#anxiety mention //

[leighsartworks216]

My Moonlight

Astarion x gn!Tav/Reader

This is a part 2 to My Sunshine. You'll need to read that one first for context. Tumblr link - AO3 link

I play with the headcanon that white is not Astarion's natural hair color. The general consensus was dark, possibly black hair, and brown or hazel eyes. Check out the post I got this hc from here!

I don't know if there'll be another part to this. School is kicking my ass rn

Beta read by @big-armed-mar Thank you again <333

Warnings: graphic descriptions of drinking blood from rats, grief over past friendship, anxiety and nausea mentions, descriptions of blood, drinking blood, hurt/comfort, some fluff

Word Count: 1,596

Masterlist

AO3

Astarion was cagey around you. He played nice, of course. Polite smiles, and violent tendencies disguised as friendly advice. Maybe, with his facade of sweetness, he thought you wouldn’t notice the way he stayed toward the back of the group, or set up his tent just a little further from the fire.

Part of you wishes for the simple way things were, before all this. Side by side in front of a fire, drinking wine and sketching him while he reads to you, with the sorrow of parting for the day sweetened by a kiss on your foreheads. It was so simple, then. So easy and carefree. You were young! You had the whole world ahead of you! And then…

And then he died. And so too did those times.

Maybe they came back with him, came a stray thought. It hurt to dismiss it. Those times would not be coming back soon, if they ever did.

You’re too scared to ask to draw him. The fear of being rejected outweighs the possible rewards. So at night, when everyone has settled and everything is quiet, you sit away from everyone else, you pull out your journal, and you sketch. Seeing him again has refreshed the image in your mind. It is much easier now to put a face to the sketches. You’re never happy with them - his eyes are off somehow; his mouth doesn’t hold the right expression - but you refuse to stop your tradition now.

There are little differences, you’ve noticed, from the old drawings to the newer ones. Aside from the obvious of your style and confidence improving throughout the years, there were details then that didn’t exist now.

His hair before was shaded dark, with simple highlights indicating where the light was coming from. Now, his hair was mostly white space, lightly shaded to give it volume. It had been so long - was his hair darker back then? It was hard to picture him with anything darker than his now bright-white curls, and yet…

His eyes were also different. They were still dark, but in a different way. You’ve picked up numerous ways to give off the impression of specific colors over the years - blue and green were intricate displays of mid to light tones, hazel mixed dark and medium tones, brown were deep with little-to-no variation in shading. The old sketches had his eyes closer to brown than your current ones, that mixed deep shading with lighter tones to portray their deep crimson.

Had you really forgotten so quickly what he looked like…? Your best friend?

After his death, you’d taken up sleeping. It had provided an escape, however temporary. Now, though, you didn’t want the Astarion in your dreams to hold you and comfort you - you wanted the real one to. It hurt to see one so warm and welcoming and the other so distant and reserved.

Tonight was no different. Anxiety swelled in your chest. Nausea poked at your stomach. You’re on edge, like a deer that knows it’s being stalked. Dreams and reality faded in and out, taking their turns. In one, Astarion walked beside you, playfully bumping into your shoulder as you made your way through Baldur’s Gate. In the other, Astarion leaned over you, teeth bared.

When he sees your eyes open, half-lidded, tired eyes staring up at him in a daze, he immediately backs away, caught red handed. He stands with hands outstretched to show he was unarmed and harmless. Well, mostly harmless. He’s shocked when all you do is sit up on your bedroll.

“It’s not what it looks like, I swear!”

You raise an eyebrow.

He stammers as he tries to explain himself. “I wasn’t going to hurt you! I just needed - well, blood.”

The firelight is dim, but the moon lights him up clearly. You see him, now. Pointed canines and two scarred punctures on his neck, with hollow cheeks and too-pale skin. “You’re… a vampire.” He bristles when you say it. “That’s how you’re alive.”

He barks out a mirthless, bitter laugh. “Undead, my dear,” he corrects. “But… yes.” He doesn’t let you get a word in before he launches into his next defense. “I was only going to have a nibble, I swear! I feed on animals, usually. Boars, deer, kobolds - whatever I can get. But it’s not enough. Not if I have to fight. I feel so… weak. If I just had a little blood, I could think clearer. Fight better.” He pauses for a moment, a pleading look on his face. “Please.” And you can’t tell if it’s genuine or not.

The tadpole behind your eyes wriggles. The sensation makes you shiver. You can feel hints of his mind touching yours. The hunger, the weakness. But it feels half-there. The worm says you can look deeper, know the truth behind it all. You want to ignore it, but your grief begs you to know.

You push into his mind, past the picked-out truths, to find the whole one. He’s startled by it, by you, but you can’t let this slip past your fingers. When his mind opens, you’re flooded with a barrage of memories and emotions. Fear, desperation, starvation, hatred - all surrounding a pair of dark eyes. They command him to feed, to drink from the rat squirming in his hands. You feel the gag at the back of your throat as his mouth becomes full of watery, rancid blood and fur. You can feel the rat still in his hands, drained to every last drop. It is all he will be given to eat. When you finally pull from his mind, Astarion’s face is full of disgust and hardship.

You swallow hard around the phantom feeling of wriggling in your mouth, urging it to leave. You can only imagine what it must have been like for him. It makes your heart ache.

“You ate animals because you were forced to,” you whisper. He can’t meet your eyes. “Not because you wanted to.”

“I-” He stopped. His voice became small. “Yes. Yes, I ate whatever disgusting vermin my master picked. So you can see why I’m slow to trust you.” Maybe he sees the flicker of pain in your eyes. Maybe he corrects himself for his own benefit. You can’t tell. His protective facade is back in place once more. “But I do trust you. And you can trust me.”

“I do. I trust you.”

“Thank you.” He shifts around, hesitant to ask his next question. “Do you think you could trust me just a little further? I only need a taste, I swear.”

You nodded. “Of course, Astarion. You only needed to ask.”

His eyes widened. “Really? I - of course. I’ll avoid the slinking around next time,” he chuckles. “Let’s make ourselves comfortable, shall we?”

You lay back once more. The stars are quickly hidden behind Astarion as he leans over you once more. His hands on either side of your head keep him over you. Like this, you feel small. A rabbit in the clutches of a wolf. But this is what you wanted after so long; to be close to him again.

His face softens. For a brief moment, it’s the face of the Astarion you once knew. Your heart rate spikes as he leans down, not toward your neck, but toward your forehead. A brush of a kiss, barely there at all. As he speaks, you can feel his lips moving along your skin and cold breaths of air.

“Thank you…” He sighs, finding the strength to say what was on his mind. You close your eyes, willing this moment to be implanted in your memories forever. “My dear moonlight.”

His lips brush against your neck. He can hear your heart racing, feel it just beneath your skin. Had you ever been this close before? Surely, you’d indulged in hugs and cuddling with him…right? His memory was so foggy. Trying to go back to those days hurt. But having this experience, right here, right now. He wishes he could lose himself in it.

And then there’s the frightening realization that you’re his first.

Before he can linger too long on how vulnerable that made him feel, he lined his teeth up, and bit down. You gasped in his ear. Blood rushed from the wound into his mouth. It was sweet. Sweeter than any rat or roach. And full-bodied like an exquisite wine. He wanted to drown in it - in you. Remain latched at your throat for another century, indulging and bloating himself on the saccharine ichor.

“Sunshine.”

It’s barely a whisper, but the softness of it pulls him from his feeding. He detaches his mouth from your neck and watches a few stray drops as they slide to the ground. Your face is relaxed; eyes closed and skin bathed in moonlight. Your hand detangles from his hair, and he wonders how long it had been there.

“Did I take too much?”

You shake your head and open your eyes, at last. They’re dulled and out of focus, lids fighting to close once more, but you look right at him. And you smile. “I’m okay.”

Tension leaves his shoulders. What had he been worried about?

He pushes himself up to his knees, and you roll over to face him. He thinks you might try starting a conversation, but all you do is get comfortable and give in to the exhaustion of blood loss.

“This is a gift, you know,” he says quietly. He’s not even sure if you can hear him. “I won’t forget it.”

[heartnosekid]

hello friends, i feel it necessary to update y’all on my condition and to explain my general absence.

over this past week and some change, i have been having a severe mental health crisis. i won’t go into details too heavily, but i’m still a little “in it”, though it has calmed down pretty significantly. to explain the severity, i was at a 12 out of 10, and now i’m at a 7 and occasionally a 6, if that makes sense. i am still debating going inpatient for the time being, just to get my meds figured out, but my mental and physical health teams are still kind of divided on the matter.

however, i feel it necessary to say, i am and have not been a danger to myself during this crisis. i had just been having a significant and precipitous physical and mental decline that was mostly anxiety and panic related, but i believe i am now on the mend, albeit going slow. medication is still an ongoing issue but hopefully within the next few days, my team and i can get that resolved and squared away.

i have received some kind messages asking if i am okay and sending well wishes, and i appreciate you all so incredibly much. you have made this more bearable for me, and i am endlessly thankful for all of you.

that said, i’m not sure when consistent posting will resume. i feel like i could begin working on requests again, but i don’t want to say it will be consistent or push myself too hard right now. especially if i do decide to go inpatient! however, the queue will not stop posting regardless of what happens because i am queued up till september lol but i will post another update if hospitalization is what i decide to do.

i love you all so very much!!! thank you for your support and love and kind words during this incredibly difficult time in my life. i will be back, hopefully soon in full swing and with amazing vigor! ☺️ i will talk to y’all soon, ilysm 💕

- ish 💕

[villowstar]

he has nighttime anxiety

[fella-lovin-fella]

my therapist is crazy man. she says i have "performance anxiety" just because i cant brush my teeth around other people bc im so afraid im doing it badly and that i start to panic whenever someone walks into the room while im doing dishes (or literally any chore) because im afraid im doing it badly, and because i cant talk to other people without always feeling like everything i say is the wrong option. like get a grip 🙄

[danafeelingsick]

Novemetober 2023

@monthofsick

Prompt list | Masterlist | AO3 collection

Day 2: Can't stop puking

Word count: 1, 4k~

CONTENT WARNINGS: descriptions of vomiting, mentions of anxiety, food, can be read as platonic or romantic.

Anon asked:

Would you be willing to do Furina with the prompt can’t hold anything down, if not it’s completely fine. Feel free to ignore this message. Sincerely, an anon who loves your blog and hopes you have a great 2024.

A/N: hey there anon, and happy new year! i ended up confusing the ‘can't stop puking' prompt with the ‘can't keep anything down’ one, so yours is listed as day 2. i found them a little similar, but tried alluding to both. i hope you like it! i couldn't help it and started a part two with more of neuvilette, so i might finish it once my mind's a little clearer.

Furina’s eyes fluttered open to the white tiles of her bathroom floor, twisting spiraling into some disorienting shape that made her head spin. Swallowing thickly, she closed them again, feeling her throat scratch as if she had eaten broken glass, a metallic taste lingering in the root of her tongue. She still felt nauseous.

A shuddering sigh escaped her dry lips, broken by a wet hiccup that had her whimpering softly. Her stomach lurched under the arms she had wrapped tightly around it, a burning ache spreading across her abdomen. The last thing she remembered was waking up to that same sensation, in the middle of night, her stubborn dinner trying to claw its way up.

Afraid she would be sick in her own bed, she wrapped a soft blanket around her shoulders and crawled her way to the bathroom. Kneeling on the cold hard floor, she had tried to ride out the waves of nausea, curling herself into a shivering ball.

That did nothing to stop it from happening, and the poor woman vomited miserably, tears running down her cheeks, her chest squeezing with every heave. She was alone, unable to even summon one of her companions to talk to.

She couldn’t tell for how long she had been asleep, or even when she had, but by then it had already become morning. The sun peered through one of the high windows of her apartment, mixed with harsh fluorescent light. Her situation hadn't improved.

As Furina propped herself over the ceramic bowl, she wondered if there was even anything else left in her. The plate of macaroni she forced down seemed to still be making its course, there was no helping it. She knew she was going to vomit again, the feeling was a distinct one, like her stomach had plummeted to her feet, her throat tightening.

She didn't try to fight it, letting herself gag softly, the sound morphing into a garbled retch as her abdomen suddenly sunk. Hot acidic bile gurgled up her throat and flooded her tongue, making her eyes water.

“Oh, god… Hurrlleeruhhk”, she gasped, spitting out the sirupy trickle into the toilet, staining the clear water a sickly yellow.

It tasted strongly of cheese and fermentation, making her regret the sauce she had made to accompany the pasta. She could feel the clumps of dough nearly clogging her throat as it all came up, splattering heavily into the water.

Her body ached from sleeping in such an awful place, making the dry heaving nearly excruciating, though she couldn't stop herself. Furina managed to spew another thick gush of undigested macaroni before she laid her head down, trying to breath through the unwavering nausea.

The contents of the toilet looked almost like a clumpy pale yellow soup, with visible chunks of once curved macaroni, not a single one had maintained its shape. Trying not to gag again, she reached out and flushed, wincing at the sound of swirling water.

Furina closed her eyes and groaned, shedding the tears pooled in her waterline. Falling asleep there wasn't an option she would even entertain, and no matter how weak she felt, she knew she needed to get up.

After a couple moments of breathing heavily, trying to ground herself, she rose to her feet, her legs trembling, her arms wrapped tightly around her stomach. The sound of a faucet distracted her as she avoided her reflection in the tall mirror, busying herself with rinsing her mouth and washing her face. While refreshing, she couldn't put down the feeling that it would take a lot more than that for her to feel okay again.

Just as Furina raised her eyes from the sink she heard a noise she didn't quite expect and froze: someone was knocking on her front door. She had no idea who it could be at that time, but she wasn't in the best shape for it.

“H-Hold on!”, she groaned as they knocked again, unsurprised at how weak her voice sounded. She was lightheaded as she reached the door, standing close to it as she talked to whoever it was on the other side: “Who is it? Look, I’m super busy right now.”

“Ah, my apologies”, a familiar voice responded, carrying a tone of lament in it. Furina felt as if the carpet had been pulled from under her, not believing it at first. It continued: “I suppose I can return at a later time.”

There was no mistaking it, she had known that voice for the last 500 years of her life. She hurriedly tried to unlock the door, her unsteady fingers struggling with the handle.

“No, no! Wait”, she pleaded, opening the door only to find him standing there, a tall man with silvery white hair, that same elegant suit she always saw him wear. “Monsieur Neuvillette…?”

The man’s cordial face turned to one of surprise as he saw her, his purplish eyes downcast at her, watching her tremble like a leaf in the wind. The woman didn't look quite like herself, her complexion was sickly pale and her eyes red, as if she had spent the night crying.

“Ah, Lady Furina. Sorry to barge in and disrupt you” Neuvillette stalled for a moment, before he continued, putting on his usual stilted tone.

“Just what are you doing here?”, she asked, not even registering what he had said. Her chest grew heavy with desperation, scowling in an attempt to hold her tears. “Why… now?”

Neuvillette seemed to grow uncomfortable, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his hands hidden behind his back.

“Well”, he sighed quietly, trying to sustain her gaze. “I’ve heard you hadn't left your home in a few days, so I… was worried”, he admitted, sounding almost ashamed, somehow. Furina had to admit, in the centuries they had known each other, she hadn’t learned to read him at all.

The woman shook her head, still trying to make sense of what he was saying. If she didn't appear out her door for more than two or three days, the news would reach the Iudex himself? So much for freedom, she thought with annoyance.

“I don't get it… why are you here? Why didn't you send someone else, or, or”, she blurted, her voice becoming stained as her throat tightened, her vision blurring. “Don't you have anything more important to do!?”

“I had some time and decided to pay you a visit. I apologize if I came at a bad time”, he responded simply, cocking his head at her abrasive attitude. As if trying to repair the awkward silence that hung between the two, he brought out a few plastic bags from behind his back. ”Here, I thought you could use extra supplies. Take it as a… late house warming gift, I suppose”, he added.

Furina glanced at the bags, catching a glimpse of several wrapped goods, including a large slice of cake inside a plastic casing. She swallowed, she hadn't had that in months, but just thinking of the taste, of how much she ate of it in her days as acting archon. Her hand flew to her mouth, covering it as an airy hiccup escaped her

“I-I don't want it —”, she choked out, her stomach dropping.

Before Neuvilette could even decipher what she had said, the woman spun on her heels, ran a few steps into her living room, and dropped to her knees.

“Lady Furina!” Neuvillette followed after her, throwing all learned manners aside as he barged into her home uninvited, leaving the bags on the floor.

He couldn't tell what was wrong with her, or rather, he couldn't comprehend why a human would have such a reaction, then he saw it. Her small frame winced violently as a loud strangled noise left, her frail back heaving and arms trembling, struggling to hold her up. He knew she needed his company, though he couldn't decide if she wanted it.

The man knelt by her side, just as something wet splattered on the floor in front of her, forming a viscous puddle. He tried not to look at it and held her by the shoulders before she gave out, one hand going to her forehead. Heat nearly rolled off her like water poured over a campfire. It was a first for him, feeling it through the fabric of his gloves, the combination of cold and unusual warmth, he knew what that meant.

“You are sick…”, he told her, his voice still airy from the shock.

Furina responded with a dry heave, the sound guttural for her once melodic voice, he couldn't help but wince along with her, his eyes briefly closing as he expected another sounding splatter. When it didn't come, he watched her gasp desperately, gagging emptily over the puddle in front of her.

“For how long have you been dealing with this alone?“, he asked.

Furina bit her lip, no longer able to hold in her tears.

[psychotic-system-culture-is]

Psychotic System Culture is...

Thinking "Huh... we haven't been anxious or had an episode in the past few days; we've been at home feeling safe! The mental illness must have gone away-" and accidentally invoking an internal

several people are typing...

(/reference, silly)

Translator Note : We are currently experiencing positive symptoms in the form of two (known) delusions. The mental illness has NOT gone away.

[leajoyrambles]

I come across as an almost-functioning person because I can strategically calculate my way through social interactions, provided I’m not frozen on the spot with social anxiety, and also because I don’t really care what people think of me.

that said, how does one acquire mutuals?

[literallylyn27-02-97]

My Kieran headcanons!!

Tw for self-harm, abuse and panic attack mentions!

This is a long post-

He has some issues with his verbality at times and often goes non-verbal when he's overwhelmed or feeling too tired. Him being coddled by his family so much never exactly helped.

That incident with Terapagos actually kinda messed up his arm a bit—it got twisted pretty bad, and even once it's healed he got some chronic pain in it that he needs to wear an arm brace at times to support.

Another chronic issue he has is pain and weakness, due to his self neglection during all his training he has issues with getting up in mornings and actually finding energy to do literally anything, so he usually has to rely on someone else bringing him food or medicine.

He can actually be pretty clingy at times. Him and Carmine used to have to share a bed when they'd first moved in with their grandparents as young kids, and Kieran always used to beg her to hold him as he went to sleep.

Speaking of moving in with their grandparents, I headcanon the reason for this was that their actual parents were quite abusive and "traditional," in the sense that they believed Kieran was supposed to be "the strong man" and Carmine was: "The quiet meek girl." So naturally, they didn't take kindly to Carmine's fiesty attitude, or Kieran's shy and anxious nature.

Kieran is actually a self harmer. He used to do it quite frequently, especially during his intense training, but once he began to heal more and accept more help, he managed to do it less and less, but he still has some moments where it feels like it's all he can do to make himself feel better.

He actually has kinda bad astraphobia, and doesn't really cope well during thunderstorms. Someone else will have to be in the room with him at all times to make sure he's not having a literal panic attack.

As much as they like to fight and have tons of banter, at the end of the day Kieran and Drayton can actually get along pretty well, they just barely ever show it. But Drayton can be surprisingly good when it comes to calming down Kieran if he cries, or if he's really anxious or having a panic attack.

Even though he had the League Club drop him, he still gets along with all the members pretty well (kind proven by Crispin asking if they were watching that show in their one club room interaction.) And the Elite 4 do still try to hang out with him when they can!

He has pretty bad trauma from the Terapagos incident. Him, Carmine and pretty much all their friends suspect he has PTSD from it. Because of this he also has really bad nightmares, as well as flashbacks from the event, and Carmine or some of their friends will often have to check in on him during the night. (Though it's usually just Carmine or Drayton, purely cuz I hc his dorm room is right beside Kieran's—)

Of course those aren't the only issues caused by his PTSD, for a while seeing Pokémon terastalise or seeing the Stellar type in the Terrarium alone is enough to trigger him a bit, so he doesn't really like going there unattended for a while until he's had enough support to be able to manage his anxieties and trauma on his own, which understandably takes a while.

I also headcanon that he has BPD (Borderline Personality Disorder,) as I myself have it and I see a lot of the traits in his character! His friends usually try to help comfort and calm him down during really emotional moments, which he's always grateful for!

He gets sick really easily. He gets about five colds every winter season, and even a few during the summer. He also gets really bad frequent stomachaches due to his anxiety, which he honestly feels is one of the worst things ever.

He was one of those kids that pretty much very adult ever would fawn over because of how adorable he was. Meanwhile, him, being a little brother, could be a manipulative little demon at times. (When he was younger he definitely took advantage of it in order to get candy from adults-)

He really likes baggy clothes, especially hoodies and jackets. He's found they help him feel safer and not as nervous when he's out in public.

Because he can be so freaking clingy, sometimes when he wants attention from someone (usually Carmine or Juliana) he has a habit of just poking them over and over and over until they give him the attention he wants, or with Carmine he even pulls out the;

"Carmine."

"What?"

"Carmine..."

"...What is it...!?"

"Carmine..."

"What!?"

"Carmine..."

"Kiki, I swear to—!"

He gets a lot more confidence once hes finally out of the whole "I need to get stronger!" Phase. (This is again pretty much canon-) he's still a pretty introverted person, but he gets a lot better at sticking up for himself, and being a lot more "out there."

When he's actually being healthy for once he can be decent at looking after himself. He at least knows how to cook some basic meals, iron clothes, and do some chores, but he still needs help with like actual laundry and more advanced meals.

Crispin gets really annoyed with him over his eating habits. (So does Drayton actually but he's a lot more subtle about it-) he finds out Kieran's been living on nothing but chocolate one day and is judt immediately cooking him what is essentially a five star meal. And Kieran actually has a surprisingly high spice tolerance so he's one of the few who can handle whatever he makes.

Him, Drayton, and Crispin also have sleepovers! They're pretty fun for the three, aside from the millions of "fights" him and Drayton get into.

His Furret brings him a lot of emotional support and comfort whenever he's feeling really emotional. He's had it since forever so he has a really close bond with it, and it knows pretty much all the tactics when it comes to calming him down!

[userboxes-yep]

coming out of hibernation to post this.

reblog if you use.

[aspennntree]

my best friend calls his anxiety the mold and i call mine the horrors. does anyone else do this or are we weird.

[thecouncilofidiots]

When you're having a higher pain day(s) and they bring you pain meds and food and stay with you while you take them because they know you have medication anxiety >>>>> anything else

[angstyaches]

Hi!I love your fics so much and I saw your request things and thought maybe you could do Donnacha or Henry with an upset stomach that pushes them to the edge? Like they have to go go go all day long and it makes them like super overwhelmed but it ends all fluffy with the other character comforting them with belly rubs or a hot shower or smth?? Only do this if you want ofc!! Just a an idea! Ok bye!!

I was so sure that this hadn't been in my inbox for too long, but then I realised my original draft is named 'henry sickfic june' lmao thank you for the lovely request and for your patience, anon 🖤

CW: anxiety, depression, bad self talk, chronic pain, job interview scenario, death mention, emeto, stomach noises, platonic caretaking, belly rubs.

Word Count: 4,000+

___

Henry woke up feeling far too rested. 

Not a good sign.  

Even before he’d untangled his thoughts from the hazy dream he’d been having – the details were already retreating, but he was certain that Orlando Bloom had been somewhat involved – he knew in his bones that he had slept through his alarms. 

Cold spikes of adrenaline flipped him onto his back, joints protesting, so he could reach for his phone and his glasses. He pressed the glasses to his face and read the time on the screen. The taste of bile crept into his dry mouth. 

“Oh, fuck.”  

He scrubbed a hand over his face. He hadn’t shaved in ages, and his stubble was just short of a full-fledged beard at this rate. He’d intended to shave this morning, before sitting down to do a remote job interview that had been scheduled for one hour and forty-three minutes ago. 

Well. The company may as well have received written confirmation that he was no longer interested.  

Woops.  

He supposed he could call them up now and apologise for running late, and maybe they’d give him another shot –  

Henry’s stomach instantly turned at the idea, and he had to swallow very measuredly to avoid choking on a mouthful of bile. 

He had another interview lined up for later that afternoon, in case interview number one fell flat. Which it technically hadn’t. Now everything depended on the second – only – interview, a thought that had his stomach twisting again as soon as he had it. He almost regretted that he hadn’t managed to sleep through that appointment, too; at least then it would have been out of his hands. 

Henry hauled himself out of bed, grabbed his cane, and headed down the hallway for a quick, lukewarm shower. He thought about his day as he worked the grease out of his hair and the sheet-marks out of his face; his failure to make his first meeting of the day clawed at him, clinging to his skin despite the running water. As much as he’d been dreading the human interaction, he needed work – for the sense of purpose as much as the financial compensation. 

But... mostly the financial compensation. 

Digging through his clothes, he realised that the first thing he’d needed to do that morning was stick a bundle of his laundry into the washer-dryer, so he would have a decent shirt to wear for his interviews. Well, interview singular now. He dragged his laundry basket to the kitchen and filled the machine. His hip and back started aching with the effort of crouching, and head spun with urgency, frustration, and the overall unpleasantness of waking up to instant panic. His hair – now long enough to lick the neckline of his sweater – dripped cold water into his clothes. 

Alright. The dry cycle would be finished a measly fifteen minutes before he’d need a shirt. He’d really needed to wake up with that first alarm, but... it was fine. This was fine. 

While the washing machine hummed to life and water trickled into the drum, Henry gingerly righted himself, fingers working into the tension in his hip. Tears stabbed at the backs of his eyeballs and his jaws sat tense, but there was no sense in letting the pain steal his focus when he had things to be doing. 

He eyed the cupboards and considered dragging something out for a breakfast/lunch hybrid, but he felt his stomach do a queasy little backflip at the thought.  

He slinked back to his room, his heart thumping like he’d run a marathon, and lowered himself into his desk chair. 

___ 

Henry tried tapping around on Reddit to kill the time, but the constraints of both his laundry and his upcoming interview made it impossible for him to get absorbed in anything other than watching the time. His eyes skimmed over words and paragraphs without really taking anything in, and what little information his brain did let in only made him confused and angry. His mind was locked up tight, sealing itself up in fear of forgetting what he was supposed to do later. 

He typed the name of the company he’d be interviewing with later into a search engine. Maybe if he convinced himself he was being productive, his brain would give him a break. 

Light stabbed his eyes and Henry almost physically recoiled when their website appeared on-screen. No wonder they were looking to hire a web designer. The thing looked like it’d been created by a thirteen-year-old in 2004, despite the fact that the About Us portion stated that the company had been established in 2016.  

Henry was ready to click away from the site again – any longer in front of that wall of neon yellow and headers written in Bradley Hand, and he’d trigger a migraine – when a twinge of hunger sent his stomach into a spiraling churn.  

“Oh, great, now you’re hungry,” Henry murmured, gliding a hand over his belly.  

As indignant as he was about having to move, he was a little grateful to be given a task. He pulled himself out of the desk chair with a resigned sigh. After making himself a milky cup of coffee and a sandwich, using the last slice of cheese in the fridge, he hobbled over to the living room couch.  

He thought about turning the TV on, but the remote was out of immediate reach, so that decision was made for him. He ate in silence. 

He took a few bites of his sandwich that didn’t really taste... like anything. He hadn’t had anything to drink, since he’d woken late and in such a panic; maybe it was his dry mouth that was stopping his taste buds from doing their job. He took his coffee mug firmly by the handle and gulped down a few mouthfuls, stopping when the bitterness clung to the back of his throat. Not his best move, he thought with a shudder. He managed a few more bites and, unable to force himself to eat the crusts when his appetite was already so poor, called it there. 

___ 

Henry’s belly roiled. He could feel a panicky sheen of sweat gathering under his clothes. and his voice trembled throughout the meeting, It was so hard to sort through his dizzy thoughts that he struggled to answer the most basic of questions; what were his qualifications, what previous work was he the proudest of, what had he struggled with in the past and how had he overcome that struggle. 

“Thank you for allowing me to get to know you, Mr. Wilde,” the interviewer said now, smiling at him through the screen. “Your qualifications and experience are probably the most outstanding of all of our candidates so far. But I am just curious; what it is that interested you about this particular project?”  

Henry swallowed thickly. Despite this very immediate emergency situation, all he could think about was how Lucy would have passed away from second-hand embarrassment if she ever found out that the extent of his research on this company hadn’t gone beyond a brief skim of their website. 

He mumbled something about potential, even though all he could think about was the potential of him taking a nap directly after this interview ended. To his left, his bed lay beneath the armfuls of clothing that he’d moved out of his webcam’s line of sight, yet it seemed to peer out at him with a warm, tempting gaze. He could call it a day here, and hope she’d hire him based on his credentials alone. 

A warm, sickly belch crawled up his throat. He managed to stifle and muffle it, but his fist jerked towards his lips out of instinct, his cheeks puffing out slightly. The air settled back into his stomach with an acidic slosh, and he eyed his interviewer carefully. 

“Excuse me, sorry,” he mumbled. 

She blinked, regarding him with a hint of distaste, but moved along. “So, if we were to hire you for this project, where would you begin?” 

Henry cleared his throat, removing his fist. He was becoming irritated now; it felt as though she were tricking him into giving her instructions for whatever sap she hired, be it him or somebody else. But sometimes, you just had to jump through hoops to get ahead. Or stay afloat. 

“Well...” He cleared his throat. “I think I would begin by implementing some basic changes to the optics of the company’s home page. It’s the first impression of your company that many customers will get, so I feel it’s important to provide a good visual impact.” 

“Visual.” The interviewer – shame curdled in Henry’s gut as he realised he’d already forgotten her name – raised an eyebrow. “This project doesn’t concern any graphic work.” 

Catastrophe bloomed amidst the existing unease in Henry’s belly. He could let himself off the hook for not knowing the company inside-out, but not knowing the details of the position he was applying for was a whole other level of unpreparedness. The Lucy in his head was slapping her forehead and shaking her head, disowning him. 

“But you’ve intrigued me,” the interviewer said. “What optics are you referring to?” 

If you want my input, hire me, Henry wanted to snap at her. 

“Well, there are some scenarios where websites such as your current one would lend a certain retrospective, nostalgic charm,” Henry said, adjusting his glasses with a shaky hand, “but since I have no reason to believe that this was the intention here, the current website makes your company appear out of touch, and the previous designer seem like an incompetent amateur.” 

With a deep nod of her head, the interviewer looked down at the notepad she’d been clutching since the call had begun. She tucked a nonexistent strand of stray hair behind her ear. “The previous designer was my deceased partner.” 

Henry’s throat froze over. 

“But I thank you for your feedback on her competence, Mr. Wilde, or... lack thereof, as it would seem.” Her eyes widened as she jotted something down. Her sudden lack of eye contact seemed intentional. “That’s all I need from you right now.” 

Henry fidgeted in his desk chair. He’d done such a great job of not fidgeting until that point. An apology danced on the tip of his tongue, but all that came out when he opened his mouth was, “Alright.” 

“Thank you for your time.” The interviewer didn’t even off a ‘we’ll be in touch’ before she ended the video call and vanished from his screen. 

Henry sat back in his chair, flung his glasses across his keyboard, and groaned loudly into his palms. When the groan didn’t seem like enough, he allowed himself something a little closer to a scream – why not? He was home alone, and the downstairs lot had been unoccupied ever since they’d moved in.  

The sound turned over painfully in his throat and made his eyes water. His insides felt like they were shrinking under the weight of failure, uselessness, despair, and hopelessness, and his shoulders crumpled inwards until his head was resting on the edge of his desk. 

It felt like forever before a sob finally tore loose, and with it came the sickly belch he’d swallowed on the video call, only this time, it came with interest. His stomach was churning wildly, feeling full to the brim with acidic mush. 

Jesus Christ, he hadn’t even said sorry for his remark, or thanked the interviewer for taking the time to speak with him –  

Vision blurry, Henry’s hands scrambled to find the metal bin he usually filled with sticky notes and chocolate wrappers and noodle cups. He shifted his chair forward in the search, jamming one of the wheels against his own foot. He yanked the bin into his lap as his stomach muscles imploded.  

No, he thought, tossing the bin back to the floor. Puking in his bin would mean washing it later, and Henry didn’t trust his energy levels to be up for an extra task after all of this.  

He gripped the edge of his desk, flinching to his feet and setting his stationery holders rattling. His hip seized up as he straightened, and if that wasn’t bad enough, a spike of tension pierced his temples. He staggered into the hallway and towards the bathroom, and, mercifully, made it to the toilet bowl before his stomach could really get going. 

The pressure at the base of his oesophagus felt like too much laundry being pushed into a washing machine drum at one time. It took far too long for him to retch up even the tiniest splatter of burning-hot bile; the liquid ejected from his stomach probably amounted to less than the liquid he’d squeezed out of his eyes.  

Still, his body seemed satisfied with that for now. The nausea retreated, leaving only that stubborn pain in his belly and the matching pain left behind by the clenching in his throat. 

He sank to the floor, knuckles pale and jutting as he gripped the toilet seat with both hands. He forced up a burp that was pressing at the base of his ribs, grimacing and desperate for relief, but it only brought that hot, heavy feeling back. His stomach burbled. His hip ached. His goosebump-ridden body shuddered. His heart curdled into a lump of despair that sat at the back of his throat. 

He belched again, and this time, up came his sandwich. 

___ 

“Henry, it’s Flatmate Friday,” Donnacha called through the door, as drily as he might have said that it was raining outside.  

Henry groaned quietly into his pillow. Flatmate Friday generally involved pizza delivery and a nostalgic movie or two, while three people sat crushed together on the couch and the fourth either took up residence on the floor or on a dining chair. 

“Hen, you alive in there?” Donnacha asked. “More importantly, are you decent?” 

Knowing he wouldn’t be able to convince Donnacha not to come into his room, Henry gave in to the inevitable. He tugged the duvet out of the way of his mouth and called out, “Yes.” 

“Look,” Donnacha sighed as he breezed into the room. His eyes lingered on the mess of clothing that lay between the door and the bed, but only for a few seconds. “I know Lucy brought you your slices last week, but I don’t agree with that! I’m sorry if it sounds harsh, or whatever, but the point of Flatmate Fridays is... you know. Hanging out with your flatmates on a Friday. If I can be civil with Payton in the spirit of Flatmate Friday, then you can at least manage the ten paces it takes from here to the couch...” 

There was a brief flash of silence. 

“Jesus, Hen,” Donnacha said softly. Ha shimmied around the clothes mountain. His weight tipped one side of the mattress, creating a slope that pulled Henry’s legs towards the warmth of Donnacha’s back. “What’s going on? Bad day?” 

Henry shrugged. 

“Those... those new meds messing you up?” There was a soft, sympathetic melody to Donnacha’s voice now. He wove his fingertips into the fluffy mess of Henry’s hair.  

The gesture took him so much by surprise that tears sprang to Henry’s eyes, almost as uncontrollably as vomit. 

“Hen,” Donnacha exclaimed in a whisper, as though Henry had done something outrageous by tearing up. “What’s up? This is scary. Please tell me.” 

“I... fucked up so many times today,” Henry said numbly. It all felt so... inconsequential now that he was trying to summarise it for someone who wasn’t there. Someone who didn’t share his headspace. Someone who could smile and shrug and tell him to try again another day.  

Someone who, sweet as he was, didn’t understand.  

“What do you mean?” The sympathetic edge left Donnacha’s voice, leaving only disbelief. Genuine disbelief that Henry could have fucked anything up because Henry was older, Henry was smarter, Henry never left the apartment so when would he even have the opportunity to fuck anything up? 

“I-I woke up feeling like shit, and then I missed one job interview, and I really... really wanted that one.” He hadn’t admitted it to himself earlier, but now it hit him like a rock to the gut, that the interview he’d missed had meant so much more to him than the other one. “A-and then, I spectacularly fucked up the second one –” 

“It can’t have been that bad.” 

“I insulted the interviewer’s dead partner.” 

Donnacha’s lips hovered apart, wordless. Yeah, that’s what I thought, Henry wanted to spit. 

“And then I-I completely shut down for the rest of the day... I’m behind on my current deadlines –”  

“Hey, it’s okay,” Donnacha said. 

He didn’t even realise he’d started heaving with sobs until he felt Donnacha’s hands trying to still his shuddering shoulders. He leaned into his arms, the mattress rolling his legs and his torso closer to Donnacha’s weight as the larger boy edged a little closer. 

“And you’ve just been lying here all by yourself? Why didn’t you call out to any of us when we got home?” 

A small, bitter voice in Henry’s head wanted to snap, Why didn’t any of you think to check on me? but he knew that was unfair. Most days, he was fine, but still didn’t like having his flatmates entering his personal space without an invitation. 

“Why didn’t you tell me... tell us you had interviews this week?” Donnacha wondered. His eyes darted across Henry’s face, as though he thought he had a better chance of finding an answer in his pores and his eyeballs than of getting an answer verbally. “You don’t need to keep all this shit to yourself.” 

Henry shrugged. He honestly wasn’t sure. Part of him had wanted to avoid Career Guidance Lucy and her sporadic seminars on interview skills. Part of him had dreaded the inevitable words of encouragement that Donnacha and Payton would no doubt have offered him, making it feel like an even bigger deal, an even more profound failure, when he didn’t get the jobs. He’d wanted to secure a new gig in secret, and mention it casually to his flatmates after the fact.  

Anything else was just asking for too much attention, building up too many expectations... 

A weak gurgle broke the silence, and Henry instinctively covered his stomach with his palm. Donnacha’s eyes followed the movement. A second later, there was a deeper sound, a hollow grumble that Henry felt tickle at the back of his throat. 

“Have you eaten today?” 

“Yes. I’m not hungry,” he added, already knowing that Donnacha was going to suggest, once again, that he join the others for pizza and Flatmate Friday. It was just unfortunate that his belly decided to rumble for a third time. 

“Somehow, I think you're lying to me.” 

“No - you don’t get it,” Henry sighed. Noting that Donnacha had left the door ajar and that Lucy was just down the hallway in the living area, he lowered his voice and leaned a little closer to Donnacha’s shoulder. “After my second interview... my only interview, in the end,” Henry growled, kicking his past self yet again, “I felt so sick to my stomach that I threw up my lunch.” 

Donnacha looked positively wounded with sympathy. Henry wondered how the hell he managed it.  

“Hen...” Donnacha’s hand pushed gently into Henry’s hair again. 

It was all Henry could do not to whimper and melt into the touch. He settled for letting his eyes flutter shut. He didn’t deserve the tingling pleasure that was flowing from Donnacha’s fingertips into his skull, softening the sparking, frayed edges of his nerves.  

“I’ll bring you your slices, if you want them.” 

Henry shook his head. He might have been trembling with emotion now, rather than nausea, but he still didn’t feel up to putting anything in his stomach.  

“I’ll bring mine, too. We can hang out in here, watch our own movie.”  

“No,” he choked out, pulling away from Donnacha’s hand and resting his head on the pillow again.  

“Just give me one minute.” Donnacha didn’t hesitate another second before getting up from the bed and tackling the obstacle course that was Henry’s bedroom floor one more time. 

Henry buried his face in his pillow, part of him hoping that Donnacha would somehow change his mind while he was out there and not come back. Part of him felt extremely cold and hollow at the thought of him changing his mind and not coming back. 

These feelings were confusing. Henry didn’t like it when feelings were confusing. Maybe that was what prompted him to groan in displeasure when Donnacha returned, carrying a plate laden with at least five slices of pepperoni pizza. The smell made Henry’s stomach growl with hunger that felt a lot like nausea, or... nausea that felt a lot like hunger. 

“You can’t be in here,” Henry muttered as Donnacha leaned over the mess to prop the plate on the edge of Henry’s desk. 

“Ah, ah,” Donnacha sang, darting from the room again. This time, he came back with his laptop, which he propped on Henry’s desk chair – after removing a few pairs of underwear that had been tossed onto it. “What were you saying?” 

Henry sighed and pushed himself up onto his side. That spike of agony still trailed from the outside of his eye socket to the centre of his brain. He couldn’t allow his mind to drift anywhere near the memories of the day without feeling the shame turn over in his belly. But he had to admit, Donnacha’s presence was a lot like a hot cup of tea on a chilly day. 

“It’s Flatmate Friday.” Henry waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the living area. “Flatmate bonding and whatnot.” 

“You’re my flatmate, too,” Donnacha pointed out. He looked away from his laptop and glanced about the room, no doubt analysing the mixture of washed and unwashed laundry littering the floor. “And I have a feeling I’ve... we’ve all been neglecting you a little bit.” 

Henry’s empty, knotted stomach attempted to do a little flip. “You sound like Lu.” 

Looking slightly pleased with himself, Donnacha gave a shrug. “Maybe she’s a good influence on me. Only Fools and Horses?” 

“Sure.” Henry didn’t particularly care for the 80s sitcom, but it always seemed to draw a chuckle or two out of Donnacha.  

Donnacha positioned himself at the lower half of Henry’s bed, one leg crossed under the opposite knee while his foot trailed off the side. It was a long way for him to reach to grab a slice of pizza from the place, but he did so heroically with only a tiny exhalation of strain. Henry took his pillow and pressed it to the back wall, forcing himself to sit upright even though it made his head spin and his bones feel like jelly.  

After five minutes of staring numbly at the laptop screen and listening to Donnacha chew not one but two slices of pizza, the spinning and the weakness started to pass, and the shifting in Henry’s stomach felt less like a natural disaster waiting to happen and more like an empty plea for sustenance. He gingerly reached for a slice of the pizza, and was oddly relieved when Donnacha didn’t make a big deal out of it; he just leaned around Henry and grabbed a third slice for himself. 

A few bites in, and Henry’s mind started to wander. Sleeping in, not feeling motivated enough, insulting the work of a dead person, lazily forgetting social etiquette – 

The spices in the pepperoni and the tanginess of the tomato sauce drained away until the next bite of pizza felt like a mouthful of cardboard. 

Henry chewed painfully  leaning over to place the half-eaten slice back at the edge of the plate. Chewing was an ordeal almost as unpleasant as that afternoon’s bout of dry-heaving, which he had no desire to repeat. 

He brushed the crumbs from his fingers onto the plaid fabric of his pyjamas pants, making a note to change them before bed, and sank back against the pillow. Dough and cheese and sauce sloshed around in his stomach, and he started to lift a hand to rub at it, but a large, protective one made it there first. 

Donnacha didn’t even look away from the screen as he rubbed his hand back and forth. “Doing okay?” 

“I think so,” Henry murmured, flinching as his stomach squelched under Donnacha’s palm and then began to settle into a gentler churning motion. He wondered if Donnacha had any idea the effect he was having. 

And then Donnacha laughed out loud at an on-screen joke that Henry just didn’t get, and Henry had to fight just to keep his eye-rolling subtle. 

[artisthedgehog]

hey here's a tip that i figured works with my anxiety, if you ever feel anxious in the middle of class or a test, start writing lyrics of songs you like in the notebook/paper

it personally works with distracting me from whats going on and after writing most of the song i normally feel much more relaxed

hope this helps someone <3

[theprodigxl-daughter]

healing is such an insane process because one minute you're doing great and doing things that you couldn't do before and a second later the smallest thing that shouldn't be able to get you anymore happens and it feels like you took a 100 steps back

[icedmetaltea]

Tiny vent bc I need to get this out to SOMEONE

So the other day, me and my sibling were out shopping. They broke the news that they found this opportunity for a week-long tour in Europe encompassing a couple different countries. They offered to bring me along and pay for me (not something I could afford myself since atm I'm a broke full-time student) so I was really excited. I haven't travelled anywhere for like... I'm gonna say like 7-8 years?? And I've never been out of the country. I was fuckin' elated in fact.

Then this morning they said "Oh I went on and booked that trip, but I only booked it for myself" and lo and behold it's going to be December 21-28, so I'll be alone for Christmas for the first time. My friends and family live nowhere near me so it's kinda like a punch to the stomach?? I was already feeling super depressed this week so it was like SLAP take that as well~

They already went to New York without me this Spring and they seem to be doing more and more stuff alone. I understand if they want more independence but like... geez, you could've at least kept it to yourself or something, you know? Or not gotten my hopes up.

Oh, and on top of all that, they've been talking about moving to fucking Canada. Considering this would be during a time when the US is possibly heading toward a world/civil war and it's getting more and more dangerous here, and they most definitely have refused to bring me along and I wouldn't be able to afford to leave myself, it feels more than ever like I'm being thrown aside.

They just seem so thoughtful and nice when it comes to other people, but me? No, they're sick of me. They want to get away from me, because all I ever do is ruin everything with my panic attacks. They have other friends, they have a good job and no anxiety to fuck up their days. Why should they give a damn about me? I'm just their annoying sibling, after all.

[4letteraroace]

Ok. Because I am experiencing sensory overload from my spd, I am going to describe how Sam would comfort Darlin (or at least MY version of Darlin) when they feel sensory overload.

So, first of all, Darlin cannot mask to save their life when they’re overwhelmed.

They either get deadly silent or are extra snarly. And throw constant death glares at everyone they see.

Total dog with tail between its legs and therefore super defensive behavior

Of course our sweet southern vampire sees this. And probably senses the fear in their blood that comes from too much sensory stimulation

So, he gently asks them if they’re ok with physical affection.

If they are ok with physical touch during that episode, he’ll pull them into his arms and guide them to a calmer, less stimulating environment.

If not, he’ll guide them out of the overwhelming environment while respecting their boundaries.

Once Darlin is successfully pulled away from the overwhelming space, Sam helps guide them through some breathing exercises and helps them reframe the situation, so their brain doesn’t escalate their symptoms into a full panic attack

Also, lots of comforting hugs and kisses. Those help too.

After the adrenaline from the overload comes down, Darlin is probably exhausted, so Sam takes them home and then they snuggle and fall asleep together.