#a healthy dose of trauma

[fistfuloflightning]

Shen Qingqiu had not expected this mission to be overly hard, even with Qi-shijie breathing down his neck and his shizun’s expectations hanging over his head like a sword. In fact it was intended to be simple reconnaissance for information. But the moment they stepped into the thriving black market in Hongmen City, he felt unease. He pulled the veil of his weimao closer around him, and Qi Qingqi did the same next to him as they pushed through the crowd of similarly masked patrons to find a suitable place to observe. It was tradition to go about hidden for auctions such as this, and Shen Qingqiu was grateful for the anonymity it provided.

The auction house was large and near gaudy in its ornamentation. It was like it was painting a target on itself. Hiding in plain sight, as it were. Because on the surface it offered stolen artifacts and scrolls of forbidden techniques and cultivation tools only for those with money and the ruthlessness to use it. But beneath the veneer ran the true lifeblood of the auction house.

Cauldron trafficking.

Cang Qiong had received rumors and reports as far back as a year prior of vanishings and the selling of humans, and only now had they been able to pinpoint a location. Shen Qingqiu wondered at the incompetence, considering how the auction house was hiding in plain sight.

Sitting at a third story railing and looking down at the center stage, Shen Qingqiu let his senses wander. From the waiter placing tea at their table, to a trio of black-veiled scholars conversing two pillars over, to the low rumble of talk beneath the chime and clatter of anticipation. And when the last of the items were sold off and the presenter beckoned forward a young woman bound in chains, Shen Qingqiu knew the only way he could remain impartial was to turn his attention resolutely away from the stage below.

But he could not block the words, of humans being sold off like chattel. He knew what it felt like to stand beneath cruel evaluating eyes, to know you life meant little to the rest of the world and that your death would just as unremarkable.

He downed near an entire pot of tea before he could force himself to look back down.

The next exhibit. A young man, high qi levels, only two former owners, lightly used.

Lightly used. His hand tightened into a bloodless fist, hidden by his sleeves. He was no longer a slave, he reminded himself, all of his former owners were dead. He was here for the express purpose of destroying this kind of slavery. Like all the cauldrons shown before, the current exhibit had been stripped nearly naked to show off his physical features. Young, slender, with soft brown hair that had been left unattended and lay limp down his back. Something about the young man’s defeated posture dredged up memories for Shen Qingqiu and he looked away. “Surely this is enough to report back,” he hissed to his senior sister, who had been observing the people around them.

“We must wait until the end. And I need to figure out at least two of the major buyers. Xian Xu Peak would be able to trace the buyers and discover just how far the trafficking ring extended.

Below them, the cauldron was forced to walk about. His posture was that of a long-term slave beaten into submission, but the way his gaze flicked up spoke of defiance. For a fraction of a second, those eyes met his—a clear honey brown that haunted his memories even now.

Shen Yuan.

He nearly jerked up out of his seat. But only the fear of his presence blowing their cover kept him in place. If he revealed their identities now, Shen Yuan would be whisked away and he would never find him again.

After he’d killed Wu Yanzi, he’d relied on the connections he made while under the cultivator’s ‘tutelage’, and the brothel workers he’d begged food scraps from, while We Yanzi had wasted their precious coin on pleasure, had welcomed him. One such brothel had been home to a courtesan and her son, with whom Shen Jiu had grown attached. He hadn’t stayed there long, long enough to fall for a sharp tongue and pretty eyes.

He had given him the same promise Qi’ge had. And had failed him in the same way, returning too late to the brothel to free him from the contract he shared with his mother, because his mother was dead and Shen Yuan already sold off.

And now Shen Qingqiu knew where he was all these years. Being forced to dual cultivate and give up his own qi to others far more greedy and undeserving. He felt violently ill.

He couldn’t bid. He would not descend the levels of those around them… and he had no money. But that didn’t stop him from reaching into a sleeve to feel for his purse.

“Something caught your eye?” Qi Qingqi’s disgust was palpable. He knew she believed the rumors about him, about the brothels and the bought favors.

Only for him to come back to himself in time to see Shen Yuan dragged off the platform – auctioned off quickly, he realized with cold dread, but who had bought him? Using the weimao as a shield, Shen Qingqiu scanned those around them. But none looked to have made any sign.

“I—I must go.” Before it was too late. Qi Qingqi hissed after him, but he was deaf and blind to her fury. He no longer cared if he blew their cover, Qi-Shijie would do her job without him no matter what. No, the only thing he cared about was finding Shen Yuan and fulfilling that broken promise.

also on ao3

[thegreatyin]

the world's least normal trio of ambition protagonists

[lilacthebooklover]

redesigned my pure vanilla pen & i think it's really tormentcore, he's finally reached the stage of asking people for help <33

[sheyri]

I couldn't help it

[fyrewalks]

meta: bob + broken glasses

one.

bob is ten the first time someone breaks his glasses. it happens two weeks after his bubbe returns home to new jersey; two weeks since his mom has been out of bed or off the couch longer than a few hours. nearly three months since his dad's latest deployment and six since his older sister, stevie, died.

it happens on the playground, easy to assume it's some childish skirmish over a swing set - bob's shy even then, made worse by his grief, and prefers to stick to the outskirts and swings during outdoor play at day-camp. (summer day-camp instead of montana, instead of his mom accepting the good natured teasing about her being a city girl or the not so quiet arguments between his grandma and dad about who will take the floyd ranch someday.) none of the counselors hear the taunts. bob doesn't repeat them. the kids accuse him of being different; he assumes they're saying it because of his dead sister. (he won't realize the kind of different they mean for a few years.)

he hides his broken glasses in the back of one of his drawers. his mom doesn't notice, his dad's calls home are too infrequent, gracie's six and easy to distract. it's not till a few weeks of meal trains and hushed discussions about his mom and doctor's appointments among the aunties who come over to watch them that anyone notices he's supposed to be wearing them at all.

two.

the second time it happens, bob is a few months shy of fifteen, all awkward limbs and little self-confidence. it's his second cross-country meet and he doesn't want to be there. the floyds are back in virginia - after three different middle schools, there's only a few vaguely familiar faces here and none of them are on the team. it leaves bob feeling more out of place.

he came out as summer ended on a friday night, a rare shabbat dinner that's just gracie and their parents instead of the eclectic mix of friends from their synagogue and whoever on base that wants, or needs, a place to be on a friday night. his mom cries, though she tries not too, while it's his dad whose the first to hug him and reassure bob he's loved no matter what. he knows his parents talk about it later, that they confide in each other their fears about his future, but they brave his confession with watery smiles and the promise everything will be okay.

he doesn't come out at school. it's less a definitive choice and more that he doesn't need to. other kids simply just know. bob isn't sure what gives him away - if it's his slouchy posture, his voice, or something else entirely. most leave it alone, but there are taunts and curses in between classes; he's shoved into a locker, once. bob doesn't like it, but considers it tame. he's bounced between montana, virginia, and florida his entire life, usually living in the shadows of navy bases. he isn't ignorant. (new jersey, at least, only carries the weight of his dead sister.)

it's tame until it's not. until his second cross-country meet. bob's in the middle stretch, pace decent enough to keep up with some of the older kids, and he's actually starting to enjoy himself. and then there's a hand on his back and he's crashing to the ground, literally tasting dirt. bile rises in his throat as he watches his glasses get stomped on deliberately, he can't unhear the accompanying slur.

he makes it to the finish line with a limp, mud on his face, and broken glasses. when his mom fusses over him later, bob blames it on being clumsy. no sense in making her worry; he doesn't like it when she cries.

three.

bob's sixteen with a long summer of open blue sky awaiting him. he skips dinner with his grandma up at the big house in favor of the bunk house with the ranch hands hired for the season. someone hands him a beer with a wink and a sly 'don't tell your grandma'; it doesn't taste great, but after a day of fixing fences, he likes that it's ice cold. he likes that he belongs, he likes that he can imagine his dad at this age too - it's the first time he feels like a man.

most of the ranch hands know him, they've seen him grow up in bits in pieces. they finish dinner and bob's content to listen to the way conversation flows and settles around him until they drag him into it too. does he like school, what's florida like, how are his folks and sister back home. then - you kissing any girls, yet?

bob answers honestly, he hasn't kissed anyone. at first, he doesn't mind the laughter, but it turns bitter in the mouth of one of the new ranch hands. there's something ugly in his eyes.

a chair scrapes back and adrenaline blurs it all together. there's shouting and fists and someone pulling him out of the way. trying to retreat, bob catches an elbow in the face and his glasses end up under someone's boot.

the unmistakable sound of his grandma's shotgun ends the skirmish. his grandma stays behind to deal with the mess while an older ranch hand gets him fixed up in the big house. later, when bob still can't sleep, his grandma sits on the edge of his bed with a sigh. it's too dark to read her expression. she tells him that his dad will take it better coming from him rather than her and that if he wants to drink in her house, he better never get drunk or stupid; he can't throw a punch worth a damn.

four.

he's eighteen, and his mom won't stop crying. there shouldn't be tears, not with bob's new diploma and a mit acceptance letter pinned proudly to the fridge. at least, there shouldn't be so many tears; it is a bittersweet occasion, an unavoidable reminder of the dead sister forever frozen at fourteen.

grief isn't the reason for the tears, though. no, the real reason is the neat stack of paperwork tucked safely in bob's desk committing him to the nrotc and eight years of navy service after. it's a choice he refuses to budge on and it leads to a few tense weeks in the floyd household.

he knows somethings wrong the minute he walks in the kitchen two weeks after graduation, both parents seated at the small table, clearly waiting for him. gracie isn't home; she's got regionals coming up, they should be with her at practice. (bob's long since taken the backseat to her gymnastic aspirations and he's mostly been okay with her hogging their parents attention; he just hates that it's their focus on him that causes alarm bells to go off.)

it starts off simple enough - reminders of his parents sacrifices. his dad doing his best to ensure his children wouldn't be forced to choose between the life sentence of a ranch or the navy. his mom, happy with the life she chose, but still always wondering about the life she might have had if she hadn't dropped out of college to marry and raise children. it's the reason they both pushed so hard for academics and sports and extracurriculars. then, it's the pricey flight lessons touted as more of a financial burden then it really is for the floyds. if he wants to fly, isn't that enough for him?

bob might not get the whole picture, but his maternal grandparents paid for his truck. all cash. between all three grandparents, he knows his parents haven't hurt for much (so long as their pride hasn't stood in the way).

but god dammit, what about his own sacrifices? what about bob, ten and anxious and terrified, begging his mom to get out of bed? what about bob, stuck in the routine of waking up gracie and making sure she has breakfast and lunch even after his mom escapes the fog of depression? or his childhood? one marked by four elementary schools, three middle schools, and two high schools. no one should be surprised that he chose the navy when his dad's service defined his early life.

why is his choice to join the navy and fly any different than gracie's devotion to gymnastics? it's the same risk. gracie could break her neck too.

or, what about plain want? clear blue sky - bob saw so much of it on the ground, he wanted the 30,000 ft views too.

but these thoughts are kinder than the words actually said. bob drags up every awful detail of his mom's depression, how his dad's grief and ill timed deployment felt like neglect. it doesn't matter if his points about chores and helping with gracie were valid after that. the damage is done on his side.

there's more yelling and tears and then the final blow - his dad shouting that bob's gay and it makes him weak, the navy will chew him up and spit it him out. but his dad's temper runs fast and quick, it ends with a too quiet 'fine, if the navy's your choice, you got a day to get out of the house.' they won't burry another child.

bob, the ever dutiful son, listens. on the flight to montana, cramped in a back row, he looks at his glasses held loosely in his fist and thinks it might hurt less if they were broken.

four, five, or six?

three months after his parents kick him out, he goes from montana to boston. he starts at mit and he finds, surprisingly, with some encouragement from new friends that beer and whiskey and cigarettes make him braver than he's ever been.

and the thing is, he's got his dad's same quick temper; it's just he's never had much use for it, always too quiet and too shy to find anywhere to put it. but a crowded bar? a guy being a jerk and not listening? sure, that's as good a place as any.

turns out, his grandma is right - bob still doesn't know how to throw a punch. sometimes, he remembers how he got the bruises, crooked frames, and scratched lenses. sometimes, he doesn't. either way, bob tells himself he's got it under control. except - he misses classes, he can't wait tables hung over, and no one is exactly impressed with him at the nrotc.

in the end, it's a combination of things that get bob to quit drinking his second year of college. (although, he still occasionally sneaks cigarettes when stressed.) gracie crying, a few letters from his parents. more than a few genuine apologies. a concerned commanding officer, citing his dad's respectful career record and how bob won't measure up like this. a patient rabbi and a better group friends than his first roommate, the one who dragged bob out partying his first night in boston. trading bars and beers for the library, more classes to average out his abysmal gpa.

it changes somethings, a relationship with his parents that sometimes feels like walking on ice, deciding to focus on weapon systems than outright piloting, but not everything. bob recommits to his faith, goes back to pretending things don't bother him, and decides life's a lot easier when people think he's just some nerdy stick in the mud than someone who can't handle his liquor.

[xxinkys-ocsxx]

I was doodling and ended up accidentally making a hole new oc

Her name is lucinda and she's a sl-

Anyway, shes just for fun for now, I traumatise her later🥰🥰

[graciehart]

top 5 favorite hod episodes

oooo, i'll need to hear yours too. and i'll need to revisit when i finish my rewatch (I'm at the end of season one - trying not to get too far ahead of gifsets but we'll see how long that lasts lmao)

1x17 "Heart to Hart"

1x11 "Hell's Belles"

2x01 "I Fall to Pieces"

2x18 "Why Don't We Get Drunk"

4x07 "The Butterstick Tab"

honorable mention to 4x04 "Red Dye No. 40" simply because I grew up with that allergy and it was always stupidly exciting when it was acknowledged 😂

ask me my top 5 anything!

[lilrowantree]

well guess i’m moving to a dutch boarding school and solving ancient Egyptian riddles and severely ignoring my homework

[maraudersoup]

I don't know what to do with myself now that I'm back... Does anyone have any Sam fic recs? Love a good character study 😈

[solarmorrigan]

Like You've Seen a Ghost

For the @steddie-spooktober day 6 prompt: Haunted Rated: T | Words: 1348 | CW: brief descriptions of blood and gore, mentions of past head trauma | Tags: pre-relationship, modern AU, ghost hunter Eddie, ghost whisperer Steve, Steve Harrington has head trauma Divider credit: @saradika

“So… are you getting anything yet?”

“Not really.”

“Well, which way should we go?”

“It doesn’t really work like that, man. I don’t sniff out ghosts.”

“Well forgive me for not knowing how your whole ‘I see dead people’ shtick works.”

Steve glances over at Eddie in the low light of the long hallway. He looks just as grumpy as he has since it had been suggested that he and Steve pair up to check the third floor of the hotel – supposedly the most haunted part of the building.

“You don’t believe I can see dead people at all,” Steve says, and Eddie rolls his eyes.

“What, could you sense that, too?” he snarks.

“Nah.” Steve shrugs. “I heard you talking to Gareth and Jeff about it.”

At that, Eddie has the decency to look a little sheepish; he hadn’t had the most flattering things to say about Steve in that conversation.

It had been the rest of the team—Gareth, Jeff, and Oliver—who had pulled for this little team-up as a sort of special episode for their YouTube channel; Eddie had been against it from the start. He’d insisted that their viewers expected supernatural investigations based on scientific techniques and equipment, not some fake psychic (charlatan, actually, had been the word he’d used) who takes people’s money and pretends to see their dead relatives.

(Steve, for the record, does not take anyone’s money. Whether or not he sees someone’s dead relatives, he does it for free.)

“Uh… look…” Eddie starts, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“It’s fine, man, I get it,” Steve brushes off what likely would have been a very awkward apology. “You can’t do what you do without a healthy dose of skepticism. And it’s not exactly like I can explain it; it just kind of happens. But I promise that when or if I see a ghost, I’ll tell you to get your camera.”

“Right,” Eddie says quietly, turning back to the gadget in his hands (some of it had been explained to Steve, but he won’t pretend he knows just what the hell kind of science goes into ghost hunting).

They fall into a stilted sort of silence, Eddie scanning their surroundings with whatever it is he’s holding and Steve keeping his eyes peeled for signs of ghostly activity. He can’t say he’s thrilled to be spending the night with someone who clearly doesn’t want to be with him, but it’s really no skin off his nose if Eddie doesn’t believe in his abilities; Steve isn’t Tinkerbell, he doesn’t run on the belief of others.

He hadn’t really even meant to become– well, not famous, but maybe internet famous, at least. He’d just figured that as long as he had the ability to see and speak to the dead, he could use it to put other people’s minds at ease. People who worried about their dead loved ones, or people who were being terrorized in their own homes. Sometimes Steve could put spirits to rest. Sometimes all he had to do was tell someone that their dearly departed whoever was nowhere to be found and must be at peace.

It had sort of snowballed after one person he’d helped had told another, who’d told another, who had the ear of someone with a reasonably popular podcast, who had wanted to talk to Steve, and suddenly Steve had been getting calls for other interviews, for “psychic” investigations, and, apparently, for team-ups with some well-known ghost hunters.

“What did happen?” Eddie asks, breaking a little sharply into the silence.

“What?” Steve looks back over at him.

“You said it just kind of happens. So have you always been like this, or…?”

“Oh. Yeah, no, I got hit really hard in the head,” Steve says.

Eddie stops walking, and now he’s the one staring at Steve. “You what?”

“Got hit in the head.” Steve knocks at his temple for emphasis. “It was… pretty bad. Apparently, they thought I was dead for a minute there. But I lived—y'know, obviously—and now I get really bad migraines and I see dead people.”

“How does that even work? Like – did you cross over, or some shit?” Eddie asks haltingly, like the words are unfamiliar on his tongue.

“Couldn’t tell you. I’ve always kind of thought of it like an old TV set,” Steve says. “My grandparents had one when I was a kid, and it didn’t get great reception, but if you smacked it in the side, sometimes it would find a channel. So, I got hit hard enough that I changed channels, I guess. Now I can see things on frequencies other people can’t.”

“Shit, man,” Eddie says, blinking at Steve. “That’s actually pretty metal.”

“Thanks?” Steve shrugs, starting up their meandering walk down the hallway once more.

“I just mean, like – must make for a good story to tell, right?” Eddie tries.

“Oh, yeah. Head trauma, it’s great for dinner conversation,” Steve drawls, and Eddie winces.

“Sorry, I didn’t–”

“It’s fine, I’m screwing with you.” Steve knocks his shoulder into Eddie’s; it isn’t that Steve hadn’t been fucked up over the fight with a local bigot and bully that had nearly killed him, but that had been a while ago, now. Steve’s processed, made his peace with it – even gotten something kind of useful out of it. He’s fine. (Like, most days. Most days, he’s fine.)

Eddie rolls his eyes, but there’s also a little smile tucked into the corners of his mouth. It looks nice there – better than the snide look of disbelief from before. Whether or not Eddie does believe him now, Steve likes that he put a smile on his face.

“Hey, we’re coming up on room fourteen,” Eddie says, nodding to a door at the end of the hall.

“And that’s the super haunted one, right?” Steve asks.

“Yeah.” Eddie reaches out as they approach, turning the knob. “Story goes that a husband and wife were staying in this room, way back when the hotel first opened in the 20s, and the wife pocketed a knife from dinner, waited until the dead of night, and stabbed her husband to death in his sleep before slitting her own throat.”

The room that the door opens into is far more unassuming than the gruesome tale would have had Steve believe. It’s decorated in the vintage style maintained throughout the whole hotel, kept clean and guest-ready, but there’s something – heavy about it. Something Steve can’t quite put his finger on. He approaches the bed; he can’t imagine it’s the same mattress there from the 1920s, but he does wonder if it’s the same bedframe.

The heavy feeling is getting stronger.

“Why did she do it?” he asks, glancing around the room; he doesn’t see anything, not yet, but there’s still something–

“No one knows for sure,” Eddie says, breezing past Steve and plopping right down on the bed, bouncing a little as he sits. “Some people say he had been abusing her and she’d finally had enough. Some say he was cheating, and she was jealous. Some say she just lost her fuckin’ marbles.”

“What, just like that?” Steve asks, still glancing around warily.

“Maybe.” Eddie shrugs. “Hey, maybe if the lady’s ghost is still hanging around, you can ask her.”

Steve turns back to Eddie, and the comeback dies on his tongue.

There, kneeling up on the bed, right behind Eddie, is the wife.

It can’t be anyone but her, crimson stains running down the front of an old-fashioned nightgown, blood still oozing from the gaping wound in her neck, the knife clutched in her hand glinting silvery and slick red as she stares down at Eddie in a way that Steve doesn’t like one bit.

“Eddie,” Steve says, slowly reaching for the other man.

“What?” Eddie asks, brows furrowed as he clocks the change in Steve’s demeanor.

Steve grabs him by the arm and yanks him up, maneuvering himself until he’s standing between Eddie and the bed – between Eddie and the ghost.

“You might want to get your camera.”

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Self-Doubt

Self-doubt - a feeling of uncertainty about yourself that leads you to question your identity, your abilities, and potentially your self-worth.

It can arise in any situation requiring you to take action or step outside of your comfort zone, from going on a first date to applying for a new job.

To a certain degree, self-doubt can be healthy, leading you to develop new skills or prepare for novel situations.

On the other hand, excessive self-doubt breeds indecision and self-criticism, preventing you from taking risks that can help you grow.

Causes of Self-Doubt

Some of the causes of self-doubt:

Anxiety and overthinking: Anxious people constantly overthink different scenarios, imagining all of the possible ways that things can go wrong. Daunted by rumination over every possible worst-case scenario, an anxious person will naturally underestimate their abilities to handle challenges, reinforcing self-doubt and encouraging more negative thoughts.

Fear of failure: Perfectionism and a fear of failure reinforce feelings of self-doubt. In a state of self-doubt, you may attribute your past successes to luck, downplaying your true abilities. (A term for this experience is imposter syndrome, which is when successful people feel unworthy of their wins.) Conversely, you may feel traumatized by past instances of failure, paralyzing yourself out of fear that you might experience those negative emotions again.

Trauma: Self-doubt is often a result of negative life experiences, which can adversely impact your self-esteem. A mental health professional can help you sort through crippling feelings of self-doubt stemming from trauma.

Overcoming Self-Doubt

A few ways to work on your self-doubt:

Set goals for yourself. Combat self-doubt in small doses by assigning yourself daily or weekly tasks to improve your confidence in specific areas. For example, challenge yourself to meet new three people one week, and to stand up for yourself the next. Set goals for yourself that are realistic and non-intimidating. As you achieve smaller goals, set progressively larger ones and take a step back to reflect on your confidence. To track your feelings along the way, consider journaling throughout this process.

Practice self-assured body language. When you adopt confident body language, real confidence will follow. Stand up straight with your shoulders back. Maintain eye contact while people talk to you. Practice power poses, which are specific stances meant to increase your confidence.

Make a list of your positive qualities. List out all of your positive qualities, or times that you were successful in an endeavor. Relate these qualities and scenarios to your current feelings of self-doubt to disempower your reflexive negative self-talk.

Practice self-compassion. Being kind to yourself—whether that involves changing your internal narrative, prioritizing time for the things you love, or practicing positive affirmations—helps chip away at chronic self-doubt.

Give your inner critic a name. Your inner critic may mock your progress and highlight your failures. Give this character a name and speak to them as if they were another person. For example, when you start beating yourself up for a failure, call the voice out by its name. Remind yourself that you are worth more than one mistake. This will help you habituate positive self-talk and build self-confidence.

Speak to a mental health professional. Therapy is a vital way to learn self-compassion and get to the root of what’s causing your self-doubt. Many people with anxiety disorders or chronic self-doubt benefit from cognitive-behavioral therapy, which involves un-learning negative cognitive habits that cause you pain.

Source ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[demonic-werewolf]

Honey, my first ever written character had a tragic backstory she did not earn even a little bit, because I had undiagnosed depression and was projecting. That was what, eleven years ago? Give or take? I've never written an angstless anything and I'm not about to start now.

[palepersonacoffee]

💜for the ask game?

💜 What is your favourite fantasy involving detrans/misgen?

My doctor decides I'd be be better off as a girl. Of course, if I knew that that's what they thought, I would switch doctors, so they don't tell me. Instead, they trick me into detransitioning- They tell me that my T levels are abnormally high, so I need to take a lower dose to get me back on track. After all, extra testosterone in the body turns into estradiol or something right? We don't want that. So they halve my dose indefinitely, and send me to a therapist that's in on the game. I think the therapist is kind of weird, but I don't want my mental health to take a turn because I'm sad about my lower dose.

The next appointment I go in to see the doctor, they tell me to take my shirt off. I ask why, and they gaslight me into thinking it's so they can check my health somehow- but they don't do it right away. I sit there on the table covering my chest up while they talk about the new drugs they're prescribing me. I don't think about anything but how humiliated I am- Whats Flibanserin? What's domperidone? What's Metoclopramide? What's topamax and why is the dose on that so high? I don't know and I'm not paying attention. I'm just desperately wishing I could put my shirt back on. When theyre finished listing off all the new medications I need to take, the brush my hands put of the way where I was covering up like it's the most normal thing in the world. They start squeezing my tits, massaging them, pinching and pulling and jiggling. I'm squeezing my eyes shut wishing it was over.

My next appointment, I'm really confused for some reason. Dizzy and stupid and dim. The therapist has been having me undress to talk about my trauma because somehow that's going to help me, so it's not weird that the doctor is having me undress now. They finger my sloppy cunt while they tell me that I need to stop taking testosterone entirely, it's very dangerous for me. I try to ask why but I'm so out of it, they just brush right over me. They put me on estrogen and I don't even notice. They tell me that to keep myself healthy, I need to start pumping my breasts. There's yucky stuff in there and I need to get it all out every night before I can start taking T again. They up my dose on everything. They tell me I can go ahead and leave my boxers and jeans and binder with them, I don't need them, they need to make sure I'm not using them to hurt myself. Oh, here's the breast pump I need btw. Start immediately.

My next appointment, I'm basically brainless. The therapist had to drop me off. Why was the therapist driving me around places again? What happened to all my boy clothes? Why are my tits so big? I can't remember. I don't have the brainpower to think about it for very long. The doctor doesn't even bother talking to me other than to tell me to strip. They press something big into my wet vagina, so big it's uncomfortable and I can't close my legs around it. Somehow, maybe using a medical glue, they make sure it stays inside me. Then they start fingerings my ass open, and do the same there. They tell me it's unsafe for me to be alone, but luckily there's a clinic near here that can help me. I need to be admitted ASAP. I look ridiculous when they finally let me stand up from where I was bent over the examination table, I can't even walk right. I waddle around, crab walking because I can't close my legs around the things inside me. They don't say anything when they pry my mouth open to stuff something inside there, either- I don't realize it, but it's my old boxers. They expect me to just stupidly take it without any explanation, and I do. They tell me to step into the closet over there and they shut the door behind me, locking me in until the end of their shift. I can hear them starting the same thing with another confused girl, but I cant make any noise to warn them. I wouldn't know what was even happening anyways. I can barely articulate my own name. When their shift is finally over, they take me to the clinic- It's just their house.

[voodooya]

Another Blanky. Because apparently, I haven't inflicted enough emotional trauma on myself by recreating the Brave Little Toaster's journey. This time, hand-crocheted form. Prepare for a wave of childhood nostalgia mixed with a healthy dose of unresolved trauma.

Imagine: a loyal toaster, a melancholic radio, a neurotic lamp, and a courageous vacuum cleaner, all banding together for a treacherous journey to find their beloved master. Now, imagine them rendered in soft, golden yarn. This blanket isn't just a project; it's a testament to the enduring bonds of friendship forged in the face of abandonment, a reminder that even the most mundane objects can have the biggest hearts... and the most soul-crushing backstories. And yes, it's also a reminder that I'm still processing the junkyard scene. So, prepare for existential dread, but make it cuddly.

[thethingswedotomorrow]

Every time I see any type of Good Omens fan content, I am shocked at just how varied, creative, and TALENTED the community is.

But also they're determined to make Crowley suffer as much as possible, in every variation and it's slightly hilarious to me

Not only does this poor demon suffer tremendously in canon, but every single fic I see is one or more of

Crowley is frozen

Crowley is burnt

Crowley drowns

Crowley is tortured physically

Crowley is tortured EMOTIONALLY

Crowley is discorporated

Crowley is VIOLENTLY discorporated

Crowley loses his memories

Crowley is trapped in a time loop and REMEMBERS YEARS WORTH OF THE SAME DAYS

Crowley is traumatized

Crowley is Traumatized 2.0 Electric Boogaloo

Crowley is alone and abandoned

Crowley is finally happy with Aziraphale, and THEN abandoned

Crowley is divorced

Crowley is kidnapped

Crowley is stuck as a snake

Crowley is kidnapped AS A SNAKE BY HUMANS

If there's a piece of Good Omens content, chances are something WILD happens to Crowley, including AU's

And Aziraphale has a healthy dose of anxiety, religious trauma, and neurodivergence sprinkled in there in between all of that. I just really appreciate the creativity of this fandom.

[anartisticnerd]

Nate is a good dad confirmed

Nate “Hardison dies in Plan M” Ford for some reason creates a plan to take down Damien Moreau in San Lorenzo that requires Eliot Spencer to spend the entire time there doing side quest tasks with Parker or cuddling with puppies. For some reason.