#apparently most of the things i do to self soothe are stims | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

krowfics · 2 years

Text

but I didn't know how so we took it in turns

Fandom: Sander Sides

Ships: Platonic Logan and Janus

Plot: Logan is a fae with no interest in humans, he meets a human anyway. 5 times Logan gifts Janus + 1 time Janus gifts Logan

Words: 6056

Notes: Fae AU, Janus is a 13 ish yro human, oops all autism, Logan can adopt a child as a treat, food mentions, insinuated child abuse, sensory issues and overload, panic attacks, stimming, alcohol abuse is vaguely implied, hurt/comfort

I uploaded this to AO3 yesterday on my bday which is exactly 2 months after Logan's bday which means this took an extra 2 months longer to finish than expected, happy late birthday Logan you have a son now

AO3

~~~

First gift A Meal

Logan wasn't a particularly tricksy fae. He was still fae, of course, but he only tended to use mushroom circles for practical, personal uses. Not as traps.

He'd sit there and read or work on one of his crafts on soft grass and the sun would never seem to set if he didn't want it to, it was simply an illusion but that was exactly what he liked about it.

There was the occasional animal that wandered in. He wasn't really bothered by the rabbits or deers who would stare at him for a moment and then either settle down or just leave. Crows sometimes offered a more interesting interaction, but their visits to his mushroom circle were few and far between. Logan didn't have a reason to make them stay, nor did he really want to keep something that didn't want to be his in the first place.

He recognized that was odd for a faerie. Even the kindest being Logan knew always had one of his countless animal friends on him at any given moment.

Logan did like having things, he hadn't gone mad, but his things were books and stories, little knick knacks and crafts. He didn't like others touching those, not without asking at least, they were his. Yet, he could never really fathom how to make that same logic apply to a sentient being.

Besides, he didn't think he could handle the noise, Puff's pond always sounded like it was singing with various croaking frogs.

And such, Logan wasn't even trying. His ring of mushrooms was off the beaten path, quite a distance from where humans normally traveled and quite a distance from the other fae in the area. He expected the day to go on peacefully without interruption as per usual.

He was wrong.

Though he supposed he didn't mind terribly, not enough to jinx the poor boy at least.

He had fallen into the circle, breath ragged, eyes wide terrified as he looked around.

He was an odd looking human, definitely young. He was blonde, though his roots were oddly darker and half of his face was splotched reds but didn't look particularly injured.

When he saw Logan he looked so scared that the fae was surprised he didn't bolt out right. He scrambled back but didn't leave the circle. The two just stared at each other.

"Salutations." Logan said softly, not sure what else to do.

It took longer than what would be seen as polite for him to respond, "Hello." he said, "I'm so-," he cut himself off, gaping for a moment. He glanced down to Logan's hand where he still held a book he'd been rereading, "I interrupted. I didn't mean to…"

"Well, I'd assume most humans don't intend to enter mushroom rings." he said lightly but the boy's breath hitched, that was apparently not the right thing to say.

His eyes were jumping around, not making eye contact for more than a moment at a time. He hands clenched and unclenched the grass beside him in what was likely a self soothing manor. His clothing was ripped, stitched oddly in some places in what could have been an attempt to make it not hang off his frame so much.

He was scrawny and though the mark on his face didn't seem to be an injury, he was injured now that Logan was properly looking. a purple mark on his neck and a bit of discoloration on his forearm just under his sleeve, his right hand looked like he had punched something.

"I do not intend to make you stay here." He spoke carefully, "But you are welcome to stay if you wish."

The boy didn't move. Logan supposed he wasn't too much different than the occasional animal who wondered in.

"What is your name?" Logan asked.

There was a pause, "You may call me Deceit." That wasn't a name, good. Logan didn't like taking names.

"And you may call me Lunar. Would you like something to eat?" he reached over to grab an apple from a basket he had next to his pile of books.

Deceit stared at the offered fruit, "Th- I. appreciate it." he said stiffly, "but I have to refuse."

Logan blinked, and oh, right. That was a trick fae tended to use. Though he didn't think most were being malicious when they did so, it was only polite to make the offer.

"I should have clarified," Logan said, "These apples aren't from fairyland, but you do not have to eat it regardless."

The boy chewed his words for a moment, "I can't eat apples."

"Oh." Logan blinked, "There is a blackberry bush not far outside the ring, just passed the stream." He gestured, "You're welcome to pick those if you wish."

Deceit nodded, "I appreciate it." he said but made no move to stand. Perhaps he wasn't hungry.

"I'm going to continue reading, you may interrupt if you need anything." Logan knew it was rude to read when there was a guest but he was quite excited for the next part of the book and the boy didn't seem keen on conversing anyway.

Deceit just stood eventually, after apparently having gotten his breathing more under control. Logan looked up from the story he had lost himself in to see Deceit shuffling his feet slightly, "I'm gonna go now." he said quietly.

Logan just nodded with a small smile and watched as the other left. Deceit looked back the moment he stepped out of the circle, eyes unfocused. The nature of fairy rings was to hide the content inside, so he must have looked like he disappeared to the boy.

He continued to watch Deceit cross over the small stream and head towards the blackberry bush. He looked over his shoulder again before he grabbed any like he was paranoid that Logan would appear again. Something tight unraveled a bit in the fae's chest when the boy started eating the fruit, and when Deceit walked away, Logan went back to his book.

~~~

Second gift An invitation

Logan hadn't expected to see Deceit again, but he didn't feel entirely surprised by his showing. There was some type of surprise more akin to panic when he saw the state Deceit was in.

Deceit was breathing heavy, his eyes glassy and red. He clutched at himself in some sort of self hug.

"Are you alright?" Logan spoke before really thinking the answer was clearly that he obviously was not.

Still, Deceit tried to respond. His mouth opened and closed a few times before he suddenly sat down on the grass. Logan startled, thinking he'd passed out, but the boy started rocking which did a little to put Logan at ease. He stepped over cautiously and kneeled in front of him.

He was on the edge of crying, but no tears had slipped out. His breathing showed no signs of slowing, Logan wouldn’t be surprised if the boy didn't even know where he was. He rocked consistently and, most concerningly, one hand came up to scratch and pick at his face while the other clutched onto the grass beside him.

"Deceit?" Logan asked, "Focus on slowing your breathing."

It didn't seem like he heard him. Logan knew better than to touch someone he didn’t know all that well mid panic attack but he wasn’t sure what else to do. He’d seen Duke pull at his hair when he started to get overwhelmed only for Prince to calmly take the other’s hands in his own and speak quiet words until he’d calmed. But Duke was very physically affectionate and very close to Prince on a personal level.

Regardless, Logan didn’t think he could handle a bleeding child right now. “Deceit, I am going to touch you.” He said, attempting at calm. He then grabbed the offending hand as gently as possible, with as easy to break away hold. Deceit flinched hard but didn’t pull away, he just blinked down at the joined hands and then up at Logan.

“You need to slow your breathing." He reiterated, "I'm going to count in for four, hold for four, out for four. Ready?"

Deceit nodded, a tear escaped then. The sight hurt, though Logan supposed it would for anyone. Niggling empathy making his chest squeeze.

He started counting. And Deceit clearly tried but he broke almost immediately, sobbing instead of holding his breath. Logan hushed him, "It's okay, you’re okay." His voice uncharacteristically soft, "Let's try again."

The boy nodded again and he restarted his counting.

After a few tries and a few successes, Logan changed the pattern, "You're doing well. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight now. One…"

Logan didn't really know how long he sat there, gently squeezing the boy's hand and speaking in soft tones before Deceit seemed to mostly recover.

He let go of Logan's hand, which Logan didn't like, and then apologized, Logan liked that even less.

"Why?"

Deceit just blinked, "It's not like I just showed up to a practical stranger's property mid freak out."

Logan stared for a long moment.

"I did. that." Deceit said, "I shouldn't have bothered you and I'm sorry. And- I know that means I owe you something, but I have nothing to offer right now."

"Why would you apologize for a panic attack?" The fae asked, utterly confused, "As far as I know, humans cannot have them on purpose."

Deceit rolled his eyes and huffed. Some strange human communication, Logan was sure, Duke had definitely done such an action before. Prince had to, despite being decidedly not human.

"Fine. I'm sorry, specifically for walking into your circle while freaking. I shouldn't have."

Logan chewed his lip for a moment, "Apology accepted, but still not strictly necessary. Do you know what triggered the panic attack?"

Deceit's shoulders hunched, "It's stupid."

"I doubt that." Logan replied.

Deceit squirmed a little, "A teacher was being an ass. He always says the same shit so I should be used to it.”

"A mentor was harassing you?" Logan spoke before he could really comprehend it.

Deceit just shrugged, "Teachers do that."

Logan felt a little flash of rage at that. He was starting to dislike humans more than his neutral to minorly negative opinion on them he'd usually kept.

Even worse, his fairy ring was still off the beaten path. He was far from any trail or human school. How did the boy end up this deep in the woods whilst having a panic attack?

"Why'd you come here? Not that I mind, truly. It's just far from where humans typically gather."

Deceit shifted, "I couldn't think of anywhere else to go." he admitted.

That unsettled Logan. Not home? Not to another adult? Not even to a friend? Logan found himself swallowing around what could have been empathy or anger. The child clearly didn't have much in lue of emotional support or anything else really.

"Well, I suppose," Logan started, "You are welcome to come here whenever you need."

Deceit looked up at him, some fear - he was still a human speaking to a fae - but also something hopeful. "I appreciate it."

~~~

Third gift Kindness

Deceit was starting to become a regular visitor. At first, Logan worried something was wrong again, but he didn’t seem upset the next few times he showed. Typically not making much eye contact and fidgeting but nothing to indicate any real stress, just typical idle behaviors. Well, typical for fae, Logan still had no idea what was typical for humans.

He intended to ask Puff, as he had significantly more interactions with them, but if Puff questioned why Logan was suspicious about humans then he’d soon find out about Deceit. Of course, Puff would want to meet the boy. Logan wasn’t sure if that was a good idea when it came to Deceit’s safety.

Logan also wasn’t sure if he should ask Duke about it. Yes, he was human himself, but he was completely incapable of keeping anything from Prince, and Prince would absolutely tell Puff. So, Logan just didn’t seek help for this particular endevor and decided to just figure out how to read the child himself.

Today, Deceit was writing something, he said it was called homework, extra assignments his mentors made him do when he was not at school. It made sense at first until Deceit explained, it was clearly needlessly excessive. Logan couldn’t figuratively wrap his head around it.

Regardless, he supposed he enjoyed the quiet company as he was finishing up a bit of embroidery.

“I’m done now, Lunar.” Deceit said awkwardly, like he was afraid of interrupting. Logan just nodded minutely and finished up the stitch. He set it down and looked up to the boy. He was picking at the grass again, he did that quite a bit.

Logan opened his mouth only to shut it again, unsure of how to start a conversation. "What do you like to do when you're not doing school work?" he asked after a moment.

Deceit blinked up at him. He shrugged, "I don't know, I read sometimes."

"And what is it that you read?"

Deceit picked at the grass a bit more, "Um, stuff on snakes and Greek gods and um, human psychology, I guess."

Psychology was an interesting subject, Logan supposed. Though he couldn't say he knew much about humans or fae for that matter, outside of personal experience. And that personal experience was limited to Puff and Prince and the occasional trespasser or acquaintance.

"Tell me about human psychology." he prompted

Deceit looked startled, "I, um. What do you want to know?"

Logan thought for a moment, "Well what was the last thing you read up on?"

Deceit looked like he was a strange mix of eagerness and fear. Like he desperately wanted to talk but knew better to bite his tongue. The eagerness won over, and Logan was glad.

"So, um anxiety can be developed but it can also be genetic. It's basically the part of the brain that tells us to be scared that we're in danger having an imbalance in the chemicals it's releasing, which makes someone feel like they're in danger even when they're not. I've been trying to figure out- and I think I have. My little brother has really bad anxiety and I couldn't figure out if he was just like that or if somethings been happening at school, or if it's just what dad… regardless, he's really anxious a lot and he doesn't talk much, plus he fidgets and rocks like me so I think he's autistic and that's a one way road to bullying, in my experience-"

Deceit suddenly looked up, "How long have I been talking?"

Logan blinked, "Just a few minutes."

Deceit winced, "Sorry."

"Don't be," He was interested in what the child had to say, why was he apologizing? "Continue, please. What is autism?"

Deceit pressed his lips together for a moment, "It's a, um, neurotype. So some people have different brains than others, I guess kind of the same way people have different hair colors? But most people are what's called neurotypical and so human society developed to help them and not the rest of us. There's a theory that different neurotypes evolved to help the human species as a whole, ‘cause it'd be helpful to have a few humans who knew tons of stuff about one specific thing. Like which berries to pick or how to take care of livestock. Having different sleep schedules for guarding the village and stuff." Deceit shrugged miserably, "But autistics typically have sensory issues and fidget a lot and generally act odd in comparison cause we can't read their social cues so people are assholes to us."

Logan squinted a little, "And humans do not typically have those instincts?"

Deceit shook his head, "Nope. Bright lights and constant loud noises mean nothing to them. And they lie all the time cause they're able to speak in this weird silent language and they don't have sensory issues but they lose their minds if you don't make the facial expression they think you're supposed to. Plus, they don't like anything. Like they only casually like things, they can't ramble about anything unless they're just talking about the events of their day."

"I don't think I'd like most humans." Logan stated.

Deceit nodded solemnly. "I- uh. Rambled again, sorry."

Logan huffed a little at that. "You said that humans cannot ramble, do they not like when others can?"

"It's annoying to them."

Logan tapped his fingers idly before twisted a little to rummage through his things. He pulled out a black feather.

"This is a crow's feather." He said simply, "A flight feather specifically. There are tiny, tiny indents that refract the light reflecting off it, allowing it to look as if it is changing colors depending on the angle one is looking at it."

He continued on, Deceit stared at the feather, asking a question every once and a while. Logan wasn't entirely sure if the child got his real point; that talking was in fact not annoying to him or any other fae for that matter. But he supposed, if he continued to have conversations like these with him, then maybe Deceit would start feeling more comfortable to speak in this little mushroom circle. Logan wanted to give that to him at least.

~~~

Fourth gift Hug

Deceit was jumpy this time. He did seem to be a bit jumpy most of the time but it was noticeably worse today.

He didn't speak much when he arrived, only mumbling out a polite greeting. He seemed on edge then, bad enough that Logan noticed when he was clearly trying to hide it. But Logan figured it'd be rude to point out, perhaps the boy would relax now that he was away from the other humans.

And yet he only got worse. He wasn't twisting the grass between his fingers like usual but had his hands squeezed into fists, resting on his lap.

He was rocking slightly, with eyes cast down like he was searching the grass.

Logan chewed his lip, he didn't want to pry but something was clearly off. He should ask him about it, "Deceit?"

The child flinched, minutely, but it was clear as day to Logan. If he hadn't been concerned before, he certainly was now. .

"Are you okay?" Logan asked quietly. Deceit flinched again, pressed his lips together and nodded, which was a blatant falsehood. His eyes were still locked to the ground, squinting like the grass was too bright.

Flinching at noises, eyes casted down, hands avoiding touch at all costs. He almost looked like a scared child trying to behave, he also looked like a fae about having a meltdown caused sensory overload.

Logan carefully and quietly moved to be by Deceit's side. He looked around, at a loss, typically one would give some sort of self regulation tool to the overloaded party. Puff liked to pluck petals and leaves off plants, Prince would typically sit and stare at a candle flame, and Duke tended towards some sort of squeezable fidget.

But there was nothing here. Well, there were flowers but Deceit was avoiding grass currently so that likely wouldn't work out, and there were things that could be lit on fire or squeezed, but none satisfyingly so. Logan didn't bother to keep such things as he usually had his hands full with a book or craft, he’d snack if he was understimulated. And, well, his primary sensory need when overstimulated required another being, as embarrassing as it is for him to admit.

Perhaps...

"I am going to touch you." Logan said.

Deceit looked up then, horrified. Logan would've asked permission but he wasn't entirely sure if Deceit would respond in this state, or if he'd deny immediately assuming all touch would only serve to overstimulate him further.

Stealing himself, Logan wrapped his arms around the child firmly. Deceit jolted and for a terrifying moment, Logan thought he'd made a mistake. But Deceit relaxed against him and some tension leaked out of Logan's own chest. He let out a breath of relief. That had actually worked.

They stayed like that for a while, Logan uncaring of the time that passed. Eventually, Deceit started tapping his finger on the back of his other hand, some sort of stim Logan was yet to see him do.

And then Deceit pulled away, pushing at the other's chest gently. Logan let him go.

"Sorry."

"Was I correct in my assumption that you were overstimulated?"

Deceit nodded.

"You've nothing to apologize for then." Logan said, "Did the pressure stimulant help?"

Deceit blinked up at him, "The hug?"

"It's a- bit firmer than a regular hug but yes."

Deceit thought, "It did, normally touch makes it worse."

"Yes, fainter touches tend to. Normally, I'd prefer asking before touching but I feared adding more noise to your stimulus would be counterproductive. The pressure usually works so I figured…"

"It's like those weighted blankets then?" Deceit asked, moreso to himself, Logan wouldn't know how to respond regardless. "That makes sense." the boy continued, "I appreciate it."

"I- Of course." Logan managed, he opened and closed his hand for a few moments, his own fidget to help him think, "Were there any particular triggers?"

Deceit looked at him warily. His eyes squinted like he was trying to decipher what he was asked, that or he was trying to decide whether to trust Logan. The fae assumed it was the first.

"Anything particular you can recall that led to the overload? Sometimes they just happen, of course, or they come on due to irritation rather than a specific sensory input, but it can be useful if you know the specifics as to avoid them in the future."

Deceit blinked owlishly at him. And then he looked away and shrugged, "Nothing. I was upset and everything started upsetting me more." he grumbled.

"Why were you upset?" Logan asked, only realizing that what he said could be a distressing question after Deceit began to look increasingly uncomfortable again, "Nevermind. Just… I am here if you'd like to talk about anything."

~~~

Fifth gift Pendant

Logan had felt like he was buzzing in wait all day. Deceit had arrived, he didn't come everyday so Logan had a sparse idea of when this opportunity would arise. And it did arise, now all Logan had to do was give it to him.

In Logan's pocket was a length string and a pendant. It was logically very light but it felt like it held the weight of iron siring through the fabric.

Deceit had brought an old and tattered book, he'd read it before, both in Logan's presence and out of it. It was about owls, apparently one of many in the series. Deceit was awfully fond of the snake characters.

Deceit actually liked snakes quite a bit, they were his favorite animal. Knowing that fact is what made Logan choose a gift at all.

He'd been looking at his trinkets, distantly still thinking about the child's chipper rambling earlier that day when he saw a simple pendant. It was a two headed snake he had made long ago. A gem eye of each head was visible, one sapphire and one citrine. The silver body of the snake was oxidized to a black color with only some accented scales peaking through the shining silver color.

It was a piece he had made mostly out of boredom, something to do with his hands. It was well done enough for him to wear, which honestly didn’t mean that much when compared to his mass of bits and bobbles tied to him most of the time. Nonetheless, he hadn’t worn it in a very long time and there was no point in it gathering dust on his shelf, especially when he looked at it and thought of nothing but Deceit.

It had a mild luck enchantment, and a protection spell only strong enough to prevent it from minor nicks and scrapes. Anyone with a rock and a purpose could still damage it completely if they'd tried. Logan worried a bit as he had very little to go off of when it came to luck charms on humans but Duke always had at least one on him at any given time and he seems fine, or as fine as Duke could seem.

Logan fiddled with the pendant. He didn't give gifts to other fae often. He'd given animals treats a few times and shiny things to the crows who'd appreciate them. And on rare occasions, he gave things to the acquaintances he knew, but none of those were truly gifts, typically it was something to thank them for something else. Puff was kind and good with healing, Logan had found himself giving him something in thanks of that a handful of times over the years.

But this was different. This was a human who turned down every food Logan offered until he saw it best to stop offering. He turned down borrowing books or even trading for such things. Deceit seemed like he switched to a written script when turning Logan's offerings down, like he'd heard warning of accepting gifts from fae. Most humans would refuse such things, wouldn't they? By all means Deceit will likely do the same now.

Logan wouldn't force him to take it. He knew it made him an unusual fae but he wouldn't even insist, Deceit didn't enjoy much of his life, at his school or his home, save for a little brother he clearly adored. Logan didn't want to take away what may be one of the only places Deceit felt comfortable by putting pressure on him into accepting something he didn't want to.

He hoped the child felt comfortable here, he didn't wish to risk it regardless.

The fae took a deliberate breath. He should just offer it already, if only so Deceit could turn it down and Logan could stop thinking about it.

"Deceit, when you have a moment." Logan said softly.

Deceit gave a tiny nod to show that he had heard but continued reading on. After only a few moments he looked up, shutting the book without any marker on where he'd left off.

"What's up?" he asked

Logan chewed on his words, before deciding to just pull the necklace out of his pocket.

"It's a gift. I had made it for myself long ago but I've no use for it now, and I thought you might enjoy it. I suppose, it reminded me of you, though you may turn it down if you wish, I do hope you accept." Logan avoided the child's eyes while he spoke, focusing on covering all the bases, only looking up to offer the metal snake.

Deceit took it carefully, his expression unreadable. He analyzed it, thumb running over it gently.

"I appreciate it." he said eventually.

Logan felt himself relax at the rush of relief, "I'm glad."

Deceit continued to stare at it for a long while, Logan found himself speaking before he could help it.

"The one eye is sapphire and the other is citrine, though they're both small and not purposeful enough to carry much of their power. For all intents and purposes, they're just visually appealing."

Deceit smiled, "They are visually appealing." He said, "It's very pretty and detailed, I can see all the scales, how'd you make it?"

Logan blinked, "I suppose I haven't told you about my metal work yet." he said, something close to pride worming its way through him as he saw Deceit's eyes light up, eager to learn.

~~~

First gift

Janus was not going to have a panic attack.

And he absolutely was not going to have one in front of Lunar. That had already happened twice now, and during their first two meetings at that. He was fae, he had to be offended, even if he assured Janus that he wasn't, maybe it was a three strike system, one more time and he'd be done for.

Not that he actually believed Lunar would ever hurt him.

Plus there was that sensory overload and all of the rambling that Lunar claimed to somehow find interesting. Janus wondered if the rumors about fae being unable to lie were true. He was too nervous to ask Lunar yet.

Lunar had been so nice to him, trying to offer food that Janus had always turned down despite his desperate hunger some days and inviting him to spend time with him, encouraging him to talk about his interests and helping during sensory overloads. And then there was the necklace.

Janus fiddled with the charm that was normally hidden under his shirt. He doubted that his father would ask about it but Janus wanted to avoid such a scenario just in case.

It felt like.. something. Something Janus couldn't quite figure out how to describe. It was hard to describe but it felt different than it should. Whether that be because of some strange fae thing or if it was because it was a gift from a.. from someone he cared about. He wasn't sure if he could say friend when referring to Lunar. It's not like Janus had any current friends to compare their relationship to, and Lunar was an adult, fae adult, but adult nonetheless and… Janus wasn't sure why that mattered.

Adults could be mean and controlling, just trying to maintain their power. Most adults were like that. But teenagers also tended to be mean and Janus had met some who weren't, so naturally, not all adults were cold and distant at best and glorified bullies at worst.

But kids weren't supposed to be friends with adults, for some reason. He understood the danger of strangers, both human and fae, obviously, he wasn't dense. But that didn’t instantly mean that every person over the age of eighteen was evil.

Kids also weren't supposed to like their younger siblings. He had never understood that, but half the people at his school spent a significant amount of time complaining about their siblings, especially if there was a large age gap between them.

Yet, Janus could not think of a single reason to be annoyed with Virgil for longer than a few moments, if anything, he gave Janus anxiety pains by finding the oddest places to hide, typically someplace high up that Janus could not fathom being able to climb. He could fall or get in trouble and Janus wouldn't be able to defend him from their father.

People also weren't supposed to like faeries.

Janus had thrown that idea out the window not long after meeting Lunar. So, maybe they were friends and humans were just stupid.

And Janus was /not/ going to have a third panic attack in front of someone who might be his friend.

Even if that meant he had to stop his trek through the woods, stare at a random nearby plant, clutching the pendant in one hand and a delicate box in the other, forcing himself to breathe like a regular person. With one last deep breath, he dropped the pendant, letting it fall to the front of his shirt on display for the all woods to see, and carefully resituated the box into both of his hands again.

Two hands because his cargo was far too precious to drop.

There was a little bakery near Janus’ house. He got treats for him and Virgil sometimes, mostly with morally fine, but stolen, money and the hunger of a child who had barely eaten all day. Mostly because he was a child who barely ate all day.

The owner was kind enough to let people buy heavily discounted leftovers from the day before that Janus and Virgil would get and have to eat before they got home and were questioned.

He’d never bought fresh baked goods there before, until today. He’d been saving up, sourcing from anywhere, walking dogs, searching under vending machines, and of course, taking a few singles here and there that his father didn’t notice.

He could've got something cheaper, something factory made, but fae didn't tend to appreciate that stuff. Or at least, they aren't supposed to. Ideally, he would've made it himself, but he didn't know how, let alone have free range access to a kitchen.

So he did the next best thing, honey glazed apple fritters, handmade from a bakery. Lunar nearly always had apples nearby, so Janus assumed he was at least somewhat fond of them. He offered the apples to Janus several times before laying off, Janus felt bad refusing, but he also felt too awkward to clarify that it had more to do with the texture of raw apples than the fact that it was a gift from a faerie. He had also brought other things early on, bread and berries and such, but Janus had still been too nervous to accept.

He wasn't sure about the honey, every story he heard stated that fae loved honey without exception, but they also often stated that it was intoxicating. He was weary, he could see how that would make Lunar uncomfortable to accept the gift. Not to mention, the weariness of giving an adult something akin to alcohol, he never had a good time when adults around him decided to drink.

Janus stopped again, forcing himself to breathe. He looked around, having lost track of where he was. He recognized the area, and wasn't that odd? Weeks ago, he would've thought that any two bits of forest were almost indistinguishable from each other, but now he saw individual trees and the familiarity of the path that had not been walked on enough to be visible.

He turned and continued on, soon finding himself in front of a ring of mushrooms. He couldn't see Lunar, but if the fae was there, then he likely already saw Janus.

The human stepped through, it was always a little disorienting as he suddenly saw past the illusion. He blinked at Lunar's sitting form.

"Ah, Deceit, hello." he greeted.

"Hi." Janus would never admit that his voice shook but Lunar didn't seem to pick up on it, luckily. He swayed on his feet for a moment before stealing himself, "I brought a gift for you."

Anyone else would say that Lunar looked mildly interested at hearing that, but Janus could tell he was ecstatic, more of a reaction than he thought he’d get. But, then his gaze flickered to the snake necklace, "I hope this isn't a form of repayment for anything as that wouldn't be necessary." he said wearily.

"Oh, no." Janus assured, he'd heard of the fine but important line between a trade and a gift, though he didn't think anyone would turn down repayment of something already traded away. Regardless, the thought of this misunderstanding didn't even cross Janus' mind, "I appreciate the necklace and the invitation to your ring and everything really. But, I just wanted to give you a gift, unrelated to all.. that…" he felt like he was fumbling here, unsure how to explain it.

Lunar relaxed a degree, "In that case, appreciate it."

"You don't even know what it is yet." Janus smiled.

Lunar's eyes squinted in a teasing way, "I have a hunch I'll appreciate it regardless."

Janus sat, his legs folded under himself, and handed the box to Lunar. "They're honey glazed apple fritters, I got them from a bakery," he explained, “So they’re handmade but not by me.” He was over explaining this, wasn’t he? He did that when he was nervous.

He opened the box and stared down at the desserts, "They allowed a child to take something glazed in honey?"

Janus blinked, not sure what that meant until, "Oh, is it true that honey's like alcohol to fae?" Janus was sure it was judging by Lunar's reaction but he wanted clarification anyway.

"Yes, is it not for humans?"

Janus shook his head, "No, it just tastes good to us."

"Fascinating." Lunar said it like he was truly fascinated, he was like that for plenty of human things that he learned about, at least when he wasn't being frustrated by them, "I was right," the fae said, "I do appreciate this."

"I'm glad." the human replied.

#thekrowiswriting #sanders sides #sanders side fic #logan sanders #janus sanders #platonic loceit #5 + 1 things #hurt/comfort #fae au #autistic janus sanders #fae logan sanders #food mention #child abuse mention #alcohol mention

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waitineedaname · 3 years

Note

10. Benrey and Gordon?

“Can you heal my pet? And by ‘can’, I mean do it or I’ll murder the town.”

“Wh-” Gordon blinked blearily at Benrey. A dozen responses floated around in his sleepy brain, including ‘it’s 2am, why are you at my house?’ and ‘I thought we’d put the whole murdering thing behind us’ but what his mouth finally settled on was, “What pet?”

“My cat. She’s fucked up.” Benrey said, lifting the large cat carrier Gordon only just now realized they were carrying. He leaned over to peer inside against his better judgment and found himself face to face with a raccoon. Gordon stared at the raccoon. The raccoon stared back at him warily.

“Benrey,” Gordon sighed, too tired to freak out like he might have in the middle of the day, “Where the hell did you get this?”

“Found her. She was a stray, eatin’ my, uh. Eatin’ my leftover pizza crusts in the trash. Adopt, don’t shop.” Benrey lifted the crate higher and poked their fingers through the door. "Brought her in. Been, uh. Been litter box training her. She's been good, but today she started acting weird. Throwing up and acting all sluggish. I dunno what's going on with her."

Gordon stood up and pinched the bridge of his nose under his glasses. “Dude, that’s not a stray cat. You adopted a raccoon.”

“Whuh?” Benrey stared blankly at him. “So can you fix her?”

“Why would I be able to fix your raccoon?”

“I thought you were a doctor.”

“What? Dude, my doctorate is in physics, not medicine. Even if I was a doctor, you need a vet, not a doctor.”

“Huh? What’s the difference?”

“Doctors work on humans, vets work on animals.”

“Oh.” Benrey looked away from him and peered inside the crate again. His brain finally waking up, Gordon noticed an uncharacteristically concerned look on Benrey’s face as they looked at their ill-advised pet. Gordon’s resolve crumbled.

“Ugh, fine, come inside.” Gordon stepped away from the door and waved Benrey in. “I’ll call a wildlife clinic.”

They managed to find a wildlife hospital that was open 24/7, and after giving Gordon a minute to get changed out of his pajamas, they were bundled into his car and on the way to the clinic. Benrey kept a worried eye on their raccoon the whole drive, and they seemed apprehensive upon realizing their pet -- who Gordon discovered was named Banjo Kazooie -- would have to be taken out of their sight to be treated. Gordon reassured them that this was standard for most emergency vet treatments like this, which helped Benrey calm down a little bit, though they fidgeted nervously the whole time they sat in the waiting room. Gordon, on the other hand, had almost dozed off by the time the vet came back out and told them they could go see Kazooie.

Apparently, Benrey had bought cat food that contained some kind of ingredient that raccoons couldn’t process. The vet explained what raccoons should eat, and Benrey seemed to be doing their best to listen, but Gordon wasn’t really paying attention. He was far more interested in how cuddly Banjo Kazooie was being with Benrey now that she was no longer feeling sick from eating too much cat food. Had… Had Benrey seriously domesticated a raccoon?

Gordon offered to give Benrey a ride back to their place considering he had no idea how Benrey had gotten to his house in the first place, and he watched, mystified, as Benrey set the raccoon loose in their apartment. Banjo Kazooie walked around like she owned the place, and Gordon huffed out a tired laugh.

“I didn’t realize you were a… cat person.” Gordon finally said, still keeping a wary eye on the raccoon.

“Huh?” Benrey sent him a bewildered and pleased look. “Gordon assigned catboy?”

“What? Oh my god, no, no,” Gordon couldn’t help but laugh, “Dude you know that’s not what a cat person means.”

“Nya,” Benrey said, curling their hand next to their head. Gordon doubled over laughing.

“I hate you. So much,” He managed to wheeze out amidst his laughter. Benrey just smiled smugly down at him like they always did when they managed to get Gordon to laugh like there was no tomorrow.

“Yo, uh,” Benrey coughed, their expression suddenly softening, “Thanks for fixing my cat.”

“Oh. Yeah, sure, no problem, man. I didn’t really do anything.” Gordon managed to collect himself enough to stand up straight and shrug.

“Drove me to the animal doctor. Stayed there with me.” Benrey popped their lips in an anxious, self-soothing stim. “Doctors can be… sucks. Thank you for being… not sucks.”

Gordon knew enough to read between the lines and take the compliment for what it was. He bonked their shoulders together gently and smiled. “You’re welcome, I guess. I’m always trying to not suck.” A yawn interrupted him before he could say more. “Fuck. Hey, will Kazooie bite me if I crash on your couch? I dunno if I can stay awake enough to drive home.”

“Whuh? Oh, yeah, hold up,” Benrey bent over and scooped the raccoon up in their arms, holding her like a sack of flour so she could face Gordon, “Banjo Kazooie, this is Gordon. Gordon, this is Banjo Kazooie.”

Gordon politely shook the raccoon’s little paw. “Nice to meet you,” He said, not sure what else to do.

“Don’t bite him, okay?” Benrey bounced the raccoon a little bit. “He’s a friend and you gotta ask before bitin’ friends and you haven’t unlocked human speak yet.”

Banjo Kazooie chattered gently and squirmed.

“She said she won’t bite you if you promise not to eat her food,” Benrey said, putting her down on the ground to continue her waddling trek around the room.

“Do you speak raccoon? No, wait, don’t answer that. Sure, fine, whatever, I won’t eat her food.” Gordon shook his head, plopping down on the couch. “Nap time for Gordon.”

“Night, bro,” Benrey said despite it being late morning.

Gordon fell asleep on the couch to a quiet conversation of gentle Sweet Voice and raccoon chattering.

#hlvrai #gordon feetman #benrey #this got out of hand <3 #sorry this took me a while to do!#christmas got in the way of things #anyway I enjoyed this little drabble #you KNOW I had to include they/themrey and stimming #I need to make it my brand #yougotthefancymoose #asks #my writing #okay to reblog

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bubonickitten · 4 years

Text

TMA fic: A Resolution

Summary: Jon and Martin leave the Desolation behind and talk about what the hell just happened - and where to go from here.

Cross-posted to AO3 here.

[Spoilers for MAG 169.]

CW: mild self-harm (scratching/hair pulling as a stim); brief dissociation/drdp; discussion of canon-typical trauma.

______________________________________________________

Jon waits until they’re safely beyond the Desolation’s borders, when the cinders no longer fall like snow and the whiff of smoke has faded, before he stops.

When he does, it’s so abrupt that Martin nearly walks right into him. Jon doesn’t notice. His thoughts feel disjointed and cluttered; his body feels alien to him. Eyes unfocused, he scans the area and gravitates to the first thing that calls out to him – a dead and gnarled tree, its bark charred and charcoal-black. There’s a little hollow, just the perfect size for two people to hide away. He drops his bag unceremoniously to the ground, sending up a little puff of dust and ash, and tucks himself away in the alcove, pulling his knees to his chest and locking his arms around them. The tree is a sturdy presence, tangible and grounding, and he presses himself against it at every point of contact he can manage.

After a moment, Martin follows. He has the presence of mind to remove his own pack, grab Jon’s bag from the ground, and lean them both neatly against the tree before clambering after Jon. It’s a tight fit for Martin; he has to keep his head ducked, and squeezing in next to Jon has him pressed against the tree on one side and Jon’s body on the other.

“Sorry,” Martin mumbles, sounding a bit self-conscious. “It’s – I’m a lot bigger than you are.”

“I like the pressure,” Jon says, leaning into Martin’s side. A full minute passes before he spares a thought for Martin’s comfort and a little pang of shame ripples through him. “Is it uncomfortable for you? We can –”

“It’s fine,” Martin says. “For the moment, anyway. I’ll let you know when my arm starts falling asleep.”

Jon nods, but his thoughts are already drifting again. He bites the inside of his cheek, wiggles his toes, and tries to focus on the safe, solid warmth of Martin’s body next to him.

“Are we going to talk about what just happened, Jon?”

“I…” Jon shuts his eyes tight and tries to shuffle his thoughts into some semblance of order.

He isn’t sure how much time passes before he hears Martin’s voice again. It sounds distant and muffled. Unable to process the garbled noise into meaningful words, his attention begins to slide away again, leaving him adrift in his own fuzzy thoughts.

Then, Martin makes a grab for his hand and one word comes into focus: “Jon.”

Jon startles and draws his hands back, hiding them in the folds of his jacket and hugging his sides. It takes a moment for him to register the hurt in Martin’s eyes, but when he does, he feels a twinge of regret.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know why –” Jon begins, just as Martin says, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to –”

They both stop simultaneously and Jon nods for Martin to speak.

“I just wanted to – you were scratching? Your hands.”

Jon pulls his hands out of hiding and looks. The back of his burned hand does seem a bit irritated, but it doesn’t hurt. It’s not surprising that he didn’t notice the scratching – the scar tissue there never registers much sensation at all.

As soon as Jon notices Martin looking, he flashes back to their discussion just before entering the Desolation.

I legitimately hate burns, alright? They’re awful, and they scar horribly, and they just – it just makes me sick; I hate it. Hate it.

Jon wishes he couldn’t remember it with such clarity, but the Archive in him catalogs everything. These days, he can recall most things verbatim – and even when he doesn’t intend to, the Archive does it for him.

He pulls his sleeve down to cover his burn and folds his arms against his chest again.

“Jon.” Martin, observant as ever, can apparently see right through him. “Give me your hand.”

Jon can feel the stinging threat of tears in his eyes. He begrudgingly holds out his burned hand and looks away before Martin can notice him tearing up – and so he doesn’t have to watch Martin’s face as he takes in the shiny, gnarled whorls of scar tissue.

Martin’s hand is warm and gentle as he laces their fingers together, and without hesitation, he brings Jon’s hand to his mouth and presses a soft kiss to each knuckle. Jon can’t help but steal a glance at Martin, and the sheer tenderness written all over his face –

Jon can’t help it: the dam breaks, the tears overflow, and soon his breath is coming in short, gasping hiccups.

“You know I didn’t mean it like that, right?” Martin says quietly, his lips brushing against Jon's fingers.

How did you know what I was thinking? Jon wants to ask, but he can’t form the words. Instead, he just shudders as he tries to stifle his sobs.

“I love every part of you, and that includes the scars. They’re reminders that you’ve survived.” Martin rubs his thumb over the back of Jon’s hand in a slow, soothing motion. “It’s just – I wish you didn’t have to go through any of it in the first place. I hate what’s been done to you. But you’re more than that, and – and the scars are proof of that. Despite everything, you’re still alive. You’re still you.”

“Am I, though?” It comes out as a croak, and only then does Jon realize just how raw his throat is. There won’t be any lasting damage from walking through a blazing building, but it’s certainly taking its time fading away.

He feels another wave of guilt overtake him at the thought of how frightened Martin was. Jon had been so absorbed in recording the fear permeating the Desolation, and then so wrapped up in his own petty revenge fantasy, that he shut Martin out, left him choking on the blistering heat and shrinking away from the flames, stranded with only his abject terror to keep him company –

“Jon –”

“You see what I am, what I can do –”

“She deserved it, Jon. So did that – that thing that killed Sasha.”

“Yes, they did. But I used the same power that destroyed the world in order to do it, and I liked it, and – and I dragged you along with me, all for an empty, fleeting moment of vengeance. I promised I wouldn’t let the Eye hurt you, and then I subjected you to –” Jon swallows hard, his sore throat protesting. “And now it’s over, I just feel sick. Jude was right – I’m no better than her.”

“That’s not –”

“Did you know, before the change – when I still slept – one of the nightmares I invaded belonged to Jordan Kennedy? The exterminator, the one who was called to deal with Jane Prentiss’ wasp nest?” Once he starts, he can’t stop – the words pour forth in a frenetic rush, and he lets them carry him away. “He would look at me, and look at Prentiss, and he – he never knew who to fear more. Even after years, Prentiss was – she was always the part of the dream that terrified me more than any of the others, and – and in his eyes, we were the same –”

“Jon –”

“Prentiss was so frightened in her statement, so human. I thought the hive had hollowed her out against her will, turned her into a monster – but now, I wonder if she chose to let it have her –”

“Jon –”

“I talked to Helen about it once, you know. About choice. It seems like the avatars – we all have something about us that draws the powers to us in the first place. The only difference between us and any other victim is that we – we embrace it, to some extent, whether we realize it or not. We have a choice, and we choose to abandon our humanity, and whatever happens after that –”

“Jon, stop.”

Jon shuts his mouth so quickly there is an audible click as his teeth collide.

“This isn’t healthy –” Martin holds up his free hand as Jon opens his mouth again. “No, let me talk.” He takes a deep breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re equating yourself with the ones who hurt you. You’re… you’re looking back at all the things that traumatized you and putting yourself in the same category.”

“Jude said –”

“I don’t care what Jude said!”

“But she was right!” Jon says viciously, tearing his hand from Martin’s grasp and burying it in his hair, pulling until his scalp starts to ache.

“What about me, Jon? Am I no better than Peter Lukas?”

“That’s not the same thing –”

“Really? The Lonely was drawn to me for a reason. I made a choice to let it in, and then I made a choice to embrace it. I liked it, in my own way.” Martin places one hand under Jon’s chin and guides him to meet his eyes. “What if things had gone just a bit differently? What if you never woke up? I might have actually committed myself to the Lonely. Would that have twisted me, driven me to seek out the isolated and feed them to it in the same way that Peter does?”

“It’s different –”

“No, it’s not. You think the Beholding was drawn to you because you’re curious. Fine. You are curious. It’s infuriating and charming all at once, and sometimes you take it to - to careless extremes. That still doesn’t make any of this your fault. It makes you a victim, Jon – you were manipulated, tormented, used, and thrown away. You didn’t deserve any of it.”

Jon has sunken into a sullen silence, and Martin groans in frustration.

“Look, let’s – okay,” Martin says, counting on his fingers, “Mike Crew was struck by lightning. Jane Prentiss stumbled upon a wasps’ nest. All Helen did was open a door. Whether they were targeted or just had bad luck, they were coerced into choosing between equally terrible options and twisted into people they probably never expected to be. Even Daisy – all she did was trespass on some childhood dare, right? Look where that led her.”

Jon chews his lip and says nothing.

“I’m just saying, from where I’m sitting, the punishment doesn’t seem to fit the transgression. If you can even call half those things transgressions. Helen’s curiosity led her to open a door, but that hardly seems like a crime to me. You’ve never once believed that Helen deserved what happened to her. So why are you holding yourself to different standards?”

“It’s just… different. I – I had a clear choice, and I chose to be a monster instead of having the decency to –” Jon cuts himself off, but it’s too late.

“To what? To die?”

“Well, if I had, it would have freed the rest of you –”

“And if you died, I would have given in to the Lonely, and Daisy would still be in the coffin, and Melanie would have been taken by the Slaughter, and Elias would have found a new pawn –”

“I just –”

“I’m not done,” Martin says forcefully. “It’s still victim blaming even if you’re the victim, Jon. Do you really not see why it’s upsetting for me to hear you compare yourself to people who tortured you? To have you listen to Jude Perry over me?”

“I…”

“You know what?” Martin laughs breathlessly. “Yeah, let’s – let’s talk about Jude, shall we? Because as far as I can tell, she’s an example of someone who did choose this. I listened to parts of the tapes while you were in hospital, and she said as much herself. She was always cruel. She enjoyed destroying people long before the Desolation took an interest in her. Who knows, maybe there was something in her life that could explain why she was the way she was, and she just didn’t tell you. But based on what we know? She just liked hurting people. She was never conflicted about it, and she never apologized for it. Hell, she gloated about it. Even at the very end, all she wanted was to scare me and hurt you.”

When Martin finishes, he’s slightly out of breath. Jon reaches out tentatively, letting his fingers brush against Martin’s wrist, and Martin grasps his hand and interlocks their fingers again.

“I’m sorry,” Jon says quietly. “I’m just… I’m sorry.”

“It’s… well, it’s not fine. But we had to talk about it.” Martin sniffles a bit, then clears his throat. “I guess maybe the Kill Bill thing isn’t working for us, though.”

“Maybe not. I think… I think it’s not as simple as we want it to be. It would be – nice, to be able to just draw up a hit list, burn through it on our way to Jonah, but… I don’t like what it does to me. I don’t like what it does to you.”

“Right,” Martin sighs.

“And I’m still – I’m still worried about Annabelle. We could be playing right into her hands, and we still don’t even know what she’s after, and…” Jon makes an aggravated noise. “And just like that, I’m back to the free will question.”

It’s a question that always, always leads him to a dead end. Sometimes he passes hours with Annabelle’s statement playing on a loop in his head until he feels paralyzed with indecision, and nothing good ever comes of it.

“Okay, no,” Martin says. “No more self-harm disguised as philosophizing.”

“Excuse me?”

“The rumination, Jon – it’s self-destructive. It’s the same as when you’d seek out Helen whenever you were feeling inhuman. You’d let the ‘throat of delusion’ reinforce your fears, and then you’d use that as a justification for risking your life.”

Jon is struck speechless. He just stares at Martin, mouth opening and closing minutely, trying and failing to compose any coherent response.

“I was keeping an eye on you, Jon. Even when I was working for Peter.” He pauses, and then, almost under his breath, he adds: “You find such roundabout ways to hurt yourself, sometimes.”

“I…”

“You never thought of it that way, did you?” Martin’s smile is half-indulgent, half-sad. “Well, if you’re going to keep getting tripped up by the free will thing, let’s just… address it. Lay it all out, all those little what-ifs and if/thens.”

“That seems like… quite an undertaking,” Jon says, uncertain.

“Yeah, well. Time doesn’t really work anymore.”

“But people are still suffering with every moment we sit here –”

“The longer we go without sitting down and talking this out, the more we’ll stumble. We’ll probably reach the Panopticon sooner if we can agree on a strategy, and this… this seems like a good first step. Here, let me –”

Martin extricates himself from their hiding place with a small grunt of effort. Standing and dusting himself off, he reaches down to help Jon up. “Over here,” he says, leading Jon by the hand to their bags and gesturing for him to sit down.

Jon complies, Martin settles in beside him, but then – Jon has a sudden thought, and his attention swivels back to Martin.

“Wait. Before we move on, I… how are you –” He stops himself with an agitated little shake of his head, then restructures the statement. “I would like to know how you’re feeling. If – if you want to say.”

“Jon,” Martin says, his voice stern, “you are not redirecting this into a conversation about me just because you don’t want to talk about your feelings –”

“No,” Jon says quickly, “we can come back to this, I just - it’s not fair, me venting to you and expecting you to soak up my – my nonsense –”

“Not nonsense –” Martin says crossly.

“Okay, okay, fine – my – my feelings.”

“The word isn’t going to bite your tongue off if you say it,” Martin says, shaking his head with an exasperated smirk as Jon rolls his eyes.

“All the same, I…” Jon reaches over and cups one side of Martin’s face. He didn’t realize until now how caked in soot and ash they both are, as he rubs his thumb over Martin’s cheekbone. “I was being self-centered before we went after Jude, and I was being self-centered just now. I’d like to know where you are right now, in all this.”

Martin closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and leans into Jon’s touch. “I’m… scared. Obviously. I think the Desolation is one of the fears that gets to me the most. Not just the pain aspect, though I – I was being serious when I said that burning is my least favorite pain ever.”

Jon lets his hand drift to Martin’s hairline and brushes a stray curl away from his forehead, shaking loose a sprinkle of ashes.

“But it’s also… it’s the loss aspect, I think?” Martin continues. “How easily you can lose everything, how quickly the people you love can – can disappear from your life.”

Jon reaches out with his free hand – the burned one – and places it on top of one of Martin’s. Martin takes it gratefully, intertwines their fingers, and rests his head on Jon’s shoulder.

“I’m… I’m not used to people caring about me, but being abandoned still hurts, even when it’s people who never cared for you. And now – now I have someone who does care for me. When you tell me you love me, I believe you, which is… I never thought I’d have that. If I lost you, I don’t know… I don’t know what I would do.”

As the tears start to trickle down Martin’s cheeks, leaving trails in the soot clinging to his skin, Jon’s breath hitches and his heart clenches in his chest. A sudden, jarring memory returns to him, of Jude describing how she could reach in and burn his heart right out of him, and he pushes the thought away.

“I’m sorry, Martin. I… I didn’t think about that.” He squeezes Martin’s hand in his, hoping it comes off as reassuring. “Honestly, I think I’m also still getting used to the concept of someone actually… caring what happens to me. It doesn’t always occur to me naturally – the thought of someone missing me, or – or grieving for me.”

“It’s alright –”

“No, it’s not,” Jon interrupts. It comes off more sharply than he had intended, and he softens his voice before he continues. “Don’t let me off the hook. I… I knew I wouldn’t lose you, I knew I could keep us both alive, but I also knew it we wouldn’t pass through unscathed, and I dragged you in there anyway. I’m…” He frowns. “It's not an excuse, but I - I think I’m somewhat desensitized to physical pain, at this point?”

Martin opens his mouth and Jon cuts him off.

“No, I – I still feel it, it’s just... I've come to expect it? And then I heal so quickly, it - it doesn't feel consequential.” It’s more that his body doesn’t always feel like it belongs to him. There’s a sense of detachment that grew up over time, layer upon layer; he can’t quite pinpoint when exactly he started to think, Well, what’s another scar?

“That’s worse. You get how that’s worse, right?”

“Yes, I – I suppose,” Jon admits reluctantly. “But that’s not the point. You told me, explicitly, how you felt, and I subjected you to it anyway. I rationalized it by saying there would be no lasting physical damage, but that - that isn't the only kind of harm there is, and it's no consolation in the moment, when all you can think about is how much it hurts." Jon closes his eyes. "It was wrong of me to take you in there.”

“Maybe.” Martin bites his lip. “I am the one who wanted to go Kill Bill, though.”

“But I went along with it, and for the wrong reasons.”

“I don’t think revenge is a bad reason. You have every right to feel angry –”

“Probably. But I’m… I’m also the most powerful thing in this wasteland. I could cut a path of destruction from here to the Panopticon, and nothing could stop me. But I’d burn you in the process, and – and probably lose myself, too.” Jon pauses, grappling with how to phrase it. “The Eye already forces me to feel what it feels. To See what it Sees. And I worry that - that I'll reach a point where I'm so numb to it all that I'll forget what it was ever like to be human. To care about people suffering. And using these powers for no reason other than taking revenge, I think it feeds the Beholding, strengthens its hold on me. I can see myself rationalizing it, but when I look at some of the other avatars… making those kinds of justifications led them down a path that I would very much like to avoid. Whether Jude deserved it is a moot point.”

“I think she did, though,” Martin says. “So did the... the Sasha thing."

“Honestly? I think so, too. Forcing them to experience the suffering they’ve caused, it was what they deserved. But Jude was right, when she said I was enjoying it. Using my powers to hurt people, knowing that they can’t hurt me now… it feels good. It feels right in the same way that – that taking live statements used to, and that scares me. And I think… I think it scares you, too.”

“I’m not afraid of you, Jon.”

“And I don’t want to reach a point where you are.”

“That won’t happen.”

“You don’t know that.” Martin opens his mouth to argue, and Jon holds up a hand to stay him. “Even if you’re not afraid of me, you’re afraid you might lose me to this. I’m not – I didn’t read your mind,” Jon hastens to add, “I just… I saw how you looked at me, when I was dealing with Jude. When your voice couldn’t reach me. I’m still unsure how much of it is the Beholding and how much of it is just me, but I do know that I don’t like it, and that it isn’t worth the cost. It doesn’t change anything, and it hurts you, and it – it isn’t healthy for me, either.”

I see you, he thinks, staring into Martin’s eyes, I see you.

“I meant it when I said that you are my reason. I lost sight of that for a moment, and I don’t want that to happen again.”

“Okay,” Martin sighs, tightening his grip on Jon’s hand and forcing a tight smile. “No more Kill Bill. At least – at least not recklessly.”

Jon nods. “From now on… unless something poses an imminent danger, and I have to defend us on the spur of the moment, we talk. We explore all the options, all the potential consequences. I don’t smite unless we both agree on it – for the right reasons. No more feeding the Beholding on a whim.” He looks into Martin’s eyes again. “Does that seem… I would like to know if that feels fair, to you.” Martin nods, and Jon lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. “And if one of us starts feeling differently, we revisit this conversation. I don’t want you to feel as if you can’t… renegotiate, or add more conditions.”

“I’d like that,” Martin says, and plants soft kiss on Jon’s lips.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, Martin’s head on Jon’s shoulder and his arm wrapped firmly around Jon’s waist. Eventually, Martin clears his throat.

“So. Back to the free will thing,” he says, lifting his head. When Jon starts to make a noise of protest, Martin shoots him a stern look. “You promised.”

“Fine,” Jon says through a heavy exhale, sitting up straight as Martin leans away and resenting the loss of the comforting weight of Martin’s body against his. “So, how do you want to do this?”

“Well, you always liked visuals.”

“What?”

“You had a conspiracy corkboard in your office, Jon.”

Jon flushes in indignation. “Don’t call it that –”

“I’m joking. Mostly.” Martin laughs and kisses Jon’s cheek, which Jon receives with an only somewhat petulant huff. “Seriously, though, I think a visual will help you keep track of your own thoughts, and it’ll help me follow along.”

Jon isn’t quite sure where Martin is going with this, but at least it’s a starting point, which is already more than Jon could come up with.

“Okay,” Jon says quizzically. “How should I…?”

“Well, I figured you could just…” Martin scribbles in the dust with one finger.

When Jon leans closer to see what he’s written, he can clearly make out the words:

GET FUCKED, JONAH.

Jon chokes on a laugh. His sore throat twinges again, but when Martin starts laughing, it creates a feedback loop, and soon both of them are left wheezing as they try to catch their breath.

“He – he can probably See that, you know,” Jon manages to get out.

“That’s rather the point, love,” Martin replies with a grin, tucking a stray lock of hair behind Jon’s ear.

“Okay.” Jon takes a few shaky breaths, fighting back a smile and trying to school himself back into seriousness. “Okay. Let’s… let’s give this a try, I suppose," he says, and sets to dragging an index finger through the dirt.

It takes Jon a few minutes to acclimate to it, but soon he’s mapping out his tangled, racing thoughts on the ground, funneling his anxiety into flow charts and network diagrams. He’s always had a highly associative mind, prone to tangents and distraction. He finds himself adding parentheticals, footnotes, asterisks, arrows, all of it blurring together as the loose dirt gets pushed around. It doesn’t take long before Martin has to move back to give him more room to work. At some point, he breaks a branch off the charred tree for Jon to use as a pointer, and Jon accepts it absentmindedly without even the slightest pause in his dissertation, barely noticing the shower of ashes that rains down from the jostled tree.

It’s absurd, taking an intermission during the apocalypse to navel gaze about the nature of free will, but… miraculously, it’s helping. Martin stops Jon frequently to ask questions, redirect his focus, provide feedback, and expand on certain points. Jon is struck by how much effort Martin seems to be putting into following each of Jon’s convoluted trains of thought to their many branching, disparate destinations, and he thinks, not for the first time, What did I do to deserve him?

“When I think about it,” Jon says feverishly, pacing and gesturing with his hands the way he does when he’s absorbed in a debate, “the Web may have been pulling strings my whole life. I – I was marked by it when I was eight, and that was partly why Jonah chose me. He said I might have even been a gift from the Web, that I was drawn to the Institute, and that makes me wonder how many of my choices have been… influenced, without me ever noticing.”

“Okay, let’s take that as a premise,” Martin says patiently, placing one hand on the stick Jon is waving around and guiding the point down until it’s less of an accident waiting to happen. “Not saying it’s true, mind you – we shouldn’t trust anything Jonah says – but let’s just… follow that to its conclusion, see where it leads. What would it mean?”

“It would mean…” Jon wets his lips, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. “It would mean that, like Gertrude, I was always going to end up here. But – but then again… Annabelle’s statement. She suggested that the Web is just the fear of manipulation, and maybe it’s actually hands-off, just feeding on the paranoia we create for ourselves. But she also said that maybe it doesn’t matter, because either way, the Web always gets the results it wants.”

“And Annabelle also said she might just be telling you all that to make sure you do what the Web wants you to do.”

“Yes.” Jon groans in frustration. “I wish I knew what the Web wants. Does it even have a goal, or does it just look like it does to our pattern-seeking minds? Like – like some sort of metaphysical pareidolia.”

“Hmm. I think we need to look at this a different way.”

“Go on?”

“If we can identify one instance of free will, that proves its existence.” Martin shrugs. “It doesn’t say anything about the extent or nature of it, but it at least eliminates the possibility that everything is out of our control.”

“That… sounds reasonable," Jon says, just a little doubtfully. "But the problem is – how can we know whether something was fully our choice?”

“Well, choices don’t occur in a vacuum anyway – they’re products of our past experiences, right? So there’s always going to be something influencing us. The question we need to focus on now is whether there’s another consciousness pulling the strings.”

“Okay.” It’s far too tempting for Jon to veer off topic and into this new potential avenue of discussion, but it helps having Martin to guide him back on track. “So, can you think of anything, any time when, looking back, you can say with confidence that you made a choice without being manipulated by something for its own gain?”

“Yes.”

“Oh?” Jon feels a little bewildered by how immediate Martin’s response is. “Do tell.”

“Loving you,” Martin says without hesitation.

“I – what?” Jon sputters. He doesn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t that. He knows Martin loves him, of course – that comes as no surprise – but he’s still taken aback whenever Martin says it so directly. He’s so casual about it, so sincere, so confident, as if there could be no reality in which it isn’t true.

“It’s true,” Martin says, a faint blush beginning to blossom on his cheeks. “I mean – it’s not that I actively decided to have a crush on you or anything, attraction just kind of happens unconsciously, but – but deciding to pursue it? That was a choice I made. Even if I have a hard time imagining a scenario where I wouldn’t want to take care of you – I still could have decided not to act on it.”

“I… certainly made it difficult for you, I suppose.”

“Yeah, you weren’t exactly receptive to…” Martin snorts. “Well, any kindness at all, really.”

“So then why didn’t you give up? Why did you keep putting the effort in, when all I did was push you away? What if –”

Martin shakes his head with a fond little smile. “Jon, what possible reason could the Web have to make you happy?”

“What?”

“Why would one of the fears choose to manipulate you in a way that didn’t make you miserable, when there are so many options to do it in a way that hurts you? Since when would they care about you feeling safe, or cared for, or – or supported? If anything, you being isolated would make you easier to manipulate.”

“Not necessarily – you can control someone by threatening someone they love. That’s why you kept working with Peter, isn’t it? You knew he was using you, sure, but – but I listened to the tapes. I know I wasn’t the only reason you went along with him, but it did factor in. You were distracting him, keeping him occupied so he didn’t come after me.”

“True,” Martin concedes. “But can the fears even comprehend love?”

“I’m still not convinced the fears are conscious at all, or if they just... exist." Jon frowns in concentration as he tries to find the right words. “Like – like gravity. Forces with no sentience, no minds of their own, except for what we project onto them.”

“That only bolsters my argument.”

“I suppose.”

“Either way, I don’t think the fears could force me to love you, and even if they could, I don’t think they’d bother – not when there are more straightforward ways to terrorize us. I don’t think they particularly care about our feelings.”

“Helen said something similar once,” Jon recalls. “I wanted to know when the Eye would make me monstrous. When I would stop feeling guilty. She said that the Eye wouldn’t have a reason to do that, when I was already doing what it wanted regardless of my own feelings on the matter. She said… she said that Helen made a choice to just stop feeling guilty, because she was going to feed whether or not she felt guilty about it, and it was pointless to agonize over it when the outcome would be the same either way. And now… well, you see what she’s like.”

“See? I doubt any of the fears would take an interest in our slow burn love life," Martin says with a wry smile, "and if they did, it would only be to sabotage it.”

Thinking about it, recalling all the moments leading up to this…

“I think you might be onto something.”

“Oh?” Martin perks up, clearly delighted. “You’re saying I was right?”

“Yes, Martin, you were right,” Jon sighs, amusement creeping into his voice despite himself. “I don’t think my feelings for you were being controlled. Even if the situations we were thrown into were orchestrated, I… I can’t think of a single moment when loving you felt coerced. Even following you into the Lonely – it may have been part of Jonah’s plan, maybe even part of the Web’s machinations, but looking back at all the choices I’ve made, I think… no, I know that one was all me. You ending up in there was a result of manipulation, but my choice to go after you – I didn’t hesitate. That – that isn’t like me, I second-guess everything, but… I didn’t, then. In my mind, there was no other option – and that wasn’t because someone removed all the other options, it was because I decided that no other option was worth considering.”

“Oh.” Martin's voice sounds very, very small. Then: “I do think sometimes, though, about how… if it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have been marked by the Lonely. It was the last mark Jonah needed to use you for the Ritual, and I –”

“He would have found another way.” Jon shrugs. “The outcome – being marked by the Lonely – that may have been inevitable. But the way it happened – that was me. I didn’t follow you because I felt guilty, or because I had no one else, or because the Eye wanted me to experience the Lonely. It was because I care about you, and because you deserve better than to be Forsaken.”

When Jon looks up, he sees that Martin is crying, and draws him into a tight embrace.

“I’ve never once regretted coming after you,” he promises, wiping Martin’s tears away with his thumb, “and I would do it again. It might be the only decision I’ve made where I've never doubted whether I made the right choice.”

“Thank you,” Martin whispers after a few minutes, as his sniffling subsides.

“I love you,” Jon replies, voice rough from his own unshed tears.

“That was… quite eloquent.” Martin lets out a tearful chuckle, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. “So – did this help at all? Did you have any – any epiphanies?”

“I think I did, yes.” Jon releases Martin and picks up the stick again, drawing a rough illustration of a set of scales in the dirt. “One side is 'being controlled.' The other side is 'having free will.' I’ll never know how the scale is balanced, and that’s… I’ll just have to accept that. As long as there’s some free will in the equation, that’s... that's going to have to be enough to move forward.”

“Are you okay with that?”

“I think I have to be. I feel it’s a question that will never be answered to my satisfaction, and no amount of obsessing is going to change that. Even if I could seek an answer, I don’t think it would be worth –”

A sharp, electric pain courses through Jon’s head just then, leaving him gasping in its wake. The vertigo that floods him brings him back to his encounter with Mike Crew, and when he comes back to himself, he finds himself on his knees, trembling in Martin’s arms.

“Jon! Jon, are you alright?” Martin’s concerned face comes into view as Jon’s blurry vision clears, and he nods wordlessly. “What was – what was that about?”

“I – I don’t think the Ceaseless Watcher liked that very much,” Jon says, wincing at the lingering ache. “The prospect of – of letting a question go unanswered.”

Martin holds him, rocking gently, stroking his hair, until the throbbing begins to wane. Jon clenches his fist in Martin’s jumper and breathes deeply.

“I’m alright,” he says eventually, sitting up again.

“So… where do we go from here?”

“What I was going to say, before – before the Eye threw a tantrum,” he hisses, glowering up at the sky.

“Don’t provoke it, Jon –”

“What I was going to say is that I think the best way to tolerate the ambiguity is through action.” Jon holds his breath and steels himself before he continues, half expecting another bout of disapproval from the Beholding. “Any amount of free will means that change is possible. That means it’s worth trying, even if the outcome is uncertain, or – or hopeless. If that means taking it on faith that I can make my own choices, then… it’s a fair tradeoff, I think. The only way to determine how much control we really have is to experiment.”

“Some practical research, then?”

“I suppose so. Discovery through praxis. At least real-world evidence of cause and effect gives me something tangible to observe. It’s better than… what did you call it –”

“Rumination as a roundabout method of self-harm,” Martin supplies helpfully.

“Yes,” Jon says sheepishly, “that.”

“Well, at least we have a way forward now.”

Martin stands and pulls Jon to his feet and right into a strong embrace before picking up a bag in each hand.

“So, where to next?”

“Something horrifying, I’m sure.” Jon takes a moment to glare at the Panopticon, still so far off in the distance, before taking his pack from Martin and sliding the straps over his shoulders.

“Well, come on, then,” Martin sighs, linking their hands together. “Onward.”

“Onward,” Jon says with a resolute nod, gripping Martin’s hand tightly as they resume their journey.

#tma #the magnus archives #mag 169 #jonmartin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #tma fic #tma spoilers #long post

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werevulvi · 4 years

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How did you learn to be comfortable with your hirsutism? I've never been trans or detrans or dysphoric so my situation is not like yours but i'm hairier than average and even approaching my 30s i still struggle with my natural body. I've tried going noshave as a dare a couple of times and just feel overwhelmed with revulsion and shame. Even if i think it's conditioning for the most part i don't think i can undo it. Is there a point of no return?

I've always been mostly comfortable with it, but that's not saying I haven't dealt with any amount of shame or stigma about it. Especially a couple of years ago, I did struggle with it. Not everyone in my life loves hairy women, and that does affect me, so I hope I can offer some insight, or uplifting words! I think there are several aspects as to why it's fairly easy for me to love my body hair unabashedly now, and also reasons as to why I've struggled with it. Firstly, being viewed as male makes people less likely to call me gross or stare at me for being hairy, even though some still do because I often wear very feminine clothing (people tend think that hairy men in feminine clothing is "distasteful" ...apparently) and my parents really do struggle with my body hair. Even my sister has promptly given me unsolicited shaving advice. (I’m not exactly sure how my family views my gender, if it’s as a woman or more like a trans person, or as a female who identifies as a man, or I don’t know, but it’s obviously not as an actual biological man. Which I’m totally fine with and really don’t care, as they’re entitled to their opinions of me, but like it’s relevant because they probably wouldn’t have thought my body hair is gross and bad if I had actually been male, which is my only complaint: the sexism nestled in with however they perceived me.) But outside of my family and aside from my femininity, my ability to mostly blend into society as a man (which only some women do/can/want) means most people don't care about that I'm hairy, or might even praise me for it. Like if I just dress a little less girly, it's suddenly "cool" and "oh so manly" that I have hair on my chest, kinda.

Another aspect is that when/if I tell people I "identify" myself as a (trans) man, they also praise my hairiness as a positive personal achievement. Where as when I've instead "identified" myself as a woman, people have instead expressed disgust, being sorry, and other ill-placed compassion, for my hairiness. Like someone saying "I'm jealous of your beard, that looks awesome, dude" does affect me in a very different way from being told "I'm so sorry you grew a beard, I hope something can be done about it" and having been given those very different reactions based on what I've called myself (while looking the exact same way) has definitely affected my confidence about my body/facial hair.

However, I could still love my body hair even when I kept getting tons of crap for it from other people. Receiving all that crap made me feel terrible about my hairs for a while, but I also couldn't make myself truly hate them. I could within a couple of years find my love for them again. Probably so quickly because I had already loved them before, and because I was unable to hate them, despite being under that intense social pressure to conform.

When there's no one around to have opinions of my body hair, and it's just me, I first and foremost enjoy simply how they feel. That's how I started my journey to embrace my hairs. Wearing a long skirt or dress and my thicc thighs suddenly don't clamp together, because my leg hair serves as a natural barrier, which reduces friction? Awesome sensation. Wearing a shorter skirt and feeling the wind in my leg hairs on a warm summer day? Another awesome sensation. Armpits not stinging when putting on deodorant? Very nice, indeed. Not having to deal with any razor burns, and much more rarely any ingrown hairs? Neat. Twirling my fingers around my chest hair, because I still don't have a stim toy? Very soothing. Cuddling my beard? Very calming and reduces my stress levels like a LOT. It's almost as nice as petting a cat.

Then after finding how I love all those sensations and more, it became difficult for me to shave as the shaven sensation left me feeling oddly naked and like I was missing something. Without noticing, I had started to connect emotionally to my hairs as not just part of my body (for better or worse) but as truly part of ME.

Kinda like how many people feel about their head hair, regardless of their preferred length. Many people like having head hair, and would feel naked and at a loss if it was suddenly gone, which applies to both men and women. I started feeling like that "naked and at a loss" without my body hair, because I had emotionally connected to simply the physical sensations of having it there.

But I was still struggling with the appearance of my hairy body being there all visible, so on that point what I did was starting with simply covering up. Wearing clothes that would hide how hairy I was, basically. And not looking too long in mirrors, but also not avoiding mirrors. I'd glance. Except I still went swimming in just a bikini, regularly, at a public, local pool.

I think my experiences with going swimming while hairy, and otherwise hiding my hairs, helped me slowly get more comfortable with how it looked. Because I realised that despite all the comments, etc, it's really no one's business how I groom my body, as long as I'm clean and smell fresh. And my hairs are definitely clean! They're freshly shampooed and conditioned! I'm only saying that because keeping my body hair clean, helps me curb that feeling of being hairy somehow supposedly being equal to being dirty, which it isn't!

The more brave I got to test myself, I decided to show my hairs in public more and more, outside of the swimming pool area. Like with low-cut shirts, short sleeved shirts, tank tops, shorter skirts/shorts, etc. Eventually I developed a stronger connection with my body hair, became protective of it. And I started seeing beauty in it too. Looking at body positivity stuff made by other hairy women out there (mostly on Instagram) inspired me a lot, and having a supportive girlfriend who kept telling me my body hair is hot, helped a lot too. Feeling attractive shouldn't be the end all be all, but I'd be an idiot if I denied that it's uplifting and inspiring to hear/see that my own body hair is attractive.

As a result, I can quite freely love my body hair now, and show it proudly, but it took a lot of work and I still feel a little bit weird about it. Like sometimes I catch myself being puzzled by that I'm so hairy yet female. So like it is deeply ingrained, the belief that female body hair is somehow bad, dirty, gross or shameful, but it's NOT objective truth. It's just subjective opinions that very many people unfortunately have. It's natural, protects the skin, can increase sensitivity, can help regulate body temperature even, it's cheaper to not spend lots of money on shaving products, and lots of other good things that come with being hairy. I think the only negative is when my bracelets, rings and necklaces get stuck in the hairs and yank them out... which doesn't happen often!

I still feel that shame tugging in me whenever my mom decides to berate me for being hairy, and I have to remind myself that that's just her opinion, and not an incredibly valuable one!

So no, I don't think there is a point of no return. Like it’s never too late, as long as you’re still alive and kicking. We continue to be maluable and adaptive, and changing as people throughout life. Any opinions or beliefs that we have can change. Sometimes on a whim, but more often from working on ourselves, consuming media that informs us why we should change an opinion/belief, testing out what works and what doesn't, challenging ourselves, facing our fears, etc, and sometimes it can take a lot of such work and determination to achieve the desired result. But I think, when it comes to self-acceptance and self-love it's always possible to achieve.

Although I may still struggle a little bit with my body, I managed to come to love it in general, and feeling really connected to being female, despite still having dysphoria, from having hated my body in the past, and I think that says a lot. I mean that to say, if I can do that, I'm sure you can too. I hate to say it, but really all it takes is willpower and not giving up.

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cannabisrefugee-esq · 4 years

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WWNRD? Or, What Would Nurse Ratched Do? Ft. Nurse Ratched

Cannabis Refugee, Esq. Advertising / Media / Cultural Conversation, Alternative Treatment, Capitalistic Patriarchal Medicine, Family / Friends, Marijuana / Cannabis, Other Autoimmune Diseases, Radical Feminism

October 31, 2019

Nurse Ratched was a sadistic, evil bitch at the time and would be that and a dangerously out of touch political dinosaur now. Please do not do what she would do. If anything, ask yourself WWNRD and then do the opposite.

Speaking with my mother recently made me sympathize with young smartasses and activists who are just waiting for the elder generation — the out of touch Baby Boomers and the Baby Boomers’ parents and kids by this point — to give up the ghost and die. A “dinosaur” or political dinosaur is someone whose philosophy and worldview are obsolete and rooted in problematic values and circumstances of the distant past. For example, as a young activist in my teens and 20s I remember thinking and saying that the world would be a better place once those who grew up with unregulated environmental pollution and legal institutionalized racism, sexism etc. died off because their environmental unconcern, racism and sexism were so entrenched that they either didn’t realize, agree or care what they were doing and being was wrong.

Welp. After being sick my entire fucking life with an undiagnosed autoimmune disease, and going on 8 years with a diagnosed one, I am having these same thoughts now about the older generation of Western medical practitioners and others who were born, grew up and/or progenated in a low-population, relatively unpolluted pre-nuclear world where lifelong serious, untreatable, incurable and progressive disease existed only in very small numbers and therefore where older people seem to believe and act as if chronic illness did not and does not exist at all.

To be clear, chronic illness obviously did exist in our recent and distant past, for example, natural uranium deposits are known to cause acute and chronic radiation sickness to those who spend time around it. And humans have likely always been struck down with genetic and congenital maladies that might not have outright killed them. But old/er people seem to have lived their entire lives without chronic illness, including autoimmune and immune-mediated disease, front and center in their consciousness or as a part of their lived experience and this does make sense: before, say, the 1940s and 50s the worst industrial (man-made ionizing nuclear) pollutants had yet to be widely dispersed and contemporary Western medicine did not, because it could not, routinely pluck seriously ill and/or nonviable neonates, infants and others from the brink of merciful, natural deaths. Today, seriously ill children and others are rather forced to live for years, decades and lifetimes with serious illnesses that do not outright kill them, because Western medicine will not allow it, but which Western medicine has yet to figure out how to treat, relieve, or cure.

Having researched chronic illness, primarily autoimmune and immune-mediated disease for going on 8 years now, it seems to me that, in stark contrast to the life experience and worldview of older people, young people today generally are very aware that incurable and progressive chronic illness exists. Over and over I see that young people today, at least young Western people, well understand and accept the reality of chronic illness much more freely than older people, and the implications of that are extremely dark. From what I can discern, this difference in worldview likely exists because young people are increasingly becoming seriously chronically ill themselves. Young people understand and accept the material reality of chronic illness because experiencing it personally as individuals and in their peer group they have no choice but to accept it.

And over and over I see that older people are generally ignorant about issues of chronic illness and that they have not experienced it either individually or in their peer group. Frighteningly, instead of recognizing their blessed ignorance and trying to remedy it, older people think that their personal opinion based on outdated and second- and third-hand pseudo-knowledge about chronic illness matters or affects the outcome. It doesn’t, but unfortunately many medical professionals, healthcare policymakers, paid and unpaid caretakers and the like embrace an outdated worldview that no longer applies in our post-nuclear, Western world, and thus do not or cannot fully believe the self-reports of, or even contemporary peer-reviewed medical research addressing, the experiences and needs of seriously chronically ill.

A few weeks ago, a day and a half into a migraine (I’m getting 4 day migraines now, yay!) I panicked over my migraine-related inability to work on my small business, pursue benefits, or do virtually anything as I was completely and totally incapacitated. In what I can only describe as a misguided and ultimately futile cry for help, bedridden, I called my mother to update her about the situation, whereupon she made some statements of position that were so ignorant they verily shocked me. Laying in the dark with a sleep mask over my eyes, and a puke bucket near my bed, what I heard uttered from my mother’s lips was so egregiously out of touch with accepted thinking that it frankly terrified me.

Attempting to explain to her how and why she was wrong exhausted me. Knowing that she was moved not an inch by my description of my plight — instead smugly maintaining her “position” throughout as if she were engaging in a political debate rather than considering an emergency communique — enraged me.

For example, when I told my mom that I had a new diagnosis of High Functioning Autism, or HFA, she seemed unsurprised but said I wasn’t autistic as a child because I was always “bright.” Okay. In her mind, my HFA-consistent and completely obvious lifelong deficits in executive function — think literal and figurative “housekeeping” — and social competency (including feminine roleplaying which also includes both literal and figurative housekeeping, fuck me sideways) had nothing to do with autism and instead were just me being a lifelong asshole, lazy, and a bitch. She always believed that about me and she never hesitated to tell me about it. But at least I was bright. But now, because I’m no longer a practicing attorney and a “success” and instead am struggling to maintain any quality of life as a seriously ill person with limitations, and I can’t maintain an illusion of physical health anymore if I ever could, I’m a lifelong lazy asshole bitch and a freshly minted unbright/retard on top of it. Also, there is apparently such a thing as adult-onset autism. Because she says so.

Of course, my mother’s opinion about HFA is irrelevant and obsolete where HFA-literate people today know that high-functioning autism — the bright, non-retarded kind — is a bona fide thing, that particularly HFA females are often not diagnosed until late/r in life, and that “brightness” or intelligence is often a symptom/feature of HFA and not the antithesis of it. Autistic Tumblr — or any young autism or chronic illness related social media site — would tear that political dinosaur a new egg-hole if she dared say something so ignorant patently false about autistics on that platform. And so they probably should if they wanted to expend the energy and if they thought it would help.

Yes, I recently discovered the dark corner of the internet known as Autistic Tumblr: young people creating content, commentary and community from the shared perspective and lived experience that autism and autism spectrum disorders (ASD) including HFA is real and has real, material effects on people’s lives. Often, those effects have nothing to do with being low-functioning, or unbright. Which is not to say that I find Autistic or Chronic Illness Tumblr a particularly sane or comforting place to be. As I recently learned myself, Autistic Tumblr is an upsetting, dystopian place where young autistics put great effort into and emphasis on “normalizing” and “validating” terrible things that rightfully should never exist at all: autistic and chronic illness related things like melting down, stimming and managing chronic fatigue, chronic pain, chronic gut issues and the like, because although most of them are much younger than me, due to their autism and (likely) related physical and mental issues they are extremely ill and can barely get through their day.

In fact, upon hearing and considering these self-reports, one might even speculate that physical and mental pain is what likely drives autistics’ trademark weird, antisocial and self-absorbed behavior, where they are in fact “bright” enough to communicate online at the very least (and often have work, school and social commitments) but are exhausted from insomnia, chronic pain and ME/CFS; anorexic because they can’t eat anything; are having infantile hand-flapping meltdowns in public or breaking into inopportune episodes of “stimming” behavior to soothe themselves and they can’t deal with people giving them the side-eye at school and work on top of it. Autistic young people are living in hell, utter hell, judging from their self-reports. Considering that vast and increasing numbers of young people are autistic, it seems likely that extreme physical and mental distress is normal for many young people now. Young people much more than old people seem to know this. People who care to put in a modicum of research know this.

To further illustrate, when I was attempting to describe my current limitations to my mother she completely dismissed me and said that when it comes to disability, one is either totally disabled or not disabled at all. Lest I misunderstand what she meant by that, she spontaneously clarified her statement to mean that if I have limitations I should be in a “home” and if I don’t need to be in a “home” then there is no reason I can’t act as if I’m not disabled at all. In other words, despite being demonstrably, seriously ill, I “should” be able to act/function as if I’m perfectly fine. Because she says so.

Of course, as I understand it, invalid “homes” are largely a thing of the past, at least in this country, having literally gone the way of the dinosaur. And many sick and injured people are, in fact, demonstrably partially disabled, where they are able to perform some activities of daily living and perhaps some higher level activities like bookkeeping and such but not all; accessing “services” to help partially and even very disabled people to live as independently as possible — and not institutionalized — is the way it works now. Partially disabled does not equal totally disabled, you sadistic Nurse Ratched, you decrepit fossil, nor does partially disabled mean not disabled at all. She then proceeded to disagree with me — and contemporary peer reviewed medical research corroborating thousands of years of human history and shared experience — that cannabis is an effective anti-inflammatory and is particularly useful in inflammatory bowel disease including Crohn’s. According to her, and based on nothing, pot isn’t an effective or necessary medicine for any condition, and it’s “merely” an effective pain reliever (!) and therefore is not actually medicine at all. Because she said so.

This ignorant, sadistic ideological fossil maintains her nursing license and continues to “care for” actual patients including sick infants and children. Whatever “caring” means to her, and people like her: assholes who rely on frighteningly outdated material on which to form and support their opinions on contemporary medical and social issues, including contemporary chronic illness that for whatever reason is increasing in incidence and prevalence. And particularly in our post-nuclear, radioactively contaminated environment, including the toxic, autoimmune uterine environment in which many of us spend our first 3/4 of a year and which is known to cause autism. While information on Crohn’s, HFA, medical marijuana etc. is easily Googleable, and appears to be widely known by young people, apparently my 67 year old nurse mother is waiting for the news to break via Teletype or otherwise didn’t get the memo.

Of course, if I was a partially disabled man and had a wife (or mother) to perform all my executive function tasks (including bookkeeping services for my small business) for me, no one would even notice I was disabled. If I were male instead of female perhaps my life wouldn’t be falling apart at all, and certainly the prospect of committing me to a nonexistent/extinct 1940s era invalid home because I can’t wait in line or consistently do my business and personal taxes anymore would have never been raised at all.

Comments Open.

#marriage #female labor #nurse ratched #autism #being autistic #disability #medical #medicine #420 #me/cfs #gen z #millenials #baby boomer bullshit

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randomreasonstolive · 6 years

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Advice? (Long post)

You seem pretty well versed on mental health issues, so I was hoping you could provice some advice!

Usually, this is the kind of thing I’d bring to my therapist, but she is unfortunately on maternity leave at the moment. I know there’s a huge difference between some rando on Tumblr and a licensed therapist, but at this point, I’ll take whatever I can get. Even unprofessional advice might be helpful.

I have GAD and I very likely have ADHD (legally undiagnosed, but my therapist is sure I have it and is trying to get me a diagnosis) as well as some other underlying mental health issues that I still have no fucking clue about. Like I mentioned, I see a therapist regularly most of the time, and I have been for over a year. So I should know what my symptoms are, right? RIGHT?!

Apparently not. Because recently I learned about a massive issue I’ve had for almost as long as I can remember. And, somehow, I have never noticed it until now.

Get this: I rip up paper. And I connect my letters absentmindedly when I zone out. Sounds harmless, yes? It’s not.

I have torn up pages of homework. I have taken handwritten essays that needed to be turned in the next day and “doodled” over them to the point that the letters are unrecognizable. When I was a kid, I would ruin the covers of my favorite books and then become furious over something that was my own fault. Most of my notebooks don’t have covers. All of my jackets have pockets full of shredded paper. I’ve literally failed tests when I knew the material because the paper I handed in just had a bunch of scribbles where the answers should have been. And a lot of the time I’ll even combine the two, finding old worksheets that I’ve ruined with my “doodling” and slowly tearing them to shreds.

I thought it was stimming or self-soothing because it makes me feel calm. It’s viscerally satisfying in some arbitrary way, so yes, it does help with my anxiety. But what I didn’t realize is that it also causes anxiety. It isn’t just a coping mechanism. I am no longer in control of the situation. When I see a word I’ve written in a certain way, I need to connect all the lines. When a paper is creased, I need to rip it. When I don’t, I feel anxious and uncomfortable and… sort of twitchy. It’s like my whole being just wants me to do the destructive habit. I can’t not do it. I can’t stop thinking about it.

I feel completely helpless and miserable. I know it’s just paper, I can just type, etc. But isn’t there something wrong? I’ve never heard of these types of symptoms, and I can’t really connect them to my ADHD or GAD, although maybe that’s just an oversight on my part. My point is that I really don’t know what’s going on, but I need help. Any advice at all is appreciated. Thank you.

Hello there, dear!

Oddly enough my therapist is on maternity leave too! So that bit made me smile. :)

I’ll let you in on a little secret: It took me 9 years of seeing a therapist before I was finally diagnosed properly. From 16 - 26 I had been told I had Bipolar disorder, until someone finally realized I actually have Borderline Personality Disorder, or BPD.

Mental health is like a journey with no map. Therapists are there to help you by giving you directions, or techniques, or to even help you discover those things on your own. But therapists can be wrong and point you in the wrong direction, or not know what direction you need. It takes quite some time to figure out the journey that is your illness, but I’m proud of you for what you’ve done so far!

These things do seem like stimming to me, though I am no expert on it. From my understanding, however, stims can be both helpful and harmful. They help to deal with anxiety in the moment, but the after effects can cause that to backfire.

It sounds like this struggle has become overwhelming. You may want to look into seeing a temporary therapist while yours is away on leave. Also, have you seen a doctor about medications? Not all medication for anxiety is good, but some of it can be very helpful.

It’s not “just paper”. If it’s something you’re struggling with, then it’s an issue, and it matters. Something is clearly wrong and needs to be addressed.

Are you still in school? If so, you may want to get your parents to look into an alternative learning program.. Speak with a school adviser / school counselor about finding teachers who are more understanding of the situation. Make sure you have someone advocating for you if there are issues.

Try to narrow down what causes you to be stressed so you can learn to prepare for those situations. For example, if you are going to be taking a test, ask if you can have some extra notebook paper to quietly shred and doodle on so that you aren’t doing so on the test itself. Maybe get a new notebook specifically dedicated for your doodling/shredding, so you can avoid tearing apart any of your other ones.

These will be conscious choices you will have to learn to make, but it will be much easier than just forcing yourself not to tear things. It might be difficult, but it will be worth it. Mental Health is about growing, one day at a time, one step at a time.

You can also look into other sorts of stimming, be it toys or not. There are quite a few very nice stim toys online (Wish is where we got ours) and while it does take some getting used to, they are nice to keep your hands busy with. You can also do things like fold up bits of paper, or fidget with a piece of string/hair tie, etc. Something that isn’t disruptive or harmful to yourself or your life.

I really hope this has been helpful. If anyone else with more experience with stimming has anything to add, please do!

I love you and I really hope you’re able to get to a healthier place soon!

- N

#not reason #advice #advice request #response #i was going to add a read more #but sometimes they don't work on mobile #submission

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creacherkeeper · 7 years

Note

can you write an autistic!Fitz fic where he builds himself the perfect autistic sensory room with his autistic engineering skills

Three of a Kind

sequel to the Caroline fic

another anon asked for autistic Jemma set in the Caroline verse

and here’s the page on atypical autism jemma is reading

happy @disabilityfest everyone!

~2600 words

read on ao3

The front door opens and closes, and before Jemma can callout she hears, “It’s just us!”, so she settles back against the couch. There’sthe patter of little feet, Fitz saying “Your shoes-! Oh, alright,” and thenCaroline is crashing onto the couch beside Jemma.

Jemma smiles, setting her laptop on the end table. “Darling,did you take your shoes off like daddy asked you to?”

Caroline twiddles her fingers, not answering, but she liftsher legs to display the two bright blue tennis shoes still on her feet.

“How about you go back to daddy and have him help you takethose off?”

With a pout, Caroline pulls herself off the couch and slumpsback toward the foyer. Jemma can hear Fitz talking, but she can’t make out whathe says, before Caroline makes her way back to Jemma and pokes her in the knee.

“Fishy is hungry,” she says, still pouting.

“What would you like to eat?” (Jemma doesn’t know why sheasks, she’ll always get the same answer. She supposes it’s just to let Carolinefeel like she’s making decisions.)

“Fish food.”

“Do you want it in water?”

Caroline shakes her head.

Jemma gets up, makes her way to the kitchen, and poursCaroline a bowl of plain Cheerios, no milk. She squats down so she’s oneye-level with the four-year-old.

“How about you take this up to your playroom so that I cantalk to your father for a little while? That sound good?”

Caroline takes the bowl and dashes away, thundering up thestairs.

That’s when Fitz enters the room, tossing Caroline’sbackpack on the table and then coming over to give Jemma a peck on the lips. “Enjoyingyour day off?” he asks.

“I’ve been doing research.”

“So, that’s a yes,” he chuckles.

“I—” Jemma’s thumbs run over her fingers. “I actually wantedto talk to you about something.”

“Oh.” Fitz’s eyes flick over her face, not staying in anyone spot for too long. He backs up and leans against the table, crossing hisarms. “Good something, or bad something?”

“Good something, I think.”

Fitz relaxes, face falling into something relieved. “Oh,good. Shoot, then.”

“I think I’m autistic.”

Fitz blinks, not responding for a few seconds. “Really?”

“Well, see—” Jemma moves back into the family room, Fitztrailing her. She picks up her laptop and sits down on the couch, Fitz fallingnext to her. “I’ve been doing a lot of reading on something called ‘atypicalautism’. It’s autism, just a presentation of it that frequently falls under theradar. It can show up like that in any gender, but it’s more common in girls.Doctors frequently miss it, which is one of the reasons girls aren’t diagnosed asmuch.”

“And you think you have it?” Fitz asks, nodding towards thelaptop.

Jemma chews her thumbnail for a moment, before realizing andpulling it out of her mouth. “I think so. I’m- I’m pretty sure, actually. Irelate to a lot of it. And I relate to typical autism things as well, I’ve beenrealizing: the literal-mindedness, the difficulty with typical socialinteraction, need for consistency and order, and I’m good at patternrecognition. I think my interest in astronomy would count as a specialinterest, as well, and also in venomous things. I know just about everyvenomous species, and all about different types of poisons in animals.”

“That’s true,” Fitz says, “you do.”

“And apparently alexithymia is an autistic thing, as well aschildhood hyperlexia.”

“Alexithymia?”

“It’s defined as difficultly understanding and identifying emotionsin the self, and difficulty describing emotions to other people. You know I’vealways been an emotional person, but I do have a lot of trouble with that. Inever knew there was a word for it until today.”

Fitz nods. “Yeah, that makes sense for you. What about theatypical autism stuff, then?”

“Here, this page has some information about it.” She handsover the laptop.

Fitz scrolls through the page, nodding occasionally. “’Usescontrol as a stress management technique’, yeah, that’s definitely you. Theanxiety and fear thing is you, too. ‘Fired up when talking about specialinterests’. ‘Hates injustice’.” Fitz laughs. “This was basically written aboutyou. ‘Shuts down when overloaded’, yeah, you do that. You always get reallyquiet. ‘Stims to soothe’. You do that, too.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah, you always rub your fingers together, and do thatneck thing.” Fitz demonstrates, squeezing against his neck.

“Huh,” Jemma says. “I didn’t even think of that.”

“But, yeah, this all sounds a lot like you,” Fitz says,passing the laptop back. “Are you gonna make an appointment to get tested?”

Jemma is quiet, and Fitz nudges her foot with his.

“Jem?”

“I was thinking … no.”

“Oh. Really? Why?”

Jemma sighs, briefly chewing on her bottom lip. “I suppose Ijust don’t see the benefit of it. For me, I mean. I feel like as long as Iknow, and the people I choose to tell know, that’s all I really need. As far asaccommodations go, I know Coulson will grant them to me if I talk to him aboutit. I’m not sure I even need any, though, considering I have control over mostof the lab as it is, and have set it up how I like it. But there’s always thequestion of, should I try to get another job one day, would that be a markagainst me? It’s already hard enough being a woman in STEM, much less one witha stigmatized disability.”

“I didn’t think about that,” Fitz admits.

“A diagnosis follows you whether you want it to or not,”Jemma says. “But if it was just up to me, I could control it. I could share itonly with people I trust. I just think I would feel more comfortable about itthat way. Even besides work, what if we wanted to adopt one day? Both of ushaving a diagnosis would make our chances slim, despite all our accomplishmentsand the good life we can provide a child.”

Fitz slumps against the back of the couch, brow furrowed inthought. “Do you think …” He wrings his hands. “Do you think I shouldn’t havegotten diagnosed?”

Jemma shakes her head. “That’s not what I’m saying. I thinkit was good you got diagnosed. For one thing, I think hearing it confirmed byan authority on it really helped you. I’m not sure you would’ve accepted itotherwise.”

“That’s true, I probably wouldn’t have.” He’s quiet for amoment. “Do you think having the diagnosis will hurt Caroline?”

Jemma purses her lips, thinking. “I think things are changing.I think advocates are working every day to make sure the world is a fairerplace to autistic people in the future. By the time Caroline is joining thework force, I think things are going to be a lot different. If it isn’t … I don’tknow. It might hurt, it might not. Depends on her field. We don’t really haveany way of knowing now. But I think the diagnosis was important for her, so shecan get accommodations in school. She’s starting kindergarten next year, andit's not going to be a big deal then, but once she gets into a standardclassroom environment she’s going to need help.”

“I just want what’s best for her.”

Jemma reaches over and links their hands. “I know, me too.”

Fitz chews on his cheek, staring down at the floor. After afew seconds he shakes his head. “Sorry, this is supposed to be about you,though.” He nods toward the laptop, still open on the ‘atypical autism’ page. “I’mreally glad you found that. I’m glad you know now.”

“I mean, I’m going to keep doing research. This is somethingI really have to think about. And I’d like to talk to my parents about it, aswell. But, this is something I’m pretty sure about. It makes sense. In a ‘piecesfalling together’ sort of way.”

Fitz nods. “That’s how it felt for me, too, once I startedreally thinking about it.”

“And … I don’t know. I suppose a part of me likes the ideaof sharing that with you. It might’ve been one of the things that drew ustogether in the first place.”

Fitz squeezes her hand, a smile curling its way across hisface. “I like the idea of sharing that with you, too.” Suddenly, his eyebrowsshoot up. “Speaking of, I think you’re really going to like what I’m doing withthe playroom.”

Jemma’s gaze turns suspicious. “What are you doing with theplayroom?”

Fitz shakes his head, darting off the couch. “I can’t tellyou.”

Jemma stands. “Why not?”

He turns and backs toward the stairs, facing her and tryingto contain a grin. “Then it won’t be a surprise.”

“Fitz,” Jemmawarns.

“Jemma,” Fitzmocks.

“Tell me.”

Fitz laughs, and turns and dashes up the stairs.

“Ugh, Fitz,” Jemma calls. “Don’t be childish.”

(She still runs after him anyways.)

The playroom door slams behind him, and she hears the lockclick as she stops in front of it.

“Fitz, this is ridiculous.”

She hears mumbling from behind the door, then Caroline’sexcited voice shouting, “It’s a surprise!”

“Well, how long is this surprise going to take?”

More mumbling, then Caroline saying, “A week! A week!”

Jemma huffs a sigh. “Oneweek, and then I’m coming in whether you like it or not.”

Fitz laughs. “Deal.”

A week goes by, and Fitz’s secrecy only feeds her voracious curiosity.He keeps her away from the playroom, bringing in materials and other itemswhile she’s at work, or late at night after she’s already gone to bed. Sheadmits, she did try to get in once. She couldn’t help it, she was just tooinquisitive. But the door had been locked.

They’re sitting at dinner, Fitz and Jemma eating pasta andchicken leftovers from the Italian restaurant down the street, Caroline eatingCheerios. There are a few bites of chicken on Caroline’s plate that she hasn’ttouched, but it’s been a long day and Jemma is too tired to push it.

Fitz clears his throat, and Jemma looks up.

“So …” he says, biting back on a grin. “The playroom isdone.”

“What?” Jemma says, almost not believing it, it feels likeshe’s been waiting so long.

“Yeah, finished it this morning.”

Jemma quickly wipes her mouth with her napkin and pushes herchair back.

“Jem, you’ve still got half a plate of—”

But Jemma’s already up the stairs.

She tries the playroom door, and this time it’s open. Shepushes in, and then stops short in the doorway.

It’s a lot to take in all at once.

Caroline squeezes past her, and throws herself onto the bigbeanbag chair in the corner of the room, landing with a whoomp. Fitz chuckles, sidling up behind Jemma, a hand on her hip.

“Can I give you the tour?”

Jemma, still too shocked to speak, nods.

Fitz takes her hand and leads her in. He turns her aroundfirst, facing the wall the door is on.

“So this is more for- um—” Fitz motions with his hand. “-horizontalclimbing than vertical climbing. I didn’t want to make it too tall, but thereare pads on the floor in case she falls still.”

Jemma looks down, and sure enough there are thick padsbeneath the climbing wall.

He tugs her hand, and she follows. On the next wall is aboard, and the board is covered in different materials. Some plush, furryfabrics, a circle of shag carpeting, velvet, some fabric with bumps, ridgedcarboard, and sandpaper.

“Texture board,” Fitz says, and then motions to the table infront of it. “And a sandbox. And see, it’s got this little funnel, so you can—”Fitz scoops up some of the sand with a cup, and pours it into a funnel that’ssupported by bars over the sandbox. The sand falls through some clear tubes andthen rains down out of a watering can nozzle. Fitz holds his hand out, and letsthe sand rain down over his palm and slip between his fingers. Once it’sfinished, he wipes his hand over the table and then on his pants, then takesJemma’s again.

In the next corner is the bean bag chair, which Caroline isstill lying face down on, kicking her feet through the air. Suspended over thebeanbag chair is a rope net, hanging low enough that the four-year-old couldgrab onto and pull herself up. It stretches from over the chair to the middleof the room, above a small blanket fort that’s built against the window,letting natural light into the fort. There’s a corner of a weighted blanketpeeking out from the entrance.

Fitz pulls her to the last corner. Hanging from the ceilingis a large, circular swing, like a small trampoline suspended on ropes. Fitzducks under the ropes and sits on one side of the swing, patting the otherside.

“I got one big enough we could both sit on it.”

Jemma joins him, pulling her knees up to her chest andgazing around the room as Fitz gently rocks them.

“So … what do you think?”

Jemma shakes her head. “I … I don’t know what to say.”

Fitz chews his bottom lip. “I mean, it’s for Caroline,obviously. It was made with her in mind. But also … I don’t know. Kind of addedstuff I thought we’d like, as well. Obviously we’re a bit too tall for the rockwall. And we might just- uh—” Fitz looks over. “-just stick our heads in thefort. But, you know. It’s sort of a family thing. Something we can all enjoytogether.”

“Fitz,” Jemma breathes. “I … This is amazing. I’mspeechless.”

Fitz peers at her hopefully. “Yeah?”

“Truly.” She grabs his hand with her own, bringing it up torest against her chest. “I can’t even imagine having something like this when Iwas a kid.”

Fitz grins. “Well, Caroline is going to grow up with one.”

“Speaking of,” Jemma says. “Caroline, have you said thankyou to daddy for building all of this for you?”

Caroline squirms off the beanbag and starts jumping aroundthe room, flapping her hands by the sides of her face, squealing loudly. Shehops and twists about, dancing around the room until she stops suddenly, makesa loud kissing sound, “Mwah!”, andthen throws herself back on the beanbag.

Jemma can’t help her loud laugh. “I think that means ‘thankyou’.”

Fitz nods, snorting. “Yeah, I think it does.”

Jemma bites her lip, dropping Fitz’s hand to tangle her owntogether.

Fitz nudges her with his shoulder. “You want to go play withthe sandbox, don’t you?”

“I want to play with the sandbox,” Jemma admits.

Fitz pulls her off the swing and back over to the table withthe sandbox. Jemma kneels in front of it, scooping up a cup of sand and thenpouring it over her fingers, grinning at the sensation. Caroline joins her,making little “wshh, wshh, wshh”sounds with her mouth as she traces patterns in the sand.

Fitz leans against the wall to watch them, looking on with afond smile.

“I’m really glad you both like it,” he says.

Jemma and Caroline both just give pleased hums.

#disabilityfest #aosficnet #fitzsimmons #jemma simmons #leo fitz #aos #lmao sorry this took like four months yall #i just had a lot of stuff to write #better late than never right!!#and what better month to write it than disabilityfest month #gonna try to write some more disability stuff this month #hope you enjoy #Anonymous

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