#tw: ptsd flashback

[mythalsknickers]

happy dadwc friday! for Rookanis: “I’m looking in your eyes, I’m ready to be hurt again.”

-inquisimer

Title: Cut Away the Pain Pairing: Teigue de Riva x Lucanis Dellamorte Rating: Mature Word Count: 792 Warnings: Sparring, PTSD Flashback, Choking @dadrunkwriting Veilguard

Footsteps down the hall...

He inhaled pushing the knife blade between his fingers, pale eyes trained on the training dummy.

A pair of footsteps and Viago was muttering...

The blade left his fingers, hurtling towards the dummy on the exhale. His hand went to his rapier, it left the sheath. In nearly a singular moment he lunged forward.

"No..., will ... be necess...."

His shoulders drew tight as he furrowed his brow looking towards the door of the training hall. His fingers reached up plucking the dagger from the dummy. His curiosity starting to fray his focus from the drills as he carefully crept towards the door.

"He...work...me... must...alert"

The voice was familiar, but he could not fully place where he knew it from. Pulling his gaze away from the door he looked back toward the training target. He had drills that he needed to master. There was no inhale as the blade left his fingers, silverite glinting briefly before connecting with the dummy.

The door protested as it was opened. His foot pivoted, turning to the sound as he brought his rapier across his body. Silverite clashing echoed around the hall and his eyes met dark ones, there was slight upturn of his lips a smirk. Behind him he could see Viago standing by the door for a moment watching with his own critical gaze.

"Good, you were paying attention." Lucanis Dellamorte. He inhaled, fingers finding a dagger again. If he lunged back without breaking the guard, the heir of the first talon could just advance and catch him off guard. Exhaling the dagger thrust forward only to be met with a dagger of Lucanis'. "Well Teigue, try not to resort to biting this time."

His eyes narrowed at the taunt another inhale and this time it was met with a shove that pushed him back away from the older crow. His jaw tightened and he felt the fade along his senses. "You say that like, last time was a proper spar. Master Lucanis." He offered raising his brow with his own smirk, sarcasm dripped through his voice.

There was a moment where they both stood; rapiers pointed towards the other, and daggers hidden behind their body. Time seem to stand still as they both waited. Though he had never been the most patient crow, he broke the standoff with a burst forward. Metal scraping against metal rang against his ears.

"Reckless, Teigue." There was something in the tone as he struggled against the clash, this close he could smell the leather of his coat, and look for any tells. It was single motion, a grunt left his lips as his back connected with the floor. "Again." The order was punctuated by a dagger hitting the floor next to head.

"Vaffanculo!" he hissed pushing himself up to his knees. He had caught the movement and ducked under the attack. He swore he saw a smirk. His dagger barely whistled as he threw it, the dull thump of it hitting the dummy barely served as warning as a rapier nicked his shoulder. His foot pivoted and he came face to face with a dagger, and Lucanis Dellamorte, and the templar that haunted his nightmares.

He sucked in a breath he was home, the Trevisan country side. His eyes glanced at the room, drapes over the windows replaced by dark heavy iron chains, instead of the marble, stormy grey stones of the gallows. His throat tightened a hand around it. He squeezed his eyes closed, he could hear the laughter and feel the hands. His chest felt too tight as he struggled to breath, and the fade felt like elastic. He needed to keep them away. Ice coated his rapier and his feet, then the sudden snap as it spread in a decent radius around him.

Ice not a silence but ice. His eyes opened meeting dark eyes and no dagger or rapier. The realization dawned on him, it had not been a spar. It had been a means to find that sore spot, the reason his last contract had nearly failed. He inhaled, slow and stuttering, he was a crow, not the scared fledgling stolen all those years ago. He raised his rapier holding Lucanis' gaze.

"I am looking in your eyes, I am ready to be hurt again." His voice calm, he needed to work it out. It could exist but it could not hinder him in a fight. There was no hesitation as ice cracked and silverite clanging against each other echoed in the hall. Like the poison being pulled from a wound, it had to be merciless. He had to fight through it all. No matter the concerned gaze, and the furrowed brow, it would keep going.

[eeblueberry]

GirlThing* who will be having regular PTSD flashbacks in 6 months voice: "It so weird how I had a perfect childhood with loving parents and siblings. I wish I had trauma to explain why I'm Like This."

[pastafossa]

DDBA SPOILER REALIZATION THOUGHT, SERIOUS ANGST

How we feeling about the realization I just had that Matt is probably drinking red wine in his apartment even though he prefers cheap beer because the smell of cheap beer is likely now tied irrevocably to his memory of Foggy's death?

They were at Josie's.

They were at Josie's: cheap beer, hops, bitterness. He knows that scent.

A scent now mingled forever in his mind with the taste of sour fear, of death in the air.

And of lingering copper, and the anguished, familiar tang of tears and Foggy's cologne.

[cry-baby6]

[k-y-g]

I used to be strongest at night,

until you took from me.

now I'm lost in endless shadow,

a personal hell you created and abandoned me in.

look at me.

suffocating as tar coats my throat, obsidian and insidious

hands clawing over the raw, gaping cavity of my rib cage

a wall of tears fall from petrified eyes perpetually forced open against grit and hurricanes

as realisation and horror dawns again and again and again.

and all I can do is remember.

my final breath in is agony, broken shards of shattered mirrors slicing my lungs

and my scream is a cough, blood and acid falling from my ulcerated mouth

the empty laugh of a thankless god echoes as my heart finally stops.

just for it to begin again. and again. and again.

flashbacks. // k-y-g

[psychocitysblog]

I hate it when someone says ‘what you’re feeling is all in your head’ yeah, if you went through some of the shit that I went through, you wouldn’t be saying that.

[irlangelsdiary]

just a shoutout to any survivors <3

i see you.

i hear you.

i know its hard

i know some days are more difficult then others

but i also know you are strong, and brave.

i know you are going to get through this

i know you are going to heal

i know it will take one day at a time

but i know you will heal

we will heal

we will live without our trauma ruining us, we will love ourselves, empower ourselves and laugh and heal and one day it wont hurt as much.

one day.

[someoneverypotter]

um poor nico? he's got PTSS and voices and hallucinations and flashbacks. Why do I never hear anything about that. They can fill an entire page with all the reasons for his trauma...

NICO DESERVES SOME HAPPINES

[blitzwhore]

Tell me why I just spent an hour of my night imagining what would happen if, during the trial, it was revealed in front of all the Goetias that Blitz caused the fire, and Blitz was present, and he got really really triggered so he ran outside and Stolas followed him and found him cowering in a corner.

And then Stolas tried to touch Blitz, but Blitz hissed and hid his face, and so Stolas asked, “Darling, can I hold you? Let me hold you...” and very carefully rested his hands on Blitz before pulling him very close, at which point Blitz buried his face in Stolas' chest feathers because he couldn't bear the thought of Stolas seeing him break down like this, but he also agonizingly craved the the physical comfort.

And so Blitz just cried, and cried, and cried, feeling like he was about to die and he couldn't breathe past this and he was falling apart. And Stolas held him through it, not knowing what to do, just rocking him slowly and holding him tightly while Blitz sobbed and gasped for air, whispering over and over again, “I'm right here, I won't let go, I've got you, I'm not going anywhere.”

And eventually—after many minutes—Blitz's sobs died down, but he was still crying, just silently now, heavy tears rolling down his cheeks as he breathed Stolas in and tried to regain some semblance of control over his body. Still feeling terrified, still so, so scared that Stolas would let go of him and he would break.

Stolas didn't let go, though, and just kissed the top of his head over and over again, running his fingers up and down Blitz's back, trying desperately to comfort him. And eventually, Stolas said, “I didn't know... I had no idea...” not knowing how to finish those sentences. And, after hiccuping and fighting to catch his breath, Blitz mumbled “I—I—” but he couldn't form a single word without breaking down. So Stolas said, “It's okay, dearest. You don't have to talk about it,” but Blitz replied, “I-I want to, but I—I can't.”

And then Stolas said, “You could write it down... Would that help?” but Blitz just shook his head against his chest feathers, arguing that, “I would just m-misspell everything. I—give me a moment.” So Stolas did, holding him tight, not letting go, never letting go, and Blitz, after several seconds of trying to speak and failing, finally managed a muffled, “I was...” And then, after a few more moments, “I-I was in love with him.”

And Stolas didn't say anything—just let that information sink in heavily in his heart, that Blitz had been in love before, with someone else—and waited for Blitz to continue. “W-With Fizz. I was—I wanted to—t-to tell him. On his birthday. But I couldn't. I—” And Blitz sobbed again. “I chickened out, and pushed the guy carrying the cake, and the candles—they—”

And Stolas thought... Oh. The fire. That's how it started. His arms tightening around Blitz again, pulling him close as Blitz went on, “And Fizz was right by the fireworks when they went off and he—a-and—”

“Oh. Oh, Blitz,” Stolas rasped out, tears welling in his eyes as he took in the horror of what Blitz was describing, of causing such a horrible accident to happen. And Blitz hiccuped against his chest, his fingers digging into Stolas' sides as he held on to him with wild desperation, and said, “A-And my—my mom—” but couldn't continue, breaking down into sobs again as Stolas rocked him back and forth, back and forth, cheek pressed against Blitz's head, crying silently at the horror of what Blitz had been through. Whispering, “I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, darling.”

And Blitz clung to Stolas, feeling like he might die if Stolas let go now, feeling like even this much touch wasn't enough, like he needed to crawl inside Stolas' chest, needed to be held so fully and overwhelmingly in order to not feel like he would disintegrate at any second. But, at the same time, he felt completely unworthy of this; of Stolas. “I'm a monster,” he sobbed. And again, “I'm a monster.” And Stolas pulled him desperately closer, saying, “You are not a monster, Blitz. It was an accident. It was a tragedy, it was horrifying, but it wasn't your fault,” needing Blitz to believe it.

But Blitz couldn't, shaking his head, crying, hating himself. Hating the all-encompassing aching in his chest that made him feel like he might die from it.

“It wasn't your fault,” Stolas repeated. “I'm so sorry, Blitz. I'm so sorry this happened. I'm sorry I found out like this.” Cradling him back and forth, back and forth. “I'm sorry. And I'm not going anywhere. I'm here.”

And it was true, Blitz realized. Stolas still hadn't let go of him. His body started to believe it. He still wasn't ready to let go, though. But that was okay with Stolas, who wasn't going anywhere. No matter how long it took, he would stay with Blitz, and hold him through it.

... Aaaaand I had no idea how this mental scene played out after that so um. Bye!

[heckitall]

One | Two | Three

-

you ever need someone outside your family

to make you have the hard conversations

whether you want it or not

cuz same

-

also! warm water/ice/smelling something strong (like lemons!) can help ground people who are having a panic/flashback

i swear by the warm mug of water

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Call Mom

CW: PTSD/flashbacks, BBU in general, haunted, ghosts, reference to a murder, severe chronic panic

Jameson's Masterlist (scroll down)

-

Aw, crap. Hey, Johnny, do you remember where I put that girl's number? Like, Katie, or Caitlyn, or... do you remember? Hey! Johnny! Put down the fucking xbox controller for two fucking minutes and give me a hand, won't you?

Fingers snap right in front of his face.

Johnny!

Jameson jerks in a breath that sounds like a whine, sitting straight up. The fan blows cool air over his sweat-soaked skin and he shivers, cold inside and out. The air in his room is freezing, suddenly. Outside it's so dark you can't even see the trees - the power outage must still be going, there aren't any streetlights. Thanks to the clouds, no stars or moon, either.

Just darkness.

Wait, if the electricity's out...

He looks up. The ceiling fan is perfectly still above his head, even while ice-cold air keeps goosebumps rising on his arms, the hair standing up at the back of his neck.

See, was that so hard? It'll take like five minutes if we work together, I swear.

"Nat?" He mumbles. "S'at... you?"

Checked there already, actually. Checked the fridge, too, so where the hell did I put it?

He's the only person in this room.

Jameson goes from still half-asleep to fully, painfully awake and aware in a single breath.

The voice comes as clear as if it was right next to him, a voice as familiar as his own - but he has no idea whose it is. There's no one here but him - even Trash Cat isn't here any longer, probably hunting a tiny piece of plastic downstairs that he'll end up stepping on in the morning. So far she hasn't eaten any of them. He doesn't even know where she's finding them.

Johnny, come on. Let's, like, retrace our steps.

His head starts to ache more with every single word, the pain working like tendrils behind his eyes, a pressure trying to crush his skull from the inside. Something flashes, bright and almost like a spectrum of rainbow colors, in the corner of his right eye, but it won't resolve when he turns his head.

I got home from work, I told you we had a hot customer who gave me her number, and then... then what?

Jameson stares into darkness so complete it feels like it has weight. Like it's sitting on the bed next to him, like the mattress dips underneath it. A body made of memory, slowly pulling together the pieces of what's been hidden. Clawing them out but leaving deep weals across the inside of his mind, like a corpse's fingers digging into loose dirt to climb out of his grave.

"Caitlyn," He whispers, as the thought crystallizes. A memory, pure and perfect. Some sliver of whatever they broke the person he was into. Some small piece of the man who signed up. "Her name was Caitlyn, not Katie. She... wrote it on the fucking paper."

Right! Okay, so, clearly I told you her name, and then what?

Jameson turns his head, and there he is.

Hank.

His breath catches in his throat.

Hank is younger than he is, even though he was older then. The older brother, trapped in time, while Jameson - Jonathan - keeps aging. The rakish smile is still there and, Christ, Jameson had forgotten that he'd done that stupid thing to his hair - you forgot everything about him, you begged them to take him away from you so that it wouldn't hurt anymore. He's still got that one crooked tooth he'd refused to get braces to fix. That crooked tooth had been in his dental records. It was how they identified his body.

The fucking crooked tooth, the silver-colored fillings, then the DNA tests...

"No," He whispers, going for a vicious hiss, but what comes out is far too close to a whimper. "No. This is-... this is a flashback. This isn't real, this isn't-"

Maybe I left it in yesterday's pants?

"This isn't real, fuck off." Jameson shoves himself off the bed, forgetting his stupid fucking legs don't work. His knees buckle as soon as they have to take his weight.

He lands wrong on one arm and the pain spikes up through his shoulder, making him cry out in the hoarse, rasping voice that his life has left him with. "Fuck!"

He rolls onto his side, but he can't stop himself.

He looks up again. He doesn't want to remember Hank but he's desperate for one more look at his face. Just the one more time.

Just once more.

Hank sighs, raking a hand back through his hair, leaving it mussed-up and sticking out, looking ridiculous. He did that all the time. Bit his nails, too, and tried everything to stop but he never did. He wore those jeans with the ripped knee all the time, their mother had hated it. Hank, wearing the t-shirt for the band they'd gotten concert tickets for but never got the chance to see. Hank, dead for years, smiles to one side at a brother who isn't there.

The brother who erased him.

"Hank," He whispers. "Hank, you gotta-... you gotta go. You're hurting me-"

Damn. Man, it wasn't in my jeans either. Well, I'll find it sooner or later, I guess. Hank shrugs. His eyes are in shadow, not quite defined. Jameson wonders if it's because he's forgotten what color his brother's eyes were, forgotten it deeply enough that even this can't pull it back.

It'll be okay, Johnny. It really will. Hank looks right at him. Jameson's breath catches in his throat. The room is so cold the air burns as he breathes. It never gets this cold in California. It can't be this cold in California. I mean it. Don't cry yourself to sleep over this.

"I cried myself to sleep... all the time, but I don't now. I'm not-... that guy." He can barely speak. He sees his breath puff out when his lips move, and Jameson slumps back. His voice cracks, it creaks like old floors. He didn't stop crying for weeks. He didn't leave his bed. He did any drug he could find trying to not think about Hank, until he realized there was only one way to make sure he never had to think about what he'd done, by letting Hank walk home alone that one night, again. He didn't want to think about that pain anymore.

They had promised him he wouldn't ever have to hurt like this again.

They lied about that, too.

Jameson makes a sound he refuses to admit is a choked-off sob. "I'm not him, Hank. I'm not Johnny... not anymore."

Hank stands, and it's impossible. He's not here. But he holds out his hand anyway, and Jameson takes it without thinking. Hank's grip is so cold it burns, but Jameson lets his dead brother pull him to his feet anyway.

He smells like earth and ice.

"I'm not him," He whispers.

Right, like that argument ever works. Hank just grins, shaking his head. The man Jameson was - the one he had begged to leave behind - is the reason Hank will look like this in his memories forever. He's the reason there isn't another Hank, only this one, locked in the memories he wanted to boil and burn out of his own head. They're still there, though. They break through.

They never stop breaking through.

He would crawl back into Robert's cage himself if it only meant he didn't have to remember that it's his fault Hank is dead.

Tears run hot down his cheeks - the only thing in him that isn't frozen is his grief, wildfire in his chest leaving nothing but ash behind. Forests after wildfires are ghosts, Hank said once, when they were both high and everything sounded fucking important.

Jameson had called him an idiot - he remembers that now. But... he also thinks Hank was right. He closes his eyes as tightly as he can, focusing. He isn't here. Hank cannot be here. "I don't remember... remember you-... I don't want to remember you! It was my choice to forget!"

Hank claps him on the shoulder. His smile goes briefly gentle and soft. Jameson can see it with his eyes closed. Whatever you say, man. Just promise me you'll call Mom sometime soon, okay?

The pain is too much. If he can't pass out soon, he might die just from having to experience it, unending, never stopping, rising higher and higher. "Mom...?"

Yeah, dumbass. Mom. Our mother? Who gave birth to us and never lets us fucking forget it? I keep trying to talk to her, but I guess my signal's bad. Hank laughs, and Jameson's whole body breaks with the sound of that familiar laughter. The way Hank could throw his head back without the slightest bit of self-consciousness, how he'd hear that laugh across a crowded room and know it was his brother's, know right where he was.

Until he didn't.

Until nobody did.

Until the cops found what was left.

Until-

Jameson jolts again, and finds himself still lying on the floor next to his bed. He's burning up, boiling hot, pouring sweat until his sleep shirt sticks to his back and his arms feel slick with it, his hair sticking to skin. A droplet trickles down the back of his neck like a fingertip, barely touching. He rips his shirt off, then his pants, throwing them as far away from himself as he can, until he's naked on the floor but it isn't enough.

He's still sweating, still breathing in harsh gasps, fighting around the strength of his racing heart to get enough air to fill his lungs. He looks frantically around, but no one's here.

The ceiling fan circles lazily overhead.

He takes in a breath, his heart pounding. It feels like it's going to grow wings and fly away, up his throat and out of his mouth. He's still crying, he realizes only now. He closes his eyes as tightly as he can and fights tears back through sheer willpower and rage, curling his hands into fists. Just like they used to be, his fingers know - muscle memory of mittens that had kept him powerless, once. Now, he does it on purpose, and he forces them to curl through the pain.

Forces down the dream.

Wills himself to forget he ever had it.

"Four... f-four things you can see," he whispers to himself, slumping back down. His voice keeps trembling, catching, and it's everything he has to open his eyes again around the pounding headache in his skull and look. "The-... moon. Out the... window. The, my dresser... for my clothes... M-My, uh, the picture Nat p-printed of me and Allyn... fuck, the... the doorknob."

Every time he thinks he knows how much of his body can hurt at once, some nerves he didn't know existed decide to join the party. He has to breathe in and out, slow and controlled, trying to will his body to cooperate. He won't walk tomorrow, he can tell already. It'll be a day to spend in bed, or using his wheelchair. It might be a week until his body lets him walk again.

He fights back a new well of rage and despair at how well he knows the next way his body will fail him. He can't think about that right now, or the pain and the panic will spiral out of control. He might hurt someone. He can't hurt anyone, not ever again.

He won't.

"Three... things I can touch," He murmurs. "My, my... my shirt, fuck, gross, sweaty... my... my hair... the floor, feels... cold, feels good... the corner of my bed..."

It helps. He makes himself focus on this, on real things, not the nightmare of his brother.

He won't remember his brother.

He won't.

"Two things I can hear. Uh, the, there's... crickets or something outside, and-... and I can hear-"

Hank's voice whispers right next to his ear.

Call Mom.

His breath hitches.

"Not real," he whispers. "One... one thing I can taste..."

All he tastes is blood, and for one horrified half a second he's sure it's Hank's blood, until he realizes he bit his tongue in his sleep.

The blood is his own.

Call Mom.

-

[ink-bunny2]

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 (you are here) | Part 4

hey so what if (Diaries) Gene was the one who tortured Laurance

[burned0utstar]

It feels like I am going to burst, my emotions eat me up from the inside out, they scratch open my ribcage, eating at my heart and mouth and skin, it feels like acid running down my throat and out of my ears, I am bleeding and screaming and crying.

Help.

I can't get it out, I am being ripped apart and you can't stop this, all anyone can do is watch and suffer. I deserve this, if not, why would it happen?

Life isn't fair, it isn't kind, but who would do this to a little kid if they didn't deserve it? I have to be bad, because if I am not, I am broken.

Let me forget please.

I want to be whole again.

[literally-forever]

i was on my third rewatch when i noticed you can hear Charles pleading with his dad underneath the noises of the Devlin murders

[thenightsystem]

Triggers are the fucking worst. One minute I’m fine, and the next I’m nine years younger and scared fucking shitless. What the fuck

[serickswrites]

idk if you write nsfwhump but if you do could you make something with whumpee and caretaker with comfort and fluff? like whumpee is crying because they're being intimate with someone and, for the first time, it doesn't hurt

Hello, Anon. I absolutely write nsfwhump (sometimes it's more vague than explicit), and I can definitely write you a comfort/fluffy piece :D

Warnings: referenced captivity, referenced restraints, referenced/implied noncon, hurt/aftermath, hurt/recovery, hurt/comfort, caretaker and whumpee, flashbacks, ptsd

Whumpee led Caretaker back to their bedroom. They were sure that they wanted Caretaker more than anything. And they were sure that Caretaker wanted them. But Caretaker had let Whumpee take the lead after everything.

The first time Whumpee tried to be intimate with Caretaker after they had gotten home, they had frozen and sobbed. They could feel the ropes Whumper used to bind them to the head board on their wrists, though the rope burns had long faded. They could feel Whumper's lips on their neck as Caretaker went to kiss them.

Caretaker had stopped instantly and held Whumpee as they sobbed. Whumpee sobbed because of the memories. They sobbed because of the flashbacks. But they mostly sobbed because they felt Whumper had completely ruined them. They loved Caretaker and now every time they went to show their love, they only thought of Whumper and what Whumper had done to them.

But tonight was different. After months of therapy, months of recovery, Whumpee felt tonight was the night. As they kissed Caretaker, they only thought of Caretaker. As Caretaker caressed their body, they only felt Caretaker's touch. And as they touched Caretaker's body and Caretaker touched them, Whumpee began to cry.

"Love, I'll stop. What's wrong?" Caretaker said as they started to pull away.

"No....don't. I'm just....I'm just so happy." Whumpee smiled through the tears streaming down their face. "I'm so happy because I feel only you. Think of only you. It's only you, Caretaker. I love you so much."

Caretaker smiled and kissed down Whumpee's neck. "And I love you. And only you."