#I'm autistic btw

[horsemeatluvr23]

hermitcraft s10 is just a documentation of the hermits descent into madness. wdym xisuma spent an hour on his hands and knees recording himself howling like a wolf ??

[johnsotherbastard]

SPOTIFY

LET ME SORT MY PLAYLISTS INTO FOLDERS

AND MY LIFE

IS YOURS!!!!

[monoma-neito]

My complete inability to have a proper conversation makes it so the only social interaction I really get, ESPECIALLY online, is just through watching other people's interactions. I want to interact so bad, but at the same time I know I'd ruin it and I'd rather watch you be happy in your conversation. I feel like a voyeur, watching people I know exchange words for my own social pleasure, watching others have what I cannot to compensate for my own inadequacy. I'm some stalker obsessed with the concept of society and people that's staring through their window while their words flow in between their mouths, dying to be in the middle.

[st4r-cr0ss3d]

I think I have what can be best described as an idle animation-? Because whenever I'm in my room or house and I don't know what to do I just start rotating or occasionally other random full body ish movements in one spot until I figure out what I'm doing, is it a neurodivergant thing or am I a little silly??

[oratorioriorio]

Resident Evil 2 : In Reverse

I wanted to try my hand at posting fics here too, so take this Resident Evil OC fic (the prologue, at least). Y'all like OCs here, right??? Feedback is appreciated, but be kind about it pretty please.

Word Count: 2k (2,053) Summary: Bored out of his mind at a slumber party, Shiloh Graves finds himself thinking about all the what ifs. To clear his mind, he decides to take a walk into town. What he finds there just happens to ruin his life permanently.

AKA "What if there was another survivor of Raccoon City?" or "What if someone had to trek the game in reverse?"

TWs are in tags, but also it's usual Resident Evil stuff I think. I don't plan to put anything in here that isn't in Resident Evil.

September 13th, 1993.

 "Shut up!" 

"No, you shut up!"

Shiloh leans his head back on the arm of the couch he's been slouching on for the past hour, uninterested in listening to the nauseating sound of his friends’ gossiping. They've been talking forever, more interested in sharing what has been going on in their school lives than anything he has to add. It doesn't bother him, no, but it does bore him. Despite being treated as 'one of the girls', he doesn’t care for gossip. He quit interjecting the second he lost interest.

Spreading rumors is for losers anyway. 

Sleepovers are supposed to be fun. When he was younger, they were about staying up as late as possible and playing games– doing things you can’t do at school. Now, it’s all school. It’s who likes who, which classes suck, and what they’re going to do after it’s all over. It’s about drifting apart.

Sitting out on the conversation is forcing him to realize that it might be better if they do. As they grow together, the more they grow apart and no one seems to fit together anymore. Even his friends on the floor are going to go home later, and not speak for weeks. It took the promise of pizza to get them to be here in the first place. He’s just trying to enjoy it while it lasts.

To do that, he has to distract himself.

The popcorn ceiling above him doesn't make for a good occupation though. He squints to make sense of the pattern. If he stares hard enough, he can see through to the original ceiling...and that's how he knows he's bored beyond comparison. Maybe he should get up. There’s got to be something else to do since this isn’t working.

However, it’s far past his curfew. This means there’s no touching the TV or consoles unless he wants to lose access to them. In turn, his options have been significantly reduced. All that’s left are the board games stuffed away in the hall closet, but they’re incomplete and he doubts anyone here wants to play. That makes one option.

With a sigh, he gets to his feet. A walk should do the trick. He shouldn’t be gone long, just enough to come back recharged. It’ll be quick. His parents won’t even know he’s gone, and his friends will be too busy talking to care.

As Shiloh slips on his shoes, he turns to the group. They seem content where they are, all sprawled out on the floor among the blankets and pillows they brought from home. Still, he mentions where he’s going to them. No response. That’s fine with him.

He leaves.

The night air is cooler compared to what it’s been all summer, a sign of the changing seasons. The temperature change isn’t enough to need a jacket, but it feels wrong. After getting used to the heat, the creep of colder weather is unnatural, invasive. It touches each nerve in Shiloh’s body, holding his skin, and wringing a shiver out of his spine. It’s as if he shouldn’t be out here yet, like he has to wait for autumn before he can leave the house.

The chill acts as a warning sign, begging him to turn around. As it insists, he refuses; ignoring the pleas just for tonight. After all, what’s the worry if he’s not going to be out for very long? He’ll go home when he’s done. It’s just a quick journey.

The stroll leads him into town, which is a first. Shiloh never dares to go this far from safety in the night. In his attempts to force himself to be tired, he’s only ever gone to the end of his road and back. Tonight, however, the glow of the street lights are more enticing than they’ve ever been. One time shouldn’t hurt.

Against anyone’s better judgment, he persists.

He’s never gotten to wander the city at night like this, only ever seeing the store fronts from car windows. It’s mesmerizing in person—just how it looks in all of the Christmas movies sans snow. He stares into all of the windows as he passes, taking in everything on display. The lights pull him in, demanding his full attention. He couldn't be further removed from reality.

In his daydreaming, he thinks about how fun it would be to walk this strip with his friends. How they would be side by side, crashing into each other as they lose balance from laughing. How some of the only noise would be their chatter. It would be a perfect evening. It could have been this evening.

The more he thinks about it, the sadder it makes him. They’ll never get that chance with how things are going. And it seems that no one besides him wants to make the attempt to fix everything. Truly, it’s a doomed friendship. Maybe it wasn’t meant to last.

It’s infectious. Once he starts to think about things like this, it snowballs forever. Sitting in the back of his mind, these thoughts make him anxious for the foreseeable future. He knows that it won’t stop at the idea of losing his friends, nor will it end at the possibility of being all alone. It’s a downward spiral that will trap him until he’s sufficiently occupied.

Luckily, distraction comes as a patch of darkness where the warm glow ends—an alley, its contents enveloped in shadow…except for one dim light at the end, just before the path diverges behind the next building. The sounds of shuffling can be heard from within, groans following. Someone could be hurt. He should check.

Something in his brain tells him not to go toward it. Something primal says that there’s danger past the point where the sidewalk meets the patchy brick. The wind picks up more, chilling him to the bone; another warning to turn back. Another caution sign that he doesn’t heed. He follows the sounds further in.

“Hello?” Shiloh calls into the darkness, creeping forward with light footsteps, “Are you alright?”

The moaning comes to a halt, the alley falling into complete silence. Everything is at a standstill, save for his heart beating in his chest and in his ears. It sounds as if it should be echoing off the walls. Whoever is here with him should be able to hear it. They should know that he’s scared.

“...Is any-” He’s cut off by a haunting growl, one full of phlegm and saliva that rumbles in the throat of its owner. It sounds disgusting, just as the steps approaching him sound uneven. In between his heartbeat and the limping he hears, there’s something wet dripping onto the ground that—along with the rancid smell, makes his stomach turn. He can’t stand here any longer.

Shiloh attempts to move, but his feet are glued to the ground. As the thing gets closer, his brain screams for his legs to work, but to no avail. He can see the shadow of the creature and he knows that he doesn’t have much time to get out. Despite this, his knee simply twitches in response, useless. He curses himself in his head.

As it rounds the corner, he can see the monster at last. Ashen and sick, its eyes are glazed over and full of hunger. It walks with a limp, dragging one leg behind itself and swaying while its mouth and shirt are covered in blood. Something falls from its teeth as its milky gaze lands on him, and he’s sure that something is human. It’s obvious, isn’t it? This thing is a zombie. They exist. 

It lunges for him as he manages to turn and run, holding its arms out in an attempt to grab. The zombie is faster than he could have anticipated, its fingertips brushing the back of his t-shirt as he tries to get away—some animalistic urge to consume pushing it harder than its decaying body should allow. It leans most of its weight toward him as it chases, wanting to shove him toward the ground in order to make him its meal. The only thing stopping it is the fact that Shiloh is human, having a sturdier body and legs that carry him better. With the distance he’s putting between them, it’s going to have to close the gap before it can do anything to him.

Just before he can reach the street, his shoe catches one of the bricks sticking out of the path, sending him tumbling to the ground. It’s an awkward fall that leaves him scrambling to get up again, but attempting to push himself to his feet is useless. His legs shake too much to find stability. His arms give out and force him to start again. It’s over.

He turns himself around to see the zombie looming over him, so much more of its details visible now that they’re closer to the light of the strip. There’s only a few patches of greasy hair left on its head and its lips have deteriorated, forcing an eerie, red stained grimace. Its cheeks are starting to hollow from decomposition and he can smell it. He’s sure that he’s staring into the face of death, into the eyes of hell. As it drops to its knees to begin its feast, he braces himself for the bite- certain that he knows now what his future is.

Shiloh does not want to be undead…assuming that there will be any of him left.

But the bite never comes. Instead, there’s two reverberating bangs and the zombie comes to a complete halt. It pitches forward, falling right on top of him in a motionless heap, heavy on his stomach. The corpse is cold itself, but something on it is miserably lukewarm and wet. It’s blood. 

He pushes the body off of himself as he yelps, heavy breathing turning into a wheeze. He’s covered in the gore of that thing, his front soaked in a reddish brown. It’s already turning tacky against his skin and gluing his shirt to his stomach. All that he can smell is rust and rot. His hands, covered in it, shake as he looks at them and whimpers.

However, he doesn’t get much time to register all that happened as a blinding light is shoved into his face, forcing him to cover his eyes. It burns and is impossible to adjust to, even when peeking through his fingers. He can’t see a thing—it could be another zombie for all he knows.

“Are you bitten?” A male voice asks and Shiloh lets go of the breath he didn’t know he was holding, shaking his head no.

The voice of his savior is calming. Though it doesn’t stop his tremors or wheezing, he feels relief wash over him and his body begins to become sore. This awful night is over. He can go home tonight and pretend none of this ever happened. He’ll never go out alone at night ever again.

“Are you sure?”

He nods.

After a second, the man gives a hum of acknowledgement, moving his flashlight from his eyes. Now, through phosphenes, he can get a look at his rescuer…which doesn’t provide many features. He wasn’t expecting full, black tactical gear and a mask covering his face, every little detail obscured. All he gets is the red and white Umbrella Pharmaceuticals logo that is plastered directly onto the bulletproof vest. But why would Umbrella need equipment like this?

Don’t they just make medicine like Adravil and Safsprin?

Putting his finger to his ear and turning slightly away, his savior speaks again. “Cadaver has been neutralized, but there’s a witness. I have a young man here, not infected. Awaiting further instruction.”

Shiloh can hear the earpiece buzz and someone speaks. The man in front of him stares at him in silence as he receives his orders, and he stares back with pleading eyes. He just wants to go home. This will never happen again, he’ll make as many promises as he needs to so he’s believed. Gossip has never sounded more entertaining.

“Affirmative.” 

His supposed defender lifts his gun and points it in his direction, taking on a darker tone.

“Get up,” he demands, voice cold and harsh, “Umbrella wants to meet you.”

[thenewnio]

PSA

Vaccines do not cause autism. Never have, and never will. Even if they did, it would be a blessing, not a curse.

[smellslikemondays]

in the fire more like in the stereotype

I just love how people collectively rejected Music because it was anti autism ablelist trash but praise/ignore the anti autism fairly racist horror film In the Fire because your favorite is in it. Also giving it a film festival spotlight is really cool and not at all angering.

[faeriekit]

The Foster Mother

Now on ao3 and VHS release

There was, supposedly, someone waiting for him in the green sitting room.

“…Why?” Tim asked. Most of the usual suspects had already come by to give their “condolences”—former Drakes Industries investors, curious about the newly orphaned heir; fellow socialites, once again flocking in to give and receive sympathies for their “close friends, the Drakes”; gawkers come to see what they could scavenge off of a dead family’s home, never mind that their child was alive.

“She claims to know you, Master Tim,” Alfred offered, kettle in his hand. He spent a moment deciding between different two canisters of tea; a sign of possibly difficult future conversation. “Her interest in your father's estate seemed quite…minimal.”

…Alright.

Tim was still in his formalwear. Dissolving Drake Industries would take at least another year, and plenty of future hours cementing the future home of certain resources in their dissolution, but the outfit probably was more appropriate for whatever oncoming conversation that was about to ensue than his planned change into Dick’s old hoodie and board shorts.

Okay. Tim steeled himself. The self-determination…mostly worked. Whatever. He trudged up into the green sitting room from the kitchen with his usual introduction ready on his tongue.

And then Tim walked into the room.

And then Jazzy was there.

*

Tim had been three, and Miss Jasmine had been his had been his third nanny. He’d outgrown the wetnurse early on, and his second nanny had been dismissed, so although Miss Jasmine was the third nanny, she was first nanny Tim could consciously remember.

She’d had red hair. She’d been very gentle with him.

She got him up in the morning and put him to bed at night; for the first time, there had been someone who sat with him until he was asleep, reading all sorts of books his parents had left to engage him with as an early genius. Then, when those were over and done as promised to his parents, they got unauthorized books from the library: silly books with made-up words, dinosaur books, books about teddy bears and adventures around the world.

Tim hadn’t been allowed to travel the world. Tim hadn’t been allowed a teddy bear. His parents had thought it would encourage undue attachment.

(It had been the same reason he’d never been given a pacifier.)

Miss Jazz had given him a knitted bunny. She’d said her dad had made it especially for him.

The toy’s name was Bunny and Tim remembered him being very soft.

She didn’t smile all the time, but smiles were rewards that were easy to earn. He finished his meal and she smiled. He finished an educational puzzle and she smiled. He was quiet all through her phone call and she smiled, and answered all his questions once she was done.

Jazzy had been the first person in his life who was there all the time. She’d kissed his forehead after the bath and kissed his scraped knees; she’d carried him in his arms when he was tired and sometimes even when he wasn’t. His parents had wanted him to be independent, proactive, and not clingy, but Jazzy had been someone who he could run to from his bed when he’d had nightmares and someone he could cuddle on her lap with when he’d cried.

She was gone when he was seven. He didn’t remember why. His parents had probably never told him, but still; he'd assumed he'd have found out why eventually.

Jazzy looked the same right now as she looked in Tim’s memories, although she was likely no longer a college student at a nannying gig. Her red hair was pulled into a high bun, her dress modest and conservative from her neck to her ankles. There was a backpack beside her foot. She was sitting, one leg crossed over the other, on the high-backed loveseat in the green sitting room.

She looked up when he came in.

Tim. Stopped in his tracks.

It didn’t matter. Jazzy—Miss Jasmine stood up as soon as she saw him, eyes alight with worry. Foggy memories were swimming to the forefront of Tim’s brain. He couldn’t move.

“Tim?” Ja—Miss Jasmine asked, teal eyes raking over his frame. Tim froze where he was. He didn’t move, wide-eyed and terrified for no reason at all when Miss Jasmine got closer to him, at a distance that was more appropriate for a conversation.

She stood there. Watching him. It felt like his mother had just come home from her trips with Dad, and a ghost of old terror wafted through him as he waited for her to decide he’d done something wrong. Her voice got softer. Her eyes got softer. Why was Tim feeling so wrong-footed?? It was only a former staff person!

“Tim?” her voice was so gentle. “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m—“

“M’s Jazz,” Tim croaked. Which. Wasn’t the level of formality he’d been going for, but better than Jazzy. He wasn’t a toddler anymore.

Miss Jasmine was so tall—honestly, was she taller than Bruce? She’d seemed insurmountable as a child; he hadn’t expected her height to truly be so statuesque as an adult.

(Or. Well. Almost an adult.)

She didn’t quite kneel down, but she did stoop lower, as if Tim was small and he needed to be on equal footing in order to have a serious conversation.

He could see all her freckles. Tim swallowed. It was too familiar. Everything about her was too familiar.

“You’re so big now,” Jazzy whispered, looking at his hair, his suit, his polished shoes. He didn’t feel it. “Oh, you’ve grown up so well.”

Thanks, Tim almost said. Something stopped him—something thick in his throat, to impassable to break through.

“I—“ he tried. He coughed. “Why…you… You’re here?”

Jazzy threw him an incredulous look, and then an incredibly wry one. “Well,” she drawled a little too primly, in the way that Alfred occasionally made obvious statements, “I’d think it obvious that when one’s parents have passed away, that those who care about you might come to check and see if you’re alright.”

Which. That didn’t make sense. Jazzy hadn’t come back for any other reason; she hadn’t come back for his mother’s funeral, nor when his father was injured publicly by a villain. Why start now?

“And,” Jazz added, seeing his visual confusion and distrust, “Your parents can’t exactly threaten me with a kidnapping charge for visiting you when they’re dead.” Pause. “Which I am sorry about. My condolences.”

Which. Whiplash. What a statement.

“Uh,” said Tim, who was rapidly losing control over the situation.

Jazzy stood again, and went back to her seat; she didn’t set herself down, though, as she only stooped to grab her backpack. “I am sorry for being unable to visit, although I really wanted to; you were at a very vulnerable age and had already moved into a class a year above you, and your parents should have been less hasty about replacing your main caretaker. The assassination attempts were unwarranted, but they did drive the point home that attempting contact was perhaps discouraged.”

“What,” said Tim. “Assassin what.”

“They were ninjas,” Jazzy offered, as if that was an answer. “Except the last one, which was a former marine. The point is that I do care about you, and wanted to ask if you had any idea where you’re going now that your parents are no longer…available guardians.”

Tim’s mouth opened. It closed.

Jazzy waited patiently.

“…How have you been?” Tim tried, resorting to a part of the script they hadn’t gone through yet.

Jazzy’s laugh was tired, but no less real. It was nothing like listening to his parents titter politely; he didn’t think Jazzy would even know how to fake a laugh. “Well, my brother told me that my former bosses had died, which was somewhat stressful. Otherwise, I’m pretty happy: I live with my brother and worked with him for the last few years. I was going to pursue medicine, but…well. The assassination attempts made it hard to interview for scholarships. I suppose that I could return to that now,” Jazzy mused, attention now elsewhere. She pulled the backpack off the floor and up into her grip. She opened it, and flipped through its contents. “How are you doing? I know that Wayne Manor fosters, but your parents were always rather…hands off. I thought the difference in levels of attention might be overwhelming.”

It was. Tim should be surprised how clearly she sees through him—

—But Jazzy used to watch him stim for almost a full hour after school, twisting Bunny’s arms back and forth until he could calm down. Seeing other people all day had been too much for him. Coming home from his parents’ parties had been similarly stressful.

She’d never been mad at him for it. She held him while he talked and stimmed and talked and talked and talked, and brushed his hair sometimes, or if it was very late and he was very young, helped him brush his teeth through all the medieval execution facts he could name.

“It is a lot to get used to,” Tim agreed quietly. He didn’t want to be ungrateful. He didn’t want to let on anyone about his plan to leave.

He had an out. The papers had already been filed; there was an actor waiting to play his uncle for a custody battle, ready for the fight.

Tim was ready to up and go. It was no hardship to leave all the good things here; anything beat making Bruce stick his fingers into Tim any deeper than they already were, compromising the dynamic they’d already established.

It was for the best.

“I can imagine,” Jazzy sympathized easily. “And I wanted to offer—well. I know there’s probably a lot of choices available to you, but my brother and I recently moved back to Gotham proper for the time being. He’s teaching astronomy courses at the university and I’m filing paperwork for Arkham patients. It’s not so privileged a home, but it’s quieter, and more central in town.”

…Tim’s heart skipped.

He. He couldn’t stop staring. Jazzy stared back at him, quiet and sure. Sure of what, Tim had no idea, but…

Why? Why would she want Tim? There was no way she would be able to get to his trust fund without his help, and he for sure knew better than to enable her ability to leech from him. The last time she’d known him, Tim had been a snot-nosed kid who cried all the time and couldn’t be normal for twenty consecutive minutes. His parents couldn’t even stand to be on the same hemisphere as him as a child. What appeal did this have for her?? What could having a teenager with severe baggage living in her house do for her?

And it’s not like there was any chance she knew he was Robin!

“Oh,” Jazzy suddenly interrupted. “I brought these for you, by the way. Your parents had tossed them out at various points; I’ve washed them since, of course.”

She handed him the backpack by the handle.

…Tim peeked inside.

On top was Bunny, still a washed-out faded sort of pink. He looked as fresh as he had the day when Tim’s parents had ”cleaned out” Tim’s nursery—in other words, a faded, a little gray, and slightly discolored from an old spaghetti stain. His button eyes were big and blue.

And beneath him were books that hadn’t passed his father’s muster as appropriately masculine reading material: The Velveteen Rabbit, with the cover a little scarred from a fierce attack of wet wipes. There’s A Monster at the End of This Book, with a goofy-looking Muppet on the cover, gold spine beat up beyond belief. Art Tim’s teacher at the time must have laminated and sent home; Tim’s dorky, crayon cat proved he would never make it as an artist, but attached to it was a photograph of a grinning boy with a bowl cut and a missing tooth.

Tim stared. There’d been purple marker on his hands and face. His grin looked…really bad, actually, like as if he was baring his teeth because he didn’t know how to smile. There was no formal grace there. Nothing to show the neighbors, nothing worth framing to put into the line of sight of the investors in the office.

Jazzy had kept it and brought it home with her. Jazzy had fished it out of the trash, and brought it with her to give back to him in Gotham.

It was crinkled like it’d been folded, over and over again. Further down in the bag was a crumpled certificate dedicated to “Timmy Drake, for: knowing a lot about octopi”, and a baby blanket Tim didn’t even remember. It had rocket ships on it. It looked as if someone had cut into it with scissors, although it had been obviously and brightly mended with red embroidery floss later on.

Jazzy had only been his nanny until Tim was seven. She had simply been gone one night, and Mom and Dad had been home for ten nights after without help before giving in and hiring Mrs. McIlvane and Mrs. Edith. Ms. Edith had never been so…permissive…with Tim as Jazzy had been.

Tim swallowed. He carefully put everything back into the backpack, unsure if he even wanted to keep it or not. It wasn’t like he could leave it here; he’d be gone, ideally, before the week was out. There was no point in taking it with him if he only planned to live with a stranger until he was eighteen.

“J…” Tim tried. He cut himself off before he could get too informal without prompting. “Miss Jasmine—“

“Just Jazz,” Jazzy corrected politely.

“—Why are you here?” Tim asked, ignoring how she’d technically already answered. He didn’t believe her. “What made my parents fire you?”

Jazzy’s expression turned…soft. Tim couldn’t look at her. Something horrible was welling with it, and he didn’t know how to cope.

“I’m here because I care about you,” Jazz repeated, and knelt beside him. She looked up into his face, and took his hand. Tim didn’t know why. He was practically an adult—he didn’t need this!

“And I was fired because your Mother overheard you calling me ‘Mommy’ on accident when you were tired. I suppose she was insulted, although I’d never know why; it’s not like she was ever home to bond with you in the first place.”

Tim’s throat closed. He missed his mom. He missed waiting up for his parents’ flight home, seeing their headlights outside the window, and knowing they’d bring home gifts from overseas. He missed using Mom’s perfume, and knowing he’d used more of the bottle sitting on her dressed than she ever had, but that it still smelled like her. He missed hearing his Dad telling all sorts of adventure stories and promises through the phone to be home for the holidays, even if Tim knew there was every chance he’d find some other way to spend the time back in Gotham.

And there was some small child in him who missed Jazzy, who hugged him and walked him to the library and made him soup from a can instead of fancy dinners and, who’d never needed to be waited for in the first place.

Tim looked at Jazzy’s round, freckled face.

He swallowed.

Tim moved out before the end of the week, as expected.

[purpleflameb0i]

Shout-out to all the teachers that allow neurodivergent kids to use their tools during class; whether it be during a class lecture, taking notes, work, etc.

Y'all are amazing

[qifreyplushie]

where are all my adhd/audhd hua cheng truthers at

[programmergirll]

EVERYONE I HAVE RECEIVED MY AUTISM DIAGNOSIS

YIPPEEEEEEEE

I'M AUTISTIC

YEAHHHHHHHH

[mysticalcats]

started watching dead boy detectives. working out how to draw this guy

[petitepatateuwu]

A break from my constant mental breakdown to sketch some Security Breach characters. You see I have developed an interest for fnaf recently and of course I have been obsessed with the shiny glittered glamrock-styled animatronics 👍

I wish I could color them or smt but I'm too overworked and stressed sowy...

[listles-s]

man laios and toshiro's/shuro's dynamic is incredibly compelling to me on multiple levels

when you look at them, you can see the cultural and personal barriers that drive almost every single aspect of their relationship, both positively and negatively. laios is incredibly outspoken and driven by his passions, which he expresses freely even in the face of annoyance and/or criticism- he's allowed to be as authentically himself as he pleases, and it's this drive that allows him and the others to survive as long as they have, especially due to the fact that these passions and interests are intertwined with his skills as a dungeon diver. toshiro, in contrast, is incredibly reserved, not only due to his eastern upbringing but also his status as nobility- a combo of cultures that both demand that one save face, to avoid conflict at any cost, even at the expense of one's own feelings and individuality. this, in turn, has made toshiro the perfect samurai, as he's politely-spoken, agreeable, and an honorable, skilled man. both are also incredibly devoted to falin on different levels, having come to accomplish the same mission of her rescue despite drifting apart from the party.

on the flipside, it's these same strengths that cause them to clash- laios is outspoken but unable to truly decipher the emotions of others, leading to a lot of false assumptions and frustration from those who interact with him. toshiro is stoic but to the point of complacency, leading to a aggressively neutral disposition that's ushered by the needs and wants of others, rather than himself. neither man truly knows where they stand with the people important to them in their lives, and hold the ones that they do know how they feel with a fierce admiration expressed in ways that aren't always traditional.

in the end, they both share a growing feeling of isolation from other people that comes to a head when they meet again in the depths of the dungeon, and they both have different ways of coping with the frustrations that arise, seeing the other as only the things they have seen face to face.

it's laios' ability to express himself emotionally without consequence that sparks jealousy in toshiro, leading to a physical fight born out of miscommunication and envy. while toshiro is a driving force in the conflict, it should be noted that the actual fight is started by laios, breaking the dam of indirect communication through force. nothing is more direct than a slap to the face, and it's only after they start hitting each other that toshiro's true feelings come to light.

however, at the end of it all, toshiro is the one who stops torturing himself, listening to laios and giving him the bell, allowing laios and his party entrance into his homeland should they need it, and ultimately giving him support in his mission to defeat the dungeon mage, albeit in his own way. despite it all, they're still good friends with a conflict that boiled over, but came out the other end with a slightly better understanding of each other. the fight was painful for both of them, but it was a necessity for their dynamic to improve, and for them to be made aware of their faults and improve as individuals as well.

but also, if you think about it, their dynamic is literally just this

[dawnofiight]

Ok so maybe we all aren't British or from the US,, but I haven't met a single redacted user on here that wasn't trans or autistic. Not ONE.

[cringelordofchaos]

autism is oftentimes hereditic