#it’s so stereotypical of me to be autistic and like trains

[bella-but-not-hadid444]

somewhere in the world there is a girl who needs to build a model train railway with an intense storyline interconnecting the tiny miniature people in the scenery and to name all the trains and make a time schedule of where and when each train travels (i am this girl)

[metalcatholic]

[garak]

i wish you people cared about actual high needs autistic people. so much discourse on disability on social media among autism/adhd “advocates” aims to either push back on the idea that autistic people are all kids/display childlike behavior or frame autism as something non-disruptive that is just a quirky way of living or thinking. these are counterproductive to getting autistic people the help they need because the fact is there are autistic people who display what seems like childlike behavior (poor emotional regulation, poor ability to communicate needs, poor understanding of social norms and cues) and who will act in disruptive and even violent ways. if the idea of autism in the public eye is smart but awkward guy who loves model trains and nintendo, this will push autistic people who act in other ways less immediately socially acceptable to the margins when often it is those individuals who need people fighting for them the most. if your disability activism or god forbid your worldview does not have a space for both me (stereotypically precocious but awkward adult, generally competent and able to live by myself) and my older brother (in sped all through school and now at a job through a disability work program, has trouble with even “simple” daily tasks and will never be able to live on his own) then it is not inclusive of all autistic people and you are not worth my time or respect.

[vatelixx]

You are the knife (I turn inside myself),

S2!Post-addiction!Spencer Reid x afab!BAU!reader

SMUT!! (and copious amounts of angst, and like a small amount of fluff to just��� balance it out), Workplace rivals, aka, enemies to lovers (who are still enemies and would rather die than tell each other they’re in love).

──── autistic spencer (as per usual), evil evil reader (im being dramatic, kinda), they hate each other so much that they have to find a new way to crawl into each others skin.

Warnings: sub spencer, brat!spencer (a man gets glasses and suddenly thinks he can be defiant) brat!tamer!reader, HUGE corruption kink (someone keeps putting that in there???? it’s not me, i swear), first time for Spencer (i love a virginal nerd), restraints (someone has to pin him down), crying— like lots of crying, degradation (and a little praise because they work hand in hand), Spencer eats reader out like rent is due, reader says thankyou by destroying him, they argue mid-sex. They actually just argue constantly.

— warning: mentions of past drug addiction.

w.c: 9k (mostly smut, holy shit how is it 9k??? their arguments hiked up my word count im positive)

a/n: i know tumblr hates to see me coming with my Spencer Reid one shots. I wrote this at 3am when I was supposed to be studying for my latin exam, it’s okay. Uni will understand I had greater things to do. I promise i’ll get around to my requests this week, i just got possessed by the holy ghost and wrote this.

────────────

Something, something, mindless torture. Spencer holds his brain, his intellect, in high regard. Proverbial accomplishments, Stanford Binet approved genius, he’s an outlier to most. And yet, the moment you start speaking, he has no thoughts beyond the domineering urge to throw himself off a cliff.

You’re late today. Chicago, you’ve both been sentenced, discarded to create a profile from the minimal information present. Forced proximity, the team have been trying to stifle this animosity shared between you for over a year now. It doesn’t work.

Here’s the thing, each member of the BAU has their own specialised feat: Penelope could be a cybercriminal, if she so wished, a tech-genius that has no qualms in tearing down firewalls. Morgan, adroit, an expert on the field, stereotypically strong, all running lines of muscle. Who wouldn’t want to be princess-carried away from danger by him? He’s also remarkably good at kicking down doors. Gideon has incalculable years of experience, a mentor.

The list stretches on.

But you and Spencer can’t both be the brains of the team. It’s unbalanced, skewed. A clash of intellect. Scales tipped in one direction, why does he always come up short? Why can’t he just—

Why, repeats as you push through the bureau, blanking the predictable, formulaic stares of various officers, trained officials, the usual mess. Why— why profiling? Why did you voluntarily choose to suffer your way through ceaseless cases of sanguinary?There has to be an element of masochism to your career; no one with a sane mind voluntarily decides to walk into an onslaught of serial killers and death.

The early mornings are always the worst; stumbling out of bed, deriving no sleep from the night, tangled sheets and restless limbs. “Don’t,” you push, padding into the office, met with Spencer’s hardened gaze. “Late night.”

“We haven’t been here for 48 hours yet, 36 and 22 minutes to be precise, and you’ve already—“

“Get your mind out of the gutter, boy genius. Late night as in I stared at the casefiles until my mind went numb.”

“Did you take a break?” he asks, and you both know it’s not born from care. “Maybe a self-reflection period to realise that torturing yourself isn’t the most effective form of work. Your reactive skills will be delayed now, let’s hope we don’t find the unsub today. In fact, maybe I should warn Hotch—“

“Have I ever warned Hotch about your breakdowns?” that shuts him up. It also makes him spiral, because you can’t know, it’s not statistically possible that you’d be aware of Hankel’s lasting impact on his body, dilaudid, hydromorphine, and not tell someone. He assumes you’d be desperate to eliminate him from the team, to claim your win.

“Right, um— the case,” he shifts in his seat. Professionalism, tolerance, it’s all a little too much work when it comes to the subject of you.

“The case.” you agree.

You’re attuned to each other, a psychological curse he’s forced to stomach. Offices and crime scenes, analysing, competing, hellbent on one upping the other. “Look at these markings—“ his hands rifle through the files that adorn the table, searching searching until they produce an autopsy report.

The markings on the body are intricate, latin symbols prominent against the victims pale skin. You lean further forward, following the path of his index finger as it traces the outline. Perhaps there’s an element of telepathy to your dynamic; you don’t need to state the obvious, too aware that his brain has already processed the information, that he’s moved onto the nuances now.

Human sacrifice, it’s not the first time you’ve caught yourselves in the midst of cult worship and indoctrination. But it’s certainly the first time of its kind.

“Traces of wine in her bloodstream. Found in a forest. Sounds like a bacchanal.” you state, shifting to pull yourself up on the desk.

Spencer looks. At your long, slender legs extending out from a pencil skirt. Effortless, natural, situating yourself on the oakwood, hair half covering your face, with loose strands pooling over your eyes to obstruct your sight.

It’s a strange analogy, the two of you; Spencer with his tired eyes, haphazard clothes and messy desk, and you, just as dishevelled in the morning light.

Metaphorically and literally you’re higher than him right now. He fixes his askew glasses. Clears his throat. “Regina Horthorne,” the victim, “Straight A student. Honour role. What are the chances she willing went to said… bacchanal?”

“Hm. I don’t know, maybe she’s like Laura Palmer. Double life. 4.0 cheerleader by day, crazed bacchante by night.” you retort.

Shamelessly, you take a moment to observe him, just as he did you. Shirt sleeves bunched up at his elbows, hair tousled, large hazel eyes, interminably darting across your face. You wonder for a moment if he’s analysed you the way you’ve analysed him. It’s a futile question, of course he has.

Anything to gain the upper hand.

You continue, “Maybe they’re sacrificing virgins. You could go undercover as a potential victim. Certainly fit the part.”

“I’m already too old to be counted as an appropriate victim. There’s a high probability ‘they’, the dominant unsub, wouldn’t even look at me, and—“ he pauses, pretty face marred by creased features, brows furrowed, a slight pout to his lips.

“There’s a homicidal cult preforming human sacrifice, and you’re wasting time by insulting me?” Spencer is….. a perpetual scholar, a social disaster, wearing his intellect like an ill-concealed secret, outcasted for the weight of his own brilliance. “The BAU clearly made a well-informed decision when they hired you.”

“Oh, you wound me boy genius.” you respond, pressing your hand against your heart.

Endless cases. The impenetrable presence of fall. It feels like you shift through cycles, bleary-eyed and tainted from the job, damaged goods— do you struggle to sleep like I do?

You lean forward, hands, adorned with cluttered rings, braced against the table, bodies closer now. There’s a burn, something fervent that lingers between you, rivalry, opposition. Some days you feel as hedonistic as the unsubs you track and chase.

Continuing, you let out a sharp laugh. “Are you still bitter because I realised it was a bacchanal before you? Don’t worry, i’ll let you take the credit for it. I’m sure Gideon will be so impressed.”

Gideon sees everything in him, and nothing in you. Predictable.

The distance between you has become almost null. It’s intimate, and he’s not sure how he feels about that. “I’m not bitter. And I don’t care about the credit.” A lie. “Unlike you, I don’t need to prove my worth to him.”

────────────

Spilt blood. Your hands are calloused from holding a gun. From firing a bullet straight through skull. The case closes, locked behind that inviolable wall, the one that’s installed into your mind the moment you’re employed, the moment you sign your fate over to the BAU. You’re not sure why anyone stays, overworked and undervalued, there’s no heroes in real life. Maybe it’s the sense of family, or maybe it’s just what everyone subconsciously fell into.

You can’t understand why you’re so angry at Spencer, why it extends to the next case, South Dakota— deaths of locals, but these days, all of the illogical, petty reasons just blur together. Create this tangled mess of overcompensation. ’I assumed you two would get along,’ Prentiss had stated— but what does she know? She’s been an active member of the BAU for a whole 10 minutes.

The hostility has mounted to new levels now.

It’s hard work, long hours, no gratitude and a pay cheque that can’t even begin to cover the trauma that comes with the job. The BAU is like self-sabotage: a long list of reasons to leave, and no real reasons to stay. But still you’re both stuck in this loop.

South Dakota, of course it’s South Dakota. Cold, desolate South Dakota where the wind and snow will not let up, and the team are forced to remain cooped up in a cheap motel, desperate for any sort of entertainment.

Here he is, coerced into your room to work on the case, overtime, his eyes are rimmed crimson.

You’re sprawled out across the bed while he sits at the other end, slender legs crossed. Spencer is tired with a weariness that seems to go soul-deep, shoulders slumped forward, glasses oblique.

The tension is near-palpable, stifling. “I can do this myself. No offence,” full offence, “but you’re unneeded right now. In general, really.”

You make him cruel. Or no, maybe this job does? He can’t remember himself unscathed now, fresh-faced to the BAU, unaware of what he’d endure. It’s still early days in recovery, two months since he was entirely, indomitably reliant on Dilaudid.

“No you can’t,” you retort. Maybe it’s unprofessional, disreputable to waste so much breath on insults, to dedicate specific moments to hostility— people are dead, people will keep dying. And yet, perhaps there’s justification for this; your mutual animosity is the only semblance of routine to this job, the only way either of you can seek control.

Control. All you do is reach for the blade.

“You’re just bitter that I know what I’m doing. You’re not infallible, Boy Wonder. You need my help, so shut up and read that autopsy report. The sooner this is over, the sooner I can go back to my apartment and forget you exist.”

Well that’s certainly unlikely.

“I think,” he says, and he knows this is going to be bad. He can feel the serrated edge to his forming words, his half-baked analysis too focused, too distracted, by his need to hurt. But he’s exhausted, and these days, he runs on a detrimentally short fuse. Maybe he finds a release in your dynamic, or maybe it makes everything worse. How can something be everything and nothing at the same time?

“I think you’re insecure” he continues, “because you know Gideon values me more. That, to him, you’re replaceable. It’s why you’re so fixated on one upping me. Why you feel the need to prove yourself superior. Textbook insecurity. You can’t stand the fact that he chooses me over you, that he thinks I’m better than you. That my input is more wanted, more necessary.”

This is uncharted territory now. It’s never been pushed to this extent. It’s never gotten so morbidly cruel that his words actually pierce. You’d consider yourself to be thick-skinned, bullet-proof, a mess of hardened edges and calloused flesh. But he regards you with such insignificance, in a way that’s different from your own personal view of him.

Obstinate, petty, a smart kid yet to meet his match. But never insignificant.

There’s silence, and then he’s dragging you down with him, forcing you to dig deeper, to smother wounds with salt. “Did he really choose you, though? No one on the team noticed. Not one person. After the Hankel case? When you came back different?”

Spencer falters.

It’s a vulnerable, raw spot, a laceration that never seems to heal; the worst part is that you’re right. He’d been in a spiralling decline for months, in plain sight, but everyone had been so absorbed in their own issues and god he needed a release. No one noticed. No one ever notices.

That he has no life, no prospects outside of the BAU. That his existence has been one comicotragic mess of inexperience, missing the mark, missing the joke, the punchline, the fact that everyone was always laughing at him, behind his back, to his face, present or gone. It didn’t matter? Why would it ever matter to a bunch of washed-out teenagers?

He was robbed of his adolescence. And these days, he barely gets by.

Spencer’s eyes drift back to the files, avoiding your perusing gaze, if only you had enough decency to soften your eyes. Just once.

“You don’t get to bring that into this.” He murmurs. “Shut up.”

“You started this—“

“Are you 5?” he bites back, “I was making an observation.”

When he abruptly stands up, files clattering to the floor, discarded despite the prevalent case, you’re quick to follow after him, to chase him into the cheap motel corridor. Because no, he doesn’t get to walk away from this. Not when he laid the first blow, when the first cut was drawn from his blade. Perhaps it’s perverse, to chase the hurt that comes from being around him. Maybe it’s all just an elaborate way to self-harm, to find release in the distorted relationship you both share.

“Where are you going? You can’t walk away from this one.” you state, gripping his arm. Nails pressing into skin, crescent marks that’ll stain and remind and then ache— it’s repetitive now.

“I covered for your ass.” you knew about the addiction, you knew, and even though omitting such information to the BAU could’ve lost your license, you still. Didn’t. Say. Anything.

It’s not like it took much effort to discern the truth.

“I also signed your email up to about 100 rehab centres and self-help blogs.” you’re not sure if you did that out of malice, or if it was your own, interpersonal way of minimising the damage, despite the circumstances.

You noticed. The rest of the BAU, who pressed false promises of friendship, loyalty into his shaking palms didn’t notice. Didn’t even think to humour what he became at his worst. But you did.

Furthermore, to add onto that jarring conclusion, you helped him. Admittedly in your own insufferable, (downright mocking) way. But it was help, and that’s more than he’s ever received before.

All he knows right now is that he hates you, hates the person he is, the person this job, and the intransigent presence of you, forced him into becoming.

All he knows is that he’s stumbling forward, cupping your face (taking your grip along with it), and kissing you. Kissing you hard. Like he’s Icarus and you’re the sun, worth the inevitable burn, even if the touch is only momentary, even if it’ll seal his fate as foolish.

It’s a mess of harsh, rough skin, tousled hair and sharp teeth against soft lips. It’s like trying to grasp at stardust, his hands fumbling for purchase along your body, trying to push you closer, as if the chasm of space between you is unbearable, a distance that’s impossible to endure.

He laughs when you respond instinctively, a sharp excuse of a noise, muffled by your swollen lips, and he’s just kissing you through it because he hates you, he hates you— he hates you so much that sometimes he can’t breathe when you’re around.

You crawled under his skin a long time ago, made yourself a home there.

“I think I’d rather be held hostage for a second time than kiss you again.” he says, and he might’ve elaborated further, but his lips abandon such a notion to chase your own.

The kiss becomes more languid, more desperate, like he’s trying to find an answer in response to it. There’s a brief, agonising break, foreheads pressed together, a harsh gasp of air, before the moment restarts.

God you taste good. Feel good, he thinks. He’s never been this intimate, not beyond Lila, that fleeting mess in the pool. The two events incomparable, he felt something then, small and minuscule, not enough to pursue. But right now? Oh, In contrast, he feels everything now.

“I wish you were being held hostage. It’d be quieter,” you retort. It’s muffled, and you’re moving, bodies stumbling into obstacles as you relocate, when did you get to your room? It feels like natural progression, evolution, diminutive changes that you don’t even realise are occurring.

You bite his bottom lip, draw it between your teeth, ruin him for anyone else. Because isn’t that what you’ve been doing for years now? Hurting each other so profoundly that only you can bare the scarred aftermath?

It’s sick. It’s sick, and you wonder how petty comments, trivial work-place rivalry distorted into this? How you’ve just ended up sick because of each other, and admittedly, for each other.

What is sickness without pleasure?

He whimpers. The noise almost imperceptible, but it’s there, and it’s pathetic, an unbecoming thing caught somewhere between a gasp and needy whine. He’s backed against the wall now, and he can’t find it in him to complain.

“Of course it would be you,” he says breathlessly. For all the knowledge he lacks here (physically; he’s well-versed in the hypotheticals of anatomy), he doesn’t feel pure.

People like him don’t get that.

He should feel guilty. He should recoil at the touch, at the knowledge you bear, at the reality of this. Except, for some unknown reason, he relishes in the idea of someone having him, even if the cost is his pride, his dignity, even if the cost is you.

He whimpers again as your teeth rake along the slope of his neck, shuddering at the sharp sensation, and he’s almost begging, words on the verge of being uttered.

But he can’t. Because that isn’t him when he’s with you. “Are you going to punish me? For uh, everything I said tonight? Because ah, god, I’d like to see you try.”

Admittedly, it’s not hard to break his resolve. A few more soul-crushing kisses and your wandering hand, dipping beneath his trousers, hard. Obscenely hard. Yes, he’s muttering as you unclasp buttons, as you loosen his trousers to the extent that you can palm him through his boxers. Half-choked gasps escape his bruised lips with every touch, and he’s crying now. Pretty tears streaming down his face, accentuating those doe-wide eyes of his, now glossy and warped.

“Only person who’s ever touched you, huh?” you state, and maybe you derive pleasure from that concept. That only your hands, drenched thick with staining blood, have ever scrutinised the warmth of his skin. The areas where his form curves, and the areas that make him come apart, undone at the seams. Grasping you, relying entirely on the wall, just to remain upright and somewhat conscious.

He makes another noise, another guttural, pathetic sound. Because, yeah, it’s just you. It’s only you, and the thought should be unbearable, but the pleasure of having, being touched is too much.

He has to grasp the back of your shirt, nails digging into fabric, as a distraction, a way to centre himself, while the rest of the world falls apart. His words are scattered, broken and messy, and he finds himself saying things he’ll inevitably regret. “Please, I can’t-“

He’s supposed to hate this, hate you.

“Cant— can’t take it. Oh,” he wants to bury his face into the crook of your neck, but you’re gripping his jaw, forcing him to look directly at you. Glasses discarded, the view was blurry without the added layers of tears.

“Eyes on me, boy genius.”

He complies. Gaze locked, unable to look away, entranced by the way your pupils dilate, staring at you, like you’re artwork, something to be studied and broken down and torn apart, only to be rebuilt again once he’s had his fill.

“Let’s look at you. Hm?” you state, removing his sweater, then his shirt, and there’s so many layers, and he’s acting coy now, as if he wasn’t whimpering moments prior.

Instinctively, by reflex, he tries to cover himself up. To hide planes of untouched skin from your gluttonous palms. You grip his wrists, pin them above his head, and oh isn’t this a sight: Spencer Reid, entirely bare, bound by you alone, tear track marks and swollen lips.

He always wanted to be seen.

He just didn’t expect, anticipate, being seen to this extent. He can’t fight your trailing gaze, and he doesn’t want to; it might make him flushed, a few irrational movements away from a cardiac arrest, but this it— raw uncut intimacy.

You’re softer now, as you run your hand along his dick, earning a variety of muffled noises, as your thumb brushes over his tip, taking care to touch every part of him. Everywhere he needs it. When you finally wrap your fingers around him, everything burns, fervent and collapsing, and he supposes this is what it felt like the moment Troy collapsed.

“Mhh,” he moans, hips bucking in time with your palm, steady movements.

He’s already so messy, and it should be embarrassing, but all he feels is the blunted edges of pleasure, the jagged cut of humiliation, warring against each other.

“You’re— oh.. you’re enjoying this far too much,” he manages, and it takes so much energy to get it out, his words slurring, interrupted by debauched gasps.

It feels good, so good that he can’t process the shame that’s bound to follow. He hates you, and he might be a little in love with you, and it’s not fair to process feelings, chemicals, he was never supposed to obtain.

“That it’s. There you go. That’s my good boy.”

Spencer sobs.

“Shh, shh, I know, I know, it’s a lot.” there’s always an element of condescension to your words. An undertone that rips through his defences. Destroys him in the process.

His body is receptive, ruined, because of the praise. He’s not sure how you can look at him, clearly, consciously, and dictate that he’s good. Most days he feels impure, debased. Burnt-out and wasted, the great always fall.

The same skin he pierced with needles is now reverently on show, and you should be cruel, it’s what you’re both good at, the only viable way to communicate, an undisclosed secret language. But you’re not. That confuses him to no extent.

“I can’t— cant, ‘m so close.” his arms are still bound above his head, and despite the ache, he keeps them there. It’s not the most conventional ‘first time’, but he takes it regardless.

“Yeah?” you mutter, pace picking up. The sound is obscene, his excessive pre-cum smeared across his length, wet noises with every stroke. “You wanna cum for me, hm?”

“Oh god,” he breaks, “Yes— yes, please—“

You have no interest in denying him, not when he’s this destroyed from a mere hand-job. “Go on then. Just because you asked so nicely.”

He falls apart. Dewy-eyed and blissed out, you force him to look at you as he reaches his orgasm. To keep looking as he squirms and writhes. So he does, because apparently his cognitive function has evaporated now.

Your tongue meets your palm, tasting him, pressing the excess into his mouth with an indecent kiss. Is this what sex entails? Complete submission, vulnerabilities bared wide? Dirty in that primal sense, the same one he always shied away from?

Finally, finally in the aftermath, he breaks his stare. His head falls back against the wall, eyes closed, neck exposed. Stifled gasps, it’s quiet, as if you’re both aware of your actions, the consequences of them.

“This is, uh— yeah.” he mumbles, reaching for his clothes; now the ecstasy has worn off, the shame overpowers. The sin of man, he’s starting to think you’re the personification of the serpent.

Or maybe it’s the other way around. He doesn’t hold his own body to such pure standards. He’s not sure any benevolence would look at him with acceptance. Not after everything he’s done to it.

“Hey wait,” you’re not good at this whole ‘nice’ thing, not when it comes to him. But there have been moments, in the past, small, fleeting seconds of…. you’re not entirely sure what to call them. Late hours spent scrutinising cases, your back-up points to his statements, mindless information dumps that the team can’t quite understand.

“Don’t make me chase you a second time, jesus.” You can’t just leave—“ you exhale, breathe, in and out, “Are you okay?”

He stops. He stops because you’ve never asked that question, never cared to ask that question, and maybe that hurts more than not being asked at all.

A part of him, the small part of him that’s not functional, wants to stay, wants to just stay in this bliss and pretend that it doesn’t matter, that the inevitable fallout won’t occur. But the larger, prominent part, reminds him that this isn’t right, that he needs to leave and collect his wits.

“I don’t know, im confused—“ he sighs, drags a shaky hand through his hair. “Yeah, im uh… i’m fine. “I just need to leave, I have to-“ he swallows. “I can’t. Not right now, I need to do— anything but this.”

He walks out on you and it’s fine.

────────────

Everything is fine, reality can return, and you can forget that you had his arms bound against the wall, that he fell apart from the weight of your dragging palm. You can pretend you never saw him naked, bare in every form of the word. Stripped raw, his lips burning against yours, skin on skin. It’s. Fine.

Life continues. Your dynamic remains the same, unrelenting, your biting words, just short of callous, his scathing remarks. Modus Operandi. You wonder how you’ve turned the most tender person into something sharp, and you wonder if it’s ever going to be reversible.

When the case closes, the BAU, in predictable, systematic fashion, celebrate (ease the weight) over drinks. You’re adorned in lace, a black dress that just catches your thighs. It’s late now, and by the time you arrive at the dive-bar, the majority of the team are intoxicated (you couldn’t go straight from work, there was still blood clinging to your skin).

Everything is fine. To reiterate.

It’s not.. It’s not. Because oh, Spencer finds himself staring. He’s fairly certain he doesn’t have any lingering interest. But then again, why is he fixated on the way fabric clings to your ruinous figure, the way your hair sits, slightly dishevelled, pooled over one shoulder? It’s exasperating and inebriating all at once. You shouldn’t be able to affect him to such an extent, and yet here he is, mindlessly staring at you with starry-eyes. He should look away. Leave even?

Of course, he fails. You end up squeezing in next to him, all leather seats and too little space.

And, okay, he knows he should feel guilty.

In reality, he’s not. Because, sure, he’s sat too close, and sure, he can just make out the scent of your perfume, faintly floral. But he’s intoxicated, just as everybody else is, and it’s making logic and reason seem far off, too distant to process. He looks at you once, then twice, like he can’t quite believe you’re tangible.

“You look nice, I guess,” he murmurs bluntly, looking away, feigning disinterest.

As if the ‘incident’ (as he’s taken to calling it) didn’t tilt his world on its axis.

“You also look nice, I guess.” you retort, and it’s the best you’re going to get out of each other. At least in this state (the surplus of praise that left your bruised, possessed lips cannot be justified, or repeated ever. again.)

You lean forward, watch as his face creases at the proximity. Are you thinking about the kisses? Plural, fuck, plural. Open-mouthed, desperate movements?You’re. not. Instead, you steal his glasses, slip them on. The prescription is strong, thick lenses that distort your perception.

“What do you think?” you ask, “I might go as you for halloween, it’ll definitely scare the kids.”

“They make you look intelligent. Considering you need all the help you can get, I’d take that as a compliment,”

It’s a domestic action, to put on his glasses. And the thoughts that burn through his mind stem from HR prohibited to domestic, which he argues is far worse. You, tangled in sheets, sporting nothing but his glasses. Resting against the tip of your nose, askew, as you ride him. As you tilt your head back, exposing— no.

He wants to say something about how ridiculous you look— but it’s hard to focus, you’re taking up all of his sanity, like a computer running multiple programs at once. You’re malware actually, destined to corrupt him (which you’ve already done to a painful extent).

“You can’t just touch my stuff.” he settles on, sounding more petulant than anticipated.

“Oh chill out, boy wonder. It’s a pair of glasses,” you mutter, removing them to blink blink blink, and there he is, the centre focus of your vision, now fully detailed again. It takes you a moment to render in his appearance: shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, arms exposed, long, deft fingers. There’s heavy bags gathering beneath his eyes, dragging down those big, blown-out irises of his, wide and completely dirty (how is it that his natural resting face is so obscene?).

Focus.

You push the glasses back onto his face. Better, it’s a sight you’ve come to anticipate after he ran out of contact lenses. “There. Oh, were you just upset because you couldn’t see me properly? That’s sweet, Spence. Flattery will get you everywhere.”

He can see everything.

Every small detail of your face; strands of hair falling loose, dilated pupils, accentuated by heavy liner, obsidian that contrasts against your incisive eyes. Your lips, oh your lips, he could write a thesis on them. Stained crimson, if he were to kiss you right now, residue would catch against his own mouth, incriminate him.

He gets up. Excuses himself. Sometimes he wishes he could vanish.

But it’s not good enough.

“You,” he says between messy kisses, “Need to keep your hands to yourself.” — okay, he’s not sure how this happened. He left for the bathroom (to splash water on his face, gather his dignity, perhaps drown himself?) and you to humour the locals outside, gathering around with half-smoked cigarettes and slurring conversations.

But then, on his way back, padding through the long corridor (why is it always a corridor?), you were there, and yeah. He was screwed. Fatefully wrecked.

He had tried, in the moments leading up to his demise, to resist, but he was a man of logic and science and the science, when he was around you, simply did not apply. You’re bad for him, in every sense, he should avoid you, he should stay away.

But now, there’s no space between your bodies, no space for rationality or reasoning (god he’s tired of the thinking part. He just wants to feel).

The kiss is rough, sloppy, a desperate, messy thing. “This can’t keep happening,” he mumbles against your smeared lips.

“Do you remember last time?” you question. It’s taboo, to bring it up, to disclose the buried. But you’re fairly certain this compromising position wouldn’t exist without the lethal effects of that one night. The cheap motel and his body arching into your touch.

Rationality appears to be nonexistent now. A discarded concept.

Like last time, you guide him back against the wall, pin his hands above his head. Mirroring your actions. Well, to some ‘dignified’ extent. “Had you just like this,” you lean forward to press a series of kisses along the curvature of his jaw. “I bet you’d let me take you like this again, hm? Right here? In the middle of this shitty dive bar?”

And if he weren’t so far gone, he’d protest, he’d tell you that no, this is wrong, because you’re so wrong for him. He knows that if one good man has to fall, it shouldn’t be him.

But you don’t let good men rise, and there’s something so enticing about the depths of hell. He’s not sure he’s good anyway. It’s a complex situation. “You’re a sadist,” he murmurs, breathless, “I wouldn’t.”

Your grip instinctively tightens against his wrist, and he squirms. He’s nervous, “Could we, like… at least find a bathroom? I’d take a bathroom, even though there’s endless strains of bacteria there. Or, or split a cab. No, i’ll just pay— Anything. I’ll do anything. Just not here. This is a public space, and technically, public indecency, and—“

“Fuck,” he’s never been the type to swear, “I’ll do anything.” this time, he says it in self-defeat. Acknowledgment.

────────────

French exit. His wandering hands in the cab, and the electric pulse that burnt through his body as he kept a low profile, stumbling out of the bar, muttering thinly-veiled excuses for his abrupt departure.

The second you’re both inside your apartment, you’re clattering into things. “I love your eyes,” you state bluntly, forthcoming in every sense of the word, “Love it when you cry for me.”

You think of every harsh word that has ever escaped your lips, You think of the consequences they might’ve had. Did he ever cry over them? You know, in contrast, you never did over his. Though there was that sharp, sinking pain that felt like the embodiment of slow death. Something terminal, fated to linger, to eat and eat until nothing remained.

No big deal!

“It’s an involuntary bodily response. You’re a dacryphiliac.” he responds.

There’s not a lot he can compute right now, his brain too preoccupied with processing your touch alone. Which is so prominent, so harrowingly good that not even his genius mind can comprehend it.

He’s reasonable to believe he would kill whoever had the pleasure of experiencing you like this.

“It’s not a fetish if I only feel it for you—“

Spencer breaks.

“No-no-no,” he says, too loudly, “You can’t just- say those things. You can’t tell me you love when I cry, just because- I should be scared, of you. You’re volatile. Destructive,” he murmurs, head leaning against the crook of your shoulder. Against better judgement. But all reason has left him now. You’ve stolen it, taken it as a personal trophy to parade and boast about.

“Why am… Why am I not scared?” he asks, “It’s not like I make you cry…”

“Because there’s no reason to be scared.” you answer simply. And at surface level, it’s true. In spite of the hostility, the years of white-knuckled rivalry, you’ve always trusted him. It’s a coveted admission, considering you’re circumspect by nature.

You unbutton his shirt, let it fall to the floor, exposing his skin in the middle of your apartment. He’s standing there, and you’re not sure what to do with all of this want that perhaps you’ve misplaced as enmity for so long.

“You could make me cry,” you state, because if there’s one person out there capable of cracking you open, leaning behind fragmented pieces, it’s him. It’s always going to be him.

It’s a startling realisation. That he, Spencer Reid, of all people, can reach the centre of you in ways nobody has ever done before.

“Why would I want you to cry? That’s— i’m not even sure how I would go about it.”

You grip his hips, walk yourself backwards until you’re hitting a wall, there your body instinctively curves forward to meet his. “It doesn’t always have to be bad.” you explain, because he’s looking at it from a simplistic, textbook perspective. “Last time,” those words still feel like poison, “When I made you cry, there was no pain, right? You cried because it felt good.”

He’s staring at you clueless. Though, he might just be distracted. Either works.

Your hand catches his wrist, and then you’re hiking up your dress, guiding his touch beneath fabric. The lace panties that cover skin. He’s tentative, experimental, dragging his thumb over your clit, causing your hips to cant towards him. “Make me cry, boy genius.”

You act like this is the most indecent thing he’s capable of doing. From an unbiased standpoint, it’s up there on his list, but admittedly he hasn’t really done enough to constitute a list in the first place.

Spencer, in response, simply drops to his knees. Your panties are pulled down your legs in a disconcerting haze, and then he’s just groaning, cursing Gods he doesn’t believe in, spiting them with blasphemy, whilst also simultaneously thanking them, humouring false promises he won’t commit to.

It’s blasphemous, a prodigy on his knees, in front of you, for you. As if he’s worshiping something he can’t even comprehend, something beyond the expanse of his knowledge. And you just pull strands of his hair, pull at the strings of him.

His hands find the inside of your thighs, caressing the soft skin there and you make another noise, a noise that has him devouring you.

Face buried between your legs, he flattens his tongue against your clit, drags it upwards to catch wetness, to affirm that you’re just as affected as he. That since you touched him, all thoughts have consisted solely of you.

He doesn't think he's doing this correctly- but you're making noises, gasps that he didn’t even know you were capable of, and that's the thing about science or anatomy, whatever it may be, the brain is incredibly subjective, and the more knowledge you acquire, the less you really know.

And there's knowledge here, but it’s not utilised; no coordination, even when there should be, even when he’s got the human body memorised to perfection. Still, you seem to like him messy, desperate, drawing your clit into his mouth to pull, to tug, before shifting back to blow cold air against you.

The task was simple, at surface level: make you cry. And whilst, if you pick it apart, it becomes more complex, he seems to be efficient in following orders because right now, you’re ruined. It might not be the most meticulous head you’ve received (though you’re sure, under different circumstances he could probably surpass that standard), but it’s wanting, in a way that makes you ache.

“Oh oh, fuck— fuckfuckfuck.”

You grip his hair, twisting and pulling and using, and he lets you, he’d do anything, do this forever if he had to. His fingers, still gripping your thighs, dig into soft flesh, leaving visible marks. And he wants to see those marks, in the morning, an irrefutable fact that would force him to accept this as real.

But he can’t focus, can’t think about anything when you’re reacting like this, so undone. How can there be anything, at all, beyond this?

He lets you drape a leg over his shoulder, let’s you get off against his face, fingers sliding inside, one digit at a time, to feel warmth wrapped around him. To feel the way you clench when he curves them, when he grazes spots that he could explain to factual detail.

Your body shudders, and you’re making noises he hasn’t heard before, sounds that could only be described as obscene— and his name, you’re moaning his name, and god, he’s certain he would follow you to the ends of the earth right now. Without question.

It’s when he stops, when he leans back enough that he can breathe. That he can look at you, really look at you.

You’re messy, undone. The sight could be considered humiliating from an outside perspective, but you’re gorgeous, and he’d do this a thousand times over if it resulted in this exact reaction. A reaction that he’s given you. No one else.

“I love your face.” He says, a little bluntly. But it’s true, he does.

So he returns to the task. Practically situating you on his face now to suffocate him, to let him become some sort of extension to your pleasure. And inevitably when you fall apart, tears and writhing, boundless pleasure, he can only push you through it. Allow his existence to crumble, for the second time,

And as he draws back, face covered in you, he can only stare.

His knees are bruised. That’s the first thing you notice when you stumble to the bedroom, when you’ve taken a moment to wipe away evidence of the tears, to regather and compose yourself. It’s not in your nature to be soft, no to him, but you still find yourself kissing the mauve blemishes, working your way up his body after you’ve oh so unceremoniously undressed him. Reduced to his boxers, he’s an incriminating sight.

“Losing your virginity to me is like the biggest irony ever.” you say, kissing along his stomach, watching as his body reacts, arches, contorts in search of more pleasure. It’s a hypnotising sight, to see every nerve tuned to you solely.

“Ironic, demeaning, enough to send past versions of myself into an early grave. Yes, I get your point.” he mutters.

Your hands find their way to the waistband of his boxers, and he’s lifting his hips, because he wants you to undress him, because he’d let you do anything right now, but he also feels embarrassed, exposed. Vulnerable in a way he’s never felt before. You’re seeing him, seeing things he doesn’t even know himself. But there’s nowhere to hide, not while you’re slowly pulling off his underwear, with a care that he’s unaccustomed to.

“I won’t go easy on you,” you assure. Even though that’s technically a straight-faced lie. Of course it’ll be more tender than anything else you’ve endured; he has this devastating habit of softening those around him. It’s only taken this long to affect you out of pure, unbridled spite.

Oh, he wants. The evidence is his body alone. Laid out before you, like an offering, a hedonistic one. Dick hardened, dripping pre-cum onto his stomach.

“Hands above your head,” you watch as he blindly obeys, any defiance now crushed. Well, for the most part: at least in his actions. “That’s good— good boy. Tell me if they’re too tight,” you say, binding them with his discarded tie.

You stare, and it’s like you want to eat him alive, and against better judgement, he’d let you. Serve himself up, passive as you tear him limb for limb, taste all the bad parts of his existence, the ones he keeps hidden shamefully away.

“Too tight? I’ve been held hostage, I think I can handle a little bit of fabric.” he retorts before tugging at the restraints, “Tighter.”

“Didn’t realise you were so into this—“

“Neither did I,” he scoffs, “I’ve never done it before, obviously.”

“Now you have. Congrats, i’ll give you a sticker once we’re done. Gold star, huh?” and just for good measure, you tighten the restraints further. Just a few more pulls until you’re knotting it in place. Until he’s entirely defenceless, but realistically, what would you do? It’s hard to find fear when you’ve covered him on the field for over a year (he’s prone to being targeted, an unsubs wet dream).

“Yes, thank you. I’ll put the sticker on the wall next to my PhDs.” right now, right in this moment, countless people are getting what they want.

And Spencer is being manhandled by his pretty coworker.

Ironically, that’s exactly what he wants.

You’re the perfect dichotomy. Cruel, and caring. Harsh words to juxtapose gentle hands. Soft touches, but scathing remarks that linger, leaving behind a trail of scars, the ubiquity of your cruelty.

You’re lethal, and he’s smart enough to comprehend the danger. Except he’s never been smart when it comes to people.

Your hands are acquisitive, roaming, searching, blunt nails that scrape skin as you rake them down, down towards his abdomen. He shivers, bite into that pretty bottom lip of his until he’s spilling blood, and it’s a sight. Something sick that you both want to such an offensive extent.

“Sensitive.” you murmur, like the idea of him so reactive pleases you, in a way you’ve never considered before. Because the way his body strains, bucking forward to deepen the contact is maddening.

“Are you always like this?” you wonder aloud, leaning down to run a hand along the length of his inner thigh. “Poor baby, so touch-starved.”

“I don’t know if I’d use the word sensitive.” he replies, “More susceptible to the fact that you’re touching me, and that I haven’t felt another person touch me in a long time. And of course when people touch me, it’s usually professionals poking me with needles or stitching this weeks new wound.”

Touch-starved? He has sensory issues. The lightest graze can provoke, cause his skin to crawl. Of course he would like your touch, of course the universe would torture him by finding relief in the one person who nobody should stumble upon for relief.

“Oh you’re a soldier, you suffer so much.“ you state, and it’s condescending (naturally), but there is some truth to the serrated comment. You, the team, are all bruised, mentally and physically distorted from the consequences of the job. Only he could react so reverently to your calloused hands, blissed out to the extent that it looks like you’re witnessing ascension.

It’s pretty. Pretty, in a soft, domestic way. One that demeans his bound wrists and your sharp words.

You press a few tender kisses to his thighs, the inner sections, where you’re certain, assured, no one has ever touched before. Maybe there’s something possessive to that thought, the want to own, to know that no one will ever have him the way you have him.

Your touch is like a brand. He wants it, even if it’s bad, even if it’s cruel. Because the alternative to this is nothing. A lonely existence. A life of work, of chasing shadows, knowing he had so much to give, and no one to give to.

“Stop mocking me.” he replies, it’s through laboured breath. “Just because I don’t have your proclivity for taking hits doesn’t mean I don’t suffer.”

No one’s ever touched him like this. No one’s ever cared to try. You’re his first.

“I know you suffer,” you retort, are you arguing? Is this foreplay? If it is, then you have some serious self-reflecting to do on every single past conversation. Because maybe you should’ve taken him to your bed earlier, in that case.

Oh god was your hatred of each other built solely on sexual tension?

Finally, you move. Just like the first time, your hand runs across his length, taking him slowly, easing him into it, coercing him through the pleasure. It’s not similar to before: it won’t end after he’s found his release, and it’s not frenzied and ardent. Spurred on by shame.

“And you know i’m always going to take the hits for you, regardless.” he whines when you remove your hand, and whines again, for contrasting reasons, as you spit on your palm, generate lubricant to support each stroke.

“Oh—“ he breathes out. He’s fairly certain he’s supposed to be more contained. A huff escapes his lips and then he’s retorting, “You could try a tactic other than reckless self-sacrifice every once in a while.”

He’s overwhelmed, with you. All of you. The way you look, the way you talk, all the harsh lines and scathing remarks. The way you take the hits for him, an altruistic custodian, but he isn’t worthy of being saved. Isn’t worth the effort.

“Shut the fuck up, Spencer.” you say, promptly ending this discussion; you grip his dick tighter, tilting your movements to catch him at a better angle.

“Shit— okay, okay,” he moans because that feels really really good, and he wishes he could articulate it in a better way. Something complex and poetic, but it’s just so good.

He’s always been a little masochistic. Too smart for his own good, too analytical. He wants you to take him apart, piece by piece, and see the inner workings of his body laid out before you, raw and vulnerable. Because only you can see him like this.

He doesn’t even really touch himself. There’s been nights, body flushed and wanton, bucking up against sheets, muffled noises pressed into his pillow. But they’re rare, and they usually lead to an aftermath of ignominy.

He’s a prodigy, a genius in the field of criminal psychology. So why does it feel so good like this? To be humbled, to be demoted. As if all his degrees, his awards, his intellect, mean absolutely nothing.

He’s never felt so loved. Which is ironic. Because he’d always hoped love would be slow, gentle. Soft, like a caress. The kind of love you share over meals and pillow-talk.

He realises, with a jolt to his system, that if this is love to you, he’d accept it, in its most primal form.

“You get off on this,” he analyses as you draw back, mostly to stifle the begs that nearly escape his mouth. Come back, need you here.

“Well I’d be pretty concerned if I wasn’t getting off on this right now—“

“No,” he pushes, “You like that i’m, that yeah. I have no experience. You want to corrupt me, huh?” he looks up at you with pretty, innocent eyes. Holy shit. “Ruin me for anyone else? Go on, let me have it. I’ll only come back, i’ve already done it once. Statistically, it’s going to happen again. And again. Pavlovian responses, condition me. Make my body react to no one else.”

When you kiss him again, he can only take it. Can only moan, whimper, plead against your mouth until you’re lining him up, until you’re sitting on his dick, and everything is okay.

“You’re so—“ bottomed out, wrapped around him entirely, you sigh. “Fuck, Spence, who taught you to be so fucking dirty?”

“You.” he mutters, playing coy. “But you’re a bad teacher, I think I could do with a few more lessons..”

“I think you could do with learning to shut your mouth more often.”

“It is better suited for other purposes, I suppose..”

He gags when you slot two fingers, index and middle, into his mouth. No warning, no predetermined acknowledgment. They hit the back of his throat, and he can only suck, muffling protests around the digits until he goes blissfully silent.

“Better,” you retort. Drawing them out, you press your thumb against his bottom lip, keeping it parted so that you can lean forward, spit into his open mouth. When you first met, he promptly refused to shake your hand, too conscious of the dissemination of germs, now? He’s swallowing your saliva, unprompted, with little resistance.

You know him. The way you touch is like you’re searching for something. Anything about him. It’s like you’re a bloodhound, trying to unearth every single vulnerability. And you must’ve found them, because you’re suddenly here, bearing all your weight on him, moving, and it’s all his body can do to take it. All of it. All of you.

He tugs at his restraints, because he won’t go down without a susceptible fight. Even if he knows it’s fated that he will inevitably fall. “Please—please untie me, just wanna hold your hand.”

And, oh that shatters you. Like, mentally, physically, spiritually dismantles you until you’re breathless, staring at him with widened eyes and a loss of composure. It’s such a tender request, something domestic and raw, and mindlessly you’re fumbling with the knots of his tie. Freeing them to take one in yours.

It’s against your nature, but you can’t help, can’t refrain yourself from pressing a kiss against his knuckles. “You’re doing so good f’me. Such a good boy,”

Your free hand runs across his torso now, grazing skin, admiring the sight of him, flushed, debauched, sprawled out beneath you.

He grips your hip. That’s the first thing he does once he’s sufficiently sane, well… partially, the praise did knock him entirely off balance. Tip the scales, send him over the inexorable edge.

He watches as you take the incentive to slip off his body, and the loss of friction is okay, tolerable because he’s sitting up against the headboard, drawing you closer, whining for you until you’re on his lap, until you’re sat in your rightful place.

Here, he can kiss you. Which he admits has become a very vital aspect to his existence.

The kiss is like a bruise. Not rough, he’d never be rough with you, he’s all long, languid strokes and soft movements. But it’s overwhelming, and leaves discernible, lasting imprints.

And yeah, sure, kissing you is the closest thing to worship he has ever known. Something he would like to commit to memory, every single time your lips touch, it’s like he’s seeing god in the shape of your cupid’s bow.

“Please, I need—“ he stutters over his words, “If you don’t move, I swear—“ he pauses, his head falling against your shoulder— “I swear, I’m gonna die, this has to be against the Geneva Convention, you can’t leave me like this, please—”

“The Geneva convention? Really? Is this your form of dirty talk?” you retort, unable to muffle your laugh.

“No. I’m stating my rights,” he says, “Torture is prohibited.”

“I’m not torturing you—“

You tangle your hand through his hair, tug tug tug, and then pull, drawing his head back by tousled strands, forcing him to meet your gaze.

“Ohmyfuckinggod, yes. You are.” he whimpers.

It’s indefensible how good he feels, how he sinks into you, hitting crevices you’re certain no one else has ever grazed before. Feeling full, whole, it’s new. It’s your own first, and you can’t even begin to articulate how defenceless you are to the way it makes you disintegrate, fragment to pieces of pleasure. Spencer is warm, and soft, and it makes you want to cry. To just fall, give in, transcendence of self, Burke said, and right now, you feel that entirely.

His moan is unapologetic, unfiltered as you move. At this point, you could slice him open, leave him bleeding in your bed, and he’d thank you for it.

You hold his hand, and yet, simultaneously destroy him.

“Please,” he whimpers again— he’s too pretty to be asking so nicely. “I just— I want you closer. As close as possible, I want you so close to me that I’m not even sure if my body can handle it.”

It’s not dirty talk, it’s more like he’s begging you, tears staining his skin, pitiful eyes, wide and glassy, staring at you with some form of desperation. Brows furrowed, gaze soft.

And his gaze only grows worse when you do give him what he wants, when your pace fastens.

It’s a religious experience, like he’s about to be crucified, a martyr to his pleasure. He’s almost afraid to touch you— to stain something divine, like you’re too much for him. But you’re not.

“I like this. Like you. Like you here. You’re so good for me,” he murmurs, and it’s untruthful, but right now, he sincerely believes it. “so good, so perfect, all I need, please—”

“Stop it.” you bite, preferring him defiant over this— because this opens up wounds you weren’t even aware existed. “Oh fuck, stop it.”

“So good. You’re so good,” he cups your face, presses his forehead against yours, and you might as well just die right here.

“Says you.”

“Says me.”

You fuck him harder.

“Oh,” is all he can pronounce, little oh’s every time you rock against him, and he has to grip you hips, deepen the movements until you’re bouncing against him, up down up down, exploiting his sensitivity with a torturous pace.

And it’s not fair, he needs to balance the scales, so he runs his thumb over your clit, firm halos that have you keening. “If being nice got me this, I’d be so nice to you for the rest of my life—“

Another lie. But it’s worth it. If only for the way you kiss him. The way you silence his cutting words, forcing your way into his mouth, forcing him to just squirm and sob, until you’re clenching around him, and he’s there with you. Falling apart, bodies shifting until movement ceases, and there’s nothing but bliss.

“I hate you so much,” you say in the aftermath, and it’s closest you’ve ever gotten to a confession of love.

He laughs, wipes away tears, “Hate you more.”

“Don’t leave this time.” he just nods, bordering on nonverbal now. It takes you hours to coax actual words out of him, and by then, you’re both tangled in a foreign mess of warm limbs.

“Oh i’m going to be so mean tomorrow.” you mutter, playing loosely with his hair.

He can only sigh, stare at you dreamily. “God, is that a promise?”

[wheelie-sick]

this is going to be a long post, it's kinda just me writing all my raw unfiltered thoughts on ABA therapy as someone who actually went through it

-> TW for ABA therapy, child abuse, suicide <-

I was functionally diagnosed with autism at the age of 3 but it wasn't until I was 13 that I was actually formally evaluated for it and given an official diagnosis. I was behind in social skills and developmental skills

[ID: "was also described as a sensory seeker. She does not currently have any friends and has struggled to make and maintain peer relationships throughout her childhood. Difficulties with social skills were initially noted when she was in preschool (years before the onset of clinically significant symptoms of anxiety and"]

[ID: "Social functions: [blank]'s mother also completed a questionnaire rating her social responsiveness. Her responses on the SRS-2 indicated that [blank] is demonstrating severe deficits in the areas of Social Communication (reciprocal social interaction and nonverbal and verbal communication), Social Motivation (motivation to engage in social-interpersonal behavior) and Social Awareness (perceiving social cues) and moderate deficits in the areas of Social Cognition (understanding social cues). Severe Repetitive and Restrictive Behaviors (stereotypical behaviors or highly restricted interests) were also reported. The total T-score on the SRS-2 indicates severe deficiencies in reciprocal behavior that are likely to result in interference in everyday social interaction"]

[ID: "%ile) are mildly impaired, while her social skills are moderately impaired (2nd %ile). By domain, demonstrates mildly to moderately impaired abilities in six adaptive skills areas, including self care (9th %ile), communication (5th %ile), home living (5th %ile), self-direction (2nd %ile), social (2nd %ile), and leisure (1st %ile)"]

and ultimately all this ended up with the number one recommendation after my autism evaluation being for ABA therapy.

[ID: "Recommendations: Based on the above results, the following recommendations are made for [blank] and her family.

1. ABA therapy: [blank] May benefit from an intensive treatment program to foster cognitive and communication skills, improve independence and adaptive functioning, and help manage interfering behaviors (i.e home-based, 1:1 instruction, task analysis, etc.) Most private and community programs are based on principals of operant conditioning and taught in home with 1:1 instruction"]

*I'm getting misgendered here. my pronouns are he/him

"operant conditioning"-- like a dog 🐕🐕. woof woof.

my mom didn't know any better so she put me in ABA therapy with the Center for Autism and Related Disorders. she regrets this. I regret this more.

my autism evaluation was cruel, it dissected all my flaws as if I was a bug under a microscope in a highschool laboratory. my evaluation was passed around to ABA therapists, a line of high schoolers peering through the microscope examining the most vulnerable parts of me.

and I choose the highschool analogy quite deliberately. most of the ABA therapists at my center were recent highschool graduates with no degree and little training. they knew nothing about autism and had no qualifications. you need more certificates to become a professional dog trainer than to become a professional human trainer.

"operant conditioning"

and I wish I could say it was just a poor choice of words but ABA therapy was dog training for children. my dad used to call me an "it" and somehow I felt less dehumanized by that than the entire experience I had in ABA therapy.

I was the oldest person at my center (I did not receive in home therapy) with the next oldest being approximately 3 years younger than me. at the time I felt babied. I was surrounded by 5 year olds and I was treated as if I was not just a 5 year old but an autistic 5 year old and anyone who has been a visibly autistic 5 year old knows what that feels like. I had escaped being an autistic child and now I was being treated like one again. The head of the program tried to console me by telling me adults received their services too.

[ID: "Following the principles of applied behavior analysis, CARD has developed a treatment approach for children and adolescents with"]

this was the first lie they told me. CARD does not work with adults.

I was not allowed the privileges of being a 13 year old. because I was an autistic 13 year old and therefore I was the equivalent of a 5 year old. I was in psychotherapy at the same time and I had grown very accustomed to some level of freedom in therapy. I was allowed to use the bathroom independently. in ABA therapy I was not allowed to use the bathroom independently. I tried once, me and my therapist were on an "outing" to the grocery store and I told my therapist I was going to the bathroom and walked off and I got a very stern talking to about how I needed to "stop eloping" and if I didn't stop it would "become a behavior"

eloping became a common theme used to control me and squeeze money out of my parents.

out of everything I hated in my life, including severe physical abuse at home (which they did not report), I hated ABA therapy the most. I would repeatedly make serious threats of suicide to try to get out of ABA. no one cared. everyone thought I was being dramatic but there were times I wrote out suicide notes and ABA was among the reasons I listed. ABA made me feel hopeless, depressed, revolting, disgusting, inferior, and less than human. between ABA, my home life, and my social life I had never felt so hated and it was boiling through my skin. I acted out, I was bullying people, I was behaving recklessly, I was starting fights, and all this only made the oppressive force of ABA crack down on me harder. I was a cat hissing in the corner begging to be left alone and ABA brought a net to try to tame me further. every time I scratched back it was listed as a reason I needed to be there.

I was "disruptive" and "rebellious" and "uncooperative" and "resistant to treatment" and no one could figure out why I was "regressing" despite me shouting the answer. I was screaming and no one was willing to hear me

I hated myself and my autism. my autism diagnosis made me want to die. I didn't feel freed by it or understood I felt ashamed and disgusted. I felt incompetent and like I had failed. I was ashamed to be at ABA, it was my biggest secret. I'd lie to my friends about why I couldn't hang out and I'd lie to people in public about who the woman I was with was and I'd lie about all of it to try to cover up my most shameful secret.

ABA therapy did nothing but foster this. In ABA therapy I was mocked for being autistic and what was happening only clicked when a young kid, maybe only 4 or 5, was flapping his hands and a therapist took out her phone and recorded him. we were circus animals. it was all an entertaining show to them while they poked and prodded at us with metaphorical hot irons to make us dance. the first time a therapist laughed at me for rocking back and forth I wanted to throw up. I almost did. it was systematic bullying of children I was forced to watch and experience.

my point is: the last place on earth I wanted to be was the ABA center.

so of course I tried to leave. my mom would bring me McDonald's and I'd beg, sobbing real tears, to leave early because only she could sign me out. every time I'd go to meet her I'd be marked as "eloping" and my hotel stay in hell would get extended.

my natural response to a stressful environment (leaving) was pathologized. I was eloping this way and that way and never once did I actually, truly elope. that word was a weapon used against me. they used my "elopement" to justify extending my stay to my parents. they ate it right up.

they argued I needed to stay there because I was making friends. this was true, I'm great at getting along with children it's part of why I want to go into pediatrics, but I had also made real friends with people my age at my highschool. ABA was getting in the way. I wanted to spend time with my friends outside of school but ABA took up all my time from the minute I left school to 6pm and all day on weekends. I was doing a full time job's worth of hours. I complained about how I was missing out on spending time with my real friends (as in, over the age of 7) and I was met with almost no wiggle room in my schedule. I was allowed to pre-plan time to spend with friends but every time my friend group wanted to do something spontaneously? I had to say no, and I had to lie about why. my friends would share stories about driving around town with 2 people in the group stuffed in the trunk, of hanging out in the woods together, of taking part in ordinary highschool activities as ordinary high schoolers and it made me cry because I was not an ordinary highschooler and I was not allowed to participate in ordinary highschool activities. I was one of those weird, unpleasant, socially awkward autistic people instead. eventually, they just stopped inviting me. I was forced into the out group by ABA.

I'll never get that back. I'll never get a chance to be a normal highschooler ever again.

when I did have time available to hang out with people I never had the energy to. at the time I was living with an undiagnosed physical disability and I was begging to see a doctor but no one would believe that it wasn't just anxiety. the people who believed me least of all were the people at the center.

I was constantly told I was trying to get out of therapy by "feigning" very real pain and fatigue. I tried to explain spoon theory, and that I had limited spoons, and in response they made a task for me to name things to "regenerate spoons" that's not how it works. I wasn't the only physically disabled person there. there was a wheelchair user who was constantly forced to stand for periods of time despite being in agony doing it. he wasn't allowed rewards until he did it.

rewards were used to train us like dog treats are used with dogs. sometimes the treats were fun! I'd get to cook, play Mario kart, and go on outings. other times the treats were "using the correct name and pronouns for me." I'd constantly be threatened with deadnaming and misgendering if I was being "noncompliant."

misgendering because of my autism was a theme in my life. my neuropsych evaluation report misgendered me. my parents misgendered me. the staff at ABA misgendered me. at one point the head of the program suggested that my "gender confusion" was because of my autism. my abusive father latched onto this and still claims that the reason I'm "confused" about my gender is because the evil transgenders tricked me into thinking I'm one of them because I'm autistic and therefore easily impressionable.

the two therapists I had were nice because I refused to work with the others. they weren't on a power trip and both eventually left because they realized the harm the organization was doing. other therapists were not so kind. other therapists were on a power trip, because in their mind lording over autistic 5 year olds (and autistic 14 year olds) makes them powerful and strong. occasionally I'd get stuck with one of the other therapists when my usual therapists were out. they would talk to me in a baby voice. they would make fun of me for rocking back and forth, for not making eye contact, for talking about Skyrim "too much" and generally just for being autistic.

I never really knew what I was supposed to be doing, just that I was doing it wrong. the therapists there rarely actually told me what my tasks were they'd just mark yes or no on them, judging me for something I wasn't aware of. I was never actually supposed to graduate, I was never supposed to get out, if they wanted me to succeed they would have taught and explained what was happening but I was intentionally left in the dark.

I continued threatening suicide to get out. no one took me seriously. I was seriously considering it. there's no happy conclusion where someone finally realized it was all wrong, or I figured out how to be allistic and graduated, or I felt more comfortable there. I only got out when covid struck and shut the center down. it's gone now, replaced by a family advice center. I hope their advice for autistic children is to never put them in ABA.

there is no grander message here just suffering. I'm sorry if you were expecting some sort of great point at the end of this. there's not one. it happened, I wish it didn't, and I hope no one else experiences what I did ever again.

okay to reblog

[punkeropercyjackson]

We like playing but the fact is Percy Jackson(the character)is objectively cool.Not just the coolest person in his verse but regardless of setting/context.Getting kicked out of 6 schools by the time you're 12 because you physically couldn't stop yourself from standing up for other kids no matter how badly it strained you is cool,being the son of Poseidon and Sally Jackson but refusing to live up to your father's legacy no matter how much you may've inhereted from him and embracing the boundless kindness and maternal tendencies your mother passed down to you is cool,escalating your bully beating to fighting a full on pantheon and demanding to their faces they fix how they run their system is cool,your neutral expression being a rbf that intimidates deities and monsters and more experienced demigods like it does humans is cool,pshycological immunity to selling out is VERY cool,not caring about living up to the image of a good person in favor of actually doing and thinking good things is VERY cool,stealing the god of the Underworld's kids from him by adopting them as your intergenerational best friends/honorary siblings/pseudo-kids because you decided he's not good enough for them after he abused them and knowing what it's like after going through an abusive parent yourself so you break the cycle in addition to breaking tons of other cycles on purpose nonstop is VERY COOL,kicking a war god's ass as a scrawny ahh 12 year old with a month of training tops and choking a chthonic goddess with her own poison is very VERY cool,your gnc swag getting clocked before you even started estrogen and dressing femme/punk/earthy like you've always wanted by a butch lesbian(Piper)is SO FUCKING COOL,your status as an anarchist/antifa/liberatarian getting described as 'the sea does not like to be restrained' is THE COOLEST SHIT EVER and we should stop pretending the blue food addiction isn't cool in a weird way and a genuine realistic neurodivergent trait-or if we're being real,a safe food.We should also stop pretending Percy's not canonically objectively autistic/autistic-coded and the most autistic person in his entire franchise and written to defy stereotypes about neurodivergent people i.e not stupid or lame but a genius who just sucks at academics and hates themself due to ableist abuse upon them starting in early childhood and by the people doing it,onset denial of their autism to not feel guilty over treating them badly for it or to justify it as the 'correct' treatment of 'that' kind of autistic person.Percy's theme song isn't Sk8er Boi by Avril Lavigne,it's Kool by Meet Me @ The Altar

[babiebom]

Completely understandable that you don't do full on smuts!!! Maybe just a Seb x autistic reader smut drabble? Or whatever youre comfy with!! I'm not picky ^_^

A/N: it took me a while to figure out what I was comfortable with that was good enough to post so I hope you like what I wrote!! Since I don’t write smut I hope this wasn’t too bad or awkward for you to read. I’m gonna try and get better at it so at some point I can actively write smut without feeling all weird about it. Also again hopefully I wrote this in a way that is like obvious that it’s autism but not in a stereotypical way? It’s kinda how my hyperfixations work? Idkidk

Tw:sexual content, cursing. Let me know if there’s anything else I should tag

Wc:0.5k

Stardew Masterlist

Your mouth held still around his throbbing length as you swallow multiple times. He squirms above you, hands balled up at his sides. “H-how long are you going to do this?” He asks. You suck experimentally a couple times before coming up for air.

“I don’t know…I have to try everything out!” You move your hair back out of your face, taking one of his hands and helping him grip near your scalp. “If this’ll help then go ahead and pull”.

His eyes roll back as you put your mouth back onto him. His grip on your hair tightened and he moans loudly. You suck harshly, trying to take more of him down your throat. When you hit the back, your throat tightens uncomfortably, trying to push out the offending object.

Removing your mouth once more, you huff in annoyance. “The stupid guide said that if I practice I could do it…”

Sebastian breathes in a ragged breath, blinking rapidly. His mouth opens and closes a couple times, sucking in breaths as you continue to stroke him. Your phone is in your hand, the website you’ve been using as a guide pulled up. It was new, this hyperfixation on blowjobs in particular. Only having become your obsession about a week ago, and for that week you had been training yourself to get rid of your gag reflex, but obviously now it’s not working.

Lapping at his dick, you breathe in and take him in as far as you got the last time, breathing in through your nose. He bucks his hips up, hitting the back of your throat in quick jabs. Tears spring in the corner of your eyes. In annoyance you punch at his thighs, trying to get him to keep his body under control.

Rather than calming down, your angry little punches rile him up even more, his moans growing louder by the second. You whine, looking up at him not bothering to take your mouth off of him anymore.

“I can’t help it…” he grunts, now totally taking control to fuck your face. “You’re just doing too good”. You allow him to thrust, his head thrown back as he allows himself to chase the release he had wanted for an hour now.

Thankfully for you, his thrusting allowed you to take almost all of him in your mouth, getting farther than you had when you were focused on that and that only. Sebastian curses loudly as he finishes in your mouth, whining as you swallow around him.

Sitting back, you look up at him proudly not bothering to fix your hair as you wipe at your face. His face is red and sweaty, his eyes closed and his head tilted back as he tries to catch his breath. “I’m…so sorry…” he pants.

You shrug, moving to sit on his bed, knees aching. “Doesn’t matter…we can try again in an hour or two.”

He looks up at you, and chuckles at the unashamed smile on your face. This is going to be a long couple of weeks.

[acesw]

Reverse: 1999 : Neurodivergent Characters

I want to put my official disclaimer here that I'm not diagnosed with any sort of condition. I've taken time to do my research and take insights from my friends who are indeed diagnosed or well-versed in these subjects. So, I will try to be respectful as much as possible.

This is essentially a part 2 of the disabled characters series (which I highly encourage reading first!), but this will mainly focus on Reverse: 1999's characters who are implied to be neurodivergent. The term applies to a variety of conditions, and I found that the parallels mainly draw to autism. Because of this, over half the characters on this list fall under it.

I found that it is easier put out those characters first, and then place down the rest of the neurodivergent characters afterwards. Additionally, this is mainly focused on finding implications, but these are partially headcanons too. And also I apologize for the heavy word vomit that you'll have to endure. Now, lets begin.

Autism

37, Horropedia - The reason why I put 37 and Horropedia on the same line here is because they're incredibly similar to each other. Both of them are characters that embody one of the main stereotypes about autism: Incredibly intelligent characters who fixate on specific subjects. 37's focus is on mathematics, while Horropedia's is the horror genre.

They lace their speech with associations to their topic of interest, and will infodump about it unprompted. The two of them also struggle to pick up social cues, nor can tell if the information they're sharing is unsolicited because the information is normal to themselves. However, the difference between them in this is that Horropedia is more carefree about it, whilst 37 is more self-aware about the fact that she can't come to a mutual understanding with others.

Even outside of this their personalities are quite similar, arrogant yet kind and understanding.

Balloon Party - I explained this previously, but the main reasoning behind placing BP here is that her way of speech is unconventional. Her way of speech is slightly slow and having abnormal pauses, and it tends to be perceived as monotone and having a lack of control.

Like 37 and Horropedia, Balloon Party also tends to utilize her topic of interest (balloons and dreams) as a means of conveying her thoughts through word association and echolalia. She also struggles to catch on to social cues and (over?)compensates by association. (e.g. her praise voiceline describes Vertin being a great "party partner" and the "best kid and adult" despite not being able to exactly define the differences of a kid and adult.)

ADHD

Regulus - With Regulus, it's more of a headcanon than it is backed by evidence, but the main points that can be found for her is her restlessness and her impulsivity. They're common stereotypes in ADHD, and thus they aren't exactly conclusive. But I also found that Regulus also tends to bring her interests to light when navigating through conversations, and this with the reasons mentioned above makes me personally believe that Regulus not just strictly have ADHD, but also generally neurodivergent too.

Marcus - At first I believed that Marcus was autistic based on how she retreats back to reading as a means to calm herself, but the more I learn about her the more I believe that Marcus rather has the inattentive type of ADHD.

Firstly, Marcus heavily relies on having someone to guide them or support her, as she tends to struggle making decisions on her own. And in attempting to, she tends to overthink and get absorbed into it until something or someone snaps her out of her train of thought.

She also tends to take rejection very deeply, as rejection sensitivity dysphoria (RSD) is a common but not definitive part of ADHD. She would resort to immediately coming up with ways to resolve the sources of her being rejected.

Lastly, she also has her impulses. This shows more prominently when she's upset or makes a significant decision. Its mainly shown when she decides to leave the Flannan Isles to the Foundation, to when she tries to fight Heinrich herself when she's enraged, and when reaching out to Kakania upon realizing a solution to her mission.

Eagle (1.9 Spoilers!) - Here, Eagle also seems to have the inattentive type as well, but a more established indicator of her likely having ADHD is that in her anecdote, Eagle was classified as having some sort of attention-deficit.

And throughout the anecdote, Eagle continues acting on her own impulses such as jumping to try to find the missing boy scout, and even helping X if it meant that it progressed her mission. She also doesn't take her rejections from the boy scouts well, and continued to try to join them until she was invited to join the Lorentz.

While these alone aren't conclusive either, they still give me enough reason to believe that Eagle could be implied to be neurodivergent too.

Others

Mesmer Jr. (OCD) - I've already described it in the previous post too, but I will condense it down here. As a result of her traumatic experiences in her line of work, Mesmer Jr. has anxiety, has routines that she strictly follows, and tends to do drastic actions (i.e. self harm) when triggered from stressing situations like routines being disrupted.

Pickles - While I'm not exactly sure if there is any evidence about Pickles being neurodivergent at all, @abyss-idiot pointed out that he was nicknamed as an "indigo pup." While this might be related to his arcane skill, the nickname is also intriguing because its like the term "indigo children."

"Indigo children" are classified as those who are incredibly intelligent and possess special talents or powers according to the New Age concept. However, this classification is closely associated with neurodivergence due to the similar descriptions.

Vertin, AliEn T (AuDHD) - Mentioning Vertin and AliEn T in the same line seem to be incredibly out of place. But from the insights of my friend Bee, it made me realize that the two of them have some commonly shared traits. This will be the longest one so buckle up.

For one, both of them feel their emotions more greatly than others, and the main difference being how it's translated into external reaction. We have AliEn T being noted to be very emotional, while Vertin is a lot more stoic but will be direct with how she feels in some cases like stress.

Another point is that both of them have executive dysfunction, where AliEn T cannot do "simple" tasks and struggles with them. Meanwhile this was more prominent on Vertin as a child where she had difficulty focusing in school and doing more mundane tasks. I also think that Vertin still struggles with this in the present, but has a support system that allows her to work more efficiently.

They also have certain interests that give them an emotional anchor. Where AliEn T's is the general subject of the earth and human society, while Vertin is more focused on wildlife. (i.e. frogs)

Here is where their common points diverge, and I want to talk about both of them separately here.

Starting with Vertin, most of the "obvious" signs are present in her childhood, where she is mainly restless and blunt towards most situations, and has gotten punished often for both of these things. While currently, her main indicators are her tactile tendencies (i.e. tends to touch others out of curiosity) and being absorbed into her thoughts quite often.

On the other hand, we're not entirely sure about how AliEn T's home society is structured, but it can be argued that his and our societies tend to parallel each other. For example, AliEn T is seen as a bit eccentric to his kind like the regional manager and co-workers because of him being emotionally prone and being very fixated on the Earth. (which his society collectively avoids) A lot of his points here imply that in his home society, there is a case where they have their equivalent of some of the struggles found in the neurodivergent experience.

End Notes and Credits

I did say that I would give credit where its due, so this portion is dedicated to that. I want to give thanks to Lupjo, Jager, Bee, and Send Help, and Abyss for their insights and research on this topic. (Especially Lupjo and Jager for providing help with phrasing this entire word vomit still)

Like I've said previously, not everything here is conclusive and these can be speculation or some sort of interpretation. However, every experience is different, and I think these characters here openly show that. Welcome to the bottom of this post, feel free to add your own insights, corrections, and even your own headcanons here. Thanks for reading.

[canonically-asexual]

The most frustrating thing for me about being autistic the workplace is literal thinking. Not the stereotypical "doesn't understand idioms" kind of literal thinking, but the "follow the rules" kind. If you tell me how to do something, I'm going to do it exactly like that every time, and when you get annoyed with me for doing it the way you told me to, I'm gonna get so fucking confused. Why did I have to sit through training videos of corporate policies and procedures if we're not expected to follow them?! And why do I get labeled as the "overly nitpicky" coworker because I do things the correct way?!

[ratwavegamehouse]

Played a game of Spire tonight and was told one of the classes was a "train wizard"

I said that sounded like a slur for autistic people and then played my character exclusively as an autistic stereotype

I decide my knack for the session? "Yeah this is my latest special interest kick"

Fail a high society role? "There's just so many unwritten rules"

A snooty character refuses to make eye contact with me? "Don't worry, as a train wizard I also won't be making eye contact"

[karmathehalflander]

Why both Eddie and Venom are autistic and how the movies are actually a metaphor for neurodivergence

Includes some of my personal headcanons and concepts that I’ve been thinking about and need to share.

BE WARNED!!! This post is a bit long (and also a cringy, rambling, nonsensical mess) full thing under cut.

Some quick notes before we begin: when I have one of their names at the beginning of a section it means anything in that section only applies to one of them. (Idk, I couldn’t figure out how to organize this, you’ll see what I mean)

I don’t know much comic lore, all of this is based off of the movies. Though the movies are a different universe so I don’t think it will matter too much.

Also I use He/They/It pronouns for Venom.

In the end, Im just one guy with a hyper fixation please take everything I say with a grain of salt and feel free to add on or correct me about stuff. Especially if I say anything stereotypical or offensive about nurodivergance/autism a lot of this is based on some personal experience and I absolutely make mistakes and generalizations.

Alright enough of my yapping let’s get to it.

Overall big picture stuff

Applies to Both of them

the whole concept of them being “losers” together is kind of autistic coded. Autistic people are often viewed as incompetent or childish or useless. And I like to think they are connecting over that shared experience.

Noise sensitivity!!! Both of them have noise sensitivity! I probably don’t need to elaborate that much but that one scene in their apartment was some of the best overstimulation representation I’ve ever seen overstimulation guitar scene

Venom

Venom comes across as unfeeling because they don’t emote in a “normal” way.

They’re very blunt and literal.

Venom sometimes has a slightly higher-pitched voice when excited or angry. Which I’m going to attribute to him masking. He wants to appear tougher and scarier. This is important to its species and Venom, who is already perceived as weak by their peers, intentionally deepens his voice a bit to blend in. (This is definitely a headcanon but I love this concept so I don’t care that the real reason is that the voice modifier they use does silly things)

This is also why I think it’s so concerned about Eddie and him “looking bad” Looking weak was dangerous and they trained themself to hide “weakness”

It’s always “How does Venom affect people” and never “What does Venom need and how do other people’s actions affect them”

Venom prefers to express its thoughts and feelings through mental connection with its host and then have that person relay the information to whomever they are “speaking” to. Nonverbal communication!

Venom not understanding humans (social interaction, conventions, etc.) is kind of autistic coded.

Eddie

Edie kind of disregards a lot of social conventions. Still hangs out with his ex-fiancé AND her boyfriend. He also doesn’t seem to mind talking to Venom out loud.

Eddies is just kind of anxious in general.

Eddie struggles to find full time employment.

On that vein, he also struggles to maintain relationships.

Eddie's sense of justice. Eddie has a strong sense of justice and morals that often don’t align with generally accepted values and he follows this view of justice and morality to an absurd degree and it often gets him in trouble. Aka, the entire plot of the first movie is because Eddie has autism.

He wears the same clothes all the time.

Specific moments that I think about

Venom

Venom chewing on the tire swing (they both have oral stims btw)

Sand between his toes. Idk I just thought it was cute and chose to believe they like the sensation.

Say it with me. Tater tots are a safe food!!!

Venom rocks back and forth a lot.

This is a stretch but when Venom is like “look at all these weirdos, my kind of people” it’s a metaphor for him being queer but I’d argue it also kind of fits with neurodivergence. Neurodivergent people often connect with “weirdos” (other neurodivergent people)

Likes organization “Pile of bodies, pile of heads”

Eddie

I’ve been told Eddie chews on his necklace at the beginning of the movie but I can’t find the clip and can’t do a rewatch right now so take that with a grain of salt… (I chose to believe this happened though. Also his bracelets are stim heaven)

When he says “Oh, I have a parasite” to Mrs. Chen he had no clue what to say here. He just said the first thing that came to mind and panicked instead of explaining.

Also the way he says things funny. Ex: “✨It’s a treeeee✨” supa, supa, fhasstt” “Heee…. has. one. up. hi’s. Ass toooooo” “ET. Phone home. Aliens? 😃” I chose to believe they are vocal stims (I also attempted to find a compilation but I couldn’t find any. Maybe I’ll make one sometime)

Eddie also makes sound effects a lot.

Eddie writes notes on pen and paper instead of digitally.

He apologizes an excessive amount. Like he says “I’m sorry” to people actively trying to kill him. Which is so real.

“I just bit that guys head off” “I, uhhh, yea I’ve been there it’s not fun” 😕

Eddie also rocks back and forth. Which can be seen in this scene

Quick segment into why I think Venom was rejected by other Klyntar (it’s because he has autism)

Venom doesn’t adapt as quickly or as efficiently as other Klyntar. It doesn’t handle change well.

All of the normal Klyntar weaknesses are turned up to 1000 with them. Instead of just certain frequencies, the range that hurts him is larger and is also affected by loud noises. As shown by: “Venom” car alarm scene

instead of just fire, heat also bothers it. Also doesn’t adapt to light well. (Just a headcanon)

Can’t create weapons out of their body like other Klyntar. struggles with “simple” skills.

Much more emotional than other Klyntar and develop attachments (also purely a headcanon)

Just overall didn’t fit well into their society.

Just headcanons

Venom and Eddie are so compatible because their brains work the same way.

“I wish I could just mentally project my thoughts and feelings directly into your brain. Oh wait, we can do that!”

Venom also has temperature sensitivities. He gets hot.

Venom likes to stim to low key music, mainly jazz and lo-fi. Does the one song on repeat for three hours to wring all the happy chemicals out of it like a dish rag thing.

Venom also absolutely loves cheesy pop music (unrelated to anything here but I’m right and I needed to include it)

Venom functions as a weighted blanket for Eddie when he’s anxious. Maybe even hides under his shirt and stuff and becomes an extra weight.

Eddie stims with his jewelry.

Venom likes to sit in the freezer. Sometimes they visit Mrs. Chen's walk in just to chill (lol)

Purely my opinion but I think Venom also has some light sensitivity for a bit because it’s not used to being in such a bright environment. He gets used to it eventually but every once in awhile he finds the city lights overstimulating.

They are both very tactile. Touching things. Love a good texture.

Venom is super particular about food for someone who eats out the garbage but certain textures and flavors drive them crazy.

Venom hates vegetables. (Except for celery because it likes the crunchy and stringyness of it)

How all of this makes for a great metaphor!

Feeling like an alien in the world is probably the most relatable thing for a lot of nurodivergent people. Like there’s a manual for being human you don’t have. And just the concept of a literal alien showing up and struggling to navigate in a world not made for it is so relatable!

The way they both immediately connect to each other because they have the same weird brain stuff and weren’t accepted by their respective societies is so adorable and wholesome.

“We’re not so different, you and I” This line lives rent-free in my mind at all times. It’s my favorite quote. I think it perfectly encapsulates their relationship and why it’s special. They have autism and are bonding because the other is the first person who truly understands them! (Cries, screams, throws up)

In conclusion

They are in love and have autism. And they cling to each other because they are the first people to truly understand each other. Thank you for coming to my ted talk.

Also I listened to UFO by Smith and Thell on loop while writing this. It’s very autistic symbrock coded so give it a listen if you’re a fan of inde-pop.

[mie-png]

My walker brothers dating/highschool hcs(?) (im shitting while im writing this)

David hesh walker (IT WOULDN'T TURN GREEN FUCKIMG HELL(mobile problem ))

- he loves math/addmaths/calculus or whatever you call them idk

- he had his own 'sailor song by gigi perez' moment with a boy when he was 15-16, when they both parted ways he was HEARTBROKEN

- like i said in my previous tumblr, he looks like he has shit yon of exes for some reason, i mean SHIT TON

- probably around like what, 10? 12? Dunno. Dated for a few weeks, then broke up.

-idk i just feel like hesh loves to feel the teenage love like the rush of adrenaline and cheeks flushing just because they're eating on the same table, but he also loves being single because hes probably a busy man from all those training n shit

- he LOVES to show off his arms n whatever muscles that made the slightest appearance. Its giving, tiktok thirst traps, yk?

- dont make fun of him, hes still trying to become a real man by being immature thinking hes mature.

- i for some reason doesn't think that Hesh's life is mainly taking care of logan, yes, but its like 50-50 yk? I mean, logan isnt that stupid to not take care of himself, but still hesh has those protective instincts as an older brother.

- I see hesh as someone that loves the act of service, i mean he himself does that, but when someone does it for him? Ough. Anyway, he doesn't like it if someone calls him out on it. Yes hes caring but shut up about it and just nod and look away

- hes pansexual / bisexual:3

- can confirm, he has a tiktok account. Just private ;'))

Logan walker

- is it stereotyping if i say that hes also a nerd but with astronomy, science, a wee bit on math, but mainly science?

- i mean, look at him. Who wouldn't say that he doesn't look like a science stream kid?

- he and hesh would spend hours talking about stars, which resulted with hesh getting 3(?) star tattoo behind his arm. One for himself, one for elias, one for logan. maybe not for himself, maybe Riley.

- "hey.. do you think that the cosmic web is actually true?" "IT IS TRUE! LOOK AT THIS-"

- debates on almost everything that he loves. We're talking about whatever he fixates on.

- do you think hes also autistic or he just have a long term interest with almost everything that he's interested in? Idk

- he may love science and whatnot, but his grades are average. I'm talking about a few a's n' b's , e's etc but is somehow the smartest kid in class

- yes im projecting smart walker brothers

- if he could apply for college, he'd probably take astronomy or straight up stem.

- anyway, he doesn't really have anyone hes interested in.

- aro logan yeaaaheey

- or he just prefers platonic over romantic

- anyway, OFFFFCOOOOUUUURRRSSSEEEE he had that 'gigi perez- capital loss' MOMENT.

- imagine him dating once, then the boy had to break up w him because his dad found out n hes getting forced into religious stuff n that boy told logan that he'll wait for him, AND LOGAN THE LOYAL MAN HE IS HE WAIIIITTTEEEDDDD

- after odin tho, he gave up n projected on keegan instead hihi lowl

Ok im done this hcs is SHITTY but im shitting so that explains anyway walker brothers is based on me n my brother lolol

[clay-tries-his-best]

! atsv spoilers !

when i sat down in my theatre seat to see atsv im telling you i was being the most autistic fuck you've ever witnessed. you could practically see the sparkles in my eye, dude.

the spot. my godddd he's so silly. the marketing ploy to make him seem like the side villain from the trailers was so fucking smart. I really thought that Miguel was going to be the main villain considering him fighting miles in pracgjcalky every trailer ever and being in the post-credits scene of itsv. and miles dealing with having to be everywhere at once was very realistic and gave me the classic "oh my god this poor boy this is painful to watch". oh and gwen's beginning scene of the drums just gave me the feeling that the movie was going to be fantastic. like, betrayal, amazing visuals, more gwen?? already a wonderful start. also the fact that the spot's whole reason to turn into a major villain is that nobody, not even the person who caused his disfigurement, would take him seriously- like- HUH???? perfect. wonderful. bro just wanted miles to pay attention to him for a little while.

Pavitr and Hobie were also really great additions to the spider team. Despite the fact that Hobie's accent was so thick and deep that I couldn't understand what he was saying a good third of the time, he still managed to work his way into my top 5 characters of the movie. THAT is good character building. At first I thought he was going to be the stereotypical love rival, considering his first mention was miles getting jealous of him and gwen being friends. I was worried that was how the story was actually going to go when he upstaged miles by breaking done the collider force field, but hes actually a really chill and cool guy. pretty sure he even roots for gwen and miles, so that's pretty funny. Pavitr was also super funny with a great character design. " Chai means tea, you're just saying tea tea! " was probably one of my favorite lines / jokes from the whole movie. His world was also very pretty and SUPER detailed. Props to every artist for Mumbatten.

Miguel and Peter B.'s dynamic was really fun to watch as well. This cryptic emo ass mastermind vampire who has watched people die and destroyed a universe next to this middle aged man in a pink fuzzy bathrobe who's oogling over his daughter. also, the line where Miguel said " I've had the right amount of you today " to peter b instead of " I've had enough of you " like the normal saying goes was kinda queer. just saying. but yeah, great villain, and I do want to see him in the final battle against spot, but I eventually don't want him to be the one to beat spot, y'know? If it was to be anyone, it's obviously going to be miles. Whether it's just miles or miles and gwen or miles and the gang gwen assembled at the end of atsv (WHICH HAD SPIDERNOIR YESSS SPIDERNOIR FANS LETS GOOOOOOO I HAD THE STUPIDEST SMILE ON MY FACE WHEN I SAW HIM IM TELLKNG YOU), in the end it's still gotta be miles.

the collider scene with the spot was really cool. spot may be silly, but he's not dumb enough to be " saved " by his archnemesis who only cared about him when he was about to become a transdimensional eldritch horror. boss move. his final form was really pleasing to look at because you can just see the detail that went into it. Looking at some screenshots, I noticed there were a lot of eyes and I'm pretty sure I saw a version of spiderman (original world 1610 peter, possibly?) staring at miles / the audience. despite him not showing up for another hour, hour and a half, I wasn't mad. If a movie can avoid showing the main villain for that long and still have them integrated properly, just, wow. blown away. oh and this part made me even more interested because his beginning ost, spot 1, I think? his random beats and tunes sounded more silly and disorganized and clumsy, like him trying to take the atm. near the end, he got spot 2, which was more shrill and frightening. I'm not musically trained, and I could still tell that it was scarier, and to me, they sounded very similar. To not have too far of a difference between the two and stroke two entirely different chords is just. ugh. wow.

don't even get me started on prowler miles... RAHHH THE CHARACTER AND WORLD DESIGN FOR UNIVERSE 42!!!! it was so beautiful and scary and breathtaking because there is. no. spiderman. when miles's mom didn't know what he was talking about and gwen wasn't really outside, it hit me like a brick in the head. and alternate aaron??? hello??? he made me physically uncomfortable because of how terrifying his face was. i couldnt even tell if he was wearing makeup or he was just that dramatjcally shaded. the turn miles does to see that it was his dad painted on the wall instead of aaron.... GRAHHHHHH

as an aspiring artist, I can say nothing but wow. that movie, the fact that it was 2 HOURS AND 20 MINUTES???? HELLO??? DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH WORK THAT MUSTVE TOOK??? unbelievable. and you know that sony felt bad for making us wait on a cliffhanger, so they probably were around 3/4 done with atsv and started working on beyond, so we didn't have to wait as long as we would've if they finished atsv and then started beyond. I'm so glad that those 5 years in the Sony team paid off, because that. was. amazing. my depression is vaporized. im going feral, going wild, going insane. i will not think of anything else until beyond is out. can't wait to see my bbg spot have his villain moment in March 2024!!! <333

[starfishinthedistance]

People need to stop acting like therapists and other mental health professionals all know everything there is to know about psychology and can never be wrong.

First of all, they can be (and many of them are) racist, sexist, ableist, etc either on a conscious or subconscious level. I've seen people say "I was denied an autism diagnosis because my psych didn't believe women could be autistic" and then there's dozens of comments saying "well they're a professional so they're obviously right!!! Just admit you don't have autism!!!" even when the person explicitly said they were denied a diagnosis because of a sexist and inaccurate stereotype.

And also, I guarantee you most psychs are not as educated as you think they are (which plays into the above point, they aren't educated enough so they have these biases). Despite how long they spend in school, they often come out knowing about MAD and GAD (without tangible causes) and CBT, and that's about it. Often times certain disorders get mentioned once for a single paragraph and that's it, and/or taught about incorrectly. I've heard people say that Split was shown as an accurate representation of DID in their psych class. Unless a psych has specialist knowledge in a certain disorder, it's safest to assume they barely know anything about it, unfortunately.

Even when it comes to well known disorders. I'd say most therapist are not trauma informed enough to treat PTSD and C-PTSD. I've had MULTIPLE therapists admit to me that they know barely anything about OCD and I had to explain to them how to treat me. They don't even know about PTSD and OCD, so how they hell do you expect them to know about dissociative and personality disorders???

This is not to say all therapists and mental health professionals are unqualified. This is to say that they have biases and prejudices, and that the psychology training system teaches you about depression and anxiety and not much else. So no, you shouldn't treat them like flawless gods that can never be wrong ever. So yes, sometimes they misdiagnose. Sometimes they fuck up. That DOESN'T mean that the patient is faking. And this ESPECIALLY means you shouldn't believe a therapist's take about a certain disorder just because they're a therapist. For example, all the therapists who are not qualified at all in personality disorders saying shit about "narcissists" and "sociopaths" (especially on social media, because they do that stuff for clout and don't care about facts).

So the bottom line is: stop assuming mental health professionals know everything. And if they don't specialize in a certain disorder, don't take their word as law. You wouldn't take a dentist's opinion on cardiology, don't take a depression/anxiety therapist's opinion on NPD.

[punkeropercyjackson]

It's a whole thing the Pjo fandom just,dosen't want to Percy to actually be neurodivergent representation.There's the obvious worst part they won't even let him be autistic despite objectively being the most autistic-coded character in the whole franchise but there's also just as glaringly they have never let him defy neurodivergent stereotypes

He's smarter than Annabeth by virtue of being more emotionally mature and making better plans way quicker and unlike her this was in no way an inherentence so he could qualify as a legit ex-child genius but he's constantly getting called stupid for not fitting society's idea of what intellengence is due to sucking at school as a result of his symptoms and he's said he hates it many many MANY times in his narration and only dosen't speak out against it as per irl trauma like his he's been forced into believing he deserves it and given strong ass Impostor Syndrome and the fandom falls for it hook line and sinker cause Annabeth forcing herself into the role of Percy's girlfriend without his consent and even a moment of verbal rejection to her FACE that she spit back at him('I am never going to make things easy for you' is a fucking awful thing to say to an autistic person and that's why you'll never convince me book!Annabeth is autistic like Leahbeth,being a nerdy jerk with ego problems is NOT more autistic than EVERYTHING Percy's got going on right down to his character concept)and proceeding to treat him the same as ever but with corny kissing and promises of a future nuclear family cisheterosexual marriage living in a place that directly goes against Percy's lifelong wish for ANNABETH'S is proof his self-hatred is accurate as if she knows or likes him as a person on any level and vice versa seeing how he talks about her and never returns her romantic effort

There's no 'smart himbos' or 'not dumb but a dumbass',if y'all are such Annabeth stans then expend your vocabulary so you can be even bigger nerds that don't have to be nice to make friends cause that's what privilege is for and you get to speak over 'slow' autistics thanks to that too irl.Percy's also meant to defy 'neurodivergent people are total losers','neurodivergent people think and act like little kids no matter how old they are' and 'neurodivergent people only act rebellious for attention and to look good' by being the coolest character and this was backed up in dialogues and actions by Percy himself without even trying almost ever,he's a Team Parent to younger minorities but especially Nico and Hazel as a way of breaking the cycle of abuse and out of a mix of found eldest sibling and pseudo-parental love for them and to heal his inner child and he's pessimistic and highkey mean and ruthless but is an anarchist with awareness to what corruption is and how to fight it and DOES it unlike Luke's pedo propagandist poser ass and 'rebel' is NOT Percy,Percy is a PUNK,i.e,a minority who was radicalized by their experiences growing up in a system that hates them for being one and takes direct action and does activism and always stays noncomforming instead of selling out

So y'all deny his off the charts swag like it's gonna effect you negatively to appreciate him for it,mock his special interests(blue,the sea and pg media)because they're not trains or neo-liberalism filled fantasy books or whatever the fuck and don't let him have the canon ones you'd obsses over in an allistic character(alt music and childcare)and straight up call him mentally a little kid as mockery with Annabeth as his mommy gf and Jason as whatever the male equivalent is i ain't googling that shit and you can just drop that r slur you're holding back because that would somehow be LESS ableist and you won't even let him hate authority figures despite your 'the only authority he respects is his mom XD' corn as if any of you actually care about Sally,you ship her with fucking POSEIDON over Paul,because yeah,Luke WAS authority as the Titans Army leader and The Gods are literally the highest authority you can get in general,not just within Pjo,Percy dosen't need to look for older men to 'satisfy him'(this is a CHILDREN'S BOOKS SERIES,go APOLOGIZE TO YOUR YOUNGER SIBLINGS)because he has 1.a backbone,2.rizz and 3.a life,the him being upset Nico for not being 'his type' and hassling him over it is literally sexual harrassment by an adult towards a minor and Hazel's more of a part of him AND her own character than any minor white character that TRANSCENDS THEIR SOURCE MATERIAL

Just say it:You want Percy to be a gag instead of rep and you're so set on it rather than having standards in mentally abled people you're ready to start harrassing other people on different ends of the spectrum for saying Percy is afrolatino-an ACTUAL afrolatino,not y'all's lightskin slightly big nose no lips with vague cultural roots you didn't research copout,or saying he's transfem-coded based off actual real life transfemininity,or even just that they hate Percabeth since book!Annabeth is a white pick me bully.'MY friends' insults and hitting eachother is our way of showing affection!!!Have you never had a friend before?!'I have a lot of years long friends and keep making more and one of them's now my trans girlfriend that's adhd and agrees Percabeth is super bad because Annabeth is too mean to Percy and that Percy's a tgirl and her and the rest of them shower me in praise and defend me when people treat me badly and the latter goes for my own little brother like i always did and still do him and i treat my friends the same way they do me and my girlfriend gets extra.Rip to your self-hating selfves but i'm different and so's Percy