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from what i understand rachel reid is proud that she doesn't research anything for her books?? like... why would you be proud of that. it's also very clear in several spots that she doesn't know what she's talking about. i don't comprehend why someone would be proud to drop the ball on basic research.
they are so cute
“Guess you’re just a lucky young man, aren’t you?”
You realize friendship and love become conditional when you become disabled, and it's a lonely, lonely existence. People stop calling when you're too disabled to go out. People stop trying and leave you to rot in your loneliness.
And then, when you bring this up to the people who are supposed to love you most, their fuckass answer is "you need to meet people". BITCH, HOW? I am housebound! I medically can't even drive! I don't have an income, so even if I could make a lunch date with someone, I can't fucking pay for myself!
Check your fucking ableism and check in on the people you say you love. Because real damn quickly they will realize you don't actually love them, especially if your line is always "communication works both ways" but you make the disabled person reach out first every single time.
draw the squad
Out of the Black Sea by Skyhillian
Rating: M Tags: Suicide Attempt, Mental Breakdown, Psychiatric Hospitals, Autistic Shane Hollander, Bipolar Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending ,Depressed Ilya Rozanov, Self-Harm, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence
"He imagined Shane would be similarly unforgiving if Ilya took his own life. Not that Ilya ever would. Unless he couldn't help it." - The Long Game, Chapter 18, Page 198 - He can't help it anymore.
we as a fandom don't talk about angela's vocals in Dirty Dudes Must Die enough and that's criminal tbh
The Persistence of Memory
His shoulders shake a little bit with the effort to suppress his tears again. He was so, so sure he would never be able to smell that scent again, but the moment he does, he's hit from all sides by memories.
Mama dancing in the kitchen. Mama peeling beets and promising they would pickle some. Mama smiling at him in the mirror of the vanity.
Mama, dead on the bed, her hand dangling off of the side as if she were reaching for her freedom.
