#I cannot draw wheelchairs for shit

[irondeficientf3r0ck]

im so so excited im doing a wip of @son1c ‘s OC Jack fighting my OC Kyle (THEY ARE KICKBOXING!!)

look at this smug rabbit >:3c

I have not drawn my OC in a hot minute 💀

he is usually in a weird limbo of how “mobian” he looks bc the only kangaroos in sonic media do not look very mobian, BUT there is a wallaby that DOES have that mobian style

[artsycloudysleepy]

2/2

(psst @mrrotten @mylackofgrammaristerrifying @nyenylon this tag list is slowly growing and that terrifies me /pos)

(it's not all OCs this time but i'll upload smth 100% OCs soon! also should be added this is completely non-canonical now!! my babies have grown up a little bit <3)

Plus my cat (Velma) <3

notebook: 2021-2022

sooooooooooooooo i decided to upload every notebook i fill out to tumblr! my current one (2023-present) will be uploaded in mid-late 2025 probably, so this is my notebook from 2021-2022!

however: this was kind of a diary, i have drawings from friends in there that haven't consented to having them online, and one of the people who drew in it isn't someone i still speak to. as a result, i have blotted these things out for our privacy and my general comfort. if i notice something i've missed, i'll edit!

1/2

[justarandomlambblog]

I was possessed by a thought

Modern-ish au but in a "thousands of years post-canon universe"

In which Lamb did not spare Narinder and when they saved the Bishops from Purgatory, actually put them to rest (aka sent them to the After) and oops, the Bishops + Narinder accidentally reincarnated while the Lamb wasn't watching

(Part 2 here)

In this life, the Bishops are still siblings and all were born with magic; Narinder became a priest, and though the other Bishops were raised in the temple alongside him they chose to pursue careers outside of the priesthood. Heket runs a restaurant (of course), Kallamar makes jewelry and sells crystals (he has healing magic so his crystals are literal healing crystals :) ), Leshy is a gardener and Shamura runs a bookshop (I'm sure you're noticing a theme here- their past lives are affecting their new ones). Their past lives' injuries have actually carried over, only instead of being injuries they're disabilities they were born with; Shamura their memory issues, Kallamar is deaf, Heket is mute, Leshy is blind, and Narinder has chronic pain (he WAS in chains for a thousand years, his muscles were ATROPHIED and his joints destROYED, and you cannot convince me otherwise). Not shown here; Narinder also uses a cane and on his really bad days a wheelchair.

Heket: Get a whole pumpkin Narinder, who can't lift more than 20 pounds:

Why do Narinder (and the Bishops) look the same and have the same name? Well. The world may have forgotten them, but the universe hasn't.

Aym and Baal are immortals from their time in the After in this world, and though at first they were resistant to helping the Lamb, eventually they saw they needed Help™ and had no idea what they were doing, and having been witness and aid to Narinder's job for centuries they knew how to help. Over the millennia they fell into the old familiar role of being the guardians of Death (Forneus is also an immortal so don't worry they're not separated again) and are in a constant state of Done With Lamb's Shit (/affectionate).

... I actually really love how Lamb turned out here. It was fun drawing them Older. And quite a flip with making them look older than Narinder. The society that's been built up is still religious but no one recognizes Lamb because they've changed so much over the last two thousand years, and the fact they're a sheep doesn't raise any red flags as sheep have migrated to the Lands from other continents. They're rare but not unheard of.

The Crown fits in by disguising as various types of pets, though no matter its form it always has one eye. This time it's a bird, and it recognized Narinder from a mile away :) The mind forgets but the soul remembers....

[wederyed]

Your headcanons are so interesting! Can you elaborate on some parts, like Yinyang’s other alters or tissues chronic illness? It’s fine if you don’t want to! Also I heard you wanted drawing requests? I hope it’s not too much but maybe your take on the additional alters of Yinyang would be great to see!

ooooo okok bet (sorry this took so long to answer, i sleep a lot LOL)

ok anyways before i get into yinyangs alters, i myself am a system but am not chinese, so if i am accidentally insensitive or offensive that was not at all my intention and appreciate being let known about it

OK FOR REAL ANYWAYS in my mind yinyang has three other alters: lucky coins, red slip, and mystic knot.

lucky coins (they) are the little of the system, fronting not as often as yinyang but come around mostly at night, especially when candle is visiting the hotel as she acts as their caregiver.

red slip (she/he) holds a lot of the traumatic memories yinyang have gone through. while yang has some of those memories, hence his aggressiveness and (in my mind) role as a protector, red slip withholds everything that has happened and almost never fronts as a result. when they do, it is only when yinyang go through extreme stress and have someone like candle, cabby, cherries or tissues with them to comfort

mystic knot (she) never fronts, regulating the inner workings of the system. before candles help, she would do her very, very best to help yin and yang cohost together to no avail due to their constant bickering and chaos, but after iii finally can help them both regulate fronting along with the other members. i know theres a name for this but i cannot navigate the plural-pedia for the life of me :sob:

here are their designs!!!!!

now for tissues!! i feel that tissues has one of those chronic illnesses that is so rare it does not have a name, and with the accent his congestion gives him he would just start calling it his "condishawn" as an actual name, a sort of inside joke with himself and his doctors, and is why hes always correcting everyone lmaoo

im not an expert on chronic illnesses, but realistically its probably a BUNCH of illnesses stacked on top of each other. like. vertigo and vertistop?? 100% has more than one, poor guy...

without a doubt as i said before he suffers from a lot of fatigue, needing many mobility aids such as a cane and wheelchair depending on how bad of a day it is for him. however, i feel like hes probably a little stubborn about it? like some days even if his physical pains are flaring up a shit ton he will still act like everything is a-ok and walk around, sometimes even collapsing from it for someone to find (typically yinyang or trophy) and having to be carried back and forced to rest

ty for asking!!!

[osmanthusoolong]

This reads exactly like what happens when the worst person you ever met learns therapy language

““The city must keep the needs of all residents in mind when it comes to its bike lane plan, said resident Sharon Danley, at a news conference Wednesday organized by the Downtown Concerned Citizens Organization.

"Bike lanes restrict road space," Danley said. "Bike lanes have turned streets into parking lots, with residents unable to shop, get their kids to events, and seriously impact emergency services and Wheel-Trans."”

Yes, I’m sure you’re suddenly really giving a shit about disabled people. Truly.

…

“Danley said in her view the bike lanes are also having an impact on seniors and people with disabilities, forcing those who take the bus to walk further than before and making Wheels-Trans pickup "unduly risky." Vehicles cannot park close enough to the curb to extend their ramps over the sidewalk due to the bikeway and people in wheelchairs are affected, she said.

"Bike lanes prioritize able-bodied young male cyclists while ignoring seniors and the disabled who can't cycle. Yet we are supposed to be an accessible city," Danley said.”

Considering that most cyclists I see out on the streets, in all weather and all times are delivery drivers, it seems like in addition to pretending to care about disabled people, I think you’re actually also just mad at seeing POC in your neighbourhood, Ms Danley

“An internal report prepared for the province said based on previous research, bike lanes reduce collisions between 35 and 55 per cent for all road users — not just cyclists.

And during public consultations for the bike lane on The Esplanade, the city says 74 per cent of respondents said they agree or strongly agree that the bikeway would meet the goals of the project, which were to improve safety for everyone, make walking, cycling and taking transit more attractive and maintain access to local and citywide destinations.”

Lmaoooo oops, sorry “Downtown Concerned Citizens Organization” yuppie scum, nobody actually agrees!

[its-blip-on-the-radar]

Not to shove my old art in your face but I am losing it over how I used to draw myself before I processed I was trans. I tried to hyperfeminize myself so much. I was DEEP in that closet holy shit.

I'm still struggling to draw myself with my mobility aids, the only example I have of me using my mobility aids is the blue feminine piece above in my wheelchair and one comic where I show myself using my cane. I use a rollator nowadays but my ability to walk is starting to decline again.

Anyways have some more recent art from how I draw myself, just so you also can see the difference lol.

Big addendum I know transguys can be feminine, I cannot be feminine however it is a pretty bad trigger for me. I straight up refuse to wear pink or purple anymore, like it's bad. And not something I really wish to "overcome". It's a strict boundary of mine that I will never dress femininely again. So take that for what you will.

[echho]

1., 11., 30., 38. and 40. for the ask please.

And bonus one if you don't mind, what's up with the wheelchair ghoul art?

goodness gracious that's an Amount!! thank you ŋ you never disappoint

1. How long have you been a fan of Ghost?

oof. starting off strong. umm

actually no idea because i think i knew some of their songs and about the aesthetic and everything before but i actually became interested in the lore and started listening to their music less casually during the moac boom. so like. idk. two years? one and something? no idea. sorry :c

11. What is the most underrated song?

HA i'd say zenith solely because it was pretty unknown but now that it's available on spotify and stuff... la mantra mori? i know some people don't like it for how repetitive it is but. it's literally a mantra. and idk it reminds me of copia SO MUCH because like. you share not the blood of ours?? thus we focus on your death??? yeah. slaps

30. How long did it take you to fully understand the lore/names/history of Ghost?

again, idk how to count it but like. a couple of weeks MAX after i first became truly interested during the moac boom. i was severely hyperfocused on that shit hahshd

38. What's your favorite theory?

terzo is still alive/will be resurrected because i fucking miss that fucking sexbomb uh

40. How did you discover Ghost?

half-answered earlier but before the moac boom i knew ghost because of my ✨ music hunting sessions ✨ (where i used to open youtube and just click on random songs until i found a whole new playlist of music)

also we don't speak about the long forgotten wips, ok? ok.

(jk. the thing is,, i tried drawing it on paper but couldn't get the proportions right, so i tried digitally but it's so much harder because i'm not that proficient in digital art and just. cannot get it to look like i want it to look. so brain said nope and now it's sitting unfinished between other projects on my pc and i just cannot see myself actually sitting down and getting the work done in the near future. because you know. brain evil because brain want perfection. but i thought about drawing more crutches rain and/or fiNALLY FINISHING THE GHOUL FIC!!!!!!!)

[huntershowl-moving]

BE STILL.

PERSEPHONE'S THOUGHTS stop in their tracks as the words, not her own, ring clear in her mind. it is and isn't a voice. she does and does not hear it. as if i have a fucking choice, thinks she in response — if he can read their mind, he will hear her.

enough moments have passed in this howling storm, trapping them both in its eye with not another voice, face, or body in sight, that the ozone smell begins to lose its grip on her. persephone struggles for breath once; twice; the third time, her throat relaxes enough that she can once again suck air into her lungs. but she still cannot move.

the grip on their wrist is strong enough to ping the pressure sensors in their arms. the feeling in them is akin, more or less, to wearing a thick glove: they can sense impact, temperature and grip, but sensation through the skin is rendered impossible. it is not often that they can feel.

they feel, now, even as it eases slightly. a bead of sweat rolls down their hairline, cuts across a knife-sharp cheekbone. pale throat bobs in a hard swallow. the rage has not subsided, nor has the fear that roils sickeningly thick in her stomach; but she can think through it.

what are you? that infernal fucking not-voice again, reverberating in the base of her skull. fuck off, comes her pushback.

it barely takes a second. it feels like a hand reaching down her throat. any panic that was beginning to subside surges back into the cavity of her ribcage with a vengeance as the monolith pulls at the threads of memory, dips his hands into the stygian depths and comes back up blackened by knowledge.

the hands, from earlier, the source of that fear. the long slash across their neck, made with the mouth of sewing scissors shaped like a delicate bird. the owner of those hands, the clash of body and body. the hard strike of knuckles across the face; a black eye covered expertly by makeup for the next event. a hand resting on her waist as they speak to another pair; a finger pressing into a cracked rib, just so. skin, sweat. lips, teeth. all of it pain. ( CLAWS AND TEETH AND SPITE. this is the pain that birthed them. the fear of body, of lips and teeth and hands. )

the arms are a different story. he picks up on that. persephone's body is trembling by the time it ends, the voice from before — gentler, now — cutting through moments she hoped to forget forever. shit. they can't stop fucking shaking.

who, then? asks he.

fletch never taught them how to resist this. persephone tries; she tries, but the hound does not yet know to take hold of this infinite thing herself. to push back with it. the flash of memory: the twins are eighteen, making a run for it in the night. seph at the controls, ready to fly — she wasn't the greatest young pilot, but she knew the basics and that was enough. then, a blackout. a long, dark blur of repressed memory, barely comprehensible until the moment persephone screamed, yanked against medical restraints to try and stop amari fletch from taking her brother's eye.

she couldn't stop them.

this memory is a knot: a bundle of confusion and suffering, guilt chief among the emotions gathered within it. fletch's hand gripped her upper arm, the other planted firm upon her shoulder, and tore her in two with the force of a ship's hull. both sides in quick succession, the sickening flesh-noises drowned out by screams.

it's all very white and dreamlike. faces melt; environments bleed into nothingness. it blurs together, other than the onslaught of pain, which they could not forget if they tried.

somehow, however, this turning point has less of an effect on her than what he saw prior. remembering the loss of her arms, persephone's nervous system slows to a calm, steady state. the only thing that upsets it is the image of her brother. but fletch — fletch, drawing blood; fletch explaining the prosthetics; fletch taking her wheelchair to the garden and naming each flowering plant they passed; fletch, teaching them to fight in the sparring grounds and to waltz in the ballrooms; the pain is overwritten, washed out by slow-built loyalty. devotion. she was at her lowest and they rebuilt her, piece by piece. how could persephone feel anything but love for the hands that cradled their face and told them you will be perfect for me?

their head spins. it feels as if they've been hurled through hell and back again. only now do they release the stuttering breath they've been holding. still not aloud — persephone's not sure if she could speak, even if she tried. let go of me. they need to retreat. escape. take fletch by the hand and leave.

Be still.

It rolls in through the ozone on all shades, palpable, colorless. He fills the nothing, however scarcely, with substance enough to point her to him. To something like the ground. His voice finds itself inclined to a velvet swathe; parts toneless, parts smooth.

Her blind rage scribbles a fiery pace in the sockets of his eyes (if eyes he does have), ant-biting the fringes of everything. This void betwixt them.

He should like to see it at a steeper angle. Others might be reminded of snowglobes, this way that Ren draws gazes like refractions through her.

It doesn't have heart, murmurs the bodiless voice. Breath, growling, in the belly of her fear. You won't make it bleed.

But try. Yes, try.

Somewhere inside—a step within his wonder, a leg up on his erudite realm—Ren gives, in but margins, to her memorial styx and her dread. The jaw around her wrist fixes, while there a modicum of his constriction goes, easing, swirling round the cyclone of her drain. Leading with the footfalls of a follower.

Perhaps a void can open its arms.

What are you?

Ren's cyclopic eye, theirs nigh-level, glitters with answers—what she is has already begun to whittle at him. Claws and teeth and spite and pain. Pain.

Mm. . . . There is music in her past, where her pupil constricts on what it knows; and there are bones, and screams. No. He did not take your arms.

The monolith is almost gentle.

Who, then?

The one from beyond allows them speak, but they are like an insult. Peran keeps himself like the eternity inside a tree. He waits thus fixed.

“he does not like you, watching one.” Vermis has since staked her place atop a table, and now idles between these two worlds. fffear everywhere but in her heart. She, like Peran, is sulking. Both patient for their master. “he has had to watch you. I couldn't be made to do something so plain. it is reasonable, then, his silence.”

Peran pretends to have forgotten his ears.

[genderqueerdykes]

so. odd question.

i’m a transmasc drag queen and my drag is like. super weird? i do weird shit. and i’m disabled so dancing and voguing isn’t always a performance option, most times i want to just stand there and sing. is my drag still valid? i feel like it isn’t sometimes

hello there! thanks for taking the time to stop by!

oh, definitely! that's a very cool and fun way to do drag- drag should be accessible and tailored to the individual artist that is performing. if you physically cannot do those things, that's okay! some queens just stand and sing, just like you, it's okay too if you need to sit in a wheelchair or use another type of mobility aid

honestly, i encourage more drag artists to involve their mobility and accessibility aids in their drag. bedazzle your cane, let your crutches be a part of the look, and so on. drag has always been about pushing the limits and barriers of what is "acceptable" and drag has always, always been about being thought provoking, so i think you should tailor your drag to how you will feel the most comfortable given your disabilities

if you wanna sing, sing your heart out, gurl! you don't have to dance, just let us hear those pipes and give a wink or two! i believe in you, you can make your performances yours, you don't have to throw yourself across the stage or dance across the whole room. sometimes you can draw all the attention in the room just by being there. sometimes not being able to cover as much floor space adds up to having a personality that fills the room

anyway, i believe in you! i hope you have a good time when you do perform. you deserve to have fun and be yourself! feel free to share any looks or anything like that! take care, stay safe, have fun!

[sublimespices]

Help two trans bitches (one of whom is severely disabled) move

Me and @pf2e live in a shitty studio apartment that already costs $800 a month and our rent will be increasing next year by a whopping $75 for a month-to-month lease. We can hardly afford this apartment as is and I've scoped out two that are significantly cheaper. We will easily afford rent in either of those apartments but we cannot afford moving costs as I recently had to clear out our savings to buy a wheelchair and we don't have enough savings even for the security deposit let alone application fees, first and last months rent, renting a U-Haul, giving a friend gas money, etc. to get out of here.

I'll draw pretty much anything for people's donations, and I can also do hand crafts, etc. Marcy does tabletop design work as well. We don't have a huge support system locally and I can barely walk around my own home. I have EDS and scoliosis and struggle with daily tasks and living in this tiny apartment doesn't make things easier as I'd like to get a power chair one of these days with help from my doctors and we just don't have space for my mobility aids, our clothes, pretty much anything. My ankle is also sprained so I've been out of work for far too long.

TLDR; this apartment sucks, it's too small, and we need somewhere with at least one bedroom and a dishwasher

I'd like to raise at least $2500 if possible. Thank you for reading, and if you need any sort of proof of our shit situation I can definitely provide. We have a bit of cash but that's all we've got as far as savings.

pp.me/dollitea

pp.me/skcb

c*shapp $sweetvalentines

v*nmo @/cryptqueen

0/$2500 raised

[wolfstar-in-color]

July Colorful Column: Remus is a Crip, and We Can Write Him Better.

There is one thing that can get me to close a fic so voraciously I don’t even make sure I’m not closing other essential tabs in the process. It doesn’t matter how much I’m loving the fic, how well written I think it is, or how desperately I want to know how it ends. Once I read this sentence, I am done.

It’s written in a variety of different ways, but it always goes something like this: “You don’t want me,” Remus said, “I am too sick/broken/poor/old/[insert chosen self-demeaning adjective here].”

You’re familiar with the trope. The trope is canonical. And if you’ve been around the wolfstar fandom for longer than a few minutes, you’ve read the trope. Maybe you love the trope! Maybe you’ve written the trope! Maybe you’re about to stop reading this column, because the trope rings true to you and you feel a little attacked!

Now, let’s get one thing out of the way right now: I am not saying the trope is wrong. I am not saying it’s bad. I am not saying we should stop writing it. We all have things we don’t like to see in our chosen fics. Maybe you can’t stand Leather Jacket Motorbike Sirius? Maybe you think Elbow Patch Remus is overdone? Or maybe your pet peeves are based in something a little deeper - maybe you think Poor Latino Remus is an irresponsible depiction, or that PWPs are too reductive? Whatever it is, we all have our things.

Let me tell you about my thing. When I first became very ill several years ago, there were various low points in which I felt I had become inherently unlovable. This is, more or less, a normal reaction. When your body stops doing things it used to be able to do - or starts doing things you were quite alright without, thank you very much - it changes the way you relate to your body. You don’t want to hear my whole disability history, so yada yada yada, most people eventually come to accept their limitations. It’s a very painful existence, one in which you constantly tell yourself your disability has transformed you into a burdensome, unworthy member of society, and if nothing else, it’s not terribly sustainable. Being disabled takes grit! It takes power! It takes a truly absurd amount of medical self-advocacy! Hating yourself? Thinking yourself unworthy of love? No one has time for that. 

Of course, I’m being hyperbolic. Plenty of disabled people struggle with these feelings many years into their disabilities, and never really get over them. But here’s the thing. We experience those stories ALL THE TIME. Remember Rain Man? Or Million Dollar Baby? Or that one with the actress from Game of Thrones and that British actor who seemed like he was going to have a promising career but then didn't? Those are all stories about sad, bitter disabled people and their sad, bitter lives, two out of three of which end in the character completing suicide because they simply couldn’t imagine having to live as a disabled person. (I mean, come on media, I get that we're less likely to enjoy a leisurely Saturday hike, but our parking is SUBLIME.) When was the last time you engaged with media that depicted a happy disabled person? A complex disabled person? A disabled person who has sex? No really, these aren’t hypothetical questions, can you please drop a rec in the notes?? Because I am desperate.

There are lots of problems with this trope, and they’ve been discussed ad nauseam by people with PhDs. I’m not actually interested in talking about how this trope leads to a more prevalent societal idea that disabled people are unworthy of love, or contributes to the kind of political thought processes that keep disabled people purposefully disenfranchised. I’m just a bitch on Tumblr, and I have a bone to pick: the thing I really hate about the trope? It’s boring. I’m bored. You know how, like, halfway through Grey’s Anatomy you realized they were just recycling the same plot points over and over again and there was just no WAY anyone working at a hospital prone to THAT MANY disasters would stay on staff? It's like that. I love a recycled trope as much as the next person (There Was Only One Bed, anyone?). But I need. Something. Else.

Remus is disabled. BOLD claim. WILD speculation. Except, not really. You simply - no matter how you flip it, slice it, puree it, or deconstruct it - cannot tell me Remus Lupin is not disabled. Most of us, by this point, are probably familiar with the way that One Canonical Author intended One Dashing Werewolf to be “a metaphor for those illnesses that carry stigma, like HIV and AIDS” [I’m sorry to link you to an outside source quoting She Who Must Not Be Named, but we’re professionals here]. Which is... a thing. It’s been discussed. And, listen, there’s no denying that this parallel is a problematic interpretation of people who have HIV/AIDS and all such similar “those illnesses” (though I’ll admit that I, too, am perennially apt to turn into a raging beast liable to harm anything that crosses my path, but that’s more linked to the at-least-once-monthly recollection that One Day At A Time got cancelled). Critiques aside, Remus Lupin is a character who - due to a condition that affects him physically, mentally, emotionally, and intellectually - is repeatedly marginalized, oppressed, denied political and social power, and ostracized due to unfounded fear that he is infectious to others. Does that sound familiar?

We’re not going to argue about whether or not “Remus is canonically disabled as fuck” is a fair reading. And the reason we’re not going to argue about whether or not it’s a fair reading is because I haven’t read canon in 10-plus years and you will win the argument. Canon is only marginally relevant here. The icon of this blog is brown, curly haired Remus Lupin kissing his trans boyfriend, Sirius Black. We are obviously not too terribly invested in canon. The wolfstar fandom is now a community with over 25,000 AO3 fics, entire careers launched from drawing or writing or cosplaying this non-canonical pairing. We love to play around here with storylines and universes and races and genders and sexualities and all kinds of things, but most of the time? Remus is still disabled. He’s disabled as a werewolf in canon-compliant works, he’s disabled in the AUs where he was injured or abused or kidnapped or harmed as a child, he’s disabled in the stories that read him as chronically ill or bipolar or traumatized or blind or Deaf. I’d go so far as to say that he is one of very few characters in the Wide Wonderful World of media who is, in as close to his essence as one can be, always disabled. And that means? Don’t shoot the messenger... but we could stand to be a tiny bit more responsible with how we portray him. 

Disabled people are complicated. As much as I’d like to pretend we are always level-headed, confident, and ready to assert our inherent worth, we are still just humans. We have bad days. We doubt our worth. We sometimes go out with guys who complain about our steroid-induced weight gain (it was a long time ago, Tumblr, okay??). But, we also have joy and fun and good days and sex and happiness and families and so many other things. 

Remus is a disabled character, and as such, it’s only fair that he’d have those unworthy moments. But - I propose - Remus is also a crip. What is a crip? A crip - like a queer - is someone who eschews the limited boundaries placed on their bodies, who rejects a hierarchy of oppression in favor of an intersectional analysis of lived experience, who isn’t interested in being the tragic figure responsible for helping people with dominant identities realize how good they have it. Crips interpret their disabilities however they want, rethinking bodies and medicine and pleasure and pain and even time itself. Crips are political, community-minded, and in search of liberation. 

Remus is a character who struggles with his disability, sure. But he’s also a character who leverages his physical condition to attempt to shift communities towards his political leanings, advocates for the rights of those who share his physical condition, and has super hot sex with his wrongfully convicted boyfriend ultimately goes on to build community and family. Having a condition that quite literally cripples you, over which you have no control, and through which you are often read as a social pariah? That’s disability. But using said condition as a means through which to build advocacy and community? Now that’s some crip shit. 

Personally, I love disabled!Remus Lupin. But I love crip!Remus Lupin even more. I’d love to see more of a Remus who owns his disability, who covets what makes him unique, and who never ever again tells a potential romantic partner they are too good for him because of his disability. This trope - unlike There Was Only One Bed! - sometimes actually hurts to read. Where’s Remus who thinks a potential romantic partner isn’t good enough for him? Where’s Remus who insists his partners learn more about his condition in order to treat him properly? Where’s sexy wheelchair user Remus? Where’s Remus who uses his werewolf transformations as an excuse to travel the world? Where’s crip Remus??

We don’t have to put “you don’t want me” Remus entirely to bed. It is but one of many repeated tropes that are - in the words of The Hot Priest from Fleabag - morally a bit dubious. And let’s face it - we don’t always come to fandom for its moral superiority (as much as we sometimes like to think we do). 

This is not a condemnation - it is an invitation. Able-bodied folks are all but an injury, illness, or couple decades away from being disabled. And when you get here, I sincerely hope you don’t waste your time on “you don’t want me”ing back and forth with the people you love. I’m inviting you to come to the crip side now. We have snacks, and without all the “you don’t want me” talk, we get to the juicy parts much faster. 

Colorfully,

Mod Theo

[vegance]

1. The difference is a human baby is a human and thus should have all protections we provide humans.

Also some ara and vegan places will keep animals alive in spite of them suffering, you just can not keep a cow in a wheelchair.

2. Just because modern supplements allow vegan lifestyles that doesn’t mean people should ignore the millennia of evolution that went into forming our digestive tracts. That evolution will still impact our modern lives. Its why we cant get b12 from sources other than animal products or supplements. Its just not bioavailable for us.

3. You can tell if a local farm meets your own standards by, going to visit it. That’s what i meant there. Also cows literally do not give a shit about ai and dairy cows have kinda accidentally been bred to not care too much about their calves.

4. I have serious doubts about how healthy a vegan baby formula is. Not to mention even if it works for human babies how about all the orphaned animals, some of which are obligate carnivores and may not be able to process whatever vegan replacements are in the formula. Bioavailability is a super important thing to remember. There’s reasons cattle and such can survive and thrive off of just grass but humans cant. And it’s bioavailability, which is different for each food and for each species.

5 and 6. Those weren’t aimed at you specifically. Those were general things meant for everyone. And it wasnt meant to be condescending. It was meant to be neutral. The simple fact is ive seen people source from documentaries and papers that have been proven to be false. Not everyone knows how to find peer reviewed papers. And the general public often does think documentaries are fact to the point that one made about mermaids was believed.

why is being human the only thing that affords a being the right to be free of torture, cruelty and being killed? what's the reason? what is this based on? does this mean that any being who is not human should not have that right? primates? whales? hypothetical intelligent alien societies? no? only humans. or only homo sapiens? where do you draw the line? and why?

and like...the historical fallacy is just not an argument? it does not matter what humans used to do, or what they had to do.

many people also do not get enough iodine, selenium, vitamin d, folic acid (in pregnancy) without either supplementing themselves, or consuming fortified food (or animals who were fed vitamins). so where does that leave us? there are many things that we didn't evolve to do, or to have. unless you are advocating that everyone live a paleo life, that argument just has no meaning. medical professionals say it is possible to be vegan and healthy. that's all that matters

how many people go visit farms? how many people really only ever eat the meat /animal products that has come from a farm that they know everything about? almost no one. and there are very few farms in most high income countries, where the animals actually have a good life. most people just do not have access to that. and it still doesn't change a thing about the slaughtering process.

honestly, i trust the actual food administrations who approved those vegan formulas more than like...a random anon on tumblr. why should you know more about the topic than them? and again, what do like,,, orphaned baby lions have to do with you eating a cheeseburger? literally nothing. you are not a baby? it does not apply to you.

i appreciate that the source thing was not aimed at me but like...its not like that is just a vegan problem? i still don't get why you would bring it up here specifically. especially on a blog where i pretty much provide sources for almost everything that i say

edit: and cows literally do care to be seperated from their babies. and honestly, if you look at how ai of cows is done....like i think the chances are pretty high that it causes them at least some discomfort? and cows are literally restrained while it is happening. and anyway, cows cannot consent, it is literally a human being sticking their entire arm up their anus and a metal rod up their vagina. that's sexual exploitation. doing the same thing for any other reason would get you charged with bestiality

[disgruntledspacedad]

Aftershocks (2/5)

The Better Love Series 

pairing: Javier Peña x Fem!Reader (Ears). Part of the Better Love ‘verse. 

summary: That bomb fucked you up a little more than you thought. h/c, fluff.

words: 2.5k 

warnings: 18+ - canon typical violence, lots of medical stuff in this one.

a/n: unbeta’d. I had a surprise day off, so enjoy the second installment of Aftershocks much sooner than I had anticipated. More notes to follow!

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five 

MASTERLIST

You’re escorted beyond the heavy double doors of the emergency department in a hurry. It probably has a lot to do with Javi busting into the waiting area with you in his arms, flashing his DEA badge and barking out orders in irate Spanish. 

Honestly, you wish he wouldn’t make such a scene. Sitting still in the car had allowed you to catch your breath a little. You feel like shit, sure, but you’re pretty sure you aren’t actively dying.

Try telling him that, though.

The triage room is little more than a curtain masking a dimly lit corner. You’re answering what questions you can in halting Spanish, but Javi can see that you’re overwhelmed. 

“Ella habla ingles.” His tone earns him a dirty look, but the nurse nods, placing an oxygen probe on your finger and frowning up at the monitor. Both of you follow her gaze, noticing that the number reads 87. 

“The doctor will see you soon,” she says carefully. Her English is heavily accented, and suddenly, you’re grateful beyond words that you have Javi here to translate. “Here. You’ll wear this.” She winds the oxygen tubing beneath your chin and around your ears. The oxygen is dry, burning your nose and making your face twitch in annoyance, but you can’t deny that you feel better with it on.

The nurse leaves you then, pulling the curtain closed behind her. Javi continues to stare at the monitor with his arms folded across his chest as the number on the screen climbs to 89, then to 92, the soft tone of the blips rising in pitch with each subtle improvement.

He’s thinking again, you can tell. 

“Javi?” You reach for his hand, tugging at his fingers. Instinctively, you know that leaving him alone to stew right now cannot be a good thing.

He glances down at you, all dark, glittering eyes and terse expression, and worry clinches in your gut. “You okay?”

Javi snorts. “Really, Ears.” You can just see him fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “That’s a hell of a question, coming from you.”

You decide to shoot for levity. “I’m great, thanks for asking.”

That earns you a pathetic, lopsided lip twitch. You count it as a win anyway.

The doctor never shows. Javi grumbles and broods. A little while later, somebody comes with a wheelchair to whisk you away for an x-ray, and no matter how much blustering and badge-flashing and protesting he does, Javi is told firmly to stay put. 

He’s pacing agitatedly in the hallway when return. Apparently, it had felt like an eternity for him. 

In reality, you’d been gone less than twenty minutes.

It seems that your x-ray has earned you some attention, because things start happening a little faster now. People are in and out, one nurse bustling in to wordlessly draw an entire fistful of little color coded tubes of your blood, another working on IV access in your opposite arm. You take it all stoically, caught between watching in fascination as the nurse tapes the catheter in place with practiced efficiency and wondering why all of this can’t just happen in one stick. 

A little while later, the same nurse returns with a bag of fluid. “Seca,” she informs you as she stretches to hang it on the hook in the wall. 

“She says you’re dehydrated,” Javi translates. His face is a stone wall, the subtle clench of his jaw the only hint of the emotion that churns beneath. You can just imagine him kicking himself for not making you eat or drink. 

You bite back a shiver. The saline is cold in your arm.

They move you to a real room not long after that. It’s only marginally bigger than your corner in the emergency department, crammed with two rickey, uncomfortable beds separated by another dingy curtain. Thankfully, you don’t have a roommate for the moment.

You let Javi handle the paperwork as you change out of his sweats and into the itchy, open-backed gown that you’ve been provided with. Even with the oxygen, moving around still requires that you pause to catch your breath, and you’re grateful for the opportunity to sit when you’re done, even if the hospital bed you’re on is squeaky and uncomfortable.

Once the documents are signed and the nurses are gone, silence settles thickly between you. Javi is standing with his fingers fisted into his hips, glaring daggers at the clock on the wall. He hasn’t spoken in a long time.

Again, you feel that burning need to pull him out of his head. “Not really set up for visitors, is it?” you ask wryly. It’s a stupid, pointless thing to say, but you’re just trying to fill the void.

Javi glances around the room, raising his brows at what he observes. There’s no chair and no free space, nowhere for him to sit. Sighing deeply, he yanks back the curtain that divides the room and eases carefully onto the bed opposite of you, leaning forward with his arms folded on his knees.

You grit your teeth. Really, you wouldn’t have minded him settling down on your bed, but the more time you spend with Javi, the more you’re starting to realize that he withdraws when he’s feeling wrong-footed. As annoying as it is, the distance he’s putting between you is just par for the course, and it’s just not worth addressing right now.

“How are you feeling?” he asks softly, pinning you with a sharp, assessing stare.

“Better,” you answer automatically, forcing some cheerfulness into your tone. Honestly, you’re far more worried about him than you are about you. 

Javi raises a skeptical brow, clearly doubting you.

“No, really!” 

Your protest makes him shake his head in dark amusement. “What am I gonna do with you, Ears?” he wonders aloud.

You’re ready to supply several very detailed answers to that question, all of them interrupted as your doctor finally breezes into the room. 

“About fucking time,” Javi mutters under his breath as he rises to his feet.

“Hola, hola. I’m Dr. Perez.” Dr. Perez says, actually managing to sound a tiny bit apologetic. “Forgive the delay, por favor. I know it must seem that emergencies are the most non-emergent situation in the hospital, but, I promise you, we are working hard behind the scenes.”

 You decide immediately that you like Dr. Perez. He’s not a big man, compact and clean cut, with just the faintest dusting of silver at his temples and a warm, genuine smile. 

Javi must be thinking along similar lines, because he comes to stand just at the edge of your shoulder, looming dark and foreboding at your side as Dr. Perez approaches your bedside. 

Oh, now you’ll stick close, you think fondly, trying to find a little amusement in Javi’s behavior. Everything about this situation is entirely new, totally incongruous with the cool, suave Javier Peña that you thought you’d known, and a malicious, possessive part of your brain is just eating up the implications.

“I understand you were involved in the bombing in downtown Bogotá, correct?” Dr. Perez’s grip is firm and cool as he shakes your hand. 

“Yes, that’s correct.” You’re acutely aware of Javi standing stiffly beside you, watching your every move.

“Most unfortunate,” Perez shakes his head in a show of sympathy, and you manage to believe him. “And the breathing problems, they began later, no?”

“Yes,” you answer, surprised that he would guess with such accuracy. “I was okay afterward. Maybe a little bit sore. But not hurt.”

“Ella ha estado tosiendo sangre,” Javi interjects quickly. You’re not sure what he’s saying, but Dr. Perez’s eyes flicker in his direction, a swift, meaningful look passing between them. 

“Veo.” Dr. Perez says smoothly. He frowns down at you. “And how for were you from the blast zone?”

You think back, willing yourself to relive the memory of the morning in clinical detail. “I was crossing the street,” you say slowly.  “Headed home.” You do some quick mental math in your head, analyzing the width of Circular against the image of Emilio, waving. You’d been close enough to shout a greeting. “Forty feet. Maybe a little less.”

Beside you, Javi sucks in a sharp breath. 

Perez purses his lips. “Sí, eso lo haría.” He crosses the room, flicking a switch to illuminate a bright white panel built into the wall that you hadn’t noticed before. He shuffles through your chart, pulling out a dark film and pinning it to the light. 

It’s your chest x-ray. You can clearly see the curve of your ribs, stark white against the darker background of your lungs. In the middle of the film lies the dusky outline of what you assume is your heart. To the lower left, a patch of hazy, white blur mars the image. 

“This is the problem.” Perez points to the blur. “Pulmones magullados. Your lungs are bruised, see? This is common in blast zone survivors. The change in air pressure when the bomb ignites causes an injury to the lung tissue. You are bleeding just a little bit internally.”

You can damn near feel Javi gritting his teeth at that.

“But I felt fine,” you protest weakly, looking assentingly at the blob on the x-ray. It’s a pretty good size.

“Sí, you were fine.” Perez is nodding along with you, like he’d expected the argument. “That’s normal with this type of injury. You felt good immediately afterward because the bruise was new, the bleeding slight. But the bruise has gotten bigger, and you have gotten worse.” He indicates the oxygen that you are wearing with a grim nod. “You are a very lucky, mi amiga, to have walked away from that. Muy afortunada. Had you been closer…” Perez trails off, shaking his head somberly. “It does not bear thinking.”

He claps his hands, startling you away from the grisly images stirring in your mind. “There is good news, though!” Perez gestures toward the x-ray as a whole, circling over it with his index finger. “I see no rib fractures, nothing collapsed. Your breathing might get worse before it gets better, but it will get better. We will keep you under close watch until then.”

“Keep me?”

“Sí, you will be here.” Perez pins you with a no-nonsense stare, as if to curtail any protests before they come. “There’s another matter. You have a small concussion as well. To this area, here.” He taps the back of his own head with his hand. “From falling down, yes?”

You nod. The area he’s pointing to is right where your head hurts most, where you’d fallen backward after the blast. “Yes. It did knock me off my feet.” Apparently a with a little more force than you’d initially assumed.

Perez hums. “We will monitor that as well. You do not take blood thinners?”

“No, sir. No medications.”

“Bueno.” Dr. Perez seems genuinely pleased by this. “You’ve made my job very easy.” He gathers the film and shuffles it back into your chart, flopping it shut with a flourish. “Rest for you, Orejas. Time and sleep will do the best healing.”

“Orejas?” you can’t help but ask. It’s the name that Emilio had used for you, but you’re shocked that Perez knows it. 

Perez smiles. “I listen to my nurses. That is what they call you.”

“How much time?” Javi interrupts before you can respond. You’d nearly forgotten about him, as quiet as he’s been. 

Perez turns to address him for the first time. “It depends largely on her body. The concussion is small, and won’t require anything in the way of treatment. Her lungs, though…” Perez frowns down at the closed chart with a furrowed brow. “The contusion is still developing. A few days, a week, perhaps? I can say more tomorrow.” He turns back to you, sighing in sympathy. “I’m afraid you’re in for a stay, mi amiga.”

Well, fuck.

With that, Perez disappears just as quickly as he’d arrived, soft, quick footsteps echoing down the hallway, and silence falls once again over the room.

Javi doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. He’s standing very still, arms folded tightly across his chest with his thumbs digging into his armpits. The expression on his face is downright chilling. 

Your blood turns to ice.

“What the fuck, Ears?” he says very slowly, enunciating each syllable with deadly precision.

You glance up, suddenly hesitant to speak. The little movement must be enough to spur him on, though, because Javi fucking explodes. 

“Forty fucking feet!” he bites out, clawing angrily at his hair. He paces the tiny room, whirling as he runs out of space and pointing an accusing finger at you. “You told me you were across the street, Ears, not crossing it. There’s a big fucking difference.”

You blink at him, recalling the conversation you’d had in the embassy parking lot. 

Shit, he’s right.

“Why the hell did you lie to me?” There’s a subtle warble in his tone, a flicker of devastation in his eyes that’s quickly masked. 

Discomfort that has nothing to do with your injured lungs twinges in your chest. “I don’t know,” you answer miserably. You hadn’t thought of it as lying. At the time, you’d been overwhelmed by the situation and thoroughly confused by Javi’s erratic behavior, just desperate to get home and sleep off the worst morning of your life. “I didn’t want to upset you, I guess.” 

Javi laughs sarcastically. “Well, you’ve done a fucking fantastic job of that, haven’t you?” He throws his hands in the air, like he’s had it up to here with your shit. “Coughing up blood all over my kitchen floor. Christ, I should have known.”

Okay, now he’s being a little dramatic - the only blood you’d coughed up had been into your fingers, after all, but the protest is lost on you as you look him in the face. Javi’s eyes are deeply shadowed, his expression pained, his hair standing wildly from where he’s run his fingers through it. 

He looks thoroughly exhausted.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, dropping your gaze to the floor.

Javi huffs and looks away, clearly not ready to accept any apologies from you.

You don’t blame him. Throughout this entire screwed up relationship, you’ve done an absolutely piss poor job of putting yourself in Javi’s shoes, and it’s coming back to bite you in the ass.

You deserve his irritation, and more.

Javi’s pager beeps, the shrill sound of it slicing through the tension. He snatches it roughly off of his belt, frowning down at the display with squinted eyes.

You glance up at the clock on the wall. It’s pretty late, but given the day Javi’s had, it’s not outrageous to assume that somebody would need to be in touch with him at this hour.

 “I’ve got to take this,” Javi says tonelessly, hardly glancing up at you. If there’s any regret there, it’s buried very deeply. “I’ll see you later, Ears.”

He’s gone before you can get a word in edgewise.

♠

confessions/notes:

I speak one language poorly, and I’ve never extensively written a character who is not a primary English speaker (I’m not counting Javi here). Any critiques or corrections to my Spanish are very welcomed!

Up next: a look at things from Javi’s POV.

Spanish translations: 

She speaks English. 

Dry

She’s been coughing up blood.

I see. 

Yeah, that’ll do it.

ears

tags:@jedi-mando, @perropascal, @aerolanya, @pikemoreno, @bitchin-beskar, @mostly-megan, @huliabitch, @starsandmando, @starlight-starwrites​, @thirstworldproblemss, @knittingqueen13, @yespolkadotkitty​

Javier Peña tags: @magpie-to-the-morning, @tiffdawg, @danniburgh, @1800-fight-me​

To my taglist peeps, I’m sorry for tagging you guys three times in 24 hours. Again, chaotic jay cannot plan anything, like ever.

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

I mean… just open the first couple pages of the Bible Teach book and you’ll see the montage of “before and after” pictures, which includes a blind man who can suddenly see, and a paralyzed little girl leaping out of her wheelchair to run around with her friends. Not that it’s wrong to want people to feel better, mind you. It’s not inherently wrong to want your uncle to see, for your daughter to walk, or for you to otherwise want your loved ones (or yourself, for that matter) to be cured of something or to experience a more comfortable life. That’s not what I’m saying here.

What’s problematic about the “before and after” pictures is that they are a dazzling light, created for the sole purpose of drawing people in — and keeping them in — forever; so they can be devoured, digested, shat out, and re-eaten after they’ve been shat out by the giant ableist fish dangling that light.

Oh you have doubts that ours is the true religion? Well, will Wicca fix my back? Will the pope cure my MS? Will choosing a path of atheism and only trusting in so-called “science” end war, end suffering, end child labor and exploitation, end pollution, end injustice— end death? Ooh! Ooh! I know this one: It won’t. Man is stupid. Man will destroy himself and everything else on this planet. Man doesn’t even know how to cure the common cold, let alone cancer or disorders of the mind.

Don’t you want [your friend] to be happy and not have to deal with her issues? Don’t you want your nonverbal autistic students to make it into Paradise so they can experience a real life without autism, and be able to — with words — tell you exactly what’s on their mind? Don’t you want that for them— don’t you want to fight for them? Oh but that’s not conducive to your alternative lifestyle so you’re just going to ignore everything until it goes away; because it’s more important to you to fight for your lifestyle than to fight for Jehovah. We’re brainwashed and you don’t have to listen to us because you simply don’t believe in the Bible anymore— you’re done with it. You’re a coward. You don’t know what a fight is. I have fought for you and done so much for you; you have given me NOTHING in return but a slap in the face.

If you truly want to help people as much as you say you do, then you need to stay with Jehovah. Never forget Jehovah. We love you and want you to live forever. I don’t know if I am worthy of living forever… because I have failed you as a parent…

but at least I’m going to try. I will walk into the new system. I will walk. I am not brainwashed; this isn’t a cult like Jonestown or anything like that. Anyone can leave whenever they want; no one stops anyone from leaving. I made a decision and I know what I’m doing is right; and I know what you’re doing will lead you straight to your death, and I don’t want you to leave me because you are my child and I love you. I love you. I cannot express how much I love you. Don’t do this.

Do you see this shit? It’s emotional blackmail, using images of disabled people to show what God can do to people who disobey him, basically with the message of, “I have temporarily dismembered you. But if you’re nice to me and do what I want you to do, I will give you back your limbs (because I’m such a nice person). If you obey me, you will be able to walk again; if not, I will kill you because sinful men do not deserve limbs. But you won’t know when you will get your limbs back because I have a plan, and my reasoning is perfect and not up for debate.”

They use disabled people as a bludgeon to beat their beliefs into people, especially those who are disabled themselves; which is why disabled Jehovah’s Witnesses are often so adamant about remaining part of a cult with such little regard for disabled people. It’s revolting.

The cognitive dissonance, the use of inspiration to achieve unattainable goals, showing the “before” and “after” of people as inspiration to demean the “before” image, the “you just need more willpower,” the straight-up lies and guilt-tripping, the use of visualization as motivation to the point of unhealthy obsession, the "insulting you because I love you and want you to do better," obsession with one day attaining a perfect body and perfect willpower, the peer pressure, the lists of distractions to help people not engage in “bad thoughts,” the “this Being I worship will make me perfect if I try hard enough” mentality, the counting and tallying, using social isolation to prevent oneself from “doing something bad,” the “I’m not trying to convert everyone; I do this for myself” excuse, the use of fucking butterfly imagery in all the publications as a symbol of transformative "perfection,” and food metaphors for religion such as “You cannot be eating from the table of Jehovah and the table of demons” being used to restrict the amount of “bad food” people take in, and needing to cleanse oneself after being out in the world eating too much “bad food.”

Remind you of anything? Anything here on Tumblr, perhaps? Even so, it’s still worse because at least Pro-Anorexia communities recognize that what they’re doing is harmful at some level and try to hide it. Jehovah’s Witnesses have no such courtesy or shame; and in fact, they think they’re doing all these things for the greater good; and instead of ONLY being a toxic community, they evangelize and try to spread that toxicity everywhere because they think they’re saving lives.

good lord the way jws use disabled people to prop up their own image is literally sickening what the fuck. "this deaf and blind brother is able to go preach and give talks!! how heartwarming and encouraging to us all to do the same if not more!!!" it is all literally the Definition of inspiration porn. do they even fucking hear themselves

[star-anise]

Can you or someone kindly explain to me why violent riots are necessary? Why we apparently need to fight fire with fire? I just. Similar to your recently reblogged post, I cannot fathom how it is helpful. I understand that people are angry and they shouldn't be condemned in the way they are being condemned for property destruction (though people seem to forget that a lot of people, especially poor and disabled people, can't afford that) but like. What is this actually going to achieve?

The specific “point” of the current protests is addressing racist policing practices, an end to police brutality, and/or the abolition of the police, all of which have very actionable goals--for example, increasing crisis mental health resources, decriminalizing stupid shit that it doesn’t benefit society to police, changing how police are funded to de-incentivize unnecessary arrests or tickets, or increasing police accountability for harm. But I’ll address your question less as “what do these activists want to achieve” and more as “why are riots occassionally necessary praxis.”

The one thing I can’t comment on is how much the appearance of armed counter-protestors changes things. That’s new, partly in the last couple years and especially this week, and I haven’t got a solid grip on how that plays out. So I can just talk about my general knowledge.

The violence isn’t the inherently necessary part, it’s the protest. Protests and demonstrations are necessary; to create political change, it helps to demonstrate that a fuckload of people care deeply about this thing and are willing to take time out of their day to show that. It shows other citizens that this is an issue they could care about without being alone, and it shows the people in charge that if they don’t pay attention to this issue, a large proportion of their constituents are going to be unhappy. Sometimes the protest is also instrumental to the change, like occupying a building so it cannot be demolished, or occupying a road so that troop convoys cannot drive down it. My ex-girlfriend’s involved with a group that puts cups of paint on bike lane markers to demonstrate how frequently cars drive into bike lanes if they’re able to, in an attempt to get the city to invest in bike-friendly infrastructure. There are a lot of tactics out there.

Most protests are nonviolent and many are successful. They achieve small goals. An elected official may have so many people sitting in their office waiting room that they are forced to talk to them so that they go away and business as usual can resume. A cause may get on the news because people want to understand why a road was shut down or what all the people standing out there are talking about. People in power have to listen to activists and make concessions to them to make them go away. Stuff like that.

Some people believe that violence is intrinsically necessary--that’s the point of the Black Bloc, who think that property damage is a positive good in itself, or that nobody will listen unless you damage things and cost people money. That, to be honest, I... mmm. I think many people with violent leanings love violence in itself and will justify it more often than someone looking at the situation with dispassionate eyes will say, “What we need here is to break a bunch of shit.” 

But the more common cause of violence in protests is when people want the protest to stop or go away. That is, when the elected official’s secretary says, “Look, he’s not going to meet with you, please leave,” or a boss says, “I’m not going to increase your wages, so go away and stop telling the customers about your grievances with me.” Part of what makes a protest successful is saying, “No, I’d really rather stand here and talk about my goals than go away and make your day easier.”

That’s when it escalates to force. When they call security or police to get them to force the protesters to leave. It turns into a game of chicken; as a protestor, it doesn’t do to show that you can be easily made to back down, but your opponents are going to use an increasing level of force to make you want to leave, or to physically remove you. And when that escalates--for example, when the riot squad shows up and starts physically attacking people--protestors often find that sitting there and letting someone attack you isn’t a good strategy; keeping yourself safe and continuing the protest are generally preferable. Responses can range from putting people who’d make the police look bad for attacking in front (people in wheelchairs, people in nice clothing, people with bicycles, Nice White People, whatever), to having medics on hand to treat people who have been injured, to using umbrellas to ward off tear gas, to, yeah, the use of violence in defense. If a cop is beating up your friend, and you can beat the cop up so they stop, that makes a material difference to your friend.

This is why even Fox News has slowly started to cotton on to the fact that forceful police responses to protests, like calling out the riot squad, are the key feature that escalate protests and turn them really nasty. Only a small number of people at any protests actually want things to turn violent or loot things; the majority of people would rather use peaceful means if they were available, but they’ve found that nothing else worked so now they’re protesting. But once people are under physical threat, they get scared and desperate, and things get ugly.

Especially at Black Lives Matter protests, the police often have a very direct and vested interest in making sure the protestors don’t get listened to. They don’t want to be criminally responsible for the things they do in the line of duty or have the news talking about what a bad job they’ve done. Therefore, there is a lot of incentive for police to make the protestors look bad--so they’re very likely to use police tactics that they know will escalate the situation and turn it violent. And since that’s the exact thing BLM protestors want to draw attention to, it to some degree proves their point to be able to demonstrate the police responding to nonviolent people with violence when the cameras are rolling.

[catty-words]

it's me again! i haven't really seen any analysis/meta/discussion abt NHIE (i'm pretty new to the fandom) and i really liked your last answer to my q so i was wondering if u had any thoughts on ben/devi as a relationship (not necessarily just the romantic aspect of it but like as a whole) and paxton\devi as a relationship as well and like ur thoughts on all that. sorry if this is werid!

The short version? I love them both and find it really cool that season one gives both relationships a complete arc. As for the long version…

Devi/Paxton: Popular guy gradually comes to appreciate all nerdy girl has to offer is a cute trope, right? Right. Of course, the thing I love the most about it in Never Have I Ever is that behind that cuteness is a lot of dysfunction. Devi chooses to pin all her post-trauma hopes and dreams on Paxton not only because his image holds enough power over the school to overshadow her stint in a wheelchair, but also because he has no idea who she is. He walks past her without seeing her at his swim meet. He’s clean across the parking lot and has not even the tiniest inkling of an idea that he’s about to distract Devi from her trauma long enough to get her walking again. He doesn’t remember that she sits behind him in history class.

And that appeals to Devi because, at the beginning of the season, she’s not looking for intimacy or true connection with Paxton. She’s looking for the image of normalcy. She’s looking to rebrand. So when Dr. Ryan convinces her that getting a boyfriend, any boyfriend, is not the way to do it, Devi—not wanting to completely give up her plan and fueled by Ben’s recent exacerbation of her insecurities—swerves right past the true point of Dr. Ryan’s words to set her sights on having sex.

I adore the way the first season is driven entirely by Devi’s unabashed horniness. She thinks Paxton’s hot and gets to openly gaze at him. She has wholesome ‘I know nothing about sex other than I want this shirtless boy in my bed’ sex dreams. And I adore the way that, on the flip side of that very straightforward and relatable feeling, is how focusing exclusively on her desire for Paxton is shown to cause a lot of her problems. She both gets to indulge her fantasy and get so lost in it, it becomes actively harmful to her life.

Meanwhile, on Paxton’s side of things, we get to see him become very quickly interested in intimacy and true connection. When it becomes clear that Devi’s not actually able to indulge in casual sex—because as much as she might not be looking for true intimacy, she sure cannot bring herself to relax into the surface intimacies hooking up requires—Paxton draws the line for her (no, we shouldn’t keep trying to meet in my garage) but continues to seek out her friendship. Shortly after calling off their attempts to hookup, he chooses her to be in his group for a class project. He’s excited to see Devi show up for Trent’s party. He asks her what Ganesh Puja means to her. Moreover, he opens up a very vulnerable side of himself to her in his relationship with Rebecca.

So, yeah, there’s an obvious imbalance of power in the relationship, and it’s actually not weighted in Paxton’s favor as the trope would initially have you believe. Paxton falls for Devi’s boldness and her YOLO approach to living. He cares about her well-being, as demonstrated by him asking if she’s okay post-pool fall. For Devi, on the other hand, it’s not especially clear whether she realizes just how much she keeps looking at Paxton and seeing only her fantasy, only what he can offer her, instead of the hints of a real person with his own shit to deal with he keeps trying to give her. Look no further than the narration after their kiss—“She just snagged her first kiss from a teenage Adonis. As far as Devi’s concerned, that car ride just solved all her problems.” By the eleventh hour of the season, Paxton is well and truly interested in building a relationship with Devi, while Devi’s excited for their kiss not because Paxton has shown that he cares about her. She’s excited because what she’d wanted this whole time—the image boost of being with him—is well within her reach.

Now, it probably sounds like I think Devi’s callous for this, but not so!! I think it’s impressive, the way the season manages to clearly show Devi’s motivations as sympathetic while also refusing to fully endorse her actions. She’s for sure using Paxton, and it’s not an especially good look. But her desperate desire to be seen as normal—to be talked about for reasons of her choosing and not because life decided to knock her out with some serious shit for a while there—is so, so heartbreakingly accessible to me. Wanting to control your own narrative is a fascinating theme for a fictional character to explore. And the packaging this theme comes in—Devi’s witticisms and Devi’s yearning to have more time with her dad—is charming as hell, is human and heart-wrenching. I love Devi with all my heart. So I don’t dislike her for using Paxton. Also, I love Devi with all my heart, so I can totally relate to the way Paxton falls for her.

Devi/Ben: Rivals to…an undefined something else. Not as cutesy of a trope, which works perfectly because Devi and Ben—though they certainly have their moments that make me squeal—are not cute with each other. Their relationship is about challenge, about being held accountable because messing up is grounds for mockery. And with that accountability and that constant attention paid—I mean, even the point I made earlier, about Ben’s “unfuckable nerd” comment being present in Devi’s mind when she decides to ask Paxton if he wants to have sex, is proof of the way Devi and Ben constantly exert an influence on each other—comes unexpected vulnerability and intimacy.

Which, again, Devi is not looking for. But unlike with Paxton, Devi doesn’t have unrealistic expectations of her dynamic with Ben to get in the way when actual intimacy starts to develop, and therefore she has no readily accessible place to hide. For this reason, she actually ends up leaning on Ben a lot, leaning into the growing compassion between them, and accidentally stumbles into some mortifying ordeal of being known shit. All throughout season one, Devi is honest with Ben without being cornered into that honesty. He reads her mood in the second episode and surmises that her plan to “get railed” didn’t go well, and she lets him offer his Ben-flavored wisdom when just a couple minutes before, she made the choice to mislead her best friends. Ben is the first person she tells about not actually having sex with Paxton, where she has to be put on the spot by Eleanor’s mom to actually make the confession to Eleanor and Fabiola. She asks Ben if she can move in with him and spends a lot of the final episode talking out her feelings about her fight with Nalini and saying goodbye to her dad with him.

So yeah, there’s certainly an imbalance in their relationship, too. Devi leans more heavily on Ben than he gets to on her. Of course, she does have a lot more going on in her life than Ben does. Plus, this imbalance is not quite as insurmountable as the stuff with Paxton. Navigating it won’t be as big an obstacle. As it is, Devi gives Ben the sympathetic ear he needs on more than one occasion—in the kitchen in episode six and at the party in episode eight. He may have to specifically ask for her to shut up and listen in episode six—“I’m trying to be vulnerable here!”—but I think that’s more proof that they’re accidentally really well-suited for each other because of the way their rivalry has built accountability. Stop being a dick for a second, I have something important to share with you. It’s a parallel sense of isolation and image-contentiousness you’re battling. Doesn’t that make the burden of feeling these things just a little bit lighter?

Triangulation: In summation—Paxton kisses Devi to show her that he cares, that he’s not done with her, and she totally misses that in favor of idolizing the relationship they don’t fully have. Devi kisses Ben because he showed her he cares—he stayed!—and she wanted him to know she got the message. Which means, next season, Devi gets to make a choice between something she spent all of season one wanting and something she hadn’t at all expected to want. But, in either case, she gets to explore a relationship with a boy who cares deeply about her—which makes me really excited for her because, you guessed it! I love Devi with all my heart.