#writers with autism

[mouthtapedguy]

lions are very mean and like jellyfish

[001x456]

people who don't experience hyperfixation don't know what it feels like to hyperfixate so much on something that it becomes not only your subject of obsession but also your source of happiness and literally the main reason why you still keep going; literal source of strength and life.

shoutout to my favorite fictional characters, favorite people, favorite ships, favorite movies, favorite tv shows, fanfics and archive of our own

[dreaminglater]

I want to write..

*vaguely gestures at the air*

..something

[buglover77]

“The best thing for autism representation is to have multiple autistic characters so there’s a display of autism as a spectrum affecting people differently” “we need better autism representation” “I wish there were more characters that are audhd” my brother in christ, the teenage mutant ninja turtles are RIGHT THERE

[planes-like-vultures]

having a special interest in your own OC is so fucking embarrassing like. Yeah i almost threw up from excitement when i thought about A Guy. what media is he from? um.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

how to go about writing autistic characters please

Writing Notes: Autism

Autism – (also referred to as autism spectrum disorder) constitutes a diverse group of conditions related to development of the brain

A neurodevelopmental disorder

Characterized by:

markedly impaired social interactions and verbal and nonverbal communication;

narrow interests; and

repetitive behavior.

Manifestations and features of the disorder appear before age 3 but vary greatly across children according to:

developmental level,

language skills, and

chronological age.

They may include:

a lack of awareness of the feelings of others,

impaired ability to imitate,

absence of social play,

abnormal speech,

abnormal nonverbal communication, and

a preference for maintaining environmental sameness.

Autism was integrated into autism spectrum disorder in DSM–5 and DSM-5-TR and is no longer considered a distinct diagnosis.

It is called a "spectrum" disorder because people with ASD can have a range of symptoms.

People with ASD might have problems talking with you, or they might not look you in the eye when you talk to them.

They may also have restricted interests and repetitive behaviors.

They may spend a lot of time putting things in order, or they may say the same sentence again and again.

They may often seem to be in their "own world."

Terminology

Prior to 2013, subtypes of autism, such as Asperger’s syndrome, autism and childhood disintegrative disorder, were classified as distinct conditions. The 5th edition of the American Psychiatric Association’s Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders consolidates all autism conditions under the larger autism spectrum disorder diagnosis.

Opinions vary on how to refer to someone with autism.

Some people with autism prefer being referred to as “autistic” or an “autistic person.”

Others object to using autistic as an adjective.

The Autism Self Advocacy Network details this debate.

NCDJ Recommendation

Refer to someone as having autistic spectrum disorder only if the information is relevant to the story and if you are confident there is a medical diagnosis.

Ask individuals how they prefer to be described.

Many prefer to be described as “autistic,” while others prefer “an autistic person” or a “person with autism.”

AP style

The stylebook states that it’s acceptable to use the word “autism” as “an umbrella term for a group of developmental disorders.”

It also says it is acceptable to use the word autism in stories.

It does not address the use of autistic as an adjective.

Possible Causes

Available scientific evidence suggests that there are probably many factors that make a child more likely to have autism, including environmental and genetic factors.

Extensive research using a variety of different methods and conducted over many years has demonstrated that the measles, mumps and rubella vaccine does not cause autism.

Studies that were interpreted as indicating any such link were flawed, and some of the authors had undeclared biases that influenced what they reported about their research.

Evidence shows that other childhood vaccines do not increase the risk of autism.

Extensive research into the preservative thiomersal and the additive aluminium that are contained in some inactivated vaccines strongly concluded that these constituents in childhood vaccines do not increase the risk of autism.

Diagnosis

No single medical test can diagnose ASD.

Early signs of this condition can be noticed by parents/caregivers or pediatricians before a child reaches 1 year of age.

However, the need for services and supports typically become more consistently visible by the time a child is 2 or 3 years old.

In some cases, the problems related to autism may be mild and not apparent until the child starts school, after which their deficits may be pronounced when amongst their peers.

Social communication deficits may include:

Decreased sharing of interests with others.

Difficulty appreciating their own & others' emotions.

Aversion to maintaining eye contact.

Lack of proficiency with use of non-verbal gestures.

Stilted or scripted speech.

Interpreting abstract ideas literally.

Difficulty making friends or keeping them.

Restricted interests and repetitive behaviors may include:

Inflexibility of behavior, extreme difficulty coping with change.

Being overly focused on niche subjects to the exclusion of others.

Expecting others to be equally interested in those subjects.

Difficulty tolerating changes in routine and new experiences.

Sensory hypersensitivity, e.g., aversion to loud noises.

Stereotypical movements such as hand flapping, rocking, spinning.

Arranging things, in a very particular manner, often toys.

Parent/caregiver/teacher concerns about the child's behavior should lead to a specialized evaluation by a developmental pediatrician, pediatric psychologist, child neurologist and/or a child and adolescent psychiatrist.

This evaluation involves:

interviewing the parent/caregiver,

observing, and

interacting with the child in a structured manner, and

sometimes conducting additional tests to rule out other conditions.

In some ambiguous cases the diagnosis of autism may be deferred, but an early diagnosis can greatly improve a child's functioning by providing the family early access to supportive resources in the community.

Healthcare providers look for the following problems during well-child visits before age 2:

No babbling, pointing, or gesturing by age 12 months

No single words spoken by age 16 months

No two-word phrases by age 24 months, just repeating words or sounds of others

Loss of any language or social skills at any age

No eye contact at 3 to 4 months

If a child has any of the above problems, the healthcare provider will do more screening. This will help show if your child has ASD or another developmental disorder. Your child may need to see a healthcare provider with special training to diagnose and treat ASD. Your child may also need these screening tests:

Nervous system exam

Imaging tests such as CT scan, MRI, or PET scan

Mental health tests

Genetic tests to look for gene problems that cause ASD or other developmental disorders

The first step is seeking an evaluation. Most parents start with their pediatrician who is checking on developmental milestones.

If your child is under the age of 3 years, you can obtain an evaluation through your local early intervention system.

If your child is over the age of 3, you can get an evaluation through your local school (even if your child does not go there). Contact your local school's preschool special education team to request an evaluation.

Example: Tomás is a 6-year-old boy whose family is troubled by Tomás' intense love of trains. His interest in trains, in addition to giving him great pleasure and serving to communicate his preferences, can sometimes lead to unintended consequences. For example, he gets angry and upset if his old trains are thrown away, or if his parents can't hold his train while he eats breakfast and gets ready for school in the morning. Teachers report that at school he tends to be very quiet and only listens when the topic of trains is brought up.

In Children

ASD can keep a child from developing social skills. This is in part because a child with ASD may not be able to understand facial expressions or emotions in other people. A child with ASD may:

Not want to be touched

Want to play alone

Not want to change routines

Other signs:

A child with ASD may also repeat movements (flapping their hands, rocking).

They may also have abnormal attachments to objects.

But a child with ASD may also do certain mental tasks very well. For example, the child may be able to count or measure better than other children. They may do well in art or music, or be able to remember certain things very well.

Each child may have different symptoms. The most common symptoms of ASD:

Social Symptoms

Has problems making eye contact with others

Has problems making friends or interacting well with other children

Communication Symptoms

Does not communicate well with others

Starts speaking at a later age than other children or doesn’t speak at all

When the child is able to speak, doesn’t use speech in social settings

Repeats words or phrases (echolalia) or repeats parts of dialogue from TV/movies

Behavior Symptoms

Does repeated movements, such as rocking or flapping fingers or hands

May be too sensitive or less sensitive to certain things around them, such as lights, sounds, touch, or taste

Has rituals

Needs routines

The symptoms of ASD may look like other health conditions. Make sure your child sees their healthcare provider for a diagnosis.

Other Characteristics

Most people with ASD have other related characteristics. These might include:

Delayed language skills

Delayed movement skills

Delayed cognitive or learning skills

Hyperactive, impulsive, and/or inattentive behavior

Epilepsy or seizure disorder

Unusual eating and sleeping habits

Gastrointestinal issues (for example, constipation)

Unusual mood or emotional reactions

Anxiety, stress, or excessive worry

Lack of fear or more fear than expected

It is important to note that children with ASD may not have all or any of the behaviors listed as examples here.

Treatment

There is currently no one standard treatment for ASD.

There are many ways to increase your child's ability to grow and learn new skills. Current treatments for ASD seek to reduce symptoms that interfere with daily functioning and quality of life.

Starting them early can lead to better results.

ASD affects each person differently, meaning that people with ASD have unique strengths and challenges and different treatment needs.

Treatment plans usually involve multiple professionals and are catered to the individual.

Living with ASD

How ASD impacts everyday life. Living with a person with ASD affects the entire family. Meeting the complex needs of a person with ASD can put families under a great deal of stress—emotional, financial, and sometimes even physical. Respite care can give parents and other family caregivers a needed break and help maintain family well-being.

Transitions. The transition from high school to adulthood can be especially challenging for a person with ASD. There are many important, life-changing decisions to make, such as whether to go to college or a vocational school or whether to enter the workforce, and if so, how and where. It is important to begin thinking about this transition in childhood, so that educational transition plans are put in place—preferably by age 14, but no later than age 16—to make sure the individual has the skills he or she needs to begin the next phase of life. The transition of care from a pediatrician to a doctor who treats adults is another area that needs a plan. The American Academy of Pediatrics recommends transition planning for all adolescents starting at age 12 years that includes the healthcare provider speaking with the adolescent separate from family members, discussing the transition to adult care, and coaching the adolescent in taking charge of their own care.

Physical activity. To stay healthy, people with disabilities need the same basic health care as everyone else. They need to eat well, exercise, get enough rest and plenty of water, and have complete access to care, including regular physical and dental check-ups. It is important to find healthcare providers who are comfortable caring for people with ASD. Sometimes when people with disabilities have a behavioral change or behavioral issue, it may be because they have a medical problem they cannot describe. For instance, head banging could be related to a disability, or it could be due to a headache or toothache. For this reason, it is important to find out if there is a physical problem before making changes in a person's treatment or therapy.

Safety is important for everyone. We all need to be safe in order to live full and productive lives. People with disabilities can be at higher risk for injuries and abuse. It is important for parents and other family members to teach their loved one how to stay safe and what to do if they feel threatened or have been hurt in any way.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 ⚜ More: Notes ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

You can find more details I wasn't able to include in the sources. Speaking with someone with ASD would also provide valuable information you could incorporate in your story. All the best with your writing!

Writing about Mental Health Conditions

More useful references:

https://autisticadvocacy.org [Download the free PDF, "Guide for Parents of Autistic Kids" here]

https://neuroclastic.com

https://www.autistica.org.uk

https://www.autism.org.uk

https://autismacceptance.com/ [Read more articles here — from autism facts, knowing about disability rights, to being an ally]

Thank you to @jxwmv for these helpful resources! Read their addition to this post. I learned so much from their insights. They have some apps and book recommendations that I myself added to my to-read list, and I'm looking forward to reading more articles in the above sites. The free PDF from autisticadvocacy is such a valuable guide as well.

[edlucavalden]

Mithrun and non-visible disability

Yk, I've never seen people talk about this, but Mithrun is a very accurate depiction of having a non visible illness

I'd like to interpret mithrun's bastard origin to be an allegory for an invisible disability (I'd argue its neurodivergance, but it could be anything); An aspect of yourself that you are born with (in this case; born from) that is seen as inferior but it is not obvious.

He's even lucky—since that part of him is that of benefit. His infidelity gave him silver eyes and sharp ears after all (if you can catch the metaphor). from the outside, He's just a normal person, a person worth respecting because he's fits the standard.

However, he knows he does not fit the standard. it's just a lie. He hates himself—so, so much bc of that. It causes him to over-compensate through complete perfectionism and a high sense of self pride. He has to keep a big image in order to protect himself. it's the only thing that can get him loved.

However, that superficial ego gives him terrible imposter syndrome. He knows he doesn't deserve it, but he wants to. like everyone, he craves love and safety. So, he looks down at everyone, hyperfocused at their flaws (he can't be inferior if everyone is worse, right?) whatever it takes to prove himself that he deserves love.

He knows he's weak, but he has to show to everyone that he's strong because any slight sight of weakness would be detrimental since he knows that his humanity is conditional.

He knows that if he shows the truth and how he doesn't actually fit the status quo, he will be ostracized and rejected.

He knows—because his brother is proof of that.

Obrin's disability is obviously visible; Shown through his physical characteristics (his frailness and the lack of family traits). However, his discrimination may be due to this visible disability. he isn't nessesarily ostracized for those traits. His features aren't the (main) reason why he's perceived as inferior in the social hierarchy. it's instead because he's rumored to be a bastard child. This is why he hates his brother so much.

Obrins physical characteristics are just "symptoms" that perpetuate their prejudice towards infidelity (if were going by the disability allegory, think; this person is too sensitive, it must be bc of the autism...). By doing so, his brother indirectly taught him to hide that part of himself.

He hates Obrin because he is the physical manifestation of what will happen to him if his infidelity (disability) is revealed. He is the same plane as his brother after all, The only difference is that he's fortunate enough to be able to hide it.

It's very interesting how his hatred to Obrin isn't because he's genuinely bigoted and ignorant towards him, but because of his own personal internalized ablelism just projected. (It's ironic how contrary it is; he hates his brother because he sees him as equal) very much paralleling visible and nonvisible disability in intimate familial relationships.

The fact mithrun is the bastard child, not him. Imagine the burdening guilt and shame that comes with the knowledge that he could (or should) be one in his place.

He's constantly paranoid of thoughts that he's not good enough. That's why he was so upset when he was sent to the canaries or when he saw Obrin and Sultha together.

Because those are signs that Obrin is better than him and he could not forgive that (how can someone like him, completely ostracized from society, and be so content...?). And that sign proves his paranoia of not being good enough are correct.

mithrun's insecurities, fears, and behavior very much parallel that of being a high masking disabled person.

Hes is a flawed disabled character, but one you can also sympathize with.

He isn't a perfect victim. He delves on how a disabiled person who's so intrenched in a heavily ableist and bigoted society can be a victim to its bigotry and be taken advantage of (The demon. I didn't touch on that topic, as much as i would love an essay about how the demon preyed on mithruns vulnerability regarding his own disability but unfortunately, that might be too triggering for me lawl!) while also actively participating in it and perpetuate said beliefs

And that means so much to me

[mynameiselicomics]

Oil.

[skrunklydoo]

if lostshipping becomes canon you will NOT hear the end of it from me chat im so so normal about them i need he,p

[walkingbandtee]

Hot take?

I hate when mfs call someone autistic like it's just a silly meme.

I am actually autistic. Your boyfriend having a hobby doesn't make him autistic. "My silly little autistic man." "My man is so autistic about *insert interest*" STFU.

Autism is so much more than being passionate about an interest. Please don't romanticize it and only make it seem silly. It waters down what autism actually is.

Yes, it's fun getting so consumed in an interest that you get all excited about it. But that's not all it is. It's also hell. It's also not being understood by anyone but other autistic people. It's being the outcast your whole life. Sometimes, even by your own family. Sometimes, your own mother calls you a freak. Sometimes, it's being infantizilized. Or people automatically assuming you're stupid. Or people denying your autism because you're *not* stupid, so they don't believe you. Etc.

So yeah, it bothers me a little bit when people do that shit, because it IS that deep to people who actually have to live with it their entire lives.

It's fine if you're actually autistic or your partner is actually autistic and you make silly jokes about it. But the neurotypical people doing it are not funny like they think they are.

I will hunt you bitches down🙄

Your man is NOT like me, sweetheart. Your man would've bullied me in school for *actually* being autistic.

[eternallychaoticc]

you think I'm special? no honey, I'm special NEEDS

[scarletsoldierr]

i love being a fan fiction writer, i love having 100 drafts of unfinished work!!

[isadokie]

As a fic author I seriously can’t express how much comments mean to me, they honestly make my day, just had a comment to that’s gonna leave me buzzing for days

Like you guys are really enjoying my silly little self indulgent fic???

Mind blown

[sleeplessv0id]

[faerie-hideaway]

Economic blackout today, Feb 28th.

No one spend money if you can. If you need to buy something, buy from small local businesses.

Let's do this!! No Amazon. No Walmart. No Target. No chain fast food.

Show them what we can do and that they can't control us because we fund their businesses.

[pukefactory]

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The poll I conducted yesterday received unanimous support for me to post original character content. The following piece is a practice draft to explore an idea that my husband and I are considering developing into our first visual novel game. If there’s enough interest, I’ll definitely share updates about the game and its development progress here. Feel free to ask me anything about it via my ask box. For now, please enjoy this short story.

- SAINT RUNE

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *. WHERE NO ONE SEES .* :☆ﾟ. ───

⏾⋆ Summary: A Young Girl Thinks Over Her Recurring Nightmares Before A Surprise Visit From Her Unconventional Father Catches Her Attention

⏾⋆ Genre: Short Story, Drama

⏾⋆ Word Count: 3462

⏾⋆ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

The open window drank in the summer night like a straw sunk into lemonade, sugary, stifling, and faintly sour if left too long on the tongue. The cicadas shrieked their nonsense symphony, high-pitched and relentless, threading itself through the hush of the room. Above, the sky sagged, bruised and empty, not a single star in sight. Only smog. Only heat. Only July, wheezing through the streets like something half-dead. Same as always. Same as ever. Same as it’ll stay, until it all curdles and collapses.

She sat curled on the window bench, knees tucked to her chest, folded like a letter no one had ever bothered to open. The shirt she wore hung off her like it meant to erase her shape entirely, soft cotton pooling around her like a ghost’s last embrace. Her shorts, black, barely visible, hid in the shadows. Her eyes, haloed with sleepless bruises, stared through the glass into a world she wasn’t really part of. There was nothing out there but hunched trees and tired pavements, arteries of a neighbourhood that moved on without her. Even if something had stirred, something with a face or voice, she wouldn’t have noticed. Her thoughts were caught elsewhere, not in what existed, but in what didn’t. What might. What waited behind the green drapery of trees, too quiet to name.

A pink feather twitched gently where it was caught in her tangled black hair—a soft flag over a battlefield long since lost. The breeze, heavy and half-hearted, failed to lift it. Still, the warmth seeped in through the open frame, drying the cold sweat that slicked her skin. She inhaled slowly, letting the air travel down her throat, raw, aching where the pain settled like ash. She hadn’t said a word all day. Couldn’t. Her voice was a frayed wire. Speaking hurt. Eating hurt. Even swallowing made her wince. But she understood. She always knew when she’d been screaming in her sleep again. That kind of pain was familiar.

Her mother had tried. She always tried. When the nightmares began, thick and violent like blood in water, she did everything a mother could do. She left the door open at night, just in case her daughter needed to climb into bed with her, limbs trembling. Then came the nightlight: a bird-shaped lamp that glowed soft and blue, like moonlight underwater. That helped, a little. Then came the pills. Small, bitter things meant to slow the storm. None of it worked for long. The dreams knew how to wait. They returned every night, like loyal dogs, teeth bared, hungry.

Eventually, she stopped taking the medication. It only made her drowsy—more than usual, more than bearable. She stopped crawling into her mother’s bed, stopped seeking warmth she no longer felt she deserved. She didn’t want to seem helpless, didn’t want to weigh her mother down any more than she already had. There was nothing left to fix. Nothing left to protect. But she’d never say that aloud. That’s not something a mother should hear, that her arms are no longer enough to keep the monsters out.

The only thing she kept was the light.

That soft blue glow meant something. It comforted her in ways the rest couldn’t. It was quiet. Reliable. Familiar.

Familiar, because birds, no matter how small or big, had always reminded her of her Father.

For a while now, ever since the nightmares began clawing their way into her sleep, she’d wondered if they were seeded by longing. A quiet, desperate yearning for the father she so rarely saw. There’d been nights, too many to tally, where she’d pad down the stairs in the dark, tiny hands balled into fists, face wet with tears, and find her Mother alone in the living room, glass of wine in hand, radio whispering old songs into the silence. She would tug on her arm, voice wobbling, begging to see him. Just for a moment. Just to know he was still real. But that was a different version of her. Smaller. Softer. The kind who hadn’t learned yet that want doesn’t make things reappear.

She was older now. The ache hadn’t gone, only changed shape. These days, when the memories stirred and the shadows pressed too close, she didn’t walk down any stairs. She just cried quietly into her pillows, muffling the sound so even the walls wouldn’t hear. It didn’t help. But it felt like the grown-up thing to do.

The nightlight helped. A little. Not completely but enough to ease the edge. It wasn’t his colour; he’d never liked blue, not really. He was pink, always pink, soft and bold at once, just like the feathers he wore so proudly. And the shape was all wrong, too. The light was modelled after a robin, squat and cheerful. Nothing like the long-necked, regal silhouette she remembered. Not a flamingo. Not him.

But still, the light hummed gently in the corner, steady and soft, like a breath that hadn’t yet left her chest. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t close. But it was something.

Surely pain couldn’t cause that much strain, not when she knew, somewhere deep down, that he still lingered. Still existed, even if his footsteps echoed in the underworld now. And yet, the ache remained. Persistent. Clinging to her ribs like old grief. Maybe it could. Maybe it couldn’t. She didn’t know. Not really. The logic never mattered anyway. The nightmares were here. And he was not.

The wind outside had shifted, sharper now, colder than any summer breeze had the right to be. But to her, it wasn’t unwelcome. It wrapped around her like a ghost she didn’t mind being haunted by. She let her eyes slip shut, letting it press into her skin, chasing away the sweat that clung to her neck. The chill kissed her shoulders, threaded through her fingers, and she breathed it in like it might freeze the dread right out of her. Let it soak through her bones. Let it stay.

Somewhere behind her, not far at all, came a quiet thud—followed by the delicate click of something sharp meeting the floorboards. She opened her eyes, slowly, sluggishly, like surfacing from the thick treacle of half-sleep.

“The wind’s strong tonight,” she thought, dully. “Probably knocked something from the shelf again.”

She turned her head, meaning to investigate, knees still drawn close to her chest. But she never got that far. Her limbs stalled before movement could reach them. She froze. Still as a photograph left too long in the sun.

He had arrived soundlessly. No burst of sulphur, no dramatic inferno to herald his presence. Just the soft thud and the faint, deliberate tapping of talons on floorboards—so slight she might have missed it had she not already been listening for ghosts. He was always gentler when it was just the two of them. Quieter. Even if his appearance was anything but.

A hum rolled through the stillness, rich and indulgent, laced with amusement.

“Hmmmmm… Little one,” he purred, honeyed with decadence, “you haven’t called for me tonight.”

She didn’t flinch. Just blinked, once, slow and dazed, like a toad beneath the sun lamp, until recognition bloomed behind her tired eyes.

Pink feathers shimmered faintly in the dim light, swaying in the draught, and gold rings caught the moonlight like tiny stars worn for decoration.

“…Dad?” she rasped, voice worn down to ash and gravel.

“Who else?”

The shadows stretched unnaturally across the floor as he stepped forward, tall and poised—too graceful, too monstrous. His silhouette bowed over her like a wilting flower, limbs long and spiralling, arms draped over her shoulders in a warm, suffocating embrace. A cage spun from silk and affection. A soft pink prison only she would ever thank him for.

He smelled of rose wine and metal. Sweet and sharp. Decadent and dangerous. One of his many rings gave a delicate clink as he adjusted his arm around her. Every trinket he wore seemed to breathe with its own intent—one blinked slow, gemstone eyes half-lidded in sleep; another slithered, faint and serpentine, at the slightest glance. But his touch? That was always the same. Always warm. Always real.

Her pale hands tried to return the embrace, but he was too tall, far too tall, for anything she did to feel complete. Her fingers wandered clumsily, searching, before settling against the soft fluff of his arms. They were as plush as ever. Puffy, like clouds painted pink. She clutched them tightly. Tighter than she meant to. Tighter than she realised. Tighter because she needed the confirmation, needed to know he was solid beneath her fingertips. That he hadn’t vanished again. That she wasn’t alone.

She pressed her forehead against his feathered chest and exhaled through her nose, long and slow. For the first time in what felt like centuries, since the nightmares began curling through her ligaments like smoke, she felt still. Whole. Peaceful.

A deep rumble echoed in his chest, reverberating through her cheek. A laugh. Low, genuine. Velvet over gravel.

“I think someone’s missed Daddy, hmm?”

She didn’t speak. Just nodded, face still buried in his feathers, unwilling to let go.

“I’ve missed you, too.” His grip suddenly tightened. A flourish of theatrics, squeezing her with wild, performative affection. “I’ve missed you so, so much!”

Before she could groan about him crushing her bones or scold him with a breathless wheeze, his body shifted, fluid and lazy as smoke. He coiled around her like a ribbon, curling himself behind her on the narrow window bench. One impossibly long arm wrapped around her middle. His chin nestled atop her head. His legs, absurdly long and knotted in rings, entwined with her far shorter ones. Or, at least, they tried to.

The bench hadn’t been built for a nine-foot demon.

His talons hung off the edge like forgotten ornaments, but the rest of him settled behind her like a nest, arms cupping her as if she were something delicate. Something precious. Something he couldn’t bear to lose.

There was a pause between them. Not awkward. Not strained. Just the soft kind of silence that settles when two souls miss each other in the same way. She leaned back into him, letting her aching, sweat-slicked body melt into the warmth of his arms, which were far more supportive than they looked. Of course, it couldn’t last. He was never very good at staying quiet.

“Mommy tells me you’re still having nightmares,” he cooed, voice honey-thick and too amused for the topic. ���The little river-watcher again, is it?”

She nodded, slow. The wind outside hissed across the tall grass, wild and feverish. Still, she welcomed it.

“It’s always there,” she rasped, eyes locked on the woods just beyond the window. Her hand rose like a slow tide, pointing toward something distant. Something unseen. “Same place. The river by the hill. It… speaks, but not to me.”

Her Father tilted his head in theatrical offence, feathers puffing out like a wronged peacock. “Speaks but not to you? The audacity! Hasn’t it heard? You’re the protagonist of this charming nocturnal tragedy. The least it could do is offer you some common courtesy!”

A tiny huff escaped her—almost a laugh, but not quite. It was hard to find humour in something that left her waking up drenched in sweat and dread. She curled inwards, hugging her knees again.

“I don’t think it notices me. Not at first. Then it turns around and…” She faltered. Half from the sting in her throat. Half from the thing gnawing at her memory. “It has your eyes, Dad. Doesn’t look like you, but it has your eyes.”

The demon behind her went still. Not rigid, he never was, but still like a quiet lake moments before a pebble breaks the surface. Serene. Waiting.

“Two tails. Four ears. Taller than you. Its neck has holes in it.”

And then she fell quiet. Beads of sweat prickled across her skin as the memory resurfaced in pieces. She didn’t want to see it again in her mind, not fully. Not when she already saw it every single night. Her throat pulsed with pain.

“How long has this been happening?” he asked, voice unusually gentle.

“Seven months,” she croaked. “Every night. I wake up at the same time. 3:13.”

“The witching hour. Naturally.” He grinned, his feathers puffing in that usual show of infernal pride. But this time, it didn’t last. He let it fall away like a cape shrugged from his shoulders. With uncharacteristic tenderness, his long, clawed fingers brushed a few strands of hair from her eyes—hands more accustomed to ritual than reassurance, and yet, they were careful. Careful like he meant it.

“Mommy also told me you’ve not been eating properly,” he said, tone lighter now, but it didn’t hide the worry behind it.

“You haven’t been here,” she replied quietly.

She didn’t shout. She didn’t even raise her voice. But her knuckles whitened against her knees, caught somewhere between sorrow and simmering hurt. The kind of pain that had nowhere to go but inward. Maybe that really was it. Maybe pain could birth nightmares. And if that thing from the water—twisted, monstrous, wearing his eyes—was what her sorrow made, then maybe she understood it a little better.

She was halfway through that spiral when he made a noise, something between a sigh and an embarrassed giggle. Crooked. Choked. Masked with bravado and dusted in second-hand shame.

“Darling, I run infernal affairs! You know Hell doesn’t manage itself, and certainly not without turning into a pyramid scheme!”

She didn’t reply. She didn’t know how but the tension in her hands eased. Her grip loosened. She was too tired to stay upset.

His voice softened again. His head bent until his feathered cheek brushed against her own. “If it were up to me, you know I’d be here. With you and Mommy. Always. I’ve thought about it—made a whole list, even.” His arms wrapped tighter, his voice growing warmer, softer. “And spending a full day with you in the garden? That’s right at the top.”

A brittle cough slipped from her lips—dry, raspy, born of her refusal to swallow. The ache in her throat had grown roots, sharp and stubborn, nestled somewhere behind her sternum. She’d tried to outlast it, as if sheer will could banish pain. But her body rebelled. With no other choice, she swallowed, and the pain responded like a drawn blade. She whimpered through clenched teeth, thinking of the water jug waiting in the fridge. She imagined it gliding down her throat—ice-cold and ruthless. Would it sting? Absolutely. But perhaps it would wash the dryness away, if only enough to speak.

“Mom’s downstairs,” she croaked. “Said you were meant to be back last week.”

“Oh, she lies. Glorious, shimmering lies,” he declared, as if delighted. “Keeps me nimble. Adds spice to the stew.”

“She said she found one of your claws in the sink.”

“That was… probably metaphorical.” He wiggled his fingers, metal rings and curved claws clicking together like impatient cutlery. “If I’d lost a claw, I’d know. You’d know.”

“Because you’d scream?”

“Loudly. And make Mommy fix it.”

Her lips twitched. Not a smile. But not quite nothing.

They sat for a while, surrounded by the chirring of cicadas and the occasional creak of old floorboards settling. A soft pink feather in her hair danced as his chin settled against the crown of her head. One of his long arms pulled tighter around her middle, the other looping around her shoulders. He held her like a secret he didn’t want the world to find. Safe. Sheltered. Spoiled.

“Do you think it’s real?” she asked suddenly, voice barely above the wind.

“Who? Your nightmare siren?”

She gave a slow nod.

“Oh, possibly. Probably. Dreams are terribly rude that way. No sense of boundaries at all.” He placed a clawed hand over her small, curled fist. “But it can’t reach you. Not while I’m near. And you know that.”

“What if you’re not here?”

He clicked his beak. “Then you call me.”

“You said it doesn’t work like that.”

“You’re my daughter. You think Hell plays by the rules when I’m upset?”

That drew a sound from her—somewhere between a scoff and a breath too exhausted to argue.

“It always comes from the same place,” she whispered. “Every time. Like the earth remembers it. Like it belongs in the river.”

Feathers along his back rippled, faint as a breeze. His golden eyes blinked slowly—too slowly for anything human.

“There are old things in this land,” he murmured. “Older than Hell. Older than names. Sometimes they show themselves to the tired. The watching. You’re both.”

“It wants to wear me,” she said plainly. Her voice cracked at the corners. “I can feel it.”

He inhaled sharply, with the drama of a stage actor catching the last gasp of a tragedy. “Oh, no no no, my little linen-draped darling. I won’t allow some damp, mossy forest witch to try you on like a charity shop impulse buy!”

She turned then—actually turned to look at him.

Bathed in the half-moon light, his features were somehow both sharper and gentler than daylight ever allowed. She rarely saw him beneath the sun. Now, his lashes looked soft as plumes, a faint marking beneath his left eye caught the moonlight like a smirk. She stared at him like she didn’t quite trust he was real either.

“Promise?” she asked, hoarse.

“I swear,” he said, lowering a claw to tap her forehead. “On my favourite ring. The one that bites.”

“You have a favourite?”

“Of course!”

She nestled into his chest again—slow, hesitant, like someone unfamiliar with the concept of being held. One skeletal arm slipped beneath her knees, the other wrapped around her back. He lifted her as though she weighed no more than a sigh, swaying in theatrical strides toward the bed like a creature spun from lullabies and theatre dust.

“It’s like I can still hear it. Even when I’m awake,” she murmured into the soft layers of feathers. “Calling. Like… static. From the forest.”

“Bah,” he scoffed, flicking the curtains shut with a single claw. “Static’s just Hell’s version of a dial tone. Means the line hasn’t caught the signal yet.”

She went quiet, pondering that for a beat too long.

“That’s… not helpful.”

“You want logic?” he said, gesturing grandly. “Call your Mother. You want protection, nightmares banished, bedtime delivered with the proper dramatic flair it demands? You come to Papa.”

He twirled once on the ball of his foot, needlessly extravagant, before laying her down with the pomp of a courtier unveiling a cursed queen. The movement was light, deliberate. The bedsheets were cool against her skin. Her pillow smelled faintly of petrichor—and beneath that, the sour trace of her own sweat. He tucked the blanket up to her collarbone, adjusted the pink feather in her hair with exaggerated precision, and gave it a gentle pat before brushing the damp strands from her brow once more.

“You look just like me,” he said softly, running a thumb along her cheekbone. “But your Mother’s eyes. Thank the stars for that. Mine would’ve been far too intimidating.” He gestured to his glowing golden gaze, a grin tugging at the corners of his beak.

She gave a half-cough that might’ve been a laugh, then shook her head. “You’re funny.”

“And devilishly handsome.”

“I missed you.”

The words escaped her like shattered glass, sharp-edged and glinting. They caught him by surprise—lodged in the soft parts of his chest and twisted there. Still, he smiled. Not wide. Not crooked. No gleaming teeth or fire behind it. Just something gentle, visible through the hard line of his beak.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I miss you every minute I’m away.”

He stroked her hair with steady hands, claws navigating through knots with careful precision. His voice lowered to a warm, hypnotic murmur.

“Now, close your eyes, little star. No one’s here but us. The river’s just a memory. It cannot pass the wards. Let her drown in her own reflection. You are safe. You are strong. You are mine.”

Her eyes fluttered shut before he even reached the first note of his lullaby.

Outside the window, the wind dropped. Cicadas fell into silence. The trees let out long, ancient creaks like something exhaling after centuries of watching. Stillness settled—thick, tender.

Downstairs, her Mother glanced up from her sermon. Felt the air shift. Smiled softly to herself.

And upstairs, in the crooked room with the lopsided curtains and the girl wrapped in quiet sleep, the flamingo demon sat watchful as a flame refusing to die out. One long, pink arm draped across her side, his hand still curled gently into hers.

He would remain there for the night.