#it rewired my neural pathways

[leclerc-apologist]

when I tell you this picture of max literally changed my life

[b-oredzoi]

Books I Read in 2023: Our Hideous Progeny by C.E McGill (@c-e-mcgill)

We had built here, in this half-ruined boat house on the edge of the Moray Firth, a temple to our own strange gods- to Chemistry and Anatomy and Electricity.

[padfootastic]

hello! i am back with yet another…thing. thank u for the tag @lovelymasks <3 (i realised, upon second reading, that this was supposed to be a sunday snippet but i’m an idiot n therefore this is now a saturday snippet mwuah)

I think you should go to a Healer, Sirius. 

Why, he’d asked, flippant. What was there to do with a Healer when you were a convict on the run? Besides, Sirius was wrong in a way that couldn’t be made right. He was past the point of return. Healers would’ve barely known what to do with him before Azkaban, let alone in the condition he was in now. 

Because you look like a stiff wind will blow you over, Harry’d answered, though the answering flippancy didn’t quite land the way he intended because what Sirius heard was ‘Because I don't want to lose anyone else.’ 

What Harry didn't say, and Sirius didn’t want to hear, was ‘Because I can’t lose another parent.’

He quietly acquiesced after that. The trembling, hopeful smile growing on his godson’s face was enough to wipe away all apprehensions after that. 

Until now, when Harry was at Hogwarts, and he was second guessing this whole business. 

Did he really need a Healer, like, really?

One look at the mirror in front of him gave him a solid, sturdy answer. 

He was dressed in his old rags and it was a testament to the conditions of Azkaban that clothes from when he was younger, before hitting his final growth spurts, were barely just fitting him now. Sirius’ back was almost constantly bent these days--all days spent curled up in a ball seemed to have reshaped his skeletal structure, who knew--each vertebrae gaining a distinct notch in the column of his skin. His stomach was a fascinating blend of too small and too bloated. He couldn’t keep anything down, but he wasn’t able to eat much either. A mystery for the ages. 

Less said about his face, the better. Sirius wasn’t vain, never had any reason to be, but there was a certain…pride he’d maintained, a level of outward appearance that was considered bare minimum for a Black, a conditioning he’d never managed to shake off. 

It was that conditioning itching at him now, turning him away from any reflective surface before he could see his distorted features, grotesque and inhuman, staring back at him. 

And ultimately, it was that, he realised with a shameful sort of guilt, that pushed him to see a Healer. Not his godson’s pleading look, not concern for his wellbeing--but leftovers from an upbringing that he hated, his mother’s words he couldn’t stop hearing, his father’s sharp commands. 

Ultimately, it was his blood that made him give in, as it always did. 

further tagging @jmagnabo92 @soopsiedaisies @groundzero-v 💜

[jadeandquartzes]

sorry that last prompt was. genuinely so much fun. alan ross, the fact that i haven't written a 9k E-rated character study of you yet is a testament to exactly how busy i've been in the past year and a half.

[joonipertree]

I literally said "Did you get the angst fucked out of you? Probably yeah"

one breath, without pause

because I went to therapy today where we're working on me feeling more attractive and its working but I realised that maybe getting laid might help

I realised i was a lot more sexually repressed than I thought I was

and I'm like 'huh'

a few orgasms (all by my lonesome) later and I'm like

'hUH'

anyways.....what character would ask u this after they fuck u real good?

[moonlightduelist]

like logically i understand and respect people who played veilguard and who have not played any other da game and also don’t want to like that’s completely normal. but emotionally i’m going to kill everyone who refuses to play origins and da2.

[bundaskifli]

the other day I discovered in real life that my neural pathways have been completely rewired to feel joy when i see a yellow coat and a red scarf

[satanicspinosaurus]

I'm so happy to see folks enjoying Bubbles! I've got a fondness for monitor lizards myself, and reptiles certainly can be very opinionated. Props to Crowbar for being able to portray just how sweet they can be. This is my first time trying to do a project this long, so it's being written carefully and more back-to-front. I gotta make Bubbles cute enough that it counterbalances all the shit I am doing to these two. I mean, it's all fluff. :) Don't worry about it.

Various modern AU sketches based on @satanicspinosaurus' WIP fic feat Bubbles the argus monitor

[hermajestyimher]

What’s been helping me regulate my emotions is learning to observe them from a detached perspective, rather than internalizing them as truth. When you’ve gone through trauma, your nervous system and the neural pathways in your brain can become completely uncalibrated, leading to irrational fears, PTSD, and hypervigilance. Sometimes even mundane events can trigger those responses because they echo past experiences that once activated your fight-or-flight mode.

By choosing to observe negative emotions as they arise, and viewing them as separate from who you are and from the outcome of your life, you take away their power. Whenever you feel rattled, take a few deep breaths and simply notice what you're feeling. Analyze it. And once you consciously realize that the fear, anxiety, or stress isn’t being triggered by an actual threat in the present moment, release it.

Do this as often as needed. Every time you do, you’re building new resilience muscles, and slowly, you're rewiring your mind for peace.

[pinkmoondoll9shihtzu]

For ppl genuinely interested in healing themselves mentally/emotionally:

One strategy i learned is that "You can't control your first thought but you Can control your second"

ie. If something goes wrong & your first thought is "I HATE MYSELF", try to catch it while its happening, then instead of letting it spiral You can respond to yourself like "Woahhh that was pretty mean! That's how I used to think when I was 14. That's very dramatic. I wouldn't bully someone into feeling that way about themselves. So doing it to myself is no exception. I was just frustrated when I said that, but i am actually Ok. I am not a bad person because something went wrong." etc etc

idk if it sounds dorky i'm just sharing cus with practice and cosistency its actually helped A LOT with self hating thoughts that had been on autopilot my entire teen and adult life. i read that having these little convos w yourself can rewire new neural pathways in ur brain. After some time of working on it i feel it's true. it does take some effort but if ur ever ready & willing to try, its never too late..

[princessaffirms]

hii!! first of all, i looove ur blog 💗 also, neuroscience is one of my options of professional path after i graduate my biology uni !! its so great to see fellow future scientists talking about shifting.

now, can i have ur opinion on this specific post? i would love to hear!!

https://www.tumblr.com/kurd1shangel/780124618910564352/shifting-is-essentially-a-conscious-transition?source=share

hii angel!! ₊˚⊹♡ thank you SO MUCH, it’s always exciting to connect with fellow science students who also explore the concept of shifting! 🥹🫶

neuroscience is SUCH an exciting and ever-expanding field to get into, especially if you’re interested in consciousness, perception, etc. (all super relevant to reality shifting)! there are SO MANY fascinating neuroscientific correlates to dive into, and you’ll have so much fun! 🤍

now let’s get into the post you sent!! <3

♡ QUICK NOTE: no ill intent at all to the original creator of the post i’ll be discussing! if their explanation resonates with them and supports their reality, that’s AMAZING, and i fully respect that. 🫶 this post just reflects my own interpretation based on both my neuroscience background and personal experiences. we’re all the operant power in our own realities, and i’m simply sharing the perspective that feels most true to me <3

　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.ੈ✧̣̇˳·˖

🍰✨ MY THOUGHTS ON THE POST

the post is partially grounded in neuroscience, but there are some nuances worth unpacking. it’s true that the brain can GENERATE immersive, vivid experiences (like dreams, hallucinations, guided meditation, deep states of hypnosis). these involve shifts in brainwave activity, such as entering theta (3.5-7.5 Hz) or delta (0.5-4Hz) states, which are associated with deep relaxation, sleep, and access to the subconscious.

Figure: Human brainwave types and associated states of consciousness. Gamma, beta, alpha, theta, and delta waves are shown with their typical frequency ranges and related mental functions (Muse, n.d.).

it’s also valid to say that the brain often doesn’t differentiate much between real and imagined stimuli. studies using fMRI (functional magnetic resonance imaging) have shown that when we VISUALIZE something intensely, the SAME brain regions light up as if we’re actually experiencing it. this is why visualization + repetition can rewire neural pathways over time, thanks to neuroplasticity, which is your brain’s ability to adapt and form new connections.

but personally, i believe that framing shifting as something purely generated by and confined to the brain, like with lucid dreaming or dissociation, misses something important: our CONSCIOUSNESS.

　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.ੈ✧̣̇˳·˖

🍨✨ LUCID DREAMING vs SHIFTING (my take)

lucid dreaming is typically bound to REM sleep, and while it’s powerful and fascinating, it’s still rooted in your current reality’s subconscious content (Voss et al., 2018). you’re AWARE that you’re DREAMING, and that awareness gives you control within the dream (like flying or changing the setting).

scientifically, lucid dreaming involves partial reactivation of the prefrontal cortex, which is responsible for things like self-awareness and logical thinking. these parts are usually inactive during normal dreams. but even then, you’re still in a SLEEP CYCLE, and the dream world is often unpredictable or shaped by memories, stress, and emotions from waking life.

shifting, on the other hand, is not just about becoming aware in a dream or hallucinating vividly. it’s a deliberate, conscious REDIRECTION of AWARENESS—you are choosing to focus your consciousness/soul (whatever you personally call it) into a specific, stable reality.

　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.ੈ✧̣̇˳·˖

🍨✨ SHIFTING = SUBJECTIVE REALITY SELECTION, not a vivid illusion

you’re not passively watching your subconscious play out a storyline. you’re INTENTIONALLY ALIGNING with a chosen identity, timeline, and experience. you’re not just imagining, you’re experiencing. and neurologically, your brain supports that process, but it DOESN’T DEFINE OR LIMIT it.

that’s part of why i see shifting as subjective reality selection, not merely a vivid illusion. you’re not “tricking” your brain or having it “convince” you that your reality is real. because reality is subjective. you create and experience your reality. i create and experience mine. your assumptions become your truth, and my assumptions become my truth. we can have different assumptions, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that one person’s assumption is “more true” than another’s.

　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.ੈ✧̣̇˳·˖

🍨✨ LOA DISCLAIMER

and of course, at the end of the day, whatever you assume to be true becomes truth in your subjective experience. shifting is deeply personal, and your interpretation matters. if a more brain-based explanation helps you feel safe and in control, that’s beautiful and valid!

but from my own reflections, lived experiences, and the scientific readings i’ve done, i don’t personally see shifting as just your brain making something up while your physical body lies still. to me, that still anchors your identity to the 3D body, as if it’s the only real “you.” you choose which version of reality to tune into, thought by thought, choice by choice.

so while the brain supports immersive experiences through concepts like brainwaves and neuroplasticity, i believe shifting goes BEYOND that. it’s not just simulation or illusion. it’s an intentional, conscious act of selecting a different version of reality to embody and experience.

　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.ੈ✧̣̇˳·˖

🍨✨ WANT TO EXPLORE SOME OF THESE CONCEPTS MORE IN DEPTH? CHECK OUT SOME OF MY RELEVANT BLOGS:

⤷ 🔗 can the brain distinguish between what is “real” (in the 3D) and what is imagined (in the 4D)?

⤷ 🔗 shifting is EFFORTLESS — and you’ve been doing it all along

　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.ੈ✧̣̇˳·˖

🍰✨ SOURCES

Muse. (n.d.). Human brainwaves [Infographic]. Muse. https://choosemuse.com/blogs/news/a-deep-dive-into-brainwaves-brainwave-frequencies-explained-2

Voss, U., Schermelleh-Engel, K., Windt, J., Frenzel, C., & Hobson, J. A. (2018). Measuring consciousness in dreams: The lucidity and consciousness in dreams scale. Frontiers in Psychology, 9, 2296. https://doi.org/10.3389/fpsyg.2018.02296

　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔　✦　　　.　. 　 ˚　.ੈ✧̣̇˳·˖

i hope this post provided an insightful perspective on this topic! i always love hearing other’s thoughts on loa/shifting concepts, and this was a really fascinating take to dive into!!

sending so much love and light <3

[jumping-jackalope]

it doesn't completely undo the self-doubt that burrowed into me at the formative age of 14 that maybe will never leave fully but it sure does help

really is special. to me. when friends tell you "we missed you there" when you're gone for something

[warchord]

my finished piece for @ygobigbang!!!!!!

based on trickbuster's fic, One of My Turns-- it actually rewired my iv related neural pathways i think. and check out laststrix's piece as well! they were both so awesome!!

i wish i could have dedicated more energy to this piece but alas. some scraps as a thanks for your time.

[badguyswin]

Rebel Rogue to Stormtrooper

For the anon that wanted a Han Solo to Stormtrooper TF!

The Imperial research facility on Dantooine was a fortress of cold precision, its subterranean chambers lit by the sterile glow of bioluminescent panels. In the heart of the complex, within a sealed laboratory pulsing with the hum of advanced machinery, Han Solo lay restrained on a sleek obsidian table. His wrists and ankles were bound by magnetic cuffs, his body wired with a network of electrodes and intravenous lines. The air was thick with the acrid scent of chemicals and the faint ozone tang of active circuitry. Above him, a massive neural reconditioner loomed, its array of emitters glowing with a sickly green light. This was Project Ascendant, the Empire’s audacious attempt to forge the ultimate soldier—a drone of unwavering loyalty, enhanced physicality, and controlled desire.

Dr. Varn Korr, the project’s lead scientist, stood at a control console, his fingers dancing across holoscreens displaying Han’s vital signs and neural activity. “Subject Solo,” he said, his voice clinical but laced with a hint of excitement, “your resistance is irrelevant. The procedure will make you a monument to the Empire’s vision.” Han’s eyes, still burning with defiance, flicked toward Korr. “Go to hell,” he spat, his voice hoarse but sharp. Inside, his mind raced—thoughts of Chewie, Leia, the Falcon, the Rebellion. He’d get out of this. He always did.

But the procedure had already begun.

The first phase targeted Han’s body. A series of micro-injectors embedded in the table pierced his skin, delivering a bioengineered serum—a volatile mix of nanites, growth hormones, and gene-editing compounds. The nanites swarmed his muscles, rewriting cellular structures to enhance density and strength. Han’s body convulsed as his lean smuggler’s frame began to change. His biceps swelled, veins bulging like cables under his skin. His chest broadened, pectorals straining against his white shirt. His legs, once wiry, thickened into pillars of raw power. Within minutes, his muscle mass had increased by thirty percent, his body sculpted into a form that rivaled the most elite Imperial commandos. His height remained unchanged, but his presence was now imposing, a weapon forged in flesh.

But the transformation went beyond strength. The serum included a facial reconstruction protocol, designed to erase Han Solo’s identity entirely. Nanites targeted his bone structure, subtly reshaping his jawline to a sharper, more symmetrical angle, enhancing its chiseled definition. His cheekbones lifted, becoming more pronounced, giving him an almost aristocratic handsomeness. His nose, once slightly crooked from a bar fight on Corellia, was straightened and refined. His skin smoothed, scars fading, leaving a flawless complexion that radiated idealized beauty. The face staring back from the reflective surface of a nearby monitor was no longer Han Solo’s—it was a stranger’s, classically handsome, a perfect mask for the Empire’s new weapon.

As the nanites worked, a sleek assistant droid, its limbs tipped with precision tools, approached. “Commencing cranial depilation,” it intoned in a flat monotone. Han’s head jerked against the restraints as the droid’s buzzing clippers descended. His dark, tousled hair—part of his roguish charm—fell in clumps to the floor, leaving his scalp bare and gleaming under the lab’s harsh lights. The droid applied a chemical sealant, ensuring the hair would never grow back, further stripping away his former identity. Han’s fingers twitched, his mind screaming. Not my hair, you bucket of bolts. But the act was symbolic, a final severing of the smuggler’s image.

The serum also targeted his endocrine system, amplifying his testosterone levels to unnatural heights. This wasn’t just for strength—it was a deliberate alteration to heighten his sex drive, a tool for control. The nanites rewired neural pathways linked to pleasure, ensuring that release could only occur on command from an Imperial officer. The result was a constant, gnawing arousal, a torment that pulsed through him like a second heartbeat. Han gritted his teeth as the sensation took hold, a primal urge he couldn’t shake. “What the hell are you doing to me?” he growled, his voice trembling with rage and something else—something he couldn’t name. His new face, handsome but alien, felt like a betrayal of his very self.

Korr’s assistant, a droid with a monotone voice, responded: “The serum enhances physical capability and enforces compliance through controlled dopamine release. You will serve the Empire with unmatched vigor.” Han’s mind recoiled, but his body betrayed him, muscles flexing involuntarily as the nanites completed their work.

The second phase was far crueler. The neural reconditioner activated, its emitters projecting electromagnetic pulses into Han’s brain, targeting his prefrontal cortex, amygdala, and hippocampus. The machine systematically dismantled his sense of self, burying memories of his life under a haze of distortion. The pulses didn’t erase them; they smothered them, overlaying new directives. The Empire was order. The Empire was purpose. The Empire was everything.

Han’s thoughts fought back, a maelstrom of defiance. I’m Han Solo. I don’t kneel to anyone. He clung to fragments—the Falcon’s cockpit, Chewie’s roar, Leia’s defiant glare. But each pulse sent a wave of euphoria, a false pleasure tied to Imperial loyalty. The first time he pictured the Emperor’s throne, a shiver of satisfaction ran through him, and he hated it. No, that’s not me. “Get out of my head!” he rasped, sweat beading on his newly sculpted face. His bald scalp gleamed, a stark reminder of his fading identity.

Korr leaned in, his voice almost soothing. “Resistance is futile, Solo. The procedure rewrites your neural architecture. Every rebellious thought will be rerouted to loyalty. Every desire will serve the Empire.” He increased the reconditioner’s intensity, and Han’s mind screamed as his memories fractured. The Rebellion became a vague chaos, a blight to be eradicated. Leia’s face blurred, replaced by the stark lines of an Imperial crest. The pleasure of serving the Empire felt… right. Natural.

The final stage imprinted a new identity: TK-417. The designation rooted itself in his psyche, a truth that overshadowed Han Solo. The smuggler was a relic, a shadow of disorder. TK-417 was the future—a perfect drone, his handsome face and muscular form a testament to Imperial perfection. The constant arousal, now a permanent undercurrent, was tied to this identity. Obedience promised relief, however fleeting. Disobedience brought only torment. As the procedure neared completion, Han’s thoughts grew ordered, mechanical. The Empire is order. I am TK-417. I will serve.

As the neural reconditioner powered down, the assistant droid approached once more, its arm now fitted with a precision tattooing tool. “Initiating permanent identification marking,” it stated. The droid’s needle hummed, piercing the skin of TK-417’s left pectoral muscle. Han’s body twitched, the pain sharp but fleeting, as the droid etched the code “TK-417” in bold, black Imperial script. The tattoo was deep, permanent, a brand declaring him property of the Empire. The sight of it, reflected in a nearby monitor, sealed the transformation. The last vestige of Han Solo recoiled at the mark, but TK-417 felt a surge of pride—the Empire’s claim on him was absolute, a badge of his purpose.

In the early stages, Han’s mind was a warzone. The physical changes were a violation—his muscles too heavy, his face unfamiliar, his scalp bare and cold. The tattoo on his chest burned, a constant reminder of his captivity. The arousal was a humiliating distraction, a need that clawed at his focus. I’m still me, he told himself, picturing the Falcon’s controls or Leia’s smirk. But the experimental serum still pumping through his veins made his body feel alien, too strong, too perfect. When he caught his reflection, the handsome stranger staring back unnerved him. That’s not my face. The loss of his hair and the tattoo on his chest felt like personal insults, stripping away his roguish identity.

By the third day, the reconditioner began to win. He’d think of the Rebellion and feel a programmed disgust, a betrayal of his core. No, I’m with them. But the pleasure of imagining Imperial victories was undeniable, a drug seeping into his thoughts. He saw himself in white armor, his new face hidden, his bald head encased in a helmet, the tattoo a mark of honor, and for a moment, it felt right. He shook it off, cursing Korr, the Empire and above all his own weakness. 

Those brief moments of clarity soon faded. By the fifth day, Han Solo was a ghost. TK-417 dominated, his thoughts a loop of devotion. The arousal was a leash, driving him to obey for the promise of release. The tattoo on his chest, once a source of rage, now felt like a badge of purpose. When Korr tested him, ordering him to recite Imperial doctrine, the words flowed effortlessly: “The Empire brings order. I am its instrument.” The pride in his voice, resonating from his perfect jawline, sickened the fading spark of Han, but it was buried deep.

When the procedure was complete, TK-417 was led to the facility’s armory, a cavernous chamber lined with racks of gleaming stormtrooper armor. His transformation was absolute—his physique a marvel of broad shoulders and chiseled muscles, the tattooed “TK-417” stark against his left pectoral. His face, now classically handsome, was a mask of Imperial ideals, his bald scalp a symbol of his erased past. The assistant droid guided him to a designated station where his personalized armor awaited, its white plastoid plates polished to a mirror sheen. The sight of it stirred something in TK-417—not a memory, but a programmed instinct. This was his purpose, his destiny.

As he began to don the armor, the process felt ritualistic, each piece a step deeper into his new identity. He started with the black bodysuit, its tight fabric clinging to his enhanced musculature, accentuating every curve and bulge. The sensation of the material against his skin sent a shiver through him, and the ever-present arousal surged, his body responding with a hard, throbbing intensity. The serum’s effects were relentless, tying his desire to acts of service. Dressing in the armor, becoming the Empire’s weapon, was an act of devotion, and it inflamed his need. He adjusted the bodysuit, his breath quickening, the tightness amplifying his arousal to a near-painful edge. Release was impossible without a command, leaving him in a state of perpetual, maddening want.

Next came the plastoid plates. TK-417 fastened the chest piece, the tattoo of his designation now hidden beneath the armor’s protective shell. The weight of it felt right, a physical manifestation of his loyalty. As he secured the pauldrons, greaves, and gauntlets, his movements were precise, mechanical, each click and snap reinforcing his purpose. The armor was an extension of the Empire, and encasing himself in it was an act of surrender to its will. His arousal intensified with every piece, his body trembling as he fought the urge to seek relief that would never come without permission. The sensation was exquisite torture, a reminder of his place as a tool of the Empire.

Finally, he lifted the helmet, its black eye lenses staring back like twin voids. As he lowered it over his bald scalp, the HUD flickered to life, feeding him tactical data and Imperial directives. The helmet sealed with a hiss, erasing his handsome features, leaving only the faceless visage of a stormtrooper. Inside, TK-417’s mind was a furnace of devotion, his arousal a constant hum that drove him to obey. He stood before a mirror, the reflection showing not Han Solo, but a perfect Imperial drone, ready to enforce order.

Captain Drex entered, his polished boots clicking on the floor. He inspected TK-417, his gaze lingering on the armored figure. “Impressive, TK-417,” he said, his voice laced with sadistic amusement. “You’re a fine specimen of the Empire’s vision.” He stepped closer, his presence commanding. “Kneel.” TK-417 dropped to one knee, his armor clanking softly, his arousal spiking at the command. The promise of release was a beacon, but Drex only smirked. “Not yet. Prove your worth on the battlefield.”

As TK-417 boarded a shuttle for his first mission, his thoughts were a hymn to the Empire. I will make the galaxy kneel. The armor, still warm against his skin, felt like a second skin, each movement stoking the fire of his desire. The tattoo beneath his chest plate was a silent vow, a mark of ownership. The spark of Han Solo flickered faintly, stirred by a distant Rebel transmission mentioning a Wookiee and a princess, but it was too weak to matter. TK-417 marched forward, a mindless drone, his enhanced body a weapon, his desires a chain, his tattooed mark and gleaming armor a testament to his purpose—the Empire’s alone.

[hanasnx]

branding.

MINORS DNI 18+ NOTES: jet is aged up if that wasn't already obvious | credit to @xstarkillerx for helping develop this idea as well as giving me the branding with his hook specifically idea WARNINGS: branding | consensual burning and temperature play | less about suggestive and sexual content and more about psychological exploration.

JET has a branding kink. The brain has a funny way of twisting trauma into pleasure, rewiring neural pathways to take control of horrible circumstances and painful memories. Jet’s past with the fire nation and losing everything he knew in one fell swoop meant his mind was forever scarred by fire and what it’s capable of. It bleeds into his sex life whether he's aware of its connection or not.

You lay pliant on his bed of furs, naked and waiting as his large hand strokes down your back, the calluses of his fingertips dragging across and catching on your skin. You prickle with anticipation as he takes his sweet time priming you, his expression especially grim as he takes in the sights of your smooth flesh. It dips when he applies pressure, and bounces back when he eases. Supple and young, as curvaceous as a shapely hillside, virgin skin that you offer up to him.

In the firelight you've never looked more beautiful. Ethereal and quiet, obeying his desires and using your precious body to do it. Guilt creeps up from below his stomach, his sacral chakra clouded by what he's about to do to you. He doesn't care, hovering his right-handed hook into the hearth. The fire licks at the end, encompassing it with its warmth, and its every brushstroke paints the metal gold.

His nails dig into you, scraping down to groove temporary marks, and your whimper quirks his brow. "Can you handle it this time?" he asks, his voice low and kind.

"Mhm." you insist with a nod, your head resting on your piled arms. "Promise, chief, I can handle it." He drags his bottom lip through his teeth

The weight of the metal weighs his arm as he swings it over. The sheer heat radiates off it, as if a little heartbeat pulses the air around it, sunning your back as it nears. "I'm gonna hold you down." he warns, preparing you for his grip on the base of your neck, pinning you to the furs as the air gets hotter and hotter. "Breathe." You do as he says, sucking in a breath until the hook kisses your shoulder blade in a searing hot pain. Squeezing your eyes shut, a squeal is ripped from your throat, crying out over the unimaginable pain. Jet faithfully holds you down, stamping that brand on you for seconds but it felt much longer to you. Tears well and spill just as quickly as they came, your toes curl and flex, anything to release some energy. "Almost... almost, my love, be strong." he coaches you, but it does nothing to quell your expected reaction. Seconds feels like minutes and he releases you, dropping the hook into a bucket of water that splashes over the edge.

Much like the air from before, that little heartbeat has transferred to your shoulder blade, pulsing the pain throughout your body as the heat is trapped inside you. As you cry and writhe, Jet does what he knows to soothe you, running assuaging palms up and down the rest of your body, sensationalizing you with pleasant tingles while you fight your own wound to touch it. Every time you get close, your fingertips brushing the brand, your flinch, causing yourself more pain even though you're trying to comfort it with soft pressure.

Sobs wrack through you, and Jet marvels you proudly. "Now you're a real Freedom Fighter, forever." The shape of his hook gracing your once-virgin skin, and he eyes it hungrily. That burn in his chest is satiated for a little bit longer, until the next time.

[gallifreyinstituteforlearning]

Do Time Lords deal with depression? If yes, how?

Do Time Lords deal with depression? If yes, how?

Short answer: Yes, because they have brains, and brains are complicated. But how they deal with it is a little trickier to unpack—both biologically and culturally, and we've got to ask a few basic questions first:

❓ Why Isn't It Highlighted on Gallifrey?

Gallifrey's culture emphasises intellect, tradition, and practicality, which means emotional and mental health don't really get the attention they deserve. Depression and similar conditions are likely under-recognised or even stigmatised. That said, Gallifreyans are a highly advanced species, so some potential fascinating coping methods may exist:

💡 Possible Gallifreyan Approaches to Depression

🧠 Self-Neural Rewiring: Gallifreyans can reroute their own neural pathways. This means a Time Lord feeling overwhelmed could, in theory, redirect those negative thought patterns or reconfigure the parts of their brain responsible for mood regulation. Like cognitive behavioural therapy but with a manual override.

🍌 Food: Gallifreyans are sensitive to food chemicals. They might instinctively crave foods that contain positive amino acids like tyrosine, which boost neurotransmitters like dopamine and serotonin. Some example foods include poultry, seeds, and bananas.

🌟 Psionic Emotional Support: In theory, Gallifreyans could 'latch onto' the emotions of others, borrowing a bit of happiness or comfort through telepathic connections. This could explain why some Time Lords surround themselves with humans.

🚀 Support from Their TARDIS: A symbiotically-linked TARDIS provides emotional stability. As sentient beings, TARDISes intuitively understand their pilot's mental state. They might offer subtle psionic nudges or provide a calming atmosphere through environmental adjustments.

💊 Specialised Medications (or Not): Gallifreyans might have their own medications for mood disorders, though it's more likely they rely on their natural neural and psionic capabilities instead. Human antidepressants would probably be ineffective—or potentially dangerous—due to Gallifreyan biology. (For a detailed breakdown, see our earlier post: Can Gallifreyans Take Human Antidepressants? in the related section below).

🔍 What's the Real Answer?

As much as we love theorising, the truth is that depression probably isn't openly discussed on Gallifrey. It's a society that prioritises logic over emotions, which may leave those struggling to cope feeling isolated. That said, Gallifreyans are incredibly resilient beings.

🏫 So ...

While Gallifrey may not have an obviously established cultural framework for mental health care, Gallifreyans still potentially have unique ways to manage their emotional well-being. They might find solace in their TARDIS for long periods, by surrounding themselves with bright-eyed, adventurous companions, or maybe by consuming bananas … Hold on a moment—why does this sound oddly familiar? 🤔

Related:

💬|🥗💊Can Gallifreyans take human antidepressants?: Exploring the effect of antidepressants.

💬|♾️🧠Can Time Lords have bipolar disorder?: How bipolar disorder might manifest in Gallifreyans and coping mechanisms/treatments.

🤔|🥗😆Why is my Gallifreyan a little bit giggly today?

Hope that helped! 😃

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