Shuro Is My Confront Character

Rewarding A Sharpshooter

1,105 words - 4 min. read

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"You ready, cadet?" Handler asked.

You were still disoriented, stumbling through the halls of the station clinging to her arm - Normally you would be allowed time to sit in the cockpit and decompress after a mission, but you hadn't been allowed that time today. Instead, she unplugged you the second you got back and disabled your eyesight. She had guided you back to her quarters, her soft yet strong grip tight around your bicep.

"3… 2… 1… Okay!" [SIGHT PERMISSIONS RESTORED.]

Handler had made a massive change to her quarters. Beside her bed, where you normally slept, was normally nothing more than a thin blanket. That had been replaced with a small round bed, blue like the eyes of your own Handler, with a small dark purple pillow the color of your mech's hull.

You could hardly believe what you were looking at. It was absolutely perfect. You turned to Handler and could see her smile teasing the sides of her mask. You tried to come up with something to say, anything at all, but you had no words. Instead, you pounced on your Handler to wrap your bruised arms around her, nuzzling into her side. The automated contact countdown started, and you ran it to the very end. At the end of "[1…]", Handler used her beautiful, perfect gloved hands to push you away back to her side.

"I really get to have this?" You asked, your voice crackling with excitement. "See what 100% accuracy on a mission does for a pilot?" Handler joked. You laughed. "Go on, try it!"

You spared not a single second, bolting so quick across the floor that onlookers would think your toes were about to break off. You leaped into it hands first and crashed into it, meeting an incredibly plush surface. It was smaller than it looked; you had to hug your knees into yourself to fit. The slightly awkward posture was well beyond worth it for how comfortable it was; you swore you could fall asleep right then and there, but didn't, as you hadn't been ordered to. You could feel the bed's metal frame buried within it; by its strength and feeling you knew exactly what it was made out of. If you had a tail it would be smacking Handler's bedside table faster than you could reload your rifle.

"Is this - the frame, is it -" You begged with your eyes for her to let you say it.

"Go ahead," She smiled, sitting at the foot of her own bed and looking down at you, heeled boot crossed over heeled boot.

"Is this Thimble's hull?" You asked like it was all one word, practically pounding on it.

"It is. You deserve a proper reward for how good you've been recently!" Handler said. You watched her look at her gloved hand, then at you, then back at her hand. Her eyes darted to the sealed door, and she pulled her glove off. You hardly ever got to see her hands uncovered like this; her nails were painted the color of oxidized copper. They looked so soft, unmarred by countless broken bones like yours had been. Handler was, in every way, superior to you, right down to her immaculate fingertips.

Your hair was dirty and messy from your flight. So, you found it impossible to believe that when she reached over you that she could possibly be aiming to touch you. But she did. She placed her hand on your head, gentle as ever, and brushed your hair back into place with her palm. Nothing outside your mech had ever been so tender, so sweet, so kind.

She dropped her hand to the side and cupped your cheek. She pressed a tiny bit on your jaw, drawing your gaze up to her. All she did was look into your eyes for a while. It was hard to believe such a gorgeous, powerful woman as your Handler wanted anything to do with you, let alone to waste her valuable time just looking at you. But if she deemed it worthwhile, it couldn't be a waste.

She looked to the door again, breathing deeply. "You know I'm going to have to delete your log of tonight after this, correct?" She asked, her voice hitting that low register that made you shiver.

"Yes ma'am," you said, not skipping a beat. You couldn't remember her ever doing something like this before, but you trusted her to do whatever needed to be done. "Does that mean I get to find my bed again like it was the first time?"

Handler smiled under her mask like she was looking at an old picture. "Yes it does," she said, staring longingly into your eyes. Some thought danced across her beautiful eyes - she sucked something back. She shook her head, more at herself than at you, and pulled her mask from her face.

You had never seen a more perfect face in your life. She looked like a portrait from an ancient painting with soft, full cheeks and plush lips adorned with blue lipstick. She guided your neck up further. It strained, but you didn't care. Any and all pain was worth enduring for a single look at her impeccable face. She got closer and her face was more and more the only thing you could see.

[HEART RATE ABOVE NORMAL VALUES. NOTIFYING HANDLER.]

"Shh, it's okay," Handler whispered, her voice seeping into your entire system. "I know it doesn't feel like it, but you've done so good at this before. You'll be okay."

"But it's -"

"So much, I know," she held your head just a bit tighter, her other hand flitting over the bruises on your shoulder. "You said that last time."

You could feel her lips just barely grazing your cheek. Everything felt so, so hot, but if Handler said you could handle it, you could.

"And you'll probably say it again," she giggled, that sound that has launched a million bullets. She pressed her lips into your cheek, taking it slow to let you feel every single micrometer of her kiss. You and the station around you absolutely bloomed; Every tiny sensation was suddenly huge, sinking into it like the entire station was your little dog bed.

Handler sat up again, and you could feel the stamp of her lipstick on your cheek. You cherished it for every single second until she wiped it off with makeup remover from her bedside table. She then replaced her gloves and mask, fastened your ankle restraint to you, and grabbed a laptop from her table.

"Get some sleep, cadet."

[MELATONIN RECEPTOR SENSITIVITY INCREASED BY 300%.]

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[This story is in a file marked "Thimble". Other stories include:]

[Sniper Pilot]

[The Shooting Range]

there’s something that’s incredible about the intersectionality and flexibility of werewolves as metaphor.

anger issues? werewolf. intrusive thoughts? werewolf. unresolved trauma? werewolf. rejection by society? werewolf. autism? werewolf. transgenderism? werewolf. queer expression of any sort? werewolf. plurality? werewolf. dissociation? werewolf. repression of any sort? werewolf. abuse cycles? werewolf. emotion so strong it physically changes you? werewolf!!!

really doing it all

Wicked spoilers!!!

My biggest hope for Wicked part 2 is that they change the ending just a bit. It’s never sat well with me that the play ends with Elphaba and Fiyero leaving Glinda behind to just think that the two people she loved most are dead and gone, leaving her alone. It’s kind of a cruel thing to do to a best friend.

Something I would do if I were making the movie is to have the last scene be a mirror of the end of part 1- maybe something like Glinda walking into her room to find Elphaba waiting, surprising her, and Elphaba holds out her hand to ask Glinda to come with her. You could even have the movie end before Glinda takes her hand, leaving it ambiguous as to if she decides to go with her this time or not.

since it’s a scary time to be trans: refuge restrooms is an app which maps gender-neutral/single-stall restrooms. it’s community-mapped, so it’s possible you might be the first person to log the restroom locations, but hopefully it’ll help some people.

please reblog this post if you’ve got trans followers. stay safe.

elon musk has been incredibly innovative when it comes to giving people reasons to stop using twitter.

his latest push: all pictures posted to twitter will have a "recreate in grok" button beneath it, allowing anyone to feed your art straight into an AI with 0 control from you.

also, i presume because of this feature, artists are getting their original works tagged as "created with Grok".

I’m so absolutely abnormal about her. In a “I want to be her so bad” way

Delicious in dungeon is incredible, I ran through 12 volumes in like a week. I couldn’t put it down.

A quiet doll

A doll that is normally quite active, but for now needs to rest. It's sewing became frayed at some point, with bits of stuffing beginning to push their way out of its patchwork body.

It says "afraid", and I do not know if it is a question or an answer to something I had unknowingly asked with my eyes. Despite this, I try to answer anyway - I tell it, truthfully, that it is beautiful and safe and that I will help it in whatever way I can with permission. It says nothing.

That's okay. I do not touch the loose thread, and I do not touch its stuffing. It has not asked me to, and those things are only problems if it says so.

Maybe another time it will ask me to mend it. Maybe another time it will tell me what tore it. Maybe it will do neither of those things.

Any outcome is perfect, so long as it was the one to choose.

Rampart Reengaging

[ATTEMPTING TO REESTABLISH COMMUNICATION WITH PILOT…]

"What do you mean attempting?"

"It's not easy to wake these things back up without proper software, give it a bit."

"You're hopeless. Give me one good reason to ever let you work on her again."

"Sure thing. I'm the only one willing to do your dirty work. That suffice?"

"Shut up and work. We still need this one."

"Yeah? Who's we? Last I checked, your little pet project wasn't exactly popular with Command."

"…Maybe they've taken a shining to it."

"I doubt it. How many millions did this thing cost them?"

"The cost that she incurs is ultimately of no consequence. She gets results."

[COMMUNICATION SUCCESSFUL. PILOT ONLINE.]

"Hah. Whatever you say, [REDACTED]."

"Wait. It's working again?"

"Seems that way. Welcome back, Rampart."

The first thing you heard outside the vast emptiness that had taken over your universe was the telltale sound of Handler's knuckles smacking clean across someone's face. You flinched on instinct.

"Don't call it that."

[WARNING: VISUALS NONFUNCTIONAL.] [WARNING: SPEECH MODULE NONFUNCTIONAL.] [WARNING: PERSONALITY MATRIX MALFUNCTION DETECTED. SEE NODE MARKED "LOUD NOISES".]

"God, you do not make yourself pleasant to work with, do you? Let me see if I can fix that error…"

"No! It needs that. That PM is loaded with responses like that, and it needs every one of them."

"I'm sure traumatized kamikaze pilots are so much better at crashing than ones that aren't."

"She doesn't run. She slams her eyes shut and the thrusters on. Jumping at loud noises makes her destroy them faster. They put those responses in them for a reason.

[PILOT INPUT: "Handler? Is that you?"]

You liked getting to hear Handler's voice again. You weren't sure where your own went, or if Handler had any means of understanding you at all. It was humiliating and frustrating to not be able to use your voice. You weren't entirely sure what you did to deserve having it taken away. In spite of this, you accepted it instantly.

"Give me a summary of the most recent memories you have on file." You giggled, even if no sound came out.

[PILOT INPUT: ""The Pilot of the Rampart was successful in defeating an overwhelming opponent". That's all I have."]

"Correct. Good girl."

[ADMINISTERING REWARD…] You couldn't feel your face enough to know what expression you made, but you knew you couldn't control it.

"You call that a summary? Shit was literally a single sentence." You didn't like this other voice. Handler's silence made you wince as much as the smack sound you heard earlier.

"Do you believe our enemies survived that explosion?" You heard drops of tension in her voice like slipping a poison into tea.

"No."

"Do you believe any other witnesses exist?"

"Your extreme interest in friendly fire makes it seem unlikely."

"So this is the only account of the assault that exists. It contains all relevant information, does it not?"

"You must think command is so fucking stupid, [REDACTED], If you think they're just gonna throw their hands up about [REDACTED] pilots and [REDACTED] dollars getting smashed to bits--"

Your hands clenched around imaginary triggers when you heard the gunshot. Your audio processor was able to filter out most of the mechanic's screaming, but it was imperfect - you heard her loud, sharp inhales before she wailed again and again.

"S[]t []p or th[] nex[] one []oes through your head." Handler's voice was caught up in the screaming and got glitchy. The mechanic was reduced to hurried breathing. You clung onto every sound you could from her lips, knowing she would do anything and everything if it meant keeping you safe.

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This story is part of a series. To read the beginning, please click here.

Sara Berry- Sad Lesbian

So I don't know how big the Sara Berry fandom is on here, but I wrote like a novella's worth of stuff based on shipping her with Julie Jenkins, and I figured some people here might like it. Contents include: angst, sad lesbians, hurt and comfort, happy endings, silliness, a bunch of horror movie director/actor references, sesbian lex in the second part, and some AU fun in part 4

The problem with my polycule is that I've got a wolfgirl GF and a goatboy BF and I'm carrying this cabbage so it's basically impossible to cross rivers