#autism sure is expensive | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

emmg · 24 days ago

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Hello love Can I ask for Raphael x reader where Raph actually shows love, buuut in his own twisted way? One of my fam members had autism and he never ever said those three words, but showed it in acts of service and paying attention to what you say/do aaand i was thinking about Raphael who tries to show how much he loves her(or them) but well he's not very good at this. Tav reading book- he will read it too, because he cares...just to tell her how much it sucks. She's bleeding after a fight? Throws her into his healing pool and tell her how stupid she is for the whole time he's with her and how she wastes his time, but won't leave her alone, because what if this dumb mortal drowns herself? A guy said something to her and she felt like sh*t or he touched her to make her uncomfortable? He would give her a very fancy box with big bow and smiles innocently at her ; 'Come on little mouse..open it' just for her to see somebodys hand or head 'oh..this? its this creep from yesterday' Tav wears something cheap? oh boy he would tell her everythink he thinks about this rag. She thinks he wants her to wear only expensive things, because how she looks=his reputation but the truth is he thinks she deserves only the most lavish things in her life and he wont allow her to live below HIS standards And his fav way of showing love is giving her mortal who hurt her in any way already beaten so they wont demage his precious possesion, but conscious enough so she can enjoy torturing them (for sure he does it for his own amusement more than hers)

What a fun prompt! Although, to be fair, I can't exactly make it totally healthy because Raphael isn't an emotionally healthy person to be in a relationship with so this is still a little bit dark, though definitely not awful haha.

ETA: ah crap I missed the part about x reader. So sorry about that. In my defence, I truly cannot write from second person point of view. I’m very, very sorry anon. I’ve tried before and it feels awkward to me and everything comes out… bad.

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Sometimes she feels hollowed out, as if something essential has been scooped clean from within her. She’s not sure why she stays—or even if she’s staying at all. Maybe he’s holding her here, maybe she has no choice, maybe she lost that freedom long ago. Because you don’t walk away when Raphael is speaking; you don’t walk away when he’s watching you. And his eyes are always on her, always, always, always following.

That gaze—it leaves her feeling half trapped, half sanctified, as though caught in some dreadful, holy spell. He doesn’t look at others this way, she knows that, but that knowledge only tightens the hold, winds the snare around her. It’s nothing, she tells herself—this attention, his careful watch—yet it feels like everything, a binding without words, a noose drawing tighter, a claw sinking deeper. Time twists strangely when he’s near, spiraling into something she can’t name, and she can’t help but wonder: will his interest wane, fade away to nothing? Or will it sharpen, tighten, until it consumes her, leaving her breathless, until there’s no space left at all?

If it does—if he closes around her entirely, if his grip becomes her world, pressing in until there’s no air, no light, only him—what will she be then?

And she’s not even sure if he cares. He holds her there, yes, but it feels like watching a game; his own personal mousetrap, an exquisite little experiment to see how far she'll reach for the cheese. She wonders if he’s simply taking what he can, drawing her deeper until he tires of her, only to discard her when he does, laughing at her fascination with him. She can almost see it—him spitting in her face, turning her out with a sneer, then pulling her back in just as quickly. He'd fuck her, taunt her, pull her close only to watch her shatter, then laugh, invite her back with a gift, something golden, expensive, dripping with indulgent mockery.

But then there are the other things he does, things that somehow feel worse—things that make the walls seem as though they’re closing in, or maybe as if he’s drawing her into some embrace she can’t escape from. She’s not sure which would be more terrifying.

Sometimes, when they’re in Avernus together, she finds the portals dead, the way back to her world—a world of soft light and mortal trivialities, the Gate and its grime—suddenly blocked, cut off. And it's always the same dance. She demands an answer, asks why she can’t pass through, why she’s stuck here in this burning place with him, unable to flee back to the familiar. And he only waves her off, barely looking up, irritation flickering in his gaze. He says he hasn’t the time to bother with “simple magic,” that she can wait.

But he knows, he knows damn it, that she can barely summon a spark, let alone force open a gateway on her own. He knows she’s trapped, helpless as a moth in a bottle, wings beating frantically against glass she can’t see. And he watches her, almost bored, as she paces, her panic ripening, sinking roots in her chest. Because he knows she won’t leave, can’t leave, and he’ll let her struggle just long enough to make her feel it—the helplessness, the claustrophobia, the bitter thrill of his control, closing around her, almost gentle, almost loving.

And then, only then, he flicks his fingers, and the portals blaze open, bright and mocking, as if they’d never gone dead at all.

She's interrupting him, Raphael says, a nuisance he has no time for. Important matters, contracts to seal, souls to collect—real work to do, and here she is, lingering in his shadow, hovering as if she belongs, asking him to breathe life into a stupid portal. He snaps at her to leave, to stop her pestering, to get out of his sight. And so she does, shrinking back, biting her lip, retreating into her quiet corner.

But then, later—always, somehow, later—he comes to her, waking her from half-sleep as he climbs over her, pressing down with a heat that seems to burn straight through her skin. He murmurs his need, his lust, his rough, clumsy want, lips grazing her ear with words that are half-whispered, half-demanded. And she lets him, wraps her arms around his back, holds him, breathes through the rush of his hands, the awkward rhythm of his taking.

She feels the weight of him, the feverish heat, and she sighs into it, into him, because in the Hells, everything is unbearably hot. His skin burns against hers, more furnace than flesh, and though she knows he’s hasty, heedless, that she’s just an outlet, a brief relief, she takes it. She lets herself be consumed by it, that pressing heat because here, with him, it’s as close to comfort as she’ll ever get.

But sometimes there are moments that make her think he might care, moments she savors, drinks in slowly, wondering if they're real or merely the product of his boredom. She can never quite tell, but she doesn’t mind; she lingers on these glimmers of gentleness, holds them in her memory far longer than she should.

Like when she’s soaking in his absurdly large bath, reclining in the steaming water with her arms folded along the edge, her head resting on cool stone, hair spilling loose behind her. She’s doing nothing at all, simply breathing in the warmth, letting the steam curl around her. And then he appears, slipping into the room, extending those long legs of his, rolling up his sleeves as he settles by her side. He doesn’t join her in the water; instead, he simply sits, a book resting in his hands, the very one she finished days ago.

She watches, amused, as he leafs through it, the prominent wrinkle between his brows deepening with each page he turns. His expression is one of studied distaste, the kind that would be comical on anyone else. But on him, it’s strangely captivating.

“Unhinged drivel,” Raphael mutters finally, his tone ripe with disdain.

“Hm,” she echoes, half-lidded, watching him through the steam.

“Why do you read this?” he questions. “I have half a mind to burn it. The sheer embarrassment of sharing the same air with it—I hardly want it in my library.”

She smiles, faintly, eyes closing as she stretches a little deeper into the warmth. “I’m done with it,” she replies, lazily. “Do what you wish.”

He taps two fingers against the spine. “The Duke is an absolute cretin, I must say.”

“Oh?” she murmurs, her voice barely a breath above the water’s surface.

“Utterly insipid,” he continues. "Such posturing, such shallow arrogance. I wouldn’t offer him a contract if he were the last soul on the proverbial platter.”

She laughs then, quietly, letting the sound ripple through the steam. She knows Raphael is just indulging in his own particular brand of superiority, delighting in the verbal dissection, and maybe he doesn’t care for her company at all. But still, he stays, perched beside her, weaving disdainful monologues that settle like warm coals in her chest. And for a moment—just a moment—she lets herself pretend that he’s here for her.

He continues, eyes fixed on the offending book as if it’s a particularly irksome insect. “The Duke’s speech in chapter five...” he says. “So very witless, wouldn't you say? Who professes undying love with such clumsy metaphors? And in the garden, no less, like a character in a tragic farce. ‘You are my sun and moon,’” he scoffs, his voice rising to a mock-romantic lilt. “‘My stars, my breath, my—’”

He pauses, catching her wide-eyed, incredulous look. A faint smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth, and there’s a glimmer of something—mischief?—in his gaze. “Oh, little mouse, don’t look at me like that. Surely you didn’t think I’d stoop to reading this… for enjoyment?”

She raises an eyebrow, half-laughing, half incredulous. “You read it?”

“Of course I read it,” he replies, with all the haughtiness of a scholar who’s just suffered through a poorly constructed essay. “I couldn’t very well leave such intellectual refuse lying about in my library without inspecting it first.”

“Just inspecting it? Raphael, you just quoted chapter five.”

He waves his hand dismissively. “A tragic misfortune. I assure you, it was purely incidental. I only skimmed enough to confirm my suspicions about its total lack of merit.”

“Right,” she says, rolling her eyes, watching as he flips another page with painstaking precision. “Is that why you’re carrying it around?”

He raises an eyebrow, looking at her over the book with that familiar, aristocratic arch of his brow. “Little mouse,” he drawls, his tone both affectionate and condescending, “you really must learn what jests are. I can’t go about explaining them every time, you know.”

The novel is set aside.

His hand slips below the water, and she knows, he’s done talking, at least about her books. His fingers graze her skin, tracing erratic patterns. She feels his hand leave her only to hear the soft rustle of fabric, and then he’s there, sliding into the water, slipping behind her.

His arms wrap around her even as he pushes her against the cool stone of the bath’s edge. She feels his impatience in the way his hands move—roaming, relentless, almost rough, his fingers pressing into her skin, biting, digging between the ribs, as if he can’t bear to be gentle.

One hand cups her shoulder, anchoring her as his other hand travels down her side. It moves in a slow sweep, now a caress, almost reverent, then shifting, tracing a path with no pattern, simply moving, as if he’s learning her contours anew. His grip tightens, loosens, a rhythm that speaks of need and very little restraint.

He dips his head, face buried in her hair, and she feels the weight of his breath, the moist heat of it on the exhale. There’s a hunger in his closeness, an intensity that borders on obsession. He’s quiet now, all the long-winded, self-important monologues silenced, his usual need to fill the space with words abandoned.

She feels him pressing against her back, the hard, insistent weight of him, the subtle rock of his hips, and she sighs, her body folding further against the edge of the bath, yielding to him. The warmth in her chest spills out, dissipating into something intangible, and once again, she wonders: Was this all just a performance for her, or something he needs for himself? Was that little, half-sweet conversation meant to soften her, make her more pliant? Or, against all logic, did he truly want to speak to her, to share in that strange, fleeting intimacy?

She wonders if he cares, even a little, if those sarcastic, needlessly elaborate jests of his are meant to coax a smile from her, to make her laugh. Or is it all calculated, a ploy to keep her engaged, to ensure that when he fucks her, she meets him with something more than passive resignation? She feels his fingers tighten on her waist, his breath hitch, and for a moment, just a moment, she allows herself to believe there’s something deeper beneath his touch, something that holds her in place as much as his arms do.

There are other moments too, moments that sink into her like a sickness, twisting her stomach, filling her with a dread so deep it almost makes her want to flee, to scrub herself clean, to be rid of him. And yet, those same moments leave her feeling strangely exhilarated, a little unhinged, as though some part of her is thrilled by the horror of it all.

Take the merchant, for instance. A two-penny swindler, trying to pass off cheap fabric as something exquisite. She spots his scam instantly—anyone with half a brain would—but he’s audacious, leaning in, voice low and greasy as he sells his lie. She calls him out, unimpressed, and he snaps, calling her a cunt. She flips him off without a second thought and moves on, thinking nothing more of it. She’s heard worse, so much worse, and just because she looks the part of a noblewoman at Raphael’s insistence doesn’t mean she’s forgotten the dirt and sweat of her own past. She knows the cheap tricks—how cloth is dyed in back alleys, stained with whatever can be found, how insect paste and a dash of alchemical solution turn cotton into “silk” for gullible morons. She’s done it all herself, seen the worst of it, and this pathetic attempt to cheat her hardly scratches the surface.

She forgets the encounter entirely—until the next day. Raphael barely glances up from his writing, absorbed in the ink-stained pages of yet another infernal contract, when he pushes a small, ornate box across the table toward her. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even acknowledge it beyond a faint, almost bored gesture. She blinks, glancing from the box to him, and then back, curious but wary, wondering if this is another one of his games.

She takes it, hesitates, then lifts the lid.

Inside, nestled against dark velvet, is a finger. Blue, bloated, stiff with the grip of death. Her stomach turns, nausea creeping up her throat as she stares at it, bile rising as the realization settles—this isn’t just some random, expensive trinket. It’s a message, as clear and cold as the dead flesh before her.

“Oh,” she whispers, voice strangled, unable to look away from the pale digit lying in the box, rigor mortis locking it in a ghastly curl. Her hands are trembling, fingers itching to drop the box, to shove it away, to wipe away the memory of this grotesque gift.

She looks up at him, horrified, and finds his gaze resting on her, idle, yet somehow amused.

She stares some more, her mind spinning as she tries to process what she’s holding, what this grotesque little gift is meant to convey. A part of her wants to retch, to bolt from the room, while another, unhinged part of her feels an inexplicable pull, an urge to draw closer to him, to be entangled in whatever madness constantly hangs off his sleeve.

But she doesn’t do any of those things. Instead, she lets out a half-laugh, shaky and weak. “That’s… not what usually comes in jewelry boxes.”

Raphael arches a brow. “I’ve given you plenty of jewelry, little mouse. Rings, bracelets, earrings—a whole collection of baubles you hardly deign to wear. Lavaliers, circlets, gems so fine even the simpering nobles of Waterdeep would weep for them. And yet, here you sit, determined to remain a rube.” He tsks, rolling his eyes with theatrical annoyance. “Mayhaps, I thought, just mayhaps, you might appreciate something different to suit that plebeian palate of yours.”

“Whose is it?” she asks, though she already knows. She feels the answer in the pit of her stomach, in the memory of yesterday’s insults and her dismissive walk away.

He only shrugs, dipping his quill in ink. “I’m told he was a merchant.” He pauses, as if to savor the uncertainty flickering across her face. “Or was it a dockhand? Perhaps a barkeep. Truly, who can keep track of such insignificant lives?”

She watches, spellbound in a way she can’t quite understand, as he sprinkles pounce over the wet ink, the tiny white particles catching the dim light. He lifts the paper, blowing the pounce off with a sharp exhale that sends the fine dust scattering into the air, drifting toward her. She coughs, swatting it away, a moment of reflexive frustration breaking through her discomfort.

“So many names,” Raphael murmurs, almost to himself. “So many lives, so many inconsequential little people. It’s hard to keep them all straight, isn’t it?”

She stares at him, a blend of revulsion and fascination churning within her. His words hang in the air, so careless, so detached, as if snuffing out a life meant nothing more to him than discarding an old, forgotten knickknack. And yet, he looks at her now, watching, as if expecting her reaction, waiting to see if she’ll recoil or lean closer.

She leans closer, letting the moment pull her in, and he gives a satisfied little hum, returning to his writing with an air of contentment, as if the world is exactly as it should be. She watches the steady flow of his hand, the way his quill glides across the page in elegant, looping strokes, his cursive rising and falling. Her mind, however, catches on another thought, one that wraps around her and refuses to let go.

He cares, she thinks, or at least he acts as though he does. This is how he responds to insults aimed at her, as if her offense is his to avenge. But another thought lingers, darker and heavier. He knows—that’s what unsettles her. If he knows, that means he saw, or had someone watch on his behalf, and that means she’s never truly alone, even when he isn’t there. She wonders how far that gaze extends, if he’s tracking her every step, every word, if he’s marked her movements like pinpoints on a map, an invisible tether she’s unknowingly bound herself to.

Her hand drifts to her throat, almost absently, fingers brushing the skin there as if she might feel some hidden collar, a leash she’s been wearing all along without realizing it. But of course, there’s nothing—just bare skin and the faint, lingering warmth of her own touch. Still, the thought unsettles her, sends a flutter of anxiety mixed with something else, something uncomfortably close to… warmth. A warmth that spreads through her chest, that holds her in place despite the quiet urge in her feet to stand, to move, to walk as far as she can.

But she doesn’t. Instead, she stays there, leaning close, just watching him as he writes, utterly absorbed in whatever Infernal text he’s crafting. And as she watches, that warmth in her chest grows, mingling with her apprehension, a mix of dread and fascination that knots itself around her, binding her there as securely as any leash he might conjure.

Another day, another reckoning.

She’s a mess of bruises, skin mottled and darkened so thoroughly she resembles a patchwork quilt rather than a woman. There had been a brawl, Astarion may or may not have thrown punches he couldn’t back, and they both may or may not have drunk too much. Korrilla may or may not have been at the Caress at the same time, her wicked laughter mingling with the chaos, and now her nose is a crimson fountain, dripping ceaselessly. Even the potion Korrilla forced down her throat did nothing to blunt the ache, the slight sneer on Korrilla’s face as she half-carried her back to the House of Hope making it clear she didn’t particularly want to be back tonight.

When she stumbles in, Haarlep just laughs, calling her a “bloody, battered fool” and waving her off in disgust when she starts peeling off her clothes. With a muttered “Ew,” he disappears as she limps toward the restoration pool, her one salvation tonight. She knows it’s usually reserved for soothing injuries from far more… pleasurable encounters, but she hardly cares as she sinks into it, wincing as the water starts working its magic, stitching up minor cuts and scrapes as she closes her eyes and lets her head fall back.

She drifts, the water lapping around her, letting the throbbing recede—until a sharp yank at her scalp rips her back to the present, her head wrenched above the water. She chokes, sputtering out bloody droplets as her eyes snap open, and she finds herself staring at Raphael’s livid face, exasperation etched in every line. His hand is tangled in her hair, and her scalp stings from his tight grip. He glances down at his dripping sleeves, soaked from pulling her up, and curses.

“What a stupid way to die,” he hisses. “Drowning in my boudoir because you’re too idiotic to stay awake.” His fingers tighten in her hair, and there’s no mercy in his eyes. “Take a deep breath now.”

She barely has a second to react before he shoves her head under the water, his hand pressing down with unrelenting force. Her body jerks, and she inhales raggedly before he drags her up again, just long enough for her to gasp for air and catch his sharp, appraising look before he shoves her down once more, holding her under like a misbehaving dog in need of punishment. Water floods her nose, stinging as she chokes, her hands scrabbling for purchase against the pool’s edge.

Up again, another cursory glance, and then he plunges her under once more, his grip firm, a rhythm of punishment and cleansing, as though he’s scrubbing the night’s sins from her with each forced dunk. She claws at his wrist, nails scraping against his skin, and he finally releases her, leaving her gasping and hacking as she collapses against the pool’s edge, water pouring from her lungs in a desperate, wheezing cough.

She realizes then, as she shudders and coughs, that the blood is gone; her nose, once a mess of numb throbbing, now feels raw but whole. She clutches the pool’s edge, head bowed, catching her breath as the water stills around her. Raphael just stands there, dripping, sleeves ruined, as he observes her.

“Well,” he mutters, flicking water from his fingers with a faint sneer, “at least you’re less of a mess now.”

He hauls her from the water, pulling her sodden form from the boudoir and away from the rumpled heap of her clothes. His eyes drift over them—the plain tunic, the uninspired trousers, the scuffed leather boots—with a look of disdain so pointed it almost makes her wince.

“An offense to beauty itself,” he murmurs, almost to himself, though the words slap her just the same. “These… things.” His lip curls. “They will burn. They’re an affront to my eyes, and my patience is wearing thin.”

His gaze slides back to her face, catching on her bruised nose, and he tilts her head with the care one might give a very expensive artifact. His fingers are unhurried, methodical, as he surveys her battered skin. “I don’t keep unsightly things, you know,” he says. “I like my things beautiful. It’s why I collect them—why I keep them close.”

Then, as if struck by a sudden thought, his tone shifts to something almost conversational, a careless elegance in his words that sets her nerves alight. “Tell me, little mouse,” he begins, fingers tapping idly on his thigh, “shall I lock the door?”

She feels a shiver run through her, her voice faltering. “Which… one?”

He tilts his head in mock contemplation. “Why not all of them?”

“Raphael…” she starts, but she isn’t even sure what she wants to say, or if there’s anything to be said at all.

Unhurriedly, he begins to strip off his clothes, each gesture carried out with an almost ritualistic elegance. He slips out of his doublet, casting it aside with a look of mild annoyance. “Your doing,” he sighs, smoothing an imaginary crease before discarding it. “This fabric—fine enough to silence even the heavens—ruined by your negligence. It cost more than you could dream, more than most would spend in a lifetime.”

She watches, stuck somewhere between disbelief and fascination, unsure if he’s preparing to fuck her or simply indulging in the strange meticulousness of his undressing. Each cufflink is unfastened with almost absurd care, each tie released with the same flawless precision she knows so well. The clothes fold neatly under his hands, smoothed and arranged as if they were sacred relics, and though part of her wants to laugh at the absurdity, she knows better than to test his patience now.

Raphael pauses, shirt open just enough to reveal the line of his throat, his collarbone stark against tan skin. His eyes pin hers and his voice takes on a melodic, almost regretful tone. “Perhaps if I lock you in,” he murmurs, “you might refrain from throwing yourself into every pit of squalor in the Gate, seeking out any hand willing to smash that face of yours.”

“No one seeks that, Raphael,” she says, her voice sounding distant. “It just… happens.”

He snaps his fingers with a sharp, final click. “Yes, yes,” he echoes, almost as if humoring a child. “And doors just… lock themselves.”

#my asks #shortstories #raphael bg3 #raphael x tav #raphael baldur's gate 3 #raphael the cambion #he sucks and she can't make him better #but he cares in his own way #tho it's not a healthy way lol

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batz · 2 months ago

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more autism i Guess

obligatory room photo(s) of da year (also photo of the benevolent entity in my room: The Keeper Of The PS4.. )

#wel i may have chronic bad luck in Life but i have really good luck in thrift stores . So !#lmao like the fewture nirasawa doll (punitive guillotina). i got her for $2 from value village when i was 8 or 9 #same w the lenore the cute little dead girl plush! which was insane luck bc i think that was the age i started reading the comics #so i was Obsessed and then found the plush and had a little babygoth autism moment LMAO #frank.txt #the big red binder is where i keep my raggedy ann broadway musical playbills and promo photos nice n safe n away from the elements #i need to update my cassette collection but tapes are getting expensive! esp the tapes fr musicians i actually listen to #squeak HATES my sinead oconnor cassette for no reason. p sure the prev owners had a cat bc she always knocks down that tape specifically #very rude !

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five-thousand-loaves-of-bread · 9 months ago

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poke hornet nest

my stance on ABA

(my stance on ABA)

as someone with (some) lived experience

most of it is shit.

for long time in past and even now, ABA only service available for a lot autistic people & family.

most of it (< ABA*) still is shit. (*this disclaimer applies to rest of repetition)

heard of more than enough cases of. insurance/school system/etc give pathetic number of hours/sessions for speech, OT, etc for autism but many more hours of ABA. or only cover ABA.

most of it still shit.

some speech & OT & other so called “alternatives to ABA” use behavioral & ABA tactics.

most of it still shit.

for many family, especially those with autistic person diagnosed as “severe” or level 3 and or have extreme behavioral issues etc. their option isn’t “ABA or no ABA.” often, option is “ABA or be labeled as abusive neglectful by government” or “ABA or have child taken away” “you ‘willingly’ enroll in ABA or we take and put them in ABA anyway” or “ABA or lose job.”

most of it still shit.

“ABA or lose job” because school not able or not willing help (because autistic person’s needs “that much”), you keep getting called to pick them up from school, from day care. other people not know how “deal with” your autistic family member, you know how help them a little more but also you sure as hell don’t and are just as lost. so you keep miss work to go pick them up from places that kick them out and you exhausted and you not get sleep because autistic family member needs pretty constant supervision and you not have respite and you not know how help and eventually your job fires you because you keep miss work. and oh did ever mention caring for disabled person extremely expensive? but oh btw there ABA agency you can send autistic family member to for up to 40 hour/week so maybe you can keep job and thus keep roof over head and can still put food on table for family for your autistic family member. oh they also say they may able help with autistic family member behavior so maybe they don’t get kicked out of every necessary service.

most of it still shit.

ABA agencies frequently kick out people deemed too severe or “cannot be helped” or too violent or too many behavioral issues or cause too much harm.

most of it still shit.

in world where may & very often do kill you for seeing you as different thus “threat,” ability mask life saving survival tactic. am talking about POC. am specifically especially talking about Black people. is teaching how mask greater evil than dead killed hatecrimed? sure, no one should have to choose between these two options, but world not care about your morals n your “should”s n your envisioned better future you may or may not be actively help build right now, these people need survive in real world here and now.

most of it still shit.

there (some. a few.) ABA survivors who went thru ABA in past and now who think ABA helped. helped them gain skill. help them prevent harm. some of them don’t see self as abused in ABA or traumatized by ABA. some see it as both abused and helped and grateful for help and hate abuse. some see as both abused and helped and don’t see amount of helped as ever worth abuse.

most of it still shit. (so many were & are abused. n abuse is abuse)

many newer ABA agencies realize ABA heavily criticized n labeled abusive & say they change methods & no longer practice old school ABA & now no longer abusive.

most of it still shit. (many of these agencies still do coercive abusive stuff even if call themselves changed)

some of them maybe truly changed. getting rid of abusive practices, focusing on skill building & adaptive functioning, child-led, instead of drills and forced masking.

most of it still shit.

talk a lot with people who so adamant about “all ABA abuse” “all parents who put child into ABA abused deserve get child taken away” who never was in personal proximity of ABA who. when ask to describe what ABA is in own words, not able to. or give generic response like “abuse & force mask”, but when ask to describe specific methods they do that, not able to. when ask them what discrete trial training and prompting is and what goals may look like and how they write behavioral analysis, never heard of any of them. say listen to ABA survivors, but not able name any individual names. just “oh listen to them online, if you actually listen like me you would know & i wouldn’t need say more so it really your ignorance.” but more often, just get reactionary shut down whole conversation be seen as ableist threat if even be asked first question. how you help advocate for ABA survivors if don’t even know what ABA is? or who ABA survivors? if cannot even talk about ABA? how even fight against your enemy if don’t even know what enemy look like, not able pick out enemy from crowd unless spoon fed?

most of it still shit.

found that. when am talking about ABA. from add nuance to encourage thought provoking questions to even rhetorically ask people to describe ABA. have to repeat emphasize that am not saying ABA all not abusive. even if it first thing i lead with. even if it super clear that am indeed criticizing ABA, just with more grey area and nuances than people used to. lot people will block me from this post just within some paragraphs. lot will block me over saying “most of it still shit” instead of denounce all ABA, when it clear that use of word “most” is deliberate choice n reason of said choice is in every corner of this post. others will finish reading (if even that) and all get out of is repeating “most of it still shit.” made similar posts year(s) ago. and still, find people vague post or explicitly post about me or my post, paint me as evil ABA apologist. whenever come across people who talk about “post where talk about ABA good,” stop and wonder, are they talking about me?

don’t want to talk about ABA because of this. tired, not worth it, often is bad starting point is turn off for people who never seen my posts when have other posts much easier entry point, n start off at bad start may cause them to not listen to me and maybe even other higher support needs and or nonverbal nonspeaking autistics in foreseeable future or ever.

you know, this post started off as “… so you all know i don’t think kindly of ABA right”

throughout write this post, don’t know which part am emphasizing more. the “most of it still shit” part or parts in between.

still. most of it still shit.

#loaf screm #aba tw #aba therapy tw #long post #repetition

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lowkeyrobin · 10 months ago

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SHAWN HUNTER ; dating hcs

summary ; cutesie shawn dating hcs

warnings ; language

genre ; fluff

masterlist

always asks for consent

obv hand holding and light stuff you've established as fine but if you're cuddling or making out, like every 20 seconds he's checking on you

always has a hand on you whether it's hand holding, arm slung around your shoulder, or hugging you from behind

late night drives to no where for the adventure and fun

if you get overestimulated easily especially by physical affection, he's super respectful and constantly makes sure you're comfortable and whatnot

kind of understands autism/adhd/other neurodivergent diagnoses but he knows the basics and how to help you

if you go nonverbal, dw, he knows how to communicate with you

always has a pen on him

like holy shit man he's such a simp

if you have to write on his wrist or his arm, that's fine. he's a blank canvas baby

he's so whipped for you

anything for you

at first you rejected him for a while bc he had a reputation for being a player

but after a while you noticed he wasn't giving up

like he sees you as a person, he actually cares about and loves you and sees you as more than just a pretty/handsome face

if you have acne, he loves tracing over the scars/bumps with his fingertips

he tried running from his feelings but we see how that went

and if you have shoulder acne/bacne he loves using a marker to connect all the bumps and scars like a constellation

like you'll change your shirt, back facing him and he goes "Hey can I draw on your back again?"

you just give in

he loves when you shove him into lockers, walls, beds etc to flirt with him

inside jokes go hard

shares his belts and bracelets with you

much less expensive than sharing hoodies and stuff

plus they mean more to him than a dumb shirt

you share bracelets and belts with him too

and that way you guys don't have any major size difference issues

loves sharing music with you as well

music is the way to his heart

likes to just wrap himself around you like a koala and kiss your face all over

helping out with his hard times and vice versa

he doesn't laugh, he giggles and smiles widely

you constantly compliment his stupidly cute tooth gap

it's so cute holy shit

"Shawn, shut up. I don't think you understand how much I stare at your smile because it's the cutest thing ever"

he gets all embarrassed about it

if you're an artist, you're constantly drawing him, especially with a smile to make sure to be able to draw his little gap

"y/n, stopppppp"

"love you too, hunter"

he's got a serious soft side for you dude

"love youuuuuu"

giggles and "shut up!"

let's you play with his hair

definitely hums you to sleep if you're having trouble sleeping or winding yourself down

the sweetest I swear

#lowkeyrobin #shawn hunter #shawn hunter x reader #boy meets world #boy meets world x reader #rider strong #rider strong x reader #90s #90s aesthetic #90s television

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thelittleghoul · 2 months ago

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Byakuya Togami with a autistic reader

Not requested!!

Notes: x reader, reader is autistic, romantic relationship, headcanon format

Important: Autism is a spectrum yes you have to meet certain criteria but everyone’s experiences with autism is different and can show in many forms. This headcanon does not apply to every autistic person!! (I am autistic and have knowledge on this topic before writing)

•Byakuya is very picky with the people he choses to be in his presence, let alone date. So most likely you two were friends before lovers due to him being the type of guy that doesn’t defrost easily. This means before you two started the relationship, although not an expert, he already was trying to be more familiar with your disability as he would study you from a distance.

•At first he found you just “quirky” and not that you had a disability, but the more he’d be around you the more it was made clear that you were autistic.

•To cut to the point he really doesn’t care. He’s not going to take time out of his day to belittle you, not because he’s an autistic advocate or saviour, he just doesn’t care about things that don’t affect him personally and that goes for a lot of things. Yes at first he thought you were weird but his opinion on a “commoner” was a mere crumb of thought in his mind, he had better things to do.

•Little things here and there would annoy him in the friendship, he thought you were just being complicated to get on his nerves. “I said I would pay why would you want to go to a greasy low life fast food chain rather than this restaurant? …Because they don’t have plain chicken strips?… oh good god.”

•It didn’t take long for him to figure you out, after he knew the truth he wasn’t as hard on you. If you didn’t want to eat what his chef had cooked, he wouldn’t force you. If you were playing with your clothes or laces, he would just mind his business. Yes because it would just be a waste of time, but he did care for you even if he wouldn’t confess that he did.

•Soon after you two started dating, he was at your every need. Even if you were born in a world where everything was on hard mode, he always tried to make it easier on you.

•He knows constancy and routine is a key part of autism and luckily for you, Byakuya is a very routinely oriented person. He’s very strict about how he lives and manages his life and change can also feel very uncomfortable to him so let’s just say you guys are two peas in a pod.

•He has physical and virtual calendars for everything. For his work, school, special events, even social gatherings with his friends. So he was more than happy to make you your own and to have access to his. He also helped you set up your phone for notifications about upcoming changes so your stress levels aren’t as high.

•He basically owns the world. The money and power this man has is unbelievable so any specialists, councillors, life coaches you name it is paid for and will be replaced quicker than the blink of an eye if you are having any problems with them. Byakuya is also hiring the best of the best across the world for you.

•Speaking of getting stuff for you obviously this mans love language is gift giving. He’d buy anything for you just point your figure at it. Although he will only but things without your input if he’s 100% certain you are comfortable with it, which is most of the time with him knowing you like the back of his hand but safe foods, textures etc can change.

•Once he bought you an expensive sweater he thought you would look stunning in, he didn’t realize the texture would send you into a meltdown. So he appreciates when you go shopping with him to make sure that every detail is safe and comfortable to you… but he also appreciates the time you two share together, even if it’s just online shopping while relaxing on the couch together.

•He hires the best chefs for the both of you but he also has a trick up his sleeve. After studying and having many conversations with you, he ordered a specialized cook book for his chefs (and you if you wanted) to cook your safe foods. Each microscopic detail in that book makes sure the food is consistent every single time, and lord knows he makes sure of it. “If you even cook with a different brand of butter you won’t be stepping foot in this kitchen or any kitchen for that matter ever again do I make myself clear?”

•Another thing you to have in common is not fitting in with other people. Yea sure for completely different reasons, but at least you two can bond over being somewhat outsiders. Besides, he really only needs you to keep him company (he’s somewhat of a secret softy)

•Byakuya knows that fancy limos will catch attention and will give you anxiety with all the staring so even if you still have the best private drivers and top model cars, from the outside he tries to make them look more discreet for you.

•The same can’t be said for when you two go out. It’s a little less difficult when the two of you are in higher class environments, but in places like a common coffee shop? That’s going to be a challenge with the paparazzi let alone the five body guards that are around him making everyone question who he and you are (although rarely people don’t know who Byakuya is 🙄)

•Although he still has his ways to make sure you two can still go shopping in person for making sure the texture, smell, sound etc of products are comfortable for you, if you get too overstimulated while shopping in person he’s definitely ok with online shopping.

•Flying is also something you never have to worry about, this man has a private jet ready to take off anywhere while having all your needs and wants in mind when designing and supplying the jet.

•If anyone tried to pick on you let’s just say they wouldn’t be showing up at school/work for a while and when they did, they would be keeping their distance from you (this man is petty and has connections) “I don’t know what your talking about. They don’t deserve to be in your graceful presence anyways my love.”

•Really Byakuya is your dream boyfriend when supplying you with your needs and accommodations, he will change the world for you instead of the world forcing you to fit into its unrealistic standards (like I said he basically owns the world)

•Any special interest you have, he’ll be getting you any merch he finds no matter what it is. He’s also good at helping you function while having special interests too. While also having phone notifications, Byakuya and his staff are always making sure your not too submerged in your special interests by reminding you to drink water, have meals/snacks, get out of the house, move your body and practice hygiene.

•He also understands your love language. That can be parallel play, info dumping, support swapping, penguin pebbling or even deep pressure. Although he’s better with some languages more than others, he’s a hard worker and I’m not just talking about his talent. He will do anything for you even if it takes him more time to get used to so don’t panic if you’re more of a physical or emotional lover.

•Definitely got you a sunflower lanyard 🌻

•Although he was cold at first (like most things) he just needed to be more exposed to you to understand you better and more softly 💚

#fanfic #danganronpa trigger happy havoc #byakuya togami #byakuya togami x reader #autism #autistic reader #headcannons #long post #romantic #fluff #send requests #send requests please

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