#non-sighted

[lesbianfaramir]

I'm taking a class on Interaction Design for my masters program, and what we're learning is all very visually centered. Does anyone have any links or resources about computer Interaction Design/User Experience/User Interface accessibility for non-sighted populations?

[smokescreenimusprime]

not my usual but it was too perfect to pass up and the idea was NOT leaving my head. Decided to write a snippet for @keferon's IMMACULATE Mecha Pilot Jazz AU, though apologies if the charactization is a lil funky, this is my first time writing either of these characters and double apologies for the undoubted slew of grammar and spelling errors

but that aside, I hope you enjoy :)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Is It Self Sacrifice If It's Not Really You?

Despite the cacophany of the battlefield, Prowl's scream cut through it with with the ease of a freshly sharped blade through flesh and found it's home nestled into Jazz's ears.

He barely had a second to look up, hardly more than a glance, but it was all he needed to make out familiar white and black.

A Quintesson, one of the smaller but more freaky looking ones, was looming over his collapsed frame. He was pinned, his back to solid rocky walls and the Quint at his front, jamming it's tentacles into every crack of his armour they could.

He was putting up one hell of a fight, but something was wrong.

"PROWL!" he shouted, shifting his weight in preperation to bolt. "HOLD ON, I'M COMMIN-"

But the screech of the Quintesson he was currently grappling with forcefully stole his attention back, barely any warning given before it's gaping maw latched onto his mech's forearm.

It pulled, joints and plates creaking with the strain but still holding strong. It shook it's head and Jazz brought a hand up to brace against the outside of the monster, if only to stop the arm from being completely ripped out of the socket. He landed a few solid kick as it lifted him off the ground, but it's movements were still largey effortless, like his frame weighed as much as a tin can.

Prowl screamed again. This time it was louder.

Against all common (sane) sense, Jazz looked away from his enemy and toward Prowl

Some of his external plating was damaged, gouges in messy circle patterns with rivulets of blue energon sluggishly bleeding out. He seemed to be smoking too, thin curls of smoke wafting off his cables. His eyes were flickering wildly, something Jazz had grown to associate with too much damage and too little power.

All of the damage paled in comparison to where Jazz's focus was.

Now, Jazz didn't know how these guys had their mechs built, but they could hold up to some serious punishment. Their engineers seemed to keep an even more meticulous eye on any damage, and Prowler and the other's all had frames clealy meant to last.

But they were all still vulnerable at their cores.

And the Quintesson's tentacles, sparking with a terrifying yellow and red electricity, were pulling and prying right at the plating above that core.

It was starting to show some give too, a testimate to the true strength of the offending monster. Chest plating, no matter the make, didn't come off easily, intent to protect the most vulnerable parts of a pilot.

The electricity was already frying his frame, if it got a straight shot of that to his chest-

Jazz needed to do something.

Jazz needed to do something.

But what, what could he do, whatever it was it needed to be quick, he didn't have time to finish off this Quintesson, there wasn't time for finesse, he just needed to go to help to F I G H T -

Jazz readjusted the braced positioning of his legs, thanking for what was probably the thousandth time the engineers who'd made the adjustment to give him more flexibility and agility, and brought his free arm high above his head.

And brought it down.

His trapped arm creaked, the plating denting and squealing as the metal controted, sparks going flying and red error messages flashing in his vision.

He did it again.

And again.

And again.

He made sure to keep his blows aimed at preciscely where he knew it was weakest and made sure to push with his legs as hard as he could, swaying side to side and focing the joint to bend in ways it had never been meant to. His movements became a dance to the orchestra of cables snapping and metal ripping and electricity cracking and his arm b r e a k i n g , the dance growing faster and more determined the louder the music played.

It felt like eternity, and the phantom sensation was disorienting. There was no pain, only uncomfortable pressure that built up and up and up, perfectly in time with the warning messages he forcefully dismissed. It was far from pleasant, but it was nothing compared to the cold burning terrified angry fight flight save him running full blast in his brain.

And with one final crack akin to lightning, he was free.

It was the furthest thing from a clean break, and to his mild surprise it didn't break at the elbow but rather a bit above it. In the second of freefall he had, he couldn't help but admire the shredded stump and mourn how he knew Ratchet was going to have his head for all the extra work.

He hit the ground in a roll and popped up running, stumbling and nearly falling face first into alien dirt at the sudden uneven weight distribution but he simply let his partial fall carry him forward until he was sprinting full speed.

With his remaining hand he grabbed the Quintesson and pulled, not letting go until it wasn't tearing into Prowl's front and instead embedded several feet in the ground. He dashed, not giving it even a moment, standing tall in front of Prowl.

The Quint got back up, enraged screeches and chitters coming out of it's mouth.

"Back off," Jazz growled back.

The Quintesson attacked, and everything became the hyperaware blur combat always became.

Dodge, dodge, punch, dodge, kick, kick, punch, dodge, jump, kick jump-

One of it's tentacles latched right onto the open stump and set a wave of electricity in.

His mech's vision went bright white, sparks exploding out even inside his cockpit and the smell of burning metal filling his nose. All the protective insulation was made useless from the direct route into the mech's systems.

Jazz jerked his arm stump back and headbutted it.

He got a tentacle to the face for his troubles, grabbers squeezing and cracking the visor. He planted his feet, one on solid ground the other on the slack of the tentacle, and pulled as hard as he could.

A decent chunk of the face came left it, not deep enough to affect any systems or his vision anymore than it was already damaged, but enough that it certainly wasn't pretty.

He kept more distance after that. Wouldn't do any good for him or Prowler if he got fried too. But the Quintesson was desperate, like a cornered animal, grabbing and clawing at anything it could gets it's tentacles on. The same gouges Prowl had began to litter his own armour as it kept making grabs, and the beastie even managing to get a few more much briefer electrical surges in.

It was obvious only one of them was going to walk away from this fight, and Jazz was not going to let it be the Quint. Prowl would kill him if he did

Finally he managed to get in a lucky shot, albeit at the cost of his feet. The Quintesson tried to get in a bite like it friend had, only to be met with the full force of Jazz's feet pressing them apart.

The teeth and other horrors might've torn through his feet but dammit if it wasn't satisfying to hear the crack as its jaw snapped and the body went limp.

The battle was still going on around them, but it was starting to wind down. A trio of bots had even started attacking the one Jazz had left behind.

The immediate area was clear, and there were more than enough bots he could shout out to for backup if he needed it.

"Prowler, you okay?" he said, though he noticed his voice had a bit of static lacing it. Maybe getting his face ripped off did more damage than he thought, or it could be lingering damage from the electricity. "Sorry it took me so long to come getcha, talk, dark and bitey kept me a bit occupied."

He wiggled his stump with a chuckle, leaning in closer. Kneeling down was difficult with the leaking hydraulic fluid and Quintesson salivia making it hard to get a solid grip, but with the current state of his visor he didn't want to risk missing anything on Prowl. To his relief, despite the extensive denting and electrical burns, Prowl's chest was thankfully uncompromised. Hopefully his mech was insulated

The electricity seemed to have done a number on his connection to the head though, the eyes were still glitching wildly and his normally expressive face seemed stuck.

"J-Jazz..." Prowl stuttered, and Jazz found himself frowning. Maybe Prowl got a bit more banged up on the inside than he thought. "You- your-"

His eyes were flickering wildly about Jazz's mech, and he could practically hear his friend's battle computer crunching away.

"Ah, don't worry bout that," he rapping his mech's chest with a fist. "This old frame's gone through worse. Nothing delicate got smashed, and I've barely got a scratch on me. Ratchet'll have me right as rain before you know it, so don't worry your pretty little head one bit."

"Speaking of, I'm gonna go find 'im," he stood back up, looking around the battlefield. "The fight's pretty much over, and I'm not sure if it's a great idea for you to be moving after all that zappy nonsense. Just sit tight and-"

"No!"

Jazz startled a bit at the sudden shout, looking back down at Prowl. The other man's mech suddenly lunged up, sitting straight and looking at him with wide eyes.

"Prowler? Is somethin wrong?"

"I will contact Ratchet," he says in a rush. "A comm message will be more efficient than searching on foot, not to mention I'll be able to tell him what to prepare for,"

Jazz raised a brow.

"Go right ahead, Prowl," he chirped despite his suspicion. He was fairly certain Prowl was hiding something from him, but prying would just make him clamp down tighter.

Prowl didn't seem like the sort to hide things from medics but...

He sat his mech down and leaned back against the wall. "You don't mind if I wait with ya, do you?"

Just to be safe.

Despite his initial assumptions, Prowl actually seemed to relax at his suggestion.

"Not at all."

[padmestrilogy]

wym you’re worried about the acolyte being “jedi critical.” we’re getting a star war mystery thriller . rejoice

[dollsinvogue]

English translation of the comic from the French Panini Group Monster High magazine!

Français

[wordy-little-witch]

Ya know what occurs to me?

Karai Bari is in the New World.

Crocodile and Mihawk only showed up after the establishment of the delivery service.

Buggy was in Paradise. Marineford would have been in Paradise, I think, or at least Buggy's crew still was.

He doesn't have conquerors to cross the calm belt.

So... to get to the New World and set up shop, he'd have to have gone through Fishman Island, wouldn't he? So he'd had to have gotten the ship coated.

He'd likely have had to face Rayleigh or at least he'd have anticipated it - maybe Shanks even mentions Rayleigh hanging around there, maybe even mentioning him having NEVER missed Shanks passing through....

So when Buggy goes when Buggy expects to be found and claims to be dreading it and is but is also so hopeful so scared so broken so hesitant he's got a few different courses figured for how this will go down.

Only.... Rayleigh isn't there. Shakky is. She just directs them to another coater. Buggy fights himself, wants to ask, doesn't want to beg, and-

Shakky answers the question he couldn'tdislodge from his throat. "Sorry, baby blue, Ray's just working on something real important. You know how it is."

He does. He does know how it is. Important, huh? That's fine. It's probably a job. It's probably not that big of a deal that dad master Rayleigh is preoccupied. Buggy shouldn't have expected the man to drop everything and come running why did he think that, Rayleigh never did it before, not even Shanks' assurance he'd leave a message for Rayleigh would change much, and fuck he can't afford to cry so-

So Buggy gets the ship coated. It's not as pricy as he'd worried. He navigates them down, can even bring himself to smile at the wide eyed wonder from the rest. It's nice. He's fine here - these are his people. He's okay, really, and he'll be able to let this go or shove it into that nameless box in his head and heart soon enough. He just has to ride the wave, you know-?

Only no. Not really. Because a newspaper lands in his hands. And his brain is racing.

Because Rayleigh wasn't at Sabaody at all. He was with Strawhat. He was training Strawhat. He showed up, after the war, so close to the conflict, to train the kid. Rayleigh is fast, but not that fast. He'd have to have left around a week before Buggy even arrived. Shanks had assured him Rayleigh was there when he dropped by ((two weeks ago)). He knew because his brother had wrapped him in his arm and tears were shed, voices were raised and hearts were broken, wounds torn open to drain the festering rot and the healing hurt, it hurt then, it hurts now, it will hurt and hurt and hurt, because Buggy had pushed the Big Top to her near limits just to reach the archipelago that his former guardian ex-father previous family that Rayleigh called home. Shanks had called him, said he'd dropped the message and Rayleigh had chuckled and nodded and Buggy wanted to see his dad because there were still so many scars that had to be seen and acknowledged and Buggy himself wasn't even fully recovered physically but emotionally he had to do it, had to take the step and try because vulnerability brought the best and worst of him out, because he lost a brother and gained him back and he wanted for his father, at least one of them.

But Strawhat was on that front page. And Rayleigh was behind him, smiling, warm, proud, happy, and - Buggy aches. He's angry. He's livid. A week or so, by his estimate, for Rayleigh to find him and get there to the war ground. A week or so because Rayleigh was old but he was still painfully fast. In a week or so, the older man hunted down a boy he'd possibly met once or twice in passing. A week or so and The Dark King showed up to bring another strawhat wearing monster of epic proportions under his wing, had made impressive time in finding the kid, making the plan, getting to the navy hq, getting out, and that's accounting for the article writing, printing, and distribution.

A week or so to find a bright little sunshine boy he barely knew when one he raised rotted in a cell for months on end.

Busy with something real important, he recalled Shakky saying.

His chest burned for a moment, hot and wild and unyielding - and just as suddenly, the fire was gone. He was tired. He was so fucking tired. His injuries throbbed, his head hurt, his scars itched. He sighed, set the paper aside and curled impossibly small into his chaise lounge with a teary chuckle as he gripped his hair and tried to silence the keen building in his chest. He cursed himself for it, bitter and angry.

After all, he should be used to being outshined, out classed and out loved by energetic boys with bright smiles in little wicker crowns.

Story of his life

He is unaware of the many eyes on him, of the people Plotting and Arranging things on their own time. Their captain is the best - uncommon, unexpected, temperamental though he is, he is everything everyone needs him to be because it's the only thing he knows how to do. They see the seams in his mask and performance, and they ache to pay back the pain left on their captain, their boss, their leader and friend. Buggy pirates stick together, freaks and weirdos united - and nobody is allowed to hurt their captain without some serious followup.

[gummi-ships]

Kingdom Hearts Dream Drop Distance Commands - Dark Roll

[happypeachsludgeflower]

I think the most disconcerting fandom experience I’ve ever had was in the bbc merlin fandom when I found this really really insanely good fic and majority of the way through found out it wasn’t merthur.

[maskednerd]

[eternity-death]

Sunday and his weird infatuation with your thorax.

[fisheito]

Wait. I forgot something. What was it... reiblade...something? and now yakumo............... GASP

CLOACA CREW!!!!!!!!!

[oidheadh-con-culainn]

i'm just curious. i see it primarily used in ace+aro spaces bc i feel like that's an environment where a lot of people experience romantic and sexual attraction differently and have a strong sense that they feel one and not the other, or that they feel them towards different people. however i know a lot of people who don't experience meaningful differences between these and it feels like outside of ace- and aro-spec communities it likely gets used a lot less (while in ace- and aro-spec communities it's essentially compulsory)

but i feel there are probably people between those e.g. who do experience or understand them as meaningfully different aspects of their orientation, while also feeling both and having them be "aligned" (e.g. feeling that you're both homosexual and homoromantic and that they're distinct in some way while still pointing in the same direction) so i'm curious about that

even the wording of this poll feels biased bc it relies on the split attraction model in the framing but i couldn't figure out a better way of putting it. if these are completely overlapping concepts for you and the whole framing of them as separate doesn't match your experiences, that would be option 3

[lia404]

It doesn't happen a lot, but for once I'll be venting on main. Let's talk about fandoms and languages, in a very frustrated way.

Many time, I have found myself upset at and exhausted by the entitlement of native English speakers when everyone else is already making the effort to speak their language.

Try (and I'm not being a Yoda here, I don't even say to do it, just to even try) to speak my language, and then we'll talk about the terminology I use and the grammar mistakes I make. Don't you dare dogpile on me for using the wrong word when I'm clearly not native. No, I was not trying to insult anyone. Yes, what I said was wrong, but you can point it out in a didactic way without being aggressive, and you can acknowledge that we are not all equal in languages or in our abilities in learning English, the One Language To Rule Them All (with all the dark implications of the title.)

Heaven's sake. I know I'm sometimes missing nuances. I am painfully aware that I'l never speak or write like a native speaker, and I'll never grasp the full underlying meaning of some words. Especially when they are words that have evolved, that have become something else in the context of modern Internet, in a corner of the web that I don't visit, because most of my English interactions are in the context of fandoms.

I don't understand your memes. I don't understand your jokes. I likely never will, and I've given up on asking for explanations, because they usually come with even more ununderstandable jokes, sometimes borderline mockery.

And don't you dare tell me "but your English is so good! Don't worry!" because guess what? I know. I've been studying that language for 25 years. It's my fucking job. I am rather confident in the fact that I know English grammar better than most native English speakers. It doesn't mean I don't make stupid mistakes, and it doesn't make me a native speaker. No matter how hard I try, I will never, ever be a native speaker.

Day after day after day, I'm putting in the effort of thinking in a language that isn't mine, looking for hidden meanings and weighing every sentence because even after 25 years, they'll never come naturally. Day after day, interaction after interaction, I wonder if I'll accidentally insult someone because of an awkward, gauche phrasing.

And I write this while being fully conscious that I have the priviledge of being a native speaker of one of the colonising languages. There are tons of resources in my language.

"If you're not happy, then just don't go to English fandoms."

See, that's the thing. Fandom activity exists in my language, but not in the fandoms I'm in. But you know, maybe I will. Maybe I'll snap and populate a full niche fandom with stories that native English speakers can't understand in a glance, have to put in an effort to interact with. Maybe I'll make memes in my language that none of my mutuals can get. But in the end, it will just be like shouting in the void.

Because here's a reality: most English speakers never put in the effort. They see a foreign language, and move away. And if, by some sort of miracle, they actually want to try, then they are lucky to be able to count on automated translation. Machine translation tools are always trained on English first. Any language > English usually is the pair that has the most reliable results. The same cannot exactly be said about English > any language. And again, I acknowledge that I'm priviledged in such a case, because I'm native of a language that is well-covered.

But it will never be enough for international fandom interactions. Another uncomfortable reality: the globalisation of fandoms has led to erasure of most other languages in fan spaces. This one's going to be hard to reclaim.

So I adapt and I speak English and I write in English. Sometimes I read fanfics and I cry, because I stumbled upon a sentence that I know, even with the best efforts in the world, I would have never managed to come up with. Sometimes I realise that between my job and my fandom activities, English has become such a huge part of my life that I'm losing my own mother tongue, that my phrasing is becoming awkward in it too. I'm not confident anymore using it. I look at the sentence I wrote on the blank page and I cry some more.

And I'm so, so tired of seeing "well-meaning" entitled native English speakers (and, no offense, but most happen to be from the USA, so there might be something cultural at hand here, but while I feel legitimate to observe languages, I don't think I have the legitimacy to observe societies) trying to hold everyone in the world up to their self-centred standards.

I speak English because you speak English. Speak my language flawlessly, and then we'll talk about my flaws when speaking yours.

[lavenoon]

It's not like they dislike getting their teeth brushed, the opposite, really! Having their little hunter get so close without being scared, being cared for - that's why they drag it all out, and get more time with their hunter! <3

@naffeclipse and I were talking about brushing the cryptid boys' teeth after @themeeplord's jaw anatomy, and turns out I can draw non spoilery fluff!

[cripplerage]

There's a vacant wheelchair accessible government house that has been available since at least last year, maybe longer, during a housing crisis.

Despite asking again and again, I and many others have been deemed "not disabled enough" for disability housing. There are no accessible housing options in the private market.

I'm so angry.

[curestardust]

[darkwood-sleddog]

more and more i become of the opinion my dogs are not reactive to strange dogs but in fact it is unreasonable to expect them to NOT be reactive when the dogs we pass are unwalked, understimulated rural hellions that thrash at the windows of their houses, bark at us and follow us for entire lengths of properties, snarl at us, run at us with tense body language etc.

is this because a neighbor (who does skijor!) moved in half mile down the road from us a half a year ago with the most polite, unreactive dog that my dogs glance calmly at as they walk by? as it is unrestrained (no underground fence) on the property? absolutely is.

is this because a few years ago a neighbor's very nice pitbull mix got out and when it walked up to us with polite calm body language my dogs reacted just as calm and we were able to walk this dog home? absolutely is.

like i am a human woman and have lived in areas with much larger populations than i do now. i remember being followed by strangers, yelled at by strangers in aggressive ways. it made me tense and yes...reactive in those moments to ensure my own safety and needs were met. but was it my fault for having to react that way? To call friends and family and be on the phone any time that i walked alone? to check in when i got to where i was going? to bring pepper spray and iron knuckles to walk less than 10 minutes away from home? I don't think it is. Rather it's the failure that allows that behavior towards me which is at fault. i should not have had to carry those things with me. or call a single soul.

same with my dogs. my dogs aren't reactive, i'm just the only person who walks my damn dogs in my rural neighborhood. even though we can walk for 4+ miles either way on safe dirt roads out of our driveway before we reach pavement. nobody else. walks. their. fucking. dogs. yes i manage my dogs behaviors, it can be embarrassing when they get riled up, but know what? it is not their fault so many other dogs fucking SUCK. and it is not those dogs' fault that they suck either. i encountered more politely behaved dogs when i lived in the suburbs and city than i do now because those dogs at least had some sort of experience with being around other dogs (passing them on the sidewalk even) out of necessity. Rural people truly just throw their dogs outside and expect that to be enough. if you're lucky they install a little underground fence that will maybe keep fido in the yard (like uwu WE don't want to have a look at a fence and we're going to make all our neighbors GUESS if our dog might run into the road at them uwu).