If You’re Going To Spread “Autism Awareness”, Then Spread Awareness That

My brain: hoe don’t do it

Me: *makes another au*

My brain: oh my god

CAT DAD CAT DAD CAT DAD CAT DAD

This is so wholesome

What’s Your Ideal Place To Relax?

There is this place, in my head, that never fails to come to my aid. It is there when I need it most, and it has never not been there for me. I could joke that I trust this mental vision of a place that does not exist more than I trust some people in my life.

The vision takes place in the sunset. Or perhaps it is the sunrise. It mostly depends on my current mood at the time. The sky is orange and purple, blending together like paint on a canvas. The sun is gentle - a source of light, and only barely a source of heat so that I am comfortable. Sometimes there are clouds; soft ones, fluffy ones that feel you up with warmth as you imagine snuggling with one of them in your bed.

I am always sitting under a large tree. My back is pressed against the trunk, snuggled in its curves and twists in a way that suits me best. There is a picnic blanket beneath me - a red and white checkered pattern that’s gentle on the eyes. A flask of hot chocolate stands pressed against my thigh, a welcome source of warmth and sweetness. There are no books with me - nothing you would take with you for entertainment.

I don’t really need them.

A few steps away from my picnic blanket, the flower field starts. Sometimes they are sunflowers - bright and cheery, reaching up tall towards the sun. Sometimes they are simply flowers - colourful, vibrant, healthy, magical. The field follows the decline of the hill, and up the next one until there is nothing but bumps of flowers as far as the eye can see. 

There is no sign of human life, here. There is no one except for me. I can lean my head against the trunk of the tree and close my eyes - I can breathe in a deep breath and know that I am safe, in this place.

If I were to tilt my head back far enough and peer through the leaves of the trees, I can see the stars above my head. Glorious against a backdrop of purple and dark blue - of black, at times, at some spots. They twinkle down at me as they retreat away from the sun and sometimes I wave them goodbye - or hello.

I don’t know if such a place exists in reality. I only know that it exists in my reality - and my reality is, at times, all I really need.

oh my god OP

OP

You can’t just give me this opportunity and expect me to let it be 

oh my god

mind if I switch it up slightly? yeah? okay great anyway-

There’s a man that stands in the alleyway.

He stands with his blaster out. His grip is relaxed - experienced. His shoulders are tense and his stance ready - also experienced. 

Grogu, hidden in an alcove of the wall and staring down, should’ve expected this. This man wore Mandalorian armour. Whether or not he earned it or stole it, he would need the skills to even get a hand on the beskar.

(Other Mandalorians might not have the skill to get the Beskar)

And certainly not so much of it. The armour is silver and unpainted. Grogu has half a mind to try and shoot him in the leg guards just to see if those were beskar too.

But he’s not a fool. Mostly.

Grogu wears beskar too. He has had it reforged to fit him; the armour of his late father. He wears it with pride and guards it with ferocity, like how his father had done before him, and how every Mandalorian has done, had done, and will do.

He walks the way of Mandalore. Not many do.

Grogu’s job is to make sure this man does.

He whistles a long, low tune.

The man jolts subtly - surprised. He whistles back.

Grogu finds a tug of a smile on his face. It would be good to have another addition to the covert, to the people. Mandalorians were strong alone, but they were stronger together.

His helmet whirrs softly. A signal that it’s efforts of connecting to the man’s helmet were successful. Good; Grogu needs the privacy of the comm channel for this next bit.

“Su cuy’gar (Hello; You’re still alive),” Grogu says into the link. He snorts, amused as the man jolts again. “Relax, I’m just in your helmet.”

The man does not relax, but Grogu didn’t expect him too. The phrase ‘I’m in your helmet,’ is not meant to be calming.

“I didn’t...know there were other Mandalorians here,” the man replies.

Grogu frowns. His voice. His voice is familiar - it tugs at him, it hurts. Grogu blinks slowly; now taking in that armour slowly. With every second that passes, Grogu finds it harder to breathe.

His gaze finally falls onto the man’s pauldron, and his signet.

“You’re not from here...” he breathes.

The man tenses further. “No...I just landed on this planet-”

“You’re not from here,” Grogu interrupts him, drawling his voice out. His mind is whirling. He chances a glance into the Force and is nearly knocked over by the sheer intensity of wrong.

The man is not from here - and more importantly, he’s not supposed to be here.

“Take off your helmet.”

The words are out of his mouth before Grogu even registers he opened it. He winced in the dark shadows of the alcove. If he said it to any other Mandalorian, he would’ve gotten a blaster shot right in the beskar and would’ve deserved it.

Understandably, the man tenses. His grip on his blaster tightens. Grogu remembers the skill the man has-

Grogu remembers.

Grogu remembers this man.

The man with the mudhorn signet.

Grogu steps out of the alcove. The man instantly shifts his Visor to stare at him - and Grogu can see him physically recoil in shock.

Wordless and swift - then Grogu stands on the floor of the alleyway. The man is taller than him (everyone is taller than him) but Grogu’s own Visor meets the man’s unflinchingly.

That’s a lie. Grogu is shaking. His breaths sound too loud and instinct calls for him to calm down.

The man is silent as he stares down at him. Grogu can see his blaster shake.

Grogu expels a sharp breath of air. He reaches up to his own head and takes off his helmet in one clean swoop.

His ears twitch - uneasy and unused to being out in the open like this after so long. His being screams at him to put it back on, but he grips the side of his helmet and forces it to be quiet.

The man. The man doesn’t speak. Grogu doesn’t even know if he breathes.

“...Grogu?”

Grogu’s helmet falls from his hands as Buir (father) takes off his own.

“Buir-”

Grogu’s father - Din Djarin - a man who died when he was a child, rushes forward to catch his son as Grogu falls to his knees.

Din: Who are you and where did you get that pendant?

Grogu(Teen): *takes his hood down* My name is Grogu and I am from the future.

Time travel AU

ever just liked on a post so fast you accidentally clicked twice and ends up unliking it?

and then realizing you messed up and quickly clicking like again except you clicked too fast and then you unliked it-

and then you try and like it again except you-

I want kids but giving birth is a no for me! It terrifies me not only as a woman but a black woman.

Why does being black make it scarier for you?

ok let's see what's been posted since I last watched youtu-

BARBIE?? SAID BLM?? WHAT HELL YEAH WHAT

for a second, I thought din was holding a babysitter

oh, hello.

i’ve been doing well thank you. school will start soon for me so that’s not fun.

writing? well i haven’t been writing too much, but i did start up a new docs about the mandalorian.

it’s going well so far, thanks. 

is it angsty?

“You know you look nothing like him,” she murmured softly - lightly stroking the line of his ears. “But every time I look at you, it’s like-”

Grogu reached forward, resting a tri-fingered hand on Ba’vodu Cara’s slightly damp cheek.

A shaky breath passed. Then another, tinged with a sob. In a quick, sudden movement, Grogu was pressed into Ba’vodu’s chest as she dropped to her knees.

i guess you can call it that.