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criminalmindsvibez · 3 years

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My Rambly Non-Linear Thoughts About Spencer Being Autistic

so there’s obviously a lot of universal headcanons surrounding Spencer being autistic, but I’m gonna talk a little (a lot actually) about some of my more niche world-building and headcanons with this concept!

disclaimer: I am merely one autistic person, my experiences are not universal and I speak for no one except myself (and maybe my twin sister)

Spencer would’ve never gotten diagnosed as a child. It just wouldn’t have been feasible, that’s not to say he didn’t realize he was different, but it was likely chalked up to him being a genius.

Objectively, he would’ve been diagnosed with ‘Aspberger’s’ in the mid-2000’s and would’ve eventually swapped that label out for Autism Spectrum Disorder at some point.

There aren’t many people who diagnose adults in the US and insurance certainly doesn’t pay for it, so the diagnostic process would’ve been an out of pocket fee.

Setting all that aside, Spencer would’ve know. Maybe he would’ve originally come across the ADHD diagnosis and accepted it as a self-describer before realizing how much it doesn’t cover about his psychology.

When you’re autistic, some times it takes someone else pointing it out to you before you actually think about it. I have no doubts he likely had a lot of not so kind comments on his behavior and, trust me, people love to throw the word ‘autistic’ around as an insult.

Spencer doesn’t mask well. In the sense that okay, yeah, maybe he can mask for a couple hours at a time, but it really doesn’t work for him. Like he can’t get anything done and he’s not particularly good at masking in the first place.

Working in an environment where he has to present himself a certain way would be difficult, but having to team be so kind and understanding would lessen the pressure.

He likely masks to some degree in front of other officers and police departments and what not. He even has a hard time entirely letting his mask slip around the team, but he does usually and it’s a weight off his back everytime.

Vocal and movement stims are likely the most satisfactory for him. He uses wild gestures to overcompensate for not being able to flap his hands in front of most people. He usually rocks back and forth when he’s alone or really focused, and prefers a side to side motion rather than a forwards to backwards one.

He gets words stuck in his head constantly. The more words you know the easier it is to find one that sticks in your brain. Repeating these words outloud (echolalia) is one of the most satisfactory stims. But he does it less often than he would like because society tends to train you out of doing ‘weird’ things verbally.

He goes nonverbal often during or after meltdowns and after a long day. Sometimes words just won’t come and it’s really frustrating for him, but it’s something he works to accept about himself.

He overcompensates a lot of the times, something he learned as a young child trying to blend in. Instead of under expressing himself, he over-expresses things. His facial expressions are usually extremely indicative of the emotion he’s trying to portray. He also is very calculated with his use of tone and humor.

One thing he doesn’t overcompensate on is eye contact. He doesn’t make eye contact unless he has too. Usually too focused on whatever he’s talking about to even think about looking the other person in the eye.

Coffee is one of his safety foods (despite the teams constant insistence it’s not an actual food) and sugary treats usually aren’t as terrible sensory experiences as savory food (the smell, the taste, the texture)

He literally cannot have most kind of pets, even the concept of having fur or drool or feathers all over his apartment is enough to make him want to curl up in a ball. He has a turtle though! Those are super easy, he’s not super fond of cleaning the water (because the texture of water sometimes is just ugh) but he does it!

He collects special interests like some people collect stamps, his brain literally soaks up information on something hes interested in like a sponge. He’s partial to psychology, statistics, and classical literature though.

When he gets going on a rant, he just gets so excited and happy to share his interests! And if someone is actually listening and engaging (sometimes he thinks they are and they’re not, but that’s a different story) he gets even more excited! Sometimes a member of the team will engage with him about a topic he’s interested in for a while and it leaves him feeling completely energized and excited. Especially if he was able to stim throughout his talk.

Sweaters are usually great pressure stims, which is why he prefers them. Although, finding the right texture sweater is really the key.

Working in the law enforcement would come easy for him. Autistic people often have a strong sense of morality and justice, it’s not a surprise he would be an FBI agent. Often times, autistic people go into law enforcement because their sense of right and wrong is so strong they’re compelled to do something that utilizes that trait.

While his social skills aren’t particularly great, he’s really good with the team! Once he gets close to everyone it’s easy to be a good friend. Most neurotypicals are ridiculously easy to shop for, so he uses gifts and acts of service to demonstrate his love.

Physical touch is a day to day type of thing. Sometimes he enjoys it, sometimes he hates it, and sometimes he merely tolerates it.

Anyway that’s all I got for now! Feel free to add stuff in the reblogs, I love hearing other people’s thoughts about this!

@spencers-renaissance @spencerspecifics @prentisslove @agents-are-dicks @aesthetically-poetically @betterlucknextttime @paget @pagetsbae @figure-skating-ostrich

#criminal minds #spencer reid #autism #actuallyautistic #autistic spencer reid #my headcanons #I didn’t discuss meltdowns in here except that one little throwaway piece bc idk they’re so personal to each person #it’s hard for me to see any sort of meltdown past my own experiences

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hargrove-mayfields · 3 years

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Billy has to stick up for max a lot because of her autism, at school he walks to her class and their afraid of him because just,,, look at him

warnings for mentions of bullying and ableism.

It isn’t easy to make Maxine Mayfield cry.

At least, Billy had almost never seen her shed a tear in the six years he’d known her but maybe two times: once when she was still little, and just learned her step-family was going to move into her house and replace her real dad forever, and once when she was told they would be leaving California. Both times she’d run off to her room and slammed the door before anyone could see, but Billy had noticed. He always did when it came to Max. Had to when he knew damn well how much trouble he’d be in if things went wrong while he was watching her.

Beyond that there were a few teary eyed looks that got wiped away, maybe a sniffle she’d try to cover up by complaining about her allergies, but it was very rare, even during meltdowns, that she’d be full on crying, tears streaming down her face so quickly she couldn’t wipe them away while sobs wrack through her and make her shake.

So Billy knows first thing that something is very, very wrong when she’s already at his car after school, her face buried in her balled up jacket and doing exactly that. He can hear her from outside the car, so he sighs and knocks on the window before he yanks the door open, but Max doesn’t even flinch, just curls up tighter in the passenger seat and ignores him.

That’s a bad sign too, the fact she isn’t even trying to hide it from him, “What’s a’matter Maxi?”

“None of your business.” She snaps at him, voice thick and wet with tears. It’s unfamiliar seeing her like that and it makes Billy feel tense ang guilt even though he didn’t do it this time, so he tries, “Come on. It totally is my business. You get tears on my leather seats n’the salt’ll stain ‘em up, and you’ll be the one to clean it up.”

All it gets from Max is another heavy sob, instantly hitting him with a pang of regret for trying to be light about this, “Shit. M’sorry, Maxi. Didn’t mean it like that. Just tryin’ ta make you smile.”

“Well it didn’t work!” Max sniffles, throwing her jacket on the dash and finally turning to look at Billy, face flushed red and tracked with tears, her bottom lip still wobbling, “I’ll never ever smile again..”

“Why not? I know it’s not just because of your dumbass brother.” Billy sees a twitch at the corner of her lip, the slightest hint of a smile at him insulting himself, and he counts that as a small win, a sign he’s getting at least a little bit through to Max, so he prompts her again, “What happened at school today, Max?”

Her gaze drops to her lap, and she shrugs her shoulders slightly, stiffly, as she mumbles an explanation, “Remember how I told you about that boy, who's mean to me and my friends?”

“‘Course I do. I never forget anythin’ you tell me.”

Max wipes her nose on her sleeve, and corrects him, “Except for when you forgot I told you I had AV club and you came in the school looking for me and then you got stuck talking to a teacher for like, three hours after I was done.”

“Yeah, well that was one time. N’I was already havin’ a bad day when you told me, thank you very much.” He encourages her, his face serious though their tone is light-hearted, “Keep goin’, what’d this kid do now?”

Again Max’s features close off, and she tries to lie, “He was just.. Well it was my fault.. I-I don’t know.”

“Max. I need the truth.”

Talking fast, like she’s fighting against her thoughts, she makes him promise, “Promise me you won’t do anything dumb, first.”

Billy lifts a hand from the steering wheel, “I won’t. Cross my heart, Maxi.”

At this point, in the silence that builds while Max wills herself to speak, Billy starts to drive, since it’s clear he won’t be going back into that school. It isn’t lost on him the way Max takes a deep breath, out of relief that he meant it when he said he wasn’t going to be dumb and march back in there.

Quickly, once she’s ready, she explains, “Okay. Well he kinda sort of told me that I was annoying ‘cause I laugh too much, and I told him it was just a stim n’that I couldn’t help it but he said that made me a baby and I told him I wasn’t and he called me a retard instead and I was already stressed so I started crying like a dumb baby and he laughed at me and none of my friends said anything or helped me and I just.. yeah.”

All Billy can do is raise his eyebrows, has about a hundred and one pissy and angry things he could say, but he doesn’t utter a word, because he doesn’t want to make Max more upset than she already is.

Clearly just the change in his expression spooks her though, because she insists, sounding like she could cry again at any second, “You promised me!”

He puts his hands up sort of defensively, though he has to grab the wheel again when the car veers, swallowing his anger to tell her calmly, “I didn’t even say anything. I promised I’d be nice and I’m gonna keep that promise.”

She nods hesitantly, more to show trust than agreement, so Billy continues, “But Maxi that’s.. bad. Why don’t you tell a teacher or some shit?”

“Yeah, like they would even do anything. They already hate me for being in their coed classes.” Max mumbles the last part, looking away, “They’d probably rather Troy beat me up so I wouldn’t be bothering them anymore.”

“Tell me you’re being dramatic.”

But Max just shrugs again.

“Fuck, I hate this fucking place.” Billy tears his eyes from the road to look Max in the eyes as she says it, even knowing she can’t return the gesture, “You know you don’t deserve to go through this shit, Maxi?”

“It.. is kinda my fault though.”

He lashes out, just a little, hearing her talk like that about herself. Because it’s not fair that a thirteen year old girl looks at herself that way, yeah, but also because he knows it’s in some ways his fault too, and their parents for the way she’d been brought up, and the shit she'd been around that she even thinks to say shit like that.

He hits the palm of his hand against the rim of his steering wheel, rather he goes to before he catches himself, slowing it before it really hits, tapping it more than anything, “No the fuck it isn’t. It’s nobody’s fault but the assholes that make it into a problem. And fucking Neil’s for dragging us to this close-minded little spot on the map. I hate this fucking town”

“Oh.” Is all Max says.

Billy waits, but he can see she doesn’t know what else to say, so he sighs, “Look, I made my promise to you. Can you make one for me now?”

Max looks confused, “Okay?”

“Promise me that the next time somebody says some shit to you, you stand up for yourself.” Max scrunches up her face, like she immediately disagrees with that, but Billy insists, “Look, I don’t care if you’re crying like a damn baby or you can’t even talk while you do it, just don’t let ‘em walk all over you like that again.”

“I’m not fighting anyone, Billy. I’m not.. like you.”

“That’s not what I said. I said to stand up for yourself. It’s different.”

“Yeah right. How am I supposed to do that?” Billy knows that some asshole had to have said that to Max, that for whatever bullshit reason she couldn’t stick up for herself. Damn kid can’t catch a break in life, so he tells her, at this point not sure if this is even advice or just him ranting at Max, “This kid calls you a slur again, tell ‘im at least you got the diagnosis. Make him feel like he’s the stupid one. And if a teacher ever pulls some shit about the way you learn, tell ‘em you’ll go to the board of education and personally get their asses fired. Your mom would fight for you.”

“No she wouldn’t.”

“Then dammit I would. Your friends would if they understood. I know Sinclair would kick ass for you.”

Max’s toughness finally cracks- she learned that from him, to put on that hard exterior and fake it- Billy's determination stronger than her stubbornness. She looks up at him with a look in her eye that says he’s said all the right things, “You really think so?”

“No shit. Big brothers know all about this kind of bull.”

“I guess.” Max smiles just a little, and tells him matter-of-factly, “But you’re not that kind of big brother. You’re too cool.”

“Hell yeah I am.” Billy hums proudly, adding with humor in his tone, “But it’s even more cool to be nice to your little sister than it is to be an asshole. Remember that one.”

Max nods, listing it off on her fingers, “Stand up for myself, but don’t be an asshole, and Billy's secretly a big softie. I think I got it.”

“Good. Now out of my car, shitbird.”

Giggling in that way that says she knows she got him, Max swings open her door and runs into the house, leaving Billy to watch after her. He turns off the car but doesn’t get out, trying to bury his worry for her under his expression, not because he didn’t care, or even because he didn’t want her to know, he was long past that, but because he was worried what would happen if Susan saw his concern.

She’d weasel the truth out of Max if she knew something was up, and somehow, despite her promises, Neil would find out once he dragged his ass back home from the bar later tonight, and then it would somehow be Billy’s fault. He just hopes, if Max lets slip about the bullying, she at least doesn’t get too mouthy and mention the part where she was crying.

That was a Friday when that all went down, so Billy has the weekend, which thankfully does not include any snitching, to decide what he’s going to do about it. It’s not like he was ever going to go beat up on any tweens anyways, but he promised Max he wouldn’t be dumb, and he knew that meant no passive aggressive bullshit either. At least not while she could see him.

Because that ruled out like, half of his options, he’s still kind of clueless on what he’s going to do that next Monday morning when schools back in. He’s sitting in the middle school parking lot, fingers twitching against the steering wheel without a cigarette to busy them with, waiting for 7:30 on the dot when Max always goes in.

At this point, he’s considering just ditching with her to go get ice cream or something so she doesn’t have to face any bullies today, but his epiphany comes in the form of watching Jonathan Byers walk the littler one all the way to the front doors, his hand protectively hooked through the handle on the kid’s backpack. When the clock ticks the right time and Max opens her door, he knows what he’s going to do, and he turns the car off.

She freezes, can tell he’s up to something. “What are you doing?”

“Nothin’. M’just walking you in.” She glares at him in response to the smug smile he wears, so he swears, “Honest. I got basketball today. No way I’m missing that shit ‘cause I fought some little kid.”

“You’re lying.”

“Can’t I just be nice to my little sister?”

From the look on her face, she’s still skeptical, but it's enough to get Max to agree to it, grabbing her bag from the backseat and mumbling, “Whatever. Just don’t embarrass me.”

Billy chuckles, giving Max a head start towards the building before he follows, “Hey now, I thought just yesterday I was your cool older brother.”

“Cool older brothers don’t walk their sisters to the door.” She calls it over her shoulder, and Billy can’t help but tease her more, correcting her in a sing-songy voice, “Who said I was stoppin’ at the door? I’m walking you all the way to your class.”

“Oh god.” Max stops walking, but Billy keeps up, this time pulling ahead enough to call back to her, “Come on shitbird. Don’t wanna be late.”

“I hate you so much.”

“Yeah, right. You love that I would take the time outta my morning to do this for you.” He props open the door for Max with his boot, pretending not to notice the way all the little middle school kids at their lockers turn to gawk at them, letting her shove past him with her face flushed deeper than the color of her hair in embarrassment.

Pulling on her backpack straps, like she’s trying to physically make herself smaller, she mumbles, “No, I actually hate you.”

He almost feels bad for embarrassing her, but that’s the other part of his job, and he reminds her of that, “Good. There’s some more advice for ya, little sisters should always hate their big brothers, or he’s doing something wrong.”

They get a little ways down the hall, Max’s confidence going up just some as the shock wears off and people start to turn away, but Billy hardly notices. He doesn’t even come close to being bothered by eighth grade politics anymore, and if he’s intimidating the poor kids, well that’s exactly what he’s there for.

When he’s met with a particularly harsh glare from some snob nosed brat, who happens to remind him a lot of one Tommy Hagan, he bumps into Max on purpose, and announces louder than he needs to in hopes the kid’ll know he was looking for him, “That the little asshole s’been givin’ you trouble?”

Glancing nervously between him and Billy, she nods, “Yeah..”

Billy just nods, a cross between acknowledgment and judgement, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You said-“ Again Max panics, but Billy cuts her off this time with a simple assurance of, “And I didn’t do anything.”

Her eyebrows knit together, realizing that that wasn’t a lie, “I.. guess you didn’t.”

“What’s your first class anyways?”

“We report to the cafeteria before first period.” She informs him, leading him that way, but he hooks two fingers through the strap on her bag to stop her, “Not gonna happen, Maxi. Being shoved in a tiny room with three hundred other kids makes you feel all ‘meltdowny’ I think was your exact word. So you’re not doin’ that anymore. I just decided.”

“But that’s against the rules.”

“Yeah, so’s me bein’ in this building during school hours, but nobody’s saying shit to me, are they?”

Max narrows her eyes at him then, and he knows he said too much, that he’s been found out, “That’s your plan isn’t it.”

There’s a crooked smile on his face he can’t hide as he plays innocent-like, “What is?”

Max pushes him a little and he pretends to misstep while she accuses him, “Coming into school and being all intimidating so nobody will bug me anymore.”

“Pfft, yeah right.” Billy denies again, getting nothing but an eye roll in response at first, but when it’s clear it’s he’s not going to give up and admit it, Max does, glancing shortly over at him, “Well thanks anyways, Billy.”

She adds, realizing he’s wandering with no idea where they’re going, having never been in the middle school himself, “My first class is in B-18.”

“Which one is’at?” He asks, just curious, but Max deflects the question, giving a short, “It’s taught by Mr. Clarke.”

Just from how quiet she is, Billy can tell that she's hiding something, “Max. You seriously don’t even know what class you’re in?”

“No I don’t, okay?” Max stops in the middle of the hallway, ranting at her brother, “It’s already not the same as my old school, and then they moved my schedule all around again after they decided I didn’t qualify for special ed, so now I just go where I’m s’posed to, and I know my teachers better than my classes.”

“And you didn’t tell anyone, did you?”

“No. There’s nothing anyone can do so it doesn’t matter.” Her tone implies she thought a lot about it, maybe even wanted to, but decided not to.

Billy insists right back, these past two days feeling like he’s constantly petitioning for Max to trust and rely on him, “Oh I could do somethin’. You know I could.”

“I do. But I don’t want you to. Sticking up for me is enough.”

That’s what makes Billy understand. The firmness in her voice says everything she needs him to hear: Max doesn’t want Billy to do for her what she can handle. This is bigger than just being the older brother. This is her setting boundaries, asking for help without wanting to be controlled. That’s something he never really got how to do, being raised by a dictator and all, but it’s something she needs. Sometimes he forgets that.

He doesn’t say anything else, just lets it sit while Max takes him down some stairs to the right room. She stops outside, scuffing up the dusty marble floors with the toe of her Chuck Taylor’s, “Could you.. stick around for a little bit in case he says something?”

Billy clicks his tongue, remarking, “I dunno. I got a class in a few..”

But his sarcasm falls short with Max, which, that’s his bad for not realizing that it would, and her face falls, “Oh, well I guess I can just-”

“Was just funnin’ you shitbird. I don’t give a fuck about my classes.” Max grimaces in that all too familiar way of uncertainty, so he promises, “I’ll be right out here. Go talk to your teacher, ‘n if he says some shit to you, remember I only promised not be stupid about the bully.”

He at least gets a smile for that one, before Max rolls her eyes, “You’re not fighting my science teacher, dummy.”

“Whatever. Just get in there, brat.”

He can see Max holding back a smile as she listens, bounding into her classroom with another quick glance back at Billy to check that he wasn’t lying and going to walk away.

Billy waits until the door fall closed to lean against the row of lockers opposite it, watching her through the little meshed over windows. By now, he’s pretty well versed on what arguments with angry authority figures look like, and the conversation between Max and her teacher is not one. He still stays though, just because Max asked him to, but maybe, just maybe a little for himself, a reassurance that the second he leaves shit isn’t going to get worse, and Max’ll have at least someone other than her equally as nerdy little friends behind her.

Then they both turn and give him a little wave, Max and her teacher, an acknowledgment to Billy that this new routine was indeed going to work out. The way the school district had handled everything else, he wonders if the guy even knew Max wasn’t like his other students until now.

Still, seeing that, Billy gives a half nod in response, and decides his job is done here, at least until tomorrow when he does the same. Max’ll get used to it, and his hope is that the little bully brats won’t. He’ll just have to keep them on their toes.

Which is exactly why, while on his way out, Billy has to break his promise to Max, just slightly, and do something dumb. He finds the Troy kid again, and waits until the little punk is at his peak to knock him down a few pegs.

He’s complaining about some teacher, which is pretty typical for a thirteen-fourteen year old kid, but the other things he’s said to Max make it not as relatable, not as innocent. So he does what any logical, mature adult would do, and scares the piss out of him.

Billy waits until the kid gets a laugh from his troop of assholes, and slams the locker door beside him shut, uncaring of who’s it was. All eyes are quickly on him, all too wide against too pale faces. It’s too easy.

“What are you little shits whining about over here?”

The one in charge steps forward, trying to be tough despite the way he has to practically bend backwards to look up at Billy’s face, “None of your business. Did the freak send you after us to scare us? It ain’t gonna work.”

“Oh I’m not here to scare you. I’m just here to give you your final warning. We’re past the point of intimidation. Matter of fact, next time I have to come here.. it won’t be looking so good for you.”

“You’re lying.” The kid accuses, despite the obvious doubt written behind his features.

Billy can work with that.

“I might be. But I’m still an authority figure over your sorry little asses, and if you don’t start respecting that..” He bends down a little further, still nowhere near the kid but making his whole troupe flinche back, and drops his pitch, “well, I can’t promise what’ll happen to ya, but unlike your teachers, I don’t play by the rules. You got that?”

Straightening himself back out, Billy pretends to start walking away before he adds, “Oh, and if you pick on my kid sister ever again, I will know. Just remember that, uh, Troy was it?”

The kid nods dumbly, literally vibrating with something like fear, and Billy can say he’s pretty satisfied with that. He pats the kid on the shoulder, a touch so gentle it wouldn’t’ve hurt a fly, and notably couldn’t get him in any trouble, but the little shit scampers off, three other puffy head bullies trailing after him.

Everyone sees it happen, Billy with his nasty smirk and his distinguishably high-schooler way of carrying himself, Troy running for the hills in the other direction. He leaves feeling like his point has been thoroughly proven.

It isn’t easy to make Maxine Mayfield cry, but it’s even harder to get away with it, and Billy knows it won’t be a problem from now on.

#billy & max #billy hargrove #max mayfield #autistic max #tw r slur #tw ableism mention #tw bullying mention #ej writer #story by ej!#anon my beloved #you so read my mind with this #I had half a fic written out like this for ages and then this ask popped up (a while ago. I’m sorry I’ve been so slow at requests)#so have this little projection fest my beloved anon #i mighta went a little crazy with this #<3 <3 <3 #thank you for sending me this! I love requests!

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waitineedaname · 3 years

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It was Tommy Coolatta’s birthday, and Gordon Freeman was shaking in a Chuck E. Cheese bathroom.

He hadn’t planned to end up there. He hadn’t planned to be in many of the places he’d been in the past… god. Week? Weeks? Month? The realization that he couldn’t remember how long he’d spent trying to escape Black Mesa made him grip the cheap tile of the bathroom countertops and shake even harder.

He’d tried to make it through the party as long as he could, he really had. He’d danced with Bubby and Coomer and tried his hand at the arcade machines and eaten what pizza he could stomach. But it was just… so much. He wasn’t sure how the others could party like that after everything they’d gone through. Everyone coped differently, he supposed.

He should probably go back out there soon, for Tommy’s sake. It was his birthday, after all, and after everything Tommy had done for him, he owed it to him to at least celebrate with him. He just… needed a minute. Maybe none of them had even realized he’d left yet.

“Mr. Freeman?”

Damn.

“Hey, Tommy.” Gordon offered Tommy a weak smile, though he could see in the mirror that it was more of a grimace. “Sorry, man, I’ll be back out there in a second. It was just… a lot.”

Tommy nodded, a sympathetic look on his face. “Do… Is it okay if I join you?”

“What? You don’t have to keep me company dude, it’s your birthday. Don’t stop having fun on my account.” Gordon tried to wave him towards the door, but Tommy was shaking his head before he’d even finished his sentence.

“No, I… It’s a lot for me too. The-” Tommy gestured vaguely as if searching for a word and failing to find it, “All of it.”

“Oh.” Gordon blinked. “Then, yeah, pull up a chair, I guess.”

Tommy gave him a small smile and shut the bathroom door behind him. He leaned his back against it and let out a sigh that Gordon echoed.

They stood there in silence for a while, Gordon doing his best to get his shaking under control. With anyone else, he might have felt awkward, but this was Tommy. Tommy had been the one to practically carry him through countless tunnels and vats of questionable liquid when he was delirious from blood loss. If there was anyone he trusted to not judge him for having a breakdown in the bathroom, it was Tommy.

The metal of the HEV suit clinked against the linoleum of the sink, and suddenly it struck him how much he wanted this thing off.

“Hey, uh,” Gordon spoke up, clearing his throat. Tommy hummed in acknowledgement, “You’ve read a bunch of manuals, right? Did you read the HEV suit manual?”

“Uh, yeah!”

“Think you could get this thing off me?”

Tommy’s eyes widened like he’d only just realized how long Gordon had been wearing the suit. “Oh! Yeah, I can- I think I can do that.”

Tommy approached him slowly, as if approaching a skittish cat, then became more confident in his movements when Gordon gave no sign of flinching away. He began working on the back of Gordon’s chestplate first, slender fingers working deftly on the bolts and buckles that held it together. It was slow work, but with each piece Tommy lifted off him, Gordon felt he could breathe easier. A literal weight was lifted off him, and it only made him more aware of the ache deep in his bones. Every few minutes, there would be a loud noise from the main entertainment area of the Chuck E. Cheese; Gordon would flinch away from the sound, and Tommy would freeze in his movements, but then they would hear Coomer’s loud laughter or a snide, muffled comment from Bubby, and they would relax and resume their work.

After what felt like eons, Tommy finished unclasping the last buckle on Gordon’s boots, stepping back to let him toe them off himself. The HEV suit was a pile of orange rubble surrounding them, and Gordon suddenly felt exposed in nothing but his socks and the dark jumpsuit he’d been wearing under the suit. He felt like he could stand up straight without straining for the first time in weeks, and the feeling of the overpowered Chuck E. Cheese air conditioning seeping through the sleeves of his jumpsuit left him feeling flayed raw.

Tommy was staring at him with an unreadable look on his face, hands flexing and unflexing in a nervous stim. He reached out a hand, hesitated, then laid it on Gordon’s left forearm. Gordon’s skin burned under his touch. When was the last time he’d felt someone else’s body heat?

“Can…” Tommy’s voice was quiet and sounded as fragile as Gordon felt, “Can I hug you?”

Gordon didn’t trust himself to speak around the lump the size of a tennis ball in his throat, so he just nodded. Tommy outstretched long arms, and the two of them fell into each other.

Gordon’s whole body felt like it was buzzing right down to his core. He was lightheaded as everything hit him in that moment. All he had gone through. All he had survived. The fact that he was out, and he was alive. The fact that this was the first time he’d touched someone and felt it on his skin since he’d dropped Joshua off at his mom’s the week of the test. And it was Tommy who got to hold the title of the first person to hug him in far too long. Tommy who had been kind to him even when stress was making them all snappish, and who had made jokes with him when things felt grim. Tommy who had been the only one he trusted when everyone else left him for dead, Tommy who fought by his side so loyally and who removed that horrible suit with such impossible tenderness.

Gordon pressed his face into the shoulder of Tommy’s filthy polo shirt that smelled like sweat and blood but was warm and had probably been soft at some point, and he let out the loudest sob in his life. His voice shattered on the noise, and then he suddenly couldn’t hold it back anymore, sob after sob wrenching its way out of his throat.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever cried like this. Not when he was in labor with Joshua, not at any point during the Resonance Cascade, not even when his arm was being cut off. Nothing compared to these deep sobs that seemed to claw their way out of somewhere deep in his soul to burst out of his chest as everything crashed into him all at once.

He could feel Tommy’s fist balled in the back of his jumpsuit, and he could feel and hear Tommy weeping quietly into where he’d pressed his face into Gordon’s hair, and the raw sensations of it all only made him sob harder.

They stood there, clinging to each other until Gordon’s knees couldn’t hold him up any longer, and then they both sank to the ground, still holding onto each other like they were each other’s life lines. Maybe they were.

Eventually, Gordon simply couldn’t cry anymore, his tear ducts emptied, leaving him with a dehydration headache and a sore throat. He didn’t extricate himself from Tommy’s hold, though, and Tommy didn’t seem like he was going to let go any time soon either. He’d cried himself empty sooner than Gordon had, and now he was just stroking his fingers through Gordon’s knotted curls. Gordon didn’t want to think about how nasty his hair must be right now, caked in blood and sweat and god knows what else, but Tommy’s hand in his hair felt more soothing than aloe on a sunburn.

He snorted quietly when the simile occurred to him. He’d maybe been spending too much time with Tommy. He then immediately shoved that thought away and squeezed Tommy tighter. No, he had not spent nearly enough time with Tommy. Now that they were out, he could let himself think about spending time with Tommy when they weren’t in mortal danger. He couldn’t wait to watch Tommy’s favorite shows and listen to him infodump about them, or walk Sunkist in the sunshine, or take Tommy to his favorite restaurants, or introduce him to Joshua-

Fuck. God, he really liked this guy, huh.

Tommy pulled back ever so slightly, though he didn’t go far. Just enough to be able to look down at Gordon with those kind, intelligent eyes, and Gordon thought he might pass out. He moved his hand from Gordon’s messy ponytail to cup his cheek, and Gordon was certain he was going to pass out.

“Are you okay?” Tommy asked. Gordon laughed despite himself.

“No,” Gordon said, tilting his head to better fit against Tommy’s hand and giving Tommy the tiniest smile, “I don’t think I am.”

Tommy gave him his own sad smile. “That’s okay. I… I don’t think any of us are.”

Gordon snorted. “That’s for damn sure.”

Tommy was still staring down at him with more tenderness than Gordon was prepared to deal with, “Do…” He paused, licking his lips. Gordon wasn’t embarrassed to say he stared at the motion, “I think I’m done with the party. Do you want to go home?”

“Yeah,” Gordon sighed with more exhaustion than a man his age should feel, “I would love that, bud.”

It took some maneuvering to get them both off the floor without tripping over the chunks of HEV suit on the floor, but neither of them seemed willing to let go of each other more than necessary. Eventually, they made it out of the bathroom, Tommy’s hand warm and solid in Gordon’s own. Dr. Coomer looked up from where he’d been punching apart an arcade machine when they entered the room.

“Ah, hello, Gordon!” He said cheerfully. “You appear to have been peeled!”

“Uh, yeah, Dr. Coomer.” Gordon huffed out a laugh, relieved that that was what Dr. Coomer was pointing out opposed to the fact that his face was definitely puffy and tearstained. “Tommy helped me get the suit off.”

“You look very sporting in your jumpsuit, Gordon!” Dr. Coomer said, returning to his destruction of Chuck E. Cheese property. Tommy smiled down at Gordon, and he was suddenly struck by the realization that the HEV suit had given him a couple inches of height because wow, Tommy was tall. Tommy squeezed his hand and looked up to flag down Gman.

“Hello, son. Dr… Freeman.” Gman greeted them both. Gordon nodded at him. The dude still gave him the creeps, but he could appreciate the parental fondness he’d seen him demonstrate for Tommy over the course of the afternoon.

“Hey, dad.” Tommy gave him a slight wave with his free hand, the other still holding Gordon’s. “I- um, this was a really nice party!”

“I’m… glad to, hear it. I, pulled out all the stops.”

“I can- I can see that! But, uh. I’m pretty tired. I-... Can you open a portal to Mr. Freeman’s apartment?”

If Gman thought there was anything strange about Tommy asking to go to Gordon’s home and not his own, he didn’t say anything of it. “Of… course. I, will begin to… wrap things up here before, our, friends can cause too much… property damage.”

He gestured to the nearest wall with very little flourish to show them the glowing green portal that hadn’t been there a minute earlier. Tommy gently tugged Gordon in its direction. Behind them, he heard Coomer call out “goodbye, Gordon!” and then in a flash, they were standing in his living room.

Were this any other situation, Gordon would’ve been embarrassed to show someone the messy state of his apartment without tidying beforehand, but he simply didn’t have it in him to care when his bed was within reach for the first time in weeks. It was his turn to tug Tommy up the narrow stairs and down the hall to his bedroom. They both collapsed on his bed, neither bothering to change out of their bloodstained clothes, which Gordon was sure they’d regret in the morning, but considering he could barely summon the energy to pull the sheets over their shoulders, he decided that was a problem for future Gordon.

Tommy pulled him into his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world, like this wasn’t the first time he’d ever been in Gordon’s apartment, like they hadn’t met less than an hour before the worst disaster of their lives. Gordon felt the soft flannel of his sheets brush against his skin, and he felt the softness of his pillow under his head, and he felt Tommy’s warm body all around him, and he fell asleep solidly for the first time in weeks.

#hlvrai #freelatta #tommy coolatta #gordon feetman #my writing #okay to reblog #I have so many emotions involving these two oh god #shoutout to risk for sending me the post that inspired this and immediately killing me dead #I will probably reblog this with an ao3 link once I get it posted there

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cloudy-dayys · 3 years

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obsessed w ur clef headcanons. do u have any more u can share? (luv ur art btw <333)

i would kill everyone on this planet for you and then myself tysm 💙💙

more clef headcanons (i will not be referencing 4231 in any of my clef posts just because that is very triggering for me, instead im gonna say he and 166's mom met one day when clef was in his late 20s, shit happened (ya know, they fucked), and boom he had to go and kill her and take 166)

· he was never really a child or teen, he was just a monster that happened to break into the foundation's reality one day (i say this bc i cant really imagine him as a child or teen, he's more monster than human and we may never know if he was a normal human that adopted these powers or came from smth else)

· he is both a reality bender and anchor, more so using his bending powers more

· he has many forms, whether the 'human' one is his true one or not is still a mystery, seeing as those he may not be showing his true capabilities or if he has another twisted form that is a lot more powerful

· he may be a rival of kondraki and they hate each other's guts, but he still respects him a lot. clef even met draven (kondraki's son) and admires how konny is a good dad, so he only gives kondraki a hard time and doesn't actually dislike him (clef 🤝 kondraki: good dads and clef finds it cute)

· more than anything, he wants to take meri out on a dad and daughter day. go to the movies, the mall, buy her anything she likes, etcetc. he thinks she deserves to be spoiled rotten (and she does!!)

· but he really dislikes how his daughter is super christian, so if she ever finds out he may be the devil or even states he could be anything satanic or sinful, it wont be pretty on her side

· his face isnt that comprehendible until u personally get closer to him. if ur a complete stranger to him, its impossible to directly look at his face without some sort of problem. it'll seem like static or as if nothing is there, and itll make u want to look away since its too much for ur brain to handle (can make people have headaches or their eyes sore). if ur a pal or a well known enemy of his, you'll see some features like his sharp and terrifying grin, and sometimes his 3rd eye (which will make anybody be in distress)

· he, surprisingly, has a great voice. what makes up for his lack of face or any horrifying features is his voice. sometimes you'll hear him hum a melody or quietly sing a song in his office, he sings more calming songs than anything energetic. if ur lucky enough he'll hop his ukulele out and start singing a wonderful and peaceful song

· he loves guns, but not in a weird way. back to my first headcanon, once he entered this reality and had a somewhat stable form, the minute he found out theres metal shiny things you can hold that make loud kaboom sounds and have many varieties hes like "holy shit!?!? that is so cool!!!!!!!" and its really his comfort item. he usually goes to any open range and practices bc it is a great distraction and he loves holdin em (like a stim!). he cleans em regularly, like a hobby of some sorts

· he's made his own songs before, but he keeps em in private. he may sing em for his daughter though!

· hes more in touch with anomalous beings then regular humans, cause every anomaly thats been locked up by the foundation can relate on something

· "hm. this small anomalous child has no (good) parental figure in their life? well that is clearly my child now. i am their new dad"

· he is very intelligent, you can never prank, trick, or pull any game on him. he can read gestures and cues very easily, and can pick up any weird vibes or feelins within his area

· hes definitely an anarchist, i dont make the rules

· he sometimes wishes he can live a normal life ina suburb home with an amazing s/o and his beautiful daughter and they live happily ever after. then he proceeds with "well where the hell is the fun in that?"

· he has yet to comprehend human emotions, mental illnesses or neurodivergency, he may be able to trick and mess with someone in their head, but being able to fully comprehend human feelings and such is far out of his abilities. maybe one day though

· mess with his friends or family? hes already at ur house bud. there's no saving ur miserable life now

· the infamous 'dr clef can't be affected by anomalous things or properties' still holds very true. he can be affected by 166's powers tho!

· he speaks 4-ish other languages: old greek/latin, german and french. he can gladly try and take up more languages tho, they amaze him!

i have more but i dont want to make this too long and borin for others lol

#ask #tanner talks #scp #dr clef #alto clef

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symptoms-syndrome · 3 years

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What are you using "masking" to mean, then? Because I am not at all talking about making rude jokes to your boss. There's nothing wrong with my natural gestures, way of speaking, & way of walking, but they've gotten me harassed. It's a huge issue for being taken seriously or seen as competent by employers, doctors, etc. It's exhausting & humiliating & stressful to constantly monitor to make sure I don't seem too disabled. Just bc I have to put effort into it doesn't mean it's not due to ableism.

I'll use examples, forgive me for not being as detailed in these sorts of things as I usually am because I'm literally. In a hospital bed focusing most of my energy on recovery.

Example 1:

A child talks extensively about their favorite TV show to their parents' friends, to which the parents tell the child that such talk is not appropriate in that context. Similar experiences lead to someone growing up being extensively quiet about their interests, even with friends and loved ones, because they are keeping the mask they learned to cover what was perceived as wrong or bad behavior. They don't necessarily think "if I talk about my interest people will think I'm weird" (though they might, levels of awareness of masking vary, especially with therapy and exposure to similar people) but the restriction is both harmful to self development and central to the way one acts and perceives themselves.

This is masking (in the autistic sense, and a negative way)

Example 2

You are interviewing for a job. Even though you feel most yourself with a t shirt and jeans, you know you will not be taken seriously as a professional unless you wear an uncomfortable button down and slacks. In the interview, you avoid using words like "dude," "sucks," and "BFF." You suppress your urges to fidget or find quieter, more subtle ways to stim. It feels weird and unnatural to you, and it's a conscious effort with a conscious and clear goal.

Code switching, and a very common thing to do/feel even among mentally healthy and neurotypical people.

Example 3:

A person is at a party. Though they enjoy dancing at home, they feel they'll be made fun of for the way they dance if they dance the same way at this party. Instead of dancing with the fervor and passion they normally would, they just sway back and forth a little.

Later, when they're with their trusted friends, they feel more comfortable and dance in the way they want to and feel comfortable doing.

This is an example of code-switching as well. The context of the situation (in this case, who the person was around) changed their behavior.

Of course I'm not the language police. Just because I don't agree with you doesnt mean no one is allowed to use words in ways I don't. I sorta wish I was, but linguistic entropy is out of my hands. All I do is bitch about it on the internet.

TL;DR masking is consistent, regardless of context of time/place/surroundings, code switching has a driving purpose and/or reasoning that comes from some aspect of the immediate environment. Both can be uncomfortable, both can be done unconsciously.

My primary gripe with the common usage of the word is the idea masking (in the autistic sense) is something that can just be flipped on/off and/or it's simply being a duller or more boring version of yourself, as seen by me in videos where people, for example, show themselves dancing or listening to a song in "masking" and then "not masking" mode.

#again I'm not an authority on anything at all really so you're free to just ignore me if you want #like genuinely #most of my gripes are more about a systemic level thing than individuals and their personal choices

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saurons-pr-department · 4 years

Text

Head Canon Time! Mairon’s Autistic and Melkor has ADHD

So, I mentioned recently that that these two are ASD/ADHD solidarity and I’ve decided to elaborate on that a little. (Is this just me wanting them to be neurodivergent because I am? Yes, yes it is. We’re all about the self-indulgence here)

Mairon:

As we know, Mairon likes order. There are certain ways he likes things to be done or to be arranged. Changes without warning to any of the systems of how Utumno/Angband/Tol-in-Gaurhoth are run distress him.

He manages much better with change if there’s a warning. It’s not unusual for him to change protocols himself with the aim of making things as efficient as possible. Even then though, things just feel wrong for a while and so even though he may be happy with the results of his changes the change itself still makes him uncomfortable.

Early on, he realised that he related to the world and people somewhat differently to his fellow Ainur. Out of curiosity he studied other’s behaviour in order to understand them better. Later on, he used this in depth knowledge of other people’s behaviour in his schemes and manipulations.

Due to often assuming various alias or impersonating other people, he is very good at masking.

He doesn’t mask though, unless his plans require it.

Cold things are a big sensory nope. Just nope.

Fluffy things are a big sensory yes, especially on his face. He finds few things more soothing than burying his face and hands into the fur of one of his wolves.

His clothing often incorporates fur 1) to keep him toasty in the northern fortresses and 2) so that he can touch it throughout the day, sometimes for soothing purposes, sometimes it’s just a nice stim.

He also likes shiny things for visual stimming. It’s a trait he shares with Melkor.

His special interests include illusion magic, necromancy and all things forge related (as in ores, metals, techniques, the history of metal work etc.). He’s written volumes and volumes on his research into these topics over the course of his millennia-spanning life.

Infodumping: In Almaren it was mostly Eonwe he’d start infodumping to. Eonwe had absolutely no understanding of the resources of the Earth and what could be wrought with them, he just liked seeing his friend excited. In the early days Melkor liked to listen to him, but this decreased as Melkor’s condition began to deteriorate. Thuringwethil was happy to listen too, but just like Eonwe and Melkor, she didn’t actually share his interest in these topics. Now, Tyelpe! Tyelpe became equally animated once they got on to their shared love of all things metal craft. Once they got started they often forgot to go to sleep.

I present to you the image of Mairon happy hand-flapping after speaking with Pippin via Palantír and thinking that the Ring was finally within his grasp. Please enjoy this flappy, giggly Maia.

I feel like he’s not big on eye contact. Mainly because I love the power move of adopting the symbol of the red eye for his heraldry. (They want eye contact so much, I’ll give them eye contact! All the time. They won’t be able to escape it! *proceeds to paint his eye on everything* Mwahahahahahahahaha!)

Melkor:

I mean...surely this is canon? [Mairon] thus was often able to achieve things, first conceived by Melkor, which his master did not or could not complete in the furious haste of his malice. Constantly coming up with great ideas and then not seeing them out because you move on too fast is such an ADHD mood. (Quote from Myths Transformed, Morgoth’s Ring)

When did Melkor ever do anything in the Silm that told you he had good impulse control?? (Yes I am talking about the fact that he couldn’t just leave Valinor and go back to Middle Earth and instead had to kill their trees, steel the Silmarils and then nearly get himself killed by a giant spider). Impulse control is Mairon’s job.

Like Mairon, he loooves looking at shiny, sparkly things (including Mairon XD)

Staying still is just not his forte. But he’s not up and about much. He’s just very fidgety with his hands and feet.

He’s full of thoughts. They don’t stop. Sometimes they just swirl round and round and can’t be kept up with. They are always there.

Some hyperfixations he’s had include: 1) The Imperishable Flame 2) the shaping of Arda and all the things it could become 3) Mairon 4) the creation of new forms of life 5) The Silmarils

RSD* baby! He does not take well to rejection or criticism. He often responds explosively.

All his emotions are BIG and yet so hard to pin down...

He has absolutely no sense of time. Immortals have wonky senses of time under the best conditions, but an immortal with ADHD? He didn’t stand a chance. What’s a time?

He’s not good at controlling the volume of his voice, usually on the side of being loud.

He has lots of little hand stims like fidgeting with things in his hands.

He often forgets words and blanks mid-sentence.

He loves to tell Mairon all about whatever new plan he’s hyperfixated on. It’s usually accompanied by lots of hand gestures. He gets quite animated. He really looks forward to the ‘tell Mairon all about it’ stage of plan forming.

I think I’ll stop there because otherwise I would just keep going and going XD

*RSD= rejection sensitivity dysphoria: an increased sensitivity to real or perceived criticism or rejection experienced by many people with ADHD.

#mairon #melkor #silmarillion #sorcha's HCs #neurodivergent dark lords #lads i projected so hard writing this #i have adhd myself but not autism #so if i've gone wrong with mairon let me know!

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silenthillmutual · 4 years

Note

prompt: daniil asking artemiy for a hug/cuddle pressure stim !!! (idk what you call it. but that thing when someone lies on u and it's Good)

he’s about near defeated. daniil feels exhaustion weigh into him on a level he simply can’t describe. but he feels like porcelain, like any little stumble could shatter him to pieces. and he feels, too, like he’s on the edge of tripping, even here in his room with his eye to the microscope. daniil takes off his gloves and presses his hands to his face. he hates the feeling of it all soaking into his skin - the soot, the grime, the dirt under his fingernails, because no matter how clean he keeps there’s always something. but with the gloves it’s worse, one less border to keep the world at bay.

and his hands smell like leather. it’s really neither here nor there at the moment, but his head is spinning. he’s never felt so dizzy in his life, even when his stomach railed at him and refused to let him eat. there had always been a sort of dangerous calm to him then, but here, in this town, his nerves have taken all control. shame starts to coil around his shoulders, around his neck like a noose, and he shivers in his atempt to lose it.

artemy’s steps on the staircase are loud. they feel like they pull daniil back down to the ground, back down to earth. and just when he felt like he was floating away from it, too. he can’t tell if his feelings toward that are positive or negative, but he looks toward the other man as he enters the room with a mind to hide how much he struggles, at the moment, hands tucked between his knees and making an attempt at a smile he’s sure from years of faulty experience does not reach his eyes. “burakh,” he greets.

“we’ve no need for the formalities, daniil. it’s just us.” daniil sighs and covers his face once more, fingers digging into his eyes. the twyre’s getting there too, making every surface of his skin itch. there’s a draw between them with the haruspex moving closer, putting his hand to the top of daniil’s head as if to feel the skin. “you look sick, emshen. don’t give me something else to worry about.”

“i’m not sick,” daniil argues, but there’s no fight behind it. he sighs, heel of his hands pressing his eyes back into his skulls. too much force, and they’ll slip right through the sockets, roll ‘round and come out his mouth. oh, how he detests the image. “i’m just exhausted. no matter -”

his attempt to move is cut short by a finger pushing him back in his seat, pinning him down. “it’s not ‘no matter’,” artemy tells him, “you need a rest, that’s clear as day. so have a sleep. i’ll come back in the morning.”

“i can sleep when i’m -” he stops himself just short. he knows the expression artemy wears before he even sees it. half amused, half bemused and altogether fond in an exasperated sort of way. “well, you know what i mean,” daniil says, but there’s a fracture making its horrid scrape across the inside of his head. he starts to angle his body down more, elbow on his knee cradling his brow once more.

artemy is fixated on him. where he stands is not so bad, blocking out a majority of the light in the room. daniil feels outside of his skin once again, bloated and soaring like a balloon. he just can’t stand it like this. “is there anything i can do to help you?”

“nothing remotely within either of our capabilities,” daniil grumbles. “we’ve both got our plates full, so to speak, and you’re already working on a cure. you’ve stated vaccines aren’t within your area of expertise, and i somehow doubt you’d want -”

“no,” artemy interrupts. “not something to help the plague, daniil. something to help you. and your...what is this, a migraine?”

“nerves.” daniil shifts. he’s not uncomfortable so much as a different, long-distant feeling building up in him. embarrassment, he guesses. but the rate he’s been going at, he’s so worn thin that it almost doesn’t matter to him how ridiculous the words he’s about to say will sound. but only almost. “there are some benefits to the human touch,” he states, and waits for artemy to make some snide remark that never comes. “and in times like this, where i feel so out of my body that i might drift off altogether, feeling alone can... ground me.”

so far, artemy hasn’t laughed at him. but there’s still the thought that he might, and it’s that which keeps daniil from looking up. if artemy so much as looks amused, he might - well, he’s lost control, but restraint will be the next thing to go. he can’t think of what he’ll wreck, but he feels the urge right under his skin. “what do i need to do to help?” artemy asks.

daniil’s fingers twitch. he’s got them dug so the nails flat into the wood of the chair. it’s uncomfortable. it’s another thing inching him closer to the edge, to screaming. “this will sound silly,” daniil says, and as much as he intends it as a statement to warn artemy of his forthcoming request, it feels and it sounds so much more like a comment to himself on the quality of his needs. a way to chide himself, to convince himself he’s above such nonesense. “and i understand if it’s far too much to ask -”

“just spit it out, will you?” artemy asks. “it’s not like i’ll bite you.”

he leans back in his seat, not meeting artemy’s eyes. his lip trembles. “lay on top of me,” he says. he feels the color hit his cheeks as his eyes roam over the desk. but he feels artemy trying to drag his attention back with a wave of his hand, eyebrows up nearly to his hairline. daniil’s not sure if he hasn’t heard, or perhaps simply hasn’t believed his own ears. it’s not like daniil to ask for affection, after all, or to show it as freely as all that. that’s something he thinks he wears about himself pretty openly, and it must confuse artemy to no end that he’s here asking for it now. but he clears his throat and pushes himself to a stand, fingers locking behind his back.

“lay down on top of you?” artemy asks. it’s hard for daniil to get a read on his emotions at the best of times, but artemy doesn’t say the words with any sort of inflection. he doesn’t want to get too comfortable with their rapport, in case the tables turn around on him now. and artemy shifts a little, looking around the room, before fixing his gaze on daniil once again, frown set in place. “no offense, emshen, but -” it’s too much, daniil thinks. too personal of him to have asked. “i think you’d break under my weight.” daniil must be wearing some sort of expression that betrays offense, and artemy gestures. “i mean, look at you! you’re rail thin. when was the last time you ate properly, or slept? if i lay on you, i’ll hurt you.”

“i think i know my limits,” daniil replies, but uncertainty is still etched into the haruspex’s face, and daniil sighs, running a hand over his face. “i can’t explain why it works. going into detail, it would only feel...crude. but the heaviness, it’s like - like my jacket, only warmer!” daniil feels embarrassed, trying to explain it, and even worse with the concerned look artemy’s giving him. he turns his back to the man to remove his shoes, mumbling the words forget it to himself as he does. and he keeps his head decidedly turned, too, as he curls up on the bed, hoping he’ll get used to the feeling of artemy’s eyes on him so he won’t just be laying in a huff, staring at the wall.

daniil doesn’t feel the bed shift behind him, no warning that he’s being joined until body heat starts to press against him. artemy rolls so he’s covered about half of daniil’s body. “i feel like an idiot,” he grumbles, and daniil almost shivers with the touch of his breath on the back of his neck. “am i doing this right?”

“yes,” daniil mumbles back. he shouldn’t be embarrassed, not of this, not in his own room, but artemy’s commentary makes him self-conscious. that happens - and not just here, not just now, but all of the time when they’re together. daniil sort of hates it, how easily flushed and rattled he gets, the way his colleague’s bites make him feel haunted through the day. but only sort of, because no matter how badly it stings the truth is that the fixation is all his own. he can’t blame artemy for it all.

it always comes back down to him. some block he has, as a person. “you’re cold, erdem,” artemy says.

crestfallen, he thinks the term is. stomach dropped to a lower pit. hurt, but in a deeper way than the shallow cuts he’s used to taking and inflicting. “i get told that often,” he says. his fingers curl in toward the palm of his hand, bending his knees and his head toward his stomach. “many people have called me cold. i didn’t expect you to be one of them.”

he hadn’t meant to divulge that last part. it’s a good thing artemy can’t see his face like this. he’s never liked... all that. being open with people. showing them his feelings. it’s never gone well, never could. it always takes him back to an early age, a bitter one. it’s always better to have people think you are cold, show them a stony face and let them hurl their insults than expect better treatment. artemy’s body shifts so his chest is flat to daniil’s back, and he feels fingers curling over the curve of his shoulders. “physically, daniil,” artemy says. without that coat i can feel your skin through your shirt. how are you even moving like this?” the fingers are light enough to tickle his skin as they reach down, grabbing a wrist. “show me your fingers. i need to see if the tips are blue.” in daniil’s line of sight he takes his hand, slotting his own fingers in the spaces between daniil’s, wrapping over the back of his hand. and he is warm, to contrast, his thumb rubbing daniil’s idly. moments pass, minutes, with artemy’s head rested against the back of daniil’s head before he pulls back. “i could fall asleep like this,” he admits.

“don’t let me stop you,” daniil mutters.

artemy laughs at him. he feels artemy’s chest move with it. “you wouldn’t be able to push me off like that. i really would be crushing you, and then we’d have issues.” you’re crushing me now, crushing my hopes, daniil thinks. he’d like to slap himself for the melodramatic thought.artemy slides until he’s back to an only partial cover, arm and a leg still around daniil. the night air grabs at him, but he feels less cold already. “is this alright?” artemy asks, as he moves his hand to grab the back of daniil’s. his fingers cover daniil’s fingertips, forcing life back to them. “is this alright?” he asks.

no, daniil thinks. it’s not enough. but he only sniffs, and says, “it’s adequate.” he listens to artemy sigh, breath skating against the back of his neck. he feels artemy mutter something, perhaps that will have to do for now.

and if they drift a little closer together in the middle of the night, well, neither man says a thing about it.

#ocdkomaeda #icarus.txt #icarus.docx #burakovsky #this is. ooc fluff. i think that's all it is.

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lost-caticorn · 4 years

Text

Autistic Tenya Iida - HC

Why am I still writing introduction to these posts? Anyway, here are the main reasons why I think Iida tenya from Bnha is autistic. If you disagree it’s fine but don’t spread negativity or try to tell me I’m wrong because I don’t care. A lot of autistic people relate to him so let us enjoy this form of representation. I don’t say this for every hc I write but this fandom can be aggressive sometimes so that was the disclaimer.

Fellow autistics please don’t hesitate to add to this post! Enjoy ~

1) hand gestures

One of the first things that caught my attention with Iida was how he constantly moves his hands. From talking to brushing his teeth, whatever he does you can always see him moving his hands in the same particular way. This is clearly stimming: also known as “self regulatory behaviour” is basically the repetition of movements, sounds, visual stimulation. It’s a way for autistic people to calm and reassure themselves, concentrate and express their feelings. (and at this point I’ll just drop here that almost all UA students stim A LOT so there’re all neurodivergent in my opinion).

look at that s t i m m y boi:

And others mention it too:

2) need for rules / order and being too serious:

Autistic people are often told that they’re too serious. We tend to follow our own set of rules and don’t derail from them. Naturally we expect people to see the value in setting rules and we expect them to follow them (it doesn’t have to be universal rules btw just a few of them that we deem valuable). These rules mostly come from a sense of moral or have as a goal to protect ourselves (from sensory overload or social rejection for example). Iida is a character that is portrayed as someone very serious especially when he has responsibilities. He plays his role as class president with dedication and very often calls out other students for them to follow the rules more.

I also liked seeing how he organised him room because... Well everything is perfectly in its place, put by colour and/or size, this room is perfectly tidied. Because we’re so sensitive to visual stimulation, most of us like to have everything put in order so that we feel less stressed and soothed.

3) loud

Iida is very bad at regulating his voice. He’s almost always screaming when it’s clear he doesn’t intent to. This is something a lot of autistics struggle with because we want to communicate but it’s hard to control simultaneously our facial expression, tone and volume of the voice. None of it comes naturally to us so we have to think about and because it takes so much attention we often slip and find ourselves to be too loud, too quiet, having a placid expression, being too assertive, etc... From what I’ve seen iida struggles with this a lot and is told to calm down frequently. Even when he’s not agitated he just speaks too loudly and with a bad timing.

4) gullible

Sadly being autistic often means learning the hard way that people around you lie all the time. A lot of autistic people just don’t see why we would lie. Things are one way and we say it outright while most people twist reality to gain what they want or to make it fit their own narrative. Iida is very gullible and doesn’t seem to realise when people lie to him for their own profit.

Bonus:

5) infodumps

He often talks A LOT when he’s passionate about the subject. This is also common for autistics, we usually are either very quiet or suddenly talk way too much. I’m not sure I’d qualify most things he talks about as “special interests” but his interest in heroes could probably be one. He’s obviously passionate about them but in a different way than Deku which I find very interesting!

Small reminder here: “special interest” is a term used by autistic people to refer to the topics that interest them. When we’re invested in something it’s not just a hobby. For us it becomes an obsession, we think about it 24/7 thus why we have a word for it. A special interest is not only an obsession, it’s a safe place, an escape route if the reality becomes overwhelming, something that gives us a joy and fulfilment.

Also Tsuyu coming from you it’s a bit.... (name one person in that manga that isn’t a weirdo Tsuyu I dare you)

Anyway that’s it for now I hope you enjoyed this short analysis/headcanon :)

I’m sure we can find soooo much more to add here but I just finished reading the manga (up to the new chapters available) and I really don’t feel like rereading everything to add to this ^^

#iida tenya #bnha #my hero academia #autism #autistic headcanon #neurodiversity #neurodivergent #autistic #autistic culture #stimming #special interest

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xerospaced · 3 years

Text

So I’m still seeking to have my BPD diagnosis removed from my health record coz...

Somehow, despite my exhaustive description of events that led to the circumstances I had presented with, the psychiatrist managed to overlook CEN and C-PTSD.

You see, as a fellow woman who happened to be experiencing mood swings, it must be that I had a personality disorder rather than... Oh, I don’t know, let me explore a little more so I can get a clearer idea of these complex issues you’ve presented with. Nope, just straight diagnosis. But ykno, it’s the NHS, you get what you pay for I suppose.

So, I want this shit off my record.

1. I spent far too long relating to content which, yes I did relate to to some extent BUT a lot of which was rooted in very different and easily explicable reasons such as:

2. Presenting as an intelligent young working woman who was well kempt and self-aware, it was never for a moment considered that there may be any other element at hand like, say, oh, I don’t know - a neurodevelopmental “disorder”

3. The overwhelming number of therapists I saw who failed to ever pick up on: - a) My significant (to a point of damn near defiant) lack of eye contact - b) The CONSTANT stimming (not to mention that I even attended many appointments with fidget toys before I even considered that I was autistic or knew I was stimming) - c) The constant lateness to EVERYTHING, the missed appointments, the “I forgots” the I never seem to get anything done - d) SERIOUSLY THE FUGGEN STIMMING - e) [in relation to b & d] The exaggerated use of hand gestures whilst speaking and the many “odd” positions I would find myself sitting in - f) The difficulty in finishing a coherent thought without trailing off and the “less than common” word choices I employed as well as somewhat strange manner in which I speak - g) The varying speeds/volumes/tones/and LITERAL FUCKING accents that would slip out during speech - h) The clear display that I was looking at and taking in everything LITERALLY EVERYTHING in the room All of which was actually clearly indicative of likely neurodivergence and, in actuality, were displays of the functions of ADHD and [entirely likely damn near definite] autism I ACTUALLY have

4. It was easier to sum up as young woman + abuse + mood swings = personality disorder BECAUSE AUTISM AND ADHD IS FOR THE MALES

5. The BPD diagnosis impacted a significant familial matter which could have been avoided had I been adequately assessed.

6. I have to KNOW what I am experiencing in order to request assessment and diagnosis pretty much exists in relation to the scope of my initial theories, ergo: thought I had bi-polar - got diagnosed BPD.

7. Autistic women and those with ADHD are FREQUENTLY misdiagnosed as borderline or bi-polar (so seriously FIGURE IT OUT how could they not think to consider that

8. My academic excellence and advanced mental age/maturity + lack of personal relationships and intense interests were a clear indication that I was not of the “average” neurotypical type mind you would expect to see presenting with a personality disorder. It should not have been assessed as such. This was NEVER taken into consideration.

All in all, I am uncomfortable with my current diagnoses and what it had led to. I spent a lot of time relating to content and people within the BPD community (nothing against that or them) BUT when you relate to a BEHAVIOUR or FEELING and you have ALSO experienced similar abuse/neglect as is typical of that community, it results in coming to the INCORRECT conclusions about WHY you are experiencing and responding to life as you are. Read: Impulse behaviour rooted in “avoidance of negative feelings and seeking positive outcomes” seeming like it fit my individual case when in actuality - Impulse behaviour as a result of adHd [the Hyperactivity in particular] resulting in an “antsy” state which is sated in the impulse decision to LOOK AT PRETTY THINGS and COLLECT THEM ALL (throw in a dash of Autistic special interest in apparel, put two and two together and Bob’s your fucking uncle wouldyalookatthat!) Read: Self-harm as a means of punishment or gratification - actuality: as a reaction to sensory overload and a means of counteracting painful stimuli. Read: Intense anger, emotional outbursts - actuality: sensory overload, meltdown; ADHD rage attacks/irritability Read: Dissociation as a result of escaping feelings - actuality: catatonia due to sensory overload Read: Instability/mood swings - Actuality: Autistic sensory overload; ADHD hyperactivity - impulsive component, under stimulation = increased irritability = mood swings

I could go on.

Anyway. I have a real uncomfortable association to BPD. and, if I am entirely honest, I feel that - though I did learn a lot in my journey of trying to manage what I believed was BPD - I also caused myself some harm along the way. Believing the way my brain is hardwired was something that I could retrain and, even more harmful in nature, rejecting certain aspects of myself that I actually should have been learning to accept as part of my brain function and embracing in order to learn how to navigate life WITH these components rather than forcefully controlling them in a bid to bend them into some factory style notion of “ideal” that I was intended to strive towards in order to consider myself “recovered”.

My entire approach to self, to healing, and to understanding has changed. Developed beyond belief. As a result of finally understanding that the intensity of the emotions I feel, the hyperfocus, the stimming, the ways in which I connect (or fail to connect) with people, the impulsivity, the meltdowns

- all understood and being managed in a way that it’s worlds away from the BPD experience.

And most significantly of all

Learning that the extreme emotions I feel are with me for Life. Accepting that I will always be subject to experiencing sensory overload and that there are ways to manage it that don’t involve trying to rationalise thoughts and feelings but rather recognising the elements that have caused the overload to prepare for or avoid them in future, as well as attending to the need in the moment.

It’s an entirely different understanding of self. And I spent the better part of five years on the wrong path. All coz I was given a label with no consideration as to what else may be at play.

I am comfortable with my understanding of self now. And I am confident in my ADHD diagnosis as well as my understanding of myself as an Autistic woman. I just want the diagnosis gone, because it has done more damage to my perception of and approach to self than good and I no longer wish to carry that inaccurate definition with me.

#that is all #mine #adhd #autism #bpd #misdiagnosis #what a rant #also SORRY IF THIS DOESNT MAKE SENSE #I had to keep going away and coming back coz I was attending to other things and... yeah #I tried to pick up where I'd left off as best as I could each time #not that it matters #I wrote this for me #of course haha #but yeah #autistic #not dx #self-evaluation

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too-scared-to-do-this · 3 years

Text

Odd

I remember a time, when my actions didn’t seem so important. When my hand gestures, or smile type, or tone of voice didn’t make me want to hide behind closed doors and under blankets. But I also don’t remember much from that time.

My life before I was twelve? Before I got diagnosed? Not a lot of memories from there. Not even after, to be honest… I know it wasn’t good. Believe me. Beside the occasional good memories, and the scarily-clear bad ones, I also remember this constant feeling of failure to fit in. Of unimportance. Of ‘odd’.

Well, I guess I am ‘odd’. I’m odd because I’m autistic. Living without concrete proof in a world full of people considered normal. (Although normal is a relative term and it could be debatable what it represents.)

I’m also odd, because of the way I was brought up. A family that is open to anything and dabbles in astronomy, physics, geography, mathematic, robotics, technology and psychology. You really can’t say the Asperger’s syndrome doesn’t come through here, when you sit down for a simple conversation with the members of this awesome family of mine.

If you’re an ‘outsider’, you would probably understand half of what we’re saying. But I grew up here. Listened to all the talk about space and what makes the world go around. What makes humans tick. So, when I ‘got out into the world’ I understood nothing of what they were talking about. Cute boys, girls? Who do I like? What is my favorite kind of music? What celebrity am I the biggest fan of? I didn’t even know any celebrities - many years later I still don’t.

So, I guess I am a little ‘odd’, because out of everything that was offered on the table to me, I stuck with psychology. Learning what made people move, what was their motive for a simple question or a complex action. And the fact that at sixteen I understood more than a sixteen-year-old should, made me stick out again. But this time it was easier to forget how ‘odd’ I was. Because at home I had nothing to worry about - my behavior was our normal. By that time, I even found three friends to whom all my strange quirks and reactions were just a part of who I was. I forgot what it was like to be out of line. Be weird and feel like you don’t belong.

I forgot what it was like overthinking every move, every gesture, every blink or movement of the corners of your mouth and fingers. I forgot what it was like to sit still and awkward in a loud, way-too-hot environment, sitting too close to people, sweaty people, because there’s no space. Breath in second hand nicotine, which you hate, because everybody around seems to just love smoking. I forgot what it is like to be out of place…

And with every day passing this feeling seems to follow me. I can’t sit home alone without analyzing my finger movements. “You’re bending your nail again. Pinching your finger. Playing with your neckless. Scratching your arm. Your leg in bouncing. You’re hyperventilating. Stop it. Stop it before you start acting weird.” And already, my hands are flapping, trying to get all these though away from me. But they are flapping, that is a ‘stim thing’ - you shouldn’t be stimming, that is weird; that is autistic behavior. Stop stimming. I stop. My wrists are banging against each other, painfully - stop it. It hurts and you’re stimming again. The hits land even harder.

And this is an ongoing spiral. Whatever I do, whatever I say - I make myself more and more autistic with every passing second. And I don’t know how to stop these thoughts. How to make myself see that no matter what I do, I won’t be able to erase this part of myself. I won’t be able to stop being ‘odd’ just because I sit on my hands to stop myself from clapping when I’m excited. Just because I physically bite my tongue to not dare to speak up again. Just because I force a smile and make myself enjoy the loud and crowded bar I just got dragged into.

…I just want to go home. But not even home is safe anymore…

I don’t know how to stop my head. How to explain that being autistic is the best thing that could ever happen to me. That no matter how weird or stupid or rude I act, my friends won’t leave me just because I flap my hands around when I’m happy. Or because I bang my wrists against each other because I’m nervous or stressed out. I know I won’t be left behind again.

But how do I explain that to my brain? How do I tell it to stop pinpointing every single thing that makes me autistic? That makes me ‘different’ and ‘strange’ and ‘awkward’ and ‘stupid’? And how do I make it believe that autism isn’t the problem here?

Those times when my autism wasn’t every move I made, every gesture showed or smile flashed; those times weren’t good. Not good by a long shot. But right now, I’d give everything for just a sliver of that peace.

Psychology - the one thing that made me relatively ‘normal’ in most people’s eyes and the one thing that gave me comfort during interactions, that got me my friends; has turned into the biggest enemy of all. It turned my brain against me.

And now I suffer the consequences.

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crimeronan · 4 years

Note

i wanna hear more about your headcanon of declan as autistic (no pressure! only if u want to)

oh ariana we’re really in it now

not all of these bullet points are specifically related to autism bc this just turned into a post about how fond i am of declan. however. autistic declan lynch rights here we go

speech

declanisms

really, keeping a list of action-based conversation starters to meet your goals that all sound like something a caricature of a high-level business executive would say... honey

memorizing clever turns of phrase and the cadence of storytelling

and refusing to ever use this love of language in public lest it make him vulnerable or ruin anything he’s built

having practiced regulating his vocal tone and inflection to make them both as normal and as free of personality as possible

being unable to modulate his vocal tone and inflection when he’s Not actively concentrating on regulating them - speaking impulsively from a place of upset, getting excited about things, etc

physicality

having also practiced his physicality to appear as unthreatening and unobtrusive as possible

mirroring strangers, casual acquaintances, criminal associates

actively schooling himself not to talk with his hands; natural storytelling comes with gesturing and physical involvement

having pleasant conversations and being pleasant to exist around while managing to have absolutely no friends

anxious stomachaches

nervous tics

refusing to allow himself comfortable clothing or a comfortable living space despite seeming to want these things

deciding he can have nice shoes, as a treat (doesn’t have anything to do with neurodivergence i just think it’s cute)

internal emotions

Everything Is Horrible, All The Time, But That’s Fine Because That’s Just How Life Is For Me And I’ve Accepted It

deeply unhappy, deeply bored, deeply exhausted, deeply terrified

given up on dreams and ambitions because they will never be accessible to someone like him (one of those things that in-narrative isn’t autism-related, but sure can be a hashtag relatable feel)

happiness, excitement, joy, any positive emotions are all “dangerous” because they represent a loss of control

zero to one hundred IMMEDIATELY in terms of anger, manic excitement, terror, misery, self-flagellation

constantly self-regulating, compartmentalizing, putting aside, and refusing to act on emotions despite feeling Incredibly Deeply

anxiety

obsessing, catastrophizing, making contingency plans, exploring bad outcomes, regretting past actions literally every single second of every day

aforementioned physical anxiety manifestations

resigned to ronan and matthew’s eventual deaths even when things are Mostly Okay

convinced that if and when something happens to ronan or matthew, it will be his fault

none of these things are autism-related specifically, there’s just something in his repetitive thoughts / methods of self-soothing / ways of internalizing trauma that's..... a feeling

child development

one of those kids who would have been called “precocious”

had developed a system for watching/protecting ronan and trying to convince ronan not to dream things by age five

specific interests in things deemed uninteresting or unimportant

didn’t engage in the same play behavior most kids his age would

got overwhelmed and cried over liking a gift too much

consciously aware of niall’s disdain for him, aurora’s ephemeral nature, and ronan’s dangerousness to himself at age five

some of these things are definitely exacerbated or fully caused by a childhood of emotional neglect and endangerment; autism reading integrates with this rather than replacing it. i strongly feel declan would still have been a “precocious” child with a healthy happy parental upbringing as well

sense of responsibility

extremely stressed by any situation he can’t control

will attempt to control situations beyond his jurisdiction to minimize this

studies so many parenting books after technically becoming ronan and matthew’s caretaker because he has no frame of reference for parenting and does not trust his instincts

“if you want something done right, do it yourself” a life motto by declan lynch

“everything is my fault, all the time” a life motto by declan lynch

“except when it’s dad’s or ronan’s fault” a pretty fair addendum by declan lynch

mental stimulation

so unbelievably bored with his life situation

THRILLED any time he gets to play games or engage in clever conversation - seen a little in his “crime makes me feel alive” vibes, his back-and-forth banter with jordan

won’t let himself get engaged in things because passion feels unsafe

enjoys himself for about one hour of one single night and then immediately starts cracking to pieces about how living in a constant state of mental dissatisfaction is killing him slowly

somehow manages to be surprised by this turn of events

interests

he hides art he loves in a murder attic like a feral cat who refuses to eat in front of people. i don’t even need to get into this

absolutely immediately enchanted to the point of self-labeled stupidity by watching jordan paint

infodumping about art history

trading art interests with jordan bc he’s legitimately interested and excited by what she knows and feels passionate about

this entire post should just be the murder attic. declan oh my fucking god

aforementioned collecting of language he likes

the whole tyrian purple thing. again. declan oh my fucking god

emotional intimacy

craves emotional intimacy but is TERRIFIED of being known and/or being rejected

is convinced he can never and will never have emotional intimacy in his life

has all the stamina of a wet tissue in terms of keeping his emotional secrets when jordan cottons onto them

gets annoyed by relationships with people who want emotional connection but continues playacting through the motions of said relationships in the hopes of being less lonely

comforting people / expressing genuine care

declan attempted to dispense comfort. “everybody dies, matthew”

i have to put attempted to dispense comfort on the list again. oh my god. to declan’s brain, emotional comfort is a vending machine that’s eaten ten dollars in a row and is now falling on him after he made the mistake of shaking it

declan regretted saying anything. [immediately says the worst thing possible]

write your routine, ronan. now. now. write it. write it down. (because i’m worried you’re going to kill yourself but have no idea how to say that so i have to focus on concrete action.)

every time he’s tried to say “i’m worried about you” and instead gone “why are you inconveniencing me this way.” king

having no sense of how to communicate feelings or solve emotional conflicts through talking despite attempting to do these things frequently, AFTER STUDYING OUT OF BOOKS, to his detriment

preferring to take care of people silently and subtly through protecting them and making things easier for them, extremely similarly to how ronan does

irritability

constantly in a low level fugue state of annoyance

runs on caffeine and fumes

very thin patience for anyone else’s inability to stick to plans, manage time, regulate emotion, do their jobs, follow through on commitments, etc

the unceasing “i’m not unhappy. i’m not unhappy. i’m not unhappy” while at work screams of “i am in sensory/emotional hell all the time and checking slightly out of this plane to deal”

loses control all at once, when he does lose control

drains energy like a broken cellphone battery from the effort of combating misery, anxiety, mental overload, boredom, masking all thoughts and feelings

bonus content: parents

the actual in-universe reasons for these things aren’t related to neurodivergence as far as we know, but

growing up as the unfavored child whose interests are constantly ignored or shut down

seeing your siblings get preferential treatment for no reason

being silenced or punished every time you express dissatisfaction or unhappiness or anger

being considered disposable

internalizing the idea that you’re a burden unless you’re worth something to others

that’s a real common lived realty for autistic ppl

bonus content: brothers

i read all three lynch brothers as being on the spectrum and all having different experiences with it

i read matthew as having had the inverse experience of declan, in which he flaps and stims and chews loudly and talks a mile a minute and expresses himself with excitement and passion and bouncing

& he has Not been punished for it or made to feel like it should be hidden

declan’s ferocious protectiveness of matthew is in many ways bc he wants to keep matthew from suffering the same way he has

differing autism spectrum experiences fit neatly into that

ronan and declan’s experiences are in some ways wildly different

in other ways, though

going zero to one hundred on the emotional spectrum, defaulting to anger to avoid fully feeling internal chaos, being unable to understand the other’s feelings or thought processes / making wildly incorrect conclusions about them, preferring to show feelings through action rather than words, struggling to translate genuine emotion into expression without coming across as a dick

they are Very Similar

declan and ronan do a lot of “dog growls at its own reflection” about this because neither of them is more furious than when they see their own perceived shortcomings in the other

i’m positive i’ve forgotten some things and also positive i have not communicated all of these thoughts as effectively as i would like but i have been typing this post for a thousand years. here you go

#trc #cdth #declan lynch #i love my idiot son #suicide m #ableism -#Anonymous

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damnedpmd · 3 years

Text

Prologue 1/2 : New Beginnings

White, nothing but blank whiteness was all Nyx could see. But soon the mist in her vision cleared, and Nyx saw before her a cloudy paradise, large castles of crystal tearing the sky.

Nyx was in awe looking at the scenery, but she was at a loss of where she was, is this a dream? She feels much smaller than normal... Lifting up her arms and looking at them, she notices she had paws, "that's not right... This has to be a dream..." The girl thought to herself.

Eyes move from the paws to see the crystal floor below reflecting herself, she expected to see a blond haired girl with comfortable attire. But instead she sees a cat-like nose, weighed down ears with a green eye on each, and white, pink and purple fur. Was she a Meowstic now? That can’t be right.

The now Meowstic’s thoughts were disrupted by a voice behind her, "Woah! This place is so pretty!!" A brownish Mawile with cute mint clothes hopped up and down in her spot, face beaming and mind clear of an anxiety.

Nyx also takes notice of a purple-orange Zorua lying face down on the cold crystal floor, sleeping behind the Mawile.

"This is all... Very detailed, for a dream." Nyx describes, she looks around more hoping to see anything or anyone else of notice.

There was a brownish, or rather orange Snivy, having come to and standing up straight, muttering to himself in the process.

“Ugh…Note to self… Houndooms are nasty folk…” His eyes seem to widen with realization, “Wait… How the heck am I still alive?!”

The Snivy had noticed a still unconscious, scarred Espurr.

“To loot… Or not to loot…” He seemed to mutter to himself as he slowly approached her.

“Hmm… Against my better judgment, not loot,” The Snivy decides while crossing his arms as though they would go against his head and do it anyway. “She might help me when she wakes up.” He concludes.

A pretty yet strange looking Lurantis looked about, pausing her investigation of the area to help up a newly awakened Morgrem.

He responds to her help by shoving her away harshly, she kept a distance in respect of the Morgrem though hurt emotionally from his reaction.

“My… You shouldn’t be so mean… Where are we?” The Lurantis questioned.

“Fuck if I know, back off lady.” The blue Morgrem with red eyes hissed back at her, making the distance between them wider.

A Braixen was there, sitting and keeping to herself, oddly calm despite the strange situation. As did a male Meowstic, keeping distance from anybody else and anxiously examining the scenery, eyes clouded with distrust, there was no way he could trust anyone here.

The Lurantis tried to approach the male Meowstic, but he threatened to scratch her by hissing and swatting a paw at her when she got close. She questioned how unapproachable all these Pokemon were.

The Lurantis approaches the Braixen next. Having given up trying to converse with the rude Morgrem or the Meowstic with trust issues.

“Dear, do you know where we are?” She asked her. The Braixen spared the Lurantis a glance, then shrugged in a slack manner. “Eh, dunno. But I can tell you who I am though, Linnea.”

“Linnea… Quite the lovely name there. I’m Kaori,” Kaori offered a soft smile in politeness. “I cannot get anything out of those two, though,” Kaori spoke with a voice just as soft, gesturing towards the Morgrem and the male Meowstic.

A bladeless Bisharp, spun his head around looking around, head clouded with confusion. He remembered his bones broken, and the cold stares of a public eyes looking at him as he was left to die.

Was this a dream of the afterlife? He sees the others in the same situation as himself and reasons, maybe this was the afterlife. The Bisharp continued to gaze around at the others, trying to read further into the situation, trying to keep his cluttered mind at ease.

A Frapple groaned, he could barely feel his arms! He puts himself aside to ask an important question. “Where in the world am I?” And then a few other questions. “Where are my items?! Only I can be the one to evolved here! Not them!”

A dark purple Vaporeon wandered aimlessly face scrunched up with worry, he trembled with fear and tears fell like rain from his eyes. He tried to speak but his words were constantly interrupted with stutters, not that he could help it.

“A-A-A-Am... I dead? R-R-Really, really D….D-Dead... Oh wh-what have I done? What did I d-d-do... Oh dear me...” He continued to shiver and cry, unable to bring himself together.

A light purple Braixen sitting just a little bit further from the Vaporeon, was in contrast, much more calmer.

Having accepted this situation and his own fate with a clear head. He enjoyed his own peace on the floor, a peace that felt nice though like a stranger compared to his past chaotic life.

A Zoroark stood silently, they also were shivering like the Vaporeon, but not from fear, oh no, far from that. This Zoroark was pissed.

“WHAT IS THIS, THIS IS FUCKED UP! WHY AM I HERE?! DO YOU THINK I DESERVE THIS?! WHAT THE FUCK.” They yelled, they hated the place and everything in it.

An Umbreon stood emotionless, cold and unaffected by the situation or the Zoroark’s dramatic and loud reaction.

A Mightyena in royal robes went down in a breakdown of laughter... And tears. He only cried and hysterically laughed to himself on the floor like a madman.

“Hey” The Snivy poked the Espurr, “Hey, Espurr, get up. I’m seeing a lot of weirdos here.”

The Espurr stirs awake, glares at the person who had dared interrupt her sleep. “Fuck off” She hisses. “Hmm…That’s quite the mouth you got there” The Snivy comments, not bothered by her attitude.

Nyx looked at all the others, examining them carefully and taking notes about some of them. The Zoroark is probably one to avoid with that sort of temper, a very odd Frapple, a calm Bisharp, both Braixens were rather calm which was suspicious but also did show they had a responsible head on their shoulders, there was also a too-nice-for-her-own-good Lurantis, Nyx noted she would be easy to befriend if needed to.

But in conclusion… They were all very odd but they seemed just as confused and clueless as she was. The more dramatic reactions of the others amused her a bit but also made her more worried.

“Where was I before this...” Nyx flinched at the thought, that's right she died... She sighed to blow out some of her uneasiness.

“What is going to happen now?” She patted the large coat of fur that decorated her neck, the softness was comforting. It’s almost like a portable stim toy, Nyx giggled at that thought.

The Snivy takes notice of the female Meowstic who was lost in her thoughts. He waved and called out to her, “Hey! You there! You’ve been watching us right?” Nyx looks up from her coat of fur to gaze at the Snivy.

“PLEASE, PLEASE I’M SORRY, I’M SORRY FOR WHAT I’VE DONE, PLEASE FORGIVE ME... PLEASE, PLEASE...” The Vaporeon’s emotions all spilled right out, unable to contain them all he cried them all out.

The purple Braixen headed over to the Vaporeon with intent to offer him help and comfort . But seeing the Vaporeon’s reaction, brought up by the Braixen’s own negative emotions he had pushed down, he fell face down to the floor in a breakdown.

And now, in the background we observe a screaming Zoroark.

"Mm?" Nyx tilted curiously, "Yes, I have bee-" Nyx flinches at the loud noise from the Vaporeon and Zoroark, she was tempted to yell at them to shut up. But that would ruin her image so she bit her tongue and turned back to the Snivy and approached him so they would not have to yell to converse.

"Do you have any ideas about what's going on? I'm pretty confused to be dragged out of my normal life to this... Sort of dream-like place" Nyx asked with an awkward smile, continuing to pat her coat of fur to relieve the anxiety.

"No idea." The Snivy answers, shaking his head. "One second, I'm being horrifically burned to death, the next second I'm here."

So he died too before coming here... "Is this the afterlife?..." Nyx in a daze, let her thoughts slip out. "Well, given the scratched up state of Miss Foul Mouth here, I'd say probably." The Snivy guesses with a shrug.

The Umbreon stood, expressionless, but yet, his cold eyes seemed to slowly get colored with fear, his mind was at unrest. He knows what he did, he fears what is to come.

The Mightyena didn’t offer any aid at all, he was sputtering out words in a hysterical frenzy. “I DID IT… I DID IT… AHAHAHAH, I DID IT!... THOSE FOOLS ARE DEAD FOR SURE… AHAHAH… I’M A SINNER… I’M A SINNER…. HAAHAHAHA.”

The Umbreon began to approach the group, away from the group of Pokemon having mental breakdowns, he didn’t wish to be with the group of screaming morons. They ought to be insane with how easily they snap at just about anything. He stood closer to the calmer Pokemon keeping his cold and stoic expression, determined to not let his fears known to the others. He kept his silence, observing all the other ones that were with him in this.

"You want in on the conversation?" The Snivy asks the Umbreon, having noticed how he had approached.

“I rather... Not talk about mine...” He responded avoiding eye contact, last thing he wanted was to think about his death.

The Umbreon kept up the cold aura, but seems that aura goes unnoticed by the Vaporeon, who suddenly ran over and clung to the Umbreon, “OH WHAT HAVE I DONE... WHY DID I DO THAT... WHY, WHY?” More waterfalls fell down his cheeks. The Umbreon hesitantly pushed the Vaporeon away, but he persistently clung onto the arm of the Umbreon like a magnet.

The Snivy shrugs, ignoring the scene with the two Eeveelutions, he kneels down to the Espurr. "So, how'd you kick the bucket?" He asks the Espurr, who still laid on the ground, "Listen here you snake, I don't take orders from you."

The purple Braixen managed to gather himself back together and came over as well, though with hesitation. He approached the group, whilst adjusting his crown and cape. Smiling, he spoke, “... I guess we’re here for a reason... Perhaps? Although I can’t imagine what it would be…”

The other two had calmed down, but it seems like it would be rather best to leave them alone at first... As they seemed to have been through a ray of emotions already.

Kaori moves on to talk to the bladeless Bisharp, finding him approachable and also having no topic to continue speaking with Linnea. "Excuse me, do you know where we are...? You seem at least approachable-"

The Bisharp shrugged, “I wish I knew, last thing I remember was being tied up as they were beating me with clubs... As though I was some sort of pinata”

Being reminded of death, Kaori responds with sorrow, "Oh... That is horrid... I was executed. That's all I remember."

“It was, I knew it was risky to try and join a new kingdom but I didn’t know they were that keen on finding me...”

The Bisharp talking about his past seemed to cause Kaori to mention more of her own. “I murdered my own husband because I was scared of him, the man was abusive,” Kaori explained to him, “I feel so horrible about it...and..rightfully so, I was executed by hanging. Though now....now I'm here.”

“Sorry to hear what happened to you,” The Bisharp bowed a bit.

“It is alright, but.. everyone is so loud…” Kaori spoke quietly, “I'm a bit scared now honestly…”

"Really?" The Mawile bumped into Kaori and Bravo's spaces. "I think it's lovely~" She said with a childish tone. "By the waayyy... What should we do bout that Zorua? She doesn't seem to be getting up. I tried poking her and kicking her, but nothing worked! Is she dead?”

Bravo looked at the Zorua “Maybe just not into this whole thing by the looks of it.”

“I think you shouldn’t bother, Miss Zorua here... You know...” The purple Braixen gave a sheepish smile to the Mawile after sparing the sleeping Zorua a glance.

Having come to their senses and having a stronger grip on their emotions, the Mightyena and Zoroark came over and joined in. The fox seemed like they would snap at any second. While of course the Mightyena seemed to be twitching, but he did a good job of keeping himself under control.

The purple Vaporeon’s tears soon ran out and his cheeks were dry. The Umbreon was able to kick him away as the Vaporeon rolled onto the ground unable to carry his own weight anymore, his mouth spoke up before his brain would follow, mumbling inner anxieties, “What… Have I done…?”

“Shut up and stop being a baby already. Be grateful for being here, you deserve it more than I ever could hope to,” The Umbreon snapped and glared down at the Vaporeon, then snapped his head away from the Vaporeon not caring to look at him anymore.

The Snivy gave a weak glare to the Espurr in response, "Okay, you're rude as heck. I'm gonna find someone else. That Lurantis looks nice, Hey! Lurantis!"

Kaori looked over, being the only Lurantis in this strange place "Hm?" This all was a bit too much for her, but she managed to keep calm.

"These guys giving you trouble?" The Snivy asks, to which Kaori would shake her head, "No not really."

"Well, this is the afterlife, no other explanation. Not gonna lie, I expected more Grim Reapers."

"The afterlife is more lovely than my actual life, so I'm happy to be here I guess.." Kaori spoke, looking up at the clouds and colorful sky, as well as glancing over at the glittering crystal towers piercing the sky, then she turned to the Snivy, "It's just a bit loud, or..was at least…" She glanced over at the loud group, being the Zoroark, Mightyena and Vaporeon, but was careful not to stare for even a second too long. Bravo followed Kaori’s gaze to them, and chuckled, giving his agreement. “Yeah…”

“My life was kind of an asshole, you know. So I don’t mind being here either” The Snivy responded, after also having taken a moment to admire the scenery

"I must tell you, my life was horrid as well... Living with an abusive husband. I never got the chance to raise my own children." Kaori stared down at the reflective ground, at her reflection of a face shadowed with regret and scrunched up with sorrow, “I murdered my own husband, a horrible crime.”

"Eh, I'd say you were justified. When someone's being more of a detriment to you than a help, you either leave them behind or get rid of them. It's common sense." The Snivy tried to offer comfort, seeing the Lurantis’ expression from his short height.

"I hope that man is in hell." Kaori muttered with words dripping with pent up hatred for the man mentioned.

"Well he's not here with us, so maybe. That reminds me, we’re sure this isn’t hell, right?” The Snivy looked up at the Bisharp for his response.

"I don't think it is, and I sure hope it’s not..." Bravo shivered at the thought.

The other Pokemon in the group seemed hesitant to share their past. But it seems like the Purple Braixen came out first in a form of a lil poem... Or well he tried through...

“Long away in a distant land

Lives a kingdom of Trio of Clans

All of them had once become one

shattered friend ends them well

The sole ruler wept and cried

Though he twisted his own mind

‘I’ll take everything, you’ll have none’

Soon the war has become

Shattered thrones come alone

More flags burnt into stone....

Then the king turned his back..

Fallen times... Off his head”

But however, before any of them managed to brew up a response for the Braixen’s story, a new voice joined in.

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sign-from-god-complex · 5 years

Text

Summary: “Patton sucked in a deep breath. His hand that wasn't in Logan's hair clenched as all his other muscles tensed, teeth gritted and nails digging into his palm in an attempt to curb his emotions. Later on, Patton would be glad that Remy lived so far away from them because he was quite sure that if he had been nearby Patton would not have hesitated to take out all of his anger on him—and right now, Patton had quite a lot of anger.”

Or, Logan gets into an argument and Patton just needs him to know how much he’s loved.

(With ADHD Patton and autistic Logan, cause Projection).

Pairing: Queerplatonic logicality

Warnings: Discussion of a past argument, possible ableism, very minor self-harm as a result of emotional overload.

A/N: Thank you, hon!!! I hope this is alright!!! I haven’t written anything in over a week and it felt Bad, but here is something! It’s here! And I hope it’s good.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Patton was sweeping around the kitchen—having entered the room about half an hour before in a plan to make cookies but having yet to actually start—when he heard the sound of the door clicking open. Immediately, he discarded the shopping list he'd mostly been thinking about writing and bounced his way over towards the front door, a smile planted firmly on his face.

The minute he saw his partner, however, Patton stopped dead in his tracks.

Logan was slumped down against the door, head in his head and shaking almost imperceptibly. He seemed to be fighting to keep himself together, trying to project an aura of some level of calm and control despite not even knowing Patton was there—he'd taken a day off and neglected to let Logan know.

Patton felt something inside him crack and he bit his lip, raising a hand to tap against his chest.

"Lo?" Logan snapped his head up, eyes red and watery and Patton tapped faster and bit harder. "Can I...? Am I... allowed...?"

Logan laughed but his smile was more like a grimace, his face contorted in pain from a series of emotions Patton was sure he wished he wasn't feeling. He blinked rapidly, sucking in his bottom lip to stop the way it was wobbling.

"Patton, quite frankly, if you don't hug me right now, I think I might fall apart."

Patton was beside him in an instant, arms pulling Logan's chest against his and wrapping him up as tight and as safe as possible. The idea of Logan so bluntly admitting his wants was jarring and more than a bit concerning.

Logan wasn't great at asking for things. Granted, he wasn't anywhere near as bad as Roman who seemed to deny the very idea of needing help, but he almost never requested anything that wasn't being explicitly offered.

If you didn't provide Logan a drink at your house, then Logan wouldn't drink at your house; if you didn't invite Logan to watch a movie with you, then Logan would remain in his room until the film was over; if you didn't ask Logan to come and cuddle with you then Logan would not touch you because he would assume that it was unwanted. Everything needed to be clear and explicitly stated.

So, the idea of Logan feeling the need to disregard all of that to request comfort was a lot for Patton to process.

After a moment, he could feel Logan exhale, his tense muscles slowly relaxing as tears leaked out against Patton's shirt—something he was sure Logan would apologise for later, even if it was only water and would quickly dry. The quiet around them was interspersed with hushed sounds from Patton and the occasional sniff, paired with the soft rustling of their clothes as Patton rocked them back and forth. He made no move to break the near-silence with any questions; he knew Logan would speak when he was ready.

It took a good seven minutes of maintaining their positions on the hardwood floors before Patton kindly suggested they relocate to the couch.

Logan's limbs were stiff as Patton pulled away to stand up, almost as if he were trying to resist the movement, but Patton quickly grabbed his hand and pulled him up to stand beside him. Patton's motion towards the couch was met with no resistance, Logan letting himself be dragged along as if he were a ragdoll, limbs limp and void of autonomy. He pulled Logan down almost on top of him and again Logan didn't move, just lying there and letting Patton thread his hands through his hair.

"It was an argument."

Patton paused his motions for a moment at the sound of Logan's voice blending into the space around them but quickly picked it back up, not wanting to make his partner worry about his reaction. Logan seemed to take Patton's silence as a cue to continue.

"Remy was... upset that I had corrected him in class and it escalated to the point where he... went off on me—is that the correct usage of that phrase?"

Patton just hummed noncommittally. Truthfully, he wasn't all that sure. Virgil was usually the one to help Logan with all of the current slang—Patton just got by on what he picked up from them and Roman—and he wasn't going to interrupt Logan just to ensure that he'd used a term correctly. He had a good enough idea of what he meant.

"He-" Logan sighed, deep and pained. "He made the claim that the only thing I have "going for me" is my intelligence and considering how atrocious my social skills are, I should be lucky to have any friends at all."

Patton sucked in a deep breath. His hand that wasn't in Logan's hair clenched as all his other muscles tensed, teeth gritted and nails digging into his palm in an attempt to curb his emotions. Later on, Patton would be glad that Remy lived so far away from them because he was quite sure that if he had been nearby Patton would not have hesitated to take out all of his anger on him—and right now, Patton had quite a lot of anger.

He leant down slightly, pressing a chaste kiss to the top of Logan's head. "Love, will you be alright if I just take a break? I just need 5 minutes and I'll be right back."

"That's fine," Logan replied and Patton couldn't hear anything in his tone to indicate otherwise, so he carefully extracted himself from underneath Logan so he could stand. "Are you alright?"

Patton took a breath. He knew that it was helpful for Logan if he identified his own emotions, even if sometimes it felt like an odd thing to do. "I'm angry. I have a lot of pent up energy and I'm not going to be a lot of help until I've gotten some of that out."

Logan nodded in response and Patton knew he understood—they'd both taken breaks on several different occasions, so it wasn't like this was uncommon. Hastily, Patton tugged off his hoodie and passed it over to his partner, hoping that it would be an acceptable replacement while he was gone, before running up to his room.

Patton could feel his rage bubbling up and over as his hands started to flap—harsh, angry gestures that made him screw his eyes up tight. He flung the door of his room open and closed it behind him with more of a slam than he had really anticipated, wincing at the sound and flapping harder for a moment to counteract it. He briefly worried that he may have startled Logan before the thought was cast aside in the wake of all his other emotions.

Resisting the urge to bite at his lip again or dig his nails into his skin he began to jump up and down—something that quickly turned into stomping, the carpet beneath him making satisfying thumping sounds at his feet hit against it. He let out one muffled, high pitched cry before relaxing, sucking in a deep breath and letting it out slow and feeing the tension in his body leak out.

There was definitely still some anger buzzing about inside him, but he was much more okay now than he had been.

He crept back down the stairs to see Logan laying out on the couch, swamped in Patton's hoodie and looking half asleep. Patton wasn't surprised he was so tired—emotions can certainly take a lot out of you and Logan wasn't used to feeling quite as strongly as Patton did. Logan perked up when he saw him, humming and allowing Patton to situate himself with his thighs underneath Logan's head—a good position for Patton to return to his previous stroking of Logan's hair.

A few moments of silence passed before Patton spoke up again. "For the sake of clarity, you want comfort and not rationalisation, yeah?"

"I believe so." Logan's voice was mumbled and tired and Patton tried to not tear up because he cared about him so much and he deserved so much and yet rarely seemed to get it.

Patton wanted to give everything to Logan—wanted him to be safe and comfortable and to feel happy all the time—but he knows the world doesn't work like that, so instead, he settled for trying to make a safe and comfortable place for Logan with him.

"Firstly, Remy was wrong, Lo—so unbelievably wrong. I adore you. And that isn't because you're smart or because I pity you or whatever you're theorising about in that big ol' brain of yours. It's because you're sweet and caring—you offer me the last bit of your Crofter's when I've had a bad day, you bring me my stim toys when you notice that I need one and you buy me cookies whenever you see them because you know how much I love them.

"I like you because you're considerate and kind. You take over for chores I don't feel capable of doing, you indulge me in my silly, half-thought out plans and point out why they're a terrible idea, then patch me up in the aftermath of what is always a terrible idea.

"And I like you because you get me, honey. You don't get upset when I have to leave the room cause things are overwhelming, because they're usually overwhelming for you too. You understand that my disorganisation isn't my own fault and you always try to help me when I have important things I need to do. You let me be me without having to worry about watering myself down for other people's consumption."

Logan at this point had turned his head, his mouth parted, gazing up at Patton with awe and Patton simply returned his look with a smile. Something in him wished that he could hold him but he didn't want to disrupt the comfort the two of them had already established.

"Your social skills are not atrocious, Logan," Patton finished, blinking away the moisture in his eyes, "They're just specialised for a different group of people."

Patton watched as Logan shut his eyes, taking a few deep breaths and making no moves to reply. Patton had removed his hands from Logan’s hair at some point during his speech, using them instead to pick at the fabric of his t-shirt. To remedy that, Patton tangled his fingers back into Logan's hair to resume but was stopped by an almost silent whine from his partner below him.

Patton pulled his hand away from Logan in case the touch was too overwhelming, "Lo? Are you alright?"

"I love you." The words were quiet and wet and Patton let out a breath when he heard them, his lips quirking up into a soft smile.

It wasn't something that was said aloud too often, mostly because neither of them commonly communicated their feelings with words. It was something that was said in gifted cookies and excitedly recounting the most recent chapter of new books, through shared Netflix recommendations and helping the other to bed when they fell asleep where they shouldn't. It was held in between the lines of every sentence they spoke to each other yet rarely acknowledged.

Though, all of that didn't mean that Patton didn't love to hear it.

"I love you too, my dear," he replied, soft and sweet, "Do you want to come up here with me and cuddle?"

Logan began to move almost instantly, shifting so he sat astride Patton's lap with his arms wrapped around his neck and in turn Patton gripped at the back of the hoodie his partner had borrowed, swirling patterns into the fluff and noting the way their breathing synced together. It was calm and it was wonderful, Patton's earlier anger having drained away a long time ago.

Later he would be angry again—confronting Remy for the way he behaved and listening to him apologise more times than he can count—but for now, Patton was content, holding his partner and them both being so sure that they were loved.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

General tag list: @mutechild @super-magical-wizard @shadowsfromthesun @teadays @sandersships @mctaetae613 @autism-goblin @deadlyhuggles6 @romanthestarstruckqueer @whispers-stuff-in-your-ear @that-one-sunfish-with-a-wig-on @sanders-and-sides @spirits-in-my-thoughts @hhhhhhhhhhfjaskfsagfhasfgdsakfsa @autistic-virgil @stopitanxietymain @figurative-falsehood @jadedfantasies231 @idosanderssidespromptssometimes

#sanders sides #sanders sides fic #logicality #patton sanders #logan sanders #queerplatonic logicality #lo can write #1500 milestone

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edencantstopfallininlove · 4 years

Text

Esprit de Corps

Content Warnings: Coming out, epiphanies, hugs, pathetic fallacy, TOOTH-ROTTING FLUFF

A/N: Since my coming-out experience with my family could've gone slightly better, I decided I'd finish this thing that had been sitting in my drafts for a while. Writing it has helped me immensely and I hope you like it! Dhar and I are bi/pan solidarity!

For context, this is set after the endgame, a short while before Heather's graduation exam; the two are staying in Heather's student accommodation. And they have a nice porch!

@selfship-pride

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

"Can I have a word with you? It's important."

Those nine words seemed to come out of nowhere for Dhar. Up until now, Heather had gone about her note-taking on topics that (frankly) eluded him, with total focus. But now, she had placed her trusty book to one side and looked his way expectantly.

Well. Whatever it was, he conceded that it would be better to address it now than to leave it until later.

"Of course," he said, taking the free space on the porch seat. His presence summoned a warmth in Heather's mind; it was a safe feeling, like when a cat curls up in one's lap. It was almost enough for her to ignore the barrage of rain hitting the shelter above them.

But every time she tried to start a sentence, she found her voice trailing off before she could get to the point. Her grayish-blue eyes never seemed to find a place to rest. It was in the middle of this half-rambling that Dhar quietly slinked his hands into hers, squeezing them ever so slightly to get her attention.

"Heather, you're trembling and I can't understand a word you're trying to say. I'm not going to let you speak until you've calmed down a little. Breathe with me."

And so it was, with him leading his beloved through a simple breathing exercise. In through the nose, out through the mouth. As she exhaled, the tension in Heather's head slowly faded into the background. Once he was sure that Heather had reached that natural place of rest, Dhar squeezed Heather's hands once again.

"Better."

"Look," she said, "I know you probably don't want me to waffle on, so I'll just come right out with it." A deep breath. "I'm pan."

Dhar looked at her in silence for a few seconds before cocking his head to one side. "I can't say I know what that means," he said. "Please, explain it to me."

Heather was prepared for this.

"Well, since I was a teenager, I thought I could be interested in, well, more than just guys? I thought about it long and hard - several years really - and I realised that attraction to all these different genders felt more or less the same, so I guess it's not a defining factor. See, some people think that bisexuality and pansexuality are one and the same, and that's not true. I've been around bi people, and I've noticed that some are attracted to multiple genders but not all, and some experience attraction differently for different genders."

She let go of Dhar's hands, stimming by fiddling slightly with the wrist of one of her white gloves. "I hope that's cleared it up, but-"

"You know something?" His comment prompted her to let go and look back up at him. His gaze now carried with it a sense of pleasant surprise. "That last part sounds a lot like myself. I'll admit that I had crushes on one or two men senior to me, but loving them felt different somehow to loving women, and especially to loving you."

"Course it does! I'm the love of your life, aren't I?"

"You don't have to be so blunt about it…" Dhar let out an exasperated sigh as Heather giggled in satisfaction; still, being wound up was worth it to ease the tension. She needed the opportunity to say that. "I suppose that means I'm bi, right?"

"If you want to call yourself that, yes!"

Dhar nodded. Yes, that felt just right.

"Look at you finding a label you can work with! Gods, that makes me so happy… But still, I just hope the way I am doesn't, you know, weird you out or anything."

"Of course not. You're still the same amazing person that I love, and I no longer have any doubt in my mind that you feel the same way about me. We just know a little bit more about each other now. Can I..." Despite himself, his eyes grew misty as he placed a single hand on Heather's shoulder. "Can I hug you?"

"Of course, sweetheart. Come here."

With that little bit of confirmation, Heather found herself wrapped in the comfort of Dhar's strong, but still tender, arms. Instinctively, she returned the gesture, soothing him in turn as they both quietly expressed their mutual relief. How cathartic it was to have each others’ shoulders to cry on... When it was finally time for them to let go, Dhar simply looked back at Heather with a softness reserved only for her.

"Thank you for telling me," he said, voice still a tad brittle from crying. "And if anyone tries to make you feel lesser because of who you are, they'll have to answer to my sword. I'll always have your back, my dearest."

"The same to you, Dhar. No matter what, I'm in your corner." Heather, not content with leaving her partner to deal with the aftermath by himself, leaned in for a kiss on the cheek. He let out a soft laugh as she lightly kissed his tears away.

The rain finally passed, leaving cosy sunlight in its wake.

#selfshipping #self shipping community #selfship positivity #self ship stuff #f/o community #gif cw #pride month #bi pan solidarity #I'll Bury You My Love #I Write Stuff Sometimes #pathetic fallacy is one of my favourite literary devices and I WILL USE IT #pansexual #bisexual #I SPELT THESE WRONG THE FIRST TIME DAMNIT

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aleinnilatibae · 4 years

Note

Repair! Sportarobbie! :D

repair. being confined to bed due to injury or illness and hating every second of it.

This is such a good prompt because NEITHER OF THEM would be good at this, in any way...

Okay this has turned into neurodivergent!Sportarobbie, and you know what? I’m not complaining in the least, thank you indigo.

warning: blood and emergency room mentions

On their first trip to the emergency room, Robbie was PANICKING.

He was trying to hold it together, as the only one in LazyTown with a valid drivers license, while Sportacus pressed a mountain of gauze to his own still-bleeding stomach wound and struggled to breathe through the pain in the passenger seat.

He found himself saying some very un-villain-like things, murmuring things like “it’s gonna be okay, it’s gonna be okay, Sportacus, just hold on, we’ll be there in a SNAP! Just stay with me, stay with me-”

He found himself FEELING some very un-villain-like things while they took him away, a powerful ache in his chest as they whisked him past all of the less-injured people in the ER’s waiting room, down the hall to the triage room.

Oh, who was he kidding. He and Sportacus hadn’t been enemies for some time now, and truth be told? It would be FAR more accurate to describe them as FRIENDS.

Enemies certainly didn’t drive each other to the emergency room, or pace in the lobby waiting for good news about them.

When Sportacus came back after a fretful hour, sporting only a line of stitching across his stomach, Robbie thanked every deity he had ever heard of, and they spend the drive back to LazyTown in pure relief.

“Doctor says rest,” Robbie said gruffly.

“I will!” promised Sportacus, walking gingerly up the ramp into his airship.

And then Sportacus ripped his stitching out doing a flip, and it landed them in the emergency room a second time.

He smiled sheepishly as he bled all over their tile floor, and apologized to the people who patched him up a second time.

“PLEASE don’t do this again,” Robbie said on their way home.

“I won’t,” Sportacus promised.

On the THIRD trip to the emergency room, Robbie was--well, he was still worried, because tearing stitches HAD to be painful, and dangerous to boot, but mostly he had had it up to HERE.

“Robbie, you really don’t have to go with me this time, I can handle it-”

“No, Sportacus, I want to hear it! I want to hear you explain to this nice lady right here-” he gestured at the receptionist, “-AGAIN, why we are back in the EMERGENCY ROOM for the THIRD TIME!!”

Robbie crossed his arms, and waited.

Sportacus sighed. “I...I had some stitches put in my abdomen, and they got, ah...accidentally torn out. Again.”

“WOULD you like to tell the lady....HOW they got accidentally torn out?!” said Robbie.

Sportacus sighed. “I was doing a flip,” he mumbled.

The receptionist heaved a great sigh, suggesting that she wasn’t paid enough to deal with this.

“Also I am bleeding a great deal, so...I would appreciate it if you could, ah...get me checked in,” asked Sportacus, very politely for a man whose bloodstained shirt was growing more and more bloodstained by the second.

The ride back was...tense, to say the least.

Robbie parked outside of his lair, to the surprise of Sportacus.

“I don’t trust you in your ship,” Robbie said, by way of explanation, “You’re staying with ME this time.”

Robbie lead Sportacus carefully through his lair, to his own barely-used bed.

“Now THIS time,” Robbie said with a beleaguered sigh as he helped Sportacus climb into the bed, “Could you. PLEASE. Stay! Still!”

“I’ll try my best,” Sportacus said carefully.

“N-no! No try! You-y-you-” Robbie sputtered in frustration, then regrouped, with a different tactic.

“If not for yourself, could you do it for ME?!”

“For you?” asked Sportacus.

“Yes, for ME!” Robbie exploded, “EACH time we have gone to the emergency room, I have to CHOKE DOWN the FEAR that THIS is the time that you’re going to BLEED OUT, or get an INFECTION, or-or-or-” Robbie choked down a sob.

“So please, for my SANITY,” he said, holding onto his temples, “Can you STAY! IN! The BED?!”

Sportacus looked at Robbie as if seeing him anew.

“I’m...I’m sorry, Robbie,” he said quietly. “It’s just...I can’t STAND staying still.”

Robbie took a deep, steadying breath. “Yes, I had FIGURED OUT as much,” he said, “After living in this TOWN with you for years. But you’ve...you’ve GOT to.”

Sportacus stared down at his thrice-repaired abdomen, then heaved a despondent sigh.

“I don’t think I’m going to be able to do it,” he admitted quietly. “I don’t want to hurt you, or-or hurt ME, for that matter, but...it HURTS to stay still, for any length of time. It crawls underneath my skin, like-like-I don’t know what. And when the ah...pain gets strong enough, and it outweighs the risk of the stitches tearing...I’m going to move.”

Sportacus scrubbed at his eyes, looking defeated.

Robbie on the other hand, stood slackjawed as he FINALLY understood.

Of course! Without his flips, that Sportaflippity was understimulated! And while the urge to do a flip was VERY alien to him, Robbie understood the skin-crawling feeling of understimulation like the back of his HAND!

“Sporta-all you need is a different outlet!” Robbie exclaimed, turning heel and running excitedly through his lair, HOPING that Sportacus would stay still while he lugged back this enormous purple box.

“What we NEED is ALTERNATIVES!” he said as he returned, taking the lid and tossing it behind him, ignoring the crash as he rummaged through the box. “And boy, have you come to the right PLACE!”

“We’ve got...a heavy blanket! No, no, no pressure on your stitches, but--still could be used for those restless legs, I’ll put that one in the MAYBE pile. But I have a whooooole bunch of stim toys here, that don’t involve your body at all!”

“Stim toys?” parroted Sportacus, looking quite overwhelmed by Robbie’s sudden excitement.

“Of course! I NEVER leave the house without one or two, these days!” Robbie babbled, “You should have SEEN how much my last bill to Stimtastic was, whoo-EE!”

Sportacus was still staring at him like he was speaking a completely different language.

“But anyway,” Robbie cleared his throat, “I figure a guy like you....”

He rummaged, down to the bottom, to the things Robbie himself very rarely used but suddenly lit up in his mind as VERY USEFUL.

“Here,” Robbie said, tossing a ball to Sportacus, “Check THIS out.”

Sportacus caught the knobbly rubber ball effortlessly, examining the texture of its dull rubber spikes by tossing it from hand to hand.

“Oh, that’s nice,” he said, in surprise, rolling the ball over the bare skin of his arms with obvious satisfaction on his face.

“Oh, there’s PLENTY more where that came from,” said Robbie, tossing item after item on the bed.

“This one is supposed to be a hand-strengthening tool, but I don’t really like it much, it hurts my JOINTS, heh heh,” Robbie said, placing the item within Sportacus’ reach, “But you haven’t LIVED until you’ve used the snap-and-click! Oh, and you might appreciate THIS! It may seem ordinary, but if you roll it between your hands, you will see that it turns to-”

Robbie spent what seemed like hours, explaining and explaining,and was certain that Sportacus would try to make a run for it, but he was...raptly attentive the entire time, asking questions, trying out the things Robbie talked about, keeping that same knobbly ball in his hands the entire time.

“I...never knew that there was another way,” said Sportacus quietly, at the end of it, “To solve....that problem. I never even...considered it.”

“Boy do I remember THAT feeling,” Robbie nodded.

"Want to know what I’m feeling now?” Sportacus asked.

“What?”

Sportacus looked up and gave him a smile. “Hopeful.”

Sportacus reached out his arms for Robbie.

“There’s no way that I’m letting you hug me with TWELVE STITCHES in your stomach,” Robbie warned.

“Not going to,” Sportacus said, drawing Robbie in by a hand and planting a kiss on his cheek.

“Thank you,” Sportacus whispered.

“Hrgh,” garbled Robbie, feeling suddenly disarmed.

Head spinning, heart thumping, he picked up one of the stretchy noodles and nervously wound his hands in it. “W-well, I’m GLAD you’re hopeful, because if you tear your stitches out ONE more time, I will re-stitch them MYSELF! And, I won’t be NICE about it!!”

Sportacus chuckled, “Okay, Robbie.”

Robbie harrumphed, but he still built up the courage necessary to kiss Sportacus on the cheek before he ran off, muttering excuses about finding his knitting needles and forcing Sportacus to learn a LAZIER hobby.

Only problem was, he just couldn’t stop SMILING while he was doing it.

#indigowallbreaker #sorry if i am medically wrong on any of these fronts #this did Not go through the patented Aleinn Editing Process #wrote it just today

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