prospectkiss Sleepy intimacy is one of my favorite things, and I think the last point is why - it’s all about trust. Trusting someone enough to let your guard down. To lower your defenses. To be vulnerable. That kind of trust is not always given easily, which is what makes sleepy intimacy so heartwarming.

one of the most significant misconceptions i fear some people have about whump is that it’s sadism. For a lot of us, it’s masochist. I can’t speak for everyone in the whump community, but for myself and most of the people i’ve interacted with, we’re empathising with the whumpee, not the whumper. We’re experiencing second- hand their paın and catharsis, and also (my favourite part) the concern and care they receive from others but like… i can totally imagine what it would look like for outsiders coming across our blogs where we consistently fantasise about our favourite characters in absolute agony lol

PLUSH ONE viii (By NeuroFabulous) Karen's mind races with questions, but she knows better than to ask now. She watches Plankton closely, his body slowly unwinding. His eye opens slightly, his gaze flicking to his plushie. "Plankton," she says, keeping her voice steady, "Would you like to sit with me?" He considers her offer, his antennae twitching nervously. Then, with a shaky nod, he crawls across the floor, his body still tense, and sits by her side, the plushie still clutched in one hand. Karen swells with relief, the air in the room finally feeling a bit less suffocating. She keeps her movements slow and deliberate, not wanting to startle him. Plankton sits next to her, his antennae still twitching. The man she loves is trying, and it's all she can ask. Plankton sits next to her, his antennae twitching, a constant reminder of the world he now navigates. She reaches out tentatively, her hand hovering near his. "Would you like me to hold your hand?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper. He looks at her hand, then at her, his eye swiveling in consideration. For a moment, Karen thinks he might reject her offer, but slowly, his hand reaches out and wraps around hers. It's a tentative gesture. His grip is firm, but not too tight, his antennae quivering as he tries to process the sudden contact. She holds her breath, afraid to disturb the fragile peace they've found. Karen's mind races, trying to recall everything she's read about autism, about how touch can be both a source of comfort and of pain. She remembers the importance of consent, of letting the person with autism lead the way. So she sits, her hand in his, and waits. The room is still, the only sound the distant hum of the city outside their window. Plankton's breaths are steady now, his grip on the plushie loosening. His antennae are still, no longer searching the air for threats. Karen's eyes are locked on their intertwined hands, the warmth of his palm a comfort she hadn't realized she'd missed. "You're doing so well," she whispers, her voice as gentle as his only response is a twitch of his antennae. His eye flicks to hers, a silent question. "It's okay," she says, her smile reassuring. "We're just sitting together." Plankton nods slightly, his eye still focused on their joined hands. He then repeats her words, his voice a mirror of her own. "Okay, sitting together." The phrase echoes. It's called echolalic palilalia, a common trait in those with autism, where words are repeated. Karen nods with love. "Yes," she says. "Sitting together." Plankton's antennae twitch slightly, a hint of a smile playing. It's a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

GREAT CHIP xiv (Autistic author) "I know it's hard, but I need you to understand that. Sometimes, I may not seem okay, but that's because it's all too much," Plankton explained, his voice a soft rumble. "But you know what?" His antennae twitched slightly, a glimmer of humor in his eye. "Sometimes, I make jokes about it." Chip's eyebrows shot up in surprise. He'd never heard his father joke about his condition before. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice tentative. Plankton's antennae twitched with a tiny smirk. "Well, when other people do it, it feels like they're laughing at me, not with me," he said, his voice a fragile thread of self-awareness. "But when I make jokes, it's like I'm the one in control of the narrative. It's my way of saying, 'I know I'm different, and that's okay.'" Chip nodded slowly, understanding dawning in his eyes. "So it's about self-acceptance?" he ventured. Plankton's antennae bobbed slightly. "Exactly," he said, his voice a little stronger. "Only I can decide how I want to be seen, how my condition is talked about. And I'd rather have other people respect me by making sure I'm comfortable than by just simply disregarding it." Chip nodded, his eyes shining with newfound respect for his father's strength. "I'll try to understand, Dad," he promised, his voice earnest. "And I'll just... I'll just be more careful." Plankton's antennae twitched slightly, his gaze meeting Chip's with a melding of sadness and gratitude. "Thank you," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the fan's hum. The silence in the room was no longer oppressive but filled with a newfound understanding, a gentle peace that seemed to soothe the jagged edges of their recent conflict. Plankton's antennae stopped twitching, his body relaxing into the embrace of the plush blanket. "I just want to rest," he whispered, his voice a soft echo in the stillness. "Could you... could you just stay here? Until I fall asleep?" Chip nodded, his heart swelling with love and regret. He sat there, his body tense with the need to do more, but he knew that sometimes, the most important thing was just to be present. He watched as Plankton's breathing grew steadier, the shadows on the ceiling dancing to the rhythm of the fan's soft hum. His father's antennae lay still against his forehead, no longer a testament to his agitation but a symbol of his peaceful slumber. The room was a sanctuary of silence, the only sound the soft whisper of the comforter as Plankton moved slightly under its weight. Chip felt a mix of emotions—fear, guilt, love—but above all, a renewed determination to be there for his father, to learn and grow with him. He sat, his eyes never leaving Plankton's serene face, as the minutes ticked by. The darkness outside the window grew thicker, the moon casting a gentle glow into the room, painting the walls with silver light. The quiet was a comfort now, a balm to their frazzled spirits. Karen's footsteps were a soft whisper on the floorboards as she padded in, her eyes assessing the situation with a practiced gaze. "How's he doing?" she asked, her voice a gentle caress in the silence. "Better," Chip murmured, his eyes still on his father. "He's asleep." Karen nodded, her expression a mixture of relief and concern. "Why don't you get some rest too?" she suggested, her hand on Chip's shoulder. Chip hesitated, his gaze flickering from Plankton to his mother. "But what if he wakes up?" he asked, his voice a tentative whisper. Karen's eyes softened, understanding the fear that gripped him. "I'll stay," she assured. "You need to rest, too." Chip nodded, his body sagging with exhaustion. He leaned over, pressing a gentle kiss to Plankton's forehead, his antennae tickling him. "Love you, Dad," he murmured, his voice a whisper in the stillness. Karen's hand squeezed his shoulder. "I'll wake you if he needs you," she promised, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. With a nod, Chip reluctantly stood, his legs wobbly from the adrenaline rush. He turned to leave, his gaze lingering on Plankton's still form, before finally exiting the room. The hallway was a stark contrast to the warm cocoon of Plankton's bedroom, the cold air a slap to his cheeks. He took a deep breath, his heart heavy with the weight of his father's words. In his own room, Chip lay on his bed, his eyes staring at the ceiling. The quiet was deafening, his thoughts racing like a thousand fish in a net. He replayed the day's events, each moment a sharp sting in the ocean of his mind. The look on his father's face when he'd tried to hug him, the sound of the lamp shattering, the harshness of his own voice. Chip's thoughts swirled like a tornado of regret. He'd never understood the depth of Plankton's condition, the daily battles he faced. He'd always seen his father's quirks as just that—quirks. But now, the reality was stark and unyielding. Plankton's autism was more than just a part of him; it was his reality, his truth, and Chip had been careless with it. With a heavy sigh, Chip climbed into bed, his mind racing. He wished he could take back the moments that had caused pain, to rewind the clock and start again. But life didn't work that way. The house was eerily quiet, the normally bustling undersea abode now a testament to the gravity of the evening's events. Chip couldn't shake the image of his father, frozen and vulnerable, his antennae drooping like deflated party balloons. The next day dawned, a soft glow seeping into the room. Chip's eyes snapped open, his heart racing as he remembered the previous night. He threw off the covers and tiptoed to his father's room, his bare feet slapping against the cold tile floor. Karen was already there, sitting on the edge of the bed, her hand on Plankton's shoulder. The soft light of morning painted the scene in gentle hues, a stark contrast to the shadows of the night before. "How's he doing?" Chip asked, his voice hoarse. "Better," Karen whispered, her smile a beacon in the early light. "He's still sleeping." The relief on Chip's face was palpable as he approached the bed. Plankton's antennae twitched slightly, a sign of his dreams. Chip's heart skipped a beat at the sight, a silent promise to do better, to be more understanding. "He's been sleeping peacefully," Karen assured, her voice a gentle wave lapping against the shore. "I'll make us some breakfast." Her footsteps receded, leaving Chip alone with his sleeping father. Plankton's antennae twitched in his sleep, and Chip felt a wave of guilt crash over him. He carefully sat on the edge of the bed, his hand hovering over the blanket. He wanted to touch, to reassure, but his earlier misstep was still fresh in his mind. Instead, he simply watched, his eyes tracing the outline of Plankton's form beneath the fabric. The smell of pancakes began to waft up from the kitchen, a comforting scent that seemed to soothe the tension in the room. Chip took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the sweet aroma. He knew today would be a new beginning, a chance to mend the fragile threads of their bond. As Karen's footsteps retreated, the silence grew heavier, pressing against the walls like the water outside their windows. Chip's heart beat a staccato rhythm. He reached out slowly, his hand hovering over Plankton's hand. For a moment, he didn't move, just breathed, feeling the weight of his father's slumber. Then, with a careful, almost reverent touch, he covered Plankton's hand with his own. The warmth of his father's skin was a comfort, a reminder that despite the turbulent waters they'd navigated the night before, they were still connected. Plankton's antennae twitched in his sleep, and Chip held his breath, fearful that he'd woken him. But his father's eye remained closed, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. The silence stretched, a testament to their newfound understanding. Chip felt a swell of emotion, a mix of love and regret. He didn't want to let go, but he knew he had to allow Plankton his space, his privacy. So he gently lifted his hand, placing it in his lap, the memory of their shared warmth lingering like a warm embrace. He took a deep breath, his chest tight with the weight of his resolve. He would be there for his father, no matter what. He would learn about his condition, listen to his needs, and support him without smothering him. It was a delicate balance, one that Chip knew he might not always get right, but he was determined to try.

NEUROBEHAVIORAL PLANKTON vi (Autistic author) (see notes below) * ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴs ᴏғ ᴅɪsᴄʀɪᴍɪɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ Plankton's eye closed slowly, his breathing evening out under her calming touch. His body relaxed into the cushions of the couch, his mind still racing but his body succumbing to the siren call of sleep. The smoothie and Karen's comforting presence had worked their magic. Karen sat beside him, wrapped protectively around his small form. She watched his chest rise and fall with each breath, her heart heavy with the weight of the day's events. The Chum Bucket was quiet now, the silence a stark contrast to the shouts and sobs that had filled it moments before. Karen's heart breaks for Plankton yet she knows Hanna's never met him, never heard of the accident nor diagnosis. With a sigh, she picked up the phone that lay on the end table and dialed Hanna's number. The line rang once, twice, three times before Hanna's voice filled the line. "Hello?" Karen took a deep breath, steeling herself for the conversation she had to have. "Hanna, it's me," she said, her voice calm despite the whirlwind inside her. "I need to talk to you about what happened." Hanna's tone shifted immediately, concern lacing her words. "Is Plankton okay?" Karen's grip on the phone tightened. "No," she admitted, her voice a whisper. "He's asleep now, but he's not okay." Hanna's voice was a mix of shock and disbelief. "What do you mean?" Karen took another deep breath, her eyes never leaving Plankton's peaceful face. "There was an accident," she began, her voice steady. "He hit his head and..." She swallowed the lump in her throat. "Acquired Autism Spectrum Disorder." The line was silent for a moment before Hanna's voice came back, filled with horror. "Oh Neptune, I had no idea!" Karen's tentacles trembled slightly as she recounted the doctor's words, the diagnosis that had turned their world upside down. "It's permanent," she whispered. "They said his corpus callosum and cerebellum were damaged. He's...he's not the same, Hanna." On the phone, Hanna's voice was a mix of sympathy and confusion. "But why didn't you tell me sooner?" Karen's sigh was heavy with regret. "We've been dealing with this alone," she explained, her tentacle tracing patterns on the couch cushion. "It's so new, so overwhelming." Hanna's voice was gentle now, understanding in a way that made Karen feel less alone. "I'm so sorry, Karen," she said, her concern genuine. "I had no idea." Karen's eyes remained locked on Plankton's face, his chest rising and falling with each breath. "It's been a rollercoaster," she admitted, her voice tight. "But we're trying to make the best of it." Karen hangs up and turns her focus back to Plankton, his small body curled tightly under the blanket. She notices the way his antenna twitches as if he's dreaming. Her hands gently adjust the blanket, her touch feather-light against his skin. Plankton's face is a mask of peace in sleep, a stark contrast to the turmoil of the waking world. His snores are faint, a soothing rhythm that fills the otherwise silent room. Just as Karen begins to relax, the door to the Chum Bucket bursts open, letting in a rush of sunlight and SpongeBob's unmistakable laughter. "Plankton?" he calls out, his voice high and cheerful. Sponge Bob's entrance is a whirlwind of energy, a stark contrast to the heavy silence that hangs over the laboratory. He doesn't notice the tension in the air as he bounds towards the couch, his eyes widening in surprise when he sees Plankton's unusual position. "Whoa, Plankton," Sponge Bob says, his voice a chirp of curiosity. "Looks like you're taking a siesta!" He laughs, not comprehending the depth of emotion that has just played out in the room. Karen looks up from her watchful vigil, her eyes tired but determined. "Sponge Bob," she says, keeping her voice steady, "Plankton's not feeling well." Sponge Bob's face falls, his cheerfulness dimming. "Oh no," he says, his concern genuine. He approaches the couch with caution, his eyes fixed on Plankton's peaceful form. "What happened?" he asks, his voice hushed. "Is he okay?" Karen's eyes meet Sponge Bob's, full of a sorrow he can't quite comprehend. "It's been a...difficult day," she says, her tentacles tightening slightly around Plankton. "He had an accident." Sponge Bob's expression shifts from confusion to alarm. "Is he going to be okay?" he asks, his voice filled with concern. Karen sighs, her tentacle stroking Plankton's forehead in a soothing motion. "He's just...different now," she says, her voice tight. Sponge Bob frowns, his bubbles popping with worry. "What kind of different?" Karen's expression is guarded, her eyes never leaving Plankton's sleeping form. "He's been diagnosed with... autism," she whispers, the word sounding foreign even to her. "Hey, I was born with idiopathic Autism!" Sponge Bob says. "Well Plankton's got an acquired form, it's a rarity," Karen explains to Sponge Bob, her voice barely a murmur so as not to disturb the sleeping Plankton. Sponge Bob nods slowly, his understanding of the situation deepening with each word. "So his accident gave him autism; when?" "Yesterday, when he hit his head on an invention." Sponge Bob's eyes widen with realization. "Oh," he says, his voice filled with sympathy. He sits down on the floor beside the couch. "It's okay, Karen," Sponge Bob says softly, his eyes full of understanding. "We'll figure this out together." Plankton stirs beneath the blanket, his small form shifting slightly. Karen's gaze snaps to him. "Plankton?" she whispers, her tentacles poised to comfort him if his distress resurfaces. But his eye remains closed, his breathing even. Sponge Bob's expression is thoughtful as he looks at the sleeping Plankton. "You know, Karen, being different isn't so bad," he says gently. "I mean, look at me." Karen's tentacles relax slightly as she looks at Sponge Bob, his optimism a balm to her weary spirit. Karen smiles. "Tell that to Hanna," Karen mutters to herself. "Who's Hanna?" "A friend," Karen explained, her voice still tight. "She came over today, didn't know about Plankton's diagnosis. She said things she shouldn't have." Sponge Bob's frown deepens. "What kind of things?" "She said he's a burden, that maybe I should put him in an institution," she whispers, her voice shaking with anger. Sponge Bob's face falls in shock. "That's not right, Karen," he says firmly. "You don't have to listen to her. What's an institution?" "It's a place where clinically crazy people are sent to rehabilitation be 'taken care of.' But it's not like that really for neurodivergent people. It's more like a...a prison where they deprive them, and often...never make it. But mostly it's for people who are violent, which isn't the case for..." Her voice trails off as Plankton stirs again, his antennae twitching slightly. Sponge Bob looks at Plankton, his eyes filled with compassion. "He's not going anywhere, Karen," he says firmly. "You guys are like family to me. I'll help you take care of him." Plankton's single eye opens slightly, his gaze unfocused. "Shh, it's okay," she whispers, her voice a soothing caress. Plankton blinks slowly, his eye coming into focus as he sees Sponge Bob. A smile spreads across his face, a rare expression of pure joy that lights up his features. His body uncoils from its tense curl, his antennae perking up with excitement. "Sponge Bob," Plankton whispers, his voice filled with a warmth that surprises Karen. He sits up slowly, his movements calculated to avoid any jolts to his sensitive system. Sponge Bob's face splits into a beaming smile, his eyes shining with joy. "Hey, Plankton!" He says. Plankton's gaze remains fixed on Sponge Bob, his expression a mixture of gratitude and comfort. "You're here," he says simply, his voice a rough whisper. Sponge Bob nods, his smile never wavering. "Of course I am," he says, his voice gentle. He reaches out a hand tentatively, his movements slow and deliberate. Plankton's antennae twitch, then he reaches out, his grip firm but not too tight. The two of them sit there, the silence comforting rather than oppressive. **NOTEs As an autistic writer (and I used AI to help me with the words) I do not encourage the ableism people have shown in their ignorance. Depending on when and where you live, some people have thought such therapies might be good, without actually accepting nor helping. Even Hans Asperger has supported eugenics during the war, sending people to internment camps leading to demise. I came across the site autismmemorial.wordpress.com if you'd like to educate yourself about how people have endured such.*

GREAT CHIP xii (Autistic author) Mustering his courage, Chip approached, his own arms reaching out to mirror Karen's embrace. But as soon as Chip's fingers made contact with Plankton's shoulder, he flinched, his body stiffening like a board. "NO!" he shouted. The anger in Plankton's voice was like a slap, the pain of his rejection a sharp knife twisting in Chip's gut. "But Dad, I'm sorry," he said, his voice cracking. "I didn't mean..." But Plankton's antennae shot up, his body tense. "Don't!" he shouted, pushing away from them both. "Don't touch me!" His voice was ragged, his eye wide with fear and anger. Chip froze, his hand hovering in the air. He'd wanted to comfort his father, to somehow make amends for the cruel words he'd flung earlier. But his attempt had only caused more pain, and he felt the weight of his mistake like an anchor around his neck. Plankton's eyes narrowed, his antennae waving in agitation. "You think you can just...touch me?" he spat, his voice a whipcrack of anger. "You don't get it, you never will!" He shrugged off their embraces, his tiny frame quivering with fury and despair. Karen stepped back, her eyes filled with a sadness that was even deeper than the anger. "Chip," she said gently. "Give him some space." Her voice was like a lifeline, but Chip's hands remained outstretched, his eyes pleading. He didn't understand why his touch, which had always been welcomed before, was now a source of pain. "But Mom's touch d..." Plankton's antennae shot up, his eye blazing with anger. "Don't you dare compare yourself to your mother!" he roared, his voice echoing in the cramped workshop. "You don't know what it's like to live with this, to have to explain it over and over again!" Chip felt his heart shatter, the harshness of his father's words cutting deeper than any insult "It's the same touch as hers! I don't understand any differ..." But Plankton's anger was a whirlwind, a maelstrom that drowned out any attempt at reason. "You don't understand!" he screamed, his voice a volcanic eruption of pain. "You can't just... just pretend you know!" Karen's eyes filled with sadness, but she kept her voice steady. "Chip, please," she said, her tone a plea. "Give your father some space." But Chip was desperate, his heart a tangled mess of guilt and fear. He stepped closer, reaching out to mimic his mother's gentle touch. His hand hovered over Plankton's shoulder, but as soon as his fingertips made contact, his father's body stiffened. Plankton's antennae shot up like spikes, his eye wide. Chip's breath caught in his throat as he watched his father's pupil dilate, his gaze going distant. "Dad?" he whispered, his voice trembling. But Plankton didn't respond, didn't move, his body frozen in a trance-like state. Karen's eyes widened in recognition of the familiar symptom, and she quickly stepped in front of Chip, placing a gentle hand on his chest to keep him from approaching. "It's another one," she said softly, her voice filled with concern. The room seemed to hold its breath, the tension thick as the silence grew. Plankton's tiny body remained statue-still, his eye unfocused and unmoving. Chip's eyes were wide with fear, his hands hovering in the space where he'd just attempted to touch his father. He could see the fear in his mother's eyes, but he didn't understand why his touch was so wrong. "What's happening?" he whispered, his voice shaking. Karen's expression was a mix of concern and resignation. "It's another seizure," she said softly, her voice filled with a sadness that Chip had never heard before. "His body's just... trying to cope." Chip felt his heart race, his father's stillness a stark contrast to the frenetic energy that usually filled the room. The realization hit him like a tidal wave, and he stumbled back, his hand dropping to his side. "But I didn't mean to..." his voice trailed off, the words seemingly too heavy to be spoken. Karen's eyes never left Plankton's face as she gently scooped him up, her movements precise and practiced. "Let's get you to bed, honey," she said, her voice a soothing melody in the storm of his seizure. Plankton was so light in her arms, almost weightless, his antennae drooping limply beside his face. His usual fiery spirit was gone, replaced by a frightening calm that made Chip's heart race. They moved through the house in a slow dance of care, avoiding obstacles with the grace of long practice. Chip followed behind, his eyes glued to his father's still form, fear a cold hand around his throat. The hallway stretched like an eternity, each step closer to Plankton's bedroom a silent plea for his father to wake. The bedroom door creaked open, revealing a sanctuary of order and solitude. Karen navigated the space with ease, laying Plankton down on the neatly made bed with a gentle sigh. Chip hovered in the doorway, his eyes taking in the scene with a mix of awe and dread. The bed was a bastion of calm in the storm of Plankton's mind, the soft blue comforter a stark contrast to his father's usual chaotic energy. Karen arranged the pillows with the care of a sculptor, her movements precise and practiced. She pulled the covers up to his chin, her eyes never leaving his still face. Plankton's chest rose and fell in a slow, rhythmic pattern, the only sign that he was alive. Chip watched, his heart racing, as his mother sat by the bed. The silence was a living, breathing entity, filling every corner of the room like a thick fog. Karen's eyes never left Plankton's still face, her hand trembling slightly as she reached out to smooth his antennae. Chip hovered in the doorway, his own fear and confusion reflected in the shimmer of the dim light. He watched as his mother moved with a grace that seemed almost alien, her movements soothing and gentle, as if she were handling the most delicate of instruments. Plankton lay on the bed, his body still as a statue's, his eye unblinking. Karen pulled the comforter up to his chest, her hand lingering for a moment before retreating. The quiet was so deep, Chip could almost hear his own heart pounding in his chest. The room was a stark contrast to Plankton's usual cluttered workshop, his sanctuary of chaos and creation. Here, everything was in its place, each item a silent sentinel to the peace they all wished Plankton could find, a place where Plankton had always found solace. Karen sat beside the bed, her eyes never leaving her husband's serene face. She knew the chaos raging behind his unblinking eye, the maelstrom of his thoughts that only he could see. Her hand hovered over him, her thumb gently stroking his antennae, a silent promise of her love and support. Chip watched from the doorway, his heart a tumultuous sea of regret and fear. He'd never seen his father so vulnerable, so lost in his own mind. He wanted to apologize, to take back the hurtful words, but he knew it was not the time for talking. Instead, he settled for a silent promise, a vow to be there, to understand. ruder in the sacred space, but he couldn't bring himself to leave. Karen looked up, her eyes swimming with unshed tears. She offered a sad smile, a silent acknowledgment of his presence. "Why don't you go get him another blanket?" she suggested, her voice barely above a whisper. Chip nodded, his legs moving on autopilot as he retreated to the hallway. He just hoped that when Plankton woke up, he'd be able to make amends.

caretaker assuring whumpee that they’re safe now. the hard part is over. maybe whumpee’s fever has finally broken. they’re soaked through with sweat, blinking wearily back to lucidity, and caretaker rocks them in their arms. “there you are,” caretaker cries. “welcome back. it’s okay. you’re okay.” maybe whumpee is out of surgery and waking up in a hospital. caretaker sits by their bedside, holding their hand and pressing kisses to their forehead. “you’re safe, whumpee, you’re in the hospital. it’s all okay. you’re safe now.” maybe whumpee’s bleeding has finally stopped. caretaker leans back on their haunches, exhausted, hands bloodstained. “i think it’s over,” they tell whumpee with a soft smile, tucking whumpee’s hair behind their ear. “look at that, i think you’re gonna be just fine.” maybe whumpee has just been removed from a perilous situation. caretaker refuses to leave their side— hugging them close, rubbing their back. “i’m here, i’m here, whumpee. i won’t let anything hurt you again. you can rest now. you’re safe.”

GREAT CHIP xiii (Autistic author) In the quiet of the corridor, Chip's thoughts raced like a pinball machine on tilt. What had he done? How could he have hurt his father so? The hallway was a blur as he searched for the linen closet, his eyes stinging with the tears he'd held back. Meanwhile, in his own bed, Plankton stirred, his antennae twitching as the world swam back into focus. He took a moment to assess his surroundings, his heart racing in his chest. The last thing he remembered was anger, a fiery rage that had consumed him whole. Karen's voice was a lifeline in the fog, her gentle tone cutting through the silence like a knife. "Honey, it's okay," she murmured, her hand a soft shield against the harshness of reality. Plankton blinked slowly, his antennae rising with caution. The room swirled around him, a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes that slowly coalesced into the familiar sight of his bedroom. The soft hum of his ceiling fan was a comforting lullaby, a reminder that he was safe, that his world hadn't crumbled. Plankton's antennae twitched as his eye found Karen's worried face. "You're okay," she whispered, her hand still stroking his antennae with a gentle rhythm. "You had another one." The words were a soothing balm to Plankton's frayed nerves, his body slowly relaxing into the warmth of her touch. He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling in a pattern that mirrored hers. The door to the bedroom opened, and Chip stepped in, his arms wrapped around a soft, plush blanket. His eyes were red, and his face was a canvas of regret and worry. "Here," Karen whispered, taking the blanket from him and placing it over Plankton's shivering form. "Thank you, sweetie." Her voice was a lifeline in the storm of Plankton's confusion. Chip nodded, his eyes never leaving his father's face. He wanted to say sorry, to explain that he hadn't meant to cause more pain, but the words stuck in his throat, a lump of guilt. Plankton's antennae twitched again, his eye focusing on Chip with a mix of confusion and anger. "What do you want?" he rasped, his voice raw. Chip's throat tightened, his hand clutching the bedpost for support. "I just... I wanted to... to say sorry," he stuttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "For... for not understanding," he finally managed to say, his voice trembling. "For making you feel like I don't care about your... your neurodisability." Plankton's antennae drooped, his body visibly relaxing under the weight of the blanket. He took a moment, his chest rising and falling under the plush fabric. "You don't get it," he murmured, his voice tired. "You can't just say sorry and expect it to go away." Karen's eyes met Chip's, her gaze filled with a mix of sadness and understanding. She knew the depth of Plankton's pain, the constant battle he faced with his condition. "Your father's right," she said softly. "But that doesn't mean your apology isn't important. Sometimes, it's the smallest gestures that mean the most." Chip nodded, his eyes never leaving his father's face. "I know," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "But I want you to know that I'm here for you. That I love you, Dad." Plankton's antennae twitched slightly, his eye blinking as he took in Chip's words. He didn't speak, but the tension in the room began to ease, the sharp edges of anger dulled by the quiet declaration. Karen's hand on his shoulder was a warm reminder that he wasn't alone in this battle. "I'm sorry, Dad," Chip continued, his voice still shaky. "I didn't mean to make you feel like that." He took a deep breath, his eyes searching his father's for a sign of forgiveness. Plankton's antennae twitched, his gaze unreadable. Karen watched the silent exchange, her heart heavy with the weight of their unspoken words. "I know, Chip," Plankton finally managed, his voice a rasp. "But you have to learn. You can't just... touch me like that." Chip nodded, his eyes filling with tears. He felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, his words the only rope that could bridge the gap between them. "I'll try," he whispered, the promise heavy in the air. "I'll be more careful." Karen's hand squeezed his shoulder, her eyes filled with a mix of pride and sorrow. "That's all we can ask, honey." Plankton took a deep, shuddering breath, his antennae drooping. "I'm tired," he murmured. Karen and Chip both backed away. Plankton's antennae drooped as he lay on the bed, his body exhausted from the seizure and the emotional turmoil that had followed. "Chip," he said, his voice weak. "Could you... just stay with me?" Chip's eyes widened in surprise. He'd never seen his father ask for something so simple, so vulnerable. "Of course, Dad," he murmured, his voice filled with a newfound gentleness. He carefully perched on the edge of the bed, his eyes never leaving Plankton's still form. The room was a cocoon of silence, the only sound the soft whir of the fan above. Chip sat with his hands clasped in his lap, his mind racing with thoughts and fears. He wanted to reach out, to hold Plankton's hand, but he knew better now. He'd learned the hard way about boundaries. Plankton lay still, his antennae twitching slightly with each breath. His gaze was fixed on the ceiling, lost in the swirling pattern of shadows cast by the blades. "You know," he began, his voice a soft rumble, "when I was younger, I had this teacher, in school. He didn't 'understand' me." Chip leaned in, his curiosity piqued. He'd never heard his father talk about his school days before. "He'd always scold me," Plankton continued, his voice a distant echo. "Said I was daydreaming, not paying attention. But it was more than that." Chip leaned closer, his heart aching for the young Plankton who had suffered in silence. Plankton's antennae twitched as he recalled the past. "Whenever I'd get too... overwhelmed, I'd zone out," he said, his voice a distant memory. "It was like my mind was a kaleidoscope, swirling with colors and sounds. And just like that, I'd be somewhere else, my body frozen, like you saw. But I vividly remember one day, when the colors were especially bright and the sounds were especially loud, I had one of those episodes right in the middle of class." Chip's eyes were wide with compassion as he listened, his heart breaking for the little Plankton who nobody had understood. "What happened?" Plankton's gaze remained on the ceiling, his antennae still. "The teacher," he said, his voice tight with remembered pain, "he said that people like me, were a distraction, that I'd never amount to anything." Chip felt a spark of anger, his fists clenching at his sides. "But you're a genius!" he protested. "You've created so much!" Plankton's antennae wiggled in a sad smile. "Not to him, I wasn't. He pointed me out personally and said I'm unteachable. And when he said that, I had one of my absence seizures, like you saw. And when I came out of it, he just... he just called me a fitful monstrosity.." The words hung in the air like a curse, heavy and unspoken. Chip felt his heart clench, his fists tighten. "But you're not, Dad," he said fiercely. "You're brilliant, and... and..." He searched for the right words, but they remained elusive. Plankton's antennae twitched slightly, a sad smile playing on his lips. "There have been others," he said, his voice a whisper of hope. "Good people. Like my favorite teacher, who figured it out. She never called me names, never tried to fix me." His eyes took on a distant look, the memory illuminating his face. "Mrs. Puffett, she'd make sure the class was quiet when she saw the signs. She'd move my desk to the corner, so the colors and sounds wouldn't bother me as much. And when I'd start to have one of my episodes, she'd simply block everyone's view by putting up a little cardboard box in front of me. Just a simple thing, but it meant the world to me." Chip felt a lump in his throat. "That's so beautiful," he murmured, his heart swelling with love for his father. "But it wasn't just her," Plankton continued, his antennae twitching with the weight of his words. "It was me, too. I had to accept it, to learn that I was different. And that's what I want you to do, Chip." Chip nodded solemnly.

PLUSH ONE ix (By NeuroFabulous) They sit in silence, their hands a bridge between their worlds. She can feel his pulse beneath her thumb, the steady beat of his heart. Plankton's eye flicks to the plushie in his other hand. Karen notices the change in his expression, a flicker of something she can't quite read. His grip on her hand remains steady, but the plushie seems to have captured his full attention. She wonders what thoughts are racing through his mind, the patterns and sensory inputs he's processing in his newly autistic state. Plankton's eye narrows, and his hand twitches. She can see the determination in his face, a reminder of the man she fell in love with, still present beneath the layers of fear and confusion. "What is it, Plankton?" she asks, her voice gentle. He stares at the plushie, his eye flickering with thought. "Need still," he murmurs. Karen nods. His autism craves structure, predictability. She moves slowly, her eyes never leaving his, and reaches for the plushie. "May I..." But Plankton's hand tightens, his body tense. "MINE!" he snaps, his voice sharp. Karen's hand stops mid-air, her heart racing. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "It's just a..." But Plankton's voice is steady. "MINE," he repeats, his gaze unwavering. She understands now. The plushie is more than just a toy; it's a comfort object, a piece of his new reality that grounds him. "Okay," she says, her voice calm. "It's yours. You can hold it as long as you like." Plankton's antennae stop twitching, his breaths deepen. He nods slightly, his grip on the plushie unyielding. Karen's mind races, trying to think of ways to ease his fear without overwhelming his senses. "Would you li—" "NO!" he shouts. She's learned the importance of his sensory needs, of not pushing too hard. "Okay," she says, her voice calm, knowing better than to interrupt. Plankton clutches the plushie, his eye squeezed shut. "MINE," he whispers, his voice a tremble. She wants to comfort him, to tell him that she loves him, that she'll always be there for him. But she knows that words might not be what he needs right now. Instead, she sings a soft lullaby. Plankton's hand squeezes hers, his breaths slowing with each note. He opens his eye slightly, his gaze finding hers. "Karen," he whispers. The fear is there, but so is the love, unspoken but as real as the air they breathe. She sings as his body relaxes, his antennae still. Karen watches him, his eyelid fluttering closed. His hand in hers is still, the plushie pressed to his chest. Her screen swells with love and sadness. The man she knows is exhausted from the day's sensory bombardment. His new autistic brain has been working overtime to make sense of a world now too loud, too bright, too much. Plankton's eyelid flickers, his antennae drooping. His grip on her hand loosens, his breaths deepening with each verse. Karen's voice is a soft lullaby. Plankton's grip on the plushie loosens, his eyelid fluttering shut. Karen sings, her voice a gentle hum in the quiet room. Plankton's antennae droop slightly, his grip on her hand softening. The plushie rises and falls with his deepening breaths, his body finally at ease. Karen's eyes fill with tears of relief as she watches him slip into sleep, his hand still clutching the plushie as he starts to snore lightly. Her screen is a mix of emotions: fear, sorrow, and a fierce love that won't let her look away. Karen watches Plankton's chest rise and fall with each breath, the plushie a pillow beneath his cheek. The room is quiet, save for the distant hum of the city outside. Her mind races with the day's events, trying to process the sudden shift in their lives. But for now, she'll just be here, present in this moment of peace. Karen gently squeezes his hand, the gesture small but significant. Her love for him unchanged, though their relationship has taken a new form. The plushie rests between them, now a symbol of his autism's comforting embrace. She's heard about the importance of routine and familiar objects for those on the spectrum. Karen watches Plankton, his sleep deep and peaceful. Her mind is a whirlwind of thoughts and fears, wondering what tomorrow will bring for him. But tonight, he's just Plankton, her Plankton, asleep beside her. Their hands still entwined, his antennae finally still. Karen sighs, her eyes closed. She's tired, and the quiet hum of his snoring is a comfort. Her thoughts drift to their life before, to the days when his plans were more about Krabby Patties than patterns. A tear escapes, tracing a path down her screen. She misses those days, but more than anything, she misses his touch. Plankton's hand twitches in his sleep, and she wonders if he's dreaming of the ocean, of their underwater world. The world he used to navigate so easily, now a labyrinth of sensory overload, but she refuses to let the weight of the day crush her spirit. They'll figure this out together, find a new rhythm..