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leveragehunters · 1 year ago

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I'm putting my response to this in it's own post. Nothing but respect for the rightful criticisms of the situation described in those articles. The problem is that the articles by Danielle Cahill are grossly, almost negligently, misleading.

I'm not your lawyer and this is not legal advice, but I am an autistic Queensland lawyer who's pretty ticked off at Cahill.

Cahill's articles:

Autistic drivers could find their licences in legal limbo depending on where they live after new standards introduced

New national Fitness to Drive standards are 'discriminatory' and 'humiliating' for autistic drivers, psychologists say

Short version:

If you're autistic you do not automatically have to obtain a medical clearance to hold a Queensland Drivers Licence and there is no 'list of reportable conditions', much less one that includes autism.

Long version with receipts:

The first article purportedly cites a Department of Transport and Main Roads (Transport) spokesperson who they claim said: "…all autistic drivers in Queensland have since 2012 been required to obtain a medical clearance from a doctor to show they are fit to drive." It also says: "In Queensland, the Department of Transport and Main Roads (TMR) requires drivers to obtain a medical clearance form from a doctor confirming they are fit to drive despite being autistic."

The second article says: "According to the state's Department of Transport and Main Roads (TMR), autism was added to the list of reportable health conditions in 2012." Oh, but wait, what's this from just a little further up in the same article? "A TMR spokesperson told ABC News that "there is no specific legislation that states that people with autism cannot drive".

Let's talk about that specific legislation

Despite what the spokesperson said, there was no change to the law in 2012. A new Transport Regulation, which contains the law about medical clearances for Queensland drivers licences, was, however, passed in 2021. (link to the Regulation)

Typo or ignorance? Why not both.

The 2021 Regulation did not substantively change the law. The new Regulation was a consolidation, modernisation, and streamline of multiple pieces of overlapping legislation. (Explanatory notes)

'Jet's Law', which sets the rules for driver medical clearances, was first introduced in 2008. (Ministerial Statement). It was moved from the old Regulation to the new 2021 one essentially unchanged.

Jet's Law in chapter 3, part 6, division 1 of the 2021 Regulation

Jet's Law as passed in the previous Regulation (scroll down to page 64)

The law in Queensland re: medical clearances is the same as it was in 2008. The only changes were to language, consistent with modern drafting standards, and the addition of a requirement to not drive until you've given notice if a condition develops or worsens.

What does Jet's Law say?

Section 177 of the 2021 Regulation states:

A person who applies for the grant or renewal of a Queensland driver licence must, when making the application, give a notice to the chief executive about any mental or physical incapacity that is likely to adversely affect the person’s ability to drive safely.

Key words: any mental or physical incapacity that is likely to affect the person's ability to drive.

If you're autistic and your autism isn't likely to affect your ability to drive safely, Jet's Law doesn't require you to give notice to Transport.

But what about that list of reportable conditions the article claims exists?

It doesn't exist. There is no list of reportable conditions.

Transport DOES provide some examples of medical conditions that are likely to affect your ability to drive. You can see them here:

https://www.support.transport.qld.gov.au/qt/formsdat.nsf/forms/S5040/$file/S5040.pdf

https://www.qld.gov.au/transport/licensing/update/medical/fitness#medcond

Here's the licence application form: https://www.support.transport.qld.gov.au/qt/formsdat.nsf/forms/qf3000/$file/f3000_es.pdf. Question 7 states that you must report any medical conditions that may adversely affect your ability to drive and asks if you have any of the following conditions:

Vision or eye disorder (other than wearing glasses or contact lenses) that may adversely affect your driving

Diabetes that requires treatment by tablet, insulin or other medication

Been diagnosed with epilepsy, experienced a seizure; or been required to take anti-epileptic medication after the age of 11

Any other medical condition/s that is likely to adversely affect your ability to drive safely

You know what I don't see anywhere? Autism.

But what about the National Standards?

Cahill managed to get that part of the articles almost right.

All Queensland drivers, regardless of age, must meet the national standards to ensure their health or any physical disability does not increase the risk of a crash. (confirmed by Transport) And before you ask, the national standard is not a list of 'reportable conditions'. (Even if it was, the autism update happened in 2022, not 2012). But what is the national standard if it's not a list of reportable conditions?

The national driver medical standards Assessing Fitness to Drive set out the considerations and medical criteria for safe driving. They also guide the management of drivers with health conditions so that they may continue to drive for as long as it is safe to do so. The standards are used by health professionals to assess and manage patients with health conditions that may affect their ability to drive safely. These assessments and the standards themselves inform Driver Licensing Authority decisions about driver licensing.

The national standard does refer to "Other neurological conditions including autism spectrum disorder and other developmental and intellectual disabilities". Yes, it was updated in 2022, as indicated by a big red banner across the top of the page. The update notes state:

The review identified that information and guidance was required to enable assessment of persons with ASD. Specialist advice noted that the variability of ASD characteristics and the degree of severity were too diverse for a specific standard. General guidance is however provided in the text of the chapter.

Wait, the review? The changes were made because of a review? They weren't a secret sneaky change as Cahill alleged? There was a public review that called for submissions from stakeholders? Yes there was.

The review concluded there was not enough evidence to determine the MVC (motor vehicle crash) risk associated with ASD, and "Specialist advice noted that the variability of ASD characteristics and the degree of severity were too diverse for a specific standard."

So what does the standard actually say about autism?

The impact of other neurological conditions including autism spectrum disorder (ASD) and developmental and intellectual disability should be assessed individually. A practical driver assessment may be required. If the degree of impairment is static, periodic review is not usually required. People with ASD can have differences in social communication and interaction, with restricted and repetitive patterns of behaviour, interest and activities. Although evidence from driving studies are limited, drivers with ASD may drive differently from people without ASD. Shortcomings in tactical driving skills have been observed, while rule-following aspects of driving are improved. There is considerable difference in the range and severity of ASD symptoms, so assessment should focus on these and the significance of likely functional effects, rather than an ASD diagnosis.

So what does that mean?

It means we're right back at Jet's Law, in section 177 of the 2021 Regulation.

If you have a mental or physical incapacity that is likely to affect your ability to drive you need to declare it.

Could this include autism? Yes.

Does it automatically include autism? Not according to any law or standard currently in force in Queensland.

If you're an autistic Queenslander, your obligations under Jet's Law and the update to the national standard mean it's important that you consider whether your autism is likely to affect your driving ability and, if so, declare it. If it's not, then don't.

[Reminder: I am not your lawyer and this is not legal advice]

#auspol #queensland #qld pol #autism #autistic #Australian politics #queensland politics #law stuff #debunking #danielle cahill #long post #Cahill should be bloody ashamed of themself

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areyougonnabe · 9 months ago

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for the polar history recap posts, i’m dying to know more about lillie…deeply tragic and i’ve also heard something about the nickname ‘ooze’ and i desperately need to know more about that

LILLIE 😭😭😭😭😭😭❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

denis (also spelled dennis) gascoigne lillie was born in 1884, making him 26 when the terra nova set off for antarctica. he was trained in natural sciences at cambridge (although he didn't do too well on his exams) and was appointed as the ship's biologist—meaning he did not form part of the shore party in the hut in at cape evans, but remained on board the ship during the winter, studying antarctic marine biology including whales, plankton, and deep-sea creatures like sponges (like the one pictured above). his nickname "ooze" comes from his job as biologist—ooze refers to a specific kind of biological marine sediment that got pulled up in seabed dredges which lillie would then examine.

in silas's diary on the voyage south, he describes lillie:

Lilley—"Hercules'" or "Sequins" is rather a dreamer and asserts he can remember his former existences in this world. Much fun can be got from him if handled properly.

lillie was noted by other members of the expedition to be a bit of a crackpot, asserting that he was a persian and a roman in his past lives. and more than that, possibly:

Lillie had decided that he was not the marrying type, claiming that he had evolved beyond it. In later years Scott’s young Norwegian skiing expert Tryggve Gran recounted that as they crossed the Equator on the Terra Nova Lillie had revealed that he was a woman trapped in a man’s body. ‘When I see a naked man I blush,’ he allegedly said as the others sprawled shirtless on the deck in tropical sunshine, ‘I am split and I can’t help it. Luckily I understand myself and have the control to avoid doing anything wrong.’ Gran was a notoriously unreliable source, and it is hard to imagine anyone having the courage to say that under those circumstances; but perhaps Lillie did.

(from sara wheeler's cherry)

usually i would not recommend anyone trust anything that comes out of gran's mouth, but honestly i do buy this, because, well... vibes.

anyway, on the terra nova, lillie was notable for his talent at caricature, and several of his rather hilariously cruel drawings appeared (copied by wilson) in the south polar times, including this one of birdie:

while the shore party was in antarctica, lillie spent two winters in new zealand studying whales, fossils, and anthropology:

Lillie has been fossilizing & is off next month for 5 months whaling with the Norwegians. He is looking very well & very happy and is ‘a dear little chap’ to use Scott’s expression.

—pennell's diary, may 18 1911

after returning to england, taking the long way round on board the terra nova to continue his marine research, lillie took up residence at cambridge again, alongside deb, silas, priestley, and griff, to work up the scientific results from the expedition.

lillie also spent a lot of time with atch and pennell in 1913, frequently accompanying them to dine and see theater in london. he also drew (probably on board the ship) the caricature of them as the "antarctic lovebirds":

during the war, he was a conscientious objector—a "conchie," refusing to go to the front. it was an incredibly difficult position to maintain in the face of widespread societal opposition. he found solace in a continued and deepening relationship with cherry (who was also not at the front, though in his case for health reasons) as sara wheeler describes in her biography of cherry:

Currently working as a bacteriologist for the military, Lillie had been one of the few visitors at Lamer during the bad months in the middle of 1916. They became unusually intimate (‘I should love to see your chubby cheeks again’), and after one weekend Lillie scrawled with typical irreverence in his note of thanks that, ‘It was only my body which left you, for my ultimate Reality still walks behind your Bath chair and meditates about the many paths of your lovely garden. With love.’

and god i just need to copy these entire sections from the wheeler in here because they make me want to sob:

In September 1916 he had been transferred to the pathology lab of a military hospital in Bournemouth, which he loathed (‘no nice cliffs or sea birds, only sand banks and orange peel’), and was appalled to learn the next year that Cherry was poised to become engaged to Christine Davis (‘being unconventional and as near to nature as I can get, it seems all wrong to me that you should have to tie yourself up for the sake of Society’), but he strove, generally, to be optimistic, whereas Cherry was permanently resigned to his destiny. In August 1917 Lillie returned to Lamer for a week. Writing in advance with details of his train to Hatfield, he concluded that, ‘if a motor does not turn up the wings of joy will waft me those four-and-a-half miles bag included. So don’t worry.’ They had a wonderful time together. ‘I do hope,’ Lillie wrote when he was back in horrible Bournemouth, ‘your throat and the rest of you continues to get well and worthy of the sunny spirit which I see under the label ACG.'

though things seemed to be going as well as they could for lillie, shortly before the end of the war in early 1918, he suffered a nervous breakdown and landed in the notorious bethlem mental institution, known as bedlam. he was there for three years, and cherry was barred from visiting him.

he emerged for a short period of time in 1921, seemingly recovered, and took up lecturing in biology again at cambridge, but by the end of that year had relapsed and was institutionalized again.

frank debenham, writing to expedition agent j.j. kinsey in 1927 to solicit funding for SPRI, gave him an update:

Poor old Lillie is in less happy circumstances, the last I heard of him was that he was never likely to get out of Bedlam, a rather ghastly end up for poor old "Ooze's" brilliant promise.

lillie spent the rest of his life in institutions, and lived until the age of 78, dying in 1963. that was four years after the death of his friend cherry—who, despite constant attempts, was never allowed to visit him.

per UK law, lillie's medical records will be sealed until 2063, 100 years after his death, but a post on bethlem's official blog about lillie briefly notes that he was "depressed, delusional and suicidal."

the post also notes, importantly, that his breakdown had nothing whatsoever to do with his antarctic experiences:

The content of his medical notes suggests that the state of mind that brought him to hospital was entirely unrelated to his experiences of 1910-1913. Indeed, they report that “on the whole he felt better during this time”.

OK, let's end on a nice note. here's a picture of him having a nice time at silas's wedding (i think) with his best friends. RIP lillie, i hope your next life is going well somewhere out there right now 🥲💓

(also another good writeup on lillie with some lovely art can be found on @worstjourney's patreon here!)

#denis lillie #terra nova #polar exploration #this marine biologist is TRANSGENDER !!!

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tommarvoloriddlesdiary · 2 years ago

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By the time it’s through, Harry is a panting victorious mess.

He swears some Gryffindors get dumber by the year. They were pulling the same stunt at every start of the term. I mean, Harry scoffs and thinks to himself, they couldn’t even have been bothered to pick a different corridor. It astounds Harry how persistent their hatred of Slytherins—of him especially, remains even after all these years.

Like, so what? He can talk to a few snakes, and he’s alright at quidditch, and, yeah, he defeated the Dark Lord Voldemort when he was a baby and then sorted Slytherin at eleven. It’s not like anyone told him it was some cultural taboo to accidentally end a war and sort into the mass murderer’s Hogwarts House.

Honestly, Harry has a sneaking suspicion that even if someone had told him, he’d of ended up in a similar, if not worse, situation. So he’ll take the yearly Gryffindor smackdown any day.

Surveying his handiwork, Harry gives a pleased nod to nothing in particular. These six definitely need the medi-wing, but, seeing as Harry was slighted from the Head Boy position and finishing off his final year at Hogwarts as a mere seventh-year prefect, he figures this can slip under his radar. Of course, it’s not good to slack on the first week back, and usually Harry frowns at anything of the sort, but six to one is his new personal best. So, this little lapse in duty can be a small treat for a job well done.

The pep to his step and smile on his face certainly agree with Harry’s decision as he does an about-face and walks a few paces only to come toe to toe with their latest Defence professor.

Shite.

Harry’s face shutters and he freezes in place. There’s no way he can talk his way out of this. But, more importantly, what the hell is he going to do about a bloody witness.

In the haze of panic, Harry has enough sense to correct his posture quickly. He straightens up, shoulders back, hands clasped behind him, and speaks politely, if a little blandly, “Professor Riddle.” Harry bows his head in what he hopes comes across as a sign of respect and not the blatant attempt to hide his wince that it is. How could he have been so careless?

Professor Tom Riddle is the hot new thing in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Not only for the ne’er-do-well gossip mongrels but also just- generally. He’s incredibly attractive and incredibly unknown. Sure, he has more than enough qualifications for the position, but no one has any useful information on the man other than the fact that he might have been a Slytherin in another life. And that’s only because he’s got a pet snake slithering about, allegedly.

All of that to say: Harry has no idea how his new professor will react to this. But it’s vital that he keeps his head down this year; nothing can come between him and freedom from the Dursleys. Especially not a little roughhousing with a few morons. If Professor Riddle punishes him with a detention or eight, it will be a low blow but bearable— and if he brings what Harry’s done to the Headmaster…

Harry is certain expulsion will be considered with a heavy hand. Headmaster Dumbledore did not like Harry one bit.

“Harry Potter,” Professor Riddle’s voice is deep and just on the edge of lilting. It’s a nice voice, Harry’s shocked to acknowledge. His lessons will be a huge step up from Snape’s temporary claim of the role. Thank the gods they forced him back to Potions. Though, Slughorn’s lessons and overall attitude were pleasant while they lasted.

They both stood without saying another word in tense silence. Well, tense for Harry. He’s not too sure what’s rattling around in Professor Riddle’s head that’s keeping him so quiet.

Actually, Harry couldn’t imagine being on the other end of this scenario. Like, what would he do if he’d come upon some kid, who by almost all accounts was the supposed saviour of the wizarding world, beating the shite out of six Gryffindor students? Harry doesn’t think he’d handle it as well as Professor Riddle seems to be. In fact, maybe they should both take a cue from Fake-Professor-Harry and just pretend this never happened.

Harry’s neck is just starting to strain from its lock level with the floor when Professor Riddle speaks, “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

His head snaps up at the pleasant, almost jolly tone. Professor Riddle is staring out into the courtyard, eyes glued to something far, far in the distance. Completely ignoring the six injured students mere metres away.

Dumbfounded, Harry replies, “It’s evening.” And it is evening. Harry tries to look out at whatever has Professor Riddle’s steadfast attention and can’t pinpoint a damn thing. It’s dark as all hell out there. Finally, in the awkward pause, Harry finds the wherewithal to look back and tack on a belated, “Professor.”

Professor Riddle’s eyes slip to Harry’s face, but his head remains still, and Harry comes to the startling realisation that this is meant to be an act. Anyone passing by, or any nosey portraits, would still believe him enchanted by the courtyard and not confronting a rogue student.

“I know you’re socially inept, Mr Potter. But you are not stupid.”

And with that charming, hissed comment, Harry turns about-face once again to also fake watch the courtyard. “Why yes, sir. Very lovely.”

“It seems,” Professor Riddle starts up again, “in my vacant-minded appreciation for this beautiful day, I have forgotten some paperwork in my office. Could you spare a moment to accompany me?” Harry hears the loud and clear statement as what it is: a demand.

“Of course, sir. I happen to be returning to the common room and going that direction regardless.” Harry is oddly proud of the truth of this. He is technically done with his prefect rounds now, anyhow.

“Very good. Come along.”

The walk to Professor Riddle’s office is long. It’s made longer by their run-in with a few of the Hogwarts Ghosts. Peeves has always had this odd tolerance for Harry that he’s gladly taken advantage of more times than he can count. Something about his father and his father’s friends, the best group of pranksters to ever walk these halls! or whatever. Harry’s not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth. Besides, their slight distraction with Peeves has nothing on the Grey Lady’s interaction with Professor Riddle.

She never takes an interest in anyone outside of her little Ravenclaws if Hermione is to be believed. And Hermione is rarely ever wrong. So Harry is on the deep end of surprised when she floats down the other end of the fifth-floor corridor, sees them coming, and waits. Ghosts can’t really be described as warm— unless you were talking about the Fat Friar, and only then because, even as a ghost, he appears to be wearing too many layers for this time of year— but the Grey Lady’s soft eyes for Professor Riddle is a near thing.

“Tom,” she starts as Harry follows his professor’s lead and stops to greet her. “You’re back.”

Harry tries to keep as quiet as a mouse because he very desperately wants to know what she means by that, and he doesn’t think she’s even realised he’s here yet. Harry doesn’t even think he’s ever heard her speak before, either, but her voice is as soft as her eyes. Dainty like bells.

“Yes, Lady Ravenclaw. It has been a long time.” Professor Riddle seems pleased she remembers him. But… Harry can’t put his finger on it. Something just feels off. His neck prickles with that alert sort of awareness, the kind he’s never really been able to break since he was a kid—that prickle of danger.

Grey Lady nods, “Nearly three decades.”

Three decades? Hell, that’s a long time. How old is Professor Riddle anyway? He doesn’t look a day older than thirty, but unless Grey Lady knew him pre-birth, Harry would have to reevaluate his perception of wizard ages.

Harry is vaguely aware that this is all none of his business, and he really shouldn’t be standing here listening closely and pondering on whether or not Professor Riddle was a good Ravenclaw back in the day. But knowledge is power, right? As an obvious Ravenclaw Alumni, Professor Riddle would appreciate Harry’s retention. And since Harry still has no idea how he’ll react to the little skirmish from earlier, looking out for possible blackmail wouldn’t be amiss.

Professor Riddle looks surprised, “I don’t recall speaking with you the last time I was here.”

“Because you didn’t,” her reply is simple and to the point. Not said with any ounce of anger. It’s undoubtedly spoken with a fair amount of weight, however.

Harry hasn’t spent six, going on seven, years in the snake pit not to pick up on her clear underlying message: you didn’t see me, but I saw you. And even though it sounds like a threat, Harry is confident she only means it as a warning. A warning for what? Harry hopes to find out.

“How terribly remiss of me,” Professor Riddle shakes his head as though ashamed. “We should rectify this, of course, and speak at length when you have the time,” his accompanying smile is bright and charming. Harry almost wants to whistle in appreciation. That is some fine schmoozing if he says so himself.

But Grey Lady doesn’t respond. Instead, she floats on, and as she passes Harry, her shoulder phasing through his, he can’t help noticing her stricken face. The purse to her lips and the translucent grip of her hands, it’s almost like she’s scared.

Harry watches her go, still for a touch too long, and Professor Riddle clears his throat, “If you’ll continue following me, please, Mr Potter.”

His attention snaps back to the professor, “I had no idea you were a Ravenclaw, Professor Riddle.”

Professor Riddle looks very amused for a moment. Then, he continues walking and asks, “Whatever gave that away?”

Harry is immediately suspicious, “Ravenclaw’s Ghost. She doesn’t speak with anyone outside of her House. Even the professors have a hard time catching her attention unless they are one of her past students.” When Professor Riddle doesn’t respond right away, Harry adds, “For example, she didn’t acknowledge me once during your conversation.”

“That is true,” he nods, and that strange amusement lingers on the edges of Professor Riddle’s lips. They don’t speak for the remainder of their walk, though it isn’t without Harry trying.

Really, Harry hasn’t met anyone this paranoid in his life— maybe Moody, but the Auror is in a league all his own. However, Professor Riddle isn’t far behind, acting as though even the floors have ears. Or, at least, Harry assumes it’s paranoia stopping the Professor from answering. Maybe he’s just fed up with Harry’s questions…

As they enter the Defence classroom, Harry takes in the changes. Each Defence Professor certainly came with their own flair. Lockhart with his vain decor and opulence, Remus with his purely educational and scientific creatures posters and skeletons, Moody with his nearly claustrophobic clutter of dark curse detectors and jars of worms and bees, Umbridge with her bare-walled bleakness almost as though she could be the only thing of note in the room, Snape with his… well… Snape-ness—no one was surprised to come into the drawn curtain, candle-lit, gruesome pictured room last year.

Professor Riddle is an interesting mix, Harry thinks. Not over the top with gold and silver or anything like that, but there’s definitely a lustre to everything that speaks of fine quality. There’s a nice variety of defence posters, all topics from creatures to spells to stances to potions. How refreshing after the gloom of Snape. It’s brighter in here, Harry notes. Even in the late hour, the warm glow of the room is inviting.

Harry carefully tucks away the sight of a large empty vivarium for later questioning as Professor Riddle shows him up the staircase to his office.

“Have a seat, Mr Potter.” Professor Riddle rounds his desk, a simple wooden piece, large and already strewn with papers, and takes a seat. Harry follows suit, taking in his office with much less attention than the classroom. If only because it seems Professor Riddle hasn’t finished setting it up to his standards. Piles of books sit abandoned by the many bookshelves covering one wall, and a fair amount of boxes are open and unopened in each corner.

Harry takes a deep breath and readies to defend himself. He thinks he’s got a pretty reasonable defence (pun intended) for his Defence Professor. Even if the man has heard of Harry through gossip rags like Witch Weekly and the hardly-a-news-source Daily Prophet, Harry figures he’s still got the benefit of the doubt.

Unless, of course, Professor Riddle had strong affiliations during the war. That could always go either way. Harry’s met some pretty chill Voldemort supporters over the years and some pretty not-chill ones. The Malfoys, for instance, treat him like a second son, and Harry’s mostly sure that’s only because they think him the next Dark Lord or something. Whereas Theodore Nott, and probably his whole family, definitely hates Harry’s guts for killing Voldemort.

“Professor Riddle, about what happened earlier, I can explain—“ Harry starts and is near immediately cut off.

“You’re quite gifted in spell casting, aren’t you, Mr Potter?” Professor Riddle leans back and crosses his legs, hands in his lap. Okay…he doesn’t look like he’s about to get Harry expelled… And is that a compliment?

“Uh,” Harry stutters. He’s still not good with praise; it’s still so foreign to him. “I wouldn’t use that word, Professor. But thank you.”

Professor Riddle shakes his head, “It is nothing to thank me for if it is a fact. When I was accepted for the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor, I first requested a list of all the students and their academic placements.” He pauses to shuffle the papers around on his desk until he pulls out one long parchment, “Four years straight, you held the top of the list in Defence for your year, and your Ordinary Wizarding Levels were exemplary even though you appear to have barely scraped by in fifth-year with a Dreadful.”

Professor Riddle glances up at Harry with a world-weary look, “I have speculations about why you placed so low the last two years. A Troll for sixth-year? With the casting I saw? Highly unlikely.”

Harry blinks, “Oh,” is all he can muster. Welp, that answers how much of the duel Professor Riddle had seen. And, surely he didn’t have all the Hogwarts students’ placements memorised so thoroughly? Is it just his seventh-year classes? Is it just Harry?

For the first time all evening, Harry is struck with the sudden question: why was Professor Riddle in a random seventh-floor corridor, anyway?

Now, Harry can say what he likes about paranoid people being paranoid. Unfortunately, it didn’t mitigate the fact that Harry was a touch paranoid himself. And, even though Professor Riddle hasn’t come off as anything less than concerned-professor-addressing-his-student, Harry still hasn’t quite gotten over that prickle of danger back with Grey Lady. It would be absolutely batty to think Professor Riddle was following him, or whatever, but now that Harry’s thought about it, he can’t stop thinking about it.

“That is just Defence. You have placed consistently in the top 10 of almost all your other classes since you arrived at Hogwarts,” Professor Riddle rolls up the parchment and sets it aside. “Divination and you do not seem to agree, however.”

Harry can’t tell if Riddle is impressed, surprised, or both. Honestly, he’s kind of busy scoping out any easy exit points now that he’s spiralling down the my-new-defence-professor-might-be-stalking-me rabbit hole. Harry lets out a strained laugh and hopes that’s enough of an answer.

“You appear to be a bright young man, so why did you feel the need to fight six Gryffindor students after curfew, Mr Potter?”

Indignant, Harry decides to shelf his panic attack for later, “I didn’t feel the need. This is a yearly thing they like to do. They’ve decided they are within their rights to punish me for my audacity to sort Slytherin when I was eleven and enjoy cornering me during my prefect rounds.”

Riddle arches his brow, “This has been going on for years?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve not gone to your Head of House?”

Harry nearly scoffs, “Snape and I do not get along.”

“Professor Snape, Mr Potter,” Riddle’s amused smile is back in full force.

Harry presses his lips into a thin line and counts backwards from ten. Twice. “Of course, sir. Professor Snape and I do not get along. He tolerates me on the best of days and probably plans out my murder in vivid detail on the worst.”

Peeves may love Harry’s father. Snape decidedly didn’t. Hardly fair, if anyone asked him, that he has to take Snape’s shitty abuse just because he looks like a man he’s never met.

Riddle nods and tilts his head. He’s silent for a moment before he asks, “And do you like Slytherin House?”

It’s such an out-of-left-field question that Harry gapes for a moment. He pulls himself together enough to give it some serious thought. Does he like being a Slytherin? He’s never been anything else, so it’s hard to say. It was pretty shitty in the beginning. Being ostracised for doing something he didn’t even remember or know about until a month before school while also adjusting to a totally new concept like magic being real was kind of awful. And he wouldn’t recommend it. Still—

“Yes,” Harry answers passionately and wholeheartedly. “I love it. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

And he means it. Because even though first-year had its fair share of torture, it was also magic. It was walls that opened with a whispered word revealing a room with a sea-floor view and green velvet sofas, it was his very own room after years of sleeping in a cupboard under the stairs, it was his first friend and his first laugh, it was wands and potions and spells and charms and magic.

Riddle does seem surprised now, as though he expected Harry to give a very different answer. His quiet turns thoughtful for a long, long while, and Harry wonders how long their meeting will drag out. It’s well after curfew and prefect hours now, isn’t it?

A dragging sound pulls them both from their silence.

Harry’s eyes quickly lock on a stack of precariously stacked boxes. They move slightly as though pushed and wobble dangerously. After a few moments of nothing, a large snake head appears from around its corner.

And that answers Harry’s question about the empty vivarium in the classroom.

The snake’s scales against the stone floor are what make the dragging sound as it carefully moves closer and closer to Harry. A quick glance at Riddle shows that he has no intentions of stopping it; great. In fact, that amusement is far too obvious once again.

Belatedly Harry realises the snake is sort of massive, far longer than any snake he’s ever seen. Including that one ball python at the zoo. The snake’s body gracefully adjusts as it creeps up and up and up until its head is level with Harry’s. A cool forked tongue quickly brushes against his cheek. Harry blinks, wide-eyed.

“Excuse Nagini, Mr Potter. She’s just curious.”

Harry knows he shouldn’t say anything. He knows it’s too risky to reply because he can’t quite control his parseltongue in front of snakes, but he can’t just sit here and not say anything. He’s still trying to get out of expulsion and maybe even a few detentions, after all. So he looks very hard at Riddle and desperately hopes the man won’t act too cruel if Harry slips up, “It’s-s fine, s-sir.”

Harry winces. Even he can tell his s sounds were a little too harsh just then, and Riddle’s brown eyes sharpen at the curious drag of his voice.

Riddle leans forward, elbows on the desk, hands clasped together, and tilts his head. “That’s right. As a Slytherin, you must not mind snakes. Comes with the territory?”

“You could,” Harry swallows, “s-ay that.” He grits his teeth. Hope is a lie. He needs to get out of here.

Somehow Riddle leans ever so closer, “It’s interesting. I was under the impression that her presence here might cause a great disturbance. Headmaster Dumbledore was very worried about student safety and their reactions.”

Harry pauses. His eyes drift back over to Nagini. What? Wait, “Student safety?”

Suddenly Riddle is up and standing. It startles Harry more than he’ll ever admit, and while he’s distracted by that, Nagini rests her large head on his shoulder and inches her way behind his neck, “A speaker? You speak parseltongue, young child?”

Riddle quickly rounds to the front of his desk, his fingers tapping a pleasant little rhythm across it. He finds a comfortable spot and casually leans back against it, arms crossed. Harry’s thigh is almost brushing the long line of Riddle’s legs. Harry wants to die, just a little.

“Mr Potter, Harry,” Riddle says his name like a curse and a blessing and very, very different from how he’s been saying it all evening. A chill runs down Harry’s spine.

Nagini interrupts before Riddle can continue, “Are you cold, young child? Tom, the boy is cold. Warm him.”

“My snake seems rather taken with you, Harry,” Riddle carries on, completely ignoring Nagini and her demands. Which makes sense because Riddle doesn’t speak parseltongue, but Harry is sorely tempted to laugh at how she sounds so used to bossing Riddle around. He doesn’t scream doting pet owner, but maybe Harry’s got a bad read on him. Or maybe the fear and adrenalin are making Harry fucking crazy.

And when did he become Harry and not Mr Potter?

Harry coughs, focusing all his attention on Riddle once more, “Cool. What concern did Dumbledore have for the children?” Nailed it.

Riddle’s answering smile is large and closed-lipped. He’s not laughing, but it sure as hell feels like he is. “Headmaster Dumbledore, Harry. And it is nothing to worry about, as I have taken measures to keep you all safe. Nagini just happens to be rather poisonous; her venom is capable of killing a man in less than a minute.”

Huh. Harry suddenly doesn’t feel all too thrilled about having Riddle’s rather large, potentially man-killing, and weirdly mothering snake getting all cosy on his shoulders. Even now, she’s still hissing nonsense words of concern and praise, and really, Harry’s not been paying too close attention to her out of fear of messing up again.

Harry nods as slowly and carefully as possible. “I get why he’d be a little worried.”

Riddle hums, not necessarily agreeing, not necessarily disagreeing. “Back to our original topic, I will not be reporting your altercation with the Gryffindors.”

The fierce surprise waging a three-way war with suspicion and hope in Harry’s chest is enough to leave him breathless. How the hell did he get this lucky? “Thank you, I really appreciate it—“ Harry stops himself from adding an instinctual sir.

Harry sits uncomfortably in the realisation that Riddle is definitely laughing at him as Riddle’s brows inch up. Harry sighs and says, “s-sir.” He clears his throat.

“Apologies, Harry. It is quite late, is it not? I wouldn’t want to keep you; the term officially starts tomorrow, after all.” Riddle straightens up from his lean, and he’s closer now than he’s ever been to Harry.

“One last thing,” Riddle says, and his hands curl around either side of Harry’s neck. Harry is dizzy in the stifling nearness. Riddle’s not touching him, but the warmth radiating off his body and hands burns until Harry is certain there’ll be blisters.

Riddle carefully takes Nagini from her perch on Harry and wraps her gently across his own shoulders, “In exchange for my silence, I expect us to meet here once a week. Outside of our class time. I shall wait until you get your timetable before picking something suitable for us both.”

Harry’s eyes are glued to the floor when he says, “Yeah. Okay.”

“Harry.”

Harry’s neck whips up at breaking speed, and for just a split second, hardly a blink, Riddle’s eyes are a scolding red.

Harry blinks once, twice, three whole times before he manages a desperate, “Yes, Professor Riddle.”

Riddle’s answering smile is the cat’s canary, and Harry certainly feels like prey to a predator right now.

#tomarry #harrymort #tomarrymort #pov: harry #4.1k words #chapter 1 #my fic #slytherin!harry #professor!tom | voldemort #fic: what's lost (what's gained)#i have nothing to say i don't even know where this came from

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foxfables · 3 months ago

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The Space Between Hearts

A/N: This is Just the Plot Bunnies I Couldn’t Shake. Please Don’t Expect Any Kind of Medical Accuracy. This is inspired by House MD & a Film Called Fathers & Daughter (Loosely).

The Space Between Us.

Warnings: Migraines, Medical Talk.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Aubrey Hurst.

Spencer Reid had one persistent, insidious problem: migraines. But his real frustration ran deeper than the searing pain. It was the half-dozen doctors who had repeatedly dismissed his symptoms, each one claiming he was wrong, that grated on him the most.

That’s how he found himself sitting stiffly across from Dr. Edwards at St. Charles Medical and Research Hospital. As soon as Spencer stepped into the stark, sterile office, he had already pegged the man as dismissive. He didn’t need his finely honed profiling skills to see it—the doctor’s disinterest was plain in the way he barely glanced up from his files, his fingers absentmindedly drumming on the desk.

“Are you having one of your headaches right now?” Dr. Edwards asked flatly, as if the answer didn’t particularly matter.

“Not at the moment,” Spencer replied, his irritation barely concealed.

“And when was the last one?”

“Two days ago.”

The doctor scribbled a note with an almost robotic detachment before glancing up, his eyebrows raised in a half-hearted show of interest. “You don’t think your headaches are psychosomatic?”

Spencer’s jaw clenched. “No,” he said firmly.

Dr. Edwards barely reacted, his expression remaining passive as he began to close the file in front of him. “Honestly, I think your migraines are stress-related,” he said with an air of finality. “But I’ll arrange for a consult with the diagnostics team. Stay here.”

Spencer bit back the urge to argue, frustration simmering beneath the surface. It wasn’t just that his headache—the one that had been steadily building since he stepped off the jet—was growing more pronounced. The bright, clinical lights overhead felt like needles pressing into his skull, amplifying the pain.

Twenty agonizing minutes passed, and the tension in the room seemed to grow with each passing second. Finally, the door creaked open. But instead of Dr. Edwards returning, two younger doctors entered the room.

The first was a man in his late twenties, with dark hair and a welcoming, unassuming presence. He was of average height, but the ease with which he carried himself gave him an air of quiet confidence. His eyes were observant, yet kind, and he wore a small smile as he stepped forward.

“I’m Dr. Daniel Rhodes,” he said, his voice calm but engaging. “I’m a diagnostic fellow here.” He gestured toward the woman standing beside him.

She was much shorter, standing at barely 5’3”, with striking features that Spencer noted immediately. Dr. Rebecca Langford, a 27-year-old neurology resident, had rich, dark skin and wore her curly hair tied back in a neat high ponytail. Despite her youthful appearance, there was a sharpness in her eyes that suggested she took her work very seriously. Still, her smile was gentle and welcoming as she nodded in acknowledgment.

“We’re with the Diagnostics Team,” Dr. Rhodes continued, his tone professional yet reassuring. “We’ve reviewed your case, and we’d like to take a closer look at what’s going on. If you’re ready, we can start now.”

Spencer slowly rose from his seat, his head pounding in rhythm with his quickening heartbeat. There was a flicker of hope in the air, mingled with his frustration. Perhaps, finally, someone would take his pain seriously and stop brushing him off.

Spencer was led to an office that was much bigger and brighter than Dr. Edwards’—which felt like it had been stuck in the 70s with its dark wood paneling and outdated decor. This new office, however, was modern and sprawling, technically three rooms separated by glass walls. In the central room, a large table was placed in the middle, surrounded by whiteboards and bookshelves. A young woman sat at the table, surrounded by a clutter of files and medical textbooks. She glanced up briefly when they entered, but quickly returned to her work. Spencer’s eyes wandered toward the back room, which was dim and empty except for the outline of a desk, a computer, and an upright piano that was tucked beneath the window.

Dr. Rhodes led him into the final room, which had a more comfortable, welcoming feel. The walls were a warm cream colour, and the space felt modern and fresh. A patient bed stood at the centre of the room, with a chair and monitoring equipment neatly arranged around it.

“Go ahead and take off your shoes and sit on the bed,” Dr. Rhodes suggested, gently pulling Spencer out of his daze.

“Sure,” Spencer replied, slipping out of his shoes and climbing onto the bed.

“I’m going to take some blood while we talk through your medical history,” Dr. Langford added, her voice calm but focused as she prepped the necessary equipment.

For the second time that day, Spencer recounted his medical history. His mother’s condition, the paranoid schizophrenia that had plagued her for as long as he could remember. His own brushes with danger—the gunshot wound, the anthrax exposure, and his brief but difficult stint with dilaudid, which made him extremely reluctant to rely on strong painkillers now.

His migraines had started about six months ago, and they had only been getting worse. Initially, he could manage them with over-the-counter pain relievers, but by Christmas, they had stopped working altogether. He had tried to push through the pain, but now it was becoming unbearable.

As Spencer spoke, he noticed that Dr. Rhodes and Dr. Langford were asking far more detailed questions than any of his previous doctors. They didn’t just focus on the surface-level details. Instead, they delved deeper—into his caffeine intake, how much sugar he consumed daily and weekly, his sleeping patterns, and where he lived. They even asked about the type of building he resided in, where he had been over the past year, and, more specifically, where he had been when he first noticed the migraines beginning.

They wanted to know what his headaches had been like before the migraines had evolved, and they didn’t shy away from the mental health side of things either. Spencer could feel himself growing defensive, even though he knew it was illogical. He had been building this defence mechanism ever since his father left him in the care of his mother—a woman whose paranoid schizophrenia had defined much of his childhood. And now, here he was, at the perfect age to potentially develop symptoms himself. Spencer was acutely aware of the statistics, the genetic predisposition, and the trauma he had endured throughout his life. He knew the risks better than most, and the thought of it all worried him far more than he cared to admit, even to himself.

Dr. Langford finished drawing Spencer’s blood and called out to the young woman in the other room. That’s when Spencer learned that she was a medical student. As the doors slid open, he noticed for the first time that the office at the far end of the room now had its light on.

“Thanks,” Dr. Langford said as the medical student quickly took the vials of blood from her and exited the room, following Dr. Rhodes.

Then, Dr. Langford turned back to Spencer and resumed her questioning.

“Any hallucinations?” she asked, her tone even and professional.

“No,” Spencer replied, shaking his head.

“Are you just saying no because of your history?” she probed.

“No,” he said again, a little more firmly.

“No visual or audible hallucinations?” she pressed.

“No,” he answered, his patience holding.

“Any colours or auras?”

“No,” he said, and this time, she seemed satisfied.

“Okay,” she nodded. She paused for a moment before asking, “You don’t think your headaches are psychosomatic?”

Spencer exhaled, barely managing to keep his frustration at bay. “No,” he answered, the word clipped.

“Okay,” she said, offering a small, understanding smile.

Just then, the door creaked open again, and a new presence entered the room.

“Hi,” the newcomer said, her voice warm and inviting.

Spencer turned his gaze toward her. “Hello,” he replied.

“I’m Dr. Hurst, the head of diagnostics here,” she introduced herself with a soft smile. Dr. Hurst was a 29-year-old woman with a naturally friendly expression, framed by shoulder-length brown hair that was parted neatly down the middle. She wore a black coat layered over a simple black dress. Her demeanour was professional, yet approachable, and though she smiled warmly at Spencer, he couldn’t help but notice a faint sadness lingering in her eyes, as if something weighed on her despite the smile she presented.

Even as Spencer observed her, she radiated an aura of confidence and care, putting him slightly more at ease. Still, the sadness in her gaze intrigued him, almost as much as her curiosity about his condition. He wondered silently what she had seen to put that sadness there, but quickly reminded himself that this wasn’t about her—this was about his migraines, his pain, and the answers he so desperately sought.

#Spencer Reid #Spencer Reid Fanfic #Criminal Minds #Spencer x Aubrey #Aubrey Hurst

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mejcinta · 2 years ago

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Why do people want to change Rhaena's character and story direction completely in order to find her more 'interesting and relevant'????

And funny enough, she IS an interesting character in regards to her stance and choices during and after the war. That her heart remained somewhat untainted with hatred, that she cared for her brother regardless of his paranoia and disgust for dragons, that she apparently nurtured a relationship with Jaehaera before her tragic end, that she later played a mediative role by joining House Targaryen and House Hightower through a functioning marriage with Garmund.

She is also the Last Targaryen Dragon Rider. An impressive fete given how she grew up without the prestige of claiming or successfully hatching one for YEARS.

Give the Princess her due and stop wishing she was someone else. Helaena and Nettles will never be Rhaena and vice versa. Period!

#hotd #house of the dragon season 2 #house of the dragon #rhaena targaryen #rhaena of pentos #aegon iii targaryen #jaehaera targaryen #helaena targaryen #nettles

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therandomfando4 · 6 months ago

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Right off the bat I'll just say, I wrote this as a here's some facts about this as well as the issues I saw present in Mediexcalibur2012's newest editing for smg4 video, along with a few issues outside of his video.

Also, I'm just going to say. I have seen enough content to know a fair bit about Meggy in the eyes of Luke and Kevin, but I'm not going to go there because that's not the discussion right now.

What Medi got right.

Mario's age - Canonically in the Nintendo lore, Mario is 24-25 years of age.

Meggy's age as of 2024 - She is 22 THIS year

(technically 21 until July 16th but it's neither here nor there due to the topic being discussed)

What Medi got wrong.

The Mario Kart Love Song Music Video - He is technically right about the video containing two adults but he is still using the characters one of which, was a teenager when they met Mario in the canon of the Smg4, while he still supports seeing the two in a relationship outside of the video.

Meggy being an adult, being able to go to college & buying her own house - While yes she has been an adult for a few years now, she was a 15 year old teenager when she first met Mario. (None of which was mentioned in Medi's video, it seems like VERY important information he left out)

Smg4 Fans thinking Meggy is 14 - Now, could there be people who think Meggy is 14? Maybe. But he still hasn't addressed the fact that she WAS 15 in her debut episode. Also, he blames the "You know what else is a number?" video for this "rumour" of her being 14.

The argument of not having a definitive way of aging in the show - This explanation falls flat in the context of Meggy and this excuse only works with certain characters mainly, the Smgs, Mario characters, and characters who weren't given definitive ages or an estimate by the show. The other main girls of the group either have confirmed ages or an estimate of how old they are.

♡ Smg4's Tari was told to fans on reddit to be younger than her meta runner counterpart. The comment has now been deleted it seems. She could be anything from teenager to adult in her debut if we are going by the reddit post/ comment.

☆ Saiko was most definitely highschool age in her debut episode due to her being from a dating sim meaning she could've been any age from 15-18.

○ Melony and Meggy are the same age. This being confirmed in "Smg4: The Watermelon Man"

His argument is that "Even though Meggy is younger than Mario she will one day become older than Mario, wut?" Still wouldn't change the fact she WAS 15 while Mario was an adult in her debut. His "Melony is 21 but served in the Vietnam war" argument doesn't really stand any ground. That would be more of a discussion about the show's continuity vs. the jokes that are made.

For example, why would Smg3 shooting smg4 in "Smg4: You Used To Be Cool.." potentially kill him even though after that episode smg3 then shot smg4 in "Smg4: Trash friends" and smg4 bounced right back?

Making his argument about Melony invalid.

His "Will Jub jub model change when he gets older?" question isn't even related to the issues of Meggy's relationships. That's an entirely different question about models rather than age. As we don't really know Boopkin's age.

Long bit here, but this kinda has to be said; Medi SHOWS the ID of Meggy in his video, so he SHOULD have known about her age history already.

Also, the ID wouldn't have been an "On the spot" move either, as July 16th is the day that Meggy first appeared in a video known as "Smg4: If Mario Was In... Splatoon."

So, one of the team members purposely chose 2002 as her birth year.

I also find it unnerving and upseting at the fact that Medi hadn't brought up ANY of this in his video, EVEN THOUGH he's an editor and has written episodes for the show!!

Overall, it feels like Medi was trying to cover up the fact that the ship had this massive problem within it.

By not stating people's real issue with said ship. Only saying the relationship is between two now grown adults.

As well as claiming the people talking about the ship being unethical towards the teenager now adult Meggy, as people who either haven't researched or are uninformed. This feels like a cheap tactic of trying to excuse the ship's problems as "Unresearched fan's rambling" when it's quite the opposite.

I wouldn't have said anything if it weren't for the fact that Medi is someone that smg4 fans go to source for more information on smg4. He's got quite a big influence on the fandom. So, him saying the people who disagree with an abliet problematic ship haven't researched about this subject. I can see as quite an insulting take and seems negative towards criticism of the ship. Especially when it seems he himself hasn't researched enough or is purposely leaving out details of characters that should have been in the video.

This seems to have already caused problems with mxm shippers going to an smg4 post unrelated to mxm and commenting about the ship, then tagging the people who've told them off for their comment on to their mxm threads when the other party clearly has discomfort for the ship. While the mxm shipper say they are being harassed in the same way. (If there is harassment on both sides then that isn't okay. But you can't say you don't want that treatment while doing it to other people.)

Before you ask, no, I do not like the mxm ship. I think it's ethically wrong and makes me uncomfortable. But this post is more about giving people a better view of the issues involved in the ship itself and the way Medi handled it. It was especially bad towards people who are uncomfortable about the ship.

Sorry for the long post. I kinda kept going and couldn't stop. For anyone who follows me, I apologise if you are uncomfortable with this topic.

(Cute unrelated cat sketch, yay!)

#smg4

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breakingblorbos · 6 months ago

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Heyyy! I read through your intro to your blog and I know that Gus isn’t one of the main characters you mentioned you were fixated on but I was wondering if you could do headcanons for him? Both sfw and nsfw if you’re comfortable :)) I also love the idea that Gus was gay if you could maybe use that to influence some of your headcanons THANK YOU VRO!

Hi!!! 👋🏼👋🏼 Omg yes I'd love to!! Thank you so so much for sending me a request!! 🖤☺️ I'm SO SORRY this took so long, life has been crazy busy for me lately. I LOVE Gus so much even tho he's not on my faves list! (I had to keep the list on my pinned post short because I love all the characters, so listing everyone would've just been silly hdhsns)

This ended up longer than I expected. I hope that's okay!! I'm a rambler and a yapper for my faves, what can I say. I was trying to not let this turn into character analysis but?? Hell, I dunno what I'm doing lmaooo forgive me. I had lots of fun writing it tho! Hope you enjoy it as well! Some of these headcanons are 100% projection on my part, but hey, that's just how it be sometimes. We out here coping through our comfort characters 😌✌🏼 also, happy pride!! 🌈

👔Gus Fring Headcanons! 🐓

Disclaimer: This goes without saying, but these are just my personal opinions & headcanons on this character. I do not claim to own this character, nor any rights to the character or the source material.

CW: death, trauma, canon-typical violence, slight homophobia implied, NSFW content below the cut.

SFW

Gus is autistic! He is very high masking anytime he's around someone else, and he only feels comfortable unmasking when he's alone at home, where he can stim and self-regulate in private. Being high masking to that degree is exhausting, so he really enjoys/needs his alone time after business hours.

I don't know if he realizes or acknowledges that he is autistic; he probably never put too much thought into it. He's been too focused on just maintaining his business and surviving in the midst of the cartel.

Gus has intense germophobia, as well as a contamination phobia and hemophobia (fear of blood, specifically of blood getting on him). Before Max died, he didn't struggle with these issues, but the trauma of seeing the love of his life die horribly and unexpectedly in front of him developed into these phobias.

He repeatedly washes his hands throughout the day whenever they feel unclean, and showers every day. It's one of the ways he can stay in control in an otherwise out of control situation. It's how he can cope, because he never truly healed from Max's death.

Speaking of Max, they were more than just business partners! They were life partners in a romantic relationship. Max was one of the only people who Gus could be himself around and let down his guard.

Max was a big motivation and driving force for creating Los Pollos Hermanos, because Gus wanted to share his love for food to more than just his boyfriend. He wanted to share it with the world, with Max by his side. (This hurt my heart aah 😭)

I headcanon Gus as gay too! And he keeps his sexuality close to his chest. Very close. He's extremely cautious in ensuring that nobody– especially the Salamancas– knows that he's gay, unless he wants to be involved romantically with them.

I'd bet that the only people who knew were Max, Gale (they dated for a little bit before Gus called it off), Nacho (gaydar mostly. Nacho clocked him during that "find a way" scene in the car. You know the one), and mayyybe Mike. I feel like Hector was suspicious and kinda put the pieces together, and he was keeping it in the back of his mind as potential leverage/blackmail against Gus.

One of Gus' favorite ways to express his love and care for someone is to cook them a meal!

He loves everything about the process of cooking; the planning, the prep, cooking and assembling the dish, and finally (and most importantly), watching the person he made it for eat and enjoy it. It's mediative for him, and helps him calm down and focus when he needs a distraction.

After Max died, he lost a little bit of his passion for cooking, and cooking for anyone else never felt the same as it did for Max.

Gus' other hobbies at home would be anything that involved meticulous, detailed, and careful tasks/steps. I think he'd be into making model train sets or diorama scenes, or something akin to it. He's a perfectionist, through and through, and he feels very fulfilled seeing the finished product after he hyperfixates on a project.

NSFW

Now onto the spicy headcanons! 🫡 I kept it gender neutral in pronouns, simply for the sake of differentiating between Gus and his partner. Less confusing to read that way, but all of his partners will be men. Some of these aren't inherently explicit, but they fit better under this category since they're about his love life/relationships. Also, a little bit of implied Gus x reader if you squint teehee

Gus insists on being the top & the dominant during sex. This, again, goes back to his need for control of a situation and holding power over his lover. He will not bottom under any circumstance.

Max was the one person he was comfortable bottoming for, or letting Max be the dom. They would switch roles often enough so that they were equally both top and bottom. Anyone else is simply too unpredictable, in his eyes.

I would consider him mostly a soft dom, although he can get pretty nasty at times. He definitely has a degradation kink– degrading others, not receiving the degradation. And brat taming.

Speaking of kinks, I think Gus would be into bondage and rope play. He very much enjoys tying his partner up and teasing them relentlessly until they're begging and whining Gus to let them cum.

He doesn't typically have a very big sex drive, but with the right person, he goes absolutely wild with them every chance he gets. (It also helps him get out his frustrations and stress from work.)

He isn't necessarily a sadist (well... maybe a little bit 🤭), he just loves hearing his partner being so loud and needy and desperate for him. He eats that shit up!!

Gus practically never talks in Spanish outside of dealing with Salamancas. However, if he's built a deep connection with his lover (this is rare), he'll call them pet names and say sweet (or nasty) things to them while fucking them, depending on the vibe at the time. Amor, cariño, conejito, cochino, and putito are some of his favorites.

Gus is great at tending to his partner's needs; he listens and pays attention to what his partner is into and what turns them on the most.

Especially if they're trying to tease him in public or at the restaurant. He gets a little frustrated and annoyed that they're not "behaving professionally in a work setting", but that won't stop him from locking his office door and bending them over his desk for a fitting punishment.

"Fine. If you are unable to control yourself and behave properly while you are in my restaurant, then I have no choice but to control you myself. Do not let anyone hear you, understand?" He would growl in their ear as he starts to undo his belt.

He also gives amazing aftercare, but once the morning comes, he quietly puts his clothes back on and slips out the door. If he even stays the night at all.

Gus has a hard time allowing anyone to get close to him like Max did, so he only keeps things casual with his intimate partners. They're hookups and that's about it. He doesn't wanna catch feelings for anyone else, for his safety and theirs. He cut off his relationship with Gale because of his developing feelings.

If he ever did allow a relationship to go into the more serious territory, he would give his partner the same care, dedication, and loyalty that he shows in his work.

He would be the kind of boyfriend that makes sure his partner never wants for anything, as long as that same loyalty and dedication was reciprocated. He expects nothing less.

Gus takes a very long time to establish trust with someone, but once they have that trust, it's for life. He would protect them with every ounce of his strength and resource he has available to him.

Thank you so so much again, anon, for your request!! ❤️ If anyone else would like to submit a writing request, please read my pinned post first! Then you can submit your requests here!

🪐🌠

#brba #brbabcs #bcs #breaking bad #better call saul #gus fring #gus fring headcanons #breaking bad headcanons #better call saul headcanons #gusmax #request #writing request #||headcanons||#||my writing||#||requests||#||👔||

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goetiae · 1 year ago

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𝐓he 𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐓 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐌𝐏𝐄𝐓 is a rather peculiar occult invention of the late 19th century.

Prior to the invention of this tool, mediums had to use nonverbal means of spirit communication, be it spirit boards or other similar objects. However, the spirit trumpet suggested, for the first time, that a spirit can physically reach the listener through audial means as well.

As Victorian Women and the Theatre of Trance: Mediums, Spiritualists and Mesmerists in Performance (2009) by Amy Lehman states, it was a part of the greater "manifestation" category of mystical experiences. During manifestation, the spirits made objects levitate or appear, such as flower petals or letters, as well as played instruments - guitars, tambourines, or trumpets.

A spirit trumpet is shaped like a usual trumpet from two and a half to three feet in length, traditionally made of brass, tin, or aluminum; fibre and papier mache are acceptable materials as well. Four to five inches in diameter at the larger end, they narrow down to just about three-quarters of an inch at the other end. Every medium seemingly had their own design and variations of shape for their spirit trumpet.

The first spirit trumpets were homemade, usually shaped out of cardboard or metal. While it is unclear who came up with the idea of a spirit trumpet, sometimes Jonathan Koons (1811-1893) and his son Nahum Koons (1837-1921), influential spiritualists of the 19th century, are credited with it. The first commercial manufacturer of this tool was Everett Atwood Eckel (1831-1914) who opened his shop in Indiana.

In practical use, it was often recommended that a trumpet be wet on the inside prior to the seance as the moisture supposedly helped spirits speak easier. Some sceptics suggested that the practice had a more down-to-earth reasoning behind it as it helped hide the moisture from the medium speaking into the trumpet: such an opinion was voiced in The Life and Mysteries of the Celebrated Dr. Q (1921) by Alexander the Crystal Seer, an all-revealing manual on spiritual performances.

In the aforementioned book, Mr. Alexander, who himself was a stage magician, is rather critical of this method of spirit communication. He speaks, for one, on how suspicious the seances involving the spirit trumpet seem to be: set in dark or semi-dark rooms with light conveniently placed so that the podium for the trumpet is cast in darkness.

From the same author we learn of the general setting of the seance and its approximate contents. Such as, a prayer being said, the medium inviting over the spirit and putting the trumpet on their knees, after which everyone present holds hands with those sitting on their left and right. Once the spirit arrives, the trumpet is expected to lift in the air, slowly turning around, and either emit glowing light, ooze ectoplasm, or simply echo voices. From his skeptical viewpoint, Mr. Alexander suggests an element of deception being involved: either the medium using a hose to talk, feigning different voices, or using a special system of strings in the complete darkness to make the trumpet move.

However, Mr. Alexander wasn't the pioneer of criticism of the method. One of the first research pieces that regarded the problem of trumpet seances was Experiments in psychical science, levitation, contact, and the direct voice (1919) by a psychic researcher William Jackson Crowford. He was the one to point out that sometimes mediums used glow-in-the-dark rings on the ends of the trumpets and set them in complete darkness with the visitors singing hymns or praying before the start of the seance. During one of the seances he witnessed, Mr. Crowford claims, the trumpets flew in the air and requested a lamp to be turned away from the medium while those present "sing something". Some mediums used bells or boards to announce the spirit's presence.

Out of other critical articles about the method, Mysteries of the Seance and Tricks and Traps of Bogus Mediums: A Plea for Honest Mediums and Clean Work (1903) by an unknown herbalist can be noted. In this work, the author, following Mr. Alexander, states that the spirit trumpet seance is overall a fraud. He marks that by usage of little to no light and layered clothing, a medium could either conceal a hose or hide a second trumpet. Overall, he recommends that the stories of those who went through the trumpet seance should be taken with a grain of salt.

There were, indeed, such stories. In The Physical Theory of the Soul (1915) by Harry La Verne Twining, one can read about such an experience. Within this book, the eyewitness of a seance presents their point of view. The trumpet is said to have lifted into the air and bumped them on their head, announcing a name that was familiar to them, as well as their name.

After a short interaction, the trumpet fell down and lifted yet again, giving out another name, this time a relative of both the first presumed spirit and the person listening. What the eyewitness here notes to be a unique occassion is the voice mentioning something that only the eyewitness knew: an event from around twenty-seven years ago. To futher dissipate the suspicion, the person notes that both of the mediums must have been but toddlers at the time of the event, and it's "impossible" they knew about it.

Other observations by the witnesses and visitors of such seances are plenty as well. One of them is told in the book A Record of Psychic Experience (1922) by George F. Goerner. The trumpet seance described in the text suggests multiple spirits, all somehow connected to the listener, speaking to him through either his or the medium's trumpet. He hears, for example, many of his deceased relatives and his friend. Out of the curious details regarding this experience is that the medium suggests one is to keep friendly, positive attitude during the seance as this "clears the way" for the dead. Another detail described in the account is that the medium is accompanied by a person under the role of a spirit control assistant.

Overall, there's a lot of interesting and various information about the spirit trumpet. Some seemed highly cautious about it, sometimes for a good reason, and for some it was a rather relieving way of soothing the loneliness after their beloved ones had passed. Regardless, it is a tool worth discussing.

#༺☆༻ 𝕮𝔞𝔫𝔦𝔰 𝕸𝔞𝔧𝔬𝔯 ༺☆༻#occult #occulltism #witchcraft #spirit communication #spirits #victorian history #victorian #spirit trumpet #19th century

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dixonsmonroe · 1 year ago

Text

Plus One

Part 3 of the Lost and Found series.

Part 1

Part 2

Summary: Bucky decides he’s finally ready to adopt a cat, so you venture out into the city to find his perfect match.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x female!reader

Word count: 2,875

Author’s note: what kind of person would i be if i wrote a fic about two cat lovers and not bring in alpine? (i also tried to refrain from going into vet tech work mode while writing the scene in the vet’s office and tried to keep it short lol.)

Warnings: a whole bunch of fluff and also cats

There was a light knocking at your door as you finished getting ready for the day. You and Bucky had agreed to leave for the animal shelter at eleven AM, and it was only ten-forty. You thought it was adorable how he was itching to start looking for a cat, and today was finally the day. You tried to assure him that it wasn’t always as easy as it had been with you and Gomez, that sometimes it takes a few different tries before you find the one. He tried to act nonchalant, acting as if he wasn’t too worried. But even under that tough exterior you knew he was excited.

Gomez happily trotted over to the door and sat in front of it. He looked back at you as if to say ‘my second favorite person is here, are you going to let him in?’ You had no idea when he had learned the sound of Bucky’s footsteps specifically, but he always knew when it was your supersoldier neighbor on the other side of the door.

You gave your cat a small scratch behind the ear before opening the door. Bucky stood there with a brand new looking cat carrier. He leaned in and kissed you softly and your heart fluttered. You had been seeing each other for about four months at this point, and while neither of you had used labels yet, there was always a hello kiss waiting for you.

“Morning,” he smiled, and you stood aside for him to come in.

“Morning,” you grinned back at the way Gomez did figure eights between Bucky’s legs as he walked into the apartment. “You look prepared.”

“Yeah,” he blushed a little and tried to hide it while he paid most of his attention to Gomez. “I know you said I could use Gomez’s carrier, but I wanna make sure I have everything, y’know?”

“I get it,” you replied with a grin, because you did get it. “Ready to go?”

“I am,” he said and stood up.

While you walked over to the door, Gomez let out an indignant chirp of protest.

“Sorry, pal,” you said and kissed him on top of his head. “Maybe when we get back we’ll have a friend for you.”

You walked your way to the train station and caught the first one to the stop near the shelter.

“How does Gomez feel about other cats?” Bucky asked you.

“He doesn’t really pay attention to them for the most part, I’ve seen him get along with other cats, but he definitely prefers people,” you explained. “You really want them to get along, huh?”

“Well, I don’t want him to think I’m replacing him,” Bucky said, and you could tell he really wasn’t joking. That made you feel warm all over; you knew that Gomez had essentially claimed Bucky as his own territory, but the fact that Bucky was planning around your situation made you feel like he planned on sticking around.

When you walked up to the doors of the shelter, you were welcomed by a young woman who gave you a warm smile.

“Hi, welcome,” she said. “Looking to adopt a cat or a dog?”

“A cat,” Bucky replied. “Preferably good with other cats.”

She nodded and waved toward the door that led to the cat area of the shelter. “Come with me.”

You followed Bucky and walked by plenty of different cats. You pointed out a sweet old lady cat who rubbed her face against your hand between the bars of the kennel door. It said “I’ve been adopted!” on her information card. It made your heart happy; a lot of older animals often got left behind at shelters.

“She’s probably the sweetest one we have here,” the girl said. “She’s been passed up by a lot of people because she has a lot of health problems. A couple is taking her home in a few days, they have the means to pay her medical bills and they fell in love with her immediately when they met her.”

“That’s so sweet,” you smiled.

Bucky smiled at the cat as they passed by. They met a few candidates; a tuxedo kitten that liked chasing shoelaces, but was not a fan of other cats. A little orange cat who immediately flopped onto your shoes and showed his belly. He reminded you a bit of Gomez, except a little lazier and less mischievous.

Bucky seemed to like them all, but you could tell there was that lack of a spark with any of them. Still, it was sweet to watch him interact with them.

When the verdict was that none of them were ‘the one’, Bucky didn’t have to say it out loud. You could see the slight disappointment behind his eyes, maybe that other people wouldn’t notice, so you politely said you both had a lot to think about and that you’d be in touch with the shelter.

As you walked out, you tried to keep Bucky’s spirits up; it was only the first shelter, there were plenty more cats to see in New York, he’d find the one, etc.

As you walked out of shelter number three with still no luck, you could tell your words were becoming just that and nothing more. His shoulders seemed somewhat heavy, and he looked defeated.

“Hey,” you said, taking his hand and giving it a squeeze as you walked. “I’m sorry. I know it’s frustrating.”

He sighed heavily. “That’s okay, we can try again to–”

There was a loud crash off to the side in an alley near you. It was late afternoon, but there weren’t many people around, so of course you weren’t exactly jumping to investigate.

When you heard a loud ‘meow,’ Bucky felt differently. He turned to look in the alleyway and as he walked slowly down it, a little ball of fluff bolted out from behind a dumpster.

The cat looked at the both of you, Bucky now stopped in his tracks so as not to scare her. She gave you a little ‘mew?’ and walked towards Bucky slowly. You held your breath to see how the cat would react, and you weren’t the least bit surprised when she started rubbing on his legs and asking for pets.

Bucky slowly knelt down and scratched her behind the ears, like Gomez liked. You walked slowly closer to them, her purring loud and insistent. The cat saw you and meowed again, this time coming over to you and pushing her head against your hand that you had offered out.

“Well, son of a bitch,” you smiled.

Bucky seemed like he couldn’t believe it, like this was too good to be true.

“Think she’s got a home?” He asked. It was a fair question; you assumed that under all the dirt and filth on her long fur, she was white and probably matted. She was skinny, very much so, like she had only been living off scraps for a while.

“She seems to love people,” you replied. “I say we start walking and see what happens. Maybe she likes her little alleyway.”

Bucky stood up and gave a small huff. “We can’t leave her here.”

“Something tells me she’s not going to let us anyway,” you grinned, watching as the cat rubbed her face on your leg.

Sure enough, as you both started walking away, the little cat trotted beside you to keep up and you could tell it was taking everything Bucky had not to pick her up. When you got to the entrance to the subway, you stopped him.

“Put the carrier down and maybe see what she does?” You suggested.

When Bucky did so, the cat seemed a little unsure. She sniffed the open door, but didn’t go in. Instead, she rubbed up on Bucky’s legs again. You held back a giggle and watched as he marveled at this small animal. She let out a loud, demanding meow, and he scooped her up. The moment she was in his arms, she laid her head back against his arm and closed her eyes contentedly.

“I’m gonna call my vet,” you said, taking your phone out as Bucky looked down at this cat like it was his own kid. “We should get her scanned for a microchip and see if she has an owner.”

He grunted in agreement, even though you knew he had probably already decided this was his cat now.

After a visit to the vet, and all the nurses fawning over how loving and adorable this little ball of fluff was, it was determined that there was no microchip. The doctor said because of how thin she was, she probably hadn’t had any actual cat food in a long time. They were able to fit her in for a full appointment that day, Bucky insisting that he would pay for any testing and vaccines she needed.

When they brought the cat back out to you, she was clean and happy.

“I was wondering what you looked like under all that dirt,” you smiled and scratched under her chin, which she loved. “What’s the verdict?”

“She’s clean and healthy, no fleas, but we treated her for a skin infection, and we gave her a bath which she was surprisingly very good for,” the nurse smiled. “Is this going to be Gomez’s new friend?”

You smiled and looked at Bucky, who nodded happily. “That’s what we’re hoping for.”

The nurse gave Bucky a handout of everything about the visit. Which food to feed, how many calories she should be eating to get her to a healthy weight, and when she should come back for a recheck.

When you left the facility, the cat still didn’t want to get into the carrier, so Bucky put her in his jacket and zipped it up with her head sticking out. The cat looked perfectly content, and closed her eyes the whole train ride home.

“What are you thinking of for a name?” You asked.

“I dunno,” he said. “I’m gonna think about it tonight.”

When you got back, you hung out upstairs in his apartment with the two of them for a while.

“She’s really sweet,” you said as you watched the cat fall asleep in Bucky’s lap.

“She is,” he replied, scratching under her chin.

“I’m gonna let the two of you get acquainted,” you said, standing up and leaning down to kiss him on the forehead. “I’ll be back tomorrow to visit.” You said, this time to the cat.

“Hey,” he took your hand and pulled you down for a kiss on the lips. “Thanks for everything, sweetheart.”

“Anytime,” you smiled and headed back downstairs.

When you closed the door behind you, Gomez was immediately attached to you. He sniffed your jeans obsessively, as if to ask, “where have you been, and with who?”

“Hey, bud,” you scooped him up and he purred against you. “I think we found you a little friend. I hope you like each other.”

He chirped at you and you laughed.

“You’re right, what am I saying? Of course she’ll like you,” you set him down on the bed and he rolled onto his back and stretched, seeming content that his human was back in his graces where she belonged.

When you woke up the next day, you heard a bang from above you. You startled out of bed and looked around. Gomez was still sound asleep at the end of the bed, so you got up and put on your sweatpants.

Bucky’s apartment was right above you, so you figured you could start there. You jogged up the stairs, but stopped when a little plastic ball with a bell inside came jingling towards you. You stopped it with your foot and looked to find Bucky at the top of the stairs, brown paper shopping bags broken in his arms.

“I see someone is having an eventful morning,” you smiled and started picking up the various things he dropped. There were about a million cat toys, a box of cat treats, and a cute little light blue collar with fish skeletons on it. There was also a case of cans of wet cat food, which you assumed was the noise that had woken you up.

“I thought you bought everything already,” you raised an eyebrow, amused at the sight before you.

“I thought I did, but I wasn’t sure if she liked dry or wet food, so I went back for some more stuff,” he said honestly. “I was going to ask you to come with me, but I know you like to sleep in on your days off, and I was getting kind of antsy.”

“It’s okay,” you replied. “Let me help you with this stuff.”

You carried the cat’s things into his apartment, and she was at the door immediately, greeting you as if she’d known you her whole life. You pet her and tossed one of the toys onto the floor, which she immediately darted after. She wasn’t a kitten, but with her behavior she couldn’t be that old, either.

You started setting her things out, and picked up the collar, now noticing the little gold name tag on it.

“Alpine?” You asked.

He shrugged. “She didn’t really strike me as a ‘Snowflake’ or a ‘Snowball’.”

The little cat looked up at you and you admired her fluff and her sweet, blue eyes.

“Alpine,” you said finally and tested out picking her up, which she let you do happily. “I think it fits.”

You and the cat looked at each other and she slowly blinked contentedly at you. When you looked back up at Bucky, you caught him leaning against the counter with his arms folded across his chest, grinning at you warmly.

“What?” You arched an eyebrow and smiled back.

“Nothin,” he walked over and kissed you. “It’s nice to see my two girls hangin’ out, that’s all.”

Your heart skipped at that; You figured it was his old-fashioned nature. But now you were wondering if you truly were official, if you were allowed to call him your boyfriend or not.

“I like the sound of that,” you said, looking up into his eyes.

“Yeah?” He asked, placing another soft kiss on your lips. “Are you my girl?”

“I am,” you smiled. “Of course.”

You placed Alpine on the ground and put your arms around Bucky and kissed him. It was nice, knowing you were someone’s. You didn’t ever really care for labels, never cared so much for commitment. But with Bucky it was easy; you always felt safe, and you were never insecure about yourself or about what he was doing. You trusted him, and as much as that scared you, it also thrilled you.

“Think we should introduce them?” Bucky asked, nodding to Alpine.

You shrugged. “I feel like maybe we should give her a couple days. She just got here, I don’t wanna overwhelm her.”

“Good idea,” he agreed.

A few days later, you both decided it was time. You had given the cats each something that belonged to the other, so that the smell wasn’t foreign when they met. You were sure Gomez would be fine, but you knew next to nothing about Alpine. She was sweet with people, but you didn’t know what her life was like as a stray. You just stayed optimistic and kept your hopes up.

When Bucky came to the door, Gomez was there waiting. You opened it and found Bucky holding Alpine. Gomez tilted his head in curiosity, watching as Bucky closed the door behind him and put Alpine down in the living room. The two cats stared at each other for a long moment, and all you could think was here it comes, they’re going to hate each other, there’s no way–

And before you could finish that thought, Alpine meowed happily and started purring loudly. Gomez also softened and tried rubbing up on her. Before you knew it, they passed by each other, and Gomez followed her around as she investigated the apartment. The relief that flooded through you was almost euphoric.

You looked up at Bucky, who looked like a proud father, and smiled.

“Best case scenario, huh?” You said.

He put his arm around you as you watched Alpine roll over and show Gomez her belly, which caused Gomez to go over to her and lick her face. The two of them acted like they were old friends; it was very much a “where have you been all my life?” situation.

For the rest of the night, you sat on the couch watching TV, both cats snuggled on your laps, sleeping. Bucky’s arm was around you and your head was resting on his shoulder. It all felt very domestic, and you were surprised at how much that made your heart swell. You glanced up at him as he was enamored with the show on your television, and you couldn’t help but smile. You directed your focus back to the TV, and you didn’t catch the way he smiled softly down at you. He’d never been in love, but if it was anything like what he’d heard described so often, he was certain that this was it.

#bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #my fic

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