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jetii · 10 days ago

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Event Horizon

Chapter Forty-One: Impedance

Chapter WC: 10,077

Chapter Tags/Warnings: a certain character appears that deserves his own warning, actually multiple characters

A/N: Every time I start writing one of these author's notes I feel the need to start off apologizing. But you know what, I'm not sorry. I love drama.

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Coruscant, 20 BBY

It takes four days before the Oracle reaches Coruscant.

Four days of rest and recovery, and four days of waiting.

Waiting for the ship to arrive.

Waiting for the Council to summon you.

You've been on edge, unable to sit still, and Wise has had to threaten you with sedatives several times. The only thing keeping you from going insane is the few minutes each day that you get to see Rex.

Wise has allowed the Captain into the medbay under the guise of acting as your liaison with Anakin and the rest of the 501st, traveling separately aboard the Resolute. It's a reasonable excuse, not that anyone is asking questions. And Wise's word is law in the medbay. If he says Rex can come visit, no one questions it.

Each visit is a welcome distraction from the monotony of being cooped up in the bed. The two of you spend hours talking, and you relish every second you get to spend with him. Your conversations are innocent, for the most part. You share stories, catching up on the months you've spent apart, and you learn new things about him, and he about you.

And of course, you steal the occasional kiss, always careful not to get too carried away.

You know the two of you need to talk about the future, and what happens next, but neither of you are willing to break the bubble you’ve found yourselves in. So you continue as you have been, sneaking kisses and spending stolen hours together, knowing full well that the real world will eventually come crashing down on the two of you.

Today, the bubble is finally bursting.

The Oracle has arrived at Coruscant, and the Council is waiting for you.

You've tried to put it out of your mind, tried to distract yourself, but there's nothing else you can do. You can't keep avoiding the inevitable.

So here you are, standing side by side with Booker in the hangar, watching the men disembark onto the tarmac for the first time in months.

You'd forgotten how bright the sun is on Coruscant. How loud. The bustle of the hangar, the whine of ships taking off, the shouting of mechanics, all of it is overwhelming. And the sheer number of clones, all walking past you, heading into the base, it's almost too much. You find yourself looking back toward the safety of the ship, yearning to run back inside.

"Relax," Booker mutters to you as he nods at the passing troopers. "You're making everyone nervous."

"I am relaxed," you reply, forcing a smile and waving at the men. They give you salutes and respectful nods, but you can see the wariness in their eyes. Change is coming, and they can sense it.

"Sure you are," Booker drawls. He steps up beside you, his hands resting behind his back, his posture ramrod straight. He looks the perfect image of a Commander, and a pang of pride hits you. He's grown so much in the time he's served with you, and it's a stark reminder of just how fast they've all matured.

"I'm fine," you lie, glancing over at him.

"Uh huh," he murmurs, and he arches a brow. "How's the ribs?"

"I'm fine," you repeat. You shift from foot to foot, grimacing. You'd insisted on being here for the landing, despite Wise's objections, and you're beginning to regret it. "Just...stiff. They're still a bit tender, but nothing I can't handle."

"That's a lie," he deadpans, and he gives a nod to one of the ARCs passing by. "You're wincing. And you're favoring your right side."

"So I'm not a hundred percent," you concede. "It's still healing."

"It'd heal faster if you'd actually listened to me," Wise interjects as the clone medic approaches the two of you, a scowl on his face. "And if your di'kutla Council had let you go back to your quarters like I'd suggested."

"Hello to you too," Booker chuckles as the two men clasp forearms.

"Book," Wise says with a nod. He turns his gaze to you, and his expression darkens. "I told you to wait in the medbay until the ship was unloaded."

"I wanted to say hello to the men," you reply, waving a hand at the crowd of clones, who are milling around, exchanging greetings and hugs. "And to welcome them home."

"Uh huh," Wise grunts. He looks past you, and his expression softens slightly. "Hey, kid."

"Sir," a familiar voice says from behind you. Dash steps forward, his helmet tucked under his arm, a small smile on his face. "Glad to see you're up and about."

"Dash," you sigh, relief flooding through you. You step forward, reaching out and grasping his forearm, giving him a quick squeeze. He looks tired, but there's a spark of happiness in his eyes that warms your heart. "I could say the same about you. How are you feeling?"

"I'm good, General," he replies, ducking his head. He shifts his helmet in his arms and reaches into a pouch on his belt, withdrawing a small device and holding it out for you. "Here. All fixed."

"Thank you," you murmur as you take your comm unit and slide it onto your wrist. You power it up, and the screen flickers to life, a steady stream of notifications scrolling across the screen. "How many missed calls do I have?"

He grins sheepishly. "Just the ones from General Kenobi, or...?"

"Kriff," you groan. You glance at the comm unit, the messages blurring together as you scan through them. "I'm never going to hear the end of this."

"Probably not," he agrees, and he steps forward and reaches for your arm. "I reprogrammed the encryption keys and set up some extra security measures, just in case. Should be good as new."

"You're amazing," you sigh, and you pull him into a hug. He's tense at first, his shoulders stiff, but after a second, he relaxes, wrapping his arms around you and returning the embrace.

"Careful," he chides, a small laugh escaping his lips. "Wise will skin me if you pop those stitches."

"Don't care," you say as you give him one last squeeze before stepping back. You look him over and grin. "Enjoy your time off. Get some rest."

"Will do," he replies. He glances past you to Booker. "And don't worry. I'll take care of Price. Make sure he doesn't get himself into trouble."

"You're a saint," Booker says with a smirk. "Have fun."

"Oh, we will," Dash snorts, and he nods at Wise. "Chief, can you take a look at my shoulder before we leave? It's still a little stiff."

"Sure," Wise says. He motions for Dash to follow him, and the two men walk toward the hangar, leaving you alone with Booker.

You glance over at him, and he's watching the departing clones, his expression pensive. He's been quiet since your conversation the other day, and you haven't pressed him on it. Now, though, with the others gone, the two of you can talk.

"Credit for your thoughts?" you ask, nudging him.

"Not a whole lot to say," he replies with a shrug. "Just thinking about everything that's happened. And everything that's coming."

"Yeah," you murmur. You look around the hangar. It's emptier now, the men having headed off to the barracks and elsewhere in the city, leaving the two of you alone to oversee the few groups of stragglers. "It's...strange. Being here. Like nothing's changed. And everything has."

"I know," Booker sighs. His lips curve up into a half-smile, and he bumps your shoulder. "We'll figure it out."

You open your mouth to respond, but a flash of blue and white catches your attention, and you watch as Rex steps off the ship, his eyes on his datapad. He's dressed in his usual armor, his bucket tucked under his arm, a stern expression on his face.

He looks every bit the perfect clone soldier. But when he glances up and spots the two of you, his gaze softens, his lips curling into a warm, affectionate smile, and the illusion shatters. He's no longer the stoic, professional soldier, but a man in love.

Your breath catches, and your heart skips a tiny, traitorous little flutter.

"Yeah," you breathe, the corners of your lips lifting. "We will."

Rex looks around before pointing to his vambrace, nodding his head toward the doors leading from the hangar. He doesn't have to speak for you to know what he's saying. And you're all too happy to say yes.

You give him a smile and a quick nod, and Rex ducks his head, hiding his grin. A warm feeling spreads through you at the sight of his hand coming to cover his smile, and you feel a slight flush spread across your cheeks as he gives you one last look over his shoulder before disappearing through the doors.

"No," Booker says after a minute. You glance at him, finding him staring after Rex, his brows raised. His gaze snaps to you, and he looks you over from head to toe, his eyes widening in shock. "No way. Really?"

"What?" you ask, feigning ignorance. You clear your throat and smooth the front of your robes, and you straighten your posture, trying to look unaffected. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Please," he scoffs. He waves a hand in the air, gesturing between the door Rex disappeared through and yourself. "That wasn't a hey, how're you doing look. That was a let's sneak off and make out in a closet look."

"That is a horrible description," you grumble. You start toward the door, ignoring his questioning gaze, and you motion for him to follow. "Come on. The men are unloading the ship. We should get out of their way."

"Not until you explain," Booker replies, matching your stride and falling into step beside you. "And I want details. Everything."

"There's nothing to tell," you mutter, and the two of you duck into the hallway, leaving the chaos of the hangar behind. You walk in silence, weaving your way through the halls until the sounds of the city begin to filter through the walls.

When you're far away from any listening ears, you slow your pace, and Booker slows beside you, waiting patiently for your explanation.

"We've just been...talking," you say, keeping your voice low. You don't need anyone overhearing. Not yet. "And we've gotten closer."

"Closer," Booker repeats. He snorts. "As in, closer than you already were? Because that's impossible."

"We've been...we're..." You huff, shaking your head. Your shoulders slump, and you let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through your hair. "I'm going to be honest with you. And I need you to keep it between us. Can you do that?"

"Of course," he says immediately. "Always."

"Okay," you say as you come to a stop in front of the doors to the lift. It opens immediately, and you step inside, punching in the code for the ground floor. The door closes, and you stay standing in the center of the lift, the space feeling suddenly very small. "We're together. As of the other night."

Booker blinks. Once. Twice. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

"Wait. What?" he asks, his voice rising. He shakes his head, and he takes a step toward you, his hands moving animatedly. "Together, together? Like, kissing, holding hands, dating, together?"

"Yes," you reply, and a wide, happy smile spreads across your face, the giddiness bubbling in your chest.

"Holy shit," Booker breathes. He steps back and leans against the wall of the lift, his eyes wide. He props his foot up on the wall behind him and folds his arms across his chest. "That is...wow."

"Yeah," you sigh, the smile not leaving your face. You can't remember the last time you felt so happy, and you're not even with him. The mere thought of Rex has your heart pounding, a blush spreading across your cheeks, and the ache in your chest isn't entirely due to the wound.

"So. You're telling me," he starts slowly. His head tilts to the side. "That the two of you have been sneaking around the ship, doing kriff knows what with Rex, the poster boy for the GAR, without me knowing about it?"

"We haven't been doing kriff knows what," you retort, glaring at him, but there's no heat to it. "And it's not like that. We're taking things slow. We just...talk. That's all."

"That's all?" he asks skeptically.

"Well," you mumble, looking down. "Maybe some other things. But that's all."

"Other things," Booker echoes. "Other things."

"I swear to the Force, if you repeat this," you growl, and his hands fly up. He gives you an innocent smile that does nothing to hide the amusement sparkling in his eyes.

"I won't," he promises. He chuckles and shakes his head. "It's just...surprising. I didn't think Rex had it in him."

"Neither did I," you say softly, and you rub your arm, chewing the inside of your cheek. "I mean, we haven't even really talked about what we are. Or what's going to happen. With us. This."

"Yeah, that's a problem," Booker says. He pushes off the wall as the lift comes to a stop, and the doors slide open. The two of you step into the bustling hall, and you fall into step beside him, weaving through the crowd.

Within a few steps, you're out onto the street, and the noise from the hangar has faded. The traffic is steady, and there are droids and humans and aliens everywhere. It's a strange sense of normalcy, being surrounded by people who don't know about the war, who don't have any idea of what's happening out there. For a brief second, it feels like none of it matters. Like the war, and the Jedi, and the Council, doesn't exist. And it's nice.

You turn left, heading for the Temple, and Booker follows. He's silent for a minute, lost in thought, before he speaks.

"What do you want to happen?" he asks, keeping his gaze ahead.

"Honestly?" you start. You pause at the crosswalk and wait for the light to change. "I want to keep this. Keep us. Whatever that means. As for Rex..."

"Yeah?"

"I don't know," you murmur. You shake your head, and the light changes. The crowd begins to move, and you follow the flow, your hands tucked under your arms. "I know that I don't want to lose him. I just...he already has reservations about this. About being together."

"And that's why you haven't talked," Booker surmises. You nod, and his jaw clenches. "That's a problem."

"I know," you groan. "But I don't know how to talk to him about it. I don't want to scare him away."

He snorts. "I'm pretty sure it'd take a lot more than this to scare him away."

"Maybe," you murmur, and you let out a weary sigh, rubbing your eyes. The Coruscant sun is blinding, reflecting off the buildings and shining directly in your face. "It's just...this whole situation is...complicated. If he's not ready, I'm not going to force him."

"Force him," Booker repeats, shaking his head. "The two of you are ridiculous. From what I've heard, he's been waiting for this since Kamino. Before, if Fives is to be believed. I'd say that's more than a little ready. He's just worried."

"About getting caught?" you ask, and the question hangs in the air. It's a valid concern. After all, the two of you are breaking the rules. It's a serious infraction. You'd be reprimanded, and Rex would likely be dismissed. There's no way the two of you would come out of it unscathed.

"About karking it up," he replies. He looks around, and he grabs your arm and pulls you off to the side. The two of you lean against a building, sheltered from the sun. "Listen. Rex...he's a good guy. The best, really. And he loves you. A lot. But he's never done anything like this before. Hell, none of us have. He's afraid he's not going to be good at it."

"Well, then I guess we're a good match," you snort a laugh. "Because I'm not exactly an expert either."

"Oh, please," he scoffs, rolling his eyes. "Don't give me the innocent monk act. We both know that's a load of bantha fodder. You've been around."

"It was a lifetime ago," you say, waving a hand dismissively as you push away from the wall. You continue down the sidewalk, dodging a speeder bike as it whizzes past, and your eyes fall on the Temple looming ever closer in the distance. "That doesn't matter. This is different."

"How?"

"Because this isn't a fling," you say softly, and your steps slow. The bustle of the city seems to fade away, the voices becoming quieter, the wind carrying them away. The aura of tranquility that seems to surround the Temple washes over you, calming your nerves and clearing your mind. "It's real. This is a relationship. And I've never been in one. Not like this. Not where it's mattered."

"Well, lucky for you, neither has he," Booker says, his tone serious, and you glance at him, a hint of a smile pulling at the corners of your mouth. "You'll figure it out. Both of you."

"Hopefully," you murmur.

The two of you pause outside the massive gates, closed as always. You let out a heavy sigh and look up at the towering spires above, the sunlight reflecting off the white stone and causing you to squint. It's been months since you've been here, and it feels like years. Everything has changed so much, and yet, nothing has. The Temple is still the same.

"So. How do you want to play this?" Booker asks as he glances at you.

"With caution," you reply wearily.

"Any ideas?"

"We go in. We tell the Council what happened. Again," you add with a grimace. You cross your arms over your chest, your fingers playing with the sleeve of your robe. "And we let them decide."

He lets out a derisive snort, and you roll your eyes, giving him a sharp look.

"Just let me do the talking," you say firmly. "And whatever you do, don't interrupt. If you can keep your mouth shut for five minutes, we'll get through this."

"No promises," he mutters, but he nods in understanding, his gaze serious. He reaches up, clasping your shoulder and squeezing gently. "Come on. Let's get this over with."

"Right," you sigh. You glance around the courtyard, the nerves twisting in your stomach, and you take a deep breath. "Here goes nothing."

The gates to the Temple slide open, and the two of you step inside, heading up the path that leads to the entrance. You ascend the stairs and into the grand hall, which is, unsurprisingly, empty. There are a handful of acolytes milling around, but otherwise, the building is quiet, and you take a minute to breathe, relishing the silence.

It feels odd, having a clone at your side as you walk through the Temple. Rarely does anyone other than the Jedi step foot in the sacred halls. Even meetings are often held offsite, or at least, out of sight. And you've certainly never had one with Booker.

You can see the awe on his face as the two of you move through the vast space, the lights and shadows dancing along the walls and columns. His gaze is roaming everywhere, taking in every detail, his head craning back to see the towering ceilings. You have to nudge him a couple times to get him to focus.

The turbolift to the High Council spire opens, and the two of you step inside. The doors close, and you can hear Booker's heavy breathing as the lift begins its ascent, the numbers ticking by on the display. He shifts beside you, the nervous energy rolling off him in waves.

"What's the worst they can do?" he mutters, more to himself than to you. He lets out a dry laugh. "It's not like they're going to expel you from the Order."

"You never know," you deadpan, and his head snaps toward you, his brows arching. You give him a smirk and shrug. "Well, they could. Not likely, but..."

"You can't be serious," he sputters. "They'd expel you? After everything?"

"I mean, probably not," you admit. You look away, chewing the inside of your cheek. "But...they could. If they wanted to."

"I thought the Jedi were supposed to be all about compassion and mercy," he grumbles, shaking his head. He lets out a huff of annoyance. "If that's the case, they can kiss my—"

The doors to the lift slide open, and the words die on his lips. He gives you a wide-eyed, almost panicked look, and he clears his throat.

"Behave," you hiss as you step into the empty antechamber. He gives a curt nod, his gaze focused straight ahead.

"Yes sir."

You roll your eyes, but can't keep the smirk from spreading across your face as the two of you make your way across the room. The doors to the Council chambers are closed, but a gentle push has them sliding open, revealing the High Council in session.

Booker's shoulders tense beside you, his breath catching, and you reach out and brush your hand against his. His gaze shifts toward yours, and he offers a quick, reassuring smile before straightening his posture and moving aside for you to enter first.

The bright sunlight streams through the windows, illuminating the chamber, and the Masters seated on their thrones look like glowing beacons in the sea of light. Most of the Masters appear in hologram form, their faces projected by the chairs, but Obi-Wan is sitting in the center of the circle, as is Master Windu. Master Yoda is absent, away on Ilum for a Gathering, and his absence leaves an empty seat in the ring.

As soon as you take a step forward and allow the doors to shut behind you, Obi-Wan sits up in his seat, the foot draped over his knee falling to the floor with a thud. The rest of the Council turns their attention toward you, but you remain focused on him. He looks...well, he looks exhausted. Dark circles line his eyes, and his beard is longer than usual, a sure sign that he hasn't taken the time to tend to it recently.

He's a mess, and you feel a pang of guilt, knowing that you're at least partially responsible for his current state. You hadn't meant to worry him, but you have a feeling the last several weeks haven't been easy for him, either.

Obi-Wan's gaze travels over you from head to toe, lingering on the bandage peaking out from your collar. You watch his eyes widen, the muscles in his jaw clenching, and the emotions flit across his face. Concern. Fear. Worry. Guilt. It's all there, clear as day. And the weight of it in the Force is staggering.

"I'm okay," you project to him, opening your mind. "I'm here. I'm okay."

His shoulders sag in relief, and he shakes his head. He gives a rueful smile, and you feel his presence pressing against your shields, a gentle reminder that he's here. "You've a nasty habit of causing me stress, my dear."

"I try my best," you project, the corner of your mouth lifting into a half-smile, and you feel a brief flicker of amusement from him, gone just as quickly as it appears. You take a deep breath and let it out slowly, steeling yourself. "Sorry."

He nods once, swallowing hard, his shoulders slumping slightly. The concern on his face remains, though, and you wonder if it has more to do with the nature of the Council's summons than your injuries.

You make your way toward the center of the room, the weight of the Council's gaze pressing down on you. Booker trails a few steps back, his head bowed respectfully. The silence is heavy, and it's impossible not to notice the air of anticipation in the room.

This is going to be bad.

"Masters," you greet and bow your head. Booker offers a formal salute and falls in beside you, his back ramrod straight, his expression neutral.

"Master Anathorn," Mace says, inclining his head. His gaze is stern, his brow furrowed, but his expression softens. "I trust you are well?"

"Yes, Master," you murmur. You try not to flinch as he leans forward in his seat, his elbows resting on his knees. His brow furrows slightly, and he tilts his head.

"Really?" he asks skeptically, and his gaze sweeps over you. He shakes his head. "I find that hard to believe. The reports we received were quite alarming."

"That's one word for it," Obi-Wan mutters under his breath.

"Obi-Wan," Mace warns.

"I'm fine, Master," you insist.

"Are you?"

"Yes," you reply through clenched teeth.

"So I suppose the report from Skywalker was inaccurate then?" Mace continues, arching a brow. “His captain indicated you suffered an extensive list of injuries during the battle on the surface, including a wound to the abdomen that required surgery. Is this true?"

"It is," you say, and you glance at Booker before straightening. You offer a smile, trying to look nonchalant, even though your heart is racing. “But the Council summoned me, and here I am. I am ready and able to serve, Masters. And if it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer to discuss the mission, and the events surrounding it, at the earliest possible convenience. As I have no doubt you have more pressing matters to attend to."

Mace narrows his eyes, studying you. You meet his gaze evenly, doing your best to look confident. After a minute, he sighs and leans back in his chair, shaking his head.

"Of course," he murmurs. He glances around the circle. "Let us begin. Master Anathorn, Commander Booker, please provide a full debriefing of the situation, and a report of the actions taken to secure the planet."

You clear your throat, and you turn toward Booker. He arches a brow, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. You nod, and he takes a step forward, reciting the same statement he had given over the comms on the ship. You do your best to fill in what he doesn't mention, keeping the report concise, sticking to the facts and not giving away anything more than the Council needs to know.

When you finish, there's a silence in the room. The Council members exchange glances, and the uneasiness in the Force grows stronger, the apprehension hanging thick in the air. They seem hesitant to speak, and your stomach clenches as the anticipation builds.

"First," Master Plo finally speaks, his hands resting on his lap, his fingers steepled. His hologram flickers slightly as he tilts his head. “I wish to extend my condolences to you and your commander for the loss of your men. They will be greatly missed."

Beside you, Booker's posture stiffens, and his hands clench into fists at his sides. You reach out and touch his arm lightly, and he looks over at you, his gaze filled with a mixture of pain and gratitude. He nods once and takes a deep breath before returning his attention to the Council.

"Thank you, Master," you say softly. "Your words are appreciated."

"Indeed," Master Mundi adds. His expression is grim, his lips pressed together tightly, his brow furrowed. "It was unfortunate that so many had to be sacrificed. Especially given the nature of the mission."

You frown, tilting your head, and Obi-Wan clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "I'm sorry," you start, glancing around the room. "I'm not sure I understand. It wasn't intentional."

"No," Plo says, his tone conciliatory. "It wasn't. And we do not blame you for the loss of your men, or the failure of the mission."

"We do not," Mace echoes, nodding his head.

Obi-Wan looks away, and you can see his jaw clench, his hands gripping the armrests tightly. He glances at you with a look that can only be interpreted as apologetic. Suddenly, you have a sinking feeling that you're not going to like what comes next. Your hands clench into fists behind your back.

"But you do," Booker says, his voice flat. The Council shifts uncomfortably, and you turn toward him, surprised by the accusation in his tone. "Don't you?"

"Excuse me?" Mundi asks, his eyebrows raised.

"Commander," Obi-Wan interjects, his tone warning.

"You do," Booker says, ignoring the admonishment. He squares his shoulders and takes a step forward, his gaze hardening. "The fact that we're here means you must. Otherwise, why would General Anathorn have been ordered to report while obviously injured? Why wouldn't Master Kenobi have been allowed to debrief the Council himself?"

"You overstep, Commander," Master Shaak Ti scolds, her voice sharp, but you can hear the strain in it. She looks every bit a disapproving mother, but you know she's not as angry as she appears. Not with him, anyway.

"Do I?" he challenges, and she purses her lips, glancing at the others. "If I'm mistaken, please, correct me. Because this meeting feels a lot like an inquisition."

The room falls silent. There's a sudden rush, a sharp inhale, and you can hear Obi-Wan suck in a breath. Beside you, Booker stands stock-still, his expression carefully blank.

You can't find the words to reprimand him, and frankly, you're not sure if you should. He's right. This does feel a lot like an inquisition. The silence, the lack of emotion, the questions. It's all too reminiscent of the last time you were brought before the Council, your investigation into Yaddle's death dismissed and your questions brushed aside in favor of a promotion.

You've tried to move past that, to push the memory from your mind, but now, standing in front of them, the fear and shame and anger come flooding back, and the resentment is hard to swallow. You're a general now. A Master. With a clone unit under your command, and men who are relying on you to lead them. And yet, it seems you've made no progress.

The silence drags on, the awkwardness in the room increasing, and it's Mace who breaks it, sighing heavily and pinching the bridge of his nose.

"You are correct, Commander," he admits, his hand falling away. "It is an inquisition. Of sorts."

"Why?" you ask, your voice strained. Your heart is pounding, the anxiety twisting in your chest, and you do your best to remain calm, to keep your emotions in check. But the anger is bubbling up, and it's hard not to let it get the better of you. "To what end?"

"I think that's obvious," Mace replies, his brow furrowing slightly. He leans forward in his chair, his gaze intent. "You are one of our best, and brightest. I think you've proved that with this campaign. But there are...concerns."

"Concerns," you repeat flatly.

"Your judgment has been...compromised," he explains.

"My judgment," you echo, the words leaving a bitter taste on your tongue. "Really."

"You made a decision," Mundi says, and he rests his hands on his knees, his gaze fixed on you. "A decision based on your attachment to your men. A decision that went against the orders given."

"The orders," you snap, your control slipping, and you can feel the anger flare, hot and bright in the Force. You take a breath and clench your hands into fists, doing your best to keep it under control. “It was the only way. We were outnumbered, my men were dying, I had to—"

"We understand," Shaak Ti soothes, holding up a hand. She offers you a reassuring smile that feels too much like pity. "You were faced with an impossible decision. And you made the choice that seemed the best course of action. We do not fault you for it."

"I would have made the same choice," Plo says, and you can see the hint of a smile beneath his mask. "Your men are worth any risk. And they are fortunate to have you."

"But the fact remains, there is a cost. For you, and for the Republic," Mace continues, and he lets out a heavy sigh. "We cannot afford another defeat like the one at Duro. And we cannot afford our Jedi to act rashly."

"Rashly?" Booker sputters.

"Commander," Obi-Wan starts, his voice firm, and Booker looks over at him, his gaze sharp. "It's not personal."

"Isn't it?" he snaps, and he turns toward the Council, his posture rigid, his shoulders tense. "My men died. Good, loyal men, who served the Republic with honor. Men who were loyal to her. And if it wasn't for the General, more would have died."

"And yet, the shields were destroyed, the city was left unprotected, and the Separatists were able to raze the entire planet," Mundi counters, shaking his head. "All of which could have been avoided if the shield had remained intact."

"You can't blame the General for that," Booker insists. "They had no other option. It was either retreat, or die. Which would you have had her do?"

"Booker," you murmur, reaching out to grab his arm. He flinches away from you, his gaze snapping toward yours, and the fury in his eyes takes your breath away. He's never looked at you like this. He's angry. So angry. And for the first time, you see the anger not just as an extension of his loyalty, but a product of his own fears and emotions. He's not just defending you, he's protecting himself. His brothers. "Stop."

He hesitates, his jaw clenched, and you can see the struggle behind his eyes, the conflict warring within him. But he does as you ask, taking a step back and returning to his position at your side. His expression is blank once more, his emotions carefully hidden, but his hands are clenched into fists, his knuckles white.

"You're right," you say, and the Council looks at you in surprise. You square your shoulders and meet their gazes one by one, doing your best to remain calm. "We could have. We could have stayed and fought until we were all dead. But what good would that have done? Would it have made any difference in the end? Would the Republic have benefited?"

"We would have had the planet," Mundi answers.

"Would we have?" you challenge. "Or would it have fallen as easily as it did without us there? I don't think the answer is clear. Not to me."

"Your point is made," Mace sighs, and he runs a hand over his head. He looks tired, weary. Like he's carrying the weight of the war on his shoulders, and he's close to breaking. "And I will concede that your decision may have saved lives. But that is not the point."

"Then what is the point, Master?" you demand. You're struggling to maintain your composure, the frustration building, and the Force is thrumming around you. "What are we here for?"

The silence returns. The Council looks uncomfortable, shifting in their seats, exchanging nervous glances. Then Mace clears his throat, his brow furrowed.

"The Chancellor is...displeased with the events on Duro," he admits hesitantly. "And he has made it quite clear that he feels the Council failed to provide adequate guidance to our Jedi generals."

"Oh, please," you scoff, rolling your eyes. You let out a harsh laugh. "That's what this is about? Politics? Really?"

"We cannot afford another incident," Mundi adds.

"Another incident," you repeat. "Like what?"

"Like the incident on Hisseen," Obi-Wan answers pointedly.

Your jaw snaps shut. You can't look at him, can't bear to see the disappointment on his face, and you drop your gaze to the floor, clenching your hands into fists. The silence hangs heavy in the air, and you can feel their eyes on you, the judgment radiating from them in the Force. It's suffocating, the pressure increasing with each passing second, and it's almost too much.

"It's not a punishment," Obi-Wan assures softly. You don't answer, keeping your eyes down. He lets out a sigh, and you can feel him reach out to you, his presence warm and soothing. "You know that, don't you? This isn't personal."

"Sure feels that way," you reply, unable to stop the bitterness from leaking through the bond.

"The point, Master Anathorn, is that the Chancellor has made his concerns known," Mundi continues, oblivious to the conversation taking place between you and Obi-Wan. "And that as a result of our loss, Duro has decided to secede from the Republic."

The breath leaves your lungs in a rush, and you swallow hard as Booker curses under his breath beside you. You glance at him, finding him staring at the ground, his fists clenched, his expression dark.

"Oh," you murmur. You look up at the Council, at the pitying expressions on their faces, and you take a deep breath, your shoulders slumping. "Shit."

"Precisely," Mace agrees. He sits back in his seat and shakes his head. "It was a major blow. And it has placed the Order in a precarious position. We cannot afford to lose any more systems. Especially now, with the war at its height."

"So, what happens now?" you ask, glancing around the room. You shift uneasily, your feet shuffling against the polished marble. "What does the Council suggest?"

"We have spoken at length," Plo Koon says, his tone even. "And the decision has been made. There will be no repercussions. For you, or the 419th."

The wave of relief that crashes over you is staggering, and you sway on your feet, the weight lifting from your shoulders. Booker steps toward you and holds out his arm, and you grab hold, giving him a grateful smile. He nods, squeezing your arm briefly before releasing you.

"There's more," Obi-Wan interjects, and the relief evaporates, replaced by a sense of dread.

"Yes," Mace agrees. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. "There is."

"What else?" you ask quietly.

"Given your recent injury and the restructuring that will need to occur with your unit," he begins slowly, "the Council believes it would be in the best interest of the Republic for the 419th Brigade to be temporarily reassigned, and for you to spend some time at the Temple, recovering and meditating."

"For how lo-," Booker starts, but he stops short, the realization hitting him, and he spins around, staring at you with wide eyes. "Wait. Are they benching you?"

"I...yes," you whisper. The floor sways beneath your feet, and you shake your head, trying to clear the fog from your mind. "That's what this is, isn't it? I'm being benched."

"We would like you to take some time to focus on yourself," Mundi says. "You have been through a lot. And the loss of so many men in such a short period of time is not easy. Consider this a meditative retreat. Nothing more."

"Nothing more," you repeat hollowly.

"It will be good for you," Shaak Ti assures.

"Good for me," you echo, blinking hard. It feels like you're outside your body, watching the conversation play out in slow motion, the words echoing in your head.

"This is temporary," Mace adds. He sounds far away, distant. "Until you are fully healed and have had the chance to regain your strength. And until the 419th has been replenished and readjusted."

"And after?" you ask weakly. "When will the assignment end?"

"That will be determined later," he replies.

"How much later?"

"That is a discussion for another time," Mundi answers.

You open your mouth to respond, but the words die on your tongue. You want to argue, to protest, but the energy has left you, and the ache in your chest has returned, a sharp pain that sends a shudder through your body.

"This isn't a punishment," Obi-Wan repeats, his voice echoing in the back of your mind, and you glance at him. He's looking down, his fingers tracing the pattern carved into the armrest of his chair, his expression solemn.

"Isn't it?"

He doesn't answer.

"Well," you finally manage. You offer a strained smile. "Thank you for your...counsel, Masters. And I appreciate the concern. If that is all, Commander Booker and I will be leaving."

"General Anathorn," Mace calls as you turn to leave. You pause and look over your shoulder at him, arching a brow. He sighs, his shoulders slumping slightly. "Please. Take some time. Rest. Heal. When the time comes, we will need you."

For a moment, the anger rises, threatening to boil over, and the words are on the tip of your tongue, but you bite them back, swallowing them down. There's no point. No matter what you say, or do, it won't change anything. They've made their decision, and there's nothing you can do about it.

"Yes, Master," you say. Your tone is polite, respectful. "May the Force be with you."

The words leave a bitter taste in your mouth, and the doors slide closed behind you. Booker strides past you toward the lift, jabbing the button with his finger and waiting impatiently as the door opens. You follow him inside, the silence hanging heavy between the two of you, and he keeps his eyes forward, his expression stony.

"That went well," he deadpans as the doors close and the lift descends.

"Yeah," you sigh, leaning against the wall. You rest your head back and close your eyes, letting out a weary sigh. "Could have been worse."

"Right," he snorts.

You open one eye and look at him. He's still staring straight ahead, his jaw clenched, his lips pursed. The frustration is rolling off him in waves, and you can feel the anger bubbling just beneath the surface.

"What's going on with you?" you ask, frowning slightly.

"Nothing," he mutters. He glances at you. "Everything."

"Booker."

"Don't worry about it," he grumbles.

"I'm going to worry," you retort, folding your arms over your chest. He glares at you, and you arch a brow, giving him a pointed look. "Talk to me."

"They were wrong," he snaps. His shoulders slump, and he leans back against the wall, shaking his head. "And you know it."

"I don't know anything," you reply quietly.

"You saved lives," he argues. "Dash's life. My men's lives. They should have given you a kriffing medal, not put you on ice."

"They're doing what they think is best," you say, though the words ring hollow, even to you. "They have a point. I lost focus. I made a mistake."

"Because you saved lives," he hisses. "What kind of general would you be if you'd just left Dash and the others there to die?"

"A bad one," you admit, and he huffs a laugh. You give him a rueful smile as the door opens, and the two of you step through. "But that doesn't change anything. I have to deal with the consequences."

"This isn't fair," he says, shaking his head. He's silent for a minute before he turns his gaze to you, his expression somber. "Does this mean you're staying here?"

"It looks that way," you murmur. You chew your lip. "I'm sorry. I'll make sure you're taken care of."

"We'll take care of each other," he replies firmly, and he reaches out, gripping your shoulder tightly. "Don't worry. We've got this."

"Yeah," you say. You try to smile, but it falls flat, and he lets out a sigh.

"Look," he starts, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm...sorry. For losing my temper. And for stepping out of line. That's not...that's not like me. Not usually. I just—"

"I know," you assure him, holding up a hand. "It's okay."

"No, it's not," he counters. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing the loose curls from his face. "It only proved their point. And I'm...I'm sorry."

"You were trying to protect me," you say, offering him a half-smile. "I get it."

"I know," he sighs, and he glances around, his eyes sweeping the empty halls. "I just..."

"You just what?"

"I'm gonna miss you," he admits, his voice cracking, and your chest tightens, a lump forming in your throat. You swallow hard, the words stuck. He gives a sardonic laugh and shakes his head. "This whole thing has just been...weird. I never expected this. Any of it. But now..."

"I know," you whisper, and the two of you walk side by side through the deserted halls. The sunlight streams in through the windows, casting a warm glow across the walls and floors. It's peaceful, serene. And it's a sharp contrast to the chaos in your mind. "I'm going to miss you, too."

"Good," he grins. "Because if you didn't, I'd be insulted."

You chuckle, rolling your eyes, and he nudges you playfully with his elbow. The two of you fall into a comfortable silence as the Temple bustles around you. People are coming and going, going about their lives, and you can't seem to shake the feeling of being lost, like a ship without a heading.

Booker hovers, his hand held out toward you as you make your way down the steps toward the entrance. You reach the bottom and turn, smiling softly at him. He lets his hand fall, and his gaze flicks around, taking in the cityscape and the busy traffic lanes.

"You're still going to come around, right?" he asks, and you arch a brow. He shifts nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. "When you can. To the base. To check in. Or something."

"Or something," you chuckle. "Of course I will. As soon as I can. You can count on that."

"Good," he murmurs. He swallows hard and holds out his hand. You roll your eyes and grab it, pulling him into a hug. His arms wrap around you, and he rests his chin on top of your head, sighing heavily. "This sucks."

"It does," you agree, and you squeeze him tighter. "I'll see you soon. And I'll be fine."

"Yeah," he says, pulling back. He gives a lopsided smile. "Enjoy your...time off. And get some rest. You're supposed to be healing."

"Yes, Commander," you reply, and he shakes his head, rolling his eyes.

"I'll see you around," he murmurs.

"Yeah," you echo. "You will."

He takes a step back and salutes before turning and walking away, and you watch him go, your feet rooted to the spot. You can feel the exhaustion settling over you, your wounds aching, and you know it's not from the injury. It's from everything. All of it.

Booker gives one last wave as he pushes open the door, and the sunlight spills in, bathing the corridor in an orange glow. You blink a couple times, lifting a hand to shield your eyes from the harsh light.

"Kriff," you whisper to yourself.

You're so tired.

So, so tired.

It takes a minute for your vision to adjust, and by the time you've gathered your bearings, the doors have slid shut, sealing you inside.

You sigh and turn away from the doors, heading back into the silence and stillness of the Temple. Your steps echo in the empty corridors, the light from the windows fading as you walk, the shadows deepening.

The silence is suffocating, and a weight settles on your shoulders, slowing your steps as you wander. You're exhausted, but the idea of returning to your room and trying to sleep feels impossible. So you walk, drifting aimlessly through the empty halls, lost in thought.

It's not the worst outcome. Not by a long shot. But it still stings. To have your choices paraded in front of the Council time and time again as if you're some wayward child, as if you're not capable of thinking for yourself, is frustrating. And to have your decision made for you, even if it's a temporary situation, feels like a slap in the face.

You thought you made progress with them. Perhaps it was foolish to think otherwise. But given how things had been left before, the change was welcome.

Now, though, it feels as if nothing has changed at all.

Once again, the decision had been taken out of your hands, and you'd had to stand there and take it. Because, really, what other choice did you have?

None.

The thought has a lump forming in your throat, and you swallow hard, forcing it down. Your fists clench and release at your sides, and you find yourself reaching for the necklace again, the pendant cool to the touch. You roll it between your fingers, the rhythmic motion helping to ease the anxiety building inside you.

You know, realistically, that it's a temporary situation. You've been through worse, and the time off will give you the chance to recover, both mentally and physically. But still, the fact remains that it's a punishment. And that the Council didn't see fit to consult you first is a clear indication of their lack of trust in you.

That's the part that hurts the most.

Your feet slow to a stop, and you look around, realizing that you've wandered into the Archives. The lights are dimmed, the room bathed in shadow, and the faint glow from the shelves illuminates the space. You take a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to calm your racing thoughts.

It's only then that you notice you're standing among the busts of the Lost Twenty.

It's not an intentional visitation. In fact, it's not one you'd ever really considered. You'd always thought recognizing the Jedi who left the Order, disillusioned with your way of life, was a pointless endeavor. Especially when so many had fallen to the Dark Side, leaving nothing but destruction in their wake.

Your gaze meets the last bust in the row, next to Yaddle's, who was erected only recently on your insistence. Dooku's eyes are unseeing, cold and hollow, and yet, it's as if he's looking right through you, the disapproval clear on his face.

You let out a huff of annoyance and roll your eyes.

Even his statue is smug.

You can't deny that he'd had a point. The Republic was flawed. There was a rotting core to it, a lack of understanding of the people it was meant to serve. It had grown corrupt, the bureaucracy a hindrance, and the corruption ran rampant, affecting every level. But while you could agree with him on that point, you could never agree with his solution.

It was one thing to speak against the Republic. It was another to destroy it, and everyone in your path, in order to reshape it in your own image. And while you could acknowledge the hypocrisy of the Jedi Order, of the Senate, there was a line. One that had to be drawn, even if you were the one drawing it.

Even if his offer to help you control your power had been tempting.

It's the same dilemma you're faced with now. The same choice.

You could take Dooku's advice. You could leave. You could walk away from the war, the Order, everything. And no one would fault you. You could go anywhere, be anything, and no one would question your decision. They'd understand. It was the right thing to do.

And yet, the thought of doing it, of turning your back on the Republic, on your men and your brothers and your friends, fills you with a dread so profound that it's a physical ache. You couldn't do that.

No matter how much you hated the politics, no matter how much you despised the Chancellor, no matter how many times you were pulled in a thousand different directions, no matter how many times you'd had a hand raised against you, no matter how many times the Council doubted your motives, you couldn't leave.

You could never abandon those who needed you.

Your hand curls into a fist at your side, and you close your eyes, letting out a shuddering breath. The anger, the frustration, the fear, swirl inside you, threatening to drown you, and you reach for the Force, seeking its calm, its soothing presence.

"This isn't helping," you mutter.

“Another rising star grounded, hm?”

Your eyes snap open, and you whirl around, your hand automatically moving to the lightsaber clipped to your belt. Master Krell steps into the circle of light, his four hands tucked behind his back, his yellow eyes glowing.

"Master Krell," you say. You let go of the saber hilt and give him a slight bow. "Forgive me. I didn't hear you."

"That much is clear," he huffs. He glances at the busts beside you, and his expression turns somber. "Although, I'm not surprised you found your way here. I've often sought refuge in the Archives as well."

"I'm not seeking refuge," you protest.

"Aren't you?" he asks, arching a brow.

You open your mouth to reply, but the words die on your lips. You look away, the flush of embarrassment warming your cheeks.

"I suppose news travels fast," you mutter.

"It does," Krell agrees. He tilts his head, his eyes narrowing slightly as they move over you, taking in the bandage peaking out from your tunic. "It was a grave mistake."

"One I'll pay for," you reply, and you shake your head and glance at the busts beside you, the disappointment on the faces of the Lost Twenty. "At least the Council agreed to let me keep my position."

"For now." He lets out a derisive scoff, and you frown. "You may have survived this battle, but the war is far from over. And without a doubt, they will try to ground you again."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because they have little stomach for the fight," he says, his voice bitter. Krell steps up to your side, and his gaze moves over the busts, his lips pressed together tightly, the muscles in his jaw clenching.

"You disagree with their decision," you surmise.

"As should you," he replies, his eyes flicking toward yours. He regards you for a minute, a small smile tugging at his lips. "But I suppose the Council's judgement is beyond reproach."

You snort and look away, unable to meet his gaze. You can feel the anger simmering inside you, the frustration and irritation. The feeling is mirrored by him, and it's like a physical presence, pressing against you. It's almost a relief to feel someone else's anger, rather than having to hold your own in check.

"They were wrong to take you off the active duty roster," Krell continues, and he looks at you with a sympathetic expression. "To force you into this...retreat."

"Yes," you say softly. You nod, biting your lip. "Yes, they were."

"And yet," he continues, his four arms spreading out to his sides, "what can be done? It is the Council's decision, and you must abide by it."

"I don't have a choice," you agree. You sigh and run a hand through your hair, shaking your head. "At least it's a temporary situation."

"Indeed," he muses, and his lips twitch. "But perhaps not as temporary as the Council might like."

"What do you mean?"

"I have heard that the Chancellor's patience is wearing thin," he says, his voice low. He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, and his smirk widens. "Word travels fast, as you said. And it seems the loss of Duro has him quite concerned."

"He should be concerned," you say. You roll your eyes, your annoyance returning full force. "This isn't the first time a system has threatened to leave the Republic. If he's worried about losing systems, he should focus his attention on actually listening to his people."

"You and I are in agreement," he replies with a chuckle.

"That's a surprise," you muse, tilting your head. You give him a curious look. "I didn't know you cared much for the political side of things."

"I have no desire for politics," he scoffs, and he glances at the busts of the Lost Twenty beside him. "But I will not allow the Republic to turn its back on those who have given so much."

"No," you murmur, and you reach up and touch the pendant of your necklace, rolling it between your fingers. "Neither will I."

Krell looks at you, an odd expression on his face. It's almost as if he's studying you, and there's something else there, too. Something more serious. More calculating. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but the words die on his lips, and he closes it with a snap, his gaze turning back to the busts.

"Your faith is admirable," he says after a minute. He takes a step back, his hands folding behind his back, and he shakes his head. "But it will not change their minds. Or the outcome."

"I know," you concede. "But it's worth a shot."

"Is it?" he asks. His lip curls slightly. "What is the saying? The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, expecting a different result?"

"Well, no one has ever accused me of being sane," you reply with a wry smile. "And it's not the first time I've been grounded. I'll figure something out."

He hums, but doesn't respond, and the two of you stand in silence, the darkness enveloping you. It's strange, seeing him in the Archives. You'd never taken him for the scholarly type. He's not exactly the model Jedi. Then again, neither are you.

"Perhaps you're right," he muses after a minute. He steps up beside you and places a hand on your shoulder. His touch is firm, his grip strong. You meet his gaze, and he gives you a small smile. "I do believe the Council is wrong in this matter. But I also believe that you will find a way to rise above it."

"Thank you," you whisper, and you smile, the first genuine smile you've felt all day. "I appreciate the support."

"Of course," he replies as his hand falls away. He gives you a curt nod. "And with that, I bid you goodnight. May the Force be with you, General Anathorn."

"Goodnight, Master Krell," you reply with a small bow.

Krell turns and walks away, disappearing into the darkness, the shadows swallowing him whole. You watch him go, your eyebrows furrowing, his words still echoing in your head.

His support is surprising. You hadn't expected it. And his words echo your own thoughts. You knew the Council was wrong. You knew it would be hard to stay grounded. You knew the men would struggle. But hearing another Jedi say it, hearing them agree with you, is a comfort. Especially someone as strong as Krell.

He is right. There is a certain madness to repeating the same actions over and over, expecting a different result. The question is, how can you break the cycle? How can you prove to the Council that you're worthy of their trust?

"The definition of insanity," you murmur.

You sigh and turn your attention back to the busts before you. They look at you expectantly, judging, waiting for you to make the right choice.

A shiver runs down your spine, and the hair on the back of your neck stands up. You look around, but the Archives are empty, and, slowly, the feeling passes. You sigh and run a hand over your face, the exhaustion sinking into your bones

You're too tired for this.

Your hand closes around the pendant of your necklace again, and you roll it between your fingers.

You can figure this out later. Right now, you need to sleep.

You turn and start toward the door, and the bust of Yaddle catches your eye, her warm gaze fixed on yours, and you can't resist the urge to stop and say goodbye. You reach out and brush your fingertips over the top of her head, running your thumb along the edge of her ear.

"Goodnight, Master," you murmur.

You step away from her, and she watches you go, her eyes following you until the darkness swallows you whole.

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#the clone wars #captain rex #clone captain rex #captain rex x reader #rex x reader #roy writes #event horizon #rubs hands together like an evil fly #dont hate me for the ending okay thanks

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do-u-know-this-autisticcharacter · 2 months ago

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Do you know a character you like or love that is autistic or you believe is autistic, even if the show/author etc hasn't actually said so.

We welcome submissions from any genre except what is in our banned media, we allow characters who are good and bad.

Banned media: Community or fan driven/written etc media (Alien Stage, The SCP Foundation and You Could Make a Life).

However, nothing else is banned. You can submit characters from any other media and any genre (good or evil):

~ Books ~ Comedy ~ Horror movies ~ Anime and Manga ~ Western Animation ~ Marvel or DC ~ Foreign/non English TV/media ~ Computer/console games ~ Silent films ~ Indie films ~ media from your childhood ~ Youtube Characters ~ Sci Fi etc ~

Please note, you MUST include evidence or proof or we won't accept the submission. We don't require much evidence, but there needs to something other than "just vibes" or "their whole family is autistic" (we don't know the family my friend).

Proof we do accept include - obsessive tendencies, has no social boundaries, nonverbal communication or delayed language development etc. Or even if creator of said character said so in a social media post etc.

We will only accept submissions through the submission form.

If you submit via Tumblr ask, it will be deleted. The only exception are posts submitted through the form that we require more evidence for.

The spreadsheet of submitted characters is here.

Please note, the spreadsheet has two pages. One page is for accepted characters and the other is for rejected characters. If a character is rejected, we will explain why in the spreadsheet!

Please also be aware that due to the nature of this blog, there will inherently be spoilers, so proceed at your own risk there!

More about us below the cut!

Mod Pixie (she/they): I'm 36 and have been on Tumblr since minimally 2012, so I have Seen Some Things™️.

I love most things nerd and feel like Tumblr is particularly suited to nerddom.

I was diagnosed autistic and ADHD at 33, though I always knew I didn't quite fit in and suspected ADHD for a while. I was always just considered slightly odd, in an Anne of Green Gables way.

Fiction has always been my escape and once Tumblr introduced polls and I found the blogs mentioned, I thought someone should do the same for autistic characters! Full disclosure, it seems someone had the same idea and created a blog, but it never took off.

If you'd like to follow my main blog, please follow @pixiemusing 😄

Mod Sunflower (she/her): Hello there! You can call me Sunflower if you wish. I prefer to remain anonymous on this blog and on @aretheybisexual, but I am the co admin here/there/everywhere. I go by she/her pronouns, 30+, bisexual and am on an NHS waiting list to be diagnosed for autism (2 years and counting). I live in the GMT timezone. Tumblr veteran since 2010 roughly.

Blog mechanics: Feel free to submit ANY character you see as autistic. If you feel the need to clarify whether they are "good" or "bad" rep, feel free in the form! We will accept characters who are "problematic" or from problematic media. We will make sure to tag the media for every character.

I (Mod Pixie) will also sometimes make comment about the submissions well before they are posted. These will be tagged as Pixie Speaks, along with the character and media. The Pixie Speaks tag will also be used for general musings. Just Blog Things will be used for announcements and blog maintenance.

We hope you enjoy and if you have any questions, please DM! Please note that all submissions must be through the Google Form.

For fandoms with more than 2 submissions in a row, the submissions will be broken up with other fandom submissions in between. They may, depending on the number of submissions, be broken up across several days, which may or may not be successive. Polls run for a week.

Thanks again for stopping by!

Just for more awareness:

@aretheyqueer, @do-you-ship-it-polls, @do-you-know-this-queer-character, @doyouknowthisdisabledcharacter, @are-they-a-faggot, @are-they-trans, @late-night-polls, @are-they-gender-fluid, @niche-polls @haveyouhadthisdream @yesornopolls, @honorarylesbianspolls, @videogamepolls, @doyouknow-this-queer-rarepair

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riacte · 1 month ago

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Bogwaters Dev Log 22/5/2021

Because apparently I'm doing this thing now (interactive fiction parodying the 2021 Treebark Rise and the "hidden" Discord server that nurtured it)

I'm trying to make a mini demo version just to test out mechanics and what is feasible. It'll probably last around seven days (June 1 to 7) with individual dashes for each day and 5/6 NPCs you can invite

On June 1, you're pretty much guaranteed to unlock 2 invitable NPCs that act as a tutorial. One of them will accept, the other will reject. The one who rejects you has no negative consequences because it's a tutorial and because they're chill about shipping. The one who will accept should be as obvious as 2021 Tumblr would allow when everyone was on their eggshells

You can make one (1) post each day, which in this game mostly serves to raise "friendship levels" with NPCs. On June 1, you will be given three choices to post— they each correspond to a different NPC with different interests and will give you a slight boost for the one you chose. Your goal is to gain enough friendship to invite them. These will require effort unlike the tutorial NPCs

The first NPC is one who follows and likes you but is skittish about openly shipping. You can increase friendship by posting things they like (since they will see you on their dash), reblogging their posts, and showing your approval, which helps them to open up.

The second NPC is one you follow, is fine with shipping, but doesn't follow you back. You can increase friendship by reblogging from them with nice tags (to tell them you exist since they won't see your posts on their dash). Or you can be mean and they'll block you and you won't get enough people to win.

The third NPC is one you don't follow and they don't follow you back, but you get the vibes they're a covert shipper and you'll need all the help you can get. This one deals with the paranoia of "is this stranger chill or not?" as you frantically hunt into the depths of their socials

Shoutout to my current NPCs platypus-crown (player character aka PC) kindredwaves judasredemption benbiggitybong gayshulkerbox starfish-wizard and 9-blue-blobfish.

I have added block/follow choices which I am lowkey regretting because every post will be forced to do a "have you blocked this user?" check (not feasible with complicated conditional choices). Then again, if you see a post from someone you blocked, it feels like realistic Tumblr bugginess. And you shouldn't be blocking people for no reason because your whole dash will be empty and you'll lose lmao

Altar scene speech is here somewhere. As is gray long and strong #whoremembers

SHIPlakebog. Or whatever.

Future bits:

Yes there will be a MGC this month (Minecraft Gamer Championship). Yes it is Purple Piranhas 15 with Ben Mars River and H2OBomb, making it 3/4 Blue Blobfish 9

Yes Mars will make his stupid jealousy comment and the dash will explode

#interactive fiction #bogwaters #trafficblr #trafficshipping #treebark #haiiiii #who up blogging my water #the hermitcraft equivalent is permitcraft btw #and ofc. bream smp #and cub is mudflat135 #shower husbands solitarygamer and codmajor1995 #pc the bog boss. my anxious paranoid calculating scrunkle who tracks all the blocks and follows on the dash #i fucking love the name benbiggitybong btw like woaw. bong

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nectardaddy · 11 months ago

Text

B.I.L.L.S , t. hanamaki

american hero. . . b.i.l.l.s. by towa bird

If I had a dollar then I wouldn't have to bother 'bout the bills. I'm so tired of paying rent.

pairing : hanamaki takahiro x f!reader

cw/notes : poverty/financial insecurity, conversation about/wishing for "what could be" (and a deep dive into the feeling of wanting), use of the pet name "sweetheart," humor as a coping mechanism, language, eating used as a metaphor, lots of metaphors in general, established long-term relationship, I am genuinely very proud of this fic so if you got tagged out of the blue that's why <3

word count : 2.6k

The apartment was dingy and run down, a muted tone of gray that submerged the entire cramped space into desolace. A desolace that bled into the other rooms, through the floorboards, through every nook and cranny of the compact unit - through the bones of the pair that inhabited it. Pictures and posters littered the drab walls. Old developed pictures and various music flyers stuck to drywall with bits and pieces of scotch tape - real frames were far too expensive - as they tried desperately to combat the dreary aura of the space.

But it was difficult to fight against such longing; around every corner being yet another issue that would only ever be resolved with the one thing the pair didn’t have: funds. Air conditioning that went out every other month, as the landlord was too stingy to really fix it and complained with every call and maintenance request about the issue. Mold in the air vents, water pressure that was just short of a small stream, a lock on the door that barely bolted with a small chain lock that was used as a "replacement" that didn't really do anything. It reeked of dust and mildew, a musty smell that lingered no matter how many candles were lit and blown out. And trial and error to shut the, horribly painted, bedroom room; over the months they learned to turn the knob and slam rather than just slam.

It was a constricted, at times uncomfortable; limited space meaning old cardboard boxes stayed within the living area or bedroom - mementos gathered dust that all but covered the unit entirely. Memories shoved in a box that would barely ever see the light of day, or simply, didn’t want to. Such a place didn’t deserve such warmth. A god forsaken space didn’t deserve the radiant coziness that came with trinkets and baubles, didn’t deserve the framed pictures - that would crash to the ground anyway, as the drywall often crumbled and fragmented - and surely didn’t deserve the mellow residents who resided in it.

Both home from work, and both exhausted beyond belief, they sat together on an old, thrifted loveseat. A gaudy flower pattern that was stained and smelled of cigarettes from the latter owners, but a place to sit nonetheless. The man shuffled through a slew of mail, the woman, with her eyes closed and trying not to fall asleep right then and there, sat next to him.

“I’m so fucking tired of paying this shit,” he grumbled before throwing the envelopes onto the rickety coffee table. A table that was discounted, dirt cheap, as one leg was cracked and wobbly. Oftentimes, it broke when too much weight was put on it, duct tape lined the connection between the leg and table itself. All it held was other envelopes - bills, an array of clipped coupons, and a long forgotten coffee cup, that’s rim was chipped and the handle cracked.

“Then don’t,” the woman hummed in response, a cheeky reply to a serious notion. An exhaustion riddled in her voice that made him look over and sigh, heart strings pulled taut at seeing her weary form. “We can run away together and never have to see this shit hole again.”

He stayed quiet for a moment, letting a pause settle between them. Allowed the sound of the fan in the far corner of the room to take over the silence he offered, the hum of it engulfed the room as it rotated to cool the entire apartment. “Maybe we should,” he sighed before a small smile pulled at his lips. “We can go off grid and everything, y’know they make shows about people that live like that, right? We could be famous.”

A breath of air passed through the woman’s nose as she chuckled, and she opened her eyes to look over at him. “You’re an idiot.” Even as she smiled at him, he couldn’t help but notice just how tired she looked. Her eyes were dark and hazy, unfocused even, as it seemed like all she wanted to do was close them again - to sleep. Her work uniform crumbled and wrinkled as she sat with her legs up on the small couch, too worn out to change upon coming, to what they reluctantly called, home.

Home, to them, was coming back at odd hours. Never fully holding each other as the other had to whisk themselves away - to provide, to work. Times were fleeting, just as much as the money that came in. Gone within a second and drained from responsibilities. Every second together was taken with an ironclad grip, and sewn together with cups upon cups of coffee just to try and enjoy it all.

“Where would you want to go if we had the money to leave?” The off kilter question left his lips easily, without much thought put behind it. Because to him, that's all he ever thought about - leaving. He hoped one day he was able to scrape up enough funds, pack everything up, and leave the cramped unit all together with her by his side.

“Anywhere, honestly, this place sucks ass.” She groaned as she stretched her legs off the loveseat. A series of pops from overworked limbs hit his ears and made him frown - she didn't deserve to be this tired, not for this piece of shit apartment. Not for anything.

“I’m serious.” His normal, almost whimsical, tone went with the wind as he sat up a little straighter. He looked over to her with red tinged eyes, fatigued and strained, that swirled with an unforeseen worry.

“So am I.” A curt reply as she locked eyes with him. A realist, maybe a bit pessimistic to some, but the woman grounded herself in reality more than he. Didn't want to waste herself away with thoughts of what could be than what is. What could be was a sham, a figment of imagination she couldn't bear herself to think about often; as the thought of what is yanked her to the very pits of longing that she would later have to tear herself out of.

“I know where I’d want to go.” A dream he hadn’t told her before, he wished he had the money to surprise her with it. But that day was far off in the distance, a mere glimmer of a memory, and he cracked under the pressure of wanting to share. At least this way, they could experience the dream together.

“Yeah? Where?” She closed her eyes again and let her head fall to his shoulder.

“I’d want to go to Tokyo.”

She snorted at the thought, “spare me, Hiro, not this shit again.” A half hearted joke that landed a bit on edge, toed the line of snappy through drowsy laced words. A former wish she had heard before from him, a joke to only go to Tokyo to get piss drunk with friends.

“No, not the bar hopping thing.” He assured and waved off the remark with a small chuckle.

“Good, because you do that shit with Mattsun here anyway. You don’t need to drag me to Tokyo just for me to babysit you two idiots there.” Babysitting, truly, was an understatement to the woman. The thought made her cringe as she recalled past memories of his dear friend passed out in their bathroom, head in the toilet and completely out cold.

“I want to take you to Ueno Park to see the cherry blossoms one day.” His voice was a twinge quieter than before, a bit breathless as he couldn’t believe himself for finally saying the dream aloud. Deep brown eyes shifted over to look at the woman, whose head still rested on his shoulder - completely silent.

The comment had her at a lack of words, letting another silence pass by them once more; but it lingered far too long. A silence that, as moments passed, began to have a weight to it and started to suffocate her. Every inhale became shallower than the last, and she couldn’t find it within herself to take a single breath more of the humid, musky air the apartment provided. She felt herself tumble into the gaping hole of wanting, needing, craving - pure, unbridled hunger for more than what is. A ravishing feeling that took her by the shoulders and shoved, falling head first into the empty, hollow feeling of what could be.

What could be was far from reality, what could be couldn’t happen.

She lifted her head from his shoulder and looked over at him, eyes a bit wider than before and lips parted through means to say something - nothing ever came. “You told me three years ago you wanted to do that.” Quiet words answered her unspoken question and she sucked in a breath. She remembered telling him that vividly, could recall the day to a tee as it held importance to her.

It rained that day, poured down onto the street as they ran back to their shared apartment - a better one than what they had now. Steps taken hastily, hand in hand, as he practically dragged her through the downpour with a laugh. Both forgot an umbrella, so they ran through the rain getting more and more soaked with every step. It wasn’t far from their unit, the pair only went down the street to a convenience store. But the storm they tried to outrun inevitability caught up with them, so the leisurely walk back home turned to a sprint.

Upon their return, they found themselves sprawled out on their bedroom floor. Their clothes drenched from rain and water puddled onto the hardwood underneath them. A silly action, to lay on the floor wet. But neither minded as they giggled and laughed with one another, enjoying the other’s company.

Strawberry blonde hair stuck to his forehead and he raked a hand through it. A chuckle left his lips from an earlier conversation before he looked over at her once more, “if you could go anywhere in the world, where would you want to go?”

“What kind of question is that, Hiro?” A teasing tone laced within her cadence as she locked eyes with him. Bright and hopeful, full of love, and not an ounce of exhaustion swirling within them.

“One that I’m curious about, obviously, so indulge me.” The whimsy in his words was easily apparent, one of which she got used to quickly. And there was a sass in the timbre of his voice that muddled with care, a juxtaposition to his usual standalone brassiness.

“What’s yours?”

“This isn’t about me, it’s about you.”

He watched the woman smile before she averted her eyes to the ceiling, scrunched her brows in thought a moment before she looked at him once more. “Probably Ueno Park, in April, to see the cherry blossoms.”

“Are you serious? Anywhere in the world, and you want Tokyo?” He never looked away from the woman throughout the conversation, and when she met his gaze once more he smiled.

“Did you ask just to make fun of me, asshole?”

“No, god no.” He laughed, lips pulling into a silly smile before he took her hand in his own. “I’m just trying to figure out where I should ask you to marry me one day.”

The inescapable feeling of want consumed her, leaving nothing left behind as she was swallowed whole. A swirling sensation in her stomach that sickened her, made her ill to think about too long as all she could do was stare at him. “Takahiro.” Her words fell to a whisper as eyes flickered between his own, desperately trying to gauge the situation but to no avail. “You can’t be serious?”

“As a heart attack, sweetheart.” The smile he had started to falter, and the concern that saturated her eyes made his heart sink. But through that concern, the smallest, most miniscule, glimmer of need shone through. Even through tired, bloodshot eyes and a tinge of cynicism, she wanted the dream just as much as he, if not more.

“Hanamaki,” she breathed. “Be real for a second-” But she was cut off as he turned to face her, the old loveseat squeaking under the shift of weight, and he took her hands in his own

“I am being real, so put that name away.” Erring on defensive, put a care behind it that she couldn't ignore. A rare seriousness in his voice that made her swallow hard. “I’m taking you to see those damn cherry blossoms at some point, and when I do I'm asking you to marry me.”

She opened her mouth to say something but promptly shut it, not knowing what to say to the man. But she felt as the ravenous feeling turned to a starved, almost primal, one. Felt her stomach twist into knots at the thought - she wanted to swallow the notion completely. Needed to feel the crunch and snap of it in her mouth, wanted her teeth caught in it, needed it to be consumed until nothing was left. She abstained from could be for too long and needed to devour the concept entirely.

But could be wasn’t what is. What is left a bruise, tender and raw, that left a rotten taste in her mouth. She felt the urge to spit out the thought as it circled within her mind like a vulture, ready to dive within a split second. “But-”

“We will, I swear.” He cut off her protest and squeezed her hand. But to no avail, as she only looked at him with a sense of apprehension.

“But we're-”

“I know, I know,” he sighed. Brown eyes slid over to the envelopes on the coffee table, bold red letters catching his attention that made him close his eyes. “Believe me, I know.” A disheartening belief that caused him to take a deep breath before opening his eyes again to look at her. He brought a hand to her cheek, pale fingers gently brushed over her skin with a warmth that was inviting, loving, and selfless. He gave her a small, out of sorts, smile, “but I want to do this. For you. For us. Hell, because we deserve to do something nice. I want us to have something to look forward to other than the same, shit ass, walls everyday.”

She paused a moment, let his words sink in, before she bit down hard on the concept and refused to let go. “Ok,” she nodded carefully. “Alright, we’ll go to Ueno Park one day.” Could be tasted sweet and savory, mouth watering to think about. It eased a craving that deflected from what is - so just this once, she let herself free fall into it. “Do you even have a ring to ask me with?”

His smile pulled into a grin at her question, and he chuckled. “Would you say yes to a ring pop?”

With a paltry laugh, she leaned into his hand that was still on his cheek. “As long as it's strawberry, then absolutely, you dumbass.”

“Strawberry it is, sweetheart.”

However, he didn’t really need the sweet, confectionary ring. In one of the many old cardboard boxes within the living area and bedroom that collected dust - a particularly well kept, small box hidden in the back of their tiny, shared closet - was a ring he bought three years ago. Bought shortly after the conversation was had, when he still had the money to stretch. Stuffed between memories that would barely ever see the light of day, because a place like this didn't deserve such warmth.

But the warmth was willingly given anyway, whether the pair knew it or not.

series taglist (open, send an ASK) + a few moots bc I am genuinely very very very proud of this

@causenessus @softpia @renardiererin @kodzu-ken @phoenix-eclipses

@wyrcan @honeekyuu @wakashudou @wolffmaiden @eggyrocks

@dailyakira @cupidsblonde @mollyrolls @wolffmaiden @zumicho

@jadeoru @sandwhitches

#divider by @/bunnysrph #series: american hero #hq x reader #haikyuu #hq #haikyuu x reader #hanamaki takahiro #takahiro hanamaki #hanamaki takahiro x reader #takahiro hanamaki x reader #makki x reader #hq makki #hanamaki x reader

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safeturnip · 2 months ago

Text

an explosive encounter

words: 1.2k

characters: GeminiTay, GoodTimesWithScar, ZombieCleo

summary: Gem and Scar blow up Cleo.

additional tags: canon-typical violence, explsions, arson, character death (with respawn mechanic)

my piece for the 6th edition of @trafficzine! i had so much fun being a part of this and everyone did such a good job with their pieces :)))

***

There is a certain simple joy, Gem thinks, in setting up a trap. Her arms burn faintly as she digs a pit deep enough to hide a lethal amount of TNT, the strain more akin to satisfaction than pain. The waves of robots descending from the sky to pepper her with questions have momentarily abated, and she's determined to make the most of the intermission.

She works alongside Scar, who, admittedly, is not that much help. He's too busy trying to dodge his snail to allot much effort into their shared trap, laughing in panicked distress as it inches closer and closer to him. But Gem doesn't mind doing most of the work, doesn't mind that it'll be Scar who gets the kill. She knows that she's had a part in the trap, and as long as Cleo ends up dead, as long as an alliance is secured with Scar, then that's enough for her.

Does Gem think about how easily Scar could kill her? Does she realize she's standing right on top of a pile of explosives, ready to ignite at a single strike of steel on flint? She continues to build the trap.

Finally, it's finished. Gem surveys her work while Scar glances nervously around for his snail. As a concluding touch, she flattens down the grass to form an inconspicuous path above the trap, then sets off towards the forest on the other side of the river where Cleo and her allies reside. The easy part’s done. Now comes the hard part.

"Cleo?" she calls, hands cupped around her mouth. "Can I borrow you?

Cleo emerges from the tower of her base, their expression pinched in trepidation. Their answer is doubtful and drawn out, suffused with no small amount of suspicion. "Yes? What do you need?"

"Great, come on!" Without waiting to see if Cleo is following, Gem turns and starts the journey back to her base and the hidden trap. She makes sure her hands are empty save for a precautionary shield, no sword or lava or anything that could harm Cleo. No, the harm will come later.

As they travel, Gem keeps up a steady stream of conversation. "I just thought—you know, we're always talking when there's a whole bunch of people around, and there's finally nobody at my base." She keeps her tone bright and earnest, catches and holds Cleo's gaze. Her smile is wide and friendly, her gestures loose in a way that demonstrates how unarmed she is at the moment. Nothing to hide here, she tries to make her body language say, there's no ulterior motive. "I thought maybe we could finally have a sit-down and sort things out!"

Despite Gem’s reassurances, apprehension is still wreathed tightly around Cleo like a protective cloak. "I don't feel like I've got a problem with you, though."

They're passing the spawn island now, and Gem thinks, Halfway there, prays that her unassuming target can't sense how fast her pulse is racing. It's taking every ounce of her strength to keep the smile on her face, keep her voice steady and make sure it doesn't tremble with anticipation.

"Well, I don't have a problem with you either," Gem says. Cleo's teammates, though, that's a different matter entirely.

"Okay . . ." Cleo doesn't sound convinced, but they're still following her, still allowing themself to be lured willingly to their death, a fish unaware of the hook embedded in its throat slowly reeling it in. "Why am I so suspicious right now?"

It's a rhetorical question, but Gem answers anyway, a sleight-of-hand of words to lessen Cleo's suspicions—or lessen her suspicions just enough to get her in the blast radius, get her killed. "I'm green, you're green, everybody's green. Joel's green, and he's my only teammate." Lie—she thinks of Scar sitting in wait by the trap’s lever, his yellow name displayed prominently in the player menu for all to see.

They cross the bridge, and Gem swears she can already smell the acrid burn of gunpowder, hear the deafening sound of detonation. She passes over the concealed trap, hears the hiss of a lit fuse, turns around to face Cleo right as they say, "Yeah, now I don't feel safe at all."

Then, explosion—a sudden rush of displaced matter like a sharply exhaled breath, an earsplitting boom that Gem feels in her teeth, the ground heaving and tearing asunder, expelling smoke and heat and bits of shrapnel. Cleo's scream is cut off before it can escape her throat.

Gem turns triumphantly towards Scar, meets his victorious cheers head-on with ones of her own. She feels almost shaky, hollowed out, as if the adrenaline and tension she'd been carrying while luring Cleo to their death had all rushed out when the explosion happened, leaving an empty void behind that a flood of success is quick to fill.

Other players drift over, drawn to the aftermath of carnage like flies to carrion, and Scar exclaims, "That was all Gem; Gem was—big help, big help!" and Gem laughs in appreciation over Scar's commendations. The next time she opens the player menu, Scar's name is a satisfying green.

Later, Scar comes back to her as she stands at the top of her watch tower. “Gem, I will never betray you,” Scar tells her, an earnest hand pressed to his chest, and she thinks of an arrow misfired into the back of her skull, she thinks of a red-hooded figure that stood back while a sword plunged into her heart, and she thinks: Good.

***

Flint and steel come together in a matrimony of cascading sparks, white-hot seeds of heat from which ribbons of flame unfurl. Flickers of orange and red and yellow burn bright against the dark backdrop of the night, bright in a way that compels anyone nearby to behold their consumption of anything in their path. The air shimmers with heat, the air is oversaturated with heat.

If there are any protests being made in the immediate vicinity, the fire does not care enough to hear them. The fire's only concern is how fast it can devour. The barn is the first to go, tongues of flame licking up the red mangrove walls and leaving only the stone foundation behind, blackened and ash-covered, the bones of a picked-clean animal carcass. Yet the fire’s hunger is still not sated—it leaps to the posts of a bridge, crawling hungrily along the wood; it throws itself upon the crops and bundles of hay that border the burning barn; it wraps itself around the fences of a cow pen. It swallows up the newly built watchtower, the strong sturdy oak foundation mere kindling to the ravenous flames. Scorched ruination is all that remains.

Reaching up to the night sky are curling tendrils of smoke, thick and ashen and choking. The smoke wends its way through the air, clings to whatever the fire has not yet burned, sits heavily in the spaces of a person's lungs. Its scent will linger here hours after the fire has died, a hateful, victorious echo of the destruction that has been wrought. Beneath the constant crackle of flames, laughter floats up to the sky, intertwining with the grey, cloying smoke.

Everything burns.

#geminitay #gem #goodtimeswithscar #gtws #zombiecleo #cleo #life series #wild life #mywriting #traffic series #trafficblr #wild life smp #gem&scar

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fight-nights-at-freddys · 11 months ago

Note

"I don't support it in real life!"CW: talk of sexualizing minors, slight rant

Then why write about it? If for coping purposes, why post it online for others (especially actual predators) to see and consume? Then why portray those things in a positive light instead of condemning them?And you're seriously going to tell me that just because as an adult (1) you want to see a fictional minor (that mind you, is usually designed to resemble an actual child) depicted in sexual situations doesn't mean you don't share that same view concerning children in real life? You find fictional minors attractive but not real ones? Why does the line between finding someone who is (and usually also looks like) a child sexually attractive get drawn at whether the child is real or not? I'm not calling anyone pedophiles, but if the shoe fits...(1) No I am not talking about 18 y/os finding 17 y/os attractive. Use your brain. Creating content of underaged characters is still questionable regardless of age, however.

"Just mute/block instead of harassing others!"I have nearly 70k people blocked on twitter, and hundreds of words and tags muted, I softblock and mute people who post things I don't want to see. I still see certain things on my timeline, usually because1) It's posted in the main tags of something I'm interested in2) The post isn't even tagged at all3) If someone quote retweets from someone I've blocked, I still see the take on my timeline.

"Antis use the same rhetoric as exclusionists and TERFS!"What exactly does being against pedophilia have to do with trans (women) exclusionary radical feminism?And what does lgbtq discourse in general have to do with not wanting minors to be sexualized?

"Antis harass people!"Apparently, proshippers have never done this before! Not once has a grown adult stalked literal children for calling their ships gross!Not saying harassments ok at all, but let's not act like the poor proshippers are being oppressed here.Also, I promise you, someone saying "x is a proshipper, please block them if you don't want to see their content" is not harassment. Writing callout posts and videos on underaged "antis", however is most definitely harassment but y'all don't want to hear that. People have the right to know if they are platforming people who go against their personal beliefs and morals. Choosing to hide that from people who would otherwise not want to interact with you for the sake of not wanting to "lose friends" makes you a bad person, and you should feel bad.

replying under the cut bc this ask was long enough, and i don't wanna make ppl who follow us/see this have to scroll for eons

why do you think coping mechanisms have to stay private? if someone's coping mechanism was yoga, or working out, would you say they have to do that by themselves, in the confines of their own house, and they aren't allowed to talk to anyone else about it? i hope not, because that would be ridiculous (inb4 "yeah but yoga isn't harming anyone!", neither is fiction!).

the fact of the matter is, anyone can consume any type of content, and that shouldn't prevent people from making what they like. why not portray it in a positive light? what does it matter? any regular person knows that what they see in fiction should not necessarily be replicated in real life. i know better than to go out and kill someone just because billy loomis and stu macher do it.

furthermore, wouldn't you want actual pedophiles to use fiction rather than them going out and hurting real children? that's not how that works, but using your argument that they're one and the same, wouldn't that be better for everyone, and result in less people getting hurt, ergo fiction doesn't hurt anyone?

no, fictional characters are not meant to resemble actual children. that IS a crime. however, you cannot look at an anime child, or idk, kid ashley from TCOAAL, and tell me that looks like a REAL child. that's nonsense. and no, it does NOT mean i "share the same view concerning children in real life", because those characters aren't real, and i (can't believe i have to say this) am NOT attracted to real children. yes, you ARE calling me a pedophile, which is just categorically not true. it's not "questionable" because it's not REAL, which is necessary for someone to be diagnosed with pedophilia, which is a disorder, and not just some label you can put on people.

genuinely, if you are THAT sensitive to people having other opinions, or are sensitive to different kinds of art, maybe social media isn't the place for you to be. if the post isn't tagged, i agree, something should be done about that, but the fact is, WE DO tag our stuff. that has nothing to do with me (or chica), or even proshippers as a whole. you're doing the thing were you believe one rotten apple spoils the bunch.

when you post something online, you HAVE to understand that literally anyone can view it, and if your accounts aren't private, anyone can interact with it. that is the cost of posting online. if you can't handle that, log off.

i don't think i've ever compared being an anti to being a terf/exclus, BUT they do objectively share some of the same opinions as conservatives, and even nazis (which is NOT to say all antis are conservatives/nazis, but that you share some of the same ideals).

i can't speak much to that because i don't think i've ever made that argument, but it is a lil radfem-y when most of y'all go after specifically BL and yaoi. also terfs aren't only bigoted towards trans women, it's also trans men. idk why you said that.

yes, correct, anyone can harass anyone, but the fact of the matter is, 99% of the time proshippers get harassed, it's while we're in our own lanes, minding our own business, and y'all (much like you're doing right now) come into OUR spaces and call us pedophiles, and say we deserve to die, or that we should kill ourselves.

if you've been following this blog for the last week-ish, you'd have seen some prime examples of just that. doing nothing, talking to no one, and getting harassed. people saying i should be on watchpeopledie, saying i should be killed, that they hope i get cancer, or die in a car accident, or that my dad beats me to death. that i should "slit", cut to the bone, kill myself, hang myself. threatening to doxx me, find my address, have tried to grab my ip. the difference is, when proshippers are found to be doing this stuff, they're called out and reported, often by other proshippers, whereas antis, when they exhibit this behavior, they are encouraged. they're praised by their peers.

if all people did was say "x is a proshipper, block them", we wouldn't have an issue, but the fact is, a significant amount of y'all don't start with blocking. you start with slurs, nasty names, disgusting accusations, and downright deplorable behavior BEFORE you block us. if you block us. and when we block you, it's entirely possible you just create a new account to harass us from, or grab your friends to do it for you.

if platforming people who like different types of fiction than you is that big of a problem, that you feel the need to write callouts, make google docs, harass them, and threaten to doxx them, you need to get off the internet. stop interacting with people AT ALL. live in a bubble. because again, people you don't like are always going to exist on the internet, it's your duty to navigate that in the best way you can, WITHOUT hurting anyone.

people hide the fact they're proship because we don't want the harassment. that's sorta the crux of the issue? you're completely ignoring the COUNTLESS posts of people being harassed for simply existing and being proship. we shouldn't be made to feel bad for trying to protect ourselves and our peace, YOU should be made to feel bad for making others feel bad.

#my brain too small for ts *huff*#hope my ramblings make enough sense to y'all bc i got a headache #proship #proshippers please interact #profic #proship please interact #profiction #anti anti #pro ship #pro fic #🏁🎸

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dixonsdarkelf · 8 months ago

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QOTU: Something Good

My first official installment in the 'Quarters of the Undead' AU created with @dixons-sunshine is here! We get to watch Vec and Scud's first meeting play out. Be prepared to become obsessed with them because I certainly am. Lydia Vector (Vec) belongs to me, Georgie Hawkins (Ginny, as Vec calls her) belongs to Krys. Banner and divider were also both made by her.

You can get to know Vec a little bit better here and Georgie here

This is my first time writing for Scud as well as my first time writing in third person in a long time, so please go easy on me.

CW for swearing, mention of medical procedures (she is a doctor, after all), a teeny tiny bit of sexual content if you squint really hard

Word count: 3.8k

@gothic-pumpkin you asked to be tagged in this <3

I'm not joking when I say I screamed into my pillow the other night because I love them so much these two make me absolutely feral I need to be put down or sedated or something

My AO3 Krys' AO3 Quarters Of The Undead (QOTU) Masterlist

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Vec sighed, running a hand through her hair as she rested her elbows on the counter.

First, there was spilling hot coffee all over her fresh scrubs. Then, there was cutting her finger on a can of Monster, followed by dropping her keys in the toilet and burning her toast to a blackened crisp.

And that was all before even setting foot out the door.

While pulling up to a stoplight on her way to the hospital, her 2007 Toyota Corolla came to a halt, the dreaded sound of repeated clicks filling the car as she tried to start it again. A kind stranger stopped to give her a jump start, allowing her to make it to the auto shop just down the street, but not before she took a moment to white-knuckle the steering wheel and scream at the top of her lungs.

When it rains, it pours.

“Just what I thought. Dead battery,” a man behind the counter called out as he approached from the back. His name badge branded ‘manager’ swayed around his neck as he walked, creating a soft tapping sound as it clacked against the buttons of his shirt. “We can do it today, but it’s gonna be a while. We’re a bit backed up.” He reached under the counter into a drawer and pulled out an intake form. “You gonna wait around?”

“No, I’m heading to work,” Vec corrected, flipping her phone open to send a quick text to her best friend.

Vec: Car broke down on the road. Having the worst day :( Ginny: Oh no :( Ginny: Hoping something good comes out of this shitty day <3

That was Georgie, always whipping out her relentless optimism whenever the moment called for it.

“Your name?” the man asked.

“Lydia Vector. V-e-c-t-o-r.” She slipped her phone back into her pocket, grabbing a scrunchie and pulling her long black hair into a ponytail. “I prefer to go by Vec, though.”

“I’ll put both,” he said.

As she flattened and tied up her hair, a movement out of the corner of her peripheral caught her attention, and her eyes trailed over to one of the mechanics. He was tinkering with something, a welding gun in his hand and a bandana tied around his head to keep his soft brown hair from falling in his eyes.

And she was practically drooling after just one look at him.

“Hey,” she asked, nodding her head in the mechanic’s direction, “the cutie with the bandana. What’s his name?”

The man’s gaze followed her nod to his employee in the corner of the room. “That’s Josh,” he explained, the sound emanating from the depth of his chest a hybrid between a scoff and a chuckle, “he’s uh…he’s a bit of a wildcard.”

A small smile crept across Vec’s lips. She, too, had been granted the title of “wildcard,” both by her best friend & her family. She was already looking forward to meeting her match.

“We close at eight,” the manager interjected, clearing his throat before he continued, “if you can get here before then, you’ll have it back today.”

“Oh, that’s perfect. I’m supposed to be off at six. Might be a bit late, but I should be here before you close,” Vec assured, slipping her keys back into the pocket of her scrubs, “that’s the life of an ER doctor for you.” She gave the manager a grateful smile as she scooped a fresh can of Monster from her bag. “Thank you again. Today has been a nightmare.”

“Not a problem, ma’am,” he reassured, returning the grin, “we’ll call you when it’s done. I hope your day gets better.”

“Thank you. Me too.”

Before heading out the door, Vec looked back over her shoulder to steal one last glance at the handsome mechanic. Torn between wanting to give him her number on the spot and not wanting to be disrespectful and corner him at his workplace, she opted for the latter, hoping he would be there when she returned. Plus, she was already running behind. “Cutie with the bandana” Josh would have to wait.

Little did she know, she hadn’t been the only one stealing glances.

He’d taken notice of her the second she walked in the door. A little frazzled, hair disheveled from forgetting to brush it during the chaos of her morning, eyes tinged red from the stress cry she had in her car before coming inside. But he saw right past all of that.

It was almost angelic the way she ran her fingers through her hair, gathering it into a high ponytail. Her hair was so long that even then, it still reached far down her back. Though her eyes were tinted red, the ocean blue of her irises were the most stunning color he’d ever seen. The smile she gave the manager as she left, the way her scrubs hugged her body…the light thumping in his chest was beginning to pick up speed.

“Josh!” another mechanic called out, smacking him in the chest with the back of his hand. Though it stung, even that was barely able to pull him out of the clouds and back down to reality. “C’mon man, help me with this!”

“S-sorry,” Josh stuttered, subtly shaking his head and blinking rapidly a few times to further pull himself from his trance.

Over the course of her shift, Vec had forgotten all about her car and the shitty start she’d had to her day. She didn’t forget, though, about the cutie with the bandana. He’d been nestled in the back of her mind all day, creeping his way to the front at every few-and-far-between free moment she had. All Vec could do is hope he’d be there when she returned.

A nasty bout of gangrene and a couple of motorcycle accidents later, she was back in the staff locker room, eager to be home and in bed after being on her feet all day. Stepping out the bathroom stall, she felt her phone vibrate in her pocket, and it was only in that moment that it occurred to her what time it was and that it was, in fact, past closing time at the auto shop. She answered the phone with a sigh, repeatedly mentally kicking herself for letting time slip away from her like that.

“I’m so sorry, my shift ran over,” she apologized as she opened her locker, scrambling to grab her jacket and her bag.

“My wife’s an ER nurse, I get it. Don’t worry about it,” the manager said, “one of my guys offered to stay late so you could pick it up.”

Vec set her bag on the bench behind her, holding her phone between her shoulder and her cheek as she slipped her arms into her jacket sleeves. “I can’t ask any of you to do that.”

“You didn’t ask. He offered,” the man corrected. The jingling of keys filled her ear, followed by the ‘click’ of a door lock. “If you’re gonna be later than nine, try to call if you can and let him know.”

“Oh my God, thank you.” Her shoulders relaxed as she breathed a sigh of relief. “I’ll be there as quick as I can.”

The clock on her phone read 8:45pm. The auto shop was only about a mile up the road, she thought, she could easily make it. As she reached the front doors of the hospital, she sent another series of texts to Georgie.

Vec: Picking up my car Vec: If I don’t text you by 9:30, call me until I answer Ginny: Be safe <3

It had only just gotten dark, the streetlights coming on as she stepped out the automatic hospital doors. The road was still busy, as the streets of Atlanta often were, flooded with cars late into the night. Despite all the lights and amount of people outside, she still kept her wits about her as she walked.

She stood at only 5 foot 7, yet despite her average size, she had surprising combat skills, her Navy SEAL brothers having taught her everything they knew. She’d handled men bigger than her before, once breaking one’s nose, and other bones, after she caught him trying to spike her drink at a bar. Still, she found comfort in toying with her small blue canister of pepper spray and clenching her keys between her fingers.

The walk to the auto shop was brief, only around 15 minutes or so, nothing noteworthy aside from a group of college students stumbling their way toward downtown. A car drove past with their windows down, blasting a song that was one of Vec’s favorites from her high school years, and she caught herself softly singing along to the tune long after the car passed by, all the way to the front door of the tiny auto shop.

Removing her cap and scrunchie, she shook her hair out, fluffing it with her fingers and adjusting her glasses on her nose. Cupping a hand around her eyes and peering through the glass of the front door, she saw him propped on a stool behind the counter, flipping through some sort of book she couldn’t quite make out, that soft brown hair tied up out of his eyes.

The cutie with the bandana.

Josh had kept himself occupied by flipping through old comic books his boss kept in his office and crafting little sketches on a notepad as he eagerly awaited for her to return. The sketches were small but chaotic, the random words scribbled alongside them acting as triggers for him to remember important details later.

This cutie with the bandana was an auto mechanic by day and inventor by night.

She knocked softly on the glass, tapping it gently with her knuckle as to not spook him. Peeling his peepers away from his half-completed drawing, he nearly lit up when he saw it was her standing there on the sidewalk, giving him a small wave and a smile. He quickly shoved the notepad into his pocket and hopped off the stool, doing his best to keep his cool as he walked as to not appear too eager.

During those few seconds as he approached and opened the door, he was finally close enough for her to get a good look at his facial features. He had the cutest button nose, high cheekbones, and piercing eyes that were the most breathtaking shade of blue she’d ever seen. Vec had to clench her jaw and repeatedly swallow to keep herself from drooling.

Blue was her favorite color, it always had been. Now, she had yet another reason for it to be.

“Cutie with the bandana at your service,” he greeted with a smirk as he held the door open for her.

Blood rushed to her cheeks as she stepped inside, the chill of the evening Georgia air being cut off as he closed the door and the dread setting in at the realization that someone had told him about her earlier comments. “Oh God,” she groaned, rubbing between her eyebrows as embarrassment flooded her system at an overwhelming rate, “Jesus, I’m…God, I’m so sorry.” She sheepishly trailed behind him to the counter, keeping her gaze on her feet, practically stumbling over her words. “I, uh…I have a tendency to be very…forward. Christ, this is humiliating, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. You know what you want, and you go for it. I like that.” Biting the inside of her bottom lip, an anxious habit of hers, she peeled her cerulean eyes from the floor, this time locking them with his. The feeling in the pit of her stomach was more than just butterflies. “My name’s Josh. Friends call me Scud.”

“Like ‘stud’?” Vec asked, and he nodded, “interesting. How’d you get that?”

“Could ask the same about—“ he paused to glance down at the form, as if he didn’t study her name on that paper over and over again before she arrived— “‘Vec.”

“I believe I asked you first.” Her tone was playful, oozing with flirtation, and that sweet pink flush returned to her cheeks yet again. Scud was never particularly drawn to pink, but now, it was quickly becoming his favorite color.

“And I asked you second,” he teased. He pulled a pen from his pocket and removed the cap with his teeth, spitting it onto the counter next to him. “How’s that saying go? ‘Second is the best, first is the worst?’”

Scud was immediately kicking himself for his choice of words. In his attempt to flirt back, he’d just sounded like an asshole.

“Wow,” she scoffed with a smirk, slightly wide-eyed and drawing the sounds of her words for dramatic effect.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.” He was nearly stumbling over his words to apologize, desperate to correct himself. “Probably should’ve went with ‘ladies first’.”

“It’s a nickname I got in high school. Too many Lydias in my class. What about yours?”

“Mine too.”

“Too many Lydias in your class as well?” If he wanted to tease, she could too.

“Cute and funny. You’re quite a combo,” Scud complimented as he worked at filling in the blank spaces on her form.

Vec ran a hand over her cheeks, attempting to hide that she was already turning red again. She could dish the flirtation on all day. Taking it, though, was a different story.

“So how come you didn’t just go by Stud?” Her eyes widened and immediately dropped to the counter, practically bugging out of her skull, and her jaw was on the floor. It was as if the words left her mouth on their own accord.

He was clearly reciprocating the flirting, but there was still something that felt wrong about it. He was still working, after all. She’d often fallen victim to being flirted with at her workplace, so she was well acquainted with the discomfort that came with that. Fearing she was crossing boundaries, she apologized once again. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”

He found it endearing, flattering, and downright adorable, the way she couldn’t seem to stop herself from from being flirtatious, and Scud would’ve been lying if he said it didn’t help to boost his ego. A young woman comes in, and not only is she drop-dead gorgeous, but she was flirting with him? He was on cloud nine.

“Told you you don’t have to be sorry.” A sweet, boyish smile crossed his lips as their eyes locked again. He wanted to dive right into those crystal blue pools and never find his way back out. “So you like working as a nurse?”

She cocked an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Your scrubs.” Scud gestured up and down her body with a nod, his gaze lingering on her curves for just a moment too long. Thankfully, not a moment long enough for her to notice.

A soft, amused chuckle trickled out from her half-smile, her eyes falling to the floor for half a second before meeting his again. Scud swallowed hard, his hand trailing to and holding his abdomen. The fluttering in his stomach was an unfamiliar sensation.

Was she making him nervous? He was a confident guy, albeit maybe a bit too confident at times. He wasn’t new to the world of women by any means and could often be a bit forward himself. He too knew what he wanted and would go for it. So what was with the butterflies?

“Oh no, not RN,” Vec replied, reaching into her pocket to pull out her badge, flexing her credentials, “MD.”

“Shit.” Scud’s stomach dropped, fearing his asinine assumption just ruined any chance he had with the beautiful doctor before him. “Fucking this up, aren’t I?”

She folded her arms across her chest and rolled her eyes, that sweet giggle traveling to his ears again. There was a glow radiating off of her. It was almost ethereal. “Now when did I say that?”

“So what kind of doctor are you?” Scud asked as he rotated the paper around to face her, tapping on the ‘signature’ line on the bottom with the tip of his pen.

“Trauma surgeon,” Vec explained as she dug around in her bag for her wallet, “emergency room. Bullet wounds, amputations, skin grafts, all that jazz.” Successfully finding her wallet, she handed over her card, their fingers barely grazing past each other.

Though their touch was small, the electricity that sparked between them could’ve lit the entire city of Atlanta.

“Damn,” Scud replied, swallowing hard once again and using his hand that wasn’t tapping keys on the register to steady himself on the counter. That brief moment when their fingers touched turned his knees to jelly. “You’ve probably seen some stuff, huh?”

“You could say that.” Her knees had also turned to jelly, and the butterflies in her stomach amped up, having made a home in her stomach from the moment she walked in the door. She was just a little better at maintaining her composure.

Taking the pen off the counter and twirling it in her fingers, a phenomenal idea crossed her mind. She nodded to the empty space behind him as she signed off on the form. “You got a sticky note back there, Josh?”

His name sounded so sweet when it dripped off her lips like that.

Hoping this was going in the direction he thought, he pulled his notepad from his pocket, tearing one of the small pages out and sliding it across the counter to her. “Thank you.”

As he ran her card and printed the receipt, she etched out a series of numbers and some words before folding the sheet in half and holding it out to him. “What’s that?”

“My number. For if you’d like to…continue this conversation. And you’re not off the market.” She let her fingers linger on his for just a second before pulling away, taking her sweet time in doing so. The thumping in Scud’s chest was now ringing in his ears.

“Been on the market a while. Surprised someone like yourself is too.” Slipping the note into his jacket pocket, he slid the receipt across the counter to her. “Just need your John Hancock and you’re good to go.”

As she signed off on the paper, blood continued to flow to her cheeks despite her best efforts to prevent it. However, the embarrassment of turning pink only made it worse, and it didn’t help that Scud was taking notice. “You do that a lot, don’t you?”

“Do what a lot?” She hoped feigning ignorance might deter him from inquiring further, but when he motioned to his own cheeks with his finger, she knew it was to no avail. “Oh, yeah. Unfortunately, I do.”

“Well it’s cute, so keep it up.” Naturally, that only made the baby pink of her cheeks darken into a crimson red. Scud couldn’t help but allow his mind to wander and picture her with those flushed cheeks in a more…nefarious situation.

He took her receipt off the counter and chuckled under his breath at her signature as he placed it into the register and locked it. Doctor’s handwriting. “C’mon, car’s out back. I’ll walk you.”

She slowly, cautiously stepped around the side of the counter, ensuring to keep at least a few feet of distance between them. Sure, he was cute, and yes, she absolutely loved that he was reciprocating the flirting, but he was still a stranger. She kept one hand in her pocket, fiddling with her canister of pepper spray, the other free and at her side.

“I’m not gonna bite,” he promised, “don’t even have a bark you gotta worry about.” As she took a couple of small steps closer, he put his hands in the air, interlocking his fingers around the back of his neck. “Can keep them like this if it makes you feel better.”

She nodded, and keeping a hand on her pepper spray, she followed him down a tiny hallway, still making sure to keep a couple of feet between them. She had a good judge of character, it was one of her strongest skills, and her gut only had good things to say about this guy. Even then, especially as a woman, one could never be too cautious.

The bitter evening air greeted them as Scud opened the back door to the building, holding it open for her with his body. He kept his hands locked behind his head, only removing them once they were at her car to reach into his pocket and hand her her key. Their fingers brushed again, and this time, he kept his in place for a few moments, letting the electricity dance between them. She kept her eyes on them, watching him toy with the key resting in her hand, and the same soft, amused giggle from earlier emerged from her chest once more. His baby blues were locked on her, watching strands of her black-as-night hair fall into her eyes and using every fiber of his being to restrain himself from reaching out to brush them away.

“Well, it was lovely to meet you, Josh,” Vec practically cooed, her lashes fluttering softly as her eyes flicked back to meet his, “thank you for staying. And I, uh, hope to hear from you. Sooner rather than later.”

That adorable, boyish smile returned to his face. He pulled his jacket tighter around himself and folded his arms across his chest. “The pleasure was all mine. Now get home safe.”

“You too,” she replied.

Waltzing back toward the shop with a newfound pep in his step, Scud was far too eager to wait until he was back inside before tearing open the note she’d written for him. Her doctor handwriting was more legible here, and she’d clearly taken time to make sure it came out nice and pretty.

Vec 555-555-5555 Thanks for being my something good today :)

She tossed her bag in the passenger seat, removing her glasses for a moment and running her hands over her face. Exhaustion was beginning to set in, the weight of sleep heavy in her under-eyes, and her attempts to hold back her yawns were to no avail. As she buckled herself in and started her car, her phone vibrated in the cupholder. Normally, she wasn’t one to answer calls from unknown numbers, but her gut feeling told her exactly who to expect on the other end. And it was correct.

“You said soon. This soon enough?”

“I’d say so,” she chuckled as she slipped her glasses back onto her nose and adjusted them. She covered her mouth to stifle yet another yawn. “How about I text you in the morning? I gotta be up at 5.”

“I expect no later than 5:15,” he joked. The beaming smile on his face was evident in the tone of his voice.

“You have my word,” she promised. Vec always kept her word. It was worth more than gold to her.

After hanging up, she flipped to her messages to send one last text to Georgie before heading home, her cheeks already beginning to ache as her big, goofy grin somehow continued to grow larger.

Vec: So something good came out of this shitty day :)

QOTU taglist: @ripleyswife

General taglist: @raddydaddydude @lovenormandixon @angeldemoncrowley @negansbestie

Hit me up if you want to be added to/removed from the taglist(s)

#❧ 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒹𝒶𝓇𝓀 𝑒𝓁𝒻 𝓌𝓇𝒾𝓉𝑒𝓈 #quartersoftheundeadau #quartersoftheundead #they match each others freak so well it's almost criminal #quarters of the undead au #quarters of the undead #the walking dead #twd fanfiction #twd au #scud frohmeyer x oc #scud frohmeyer x lydia vector #scud x vec #scud frohmeyer #josh frohmeyer #lydia vector #❧ 𝓂𝓎 𝒷𝒶𝒷𝓎

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idwtransformers-vibe · 1 year ago

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(⁠.⁠ ⁠❛⁠ ⁠ᴗ⁠ ⁠❛⁠.⁠) a fluffy fic with idw prowl, maybe (fem.reader) them having to share a habsuite because they're transferred to a different facility. so, one berth. prowl, after mass displacement, begrudingly sleeps next to the human and reluctantly submits to the cuddles (human is too soft not to cuddle.)

Heya! Hope you don't mind me using my Soul-Spark Airways idea in this! If you want, I can tag you in it!

Now, onto the one berth trope (my favorite tbh)

IDW Prowl sharing a berth with fem!reader:

"Are you serious?" Prowl glared at Optimus and Soul-Spark Airways maintenance manager. "What do you mean I have to share MY hab with (Y/n)?" He demanded an answer. He does not like the thought of sharing his space. He loved his space. Never once had he ever had a roommate, not in his personal quaters, at least. The war is over. Why should he share his space with a human?

"Prowl, it is only temporary. Unfortunately, her documents got mixed up, and someone at the badging office deactivated her badge by accident. She is not allowed to be alone on Cybertron until her badge is working again, and since it's not working, she can't be alone without an escort... You are the only one available with the authorization to escort her." Optimus explained apologetically. He knew he was asking for a lot with these terms. While he didn't want to force Prowl into this, he would hate for the woman to get stranded somewhere on Cybertron.

"We'll try to get her badge sorted as quick as we can and try to relocate her documents." The maintenance manager chimed in. He felt bad for both his mechanic and Prowl. Mainly for the mechanic, though, as this was sheer bad luck.

Prowl glared at the human who stood on the table before him. He glared down at the fragile yet resilient being. "Why not find the IDIOT who deactivated her badge and the IDIOT who lost her he documents?" He seethed.

"Well... The badging office is a different company-" The manager was soon cut off by an irritated groan.

Prowl has met (Y/n) before. She had done heavy maintenance on him after he had gotten into a pretty bad battle. At the time, she was the only mechanic available and performed emergency repairs on him. He hadn't seen her since then, though. But, he has spoken to her before through comms. She had always helped him with getting things delivered. "Fine. She can stay with me." He huffed. His optics narrowed at the two as they both seemed to have a look of relief on their faces.

"Thank you... We'll have someone pick her up."

"You better have someone alright." He grumbled.

A few hours went by. He figured (Y/n) was having to go through strict security protocol as she no longer had her badge.

Soon, he heard a knock on the door. He left his desk and went to open the door. There she was, in her mechanic uniform with a bag full of clothes and necessities. She gave him a smile, quite happy to see him again. "Long time no see." She smiled.

"Indeed." He moved himself out of the way to let her in.

Once she was in, he shut the door behind her. She seemed to be admiring the cleanliness of his hab. "Nice place." She complimented.

Prowl didn't respond. He only carefully moved past her to go back to his desk. (Y/n) tried to see what he was looking at on the datapad, but was too small to see. She heard him grumble in his language over something. She can understand Cybertronian somewhat, but only enough to greet someone or to excuse herself.

Little to her knowledge, Prowl was trying to locate her documents herself. But since he does not work for Soul-Spark Airways, he was denied access. He could manipulate the system... But he doesn't feel like facing the consequences of losing this company's trust.

So, he simply set the datapad down and looked down at them. "I'm going to lay down some rules. Do not touch my stuff, do not leave this hab unless I am with you, or until you have your badge back, and do not stick your nose into my business, and once you have your badge, you're out, understood?"

She nodded. She was warned that he was quite prickly. Although, it was go figure for her. He was always stern and prickly when he wanted certain things transported when the war was going on not too long ago.

Later that evening, after (Y/n) had her dinner, and Prowl had refueled. One got ready to turn in for the night while the other was looking at more data files. "So... Where will I sleep?" The woman asked.

Prowl sighed and looked over his shoulder as if she were disrupting him. She wasn't. He's just annoyed about sharing his space. "You can sleep on my berth."

"What about you, though?" She asked with confusion in her voice. There was only one berth here, where was he going to rest?

"I plan on staying up."

"Prowl, I've worked on your systems before. Your tanks don't have enough energy to pull off 24 hours. Not like an aircraft bot, they can do 24 to 48 hours." (Y/n) explained. This earned her quite the grimace from the autobot. He clearly didn't like being told that his body could not handle the 24-hour function.

"Rest." He ordered.

"You know I'm right-"

"And I don't care. Now sleep." He ordered once more.

The mechanic rolled her eyes some. He was still the same stubborn mech. So, she laid on his berth without another word. She tried to sleep, but it was proven difficult. She spent so much time being a Cargo-Runner that she had gotten used to the sound of a bots internal system running. She normally slept inside of her aircraft bot friend. Their system internal system was loud, but soothing to her. So the sudden silence with the only sound of tapping was a bit unsettling to her.

Prowl would tap away at the files. His systems started signifying that it was time to rest. He would defer the warning, but then it would come right back. This kept happening that he just tossed the datapad onto the desk. He turned his helm to look at the barely sleeping human. A part of him yearned for human touch. The plush and soft feeling of them was almost the equivalent of a human hugging a soft plushie, almost.

He carefully stood up from his desk and made his way over to the berth. He stared at her more. The soft hue of his optics glowed down on her figure. He went back and forth in his mind. A part of him says no, why in Primus's name would he cuddle someone, while the other part him wondered what's the harm in cuddling a human? This could help him relax, which is something he really needed. 'Oh, frag it.' He thought to himself. Prowl carefully laid next to (Y/n)

This startled her slightly, a little surprised to find herself being spooned by the grumpy bot. "Prowl?"

"Go to sleep." He mumbled. Prowl was not about to have this conversation now. He didn't want to, and he never will.

She could feel his firm hold on her. It didn't too tight, but firm enough to the point that she couldn't move, but she found a way to shift herself around some enough to face herself towards him. He surprisingly felt comfortable, he felt warm. He felt like something that came fresh out of the dryer.

So, she laid her head on his chassis. There was the sound she craved to hear, they running sound of the Cybertronian system. She could finally feel herself become sleepy.

Prowl was a bit surprised by this, but he accepted it nonetheless. He slowly rubbed her back and entangled his legs with hers. This felt good on his joints, not that he was that old, but it does feel good. He could see why a lot of bots made cuddle buddies out of the humans. Maybe he could make a cuddle buddy out of her? Well... Maybe not... He needs to give it some thought. For now, he'll enjoy this moment. He buried his face into the top of her head and sighed with satisfactory. Maybe this arrangement wasn't so bad after all.

#transformers idw #transformers #idw prowl #idw prowl x reader #hope this was good!

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cloudmancy · 1 year ago

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which is worse: d20 tumblr or d20 twitter?

this is such a funny question. frankly I prefer talking with my existing friends over discord over either of them but here's a breakdown of my experience with them

d20 tumblr

feels like a more isolating experience because of the way tumblr is set up in general as a platform. I follow relatively few people here, so all my interactions are from people engaging with my art (love you mwah) or asking me questions. nearly every time I go into a d20 related tag I regret it

I think frankly I disagree with 90% of the opinions on d20 here but because I don't have to see it I can just post my art and go

feels relatively static like there's not a good way to get everyone talking about a specific transformative fandom thing instead of only what's happening in canon because it's a looser more disconnected community

allows for longer posts and the search system on my own blog is great though. I love directing people to go through my tags or archived art

d20 twitter

incredibly, astonishingly, bad at recognizing jokes for people who are fans of a comedy show

way easier to interact with people which means most of the friends I make are from d20twt...

very easy to get everyone talking about one specific thing (ie fhsonas) because of how interactive Twitter is as a platform and how quickly word spreads

downside of this^ is that every time I express an opinion someone disagrees with they tend to assume that this is a majority opinion rather than like, 3-4 popular gay asian artists speaking their mind? when I complained about fhjy 18 battle on here I got interesting and thoughtful reblogs and everyone kept it respectful meanwhile on twitter people started making vaguetweets about how people who hated the episode were morons. stuff like us joking that oisin's grandma's whole mahjong group got murked getting 200 likes VS people directly shitting on us getting 1.7k likes and people going "wait... people are mad about oisins grandma for REAL?! she was going to kill people !!" getting 2k likes. clearly there is some sort of strange authority people put on your words whether or not you're actually just trying to have fun with your friends

I did talk about this more on twitter but I am not a fan of the CRitterfication of d20twt either. feels like much of the fandom is now watching because they're megafans of the cast rather than for the story which leads to some really big toxic positivity bias and the implication that criticism of the show == direct attack on the crew and therefore on THEM because parasocial attachment. I don't think it helps that for a majority of them d20 is their first big fandom experience aside from like... kpop or tswift because they have not developed a lot of the detachment from canon + not being parasocial + ignoring opinions you don't like if they're not directly addressed at you mechanisms that people who've been around have. sorry I'm not trying to fandom elder or whatever here I'm 21 years old but I think it's incredibly hard for me to interact with people whose entire understanding of canon depend on siobhan thompson's opinions like this

tldr;

d20twt has way less reading comprehension and critical thinking skills. better for making friends. I interact almost entirely with 30-40 of my artist friends. (my) d20tumblr experience is more chill and feels like I'm doing a seminar and people come up to ask me questions afterward. more isolating but easier to do my own thing. I do recognize and am fond of a lot of you but I've made one (1) entire friend who I can talk to off platform and not just see on the dash/my notes and that's just the nature of how tumblr works as a platform (it's terrible for conversations)

#asks #anon #long post

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siravalondulac · 25 days ago

Text

this is what i tell the world at the end, full of pride [part one of three] | j. snow x fem!oc

part 6⅓ of the modern!holiday au

summary: pride month, jon realises, is the perfect opportunity to discover some things about himself.

contents: modern au, pride month, smut (sex toys, cunnilingus, non-graphic mentions of other stuff), kink discussion

words: 3412

author's note: HAPPY PRIDE EVERYONE!! i will post four chapters of the modern au this month because i am insane and mentally unwell and my only source of happiness are jon and cerelle. new chapters every friday, so mark your calenders

tag list: @sunraysoverthevalley @idohknow @sammybirdseed

masterlist

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Guinevere hates him.

Cerelle tells him he should not be too disappointed by it, because apparently she dislikes everyone besides her. Which is understandable - he loves his girlfriend as well - but it means he is involved in a silent stare-off every time he sits beside Cerelle on her couch or sleeps beside her in her bed.

His girlfriend thinks it’s funny.

He takes this as his reminder as to why he doesn’t like cats.

It's a small price to pay, all things considered, for being able to spend time with his girlfriend. He still has to work insane hours at the car shop, but at least now he has something to look forward to during the day. Whether that is him sleeping at her place, Cerelle at his, or simply a one hour phone call before they go to sleep.

Now that his apprenticeship is official, he tries to get back into studying. He has never had much trouble with it, but just to be safe.

His girlfriend - he always smiles when even thinking the word - offers her help readily. She hands him some of the texts she has to read for university, then quizzes him on them. She makes him write a letter to his mum to get his hand used to the feeling again, and even buys him a training book on accounting.

“Do I really need that? I'm becoming a mechanic, not a secretary.”

“Accounting is a mandatory course in every trade school. Once you graduate, you'll be allowed to open your own shop, and they want to make sure you can handle the business side of it as well.”

He does appreciate her for it, even if he tries to be grumpy.

At least he isn't studying law, because the mountains of books Cerelle brings home every day genuinely frighten him. She often sits until long after sunset at her dinner table to write papers and assignments, every day a new one it seems, and frequently despairs over them.

One night, when she was close to throwing her laptop across the room, he had picked her up, laid her down on the table, and eaten her out until the only word spilling across her lips was his name.

She repaid him a few days afterwards, of course.

Through all those weeks with her, he has slowly started feeling… not just happier, but stronger and more energetic as well. He wants to blame it squarely on Cerelle's presence, yet he knows it's the food.

The past few years, all he ever had to eat were a bit of bread in the morning and then pasta with nothing for dinner. He couldn't afford more, and even still most of the money from the car shop goes into paying off his outstanding rent, leaving him with so little at the end of the month.

But now he spends a lot of time at his girlfriend’s apartment, where she has given him access to her entire kitchen and pantry. Whenever he feels hungry, he can simply open the fridge and take something out of it without the fear of wasting anything. It's a luxury he thought he would never again be afforded to have.

He doesn't take anything with him, despite how tempting it looks, despite how much his eerily empty cabinets haunt him. The exception is when Cerelle and him make dinner together - then she forces the leftovers into his hands, no argument allowed.

He can tell seeing his situation hurts her. Knowing she could solve all his problems with a simple snap of her fingers must eat her up from the inside. But she holds back.

Maybe she simply doesn't want him to become dependent on her. Maybe there is still this simmering fear in her that he is only with her for her money. Maybe she is embarrassed of what she has.

He doesn't mind, yet also cannot seem to find a way to tell her that.

A funny side-effect of him eating more is that he now lasts longer in bed. He can fuck Cerelle longer without the constant, desperate need to cum, he can properly slam into her without being out of breath after only a few minutes, and he can eat her out until she almost falls unconscious from the amount of times he makes her peak - all without taking a break.

She clearly appreciates it.

Yet what she seemingly appreciates more is that his body is filling out, if slowly. Wider arms, broader chest, stronger legs - she cuddles into him each night they are together, her fingers gently tracing his naked skin.

He once expresses concern he will grow fat if she continues to feed him so much, upon which she chuckles and asks if that would be so terrible.

“I will love you no matter what you look like, but if you are truly so concerned you are free to use my gym.”

Because of course she has a gym in her apartment.

He says apartment.

What he means is an entire abandoned factory Cerelle has bought and converted into her home.

The ground floor is almost empty, merely housing a car, her motorcycle, and a bike, but it’s clean and not giving away anything about the place’s owner.

The first floor is where everything else is located - from her bedroom and kitchen to a giant walk-in closet and a library. Standing on the inside, one would never assume what this place originally was.

Cerelle was quite proud of it when she had first showed him around, excitedly telling him of every renovation she had done herself, every improvement to the building's layout, every room she had furnished herself. She even had an elevator installed in an effort to make the building wheelchair accessible. When asked why, that she herself doesn't need it and never invites anyone over that could need it (beside her mother and grandfather, he is the only other person that knows where she lives), she responded, “But what if I do need it someday? What if I do invite someone over someday that will need it? Best to be prepared than be forced to make crappy and hasty additions later on.”

She still sometimes drops random fun facts about her home throughout the day. He always smiles hearing them.

All this is why he still calls it her apartment - house does not quite fit, and factory is too demeaning. And all this is also why he grows a bit concerned when she puts up a rainbow flag outside of her window at the beginning of June.

“Won’t people get suspicious?”

“I’ve been doing it ever since I moved in here,” she answers with a smile. “It’s also pretty clear this place is not vacant. And if I can make even one person feel more secure in their identity, then it was worth it.”

“So you’re not…”

“No, I am. I’m pansexual. Sorry for never mentioning it.”

He tries not to look too confused, yet clearly doesn’t manage.

“Sorry,” she chuckles. “It means I am attracted to people regardless of gender. It's similar to bisexuality.”

“So you're attracted to everyone.”

This time she laughs out loud, yet it's not mean or demeaning. “No, not everyone. I have my types as well, otherwise I would have never fallen in love with you. It's more that I can theoretically fall in love with anyone.”

He watches the flag outside wave in the wind. “How did you… How did you find out? That you're pansexual.”

“I think… I was confused my whole life. The environment I grew up in had strict ideas of what was right and what was wrong, what was acceptable to be. So I never realised my attraction to girls for what it was until I was older, and far removed from my past for the first time. And when I read about pansexuality for the first time, it felt right. It felt like me. It felt as if I finally had an answer to the question that has been following me all my life.”

He considers her words on the bus ride home.

It does not bother him that she has had female lovers in the past - she is his girlfriend now, and just because she is theoretically attracted to one hundred per cent of the human population instead of fifty doesn't make him more insecure in their relationship.

No, it’s something different.

What she said… He has felt that as well.

Not to this extent, of course, and he is sure that had he ever come out as gay his mum would have been fiercely supportive - not that he would have, he is quite clearly attracted to women, Cerelle herself is proof of that - but…

There may have been one or two boys in middle or high school that he had looked at for longer than usual. That he had found prettier than any of the girls around him. That he had never dared talk to for reasons he never figured out.

Perhaps… Perhaps there had been something more to those moments. Perhaps he had not simply been shy or awkward or jealous, as he had forced himself to believe back then, but had rather been attracted to them.

It would certainly explain a lot.

And yet… He doesn’t want to agonize endlessly over this. If he begins going down this rabbit hole he knows his anxiety will never allow him to reemerge. So as he enters his apartment and closes the door behind himself, he makes something to himself very clear: Yes, there is a chance he is attracted to men. But he has Cerelle right now - the most beautiful, wonderful girlfriend he could have ever wished for - and as long as this relationship still stands, as long as he has a future with her, there is no need to think about someone else. Even if that someone else is a mere hypothetical.

He has all he needs. And that is enough for now.

“We should probably talk about our kinks at one point.”

He almost flushes as red as a tomato in an instant, and wants nothing more than to hide his face in the colourful couch cushions around him. Somehow, even after over a month into this relationship, he is still taken off guard by how easily Cerelle is able to talk about sex and intimacy. She treats it as if it is the most normal thing in the world - as if she is talking about the weather. It’s… admirable, in a sense.

“Uh, yeah. I- Uh-” He shuts his mouth as soon as he realises he is stammering, swallows, and takes a breath. “How would… we do that?”

She smiles, and shifts on the couch so she can look at him better. “Well, start by telling me your kinks.”

“I don't have any,” he says quietly.

“None?” She laughs. “Somehow, I refuse to believe that. But alright, then at least tell me what you like and dislike about sex.”

He takes another deep breath, and tells himself to remain calm.

“I- I like when I'm able to look into your eyes. I like touching you and feeling close to you and kissing you as we do it. I like how you fall apart for me when I go down on you. And I like the time afterwards, when we are both exhausted and fall asleep in each other's arms.” He considers whether to even say this next thing, yet eventually adds, “I also like when you go down on me as well. It's- It feels different.”

She grins. “I'm really good at it, am I?”

He nods, and almost lets out a sigh of relief. For some reason he still feels guilty whenever he asks her for a blowjob, still faintly hearing Ygritte’s voice in his head about how demeaning it is for a woman. But Cerelle doesn't seem to mind - in fact, she seems to revel in making him fall apart this way.

“Now you,” he says. “What do you like?”

“I like being able to ride you when I'm sitting in your lap. I like being able to make you moan and whine and squirm. I like when you take complete care of me and refuse to let me raise even a finger. I liked that time you ate me out in the shower. I like when I'm able to show I love you, and have you immediately reciprocate.”

He wonders how much of what she likes comes from years and years of experience, and how much she has gained because of him. Because she was able to be vulnerable with him.

“Now for your dislikes,” she says.

Previously, he would have never dared express his displeasure with anything, too scared of offending someone or ruining his relationship with them. But with Cerelle, the words roll off his tongue without much trouble.

“I don't like being taken advantage of, or being taken for granted. I don't like if my body is simply being used as if I don't exist.”

His girlfriend's smile turns so incredibly sad, he wishes he had never said a thing.

“Now you.”

Her lip trembles. “Don't leave any lasting marks. Hickeys are okay, as well as small bites, but nothing else. And don't start sexual acts unless we've talked about them before, and you know for absolute certain I am okay with them.”

He nods. What else is there to do in such a situation? What else is there possibly to say?

They talk for what feels like an eternity after that. Not just about sex and kinks - he apparently likes being praised, she tells him - but about everything surrounding those topics as well. Places they are okay with intimacy, what kind of intimacy in which situations, love languages, safe words.

She tells him her periods are very irregular, so not to get concerned when they have sex seemingly every day for a month without a problem, but that they almost tear her apart in pain and agony when they do come.

She has also tried half a dozen types of birth control and contraceptives, and her body tolerated none of them.

“I fear we have to use condoms until the end of time.”

“That's alright,” he says. “I don't mind them.”

Still, she promises to buy them with her own money so he can spend his on rent and utilities.

They agree to get tested for STDs, just to be safe. They hand each other spare keys to their apartments. They are both allowed to put the other down as their emergency contact should they ever be admitted to the hospital (considering his mum lives on the other end of the country and her parents are always busy).

“We didn't talk about toys.”

“What?”

“Toys. Sex Toys. Are you alright using them during sex?”

He had been glad over the slow change in topic - shifting from bedroom talk to general intimacy to actual important health questions - because it allowed him to get his boner at least a little under control. But this-

“M- Maybe? I think.”

“Are there any you do not want to use at all?”

“I don't even know all the kinds there are.”

“That's alright.” She smiles and reaches out her hand. “Come, I'll show you what I have.”

His girlfriend guides him towards her bedroom, stops in front of the cupboard, and opens one of the drawers. Inside are, neatly lined up, things of several different shapes and sizes. Some, like the dildos, he recognises, and most other things he is able to guess their use of, like the vibrators and the long silken bands that are either blindfolds or restraints.

“I don't really have a lot.” Cerelle's fingers trace the lines of his hand. “But if you ever think of anything else you'd like to try, I can of course buy it.”

The mere sight of whatever is before him is already heating up his cheeks - how would he ever be able to request his girlfriend for more?

“You can ask if you have any questions,” she says. “Or if you don’t recognise something.”

He takes a deep breath, reminds himself he loves his girlfriend and she him, and that neither would ever laugh at the other.

“What are these?” He points at something, not really quite brave enough to pick them up.

"These are butt plugs. Two of them are able to vibrate.”

“Why?”

“Because it's pleasurable.” She chuckles. “Trust me, you will never cum quicker than when you and your partner both wear these. We can try it, if you're ever up for it.”

“So you…” He takes a breath, and reminds himself he is grateful his girlfriend is making him jump over his own shadow so often. It's what he needs. “So you enjoy anal? I heard it's only really something for men.”

“Anal can be enjoyable for anyone, if you know what you're doing, and use enough lube of course. And that applies to people of all genders.” She grins as she adds with a slightly lowered voice, “So if you’re ever in the mood for it, be my guest.”

His breath hitches, her words sending even more blood down to his rock-hard dick.

“And what's that?”

“That's a strap. It's so I am able to fuck you.”

She smiles so brightly he cannot help but grow jealous of the previous people she has experienced all these things with, no matter how wild what she just said was.

“How?” He almost chokes on the word.

“I mount one of these dildos to it and strap it to my waist. And then I lay you down on the mattress and take you as slowly and gently as if you were a fair maiden.” She smiles at seeing his face. “Don't worry, my love. If you don't feel up for it we never, ever have to do it.”

To have his girlfriend kneel above him, cradling his face as she thrusts into him deeper and deeper-

“Show me how to use this.”

He presses one of the vibrators into her hands.

For the shortest moment, she looks confused. “On myself?”

He quickly nods. “Show me what you do when I am not around.”

His girlfriend grins, presses a kiss to the back of his hand, and quickly lets her skirt and underwear drop to the ground before sitting down on the edge of her bed.

It’s not all too different from when he is pleasuring her (either with his tongue, fingers, or dick). She still gasps at first contact, her lips still tremble the longer it goes on, she still drops her head back and bears her throat to him. Only the buzzing of the vibrator pressing against her clit is different.

She is cute like this. Captivating, the way she tries to fight so hard against falling apart before him. Even if she so perfectly knows what she is doing. Both to herself, and to him.

He just stands by the still open cupboard, doing little but staring at his perfect girlfriend pleasuring herself in front of him, all the while he desperately tries to ignore his weeping cock.

Cerelle looks at him suddenly, her blue eyes burning like fire. Then a nasty moan takes hold of her and she falls backward onto the mattress, baring herself to him.

And something about that sight - her juices trickling down her cunt and dropping onto the mattress - rips him out of his trance. He falls to the ground before her, hastily pushes the vibrator away, and latches his lips to her clit.

She doesn't last long afterwards. Her back arches off the bed as her legs clamp around his head, pressing his face further into her and forcing him to swallow all she gives him.

He likes it. Is thankful for it. Yearns to never have to leave.

They kiss like two people starving afterwards, all tongue and teeth and desperation seeping into their embrace. But when her fingers are about to close around the bulge in his pants, he quickly takes ahold of her wrist.

“Don't even think about it, my love,” he whispers against her mouth. “I still owe you two after this, I don't want to make it three again.”

He feels her grin against his lips. “I'll simply use the vibrator on you next time. You will never be able to repay what I do to you then.”

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author's note: bi jon is canon in every universe send tweet

#jon snow x oc #jon snow #jon snow smut #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #game of thrones #asoiaf fanfic #game of thrones fanfic #asoiaf oc #game of thrones oc #fic: stars above songs below #fic: sasb holiday au #oc: cerelle baratheon #asoiaf x oc #game of thrones x oc

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