PTSD - Tumblr Posts
Hello! I would like to just. Put this here.
just put some clothes over my pajamas. therapy fit
El Camino: A Breaking Bad Movie (2019)
Mental Stuff
I am living with ADHD, PTSD, Anxiety, and Depression. People think it’s easy. It’s not. I am here to share what it has been like so far for me and to help others to the best of my ability.
PTSD
I don’t know where my PTSD came from. I haven’t found any triggers. It might have to do with being attacked by dogs growing up. I’m living with it, that’s all I know.
Well where was I before I left...
Ahhh yes PTSD and all that comes with it. Well let me get the story out there. About 4 or 5 years ago I was sexually assaulted. I went through the legal process and I hope the guy (let's call him Jim) got prosecuted. You see Jim has 4 kids. 3 boys and a girl. I also think Jim has gotten away with it before I reported him. I just didn't want anyone else to go through that.
I'm jumpy around anyone my age or older who is male. Hugging a male can make it worse. The only person I felt safe with was Jasper.
This is so true. No one ever knows how I'm feeling fully.
“You don’t see me crying at night, you don’t know what I’m feeling inside. It’s amazing what a smile can hide.”
— Unknown
I'm not sure how much longer I am going to stick around if I'm no longer enough and can't give a single person what they want. I think I'm just going to say goodbye and see where life takes me or where my depression takes me. One or the other.
Sorry if I'm not good enough. Sorry if I can't give you what you want. Sorry for everything
There is a special place in hell for women who don't help other women.
- Madeline Albright
im fucking fuming over this i cant even lie like what the actual fuck is this. straight up evil behavior. also good job literally flat out admitting amber was indeed abused by depp since u fully acknowledged that she suffers from ptsd and that the ptsd is directly related/linked to him. literally just proudly telling us that ”yeah i knew he had abused amber and that amber has ptsd from it so i decided that we should try to give her panic attacks and just totally torment her like wouldnt it be so funny to give her flashbacks so she feels like shes being raped again lol she will look so craaazyyy” like honestly kill urself
no….
No…..
No no no no no…
NOOO AUGH THE MEMORIES
THE FLASHBACKS NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
Does anyone else feel like their life is a shitty fanfic where the author is just hell-bent on traumatizing them.
The chronicles of the winter || Part XI
Part II || Part III || Part IV || Part V || Part VI || Part VII|| Parta VIII || Part IX || Part X continuation of imagine
Word Count: 6770
Warnings: strong language, blood and injuries
Author: Beast
"You're safe, you're safe…"
The words reached him gradually, spoken softly and warmly as his tentative grip on reality tightened. He felt awful, head swimming and senses dulled. He wanted nothing more than to give in to the lull of sleep, to let go of consciousness and fall back into the waiting darkness, but he knew that would leave him vulnerable. The awareness of his own body was painfully slow to return. He was lying on something soft, his shoulder ached with a pain like broken glass in his head, his mouth was far too dry and something was touching him.
For some odd reason, he wasn't as panicked as he thought he'd be. Concerned was a more accurate word; concerned about what was near him and who was speaking, but the voice was comforting and gentle, and his guard wasn't so quick to build up. It was familiar in some odd way that he couldn't quite put his finger on; it was nothing like the barking orders and fearful murmurs of the white-coated men who pulled him from the icy depths of cryostasis. He couldn't have been in cryo for that matter, he felt too warm for that, and waking from that death-sleep never happened on something soft; he always awoke strapped down on a metal table, alone.
Movement in front of him; someone was standing, walking away. He heard wooden floorboards creak softly underfoot. Not in the facility. That was assuring, but also alarming. Where the hell was he, if he wasn't back there? Memories came back in a fuzzy tangle of pain and confusion, not at all clear and providing no answers. All he could definitively pick out was running, running, running, and suffocating pain. It was too much of a jumbled mess to make sense of.
Testing his body was difficult. The pain was sharp enough to register through the programming, indicating that something was damaged severely. His thoughts were too sluggish for him to adequately catalog his own wounds in his mental checklist to relay to his handlers. Wait—the handlers are dead. That realization forced his eyes open, mind in desperate need of affirmation for that line of thought. The light, however dim it might have been, was oppressive and overpowering. He blinked several times before he could make out any semblance of detail. The walls were painted a warm, light color, with pictures and furniture scattered around the room. It was nothing like the sterile space he typically woke in. Everything about it was different, but not in an uncomfortable sort of way. He could see a pile of bloody clothes—mine?—off near the door, and was suddenly quite aware of how defenseless he felt.
"… Bucky?" the voice was so sudden it caused him to twitch, body suddenly tense and ready to spring when he caught sight of someone peeking in from a doorway across the room. His vision was still blurry but he thought he recognized him. When the person stepped closer he was sitting up in an instant—and instantly regretted it. The sharp movement caused a burst of warmth on his shoulder, choking down a yelp at the intense pain. He chanced looking away from the man, metal hand cautiously touching the back of his shoulder. The limb lacked tactile sensation, but he did determine there was something spongy and yielding there, and when he removed the hand, the fingers were covered in fresh blood. My shirt was removed and wounds tended to. Did the man do this?
The couch, he'd realized he was lying on one a few seconds prior, dipped slightly as the man sat down next to him, keeping enough space between them so he wasn't crowded. The fact that he had approached without him noticing was enough to alarm the asset into immediate guard. He pressed himself against the arm of the couch, back against it and wound as far away from the other as he could get it. He studied him intently, looking for any weapon or any item that was a danger. He was ready to defend himself at the slightest provocation.
"I brought you some juice, if you want something to drink." The man with the bright eyes spoke softly, offering him a clear plastic cup filled about halfway with the liquid, smiling at him with familiarity. It was brightly colored and somewhat unusual looking, but it smelled rather pleasant and his dry throat was suddenly at the forefront of his awareness. The confusion surrounding how he got here was still taking precedence in his mind, but the man, he remembered something about him. His voice was the one that had said he was safe. His hands were faintly stained with blood and his shirt was marred with it as well. He must be the one who treated me. He wasn't entirely sure why that thought was comforting, but it was.
Moments passed with no movement between the two, the assassin distrustful and rightfully wary. Kindness and compassion were both incredibly foreign concepts, locked out of him by layers and layers of ridged programming and conditioning. There had to be some reason this man was doing this. Was he being prepped for something?
He swallowed thickly, the dryness of his throat too much to ignore, and cautiously extended his metal hand out to take the offered cup. Eye contact was never broken, not giving the other the chance to do anything that could threaten him. The cup was fragile, thin plastic, and it took a little testing to make sure he wouldn't break it before he took it from him.
"Its orange juice," the man started, "I have milk or water if you'd rather have that?" was he asking for his preference? That was… he didn't really remember any time when anyone had asked what he'd wanted. He didn't respond and regarded the juice warily, but he eventually deemed it safe. It wasn't logical to go through all the effort of tending to his wounds just to poison him. Even with that thought in mind, his first sip was hesitant. It tasted overwhelmingly sweet, enough so that it almost made him gag, but he was so thirsty he probably would have taken just about anything.
Emily was standing on the corridor, listening to the conversation of two men. She sighed sadly, knowing that something was about to happen..
"Will you let me look at your shoulder?" the question was entirely unexpected, causing icy eyes to cut over to the other man, "It's bleeding again, and I'd like to get an actual bandage on it, if that's alright with you." He was asking his permission. The concept was almost intangible to his methodical mind. He had rarely been told what was happening to him, let alone given anything resembling a choice; when things needed to be done, things were done, and he had no say in them. He was interested in his wellbeing, so perhaps he was a new handler, to replace the ones that were dead.
"One round, sniper rifle, distance of several blocks." He repeated all the information he knew about the injury, "Bullet didn't exit, needs extraction." His voice was monotonous, not looking away from the man at his right. Several moments of silence passed before he watched the other man retrieve several items from the floor before sitting back down next to him, much closer this time. In response the soldier moved, sitting so that his back was to him so he could reach the wound easily. He was operating on programming and instinct, otherwise he never would have turned away from him.
"I'm going to take off the bandage now, let me know if it hurts and I'll stop." His voice was still that gentle tone that held a familiarity that he couldn't place. He didn't respond, just sipping the juice he had been given as he felt the other peel the blood-soaked fabric from the wound. To distract himself he tried to focus on the events that ended with him waking up in this place. He remembered something about the Strike team, about HYDRA, about desperately seeking out someone, about Robrax.
The asset tensed absentmindedly when he felt the other man dab at the wound with a cloth, wiping away the blood. He heard a hastily mumbled "sorry" from behind him before the work was continued, gentler than before. Minutes passed in silence, with the weapon sitting stilly and obediently as the taller man cleaned and dressed the wound. The disinfectant stung but he didn't show any discomfort, allowing him to clean the wound thoroughly as he let himself be lost in his own thoughts.
A hazy memory trickled into his mind of a cold and dimly-lit apartment, with himself and someone else sitting on a ratty old couch covered in moth-eaten blankets. The other person was scratching the stub of a charcoal pencil into a small sketchbook, bundled up in as many of those pathetic-looking blankets as he could and sitting as close to—me?—as was physically possible. He remembered feeling Steve, his name was Steve, shivering horribly even through all those blankets. It was winter, he'd just gotten over pneumonia, and he remembered how scared he'd been thinking he was going to lose him. But... why did he remember this? Were those memories actually his?
"… you still draw, don't you, Steve?" the soldier suddenly questioned, the degrading programming loosening its grip on his awareness now that he was fully awake. The other man, he remembered his name now. He was Steve Rogers. Captain Steve Rogers. He was the only face he could recall with any clarity, therefore he had to have held some significant importance to him at some time.
"I—" Steve faltered, finishing up wrapping gauze tape around his shoulder to hold the sterile packing in place, "Y-yeah I do, Buck. You… always liked watching me draw." His voice was tentative and hopeful, something the asset made immediate mental note of. He heard Steve putting away things behind him, and he took it as a sign that he was finished.
"… do you still keep a sketchbook?" the assassin wasn't sure why he was so interested, but the memory had been rather clear and he took it as an opportunity to possibly learn if it was real. He tilted his head to glance back over his shoulder, and saw Steve nod slightly. "Can I see it?" he wasn't used to asking questions, to voicing his own thoughts, and he felt a need to try it. Seeing the smile that broke across the other's face was oddly rewarding.
"Of course you can." Steve nearly fumbled over his own words, eyes alight with some emotion he couldn't place, "Here, Bucky." A shirt was held out to him when he turned to face him fully, "Your shirt was ruined, so you can use one of mine." Blue eyes regarded it somewhat warily, but he took it from him regardless. It was little more than a plain grey shirt, but it was appreciated. "I'll go and get you some more juice and my sketchbook. I'll be back in a moment." The empty cup was retrieved from his hand, the assassin not startling at the sudden movement, before the man left the room. Bucky. There was that name again. His name. He dimly recalled it—yes, it was his name.
The shirt was a little difficult to put on with his arm and shoulder injured, but it was managed. The horrific grinding and popping of his joint when he pulled it over his head confirmed that the injury had to be set. He added it into his mental list of injuries. The garment was a little big on his thinned frame, but it was clean and comfortable. It had a somewhat familiar scent to it as well that he couldn't quite recall. Even in as much pain as he was, he felt better than he had in a very long time. Not physically better; he felt absolutely awful physically, but maybe a little better mentally.
He had confirmation that his name was the same as the Sergeant memorialized in the museum, and that this other man was the same Steve that he could dimly remember. There was still an odd disconnect between himself and his past, between himself and the man known as Bucky, but this was a fragile thread that tied him back to it. There were a lot of blank, empty spaces where memories should be in his mind, and he doubted he'd ever get everything back, but this felt… right? Being here with Steve felt right. Yes, he was fairly certain this was the right thing to do.
Tired eyes caught sight of a few folded blankets on the floor near his feet. He might have just regained consciousness but he still felt absolutely exhausted and drained. One of the blankets was picked up, wrapped around him tightly to try and block the cold. It was one of those odd constants that never left; cold seemed to follow him like his own shadow, sinking teeth of ice into his flesh every waking moment. No matter what he tried he never could seem to warm himself up. He curled up tightly under the fabric, feeling a tentative safety for the first time in a long while. All the running and fear and paranoia was starting to melt, bit by bit, as he allowed his eyes to close willingly. By the time Steve returned, he had already dozed off, huddled against the arm of the couch with his back to the door; a small, fragile sign of trust. It was the first deep, peaceful sleep he could remember since he woke from stasis.
When he opened his eyes this time there was no light, the space dark and silent, the reason for just why he was awake unclear. Several moments passed before he realized he was staring into fabric; the back of a couch, he determined. Unease breathed at the back of his neck, but nothing seemed outwardly wrong around him. However, something still felt off. His memories were slow to catch up with his awareness, but he pieced together where he was soon enough. This time his return to consciousness didn't come with any overwhelming paranoia, just a faint acknowledgment of his surroundings; it was a first for the soldier.
He hadn't moved at all since falling asleep, the skill of remaining completely motionless honed into a fine art. It was an ability he'd possessed even before HYDRA's conditioning; he half recalled something about sniping. The downside was that he was now rather sore, and he was sure the injuries he'd sustained earlier in the night had only been compounded by his lack of movement. He'd slept on his right arm, which hadn't done his dislocated joint any favors. He would be sure to alert his new handler to the injury come morning.
There was a momentary lapse before he corrected his thought. Not handler, Steve. The man was an odd sort of mystery in his head. He wasn't a handler, wasn't a white-coated tech, wasn't anything he was familiar with. Steve was Steve. He was a strange exception in a world of ridged rules and protocols. Normally such an obvious outlier would make him nervous, but Steve's presence was comforting and nonthreatening and achingly familiar.
Movement was difficult; now that the adrenaline and shock had worn off he felt the full force of the pain. Every muscle seemed to ache, a deep-seeded burn that spread from his skin to the deepest parts of him. His prosthetic creaked and the servos whined pitifully, the weeks of abuse and ill-care wearing at it. Getting into a sitting position took much more effort than he expected, but now that he had a clear view of the entire room he felt a little safer. The tentative feeling of security let him will himself to take stock of his situation.
The room hadn't changed except for the light having been flipped off, but the darkness was of no hindrance. He could see rather well at night, but whether or not that was inherent or due to HYDRA tampering he wasn't sure. Despite the fact that this place exuded a sense of safety that he'd never experienced before, checking the perimeter and his surroundings was so ingrained in him that he felt a compulsion to do it.
As he moved to get up, he noticed there was a second blanket covering him. Or had been, before he sat up and caused it to tumble off of him in a heap. Absentmindedly he reached out to pick it up, wincing a bit at the metallic whine of his artificial joints and tendons. Several of the plates were jarred out of place, clanking together unnaturally and restricting his range of motion. Dried blood mired the reflective surface, coming not from himself but from nameless HYDRA agents. As soon as he had recovered enough to be effective, he had gone and destroyed every safe house he knew of, killing every HYDRA agent he came across. He was going to destroy HYDRA all on his own if it came to that; they were going to regret ever having created him. He'd see to it.
"Mm, Buck?" the sleepy hum of the Captain broke the silence, the soldier's eyes cutting over in that direction. He hadn't even noticed the other man had placed himself in a nearby chair, now-open eyes regarding him tiredly. Keeping an eye on me? Making sure I don't escape? The second thought made his brow furrow a bit. No, that's not right. He somehow just knew that wasn't why he had opted to rest out here instead of returning to the bedroom.
The asset didn't respond verbally, but gave him a brief nod before he carried through with picking up the blanket. The nervousness was once again settling into the pit of his stomach, the sort of feeling he expected prey felt before a predator sprung from the shadows. It was such an unfamiliar feeling, as he was usually the lurking predator in question. He could hear Steve stretching and moving to get up, so he decided to remain seated; he had a feeling the Captain would fuss if he tried to get up and walk with his wounds.
"Feeling any better?" the other's voice was far too bright for it being so early in the morning. The assassin just watched as he tapped at a phone, glancing to him after the screen lit up. He took a moment to check himself mentally before he responded. His metal fingers hesitantly relinquished their grip on the blanket, instead wrapping gingerly around his shoulder joint, where the Captain had dislocated it in their struggle.
"… arm hurts." He mumbled quietly, lacking the robotic, monotonous quality that had previously dominated his voice. He knew that the Captain had seen the deep bruising and discoloration around the joint, as the bullet wound was plastered in the middle of it, but he was well aware that there was likely little he could do for it. Even he wasn't sure if it was just a dislocation, or if there was a fracture as well. The frown that appeared on the other man's face at his words was enough to make the nervousness he was experiencing leap to the front of his mind.
"We'll get it looked at, don't worry." His voice was always so soothing, "But…" discomfort, possibly even fear crept into the other's tone suddenly, serving to heighten the soldier's apprehension. His gaze was at his phone again, tapping his finger against it nervously. "… we can't stay here, we need to get somewhere safe." The sense of urgency was contagious, it seemed. The hairs on the back of his neck were on-end again, and the assassin was on his feet in a few seconds.
"Buck, are you sure you're alright to be up and.." the glare he directed at the Captain was much more threatening than he meant it to be, but he got his point across as the rest of the man's sentence withered in his throat. He wasn't fragile, he wasn't to be coddled; he was a weapon that was damaged and malfunctioning, not broken and useless. Weakness wasn't tolerated, his handlers had made sure to drive that into his programming.
"Give me a minute to get ready and get you a jacket, then we've gotta move out." Those were words the soldier remembered and associated with. Location compromised, moving to safety. It must be why he woke up; HYDRA must be closing in. It was enough to make his muscles stiffen with readiness, not wanting to be taken by surprise like last time. They wouldn't have that luxury. Not again.
Emily also had packed some necessary stuff earlier. She was standing in the middle of the room, with a backpack hanging over her shoulder.
“Guys…” she whispered. “We don’t have much time.”
Waiting was not in the Winter Soldier's repertoire, and instead of remaining still he was up and moving. The pistol he had dropped earlier was retrieved, inspected and placed into his pocket. There wasn't a lot of ammunition left in it, but enough to be useful. He'd done more damage with much, much less. Now that he was up he decided to do that perimeter check he'd been planning on. Steve was doing something in his room, so he avoided that room and checked every other one. His pass through the kitchen produced the knife he'd left that first night, still sullied with the Captain's blood, and a worn sketchbook. There was a twinge of guilt in his stomach that passed quickly as he placed the blade back into the sheath at his ankle. The small book, likely the one Steve had been bringing to show him, was tucked into his pocket.
The dull, aching burn in his muscles was pushed out of his awareness; now that there was a clear threat to him all pain was ignored. It was how he had been conditioned, trained and taught; pain was a weakness and only useful for determining damage after a successful mission. He hated to admit that he was nervous, but he was. He had the beginnings of fragile trust in Steve, but this had the makings of a trap. Suddenly relocating after arriving? Departing hours before the sun rose, when no one would ever notice their passing? It was enough to set off warning bells in the soldier's mind.
"Buck," the Captain's hesitant voice broke his thoughts, eyes cutting over to where the other man was peeking in from the door, "Are you ready?" again with questions, again with asking him things. It was still a strange and unusual concept to the asset, used only to demands and orders. He responded only with a curt nod, taking a jacket that the other offered to him. It was somewhat big on him, but worn and soft and comfortable nonetheless. Nothing like the rigid combat gear HYDRA had outfitted him with. In a way he felt vulnerable, missing the reassuring weight and constriction of his body armor.
Steve had a small pack slung over his shoulder, the contents of which the soldier didn't know, and shield strapped to his arm. It was clear, however, that they were likely not coming back, not for a long time at least. There was no sentimental attachment to this place for him, he didn't have any sentimental attachments honestly, but he did know this place and knew it was safe in his mind, so leaving it didn't sit right in his mind. He did know, however, that staying would end in certain HYDRA custody or death.
Ushered out into the hall, the soldier only moved when prompted by his new handler. No, Steve. His senses were on alert, although still dulled and sluggish from the blood loss earlier. The sleep and bandaging had improved his awareness a bit, although even with his serum it would take a few more hours before he would be in a condition he was comfortable with. He just watched as Steve tapped at his phone, door pulled shut behind him. It was only after he read some text message for the fifth time that he suddenly froze.
"Shit." Now that got a reaction out of the soldier. He tensed up and stood perfectly still, the tone of Steve's voice setting off warnings and alarm bells that something was catastrophically wrong. His tone had been nothing but softness and warmth up until now; the swear sparked just the ghost of a sensation in his head, of cold wind and the smell of gunsmoke as he peered over a trench in some long forgotten battlefield.
"We need to move. Now." the words spilled out of the blond man suddenly, a hand grabbing his right arm without warning and tugging him down towards the stairs. Normally such an unexpected action would have warranted a swift punch to the jaw, but the startled tone in the other's voice alerted him that something was very, very wrong. He didn't resist, letting Steve lead him swiftly down the stairs and towards a back door, the other man mumbling the entire way about something about the text having been wrong. Muffled voices—HYDRA, Strike team—filtered through the walls from outside, formless shadows visible through the frosted glass of the front doors.
Subtly was thrown out the window as Steve kicked the back door open and bolted outside, the asset stumbling and fighting to keep up with the jolting motion. The man had yet to let go of his arm, guiding him through narrow alleyways and side streets in a path that seemed predetermined. He didn't know the plan, which was a source of anxiety in and of itself, but Steve clearly had something in mind, so for the first time he—trust was too strong a word—relied on the other's decisions to get them out of harm's way.
HYDRA agents were all over, dressed in varying uniforms of Strike and police and others he did not recognize. They shouted as they tried to corner them, seemingly appearing from nowhere from alleyways and cars and from behind objects. Steve did not engage them, instead pulling him along as he ducked and weaved dizzyingly between buildings and sleepy streets. He had a set destination in mind, the asset could tell, and even though the sight of HYDRA angered him into considering pulling away to fight, he knew it was too risky to separate himself from the Captain.
Unfortunately, HYDRA did that for him. There was a sudden, jarring shout from one of the alleys they were about to blow past, and before either could react the darkened space filled with blinding light and a concussive sound. Flashbang. Steve yelled something but the asset didn't hear, the grip on his arm lost as the other covered his ears. Even before the white left his vision, formless shapes surrounded them as agents appeared to spring from the very walls to box them in. Wordlessly, the assassin and the Avenger stood back to back, fitting into formation as easily as if it was something they did every day. The pistol was pulled from his pocket, knowing that even with little ammo it would be more effective at the moment than a knife. There was a brief flash of familiarity in his mind, but the situation around him drowned it out almost instantly.
"Drop your weapon and surrender the asset, Captain Rogers!" a husky voice barked out, a dozen barrels of a dozen guns aimed at them. He could feel Steve tense against his back, but so vastly outnumbered and outgunned any outburst now would likely end in one or both of them dead.
"… Steve." He wasn't sure just why he spoke, or why his voice was softened and hinted with an accent he only vaguely recalled, but he did. It was a sort of rash, sudden need to ground himself in the present, to remind himself that the man behind him was indeed the Steve he could so faintly remember. His statement, however, had an unintended consequence.
"The asset's compromised," that growling voice spoke again, "he'll need to be wiped and reconditioned if we're going to salvage this." That statement triggered an intense, shattering terror in the assassin the likes of which he could not recall. Broken memories of deafening electricity crackling madly, of being tied down and unresisting and passive, suddenly swam in his mind and broke through his calculating combat mindset. Without thought he pressed himself further against Steve's back, as if somehow he could hide from his own horrifying memories in the other's presence.
"Buck, it's alright," voice hushed and gentle, the Captain spoke only loud enough for him to hear, "You've got to work with me, we're going to work together to get out of this, just follow my lead." It wasn't worded as an order or command, and as such disoriented the soldier for a moment, but that fragile ideal of trust settled in to fill in the gaps and his only response was a slight nod that went unseen. They could do this. “Emily. I’m gonna take their attention, you need to run. If they will take us three, nothing will left.”
She nodded slightly and before the fight, she ran toward the nearest window. She stopped in front of it, taking a look back at her men. Steve was looking at her above his shoulder, he gave her a nod, so she followed his order and jumped out of the window, disappearing in the darkness of the night.
There was no warning for the HYDRA agents, shield thrown and colliding with several and incapacitating them while three expertly placed and near-simultaneous bullets downed three permanently. They moved in sync, still keeping each at their back even after separating and lunging at the ring of agents that surrounded them. The now-useless pistol had been abandoned in favor for a blade, which was used to swiftly and efficiently disable and kill two more agents before they could even fire off a round.
The resonant clang of the shield behind him let him subconsciously track the Captain's movements, even as he threw himself into the tangle of agents in front of him. He used the knowledge that he was wanted alive to his advantage, as he knew they wouldn't dare try to shoot him at such close range as it would likely irreparably damage him and they would lose their prized asset. It couldn't have worked better for him, as he was just as comfortable and deadly dispatching a target at close range as he was sniping.
An agent was slammed against the nearby wall, razored blade deftly sliding between neck vertebras to kill his target instantly. Without a moment's hesitation he was upon another, moving with all the predatory grace of a hunting cat, throat slit and body casually dropped as if it were little more than a discarded jacket. The remaining two agents in his field of view turned and bolted, and had he been on his prior missions of annihilating HYDRA installations around the city he would have pursued them relentlessly, but now he barely acknowledged their escape. Instead, he spun on his heel to where Steve was fighting, wasting no time engaging the remaining agents that swarmed him.
His blood-sullied blade dipped into the throat of a Strike member readying to shoot Steve's back, a gurgled wheeze of horrified shock the only noise that escaped before he was roughly shoved aside. Sticky crimson soaked deep into his jacket and clothes beneath but little regard was given to it; the horrors of his actions seemed as commonplace as any daily act to him after decades of repetition. Another HYDRA infantrymen lunged at Rogers with a stun baton, but the soldier intercepted him, slashing with a precise stroke that opened the man's torso as easily as a zipper. He fell noiselessly into a jumbled heap of blood and viscera at the Captain's feet, a non-threat.
Soon only a few hostiles remained, mostly stepping far back and firing as many rounds as they could at Captain Rogers. The asset refused to leave the man's side again, tucked up close near him in an effort to deter any more firing, and to his dim surprise it seemed to work. The agents backed away even farther, guns raised but triggers untouched, eyes locked on them. He took the brief lull in fire to glance at Steve for a moment, to assess his condition. He was on his feet, but blood had soaked his right leg from a bullet wound to the calf. A slash from a knife tore through his jacket and into his side, while red dribbled from his saturated sleeve from another entry wound. He was standing, for the moment, but the soldier knew that even with the serum the blood loss would catch him quickly.
Steve asked something, something about how he was holding up or the like, but the assassin didn't catch it. Instead his attention was elsewhere when his eyes caught a brief flash of light from the roof of a building two streets over. His heart fell into his stomach and his shout of warning was lost to the rifle crack when the realization hit. Of course, the bullet hit first, just not in the place HYDRA had wanted it.
The soldier had reacted instinctively, kicking the back of Steve's injured leg hard enough that he buckled. His sudden movement meant the bullet, aimed for a kill shot on the Avenger's heart, instead struck and slid off the slant of his shield and hit his collarbone. A second bullet, fired milliseconds after the first from a likely second sniper, caught him across his already-slashed ribs, blossoming open as if it were a grotesque flower. The strangled cry of shock and pain that left the man as he crumpled to the ground snapped something buried deep beneath HYDRA programming, and within a half-second he had grabbed Steve by his arm and pulled him into a small alcove between two buildings. He heard two more bullets strike the asphalt where they had been moments before, and knew that HYDRA was likely not going to take Steve alive.
All thoughts of the remaining HYDRA agents were abandoned at the sound of Steve's raspy breathing, the assassin leaning him against the building wall as to hopefully ease it some as he leaned down to his level. Even though the shield had absorbed most of the energy of the round, the wound was devastating. The bullet had shattered his collarbone, flesh torn and ripped and blood dripping freely. A dribble of the crimson stained the Captain's chin, breath labored and choking and heaved in and out. His lung's been punctured, probably collapsing. The second bullet had no doubt shattered his ribs, and the awful torn wound was jagged and blown apart by the unimpeded bullet's passing. It was a grim prognosis.
The sounds of the agents trying to regroup from the attack were hardly registered, hands pressed to the man's injury in a desperate attempt to stem the flow of blood. A pained cough escaped him, reddened mouth slackened open as he tried again and again to fill his lungs full to no avail. "B… B-Buck…" he slurred wetly through the blood, half-lidded eyes beginning to glaze over as unconsciousness loomed, "… got t-to… get… a-away…" shock was setting in, body trembling under the assassin's hands, but he mustered the energy to nudge him with the shield in a halfhearted attempt to push him into running. He wanted him to leave him behind, to save himself from falling back into HYDRA's control. The very thought of it twisted the soldier's stomach in a knot and caused his breath to catch in his throat.
"S-Steve," his normally-controlled voice was shaky and small, fear filling every inch of him as trembling, blood-stained metallic fingers brushed golden hair away and cupped the Captain's cheek to hold his gaze on him, "You've gotta hold on," his eyes began to sting as an unfamiliar heat and blurriness began to build, "I-I'm not leaving you behind." Something had woken up deep in his mind, faint ghosts of memories of battles long past. Of fights in alleys where both refused to run away, never leaving the other's side. It was such a strong emotion that consumed him that he couldn't ever hope to fight it, and strangely enough, he possessed no will to resist it.
Footsteps and barked orders behind him drew him from his withdrawn, focused state. It was like a switch flicking in his head, the sharp focus of combat and programming setting in, and within the space of a breath he had taken the shield from Steve's faltering grasp and spun around, keeping himself between the agents and his injured partner. His vision was blurred and his eyes stung fiercely, an unfamiliar wetness trailing down a cheek, but he didn't move from his defensive stance, rooted to the spot with shield held solid in his metal prosthetic. The plates whirled and slid together with a groan of protest, ready to lash out with the vibranium disk at the slightest movement.
"Get away!" he snarled in a voice so loud it startled the men, "Get away from him!" he swung the shield at an agent that dared to approach, knocking him clean off his feet and sending him tumbling. The sharp, ripping pain as his own shoulder wound tore caused him to wince, but it was immediately stuffed down as he had much more important things to focus on. Seeing their own knocked away so easily, even while he was in such a state, caused the others to take heed and back away a few feet. Even though his joint protested, he retrieved and hid a blade in the palm of his injured arm, keeping it disguised behind the shield. If they got close again they would be in for a nasty surprise.
"This is… unexpected." The same agent who spoke earlier piped up, rifle trained on the pair with deadly intent, "Looks like the programming has decayed more than anticipated. General Lukin isn't going to be pleased." That name was familiar, and struck a fear like a dagger of ice into the soldier's heart. He pressed himself back, shield held higher in a desperate attempt to keep the agents at bay. Steve moved behind him, whimpering in pain, and a moment later the former Soviet felt his hand press reassuringly to his back in a wordless gesture of trust. It was enough to steel his nerves, to dispel his own fear just enough to focus on the agents who had chanced to venture further.
With an almost animalistic roar, he leapt at the nearest agent, jamming the sharp edge of the shield into his ribcage, crushing it like a flimsy can. He dropped into a tangle of limbs, and he used the moment of confusion to swing at another, feeling the agent's skull cave under the impact. The shield was brought down on the neck of another agent, while the knife in his right hand pierced the torso of one rushing at him. As he swiveled to lunge at the seeming-commander he froze mid-strike, eyes wide with terror, when he saw that another agent had a gun trained to the downed Captain's head.
"No!" the word clawed its way out of him, shield and blade falling from his hand in a show of submission, eyes wide with feral panic. "D-don't do it." He'd never demanded anything from anyone, not in all his active years, but he was now. He was scared, desperate and out of options, pleading like one of his victims to spare the other man's life. The commander's gravelly voice broke into a laugh behind him, but before he could round on him he felt a pinprick on the back of his neck, followed immediately by a burst of warmth that spider-webbed through his body. His knees buckled and vision swam, awareness growing fuzzy as he collapsed to the ground. He gasped out Steve's name, tried to push himself back up, but he couldn't even prevent his eyes from sliding shut a heartbeat later. His hearing muffled, but the last thing he was aware of was that growl of a voice ordering the surviving agents to take the both of them before everything drained away into nothingness.
collar / touch aversion / Leave me alone (you’re the lump in my throat and the knot in my chest)
The first few weeks on Titan had been hell. Coming down off a supremely magnificent Red Eye high that he'd managed to stretch out for days - something unheard of and very much frowned upon even by the addicts who jonesed for the drug the most - had been rough. He'd been quite literally out of his mind. Unfit for any sort of company. There were scratches up and down his arms and legs, he'd nearly bitten through his tongue, and he'd lost a significant amount of weight.
Apparently he'd been so wildly out of control - deranged, in fact - that they'd resorted to chaining him up like an animal.
The thought brought him dark amusement. He'd always told Spike that they were beasts. Killer hounds on Syndicate leashes. A hound was hardly a frightening animal though. He preferred to liken himself to a viper. Forget Adam and never mind Eve, the snake was the true hero of the tale of Eden. The controlling power, with cunning and stealth, with wicked fangs to sink into the unsuspecting flesh of prey. The Syndicate named themselves Dragons as if a fictitious beast were more frightening than creatures actually in existence. Fools. Fools for more serious reasons than something that trivial though.
They didn't approve of his fixation on strength and shows of might. They didn't approve of his desire to use terror as an intimidation tactic. They certainly didn't approve of his use of Red Eye. Unlike most who took the drug, he had always been able to will himself into a state of cool-headed self-discipline. He'd had the uncanny ability to subdue the fervor that it awoke in nearly everyone else. It had made him more lethal by far than he'd ever been before, and that was saying something considering the body count he and Spike had racked up over the years.
Chained and collared, he was sent to Titan to languish. Sent to Titan to be tormented by the mad scientists who were truly governing the goings-on of the sad, dusty little moon. He knew the dark reality of this place. The Elders had sent him to get clean, to curtail his shaping of the newer members of the Syndicate, and to take advantage of the despair of the men and women trapped on this rock. The military had and would always be a fine source of customers when it came to drugs that numbed, drugs that distracted, drugs that gave people increased speed and endurance. It was a place he could have thrived, but that was not the intent.
He had torn himself to shreds originally. On the ship that brought him to Titan, he had frothed at the mouth and drawn blood everywhere he could reach. By the time they reached Titan he had been strapped down by more restraints than were necessary. On the moon itself he was freed except for the collar. They kept him in a tiny cell where he could not stretch out and they plagued him with constant pain. Whips, brass knuckles, the collar itself revealed to be able to shock quite powerfully, and of course their fists and boots. None had any of the fighting skill of Spike, of course, which meant he could have bested any or all of his jailors if they'd given him half a chance. But their job was to break him. Physically, mentally if possibly, spiritually if he gave a shit about that type of thing.
He refused to bow to their cruelty. His own ran deeper, pulsed stronger. They were ants in comparison. And eventually the predetermined stretch of time the Van had allotted for his punishment came to an end. He was released out into the general populace for the more important mission of converting soldiers to addicts. Behind the scenes, of course, and with the mission of finding a fall guy to ensure the Syndicate was kept as far removed from responsibility as possible. It was child's play, of course, and then he was called back.
It wasn't until he returned to Mars, returned to Tharsis and to Julia, that he realized something had gone wrong.
They'd always enjoyed quite a few games in the bedroom. Julia loved to dominate. She'd often employ handcuffs, blindfolds, collars and ball gags and other ways to keep him from bringing them both to climax too soon. She got off on being in charge and he had always been exhilarated by the sheer heights of desire he could drive her to while being unable to move as freely as he'd like.
But he flinched when she brought her hands to his bare skin. Not a large reaction but not something either of them could deny having seen. To her credit, she didn't acknowledge the involuntary action beyond the blink of surprise she'd been unable to hide.
And then he discovered a deadness inside himself. Oh, he'd never been emotionally stimulated to much degree... had never been able to sympathize with the people who he was sent to hurt or kill. There had always been a piece of humanity missing from his soul and it had never bothered him in the least. If anything, it made it far easier to be who he was and do what he did. He'd seen the flashes of weakness in Spike from time to time and had counted himself lucky to not have to contend with those turbulent emotions. He experienced delight and disgust and plenty of other things, he had no need to experience the hassle of a conscience.
But there was a new emptiness within him now. He had thought himself immune to the brutality he had gone through on Titan but apparently not.
There was no more appetite within him for anything sexual. No pride in making Julia scream. No urge to find completion for himself.
Beyond that, he was now uncomfortable with physical contact of any sort. Her soft hands on his skin prickled like sandpaper and he was surprised that her palms didn't leave trails of blood to show where they'd lain on his body. Touch aversion, due to the near-constant contact he'd been made to endure by those plebeians?
How pathetic.
It ignited a fury within him. How ironic that they had been so worried about the madness a man could be driven to under the influence of Red Eye when the true danger had turned out to be their attempt to subjugate him. He found himself increasingly unsettled by his own inability to suppress his rage, and by his body's refusal to feel lust.
He knew it baffled Julia. Their animalistic union had once been a nightly occurrence whenever he wasn't on a mission. And now? He couldn't even stand to see her.
He had sat up in bed while she slept, discontent, and found he was unable to feel even the faintest stirring of longing for her. It was a slice of himself that he was not prepared to let go of yet. The thirst for this woman had been a source of such carnal pleasure for years... and now, to have to give up physical coupling just because there was no urge whatsoever? It was not by his choice and that made him bitterly upset.
Days passed in a haze of mounting frustration. Spike had been gone on another assignment and the Van had refused to put Vicious himself back to work yet.
She came to him in the darkness of the night, likely assuming that their first few attempts at joining together again had gone awry solely because he'd been gone for a while. She came to him gently at first, then tried to be commanding. He burned with the need to meet her demands, with the desire to be in charge of his own body's cravings. He was trembling, seething, at the block that existed between his previous hunger and his current... absolute lack. It went beyond a void because he could still not stand to have her touch him.
"Leave me alone!" He erupted at her when she approached him, nude and brandishing a crop.
Her eyes had flashed at him. She licked her lips once, not in a sensual manner but to give herself a moment of recovery.
"Why?" She implored.
(you’re the lump in my throat and the knot in my chest)
But he did not say these thoughts aloud. He chose to chastise her instead.
He sneered at her. "I do not need to offer you any explanation. I do not need you at all. Our time together is over. Find someone else to be your plaything as you seduce and bribe and cajole your way to the top. I will not suffer your presence in my company any longer."
Once they'd had similar goals. To carve a path to the Van itself and wrest authority of the Syndicate for themselves. They had designs in mind, subterfuge and blackmail and backstabbing. It wouldn't do to blaze a trail there while leaving ruin in your wake - the route Spike would no doubt take if he'd any mind for the future and for assuming control. Spike, for all his capabilities and cleverness, was not inspired to take responsibility of his own life let alone a powerful crime syndicate like the Red Dragons. Spike had always preferred being directed where to attack. He was a hurricane force that would do well as Vicious's second in command, rampaging wherever Vicious chose to send him. Julia, with all her beauty and cunning, would be invaluable as a way to infiltrate other syndicates. Her ability to steal into a room and draw attention was impressive, but moreso was her knack at operating behind the scenes and pulling people in this direction or that as if they were puppets to which she held the strings.
The dream didn't have to die. He could still usurp the Syndicate with Spike as his trusty and deadly right hand. Perhaps there could even be room for Julia at the top in that far away future. He had no intention of rushing this process, after all. Time would help deteriorate the grip of the Van on the other members, and time would give him the chance to assume their loyalty instead.
First, he had to cut himself off from the open wound that was his former relationship with Julia. He could not afford to indulge in the outrage that rose up every time he considered what had been taken from him. He had to accept the changes wrought and move forward coldly and callously. Every act the Van took was leading them further from the ruling force they had once been, and bringing Vicious closer to unleash a new wave of savagery upon this forsaken city.
He would rule it all one day, or else see it razed to the very dust.
bpd is not knowing if you’re a good person or if you’re a bad person and you’re just gaslighting yourself to believe you’re a good person.
Hello, this is my first post here, but not even close to my first experience on Tumblr. I’ve missed it. The times when I spent hours on here, brimming with excitement to hear new fan theories or share my art with the world. I’d like to experience that again.
While I was absent the world has changed, I have changed. It’s been about half a decade and while my view on life isn’t too different, it’s enough to make me introspective and nostalgic. I don’t know how I want to go about this, as my work and my life are inescapably tied yet I constantly try to separate them for the “betterment” of my image and wallet. I’m tired of that.
I want to experience freedom of thought, of words, of expression in one place. Tumblr was where I was free once, and I’d like that again.
Anyway, enough of the sappy nonsense.
My name is Soleil. I am 21 years old and I’m from the southeastern coast of the United States. I am a Cancer, and my Meyer’s Briggs is INFT/J depending on when I’ve taken the test. None of that matters in comparison to how you perceive me and my art, but it does matter to some. I’m open to questions, engagement, and interactions (minors dni).
In this blog I will be discussing myself and my issues along with other things I find interesting. I have CPTSD, ADHD, and I’m probably autistic according to my doctor, but I haven’t gotten the full diagnosis yet. If those things bother you, this probably isn’t the blog for you, but I have no problem tagging things so others can avoid it.
In terms of my art, I enjoy gouache, watercolor, digital art, colored pencils, oil painting, acrylic, mixed media, and really anything else I can get my grubby little hands on. I also have random bursts of fanart energy. Stay tuned!
"Jason keeps making comments about his death and it's whiny" this "Jason is always talking about his death" that... Jason is always thinking about his death. Because that's what trauma is, being trapped in the moment, reliving it again and again and again. Children with PTSD/CPTSD sometimes do this thing where they play games when they recreate their trauma, and the explanatory hypothesis is that they're trying to fix it in a way. Adults with PTSD/CPTSD tend to find themselves at risk in similar situations. Being trapped in a time loop of the worst moments of your life and trying to stop something that's already happened, begging to be saved even if it's too late, lashing out to defend yourself after the fight is over. And I know the confrontation in UTRH is complex and about a lot of things, especially about Jason and Batman and Bruce, but also I can't help thinking, this reads a lot like trauma reenactment. And Bruce's response... Let's just assume it didn't really help.
So, yeah. Jason talks about his death a lot. Jason is still in that warehouse, in that coffin, still being tortured and dying and buried alive. Jason is still calling for help.