#autistic lonesome

[themaskedlady]

[martyrbat]

enough — batman secret files (2018) #1

(ID below cut!)

[ID: A short story titled Enough. It centers around Bruce Wayne being alone at a little cabin out in the middle of some woods on top of a snow-capped mountain. Bruce internally narrates throughout the entire story. The barren cabin is lonesome amongst the pristine, white snow as Bruce enters the cold, muted building. Inside there's several books, oil lamps, a stone fireplace, and candles on basic, open faced wooden furniture – indicating that the house has no electricity. The cabin is one story and has an open floorplan with a single upstairs bedroom, which has only a ladder leading up to the small loft. There's a chest underneath a window and Bruce sits on the old, yellow couch in front of the blazing fireplace.

He thinks to himself, ‘There're rumors that somewhere, in Gotham's most beautiful, snow-topped mountains, a monster is running around. I have a suspicion Man-Bat is behind the strange activity. Mountain climbers losing their camps, ski resorts with missing guests, a strange beast being seen in the dark... Something covered in hair, something remarkably large.’ He takes his parka off and sets down his large duffle bag to slowly unpack it — revealing a thermos and a bow with several large, pointed arrowheads. He pulls out his Batman gear — which includes an insulated suit that's lined with fur, his belt, and a protective face mask that reflects his eyes in the red-tinted visor. He forlornly admits, ‘I can handle large, but what I can't handle… Is how damn lonely it is up here. Alfred says I could use some alone time. Truth is, I'm not such a fan of myself.’

Outside in his costume and cape, Bruce is tracking through the icy woods and the thick, rising snow. He's armed with his bow and arrows as he narrates, ‘To avoid detection by what I assume is probably Man-Bat, I'll try to capture him using only my hunting skills. I admit I'm a little rusty. The arrows I've brought are lethal to some, but they're just enough to incapacitate a beast of his size. It should be enough.. I hope it's enough.’ But the snowstorm rages on, forcing Bruce back inside the cabin since he believes it's not worth the risk of freezing to death if he stays out. He now lays in the upstairs loft's bed. The oil lamps on the wooden bedstand is unlit, causing the bright snow through the window to be the only thing that casts any light in the dark room. It reveals a framed photo of a picturesque landscape hanging over Bruce's head on the wall. In it, there's a peaceful lake and tall, luxuriant green trees.

Bruce solemnly stares up at the ceiling and thinks, ‘I find myself focusing closely on all the sounds of the forest, trying to learn the rhythm.’ The snow whirls on… A branch cracks… The cabin itself creaks and groans — causing Bruce to sit upright with a jolt! He squints out the window in an futile attempt to actually see something out there. He cerebrates, ‘Three nights and only the sounds of falling snow and branches. I've tracked nothing larger than a doe, there's been no news of an attack or sighting, maybe he's left the mountains… or maybe he's just hiding.’ Bruce lays back down, this time with his back to the window. He keeps an eye open — waiting and nearly hoping for any sign of life other than his own in the desolate, icy land.

We're shown Bruce outside again as he fights against the harsh wind to get back inside the cabin after another unsuccessful search for Man-Bat. He rubs his face tiredly while hunched over a small oil lamp as the stovetop coffee brews. He reflects, ‘Six nights alone, darkness lasts longer than the day and again the storm pushes me back indoors. This is beginning to feel useless. I'm really quite over myself. Maybe I'll call Alfred and ask him to—’ But his self-deprecation is cut short by a sudden thump! Then another loud crack! Again and again, coming closer and closer to him!

Bruce sets down the coffee as his mind rapid fires the possibilities of the quickly approaching, potentially dangerous loud noises! ‘Is it the branches in the wind? Or is it something else? Am I paranoid? I can't visualize what I'm hearing. There's no time to think about the cold now, I'm all alone up here. That sounds remarkably large.’ Bruce arms himself with his bow and arrow and hesitates outside the door as his paranoia continues, ‘I hope this is enough. A hunter knows its prey, but I'm realizing I have no idea what's on the other side of this door. Does it understand I'm on the other side? I am alone out here. No time to think.’ He flings the door open!

Geared in only his suit with no gloves or headgear, Bruce aims his bow blindly as he stands outside in the merciless elements. He tensely waits in the dark, thinking to the unseen threat, ‘I don't see you, but can you see me?’ There's another loud thump and crack. With one last hope that it's enough to tranquilize the potential attacker, Bruce fires the weapon.

The sharp arrow proves itself to be lethal as it pierces his unfortunate target. The threat — merely a lonesome, defenseless deer — falls dead in front of the horrified man. Bruce rushes forth and remorsefully buries the animal with the snow. He walks back to the cabin with the repeated, dejected confession: ‘Truth is, I'm not such a fan of myself.’

END ID]

[dirtytransmasc]

the autistic rage that is living with other people, actively waiting to go into a room till everyone's out of the room and doing their own things so you can use the room undisturbed, and the second you walk in there you have seemingly reminded people the room exists as they all need to be in there that very second, literally. everyone could be in there rooms, my grandma could be half asleep watching her soaps, but the second I put my headphones all the way on and start going about washing dishes (I find it relaxing) or fixing a snack, they're all in here

[ducks-wearing-socks212]

idk if this is an autism thing or a severe untreated and undiagnosed anxiety thing but i hate being perceived. To the point of everything feels shameful or embarrassing, eating, breathing, coughing, asking for help, chewing gum, walking, wearing a brightish top, just everything give me so much anxiety and i dont know why. does anyone else get what im trying to say. like if im writing and someones watching me i physically feel like i cant anymore. if a teacher walks by to check and see how far i am on an assignment i panic no matter how much i have done. is this normal or no?

[monachopsis-11]

Sorry about that last post, I know it’s not exactly new years stuff- so here’s my New Years post. It’s okay if you’re not happy yet or you haven’t achieved what you hoped to this year, personally I have a really hard time with New Years because I feel like I’m still alone and every year I hope I’ll have someone other than my family to spend the holiday with but so far it hasn’t happened. Trust me then when I say I understand how hard it is, I understand being the person who doesn’t want to look forward on New Years anymore while everyone else celebrates, I understand being the person who looks back at exactly where they were last year hoping for something that still hasn’t happened (and I understand doing this for many years.) My advice is to try anyways, even when the hope hurts it’s better than no hope and I still believe someday I won’t have to be alone on New Years, whatever your battle is New Years is really just another day and it only takes one day for everything to change. Maybe that day is tomorrow and maybe it’s another year away but when it happens it’ll be worth waiting for. You’re all so strong and I appreciate your support and responses so much because they’ve helped me be strong too.

So Happy New Years, 2023 is going to hold more for you than you even know yet!!! 🎉

[drchucktingle]

my masks

hey there buckaroos. due to all of the attention the TEXAS LIBRARY ASSOCIATION situation has gotten i am going to take a minute to talk about my personal way as an autistic buckaroo. im going to tell you about my masks.

im doing this for a few reasons, some are good FUN reasons full of love and some are not so great. 

lets start with the GOOD STUFF. first of all, i am talking about this because speaking on my way can help other buckaroo feel more comfortable speaking on there own way, ESPECIALLY if they are good at ‘passing’ for neurotypical like chuck is. 

unfortunately the NOT SO GREAT reasons im talking about all this dang stuff are two fold. reason one: i have been put into a position of having to explain and justify my needs and boundaries by the TXLA. this is not something that i WANT to be taking up all of my time, but when large organizations do not make space for those who they have pledged to support, it puts us smaller buckaroos into position where were have to defend our existence. it is not plesent but it is necessary.

the second NOT SO GREAT reason is that ‘passing’ bisexual and autistic people like myself are ALWAYS just seconds from being gatekept from folks both outside and inside these communities. there will probably be a day on chucks deathbed where i take off my mask and say hello to this timeline (mostly so you can all see how handsome i am under here but I DIGRESS). i KNOW with absolute certainty (the same way other bi and autistic buckaroos are probably nodding along right now) that when that day comes i will STILL be accused of ‘not being real’ and ‘faking’ because i ‘dont look autistic’ and i have a beautiful ladybuck partner in sweet barbara.

ALL THAT IS TO SAY, i am taking a moment today to talk FOR THE RECORD about my neurodigence and my particular needs. hopefully i will not have to keep diving this deep every time an organization takes a discrimantory action against me, but i will also say this: at least it is a good fight on an important battlefield

anyway buds, here is the story of my way on the spectrum

when i was a young buckaroo i knew that my thought process was different. i could socialize easily, which is unique in contrast to many autistic buds (it is a spectrum after all), but my social ease was for an interesting reason. I ALWAYS KNEW WHAT OTHERS WERE ABOUT TO SAY. it was like a strange ‘human game’ where someone would say one thing and i would think ‘well you actually mean something else’ in a sort of logical way (this is why i later related to DATA from star trek so dang much). at first i remember thinking ‘well i am just NOT going to play along with this human game’. i quickly learned neurotypical buckaroos do not like this, that there is a BOB AND WEAVE to social interactions that must be learned. 

later i realized ‘actually if i WANT to make friends and prove love is real then i can do this like an expert because i can SEE the game where most cant’. this got chuck many buds and took me on many adventures. please understand, i am not saying these connections are not important to me, they are just different. they are full of love, but i express this in my own unique way.

HOWEVER, while growing up i felt disconnected from this timeline in other ways, like an alien or a reverse twin trotting along in a world that is not quite my own. i did not feel emotions the same way my buds did. they would get upset over the ‘human game’ interactions and i would not be moved at all, HOWEVER i could see the way sunlight hit a window and start crying my dang eyes out over the beauty. so my emotion was still there and VERY STRONG, i just felt it in more existential ways (like hearing the call of the lonesome train). these days that feeling has progressed to where i am pretty much in a constant blissed out state of cosmic emotional connection (make of that last sentence what you will, but it is the truth). when i make existential posts online i am not just FIRING OFF SOME CONTENT, i really mean every word. this is really my trot.

anyway as a young buckaroo these feelings made me worry sometimes. i thought about various mental health dianosises and marked the parts and pieces that matched with myself. am i this? am i that? sometimes, instead of just being’ different’ i worried i might actually be ‘wrong’. 

when i saw david byrne on letterman in my younger days i immediately recognized something connected to myself. i thought ‘wow this is the mystery being solved before my very eyes.’ i could hear it in the music of talking heads too. i started doing research and realized that i might be on autism spectrum, something that was later confirmed by a therapist (back then the diagnosis was called asperger's). it was a glorious and fulfilling moment. i was SO EXCITED TO BE AUTISTIC LIKE MY HERO. i felt very cool because of it, and i still feel very cool because of it.

one of the big reasons i talk so much about being autistic these days is because i want to make sure OTHER buckaroos can have that same moment that i did. they can see chuck and think ‘wow i really like this autistic artist, maybe being autistic is cool’

so what does an average day WITHOUT wearing the pink bag look like for me?

my thought process is exactly like ROSE from CAMP DAMASCUS, which is part of why i wrote the book. we have the same stim (complex order of finger taps), we prepare for social interactions the same way, we analyze things in the same logical trot that neurotypical people might think feels ‘detached’ but for me feels natural (certain reviews of camp damascus are very funny to me in this way. you can tell when a reader is just very confused by existing in an autistic brain for 250 pages.)

from the outside you would not be able to tell that i am on the spectrum. in fact you would probably find me very socially adept. 

the problem is, all of that masking can take its toll. i spent years trotting in and out the emergency room, talking to confused doctors who could not figure out the chronic phantom tension and pain that radiated through my body. i eventually accepted the fact that i would either live a life constantly on heavy painkillers or just stop living altogether.

eventually, however, i started noticing a correlation between the way that i felt, and the space that i allowed for chuck and the pink mask. i was exercising that tension, allowing my mental mask of neurotypical existence to take a rest. i started practicing physical therapy and this time THE RESULTS STUCK because i was approaching from two sides, MIND AND BODY. after a while, i got my pain down to about 5 percent of what it once was. i still have flare ups in times of stress, but the healing has been very real and life changing.

lets get VERY specific now. if i attended the TXLA confrence without a mask and gave my talk i can tell you this: i would do a dang good job. i can work the heck out of a crowd and (not to reveal too much about my secret way) I HAVE BEEN KNOWN TO DO THIS ON OCCASION VERY WELL. however, going home from this event i would very likely be in pain. i would likely need to do physical therapy. i would likely need to stim for a while. i would NOT be emotionally fullfilled in the same way. in other words, without my pink mask i can charm the heck out of buckaroos, but THE SPACE OF CHUCK TINGLE IS NOT THE SPACE FOR THAT. the pink bag is a place for me to not have to put up with that tension. it is a place for me to unmask mentally by masking physically.

this pink bag space SAVED MY LIFE and i am not going to risk blurring these lines. if and when that ever happens it will be MY decision, not someone elses. that is my boundary. the part of me that neurotypically masks could handle a library conference in a purely technical sense, but the part of me that chuck represents absolutely cannot and should not be asked to do that without the pink bag. unfortunately, the complexity of this point makes it even MORE difficult for me to think about and takes up even more of my time, because it forces me to START QUESTIONING MYSELF and my own needs. to be honest, that is the most insidious part of other people questioning your identify and refusing to accept your accommodation needs without ‘proof’.

the thing is, while all of this discussion of disability and accessibility is important, i have a much larger point to make by writing these words.

a conference should not uninvite someone with an unusual physical presentation or a strange way of speaking REGARDLESS of it being classified as a disability. it does not matter WHY i look the way that i look and wear what i wear. i should not have to spend all day writing this post instead of writing my next book, just because my sensibilities are unique and my presentation is unusual. 

fortunately the solution is very simple: let other people be themselves. its not hurting you to simply accept and nod at the buckaroos you think look strange. let us exist

[adventuringblind]

Church Girl

Oscar Piastri x Autistic!reader

Genre: hurt/comfort

Request: no (check masterlist for request status)

Summary: Church has a tendency to make people feel unwanted. When reader goes to visit her family, they convince her to go with them to the place she’s trying to forget. Good thing Oscar is there with her.

Warnings: toxic religious folk, religious trauma, creepy old men, panic attacks

Notes: okay so this goes out to my neurodivergents who were stuck in a church that didn’t understand them with peers who made them feel like they were an alien, adults who were always asking the wrong questions and judging their clothes, and were forced into the stereotypes they wanted you to fit in. Fire Drill by Melanie Martinez was on repeat while writing this.

This is loosely based on true events

Masterlist

Summer break is here which means it’s time to go visit family. She and Oscar board the plane to her home country, all smiles and laughs.

She’s missed them since being away. Her family hasn’t always understood her, but she loves them dearly.

When they arrived they were greeted with hugs and questions about the trip.

At the dinner table that night, Oscar was quick to realize that he didn’t fully realize how religious his girlfriends family is. It seemed to be their favorite topic.

The girl next to him was struggling with the conversation and he could feel her stimming under the table. She’d talked about her church experience a little with him. He didn’t want to push her so he didn’t know the full extent of everything that happened. He recalls her mom having to put up with some horrible people and the tears over how it hurt her to see her mom so broken in a place she should feel loved. How her sister felt she would never be good enough for their expectations. How her dad uses is to control them sometimes.

And yet they’d convinced them to go with. Well- more like she was trying to please and wants to spend time with her family.

In the lonesome of their room that night, she collapsed into him.

“I think I might vomit.”

He simply hold her. “Do you want to talk about it? We can always say we changed our minds.” He suggests. His attempt at reassuring her futile as she panics more.

“The people there judge so critically. It didn’t help that I was weird to kids my age and mature enough for the adults to ask me why I’m showing my shoulders because they’re a distraction.”

Oscar hums in understanding. Carful not to interrupt her explanation but still show he’s listening.

“They say it’s a stereotype, but it’s true. I’ve been teased and looked down on and made out to be over dramatic. My old youth pastor used to talk to my mom about my ‘behavior’ and how I argued with him to much. Then I yelled at him for getting in my personal space and saying things an adult should never say to a child, in my opinion. I was constantly told I talk to much about the wrong things and not enough about the right.”

Though Oscar’s shirt is getting wet, he doesn’t care. Her more harmful stimming habits are showing as he’s determined not to let that happen. She plays with his fingers instead. “I can’t do it Jack.”

The endearing nickname alerts him this is serious. He didn’t know how far this trauma had been rooted inside her. No wonder she struggles with her self-esteem, she was told her entire life she’d never measure up. She’d endured hours of countless awkward conversations and events she couldn’t wait to leave.

The worst part is that he knows it’s why she apologizes for everything. It didn’t matter how much she tried to look ‘normal’ she couldn’t get it right and people were mad at her for it.

“I will leave it up to you, but say the word and I’ll have us out of here in an hour.”

~

Oscar had half a mind just to feign sickness and tell them they can’t go. The girl pacing the room had yet to get dressed or pull the plug and say she doesn’t want to go.

“I say wear something comfortable and scandalous.” He leans back on the bed with a smirk.

“Since when are you so evil? And are you crazy? I’d get eaten by judgmental stares.”

“Let them stare. You deserve to be comfortable in whatever you wear without feeling judged and preyed on.”

~

They took a separate car from her parents. Partially because they wanted to leave early, mostly because in case of emergency they had an escape vehicle.

He could feel her trying to self soothe in the passenger seat. She’d finally settled for her favorite pair of pants and his sweatshirt. Comfort clothes for a hard situation definitely seemed like the best option.

He held her hand as they walked to the front door and stopped right outside. “Remember you’re not stuck. We can leave anytime you want.” She nods her head appreciatively, then they step through the doors.

He felt like the were underdressed. Which is an absolutely ridiculous notion because it’s eight in the morning and he’d rather be asleep. How these people look dressed for a ball at this hour is beyond him.

Oscar spots her family amongst the sea of people and weaves them into their vicinity.

“Y/N, hi! How are you? It’s been so long!” Chirps an elderly woman who awkwardly embraces the girl. She’s still as a board and yet the lady doesn’t get the hint.

“I’m alright.” She smiles politely.

“And who’s this young man?”

“My boyfriend, Oscar.”

He reaches out his hand to her and she shakes it. “It’s nice to meet you.” He offers his media coached smile.

“Oh are you two planning on settling down? Having kids?”

She shuffles awkwardly looking for a response. She hates invasive questions like these. Now would normally be where an inappropriate joke about Lando practically being their child would go but she thinks that might be wrong. But what’s even right in this situation?

“Not currently. I travel for work majority of the year so it would be difficult to start a family.” She’s grateful Oscar knows to manage conversation.

“Oh well… that’s to bad.” Then the woman shuffles away.

“I told you it’s bad.”

“I see your point. Did you know her?”

“No but apparently everyone is allowed to talk to you like that even if you just know a persons name because we’re a ‘church family���.

As they wait for the service to start, they pass the time by people watching. Snickering at the obvious fake smiles and perfect families people show off on Sunday mornings.

They are rudely interrupted by a male probably in his forties. “Excuse me, I have got to ask, are you two siblings?”

He must be newer, she thinks to herself, it’s not like she’s been gone that long. She shakes her head at the man, one hand in Oscar’s the other inside the sweatshirt pocket. “No sir, we’re dating actually.”

“That’s a real shock. He’s a keeper if that’s how you dress all the time and he still chose you.” His comment is directed at her. The social analysis kicking in. Is this sarcasm? Or maybe a joke she doesn’t get? Is he being serious?

“What do you mean by that?” Oscar is quick to ask back. Again, saving her from most likely saying something she shouldn’t.

“Most guys enjoy when a girl wears appropriate female clothing. I’m just saying she’s lucky to have you if this is what she wears all the time.” He eyes her up and down. “Would be prettier in a dress I reckon.”

“Nope. She’s pretty in everything she wears.” Oscar is dragging her off in the opposite direction before turning around. “Also, sir, I’m the lucky one.”

The service is long and boring. The two pass notes back and forth like they are in high school. Though they aren’t necessarily trying to hide the fact they are doing it.

When it’s over, they quickly tell her parents they are heading out because truthfully, the girl is in the verge of a meltdown from the over stimulation.

They get almost to the door before being stopped again by the last person she wanted to ever see again. Her old youth pastor.

“Y/N! I didn’t think you were ever coming back!” He goes to hug her but she steps back. Almost using Oscar as a barrier. “Awe don’t be like that.” He pouts.

“We were actually just heading out.” Oscar steps in. He didn’t like how the man is eyeing her. It’s uncomfortable for him and even more so for her.

“And you are…?”

“Oscar, her boyfriend.”

A look of shock spreads across his face. “That’s gooier to hear. I didn’t think she’d ever find someone.” Oscar doesn’t hesitate to use his sarcasm and over expressive facial expressions as he feigns curiosity.

“Why’s that?”

“I could never get her to shut up about things that weren’t important. And after the lengthy discussion we had with the board about her argumentative attitude with her male superiors, I just thought it would never happen.”

She didn’t tell him about that one. Oscar can see out of the corner of his eye how her head drops in shame. He doesn’t let go of her hand. “So you work with kids but when one doesn’t act the way you want you take to abusive behaviors? Glad to see a church full of people who are supposed to be loving are letting their youth get hurt by adults.” He says launder then necessary, but it gets his point across because people heard him.

He turns in his heels and places a protective arm around her waist as they walk to the car.

He knows she’s overstimulated, so he tries lets her go at her own pace when they get back to her parents house. The spare key still in the same place it’s been for years, so no need to wait outside.

In the safety of the room, she latches herself onto the Aussie. “I’m sorry.”

He holds her and does his best to soothe her. “You’ve nothing to apologize for. Those people are sick, I swear. I’m sorry you had to go through all that.”

“That meeting was the worst day of my life. Sitting in a room with a bunch of older men telling me how to behave. They made some jokes that they shouldn’t have and told me I’d never have a good life if I kept acting like I had been.” She’s wailing now.

Oscar can practically hear his hear shatter. How could people be so ignorant and blind?

“They said that my autism isn’t an excuse and that I need to try harder. Then they said maybe one of them can take me under their wing and show me how to treat a man right. I was barely eighteen.”

They spent the night like that. Her crying into his shoulder and him trying to calm her down. She fell asleep in his arms and he didn’t have the heart to move her and risk waking her up.

He couldn’t fathom someone telling her her brain being different means she’s not good enough. It’s what makes her unique in his eyes. How could someone not love the way her eyes light up when she talks about those interests that she never gets tired of. How her honesty and ability to stand her ground make conversations with her never dull.

Oscar leans down and kisses her head. “I don’t care who says you aren’t good enough, they are lying. You are for more then enough and I feel so special that you love me and are willing to share those pieces of yourself with me.”

[drdemonprince]

I’ve read your writing on autistic self-identification and it resonates for me, a self identified autistic woman who started to recognize myself as autistic when I was an adult. Do you have thoughts on whether (and how) this approach can work with kids? Is it important for autistic kids to understand that part of their identity when they are kids? I think my kid (in elementary school) might also be autistic. I don’t want to pursue a formal diagnosis because of concerns about legal discrimination, but everything I’ve read about self-identification is focused on adults.

Identity is always a matter of interpersonal belonging first and above all else. Surround your kid with neurodivergent kids. Bring your kid into spaces where lots of disabled people of all support needs levels are present. Introduce your kid to intellectually disabled and physically disabled people. Provide your kid with resources that normalize however it is they personally function and what helps them thrive, and do all that you can to keep the neuro-normative standard from being assumed for them or projected onto them (as best you can). Introduce them and yourself to an ever-growing community of neurodivergent adults, family structures, and ways of life.

Your kid doesn't have to identify with a psychiatric label per se, but regardless of who they grow up to be, they will benefit strongly from being surrounded by the full diversity of human existence and ability and by avoiding all neuro-conformity pressures for them as best that you are able. It's a dramatic shift from thinking of your kid in terms of their personal identity or category membership, and it's a lot of work, but the reward is a freer, less lonesome way of living for you and them alike! Good luck!

[circledotdestroy]

Retrospective - Chapter 2: The Insult of Injury

Pairing: Shouta Aizawa x F! Pro-Hero! Reader (slow burn)

Main Summary: After 12 years, you, Pro-Hero Strife, has to return to Japan. Your objective: discreetly track down and capture Akari Kaneko, a.k.a. Pro-Hero Aegis— your old classmate who attacked you during her visit in America. In the aftermath of All Might losing his power, however, using UA resources has its complications. The most unexpected complication being Aizawa, someone you never expected to see again. Why does your past have to come back to haunt you now? Masterlist First chapter Next Chapter Word Count: 5585

A/N: Sorry it took so long for me to post. While I was gone I got my first big girl job and my beta reader has been having trouble with her computer, so I had to obsess over the prose by myself. In the end, i had to split my planned second chapter in two because it was almost 10k, so that's fun. Also, I uploaded this fic to Ao3 and I added the tag "Autistic Shouta Aizawa" and I'm the first one to tag that in an X Reader Fic??? I thought it was a popular headcanon lol Anyway, you've waited long enough. I hope you enjoy!

Head hung over porcelain, gloved hands gripped onto the sink. A giant hammer banged against your skull from the inside leaving sparks in its wake. Neurons like shooting stars lived behind your eyes. “Sparks…” You gulped back nausea. 

Murky puddles of colors blurred together. Light blue stalls behind you, slightly opened, but empty. A massive void leered through the mirror with slivers of red. Hunched, panting over the counter. Burning wounds spreading out, conquering the rest of your cold skin. Not so different from the last time you needed a healing quirk. Cold, clammy, and disgustingly pitiful in one of the dark backrooms of your agency–because doing paperwork was better than being by your lonesome with nothing. The main difference this time around was the mortification that came with breaking down in a high school bathroom.  

You were going to smack Akari for what she put you through.

The thought stabilized your shaky breath. You straightened your body, your hands still grasping the counter. The pressure released from the stab wound. It steadied you and you were grateful.

The last thing you needed to add on this little business trip was a reunion with Recovery Girl. She had first-hand encounters of your nonsense. Dealing with the aftermath of you being a menace to society— or “younger” if someone wanted to be polite—more times then you can count. You went to her office a lot–sometimes for yourself. Sometimes. It didn’t matter if you started more “advanced” in your class, you weren’t immune to scraps, bruises, or the occasional slip up during training. Other times, it was for other classmates. Some you sent her way after battle trials, but other times you popped in to take supplies then ran out.

One time you asked when she was going to retire, she said whatever the Japanese equivalent was for “until I croak”. That was after she threatened you with her cane, but you laughed it off like the cocky child you were. You thought even if she could land a hit, it wouldn’t hurt that bad. After all this time, it’d be disappointing to tell her you got in a fight and lost at your big age. Maybe she’ll try hitting you with her cane again, you thought. She’d have an easier time now.

But no. Dealing with the effects of one healing quirk was enough. The risks of getting her involved drowsiness at best, or possible death before the investigation gets shot down at worst. Investigation aside, it’s becoming apparent your healing process isn’t where it’s supposed to be. The itches, the burning… no one is in this bathroom with you, but you’re burning beneath cold skin. Someone who sees you on the street can say: “It’s only been two days! Walking around, catching a flight, that’s a MIRACLE for only two days!” 

However, that’s the problem. It’s already been two days. With the healing quirk, you’re supposed to be at least 75%, but you’re not pushing fifty. 

Removing your hands from the sink, you brought them to your sides. It was hard to know where one pain starts and where the other ends. Everything burns and your body is compelling you to turn around and throw up nothing.  You flexed shaking fingers into fists. Your stomach was turning inward. It’s been a while since you ate. Perhaps you should’ve brought something on your way here. Even if it was stopping at a konbini and picking up one of those stupid-ass nutrition cookies Aizawa used to eat for lunch every day of the week. You swallowed, shaking your head. Food can wait. You can wait three hours. If you eat, you’re going to stay nauseous and dizzy anyway… unless you do something about it.

With a shaking breath, you glanced over your shoulder then at the door. There was no charge down your spine, so no people were close by either. You flexed your hands again, eyes closed, counting your fingers rhythmically. The sparks died down. The pain became more discernible. Abdomen still fresh and oven-hot. Knuckles chaffed, raw, and bruised. Your legs: thighs sore from jumping during the mission, your left knee ached, and the top side of your right foot was especially tender. Your shoulders, your back, behind your head. 

You kept the rhythm until your lungs demanded release. When you exhaled, the pain dwindled. Not completely. Warmth still lied below your skin, at a near simmer. When you opened your eyes though, the blacks and reds weren’t blurred together. They were a clear, albeit crooked mess. You fixed the red arm guards first. When that was done, you had enough energy to fix the rest of your uniform. 

Daring to move around, you inspected your fixed outfit further. When it passed inspection, you grabbed your briefcase below the paper towel dispenser to your right. Hitching your breath, you reached for the black handle. Your right leg carried all the weight to avoid setting off a potential mine-field of injury. At first contact, you swung the case on top of the sink then opened it. There were many compartments at the top, one housed a phone the boss gave you, since your old one was collateral damage. There were few numbers inside the cell. Only the ones you thought were most important to include. One of them was for the agency medic, which you cleverly titled as “Medic” to make sure you don’t call more than necessary. 

This development with his quirk, unfortunately, was necessary. Rocks filled your stomach. Your mouth feels like you ate gravel. You can hear his reaction to telling him his ‘all powerful quirk’ wasn’t helping like a future sense. He’d make the concussion he diagnosed you with worse if you called.

Wanting to grip the phone harder, you clenched your teeth. This whole thing was stupid. You could’ve kept your guard up. You could’ve stood up, knife be damned, and run after Akari. Stopped her. Asked her what the hell she was talking about— All these choices you could’ve made–all those years of training, and you still got a concussion. Seven minutes passed when you finished typing your little update. It was better to give him a heads up now. It helps against accusations of Akari annihilating your brain cells at the fight.

The next person you contacted was Athena, your Support Expert. It hasn’t been long, but you needed an update on something. Even if it was just your uniform and equipment. 

The message itself was quick. Though, you couldn’t help following up by asking if she knew anything about one of the crime scenes. You then thanked her, again. Heaven knows you keep her busy when you need new equipment. During the past two years alone, you’ve asked a lot from her. Whether you needed a new arm guard, gauntlet, or a whole new uniform, she came through every time. It’s hard to get an SE who specializes specifically in power-based quirks. From what you’ve experienced, and heard from other heroes, most SEs don’t appreciate their designs getting decimated. Their creations are children in their eyes. Athena’s creations aren’t as precious in her eyes, by comparison. She has a spreadsheet dedicated to how long until the creations get busted. Keeping up with these records is her research. It changed constantly, telling her what works and when she needs to switch things up. 

You should bring her something when all this is over, you thought. She deserved something nice. Something that says “I’m sorry for wrecking all the support items you made me during my missions, you’re the best SE ever!”

The phone went back inside of its compartment, next to the pouch where five hologram disks were held. A surge of panic came through you. Thinking of the horrific scenario of traveling all this way and forgetting essential items for your visit today. You tore open the pouch. Heart in your ears and heat crawling out your back. Two disks were labeled, three were not. “CS1” and “CS2” were in the pouch. Good. You glanced at the other objects in the case, double checking everything was there before you met up with the principal. Folders, notebooks, paperwork, until relief washed over you in a cool wave. Closing the briefcase, running your hand across the leather. Slowing down to trace the broken heart emblem, similar to the one on your breastplate.

Your power won’t get rid of the hammers in your skull, or the itch around stitch wire, but the thick material will prevent you from scratching. Plus, no one else would know about the other bumps and bruises beneath. 

You got this.

Leaving the bathroom, you pulled out Hizashi’s instructions one more time. They were less blurry and a bit easier to understand. You may actually have a chance to get out of the maze disguised as your alma mater. Ironically enough, before you could turn the corner, a white rat-bear-dog shorter than a yard-stick— wearing a black vest, blocky, yellow shoes, and had a gangster scar across his eye—came around. “There you are! It really has been a long time,” he greeted, like you’ve seen him before. He didn’t give you time to respond to him, he just explained how he waited at the meeting spot until it occurred to him how long it’s been since you were a student. The principal also made many changes since the time you graduated, which he insisted on showing you. This welcoming gesture forced you to tail him around the floor, instead of simply going to the meeting spot. You didn’t like the idea of walking around, not with that flare up earlier. You were still abnormally sore. But he can’t know that. You squared your shoulders, nodded your head, and quietly marched on.

There weren’t many rooms to make note of. Most of them were regular classrooms. You already saw where the current classroom for 1-A was before you ran into Aizawa. Apparently your old classroom is being used for one of the first year general education courses. The principal asked if you’d like to look inside. You declined the offer politely. At the end of the day, it was just a room. Another room with desks, windows, and a chalkboard in the front. What more did you need to see? You didn’t explain that last part, obviously, and the principal went on talking about other changes around the school.

At one point, he interrupted himself, stopping in front of one of the other doors. This time he didn’t ask you before opening it. “And here is my office.” The principal revealed a room with a giant window behind a desk. The orange light from the rising sun shone through the window casting deep shadows on the office furniture. If you stepped closer, you’d see everything outside the window. The brightness made you queasy. You opted to focus on the gray couch instead. “It looks a little different compared to the last conversation we had here,” he commented.

‘Last conversation,’ you wondered. Then it hit you.

This principal wasn’t new.

 Your principal never left UA. How you forgot your principal having a gangster-scar, you weren’t sure. There was no one like him. Absolutely no one that you’ve met. 

Muffled words and a shadow in front of a stark blue window came to mind. Paws holding stacks of paper, hitting them against the desk to straighten them out. Were you supposed to add on to what he said? Were you supposed to apologize? He didn’t look unhappy.

But you could be wrong. Would it be a surprise if this was an act? Taking you on this walk so you’d waste your time telling him everything? You looked to the right and left side of the hallway. If the resources weren’t valuable then you’d walk yourself out first. 

The principal didn’t follow up his statement with anything about the past or the future. He closed the door to his voice and rambled his way to nothing. He probably wanted to get a reaction out of you, but you were too confused to give him one. 

After a while, the stitches got tighter. And tighter. And your legs were becoming sore. Of course, you clenched your jaw to keep quiet. If he caught on, he’ll send you to Recovery Girl then bye-bye. She hits you with her cane and Nezu could press a button to eject you from the building.

Honestly, where was Hizashi? You knew he was supposed to be busy with work last night, but he said he’d be here for the meeting. It was supposed to start soon and you don’t want to be in a room alone with a passive-aggressive rat-bear-principal. Maybe he was telling Nemuri you were in town. 

Or maybe he would try to find Shouta and they could all be talking right now! Aizawa would tell him about you leaving him in the hallway, saying you were rude, demanding to know what’s going on. Aizawa was pushy enough. Hizashi would tell him about how you called him, hurt and asking for help. Despite Hizashi’s best intentions, Aizawa could use this information to raise doubt against you in the meeting. Get rid of you before you become a problem, his problem. 

You needed to find Hizashi before that could happen.

As luck would have it, the tour was coming to an end. The last stop led to a blond man leaning against a door down the hall with his arms crossed. A blond man with a punk rock style and a speaker around his neck. A blond that bounced his knee impatiently because he couldn’t bear standing still. 

Hizashi!

His head snapped in your direction. He, like a ray of sunshine, grinned ear to ear. “And look here, folks!” Hizashi rushed toward you, “coming out of the cage, ready for her GRAND COMEBACK–” you gripped your briefcase tighter, your eyes wide and almost bouncing, expecting impact. Hizashi pivoted around you, putting a hand on your shoulder. “It’s the Queen of Terror, Pro-Hero STRIFE!”

It’s been over five years since you’ve seen him in person, longer since he’s called you by your hero name. You beamed, he was here. In the same room, not across the world. You thought of hugging him, but stopped when you remembered your old principal was still here.

Hizashi moved closer, leaning into your face without such reservations. The amber reflection of your uniform was in his sunglasses. His hand dragged across your shoulder where the raised mending peaked. He looked toward the principal with his hand on the side of his mouth, like he was trying to tell you a secret. “I was waiting forever,” he fake-scolded, loud enough for the third party to hear.

Glancing at the principal, you saw he was watching the two of you. He had a smile on his face, but his eyes were blank. You stepped out of Hizashi’s grasp, standing properly. “I had trouble with the directions.”

“What? Getting rusty after being away for so long?” Heat rose to your ears. Of course you were going to be rusty. Did he really have to tease you about it now? “She really knows how to keep her fans at the edge of their seat,” he said to the principal casually, like he wasn’t Hizashi’s boss.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” the principal responded, making you aware of the side eye you were giving to your old friend. “I was giving Strife a tour of this floor. After all, I’m proud of the changes I made to UA since your graduating class. I couldn’t resist showing off to one of my former students. Strife has certainly grown from that child I remember.”

Hizashi agreed with your old principle with a joke. “I hope that’s a good thing.” But you know there’s no good way to interpret the statement. Not with what he said when he showed you his office. Who brings up a time where they had to talk with you in a GOOD way? It’s like when your parents brought up how one of your dad’s coworkers caught you sneaking a cookie from the agency's break room when you were supposed to stick to a meal plan. Like, “oh, we sure hope you have better impulse control compared to when you were eight, even if you do, we’re going to reference this story over and over again so you never forget your moral failure!” He’s wearing yellow sneakers with formal wear, why is he passive-aggressive!

The conversation didn’t go further, thankfully. “There is time before the meeting, I’m going to set up. Feel free to catch up here in the meantime,” said the principal. You both thanked him as he went into the room. The nausea came back at the sight of the wooden swirls closing, your heart was starting to pound. After all, maybe he was planning to air it out with an audience, you couldn’t know for sure with his emotionless eyes.

“Did you really not have nicer clothes,” Hizashi asked, breaking you out of your trance. He was loud enough for the whole building to hear.

Your nose scrunched. “The damage wasn’t THAT bad…”

Hizashi shook his head. “I’m not talking about the damage. Last time I saw you, there was more…” Hizashi held his hand out, waving it toward your body. He went through a jumble of words before he decided on one. “Color.”

The last time he saw you in person, you were twenty-four and in-between agencies again. He was celebrating the first anniversary of his show being picked up for a radio channel. After celebrating the anniversary, he took a short vacation out of the country. It was the first time he was allowed since his career started. When Hizashi finally arrived in the States, you wore a uniform. It had less hard armor and was more red. Red breast plate with your black broken-heart emblem, which resembled that old Pac-Man arcade game. Gauntlets with red finger and knuckle pieces and armguards to contrast the black base of the gloves. Some other details like the center of your knee and elbow pads, the tips of your boots, your utility belt, and other lines and trims followed,

Vibrant color bounced off the void background. In comparison, your current outfit was– 

“You look like a common mall goth.” You tilt your head at him. Before you can say anything about calling you “common”, he continued. “Actually it’s worse!” Hizashi stepped closer to put his hands on your shoulders, pressing into the raised mark on the left. He leaned closer to your ear–was he always this touchy? He whispered, “you look emo.”

You punished him back, somewhat gently. “Hizashi, what the hell,” you said in English. Why was he making you worried over nothing! And calling you emo…

He laughed, wagging his finger at you like you were some brat. “Nuh uh uh. It’s Mic. We’re professionals and we’re working.”

“What do you mean ‘professionals’? What was professional about that!”

“I’m a radio host too, I have to play it to the crowd!”

You scanned the halls. “Where!” No one was here! A thud echoed across the empty hallway. In your confusion, you accidentally threw your briefcase across the hall. You stupidly remember the rule ‘no yelling in the hall!’ rule as black leather slid across the purple floor. Oops… You sigh as the briefcase spins to a stop.

Mic continued laughing. You grumbled, giving him your back as you approached the briefcase. To think, you considered hugging him earlier. The man walked behind you. “Don’t be so stiff!” You stared at the briefcase, almost rolling your eyes, he had no idea. You pondered how you were going to pick it up. If you did it the same way as you did in the bathroom, it would look suspicious. And dorky. 

His eyes were on you, you could feel it. If you waited too long then Mic would volunteer to get it for you. That would make him ask questions though. “Right,” you broke the silence before he could. You squatted with bated breath to pick up the briefcase. Your knee almost popped and you wanted to tear into the wound, but you weren’t going to tell Mic that. Not now, at least. 

Somewhere more private. AFTER you were sure he wouldn’t talk to Aizawa about anything. But first, you’d need to say you met him earlier and it didn’t go well. You can save Mic the drama, not going into specifics. Other than that, what’s one more thing to the pile? He’s in the dark about Akari, for now. He didn’t need to know Akari was the reason why you called him from your medic’s phone the other day, right this minute. You’ll have to go over everything in the meeting anyway, so why waste time?

“I would’ve gotten that,” said Mic.

“But you didn’t.” You shot back, harsher than you meant to. “It’s fine. I forgive you,” you stated with a pouty lip. You hoped the joke would mitigate the unintended force of your words. Mic probably didn’t notice, or he thought it was simply the set up to the punchline. “What have you been up to?”

Mic gave you an elaborate update on the past few weeks. His summer was busy since the Sports Festival. As usual, he was booked out when it came to the radio host and DJ gigs during the beginning of summer break. He told you all positive things. Dancing around All Might’s retirement as Number 1 Hero. You imagined he’d describe it as a certified downer if you asked. “...and our first years are about to go for their license!” Mic posed his hands in the rock and roll gesture.

“Wow, already? We had to wait until second year.”

“Because of all the villain attacks. It was decided it’d be better for the students to protect themselves without waiting for a hero’s permission.” There were no bells or whistles attached to the explanation. His hand gestures were minimal as well. While the idea of first years becoming skilled enough to get their license at a young age was impressive, there was no argument the circumstances weren’t ideal. First years shouldn’t have to deal with villains yet, but they have multiple times. Even in America, the youngest an applicant had to be was 17 to get their license. One of the perks of going to UA was being able to expedite the process and get your license when you were 16. You couldn’t imagine letting 15 year olds take the test in America. ”If you’ve watched the Sports Festival, then you know they’ll CRUSH it!” He punctuated the statement with his signature “YEAH!”, putting his hands in the air for extra dazzle. 

A beat passed and he broke his pose, asking if you watched the Sports Festival. The question wasn’t as pumped compared to his previous statement. Guilt struck you. Another month’s gone by and you still haven’t watched your friends on International Television. “It’s okay if you didn’t!” He responded, obviously concerned.

“No, no, I’m sorry. I should’ve watched it by now. Work’s been crazy for months. I had to cancel TV because it was wasting money.”

Mic shrugged, with a relaxed expression on his face. “Don’t worry about it! I’m sure I can give you the highlight reel while you're in town. But seriously, you had to cancel TV? You need to give it a rest!” 

“No, you have four jobs. I have no excuse–”

“Details!” Mic brushed off your response with his hand. “Y’know…” Mic’s hand went to his face to rub his chin. “You could help out with the first years with the exam. If you have time for it, it could be another paycheck and you can hang out with me,” he finished like you were a kid motivated by cookies.

You raised your eyebrow and shifted your weight to your back leg. “First you say “give it a rest” and now you want to give me more work?” He posed glamorously then switched to another with that somewhat implied you giving him a high-five, but it didn’t look quite right. “Not everyone can multitask like you, Mic.”

“I’m just saying you have the experience. You judged the licensing exams a crazy amount of times—and you mentored young heroes before.”

 “I didn’t do any judging this year, and there’s a difference between the American licensing exam and the one here. Also, those heroes already graduated from their program, and I only helped them because I had to. I’m not a good mentor, and, from what you said, I’m sure whoever’s teaching the first years are doing fine on their own.”

Mic paused with his mouth slightly open. His teeth clenched. “About that–”

A colorful blur caught the corner of your eye, but it was too late. A massive weight slammed into your body. The briefcase flew from your hand. What the hell! Your throat squeezed, choking down any sound you could’ve made. First there was shock. Then fire. Then pain. Every. Single. Type. 

Everything burned and your bones rattled you from the inside. You had to get this off! You wrapped your arms around, ready to pick up and throw it down the next floor. 

Your shoulder shrieked back at the embrace, your legs weren’t fairing with the shift either. In this split-second processing of your senses, it was apparent the weight was particularly squishy in certain places. It had purple hair as well, and she was absolutely thrilled to see you.

Your eyes widened. You lifted Nemuri, having stopped midway from slamming her to the ground. Her stomach was at your eye-level as she laughed with joy. That was good, you set her down., her heels clicking on the floor. You could’ve really hurt her. “--didn’t tell me you were coming to town–got you at the airport! Look at YOU!” The squishiness against your body left, replaced by an ecstatic Nemuri squeezing your face. Fingers pressed your cheeks enough to make your lips puff out. You tried to respond to Nemuri, but you might as well have your mouth full of cookies. The questions kept coming. After a bunch of non-answers, Nemuri took her hands off. Of course it was sore, but it was nothing like the rest of you. Unlike with Mic, you KNEW Nemuri was this touchy. This happened so many times a single memory became a cluster of events. 

She turned out of your hold, pointing at Mic aggressively. “Did you know our friend was coming here and NOT tell ME!” 

The scene was soon drowned out by your beating heart. Mic’s sunglasses slipped down his nose revealing a panicked expression toward Nemuri. He held out your briefcase to shield himself from the heat of the backlash. He was talking fast, explaining himself. You pressed your lips tightly in contrast. If they weren’t then you’d pant like you did earlier. 

Nausea arrived once again like a recurring nightmare. Placing your hand over the stitches to push through the thick material did nothing. As predicted, the pain couldn’t be snuffed out. Keeping your face neutral was an uphill battle between scalding heat and pure annoyance.

Screeching thoughts scolded you to ‘stop scratching!’

Then the surge came.

Mic and Midnight were focused on each other. One was mad, one was somewhat scared. It gave you something to work with. Your breath deepened as you flexed your palm against your uniform. Once again the pain separated and simmered down. The only agony on the surface was the itchiness of your wound. It wasn’t perfect. You just had to bear with it—the healing process. 

And watch out for any other attacks from your friends.

The hand on your abdomen balled into a fist. An invisible knife stabbed back inside the wound. Hopefully, the pressure could substitute the need to claw at your skin until your insides spilled into a puddle on the floor. 

Before you got comfortable, something to your left burned through you. Not from a wound, or your quirk. Someone watched you down the corridor. Turning your head, you lowered the invisible knife.

“Aizawa,” Mic called out to him, but didn’t get a response. Aizawa’s attention was on you. Did he see what you did? There was no way he saw the whole situation, you thought. Just when you shanked yourself with the imaginary shiv. Even if he brought it up, so what? It was weird, not illegal. “Look who’s here, isn’t this exciting!” Mic continued. The way Aizawa kept staring you down made it clear he was expecting you to flinch. Maybe you weren’t doing something illegal just now, but he can say you stormed off from him. Which is worse in this context. A lot worse. 

Aizawa tucked a blue file folder he was looking over into his arm with the others. “We saw each other earlier,” he responded coldly. He wasn’t excited to see you. Not today. Not ever. You stood your ground, waiting for him to tell them you walked out on him again, but it never came. He moved past, preferring not to be in the same room with you more than he had to.

“That’s it! C’mon don’t be like that! How often do you get to see an old buddy?”

“Just stay for a minute!”

He continued on his path, not responding to any of their pleas until he reached the door handle. “The meeting is starting soon. Don’t block the door.” He went inside, the door clicking shut behind him with an echo.

“Harsh…” Mic said.

Midnight turned to you. “I thought he’d be happier,” she said wistfully. You don’t blame her for hoping.

You shrugged, lifting your hands. ‘It is what it is,’ you thought, not quite remembering a good translation.

Midnight hummed. Mic moved on from the initial shock, opting to check out the detailing on your briefcase. No follow up questions from either of them. Throughout the years, there was never a time either of them mentioned Aizawa being their coworker. Not that you should care. They didn’t have to tell you anything about what he was up to. If he wanted you to know he could’ve told you himself. Whatever he did was none of your business, so why would they tell you?

Maybe they should’ve. It certainly would’ve avoided this mess. Although, the thought didn’t cross Mic’s mind. He probably heard the muffled yells of the medic for you to give his phone back and dived in with no questions. No hesitation. 

Nonetheless, he could’ve warned you about Aizawa in the email he sent you after. Did he think you wouldn't come back if you knew ahead of time—if you knew Aizawa would be here? Probably not, but damn, dude, give a warning.

Midnight broke through your thoughts, asking how long you were planning to stay. She comments on the tension without any out of pocket comparisons to the devil’s tango. You reassured her you should be gone in two weeks. If you were going to do your research here, no doubt it would be uncomfortable for her and Mic if that’s how you’re going to interact with their friend. “I hope we can do something while you’re here. It’ll be fun,” Midnight offered half-heartedly. Even if you sucked at keeping contact for the past year, she was still nice to you. Although, it’s doubtful you two would have time for each other while you were investigating and she does her jobs.

“Count me in!” Mic puts his free arm around your shoulders, he doesn’t add any pressure, but your arms squeezed into your ribs at the unintentional threat. Like one wrong move and your skin would seer through kevlar and leather. “We have to grab a bite!”

Your ears perk up, stomach coming to the forefront of your thoughts. You were drooling at the thought of finally being able to eat some bomb-ass food.

The passage of time went faster with the distracting fantasy. Not long after agreeing to Mic’s invitation of food, and having to hear a long list of places you couldn’t go to this very moment, the meeting was close to a start–made apparent by the next pro hero arriving to the meeting room. Your friends introduced you to another one of their coworkers, Snipe, who was dressed as a cowboy and actually packed heat.

The lovely thoughts and curiosity came to a halt upon entering the room. Aizawa glared at you for disrupting him from reading what he had in those folders. Without breaking eye contact you reached toward Mic so he could give you back your briefcase, so you could put it down somewhere. 

Aizawa went back to his folders, rubbing his temple like your presence alone vexes him. You chose to place it in the corner of the room by a potted plant. You were careful not to grunt as you squatted. Ignoring the pain, you swiped the pattern on the briefcase, for good luck even if you hardly believe in such a thing. 

Call it habit or instinct, but you glanced over your shoulder after. Of course, there was Aizawa. He eyeballed you, waiting for you to make a mistake. You clenched your jaw as you stood up again, adjusting your uniform before walking back toward Mic toward the center of the room. If Aizawa saw an opportunity, an opening to get rid of you, he’d pounce. 

[meikamikoto-official]

i posted about my AAC app earlier... but are there any other autistic synths on here? it can be so lonesome on here....

[jetlaggedben]

"Don't let this darkness fool you. All lights turned off can be turned on" — Noah Kahan

Hello, I did already introduce myself here, but I figure I should make a better intro post now that I'm more active here and actually talk to people.

"Adam, the world is a beautiful place and I'm glad we went around it together" — Ben Doyle

My name is Ben, but you I also go by Quinn, and I love nicknames! I'm 17, but I turn 18 in April. My pronouns are it/its.

"I'm so full of love I could barely eat" — Hozier

I am on the aromantic and asexual spectrums. I am also bisexual and polyamorous! However I am painfully lonely and have been for far too long.

"And now I lay myself down and hope I wake up young again" — Noah Kahan

I'm autistic and I have ADHD, I also have anxiety, plus many other mental health issues. I am physically disabled too. I may post about this, or reblog posts that I find relatable. Please be kind.

"As your token straight friend, its my duty to remind you that sometimes people are straight" — Tao (Heartstopper, Season One)

DNI homophobes/transphobes/etc, ableists, racists, anti neopronouns, anti therians, anti age regression, anti self diagnosis, anyone under 15

"Babe, there's something lonesome about you, something so wholesome about you" — Hozier

I like Jet Lag: The Game a lot! My favorite artist is Noah Kahan, but Hozier is a close second, and I also listen to a lot of other artists. I love Formula One and Heartstopper. I'm always up to talk about any of these things! Feel free to DM me!

"It’s not enough to know what the future ​is. You have to know what it means" — Anathema Device/Agnes Nutter (Good Omens, Season One)

I may update this post in the future if any of this information changes or if I want to add anything, but that's it for now. Thank you to those of you who stuck around to read this long intro post. I hope you all have an amazing day!

[bandydear]

at the stage of my life where im tired and autistic and lonesome and I just wanna be lassoed instead of playing the dating game

[bluejaysandblackbats]

Titans Academy

Fandom: DC Comics, Titans, Arrowfam

Summary: Grant struggles to accept his new reality when Roy takes him in and enrolls him in Titans Academy. He must adjust to life at a boarding school and life with his new foster family (Roy and Lian). Can he learn to trust the people who claim to care about him? Or will he shut himself off from love altogether?

Chapters: 6/?

Characters: Grant Emerson, Roy Harper, Bart Allen, Toni Monetti, Cody Driscoll, Lian Harper, Jade Nguyen, Audrey Spears, Tommy Blake Jr.

Additional Tags: Father-Son Relationship, Boarding School AU, No Powers AU, Found Family, Second Chances, Roy Harper is a Legal Guardian, Roy Harper is a Father, POV First Person, Grant Emerson POV, Autistic Bart Allen

Chapter Six: Greenthread Tea

I had nightmares that night. Some of them were so bad I thought I'd be sick, so I went to the bathroom and splashed my face. Roy sat in the living room with Tommy, giving him his bottle. "You okay, Grant?" Roy questioned without turning around. It made my blood run cold.

"Uh-huh... Actually, do you have something for my stomach?" I asked. I leaned against the wall, and Roy turned to me.

"Do you feel sick?" Roy asked.

"Uhh... A little, yeah," I answered. Roy gestured with his head for me to come closer, and I approached the couch. He reached up and felt my forehead with the back of his hand.

"Yeah... Can you sit until I'm done with Tommy, and I'll get you something for your stomach?" Roy asked. I nodded and sat in the patchwork armchair. I slumped in the chair and stared at Roy as he fed Tommy.

Once Roy finished feeding and burping Tommy, he put the baby down in the playpen. He went to his room and grabbed a bottle of antacid pills. He dropped one in a glass of water and gave it to me. I tried to hold it down, but my stomach seemed to reject it immediately. To be honest, I puked. It was gross and embarrassing, and even worse, Roy was nice about it.

"I'll go get the baking soda. Sit still," Roy whispered. He quickly handed me paper towels to blot my sweatshirt dry and neatly drizzled baking soda on the stain to dry it up. "Still queasy?"

"Nuh-uh... Roy, I'm sorry. That was—."

"I've done way worse, and at least you didn't spit up on the chair... Sorry, is that—? You're a little old for that phrase, huh?" Roy asked. He asked me to take off my sweatshirt and left me alone for a second while he grabbed a trash bag. I carefully removed my sweatshirt and held it in a ball on my lap. Roy took my shirt and tossed it. "Want the couch, or do you wanna go back to bed?"

"Can I sleep on the couch?" I asked. The throbbing in my head finally subsided, and Roy nodded.

"Go shower, and I'll set up the couch for you," Roy whispered. I nodded and went to my room to get my pajamas. The hot water felt good in my hair and on my scalp. Finally, after a few minutes, I returned to the living room and climbed underneath the heavy blankets on the couch. Roy took Tommy and put him to bed in one of the other rooms, and I was all by myself. I was surprised when I started feeling lonesome. It might've been my fever talking, but I got up and asked if Roy would sit with me for a while.

"You okay?" Roy asked.

I nodded. "I had a nightmare before I woke up... I don't wanna be alone, I guess. It's the first time I've ever been sick without my m—. Without them," I explained. Roy nodded.

Roy lay on the other couch. "Okay... Are you sure you're okay?" Roy asked.

I pretended like I couldn't hear him. I didn't know why, but I felt homesick. I wished my mom was there. Eventually, I fell asleep. I woke up shivering and drenched in sweat, and Roy was still there. His presence was different than most adults. I couldn't put my finger on it, but he wasn't like any adult I'd ever met. He took a cool towel and patted the sweat from my face and neck. "I'm still here," Roy reassured. I made a soft noise and closed my eyes. I don't think he left my side the whole night. Every time I woke up, he was sitting right there.

After a while, I sat up, watching the sun come up from the window as he slept. I got a blanket from the hall closet and draped it over him. He stirred. "Thanks," Roy mumbled, "How're you feeling?"

"A little better... Um... Did I say anything last night?" I asked.

"Not really... After two o'clock, it all sounded like background noise to me," Roy replied.

I laid back on the couch, and Roy groaned as he sat up. "You don't have to get up," I whispered.

"Oh, trust me," Roy chuckled, "I do."

Lian came down the hall, and she climbed into Roy's lap. "Were you sleeping, Daddy?" Lian asked. Roy nodded and kissed her forehead. She turned to me and waved. "Good morning."

"Good morning, Lian... Don't get too close. I'm sick," I warned her. Lian nodded and frowned.

"Hope you feel better," Lian whispered. Roy got up, still holding Lian on his hip.

"We'll be right back. I've gotta do daddy duty," Roy replied, "Do you think you can eat anything?" He asked gently, and I started feeling painfully uncomfortable. "Grant?"

"I'm alright... I think I'll go back to bed," I replied. Roy nodded.

"If you need anything, don't be afraid to call," Roy stated.

I got up and went to my room. I couldn't sleep anymore, but my head ached, and my stomach kept turning. I wished I could sleep, but I figured he'd come in and check on me. I was surprised when he knocked and brought me a cup of tea and a bowl of soup. He had Lian with him, and I smiled and waved at her. "Hope I didn't wake you up... Lian insisted on telling you a story," Roy replied, "She thinks it'll make you feel better. Is that alright with you?"

I nodded and smiled, sitting up as she sat cross-legged on the opposite side of the room. Lian started the story, and Roy filled in the parts she couldn't remember. They distracted me from how sick I was, and eventually, I finished my tea and lay down. I still couldn't eat, but the tea was soothing enough to make me sleepy again. I felt like a real kid, waiting patiently for the ending. I tried to stay awake for the end, but I couldn't keep my eyes open. Their words followed me into my dreams until they faded too. They cared about me. They really cared.

I woke up a few hours later to a fresh cup of tea and the soft sound of Tommy crying. My door was cracked, and Roy walked past, peeking through the crack. "I'll be back in two seconds. Lunch rush," Roy joked.

I took another few sips of tea and turned toward the door to see Lian standing outside. "Lian," I whispered, "Thanks, Kid. Your story helped me sleep better."

Lian stood on her tiptoes and smiled. "I'll tell you another story later," Lian replied.

"I'm looking forward to it," I replied. Lian waved goodbye, and I waved back. I hated how lonesome I felt afterward, but Roy came to check on me a few minutes later.

He opened the door and waved at me. "Thanks for humoring us," Roy whispered.

"Huh?" I asked.

"I could tell you were listening to every word she said earlier," Roy explained.

"It was interesting. Can you tell Lian how much I liked the story?" I whispered. Roy grinned and nodded.

Roy sat with me and kept me company until I could eat. I only had a few bites of dinner, but Roy's cooking was borderline gourmet. Even when sick, I could still taste his food. I think he took pride in it. Roy liked being needed. No... He enjoyed helping people. I think if more adults were like Roy, maybe the world would be a better place.

[pluttskutt]

The One With the Child

Stranger Things | Steddie | M | 1.2 K Autistic Steve Harrington // Trans Steve Harrington // Asexual Steve Harrington // Gay Eddie Munson // Alternate Universe - Modern Setting // Alternate Universe - No Powers // eddie Munson is a dad

It was a cement labyrinth of confusion and horror to walk through the grey glass gate and into the square that made up the apartment complex. In the midst of it, a playground lacking both grass and children had been constructed. A lonesome firetruck sat forgotten in the corner of a sandbox that looked as untouched as the journal Steve had bought at the behest of nagging guidance from people that it helped. Helped what? Certainly not to save money. "Through here." Eddie guided him through the desolate square through another glass door, also locked and accessed with the brick on his keychain. Steve frowned. There had to be a way in that was closer to wherever Eddie's apartment was in the maze, but perhaps he hadn't found it and played it off like there was only one way in. "How long have you lived here?" "Uhm, five years, maybe?" He put a finger on Steve's shoulder and poked him through the corridor shaped like an 'L' since the man insisted on walking like he was in a speed-run of life and always got ahead of him.

»keep reading on ao3«

[bassboosted-moon-chao]

my friends and I had some concepts for a very young version of Professor Sycamore, of which I drew

he's around 4 years old, and acts incredibly strange; he's obsessed with fairies, he talks to himself, he wanders around Couriway Town by himself aimlessly and he looks straight through people. Turns out he's just undiagnosed autistic and hasn't developed much in the way of social skills yet, but he's unnerving to talk to at best and scary at worst. Ended up growing into one of the most charming and pleasant you'll ever meet, but back then? Very unusual.

Imagine a small four year old sort of ambling around, whispering to himself in a singsong voice about fairies and fairytales. A tiny boy who, on the surface, seems entirely to be in a different world, playing vivid imaginary games by his lonesome and talking about magic like it's real. (which it is, but funnily enough he hasn't discovered it yet!)

[drchucktingle]

Dr. Tingle, what's the lonesome train?

the recognition that we will all one day leave this timeline and board the lonesome train to ride away into the night. this is the existential weight that trots along with all sentient buckaroos, a realization that time will not stop for us. it can be a powerful knowledge when you harness this thought to say 'i will make the most of every moment because one day i will get no more moments' but it can also be overwhelming. finding a balance in this way is a constant journey for chuck, but late at night when you are staring at the dang ceiling and the call of the lonesome train rings out it can be hard for any buckaroo to keep this balance. but that is the journey we are on. eventually we can find comfort in fact that we ALL have to ride the lonesome train one day, which actually makes it not so lonesome after all since it is the one universal experience

i think most buckaroos do not realize the lonesome train is also a REAL TRAIN that would drive past at night when chuck was a young buckaroo. it would call out and i would get a feeling about all the lives existing on this train and all their stories and just how overwhelming that was (to be honest i think having such emotional significance in such an abstract way to a specific sound might be one of chucks autistic trots, not sure)

i would think 'i am SO thankful to be here existing i never want this to end'. it made me very ambitious with my time and aware of times passage from a very young age, so now i get a LOT done. but accomplishing a lot is a double edged trot. these thoughts can hurt you if you heed their call for too long so i am constantly looking for balance