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songoftrillium · 10 months

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Werewolf: the Apocalypse 5th Edition and the Anti-Indigeneity in the Gaming Industry

reosted with permission from J.F. Sambrano

Dagot’ee!

Shii J.F. Sambrano gonsēē. My nations are Chiricahua Apache (Ndeh) through my maternal grandmother and Cora Indian (Náayarite) through my maternal grandfather. I am a mixed race Indigenous person, and through my father my heritage is English and Scottish. I am currently residing and doing work in my community on the lands of Lummi Nation. I use both gender non-binary and masculine pronouns, but prefer the former. I have several published works in the TTRPG industry, and am probably most known for my contributions to Mage: the Ascension 20th Edition, Werewolf: the Apocalypse 20th Edition, and the Transformers Roleplaying Game, as well as being part of the Essence 20 development team. Further, I also work in higher education at an Indian college, both advising and teaching Indigenous students across the United States. My passion is education, and I believe that we all learn through play, and that TTRPGs are a valuable source of learning, especially on personal, cultural, and social levels. This has always been what has drawn me to TTRPGs since I started playing M.E.R.P. with my brother in 1996 (and before that HeroQuest), through to my “graduation” into more story-driven games such as those presented in the Storyteller System, until now, where I author and produce my own roleplaying games.

I was also part of the First Team (in-joke intentional) hired by White Wolf Studios/Paradox Interactive via Hunters Entertainment to develop and author Werewolf: the Apocalypse 5th Edition. After several months of work, Paradox Interactive chose to go in another direction in early 2021 (I believe it was either March or April) and in fall of that year, it was announced that Werewolf would instead be taken in house, with Justin Achilli as the Brand Creative Lead and primary author of the book. Going forward I will be describing my experience while I worked with Paradox Interactive, primarily through Karim Muammar, White Wolf’s Brand Editor, as well as the developmental editor for Werewolf. Although I worked in a team, both with hired authors and in-house representatives at Hunters Entertainment, I will not be speaking for the experience of others, except when specifically noting unanimous consensuses, and specific interactions (which will go unnamed) that are particularly relevant. My hope is that by highlighting some of the anti-Indigenous attitudes that are central to the foundational members and leaders of the White Wolf brand, that I can provide opportunities for growth and healing within the World of Darkness TTRPG community, but also in the broader gaming community, where these behaviors and attitudes are rampant. I also want the community to have a better understanding of what this experience is like internally, and the challenges that Indigenous creators, as well as other marginalized creators, are met with when they try to make positive change within nerd and geek communities clinging to inherited white supremacist values, even if they don’t realize they are doing so.

What I do not want to be doing in this article is creating fuel for edition wars. I believe that both legacy and Werewolf 5th are rife with anti-Indigenous attitudes, and appalling amounts of appropriation. Both versions deserve criticism, I am not defending one over the other, I am only sharing what my experience was like working on the 5th edition of the book. Further, please understand that I was originally going to wait until I had read the final copy of the book, because I wanted to know how much of my work was used (based on previews I already know some was, just not the extent) and whether or not they decided to credit me for that work, and how I was going to be credited. My belief is that I likely will not be, but I am genuinely uncertain. Knowing how they handled that would have reframed how I addressed this. But more importantly, I want it to be very clear that even before Paradox ultimately pulled the plug on the Hunters team, I was preparing to exit working on the project based on the experience I will describe below. Not only did I find it frustrating, and personally disparaging, but I ultimately decided I was uncomfortable with my name being attached to the product based on the direction they wanted to go. So while I wanted to know whether or not I would be credited, because it would teach me something about their internal practices, I do not want or need the credit.

Finally, the reason that I decided to speak about this now instead of after having a chance to inspect the final product, was because my personal experience dealing with anti-Indigeneity coming from Paradox was just that: personal. But since then I have witnessed a throughline of hateful and xenophobic attitudes wielded against Indigenous people across the globe, and we do not deserve this treatment. I was outraged over the events that led to the segregation of the Latin American fanbase, which culminated from bottom-up criticism about how poorly their people and countries were being defined through World of Darkness products, and ended up with the firing of their Latin American Brand Ambassador, Alessa Torres, because she chose to stand with her community in those criticisms. I was further appalled when the likeness of Tāme Wairere Iti was shoehorned into the Werewolf book, a blatant example of cultural theft: not only in stealing the literal physical identity of an Indigenous person, but also his sacred tā moko. When Paradox Interactive issued an apology for this, it felt incredibly hollow to me in the wake of these events, the hateful attitudes I had personally witnessed coming from the top.

Whether from North America, Mexico, Brazil, Argentina, or Peru, or across the globe in New Zealand, not only do Indigenous people deserve better treatment from such a major company, but their Indigenous and Latino fanbases, who have twisted and worked themselves through difficult representation for decades at this point, deserve better. Apologies are not enough, especially when they come with next to no real change.

Werewolf: the Apocalypse in Context

At the time that White Wolf Publishing began to produce its World of Darkness line, the TTRPG industry was dominated by white men, both as producers, developers, and authors, as well as the main characters in their settings. White Wolf's World of Darkness made an impact at the time, by defying these Eurocentric, patriarchal presentations, first by defaulting to feminine pronouns throughout Vampire: the Masquerade, and then by focusing on Indigenous representation and values in Werewolf: the Apocalypse, and as a young Indigenous nerd, it had a positive impact on me, as I know it has on some other Indigenous people who became fans of the World of Darkness at the time. This was because before opening the pages of Werewolf: the Apocalypse, I had never seen heroes that I could play who looked like me and my culture. It was off, and often offensive, but it was my first experience in which I could directly play a hero who shared my heritage--and I also had more than one option through two different Tribes to do so. This might sound a little like I was cheering for table scraps, but again, at the time, table scraps was more than I had ever seen before.

Werewolf: the Apocalypse 1st Edition was originally published in 1992 via then White Wolf Publishing (not to be confused with Paradox Interactive's White Wolf). From its inception, the premise was interwoven with what its then-authors believed to be Indigenous praxis and representation. Like many pop-culture presentations of Indigeneity from this time period (see Fern Gully, Dances With Wolves, Disney’s Pocahontas, or in TTRPGs, the NAN from Shadowrun) it was rife with problematic and even offensive stereotyping. The most obvious examples thereof are within the two "Pure Tribes" Uktena, and W****** who I will henceforth refer to as Older and Younger Brother. However, Indigenous inspiration was at the core of the game's spiritual premise as well, where animism and "Totems" are central to the setting and gameplay. The way these concepts are presented is trivializing and dehumanizing, but it is important to acknowledge that the appropriation present in Werewolf: the Apocalypse goes a lot deeper than the two Brother Tribes (even the term "Tribe" was meant to invoke a vision of Indigeneity compared to the previous setting in the line's use of "Clan"). Additionally, there is art throughout every generation of these gaming books that represents humans, wolves, and human-wolf hybrid forms wearing Indigenous regalia, including sacred items such as headdresses, or engaged in sacred rituals such as the Sun Dance. The list of problematic representations goes deep, and my examples only scratch the surface, but it is also important for me to note the positive impact that this had, particularly in the 90's.

Even though the primary contributors to these narratives were non-Indigenous authors, or in one case, a Pretendian, and another, a culturally disconnected author, by the time the Revised (or Third Edition) era of the books came around, White Wolf Publishing was actively engaged in cultural consultation. While I do not believe cultural consultation makes a big difference on its own, it matters that the attempt was made, to a degree: while these efforts fall short of what needs to be seen in cultural representation, this was still ahead of most other gaming companies at this time.

Hired by Hunters Entertainment

In February of 2020 I was approached by one of the co-owners of Hunters Entertainment to be one of the primary authors for Werewolf: 5th Edition due to my work on other World of Darkness projects, and let's be honest, because I was capable of bringing a much needed Indigenous perspective to a gameline that was rooted in Indigeneity and rotting with appropriation and racist stereotypes. I was overall receptive to the invitation, largely because I was very passionate about the World of Darkness setting overall, and Werewolf in particular, due to the impact that 90's representation had on me when I was a younger gamer. I also felt hopeful that with a really hard rewrite of Indigenous aspects of the game that I could shift a lot of really painful aspects of the game into something that was a net positive for Indigenous representation. I will tell you now, more than anything, I was excited to rewrite the Younger Brother Tribe, because when separated from racist authors, their message is very empowering and real to my lived experience.

That said, I did not agree to join the project without first asking for reassurances. I said that I was not willing to write negative Native stereotypes. I would not use appropriative language, or generally engage in appropriative writing (which meant at minimum that the names of the Pure Tribes would need to change), and most importantly, that I would not not engage in writing that contributed to erasure. While the person who recruited me to work on the project was eager to work with me, he acknowledged that he was not sure he could get everything I wanted to see approved, but also promised to fight for everything I suggested as hard as he could. Additionally, he shared with me that the original setting pitch for W5 involved all of Younger Brother being slaughtered en masse in a massacre. I made it clear that this was exactly the kind of thing that I would not write. I cannot remember if this was something he suggested to be changed before or after I was invited onto the project, but with some pushback it was changed. However, I point this out because I want you, the reader, to understand how eager Paradox Interactive was to start with mass genocide and erasure as a foundation to the setting. All that said, I cannot stress enough that I have had nothing but positive experiences with Hunters Entertainment, and none of the following concerns fall upon them.

The Sword of Heimdall

The first encounter the Hunters Entertainment team as a whole had with problematic guidelines for the W5 draft was the direction that Paradox Interactive wanted to go with the Sword of Heimdall. At the time, the suggestions from Paradox and Karim Muammar were that the Sword of Heimdall was going to represent the new major villain of the Werewolf setting, and that they were to also represent the far-right, fascist direction that Werewolf society so often turned toward. They were meant to be representative of how far the new concept of Hauglosk could take entire communities. However, the Sword of Heimdall was discussed interchangeably with the Get of Fenris as a whole, and more than once Muammar seemed to suggest that every member of this Tribe was guilty of the same attitudes espoused in previous editions from the Sword of Heimdall. Now let's not beat around the bush: the Sword of Heimdall are literal Nazis. They believe directly in white supremacy and don't shy from it. They wanted to cleanse impure elements from the Get of Fenris, including BIPOC people, other non-white ethnicities, women, neurodivergent Garou, and other disabled Garou.

The writing team found this approach problematic for several reasons. The first, and most obvious, was that the direction seemed to want to turn one of the most popular Tribes into a horrific stereotype of its most abhorrent faction. Whether or not Muammar’s goal was to turn them into villains, we could not imagine a world where fans of previous editions would get their hands on this book, and not look for a way to play one of their previous favorite groups, thus creating the issue of making a guide to playing Nazi. Even beyond that, it’s not as if historically there were not players who used the tools of the setting to play Black Spiral Dancers, why wouldn’t this draw people who actually wanted to role-play through these toxic, harmful politics? Further, and while this is less important, it left a bad taste in my mouth, the justification for this major shift in Werewolf lore seemed to change over each pass. At first, Muammar suggested that all Fenrir were Nazis/SoH. Then, when he was provided with evidence that it was a small faction that was eliminated in the early 2000’s, he started to shift toward the idea that we should not follow the lore. Finally, when every single member of the writer’s team flatly refused to provide what would essentially be “a player’s guide to being a Nazi werewolf” the writing was on the wall about the end of our involvement with this product. More than once, he suggested that we were cowardly social justice warriors for being unwilling to work with this concept, even though there were several attempts to write a heroic version of the Fenrir that were focused on undoing these ills of the past.

Indigenous Erasure in Werewolf: 5th Edition

While the entire Hunters Entertainment writing team was handling the major, glaring issue of Paradox’s fervor to include a major Nazi element in Werewolf, I was personally dealing with the problematic approach to the Indigenous issues in the setting. The largest problem, for me, was in addressing Younger Brother’s issues, the history of non-Indigenous writers creating horrifically racist stereotypes, and what was valuable in the Tribal identity that should be saved and recentered. However, my attempts to do so were thwarted with every approach. I rewrote this Tribe four times, and offered three different versions of it to try to earn approval for a final write-up, but each time there was a lot of negativity directed towards my attempts and all them boiled down to this: Muammar felt that having two Tribes (both Younger and Older Brother) representing the “Indigenous population” was too many, and wanted them to only be focused on Older Brother, and that Younger Brother’s connection to a central, Indigenous identity, was undesirable because “other sources wrote them as having Siberian and European connections” and that future writing on this Tribe would require a lot of sensitivity…suggesting that one, Muammar wasn’t interested in doing the work to handle that level of sensitivity, and further, that he wasn’t interested in including me in future work, since I was involved with doing that at the time.

I want to take a moment to remind you that the work that was put into recovering Younger Brother started with “Let’s Kill Them Off” and at this point, through a combination of convincing and pleading, had been walked back to “They can live, but now they’re not connected to being Indigenous anymore” which is just representative genocide of a different variety. “Kill the Indian in him, and save the man.” It was also explicitly something I said I would not write about going into this project. Ultimately, my efforts did not get much further than this, with some specific exceptions I will cite below.

Karim Muammar’s Anti-Indigenous Positions

Muammar consistently and repeatedly communicated to the team in ways that were condescending and dismissive of our collective accomplishments and capabilities, but from my perspective, no one suffered as much significant derision as I did while discussing the changes I wanted to make to Younger and Older Brother in order to make their representation empowering and exciting.

In the pulled quote from the previous paragraph, I want to point out to you that Muammar, who had the title of Lead Editor on this project, refused to capitalize Native American. Further, he would often redline my work with edits to decapitalize my own uses of Native American, as well as the word Indigenous when referring to Indigenous peoples. While there are plenty of people who might want to argue about this, I will point out that both the AP style guide as well as the Chicago style guide (the one which I am most familiar with in my academic historical work) both call for Indigenous to be capitalized when referring to a people. Further, I challenge anyone to defend the consistent decapitalization of Native American. More importantly, the reason that these are standards in respected style guides, is because the English language has been used historically to oppress and erase ethnic identities, including Indigenous identities. By transforming adjectives into proper nouns, we are declaring that Indigenous and Native aren’t descriptors that can be applied to animals, plants, and soil, but real lived identities and culture groups.

When I was explaining to the Paradox team (which was mostly just Muammar) why it was important to change the names of these two Tribes from the appropriative (and offensive) ones used in the past, Muammar pushed back by defending the previously used Younger Brother name, even after reading my extensive research and explanation about how this would harm Indigenous communities and fans.

While doing so, he also decided that it was appropriate to refer to this entirely Native American tribe by the word “savages” a slur that has been specifically used to dehumanize Native Americans, and then mocked my rewrite that focused on presenting them as stewards of the land using Indigenous methodologies and praxes, instead of the “savage” racist stereotypes they were presented as in previous editions. Further, as in the above quote, even after it was communicated that the use of this term was problematic, he kept doubling-down to use it to refer to the Tribe.

Even though I worked hard to redefine Younger Brother through Indigenous theory, such as place-based theory, relational theory, and communal theory, Muammar either refused to recognize this work, dismissing it as simple, or else simply could not understand the importance of these changes. Either way, the choice is that he didn’t want them to change, or couldn’t comprehend why the change was important because of how entrenched in white supremacist thinking he is. Further, after the massive effort that I put forward to attempt to educate him and the rest of the Paradox team on these issues, the insistence on using offensive terms and belittling my work felt intentional. So let’s talk about the work I did that was above and beyond my job description: free cultural consulting work.

“Sensitivity” and Consultation

I have seen several misunderstandings of my role working on this project going around, so I want to make something very clear. I was hired to work on this project as an author, and nothing else. I was not ever hired to be a cultural consultant. I do not do cultural consulting work. While I feel that there are many creators and companies who hire cultural consultants with the best intentions in mind, their responses often fall short of what is needed, as no one is ever obligated to actually follow the advice of cultural consultants. Further, I think there are also many companies who choose to hire cultural consultants only to say “we did this minimal step, and that is enough” in order to ward off naysayers.

However, anyone who hires me gets some level of cultural consulting for free, because it comes out in my writing–in both what I won’t write and what I choose to center my writing around. In the case of Werewolf 5th Edition, however, it was far more involved than this. I came with a plethora of “I will not write X” because I knew the setting was so problematic. A short list of my demands besides not being willing to write Indigenous erasure, was that we needed to change the names of the Pure Tribes (and the term Pure Tribe itself), we needed to change the word Totem to Patron, and also the Patrons of the Pure Tribes. We needed to move away from the term Metis for obvious reasons, and we needed to move away from the term Skin Dancers. I also specifically noted that there was a lot of cultural theft happening from the beginning of Werewolf until now that I wanted to address. The only way these issues were going to be addressed was to convince Paradox they were actual issues on the level of PR concerns, because nothing else was likely going to be considered. So in order to achieve this, I put in weeks worth of research, writing, and meetings with top level administrators with Hunters Entertainment so that they could bring this information to Paradox. I never documented my hours, but I would guess that I did approximately 80-100 hours of what I could only describe as cultural consultation work for free that was outside the contract work I was hired for. Let’s be clear: I did this willingly because I was passionate about the positive changes I wanted to see in this product, because I believed that Werewolf’s historic ills could be turned toward non-toxic representation.

Besides my actual words, such as naming the Ghost Council, and arguably the name Gale Stalkers came from a combination of names I pitched to Paradox after Winter’s Teeth was denied, and several sentences and paragraphs that I have seen so far that appear so close to what I originally wrote that you could imagine they were just edited versions, my largest contribution toward the final version of Werewolf: 5th Edition was this work. The only reason the offensive, appropriated names were changed were because of hours of my work to convince them it needed to happen. The reason that the Gale Stalkers aren’t just dead and gone: again, I pushed against this. The reason that Skin Dancers, Totem, and Metis will not appear as canonical titles? I pushed against their unwillingness to alter these things (see Karim’s defense of Wen**** Tribe name above).

Further, and this is the biggest reason I decided to write this article before seeing the final version of the book, I want to mention that I was also included in discussions with Hunters Entertainment to potentially be part of the art direction team, especially to oversee depictions of Indigenous characters, regalia, and art, to ensure that it would be represented either respectfully or not at all. I decided I needed to speak as soon as possible after the artistic portrayal of Tāme Iti appeared in the Glass Walkers preview without his permission. There are many arguments surrounding this issue and I am not going to address everything, but ultimately, I can tell you that had I remained as part of the art direction team, and saw that, I would have questioned it immediately. Even if I didn’t recognize Tāme Iti immediately, I would have asked what the source was on the depiction of moko in that piece, because I am aware that this is a sacred form of art–and I had already discussed wanting to make sure things like Crinos in headdresses didn’t appear in the book (as had often happened in previous editions, particularly on a certain white-skinned character whose name rhymes with Steals-the-Past).

As time working on this project went on, and I went through rounds and rounds of trying to convince Muammar and Paradox that it was important to not steal Indigenous identities, art, and stories, and that a greater effort needed to be put in powerful and empowering Indigenous representation, and I constantly ran into refusals and criticisms that were clearly hateful toward Indigenous identities and peoples, not to mention the push to represent Nazism as a major part of the game setting, I grew increasingly frustrated and restless with feeling like I was trying to work on a challenging project while also defending my right to exist as the person I am at every turn. Eventually I turned to another Indigenous TTRPG and game creator to ask for advice, and after a long and difficult discussion, I came to the conclusion that I was going to talk to the Hunters administration team and tell them that if Muammar kept using slurs and other anti-Indigenous language and attitudes, I was going to need to step off of this project, because it was harmful to me on a personal level. In furtherance of this point, I have been avoiding doing any contract work at all where I can tell that I am wanted for my specific cultural perspective ever since, because this situation was so harrowing for me.

Unfortunately, before I could have this conversation, after one final draft of Younger Brother and Bone Gnawers (which had its own issues, but that is not the point of this discussion), before we received any other specific feedback, the Hunters Entertainment administrators announced to the writing team that Paradox had decided to take the book in-house, and would no longer need our services.

The main point I would like to leave you with, besides these few specific quotes (out of dozens and dozens) that Muammar made that were anti-Indigenous, is that there is often a big call to have more BIPOC voices in various entertainment industries, so that both our stories, perspectives, and unique views on how the universe and life works, can be included; so that an industry that is historically, harmfully Eurocentric, might turn toward new, healthier, and inclusive directions. And I agree with this call for change, but I implore you to consider the conditions that BIPOC creators often have to work under: doing cultural/identity work and consultation for free as part of being present, being subject to vicious refusals of our experiences and perspectives, and straight-up having slurs lodged against our work. I want to see these changes in the industries we love, including the gaming industry, but currently the people who are in charge, who have the most power, are severely hostile to our work and our perspectives. This is why, for example, works like Coyote & Crow were done with an almost entirely Indigenous group of creators, and led by Indigenous creators, because trying to work for and with this ugly, hateful, and xenophobic group of people is so often exhausting, both mentally and spiritually, and because no good changes end up being made.

I am glad the harmful, appropriative terms were removed from the setting. I am glad I was part of the fight to make that real. I am not so glad that I was treated with hostility and racism by Muammar for the effort and love I put into this work, and I am not so glad that I will certainly be reviled by one of the two communities I did this work for–the gaming community, and certainly the people in power in this industry–and I am also not so glad that I didn’t have the opportunity to properly acknowledge how much of Werewolf’s base themes and setting are twisted and tied-up in Indigenous appropriation without giving the proper acknowledgments.

More than anything, I hope that this story will help you, the fans, realize that there is a lot of darkness in these communities, and they won’t change unless you hold their feet to the fire.

Ánaagodzįįhł

J.F. Sambrano

#decolonization #ttrpg #werewolves #writing #world of darkness #werewolf: the apocalypse #werewolf the apocalypse #mage: the ascension #vampire: the masquerade #changeling: the dreaming

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mostlysignssomeportents · 4 months

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American education has all the downsides of standardization, none of the upsides

Catch me in Miami! I'll be at Books and Books in Coral Gables on Jan 22 at 8PM.

We moved to America in 2015, in time for my kid to start third grade. Now she's a year away from graduating high school (!) and I've had a front-row seat for the US K-12 system in a district rated as one of the best in the country. There were ups and downs, but high school has been a monster.

We're a decade and a half into the "common core" experiment in educational standardization. The majority of the country has now signed up to a standardized and rigid curriculum that treats overworked teachers as untrustworthy slackers who need to be disciplined by measuring their output through standard lessons and evaluations:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Common_Core

This system is rigid enough, but it gets even worse at the secondary level, especially when combined with the Advanced Placement (AP) courses, which adds another layer of inflexible benchmarks to the highest-stakes, most anxiety-provoking classes in the system:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Advanced_Placement

It is a system singularly lacking in grace. Ironically, this unforgiving system was sold as a way of correcting the injustice at the heart of the US public education system, which funds schools based on local taxation. That means that rich neighborhoods have better funded schools. Rather than equalizing public educational funding, the standardizers promised to ensure the quality of instruction at the worst-funded schools by measuring the educational outcomes with standard tools.

But the joke's on the middle-class families who backed standardized instruction over standardized funding. Their own kids need slack as much as anyone's, and a system that promises to put the nation's kids through the same benchmarks on the same timetable is bad for everyone:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/11/28/give-me-slack-2/

Undoing this is above my pay-grade. I've already got more causes to crusade on than I have time for. But there is a piece of tantalyzingly low-hanging fruit that is dangling right there, and even though I'm not gonna pick it, I can't get it out of my head, so I figured I'd write about it and hope I can lazyweb it into existence.

The thing is, there's a reason that standardization takes hold in so many domains. Agreeing on a common standard enables collaboration by many entities without any need for explicit agreements or coordination. The existence of the ANSI/SAE J563 standard automobile auxiliary power outlet (AKA "car cigarette lighter") didn't just allow many manufacturers to make replacement lighter plugs. The existence of a standardized receptacle delivering standardized voltage to standardized contacts let all kinds of gadgets be designed to fit in that socket.

Standards crystallize the space of all possible ways of solving a problem into a range of solutions. This inevitably has a downside, because the standardized range might not be optimal for all applications. Think of the EU's requirement for USB-C charger tips on all devices. There's a lot of reasons that manufacturers prefer different charger tips for different gadgets. Some of those reasons are bad (gouging you on replacement chargers), but some are good (unique form-factor, specific smart-charging needs). USB-C is a very flexible standard (indeed, it's so flexible that some people complain that it's not a standard at all!) but there are some applications where the optimal solution is outside its parameters.

And still, I think that the standardization on USB-C is a force for good. I have drawers full of gadgets that need proprietary charger tips, and other drawers full of chargers with proprietary tips, and damned if I can make half of them match up. We've continued our pandemic lockdown tradition of my wife cutting my hair in the back yard, and just tracking the three different charger tips for the three clippers she uses is an ongoing source of frustration. I'd happily trade slightly sub-optimal charging for just being able to plug any of those clippers into the same cable I charge my headphones, phone, tablet and laptop on.

The standardization of American education has produced all the downsides of standardization – a rigid, often suboptimal, one-size-fits-all system – without the benefits. With teachers across America teaching in lockstep, often from the same set texts (especially in the AP courses), there's a massive opportunity for a commons to go with the common core.

For example, the AP English and History classes my kid takes use standard texts that are often centuries old and hard to puzzle out. I watched my kid struggle with texts for learning about "persuasive rhetoric" like 17th century pamphlets that inspired anti-indigenous pogroms with fictional accounts of "Indian atrocities."

It's good for American schoolkids to learn about the use of these blood libels to excuse genocide, but these pamphlets are a slog. Even with glossaries in the textbooks, it's a slow, word-by-word matter to parse these out. I can't imagine anyone learning a single thing about how speech persuades people just by reading that text.

But there's nothing in the standardized curriculum that prevents teachers from adding more texts to the unit. We live in an unfortunate golden age for persuasive texts that inspire terrible deeds – for example, kids could also read core Pizzagate texts and connect the guy who shot up the pizza parlor to the racists who formed a 17th century lynchmob.

But teachers are incredibly time-constrained. For one thing, at least a third of the AP classroom time seems to be taken up with detailed instructions for writing stilted, stylized "essays" for the AP tests (these are terrible writing, but they're easy to grade in a standardized way).

That's where standardization could actually deliver some benefits. If just one teacher could produce some supplemental materials and accompanying curriculum, the existence of standards means that every other teacher could use it. What's more, any adaptations that teachers make to that unit to make them suited to their kids would also work for the other teachers in the USA. And because the instruction is so rigidly standardized, all of these materials could be keyed to metadata that precisely identified the units they belonged to.

The closest thing we have to this are "marketplaces" where teachers can sell each other their supplementary materials. As far as I can tell, the only people making real money from these marketplaces are the grifters who built them and convinced teachers to paywall the instructional materials that could otherwise form a commons.

Like I said, I've got a completely overfull plate, but if I found myself at loose ends, trying to find a project to devote the rest of my life to, I'd be pitching funders on building a national, open access portal to build an educational commons.

It may be a lot to expect teachers to master the intricacies of peer-based co-production tools like Git, but there's already a system like this that K-8 teachers across the country have mastered: Scratch. Scratch is a graphic programming environment for kids, and starting with 2019's Scratch 3.0, the primary way to access it is via an in-browser version that's hosted at scratch.mit.edu.

Scratch's online version is basically a kid- (and teacher-)friendly version of Github. Find a project you like, make a copy in your own workspace, and then mod it to suit your own needs. The system keeps track of the lineage of different projects and makes it easy for Scratch users to find, adapt, and share their own projects. The wild popularity of this system tells us that this model for a managed digital commons for an educational audience is eminently achievable.

So when students are being asked to study the rhythm of text by counting the numbers of words in the sentences of important speeches, they could supplement that very boring exercise by listening to and analyzing contemporary election speeches, or rap lyrics, or viral influencer videos. Different teachers could fork these units to swap in locally appropriate comparitors – and so could students!

Students could be given extra credit for identifying additional materials that slot into existing curricular projects – Tiktok videos, new chart-topping songs, passages from hot YA novels. These, too, could go into the commons.

This would enlist students in developing and thinking critically about their curriculum, whereas today, these activities are often off-limits to students. For example, my kid's math teachers don't hand back their quizzes after they're graded. The teachers only have one set of quizzes per unit, and letting the kids hold onto them would leak an answer-key for the next batch of test-takers.

I can't imagine learning math this way. "You got three questions wrong but I won't let you see them" is no way to help a student focus on the right areas to improve their understanding.

But there's no reason that math teachers in a commons built around the (unfortunately) rigid procession of concepts and testing couldn't generate procedural quizzes, specified with a simple programming language. These tests could even be automatically graded, and produce classroom stats on which concepts the whole class is struggling with. Each quiz would be different, but cover the same ground.

When I help my kid with her homework, we often find disorganized and scattered elements of this system – a teacher might post extensive notes on teaching a specific unit. A publisher might produce a classroom guide that connects a book to specific parts of the common core. But these are scattered across the web, and they aren't keyed to the specific, standard components of common core and AP.

This is a standardized system that is all costs, no benefits. It has no "architecture of participation" that lets teachers, students, parents, practitioners and even commercial publishers collaborate to produce a commons that all may share and improve upon.

In an ideal world, we'd get rid of standardization in education, pay teachers well, give them the additional time they needed to prepare exciting and relevant curriculum, and fund all our schools based on need, not parents' income.

But in the meanwhile, we could be making lemonade of out lemons. If we're going to have standardization, we should at least have the collaboration standards enable.

I'm Kickstarting the audiobook for The Bezzle, the sequel to Red Team Blues, narrated by @wilwheaton! You can pre-order the audiobook and ebook, DRM free, as well as the hardcover, signed or unsigned. There's also bundles with Red Team Blues in ebook, audio or paperback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/16/flexibility-in-the-margins/#a-commons

#pluralistic #education #common core #commons #set texts #pedagogy #scratch #edtech

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intheholler · 12 days

Text

what joke are you really tryin to tell when you make fun of appalachia and the greater south?

even when you "just" mock our accents (you and i both know what you're really implying when you take on the drawl), the punchline of your joke there is poverty.

those who prefer a more overt route over backhanded implication: when you laugh at our education, or lack thereof, the punchline of your joke is still poverty. systemically underfunded schools packed with underprivileged children who aren't getting the same standards of education as the rest of the country is a real knee slapper boy i tell you what

when you mock our dental health and start quipping about toothless hillbillies, you're still laughin at poverty. appalachia is disproportionately uninsured compared to the rest of the nation. fellas most of us can't afford the privilege of regular, preventative dental visits and checkups, let alone the cost of huge procedures when things finally get dire. beyond that, our poverty is generational. from the get go we inherit bad teeth from family who couldn't afford that shit neither.

in the same vein, when you make fatphobic comments about said disproportionately-uninsured region--one with few jobs available to begin with, let alone work that pays enough to afford wholesome, unprocessed foods that don't rot yer teeth for supper--the butt of your joke is,, u guessed it,, ✨ poverty ✨

but to me the real kicker is the cousin fucker jokes. how can you not see that when you snark about inbreeding, when you piss yourself over that infamous billboard and oh, how could anyone possibly need to be told that?!, your punchline is not only poverty and a lack of education enough to develop critical thinking skills and the ability to build safe support networks, but you're also usually guffawing at incestuous rape and vulnerable children on top of it. peak comedy.

really though, how is any of that funny?

what happens to everyone's class consciousness the moment we start talkin about the hollers n the deep south?

why does health insurance, quality education, and food security for all suddenly go from issues worth fighting for to punishments, and ones we deserve to be humiliated for on top of it?

i know im just a dumb ol hillbilly n all, but i reckon i just don't get what we're supposed to be laughin at here

#appalachia #appalachian stereotypes #class consciousness #poverty #fatphobia #education #health insurance #appalachian #tw rape #tw incest #tw sa mention #txt

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gentil-minou · 6 months

Note

can't we do smth for palestine like we did for ukraine like miraculers for palestine? i just think it'd help.

Monetary aid is useless in Gaza right now because Israel has the entire area under siege. We could raise a million dollars for them, and in fact many have, but it will rot in trucks trapped at the border because Israel refuses to let them in. They don't even have fuel or medical supplies or electricity or water or anything, not because there isn't anyone donating but because Israel refuses to let it in.

Their goal is to slowly starve and kill them all, or push them out of their homeland forever and steal more land for themselves

BUT YOU CAN HELP

WE NEED A CEASEFIRE

The majority of countries and citizens all throughout the world agree that we need an immediate and permanent ceasefire. (Not a humanitarian pause the US keeps trying to push like letting them have 5 days to breathe before Israel slaughters them all).

The majority agrees but a handful of countries, primarily the USA, Canada, and the UK have refused. And because the UN is a joke because the US gets whatever it wants even when it's the only one who wants it, a ceasefire is impossible.

So what can you do?

Easy

Contact your representatives and government

Flood their lines. Call them everyday. Fax them. Email them. Send them written letters. Join a protest. Disrupt the system

Make it clear you will not vote for them if they do not listen to you. Make it clear you want a ceasefire

Here are a few sites to get you started (these are US based but there are plenty of resources for other countries around)

This is just the link I have on hand there are COUNTLESS ones there are ones that will make the call for you, like this one that I used

Physical mail is better. Faxzero is a website that let's you send faxes for free. There are even pdfs and premade letters

Let's say you're not from one of these evil countries, what can you do?

There are protests around the world. Find them and join. Show the world Gaza is bleeding and Palestinians are screaming and that their screams are being heard. Show the world that you refuse to plug your ears and lie silent. Be their voice.

Educate yourself

Read books by Palestinians watch movies and documentaries. Follow their journalists, give them a voice especially now when the rich and powerful are trying so desperately to smother them.

Israel and the western powers want you to be ignorant.

DONT LET THEM

And whatever you do: don't stay silent. Don't treat this like a trend. Do not stop fighting

Even after a ceasefire, we need to keep going. There needs to be a complete dismantling of the Israel terrorist state. We have to keep fighting so Palestinians can live in Palestine the way they have for centuries. We need to show the corrupt governments in this world that we are not going to live under their tyranny

So be LOUD

#palestine #gaza #israel #free palestine #free gaza #Jerusalem #social justice #ceasefire now #gaza strip #palestinian #israeli apartheid #terrorism #jews of tumblr #jewsforpalestine #jumblr #asked and answered #miraculous ladybug

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minkdelovely · 26 days

Text

love and power

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

chapter seven

“so let me show you how to touch my trigger.”

Alastor x Fem!Reader ; MDNI 18+ ; [y/n] used sparingly ; Alias in Hell is Sylvie

tags/warnings: valentino lol, semi-consensual touching ; licking ; and undressing, descriptions of repulsion, violent tearing of clothes, power dynamics, people pleasing tendencies *hopelessly devoted to you plays in the distance*, slow burn eventual: smut

word count: 3.9k

author’s note: the longest chapter to date, but i had a lot of fun with this one. valentino is a naughty, naughty overlord… ❤️‍🔥 i think this is my favorite chapter k luv u

prelude ; chapter one ; chapter two ; chapter three ; chapter four ; chapter five ; chapter six ; chapter seven ; chapter eight ; chapter nine

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

Lying in bed, you lingered on the dull ache pulsing through your body; blood turning to fire in your veins as you recalled how you ended up here. A sobering worry trickled after it as you stared at the canopy above, as if it could provide an answer.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

That morning…

The couple of days that passed since Alastor broke the news of his bargain with Valentino went by without incident. It had been a nice change of pace settling back into a more familiar routine, with mornings and evenings reserved for tending to Alastor and the afternoons with your housemates. You were really beginning to look forward to your time with them now, a pleasant way to break up the monotony of work.

Your heart stuttered then, reminding you that today would be different.

You weren’t sure what Alastor had said to Charlie to get you out of the hotel today, as all he told you was that it had been handled. Thankfully she hadn’t cornered you to ask about it since you wouldn’t know what to say if she did. You knew you wouldn’t be able to lie to her, but there was definitely no way you could have told her the truth.

Alastor had no doubt fibbed about why he required you with him for the whole day, the honest explanation simply too much of a blotch on his pride to admit to. Besides, there would be no way to avoid how he had ended up in this predicament without admitting to what you had done. Husk and Angel had kept their word and you were still so grateful that they were the only ones to see you that morning. It had even become somewhat of an inside joke between the three of you.

But the thought of Charlie finding out… Your cheeks burned with shame and you shook your head to try and clear your mind. It was handled. She didn’t know about it. That was all it needed to be.

You peaked over at Alastor’s place on the balcony, making sure he hadn’t seen you working through this as you dusted one of his many bookshelves stocked with titles you didn’t recognize. He had enjoyed teasing you about that, as if niche books about the mechanics of broadcasting and the occult should have made their way into the American education system by the time you were attending.

Mercifully he was buried in the newspaper, incoherently grumbling to himself as his fingers tore into it like it owed him a debt. Testy. And also on his third cup of coffee… not a good sign. But that was to be expected today, the edge you’ve felt building around him since the other day finally coming to a peak.

Alastor had elaborated somewhat in regard to what he meant by concessions, stating that he had to concede to Valentino’s desire to make a final decision in exchange for leaving Angel Dust out of the fray. Knowing what little pieces you did about the relationship between them, you couldn’t help but be thankful that this would be one less thing for Angel to worry about. On the other hand, it also made you increasingly nervous about what Valentino might resolve to do.

Was Alastor worried about it, too?

Your imagination went into overdrive then, pulse crashing through you with fear of the unknown. What if he wanted to hurt you — how would he do it if he did? Angel didn’t go into the details, but it was more than possible for Valentino to be violent with you considering how he liked to treat his employees. You nearly gagged on the word just thinking it and the blatant lack of respect Valentino had towards the kept when something else came to mind.

What if he wanted to put you in one of his movies as a way of making up for Donny’s absence? Apparently he was taking a longer time than expected to heal…

If you were forced to choose, you’d opt for his brutality; a beating you could take, and there were only so many ways to accomplish the goal. But you knew the options were endless when it came to the videos Valentino produced and it filled you with a sense of dread. Not that you were a prude, but putting yourself on display like that wasn’t something you felt comfortable with even just to start. Who knows what kind of situation he’d want you in? It really could be anything.

And what would Alastor be able to do about it? Would he even have a choice… would he care?

The sudden feeling of a hand on your shoulder caused you to jump, the ghost of a scream catching in your throat as the feather duster clattered to the floor. A small but firm squeeze followed with surprising comfort, holding you steady.

“Your heartbeat is distracting,” Alastor said softly from behind you through thinly veiled irritation. It was a fact you could have done without. Did you have nothing for yourself anymore? You were about to respond when he continued. “You can retire to your room now. I’ll come by to collect you when it’s time to leave… and you’d better not change clothes.”

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

The V Tower was an ominous place once you stood in front of it.

It had always been an eye-catching building — something you would never admit to Alastor — the array of purple, pink, and blue neon lights vivacious against the otherwise bleak and decrepit backdrop of Pentagram City. Its elegant round shape, amass of windows, and cleanliness making it striking enough to earn the title of landmark. But it was a place ever on the horizon, need never driving you to approach its doors. Until now.

Meeting here was no doubt another part of the deal, your nerves fraying at the thought of Alastor’s position. It was clear that he wished to be anywhere else, not out of fear but fury. The sharpness in his red eyes fit to kill, his smile so tight you were amazed he hadn’t shattered a fang. Even his hair seemed to stand a bit on edge. Was he really in such a bad spot that he had to concede to this much? The thought alone made your chest tight, but you were resolved to do whatever you needed to keep up your part in all of this.

A Robo Fizz emerged from the doors and approached, moving in sharp fluid movements before stopping in front of the two of you. It gave you a quick up-and-down before pivoting back to the doors, signaling for you to follow, the mechanical sound of its movements the only thing hanging in the heavy silence besides your pair of footsteps like a death knell. You passed through the bright bustling lobby, covered in posters and advertisements for various products and movies, heading straight to an eerily austere elevator which took you to the top of the building.

With a pleasant ding the elevator door opened up to golden hallway, lined with purple light fixtures and rounded archways that broke up the space between several doorways. Somehow the heart moulding at the base of each column and the upper wall managed to feel sinister rather than sweet. Despite its lavish appearance, the absence of love here was palpable. You shivered and inched closer to Alastor as you finally approached the large doorway at the end of the hall, purple adorned with an ornate golden design that was reminiscent of wings.

The Robo Fizz stood off to the side, the two women flanking the double doors opening them for you with a silent bow. Alastor placed his hand on your shoulder, slightly cupping the back of your neck, but it was all tension, no comfort.

This was it.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

“Aww, you two have matching resting-creepy-face! How sweet,” Valentino cooed, glowing eyes the only thing you could make out through a plume of red smoke. His voice, dripping with a saccharine menace, was enough to distract you from the bite of Alastor’s claws.

“Don’t push it, Valentino,” Alastor warned tightly, the static growl underneath it not quite hidden.

The moth demon emerged from the smoke with a haughty laugh, towering over the both of you with an impressive height. So this was Valentino. It galled you to admit, but he was striking, to say the least.

Dressed in a tight black blazer with white pants and a gold-plated heart-shaped belt, he was lavender-skinned and lean; a scarf of downy white feathers embellished with pinkish-red hearts encompassed his smug face adorned with translucent pink heart-shaped glasses rimmed in gold. His garish hat was a saving grace, something you could laugh at with Angel once you had returned to the safety of the hotel. You noticed that one of his antennae was bare, the other a blend of black and white feathers. Though it took you a moment to realize that it wasn’t a red cape, but wings cascading down to the floor behind him.

He crossed his arms — of which he had four — and sauntered toward you, his pink-fanged smile giving you a chill it was so predatory. You felt Alastor stiffen slightly next to you at the approach, but he brought you forward with him all the same. Had he not been with you, you weren’t confident that you wouldn’t have given into the instinct to flee.

With a quick movement Valentino took your hand in his and brought it up to his mouth, giving it a sloppy, wet, languid lick in what you assumed was a greeting. It took all you had not to recoil and wipe off the magenta-hued saliva, your only tether being Alastor’s presence behind you, but the silent shriek clamoring in your lungs was deafening all the same. You understood that this was all part of their game and gave yourself a reminder to maintain as brave a face as you could. More than anything, you realized, was that you really did want to make Alastor proud.

“Mmm, she’s tasty, flaco. Adorable, too — just look at those pouty lips! You’d never think she could tear out a throat by looking at her. I must say, the footage was… electrifying,” Valentino purred, leaning down to inspect you, his breath in your face smoky and sweet with tobacco. You fought to maintain eye contact but faltered, blood rushing to your face as you squirmed under his hungry gaze, drawing out another laugh from him. “And shy? How novel. What’s your name, querida?”

“Sylvie,” Alastor responded tersely, not giving you the chance. His grip on you now was harsh enough to bruise, no doubt channeling all of his discomfort into it. You’d suffer it for as long as you needed to, a conviction that raised an alarm somewhere deep in your mind. “Now that introductions have been made, shall we discuss your plan of action?”

Valentino smirked, blowing another waft of cigarette smoke in your direction.

“Well, you don’t waste time, do you? Not a fan of foreplay? It can be the best part you know.” He was speaking to Alastor but kept his focus on you; impossible to miss the insinuation in his pink grin, his mind was clearly already at work with ideas. He only broke eye contact to shout, “Kitty! Bring some refreshments for our little Sylvie and keep her company. Alastor and I have business.”

The Robo Fizz, apparently called Kitty, appeared and disappeared as quickly as it had been summoned. Valentino walked toward the door, giving you one final, avid look as he passed you. You finally allowed yourself to glance up at Alastor but he was honed in on the Overlord. From what you could glimpse of his face — his jaw taut — you found yourself somewhat relieved that you wouldn’t be with them while they negotiated; though you still felt uneasy at being left to wait here in Valentino’s penthouse, knowing that when they came back it would be with your fate in their hands.

Alastor turned to you before following Valentino out, leaning down to speak quietly into your ear. “Take even a sip of whatever that creature brings you and I promise to punish you myself.”

The only thing that stopped you from objecting against the insult was a quick touch to your chin, silencing you without a word.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

Valentino was sat at his desk, Alastor across from him in the tackiest chair he'd ever had the displeasure to be in.

The office was dressed to be just as gaudy as its owner and smelled intensely of tobacco and the unmistakable miasma the moth demon naturally exuded; a sickly combination of scents that made Alastor want to retch, it was such an assault on his senses. He couldn’t fucking wait to get out of here… Something about the entire building made him feel like a caged animal.

“I want her neck,” Valentino said abruptly, flicking his lighter open to smoke a fresh cigarette. He exhaled with a laugh, taking in Alastor’s intense face at the proposition. “Relaaax, flaquito! Not to eat, though that would be poetic. I just wanna taste her. She smells divine, too, it’s a shame I know you won’t trade. I’d definitely have more fun with her than you are, that’s for sure. Not having her walk around dressed like some bitch off Little House on the Prairie.”

The reference was lost on the Radio Demon, but he bristled all the same. Up until now, the only ones who had been able to smell you were himself and Hellborn (he had made this deduction after Charlie had commented on it once). He had been content with that, making him feel part of an exclusive group sharing in on something unobtainable to others. Which only made Valentino’s awareness of it that much more infuriating.

But the desire for him to taste of you… That was crossing a line.

“You’d waste this opportunity on something meager like that?” Alastor asked, feigning nonchalance as he folded his hands over his knee. It was the only thing keeping him from reaching over to throttle Valentino’s feather-covered neck. “And to think I’ve been worried these last couple days!”

Valentino chucked, low and dark, his fanged grin one of preemptive victory. “Call it what you want, but I know you like to play coy. Honestly, I was just gonna shoot her in front of you, but I’ve changed my mind. Let me have a taste and you’re free to go, charges dropped. Deal?”

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

You were clinging to Alastor’s arm like a lifeline, surprised but grateful that he hadn’t peeled you off of him yet. Maybe it was a consolation, maybe he was too wrung out from the day to care. Either way, you let the comfort of it sink into you like a balm.

Neither of you had spoken since you left V Tower, separately processing what took place once the men had reached an agreement. Remembering how he pulled you to the side while Valentino sipped a drink, boxing you in and speaking to you in a voice so low it felt like a tryst. The apology that couldn’t pass his lips was said with his eyes instead. But there was bitterness there, too, enough for the both of you.

I will rectify this somehow, he said with silent words.

You don’t need to, you silently said back.

It was the price you needed to pay for this to all finally be over, to stop seeing that look in his eye. Touching as it was, you knew he couldn’t stand it and so it gave you no pleasure. Every second that passed without resolution was another hit to his pride, which he cherished above all things. You wanted him to have that again so badly it felt like a live flame in your stomach. So you demonstrated to him how much you meant it, going to Valentino without fuss.

You could still feel the way his fingers easily undid the button of your collar, the tug of release as the zipper pulled down enough for him to pull the fabric away from your neck. He took his time with you, taunting Alastor with every small gesture. Two hands firm on your hips, the other two cupping your face, even sparing a moment to tuck back your hair. The rapturous groan that rumbled in his chest as he buried his face in your neck, breathing so deep you felt the smallest piece of your soul go with it, lost forever to Valentino like flicking a coin into a well.

How his laugh echoed in your ear at your rigidity when the tip of his tongue prodded the skin of your neck and the small shriek that jerked out of you from the shock. You could hear static with your heartbeat then, low and humming from the corner Alastor had reserved himself to; either forced to watch or refusing to leave. You couldn’t tell him not to worry, so you resolved to show him that you were okay, slowly relaxing in Valentino’s arms as his tongue and mouth explored your neck. Goosebumps prickling your skin like a million needles.

You couldn’t be sure how long you were subjected to it, the seconds seemed to pass like years. But you stood your ground and let him have his prize, which he relished with a fervor that made you feel cold. It took all you had not to run back to Alastor once it was all over, knowing that you needed to act like you still had every ounce of your dignity, not only for yourself but for your keeper whom you wished to honor.

Could he feel how protected you still felt? How repulsed you had been?

When I closed my eyes, it wasn’t Valentino there but…

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

The two of you had finally made it back to the hotel, the lobby mercifully empty as you made your way to the elevator. Alastor felt you relax against him as soon as the doors opened on your floor, as if you’d been holding your breath. He could understand the sentiment, himself just as desperate to get back to his own room.

Alastor had allowed you to hold onto him, finding an odd reassurance in the gesture, but his limit was reached. He had been simmering for the last couple days, ever since that frivolous idea came to him on his walk to Cannibal Town. The meeting with Valentino had upset him enough that he was able to push it down, but it had been relentlessly picking at his subconscious as the days passed.

The nights were the worst, and the demon was spending more and more time in his secondary room or the radio tower just to escape the torment of your scent that permeated his suite. And just when he was managing to calm down it would be morning, and there you’d be at his door with a punctuality that was boarding sadistic. But he was doing well, holding it all back.

Until Valentino swallowed you whole.

Alastor vowed to never sleep again, knowing well what nightmares would come with it. Perhaps it would have been better to let that sleazy imbecile shoot you, after all. It was a sentiment he didn’t fully mean, but there was enough truth in it to sting with remorse. He could tell that you hadn’t reveled in the moth’s ministrations, but your scent betrayed the carnal nature of the act.

In fact, that was mostly what he wished to get away from. Your arousal — heady with a dizzying warm, floral musk — had clung to you the entire way home, testing his resolve with every step. Had he been in a better mood he might have found it funny, how worked up you were. But this was onerous and persistent, and if anything, seeming to grow instead of dissipate. Blooming.

Something occurred to him then, turning his blood to ice.

You had just pulled away, the door to your room partially open now, when you turned to look up at him with a look in your eyes he hadn’t seen before. It was so demure it felt obscene. And just like this morning, your heart was clamoring against your ribs like a sickening lullaby. The pink flush on your cheeks seeping down your neck, or was it the other way around?

Without thinking, Alastor tore the collar of your dress, the sound of ripping fabric deafening in the air between you. You began to protest but he was too riled to care as the shadow of his branch-like horns fell over you, his eyes losing the struggle against the urge to switch. He tugged at the hair near the nape of your neck, the sharp sound of your breath catching as he leaned in burning straight through to his gut, more so than the sting to this nostrils. He was right.

Valentino had laced his pheromones onto you.

“Son of a bitch…!” he spat, nearly shoving you to the floor as he recoiled, his shadow pulling away from behind him with a hiss over his shoulder.

This was dangerous.

“Alastor, what’s wrong?” you cried, clearly shaken as you backed up into your room; tears forming in the corner of your eyes as you took in the wild look that was no doubt on his face. Were you terrified of him now, like you had been the other night? It was a thrilling thought.

He couldn’t help but follow, slamming the door shut behind him without grace, heaving against the wildfire that was eating away at his self control. Blood in the water. That’s what it felt like, an all-consuming hunger that could only be sated with one thing. Despite himself, over these last couple days he had thought of all sorts of ways he could have you, not even the most ravaging being like this. He never could have imagined this…

I’ll fucking tear that scheming bastard apart!

Suddenly your hands were on his chest, trembling but firm; gazing up at him with eyes awash with fear and determination. You were so stubborn, foolish. Would you ever not be? You had the same look before you walked into Valentino’s arms, too.

Alastor’s hands traveled up, cupping your face and neck so easily. He held you like this… The thought was like acid to his already frayed nerves. You felt so precious, so fragile in his hold, but he feared he could no longer fight back against the tempest of desire to consume you.

Because that’s what it was.

He wanted you to unravel in his hands, wanted to pick at the hem of your resolve and see what came spilling out. And it would be all for him. Only for him. He wanted to relish the sounds, the smell, the taste. To take that sullen look ever-present in your face and shatter it, make it yield. The culmination of his wicked work.

“Alastor, please… let me help. Whatever it is, I’ll do it, just let me help you,” you said, barely above a whisper, your small hands now wrapped around his wrists. A single tear fell from your eye and forced itself beneath his thumb with a pleasant burn.

He squeezed his eyes closed and took a shuddering breath, willing them to return to their normal red when he opened them again; wanting to be himself as much as he could in this. Words couldn’t accomplish what he needed to convey.

So he leaned down to capture your mouth with his instead.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

UH OH, YOU SAID THE DANGEROUS THING. SMUT NEXT CHAPTER💅🏻✨

ps: just in case anyone isn’t familiar with some of the spanish here 💖

‘flaco/flaquito’ can function as a nickname and is commonly used as a term said in jest or endearment meaning ‘skinny’ (though it can also be used as an insult lol — there’s definitely a bit of both happening here).

 ‘querida’ is a little more loaded, meaning various things like ‘dear, love/my love/lover, darling’ and was a more intense choice since it’s normally used in a hyper-affectionate way (i.e. towards your wife) but i thought it fit nicely here as part of valentino’s intimidation (and i imagine it’s a phrase he uses when he wants to love bomb).

 sadly i am not fluent in spanish, but being part of a mexican family/household helps lol i just figured i would share so you can get more of a feel for valentino’s dialogue cuz it was really fun to write.

tag list: @fairyv-ice, @wat4r, @midorichoco, @raynerrold, @krak-jj, @tremendoushearttaco, @redfoxwritesstuff, @chibistar45, @kaylopolis

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel fan fiction #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor x reader #alastor smut #hazbin hotel smut #slow burn #alastor slow burn #song fic #if i can’t have love i want power #love and power #x reader #alastor the radio demon #the radio demon #hazbin hotel slow burn #alastor x reader slow burn

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scoonsalicious · 2 months

Text

Your Choice

Pairing: Cop!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Teacher!Reader

Summary: You're minding your own business at home one evening when local police Sergeant James "Bucky" Barnes comes knocking on your door. Someone's reported a crime being committed on your property, and the sergeant can either bring you down to the station, or get you off with a warning... it's your choice.

Warnings: Language, because I have a foul mouth, explicit smut (unprotected PIV, oral (m receiving), fingering), mentions of drug manufacturing/possession/use, little bit 'o' bondage, implied dubcon, implied infidelity, implied abuse of police authority (honestly, read the whole thing through before coming at me for warnings, okay? I promise it'll make sense), bad cop jokes/puns/innuendos. Please let me know if I missed anything.

Word Count: 4.3k

A/N: Inspired by actual events! And by that, I just mean the part where someone called the cops and told them I was cooking crack in my kitchen. Literally everything else is a figment of my imagination, alas! Special thanks to bestie @jmeelee for suggesting I take that awkward encounter and turn it into something to benefit all of mankind, and for giving me a title. The Cheesecake Factory is going to start forbidding us entry with the way we talk in there.

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You put the tea kettle on to boil before sitting down at the kitchen table to start grading your students’ papers. You’d been hoping to get through as many as possible before your husband came home from work, but with the number of corrections you were having to make on these assignments, you’d be lucky if you got a quarter of them done before then. It was disheartening. Distance learning during Covid really hadn’t done the public education system any favors and you felt like you’d been playing catch-up for years now.

When the kettle eventually boiled, you pulled yourself away from your grading to make yourself a cup of tea. You had just settled back down with your steaming mug when you heard an incessant pounding at the front door, startling you. You briefly considered not answering— you weren’t expecting anyone, and besides, who showed up unannounced at someone’s door anymore?

Serial killers, that’s who.

But the knocking continued, relentless and heavy. After a few seconds, you heard a gruff voice call “Police. Open up!”

“What the hell?” you asked yourself, putting down the tea mug and making your way through the living room to the front door.

Peering behind the curtain on the front door window, you could make out the figure of a uniformed officer standing on your front porch. He was illuminated from behind by the streetlight, leaving only his outline visible to you.

Narrowing your eyes in confusion and concern, you turned on the porch light, unlocked the door and opened it a crack. “Can I help you, officer?” you asked cautiously.

The man tipped the brim of his hat up, and you were met with a bright pair of blue eyes that glimmered with more than a hint of mischief.

“It’s actually Sergeant, ma’am,” the man said to you as he tipped his hat and offered you a wicked grin. You breathed a sigh of relief-- you knew him. Of course you did. Your small town didn’t have much in the way of local law enforcement, and James Barnes, or ‘Bucky,’ as most folks called him, was a specimen to be revered. Ridiculously handsome, tall and broad, he was built entirely of muscle as he towered over you from the doorway. He was a favorite among the local female population, often being specifically requested to provide police presence at PTO functions and Ladies’ Auxiliary events. Despite the gold ring he wore on his left hand, the women of the town were drawn to him like flies to a corpse, much to the frustration of his poor wife.

“What can I do for you, Sergeant?” you amended, with a touch of sarcasm in your voice as you offered him a smirk back, though you were still confused by his presence.

“Well, ma’am, seems like we got a call reporting suspicious activity at this address,” he drawled, leaning now on your door jam, fingers hooking in his belt loops.

“Here?” you asked, surprise coloring your tone. “Are you being serious with me right now, Bucky?”

“That’s Sergeant Barnes to you, ma��am,” he responded nonchalantly. Oh, so he was playing it like that, then? Good to know. “Got a tip that someone’s been cooking meth in your kitchen. ‘m here to check it out.”

You couldn’t help but burst out laughing. “Meth?! That’s a new one!” You’d had some of your students call in pranks on you in the past, but this was an extreme.

“Ma’am, I’m afraid meth is no laughing matter,” the sergeant said in all seriousness. The look in his eyes immediately shut down any trace of humor you felt as you stared back at him. “The manufacture of illegal drugs is a very serious crime. I’d like to come inside and take a look, if you don’t mind.”

You pursed your lips. You remembered something your husband had discussed with you, and decided you weren’t going to make this easy for him. “Do you have a warrant?” you asked defiantly.

Sergeant Barnes sighed heavily and rubbed his dark stubble with the palm of his hand. “Ma’am, I’ve had a long shift. Let’s not make this any harder than it needs to be. Now, either you can let me inside, or you can come down and answer questions at the station. It’s up to you.”

It wasn’t an option, not really. “Come on in, then,” you told him, moving aside so he could enter. He walked through the door, his meaty arm grazing against the side of your breast as he did so, and you involuntarily shuddered at the sensation. You knew he noticed when you caught him smirking at you again.

“Kitchen’s this way,” you murmured, somewhat breathlessly, as you led him back through the house to the room in question. He followed silently behind you, his footfalls heavy and sure.

Once in the kitchen, Sergeant Barnes began looking around. It was obvious you weren’t in the middle of a meth lab. You were a high school English teacher, for god’s sake! You weren’t quite sure what game the sergeant was playing at, but you had no doubt he’d make his intentions known in good time.

After glancing around, he eventually said “Well, I can see there’s no meth setup here. Guess it was a false alarm.” You shot him a glare as if to say no shit, but he walked to the cabinet holding your glassware and opened it. “Well, well, well… what do we have here?” He reached in and pulled out a bong and a container of marijuana. “Now, I know next state over might have given the go ahead for this stuff, but in this state, recreational use of the Devil’s Lettuce is still illegal, darlin’. Mighty bad look for a school teacher to have it on hand, don’t ya think?”

You cocked your hip and crossed your arms in front of your chest defiantly. “That’s my husband’s,” you told him with a roll of your eyes. “And I’m pretty sure you just conducted an illegal search and seizure there, sarge.”

He put the bong down on the counter with a heavy clink and turned to face you, his face impassive and voice stern. “Now, seems to me someone’s got a problem with authority, darlin’. I don’t appreciate you talkin’ back to an officer of the law like that. Might need to teach you some manners.”

You swallowed thickly, finally having an idea of where the sergeant was going with his little drop-in and felt a frisson run through your body that left you trembling. Honestly, you were surprised you hadn’t seen it coming. There’d been talk, after all.

“Now,” he continued as he slowly made his way across the kitchen toward you, “as I see it, we got ourselves two options here. One: you can come down with me to the station and we can book your pretty little ass on possession charges, which is gonna take hours and require a hell of a lotta paperwork.” He was standing directly in front of you now, leaving just inches between your bodies. You sucked in a breath, the nearness of him making you dizzy. “Or two, I can get you off with a warning. Still might take hours, but at least we can both have ourselves a good time. Your choice, darlin.”

You took a step back, pressing yourself against the edge of the counter in an attempt to put some space between you. “I think you mean ‘let’ me off with a warning, Sergeant Barnes,” you said, your words coming out in an exhale.

You gasped as his hand came down to cup you between your legs and gently squeeze your mound through the fabric off your jeans. He leaned down to whisper in your ear. “I meant what I said, darlin’. But you gotta prove you’re gonna be a good, respectful girl, first, so why don’t you get down on your knees and show me how you obey the law?”

Your eyes widened at his command, unsure how to proceed. Unfortunately, Sergeant Barnes was impatient– he took both his hands and put them on your shoulders, gently but firmly guiding you down until you were kneeling in front of him, the large bulge in his trousers staring you straight in the face.

“Best get to work, darlin,” he growled, brushing your hair away from your face. “It’s not gonna suck itself.”

You couldn’t believe this was actually happening as you slowly brought your shaking hands up to his waist. With trembling fingers, you unfastened his belt and unbuttoned his pants. His massive erection was straining the fabric of his gray boxer-briefs, leaving a dark wet stain where the tip rested against the cloth, evidence of his arousal already making itself known.

Moving as though afraid of spooking a scared animal, you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his briefs, tugging them down to just above his knees and setting his cock free to bounce up against his lower stomach.

God, but he was big. If the women in town had any idea that he was packing so much more than just his gun, they’d never give him a moment of peace. You traced a finger along the vein at the base of his member, trailing it up his length to the weeping red tip. Coating yourself in his pre-cum, you used his essence as lubrication as you began working him with your hand.

“Not that this doesn’t feel good, but what did I say about sucking it, darlin’?” Sergeant Barnes asked through a grunt as you pumped him.

“I’ll get to it,” you told him, a hint of irritation in your voice. He had a lot of nerve making demands of you at a time like this.

You felt his hand come and roughly grab you by the chin, jerking your head up to make you look him in the eye. “You got the right to remain silent, Sweetheart. I’m gonna be a gentleman and suggest you use it. Find another purpose for that pretty mouth of yours.” He took his hand away with a wink.

You licked your lips as your eyes took him in. Leaning your head down into him, you flattened your tongue and ran it up the underside of his cock.

“Good girl,” he moaned as your tongue circled his tip. “Keep it up. Makin’ me feel so fuckin’ good with that sassy mouth of yours.” You took him into your mouth a little bit at a time, teasing him as one hand worked his base and the other cupped his balls.

You weren't a woman who liked to be told what to do, but the dominance in his voice made you shudder, an involuntary thrill skittering down your spine. He felt intoxicating, dangerous and you had the feeling you were in way over your head.

“Mmm,” he grunted as you swirled your tongue around the swell of his head before deciding to take him in deeper. You relaxed your throat and backed off only when you felt his length bump against it.

"Jesus, darlin', where'd you learn that?" he asked breathlessly. His hands moved to cup your face as you moved rhythmically along his length, setting your own pace. He was blissfully lost in the sensation.

But then, Sergeant Barnes wasn’t one to give up control so easily, either. “Stop teasing,” he huffed out before threading his fingers through your hair and tugging lightly, a clear sign that he wanted more.

You didn’t hesitate to oblige, taking him deep in your mouth until you heard him groan in pleasure above you. His grip on your hair tightened as he took over guiding your movement, his hips bucking up to meet your mouth until he was fucking your face with abandon. The taste of him was overpowering, salty and bitter, making your cheeks flush with heat as you struggled to accommodate his size, tears running down your cheeks and drool pooling from the corners of your mouth.

"I knew you had it in you," he grunted, his voice barely a whisper now as he lost himself in the waves of pleasure you were giving him. You looked up to see his eyes closed tight, his lips parted when ragged breaths escaped his chest that was heaving like a wild beast caught in a trap.

He was close, you could tell from the way his body squirmed and the throbbing of his hardness against your tongue. There was an urgency in his ragged breathing and the racing pulse beneath his skin that echoed through your core. But he wasn’t going to finish yet. Not if Sergeant Barnes had anything to say about it.

A sudden force yanked you back by the hair, tearing your mouth away from him. You let out a surprised yelp, wiping away the excess saliva that clung to your lips.

“Upstairs,” he ordered gruffly, his eyes half-lidded and glazed with desire. He tucked himself free of your grasp and rearranged his uniform as he stepped back, giving you space to rise from your knees.

You smiled and nodded, your head hazy with desire as you passed him and led the way to the narrow back staircase tucked into the corner of the kitchen. He followed closely behind, his heavy boots echoing off the wooden floors in a steady rhythm that matched the pounding in your chest. You felt his gaze on your swaying hips with each step you climbed, a soft growl echoing from behind you that sent shivers down your spine.

You led him to your bedroom, a quaint space painted in soft hues with sheer white curtains rustling gently from the light breeze of the warm spring night. The unmade bed serving as a reminder of love you and your husband had made just that morning staring you right in the face.

“‘m afraid I’m gonna have to search you now, Sweetheart. Strip,” he ordered, his voice gruff with desire as he closed the door behind him. He didn’t bother with niceties or romance – this wasn’t about that. This was about raw, primal need.

Your trembling hands reached for the hem of your shirt and slowly pulled it over your head, revealing the delicate lace bralette underneath. His sharp intake of breath was music to your ears, encouraging you as you unbuttoned your jeans and slid them down your legs, stepping out of them daintily.

“Turn around,” he said next, and you complied without question. You heard him suck in a breath behind you as you shimmied out of your underwear, revealing the round shape of your backside to him under the dim light.

“Jesus,” he whispered, the raw desire in his voice making your heart flutter. “This is better than I ever imagined.” He walked up to you, the rough fabric of his uniform trousers brushing against your exposed skin making you whimper. His fingers traced your spine, gliding all the way down to the small of your back, causing goosebumps to break out all over your body. “Now, you remember your traffic laws, don’t ya, darlin’? You remember how stoplights work?”

You nodded, knowing instinctively he was referring to safe words– Green for go, Yellow for slow down, and Red for stop.

“Good girl,” he praised. “Put your hands behind your back.”

You complied and felt the cold metal of his cuffs clink around your wrists, locking them into place. You were now fully at his mercy.

He cupped your buttocks in both hands, kneading them gently while his lips found the nape of your neck. His warm breath sent shivers down your spine as he left a trail of kisses there. “Color?” he asked inbetween presses of his lips.

“Green, Sergeant,” you hummed. You could feel him growing harder against you, the enormous length of him pressing against your ass making you squeal and squirm in anticipation. His groan echoed in your ears as he held onto you tighter.

“Gonna need ya to spread for me, Sweetheart,” he murmured into your ear, his voice low and husky. Your heart pounded in your chest as you did what he asked, positioning yourself on the edge of the bed. His hands found their way to your thighs, pushing them apart gently until you were open and exposed to him.

He let out a low whistle behind you, his fingers tracing lightly over your intimate folds. "You're soaking wet," he murmured, sounding almost awestruck. You flushed at his words, feeling a fresh wave of desire pulse through your body at his touch.

His fingers suddenly abandoned you, only to return dripping with warm slickness. He wasted no time in teasing your entrance, slipping his finger inside you and drawing out a moan that echoed through the room.

“You like that don’t ya?” he asked, his voice alluringly low as he curled his finger inside of you. You whimpered at the sensation, trying to push back against him for more.

“Patience, Sweetheart," he whispered against your earlobe before nibbling on it lightly. He slid another finger inside you, curling and stretching in a way that had you gasping for breath. "You're so tight," he groaned out, appreciating the way your walls clenched around his digits.

“Please…” you whimpered out, the anticipation making your body shake as you pleaded for more. “Please, Sergeant. I need more.” Your legs were wobbly, and with your arms trapped behind your back, you were finding it hard to keep your balance, but you wanted more of him.

He chuckled darkly at your plea, rubbing slow circles on your clit with his thumb while his fingers continued to pump in and out of you. Each touch was expertly measured, bringing you closer and closer to the edge before pulling back, keeping you precariously balanced between pleasure and desperation.

“I’m doing this my way,” he grunted, adding a third finger and increasing his pace. You cried out, your vision blurred as the coil inside you tightened threateningly. You were so close but he wouldn’t let you fall, each moment bringing a new wave of frustration and desire.

Finally unable to take the teasing any longer, he withdrew his fingers leaving you gasping at the sudden loss.

"Get on the bed," Sergeant Barnes ordered, standing tall in front of you; his arousal painfully obvious. “Face down.” You moved to accommodate him, getting on your knees and laying your face down on the mattress, hands still pinned behind your back.

The sound of his utility belt hitting the floor filled the room, followed by the rustle of fabric as he stripped himself free of his uniform.

You squirmed on the bed, desperate for his touch but unable to see anything with your back to him. The anticipation was unbearable, each passing second feeling like an eternity as you waited for him to resume his ministrations.

He moved behind you again, his bare, warm skin against yours making you whimper in anticipation. "Breathe," he commanded simply, and you did, inhaling a shaky breath before exhaling slowly.

And then without warning he was inside you, filling you up in one quick thrust that had you screaming out, the stinging stretch quickly morphing from painful to something far sweeter. He grunted at the intrusion, pulling back slightly only to thrust back in again, setting a punishing rhythm that left you breathless.

His hands gripped your hips tightly, stopping you from moving too much as he pounded into you relentlessly from behind.

Each thrust had you crying out in wanton pleasure, your body trembling beneath him. "Sergeant Barnes," you whimpered his name like a sacred prayer, the cool metal of the handcuffs biting into your wrists as you tried to brace yourself against his forceful movements.

He didn't slow down, didn't pause, just kept moving inside you with a single-minded focus that had you spiraling. His pace was unrelenting, his stamina seemingly endless. His fingers clutched at your hips in a bruising grip, holding you steady as he continued his merciless assault on your senses.

You felt him shift slightly, changing the angle of his thrusts and hitting a spot inside of you that made stars burst behind your closed eyelids. “Please…” your plea was cut off by a gasp as he hit that same spot again, driving you closer to the edge.

But he didn’t stop there; instead he leaned over you, his broad chest pressing against your back as one hand slid underneath your bodies, finding your clit with unerring precision. He started rubbing it in tight circles, adding a whole new layer to your pleasure.

Every new thrust of his hips sent him deeper within you, each stroke of his fingers on your clit became more intense. You were a writhing mess beneath him, completely lost in the ecstasy he was giving you.

"Bucky," you cried out, forgetting to use his title this time, your voice hoarse from screaming, your body trembling on the brink of release. This wasn’t a game anymore.

"I know," he growled in your ear, his voice low and guttural. "I can feel how close you are, doll. Just let go."

And you did. The moment his lips closed around the sensitive skin of your neck, marking you as his own, the coil inside you snapped. Pleasure washed over you in waves, each one stronger than the last, pulling cries from deep within you as your orgasm tore through you.

He didn't stop his movements, continuing to thrust into you as you came around him, your cries only fueling his own desire. His fingers tightened on your hips while the other hand continued to work you through your climax, prolonging the exquisite sensation.

His pace became erratic, the rhythm breaking down as he chased his own release. With a final grunt and a whispered curse, he drove deep inside of you, his body tense as he came, filling you with his spend. His guttural moan carried through the room as he rode out his orgasm, each thrust sending little aftershocks through your sensitive body.

His grip on your hips relaxed slowly, his breathing heavy and ragged against the skin of your back. He stayed still for a moment, buried deep inside you, allowing you both to come down from your highs.

Finally, he carefully withdrew from you, leaving you feeling empty. He rolled off of you with a sigh, getting up to retrieve the handcuff key from his trouser pocket and releasing you from your bondage.

“Are you okay?” His voice was soft in the silence, as he worked to rub the feeling back into your tender wrists.

You looked up at him through your lashes and nodded, amazed and impressed at his sudden shift from commanding sergeant to tender, caring lover.

“So,” Sergeant Barnes began once he had determined there was no real damage to your wrists, “what time is your husband getting home?” You both burst into laughter as he pulled you closer to him, burying his face in your hair.

“Mmm, probably sooner than we expect,” you teased, leaning up to give him the deep kiss you’d been denied throughout the length of your little game. “That was a lot of fun.”

He chuckled and stood up, walking over to the dresser. “Yeah, it was; we should have done it sooner.” He opened the drawers, pulling out a fresh change of clothes for himself before moving to the closet to grab your robe. “Thank you for that; I really did have a long shift, and that certainly took the edge off. You were amazing, doll.” “My pleasure, obviously.” You’d been excited and intrigued when Bucky first brought up acting out his fantasy with you, but no amount of discussion could have prepared you for how much you had loved actually doing it. You raised your hands over your head, arching your back in a stretch, laughing as you watched his eyes follow the heave of your breasts as they moved upward, licking his lips. “But meth, Bucky? Really? That rumor gets out, you’re gonna get me fired.”

Bucky hummed as he grabbed some clean towels from the linen closet and brought them into the ensuite bathroom. You heard him start the shower. “You answered the door looking all sexy and I panicked,” he confessed, popping his head back into the bedroom, a sheepish grin across his face that made him look ever so boyish. You adored it. “Next time, I’ll say we got a call about you being a prostitute.”

You cackled at that, making him grin even wider. “Better not,” you warned as you got off the bed and walked over to him, wrapping your arms around his neck, “otherwise I might make you pay for it, and I don’t think you can afford me on a sergeant’s salary.”

Bucky grabbed at his heart in mock pain. “Ouch. Well, how about we clean ourselves up and use the money I saved by not paying you to go have a nice fancy dinner, instead? How does that sound? We can talk about doing your fantasy next.”

You took his hand and led him back into the bathroom and the inviting warmth of the shower. “That sounds perfect,” you told him as you moved to stand under the showerhead. You planted a kiss on his lips. “I love you, Sergeant Barnes.”

Bucky placed his hands on your waist and gave you a gentle squeeze before kissing your forehead. “I love you, too, Mrs. Barnes.”

You began to lather each other up, trying your best, yet failing miserably, to not get too frisky with one another. “Hey, Buck?” you asked after a moment, a question coming to mind that you’d been meaning to ask him.

“Yeah, doll?” He was gently scrubbing shampoo into your scalp, and it felt like heaven.

“How come you gave yourself a Southern accent?”

Bucky laughed and pulled you close, your back to his front, as he planted a kiss just behind your ear, right over the mark he had sucked into your skin. “I told you, doll. You looked so fucking sexy when you opened that door, I just panicked!”

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky fanfic #bucky x you #james bucky buchanan barnes #james buchanan barnes #winter soldier #mcu bucky barnes #marvel mcu #james barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes drabble #Bucky barnes x y/n

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artemisia-black · 4 months

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Wizarding clothing and fashion

This meta/list of HCs has been sitting in my drafts for a while. But here is my meta about wizarding fashions.

1.0 An insular culture with its own unique dress

No shade to people who enjoy seeing and drawing characters in muggle clothing, but I think that the majority of wizards and witches dress in wizarding clothing.

Indeed, the fact that most wizards can’t dress as muggles and are quite conspicuous is mentioned in the first chapter of the series:

“People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn’t bear people who dressed in funny clothes — the getups you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion.” PS

And then becomes a sort of running joke:

“Both were dressed as Muggles, though very inexpertly: The man with the watch wore a tweed suit with thigh-length galoshes; his colleague, a kilt and a poncho” GoF

And in DH it is (partly) how Harry recognises that people are watching Grimmauld Place:

“The lurkers were never the same two days running, although they all seemed to share a dislike for normal clothing. Most of the Londoners who passed them were used to eccentric dressers and took little notice, though occasionally one of them might glance back, wondering why anyone would wear such long cloaks in this heat.” DH

Side note: it is peak Londoner to barely take notice of something odd. And this also implies that robes and cloaks are all year wear and that wizards potentially don’t have seasonal clothing.

Given that wizarding culture is very insular (with its own economy, government, and education system), it would make sense that while it may occasionally borrow trends from the muggle world, wizarding fashion and clothing are unique.

In fact, only the younger generation are seen in muggle dress, with Harry commenting:

“Their children might don Muggle clothing during the holidays, but Mr. and Mrs. Weasley usually wore long robes in varying states of shabbiness.” GoF

2.0 Class and generational differences in dress

The previous quote demonstrates two things: much like in real life, there is generational and class stratification of dress. The condition and quality of wizarding clothing serves as a non-verbal cue about a character's economic status. This disparity is not just a background detail but is frequently brought into focus, such as through Draco Malfoy's derisive comments about Professor Lupin's tattered robes.

“ Malfoy gave Professor Lupin an insolent stare, which took in the patches on his robes and the delapidated suitcase.” PoA

“Look at the state of his robes,” Malfoy would say in a loud whisper as Professor Lupin passed. “He dresses like our old house-elf.” PoA

Even Harry comments on his robes and observes that:

“Professor Lupin looked particularly shabby next to all the other teachers in their best robes”

The patched and frayed nature of both Lupins and Weasley’s robes seem to indicate that robe repairs can’t be done by an individual (or when it is done, it is really visible). Another example of this is when Ron removes the lace from his dress robes and leaves:

“...the edges still looked depressingly frayed as the boys set off downstairs.” GoF

Additionally, in Padfoot returns Sirius’s prison robes still appear tatty despite him having had a haircut and left the country. This indicates that he either can’t obtain new robes or can’t/hasn’t bothered repairing his Azkaban robes.

This is interesting, given that Molly Weasley is able to make jumpers and scarves yet can’t seem to alter robes. While knitting and sewing are separate skills, it seems odd that there aren’t means of repairing robes.

This suggests that robes can only be repaired and bought at official vendors such as Madam Malkins/Gladrags/Twifitt and Tattings.

It is also interesting that both Fred and George buy clothing when they become successful (also a parallel to the real world). They gift their mum:

“….a brand-new midnight blue witch’s hat glittering with what looked like tiny starlike diamonds, and a spectacular golden necklace.” HBP

However, things being ‘frayed’ aren’t always an indication of poverty. Tonks is first introduced wearing an outfit that is a mix of muggle clothing but with something that is distinctly wizarding:

“Tonks stood just behind him…. wearing heavily patched jeans and a bright purple T-shirt bearing the legend THE WEIRD SISTERS.” OoTP

This outfit is heavily reminiscent of Sirius and James in the Elvendork prequel:

“Both were dressed in T-shirts emblazoned with a large golden bird; the emblem, no doubt, of some deafening, tuneless rock band.”

3.0 The underwear question

Something that gets bought up a lot is whether wizards wear underwear.

Harry (who was raised by muggles certainly seems to):

“He was just piling underwear into his cauldron when Ron made a loud noise of disgust behind him.” GoF

And:

“He was shivering now, his teeth chattering horribly, and yet he continued to strip off until at last he stood there in his underwear…” DH

So does Neville (in the UK, Pants means underwear)

“He broke off as Neville entered the dormitory, bringing with him a strong smell of singed material, and began rummaging in his trunk for a fresh pair of pants.”

And infamously, so does Snape:

“Snape was hanging upside down in the air, his robes falling over his head to reveal skinny, pallid legs and a pair of graying underpants.”

Also we get some information about witch’s underwear from Sirius’s very Freudian joke:

“Sirius looked slightly disconcerted for a moment, then said, “I’ll look for him later, I expect I’ll find him upstairs crying his eyes out over my mother’s old bloomers.”

Bloomers are a type of historical, baggy underpants (think boy shorts, but make it victorian).

In conclusion, Archie, who wanted a breeze around his privates, was probably an outlier.

4.0 Materials and accesories

So what is wizarding clothing made of?

For robes and cloaks the materials most mentioned are silk/satin and velvet:

“ She was dressed from head to foot in black satin, and many magnificent opals gleamed at her throat and on her thick fingers.” GoF

Additionally in GoF, we learn that even witches and wizards from other countries wear robes and cloaks:

“Now that they had removed their furs, the Durmstrang students were revealed to be wearing robes of a deep bloodred.”

And

“...Bulgarian minister loudly, who was wearing splendid robes of black velvet trimmed with gold.”

Other materials include Dragon hide which appears to be used to make practical gloves and boots but also fashionable jackets.

“... followed by Fred and George, who were wearing jackets of black dragon skin.” HBP

Additionally, robes can be embroidered:

“ The man’s scowling, slightly brutish face was somehow at odds with his magnificent, sweeping robes, which were embroidered with much gold thread” DH

“Harry glimpsed Slughorn at the head of the Slytherin column, wearing magnificent, long, emerald green robes embroidered with silver” HBP

“Madam Rosmerta scurrying down the dark street toward them on high-heeled, fluffy slippers, wearing a silk dressing gown embroidered with dragons.” HBP

Interestingly, both men and women appear to wear heels:

Dumbledore:

“He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots” PS

Madame Maxine:

“Then Harry saw a shining, high-heeled black shoe emerging from the inside of the carriage..” GoF

Monsiour Delacour:

“However, he looked good-natured. Bouncing toward Mrs. Weasley on high-heeled boots, he kissed her twice on each cheek, leaving her flustered.” DH

Madame Rosmerta:

“ Next he saw another pair of feet, wearing sparkly turquoise high heels,” POA

Furthermore, witches carry handbags:

“Mrs. Weasley now came galloping into view, her handbag swinging wildly” COS

“ She was wearing a thick magenta cloak with a furry purple collar today, and her crocodile-skin handbag was over her arm.” GoF

“Professor Umbridge pulled a small roll of pink parchment out of her handbag” OoTP

“Ron was rummaging through the little witch’s handbag.” DH

5.0 My HCs

When I imagine what male robes look like, I imagine something akin to a Morrcan thobe or an Indian Sherwani.

I imagine robes to be enchanted to move and in my fic Pietas, I describe my OC Aeliana’s robes as follows:

“She smiled slightly, smoothing the front of her dress, which was decorated with embroidered flowers and birds that had been enchanted to flutter their wings.”

I also HC some cultural variance in robes- with certain countries using different cloth or the skin of magical animals that are native to their countries. With hotter countries, having lighter robes and cooling/anti-perspiration charms.

#harry potter

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venvellan · 10 months

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da2's arishok is a good villain. if you have a fundamental understanding of the qun and listen to his thought process, the things he does makes sense. he uses the qun to justify slaughtering kirkwall's people, which is utterly inexcusable and what makes him a villain, but his character is complex enough to make dealing with him that much more thought provoking. he sends agents to kill petrice because she was killing his people, he doesn't give up the elves because they committed their lives to the qun, no matter how recently they converted, and he refuses to leave without the tome (and isabela) because his idea of justice hasn't been done. his logic makes sense, generally, though it is wrong on more than one occasion. he isn't moral, but he is methodical.

i feel this way about solas, too. i like da2's arishok for the same reasons that initially draw people to solas, i think. when we meet them, i find them interesting and educational to talk to, someone worthy of respect, and someone very honorable in their own way. similarly, many of my issues with solas compare with flaws in the qun/the arishok.

solas asserts that all of his beliefs are correct, and we're never allowed to challenge him on any of it. if he has high enough approval, he'll approach you to go, "yknow, i thought you were all [insert prejudice or stereotype] but YOU showed me that some of you guys are actually okay," which is NOT what it looks like for someone's beliefs to be challenged.

brief aside, i want to be fair in that we don't get this opportunity with many of the companions, and it's not even an inquisition specific issue. the dialogue format is agree, joke, be mean, and it's flawed, but it works in the majority of interactions. we don't really get to engage in nuanced discussions with characters, but there are positives and negatives to the system overall. it is possible to challenge and shape a character within this dialogue system (i.e., garrus vakarian) but in dragon age that really only comes in the form of harden/unharden. it was a little more doable with origins' system, but it really hasn't been a huge part of any dragon age game. most characters' beliefs remain largely unchanged by you regardless of how you play.

solas also possesses a strong sense of duty and purpose, though what duty he has, what his true goals are, he keeps hidden as long as he can. the most damning comparison though, to me, is how willing he is to destroy the world and bring back "his people," while the qunari fight to conquer the world and homogenize society into "their people."

in any case, with both him and the arishok, you can see the wheels turning in their heads. you can see why they do what they do, even if it's wholly immoral. it makes their threat a lot more personal, a lot scarier, psychologically, that a "normal" person, who doesn't want to cause suffering, can hold such specific beliefs and such strong conviction that knowing that they'll hurt people doesn't give them any pause. the root of their motivation is understandable. solas wants to right his wrongs, at his core. the arishok implicitly believes that the qun is safer, better for its people than life outside the qun. we can see that they're taking it too far, but they don't care. it makes them good villains.

"i am not corypheus, i take no joy in this." sure, which is a very similar sentiment, emotionally, to the qunari sense of duty. you can say you don't enjoy it all you want, you're still committing genocide. you can hate the qunari all you want, but you fight with their ferocity, their unshakeable faith in their own cause. their need to "do what's right," no matter who's caught in the wake.

i understand why people like solas, i go back and forth on it myself, but i don't think he's all that different from the arishok in method and motivation. they're each thrust into a world so different from what they believe is "right" that they demand it change around them. if we had to kill the old arishok, then if solas refuses to give up, he will have to die. he doesn't get to do genocide just because he's romanceable. he's a good character, he's a good villain, but he's not a good guy, and unless he stops before he does any real harm (which he will not do), he should share the arishok's fate.

#ive had a hard time trying to put words to the way i feel about solas #but this does it #solas is a good character and quite likeable for lots of reasons #especially in inquisition's main story #but end of the day hes not a good fuckin dude #also please engage with this it took me like three hours #da discourse #cw: genocide #dragon age #dragon age 2 #dragon age inquisition #da2 #dai #the arishok #solas #fen'harel

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eoieopda · 11 months

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meet me at the bar (ksj)

You're supposed to be staring down the barrel of the last — and most important — examination of your life, but you only have eyes for your study buddy.

Pairing: Kim Seokjin x AFAB!Reader Type: One Shot | Fluff w/ Smut | 18+ — Minors DNI Word Count: 7.5k AU: Law school, study-buddies, best friends to lovers, highly educated idiots in love CW: Bad jokes, Latin, fingering (v), unprotected sex (p in v), Seokjinnie hits it from the back. A/N: My inaugural Seokjin smut is dedicated to my donsaeng-in-law (see what I did there?) @yoongiphoria, who is now embarking on this stupid, stupid gatekeeping journey IRL. Best of luck, my lil love. I'll be waiting for you on the other side of the war! MJ FIGHTING ~ Big ups to my other lil love, M, for beta reading 💕 I posted an epilogue drabble on 7/26/23. Also: This is written based on my experience in the American legal (educational) system. I was, frankly, too lazy to study up on South Korean law for a fanfic, lol. ⚠️ 18+ only ⚠️ minors will be blocked, on sight. my content is not for you. i do not want to interact with you. please respect my boundaries.

You are not spiraling.

You are a paragon of health and wellness, you tell yourself as you gulp down a mug of coffee that is still far too hot, like you’ll die without it.

More bitter than the taste on your tongue is the realization that you might die with it — your third cup in fewer hours. As far as you can tell, though, it’s a win-win situation: You’ll either generate enough anxious energy to finalize your property law flashcards, or you’ll drop dead before you have to review them.

And you won’t have to take that exam…

And you won’t have to pay off your student debt…

Besides, you figure, the stomach ulcer you’re likely inflicting on yourself will be infinitely less painful than dragging your under-caffeinated corpse through yet another day of studying. Another eight, consecutive hours spent forcing forgotten subjects back into your maxed-out brain.

It’s worth it, you repeat to yourself, though this gauntlet has turned out to be a full-time job that steals, rather than pays. You can faint on top of the finish line, so long as some part of you crosses it.

You should be used to it by now, running a marathon at a dead sprint. That’s all you’ve ever done — push yourself. You attended your first day of preschool and never stopped, never took a breath. Through elementary, middle, and high school; then for four years of university. Going, going, going.

Stumbling through that eighteenth lap around the track, you kept going because — well, being a student was all you’d ever been. That’s your toxic trait, you’ve since discovered. Your concept of self is rooted exclusively within the context of a classroom.

You didn’t know it at the time, but your decision to take the Law School Admission Test — or the HellSAT, as you’ve come to call it — might have been the start of a quarter-life crisis. But you didn’t stop there. No, you took that score and ran with it. Slapped it onto every application as a desperate plea for acceptance.

When you received your admission letter, you were a bright-eyed twenty-two-year-old with a bachelor’s degree and a vaguely defined dream.

Call it naïveté or call it gravitas, there wasn’t a doubt in your smooth little brain that law school was the logical next step to take. That being intelligent and hard-working made you well-equipped for the challenge that came with pursuing a Juris Doctor. After all, you’d spent nineteen years delaying gratification — what difference would three more make?

Within the first hour of your orientation, you — a professional student — had already learned something new: You were a masochist and, frankly, somewhat of an idiot.

Thankfully, you weren’t alone.

Sitting — dissociating, more like — at a nearby table was a lanky boy you’d first noticed on your tour of the law building. His glassy-eyed stare was aimed somewhere in the middle-distance, and even though his slightly agape mouth said nothing, it communicated everything. He was the only other person in that atrium who looked the way you felt: scared shitless and riddled with buyer’s remorse. A can crushed under the boot of self-doubt.

It was the first time you and your wobbly knees went running in his direction, but it wouldn’t be the last.

He was so deep in a daze at that moment that he didn’t notice the way you threw yourself into the open chair next to him, didn’t look up at the scrape of wooden legs against the granite floor beneath them. He nearly jumped out of his skin when you announced your presence with words, however.

It was less of an introduction — the way people in a society tend to greet each other for the first time, ever — and more of a twister. Words whipped through the air at a dangerously high velocity, no syllable ending before you started on the next. Just one breath, a few consonants, and a pair of dark eyebrows shooting up to cower behind his bangs.

“Was — was that Korean?” He asked when you finally ran out of wind.

Judging by the way his wide eyes softened, you knew he wasn’t making fun of you. You’d simply scrambled his brain so thoroughly that you’d transcended the known limits of language.

More of a question than an answer, you peeped, “I think so. Maybe?” You wavered with a sigh. “I’m no longer confident that I know any of the things I thought I knew, though. So, um, don’t quote me on that.”

“You’re giving me too much credit. I didn’t catch enough of whatever that was —” He gestured vaguely. “— To even attempt to quote you.”

Within seconds and without knowing, he’d disarmed the bomb ticking away in your gut. He must’ve sensed it, too, because his face lit up so completely that you had to look away. One glance at the floor-to-ceiling windows confirmed that the sun hadn’t reappeared at that time of night.

That rush of warmth you felt then — that absolutely insane brightness — was powered exclusively by the grin taking up the entirety of his face. If that megawatt smile alone hadn’t rerouted your oncoming anxiety attack, the distinct, squeaking laugh that erupted out of his chest would’ve done the job.

You doubled over, either under the weight of your own giggling or with the relief you felt in finding someone equally lost. Eyes swimming with mirth, you wiped wetness from your cheekbone and snorted. “Was that a windshield wiper?”

“No, that was embarrassing.”

The tips of his ears and the apples of his cheeks went some dizzy shade of pink.

He rubbed sheepishly at the back of his neck with one hand and held the other out to shake yours.

“And I’m Kim Seokjin.”

Now, when the door of your apartment flies open without warning, it’s that same savior standing on your threshold. That designation may be melodramatic, but if that brown paper bag contains what you suspect it does, it’s deserved.

Seokjin, patron saint of breakfast sandwiches, flops down on the couch that stretches along the opposite side of your coffee table. From where you sit on the floor — hunched over your notes like a hobgoblin — you reach out your expectant arms and make grabby hands in the space between you.

You see mischief flash in his eyes, but only for a second. In the next, he’s pretending like he doesn’t see you; doesn’t hear your petulant little whines. He extends long legs out over the cushions, clutches the bag to his chest, and lets his head roll back to rest on the couch’s arm.

“Wanna know what I did today instead of practice essays?” He asks, eyes unfocused on the ceiling above.

All you actually want is whatever that smell is. You can’t stop staring at the bag of food in his hands. If you try hard enough, maybe you can summon some sort of psychic energy, make it levitate towards you.

He doesn’t wait for your response. “The math.”

“Huh?”

You frown; and as you do, you reluctantly shift your gaze from Seokjin’s hands to his face. He isn’t looking your way, but you can tell he’s grimacing based solely on the way his jaw twitches. It’s a miracle he hasn’t ground his teeth to dust over the past three years, given how often he makes that face.

In an attempt to ease the tension in his posture, you tease, “Didn’t we go to law school because we can’t do math?”

He cracks an unwilling smile. A tiny one, but a smile nonetheless. Without turning his head, he extends his arm out in your direction. In the split second it takes for yours to spring forward like a snake, that blessed bag dangles; the scent of sausage, egg, and cheese wafts through the air and restores your will to live. Clutching your prize, halfway to feral, you tear into it without hesitation.

As you bite off more than you can chew, Seokjin prepares his rant with a sigh, “So, consider this.”

“Mmphf,” you advise through a mouthful of greasy bliss.

“Bar exam prep takes eight weeks, right? If we’re only counting business days, that’s forty — forty days, for a minimum of eight hours each.”

He becomes more restless, the more he talks. Heated, he sits bolt upright and turns wild-eyed to you.

Oh, he’s gone full-tilt insane.

“Three-hundred-and-twenty hours, then. And if you think about that in terms of our clerk wages —” He slaps his hands down on his thighs for emphasis. “— at 2,625 won per hour —”

Then, he points to you, as if the increasing volume of his voice wasn’t already holding you hostage.

“— we’ve sacrificed nearly two million won in income, just by studying for this fucking test.”

You swallow down the last bite of your sandwich, which you downright hoovered while Seokjin took the path of most resistance. After clearing your throat, your interjection overlaps with his next point:

“Seokjinnie, why didn’t you just double our monthly —”

“That’s after we paid ninety million in tuition, hundreds of thousands on study materials and registration fees —”

You cut him off. “Is this your way of asking me to Venmo you for breakfast?”

He freezes, caught fully off-guard. Shocked eyes widen like you’re the ridiculous one. “Of course not!”

He waves you off like his thoughtful gesture is no big deal. Then, like he’s tired himself out, he sinks back onto your couch. From his back, he grumbles with crossed arms, “‘M just sayin’ that I’m tired of this shit.”

You can’t help but giggle at the pathetic pout working down the corners of his mouth. “Felt,” you agree, though it feels a little bit like a lie.

Truth be told, you feel more awake now than you did ten minutes ago, and you can’t attribute it to the coffee — not when the evidence so clearly indicates otherwise.

Over the course of three years, you’ve built up quite the case against yourself. You’ve made the following findings of fact:

Whenever he pops up, Seokjin brings your mood up with him. Even now, as he marinates in anguish on your couch, his presence gives you a reason not to beat yourself unconscious with the four-kilogram prep book that sits beside you on the rug. Makes you hate your circumstances a little less, if only because you share them with him.

And, for a rapidly deflating balloon, you have to concede that Seokjin looks stunning this morning.

Unlike you and your day-three hair, he somehow had the energy to wash his. The mid-sections of some strands are still damp; the parts that aren’t frame his face in fluffy waves. His shampoo is something fruity mixed with something crisp — grapefruit and mint, maybe? — and it floods your senses, causing question marks to replace any coherent thoughts you might otherwise have. You’d be lying again if you said you didn’t want to find out for sure how soft those tresses really are.

The verdict?

Well, the jury’s still out, but you know you’re guilty.

If being down this bad for your best friend isn’t a criminal offense, it should be.

You shake your head to clear it. To smother the flame licking up the inside of your belly, you grab the certified mood killer off the coffee table and hold it up in front of you. Surely, the cure for a sexual tension headache is an eight-centimeter stack of color-coded, neon index cards covered in information you shouldn’t need to memorize in the first place.

“Exam’s in one week,” you say with a shiver.

Seokjin rolls onto his side to look forlornly at you. You are not looking at his bare hip bone, which appears where the hem of his shirt shifts from the waistband of his joggers. Nope.

You continue the search for the point you’re trying to make. “I can barely spell mortgage, let alone explain what the fuck to do with one.”

“Don’t think I know what land even is at this point,” he sighs. Dejected, he lets his arm go limp. It spills off the edge of the cushion and dangles until his knuckles brush against the rug. “What is this property you speak of?”

Biting back a grin is impossible, so you press your lips together instead. Just like that — just by Seokjin being Seokjin — the hellscape you willingly walked into gets a little brighter. Maybe, you think, you can do this.

You look down for a moment to shuffle up the cards you spent the better part of two days preparing. As you stare down at the staggering amount of knowledge you might be tested on, you can feel the crease returning between your eyebrows. Your grimace is back, too, like a reflex.

If you make it through this experience without premature wrinkles, you’ll be shocked.

There’s shifting on the couch ahead, but you don’t look up until Seokjin breezes, “From this angle, it almost looks like you’re smiling.”

His arm is no longer dangling off the edge of the couch. His entire upper body is. Knees now hinged over the backrest for balance, he’s upside-down and smirking impishly at you.

He has to know you’re in love with him, right? How could he expect you not to be?

You clear your throat and arch a single eyebrow as a challenge. “What is the rule against perpetuities, Seokjinnie?”

Like you, he can recite it in full at a machine-gun rate of fire. It’s been beaten so far into your heads that you might utter it on your deathbeds, with your last gasping breaths.

“No interest in land is good unless it must vest, if at all, not later than twenty-one years after some life in being at the creation of the interest,” he responds with a smug smile. “Easy.”

It’s your turn to smirk.

“Great. Now, what does any of that mean?”

Without missing a beat, he fires back, “Does anyone know?”

“Absolutely not. Next question!”

Having had the same day, every day, for seven weeks straight, Seokjin is struggling. He’s spent hundreds of hours on the same routine, feeling beaten down and burnt out, all the while. It goes like this:

Every morning, he wakes up and goes for a run in a feeble attempt to feel something other than dread. After that, he eats a lackluster breakfast, and then he promptly chains himself to his desk. When he finally gives himself permission to get up again, it’s dark out; and he’s too brain dead to check the hundred or so notifications that amassed on his phone during his fugue state.

Scratch that. There’s one person he responds to, no matter what. As far as everyone else is concerned, though, he’s a ghost.

Today is the first day out of the last fifty-five where Seokjin doesn’t feel like his brain is being hydraulically pressed. For the first time in too long, he fell into an old routine; one he’s missed. It started with a shower — and honestly, that was overdue — then, he swung by the café he’s frequented over the past three years. There, he made his usual order.

One iced americano, and one sausage-egg-and-cheese croissant with extra hot sauce.

Before he walked back up the block, he downed the former, but he didn’t touch the latter. The latter wasn’t for him, anyways. None of the breakfast sandwiches he ever stops for are.

The subsequent hours looked semi-similar to the three-hundred-and-twenty he’s already devoted to studying. Well, sort of. To be clear, the subject matter still sucks, and he’s still angry that he has to touch it at all, but he isn’t waiting for the sweet release of death in the same way he has been all summer.

This might have something to do with the fact that, for the first time in nearly sixty days, he’s not on his own.

More than that, he’s with you.

Having switched away from covenants, easements, and servitudes, he feels a slightly less stupid. Contract law is a little more straightforward and a little less caked in colonialism. Unfortunately, after six hours of burning all his brain cells on shit like liens, Seokjin has begun his descent into madness.

The worms are digging in, he can’t focus, and neither of you can stop — fucking — laughing.

“I’ll give you a hint,” you giggle, shifting in your spot on the neighboring cushion. You give his knee a pat that feels a tiny bit patronizing, but that makes his pulse race, nonetheless. “It’s a Latin term.”

He snorts so loudly that you do a double-take, just to make sure it wasn’t a sneeze. You both stare at one another for a beat, then comes the eruption.

“It’s all Latin!” He roars.

To muffle the way he’s wheezing, Seokjin slaps his hands over his face. It’s already tear-stained from his abject failure to keep his shit together. At least he can attempt to hide how red he knows it is.

Your laugh comes straight from your belly. You double over completely when his comes out in squeaks, hand reaching out to squeeze his forearm. It used to bother him, the sound he made when he truly loses it, but it doesn’t any more.

How could it, when it makes you cling to him like that?

Wiping at your cheeks, you take a deep breath, then sigh, “Does it help if I give you the translation?”

He doubts it because you just pinched your bottom lip between your teeth, and now, his mind is blank.

Really, it’s a fucking miracle he graduated at all with you around. You and that face you make when you concentrate have always made it impossible for him to do so. It’s why he wasn’t paying attention in class when this shit was taught in the first place, he realizes now.

To cool himself down, Seokjin grabs the Camelbak bottle off the coffee table, realizes too late it’s yours and not his — oh, well — and shoves the straw into his mouth. He nods once, firmly, and sucks in as much water as he can.

It all sprays back out of his mouth when you say:

“Naked promise.”

He had always wondered what his life would look like if it ever flashed before his eyes. Now, he knows. It’s not a montage of his finest moments, the most recent of which would not have made the cut. All he sees is you, wide-eyed, glancing between him and the wet spot that’s now soaking through your sweatshirt.

You press your lips together, probably to keep from laughing in his face. It’s a valiant effort on your part and a kind gesture, but honestly, he doesn’t deserve it. His fingers twitch as he clutches the bottle, wanting nothing more than to dump the remaining water on his face. He embarrasses himself more often than not, but this stings his cheeks like a sunburn.

“I am —” he raises his hands, flustered, “So sorry. I don’t remember waking up in a sitcom this morning, but I, uhhh, clearly did.”

When you stand up, you’re grinning. And not in that scary way you do when you’re about to retaliate for some prank he’s pulled. No, that look on your face is genuine amusement.

Thank god.

You shrug as you cross your arms over your torso and grip the hem of your sweatshirt with both hands. “All good, Seokjinnie,” you laugh. “This needed to be washed, anyway. You see that coffee stain?”

No.

No, he does not see that coffee stain because the tank top underneath your sweatshirt is clinging to the wet spot as you tug the top layer up your stomach. He feels bad for staring — really, he does — but fuck, your skin looks soft. Like, so soft that he has to grip his water bottle to keep a grip on himself.

Eventually, your tank top separates from your sweatshirt. It falls back down to where it belongs, to Seokjin’s dismay, and the sweatshirt keeps going.

“Nudum pactum,” you remind him as you pull the drenched hoodie over your head. Playfully, you toss it at him. It smacks against his chest, splays out over his lap.

Once more with feeling: thank god.

You sink back down beside him on the couch, and he can’t help but notice that you’re the tiniest bit closer than you were before. It’s innocent, just your bare knee bumping his shin as you re-cross your legs. Still, it leaves his tingling through the fabric of his joggers when you don’t move away.

The silence surges as it settles, crinkling like static in his ears. He almost doesn’t hear you when you ask him again: “What’s it mean?”

Uhhhh.

“It means —”

Unfortunately for him, the water he just forcibly ejected from his mouth didn’t help him. His throat is dry now, and he sounds strangled, he’s sure. The way you’re watching him so intently doesn’t help one fucking bit, either.

Are you doing that on purpose?

You nudge him physically this time, knuckles connecting gently and playfully with his leg. He wonders if you can hear his heart hammering against the wall of his chest in all of this quiet. You might, he figures, especially when you tuck your hair behind your ear.

Instinctively, his eyes flick down to the length of your neck. Without a curtain of hair in the way, it’s even more exposed skin that he doesn’t know what the fuck to do with. Making matters worse for him, you tilt your head to the side expectantly. His breath catches when he tears his gaze away, back up, and sees the way you’re looking at him now.

You are absolutely — without a goddamn doubt — doing this on purpose.

If that’s the game you want to play, Seokjin can play it, too. He turns away from you to set the bottle back down on the coaster he took it from. As he does, he finally answers your question — the nonchalance he’s faking even sounds convincing.

“It’s an unenforceable promise,” he replies casually. “One with insufficient consideration.”

He rights himself in his seat, stretches a bit further backwards until he’s resting comfortably against the arm of the couch. You hide it well, but there’s a hint of a pout on your lips when you clock the newfound distance.

Check, he smirks to himself, your move.

A flash of pink slips out. Your tongue wetting those lips before you prompt him more quietly than before, “And consideration is…?”

He slips up, makes the mistake of noticing the rise and fall of your chest as you take measured breaths. So, he sees, you’re buzzing with anticipation, too. He wonders if it’s him that’s having that effect on you, or the circumstances.

For all he knows, it could be pent up steam that you need to release. Stress weighing down your body that you want to get off.

Fuck, he wants to get you off.

He swallows thickly. “Can’t get something for nothing. There has to be an exchange, otherwise it’s meaningless.”

You say nothing, so he keeps talking.

“Quid pro quo, essentially,” Seokjin adds. He chuckles slightly when he realizes. “See? Told you. It’s all fucking Latin.”

The corner of your mouth twitches at his joke, but you don’t make a sound. The hand that previously pushed against his leg inches closer, just barely. It’s such a small shift that you don’t seem to realize that you’re moving it.

Maybe you feel that pull, too; the one he’s been fighting since you barged into his life without warning.

Maybe the consideration has been there from the start; a promise for a promise. I’ll jump if you do. Because it’s always been that way, hasn’t it? Since orientation.

Pulling all-nighters in the library, developing matching caffeine dependencies, getting sick too often from the strain of it all.

You and him.

Laughing quietly in the back of lectures, cold sweats through cold calls, bitching about unpaid internships while you spend indisposable income at the bar down the block without acknowledging the irony.

There are only two real differences between this night and that first one, he notes.

Now, Seokjin isn’t questioning every decision he’s ever made that led him to this point. He’s not scared shitless, not really. Not when you’re around.

You cut through the silence with a sigh that’s barely more than an exhale, so breathy that your voice dissipates as soon as it hits the air.

“Seokjin.”

He could probably hear a pin if you dropped one — can hear everything you don’t say. It’s all packed tight inside that utterance of his name like gunpowder, locked and loaded.

So, who shoots first?

You shift again. Now, when you speak, it’s deliberate and in a language he can parse.

“Tell me you want me, too.”

Bang!

His body answers for him, pushes off from where he leans until he can get his knees underneath him. He’s waited three years to kiss you, but he can delay gratification for the brief time it takes to overtake you. Pinned with his palms bearing weight on either side of your head, you wind up caged in and breathless beneath him. His right knee occupies the space between your spread thighs.

Again, it’s a miracle he’s made it this far with you around.

He hums, beyond pleased with the position he finds himself in. “Maybe. Tell me if I got the answer right.”

“Oh my god.” You toss your head back to the extent that you can, which admittedly isn’t far. Your frustration rolls off you in waves, heat palpable. “I’ll kill you, I swear.”

“Sounds admissible to me,” he teases further. He flexes an eyebrow. “Isn’t that an exception to the prohibition of hearsay evidence? Speaks to motive, I think.”

Seokjin has no idea why he’s riling himself up like this. If he could shut up — just this once — he could be kissing you by now. You seem to be aware of that fact, too, because you grip his shirt so desperately, one right move might tear it.

You huff out a laugh despite the circumstances, “This friendship is over, by the way, in case that’s not clear.”

That tiny smile on your face spreads to his. Not over, he knows, just modified. Amplified, finally. Knowing that, he continues to push his luck.

“Can I make one more joke?”

“So over!” You emphasize with a wail.

He takes a second to center himself before hitting you with award-winning drama, sincerity dipped in the kind of humor he never misses out on with you:

“You have adversely possessed my heart.”

Your jaw drops at how stupid that line was, but you reign it in just in time for his lips to crash into yours.

It almost knocks the wind out of him, the way the pieces fall with force into place. They slot together easily, just like you do. With fingers clinging, the weight of his body molding overtop of yours.

You kiss him until he forgets what life tasted like without your tongue licking into him, your little moans melting in his mouth — until you break apart, gasping for air. Panting, you ask, “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting on you?”

He doesn’t, no, not at all. Thankfully, you take his stunned silence for what it’s worth. After relinquishing your grip on his shirt, you bring your hands up to cup his face gently in your palms.

With you touching him like this, he has no option but to stare down at you. Bit redundant, he thinks, since his focus has always been locked right here, right on you, by choice. Given that, it’s a little funny that he managed to miss every signal you’ve apparently sent him. But really, it doesn’t necessarily surprise him to hear that he’s even dumber than he thought.

You kiss him slowly this time, briefly, before nipping affectionately at his bottom lip. It drives him exactly as crazy as you want it to; makes his cock twitch inside his joggers, makes his brain foggy with a potent combination of fondness and filth.

Do you have any idea how many times he’s thought about this? He’s genuinely wondering because even he doesn’t know. He’s lost count of all the times he’s watched you nibble on your own lip and wished it was his instead. A million or more, if he has to guess.

Seeming to sense the way you've scrambled his brain, you nudge the tip of his nose with yours and giggle.

Seokjin can’t help but grin. “What’s so funny?”

“Thought of a good one,” you answer. Your smirk does his head in. The contrasting, goofy wiggle of your eyebrows squeezes his heart. “Better than yours, I think.”

He kisses you quick and hums, “Oh?”

You nod.

The suspense is killing him. So is the way your clothed cunt grinds ever so slightly against his thigh.

Fuck.

He wants you, he wants you, he wants you.

“You gonna make me come, Seokjin, or do I have to wait for you to file a subpoena?”

You may have to seek a refund for the prep course you paid for.

For as long as you can remember, you’ve learned best through application. You could read the same chapter, over and over, and not absorb a word. The same was true with lectures, even more so when they’re pre-recorded rambles by the weirdest adjunct professors known to man. Sure, you may eventually memorize concepts this way, but they don’t sink in deeply enough to stay. You can’t use them in any way that helps you.

To no one’s surprise, no part of your civil procedure lecture sticks until it falls into your lap.

Strike that.

Until Seokjin loses his balance in trying to take his pants off, and falls onto your floor with a yelp.

A moment or two passes while you stare at each other in shock, but that dissolves quickly. And so do both of you, right into another fit of laughter that makes your shoulders shake. Then, you jump to your feet and hold your hands out to him.

Seokjin accepts them, though he doesn’t rely on them at all when he stands back up. He seems more than content just to hold onto you, whether or not he needs you to keep him steady. You have no complaints, for once in your life.

Shaking his head, he chuckles, “Venue change?”

“I think —” You hum and kiss the column of his throat. He swallows hard enough that you feel his Adam’s apple bob against your lips. So sensitive. “This is what they call forum non conveniens.”

He’s having none of that, and you don’t necessarily blame him. As it turns out, the shoe isn’t terribly comfortable when it’s on the other foot.

You’re lifted without warning, bent over his shoulder, and hauled off in the direction of your bedroom before you can even squeak in protest. You drop like a bag of dirt — albeit a beloved bag of dirt — onto your mattress once he reaches it; his lips are on yours to swallow the gasp before it can leave your mouth.

As eager as his mouth are his hands, roaming down the curve of your waist and over your hips. With fistfuls of the pajama shorts you hadn’t bothered to change out of, his head dips down under your jaw. The warmth of his breath is quickly replaced by that of his tongue, flicking a short, languid line along your neck.

“Want you so fucking bad,” he breathes. A shiver shoots straight down your spine and you keen, head crashing gracelessly back against the pillows. “Just like this.”

And he means it — you can feel how true it is with him settled between your spread legs. He presses his hips forward to meet your clothed cunt, cock teasing you through four goddamn layers’ worth of fabric.

His lips flutter against your earlobe just seconds before his teeth graze your flesh. He continues, voice vibrating through his chest to yours, “All the time.”

You outright whimper when he grinds against you a second time. Halfway to crazy, you knot your fingers in his hair and wrap your legs around his back in a silent plea for friction. So hungry for him that it aches.

“Seokjin, need — oh, god.”

You lose your train of thought the second his hand slides into the gap between your bodies. Long fingers slip below the waistband of your shorts and panties, too. He doesn’t stop there. Not with fingertips whispering over the mound of your cunt, not until he finds you wet and wanting.

So wet that you can hear it when the pad of his index finger runs along your slit.

His mouth curves against your neck, prompting you to shift your head on the pillow. You tilt your neck just enough to meet his eyes.

To your surprise, he’s not smirking. Not even close. If anything, he looks awestruck. Like he’s finally realizing what he does to you, how your body reacts to him. From the looks of it, that discovery is flipping his whole damn world upside down.

For once, Seokjin doesn’t crack a joke and neither do you. It’s quiet, save for your tiny gasping breaths and the ripple of his fingertip swirling over your clit. Even the moan building in your chest gets the memo. It disappears somewhere in your throat when — fucking finally — that middle finger penetrates you.

And god, he sounds so wrecked when he finally speaks.

“Tried to imagine it a thousand times, you know,” he murmurs.

You clench around his finger as it curls upwards, shiver when he starts to stroke the sensitive spot along your front wall. His thumb picks up where his middle finger left off, pressing against your clit in a way that makes you mewl.

Seokjin only stops talking to kiss you deep and leave you dizzy. It’s too brief. If asked, you’d never be able to quantify what amount of time is enough, but you know that wasn’t, so you pout.

Ignoring your little whines, he continues with a hum, “How perfect you’d feel, if I ever got this lucky.”

Oh, Jesus Christ.

You laugh as you say it, but you’re dead serious: “If you keep talking to me like that, you’ll never be able to get rid of me.”

Marry me, why don’t you? Beautiful bastard.

“Threat or promise?”

He adds a second finger; and suddenly, you’re not laughing anymore. No, the strangled sound you make while you grind against his palm isn’t funny at all, but you can’t care about that now. Your focus is stuck on remembering how to breathe. In, out. On the stars blinking behind your eyelids when they give up and flutter shut.

He works you open for him like he’s already attuned, like it’s the fiftieth time he’s finger-fucked you and not the very first. And, quite frankly, it’s embarrassing how little time it takes for him to pull you apart at the seams.

No one has ever made you cum with such little effort. You’re scared to learn what it’s like when he tries.

You catch the triumphant gleam in his eye in the split second before you bury your face in the crook of his neck. He’s earned it, you suppose, so you’ll let him relish the personal record he’s managed to set on his first time out. You might even let him brag about it, so long as he continues to make you tremble like this.

“Shit,” he chuckles low near your ear.

If he sounds muffled, it’s because you’re still waiting for your system to reboot. He knows this, knows how fucking sensitive you are, and slides his fingers out of you as slowly as possible. Still, those aftershocks throttle you; the unintentional stimulation makes you jolt.

“Yes,” you nod helplessly, squeezing your eyes and jaw shut simultaneously. “Shit is right. Perfect analysis, no notes.”

A chaste kiss is placed on your temple. It’s petal soft and subak sweet, but it functions like a defibrillator. Within a split second, he’s revived you. Eyes now open again, you exhume your face from where you buried it and blink up at him. Warm brown eyes light up when you reappear.

He’s so fucking beautiful that you almost want to avert your eyes. Key word: almost. You’ll drink in the sight of him until you drown, you think.

Seokjin looks concerned. With a shy smile, he checks in: “You okay? We can stop right now if you’re not.”

You don’t know who they are, but you know that they don’t make them like him anymore. Which is a fucking bummer for the rest of the world — just not for you. This one is all yours.

“You quitting on me, Kim?” You let your knee fall inwards to nudge his side, and you pretend not to notice how boneless you still feel. “Didn’t wait all this time to tap out early, did you?”

He rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning, nonetheless. His warm palm massages the outside of your thigh affectionately, if only for a moment. Then, he pats his fingertips against the same spot. “Shorts off, champ.”

You follow his instructions and move to shimmy out of them, but not before snorting, “Champ?”

“Fine. Old sport?” He offers with a shit-eating grin. Your shirt smacks him in the face once you peel it off and chuck it at him. He pouts. “Hey!”

“Thanks, I hate it.”

He tugs his shirt over his head, launches it over his shoulder without looking. Your unabashed stare immediately clocks the slight hint of his abdominal muscles. Lean, but not sharply contoured in a way that looks painful to touch. Soft. Perfect, even.

What lab were you engineered in?

“For someone with so many opinions, you don’t offer many suggestions.” He shoots you a pointed look while he unties the knot at his waistband drawstring. “What’s your proposal?”

You’d love to bite back at him. Really, you would, but he pulls his boxers down alongside his joggers, and every meaningful thought you’ve ever had goes flying out the fucking window. All that’s left is I want you, I want you, I want you.

Automatically, you reach out with a tentative hand, craving nothing more than to feel his velvet length in your hand. To your surprise, he stops you. He catches your hand in his, lifts it to his lips, and brushes a kiss over your knuckles.

“Rain check, baby,” Seokjin smiles against your skin. There it is. That’s the one. “Need to fuck you, posthaste, or I’ll simply pass away.”

You open your mouth to comment; he breezes right past you. He points to the mattress, then to the wall to your left. “On your side, love.”

That works, too.

“Face away from me.”

Never in your life have you moved so fast, all but throwing yourself down where he told you to. As you land with a slight bounce, you mouth to yourself, Posthaste? Nerd.

A second slips by, then Seokjin slips into the space behind you. His lips tickle the back of your neck when he kisses the base of it, causing you to gasp yet again. Maybe that’s just how you breathe when he’s around — like you don’t know how.

His hand drifts down the length of your side, passing over the doughy flesh of your ass. He gives it a squeeze for good measure — because of course he does — but he doesn’t linger, not now.

That hand continues until you feel his fingertips scratch affectionately at the back of your right thigh. He doesn’t need to ask; you lift your leg, allowing your knee to hinge overtop of his hand. Now that his hands are occupied, you offer yours to assist.

This time, he doesn’t stop you when you wrap your fingers around his length. And fuck, there’s so much of it. Part of you wants to ask where the hell he thinks he’s going to fit all of it, but you’re not a quitter, so you keep your mouth shut.

Seokjin shivers under your touch, breath catching in his throat so blatantly that you can hear it right behind your ear.

“Hmmm,” you tease, squeezing the crown gently as you circle your wrist. “Does that work for you, champ?”

His forehead drops against your shoulder. The groan you force out of him is twice as long as necessary, followed by an unwilling laugh. “You’re right, okay? You’re fucking right. It’s awful. Just so fucking bad.”

Your thumb swipes over his leaking tip, smearing the bead of pre-cum waiting for you there. You’re relentless. “Sure you don’t like old sport better? Huh, buddy?”

“Baby,” he warns. There isn’t much heat to it, but it burns white hot in your core anyway.

The stretch of his cock does, too, when you finally stop fucking with him and start letting him fuck you. The breath he holds as he enters you slowly is let out in a shuddered groan when he bottoms out. Perfectly full and fully incapable of teasing him further, you simply melt back against his chest.

He’s careful to start, testing the waters and refusing to push you too far, too fast. You want more, though, you always have. Greedy, you rock your hips back against him to force him deeper into your weeping hole. He takes the hint, fingertips pressing bruises into the underside of your knee as he picks up his pace — and you’re far too blissed to care.

He pistons into you eagerly, deliberate. His hips clap against the flesh of your ass, but the sting of it all can’t compete with the way he splits you open. Makes you reach back to cling to any part of him you can get your hands on, claim whatever you find for keeps. Buried to the hilt, and somehow, he’s still not close enough.

You’re close, if your fluttering walls have anything to say about it. You’re babbling, too, so lost in pleasure that you can only repeat — over and over — how fucking perfect he is. How perfect for you he is.

Seokjin peppers kisses down the curve of your shoulder as he thrusts. It’s the only real indication you have that he’s at a loss for words, too; that he’s compensating for the quiet. He kisses you with an open mouth, teeth grazing the space he finds, leaves a mess on your sweat-slicked skin.

“Fuck,” he grunts. You mewl. “Can’t stop thinking about —”

“Just like that, please.”

“— how many times I could’ve —”

You wail, “Shit, Seokjin, don’t stop. I’m so close.”

The staccato strokes will be the death of you, you’re sure of it. Thankfully, he doesn’t stop. Not when he kisses the back of your neck again, and not when he murmurs directly in your ear, “— had you like this, if I’d said something years ago.”

Please, please, please.

It’s all you can say, again and again, as if he isn’t already giving you everything you want before you even ask for it. Responding to every movement you make, fucking into you with precision so that each vein of his cock brings friction where you crave it. Fucking you through your orgasm when it catches you in a riptide and sends you reeling.

“That’s it, baby.” His voice is soothing despite the recklessness of his thrusts. “So good for me. So fucking good.”

You’re still gushing when he snaps his hips forward and stills, cock twitching as he lets himself go inside of you. Still trembling when his head droops forward to nuzzle against your shoulder blade, and when you feel his breathing begin to slow in tandem with yours.

Once he pulls himself out of you, a few moments pass in fucked-out silence. It’s comfortable, if you ignore the mess between your thighs — and you do, for now. Your brain is too busy to waste time on that.

You’re exhausted and bordering on delirious when you say it, but that doesn’t make it any less true:

“I might love you, probably.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. He doesn’t move either, which makes you wonder if he’s fallen asleep with his face smushed into your bare back. But you feel the tiniest exhale through his nose; the kind of laugh you get from him when he’s too tired to be any louder.

His reply is muffled, lips still pressed against your skin, but you hear it perfectly.

For the record, he probably loves you, too.

Epilogue, posted 7/26/23.

final a/n: i have a follow-up drabble planned for these two! stay tuned 🥰

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five-thousand-loaves-of-bread · 1 year

Text

what is (chronic) autistic catatonia?

// why specify “autistic” catatonia? //

catatonia most common associate with schizophrenia, but increase realize also happen in things like bipolar & depression.

if look at some of typical catatonia diagnostic criteria in DSM 5 (but in easier words): catalepsy & waxy flexibility, grimacing (hold same stiff facial movement), mutism, echolalia, echopraxia (copy movement), exaggerated mannerisms, stereotypies/repetitive movements, etc… wait! some of these things happen in autism!!! (like 7 out of total 12 can be seen in autism)

this is why important to know how recognize catatonia in autism. because overlap.

catatonia in schizophrenia most common start fast and get worse fast. but chronic autistic catatonia typically slow onset and slow but visible deterioration. (always have exceptions though)

not know a lot about schizophrenia catatonia, so this post largely focus on autism. everything below, when say “catatonia” or “autistic catatonia,” mean chronic autistic catatonia with deterioration.

// before move on— //

sometimes professionals do connect autistic shutdown with/as catatonia or catatonia episode or catatonia-like episode to draw connection. this not talk about that. this about chronic ones with deterioration. personally for community identity purpose i don’t enjoy (already have term for shutdown). but personal opinion aside, again this about the temporary vs long term all the time. if experience temporary shutdown, remember to leave space for and not same as those of us deal with chronic autistic catatonia.

important to distinguish from autism because autism and catatonia share many symptoms. (for example, physical stimming or “stereotypies” is autism diagnostic criteria AND catatonia criteria). autistic catatonia should only be suspected IF have new symptoms OR change in type & pattern of old symptoms. cannot. stress. this. enough. again. it not about IF you have these symptoms it’s about WHEN and HOW and CHANGE. it's about NEW.

and. please do not diagnose self based on one tumblr post. yes even if i do extensive research and cite sources and have lived experience. many many many disorders look similar. am all here for educated self diagnosis because medical system inequitable BUT am also sick of every time write this a bunch people comment “oh never heard this this is so me.” one tumblr post not educated self dx. it not a cool new thing to add to carrd to hoard as much medical label as can, it miserable it makes my life hell it not a joke it not cool. not every autistic have chronic catatonia, not every shutdown means chronic catatonia, even if you autistic and see these signs, may be separate unrelated disorder altogether, like Infectious, metabolic, endocrinological, neurological, autoimmune diseases, all can see catatonia (Dhossche et al, 2006). some of you all will read this and truly think this is answer been looking for so long—great! still, please do more research.

// chronic autistic catatonia with deterioration and breakdown //

the key defining symptoms of chronic autistic catatonia is gradual lose functioning and difficulty with voluntary movements (shah, 2019, p21). “gradual lose functioning” will come with regression in independence & ADLs & quality of life. it usually gradual, chronic, and complex. but can vary in severity. some need prompts on some day & some situations, while others need prompt and even physical assistance for almost everything.

how common? have seen statistic estimate from 10% - 20% of autistic people adolescents & above experience chronic autistic catatonia.

typical onset for autistic catatonia is adolescence. some study samples is 15-19, some as early as 13. some professionals think this autistic catatonia may be a reason for many autism late regression (Ghaziuddin, 2021).

can happen regardless of gender, IQ (yes shitty), “autism severity/functioning labels” (is what most studies use, so i keep, but yes have issues, probably also mean happens regardless of autism level 1/2/3 and support needs before catatonia, but need more research to confirm since these thing don’t equal eachother).

// primary symptoms //

from book "Catatonia, Shutdown and Breakdown in Autism: A Psycho-Ecological Approach" by dr amitta shah, recommend read at least first two chapter and appendix.

1. Increased slowness

often first sign but not always

periods of inactivity or immobility between actions which appears as slowness, e.g walking, responses (verbal & body), self care, mealtime, etc

2. Movement difficulties (freezing and getting stuck)

difficult initiate/start movement

freeze or become "stuck" in middle of activity for few seconds to minutes

hesitate & "to and fro" movements

difficulty cross threshold/transitions like door way

difficulty stop action/movement once started

affect speech content, fluency, & volume

eat & drink difficult (like movement for fork & knife, chewing and swallowing, etc)

spend long time in one place

(new) ritualistic behaviors

3. Movement abnormalities

repetitive movements like in tourette's & parkinsons

e.g. sudden jerky movement, tremors, involuntary movements, blinking, grimacing, unusual & uncomfortable postures, locked in postures, increase in repetitive movements, etc.

4. Prompt dependence

may not be able to do some or any movement/activity, unable to move from one place to another, unable to change posture, etc without external/outside prompt

5. Passivity and apparent lack of motivation

look unmotivated & unwilling to do stuff, include activities used to like, probably because can't do voluntary action or have trouble with request and make decison.

6. Posturing

classic catatonia symptom of being stuck in one posture, sometimes for hours

7. Periods of shutdown

8. Catatonic excitement

episodic & short lasting

e.g. uncontrollable & frenzied movement and vocalizations, sensory/perceptual distortions, aggressive & destructive outbursts that not like self

9. Fluctuations of difficulty

e.g. some days better can do more need less prompt! other days worse. sometimes emergency can act as almost like a prompt! but fluctuate doesn't mean difficulty voluntary

// secondary difficulties //

Social withdrawal and communication problems

Decline in self-help skills

Incontinence

‘Challenging’ behavior

Mobility and muscle wastage

Physical problems

Breakdown

// autism breakdown //

can be in addition to autistic catatonia. can look like autism is getting worse, even though autism by itself not progressive disorder!

i also call this autism late regression. separate between autistic catatonia & this not very clear, not enough research.

1. exacerbation of autism

1a. increased social withdrawl, isolation, avoidance of social situations

1b. increased communication difficulties

1c. increased repetitive and ritualistic behavior

2. decrease in tolerance & resilience

easily disturbed, irratable, angry

3. increase in "challenging" behaviors

e.g. self injurious behaviors

4. decrease in concentration & focus

5. decrease in engagement & enjoyment

// treatment //

for catatonia (autistic or not), typical treatment is lorazepam and/or ECT.

specific to catatonia in autism, Dhossche et al. (2006) separate it to mild/moderate/severe and give recommend treatment according to that (do not come here and argue about severity labels, because fuck! mild depression and severe depression of course have different suggested treatments and severity important to know. Remember we talk about autistic catatonia).

note: this is one paper! not the only way! yes have problems like most psych/autism papers, just here to give example (of range of symptoms and treatment route!). NOT MEDICAL ADVICE. (not even endorsement)

mild: slight impairment in social & job things without limit efficiency as a whole (essentially still able to function for most part but difficult).

moderate: more obvious struggles in all areas, but ambulatory and don't need acute medical services for feeding or vitals

severe: typically medical emergency, acute stupor, immobility for most of day, bedridden, need other people help feed. also malignant catatonia which can be life-threatening (fever, altered consciousness, stupor, and autonomic instability as evidenced by lability of blood pressure, tachycardia, vasoconstriction, and diaphoresis, whatever any of that means)

the "shaw-wing approach": very brief summary, keep person active and do thing they enjoy, use verbal & gentle physical prompts, have structure & routine.

lorazopem challenge: take 2-4 mg of lorazopem to see changes in next 2-5 minutes. if no change, another 1 mg and reassess

lorazopem trial up to 24 mg. (note difference between challenge & trial)

bilateral ECT, last resort.

mild: "shaw-wing approach" -> 2 week lorazopem trial if no imporvement in 1 month -> if effective, do both, if not, just shaw-wing approach

moderate: depends on prefernece, either shaw-wing alone or shaw-wing and 2 week lorazopem trial -> if not effective, do 2 week lorazopem trial if havent already -> if not, bilateral ECT

severe: lorazepam challenge test -> if not effective, bilateral ECT; -> if lorazopem challange positive, 1 week lorazopem trial -> continue if successful, bilateral ECT if not.

can sound extreme, but rememeber for many severe catatonia (autistic or not), it is medical emergency. can be life-threatening. there's no/not a lot of time.

it possible to make partial recovery, as in get better but not to before catatonia. but overall, many permanently lose previous level of functioning.

references

Dhossche, D. M., Shah, A., & Wing, L. (2006). Blueprints for the assessment, treatment, and future study of Catatonia in autism spectrum disorders. International Review of Neurobiology, 267–284. https://doi.org/10.1016/s0074-7742(05)72016-x

Ghaziuddin, M. (2021). Catatonia: A common cause of late regression in autism. Frontiers in Psychiatry, 12. https://doi.org/10.3389/fpsyt.2021.674009

Ghaziuddin, M., Quinlan, P., & Ghaziuddin, N. (2005). Catatonia in autism: A distinct subtype? Journal of Intellectual Disability Research, 49(1), 102–105. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1365-2788.2005.00666.x

Shah, A. (2019). Catatonia, shutdown and breakdown in autism: A psycho-ecological approach. Jessica Kingsley Publishers.

#autistic catatonia #actuallyautistic #actually autistic #autism #autistic #long post #catatonia #loaf screm

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