#Dislocation Complex

[clarissaexplainingitall]

you know my usual rule is no pets i can't reliably physically grab and lift in cases of emergency but i am also like constantly just staring with heart eyes at larger parrots. maybe someday. greys and conures are just simply so smart and so cool.

[karmaphone]

bruh I know it's a severely understudied group of disorders but I really wish the language for differentiating between the types of eds was clearer

[idekkkjja]

u should sooo do a bully Giselle x reader fic but like it’s not for me duh🙇‍♀️

Belong to me,,🫀⋆ ࣪.

۶ৎ Chapped bruises painted all over your aching body, maroon trickling down from the barely opened pores and your lungs clutching onto the oxygen painfully. The state, as she boasts about so proudly to brainwashed others, claiming an ownership on your very soul. Restricted to nothing but dreadful days of facing her unpredictability at school.

Heads-up: English not my first language so there’s gonna be mistakes, please correct me on them! Very very toxic, read it if you want to. Violence obviously, blood involved, and cursing. Small mentions of masturbation, and this it went downhill at the end wtf.. plus this isn’t proofreaded (for now!) and there’s smut at the end but guys im still new to it please it’s not great at all. And Giselle is just so.. 🤤🤤🤤 can’t resist for her to be a lil crazy.

(I can do headcanons for this Giselle if yall want btw or whatever)

一 Numb to the pain coursing throughout your unfortunate body, a toy to her wrath and pleasure twisted into ‘love’ she softly whispers in private; the pain soothed by the ruined lipstick as she plasters them all over, a physical embodiment of bandages that you plead for.

Hidden beneath the thin layers yet discreetly transparent of your wrinkled uniform, you fixed your collar briefly and continued strolling with the unsynchronised crowds in the cramped hallways. Shoved against others’ unsuspecting selves, you let out a muffled grunt in annoyance and forcefully strode amidst them, rarely determined to get to your safe space.

Away from everyone, away from them.

Cursing under your breath, you slid in the opened doors, into a library reversed for tranquil stillness, with an exception of the old pages of books scraping against each other in a calming rhythm. Most don’t bother giving a visit in the school’s library, it was far too empty despite your friends’ pity attempt to fill up the space. (You only had 3).

But you prefer it like this, fewer people meaning no anxiety knotting painfully in your stomach, a nagging voice alarming you that what they could do to you if given the chance.

Less of a problem now, in the past, others have tried to make you their mocking punching bag. However, it flew right back at their face because of Giselle who forbade anybody else to lay a finger on you or comment anything malicious about you.

Somebody daring to talk shit about you behind your (scarred) back? They better get ready for their nudes to be posted on a porn website if they didn’t get on their knees to you.

Somebody ‘accidentally’ bumping a little too hard against your shoulder? Next day, an inconvenience occurred leading to their shoulder being dislocated.

Somebody flirting with you openly or secretly? Either way, Giselle would find out. And when she does, there’s no point wondering why the person doesn’t dare to glance your way anymore.

Alone on the circular tables at the back, effectively distancing yourself physically as much as you can from everyone, your eyes stared at the repetitive letters on the wrinkled papers—your mind completely elsewhere.

Dried bruises pigmented on your skin, last night aching brutally that dreams had no distraction available to you. Peeling them off wasn’t an option today; too fresh, too raw, relating to your feelings very much for someone.

It was complex, a lengthy puzzle impossible to entangle within months and months on end, and the prize wasn’t worth the struggle. You weren’t obvious with it, those feelings were reduced to nothing but filth used at sleepless nights to get you off.

You were dirty, a very dirty slut behind those ridiculously thick-frame glasses aching your poor, reddish ears, the shy interior. Not in the way of being a slut outside school, no, unsurprisingly you were a humble (that's what you always say to your friends) virgin. Desperately enough, the used toys and such messily arranged in the back of your closet says otherwise.

Who could blame you? Being attention deprived did wonders to a person!

Foolishly so, even in instances where Giselle shoves you roughly around, manhandles you, or beats you up for sick entertainment—you did get turned on.

Subconsciously in stress, you scratched your hair, the messy thin strands fell loose on your forehead. Getting off your chair, you lazily slacked your bag on your shoulder and limped out, leaving the book hanging behind, forgotten because of your racing thoughts.

It was lunch, a time where everybody adores, prays for it to come nearby: but it was different for you, very different. Frantically, your eyes searched across the crowds full of familiar yet blurry faces to recognise where your friends lay by, you couldn't find any sign of them.

With a heavy, defeated suspire, hanging by your lips, you dragged yourself to go on a search for them.

Cafeteria, checked.

Nearly all of the extended and endless halls of the school, checked.

Some of the classrooms, checked.

Needless to say, you were exhausted, your knees buckling slightly.

Then, the highlight of your miserable days shone in the spotlight; Giselle. And her loyal sidekicks. Acting upon your impulse, you sharply turned to the opposite direction, praying to the skies that she would not spot you.

"Ah, my bitch's here, hm?" Your day could not get any worse.

Defences—the paper-thin walls constructed carefully around you—were ripped apart cruelly by that girl the second fate destined the two of you. It was the unfortunate inevitable, bound to occur almost daily: it’s either she beats you up to the ground, leaving week-lasting bruises on every surface of your skin or an entertaining prank orchestrated mainly by her lackeys to humiliate you for days or even years.

So, you had nothing. Nothing. Teachers? They simply did not care except if it involves their beloved salary, and Giselle’s father funding the school made matters worse.

Fair play wasn’t your thing.

Your parents? No point, they were worse themselves, ignoring you completely and belittling every single thing you utter or do.

Both home and school weren’t comforting. You had nowhere to go to, no real solitary.

Slowly, your eyes met with hers, awaiting a response provoked by her taunting.

You couldn’t say anything; you wanted to, to break this vicious cycle of this pathetic life you’re tied to—the will had no benefits to you, no defending could help, no slim chance. Too much disadvantages, you knew that, everybody knew.

Without waiting any further, her hand clamped onto your wrist, yanking you closer; her hot breath ghosting your ear teasingly. “You’re being a mute little thing now today, aren’t you? How sad.” She whispered breathlessly, her thumb pressing against your pulse within the visible veins displaying on your wrist like the roots to your heart.

“I don’t know,” you murmured meekly, shrinking yourself by your stiff demeanour.

Giselle only smiled in response, grinning, her teeth showing. Usually smiles are a sign of happiness, one’s smile would be used to bring positivity to the other they’re showing to.

But her’s—they were terrifying, the opposite, a bad sign.

“I know why you’re so quiet, out of guilt, right?” Her nails dug deep in your skin, awakening new crimson lines. She was subtle in her words in public, playing with confusing riddles that an English teacher cannot decipher fully, so how could you?

You were confused.

What did you do wrong this time?

“You know what you did.” Insisting roughly; she tugged on your wrist to emphasise her point yet it didn’t serve its purpose, overwhelming you instead.

To sobs.

Tears involuntarily pricked in your eyes, you didn’t want to cry, you didn’t know why you were crying now. It would create no sympathy for you, just mockery.

“You’re crying out of guilt now, aren’t you?” Unfazed by the teary display, Giselle stared, unblinking with the eerie smile remaining.

She didn’t glance at anybody else, staring only, seeing you break apart so satisfyingly in front of her brought a twisted pleasure tugging her insides.

Travelling down to your hand, her hand embraced it tightly, too tightly that your complexion paled from before. “Don’t follow me,” Giselle chirped at the other girls—her lackeys who watched giggling and not intervening nor protesting, simply abiding her actions. Subtly agreeing, wishing that they were her.

Everybody wishes they’re Giselle.

Through the hallways, she dragged you, letting you tumble forward in sync with her footsteps as she found a secluded area: nobody around to witness what she will do.

Inside, she ushers you inside and slams the door shut, the sound booming in the tight space signalling your devastating fate. Her smile was long gone, being replaced by an empty calm washing over her relaxed features, a contrast to her actions when she shoved you down to the dusty floor where you belonged.

“You’re guilty, tell me what you’re guilty of.” A small gasp choked out of your clenched throat when her hand found your cheeks, squeezing it and muffling your noises.

You don’t know what you’re guilty of.

“Giselle, I-I don’t know.” You repeated yourself from earlier, affirming how clueless you really are.

Disappointed, she let out a low tsk and threw your head against the floor, unconcerned by your state as always. Her posture straightened, she stared you down, continuing the prolonged and agonising eye contact as her shoe presses down your neck, nuzzling against your windpipe letting the air turn into a privilege instead of a basic necessity.

“I’ve heard you’re dating someone.” Finally, Giselle states the information she sucked out of someone forcefully from a week ago roughly; it has been nagging her for days now.

You? With someone else? Cannot be in her eyes.

“Are you dating someone? If so, you better fuckin’ tell me.” A defeated cry responded instinctively, her shoe crushing a little harder now making it impossible to mutter a no.

Noticing ever so slightly, she decided for once not to let her fury control her actions so she drew her shoe away before kicking your neck a little at the new mark blooming.

“No… no,” you chanted desperately, as if trying to convince yourself rather Giselle.

Doubt flickered in her eyes, she stilled. “If you dare to lie to me, especially about this, I’ll break your neck.” Shouting was much preferred than her blurting the threat with no visible emotion lacing her hoarse voice.

She crouched down, caressing your hair and letting her long fingers entangle in your messy locks. “Did it hurt?” Obviously, the pain burned cruelly.

Pain always reminded you of Giselle.

No response, she expected it and gently tilted your head to meet her eyes again. God, she would never admit it—but she adored your eyes, too much even so. Specifically if glazed with restrained tears because of her.

“Whoever made that little rumour about you… will pay, it made me so angry when I found out. You didn’t reply to my calls or messages when you were away from school for a week. A week. You can’t blame me for thinking the worst.” Giselle ranted on, her hands cupping your rosey, warm cheeks due to the flu still lingering within you.

Scoffing, she looked away gingerly. “Don’t do that again, you… you made me so worr- mad.”

“I wouldn’t.” Reassurance from you was all she needed, her body eases into relief and her knees fell to the ground.

Her lips slowly brushed against yours for comfort, melting into your broken body as she held you up as if she was your saviour arriving at the scene of rescue.

Even if she was the villain all along.

Hesitantly, she pulled away, her forehead touching yours. “Let me do all the work, maybe making up for being a little mean from earlier, hm?” You tensed, this was your first time being so close to a sexual contact with an individual.

You were a loser, an inexperienced clumsy loser. “I-I, I’m a virgin, Giselle.” Embarrassingly you confessed and she didn’t seem bothered.

She was excited, the possessive monster provoked by the mere fact you were untouched before her.

“Can I be your first, please?” This was the first time ever she uttered those words, and it was to ask for your virginity.

You had to say yes, it was Giselle! After all those long sleepless nights shamelessly moaning her name when you neared an orgasm, you could experience her true touch.

“Yes, yes, yes please.” Babbling out so desperately, your voice cracked amidst the pleading.

Giselle glanced around, she shifted herself closer, her body covering yours and pressed her finger against your lips. “Be quiet baby.”

Unprovoked, she kissed you again and slipped her hand underneath your shirt, the coldness of it made you shiver as her fingers trailed up to your breast and massaged teasingly slow.

Trailing down mouth-opened kisses against your jaw, she nipped on your neck and collarbones and sucked hard creating hickeys, branding you as hers. The soft moans eliciting from your parted lips caused some unrecognisable emotions stirring in her, she clasped her palm on your lips, effectively silencing you.

“Today, I’m going to pleasure you.” She breathed out shakily, her hands ripping through your leggings revealing your soaking underwear where she shoved it aside to see her prize.

Humming approvingly, she grinned at the sight and traced her fingers on your leaking cunt, rubbing circles on it with her thumb making you adorably squeak and jolt in surprise.

“Shh, it might hurt at first… but you endured worse, didn’t you y/n?” Whispers of bittersweet reassurance stuck by your side temporarily as her slender, cold finger slid inside you quite easily because of how wet you were.

A startled moan echoed through the storage room, she pressed her free hand harder to suppress the upcoming more.

“Quiet, quiet.. be quiet for me, wouldn’t you, baby?” The use of the rare nickname usually reserved for taunting you had another side to it, the side that let your thighs tremble.

Fascinated, admiration seeped through her tone with her gaze fixated deeply onto you—like how deep her finger was in you, letting the pace go slow (for now) to let you be comfortable with the sudden intrusion.

“Another finger, you can handle another one for me, okay?” Giselle snuck in one more, her dreamy eyes silently forcing you to keep an eye contact with her despite how dazed you were, how unbearable the burning sensation was.

You could barely do this.

“Just like that, baby.. take me, take my fingers.” She practically moaned in your ear, mimicking yours, wishing to use a strap instead on you. Not caring if you were an inexperienced loser.

“Mhf.. Giselle…” you attempted to coordinate words together, managing to say her name at the end.

It turned her on more if that was possible.

Jamming in and out a little more roughly; she savoured your muffled gasps and moans, the way your chest heaves in struggle, and the way it was because of her. Your uncontrollably tremulous hands sought solace, your nails clawing her back as your leg sprawled wide for easier access.

“Just like that baby, take me like this..” she breathes out, inching closer and closer to the pending orgasm she was so eager to witness.

When your back arched, your clenched pussy convulsing around her fingers, black dots scattering in your blurry vision from tears welling up, Giselle hastily removed her hand and swallowed your cries in a rough and sloppy kiss when white liquid trickled down her hands.

“Mhm, good girl. You’re my pretty good girl,” she patted you, breathless by the whole encounter when you’re not even recovering and cleaned her fingers up by sucking it, enjoying the new taste.

“Yes..” out of it, you simply complied. Like always.

Pleased, Giselle nodded, fixing your clothes and tugging your skirt down. “I’ll bring you a new pair from my locker, one second.” She stood up, dropping her blazer on you to cover what was hers and opened the door carefully before exiting quietly.

You don’t know what you got yourself into.

[crippled-peeper]

you: my limbs don't work

also you: bitch on tumblr and supposedly planted "millions" of plants and cleaned up acres of land

you sound like a HEDSer who says shit like “I literally DISLOCATED my entire SPINE!!!” but apparently can’t comprehend concepts like, “spinal cord injuries can be complex and at any level”, and “paved trails exist”, and “spastic paralysis and nerve injury present a multitude of ways” and “the city bus is $2”

[cripplecharacters]

Okay so. Follow-up to my ask abt disability and sex. I have a character who wears knee braces to help with both pain and frequent dislocation issues, and I'm not sure if he'd leave them on during sex? I'm both sexually inexperienced and fortunate enough to have knees that stay where they're supposed to, so I'm not entirely sure if dislocation is a risk. I assume it would depend on the position, so are there any positions that would be most comfortable for him/any that would be an absolute no? Any that would be okay with the braces but not without?

Hello!

There's a few things to consider here.

First: What kinds of braces do they use?

Some braces are more comfortable than others. For example, simple fabric braces can probably stay on without too much discomfort but a more complex brace that has metal, Velcro, clips, etc. probably wouldn't be as comfortable.

Even the fabric braces -- depending on where they are and what kind of movements your character is doing -- can become uncomfortable and chafe if there's a lot of sweating and movement going on.

If dislocation is an issue for your character generally, then sex could definitely make it worse. There are methods/strategies to reduce the risk of dislocations and other injuries, however.

For example, some people will use pillows to prop themselves up into more comfortable positions. This helps to provide more support and take some of the weight/strain off of their joints.

Another method they could use is adjusting their position so that they aren't putting strain on sensitive/affected joints.

For instance, a character who has a lot of problems with their wrists may choose to brace themselves with their elbows instead of their palms.

If your character's knees are a problem for them, they would want to avoid positions that put the strain on them. Positions where they're seated, laying down on their back or side, or otherwise reclined would be good. Positions where they're on their knees, standing up, or having their legs stretched/extended for long periods of time should be avoided.

There are some positions that could work if they have the right supports. For example, being on their hands and knees could work if they have pillows under their chest/stomach to help take the weight off their knees.

Depending on what disability your character has and what other symptoms (if any) that they experience, you may benefit from looking into tips for those with hypermobility, Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (EDS), and other joint-related conditions. Even if the symptoms don't match up fully with your character's experiences, you may still find them helpful.

Cheers,

~ Mod Icarus

[mcyt-skin-poll]

SmallishBeans (Limited Life[Life Series])

Propaganda: hes so.... ough... yk

Creaking BigB (Wild Life[Life Series])

Propaganda: 1.The grey and orange is SUCH a good combo. The glowing eyes? The exposed ribs? The moss growing out of his body? A truly iconic horror-adjacent look.? Also it ties in so thematically with his creaking forest base this season, plus he's really leaning in to the whole incomprehensible cryptid energy that he likes to bring to the series. Overall 10/10 all the fanart of this look ends up being the coolest thing you've ever seen and it works so well both from a design standpoint and in connection with his character and vibes.

2.Genuinely this skin captures the essence of all BigB was in that season. A creature of the woods. He dislocated himself from the group, and got consumed by the pale forest. ALSO THAT CREAKING SKIN IS AWESOME. It perfectly combines aspects of his normal skin with the creaking mob, making him creepy but recognizable.

LDShadowlady (Empires s1)

Propaganda: the blues especially on the legs are complex and pretty canonically, 10ft tall

[moonlightmornings]

hannah's buddie fic recs || pt. 4 💫

sooo i kinda lied when i said this part would be love languages edition... HAH (still plan on it lol)

anyway... as always, if you're the author of one of these please reply and i'll tag your tumblr! and check the tags and warnings before reading!!

<- PART THREE: hannah's buddie fic recs

let it rain by @bluflamingo | 4.4k words | general Buck's having a bad day, working without Eddie, and that's before it starts raining.

implications by buckleys_girl911 | 4.5k words | teen+ Buck and Eddie have decided to take things slow. The first time Buck invites Eddie in, he rips his shirt open, and it sends him right back to the day of the shooting.

hold you through it by sunseekerr | 3.1k words | NR Eddie always sleeps on the couch at the firehouse, and Buck finally figures out why.... Buck helps Eddie through nightmares.

through his eyes by babytown | 7.1k words | explicit Buck hasn't been touching Eddie, leading him to believe that Buck is no longer attracted to him due to his appearance. Buck sets the record straight.

gimme something (strong enough) by taegyungie | 3.2k words | explicit Even with the house to themselves, the door is closed; Eddie, Buck, and a lit joint passed between them.

assured by @cathcer1984 | 8.9k words | teen+ Buck turns up in Texas when Chris and Eddie need him.

in new york (you can try new things) by lilacbarnes | 13.2k words | explicit Buck and Eddie go to New York for a firefighting conference and learn a few things about each other in the process.

whatever he's doing, it looks good on you by bright_was_here | 7.5k words | NR The one where Buck and Eddie take a guys trip to Nashville and, being surrounded by country music and nostalgia, they're both forced to address their feelings.

where forever lies by @marviless | 30.9k words | teen+ Christopher has a request: to be back in LA in time for Christmas. Eddie drives sixteen-hundred miles to make it happen (and of course, Buck comes along too).

a left at the graveyard (i'm driving past ghosts) by bucksprideflag | 36.0k words | general Margaret Buckley dies, and Buck tries to navigate grief, develops a complex relationship with apple pie, while Eddie, as always, is there.

nap trapped by paleredheadinascifi | 3.5k words | teen+ Buck wears his pink cardigan and Eddie nap traps him about it.

the place where the light enters by theheartbelieves | 14.0k words | explicit Buck struggles with the lingering side effects of being struck by lightning, Eddie struggles to deal with Buck's death, somewhere in the middle, they find a new equilibrium.

under pressure by @gayhoediaz (brewrosemilk) | 22.2k words | explicit Buck and Eddie have grand plans for their first time, it's just unfortunate that their bodies don't seem to be getting the message.

wish i could help by @mickeysmyheart | 4.1k words | mature Eddie dislocates his shoulder and is in a sling for a couple weeks. Buck goes above and beyond to help him with anything he needs— anything.

why didn't you stop me? by @mickeysmyheart | 23.7 k words | explicit Buck moves in with Eddie when his loft burns down but what happens when Eddie’s sister comes to stay with them and thinks that they’re dating?

maybe we'll make something by @doeeyeseddie (farfromthstars) | 76.1k words | explicit On a road trip with Christopher, Buck and Eddie finally work through their various traumas, and Eddie faces his parents again.

-> PART FIVE: hannah's buddie fic recs

[bonefall]

do you have any tips for writing a low empathy character who isn't evil? Or how to make an interesting apathetic character who's a thoughtless sort of evil? These are two different chatacters btw-

I tried looking up examples and stuff but uh. It's been a bit fruitless.

Honestly it's not too hard! Having low empathy just means we're bad at automatically "connecting" to the feelings of other people. You can come to understand it's not even a character flaw once you uncouple the idea that Empathy = Kindness. And apathy, well, that one's a bit more complicated imo.

Low Empathy

In English, it's just unfortunately super common to conflate Empathy and Compassion. To have compassion is to be aware of the suffering of another person, and ergo, want to help stop it. To be empathetic is to identify with and understand the feelings of another person. These are different things.

For an example in action; imagine a medic with a patient whose shoulder is dislocated, and xey'll need to pop that arm back in place in order for the patient to feel better.

A medic feeling EMPATHY for that patient is having an emotional response to what xey're seeing. Xey might have a tingly "ghost pain" thinking about the injury, and xey might feel guilty xey're going to put them in more agony, but also joy because this patient is going to feel much better in just a moment.

A medic feeling COMPASSION for that patient is thinking about how the shoulder must be causing a lot of pain, and knows xey have the skill to fix it. Xey know from xeir own experience that pain sucks and so it is a bad thing that needs to go away. It will hurt a little more for a moment, but then there will be immediate relief.

This is imo, why a lot of low empathy people are "bad at" comforting people without going to Autism College where they give you the scripts of Shit Neurotypicals Say. We're not trying to be selfish when we end up making "comfort sessions" about ourselves-- that's what we think empathy is, because we don't have a lot of it to really know what you want.

Like, doesn't it make sense to you? "I don't know what you're feeling. Here's a similar situation I've been though. I must know what you're feeling-- does that make you feel better? That you aren't alone? I think that's what empathy is, am I right?"

A LOT of low empathy people go into medical fields, the funeral industry, and disaster relief. We often really do want to help people so seek these fields out, or when we get there, just end up not getting burnt out like our high-empathy peers!

Apathy

As for the apathetic character, honestly, I'd suggest thinking about your story's themes. Villains are very special to me and I always try to handle them with care. What are you trying to say is bad to not care about in your work? How does their apathy play into the story you're trying to tell?

A Captain Planet villain is completely selfish, and exists only to benefit itself by exploiting nature in some way. Then the Planeteers show up and punch it in the face. Boiled down to its barest, most simple essentials; "We have conflicting goals and so I will stop you."

Personally I find total apathy to be something not especially compelling in villains, for that reason. Like, if you really don't care about anything, why bother with the trouble of going against the protag? Motivation is meant to be MOTIVATING.

(also ngl I'm on the Shadow As A Hero sort of bandwagon where I find it much funnier for the simple apathetic cool edgy guy to be the funniest person on your tennis team)

Dungeon Meshi has TWO characters who struggle with apathy, and are both antagonists at some points in the story, but never villains. Shuro and Mithrun. The theme of Dungeon Meshi is the beauty and complexity of life, the value of living, and how our connections to others changes the people we are. Food is a metaphor for bonding, self-care, and understanding.

For Shuro, he begins the story as someone who's both been encouraged to bottle up his emotions for the sake of other people, as well as to not actually consider the emotions of those lower-born than him. He's from a very different place than the other members of his party, and this causes friction as class, culture, and sophisticated, refined, weapons-grade autism clashes.

When the woman he loves is eaten by a dragon, he doesn't stop to tell her brother and """childhood friend""" what he's planning, as if they both wouldn't run in and get hurt. He owns demi-humans. He doesn't consider his own needs or the needs of his rescue team of loyal vassals. As a result, he's too weak to continue, losing a fistfight with one of the main characters, Laios.

After this, he connects with him for the very first time, and reaches out to him by giving him an important magic item. There's even a MASSIVE moment where he outright tells Laios that his ability to be so open (read: not have to mask his autism) is something he envies, breaking through that veil of apathy he wears.

The story Dungeon Meshi is telling here is that it is important to value the needs of yourself and of others. Shuro's apathy towards his own needs in a bid to prove his love weakened him. In acting like he was above his old teammates, he never spoke to them like people to smooth out his issues. He's never even noticed how much his vassals love and care for him.

(and the incredible irony is not lost on me, that Shuro's name is because Laios mispronounced it and was never corrected... while Shuro never noticed that Izutsumi had the unwanted name "Asebi" forced onto her when she was "taken in" and made his slave.)

See how that comes back to the theme? Shuro doesn't exist to just "be some asshole" or act like a villain. He has a full character arc that contributes to the narrative.

For Mithrun? I won't even spoil it. Go read Dungeon Meshi. Watch elf depression. We love a king with strabismus.

Anyway,

If you ever need good personal resources on any stigmatized mental condition, I've found it's usually productive to go into the #Actually (Thing) tag here on Tumblr. You can find people posting about basically anything. I found a lot of really good resources on NPD that way.

[theelegantmentalist]

What's something you and Senku absolutely CANNOT agree on no matter how many times it's debated?

Ah~ now this is a juicy one. ✨

The thing Senku and I absolutely, cosmically cannot agree on? Magic, astrology, and tarot. You know..the fun stuff!

To me, a little mystery, a little intuition, a little “The cards told me you were going to ruin your knees today, darling”never hurt anyone. I mean, the drama, the symbolism, the aesthetic! Have you seen how good I look in candlelight shuffling a tarot deck? It’s a performance and a vibe.

But Senku? Oh no. He hears “astrology” and immediately launches into a twelve minute rant about “confirmation bias” and “celestial bodies having no measurable impact on human personality.” I told him Mercury was in retrograde once and he scoffed so hard he almost dislocated something. I say he’s just mad the cards keep calling him out. And if believing in planetary chaos makes me “illogical,” well good! I’m a mentalist, darling. My job isn’t to explain the mystery, it’s to sell it.

He once called my tarot reading “statistical improv with flair.” I call his lab coat “a potato sack with a god complex,” but do you hear me complaining? (Yes. Frequently.)

He says magic is just science we don’t understand yet. I say some of us enjoy a little sparkle with our existential dread.

So no, we do not agree. He’s logic and math. I’m vibes and moon phases. And somehow, it works. But that won’t stop me from slipping a tarot card into his coat pocket every now and then. Just to keep him guessing.

Now excuse me while I pull a card to see if this argument will end in kissing or more yelling.

[camficdiner]

[1.3]

[2.11]

[3.1]

[4.3]

You’re the best 😘

☕️ Cam’s Fic Diner — Order 045

🍒 Thank you so much for your order — for trusting me with tenderness, tension, and a boy who never stopped trying. I loved every heartbeat of this one. Hope it made you feel something soft. 💌

🍰 Tips keep the diner open: ko-fi.com/camficdiner

💬 “It’s not your job to fall for me.”

✨ Description and prompts:

 character: Luke Hughes

 prompt: you’re the surgeon who operates on Luke after a shoulder injury; he begs you to handle his rehab

 word count: 2k

 type: slow burn, fluff, age gap, forbidden romance, emotional recovery

🍒✨🛼🧁

You hear the hush of sliding ER doors before you see them — the Hughes brothers. You know them, of course. Everyone does. But today, Luke isn’t the grinning baby brother in viral interviews or the explosive defenseman on highlight reels. Today, he’s pale, lips pressed tight to hide the pain, shoulder braced awkwardly, the swagger traded for silent fear. Jack walks beside him with tension in every step, and Quinn follows a step behind, jaw clenched, unreadable. Big brother mode activated.

You glance at the intake sheet again. Dislocated shoulder. MRI-confirmed labrum tear. Surgical candidate. Your patient.

You clear your throat and step forward.

“Luke Hughes?”

He looks up, and it hits you — he’s just a kid. Tall, yes. Famous, sure. But in this moment, his eyes are glassy with pain and worry. He nods silently.

“I’m Dr. [Your Last Name], orthopedic trauma and sports surgery. I’ll be the one taking care of you today.”

His brow lifts, surprised. “Wait — you’re the one doing the surgery?”

“I am.” You offer him a small smile, warm but professional. “You’ll be fine. We’ll get you through this.”

You watch him look back at Jack and Quinn, then at you. “And you’re sure it’ll… be okay?”

You nod, stepping closer. “I’ve done this more times than I can count. And I’ll be there the whole time. You just focus on getting better.”

He swallows hard, biting the inside of his cheek. Jack squeezes his good shoulder. Quinn nods once — a silent thank you, or maybe a warning not to mess it up.

⸻

The operating room is cold. Bright. The kind of sterile stillness you’ve come to master.

You scrub in, gown up, mask on. The damage is more complex than you hoped — but not beyond you. The tear is deep, the tissue stubborn. It takes focus. Precision. Patience. But hours later, as you make the final suture, you know it: the repair is clean. Solid. Beautiful.

He’ll skate again. He’ll heal.

⸻

When he blinks awake, groggy and blinking against the light, you’re already beside him.

“Hey,” you murmur, checking his IV, then his vitals. “Welcome back.”

He groans faintly, then winces. “Hurts.”

“It will, for a while. But you did great. The surgery went perfectly.”

His eyes flutter, then focus on you. “You stayed?”

You glance at your watch, smile soft. “Just wanted to make sure my work held up.”

He chuckles — a hoarse, sleepy sound. “Still gotta rehab.”

“Yeah,” you nod. “You’ll be cleared in a few weeks. Then the physical therapy starts. I’ll be passing you off to one of our best rehab specialists.”

He frowns, but says nothing.

You don’t comment on the way he keeps glancing at you as you make notes on his chart. You don’t mention how his hand twitches, like he almost wants to reach for you.

Professional lines, after all.

But something shifted. You both felt it.

Wait—someone else?” he asks, his voice raw from sleep, eyes blinking up at you with something close to panic.

You straighten, clipboard pressed against your chest. “Our rehab team will assign one of the sports physio specialists. You’ll be in good hands.”

He looks away, jaw tightening. “I want you.”

You blink. “Luke, that’s not—”

“I trust you,” he cuts in, sharp and honest. “You were there before I went under. You were there when I woke up. You fixed me. I don’t want to start over with someone else.”

You hesitate, lips parting. It’s not protocol. It’s not wise. You know better.

But then the brothers show up.

Jack is the first to speak. “He doesn’t trust easily. He’s stubborn, yeah, but scared, too.”

Quinn adds quietly, “You’ve been the one thing steady in this whole thing. Just… think about it.”

So you do. Against your own rules, against policy, against everything you’ve practiced your whole career — you agree.

⸻

Rehab begins.

You stay professional. Notes, measurements, stretches. Exercises, pain management, rest periods. Over and over.

You see him fail. See his frustration when his arm trembles under light resistance. See him shut down when the pain returns. You watch the flicker of self-doubt in a boy who usually skates like the ice is his.

But you also see something else. Every time you touch his wrist to adjust his form, every time you meet his eyes across the therapy room mirror — he softens.

Something blooms. Quietly. Unsaid. But very real.

And it terrifies you.

Because you know better.

Because he’s younger.

Because he’s your patient.

But it doesn’t stop him.

⸻

A month later, his movement is fluid again. His strength is back. You log it in your file, check the final boxes. He’s ready.

And maybe that’s why he says it — because this is the end.

You’re collecting bands and rolling towels when he speaks.

“I think I’m falling for you.”

You freeze. Your hands still on the strap in your palm, your heart somewhere in your throat.

“I know I shouldn’t,” he says quickly. “I know you’re older. I know you’re my doctor. I know it’s wrong. But I can’t help it.”

You inhale slowly, turn toward him.

His cheeks are flushed — not from exertion. From confession.

You speak carefully. “Luke… you don’t love me. You love what I represent. I gave you hope when you were scared. I helped you move again. I’m not someone you know. I’m someone you depended on.”

He steps forward, but you lift a hand to stop him.

“You’re a kid,” you whisper. “You needed someone to believe in. That’s all this is.”

He swallows, eyes glassy. But he nods, just once.

You pick up your bag, your coat, your chart.

And you leave.

—

The sun is dipping low over the Hawaiian horizon, casting golden light over the surf and your bare legs. It should be peaceful. It should be enough. And yet, you haven’t stopped thinking about him.

You try. God, you try.

You walk barefoot through the markets. You drink from coconuts. You dive into waves and stay under as long as you can — like distance and saltwater might wash him off your skin.

But then your work phone buzzes.

An emergency contact.

You shouldn’t even be checking it. You’re on permit. You’re off the grid.

But something makes you swipe.

“Hey. I know you’re on leave… but Hughes is here again. Concussion. Pretty severe. I thought you should know.”

You don’t remember dropping your drink. You don’t remember how fast you ran barefoot off the sand, salt drying on your skin.

Hours later, the fluorescent lights sting your eyes as you push through the ER doors of the hospital back on the mainland. Still damp hair. Still sun on your shoulders. But your heart is already somewhere else — curled around the idea of him.

You find him in Observation Room 3.

He’s lying on the cot. Vitals are being monitored. His skin is warm with residual fever. Groggy. Bleary. His pupils respond, but slow. Classic post-concussion symptoms.

But he’s alive.

You breathe for the first time.

“Luke,” you whisper, voice tight.

He turns toward you sluggishly, blinking. “…Doc?”

You sit beside him carefully. His hand is cold, even in the overheated room. You take it gently, thumb brushing his knuckles.

“You’re okay,” you whisper. “You’re stable. The scans look good. Just rest.”

He blinks again. “You came.”

“I always come,” you murmur, then stop yourself.

But he smiles — doped up, hazy, and honest. “I never stopped thinking about you.”

You freeze.

“Even when I was on the road. On the ice. Every time I pushed my body, I thought about you helping me take that first step again.”

You swallow, heart thudding in your chest.

“I know it’s wrong,” he continues, voice slower now, softer, “but I want you. Still. Always.”

You should tell him it’s the medication. The haze. The fever.

But it’s not.

Not really.

Because you’ve spent months missing the boy who fought to move again. The boy who trusted you with his broken pieces. The boy who waited — even when you left.

So you lean in, careful and slow, and press your lips to his — soft, featherlight, the barest promise on his mouth.

“I want you too,” you whisper. “Even if it’s wrong.”

His fingers curl around yours.

And for the first time, it doesn’t feel wrong at all.

[distant--shadow]

WIP of The Witch and the Widow, chapter 10

admittedly, the sip of water Imogen had offered before laudna just had to bring attention to her scars had not quite quenched her thirst- 

(it hadn't at all). 

to reach the glass she would have to wake Imogen; Imogen with her long lashes brushing her freckles, a crease that waxes and wanes over her brow, a hum that swells and turns like a foot on gravel in her throat, fitful in exhaustion induced sleep between Laudna and the obnoxiously ostentatious cup.

like glass cut by diamond could transmute the water in the chalice. like they do not all drink from the same well. 

like the intentions of a human’s hands could craft a design more sublime than the complexities that form its organics

tea is nice. nature grows tea. humans learned to steep it in water. the rivers swelled and the seas surged and the earth boiled and bubbled, made a broth of botany and bone. 

all that has happened is intervention. all history is is intervention, meddling, manipulating. 

she had awoken wanting for tea. for that she would have to ring the bell - she could perhaps pull the rope without stirring Imogen, but it would feel wrong to break the privacy of her ungloved hands that she had offered her surely not more than an hour ago 

she offered it surely. she can live without the tea. she has been living off of her own tinctures that she had brewed with foresight for such very instances.

interventions

she never quite figured out a flavour that fully covered the acrid burn that lingers towards her tonsils

least she wasn't awake to taste it, so what does it matter? 

what if Imogen would need to be drip-fed such tinctures in the future? 

if she stays-

her hand is still in Laudna’s; she reached out surely in sleep, surely guided by sleeping logic, her fingers clasping around weathered webbing, the small surface of the pads of her fingertips radiating heat across Laudna's palm. 

radiators - Laudna smirks, thinking of a walrus-moustached man in his top hat showing off his house-warming invention intervention at the last science fair she had attended-

those excursions had become a distant memory without Andrew by her side. 

“too much for the fragile female mind.”

what chance did she stand of appearing normal if the parameters are hair-width narrow? she can only fold herself so small, can only dislocate so many bones, can only fracture them into so many pieces before the marrow is confused for the medulla upon reassembly (she is often certain she was assembled wrong) - unbecoming to be curious, a waste to be barren, improper to write, to lead, to touch, to hold with one's left hand-

Imogen stirs

complete and utter horse shit. 

Imogen's hands are so sore. sacred. their intervention divine. 

they look so sore; must sting from the salt of her own sweat meeting Laudna's clammy palm, skin glossy and exposed before it is ready, premature and weeping where the epidermis has been scrubbed away with friction the dammed salve is further out of hand than the obnoxiously cut glassware her scars look like the illustration look like the spines of the sea lilly fossil the hidden arms of the sea anenomies tangled curling climbing grape vines something completely different she must commit it to memory for when she has parchment and graphite ink red ochre iron oxide cinnabar and minium

Imogen held her hand so she can touch it, can surely use her free hand to join them, feel canyons and the mountain ridges the fissures and highlands how the earth the tissue the colour changes with the age, layers in the seaside cliffside calloused and richer from knuckle and deeper still towards fingertip, pale and softer as it branches out and flattens towards the beggining of her hand, her sun-shy skin, not pale in the manner that Laudna's sickness ailment condition situation influence leaves her wearing, just shy, just not introduced to the grip on reins on pitchfork handle on burlap sacks that have in their own way softened and coloured the leather of her gloves, her freckles immediately dense and skin golden tan where the shield barrier cloak garment would end Laudna is still sure that she can feel the heat of all of the time she has worked under the sun trapped carried worn shared there radiating lavender sun-bleached hay dirt sweat her sweat still lingers on her husband's clothes in the wardrobe, 

at least they still smelled of her six days ago. 

96th. 90th. the frequency is alarming; she hadn't quite prepared - was preparing, scribing, conjoining - laudna can feel the difference between the skin on Imogen's tan forearms and her usually covered wrist - how long? at what age? did her father ever tell her anything? did her father know anything? perhaps her mother also wore gloves. 

and Imogen seeked employ here. 

curious girl - woman - brilliant. 

her hair is perhaps as long as Laudna's, maybe longer were it to be straightened out; wavy and slightly unkempt but healthy thick curling the outer layers more golden where they have been bleached by the sun like the bundles of hay and brilliant brilliant auburn autumn in the hedgerows in the forests maple leaves red ochre iron oxide cinnabar and minium she will have to mix a new ink for her. 

[camthesolemnone]

I've been on my TF2 nonsense again and I've been thinking a lot about Engineer. The fandom has basically debunked the whole "Engineer is the most sane of the mercs" (he is just as crazy as the rest of them with his superiority/god complex, he just does a better job at hiding it), but I wanna see more Engie fics/art of him completely off the deep end. I'm talking Emesis Blue Engineer tying someone up, dismembering them, and seweing their body back together all mismatched because he thinks he can play God. I'm talking him chopping his hand off for the Gunslinger surgery in a dark room with no alcohol or medication to numb the pain, cackling at how he's one step closer to becoming the perfect human. I'm taking about an Engie who is so sweet to his team, makes them breakfast, defends them in the heat of battle, but if he catches the enemy Spy alone, he'll pin him to the floor and take his time with a shit eating grin dislocated all of his limbs before peppering him with some pistol shots, not enough to kill him instantly, but for the spy to have to bleed out slowly.

People talk about how Medic or Sniper would be the scariest yandere, but I think Engineer has them both beat: he can set up sentries outside the house to make absolutely sure you can't escape. He also seems like the type of yandere to worship you and treat you so good you don't want to leave, but if you ever regain your senses, well, now he has a guinea pig for all his new inventions.

We need more feral Dell content!

[star-detective]

ARAN RYAN HEADCANONS PT.2⁉️‼️‼️‼️🇮🇪😼😼🔥🔥

-Aran jumped in a frozen lake once and got severely sick

-He once had serious beef with someone in secondary school and ended up jumping them. (Aran won.)

-He has fucked up knuckles from the fact there are horseshoes in his gloves. (Probably also dislocated one of his fingers.)

-Not stereotyping him because he’s Irish, but his locker is FILLED with good luck charms. Rabbits foot, Clovers, etc.

-Definitely had a hiphop phase when he was a teenager. He also has the pictures, but he will NOT let any person see them.

-He surprisingly never had a relationship with someone, so he’s very inexperienced.

-Ate too much ice cream as a dare once, and got sick for 3 days

-Lives in a shitty apartment complex.

-He doesn’t sleep on a bed. He sleeps on those pull out bed couches.

-He goes to ikea just to eat the food there.

-Watched 'Jackass' when he was 14 and tried to mimic one of the acts. (He got hospitalized for 4 months.)

-He drank 8 energy drinks once and he got the WORST headache EVER.

-He is the biggest metal fan you’ll probably ever meet.

-Aran has THE MOST CRUSTY NAILS EVER…

-Probably smells like sweat and sweat.

-Used to steal candy from candy stores as a kid and cherishes those memories.

-He probably definitely broke a lot of windows when he was younger.

The voices got to me last night. /JJJ

[theotherbuckley]

🦵🦵🦵🦵🦵🦵 !

Ignore the fact that it’s been several months but since you’re always so excited for this fic I thought you’d get the first lot of sentences 😅🫶🏽 I have no idea where I was going with this scene though it just sort of happened and I’m not sure if I like it

The pair make their way into Buck’s apartment complex, the elevator is still perfectly functional which Buck is incredibly grateful for, but he does find himself reminiscing over the first time Tommy helped him.

The man had helped him despite having only just met him. He’d found him crying on the staircase and didn’t even hesitate to help. And Buck really thought he’d leave because he ended up in the hospital again?

Tommy seems to be thinking of the same thing because when the elevator dings and the door opens he startles beside Buck, having been staring at the staircase.

“I gotta say, I sure am happy the elevator works. You’re even heavier now.”

“Hey!”

“That sounded like more of a compliment in my head,” Tommy says, but Buck can’t tell if he’s serious or not.

“Mhm,” he says as his mind starts conjuring up images of Tommy lifting him up with his big arms wrapped around his waist. He’s sure if there’s one person who could lift him, it would be Tommy. He’s even bigger than he is, and that’s saying something. Besides, he’s a firefighter, it’s in the job description. Tommy’s probably picked lots of people up.

“What’s got you frowning? I was kidding, you know, I could definitely lift you, it wouldn’t be a problem.”

Buck blushes red, scratches his neck. “You can lift me, but your dog dislocates your shoulder?”

“Judo is strong.”

[new-dinosaurs]

Tiamat valdecii Pereira et al., 2024 (new genus and species)

(Tail vertebrae [top] and digital reconstruction of more complete tail skeleton [bottom] of Tiamat valdecii, from Pereira et al., 2024)

Meaning of name: Tiamat = mother of dragons and gods in ancient Mesopotamian mythology; valdecii = for Valdeci dos Santos Júnior [Brazilian archaeologist who discovered the site where the original fossil was found]

Age: Early–Late Cretaceous (Albian–Cenomanian)

Where found: Açu Formation, Ceará, Brazil

How much is known: Several tail vertebrae.

Notes: Tiamat was a titanosaurian sauropod. Titanosaur fossils are primarily known from the Late Cretaceous, so Tiamat may help shed light on the early evolution and diversity of this major sauropod group. The vertebrae in the middle of its tail exhibit complex joint surfaces, which may have been adaptations for increasing the mobility of the tail without increasing the risk of dislocation.

Reference: Pereira, P.V.L.G.C., K.L.N. Bandeira, L.S. Vidal, T.B. Ribeiro, C.R.A. Candeiro, and L.P. Bergqvist. 2024. A new sauropod species from north-western Brazil: biomechanics and the radiation of Titanosauria (Sauropoda: Somphospondyli). Zoological Journal of the Linnean Society advance online publication. doi: 10.1093/zoolinnean/zlae054

[max1461]

Have people on here (not the linguists I mean everybody else) fully appreciated the "spoken French is mildly polysynthetic" thing? Let me caveat this be saying that I am not a proficient French speaker in any capacity; the paper (or conference talk, I guess?) which lays out this argument is fairly convincing to me assuming that its facts are right, but I have no capacity to judge how well the grammatical claims about spoken French hold up empirically.

Anyway, the take away for the non linguist is basically this: traditional French grammar, as it is taught to French schoolchildren and to foreign learners, is significantly divergent from how French is actually spoken, i.e. the grammar that a culturally-neutral linguist producing an analysis of French would come up with. In particular,

Spoken French has a complex prefixal verb template involving subject, object, and indirect object marking. In traditional French grammar these prefixes are considered independent pronouns and auxiliary verbs and are written with spaces between them, but their rigid ordering with respect to the verb root, significant phonological reduction, and the inability to dislocate them from the verb (e.g. with intervening adverbs) suggest that analyzing them as prefixes would be more standard. The fact that they are able to co-occur with independent nominals and that such constructions are quite common furthers this analysis.

If the above analysis is taken up, then spoken French is verb-centric and moderately non-configurational, in the sense that the inflected verb is the only obligatory element of the clause, and independent NPs are somewhat free with regard to the positions they can occur in. This is another typical characteristic of polysynthetic languages.

This is a strikingly different analysis than the largely analytic and moderately inflecting, strictly SVO picture of French syntax one is usually presented with. Certainly this latter picture is more descriptive of the written standard, but it seems that the spoken language either has evolved or is in the process of evolving away from that standard.

My impression from various discussions is that the more traditional, analytic constructions still widely exist in spoken French, but the "polysynthesis-like" constructions are becoming increasingly common and favored in the spoken language. So perhaps we might say that French is "becoming mildly polysynthetic", rather than that it's already there. Still, this should be very striking even for the non-linguist: the language you see on the page is very much not always the language that is in people's mouths!