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(A leg brace & wheelchair story) Ari has had to make peace with their wheelchair. Some days, there really isn’t any other choice. Back when only one of their two legs was paralyzed, they had always been able to knuckle through. Even if it meant squeezing their aching, useless right leg into its locked brace and literally dragging it along behind them, they could damn well do it. But now, things being what they were, Ari didn’t always have the strength to just knuckle through. Ari didn’t regret their choices, obviously. They’d suffer far worse than an unwanted wheelchair to live the way they did, and in fact they had. Ari had given up far more than the simple privilege of always standing on their own two feet. But it was frustrating in a deep, raw sort of way that, to Ari’s surprise, did not seem to get much better over time. Dr Lian and the therapist she’d referred Ari to Mr. Perry had both clocked it as one of the rough rub spots where Ari’s bodily identity smashed up

(A wannabe disability story) “That’s nasty shit,” The peddler warned them, “You better make sure you hate the bastard, cause there’s no coming back from this. No healing, no cursebreaking, no nothing.” Wynn nodded sagely and snatched the bottle from the peddler’s wildly gesticulating hand. “I’m sure.” The peddler nodded back. “Of course, of course, you look like the kind of person whose mind is made up. Just don’t go telling stories, alright? I don’t need that kind of attention.” “Of course,” Wynn said, and they pressed nearly twice the offering price into the peddler’s grubby hands. “The same goes for me, you understand.” “Of course! Of course! You are certainly generous, most generous. Some sort of adventurer I assume? To have such wealth, such generosity-” Wynn turned and walked away, but not before lovingly tucking the small stoppered bottle into a padded breast pocket. They were an adventurer of a kind, they supposed. Wynn fancied themself more of a scholar than anything

(A wannabe & disability fetish story) To the annoyance of Ezlo and their financial backers, they had to take most of December off for academic reasons. They were still a second year graduate student and had a courseload to juggle alongside their lab work, and there just wasn’t a way to squeeze any trials in. To Ezlo’s more private frustration, they hadn’t even been able to dose themself for recreational and aesthetic reasons either. Most of their lab work at the moment required both hands fully functioning, and they really couldn’t justify how time-consuming it was to deal with the onset, wear off, and twelve plus hour recovery sleeps still required by the doses. By the time winter break had rolled around the backers had quieted down, accepting the lull, but Ezlo was downright antsy. In part because of all the outlying half-finished problems and concepts itching in the back of their mind, and in part because they simply missed the sensation of their paralyzed arm with a depth and

(A wannabe & temporary-disability fetish story) “So is this going to be a regular thing?” Celeste asked, unimpressed. “Do we need to hold some kind of intervention before you cripple yourself permanently?” Ezlo looked up from their granola, then followed Celeste’s gaze back down to their left hand, which was curled up and half buried in Ezlo’s large mohair sweater. “It’s called product testing.” They said. “Product?” Celeste raised an eyebrow. “So this- this- is something you’re expecting people to purchase from you?” Ezlo shrugged one-shouldered, not sure how to explain it, or whether they wanted to get into it. “Uh, yeah. Pretty much.” “Oh leave them alone,” Maria said, “I hardly think this is an intervention-deserving offense. It’s stern-warning level at most.” To mad scientists, even mad science-students, interventions were a serious matter. In a field that proudly skirted the edges of rationality itself, not to mention legality and ethics, it was important to keep each

(An orthodontic fetish story) The crowd jumped and jeered, a dangerous living organism. Matt stood amongst them, not quite joining in but breathing in the energy and enjoying the way it washed through him. The circle parted to let the sweaty and trembling fighters rejoin the mass. Across the circle a meaty, pot-bellied man with a comical farmer’s tan was pumping a swollen fist and exchanging ecstatic headbutts. The loser of the fight, a twiggy dark man clutching a broken finger against his chest, shouldered his way to Matt’s side. “You next, nutcase.” Abe grunted as he settled beside him. “Don’t be a pussy.” Matt shrugged and peered to get a better look at the makeshift fighting ring. Nobody had entered it yet. “Come on,” Abe goaded, “What’s your damage today? You’re usually the first fucking lunatic in there.” Matt nodded. Abe wasn’t lying, Matt was a sucker for a good fight. “So? What the fuck’s your problem?” Abe pressed. “Waiting for the right guy.” Matt

(An orthodontic fetish story) The music was pounding so loud he felt it as much as heard it, and the alcohol was starting to sink in deep enough that he was enjoying all the overstimulation. Virgil didn’t necessarily think of himself as a ‘party guy’, but he wasn’t not a party guy either. He didn't mind the noise or the crowd, especially not when he was drinking, and there was something uniquely enthralling about dancing in a crowd so large and wasted that it was less about any individual body and much more about the collective writhing energy of the whole thing. He didn’t always have the energy for it, but when he did it was certainly something unique. Virgil also didn’t think of himself as much of a pick-up artist. He’d only taken dates home for one-night stands a handful of times, and he usually regretted it in the morning. But he was freshly single, and undeniably lonely, and so as he sat at the bar and drunk himself into a pleasantly hazy buzz he found his eyes combing

(An amputation & deafblind fetish short) I awaken in the dark and the quiet. The darkness is infinite and the silence overwhelming. If not for the stinging press of bricked flooring against my scraped and scabbing skin, I might have mistaken it for a dream. The ache in my arms and legs is still astounding, but no longer is it paralyzing. Carefully, wincing preemptively as I do, I use my unbandaged upper-arms to examine my wrapped and hurting forearms. They match, my two arms, in the worst of ways. Both left and right arm stop short halfway down from the elbow. I already know, and yet I perform the same hesitant exploration of my lower limbs. I have to stretch slightly from my tight huddle against the ground to make room for my aching knees to flex and my blunted legs to rub up against each other. No fingers, no toes. No hands, no feet. Rather than risk breaking the paperthin healing skin of my wrists, I roll my neck to feel out the heavy biting collar encircling it. Thick metal

(A wannabe & disability fetish story) Perhaps they were mad to even think of doing this. But then again, they were a mad scientist. Well, a mad-science doctorate student, at least. Not many universities offered programs in mad science. It was a field that had only recently burst into legitimacy due to several recent breakthroughs in clean energy science. Before that were long decades of real science intermingled with quackery, conartistry, and schizophrenic zealotry. It hardly helped that most people’s knowledge of mad science came entirely from sensationalist documentaries about disasters and unethical travesties. Some universities’ students staged walk-outs just over the rumors of a mad science department coming to their schools. But not every school was so close-minded, and year by year it was creeping in. Every year more universities were offering classes in mad science and related topics. Luckily for Ezlo, they had been accepted into one of those few, highly competitive mad