#not a metaphor for trauma okay?

[lilkitten156]

i have a little head canon that after the end of arcane, jinx decides to grow her hair out again. It takes a long time to grow, and it never gets to be as long and unwieldy as it was.  She lets the memories walk beside her, not grabbing at her heels or blocking her path. This time, her braids do not seem to weigh her down. 

[notyetaghost]

What exactly am i hiding

Besides my true self

I believe there's something 

Rotten and dead deep within me

So i paint my flesh pure white

So you cant see the decay

I am dead, i am a monster

I'm an innocent prized lamb

I hide on the outside waiting

For my pale to break

There is nothing more unholy

That the sinner that lies within

I pray at the altars

Ask of the priests to save me from sin

There is a mask they cannot break

There is an evil within

I offer myself for slaughter

Like a virgin sacrifice

There is nothing pure

There is nothing clean

For I  am drenched in sin

I appear a pure lamb

I am a rotten creature

Please just let me in

[aceghostsarchive]

OC Moodboard: Rooney Shepard + 👻 (Ghost)

Requested by: @cassietrn

[Send Me an Symbol for a Moodboard]

[wizardofarles]

Assume the Worst

I brought a suitcase to your apartment

But it’s always in the way.

You ask—Why don’t you unpack it?

I told you, you can stay.

There’s no room for my suitcase

In a room full of you.

You beg me to unpack it

And finally I do.

Just a few items first,

Something every few days.

I’m terrified of each new thing

Scaring you away.

You promise it won’t.

You want to see more.

In my excitement I spill the innards

All over your floor.

You stare at the blood soaking into the boards

And the next thing I know you’ve fled out the door.

What was I supposed to think

When I found you puking up your guts into the kitchen sink?

I didn’t know you’d caught a bug.

How on earth could I have known?

All I knew was you’d left me

To clean it up on my own.

After, you tell me

You need some time

To process your anger

And heal from mine.

If I’m always going

To be this way

It’s not easy for you

To let me stay.

So you ask me to leave

And take my suitcase too

Because a room full of my suitcase

Has no room for you.

[gxlden-angels]

"I TRY TO REMEMBER THE WRATH OF THE DEVIL WAS ALSO GIVEN HIM BY GOD"

- Mitski, Bug Like An Angel

[milkyspine]

— get out

[scribefindegil]

Mob comes home. 

(AKA, What if I wrote a Post-Mogami fic that was SO tender)

[faggotryandtransjesterism]

i somehow managed to live my whole life without absorbing the plot of carrie before i watched it, which was super awesome except that i was very unprepared to watch a movie that was accidentally about my mother tonight

[undermostcorgi]

very quick and not quite my best but yesterday was kind of osiris's bday? so heres some strange sad (slightly erotic??) art of him based loosely on some vent art i made a while back :) i like to put this boy in situations. if you couldn't tell

[grison-in-space]

also I am grudgingly having to admit that it is at this point just fucking easier to use she and they interchangeably as far as pronouns go, based on the reactions I get when I don't bother to specify and then people flutter around and worry about it.

goddammit I'm going to have to actually interrogate my public identity label set. I hate that. hate having to figure out how to position myself formally in Discourse but I mean, if I'm gonna work in sex differences--currently a big part of my work--that kind of does need to be something I think about. augh.

[thefirstvessel]

I have always believed the House to be a metaphor for trauma and I've always believed that Navidson surviving at the end is him finally coming to terms with Delial and his role in it and being able to finally move on in life in a healthy way.

Yes, he's irreparably changed and not necessarily for the better, but he's finally able to not be held down by his past anymore.

[brain-bumbler]

Thoughts on Bob mentoring Dion?

I really love Dion rofl

I love him too, he's a great character!

At first it sounds like a bit of trouble, Dion is grumpy, I don't think bob would handle a teenager well, but looking deeper I see a lot of potential!

Bob is also grumpy after all, and I think that whole "cocoon of anger to keep people from hurting me" thing is SUPER relatable to Dion

I think Bob and him would at first be awkward but as long as they fall into a rhythm of "tending garden without saying a word" Dion could get used to this kind of therapy.

No one here is pushing him to talk about his feelings, god forbid. He just digs in the dirt and rips up weeds and that's as close to punching something as he's allowed to get.

"Uh, Bob, don't you think mentoring should include more... mentoring?"

Bob smiles. "Give it time. Give him time."

And slowly, without encroaching on Bob's space, Dion's little corner of the garden takes on such an efficient organizational method that Bob adopts some of it for his own garden.

I'm thinking of Dion and Bob working on opposite sides of the greenhouse, and with nothing to focus on by the ground and plants and his own thoughts, Dion just- starts to cry. It comes out of nowhere and he's horrified, embarrassed- but it also feels like such a relief. He looks around to make sure Bob didn't see (Bob is psychic, he knows, but also knows the boy doesn't want attention right now) and finishes his work and hurries off. Processing trauma is like that sometimes.

He's not good with words. But he insists on trying to grow raspberries no matter how many times he fails, and he learns to handle things more gently. He gives his mom fresh veggies to cook with, and he asks Raz to bring him books on some type of psychic plant, and a fresh potted daisy shows up in Frazie's room.

Once the little plant has been given something stable to hold on to, it grows up straight and tall and starts to blossom.

When Bob is sick, one week- alcoholism is a bitch to kick- he comes back and his garden has been carefully tended. The plants tell him they were well cared for, his vines curly happily to see him.

Dion pretends he doesn't know what Bob is talking about. Bob gives him nice terra cotta pots for his new flowering succulents. Dion paints all eight with white and blue stripes and insists they all be kept together in a group, especially the smallest one in the middle.

anyway I like it! : D Bob is a good guy I think they could make it work! If Dion got herbaphony, he'd be bringing Gisu potted flowers because he's like "I can hear them and they didn't want me to rip them up i hope this is okay", and she thinks he's so cute it's worth lugging around a big pot all day.

[diamondnokouzai]

Presentando a Silya Vess, my new D&D character. She's a wild magic sorcerer who flunked out of wizarding school after accidentally casting fireball at field day. An eternal optimist who has a not-so-sunny outlook on hersel. Having flunked out of wizarding school and long been lovingly called a klutzy dolt for her entire life, Silya Vess is currently on her own quest to find what, exactly, divides sorcerous magic from wizarding magic.

[theveryworstthing]

7th Headless Haunting: The Invisible Woman

A ghost's appearance can change over time depending on the emotional connection to their former lives. This change is involuntary and inconsistent. For some, their form shifts to mirror the cause of their death, or emphasizes some other lasting trauma. Others shift into a metaphorical representation of how they view themselves. But most just look like their living forms until time makes the details slip away. Because if there's no one left to remember them properly, and they can't really remember themselves, that can trigger a disconnection from their physical past. This disconnect causes the "sheet ghost" effect, as the soul loses the shape of its previous container.

It's a sad thing, catching a glimpse of a soul losing their face. But that's part of the cycle of life and death. Everything changes. Everything fades.

Sometimes that fading is even done on purpose.

Morgan doesn't call herself Morgan anymore because she doesn't want to metaphysically dox herself.

Through the efforts of the most annoying woman she's ever met, she's become one of the most famous ghosts in the south. She did not ask for this, she does not want it, and every day she wonders how she could have possibly been charmed into a barely 3 week relationship by someone she had to politely ask to stop making tictoks in the crystal shop constantly. It was easy to blame grief and depression for the drastic lowering of standards but still. Good lord.

She realized her mistake pretty quickly, but then "Luna's" roommate supposedly kicked her out with no warning and a sick cat named Quartz. And past!Morgan, who vividly remembered how much being homeless sucked, didn't want her out on the street.

(Okay, mostly she didn't want Quartz out on the street. He was goofy and sweet and the knowledge that she liked him way more than her new girlfriend made her feel guilty.)

This was a mistake.

She opened her home to them. Payed for emergency cat surgery. Dealt with arguments over filming in the house and random strangers coming over for "guided group spiritual exploration" sessions that she wasn't allowed to be in the room for because Luna was "working". Scrubbed Luna's essential oil covered bare ass marks off of her kitchen counters. And in return, she got this woman inviting something into her home.

One night while Luna was out with friends, it came into Morgan's bedroom and left her head on the other side of the house.

She never figured out exactly what got her, but the dark twisted shape made sure to find her terrified spirit before it left, and she could feel its irritation as it inspected her. She wasn't the right target. Luna owed a dept that she probably didn't even comprehend to something very pissed off.

All this would have been bad enough, but none of it was really worth being a ghost about. She'd had worse relationships, and since grandma was gone, almost all of her loved ones were dead anyway, so she really should have left.

But what about Quartz?

 She was the one handling all of his post operative care, and after watching Luna forget time after time to feed him or give him his meds or even really pay attention to him when he wasn't serving as a cuddly toy to cry on or an aesthetic set piece for videos, she decided to hang around until he was either stable or dead.

Which is how she found out about the haunted house tours.

Luna had been doing this for a while. It seems that every place she had ever lived was "haunted" and she made sure that the internet knew about all the trials and tribulations of being so spiritually gifted in a world filled with such trauma laden souls. She'd been kicked out of her last place for having a pretend spectral affair with her former roommate's dead best friend, and when she moved it didn't take a day for her to "sense something..." and start secretly profiting off of made up shit about Morgan's grandmother.

But now that Morgan was dead she had a goldmine on her hands. The gory, violent, locked room mystery death of a fairly attractive woman wearing nothing but a low cut night gown was already pretty good, but add in the lesbian romance, Morgan's family history, and the fact that Luna's True Love had recently Saved her from an Abusive Environment and Certain Homelessness? Well, that's money baby.

Morgan's friends, bless 'em, had stopped Luna from livestreaming the funeral, and got as many pictures of her body taken down as they could.

Sadly, the fundraiser to purchase her family home for "spiritual conservation" was successful.

She had no idea that her following was that big.

She really should have checked.

Anyway.

Because of Luna she's spent the last 8 years being stalked by the living. Strangers pay to sleep in her bed and record the ambient noises of her room hoping she'll show up and talk to them. They buy books made of private poetry stolen from her journals. They demonize her dead family members and speculate on horrific abuse that didn't happen because "if you pay attention to how she dressed/read between the lines in her writing, there are clues she had serious daddy issues".

Recently, there was a shitty romance novel published based on her death, implying that whatever killed her was simply mad with lust and wanted to make her his dark bride in hell.

Yes "his". Her proxy was straight in that one.

And way slimmer.

That's a reoccurring thing that she tries not to think about too hard.

But the point is that all this mess keeps her from moving on. She just... can't. She spends all her time trying to sabotage Luna's grift as best she can. She exposes all the little tricks Luna uses during her seances to show she's not talking to anyone. She actively keeps other spirits away from the house just in case any of the ghost hunting gear people haul into her living room actually works (it doesn't but better safe that sorry). She never speaks just in case a recording picks something up and she's thrown away chunks of identifying features like her face and most of her tattoos so that if she is spotted, she's harder to identify.

She's spent years staging the most intensive anti-haunting she possibly can.

Quartz died 6 months ago and walked right past the entrance to the rainbow bridge to settle in her lap, just like old times. He tries to lead her away from the house a lot. Into the sunrise, towards her grandma's loud bright laughter and the bustling sounds of a family reunion in full swing.

She wants to follow him so badly.

She just.

Can't.

[clockwayswrites]

Birdritch... something. I hurt so much. It's some number. You'll figure it out. You're smart, darlings.

masterpost over on @clockwaysadmin

Danny stayed at the back, trailing after the rambunctious flock of Waynes as they made their way behind the stage and to the other, hidden side of the theater. It made Danny smile, to see the family bumping shoulders, teasing, and laughing with each other.

His life in Gotham was something that Danny loved. He’d clawed it out from the proverbial grave of his death and everything that came with it: nearly failing high school, his failing health after, the trauma it left him with, the relationship with his parents he left behind. But he’d gotten to the surface. He got his Bachelors and Masters and PHD. He got a job that he traded for another and another until he rose up to where he worked at an amazing company and got mostly left alone to dream up new ways to make the world better.

Danny loved it.

But that didn’t mean that Danny didn’t miss the close friendships that (metaphorically and physically), Danny had moved away from to achieve what he had. Visiting Jazz and Taylor, Sam and her brood, or Tucker and his partners wasn’t the same as living with them close. He missed what the Waynes had with an ache so deep that he had to push it aside so that it didn’t swallow him whole.

“Cass!”

Tim calling his sister’s name shook Danny out of his rumination. He found a little out of the way spot of wall to lean against between some boxes and rolls of scenery.

“You were amazing, darling,” Bruce said as he leaned in to kiss Cass’ cheek.

Bruce handed over the bouquet of white roses and babies-breath that he had brought from where it had been stored in the sitting room. Cass basically buried her face in the flowers and inhaled.

“For real, little sis, your moves were amazing. You have to show me how you hold some of those poses so still,” Dick said.

“As if you could stay still,” Barbara teased with a well placed poke to Dick’s side that made him squeak and move defensively behind Cass.

“Pretty sure she beats you in flexibility now too, dickhead,” Jason said.

“It is okay, love you still,” Cass said in her soft tone. She pulled out one of the roses from the mass of flowers and tucked it behind Dick’s ear.

Dick looked momentarily torn if he should be insulted or fond, though fond quickly won out and he pressed a little kiss to the top of Cass’ head. It seemed to be a signal, somehow, and suddenly all of the family was talking to Cass or to each other. The fatigue was starting to pull too heavily on Danny for him to make out most of the chatter, so he simply closed his eyes and let the happy voices wash over him.

There was a gentle pressure on his arm. Danny blinked his eyes open to a worried Cass, dark brows furrowed above the dramatic white and glitter of her stage make up. Danny smiled, though he knew it probably looked a little drawn.

“Hello, Cass,” Danny signed.

The furrow between the bows only grew as she signed. “You okay?”

“Okay. Tired,” Danny replied before he gave up to talking verbally. The sleep clouded his mind about signs right then. He really would have to practice. “I’m just a little out of sorts, but I’m very glad I came. Thank you for inviting me. You danced absolutely wonderfully. I don’t know much about ballet, but even I could see how skilled you are.”

“Thank you. I am glad you came. Could have not,” she said.

“Of course I had to come, you invited me and it’s an important night for you. It should be!” Danny made himself stand up away from the wall and put a bit more energy into his smile. “I’m fine, really, fatigue just gets me sometimes.”

Cass turned his frown away from Danny and directed it at her father.

“I already talked Danny into letting us give him a ride home,” Bruce replied.

“I really would be fine,” Danny couldn’t help but argue. “I’ve made it home in worse states than this.”

“Oddly enough,” Jason interjected, “you really aren’t helping your case.”

Danny couldn’t do anything else but give an unrepentant little shrug to that. He probably wasn’t, but it was true. Besides, he had already agreed to the ride, not that he felt he had much choice. It was too easy to be swept along by the Waynes.

Barbara may be right that they did absorb people.

[peachsukii]

A rage room is the last place Bakugo ever thought he’d end up with you.

When you bring up the idea to him after seeing one online, he scoffs at the thought of it. Working out and training is more than enough for him to let off metaphorical steam, and he’s been seeing a therapist since senior year of UA. He doesn’t need to smash shit to feel something.

At least, that’s what he thought.

Bakugo agrees to go with you, begrudgingly at first, but ultimately to keep you company, he doesn’t want you to hurt yourself or be alone. There were only two rules: No quirk usage and no harming others in the room, everything else is fair game. You both sign the waivers and gear up to head inside. The room is overwhelming at first, full to the brim of freshly smash-able objects - a broken down car with the doors barely on their hinges, light bulbs, glass jars of all sizes, old stop lights, and other breakable trinkets.

“Start smashin’, sweets. It ain’t gonna break itself,” Bakugo jokes, patting you on the back to let you take the first swing. You pick up the bat the facility has supplied and turn to face him, setting it on your shoulder like a sword.

“You’re not gonna try it?”

He’s here and suited up, might as well let loose. What’s the worst that could happen?

Bakugo swings the bat a few times around the room, adrenaline trickling through his veins as glass continuously shatters around him. Suddenly, he’s lost in thought and caught in a slow emotional build up, like an ocean’s tide retreating before the giant swell of waves begin to crash against the shore. Memories begin flooding to the forefront of his mind, things he’d worked through in therapy - anger, frustration, fear, guilt, coursing through him. Bakugo doesn’t notice when you lower your bat, watching him curiously as he starts swinging harder, viciously picking up the pace and breathing heavily with each passing hit.

“Kats, you alright?” You call - he doesn’t hear you in his tunnel visioned state. In between swings, you can see the bat quaking in his grip as if it’s too heavy to hold.

“Katsuki!” you try again with no response. Bakugo sounds like he’s about to have a panic attack with the way his breath is labored. You toss your bat to the floor and rush over to him, gently grabbing at his shoulder to get his attention. He flinches at your touch, shaken up by his sudden visceral reaction with a tinge of embarrassment, hiding his face from you by tucking it against his opposite shoulder.

“Breathe, babe,” you sooth, rubbing calming circles in between his shoulder blades. “Do you need a minute?”

“I—” Bakugo stutters, his throat strained by his effort to hold in the onslaught of tears threatening to spill over his cheeks. He clears his throat and bites his lip in a desperate attempt to stop his emotions from overflowing, but he loses the battle.

“We can stop if—”

He snatches your breath away when Bakugo swings around and pulls you into his chest, burrowing his face in the crook of your neck awkwardly. The protective goggles are becoming foggy and wet with discarded tears, a hiccup strangled in his throat. One of your hands slides tenderly against his nape, fingers entangled with the soft blonde strands while the other lays against his back.

"It's okay, I've got you. It's just you and me here."

Turns out smashing shit gave him an outlet he didn’t know he needed. His therapist has preached to him about bodies holding onto stress and trauma throughout our lives - Bakugo thought it was utter bullshit.

He was proven dreadfully wrong. But one things for sure, he’s sincerely grateful you knew him better than himself, how badly he needed this release without verbalizing it.