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mouschiwrites · 1 month

Note

the creeps!!

how about... creeps x reader who is having a ptsd response due to something/someone from their before life?

your choice!

EEE thank you for giving me a little freedom with this one hehe, you're a doll <33 (hope these are okay; I realize these aren't exactly "comforting" but these guys are messed up,, I don't think you can really expect comfort from them lol)

!!TW!! for depiction/mention of PTSD! Proceed with caution lovelies!!

Creepypasta/MH: How They React When Your PTSD is Triggered

Characters: Jeff the Killer, Clockwork, Jane the Killer, "Ticci" Toby, Tim/Masky

Jeff the Killer

I'm going to be so real with you, his first response is not going to be to comfort you

He is going to kill whoever triggered you, or burn it if it's not a person

You can try to stop him, but he's not going to

Honestly he might lowkey be making it worse, doing it right there and then with you watching

Well, he'll probably tell you to close your eyes and plug your ears first

(But if you want to participate, he'll just say: "let me do this for you, babe.")

All you'll know is that one minute it's/they're there, and the next Jeff is taking you by the shoulders and leading you away quickly

Just ignore the char/blood on his hoodie

He'll ask if you want to talk about it while you're walking

If you decline he'll ask again when you're back home

While he doesn't really need a reason to kill for you, he still wants to know what that scumbag did (or just what happened)

If you're mad at him for what he did, he's not going to care

In his eyes, he did the right thing, and he's not going to apologize for it

Anything that hurts his love deserves to perish, if not for their sake then for his

He can't stand the thought of someone/something that makes you unhappy existing in this world

If you ever stress about it again, he will actually focus on you, holding you, consoling you by repeating "they're/it's gone, they/it won't hurt you anymore..."

There's an eerie smugness to his voice as he says it...

Clockwork

I feel like you guys would've already talked about your trauma

She's prone to attacks too, so it was a mutual discussion about triggers/what helps/what doesn't

So she knows exactly what's going on when you're triggered

Her first concern is you, trying to quell the attack before it gets too bad

She'll do something you told her helps ASAP

It'll make her feel better if you let her stay with you, but she understands if you need space

What she'd really like is to hold your hand and get your mind off of it by talking about something else

She'd be fine if she was the only one talking

Just as long as you're showing signs of improvement

When the attack is over, she'll give you time to process it

But eventually she will want to bring it up again

Specifically, she wants to make plans to... uh... "eliminate" the thing that triggered you

And those plans will be vividly detailed

If you don't want to take part in that, she'll make them (and execute them) herself

She just thought you'd wanna take part; I mean, it's how she """solved""" her trauma

She won't follow through if you explicitly tell her not to, but otherwise she operates under the assumption that this is a plan, not a fantasy

When you have another attack, she won't talk about how it/they can't hurt you anymore; she'll just focus on doing the things you said helped

Jane the Killer

She's pretty good at observing people, so I think she'd be able to sense your attack early on

Even if she doesn't know about your PTSD

The first thing she does is remove you from the situation, wrapping an arm around you and rushing away

She sends the meanest scowl to anyone who looks at you funny while you go

Then she focuses on grounding you; she's not too good with feelings, but she's logical enough to try and figure something out to help you

She won't talk much; just an occasional "breathe with me" or "focus on me" while she holds your hands and maintains eye contact

It doesn't show but she's actually so nervous, she has no idea if she's really helping you

She'll be right there with you through the worst of it, and she'll be there if you want to talk after

She will want to know what caused it, if she hasn't figured it out already

I honestly don't think she'll want to "eliminate" it/them

But she will talk the nastiest, goriest, most illegal shit about it/them

She gets all giddy when you grin about it too; internally she's going yeah!! made them smile!! (happy dance)

She'll try not to bring it up intentionally, but whenever it does come up she makes sure to express her strong distaste

If you ever actually want to... take care of things, she'll help with the cleanup, but she'll want you to have the satisfaction of planning and doing it yourself

I mean, she dreams of having that satisfaction herself (looks at Jeff)

Regardless of whether or not you want to do something illegal, ultimately she respects that it's your trauma and you get to deal with it however you like

"Ticci" Toby

Murder. Arson.

Literally his knee-jerk reaction

He just looks between you and the suspected trigger, points a thumb in its direction and says: "Want me to kill that guy/light that thing up?"

If you say yes he'll do it straight away; he doesn't care who's watching

He'll ask if you want to help first though ofc

Then he'll run away giggling like a second grader, grabbing your hand on the way

When you slow down he sighs satisfactorily, saying how fun that was

If you're still distressed (or if you refused his earlier offer), he finally takes notice of your emotions

He'll ask you quite bluntly what's wrong

When you explain it to him, he just nods solemnly

He knows from experience that having a rough past sucks, so he understands completely

If you haven't already he suggests that you "take care of it"

But if you agreed to murder/arson earlier he just grins again and says "Well then it's good that we did that back there!"

If you ever have an attack again he'll either remind you that the thing/person is gone, or he'll nag you about "taking care of it"

He'll begrudgingly put an arm around you though when you don't immediately calm down

He might offer you something to fidget with, too; that always helps him when he's anxious

Just try not to be too alarmed when it's a box cutter or a butterfly knife or something weird that he puts in your hand

Tim/Masky

I feel like he'd be a little awkward when you start to panic

He'll panic a little too, asking what's wrong and if/how he can help

He'll do anything you say, but if you're unable to respond he just puts his arm around your shoulders and takes you into another room

He'll hug you against him, patting your back awkwardly while you process the attack

He doesn't know what else to do :(

He probably realizes what's happening after a few minutes, and he only gets more awkward when that happens

He sucks at dealing with his own trauma; he is literally the worst person for you to be with right now

At least that's what he thinks

When you start to calm down he asks if you want to talk about it, but then immediately curses himself for asking such a stupid question (he doesn't even want to talk about his trauma; why should anyone else? (just his thoughts))

If you do want to talk it turns into a very deep and candid discussion in which you both open up a bit

He'll ask if there's anything that helps at all

Honestly he's asking for you as much as himself; he'd love to try anything that works for you

I don't think he'd suggest or condone killing/destroying the trigger; from his experience that just brings more issues

He'll basically just tell you "yeah, it sucks, and we just have to deal. Which sucks times two."

Very helpful, thank you Tim 👍

At least he always holds you whenever you have an attack <3

Thank you so much for this request!! And thanks for reading, take care sweethearts <33

(divider by saradika)

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soulrph · 2 years

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" 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 " 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒.

a wonderfully patient and creative nonnie asked for a list of prompts based on interactions between two good friends in the aftermath of a trauma that happens to one of them, and i’m nothing if not a sucker for angst and deeply emotional connections! so here we go! i’m hoping these will be up to the nonnie’s expectations! have a wonderful day, my lovelies, and DO NOT ADD TO THIS LIST !!

“ i really hate seeing you like this... “

“ why don’t we hang out tonight? like we used to, you know? order in cheap take-out, watch crappy movies, go for a walk... whatever you want, right? “

“ please say something... anything. even if it’s telling me to shut up and leave you alone... just say something. “

“ i really miss you, you know. “

“ i’m here. you got that? i don’t care if you never say anything to me ever again. i don’t care. i’m not going away, and i’m not going to stop being here for you, no matter how long you glare at me or ignore me or pretend that you’re okay. because i know you’re not. i know. “

“ talk to me. i don’t care what we talk about. it doesn’t have to be anything big. we don’t need to talk about whatever happened to you, not unless you want to. i just... just talk to me, will you? “

“ you know, i talk to a lot of people every single day. i hear all their voices telling me all kinds of stuff; i hear it all. and the only voice i really wanna listen to is yours, you know? even when you’re driving me crazy. so come on. please... just drive me crazy again? “

“ ...seriously? no come-back? no witty retort? no... sarcastic shot at me? come on, i... i know we never ask these things, but, honestly, i’m worried about you. what’s going on? “

“ penny for your thoughts? hell. a dollar? ten? fifty? my whole life-savings? damn, at this rate i’d give away everything i own just to hear your voice again. “

“ this is like, the ninth voicemail i’ve left, and i know you hate voicemails, so i’m thinking this might be the one that pisses you off enough to pick up the phone and talk to me. because despite the number of times i’ve told you to shut up, i’m actually begging you to say something, now. weird how things work out, isn’t it? anyway. pick up your freaking phone, moron. please. “

“ will you please talk to me? please? “

“ i have exhausted every single topic that i can think of to get you to open your mouth and say something to me. all of them. you leave me no choice... how are you? “

“ listen, we’re all really worried about you. okay? and we wanna help you, but we don’t know how. so how about you write us a note, or something? maybe just, open the door, huh? i just wanna know that you’re okay. “

“ you’re not alone, you know. you’ve got people who love you. who care about you. you’ve got me. and i’m not going anywhere. “

“ look, i don’t know what happened to you. and i don’t need you to tell me, okay? i don’t... i just want you to know that i’m here. i got you. no matter what. and if you need some space, then... then i can leave. just tell me what you need, okay? “

“ i don’t need you to say anything. you don’t even need to open the door. i’m just gonna slide this paper under the door, okay? you tell me what you want for dinner, and i’ll bring it up. “

“ i’m sending you on a list of therapists and group support meetings in the area, okay? you don’t have to go, but... promise me you’ll take a look at the list, right? “

“ listen, i know you gave me a copy of your key for emergencies, and this feels like an emergency, but... if the silent treatment is part of you trying to get some space, then i don’t wanna intrude. you know? so just text me if that’s what this is, and i’ll leave you alone. “

“ i know, i know. you asked me to leave you alone. but that was two weeks ago, okay? and i haven’t heard from you. you aren’t answering my texts, you aren’t even reading them. nobody’s seen or heard from you, and... and now i just want to know that you’re okay. so please, open your door, and let me make sure that you’re safe, will you? “

#rp meme #rp prompt #rp prompts #roleplay meme #roleplay prompts #roleplay prompt #writing prompts #writing prompt #dialogue prompt #dialogue prompts #trauma tw #ptsd tw #depression tw

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promptsforyourwhumpfic · 4 months

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The Grand A-Z List of Whump 2/3

This list contains ~174 items listed I to Q

As always, I heavily encourage people to research topics thoroughly when writing. Whump is generally a 'dead dove' sort of topic, however it is important to avoid stereotypes/misinformation. This lists intention is to not glorify/romanticise sensitive topics in any way.

This is a comprehensive list of injuries, Illnesses and tropes - including those from the Whumptober 2023 trope vote!

All submissions are listed in italics, and those who wanted to be tagged will be included at the end. If you have any more submissions: please send them via DM/my ask box.

[A-H] [R-Z] [NSFW List]

List below the cut:

ICU

Identity reveal

Ignorance is Bliss

Ignoring an Injury

Immersion foot syndromes (Prolonged exposure to damp and cold)

Immobilization

Immortal healed wrong

Immunodeficiency

Impalement

Improvised medicine/treatment

Indigestion

Infected (Blood, Wound, Tattoo etc)

Infested

Injured caretaker carrying an even more injured whumpee.

Injured whumpee instructs caretaker how to treat them.

Injury Discovery

Injury Revelation

Insecurity

Insomnia

Insults

Internal Bleeding

Interrogation

Interventions

Intimate whumper

Intubation

Involuntary whumper

Isolation

Isolation/Quarantine

Itching

Jailed

Jamais vu (The experience of being unfamiliar with a person or situation that is actually very familiar.)

Jealousy

Jet Lag

Jumping (to safety, forced to jump)

Just dying in general.

Keeping quiet because the enemy is nearby

Keeping the whumpee awake

Ketosis (body burning fat for energy)

Kidnapped by the opposing team

Kidnapping

Kidney Stones

Killed! (Again and again and again for the lovely immortal whumpees<;3)

Kneeling

Knife through hand and into wall/floor

Knocked Out

Lab Rat

Laryngitis

Late realisation

Left for dead

Leprosy

Lichenberg scars/Lightning strike

Limited Medical Supplies

Live-Streamed/Broadcast torture

Lobotomy

Locked Up and Left Behind

Losing a Bet

Loss of appetite

Loss of reality

Lost (In the woods, city etc)

Lost voice

Low Blood Pressure

Lumbago (lower back pain)

Lupus

Lured into a trap

Lying

Lyme's disease

Lymphoma

Magical exhaustion

Magical healing

Magic whump (using spells to harm someone)

Manhandling

Major Character Death

Makeshift Splints

Malaria

Malnutrition

Manhandling

Mauled

Measles

Medical trauma

Medieval Torture

Memory Loss

Meningitis

Menstrual Cramps

Mental illness after being kidnapping (and addressing it)

Migraine

Military lovers

Military whump

Mind control/Manipulation

Miscommunication

Missing

Missing Person

Mistaken Identity

Misunderstanding

Mono

Mopping a sweaty brow with a cool cloth

Mudslides

Muffled Scream

Mugging

Multiple Sclerosis

Multiple Whumpees

Multiple Whumpers

Mumps

Muscular Atrophy

Mute

Muzzled

Nailed to a wall or floor

Nails digging into palms

Nail marks left in the whumpees skin

Natural Disasters

Nausea

Near-Death Experience

Necrosis

Neglect

Nerve damage

Nerve pain

Nightmares

No anesthesia

No goodbyes

Non-responsiveness

Nonhuman whumpee

Not allowed to die

Not Realizing They’re Injured

Nowhere else to go

Noxious (gas/fumes)

Numb

Numbness/Paralysis

Obsession (with finishing the mission, the whumper obsessed with the whumpee etc)

Open Fracture

Orthostatic hypotension (low blood pressure when standing)

Osteogenesis Imperfecta (brittle bone disease)

Outnumbered

Overdose

Overworked

Oxygen Deprivation

Oxygen Mask

Packing a wound

Panic attacks

Paralysis (this could be temporary or permanent)

Paranoia

Parent caring for sick child

Parkinson's

Passing out from pain

Passing out in arms

Permanent injuries that affect them long term

Phantom pain

Phobias (could lead to character stumbling and hurting themselves in an attempt to escape their fear)

Photographs/Polaroids ( Especially if they're of the kidnapped whumpee)

Physical Therapy

Piercing ripped out

Pinched nerve

Pinned Down/To The Wall

Plague

PMS

Pneumonia

Pneumothorax

Poisoning

Polio

Possession/possession recovery

Post-exertional malaise

Post-ictal confusion/any other symptoms (after a seizure)

POTS (Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome)

Power Fatigue

Praise (especially if it's from the whumper)

Pregnancy (morning sickness, self-conscious, hot flushes, tired and sleepy, general malaise, swollen feet, weird cravings...)

Presumed dead

Prisoner Exchange

Protecting friend from the whumpees own team (bonus points if doing it while injured)

Psychological Torture

Psychological Whump

Psychosis

PTSD

Pulled Muscles

Puncture Wounds

Q-Fever

TAG LIST: Thank you very much to the following people for submitting ideas! (I apologise if some tags did not work, I'm not sure why tumblrs not letting me tag you!)

#whump #a-z list of whump #long post #extra long post #death tw #ptsd tw #illness tw #injury tw #angst #writing #prompts #whumpblr #a-z #a-z of whump #i-q

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thingsmk1120sayz · 8 months

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My PTSD school nightmares

#ptsd tw #dreamcore #dream core #fog #night #nightmare #nightmares #night terrors #weird core #the backrooms #backrooms #limminal spaces #liminal spaces #dream #dreaming #dreams

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half-oz-eddie · 2 months

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PTSD tw

Billy hasn’t driven since he was freed from the mind flayer's control. He couldn’t stand being that…thing’s chauffeur, driving and driving, going nowhere. Every time his hands touched the steering wheel of a car, he felt like he was going to be transported into some hallucination Hell and be tortured once more.

So. No more driving for now. Steve understood. Billy enjoyed the comfort of the passenger’s seat far more these days.

After their romantic date night at home, Billy offered to do the dishes. He reminisced about the kisses they shared during the movie, and the kisses that would come soon after he finished cleaning up.

But as he was washing his plate, the back and forth motion as he scrubbed the rim was reminiscent of turning the steering wheel of his car.

He could hear it again.

That terrible mocking voice.

Please love me, please love me, please love me...

Billy was frozen in place, his mind stuck in the dreadful darkness of that terrifying hallucination. He felt like the mind flayer had somehow regained control of him.

His body felt stiff, he clenched his jaw as the words rang in his head over and over again.

Please, someone find me…

His arms began to tremble and his strong hands gripped the plate for dear life, snapping it in half.

“Whoa whoa whoa!” A voice shouted from a close distance, dragging him out of the horrifying memory. “Babe, you okay?” Steve asked worriedly as he approached, taking the shards of glass from Billy’s bloody hands.

Billy's confused eyes fell onto the broken plate and hands dripping blood. “Shit. I’m…I’m sorry. I know you loved this plate set.”

“Ah, it’s no big deal.” Steve replied, tending to the small nicks on Billy’s hands. “I bought them for you.”

“Me?” Billy raised a brow.

Steve reached over into the sink and grabbed 2 pieces of the shattered plate. “Yeah, cause, y’know…” He pieced them together like a puzzle. “The design looks like the ocean.”

Billy snorted. “No, it doesn’t.”

“Well it doesn’t anymore because you fuckin’ broke it.” Steve teased with a smile.

“It never looked like the ocean.” Billy playfully argued.

“Yeah, okay…” Steve laughed. “I dunno, I haven’t seen the ocean in awhile.”

“Maybe we can go sometime.”

“I’ve been wanting to go on vacation with you for months,” Steve explained as he dragged Billy along, leading him to the bathroom “but you were recovering, I was recovering and then the topic just…never came up again.” Steve took some bandages out of the medicine cabinet, smiling widely. “Until now, that is.”

Billy watched lovingly as Steve tended to the cuts on his hands.

“There. All patched up.”

“Thanks, Doc.” Billy smirked warmly.

Steve’s smile slowly faded as his brows furrowed with worry. “Are you okay? I mean…what happened?”

Billy shrugged, turning away from Steve. “I…remembered something shitty that I don’t like to think about. Fucked me up for a moment, but I’m fine.”

Steve nodded in understanding. “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me about it. I know you went through a lot last year that you don’t like to remember. But, at least, remember, that I love you. I’ll be here every step of the way, I swear. You’ll never be alone again.”

Billy tried to fight back the oncoming tears, releasing a shaky sigh. “Yeah, yeah, I know, pretty boy.”

Steve kissed his forehead. "Don't worry about the plate, though. I'm just amazed that you snapped it in half with your bare hands.

Billy tusked. "It was a shitty plate. So much for fine china."

"That's what the guy at the store told me it was!"

"Let's go kick that liar's ass tomorrow."

Steve shook his head as he laughed. "Always looking for a fight, aren't you?"

Billy joined in the laughter, smiling and loosening up his once clenched jaw and tight muscles.

He was grateful to Steve, for being there to bring him out of that endless dark.

#im doing bad again #so i'm deep diving into billy's suffering #but giving him a happy ending #harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington #ivy.doc #ptsd tw

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bones-of-a-rabbit · 1 year

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The virus is gone, but you can’t seem to shake the symptoms...

The RepairBot-Reader comic is, at last,, complete,,,,,, *lies facedown on floor and doesn’t move for thirty eight hours*

To be totally clear, this is a comic abt readerbot experiencing a panic attack and seeing things that aren’t actually there- no one has the virus at this point in their story, and Vanny and Peepaw Willy are gone. Basically I gave readerbot ptsd and made a comic abt it shdhdjdhd

Image retention- the temporary or permanent burn of an image left on a screen after an image has been displayed repeatedly or for extended periods of time

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demiboydemon · 2 months

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My new therapist: your mental health isn’t perfect, but it’s nothing to be ashamed of :) if you broke your arm, you wouldn’t be ashamed of that

Me, internally: bold of you to assume I would be unashamed of a broken arm

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ashintheairlikesnow · 24 days

Note

ash i love vince so much he is my number 2 babygirl (antoni number 1 babygirl forever)

i would like to formally request some vince having a Bad Time, either past stuff with owen or present with recovery being a bitch

because there is nothing better than lovely characters having bad times that they absolutely do not deserve

CW: Alcoholism, withdrawal/cravings, alcoholic anger, Vince and Jameson both PTSD-ing all over the place, guilt

Oh, poor Vince. Takes place post-the Same Bed Arc, after Vince is living with Nat and Jameson.

Vince doesn't even look up when he hears Jameson stop in the doorway. He just pours a few shots worth of the gin into the glass, staring fixedly down at it. The liquid, clear as water but with the herbal scent washing over him like a welcome spring rain, spreads over the ice with those gentle cracks he knows better than his own heartbeat.

God, it looks good.

His hands don't shake, now. His heart doesn't race. He doesn't feel sweaty, or upset, or like he'll be sick.

He just feels like he's staring at the solution to all his problems, and all he has to do is swallow it down.

This should feel awful - he knows it should. It should taste awful, there should be something to remind him of the damage he does to himself every time he drinks again. He should hear his sponsor speaking in the back of his mind, he should hear the voices of the others at the meetings he goes to - one for alcoholism, one for survivors of sexual assault, twice a week there's movie star Vincent goddamn Shield among the normal people and admitting he's barely human, just a wreck that only survived Owen Grant because Nat decided she gave a fuck about him for reasons Vince still doesn't understand.

Here he stands, a hollow shell wearing a nice face who let someone else suffer in his place and was grateful for it for far too long.

Kauri hates him but it's nothing compared to how much he hates himself.

Vince lifts the glass, hesitating at the last second with the cool rim just touching his lower lip. Gin smells like blacking out and right now he could use the blessed darkness, hangover be damned.

He can worry about that when the headache kicks in tomorrow morning.

He realizes he's waiting for the sickening crawl of guilt at letting Nat down, at-... at letting himself down. Maybe that will come later, but right now... He feels goddamn good. Settled. Calm.

He and Jameson meet eyes just as he tosses the drink back, three large swallows of juniper-scented gin down his throat like water, leaving only the ice cubes behind.

The burn is perfect.

He pours himself another drink, feeling the warmth slowly spread through his chest to his shoulders, eyes briefly closing. God, it feels like goddamn heaven.

He looks up.

Jameson is still standing there in the doorway, looking oddly soft in a loose sweater that's far too big for him and a pair of old jeans that probably cost a dollar at a yard sale and even that was too much. Vince has jeans that distressed, somewhere.

His cost more than five hundred dollars.

He chokes on the next drink from trying not to laugh.

Jameson's eyes narrow. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Vince takes another sip, eyes half-closed, letting himself take it slow this time and really enjoy the taste.

He'd honestly been surprised the little liquor store down the block even carried this brand of gin. Not that he wouldn't have bought whatever he could get, when he stood there feeling like he would die if he had to go another day, but still. It's nice to have seen his favorite stuff, top shelf, pricier than it had any right to be. It's not even that good, but it's still his favorite. It still tastes, to him, like the nights he sleeps without nightmares, few and far between.

Gin tastes like those nights he gets to sleep at all.

The cashier had looked surprised as she wiped off the dust and rang it up for him. Then, with a shy smile, she'd asked him if anyone ever told him he looked a lot like Vincent Shield. He'd been kind of sad she didn't card him - it would have been nice to see the look on her face when she saw his name.

Instead, he paid in cash, laughed, and told her the standard I get that a lot, actually.

Jameson doesn't move closer, or leave. "It looks like you're fucking yourself up," He says, lingering in the doorway. "You can't just start drinking again. You know that, right?"

"Oh, I sure as hell can." Vince laughs, but it's a bitter sound. He licks the gin lingering on his lips, then gestures at the bottle. "Have some with me."

He's caught, for just a moment, when he sees Jameson wearing an expression Vince has never seen on him before. He looks... nervous. Afraid, almost, instead of angry.

"I-I don't want to," Jameson says, but there's a way he says it that makes Vince think he'd drink if he offers again. Maybe he wants to, or maybe he just doesn't want to make Vince mad.

If he commanded it, if he gave an order... Jameson would be as he's told, wouldn't he? Damn, that would be some power to have over someone.

This must be why Owen liked it so much.

No.

He won't think about Owen right now.

Vince gulps down liquid until he's breathless, almost panting. The warmth is like the familiar cradle of a softer reality settling in. He makes himself slow down this time, picking up an ice cube and sucking the juniper taste right off it before crunching it with his teeth.

"Vince." Jameson's voice gets harsher, and something seems to break his brief paralysis. He moves closer, grabbing the bottle and pulling it away when Vince puts a hand out to pour the third drink. "Fucking... look at me. What the fuck?"

Vince's hand just... hangs out there, reaching for a bottle that isn't where it was. He stares at the empty space, and feels that dark inside of him threaten to well up yet again. "What?"

Jameson swallows, his eyes moving to the glass, back to Vince's face. He steps backwards, and Vince watches the bottle go with him with a piercing need that could easily knock him off his feet if he weren't holding onto the back of a chair. Jameson clears his throat. "Aren't you... like, sober now?"

"Mmmn. Was. Got the like... three month chip thing and everything." He's gotten thoroughly wasted so many times in his life. Nothing relaxes him better than enough alcohol to force his body to stop living in constant, unending fear of who might hurt him next. "Right now, I am tipsy instead. In about an hour, I'm going to be absolutely fucked up. Give me back my gin."

Jameson's hand moves - then he jerks it back, taking a few steps backwards until he's back in the doorway. His eyes are on Vince's face, watching him with a total focus that Vince recognizes from the others he's worked with over the years - Jameson's just a trained pet, in this moment, watching to see if the master will be angry.

It makes him laugh again, more bitterly this time. Is he the master? Has he ever been his own master, let alone anyone else's?

"I... I can't do that," Jameson says, and Vince hears that he doesn't say no. When Vince moves towards him, he backs up a little more, and Vince comes to a stop just a foot or so away.

"Am... am I scaring you?" He asks, suddenly.

It wasn't what he meant to say, he meant to demand his drink again. Instead, this question that... that just sort of falls out of him like a waterfall.

Jameson's jaw sets and his eyes narrow. "You're not doing shit to me," He snaps, but Vince knows he's really saying yes.

Is this why people buy pets? So they can see something pretend not to be scared, and know they're the monster not just under the bed, but in it?

"Oh," He whispers. "What is it? Why are you scared? I'm just a drunk asshole, why are you scared of me?"

Jameson bristles, but then he offers - as if it's pulled out of him against his will - the softest explanation. "Brute and Robert got drunk all the time. I know what happens when-... when people get this kind of drunk."

There's a look in his eyes Vince has seen before in Kauri's. Not fear of him, not directly, but fear of someone like him, maybe. Fear of having demands made that can't be denied.

Is this how Owen felt, every time Kauri had to playact the loving boyfriend with bruises on his wrists and terror making his heart race? Is this how it feels to have power over somebody else when you can't even control yourself?

It's... it's good, almost.

It feels better than he thought it would.

"Back up, Shield," Jameson hisses, like a cat spitting and arching its back, ready to attack with claws and sharp teeth not because it's confident in victory but because it's so small it has to fight to have even the slightest chance to survive.

Vince looks him over, reading with an actor's expertise how he's projecting a confident swagger he never feels, how the irritation layers itself so carefully over a vulnerability that he sees as weakness. Vince has lived that way, too, since he was twenty-one, since his best friend turned out to be a rapist who wanted Vince to himself, since he started drinking to forget every single night and putting on the perfect face during his days.

They both survived, didn't they?

Jameson just did it by fighting his way out, and Vince by pretending to be someone he wasn't until nobody knew who he actually was, and that's a way of surviving, too. Wear another face, and make sure no one sees the fear in your real one, so they can't refuse to help you... because you've never asked.

"No." At least one of them can say it. Although that makes Vince's heart twist with ugly guilt, the petty cruelty of the thought. "Give me my gin," Vince says, pitching his voice low, and holds out his hand. "Now, Jameson. Give it to me."

"I can't." The strength is gone from Jameson's voice, and he looks at Vince with those dark eyes searching his own, trying to make himself understood. "If you drink, your-... your body's not used to it anymore, if you drink the same amount you'll fucking kill your stupid liver."

"What do you care about my liver?" Vince's voice drops low, almost a whisper. "What do you care about me, about my goddamn joke of a life, huh? What the fuck do you care? Why should anyone care?"

There's a flicker of something in Jameson's eyes - recognition, maybe. Something that lights up, just for a second, before the other man shoves Vince to the side with sudden violent strength and stalks to the sink, turning the bottle over and pouring that expensive artisan gin right down the drain.

"No!" Vince's voice is a ragged shout as he lunges after him, but it's too little too late.

Jameson's foot kicks out and slams into Vince's calf, sending him stumbling, clawing desperately as the gin is gone, glug glug glug, down into the pipes, disappearing towards the ocean.

Rage and terror fight in Vince's mind in a sudden white noise and he gets to his feet, grabbing Jameson by the arms and squeezing as hard as he can, shoving him back across the room. He hears Jameson hit one of the chairs, the clatter of wood and Jameson's grunt of pain as both hit the ground hard. The bottle is in the sink, and even when Vince scrambles to pick it back up, there's less than an inch of gin left.

He sucks it down, and only once he's gotten that final drop does he suddenly go still.

Oh.

There's the guilt and the horror and feeling sick at himself, just... twenty minutes too late. He sets the empty bottle carefully down, and then turns slowly around to look at Jameson.

Jameson sits on the kitchen floor, staring up at him with wide eyes. His face is pale, making the scar that twists the corner of his mouth stand out even more. His hair is nearly grown back in now, the bald patches hidden by the rest.

Vince exhales in a rush. "Oh, hell. Jameson-" He holds out a hand.

Jameson flinches.

Vince pulls his hand back, backing up until his back hits the edge of the sink. "Right. Okay. I'm-... I'm sorry Jameson-"

"Yeah." Jameson's voice is gruff, all the vulnerability and fear wiped away as soon as he realizes it's showing. He gets to his feet, shoulders protectively hunched, arms crossed in front of himself defensively. "Whatever. Sure you are. Drink yourself to death, shitbag, if that's what you want."

"I'm so sorry."

Jameson's jaw works. "... Everybody's always sorry. Then I get fucking hit again." Then he turns and walks - limps, really, his knees threatening to give out with every step - away. Vince stands there, frozen, listening as he makes his slow, painful way up the stairs.

Vince stares at the place he was for a while - he isn't sure how long. The gin is sinking its velvet claws into his mind, and he's drunker than he should be after only two drinks.

But then, it's been months.

Months, he made it without taking even a sip.

He swallows, again and again, and then pulls his cell phone out of his pocket, finds a contact, and presses the button to make the call.

The phone rings until he's certain it'll go to voicemail, before a voice he knows as well as his own is in his ear.

"What the hell do you want?"

"I-I need to talk to you," He stammers, his heart cold. "Please. Please. I-I've been drinking. I need... I need help."

There's a pause.

"From... me?"

"Yeah... yeah. You'll-... I need somebody who won't be nice to me-"

"Oh, well, if there's anything I love it's the chance to be mean to you, let me drop my entire life to come listen to you whine about yours."

"Please."

An exhale. "Whatever. Yeah, okay. I'll be over there in like... half an hour? An hour, maybe. Drink some water and I'll be there as soon as I can. Don't leave the house."

"Thanks... thank you, Kauri."

Kauri hangs up.

Vince pours himself a glass of water over the leftover gin-soaked ice, sipping it, barely flavored with a hint of the liquor he wants so badly. He rights the chair he'd accidentally shoved Jameson into, and listens to the creaking floorboards and muffled cursing above him as Jameson makes his halting painful way from stairway to his room, a couple thumps when he clearly falls and had to force himself back upright, until the pacing abruptly stops when he must have collapsed into his bed.

He hears the gentle patting of Trash Cat's paws as she leaves her place on the living room couch and follows him, too, her soft meowing until Jameson opens his door to let her come in after him. Then silence again.

Vince sits back down at the table, leaning over with his head in his hand, staring as the ice slowly melts, cooling the water around it.

He should have called his sponsor instead.

Whatever Kauri is about to say can only make this worse.

But he deserves it, anyway.

Vince doesn't move a muscle until he hears the sound of Jake's truck pulling into the driveway, crunching briefly over gravel before it's on the pavement again, when he raises his head.

Kauri walks in without knocking, stops in the doorway to the kitchen, and looks at him like his younger self ashamed of what he's grown into. Vince knows Jake must have driven him, but he's nowhere to be seen - maybe just staying outside, for now. He's clearly dressed for bed in a matching navy blue silk button-up and pajama pants, barefoot even.

"Hey," Vince says, weakly. The alcohol feels like poison now, not the soothing warmth it had been before. "I... I fucked up, Kauri."

"Yeah, I can tell just by looking at you, you're a goddamn mess." Kauri looks at Vince head-on, even though it still hurts him to do it, and Vince can see the flinch he suppresses as the headache kicks in. His blue eyes are identical to Vince's in nearly every way, except that Kauri's gaze has always been stronger. "What the hell did you do?"

"I got... I drank."

"Yep. I can see the gin bottle. Did you drink all of it?" Kauri's voice is flat and businesslike. It's like having his own younger self dressing him down, and somehow that feels... really good. Better than he thought it would.

"... No. Just a couple drinks. Jameson poured the rest out."

"Good for him." Kauri flickers a smile. "Where is he?"

"I-... I scared him."

"... you scared him?"

"Yeah. I was-... I wasn't-... I didn't mean to, but-"

"Shut up. All right. Tell me what you did. I'll fix it. This time, taking your place so I suffer for years while you run off and become obscenely wealthy is off the table, got it?"

Vince looks at him in horror only to see a surprising warmth in Kauri's smile. Not... not affection, but something like it. A wry compassion, maybe. Something else he doesn't deserve. "I don't know. I don't know if I can fix this, Kauri. I don't know."

"Well... I happen to the resident expert in trying to avoid dealing with your problems while making them all worse, so talk to me. Tell me what you did, start to finish. We'll figure out what comes next."

Vince lowers his head into his arms.

"Thank you," He says, muffled.

"Not enough thanks in the world, dumbass. Lucky for you I'm an amazing person who just happens to have spent most of my twenties making stupid drunk mistakes. So stop stalling and start talking."

@finder-of-rings @endless-whump @arlin-always-writing @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @whumpyourdamnpears @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @outofangband @hackles-up @grizzlie70 @mylifeisonthebookshelf @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @autophagay

#whump #ptsd tw #alcholism tw #withdrawal tw #alcoholic whumpee #recovering whumpee #recovery whump #vincent shield is not a hero #erase to control #since kauri makes an appearance #jameson bb #box boy universe #drunk whumpee #whumpee turned whumper #briefly and not on purpose

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rolling-harbinger · 2 years

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I hate how sometimes he just has this thousand yard stare and just stares off in the distance.

(And considering that the time he was staring off in the distance in ASIAS he was having ptsd flashbacks, I wouldn’t be surprised if all of the other times he was also having other traumatic memories flood to the surface, but we as the audience just didn’t get to see those memories those times)

#the owl house #toh #disney toh #toh hunter #toh disney #the golden guard #toh the golden guard #hunter toh #hunter #ptsd tw #ptsd

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frownyalfred · 10 months

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*busts down your doors* HEY! Long ask for ya

okay so I was rereading your fic where EMS showed up because Dick couldn’t flip on the trampoline (rip) and it got me thinking about routine trauma.

So here’s the thing: I am not EMS. I know three people who are EMS, but my extent of EMS experience comes from one (1) ride along and lurking on EMS subreddits. Those guys are a hoot. Great memes. Anyways.

A comment stuck out to me: “You haven’t truly lived the job until you’re eating a gas station burrito next to a dead body”. I’ve seen a bunch like that. Nonchalance and dark humor because well, that’s their job. Gore is the norm. Sure, depending on the area, your usual calls might just be lift assists, but other areas are neck deep in gang violence and violent crime.

A pretty common post on that subreddit is also, sadly, “I just got a call that’s never bothered me before but all of a sudden I’m broken” or “I’ve never had a problem running this type of call before but all of a sudden it just hit me.” Delayed trauma is a bitch. Someone pointed out that if a civilian saw a fatal car accident with multiple corpses, they’d be in therapy and given support and it’d be a huge deal. With EMS, they’re just expected to deal with it. (EMS mental health is getting better- there are helplines and resources and first responder focused therapies- but it’s still a developing field)

ANYWAYS, now that I’ve given you a crash course on the EMS mental health crisis (someone should really write a feature on EMS in Gotham those fuckers would be crazy and I love them already), my point is, how would this apply to the bats? Seeing bodies is treated as very much the norm to them, but do you think it ever just… catches up? The impact of seeing corpses day after day? Do you think they have to fake being fine and tough during those times because well, “everybody else in the family is fine with it, I’m not going to be a liability/burden/weak/etc”

Do you think Bruce, the goddamn batman, who shouldn’t be ruffled by anything, ever just feels something crack inside when he looks at a little boy who could have grown up healthy and strong like his Jason, had (Bruce) someone been there for him? and then he can’t work cases with kids for a week?

This is such an excellent ask, thank you so much for gracing my inbox with it!

It's a very good question. I'm also on a lot of those subreddits (needed to do some research for that fic) and the discussion in those forums and on TikTok is like you described, a kind of practiced desensitization to all gore and suffering in order to survive in their job.

What I've seen from those discussions (and my EMT friend) is an almost sub-conscious trend where they allow themselves the "thing" that breaks them, and they push a lot of that trauma and emotion onto that thing. Like an EMT saying they don't do kids, or they don't do gunshots to the eye, etc. And they'll sob like a baby on those calls, while remaining stone-faced and level-headed through the triple homicide.

I'm just theorizing here, but I imagine the Batfamily uses similar coping skills -- pushing all that trauma and suffering into a box which cracks only under limited, defined circumstances. And they break or snap only under those conditions, because, subconsciously, they allowed themselves to.

So yes, Bruce might be 99% fine with most of the bodies he sees, but there might be a little boy who has a detail (like Jason's dark hair) that just slams into him out of nowhere.

PTSD and trauma literally change the structure of the brain. Individuals react differently to trauma after that, but there does appear to be a "desensitizing" effect with repeated trauma, as the body tries to compensate.

I agree that the Gotham EMTs must be some crazy motherfuckers. They probably deal with 6x the normal shit EMTs deal with in other cities. They probably take on a lot more trauma and burn out quicker than other EMTs, too.

Anyone else have thoughts on this? I admit I don't cover PTSD explicitly in a lot of my fics.

#ptsd #trauma tw #ptsd tw #death tw #bruce wayne #dc #batman #myfic #theresurrectionist #batfamily #batfamily meta #bruce wayne meta #batman meta #asks

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unspokenwordsbyhb · 1 year

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#poems and quotes #depressing poem #poemsociety #csa poem #poem of the day #spilled poetry #trauma poem #csa poetry #trauma poetry #poetry #writers and poets #poetic #ptsd tw #ptsd art #ptsdlife #ptsd thoughts #cptsd problems #tw cptsd #just cptsd things

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geekotakunerd · 2 years

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Me right now

#family #batfamily #batman #dc comics #batfam #wayne family adventures #wfa #wfa spoilers #bwfa #bruce wayne #jason tood #bwfa spoilers #jason has ptsd #ptsd tw #batdad

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sweetums0kitty · 2 years

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How are we doing this week Jason Todd Stans?

I don’t know if this is corny, but the way this comic was created. Somebody in there got it and they like tried with PTSD.

#jason todd #wfa spoilers #batman wfa #dc red hood #dc comcis #WEBTOON #tw: PTSD ment #ptsd tw

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thethirdpapa · 12 days

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What a life.

Summary: Terzo learns an important lesson after his resurrection

TW : depression , trauma , death ,

AN: Maybe this fanfic will find you in a dark time of your life and remind you to keep going. Youre not alone.

He hasnt been present for the first week or two after the resurrection. Terzo didn’t know why, but maybe , it was because his brain decided to not let him remember, in case there was something deeply traumatic. Fuck, it was traumatic, everything was . but especially the moment he died and his soul left to hell. Especially the betrayal has set deeply into his heart

They betrayed him

Stole his future

His dreams

His lover

Maybe it was that what gave him this deep stab inside his already wounded soul. The people who he thought were his family turning against him, and then that he had to leave people he cared about behind. Terzo didn’t even want to know if there were people who had to watch him die. And if, he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself. Because the last thing he wanted was to leave a painful gap in these people’s hearts. But he knew the last part has been inevitable. What he also knew was that things weren’t the same anymore. But who would he be if he got mad or upset that he was replaced. Why would he be mad in the first place anyway? If he felt something it was worry, worry about that Copia would be just killed and replaced in the same cruel way. He blamed himself for not being able to atleast get him out of this after he found out what the clergy really thought about their papas. His perspective has been changed by being greeted with death in an non peaceful way

Terzo has been through..a lot. Even in an attempt to somewhat heal the cracks in his soul and the turmoil in his mind. The former Papa woke up to a feeling that something wasn’t right in some way. He was a fool for thinking that maybe death would wipe his mind, leaving a pleasant feeling of not remembering what happened on his mind. But this is not how the brain works. It will just repress until he would be “ready” to handle it. But is anyone ever ready to handle ones trauma at all- It was clear that at some point he would have to work through it. And the time came that day. It has been about a month after his resurrection when something was feeling off.

It began with a phase where he was repulsed, if not defensive even when someone addressed him by his title. He couldn’t stand it. Terzo has been never impolite about it. But it was the expression on his first that implied that he wasn’t to happy about being called Papa anymore. All in all, the pride was gone too. It rather has left a sour taste ,which of course got away over time, in his mouth that he was Papa. Some days he thinks about if accepting the title as Papa opened the door towards his death.

Then the wave hit him. It almost crushed him and it drowned him. Terzo was almost completely silent about it if even, he has disappeared from the ministries daily life in those painful weeks of his life. It wasn’t memories, but it was that pain that was in his heart and has spread into his brain, his eyes, his mouth. Terzo didn’t cry much about it, he rather mourned in silence. Starring at the wall for hours, days on end. He was afraid to sleep because he was afraid to remember. Terzo didn’t like confrontation in the first place anyway but this time he ran from it. He was and is still somewhat running from his past. Terzo didnt get much sleep. He was awake and somewhat almost on time every night he was striken with an existential crisis sort of feeling. He knew if he just bathed himself in that water that broke out of his shattered soul, as in drowning in that pain, he wouldn’t get better. He knew he couldn’t pull himself out, that’s just a rational thinking considering how deep the trauma was. But it hurt too mu h to talk about it. It felt like stabbing at a wound which was already bleeding. Touching a bruise what already hurts. And too, he was overwhelmed with the trauma, he didn’t want to make it worse.

It felt like this would never end . That this is all what was left of the confident and cheerful Terzo. Yes, he had his struggles in the past but he never thought that at some point he would hurt this much. It was like rock bottom had a basement.

One day, he understood. He understood that there was no way out but through it and that for this way through he had to drop most of the beliefs he had until now. And fundamentally, his view on life has been changed. After those weeks of isolation and dread, he was found in the garden, in the library, observing. Noticing details, tracing on textures. Fully in the present. It kept him from spiraling. It kept him from going inside the dark he had somewhat fought himself out of. The darkness jad changed him just as much as his death. Like storms and floods have created new lands and islands, like a volcano outbreak left new fruitful grounds for plants. Like a sunset after a long and dreadful thunderstorm where the birds sang. Peace. He has grown soft, observant and still quiet. His tired eyes held a comforting gaze now.

And on some days he was found in the hammock in the garden , just enjoying the sounds and looks on nature. Every morning on his way to get coffee, he observes the stained glass through the sun shining through it, looking at the paint it leaves on the floor. He realized how colorful spring was and how warm summer evenings really were.

Maybe this calm after the storm changes your view on life as well and reminds you that there will be peace after the most painful thing in your life.

Don’t die yet.

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whumpalicious08 · 2 years

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Caretaker/whumpee h/c or post-whump comfort!

You know for someone who professes love for h/c I write surprisingly little of it. Let's change that;

Sidekick! Whumpee, recently rescued from Villain Whumper. Superhero/mentor Caretaker does his best to put him back together.

SOME PRETTY INTENSE TWS FOR THIS ONE : NIGHTMARES, PTSD, SELF HARM, ANXIETY ATTACKS

Whumpee forced to strip so Caretaker can treat his injuries. Whumpee is perched on the edge of the bathroom counter, hunched forward. Beside him, Caretaker fills the sink with water. "Can you lift your shirt?" He says, as gently as he can. Whumpee swallows the lump in his throat, begins to pull the blood-soaked fabric over his head. Caretaker inhales sharply, not even trying to hide his concern. Cuts, gashes, bruising around Whumpee's ribs ... he'd been beaten, burned, tortured, over and over and over again. But the worst of it all, the thing that makes Caretaker sick to his stomach, are the four little letters cut deep into the skin under Whumpee's collarbone. Mine. "Oh god- what's he done to you..." Caretaker's never seen the Villain be this bad, not with him. "Caretaker-" Whumpee interrupts his train of thought. His voice borders on pleading. "I'm begging you; don't make me talk about it."

Follow up : Whumpee disgusted with Whumper's mark. The sound of smashing glass from Whumpee's bedroom makes Caretaker spring into action immediately. The door is locked, but he throws his shoulder into it over and over again until the wood gives way and he stumbles into the room. Whumpee's stood in front of his mirror, fingers curled around a piece of broken glass. He's cutting around the carving. "Whumpee, stop!" Caretaker wrestles with his mentee, the latter fighting tooth and nail to resist his hold. "Let me go! Let me- I need to get rid of it- I need-" Whumpee's injuries slowly get the better of him, and he begins to break down, slumping against Caretaker. "No, no, no- I -I need to cut it out- please, Caretaker, let me cut it out, I need to-" Whumpee is in hysterics, still meekly thrashing against his mentor. Caretaker's eyes fill with tears. "It's going to be okay, Whumpee. You're going to be okay." He doesn't know who he's trying to convince more.

Whumpee's having a nightmare. He's moaning and twitching in his sleep, unintelligible cries for mercy passing his lips. Caretaker is awake before his protégé even stirs, knelt by his bedside, panic making his heart jackhammer against his chest. "Whumpee! Wake up!" Whumpee wakes before his mind does, blindly swinging his fists at Caretaker instinctively. "No! No! Please- don't touch me!" Caretaker grabs his wrists, pins them in front of him. "Whumpee, it's me. It's Caretaker, you're safe." Whumpee's blurry eyes pick out Caretaker's form, and his face crumples along with his body, arms thrown around Caretaker's neck. "M'sorry. I'm so sorry." He sobs into his shirt. Caretaker hushes him, rubs circles into his back. "You're not the one who has anything to apologise for, Whumpee. Not one thing."

Whumpee flinching accidentally when Caretaker startles them. Caretaker fixes them with a concerned look. Whumpee sniffs irritably, looks away. "I'm okay." Caretaker huffs a humourless laugh. "No, Whumpee. You're not." His tone is too gentle, too compassionate. Something inside of Whumpee breaks.

Whumper used to call whumpee the same nicknames his team mates would. Team mate casually slaps Whumpee on the back at the end of a mission, gives him an easy going smile. "Nice work today, Pretty boy." He says nonchalantly, tossing the phrase over his shoulder as he leaves. Whumpee freezes, rooted in place even as his other team members clear out. Two little words and he's back there again. Abandoned, broken. Would be completely alone if not for... Whumpee stuffs his hand in his mouth, wrangles down a sob. Mentor/Leader notices from across the room, is by his side in an instant. "Whumpee," he says, placatingly. Whumpee turns his startled eyes to his, tense as a wire. "Caretaker-" He murmurs, panicked. "I can't- I can't breathe." Caretaker makes slow movements, curls his hand around the back of his neck because he knows it calms the younger boy down. "It's okay. Just focus on my voice, okay? You're not there anymore. You're not with him." Whumpee shakes his head, trembling. "You're wrong, Caretaker." He was naive to think he could just jump back into missions like nothing happened. Like his life wasn't over the day he was taken from his team, from Caretaker. "He's always with me."

EDIT: SO, NOT SUPER IMPORTANT, BUT I WAS READING OVER THIS POST AND REALISED HOW MANY SMALL SPELLING ERRORS AND STUFF I MADE BC IT WAS LIKE, 1AM. WOULD LOVE TO HAVE A BETA READER OR SOMETHING LIKE THAT, NOT EVEN JUST FOR SPELL CHECKS BUT ALSO FOR JUST BOUNCING OF IDEAS AND STUFF (BE MY FRIEND PLEASE 😭). ANYWAY, INBOX IS OPEN FOR ANYONE TO CHAT, BETA PROSPECTIVE OR NOT!

#emotional whump #whump #whump fic #whump prompt #whump scenario #whump writing #whumpee #caretaking #hurt/comfort #team dynamics #nightmare #angst #ptsd tw #trauma #trauma recovery #caretaker

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