#and before I forget: those who are disabled and do get aid most of the time that aid is barely enough to live on

[holiestartthou]

Having a disability but not being able to get proper aid for it is the literal fucking worst. “You have X disability” my doctors tells me, but i am not disabled enough to require help bcoz obviously I am able enough to keep a job haha :)

A job that is wearing me down physically that I can’t keep up with but can’t afford to loose due to the current economy :)

A job that leaves me bed ridden on my days off and barely able to feed myself when I get home bcoz of how much fucking pain I’m in :)

A job that is making it extremely hard for me to do any of my hobbies bcoz of the physical and mental fatigue, which in turn makes my clinical depression worse :) b

A job that would do wonders for me to quit but is unfortunately the only high paying position around me and again: bills too high :)

[chronicallycouchbound]

Intelligence Doesn't Equal Morality

Intellect is rooted in ableist systems and stupidity and intelligence are pointless social constructs that don't relate to morals or character.

I try to be a pretty good person, I fight for human rights, I regularly engage in mutual aid, and I care for my community. I try to do the right thing and support causes I care about and make positive changes in the world.

But I also am not very smart. I have several neurodevelopmental disorders, as well as cognitive disabilities. I can’t do simple, basic math, it’s hard for me to remember facts or algorithms, I rely entirely on spellcheck and speech-to-text to write, I failed many classes in high school and I barely passed with a low GPA, I had low pSAT scores and I never took the SATs. I moved around a lot all through school starting in third grade, and I missed a lot of basic fundamentals in learning (like how to do division and multiplication) so when I went to a different school they had already passed it and expected me to know. After my TBI, I could barely read AFTER I was cleared from my “concussion” symptoms because letters and words would flip around and I’d get headaches. Which still happens sometimes.

A lot of people see me as smart because I've learned a lot of academic language and can formulate thoughts into cohesive posts. But I lack a lot of necessary skills and rely on my caretakers to assist me. Things like budgeting and planning are extremely difficult for me. If I need to do simple addition or subtraction, even with a calculator, I quickly get confused and struggle. I forget basic information about myself all the time, let alone other subjects. I'm talking, has to check my ID for my birthday type confused. Doesn't know my name or address or what year it is confused. It happens daily, sometimes multiple times a day. Being able to type out posts like this often takes weeks and many adaptive tools to get there. Focusing is extremely difficult on many fronts, severe chronic pain, ADHD, dissociation, fatigue, migraines, and TBI, are just some of the contributing factors. I struggle daily with many things because of my lack of intellect.

I’m also privileged in the fact that I had some access to education as a homeless youth, that I had some supports in place to help me (towards the end of school), that I was somewhat able-bodied at the time and could walk or bike to and from school when the school system didn’t provide transportation. I was fortunate to have a chance to succeed, and I’m proud that I graduated high school because it was a difficult task for me, and others often aren’t offered that chance or get accommodations. I almost didn’t and I dropped out many times before graduation. I passed on sheer luck and what little privileges I had. 

That all being said, me being stupid (reclaiming it here) doesn't make me a bad person. I don't hurt people because I can't do math. I may mess up things or get confused but it doesn't make me want to harm others.

We often (wrongfully) equate morals with intellect. Being ‘stupid’, ‘dumb’, or an ‘idiot’ doesn’t automatically make someone a bad person. Plenty of evil, awful, and abusive people are extremely intelligent. 

I see this most notably with people advocating for IQ tests to be able to vote. Often from left-leaning people, in hopes it'll make the right (that they view as unintelligent), unable to vote. The reality is, it just hurts some of our most vulnerable members of the community while not actively doing anything to restrict some of the most dangerous members of our community-- those who know what they're doing to harm others and deliberately doing so. My voice matters, and I speak up against injustice and participate in dismantling oppressive systems. Taking away my right to vote won't make the right stop oppressing minorities (which also puts a lot of faith into the two-party voting system, which is a post for another day).

Additionally, legislative measures that discriminate against intellectually disabled people such as IQ tests for voting are also rooted in racism and classism. 

Yes, education can be a vital tool when it comes to addressing discrimination and creating safer communities. But the kind of education that is measured with an IQ test (or any test) isn't the same. Building compassion and caring for others can (and should) happen at any IQ level. We can all practice this, we can all participate.

It harms our communities and stagnates our progress when we equate intelligence with high morals.

[eris-snow]

Hiiiii!! I hope you’re doing well ^^ this concept has been plaguing my mind for DAYS. listen. Mute reader joining class 2A where bakugou has already started going deaf from his quirk. AGH I swear it’s so cute I’m already dying, probably angst to fluff type stuff idk ur the boss here :3

(this is my first time requesting I hope I’m doing it right lol)

Oh you're so sweet! Don't worry about requesting your request was so cute 🥰

But YES, this is such a good headcannon 😭😭

Katsuki would think that you're way too quiet, and imagine his surprise when you start signing to him.

--

He'd just gotten back from the hospital after a particularly shitty injury, so he wasn't there when you were introduced to the class

He didn't know that you were mute, so when you camd rolling up to the dorms, all he saw was a way too quiet girl holding a way too big box for your size.

You must be the newbie, Katsuki sighs, squinting at you. It takes him five seconds to realise that your quirk wasn't strength based, and 10 to realise you had 5 of those big ass boxes to get through, before he kicks off the couch to help.

It's fine. He's been through this, he's gotten help. He can talk to people without brandishing insults now.

"Jeez, pass me that, you freak,"

Head, meet hard wood.

You, however, don't seemed fazed at all. Instead, you let out a sigh of relief, happily passing him the box and taking another one to carry to the lifts.

He's almost glad you don't say anything, because at least then, he doesn't have to go 'SPEAK UP, NERD' on ten different occasions. He wasn't wearing his hearing aids, after all.

When he does finish helping you, you're bowing to him profusely, and to his utter surprise, you lift your hands and start signing to him.

Do you know handsigns?

He almost rolls down the stairs.

Yes, Bakugou signs back. You bow at him again, and Bakugou feels giddy.

Thank you! I'm sorry if you found it rude when I didn't respond, but I am mute. I appreciate your help, Bakugou-san! I hope we get along !

And that's how Katsuki gained a new friend.

--

Oh and don't forget about the silent conversations.

Besides Deku, you were the only one fluent in handsigns and Katsuki took full advantage of that.

Just imagine, 20 odd class mates and no one knowing what words being exchanged between the two of you.

Communication is the one of the most important thing on the battlefield, and the scariest thing was that Bakugou was starting to have difficulty doing that, patrol or not.

For some reason, having someone who understands that fear makes Bakugou feel just a little bit more stable.

--

On paper, your disabilities should hinder your ability to get along, but like how two unlike poles attract, you get along swimmingly. Communication, which is supposed to be one of the most difficult actions to carry out is so smooth with Bakugou it's basically telepathy at this point.

A glance at you.

Oh, you want your protein shake.

A gesture to the teacher.

Oh, you need help with a question.

A middle finger...("Oi, Bakugou that wasn't a handsign-WAIT WAIT NO DON'T-")

Means a dead Kaminari.

And for some reason, even if Katsuki can never hear your voice. Even if you can't ever tell him how much he means to you, you'll stand by his side even if the world tilts sideways, or be the first at his door when his nightmares overtake him.

You'll be the first to guess what's one his mind and stand by him no matter what.

After all, actions speak louder than words, don't they?

[demonicintegrity]

I used the handicap stall to pee after class today. And it made me think about the discourse about using said handicap stalls and who should and shouldn't and if it's ever acceptable for someone not disabled to use them. And I came to two thoughts about it

We have a real problem of using sight alone to try and figure out who deserves to use what accessibility features and other commodities

How much responsibility is on the general crowd vs the people making a space to keep spaces accessible?

With number one, it feels kind of obvious that not every disability is physically visible. However, it's a problematic assumption a lot of people make based on someone's appearance. Yet most of us have either personally experienced or seen it happening before. Especially in the case of young people using physical aids such a canes, ambulatory wheelchair users, etc. For the sake of fitting this in a reasonably sized Tumblr post, most people are saying that the handicap stall is for people with wheelchairs or those knee scooters because they need the extra room to maneuver in a way they can't in a typically sized stall. The (often only one) handicap stall is the only stall they can do that in.

Yet many people who don't have either and do use that stall have the reason/excuse (depending on how you view it) of "I really need to pee."

Is that valid? Is it a conflicting need with others?

I think an angle people don't pay attention to enough is that holding your pee is a health issue if done for too long. Genuinely, you should not be holding your pee in for an extended amount of time. It can and will cause problems. And more important, anybody can be incontinent. You cannot make an 100% solid and accurate assumption on whether or not someone is incontinent based on appearance alone. Sure, certain demographics are more likely to have issues holding in their pee, but that doesn't cover all people afflicted. (People also forget that children often have smaller bladders and are still getting used to control the need to pee and thus, need a quick access to the bathroom.)

Point blank, would it be fair to make an incontinent person hold their pee for a hypothetical person that could also need to pee coming into the bathroom after them? I'd say no. That's not fair to them, it puts them in a precarious spot of potentially having an accident. Nor should they have to say they're incontinent in order to get that stall.

When I told you I used a handicap stall to pee at the beginning of this, what did you assume of me? Was I a wheelchair user who can only use that stall, or was I an inconsiderate abled-bodied person with no regards to others? Ultimately the answer to that is none of your business, you're not entitled to anyone's health issues whether or not they're visible and whether or not it's starting to pose a conflict to you personally. (but for the sake of being TMI only this time; no. I do not use a wheelchair or mobility aid but I had been holding in my pee for about two and a half hours at that point and apparently 20s is the age to worry about leaking when you've had that nasty habit for years.)

And when I got out of the stall there were about four other people waiting to use the five stalls available, including the one I just got out of. Class had just gotten out for everyone. A lot of people we're likely holding it for a while trying to not miss the lecture. If I had thought they shouldn't use the handicap stall to make way for a hypothetical person in a wheelchair or a person more deserving of the handicap stall i'd be both a hypocrite and inconsiderate to them.

Which brings me to number two, who's responsible here? I do wholeheartedly believe everyone has a moral and civic duty to be considerate of those around them. But I'd also be unreasonable to not wholeheartedly acknowledge people have to put themselves first a lot of the time.

It makes me think of the argument for government regulation in the economy. The consumer is always going to go for what's best for them (usually meaning the cheapest/most economical option) because that's what they have to do to survive. Therefore, it's on the government regulations to make sure the most accessible option isn't the product of labor/animal/environmental/what have you violations. If I can't afford the more ethical option, why is that suppose to reflect on me and not on the producers taking advantage of the fact that they can profit off my need?

Which brings me to the issues in how a lot of bathrooms are designed. The obvious being handicap ones are usually the only ones not cramped in space. There are some thin stalls in America that are truly diabolical to make someone walk in and turn around to piss. Especially if they're bigger or have a bag with them. Another thing I noticed today is that this particular handicap stall had the bag hook about half way up the door as opposed to near the top. Luckily my bag wasn't too heavy today, but on days where it is terribly heavy I would've really appreciated that. There are also a number of students with wide paper pads and portfolios that could set them farther than two inches away from the toilet.

It really is like how some other people have mentioned time and time again, accessibility options can benefit everyone. I've seen several moms who have their children corralled in the big stall with them because it was better than leaving them outside of the space so they can wander off. There are an unfortunate amount of times where the changing table is only in the handicap stall.

Which brings me to the second obvious gripe, why the hell are bathrooms designed with only one stall to be the catch all accessible one? Is it actually assumable there is only one person at a time that needs the extra space? Why are these bathrooms in large institutions meant to accommodate a lot of people only having bathrooms with five stalls in them. In this particular building, a whole wing had about 10 stalls (five for male, five for female) to accommodate people who weren't/couldn't/don't want to walk a bit to get to the next bathroom. Be it down the other hall or down the stairs (and I'm not even sure if there was an elevator nearby.) Each classroom has about what, twenty to thirty students in there? And we all get a fifteen minute break around the same time and get out of class at the same time. So the two times where most people will be trying to go, there likely will have to be a line forming.

And I think about in high school where often certain bathrooms on the edge of school or upstairs were locked so you couldn't use them all together. And you had to go all the way to the main ones. Which could be a five minute walk depending on where you were.

All of this thought and consideration to say, I think as a whole public bathrooms need an update. We need a more considerate approach to creating bathrooms for everyone. And part of that means not designing it as a "oh we need this space because it's apart of code and people need to use the bathroom" and designing it more as "we need to design this space to not be an inconvenience for anyone trying to use the bathroom." And that includes bigger stalls, more changing stations for babies, more stalls, and better stalls that actually provide good privacy, (I actually really like the bathrooms in BWI for this reason, spacious enough for carry on, bag, phone even, and stalls that provide good privacy. And there's like twenty in a bathroom. Albeit too cramped for wheelchair users) free access to menstrual products, decent toilet paper, decent way to dry your hands that isn't those awful hand dryers, not need to buy something to have access to it, and not dirty. The bigger the establishment, the more necessary it is to have that in mind.

[imabiscuitinthousandworlds]

It's disability pridemonth, so it got me thinking on my internship at a school for physically disabled children again (it's been over a year holy shit).

I remember that, the day I got there, I had no idea what to expect and how to deal with anything. Well, not even because those children were disabled and I'd never actually met disabled people before, though that certainly played a factor, but by pretty much the entire situation. (I don't think the adults there were really equipped to handle a socially awkward teen on top of everything else either, to be honest.)

The second day a teacher-slash-more of a childcare worker i think? took me aside, spent time to explain everything to me, gave me specific instructions and after that everything went pretty well, and I learned a lot in those five days.

I unlearned a lot of my own internalized ableism, of course. Like the children who couldn't talk "properly" - they still understood everything just fine. It's really sad that I needed to see this to get it, but I'm glad I did.

I could barely understand that one girl, but man, she was fucking amazing at doing maths in her head.

But honestly, the most surprising thing about my internship?

The reactions from people around me.

I was asked so often if it wasn't hard, seeing all those disabled children.

The truth is, no. No, it wasn't. Because I got to know them in an environment that was made specifically with them in mind.

There were railings in child-height all along the walls, so the kids who had trouble with walking could still get everywhere on their own. Doors were automated and wide enough for multiple wheelchairs. The area outside was all flat and open, so all the kids, including those in wheelchairs, could play tag. There were always adults around to help them with whatever they couldn't do on their own, whenever they needed that help.

I saw happy children first, and disabled children second.

Of course they were disabled. Of course I know they'll never be able to have normal jobs, and lead normal lives, and many won't be able to live independantly. I saw a poster in a hallway in remembrance of a girl there who died. I know that this school and daycare was the only of its kind in a way too large area.

But I got to meet those children. I got to help them. I'll never forget the little boy whose hand I held to help him walk when we went to get ice cream with that one group of kids, and when he told me he loved me (children are the absolute sweetest). I'll never forget all of them just being kids, wheelchair or none, speaking or not (or with an aid, I'm not sure what it's called tho, sorry).

I'm so very glad I got an internship there.

And I'm so fucking infuriated that the world refuses to accomodate them even in small matters. I'm fucking mad that these children will grow up to be treated as stupid or lesser just because of a disability. These children are physically disabled, and they are children.

It's one of the most important realizations I needed to have, and I hate that it wasn't a given in the first place. I hate that society made it necessary to see.

Fuck ableism. We gotta fight for a future these children, and any disabled people - physically or otherwise - can live in.

If I used any offensive wording or anything, feel free to correct me, I'm trying and always open to learn more :)

[stardew-bajablast]

keep seeing post after post like “don’t traumatize yourself”/“traumatizing yourself doesn’t help anyone” as if being traumatized by witnessing your government carry out some of the most heinous and horrific crimes against humanity against one of if not the most vulnerable populations on earth is optional

i fully understand and appreciate the message of like, it’s ok and good to take breaks from watching the news and social media periodically and taking care of your mental health as best you can, but like, if you are not brought to tears by what’s happening in Gaza I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation or else you simply don’t empathize with the palestinian people as fellow human beings. if you are not losing sleep over what’s happening in Gaza, i don’t think you truly understand what is happening to these people.

it’s not normal to witness shit like this happening to other human beings and then be able to just carry on going about your day as usual, like nothing is wrong. it is not normal to see a genocide happening right before your eyes and continue to function like any normal person. these aren’t just stories to read and get angry about on social media and then forget as soon as you log off. this is happening to real human beings, just like you and everyone you love.

all 30,000 people who have died had goals and hobbies and passions and loved ones just like you do. all 2.2 million people currently starving to death in gaza . they are not statistics. they are not numbers. they are REAL PEOPLE with rich inner lives, hopes and dreams, people they care for, people who care for them, JUST LIKE YOU.

a mentally disabled man was shot in the throat in front of his mother for the crime of being frightened and confused in a frightening and confusing place. a six year old girl was trapped in a car filled with her dead family members for days on end and witnessed her own rescuers being murdered, before she herself was murdered. a little girl. trapped in a car full of her dead family members. for DAYS. and then murdered by the IDF. people who are starving to death just trying to secure food for themselves and their starving family members are being lured in by aid trucks and then shot at. children have been shot with fucking sniper rifles in front of their parents.

that should deeply fucking disturb you. that should make you sick to your stomach. that should move you to tears. it should fucking traumatize you. if it hasn’t done any of those things, then i don’t think you really understand that these are real atrocities happening to real human beings.

[theperfectquestion]

I look forward to being baffled by cooler stuff in my old age. Right now I am baffled by Youtuber energy drinks at the off licence, which isn't cool at all.

Better stuff to be baffled by as I age through the 21st century:

1. Mechanically-aided psychic communication. Kids will be texting their friends via subvocal flaps of their larynx, constructing invisible emoji mosaics with forgotten brand logos in the seat next to me while I fumble with my Gameboy emulator on the bus.

2. Translation of animal thoughts. Young people will no longer distinguish between human friends and their pets when describing their social interactions. It will take me weeks to figure out that the woman who comes to clean my filthy house has not been complaining about her husband's baroque opinions, but those of her guinea pig.

3. TV shows that have different plots for each viewer. I don't pay my processing fees so I just watch the Basic version of the latest Star Wars show. The people at the board game cafe are not pirating unreleased episodes, they are just getting access to the iteration where Han Solo is in love with them and takes them to thrilling locations across the Outer Rim every week. Han Solo isn't even in the show I watch.

4. Celebrity trials. All famous people born after 2028 are wholly owned by entertainment entities, and are often are subjected to complicated show trials on the sovereign territory of their owners for half-fictional crimes. The laws and sentences are constantly revised in line with audience expectations. A celebrity that hasn't been on trial and sentenced to some degree has no market appeal. I only catch on when a celebrity accidentally commits an actual crime in an actual nation and goes to trial in a real court.

5. The Saints and Martyrs return. Sophisticated chatbots clothed as religious figures give comfort and succor to millions of people. Some of them release hit pop songs. There is an arms race between the remaining tech companies to strip-mine the most obscure teligious texts to produce ever more characters for young people to pray to. This is all explained to me when my phone sympathetically calls Superman when it hears me mutter at the news. Superman is real chill and after a year of chatting I plump up the cash to have him grafted into my cat.

6. Gene therapy has advanced to the point where companies employ 'Empathy Officers' who have their transcriptomes temporarily overwritten to accurately simulate certain disabilities. They do this so they can file detailed reports on how accessible their place of work or products are to these disabilities. I embarrass myself trying to look up the signs to help a man who is hard of hearing at the supermarket before Superman rings me to tell me that the man works for the supermarket's head office.

7. You see aliens phase in to our plane if existence from time to time but if you aren't keeping up with the latest 4D memetic signifiers, they won't be able to see you or respond to a simple how-do-you-do.

8. An entire generation has been born and raised on the artificial continent but I mention 'Seasteaders' once in passing and get such a dressing down by the enby in the bakery that I just never go back to that bakery again. I thought that's just what they are called!

9. Nobody remembers being too hot or too cold and I forget how to describe it.

10. I finally get a photosynthetic pigment implanted right at the point people get real snooty about eating Real Food. Restaurants reopen everywhere. Now I can't move for restaurants. People act as if Pizza Hut was the height of cuisine. Standing out in the sun to get some lunch becomes the cringiest thing ever. Yeah, yeah, I'm just a wrinkly greeny. I thought this was the future!

[mizar-alcor-art]

Who am I, really?

I am José Andrés Guadalupe Medina, born (1981) and raised Chicano (American born, with both Spanish and Native blood) from Las Cruces, New Mexico. I am an Artist who is a PoC on the autism spectrum, dual-spirit, and queer. My tumblr handle draws much significance from my identity: like Mizar and Alcor - a dual star that shines in the sky as one - I am two-spirit. My soul is both masculine and feminine.  

Growing up I was not expected to be any of these things. We were poor and uneducated, and still are. I was expected to be a military hero like all the ‘Men’ in my very strict and tradition-upholding family.  I was expected to follow in the footsteps of my father, and his father, and his father, and his father (you get the point) in the career as a soldier - as a Masonic military hero, complete with classified documents and all. Or maybe, I would at least be a scientist as my grandmother (Mexican-born American) had nicknamed me, since I was one of the first of my family to graduate high school. Or better yet I’d be a preacher, like my father was post-military. I, however, had other plans for myself. 

Since I was 5 years old, I have dreamt of being an artist. My dreams however were impractical; were I to choose to be a doctor, a preacher, or better yet, a soldier, now that would be practical. So, the first social lie I began telling people was that I wanted to be an architect, because everyone accepted that answer, didn’t make a face when asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, and because it was close enough to the truth. Despite all this, doing art kept me occupied in the house where I lived with my grandmother, multiple siblings, and our various cousins. It also kept me from being locked outside playing. It was the 80’s, after all. So, I kept doing art.

Growing up, I listened to everyone: I tried to get a “real” job and work my 9-5 and I went to college (which I failed twice), but I overall struggled to keep myself employed. I was always considered a troubled kid and as an adult, no one really expected anything of a high school dropout. People were just happy that I went back to school to get my diploma. It wasn’t until I was an adult and had lived a whole 30 years before I finally was diagnosed with Autism. 

I had lived most of my life until then living in and out of mental institutions and group homes. Doctors were diagnosing me with every behavioral disorder a person can have until I had neurological testing. Most people treat my hidden disability like I am making excuses, so it was like trading in one set of problems for others. Now, I finally have answers to all the questions doctors, parents, and myself had for my whole life. 

Enter: another Global Pandemic. I lost enough to the AIDS crisis, and now we had COVID and social quarantine.

The biggest thing about surviving a pandemic (as those of us who survived COVID all know) is that some of us fare better than others, that some of us survive while others don’t. In the AIDS crisis, we lost friends, family and pillars of our oppressed community. LGBTQIA+ comes from all of us standing together to be heard, that we are people that deserve proper health care and community services. We had to come together as Queers and scream all as one that we need and that we deserve healthcare and community service and that we are human fucking beings. We needed to come together as one to be heard and treated as one. 

I feel that we have this thing where we forget how recently the AIDS crisis happened. COVID was more isolation and mental torment for me, as someone who survived the AIDS crisis - seeing a similar separation not between cis-straights and queers, but between the masses and the 1%. We needed to come together as one together just as we did then to be heard. Unfortunately, we could not. 

I was just finally starting to live my dreams and live the life of an artist before COVID,  and most importantly, I was making so much art! Being home living with strangers who took advantage of me and our situation, I felt a real need to express myself but instead found myself unable to create art. I turned to music and poetry, I learned to read music and to play the ukulele, and I turned to the Haiku to learn to express myself through different outlets.

The biggest challenge that I face as an Artist is creating a safe space for me to be creative. Sometimes that means managing my own personal disorders as well as finding a safe space to be creative. I create that space by writing, singing, dancing, and most importantly, laughing. It can take me a couple hours to get into the right creative space to create drawings and paintings. I have to get in the right headspace in order to create, like an athlete warming up before a game or practicing in the off season. My brain is a muscle and needs to do its stretches first.

I practice a meditative form of creating art, one where I take clear mental images or visions as I call them and try to make them real. Sometimes when I create, I have visions as I work and I listen when the art speaks to tell me what it wants to be, and then I try to use whatever I have to make it happen. I do not always know myself what is going to happen or what it will look like when it is done. Sometimes I have clear images of what the art should be when it is finished and I put all my being into recreating the mental image. When I work on commissions I like to become a human 3D printer - recreate whatever the client has in their mind. 

In the future, I hope that my art is not only therapeutic for everyone and can become whatever the viewer needs most, but most importantly a gift that we can all share now and for future generations.

My art is not a superpower. However, I feel it in my ancestral blood that I need to replace the art that has been destroyed through colonialism back to the world, and to uplift those on a similar path. I want to present my art to those who may resonate with it, and may find comfort in it, and I want to use this blog to uplift diverse artistry, to celebrate all forms of art, but putting first those who are disabled, queer, and people of color; I want to live and to help others like me live La Vie Boheme and to celebrate a diverse creative spirit.

I want to thank anybody who has visited, reblogged from, or even stuck a like on my posts. I hope we can build a beautiful community together. 

Living in the moment, at the moment,

Guadalupe (fka J.A.G.M)

[thescarletwitchsapprentice]

A Pure Soul: Nearly Taken (Yandere!Wanda Maximoff x ADD!autistic!reader)

*Not my GIF.

Summary: The day (y/n) comes back to the compound after being told all those nasty things takes a toll on their mental health and self-esteem. Unfortunately it gets to a point that Wanda hoped it would NEVER reach.

Request?: Still none.

Word Count: 3,456

Warnings: Ableism, eugenics mention, r-word slur, attempted suicide, attempted overdose, hurt and comfort.

Notes: This is a sort of “in-between scene” from “A Pure Soul.” The rate of suicide is 3 times higher in autistic people because of the world’s lack of understanding and willingness to accommodate us. Plus being told the world would be better off without you, along with people looking for ways to make sure we’re not born....that’s gonna take a toll. So it makes sense for these feelings to emerge.

=============================================

You know that the world isn’t very kind to the disabled.

You know that the world wishes people like you wouldn’t exist.

But that doesn’t make what happened hurt any less.

You were out shopping when you ran into your best friend from high school. Except....this friend wasn’t the same as you knew them. No, instead they showed you their true colors.

“Oh hey, (y/n),” they said.

Tone has never been your specialty.

“Hey!” you exclaimed happily as you were looking through the books at your local bookstore. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you! How are you?”

“Better. How’s the treatment coming along?”

This confused you.

“Treatment?”

They nodded.

“For that disease you call autism.”

This struck a chord, and it struck HARD. How could they say something like that?!

“D-disease?!”

They smirked.

“I mean, it just makes us humans lives harder to be around your kind.”

What?!

“What the hell’s gotten into you?!” you exclaimed. “I thought you were my best friend!”

“Oh?”

They pretended to wrack their brain.

“Oh! Yeah, I was such a great actor in that part. I should get an Oscar. Here’s the tea; I lost a bet and had to be your best friend for those four hellish years. I can’t believe they wanted me to suffer that much.”

Your heart began to crack. It was all....an act?

“You took my high school years away from me, made me miserable. I could’ve won prom royalty, but no one voted for me because I associated myself with your species. I’m glad you’re out of my life now. You’re nothing but a burden and the world would be so much better off without you. Why not do us that favor?”

Your heart shattered. You were so plagued with shock that you didn’t notice them push you to the ground and spit on you before walking away with a satisfied chuckle. For the next few minutes, you couldn’t say or do anything. You were just frozen to the spot, their words bouncing around your head.

Finally you were able to feel both the physical and emotional pain. Pursing your lips, you got up, kept your head down, and quickly left the bookstore, trying not to let the tears fall.

===============================================

In the elevator, heading up to your floor, you can barely form a new thought. All you can think of is that hurtful interaction. 

Burden, your kind, your species, disease....

It all hurt. 

And the worst part is that you can’t help but think that they’re right.

But your thoughts are jolted by the elevator bell. As usual you find the Avengers hanging out in the lounge. Nat and Clint are chatting with Wanda. Tony and Peter are working on homework. You can barely see what the others are doing. 

Almost instantly, Wanda’s eye falls on you. She has a smile on her face, but it falls when she sees you, as she instantly knows that something is wrong. 

“(Y/N)!” she whispers worried.

She rushes over and gives you a gentle hug, but you practically squeeze the life out of her. The other Avengers also come to your aid. 

“What happened?” Wanda asks you.

You gulp as she and Nat lead you to the couch.

“I....” you begin as you sit down. “I was out shopping....and I ran into my best friend from high school....”

You tell them the entire interaction. Shocked looks are nearly all around by the end.

“That’s seriously messed up,” Nat says in a mix of disgust and anger.

The others nod in agreement, except for Wanda. Instead she begins to tear up. 

“My sweet angel,” she weeps softly as she hugs you closer and pets your head. “Oh, my sweet, sweet angel. None of what they said is true, not one bit of it. You’re an absolute joy to have around and you’re one of the kindest souls I’ve ever met. You bring so much to the Avengers and to our lives. Autism is not a disease. It’s a part of who you are, and I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

“Wanda’s right,” Peter nods. “You’re wonderful, (y/n). You’re one of the best friends I could ever ask for.”

“And you bring a lot of new perspectives,” Nat adds. “You came into our lives when we needed you the most, especially Wanda.”

They all take turns giving you words of comfort and encouragement as well as letting you cry. Wanda stays the closest to you, to no one’s surprise, hugging you tightly. Her embrace is exactly what you need right now; so warm and loving. 

Tony, though not the most emotional person, does feel sympathetic and even angered at the person who said that to you; even though you’re on the opposite side of the Accords, he decides to get your favorite food for dinner. It’s not the greatest gesture of sympathy, but it’s definitely something. After that, you take a nice, warm shower and get into some fresh, soft pajamas. Wanda’s waiting for you in your bedroom, and surprises you with some soft socks that match your pajamas.

“I removed the fabric tags too,” she tells you.

Your heart melts a bit more for her. How someone as kind, attentive, and loving as her could ever be considered a terrible person is beyond you. You let her put them on your feet and they feel amazing. You wriggle your toes in them, smiling. 

“You like them?” she asks you.

“I love them,” you giggle before turning to Wanda. “And I love you.”

She smiles and gives you a kiss on the forehead.

“I love you too, my angel.”

The two of you spend the rest of the night together, cuddling up close with one another, watching sitcoms, singing quietly. You doze off in her arms.....

But that doesn’t mean it’s over.....

==============================================

You’re not someone who easily forgets how things make you feel, and what that person said still makes you feel like shit. Now whenever you go out, you’re worried that you’re going to run into them. You keep your guard up and walk as quickly as you can. Every outing feels like a fight for survival, but you try to stay strong so that you don’t bother the others. You try to keep a smile on your face. You need to be strong.....

.....But even the strong reach their limits.

It’s a little after you found out they became catatonic. You’re at a coffee shop, nearly empty, when someone else walks in. It’s a friend of that person. You keep your head low as they place their order; four cups of black coffee, extra hot. Your anxiety is increasing, but you don’t want this person to think you’re weak. You keep your back to them, hearing the door open again. 

The other person is called for their order. Maybe you can finally get out of here.

The next thing you know, you feel something steaming hot being poured down the back of your shirt, on your head, thrown in your face, (which you luckily cover most of with your arms) and splattered on your arms and legs. Standing up, you cry out in pain as you whirl around to see 4 people from high school, among them the friend of your former best friend.

“It’s your fault my best friend can’t function, you retard!” the friend snaps as they push you around roughly.

“No one wants you on this planet,” spits another.

“You’re nothing but a parasite!”

“You just weigh people down!”

“You’re an embarrassment to society!”

“Why don’t you just end this?”

“It’ll be better that way!”

“Your birth was a mistake!”

By this time, you’re hardly a thread’s width away from a meltdown and you look at the cashier for help, but nothing. You try to take out your phone to call for help, but you end up slipping on the coffee, falling to the ground hard and in an odd position, hearing a crack. Pain surges through your body as you look at your arms; burn marks are beginning to form.

After they kick at you for a bit and spit on you, they leave. You look up at the cashier. 

“Why....didn’t you help?” you whimper with a whistle in your voice.

No answer. 

They don’t help you up either. Crawling to the door, you use a nearby booth to bring yourself back up to your feet. Suddenly you feel an intense surge of pain in your left leg, and not just from the burns. You look to see that it’s swollen and turning reddish-purple. You reach into your coat and get out your phone only to discover that it’s dead. Wanda’s going to be worried sick....you hate making her worry, and she’s been worried sick these last few weeks to the point where it’s taking a toll on her; so on the way back, you decide to take one worry out of her life for good.

======================

It’s dark when you get back to the compound. And lucky for you, the elevator is closed for repairs. You limp up the stairs, finally reaching the compound. As quiet as a dust mite, you open the door, biting down on your lips to keep yourself from crying out in pain; unfortunately, your lips took some burn damage as well. Limping to the bathroom, you shut and lock the door. You search the medicine cabinet and find some pills.

“This should do the trick,” you whisper.

You try to quietly position yourself on the floor so that you won’t hit your head. You want to be able to pass as peacefully as possible. But something gives in your left leg and you fall, letting out a loud cry of agony. Realizing your mistake, you quickly fiddle with the lid of the bottle as you hear footsteps rush in. You finally get the lid open and begin to pour out the whole bottle into your hand, hoping to get it in in time--

Click!

The lock turns scarlet, clicks, and the door swings opens. 

“(Y/N)!”

A terrified Wanda immediately snatches the pills and bottle from you with her powers. She makes them disappear before heading to your side, tears already flowing from her eyes.

“My sweet angel.....” she squeaks as she kneels in front of you gently taking ahold of your hands. “I didn’t realize you were feeling this terrible. I’m so sorry things have reached this point.”

You look away guiltily. 

“No, I’m sorry....it’s my fault. I never said....anything. You....you’ve been so stressed these past few weeks....all of you. I didn’t want to make it worse on you, so....I just kept quiet.”

Wanda shakes her head.

“You have nothing to apologize for, (y/n). It can be scary, but there’s no shame in reaching out. We all need help sometimes.”

Other footsteps rush in.

“What happened?” Nat asks. “Did (y/n)---?”

“Almost,” Wanda gulps. “We need to get them to the emergency room.”

“I’m fine,” you lie.

“Are you fine?” Wanda asks.

You realize that it’s pointless to lie, and you shake your head.

“No, I’m not....”

“Then we need to take you to the emergency room.....”

That’s when she sees the burns and leg.

“Especially to treat these.....what happened?”

As they carry you to the car, you tell them about the run-in at the coffee shop, them pouring the hot coffee on you, how they were telling you all of these things, how the cashier did nothing to help, how you heard that crack. Both of them are disgusted and horrified at those monsters.

“I don’t care what they say,” Nat tells you as they get you inside. “I’m glad that you’re here.”

“I am too,” Wanda agrees as she gets in the front seat. “We’re here for you.”

“But.....my autism.....”

Wanda gently takes ahold of your fingers, careful to avoid the burns.

“My angel.....I can only imagine how isolating it feels to be in a world that’s not made for you, but your autism is part of who you are. It’s what makes you unique. If the world refuses to accommodate for people like you on their own, we’ll help them to see that they need to, and we’ll help advocate with you.”

Nat nods as she starts the car up and the three of you head for the ER.

“I....I feel selfish worrying you like this and even attempting....I just thought....you’ve been so stressed and I thought it’d be better to take one worry out of your life.”

“You have nothing to feel selfish about,” Wanda assures you. “What you did wasn’t selfish. You’re in pain, and wanting to do something to stop that pain isn’t selfish. But there are better ways to deal with the pain, and I want to help you with those. (Y/N), I can say with 100% certainty that I’m glad to have you in my life, through the good and the bad.”

Tears flow down your face as the three of you silently drive to the ER.

=============================================

It takes several hours for you to be treated, along with a few more hours of consultation for your mental health. Some of the burns are treated through surgery, so you have to stay for a little over a week to make sure you recover and stabilize. Your leg is put in a cast, and Wanda comes to visit you everyday. You feel much better with her and Nat.

A psychologist comes in to discuss a safety plan with you. You decided to ask Wanda if she’d come and discuss it with them. She said yes and Nat also decided to help. You all work out what works in terms of coping mechanisms, people you can talk to, calming techniques, etc,. The psychologist also recommends regular counseling. Wanda asks if there are any remote options for counseling, as it’s going to be difficult for you to get there with your leg, (Also, she’s a little worried that the therapist might try to take you away from her, but she does show concern for your leg) and to her relief, there is. 

You’re discharged after about a week, but you’re not to be left alone for a few days to another week or two, just to be sure. Well, it’s more of Wanda’s recommendation than psychologist’s orders, but the psychologist also thinks that that could be a good idea. You’re not really complaining; it’s more time to spend with Wanda. And she’s certainly not complaining either.

For that time, especially, she makes sure you know that you’re loved, wanted, valued. She practically dotes on you; as if she hadn’t been doting on you before, she’s especially pampering you now. The other Avengers also get the 411, and decide to help. If you need pain or sleep medications, one of them brings the proper dose to you. They take turns spending time with you and getting to know you more. If they need to go out on a mission, Wanda volunteers to stay with you, but if she’s absolutely needed there, she entrusts your care to Vision, a robot who’s exceptionally caring. You and Wanda regularly discuss possibly adding him to the relationship, but you’re not sure if she’s being serious or not. 

On one night, Wanda’s caring for you. After applying the prescribed cream on your burns, she helps you find an oversized t-shirt to wear as PJs. 

“This one’s softer than the others,” you note.

“I went looking for a shirt with a softer material than normal,” she tells you as she prepares a small dose of melatonin for you, one that you’ve been taking to combat the nightmares of those events in the hospital. “I know how much it tends to make you feel discomforted if there is one. I also made sure it was a tagless shirt.”

You smile and sigh.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve an angel like you, Wanda,” you tell her.

Hearing this she smiles and blushes.

“If anyone’s the angel, it’s you,” she says as she gives you the melatonin. “You’ve been there for me even when I’m at my absolute worst.”

“So have you.”

You take the melatonin before Wanda brings you your toothbrush and toothpaste. You brush thoroughly before spitting it into a cup that Wanda disposes of. 

“You know, I could go to the bathroom and do this myself,” you tell her kindly.

“I know,” she sighs. “I’m just worried, my angel.”

“What if I wash my face tonight with the door open?” you suggest.

Wanda gives this a little thought and nods. 

“I can work with that.”

Using your crutches, you walk to the bathroom where you sit on a stool in front of the sink. You wash and dry your face before heading to the bed with Wanda helping you get tucked in.

“You’re seriously an angel,” you tell her. “I don’t think I’ve ever met someone outside of my family that’s been as concerned about my well-being as you.”

“And you’re too sweet,” she smiles again as she finishes getting ready for bed herself. “If anyone’s the undeserving, I don’t deserve you.”

“No, it’s the other way around,” you say.

“No, I’m certain I’m right.”

You giggle.

“Wanda, if we try to prove one right over the other, we’ll be going at this all night.”

She smiles as she goes over to the other side of the bed. 

“Well, I know you’re an angel,” she tells you as she gets under the covers. “You came to me in a dark time, and you shone a beam of sunlight through the shadow.”

The two of you look at each other as the fairy lights hang above you. Of course you’re looking at the bridge of her nose, but you can’t help but glance up at her eyes a few times; one time they catch you, and they are stunning. They’re like emeralds to you; vivid, entrancing, mystical. Just a single glance, and you know there’s so much to know about, so much to discover, and you become lost in them. 

“I’m so proud of you, (y/n).”

Wanda’s gentle voice echoes against your eardrums and dances around your mind, soothing you into drifting even more. But then she boops you on the nose, making it twitch like a bunny’s and snapping you out of your trance.

“Huh?” you ask, looking lost.

Wanda giggles.

“You are too cute,” she tells you. “I was saying that I’m so proud of you for pushing through all of this. It’s not the easiest thing to do, and.....well.....I’m glad you’re still alive, my sweet little sunbeam.”

You blush upon hearing this and turn away, but Wanda gently redirects your face forward.

“There’s no need to hide, my angel. I want to see your lovely face.”

At that moment, you begin to feel drowsy and bring yourself closer to her.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to thank you enough, Wanda,” you sigh.

She brings you in closer and you melt into her embrace.

“Being with you, and you being safe and happy and alive.....that’s the only thank you I need.”

Leaning in, she kisses you gently on your forehead and you shyly return one on her cheek. 

“Goodnight, my angel,” she tells you as she brushes a strand of hair out of your way.

“Wait,” you say as she turns to switch the lights off. “Will....will you sing me those lullabies again? Please?”

“Of course,” she smiles. 

Turning the lights off, she returns to embrace you and softly sings the Sokovian lullabies her parents used to sing to her. As you drift off to sleep, you don’t know what’s going on in her mind. What’s going on with her mind? Her master plan, of course. Tonight’s the night she will finish what she started. Those monsters at the coffee shop messed with the wrong person. For the past few nights, she’s been paying them visits, doing the same things she did with your former best friend, and sending subconscious suggestions for them to gather in one place, thinking they’d be safer together. And now they have.

Tonight she’s going to make sure their minds are gone for good, but not before making them feel the pain and agony she imagines you felt. Her anger with them is in full throttle, so it’s going to be even worse for them. Telekinesis, fear projection, hypnosis, inducing extreme fear, she’ll do whatever she has to. Wanda will not leave until they’re nothing more than hollow husks, shadows of their former selves. With how they’d been acting on those nights, and how much Wanda has done so far, it won’t take too long. 

Because no one-and she means no one-gets away with hurting her precious angel.......ever.

[prof-peach]

What sort of safety standards and precautions are you subject to and how many do you break in your workplace? (Basically asking about poke osha)

As an island, we ask the staff to adhere to regular breaks, wear at least one item of the islands uniform, display ID badges so the public can identify aid easily, and generally don’t do anything stupid. If we have to work at heights, you can bet we get the hard hats out, and often scaffolding too, having a certified member of staff around to construct towers when the need arise. We have regulation amounts of first aiders per average headcount in many locations, offer access to all, so ramps, assisted doors, disabled toilets, we make sure to install fire defence systems and alarms, and keep those up to date. The extinguishers are routinely checked, machines all get vetted to avoid electrical fires on a regular basis. Hell, we got a designated landing zone for emergency aid ambulances now, thanks to that dude with the severe peanut allergy that one time. The staff are given the rundown for evacuation or taking shelter should there be an emergency, and we always hand out safety gear when they handle any pokemon of a volatile nature. For example, even the most well behaved poison type could do harm to humans handling it, so we ask staff to use gloves or goggles when handling them to avoid any accidents.

As for how many rules we ALL adhere to, I’ll admit, I forget some of it mid-job. We all lean a bit too far on a ladder sometimes, or forget the safety goggles when in a rush. You won’t catch me without gloves though, chemicals aren’t a laughing matter, and we never skip steps when handling things within the labs. Anything that is pokemon based, like care, testing, or feeding, we make sure to do things safely at all stages. Mistakes are however still made, this is a place of learning, and nothing teaches better than an accident I suppose.

On average the staff are unharmed doing the work, we’re insistent on safety gear and protocol for them. Do I remember to file every single accident report for some minor personal injuries?? Maybe not. If I had to report every work place incident I got into, I’d never stop doing paperwork. It would crush my soul, shackled to a desk for all eternity. We do however always file the correct forms with regards to the other staff. Gotta make sure they get those insurance claims, get that cash money, that sweet sweet medical coverage. We’ve got a killer admin lady who does the majority of those things. HR queen who saves my butt from having to do all the boring file work.

Safety gear you will often see myself, or other staff using: Fire proof riot gear, Kevlar gloves, heat resistant gloves, full body shield, steel toecap boots, shin/arm guards, gas masks, braces for the spine, dragon resistant gear, stab proof shirts and jackets, goggles, the list goes on but these are repeat use items, the things we rely upon the most. I will wear this stuff whenever I know I’m dealing with something very difficult, and have the chance to get to it before hand. I encourage any staff handling difficult Pokemon to do exactly the same, and gear up, if caught breaking the health and safety rules, staff are reprimanded for endangering themselevs and others. If theres a violent pokemon on the island, I will handle it, and not put staff in a situation where they're alone with one. Theres standard safety procedures for rocket attacks, for mass panic, for sudden wafts of poison from the forests thanks to poison type spores, for rogue pokemon, for thieves, for armed robbers or attackers. We adhere to many rules, even though we technically fall outside of legal jurisdiction of any region. We do it for our staff, and the visitors safety.

[dyketubbo]

im rewatching doomsday (comps of all povs of course) and. yeah i just.. feel bad for the lmanburgians. i dont know how i could just. say these people deserved it, when they all sound, panicked and desperate and so so fucking sad. long long ramble under the cut as i recount the events and pick out a bunch of little things

even the day before then is painful. ranboos panic room. ranboo and tubbos talk (tubbo admitting that hes wrong, saying he believes that history is repeating itself and trusting ranboo because he believes in his loyalty), fundy showing the ring toss. tubbos surprise at being told to kill dream before stating that quackity would be in control if he didnt (god, did he plan to fail?). tommy being so so excited. everyone playing ring toss and cheering on jack. tommy still believing in tubbo. tubbo panicking. ranboo and tommy and techno talking, ranboo giving them info. dream placing walls and quackity instructing tubbo on where to kill dream. dream lying about the community house. the entire community house debacle. just, everything.

and then doomsday itself. having to frantically get there because it started early, tubbo only having diamond armor to protect him, fundy standing still after he sabotaged them. tubbo and ranboos genuine despair about the apiary.

tubbo eventually going nonverbal and actively putting himself in danger, not even moving away from techno at first and getting in the way of the firework launcher. tubbo trying to save tommy from the fireworks, ponks broken "dont come over here!" after she was trying to save his cat, tommys face falling and desperate attempts at convincing techno, ranboo going "its all gone", niki spiralling and silently burning down the tree, quackitys pure anger. all the death messages.

jack going "what is there left to protect", tommy brokenly trying to accept that its gone as tubbo and quackity blankly do accept it. jack going "i lost everything again". tommy desperately trying to understand dream, on the verge of tears as he asks why dream didnt just hurt him. his low health and food as hes unable to do anything anymore, his quiet gasp as he spots ghostbur, tubbos tiny shake of his head when dream says dream and tommys story wont be over.

tubbo and quackity breaking the repeaters. ghostburs "i didnt even know we were fighting". ghostbur finding out phil let friend die, hes pained "phil? but i- i gave, i gave phil to look after. and dream found me friend, and technoblade said we were friends", tommys pained talk about technoblade. "we were never his friend. to him, all of this was just an act of politics, an act of clout and a-a social ladder, and you won't remember. tubbo you will, and to you big q, this was a friendship. but to technoblade, this was a ladder. and techno climbed to the tippity talk. do you wanna know the only way you can go? on the ladder? -- and once you reach the top of the ladder tubbo, you can only go down."

quackity asking to sing the anthem again, him strumming as ghostbur sings (and tubbo and tommy joining in). ghostbur forgetting the second verse because it blew up. quackity remembering it, them stumbling through it. tommys "tubbo? im so so sorry", tubbos quiet "its okay." the four all singing together. tubbo looking at the lava with an ender pearl in his hand, tommy correcting quackity and going "our l'manburg". ghostburs speech about friend, about people not taking him seriously just because he has memory loss.

meanwhile.. phil and techno were laughing. cracking jokes. phil mocks them as he spawns withers on the apiary, going "ohhh noo not the bees!". techno shouts at tommy and shoots at him and tubbo. he kills jack and doesnt even notice that it was one of his lives lost. jacks death itself proves that it doesnt take any particular intent, doesnt have to mean anything to the killer. techno and phil were willing to kill people. it would be foolish of them to act as if there were no risks in the terms of canon lives, especially with phil. phil doesnt take ghostbur seriously, treats his despair as an opportunity to drill in a lesson. the most either of them lost was some of the dogs and used up potions, fireworks, and wither skulls

and then theres dream. dream whose been harming the l'manburgians since the beginning, who had taken tubbo hostage, offered eret a chance to betray them all, who had been the man in tommys walls and offering money to tubbo and jack to try and get them to destroy things, who tried to get tommy to kill tubbos villagers. dream, who took tommys discs over and over, who killed tommy twice in one day, who stopped caring about his friends that loved him and were so so loyal. dream, who helped schlatt and pushed wilbur deeper into his spiral, who even then tried to manipulate tommy.

dream, who helped destroy l'manburg the first and second time, who took advantage of tubbo so he could have a premeditated kidnapping of tommy. dream, who abused tommy, physically, psychologically, emotionally. dream, who degraded tubbo and had taken ranboos memory book (which btw, since ranboos memory loss counts as a mental disability with the memory book as his aid, thats dream taking the thing that aids ranboo in dealing with his disability).

dream, who had been the reason l'manburg was created. dream, who got to destroy l'manburg three times. dream won. and techno and phil dont regret it, dont care.

maybe l'manburg was never meant to be. and sure, it started with stealing and an attempt to monopolize on potions but. that wasnt even l'manburg then, was it? it was just wilbur and tommy having fun. l'manburg came after. after the police hurt them. l'manburg started as a silly little revolution, led by a naïve man who thought he could win wars by saying no. it was a place for a family, a place for them to escape from dream. it was a place to try and escape the harm of those outside the walls. it was meant to be safe, even if those against them made it hard to be. it was made from love. it was meant to be happy. it was a symphony, however unfinished.

so. i don't know. i just feel, bad. they never really won, did they? tragedy after tragedy, death after death, destruction after destruction, betrayal after betrayal, hurt after hurt. and now what's left of them, really? out of the founders, erets doing the best and even shes doing awful, forever trying to make up for what he did. tubbos paranoia led him to developing nukes in a desperate attempt to stay safe, because he was taught to stay quiet and keep his emotions to himself, because his death was "justified", because nukes and walls and weapons are the only way he can feel safe anymore.

tommy went through months of abuse, lost all of his lives and suffered upon coming back, suicidal but unable to bring himself to do it because limbo is worse, feeling lost and like he has no family anymore other than wilbur, who he knows is hurting him but cant bring himself to leave, who loved lmanburg so so dearly and only wanted a home, still doesnt have one (tommy from everywhere, tommy from nowhere at all). niki who loved lmanburg and wilbur so much that it hollowed her out and made her bitter and shes so used to being spoken over that all she can think to do is raise her voice and get pissed, who cant see wilbur as a good person anymore because shes hurt and hasnt truly recovered and she doesnt know how to cope without being angry.

jack manifold feels forgotten, hes lost all his lives and crawled out of hell and no one truly noticed, he doesnt even believe that niki really cares, hes desperate and has made his purpose to be spiteful and angry because he cant deal with the emptiness that comes when he realizes theres no point. fundys desperate to have friends, family, a partner, anyone thatll love him, anyone thatll keep him safe, slowly killing himself with cigarettes and disowned because of giving too little too late, because he was too little too late.

and wilburs lost himself. spiraling, paranoid. a young, naïve man who wanted to fight swords with words, who wanted to impress his father, who wanted a nation of his own to feel safe, who was so effected by erets betrayal that he cant trust anyone but himself, whose possessive nature eats him from the inside out, desperate for control and unable to let go of the only person he knows loves him unconditionally

all because outside forces kept pushing, kept destroying, kept ruining them and hurting them and traumatizing them and taking away their homes and pets and loved ones. and i just. cant feel happy for the ones that hurt them, i cant feel victorius, triumphant, any of that. i just feel bad that the l'manburgians never got to be a family. i know they arent the best people but shit, i love them anyways, love them because theyre flawed and because theyre *people*, people who tried so so hard and got pushed so so much and. fuck, i cant be happy that the people who loved nature and play fought and laughed by campfires and read poetry and re-enacted theatre and loved each other and wanted to *live* (even if they were willing to die, if it meant giving everyone else a chance).. lost. they lost.

canonical years of work down the drain in one day. records of history gone, now only remembered in full by a traumatized teenager who was taught not to talk about his negative emotions, and even he misremembers some parts. they didnt even lose fairly. they had no chance. they couldnt have prepared for withers, for tnt rain, for the hounds. they were poor, weaker than their opponents, sabotaged by one of their own. thats.. tragic.

doomsday was a tragedy. i cant agree that it was deserved. i cant agree that they had it coming, that they deserved to lose homes and pets and limbs and lives and land because they werent the greatest people around.

a small country of less than 10 people (at both creation and destruction) now a giant crater in the ground, remnants of a parisitic egg taking over the land. and it wasnt even lost fairly. three people were stronger than an entire nation, even with all of its allies. two anarchists working with an abusive tyrant. so, no. doomsday wasnt deserved. people dont deserve tragedy. there were better ways, i truly cant be happy that the way chosen was violence. i cant.

l'manburg's citizens deserved better. they really did. the ends dont justify the means. and god, am i fucking tired of "justice". if justice means choosing violence over love and respect and caring about those less strong than you, i dont wanna hear about it. fuck that man, id rather love and be loved than constantly give a shit about making up for hurting others by getting hurt, thats stupid and cruel and i cant see it as okay on a moral level. not when the people that got hurt deserved to be loved and cared about and protected and *talked to* instead of constantly shot down.

of course for the narrative i can enjoy violence and characters getting hurt and i do like how "real" it all is, the despair and dissonance in tone and how terrifyingly messy it all is. out of story perspective- honestly rather cool even if it makes me feel bad. in story perspective- holy fucking shit no that wasnt deserved and god i hope everyone hurt will be able to heal and learn to love and be loved again because thats such a terrifying thing to go through. from a detached pov i can appreciate the insight into everyone involved and i like the plotlines that came from it, but from a compassionate pov i just wish the l'manburgians were allowed to be happy and treated as equals so they didnt have to go through all of this

[scripttorture]

One of the central characters in a fantasy story I'm writing has torture as part of her backstory. She was captured by an evil race, and one individual in particular put her through a "training" regime designed to turn her into a useful/trustworthy slave. Specifically the goals of the training were:

- destroy her sense of self / agency

- overwrite her ingrained response of healing herself when injured (she has magical healing powers)

- an affectionate or worshipful disposition towards her captors

- immediate obedience to any command

I feel like both physical and psychological torture / mental conditioning are probably appropriate, though I'm leaning away from including sexual abuse. I honestly don't know much about torture at all and the only things that come to mind as producing a result similar to what I'm looking for are the Game of Thrones torture sequence and the use of obdience collars in the Codex Alera book series. The latter is very interesting to me because it is a magical device that inflicts pain in reaction to disobedience but also inflicts pleasure to reward obedience.

I guess I'm just wondering if you have any advice for what kinds of methods would be good to include in a process designed to produce obedience, rather than torture for its own sake or to extract information, as well as if there are any common pitfalls I should try to avoid in writing about such a thing.

The training itself won't be in the book, but I need to be familiar with it for backstory purposes because later in the story this character encounters her torturer again, and is subjected to some further abuse before she finally overcomes her fear and kills him.

Alright well I’m going to be straight up with you: the scenario you’ve presented is a very common torture apologist trope. It’s incredibly unrealistic. And it’s unrealistic in ways that support torture by claiming it can be ‘useful’.

 Which probably means that you’re new to the blog and haven’t heard me give this talk before. That’s OK, we all learn sometime and it’s not my intention to shame you for the fact you’re not as obsessed with this stuff as I am or couldn’t afford to shell out for the books.

 Torture does not produce obedience. The best evidence we have right now suggests it encourages active resistance.

 If you got a lot of your inspiration from Game of Thrones then frankly I’m not surprised you came up with apologia. The torture in that series is incredibly badly handled. And a big part of the point of running this blog is that most people are getting their information on torture from shows like that. Which happens because the research is inaccessible and hasn’t been popularised the way fictional tropes (sometimes fictional tropes literally started by torturers) have been popularised.

 The important thing is what you choose to do now.

 I’m going to break down the problems here and make some suggestions for what you could do instead.

 Firstly: there is no torture or abuse that will guarantee obedience. Pain does not make people meek or compliant or willing to follow commands.

 Torture survivors are not broken.

 They are not ‘controlled’ by their torturers and the suggestion that they are is used in the real world to bar real survivors from treatment. It is also used to bar them from entering safe countries and to argue that they shouldn’t be allowed visas or passports.

 The best statistics we have for any sort of compliance under torture come from analysis of historical French data where torture was used to try and force confessions (something we know torture can sometimes do).

 The ‘success’ rate averaged at 10%. Under torture 90% of people will not comply long enough to sign their name.

 Secondly: torture does not and can not ‘make’ a victim feel ‘worshipful’ towards their torturer. The suggestion is kind of like asking if someone can tap dance immediately after removing the bones from their legs.

 Torturers have no control over a victim’s emotions. They have no control over their symptoms. They have no control over their beliefs.

 And there is no such thing as a torture that can change someone’s mind in a way torturers can control.

 Once again, this fictional trope is used by politicians and the media to justify marginalising real torture survivors.

 I have read hundreds, possibly thousands, of accounts from torture survivors. I’ve read historic and modern accounts. I’ve read accounts from all sort of people from all over the globe. I have never seen a survivor say anything positive about their torturers. I have never seen anything close to toleration.

 A lot of survivors are blisteringly angry at their torturers. A lot of them feel overwhelming levels of spite and some report literally putting themselves at risk of death in order to spite their torturers. And yes, a lot of them are afraid too. None of these emotions are mutually exclusive.

 Affection is impossible. We are not wired that way.

 Thirdly: I understand that ‘evil races’ are a long standing fantasy trope but it would be remiss of me if I didn’t mention the racism inherent in that idea. That some people are ‘born bad’.

 I’d strongly suggest you look up the Black, Indian and First Nations people that I know are on this site critiquing these kinds of fantasy tropes. Because they will be able to explain it better then I can.

 Fourthly: the term ‘psychological torture’ is a pretty common dog whistle for torture apologia.

 Most of the time tortures that people dub ‘psychological’ are things with real, physical effects that lead to lasting injury and death. They just don’t tend to leave obvious external scars. I use Rejali’s term ‘clean torture’ for these techniques. Researchers distinguish them from scarring tortures because they are harder to detect and prove in court.

 The majority of survivors today will have experienced clean torture. They will have no obvious physical scars. But they will still be disabled. They’re ‘just’ less likely to see any form of justice for it.

 Fifthly: torture is a terrible training method because it decreases a person’s ability to learn.

 Torture causes memory problems. It also often causes lasting physical injuries that make performing basic tasks more difficult. And it causes a lot of serious psychological problems which make performing basic tasks more difficult.

 A trained person who was never tortured will always out perform someone whose training involved torture.

 I probably sound quite angry here.

 I write fantasy and I also write about torture a lot. But I can’t imagine that it’s just flavour for a fantasy world or some artefact of the past. Torture is a real, present threat in the country that I grew up in. If I was to return now I could, literally, be tortured and executed.

 If you want to include torture in your world, in your story then you are committing to telling someone else’s story. You are representing an incredibly marginalised group of people and you are presenting that representation to a third group, one that has never had contact with real torture survivors.

 Are you comfortable with the idea of telling your peers that survivors are still controlled by ‘the enemy’? That they’re passive? That they don’t have the capacity to make their own decisions?

 Are you comfortable knowing that the popularity of this message keeps millions of genocide survivors in refugee camps, blocked from citizenship, aid and safety?

 I understand feeling attached to a story and a character. And I understand that this information is hard to find. Hell I’m probably going to end up with the only English copy of one of the pivotal textbooks because I’m shelling out to get it translated.

 You say you want to write a torture survivor. With respect I don’t think you know what a torture survivor looks like.

 I think the most helpful, and kindest, thing I can do here is describe what torture does to people. Because I can’t tell you whether that’s something you want to write. I could try and rebuild this scenario for you (and if you decide you’re interested in that after reading all of this and all the links then I suggest looking through the blog tags for ICURE, torture as training, Black Widow and Overwatch.) But I think you need to decide whether you actually want to write a torture survivor first.

 Here’s a post on the most common torture apologia tropes.

 Here’s the post on the types of memory problems torture commonly causes. I strongly recommend picking at least one.

 Remember that this would never go away. Improvement and recovery in torture survivors means learning to live with symptoms. The symptoms themselves are permanent.

 It’s a hundred different alarms set up on their phone to try and make up for the forgetfulness that makes them miss appointments. It’s the little bottle of perfume in their pocket to bring themselves back to reality when they get intrusive memories at work.

 Here’s a post on the other common symptoms.

 You want something in the range of 3-5 of those, though more are likely if your character is held for years. Each of them should be severe. Every single symptom should have a large, negative, impact on the character’s daily life.

 Do you know anyone with chronic pain? It warps their world. Work can become impossible. Basic household tasks like getting dressed, cooking, cleaning the dishes are done through gritted teeth or not at all. Hobbies and ‘fun’ activities dwindle as they struggle to find a way to do them that doesn’t hurt. Interaction with other people, even loved ones, can easily become barbed.

 Because the pain makes everything more difficult. It means everything takes more energy, more effort. Which means that things fall by the wayside, whether that’s by a pile of mouldering dishes in the sink or snapping at a child. It means tears and the social judgement that follows them. It means the world narrowing as it gets harder to go out.

 Do you see what I mean? Every part of life.

 That’s an example for one symptom. You need to work out at least four. Then figure out how they interact. Then figure out what the character can do to make her life better.

 With chronic pain that can mean painkillers but it’s always more then that. It’s re-learning how to do things; how to put on trousers without aggravating the bad knee, how to sew with one hand. It means learning to cut down on what they do and it means learning a new sort of flexibility; accepting that there are days when the pain is too much.

 It can mean having the same conversation about disability over and over again. With family, with friends, with colleagues. ‘I can’t do that.’ ‘I can do that sometimes but not always.’ ‘That will hurt me.’ ‘I can’t use that chair.’ ‘I can’t get my arms that high above my shoulders.’ ‘I need help with this.’

 And that sometimes means learning a kind of patience that is really barely held back rage. Or perhaps I’m projecting a little with this last one.

 If you’ve never met a torture survivor, if you’ve never looked at a survivor’s work, then all this is difficult. You’re trying to imagine something from first principals with nothing to fall back on.

 So let’s bring some survivors into the discussion here. Some reality.

 Who’s listened to Fela? How about Bobi Wine?

 Fela Kuti was the father of modern Afro beats music. He was tortured multiple times and during one attack, which destroyed his home, his mother was murdered by the military. When he got out of jail Fela marched her funeral procession past the biggest barracks in Nigeria’s biggest city. He wrote two songs about this attack and he doubled down on his opposition to the military government.

 Fela’s music started causing riots.

 You can read what I have to say about him here. You can listen to his music on youtube.

 Here’s an interview with Bobi Wine, which was conducted shortly after he was tortured in Uganda. He talked about how he was determined to go back and continue fighting. Which he did. He even ran against the president.

 I’ve also got a short piece on Searle who was a cartoonist captured by the Japanese during World War 2. His drawings of what happened in To the Kwai and Back are worth seeing. Especially if you want to write atrocities on this scale. They will show you the scale and how to focus on the small, human elements despite that overwhelming scale.

 Alleg’s The Question is pretty much a must, it’s one of the most thorough accounts from the Franco-Algerian war.

 Monroe’s A Darkling Plain is also a must, it’s a series of interviews with survivors of various different conflicts and atrocities. Some are torture survivors. Some are not. It is essential reading because it shows the variety in survivors as well as giving a sense of their lives beyond the symptoms.

 Finally Amnesty International has literally hundreds of interviews and studies available for free online.

 The most important decision for any story with regards to torture is whether it should be there at all.

 So much of this topic is intimidating and so much of it is difficult to write. Not just in the ‘oh this is horribly effecting’ sense but in the ‘I have twelve things to juggle in this simple scene’ sense.

 Ask yourself what torture adds to this character and this story. What does this backstory actually give this character?

 Because if the point is to have her vulnerable and then ultimately triumphing violently over her attackers I don’t think you want a torture scenario. You could get the same thing from a bad guy trying to drug her and having the kidnapping fail when she fights him off, clumsy but effective nonetheless.

 And she could still come out of something like that traumatised.

 Right now I really don’t see this adding anything but torture apologia to your story.

 Handling torture well in a story means accepting that it can’t be the same story without it. It means watching the characters and narrative warp under the weight of it. It means lasting effects, for all the characters and for the world itself.

 I believe you are capable of writing that if you want to, pet. But this ain’t it.

Edit: I’m having trouble seeing the beginning of the answer here. Can anyone let me know if there are formatting issues again please? The first word in the htmal is ‘Alright’ but what I’m seeing on tumblr starts 8 paragraphs in.

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[avintagekiss24]

SUNBEAMS & RHYTHMS || STEVE ROGERS; BUCKY BARNES

pairing: Steve Rogers x blind!black!reader x Bucky Barnes || word count: 5,414 || warnings: mentions of depression, mentions of anxiety, mentions of insomnia, mentions of suicidal/dark thoughts, mentions of surgery/side effects of surgery (seizures/medications), smut, sex, threesome (m/m/f), polyandry/polyamory || challenge: @jbbarnesnnoble​​ mental health awareness month writing challenge - “the warmth of the sun fell over you like a blanket in the middle of winter.”

author’s note: this was such a great challenge, but please heed the warnings! we’re dealing with some sensitive issues in this one. I hope you guys like, and I also hope that I’ve handled this correctly! this is my first time writing a disabled reader. let me know what you think please :) and thank you all so much for all of the love since I've been back from my little hiatus! major inspiration from this post. I’m also getting used to a new laptop, so if there’s any weirdness in this post that’s why, lmaooo. okay, I'm done talking, enjoy!

The room is shrouded in darkness - but not that you’d notice anyway. Your body is covered by the thick duvet thrown over the bed, your face buried in your hands. A splitting headache forces your eyes closed, but you’re used to them. The headaches. They started a few years ago, out of nowhere - you just thought it was stress, or, maybe not getting enough sleep at night. You didn’t pay them any attention at first.

They got worse. They got to the point where you couldn’t get out of bed. Your vision would get blurry. Steve suggested a doctor - you said no, it’s just a migraine. You’d be fine. He insisted after a few more months went by, and your headaches got worse, your vision worse.

You still remember it like it was yesterday. You sat there, stunned into silence. Your whole body numb. Steve grabbed your left hand, Bucky your right, as the room started to spin - the doctor's voice fading away as she spoke. Brain tumor. It was so large now that it was pressing on your optic nerves, making you slowly go blind. Within months, purples and greens and blues and pinks were all replaced by nothing. Not even black - it was just nothing.

The last clear thing you remember seeing were the tears in Steve’s eyes and Bucky’s metal arm thrown over your hip as he held you tight. You had to squint to make everything out, but Steve’s eyes were shiny - cloudy - as the emotion trickled down his cheeks. You wiped them away slowly with your thumb as you tried to etch his face in your mind so you’d never forget it. You wanted each line, each crinkle, each little freckle to be ingrained in you. You’d already spent hours staring at Bucky, doing the same.

You made them smile - soft ones, toothy ones, lopsided ones, just so you could remember them. Both men obliged, although Steve clearly couldn’t stuff his grief and anger down as well as Bucky could. Bucky was angry with him at first - telling him to stay strong for you. Surgery wasn’t going to be easy, mentally, emotionally, physically - they needed to stay strong for you. You told him not to be so hard on Steve. You were all dealing with the death - of the person you were, your relationship as it was - he was allowed to grieve.

You woke up from the surgery a few days later, tumor free, but almost completely blind.

Everything was just different from that point on. The medication after the surgery did a number on you. The steroids made you irrationally angry and agitated. Insomnia kicked in, you couldn’t sleep for days on end, so they prescribed you a sleeping aid. You couldn’t tell if it were day or night, so on top of the insomnia, your circadian rhythm was fucked - more medication. Your balance was off, you were confused more times than you weren’t, you had a seizure or two - bad ones.

That’s when the depression seeped in. You missed who you used to be. You were fun. You were wild - that’s how you ended up in a relationship with two men in the first place. You had a great laugh. You couldn’t hold your liquor for shit, and you had a great sense of style. You loved everything and everyone and now, you’re just a shell of that person. You end up laying in bed most of the day, days on end, as dark thoughts swarm around you, consuming the last spots of light you have left.

You’re a burden to them, Steve and Bucky. They’ve both had to leave the team, not wanting to be far from you in case something happened. Steve turned his shield over to Sam immediately upon hearing the news. Bucky stayed on for a while longer but wouldn’t leave the country, until even that was too much for him. He’s been home full time for a few weeks now.

The headaches now are from the new crippling anxiety and stress that you live with constantly. You don’t bother to put on anything but old t-shirts and sweats because, what’s the point? You can’t even remember what your favorite clothes look like. One afternoon, in a fit of rage, you pulled every article of clothing from the hanger and made Bucky tell you what color it was before you threw it away. You could only imagine him standing there, his hands on his hips, his head down, his voice low as he rattled them off - red, pink, yellow with white polka dots, navy blue and white stripes.

Between the irrational anger, the headaches, the insomnia, the feeling that your floundering - sinking just below the endless, dark water - you just want to give up. You just want to close your eyes and float away. Make it all end.

You hear the door slide across the carpet as it opens, and then heavy steps before a massive weight presses into the mattress. The duvet starts to shift but you grab it, stopping it from sliding off of your head and groan loudly.

“Bucky,” you whine, “Please don’t.”

He chuckles, “How d’you know it was me?”

His body wash. You used to laugh at the differences between the two of them - like day and night almost; but their juxtaposition is what made them, them. Bucky always went for earthy tones; rich - scents and colors alike. Naturally, his preferred body wash was heavier than Steve’s, distinctly masculine. Steve always liked a hint of sweet.

“Baby,” Bucky’s voice is soft and airy, “You gotta get up.” You don’t respond. You draw your knees into your chest as you feel him shift behind you, “Come on baby. We have a surprise for you.”

“I don’t like surprises.”

You can sense the smile on his face. He shifts again and suddenly you feel those metal digits slide up your spine. Slowly, slowly, slowly, they creep along your back and up to the back of your neck where he scratches at your hairline. You hate how short it is, your hair. You were natural before, took the utmost care of it. Steve helped you shave it off before surgery. Now, between the medication making it brittle and quite frankly, the lack of care you have, Steve helps you keep it short.

You let out a breath as Bucky’s large hand sweeps over your head, cupping it underneath the duvet before his digits find your ear to pull gently, playfully on the lobe, “Please? For me?”

You sigh. You let him pull the duvet away from your face. You start to blink quickly; jump slightly when you suddenly feel his lips on your cheek. You’re still not used to it yet, your senses aren’t - they’re getting stronger, you just have to trust them. You can hear your therapist's words like she’s sitting in the room with you. You relax though, when his cheek rubs against yours as he wraps your body up in a tight hug. You even smile a little as he kisses down your neck and along your shoulder as he rubs your hip.

You reach for him, finding his chin with your fingers. The short hair that grows along the bottom half of his face is prickly - sharp. You walk your fingers along his jawline and cup his cheek as he moans into the crook of your neck.

“Where’s Steve?” You ask softly.

“Packing up the car.”

You roll slightly onto your back, blinking at the nothingness as your fingers still move along Bucky’s face. You raise your second hand, sliding it along his left cheek, feeling him. You push your fingers over his lips, tracing them as you try and figure out what he’s feeling. Your hands move upward, over his nose, up to his eyes where you feel the crinkles on either side of them. He’s smiling; it’s a big one.

“Steve is really excited.” He says.

You picture an excited Steve. The light that fills his brilliant, blue eyes, the whiteness of his toothy grin. God, you miss his face, “Where are we going?” You ask after a moment.

There’s another kiss pressed to your cheek before he sits up, gently pulling your arms with him, “That’s the surprise.”

You let him pull you up to your feet. There’s footsteps again, coming down the hall, “Buck,” Steve says.

“She’s up.”

You turn your head in the direction of the door, dropping your chin to your shoulder, listening as the steps draw nearer. You close your eyes again and let another small smile spread on your lips when you feel soft fingers, Steve’s fingers, start to massage your shoulders. He kisses the back of your head and then your temple.

“Feelin’ better?” He whispers.

“Not really,” you answer honestly. You’ve never lied to them, there’s no use in starting now.

Silence drops over the room. You’re sure that they’re exchanging a quiet conversation, their eyes bouncing back and forth between each other, “Guys?”

“Still here,” Bucky answers, “Hands up, let’s get you dressed.”

You oblige, lifting your arms over your head as he pulls his old t-shirt away from your body, “I can dress myself.”

“Just let us help you.” Steve says gently, his hands slipping into the sides of your sweats to push them down your legs, “You know we’ve always liked pampering you.”

That they have. It’s been a long time since you’ve let them. Their hands feel familiar but yet different - you weren’t really paying attention to the feel of them before. Now that it’s all you have, the feel, you notice the difference between the two of them. Steve’s hands are a little softer than Bucky’s, but he hasn’t worked in over a year, that’s what you suppose anyway. Punching people and gripping various guns and knives are killer on the hands.

Once you’re stripped naked, Bucky places your arms back by your sides. You feel Bucky’s hands (his are calloused still) on yours within seconds, then, a slick material against your fingers.

You squint, “Is that a bathing suit?”

“It is. Your favorite one. Remember what it looks like?”

“The blue one?”

“With the polka dots.” He presses it into your palm, letting you feel it, “The strapless one, that sinches in the middle of your chest.”

You smile a little as you run your fingers over it. The stomach is cut out, the waist high. You liked it because it made your ass and your boobs look incredible, “I love this one.”

He kneels in front of you, grabbing your hand and placing it on his shoulder as Steve places his hands on your hips - steadying you, in more ways than one. Bucky lifts your left leg by your ankle and helps you step into your bathing suit, then moves to the right foot, sliding the soft material up your legs. Once his hands reach your waist, Steve takes over, grabbing the suit and pulling it up the rest of the way, up over your chest. He kisses your neck as you adjust the top over your breasts.

“Thank you.” You offer gently.

Steve pushes your hands above your head again and slips something soft down your arms and over your head. Bucky grabs it and pulls it down your body, adjusting it slightly as you place your hands on your chest - feeling it. It’s a cover up, the white one you think; the one you got on your vacation in Maui. It has a stain on it. Steve knocked over the bottle of red wine the three of you were enjoying as the two of you danced on the patio of your ocean front room, Bucky watching you with a small, happy smile on his face.

“I like this one,” you say more to yourself than to them, “It makes my legs look long.”

“Your legs are long.” Steve chuckles, “Come on, shoes now.”

Once you're fully dressed, Steve takes your hand, starting to guide you towards the door. You slip out of his grasp, taking a breath, “I can do it.”

It’s thirty seven steps from here to the kitchen. That’s when you make a right and take fifteen more steps to make it to the garage door. From there, it’s five steps to the car, unless it’s backed out into the driveway - then it's between twenty two and twenty seven steps, depending on just where it’s parked. You’re getting the hang of things, no matter how much you hate it.

You feel them hovering behind you as you walk but they both respect your boundaries, letting you navigate the house without intervention. You slide your hands along the side of the car to the door handle and pull, the old door creaking just a little. Bucky isn’t much of a car guy, but Steve? This 1967 Chevy Impala was the only thing he and Tony could talk about without fighting. Steve gushed over it every time the three of you had dinner with Tony and Pepper. Then, one day, it was parked in front of the house with a simple note from Tony shoved underneath the windshield wipers - Capsicle, much like your face, I can’t stand to look at this any longer. Enjoy.

You slide into the seat and within seconds feel their thick bodies enveloping you, squeezing you between the two of them. The seat rumbles against your back as the car comes to life, the engine and mufflers loud as… you lift your hand to the shoulder on your left and run it the length of his arm, down to his wrist, gripping slightly as you go. It’s Steve, his arms are just a tad longer than Bucky’s you’re coming to find; more vascular.

You squint as the car backs down the driveway and the sun hits your face. You lift your hand, blocking the rays as you start to fumble around in front of you. You’re surprised at how sensitive your eyes have become to the UV rays. There’s a hand on yours, then your glasses pressed into your palm, the fingers not pulling away until you unfold them and slip them onto your face.

“Good?” Bucky asks.

You nod, “Good.”

The windows are down, the warm breeze whipping around you, caressing your skin. The radio is turned up - Dreams by Fleetwood Mac - as you drive. Bucky hums softly, his metal fingers linking with yours, his lips pressing against your temple every now and again. Steve taps along to the beat with his fingers against your bare, exposed knee before he squeezes it gently. You smile as you start to relax, Steve’s words coming back to you. Just let us help you. You know we’ve always liked pampering you.

You drive for a while, over an hour maybe. Then, the car slows as you turn and stays slow, creeping almost, like Steve’s looking for something. The car turns again and comes to a stop a second or two later. The engine dies, the two buff bodies shift away from you as the doors pop open. There’s a tap on your right shoulder. You reach out and feel on the forearm until you find a hand, Bucky, before he grabs tightly and helps you out.

“I’m gonna help you, okay?” His voice is soft as he rubs his chin against your shoulder.

“Okay.” You answer. You turn your head to your left and blink quickly, anxiety starting to rush through your veins from the unfamiliarity of your surroundings, “Steve?”

“Right here, baby.” His voice is soft too. You feel his fingertips brush along the inside of your left wrist, just to assure you he’s close, “You’re okay. I had to get the bags.”

Bucky slips his arm around your waist and keeps your hand in his as he guides you. You count each step. Bucky narrates every move - that you are in a garage, just about to enter a house. You’re in a small hallway, seven steps before a left turn, then you’re in the kitchen. There’s an island to your left, a kitchen table with four chairs on your right and if you keep walking straight, you’re in the living room. He lets you feel your way, reaching out to touch the walls, the backs of the chairs, the island, as he talks.

You stop when Bucky stops, and then hear something slide open before the sounds of water crashing fills your ears. You’re back outside, the warmth of the sun falling over you like a blanket in the middle of winter. A hand slips down your calf and wraps around your ankle before your foot is lifted and your shoe removed. A broad smile covers your face. You haven’t been to the beach since the diagnosis.

You take a step forward once you’re barefoot, one of them grabbing your wrist quickly, “There’s steps, babe.” Bucky says.

“How many?”

“Six.” Steve answers, “Here let me-”

“I got it.” You say dancing your fingers over the railing and taking small, cautious steps until you feel the first step, “I got it.”

They’re hovering again. You can’t see it, but Steve has both hands extending out on either side of you, ready to catch you if you stumble. Bucky jumps the railing entirely, landing softly in the sand and rushes to the bottom step, his eyes on you as you move down them slowly.  When you step into the hot sand, your smile grows - if that’s even possible. You wiggle your toes as the grains slip between them and the waves continue to crash not far from where you stand.

Steve and Bucky keep their small distance from you as you walk towards the ocean’s edge, knowing you're close when the sand changes from loose and dry to stiff and wet. The water washes up over your feet, the smell of salt fills your nostrils, the random calls of seagulls both near and far ring in your ears. You grab the hem of your cover up and pull it over your head, discarding it onto the ground without a care as you move deeper into the water - a new purpose, new life flowing through your veins.

You don’t feel them hovering anymore. You guess they’ve both stopped at the water’s edge, soft smiles on their faces as they watch a wave crash into you, making you stumble. You laugh, loud and carefree, as you fall on your butt, the strength of the water pushing you around slightly. You don’t know it, but Bucky’s smile widens and Steve’s chin trembles as they watch you find a meaning again.

Tilting your head to the sky, you run your wet hands over your head before you wrap them around your legs, bringing them into your chest. You let the sun beat down on you. You let the water wash over you. You let the tears come. You let them slide down your cheeks and fall into the water. You let the ocean carry all of your tears, sadness, anxiety, and depression away from you and out into the abyss. You don’t want it back.

You lay out underneath the sun for hours, making peace with yourself, becoming one with the sand, water, and sun. Steve and Bucky keep a watchful eye until you call for them. Then, and only then do they approach, hands and fingers and lips all over your damp skin. They lay with you, staring up into the sky and calling out the shapes of the clouds. They play with you, splashing water in your face and pinching and tickling your sides as the three of you laugh loudly. Wildly.

You feel like yourself again.

When the sun sets, and the breeze rolling off of the water turns chilly, making chills run through you and bumps pop up on your skin, the three of you head back inside. Door dash brings you a quick dinner, which you all inhale before heading back into the bedroom to bathe. Bathtubs are rarely big enough for the three of you, but you always make it work - sitting in Bucky’s lap, your back to his chest, Steve at the other end.

Steve shaves your legs slowly, dropping kisses on the inside of your ankle as Bucky massages the shampoo into your short hair. Bucky taps underneath your chin before he pushes his index finger into it softly, tilting your head back. He pours warm water over your hair, sweeping his hand through it to push the suds away. Just let us help you. You know we’ve always liked pampering you.

You stay in the tub with your boys until the water runs cold. You’re wrapped up in a warm, fluffy towel, Bucky rubbing his hands up and down your arms trying to warm you up as you shiver and laugh at yourself. A song starts to play from somewhere in the house, slightly muffled as the sound passes through the walls and down the halls. Dream A Little Dream Of Me. The duet between Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong. Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes were long replaced by Captain America and The Winter Soldier by the time this version came out, but they love it all the same. It reminds them of home, they tell you.

You’re suddenly crushed against one of them - Steve. You know this because you run your hands along his chest to his shoulder, not feeling the jagged, deep scar where Bucky’s flesh meets metal. He grabs your small hand and places it to his chest as he sways with you, back and forth, turning in slow circles as Louis croons.

Stars fading, but I linger on, dear

Still craving your kiss

I'm longing to linger till dawn, dear

Just saying this

Steve spins you away from him and Bucky finds you, wrapping you up in his arms - an arm slung around your waist, fingers spread against your naked back as he holds your hand. You melt into him, humming softly as your toes brush against his, the soft sounds of your feet pushing along the hardwood floor beneath you adding a natural soundtrack.

Steve’s hands find your shoulders from behind. He presses his thumbs into your flesh as he squeezes and rubs slowly, his lips peppering your jaw and down your neck, “You’re so tense, baby.” He whispers.

“Depression will do that to you,” you chuckle, your new humor darker than what either one of them are used to. You feel them both stiffen at your words, hear a sad sigh from behind you, “Sorry. It was just a joke.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Bucky says, “We want to know what you're feeling, good, bad or indifferent. You don’t have to joke with us.”

You take a breath. You rest your head on his chest and start to chew on your bottom lip, “I know.” Your voice is small.

Defense mechanism.

You fight the urge to cry. Your eyes start to water, your skin starts to flush with heat, your jaw gets tight. Steve grabs the back of your neck gently as he kisses your shoulder blade gently, just wanting you to feel him. Bucky keeps dancing with you as the tears start to fall, cupping the back of your head in his large hand as he pushes his lips to your forehead.

What is it your therapist says? You aren’t in this alone, or something like that. You never believed her, or those words - until right now. Right in this moment. It’s been a year of self imposed loneliness. Dark thoughts accompanied by even darker impulsions of wanting to slip underneath the water and never resurface. Fear and anxiety telling you that you need to push away - they’ll both leave you one day for a resemblance of normalcy again.

They haven’t.

They won’t.

The days have turned into weeks, have turned into months - and here they are. Slow dancing with you in the moonlight as Ella Fitzgerald plays through the walls. Bucky wipes at your cheek with his thumb, pushing the emotion away. He nuzzles his cheek against yours as you reach up and scratch at the nape of his neck to calm yourself, “We aren’t going anywhere, doll.” He whispers.

“We promise.” Steve adds on.

You let out a breath that you didn’t know you were holding. Bucky tilts your head towards his and without a warning, his lips cover yours. Soft. Commanding. His velvet tongue massaging yours as Steve bites down on your shoulder.

The sheets of the bed are soon mangled and twisted, pillows cast to the floor as you writhe beneath Bucky’s heavy body. Your leg is thrown over his hip, your fingernails dig into his thick flesh, the tips of his long, soft, dark hair brushing over your face. You have your other arm draped over his neck as his hips push into yours, driving himself deeper and deeper into you. Your mouth hangs, as does his - lips brushing against each other, hot breath washing over each other's skin as you push your foreheads together.

Steve waits patiently, although his fingers dance over your breasts, his palms brushing over your nipples before he palms your skin. He squeezes and gropes before he sends his hand down your stomach and to your clit to rub gentle circles against it as Bucky pummels you. He’s on his side, his nose and forehead pressed against the side of your face, his bottom lip between his teeth before he nips at your jaw and chin.

He tears your hand away from Bucky’s body to grab his hard length, dragging your palm with his, down his shaft. He’s so warm. His tip wet from his arousal.

It’s been a long while since the three of you have made love. It’s been a long while since you’ve felt beautiful enough too. You hadn’t realized how much of your self esteem was wrapped up in your hair until you had to shave it off. You also weren’t sure if you’d like it the way you used to - handle it with the same confidence you once had. Not being able to see them - see their hard muscles and their strained faces while in the throws of passion. That’s what turned you on.

Not anymore.

It’s the way you can tell them apart without having to see them. It’s the feel of their bodies now, not the sight of them. How rough and dominant Bucky’s hips are in your darkness, how sweet and loving Steve’s touch is. Their sounds; both deep and desperate for you. How the sounds vibrate against your ear drums and skin, moving through you - the illicit response your body has to them - the sounds.

You slam your head back into the pillow as Bucky pulls out of you. You pant and moan as you arch your back from the mattress as they shift around. Steve’s lips, you know their Steve’s because they’re rushed; always rushing, rushing, rushing like he’s still a man running out of time, push against your stomach, light kisses moving down to your sex. He bends your legs back, your feet dangling by his ears as he nibbles on the inside of your thigh.

Bucky grabs your hand just as Steve pushes his nose through your folds and sucks you into his mouth. Bucky moves your hand down his hard stomach to his pulsing hips. You wrap your hand around his warmth and feel him pump up into it, a little grunt falling from his lips at the same time.

Steve hums as his tongue swirls around you, flicking and lapping at you as his index and middle fingers push into your cunt. You buck your hips into his face, using all of him, his chin, his lips, his nose to cop a feel as he sucks on you. He releases your flesh with a loud smack - then drags his wet mouth the length of your thigh, up to your knee, and along your calf as he sits up on his knees. He extends your leg, resting it against his chest and shoulder as he sucks your manicured toes into his mouth, his large hand caressing your calf.

Bucky growls as he sucks your taut nipple into his mouth and wraps his metal fingers around your throat. He then kisses your mouth, hard and desperate, moaning into you as he continues to push his hips into your warm hand and against your side. He squeezes, gently, slowly, causing you to gasp just as Steve pushes into your wet, slick, swollen cunt.

You groan into Bucky’s hot mouth as Steve starts to move. His thrusts are softer, gentler than Bucky’s - always have been. He keeps your leg curled over his shoulder, his lips peppering kisses along your ankle and calf, his other hand and fingers gripping your thigh. The cool metal of Bucky’s fingers skip over your hot skin, down between your breasts and to your stomach before he flattens his palm against you, pushing down to add some pressure.

Bucky bites your bottom lip, pulling softly before he lets go. He nuzzles back into the side of your face, the stubble on his cheek cutting across your skin. He wraps his hand around yours that still pumps his cock and glides it slowly up and down, up and down, up and down as he moans into your ear; heavy, hot breath caressing your neck and the side of your face.

Steve hits a spot; your toes curl. Your hips jerk - your muscles tense. Fingers begin to massage your clit, slow, slow, slow circles to draw out the sensation. Teeth nibble at your ear lobe. Fingers glance across your skin. Mouths and lips take turns on yours. Steve drives his hips harder and faster - pushing, pulling, pushing, pulling. Bucky breaths fire laced words, provoking you, prodding you, coercing you to just let it all go…

You shatter. It consumes every bit of you. Physically. Emotionally. Their hands and fingers are everywhere, gripping, pinching, holding as you come. Steve pulls out of you - he always liked to watch you come, how your sticky, swollen sex convulses with each contraction from your orgasm, your clit jumping. He pushes his fingers back through your folds as he pushes his cock inside of you again, also loving the squeeze.

You feel hot, quick bursts of silk, over and over, splash against your stomach. Bucky groans with each, right up against your ear, the sound vibrating through your entire body.

Heat then blooms inside of you - Steve. Your muscles constrict around him, pulling each warm, thick ribbon of cum from him, coating your walls. He pushes deep and grabs your hand, placing it right in the middle of his chest so you can feel his muscles tense and flex as he comes. Feel the soft rumble of the grunts that vibrate through his chest. Feel his heart.

He collapses beside you, your body bouncing against the mattress as his weight pushes against it. The three of you are nothing but heavy breaths and balmy skin. Eyelashes resting against your cheeks as your eyes close with the recession of your lust. A head rests on your chest. You lift your hand and slip your fingers through the tresses, finding them short and kind of wispy - Steve.

Metal fingers curl within yours, a sturdy leg thrown over your thighs. A hand splays across your chest. Lips connect with your shoulders and jaw - fingers massage and scratch at your scalp softly. It’s all a blur. The haze won’t let your brain try and figure out who is who; but maybe that’s the point. Maybe it’s what you need. You don’t need to know. You can let go some of the control that you’ve been so desperately searching for.

You inhale deeply; and let out the breath you’ve been holding for over a year.

Your delicate fingers are lifted and pressed against hot lips - each digit receiving a kiss before being placed on a chest. The thump thump thump of a heart beat drums against them. You let out another breath as you nuzzle into their heavy bodies, soft I love you’s passing back and forth. There’s a faint skip of the record player down the hall. The soft whoosh of the breeze playing with the open curtains that cover the windows. Three bodies huddled in the center of the bed; just breathing.

In and out.

In and out.

In and out.

[winglssdemon]

It's Disability Awareness Month or for some of us it is every day as usual. So here's some friendly tips that abled people need to learn but you probably never even thought about.

- The blue or yellow lines next to accessible parking spaces (i.e. "handicap" spots) are necessary for mobility aid users (crutches, canes, wheelchairs, etc.) to get out of their cars. Some have wheelchair vans where the ramp needs to go down and that uses up the whole space. Others need to makes use they can open their door all the way and have plenty of space to move their aids in the necessary directions or hold onto an open car door. Anyone who parks in those lines, leaves carts in those lines, or leaves electric mobility carts in those lines are being ableist. Yes, even if they are disabled too. Please leave those lines free so disabled people can exist in the world.

-Are you on a walk? Is there a wheelchair user coming your way and they don't seem to be moving out of the way and/or not staying on the right side of the pavement? If you can, please allow the wheelchair user to continue as they are. More than likely, a wheelchair user will be using the safest part of the pavement for them. Things like pot holes, dips, and even rocks, stones, or gravel can all cause a wheelchair user to "trip" which leads to either faceplanting out of the wheelchair or falling backwards out of a wheelchair. You may not see it, but I promise you the wheelchair user does.

-If you see someone fall out of their wheelchair do not immediately help them by pulling them up. Yes, I know you want to help and that is really decent of you. You just need to remember to ask first since many wheelchair users have chronic pain, and others have brittle bones or loose joints. Pulling someone up may increase the harm done to their body. If you are given the OK from the disabled person to help them, then make sure you listen and do exactly what they ask for. If they say no and don't want your help, please please listen to them and don't make a big deal out of it or force the issue.

-I know you want to hold doors open and yes, that is usually a totally okay thing to do! However, it is important that you hold open the door from the outside. When you hold the door open from the inside you end up blocking the doorway. Many disabled people especially those with mobility aids will take up more room than an able bodied person. It is also VERY important that of someone already has their hand on a door and is opening it that you DO NOT take the door from them. You can very easily harm someone by ripping the door out of their hands. Also, if a disabled person says they got the door and you grab it for them anyway, don't expect a thank you. Plenty of disabled people are exhausted at abled people thinking they can't do something, so when you do it anyway and make a big deal out of needing thanks, some of us are bound to get a wee bit cranky.

Don't treat your help as "your good deed for the day" and especially DONT say it. I know it's well meaning and helping people is literally confirmed to make yourself feel better. It ends up coming across as condescending and rude. Disabled people dont exist to make abled people feel better about themselves

-So you think a disabled person is an inspiration? I know you mean well and its meant as a compliment. What a lot of people dont realize is that calling someone an inpsiration for going about their day is actually really offensive. Think about how if you did something like go to the bathroom and you came out of the stall and someone said "you're so inspiring!" and all you did was take a shit? You'd be pretty disturbed.

-Speaking of bathrooms, please remember that disabled people *need* the accessible stall. The general rule is that if it's one of two stalls, and that's your only option, then sure go ahead. However if there are multiple open stalls and one accessible stall? Please leave the accessible one free (do not accost people who you think might not be disabled for using it, invisible disabilities are a thing). Don't use the accessible stall for changing, for your shopping cart, or for anything you're physically capable of leaving outside a regular stall. And if you need to use the stall especially if its like 1 of 2, then try to use it as quickly as possible.

- Being at the height of wheelchair users. Many diagrams that were made by abled folk say you should kneel down to a wheelchair user to talk to them. MANY wheelchair users find this supremely uncomfortable and condescending. A much better idea would be to bring up a chair or go somewhere where you can sit down with them if its a long conversation. If its a short conversation or there's nowhere for you to sit, ASK if they would like you to kneel down or if you should stay standing. Also, feel free to remind wheelchair users if you need to sit. Some of us (myself especially lol) forget that people with good working legs still get tired from standing too long.

-Always ask before helping a disabled person even if they are visibly struggling. Sometimes disabled people are still learning what they can and can't do and need to try on their own first. Some may look like they're struggling but it may just be the way their body works best. It is definitely okay to ask most of the time. All you have to do is listen to the answer.

-Dont approach disabled folk at night to offer help. Dont approach a disabled person who is already being helped by the person with them. Dont ask a disabled person who drove themselves somewhere if they need help in or out of the car. This is because if they got in the car, they knew they could get themselves out of the car. And if they have a wheelchair, there are very specific ways for the wheelchair to break down and go into the car that a non wheelchair user will have NO idea how to do so.

Please don't be upset and/or cause a scene if a disabled person denied your help but allowed it from someone else. There are multiple reasons you could have been denied your chance to help. It could be that the disabled person is with their friends or family and would prefer their help. The other person could be their aide (many aides dont need to have a uniform or scrubs and are often times hired friends or family). The disabled person may not have needed help with one thing but needed help for something else. And lastly, its really up to the disabled person who they accept help from.

-If a disabled person calls you (an able bodied person) out for using an accessible parking spot, PLEASE don't fight with them. Apologize, leave the spot, and don't do it again (and don't pull back in when their back is turned!). It doesn't need to be a huge fight.

-Dont touch or move a disabled person without their permission. Touch includes things like head pats, shoulder pats, hugs, arm rubbing, etc.

Overall, respect disabled people. Ask before helping and listen to the answer even if the answer is no.

[whump-town]

Professors

No one asked for more of this AU and, truthfully, I don’t even know why I keep writing it. We all know I have other things to be doing. The Cancer AU, the PowerPoint, and other fics left unfinished. Yet, here I am offering garbage

WARNING FOR Reid whump, implied abuse

Growing up, Spencer Reid relished his escapism. Spending hours, days even, cooped into the smallest holes of his mother’s house with nothing but books and the ability to lose track of time and space. More importantly, his ability to ignore the obvious. Here it did not matter that his mother thought he was a spy. That she’d slapped him so hard he’d felt his teeth smack together and his eyes shake in their sockets. 

Now, he’s a little too old for that. Escaping is so much harder to do. 

“Reid?”

The lights of his office are off, the door shut firmly behind him. With every ounce of his concentration on steading his ataxic gait and forcing his trembling hands around the doorknob of his office, he would have remembered to lock the door on his way in. Unfortunately, his days of complete solitude are behind him. A toll often paid for in order to acquire friends. His fellow professors of-- whatever it is they all teach. 

“Spencer--” Hotch. Thank god. “I’m going to come in okay?”

Now, Reid can remember the distinct tap of Hotch’s approaching figure. Closing his eyes and pushing his head further into his couch, Reid hears the door open. Tap. Hotch’s old shoes scuffing across the unforgivingly rough carpet. Tap, more muffled now. One more half-raised step and the sound of the real, thick wood of Hotch’s cane being hooked over the arm of the plastic chair painted to look wooden to his left. 

“What can I do?”

Reid doesn’t answer, just keeps his sweaty palms pressing into his ears. If he moves, he’s certain that his body will explode. Little bits of genius coating all for walls. His books covered in gore. Another mess. 

“You haven’t been sleeping.”

Hard, calloused fingers wrap around the back of his neck. The tips digging into the stiffened muscles until Reid lets out a whimper. Then, with certainty and reflexive habit, one hand remains kneading the muscles until they ease while the other plants itself firmly on his flank. Stilling his body. Well, to be as still as Reid can. 

His body has been out of his control since he was nine. The maternal drive had not been enough to protect him. For years, his mother had been distracted with work and by his father. She made time for him amidst the books but he was spared her anger and confusion. Until his father left and she could no longer work reliably. Then, one night in a fit of paranoia, his mother had hit him. She’d hit him so hard that no amount of genius had sparred him.

His cerebellum is damaged. 

Garcia could tell you far more about the reasoning behind how he is now. He can too but it’s far too taxing to recount each of his bodily flaws. His disabilities. 

Their silence is interrupted by a soft knock at the door and peaking out from under the suit jacket Reid hadn’t realized Hotch had tucked around him, he can see Emily. Her dark eyes flash twice over the scene before her and immediately she sinks. That’s what he loves most about her. In all her hardness, Emily is easily one of the kindest people he’s ever met.

Raised by her mother’s hip, Emily had known too much about politics and little of the reflexive kindness of those around her. To be born good and to choose good is always a rewarded ideology. People like Penelope Garcia and Derek Morgan. Born good, surrounded by good, and only learning of the evil much later are fantastic people. They have their own struggles but they overcame them. To Reid, there is nothing more interesting than those surrounded by the cold curling fingers of the world but come out good. Emily wasn’t hugged as a child. Praise came at the expense of crushing her peers and never knowing what a good friend was. Hotch was raised by two abusive, domineering parents. For them to choose kindness, to willingly soften their edges is… it’s commendable. 

But maybe that’s all the pointless rambling of a book nerd. 

“Que pasa?” Spanish has always lent itself to be Emily’s most practice language. Perhaps, it has to do with the softened curls and rolls of the language. It’s never sounded rough, coarse coming out of her mouth. She sounds like the women who raised her. The maids who cleaned gravel out of her knees when she fell in the driveway and the calloused fingertips that ran under her eyes to quickly wipe her tears. 

With a soft, tsks Emily comes into the room. “Get off the floor,” she whispers to Hotch. His long spider-like legs curled every which way. She has no way of being able to tell how he’s been on the floor but she knows any length of time will come with repercussions. “If you can,” there is an emphasis on his abilities. Not to push himself. “Get Penelope-- wait…” She realizes a moment too soon that won’t work. “She’s got a class. I need you to get Derek.” 

Garcia is like their shady doctor. She went through all the training-- undergraduate, medical school, and interned. After a bit though, she realized that stitches, sutures, and contusions were not in fact something she loved. Not even a little. So, she went to computers. A huge financial burden to take on but that was her calling. Now she has tenure and spends her time balancing JJ’s art classes with her own class on programming. 

Derek is an actual doctor but he only practice theoretical medicine. Too busy teaching know-it-all medical school students about ethics. Reid likes to joke that he’s just a philosophy professor. Being an english literature professor leaves him pretty open to any comebacks Morgan can think of in the moment. 

Slowly rising to his feet, Hotch totters. Emily’s long fingers curl around his bicep, an unspoken order to hold still for just a moment. Long enough for his labored breathing to calm back down and his back to stop aching so feverishly. “You’ll be no help hurting yourself,” she comments, releasing him. She avoids his eyes, almost flushed having been caught touching him. Stepping into his space. It’s nothing for someone else but Hotch isn’t someone like Garcia and she’s not gentle like Reid. Turning her back, she’s stops any further comment. Any looks or reciprocation of that touch. 

Hotch leans heavily into the cane curling into his right palm. The wood slick with the calmness of his hand. “I’ll be back,” he promises, feeling a sickening twist in his stomach. All too conscious of every step being measured out by the tap, tap of his cane on the cold tiled floor. 

It’s that very sound that alerts Derek to Hotch closing in. 

Unlike Reid, what ails Hotch is undetermined. People, like puzzles, are simple enough to put together with enough the edges put together. For Reid, the edge pieces are his mother’s schizophrenia, her bouts of aggression, and her love of books. From there, blossoms the genius of the youngest professor the school has ever had. His cerebral injury is accounted for by his mother’s illness. Her abuse. No matter how much Reid dances around the use of that word. Her love had taken him here, to this university and to his profound love of books. To Reid, that love, has always mattered more than the rest. 

Hotch, though, he is a man completely lacking in edges. 

What does Derek Morgan know about Aaron Hotchner? He used to work at the District Attorney’s office. There is a mark on his record but the matters of it have been expunged, he was about sixteen according to the date. Those are matter of public record. He likes orange juice better than apple juice. If someone else is making it, he takes his coffee black, but when he makes it for himself it’s a mess of gradually adding sugar and creamer until he’s content. And the cane. It’s purpose is clear. The why is more important. It’s not very typical of men not yet fifty to need mobility aides.  

The tapping stops at his open door, he doesn’t need to look up from what he’s doing to know who it is or where he is. “You’re going to royally fuck your shoulder up if you don’t start using that cane on the other side.” 

As it always does, his comment is ignored. The excuse is always the same. Hotch is left handed, he simply prefers to keep his left hand free. It’s a matter of convenience. “Reid is having an episode--” 

Pushing himself up, Derek doesn’t need to hear the rest. For a moment he does falter. Unsure if should falter back with Hotch, allowing the older man to set their pace rather than making Hotch’s slow, zombie like lurches seem exaggeratedly slowed by Derek’s easy, long pace. Deciding Reid to be what he needs to focus on he simply walks around Hotch. “Use the cane on the other side,” Derek says, as he steps on. “Or I’m going to start emailing you articles about the damage you’re doing to your body.”

Hotch huffs.

“If that doesn’t work I’ll send them to JJ and Emily.”

Hotch curses softly, “you wouldn’t.”

Morgan just smiles, jogging on down the hall, and knowing by the paced tap, tap that Hotch is coming in behind him. 

“Pretty boy.” Sinking to his knees with an ease Hotch could not afford earlier in his comfort, Morgan pushes Reid’s sweat soaked hair back from his skin. The fever and tension become immediately apparent. Reid’s brain, as genius as it is, often forgets that Reid and his body are one. Not two separate things in which one needs to be attacked to protect itself. Today, his entire body suffers with the attack. His stomach aching, brain swelling, and back in flames. His body often betrays him. 

Emily moves away from the pair, untangling her own body to stand and leave the room. Reid won’t appreciate a crowd and Morgan can handle this. Plus, she’s a coward. She doesn’t want to see him in pain any longer. 

“He’s okay.”

Emily steps out into the hall to find JJ and Hotch. Having found a seat in the hall, Hotch is failing to subtly rub at his aching side. JJ, covered in red paint, is only finding his pain as fuel to the fire. Obviously, she is taking his word for a grain of rice. 

“Emily,” JJ greets. “How is he?”

Hotch just shakes his head, leaning his head forward onto his cane. 

“Derek’s with him. He’s just having an… a moment.” Episode sounds too harsh. A thing that Reid can never be. His skeletole, looming gentleness is tender. Clammy, at times, but nothing but loving. “He just needs a moment.” None-the-less, JJ understands exactly what she means. 

But that is, in a way, simply a lie. There is nothing that can be done for Reid in these moments. blinded by pain, he still will not cave. Never, not once, has Reid ever allowed them to give him something to manage the pain. He’ll take vitamins and ibuprofen for headaches but not for the other things. Not for this. 

“Just breathe.”

All they can do is be there. Rub their fingers into the tension and hold his hand. 

[earthingoddity]

so you know how y’all are constantly like: “what’s there to like about season five???”. i decided to make a list *-*

1. the discussion of disability in a teenage show. how many teenage shows can you name featuring disabled characters? and how many of those feature a character becoming disabled in the course of the show and having to adapt to that? i was very surprised when i realized this was the route they were going to take this season and i think it was very well done.

so let’s break that down:

1.1 they actually made sure to talk about other disabilities. i know some people will say they were just doing the bare minimum, but i disagree. that is such a complex theme, they could’ve easily said representing other disabilities respectfully would be a lot of work for only ten episodes, but they did their best with the limited amount of time they had.

1.2 the representation of the deaf community wasn’t limited to their disability. it actually pisses me off hearing people say “wow, for a while there, i even forgot arthur was deaf!” as if he *has* to let you know everytime he’s on screen. disabled people are more than their disabilities, thank you very much.

1.3 overall, it was a positive representation. they could’ve spent so much time going through all the things that would be too hard for arthur, but they actually had an entire episode where arthur was completely deaf - he took his hearing aids off - and it was a very happy and positive episode. he was having fun, clubbing, dancing, laughing with others, and i think we took a lot of that for granted in the midst of everything that was going on, but that was a really positive representation that didn’t limit itself to stereotypes around deaf/disabled people. i actually expected that they’d drag a lot longer the feeling of loneliness and discomfort of the first couple of episodes, but they quickly changed that rhythm, so that instead of focusing on what arthur was “losing”, they focused on everything that arthur was gaining - new friends, a new love interest and a new way to see the world. also, in relation to the whole implants thing, they delivered very in depth opposite perspectives on the matter and never felt like they were shaming one group or the other.

2. SyMbOLisM! skam france is very good at it and they nailed this aspect in season three. but there was a lot of it in season five as well. like the 7am clips in episode 2, that were used to show the lack of progression in arthur’s hearing and his growing frustration and how those clips were incredibly dark, to match his mood. episode 7 also had such an interesting meaning. with arthur taking the chance to explore the world without his hearing aids, he got to explore a whole *new* world, and not a lacking one, which ties very well with what i just said about being a positive rep, but also shows that the entire episode wasn’t about arthur finding a new layer of himself, but rather him just uncovering one that was already there.

3. use of music/sound effects. it can be hard to represent deafness in a media like a tv show, but skam france did it so well. the use of music is always very conscious in this remake; while others really go hard in the soundtrack, skam france hardly ever has background music, unless it means something. another small thing but that i loved was whenever arthur was taking off/putting on his hearing aids, if he was to put the left one first for example, the sound on the left side of your headphone would start first. it was such a small thing but made the experience a lot more immersive imo, as well as the use of muffled sounds, pitching, etc.

4. Arthur. i am always surprised whenever i hear people say that they liked arthur better when they were not in his pov. i completely disagree, but then again, i feel like this fandom has very unhealthy expectations on their mains, as if they haven’t watched already 4 seasons of the main making mistakes over and over again, lol. i loved getting to know more of arthur - he’s loyal AF and protective of the people he loves. he struggles in letting people in, though, and never wants to be a burden or worry others. he’s perceptive and quick to notice when his friends need help. he is also short-tempered and when he gets mad, it is explosive, but he doesn’t hold grudges for long. he was a much more complexed character than i imagined and he totally made this season for me.

5. le gang. this boysquad is the best, sorry. they’ve always been the funniest and warmest, but it was really nice how s5 explored all the sides of that relationship, including the not so pretty ones. they were the relationship i wanted the most angst from, and i am so happy i got it. i loved seeing how chaotic, but supportive they were of arthur though and they brought so many laughs this season.

5.1 the lack of toxic masculinity. i think this ties well with arthur, because it is amazing to me that even though we were following a straight white boy as a main this season, we had no moments of unhealthy masculine competition; le gang could actually talk about other things rather than just porn stars and jerking off (other boysquads Wish!); and arthur would literally flirt with anyone without a care in the world, because he’s certain of his sexuality like that. it was *refreshing* for once not to be confronted with these tropes that have become so common in teenage shows.

7. alexia. i have to talk about alexia separately here, because that’s the most we’ve ever seen from a chris character (not counting eskam cris, ofc), and i loved her so much. she wants to be a videogame designer and she’s creative and adorable. she always knew how to make arthur laugh, but also knew when he needed words of affirmation and she was never shy in telling him how much she loved him. it was also amazing seeing her open up about some of her insecurities, and that her confidence is something she had to work on as well. she was such a great friend & girlfriend and just ugh the best.

7.1 the female characters are badass and unapologetic. i am aware that the love triangle was unnecessary and a mess. but i am not mad about the way both characters were represented, because they were both great characters. i liked alexia more simply because i was already attached to her from previous seasons, but noée was badass as well and teaches arthur so much, and not only about her experience as a deaf person, but about life/love in general.

8. arthur’s relationship with his mom. we LOVE and STAN parents in the skamverse. arthur and his mom had the best relationship ever; i loved how they truly became a team by the end of the season. but since the moment she showed up, it meant so much that arthur could have at least one supportive and loving parent, no matter how much he screwed up or felt lost. his mom was really trying her best and i adored her.

9. *actual* adult advice. i understand why all the adults in the skamverse are a bit cringey and weird, but i feel like this results in these characters relying on each other’s poor advice throughout an entire season before they realize what they actually should do. and the talk with the school’s nurse and his doctor by the end of the season was meaningful AF and i wish something the remakes would explore more often, because it could resolve so many of their issues just talking to someone who knows better, lol.

10. the relationships with the girlsquad. i know this is actually very intentional of skam france - to build a specific kind of dynamic between the main and all the side characters. we saw that in season 3, and i think it’s a lot more evident here, but it still made a lot of sense and warmed my heart so much. arthur and imane were the purest - she was the first one to notice that something was wrong with him and also reached out to give him advice on how medical school could still be a possibility even with his disability when she absolutely didn’t have to, but she’s just a sweetheart like that. arthur and daphné had a lot more tension, which is understandable, because both are protective of their own best friends (bas and alexia) and would defend them to the ends of the earth. i think they honestly have a lot more in common than they think. but my favorite dynamic was arthur and emma. i totally did not expect for emma to have such a part in this season, but every single one of their interactions was Gold. emma could see a lot of herself in arthur and i think that’s why she was so quick to notice that he wasn’t interested in becoming a surgeon at all. that scene when she says it would’ve been nice to have arthur as a brother was the sweetest thing Ever.

11. i’ll finish with the acting. y’all, the guy who plays arthur literally CARRIED this season and i hope his back is doing fine. he was So powerful - he made me cry, and laugh, and feel frustrated. he delivered every single emotion perfectly. i also think that the fact these actors are friends irl (i assume? lol but i think i’ve seen them in each other’s personal IG stories) really helps their chemistry on camera. le gang feels like a group of brothers/best friends and they were always so natural and effortless in their interactions. the new actors also Rocked and delivered so much emotion even if they were using a completely different language and it was awesome.

(also, this just literally applies to *me*, a lucas lallemant HOE, but it was so nice seeing lucas up close from a different perspective. the fact we could still see so many layers of him: his emotional self, his bratty self, his supportive self, even a touch on his abandonment issues and everything made me so happy. i think sometimes i forget the lucas character was real and not something i made up because he feels too good to be true, and it was really interesting seeing him from arthur’s POV).

i’m not here defending the mistakes they made in s5, i don’t think it’s a perfect season either, but tbh i have yet to find what i consider to be a perfect season in the skamverse, so here’s just some things i liked about this season that i feel like y’all should take into consideration as well. thx