#macready the thing

[everydaywomble]

[goobysnack]

The only unused idea left from my latest animation was the chess wizard scene, so I turned it into the first two pages of this piece. The rest was just me messing around with different brushes and kinda getting fascinated in doing an anatomical half-head study.

[justcarnage]

super lazy(at least it looks like it) thing for horror ask

[chazchaschad]

I’d rather not spend the rest of this winter tied to this fucking couch

[oharandomgoose]

I’ve been making an animation of The Thing (1982) and I finished MacReady’s dance and wanted to share it. Heh. Guess what the animation is to …

[eri-is-online]

Read the sign chump

Original image

[life-of-a-rat]

uh oh

[bonsoir-oiseau]

Headcanons for Rj Macready with an autistic reader?

HCs for MacReady with An Autistic Partner

Oh anon this prompt brought be SO MUCH JOY. I assume you meant my favorite man from The Thing, so that's who I wrote for. Can be read as pre or established relationship. Gender neutral reader as always :D

Divider by @/sinisterexaggerator

You will have to explain everything to this man- coping mechanisms, overstimulation, meltdowns, the works- and even after you've told him all of this, he might laugh it off and spend a long time in denial. Considering the times (and his military background), he likely doesn't believe that your autism (or his own PTSD, for that matter) is real.

But one fortuitous night, when the guys are being a little more raucous than usual, you notice that he's missing. His coat and hat are hanging by the front door, but you don't see him among your friends. A bit of searching leads you to the empty radio room, lit only by the moonlight filtering in from the narrow window by the ceiling. He's not drinking- a rarity- but he looks anything but relaxed as he sits stiffly in Windows' chair, and your gut tells you something's wrong.

You shuffle toward him, loudly enough to make your presence known without speaking, and hold something out to him which he warily accepts. It's your favorite ball bearing, stolen from a defunct crane when you worked your first stateside construction job. Heavy and almost perfectly smooth after years of you running your fingers over it, it's been your go-to fidget for almost twenty years. Mac eyes it suspiciously, and you settle on the floor nearby, back against Window's desk. You wait. He starts fiddling with it, and after ten minutes of sitting in the dark, Mac sighs, shoulders drooping. It feels a bit like walking through a minefield, but you manage to learn that the noise was bothering him. In his tired state, he's much more open to hearing your experience with panic like that, and though he doesn't say much, his exhausted eyes stay locked on you the entire time you speak. At length, both of you agree that it's time to return to the rec room. His fingers linger against your palm for a bit too long when he gives the ball bearing back, and he stays near you for the rest of the night.

Internally, Mac's fighting a war with himself. He'd spent so long ignoring all of the ways that you and him are similar, but you were so patient with him- so understanding- and it rocked him to his core. How can he continue to brush you off after you so effectively brought him back to the present using skills that you yourself explained to him months before? He'd laughed at you then. As he watches you settle into your usual divot on the couch, seemingly recharged and ready to join in the festivities once more, he makes a mental vow to treat you with more respect.

From then on, he starts noticing more about you. He sees the way that your hand drifts to your coat pocket to mess with the ball bearing when you're trying to listen to Garry's droning instructions; how you put in earplugs when the rest of the guys are perfectly fine with the deafening rumble of the snowmobile; your quick retreats that, oddly enough, coincide with him reaching his own limit and escaping to his shack to be alone.

Neither of you discuss it, but something about Mac just... softens over time in regards to you. He's more patient when you need him to repeat instructions; he 'just so happens' to have something on him when you forget that ball bearing on a long expedition; he's quick to stand up for you when the guys are being too hard on you, using his unspoken authority to redirect their invasive questions and jokes elsewhere.

Doesn't outright invite you to the shack- just jerks his chin toward the station's main door and mutters, "You comin'?" on a random night when he notices you're more fidgety than usual.

Nights out there are spent in intimate peace, with you reading or rambling about whatever comes to mind while Mac drinks and plays chess or just sits and listens to you.

He doesn't sleep much, but sometimes, you fall asleep sitting next to each other on the floor. You spend many a Monday with a sore neck after waking up with your head flopped onto his shoulder. His arm is always wrapped around you. You don't ask, and he continues to hold you while you sleep.

He tries to tone down the sarcasm if you have a hard time differentiating between jokes and the truth, and if you ever need an innuendo explained to you in a loud, brash voice, he's your man.

He'll deny that there's any sentimental motivation behind it when he gifts you one of the sweaters that he packed for the winter but never wears. "You like these things, so here." You inspect it, lips stretching into a knowing grin when you discover that the tags have already been cut off.

"It's how you like 'em, isn't it?" He mutters over the rim of his glass, looking anywhere but at you.

He gives your sleeve a short tug that's not supposed to mean anything. The way that his eyes dart between the sweater and your face, fingers tightening around his tumbler, betrays his nervousness. He lets out a huff of laughter as you tear off your ratty sweatshirt and toss it onto the rec room couch in favor of trying on the sweater. It's soft and recently washed, and a little too wide in the shoulders.

"It's perfect," You breathe, "Thank you."

What little you can see of his cheeks is suddenly bright red as he grunts, "Don't mention it."