#Door's unlocked.

[rkaji]

To: Dri’s Hot Roommate 😖🖤

what are you working on?

something cool? o:

I'm just wondering! and cause we haven't talked in a while. It's been a bit since I've been by and seen you!

I was just thinking about you!

and maybe drinking a little 🥺

-- @twislajade

Just come over and see for yourself.

[frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe]

what if the first time steve and eddie actually meet is when steve picks up dustin, mike, and lucas from hellfire a month or so into their freshman year.

and when steve starts dicking around and roughhousing with dustin a bit.. thats when eddie sees him

him.

steve harrington.

king steve harrington.

king steve harrington, jock extraordinaire fucking with his new (pretty brittle, he got told off for the same thing at the beginning of the year by mike and lucas) sheepie

Eddie’s at the car in next to no time at all, tears steve off henderson, and punches him square in the face

edit: full thing here

[hugs-and-stabbies]

The self-awareness on this guy 😞 someone pls send him an "are you bi?" quiz STAT

[inkskinned]

crows use tools and like to slide down snowy hills. today we saw a goose with a hurt foot who was kept safe by his flock - before taking off, they waited for him to catch up. there are colors only butterflies see. reindeer are matriarchical. cows have best friends and 4 stomachs and like jazz music. i watched a video recently of an octopus making himself a door out of a coconut shell.

i am a little soft, okay. but sometimes i can't talk either. the world is like fractal light to me, and passes through my skin in tendrils. i feel certain small things like a catapult; i skirt around the big things and somehow arrive in crisis without ever realizing i'm in pain.

in 5th grade we read The Curious Incident of the Dog In The Night-time, which is about a young autistic boy. it is how they introduced us to empathy about neurotypes, which was well-timed: around 10 years old was when i started having my life fully ruined by symptoms. people started noticing.

i wonder if birds can tell if another bird is odd. like the phrase odd duck. i have to believe that all odd ducks are still very much loved by the other normal ducks. i have to believe that, or i will cry.

i remember my 5th grade teacher holding the curious incident up, dazzled by the language written by someone who is neurotypical. my teacher said: "sometimes i want to cut open their mind to know exactly how autistics are thinking. it's just so different! they must see the world so strangely!" later, at 22, in my education classes, we were taught to say a person with autism or a person on the spectrum or neurodivergent. i actually personally kind of like person-first language - it implies the other person is trying to protect me from myself. i know they had to teach themselves that pattern of speech, is all, and it shows they're at least trying. and i was a person first, even if i wasn't good at it.

plants learn information. they must encode data somehow, but where would they store it? when you cut open a sapling, you cannot find the how they think - if they "think" at all. they learn, but do not think. i want to paint that process - i think it would be mostly purple and blue.

the book was not about me, it was about a young boy. his life was patterned into a different set of categories. he did not cry about the tag on his shirt. i remember reading it and saying to myself: i am wrong, and broken, but it isn't in this way. something else is wrong with me instead. later, in that same person-first education class, my teacher would bring up the curious incident and mention that it is now widely panned as being inaccurate and stereotypical. she frowned and said we might not know how a person with autism thinks, but it is unlikely to be expressed in that way. this book was written with the best intentions by a special-ed teacher, but there's some debate as to if somebody who was on the spectrum would be even able to write something like this.

we might not understand it, but crows and ravens have developed their own language. this is also true of whales, dolphins, and many other species. i do not know how a crow thinks, but we do know they can problem solve. (is "thinking" equal to "problem solving"? or is "thinking" data processing? data management?) i do not know how my dog thinks, either, but we "talk" all the same - i know what he is asking for, even if he only asks once.

i am not a dolphin or reindeer or a dog in the nighttime, but i am an odd duck. in the ugly duckling, she grows up and comes home and is beautiful and finds her soulmate. all that ugliness she experienced lives in downy feathers inside of her, staining everything a muted grey. she is beautiful eventually, though, so she is loved. they do not want to cut her open to see how she thinks.

a while ago i got into an argument with a classmate about that weird sia music video about autism. my classmate said she thought it was good to raise awareness. i told her they should have just hired someone else to do it. she said it's not fair to an autistic person to expect them to be able to handle that kind of a thing.

today i saw a goose, and he was limping. i want to be loved like a flock loves a wounded creature: the phrase taken under a wing. which is to say i have always known i am not normal. desperate, mewling - i want to be loved beyond words.

loved beyond thinking.

[yutamayo]

Toji: $20 for an hour

[rhinoyo]

santas <3

[theboxfort]

Object Ergonomics #1: Door pedals for armless objects

Text transcript in case it's hard to read:

"Both the handle and pedal unlocks the same mechanism" "Piano pedal-ish" "Refs" "Step on pedal" --> "Pull/Push"

[stellewriites]

hinted noncon & somno

could maybe be a continuation of this kyle

something something about Gaz who always buys the fruitiest, brightest coloured drink on the menu every time he goes out because without fail it gets women talking to him. asking him what it is, if they can have a taste to see if they’d like it, gets their guards down easy as pie and he doesn’t have to do anything but look sweet and approachable even if he’s not

offers them his - you’re not worried about a bit of swapped spit are ya, babe? - and orders a second, but doesn’t mention that the first was all doubles. a mix of too strong spirits hidden behind sugary juice until whoever was confident enough to join him starts to slur their words and lean heavily into his side

once he’s back at her apartment, just about finished with her lax, sticky body left slumped carelessly on her couch where she’d promptly passed out as soon as they arrived, he’ll admit that they also just taste so damn good

[aspiring-wildfire]

the epic score is very fun in a lot of ways and odysseus murdering all the suitors at the end is delightfully chilling and very cathartic but i gotta say thinking abt odysseus’s perspective on that whole scene really makes me laugh like. you have been away from home for 20 years fighting first the biggest war in mythohistory and then what really seems like every fucking thing that could try to kill you in the entire adriatic sea. literally all your friends are dead and you just beat the shit out of an actual god to get back to the only two people in the world who matter to you anymore. and then you finally get back to your house after 20 FUCKING YEARS and it’s trashed bc a fucking frathouse worth of nepo babies who were like ten last time you saw them moved in while you were gone, bullied your family for well over a decade, and are currently planning how they’re gonna murder your son and assault your wife. no wonder he’s fuckin pissed

[thursdayinspace]

Soooo today's lunchtime smut contains no smut at all. It's also part of a WIP. Which didn't exist before I wrote this, but it does now. This is just feelings. Lots of them.

She’s been meaning to go home for the last hour or so. The fact that she’s still here, on his couch, feet on the coffee table, her body feeling sleep-heavy and her eyes closed…it might mean something or it might not. But here she is. He’s next to her mirroring her position, and she doesn’t think he’s asleep, she’d have heard him falling asleep from the shift in his breathing. It’s warm in here, and familiar. The walls around this house keep the world outside. That was their purpose when they bought it, and it is their purpose now, even if the reason for seeking shelter in here has changed.

She’s been meaning to go home, so why won’t her body move from this place?

When he rolls his head towards her to look at her she can feel it, and she looks back at him through half-opened eyelids and is powerless against the slow smile on her face. “I should go before I fall asleep,” she says, her voice low to fit the dim quiet of the room around them.

“You can’t drive like this,” he says, and something unravels in her chest. The last remaining tension seeps from her tired muscles.

“So it’s okay if I stay here tonight?” It wouldn’t be the first time. She still feels like she should ask. This thing between them has a name, but until one of them speaks it out loud, it has to remain vague. Undefined.

“Always,” he says, and she thinks about how his voice has changed since the day she met him all those many years ago. He’s not the same person, but at same time he is; he’s Mulder.

“Okay.” She closes her eyes again. The affirmation of right now is enough for the moment.

He gets up and she sighs; she was comfortable like this, with the warmth of him a steadying presence against her side. But then his arms slide underneath her shoulders, her legs. “Come on,” he says softly, and she blinks at him slowly as he lifts her.

“What are you—”

“We’re too old to fall asleep on the couch like this.”

Bed, then. She wraps her arms around him and leans her head against his shoulder. “I can walk,” she says, not expecting him to set her down, not wanting him to.

“I know you can.”

She feels small in his arms and it feels good. Out there in the world, she has to stand on tiptoe, spine straight, head raised high, making herself a giant. With him, she can let go. With him, she can be all the versions of herself that live inside her and he will look at her and know her.

“Thank you,” she says. For so many things. For letting her know him.

She thought she knew the ways in which the world could be known. Definable, quantifiable facts. Ever since she met him, he’s made her waver in her certainty. He never questioned the facts themselves, but from the start he asked the same thing over and over: How can you know?

This, them, what binds them together, is the greatest mystery of all. She has the words: love, friendship, loyalty, devotion. A neatly packaged set of ingredients that make up their relationship. But when she looks a little closer, she can’t define the words in any way that satisfies her scientist’s heart.

He kisses her hair and she breathes him in and she can’t put this into any tautological definition, any mathematical equation: a + b = c; Mulder + Scully = love. She can’t find a set of qualities that make up love. It just is. It’s in the way he looks at her, in the way her face breaks into a smile when he calls her, in the way it feels to kiss him. It’s in the way he carries her up the stairs to the bedroom.

“I have to brush my teeth,” she mumbles against his neck and he sets her down gently and follows her into the bathroom.

They brush their teeth side by side, the way they used to, and no time at all has passed since then, except the lifetime that lies between the day she left him and this moment. She has pajamas in one of the drawers of his dresser. She puts on one of his t-shirts instead.

When the lights are off she rolls into him, sticks her cold feet between his legs and rests her head on his chest. He holds her close and doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing to say.

She has no definition for home either.

His warmth becomes hers as she drifts on the edge of sleep. Nothing warms her like he does. She could be happy without him if she really tried. She could live a simpler life. He’s complicated, their life is complicated, and even though it would be possible, she doesn’t want to imagine anything else. She loves him with her entire heart.

“Mulder?” she whispers.

“Yeah?”

“I want to come home.”

He hugs her tighter and the beating of his heart under her ear remains slow and steady. “You are.”

She’d been meaning to go home. And she did. Maybe she knows the definition of the word, in all the ways that matter.

[voidsumbrella]

warmup sketches of kels from memory + a notable "I Didn't Know They Could Do That" from a recent playthrough

overhead lights are for n00bs real #gamers keep a cheap wall light stuck on their desk- //shot

[gay-cripply-scientist]

The bestie is getting tired of me trying to shove myself in their letterbox

[the-northern-continent]

Love how Varric is all “damn thing probably sensed Solas’ ego” as if he himself isn’t strolling in to stop a god with the power of dozens of Tevinter mages.

[stagefoureddiediaz]

Something something about Eddie learning Buck will be there for him off the job, even without Chris being in the equation.

Something something about that being an important realisation for him to finally make because he’s always hidden behind his son when it comes to Buck (and his love life more generally - even Shannon in reality was for Chris not himself) but he won’t be able to this time.

Something something about that realisation being the key to giving himself permission to examine his heart and feel his true feelings.

[poedays]

Despite what some may think, David is Angel’s passenger princess

[kahangeldragon]

GLaDOS… this is why we lock doors, otherwise our exes come through