#trAUma

[incognitopolls]

For the purposes of this poll, "school-related trauma" means any trauma having to do with school, not just related to which classes you were in.

–

We ask your questions so you don’t have to! Submit your questions to have them posted anonymously as polls.

[octobergrover]

silly little percy jackson headcanon that's not so silly

Perseus "Percy" Jackson, savior of Olympus 2x. Starting at age 12, he has been the hero the world and the people he cares about rely on. Sure, there's other heroes- like Carter, Magnus, Nico, Jason(RIP), the Hunters, Annabeth, Meg, Will, etc etc. But the "main" hero is Percy. In my head, he would feel the pressure of being a hero emotional. Nearly everyone relies on him. If he shows any emotion that isn't positive, then he'll make the others worry. And they shouldn't worry. So, my silly little Percy Jackson headcanon is that he suppresses his emotions, which is why we don't see him crying nearly at all in the books- because he's blocking them out!! Because he's suppressing them!! Because if he's crying or showing negative emotions then he's going to make other people worried and they shouldn't worry, he's the hero!! Percy's just a silly guy who needs therapy.... (I really wish Rick explored Percy's and other character's trauma in the books besides Nico. These kids fought in wars against divine beings. That's traumatic, Rick!)

[traumatizeddfox]

i am left on the side of the road like road kill. waiting for the vultures to eat at my rotten flesh.

[cutelilrat]

am i a bad person or am i just traumatized?

[sadboyjacinter]

that one post thats like "uve tricked urself into liking urself through the fictional characters u love" hits different when u have an obsession with jean moreau and an assortment of severe trauma u dont wanna work through

[funeral]

The equivalent, in Heidegger’s philosophy, of the experience of selfhood is the understanding of one’s being, and for Heidegger the ontological ground for the meaning of one’s being is temporality. That is, it is the ecstatical unity of temporality that makes possible the coherence and meaningfulness of our existence. If Heidegger was right, then his ontological analysis helps us to grasp that trauma, in altering the structure of temporality, of necessity also disrupts one’s understanding of one’s being; it fractures one’s sense of unitary selfhood. I am suggesting that clinical features typically explained as dissociation and multiplicity can additionally be comprehended in terms of the impact of contexts of trauma in disorganizing and reorganizing one’s sense of being-in-time. 

Robert D. Stolorow, Trauma and Human Existence: Autobiographical, Psychoanalytic, and Philosophical Reflections 

[vox-anglosphere]

Our thoughts are with The Princess Royal, praying for a full recovery.

[michoodles]

I love this one and I wanted to try

Face reveal time

I love this half-blind baby bean and he deserves love

Talking about him, I would love to see in the future some interactions between Hoz and him, with the Father and Son dynamic

This Au and concept belongs to @tashacee go and read about his bean!

[lisaii]

Wenn ich von Liebe spreche,rede ich von Dir!

[xxrrisxx]

I was angry too, so fucking angry you wouldn’t believe it. But my anger is like carbon monoxide. It’s odorless, tasteless, colorless, and completely toxic but only to me.

Jessica Knoll

[cheynovak]

When we were young - Part 3 

Ben (Soldier Boy) Harrison x F/Reader Y/N             

Contains/warnings: 18+, implied smut, angst, fluff, hurt, trauma, time jump, going crazy, mental issues, drugs/ alcohol abuse, ...   

Side note: English isn’t my first language      

Words:  6300

 Last chapter

*Does not follow the boys storyline – first 2 chapters set in a time period where Ben was not yet a supe. Since we don’t know his last name, I came up with Harrison for this story.*   

-- 

Y/N is a young girl who works with her mother as a maid in the household of Mr. Harrison and his son Ben. Since Ben was mostly in boarding school and Y/N till this summer in a normal school, they got to know each other very well.  

One summer everything changed when Ben confessed his love for Y/N right before leaving for the war. Leaving her alone, when he comes back feels like he doesn’t deserve him, afraid what she would say now that she is ‘soldier boy’ a man with many flaws.  

But when he hears she died of heartache, he feels responsible, his grief and pain hunts him in a form he can’t ignore... Y/N.  

--  

1973 

Ben leaned heavily against the bar, the combination of alcohol and something far stronger coursing through his veins. The party was in full swing around him, the opulent ballroom filled with laughter, music, and the clinking of glasses.  

Women in glamorous dresses flocked around him, their eyes sparkling with the thrill of being near a living legend. He smirked, the familiar feeling of adoration washing over him, but tonight, it felt hollow.  

As he sipped his drink, a flash of movement caught his eye. He turned his head, scanning the crowd, and then he saw her. For a moment, he thought his mind was playing tricks on him.  

She stood in the shadows, her face partially obscured, but there was no mistaking it. It was Y/N, the woman he had lost so many years ago, looking exactly as she had in the 1940s.His heart pounded in his chest, a mix of hope and confusion.  

"No way," he muttered to himself. "She can't be..." He took a step forward, his focus narrowing solely on her. He was barely aware of the people around him, the music fading into the background.  

Each step felt like a mile, his breath hitching with each movement. She turned slightly, their eyes meet, and he was sure it was her. The same eyes, the same posture – it was impossible, and yet there she was.  

Just as he was about to reach her, a hand gripped his arm, pulling him back. He turned, his eyes wild, to find Crimson Countess standing there. Her expression supposed to be concern but felt cold.

"Ben, what are you doing?" she asked, her voice barely audible over the din of the party. "It's her" he mumbled, his voice rough. Crimson Countess shook her head gently. "Her? You've had a lot to drink, and God knows what else. You need to calm down, people are looking." 

He looked back over his shoulder, his heart sinking. The spot where Y/N had stood was now empty. "No," he breathed. "She was right there. I saw her." Countess tightened her grip on his arm. "Come on, Ben. Let's get you out of here. You're not going well on what you took tonight."  

Ben resisted, his eyes darting around the room, searching for any sign of her. But she was gone, as if she had never been there. The weight of the years pressed down on him, the alcohol and drugs no longer dulling the pain.  

The ache of loss and the cruel twist of fate left him feeling hollow. “Let's go," Countess said softly, guiding him away from the crowd. He allowed himself to be led, his mind spinning with what he had seen or thought he had seen.  

Y/N, was there. He was sure of it, he saw her. But now, as the party buzzed around him and Countess's steady presence kept him grounded, he couldn't help but wonder if it had all been a hallucination, a trick of his fractured mind.  

As they left the room, he cast one last look over his shoulder, hoping for another glimpse, another sign. But there was nothing. Only the memories of a love long gone, and the haunting image of a face from the past that refused to fade. 

-- 

1950 

Many years after the war ended, Ben finally returned home. The weight of his actions during the war hung heavily on him, and the thought of facing Y/N filled him with both hope and dread.  

He knew he had done things as Soldier Boy that made him afraid to return home. As he walked up the familiar path to his family's home, memories of Y/N flooded his mind. Her smile, her laughter, the way she had looked at him with such trust and love.  

He had promised to come back for her, and now he was finally here. Hoping she could forgive him. But the war had changed him, and he feared how she would see him now. He pushed open the front door, the creak of the hinges echoing in the empty cold hallway.  

His father emerged from the living room, the smell of alcohol preceding him. His face was red, eyes bloodshot, and there was an anger in his expression that Ben had grown used to but never fully accepted.  

"Well, look who's finally decided to come home," his father slurred, swaying slightly. "The big hero." Ben could see how much his father had aged and changed. "Dad, I..." Ben began, but his father cut him off.  

"Don't you 'Dad' me," he snapped. "You think you can just waltz back in here after what you've done? After leaving us all behind?" Ben swallowed hard, trying to keep his temper in check.  

"I came back to see Y/N..." His father's expression darkened, and he laughed bitterly. "Y/N? You came back for her? Well, you're pretty late, aren’t you boy!" Ben's heart skipped a beat. "What do you mean?" His father took a swig from the bottle he was holding and then pointed a shaking finger at Ben.  

"She waited for you. She waited and waited, hoping you'd come back. But you never did. And it broke her heart." A cold dread settled in Ben's stomach. "What... what do you mean?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.  

"She got ill short after realisation you never wanted her." his father said, his tone shifting from anger to a bitter resignation. "She got ill from missing you so much. I thought it was like her mother, but...” He stopped to change his sentence.  

“I found her one morning, in your room. On your bed. She was gone." He looked his son in his eyes, not even now he won’t show Ben any emotions. Ben felt like the ground had opened up beneath him.  

"No," he whispered, shaking his head. "No, that can't be true." His father nodded, "She was a fine woman. I asked her to marry me, you know. Thought I could give her a good life, take care of her. Give her stability.” 

“But she asked to wait for an answer until you were back home. Now I see she was just waiting for you to come back so she could run away." Ben stumbled back, the weight of his father's words crashing down on him.  

The image of Y/N, lying in his bed, waiting for him, crying, was too much to bear. He had waited to come home to her until he thought he was worthy, afraid to show her the addiction to drugs and alcohol, but knowing this... this was something else entirely.  

"I didn't know," he said, his voice cracking. "I didn't know she..." "Of course, you didn't," his father said, his tone harsh. "You were too busy being a hero, too busy to even write a letter... probably too busy covering yourself in cheap women.”  

He took another sip. “Well, now you know. And now you have to live with it." Ben turned and fled the house, the walls closing in on him. He ran down the street, the familiar sights of his hometown blurring as tears filled his eyes.  

He kept running until he reached the edge of town, where he collapsed on a grassy hill overlooking the fields he had once known so well. That night, the weight of his father's words still pressing heavily on his heart, Ben returned to the house.  

The quiet of the night offered a strange solace, the town asleep and unaware of the turmoil inside him. He moved silently, his steps barely a whisper on the old wooden floors. He had to see her room.  

He needed to feel close to her one last time, to understand her pain, and perhaps to find some fragment of the life she had lived while he was gone. He made his way to the back of the house, where her room had been.  

The door creaked as he pushed it open, and he stood there for a moment, letting the memories wash over him. The room was exactly as he remembered it, though dustier and more forlorn.  

He moved to her bed, the faint scent of her still lingered on the pillow, a bittersweet reminder of the woman he had lost. He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, trying to capture that last essence of her, to hold onto it like a lifeline. After a while, he sat up, his eyes scanning the room.  

A small trashcan in the corner caught his attention. He approached it and saw remnants of burned paper inside. Carefully, he sifted through the ashes, finding fragments of letters and notes, their edges singed and blackened.  

Among them, he recognized pieces of the book he had given her when they were kids. It had been a cherished gift, one they had read together countless times. His heart ached as he sifted through the remains, piecing together the love and memories they had shared. 

Then, at the bottom of the trashcan, he found something else a journal, its cover scorched but intact. He pulled it out, his hands trembling, and opened it. The diary was filled with Y/N's handwriting, pages upon pages of her thoughts, fears, and hopes. As he flipped through the pages.  

Tears streamed down his face as he read her words, her pain and love laid bare on the pages. She had never given up on him, even in her final moments. She had believed in him, loved him, and waited for him until she could wait no longer.  

Among the journal entries, he found one that stopped him cold. It was a letter she had written to him but had never sent. In it, she poured out her heart, telling him how much she loved him and how she had dreamed of the day he would come back.  

She spoke of her sorrow, her confusion, and her unwavering belief that he would return, on how his father had offered her stability in marriage but she rather have a life full of challenges with him. How she begged for him to write, at least letting her know he thought of her.  

He had to get out of there, to take these pieces of her with him. He couldn't leave her behind again. As he looked around the room one last time, he spotted something else, a robe draped over a chair. It was her robe, the one he had always joked about how ugly he thought it was.  

He remembered the way it had wrapped around her, somehow she could make it look beautiful. He took it, feeling the fabric between his fingers, the faint scent of her still clinging to it.  

With the journal and the robe in his arms, Ben slipped out of the house never to return again. 

-- 

1973

Ben woke up with the remnants of his dream or memory still lingering but now overshadowed by a strange, unsettling clarity. The room was dark, the only light coming from the dim glow of the city outside.  

He rubbed his eyes, trying to shake off the lingering haze of sleep, when he saw her again. Y/N was sitting in the corner of the room, her back to him, combing her hair in front of the mirror. The sight was so surreal, so impossibly real, that he felt his breath catch in his throat. 

He pushed himself up, elbows on his knees, staring at her. "Y/N?" he called out, his voice trembling. She didn't respond, just kept looking at him through the mirror, that enigmatic smile never wavering. Slowly, she put down the comb and turned to face him.  

He watched, mesmerized, as she walked across the room, her movements fluid and graceful. When she reached him, she didn't say a word. She climbed onto the bed, her weight sinking into the mattress beside him, and then onto his lap.  

Ben was mesmerised, his mind racing with disbelief and longing. "How?" he managed to say, his hands reaching out to touch her, to make sure she was real. His fingers brushed her cheek, her skin warm and soft beneath his touch.  

She remained silent, her eyes locked onto his, filled with a mixture of love and something he couldn't quite place. She raised a hand, gently touching his face, tracing the lines of his jaw and the rough stubble of his chin.  

"Y/N," he said again, his voice cracking. "I thought you were gone. How are you here?" Still, she didn't speak. Instead, she leaned in, pressing her forehead against his, her breath warm against his skin. He closed his eyes, the reality of her presence overwhelming him. The feel of her in his arms, the scent of her hair... it was all too real, too vivid to be a dream. 

For a moment, he let himself believe. He let himself be lost in the sensation of having her close, the years of pain and loss melting away. But as he opened his eyes, he saw something flicker in hers, something that reminded him of the fleeting glimpse he had caught at the party.  

"Are you... real?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. Her smile remained, but there was a sadness in her eyes, a sadness that spoke of truths he wasn't ready to face. She cupped his face in her hands, her touch tender and loving, and for a brief, heartbreaking moment, it felt like everything was right again.  

She leaned in and kissed him, her lips soft ambut cold against his. Ben felt a jolt of emotion course through him, a mix of longing, love, and sorrow. His hands moved instinctively to the small of her back, pulling her closer, deepening the kiss.  

The sensation of her, the taste and feel of her, was so achingly familiar and yet tinged with the surreal. But as their kiss lingered, he felt a shiver run through her, a subtle tremor that hinted at the impermanence of this moment.  

He pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against hers, their breaths mingling in the small space between them. "Y/N," he whispered, his voice filled with a mix of desperation and hope. "How is this possible? How are you here?" She looked into his eyes, her gaze filled with a depth of emotion that he could barely comprehend.  

Her fingers gently stroked his cheek, and for a moment, he thought he saw a tear glistening in the corner of her eye. As she pulled away, she rested her head on his shoulder, her arms wrapping around him in a tender embrace. He held her close, his eyes closed, savouring the feeling of her against him.  

"Please," he murmured, his voice breaking. "Don't leave me again." But as he blinked, she began to fade, her form dissolving into the darkness. He reached out, trying to hold onto her, but she slipped through his fingers like mist. "No, no, no," he murmured, panic rising in his chest. "Don't go." 

She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. Instead, she pressed another kiss to his lips, softer this time, more lingering before she vanished.  

-- 

Later that day, Ben felt like a shadow of himself, the memory of Y/N's visit haunting him. He couldn't shake the image of her sadness, the unspoken words lingering in the air. He needed to know what had happened to her, needed to understand how she could appear to him now.  

The questions gnawed at him, eating away at his already fragile state. Driven by a desperate need for answers, Ben stormed into Vought International, his presence causing a ripple of unease among the employees.  

He demanded to see someone who could help, his voice rough and insistent. He wasn't leaving without answers. Within moments, he was ushered into a conference room where an executive awaited him, flanked by a couple of assistants.  

The executive, a middle-aged man with greying hair and a stern expression, greeted Ben with a mix of respect and apprehension. "Soldier Boy," he began, "what can we do for you today?"  

Ben wasted no time with pleasantries. "I need you to look into someone. Her name was Y/N Y/L/N. All I know is that she died somewhere between 1945 and 1950. I need to know if that's true, and... where she is buried." The executive exchanged a glance with his assistants, then nodded.  

"We'll get our team on it immediately. It might take some time to gather the information, but we'll find out what we can." Ben's jaw tightened. "Make it fast. I can't wait."

Hours later, Ben's phone on the nightstand rang, jarring him from his thoughts.  

He picked it up, half-expecting another vague update. Instead, the executive's voice sounded more urgent. "Soldier Boy, we've uncovered something unexpected. There are no official records indicating that Y/N ever died."  

Ben froze, his grip tightening around the phone. "What do you mean? My father told me she died." "Your father might have believed that, but our investigation shows no death certificate, no funeral records, nothing." 

A mix of confusion and hope surged through him. He hung up to phone.  

From that moment on, Ben started to spiral. The encounter with Y/N had left him raw and vulnerable, unable to shake the feeling that he was being haunted by her memory. Payback, his team, began to notice the changes in him.  

They heard him talking to himself, having one-sided conversations that made little sense to them. His behaviour grew more erratic, his temper shorter. One night, the emptiness inside him became too much to bear.  

He found himself in a lavish hotel suite, the remnants of a wild party scattered around him. A few girls lay sprawled across his bed, asleep or too intoxicated to notice him leave the room. He sneaked into the bathroom, locking the door behind him.  

His reflection in the mirror was a stark reminder of how far he had fallen. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair dishevelled. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bag of cocaine.  

He poured some out onto the counter, forming neat lines with a credit card. He bent over, ready to numb the pain, to escape the haunting memories that plagued him. As he took a sniff, he felt a presence behind him.  

He looked up into the mirror and saw her. Y/N stood there, her expression a mix of sorrow and disappointment. "Is this the reason you didn't come home to me?" she asked, her voice soft but piercing. 

Ben froze, the mirror reflecting his horror. He turned slowly to face her, the bag of cocaine slipping from his fingers and scattering across the floor. "Y/N," he whispered, his voice choked with emotion. "I... I..." She stepped closer, her eyes never leaving his.  

"You promised you'd come back. You never came for me. Instead, you’re destroying yourself." Her words cut through him like a knife. "I did come back," he said, tears welling up in his eyes. "I looked for you. I tried..."  

She reached out, her touch cold and intangible, yet it sent a shiver down his spine. "You need to stop this, Ben. This isn't the boy I knew. This isn't who you promised to be." Ben sank to the floor, his back against the cold tile.  

"I don't know how to be that person anymore, it’s been so long." he admitted. Y/N knelt beside him, her gaze unwavering. He looked up at her, searching her eyes for the forgiveness he desperately needed.  

"I’m so sorry," he whispered. "You promised." She whispered with a sad smile. When he stood up, the bathroom was empty, and the cocaine was still scattered on the floor. A surge of anger boiled up inside him, a mix of frustration, guilt, and helplessness. He couldn't handle the whirlwind of emotions any longer.  

With a roar of rage, he swung his fist into the mirror, shattering it into a thousand pieces, only to fuel his fury. He stormed out of the bathroom, his eyes wild and unfocused.  

The girls on the bed woke up, startled by the noise. They saw Ben, his face contorted with anger, and panic set in. He started trashing the room, throwing furniture, tearing down curtains, and smashing anything within reach. The sound of breaking glass and splintering wood filled the air.  

"Get out!" he shouted, his voice a terrifying roar. "Get out, all of you!" The girls scrambled off the bed, fear etched on their faces. They grabbed their clothes, not daring to look back as they fled the room. The door slammed shut behind them, leaving Ben alone in the chaos he had created.  

He stood in the wreckage, his chest heaving, the adrenaline slowly ebbing away. The room was a disaster, a reflection of his inner turmoil. Broken glass and overturned furniture surrounded him, but the anger was starting to subside, leaving a hollow emptiness in its wake. Ben sank to the floor, burying his face in his hands.  

-- 

Ben kept seeing Y/N every now and then, mostly on moments or days he felt he had fucked up, even in Russia, in his dreams. The cold, sterile environment of his captivity was a constant reminder of his reality, but every time he closed his eyes, there she was.  

The hallucinations had become his only solace, a fleeting escape from the nightmare he was living. Today was no exception. As he drifted off, he found himself in a pitch-black room, the darkness punctuated only by the soft glow around Y/N.  

She sat on a bed, wearing the same nightgown she had worn the last night they spent together. The sight of her brought a pang of bittersweet nostalgia. He walked towards her, his eyes roaming her body, taking in every detail as if afraid she might vanish again.  

She rose gracefully, her movements slow and deliberate, and reached out to him. Her touch was cold, but familiar, a paradox he had come to accept.  

"Ben," she whispered, her voice like a soothing balm to his tormented soul. Without a word, she guided him towards the bed. He sat down, and she moved behind him, gently pulling him back until his head rested against her chest. Her hands stroked his hair, her touch tender and calming. "Why are you here?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. 

"Because you need me," she replied softly. "Don't you want me here?" He looked up at her. "Of course I do." The darkness a cocoon that held them in a moment outside of time. He could feel the rise and fall of her breath, the rhythm a comforting lullaby. The scent of her, faint and sweet, filled his senses. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice cracking.  

"I'm sorry for everything. I should have been there for you." She hushed him, her fingers tracing soothing patterns on his scalp. "I know." He closed his eyes, letting the warmth of her presence wash over him.  

The guilt and regret that had haunted him for so long seemed to dissolve, replaced by a profound sense of acceptance. For the first time in years, he felt a flicker of hope. "Stay with me," he pleaded, his voice filled with longing.  

"I'm always with you," she replied, her voice a soothing balm in the oppressive darkness. "Please," he whispered, his voice tinged with desperation. "Stay a little longer, just like this." She kissed the top of his head, her lips soft and reassuring. Her hands moved to his chest, her touch comforting. It was a sensation he had longed for, a connection he had been deprived of for so many years. Making him breath out a deep breath.  

He leaned into her, savouring every moment. His hand moved over her thigh beside him, the familiar feel of her skin grounding him in this surreal experience. He closed his eyes, focusing on the rhythm of her breathing, the gentle rise and fall that seemed to sync with his own.  

"I miss you," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "I know," she replied, her fingers tracing gentle circles on his chest. "You need to find your strength, Ben. You need to keep fighting." Her words, though a comfort, carried an urgency he couldn't ignore.  

He knew she was right, that he had to keep going, had to survive. But in this moment, he allowed himself to sink into the comfort of her presence, to feel the love they once shared. "Just a little longer," he pleaded, his hand tightening around her thigh.  

She sighed softly. "I'll stay as long as you need me, if you promise me to fight." Ben looked up at her, his eyes tracing every detail of her face, the curve of her lips, the softness of her gaze, the way her hair framed her face. It was as if he was seeing her for the first time all over again, every feature etched into his memory with painful clarity.  

"I promise," he said, his voice resolute. "I promise I'll fight." A small, sad smile touched her lips. "That's all I needed to hear." Her hands moved to his chest again, the warmth of her touch spreading through him like a balm.  

He felt his own hand move gently over her thigh beside him. Her fingers moved over his chest to his shoulders, it triggered something deep within him, a surge of emotions and desires he had buried for so long. Unable to hold back, he turned around to face her fully. 

"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice filled with a mix of surprise and curiosity. He gazed into her eyes, his own reflecting a determination that had been absent for years. "Something I should have done a long time ago," he replied, his voice thick with emotion.  

"I love you, Y/N" Before she could respond, he pulled her beneath him, capturing her lips in a deep, passionate kiss. It was a kiss filled with all the longing, regret, and love he had. But as the kiss deepened and the heat between them grew, he suddenly pulled back, breathing heavily.  

He laid back down beside her, resting his head on her chest, giving him a sense of peace he hadn't felt in years. Her presence, whether real or a figment of his imagination, was a comfort that eased the ache in his heart.  

As the dream began to dissolve, he felt her slipping away, her touch growing faint. He held onto the sensation as long as he could, etching it into his memory. "Remember," she whispered in his ear, her voice echoing in the void. "I'm always with you."  

He woke with a start, the cold, harsh reality of his cell closing in around him. But this time, he felt different. The lingering warmth of Y/N's touch and the echo of her words filled him with a renewed determination. He would survive this. He would find a way out. 

-- 

‘Present day’ 

Ben, Butcher, and Hughie walked purposefully towards Mindstorm's location, the tension palpable in the air. As they approached, Ben's senses sharpened, and he heard a faint whisper, causing him to stop abruptly.  "Ben..."

"What did you say?" Ben asked, his voice low and serious, his eyes scanning the surroundings. Butcher glanced at him, puzzled. "Nothing, mate. No one said anything," he replied gruffly, exchanging a glance with Hughie, who shook his head in confusion. Ben frowned but shook off the strange sensation, focusing on the task at hand.  

They reached Mindstorm's hideout, and Hughie swiftly executed the plan to transport him out. In the midst of the chaos, but his plan didn’t work out.  

Ben acted with deadly precision, throwing a knife that found its mark in Mindstorm's eye. As Mindstorm lay incapacitated, Ben approached him, his features hardened with resolve. He pulled a bag over Mindstorm's head and knelt beside him, his voice low and menacing. 

"Who gave you the order?" Ben demanded, his tone laced with barely restrained anger. Mindstorm whimpered, blood oozing from his injured eye. "Please, don't kill me. I'll tell you about her...," he pleaded, his voice trembling.  

Mindstorm swallowed hard. "She's alive... Y/N" he gasped. "Vought found her in the '70s, after you asked them to find her. They... they kept her. She's a supe now." Ben's heart pounded in his chest, conflicting emotions swirling within him, hope, disbelief, anger.  

"You're lying," he growled, but a flicker of doubt clouded his mind. "I swear, she's alive," Mindstorm insisted, desperation colouring his words. "I can tell you where to find her." Ben hesitated, his mind grappling with conflicting emotions as Mindstorm pleaded for his life and claimed Y/N's existence.  

Despite his scepticism, a glimmer of hope flickered within him, a chance, however small, that she might truly be alive. "Tell me," Ben demanded, his voice strained with both desperation and suspicion. "Tell me everything you know about her."  

Mindstorm, sensing the gravity of the moment, began to speak, his words shaky but earnest. He recounted how Vought had discovered Y/N in the 1970s, how they had kept her hidden away, experimenting on her until her powers emerged stronger. He described her as a formidable supe now, with abilities beyond comprehension.  

Ben listened intently, each word piercing through the layers of doubt that clouded his mind. A surge of conflicting emotions washed over him, relief, anger, betrayal. His fists clenched, and without warning, he lashed out, hitting Mindstorm's shielded face over and over again. 

"You bastard," Ben growled between each strike, his rage unleashed. "You kept her from me. You let me believe she was dead." Mindstorm cried out in pain, the sound muffled by the shield, but Ben's onslaught didn't cease. Each blow was fuelled by years of grief, of searching in vain, of the agony of loss. 

He stood there, the aftermath of his actions weighing heavily on his conscience. The lifeless body of Mindstorm lay at his feet, a stark reminder of the darkness he had succumbed to in his quest for answers. As he stared down at the scene before him, a voice cut through the silence.  

"Really, Ben? Was that necessary?" The voice was achingly familiar, and Ben's heart skipped a beat. Slowly, he turned around, his eyes meeting hers, Y/N's. She stood a few feet away, her expression a mix of concern and disbelief. 

He walked away past Butcher and Hughie. Y/N followed him, once the men couldn't hear him. "Ben," she said softly, her voice filled with a mixture of emotions he couldn't quite decipher. "What happened here?" Ben tore his gaze away from her, his jaw tight with conflicting emotions.  

"I... had to," he muttered, struggling to find the right words. "He knew something... about you." Y/N's eyes widened slightly, her hand reaching out tentatively towards him. "Ben, what are you talking about? Who was he?" He shook his head, unable to meet her gaze. "It doesn't matter now," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.  

"What matters is finding you." 

---

Ben found out Y/N didn't die, his father lied, He had thrown our of his house after she didn't accept his marriage proposition. When on the street she volunteered for another one of vought supe trails.

After what seemed a failure, she discovered her power only years later. Her mind started to work in mysterious ways. She started to hear people's thoughts, move objects with her mind and if she concentrated long and hard enough she could project her mind into other spaces or peoples memories.

In the 1970s vought found her and captured her, after numerous trails and tests they considered her even more powerful than mindstorm, he was asked to help with the tests on her. But even he couldn't get a look inside her mind, losing his shit when she started to play tricks on him instead.

To keep her under control they decided to keep her locked up and in a coma, but even unconsciously she found a way back to Ben.

Ben eventually found her, in a cell beneath Godolkin University. Even though he busted her out she had been in and out the coma for the past few days. She didn't contacted him anymore since then.

Until

--

The bright light hurts my eyes when I woke up. As I tried to focus on my surroundings I saw a figuer hovering over me. A vague sound ringing in my ear. After a few seconds his face became clear.

There he was... Ben. His green eyes haven't changed a bit. His face was framed with a beard I, he looked mature, nothing like the young boy that left for the war. No, Ben had changed into a handsom man. I couldn't help but to smile when I saw him.

Even though he caused me a lot of pain I was glad he finally found me. Like I had been trying to do for the last few decades. My hand instinctively grabs his cheek, to make sure my head wasn't playing tricks on me. "Hi sweetheart." He whispered. "Hi." is mouthed.

He helped me up, I was still a little wobbly on my legs. No idea how long they kept me a sleep. I looked outside, seeing how the world had changed, I felt scared, unsure and worried. But it all disappeared the second I felt his strong arms around my waist.

With his chin softly on my shoulder he whispered "You'll get used to it. I takes time." The corner of my lip lifted softly. I looked over at him, and before I could ask him he spoke. "I did came back, too late, but I didn't forget about you." Tears welled up in my eyes.

"You should know." He continued. "I haven't been the man you wanted me to be... I made mistakes, a lot of mistakes. I fought, cheated, even murdered..." He took a deep breath. My arm moved back so my fingers could finds its way to his long hair. "I know." I said softly.

I saw his confused look. "I was there, you couldn't always see me. But I saw Ben." I looked at him, a single tear rolled down my cheek. "I didn't know... didn't know you were still alive." He said his thumb moved over my face. "It's ok, I forgive you... for anything you want me to. And I'm here now."

He smiled softly "Do you... Do you still want me?" I let out a soft giggle and turned fully around to face him. My hands helds his face before moving back over to his hair. "Ben, you read my journal, I saw it." His cheeks turned a shade of pink. "What part of, I'll always love him, don't you understand?"

My hands moved from his hair to his neck, pulling him closer, finally tasting his perfect lips again, desperately holding back a soft moan. He smiled when we broke apart. "So, what now?" I locked my eyes with his. "Now I want to do, what I wanted to do for a very, very long time."

"And that is?" He asked with a mischievous smile. I close the space between us, but didn't quite kiss him yet. "I want to make love to you and fall asleep in your arms, every night, from now on."

--

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[bloody-bee-tea]

June of (minimal) Doom 2024 Day 25 - I should have listened to you

Ever since the mess with Toji, Satoru keeps a close eye on Suguru. It’s mutual, though, so that’s why Satoru doesn’t feel too bad about almost throwing a fit the one time Yaga tried to separate them.

Suguru had already called upon a curse by the time Satoru raised his hand to use Red and Yaga had quickly backtracked.

From then on Satoru and Suguru stayed together almost all the time and so the one time Satoru is going to willingly part from Suguru’s side it makes him more nervous than anything. And not even because of Suguru’s reaction to it, but because of his own.

Satoru has to go check out the kid Toji talked about because the thought has been nagging at him since Toji mentioned it but he doesn’t want to take Suguru with him.

Suguru has been short-tempered and volatile since the incident and every time Toji is so much as mentioned he’s close to losing it completely. Satoru understands of course—hasn’t been much better once he learned how Suguru was hurt, once he saw the scars still carved into his flesh—but he still needs to see the kid.

“I need to leave for an hour,” Satoru tells him one afternoon, Suguru’s head pillowed in his lap and carding his fingers through the long strands.

Suguru immediately tenses.

“Why?”

“I have to go check something out,” Satoru says, vaguely, because bringing up Toji is only going to upset them both.

It took Satoru three weeks to muster up the courage to even think about going to visit Toji’s son and so he can only imagine what springing this on Suguru will do to him.

“Then take me,” Suguru simply says and in all honesty, with everything else it would be that easy. Satoru wouldn’t even think twice about it, because of course he would take Suguru with him, but not with this.

“I can’t,” Satoru admits and Suguru finally opens his eyes.

He stares up at Satoru for a long moment and Satoru isn’t sure when they became able to practically read the other’s mind but it takes Suguru less than a minute to figure it out.

“It’s about him.”

It’s not even a question and despite the lack of a name Satoru of course knows who Suguru means. Neither of them have yet managed to say his name out loud so there only is one person Suguru can be talking about in the first place.

“Yes.”

“What is it?” Suguru asks, reaching up to take Satoru’s hand in his.

Satoru hasn’t realised that he stopped his motion and he certainly hadn’t realised that he’s shaking, not until Suguru threads their fingers together.

“He said—there’s a child,” Satoru offers after a moment, and he clings to Suguru in an attempt not to shake apart.

He doesn’t want to be responsible for any child, doesn’t even know why Toji mentioned it to him when he caused them nothing but grief, but he still can’t stop thinking about it. Satoru has to see, if only just once.

He never promised to take care of the kid, anyway.

“His?”

“Yeah,” Satoru nods and Suguru’s face clouds over.

“I don’t want you to go,” Suguru simply says and Satoru lets out a sharp laugh.

“I don’t want to go, either,” he admits, leaning forward and hunching in on himself until he can rest their foreheads together.

It puts him into an unnatural position, make his body protest in pain, but Satoru is not about to move away. Not when Suguru’s presence gives him so much comfort.

“Then don’t,” Suguru whispers, though just by the tone Satoru knows that Suguru knows it’s futile.

“I can’t,” Satoru gets out and Suguru hums.

“That’s what’s been on your mind,” he guesses and Satoru huffs because of course Suguru had noticed.

It’s not as if Satoru can keep a secret from him anymore. The only positive thing about that is that it’s mutual; Suguru is just as unable to keep a secret from him, too.

“Yeah. I can’t stop thinking about it. He said he’s going to be sold to the Zenins in three years. I just—”

“You just have to see,” Suguru finishes for him and pushes Satoru away so he can sit up.

Satoru makes a distressed sound because if just thinking about going to see the kid makes Suguru push him away then he’d rather die than ever do it, but not even a second later Suguru pulls him into his arms.

“I can come,” Suguru offers once Satoru melted into his arms and immediately Satoru tenses.

“No. Don’t.” Suguru has been short-tempered whenever Toji comes up, losing control of his technique whenever the man’s name is being mentioned and even though Satoru isn’t much better, he had weeks to prepare himself for this, to hype himself up.

Satoru just sprung that on Suguru and there’s no way he’s going to take him with him. Not when Suguru is slowly, so slowly, starting to get better.

“You don’t trust me?” Suguru asks, his voice quiet and Satoru moves away just enough to be able to look him in the face.

“I don’t want you to hurt,” he simply says, and Suguru’s lips twitch up in a smile.

“And who is going to make sure you don’t hurt?” he shoots back and Satoru smiles in return.

“You, when I come back,” he easily gives back because Suguru will be there for him once he returns, Satoru doesn’t even have to question that.

“Okay, fair,” Suguru sighs out and pushes his hand through Satoru’s hair “Just—don’t level the neighbourhood when you see the kid,” he says, like a hypocrite, because it’s not as if Suguru could promise that if he were to go.

“Keep your eyes on the news,” Satoru cheekily says, though he knows he won’t do it.

If only because if he did, he’d get in trouble with Yaga and thanks to their display a few weeks earlier he damn well knows that the most efficient way to punish one of them is to keep them apart.

“Just come back soon,” Suguru mutters, tugging on a strand of his hair and Satoru melts back into him.

“I will. I’ll just peek at him and then I’ll be back,” Satoru promises and feels Suguru nod.

“’kay. I’ll be here.”

“I know,” Satoru whispers because that is the only reason he even seriously considers doing this. Because he knows Suguru will be there when he comes back.

~*~*~

“Do not ever go to see that kid,” Satoru gasps out when he teleports into Suguru’s room, stumbling over his own feet in his haste to get to Suguru.

“Satoru?” Suguru asks, clearly worried as Satoru falls into him.

“Don’t ever go, not ever, Suguru, do you hear me? It’s—he’s—” Satoru can’t finish his sentence, too busy remembering the same eyes looking at him, with the same disinterest Toji held for them and he shudders.

“Okay,” Suguru reassuringly says and pulls Satoru close. “Okay, I won’t.”

He doesn’t even ask why, doesn’t ask Satoru to explain and Satoru is grateful for it. He doesn’t want to speak about this ever again and he wonders why he ever thought it was a good idea to go there in the first place.

Of course the bastard would have a kid that looks just like him.

There’s no way Satoru is ever going to see the child again.

~*~*~

Satoru is panicking. Suguru has been gone for almost two hours, without prior notice, without telling Satoru where he is going or why or asking him to come along and Satoru is going to go out of his fucking mind.

He tries to call Suguru again—for the fortieth time now—but just like every other time he’s only met with endless ringing.

Suguru is not picking up, Suguru is not talking to him, Suguru is not here and Satoru can’t breathe.

He can’t breathe and he can’t think and Suguru is not there and Satoru feels as if he’s going to lose it any second now.

If Suguru is not there then it doesn’t matter if he Hollow Purples the school, if he kills everyone there, because Suguru is not there to care either.

Satoru’s next breath sounds more like a sob and it almost makes him miss the ringing of his own phone.

He instantly feels like jelly when he sees Suguru’s name light up on the screen and he accepts the call instantly, almost breaking his phone in the process.

“You can’t leave me,” is the first thing out of Satoru’s mouth because that is the important part, that is what he needs to get out there, what he needs Suguru to understand.

“I’m not,” Suguru soothingly replies, though he sounds stressed himself. There’s something to his voice that sets Satoru on edge.

“Where are you? What is going on?”

“I should have listened to you,” Suguru says instead of answering Satoru’s questions and Satoru is too surprised to move.

“What’s going on?” he asks again, pressing the phone to his ear and Suguru sighs.

“I went to see the kid,” Suguru admits and Satoru’s gaze reflexively falls on the TV as if it could tell him just how big the damage is even though it’s not even on.

“How did it go?” Satoru asks, wondering if he’ll have enough time to get to Suguru before the school does. “Are you still there?”

Satoru can teleport to him if he knows where Suguru is. Long-distance teleportation is hard, but as long as he has Suguru to teleport to he can do it.

“I’m on my way back. Satoru—he looks just like him,” Suguru whispers and Satoru can only imagine the pained look on his face.

“I know,” Satoru mutters back. “The eyes—”

“It’s the same fucking look. The hair’s different though.”

That makes Satoru snort out a laugh because the hair makes him look like a spiky sea-urchin.

“True.”

There’s a brief silence on the phone before Suguru speaks again.

“There’s a sister.”

“What?” Satoru breathes out because he hasn’t seen another kid there.

“Bit older than Megumi is. Maybe twelve? The mom’s out of the picture, too, Tsumiki said.”

“Tsumiki?” Satoru asks, his head spinning because what is even going on? “I need you to come back, I can’t think when you’re not here,” Satoru admits and Suguru laughs.

It should grate, maybe, but it only soothes Satoru’s nerves.

“I can’t think without you either, which is why I brought them both,” he admits and now that makes Satoru freeze.

“You did what?”

“I—have them here with me. I’m on the train, I’ll be back in a bit, but—I don’t know. I couldn’t just leave them there, Satoru,” Suguru says, his voice quiet and with clear apprehension as if he’s afraid of what Satoru will say to that.

Satoru opens and closes his mouth a few times, but no words come out and then, embarrassingly, tears fill his eyes.

“That’s such a you thing to do,” he chokes out and closes his eyes against the burning.

Suguru has been cold and stand-offish with everyone but Satoru since this entire mess happened and to hear that he simply took these kids because he felt bad leaving them behind—it almost feels as if the Suguru from before is back.

The one who cared too much, whose heart was just a little bit too soft for this world and Satoru wants to thank the heavens that something was able to get through to Suguru, even if it had to be the kid of the guy who broke everything in the first place.

“You’re not mad?” Suguru wants to know and Satoru remembers his own reaction to seeing the kid for the first time, but being mad is the furthest thing from his mind right now.

“I love you,” he blurts out like the idiot he is and of course there’s only silence on the other end of the line.

It only takes a few seconds though, before Suguru’s laugh reaches him and even though it should sting, it only makes Satoru feel warm.

He made Suguru laugh.

“I love you, too,” Suguru softly gives back and Satoru no longer knows what’s going on. “I wouldn’t be here without you anymore. I would have—I don’t know. Snapped probably,” Suguru admits and Satoru knows exactly what he’s talking about because he feels the same. “But you keep me tethered. You keep me sane and whole.”

“Yeah, same,” Satoru chokes out because this is big and scary and Suguru is still not here, the tension of the separation thrumming under Satoru’s skin. “When will you be back?”

“Don’t know. Another twenty minutes maybe?” he guesses and that’s too long, that’s too fucking long, Satoru despairingly thinks, the itch of missing Suguru getting more painful with every minute. “You could be here faster, though.”

“Huh?”

“Just teleport here,” Suguru says as if it’s that easy and Satoru scoffs.

“You’re too far and on the train. I can’t teleport to moving objects,” he breathes out and Suguru laughs.

“Of course you can. You can do anything. Just come to me, Satoru, come here.”

Really, Satoru should say no, because he can’t, he’s never done this before and he’s not good at pinpointing his destination anyway, but Suguru is asking him to, is telling him he has faith in him and really. What is Satoru supposed to do other than take a deep breath and then let Suguru’s cursed energy guide him?

“I knew you could,” Suguru smugly says, his voice layering over each other because he’s right there in front of him but Satoru is also still clutching his phone to his ear.

“You’re insane,” is what Satoru manages to get out as he steps close and buries his face in Suguru’s shoulder.

He has missed him.

“And you’re amazing,” Suguru says, bringing his arms up around him and even though they are in the middle of the train and the kids are supposedly somewhere close, Satoru couldn’t care less.

Suguru is there, Suguru is there, and nothing else matters to Satoru.

[voidic3ntity]

my mind cannot process that which has recently surfaced in me.

[nonaltercdd]

Can we talk how hard is living with flashbacks?

Flashbacks are one of the main symptoms you'll have as a pwCDD

This are a dissociative maladaptive response to trauma, trauma that's necessary to have this disorder, so I can't understand why this is less talk about the disorder but something like pseudomemories have more attention, I don't get it ???

Flashbacks can happen for many reasons, sometimes you can get the randomly, sometimes because you're in a PTSD episode, sometimes they show up in a dream, sometimes it's because something triggered you... Flashbacks can happen at any time, for almost any reason, and you can't control it because that's just how the brain works and reacts to the fucking trauma

It's so tiring to have this kind of flashbacks because they're so vivid, so real, so... So many things that gets you overwhelmed and you don't know what to do, sometimes this flashbacks end up eating you alive because you can't get out of it

Or when you're with people, flashbacks and the dissociative reactions that get with trauma get worse, imagine you're with people you care but suddenly you don't see them or maybe your reality seems distorted and you see your love ones as your abusers, you know how terrifying and dangerous for them and you this can be?

Flashbacks not only can happen for many reasons, it can feel different, not even the same person would have the same kind of flashbacks

Each kind of flashback is unique and different, they all share some similarities of course, that's what makes you understand they're flashbacks and not some other symptom of CDDs, but they feel different, they present different

Sometimes we aren't even sure if we're in a flashback episode or not because how diferente they might feel, it's so horribly heavy and scary that we don't tend to racionalize, just dissociate in a scary manner...

For being a prevalent trauma dissociative response symptom, I think flashbacks aren't talk about enough

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Hannah Critchlow

Mon 17 Jun 2024

Since the sequencing of the human genome in 2003, genetics has become one of the key frameworks for how we all think about ourselves. From fretting about our health to debating how schools can accommodate non-neurotypical pupils, we reach for the idea that genes deliver answers to intimate questions about people’s outcomes and identities.

Recent research backs this up, showing that complex traits such as temperament, longevity, resilience to mental ill-health and even ideological leanings are all, to some extent, “hardwired”. Environment matters too for these qualities, of course. Our education and life experiences interact with genetic factors to create a fantastically complex matrix of influence.

But what if the question of genetic inheritance were even more nuanced? What if the old polarised debate about the competing influences of nature and nurture was due a 21st-century upgrade?

Scientists working in the emerging field of epigenetics have discovered the mechanism that allows lived experience and acquired knowledge to be passed on within one generation, by altering the shape of a particular gene. This means that an individual’s life experience doesn’t die with them but endures in genetic form. The impact of the starvation your Dutch grandmother suffered during the second world war, for example, or the trauma inflicted on your grandfather when he fled his home as a refugee, might go on to shape your parents’ brains, their behaviours and eventually yours.

Much of the early epigenetic work was performed in model organisms, including mice. My favourite study is one that left the neuroscience community reeling when it was published in Nature Neuroscience, in 2014. Carried out by Prof Kerry Ressler at Emory University, Georgia, the study’s findings neatly dissect the way in which a person’s behaviours are affected by ancestral experience.

The study made use of mice’s love of cherries. Typically, when a waft of sweet cherry scent reaches a mouse’s nose, a signal is sent to the nucleus accumbens, causing this pleasure zone to light up and motivate the mouse to scurry around in search of the treat. The scientists exposed a group of mice first to a cherry-like smell and then immediately to a mild electric shock. The mice quickly learned to freeze in anticipation every time they smelled cherries. They had pups, and their pups were left to lead happy lives without electric shocks, though with no access to cherries. The pups grew up and had offspring of their own.

At this point, the scientists took up the experiment again. Could the acquired association of a shock with the sweet smell possibly have been transmitted to the third generation? It had. The grandpups were highly fearful of and more sensitive to the smell of cherries. How had this happened? The team discovered that the DNA in the grandfather mouse’s sperm had changed shape. This in turn changed the way the neuronal circuit was laid down in his pups and their pups, rerouting some nerve cells from the nose away from the pleasure and reward circuits and connecting them to the amygdala, which is involved in fear. The gene for this olfactory receptor had been demethylated (chemically tagged), so that the circuits for detecting it were enhanced. Through a combination of these changes, the traumatic memories cascaded across generations to ensure the pups would acquire the hard-won wisdom that cherries might smell delicious, but were bad news.

The study’s authors wanted to rule out the possibility that learning by imitation might have played a part. So they took some of the mice’s descendants and fostered them out. They also took the sperm from the original traumatised mice, used IVF to conceive more pups and raised them away from their biological parents. The fostered pups and those that had been conceived via IVF still had increased sensitivity and different neural circuitry for the perception of that particular scent. Just to clinch things, pups of mice that had not experienced the traumatic linking of cherries with shocks did not show these changes even if they were fostered by parents who had.

The most exciting thing of all occurred when the researchers set out to investigate whether this effect could be reversed so that the mice could heal and other descendants be spared this biological trauma. They took the grandparents and re-exposed them to the smell, this time without any accompanying shocks. After a certain amount of repetition of the pain-free experience, the mice stopped being afraid of the smell. Anatomically, their neural circuits reverted to their original format. Crucially, the traumatic memory was no longer passed on in the behaviour and brain structure of new generations.

Could the same thing hold true for humans? Studies on Holocaust survivors and their children carried out in 2020 by Prof Rachel Yehuda at the Icahn School of Medicine at Mount Sinai Medical School, New York, revealed that the effects of parental trauma can indeed be passed on in this way. Her first study showed that participants carried changes to a gene linked to levels of cortisol, which is involved in the stress response. In 2021, Yehuda and her team carried out more work to find expression changes in genes linked to immune-system function. These changes weaken the barrier of white blood cells, which allows the immune system to get improperly involved in the central nervous system. This interference has been linked to depression, anxiety, psychosis and autism. Since then, Ressler and Yehuda have collaborated, with others, to reveal epigenetic tags in PTSD afflicted war zone-exposed combatants. They are hoping this information could aid PTSD diagnosis or even pre-emptively screen for individuals who might be more prone to developing the condition before they enter the battlefield.

In all times and across all cultures, people have paid their dues to their ancestors and pondered the legacy they will leave for their descendants. Few of us believe any more that biology is necessarily destiny or that our bloodline determines who we are. And yet, the more we learn about how our body and mind work together to shape our experience, the more we can see that our life story is woven into our biology. It’s not just our body that keeps the score but our very genes.

Might this new understanding increase our capacity for self-awareness and empathy? If we can grasp the potential impact of our ancestors’ experiences on our own behaviour, might we be more understanding of others, who are also carrying the inherited weight of experience?

We are, as far as we know, the only animals capable of “cathedral thinking”, working on projects over many generations for the benefit of those who come after. It’s an idealistic way to think about legacy, but without it we will struggle to tackle complex multigenerational challenges such as the climate and ecological emergencies. Our knowledge of epigenetics and its potential to massively speed up evolutionary adaptation could support us to do everything we can to be the ancestors our descendants need. Conflict, neglect and trauma induce unpredictable and far-reaching changes. But so do trust, curiosity and compassion. Doing the right thing today could indeed cascade across generations.

[achaoticeternal]

criston cole, they could never make me like you