#plus size stuff

[realizing-myself]

feels

I really just want to wear a skimpy dress one day. It'd really be the ultimate middle finger to all those self-conscious body feelings and this outdated construct that my mom drilled in my head that good girls don't show off skin.

and then, she asks me why i don't like shorts. but anyways.

I just really want to wear a tight skimpy dress, that requires no bra because i'm already in enough issues with the chest i've been assigned since i literally have to wear a jacket, or padded bras, or layers.

like no my n!ps are not showing thru because of anything. my body just does that sometimes as a natural reaction to friction. ugh men

[eowynstwin]

imprimatura / muses

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish shows up one day to model for your studio class. He's flirtatious, too attractive for his own good, and more interested in you than you'd ever expect him to be. And his boyfriend Ghost is interested too. - ao3

He arrives early as you’re setting up for your students, in jeans and a tight t-shirt, and the first thing that crosses your mind when you lay eyes on him is Jesus, he’s fit. 

You are no stranger to bodies. Hundreds of them have cycled through your studio, all shapes and sizes and colors; you think you may know every dip, every roll, every hard angle and soft curve that a human body is capable of holding. The mystique of defined muscle has long lost its novelty. Bodies are bodies, and each holds the same value as the next when subject to brush and canvas. It never matters, you teach your students, what a body looks like in the modeling chair. It only matters if they can reproduce it accurately.

Even so, when a body like this walks in, you really can’t help but take notice.

Decadent muscle, fed and worked well, round and full with hydration. It’s impossible to miss, even through his clothes; each group delineated clearly, gracefully, as if sculpted rather than built, and alive with soft, subcutaneous movement. It’s indulgent to look at, the comfortable breadth of his shoulders and chest down to that slight taper of his waist and bulk of his thick thighs. It’s a physique no hard-bodied gym rat could hope to achieve merely with extra time at the racks—a physique that is easily, harmoniously attractive in its makeup of muscle and healthy fat.

The man is also mohawked and suntanned, and his mouth rests at an angle that suggests he often smiles—as if he knows that Michelangelo would have swooned at the sight of him. He comes into your classroom, saunters over to you, and stops precisely two paces away from you.

“Sergeant John MacTavish,” he says, offering his hand. “I understand you’re the instructor?”

He has gorgeous, vivid blue eyes (pthalo and cremnitz, with a touch of hamsa). You blink several times. Fit is still rattling around your skull, and begins knocking against sergeant at the same rolling frequency as his warm Scottish brogue. You realize his hand is still outstretched and quickly take it to shake.

“Yes!” you say. His palm is tough, callused, and not soft in the slightest, but very warm. “Nice to meet you, sergeant.”

He gives a grimace. “John’s fine. Or Soap.”

“Soap?”

“Nickname, y’know.”

Neither of you have released from the handshake. Soap’s grip is firm, the kind of firm that suggests he can squeeze much, much tighter if he needs to. And if the grip isn’t any indication, the broad forearms, dusted soft with dark brown hair, certainly are.

Black lines, a sword and helmet framed in laurels, catch your notice. The ink has the soft edges of having lain in the skin for a few years. You turn his arm to see it more fully. “Oh. Nice tattoo.”

He looks at the ink as if it is entirely new to him, and then gives an easy grin. “Thanks. I’ve got a few more too. Hope they aren’t hard to draw.”

When you loosen your grip on his hand, he releases you immediately. You still feel the squeeze in your bones even as you drop your hand to your side.

“So, then, Soap,” you say, “have you ever modeled before?”

He shakes his head, tucking his hands into the front pockets of his low-slung jeans. It tugs the waistband just a bit, revealing a sliver of warm, tan skin (raw sienna, flesh ochre, naples yellow). “Should have, honestly, with how much it pays.”

“It gets very boring, very fast,” you say. “What do you plan to wear for the breaks?”

“Was I supposed to bring that m’self?”

You are unable to suppress a laugh. “Yes, unfortunately.”

“Oh,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck and going a little sheepish—as if expecting a reprimand. You suppose it’s a valid expectation to have, in his world. You aren’t terribly familiar with the military, but you do know it’s one hell of a stickler for rules.

You also can’t help but admire the appealing pull and stretch of his bicep and deltoid, the flex of his pectoral as he lowers his arm. 

“Why don’t you wait here, and I’ll go see if I can find something for you?” you suggest kindly, letting him off the hook.

“Sorry,” he says, pretty blue eyes filled with genuine apology. “I’ll remember nex’ time. Thanks.”

The expression is so hangdog that you almost want to pat his head and noise at him reassuringly, like an actual dog. You press your lips together to hide a smile, and leave the studio.

When you get back from the models’ changing room, you find Soap with one hip against the counter where you’d been organizing your supplies, one knee loose and shoulders set at a relaxed angle. You want to laugh at his easy contrapposto. He’s going to be an excellent model. You can feel it. 

It looks as if he’s moving around the sticks of vine charcoal with one outstretched finger; he pulls his hand guiltily away when you reenter the studio, crossing his arms over his chest as if to hide the evidence of his snooping. It makes his pectorals bunch and round out, gathers the thickness of his biceps up into chiseled, full definition.

You lift one brow at him as you walk over.

“Never could keep my hands to m’self,” he admits, still sheepish.

“It’s alright,” you allow, smiling back. “Do you draw?”

“Used to,” he says. He looks back at the charcoal. “No time, now.”

“Are you deployed often?” you ask, taking the opportunity to look at his face. 

Beauty is cheap in art, but you notice it all the same—appreciate the strong brows, the hard angle of his jaw, the dark stubble of a beard you suspect he can’t keep shaved down, and the long scar that cuts through it across his chin. The light brown of his complexion is speckled with sun exposure, and there are the faintest of creases at the corners of his eyes, which you expect will deepen into genuine, gorgeous crow’s feet as he ages.

He’s not all rugged, though. There is a soft, thick curl to his lashes, which are as dark as strong coffee or expensive chocolate, and an equal decadence to the pink, plush little swell of his bottom lip—which, in the very middle, has the smallest of divots, as if he regularly spends time biting it. 

They’re traits that are far too sweet to belong on an otherwise masculine face, and their effect is such that they turn an objectively average set of features into a shockingly attractive portrait—that suddenly has something fluttering, just a bit, in the roof of your stomach.

He looks at you, and catches your survey. You can see him realize you’d been watching, the knowledge of it blooming in ocean blue eyes like ink dropped onto linen.

“More often than no’,” he answers, showing teeth in a crooked, interested grin. And now he’s looking at you—attention flitting across your face, dropping down your body and jumping back up to meet your gaze. The creases deepen at the corners of his eyes.

The fluttering intensifies. The sudden role reversal has you feeling at once flustered and unmoored. You are never the subject of any perusal—always comfortably the observer.

“Well—” you try, and you’re embarrassed at the low tone of your voice. You clear your throat. “Well, let’s make use of the time we have you, then.”

His smile remains, cocksure and easy. “Let’s.” 

He knows the effect he’s had.

“Anyway,” you say, blinking several times and proffering the sheet you’d retrieved, “none of the other models are your size, so I’m afraid this will have to do.”

He takes it in his hands, which are sun-dark and striking against the clean white linen. “So it’s a toga, then?” he asks.

“Whatever you like. Let’s go over the basics, and then you can undress.”

“Oh, already, aye? Y’move fast, hen,” he drawls, still grinning. “I like it.”

Heat rushes to your face, but you don’t feel embarrassed enough not to laugh. You busy yourself with tapping your charcoal sticks back in place, putting them back in an even row ascending in order of length, and saving yourself from having to look him in the eye. “Ha! We don’t do a lot of foreplay in this studio, I’m afraid.”

“No?” Soap hums, and he steps closer. He’s very warm, enough that you can feel it even with the space between you. You do have to look at him then. His eyes are half-lidded, lashes casting pretty shadows on his cheekbones as he gazes down at you. “That’s a shame. I’m right partial to it.”

Your brows lift, and you will your pulse to remain steady even as you inhale, catching a thread of—cologne? Aftershave? Just plain deodorant?—coming off of him. The scent caresses you, almost beckoning you to lean forward. You swear you can see the thrum of his heartbeat, there in the soft hollows by his Adam’s apple.

You blink. He is your model. “Well—I’ll try to set you up as best I can, anyway. Follow me, please.”

And you turn your back on him, because this is your workplace, and you are at work, and if you don’t get on with things you might do something stupid like actually flirt back.

Soap hadn’t been sure what to expect when he arrived at the art studio. He’s never been to one before, much less one housed in a university—which he has also never been to—and hell, he only ever took one art class in high school.

If pressed, he’d have imagined old brick walls covered in diagram posters, shelves of supplies in all colors, the smell of paint hanging permanently in the air. What he finds instead is modern, clean, and impersonal. Stage lights hang from fixtures in the ceiling, pointing at a platform in the back center of the room. A tight line of easels, all folded up, stand pressed into a far corner, next to a tower of stacked chairs, and waist-high cabinets line half the room against the bare, painted cinder block wall. The linoleum floor looks new.

None of this, however,  has any opportunity to disappoint him. His final unmet expectation, standing across the room and organizing a tray of art supplies, is a very welcome surprise.

You’re bonnie. Like, every point on his wishlist bonnie. Christ, he must’ve done something really good lately, because he can’t imagine just lucking into this. There’s not a hard angle to you, all sweet and soft, but when you meet his gaze during introductions there’s a sharpness to you that skewers him through the chest. You are much smarter than him, he can tell immediately. 

He’s always had a thing for smart women. Soft ones, too.  And if that weren’t enough, you let him flirt shamelessly with you, while checking him out the whole time.

Steaming Jesus.

You direct him to get onto the platform and sit down, still clothed, in an armchair draped in another pristine white sheet. The stage lights are bright overhead, and they highlight free-floating wisps of your hair in gold. 

“You want to ensure that you don’t rest your weight on only one or two points,” you explain. You have a nice voice. Steady, confident—this is your territory, your studio, and in it you are clearly the master. “The main danger is that your arms or legs might fall asleep, and you won’t realize it until you get up, in which case you’ll fall. We can’t touch you, so we can’t save you from that.”

“Y’canna touch me?” Soap repeats.

“Not without your explicit consent,” you say.

He smiles at you, the kind of smile he saves for bright nights at the pub over platoons of shot glasses. “I explicitly consent to you touching me.”

The corners of your mouth tug upward, just a bit, and you look away, clearly bashful. Something in Soap’s chest starts beating a drum. He knows already he’ll ask you to drinks after the class ends tonight.

“I doubt I’d be able to do much,” you say, “you’re a bit more substantial than the usual models.” Your eyes flick down his torso and back up.

“Guess I’ll have to follow your advice, then,” he says.

“You should,” you say, and he looks at your thigh shamelessly as you pat it—even beneath your jeans, he can see the ripple of the impact. “One of the worst-case scenarios is nerve damage.”

“So you have done this before!”

He can’t help it—Soap’s imagination runs wild. Titanic, draw-me-like-one-of-your-French-girls wild. It’s not exactly polite to imagine a teacher naked while she’s in the middle of giving him directions (and Jesus, what a concept, he might be half-mast already), but Soap has always found that people like it when he’s a little rude.

You drum your fingers. “I have.”

He finally hears the nerve damage part of your instruction. “How, uh—how bad can it get?”

The drumming stops. “For me? It just starts to twinge a bit if I sit on this side very long. So don’t rest your weight all on one hip, yeah?”

Concern assuaged that he had not ignored your genuine pain in order to objectify you, Soap grins. “Yeah.”

“Good,” you say. “Also—even if it doesn’t hurt, Soap, you can stop at any time, okay?”

That has him blinking. “Kinda defeats the purpose, doesnae?”

You shake your head. “It doesn’t matter. This is your first time modeling. You don’t know how you’ll feel, sitting here with your clothes off and everyone looking at you. If you need to stop, I want you to stop. I’ll make sure you’re paid anyway, so don’t worry about that.”

You are…so serious about this. The line of your brows is furrowed, imploring, like a little discomfort on his part is a violation of the highest order.

“Sure,” he says, a little dumbstruck and mostly lying. He’d be a rubbish soldier if he tapped out of a little thing like sitting down, but it’s nice that you care.

You purse your lips, nod, and then move onto the task at hand, stepping back and then down off the platform. When you begin to survey him—gaze flitting up and down his body, more pensive than appreciative—he has to resist the urge to flex.

Instead he watches you as you look at him. He especially likes, he decides, the slope of your nose and the smart, serious press of your mouth. You could get him all turned around, he thinks, if you gave it half a try.

Your tits are also great, but that’s by the by.

“Try resting your elbow up a little higher, and twist at the hips a bit,” you instruct, and Soap obeys. “Hm. How would you feel about crossing your ankles?”

You continue like this—nudging him in directions he doesn’t think make all that much of a difference, standing in different positions around the room to check the angles. He half-wishes he could step out of his body and join you, curious as he is about what you’re seeing, what your students will see. He’s not sure he has any clear expectations for how the class will go, but if you’re any indication, it’ll be more fun than he expects.

“Not sure if I’ll remember how to get back into this,” he says, partly to be helpful and partly to get you to talk to him again.

“I’ll help you, don’t worry,” you say. “Okay, I think that’s a good one, you can move now—I’m going to start setting up, the students should be here any minute.”

He stands, and you turn away to collect your supplies, so Soap figures this means it’s time for him to strip. He pulls off his shirt and drapes it over the chair’s arm, unbuttons his pants and shoves them down to his knees.

“Soap!”

He freezes. Then he looks at you. You’re blushing again, deep and saturated, mouth parted in surprise and hand pressed to your chest. He does not miss the quick flick of your gaze down his body; he’s probably violated some rule or another of the studio, but he can’t help but grin.

You’re adorable.

“Gotta happen eventually, right?” he says.

You cover your face with your palm. “I was going to leave the room first!”

“First time someone’s wanted to run away when I’m takin’ my clothes off, I won’t lie—”

“You just come get me when you’re done!” you say hastily as you beeline for the door. “I’ll be right outside!”

Soap chuckles a little when you’re gone, the door slamming mortified behind you, and folds his clothes up behind the armchair he’ll be sitting in. You’re so cute. He can’t wait to sit naked for you for the next three hours.

And he’s definitely asking you out for drinks.

next

[cerudinaeart]

Woke up to wonderful news!

Thr plus size mod I was given early access to by my friend Mango is finally released on Nexus! It's what I've used to create Sohla in game!

https://www.nexusmods.com/baldursgate3/mods/8843

My first in game version (before mods) of Sohla is on the cover!

Go make beautiful plus size tavs and durges and share them with meeeeee

[zepskies]

I saw somewhere that Dean wouldn’t date a black girl. Which is crazy because his ex was black and they had sex in season 1. Dean for sure definitely likes him a black woman. Hell he likes any type of woman

Hey anon!

Ugh, the way you know racism is still alive and well, even in fandom. 🙄 The idea that he "wouldn't date a black girl" is just plain ridiculous, and it upsets me for many reasons, being a Latina POC myself.

To start, they introduced Cassie Robinson as the one person Dean tried to entrust the "family secret" to --

AKA: the first girl he genuinely loved. A smart, fearless, badass woman not afraid to call out indiscretions and fight for the truth about her father's murder.

As a matter of fact, that entire episode (1x13) was about interracial couples, systematic racism, and breaking the cycle of social segregation, as symbolized through the Cassie x Dean relationship.

As for Dean and Cassie themselves, they had incredible chemistry. ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥 To the point where I still think about the song playing during their steamy scene together ("Paradise" by Sharif), and I still use some of the Dean x Cassie gifs for my reader stories:

(And more about your "Dean likes any type of woman" comment below, because I definitely agree.)

They had a beautiful and tragic "weren't meant to be" story, but it doesn't take away from the love they had for each other and being one of the few meaningful, genuine romantic connections Dean had on the show.

"Dean likes any type of woman":

Very much agree! Dean doesn't discriminate, not with race, ethnicity, or body type. We've seen him hit on just about any lovely lady loll, from his love of Busty Asian Beauties, or when he tried to hit on Kali in season 5. 😂

When Donna tells Sam and Dean her husband said she loved chocolate chip cookie dough milkshakes more than him, I believe Dean immediately called him a douchebag, no hesitation. He supported her like this more than once.

And let's not forget this exchange in 9.13, when talking to a victim's loved one who had an affair with a heftier man:

Mala: “What can I say? Sometimes it’s nice to feel a little give.”

Dean *has an epiphany*: “Oh. Yeah, I get that. A little extra cushion for the, uh…” *fist pounding motion* (lmfao)

Hell, I've written an entire series about why Dean would be attracted to, and fall for, a POC plus-sized Latina. It's called the Midnight Espresso series.

All that being said, anyone who says Dean doesn't like or wouldn't date black women, other women of color, or certain body types is projecting their own narrow-minded, prejudiced, and/or potentially bigoted ideals. 🙅🏽‍♀️

[pinkgirlgems]

girly girls go wild for their coquette cuties ᡣ𐭩

[bunnis-monsters]

they're really pushing the skinny agenda and i'm still cracking at that anon about skinny heifers 😭😭🤣🤣🤣.

NO FR! No shade, genuinely, but… skinny heifer? Cows are not skinny in the slightest omg.

It’s so hard for me to answer questions like that because the answer isn’t nice. I usually just say my ocs have a preference for fat women because that’s who I write for. Mentioning thin women just doesn’t make sense!

I don’t want to have to say that my ocs aren’t attracted to thin women.

1. Because that could hurt someone’s feelings. I want everyone to be able to read my works, but my works are about chubby women.

2. In fics centering around fat women, why does my oc have to have thoughts on thin women in the first place?? It’s just not relevant at all!

I still want my works to be read by other people, and for people of all body types to feel welcome here, but first and foremost I’m writing for people who have had their bodies hated on and ridiculed their entire lives. This page is for the girls that want to feel loved and destress without having to worry about their body being described as tiny.

I genuinely can’t believe how many times I’ve had to have this conversation 🤷‍♀️

[mossy-box]

Me drawing Big Mama? That’s new. (I thought making her plus sized would be fun <3)

[turtleblogatlast]

One of the biggest things that makes me see Leo as trans is absolutely the size of his carapace in comparison to his brothers’.

And I’m not talking about height! I’m specifically looking at his shell here, because when you compare him to the others, particularly Donnie who is nearly the same height as Leo, it’s very clear that Leo’s carapace is much longer in proportion to the rest of his body.

Like - standing side by side, even though Donnie is shorter his carapace ends noticeably higher up than Leo’s does. And I like this not only because it really helps push the idea that Leo could very likely be trans (or intersex!), but it’s also just a fun design difference between them.

(It also lends way to future scenarios of Donnie eventually getting taller than Leo, but sitting down still has Leo being the taller one haha.)

[usagifuyusummer]

More silly and fun practice sketches on the Victorian Era FOP AU lol. Just gonna post them here first while we're still developing this and busy with our real-life duties as students.

There's actually a ton of my thoughts in the alt text of these images lol. I hope it's still there. I will also include the links of the existing posts relating to this AU to keep track of what has been created.

Origin Discussion Posts

Updated Character Designs 1

Updated Character Designs and Concepts 2

Concept Art 1: Boy with a Parasol

Tumblr Asks 1

Credit: @keyintheeye-blog original creator and the default character designer of this Victorian Era FOP AU.

I will post my other thoughts (something like a what's happening update) on the repost of this later. Gotta get back to my unavoidable university duties... Have a nice day tho 💐

[tammyghostal]

Occasional burlesquer Mary Manplow reminds us of the most important factor in any dynamic.

[flemuer]

Little art Donaldson smut never hurt anyone 😩

Imagine…

Kissing art is a head-spinning experience, he’s gentle but so needy, quickly slow small groans of pleasure come from his mouth, they were enough to make your pussy slick, after a moment of a gentle and kind make-out, you decide you needed more so licking arts lips to permit you to stick your tongue down his throat was the step that you needed and the one he would never deny you, it was getting more intense, teeth clashing whines instead of groans were coming out of his pretty mouth, you were getting so lost in it you almost missed his other hand awkwardly moving along your curves (he don't know what to do with all that🤭) he just needed a little direction so you grabbed his free hand and placed it on my tit, he immediately started massaging it, toying with your nipples you started kissing back harder, he pushed you back against the wall right next to your dorm room, but you both didn’t care if you were practically humping each other in the public corridor. The realisation of— you probably both can’t breathe comes to mind, needing a breath you pulled back art protested quickly and tried to link your lips again.

[redhotarsenic]

@nowfallc PICTURE!! FOR YOU!! PLEASE TAKE IT!! <3

[96kurtswrld]

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚🦋˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡

thinking about steve and plus size reader....

thinking about how steve can't keep his hands off of you, can't stop touching you and kissing you all over, feeling your warmth and your curves beneath his lips and his hands. it drives him crazy, you drive him crazy. he loves it. he loves you.

it starts as something simple really. he comes up behind you while you're working away in the kitchen. gentle hands on your hips, his face in the crook of your neck. a deep inhale as he loosens his grip on your hips and runs his hands up your sides and then down again, lowering to your waist. a low groan against your skin, a small "god. you're beautiful, honey" that vibrates down your spine. gentle nipping kisses on your neck as his other hand presses against your lower tummy, hand spread out as wide as he can get it so he can feel all of you under his palm. the hand on your waist is gripping tight. his kisses travel up from the side of your neck to your soft jawline, soft soft soft lips against the skin. "my beautiful girl" murmured against your cheek, lips pressed there next. his hands continue to roam, one hand slipping up your shirt to feel your tummy without the barrier, soft fingers tracing your stretchmarks gently. he traces each one from the bottom curve of your belly all the way up to the underside of your breast, his hand resting there for a moment. "you're all mine, hm?" he murmurs into your ear, pressing his body against your back. his body is warm against yours, but it's not helping the cold shivers that run through you as his hands touch you. "all for me" he growls, his grip tightening on you, getting a soft exhale of his name out of your mouth. his grip becomes possessive on you, his hand running back down your stomach sloooow so slow, until both of his hands can grip your plush hips, rocking you back into his body. "y'so pretty,"

[angiestown]

I finished that dressup game I said I was working on !! would very appreciate people giving it a go because I spent literally a week on this. like 7 days off work doing nothing but drawing clothes lmao

in order to make the different body types work without ballooning up the file size way more than it already is, I had to make it so you choose your skin tone twice. in meiker you can't arrange the order elements appear in, but I recommend starting with these two options to pick out your body type and skin tone first, since some options look better on certain bodies imo

also !! meiker !! I don't hear people talk about it much, but it's really cool I like it a lot! it's like picrew, but instead of uploading a bunch of pngs, you arrange and label your layers in folders and upload a single psd file. personally I liked the process a lot more than picrew because I'd rather work with one big file than a million tiny image files, but that's just me. plus you can make the images bigger than you can on picrew too

also posting this again since I can attach it to a post with the game, but I made a tutorial on how to create a bunch of colour options super fast if you want to make your own dressup game. there's no way I'd have nearly as many options if I didn't know how to do this. once you understand the actions feature you can do so much stuff so much more efficiently it's insane it's like my favourite photoshop feature

[daftpatience]

computer. straight leg pants that are actually straight leg on fat people. affordable but not from garbage plastic stores like horrid

[aroaceleovaldez]

they cast a 28 year old for Tyson 💀

[relevant rants: here and here]

yeah, i saw - i wasn't holding onto hope of them casting a disabled actor for Tyson (still disappointed, just not surprised) but casting a 28 year old for a middle schooler is really out of left field. It's just an odd choice? Particularly given how much they've been emphasizing age-accurate casting so far.

It makes me really wonder what major rewrites they have planned for Tyson's character. Because as things stand currently there's no way to make Tyson's existing character work with this casting. Tyson is supposed to be in Percy's grade, but Daniel Diemer sticks out like a sore thumb against the child actors. Tyson being in Percy's grade is pretty important for the entire arc of Sea of Monsters with the main character arc being Percy combating internalized ableism and establishing him as a character who stands up for other marginalized kids. If they remove that, what's Percy's arc going to be for that entire season? At what point are they going to establish that about his character? Or are they just going to exposition it at us like usual with nothing backing it up and no actual character progression? And in later seasons the age gap is only going to be more prominent - like how is Tyson going to work in BoTL or TLO? Are they planning on removing his character entirely for those scenes? Are they going to remove him as a recurring character in general? It'd be really weird if they killed him off or something.

I'm also afraid for if they do try to keep Tyson's disability coding in some form - cause there's kind of no good way it can go at this point. Either they completely erase Tyson's coding because they cast an abled actor for him and that messes up the entire arc of the book and his character particularly in relation to Percy, or they have an abled actor attempt to portray a character heavily coded as having down syndrome (and i believe they're already doing similar with iirc Chiron's actor is abled but they're doubling-down in the show on Chiron being disabled) and given how they've written the neurodivergence themes (or absence there of) in the show so far there's just no way that'd end well. Like, Tyson's characterization is a little questionable to begin with in the books, but given the show's writing so far it just feels like we're very rapidly ramping up for an extremely ableist characterization of Tyson. Like i'm sure Daniel Diemer is a great actor, but... i'm just getting real tired of the show erasing the entire premise of the series :T

anyways as per my initial post about pjo tv tyson casting theories i guess it's time for me to start tearing stuff apart with my teeth ��\_(ツ)_/¯