#and he has a special interest

[fagbearentertainment]

How to convince a 50 year old man that would rather die that go to a doctors office to look into an autism diagnosis

[goddisposez]

yeah no i’m okay. yeah i’m just thinking about all of the solomon tozer certified scared moments. no it’s not dealing me immense psychic damage why do you ask

[turtleblogatlast]

AU where Leo is trapped in the Prison Dimension for months instead of minutes and the only way he gets by with his sanity intact is through recording himself talking to his wrist comm.

When they finally manage to get Leo back and make him rest up to heal, Donnie can’t help but listen to the recordings left behind.

He’s not sure what exactly he’s expecting, only that his subconscious is screaming at him that it has to be heartbreaking, that it has to be torturous.

Instead, what Donnie is subject to is a full thousand hours’ worth of Jupiter Jim and Lou Jitsu crossover fanfiction. More than one part in the series. Spanning well over a million words.

(The worst part is that it’s actually good.)

[gaylittle-goober]

felt the need to add this image i made a bit ago

“Louie from Pikmin is autistic,” I say into the mic.

The crowd boos. I begin to walk off in shame, when a voice speaks and commands silence from the room.

“She’s right,” they say. I look for the owner of the voice. There in the 3rd row stands: Louie’s adoptive father figure himself, Captain Olimar.

[waffleslashermaster]

He keeps destroying my team in the arena. Shadow Milk Cookie I hope you explode.

[doggyjjm]

why did Jack just out Luchasaurus like that

[swan2swan]

I had an epiphany about ships today.

[clayderogatory]

so we all know that re2r leon s kennedy himself has a jeep? yeah, and since he is a jeep owner, i believe he would get a bunch of rubber ducks and line them up on the dashboard of his car. they all have names and he collects ducks and swaps them out sometimes for new ducks. i think he would really like rubber ducks...and because this man is 100% autistic it's probably a special interest too

also hes so cute i love him mwah

[pencildragons]

spreading my john gaius was māori space jesus before gideon propaganda: the unimaginably old and vast being from which he comes chose him to save all of humanity and in the end he made a sacrifice of the highest order and was made anew in glory. except he didn't actually sacrifice himself, which is a crucial point that leads me to my second theory: john gaius is evil māori space jesus

[ruporas]

special operatives (silly interaction beneath read more)

[ID: Digital Art in color of Trigun Maximum, characters included are Wolfwood, Elendira, and Legato in a casual meeting situation. The piece consists of orangey yellow lighting and purple shadows. Wolfwood sits on the left side, facing Elendira who’s on the right. He’s seated on a plain wooden chair with one knee up and he’s holding the strap to his Punisher in his left hand while his right sits against his thigh, He has an irritated expression as he speaks to Elendira. Elendira is sitting in a fancier seat, her right arm rests against Wolfwood’s propped up knee, her left hand holds her suitcase. She’s sitting cross legged with an amused expression. Legato can be seen in the back at the center of the image in his mobile body case, one of his eyes shown to be glaring at Wolfwood. End ID]

[ID: Sketch, uncolored comic. Elendira says to Wolfwood, “I’m not telling you to dedicate yourself to him, but just accept the situation at hand. We could get along better if we were on the same page.” Wolfwood responds, “Don’t peg me me for an optimist. I’m not dumb. But, I’m also not going to just live in resignation. Plus, I don’t have any interest in getting along with ya.” Elendira coos, “Aw, you sure? I have a wonderful shoulder to cry on when the weak people you’re trying to protect eventually dies in the coming months. Though, I guess it’s fine. Someone like you might just die before then anyway...” She snickers in her hand while Wolfwood is speechless and just glares. Legato is faintly drawn in the back, glaring at Wolfwood, muttering “worthless” repetitively. End ID]

[dreadeves]

‘ig riz is demi/demi because the only one he’s shown interest in is fabian’ BZZZZT INCORRECT!!! he has never shown romantic/sexual interest in fabian. the only one riz has ever shown interest in is the SEXY RAT!!!! put some goddamn respect on the sexy rat’s name.

[canisalbus]

Does adult Machete retain his childhood delight for snails? Does he keep a journal of notes and observations about them?

Imagining a present day timeline of your story where zoology students learn a number of species of snail native to southern Europe were extensively detailed and documented by some reclusive, weird twink cardinal who was later assassinated for political reasons.

Hard to say. Even if he wanted to do regular snail watching (a riveting activity for sure), he probably wouldn't have time for it, he's chronically stretched thin as it is. But it's a cute thought TvT

[mr-payjay]

there are a Million ways to be a system. don't limit yourself or Restrict your idea of them too harshly. speak to multiple systems if you want better references for depicting them (or just to know how they work) because every system is different and unique

[chthonicarcher]

it isn’t the first time you’ve had this dream.

(that’s how you already know it’s a dream, you guess.)

the small, almost claustrophobic dwelling you find yourself standing in is dimly lit with lamplight; it’s been kept tidy enough, but the mismatched chairs and the ragged rug and the wooden shelves and all the odd little things on the shelves are just a bit too bent and banged and tattered, and everything seems dingy at the edges; the spare concrete floor and the thick windowpanes are encrusted with salt, making the scenery appear as an abstract blur, only really discernible from the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks.

it’s a sound you’re very familiar with. whenever you aren’t dreaming, you live in a hive by the sea, too.

you take a seat by the dying fire, glancing at the pages of the open book that’s been left there. you won’t be able to read the looping words scrawled there by some unsteady hand—you already know that from the many other times you’ve had this dream. that doesn’t stop you from trying, though.

there is a distinct feeling of absence here, you think, after you give up and settle deeper into the comfortably worn chair. it’s too big for you. you aren’t short by any means, but your feet almost don’t reach the floor.

absence—as if someone was here just moments ago, just before you arrived. you can’t explain it, only feel it: a charge in the air, someone’s unbreathed breath left behind, somebody’s trail of thought you’ve tripped across. something infuriatingly intangible that’s here but that isn’t yours.

from the small adjacent kitchen comes a wavering scream, steadily increasing in volume—shit, that always happens after you sit down in the chair and try to read the writing. somehow, it still manages to startle you, just like it did the first time.

even now, you are far too nervous to laugh at yourself for it, even though you know it’s only the kettle.

dutifully, you get up to turn off the hob. the scream dies down to a sigh.

you follow the same steps you always do when you visit this place. one by one, you examine the items carefully laid out there in the kitchen: the chipped mug, the leaf juice bag, the spoon and the small bowl of sugar.

(what if you tried something different this time?)

so, ignoring the arrhythmic banging sound coming from behind you—you know it’s only the door, left ajar and caught by the wind—you fix yourself a cup of tea. there’s no grub milk to be found anywhere, but you suppose you can do without it, under the circumstances.

normally, after turning off the kettle, you’d retreat away from the kitchen, further inside—away from that repeatedly slamming door. you would find your way to a long spiraling staircase made of thick rusting metal and begin to climb, up and up, toward the steadily turning light at the very top, driven there by a burning curiosity.

and just before you would reach it, you would wake up, pump biscuit thumping hard in your chest from the long, strenuous climb, and you would go find your lusus and tell him about it, maybe, or just go back to sleep, or give up and just get out of your recuperacoon for the night—see if maybe anybody was online to troll yet.

well, not this time. this time, you stand in the cramped kitchen and sip your tea, and you wonder about the writing in the book, and the absence.

(why not try going through the open door?)

you stand rooted to the spot, leaning against the counter oh so casually, and warily watch that door slam itself against its frame again and again while you drink the tea.

a little shiver tears through your body, though you aren’t cold. you wonder if Einnal would make fun of you for being afraid, if he was here. that’d be rich. he’s probably the biggest coward you know.

you set the mug down decisively and stride toward the door, catching it mid-swing.

the waves are high, but not the worst you’ve ever seen. the salt spray catches you in the face as you lean out the door. it’s nice, though, familiar.

from a glance, it’s maybe an hour before dawnfall. the clouds are boiling, tumultuous as the sea, the sky beyond them still dark as a bruise. every half minute or so, the sweeping beam of the lighthouse briefly illuminates the stormclouds. every time, though, it’s gone too soon, leaving only a bright afterimage behind.

you lean further out of the doorframe, into the chill wind, to squint up at the pale shapes lurking among the clouds. they’re big—very big. that’s about as much as you can see from here.

there’s nobody else out here. you are alone.

you grip the edges of the doorframe tightly when your feet begin to leave the ground, but it’s no use. you’re airborne in moments, along with several sizeable chunks of rocky coastline.

(it’s easy enough to keep yourself calm. it’s only a dream, after all.)

slowly, you float up and up and up, parallel to the lighthouse tower. it’s massive, yet still dwarfed by the jagged, rocky landscape it’s nailed into like a stake. you don’t recognize this shoreline at all.

fleetingly, through the windows, you can see a shadowy figure inside the tower, steadily climbing up those spiral stairs—he looks like you, could that really be you? yourself, dreaming a different dream? or…

you’ve lost sight of him. you can’t see through the windows at this angle.

you look down. the sea is wild beneath you. it’s colder now, up here, caught as you are in the whims of the wind. you sort of wish you had worn a sweater to sleep.

at last, your flight has brought you level with that massive beacon at the top of the lighthouse—and then higher still, with no way to stop or slow down.

the figure emerges from the staircase, stepping out onto the top level.

it can’t be you, after all. it’s someone else, someone—older, maybe, though there certainly is a resemblance.

his long cloak billows dramatically in the wind.

he’s missing his right arm.

he’s looking right at you.

you stare back at him as he gradually recedes into the distance, smaller and smaller, until he’s no more than a speck.

you’ve flown so high—you’re about to be swallowed by the turbulent swirl of thick, dark clouds above you. for some reason, you find yourself holding your breath, as though you’re afraid you might drown in them, but no such thing happens. the moment you’re submerged into the sea of clouds is perfectly painless.

you can’t see anything anymore, though. you have no sense of direction left at all. even the sounds of the ocean are significantly muted, way up here.

a few minutes pass before you realize

(you’re not alone)

there are gigantic creatures circling you from a distance—the same ones you saw from the ground, perhaps.

that distance is rapidly shrinking, though. they’re swimming closer every minute. dream or not, you’re finding it more and more difficult not to outright panic—you have nothing here to defend yourself with, you’re not even wearing shoes, for fuck’s sake—

but then—then—

you emerge from the dark clouds entirely, abruptly, clumsily. you’re still ascending, Alternia’s ever so slight curvature now visible to you at this dizzying height. the impending dawn is threatening the horizon in earnest now.

the sharks don’t follow you out into the open air, preferring to remain half-concealed in the clouds instead. you almost can’t believe your luck. you watch their fins circling below and can’t help but exhale a shaky breath, but…

but before you can feel too great a sense of relief, you look up,

and see a creature there far larger than any shark, of either the sea or sky variety: a giant sky-squid, white as bone. its tentacles alone seem to span half (maybe more) of the length of the shoreline, far below.

it’s marked with countless scars, from countless battles. there are thousands of tridents and spears and harpoons stuck in its massive body, the great majority of them broken, it seems. one of its tentacles has been entirely blown apart, the ragged stump now long-healed, by the looks of it.

it’s seen you now. it seems to regard you not only with blank, stupid, wild-animal hostility, but…with caution. maybe you’re only imagining it.

one thing you know for certain, though, as you stare unblinking into its huge and ancient eye: this is the bastard that took your arm.

no doubt about that.

in spite of its great size, it’s fast, and you’re unarmed. you never stood a chance.

you scramble for one of the weapons stuck in its mantle, anything—but none are even close enough to reach, let alone to pry loose. the last thing you see before you’re swallowed whole is the lighthouse, far below, still signaling steadily across the waves as the sun begins to rise.

---

[thethespacecoyote]

contemplating what exactly it was about ford that made bill feel important now

[shortcakelils]

Commissions are open 👇