ended up fine. I found a job I prefer with far better pay within a few months. And they’re, so far, understanding that I’m working through health problems.

But being unemployed was still a stressor, and I had learned that stress was integral to my pain. When I was stressed, it was worse. When I was calm, it was bearable.

I’ll skip describing another round of tests and hypotheses that went nowhere. In October 2023, my husband and I went to the Mayo Clinic or the Cleveland Clinic or John Hopkins (I am being intentionally vague here). This was our second time visiting, the first gave us absolutely nothing.

A nurse practitioner took a very quick look at me, too quick for our comfort, and declared the issue muscular. She recommended physical therapy. It seemed too simple, really. After all of that, all that money spent and time invested? It wasn’t like I hadn’t tried some exercise, but when moving makes your pain worse and worse pain zaps your energy, that’s difficult to maintain.

Still, I wasn’t going to turn my nose up at anything at this point. And it’s a damn good thing I didn’t.

The physical therapist I ended up seeing told me I had the strongest pelvic floor she’s ever seen. And that’s not a good thing. I have apparently taken literal decades worth of anxiety, depression, self-loathing, and any other negative emotion you can think of, and held them taut there, keeping my pelvic muscles almost constantly tensed.

And when you tense that much for that long, dysfunction arises.

My official diagnosis is Pelvic Floor Disorder. All of my PT has been focused on stretching, no strength training or cardio. I’m retraining my body to relax, to let go.

It has been amazing.

At the time of writing, I’ve been going to sessions for about six weeks. Already, I am eager to walk our dogs every day. I’ve gone out on my own or with friends to move.

The pain is not gone. But it is so much less that my pain clinic doctor is discussing reducing my gabapentin in a couple of months. And with decreased pain comes decreased brain fog.

Decreased brain fog means not only an improvement in my professional work, but space for fandom. I’ve written more than I’ve shared, lots of short private stuff for friends, but I haven’t had enough organized thought to re-approach the stories I put on hold.

I can’t promise anything, of course, but I hope that can change soon. I’ve been dabbling in Distant Echoes again, and it’s fun to be back in that world.

I’m not well. But I’m better. I’m so, so much better.

[ficbrish]

Threadbare

[AO3 Link]

[Here we go! @flufftober Spring Edition 2024! Thank you for the prompt 🥰 March 11th - New Beginnings]

Rating: Explicit 18+ only!

tw/cw: Sexual content, blood, blood drinking, past abuse, cptsd, choking kink, interrupted masturbation, alcohol, light hurt/comfort

Late in Act III, Astarion finds Vistri cuddling with his old shirt alone in their rooms at the Elfsong.

LATE ACT III SPOILERS!

“...And gave him a taste of a flaming fist! ” Karlach howled, leading the whole tavern in laughter.

Other mugs echoed her pounding on the bar with a dull, banging rhythm. Little golden drops of mead spilled over the tops, dripping down the glasses and mixing with condensation.

Astarion personally never tired of this story of hers. A Flaming Fist had been inappropriately whistling at Shadowheart, and Karlach responded by knocking the man flat on his ass in one swing. While Astarion smiled quietly and nostalgically at her recollection of those events, the other tavern patrons, who’d never heard it before, were an eager and raucous audience.

Shadowheart’s face turned Karlach’s color. Shouting over the Elfsong’s laughter, she protested, “I could have handled it myself. Really!”

Wyll threw an arm over her shoulder, “Come, come, Shadowheart. Was it not a bit satisfying for such a gallant devil to step in and exact your revenge?”

A huge smile spread over her face, “Galant devil could describe any of us.”

Astarion raised his glass, “Cheers!”

Wyll met his delicate wine glass with his own burly mug of mead. Unprepared for how much enthusiasm Wyll would use, Astarion ended up with red all down his front. A collective groan sounded along with wild laughter.

“It’s all right,” he assured Wyll, whose eyes were apologizing faster than his mouth could move.

“Astarion, I’m so—”

Funny thing, how such a sight affected him. Astarion wasn’t used to apologies. Or friendships for that matter. Wyll’s genuine sorrow over such a small inconvenience was like a hearty meal to a starving soul. He couldn’t let the apology continue. It was too painful to witness.

“No, no! It’s all right,” Astarion insisted, “Please don’t put yourself out. I’ll just go change. This tunic is hideous anyways.”

It wasn’t. It was a pretty blue thing with silver thread. But there was a prettier blue thing with silver scales waiting for him upstairs in their rooms, one he was eager to get back to.

Vistri was having a lie down. She wasn’t sick, just exhausted. Her body was fine, but her mind was ragged. Astarion was only reluctantly dragged from her side through her stubborn, repeated insistence to be left alone for a little while. He had the sense she’d been saying it more for his sake than hers. She didn’t want to be the reason why he didn’t spend time with the others.

“You say no one else has my heart, but they do!” she’d said, “You do!”

He’d frowned at the way she used his own words against him. Especially so inaccurately. Astarion was right, there was no one else like her. He’d stand by that forever.

“That’s not—!”

“Yes, it is! Go down there and have fun. Let them earn your trust as I have.”

Raising his brow, he left her with one last tease, “Certainly not in the same way you have?”

His charm wasn’t enough this time. He was dismissed.

Let the others in .

Well, he’d gone down with the others, had a bit of fun, and now he was covered in wine. He had the perfect excuse to go back up and check on her. The fretting in his stomach turned into excitement. 

So much had changed in so little time, after two centuries of endless, torturous consistency, spilled wine was now just spilled wine. He would just change his clothes, maybe wash up a bit, and there would be more waiting for him to wear. Choices.

Sewing was a skill Cazador forced on all his spawn. Keeping them all as cheaply as possible, they had to make every article of clothing last. No matter the care, or the tending, their clothes always ended up degrading into rags and tatters. Astarion was almost jealous of the way his outfits got to age and die. They had a temporal escape, while his torture was bound to be endless.

It also had the side benefit of shame. Sewing was for servants. It reminded the spawn of who they were.

Now that was all over. Cazador was gone. Ended by his hand.

And he had so many new clothes.

He had choices. How bizarre! Astarion was sure he’d forgotten how to make them.

And then he chose her.

A smile brewed on his face just at the mention of her in his thoughts. He took to the steps three at a time, surely looking absolutely ridiculous. He didn’t remember much from his life before undeath, but the more time he spent away from Cazador, the more he realized how much his desire to avoid appearing foolish was part of the weight of those old chains. If he tripped and fell on his face, he would probably laugh from the rebellious feeling of it.

The tadpoles brought him the sun and then Vistri. She helped him find love, true freedom, and then true love.

He decided looking a fool was worth it the moment he stepped through the door. His eyes found her immediately on one of the sofas by the fireplace. The dancing reflections of the flames rolled over the silver scales on her brow in waves. He could see it from the door. She was lying down; her eyes opened at the sound of his entrance.

She seemed a little shocked, “Astarion!”

“Hello, dear!” he greeted with open arms and a wide smile. It felt like ages since they’d been in the same space.

Although, reading her expression, he was a little worried she wasn’t as happy to see him.

“Is everything all right?” she asked, “Are the others—?”

“Just me,” he stated, then dramatically drew attention to his ruined shirtfront, “I’ve been decorated with libations! I need to freshen up. Is that all right?”

“Of course it’s all right! Don’t be silly.”

Vistri was a sorcerer; she was used to her thoughts becoming reality. But her mind was reeling from his sudden appearance. Like he’d stepped from her thoughts, but with an entirely different attitude. The Astarion in front of her was all lightness and soft good-humor. The one in her head was a whole other, harder side of his.

Their storage trunk was near the fireplace as well, by the other sofa. As Astarion walked towards her to rifle through it, she slowly removed her hand from between her legs, careful not to let the movement show under the blanket, which wasn’t even a blanket, but his old shirt.

Gods! It couldn’t be more embarrassing.

He came over to her first, bending down to plant a gentle kiss on her damp forehead. Astarion looked at her curiously, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Vistri nodded, humming a high-pitched, “Mmmm-hmmm.”

His brow was all questioningly screwed up, but he decided to drop it, and started unbuttoning his tunic.

Vistri subtly wiped her fingers on her thigh, then sat up, “Here, let me help you.”

“I’ve got it love,” he insisted, “You just lie down. Say… Why aren’t you in our bed?”

The way she smiled and repeated the words, “Our bed,” in that bright tone allayed all Astarion’s fears in an undead heartbeat. He was welcome. She was just as happy to see him as he was her. Poor love was just worn out.

He sighed and bent back down to kiss her. Her pulse pounded, he could feel it rush at the brushing of his lips. A rumble brewed in his middle and his fangs ached. She gave a little moan without meaning to, losing herself in the power of his affection.

“Don’t get too excited,” he teased, “I’m only here for a moment.”

“Why only a moment?” she asked genuinely.

With a smile, he tucked her braid behind her ear, “Didn’t you want to be alone?”

Her eyes were wide, like a begging dog, “I can be alone with you here.”

Astarion froze. He swallowed heavily, then giggled, “What a silly idea! Doesn’t that defy the whole concept of being alone?”

She pouted, and he rolled his eyes.

“Fine,” he scoffed, sitting down next to her, “I can be—Hang on!”

Upon reaching for her hand, he finally noticed her blanket. Her expression filled with panic at his recognition, and too late, she tried to hide it.

He chuckled with sinister delight, “Why, is this my—?”

“No!” she stubbornly refused.

“Bloody liar! ” he laughed.

“It’s not!”

Vistri was cuddled up with his old shirt. She must’ve taken it out of the trunk and sat down nearby.

“That’s why you’re not in bed! You came over here for my shirt!”

Blushing deeply, Vistri was struggling to accept her fate. She couldn’t get out of talking about her feelings now. Eventually, she admitted, “...I did.”

His query was meant to tease, but there was something… raw and needy in his voice that made it something entirely different, “You were…”

She was nuzzling his old rags like they were something precious. Intentionally. Used her alone time to fish it out of the stuffed trunk, and secretly treasure it. While he was just downstairs in the tavern, missing her, she was up here longing for him.

“You were holding onto my old shirt?”

Vistri rolled her eyes and groaned. She couldn’t meet his eyes.

“It’s ridiculous!” she exclaimed.

Astarion made a “tsk” sound and smirked, “Aw, don’t reject it now, darling. My poor shirt! You’ll hurt its feelings.”

“No! I don’t want that!” she whined, as if that were something possible to really do.

He held it away from her reaching grasp, “Nuh, uh! Apologize first.”

“Astarion!”

“That’s my name, dear. Not an apology.”

Vistri frowned. Astarion leaned in and kissed it into a smile.

“I hate you!” she giggled, playfully pushing him off her.

“I hate you too,” he said lovingly, “Now! Walk me through the process of deciding to take out my shirt. Was this before or after you shooed me away?”

“Must I?”

Savoring the look on her face, he nodded, “You must, dearest.”

She bit her lip, “Okay. Ugh. Fine. You left and I…”

“You what?”

“I missed you! ”

“Hah!” he boasted.

“Arsehole!”

“An arsehole you love to kiss,” he grinned, “Shall I call you butt breath?”

“No!” she protested, laughing, “Please no!”

“Here,” Astarion handed her his old shirt, “Hold this.”

He stood and finished undoing his tunic, then threw off the soiled shirt underneath. Bare-chested, he climbed over to her side.

“Scoot over,” he demanded.

“There’s no room!” she laughed.

He pulled her tight once his body was flush against hers, “We’ll make it work.”

Vistri felt dizzy. Like she was flying.

“Okay.”

Not letting it go, Astarion asked, “So you missed me, and then what happened?”

With his fingers absently drawing figures on her waist, Vistri had no fight left. Sighing, she continued to expose herself, “I started thinking about… When we met, and I first saw you.”

“How you adored me instantly?”

“No, actually. How much I despised you. Like really, really just wanted to… shake you.”

“That’s so romantic.”

She chuckled, “I’m sorry. It’s horrible, but it’s true. But then… I also…” She shifted so they were chest to chest, and she could look at his face as she spoke. Without thinking, her nose nuzzled his as she admitted, “I really liked you.”

He sort of snorted and sighed and called out in the same second, like a baby that didn’t know if it was hungry or tired or perfectly content. That didn’t know whether to coo or cry.

“You did?” he asked, heart on his tongue.

Nodding, Vistri admitted it all, “I think I’ve come to learn… It wasn’t you I was mad at, but everyone else you reminded me of. And part of me knew that, and the unfairness of it made me hate myself more.”

“Wanna know a secret?”

“What?” she chuckled.

“I hated myself and liked you too.”

Grinning, she humorously exclaimed, “And that’s why we had sex!”

Astarion gave a hearty laugh. It was rich and deep, and sounded like relief from a long-ago burden.

Instead of joining his mirth, Vistri’s expression grew more serious, “I don’t believe there’s a single thing I could hate about you. Not now that I know you.”

“Not a single thing?”

“Impossible.”

He caressed the length of her ear, gentle like a caretaker, then kissed her cheek.

“So what was that you were saying, about thinking of how much you hated me when we first met?” he whispered, stroking the side of her face with the tip of his nose.

“I didn’t hate you, I was falling in love. That’s what I was thinking of. Falling in love.”

“With me?”

She laughed, “Who else?”

He kissed her forehead, waiting with bated breath for her to continue.

She breathed deeply, leaning into his kiss, “I wanted to run down and get you, but we can’t be together all the time.”

“Who says?”

Chuckling, she shook her head, “We can’t!”

“And the next best thing was my shirt?”

“The one I met you in.”

He’d almost thrown it out. Now that he had new clothes, he no longer needed Cazador’s old rags.

But he couldn’t. And he was glad he didn’t.

“And then you just decided to relax here? And daydream about me?”

“Uh…” she said way too awkwardly for him to just accept.

Brow raised, Astarion repeated, “‘Uh? ’”

“It’s just so incredibly lame!” Vistri looked horrified.

“Then I have to hear it!” he giggled, thrilled to have her in this little trap she set up herself.

“I was… Oh gods! ” she rolled her eyes, “Can I just… tadpoles?”

He laughed, “It’s so embarrassing you can’t speak it?”

“Yes.”

Laughing even harder, he agreed. He put his forehead to hers even though they didn’t need touch for brainworm-to-brainworm communication. Relaxing into his embrace, she let her memory play out through his senses.

Vistri was thinking of him, and Astarion found beauty in himself he could only see through her eyes. Like freedom, it was overwhelming. A goodness he could drown in. That she could drown in. He was her, and she was him.

Knots in her stomach, tied like strings of fate, spelling his name in her blood.

Rushing, pounding, flowing. Her heart.

Stillness. Serenity. Bliss.

After lying down on the couch, she held his shirt to her face and breathed into it. Even washed, it smelled like him. Like his heat and his lusts and his heavy soul. She kissed its loose threads like it was his chest, where his heart was. Imagined his arms around her like they were now.

Astarion felt Vistri loving him; fell into her blurred line of desire and devotion. He could taste it on her tongue as he kissed her now and felt her love him through that too. Past and present blended, and they shared all of it like one being. In her memory, her hand traveled between her legs at the thought of his laughing face. Then there was the sincerity in his eyes as they both kneeled over his grave. I want you, spilling out of his lips. She was touching herself, thinking of him, adoring him, with the shirt she’d met him in clutched to her throat. As they lived through it together on the same sofa, he kissed her again and again.

She didn’t even mean to break the connection, but his mouth was too distracting. He just couldn’t help himself. It felt like coming home after two centuries.

“How rude,” he muttered, “I seem to have interrupted.”

“It’s fine,” she said breathlessly, “I’m glad you came back.”

He chuckled warmly, “Darling I was just downstairs. At your insistence!”

“I know,” she said plainly, holding him tighter.

His heart ached, still absorbing what he’d just felt and seen through her memory, “You… Thinking about me–how you love me–makes you…?”

Unable to look at him, she buried her face in his chest, “I told you it was lame!”

Helping her out of hiding, he lifted up her chin, “I don’t think it’s lame.”

His tone sounded like he thought it was the most extraordinary thing. A miracle that couldn’t even be perceived, even with it plainly in front of him. It tore her heart open, but filled it rather than took.

Astarion kissed her neck, “I think it’s quite hot actually. Makes me want to finish what you started.” Vistri felt the heat of her blush again, and he moaned, “Fuck! I love when your blood rushes.”

He scraped his fangs hungrily against her skin. Her heart grew heavy with the weight of his need. She wanted to be the reason he felt better. Stronger.

“Go ahead, Astarion,” she said comfortingly, “Have a bite.”

He kissed her neck, from her chin down to the base of her throat, and bit into the muscle that connected her shoulder. Vistri gasped, surrendering to the sharp pain, and to him, leaning into his bite. Her blood dripped between them as it rolled messily off his lips.

Just allowing himself a taste, Astarion released Vistri from his fangs, licking up the remnants and kissing her wound until it closed. The hunger wasn’t sated, but he was dizzy with power nonetheless.

“Are you all right, love?” he asked, still concerned despite knowing how much she loved it.

“More than all right! Are you—?”

He met her warm smile with one of his own, “More than all right.”

“Good.”

No other partner ever cared. Neither had ever been asked genuinely what they wanted or who they were. No one else but them, making such questions a lyrical aphrodisiac for them to exchange.

Astarion could read her arousal in a thousand different languages. His tongue could feel it in her frantic heartbeat. His teeth could smell it in her glistening sweat. She was a meal ready to be devoured, prey begging to be taken. His hands traveled along her waist, and she twitched pleasantly. All the places that usually tickled made her shiver with want.

Vistri was always so ecstatic that it was him touching her this way, and no one else, that her skin would cry if it could. He could have clumsy hands and awkward touches, and still his embrace would make her shake. Astarion could easily bring ecstasy to her, even if he didn’t know what he was doing, just because it was him.

But gods did he know what he was doing! He played her body like it was one of her instruments, and all he did was fondle her torso.

His fingers lingered just under her waistline as he rubbed his arousal against her thigh. Throbbing under his pants, Astarion let his hand dive into her knickers. The wet lace made him groan.

“You’re soaking,” he sighed, licking his lips, “Might I have another taste?”

Whimpering as he teased her sensitive skin with brushing fingertips, Vistri pleaded, “Yes!”

First, he undressed her one article at a time, unwrapping her like a gift.

It was better than being alone. The whole purpose of her rest was to not think. She didn’t want to disappear, not anymore. She wanted to be present, but out of her head, and this was so much better. However, her heart still ached and missed him. Demanding more touch, more feeling. 

Being wanted by Vistri was the prettiest sight. Astarion had only ever known admiration, not adoration. Images of her in her memory ran through his mind; and with them came echoes of her emotion as she’d nuzzled into his old shirt, desperate for his lingering smell, pretending it still held his warmth. As the monster in his head screamed to devour her, he slid a finger up and down her soaking slit.

Following the roll of her hips, he almost lost himself in their rhythm as he teased her clit. Her desire was one he’d never known, a love he’d never felt. Vistri gave herself to everyone, but never like this. It was the same for him. Everyone had him, but no one knew him like this. Between them, old habits were entirely new.

Crawling his way down her legs, he had another taste. Vistri’s hands caressed his head and her fingers wrapped around his ears in a way that made him hum with security.

She cried out at every lash of his tongue.

He whined licking her, the rushing blood just under her skin overwhelmed his senses as much as her taste. It made him feel alive. Pangs of need made his fingers tremble as they pushed into her, stretching her. She moaned, a song promising this would always be his. He wanted to fuck her until he saw stars.

And it felt good to want. The desire he felt was his. All his.

“Astarion,” she called out his name in a breathy voice, her body tensing with pleasure. Even without tadpoles, he knew how close Vistri was.

The next words from her lips yanked his heart out of his chest and brought it to his sleeve.

“Yours. I’m all yours.”

He’d planned to pleasure her in so many ways, but those words took away his will to perform. They didn’t need ecstasy as much as each other. She’d touched herself thinking of his laugh and his expressions; of his being, not his figure. Vistri just wanted him.

Lifting his head up, he asked, “Can I—?”

“Get back here!”

She pulled on his shoulders as he rushed to her lips, climbing her torso. She was so small, but it felt like miles. Ages until they were face to face.

His mouth was like a bully, commanding hers about. Vistri struggled with things like self love and acceptance, but could adoringly savor her taste on his tongue. It was so sweet mixed with his underneath. Astarion took her by the wrist to rub her hand along the outside of his trousers, almost growling as rutted into her palm. Being used by him was the best thing in the world, just as being used by others was the worst. Her ecstasy from it was as sharp as her bruised soul.

One long, deep, “Uuuuh,” from Vistri was the final snap in Astarion’s composure. One hand went to her neck as the other started undoing his laces. 

He licked along her jaw, and spoke in the crook of her throat as it called to him, “Do you know what it means? When you say you’re all mine?”

“I know what it means,” she looked him squarely in the eyes, seriously, which was unusual for either of them, “I say it because I know what it means.”

When there was enough give, Astarion pulled his trousers and pants down in one motion, just far enough to reveal himself. He spread her thighs apart and rubbed his aching cock along her belly to show off how deep he’d go.

Writhing, wanting him, she uttered, “Fuck, I love you.”

Astarion buried himself in her, saying he loved her too. Vistri screamed his name so loudly it probably answered what was taking him so long to change to the others downstairs.

“Wait, is the door locked?” he asked, suddenly remembering.

Vistri groaned, realizing it wasn’t, “Shit. Nooo.”

It was a rare occasion for their rooms at the Elfsong to be empty of everyone but them. Anyone could come back at any time, and they were in the middle of the room.

“Well, we don’t want to make an unsuspecting audience out of Shadowheart’s parents. Do we?”

Cackling, she suggested, “Or Withers.”

Astarion giggled, “Old bastard might try to join.”

Vistri’s laughter made her shake and pulse so pleasantly on his cock, he didn’t want to leave.

“Go lock it,” she could barely get the words out, overtaken by hilarity. Like she was wearing that cursed amulet again. 

Sighing with frustration, he reluctantly pulled out of her and got up, tearing the rest of clothes off of his legs. Her slick covered his whole length, making the air cool on his dick as it bounced with his steps.

At the sound of the lock snapping shut, Vistri stupidly called out, “Please!”

He stood by the door smiling with his arms crossed, “Please, what?” The crimson-violet scream of his skin, his retreated foreskin, and the precum pooling at his tip betrayed his casual nature.

“Fuck me!” she begged.

He smirked and held up two fingers.

Vistri buried her face in the side of the sofa to hide her laughter, “I cannot stand you!”

Wishing to see her face again, Astarion dropped his game and broke into a full run. She squealed as he leapt to her, and then cried out as he tore through her again. He savored the look on her face. Her eyes spilled the truth of her heart. Their expression exposed her even though she wasn’t trying to hide anything. Vistri belonged to him, gave herself over to him to use and take care of at whatever whim. As long as she was his .

“What was that about not being able to stand me?” he smirked, distracting himself from the pleasure shaking his spine like a tree in a rough storm. He wanted Vistri to find ecstasy at least once before giving into his.

Running her hands along his chest and stomach made him almost whimper. Vistri licked his earlobe and kissed his ear before whispering, “I lied. I actually adore you, and want you all the time.”

Roughly, he pushed her down into the sofa. He wrapped a big hand around her delicate neck and held it firm, like a brace. Slowing his thrusts to an unbearably slow pace. A teasing rhythm.

“Do you adore me now?” he asked. It was impossible for even Astarion to tell if he was asking out of seduction or sincerity.

“Even more,” she promised.

A devious smile tugged at the corner of his lips, “Turn around.”

After tucking pillows, and his old shirt, under Vistri for a better angle, Astarion playfully bounced his hard cock against her ass. They both laughed at the smack, but grew serious as he began to touch her from behind. She rocked back into his palm so deliciously he had to angle himself against her. With a slight push, he was covered to the hilt. They shivered in tune with each other. Vistri felt ripped open at his thrust; his hands firmly holding onto her hips grounded her.

She reached back for one of them, and his finger twisted around one of hers as they met.

He froze, “Is this still what you want?”

“It is all I want,” she answered, caressing his finger.

Even though Vistri couldn’t see his smirk, she could hear it, “Then let’s give the others an update on our whereabouts.”

He roughly pumped his hips, angling deep.

“Astarion!”

He wanted them to hear it, everyone her voice could reach; hear the news that she was his. Going faster made her louder.

“Astarion! ” 

“Yes,” he groaned, as he felt her tightening around him, “Yes.” It was a word he wasn’t used to meaning, and the truth of it felt like the sun tingling like home on his skin.

Gasping through the edges of death, in unison, too quickly, they cried out.

Astarion wanted to see the stars, and there they appeared behind both their eyes. They never really knew why it was called a little death before they met. It became clear the first time they transcended flesh and spirit together under the thrall of an all-consuming ecstasy. In that bliss, they were gone from the world, and in coming back to it, were reborn into their shaking embrace.

He rocked his hips gently, even when there was nothing left to spill into her. Just because he didn’t want the moment to pass yet.

As Astarion sat back on his knees, Vistri turned around and covered his face with a flurry of breathless, grateful pecks. He chuckled, and wrapped his arms around her. Vistri threw hers over his shoulders too and pulled him tighter.

“Never leave me alone again,” she half-joked.

Astarion was so happy his words had a sobbing laugh under them, “Oh, I’m never leaving you alone again!”

They squeezed each other even closer at the same time. Never wanting to let go.

Miraculously, nothing got on the couch. So all they had to clean off was each other. After freshening up, they crawled into their bed. Which wasn’t really their bed. It was rented. But, unless tents and bedrolls counted, this bed was the first sort of home they’d claimed together.

“This is my favorite part,” she said as she nuzzled into his chest.

“What are you talking about?”

Vistri hummed happily and sighed, running her fingers along his arm, “This.”

Smiling, he bent to kiss her head. She gave another happy hum.

“You’re perfect,” she said.

“No, I’m not,” he chuckled, shaking his head.

Looking up, she poked him on the nose and refuted his denial, “Yes, you are!”

Astarion smirked and made a show of trying to bite her finger. Vistri squealed, laughing.

“No, don’t bi—”

A series of loud, rapid bangs on the door snatched them from their lighthearted moment, and instinctively, they got ready to fight. Each made a protective gesture over the other. Astarion sat up and pulled her closer by the waist, as she positioned her body in front of his.

Drunken shouts answered them before they could call out and ask who was there.

“—en it!”

“‘S’locked! ”

“OY! WHY’S THE DOOR SHUT?!” That would be Karlach.

Vistri smirked at Astarion.

Brow raised, he remarked, “Looks like this time, we forgot to unlock the door.”

She snickered, “Ready to let them in?”

He made a show of thinking about it for a moment as kicks and insults shook the door, “Hmmm, I don’t know. I think we should make them wait.”

The burst of laughter that left Vistri was loud enough for the others to notice, and the muffled shouting now included their names.

Astarion rolled his eyes and got out of bed, “You’ve done it now, love.”

As he walked to the door, he took a look back at Vistri, who had sunk back into their bed, holding her sides in a laughing fit. He felt as free as she sounded, and so full of happiness Astarion couldn’t feel his feet on the ground.

Vistri was wearing his old shirt. She’d insisted on changing into it when they got dressed. Telling him she didn’t want to spend a second without him wrapped around her.

The sight made him smile so broadly his cheeks ached.

[incorrect-ikevamp-quotes]

Man. How did I forget that an entire subplot of Dazai's main story was just. Trying to trap him into having a single conversation with MC like a normal person I'm so akhdjgfkljshgskjd

I just love watching her, Arthur, and Isaac deadass plot with glee to get one over on Dazai it's killing me, this is some Hamlet level shit (no Charles do not stand behind the curtain to kill Dazai coming in the window!!! yamero!!!!!)

Also because I felt personally attacked (/j) when Isaac said this:

I love you Isaac but pls have mercy on creatives we only have one brain cell and we're trying s o hard oTL

Although, and I'll leave it under the cut since I'm back on my Comte-posting, but the way Comte talks about Dazai fascinates me. Also just as fair warning, I do broach a lot of the topics that come up in Dazai rt so trigger warnings for self-harm, suicide, CPTSD and PTSD, trauma, etc. I don't go too too in-depth, but they are there.

Comte: "Dazai is quite skilled at concealing what he's really feeling, even from himself, perhaps."

The way he instantly remarks on how Dazai is not only working to conceal what he feels from others, but also from himself. Tbh I think that's enormously perceptive, because at first glance most people tend to think Dazai is lazy, troublesome, flippant, or erratic (and sometimes, a combination of all of these).

I love that he sees to the core of who Dazai is and what he's feeling; fear. Dazai is afraid of hurting someone again, but I also think on some level he's made it an ontological problem; he's afraid of himself. He thinks his very existence is a negative entity, something that exists only to hurt and/or estrange other people, something wrong/different. I'd argue that's why he's so adamant about mood-making and keeping to himself. If you never express how you truly feel or live true to yourself, on some level you can't entirely reach others. Because fundamentally, being close to other people does require some level of lowered defenses and sharing. Ergo, never dwell too long or give too much of yourself away, never make a mark on anyone--good or bad.

As a side note, Theo calls him "a half-strewn dandelion puff" and I agree that's rather blunt, but on some level Theo operates on a level of utility. His entire operating precept is that life and work must serve a discrete purpose. And Dazai, in choosing to opt out of living with meaning/intent out of fear, makes this description entirely consistent with Theo's perspective of the world. Though his phrasing is harsh and perhaps one-dimensional, I do find it interesting that he comes to a similar conclusion as Comte as to what Dazai is doing.

Comte talks about it with such clarity and calm, he really does feel so parental in this moment. He's not necessarily minimizing the reality of how Dazai is experiencing the world, but he also clearly doesn't agree with Dazai's self-perception. Perhaps most striking to me is how Comte seems to understand that the only threat Dazai poses is to himself...Sometimes it feels like, in the case of conditions like mental illness/depression/etc. people are so eager to assume ill will of a person. This is only exponentially compounded if they prove to have striking intelligence and strategic capacity, the same way Dazai does. I guess I can't help but appreciate that Comte knows the difference between strong and scared, and even how the lines between the two can and often do blur (perhaps best exemplified in his relationships with Jeanne and Dazai).

(Side note: I forgot which event it was but, one time when Dazai was homesick for cherry blossom watching, Comte had the entire house filled with flowers to cheer him up [insert ugly sobbing]).

For someone so enigmatic, evasive, and distant, Comte still notices instantly that Dazai is much, much happier with MC. I suppose it makes me wonder if Comte knew all along that Dazai's real wish was to be accepted and loved as he was, but kept quiet out of respect for his privacy. I would offer too that sometimes people need to realize these things on their own for the information to have value.

But what really gets my ass is what Comte says right after:

This is my bread and butter (so is he but that's not the point of this particular TED talk). In the last few years I've done a lot of exploratory work on how trauma is mapped both internally but also visibly on the body. What I think is engaging here is that, while it could be read on a surface level as "body language gives people's true intentions away" I don't think that's quite what he's getting at. Or perhaps better phrased, it's an oversimplification. I don't think it's that body language can't communicate real and important information about people's lives. Rather, that people associate rigid and absolutist interpretations to singular mannerisms, which does a disservice to both parties. Nobody can know a person at a glance; to say that you do reduces the lived reality of the opposite party.

Comte gives simple examples and couches his words for the context of the moment, but I think that first line is incredibly telling. "But the body is remarkably truthful." It makes me think of how, in moments where Comte is overcome with anxiety as a result of traumatic recurrence, he has acute panic attacks (i.e. shortened breath, racing heart, trembling). How Leonardo's lethargy (i.e. napping on the floor everywhere like the hobo he is) belies the reality of his very real exhaustion, the emotional turmoil that comes with a fraught immortal life.

Dazai's endless struggle with dissociation and self-harm, the way he stood in the rain unmoving at the thought of MC returning home to the modern era. Whether to numb himself from the pain of that grief/loneliness, or perhaps more likely the self-immolation of subjecting himself to the re-enactment of the most harrowing moment of his life. To relive that anguish as a reminder; to abstain from making the same mistake ever again. Jeanne's endless bodily tension, struggles with basic self-care (appears to be interoception-based; reduced signalling of the need to eat/rest/etc.), and self-isolation to cope in a world where only the strong survive. Never safe, always alone, always defensive.

I think, for many people in general but especially people who have been through intense PTSD/CPTSD/etc., it can be hard to express these feelings directly. Whether they are forcibly silenced, ridiculed into self-derision/self-concealment, or are overwhelmed by emotions that are difficult to process--each manifests itself in unconventional ways. It means a lot to me when those phenomena are portrayed so sensitively in written works/media, that they're explored with real intention and narrative subtlety to communicate how hard it is for people who are wounded or simply different (or both, as often is the case).

Addendum:

Even more than that, and this is an observation at the end of Dazai's route, is Comte's open belief that life is something to be cherished. Of course, like any other person he has behaviors he won't abide and people he doesn't feel partial to, but by and large he doesn't take life lightly. Perhaps that's why he doesn't expect Dazai to resort to such measures again, in conjunction with the circumstances of his transition. From an outsider perspective, I could see how Comte might assume Dazai no longer wishes for that if he seemed to regret his initial course of action by seeking resurrection. There is also the implication that Dazai is always at war with himself, and therefore might give contradictory impressions; one moment he wants to live, the next he doesn't. This is precisely what led him to ask Charles for help to subdue his own 'cowardice.' (His terms, not mine. [bonks him]) There is a sizeable subset of s-word survivors who, after recovery, feel that their problems were actually solvable despite their despair in the moment.

Of course, that doesn't apply to everyone, but I think there's something to be said of Comte feeling such real affection for the mansion boys that he is stricken to find out what Dazai attempted. And perhaps unsurprisingly, very adamant to keep him from ever pursuing such a course of action again. He's incredibly vulnerable about his horror that he might have inflicted something on Dazai that he never wanted in bringing him back, though Dazai comfortably refutes any lack of agency in the situation.

I guess I feel very compelled by the duality inherent in Comte's glass heart, precisely because of how realistic it feels. His greatest strength is his sensitivity, but it's also his greatest weakness in tandem. His genuine care for Dazai--the unwavering belief that his life is valuable and worthy--ends up being the reason he doesn't anticipate Dazai's rather deeply entrenched self-loathing. And to be honest, I'm a bit inclined to agree; looking back on a third reading Dazai feels way too hard on himself. It feels like the young girl's death was more a catalyst for what Dazai was already feeling, than anything. Dazai wanted so badly to have a reason to despise himself (as he already disliked how different and out of place he naturally felt) and with this, his self-reproach could have a viable, rational explanation. A locus outside of his body by which to rationalize his self-hatred. Accident or not becomes irrelevant; he was involved, and thus he is guilty.

He reminds me a lot of that post that was circulating once about how cultish behavior inculcates intelligent people with more devastating pull than one might expect, because intelligent people can more easily and more insistently find ways to desperately rationalize their situation to function in that whirlpool of abuse. Dazai feels like he's in this same such Catch-22, so busy believing he deserves to be scorned (because of how well he hides his perceived abnormalities) that he takes steps to ensure and reinforce it. He wants and needs to see his reality make sense, and if it won't answer his designs he will find a way to make it so.

It fascinates me because Dazai is an incredibly complex example of someone who desires control, but instead of inflicting it with external rapacity, he targets his own internal state. I once heard a Buddhist explain: yes, it is a sign of disturbance to engage with others aggressively and without grace. However, it is also a sign of disturbance when the mind seeks to harm one's own body. Although Dazai's disturbance is not as apparent, it is there. And that's part of what makes him so excruciatingly compelling to me, in a lot of ways he is the manifestation of the Sisyphean suffering of being ill in a quiet way. In enduring and smiling and laughing because you don't want to burden others--or know you're not allowed to--all while you slowly bleed from the inside out.

[jinxedyaart]

A Little too Similar part 1

Pairing: Genji Shimada x NB! insert (Self-insert uses any Pronouns + has a pussy) Slight Mercy x Genji

Genre: fluff, angst, Romance, smut/NSFW

Summary: After the second reunited Overwatch was announced once again to the world, They find a message sent from an unknown source claiming wanting to help rebuild Overwatch and fight willingly against common enemies. Finding out that a young lady is running the business that the shimada's feel a little too close to home.

CW: CPTSD, Panic attacks, Suicide, Mentions of death, Provocative actions or phrases, Trauma dump/Bonding, Slight Obsession, Massive Depression disorder, Grieving, gore, bit OoC

A/N There's a slight Mercy x Genji at the start as it's mostly pinning from genji and just mercy trying to be nice but also kinda likes him as well. Insert is Afro-latinx with Siren powers (not water powers just hypnosis with singing and claws, like syndel from MK mixed with milena)

Chatter filled the halls of the watch point, sometimes mechanical whirlling and occassional buzzes of the electrical screwdriver against different machines or vehicles. Down to loud banging and sizzling of torches to mend back broken metal. To someone whom wasn't accustomed to it, might find it to be an annoyance. All these noises can cause a bit of overstimulation on the senses but Genji grew used to it as he too made similar noises from his body from time to time. Instead he found it to be more of a welcome challenge everytime he meditated alone. Finding comfort in it instead. He mindlessly made his way to his room, wanting a bit of meditation before whatever hits his day. Wanting a small sliver of peace first..

He opened his room door, looking around to make sure nothing had been tampered with from his absence. Moving forward to enter the room, turning slightly to close the door behind him, enjoying his privacy. In a simple breath, he sat down in the middle of his room. Crossing his legs, placing his right hand on his thigh, while the other was in front of his chest. Allowing his mind to go in complete silence....

Beautiful

Graceful

Peaceful

Silen- KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

"Genji! You in there? Winston callin' us Inna meeting. Says it's for all of us."

Cole persists with banging on the door awaiting an answer behind the door. With a sigh, Genji gets up, opening the door coming face to face with a slightly amused cowboy.

"I had a feeling Athena wasn't able to snap you outta that little meditation of yours."

He chuckles softly at the thought of Athena trying to get genji's attention. He turns in the direction of the conference room and begins walking, expecting genji to follow. Which he did with no hesitation not that far behind Cole. Genji started to speak, deciding to keep up with the conversation.

"Sooo do you have any idea on what exactly this is about?"

He questions as Cassidy ponders it for a moment to remember if Winston did ever explain but just shrugged his shoulders...

"No not exactly."

Or maybe he just wasn't exactly paying attention and that's the reason he couldn't answer genji.

The pair carry on through the halls, Cole mindlessly guiding genji to their destination in silence. Taking in the other sounds around them. Cole stops, opening the door in front of him. Finally arriving to the conference room, heads turn in the direction of the noise while Winston stands clapping his hands together with a smile

"Ah finally! Genji and Cole are here, we can get started!"

They both sit in their respective seats. Genji next to a restless Lena rocking back in forth in her seat with a smile, Reinhardt on the other side of him. While Cole sits between Angela and Brigette whom are both focused on Winston.

Winston moves his chair away from the table, pressing a few buttons on it bring up a few faces and news articles along with it. He starts the run-down of this "mission"

"We've been contacted by a family run "organization" whom claims they want to assist us against Nul Sceptor and Talon. From all Intel I could gather about this so called organization are these."

He pulls closer a tabloid about this place, having it be called El Cielo de PR, run by a man whom called himself Fuego. It shows pictures of a man in his mid 20s assisting people with food, sending boxes of food to those in need, giving advice to those who ran from Null Sceptor and talon. In that same picture is him and two other people, a young girl no older than 10 and another male taller than the other two whom willingly helped the leader.

"They call themselves El Cielo de P.R which i believe roughly translates to the sky of Puerto Rico. They came into contact with null scepter a few times and same with talon, having a good stand against the two. From what ive gathered.. This is the leader with his younger siblings helping him with his plans."

He zooms in on the leader, noticing his height to be around 5'5 with long dark brown hair in a ponytail. A straight face pointed a bit upwards with his hands crossed over his stomach. Gangster like clothing and demeanor.

"They claim themselves to be an organization run by a family and not a cartel or anything gang like.. which I find a bit ironic to say the least."

He chuckles nervously as he shuffles through a few news papers about these people. Trying to find a better picture of the three, finally settling on one that had all three in a small home. Faces fairly visible in an old picture.

"Here is the second oldest"

Zooming into the face of a 5'11 man with glasses, short black hair and pimples covering a majority of his face with a nervous smile. A shy, simple thumbs up infront of his body.

"And the youngest sibling of the three."

Now it was a little girl sitting on some containers of food, hair nearly black and curly put up in a ponytail as well. Her legs were crosses over one another and hands both on her knees mimicking the eldest' expression. Glasses also on her face with two lost strands of hair. Prideful and serious in her expression.

"Now this tabloid is a few years old now, so I don't know if they had changed leaders but we will be meeting with them at a secluded area in which they control to assure safety of the meeting."

He closes the tabloids and puts his hands on the table. And with a serious tone he continues

"We will also proceed with max caution just in case. Only a few people will go in, making sure we stay in contact with base at all times. They also asked to speak with me specifically as they asked for the leader to chat with them."

Lena raises her hand and speaks out to Winston mostly but keeps the question open to anyone to answer.

"So where exactly will we be going to meet them and shouldn't we have a few people outside as well for a look out like a normal mission?"

Mei interjects with her own answer from across the table. Fixing her glasses and turning her attention to Lena then Winston.

"I think that will cause suspicion between us and what if they are truly trying to help. We need all the help we can get for this.."

Winston nods his head in agreement with Mei, turning his attention to Lena. Pulling up a few more tabloids about El Cielo, reading reasons as to why they've attacked other organizations around them.

"Mei's right. We can't treat this the same as a normal mission, they don't seem to be bad people or an evil organization that would do something like that unless we gave them a reason to. I mean haha, We have common enemies and they are willing to welcome us and give us aid."

Cole turns to Winston, raising his hand for a turn to speak.

"So if we won't treat this like a normal mission then whose going wit ya?"

Winston sits down in his chair, pondering for a moment. Who would he bring to back him up? Mei possibly but she can be a bit shy when it comes to conversations. Lena is a bit hyper for this but can be civil and control herself as well. Genji is calm and normally keeps to himself but also quiet when it come to combat. Echo as well would work.

"Well of course I'm going for this meeting.. Maybe genji and echo who might enjoy this. Anyone else can come along but I don't expect much trouble if we are civil with them."

They resume the topic having bits of conversations. Genji wasn't paying much attention to it, instead looking down at his hands a bit of unease. Why does this feel so familiar to him.. The little information and the 'happy family helping people'.. Was this a good idea? Then a distinct voice caught his attention

"Genji.. are you alright?"

Amongst the conversation was a small voice, slowly reaching out to him. He looks up to see Angela concerned over him, her hand outstretched to his shoulder slowly retracting it as she finally made eye contact with the cyborg. He scanned her face, noticing her worried look. He smiled a bit to see her looking at him but shook his head softly. Finally he starts to respond to her.

"Yes.. I'm-"

"Alright, this meeting will take place three days from now, more specifically on Friday in a small town of Massachusetts close to the Main city. I will keep in contact with El Cielo, making sure we both are on the same page. I will get started with a few pre-cautions. Angela, can you assist me as well?"

She nods turning her focus to Winston then back to genji mouthing a small 'talk to me later'.. He nods seeing her figure get up and leave to follow Winston out of the room. The others follow in turn with Cole turning back to him, flicking his hat up a bit pausing at the door.

"Ya comin?"

He looks up to the cowboy, slowly nodding his head. Gathering himself before walking to the door, passing Cole a slight before responding.

"Yes, again I am fine."

Genji straightens himself up before wandered down the halls a bit, trying to find a nearby door to the outside. Cole's eyes never leaving his figure as he closes the door to the conference room. Heading down to his own room.

[karrenseely]

Emotional Regulation

So I have CPTSD. Everything I've read mostly points to this being a lifelong condition (yay :P) that is incredibly difficult for all of us whom suffer from it. I know it has been for me. I honestly don't know if I'd have developed it if my parents had been loving, supportive, and understanding like they should have. Because, even if they had been, I would still have likely had many many years of gas lighting from society, them, and my extended family to be a gender other than what I was. And that takes its toll on anyone's psyche.

But who knows, maybe if they'd been really supportive, then I wouldn't have had years of thinking I was crazy or shameful, maybe I would have transitioned really young as soon as I could tell them they were wrong. Then all I'd have to deal with is some body dysphoria. But then even that can take its toll as well. So I really couldn't say if I was destined to have this incredibly difficult mental health condition or not.

Either way, I really wish I'd had the loving supportive family every child deserves. I really wish I didn't find my psyche shattering as I grew up, getting stuck repeatedly at every traumatic event that I can remember, and actively forgetting everything I couldn't along with most of my other memories. Such that now, my memories consist of shattered disorganized shards scattered over the floor, most of those shards long since missing. It's really difficult to live when all you really have is now.

People talk about their childhoods like there's this linear well established timeline in their memories. It was a long time before I realized this was the typical way people remember their past. That for most people, they can remember approximately when such a memory occurred, in sequence with another. Even now, this is so foreign to me. I remember things in disjointed pieces, any one memory is not connected to any other. And few, if any, are connected to a specific time that I can locate.

Then there is the ability to remember what you did yesterday, or last week, or even last month in day to day life. That it's hard to know what's happened and what's been done recently. This was particularly bad when I was dissociating all the time, fortunately, therapy has helped with that part, and I don't do it as much and I can remember more of my day to day life. But even now, there are still significant holes in my memories of adult life. And admittedly as I struggle through my current flare of CPTSD symptoms, I sometimes wish I could dissociate like I used to so that I don't have to feel all of this horrible stuff. It hurts like hell.

If someone created the universe, they must be one of the most sadistic assholes to have ever existed, making it so healing is so effing painful, much less making thinking feeling beings feed off of one another.

In this journey of trying to heal, I've encountered many people talking about how, when we were abused as children we didn't develop our emotional regulation skills like normal loved, unabused kids do. I always found these comments or suppositions confusing. In large part due to the fact that I don't really understand what emotional regulation means. As a child, trying to survive, the only thing that worked, that made things even remotely bearable was dampening down on emotions until I didn't feel hardly anything at all. I wasn't particularly good at this, I still had feelings but they were distorted hazy half hearted things that would escape out, usually as anger, irritability, sadness, often fear, sometimes even joy would get out. But none were fully formed, or fully embraced, because if I did, then the pain would be in full force, the shame, the horror I constantly felt at what I was going through. So I did my best to damp down my emotions to almost nothing, and dissociate as much as I could so that I didn't have to feel or atleast remember feeling all those horrible things I felt. And the plus side to dissociation is that you truly only live in the moment. You can forget so much that way. You can ride the bus to school, but not remember any of it, just one moment you're at home and the next, poof, you're at school, and the next, poof, it's time to go home again and get on the bus, and poof the next you're at home again... you get the idea.

Emotions when all of the above were unsuccessful and I felt them anyway, usually it was the really really bad ones. And they were felt at 120% full blast. It was either 10 mph, or 120 mph. No inbetween. But people who talk about the ability to regulate emotions describe it as having inbetweens. Not having to feel the full blast, but not suppressing it completely either.

For the longest time when I encountered that phrase around emotional regulation, my mind just skittered past it, as it didn't make any sense to me. But I found myself thinking about it a couple months ago. And some kind fellow people with CPTSD pointed me to links that helped to explain the concept... except, those links were mostly just confusing. And unfortunately, my brain interpreted them as, "you are deficient, you're inability to regulate is your fault." Which didn't help. I honestly don't know if those explanations actually implied that, but it's what it felt like. Maybe because I didn't understand what they were saying.

Then... recently I returned to work, full time. And an interesting, if sucky, thing happened. I was fine at work, I could joke, I could laugh and have fun with coworkers and feel empathy for my patients and basically function somewhat like a typical human being in what I imagine is a healthy fashion. But as soon as I left work and went home, I had no energy left to keep the intrusive memories and emotions in check. And I would immediately start to crash. Spiraling down the rabbit hole of all those horrible memories. Nothing had specifically triggered them, it's just I ran out of spoons and they took over. I'd used up all my spoons at work.

Obviously, I'd overestimated my ability to return to full time work, but also it felt like there was an insight here. And it came down to my emotional bandwidth. If I had enough emotional energy, enough spoons, then minor triggers that normally would have lead me back down that lovely negative spiral, wouldn't actually set me off, and I could continue to function. And this was the neat part, I could continue to function without having all my walls slam down and turn everything numb. But, if I run out of that energy, if I run out of those spoons, then any little thing can set me down that self destructive spiral.

And the more I've thought about this, the more I think this is what people mean when they talk about emotional regulation. That most people have a large fount of this emotional energy to buffer against the extremes. And thus can handle day to day joys, stresses and hurtful things without completely falling apart. If this is the case then I guess I've developed some emotional regulation after all, though it's limited.

But why is it so limited? Why didn't I have any before? And the more I look at it. I see it in terms of bandwidth, energy, and/or spoons. Before, when I was having to live in survival mode, all of my emotional energy was being used to just survive. I was constantly in fight or flight. There was no energy to spare for nuance. My bandwidth was incredibly limited because so much of it was taken up with just surviving from one day to the next, with constant vigilance. But when we are no longer in those situations, and just as importantly, when we are not constantly flashing back to those situations, we start to have that bandwidth become available for the nuance. We can start feeling things in between because we have the energy to do so. It's no longer entirely about survive or die.

And that's the worst part about flashbacks. Even though I'm no longer in that constant life or death situation, those flashbacks have me believing I am. And contrary to popular media's depiction of flashbacks, most of the time it's not getting stuck in a living visual memory of an event. No, the vast majority of those flashbacks are emotional flashbacks. Getting stuck in the feelings of the event, the feelings I couldn't suppress anymore, the constant feeling of being in danger, of having my life, my very existence threatened, which brings on the constant sense of danger, of fight or flight. Which means, no emotional energy for anything else, except the extremes. Everything in my life currently can be perfectly fine, safe, wonderful even. But if I'm stuck in an emotional flashback, none of the current circumstances matter, because I'm emotionally back in survival mode, feeling constantly threatened, trying to survive, trying to decide if I need to fight or run. And if I'm stuck there... then there isn't any emotional energy left for anything else.

The really effing sucky part, is that often I don't know I'm in an emotional flashback until after it's gone away, and I can see looking back that how I was feeling didn't fit at all with what was actually happening at the time. I reacted to an outside observer in a rather extreme, or worse in a completely irrational manner. But then when I'm in the middle of it, I guess it's understandable that I have a hard time recognizing it, as all my energy is directed towards surviving, towards keeping the pain and my fears at bay.

So maybe emotional regulation is just having enough emotional energy to filter the experiences you're having into a much more nuanced pattern, rather than having to sort things into binary extremes of bad, not bad. And if that's the case, then maybe, just maybe, I am healing, because I'm starting to free up some of my bandwidth to start sorting out the nuances... even if I can't quite identify what those nuances are yet.

[ladyduellist]

Epistles of Saints & Sinners

Chapter Summary:

After Tav gleans information about a hunter looking for Astarion, tempers flare over a discussion.

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Story Summary:

When Astarion meets the humble bard, Tav, he soon finds out he's the only one between them that knows they are bound as soulmates through their marks. Deciding it's more trouble than its worth, he refuses to tell her along the course of their journey across Faerûn.

But, unbeknownst to him and their companions, Tav is harboring a gruesome secret that she only thought was nothing more than a traumatized period in her life.

As they both come to face to face with their pasts and presents, will they choose to move forward or let it consume them?

Healing isn’t linear—after all.

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Chapter 11: Prey

Ao3

Next Chapter

Previous Chapter

Main Page & Chapter List

Word Count: 5.5k

Pairing: Astarion x female bard Tav

CW: Sexual Language, Blood, Slight CPTSD, Cazador, Act 1 Spoilers

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When it comes to considering your choices about who will best serve your final act, you must do so with a principled eye. There is nothing you cannot hold with the strength of your palms, if you prioritize your needs to exceed others. Tavelle is one such case. Happening upon her at the precise moment I knew I was meant for more in this life, must be have been my fate. I do love her—as much as any man could—I suppose. But, my ambitions are the mistresses that I will always love more.

— Algos, private journals 1477DR

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

She had invited a killer into her bed.

The fox that lured the songbird with his knifed teeth under a cunning smile. And, oh, did he deliver on his vow to pounce upon her when the time came. Filling her with perfect geometric precision. Gnawing at her skin until it bled into his mouth. Marking her body with his scent. Without mercy, did Astarion knead her flesh with his paws. Pulling. Teasing. Encouraging her to let go and live for their lust. An animalistic joining that tricked her senses until she ruptured with white hot visions.

Afterwards, Tav woke several times to find him vacant from her side. Once, she saw him pacing around the vicinity of their finished coupling, restless with thought. Another time, he was leaning back against the tree he had held her against, captivated by the glittering stars. Later, she caught him peeking at her through those plume-like lashes—she wanted to adore with kisses—attentively watching her.

And then came the rising sun that saturated his body. The only entity considered alive by the ancients that gave the vampire any sense of relief. He revered under its lustrous glow easier than a person dedicated to serving the Morninglord. It was possibly one of the few times the bard found the aged lines on his face to be ironed out over his cadaverous skin.

“Oh, petal. Are you looking for a potion to subdue a future quickening in your womb?”

Tav turned to face Ethel, breaking her sight from the overhanging herbs in the quaint shop. She suddenly felt weak as the blood left her face. A figment of an ache pierced through her lower abdomen. Did she know about—?

“Um. Excuse me?!”

“Pardon me for mentioning it, but Auntie Ethel can always sense these sorts of matters. Your lover’s scent is all over you! You had quite the busy night, didn’t you?” The old woman turned towards her table to sift through her collection of potions. “Let me see which of these will poison his seed.”

His scent?! Oghma be fucked sideways. Tav wanted to curl up inside herself and perish. Just how many people did she come into contact with today that were being oh-so-polite enough not to mention that she STILL smelled like sex and a godsdamned vampire!

The bard turned a deep shade of red, rivaling the fruits in the Daleland farms. She bit her inner cheek uncomfortably. “He didn’t even—I mean, no, I didn’t come here for anything like that. Hells. I was looking for scrolls. A ‘Scroll of Lesser Restoration’ to be more specific.”

Spells to fill her with renewed vigor after Astarion drank her blood. Ones that she would need to stock up on given both of their encouragements for him to feed on her. She could feel his fangs seducing her skin in her waking hours and the compliance of his bite that she pined for to experience a nearness she had only known since meeting him.

Ethel halted her fussing over the bottles. Tav briefly wondered what sort of concoctions were in each of them—considering how eccentric the brewmaker seemed to be. “I’m afraid I don’t have much here other than what you see. Tieflings bought up a majority of my potions and lotions, but if you ever need a special elixir to get someone on their arse, I can help you—for a price of course!”

“That’s right! They’ll be needing supplies for their upcoming journey in the future,” she nodded to herself remembering the group spoke about traveling soon. “Well, regardless, your help was much appreciated. I should probably check out another merchant here in the grove then. Please take care of yourself, Ethel.”

“Deary! Just one more thing before you head off,” Ethel grabbed Tav’s hand, squeezing it gently. “I don’t typically hand out information for free, but since this shitehead has loitered around far too long without giving me coins, there’s a hunter looking for a vampire spawn by my teahouse southwest of here. And since you have those fresh bite marks on your neck, you may wish to warn your sweetheart that trouble is afoot.”

Her heart started to race. “A vampire hunt—”

“That plausibly explains why the two of you left the forest this morning exactly 10 minutes apart from each other,” a familiar voice boldly announced.

In the bard’s peripherals, she noticed Shadowheart’s physique standing off to her side. Stony as usual.

She pressed a small donation of coins into the older lady’s palm. “My thanks Ethel. Excuse me while I go handle some mess I probably made.”

They stepped away from the strange woman’s canopied storefront. There was clearly an important subject pulling at the Sharran worshiper’s mind, but Tav knew to dismiss her concerns until Shadowheart was ready to offer her thoughts openly.

“Do carry on, I’m not one to judge,” the cleric grinned.

“Nor should you after what I saw you doing with Wyll last night,” Tav snidely remarked.

“Can you blame me? The man sure has a way with his tongue.”

The bard laughed at her cocky declaration and gestured for them to start roaming to a different section of the hallow.

There was a stark contrast of sounds that now filled the grove from when they first arrived. Music could be heard echoing off the halls of splendid columns of rock. Children ran around with gay frolics, no longer bearing the weight of their guardian’s anxieties or the fear they carried from their narrow vanishing act in Elturel. Peace had been obtained. Even should it only be temporary.

“Enough about my night. What about you and Astarion? How cozy did the two of you really get?” Shadowheart probed, following closely behind Tav.

Astarion. The name that made her stomach burst into a kaleidoscope of butterflies and surged her to pick off their wings simultaneously. A cursed word that stalled the process of her verses when it imprinted across her brain. An epithet calligraphed in each colony of her supple pale flesh, now an elegant bundle of scribbles penetrated inside of her aroused heat.

Tav was thoroughly smitten.

But, these admissions blurred lines. Astarion, for all his contemptuous sass, was right. They knowingly consented to be in each other’s bed. Though, she wondered if it really was so awful to yearn for his touch? For him to open one of the many pockets she had sealed shut to feel the sympathy and intimacy of another? Even should she continue to question if he sincerely wanted her companionship, wrangling his truth from those troubled garnet globes had put her at a stalemate. No, what they had—what they clung to—remained in the plane of circumstance.

She stopped abruptly, lifting her brow in curiosity at her inquisitor, clearly avoiding the topic. “I thought you had no interest in us becoming ‘friendly.’”

“I think after what we’ve been through thus far, trust is a bit unavoidable between the two of us. Besides, isn’t that how friendships start?”

They both smiled. The kind that had begun in a puddle of undistilled water, only to reverb with each dip of a raindrop.

“Knew you’d give in eventually,” Tav couldn’t help but tease, remembering how her first impression of Shadowheart had fallen rather flat. This was a welcome amendment.

The cleric leisurely planted her hands on either side of her hips. “Shush. Now answer the bloody question before I ask my Lady to inflict pain upon you to thrash out your answer,” she beamed mischievously.

“You can’t smell him on me?”

Shadowheart deadpanned her. “What in the realms are you talking about?”

Tav immediately felt shy. Her voice became soft-spoken. “Oh, uh, nevermind. But, to answer your question, we got…closer.”

“Closer. Uh huh. You’re hardly a celibate maiden. Have you also forgotten how much I value secrecy? Spill,” she smirked, most assuredly already knowing the answer.

We were intimate and it was beautiful.

We were intimate and it was confusing.

We were intimate and he seemed like he was withdrawn at times.

She swallowed down her doubts with a bright gleam and a coral shade creeping upon her ears. “Well, we ended up having sex last night.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard. Or maybe it was in Astarion’s case,” the dark haired beauty joked.

“Shadowheart! This is exactly why I had vowed to keep my trap shut,” the bard said mortified.

This was nice. A fresh start to their friendship already filled with laughter. Shadowheart had quite the different personality from Karlach. She possessed dry wit over the tiefling’s brazen humor, but it was a decent icebreaker to extend faith in her direction. They needed this; Tav needed this.

The only other person she developed a meager amount of trust in was Astarion. And even then, she questioned her ruling on that. She wanted to blend in, to give her companions a glimpse of her fragility and the cold nightmares she flew away from, but her wings were still so laden with scars beneath latticed barbules.

Straying to the world inside her, Avoiding the king of her hells. She’s damned if she does and damned if she doesn’t, It’ll all be over when the long night vanishes into the dawn.

“Do me a favor and keep this between us gals?” She apprehensively asked. “Karlach will figure it out on her own because she’s—well, Karlach—but I feel like it would mean a lot to Astarion if I kept details to a minimum.”

“Though, I suspect the others may think we’ve already been involved for quite some time,” she added under her breath.

Admiring Shadowheart’s posture, she watched her nod her elegant head in agreement. The woman always managed to be so poise and confident unlike the melancholic hum she kept stitched behind her breast.

“Oh, they certainly do. I think it was Gale that asked first if you two were sleeping together yet. He was quite flustered over the whole ordeal because he has some personal issues with our local biter—not in a love triangle jealousy sort of way—but those are for him to sort out,” the cleric shrugged.

She crumpled her forehead, continuing her thought. “But, to put your fears to rest, you need not even ask. What happens behind the flap of your tent with Astarion is your business. The only thing I’ll say is: be safe with him. There’s dangers that come with vampires, but he seems…frail under the surface. I don’t know how else to explain it.”

Shadowheart flashed her a concerned expression. Maybe the first Tav had truly seen from their mysterious devotee. She saw it too, his brittle self underneath the hedonistic facade.

“Now, aside from gossiping about our recent intrigues, I was actually looking for you to discuss an important matter. Do you have time to spare?”

Tav refocused on Shadowheart. “Hmm? Yes, I do. Come with me while I search for some scrolls? We can talk on the way.”

“Perfect. I’ll get right to it. Gale mentioned the conversation you both had with Halsin about a Temple of Shar in the Underdark. If—if there’s any possibility this has to do with Dark Justiciars, I will need to go there as soon as possible,” she assertively announced.

“Dark Justiciars? I vaguely know about them. Actually, there’s a fair bit I don’t know about worshippers of Shar—save for rumors.”

Shadowheart looked around them carefully, a degree of caution present by her mannerisms. “Here, connect with my tadpole. It’s safer this way. People are typically hesitant towards those that take up with the Mistress of the Night.”

Minds connected. Voices vibrated in echoes off their brains as the worms wriggled around in excitement, as if they were at a playground.

”Dark Justiciars are the most elite society of faithful to our Lady. It is an absolute honor should you be called upon to enter this sect of the priesthood. I have been preparing my whole life to become one, but my mother forbade it. Not my actual mother, but the Mother Superior in Baldur’s Gate.”

”I can imagine how important this would be to you then. What of the dangers? Anything we would need to worry about beforehand?”

There was a sudden hiccup in their link due to Shadowheart hissing in pain. “Ow! It hurts! Sorry—this is an old wound. I’m not sure why, but my Lady placed it there.”

The bard’s eyebrows knitted sympathetically at the blotted blemish on her hand. “As this may be none of my concern, understand when I say this, I do so because I care, but, that’s kind of screwed up to place on a worshiper if that’s true.”

The Sharran cleric paused as if to reassure herself. “I do not question the fate our Dark Lady has in store for me—not that I would know anyways. My memories have been heavily suppressed. The only thing I remember is the mission to steal the artefact from the gith with the group I was with; I’m the only one that made it out alive.”

Tav was unsure how to answer. Shar seemed to be a sinister deity dressed up as liberation for those following a path of nihilism: a religious cult of voided emotions. Except, by the time the goddess had the pious within her clutches, they were near husks of their former selves.

“And that dream visitor from the prism seems to be helping keep our transformation at bay from what we’ve gathered. I trust you will keep it safe in the meantime?” Tav canvassed, placing a hand on Shadowheart’s shoulder.

“With my life.”

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

The hum lingered from her mouth like fresh humidity on a summer's eve.

Tav tapped her finger on the spread map from their present location in camp, down to the assumed position of Ethel’s home, measuring a likely distance. The vampire hunter needed to be confronted swiftly before a stake was driven through Astarion’s chest and his fangs kept as a souvenir. It would be smarter to approach said foe during the highest point of the sun, since it was probably not common knowledge their vampire was now able to walk in the daylight.

A mighty hunter came, With quiver and bow for his game. Through the spaces of bones they empierce, To feed on the hunted riches so fierce.

Around two days worth of travel, She thought wearily. Someone has a target on him, but who? Cazador? The family of an old victim?

Depending on the answer, was she prepared to take his side in the matter? Shouldn’t the loved ones of his past sacrificial lambs be justified in holding Astarion to a jury of the people? Who was anyone to tell them no? To dismiss the everlasting grief they would take to their own coffins for a lover she barely knew.

But, all these actions were commanded in the name of the bishop of blood: Cazador Szarr. He was the one to send the spawn away on his tyrannical missionary work. Blessing them with rat’s essence swishing in their bellies. Promising, always promising, he would allow them to feed on their master.

Astarion had no will—no choice—to enact on his own. Cazador’s brand was imprinted in their veins to ordain them with the master’s ownership before worshiping him with tithes of victims. Having a moral conscience meant nothing when someone was in control of the hunk of pulp and sinews that was your body. It was bade to fuck, capture, and think only for their exalted master.

And then, there were other parts of Astarion that stole her breath away. His curls of evening stars that she climbed upon with the galactic swirls of her fingertips. The man whose odes of affections stuck to her like crystallized honey. He who she continued to search for in the sea of shades.

She realized all of these notions—these damnable thoughts—ended in one question that tightened around her, cutting off her circulation: Would she kill for him?

“There you are my little treat.”

A familiar pair of hands, ones that murdered her with tiny deaths in the moonlight, encircled around her waist, spinning her around.

The vampire held her close, moving his mouth closer to hers, before changing direction to place a sloppy kiss to the side of her neck.

“I’d wondered where you ran off to. It’s been a little over half of a day and I missed your face already. Have you resumed your escapades as ‘the hero of the wilds’ or did my quirks frighten you away?” He murmured gleefully into her skin with a sly grin.

She suddenly felt bashful. Wanted by him. Every negative misgivings she ever had about his feelings towards her washed away, leaving her with buckled knees. When he placed his hand on her lower back, perching his pads on the warm skin there as if she belonged to him, she silently masked her nervousness.

Her hands found his biceps to rest upon, lightly gasping as he placed another playful peck on her lobe. “Mmm. I—I missed you too,” she replied faintly under her breath.

“Tell me about your day.”

“There’s a smith we met named Dammon in the grove that is willing to help cool Karlach’s engine if we find more infernal iron. ‘Starion, she looked so happy at the prospect of being able to touch someone again. I wish you could have been there to see.”

“Well, good for her and the bedfellow she may snap in half!” He said merrily, stumbling further into her.

“Are you alright?” She asked grinning at his fumble. “Oh, while I have you here, there’s something I need to—wait, are you drunk? I’ve never seen you so…chipper!”

He giggled. Actually fucking giggled like a child being tickled to death. “I have drunk. A lot. Would you believe that I found a bear to drain all of his blood from? Don’t worry, I’m sure it wasn’t one of those druids playing animal dress-up—or at least I hope. Can never be too sure with those leaf shitters. Ha!”

Tav laughed with him, smelling the fresh soaps in his hair. “I didn’t know vampires could get drunk or whatever this might be called. Vamprunk? Undrunk?”

“You’re truly the most insufferable woman,” he lifted up to look at her with a pout.

The songstress chuckled softly. She noticed his cheeks and ears had a light dusting of frosted pink on them. “So, a bear’s blood not only got you drunk, but also caused your skin to react with this adorable mortal shade?”

“Adorable? I am a beautiful and sensuous vampire; not a shawl you’ve knitted together,” he tutted. He leaned down to nuzzle his lips in the hollow of her throat. “But, I will say this, a bear will never compare to the vintage delicacy of your blood.”

Tav sighed, running strands of silvery-white through her hands. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to play with your food?”

She could feel him opening his mouth to suck on her peach-like flesh. The flat of his tongue laid around the zone he wanted to worry with a few very slow preliminary licks.

“And hasn’t anyone ever told you that a prey that sings your name from their lips is worth the hunt?” He drawled, as if the answer itself didn’t even need a question to proceed it.

With an eager-like magic rising up, the length of his half-erect cock rubbed into her thigh. Her breath hitched when memories of him sliding the crown of it against her aching clit filled her thoughts. Gods, he was out to destroy her. And she would allow him to do so. Anything to feel this longing inside of her sated by his closeness.

He suctioned her skin into his mouth, suckling bursting blood vessels to the surface, leaving a bruised mark. His mark in an area everyone would surely point out. She shivered thinking about belonging to him in this way. Belonging to him at all. Tav reacted by pulling tufts of his hair, earning her a growl. The tadpole swam around in a frenzy from her roused craze, nearly begging her to connect with his own.

A forced heavy cough interrupted them. Astarion stopped his patronage to her neck glancing over at a very stern looking githyanki shaking her head at them.

“Ah, Lae’zel. Did you want to join in? I’m sure your taste has quite spice to it,” he jested, straightening his posture.

“I will not repeat myself on keeping those teeth of yours away, Astarion.” Her golden eyes flickered between him and the blushing bard still hanging onto his arm for support. “He tears apart your flesh and now your body? Had he not already made his claim for your blood, I may have chosen to take you for my own. Now, if you mean to mate, go elsewhere to feast so I can meditate in peace. This is not a suggestion.”

Tav ducked her head into his chest in humiliation. She could feel his chest rumble when he spoke again. “Don’t worry sweetheart. We’ll be sure to come gather your freckled cuddly self up if we decide to make love on a pile of corpses. I know you wouldn’t want to miss out on the fun!”

Lae’zel shot him a final warning by running her index finger across the expanse of her throat, as if to threaten him with a finality to his undeath should he continue. She returned to her tent, ignoring his afterthoughts casted at her, without another word.

“Well, I should at least be grateful it wasn’t her I started flirting with in that temple instead of you. I’m sure I’d have a leash around my throat and serve as her personal footstool by now. Happy accidents!”

Tav reflexively slapped his arm jokingly. “I may have considered coming to save you from your misery.” She stepped back a few inches from him, biting at her lip circumspectly. “Shadowheart and probably Karlach know. I guess Lae’zel now too. Probably everyone else, if we’re being honest about this—ahem—us.”

The spawn grabbed her chin gently, his head tilted. “Darling, your body is doused in my scent. They would be bigger imbeciles than I originally imagined if they didn’t pick up on that fact alone.”

She smiled fondly at him.

He wasn’t embarrassed by her.

What a wonderful feeling.

“Ethel said the same thing earl—oh gods! Of course. Come here,” she turned back around to stare down at the map on the table, pointing towards a location. “Tomorrow morning, we will start heading here. And you will need to come with me this time.”

Astarion moved to stand next to her. “If we’re headed down there to collect some ridiculous item because so and so’s mother’s cousin’s father liked them, then I would rather spend my day actually trying to persuade Lae’zel to let me bite her.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “I wish it were as simple as that, but we unfortunately may have an issue on our hands—concerning you.”

“The attention is on me for once? Now I’m intrigued. Go on,” he smirked.

Her head turned to focus on him while he still studied the map. “Do you remember that elderly woman, Auntie Ethel? When I was out shopping, she approached me about a hunter searching for you near her teahouse. It seems they’ve only been there for a short time, but Astarion, do you know of anyone that may have discovered your location so quickly?”

The habitual breathing he kept at a constant, ceased. Muscles visibly strained in his neck. Tav noticed his jaw clamped tightly shut, enough to fracture the ivory of his teeth. Bead-sized drops of sweat surfaced at his temple.

“Cazador. ”

“Your former master,” she affirmed. Tav tried to remain calm, as she watched Astarion become paralyzed with fear and an overwhelming desire to exact his revenge. “So, we’re possibly dealing with a hunter-for-hire situation.”

“Honestly, I expected one of his lackeys to show up much sooner,” he commented harshly.

Concerned for his mental state, she placed a caring hand on top of his that had been plastered against the map. He flinched, pulling away from her immediately. Scarlet eyes rapidly swarmed at nothing in particular as he started to pace uncomfortably.

“You know, for the first time in my very shitty existence as a puppet, I obtained and earned the freedom to do as I please. And I can’t get there without first becoming powerful enough to grind Cazador to dust. Having power will give me everything I need! I’m embracing our squirmy tenants for all their worth,” he muttered almost in a daze.

Tav’s heart clenched tightly. Memories don’t easily fade away, not after years of loss and torment. The road had bushes of nettles that scraped against anyone that searched for respite with each step forward. It contained unexpected hardships that caused those who sought analeptic blessing, to falter back to the comforts of living in the shadows of their trauma.

Sometimes, it was easier to claw out one’s own grave than face the ghosts that put them there.

Her voice was soft like rabbit’s fur. “I understand you’ve been through unimaginable strife being under Cazador’s command—you do deserve what’s best for you—but do you think having power is the end all be all answer? I’m not referring to using such a thing against him, in particular, but in the general sense.”

Astarion halted all at once, contorting his brow in her direction as if she asked him a dumb inquiry. “Well, of course! Look at the world around you dearest and tell me I’m wrong. It wasn’t the champions of the Sword Coast or deities that came to my rescue: it was mind flayers.”

He wasn’t wrong. But, still—

“Exalting power for power alone leads down a bastardized road most won’t return from. You will never live the life you deserve if you decide to go down it. And you have the right to claim much more than what that path could grant you. But, right now, you can choose to live a better life,” she challenged.

“The better life I deserve? You mean as in pet bunnies and that sort of thing. I won’t object to being nice, but only after I have the power to bend others to my will,” Astarion sneered.

“I know that seems objectively tempting, but there’s different kinds of power that will provide you with an actual life instead of walking the tightrope of an autocrat. You can grasp power through learning about yourself, healing, finding things you truly care about. The list is endless,” she continued patiently, attempting to reason with him.

He laughed mockingly at her, shaking his head in disagreement. “Well, that sounds much less fun! These tadpoles can help us influence others: manipulate them to do as we please. They could help us with far more than we’ve even scratched the surface on. It was a gift given to us and I’d rather stick to a power well-received instead of wasting it on cheap tricks.”

What was this? She folded her arms against her chest—a natural gesture to guard herself from unpleasant discussions—deep in her process of thought. Astarion had no one by his side in over 200 hundred years. He was forced to live in the sickness inside. All he saw was the trajectory of power and the tilled promises of its vile seeds. A consistent fact that has proved to be true in his former darkened world since time immemorial.

She had this conversation before. In a previous life; a different situation. And she could feel that sticky clamminess seducing the baby fine hairs at the nape of her neck. He was here, as was his wont to show up when her past wounds wanted to be alive. Algos. With hushed tones, reminding her of why he chose her. Her role in his life. The crowned archfiend, burning flames in places he favored—her unwavering conviction most of all.

“Hells, what’s wrong now?” Astarion asked discontentedly, shaking her out of her onset neurosis.

“N—nothing. You just sound so much like him…,” she paused. “Be ready first thing in the morning.”

He reached out to grab her arm as she turned from him. “Hold on. Just like who?”

“Forget it. I screwed up saying that and I’m truly sorry. You’re not him. No one will ever be him. Goodnight Astarion.” Tears welled up in her ducts. She was unable to tell him. It was too vulnerable of a subject.

The tone in his larynx shifted to a balmy breeze and she could feel his thumb rubbing a relaxing circle over the sleeve of her shirt. “I asked who?”

“Who isn’t the problem; it’s what you’re saying,” she replied combatively, trying to dissuade him from pressing further.

“I can’t believe I’m actually going to indulge you on this, but why not save us the time and get straight to the point? You’re obviously dissatisfied with me.”

Tav felt ill. Unable to look him directly in the face. He wasn’t going to let this go and mayhaps he had every right not to. She unintentionally baited him with her comments and knowing Astarion’s innate penchant for dramatics, did not serve her well in the moment.

“Is that was this is between us?” Tav motioned back and forth with her hands. “Not a short-term amusement to take our minds off our troubles, like you said, but a con to use me as a pawn in your vision of power? Is that what we all are to you?”

Algos wanted to ascend beyond the cards dealt to him in life and he got it. He dragged everyone down with him into the pits of despair. Taking and taking and taking until those closest to him became shriveled up versions of themselves. Until the day was right for him to grasp that which was more precious to him than love, honor, or devotion: power absolute.

“Look at you, such a chatterbox tonight. Has the tadpole eaten away more of your brain? Your words, my sweet.”

She bristled under his intentional deflection. “You just gave me a speech about your desire to control others if the opportunity arose. What am I supposed to think? I don’t know what to believe with you sometimes.”

Releasing her arm, she noticed his lips twitching. He was upset. “Whatever is that supposed to mean?”

“Astarion, you pull me in with your overbearing charms, then you talk about things like this. Did you even listen to anything you said tonight? Using others for your own means? To get what you want, right? What happens to them be damned, right?” The bard’s blood was boiling and her emotions were scattered, whipping them out one after the other. “And, gods, we had sex last night! I let you fuck me because I stupidly thought you liked me. Despite the agreement we have and despite knowing the risks involved. I’m a fool. Maybe even a bigger fool for starting to feel—”

The vampire was unnervingly silent. His hand dropped away from her and he widened his eyes as her revelations spilled out.

Tav knew a part of her was projecting, but she also knew some of her concerns were warranted. All her earlier qualms about Astarion and her past she could never entirely escape from, blinded her. She had hungered like a madwoman for mutual intimacy, and here she was, finally lifting the veil for him to see a shred of what lies in the dusk of her heart, and it was leading to her own crucible.

“It would seem I’ve failed your morality checks for the night. All this bickering and we aren’t even officially lovers,” he responded cynically. “I’m not like you, songbird. I’m not the kindhearted fool running amok to cater to everyone’s needs. You already knew this about me before we slept together. But, if this has suddenly become a problem for you, then I’ll concede to your expert decision-making.”

Hells, what just happened?

Astarion wasn’t wrong; she did know about his unsavory idiosyncrasies. And yet, she still allowed him to crawl inside of her, gnashing his sharp canines, baying throughout her arteries. She stood before him in atrophy, ashamed and hurt, with a bullet lodged in her chest wondering if her decisions with him had been a mistake.

“I don’t know what happened to you in the past, but you’re right, I’m not him. So, Tav, I'll ask only once: what are we doing?”

She swallowed hard. “I—I don’t know.”

[roostertuftart]

Obligatory green hat kid ask

GOTTA do kyle yes ofc.

Ask meme

Sexuality Headcanon: I'm so divided on this for Kyle! Really love him being gay, but also I love making like. Every character bisexual for maximum shipping potential- Plus like!! Kyle being a biromantic demisexual makes me so happy :)) He's definitely demi for me no matter what!!! And I think he has a male preference if he is bisexual. I have the headcanon that he actually thought he was gay for a long time because he only really had crushes on his close friends, all of them being guys, until he becomes friends with like, Wendy or someone and realizes "oh shit, I like girls too???"

Gender Headcanon: Another thing I'm mixed on. But I think I'm leaning a binary man (I can see him as both cis or trans) and he doesn't really care about it that much. He seems extremely comfortable with his masculinity which has always been one of my favorites traits he has! Overall I just see him being mostly masculine presenting but not minding being gender nonconforming and not really being super troubled by the thought of gender or gender presentation. Like, oh, his friends are all cross dressing for fun? Sure, he'll join in just for the heck of it. But it's not something he thinks deeply about at the same time, if that makes sense. I like agender Kyle too :)

A ship I have with said character: My favorite favorite favorite ship with Kyle is Stendylenny but to go for more of the popular ones, style and K2 both are pretty good and I think about them often. I love Kyle's dynamic with those two! K2 is always really wholesome and loving and I really like how spicy and complicated style can be! I could go for like an hour listing off rairpairs and crackships I like for Kyle because he's so shippable, but some of my other favorites for him are cryle, kyndy, and one sided kyman

A BROTP I have with said character: Kyndy probably? When I'm not shipping Kyle and Wendy, I love them as best friends. There's this popular trend of them hating each other in the fandom and that's fine but I just cannot see it, they're so alike and they've only ever gotten along, you know? I think they'd be even closer as they got older, especially with how they've both shed a lot of their more toxic traits with time. Idk if it counts but Kyle and his relationship with Ike is also iconic and deserves way more attention.

A NOTP I have with said character: Kymannnnnn I'm sorry lol. Really love it one sided and I have had AUs and stuff where I've been able to stomach them both being romantically involved but overall something about the ship just tends to make me extremely uncomfortable. I can see the appeal but as I've said before, I just cannot fathom Kyle having returned feelings for Eric Cartman unless it was from some sort of fucked up trauma response, which is interesting for plot but if that's as far as it can go for me, I don't think I count as a shipper.

A random headcanon: Kyle has freckles supremacy!!! Also he's autistic and has cPTSD. And he gets a cat at some point even though he's lightly allergic.

General Opinion over said character: Favorite boy love him so much. I want to pick him up and throw him as far as I can

[traumasurvivorshelpingsurvivors]

seeking advice and support

what should i do if my support system is suddenly crumbling and I have no one to turn to? i have bpd and cptsd among other things and lately there's been a bunch of shit happening in my friend group that tore the group in half. another friend and I were complaining about feeling isolated and ignored in the group, especially around one person, and we waned to leave, but the toxic isolating person wouldn't let us without spreading lies that we were threatening her.

eventually the situation started to cool down so I sent a message to a neutral friend just stating what I felt as I hadn't actually expressed what I wanted or how I felt, I had just stuck by my other friend's side as they were being harassed. i explained that I didn't want to stop hanging out with everyone, just the toxic person, and that I didn't want to talk with the toxic person unless she apologized for the harm she caused and started to make a genuine change.

that neutral friend passed along that message to the toxic person and I received a very long, very nasty text essentially stating that she wasn't sorry and calling me things like a pick-me, manipulative, attention-seeking, etc., mostly for. mundane things such as... crying a few times at lunch and asking my friend group for a bit of support while going through rough patches.

i immediately shared the message with my best friend who got pissed at the toxic person but then this morning sent a copy-pasted text to the 4 of us most involved in it telling us he wasn't taking sides, that everyone's messages were reasonable, and that everyone needs to stop talking about it because it was making it worse.

he told me several times earlier that I'm not a bad person and she was lying, and he said this morning that the message wasn't meant to be an attack, but I still feel a bit hurt and betrayed. i didn't actually do anything; I hate drama and never fought or tried to escalate things. i was done with the situation and just wanted to tell the neutral friend what I felt and that I wanted to maintain a friendship with them.

i just don't know what to do. i went from having a loving, secure friend group of like 7 to now maybe 2 friends. one of them being the one I was defending - who I love to death but isn't great at support - and my best friend who sent that message this morning. i feel like I can't show my emotions or ask if he believes that I'm manipulative because what if that's being manipulative? but I can't hide my emotions because not only is that. incredibly unhealthy but that also might be manipulative. I've been spiraling as a result of what that toxic person said as being abusive and as horrid as my abusers is one of my biggest fears and something I regularly panic about (ableism towards bpd from people doesn't help at all). i don't know how to reach out or if I even can, and I can't just make new friends as I find that extremely difficult and it also takes months or even years for me to be able to trust and open up to someone and get past "polite acquaintance conversation" mode.

please tag as "vulture anon"

Hi vulture,

I'm so sorry about what you've been going through. Especially when you have BPD or CPTSD, needing to cut ties with toxic friends can be especially challenging. It may help to remember that you deserve to have friends that respect and support you, and it's better to have no friends than toxic ones that enable or defend each other for things they're being rightfully called out for. It sounds like the things you communicated were reasonable, and the friend you thought you could confide in was merely an informant to the toxic friend, who responded very poorly.

Honestly this is not a situation you deserve to be in. Not only being around the toxic friend, but the friends who defend them. Your toxic friend can say it wasn't meant as an attack, but if they genuinely meant no harm then they would've understood that their intent doesn't change the impact, and they would've taken accountability for how it affected you anyways. Instead, by saying it wasn't meant as an attack, what they mean is they don't feel like you have the right to be hurt, but you do. Personally, if a friend passed along our conversation to a toxic friend, not caring about how I would be retaliated against, I would cut off both friends, as hard as that is when you struggle with a fear of abandonment. But it's important not to let your fear of abandonment be taken advantage of.

It doesn't sound like you're in the wrong whatsoever here. If you chose to cut off these friends they make you feel like you're making the wrong choice, but at the end of the day, you don't deserve to be around people who mistreat, guilt, and manipulate you.

I hope I could help and please let us know if you need anything.

-Bun

[fearofahumanplanet]

Predator: Concrete Riven (WIP Intro)

Jane Doe doing fanfic??? It's not as unlikely as you think!

Genre: Action-Horror, Thriller, Science Fiction

Primary Influence(s): (films) Predator 2, Prey, Predator, Predators (comics) Bad Blood, 1718, the original AvP run, Concrete Jungle, Big Game

Word Count: None, so far

Started: October 2022

Finished: ?

Music Genre: 90s hip-hop and alternative

Available to Beta Read: No

CW (for story, not post): Gore, drug use (more detailed list to come when I actually write it)

Taglist: Ask to be added or removed! Full taglist at bottom of post.

Plot

She's back in town, and she's got a lifetime to kill.

It is the winter of 1999, and the inhabitants of downtown Los Angeles are settling in for a chilling turn of the millennium. Down the frozen-over streets of Skid Row, where the homeless, the downcast and the unfortunate live in rows of exposed tents, the police celebrate their Christmas season by making a unified effort to clean their precious city of those too impoverished to sleep anywhere else.

An Irish mob enforcer going by the name of Clíodhna Sweeney is on the run, an exile from her family in Boston and a marked target for enraged local gangs. A Gulf War veteran by the name of Henriqua Mora lives in a tent on Skid Row, fighting with her fellow vagrants for the only home they have left.

Walking very different lives, Clío and Henri nonetheless find themselves on the same path when something from space comes calling their names, taking Skid Row as its newest playground. Having already survived a Predator two years prior, Los Angeles has no idea what awaits them - for this one is far crueler than the last, far deadlier, and most of all, it is sick, bitter and vengeful.

The code no longer applies, and the hunt is on.

Major Characters

Clíodhna Sweeney - A former Irish mob enforcer and war veteran who has finally broken free of her family in Boston. Fleeing to Los Angeles in hopes of somehow surviving the morgue rule, Clío finds her Irish luck as bad as ever when she enrages a gang of skinheads. On the run in what she hoped to be refuge, her New Year's gets even worse when she becomes a fallen Predator's favored target - and now she's in for one final fight for her life.

Henriqua Mora Figueroa - A Gulf War veteran stranded on the streets of Skid Row, "Henri" is trapped in a war with a cocaine addiction that's killing them and the increasing police intervention of the "homeless problem" that's killing them even faster. Having lost a leg in the war and warding off crippling CPTSD, Henri unexpectedly finds themselves at Clío's side at the worst possible time.

"Riven" - An enigmatic Predator with particularly brutal methods, unique technology and a sadistic, contemptuous personality, Riven has come to LA in search of blood - blood as bad as their own.

And some surprises ;)

Themes & Things

This may be a fanfic, but I'm treating it just as I would one of my original novels, and that means all the heavy themes and anarchist politics you guys have come to expect! This one in particularly is centered around the effects of CPTSD, the stigmatization and perspective of war veterans, and the kind of cracks violent loss leaves in your mind.

We'll also be exploring along the way (in less detail) things like police brutality, the way cities try to sweep homeless populations under the rug instead of truly helping them, the sins of the past coming back to bite you, living with drug withdrawals and physical disabilities, ASPD and BPD, and how the history of Skid Row led to such a staggeringly high homeless population and crime rate. But with Predators, of course!

Taglist

@aohendo, @athenswrites, @impaledlotus, @bardic-tales, @creepypyromancer, @marinesocks, @writingpotato07, @hey-its-quill, @dogmomwrites, @andromedatalksaboutstuff, @bpdgotmelike (ask to be added!)

[hauntedselves]

The Inner Critic in CPTSD: Common Attacks and Thought Substitution

From Pete Walker | [PDF version]

Perfectionism Attacks

Perfectionism: My perfectionism arose as an attempt to gain safety and support in my dangerous family. Perfection is a self-persecutory myth. I do not have to be perfect to be safe or loved in the present. I am letting go of relationships that require perfection. I have a right to make mistakes. Mistakes do not make me a mistake. Every mistake or mishap is an opportunity to practice loving myself in the places I have never been loved.

All-or-None & Black-and-White Thinking: I reject extreme or overgeneralized descriptions, judgments or criticisms. One negative happenstance does not mean I am stuck in a never-ending pattern of defeat. Statements that describe me as “always” or “never” this or that, are typically grossly inaccurate.

Self-Hate, Self-Disgust & Toxic Shame: I commit to myself. I am on my side. I am a good enough person. I refuse to trash myself. I turn shame back into blame and disgust, and externalize it to anyone who shames my normal feelings and foibles. As long as I am not hurting anyone, I refuse to be shamed for normal emotional responses like anger, sadness, fear and depression. I especially refuse to attack myself for how hard it is to completely eliminate the self-hate habit.

Micromanagement/Worrying/Obsessing/Looping/Over-Futurizing: I will not repetitively examine details over and over. I will not jump to negative conclusions. I will not endlessly second-guess myself. I cannot change the past. I forgive all my past mistakes. I cannot make the future perfectly safe. I will stop hunting for what could go wrong. I will not try to control the uncontrollable. I will not micromanage myself or others. I work in a way that is “good enough”, and I accept the existential fact that my efforts sometimes bring desired results and sometimes they do not. “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference” - The Serenity Prayer

Unfair/Devaluing Comparisons: To others or to one’s most perfect moments. I refuse to compare myself unfavorably to others. I will not compare “my insides to their outsides”. I will not judge myself for not being at peak performance all the time. In a society that pressure us into acting happy all the time, I will not get down on myself for feeling bad.

Guilt: Feeling guilty does not mean I am guilty. I refuse to make my decisions and choices from guilt; sometimes I need to feel the guilt and do it anyway. In the inevitable instance when I inadvertently hurt someone, I will apologize, make amends, and let go of my guilt. I will not apologize over and over. I am no longer a victim. I will not accept unfair blame. Guilt is sometimes camouflaged fear. – “I am afraid, but I am not guilty or in danger”.

"Shoulding”: I will substitute the words “want to” for “should” and only follow this imperative if it feels like I want to, unless I am under legal, ethical or moral obligation.

Overproductivity/Workaholism/Busyholism: I am a human being not a human doing. I will not choose to be perpetually productive. I am more productive in the long run, when I balance work with play and relaxation. I will not try to perform at 100% all the time. I subscribe to the normalcy of vacillating along a continuum of efficiency.

 Harsh Judgments of Self & Others/Name-Calling: I will not let the bullies and critics of my early life win by joining and agreeing with them. I refuse to attack  myself or abuse others. I will not displace the criticism and blame that rightfully belongs to them onto myself or current people in my life. “I care for myself. The more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect myself”. - Jane Eyre

Endangerment Attacks

Drasticizing/Catastrophizing/Hypochondrisizing: I feel afraid but I am not in danger. I am not “in trouble” with my parents. I will not blow things out of proportion. I refuse to scare myself with thoughts and pictures of my life deteriorating. No more home-made horror movies and disaster flicks.

Negative focus: I renounce over-noticing & dwelling on what might be wrong with me or life around me. I will not minimize or discount my attributes. Right now, I notice, visualize and enumerate my accomplishments, talents and qualities, as well as the many gifts Life offers me, e.g., friends, nature, music, film, food, beauty, color, pets, etc.

Time Urgency: I am not in danger. I do not need to rush. I will not hurry unless it is a true emergency. I am learning to enjoy doing my daily activities at a relaxed pace.

Disabling Performance Anxiety: I reduce procrastination by reminding myself that I will not accept unfair criticism or perfectionist expectations from anyone. Even when afraid, I will defend myself from unfair criticism. I won’t let fear make my decisions.

Perseverating About Being Attacked: Unless there are clear signs of danger, I will thought-stop my projection of past bully/critics onto others. The vast majority of my fellow human beings are peaceful people. I have legal authorities to aid in my protection if threatened by the few who aren’t. I invoke thoughts and images of my friends’ love and support.

“Perfectionism is the unparalleled defense for emotionally abandoned children. The existential unattainability of perfection saves the child from giving up, unless or until, scant success forces him to retreat into the depression of a dissociative disorder, or launches him hyperactively into an incipient conduct disorder. Perfectionism also provides a sense of meaning and direction for the powerless and unsupported child. In the guise of self-control, striving to be perfect offers a simulacrum of a sense of control. Self-control is also safer to pursue because abandoning parents typically reserve their severest punishment for children who are vocal about their negligence.

As the quest for perfection fails over and over, and as sustaining attachment remains elusive, imperfection becomes synonymous with shame and fear. Perceived imperfection triggers fear of abandonment, which triggers self-hate for imperfection, which expands abandonment into self-abandonment, which amps fear up even further, which in turn intensifies self-disgust...on and on it goes in a downward spiral of fear and shame encrusted abandonment. It can go on for hours and days…weeks in environmentally exacerbating conditions…and for those with severe PTSD, can become their standard mode of being.

Endangerment: The importance and magnitude of the critic’s endangerment dynamic cannot be overstated. I have in fact worked with numerous “well-therapized” individuals who were relatively free of perfectionism, but still seriously afflicted with the drasticizing processes of the critic. Moreover, I have seen many individuals challenge and eliminate most of the blatant perfectionist, self-attacking cognitions of the critic without effectively addressing its habit of flooding the psyche with thoughts, images and feelings of fear. I learned to disidentify from perfectionism long before I learned to stop perseverating my critic’s harrowing snapshots of danger into feature long films about my immanent demise into total abandonment, public humiliation, lethal illness, penniless homelessness, etc. One of my clients eventually identified the critic’s endangerment process as: “Critic as Horror Movie Producer”. I sometimes also think of it as: “Critic as Terrorist”.”

[ficbrish]

You have my Bloody Heart

[AO3 Link]

[Here we go! @flufftober Spring Edition 2024! Thank you for the prompt 🥰 March 12th - Banter, Joking, Fun]

Rating: Explicit 18+ only!

tw/cw: Sexual content, blood, blood drinking, past abuse, cptsd, choking kink, alcohol, food, hurt/comfort, light injury

Late in Act III, Astarion and Vistri sneak out for a date night.

LATE ACT III SPOILERS!

The others were asleep, filling the room at the Elfsong with silence and snoring. Astarion and Vistri, however, were wrapped around each other in their bed, wide awake.

“Let’s sneak off,” he whispered, stroking her hair.

His voice sent shivers from Vistri's ear to her neck, then traveled down her back, flipping her stomach like a coin. The sensation was familiar and terrifying, like she was preparing to cast some new higher-level spell. She held back her laughter, trying her best not to be too loud. The Elfsong provided real beds, but less privacy, and they’d already been yelled at too many times for disturbing everyone’s slumber.

Turning around to face him, softly, Vistri exclaimed, “Race you!”

As she sat up to get out of bed, Astarion pulled her back in. Bringing her into a close embrace, he traced her jawline with a delicate finger then slowly kissed the silver scales along her brow. Vistri sighed, and he answered it with a kiss. Long and gentle.

It left her dizzy, and devoid of all sense but him. Astarion took advantage of the opportunity to get a head start.

Forgetting the need to be quiet, Vistri laughingly shouted, “Bastard! ” and chased after him on shaking legs.

A sleepy Gale frustratedly groaned on the other side of the screen, “Mystra’s tits… ”

Withers silently and dispassionately watched his pawn and her distraction make their way towards the exit in a whispered, giggling rush. He wasn’t worried the world might fall, but noted it as a possibility.

Wyll and Shadowheart jumped at the slamming of the door, even from opposing sides of the room. Almost like it was choreographed, they suddenly sat up, reaching for the knives stashed under their pillows. Realizing it was nothing, just those damn elves again, they fell back asleep.

“I won!” Astarion bragged as they hurried down the tavern stairs.

Vistri leapt onto his back and lightly nibbled the point of his ear, “You cheated!”

“Ow!” he laughed.

“Oh, did that hurt?” she gave it an adoring peck, “Is that better?”

If she kept doing that, Astarion was going to have to sit down for a little while. He never knew touch could ignite so many feelings. Lust and a deep sense of safety never went together before. He never knew he could have both, until she came along.

“Much better,” he said with a bit of a sigh.

He walked through the rest of the tavern with Vistri on his back, but had to let her down once they stepped outside.

“Nooo!” she protested as he squatted to set her down, “I wanted to ride you!”

Astarion smirked, “I know you do, dear.”

“Not like that!” she chuckled freely.

“Sure, you don’t,” he teased, smiling brightly, “But I’d rather hold that lovely lavender hand of yours—Take a stroll by the water? Side by side?”

Wriggling his fingers invitingly, Vistri took hold of them in happy disbelief. Like it was the first time. His hands were a miracle she could twist her fingers around.

How could something so exciting be so calming at the same time?

Touching, hand-in-hand; everything was good in the world.

“Thank you,” he brought her fist up to his lips, kissing along her knuckles like a prayer. He adored the way she still blushed after all these tendays.

With quite a bit of city between the Elfsong and the docks, a habitual quickening lurched in Astarion’s stomach. Old thoughts warned him not to stray too far from sanctuary this late into the early morning hours, lest the sun come up. Knowing that wasn’t an issue for him anymore made it easy for him to shake off such worries and relax. Then he tensed up again, remembering the problem would return once they rid themselves of the tadpoles.

Unless… No.

Hope was the ultimate poison.

Vistri must have noticed his mind wandering, for she called out, “Hey, Astarion!”

He brought his attention back to her. Vistri was smiling so widely, obviously delighted. He noticed her pointing towards something off to the side somewhere.

…To a stack of hay.

A scoffing groan and rolling eyes vented his instant regret upon turning to look. They were almost entirely compatible, the only caveat being Astarion hated puns.

“I hate puns,” he’d complained in those early days of knowing each other.

Vistri couldn’t help herself, and shrugged through her response, “Guess you’re just not a punny guy.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake …”

They weren’t immediate friends.

In getting to know her, Astarion learned she poked him so he’d fight back. It wasn’t from a mocking impulse to cut him down by the tendon. Vistri wasn’t getting a rise out of him to punish him for his reaction. It was a plea for his attention. An invitation to assert his power, to take it from her. A plea for his affections.

Astarion pulled her closer, tight against his chest in an embrace that would have been threatening with anyone else. Her wrists he held firm behind her back, pushing her further into him, so very tightly. He took them into one hand to roughly grab her chin with the other, forcing her to look up into his eyes. The cool night air breezed passed them, but the heat between them didn’t dissipate, only grew.

His stare laid bare her soul, his tone both a knife and a feather, “My dear, I do believe that merits some pun-ishment.”

Vistri humorously cried out, shocked and delighted that he played along for once. Astarion stole a kiss from her open mouth. She whimpered as his lips wrapped around hers; his tongue reaching out. Taking hers.

Astarion sighed, losing himself in his own trap. Always, always that seemed to happen with her. Pulling away, he twirled Vistri around, releasing her with a cheeky smack to her bum.

Giggling like fools they reunited their hands.

A passing cat delayed them in their journey to the seafront. It was so fluffy, grey, and glorious, how could they not stop for a chat? Vistri cast Speak to Animals, and reached out to Astarion’s tadpole, letting him into her mind so she wouldn’t have to translate cat to elf.

The floof had a majestically deep voice; a rumbling, theatrical roar, “Good Evening. Would you happen to have any ham?”

Smirking at Astarion from the corner of her eye, Vistri gave the feline a little bow, “Forgive us, good fellow. While we’ve been known to ham it up, we have none upon us at the moment.”

“Blast! The gods are cruel tonight. To set such a heavy heart on the hunt for warm ham.”

“Deepest apologies,” she said hand to heart, “If I knew you were looking for ham, I would have lowered my voice and given it a bit of a warble before greeting you with something like, 'Mighty night stalker! We have been honored by your graceful presence! Is there any way poor souls such as us could hope to please thee? ’”

The cat slow-blinked in response, purring in delight at such a wonderful display of servitude. 

Astarion leaned in, whispering to Vistri, “Might I offer a bit of sausage?”

“Do you really have some? Or is that just a euphemism?”

“Oh, I really have it,” he answered suggestively, stroking her arm. It sent more of those shivers through her. Then plainly, he stated, “But I also do happen to have a bit of it in my pocket.”

“Oh, you’ve got more than a bit in your pocket, my dear,” she smirked heatedly. Then frowned, “But really! You can’t give sausage to a cat! It’s not good for them!”

“It’s not?” he asked bawdily, “Come now, I thought sausage was an excellent thing to give to a pussy.”

Vistri tried her best not to let her amusement show on her face, “Well, if I wanted to come now, that would be just the thing.”

Astarion pulled a bit of sausage from his pocket, “I wasn’t kidding.”

As she burst into laughter, he broke some pieces off the top of the link. Kneeling, he offered them to the cat.

“Do you like sausage?”

“Mm–I love sausage!” it purred, eating from Astarion’s palm.

The wet, hot breath and fuzzy nose of the creature felt so delicate. Trusting. As if he were someone gentle and worthy of it. Tadpoles still linked, Vistri could feel his heart flutter in her own chest. A sense of preciousness and renewal overcame her through him.

Sated after his nibbles, the cat parted ways. First allowing them to indulge in a few chin scratches. Astarion, already at cat level, was given permission initially. Then Vistri was invited in to even out the other side.

She laughed as they continued towards the docks, asking, “Why on Toril do you have sausage in your pocket?”

“I figured… In case you got hungry…”

That tickled Vistri so much it stole her breath away, snatching the sound from her laughter. When she caught it again, her voice was strained, pitchy, “You were gonna feed me sausage?! ”

Swept along by her current of laughter, Astarion’s features joyously softened.

“It was a set up for a bit,” he admitted, his expressions free, thus very silly.

Moonlight glittered across the water when they approached it. The image quieted and then stilled them. Hand in hand, they admired Shadowheart’s new goddess, and the sea raging calmly under her glow.

“I love you,” Vistri said without looking away from the distance.

Astarion turned to face her, and feeling his gaze like a blush on her cheeks, Vistri turned to face him too.

Squeezing her hand, pouring his heart into her eyes through his, he whispered, “I love you too.”

It was peaceful.

After a while, Vistri began swaying their hands in a childish arc; back and forth with more enthusiasm than rhythm.

Amused, he asked, “What’s on your mind over there?”

With the smile of a fey, she proposed, “Let’s go do something naughty.”

The something naughty Vistri had in mind was a game. She called it, “Let’s go find an abandoned house to break into.”

He smiled widely, reborn at her suggestion. A greed that lusted after defiance more than the forbidden rumbled through his chest. Delicious enough for him to sink his teeth into. Skirting rules together was a breaking of chains, a reclamation.

Strolling down the streets, arm in arm, they pretended to be house-hunting. Pointing out every derelict building they passed. Exchanging questions like some vapid patriar couple. 

“Do you like that one, dear?”

“Oh, no, dear! How dreadful!—What about that one over there?”

“Gods, no! Would you want to emerge every morning smelling like fish?”

Until they found the perfect one.

It didn’t reek of blood or the undead, and was barely noticeable. Like a dilapidated honeycomb in an otherwise thriving hive, it was crowded by the surrounding buildings. Something about it felt forgotten, swallowed up.

“After you, my heart,” Vistri said, inviting the expert to handle the lock.

Expert indeed, Astarion had the door open at what seemed like just a touch. He waited suavely by the door, weight balanced on one hip as he leaned into the open door frame, feet cheekily crossed.

Inviting her in with a wave, he said, “Now you, beloved.”

Astarion scooped her into his arms as she passed him to carry her across the threshold. She squealed, and they both laughed themselves breathless.

The room inside was dusty and spattered with decaying furnishings, but there were no corpses or squatters in sight. At least on this floor level. Its hearth looked like it had been neglected for generations. But there was a charm, like what rotted in the shadows was bright and warm in the light.

Vistri kissed his cheek, “It is perfect, my love!”

As Astarion set her down, she noticed he couldn’t help staring at her neck. His hunger was like an intoxicant, luring her to his mouth. Vistri ran her palm along his chest, just over his eager heart. Their blood rushed together as predator and prey. Ready to steal; to surrender. Astarion closed his eyes to lean into the sensations of her gentle strokes. From his sternum, they went lower, until she was gently brushing along his belly.

“Does it ache, my love?” she asked tenderly, heated.

“It aches,” he begged, his tone warbled with yearning.

Battling her own desire, Vistri savored his. Bringing her neck closer to his mouth was a temptation for both. Astarion retracted his upper lip, letting his fangs show, almost touching her skin. Vistri moaned, running her hands through his silver curls. Her pounding pulse was so near he could reach for it with his tongue.

Standing on the precipice of fulfillment, Astarion fought ravenous impulses. The longer he waited, blind with his bloodlust, the more he proved who was in control. It was a strangling effort, but worth it just to show Vistri she was someone worth protecting. Cherished. That he was the man, not the monster.

His whining groan broke over the crook of Vistri’s jaw in a hum. Its explicit nature pulled the longing thread at Vistri’s core. Astarion was trembling, desperate to give in to the curse inside.

A series of sharp, jagged gasps escaped him at her caress of his damp face. Vistri grinned, committing his twisted features to memory, “Did you forget to eat today, love?"

He licked his lips before answering, “Yes. May I?”

“May you what?”

“Eat you up.”

Vistri pressed her neck flush against his open mouth, pushing tender flesh into sharp teeth. Still waiting for verbal confirmation, Astarion refrained from biting down. He cried out, and it turned to a low, rolling growl.

“Good boy,” she purred, her words brushing his sculpted cheekbones.

A pause. An eternity.

“Now take,” she finally commanded.

His teeth sunk into her veins with such fury Vistri was stung with a shock of fear. Like vertigo, it blurred reality, dizzying perception. Instinctually, she whimpered.

Pulling away at her flinch, Astarion searched her expression and gently whispered, “Hey.”

Vistri saw so many things before her sight settled entirely on him. He smiled kindly into her shocked expression, grounding her mind as it reeled with past and present.

“Are you all right?”

His tender tone was a salve, ceasing her spiral. Bringing her back to the present. Finally perceiving his beloved face, she chuckled, relieved and grateful.

“I am now,” she answered, nuzzling into his neck.

Astarion’s arms wrapped around her, pulling her tight. He planted a series of pecks in her hair, and she felt seeds of worry in them.

“I’m okay,” she insisted, unwilling to budge even a little from his adoring embrace.

“Hold on, love. You’re bleeding quite a bit.”

Lightheaded now he mentioned it, she let Astarion fuss over her. He examined her neck, frowning. Then he tore off his shirt to wrap it around the weeping bite. Putting pressure against the wound, he looped the ends across her, and tied them together under her opposite arm.

“Is that too tight?”

“Not at all.”

“I’m so sorry, darling. It looks like a nasty cut. Perhaps I tore away too quickly.”

“I don’t know why I...”

He took her hand, “It’s all right.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Vistri. Look at me.”

She saw her friend. Her lover. Her companion.

“Good. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“Okay.”

Overwhelmed with a wave of affection, Vistri pressed her forehead into his. Astarion was a dream constantly coming true. She nestled the tip of her nose against his; he shut his eyes in contentment.

“I love you with all my heart,” is what he wanted to say, but he meant it too much. So instead, he teased her.

“Gods! You bleed like a geyser!”

Vistri’s laugh broke over his face. Astarion could taste her on his tongue.

“I do not!”

“Just look at us, dear,” he said, referencing the bloody mess between them that spilled down both their shoulders.

It came from her, and rubbed off on him. Vistri loved the way it painted his skin crimson-black. Her life was his, and here that fact was artfully displayed.

“Sit still a moment!” she demanded, overcome with a sudden idea.

Curiously obedient, he waited.

Vistri dipped a finger into the blood drying on his shoulder, coating its tip. She brought it to clean skin, painting something on Astarion’s chest.

“What are you doing?” he chuckled warmly.

“Hold on!”

She licked her fingers in an attempt to freshen her “paint” and resumed her tickling strokes. Astarion kept laughing and twitching, and she kept giggling and telling him to hold still. The moment, like a cosmic opposite to the night Cazador carved his poem, knocked out the past for the present and set a new future.

“Now take a peek,” she said proudly, wearing an expectant look.

Astarion looked down to see a crude drawing of a heart. It was surprising how deeply the gesture touched him. He was prepared to be pleased, not so affected it filled him with awe.

“You silly thing,” he said thankfully, presenting himself for a kiss that she happily accepted.

“Now for you to sit still.”

She nodded.

He also bathed the tip of one of his fingers in her blood. Then put it to her lips. Vistri felt the curve of a heart. One side of her lip then the other, converging down into a point near her chin.

“There,” he said, eyes bright.

“Is it–?”

“A heart,” he nodded, “To match mine.”

Gently, he took hold of her chin. Cradling it, caressing Vistri like treasure, Astarion leaned forward to lick the bloody symbol. Kiss after kiss, he washed it away. Reaching first with his tongue; sealing each touch with his lips.

Vistri was hypnotized, enthralled. She forgot to breathe until he stopped.

Astarion opened his eyes to hers. He didn’t even have to search for her reaction, the emotion was so clear in her eyes. Bearing witness to her exposed soul was narcotic. He longed to melt into everything he saw.

Speechless, they stared at each other. Tadpoles weren’t necessary for them to share each other’s thoughts. Astarion knew the exact tone in her mind’s eye as she expressed every adoration pouring out of her countenance. Vistri similarly could spot the ache in his gratitude, casting a dark cloud over his hard-fought peace.

Heart pounding, she broke their busy silence, “No use in all this good blood going to waste…”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“But–”

“Astarion,” she interrupted. He paused, waiting for her to continue. Nodding, she said, “Trust me.”

Without further hesitation, he pulled her close by the waist. Caressing her throat with sure, shaky fingers, he leaned closer to smell her neck. His previous attempt mocked the man and the monster both. He knew he was better than that. Determined to live up to his self-expectations, he unraveled his soiled shirt from around her to reveal her gift.

She laid herself out for him on a forgotten, fraying carpet. He crawled over her, just like that first time. But unlike then, he took her hand and squeezed it comfortingly as he leaned in to strike.

Just before reopening the wound, Astarion stopped himself, asking quietly by her ear, “Are you ready for me, love?”

“Yes,” she pleaded.

By the gentle scrape of a fang, her blood ran fresh. His tongue met its icy warmth, and he gasped at the taste of a favored meal.

Vistri cried out at the pain. Moaning, “More,” so he wouldn’t stop.

Growling, he licked up every dirty inch. She writhed under him as he lapped her up.

“More. I want more of you,” she muttered.

When he hit the line he wouldn’t dare cross, Astarion stopped. Not daring to steal a drop more than he already had, he kissed the ragged bite marks closed. At first, he felt guilty at her gasping and twitching, assuming it was due to pain. His guilt was absolved at a glimpse. For he saw right away she was overcome with a different kind of ache.

Drunk with the power of her blood and by the possession of her desire, Astarion longed to play her parts like a symphony.

“Oh, my dear,” he said warmly, “I think I remember mentioning punishment.”

“Pun-ishment,” she corrected, stubbornly provocative despite her dizzying need.

“And now you’ve reminded me why,” he smirked, running a hand along her thigh.

She sighed at his touch, and rolled her hips as an invitation.

He watched as she unbuttoned her tunic and trousers. Her knickers were plum-red in the dark of the room. Then he helped her out of them, and stripped off his bottoms. When he crawled over her again, they were skin to skin. 

“Are you ready for me?” he repeated, this time with his cock nestled against her begging sex.

Repeating herself like a season, she pleaded, “Yes.”

Her body welcomed his so enthusiastically, a rough thrust took just a simple suggestion of his hips.

Vistri’s shouts broke into fragments, consumed by the pleasure building between them, “…Star…”

Pretending displeasure, he chided, “Is my rut not worth my full name?”

“No. It is! It is…”

He needed more, and took it with a faster rhythm.

“Astarion!” she cried out, every vowel and syllable of his name clear as diamonds while she tightened and pulsed around him.

It would have been so easy to let go too, but he wasn’t done. He bit his lip with a roaring sigh, and didn’t slow the roll of his hips until he was sure her ecstasy had tapered. Watching her incoherently mutter sweet nothings brought a boasting smile to his face.

“What was that, dear?”

“Thank you,” she repeated louder.

So sure of himself, he flipped her onto her side and wrapped around her. His mind played through the moment he’d bust into her with such clarity that his skin sang with remembered sensations. He shook his head to clear it as he pushed himself between her thighs.

The way she rode every thrust at that angle made their faces screw up tight. They cried each other’s names, chanting them.

“Vistri… Gods, Vistri…”

“Ah–ah–Astarion… Astarion…”

They gave in to it together; their bodies seeming to shake off their souls. If this was death, there was nothing to fear.

The possession of ecstasy refused to let them go, coming in waves that bore new waves. Maybe they’d set a new record. Maybe just a second had passed.

Neither was willing to break their embrace.

Panting, Vistri tossed her head back and sighed stupidly, “Could fuck the whole Underdark and never find that.”

Astarion filled the derelict room with a full-bodied cackle. Senses returning, they were able to finally let go.

Most trespassers would have sensibly left after making so much noise, but they weren’t most. To be fair, they had intended to leave, but got swept up in the moment. What started as simple quipping while getting dressed, evolved into a full on game of playing house.

Pretending to be a married couple getting ready in the morning, they exchanged remarks about the new day.

With no idea that it actually was a new day. All the windows were shuttered tight, and their attention was so focused, they managed to miss the cracks of sunlight.

“Do remember to go to the bank today, dear. We don’t want to be late on rent.”

“Rent? Are we poor?” Astarion asked, breaking character.

“Rent doesn’t mean poor!”

Looking off to the side with a raised brow, he muttered, “Oh, yes it does.”

Vistri laughed and gave the tip of his nose a peck before chiding, “Play along!”

After getting dressed, they had “breakfast”. Vistri poked at the empty hearth and Astarion brought over “tea”.

“Your toast is ready,” Vistri said, wiping her hands on an invisible apron, “Please refrain from soaking it in jam again. Your doctor spoke to me personally this time.”

“Perish the thought! I’d rather an early grave than go a day without a handful of your homemade jam.”

Astarion motioned like he was serving them tea.

Vistri accepted her mimed cup with a, “Thank you, love.”

“Say, do we have anything other than toast?”

Meeting his eyes directly, she answered, “Yes, sausage.”

To them, it was the funniest joke in the universe. They collapsed laughing on weak knees, and wiped tears from their eyes.

Then they noticed the cracks of sunlight.

“Shit,” Vistri whispered, realizing no one knew where they were. No doubt the others would be searching, possibly worried.

She looked to Astarion, who’d come to the same conclusion. He shrugged, tossing them back into a shared fit of hilarity.

“Guess we should get back,” he laughingly suggested.

“Gods! They’ll be raging!”

[vigilantaes]

BATGIRL 02     🞂    FILE 001     🞂    APPEARANCE.

i usually do a little headcanon roundup like this about my current muses’s appearance and little details that i like to incorporate so here’s this obligatory post! no particular order, just random headcanon stuff.

cass has a medium-light skintone… think something like this (i grabbed this from a makeup foundation product page so it’s the before LOL). doesn’t have any notable beauty marks, the ones she has throughout her body are pretty small and unnoticable unless you’re up in her face. the most notable part of her skin is that she has a lot of scars.

 on her face, she has a noticable slash on her left cheekbone, another along the left side of her jawline, and some lighter, faded ones under her chin and on her bottom lip. on her neck, she has a noticable slash. 

on her body, she has... so many. too many to keep count as she gets more and some heal. the most notable include gunshot entry scars-  a few on her back and a few on her thighs. some are a lot more faded than others, but most are stretched and abnormally large since she received those in childhood. she’s grown since then.

her hair is dark brown, fine in texture, and very straight. she has a big issue with flyaway hair’s and cowlicks. 

as a child she had long hair, but sometime after running away from her father she cut her hair much shorter. 

the length can range from just past her shoulders to below her ears because honestly? this girl cuts her own hair. it’s never perfect. she tends to have rough layers that resemble a shag, adding to her usual messy look

 i debated on her eye color for a WHILE because she could basically have anything coming from a white dad and a chinese mother. the most common eye color is brown which is what i was going to settle on, but i didn’t want cass to look ONLY like her mother (just mostly) so i decided to go with hazel. a medium brown with some green mixed in there.

cass has insomnia and cptsd which means she does NOT sleep well! you know what that means? eyebags and dark circles! cursed to forever look tired. 

her nose is on the flatter side and is a little wider from the front. she’s probably gotten her nose broken once or twice but i think she got lucky and it’s not too crooked.

:prayerhands: Please wear some chapstick. Her lips are always dry as SHIT and she bites the dead skin off. never remembers the chapstick in her utility belt ever cuz it ends up underneath the smoke pellets never to be seen again.

i know she’s usually drawn with a rounder face shape but honestly i kinda imagine more of an oval shape?? somethin longer like that. has some cheekbones goin on. the works.

i imagine her to be on the shorter side at 5′1″. little bat. 

if she wasn’t as muscular as she is, she’d be considered pretty petite. she’s on the flatter side on her chest, a to b cup. does not have a big butt but it’s a nice butt. up there with nightwings.

proportions wise, she’s got long legs. thighs are probably the bulkiest part of her, since she prioritizes cardio, and not by a lot.

she’s pretty muscular and firm but on the leaner side. she doesn’t tend to bulk up since her body absolutely burns through the food she eats so it’s difficult for her to gain weight even though she wants to for that MUSCLE.

[my-tms-journey]

Welcome to my blog about TMS!

Let me introduce myself; my name is Ash! I've struggled with CPTSD, depression (treatment resistant), anxiety, and ADHD for my whole/most of my life.

I'm also on the autism spectrum and struggle with agoraphobia, an eating disorder and chronic pain illnesses such as Mast Cell Activation Syndrome, Fibromyalgia, EDS, POTS, and Long Covid.

After creating a blog about my experience with ECT a few years back and seeing how helpful that was for folks, I decided that I would do the same with TMS!

Unfortunately, after receiving many months of ECT treatment with no improvements in my depression and the medical PTSD it gave me and continued memory loss, I'm back at it again but this time I'm going to be trying out TMS.

I have high hopes because the TMS process is WAY less invasive, has less side effects than ECT treatments (no risk of memory loss) and has just about the same statistical success as ECT.

Come along with me while I go through a scary yet hopefully TMS journey!

The goal is to find some relief in my depression and anxiety and hopefully my chronic pain.

Thanks for being here! 💗

[cerberusseraphim]

1/10/2024, 3 AM - 4 AM

im not entirely sure where to start.

as the first blog post, i feel like i should be organizing this better by giving a run down of my situation, but im not sure i have the full energy to do so. i can try.

im being abused. verbally, but im not unused to other kinds. Mammon is my older brother. i loved him once, but i dont anymore. as a child he raped and beat me, and i was always competing to be loved along side him. i lost, and my father has clearly chosen the son he prefers. im unsure of how this makes me feel anymore.

ever since i was home from the hospital i was apparently being sexually abused by my older sister. im unsure of how i feel about this as well. i guess it makes sense.

my doctor says i have CPTSD i think. i have voices in my head sometimes. used to think i was multiple people. im not unsure im not. i miss the others in my head, they've been really quiet for almost a year. i think they might be scared. i am too. im chronically depressed due to my circumstances and im unsure on how to get out.

i was raised to believe the world was out to get me. ive yet to shake this feeling. i was raised by my father mostly, who is a hyper paranoid man with untreated PTSD. unfortunately this means i get to suffer too. i am an adult, but getting any sort of job means i have to ask permission from my dad. he is unhappy with most jobs i apply for, only telling me he doesnt approve after i get a interview due to him not liking any area we live in as a place to work. we live in an area that has plenty of diversity, so you can imagine what he actually means when he says "these are bad neighborhoods". this is not an unsubstantiated claim, believe me.

i want my family to love me. they will never. i dont know how i feel about this. part of me doesnt care anymore. part of me mourns.

as i write this, im in another tense situation. i live with Mammon and my father. mother is dead, sister ran away to destroy other lives. i live in a one bedroom appartment with both of them. once upon a time, Mammon had a girlfriend who he lived with. she cheated, kicking him out and she keeps my cat due to my cowardly father getting a house that specifically forbids cats for his own ease of getting to work faster. i am heartbroken to be without my cat, but happy he does not live in these conditions.

the tense situation. my bad for going on a tangent.

Mammon is drunk. he is hardly ever not. he is a coward as my father is, he cannot feel his emotions so he drinks them away. it does not work. instead, it shows how much of a cruel animal he is. he is an angry man, and when he wants to drink he does not care who it disrupts. he abuses who he wants, he drinks as much as he wants with what little money he has, he claims he pays all the bills (he does not. father does. he just helps with a hundred or so bucks here and there) and therefore its his right to use me as a punching bag.

he paces the house and mumbles cruel words about me when he thinks i cannot hear. i can. he eavesdrops on my conversations with my friends, and attempts to meddle with my relationships based on the small amount of information he heard. he has lied to my father and has claimed to say terrible things to them- he has done no such thing. he lies to me and says they told him they all hate me and think im pathetic for everything. they do not know my brother, nor want to.

i keep going on side tangents in some attempt to give you context to my situation, im sorry.

Mammon has been drunk almost every night or early morning over the past 5 days. this is not uncommon. it disrupts my sleep schedule, when i try to have one. but last bender he did he grabbed at me- it should be mentioned all of these benders end in verbal abuse. occasionally he leaves me alone, but the anticipation for the abuse kills me just as much. anyway. he grabbed the hood i wore and ripped it off my head, grabbing a bunch of my hair in the process. it hurt. i should have hit him. when he does it again, i swore to myself id really hurt him. like, pick up a chair and beat him type hurt him. i dont want to be a violent person but no one else has beat the shit out of him for his attitude so i suppose i have to one day.

i have scary intrusive thoughts where im forced to kill him. i believe one day he is going to rape me again, then attempt to kill me in the process. i am scared then i will be forced to kill him. im scared i will enjoy it.

i hate Mammon, and i do think ill only feel safe when he one day dies. but i dont want to kill him. i want to hurt him and have him live to remember, but i dont want to kill. i am not capable of taking a life. even his.

i think somewhere inside i still love my big brother. i dont think thats whats stopping me from killing him, i cant kill because i refuse to- that includes killing myself.

anyway. he now wanders around wasting groceries in the kitchen. he tries to cook while drunk. only half of it ends up in the pot, the rest on the floor and walls. the food is only ever edible to him, but nothing else. its a miracle he doesnt puke it up.

the idea of food waste drives me insane. i hate it. he embodies all that i hate.

i wish i could heal from my trauma, ive been ready to begin the healing process. if only my brother would disappear, i could be some sort of healthy again.

[arosejoy]

11-25-11 Photobooth In-home art studio East Side House, Saint Paul

Notice the top photo, hanging on the wall the three images. The first one, it has a deep, dark pigmented black and I still remember the feeling of the brush against the paper. That mixed media series remains one of my favorites to these days - perhaps there are 8-10 pieces within in; a story of setting free what words can not encapsulate. It's tucked away in the attic of my parents garage, along with the plethora of pieces that came out of those years of searching within to find where I had become lost in my own life.

I am at a time now where I can begin to look back and reflect outwardly the experiences of those years when I lived so deeply within my self after starting life over. It is not just time that allows these words I share, I will not give time that value. It is the hard work, and grit, determination, that having a second chance at life, NOT dying, means work as well as reward, extremely uncomfortable situations and feelings and processes, and learning to go through versus around, or over, or under or in any other way of complete avoidance. It eventually comes back in one way or another. Trauma does not hide. It will present itself at every opportunity. An opportunity also for me to confront, and see, and take in, and breath despite the truth.

Avoidance means safety, often, to the mind in a troubled dynamic with trauma. This was the case for me. There have been events in my life that were too much to look at directly. I had to learn to tap into these feelings and memories without allowing them to take me over. Creating was the first way I was able to even think of what had taken place in my life and begin to find a way to let it out of me. It was a safe space that I could begin to unravel the images that would stand out in my mind, suddenly coming out of nowhere memories evoked that had been so long hidden, making me feel unreal and out of touch. Flashbacks...I can't begin to explain how scary they are. Or, perhaps, I just don't care to divulge some of the scarier details, is more like it.

Even though I showed and shared this collection of art with people, hanging at cafes, and having openings and celebrations, I never actually talked about the paintings/pieces themselves. I didn't have words and would direct any topics very far away from the truth. In that time, I suppose I just wanted to share them because it was such a need within me to create them. I thought that even if I did not have the words, there must be others too who do not have the words and can relate in some way.

Now, however, I do have the words and abilities to speak of that part of my life. The healing is ongoing in my mind, something that never ends, it is just a living of life, however, I have done the intense work through brainspotting trauma therapy, primarily, as well as medication therapy and my general therapist who has seen me since the age of 18. The triggers, the activation points, the memories no longer hold me in place, frozen. They simply are.

Yes, if I do not care for my self I am much more susceptible to the CPTSD taking over. However, I can count on one hand the number of episodes within the last two years. Compare this to years of daily episodes, and episodes lasting days and weeks and months. I just did not know what was happening. The gratitude of finally receiving the help I needed still moves me. I am continuing to find ways to live a lifestyle that furthers the health and wellness of my self and my life. It endlessly intrigues me, this exploration, the condition of being human.

I'm reminded that we all live our stories. I'm reminded that I do have so much control of my story, and some of it just is what it is, and I can choose the lens in which I take the narrative to heart. What is the story I am telling my self?

[free write; unedited]

[karrenseely]

Oh gods, not again.

I've been stuck in my head this week. A new epiphany rocked my world again. My hormones were adjusted recently. About a year ago... I think, I was started on a progesterone cycle. And very quickly I found myself having a desire to explore my body. The really significant dysphoria I was having around my hips, my shoulders, my voice. They didn't bother me as much as they had before. And then. Then I started to have some libido. That was weird and wonderful. My body did things for me I'd never experienced before. It was pleasurable and interesting, and I was feeling less and less like an imposter and more like the woman I am. I know I was also doing a lot of work in therapy as well. Working through the shame and conditioning I'd incorporated into myself that being a woman, being feminine was bad, liking anything girly was bad at best, perverted at worst. And I started to be a little more ok with myself. I wanted to explore the girly things and was finally allowing myself to do so. I even felt sexy sometimes, I think having never experienced those feelings before I'm still not sure if that's what that feeling is or not. I got back into make up, I learned how to paint my nails, I really started enjoying creating outfits and feeling like I was looking good. I was getting in touch with that feminine part of me that I had been suppressing because even though I had transitioned, parts of me were still convinced being feminine was bad, being feminine made me a pervert even though I was a woman. Yes, I know, there's a great deal of cognitive dissonance going on in my brain. And while I was doing these things at some point the little girl in me who'd been crying and along all her life had had enough of being shut away and forced me to let her out, and I got stuck in the past and had a severe bout of CPTSD/Depression putting me out of work for the last 4 months. But doing these things, was self care and when I was able to do them, it helped lift me up some.

I still know very little about hair care, I still for the life of me, have no idea how to do a good tight simple braid without it going off to one side at best, being really loose at worst. You know all the things that I should have learned growing up, that my sister got to learn because it was ok for her to be a girl for some reason and not me.

I love my sister, I don't blame her for choosing to side with my parents, she wasn't facing a choice of death or losing her entire family, she was just faced with losing a sibling or her entire family. Understandably she chose her entire family. I don't think they abused her, at least not the way they did me. She is my younger sister. But when my parents broke me and I just couldn't continue growing and got stuck around age 15, she started to be more like a big sister. I looked up to her. She was good at school, with really good grades, she was popular, she played in marching band, she had lots of friends. And I wished so much that I could be like her. I wanted to be close to her, but I was so terrified of anyone learning my secret and in my head in order to play that role forced on me, meant I was supposed to fight with her. And everytime I beat myself up over it, because I knew I'd destroyed another chance to be close. But I was so scared, and I was just trying to survive. And it hurt so much when she called me pervert for borrowing her clothes.

But despite that, she was an amazing sister. Despite my unpopularity, despite everyone sensing something wrong with me and at best avoiding me, at worst torturing me. She invited me to one of the highschool parties her friends had invited her to. It was a wonderful experience. I felt included. I felt like I'd been seen, but not in a bad way. And for a little while I forgot to be afraid that someone would figure out my secret.

Another time she invited me to go with her and her friends cliff diving at Canyon Lake. That was another wonderful memory, and for all the same reasons. During those excursions I felt like I hadn't completely ruined everything with my sister. That maybe she did care, that she did love me despite me being a pervert. They are good memories.

I don't know how I got on the subject of my sister... Oh that's right, she was in Marching Band and learned how to put her hair up in tight crowns of braids. I so wished it would be ok to ask her to teach me that. I wish I hadn't been so afraid of what my parents would do to me if I talked to her about what I was really going through that I actually did talk to her. I dunno, if I'd had the courage to do that, maybe I'd have had an amazing supportive sister. But maybe not. She was part of the church all through high school. And this church was the one that convinced my mom disowning me was what needed to happen, who convinced my mom that my being dead was better than my being trans. So no I probably wouldn't have had that kind of sister then. Still. I miss her and I love her and I don't blame her for what happened.

And I wish I could apologize to her for everything I did, for saying some of the things I did to her. Maybe I'll write a letter of what I wish I could say to her on here at some point.

anyway I went on a tangent. So yes, it's been a dark few months, but I've been exploring and having some fun with my feminine side. I've also been trying to reconnect with the trans community. So far I've not created a solid connection yet, but atleast I'm part of it on reddit, here, and fb, even though I don't really know anyone on there. It's nice to see how things are different and better for a lot of people compared to when I was kid, and it's hard to see that others in my community are suffering like I had to. But we're all on there, and because we are, we're not quite as alone as we used to be.

And so it's helped some, even though I wish I could make some irl trans friends. But at least I don't feel quite so isolated anymore. But the depression was bad, and I was still suicidal and the treatments hadn't started working yet, so my PCP suggested increasing my estrogen a little to see if that would help. And it did. I started to feel even more like myself. I had reduced it a long time ago because if the dose is too high I ended up with heart palpitations... but thankfully I haven't had issues with it this time around. I dunno, maybe it's because I'm also on progesterone as well now.

There is a part of me that is really angry at the medical establishment and the entrenched misogyny there. Angry that they decided that we only need half our hormones. That progesterone was completely unnecessary because it was only useful with pregnancy. Except that it does so much more than that, but the effects are subtle and... well... it was men that were designing the treatments at the beginning and that misogyny bleed through to later generations of doctors. But they robbed me of over two decades of feeling more comfortable in my body, of having a libido. So yes. I'm a bit chuffed with them.

So yes, about a month ago my estrogen was increased. And it helped my mood, and... apparently my libido. I found myself fantasizing about having sex. I'd never done that before, not ever, and certainly not in a pleasurable way. It was good. But also confusing. I felt like I was waking up from a decades long coma and the world had changed. It's only been in the last 7 years that I understood I was asexual. It's only been in the last year or two that I really began to explore what that meant to me. And it was a shock and confusing that I suddenly had interest in sex. What does this mean for my identity? Does it mean I'm not asexual anymore? And also a lot of anxiety because I suck at dating, I don't really know how to do it, or how to meet people in that way. I was pretty happy with the platonic relationship I had, though there were things I wish I could get myself to talk about, to hash out. And now I found myself wanting a physical relationship with someone.

Still trying to figure out how to find that irl. Then in the past 2 weeks something really really really confusing happened. I found myself fantasizing about a man, having a man love me, touch me, and hold me and have sex with me. And really wanting that. I've known a long time I had slight bi tendencies. But not once, not ever did it those tendencies involve a physical relationship... But here I am wanting one. And it's throwing me for a loop. And I find myself wondering if the assholes who thought trans women didn't need progesterone had robbed me of this too for all these years. And so I thought about finding a man to have a relationship with... and that's when I hit a brick wall. I am terrified of having a romantic/physical relationship with men. Absolutely terrified. And I have been for as long as I can remember, I just didn't understand what it was until now. I just avoided thinking about it. Because you know, trauma response. Something makes you uncomfortable avoid it if at all possible.

And I had no idea why. Except I think I know part of it. I have a good idea what men think of, want from, and how they talk about women. Seeing us as objects, not people with our own wants desires and needs. At best seeing us like children. I have seen so many of us killed by men who felt there masculinity was threatened by us because they didn't see us as women, but as men, and the trans men as women being uppity. I've heard what they say about us, because most of these men don't realize I'm trans and say it in my presence. And I remember Tyra Hunter who died while EMT's and Paramedics laughed at her instead of helping her. And then I remember all the times some random guy decided it was ok to sexually assault me.

I'd coped with that last part by believing that all women had been assaulted at some point in there lives... then a redditor said something that made me wonder if I was wrong, and then a reddit bot pointed me to resources when I wrote about those assaults. And then I talked to a DV advocate crisis line, because I was confused and hurting because I mean how could I have been assaulted so many times if it wasn't the normal level of misogyny all women faced? And if it's not normal then why did it happen to me? What more is wrong with me (yes on a rational level I know none of it is my fault but our brains are rarely truly rational). And the DV advocate told me. She told me that it wasn't normal. And suddenly I felt like I'd done something wrong. That I'd deserved what happened because I was an idiot.

And then I asked a reddit group of women if it was true. If it wasn't normal for women to be assaulted. And the first response I got was someone blaming me for what happened, rather than answering my question. And suddenly the little girl in me that has been in so much pain all along surged up and out. And I've been a mess since then and that happened two nights ago I think. But I'm not sure. Anyway, I'm feeling alone, confused, and really stupid. And part of me still has a hard time believing that advocate.

And just before all of this started happening in my head, just as we increased my estrogen, my counselor went on maternity leave, and I don't know who to talk to. And while I'm really happy for her, I'm feeling really lost at the moment. I've started looking for another counselor, but I won't get immediate help even if I saw them tomorrow, because I don't know them, because of my trauma history it is incredibly difficult for me to trust anyone, much less a counselor (my trauma history includes being traumatized by a counselor, a male one at that, which probably is a contributing factor to my fear of men) So yeah. That's where I'm at right now. Scared, lost, confused, hurting and parts of me also stuck in the memories images and/or feelings of the abuse I suffered growing up. It's not a good place to be.

The treatments are working though. I'm not suicidal during this past week, so I guess that's something? Maybe. But I find myself just wishing I'd gotten to grow up like a normal girl and that I didn't have to go through all of this. That so much time has been wasted dealing w/ this BS. And I hate it. I hate the universe for putting me and everyone in my community through this shit.