TW For Suicide

yknow one thing i haven't seen anyone consider is that the reason alastor knows modern slang like "that's the tea" is because he found out podcasts exist and was positively delighted with them like "It seems today's youth aren't yet lost to that pesky picture box after all!" or something and would listen to a lot of em and pick up on the terms

Hi! I'm very interested in attempting to write a disabled character (not for this blog, I assure, for an book I'm writing) in which the story doesn't fetishize/objectify her prosthetic limb. I'm in many writing circles and have been for a long while, but I've never seen this issue brought to light which I realise is a very important one. I have much to change in my thought process, and thank you for bringing this issue to attention.

I'm curious, and I apologise if this has been asked before, but what sort of design could you see for a functional prosthetic that doesn't go for a plainly aesthetic appearance, or is soully to please others? I do note that you said prosthetics are generally... not that helpful. So is there a way that it could be? Or do you think it would always generally be better to not use a prosthetic, as its mostly for aesthetic purposes, as you said?

I apologise if this ask is too outright or anything, and I don't mean to intrude. Thank you for your time and have a beautiful day!

okay, i want to answer this as in depth as possible, because whenever i talk about having a prosthesis, someone will always tag some variation of "#writing reference" and i do wonder what message they're taking away, and i want to get as much of my experience out as possible to maybe help shape how this is all portrayed in the future. and yeah… this is gonna be one of those rambly smg posts that the expand feature was invented for, so i'll start with the very abridged TL;DR:

if you're writing a character with an upper limb prosthesis; don't. arm amputees are unicorn level rare even compared to leg amputees, and i've never interacted with or even heard of an upper limb amputee that regularly uses a prosthesis, let alone relies on one. fiction has lied to you for the sake of cool aesthetics, don't repeat the cycle. more in depth writing advice including nuance and "but i waaaant to" will follow.

that said, grab your donning parachute and let's get started...

context for everyone involved: i am an upper limb amputee that rants a lot about how prostheses suck, i lost my right hand roughly five years ago at roughly the age of 30 after a very rough decline in health… it was pretty rough. this question is being asked in the context of a previous rant post of mine, and i checked that the ask is about an upper limb prosthesis in particular.

the situation regarding the usefulness of lower limb prostheses is totally different; i am definitely no expert, but by all accounts, prosthetic legs are incredibly useful for many people. getting a good leg can be absolutely life changing and more or less necessary for day to day life for some; mostly because infrastructure and society is just so fucking hostile to wheelchair users. being able to walk - at the cost of pressure sores and rashes and increased residual limb pain - is a preferable option to many people than being unable to fit through a doorway or in a bathroom stall or find out that the key to unlock the only elevator is in the admin office up three flights of stairs (true story).

but upper limb prostheses… see, the thing is, hands are incredibly complex organs that rely on a lot of immediate haptic feedback to work at all. hand dexterity is all about control, you need fine granular movements of the digits yes, but you also need the subtle sensations of pressure and proprioception in order to adjust your movements on the fly. i speak from experience, in the years leading up to the full loss of my hand, i was slowly losing function of it, usually swinging between numbness that made it clumsy at best, or screaming overstimulation from moving it at all resulting in unpredictable spasms… and let me tell you, a half working hand is infuriating to try and deal with. you can never know if you have a good grip on something or if it's slipping because of the wrong amount of pressure, and there's only so many smashed bottles of pickles on the floor before you give up using it all together… so amputation wasn't a great loss there, i had time to adapt.

a prosthetic hand of any kind has all of those issues and more. they're heavy and bulky, the cosmetic faux fingers or gripping claw have crude movement at best, and there's zero feedback (put a pin in this). 100% of the time you're using a prosthetic hand you have to keep your eyes on the grip and visually guesstimate whether or not the thing you're carrying is held tight enough but not too tight, that is if your "heavy duty" prosthesis can even support the weight without the servos disengaging or the wrist attachment socket just busting loose. i dropped a whippersnipper on my foot last week when my socket couldn't take the weight and i think that was the final straw in me desperately trying to prove to myself that there is a single task my prosthesis actually helps with.

this is usually where fully two handed people start talking about bleeding edge DARPA tech, and how we just need to invest more,research more, develop more. better tech, more tech, neural integration, more more more. okay i promise the writing advice is coming! for starters on tech, my experience is already with a mid-to-high end ottobock terminal device: i've got a myoelectric nerve-signal operated proportional control heavy duty greifer; about the only upgrade left for me to get would be a rotating wrist joint if i could coflex. it's not military, it's not "rockclimber that owns a prosthetic company", but it's quality tech. it still fucking sucks. secondly, that high level military tech exists primary for PR purposes so they can say they treat their discarded casualties well, "we can rebuild him, we have the technology" style. every war vet i've read about or heard from that's been gifted that high level tech also abandons it for the same reasons; it's imprecise, there's no feedback (or the haptic interface has to be fully recalibrated every time they put it on), but mostly they're more capable without one.

okay, the transhumanist ableds say (i should know, i used to be one), what if we did more ~research and development~ and got that neural feedback working? then we could have fireproof superhumanly strong robot arms to fix up everyone! here's where i take out that pin we put up before and i tell you that a class of prosthetic arms/hands already exists that has perfect proportional control, fine motor control, and physics perfect pressure feedback piped directly into the patients' existing sensory systems! they're called body-powered prostheses, and they were invented in like the 1600s. you strap a whole bunch of stuff to your arm and shoulders shoulders, and control the operation of the terminal device and elbow through cable tension by flexing your shoulders. they do take a considerable amount of training to operate - though hell i spent 18 months training to use my myo - but based on everything i've read, body-powered prostheses are the best option if you're an upper limb amputee and absolutely need a second hand for some reason.

but they don't look cool and futuristic, and according to my prosthetist, most people give up on using them too. we all give up on our prostheses, no matter the type. my rehab OT was impressed i lasted the 18 months of my training. towards the end, they even asked if the clinic director could drop in to one of my sessions to see my progress; he expressed genuine amazement at me casually using my bulky robot claw to use a brush and dustpan, and made an offhanded (hah) comment about what someone can achieve "if they stick it out to the end", implying it was somewhat of a rarity for me to have done so. several years on, and yesterday i wedged the dustpan between my ankles to sweep up into it, awkward but exponentially less effort than putting my dusty robot arm on. which, by the way, is a whole thing. look up some videos, they're all awful to don. i don't actually know the official technical name of what my clinic calls a "parachute" but it's a bitch to use! have you ever tried to pull back with your arm whilst also pushing it forwards at the same time, and simultaneously lean in to and away from an external force pulling on you? that's how you get a myo socket on.

bare with me, i promise writing advice is coming, and i promise it's more than the tl;dr. but. remember when i said a half working hand is infuriating to deal with? any prosthesis, from fancy myo tech to pirate-era body powered, will only ever be half as good as a working hand, and being juuuust within capability to do something but not quite able to is maddening! but you know what works way better than a half working hand? no hand at all. using whatever residual/vestigial limb you have - whatever "stump" you have, i hate that word - is pretty much always better than trying to use a prosthesis. i can use the inside of my elbow to grip and carry things, i can use the nub of my arm to apply pressure to hold things, open doors, use a computer mouse, turn on taps and lights, if i put a glove over it i can use it to prep for cooking. i have full proprioception and pressure feedback with skin contact, i don't think i've ever dropped and broken anything from my elbow, unlike countless things slipped from my greifer - which, by the way, absolutely will start clenching as tight as it can if i get even slightly too sweaty around the electrodes, which has both broken things i'm holding and also injured me, because surprise surprise but servo operated robot claws have pinch points on them right near the "emergency disengage" lever for some reason!

but i am exponentially more capable without it on than with it. no, i'm not fully independent, i rely on housemates and loved ones to help me out with some tasks that simply just need two handed dexterity, but none of those tasks are things a prosthesis makes me able to do anyway. i used to imagine my prosthesis would be like a bra; a bit awkward and uncomfortable, but i'd wear it throughout the day because it's helpful and take it off in the evening to decompress. in reality it's actually exactly like a bra: an absolute bitch to put on one handed, unbearably uncomfortable because it never sits right, ugly af unless you're a millionaire, and absolutely useless except for the fact that i get gawked at and judged by strangers if i leave the house without it on.

and if you really want to discover how far "no hand is better than a half working hand" goes, brace yourself, and look up the patient's stories (not medical system stories) of people that have had hand transplants. the first man to receive one hated it, he was promised a return to normal function, and what he got was a nightmare worse than being one handed; he wanted it removed again but the doctors refused because it would undermine their grand achievement of the first hand transplant. the doctors and society wanted him to be fixed, they wanted him to be normal, they wanted him to be abled. they failed. they made him less able to do things, denied his autonomy, and left him with someone else's hand slowly rotting on him, prioritising the idea of "scientific progress" and "two hands good" over the physical health, mental health, and ability to function of this man.

he's not alone; every story from the patients' perspective about hand transplants that i've read goes this way, including a woman who was born quad limb different and was promised hands would improve her life, pressured into a double hand transplant, only to find herself after the surgery essentially experiencing disability for the first time ever, because she had lived her whole life getting by just fine with her 'underdeveloped' limbs, but half working hands are worse than useless. you can try to find these stories yourself, but i'm not going looking for sources on any of these cases, because if you look back through enough of my posts you'll get a glimpse of the horrors and abuses that i too was put through by doctors who prioritised trying to "fix" me at any cost, rather than providing me the best quality of life, and in turn traumatised me and left me more broken than any loss of limb on its own could. dear goddess, i promise the writing advice is coming.

so. why do upper limb prostheses exist at all? if they're so terrible and useless, what is their function? i want to borrow something someone else left in the tags of a previous rant here, from someone who i believe works in prosthetics and/or rehab, cleaned up and anonymised at their request:

"upper limb functions are wildly more complex than: 1) bear weight static, and 2) bear weight moving. but every single upper limb amputee i know has a fancy expensive prosthetic just gathering dust in the closet because there is literally nothing it can do like a few years of adjustment and if needed non-dominant hand retraining can't do. the existence of forquarter prosthetics to begin with is just kind of silly and useless and entirely to make OTHER people feel comfortable, especially considering they universally are UNcomfortable for the amputee. i hate the notion that as soon as you get the amputation the prosthetic is The Thing That Will Fix You And Make You Feel Normal again because it universally isn't! but every forequarter person i know had like this ideal of Being Fixed By Magic Prosthetic that they were then obviously wildly disappointed by and had to do yet another grieving process with, versus if the dominant narrative were just one of: yeah. it'll take time, there is no magic fix."

and i think that really nails down what the actual purpose of upper limb prostheses is: they're not for the user, they're for the sake of other people. and not just their comfort when looking at our bodies, although based on the pressure for both amputees and people born limb different to get functionless cosmetic plastic hands, there is a lot of that. but it's not just that.

i fully believe that the reason prosthetic hands exists is to comfort the fears of the two handed. "don't worry", they say, "we can fix you again. you don't have to fear becoming Disabled, you don't have to worry about adapting or your life changing. we can make you Normal™ again."

you would not believe the number of people that have approached me to shower me with pity, to tell me how horrific my life is, how they can't imagine it. people have told me, apropos of nothing, that they'd kill themselves if they lost a hand. indirectly, that my life isn't worth living. unless, of course, i happen to be wearing my cool as fuck looking robot prosthesis! then they tell me how wonderful it is, how lucky i am, how glad they are that we have the technology to fix me. that's what a prosthetic hand says, what all the happy fishing photos on limbs4life posters at the rehab clinic say: don't worry, we can fix you. that's what the bleeding edge DARPA flexi-whatever fully articulated neuro-feedback hands say: don't worry if you get IED'd while hunting civilians for us to drone bomb, if you get hurt, we will fix you, we will fix the fuck out of you, we will motherfucking adam jensen you into a cool as fuck cyborg that your son will idolise; come on boys, don't you wanna enlist just for the chance at being as cool as this? join the bomb squad for a ticket to the upgrade lottery.

and so we arrive at fiction. as much as his dialogue options protest, adam jensen loves his robot arms, they punch through walls, turn into fucking swords! they make him the most special man in the world. what would he do without them? learn to cope? grieve? practice acceptance? take up poetry? just, be disabled? there's no power fantasy for ableds in that.

in fact, can you think of a single fictional character that's an upper limb amputee that's, well, just an amputee? they all have robot arms. not realistic prostheses, not medical devices; robot arms. sleek or bulky, top of the line or broken down self built, steampunk or nanomachines or magitech automail; they're never without them. never just an amputee. never born limb different either! there's always that element of tragedy to overcome, always suffering and misery porn, always focus on the pain and the helplessness without the absolutely vital robot arm that makes them Normal and Whole. the closest amputee example i can think of is furiosa from mad max, who iirc fucking punches max in the face with her residual limb like a motherfucking badass! i can barely lean on mine wrong and she punches a guy! but she still apparently needs a dieselpunk robot hand to drive a truck, something you can do one handed so easily most drivers don't even notice they're doing it! please don't, by the way

and so many disabled fans love to point to robot armed characters as disability representation; the winter soldier, luke skywalker, edward elric, misty knight, that genderswapped furry girl from ratchet and clank, jet cowboybebop, finn the human, and yes, adam jensen…. these are all characters that someone disabled i know has told me they love because they "represent disabled bodies"…. and i know nobody wants to hear this, because i've been screamed at for saying it before, but… they do not. they are not disabled, functionally or within fiction. they are either perfectly able bodied Normal people with chrome paint on an arm, or tortured misery porn we are supposed to pity and feel lucky we're not them. sometimes both!

also you ever notice how it's basically always arms? lower limb amputations are orders of magnitude more common than upper, my prosthetist said i was probably only the 4th or 5th upper limb she'd worked with in her career, with literally hundreds of lower limb fits. but fiction doesn't seem to reflect that, huh? or any other part of the reality of disability. it's always cool as fuck robot arms, never cool as fuck wheelchairs or crutches or dialysis machines or colostomy bags. a fair few "i was blind but now i can see with Robot Eyes and also infrared and xray" around, which again, plays into that "we can fix you and make you cooler" propaganda.

by the way, up above when i was describing body powered arms, if you wondered to yourself why i went with a myoelectric one instead when i clearly believe body powered is better… yeah. i am not immune to propaganda! i too wanted to be cool as fuck. i spent years with deteriorating function in my hand for reasons that are still unknown, was misdiagnosed and medically neglected to the point that removing my hand seemed to be the only option left to offer some relief, and even that was a clusterfuck that left me worse than ever… of course i wanted to believe in the power and prestige of a cool robot arm that fiction promised me.

but fiction promises fantastical lies. and so.

we get to the writing advice portion of the novella that is this post. you asked for advice on how to write a disabled character with an upper limb prosthesis. you've read the tl;dr, you've read everything above i assume, you know i don't want you to do it. the obvious twist is that it's been writing advice all along, me trying to share my perspective on what it's like being an amp with a robot arm and how shitty it is, implying how almost any fully realised and realistic character that's missing an upper limb would give up on a prosthesis at all. you can already tell that every value judgement in me says "don't give her a prosthesis, no matter how functional or cool you make it. don't try to make the tech better to justify it, just let her be one armed, one handed. just let her be disabled, but not helpless. let her show off her elbow or underarm carry strength. let her love interest appreciate how soft and squishy her residual limb is in a moment of tenderness. let her natural disabled body be respected and valued."

but that's a personal value judgement from me, and you are the author of your own work. i know it's trite to say, but you are! even the act of deferring to someone with lived experience in the hope of doing a better job at representation is a value judgement, a good choice in my opinion, but one you needn't necessarily take. maybe you do want to write a character that has a cool as fuck unrealistic robot arm as a power fantasy, or a comfort blanket… i did.

i've been slowly writing my own probably terrible scifi epic for over a decade now, and when my arm was giving me hell back then, i'd take great comfort in this fantasy of my protagonist with her chunky robot arm, the terrible traumatic suffering of her loss, overcoming, the power and ability her advanced prosthesis gives her over others, that she alone has access to, because others are not willing to make the sacrifices required. inspiration porn. awful stuff to me now, but empowering to me then. as i grew and gained direct experience, i slowly reimagined her, rewrote her, ship of theseus'd her into an entirely new character; a reflection of me now, bitter at the whole thing, spiteful that her natural flesh arm evokes fear and distrust, but unwilling to suffer the pain and frustration of her unnatural prosthesis just to make others comfortable and respect her as "whole", however artificial that whole is. and as with the ship of theseus being two ships, once i realised the transformation, i re-added the old protagonist back in whole cloth as a separate character; proud of her robot arm and its power, but in new context, as a foil and antagonist, an in-universe military prosthesis propaganda figure to reflect how i now feel characters like her exist to us, the readers.

i'm not just sharing that as egotistical self promotion, but to highlight that, even if i sit here begging you all up and down not to write characters with robot arms for how bad and unrealistic they are; there's still something genuine and true that their inclusion can say. the great thing about the story that you're writing is that only you can write it, as they say. but i whole heartedly believe that to write to your best, you have to be aware of what you're writing and why. as tempting as it is to feel these characters form naturally in us and therefore we're averse to changing traits about them that feel organic and self evident; as authors we have omnipotent control over the text, every trait and detail is a reflection on us, so we'd sure as hell better understand why we're choosing to write a character with this trait. because anything you write without being aware of intent will take on its own meaning in the space between.

and on that note, if i don't say this, i'm leaving it to be inferred: i definitely don't want to appear to come down on the side of saying "you cannot write an amputee unless you are one", because we are rarer than single young bisexual unicorns! and it would be a tragedy if anyone read through all this and then turned away in fear, deciding to never write an amputee character (with or without robot arm) because they feel they can't do it justice… believe me, no matter what anyone says, some hack writer somewhere is going to keep writing adam jensens and winter soldiers. don't let them be the only voices in fiction! just try to do your best.

so my ultimate advice on the topic of writing a character with a prosthetic limb is to ask yourself one question in two different frameworks, and meditate on what you feel the answer is:

why does she have a prosthesis?

from a doylelist perspective as the kids say, as an author with omnipotent control, why are you choosing to write about this topic? why are you choosing to give this trait to this character? what does it say about how you view ability and disability, what makes a person normal, and what our society values? will you let her be in her natural body? or will you give her a prosthesis, force her to wear it by authorial fiat, or author her a meaningful reason to choose to? if yes, be sure you know; why did you give her a prosthesis?

and from a wastonian perspective, diegetically, inside the story, why does she choose to wear a prosthesis? what does it say about her inner character, and how she interacts with the world? how does she feel about doing it, is she prideful and loves the attention she gets, or does she resent whatever necessitates its use? how do people in this world view ability and disability, what does this society value? and above all, whatever the answer to these questions, whether or not she uses a prosthesis or is badass without one, how does she deal with the eternal freezing cold that every amputee ever feels constantly in their residual limb and why does nobody make a heat pack that fits over a nub without drafty gaps???

i can't outright tell you how to write a good upper limb amputee, but if you at least know why you're writing one and for what purpose, you're on track to write the best character that you can. that's the best advice i can give… other than, like, this whole rambly mess.

and, as a reward for reading this far, please have a very blurry cryptid photo of my cat doing his old man sit:

I’m looking for some more podcasts to listen to.

I’ve recalling liked The Magnus Archives, Welcome to Night Vale, Malevolent, Wolf 359, and a couple others, and I’m looking for more. I like ones with overarching plots, if that makes sense? Any recommendations? Thanks!

Edit: A few more I have enjoyed:

Archive 81

Auricle

The Deep Vault

The Scarab Archives

Vigil

The Technomacy Project

What Will Be Here

And now the ever increasing recommendations, so they are all in one place… please feel free to keep recommending ones too, I love growing recs lists! (Now alphabetized!)

Aftershocks

Alice isn’t Dead

Archive 81

Ars Paradoxica

A Voice From Darkness

Camp Here and There

Captain Skyjacks

Case 66

Critical Role

Cryptids

Dames & Dragons/LegendLark

Darkest Night

Death by Dying

Derelict

Desert Skies

Desperado!

Deviser

Dimension 20

Don’t Mind Cruxmont

Dungeons & Daddies

Either

Ethics Town

From Caulk and Candles

Ghost Wax

Girl in Space

Greater Boston-the vignettes

Hello from the Hallowoods

I am in Askew

Interstitial AP

Just Roll With It

Kakos Industries

Keep it Steady

Last Call at the Bluebell Cafe

Life With Althaar

Limetown

Mabel

Midnight Burger

Midst

Mirrors

Mission to Zyxx

Mockery Manor

Monstrous Agonies

Murray Mysteries

Neighborly

Newts!

Not Quite Dead

Old Gods of Appalachia

Oz 9

Paralyzed

Potterless

Re:Dracula

Red Valley

Revolution

Riley Hopkins and their Amazing Friends

Rusty Quill Gaming

Sayer

Second Star to the Left

Somewhere, Ohio

Spines

Spirit Box Radio

Spirits Podcast

Steal the Stars

Stellar Firma

S-town

Strange Case of Starship Iris

The Adventure Zone

The Amelia Project

The Black Tapes

The Bright Sessions

The Cellar Letters

The Deca Tapes

The Invictus Stream

The Left Right Game

The Liberty Podcast

The Milkman of St Gaff’s

The Mistholme Museum of Mystery, Morbidity, and Mortality

The Newest Olympian

The Night Post

The Pasitheaa Powder

The Penumbra Podcast

The Sheridan Tapes

The Silt Verses

The SPC Foundation Database

The Storage Papers

The White Vault

Time:Bomb

Unwell Podcast

Vast Horizon

We’re Alive

Within the Wires

Woe.begone

I can’t believe I went through all of Season 2 assuming Nina was the stand-in for Crowley when you actually pay attention it’s so CLEAR that she’s Aziraphale. I was tricked by her spiky, sarcastic, cynical outer shell and lulled into a false sense of security by Maggie’s bubbly optimism and wholesome goodness, because on the surface they reflect the ineffable husbands perfectly, in their personalities, their aesthetics, even many of their actions and morals. but not, and this is the real key, when it comes to their “relationship”. but those first impressions really had me damn fooled. 

I missed the blatantness of Nina’s “we’re just friends. actually we’re not friends. we barely know each other.” the same thing Aziraphale said in season 1.  the way he still struggles to quantify their friendship when Nina asks. Nina’s sarcasm when Crowley asks about rain and awnings because it worked for him (we all know it LMAO). hell, that whole convo the girls have in the rain is so AziraCrow (“I know. I’m not your type” “…You have no idea” hits so much harder the second time, help meeeee.) “Lindsay” maybe being symbolic of Heaven and Aziraphale’s toxic relationship with them and their abuse? (the handwritten text messages in red pen make me think of angry notes on paperwork, anyone else?) because Crowley has never actually cared about what Hell thinks of him, just not getting into trouble (or him or Aziraphale getting hurt). Maggie is always chasing Nina. NINA NEVER GOES IN THE RECORD STORE. Just like Crowley always goes to the bookstore, to Aziraphale, Zira NEVER WENT TO THE FLAT (apart from The Swap but that doesn’t count imo). Crowley has always chased Zira, not the other way around. Always there to rescue him, always going to him for company, always relying on their shared connection, always US. OUR SIDE. All through season one, he comes to Zira every time to work together, never trying to work alongside Hell in any way that isn’t to save their skins or Earth, while Zira hides things from Crowley because he STILL thinks Heaven is ultimately good and will do the right thing if he can just show them. fix it from the inside. 

Maggie working up the courage to finally say something, to put herself out there, while Nina is utterly oblivious and then when she does realise Maggie has feelings, becoming standoffish, putting up that barrier, fighting it, denying it, ITS SO CROWLEY AND AZIRAPHALE IN THAT ORDER. the way I was fooled into thinking Nina’s trust issues are Crowley because he does have trust issues ofc he does BUT Crowley has ALWAYS TRUSTED AZIRAPHALE. has always relied on him. has always been hurt when Aziraphale doesn’t immediately reciprocate the way he expects (the holy water request, the bandstand, the “off in the stars” etc). he’s always the one putting himself forward. Aziraphale has always been the one to second guess everything, to fight their connection, their similarities, their friendship. the girls really made me think it was going to be okay when they sat Crowley down, even as my inner sirens were going haywire about Metatron interfering, they were telling Crowley he just needs to open up and it’ll all work out BUT HE’S ALREADY AT THAT POINT. he may not say it, and by gosh is that part of their damn problem, but he’s always SHOWN IT. he’s not Nina who needs time to heal and recover from her broken trust, he’s always been Maggie believing it doesn’t matter, they’ll end up together in the end anyway AND I WALKED RIGHT INTO THE TRAP THAT THIS MEANT THEY WERE GOING TO BE OKAYYYYYYYYYYY

‘Eat at a local restaurant tonight. Get the cream sauce. Have a cold pint at 4 o'clock in a mostly empty bar. Go somewhere you’ve never been. Listen to someone you think may have nothing in common with you. Order the steak rare. Eat an oyster. Have a negroni. Have two. Be open to a world where you may not understand or agree with the person next to you, but have a drink with them anyways. Eat slowly. Tip your server. Check in on your friends. Check in on yourself. Enjoy the ride.“

— Anthony Bourdain

Miss ya Tony.

I absolutely love and adore this take, it feels really like its the most real and accurate thing that would happen in this situation, the way you characterized everyone does it perfect justice, especially the way you flashed back and compared Molly losing Fabian and Gideon.

I love love love this so much thank you for sharing!!!!!

Have Mercy on a Mother

Molly is hurt.

She saw her third son argue with his father and leave the house, never intending to come back.

Molly doesn't understand why he would leave? Yes she knows he had an argument with his father but he was in the wrong and Arthur....

Maybe she's not looking at this the right way. Maybe she's not looking at all.

A year and a half has gone by since Percy left the house and the Weasleys live in fear and in separation.

Atleast Bill and Charlie send regular letters.

Bill and Charlie did leave, yes but that's just their wild side. Percy on the other hand was the last one she expected out of all her children to leave home. And the way he left! If anything she had thought the twins would be the rebels.

She thought Percy leaving would have an effect on the family, a change in their dynamics, a conflict but there just wasn't.

Noone besides her cared.

And that scared her like no other.

She had been observing her children but they seemed to show no sign of any kind of care for Percy. If their regular insults of him were anything to go by.

The twins maybe the least. Fred and George seem to send him hate letters or that's what she thinks they're doing. She has not the slightest idea about how they are going about the whole thing.

She had overheard them plotting to send some potion to Percy and then she marched right into their room, claiming to know what in Merlin's name were they trying to pull. To their credit, they were ashamed that they were caught, yet not ashamed about how they were going to send something dangerous their brother!

Molly let them off easy. She shouldn't have but in the midst of a war, punishing them wasn't exactly an option and even if she did, it wouldn't heed any consequenses, would it?

Ron doesn't look bothered either about him leaving. It feels like Ron knew this would happen. Percy did love Ron, more than Ron could ever imagine. She remembers young Percy holding Ron and helping him with his nightmares, how he would lull Ron asleep. He would sing the sweetest lullaby!

Times have changed, haven't they?

Molly really didn't have anything to say. Ron never confided in her. She doesn't really know how Ron feels, he's never been the one to share his feelings, unless it was anger or hunger. Ron's found a new confidant in Harry and she couldn't be happier that Ron has a friend, even then she's afraid that Ron doesn't care about Percy and would refuse to believe that he's his brother.

Oh what's she talking about! He already refuses to acknowledge that Percy's his brother.

She had heard him say it, not only to Harry but to the twins and Ginny as well. Her children think that she's hard of hearing, but she isn't.

It's not fair.

Even her darling Ginny slowly succumbed to her brothers' opinion. Ginny quick to defend Bill but never to defend Percy. She did care in the beginning but now, she sides more often with the twins.

She didn't care either.

All the gifts that Percy had given her from a handmade book to a bracelet were thrown away. More like given away for charity but for Ginny, they were thrown away. Percy had written a book for Ginny, where she was a princess. He used to read it to her every night. She always used to sleep after he read it to her.

And now all that remains of it are memories. Memories that they wish would disappear because of their hatred of him.

Maybe the worst of them all was Arthur.

Arthur did not see any error in his actions or words. Molly had tried multiple times to to approach the topic to Arthur but everytime Arthur was furious and quickly shut her down.

They worked in the same place for Merlin's sake!

A year and a half and an argument that hasn't been resolved. Molly would think that by now either one of them would have gotten over it but it surely doesn't seem this way.

Arthur and Percy were similar, maybe only in physical features to the rest of the world but to her, she saw that it was their similarities that drove them to clash against each other. Angry and stubborn and an ego that needs to be fed.

Molly remembers the first time Percy got glasses. He came home, screaming her name in an urge to tell her something.

"Look Mum, I look like Dad now!" , he had told her proudly teeth sparkling and glasses too big on his nose.

"He insisted on getting those glasses", Arthur told her as he kissed her cheek

And she could see why, Arthur had the same glasses. They did look like each other except Arthur's hair was straight.

Where had that adoration and devotion go? How did it disappear so quickly?

Molly knew Percy wasn't the only one to blame, ever since Arthur had that fight with Malfoy in the shop, it looked like Percy had started to distance himself from his father.

Arthur for his part didn't understand the problem either, but laughing at Percy's expense with hsi other siblings were bound to make matters worse.

How did Molly not see this coming? Had she been so blind to the animosity in her home?

Molly understood sibling fun and rivalry quite well. She had 2 brothers of course.

She would have done anything to bring them back.

But her children wouldn't.

That thought unsettled her deeply, it made her feel fear, she didn't think was possible.

With those thoughts in mind, she set dinner for her family. She called her family down, Ginny and Ron bickering and the twins sniggering.

Arthur, exhausted approached the table as well.

3 spots remained empty.

1 spot that isn't supposed to be.

Molly ate in peace, trying to enjoy but her stomach wouldn't let her. She was worried.

Her children on the other hand were loud and bubbly, talking while eating.

Unsuprisingly, they started making fun of Percy, but in a hushed voice so Arthur couldn't hear. This wasn't the first time they had done this either. For a brother that they despise, they do talk about him more than Bill or Charlie.

Somehow they thought that their mother was deaf.

Well, she wasn't.

"Oi Fred, did you send Percy that "potion"?", Ron asked

"No, Mum interupted us before we could"

"Pity, well you could try agin tonight", Ginny had replied.

"Tell me again, what does the potion do?", Ron asked as he gobbled the potatoes on his plate.

"Well it's supposed to put you into a deep slumber and make your roam in your knickers", George had replied snorting into his hand.

Molly stopped eating. They weren't actually serious are they? They couldn't be.

Or could they? You really did fail as a mother didn't you?

Muriel's voice echoed in her head.

"That's absolutely splendid!", Ginny had remarked.

Even your daughter agrees to this insanity.

Molly had, had enough.

She might be termed as a bad mother for this, she might be out of her mind to do this but she had, had enough of this.

"ENOUGH!"

Her voice had caused all the seated members to flinch. Everyone's gaze was on here.

"'I'm tired. Tired of trying to understand where all this hate towards your brother is coming from."

"Molly what-"

"Please let me speak Arthur. I'm not hard of hearing, I can hear you planning pranks and now I hear about you 2 trying to comatize him?

"Mum-"

"NO. I've had it. I'm trying to understand you because I'm your brother but you as well as I know, a war is coming. A war takes thing. It took my brothers. Do you really want Percy dead?"

There was silence at that word - Dead. But the silence made Molly uneasy.

"Would you really not care if Percy died?"

Everyone bowed their head down in shame, even Arthur who avoided looking at her.

They didn't care if Percy died.

"Oh", Molly gasped.

They really didn't. She had been so blind.

Fabian and Gideon, she missed them, even if they annoyed her, they loved her and she loved them.

Her children just don't love Percy.

She didn't realise she was crying until Arthur called out to her.

Arthur so similar to Percy, yet so different. Arthur didn't care either. He never wanted to talk about him, never about the argument. And it turns out he doesn't care either.

Molly remembers her brothers' body, blood and blood. Oh so much blood, blood that stays no matter how much you clean. Blood.

It was the day after the funeral. Molly couldn't think of anything else besides Fabian and Gideon, how they wouldn't see their new nephew or get to be uncles to Bill, Charlie and Percy again. How she would never be able to hear their voices again or see their smiles.

She would do anything in this world to get them back again.

"Mum?"

She turns around to see young Percy with his hands behind his back, looking at her with concern in his eyes.

"You didn't eat anything so I made a sandwich for you!", a proud Percy presents a cheese sandwich for her.

Molly takes it, she hasn't eaten anything since yesterday, she just doesn't feel like it.

"Do you not like it Mum?", Percy asks.

"Of course, I do, I'm going to eat it now", Molly tries to smile at her son but fails miserably.

"I'm sorry about Uncle Gideon and Fabian, Mum. It wasn't right", Percy's voice becomes low as he says this.

"No it wasn't."

"But you still have to eat Mum! You have a baby! A baby needs nutrition!"

"Nutrition, that's a new word."

"Yes it is. I learnt it all by myself"

"You're my smart boy, Percy."

"I'll always be your smart boy, Mum."

And he is. He's so smart and she was so very proud but he's gone.

And maybe part of it is his fault. But that doesn't mean that they're completely blameless.

For the first time, Molly looks.

And she doesn't like how it looks. But it's the bitter truth she hasn't allowed herself to see. She sees the divide, she sees the family broken, something she convinced herself not to see.

If it was anyone else instead of Percy, would her children care?

They would.

And that makes all the difference in the world.

Molly leaves the Burrow. They plead for her to stay but she doesn't listen anymore. Where was this pleading when it was Percy?

She leaves and maybe that's for the best.

OK, I know I know my other fics are left buuuuuuttttt I'm writing them as you're reading this. Anywayyyyy have this oneshot, which I'm not sure is good really..... But I tried.

This isn't really bashing? I mean I'm trying to keep it realistic and this seems like the best way. You can assume whatever after the ending, it's open.

Have a good day!

Permanent Damage

If you look long enough into the void, the void begins to look back through you.

Draco Malfoy will never be able to hold anything for long. Constant crucios over 3 years has damaged his nerves.Voldemort was most displeased with his inability to finish his task, the Carrow’s annoyed with his refusal to torture students for their detentions. His hands shake and shiver, nerves constantly shaking with invisible, imaginary pain that stopped years ago. He yells in frustration as his shaking body repeatedly clinks his teacup loudly against its saucer, another futile attempt to keep his hands steady, and smashes it against the floor, a thousand white shards glittering against the black tile.

Harry Potter breaks down every time he gets a headache. Hand clapping to his forehead as the pain sets on, muttering to himself that ‘hes not back.’ ‘I killed him.’ ‘Its over’ as he scans the room; flinching at too pale skin, hand twitching towards his wand as brown eyes reflect red in the flickering, fluorescent light. The cold tile beneath his fingers grounds him as he tries to convince himself that he’s okay. The feeling that some part of him died that day in the forest, surrendering before Voldemort’s wand never leaves, the hollow feeling leaving an aching, painful hole in its wake.

Ron Weasley finds himself scanning rooms over and over again. Planning exit strategies and ways to take out everyone in the room in order to escape. He imagines everyone as an enemy in disguise, subconsciously moving people like chess pieces and picking his small flat, not because it was cheap or because the neighborhood was good (its dismal really) but because it had the best strategic advantage in regards to the city and places around him, in order to hide in case of attacks. He once again comes to his senses after a nightmare and sighs as he realizes that in his delirium he once again had filled pages upon pages of his notebook with battle tactics and the floor plans of places hes been and fought (Hogwarts, the Ministry, the Burrow...). He rips them out and adds them to a growing folder before making a cup of tea.

Hermione Granger finds herself hording food, slipping apples into pockets and bread into her purse. She comes home to find herself with pockets of tarts and a bag of crackers, handfuls of berries slipped between pages of paperwork and cereal bars snuck into file folders. The months of hiding and foraging have made her paranoid and hyper aware of how much food she’ll need to get through the day. She’ll find herself counting calories and balancing proteins, carbs and fats before she can stop herself and measuring how much she eats, intuitively leaving some over for Harry and Ron, forgetting that they are no longer on the run, having to ration food.

Luna is no longer as carefree and dreamy as she was. Her creatures turn from whimsical and delicate to horrifying. Claws and teeth grow to protect and attack. She won’t leave the house for days, wandering around inside with closed eyes to avoid Blibbering Humdingers who now have poisonous spines and Nargles with razor teeth, her mind having twisted them from cures for loneliness to share with her father, to weapons of destruction to protect her from the outside world. They are real enough to her that she convinces herself they’ve locked her inside her house and won’t let her leave, she thinks they’ve kidnapped and hurt her friends because ‘It’s  to protect you’ ‘They are spies’ ‘It’s not real Luna’ ‘They only want to hurt you’. The whispers follow everywhere and consume her, dragging her into the void. It’s when she locks Hermione in her basement under the influence of her broken mind, twisted by false images and under the guise of Hermione being someone else using polyjuice, that she gets a room in the Janus Thickney ward of St Mungos. She has moments of clarity but they are few and far between. her mind crumbled, her spirit broken, a twisted shadow of the young, bright girl who hummed happily as she waltzed barefoot through the halls.

Dennis Creevey perpetually has a broken, cracked, dirty camera on a shelf in his bedroom, never to be touched.

George Weasley has smashed every mirror in his flat and refuses to repair them

Percy Weasley takes to straight vodka and tequila out of the bottle because his guilt over Fred.

Kreacher forever wears a cracked and blood stained locket till the day he dies.

Teddy Lupin spends hours staring at pictures of his parents, shifting into one or the other or trying for the perfect mixture of both, never getting it quite right.

Minerva McGonnagal finds a dusty box under Severus Snape’s bed filled with cracked records; a flaky leather jacket; old Polaroids of a girl with a head of flames and eyes of shattered emerald, smiling, arms wrapped tight around a boy with inky hair and sharp, onyx eyes; a fractured glass figurine of a lily lying carefully on top of the pile; folded within an old letter. She sobs over a life spent hating and being hated as she pats the scratched lacquer on a string-less bass guitar

There will always be an empty seat at many tables all over the country as people mourn lives lost unfairly.

You can take people out of the war, but can you take the war out of people?

Guys—

Eddie’s not weak, nor is he a twig.

Exhibit 1: he was able to YANK both Dustin and Mike out of their seats as if they were fucking hand bags.

Exhibit 2: he’s able to climb up a rope with NO support which uses SO MUCH core strength like bro I could never—

Exhibit 3: he’s in a band, he’s gonna do some heavy lifting and shit

Exhibit 4: when he tried to provoke Jason in that cafeteria scene, Jason fully just backs down

Exhibit 5: MANZ LITERALLY THREW STEVE AGAINST THE WALL

So allow me to present: Steve Harrington who knows full well that Eddie is able to completely and utterly manhandle him and absolutely living and thriving for it.

Thank you for your attention.

Hey guys!

So my family just bought property in Arizona, it's in the middle of nowhere, dozens of miles from people. And while I grew up in the forest and knew the typical customs (dont step in fairy rings, avert your gaze from the glowing eyes in the woods, thank the trees) I have no idea of desert customs when it comes to ghosts and fae and the supernatural. I've never really visited the desert, so any advice would be nice!

Oh my god you love percy *and* you like teen wolf?!?!?!?!!!! Ive found my kin oh my god!!!!!

TW SPOILERS DON'T READ IF YOU HAVEN'T WATCHED

UGH

WTF

ALLISON JUST DIED

I'M GOING TO CRY