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cybernaght · 10 months

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The fandom echo chamber: fanon, microanalysis and conspiracy brain

As someone who has been in fandom spaces, on and off, for 20 years, I find some fascinating trends popping up in the last decade that I thought to be fandom-specific but clearly aren’t. So, I would like to do a little examination of where those things come from, how they are engaged with, and what it says about the way we consume media. This is a think piece, of sorts, with my brain being the main source. As such, we will spend some time down the memory lane of a fandom-focused millennial.

This is largely brought about by Good Omens. But it’s also not really about Good Omens at all.

Part one. Fanon.

The way we see characters in any story is always skewed by our very selves. This is a neutral statement, and it does not have a value judgement. It’s simply unavoidable. We recognise aspects of them, love aspects of them, and choose aspects of them to highlight based entirely on our own vision of the universe.

Recognition comes into this. There is a reason so many protagonists of romance novels have a “blank slate” problem. Even when they do not, we love characters who are like us or versions of us that we would like to be. And when we say “we”, I also mean, “me”.

(I remember very clearly this realisation hit me after a whole season of Doctor Who with writing which I hated utterly when I questioned why I still clung so incredibly hard to Clara Oswald as my favourite companion. Then I looked at myself in the mirror. Oh. Well. That would do it, wouldn’t it?)

Then, there is projection, and, again, this is a neutral statement. Projection exists, and it is completely normal and, dare I say it, valid way of engaging with — well, anything. Is the character queer? Trans? Neurodivergent? Are they in love? Do they like chocolate? Are they a cat person? Well, yes, if this is what the text says, but if the text does not say anything… You tell me. Please, do tell me. Because, in that moment of projection, they are yours.

And then, there is fandom osmosis, and that is the most fascinating one of them all, the one that is not very easy to note while you are inside the echo chamber. It’s the way we collectively, consciously or not, make decisions on who or what the characters are, what their relationships are, and what happens to them.

(Back when I was writing egregiously long Guardian recaps on this blog I actually asked if Shen Wei’s power being learning actually was stated anywhere in the canon of the show. Because I had no idea. I have read and reread dozen of fanfics where that is the case, and at some point through enough repetition, it became reality.)

We are all kind of making our own reality here, aren’t we?

Back when things were happening in a much less centralised manner - in closed livejournal groups, and forums of all shapes and sizes - I don’t remember there being quite as much universally agreed upon fanon. Frankly, I don’t remember much of universally agreed upon anything. But now, everything is in one place: we have this, and we have AO3, and it’s wonderful, it really is so much easier to navigate, but it’s also one gigantic reality-shifting echo chamber, with blogs, reblogs, trends, and rituals.

Accessibility plays its part, too. If you were, say, in Life on Mars (UK) fandom between seasons, and you wanted to post your speculation fic, you had to have had an account, and then find and gain access to one of the bigger groups (lifein1973 was my poison, but ymmv), and then, if you feel brave you may post it, but also, you may want to do so from your alt account if you wanted to keep yours separate, and then you would have to go through the whole process again. And I’m not saying that fan creations then were somehow inherently better for it than fan creations now (although Life on Mars Hiatus Era is perhaps a bad example - because some of the Speculation Fic there was breathtaking), but there is something to say about the ease of access that made the fandoms go through a big bang of sorts.

(I mean, come on, I can just come here and post this - and I am certain people will read it, and this blog is a pandemic cope baby about Chinese television for goodness sake.)

The canon transformations that happen in the fandom echo chamber truly are fascinating to witness as someone who is more or less a fandom butterfly. I get into something, float around for a bit, then get into something else and move on. I might come back eventually when the need arises, but I don’t sustain a hiatus mind-state. This means that when I float away and return, I find some very intriguing stuff.

Let’s actually look at Good Omens here. Season two aired, and I found it spectacular in its cosy and anguished way; deliberately and intelligently fanfic-y in its plot building; simple but subversive, and so very tender. (I will have to circle back to this eventually, because, truly, I love how deliberately it takes the tropes and shatters them - it’s glorious). And, to me - a person who read the book, watched the first season, hung around AO3 for a few weeks and moved on - absolutely on-point in terms of characterisation.

So imagine my surprise when the fandom disagreed so vehemently that there are actual multi-tiered theories on how characters were not in possession of their senses. Nothing there, in my mind, ever contradicted any of the stated text, as it stood. This remained a strange little mystery until I did what I always do when I flutter close to an ongoing fandom.

I loaded AO3 and sorted the existing fic by popularity. And there it was, all there: the actual earth-shattering mutual devotion of the angel and the demon; willingness to Fall; openness and long heart-aching confession speeches. There was all of the fanon surrounding Aziraphale and Crowley, which, to me, read as out of character, and to one for whom they became the reality over the last four years, read as truth.

Again, only neutral statements here. This is not a bad thing, and neither this is a good thing, this is just something that happens, after a while, especially when there are years for the fandom-born ideas to bounce around and stew. I can’t help but think that so much of what we see as real in spaces such as this one is a chimaera of the actual source and all the collective fan additions which had time and space to grow, change, develop, and inspire, reverberating over and over again, until the echoes fill the entirety of the space.

Eventually, this chimaera becomes a reality.

Part two. Microanalysis

Here are my two suppositions on the matter:

1. Some writers really love breadcrumb storytelling.

Russel T Davies, for instance, on his run of Doctor Who (and, if you are reading it much later - I do mean the original one), loved that technique for his seasonal arcs. What is a Bad Wolf? Who is Harold Saxon? Well, you can watch very very carefully, make a theory, and see it proven right or wrong by the end of the season.

Naturally, mystery box writers are all about breadcrumb storytelling: your Losts and your Westworlds are all about giving you snippets to get your brain firing, almost challenging you to figure things out just ahead of the reveal.

2. We, as humans, love breadcrumbs.

And why wouldn’t we? Breadcrumbs are delicious. They are, however, a seasoning, or a coating. They are not the meal.

Too much metaphor?

Let’s unpack it and start from the beginning.

Pattern recognition colours every aspect of our lives, and it colours the way we view art to a great extent. I think we truly underestimate how much it’s influenced by our lived experiences.

If you are, broadly speaking, living somewhere in Western/North-Western Europe in the 14th century, and you see a painting in which there is a very very large figure surrounded by some smaller figures and holding really tiny figures, you may know absolutely nothing about who those figures are, but you know that the big figure is the Important One, and the small ones are Less Important Ones, and the tiny ones are In Their Care. You know where your reverence would lie, looking at this picture. And, I imagine, as someone living in the 14th century, you may be inspired to a sense of awe looking at this composition, because in the world you live in, this is how art works.

If you, on the other hand, watch a piece of recorded media and see the eyes of two characters meet as the violins swell, you know what you are being told at that moment. You don’t have to have a film degree to feel a sort of way when you see a green-tinged pallet used, when cross-cuts use juxtaposing images, or notice where your focus is pulled in any given shot. This stuff - this recognition of patterns - has been trained into us by the simple fact that we live in this time, on this planet, and we have been doing so long enough to have engaged recorded media for a period of time.

As humans, we notice things. Our brains flare up when they see something they recognise, and then we seek to find other similar details and form a bigger picture. This often happens unconsciously, but sometimes it does not. Sometimes we do it on purpose: finding breadcrumbs in stories is a little bit like solving a mystery. It allows us to stretch that brain muscle that puts two and two together. It makes us feel clever.

So yes, we love breadcrumbs, and, frankly, quite a lot of storytelling takes advantage of this. It’s very useful for foreshadowing, creating thematic coherence, or introducing narrative parallels and complexity. It’s useful for nudging the viewer into one or the other emotional direction, or to cue them into what will happen in the next moment, or what exactly is the one important detail they should pay attention to.

Because this is something media does intentionally, and something we pick up both consciously and not, it is very hard to know when to stop. We don't really ever know when all of the breadcrumbs have been collected. It becomes very easy to get carried away. There is a very specific kind of pleasure in digging into content frame by frame, soundbite by soundbite, chasing that pleasure of finding.

But it is almost never breadcrumbs all the way down. They are techniques to help us focus on the main event: the story. I truly believe those who make media want it to reach the widest possible audience, and that includes all of us who like to watch every single thing ever created with our Media Analysis Goggles on and those who are just here to enjoy the twists and turns of the story at the pace offered to them. And I think, sometimes in our chase to collect and understand every little clue we forget that media is not made to just cater for us.

One can call it missing a forest for the trees. But I would hate to mix my metaphors, so let’s call it missing a schnitzel for the breadcrumbs.

Part three. The Conspiracy Brain.

If you are there with me, in the midst of the excited frenzy, chasing after all those delicious breadcrumbs, then patterns can grow, merge together, and become all-encompassing theories. Let’s call them conspiracy theories, even though this is not what they truly are.

So, why do we believe in conspiracy theories?

One, Because We Have Been Lied To.

All conspiracies start with distrust.

If you are in fandom spaces - especially if you are in fandom spaces which revolve around a queer fictional couple - especially-especially if you have been in such spaces for a period of time, you have most certainly been lied to at one point or another.

We don’t even have to talk about Sherlock - and let’s not do that - but do you remember Merlin? Because I remember Merlin. Specifically, I remember the publicity surrounding the first season, with its weaponised usage of “bromance” and assertions that this whole thing is a love story of sorts, and then the daunting realisation that this was all a stunt, deliberately orchestrated to gather viewership.

And, because we were lied to in such a deliberate manner for such an extensive period of time, I genuinely believe that it forever altered our pattern recognition habits, because what was this if not encouragement to read into things? Now we are trained to read between the lines or see little cries for help where they might not be. Because we were told, over and over again, that we should.

(Yes, I think we are all existing in these spaces coloured by the trauma of queer-bating. I am, however, looking forward to a world where I can unlearn all of that.)

Two, Cognitive Dissonance.

The chain reaction works a bit like this: the world is wrong - it can’t possibly be wrong by coincidence - this must be on purpose - someone is responsible for it.

Being Lied To is a preamble, but cognitive dissonance is where it all originates. In so many cross-fandom theories I have noticed a four-step process:

A) this is not good

B) this author could not have made a mistake

C) this must be done on purpose

D) here is why

(Funny thing is, I have been on the receiving end of the small conspiracy spiral, and it is a very interesting experience. Not relevant to this conversation is the fact that a lot of my job revolves around storytelling. What is relevant is that my hobbies also revolve around storytelling. And one of them is DnD. Now, imagine my genuine shock when one of the players I am currently writing a campaign for noticed a small detail that did not make a logical sense within the complexity of the world, and latched on to it as something clearly indicating some kind of a secret subplot. Their thinking process also went a bit like this: this detail is not a good piece of writing — this DM knows how to tell stories well — this is obviously there on purpose. It was not there on purpose. I created a clumsy shorthand. I erred, in that pesky manner humans tend to. And, seeing this entire thought process recited to me directly in the moment, I felt somewhere between flattered and mortified.)

This whole line of thinking, I think, exists on a knife’s edge between veneration and brutal criticism, relentlessly dissecting everything “wrong”, with a reverent “but this is deliberate” attached to it like a vice, because it is preferable to a simple conclusion that the author let you down, in one way or another.

Three, Intentionality

I believe that there is no right or wrong way of engaging with stories, regardless of their medium, and assuming no one gets hurt in the process. While in a strictly academic way, there is a “correct” way of reading (and reading into) media, we here are largely not academics but consumers; consumption is subjective.

However, this all changes when intentionality is ascribed.

The one I find particularly fascinating is the intentionality of “making it bad on purpose” because, as open-minded as I intend to always be, this just does not happen.

It certainly does not happen in long-form media. Even in the bread-crumb mystery box-type long-form media.

When television programs underdeliver, they also underperform, and then they get cancelled.

If all the elements of Westworld Season 4 that did not sit together in a completely satisfactory way were written deliberately as some sort of deconstruction for the final season to explore, then it failed because that final season will now never come.

(There will likely never be a Secret Fourth Episode.)

And look, I am not here to refute your theories. Creativity is fun, and theorising is fantastic.

But, perhaps, when the line of thought ventures into the “bad on purpose” territory, it could be recognised for what it is: disappointment and optimism, attempting to coexist in a single space. And I relate to that, I do, and I am sorry that there is even a need for this line of thinking. It’s always so incredibly disappointing that a creator you believed to be devoid of flaws makes something that does not hit in the way you hoped it would. It’s pretty heartbreaking.

Unfortunately, people make mistakes. We are all fallible that way.

Four, Wildfire.

Then, when the crumbs are found, a theory is crafted, and intentionality is ascribed, all that needs to happen is for it to catch on. And hey, what better place for it than this massive hollow funnel that we exist in, where thoughts, ideas and interpretations reverberate so much they become inextricable from the source material in collective consciousness.

Conspiracy theories create alternate realities, very much like we all do here.

So where are we now?

I am not here to tell you what is right and what is wrong; what is true, and what is not. We are all entitled to engage with anything we wish, in whichever way we wish to do it. This is not it, at all.

All I am saying is… listen.

Do you hear that echo?

I do.

#fandom thoughts #fanon #good omens #good omens 2 #bbc sherlock #merlin bbc #think piece #it's been years and I still have no idea how to tag #conspiracy theories #fandom content #all fandoms

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andy-888 · 6 months

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You know, seeing the Marvel situation in which they cut a quote where they confirmed Carol and Valkyrie used to date, made me think that the day where studios and big franchises realize, just for their own greedy interests, that the ppl that create most engagement are queer folk, they'll have to put more care in canonically queer characters and in queer stories.

Queer folks are the ones who: make fanart, make edits, write fanfiction, make blogs about it, make fandoms out of it, or just simply tweet or engage with official accounts. They are the ones who give you free publicity and you mistreat that public so much. You know how many shows/movies I decided to watch, how many videogames I decided to play, just bc I saw 1 cute gay fanart? Edit? And then I loved the product as a whole? A LOT.

Why do they think good omens s2 had such a good engagement? And it was so fun for the public? I need these franchises to wake tf up. This also comes bc these days I see a lot of transphobia in the Star Trek fandom bc of a trans trill. A TRILL. I'm not trans, but that scene in DS9 where Jadzia meets a long last klingon friend who knew her as Curzon and then called her Jadzia with the same love made me so happy, bc I have trans friends and i saw how hard it is. Star Trek has ALWAYS been woke and having to see those comments made my blood boil.

Stop making content for cis straight men, make content for the girls and queer ppl bc they are the ones who carry the weight of lifting your bland ass product.

Edit: I want to also add neurodivergent ppl to the sack. God if hyperfixations don't move mountains. I hope you don't get more autism powers doctors as representation

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demilypyro · 10 months

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There's a thought/theory/whatever I've long had about a specific pair of episodes from Star Trek: Deep Space Nine ever since I was a teen, and I'm putting this post out there to see if anybody else had the same thought.

I think Julian Bashir from Deep Space Nine, especially his plotline about having been genetically altered at a young age, is a commentary on neurodivergency.

Bashir is characterized as being highly intelligent, albeit lacking in social insight. He excels in academic matters but frequently finds himself floundering around women, being led by the nose by more charismatic people, and not picking up what other people are putting down. This alone would make him the average stereotypical TV depiction of an autistic person, but what I want to focus on is the episode that provides a canonical reason for these traits: the season 5 episode Doctor Bashir, I Presume.

In this episode it's revealed, or retconned really, that Bashir owes his intelligence to genetic tempering. Bashir originally suffered from a learning disability. He was not as intelligent as other children his age, falling far behind his peers, and his parents resorted to illegally altering his genes to "cure" that disability. As a result he instead became exceedingly intelligent. In essence, it took away a symptom that made his life more difficult, and traded it for one that made him more functional.

That episode on its own isn't a super strong nod towards autism. Though it does establish that Bashir is at least neurodivergent, it's more a discussion on eugenics and the theoretical ethics of removing disabilities through genetics. What I really want to focus on is the sort-of-sequel to this episode, and the only other episode that really focuses on these themes: the season 6 episode "Statistical Probabilities." In this episode, Bashir sets out to help other people who underwent genetic alteration, but for whom the treatments didn't go as well. The people he meets all display symptoms of one neurodivergency or another. One of them is very hyperactive and lacks empathy, another is very childlike despite being an old man, and another is entirely unresponsive.

For me, as someone who grew up in special education, I couldn't help but recognize some of the people I knew. To me, the metaphor was clear: "genetic alteration" was really just sci-fi talk for neurodivergency. Julian was the savant, the high-functioning autistic person who successfully integrated into society, because his neurodivergency gave him intelligence and insight that made him useful. And the others weren't as lucky, struggling to lead normal lives because their symptoms impeded their ability to function by themselves.

Bashir spends the episode trying to prove that the other genetically altered people have something to offer society, that there is a place for them. It felt very on the nose to me. But no one I've seen talk about this pair of episodes ever seemed to have taken from them what I took from them. I can't find anyone else online who interpreted the episodes the same way. Maybe my perspective is very particular, as someone who spent so much time in special education growing up, and who has personally struggled with finding a place where I can offer something to others. But idk. Am I seeing allegories that aren't there? What do yall think?

#star trek #deep space nine #ds9

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raina-at · 5 months

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One of the most interesting things about the 20 Questions survey lately was that it revealed the astonishing amount of people who are here through the X-Files to Sherlock pipeline. And it makes total sense, of course, because you have the neurodivergent genius mess and their much shorter, much saner doctor partner. Their relationship is incredibly intense but remains platonic for a very long time, and it's almost impossible to explain to outsiders because the genius one is completely insane and the supposedly sane one is so incredibly repressed you'd need a fucking crowbar to get a straight answer out of them. But they almost need to fuck at some point because they're such insanely intense soul mates that anyone who gets between them gets crushed by the narrative. They're so dysfunctionally co-dependent that they'd literally die without each other, but at the same time they're both such messes that you need, like, 60k of fic to get them to actually express, like, one emotion.

And you can see what the Sherlock fandom has learned from the X-Files fandom, because Trapped Together, Fake Married For A Case, Huddling For Warmth are actual canon tropes in The X Files.

(I remember in one of our fic chats back in the day someone once said that the Sherlock fandom invented the 'fake relationship but it's For A Case' trope, and a lot of us were like, um... that's an actual canon X-Files episode. So many tropes are like... um, that's an ACTUAL CANON EPISODE of the X-Files. Remember when they were trapped in the Arctic? Or stranded in the woods? Or when they were trapped on that rock in Quagmire? Or when they had shared hallucinations? Or when Mulder broke through the mind control because he couldn't bear to shoot Scully? Or when they spent Christmas in a haunted house? Or, you know, THE FUCKING BEE?!?!?)

The X-Files, everybody. The mother of modern internet fandom.

#the x files #sherlock #the overlap is strong in this one

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elsweetheart · 1 year

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maybe tomorrow you’ll know

🎀 summary: when your girlfriend ellie can’t make it to patrol, you take her slot and go with joel. your father figure comforts you when you get overstimulated.

🎀 an: trying out the diary entry kind of cover picture ?? idk if it looks cute or not but idk what else to put so there . another ldr song title lol … this fic is kinda odd ,, kind of a weird ending and idk if i like it. feels kind of ooc. oh well !! ppl requested it. this is a prequel to this fic and a late sequel to this one !!

🎀 warnings: implied acknowledgment of neurodivergence from joel ?? joel is a little nicer / more healed than he is canonically,, reader gets overstimulated and upset ,, mentions of daddy issues lol ,, mentions of grief ,, i think that’s it ??

It wasn’t unlikely that common colds and flu’s swept Jackson this time of year. It was the pollen from the trees, or maybe the sap, or something like that. Ellie had explained it you a while back but you were more focused on her freckles than the scientific explanation of illness, so the information was kind of buzzing around loosely at the back of your brain.

Ellie, who’s immune system seemed to be made of gold in other departments was hit by the cold. She had the runt of it, red nose, sore throat, awful mood. The one upside was you swanning around looking after her, but that one upside was accompanied by several downsides— as per mentioned, really shitty mood, and the God awful medicine that Maria had cranked out to those hit by the illness.

That left very few people to go on patrol, and you being the helpful angel that you were signed up without second thoughts. You, who had very little patrol experience — your talents thriving more in the gardening area or barn. The shell shock Ellie experienced from hearing you’d signed up didn’t last long thankfully, when you’d rushed to tell her that Joel told you that he’d accompany you. She relaxed a little, if she was going to feel that you were safe in anyone’s hands, it would be Joel’s.

She was honestly feeling much better, the headaches and most of the sniffles had gone away by the time the day of your patrol rolled around, but the antibiotic she was still unfortunately taking made her drowsy for the better part of the day — so for safety reasons, she wasn’t able to up and snatch your patrol slot like she’d so cunningly planned.

She’d watched you get ready, watched you pull on your jeans and a tight white t—shirt. She could tell you were trying to look ‘practical’, outfit removed of any frills and decoration like it usually would garner to seem more Ellie-esque, apparently manifesting her courage and skill to support you on the patrol. It was sweet, but she worried for you, and kept having to remind herself that Joel would be there, Joel would be there, Joel would be there. Nothing was going to get you. She didn’t let this show of course, flashing you a winning smile before you left, helping you tighten your backpack straps and kissing the nervous line between your eyebrows. “Go get ‘em, patrol girl.” She was as cool as ever.

You’d spotted Joel waiting by the gate, and your own nerves settled into a quiet hum in your chest at the sight of him. He looked unafraid, as usual — but when did he ever look afraid? His worn brown jacket was a familiar sight, and you smiled— giving him a sweet wave when he noticed you emerging.

“What, Ellie not here to send you off?” He smiled, in his gruff Joel way as soon as you were in hearing distance.

“She’s on strict doctors orders to rest and stay in bed.” You recite proudly, the two of you sharing a chuckle of disbelief at the fact that someone had managed to tell Ellie what to do. Who else would it be?

“Alright Kiddo, up you get.” He aided you onto his horse, wedging himself in the front saddle. You weren’t offended that he hadn’t trusted you with your own horse today, in fact you felt safer like this.

Joel liked spending one on one time with you, like the time you introduced him to skincare. He found you to be rather seraphic in nature — a glow of purity and light heartedness in an otherwise dark world. He was the most happy to see that you and Ellie were dating, as he found your ways to rub off on her. He’d notice the way she would actually think twice or hesitate before snapping at someone, always making sure to check for you first to gauge your emotions. Ellie was gentler than before, her jagged edges buffing themselves down as to not catch you on its spikes. In fact, Joel had notice everyone that had the grace of being around you had softened up slightly and not in a bad way, you were your own little patch of sunshine. The sugar in the tea that was Jackson.

Which is why he was happy to let you wear yourself out with words, burbling about some funny incident that occurred earlier on in the week with Jesse — Joel chuckling along due to the expressive nature in which you told the tale, glancing at the shadow in the snow of your arms waving about wildly in gesture as you did so despite the older man not facing you.

“I don’t know how you got this much energy so early in the mornin’.” He chuckled with an amused shake of his head. You sat with this for a moment, staring out at a gaggle of birds flapping about causing ruckus in the tree top. You wondered if the birds knew the world has ended, and exhaled through your nose at the thought — leaning forward to rest your cheek to Joel’s back. You suppose you were a little tired, not having much sleep from the night before.

“Changed your tune.” He hummed, a little more quietly. The sun had only just come up, and you felt the adrenaline of leaving past the gates beginning to seep out, your eyes feeling puffy and dry from perhaps lack of sleep.

“You reminded me I am a little sleepy.” You yawned and he chuckled, steering the horse round a bend making your fingers dig into his jacket just a little more. You stayed this way for a while, the two of you plodding along on the horse as Joel took mental note of routes and watched for foot prints and such. Your peaceful reverie was broken by the terrifying groan that could only belong to clickers. Your head snapped up, heart clenching in that dreaded way but Joel didn’t seem to react in the slightest. His back continued to slowly expand and deflate with his slow breaths as the two of you located the small gaggle with your eyes. He drew his weapon, a knife with a thick handle and slid off the horse.

You felt slightly vulnerable as he stepped away, weary of his feet crunching in the snow as he stalked towards the screeching clickers ambling around amongst themselves. Perhaps it really had been a long time since you’d been past the gates, as your gut tensed up as you watched Joel brutally take down the small group. You didn’t quite notice that you were clutching at your jacket, jaw tense and eyes wide until he started trudging back towards you slightly lost of breath. His eyes caught yours and gave you a curt nod to signify he was okay, watching you for a moment longer as you uncurled your hands letting your jacket free from its clammy grip.

“Been a while since you been out here, huh.” He slung himself back onto the horse with a quiet grunt of exertion.

“Yeah. I’m super out of practise, it’s bad.” You shook your head fearfully, eyes boring into the mangled figures staining the snow red as you passed them, flinching when one of their legs twitched ever so slightly.

“You’re alright. S’the people who aren’t infected you gotta watch out for.” He remarked. You stayed silent, pensive at this comment that slightly set you on edge and he added “Don’t get many o’them round here though. We’d know about it.” to soothe your anxiety.

Perhaps you’d been spoiled a little with your working hours at Jackson, because being on patrol was more demanding and time consuming than you’d have thought. Some parts were nice, like chatting with Joel when you got to sit on the horse— but the rest of it was a lot more physically challenging than you were used to. Being hoisted up onto walls, climbing over fences, Joel was giving you quite the workout in comparison to your usual quiet and peaceful days. Your backpack had grown heavier from being filled with useful items you had found to bring back home — and it was beginning to make your shoulders ache, weighing you down uncomfortably.

The sky was aglow with a breathtaking abendrot, the day been and gone having been travelling around with Joel all day. You’d mentally clocked out around 2 hours ago, feeling the exhaustion push you past your limits. You never wanted to be in a bad mood with Joel — so you hid it, but you were starting to feel a little shitty. A close run in with the infected made your ears ring from Joel’s gun shooting a little too close to your ear— the annoying humming sound making it hard for you to concentrate. All of the physical exertion made you hot and clammy beneath your layers, but it was too cold without them. You could feel your hair sticking to the nape of your neck, getting tangled in the back of your necklace bringing it taut against your skin leaving a thin chain print indent against it. You could feel a pebble rattling in your shoe that you couldn’t get out, your knee was grazed slightly from a stumble trying to get away from a clicker, and you could feel the blood from the injury sticking to the inside of your jeans. Worst of all, you could feel a slight tickle at the back of your throat — the start of what could be the cold Ellie had.

“You listenin’?” Joel glanced round at you, on top of everything — he had decided now was the time to launch into a long and detailed story. You loved when Joel told stories, it was usually a moment of comfort or bonding — but you couldn’t help but feel irritated at the fact you could barely hear him, ringing in your ears seeming to grow louder.

“Huh? I— ugh, i can’t—” You stressed, fingers prodding inside your ears trying to wiggle the blockage out. Your face was screwed up slightly, overwhelmed by the feelings and sensations you were experienced. The man craned round slightly, taking a look at you.

“Y’alright?” He gave you a once over and you simply huffed, deciding that you didn’t care about the Jackson chill anymore as you practically fought your jacket off your body, immediately going back to sticking your finger in your ear trying to unplug it to escape the incessant ringing. You groaned agitatedly, not noticing your jacket dropping off the back of the horse and into the snow as you continued your pressurised ministrations. It all had seemed to hit you at once, your face heating up as you felt your heart rate pattering against your chest. “Kiddo?”

“What? I— I don’t know I don’t feel good I’m— I hurt myself and i’m getting sick and — everything is too much and —” You exploded, cutting yourself off as you burst into tears. You were frantically, nearly wailing as you grappled with yourself like you were covered in tiny ants. Joel frowned, quickly steering his horse beneath an old bridge and parking up, jumping off — hoping you didn’t fidget your way into falling off. You slid off the horse by yourself, pacing for a moment as you cradled yourself before sliding down the wall.

“Hey, kiddo. Look at me.” His movements was slow, purposeful. He didn’t freak out, he never did. Just slowly coming to squat infront of you, knee’s clicking with the gesture. You pulled your face from your hands, face hot and sticky now which only seemed to worsen your reaction. “You’re panickin’.” He observed. You nodded, unsure of what to say as you scrubbed your face, trying to rid of the feeling of your sticky tears. “Be gentle. Gonna hurt yourself.” He spoke even quieter as you did so, weary of hands rough swiping.

You leant back on the brick, letting your eyes flutter shut as you sucked in breaths. Joel took the time to look around, checking that there were no unwelcome visitors approaching. “Y’alright.” He soothed as you continued breathing. After a moment, you whined quietly into your hands.

“Too many feelings and sounds.” You shook your head, embarrassment creeping up the back of your neck. Joel probably thinks I’m insane, spoke the loud moth’s buzzing around from ear to ear.

“I get it.” He drawled, shrugging and sliding up beside you to sit, drawing his knees up. “We’ll sit here ‘til they go away.”

You went to complain, knowing he probably just wanted to get back, you were only holding him up — “Joel—”

“We’ll sit here, ‘til they go away.” He repeated with determination, turning to look at you seriously. You glanced at him, nodding before you closed your eyes once more — focusing on your breathing.

What did you find relaxing? The gentle breeze that fanned over your face as you sat and caught your breath, caressing the overly warm places on your body and soothing you as evening crept in. The thought of Ellie back in Jackson, the domesticity of it, thinking about how she was probably laying on her bed resting wearing her warm grey hoodie, tongue poking between her lips in concentration as she doodled in her diary. A butterfly sketched with a chewed biro, your profile drawn in the margins. The sound of birds tweeting as they settled in their nests for the evening, rustling their feathers slightly and cooing to their babies. Joel beside you, same old worn brown jacket and the deep lines of age embedded into his skin. You could hear his slow breath, in and out. In and out. You matched his speed, and before you knew it you were calm.

“Sorry about that.” You croaked, voice hoarse from your freak out. You didn’t feel hot with irritation anymore, just a slight warmth to your cheeks from embarrassment. “Didn’t mean to have a tantrum on you.” You sniffled, still clearly upset by the occurrence.

“Nothin’ to be sorry about. I think going on patrol just ain’t for everybody.” His deep voice reverberated beside you. The two of you sat for a moment, and you felt him observe you for a few seconds before he pushed himself to stand. He wandered off, returning back a moment later with your jacket that you had chucked off the back of the horse in his hand. He draped around you and you stuffed your arms back in, feeling the chill consuming you a little more now. Standing above you, Joel held out his hand.

You took it and he pulled you up. The sky seemed a shade darker, and a pang of guilt smacked your chest — realising how much time you’d wasted. You started busily dusting yourself down, adjusting your backpack waiting for him to step aside. When he didn’t, you stepped around him.

“Gosh, it’s getting late already— we better get going I’ve wasted enough time.” You released all in one breath. Your voice was strained, odd, like you were still barely holding it together. You turned to Joel, who still stood there and watched you analytically.

“Hey.” He interrupted, as you turned back to him.

“What?”

He held out his arms, and you didn’t hesitate.

Joel had only hugged you a few times before. From his demeanour, it was clear he wasn’t much of a hugger. Once when your dad left, and once when you had a frightening run in with an intruder. He had been there to comfort you in your lowest moments.

He wrapped his arms around you as you pressed your ear to his chest, hearing the slow and steady thump through his shirt. You let out a quiet sob, shoulders relaxing. You hadn’t realised how badly you just needed fatherly love until this very moment, the hole in your heart slowly but surely being filled by Joel’s presence.

“M’grateful you’re here. You’re the closest thing I have to…” You stopped yourself, deciding it would be too… much to say. You decided it would probably stay unspoken forever — the grief on his behalf too large to mention. You had only hoped he felt your gratitude and love without saying it.

Part of him tensed, but relaxed in allowance after a minute. “I know, babygirl.” He spoke his appreciation. It was quiet, almost like he had hoped that you and maybe even himself wouldn’t hear it. Another moment passed, and he cupped the back of your head, pulling you closer. “Same goes to you.” Your heart was warm when you pulled away, Joel not quite being able to meet your eye — as if processing what he’d just quietly admit to. You didn’t bring it up, and the two of you never discussed it again — climbing up onto the horse and galloping back in the direction of Jackson’s gates with quiet conversation as the sky melted into navy.

You were half asleep by the time you’d gotten back, Joel walking you back to Ellie’s door. Your breakdown had pretty much exhausted you, and Joel decided not to press you on it — silent footsteps in the snow as you reached the porch. Ellie came to the door, welcoming you inside with a kiss on the cheek as you sleepily mumbled to her before toddling inside the house disappearing into the dark hallway.

“How’d it go?” Ellie gave a once over to Joel’s pensive expression.

“Good.” He looked passed Ellie for a moment, to see whether or not you lingered. “Keep an eye on her, yeah?” His brow furrowed slightly and Ellie mirrored the expression, saying nothing as she urged him to continue. “Reckon she… she’s a little … different to you and I. Feels things different. She got… upset. Said she was feelin’ too much. Got all… overstimulated. Think that’s the word anyway. You know me, m’not good with all that stuff but… maybe you can talk to her, Kid.” He shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Yeah.” Ellie frowned, the syllable coming out in a fog of cold Jackson air. “I’ll ask her… thanks.” She nodded.

“Yeah. ‘Night.” He smiled, turning and plodding away tiredly.

Ellie curled up behind you in the moonlit room, your body was still cold having simply shed your clothes and dropped into the bed. The freckled girl rubbed your arms as she pulled the blanket over the two of you, pressing kisses to the back of your head.

“Missed you today, brave girl.” She whispered and you hummed, hand tiredly closing around her own on your shoulder.

“Missed y’too.”

“Joel told me you got upset. We gotta talk about that tomorrow, you know that right?” Her voice was gentle as she craned around to watch your face in the dark room, dropping a kiss to your cheek. She watched your eyelashes move, a failed attempt to open your eyes and your hand closed around hers just a little tighter.

“Tomorrow. M’okay.” Your voice grew weaker as sleep faded in around you.

“Okay baby. Get some sleep.” She tucked herself in behind you, trying to erase the worry from her mind.

#fatherfigure!joel #platonic!joel #platonic!reader #tlou2 fic

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seaweedstarshine · 3 months

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Rewatching my favorite Christmas special and I cannot get over “Psych*tic Potato Dwarf” as an insult from a person who — canonically — according to sources from the same writer — often hears voices that he has trouble distinguishing from reality. It's not just the one line, it's the fact that it’s the title of Strax’s theme! I always wanna call it out 😭, which works out in my The Snowmen-era Eleventh Doctor fanfictions because Strax is a nurse and would know what that word means.

Like, it does unfortunately fit the character because Gallifreyan culture is — canonically — systematically exclusionary of mentally ill people, and the Eleventh Doctor — canonically — hates himself more than anyone in the universe. But the choice?

#I think the real explanation here is that Moffat listened & learned & grew when it comes to representation during his run #btw psych*tic is censored btw for search reasons and uh. asterisks make ableist language less upsetting to look at? its true.#ableism #saneism #(I always see eleven as defining himself as a madman because it makes him feel braver. To him- madness is an act of rebellion-#Koschei was mad. Gallifrey openly rejects 'mad' people. he has a lot of baggage from being one of ‘the ones who ran away’)#that bein SAID #while like Moffat wasn't malicious like some *coughTHESOUNDOFDRUMScough* when it came to depicting psychosis-#he has a very specific way of showing his ignorance here #this is the man who wrote 'high functioning sociopath do your research' (which is. yay 'humanizing' low empathy symptoms! River Song too)#but please moffat do some research yourself before writing a line like that (I know that was like 2010 I know he got better)#words by seaweed #(eleventh) doctor is neurodivergent tag #ANYWAYS im still working on the sequel to my Snowmen era elevenmissy snowmen fic that really shouldn't have a sequel #also 'doctor who doesn't have canon' -hush. its canon as it gets #okay I think this been posted enough days ago for me to add the character tags for organizational purposes #eleventh doctor #strax

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steviewashere · 3 months

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The Sound of Silence

Rating: General CW: Internalized Ableism, Quick Mention of the 'R' Word (It's Not Written, Quite Literally as 'R' Word)Tags: Post-Canon, Post-Season 4, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Selectively Mute Steve Harrington, Negative Self Talk, Miscommunication, Mean Eddie Munson (For a Split Second It's Part of the Miscommunication and the Plot), Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Neurodivergent Steve Harrington (Implied), Pre-Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Calls Steve Harrington Sweetheart

I should say before this that a lot of Steve's thinking here, a lot of the metaphors and such used, are from personal experience. They are things I think about myself when I'm mute. So be civil and kind about this piece.

💛—————💛

Steve Harrington is a man of few words on most days. He does talk, he loves talking sometimes, has so many things to share. But on a lot of occasions, Steve can’t muster the strength to say hello. Can only make sounds, hums and gasps and subtle clicks. And often times, he hides away when he gets to that point. He’s been like this for as long as he can remember. Though, the first time it happened, he’s not sure what really caused it. Just that something was too much, or he was too little and then it all began. There had been therapists and specialists and urgent care doctors. A lot of conversations between him and his parents that often ended in him being yelled at. Something about him too far left of ‘normal’. And he knew, when the bad stuff came, that part of him may just be this way.

Now, years later, he can put some recognition to what silences him. Sometimes it’s the lack of comfortable sleep the night before. Or it’s the social energy completely drained out of him. Or it’s a particular jab that somebody makes. The raised voice that pushes him over the edge. A nightmare so harsh it rips him of not only the ability to mutter whole sentences, but also the ability to crawl out of bed.

He’s only clarified this with a select handful of people. The people in his life that were closest to him or that would understand. Robin was the second. Words written on a steno pad in the middle of the night, three days in a row where he hadn’t been sleeping properly, nightmares of a cold bunker and rough hands. Notes passed in quiet lulls, pencil scratches the only sound. She only looked at him with a sort of empathy he’s never been privy to. Her eyebrows scrunched in concentration as she focused solely on conversation in written text. He didn’t have to beg with her, which he thanked whatever god gave him her presence in the first place. Then, it was Nancy before their breakup. She could just tell. Her notes accommodated him. Space he took up was always welcoming. And her voice carried softly to his ears, gossip and pet names and gentle praise. Even if she broke his heart some time later, he would always remember her better than alcohol stained and too tipsy to make sense. Max was most recent. She, surprisingly, didn’t tease him for it. Didn’t make him feel bad. More sad than anything. Her voice was raspy in her hospital bed, “I’ll be your voice, Steve. You can be my eyes.” He could see the white, nearly iridescent glaze that permanently altered the blue color underneath. There were no words exchanged after that, but he placed his hand in hers and squeezed.

The others either didn’t notice or were too intimidating to tell. It’s not that they’re scary. But they can be harsh about certain things. And he just wasn’t ready. His voice, the absence of his words, have always been a soft, insecure, and vulnerable part to him. Laying out his cards face up on the table was too much.

But he probably should’ve considered Eddie to be one of those people that he can trust. Especially since Steve lets him move in, take up space in a spare bedroom, rummage through his cupboards. Maybe because they’re roommates. Maybe because they’re friends. Maybe because Steve wants more.

———— It was a bad night. An even worse day.

The images flashed under his eyelids every time he blinked. Blood and loose skin and wet muscles. Echoing screeches of those creatures that ruined his nearly blank torso. That sadness rippling from Dustin. His wobbling lip, wet eyes, the snotty nose, and strained yells for help. Steve’s stomach turns with every subtle movement of his body. Every single time he stretches, the scars moving with him.

In retrospect, he shouldn’t have gone to work. Not when he woke up, throat scratchy and the seizing of his chest overwhelmingly intense with every sobbing gasp. Or when he realized, the energy somewhere else, that mustering words was the heaviest burden to bear. He shouldn’t have gone to work, where he gets yelled at for not communicating. For not counting out the change. For not selling the new movies. Where he’s called things he’s heard since he was a little boy, ‘Dumb’ and ‘Stupid’ and the infamous ‘R’ word.

He’s out of it by the time he’s able to sit down in the driver’s seat of the car. Part of him wants to bang the softest parts of his palms on the harsh, stiff leather of the steering wheel. Another piece of him wants to lean down into those same hands, pressed into the sockets of his eyes hard enough to speckle his sight with black spots, and cry until there’s nothing else to do but go home. There’s the encroaching need to scream, to hum behind his lips, wiggle his arms until they’re too tired to move, too heavy to lift, a worse burden than speaking. But he knows that it’s too open to break down in Family Video’s parking lot. So his drive home is ninety percent heaving breaths and squeezing the steering wheel to remind him he’s nearly back to his bed; his safety away from the world, somewhere where he can recharge, power through this, get back on track.

Though, he’s drained when he goes home. Exhausted. Beaten down to just a bag of meat and blood and bones. The Beemer is parked in the driveway. And he jiggles his keys in the door. And slips his shoes off, hangs up his jacket, places his wallet in the little dish in the foyer. Each step of shedding his work skin like tiptoeing on a bed of nails. Barely even makes it two steps before he’s bombarded by Eddie’s constant, erratic, and chaotic nature.

“Hey, Stevie!” he crows. “I made dinner while you were on your way back. It’s on the stovetop, covered it in foil so that it retains the heat. Oh, and I did the laundry, cleaned up our bathrooms a little bit. Made progress with the physical therapist on my bad leg and I—“

Steve sighs heavily through his nose, blinks sluggishly, and places his palm out to stop Eddie. He tries to say anything, something. But all he does is open his mouth, squeak in the back of his throat, promptly close back up, and sag. Shakes his head, sidesteps, and clambers to his bedroom.

Undressing himself like wrestling with bears. Climbing under his covers as if his comforter is a taut iron sheet. He can already sense it, the shift from charismatic Steve Harrington to odd Steve Harrington. Can’t even suppress the aching, sizzling pang that shoots through. Naked skin to his cold bedsheets. Blanket heavy. The darkness of his bedroom will coddle and consume him, he’s sure.

Tomorrow is another day to try again. And maybe he’ll finally be able to explain himself.

But of course it’s not that simple. Of course his eyes are crusted over and burning like he spent the entire night crying. His whole body aches. And, unsurprisingly, there’s no way to conjure words from deep in his chest. Just whistled little breaths. Coming short and strained from his nose. He stays in bed for the rest of the day. Blearily, he wonders how Eddie’s doing. If the dinner from last night made it to the fridge. Wonders if the phone has rung at all, because he should be going to work.

He tries it. Tries speaking to the lonely, cold, inky blackness of his room. As if seeking for a light. The sounds strain and garble. Like his emotions are honey and he’s gargling. Choking on it. It hurts. He wonders if speaking should be like death, like a demobat tail wrapped around his tender skin, squeezing with razor blade spikes, tugging on him as stiff and thick ropes. Wonders if Eddie can hear him struggling.

Wonders if Eddie can sense him as a shadow in his own darkness, half of a man, barely a person. Thinks that there’s a million ways to explain himself, the words on paper as he did with Robin, or if Eddie will pick him up like dead star fragments and piece him back together as Nancy did, if he’ll just have to wait this out and whisper it in the fragile, sterile, fluorescent light of his childhood home—it’s a hospital in a way, maybe Eddie can perform the role of Max. Steve would offer his legs to take over for Eddie’s bad one, if he’ll be the boisterous noise that should be croaking from him any moment.

Futile, however much he wants it to work. Steve curls himself tighter in his blanket and goes back to sleep.

Tomorrow will be another day. And he’ll be a full person again, tomorrow.

Some day, surely, he thinks on day three.

And the same on day four.

And when he can smell his skin like molded vegetables in the drawer of his fridge, only then does he stand on doe like legs, awkwardly ambling to the shower. He is twenty years old, mute as the day he was born—breathless and making noise if only to mark his presence; he thinks of himself as the stain on his bedspread, that is his presence, he’s sure. Twenty years old, moving like the toddler his mother was worried about. Crawling backwards. Unable to lift his head on his own for too long. He wonders a lot in the silence of his own existence. It doesn’t end now, in the shower with steam clearing his nasal passages. Ponders, Will I always be this way?

Surely.

The dirt swirls in invisible tornadoes down the drain. Those are his words. Still gone. Through the pipes and out to the sewer. He stands on the plush rug protecting the warm soles of his feet from the cold tile. An overly used towel, threadbare and rough, wrapped around his waist. He slips into pajamas easily enough. Hair sopping and wilted into his eyes.

Tentative creaks down the stairs. Shuffling if only to take up space. Frozen to his spot in the kitchen doorway. There, in the kitchen, shrouded in amber light with a warm mug of what appears to be hot chocolate, is Eddie. He looks up from the pale brown liquid in his cup. His eyes are richer than that of what he drinks. And Steve is startled by how sad, though ferociously angry they are.

“I know this is your house and you’re allowed to do whatever the fuck you want, but you can’t just be a piece of shit to me,” Eddie rasps. His voice is nearly hollow. Penetrated by shrapnel between his teeth. And Steve also wonders if that’s what he’ll sound like after this. This limbo he can’t control. “Seriously, Steve. I thought you were, like, changed or something. Thought you were supposed to be this good guy now. Not a douchebag, remember?”

‘Douchebag’ spits from him like acid. Steve is burning. He is sizzling. Can’t help the trembling in his hands. Or the subtle, missed by Eddie, flinch that forces him back a step.

He looks away from those molten eyes of Eddie’s. Towards the floor. At his bare feet. Going cold against the hardwood. Wants to throw it all up. The explanation. His thoughts. Every little other thing about him that’s always made him some sort of spectacle in his parent’s marriage. Am I the cold, he asks to nobody in particular, or am I the body drowning in it?

Eddie sniffles. Clears his throat. Sighs disappointingly.

Steve is five years old. His dad is sitting at the table. He is being scolded for not speaking up. Steve is eight years old, covered in mud and pink lines from being scuffed on the concrete. He is being scolded for not speaking up. Steve is eighteen years old, bloodied, beaten blue, sweaty, and soot on his new shoes. He is being scolded for not speaking up.

He is traumatized. And he is tired. And he can’t explain, no matter how much he wants.

“Maybe I should’ve expected this,” Eddie mutters, “being friends with Steve Harrington was always a sort of fantasy anyway, right? Who could like a freak?”

It’s not loud, though it disrupts the quiet Steve thought could never be broken again. He sobs. Wretched and screeching. The tears like a flash flood. His chest caving in. All the sounds escaping him, garbled and messy and drowning. He is drowning. He is different. He’s a freak. And Eddie must know, but not like Nancy does. Or he must have found something, the steno pad. Must’ve talked to Max, something.

He collapses into one of the dining chairs. A heaping mess of blood and skin and bones and meat. Just this. He is this with nothing to explain for it.

Out of the corner of his eye, though blurry, he sees Eddie stand from his chair. Making some sort of aborted movement. And, without much thinking, Steve scrambles his hands forward, wrapping them tight on Eddie’s forearms, tugging him in too close. Forcing him to stumble into his knobby knees. Fingers still squeezing, fingernails biting into Eddie’s soft skin.

“Hey, whoa, whoa,” Eddie’s whispering, “Stevie, hey.” He crouches down, arms encased in Steve’s terrible hold. It’s almost hard to picture, the space and positions between them. Eddie’s wobbling on his own feet, probably sore and aching on his bad leg. Though, there’s a palm warm on Steve’s cheek. Wiping away at the tears. Trying to, at least; more keep streaming. Fingers carefully scooting into his hairline. Massaging on his scalp, pruning with the cold water in his hair. “Steve,” he murmurs, “hey, it’s okay. I’m sorry. That was—I’m sorry, Steve. I really am. That wasn’t okay.”

He doesn’t know what comes from him next to cause Eddie’s eyes to widen in both surprise and horror, but it must be something awful. A scream. Loud and piercing and high pitched. Shooting from him like a bullet, shattering everything between them. Shrapnel from between his teeth.

Eddie frees from Steve’s grasp, wrapping his arms around his shaking back, bringing him in gently. Rocking him from side to side until he’s only whimpering. Petting down Steve’s hiccuping back. “You’ll be okay,” he whispers against Steve’s ear. “I was being mean. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

Eventually, he pulls back some. Putting a small amount of space between their bodies. Steve is shaking from it all. Unable to do much. Eddie soothes a hand down his left arm. “Tell me what’s going on? How come you’ve been pulling away?”

Steve shakes his head. Placing a tired and limp hand on his throat.

“You lose your voice? Are you sick?” Again, Steve shakes his head. And Eddie goes quiet for a few slow moments. Until, a lightbulb seems to shine bright and shatter over his hair, amber light still causing him to glow, despite it all. He scrambles up off the floor. Squeezes Steve’s shoulders. Lightly says, “Stay here, okay? I’m gonna go find a pen and some paper. Be right back.”

When he’s back at Steve’s chair, the both of them significantly calmer, a brand new steno pad is in his hands. He hands it off with a chewed up ballpoint pen. “Tell me by writing it down.”

And so Steve does. Gives it back. Lets Eddie read his chicken scratch scrawl.

‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me,’ is the first thing. Followed by, ‘I’ve been like this since I was a little kid. When things get bad or I just don’t have the energy, it’s like my body forgets how to talk.’

“Oh,” Eddie whispers. He blinks at the paper and looks up to Steve. A sad little smile flashes on his face. “Okay, Steve. I—I think I get it. Kind of like when my day gets really busy and then when I go home, I just shut myself in my room and listen to music until I fall asleep. Kinda like that?”

Steve shrugs and reaches for the paper again. Writing, ‘Sort of. But it’s for a long time. Like…You know now. Sometimes I don’t talk for weeks. Sometimes it’s a few hours. But I get like this a lot.’ When he’s finished and Eddie goes to speak again, Steve immediately writes some more. Eddie’s mouth shuts with the soft click of his teeth.

‘Am I really a freak?’ Is what Eddie reads next.

His head shoots up from the paper. Eyes impossibly wider than they’ve ever been. Startled and desperate and unbearably sad. “No,” he murmurs quickly. “No, Steve, you’re not a freak. What makes you think that?”

The pad trembles in Steve’s grasp. He doesn’t want to write it, wouldn’t even want to speak it. But still, he sketches, ’You asked me, “Who could like a freak?”’ He tilts his head at his own words. Ducks back in, his hands shaking too much and his eyes moist. ‘It’s okay if you think so. I’m kind of used to it.’

Eddie snatches the paper from Steve’s offered grip. He swallows heavily and locks eyes with him, they’re still so sad. He wonders if that’s what Eddie’s seeing, too. “Stevie, no,” he whispers. “No, I was talking about myself. I thought you were mad at me. Thought you didn’t like me. I don’t think of you that way.”

Steve nods, sagging with relief. And with it a few tears spring loose from his eyes. A hand softly cups his jaw, thumbing at his fat hot tears. He closes his eyes and sighs. “Not mad,” he forces, his voice like raw, out of the box grits. It hurts, but he swallows. “You are my friend,” he musters before falling silent again.

A soft, sad hum emanates from Eddie. His hand tenses on Steve’s skin, but it holds to him gently, like he never wants to let go. “You’re mine, too, you know that? I’m genuinely sorry for what I said,” Eddie says. The apology sweet and drenching. “That wasn’t okay of me. I’m sorry.”

There’s no words Steve can press from within him. He lays his hand over Eddie’s and squeezes. Eyes now open and darting between Eddie’s own. He pushes their joined hands further into his cheek, sighing with it. Boneless in his chair.

“Okay,” Eddie mutters, “I understand, sweetheart. I get you now.” His thumb soothes more. Petting—caressing Steve in a way that makes his stomach flutter. “We’ll get you through this,” he promises, “I won’t go anywhere.”

💛—————💛

#stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #selectively mute steve harrington #neurodivergent steve harrington #angst and hurt/comfort

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percheduphere · 4 months

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LET'S TALK ABOUT NEURODIVERSE AND DIFFERENTLY-ABLED/PEOPLE WITH DISABILITIES REPRESENTATION IN THE LOKI SERIES

Thank you so much for your patience and your amazing ask, @indulligence! Special thank you, as well, to all the gif artists who made this meta possible.

I've been champing at the bit to get to this one, and I finally made it!

As a disclaimer, I am not a doctor, and I recognize we should take care in pseudo-diagnosing fictional characters as we don't want to perpetuate stereotypes of our neurodiverse and differently abled/people with disabilities communities. Having said that, if interpreting a character as being neurodiverse and/or differently abled/having a disability brings you comfort and joy, you should certainly do so! Canon is a sandbox. Fictional worlds and characters are meant to be engaged with for your pleasure.

I do cite a few medical graphic and their sources below. If any of those sources are problematic in any way, please let me know and I can switch out the graphic for one from a better source.

LOKI - ADHD [?]

At first glance, Loki's characterization in Thor 1, Thor 2, and Ragnarok don't seem to present him as having challenges with executive function. He appears to be able to focus and sustain focus, able to organize, and able to sustain effort and process. Loki also has exceptional memory.

[source]

As for mood, many mood symptoms of ADHD overlap with depression, the latter of which Loki clearly has. Nevertheless, it should be noted that ADHD and depression are often comorbid. He could have both.

[source]

While memory and effort are not concerns, Loki has consistently shown challenges with impulse control, managing frustration, and modulating emotion. A number of his most consequential choices (i.e. inadvertently directing Malekith to his mother, chasing after Sylvie, etc.) are influenced by his emotional state rather than premeditation. This may suggest that if Loki has ADHD, he leans toward Type 2: Impulsive/Hyperactive:

[source]

His characterization in the Loki series changes somewhat to include more hyperactivity and swings between hyperfocus and difficulty regulating attention and focus. Loki gesticulates, fidgets, and moves a lot more in the series than the movies. He also talks much more quickly when excited.

Do I think these changes were intentional? I honestly have no idea. Whatever the case, I think it's lovely that the Loki who becomes the most powerful hero in the MCU is also the version that demonstrates a higher likelihood of being diagnosed with ADHD.

MOBIUS - NEUROTYPICAL / HIGHLY SENSITIVE PERSON (HSP) [?]

I think Mobius, for the most part, is neurotypical. Even with Loki being his special interest/hyperfixation, he doesn't exhibit the other symptom criteria to meet a Level 1 Autism diagnosis, an Obsessive Compulsive Disorder diagnosis, or an Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder diagnosis.

He may, however, be a Highly Sensitive Person (HSP).

[source]

Mobius's empathy for others, perception of behavior, observation of circumstances, and deep appreciation for beauty (particularly when it comes to the beauty of people) are exceptionally strong.

NOTE: Even when the stakes are dire, he's still willing to give Ravonna and Miss Minutes the benefit of the doubt. He really is a sweetie pie. A sweetie pie who can and will slap you if you deserve it.

I think Mobius may mask his strong emotional responses regularly in order to be able function in the TVA. There were only two incidents, when he was unable to suppress his feelings, and those outbursts were remarkable:

That said, Mobius doesn't quite meet the other symptoms of HSP, which include sensitivity to stimuli, being easily startled, and aversion to violence. As we see in the series, Loki's antics don't overwhelm or startle him, and he has no issue with torture when he deems it necessary.

It is possible that Mobius may have Acquired Neurodivergence post-series as a consequence of trauma in the series finale. At present, we have nothing in canon to support this, but many fanfics show Mobius struggling to cope with the loss of Loki, his home, his family, and his identity. This severe level of loss can cause a variety of mental health conditions and disorders that may impact Mobius's future ability to function in a neurotypical way.

SYLVIE - ACQUIRED NEURODIVERGENCE [?]

I've written about Sylvie's sexuality here, and I think some (if not most) of her quirks when it comes social interaction, emotional intimacy, and physical contact may be explained by trauma. As such, I think some of her behavioral symptoms, which can be mistaken as autism, is actually the result of PTSD causing structural changes to her brain. Loki likely has this as well.

Like O.B., she is verbally blunt and appears to demonstrate lower empathy, especially with those she disagrees with.

To be clear, this doesn't mean Sylvie doesn't have empathy. She does, as can be seen in the gif above. What I mean is, her empathy and ability to demonstrate it are generally low throughout the series. This is likely a psychological defense mechanism. Having lowered empathy is advantageous if growing up in apocalypses is the only means of survival. Every friend and lover she's ever had is either dead or will die because of those apocalypses or because of who she is to the TVA.

Unlike O.B., Sylvie initiates social interactions and develops friendships more easily. Sylvie has acquaintances, if not friends, in John (McDonalds,) Eric (bartender), and Lyle (record shop). NOTE: You can tell the writer is a man when the bias in creating side characters skews male instead of female. Sylvie should at least have ONE girlfriend in her 1982 timeline, but she doesn't.

OUROBOROS (O.B.) - LEVEL 1 AUTISM [?]

Here he is! Here is our favorite neurodiverse ray of sunshine! Our autistic cinnamon roll! The MVP of season 2!

Now, I have mixed feelings regarding how people on the autism spectrum are portrayed in media. While they are often shown as socially awkward, they are also shown to be exceptionally brilliant in their area(s) of interest. This is quite flattering and often true in real life, yet I worry that this creates a stereotype that not only are all autistic people "geniuses", they are also geniuses in a way that is useful to a capitalistic society. That expectation isn't healthy and perpetuates the belief that a person is only valuable if they are useful. Further, it is a narrow portrayal of the autism spectrum. It is important to have representation across that spectrum instead of stopping at Level 1.

But I don't like being a Debbie Downer, so let's focus on the good representation that can be found in O.B.!

O.B., in a lot of ways, reminds me of Entrapta from She-Ra and the Princesses of Power. He doesn't always read social cues correctly, which often plays out as fantastic comedy relief on screen when the stakes are outrageous.

Like Entrapta, his science and engineering aptitude are nearly unmatched if not for Victor Timely. However, the hyperfocus O.B. exhibits does have negative consequences, as exemplified when he explains he lost his job and wife due to dedication in creating a TemPad prototype. Despite these losses, O.B. is resilient and looks forward to what comes next (another possible symptom of his neurodiversity).

I love that O.B.'s neurodiversity allows him to believe Loki when Loki finds him on his branched timeline with his "crazy story". It is also what allows him to see the patterns in Loki's timeslipping and propose, with confidence, that timeslipping can be controlled.

He is also a very good friend. Though he might not be the "huggy" type, he always makes an effort to find concrete solutions to big problems. I would say that O.B. is Loki's second closest friend in the series after Mobius.

I can't tell if it's O.B.'s autism or O.B.'s inner asshole that's fucking around with Loki in this scene. Not once but twice! Either way, I love it (and the fact that Loki resists the temptation to zap him back).

CASEY - LEVEL 1 AUTISIM [?]

What I appreciate about Casey is that if he is interpreted as autistic, he is not a super genius. He is still quite gifted, but I think he represents where a good number of level 1 autistics actually land in life. I feel this is a much healthier portrayal and balances out O.B.'s genius representation nicely.

NOTE: Look how cute they are! They must be protected at all costs.

I am also so happy that Casey and O.B. found friendship in each other. We have to give B-15 (Verity) credit for this. The only reason they met at all is because B-15 had the presence of mind to think of Casey to help O.B. with the Loom debacle.

Together, they become unstoppable, but there's one more friend who completes the Science Club Trio ...

VICTOR TIMELY - SPEECH IMPEDIMENT/LEVEL 1 AUTISM [?]

Since I've discussed autism interpretation and representation at length with O.B. and Casey, I'm going to concentrate on the portrayal of Victor Timely's speech impediment.

I also have mixed feelings regarding the media portrayal of people with speech impediments. This medical condition is often used as a means of showing a character is "meek" or "harmless". I don't doubt that this character feature was chosen for that exact purpose, to immediately contrast Timely against HWR in the quickest, most efficient way possible. Unfortunately, this kind of narrative "shortcut" leads to stereotyping people with speech impediments accordingly.

It's a good thing, then, that Loki series takes the time to add some depth to Timely's character. Yes, he has a speech impediment, but he is also very willful, crafty, and brave.

#loki #mobius #lokius #loki series #loki season 2 #loki meta #my meta #sylvie #ouroboros #ob #casey #victory timely #hwr #neurodiversity #neurodiverse #neurodiverse representation #speech impediment #loki analysis #my analysis

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jolieblack · 28 days

Text

Jolie’s thoughts on

Silver Blaze Part 3 & 4

(Sherlock & Co. podcast)

No, I tell a lie, because I still have stuff from part 2 that I wanted to point out, too:

I‘m a tiny bit obsessed with John's "doink - doink - doink" sounds after they cross the river.

I also laughed out loud at the Romans clearing out at 3:45.

And there’s a very sweet moment, too, that I didn’t really notice before, when they look at the victim‘s body with Inspector Gregory and Watson goes on about possible reasons why a single blow with a stick could have inflicted such damage, osteoporosis etc and Gregory thinks he’s just rambling, but Sherlock absolutely knows he’s not and nudges him back on track with that gentle "What are you thinking?" Because it’s not just John who wants his Sherlock to shine on a case, it’s the other way round, too!

And I honestly hadn’t noticed until the third relisten that at the very end of part 2 when they’re sneaking around Mapleton, John is basically solving the whole effing case just when Sherlock turns up and interrupts him!

Well, on to part 3 & 4!

Sherlock getting a black eye this time rather than a broken nose, yay, we love variety in our hero whumps. I could listen to entire episodes of Sherlock getting hurt and John looking after him.

Sherlock and John faking a legit job to get the information out of the local bookie was such a classic ACD scene, the way they work together completely seamlessly in situations like that is so great. I’ve also seen it pointed out that Sherlock can be so awkward with people when he’s being himself, but he’s always so confident and at ease when he’s just playing a role and being completely fake (without needing a break afterwards or telling us it’s exhausting, too!). That’s a totally fascinating contrast.

Part 2 had John accidentally solving the mystery of the murder weapon. Part 3 has John basically paving the way for the dog deduction. I love a competent Doctor Watson who knows exactly what he’s doing, but I also love it when he’s truly being Sherlock’s famous conductor of light.

John being canonically a Bond fan, love how they’re still incorporating so much BBC Sherlock fanon into this show. I‘m now eagerly waiting for Moriarty and Colonel Moran to be hot young men who have hot sex with each other, too.

"No more than you’re being human" - "Me more than you, mate" - Can ALL the John Watsons of this world please instantly stop dehumanising their Sherlocks and calling them robots or machines. I can accept it maybe up to their third case together, but in any adaptation that I know, the Sherlocks have proved themselves to have a big heart and to have it entirely in the right place, too, by case 4 at the latest. I don’t like to see any Watson regressing to the cheap laugh of "Sherlock’s a machine and doesn’t have feelings" after that, and I dislike it especially in this version where we get a Watson who is particularly well-attuned to and tolerant of Sherlock’s neurodivergence. Sorry, rant over.

Hey and I was right in my prediction that Sherlock didn’t drop John's phone at Mapleton Stables by accident but left it there on purpose! Even if I assumed it would be recording audio evidence rather than be used as a tracker. Which of course begs the question, did Sherlock really manage to somehow connect his phone to John’s and enable tracking in the very few seconds he had before Silas Brown turned up with the gun? Or is he always tracking John‘s phone as a matter of course? And if the latter, does he do it out of care/worry for John‘s safety and wellbeing, or is he doing it in a creepy/possessive way?

Anyway. After listening to part 4, I must admit I am somewhat underwhelmed by that bit… I don’t know what it is, but parts 1-3 are positively bursting with humour and action, while by part 4 I felt they had kinda lost the momentum. There’s nothing really wrong with it, and maybe it feels different when you’re not familiar with the original story and every revelation is truly jawdropping and not just ticking a box. Maybe I‘m also a little underwhelmed that the final denouement at Aintree is so… private. The horse whose disappearance - we are to believe - has GRIPPED THE NATION and is THE news story of the year is just back, and everyone’s just fine with it? No comments from anyone involved in the case? No congratulations from the owners? No bittersweet relief from Edi and Ned? No genuine relief from Fitz? No acknowledgement from the official police? No tearjerking speeches in parliament? I‘d say if you start a story on that kind of epic scale, you shouldn’t end smaller. I really wanted all those loose ends nicely tied up and got… none.

I also either missed something important, or we never really learned the reason why Mapleton kept hiding Silver Blaze? I see how they took him in at first, maybe thinking they’d get a big reward or ransom, or wanting to pass him off as one of their own, but the way it is, they just hide him for no reason and then give him back for no reason?

Am I being too critical?

The thing with the "S" and the "5" was clever though. And poor John and his abysmal Air BnB rating was hilarious, too.

#sherlock & co #podlock #sherlock & co podcast #sherlock and co #episode notes #silver blaze

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