Captain Rex
shrugged irritably as he failed to dodge the small orange hand that reached up
to ruffle his hair.
“Oooh it’s growing.”
Commander Tano paused in wonder “it’s all fuzzy” she marveled.
“Snips, don’t
pet people without permission” her Master scolded lightly, walking to join the
two of them standing in the hanger as ships came and went noisily around them,
the 501st and the 212th untangling themselves and going their separate ways after a
joint campaign.
“Do I have to send you on the inter-speacies
sensitivity course again?” General Skywalker teased.
Rex’s
commander stuck her tongue out at her Master and dodged a swat on the head.
As someone who used to be as anxious as him at some point, that's EXACTLY how I got into metal. It resonated with how I felt and then I continued exploring and developing taste. I headcanon that he either likes good old glam metal or something badass like brutal deathgrind to blow steam off. Idk I feel that metalheads/goths/etc are his kindred spirits and he feels seen among them. ALSO THROW IN A MOSHPIT PLSSS. Seriously, that would help him loosen up a lot
He definitely has posters up on his wall that he bought in his teens and are peeling off the walls. His grandma laminated them, and the sun has given them some yellowing tints, but he still loves them.
And he has an envelope in his bedside drawer with (also laminated) ticket stubs from all his shows.
I will prefix by saying, I’m not a metal head. I’m bubble gum pop, y'all (I’m straight up listening to twice rn, and, yes, again I feel special). But I’m trying my best with what I know from metal heads in my life.
Pink fog clung to the gravestones like sleepy cotton candy, and the sun was just beginning to stretch its rays across the quiet cemetery. Everything smelled faintly like damp earth.
And freshly salted ghost remains.
Dean Winchester stood with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his canvas jacket, chest rising and falling as he caught his breath, his breath leaving him in white foggy clouds. Sweat clung to his temples and his hair stuck up in ways that said he had just run for his life twice in the past twenty minutes. The last of the burning bones crackled behind him in a shallow pit, pops of ember echoing in the otherwise peaceful dawn.
Castiel, in contrast, looked like he had spent the morning in a botanical garden rather than a haunted graveyard. He had wandered off a few minutes earlier without explanation, his coat swaying behind him calmly.
Now he walked back toward Dean with quiet purpose.
In his hand was a small white flower. Cas held it with the same gentle focus he used when handling fragile relics or newborn kittens.
Dean straightened slightly. “Uh. Cas? You good?”
Cas ignored the question. He came to a stop in front of Dean, the distance between them filled only with fog and the faint smell of burning spirit goo. Dean glanced at the flower, then at Cas, then back at the flower again.
Cas lifted it with both hands like it was something sacred.
Before Dean could speak, Cas reached forward and eased the flower into the right breast pocket of Dean’s jacket. He adjusted the stem until it sat perfectly upright, the petals aimed forward like a tiny banner.
He stepped back and admired his work.
Dean froze completely. His head dropped so he could stare at the flower sticking out of his pocket. His eyes, however, flicked upward at Cas, slow and bewildered.
Cas looked almost smug. “There. Much better.”
Dean blinked. “Cas. What. Why.”
Cas folded his hands behind his back. “You looked in need of something pleasant.”
“I looked what now?”
“Pleasant. Softening. You have been engaged in violent action for the past hour.” Cas nodded toward the smoking grave. “It seemed appropriate to introduce something gentle.”
Dean stared at him as if Cas had just invented the concept of flowers. “So you picked one off a haunted grave. And put it on me.”
“Yes.”
“Like I am what? A vase?”
Cas tilted his head. “More like a very important surface.”
Dean’s mouth opened, then closed again. He squinted at the flower like it might offer answers. The delicate white petals swayed gently in the early morning breeze. He was too tired to process this.
He was too tired for most things, really.
Cas took a small step closer, his expression earnest. “Do you dislike it? I can retrieve another if this one is not aesthetically balanced.”
Dean felt his ears get warm. “No, no. It is. I mean. It is fine.”
Cas brightened with quiet satisfaction. “Good.”
They stood there, surrounded by fog and gravestones and the fading crackle of ghost fire. Dean still had his hands in his pockets, his shoulders slouched, breath slowing. The flower looked ridiculous on him. He knew it. Cas definitely knew it.
Dean chanced a look at Cas’s face. There was a softness there that made his stomach go strange.
Cas, noticing the stare, simply said, “It suits you.”
Dean swallowed. “Yeah. Well. You, uh… picked it real straight.”
“Thank you.”
The sun finally broke over the horizon, casting gold over the two of them. The fog turned peach. The graves shimmered. A bird chirped somewhere, far too cheerful for the hour.
Dean cleared his throat. “You wanna get breakfast?”
Cas glanced at the flower in Dean’s pocket and seemed unreasonably pleased. “Yes. I would like that.”
Dean nodded once, still not removing the flower.
And Cas walked beside him, very proud of his decorative choice.
AU where the clones and the droids unionize and collectively go on strike and stand threateningly around important government buildings until they get their rights
Rex didn’t ever think he’d feel… pity, for a battle droid, but he feels it now, because the droids are standing in front of him, confused (that’s the only normal thing about this whole situation), but strangely… hopeful.
“The… u-u-union?” the first droid repeats, tilting it’s head. The stutter sounds like some sort of voice-modulator glitch, especially if it’s true that the software hasn’t been updated for so long.
“Yeah, the union,” Cody drawls slowly, putting a hand on Rex’s shoulder. Rex can feel his brother’s mind working, calculating. “We’re in the same boat, clones and droids. We’re mistreated, unpaid, and fed up with it. Would you like to change that?”
If they’d been clones, they would have hesitated. Asked for more details. Thought it through, considered every option for a couple days. But they’re droids, and their processors whip through all of that faster than Rex can blink.
“W-what will it cost?” the first droid asks. Rex grins.
“Your processors, your help. We’ll have to team up. That means, no more Republic-seperatist shootouts.”
The droid stares at him for a moment, and then nods jerkily. Rex takes a step forward and offers it his hand. He isn’t expecting the droid to flinch backwards, hinges hissing in alarm, and then realizes with a start that the droid probably doesn’t even know what a handshake is.
“Here, wait,” he says placatingly, and reaches for it slowly, feeling another surge of that strange combination of pity and understanding. He uses his free hand to guide the droid’s metal fingers into his opposite palm.
“This is what sentient beings do when they greet people,” Rex explains gently, “or when they’re making an agreement. It’s a sign of friendliness, or trust.”
He shakes the loose limb and feels the droid’s grip tighten–too much, half comprehending, so Rex quickly extracts his hand before the droid can do any damage in the misunderstanding.
“Right, then,” Cody says with a grin. “Let’s get to work. What are you called, droid?”
It looks at them, glances back to it’s fellows behind them, silently watching. Waiting for it, the designated leader, to make a decision.
“RB-627.”
The answer makes Rex’s lip curl. It’s not exactly the same, because this is, after all, a droid, but it’s all too familiar at the same time.
“No, not that,” he responds. “That’s a number. We’re looking for a name.”
The droid whirrs. It sounds like it’s processor is struggling to keep up.
“Nn-nnname,” it repeats, glitching out again. “I have not–never–”
“Okay, it’s okay,” Cody reassures it. “We’ll call you Glitch, then. Until you can think of something better.”
The droid–Glitch–nods in acceptance, and Rex scowls because that easy acceptance and obedience isn’t desirable in anything sentient, not even droids, but there will be time to teach them how to think later.
“Let’s go,” he says and turns on his heel, still half-expecting to get shot in the back. He grins and shares a triumphant glance with Cody when he hears the clatter of a platoon of battle droids following them.
That sound has never before brought him so much hope, and this is just the beginning.
Cas dies and Dean starts referring to himself as a widower. This is somewhat confusing for everyone involved.
(Inspired by *that* tumblr post; linked in notes)
(Canon MCD not tagged because it’s temporary)
//
I’ve read and adored plenty of Post-Empty fics, New God Jack fics, etc, but this one blows them all away. I teared up several times reading this–the way sometimeswelose writes Dean’s feelings for Cas, how the confession affects his life, how he copes and changes, is wonderfully cathartic. The love in this is so tender yet powerful. I love the lives that he and Sam create for themselves. This fic feels like a perfect ending for Winchesters and Co., not a perfect world, where everything goes back to how it was, but a new one that they are building for themselves. Well written. This is one of those fics that is going to stick in my mind, I can already tell.
There was nothing, in Cody’s opinion and he was sure the
opinion of his brothers, more adorable and yet more of a pain in the ass, than General Kenobi off his nut
on Kix’s best pain killers.
In a classic Kenobi move, only a couple of hours ago Cody’s
General single handily turned the tide of the battle by taking out two of the
enemy tanks alone, but not before the Seppies managed to get a few rare hits
in.
The result, when the dust had settled and victory secured,
was a very messy General, drugged to the gills whilst Kix patched him up.
“General please! Would you sit still?” the medic in question
was struggling to keep the unusually squirmy Jedi under control.
“Mmm sorry.” Large blue eyes turned on commander Kix,
struggling to focus. “Please can I go soon?” he asked, eyebrows raising in the
middle pleadingly. Cody’s respect for his Vode skyrocketed, when Kix simply
shook his head. Cody would’ve crumbled like a flimsy in the rain.
“No Sir I need to get you sorted” Kix didn’t stop working
but sent a wordless request for back up at Cody.
“Here General, drink your tea” Cody dived in and handed the
wobbly Jedi the mug that had been siting on the side. He got an absolutely blinding
smile in return.
“Thank you, Cody. I do like tea” he chirped happily.
“I know Sir” Cody replied, trying not to laugh or coo over
his fearsome General.
The Commander stepped back for a moment, giving the medics space
to work and attempting to flatten himself into the wall and keep out of the way
in the crowded med bay.
A smash and a yelp a moment later though had him jumping
right back in. General Kenobi was sitting on the bed looking sadly down at the puddle of tea and
the smashed remains of his mug on the floor.
“Oh no” the Jedi said softly, still staring down at the mess.
His mouth was turning down unhappily at the edges and coming dangerously close
to a pout. Cody held his breath.
“That was my favourite mug.”
There was a beat of pregnant silence in which Cody could’ve
sworn he heard the sound of about seven hearts breaking, as every clone in the
room took one look at the disappointment on their Jedi’s face before springing
into action.
“Oh no Sir we’ll fix it”
“Here just leave it I’ll get a bucket”
“I’m sure we can find another one for you General”
“Do you want anything else Sir? I can get you a biscuit”
Cody could do nothing but watch as some of the finest
soldiers he had ever served with transformed into clucking mother moon-hens
right before his eyes.
He shot Kix a look over the swarm of flapping vode, whilst
the General looked slightly startled at the attention and used the opportunity
to once more attempt to wriggle out of Kix’s clutches.
It doesn't take long after repairing the miraculous to find out what happened to the butterfly.
Marinette doesn’t take the bracelet to Luka right away after she fixes it.
Maybe she should have—maybe Luka would have been a better candidate to tell Adrien. He’s good with words, after all, and at staying calm in the face of other's despair.
Marinette is neither of those things.
She's especially not those things with Adrien.
But she can't bear to tell Luka first—she hasn't even told Chat Noir yet.
At first, she'd planned to keep Gabriel's secret. He'd asked her to, his dying wish, and she'd still been haunted by the nightmare of Adrien sobbing over his father's ashes. She'd wanted to protect him.
But over time, she'd started to have doubts.
Gabriel hadn't been a good father.
She'd see the statue in the park and think, doesn't Adrien deserve to know the truth?
But then she'd see Adrien laughing in the sunshine, and think, doesn't he deserve to be happy?
So here she is, standing in his room, wielding the snake miraculous alongside her own.
His gaze rakes over her costume, taking it in, before landing on her wrist. She could pinpoint the exact moment of realization by the fear that flashes in his eyes.
"That's not for me, is it?" He doesn't ask this every time—only the times when she doesn't speak first.
"No," she reassures him, and winces at the way his shoulders relax, knowing that what she'd come for was far worse than asking him to wield the snake again.
"Then why…?"
"I have to tell you something," Cobrabug explains. "And I'm not sure how to do it right. So I thought I could… practice?"
Adrien looks thoughtful. "Is this the first time?"
She shakes her head. "The 27th."
His thoughtful expression grows pained. "27 times, while you're wielding two miraculous?"
She waves him off. "I'm sure I'll get it right soon."
He nods.
And—miraculously—she does get it right, this time. All the words come out in the right order and they all make sense and she doesn't start crying.
His face is pale with shock, and Cobrabug is waiting with baited breath for his response, her hand poised to reset the clock.
Adrien opens his mouth to say something, but only a choked, strangled sound comes out.
That's when she notices the butterfly.
Dark, and glowing, and heading straight for Adrien.
Her heart plummets into her stomach.
The missing miraculous.
He notices it a second after she does, eyes flicking back to her in terror.
She reaches for her yo-yo, intent on purifying the akuma, but Adrien is faster.
“Don’t tell me again,” he says, and turns the bracelet on her wrist.
°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。
Cobrabug stands in Adrien's room, wielding the snake miraculous alongside her own.
His gaze rakes over her costume, taking it in, before landing on her wrist. She could pinpoint the exact moment of realization by the fear that flashes in his eyes.
"That's not for me, is it?"
"No," she reassures him. "Sorry to bother you. Just checking in."
Yet another AO3 bot situation - please spread the word!
Hi, it's me again, the person who wrote that viral post about fanfiction plagiarism! Today I'm here to warn you about abuse perpetrated by bots who have stolen AO3 usernames.
There's currently an epidemic of bots going around leaving (apparently random) horrible, hateful comments on people's fics. This isn't the first time bots have invaded AO3, but the big problem with this wave is that they're using real AO3 usernames to do it.
I learned about this when another writer contacted me after receiving the following comment on their story:
ALT
Now, while that is my username, I DEFINITELY did not leave this comment (and anyone who would leave something like that on a fic should be slapped! What an awful thing to post). This fic is in a completely unrelated fandom that I have never participated in, nor has that author participated in any of my fandoms, so the probability of it being some intentional fandom drama thing to make me look bad is also low.
The writer whose fic the comment was left on enlisted the aid of some friends and tracked down other guest comments with unrelated usernames attached, which is pretty strong evidence that they are being left by bots at random.
The TL;DR: If you receive a cruel comment from a (Guest) with an actual AO3 username attached, it's most likely from a bot. Please do not lash out at or dogpile the AO3 user who owns that name, and who in all likelihood has no idea that their name has been hijacked for evil.
If finding this kind of comment on a fic, even left by a bot, is likely to upset you, I would recommend changing your comment settings so that only users who are logged in can leave comments. To do this, edit your story settings, and under "Privacy," select the radio button that says "Only registered users can comment," as shown below.
ALT
Please spread the word to other AO3 users! And if you see mean guest comments on other fics, maybe let the author know that it's probably from a bot and not a real person who thinks their writing is bad.
It made sense, McCoy thought in a daze, that after all the times beings with telepathic abilities had messed around in his head, something would get left behind.
He doesn't realize it at first. Chalks it up to being a people person, having dealt with enough personal and professional relationships as both a civilian and a physician to just know what a person is thinking and feeling. That's all it is.
Until he's working alone with Spock one night, both bent over microscopes in the lab, and he hears Spock say something quietly, with perhaps a triffle more emotion than he's used to hearing from the Vulcan - "This organism may take longer to classify than I had originally thought. Leonard will be sharing the lab with me for sometime, then. I . . . am not averse to this outcome."
"First of all," McCoy says, having perked up at the sound of his first name - not something Spock often addresses him as while on duty. "Kinda rude to talk about a man as if he's not in the same room, just a few feet away. Second of all-" and he turns, grinning at Spock’s slightly startled expression and raised eyebrows. "I'm pretty sure you just said you're enjoying my company."
The startled expression doesn't disappear. "I beg your pardon?"
"Now Mr. Spock, if you think I'm gonna let you take back what you just said-"
"Doctor," Spock says, clasping his hands behind his back and watching McCoy now with an expression more curious than anything else. "I did not say anything."
McCoy's smile falters. He feels an inkling of worry and growing curiosity not his own - he knows, somehow, that it's coming from Spock. It's then he realizes that his ability to pinpoint a person's thoughts and emotions - something that has seemed to grow stronger over the past few weeks - is not just due to his affinity as a people person.
Somewhere along the way, a telepathic being messed around in his head - and left some of their ability behind.
swbumblebee
thefriendlypigeon
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justleaveacommentfest
maulusque
eclipseyeger
insaneartistoflegacysystems
meridiansdominoes
greengrug
bitchytransmasc
ALT
sagegarnish
ladyofthenoodle
ALT
ALT
avaantares
whateversawesome
saphronethaleph
imaredshirt