#love letter to the disabled community

[medsocionwheels]

The Breaking Period: View from My Wheelchair

My experience entering year 4 of the COVID-19 pandemic as a disabled medical sociologist

To everyone who has ever had to say "no, I really can't use the stairs." I don't know what our path forward is, but I am secure knowing our community has only gotten tighter during COVID.

Today I am exhausted. As we approach the end of the fourth February of the COVID-19 pandemic, I am hopeful, I see change happening, but the length of this journey has absolutely drained me. I’m not alone in this—most of us who have a realistic understanding of COVID-19 risk knew this point was coming.

The breaking point.

Unfortunately, those of us who are COVID-19 realists and were disabled prior to the pandemic also predicted the breaking point would be lengthy. More of a “breaking period” than a point. I am so relieved that non-disabled people are finally starting to take action. At the same time, I want to scream every time a non-disabled COVID-19 realist says something along the lines of “Nobody could have predicted this!”

Because, quite frankly, it’s not true. Disabled people predicted this. Most non-disabled people refused to listen. This includes some very important and powerful people in medicine and public health. Some of those people still refuse to listen, even as they adjust their own behavior and approach to advising others on risk mitigation for COVID-19.

To give some examples, this can include claiming that nobody predicted that people would deny COVID-19 risk and/or normalize it, but it can also include things like blaming anti-vaxxers and people who support former President Donald Trump for this mess. The most common means of ignoring disabled people, though, has been the misunderstanding by many in medicine and public health that their colleagues’ ignorance of COVID-19’s lasting effects on the human body is unintentional, and that their peers’ unwillingness to confront COVID-19 risk head-on has something to do with their fear of patients lashing out and not because they themselves are pretty much over the pandemic.

There are also some takes I find quite humorous, given my own position as a medical sociologist who studies behavior and ideology related to health risks. Some of the COVID-19 realists who were non-disabled prior to COVID-19 seem to think that (1) doctors with long COVID will take action that influences a cultural change in medicine to value disabled bodies, and/or (2) if enough people in medicine and public health get long COVID scientists will be forced to find a cure. If you don’t believe me on point 1, see point 2—if you can’t accept that chronic illness is not curable, you will NEVER influence cultural change in medicine to value disabled bodies. Besides this, any disabled academic can tell you credentials don’t mean shit in a system that has decided you do not belong.

The sad reality is that doctors who catch long COVID will not maintain a level of power that is equal to their colleagues—their opinions will be dismissed, and many of them will be pushed out of medicine for “failing” to “overcome” their illness. Once you are disabled by chronic illness, that disability becomes a master status in context of any medical encounter. It does not matter that you are an MD, a PhD, and MPH, or all three—in that appointment, you are a disabled patient, and that leaves you with very little power to convince non-disabled clinicians to do anything differently. In fact, it leaves you with very little power to even attempt a dialogue.

I think people in medicine have had an especially difficult time coming to grips with the full reality of the COVID-19 crisis because that reality includes that medicine and healthcare in the United States have always operated primarily as businesses catering to wealthy, white, and non-disabled, people. Being truly realistic about COVID-19 includes acknowledging that the pandemic is not something that has happened to healthcare and medical actors, but instead, is something resulting from a long history of intentional actions by powerful actors, including those in medicine, to normalize health risks resulting from or exacerbated by the pursuit of wealth as long as they harmed social undesirables. It doesn’t feel great to admit you were part of the problem that is now harming you, but it feels especially bad to admit you could have prevented the harm you are currently experiencing if you had cared about it when it was harming others. As someone who studies behavior and ideology, I can tell you that most of us consider ourselves to be “good” people. As someone who has studied “deviant” behavior quite extensively, I can also tell you that most of us will try to rationalize a deviant behavior—the rationalization helps ease the cognitive dissonance of “I made a decision I knew was potentially harmful or frowned upon and something bad happened” when “I am a good person.”

So, as we enter the “breaking period” of the pandemic, while I am hopeful, I am also tired, and I know I am not as optimistic about the situation ahead as many of my non-disabled colleagues in health sciences are. Because, while we’ve all seen eugenics before, it has always been quite proximate for the disabled community. Most of my non-disabled colleagues’ most proximate understanding of eugenics are publicized genocidal events, like those that occurred during the height of colonial imperialism or World War II. If so many are ignorant of the several genocidal events occurring after the Holocaust, including ongoing events that pre-date the pandemic, how can we expect a mass reckoning with the eugenics happening with the “let it rip” approach to (not) mitigating the risk of COVID-19? And how the hell can we expect it to take the form of a single breaking “point,” or to occur any time soon?

The answer is, we can’t.

It’s not the answer people want. Because it leaves other questions with much less clear answers.

How do we get enough people with power in the right institutions to recognize the magnitude of the hurdle? And by this, I also mean recognizing what the true hurdle is, or really what the hurdles, plural, are—white supremacy and ableism. If we do achieve this recognition, we are still left with the question of how to address the hurdles. Which is why I feel my stomach turn every time someone claims that COVID-19 will be resolved soon, that COVID-19 will be the end of capitalism, and that we will eventually be forced to reckon with related issues like climate change. Unlike my peers who were non-disabled prior to the pandemic, my hopefulness is dampened by the strong understanding that reckoning with capitalism, etc., is unlikely when so many are unable to grapple with the reality of the hurdle because it would mean also confronting their own role in upholding white supremacy and ableism. That’s not exactly aligned with the understanding by most of us that we are good people.

If you think I’m overblowing the impact of the “I am definitely a good person” mentality, take a look at the ways people in power who have started to take steps to address COVID-19 risk have approached those actions as related to some other risk.

Need to address air quality? No problem, we’ve ignored gas stoves forever, what a convenient alternative to admitting air quality is important for mitigating COVID-19. Kids seem to be getting sick more often and with more severe and/or uncommon illnesses? Well, let’s promote this amazing concept called “immunity debt,” the anti-vaxxers have been talking about it for years so we will have AMAZING support in terms of quantity. V widespread acceptance of immunity debt, we deserve a pat on the back! Too many people unable to work due to long COVID? Too much absenteeism because workers get infected with COVID several times a year? Well, let us tell you about how we can tackle both of those things at the same time! Didn’t you catch the rumor that employees just don’t want to work anymore? Burnout is high and motivation is low, obviously! Too many people catching COVID in the hospital? Well, my goodness, haven’t you heard about the microbiome??? You need to go play in the dirt (cc: immunity debt thesis).

I could go on, but I won’t.

I wish more people understood that people in power aren’t ill informed of the risks of COVID-19, they are willfully ignorant of them. I wish more people understood that this willful ignorance is because they DO NOT WANT TO CHANGE. They do not care about the harm they are causing because they do not value the lives of the people being harmed. Some even think the people being harmed should be eradicated for the “greater good” (of white, abled, people).

Right now, my experiences as a disabled person are overriding any and all others when it comes to understanding the current circumstances of the COVID-19 pandemic. Yes, I am tired because this pandemic blows and people keep denying it. This is the tired ALL COVID realists understand. The part that only my peers in the disabled community pre-COVID understand is the overwhelming exhaustion that comes from watching non-disabled and newly disabled people ooze optimism and excitement that there seems to be increasing acceptance of a need to mitigate COVID-19. And it’s not the optimism/excitement itself that is so exhausting, it’s knowing that disagreeing or bringing up disabled experiences will come off as being a total downer. Knowing that I can’t speak about how buffered my optimism is compared to my non-disabled colleagues unless I am speaking to the community of disabled people I interacted with before the pandemic means sitting with a level of discomfort I’m not sure most abled people have experienced, one I’m fairly sure most white abled people have absolutely NOT experienced. A feeling of discomfort that we can theorize about confronting all day, but in reality, is not something people WANT to subject themselves to if they can avoid it. And this is the part where my professional expertise comes back to haunt me—I know the data back up my anecdotal experiences that people will pretty much always try to avoid the discomfort. It’s one of those things that seems obvious but, when talked about, is frequently dismissed. Because good people should have no reason to confront discomfort—after all, good people don’t do things that harm people to where they should need to get uncomfortable with their own actions! And around and around we go.

I want to get off this ride, but I can’t. At the same time, I feel like there is an upper deck of the merry-go-round, and the non-disabled realists are clustered on that part of the ride knowing it will eventually come to an end. If you can get off the ride, why would you care that the lower deck is still spinning?

So, while most of my colleagues are tired from fighting this “uphill” battle, I’m here with the pre-COVID disabled community stuck at the bottom of what are obviously stairs. You don’t notice that the hill has stairs if you can use them, at least not until someone points out “um, I can’t use the stairs…” We sit here, watching you joke to each other about the tough journey, but you can joke because you can visualize an end. I don’t think anyone can really understand the exhaustion of sitting at the bottom of the stairs, stuck, watching people who are on your side in theory miss the part where you haven’t followed them up the stairs.

Lately, existing in society feels a lot like staring down a huge flight of stairs, the only avenue forward, from my wheelchair. Absolutely impossible.

Where is our end?

I created this digital self-portrait in Spring 2022. At the time, I had just learned I would be teaching again in the Fall '22 semester, and that I was unlikely to be approved to teach online. Just under a year later, the only thing that has changed is I now feel that the staircase has grown several flights.

This self-portrait is freehand, so it uses a slightly different technique than others I've posted. Check out the process here:

[unproduciblesmackdown]

on that note had also been thinking about the hilarious classic maneuver of taking things i go "smh always doing that weird/wrong" & instead putting it in the context of like oh i dunno my life experiences. like going "smh once again in one millisecond i noticed something was about to fall & just sort of Tensed instead of instantly going to catch it & in the next milliseconds hash out like 'oh but could i catch it. oh but now it's in progress am i too late' etc" but like well hang on. first of all the Tense Up / Brace For Impact approach can have its strengths too. second of all like why just kick myself when Of Course the vastly more frequent & relevant experiences of having to stifle reactions & tense up to Brace For Impact / Weather The Situation means that's the standard approach. sure tends to be the case that like "okay test your reflex time :)" type things when i Know It's Coming, i.e. preemptively Tense Up, i turn out quite slow. throwback to a true classic [my roommate that said my cat was performative while their cat did things out of true emotion] at my doctor's appointment at like age thirteen when the ol Knee Bonk Reflex Test would make me Tense/Seize That Knee Up and Then kick. and then afterwards my "big fan of unprompted criticisms / declarations about your internal experiences or true intentions" mom was like you were faking those reflexes. i'm like well i wasn't. she was like yes you were. consider the camera jimmed

secondly i was also thinking like, always been the case that when Talking, often even if in writing format, i can't really avoid mirroring the characteristics of the other person's Style / Patterns lol. was thinking about it in my Relative ease of adopting pronunciations for different language's phonemes when it's like, i guess i do have experience in Doing Voices not b/c i really often Did Voices (sometimes lol, as like, direct quotes or whatever. echoing....) but b/c like i'll just be picking up all kinds of mannerisms / tendencies / ways of speaking, including accents slightly (my default accent being disney channel) not b/c i'm messing with anyone or trying to do anything, in fact trying Not to do this is generally unsuccessfully & This Is What Happens Naturally & always has & it's like yknow what i think it might have to do with the fact that i don't think Talking in general is oh so "natural" for me / a matter of "just being myself" (things virtually never are lol) like. i think that time i had that friend in second grade where i'm like ummm i'm not sure we spoke the same language b/c i'm not sure we spoke hardly ever? but we had fun & played & amused ourselves etc til the teacher as usual went Biggest Time Sicko Mode on our "not paying attention" like nobody else's got & then didn't give a fuck abt "intervening" again when we didn't feel like we were Allowed(tm) to interact at all. & like i'm pretty sure i'd be "supposed" to feel like omg we don't talk (almost) at all?? that's SO weirrrd i remember that soooo welllll

and when i Do talk most "naturally" / "just being myself" it's all at once, wordy, and Theatrical, and even then. i did it some the other day and was Sweating, literally, less so figuratively but it does still feel demanding, and of course even when it doesn't Feel thusly, doing a Lot a lot of verbalizing can really still be draining to Taxing. and i've noticed better like yeah sometimes i'm markedly struggling to speak when i'm already extra wearied. and another thing i put into context better was like "when i'm being put tf through it why do i tend to cry through interactions. b/c i'm being a PUSSY????" like lol just on principle was like okay well who cares, i'm sure you, by which i mean i, have my reasons b/c so too would i think someone else does, like. and i remember like, i tend to Not "directly" cry of stress or sadness virtually ever. while i Do tend to be simply keeping that shit contained but Exactly When i have to try to speak? is when i happen to start crying. hmm. Hmmmm. talking Always this performance that i may often not be up for. similar to [personal visual style / Look / clothes] like my default is "basic outfit i'd want to wear every day" & my ideal is "i do not want to be perceived" & (this &) everything else is performance / drag to me, Would That that always be on my terms

another banger is my till oh so recently kicking myself like "aah [pathologization time] i'm sooo slow to be at ease / comfortable around people even when they're surely being nice, what a hassle for others" like well it can be viewed as a hassle for me but it's also like, wait, i end up having stayed uncomfortable around people who weren't being That nice by putting in That much [any effort from any Consideration] and often turn out like. ultimately not that Safe. and i look at "oh right yeah and also i sure Can be like instantly quite comfortable / at ease around people, including people i literally just met. so" &/or my not being at ease either is still way less of a deal than having to literally/figuratively sweat it while i'd feel so much more Okay avoiding detection much less interaction

[trans-axolotl]

this disability pride month, remember our loved ones who are locked up, institutionalized, and incarcerated. Remember our loved ones who are in carceral group homes that wouldn't pass the burrito test. Remember our loved ones who are cut off from disability community and forcibly isolated through the violent ableism of these institutions. Disability solidarity means that we must create these community connections that transgress these barriers and lets our loved ones know that they are valued, important, and that we are fighting for their freedom.

This disability pride month, send a care package to your local psych ward or residential treatment facility.

Find a program to write letters to people incarcerated in your local prisons and jails.

Support patient organizing, prison protests, and advocacy for independent living.

This disability pride month, commit to fighting for abolition of all forms of incarceration, from psych wards to residential treatment to prisons.

[serana666]

Getting on my soapbox about something I think is REALLY important for chronically ill ppl to think about.

Being undiagnosed and disabled is a terrible experience. You’re screaming into the medical void for ANYONE to please SEE YOU and help. You start thinking “is it just me? Could it just be in my head? What’s wrong with ME?”

And I’m here to tell you, it’s 👏🏻NOT YOU👏🏻 it’s THEM. (The doctors)

I have been through the grueling process of becoming totally disabled by chronic illness, without knowing what it could be. I picked up diagnosis’ along the way: RA, then lupus, then fibro. And I am LUCKY that my blood worked with me to show those things, not everyone is so lucky.

I kept thinking (foolishly buying into the narrative doctors try and sell you) that if I could just get a *serious* diagnosis I would finally be given access to the care I needed, that ALL disabled people need. That was never the case at any step in the process.

When I was diagnosed with RA and began having symptoms outside of it, that were completely debilitating my rheumatologist told me I just needed more exercise and activity. I told them specifically I had fatigue so strong that I was loosing the ability for basic functioning.

When I found a new rheumatologist and was diagnosed with lupus I thought my troubles were over. Then she started saying weird shit like “do you have a boyfriend? You’re so pretty!”

She found out I was a lesbian when I brought my girlfriend to my appointment to be my advocate. Her whole demeanor changed to me and I spent 6-8 months with her receiving no treatment. They kept saying “oh it’s the insurance” nope they sent me letters telling me this office was not following up.

So I moved to a blue state literally out of fear that I would die waiting on these bigoted doctors. I got a rhum in a blue state. I was diagnosed with secondary fibro. Again, I foolishly believed I would finally be in the clear. No, she still minimizes and blinks at me when I describe my pain.

Doctors are not our allies, even though they should be above all else. They find ANY excuse to minimize us. So if you are someone who is undiagnosed or with a diagnosis that is misunderstood/not taken seriously , they will milk that for all it’s worth. 👏🏻ITS NOT YOU👏🏻

I’ve seen people in disabled communities minimized for their race, their weight, their gender, their sexuality/queerness, their age, their diagnosis or the lack thereof, ITS NOT YOU!

You know your body, and the pain you feel BETTER than any doctor that has been trained to systemically ignore you!

Don’t let them tell you what your reality is. It’s such a knee jerk reaction for minorities to do this to themselves.

You deserve medical care that isn’t contingent on your doctors bias’. We NEED more empathy. Don’t let their disregard for your life leak into the love you NEED to give yourself. 💕

[beatingtheouijaboardallegations]

i love you nonspeakers. i love you nonverbal people.

i love you nonverbal people who prefer to be called nonverbal. i love you nonspeaking people who prefer to be called nonspeaking. i love you nonspeaking nonverbal people who tired of debate about terminology or can’t keep up with it and just want be heard and communication rights respected.

i love you people who not speak ever since birth ( hi! ). i love you people who use to speak but experience regression / catatonia / burnout or with degenerative physical disabilities. i love you nonspeaking nonverbal people with acquired disabilities.

i love you multimodal communicators. i love you people with complex communication needs. i love you apraxic people who are unreliably speaking. i love you minimally verbal people. i love you semiverbal people. i love you speaking people with selective mutism with intermittent speech ( who listen to us and not speak over )

I love you nonspeaking nonverbal autistic people. i love you nonspeaking / nonverbal people with other intellectual & developmental disabilities. i love you nonspeaking / nonverbal people with apraxia / dyspraxia ( full body or apraxia of speech ) . I love you nonspeaking nonverbal people with brain injury with stroke with aphasia with genetic disorders. i love you nonspeaking / nonverbal people with mental health disabilities that affect language ( eg schizophrenia ) .

I love you AAC users. I love you users of text based AAC. I love you users of picture based AAC. I love you users of low tech AAC. I love you people who can’t afford the big expensive robust systems and rely on free apps or low tech for that reason. I love you people who need small grid size. I love you people who need visual accommodations to AAC like high contrast. I love you people who need alternate access like switch , eye gaze , head track , joystick , partner assisted scanning to make AAC accessible. I love you nonspeaking / nonverbal people who use sign languages. I love you picture card users. I love you letter board users. I love you people who need human support to use AAC , people who use methods like FC and RPM and S2C and all the “ discredited ” method that are constant at risk of being take away from you.

I love you nonspeaking nonverbal people who haven’t found a way to communicate with words that works for them yet. i love you people who communicate mostly or entirely with behavior with gesture with pointing with vocal sounds not words. i love you people who only way communicate is what the system calls “challenging behavior.” I love you people who communicate through violent meltdown, who SIB and hurt others , run away unsafely , destroy property etc and who are punish institutionalize incarcerate or other abused oppressed instead of helped find other way to communicate. i love you nonverbal nonspeaking people who won’t ever see this post, who under institution control or informal more subtle control and don’t have access to social media , or who disability make social media hard , or who just don't like / have interest in being on here (was me for a while !)

I love you nonverbal and nonspeaking people who have found a home in the nonverbal / high support need community on here and who feel like experience is represent. i love you nonverbal and nonspeaking people who have found a home in offline AAC / nonspeaking world like CommunicationFirst and the spellling to communicate conferences. I love you nonverbal and nonspeaking people who not find their " home " in the disability / nonverbal nonspeaking community yet , who not see own experience represent anywhere.

i love you nonspeakers of color. i love you nonspeaking nonverbal queer and trans people. i love you physically disabled nonspeaking / nonverbal people. i love you mentally ill / Mad nonspeaking nonverbal people. i love you poor nonspeaking nonverbal people. i love you nonspeaking / nonverbal people not from global north.

i love you nonverbal people. i love you nonspeaking people. we are great and we deserve to be heard.

[magicalella]

Hi all!! For those of you who don’t know me, My name is Ella Griffin, I’m a 24 year old trans woman based in south florida. For the last four years, I’ve been working on a super special project that I’m beyond thrilled to share with you all: my debut novel, The White Liar. As a big fan of fantasy books, I’ve felt for a long time that there’s a serious lack of authentic trans representation in the genre. For years, I yearned for even just one iconic transfem hero in a high fantasy setting. The White Liar is my attempt to fill that gap in the literary canon.

As a bit of background, I am a massive fan of hard fantasy books with an epic scope and in-depth magic systems; such as Brandon Sanderson’s Cosmere books or Ursula Le Guin’s Earthsea series. I’m also a big fan of gothic literature and character-driven classics like Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables and Anna Karenina, all of which have played an influence on this book. The White Liar’s setting is heavily inspired by celtic folklore, mythology and history with a feminist twist.

It’s a world where fae creatures range from tiny glowing insectoids to massive flying mounts and even humanoid beings. Yet, even the tiniest of these has the potential to unlock unfathomable magical potential through the art of Serimancy! Serimancy, the primary magic system of the book, gives users the ability to transmute or ‘spin’ the silk made by fae creatures into supernatural strength, telekinetic threads, and twelve other distinctive powers. Think Rumplestiltskin spinning straw into gold, but more vaporwave.

Without giving too much away, the book features a diverse cast of characters from all different backgrounds, including transfem, transmasc, nonbinary, aspec and disabled characters, although those aspects don’t always define their motives or character arcs. Mainly, The White Liar is a book about the nature of truth and identity; the ways in which our environment affects how we perceive those things, and the friction that creates with our own perception.

I would also characterize the book as a gaslamp fantasy like the Mistborn series or the video game Lies of P, with a baroque/art nouveau-meets-Bridgerton 19th century aesthetic. I’m a 100% independent author with a summary $0 budget publishing through kindle direct, and flat broke, so I would highly appreciate any and all support with this project, be it word of mouth or otherwise. The cover art is a digital painting created entirely by me and is canon to the book!

Thank you so, so much for giving me your time and attention. This book is my love letter to the queer community and I truly hope someone somewhere finds it hopeful or inspiring like I’ve found with the works that inspire me.

The White Liar is available now on E-book here:

[atierrorian]

| Glad it's you | — R.H

PARING: Rook Hunt x Deaf!reader

SYNOPSIS: All your entire life, you knew silence. But—it isn't as bad as people make it out to be. Because even with your biggest flaw, he still chose you.

˗ˏˋGENRE ´ˎ˗ — Romance, fluff, angst/comfort

˗ˏˋCW ´ˎ˗ — Rook is already a warning. Ooc, mentions of bullying, stalking(It's Rook, duh) horrible poetry.

˗ˏˋNOTES ´ˎ˗ — Wow! It has been a while and I am so sorry for not making anything in quite some time, I've become so busy nowadays that writing has barely crossed my mind, so I'll make most of my free time writing this!

✎| Masterlists|Navigation |

♡ "Are you really willing to accept me?" ♡ "I've accepted you a long time ago."

People always pitied you for as long as you can remember now. Frequently assuming it must be hard not being able to hear. And yeah, sometimes—but it isn't as bad as they make it out to be, if anything, you find solace in the silent world you have lived in all your life. Sure, there were times when it was hard to understand people, especially if they didn't know sign language.

Luckily, you mostly used poems to interact with them. Though, it was amusing to see them struggle to grasp your poems—that's what makes it fun anyway.

And so, making use of your skills, you swiftly wrote down another poem for a certain hunter. He's one of the few people you've known who could actually decipher what your poems meant. And it's not to say each and every time you show him your masterpiece, he always seems to be on your level when it came to writing back to you.

It always makes you feel giddy inside when he writes back to you. Re-reading every syllable. Caressing the ink that was clearly carefully written with such consideration with each word he used, you couldn't help but feel as though he was hinting to you about something.

You scoffed; shaking the thought away. Who were you trying to fool? This was the Rook Hunt you were thinking about! He's like this with everyone. Besides—why would he go for someone who had a defect? To say the least, you weren't insecure with your disability but, thinking about the blonde hunter who seemed to always cross your mind whenever you wrote—you couldn't help but feel your heart tightening in your chest from such thoughts.

In the end, why would he choose you? You're nothing special, far from it anyway. You're just someone who could never hear and someone who just writes to communicate. But, even then, you were still wrapped around his fingertips. And besides—it doesn't hurt to hope, right?

You felt a hand placed on your shoulder, you froze. You had never stayed still like a statue so fast in your entire life until now. What? Millions of thoughts were racing through your mind right now—was it another of the students who were here to once again chuck balled up papers again? Take your poems away from you and ripped them to pieces or flames it until there's nothing left but ashes?

"Awww, what's this? Another one of your silly stories?"

"Look! It's another one of their love poems!"

"Pathetic if you ask me."

You didn't focused on them, you never even knew what they were saying, and you could care less what insults or degrading comments they were spewing from their filthy mouth. Your knees on the ground while clutching onto what was remains of the paper you once cherished. And they tore it all up like it was nothing.

Shuddering from the memory, you closed your eyes and continued to look at your lap; prepared for whatever torture they were gonna do to you again. Tore your poems? Throw paper at you? Mocking at you while you cry in tears because they had nearly killed you? What else did they had in store for you?

You gripped the paper even harder, shutting your eyelids even tighter if that was even possible. You were scared.

Huh.

You felt a piece of paper slid onto your lap, hesitantly, bit by bit, you forced your eyes to open to see what it was. Was it an insult written in a letter? If so, then you're surprised that they were even intelligent enough to finally realized that you had a hearing disability instead of using their vocals to try and insult you.

But no, it was not anything you expected or thought. Instead, your vision was blessed with a familiar handwriting. Subconsciously, you read what was was written on the white letter that graced your sight, and goodness it always doesn't fail to make your blood rushing through your face. By the sevens, how does he always make you feel this way?

Why such a blue face? You don't need to be ashamed of such a heartache; If you need someone to wipe your tears, my heart will gladly volunteer; What you consider flaws, is what I consider perfection —

Mon Cherie, you are the belle of my dairy heart, You, sweetheart, have me wrapped around your fingertips; I will never let go of the string that wraps around my wrist; That connects me, to you.

My heart beats loudly; even you could hear it— If your heart longs for anything, Mon cherie, just write to me; And tell me all your silly sorrows. -Rook Hunt

Though it was short and simple, you couldn't help but re-read the words every now and then. You smiled seeing the words written on the paper. How could you not? His words sweet like candy, it was addicting in a way even you were worried you wouldn't get enough of it. Or maybe it's too late for you.

Your heart started racing so fast you thought even you could hear it. The more you examined the poem the more it started to look like a love confession. But it couldn't be that, could it? You so badly wanted to hope that you had a chance but you didn't want to get your hopes up.

You, sweetheart, have me wrapped around your fingertips.

Those lines, shit, you couldn't help but swoon over them. Clutching the poem, you finally gazed at the author with wonders and hope. He smiled at you and signed those three words you've been waiting to see.

"I love you."

Was it even possible for your heart to be beating faster than it was before? You held the poem closer to your beating heart, trying to conceal it; worried he might hear it. It felt like your heart was about to leap out of your chest. You sighed dreamily and thanked your heart for choosing him.

Meanwhile, Rook chuckled seeing your flustered expression. He found beauty in all things whether it was considered good or bad to others. But he found you the most beautiful of them all. He won't lie, he fell for you hard when he saw you. Because even when he learnt about your flaw, it didn't matter to him; you were still the fairest of them all. You weren't able to hear his words—but that's alright; he'll gladly write thousands or more letters if it meant to show you just how much he loves you.

He'd gladly and happily dance in hot and burning shoes if it meant to show you his devotion to you, just to show how much he cares for you. And if anyone were to make you doubt? Let's just say they wouldn't be coming closer to you anymore if they caused you pain. But before that, he'd come and comfort you, with words written on paper just so all your worries would go away.

Even if his fingers start to go numb and bruises appear, he won't stop until he finally sees you smile. He's glad that his heart chose you.

END

Wow! Uhm, heyy ik it's been awhile but I finally found enough inspiration to make this! Again sorry it's been awhile I've been so busy that I barely found any time to write at all, but I do hope you guys liked this!

[hiiragi7]

Purple and Yellow-Colored Transness - An Intersex Trans View of Transition

It is strongly my opinion that an intersex lens is fundamentally necessary to understand transness, as much as race, disability, class, & culture is.

Yet, much of the time, when intersex is applied to transness it is used as a fetishization - and use without consent of the used is abuse. (Audre Lorde, Uses of the Erotic)

Our perisex trans siblings so often use us as a tool for pornography, as an object to shove insecurities and pain and desire onto, as a temporary escape from dysphoria and thought, as an imagined excuse to supposedly avoid oppression. Afterwards, we are discarded, much like an object that has fulfilled its purpose.

Intersex people do not exist for the purpose of abuse, incestual or otherwise. Intersex is power, intersex is love, intersex is experience.

As a group so deeply harmed and betrayed by our perisex trans siblings, it is no wonder why so many of us reject any lens which suggests there is intersexuality to be found in transness - I doubt that many of us have ever seen what it may look like outside of as an abuse of our bodies, our identities.

And yet, I cannot help but feel that there is an inherent intersexness to be found in transness. Rather than rejecting this, erasing this, I feel it is absolutely necessary to embrace without conflating or fetishizing this. This is not to say, however, that we are one in the same; in fact, within our differences is where I find a lot of our power lies. It is our ability to share experiences without using one another which is vital.

I struggle with this feeling, knowing so much more work must be done, knowing it cannot be fully expressed yet.

When my trans sibling is excited over newly developing traits we now both share, I would love to partake in that joy not only as trans joy but a joy of intersex traits as well. When sex characteristics I have been shamed for my entire life for having naturally becomes something which another person not only seeks out but actively falls in love with as it happens, is this truly only trans love? Is it not also an intersex love?

And yet, at the same time, I find myself choosing my words carefully; I fear they will be stolen from me, used as a weapon against myself and my community. We are still made so fetishized, so invisible, so abused, even amongst siblings. Because of this, I fear the answer to my question is that we are not yet at a point where trans love is an intersex love, but rather what I am seeing is a trans love of traits detached from any intersexuality at all. Even in cases where our bodies may look so similar, you don't see all of me - You only know me as trans, never intersex. You only know my variant sex characteristics as something possible through transition or pornography, and have erased any mention of me in them.

I see my trans self reflected in my intersex self, and my intersex self reflected in my trans self. My body no longer produces its own hormones; I get mine from a clinic that provides gender affirming care for trans people, the same place where just two days ago I had to spend time educating a nurse who learned the word intersex for the first time that day because of me. The surgeries which I both have gotten and will get in the future are both as trans as they are intersex. The letters from my doctors to appease insurance say I am transitioning and that this is a requirement for treatment of gender dysphoria, some of my medical papers say I am intersex and seeking a urethral reconstruction. Both of these hold truth to them.

There are intersex people and trans people who share scars in the exact same places, from procedures which were similar, but were done for different reasons. One grieves where the other celebrates. One tells a story of their identity being stolen from them, one tells a story of finally being able to be themselves. In some cases, both of these are the same people at different points in time in their life.

[ayashitetsuko]

An open letter to David Jenkins

Some fans believe that we should not vent our anger and frustration to show creators. I don’t believe that. The thing about being a professional is that receiving criticism is part of your job—especially if you have done a terrible job.

OFMD went from groundbreaking to disappointing overnight.

There was a momentum to create a queer media that is smart, fun, sexy, and most importantly, respectful. In the way they are writing these queer characters. Especially older and disabled queer characters, a reflection of a generation of marginalised communities that have gone through so much. To give audience a glimpse of hope in their escapism.

But sir, you choose to Remus Lupin him instead.

This is not just about killing off a character. Hell, I might be willing to accept it. After all, I have read and even written fics with MCD in it—involving my favourite character.

But I want you to know that this is a special case. It is not just another popular character being killed off to drive plots.

I have issue with how you kill off a queer character that represents many marginalised communities in his arc.

Izzy is an abuse survivor who becomes disabled as a result of it. Izzy is a queer elder. Izzy is suicidal but manages to overcome it with the healing power of love and community.

Having him killed off just like that is a huge slap for fans who have gone through what he has gone through. Turns out, even in fiction, in our escapism, there is no joy. Only despair.

Also. Father figure? Where does that come from? Ed has never been shown to have any level of respect for Izzy. So let me ask you again. Where does “father figure” come from?

You have an opportunity to make a difference with OFMD; to be remembered in history for the right reasons. Yet somehow you choose not too. You choose to turn this into cheap, sensationalist entertainment where death and torture are thrown around for shock value.

It is like you have no idea how much power you have by being a professional storyteller.

Let me break it down to you. For you as a writer, perhaps killing off Izzy is nothing but an artistic choice. A plot point to figure out. But for audiences in marginalised groups, stories are mirrors. They see themselves in stories. That is how stories give them hope. This is why OFMD has never been “just a pirate story”. Perhaps this is hard to understand if you have never been part of an underrepresented community in the mainstream media, but this is how many are feeling about your work now. Your legacy.

OFMD has truly become an overnight failure. I don’t know how this happened. I would like to blame budget cuts, but your Vanity Fair interview makes me realise this is all deliberate choice.

So, what is next for us Canyonites?

If anything, this convinced me that queer and disabled people should write. And continue to write.

We can no longer trust major media to speak for us. We definitely can never trust David Jenkins again. Any form of progressiveness that he showed earlier was just coincidence, apparently. Even worse, it was fake.

As my friend Sam beautifully puts it, Izzy belongs to us now. We reclaim that character and give him all the happy endings he deserves in our fic, our art. We transform the works. We write about queer, disabled, suicidal characters the way the deserve to be written. If being a published writer is the path you choose, make sure you make wiser decisions than David Jenkins.

Thank you, sir. It was good while it lasts.

But this is a terrible job that you’re doing.

[vasito-de-leche]

Do you have any specific queer headcannons of r1999 characters if so which ones and why?

I wrote a bunch of stuff for this post but then tumblr fucked me up and reloaded without saving it so here we are..... rewriting it all over again ... OAUGH. usually I default to seeing everyone as Vaguely Bisexual and Not Cis until stated otherwise, but you asked for specifics so here we go!

6 is aromantic or demiromantic.

On one hand, it's because I love projecting on my faves. On the other hand, it's because he genuinely doesn't feel like the type of person to be interested in relationships. But this isn't something that's tied to any potential disgust, repulsion or even trauma related to his Revelation and struggle against fate -- to me, 6 just doesn't feel romantic attraction. At the very least, nothing strong enough to consider pursuing. It's not in his priorities. I really dislike this specific thing that fandoms do in which every single character who is introverted, or who happens to be alone/isolated (either by chance or by choice) is secretly lonely, touch starved, pining and desperate for attention and romantic love. It feels like such a huge disrespect for their equally important platonic or familial relationships. 6 already holds a lot of love for his own community and his childhood friends, a type of affection that is shown in his subtle and unique ways. I like it when his character focuses on those aspects instead!

Mesmer Jr. is aromantic and asexual.

In her case, she's the opposite of 6. Mesmer Jr.'s trauma and OCD is much too intense for her to even consider the idea of an emotional or physical bond with anyone. She's disgusted at the idea of touching others so casually, and she's afraid at the possibility of allowing a person (someone she logically cannot have any control over) into her life because what if they throw her off her schedule? What if they mess every meticulous thing she's planned for herself and her mental stability? What if she loses her grip? Yes, it's plausible that she may find a partner who works perfectly with the way she needs things to be, and yes, you can headcanon that she heals and her OCD becomes "manageable" enough to have a stable relationship, but personally? I just like it when characters don't get to have stereotypical happy endings in which everything gets better through love and friendship and support -- like, yeah everyone loves to see their faves happy and all but eh... It's a bit of projection on my part! Some people don't get to heal and do all the things their disabilities prevented them from doing, even if we're given all this support and love. Some of us just have to find ways around these things, anything that works for us that makes our lives easier.

Sweetheart is queer but has a complex relationship with love. In a somewhat similar vein, Blonney has gone through every single letter of the LGTBQ+ community.

I tried my best to explain my thoughts on Sweetheart but at this point she deserves her own post because it's honestly a LOT, this single part was just too long so I cut it out entirely. Just trust me when I say she's queer and has a very complex relationship with love. In Blonney's case, we discussed the possibility of her being written as comphet and it got me to think a little about her. I see Blonney as the type of girl who presents as a straight bimbo, following the themes of her character and all, but who has constant crisis after crisis in the privacy of her bedroom, the only place she's allowed to be more than just a blondie. This constant journey questioning her orientations and gender happens entirely in her head and in private. I like to think that she just has these long monologues in her head. Sure, she's identified as straight her whole life, but maybe bisexual works better because there was that one girl she kept meeting under the bleachers. Oh, but maybe she's a lesbian, since all her boyfriends are just huge disappointments and none of them ever make her truly happy. Oh, but maybe that's just because she has bad taste in men, there was that one guy in class who keeps making her laugh after all. Ahh, this would be so much easier if she were a guy, her femininity is mostly performative after all. Ah, but she actually really loves pink and fashion... Nonbinary then? No, she's not the type to pick something so vague, it's one or the other. Oh, how about both? Genderfluid! Etc etc. If you ask her about how she identifies, she'll simply brush you off with a "What's it to you? That's none of your business, creep!" and move on, but this is something very personal to her. So far, she knows she likes being femme presenting and that she likes Jessica!

Eagle is a trans girl.

Have you guys seen those posts going around tumblr about how important it is that trans women exist because they fight for their own womanhood and girlhood in a world that constantly looks down upon feminine things and all women as a whole? Yeah. Yeah. Eagle being a scout that fights so hard to prove herself, the feelings of not belonging into the Boy Scouts and seeing how the Girl Scouts are created eventually, a space for her. The fact that she visits her father's grave so that he can see her grow up.

Kaalaa Baunaa, Oliver Fog, Medicine Pocket and Melania are probably bisexual, but they're super busy with work so they don't have time to address that.

Self-explanatory <3 I do like to think that Kaalaa and Medpoc are more chill about it, Kaalaa because she's a grown ass woman who is very mature, and Medpoc because they genuinely give no fucking shits about dating in general, so who cares about confirming whether they're bisexual or not. Oliver Fog is a little more flustered at the idea of exploring his orientation and whatnot, but it's tolerable. BUT MELANIA? I LOVE to think that she's FULLY aware that the MOMENT she acknowledges her bisexuality, she will have a crisis and then what will she do? She has 3 papers due next week and a heist this weekend, she can't possibly sit there wondering about liking girls! She's got things to do!

And here's the extra round of HCs that don't require that much text to explain or that lean towards being more silly!

Eternity has literally outlived the concept of gender. She/They royalty.

37 has QRPs instead. It Just Works. No one but herself and her partners understand the dynamics, though. As god intended <3

APPLe is a raging bisexual and has been spotted in many gay bars. Regulus is also bisexual.

The world would've been a better place if Bette was a butch lesbian.

Balloon Party and An-An Lee play with gender like its playdough.

Baby Blue is Not Cis and she's Not Straight either because none of that shit matters to her anymore, since she's been disconnected from reality and society for so long. She also doesn't care about labelling herself.

Diggers is trans, but no one can figure out which way exactly. It doesn't help that he refuses to clarify either. The same thing happens with John Titor, except she's very vocal about being a transwoman.

Bunny Bunny is bisexual but she hasn't realized this yet. In similar fashion, Horropedia is bisexual but he just forgets about it sometimes.

Druvis III as a trans woman goes hand in hand with Forget Me Not as a gay man. This is why they're both super divorced.

Leilani is pansexual because she prefers the colors of that specific flag over the bisexual one. Spathodea is pansexual because the personal distinction between pansexuality and bisexuality matters to her.

Tennant is bisexual because she can scam and seduce more people that way.

The Fool is nonbinary. Mf should've been born in the 2020's, I just KNOW he would've loved mirrorgender.

Zima is in the closet not out of shame but out of safety. Just in case.

Sotheby assumes that every girl in the world likes girls. So far no one has been able to prove her wrong because all she does is interact with other sapphic girls.

Pavia is nonbinary out of spite. But I also love transguy Pavia HCs so so so much, give that guy boobs, he would never get top surgery <3

Vertin is nonbinary too but she doesn't care about people knowing about it. She does, however, make the effort to be a little androgynous, as a treat for herself.

Madam Z and Katz absolutely had a Situationship going on during university. Katz was bicurious and Madam Z helped her experiment. Now the Situationship is between Madam Z and Constantine, the latter using Madam Z as a rebound after fumbling her relationship with Vertin's mother <- the machinations in my brain will astonish you.

TTT is genderfluid by virtue of being a picture on a TV, so I like to think she can just shift her appearance. In similar fashion, gender means nothing to Alien T and Voyager because they're aliens.

I specifically love the idea of all of the 1.2 gang joking about how Tooth Fairy is their token straight adult figure -- she's actually bi and asexual, but likes to keep that to herself so the kids can make their little jokes and have fun.

Enigma is gay and homophobic because his self-loathing is just that strong.

Turns out that the push Click needed to explore his own sexuality was getting killed on the battlefield, so now he's free to be gay. perhaps bicurious.

[crazychaoticizzy]

Write Me Letters

You never expected to find someone that you could correspond with romantically. You never thought the poetic letters you wrote for a living would ever be exchanged with someone you were interested. Though, maybe Armin could be that person.

NOW PLAYING: “Write Me Letters” | Hot Freaks

ARMIN X READER

CONTENT: 20th century time period, Violet Evergarden and Divine Rivals inspired, fluff, war mentions, meet cute (i think?)

WORD COUNT: 4.1k

a/n: this was originally written for @kentopedia love through the ages valentine’s day event. uhm. let’s please ignore that this is a bajillion months later and also rylie if you don’t want to add this to the masterlist please do not feel obligated to i know this is so fucking late i’m sorry 😭

masterlist

AOT masterlist

You wrote for people who couldn’t.

It was your job. You worked for a company that sent literate writers wherever the customer wished and drafted manuscripts or wrote letters or transcribed trials. Anything the customer wanted, you travelled to write.

The most common was love letters. Any kind of letter, really, but you got assigned to write out confessions the most often.

At first you were elated. You loved doing this. You had dreamed to be a romance novelist once, but that dream was quickly squashed once you had been put to work in a publishing firm when you were sixteen. You had hoped it would give you an in to publish your novel, but your manuscript was rejected and burned by your boss right in front of you, and your pay was reduced by five cents.

You had no idea why, but you had a feeling it was because you were a girl writing trivial nonsense no one wants to read about.

You were the first to be cut from the payroll when the factory went bankrupt.

You’d lost your job and were nearly kicked out of the flat you lived in with three other people. You had tried cross dressing to see if you could raise your chances at getting another one, but your hair had fallen out of the hat you’d worn and you had done nothing but embarrassed yourself.

That was before an old friend of yours proposed an offer. Mikasa Ackerman, the distant cousin of a rather wealthy man with enough money to her immediate family to make it by with many luxuries. You’d met her one day in the late hours of the night on your way home. She had been canoodling with one of your dirt poor coworkers, and for you to keep it a secret she offered you anything you wanted. Of course, you asked for enough money to keep you comfortable for a month or two, and oddly enough the two of you became friends.

And then, in your time of need, she offered you a job. She’d shown up at your door one day with a wrapped box tied with a bow and invited you out. You accepted and the two of you walked to the park.

Once you had sat on a bench, she gave you the box. You carefully ripped at the seams to open it, feeling Mikasa’s dark eyes follow your every move.

After lifting the lid, your mouth fell agape, and you looked up at Mikasa.

The typewriter was beautiful. The mahogany wood was smooth beneath your palms and the metal keys were cold against your fingertips. It was a rather large, heavy thing, which gave you true insight into how strong Mikasa truly was.

“What’s this?” you had asked.

Mikasa smiled. “A typewriter, silly.”

“Well, yes. But why?”

Mikasa straightened (if that were even possible. Her back was always straight as a board) and folded her hands over her lap. “My mother is starting a business. She believes it would be nice if those that didn’t know how to write could send letters to those they care about. Even more, she has a friend that has recently become disabled, so they can no longer write. My mother would like to create a community willing to do that for those who can’t.”

You nod. You had heard about that friend MIkasa was talking about in the paper—an older woman who had lost her arm in a power loom, or something of the sort. You had seen the headline the other day and turned away, not wanting to know more.

“Anyhow,” Mikasa continued, “I thought you might like to work with us, since you don’t have a job.”

Something about the way she said that sent a pang to your heart. You should have expected it. Not only was it true, but Mikasa was always rather blunt.

You thought it over for a moment. What was the worst that could happen? You certainly wouldn’t lose any apendages or fingers, and surely you would make decent pay, right?

You nodded firmly at Mikasa. “Alright. I’ll take the job.”

Mikasa’s lips stretched into a soft, ladylike smile. “Wonderful.”

—

It was essentially your dream job. You got to dress in your finer clothes daily and write love letters and confessions. You couldn’t have asked for anything better.

But after years of sitting at a desk, it got tiring. Especially after the war.

It turns out the company wasn’t lying when they said their dolls went anywhere the customer wanted. Not to mention that after writing responses to the soldiers that were drafted got depressing fast. There was so much talk about unlikely futures and dreams that would never come true. It broke your heart, because you knew from your coworkers on the field that the receiver of the messages had already passed.

You were lucky enough to not have been sent. Lord knows how you would have ended up if you needed to travel to the front lines just to write. You’re sure you would have taken your own life before anyone else was given the chance.

But now that the war was over, you were tired. You were bored. Tired of writing letters for other people and bored of writing the same things over and over.

I miss you. Please come home safe. I imagine we…

And maybe some secret part of you wished you could put your own skills to use and write your own love letters to someone you admired. That was a desire you held deep down. You wanted to have a lover. You wanted to exchange letters with him and smile giddily whenever you receive a new one.

For once, you wanted to write for yourself.

But your workplace was mostly women. The only men that were consistently there were either married, entirely too old for you, or completely uninterested in even talking to you.

Until one day, a very slow and drab one, Mikasa strolled into the main building with a blond boy following behind her. You watched from your cubicle as the two of them went into Mrs. Ackerman’s office, trying to see if you could get an idea of why they were there for through the crack left in the door.

They both emerged a few moments later, and Mikasa led him into another room—the one that letters were stored in to be delivered at a later date. Mikasa came back out alone.

“Who was that?” you asked as she passed your desk. Mikasa paused, lifting her hands to crack her knuckles as she talked.

“Armin Arlert. He’s the new mail boy,” she explained, switching hands. “Mom says we need someone else since Eren’s getting overwhelmed by himself.”

You softly nod. Mikasa stays for a few seconds before she walks off. You look back down at your typewriter, flipping through a few requests until you found a letter you wanted to write.

Your phone rang just a few moments later. You picked it up and said in the kindest voice you had, “Good afternoon. You’ve reached the Shiganshina Letter Company. How might I assist you today?”

The old woman on the line spoke slowly. You hummed and nodded along to what she said as if she could see you. She was in a wheelchair confined to her house, so she couldn’t travel to the building. She requested your presence and, as stated in the company policy, you began packing up what you would need.

You stored your typewriter in its box and stowed blank sheets of paper in the pocket on the side. You lifted it from your desk, a feat that had become easier the more you lifted it and got used to the weight, and made your way out of the building.

—

She was a sweet old woman. Her graying hair was pulled into a ponytail at the base of your neck and when she let you in the first thing she offered was brownies and a glass of milk. You politely declined the brownies and milk, but when she offered a drink of water you felt it necessary to accept.

The letter she wanted wasn’t a love letter. At least, not a traditional or stereotypical one like you would think. She wanted you to write to her granddaughter, whose mother had recently passed away. You sat with her at the table and wrote, wiping your eyes with the corner of your sleeve as you pulled the paper out of the typewriter.

You handed it to the woman to read over, and were overjoyed when her eyes became teary and she sniffed. It always made you happy when what you wrote could evoke such emotion.

She held her arm open, offering a hug. You leaned over, careful not to lose your balance, and wrapped your arms around her softly. She asked if you could deliver, which you said yes to.

And now, back at the company building, you’re walking around the delivery room trying to find the correlating street address. You didn’t go into that room often, as Eren was always there to take letters that needed to be delivered, but Eren was off by that point. You were alone.

That’s what you hoped, at least, until someone came up behind you and said, “Can I help you?”

You startled, not expecting someone to be in the delivery room. When you turned you saw the blond boy Mikasa had brought in earlier, Armin.

“Oh, apologies. I didn’t mean to impose.”

Armin shook his head. “No, it’s alright. My shift is over, technically, so you aren’t imposing on anything.”

You softly nodded, a gentle smile gracing your lips. You remembered the letter in your hand and held it out to him. “Carnela Street?”

Armin took the envelope from your hand, reading over the address. “Oh, over here.” He tilted his head back up to meet your gaze and tilted his head for you to follow. “The system’s organized alphabetically by rows. A through D is that first one when you walk in.”

You nodded along, not quite understanding what he meant until he showed you. You made an O shape with your mouth when you realized, feeling a bit stupid at not being able to figure that out yourself.

You watch as Armin scans through the files until he reaches a drawer labeled Carnela-Draise and opened it. He dropped the paper in before closing it.

An awkward silence enveloped the two of you until you couldn’t take it anymore and gave him a sweet smile. You excused yourself and, cheeks heated and palms sweaty, turned around to walk out of the delivery room. You packed up your typewriter when you reached your desk and saw Armin again on your way out, where he gave you a small smile and soft wave.

You gave a curt nod in return before walking out of the building.

—

The first letter appeared on your desk a week later.

You thought it was nothing more than a request for you to draft something, but the scraggly writing on the front that spelled out your name told you otherwise.

You set it to the side and forgot about it until you returned to your dinghy apartment. It was small and fit no more than a twin bed and desk, but you had made well enough friends with the neighbors and oftentimes found yourself yearning for the comfort of the small room. At least it wasn’t crowded with other people, as you knew so many others were. That was one luxury you were grateful for.

You had placed your typewriter case on your desk and opened it. The corner of the letter poked out from the bottom, and you managed to wedge it out from beneath the heavy machine without having to lift it out of the case.

You opened it with your letter opener, a birthday gift Mikasa had given you when you first started working for her. It was made of fake gold and the handle had your full name and a rose carved into it. Honestly, you could have pawned it or sold it to some unsuspecting person for hundreds, but the fact that Mikasa had bought it specifically with you in mind made you keep it.

The letter was simple. Short and to the point the way you liked. You suspected that the writer must have asked someone about it.

While you enjoyed writing the flowery and poetic language you did, you never liked receiving it. You always doubted and found the double meanings that weren’t there. It was a misunderstanding waiting to happen.

I’ve found that your beauty has captured my attention. I shall like to get to know you. Might I take you out for dinner?

That’s what it said. It was signed with two curly A’s, and you wondered for a moment who it was from.

Armin, maybe? Though the written language seemed too refined to belong to him. He’d spoken to you rather casually during your last interaction, so it couldn’t possibly be him.

The next day when you walked into the office, you noticed Armin stepping into your cubicle with a square of paper. You stood by for a moment until he emerged, the piece of paper now gone. He turned his head toward the entrance and simply gave you a smile before sticking his hands in his pockets and walking across the aisle into the delivery room.

This time, you opened the letter immediately. You used your nail to pry up a corner and peeled apart the rest, leaving a jagged tear in the pristine paper.

We haven’t been properly introduced. I suppose I should have started with that. Please forgive me for being ungentlemanly and asking you out before even hearing your name from yourself.

The signature at the bottom confirmed the conclusion you drew the night before. The curved writing spelled out Armin Arlert. You found yourself leaning over your desk in an attempt to catch a glance at him in the delivery room, but he wasn’t there.

You grabbed a spare sheet of paper. You considered feeding it into your typewriter, but something drew you to pick up a pen and ink to write it out instead. It seemed more personal that way.

It was rather improper for you not to introduce yourself first. I’m sure Mikasa has told you my name, correct? No matter, I accept your invitation all the same.

You signed it with your name and folded it into threes. You quickly wrote his name on the front and walked across the way to the delivery room. You left it on a desk and walked out before anyone could spot you.

—

It was an odd correspondence. Neither of you spoke to each other, likely too nervous to stumble across your words or stutter out sentences you didn’t mean, but you wrote letters. They were lovely, well poised and written with increasingly beautiful prose. You were falling before you knew what was happening, and you found yourself pushing down a smile any time there was a new square of paper in your cubicle.

It took a while to set up the date Armin had asked you on. Tiptoeing around the subject and your unpredictable schedules didn’t come together well. Some days you were called to travel hours out of town, which always threw a wrench in your plans.

But you finally found a day. It was a Tuesday afternoon, the air crisp with the chill of fall and the leaves drifting in the breeze with vibrant colors.

He’d invited you to a small cafe. It was a narrow building, seemingly wedged into the extra space between two others, but the table you chose to wait at outside was nice. You sat with your hands folded in your lap, looking out at the street.

Armin approached you from your peripheral. You turned your head, softly smiling when you recognized his slightly tousled hair and blue eyes. He returned your smile, holding out a small bouquet of wildflowers to you.

“Good afternoon, Miss L/n,” he said as you took the flowers. He sat across from you, leaning forward against the table.

“Y/n is fine,” you said, your voice soft. The habits your mother drilled into your head as a child returned. Speak softly and sit with your legs crossed.

You glanced around, noticing the absence of a third presence. “No chaperone?” you teased.

Armin’s lips tilted up, and he let out an amused breath. “I was under the assumption that you would bring one. I can find one, if you’d like.”

You shook your head. “No. No, it’s alright. I’d rather not have one. It would make this more natural.”

You gave him a soft smile. Before you knew it, you were slipping into conversation with him like he was an old friend. Like he was your lover.

It was easy. Talking to him felt as natural as breathing. You didn’t have to force laugher or interest or smiles, it all just happened with him. You’ve never felt more relieved or energized in your life.

When the sun had gone down and the only thing lighting the street was the dim lights and you and Armin were the only ones on the sidewalk, he gently took you by the hand and stood up.

“Allow me to walk you home.” He smiled at you, running his thumb across your knuckles. “It’s late. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”

“Alright. Although I warn you, I do live quite far.” You took his arm when he offered it, looping yours through his as you began walking.

“That just gives me more time to talk to you.”

“We’ve already burned through half the day talking. Don’t you tire of me?” You turned your head to him, quirking a brow and tilting your head slightly.

“I don’t believe I could ever tire of a voice as beautiful as yours.” Armin met your gaze. His eyes were clearer than a cloudless sky, the reflection of the stars shining in them. “Or a beauty as ethereal as yours.”

Your cheeks heated. You smiled and gave a flirty laugh, your hold on his arm becoming slightly firmer. “You flatter me.”

“I’m not saying anything that isn’t true.” He smiled sweetly at you. “I could talk to you for hours.”

You quietly hummed, averting your gaze to instead look down at the ground. Stray weeds grew between the cracks in the concrete. Despite the city’s rigorous upkeep, bright dandelions always managed to peek through.

A moment of silence passed between the two of you. In that short time, you replayed the day in your head. You noticed that Armin spoke more . . . refined. He talked to you with a voice more becoming of a rich man, one that contrasted the casual tone he used with you at the office.

“Is there a reason you’re speaking differently?” you asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, that day I entered the delivery room your language was more casual,” you explained, still looking down at the ground. “Now, however, you’re speaking more refined. There’s a poetic way to the way you’re talking, almost.”

Armin looked down at the ground with you. Even if you weren’t meeting his eyes anyway, he wasn’t going to take any chances of his gaze catching yours.

“You noticed?” His tone was teasing, and you let out an amused hum. “If you were talking to a pretty girl, you’d want to impress her, wouldn’t you? Especially if she’s clearly more educated and well read than you are.”

You smiled again at the indirect compliments. An odd flutter in your stomach alarmed you. You had been complimented before—why were his sending your mind spiraling with delusional images of a life with him?

“Thank you, though I assure you that I am not as sophisticated as you’ve made me out to be,” you said. You were no longer looking down at the ground, but you still didn’t turn to look at him.

“Are you not aware of the letters you write? The linguistic dialogue you use in them is beautiful.”

You finally turned to look at him, your eyes widened and your palms beginning to sweat.

“You’ve read my letters?” you wondered.

“Only one or two,” Armin replied. He lifted his head and met your gaze, a faint smile painted across his lips. “Mikasa’s shown me a few. She says she wished her lover sent her letters like those instead of one of her closest friends.”

You laugh, although you aren’t sure if it’s because you’re amused by what Mikasa said or because you now have the knowledge that he’s read what you’ve written.

Armin moved to keep walking, but the gradual stop in your steps made him falter. He looked at you curiously for a moment before realizing that you had stopped in front of your building.

“Well, thank you. Again, that is.” You tucked a bit of hair behind your ear, glancing away again. “I was always told in school that my writing was too flowery and confusing.”

“I think that’s the best part of it.” Armin smiled, stepping closer to you in the dim light of the street. “If you write it well to someone you know will understand it, then the recipient won’t misinterpret it. That’s the beauty of finding someone like you, don’t you think?”

You blinked at him, turning his words over in your head, before your lips stretched into a smile. You had never thought of it that way, but Armin’s insight only made you want to find that special someone even more.

“I suppose that’s true.” You look up at your building, realizing that you didn’t want to part with the blond quite yet. “Say, would you mind walking me to my apartment?”

You watched Armin’s eyes light up. The faint smile that seemed to have been permanently etched onto his face widened, and he nodded. “I would be honored.”

You don’t think you’ve ever been so happy in a single day. You’ve smiled more times than you were able to count talking to him alone and your cheeks were beginning to become sore.

You motioned for him to follow you. You gently pushed open the door and began the ascent to your floor with him.

You weren’t sure if it was an appropriate topic of conversation, considering the two of you had only met recently and didn’t know a great deal about each other, but you began speaking about soulmates. You said that if written language could act as a crafted secret between one and their beloved, then surely soulmates could be made.

Armin agreed with you, though he added his belief that there was a higher being that manipulated paths and made certain people come across each other at the right times. Maybe soulmates could be made, but there was still that line of fate.

Although you didn’t believe in fate or destiny, you hoped that whatever was out there had written a story for you where he was yours.

When you reached your apartment door, you slowly slid your key into the lock, hoping to postpone the inevitable moment where you would have to leave him and walk into your room. You placed a reluctant hand on the doorknob, running your thumb across it before looking up at him.

“Thank you.” It seemed as though that was all you were doing. “For walking up here, but also for the day.”

Armin flashed you a smile, bowing his head. “It was my pleasure. I quite enjoyed today and hope that you will accept my invitation for another like it?”

You hummed, feigning thought. “Will there be a chaperone next time?”

Armin chuckled. “Only if you want one.”

“I suppose I might entertain the idea, then,” you teased. You regretfully turned the handle and opened your door, wishing that you could invite him in. “Goodnight, Armin.”

When Armin gave you the last smile of the night, you found yourself wanting to kiss him. You wanted to brush your lips against his and taste the sunshine he radiated. You wanted to hold him close and thread your fingers through his hair.

Armin turned to walk away, but the soft call of his name stopped him.

He turned to look at you. “Yes?”

You ran your thumb across the doorknob again, searching your mind for the words. “You don’t need to talk fancy to win my favor. I’d rather get to know you.”

It’s clear that you caught him off guard, but that faint, ever present smile never diminished.

He nodded. “Good night, Y/n.”

You returned the nod, stepping into your apartment and clicking the door behind you.

You pressed your ear against the wood, listening to the sound of his fading footsteps as he retreated. When you could no longer hear him, you peeled yourself away from the door and dropped onto your bed, staring up at your ceiling with a star struck gaze.

Maybe flowery writing wasn’t all that bad.

please ignore that the writing style changed like halfway through i don’t know why that happened

anyways this is basically the start of my come back to writing because uhm. i kind of took a long unannounced hiatus from it BUT that’s besides the point ✨

i’m also scared i lost my writing sparkle please tell me if this was normal for me (if that makes sense) because i need validation

anyways hope y’all have a good day/night and that your pillow is always cool on both sides love y’all <3

🏷️ @arlerts-angel @ocean-armin if you’d like be notified any time i write for Armin leave a comment or DM me!

[mavcancees]

a tiny love letter to every dream fan out there

i don't live in a particularly good environment. home and country wise

i've known i'm transgender since i was 19. i'm 23. i've never been able to access care for it, or even socially transition at the risk that my parents will know and turn violent. i would have nowhere to go. i've been purposefully alienated all my life so me leaving seems impossible

national economy doesn't help either but i won't get much into it. just know i am disabled, i have no college studies, and any job i could get wouldn't even cover the minimum for me to be able to move out

so i turned to art. long ago. but it was particularly at the end of last year i found my place here as a "dream stan". and as a dream fanartist

it is now the 12th of january 2024, and i can officially say, this fandom has provided me with enough work to move out, live on my own comfortably, and be able to access care so i can transition

this fandom has properly saved my life. not out of content, but from the community itself. that is fully to your credit

if you have ever enjoyed my art, liked it, shared it, saved it, shown it to someone else. thank you. i am in the place i am right now because of you

i hope i can give back as much as you have given me

[morbidology]

Jennifer Daugherty was a 30-year-old woman from Mount Pleasant, Pennsylvania. She was mentally disabled and had the capacity of a child. Because of her disability, Jennifer trusted everybody. “Jennifer was very easy-going,” recollected her mother, Denise Murphy. “She liked to have fun. She was trusting. She made friends easily. She loved to dance and she loved to sing.”

On the 11th of February, 2010, Jennifer’s body was discovered stuffed in a garbage can in a school parking lot. She had sustained prolonged torture before finally being stabbed to death.

An investigation into the grisly discovery revealed that Jennifer had been tortured and murdered by a group of people she considered her friends. “She was exploited and her kindness and her handicap made her very vulnerable. She trusted everybody; she believed everyone was good and no one would hurt her,” said her sister, Joy Burkholder.

Jennifer had recently told her family that she had made a group of new friends in Greensburg. According to her stepfather, she would travel on her own by bus from her home in Mount Pleasant to Greensburg, which was around ten miles away, for dental or counselling appointments. It was while here that Jennifer had made a group of new friends at a community center.

Then on the 10th of February, 2010, she told her mother and stepfather that she was going to her friend’s apartment for a sleepover. She had planned staying over in Greensburg and then going to a doctor’s appointment the following morning and then return home to Mt. Pleasant. On the morning of the trip, Jennifer wrote a letter on the back of an envelope with the friend’s contact details along with the note: “I hope that you will have a good day at work, and I also love you very much. I will talk to you some time later.”

Jennifer’s stepfather, Bobby Murphy, dropped her off at the bus station where she kissed him on the cheek and said goodbye. She then hopped on the bus, heading to Greensburg. It was the last time that her mother and stepfather ever saw her alive. “My biggest regret was forcing Jennifer to act as an adult,” said Denise.

Jennifer travelled down to Peggy Darlene Miller’s apartment. A number of Jennifer’s other so-called friends were there: Robert Loren Masters Jr, Ricky Smyrnes, Melvin Knight, Amber Meidinger and Angela Marinucci. In fact, Jennifer had known Marinucci for several years and the two frequently chatted on the phone.

However, almost as soon as Jennifer entered the apartment, things took a horrific turn.....

𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐞:

[transmasc-wizard]

Writblr Intro •°☆

it's me! I live! hi again :)

[ID: an aesthetic photo header of books, a sweater, a typewriter and a candle at a window. end ID]

ABOUT ME:

You can call me Beck or Nathan, I'm a teen writer who used to be really active back in 2021/2022 but had a. really. really long writing slump... 😔. but I'm back now!! (I was chaotic-queer-disaster.)

I love fantasy, horror, and queer stories. I also explore disability a lot in my work as someone with both born and acquired disabilities.

some of my favourite themes to explore are identity, loss/grief, hope, friendship, gender (especially in horror), the challenges of morality, and mental illness

I'm looking for fellow writers to talk to and uplift! I'm especially looking if you're any of the following: queer, disabled, teenaged, horror writer, or fantasy writer. (But all are welcome!)

My main projects are under the cut :)

[ID: a dark academia aesthetic photo of a pair of glasses on a cursive-written letter. end ID]

My Projects:

Bad Things Happen - an apocalyptic horror novel. After a party, three young adults get into a particularly nasty car crash. It rips a small hole in the universe, and they begin to be plagued with identical strings of bad luck. Their luck gets worse and more expansive every day, and soon they're fighting to stop the world itself from decaying around them. [Status: draft zero.]

The Other Ones - a half-epistolary horror novel. A group of true crime podcasters go into the strange forest on the edge of town to investigate a disappearance from 2 years ago, only to emerge hours later--covered in blood, no memory of what happened, and accompanied by the missing girl. [Status: outlining.]

Suicide Ghosts - a film script about a trans boy who is sent to an all-girls school and makes friends with the ghost girl who haunts his dorm room. As the school year goes on, they discover corruption, more hauntings, and the horror of holding identities you never asked for. [Status: outlining.]

Untitled Fairytale WIP/"gfs" - YA fantasy series with dystopia undertones. If you've been around for awhile, you'll remember it as GFS/GFW1! A group of teenagers discover they're linked to an ancient prophecy that states they're cursed to awaken gods who have slept since the last divine war. If this happens, desolation is inevitable. They must find a way to avert the prophecy--while an unidentified figure is doing everything in their power to make it come true. [Status: rewriting/reworking.]

If you've read this far, thank you! I'm really glad to be back and I hope to have a lot of fun in this community again :)

[deyisacherry]

3 steps for a love confession — DCA x Y/N

First step, analyze their feelings for you. Done.

Second step, accept them. Done. Hardly.

Third step…

Confess.

There you were, sitting behind the desk. The kids had recently left, the Pizzaplex hadn't closed yet.

Good, great, wonderful. They have time.

Sun had excused himself to you, saying that he had to tidy up some things in his room. Of course… walking around the site, accustomed to nimbly dodging the pile of things lying on the floor, was the complete opposite of that.

Thank the stars that he and Moon can communicate internally, or his incessant nervous chatter would have been noticed by you a long time ago.

"How is someone supposed to confess their feelings? What are we supposed to do? You know how bad I am at telling the truth, I'll just say something stupid to avoid it and ruin it, I'm sure. Very sure!" Sun paced back and forth, his beams spinning as he tried to think. Poor thing, anyone who saw him from the outside could tell that he had gone crazy. He even moved his hands in expressive gestures as he communicated with Moon.

"Staying up here, not talking to them, probably not much will happen if we keep doing this."

"Moon! I'm serious! I'm not good at this, and you- neither are you!"

"Rude."

"You know what I mean."

"So cruel."

"Moon."

"I know, I'm just playing."

Sun sighs, stopping his pacing. "Maybe a letter? They're nice, and personal, and… oh, no, no, I'm going to get carried away and probably make them feel uncomfortable, plus I don't have self-control with details, and drawings, and glitter glue-" Sun he lets out an exasperated groan in his mind space, causing Moon to growl. "Why is this so difficult?!"

"Noisy."

"Please be of more help, you also want them to know how we feel." Sun says, with a tired expression.

"Flirt until they find out?"

"Oh, please…" Sun says annoyed, placing a hand on his forehead in disappointment.

"Hey, it's not even that terrible." Moon defends himself against his reaction. "You don't have to be too obvious… just play around."

"It's easy for you to say, you always do…"

"Not like this…"

Sun is silent for a few seconds, and then groans softly knowing that he is accepting his proposal.

"I guess we can try." He crosses his arms, looking down at the Daycare through his balcony.

"I have an idea."

"You do?"

"Yes."

"… Should I trust you?"

"Maybe you should, maybe you shouldn't." Moon responds, with a very soft laugh.

Sun has a feeling that he's going to regret it.

———

When the crepe paper rose is ready, Sun holds it in one hand, while the other one holds a piece of sticky tape.

"… This is goofy… even for me."

"If you don't try, you'll never know."

"Don't apply my sayings to me!"

"Just do it."

Sun complains silently, and begins with the last step of Moon's idea. Best scenario, it really works. Worst scenario… he'll resign himself to letting you see him and will stay in his room forever.

"… I'll blame you if anything happens."

———

There's at least an hour left before the Pizzaplex closes its doors. You are reviewing some messages that you forgot to reply to. Yep… it was definitely a good idea to have disabled the option to show when you read a message. It saves you from the idea that they will hate you for losing social energy mid-conversation and leaving them on seen.

You're in the middle of drinking some coffee you ordered, when you feel Sun approaching. You usually let him talk or do something, so you don't turn to look at him. But he doesn't do anything, so oddly enough, you look away from the screen to where you know he is.

And you're immediately greeted by the sight of Sun, with a paper rose taped to his smile. His eyes narrow with excitement as he leans across the desk. "Hello, Sunshine~"

A wink from him, and- Oop.

You just choked on your coffee from how badly that caught you off guard, coughing and covering your mouth as you look away in panic.

"Oh no, no, no! Sunshine! Sorry! Sorry! Bad timing for that! I'm really sorry!" Sun tries to get his hands closer to you but he doesn't know how to help, and seeing him with the rose still stuck to his mouth doesn't help your coughing stop.

———

"I knew it was a bad idea! I knew it! I knew it! And you knew it! You wanted to make fun of me!" Sun yells into his headspace, pressing a Freddy stuffed plushie against his face.

"But the flirting worked, they were blushing and embarrassed."

"They weren't blushing nor embarrassed! They were choking!"

"… Isn't that how embarrassed people react to something like that?"

"Moon!"

… The third step will have to be postponed.

---

edit: god dang it i just realized i made some mistakes with the font color AAA

[cantorpike]

in case anyone was wondering, my next star trek fic is gonna be a response to how poorly bdsm is represented in the fic sphere

it's also gonna be a love letter to my personal kink and disability communities, and especially the people in my life who exist at the center of that venn diagram with me :)