#hoop therapy

[allgirlsareprincesses]

.

[sashannarcy]

Your stupid story is full of shit. Marcy would never willingly hurt Sasha or Anne. She is not amoral or cruel. You ruined her character for the sake of such an awful story. You should be ashamed of yourself.

if you'd like Marcy Wu to stop being written amorally, I've helpfully provided the link to Matt Braly's Twitter account (https://x.com/radrappy?s=21&t=Wi7vzCG6wffv-9aE-SD4aA) so you can dm him this yourself! you can just copy paste these asks (multiple! crazy) into his dms and it'll basically be like the same thing. you'll have to show your cowardly face though, sorry.

[softandwildx]

Just because it became relevant in my group tonight and I'm curious how others feel-

Feel free to include your gender, orientation, agab, or anything that you feel pertains to your answer!

[lunarheslwt]

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[tiddykittylikesskittles]

Hello inspired by the last post I reblogged but there's a difference from someone wanting to discuss something or vent without receiving advice, because that's not what they need in that moment, and someone being genuinely argumentative when you try to suggest they won't be miserable forever. I've had those fights before, I've argued with people I loved because they were convinced their lives would never be better than they were right in that moment, and I've been the one catastropyzing and spiralling out because I couldn't see the light at the end of the tunnel. It's a shitty, frustrating situation to be in for all involved and I think boiling it down to "ask before you offer advice!" is a touch reductive.

[xsaintseraphx]

Avoided the hospital again

Let's see how long that lasts

[corpseflowerqueer]

having gender thoughts

[libraford]

It is kinda interesting to see what propaganda people latch onto. Second meeting in a row where someone brought up Gender Affirming Surgery for minors at the Conversion Therapy Ban meeting.

1. A conversion therapy ban is an accountability measure making it illegal to practice a long-discredited therapy on minors, and makes it accessible for a minor to self-report a therapist that is doing it. A conversion therapy counselor is not the barrier between a child and top surgery.

2. The ACTUAL barrier between a child and top surgery is that it's illegal for any minor to receive gender-affirming surgery and even consenting adults are unable receive it until they've had a year's worth of therapy and have jumped through all the hoops to find a doctor that will do it.

3. You are talking about a thing that is already illegal. We are talking about a discredited practice that is classified as literal torture with a very high suicide rate- which is currently legal. (Or was, up until about two hours ago.)

[erikvelema]

Wordt verlicht!

[m4rv3l-girl]

Not the kind of partner I’m used to..

Bucky is referred to a paired therapy program..

Warnings: None, little bit of angst…Kind of?

The chair was too small.

Bucky shifted uncomfortably, arms crossed over his chest, shoulders hunched like a caged animal. The walls of Dr. Raynor’s office were the same off-white shade of every other government-sanctioned therapy clinic he’d been forced to visit, and the fluorescent lights hummed in a way that made his teeth itch. He hated it here. He hated therapy. And, most of all, he hated whatever new hoop Raynor was making him jump through this time.

"This is stupid," he grumbled, voice low and flat. "I don't need a - what do you even call this? A therapy buddy? A trauma pen-pal?"

Raynor gave him that look. The one that said she was just barely tolerating him. "It’s a paired therapy program."

Bucky rolled his eyes.

"You agreed to try," she reminded him, flipping through her clipboard. "The point is to help people with… let's say, complicated pasts, to build social connections. Get used to interacting. Being normal."

"Great. So you’re admitting this is a group project."

"Not a group," Raynor corrected, sitting back in her chair. "Just the two of you. One-on-one. You can do that, right? Make one friend?"

Bucky sighed through his nose, glaring at the ceiling like it had personally wronged him.

"Well, lucky for you, she’s not thrilled about this either," Raynor continued, glancing at the door as voices echoed from outside the office. "I warned her to be civil, but fair warning - she's not exactly a social butterfly."

Bucky’s interest piqued at that. He listened, keen ears picking up the muffled sound of a woman’s voice.

"Look, Doc, I’m just saying - do I actually have to?" The voice huffed. "I don’t need a therapy partner. I’m doing just fine avoiding people all on my own."

Bucky smirked.

"Y/N, you promised," the other doctor’s voice responded, a familiar level of exhausted patience in her tone.

A pause. A groan. The sound of a doorknob turning.

Then she stepped in.

Y/N had the kind of posture that screamed reluctant participation. She entered the room like it physically pained her to do so, crossing her arms and scanning the space with an expression that read: ‘this was not my idea, and I hate it here.’ When her eyes landed on Bucky, she froze for a fraction of a second - just long enough for him to notice. He was used to that reaction. The pause. The flicker of recognition. Like she was debating whether to acknowledge who he was or pretend he was just some guy.

Bucky arched a brow. "You must be thrilled about this."

She gave him a flat look. "Over the moon."

Raynor clapped her hands together, the universal therapist signal for ‘let’s begin.’ "Great! Now that you’ve met, let’s set some ground rules. The goal here is casual interaction, low-pressure conversations. Just get to know each other."

Y/N’s mouth twitched like she had about ten sarcastic things she wanted to say, but she bit them back.

"I’ll leave you to it," Raynor announced, already making for the door. "Try to keep the glaring to a minimum."

Then she was gone.

The silence stretched. Bucky stared at Y/N. Y/N stared at Bucky. The tension between them was less hostility and more… mutual disinterest. Like two kids forced to work on a school project together, neither wanting to be the first to break the silence.

Bucky sighed. "Guess we should start with the basics. Name’s Bucky."

"Y/N," she responded, shifting her weight. "But I already know who you are."

He tilted his head, not really surprised. "Yeah?"

She gave him a look like he was an idiot. "Because you’re Bucky Barnes. The white wolf. The Winter Soldier. Avenger. Internationally recognized brooding champion."

Bucky blinked, caught off guard. "Brooding champion?"

She shrugged. "You do have a very… ‘resting murder face’ thing going on."

Bucky stared at her for a beat, then snorted. "That’s a new one."

Y/N shifted again, looking slightly less miserable than before. "So, uh… what exactly are we supposed to do? Just talk about our feelings until we magically become better people?"

Bucky smirked. "Pretty sure that’s the idea."

"Gross."

"Agreed."

A beat. Then-

"Wanna get out of here?" Y/N blurted out.

Bucky blinked. "What?"

"Not, like, run away forever," she clarified. "Just… sneak out. Get a coffee or something. We can pretend to do the therapy thing and check it off the list."

Bucky considered this. On one hand, Raynor would definitely give him hell for it. On the other… he really didn’t want to sit in this room for an hour talking about his feelings.

He stood, stretching. "Alright, partner. Lead the way."

Y/N looked surprised for a split second before masking it with an easy smirk. "Try to keep up, Grandpa. We have an hour."

They stepped into the hallway, and Bucky couldn’t help but feel a twinge of nostalgia. It reminded him of old missions—sneaking around, trying to keep a low profile. Only this time, there were no explosions or rifles. Just the muted sounds of people trying to put their lives back together. The smell of over-brewed coffee and sadness.

"This way," Y/N whispered, jerking her head towards the stairs. "The café's less crowded." They descended the stairs, Y/N moving with the kind of ease that came from spending too much time in places like these. Bucky followed, watching the way she moved—like she was trying to be invisible, but couldn’t quite pull it off. She had a presence about her. Something that made people look, even when she didn’t want them to.

When they reached the café, it was indeed quieter than he’d expected. A few patients nursed their drinks, staring into the abyss of their pasts. The barista looked up, giving them a nod that suggested he’d seen this sort of thing before. Bucky couldn’t blame them—therapy was a weird gig.

They claimed a table in the corner, far from prying eyes and eager ears. Y/N slid into a chair, her eyes scanning the room with the kind of wariness he understood all too well. She was checking for threats, even though the biggest threat here was probably someone asking how their week had been.

"So," she said, breaking the silence. "What’s your damage?" Bucky raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?" "Your tragic backstory," she elaborated, rolling her eyes. "You know, the reason you’re stuck in that soul-sucking building." He leaned back, arms crossing over his broad chest.

"You first."

Y/N’s smirk grew. "Okay, fine. I was in the military. Mission went tits up, ended up with a few too many pieces missing. Now I’ve got metal where there should be meat and therapy where there should be… well, anything else."

Bucky nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. He liked her. "Sounds like a blast," he said, voice dry.

Y/N chuckled, a low, dark sound. "It was. Literally."

The conversation flowed from there, surprisingly easily. They talked about their military backgrounds - Bucky’s HYDRA days, his time as a SHIELD agent. It was like two old soldiers swapping war stories, except the enemy was less about bullets and more about inner demons. She had a sharp wit, he noticed, and a way of cutting through bullshit that was refreshing. No pep talks, no pity. Just raw, honest words that stung a little.

As they talked, Y/N’s defenses slowly started to lower. She spoke about her past missions with a passion that was palpable, her eyes lighting up with a fierce intensity that made him want to lean in closer. And as she spoke, he realized that she wasn’t just some girl with a tragic past - she was a fighter. A survivor. And she’d earned every single one of those metallic scars.

Bucky found himself telling her more than he’d ever told anyone else. Stories of Steve, of the Avengers, of the endless nights spent trying to drown out the echoes of his past with a bottle of whiskey. The words poured out of him like they’d been damned up for too long, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he didn’t feel the need to censor himself.

Y/N listened, really listened, without judgment or the need to fix him. It was a strange feeling, one that made him feel both exposed and oddly at ease. They talked about their fears, their regrets, their hopes for the future - things that Bucky hadn’t allowed himself to think about in a long time.

The bell over the door chimed, and they both looked up, startled by the sudden intrusion of reality. The café was emptying out, the sun setting outside the window in a wash of orange and pink. They’d talked for hours. And they’d be in deep shit. Oh well.

Y/N’s eyes searched his, something unspoken passing between them. "Thank you," she murmured, voice low. "For not making me feel like a freak." Bucky’s smirk grew into a small smile. "You’re not a freak," he said softly. "You’re a survivor."

They stood, gathering their things. As they made their way back to the clinic, Bucky realized that maybe, just maybe, this therapy buddy thing wasn’t going to be so bad after all. It wasn’t fixing his life - not by a long shot. But it was a start.

They re-entered the building, the sterile air hitting them like a slap in the face after the brief taste of freedom. Y/N’s shoulders squared up again, the wall sliding back into place.

"You know, Bucky," she said as they approached the elevator. "I didn’t hate that." He chuckled. "Me neither, kid." The elevator doors dinged open, revealing the all-too-familiar corridor. Y/N stepped in, punching the button for their floor with a little too much force.

"So, what now?" Bucky asked, leaning against the railing. "We just go back to her office and pretend we talked about our feelings?" Y/N rolled her eyes, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. "If that’s what it takes to keep them off our asses." The elevator lurched to a stop, and they stepped out into the hallway. As they approached the room they were supposed to be in, they could hear the muffled sounds of a conversation - Raynor’s voice, and another therapist, discussing their patients.

"Looks like we’ve got company," Bucky murmured, glancing at the clock. They were cutting it close. Y/N nodded. "Let’s make it look good." They both took a deep breath and stepped into the room, trying to look like they hadn’t just blown off their session.

Raynor looked up from her notes, raising an eyebrow. "You two look… enlightened." Bucky and Y/N shared a look, the unspoken challenge passing between them.

"We had a breakthrough," Y/N said, deadpan. "A real emotional rollercoaster." Raynor’s gaze flicked between them, trying to gauge their sincerity. "Well," she said, after a beat. "I’m happy to hear that. Why don’t you sit down and tell me all about it?" Her voice was skeptical.

They sat, and Bucky launched into a half-true, half-exaggerated story about their heart-to-heart. Y/N filled in the blanks with sighs and eye-rolls, and somehow, it was convincing. They had a rhythm, a way of finishing each other's sentences that made it seem like they'd been friends for years instead of minutes.

"So, you've discovered the importance of sharing your feelings," Raynor said, scribbling on her clipboard.

"It's life-changing," Bucky deadpanned, and Y/N snorted. This might not be so bad…

——————————————————————————————————

Here you go, My Lovelies! I just love the thought of someone matching Bucky’s energy in total contrast to the usual grumpy/sunshine trope 🫶

[caitified]

cait getting slightly injured (maybe a sprain or something) and physio reader being worried and protective 😍

injured

caitlin clark x reader

warnings:slight injury, part 2 of physio!

it’s a tight game against the aces, the kind where every possession feels like life or death. you’re standing near the sideline, heart racing as caitlin drives to the hoop. she gets fouled hard, tumbling to the floor with a loud thud.

your stomach drops. she gets up—of course she does, it’s caitlin—but she’s favoring her left leg, wincing just enough to make your chest tighten.

you don’t wait for anyone to call you over. by the time the refs signal for a time-out, you’re already halfway to her.

“cait, you okay?” you ask, keeping your voice steady even though your pulse is pounding.

“i’m fine,” she says, brushing it off, though her grimace says otherwise.

you cross your arms, giving her that look. “caitlin.”

she rolls her eyes, but you catch the slight wobble in her stance. “it’s just a bruise. i’m not coming off.”

“you’re limping,” you counter, stepping closer, lowering your voice so only she can hear. “please, just let me check you out. you know i’ll make it quick.”

she hesitates, glancing at the scoreboard. the game’s close, but you can see the conflict in her eyes—the way she doesn’t want to scare you, doesn’t want to let the team down.

“two minutes,” she finally mutters, and you nod, relieved.

you follow her to the therapy room, her hand brushing yours briefly as you walk. the moment you’re inside, away from the noise of the arena, you guide her onto the table.

“you’re too stubborn for your own good, you know that?” you say softly, crouching to inspect her leg.

“and you’re too worried,” she teases, but her voice is softer now, too, the bravado from the court fading.

“yeah, well, you don’t make it easy,” you shoot back, running your fingers gently over her knee. she winces slightly, and you look up, catching her gaze. “see? you need to sit out the rest of the game.”

“you’re overreacting,” she argues, but there’s no heat behind it.

“cait,” you say quietly, standing so your faces are level. “i care more about you than this game. please don’t make me fight you on this.”

her expression softens, and she sighs, resting her hand on your hip. “you know you’re too good at this guilt-tripping thing, right?”

“just using my powers for good,” you reply, your lips twitching into a small smile.

she leans forward, resting her forehead against yours for a moment. “i hate sitting out,” she murmurs, her fingers brushing against your side.

“i know,” you whisper, tilting your head to kiss her temple. “but i’d rather have you healthy tomorrow than risking it today.”

she pulls back just enough to kiss you softly, her lips lingering against yours. “fine,” she says when she pulls away. “but only because you asked.”

“because i asked?” you echo, raising an eyebrow.

“and because i love you,” she adds with a small smirk, making your heart skip.

you laugh, shaking your head as you grab an ice pack. “yeah, yeah. you’re lucky i love you back.”

“so lucky,” she murmurs, her gaze warm as she watches you fuss over her.

short one.. sorry for the lack of fics lately! finals are almost over and i have quite a few fics that just need to be edited. requests are open.

[snakeautistic]

So many therapists are LAUGHABLY misinformed about autism. When I was first researching autism I brought it up to my therapist and she laughed it off because I knew not to only talk about my special interests during therapy, and I didn’t stim super visibly and frequently. That was an incredibly invalidating experience for me.

Even after that, when I could tell she’d considered it further and realized my theory had merit, it was like she was afraid of the word autism. She’d say I was quirky, or a little different, or just very sensitive, and that I “moved at my own rhythm”. At the very most she’d admit that I might have some slight traits but if I was autistic I would be “very very high-functioning” and probably didn’t meet enough criteria to be diagnosed. She agreed I should get an evaluation, but mostly so I could find out other disorders I might have.

Anyway, I got the diagnosis. She of course spun it like she’d been sure it was going to happen the whole time. She made sure to assure me that no one could tell, and again how extremely high-functioning I was. She’s still afraid to say autistic, and will jump through hoops to avoid saying the word.

It’s so frustrating to me just how stigmatized autism is, even in the mental health field. Professionals fail to understand the spectrum part of autism.

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 38

Part 1 Part 37

Steve keeps acting like he’s perfectly fine. Like he didn’t have part of his shoulder carved off. Like he’s not suffering through an hour of glorified torture masquerading as physical therapy every day, trying to build his muscle back up. Like the doctor hadn’t told him he might still never get back to shooting hoops and swimming laps with the precision he used to. Like his ribs aren’t still broken, and he doesn’t still have trouble standing, or wake up screaming, clutching at his throat. Like he doesn’t rub the back of his head sometimes and stare into the middle distance with lost eyes. And it’s pissing Eddie off.

Especially now, as he walks beside Wayne, pushing Steve’s wheelchair down the hall toward the elevator. This in and of itself was a feat. First, Steve had argued that he didn’t need a wheelchair, then he’d argued he didn’t need help pushing it. Eddie let Steve flounder for a few minutes, trying to make his useless arm wheel him forward, angry tears springing from his eyes before he acquiesces.

The latest rub is the worst: Steve wants to go home. As if Eddie doesn’t remember the look on Steve’s face when he said he wanted to go to Eddie’s trailer. As if Eddie doesn’t remember the way Steve’s voice broke when he called the trailer home.

“The doctor said somebody needs to keep an eye on ya,” Wayne says reasonably. “Either we do it, or you can stay with Joyce. She offered to put you up.”

Steve scoffs. “My parents—”

“Aren’t home!” Eddie snaps, pushing Steve into the elevator and pushing the down button on the elevator with enough force that his finger hurts.

Steve sits up straighter in his chair, reading for a fight. Wayne doesn’t let him. “If you’re staying at that house, then so are we,” he says, implacable. “Until your parents are there to watch you.” Left unsaid, is that no one had heard from them. That Steve hadn’t asked about them at all.

Steve slumps down in a position that must be hell on his cracked ribs, sighing. “Fine,” he says, like it hurts. “I’ll stay in the trailer.”

It feels like a knife twist. Eddie wants to shake Steve and remind him he’d called it home.

It’s quick after that. Steve signs himself out at the front desk, tucking the physical therapy schedule they’d made for him into the pocket of the sweatpants Wayne had scavenged from Eddie’s drawers for Steve to wear home.

Wayne and Eddie work together to help lever Steve into the passenger seat of Eddie’s van. Wayne slides into the driver’s seat without asking, so Eddie grumbles his way into the back.

Steve’s quiet when Wayne pulls up front, quiet while they help him in, quiet when he’s settled onto the couch.

He’s looking around his surroundings just like he had the first time – like he’s amazed people live like this. That first time, he’d wanted to snarl, make sure Harrington knew that there was nothing wrong with this life he’d created with his Uncle. Now, he just thinks of Steve’s empty house, the hospital’s unanswered phone calls to his parents, and feels unbearably sad.

Wayne puts on a basketball game that Eddie doesn’t even complain about, and settles himself at Steve’s side.

Steve falls asleep halfway through the game, head falling on Eddie’s shoulder, warm puffs of air hitting the bare skin of his neck.

Wayne huffs, and Eddie looks up at him, already glaring defensively. “What?” he demands, quiet enough not to disturb Steve.

Wayne raises his hands placatingly, even as he smiles smugly over at Eddie. “I didn’t say anything.”

They all sleep in the living room that night. It’s cozy and warm, especially after Wayne drapes a blanket over them both.

It should feel weird, settling this closely to Steve, now that they’re not depending on each other to survive. Now that they’re back in the real world. But Eddie feels like he’ll fall apart if Steve’s not in sight, so maybe he’s not out of the woods after all.

It's peaceful.

It stays peaceful until the next day when it’s time for Steve’s physical therapy appointment.

“I can take myself,” he says. “I have a car.”

He’s not meeting Eddie’s eyes. Eddie takes a few deep breaths. He knows snapping won’t help anything, but he wants to smack Steve until this is easier. He just— he doesn’t get this. Can’t figure out what the problem is.

“It would take just as long to drive you to your car as it would to just drive you,” Eddie says, cleaning up their half-assed breakfast of toast a cereal off the table. He doesn’t look back at Steve, wants to play this cool and nonchalant, and he just knows one look at the obstinate tilt of Steve’s chin will send him swinging. 

“I can walk,” he says, even though he really really can’t.

Eddie slams a dish into the sink. He’s almost surprised the bowl doesn’t shatter upon impact. He scrubs it, back to where Steve is stewing in silence.

He needs to figure this out. Why Steve is being so difficult, about staying here, about Eddie feeding him and driving him. He does the hardest thing he can think of, and asks, “why don’t you want me to take you to your appointment?”

He doesn’t turn around, just keeps scrubbing the dishes like this is a casual conversation over breakfast. Because it should be.

The silence drags him down, lasts long enough that Eddie doesn’t think Steve will answer at all.

“You shouldn’t have to,” Steve says.

Eddie thinks back – big house no parents – and wonders how long it’s been since someone did something for Steve without strings. He turns around, settles back into his seat and stares at Steve until he raises his eyes from the table.

Choosing his words carefully, he says, “I want to go with you,” Eddie says. “You saved my life—"

“But—” Eddie holds up a hand, and Steve stops, brows furrowed.

“You saved my life,” he repeats, meeting Steve’s eyes. “I’m gonna help you whether you like it or not.”

It’s not quite the whole truth, but Eddie’s not sure how to touch the way it feels like worms are writhing in his stomach when Steve’s out of his sight. How his shoulders only really relax when he knows exactly where Steve and Will both are.

Eddie bites his tongue on the too much of it all.

“Fine,” Steve says, still sullen, but he lets Eddie lead him to the van and drive him to his appointment.

It looks painful. Eddie holds his crossed ankles, to stop himself from leaping up and wrenching Steve away from the doctor’s ministrations.

By the end, Steve looks like he just got done with a basketball game, sweat dripping down his forehead, pits stained. If Eddie squints, he can almost see the uncomplicated jock of days past as they limp out of the hospital.

“You wanna go see Baby Byers?” Eddie asks.

“Please,” Steve says, slumping into the passenger seat like the princess he is.

Eddie drives, turning his music up loud enough to rattle their teeth just to see Steve smile.

Part 39

[spoonsand]

RIP RED DEAD CHARACTERS YOU WOULD HAVE LOVED

Dutch- disposable fruity flavoured (mango) vapes, Duolingo

Hosea- rollerblading, old VHS movies, The Sound of Music, ear studs, small hoops, and ear cuffs

Arthur- LED strip lights, therapy, The Joy of Painting

John- Ax body spray, deodorant, those little arm floaties little kids wear in the pool

Mary-Beth- Lego flowers, The Notebook, Pinterest

Tilly- Easter egg hunts, making slime, slumber parties

Karen- Tube/crop tops, jean shorts, weightlifting

Sean- make your own mead kits, TikTok, “kiss me in Irish”, SUNSCREEN

Abigail- AirTags (she would put one on little Jack), Roasting marshmallows, Crime shows/courtroom dramas, Man! I Feel like a woman! By Shania Twain

Uncle- recliner chairs, dog sledding, Wheel of Fortune, Crosswords

Susan- Dark nail polish, cats(I’m 100% sure she’d own either a black cat or a tortishell that would sit on her lap/shoulder), dishwashers

Kieran- Creep by Radiohead, Tv shows about veterinarians, friendship bracelets (with Arthur)

Reverend Swanson- Support groups, The Robert Langdon series (especially Inferno, Angels & Demons), communion wine

Javier- Cards Against Humanity, online sheet music, ear gauges

Molly- Champaign toast anything from bath and bodywork’s, naval AND lip piercing, SUNSCREEN

Bill-sexy firefighter calendars, Grindr, Bumbl, all the dating apps, apples dipped in caramel, jolly ranchers

Charles- IMessage games (mini golf and battleship in particular), those long distance ‘thinking of you bracelets’, 90’s sitcoms

Lenny- The Carpenters, cologne to make him seem grown up, head pats

Trelawney- Harry Houdini, 50-60s movies, smoke bombs, dramatic flares

Strauss- a soul, Nigerian Prince scams, telemarketing

Sadie- gyms, self defence classes, the free Britany movement

Micah- staying in the strawberry jail, toothbrush + paste, good posture

Pearson- small businesses, handmade gifts, trying TikTok recipes

EXTRA

Annabelle- Gwen Stefani, sequins, Fast and the Furious

Jack (young)- The Backyardagains, cocomelon, a little toy train

Jack (epilogue)- Monty Python, skateboarding, swimming

Bessie- Bette Midler look a like contests, growing old, brown eyeliner, SUNSCREEN

[that-trans-lad]

Wow you started transitioning at 13 ?! So before entirely figuring out your own sexual orientation … as someone who could have transitioned and who ended up being just a masculine adult dyke, someone who as a teenager had dysphoria (not strong enough that I actually wanted a penis tho) and dysmorphia that were linked to a poor mental health, this is where it get scary tbh. In many ways when medical transitioning happens too young it can be a form of conversion therapy without realising it. Changing body while young in a world where homosexuality is still judged negatively (if not worst) raises red flags at the medical staff letting it happen. I’m not saying you ultimately are anything else than happy right now, I’m saying people should not begin HRT nor have top surgery before they’re 18. I rejected my body so much back then (granted, many teens regardless of dysphoria experience that, which ppl tend to forget), I started loving it through the realisation that women could love it.

I’m hearing a lot of personal experience and not alot of actual facts. Here’s a fact for you 90% of people who transition young report increased life satisfaction with less then 1% regretting there transition let me repeat that for you LESS THEN 1% regret there transition. Do not assume a transition is instantaneous it is strenuous millions go through years of therapy to gain access to hormone therapy don’t get me started the hoops and bounds you jump through to obtain access to surgery.

I’m sorry you based your life on the love of others but that is not why people transition. And further more It is not scary you’re just misguided early recognition and support can truly salvage an extremely difficult life, aging into a body that does not match with who they are inside.

This is the comment that floors me because you wish to share your opinion but your uneducated on what being transgender even is, it’s like showing up to a debate about womans rights then your argument is that the grass is blue. Sexual orientation has nothing to do with why I transitioned? I transitioned for myself and not based on who else loved me but based on loving myself.

[rudyking]

Earrings:

Abby, you and JJ's eight-year-old daughter is set to have her ears pierced at the mall- much to JJ's chagrin.

“Are you sure about this?” JJ asked for what felt like the hundredth time since Abby had declared her burning desire for earrings last week. His blue eyes, usually sparkling with mischief, were clouded with a worry that was almost comical, if it wasn’t so genuinely JJ. Deep dimples punctuated his anxious frown.

“Positive, honey,” you said gently, squeezing his hand. “She’s been talking about it for months. It’s her birthday next week, remember? This is her big gift.”

“But… metal… in her ears?” He grimaced, as if the very concept was physically painful. “Like, we’re intentionally creating holes. What if they get infected? What if she’s allergic to the metal? What if she trips and the earring rips out?”

You chuckled, used to his dramatic, albeit loving, overreactions, especially when it came to Abby. “They use hypoallergenic studs, JJ. We’ll clean them religiously. And she’s not going to rip them out. She’s a pretty responsible eight-year-old.”

“Responsible for eight,” he muttered, unconvinced. “That’s still basically a tiny, unpredictable human. They do unpredictable things, Yn. Like decide to join the circus or shave their head or, you know, get holes punched into their delicate earlobes.”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “It’s hardly joining the circus, JJ. Millions of people have pierced ears. It’s practically a rite of passage.”

“Rite of passage into potential bleeding and fainting spells is what it sounds like,” he grumbled, but a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He was trying to be funny, even amidst his worry. That was JJ in a nutshell: humor and anxiety battling it out, with love always winning in the end.

You reached ‘Claire’s Accessories,’ a glittery explosion of pink and purple that seemed designed to lure in every child within a five-mile radius. Abby gasped, eyes wide with delight, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Mom! Dad! Look!” She pointed at the earring display, a dazzling array of studs and hoops. “Can I get the sparkly unicorns? Or maybe the little hearts? Ooh, or the rainbows!”

JJ paled visibly. “Rainbows? Are rainbows sharp? Do they have pointy bits? What if they poke her in the neck when she sleeps?”

You nudged him gently. “They’re studs, JJ. Studs. Not tiny swords.” To Abby, you smiled reassuringly. “You can pick whatever you like, sweetie. But let’s get your ears pierced first, okay? Then we can choose the earrings.”

Abby nodded eagerly and marched towards the counter where a young woman with brightly colored hair and multiple ear piercings smiled warmly. “Hi there! Ready for some new earrings?”

“Yes!” Abby chirped, practically bouncing on the spot.

JJ, however, looked like he was ready to bolt. He gripped your hand tighter, his knuckles white. “Right, so, uh, before we proceed with the… perforation… can we just, maybe, run through all the, you know, potential downsides?” he asked the young woman, his voice a little too high-pitched.

The woman blinked, a flicker of amusement in her eyes. “Downsides? Well, it might sting a little bit.”

“Sting? Just sting? Is that all? No risk of… exsanguination? Or, like, a sudden drop in blood pressure leading to… unconsciousness?” JJ’s sarcasm was definitely a defense mechanism, a shield against his genuine fear.

You squeezed his hand again, a silent ‘calm down’ message. The woman, bless her soul, remained unfazed. “It’s a very quick and simple procedure. We use a sterilized piercing gun, and it’s over in a second. We have numbing cream if you like.”

“Numbing cream – good, good, that’s a start,” JJ muttered, sounding like he was negotiating a hostage situation. “But what about… trauma? Psychological scarring? Will she need therapy after this? Are you trained in post-piercing emotional support?”

You could see the woman trying hard not to laugh. “Sir, it’s just an ear piercing. Kids get them done all the time. She’ll be fine.”

“‘Fine’ is subjective!” JJ exclaimed, his voice rising slightly. “What’s ��fine’ for you might be a catastrophic ear-related incident for my precious, delicate daughter!”

Abby, oblivious to the escalating parental drama, was now sitting in the designated piercing chair, looking around with wide-eyed curiosity. You knelt beside her, smoothing her hair. “Excited, sweetheart?”

“Yeah!” she beamed. “I’m gonna choose the unicorn ones right after!”

“That’s great, honey.” You glanced at JJ, who was now pacing nervously, muttering under his breath about tetanus and rogue germs. You shot him a look that said, ‘Get it together.’

He stopped pacing, took a deep breath, and walked over to Abby. He knelt beside her on the other side, his face etched with concern. “Abbs, peanut, listen to me. This is… a big step. A very big step. We’re talking about… altering your physical form. Permanently. Are you absolutely sure about this?”

Abby giggled. “Dad, it’s just earrings.”

“Just earrings?” JJ repeated incredulously. “These aren’t ‘just earrings,’ Abby. These are… portals. Entry points for… who knows what! Microscopic invaders! Fashion trends that you might regret in ten years! Earring weight-related earlobe sag in forty!”

You couldn't help but stifle a laugh. JJ was truly in his element – the element of utter, hilarious panic.

“Dad,” Abby said patiently, like she was the adult in this situation, “I want them. All my friends have them. And it’s gonna be fun!”

JJ looked at her, his expression softening. His protective instincts, usually bubbling just beneath the surface, were clearly overflowing. He reached out and took her hand, his big, calloused hand engulfing her small one.

“Okay, okay, peanut. If you’re sure, then I’m… supportive. Very, very supportive. I’m going to hold your hand, okay? For… moral support. For both of us.” He squeezed her hand tightly.

You watched him, your heart swelling with a mixture of amusement and affection. He was such a paradox, JJ. Rebellious and carefree on the outside, but fiercely loyal and desperately caring on the inside, especially when it came to Abby. His tough exterior crumbled instantly when it came to her well-being.

The woman cleaned Abby’s earlobes with an antiseptic wipe, marking the spots with a purple pen. Abby just giggled, unfazed. JJ, however, was sweating. You could see beads of perspiration forming on his forehead.

“Okay, deep breaths, everyone,” the woman said cheerfully. “Ready?”

Abby nodded, beaming. You gave her a thumbs up. JJ just stared, his eyes wide, his grip on Abby’s hand tightening to the point where her knuckles were probably turning white.

“On the count of three,” the woman said. “One… two…”

JJ squeezed his eyes shut so tightly his face scrunched up. He was paler than you’d ever seen him. You almost expected him to faint before Abby did.

“THREE!” There was a tiny ‘click’ sound, and Abby gasped, but it wasn’t a cry.

“Ow! That pinched!” she said, but her eyes were shining with excitement.

“Okay, one down! Just one more!” the woman said quickly, moving to the other ear.

JJ’s eyes were still squeezed shut, but he was muttering something under his breath, which sounded suspiciously like a prayer. “Please let it be over. Please let her be okay. Please, ear gods, spare my child…”

Another ‘click,’ and it was done.

Abby blinked, then grinned, touching her ears gingerly. “Wow! I did it!”

JJ’s eyes snapped open. He looked at Abby, then at her ears, then back at Abby, his expression shifting from abject terror to bewildered relief. He let out a long, shaky breath.

“You… you didn’t cry,” he said, sounding genuinely astonished. “You didn’t faint. You didn’t even bleed… profusely.”

Abby giggled again. “It wasn’t that bad, Dad! See? They look so cool!” She pointed proudly at the tiny sparkly studs in her ears.

JJ stared at them, as if trying to fathom the mechanics of how they got there without causing a major medical emergency. He reached out a finger hesitantly and gently touched one of the studs.

“Huh,” he said, still sounding slightly dazed. “Well, I’ll be… They’re actually… kinda cute.” Then, his protective instincts kicked back in, albeit in a slightly less panicked way. “Okay, new rules. No sleeping on your side. No touching them with dirty hands. No playing contact sports… actually, maybe no sports at all for a while. We need to sanitize them, like, every hour. And if they even look slightly red, we are going straight to the ER.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Relax, JJ. She’ll be fine. They look perfect, Abby.”

Abby grinned, beaming. “Thanks, Mom! Thanks, Dad! Can we get the unicorn earrings now?”

JJ, still slightly pale but visibly recovering, smiled at Abby, all traces of his earlier panic replaced by pure, unadulterated adoration. “Unicorns? Absolutely, peanut. Anything for my brave, ear-pierced superhero. But if those unicorns have pointy bits, we are having a serious discussion.”

As you all walked towards the earring display, Abby chattering excitedly about unicorns and rainbows, you caught JJ’s eye. He winked, his deep dimples flashing. “Scariest five minutes of my life,” he murmured, squeezing your hand. “But she was amazing. Just like her mom.”

You smiled, leaning into him. “She gets it from you, silly. The bravery, I mean. And maybe just a little bit of the drama.”

JJ chuckled, wrapping an arm around you and Abby both. “Hey, drama makes life interesting. And at least now I have a new thing to worry about. Earring-related injuries. Gotta keep life exciting, right?”

You just laughed again, knowing that beneath all the sarcasm and over-the-top anxieties, JJ’s heart was overflowing with love for his little girl, and that, more than anything, was truly beautiful, even if it was wrapped in layers of hilarious, protective panic. And as you watched Abby excitedly choosing her unicorn earrings, you knew that this was just the beginning of a whole new stage of JJ’s delightfully dramatic, and always loving, fatherhood.