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lucemferto · 3 years

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Hey girl, don’t mind me, I just quickly went and rewrote Dream SMP Season 2.

I’m focusing on the big plot stuff from Season 2, which makes it really easy for me to make it good, because I don’t have to contend with all the hard parts like dialogue and scene pacing and stuff. As an additional challenge to myself, I try to change as little as possible. If I don’t mention stuff (like the Egg-Arc) then that means I’m fine with them the way they are.

I wrote this in an hour, so don't expect it to be good, pls.

Whether you agree or think this is trash, I'd be so interested to hear your thoughts!

ACT I

Fundy’s early arc with Ghostbur, Eret and Phil is great and should stay the way it is. It sets up the character relationships and potential for conflict that we can explore in the future.

Similarly, I wouldn’t change too much about the conflict during Exile with one exception: Both Tommy and Quackity don’t want to include Technoblade. Instead, they believe that they can take one Dream by themselves – this is important for Techno’s, Tommy’s and Quackity’s personal journey later on. In this rewrite, Quackity also didn’t found El Rapids, but instead recruited George & Sapnap to L’Manburg – because his stated goal is to make L’Manburg the strongest nation on the server, so why would he make a rival nation with a plotline that goes nowhere?

What’s also important is that it’s revealed that Dream has a spy in L’Manburg around here. Maybe Tommy confessed his burning of George’s house during a cabinet meeting and word still got out to Dream. Who knows, but it’s important for later.

Something big that I would change about this Act I is that I would give Techno an actual B-plot. As it stands, Techno’s early plotline was just “Grrr, I’m angry that Tommy would use me like that! Someone killed my cows and robbed me! L’Manburg will know my wrath”

3 weeks later

“Nevermind, I’m a pacifist now and live in the arctic”

Instead, we pick up where S1 left off. Techno is intent on destroying L’Manburg and instituting anarchy. During that time, he comes into conflict with Quackity’s henchmen (Fundy, George, Sapnap, etc.) to establish that L’Manburg could be an actual threat to him.

We also have some conflict with Phil. They’re old war buddies, but Phil’s son built L’Manburg and Phil himself is unofficially Tubbo’s advisor. I think them reconstituting their friendship will take up this early part until Tommy’s exile – it makes for a nice foil to Tommy’s and Tubbo’s friendship falling apart.

Technoblade also tries to recruit people like HBomb and Niki to his cause, but they’re hesitant, because, you know, he sent Withers to destroy their home. Not the best first impression. Techno is hurt, but convinced it’s because of L’Manburg propaganda and they don’t want to work with him, because they don’t see him as useful.

ACT II Part 1

Exile-Arc basically stays exactly the same – with one notable difference. When Technoblade comes to visit Tommy it’s not to mock him – it’s as a final attempt to convince Tommy to join him. It’s a first culmination of Techno’s character journey so far: His previous interactions with the citizenry of L’Manburg has left him shaken, but not shaken enough.

Tommy truly does need “The Blade” right now and he has no reason to further believe L’Manburg’s propaganda. So, by Technoblade’s inner logic, Tommy should accept.

But he doesn’t. Tommy viciously rips into Technoblade and gets very personal (he’s in a bad space, understandably) – Techno can play it off nonchalantly, but either the cinematography or some later moment shows us that he was hurt by this.

Nevertheless, he gives Tommy a compass that points to his HQ, showing us that he cares about Tommy, like he did during their early days in Pogtopia.

This is where we implement some big changes. The story of Technoblade and the Butcher Army becomes the A-plot, while the Exile becomes the B-plot.

It makes perfect sense. The Exile-Arc is a very inward-focused, almost a character study of Tommy and Dream. It doesn’t have a lot of big narrative movement – so the perfect time to execute on that narrative movement in the storyline that has a lot of moving pieces.

So, after Tommy chewed him out, Techno is hurt and meets with Philza. Techno then explains that for him anarchy always was the natural order of things – to fight for a world where only the strongest survive – but pursuing anarchy like that has left him empty. Philza then explains that anarchy should be more about helping people and building an equal community.

We’re all but stating a major thematic conflict of this storyline: Fighting those who wronged you vs. Helping those in need. All this while also exploring the philosophy of anarchy with Techno and Philza serving as symbolic stand-ins for some different thoughts on the matter.

So, while Tommy’s Exile is going on, Techno refines his approach. This goes hand in hand with Quackity using his henchman to turn L’Manburg into a totalitarian police state in order to root out Dream’s traitor (told you it would become important later).

This will be the main conflict here in the first half of Act 2. Quackity and Philza will play shoulder-devil and shoulder-angel respectively for Tubbo and Fundy, pulling them in different directions. Ghostbur also hangs around L’Manburg – a constant reminder for Tubbo of the most sanitized version of President Wilbur and the lofty ideas he stood for.

This is another big thematic conflict for this storyline – externalized in part through Ghostbur’s presence: When do the ends no longer justify the means? It also feeds into the motif of Tubbo and Tommy becoming like Schlatt and Wilbur respectively (even if that’s still mostly superficial).

During this political turmoil, Niki is getting into Quackity’s crosshairs. She opposes his policing and brutal methods. So Quackity really focuses in on her and she has to live with constant surveillance, searches, etc. Niki tries to talk to Tubbo about this, but he says it’s necessary to keep L’Manburg safe. Slowly, Niki grows disillusioned with L’Manburg.

It is during this time that Niki gets into contact with Techno and the two start to form a bond and helping the citizenry hold out hope during this time (I don’t know who would be the citizenry, probably people that don’t have their own storyline going on such as HBomb, Vikkstar, Lazarbeam, etc.)

And we can have a few lorestreams like that, where the conceit is that Techno’s sneaking into L’Manburg to help people and there’s actual tension.

All this culminates in Hog Hunt. Fundy sees Phil, Niki and Techno team-up. He confronts them after Techno left and Phil begs Fundy to not out them – but their divide has grown too deep (and we’ve actually shown that during Fundy’s streams this time).

Quackity has Phil and Niki incarcerated (L’Manburg has a prison now, it’s not as good as Pandora’s Vualt). Tubbo is deeply disturbed that Philza and Niki would betray him by working with the man that took one of his canon lives and finally gives the Butcher Army his presidential approval. Quackity was already prepared and the events of Hog Hunt play out as we know them.

ACT II Part 2

Again, plays out relatively similarly, except for one major difference: Tommy comes to Techno with the explicit purpose of asking for his help. Exile has left him really hardened, probably more so than we have currently.

This would a.) make Tommy a bit more proactive in his partnership with Techno and b.) actually gives some weight to Techno’s later beef with Tommy, because now it’s based on more than just some flimsy phrasing during S1.

Otherwise, this plays out relatively similarly – Techno and Tommy maybe share a few more character moments, just to drive home that Techno cares about Tommy. Also, none of that dumb keeping it a secret whether or not we destroy L’Manburg – that’s some contrived nonsense and I hate it.

Tommy knows that Techno wants to destroy L’Manburg and while he’s conflicted, he ultimately goes along with. Once he gets his discs back, everything will be over after all. The destruction of L’Manburg will have been worth it.

Part of the rising action will be breaking Phil and Niki out of prison instead of the petty bullshit about Techno’s items that he doesn’t need. This is where we have the initial confrontation between Tommy and Tubbo (and Techno doesn’t ruin the moment by being his worst self).

Other plot points include: Techno receives the Wither Skulls over the course of him and Tommy working together by some mysterious benefactor. This is after he and Tommy confronted Dream. He doesn’t tell Tommy who the benefactor is, even though he knows (spoilers: it’s Dream).

Meanwhile, Tommy, Techno, Niki and Phil are secretly rigging New L’Manburg with TNT a la Wilbur, just to really drive that comparison home. Niki is getting really angry; she has suffered enough and she’s really gonna get revenge.

One of her big moments of terrorism before the Green Festival is burning down the L’Mantree (maybe we can include some character conflict Fundy, so we have these two people who were once really close friends now so warped and torn apart by these two sides at war).

Meanwhile, Quackity has figured out that Ranboo was the traitor and is pushing for Tubbo to execute Ranboo for the greater good of L’Manburg. Tubbo is hesitant, but as there’s no moderate voice in the cabinet anymore, he concedes to the idea.

Finally, the Green Festival is here. This part is really … tough to rewrite, because you have to accommodate so many different character arcs, but I’ll try my best.

In a move not unlike during the Red Festival, Ranboo is revealed as the traitor and put in the execution cage (because those parallels). Tubbo feels really bad about it.

This is when Tommy and Techno start their assault and unleash the whithers. L’Manburg is under attack and we have the big fight between Tubbo and Tommy. We get the big shout-out “The discs were worth more than you ever were” and the ensuing epiphany on Tommy part.

Techno’s calling for him to explode the TNT, but he doesn’t do it.

Quackity is calling for Tubbo to execute Ranboo, but Tubbo has an epiphany himself and refuses. Both their personal conflicts are resolved here. Also, we have some nice parallelism between Quackity and Techno as Tubbo’s and Tommy’s respective bad influences.

Techno – understandably this time – feels betrayed and hurt. He and Tommy have their shouting match. Quackity tries to attack Techno, but during their match they accidentally trigger the TNT. Quackity’s hunger for power has created the grave of his ambitions.

(Niki is also pissed at Tommy and Fundy is fully distraught, because L’Manburg was everything he had left from Wilbur).

Dream steps out of the shadows and reveals that he was Techno’s mysterious benefactor. He gets his hands on the second disc and gloats to Tommy. The scene from Doomsday plays out only that Techno shows some stings of remorse for helping Dream accomplish what he wanted. (Quackity flees the ensuing chaos).

Dream tries to goad Tommy with the discs, but Tommy doesn’t bite, because he has resolved his Want vs. Need now. Dream is frustrated, but retreats for now.

ACT III

In the aftermath of ACT II, I think it’s very important to hammer home that this wasn’t a win for Techno, Niki or Phil. For that to work I think it’s important to make clear that Tommy’s and Techno’s bond was genuine and that they really cared for each other during the Bedrock Bros thing. Neither of them is happy for how this turned.

Niki is plagued by nightmares and sleeps in a prison cell like in the current canon. She stands in symbolic for the emptiness that vengeance brings. Phil is shaken from his talk to Ghostbur and he’s the one who brings up that maybe what they did wasn’t for the best.

Then Techno and Phil have a discussion about the nature of anarchy again, calling back to that earlier conversation at the beginning of Act 2. Techno also feels empty – his vengeance and the destruction he wrought left him no happier.

Meanwhile, Punz and Tommy are actually spending some quality bonding time. Thanks to the medium, they could simulate that pretty well. Punz actually gets attached and when Dream mentions his coup-de-grâce, the cinematography shows that Punz isn’t too happy about it.

Tommy and Tubbo prepare to fight Dream on their own terms. They know, they have to stop him lest he hurts the people they care about (this makes both of them a bit more proactive in the finale). Punz (as per Dream’s orders) tells Tommy where Dream is hiding. Tommy thanks him, oblivious that Punz is a traitor, but Punz feels bad. He has grown attached to Tommy.

During the Final Disc War we actually get two perspectives: One is Tommy’s and Tubbo’s as we know it (only without the constant “Your discs or Tubbo”-stuff) and the other is Punz’s. He has decided to help Tommy even though there’s nothing monetarily in it for him.

First, he goes to Quackity, but Quackity says that Tommy has betrayed him and L’Manburg and that he gets what’s coming to him.

In a last-ditch effort, he goes to Techno. Here’s where we resolve that thematic conflict (Vengeance vs. Charity) for the Techno-Butcher Army storyline: Quackity has chosen to perpetuate the cycle of vengeance (because he will be the villain in S3), but we want some nice character development for Techno.

Niki is against it and stays put, but Techno and Philza ultimately decide to go with Punz and the others to help Tommy.

Finale plays out the same. Stuff’s still awkward between Techno and Tommy/Tubbo; they haven’t resolved all their problems, but it’s a first step. Some good set-up for S3.

And that’s my basic rewrite. It’s long and probably not the best.

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shihalyfie · 3 years

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What Crest-related trait do you think is each of the Main 12’s weakest?

Sorry for taking so long on this! I had to really sit down and think about this one really hard, because there's a lot of nuances to unpack and I had to spend some time thinking about it. I really, really appreciate the fact you specified "weakest" and not something like "worst" or "absent" because, really, these kids were all good kids who probably had all of the relevant traits to some degree, it's just that certain ones are stronger than others, or, perhaps a better way to put it, certain ones are ones they prioritize in life more than others.

Full details under the cut!

Taichi: I'm gonna go with Kindness for this one, and in that I mean its more literal definition of "gentleness". Because Taichi's definitely a nice kid who cares about others, but the part about being soft with others (and especially with, uh, certain fragile objects too)...maybe not so much. He mellows out a lot between Adventure and 02, but he's still more on the rough side in general.

Yamato: Faith (or however you want to translate Jou's at this point), not necessarily because Yamato doesn't have loyalty to others, but because the Crest implication has to do with loyalty to things like honor codes and kept promises, which Yamato, who's more of an id-based person, doesn't really live by as much.

Sora: Purity, mainly because of its nuance of being true to one's own feelings and not having malice or subversive intentions, and Sora's the one with the most complicated tendency to not be honest with herself (about herself) or to not really be sure about her own motives for doing things.

Koushirou: Probably Love, specifically going by the literal meaning "affection". I mean, Koushirou loves other people and all that, but his way of showing that isn't necessarily something that you would call particularly doting or in much of a soft manner.

Mimi: Possibly Courage; of course, Adventure is mostly about her gaining more resolve to stand up against difficult odds, but although she certainly becomes better at handling it, even all the way to 02 she'd obviously prefer pacifist solutions and is most emotionally affected by adversity.

Jou: Possibly Friendship. Not because he doesn't cherish his friends, of course! But taking the nuance of Friendship in terms of "camaraderie and choosing to leave things in others' hands when necessary", Jou has the strongest sense of desire to be able to do things independently, sometimes to the point of taking too many burdens onto himself.

Takeru: Purity, no question about it. Kid has an unfortunate penchant for being the most dishonest about his own feelings, to the point it's ambiguous how much he even understands his own feelings in the situation.

Hikari: Hikari is tricky because her behavior varies between when it's something about herself versus when it's something to do with others, because in the latter case she'll be plenty assertive, brave, and proactive, but when it's about herself she suddenly finds herself unable to do anything. Given that, I would say it's arguably Friendship in a sense -- because she struggles with coming to terms with the idea of relying on others and trusting them with her feelings.

Daisuke: Probably Knowledge. I know this might get taken as "because he's an idiot", but it's not meant this way; it's because Knowledge is mainly assigned the nuance of "wanting to know more", which Daisuke isn't really. In general, he dislikes overthinking things more than is necessary, and is satisfied with what he has to work with. Not that he enjoys being ignorant, but he lives by the philosophy of "better to not think about unnecessary things".

Ken: Possibly Hope, as someone who's seen the deep end and is still climbing out of it. I mean, of course, the point is that the 02 group helps him have a bit more of it, but even during Diablomon Strikes Back he's the first to start considering "it's over..."

Miyako: I'd say probably Courage, as someone who's one of the first to emotionally panic and freak out the moment things really look like they're about to go south. Perhaps you could say it's the same reason as Mimi.

Iori: Love. Again, considering that the literal definition of the word is "affection", and Iori...affection...uh...well...yeah. (He's still on his way to figuring that part out.)

#digimon #digimon adventure #digimon adventure 02 #ree-fireparrot #shiha's ask box

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secret-engima · 4 years

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....I lied. If you’re still doing the title thing - if I go down gonna burn with the sun

I thought there was a few more title asks still lurking in here for me to answer. *cracks knuckles* RAMBLE TIME.

-Star Wars AU. Star Wars FFXV sorta-x-over AU where the Astrals decide that Aera and Ardyn deserve a chance at happiness, just not on Eos, and therefore go YEET. The Force, finding these two wayward and powerful souls is like- Sure okay and boom. Ardyn and Aera are reborn in a galaxy far, far away.

-Purely not coincidentally, far away, on different worlds and in different star systems, one Satine Kryze and one Obi-Wan Kenobi take their first breaths.

-Yes I’m serious.

-This would be- SUCH a chaotic fixit AU, both because Aera loves peace but she is NO pacifist and not about to let an entire Culture DIE just because some so called New Mandalorians cannot see the dangers of burying their own past. Two because- well.

-Ardyn has already BEEN a Chosen One and an Accursed, a Hero and a Villain. He has walked the path to salvation and damnation both and seen the worst sides of himself and humanity, and for all they look different, every species in the galaxy isn’t far different from humanity in those regards.

-Obi-Wan Kenobi grows up in the Jedi Temple and he is a Troublesome Child. Too quiet and too reckless by turns, a smile that could melt butter and a tongue that can strip flesh from the backs of whatever bully goes after him this time. The Jedi ... worry. He is Dark, they whisper, was born with shreds of Darkness in his soul. He is manipulative, they worry, he has a temper, they gossip.

-Ardyn hears them all and inside a part of him screams. Because of course he is Dark, they did not have their souls swallowed by a plague for others’ sake, were not consumed with madness until dying (being freed) at the hands of a nephew two thousand years removed. As for manipulation ... he doesn’t mean to. It’s just ... he’s so much OLDER than the other children mentally, older even than any Jedi there (even YODA), he can’t help it that he thinks rings around people sometimes, or that he is so in tune with the Force (with a galaxy-spanning magic that burns beneath his skin like a hundred newborn suns that he keeps buried so the Jedi will not sense it so clearly, will not know how strong and old he really is inside) that he can practically read minds and knows what to say to get the best outcome. He has a temper. Who doesn’t? You try being reborn after a lifetime of AGONY and see how patient you are with petty morons and small minded bullies.

-He says none of those things, and when his time grows near to be sent away without a Master, he does not fight it.

-He looks at the shadow of Qui Gon Jinn in the doorway and something in the Force ... sings. Sad and soft. It speaks of heartache and betrayal and a fear of being hurt again. Ardyn can almost FEEL the two paths branching away under his feet, one with Qui Gon in it, and one without, and he does not know which one will bring him less pain.

-Ardyn does not try to impress anyone in the sparring ring, but after he is done, he slips away. He finds Jinn in the garden, trying to meditate, and settles down across from him without invitation.

-Qui Gon opens his eyes in annoyance. He knows that the Council wants him to take a Padawan, and that this one is almost at the age of being moved to the Corps. He expects the boy to beg to become a Padawan, or to try to impress him somehow.

-Instead the boy just smiles, thin and sharp and knowing in a way that makes Qui Gon feel ... exposed. Like every thought and wound in his heart is on display for this child, “The Council wants you to take a Padawan. That’s why they keep making you watch us.” It’s a statement, not a question.

-Qui Gon raises an eyebrow, “And you think I should take you?”

-The boy shrugs, but his blue eyes are still sharp as knives behind his friendly mien and Qui Gon doesn’t like the feeling crawling up his spine, “That’s your choice to make and yours alone. There’s nothing I can say to change your mind one way or the other.”

-“Then why are you here?” He asks suspiciously.

-“Because you’re lonely, and it makes the Force feel sad.” The answer is so blunt, so sure of itself. Qui Gon feels his stomach twist, and old anger makes him snappish without meaning to be (he’s heard of this boy as well, he’s heard that he’s got a manipulative streak and a tendency to twist his Force empathy to his own ends, he’s heard many things).

-(Qui Gon forgets that it is not a good idea, to base judgement on rumors) “I am not, and if I was, I would not need your company to ease it.”

-Obi-Wan Kenobi, Initiate of the Jedi Temple Ardyn Lucis Caelum, Sage and Healer King and Accursed, tilts his head thoughtfully, then nods and stands up, “Then I will take my leave. Take care of yourself, Master Jinn.”

-Initiate Kenobi Ardyn the Accursed and Healer King walks away, and a breath later the Living Force twists, like the snapping of cables, and Qui Gon gets the fleeting, distinct impression that he has failed some kind of very important test.

-Ardyn is assigned to the AgraCorps. A life as a farmer for others awaits him.

-The day before he’s to be shipped off, he walks out one of the Temple’s side-entrances and into the underbelly of Coruscant with only the clothes on his back. He doesn’t look back even once. It takes until the next day for anyone (for his friends, if he can call them friends when they are so much YOUNGER and painfully more innocent than him) to miss him. It takes another day for the Jedi to realize Obi-Wan Kenobi is well and truly missing.

-Deep in Coruscant’s seedy side, at the dockyards manned by those who are less than concerned with legality, a boy in ratty (stolen) clothes asks to be taken aboard as a maintenance worker. He calls himself Ardyn Izunia, and there are no Force Sensitives close enough to feel the sunlike fire burning in his blood as he smiles.

-Skip forward several years and Satine Kryze (Aera) is on the run from Death Watch, civil war is on the horizon and her father asks for Jedi protection to keep her safe.

-The bounty hunter who calls himself Adagium finds her first.

-A sword that glitters like blood and cuts through metal like a lightsaber (that hums-hums-hums with magic none but a Force sensitive can see blazing like bloody fire down the ancient blade) finishes off the Death Watch assassin that Satine hadn’t had the chance to shoot yet, and under his hood, Adagium smiles. Satine stills, head tilted as if listening, then she collapses into the teenage bounty hunter’s arms in joyous tears. Adagium- Ardyn- holds her close and cries with her.

- “I finally found you, My Aera,” he breathes and for a moment he lets his magic loose and it burns like the sun through the Force, lancing through the growing shadows in the Force like they’re fragile paper and somewhere far away Sidious feels Doom™ crawl violently up his spine.

-Aka that Fixit AU where Aera is a Mand’alor that DOES want peace for her people but NOT at the cost of burning history to the ground (or being defenseless, she has died to the sword once already she will not go quietly into the night a second time, not if she has to paint the walls in blood to protect her life and the lives of her people), the Jedi are Confused™, and Ardyn is incredibly content to be Aera’s former bounty hunter trophy husband with a tendency to adopt strays (read: Anakin and Shmi who he frees as well as Anakin kthanks, and quite possibly Savage and Feral too tho no one is quite sure how) until the Clone Wars start and Ardyn takes one (1) look at the war and goes: ah. I know this plan. This is a stupid plan. And all of Sidious’s plans go fwoosh.

-Because I’m sorry but there is no way you can convince me that Ardyn wouldn’t EAT SIDIOUS ALIVE in any kind of fight, mental, physical, Force, or tactical. This man is 2k years old. It took Sidious until he was an old sack of bones to get his Empire and that was with GENERATIONS of Sith serving as his foundation, and then he got yote down a reactor shaft by his minion 19-25 years later. Ardyn was able to manipulate an entire Empire into engineering its destruction and fulfill ALL HIS REVENGE GOALS (giving Bahamut a headache, driving the world to darkness and ruin, and ending the line of Lucis Caelum INCLUDING HIMSELF) in like- 30-40 years. While MENTALLY AND PHYSICALLY ILL thanks to the Scourge. Fully healthy and in control of himself and with people (Aera) to protect? Sidious would just be fresh meat.

-Also Ardyn adopts a bunch of the clones, possibly all the clones, on the excuse that since they were raised by Mandalorian trainers they count as Mandalorians and as genetic sons of Jango Fett that makes the Mandalorian CITIZENS by BIRTHRIGHT and the Republic can only watch in confusion as their army gets mass adopted by the Mand’alor’s trophy husband who also exposed their new Chancellor as a Sith. Bail Organa, the new Chancellor, may or may not be sweating quietly at the thought of accidentally gaining the ire of the so called Trophy Husband because he’s smarter than most and knows that Ardyn is Very Very Dangerous.

-Also also Qui Gon doesn’t die somehow because I do really like him and I think he’s a good Jedi, just not a good fit for Ardyn as a master.

#Secret Engima Rambles #Burn With the Sun verse #Ardyn Izunia #obi wan kenobi #obi wan x satine #ardyn x aera #oh no new au

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unstoppableforcce · 3 years

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golden

CHAPTER ONE: simplicity

pairing: Poe Dameron x oc! Anya

next part | masterlist | oc art

a/n: this is set before the Force Awakens and is a rewrite and expansion of one of my first fics. it’s a big one, this part is 6.7k which might be the longest thing i’ve ever written lol, but i love my oc and the relationships and the plot of this, i hope yall do too bc i can’t wait to write more!!!

He had forgotten how beautiful the galaxy could be.

Before him, through the clear windshield of the dilapidated transport ship, laid an expanse of towering mountains of green, thick like the jungles of Yavin IV he knew so well, and vast like the breath of the galaxy he was only beginning to familiarize himself with. In the valleys that sat between the intimidating heights of the jungle were ponds and lakes, illuminated by the contrast of their soft pink hue and the sunlight from three suns beating down on them overhead. And within each jaw-dropping landscape they flew over, the lanky jungle trees stretched high and interwoven with each other and the depths of the gentle pink lakes, he caught glimpses of the hidden civilization.

Stone buildings of dark brown granite hidden beneath the twisted green vines and thick, overgrown tree trunks, windows of reflective glass cascading like waterfalls built back into the shape of the mountains. From as high as they were, flying above in the shaky transport ship, he could make out the movement of the people through the trees and on wooden crescent boats out in the milky pink water of the lake, working as the suns bore down on their backs.

Flying in his X-wing, he had mission objectives and responsibilities. He travelled from point A to point B and never lingered in one place for longer than he needed to, not with the First Order patrols cracking down across the galaxy. He couldn’t remember the last time he had travelled so slow, the last time he got to truly see the colors of the universe around him which normally passed in hyperspeed blurs.

He had forgotten how beautiful the galaxy could be.

“Wow…” the awe fell from his lips unconsciously as his eyes stayed wide, scanning the horizon not only out of necessity given their flight path, but because he couldn’t look anywhere else. The D’Qar jungle was said to be beautiful, as beautiful as this, but for the past months he had been tasked with growing their new base there, he saw the inside of buildings and the burn of haunting fluorescent lights more than he did the real greenery and sunlight.

It was… breathtaking to say the least.

“I thought I misremembered,” the calm and collected voice of the General sounded off over his shoulder as he slowed his speed to navigate a lofty bit of cloud cover that surrounded the tops of the mountainous valleys he navigated between. “I convinced myself somehow that no place in the galaxy could be as beautiful as I remembered but I was wrong.”

He couldn’t blame her. If he wasn’t seeing it with his own eyes as his hands gripped tight to the controls of the ship, he wasn’t sure he would have believed it either.

Waterfalls of the lightest pink hue, the sparkling of the natural granite deposits in the rock which shined equally as bright as the city construction as they continued over it, the polished rock made into skyscrapers which rivaled the surrounding mountains in height, the natural overgrowth of green vines and thick canopy tree tops… the more he saw, the more Poe found himself overwhelmed by the beauty.

“How far until the palace?” He hummed with a brief quirk of his jaw back over his shoulder to Leia as his eyes stayed trained on the intricate habitational design and fields woven between towering structures which shadowed over smaller homes which led to more fields and rivers, rocks and jungle.

“Not far, it’s impossible to miss.”

It hadn’t made sense at that moment, but he refrained from asking her to expand, trusting that whatever she meant would be clear to him as they kept going. Within the following minute, his trust proved itself.

The nose of the ship lifted slightly to get them over a particularly tall mountain top, and as the clouds cleared away while he nosed back into the valley below, he found the most gorgeous architectural and natural displays he had ever laid his eyes on. Built, like the hidden structures he had seen earlier, into the most commanding mountain of sparkling brown granite in the landscape before him, the palace was a delicate, yet proud masterpiece with spires as high as the clouds and a bustling marketplace pouring out the front of it, spilling towards the shore of the pink ocean before it.

Banners of colors brighter than he even knew existed fluttered in the wind coming in off the coast throughout the marketplace, and as he brought the ship in to a stop at the surrounding rim of the mountain above the palace’s top spires where all the other ships sat, he began to notice the vibrant crowd which flowed from the boats in the water all the way through the palace gates. He loved his home with all his heart, but this was the most beautiful place in the galaxy. It had to be.

He and Leia quickly unloaded from the non-descript ship, and Poe made sure to leave his blaster secure in the cockpit as Leia had instructed him earlier, taking only his jacket and communicator with him. A jacket he quickly realized he would not be needing as the two of them stepped out amongst the ships atop the mountain and felt the overwhelming heat from the suns above them.

“Don’t be too in awe, we are here for a reason.” He glanced back from where he stood near the edge of the flattened mountain top to see Leia stood as regal as ever with her hands linked behind her back and her stare that of a careful mother. “An important reason,” she minded once more and he had no choice but to nod.

As he reluctantly pulled away from teh edge and joined her at her side while they drew closer to the nearby lift and the mindlessly chatting guards stood around it, he couldn’t help but voice the one thought he couldn’t get out of his mind,“I can’t imagine a place like this ever allying with the First Order.”

With a voice lowered closer to that of a whisper while they passed the guards, Leia carefully minded him again, “There is a complicated history to Haiki, as beautiful as it is.”

“All the briefing memo said was that they were great allies during the war, pacifists, but great allies.” He responded in an equally hushed tone until the doors to their lift shut and they began descending deep into the dark, sparkling rock. “You said their leader was a friend.”

“Their King and Queen were friends of mine while I was still living on Alderaan and fighting with the rebellion, unfortunately the queen died shortly after the Empire fell and their king has been sick for almost as long.” She explained as the thick walls of granite passed quickly by them as they continued to descend.

“Who are we here to meet with then?”

The lift came to a stop at the bottom and the doors opened to a dense crowd of people, all dressed in vibrant colors of thick woven fabric, skin decorated with thick strokes of black ink in intricate designs that varied from body to body. But as much as Poe wished to step forward and immerse himself into the lively crowd of the market, Leia’s firm grip on the elbow of his jacket pulled him in the opposite direction, towards an open doorway outlined by beautiful branches and bright flowers as her words quickly pulled him back to the reality of their mission there.

“We’re meeting with the Princess,” Leia answered as they continued down the hall illuminated by windows which brought cascades of bright light into the halls as they travelled in a direction which seemed to Poe as if it were going deeper into the rock of the mountain. “I’ve met her before, but she was young, now she runs the whole planet and, from what I can tell, is not as eager about our alliance as her parents were.”

“You think she’s fielding threats from the First Order? You said they were pacifists--”

“It’s not about weapons or defense, it’s about supplies.” Leia sighed as the two of them came to a halt in the middle of the hallway, allowing the few locals who were walking behind them to pass in front and leave them alone with the bright sunlight. “We need their support, the medicine they create, the food they grow… If we don’t get it, I don’t know how much longer we can survive.”

Poe nodded, his overgrown curls bouncing with the nod of his head as he glanced around the empty hall and began pulling his jacket off his already sweat-slicked back.

He knew they were there for support, but the briefing memo had been vague on purpose. No one else could know they were there, no one could know why they were there. If there was a leak, if the First Order somehow found out that the Resistance was reliant on Hakian support to survive, they’d decimate the entire planet, strip mine them for their resources and slaughter their peaceful population.

He trusted their people, and he knew Leia did too, but he also understood why he had to be kept in the dark until now. This was just too important.

“When we get in to see her, you’ll call her only ‘princess’ or ‘dekka’, never by her first name unless she gives you permission. And make sure you keep your distance, be respectful,” Leia warned as they slowly began walking again, turning a corner and entering another well-lit hall still travelling deeper into the mountain it seemed. “They are sticklers for tradition here and we can’t afford to play around.”

“What does ‘dekka’ mean?”

“Respected one.” She answered quickly, keeping her voice close to him as another person came into view at the end of the hall.

The man towered just like the mountains they flew through did, taller than any human man Poe had seen in person, nearly wookie height if he was being honest. But there was nothing intimidating about him, he merely flashed a bright smile and opened his arms in a welcoming stance.

“Princess Leia, it is an honor to see you again.” The man bellowed out, meeting them at the end of the hall where it let out into a gorgeous room of tall ceilings and windows that stretched from the polished granite floor all the way up to the tallest rafters of twisted vine and tree root, letting in an electric amount of natural light.

Leia quickly unlinked her hands from behind her back and wrapped them around the man, who stood at nearly twice her height, in a solid embrace. “Elias, it’s an honor to see you as well.”

“I had no idea you were coming, whatever can I help you with?” His thick accent continued to cut through the air, louder than Leia could muster by several dozen decibels. His command over the basic language wasn’t too strong, but he certainly made up for his shortcomings with heart and confidence.

However, no amount of strength of heart could overwrite the confusion outlined by his words, leaving an unsettling feeling in Poe’s gut. Judging by the slight deflation in Leia’s commanding stance, it was clear he wasn’t the only one.

“No idea…” Leia chuckled nervously, trailing off with a brief shake of her braids. “We were meant to meet with Dekka Anya-Va, is she not here?”

Elias’ chuckle was equally as unsettled, something was wrong.

“She hasn’t been in all day,” he added as another rough chuckle escaped his lips, “I didn’t know she had schedule, she didn’t tell me…”

Seven hours. That’s how far away Haiki was from D’Qar when travelling as fast as possible in the only non-resistance ship available, an old, deteriorating transport ship. He spent seven hours behind the controls on a trembling, shaking ship, and the Princess they were supposed to be meeting with to secure necessary supplies for the resistance was not there? Was this some kind of joke?

If it was, he didn’t find it very funny.

Leia glanced back over her shoulder, finding the waiting confusion that covered Poe’s face and turned back to Elias wearing a very similar look. “She hasn’t been in at all?”

“She’s been… cutting me off, isolating herself from her advisors… I don’t know…” He stuttered over each and every word, clearly pulling them from a particularly painful place in his chest.

And on any other day, Poe might have cared about the way the towering man’s intimidating voice trembled in his explanation. The overwhelmingly empathetic heart that beat steadily in his chest was accustomed to feeling for anyone from anywhere across the galaxy, but in this moment, the weight of the resistance was too apparent on his shoulders.

If Leia said they needed this Princess to save the resistance, then that was that. They needed this Princess, and hearing that she was circumventing her advisors as much as she was avoiding their meeting only increased the nerves in his unsettled stomach.

“You are welcome to wait for her in the throne room, I will send her your way whenever I find her…” Elias made a desperate attempt to relight the smile that had fallen from Leia’s diplomatic lips, but it only succeeded somewhat, as much as Leia could muster, feeling the same weight that Poe felt sitting heavy on her shoulders.

“Thank you, Elias.” Leia bowed her head, and Elias quickly did the same.

But the second Leia turned away from him and began nudging Poe back in the direction they came from, her diplomatic disposition fell away, returning her harsh, commanding stare.

“She’s avoiding us?” Poe was quick to question as their pace hastened back down the brightly illuminated halls leading back to the busy marketplace.

Leia shook her head, keeping her voice low as the two of them walked, shoulder to shoulder. “Remember when you asked if I thought she was fielding First Order threats already? I think we just got our answer.”

“What do we do?”

As the two of them entered back out into the dense crowd of the marketplace, Leia gave a brief shrug, still tugging him along with her as she fought against the flow of tattooed people. “Now, we have to find her.”

“Do you know where to look?”

The stare Leia gave him was one he was all too familiar with. It was the same look he got when he asked questions about procedure he already knew the answer to, the same look he got when he asked questions he knew she wouldn’t answer. It was a look that meant one thing. The simplest answer, the easier answer, the obvious one that was punching him directly in the face, was the answer he should be looking for.

And with Leia, when it came to asking if she knew anything, the answer was without a doubt, a resounding ‘yes’.

Following the banners, each one a color more vibrant than the last, Leia continued to push him through the marketplace. As they exited the front gate of the palace, the market grew impossibly larger and the crowd more dense, every soul moving with a specific purpose, from stall to stall with shoulders carrying heavy bags and faces bright with electric smiles.

Poe couldn’t remember the last time he saw so many smiles in such a densely packed region.

The sun was beating down hot on his back, slicking his curls to his forehead in a light coating of sweat, but everyone around him seemed oblivious to it, either too distracted by the spices piled high in the booths, wafting a plethora of new scents around the beautiful square, or the swaths of fabrics covered in intricate stitches and designs. Was this what life was like where the war didn’t touch?

People could walk around, fully immersed in their own vibrant culture wearing smiles brighter than the multiple suns which hung above them, seemingly without a care in the world when it came to the slaughtering and genocide happening around the galaxy at the hands of the First Order? Did they even know?

Did the parents who let their kids run around with tightly woven baskets piled high with spiky blue fruit even know about the children across the galaxy who were stolen from their families and conscripted as nameless troopers? Did the elderly who sat off to the side even know that just last week, a village of respected elders on Nantoo were mowed down indiscriminately by First Order officers looking to set up base on their sacred land? Did any of them even know about the war?

If he lived here, maybe he could understand it. Maybe…

But Stars, was ignorance really bliss when millions were being slaughtered?

“I knew she’d be here…” Leia sighed, pulling Poe’s attention back to her pursuit as the market began to thin out closer to the pink translucent shore packed with crescent shaped boats of dark wood unloading at the docks. He didn’t know where to let his stare fall however, the water immediately took his attention, but as Leia kept walking, he fought to both find her stare and follow it in the same direction.

The shore wasn’t packed, but there were just enough bodies to keep him guessing even as he followed Leia’s focus. Where was she looking--

He found her.

Nothing had changed, he still didn’t know exactly where Leia’s stare was directed nor did he have any verbal confirmation that he was looking in the right direction, but he was sure of himself, overwhelmingly sure of himself as his stare landed on the detailed tattoos that covered the back of the lone woman sat on the damp shore, isolated from the crowd.

The thin interwoven fabric of the maroon dress that cascaded down her form was exquisite in it’s intricately stitched details, but nothing compared to the thick, jet black ink stripes that crested over her back and arms, the extent of the skin he could see from the angle they were approaching with. Everyone he had seen so far on this planet had some form of similar markings, be it extensive designs sprawling up their arms or small delicate images drawn on their hands or necks, but none compared to what he saw on her skin.

It was like the dark ink was woven around her, like a vine crawling it’s way up a tree. Or maybe more aptly, it was a web, drawn by a diligent insect or maybe even claw marks from a creature, thick where the wounds ran the deepest and thin at the start and ends of each mark.

Haiku itself was one of the most beautiful planets in the galaxy, but the woman before him was more beautiful than even that.

It took an elbow in the side from Leia to snap him back to reality.

“Why don’t you let me do most of the talking, yeah?” She countered, a knowing quirk to her brow as she nudged him again with her elbow.

He wanted to argue back but Leia had already begun walking ahead of him and the second he moved to catch up, a large guard stepped up to block their path.

This man was tall, like Elias back in the palace was, but he didn’t wear his intimidating height the same way. He was much broader in the shoulders, much wider in his stance, effectively blocking any line of sight either Poe or Leia had towards the princess. Yet unlike Elias, there was no friendly greeting, no real acknowledgement at all besides his narrowed scowl down towards the two of them.

For a planet of self-proclaimed pacifists, Poe wasn’t really feeling at peace.

Not until the soft hum of her voice flowed in from the gentle lull of the shore. “It’s alright, Xia, let them through.”

The wall of a man quickly stepped aside on her orders, revealing the exhausted collapse of her shoulders while she began to pull herself back up to her feet. The languid pull of her muscles was obvious with the delicate cut of the maroon dress across her skin, which contrasted the blood color of the fabric with a dark brown glow, not unlike the sparkle of the magnificent granite mountains under the overhead suns.

“Dekka Anya-Va…” Leia addressed carefully but was quickly cut off by the return of her coarse hum of a voice.

“I was hoping by not being at the palace that you would get the impression I didn’t want to meet with you,” her accent was thick, much like Elias’s but her comfort with the language was much more evident as it flowed much smoother from her lips despite the natural raspiness to her tone. It was a mesmerizing sound, complemented by the dulcet tone of the gentle waves, making it something he could easily get lost in if it wasn’t for his ability to still hear the words for what they were.

Condescending. Nearly mocking if he was being honest. It just didn’t sit well with him, not when directed towards Leia.

“We got the impression, we just ignored it,” Leia countered, pushing her careful tone to the side in favor of the tone she used when addressing her Commanders, a tone that commanded respect, even if the Princess seemed too aloof to provide it.

She let out a rugged chuckle at that, jagged at the edges where it seemed to have fought through her throat and out from her perfectly shaped lips. “We…” she hummed, “I wasn’t aware you were bringing friends.”

The pointed tips of her words were sent like daggers with her stare as she turned from Leia to where Poe stood right beside her, hands linked behind his back and still holding his jacket in a tight grip. But as personal an assault it seemed, when he opened his lips to respond, Leia was quick to cut him off.

“I--”

“This is my pilot, Commander Dameron.”

As unamused as the princess seemed to be, she still did a lot of stone-faced laughter, and that theme held true as her stare held on Poe’s furrowed and focused face. “Does the Commander have a first name?”

With a quick glance to Leia, then back to the Princess, he finally spoke for himself, answering “Poe,” simply.

He didn’t know what he thought throwing his name into the conversation would add, but he couldn’t determine any reason why not to add it, not until the Princess turned her stare back to Leia and shuddered her shoulders back into a steady stance with her chin raised. “Would you mind telling Poe he can go wait by your ship, I don’t imagine it will be a long conversation.”

There it was again. Aloof, condescending, mocking even. Poe couldn’t stand it.

“Excuse me--”

“Actually, Dekka Va, I brought him so he could join our talks,” Leia explained, one of her hands shooting up quickly to keep him in place by her side as she felt the heat of his temper rise with her words.

“He doesn’t seem like he’d be much for conversation.”

He realized his natural disposition may not have been the most diplomatic, he also realized that hot-headed and cocky weren’t necessarily the best qualities for negotiating delicate alliances, but if she was allowed to talk to him with the tone she was taking, he was having a hard time understanding why Leia was keeping him silent. Why even bring him along?

It was infuriating. She was infuriating. She wouldn’t meet them in the palace, she was hiding on the beach, she was biting back with each and every one of her responses. He understood the alliance between her planet and the resistance was important, he really did, but why in the kriff was he even there--

“Dekka Anya-Va, I assure you, Poe is one of my most trusted Commanders and when our discussion eventually turns to shipment methods, he is the only one I trust for routes and numbers--” Leia began, still holding her hand out carefully in front of Poe only to drop it the second the Princess shrugged her shoulders and cut her off the same way she had been cutting Poe off.

“There will be no shipment discussions.”

“Dekka--”

“I apologize for avoiding the meeting, but it wasn’t accidental, I truly have no interest in meeting with you, General.” She continued, using the brief second they stood silent and frozen in shock to navigate around them and back towards the market.

Leia was the first to break out of it, Poe trailing behind, but he still remained quiet, holding back his boiling temper as the General continued to argue.

“It’s a rather important conversation that we need to have.”

The princess continued forward as if she barely noticed them following, and as the density of the market's population began to increase the closer they moved to the palace, she made no move to slow her careful and practiced step through the crowd to accommodate their trailing. Again, condescending and aloof.

Leia broke his train of thought again as she fought with a quickened pace to find her way to her side and continue her argument just within range of Poe’s ears. “A face-to-face meeting will allow us to discuss our deal more intimately, take away any fears you may have and--”

If she cut Leia off one more time, it wouldn’t matter that she was the most respected being on this planet, Poe wasn’t going to be able to keep quiet for much longer.

“I’m not afraid of anything, General.”

Before either Leia or Poe, with his temper steadily boiling over, could mount another argument, the princess pulled one of her guards aside, retrieving a small pouch of golden coins from him and turning back to the stall that had caught her eye in the first place. It was the stall they had passed earlier, filled with children and the spiky blue fruits which had caught his eye as he thought about the rest of the galaxy.

And it was exactly where the princess was kneeling down.

Her rough tone of voice, coated in it’s natural raspiness, flowed out much easier in her native tongue as she let a genuine smile take over her lips. The kids running the booth were bouncing out of their boots as she lowered herself to their level, and their excitement only grew as they began talking to one another in the Hakian language. It would have been heartwarming if Poe weren’t so frustrated.

He didn’t understand what they were saying and it was clear as he glanced toward Leia and saw her focused brow that she didn’t understand the words being spoken either, but from the shared interactions, he had a pretty decent idea what was transpiring.

She asked a question, the kids nervously responded, shaking their heads and trying to offer their product for free before she convinced them to accept her coin. Again, a heartwarming display that he didn’t have time for.

The sun was hot, boiling hot down the back of his neck, and the anger bubbling from within his chest was heating him up from the inside out, making the whole experience ten times worse. He didn’t need to see any heartwarming display, he needed to say something, and he was becoming increasingly overwhelmed with the feeling that when he did, things wouldn’t go well.

Yet the moment seemed to be drawing closer and closer as the Princess stood back to full height with a bag full of the spiky fruit, passing her coins back to her guard. He was ready to open his mouth, to unload on her with the same hot-headed cockiness that Leia feared he would lead with, but he was again denied the chance as she silenced him by turning her back to the two of them and reentering the crowd, heading back towards the palace.

It wasn’t until they were down an isolated hallway of the palace that she turned back, opening the bag of fruit and pulling three of the spiked fruit out easily.

“Dekka--” Leia tried, but the princess silenced her, sticking one of the fruits into her hand before carelessly tossing one in Poe’s direction.

She was making a point, and they had no choice but to stand there and take it.

“This is Mewe, one of our planet’s sweetest fruits,” she hummed, holding up one of her own and turning it gently for them to admire even if all Poe could manage was a subtle roll of his eyes. “They cannot grow anywhere else, they require massive amounts of sunlight, and they are one of the most versatile fruits that exist anywhere in the galaxy, edible on their own, full of health, easily fermented, their juice can soothe sore throats and upset stomachs...”

Puncturing the tough, spiky skin with one of her nails, the vibrant teal juices began to drain quickly out of the shell, too quick for even her quick mouth to catch as she brought the fruit to her lips. The following bite she took was effortless following her brief struggle with the dripping juices, and as much as Poe hated whatever point she was trying to make with this display, as Leia followed her lead and took a bite, he had no choice but to do the same.

And as desperate as he was to stay boiling with anger when he looked at her, even with teal juices dripping down around the corner of her mouth, his mind was flooded with a delicious distraction the second his tongue touched the inner meat of the vibrant fruit. It wasn’t enough for Haiki to be the most beautiful planet in the galaxy, nor was it enough for her to be the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in person, they also needed to have the most overwhelming natural fruits.

Each hesitant chew he took sparked flavors across his tongue, wild, exotic, unlike anything he had ever tasted before. It wasn’t just that his diet had consisted of bland ration packs for the past few years, the taste was truly sweeter and more complex than anything he had ever had on his tongue.

As much as he hated giving her the satisfaction, while he looked up from the greenish inside of the skin to find her careful stare, he could see that he was doing little to hide his overwhelming satisfaction with the flavor given her increasingly smug smirk.

“Haiki is a special place, I don’t think you realize that.” The Princess continued carefully, shifting her stare back to Leia directly.

“We do, Dekka, however--”

“I don’t think you do.” She was quick to counter. “You would have me pledge my sponsorship to your futile movement and sacrifice my planet and the millions of souls who live here to the wrath of the First Order with nothing to offer me in return. You must think my planet worthless.”

Leia shook her head, taking a brief second to swallow the rest of the fruit she held in her mouth and regain her composure in order to fight back, “We can offer your planet protection from the First Order--”

“Because that worked so well for Alderaan, Raysho, Cardota and Courtsilius?” Again, the princess, without hesitation, cut her off. And this time, Poe was done holding his tongue, the heat finally sending his anger boiling over.

“And pledging your allegiance to a sociopathic regime of murderers is preferable?”

It was exactly what Leia had feared. It was the exact reason she had tried so hard to keep him quiet. Not because she feared he would shoot and miss, but because of his tone.

Each word drenched in a level of disrespect he hadn’t earned with her, stepping over a line he didn’t even realize, but one Leia couldn’t help him back from, even as she reached up to grab hold of him to prevent his anger from carrying him closer to the Princess and making things worse.

“I’ll do whatever it takes to protect my planet.” She held her stance even as Poe stepped up, making no move but the slight uptick of her chin as he got closer. “As a peaceful planet, we have no options to arm ourselves outside of diplomacy and the First Order is being far more convincing.”

“Whatever they’ve said is lies, you can’t seriously consider trusting them.” He spoke like a man with no knowledge of his actions, entirely oblivious to the way her guard tightened their stances the closer he got, too blinded by his anger as she continued to argue back against him.

“Because the resistance has never lied to us? Because you can be trusted implicitly on your word?”

With another step forward, eliminating any space between the two of them, Poe effectively cut Leia and her futile attempts to get him to back down out of the conversation. “What have they promised you? Safety? Isolation from the war? It’s only a matter of time before they are enslaving your people and stealing your resources--”

“They’ve promised me protection and have been nothing but cordial, unlike you and your failing resistance.” She scoffed, shaking her small bun of greying hair enough to let loose a few strands as she refused to back down. “So you’d do best to mind yourself before you overstep a boundary you can’t walk back from.”

There was a sense of finality to her tone as she ended her sentence, one Leia picked up on immediately, but even as she moved to grab more forcefully at Poe’s arm to pull him back to reality, he continued to fight his way out of it. Hot-headed, stubborn, cocky. She should have known better than to bring him along. She should have known things would go the way they were going.

“You want me to play nice? People are dying.”

Everything that happened next happened all too fast. The words came spewing from Poe’s lips and as the Princess turned away, no longer requiring herself to be subject to his cruel intonation, he reached out and grabbed her arm before he could be stopped.

In the back of his mind, he could still hear the echoing warning Leia had provided him, telling him to keep his distance and speak with nothing but respect, but the flashes of war echoing in his head and the fire burning in his chest were crackling too loud for anything else to matter. A part of him knew it was out of line, that same part of him was begging for him to stop, and yet his hand still found the smooth, tattooed skin of her forearm, holding her in place as she moved to turn away in frustration.

Leia took a strong hold on the sweat-soaked back of his shirt and yanked him back, but the damage had already been done. “Stand down, Dameron,” she tried out but by the time he released her arm, the guards had already descended upon him, gripping him by each arm and kicking the backs of his legs in to drop him to his knees.

“I think the damage has been done, General.” Her voice was firm in her resolve and equally firm as her language switched and her tongue released a flurry of orders towards the guards who held the stubborn, fighting Dameron on his knees.

“What the kriff-- I barely touched her--” He fought as their grips grew tighter, forcing him frozen where they held him.

Leia tried again, this time not to hold Poe back but to carefully convince the princess, “Dekka Anya-Va, please…”

But her mind was made up and nothing either of them could do would change that.

“We’ll let him think himself over with a sleep in our cells,” she explained to Leia as her stare then fell back to the squirming form of the curly haired and now defenseless pilot. “You can leave with him in the morning.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“No, but it seems you might be.” The rough, raspiness to her tone which had been so distracting as it filtered out her accent shifted to something nearly playful, as if the whole display before her was amusing. He was being restrained by a towering guard of thick muscle on each side and she had the audacity to chuckle so plainly in his face, only making him fight more even if he knew it was futile.

Leia stepped forward carefully towards the princess but before she could muster any last defense, the princess gave a wave of her hand and the guards, with shoulders wide in intimidating bulk, heaved the fighting pilot to his feet and began backing him up, dragging him in the opposite direction.

“Dekka Anya-Va, let me apologize for his actions--”

“Mensha?” Her raspy voice interrupted the General before any real defense could leave her lips, ushering a young maid out from the small crowd which gathered around the display. “Please escort the General to a room where she can wait, give her anything she needs.”

“Dekka Anya-Va--”

“I’m not my mother, General, the sooner you learn that, the better for all of us involved.”

The long walk back into the depths of the granite palace was all too lonely as the Princess dismissed each and every member of her staff which approached her, even waving away the genuine concern on Elias’ brow and leaving him in the halls as she continued to the throne room. Her back was screaming out from the straight form she maintained with each and every step, but she held her stance and walked on, shoulders firm and chin up, just as she was taught. If anyone passed her, they had to see her as what she was, their leader.

And leaders didn’t waver, no matter how strong the vacuum of emptiness swirling within their chest was, not when there were eyes to see.

But the second the towering doors of intricate dark oak shut behind her, leaving her alone in the expansive and empty throne room, her shoulders fell in, collapsing her perfect form as her chin fell to her chest. The weight which settled there was too great, and the hollow gorge that tore through her heart was too powerful.

Did he really think it was that easy?

Her throat burned with the heat rising out of her chest and her legs grew weaker with each step until she collapsed back against the exquisite throne of dark, sparkling granite consumed by overgrown vines, the words from the hot-headed pilot echoing through her mind, latching onto every thought.

Did he think it was all that simple? Did he think she saw the blood on the hands of the First Order and so easily ignored it? Did he think it was that easy?

A sociopathic, murderous regime… did he really think she didn’t realize what they were?

The bubbling in her gut continued on as her thoughts swarmed with a buzzing around her mind and her head fell forward into her hands where her elbows rested on her knees. Her fingers made furious circles of her temples but it made no difference, his words were there, haunting her mind and inescapable.

Did they really think she didn’t know right from wrong?

With the responsibility for millions of souls resting heavy on her back, the fate of her kind in her hands, it just wasn’t as easy as good versus bad. No matter how badly she wished it was.

“Dekka Anya-Va,” the faint voice of one of her staffed maids entered her thoughts as the small woman carefully tiptoed into the room. “The prisoner is… angrily shouting for a meeting with you.”

Her back straightened on instinct, sending a shooting pain up her spine with the quick pace of the change. A pain she could barely mask with her regal tone as turned her stare towards the young woman, “we’ll leave him to calm himself down for now.”

“Of course, Dekka.”

As the door shut again, leaving her alone with her thoughts again, a sigh of insurmountable exhaustion fell from her lips and she collapsed back into the uncomfortable shape of stone.

If only things could be that simple...

tags: (open)

@cammisanders @rogueonestan @blacksquadron-rougetwo @videogamesandpoorlifechoices @trust-dreamcatcher @mistermiraclee @witchyavenger @randomness501 @buckstaposition

#poe dameron #star wars #poe dameron x oc #golden series #princess au #princess leia #general organa

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zirkkun · 4 years

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📂 Tell me more than one. I like hearing your ideas.

Hoo boy. Giving me no limit to my thoughts is too much power lol I'll limit myself to 5 for now???

1) UT Sans is the type of person to not particularly enjoy physical contact and usually avoids most any other than like, basic things (handshake, tapping a shoulder, etc). But when he's super close to someone, he's the exact opposite and will cling to them as if he needs it to survive. I kind of project this onto Error too, where like his fear for touch comes from the fact that he'd witnessed everyone he cared about die as Geno, so he doesn't believe he can get close to anyone again, leaving him in fear of all physical contact.

2) Gaster didn't do anything wrong. Everyone seems to write Gaster like he's done something wrong in Undertale or was a terrible person that experimented on Sans and Papyrus or something, but there's really nothing to say that he was. I'm convinced he was well-respected in the Underground as a scientist and merely died from a scientific failure of sorts. Due to his odd sprite, I'd assume it was Determination-based, but the idea that he "fell into the CORE" has genuinely always confused me. Did they throw his dust into the CORE? Did he sacrifice himself to power the CORE? Was their misinformation spread after his death (hence why all the Gaster Followers say something different)? I dunno lol

3) this one is. Pretty out-there. But I have this theory that Sans and Jevil were purposefully designed to be foils (aka characters who are exact opposites) and may possibly represent some kind of god and demon, respectively. Both of them have specific requirements that lead to their battle that requires extra work from the player, first of all, so they're technically both under the "optional fight" category. Both of these fights are even completely opposite: Sans's battle is repetitive, easy to predict, and can be beaten through sheer repetition and memorization because there is an order and pattern to each of his attacks. Jevil's, while I think is mostly the same order of attacks, is entirely randomized where things are going to land, so the most you can predict for is what attack is coming next, but not where to start, where to go, etc. It's chaotic. To get to Sans, you have to climb up through the Underground, because the Judgement Hall is nearly the peak of the mountain, and that's where he'll judge you. Not to mention, it's pretty church-like in the Hall. Those who get past him, go to the Surface, where the Delta Rune legend's Fallen Angel is from. Not to mention everyone praises the Surface like it's the most beautiful place in the world. Jevil, on the other hand, is in the lowest part of the Dark World you can possibly go to, and was put down there to be locked away for the chaos he'd caused. He's convinced that he's free while in that cage, because no one will bother him. There's no social norms or laws to break because he's the only one in there. Those OUTSIDE of it are the ones that have to abide by rules. That and... Jevil? Devil? Yeah, pretty obvious.

I could go on for hours about this theory ... But something tells me I'm looking too deep into it and if Toby saw it he'd just be like "neat. Didn't even think about that." LMAO

4) While it can definitely be assumed that Sans knows about resets, alternate timelines, etc. from his mention of them in the Genocide battle as well as the fact he has a (many?) quantum physics book, which the concept of alternate universes comes from quantum physics, I don't think in every timeline he recognizes the resets. At the VERY least, he has something to keep tabs on Undertale's "code," for lack of a better term, because he straight up tells you in the Genocide fight that he noticed that you were suddenly there by recognizing you were an anomaly. I'm convinced this is because you, the player, have been the only thing that has an outside influence on their world, one of the only things that has been able to mess with the "code" in the way of resets, saving, literally glitching things (I'm pretty sure there's like an easter egg where you can walk through the wall in the MTT Resort or I totally dreamt that). At the same time, I don't think Sans recognizes that there's someone controlling Frisk, and just sees this "anomaly" as Frisk. Additionally to this, I'm pretty much convinced Sans hates Frisk/the player/possibly even so far as humans as a whole by default. Because of the way he speaks to you about everything in the Genocide run, saying something along the lines of he only tried being nice to guide you on the correct path for everyone else's desire to go to the Surface (cause we know he couldn't give two shits about going to the Surface or not. Even on a neutral/pacifist route on the MTT Resort date he'll try and convince you to stay before deciding to take it back.)

5) Frisk is a vessel like mentioned in the beginning of Deltarune. While you can't choose how Frisk looks, you can choose everything else about Frisk. Unlike Kris, there are no pre-determined relationships or actions to shape Frisk's character, and Frisk does very, VERY little on their own, unless you play Genocide. Notably, I think a lot about how Kris is a lot more independent of a character, because he fights back against your actions, and when he does it's the one time we see an expression from him and his eyes. The main point of Deltarune is "your choices don't matter." The other character that said our choices don't matter? Chara. At the end of Genocide, if you choose to not erase the world, Chara will say, "When were you the one in control?" I feel like most people take this as they were speaking to the player directly, but I've always taken it as they were talking to Frisk directly. Chara can't see us, but they can see Frisk. They know Frisk is being controlled -- and, to compare again to Kris, possibly because we cannot see Frisk's eyes. They walk around blindly, so they have to be guided by SOMETHING, right? In this case, that something is the player. Frisk is nothing but a vessel for us to communicate with the game.

Okay that got LONG I'm sorry avdhsbs it's a v good thing i preemptively told myself only 5 because I could go on for. Forever.

#'ill limit myself to 5'#(writes 5 essays)#i have. many undertale thoughts.#zircon answers #lostcelestialstar #long post

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johobi · 5 years

Text

The Devil In His Details

Word count: 9.2k

Pairing: Jimin x Reader

Warnings: alcohol consumption, drug mentions, dirty talk, oral sex (male receiving), assplay, prostate milking, edging

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18686617

A/N: So this was supposed to be 1k words long for an anon that requested bad boy!Jimin in a drabble prompt game. Clearly that didn’t happen. I hope you enjoy it more than I did editing lkfjwalkjf.

Evil comes in many forms. In this instance, it’s a 5′8″ pretty-boy with an even prettier dick. And you’re the form you want him to come in.

Park Jimin.

A slender, regal nose. Two sly eyes that mellow with laughter. A white smile with just the one, imperfect tooth. Cheeks you'd find on a cherub's face, but a jawline hewn with the devil's input.

Everything about his face is an infuriating dichotomy of soft and sharp. And, God, his lips. Full, unfairly alluring, and begging to be kissed. But this is not a man who does much of that. Begging, that is. Kissing? Oh, he does a lot of that. It doesn't extend to you, though, no matter how much you wish it did.

Jimin is the object of your latest fixation. Well. You may say latest, but in reality you've been harbouring something hot and nasty for this guy for most of the academic year. To the faces of your friends, you blame the heartbreak inflicted by your ex-boyfriend. The thing is, you've been over him for months. Without that as a plausible explanation for your misguided crush, though, you have little to offer in substitution. Jimin isn't the type of guy any sensible, law-abiding girl should be cranking her Rabbit up for. Sure, he's so beautiful that his face can cleanse troubled minds. But he’s flying so many red flags it's like swimming in shark-infested waters.

He manspreads across from you in the campus square, leather jacket and black jeans lacquering his body and a cigarette dwindling limply between his lips. A smile occupies his mouth and eyes, the latter until they're mere, charming slits. You find yourself smiling, too. Oh, God. Get yourself together, ____. Fucking infatuated idiot.

You should know better. Jimin is aposematic with his lurid, magenta hair. He's a beacon of rebellion amidst the drab of campus conformation. And, yeah, maybe he looks cool because of that.

But he’s nothing but trouble.

A criminal.

You don't know the extent of his many and varied illegal activities, but you do know that you'd be an idiot to ever involve yourself with him. The lesser of his crimes begin with him not even being enrolled at the very university he utilises as his base of operations. And nor is he shooed away for his overt disregard for campus rules - and, generally, the law - because security lives snugly in his weed-stuffed back pocket. Yep, he's a dealer. Street racer. Brawler. You don't know how many times you've been torn from sleep by his gang's maniacal laughter as they rough up a rival, less attractive one.

He's also a heartbreaker.

And as ridiculous as it is, that's the thing that gives you most reason for pause. Not the drug-peddling, not the violence, but because you're in so deep you want to be sharkbitten. Consumed, bone for bone.

But he never looks your way. Ever. You're not so much a Plain Jane, you don't think, but desperately shy. Especially where your heart's involved. It forgets its function when confronted with someone you like. You take care of your appearance. You've had a few, long-term boyfriends. But whenever you're dumped back at Square One: Single, you're as hopeless in romance as you are in cooking. And all the cuisine you can conjure involves a microwave.

Scenarios of seduction circulate your mind as you ogle him from afar, your thoroughly bitten lip again between your teeth. If only you possessed the confidence your best friend insisted lay latent within you. It would be nothing to strut up to him now and toss your phone into his lap, arms crossed and an expectant smirk curling your mouth. "Gonna give me your number, or what?" you'd sigh - exasperated for the sake of drama - his beautiful face wiped clean of its cocksure facade.

Yeah, that'd be real cool.

But you're still sitting here, legs bobbing out of habit. Jimin is still there, smug and sexy, imparting something hilarious enough, apparently, to wind the comparably attractive guys with him. It's then that your phone purrs between your hands, clutched and previously forgotten.

It's Jisoo, said best friend.

[13:56] slut #1: heyyyy

[13:56] slut #1: guess what

It'll be one of two things. Either she needs your notes because she slept-in in lieu of doing the set reading, or—

[13:56] slut# 1: our floor's having a party tonight

Party.

[13:56] slut #1: come or ill break your legs

The severity of her threat comes down to your repeatedly declining her invitations. It's not that you don't enjoy parties, because you do. In fact, there’s rarely a time you feel more alive than getting smashed and exorcising your anxiety for those few hours. It's more the fact that it takes a month's worth of mental energy to prevent you flaking out in the lead-up.

Today, though, you're game. Your introversion has been well and truly catered to these last, barren weeks. You're at full charge.

[13:58] yeah, why not

Dots dance across the screen.

[13:58] slut #1: serious???? holy shit that was easy for once

[13:58] slut #1: come to my room at 9

[13:59] the party's in your room?

[13:59] slut #1: no dumbass it's like the whole floor, idek whose party it is but u gotta meet me somewhere right

[14:00] kk. see you then

However unlikely, a feeble hope tugs at your fragile, besotted heart. Maybe he'll go? The organ stutters in your chest when you raise your eyes to where Jimin sits. But he's gone. Suddenly, it all seems like a terrible idea. It's just not meant to be. The universe is communicating it to you as gently as it can.

I need a firm slap. Irked by your nonsensical infatuation, you shoot to your feet and make off in a storm, bag not so much slung but catapulted onto your back. I need to get the fuck over this.

The campus square is a sizeable, open space with the central fountain being its only obstacle. However, by how solid the object is that you suddenly collide with, it seems to have sprouted another.

"Shit!" you gasp, nose flattened sharply, painfully, against something immovable. As you rub it, brows sharp in offense, you peer up into eyes of the thing you've blindly marched into.

Fuck.

Jungkook.

One of Jimin's lackeys.

Before you can locate his magenta-headed leader, however, Jungkook fills the entirety of your field of view. His narrow lips draw tighter; eyes, too. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

“U-Uh—”

“Uh?” the musclehead mimics, stooping into your personal space. By instinct, you shrink. At odds with his adorably prominent front teeth, the sneer he wears is nasty. “Anything else?”

An errant glance over Jungkook’s shoulder finds you Jimin. He hangs back, hands in pockets, nonplussed by the confrontation. It’s likely pretty tame in comparison to their usual run-ins. But it frustrates you, nonetheless, that the boy won’t look at you, even now, when the spotlight is searing you.

Jungkook snaps his fingers at the end of your nose and you’re back in the room. “Well?”

“I’m sorry. It was an accident. I wasn’t looking where I was going.” You hack for breath when he exhales a plume of cigarette smoke directly into your face. “I-It won’t happen again.”

The other one with them - Seokjin, the half-ass in your business studies class - claps a hand on Jungkook’s seam-straining shoulder. “‘Roid rage. Sorry, sweetheart. You’re a finance major too, right?”

Before you can even process the unexpected civility of his question, Jungkook rounds on him in ire. “The fuck? You know I don’t take steroids.” His cigarette flares at the corner of his mouth. Like a showboating pidgeon, he puffs out his muscular chest. “This is all hard work.”

Seokjin is clearly unmoved. He blinks an unnecessary amount of times, like it’s a tic of his. His glasses ride up as he crinkles his nose. Then: “Okay. Didn’t know you were too stupid to get a joke though. ‘Roids must be shrinking your brain as well as your dick.”

“What—”

An Off-White jacket streaks across your vision.

“—the fuck—”

A white t-shirt follows it soon after.

“—did you just say?”

Jungkook ripples, shirtless, with such unabated fury he distorts the air surrounding. Or maybe it’s the heatwave.

It’s then, beholding this sudden, aggressive display, that your fear finally surfaces. “Oh my God, what the fuck is happening?” you whisper exclusively to yourself, because to attract attention is to court an ass-beating.

And it’s then, of course, that Jimin finally takes heed of your existence. With a quirk of his head, he stares you down. Well, not so much stare. What he does expresses far less effort. His eyes meander the length of you in their own, good time, before landing on your blanching face. The laziest of smirks possess his lips.

Your heart sprouts wings.

His smirk widens.

Fuck, your heart’s airborne. It’s gonna launch itself out your mouth.

Seokjin dispels Jimin’s sorcery with another, unwisely provocative comment. “Your dick’s shrivelled? Or your brain? I don’t know which one offended you.”

Jungkook pounds his chest once, like an oversexed silverback. “Why you always gotta do me like this, bro? Is it ‘cause I fucked your mom that one time? I thought you were over tha—”

“Fuck you!”

Just when you’d established Seokjin as the pacifist of the group, he begins throttling Jungkook double-handed. The pair slip into an awkward grapple while Jimin looks on.

Looks at you.

Doesn’t even spare a glance for the groups of hurried, whispering students migrating across campus.

Guttural grunts float up from the ground as Jungkook and Seokjin’s scuffle escalates, but their leader pays them no mind in that moment. It’s your opportunity to say something more, but you don’t. Your vocal chords never pull together.

Moment missed.

Jimin sweeps a lock of magenta from his eyes, finally animate. A testy sigh siphons from him. “Get up. You’re making me look bad. Put your fucking shirt on, Jungkook.” His voice, usually soft, strikes like a serpent. Venom coats his tongue. “You represent me, dickheads. Plus, you’re scaring this girl.”

The absurdity of the situation, the apprehension you feel, is muffled for a moment. All you can hear is the rush of blood and Jimin’s vocal acknowledgement of your existence ricocheting in your mind. Girl. You.

It’s stupid. Demeaning, even, snapping up these scraps like a slobbering mongrel.

But exciting.

Having captured Jimin’s attention, you bow to him the gratitude you can’t vocalise. The plan, as you rise, is to hit him with a seductive smile, but you're certain your mouth only stretches awkwardly. Nevertheless, his pretty lips purse for a moment before pulling up, too. “I’m going.” He addresses them, but his eyes are on you.

Jimin takes his leave without further ado. As he passes you his gaze lingers too long, demanding he turn his face. His body ghosts past without contact, but a chilly thrill descends upon you like he's drifting right through your bones. And then he struts away like he owns the place, because he does.

And, God, he owns you, too.

His in-fighting entourage scrabble to catch up with him. Jungkook's hastily gathered clothes scrape the floor as he runs, their expense forgotten. “‘Min-hyung! Wait! We’re sorry!”

"Bye then," you comment, quiet, to their retreating backs. It wasn't quite the first encounter you'd prophesied, but considering Jimin's reputation, it should've been.

Anyway.

Your eyes fall to your phone and this evening's plans.

Party.

---

Jisoo's generously highlighted features bob before you in the muted light. Parts of her face are so illuminescent it looks like scaffolding. "Anyway, I'll be back soon. Get some drinks, loosen up. I need to find Namjoon."

"Okay, but are you actually gonna come back?" Your first beaker of jungle juice is already souring your lips. "'Cause if you're gonna find Namjoon, I don't think you're gonna come back."

Her eyes are everywhere but on you, glossy mouth twisting. “I'll really try! But I also really wanna see him, now I know he's here." Suddenly, your free hand is in her meticulously manicured clutches. "I'm not saying I will disappear, but I might. Please understand! I need dick so bad. Please." And now her eyes are on yours, black as night and just as dangerous. Jisoo is never more serious than when cock is at stake.

You shake yourself free of her flimsy grasp and flimsier promises. "Do what you want, but I don't know anyone in your dorm. If you don't come back in an hour, I'm gonna go."

That was an hour ago.

Within that hour, you consumed three cups of awful booze, lingered awkwardly by the party lights, and recovered zero Jisoos. The only noteworthy happening was some plastered guy insisting you were his boyfriend. So insistent, in fact, that you doubted your own identity by the last of the 15 minutes he spent calling you Yoongi. He lamented endlessly about how difficult it would be to survive the evening without getting in your tight little ass. The only thing that convinced him of the truth to your identity was said, tight-assed man appearing and dragging the lightweight away. Yoongi did have a nice ass, you observed, as they fell back into the throng.

Oh.

And Jimin was here.

Skulking the fuchsia shadows like a perfect predator. Thing is, he's already top of the food chain. No hunting required. Very much evidenced by the girls that swarmed him all night like a shoal of pilotfish. The music was too loud and the light too dim, but for every instance he opened his mouth, his accompanying partygoers exploded into laughter. This seems a skill of his. He has dominion over men and women both.

And you're no exception.

Whenever he was in sight, he drew your eyes. When he was dancing, he drew them lower. And there they remained, never straying from his swivelling hips and straining thighs. The girls danced in circles around him like they were worshipping a pagan idol. Understandable. You coveted him, too, from afar.

But now he's gone. Your cup is empty. Jisoo is getting Namjoon'd.

It's been an hour. You're going home.

There’s enough trash at your feet and liquor loosening your morals that you feel no guilt in dropping your beaker onto the pile. Polished, black shoes with pointed toes enter view and crumple that which you’ve littered. You look up.

“Juh—”

Jimin. It’s Jimin. Neither your mouth nor brain can co-ordinate sufficiently enough to identify him verbally, though. Instead, you gawp, inches from his breathtaking face, bathed in romantic light. “Littering, huh? Kinda rude, don’t you think?” He taunts, tongue between teeth. When you don’t rebut him, he slides an arm up the wall behind you. Sinks closer, until your eyes meet on an intimate level. “What are you doing here, campus girl? Didn’t think this was your kind of thing.”

Righteous indignation roils in you. As for why, it’s unclear. As are most things when relatively tipsy. “How would you know what my kind of thing is? You don’t know me. Also, don’t call me campus girl.” At this proximity, you’re acutely aware of the alcohol on your breath. You dial it down a bit. Turn your head and snort. “That’s rude.”

The alcohol, apparently, has also robbed you of your self-preservation skills. Because never in the light of a sober day would you be slighting a delinquent like this. And not the one you’re besotted with, either. That, then, dawns on you. As does his closeness, and the sweet smell of his own poison of choice.

“Well, I don’t know your name, do I?” Charm inhabits his tone, his smile. God, it’s flustering. Jimin toys with you, thwarting your attempts to evade his eyes. His face follows yours, until it’s all you can do but stop and stare. Fall fully and deeply into him. “‘Cause you’re shy, aren’t you?” He wets his lips then, unfairly. They’re dewy and full and even rosier in this light.

“Let me suck your dick,” you blurt, hypothesizing it being just as juicy. Just as tasty. Your inhibitions are low, but not enough that this is a mistake. Jisoo is right. There’s confidence in you, somewhere. You tap it when you tap a keg.

Jimin looks scandalised. His eyebrows vanish into his hairline. Giddy laughter streams from him. “Pardon?”

“I said, let me suck your dick.” Power floods your bloodstream. Liquid courage mingles with. “I’m pretty good at it, and I really want to. Like, so bad. I think about it a lot.”

If he says no, you no longer have to wonder.

If he says no, you never have to look at him again.

If he says no, you can chase someone wholesome and virtuous.

If he says yes, you get to suck his dick.

“Yeah?” Interest kindles in Jimin’s keen, black eyes. He’s close enough, now, that his body heat feels akin to weight against you. His voice drops below the bass of the music. “What did you think about?”

Are you gonna dirty talk in public?

A quick glance around and they aren’t so much the public anymore as parading monkeys, high on lust and low on decency. Just over from you, there’s a girl getting the least discreet fingerbanging of her life.

So, yeah. You lose a little of your rigidity and tip back your head. Lick your lips with a deliberate tongue. “How pretty your cock probably is. How it’d feel on my tongue, in my throat.” Unconscious or not, Jimin’s pressing to your hip. The subject of your conversation starts soft in his pants, but stiffens with your salacious description. Fuck, you’re tingling, too. “How you’d taste, coming down my throat—”

“Are you for real, campus girl?” Jimin interrupts, breathy. Disbelieving. He almost sounds distressed. Like a donkey that doesn’t wanna walk miles for a dangling carrot. Jimin doesn’t seem to get it, though. He’s the carrot, and dear God you wanna chomp down.

“I told you not to call me that. Guess you’re not interested,” you bluff, because not only are you provocative on booze, you’re also an absolute fucking idiot. There’s a significant chance he’ll tire of your tsundere bullshit and find another open mouth. However, as you turn to leave, fate smiles on you. As does he, when he sandwiches you to the wall, his chest to your back and his mouth a ghost on the nape of your neck.

Chills.

Chills spread where his breath is hot and wet. But still, his lips don’t touch. You can, however, hear the smirk in his voice. “Tell me your name.”

The stutter sabotages you somewhat. You’re breathless. “I-It’s ____.”

"____," Jimin repeats with a flick of his tongue, wetting your nape with the slightest of saliva. "Are you for real, ____? Or are you drunk?"

His fingers spread like wildfire across the tops of your thighs, testing the give of your flesh. You exhale as if he's squeezing the soul from you. "I'm for real. I'm not drunk, I've just had enough to realise that if I don't say this now, I never will. How often do you talk to me, after all?"

Jimin's throat rumbles as he contemplates. His lips part by your ear, vocal fry caressing each, careful syllable. "How often do you talk to me?" he poses. The steady, rigid throbbing against your ass suggests that this could've happened sooner.

Reluctant as you are to disturb your clinch, you’re not here to stare at the plastering. It would be a crime to deny yourself the chance to ogle his beauty close-up. With this in mind, you twist against his body, bringing your fronts flush together. God, he throbs all the more potently like this, pressed to the crotch of your dress. Jimin's still smiling, of course, all illegal charm and zero reserve.

A nervous lick of lips. "You're terrifying. Especially when you're surrounded by those guys all the time. That's why I don't talk to you." It’s a half-truth. The other half is your incompetence in flirting.

"And here I was, thinking you were shy," is Jimin’s riposte. "But, clearly, I'm wrong." Those plush, pink lips descend on you before you can blink away the unreality of it. They're softer than any piss-poor imitation of a man's mouth that's come before them. Softer than silk, even. And when they open, syrupy. A mire of heat and wet tongue, caressing away all your prior fears, even if they're legit. It really doesn't matter. Not when you're tasting this sublime man. Not when he suckles at your mouth so sensually, so gently. He can't be that horrific a person when he's holding you with such careful attention. It's too soon when he unties your tongues. "You don't need to be afraid of me," Jimin murmurs thickly to your lips. The lop-sided smile he wears says otherwise. It's a little too close to a sneer. "Well, ____—" he steps back. Lures you with him. "Wanna make this a reality?"

You're giddy as fuck. So much so your legs feel like a Newton's cradle. "Y-Yeah. Take me somewhere—" to speak his name is to make it real— "Jimin."

People blur, merge shapelessly around you as he weaves through their mass, leading you by one, dainty hand. It's not the drink. You're dizzy - high, even - with anticipation so intense it renders all outside his svelte figure indistinct. All there is is him, and what you're about to do. It doesn't even feel like you're tripping up the stairs when you do. You're floating, actually, because he's pulling you up and smirking so salaciously that you're weightless. The only weight is the one nestled deep in your abdomen, punching at your cunt like it knows well what that smug mouth could do.

The two of you stagger into an unoccupied bathroom. It's as grim and grotty as you'd expect of student lodgings, but that matters very little right now. Even though you're painfully germaphobic. The priority is realising you're about to suck off Park fucking Jimin. It hits you so powerfully that, for a very long second, you want to reconsider. After all, he likely has expectations. Confidence flees from you.

"Okay, then. On your knees, ____."

And then it floods back. As does desire.

Jimin perches atop the toilet with poise, its seat flat beneath him. You briefly speculate its cleanliness, but he’s already slinking the denim down his legs and over his knees. They cling in a pool at his ankles, likely impossible to get any further. His visibly wilting cock lounges against the crotch of his CKs, waiting for your intervention. It'll have to wait a little longer, though, because there's nothing on God's awful earth that will hinder your leering at this visual feast. His muscle-strapped thighs are somehow all the thicker hugging the bowl of the toilet. And the tiny, toned waist they taper to is all the confirmation you require to understand that this man is way out of your league. Like, forget international league. You're 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. "Fuck."

The curse is all he needs to understand. Whether it's for the sake of wanking his ego or to titillate you further, Jimin tenses his quads until they're as hard and smooth as varnished oak. All you want is to ride them like a fucking rocking horse. "You making me wait?"

Hell no. Before he can even finish his taunt you're at his feet and kneading his thighs like dense dough. Jimin feels fit. He isn't pliable like lovers gone. He's zero body fat, all thew, all sex. He's everything.

And you're nothing to him.

Tonight, though, you’ll become something.

Your fingers continue upward. And as they do, inward. Where he's slightly fleshier, and by the twitch of his covered dick, more sensitive. "How do you like it?"

"I'm as predictable as any other guy," Jimin half-shrugs, reclining against the cistern. His fingers curl into your hair, though not in any pushy, possessive way. It's almost as though he's simply appreciating its texture. The curve of your scalp. Tingles spring from his touch and arrest your body. "Deep as possible. Don't neglect the shaft. Play with my balls a little," he reels off his litany shamelessly. "If you can take it, lemme fuck your face?"

Each of his suggestions make both your mouth and cunt salivate. You want all of those things and more. That other thing. "We'll see," you say as much to yourself as you do to him. "Let's see what we're working with." You lunge for his waistband with both hands, eager to steal them from his body. Jimin halts you once you peek pubes.

"I'm not sitting my bare ass on this toilet." The grunt he makes is indignant. Adamant.

But you have plans. And so you whip a towel from its rail and coax it beneath him, the makeshift mat feeling dubiously damp. "If you want me to do it good, let me have you without your underwear."

Jimin complies, shifting his weight. Then, with danger perverting his tone: "Then you better do it good, ____."

You perform well under pressure. The pressure that comes with academic deadlines and 10th grade theatre, at least. However, it doesn't extend to sucking the cock of, arguably, the most intimidating, most captivating man you've gawped at from afar. Your previous lovers were diffident and easy to please. It's only through your own, bored invention that you delved deeper into the art of oral with them. You hope it serves you well tonight. "I'll try my best," you challenge, brow cocked, Jimin's boxers successfully purloined. The front of them are tacky to the touch, and this alone incites you. God, you can taste his salt already.

To your dismay, he doesn't resume his careful caressing of your scalp. No, once his bottom half is nude, he splays his thighs obscenely and leans back, fingers curling around the towel-covered toilet seat. From here he peers down his nose at you, a smirk all the while. His torso is one rigid, smooth slope, and you wish selfishy to see it exposed. Asking for that, too, though, might be too much.

And now that your gaze plummets, it doesn't matter. His cock is enough. You'd think it impossible for such an awkward looking appendage to ever earn the term pretty. But, uniform with the rest of him, his is. What he lacks in length he makes up for generously in girth. His cock is chubby and blushing, and, yes, pretty. God, so pretty.

Yes, you'll let him face-fuck you.

The tinkle of Jimin's earrings disrupt your awed silence. He projects impatience: Chewed lips, raised eyebrows, a slight, inquisitive tilt to his head. "This your first time or something?" Magenta falls across his eyes as his focus slips down his own body. He cages his cock inside a delicate fist, nurturing it to its full, thickened capacity. As it grows, so does his filthy smile. "You don't need to lie to me. I can go easy on you."

"This isn't my first time." Your resentment is palpable. Apparently, he enjoys it. As he pumps himself harder, his tongue probes disrespectfully at the corner of his upturned mouth. That only inflames you. "Is it your first time? Are all the rumours false?" Your comeback is risky, but the mood suggests banter is welcome. Perhaps all this big, bad wolf wants is a little, red-faced riding hood to provoke him.

The dare pays off. With one last, long stroke, he lets loose his erection, the concrete appendage slapping his stomach with an admirable thud. Resting back on one hand, he gestures to his waiting cock with the other. "Totally. I'm a good boy, ____. Now stop talking and fucking spit on it."

Your clit jumps. As do you, right into action. With your palms canvassing his inner thighs, you take one last, unenlightened breath before you dive face-first into his musk, pulling aside his cock to nuzzle at its base. To fully savour his scent and warmth. Jimin fills your hand to the extent you're unable to form anything close to a closed fist. Your thoughts are possessed only by your imagination and how wide he could stretch you. How full he could make you. A fucking stampede thuds through your pussy. "Mm, you have such a nice cock," you murmur around the root of him. It's not so much meant as a compliment, but a statement of pure fact that must be expressed. You're sure he's heard such professions many times.

Yep. "I know, sweetheart." The timbre of his voice is a little heavier. Breathier. As your tongue flicks lazily under the round of his balls, it quivers, too. Nevertheless, he maintains his stoicism. "Why you teasing me down there? You know what I want."

When you pull one of his testicles into your mouth, however, he emits a quiet noise. One that sounds a little like it's something he wants. "Yes, daddy," you mouth around him, full irony. Jimin reacts to it, though. Pushes into your slack grip, looking for friction you're not about to give. It's almost enough to make you roll your eyes. Still, you don't know where the limit to his patience lies. And so you relent and pull your mouth upwards, dragging his sac with your reluctant lips. Jimin tenses when finally you free him, wet, sticky, and back to hanging. And then you're ascending his fat, veiny shaft, lathering the underside with your tongue. Ekeing from him the most delicious gasps of air. His hands go back into your hair, though with far less care this time, grasping at your roots as though to earth him.

"Yeah, that's it, ____. Keep going." Jimin's encouragement is sweeter to the ears than any lauded music. And so is the stifled whine that streams from him when you glaze the tip of his cock with saliva, enough to dribble down its entire length. Once he’s sufficiently spat on, you follow with your mouth. Fuck, it’s a strain to accommodate him. A feat not to scrape him with your teeth. He's so thick you must look vulgar stuffing him between your lips like this. A wayward glance tells you he's enjoying the lewd visual, though. His mouth is parted and breath puffs quickly from him. His eyes, normally sharp with wit, are dull. Fully blown. Jimin devours the sight of your struggle, as you do his uncomfortably chubby dick. His nails imprint crescents of self-restraint into the skin of your scalp. "F-Fuck. Yeah. Suck me."

You do. More fervently than you have any mouth-watering candy. Your lips work the head of his cock with measured pressure, back-and-forth, to the tune of his increasingly whiny vocalisations. Instinct takes him, sometimes, and he jerks without thought into you. Your teeth graze him, then, but it seems like an ineffective deterrence. No, sometimes he moans when you catch him, and for that you reward him with tongue on his frenulum.

That gets him the most.

His thighs ripple, his back bends. His head of magenta hair falls back.

"You—mmmmh—like that?" is your an attempt at a taunt, dulled by the cock wedged in your cheek.

"You suck dick like a fucking slut." Jimin is panting now, a sheen of perspiration oiling his face. Fuck, he looks dewy and downright dirty. The crotch of your panties is saturated with want for him. "You pretend you're all innocent and shit, but, Jesus, you're a dirty bitch."

With an enthusiastic flex of his thighs, he struggles free from the jeans binding him and props up a foot, knee bent and accentuating just how shapely his calves are. Spread like this, he's sordid. Wanton. He's getting desperate, and, against all expectations, unafraid to show it. Men with his level of machismo are typically reserved. It turns you on, dials you into overdrive, just how unabashed his enjoyment is. "Deeper. Can you take it deeper, ____? P-Please," Jimin whimpers on cue, resolve thready.

Briefly, you alight from his cock. He whimpers about that, too. This man is the terror of your college campus. And now he’s a needy, sex-swollen mess. "Depends. Can I edge you?" You're actually decently sober at this point, but bravado still brews in you nevertheless.

Jimin, no longer basking, purses his lips. Glares with the fury of a thousand blue-balled men. "Don't you fucking dare. Try it and I'll take over. I’ll come all over your smug little face."

The threat, in actuality, is more a solemn hope of yours. "Okay, okay. I won't edge you." Your hands keep busy while your overtaxed mouth relishes its moment of emptiness. You funnel your energy, instead, into keeping his cock stiff, five fingers twisting along its lubed-up length. With the other hand, you return to your earlier fixation and palm tenderly at his distended balls. A delicate quivering radiates from his core muscles. "But I really wouldn't mind you coming all over my face."

Everything about him tenses, then releases. His eyelids, low, bear the weight of arousal. "For real?"

"Might as well, my knees are already gross. You can get me dirtier if you like, Jimin." And then you're pulling down the straps of your dress until your breasts spill out, already pebbled and desperate for a fondling they won't get tonight. "Or here. Or everywhere. Just go to town."

Jimin gulps down stuffy, humid air. Concentrates a little too hard on your uncovered tits. Rocks a little too enthusiastically into your undulating grip. "God, yeah. I wanna come all over you. Spit in your fucking mouth." Suddenly it's not just your sole fist grasping him. He's clutching you, clutching him. Squeezing your knuckles until they're white and his cock is very, very red. "I'll bend you over the bathtub and fuck you 'til I break your hips. 'Til your pussy's dripping cum."

“Jesus—”

You’re so luststruck by his vulgar fantasies that it’s almost too late when you come to your senses. Jimin fucks your hands so ferociously it’s clear that the beast has taken him. You snatch away your hands before he wastes himself all over them. His come away, too, hovering in the air and demanding answers.

"Okay, well you just edged yourself." A giggle slips out while you watch him heave breath like he's nearing death. In a way, it's cute. Jimin's cheeks are full and flushed, eyes rounder than moons. He himself seems taken aback by his lapse into unadultered lust. "Don't take away the only reason I came here."

Despite Jimin's earlier, emphatic disapproval of being edged, he sure seems appreciative now. He basks in the near-rush, mellower than before. Gently - perhaps affectionately? - he cradles the back of your head and draws you in, a thumb pressing caresses to your cheek. This sudden sweetness, it's abnormal. Harmful. You don't want it. You don't want to see his good side, nor fall for it.

But here he comes, eyes searching, lips begging.

"Then deepthroat me like I asked."

Nevermind.

The pompous smirk is back. He reclines, his one leg up like an ode to Michaelangelo, dick tall and looking just as self-important. You're decided. It's time to make him squeal. "Okay. No edging. But let me make it feel even better?"

Jimin drips scepticism. "How?"

Fully anticipating rejection, you're direct. "Lemme stick a finger up your ass."

Again, he surprises you. Insomuch that revulsion doesn’t immediately sour him. "The fuck?" A husky chuckle rattles in his chest, instead. "Is that your secret technique?"

"Kinda." Your shoulders draw inward as self-consciousness consumes you. "I totally get it if you don't want to. But the other guys I've been with enjoyed it."

"Then do it, whatever. Don't let me go soft, though, ____," Jimin warns with pouty lips. His cock leans demonstratively forward, threatening flaccidity. "I'm feeling neglected."

"Tragic," you coo, feigning empathy. Looking as petulant as he, you suckle softly around the head of his dick, enkindling his passion before it fades. Your tongue does work around its bulbous ridge, teasing where it makes him squirm most. Then, with his demands in mind, your mouth descends over his modest stretch of shaft, worshipping each, precious inch as you go.

“Yes, baby. That’s it, that’s it.”

You dip and rise, tug and suck in a tantalising advance toward his base, wringing the precum from him. It's salty and sticky and you love it on your tongue, love smearing him with his own mess. Want to smear him with your mess.

“Fuck, yeah. K-Keep—unh!—going!”

The more of him you gobble, the more erratic his body behaves. Beneath your hands, his sweat-tacked thighs are tremulous, tensing without rhyme or reason. Jimin has little control over any of his extremities. His hands are uncomfortable fists in the back of your hair, like he's reining in a wilful mare. And then there's his beautiful, unstopped moaning, so sinful your clit thumps like a bass drum between your legs. You moan, too, slurping the end of his leaking cock to the back of your throat so he can better feel it. The reverberations must reach him, because Jimin bucks, then, wildly enough to trigger a gag. "Ugh, y-yes, fuck!"

You can't so much as master Savasana in yoga, but what you are adept at is gag control. And though you cough a little, slaver a little, nothing but sudden death will stop you now. Nose-deep in Jimin’s considerately trimmed pubic hair, you trap him momentarily there, the whole of his cock nestled deep in your throat's constraints.

Jimin looks half-way gone. His hands hover above your shoulders, fingers curling and twitching peculiarly, like he’s about to astral project. Indeed, all you can see through the sliver in his lightly-closed lids is the white of his eyes. Every so often Jimin rolls his pelvis towards you, but you stymy his attempts to face-fuck you until you're ready to see him over the finish line. Grasping his hips, your thumbs take the liberty of feeling the lines of his obliques, and, God, you've never hated an item of clothing more than the t-shirt he's wearing.

"More," he splutters, then, swivelling against your hold like he's compelled. "More, give me more. I'm so close, I—I wanna fucking drown you in cum—" an ungodly groan bursts forth as he whips himself into a frenzy of his own making— "Fuck, you suck cock so good—so good, baby."

Of all things, baby is what heats your cheeks. The endearment feels like long-coveted validation. "Bear with me," is what you try to communicate, but considering the weight of his cock is pinning your tongue, it comes out garbled. Jimin doesn't even notice, so rapt is he in your mouth's luxury. Occasionally, he rewards your efforts with globs of pre-ejaculate that slide smooth down your throat.

Not wanting to interrupt his well-earned crawl to orgasm, you bob on his cock hands-free, employing them instead to locate one of the condoms populating your purse. Keeping pace is difficult enough that it's not long before Jimin, unsteady on his perch, growls in caution.

"Don't you dare fucking stop," he grunts through gritted teeth, scrutinising your every, unrelated move. When he sees what it was you sought, the growl becomes a snarl. The disdain his eyes convey is almost comical. "Don't make me come in that. I'm not coming in that," he snorts, placated momentarily by your refocused efforts on his plump little dick. As you tear open the wrapper, you tongue his cock hole like a striking snake. "Oh, sh-shit!—H-Hey, if you don't want me to come on you I won't, but—"

Slobber splatters the towel in your haste to cut him off. "It's not for you."

Rather than court more questions, you demonstrate. Hastily, you unroll the condom over your longest finger. Then, with his unerring attention, you squat back on your heels and hike up your dress, allowing him a view onto your panty-wrapped cunt. Jimin doesn't even notice that your mouth is gone from him while he’s leching. It’s just long enough an opportunity to dip your rubber-sheathed digit deep into the wetness of your pussy. He makes noises as you do, quiet ones, ones that stress how much he wants to be inside it. When you withdraw, your lips lock back onto him, kissing his cock where it's most swollen and sensitive. "Try and relax, okay? It'll feel good quicker if you do," you offer in advice, your cunt-slick finger bypassing his balls and slithering along his perineum. Already he's reacting, even from this slight, external stimulation.

"I'm relaxed as fuck," Jimin puffs defiantly, despite his initial recoil. "Show me what you're all about, ____."

"Alright then." Ever so carefully, you wheedle the tip of your finger past his asshole, stopping when his body tells you to. "Jimin, if you can’t handle it—"

They're unextraordinary words, but, apparently, the magic ones. Immediately he loosens around you. "I can. Shut up."

You do. By engulfing his erection without warning. Drawing on it like you would a drinking straw, enough to fluster him into distraction. The result is an easy, sailing entry into his ass, right up to your knuckle. It's not difficult to locate his prostate from there, as deliciously swollen as it is. With a cursory couple of taps, Jimin's body responds in new, mesmerizing ways.

"W-What the fuck—ah!" he cries through his confusion, the unfamiliar feeling prying his eyes wide. Jimin can only watch, overwhelmed, as you manipulate him from within, his back arching clean from the cistern. He's suspended by sensation, a wobbling tension keeping him upright. As you slurp mercilessly at his cock, you fix him with a look. Jimin's not there to receive it, though. His expression says his brain short-circuited the moment you started stroking him internally. And then, with a choked gasp, he returns to the corporeal, yanking at your hair like a man possessed. Only, he's pulling you away. "Stop, oh fuck, I'm gonna piss in your mouth." Distress and arousal fight for his features. The latter is winning, if the stutter of his hips is anything to go by. He's caught between two worlds of pleasure; bookended by penetration and your softly nursing mouth. All he can do is thrust from one to the other.

You come away with his hands, just briefly. Kitten-lick his purpling cockhead. "It's okay. You won't pee, it's meant to feel like that. Just go with it, unless you don't like it."

The blush dusting his cheeks deepens. You can't imagine it's because he's embarrassed, but for a moment he looks vulnerable. Human. Beautiful. Your heart trips. "Whatever," he attempts nonchalance, but his needy fragility is fooling no-one. "I like it, so don't stop. As long as you're sure i won't piss in your mouth. I mean, I don't care if I do, but you might—ungh!"

Swallowing a man's cock is as good as gagging them. Jimin falls quieter than night when you welcome him back into your warmth, working his shaft as well as your aching jaw will allow. Your tongue, too, is tiring, and yet you only twist around him all the more ravenously. It's not just his body that’s contorting when you pound at his prostate, now. His mouth hangs open unchecked, all thought for appearances gone. Within, his tongue writhes, articulating nothing but bodiless sounds.

You rub harder. Suck harder. More insistent. Jimin's eyebrows knit so tightly his nose crinkles. And when he does, a flood of runny, salty liquid squirts into your mouth, catching you off guard and in-between breaths. It's a wonder you don't drown when it keeps coming, this thin, bountiful expulsion. "F-Fuck, God—what is that—" he whines between milkings. As it seeps from your stuffed mouth, Jimin is enraptured. With his focus on you, you regurgitate it noisily over his cock, dousing him in his own fluids. "Fuck, i-it feels so good. I want more." His hands are either side of your face, fingers at your temples, palms pressuring your cheeks. "More." With a grunt, he hoists his previously dangling leg onto the toilet seat with the other. He squats, open and obscene, the picture of aroused anguish. "More. Harder," he jerks, marionette-like, to fuck himself on your finger, to propel his cock further down your throat. You're prepared for this onslaught now, mouth wide and tongue laying dormant as he rams his tip to your tonsils. Each thrust pushes more of his leakage from your mouth until you're drooling like a starving dog. And he's transfixed by it, teeth grinding, gripped by a terrifying hunger. "Fuck. Take it, take me, oh, shit—t-ta—"

Nothing much else comes from Jimin but discharge, his face contorting as his body does, locked and straining. The motion of his hips slows until it ceases. There, he floats, with unseeing eyes, his orgasm approaching in an unavoidable swell. The throbbing that radiates from his buried cock is the final tell you chance before you cough him from your mouth, kneeling tall before him, breasts and face a blank canvas. You don't push him that last step so much as hammer him, battering his prostate until his mouth twists in devastation. Jimin's eyes are so wide it's like you're fucking the fear of God into him. He rises from his squat, millimetre by millimetre, as you slap your palm to his taint; his bloated balls. "C-Coming, I'm coming—" is all he can rasp as his soul departs and streaks your face once, twice—your eyelids fall closed as thick, viscous white weights down your lashes. Robbed of your sight, his groans hit louder, deeper. They resonate with agony, almost. And still he paints you, your throat, your neglected tits. "Oh my God, I—"

“That’s it, Jimin. Empty yourself on me.”

As the deluge dies away, you wipe your eyes free of cum and slide yourself from his spasming asshole. You expect to see him sat there, clutching his softening cock, but instead he’s sat back, hands-free and seeing constellations on the ceiling. "You came without touching your dick? Damn. That's restraint," you chuckle, your mouth feeling oddly loose. Too big. Too empty. When Jimin doesn't respond: "You okay?"

He stirs briefly from catatonia, though he continues to stare spaceward. "I'm good. I'm good. I think." A laugh comes out, but it's like he's forgotten what they should sound like. "Well, that was fucking awesome." A few, dumbstruck seconds later, Jimin returns to earth with a shaky sigh and that damn smirk. Finally, he looks at you. "Whoa. I got you messy as fuck."

A deadpan blink is all you can spare him when most of your body is protesting some type of pain. Your jaw, particularly, feels unhinged. "Yeah. You didn't notice that before?" You slip the latex from your finger and lob it at the trashcan. You miss.

"I did, but I was, like, coming my brains out. I didn't know what the fuck I was seeing, other than it was good." With an unsteady hand, he flattens back his soaked bangs and stares at you, eyelids heavy. His cheeks are stained pink with exertion. "You look so hot like that. Fuck." And though his body must be leaden after satiation, he pulls you up to your knees, until your torsos nearly touch. Stops just short of smearing himself with his own ejaculate. Instead, he cups one of your soiled breasts with a small, soft hand, thumbing his cum across the nipple. Being touched here, now, after such deprivation, it's like a kiss of life to your cunt. It roars back to life with a bitter vengeance. But Jimin remains modest in his touches. Doesn't stray much from your one, sticky breast. No, he's more focused on you. Your face. Studying all there is to know about its shapes. And he's inscrutable as he does it. It makes you nervous. "Well." It's scarcely more than a whisper. "Thank you," he mumbles, soft and awkward, like he's never before expressed appreciation for anything. And then he kisses you again, though it feels like it's for the first time. It's slow, intimate, with lazy tongue and spent breaths in between. It makes your heart race for several, terrifying reasons. You break apart, then. "Can I do anything for you?"

"N-No, that's okay." The proposition is unexpected. And with the way you're feeling, dangerous. "I got what I came for. I had fun. Thank you, too." You rise to standing, weathering the crack of your joints as you go. "I'll just clean up quickly."

Jimin is already towelling down his own, comparatively unscathed body. He stands, too, though with far more grace. As he feeds himself back into his too-tight jeans, he extends the towel to you. "If you're sure." A tinge of something colours his tone. Disappointment? "Maybe next time."

Next time?

Jimin's semen begins to crust on your chin. The towel twists in your hands. "What?"

There's an indifference to his body language that doesn’t quite ring true. He shrugs on his jacket. "Yeah. Next time, right?"

For several seconds you both stand there, locked in an unsaid exchange. The air is pregnant with meaning.

The door flies open.

"There you are!" In Jungkook strolls, bleary-eyed and with no clear bearing on his surroundings. "Someone said they saw you come in here." His gaze is hazy as it lands on you and your poorly shielded tits. And then it’s on your face again, where Jimin's spunk is heaviest. "Holy shit."

What feels like a century of shame passes, but it's no more than a microsecond before Jimin is slamming the point of his boot into Jungkook's abdomen. "Get the fuck out!" He bellows, octaves deeper than all this past half hour. Masculinity oozes from his squared shoulders and jutted jaw. The hardness is in his eyes, too. They're like steel as they cut Jungkook down, unchanging even as the younger man claws at his gut and stumbles back. "Don't fucking barge in on me again. This ain’t for you to see."

"I-I'm sorry, 'min-hyung." Jungkook slurs his words past comprehension. "C-Call me wh-when yuh wha-wanna split."

Jimin folds his arms. Tucks balled fists inside. "Yeah, now go."

Unfortunately for Jungkook, the gang-leader catches that last, errant look at your naked breasts. And for that he is rewarded with another swift kick; to his retreating backside, this time. Though you can't see him behind the door, you hear the impact of his fall to all-fours and grimace. Jimin's line of sight tracks low. Jungkook must be crawling away. "Go and sober up, you stupid piece of shit. We're going soon."

The door slots back into its frame. Jimin lingers there a little longer than necessary, his head bowed to the panelling. "Uh." Again, he's different. Transformed. Someone more timid stands in Jimin's place. Ruffles the back of his well-tousled hair. "Sorry. He's a dipshit."

"It's okay," you laugh. You have to, because the entire scenario is astounding. "You didn't have to kick him, though. Twice."

Arms criss-crossing his chest, Jimin watches as you wipe away his residue. For some reason, you’re more self-conscious now than when he put it there. "He deserved it. He's an idiot. Idiots don't learn unless you kick them in the ass. I didn't kick him in the balls, at least. And for that, he should be thanking me."

Clearly, your views on appropriate punishment diverge. Jimin inhabits a different world to yours. It's unnerving. And a little exciting, even though it shouldn’t be. "I'll defer to your judgment in his case." Your straps come up and over your shoulders. On inspection, suspicious white stains dot your dress despite your attempts to prevent that. Hopefully everyone is so smashed by this point that they can’t distinguish it from any of their other surroundings. "Okay, I'm gonna go. My dorm's just across from this one."

"I'll walk you. It's not safe." There's a certainty to Jimin's words that speaks of his experience. Ironically, it's probably safer out there while he's tied up in here. "Lots of scumbags out there that will target girls who are alone."

Fully covered, now, you clutch your purse in front of the worst of the splattering. You want to say something, so you do. You feel like you've earned it. "Not you?"

So self-assured, Jimin is. For a moment, though, he isn't. His smile flickers. "Never. I'm not about that. And I'll thrash anyone who is."

The answer pleases you. Diminishes his other activities somewhat. Somewhat. Just enough that you can go home and fuck yourself into a guiltless coma. "Okay. Well, it was fun. Don't worry about walking me. It's literally just across from here and there are still people around. I gotta find my friend first, anyway.”

Another shrug. Then, with the same nonchalance, he offers up his phone to you. "'Kay."

Eyes on him rather than the device, you take it from him. "What's this?" The screen displays a newly created contact. The phone number is blank. The contact name, though?

Litterbug.

It's hard to scoff at it when you love it so much. "What the hell? That's me?"

"Yeah. Gimme your number?" Jimin grins, brazen-faced. The temptation to kiss him is almost insurmountable. "I wanna see you again, litterbug."

You smile, too. Until you don't. "I don't know. I don't think it's a good idea. I didn't plan on anything past this."

If Jimin's shaken by the snub, he hides it masterfully. His smile isn't quite so burnished, though. "Neither did I, but then this happened, and I want it to happen again, ____. Let me show you just what I can do for you."

God, it's tempting. A bite of that apple is worth being cast from Eden. But your heart is weak and liable to entwine far too easily. And he's not the type of man that should occupy space outside of your depraved fantasies. "How many girls with cute pseudonyms do you have on there?" you deflect, knowing well the answer. Hearing it might temper your hopes somewhat.

"I don't give out my actual number to anyone." Jimin doesn't miss a beat of breath. "Only those that matter to me. Or might do," he adds, quieter, losing his bullishness altogether. "But, do what you want." His palm lays flat in expectation of receiving his phone back empty, but you hesitate. Look down at the vacant space. You could fill that.

You want to.

"Okay, there I am." With a flourish of thumbs and a final tap, your name is input and the contract sealed.

The Devil smiles. "Cool." His fingers linger on yours when you return the device. They're soft like charmeuse, and just as expensive. Because this will cost you everything, you're sure. "Can I see you tomorrow? So you can explain to me exactly what it is you just did to my ass?"

Tomorrow? Jimin’s keen. And you’re smiling again. “Sure. I’ll give you a practical demonstration.”

#park jimin #jimin #jimin smut #park jimin smut #jimin scenarios #park jimin scenarios #bts smut #bts scenarios #the devil in his details

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ishkah · 3 years

Text

Early Beginnings...

My 22 year old self spinning 15 year old diary entries into something or other…

One of my earliest memories is sitting by a river bend after school just sitting and thinking, being, remembering family togetherness building dams on the river, playing poo sticks. I wanted that deeply, I was aware I couldn’t be seen directly, playing with the other kids, but I also liked the idea that the adults would have to take time and think to know where I was.

With this came an identity, I heard a pride in my mum’s voice when she told the other mums where she found me, a deep nature boy that one.

I knew she would because whenever there was bedlam at home I would always take myself off outside. I knew how important it was that I didn’t see her cry because I saw it once, or get upset or argue but more than anything, she didn’t want me involved in the drama; to become something I didn’t understand.

My brother was a resistance fighter, in the trenches telling both parents what they were doing wrong, living the trauma, with two sunburn creased lines between his eyebrows to prove it.

I was a dreamer I liked this new state of being, I distrusted and held onto my words because I saw them used by other people like daggers or simply to pull on heartstrings. I must have thought a lot about how words are only used to hurt each other and get one over each other because by the time I was in secondary school I’d been given another personality story to hold onto.

I was like my great granddad I told people, he was a quite honorable man, would say hardly a word, but he always knew when something was at odds, so when he did speak his words had a profound impact on people. I became the listener and solver.

I thought about how small I was in this incomprehensible beautiful universe that I read in stories, I didn’t try much to understand it just admire it. I wanted to mimic its uniqueness, I wanted to be compassionate. I probably started labelling a lot of things, good and bad, normal and extraordinary. I went vegan with this people gave me the identity pacifist.

It wasn’t till the army came to school that I had a chance to practice what I’d learnt. Reading back over my diary at the time I felt a huge responsibility to my friends that they wouldn’t go off and get killed for no good reason. I’ve tried to stay as real to the 15 year old kid who’s newly forming ideas were shaped through the experience of what follows.

I spread my ideas militantly, if they were going to advertise the killing of innocents in my school, me and my young cronies were going to disrupt it. I wrote up a petition, confronted every kid in school with this reality. I made a ruckus because I was doing something radical that had never been tried before in the school’s history.

I must have got three quarters of the whole school to sign my little clipboard chart, not least because of the rumours that were spread, some of the kids straight out of primary learning about conscription in history class cued up to sign it, expressing a tangible fear.

My betrayal came suddenly, the teacher who invited the army to school flipped out at me, saying I was trying to limit other student’s access to knowledge about the army. I walked away furious, even more committed to stopping them, I schemed with friends how we could lock doors and sit on stage. I thought how an institution committed to educating, expanding minds could let someone go off and kill others halfway across the world.

I stubbornly asked all the head of staff each day when the army would be coming to school, all of them told me it hadn’t been scheduled but they’d tell me when they knew, not for a while…

When I walked into the school the next day to find everyone at assembly with teachers keeping a close eye on their forms in rows, I was pissed. I walked in from one side of the hall and surveyed the scene with contemptuous hilarity, down the hall, past the class sitting quietly transfixed on me, ignoring my form teacher’s calls to come sit down, and out the other end.

I sat outside with 4 girls fuming, a teacher came round to ask us back in, I glared back but 3 of us slinked back in. So this was the great resistance effort the 2 of us crumpled down to the floor.

We started talking about how depressing it all was, how powerless the teachers had made everyone feel, people had been scratching their name off the petition for fear of getting punished. We hated everything that was in that room and we threw in a few choice words of our conversation into the hall.

BULLSHIT!

The teachers guarding the doors peered through the curtains at us, they were afraid of us! Aha so they should be! Our beings and ideas were powerful!

The talk ended, the army officer came out and I felt an anger welling up in me, but I had nothing to say to him, the head of department came next, I had a maths lesson with him next but he’d lied to me only yesterday, I had no interest in hearing what he had to teach me. He encouraged me to move, saying it’s finished now, I laughed a laugh that came from the pit of my being, it was just the opposite of how I was feeling, a dramatic change in my being, nothing had come and gone, only feelings inside of me had grown a 1000 fold.

He threatened me with truancy, I learned the best way to get on an adult’s nerves was never to rise to them, never give them any ammunition. I just looked at him. None of the politics needed words, we weren’t going to get one over on each other, we were simply diametrically opposed and I wished the opposite of wanting to be understood by him by engaging him in conversation. I just watched him walk away.

The rest of the day I sat exactly where I was and made paper cranes for peace and talked to anyone and everyone. I was committed to public resistance. Resistance is emotional, beautiful even and I’d crossed a treasonous line with characteristic style. Action would from now and forever be how I wrote my story.

The next few weeks I was in and out of full-time detention where I wasn’t even allowed to go to class, I had to be watched carefully to curb my disruptive ways.

I raged against the teachers that had lied to me, but when I was in detention I got my first whiff of privilege, the kids I was in with admired my rage but with a sense of novelty.

I thought they’d understand more than anyone why I was fighting them, but they didn’t, they believed in the system more than anyone, they just got angry sometimes and needed to lash out and so were seen as unpredictable.

For most of them a care worker or teacher were the only people that would believe in them, show them the rails. I knew where the rails were but I wanted to derail them and set a new course.

But I began to hate the idea that I could afford to step off and be an example only to later intelligently articulate a political reason to excuse myself.

Even more entitled than that I had a co-conspirator mother who used her knowledge of childcare regulations to stop me from being expelled and afford me an easier sentence than my new friends who earned their detention by setting off alarms by setting fire to bits of paper and smoking in toilets

I came out of school feeling a strong sense of purpose, that words weren’t necessary in finding my-self, which validated my search for a spiritual interconnectedness based on compassion. Also the people telling you what you should or shouldn’t do can be the worst amoral shits on the planet.

I grew up as an outsider, the scouser transplanted into a tiny village in a valley in Wales. This moment was the activation of an identity I only knew through the biker friends of my mum and the stories they would tell together that I looked up to. An identity known only to myself that no one could take away from me, and I felt my internal world growing stronger, I felt a sense of purpose, the more active I felt fighting oppression, the more alive I felt. Now I have the privilege of being able to jump into so many struggles without getting burnt out or losing face.

My only limits are when I am being asked to conform to a situation I don’t agree with, in this way I need to stay spontaneous, my inner strength comes from the efficiency by which I can throw myself into a struggle and make gains, I am learning now to transform that into a circular routine of building my bases.

My outer self is a culmination of novelty stories of struggling through hardship and pushing through in pursuit of truth and finding pockets of hope. I need people around me to be open, allow me to tell my story slowly and not restrict my image to something that suits them.

When I’m on the road I’m still that little kid who disassociates, but the game of living with strangers allows me to feel creative. I feel like I need to make connections more strongly; because mutual aid is so important, the entire journey is dependent on other people. When I look at my life I see the journey, my life is about the means by which we make change not the end.

#youth activism #anti imperialism #personal essay #socialist #socialism #anarchist #anarchism #nomad #school #hierarchy #education #anti colonialism

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daily-dose-of-imagines · 4 years

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(っ◔◡◔)っ ♥ Matchup ♥

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Hi! Can I please request a matchup (NSFW if your okay with that) for Haikyuu and Free?

I’m a 5’1 female with long hair that fades from red to blonde. I am very curvy/busty and I am very insecure about it. I am very intelligent, shy, and get flustered easily. I love to play the ukulele and sing! I often find myself getting lost in books for hours… I have been bullied, so i tend to shut myself out from others.

I have the habit of apologizing for every little thing… People often come to me for help, and advice. I get told that I have a kind heart, and people who I used to call my “friends” always used to take advantage of that. Which ended up building some deep trust issues. I have a really hard fear of rejection, but I’m not entirely sure why. Groups of people tend to intimidate me more than someone by themselves. Its strange but intimidating people don’t necessarily intimidate me…

I tend to overwork myself to the point where I won’t eat or sleep for days, and you have to force me to take care of myself. Surprisingly, I am very good at presenting in front of people? Its easier for me to talk when I have set things that I am going to say. I am very good at strategy based games (I have only lost a card game 3 times).

I aspire to be an author, and I spend a lot of time writing stories, most of which are horror. I’m also an INTJ, Aquarius and Hufflepuff! Thank you so much!

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Hello @shslpotato, and thank you for submitting with us! I hope you enjoy the boys I paired you up with!

>Admin 𝕋

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𝐼 𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓅 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽...

This loud and Energy boy named Bokuto would be perfect for you! He would see you red to blond hair and think that is the coolest thing ever! He will see how short you are and think, damn that is adorable, that is someone he can definitely snuggle easily with! He will see you and think your body is so nice and sexy and would want constantly have his hands on you! He would have such a hard time to get his hands from caressing your body in the most sensual ways, and all he wants to do is hear you moan his name. And seeing as you very shy and can get easily flustered, Bokuto will want to tease you even more, and watch as your face turns red with everything he does to you, he just thinks it’s so cute when you are so red like that! He will love how you can play the ukelele and sing; he’d want to hear you sing, and play for him, and when you are done he will shower you in compliments and kisses.

Bokuto will see how you apologize a lot to other people, and he would be the type of person who would want to help you gain some more self esteem! He would “train” you to apologize less and be more confident in your convictions! But he will love that you have a kind heart, and how everybody asks you for advice and your wisdom! But rest assured, Bokuto will not the type of person to take advantage of that, so you can rest easy!

If you were to be overworking yourself, bokuto will pick you up and take you out, to say, the backyard or something outdoorsy so you can get some fresh hair! He would be very supportive with how hardworking you are, but he doesn’t want to see you work so much until you collapse. He will be your pillar of strength!

Makoto from free, is the one I choose for you! I see him more on the conservative side, but he would like the colors in your hair, seeing as it will remind him of a sunset! He will also like your curvy body, just like Bokuto, and I also believe that he will because of how easy it is to take a hold of when you guys are doing it. Like when you are on top of him he will be able to easily take your hips in his hands and just go to town on you. He will also think that you are very cute in the way that you are shy and quiet. And everytime you act shy around him, he will just want to wrap you up in his arms and squeeze tight! He will love how much you love books, and would want to sit in a park with you, feel the sun on his skin and you next to him, gently smiling about something in your book!

He would understand the fact that you apologize a lot, seeing as he as such a pacifist personality of sorts. But he will try to make you understand that sometimes you aren’t in the wrong, and that you don’t need to apologize for anything! He would very proud of the fact that you someone that people can trust with their problems and want advice from you, and sometimes when it gets too rough, he will be there to help you relax and calm down. So you don’t feel alone or overwhelmed with people’s baggage. He will think it is amazing that you aren’t easily intimidated by presentations or groups of people since he is the exact opposite. He will also think it is pretty impressive that you are really good at strategy gems, and will tend to stay away from playing with you, as he doesn’t want to lose against so many times!

Makoto will think it is so cool that you want to be a writer! He will find it fascinating that you can just sit there and can write out a story just like that! And with Makoto, he will be there with you, every step of the way until you become a full fledged author with your own published stories!

#submission #submissions #anime matchup #matchup #free x you #free!#free matchup #haikyuu!!#haikyuu x you #haikyuu matchup

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thanksjro · 4 years

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More Than Meets the Eye 2012 Annual - None of These Guys Know How to Be Nice to Others or Themselves

Hey, so you remember how every kids’ show until basically 2006 had a Fantastic Voyage episode, where they explored the inside of one of their friends’ bodies? We’re opening up with that.

Rodimus and a few pals are busy trying to clear out a nanocon infestation from none other than Ultra Magnus himself, and are doing it in the most convoluted way possible because Brainstorm wanted to try some new invention out, and I guess Ratchet just can’t say no to that faceplate. Whirl’s in there, which seems like maybe not the best idea. Wonder how Magnus feels about all this.

Oh my god he’s been asleep this entire time.

There’s this thing that doctors are supposed to do before performing any medical procedure on a lucid patient, and it’s called informed consent. It would appear that it didn’t happen here. Ratchet, your medical license, please and thank you.

Things start getting hairy for the Fantastic Voyagers during their throw-down inside Magnus’ mouth, and Ratchet’s forced to do something drastic: he has to ask Ultra Magnus, king-sized stick-in-the-mud, to smile.

Woof, that’s rough. Don’t worry, buddy, you’ll get the hang of it eventually.

The sudden engagement of the smiling pistons is so violent that they explode, thus destroying the nanocons entirely and utterly. Great!

Word gets out that Ultra Magnus smiled. Not so great.

Atomizer’s all about them crossbows, so I’m going to make a call and say his design aesthetic is probably rustic chic. Of course, rustic chic for a bunch of space robots probably looks a hell of a lot like brutalism. What I’m saying is, I don’t think Atomizer’s work before the war was too hot.

Everyone Magnus runs into and tries to inflict his job upon makes fun of him. Magnus is a sensitive soul, so he takes it to heart. Poor baby.

A bit later on, in the double page spread with layering issues, Chromedome wakes up from a nightmare.

Rewind has to think about this and double check his database to make sure that Chromedome hasn’t in fact tried to commit suicide by way of ingesting space napalm, and I think that says a lot about Chromedome from a mental health standpoint that even his husband isn’t 100% sure what all he’s tried.

Chromedome hasn’t tried this particular avenue of suicide, which means that his flashback nightmare is the result of one of the many mnemosurgery autopsies he’s performed over the years. Turns out digging around in someone’s memories has a few side-effects.

Meanwhile, Tailgate’s inviting Cyclonus to his Autobot graduation ceremony, because while Cyclonus pulled a real bastard move last time we saw him, Tailgate still seems to think he’s worth having around. Tailgate really wants to be liked by people. Cyclonus doesn’t even respond, and Tailgate decides to leave him alone to stare out at the free-to-use image of space that’s currently in their window.

Then there’s Swerve, who’s down in the engine rooms looking for his roommate, Red Alert. Yep, that’s right; Red Alert somehow ended up sharing a room not just in general, but with Swerve, who we established in issue #1 as being maybe not his favorite individual.

Swerve stops by the corpse of Ore, who I guess they haven’t scraped out of the side of the quantum drive yet for whatever reason, and he take a moment to pay his respects.

OH MY GOD.

Everyone looks like they’ve got retainers in for this issue too! What an oddly specific design choice to see repeated by multiple artists. And on that note…

The 2012 Annual was drawn by two people, Jimbo Salgado and Emil Cabaltierra, both of whom seem to only have this singular contribution to the Transformers franchise. Salgado appears to have been employed by DC Comics, and Cabaltierra’s most recent work seems to be on the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles comics. There isn’t a ton of information on either of them, so I suppose we’ll have to take the art here at face value.

Over in Rodimus’ inexplicably not-pink room, he and Drift are discussing talking points for Tailgate’s graduation ceremony. Well, Drift’s talking while Rodimus half-listens. We get a taste of Rodimus’ motto for the series.

Drift thinks that less might be more in this case, but the saying, much like a majority of Rodimus’ personality, is based in feelings of inadequacy. Optimus says it- though not nearly as often- and if it’s good enough for Optimus Prime, surely it’s something to emulate. Rodimus, feeling a bit snippy over being called out on his hero-worship, accuses Drift of not actually caring about the ceremony and just wanting to get to the part where they hit up Crystal City to join up on the Knight Quest. Drift, admittedly, is excited to see the Circle of Light again, which is surprising considering what happened the last time he was in Crystal City.

I dunno, I just feel like things would be awkward.

Magnus walks in, demanding the whole crew be thrown out because they’ve been making fun of him. Rodimus tries to help Magnus see the lighter side of things, saying that a little harmless ribbing means that the crew is starting to warm up to him, but Magnus doesn’t see it that way.

There’s also the issue of the Lost Light still not having made contact with the Circle of Light. Magnus is concerned about the sect of religious zealot-pacifists having been attacked, but Drift fills Magnus- and the reader- in on the bad-assery he witnessed back in the Drift miniseries.

It’s later now, and Tailgate’s ceremony is about to start. In the audience, Jackpot takes bets on how long it’ll take for Rodimus to say the Thing, and Whirl confides in First Aid about the graffiti he left inside Ultra Magnus. Wonder what sort of violation that is. Defacement of personal property? Medical malpractice? Assault?

Rodimus kicks things off, Whirl wins a bet, and we get word that all the dead bodies they just keep stacked up in the medibay started moving and clutching at their heads as if in pain. Apparently First Aid doesn’t know proper ceremony etiquette, because he’s fully leaned over the seat in front of him, in a crowd that honestly isn’t nearly big enough to hide what he’s doing, to whisper to Skids about the whole thing.

Well well well, if it isn’t Mr. Grumpypants himself watching from the wings. Glad you could not-join the party, you night-creature. If you’re attempting to be a nice person, Cyclonus, the person you’re attempting to be nice to needs to be aware of it.

Rodimus makes his speech, reflects on his own right of Autobrand, and Tailgate gets his very own temporary Autobot badge.

Or not.

Rodimus, who didn’t mean to fuck up Tailgate’s paint, doesn’t even know what he just did. Rewind steps in to translate the gobbledygook, while Tailgate has a minor crisis over his ruined beauty, saying that it’s Old Cybertronian for “let me out.” Drift and Ratchet run out of the white void behind the stage, both touting their own theories on what just happened, and both at odds with one another. Skids interrupts the debate of science vs religion before it can start, stating that Swerve’s on the horn about that Duobot not being dead.

Ore being alive poses a problem, because he’s still stuffed into the quantum drive, and if he freaks out he could set the thing off and having them bouncing all over space. They just got to Theophany, home of the Circle of Light, so bouncing around would be really inconvenient.

But wait, there’s more! The Galactic Council has come calling, wanting to know just what the hell everyone’s favorite war-mongering race is doing on their turf. Rodimus is a rude little shit, because bonding with the Matrix doesn’t really do much for your skills in traversing delicate political situations. Luckily, Magnus steps in before Rodimus can cause a galactic incident.

Magnus, because he’s the Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord- Tyrest being seen as a neutral party by both the Cybetronians and the Galactic Council- is received much more warmly by such a bureaucratic organization. They have what might be considered playful banter to them, and an agreement is reached.

Ooh, that’s a spicy take there, Rodimus!

We get a brief explanation of what exactly the Galactic Council is- a coalition of sentient races who organize treaties between species and police the galaxy in an attempt to keep the peace. Obviously, they don’t much care for the Transformers.

Before we can get terribly deep into the history of galactic politics, there’s a bright flash of light that consumes Rodimus-

-and we cut over to Swerve and his zombie pal.

Hey, who wants to see some high-level self-sabotage of one’s sense of worth? Because if you do, you’re in luck, because Swerve’s apparently got it down to a fine art. After failing to identify himself, Ore- who cannot see or feel anything at present- thinks that he’s speaking with Pipes, and Swerve proceeds to offer up that thing that happened in issue #6 on a silver platter to the guy who apparently doesn’t like him a whole lot already.

Swerve, please, practice a little self-love, my dude. Don’t subject yourself to this.

Down on Theophany, the boys are driving towards Crystal City, and are none-too-impressed by what they find.

Rewind, what the fuck do you think you’re doing? You can’t do that, it’s been established.

It’s looking like Crystal City’s been proper fucked, and Drift’s none too happy about it.

Back over at the pity-party, Swerve’s ruminating on the difference between peace and happiness, and how he doesn’t think he’s cut out for either of them. Ore adds that they’ve only just ended the war, and it may take some time to settle into the new normal. Swerve worries that he’s wasting his bold new tomorrow by playing pranks on Red Alert when he could be using his medical degree for something useful and important. Poor Swerve, caught in the trap of “you’re only worth something if you’re productive”. We’ve all been there, man.

Because it’s trauma, and you don’t owe anyone to be perfectly healthy and fine when you’re traumatized by warcrimes and atrocities! Every single member of the Cybertronian population is chock-full of trauma, and they need, just, so many more mental health services in order for it all to be processes and dealt with.

Also, Ore is very scary and bad to look at, so I’ve cut him out of the capture for this little bit of dialogue.

Back in Crystal City, the boys have made the rounds, and determined that a fight did indeed happen, but there aren’t any bodies to speak of. Odd, that. Drift is a little on edge, as he snaps at Rewind that he’ll cut his camera off of his head if he doesn’t shut up, then decks Whirl for playing the name game.

Then Drift gets mad at god, and things go about as well as you’d expect.

Later, bitches!

Over on the Benign Intervention, the Galactic Council ship, we see where Ultra Magnus’ gotten to, as he has a meeting with a representative. The Council is offering Magnus a seat at the table, because he’s about the only member of his race the Council respects.

Back with Drift, the lads have picked themselves up from the fall and have found themselves a nice little surprise.

Ratchet and Skids up there just straight-up disrespecting gravity. Can you tell I’m not a huge fan of the art here? Because I’m not.

The fellas climb up on this giant’s face, Swerve shows up for a panel, and Rodimus has everyone jump down the Metrotitan’s throat to go find the thing’s brain.

Lot of vore-adjacent action this issue. Gotta love an Annual.

Once inside, they find a very big brain, and Cyclonus reflects on his faith. See, back when Metrotitans weren’t so rare and Cyclonus hadn’t spent 6 million years in the Dead Universe, he would worship in their shadow. Rewind, because he’s a history nerd, asks for a taste of that action, and Cyclonus indulges him, probably because he’s once again realized that he misses connecting with other people, and still doesn’t know how to handle the Tailgate thing.

This is where the Guido Guidi art kicks in, and it’s so friggin’ pretty. So pretty, in fact, you might almost miss Roberts slipping this into the lore dump.

An urgency, you say, which- stop me if I’m wrong- resulted in the creation of life.

Honestly, I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner.

Anyway, this is where the Guiding Hand came to be- the five gods of Cybertron.

Now, back in The Death of Optimus Prime, it was established that the Guiding Hand were ancient, lost knowledge, only known to the Matrix and its bearer. Cyclonus is really fucking old, but I’m thinking that this discrepancy is simply a case of early-installment weirdness that’s now being rectified, so it isn’t too odd when members of the crew are revealed to have faith.

So the gods hung out, made a bunch of babies asexually, gave them the gifts of thought and feeling and being able to turn into tanks and shit, and it was pretty sweet for a while.

The Mortilus got a bug up his butt about killing things, and the Transformers found their true purpose in the universe- war. Mortilus was eventually defeated, but only after every other member of the Guiding Hand had been reduced to abstract sculpture art; Primus became Vector Sigma, Solomus became the Matrix- which, considering what happened to that thing prior to MTMTE, uh, yikes- and Epistemus and Adaptus became the basis on which the modern t-cog and brain module were built.

Because the god of death is no more, the Transformers were made immortal, which explains why it takes so much to fucking kill them. A bunch of the first generation of Transformers decided to fuck off into space to spread the good word about their pretty-much-dead gods, coming to be known at the Knights of Cybertron. The end!

Ratchet doesn’t appreciate the tale that Cyclonus just told, because Real Atheist Hours are 24/7 for him, and that fight that Skids managed to put a stop to starts up again.

Then Drift brandishes a sword a Ratchet, because this is how we deal with our problems when we’re Drift, and hiding behind a façade of being a happy-go-lucky flowerchild fails. Rodimus breaks the two of them up before someone gets stabbed, and drags Drift away as Chromedome sets up to do his thing on a brain the size of a school bus.

Skids comes up and starts chatting him up, and Chromedome reveals a little bit about himself as a person.

Chromedome, I’m happy that you found someone you love who loves you just as much, but I’ll go ahead and say it- I don’t think telling the dude with short-to-midterm memory loss to look for a relationship is the hottest idea you’ve ever had.

In a place that isn’t the inside of the Metrotitan’s skull, Drift asks Rodimus about his faith. Rodimus is a believer, then proceeds to put the guy on a pedestal as he make the claim that “everything will depend on him.”

Then Chromedome stabs his needly little fingers into a giant brain- much to Rewind’s chagrin- and all hell breaks loose.

Oh man, y’all are going to double space-prison for that one.

Magnus’ meeting gets interrupted, of course, and the Council’s automatic response is to assume they’re being attacked, and they break out the big guns to take down to the planet’s surface. Magnus, seeing the writing on the wall, teleports back over to the Lost Light awith the intent to call Rodimus to try and see just what’s happening now, when the entirety of the ship is encased in a forcefield, and not one courtesy of Trailcutter.

Back planetside, Chromedome’s flat on his back as he explains that the Metrotitan is screaming its friggin’ head off in a frequency they can’t hear, mad as hell that it can’t answer the call of Vector Sigma to come home. This frequency can also apparently raise the dead, and do a bunch of other really weird shit. Chromdome wants to dive back in.

Chromedome, are you sure that statement about being suicidal should have been past-tense?

The whole planet is a-rockin’ and a-shakin’, as the Council troops make their way towards our dear friends. Rodimus, thinking quickly, orders Whirl to take a few friends and keep the Council busy while Chromedome wraps up. Rodimus wants all that good, good Cybertronian history, and figures that they need to rip it all out of the Metrotitan’s brain while he’s still kicking. Brainstorm offers to shrink the guy, seeing as he brought along his mass-displacement gun, but Rodimus seems intent on using the method that could kill Chromedome and might not even get them what they need before the Metrotitan dies.

Before a decision can be reached, Ultra Magnus gets through to Rodimus. Turns out that forcefield the Lost Light’s in is an incineration shell, and things are about to get spicy for everyone on board. Said shell is also draining the power cells, so they can’t quantum jump to safety. Rodimus has an idea though.

Over with Swerve and Ore, the conversation turns to religion. Swerve is a man of faith, whereas Ore has a much more straightforward view of life- you live, and it’s odd and wonderful and terrible, and when you die that’s it. Ore does not believe in the afterlife, and believes that what you get is what you get.

This is about the time that Rodimus calls Swerve to have him set off the quantum drive by killing Ore via shock, by telling him the truth about his predicament.

Swerve just shoved those orders so far up Rodimus’ ass, he’ll probably blow them out of his nose in a minute.

So, the Lost Light’s done for, thanks to the power of standing up for yourself. I guess Scott Pilgrim got that one wrong. Chromedome asks Rodimus what he wants to do with the Metrotitan, and Rodimus says to let him free.

And then everyone died. That’s a series wrap, folks!

What do you mean we’ve got 49 more issues? Okay, let’s see where this goes.

So Brainstorm blasts the brain, everyone is enveloped in a bright light, and we smash-cut to Swerve talking at Rung’s headless body in the medibay, as he recounts the outright religious experience he had.

Ore’s gone, and Swerve believes that Primus came and took him to the Afterspark, the Cybertronian afterlife, and so it was that Swerve’s faith was strengthened.

Over in Rodimus’ office, we tear down that miracle with some equally unrealistic sci-fi bullshit. Brainstorm’s mass-displacement shrunk the Metrotitan down enough to allow himself to teleport, and some theorized psychic link with Ore allowed the Lost Light to piggyback to safety.

Still no clues as to what happened to the Circle of Light, though, which is troublesome. Probably kidnapped, or some such. Going off of that hunch, the Lost Light will be following some reports on Decepticon activity- because we haven’t gotten to the point of nuance with our former enemies just yet.

Rodimus has decided that winging things isn’t really working out like he’d like it to, so he’s going to try to be a better captain. Which, y’know, thank god. Let’s make an effort to keep everyone kicking.

We get a brief flashback to just what happened during Magnus’ meeting with the Galactic Council, and as it turns out, he turned down their offer, saying that he was needed on the Lost Light.

The Council is disappointed by his decision.

Oh well dang, I wonder who that mysterious figure could possibly be. Surely he will in no way factor into the entirety of every single problem ever faced or made by the planet of Cybertron and the galaxy it resides in. Oh, surely not.

While I got you here, let’s take a gander at the section blurbs.

We’re getting yet more mindsets about god and faith, from folks not in the narrative but adjacent to it. Alpha Trion is a well-respected, learned robot who has no doubt spent a vast majority of his time taking in literature and theory on the subject of religion. In contrast, we have Beachcomber, who in this particular continuity doesn’t have a ton of characterization, but does seem to be pulling from his hippy-dippy persona from the ‘80s cartoon at least a little for his excerpt here. New-age, we’ll call him.

And then there’s Megatron, who’s just straight-up torn the cover off of Karl Marx’s A Contribution to the Critique of Hegel's Philosophy of Right and is trying to pass it off as his own, but let’s look more at the actual meaning of such a quote.

Now the problem with that is, much like in real life, we aren’t seeing the entirety of the quote, instead having only kept the last little bit to play with.

"Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world, and the soul of soulless conditions. It is the opium of the people".

Now, for Megatron here, we should assume that the front-end of this quote from Marx isn’t applicable, seeing as we seem to be operating as if it doesn’t exist.

So, “Religion is the opium/engex of the people.” It’s a comfort, a drug, something to keep one docile. We’ll see the logical conclusion to such a mindset much later on in the series. As is, it gives us another glimpse at the creature that is pre-war Megatron.

And now you know why the Annual subtitle was Primus: You, Me, and Other Revelations.

#transformers #jro #jro punches me in the face #maccadam #Hannzreads #text post #long post #comic script writing #overthinking about robots

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casarolltroll · 5 years

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Trollhunters Crew human S/O pairings. Trolls:

Vendal: You, like him are older in your years. Your sweet and kind hearted nature balances out his often grumpy and cranky personality. You offer comfort and solidarity to the old troll, and the two of you enjoy each others company. He will not say this directly but you make him feel young, he remembers a better time when in your presence.

Blinky: The two of you bond over your love for a good conspiracy. You are more level headed than he is at times, you balance out his naturally chaotic good nature. You, to most people are a rather plan looking person, but to him you are the most perfect being that could have ever exsisted. He admit that at first he was turned off by his own minds idea for a relationship, but when the two of you spent more time togeather you both grew on eachother. He loves reading to you and you love to listen to his voice, it calms you. On the off occasions you will sing for him and he cherishes the sound of your lovely voice. You both love reading and are extremely nerdy, but if anyone tries to harm you his gentle nature is taken over by his more aggressive trollish instinct, you actually find it kinda cute. He will smack a bitch with a book for you, no doubt about it!

Arrrgh: You like him are a pacifists by choice, however if anyone tries to hurt those you love you gonna pass a fist throught someones face. He fell for you because of your childish nature. You see all that is good in the world and remind him that his past dose not set who he is in stone. One of his favorite things to do with you is have you lay on his chest and the two of you watch the stars in the sky. You have various scars on your body, all of which Arrrgh has taken an intrest and concern in. In the days where you feel comfortable talking about your past he sits and listens. The two of you were brought together by your less than marvelous pasts. But are held togeather by bright future you both see ahead.

Draal: He was attracted to you the moment he you punched his lights out. Not only were you able to punch him, a fully grown troll, but you were able to knock him off his feet with that punch. He respects your no B.s taking attitude and gives you all the respect you deserve and more. Your blue dreadlocks and buff form is something he finds physically attractive, he tells you if you were a troll he would certainly have more competition to keep you with him, the fact that a human can come so close to the strength of a troll is the main point of his fascination toward you. You are into poetry and have roped him into liking it too. Although he won't admit it, when he is alone he dose read the poetry books you brought him. His favorite moments with you are when the two of you spar, being human you have a bit of a challenge keeping up but he makes sure not to go to hard on you.

Bular: Your fearlessness is what makes him respect you, and attracts him to you. The way you stood up too him when you knew you stood no chance supprised him. While in battle one day he manages to corner you and capture you. You put up a hell of a fight, but it is your fighting spirit that makes him wnat to keep you alive. At first you hate him because you thinnk he only sees you as a play thing. But as time goes on you two get to know eachother more, you find out that behind the brute is a man(troll) with complex feeling and a brain. The two of you discuss philosophy, politics, and battle strategy. The fact that your combat savey excites him. He could easily overpower you if he wanted, but what fun would that be. Your both hard headed, but you let your softer sides out around eachother. Don't expect the " you make me a better person for knowing you" because he wont say it. But he does shows it through his action.

When the two of you are alone he enjoys cuddles and tends to let out deep throated purrs when he is very relaxed.

Gunmar: He is not a very affectionate being and neither are you. He is rough with you, but never oversteps his boundaries. You both respect each other, and your relationship is based off of that respect, you take care of my needs and I take care of yours. Simple as that. He think your foolish for staying with him but silently appreciates your company. You stay with him because he is the slice of danger in your life you were looking for.

Dictasius: You find his snarky attitude amusing, and he find your quick wit equal tantalizing. He respects your incredibly high intelligence and your humorous outlook on life. He dose not care for how you look because he can't see. For this fact you let him get away with being a little handsy and he has pleanty of them to get handsy with. You were born with a genetic mutation giving you two horns on your head. They are not very large so you oftwn hide them with bandanas and head wraps, but in the rare occasion you take those off and allow him to feel them. He knows that you are sensitive to the topics of your horns and tells you they make you seem more mysterious and there is beuaty in mysteries. He's very fond of you and you have found he has many insecurities. With his first love using and then completely rejecting him( not gonna say it was Gunmar...but it was Gunmar) it leaves some pretty nasty scars. You assure him you would never leave him and those night ussually end with the two of you fast asleep in eachothers arms with a book left open to the side of one of you. You are so committed to him that you fight with Blinky when he takes passes at his brother and have done everything with in your power to repair their relationship, as Dictasous has let it slip a time or two that it is one of his biggest regreats. Eventually you manage to get the two on good term and form a friendship with Blinky. He teaches you to read and write Trollsih and eventually you get good enough to start translating his books to brail so he can read them. He might be blind, but he dose not need to see to know you are the only one for him.

AngorRot: You two share the unspoken code of an Assassin. He has taken lives and so have you. You were brought up in the old ways and staand as a living relic to the old days of assassin's and templar. Dispite being human the two of you are equally matched in skill, even when he has his shadow staff you still managed to hold your ground. He choose to stay by your side after you save him from being destroyed by Morgana. In the years you two spend togeather, he grows on you and eventually you fall for his advances. He is never affectionate around others, but you don't mind because when the two of you are alone he makes a point show you exactly how much you mean to him. He dose not coddle you, and if he dose you get annoyed. He has learned that you respect equal responsibility. You take care of him and he takes care of you, there is no one above the other. In the starts of your relationship he treated you more like a master than a partner and you shut that down quick. You assured him he owes nothing to you, you simply did what was right and there is no need to repay you for it. You help him to slowly repair the years of damage and trauma he had to endure. He owes you everything, but you never hang that over his head. He was broken and you fixed him, and togeather you both can lead a somewhat normal life and happy life. He is your angry rock and you love him.

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bearofohu · 6 years

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Bloodstained Fedora - Professor Layton Fanfiction

TW: Blood, gore, near-death, swearing.

Summary: Professor Layton has arrived to save his apprentice, Luke, along with his wife Marina. They find him, but he has been badly, badly hurt. The world just might turn its back on Hershel once again as he loses another one he loves.

Author’s Note: yea so i think this is the first fanfic on my blog? i dont write fanfictions very often anymore so please try to avoid criticism if you can. just enjoy! i’m sorry for the weird shift in tone this was originally going to be light-hearted but then my angst hit. hope u enjoy my fic regardless! its filled with latyon and luke father/son because i live for that shit bro. also sorry for any grammar mistakes im not a good writer!!

THIS IS NOT LAYTON X LUKE. IF YOU SAY IT IS I WILL VORE YOUR FUCKING FAMILY.

“You say that Luke is in here, correct?” The Professor inquired flatly, pointing one of his unnaturally long fingers towards the giant cell-like door that looked like it was concealing a million dollars rather than his dear thirteen-year-old animal-whispering emotionally stunted apprentice, who was very much long past thirteen, but the strong instincts to be a caregiver were still there and he knew they would never go away.

He wasn’t shouting it to the rooftops, but his intuition was telling him that… well frankly, that Hershel would open the door and be greeted with the sight of a boy that had changed so drastically he would be fighting tears from his eyes and screaming on his insides at the realization that he was finally standing before the boy he had missed for years.

And even more vehemently, that he would discover that this man, Don Paolo, garbed in an ugly businessman Halloween costume, had harmed Luke… and based on the show he put on with Paolo’s fedora-tipping army, it wouldn’t end well for Paolo or Layton’s pacifist reputation.

The short, stubby little man strode forwards a bit nonchalantly as if he had full confidence that his stupid disguise was fooling him. He knew well that is was not sitting well with Marina, Luke’s wife, either, as she was almost clinging to his arm and eyeing this stranger with fiery violet eyes. It was clear she did not know this man or his relation to her frankly bumbling husband… and it was also clear that the fact that he had imprisoned Luke had caused Hershel’s arm to be the only barrier between her and terrible bloodshed. And Rosa, well…. She just looked confused, the dear lady. She always looked confused. It worried Hershel a slight that he considered, once he reunited with Luke, maybe it would be good for her to take a break from tending to his office. She was aging fast, and… er, her tea was… well, it was fucking disgusting, but that series of vulgar thoughts did not even cross Hershel’s mind. Lackluster, he would call it.

“Y-yes,” The man seemed to purr, lifting his chin that was so elongated and awkwardly curved and pointy that it could cut entire oranges. “Right there…” He gestured to the door, his stuttering and clumsy behavior reeking of Don Paolo.

“Luke!” Marina cried, leaning forwards a bit, her eyes widening and glistening as she gazed longingly at the cell door. Her passion for Luke was… oddly comforting to Hershel. It was clear she was worried.

“Do not worry,” Hershel said reassuringly. “I’m sure Luke is alright.”

Hershel lied.

His ears detected a slight click in the vicinity besides him, and his pupil that doesn’t exist, honestly, turned to gaze a bit menacingly at Don Paolo. The man paused, making eye contact with Hershel.

“So, this is as far as you have come with us, Don Paolo?” Hershel said with false pleasantry.

The man made frigid eye contact with Layton before throwing his hands up defensively with a dandy little taser in his right palm. Marina and Rosa both turned to look, and gasped with Marina shrinking back a tad.

“Y-you knew?!” He gasped.

Hershel bit back a smile, wanting to call him a moron, but instead, he pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind and simply said, “Do you really think I would be unable to see through that cheap disguise?” His voice was stern, but had a sharp bite to it. Normally, he would be much more discreet with his aggressiveness, but Luke might be injured and Hershel didn’t have time for any of this shit.

Age has a weird way of pushing your vocabulary boundaries.

Don Paolo seemed to finally cave in upon being found out, and with a signature grunt, he grabbed two sides of his flabby costume and pulled it apart, revealing an equally flabby man. His mustache looked even grosser than it had the last time Hershel saw him, but he pushed those thoughts away as well.

“You are always so annoying, Layton!” Paolo snarled. Rosa and Marina seemed to shrink back even more, gasping with revulsion.

Hershel decided to bite back, because the more he aged, the bigger urge he had to be ornery and also, his instincts that were based from the fight with the men from earlier screamed that Luke was in danger and he needed to wrap this up. “And you are careless as always, Don Paolo.” Hershel drawled, fighting a smile as he began to dig through his pocket and deliver his final blow, “Also, I’ve taken the relic stone you had hidden in your room.” He then displayed it for all to see, a violet-blue shining stone that fit between his two fingers.

“H-how did you…” Paolo breathed, reeling back almost as if Layton had never bested him before. “How far do you intend to meddle in my plans?!” He growled, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

How far do you intend to get on my nerves? Hershel thought in the back of his cranium. It felt almost like Don Paolo’s need to interfere with Layton’s life would follow him until he either died or Paolo finally got some self-esteem and decided not to waste his time.

Paolo tensed, his wide eyes blazing as he attempted to stare Layton down. “Do you think I’ll just leave like that?!”

Hershel almost wanted to shrug, and when his eyes moved anxiously to the cell door, apart of him wanted to kick Paolo in the teeth for what he might’ve done. He could tell Marina was staring at it too, her anxiety matching his.

Once again, Hershel settled with a simple, “Inspector Chelmey and the whole of Scotland Yard will arrive shortly.” It wasn’t a lie, he had phoned them while Paolo had his head in the clouds, blabbering to Marina with lies she didn’t care for, and he remembered explicitly to tell them to bring an ambulance, should his harrowing hunch turn to be true.

He had to get to Luke, now.

Taking a breath, he put the stone back in his pocket and pulled out a pair of yellow keys hanging at the tip of his index finger, his go-to for getting Paolo to fuck off as soon as possible. “If I give you this key to the door in the back alley, you’ll leave quietly, yes?” He mused, unable to hide a ‘you disgust me and it’s time for you to leave my general field of vision’ smile. As Paolo anxiously uncupped his hands, Hershel swung the keys out into them.

Paolo took one last chance to glare at Layton with his ugly little eyes, and sneered, “I may leave now, but you’ll remember this, Layton!” Hershel’s eyes darkened at this, knowing full well that he would remember this… but not out of fear of Paolo, for a determination to put his foot in his ass should he have hurt any part of Luke’s body.

Don Paolo then proceeded to lug himself up the stairs in a manner of a walk as if he had just pissed himself, grunting with an embarrassing amount of effort. Hershel scowled and slightly smirked after him, and then he felt a familiar fear grip at his heart as he turned back to the cell door. He took a deep breath and felt Marina’s eyes on him. He gave her a smile as comforting as he could manage, and he said, fighting to keep a tremble from his voice, “Now… let’s save Luke.”

Marina’s eyes glowed and glistened with the narrow oncoming tears that were growing out of anxiety. “Yes!” She breathed, desperation in her voice.

Hershel nodded once more and then began to advance towards the door, his heart beginning to pound silently but catastrophically in his chest.

Luke was in there, his apprentice Luke… A grown Luke, an adult Luke… It felt so unbelievably surreal. He couldn’t stop the visions from what seemed like millenniums ago, of that little boy grabbing his sleeve, eyes downcast.

Let me go with you! Let me learn from you! I can be Professor Layton’s apprentice!

It had been so long… and that boy, he could be anyone now. It had been years. Hershel looked at the pictures he had of Luke almost every day just so he wouldn’t forget the boy’s face even in all this time. He felt more memories wrench in his mind, seeming to slow time as memories of loss raced past him, shining through to the one thing that had never truly left him.

“True friends share a special connection, and this connection endures, no matter how apart they may be in the world. Do you see?”

“I-I think I do, Professor.”

Hershel breathed in shakily, feeling Marina at his side. He pressed his hands against the handles of the door.

And then he noticed the dark, thick slashes of blood that were streaked beside the handles.

His mind seized, time stopped, and he grabbed the handles of the door and swung inward as hard as he could, a desperate gasp leaving his lips. He let his eyes bear witness to the sight before him.

Streaks of blood decorated the stone floor of this cell with a menacingly vibrant shade of crimson, growing wider and wider… the room had a musky odor of fresh blood and sweat… and smoke, and as Hershel’s eyes traveled up the streaks of blood as they got wider and wider, to the far wall…

He saw what had always felt like his true other half.

Luke was laying, sprawled, at the far wall of the cell, his back to his rescuers. He was tall, almost lankly, his limbs awkwardly sprawled. He was wearing a navy blue coat that was dotted with blood splatters from heavy injuries sustained and a black singe across his entire outfit, and as Hershel’s eyes traveled to his legs, he saw deep gashes in his body’s legs from what appeared to be heavy blows by a blunt object. Beside his bloodied head, laid an equally bloodied fedora that was ripped.

The singed scent of flesh, the blood, the strong odor… it told Hershel everything he needed to know. The thugs had beaten Luke senseless, tased him, and had thrown him in here for hours…

To die.

Hershel was barely breathing as he took it all in, his ears not even registering the mournful scream that emitted from Marina. He stared at the boy, now a man… now a body…?

No, no, no. No!

Marina beelined for her husband, and she was fast, but Hershel was faster. Rosa surged forwards along behind them as they sprinted for Luke, although arthritis can only have so much haste.

Hershel made it to him first, and he fell onto his knees mid-sprint, his knees carelessly scraping across the harsh rocky ground as he hastened to the inert man’s side. His eyes scanned over and over again across Luke’s body as he reached his arms over and pulled the young man over and into his arms are careful as he possibly could, his arm moving over to support his head and shoulders. The blood easily began to congeal into Hershel’s clothes, and his apprentice’s frail form was hot to the touch from the strikes with the taser, but there was no hesitation in his mind. With a free hand, he whisked Luke’s uncut bangs out of his face and finally saw the face of the boy.

He could hardly believe what we saw… Luke was no longer a boy… but an adult… he had returned, Hershel had him now. Hershel had laying limp in his grasp what he had been missing, a loss that had left a void in his life… He was here, but it could be too late.

“Luke.” Hershel rasped, giving the young man the slightest shake as he stared into his apprentices’ pale face. “Luke, no…”

Hershel felt his cheeks grow damp and hot with what he was sure were fresh tears, and his breathing was extremely labored as he immediately moved his shaking hand down to Luke’s neck. He pressed it against Luke’s veins, his vitals, and for the first time in years and years, he said a silent prayer, a silent beg, a silent cry to God to please don’t take this from his life. He could hardly stand the barren years without his apprentice, but if he were...

If Luke was gone, Hershel just might’ve broken.

But the world wasn’t going to break him. The world wasn’t going to betray him once again, his suffering finally felt over as he felt the fluttering of a pulse underneath his fingers. Beside him, he then noticed that Marina had raced to her husband’s side as well and was borderline wailing his name as she reached for him.

Hershel absentmindedly moved his arm down to support Luke’s back and allow her to cradle his head as Rosa kneeled down at Luke’s feet, her eyes gigantic and frantic. Marina leaned down pressed her forehead against her husband’s own, sobbing with hysteria, unaware that he was even alive. “Luke… L-LUKE! N-no…!” She wailed, her tears falling down his face as she clutched him close to her.

“Professor…” Rosa gasped over Marina’s cries. The poor old women was shaking a bit out of fear and panic, this sight almost too much for her. “Professor, is he…?”

Hershel didn’t respond at first. He couldn’t take it anymore. In the years that Luke had been just a boy, Hershel had bottled so many emotions, suppressed so many feelings, hidden so many sorrows… but he just could not hold it in any longer. With the overwhelming sense of endless relief pulsing through him as he felt Luke’s pulse beneath his fingers, and as his tears began spilling faster and faster, a choked sob escaped the man, filled with all the emotions that he had never allowed himself to show around the boy.

Hershel’s head fell onto Luke’s bloodied chest, his fingers still delicately over the boy’s vitals and he sobbed even more, harder and harder… his shoulders heaving and shaking. His top hat had nearly fallen off his head at this point, but nothing could be further from his mind. There were too many emotions to convey into one word, but he felt relief, he felt sorrow, he felt joy, he felt worried, he felt distraught… and he felt the feeling of fatherly love for this boy, for his young apprentice, now a grown man, but still his young Luke. It was a feeling he could finally embrace.

“H-he’s alive. H-he’s...” Hershel gasped through vehement sobs. Beside him, he felt Marina suck in a gasp as she moved forward, embracing her husband even more as she searched for ways to rouse him.

When the overwhelming emotions were beginning to end and Hershel could get control of himself again, he lifted his head, his face streaked with tears from at least three minutes of ugly crying. His top hat had fallen off, but he didn’t even seem to notice as moved a hand gently through Luke’s matted hair and, still shaking with smaller sobs, he began to tend to Luke’s wounds with every fiber of emergency medical knowledge in his body. He moved his hands about each wound, applying direct pressure with all his strength to stop the bleeding. He kept looking at Luke’s face, searching desperately for him to come to, somehow. He instructed Marina to help with applying pressure and had Rosa keep watch over his vitals. They did not have to do this long however, because thankfully, Hershel began to hear police sirens outside the building, the familiar ring of Scotland Yard’s cars, and his heart was flooded with relief when he heard the similar alarm of an ambulance.

He managed to get Marina off of Luke’s body, telling her he had to bring him outside for medical attention. She was still shaking and sobbing, her hysteric worry still very vehement, but she could sense her relief that her husband was probably going to make it. Hershel knew he had to make haste outside, he didn’t have time to wait for them to scour the building and get to him.

As Marina parted from on top of her bloodied husband, Hershel began the process of lifting Luke in his arms as carefully as possible into a position where he could carry him. Luke, being much older, had taken on much more mass, but Hershel was still nimble and strong as ever. Once Luke was securely positioned, his neck still being supported, and Hershel was mobile, he turned and began to race out of the cell door and out to the exit of the building, calling Marina and Rosa to follow him. Marina had no trouble nipping at Hershel’s heels, still crying her husband’s name out of desperation for him to rouse, and poor Rosa still lagged behind, the excitement of today obviously taking a toll on her old bones.

Hershel bolted outside with his surrogate son limp in his arms, immediately shouting out in a strong voice for paramedics to aid him as Marina launched herself after him. Hershel stopped before the cars and settled down so that Luke could lay as one Scotland Yard constable pounded forwards and laid out a blanket for him to lay on. Hershel still kneeled before Luke, a gentle hand supporting his neck and chest as he saw the bulky figure of Inspector Chelmey race for him, tailed by Constable Barton.

“Layton! Did you find your boy?!” Chelmey barked, his voice raspy with age as he raced to Hershel. Marina was crouched at Hershel’s side, never leaving her husband for even a moment. Chelmey halted before the scene with Barton at his side, looking at first surprised to see Layton without his hat, and the older Inspector gave a deep gasp at the sight before him as he looked down at Luke.

“Blood ‘ELL! Is that...?”” Chelmey’s eyes widened with an almost mournful panic as he looked up at Hershel, expecting to hear that they had been to late.

“Yes, Inspector, this is Luke.” Hershel said, his voice thick with the sobs he had released just minutes prior. He drew in a deep gasp and his eyes bore seriously into the Inspector’s own. “He’s alive. I-I did as much as I could. P-please, get the paramedics, hurry.”

Chelmey nodded deeply, his eyes showing a smidge of soft emotion as he saw the emotional toll this had taken on Hershel, and the state of Luke. Hershel vaguely wondered if Chelmey felt the surreal feeling of Luke’s age as well, as if he still felt like a boy to him. He turned and let loose a louder bellow for paramedics than Hershel could ever muster, as Barton raced to notify them to bring the ambulance closer to the scene.

It was just minutes before paramedics were swarming the scene, beginning to load Luke up on a stretcher. Hershel finally but reluctantly left Luke’s side for just a moment as they loaded the unconscious man up into the yellow stretcher before he was back, trotting alongside the stretcher, searching Luke’s face as they stuck him with vital medical care. Marina pounced into the ambulance, glued to her husband’s side, and nobody approached her, even though they did not know initially she was his wife beside the expensive ring that shone on her finger. Before Hershel followed, he turned to Rosa.

“Oh, Hershel…” Rosa gasped, her eyes beginning to well up. “I’m so sorry for what has happened. I’m so, so sorry.”

Hershel forced a sad smile, tears threatening onto his face again. “Please do not worry yourself. Everything will be alright, Rosa… I know it will, it has to be.”

She smiled gently at him. “I know it will, Professor.” She breathed. “Luke is such a strong boy... I know he’s going to be alright.” Hershel nodded sadly and looked out towards the building with the sudden realization he had left his hat inside.

“Rosa, could you retrieve my hat from the building and take it back to my office? I left it in the cell.” He said, looking somberly at her for a moment.

“Of course, Professor. Are you and Marina going to be alright?” She asked, concern dotting her features.

“Have no fear, Rosa. I’ll look after Marina and I won’t be leaving Luke unless absolutely necessary. I know Flora and Emmy will want to hear of this as well, could you phone them?” He asked.

“Of course. You take care of your boy.” Rosa said, smiling. Hershel smiled back weakly at her, before he too loaded himself into the ambulance and came to sit on the bench at Luke’s other side. He was attached to many medical devices now, and was already showing slight signs of life, which made Hershel’s heart lurch with anticipation and relief. Marina was leaning over him, much to the dismay of the paramedic as she murmured his name and tried to rouse him. Hershel comforted her momentarily, although he too anxiously wanted Luke to open his eyes. Then, just as the ambulance began to move forwards and the sirens began to blare, Luke’s glazed blue eyes wearily opened after he stirred just a slight. Marina nearly wailed in relief and peppered her husband with comforting words, as Hershel gaped at his apprentice. Luke drowsily reached for Marina, coughing slightly with smudges of blood on his lips as the paramedic turned his head so he would not choke.

“M-Marina… I-I’m sorry…” Luke whispered weakly, embracing his wife best he could. It was clear he was extremely drowsy and wasn’t aware of much that was going on.

As the ambulance shook with movement, Hershel stayed put and continued to stare at Luke, tears returning to his face for the millionth time. He watched the exchange between Luke and Marina, before he finally made himself heard.

“Luke.” Hershel breathed, his voice barely above a whisper as he reached forwards and placed a gentle hand in the boy’s hair. “Luke… look at me.”

Luke’s body flinched, almost convulsed, as if the familiarity of Hershel’s voice roused him more than ever. As fast as he could, the man turned his head until he was staring into Hershel’s face. Hatless and utterly tearful, two traits he had just barely witnessed as a boy.

“P-P-Pro-fess… Professor…?” Luke wheezed, his eyes widening and beginning to fill with tears from both pain and shock. “Y-you’re…”

“I’m here. I’m here, my boy. I came to get you, you’re going to be alright.” Hershel choked, leaning forwards a bit more. He stroked gently at Luke’s hair, looking his near-son in his eyes. Luke stared back, as if he felt he was in a dream.

“Pr-ofessor…” Luke rasped once more, suddenly beginning to reach for his mentor. Hershel leaned forward and embraced his apprentice the best he could in the state they were in, careful not to touch any medical devices. Luke shook and began to pitifully cry, almost identical to how he would as a little boy. Hershel held him close, fighting sobs himself.

“I’m here, dear boy. Stay with us.” Hershel said gently into Luke’s ear.

Luke slowly leaned back, but his hands were still reaching. Hershel took one gently and held it in both hands, breathing with repressed sobs as he stared at his apprentice, his little boy, his other half.

“You’re here… you and M-Marina, i-it’s really you…” Luke gasped, looking at him with tearful eyes as Marina reached forwards to hold him close to her. Luke’s tearful eyes searched his mentor’s face. “W-why…?”

Hershel was once again letting warm tears fall freely now as he brought Luke’s hand to his chest, as he said very softly, “I had to come and save my apprentice.”

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