#poe has a Past...he was Rowdy

[rarepilot]

pluresque replied to your post: jj is gonna straight bait fans with poe and zorri...

the pd comics: poe’s worked with criminals in the past and is pals with a bunch of shady people jj, lf: WHAT COULD POSSIBLY HAVE BROUGHT ZORRI, THIS SHADY CRIMINAL, INTO POE’S LIFE? THE ~HISTORY~ THEY HAVE?

i GUESS they gotta find a way to connect the comics to the films,, im noticing some inconsistencies between film/comics but alas,,, 

[helenarlett-rex]

So today was a day...

Not more than 10 minutes after opening the doors at work this morning I had a man try to enter the building without a mask. As I was stationed at the door this morning I offered the man a fresh mask and informed him that we are requiring people to wear masks inside the building. He ignored me by telling me that he already checked with the county commissioner and there is no county mandate for people to wear masks then walked right past me into the building. I quickly followed after him, trying to inform him that it was library policy that had nothing to do with county mandates but he again refused to listen to me and started rambling on with the same speel, refusing to listen to me. And the kicker was... he didn’t even want to use the library... He just wanted to return his books. Books he could have very easily put in the drop box right outside the door. But instead of doing that, he wanted to walk into the building without a mask to return them. In other words, he wanted to swing his dick around and prove to me he could do anything he wanted and I couldn’t stop him.

This of course went into an incident report I had to spend the morning filling out... Just because this asshole wanted to feel like no one could tell him what to do, I was forced to spend the morning filling out paperwork when I really needed to be doing other things, putting me way behind in my duties for the day. Something simple that would have taken him all of ten seconds, or even less than that if he had used the book drop, ended up costing me an hour and a half of my time which I really didn’t have to spare in the first place...

But that was only the start of my horrible day... Because the rest of the day was filled with similar people just like him who all felt the need to make our lives miserable over the covid precautions put into place in the library. As it turns out, there was to be a board meeting at the end of the day held there at the library. A full board meeting consisting of the board members of both our library and the board members of our sister library in the next town over. And one of the topics on the agenda was discussing what covid precautions were to be taken going forward. Knowing this, the local rat lickers had apparently decided to start attacking us early, and keep at it thoughout the day, almost as if they were trying to wear us down and beat us into submission before the meeting even took place.

When my library director arrived at work that afternoon, she asked me to personally attend the meeting because she had added the incident report to the agenda and wanted me there if they had any questions. I agreed to attend. And when the day came to an end and the board meeting was begin, I received the unfortunate privilege of getting to bear witness to a mob of the worst, most entitled collection of plague rats our community had to offer.

I watched as somewhere around fifty unmasked people consisting of Covid Karen’s and their entire families came pouring into the library like a group of disease infested rats scurrying off of the docks of Messina. But they weren’t satisfied to just fill the building and breath their germs all over everyone. The moment they approached the area set up for the board meeting to take place, the began instantly, and loudly showing their complete disregard for the precautions the library was trying to take. Many of them loudly announcing that they had no intention of social distancing as they began moving all the chairs that had been set up for them to ensure they were as close together as possible. I myself was forced to leave my seat when a woman scooted her own so close to me she may as well have been sitting in my lap and then further refused to allow me to move my chair away from her. I was in fact forced to stand through the entire two hour meeting because it was the only way to distance myself from the rowdy crowd intent of breathing directly down my neck.

Even without the concern of covid, I have been diagnosed with PTSD and I don’t like people getting too close to me. But this angry mob that would have looked more at place gathering outside of Frankenstein’s castle with torches and pitch forks, many of whom would go on to complain about how masks were violating their medical rights, showed no concern for my own medical rights...

As soon as the meeting began, the board opened the floor to take comments from the public and what proceeded was a literal dick swinging competition as every Karen in attendance took their turn giving prepared speeches that went through the list of every rumor, conspiracy theory, easily disproven fact, bit of misinformation with no basis, and argument of having their freedoms taken away that anyone has ever heard in argument against covid safety. Each one trying their best to top the person who spoke before them with the rest of the crowd erupting in loud cheers and applauds at the end of each speech in what can only be described as the largest circle jerk I have ever witnessed.

Many of them even forced their children, some of them too young to even understand what was going on, to stand up and talk in front of the board for sympathy points...

When the floor was finally closed to comments, and the board began going over the topics on the agenda, the ill mannered crowd continued to interrupt as if it was their own meeting and they were only allowing the board to sit in on it. They had to be told several times by the board that their time to speak was over and still they continued to interrupt and even attempt to intimidate the board.

And then, after a period of topics the foaming plague rats didn’t understand or have any interest in, the moment finally came to discuss the matter of covid precautions moving forward. And to my horror... the proposal was immediately made by a member of our sister library’s board to immediately put an end to all policy and precaution related to Covid-19. I wasn’t surprised by this... I’ve long known that the director of our sister library was a rabid Red Hat, foaming at the mouth herself, and had likewise surrounded herself with like-minded people. But that made the horror no less real as this dead eyed, unmasked man who looked as if his heart should have been beating under the floorboards of an Edgar Allan Poe story, stated that he would accept no exceptions or amendments to anything other than pretending covid had never happened.

This decrepit old vulture went so far as to prevent the rest of the board from making any further suggestions and forcing a vote on the matter, all while exchanging winks with the mob of plague rats from the one eye that still worked. And when the vote was forced it came down to a 50/50 split. Every member of my library’s board voting against the proposal, with every member of our sister library’s board voting in favor of it.

And with the vote ending in a tie, it fell to the board’s trustee to cast the tie breaking vote... A man who is so out of touch with the actual workings of the library, and has so little regard for the members of staff who keep the library running... that after knowing the man for eight years he still doesn’t know my name and continues to tell me what his name is and where his library card is located every time he checks out a book... (Yes... I know who you are... Yes, I know your card is in the box under staff... And no... my name is not Bill so stop calling me that... Bill quit six years ago...) A treatment every member of staff receives from the man I might add... (Just how many people named Bill does he think works there...?) A man who’s term limit on the board is up and this was to be his last board meeting, no less... So regardless what decision he made, he wouldn’t have to stick around to deal with the fallout of such a decision... And this was who the deciding vote was given to...

Naturally he voted in favor of the proposal and just like that I watched as every ounce of safety I had in my job was stripped away while the disease bearing pestilence in attendance all cheered like a group of rednecks who had just been told the south finally won the Civil War. (A war many of those in attendance no doubt still believe is going on if the flags flying from that backs of their pickup trucks are any indication.) No longer would masks or social distancing be required inside the building. In fact, it can’t even be suggested... Occupancy and time limits are no more. Hours of operation are to be restored to full time... A feat I am still confused as to how we are to manage considering we barely have enough staff members to keep the library open for seven hours a day and no takers on open job positions... For a moment it almost sounded as if my own right to wear personal protective equipment was to be taken away, although my own director has informed me she will not enforce that and I am free to continue wearing whatever I would like. Although her ability to allow this remains to be seen...

But there you have it. A library staffed primarily by immunocompromised employees had its right to protect the well-being of said employees  taken away based on the decision of a completely different library in a different town, an ineffectual old man on his last day on the job, and a raving mob of entitled vermin using intimidation tactics and threats of lawsuits. (Because yes, they did threaten lawsuits...)

All that remains to be seen now is if I will even continue to have a job in the wake of this decision. Because the board who decided to strip us of the only feeling of security we had, is in fact the same board who has time and time again refused to pay us anything more than minimum wage while every other business around us is currently hiring at double what we are making. If our job is no longer any safer than any other job, what’s to keep us from leaving for someone who would pay more? I’ve worked there for eight years and I can go anywhere else and get twice what I make as a starting pay... I think it would be quite funny if all of the people who demanded we drop our safety precautions so they could enjoy the library in a way that was convenient for them suddenly came back the next day to find it closed entirely due to having no staff.

Oh and the incident report I was asked to attend the meeting was glossed over by the board who no longer had any interest in punishing people for breaking rules they had just decided to do away with. So the extra two hours taken out of my day were for nothing as well...

[we-are-inevitable]

modern art // javid (ch. 1)

A/N: hi !! so some of you may remember an old songfic i did in march of last year, titled ‘modern art’ after the song “IDK You Yet” by Alexander 23. well, i’ve always thought that that one shot would work great as a stand alone fic, and here we are! i have ch. 1 edited and SO MUCH of it as changed- like, for example, the fic is a chapter fic now !! regardless, i hope you guys like this !!

WARNINGS: depression, anxiety, self-deprecation, past addiction, mentions of addiction, just general Bad Times- pls be mindful when reading !! it’s just very Not Happy rn ADDITIONAL INFO: all characters are in their mid-twenties in the fic. oh also this is probably important but it’s a soulmate au !!

Read On AO3!

tag list: @bound-for-santa-fe @wannabecowboypunk @shippingcannons @yahfancyclamwiththepurlinside @smallsies @deliciouspeachpirate @newsies-is-my-erster 

Jack doesn't know what’s going on with himself, but he knows that he could really use his soulmate right about now.

They’ve communicated before. Never verbally, and never enough to reveal who they were. Perhaps they are both just... dealing with some unspoken fears, dealing with the worry of rejection sitting heavy in their chests. Perhaps they both like this mystery- the uncertainty that came with the notes scrawled across their bodies in a handwriting that isn’t their own.

Or perhaps they just aren’t ready to take the plunge. To grow up and face the harsh fact that, as soon as they meet, wherever and whenever that may be, a new chapter of their life will unfold. Consume them. Change anything and everything they’ve ever known or held dear.

They had been braver when they were children, that much was true. Jack remembers staying up late often, writing notes on his skin and watching in awe as the replies appeared. He remembers the giddy rush of trying to quickly wash off the ink on his wrist when they ran out of space to talk, and, oh, how they talked. There were school days when Jack would go to class exhausted, feeling like he’d been walking through quicksand for miles on end, but all of it had been worth it. The exhaustion he felt had been worth being able to talk to them until two, three, four in the morning. Sometimes he regretted it, of course, but only because it was harder for him to focus in class. Never because he was upset at them.

He could never be upset with them.

Even now, Jack remembers a lot about his soulmate. They liked music. They knew how to play the piano. They were into a few video games, even some that Jack had never played, and said that they always tried carrying a book with them wherever they went. Jack remembers that, as a younger kid, they liked Harry Potter and Percy Jackson, but also liked analyzing Shakespeare and Edgar Allen Poe and a bunch of other fancy authors that Jack had never even heard of. They were intimidatingly smart, and sometimes, would carefully correct Jack’s grammar whenever he misspelled a word or something- but they were never mean about it, they were just… there. A steady presence that he could count on.

Fifteen year old Jack dreamed of finding them one day. But now, twenty-five year old Jack is losing hope.

He can’t exactly help it. For starters, he and his soulmate haven’t communicated in… well, shit, it had to be nearly a year. Maybe nine months or so, but there’s no way to tell for sure, and even then, their conversations since reaching adulthood have been dull, for lack of a better word. A few positive comments here, a ‘have a good day’ there- it’s all so mundane, and neither of them can be blamed for it. They both have busy lives- or, well, Jack does, at least. His job as a graphic designer is hard enough on its own, but the added pressure of doing freelance work and commissions on the side has been eating away at him for weeks, coupled with debilitating self-doubt and lack of motivation for… anything.

Saying that he’s overwhelmed is the understatement of the century.

There is always another design, another client, another meeting, another deadline, another sleepless night as he stares at a blank canvas and prays for a spark of inspiration from whatever God is listening. Usually his inspiration comes from the world around him- his friends, city life, even the quiet confines of his apartment, but right now... Jack is stuck. He had holed himself up in his room days ago, trying and failing to get out of bed every morning when the time came to work- and thank God that the majority of his work could be done from home. His boss was understanding, too, to an extent.

Still, though, there’s a constant heavy weight on his chest that prevents him from moving most days, and he’s lucky if he even gets up long enough to shower or eat or do literally anything aside from lie in silence and count the cracks in his ceiling.

Nothing had happened to him recently to bring this on, from what he can tell. Jack has always been the happy-go-lucky leader, the man with a plan, the guy who always knew just what to say to motivate others into doing the best thing for themselves, but when that responsibility is reflected back onto himself, Jack feels helpless. There are words waiting to be said, sketches waiting to be drawn, designs waiting to be sent to clients… yet Jack lies there, motionless in his room for three days before he even has the energy, the willpower, to pull back his curtains and allow the sunlight to shine through. There is so much he wants to do, so much he needs to do, but he can't bring himself to do any of it.

In all twenty-five years of his life, through all of the things he’s been through, the ups and downs and foster homes and graduations and birthdays and funerals and therapists and rehab facilities and whatever the fuck else life decided to throw at him, Jack has never felt so worthless, so… lonely. His closest friends are all moving on with their lives. Many have already found their soulmate, have settled down and hidden their rowdy, rambunctious pasts behind skeletons in a closet. They’d all gotten their adventures done and over with in high school and college, and most are moving onto bigger and better things in life. They have careers. Families. Some have children, others have pets, a few have an insane amount of plants to care for.

All have seemingly left Jack behind in the dust.

No one told him when to flip the switch.

No one told him when he had aged out of adventure.

Now, they would never say it, but Jack knows. He knows. Saturday hangouts and trips to the bar had been replaced by Sunday church services and playdates for the kids. Rather than hearing yelling from his living room after his friends had all been teetering just on the edge between tipsy and fucked up, Jack hears the news, and documentaries, and podcasts, and the ghosts of a past life that he still seemed to be desperately clinging on to.

Katherine had been the one to tell him that he needed to grow up, though she didn’t put it in such a blunt manner. No, she’s just.... gently urging him to find a bigger apartment, or buy matching furniture from a place that is not a thrift store, or purchase dishes that weren’t of the plastic Walmart brand. She says it was because she wants to see him in a more professional, "adulty" lifestyle, but he knows it’s really because she can see that he’s a mess.

Deep down, Jack knows she’s right. She’s always right.

He just can’t help but feel cemented in place, dreaming of the past while dreading the new future ahead of him.

Jack never asked to feel so broken for no reason. All of the hope and optimism he had felt as a teenager was gone, lost in a sea of uncertain plans and shitty jobs and bill extensions and canvases dropped onto the floor with no rhyme or reason. And, yes, maybe Jack would look dramatic to someone who didn’t know his situation, but Jack knows what dramatic feels like. Dramatic feels like watching his best friend, Charlie, belt onstage in front of a backdrop that he helped create for the school play. Dramatic feels like laughing at the top of his lungs while walking through a random gas station at two in the morning, joined by Race and Al, all while higher than a kite. Dramatic feels like driving to the outskirts of the city with Katherine, climbing onto the roof of an old building and screaming about all of their stress, their anxiety, their insecurities, just to have some form of emotional release.

Dramatic doesn’t feel like sadness. It’s not supposed to.

Not for Jack.

He had been so… so happy, as a teenager. Proud and defiant and carefree. He was the kind of guy to skate and smoke weed in Central Park until midnight and take a math test at eight in the morning the next day. He was the kid who stood on a table in the cafeteria and came out as bisexual to everyone around him, just because of a dumbass bet that he didn’t even get paid for. He was the boy who wasn’t at all good in an academic sense, but who always knew how to talk himself out of trouble, who always came up with the most ridiculous- or most believable- lies to cover his ass when he needed it, who was always the class favorite, the teacher’s pet without meaning to be.

Jack had felt on top of the world back then, but now he’s struggling to even get off of the ground. The longer time goes on, the more lost Jack feels inside his own life. He feels like something was missing, something big. Something bigger than himself.

When his mother was alive, which now felt like lifetimes ago, she would often echo this old wives’ tale about how it’s best to find your soulmate while you’re younger, just to save them- and yourself- the pain of being alone for a long time. Jack had always kind of believed her; logically, he knew it was true, but he had always told himself that it wouldn’t happen to him. That he would be fine alone, though it wouldn’t be ideal, and that he would have plenty of time for soulmates after he got out and made a name for himself.

He’s starting to think, though, that maybe she was right. Maybe Jack had waited too long to make a move, to make contact again, because now, he just feels nauseous even thinking about it.

Don’t get him wrong, he knows the negative effects of self deprecation and not taking his own mental health seriously, he’s been to rehab before, blah, blah, blah, but, fuck, how could he put his soulmate through something like this? This fucked up state of mind he has now. Jack can’t even imagine talking to Katherine about this, and Katherine had been his best friend for over a decade. He can’t just meet his soulmate now- it’s been too long, he’s too messed up, they won’t like him, they’ll hate him for not trying hard enough, and Jack will just end up alone again, wasting away in his bedroom because no one fucking cares. No one cares. He has nobody.

That’s not true. He has Medda, his mom, his savior, his impulse control, but the thought of telling her that everything is acting up again makes him want to scream. He has Tony, but Tony has Al, and Tony and Al have a kid- a sweet little five year old girl who calls Jack ‘Uncle Jackie’ and takes no shit from anyone. He has Katherine, but Katherine has her soulmate- this dude named Darcy, who Jack doesn’t have much of an opinion on because they just met, like, a month ago, and Jack hasn’t exactly been emotionally ready for a hangout session between the three of them. He also has Charlie, and Charlie has certainly seen him in worse times- like when Jack was kind of hooked on pills for the entirety their freshman year of college- but Charlie has grad school to worry about and Charlie would hate him if he bothered him with this.

Still, there are other people who would listen, probably. He could easily talk to Elmer, or Romeo, or Specs, or Jojo or Finch or Sean or a fucking therapist but that’s just it, isn’t it? If he talks, he burdens, and Jack Francisco Kelly would rather run himself into the ground than be a burden anyone.

So, he makes a vow.

He makes eye contact with his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He’s gripping onto the sink, holding on for dear life, as he stares into his own sunken eyes. He takes in his appearance. Damp, messy hair, falling down to cover his forehead. Pale skin, which isn’t normal at all. Dark circles have taken their place around his eyes, and his smile- one of his favorite things about himself- is… nonexistent.

Distantly, Jack registers himself dumping a full bottle of ibuprofen into the sink. And then, he does the same thing with the bottle of melatonin from his medicine cabinet. The valium follows. He lets the water run for a long time. It's not that he doesn't trust himself- he'd done so, so good in rehab, and he doesn't even feel urges that often anymore- but it's better safe than sorry, especially since he's like... this.

This is not the Jack Kelly he’s used to anymore. This is not the Jack Kelly he wants to be.

But this Jack Kelly is the one who vows not to reach out. The one who vows to only answer when his soulmate is ready, and maybe not even then.

He doesn’t have to wait long, though.

Not when a heart appears on the back of his hand the next morning.

It’s there when Jack wakes up, and, honestly, it almost brings Jack to tears- but not necessarily for happy reasons. Sure, Jack wants to be happy. Who wouldn’t be happy after seeing something like this? A lopsided heart drawn in red ink, right on the back of his left hand- it was the definition of a symbol, of a romantic gesture, and Jack wants so badly to write back, to strike up conversation, to draw a goddamn heart, but… he can’t.

He can’t, and that’s horrible of him, and he knows it.

Right now, though… Jack can’t even work up the courage, the energy, to call his mom.

His soulmate, whoever they are, is going to have to wait.

[bluebellhairpin]

Fight or Flight, Rider [4]

Poe Dameron X Pilot!Reader

A/N: MEET THE SILVER SQUADRON PEOPLE! My babies, my pet project, my post precious creation! - Nemo

Summary: (y/n) has never been so excited - today she gets to meet her Resistance Squadron. She finds they all are rather different, but at the end of the dy they still get the job done. 

Series Masterlist

Masterlist  

[Gif isn’t mine, t’was a Google find. Credit to it’s creator.]

You and Poe didn’t really talk about what happened last night. As cliche as it sounds, you didn’t need to.

You both decided not to bring it up, not because you were embarrassed or avoiding it, but because it would simply be easier that way. Word spread fast in the Resistance, for better or worse, and that could get anywhere by the end of the day.

Today you weren’t worrying about it though, because today was a big day. 

Today you officially met your new Squadron, and today you got to fly with them for the first time.

You were even more excited now than what you were when you raced Poe. Joon, your fellow Nephimmian, stood beside you, shaking his head. Not only was he assigned as one of the Lieutenants of your Squad, but you pulled him out of his bunk at daybreak just to get him to wait around with you for the past hour. 

“You’re being too loud,” he said, “You need to calm down.”

“Oh,” you scoffed, “I’ve barely said anything since I greeted you!” 

“You think very loudly.” 

“Shut up Joon, look they’re coming!” you said, ignoring him as he rolled his eyes, looking over at a crew of pilots headed your way.

A blond man approached your first, holding out his hand for you both to shake as he introduced himself. 

“Hey, I’m Commander Gareth Longo, Poe’s told me a little about you two and your venture to help everyone off Creit. Very noble thing for you to do.” 

“It wasn’t just us, sir.” Joon said, staying professional as ever, while you rolled on the balls of your feet.

“It’s appreciated just the same Lieutenant. Now let’s introduce you to the others.” Gareth said, turning to the others that came with him. 

“That’s Captain Dalyn Menryth,” he said, gesturing to a man with greenish hair, “He’s from Naboo, one of their pilots.”

“One of Naboo’s best pilots, don’t forget!” Dalyn said, catching your eye and sending you a wink.

“Sure. Next to him is Lieutenant Grey Saeth and Cadet Amry, they both came together from Tatooine.” A taller man waved at you with a very wide grin - he seemed as excited as you - and next to him was a much smaller woman - she seemed much less excited. 

“We’re a team, Amry and I.” Grey said, pulling Amry to his side as he grinned down at her. 

She shot him a smile, before pulling herself away from his side.

“Over there is Lieutenant Lup’ia Tetsuu,” a yellow Twi’lek looked over at you nodding, “She’s a little more of a mechanic than a pilot, but she’s just as useful either way.” 

“I’m Cyro Sythen. Cadet. I can introduce myself.”  A teal Mirialan stepped forwards, thrusting her hand out to yours. “I heard about you -  you almost beat Commander Dameron in a race. You’re cool.” she said as she shook your hand. 

You looked back at Joon, smiling.

“You hear that, I’m cool! Sadly, Dameron just happened to beat me by that much.” you said, sucking in a breath through your teeth. “He’s just too good.”

“No such thing Major,” Gareth said, turning his helmet over in his hands, “You can never be too good, only too confident. Now get your ships in the air, let’s get this thing started!”

__________

“I must say, you all were pretty good. Saw some nice moves out there today.” 

Your Squad - the Silver Squadron - had all been out for hours, practicing moves, perfecting comms, and learning how each other flew. More training would be needed, but for a first day you all did rather well, even if you thought so yourself. Poe seemed to agree.

“You can all get out there and do it again tomorrow. Fun, right!” he said, enthusiastic as ever. 

Grey was bouncing in his seat across from you - which you could already tell was normal for him - while Lup’ia was stuck in the seat next to him, rather unimpressed at being placed next to the human embodiment of sunshine and optimism. 

She wasn’t a people person at all. 

At least not until Finn came in. Then she brightened up - ever so slightly.

Joon was by your side, tapping his fingers on his leg as he always did when his superiors were droning on about post-flight checks. While on your other side was Dalyn, he’d practically stuck to you since he got his ship in the air next to yours. 

“... And I think that’s about it. You’re just about free to go clean up or whatever.” Poe said, dropping the datapad on the table as he smiled everyone’s way. “See you this time tomorrow.” 

“You busy tonight Rider?” Dalyn asked, slinging an arm around the back of your seat. “I know a really cool place just down the hall that serves some of the best food in the base.” 

“It’s the only place with food in the base, you fool.” Amry said, as she stood from her seat, leaving promptly after with Grey trailing after her. 

“Pfft, sure it ain’t exactly delicacies, but maybe we could snag a table and chat for a bit?” 

“No thank you.” You said, shaking your head with a light smile.

“Why,” he asked, suddenly going a little quieter, “You busy?” 

“No.” You stood, making your way behind him also. Joon was holding back snickers from his seat, while you were caught between sending sympathetic looks at Dalyn and smirking over at Poe. 

“Okay.” he drawled, “So you’re not busy, you just don’t wanna eat with me?”

“Listen, Dalyn, you’re a decent guy, and a hell of a pilot, but you’re also a serial flirt.” You said, letting out a quipped laugh at the knowing smile that reached his face. “The other gals and I in the Squad all pulled together before we came in here. You’re a ‘no’, but if you wanna hang over dinner then that’s cool - I’m sure you have more than your fair share of stories to tell.” 

“That’s true!” Dalyn said, practically dismissing you and leaning over the table to speak to Gareth. “Did you know, this scar came from a lady -”

“- Captain, I couldn’t care less.”

“Nonsense, of course you’d wanna know, it’s one great story!” 

“Joon,” you leant down to whisper in Joon’s ear, “Let’s scram before we get caught too.”

You’d never seen him get out of a chair quicker.

___________

You’d barely gotten out the hallways when footsteps came after you.

“(y/n)! Jeez, you and Joon are fast walkers.” Poe said, finally catching up to you both. “I was gonna ask you something but now I’ve forgotten what it was.” he huffed, resting his hands on his hips.

“So what, are you gonna stand there and breathe really heavily, or are you gonna walk with us to get some food?” 

“I was actually contemplating retracing my steps to see if I could remember my question, but I like the sound of food a little more.” 

“Ayee,” you smiled, “I knew we were similar!” With that you went back on your quest to the cafeteria. 

It was a decent sized place, although smaller than the one back of Nephimm, but it was cosy and snug like that. You rather liked it. The food even tasted a little better, despite the fact it looked a little less appetizing.

Practically as soon as you were seated, Rey came over and took the spot on your left, while Poe was on your right. Joon was unimpressed at his seat being taken, but decided Finn was probably a less rowdy person to be sat next to anyway. 

“Dalyn was trying to pull one move on you back there.” Poe said, smirking at you as he sat sideways facing you in his seat. 

“Yeah, well, takes more than a wink and a good-looking smile to get me to do things for you.” You said, looking over at him while stuffing your mouth full of food.

“Did you know you’re a vision when you eat (y/n)?”

“It’s her goal in life, I’m sure.” Cyro said, stepping up to the empty seat next to Joon. “Can I sit?”

“Of course.” 

“I’m always a vision, so it doesn’t matter what I’m doing.” you said, holding back a snicker. Poe looked over at you, resting his chin on his hand, and just smiled over at you.

“What is he doing?” Cyro asked Joon, the two of them looking between Poe staring at you and you unceremoniously eating your dinner. 

“The common name for it, I think, is called ‘giving her heart-eyes’.” Joon said, looking up at Cyro. “In other words he just really, really likes her.” 

“What?” Both you and Poe looked up at the duo across from you, you cast a glance beside you to Rey - she only smiled widely at you - before looking to Poe at your other side.

“You’re not really making it a secret.” Joon said. “At times you’re both as subtle as a shotgun.” 

“Harsh.” you said, smiling slightly.

“I’m not sure I’m following?” Poe trailed off, his chin now back to resting on his hand. 

“Dameron! The General wants to see you.” An officer said, choosing to call across the hall rather than make his way over to the confused pilot.

“Later. Poe. We’ll explain later.” Finn said, showing he was in fact listening, despite being more invested in eating than you were.So with that Poe upped and left, shooting goodbyes to your group as he went.

“You think it’s serious?” Cryo asked, both her eyes and yours keeping on Poe and the Officer as they left.

“If they want Poe?” Rey said, snickering. “No one can answer that.”

__________

Series Taglist: @demigod-dragonrider-schoolidol​ @writefightandflightclub​ @robindoesntloveme​ @kiaralein​ @daniellajocelyn​ @americasass-romanoff​ @morgannope​ @smolpeachees​ @afootnoteinyourhappiness​

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[damn-daemon]

Critical Mass - Prologue

(While I’m still writing this for NaNo, I have no self control - @chuck-hansens​ did this to me. This isn’t the final version, but please let me know what you think!)

Ring of Kafrene

It had once been a populous mining site, home to a multitude of cultures and corporations, but the collapse of the Empire lead to many of the mines being closed down – no more Death Stars to build after all – and the area fell into disrepair. The Hutts attempted to take control of the area, but their reach had dwindled over the past decade, leaving the station in the hands of local gangs. It had become a hotbed of illegal activity – not that things had been easygoing under Imperial rule – with a reputation that rivaled some of the Outer Rim worlds.

So, of course his person of interest would be holed up here. 

Poe Dameron sighed as he stepped into the space port, vaguely paying attention as the docking clamps ground into place. The old, two-seater freighter was a far cry from his T-70, but the point of the mission was to not draw attention to himself. Also to preferably not get his ship stolen. An X-Wing wouldn’t last more than an hour in this space port. He didn’t even think the freighter would, and that rusting block hadn’t seen active service since before the Clone Wars. 

BB-8 rolled up beside him, gently nudging his boot and whistling softly. 

“Yeah, buddy, I’m starting to think I should have left you home too,” he replied.

The air was stale and stank of grease, oil, and other things he’d rather not think about. Most of the equipment was retrofitted mining machinery with exposed wires and layers of rust. Something electrical was sparking on the far end of the docking bay, and there was a lone astromech lying on the ground. Occasionally it beeped, but no one seemed to care. 

Inside the station was bound to be interesting. 

“I wouldn’t linger, if I were you.”

Poe turned to the bay doors, finding them open and occupied by a dark green Rodian. He was tapping on a datapad. 

“This level’s got a faulty grid. Power tends to cut and then you’re off for a nice – if brief – space trip.”

Panicking, BB-8 cried, launching a cable into the nearest wall. 

Poe pat the poor droid before walking to the doors. Eventually, he heard the sound of his friend rolling behind him – and then rapidly in front of him. 

“What’s my docking fee?” he asked, feeling a small amount of relief when the doors closed behind him. 

“Hundred fifty credits first day. One hundred for every day after.”

“And what’s the fee if I don’t want my ship to go mysteriously missing?”

If Rodians were capable of smiling, the one before him would be grinning from ear to ear. 

“Add another fifty credits on top,” the Rodian replied, accepting his credit chit. “Here I thought you were another one of those Core pilots. Come to this heap looking for adventure, and they lose everything but the clothes on their backs. Sometimes, they lose those too.”

“I used to be,” Poe said, walking down the narrow corridor. He ignored the way the lights flickered as he walked by, as well as what could be described as whimpering on BB-8’s part. 

The doors at the end opened slowly, grinding on gears that were undoubtedly rusted as well, revealing an unusual world. 

The Ring of Kafrene was an outpost that connected two asteroids. There was no atmosphere, gravity, or vegetation. It was rock and metal, a self-contained unit that relied heavily on trade to keep running. Problem was, Kafrene didn’t lie on any well-traveled trade routes. Without the allure of a thriving mining community, most vessels moved on to safer, better known stops. 

Metal towers, conduits, and piping shot upward for as far as Poe could see. The air was thick with steam and other chemicals being churned into the atmosphere out of various vents, clouding the passageways so that there always appeared to be a fog. Everything was a shade of brown, and he doubted that it started that way. 

Outside the few windowpanes, ships drifted outside. As did garbage.

Aliens of every type shuffled around the area, some in piloting gear, others armed to the teeth, a few sat on the ground begging for spare credits. A bounty hunter dragged a shouting Dug through the crowd. No one reacted. Most just moved along, quiet and plodding. It was another day for them. 

“Maybe I still am,” he whispered. 

He wandered with the crowd for some time, actively keeping BB-8 in front of him – only three passersby attempted to interact with the droid, each met with the same number of volts – until he came across the cantina he was looking for. At least it smelled like something remotely edible over the same stale air. 

A young Twi’lek held her hand up as he entered the space, looking him over like she could smell the offworlder on him. 

“We don’t serve droids here.”

Poe looked down at BB-8, who looked up at him. They both looked at the droid working behind the bar, serving drinks and making programmed small talk. 

“Well, I’ve never seen a droid eat anything.”

Her eyes glazed over, pupils momentarily scraping the top of her head, before she sighed and moved on, handing drinks over to a rowdy table of miners. 

Poe shrugged, and sauntered up to the bar, taking a seat on one of the stools.

And there he waited. 

Time passed slowly, and Poe had to actively restrain himself from constantly checking the door. General Organa’s mission layout was simple: the contact would come to him. He wasn’t to move until then. 

Three days ago, C-3PO received an encoded message from one of his contacts – frankly, the idea that a protocol droid had an underground spy network at his proverbial fingertips was still strange to him – detailing a curious event that had occurred on Canto Bight. It alleged that a First Order operative had gone rogue. Leia had decided to err on the side of caution until yesterday when 3PO received a second transmission from this space port. 

It was potentially the largest lead on the First Order they had ever received – someone who was actually on the inside, and actively seeking a way out – yet Leia had still offered him a choice. It would be dangerous – and was possibly a trap – and if he felt the risk was too great, then they would leave it be. 

“It’s like you don’t know me, General,” he’d said with a smile. “I haven’t met a risk yet that wasn’t worth the effort.”

Her smile wasn’t quite there. “Sometimes, Dameron, I wish you had.”

He’d spent the entire trip mulling over those words. 

The Gran that had been occupying the bar since he arrived stood to leave, mumbling some obscenities as he shuffled toward the door. That left Poe alone at the bar – nearly alone in the cantina minus the miner party – and a little sullen at that. A crowded place was better for meeting. Here might have been downright suspicious. 

He chanced a glance at the door. 

“You humans never were good at being subtle.” 

Poe looked back to the droid behind the bar. It was a tall, thin thing, with one red sensor that watched him. Perhaps the only thing not rusting in the area, it still maintained a metallic sheen. Someone had jokingly tied a bow tie to what would have been its neck region. 

“Excuse me?” 

The entire time, the droid had been speaking in simple phrases, exhibiting a simple etiquette programming, but that appeared to have been a ruse on its part. 

“Your species fidgets too much. It has a low tolerance for sitting still. Imagine how little would get done if a droid acted the same way.”

Poe lowered his voice. “Are you…?”

He could have sworn the droid looked disappointed. “Were you expecting something organic?”

You know, he really didn’t have an answer for that. 

Poe waited as the droid continued cleaning the bar top, now acutely aware of how much movement his body was making. He continually caught his fingers tapping on the counter-top and would put his hands on his lap, only then his knee would start bouncing. BB-8 had grabbed his foot with a little claw to keep it still. 

“You’re not helping.”

The droid whistled shrilly.

Poe pointed a finger at him. “That was rude.”

Eventually, the bar droid placed a small cup in front of him without a word. Poe watched it briefly, but it no longer acknowledged him, chirping out a chipper greeting to a Talz that had just entered. 

Inside the cup was a small data drive.

Poe watched it a moment, wondering if he shouldn’t pretend to take a drink. Instead, he counted to one hundred, grabbed the drive, and made his way out of the cantina. 

The crowds had died down slightly, apparently having gone through a shift change when he first entered. Still, there was a steady current of aliens traveling down the narrow passageways. Poe let himself be directed by them, hoping to blend in as much as possible until he chanced upon a more private setting. 

They passed through a small market place, where the citizens of the station haggled over used equipment and fried food. The walk became suffocating as it was apparent that the stalls had not initially been considered as part of the station’s original layout, leaving the travelers packed shoulder to shoulder. 

A small fist fight broke out, knocking over a fruit stand. This led to several individuals grabbing the wayward Jogan fruit and making a run for it, leaving the owner cursing in what he thought was Huttese. 

Poe took the momentary chaos as an opportunity to stray from the beaten path, taking a narrow passageway that was lined with piping and probably served as more of a maintenance access. It widened out at the middle, opening up to a chamber that was filled with steam drifting from various vents rising up through dozens of levels. BB-8 just barely managed to roll through, leaving him somewhat confident that they would be alright for the time being. 

“Alright, buddy,” he said, taking a knee before BB-8 and handing out the drive. “Let’s see what you can make of this.”

BB-8 beep in acknowledgement, taking the drive. It only took a moment for his systems to process the data, producing a hologram of a still image – a young woman looking over her shoulder, face slightly blurred – and a few sentences of info. 

“Arrived on the station in an unauthorized Republic ship,” Poe mumbled, confused by how random the information seemed to be. “Logs wiped clean. Dock personnel unable to locate. Incident on level eighty-two involving half a dozen casualties potentially tied to her. I don’t know, this seems like a lot of loosely connected stuff. How do we know it’s her?”

His droid whistled and another image appeared, this one dated for the incident in Canto Bight. The projection wasn’t nearly as clear as the first, but Poe could tell it was clearly the same woman. 

“Alright,” Poe acknowledged, standing up at the holograms disappeared. “So, now we just have to find her…in the middle of all this. Yeah, no problem.”

The droid beeped.

“Yes, I know I said it would be worth it.”

Poe ran a hand over his face. It wouldn’t have been the first time he was wrong. 

“Is that a BB-series astromech?!” 

Startled by the sudden voice, Poe almost pulled the blaster hidden in his jacket, but was able to restrain himself long enough to get a good look at the boy that was now watching them from the opening. 

He couldn’t have been older than ten, staring at them with curious hazel eyes and a grin nearly too big for his face. His blonde hair stuck up in all directions, his clothes were covered in grease and grime, and in his hand, he held a single Jogan fruit, clearly having taken advantage of the tussle as well. 

BB-8 whistled, his head bobbing back and forth like a proud little shake. 

“How did you get one here?” the boy asked, darting out from the narrow passageway and fallen to his knees in front of the droid. “Last decent looking droid I saw got scrapped for parts within the hour.”

Ignoring the cries of panic from his friend, Poe actually smiled at the kid. At least someone around the area hadn’t had their spirits dampened yet. 

“Beebee-Ate isn’t about to go down with out a fight, and trust me, this guy’s got a lot of it in him,” he replied, patting the droid.

“Has he seen a lot of action?”

Poe shrugged. “A skirmish or two. Nothing he couldn’t handle.”

BB-8 was practically humming from the attention. 

The boy looked up at him. “So, you’re not from around here. Why come to this place? We’re not exactly near anything.”

“Business.”

“What kind of business?”

Poe felt his eyes narrowing. “What’s with all the questions, kid?”

The boy shrugged, taking a bite from the Jogan. “I have to ask them.”

“Why?”

“I needed to distract you somehow,” he replied, eyes landing on something that was definitely behind him. 

Poe didn’t even get the chance to reach for his blaster before something struck the back of his knee, hard, and his leg crumpled to the ground. The other leg followed suit as something struck it as well, except when it hit the ground, he felt a mass remain there, applying pressure to his calf. It felt like a knee. 

An arm wrapped around his neck, squeezing. The pressure wasn’t enough to render him unconscious, but warned that the outcome was possible if he didn’t comply. 

A shot fired, an electrical burst striking BB-8. The poor droid short-circuited, his components shooting out haphazardly before his systems automatically shut down to prevent further damage to his internal drives. 

“Hey! What are you-” Poe choked as the arm squeezed tighter, making his vision pulse. He held his hands up in surrender. “Okay. Okay.”

The boy frowned. “Sorry.”

He felt the attacker’s hand reach under his jacket, securing the blaster. 

“Can I have it?” the boy asked, face lighting up briefly before he assumed the attacker gave him a look. The frown returned. “Okay.”

“So, I take it you’re the fugitive from the First Order, right?” Poe asked, risking further damage to himself, but the arm did not squeeze again. “I mean, you have to be. You’re not asking for any credits.”

There was no response.

“You didn’t shoot me, which is nice. Means you don’t want me dead. And if you don’t want me dead, that means I have something you want, right?”

Still nothing. 

“You know, I’ve never been good at these guessing games. You’re gonna have to speak u-”

Their free hand slapped against his forehead, pulling his head back until he had a good – albeit upside down – view of their face. 

And there she was, the woman in the hologram. 

She was young, somewhere around his age, though the stern look on her face made her look older. Her dark hair was falling out of a bun, framing a bruised face – the incident wasn’t completely one sided then – and equally dark eyes. 

“Do all members of the Resistance talk this much?”

“No. Just me,” he mumbled. “I’ve been told it’s a problem.”

She sighed and shoved his head forward again.

“Get the droid,” she ordered. The boy dropped his fruit and immediately went to BB-8, pushing all his components back in place.

Poe watched it happen, slowly moving his free leg to the side. If he could just knock her off balance, he might have a chance. 

When the time felt right, he clasped her arm with both hands and pushed with his leg, careening them both to the side. Using his weight against her, Poe made her land on her back, the force of his shoulders striking her chest causing her arm to release him. 

He scrambled out of her grasp, rolling to the side, but the woman recovered fast. Poe felt her hands grasp the back of his jacket, halting his escape attempt and pulling him back. She swung her leg over his body, sitting on his chest, this time not bothering to ease the pressure. Breathing was difficult. 

She pointed a blaster at him. 

“Using the stun setting within two feet of a target causes irreparable damage to the nervous system,” the woman said, the words tumbling from her mouth without a single inflection, as if she was reciting it from a lesson. “You won’t be doing that again.”

Poe Dameron couldn’t help but wonder if General Organa wasn’t suddenly feeling smug at that moment.

@marvelousthronewars​ Look a present for youuuuu.

[holdyourfire]

taylir gar Tracyn

hold your Fire (Mando’a)

Fic rating: General with a couple Mature chapter in the middle

Fic Tags: Poe x OFC, hurt/comfort, angst, massive slow burn, pining, eventual fluff, Mandalorians, enemies to friends to...,

Fic warnings: mild sexual content, panic attacks, minor character death

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

no warnings for this chapter

Chapter 3 - Friction

1.6k words

      ***

      Poe was woken the next day, by a string of unrelenting beeps from his BB unit. He groaned.

      “Has the alarm even gone yet? Let me sleep ‘til the alarm goes off.”

      He stayed where he was, eyes beginning to droop shut when the familiar alarm blared through the barrack speakers. 

      Instantly, BB-8 rolled away from his charging port to intentionally bump against Poe’s bunk.

      “Urgh!” 

      Poe hauled himself upright, sitting on the edge of his cot and blinking blearily at his little droid who peered up at him.

      “Mornin’ buddy,” he drawled through a yawn. 

      BB-8 hummed before chirping excitedly. 

      “Well, you’ll see her when we're about to leave. Unless you come to first-meal. Why are you so excited to meet her?”

      BB whirred, jostling his body back and forth. Poe frowned.

      “I didn’t mean to make her sound really cool. Is that really how it appeared?”

      The droid just warbled affirmatively. Poe sighed heavily. Perfect.

      “Just remind me of the stuff I need to pack after first-meal ok?”

      Poe stood and stretched before shaking his head violently in the mirror, inspecting his hair. His usual routine of getting dressed was hastened by BB-8 bumping repeatedly against the door in his annoying but successful attempt to make Poe hurry up. 

      “Alright, alright! Let’s go,” he said nudging the little droid with the side of his foot to get past him. He stepped out and instantly collided with Karé.

      “Sorry,” he grunted. 

      She just snorted, amused.

      “Watch where you’re going, flyboy. I was just heading to get Avara.”

      She strode over to room three and knocked. No reply. 

      “She’s probably already gone with the others. C’mon, we’re late.”

      “Late? The second bell hasn’t gone yet." He blinked. "Has it?”

      Karé rolled her eyes. 

      “I guess it rang while you were washing your precious hair.”

      “Funny.”

        They jogged towards the mess hall, BB-8 bumbling after them. The pilots were sitting at the usual corner table this time, along with a lot more people than usual.

      Probably here because I’ll be off on a mission. Or, he thought, suddenly frowning, they’re here to meet Deccol. Word does travel fast in a small base like this. Who wouldn’t want to meet a Mandalorian? 

      Heads turned towards him as they walked through the rows of tables. Nods, waves and murmurs of ‘good luck’ and ‘be safe,’ followed him and Karé as they reached their table. A loud cheer rose from the pilots gathered as they spotted him, and he grinned, warmth exploding in his chest.

      He was stuck in the swarm of about fifteen rowdy pilots for at least twenty minutes, all of them wanting to say farewell and wish him luck. Even BB-8 got a round of pats.

      Iolo eventually came to the rescue, no doubt sent by Karé.

      “Sorry guys, but this guy needs his big breakfast and his caf, or you know what he’s like during the day. We wouldn’t want to inflict grumpy-Poe on his new partner now, would we?”

      After a smatter of laughter, a few more hair ruffles and back slaps, the group moved on, leaving the table to the usuals. Poe turned to Iolo.

      “Since when am I grumpy?” asked Poe indignantly, as he tried to fix his hair.

      “My friend,” said Iolo, mockingly wise, “Poe Dameron is thirty per cent recklessness, twenty-five stupidity and twenty cockiness.”

      “You missed out twenty-five per cent.”

      “That’s the grumpy part.” 

      Poe punched him as they sat down at the table. 

      Deccol was already there, tucking into her meal. She nodded in greeting, her mouth full. That’s when BB-8 decided to announce himself. He trilled loudly at her side and she turned to look down at him, confused. 

      “Avara, you don’t know binary, do you?” Jess asked.

      Deccol shook her head. The astromech moaned, upset.

      “Well, that’s BeeBee-Eight. He’s Poe’s son,” said Karé.

      BB-8 moved to nudge his master’s leg affectionately as Poe rolled his eyes at Karé’s description.

      “He’s my astromech droid,” he corrected. “The best one there is,” he added fondly.

      “He’s the one coming with us, isn’t he?”

      “Yep. You’ll learn how to talk to him in time, it’s not hard.”

      “So,” began Snap, disrupting the conversation about BB, “How much about this mission can you tell us? When will you be back?”

      Poe looked around at his friends, all leaning towards him, watching seriously, worry etched in their faces. His heart swelled in sudden affection for them. He sighed sadly.

      “I don’t know. We have tasks to complete,” he said looking to Deccol, “and we don’t know how many. Leia just said they’re important.”

      And dangerous.

      He swallowed nervously.

      “You’ll make it back. You always do,” assured Jess. Poe just nodded, his throat tight. Karé and Snap exchanged a worried look.

      “Now eat! Don’t let us ruin your appetite.”

      Poe smiled and ducked his head down to obey the command, his stomach loosening slightly.

      Deccol had just observed the whole interaction without a word.

        ***

        Poe was pacing his quarters, almost tearing his hair out.

      “No, no! Beebs, it’s something else! Kriff… what am I forgetting?”

      He was packing his carry-bag. 

      “You’d think this would be straight-forward,” he growled, kicking a box aside grumpily as he scanned the stuff thrown around his room.

      I’m forgetting something so obvious I’m going to kick myself when I remember it.

      “Clothes, toiletries, my jacket,” he began chanting, sticking out one finger with each. “Credits, my datapad, my hair stuff, my holster, my tools… What else?”

      Everything he had listed out was already in his bag.

      He and Deccol were due to leave in under half an hour. And he was still here, holed up in his quarters, fussing about what to pack, things strewn around in his haste to find what was needed.

      A sharp knock sounded on the door. BB-8 darted towards it, bumping over Poe’s various belongings.

      “No BeeBee, wait-” he cried, lunging for the droid.

BB opened the door before he could be stopped. To reveal Deccol. Kriff. Damnit, Bee. She was wearing more armour than she had previously.

      “Dameron, are you-”

      She took in Poe, stumbling over a discarded shirt in his haste to stop his little droid and instantly averted her gaze, looking pointedly away from him. It took him a second to realise why. 

      He leaned down and whipped his shirt up, the ring on the chain around his neck whacking against his forehead. He pulled the shirt over his head, pink dusting his cheeks. He thought he could detect a slight colour change on her face too.

      “Uh, sorry. BeeBee is always a bit hasty when opening my door.”

      “Yeah, I- uh- I heard through the door.” 

      Poe blushed more, fingers running through his hair as BB yipped gleefully. Poe glared at him.

      “So I take it you’re not ready to go?”

      “I will be,” he sighed. “I just hate packing. Nothing unusual.”

      “I could help?” she offered.

      He was about to give a snobby reply of ‘I don’t need your help to pack a bag, I'm not a child,’ when BB-8 hummed appreciatively before Poe could open his mouth. The droid stretched out his claw to grab Poe’s leather jacket on the floor, dragging it to Deccol's feet. She bent over to take it, smiling at his droid.

      “I think you need this.”

      Poe swiped it from her grasp and slipped it on, embarrassed.

      “Well, what have you got packed so far?”

      He listed it out reluctantly.

      She frowned. “Aren’t you carrying any weapons?”

      Poe Dameron, it’s time to kick yourself.

      “Shit! That’s right!” He darted over to his closet, kneeling down to open the lowest drawer, pulling out his blaster pistol and a knife. “I mean we do get issued the standard rifles, but everyone prefers to carry their own weapons for missions.” 

      “Makes sense.”

      Poe looked over his shoulder.

      She was leaning against the door frame, watching BB-8 roll back and forth, desperately trying to sort Poe’s scattered belongings. She had a bemused smile on her face and Poe almost found the corners of his mouth beginning to lift at the sight of it, before mentally slapping himself.

      Let’s not do that. You already look like an idiot, let's not make it worse.

      He dumped his blaster and knife into his bag and buckled it shut, hoisting it over his shoulder.

      “BeeBee, did you go scan those freighters at the end of the strip, like I asked you to? Did you find a good one?”

      BB-8 chirped.

      “We’re using a freighter? What model?”

      “You familiar with the Ghtroc Seven-Twenty light freighter? I figured that would be suitable for us. The Resistance has a couple of old ones lying around so I sent BeeBee to scan the ship systems to make sure we took the best one.”

      “That model does sound familiar. A small freighter should be good.”

      They stepped outside, Poe taking a last glance at his room before locking the door. I’m gonna miss this place, he thought with a pang. I always miss the familiarity.  

      Deccol picked up a long, unusual looking rifle and slung the strap over her shoulder, before picking up a small bag and a helmet with the famous T-shaped visor that she tucked under her arm.

      Poe took this chance to get a better look at the extra armour she had on. A cuirass, complete with a chest plate, pauldrons and backpiece, along with two thigh guards, one shin guard. 

      “Isn’t it a bit early to get all suited up?”

      BB-8 whirred ahead of them, leading the way to their freighter enthusiastically.

      “It’s easier to wear it than carry it.”

      “That’s true I guess. It must be a hassle to wear so much all the time though.”

      “At the start it was,” she countered, “but I’m used to it now.”

      BB-8 was rolling back towards them beeping loudly, interrupting their semi-small talk. He looped around the partners before barrelling off in front again, still beeping.

      Poe chuckled.

      “According to Beebs, we need to hurry up.”

      ***

E/N: Next chapter kicks off a bit more! Their mission begins in Chapter 4.

[practically-an-x-man]

Fanfic ask game :)

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thank you!!! You're amazing bestie!!

👀 Do you have any WIPs that you would never let see the light of day? If yes, what are they about?

I've got one at the moment I think, more of an idea than a WIP bc it's not technically on the page yet. I don't know if I'd post it even if I did write it because 1. the fandom is abysmally tiny (I don't think there's even a tag for the movie on AO3 yet), 2. it's very self-indulgent and probably on the verge of a lazy/unrealistic plot, and 3. I just feel like it would go dead even if I did post it, so obviously my other fics are going to take precedence

📥 What is your fave fic to receive comments/messages on?

I mean, I love them all. I don't get very many comments on my fics in general, so I really treasure every one. That being said, I feel like people are really engaged with Who Waits Forever Anyway?, so I get some pretty dynamic comments there, and I really wish people would comment on Desert Song because so far nobody has and I feel like it's some of my best writing

🖊 Post a snippet from a current WIP.

Alright, here's a bit from the next chapter of Bolts and Blasters, my Star Wars fic:

A bit of the truth leached into those final words, and maybe that was why he didn’t question it. Poe just nodded, though his lips pressed into a thin, uneasy line. 

“Don’t know how much you’ll find,” he admitted, “Everywhere’s tapped dry. We had ships coming in from practically every habitable planet, and they all need to recover after that. You’ll be lucky to find bacta.”

“You’re so encouraging.” Indigo huffed, giving him a look, “But I have to try.”

Again, she found glimpses of truth amid the lie. She hated that she couldn’t tell him more. She hated that she had to dodge his questions like this. She hated to lie to a friend.

With luck, it wouldn’t matter. He’d learn that it was a ruse within a day, yes, but he’d forgive her if it all worked out. 

If. 

Indigo sighed, and stepped forward long enough to pull him into a hug. If he thought that was strange, a farewell hug for a supposedly-brief supply run, he didn’t breathe a word of it. She’d been a little shaky these past few weeks, after all. He wouldn’t begrudge her a bit of support after everything she’d lost. 

When she pulled back, Poe’s brows had drawn inwards with suspicion. She took a step back, swallowing hard. 

“Good luck on your mission.” he told her, and didn’t say anything more. His posture was stiff, mechanical. He’d probably already guessed it. He was rowdy, yes, but he’d never been a stupid man.

Indie grit her teeth, forcing herself to turn away. 

🏅 What is something you recently felt proud of in regard to your writing (finished a fic, actually planned for once, etc).

The last two chapters I posted, on two different fics, were both over 7k words long, and I thought they were both very good. And I'm devilishly proud of how much emotional damage I've put my readers through in Bolts and Blasters, particularly since I've already started writing the resolution to it.

📚 Do you read your own fic?

All the time lol. I write it for me, so of course I reread it.

👩‍🏭 If one of your fics was going to get you arrested, which one and why?

Desert Song or Nom De Guerre. I'd like to think that my depictions of thievery, pickpocketing, coup d'etats, underground crime groups, and whatever else that writing 6 Underground fanfiction entails is decently accurate (or at least enough for suspension of disbelief)... but is it TOO accurate?

😈 Is there anything you enjoy doing that you think your readers hate?

I have a few fics where the main character's POV is in first-person perspective, and I know that's pretty polarizing. I still write most of my fics in third-person and even a few in second, but there's a certain level of perspective and closeness in first-person that you really can't quite get in the others. It feels more like they're telling their stories, rather than having this omniscient or godly Narrator walking them through it. I don't use it all the time (only 2 of my fics use first-person, and both also have POV shifts to other characters, which are written in third-person) but I think it can be very powerful when it's done right.

[dearlazerbunny]

(More Than) Just A Friend to You

Pairings: Poe x Reader

Genre/Ratings: G

Words: 2400

Summary: Written for @molmcb (I’m sorry it took me so long! Bad timing on my part) who requested a Poe x Reader based on Meghan Trainor’s absolutely adorable song Just a Friend To You. Hope you enjoy!

Sitting in the cafeteria with your brown leather journal in front of you, your pencil glides over the paper as you pen your latest poem. Your journal was for everything and anything you could think of- stories, poems, sketches. It was a sort of therapy, and on a small military base where almost nothing is private and everyone knows everything about everyone, it’s nice to keep something well and truly private. Of course, everything you’ve written lately has tended to center around one person in particular…

“Hey, Y/N!”

Speak of the devil.

Ace pilot and good-natured sarcastic Poe Dameron slides into the seat across from you, forehead streaked with oil, probably from working on his rig. “Whatcha writing about? Something juicy I hope.”

You laugh and shake your head, putting the journal back into your bag. “You always seem to think I’m some sort of gossip expert.”

“How can you not be? You never let anyone read that thing.”

“Because it’s private, dipshit. Not like you know the meaning of the word.”

Poe grins and shrugs his shoulders, knowing you’re right. His life is an open book for everyone to read. You liked to maintain some sense of modesty.

Which is mostly the reason why you haven’t told the man sitting across from you that you’re madly, desperately in love with him.

“Are you free tonight? Promised Snap I’d kick his ass at poker, and I can’t be there without my lucky charm.”

You blush, and hope he doesn’t notice. “For you? Always.” When were you not free for Poe Dameron? Especially when things like that came out of his mouth.

“Excellent. He won’t know what hit him.” He pops up, looking mighty pleased with himself, then leans over and hugs you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and squeezing. “See you at, say, seven?”

Yeah, your cheeks are definitely burning now. “For sure.”

He walks away whistling, and you sigh and pull your journal back out, adding to the growing poem that you’d put Poe’s name at the top of. It was to him, but it wasn’t like you’d ever give it to him or he’d ever read it. Why you gotta hug me like that every time you see me…

… “Y/N!” Jessika calls to you from across the rowdy room full of pilots playing cards. “Get a drink with me?”

You nod and make your way to the back of the room where she stands, waiting. After acquiring your cups, she turns to you with a conspiratory look on her face. “Any new developments with you-know-who?”

“Shhh! Someone might hear you!” You glance around nervously, but everyone is too engrossed in their games to notice too girls whispering in the back of the room. Jessika was the only one who knew about your Poe obsession, but only because she guessed. And now she wouldn’t ever leave you alone about it. But it was kind of nice to talk to someone about it, even if that someone was one of Poe’s right-hand men.

“He hugged me today,” you whisper, and you can recall the heat on your cheeks like the moment had just happened. Jessika smiles at you and takes a sip of whatever he’s drinking. “And I started a new poem…”

“About him?” You nod. “Are you actually going to give it to him this time?”

“Of course not!” You were horrified at the very idea.

“Girl, you gotta own up to this someday. It’s killing everybody to watch this go down.”

“Wha- what do you mean, everybody?”

She looks at you with a sympathetic gaze. “Honey. Everyone and General Leia knows you’ve got the hots for him. It’s written all over your face anytime he walks in the room.”

You blanch. “Even… Leia?”

“Well, that might be an exaggeration,” she admits. “But close enough.”

“That’s all well and good, but everyone just as well knows that he doesn’t like me back, so… there’s no point in talking about it.’

“Maybe.” There’s a sudden twinkle in her eye as she looks over to the table where Dameron is playing. “Maybe not.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothing. You should get back to him. You’re his lucky charm, right/‘ she winks at you and wanders off, leaving you to compose a new line in your head- everybody knows you love me too… … Poe being off base was never a fun time. You rarely slept while he was on a mission, to concerned for his safety- and everyone else’s, of course- to do much more than sit in bed and wait for a ping from him. Anytime there was a break in the action or a slow mission- maybe a stakeout or a drop off- he’d send you a message here and there, just so you know he’s okay. He knows you worry.

Hey. About to turn in for the night. Pretty quiet here.

You’re always thrilled when his name pops up on your digipad. Quiet is better than not quiet.

True. Miss the action, though.

You’re thinking about how to respond to that without sounding overprotective when another ping comes in. Miss you, too.

Oh, Poe. It’s things like this that make your heart go all sorts of wonky. You’ll be back before you know it.

Here’s hoping. Night.

You return the goodnight and sit in your bed, clutching the conversation to your chest in effort to slow your runaway heart. He misses you. He’s thinking of you. Then you say you miss me… … Your breathing is erratic as the pilots extend their gear and come in for the landing. Poe is home safe, as is his crew. You’ll never stop being thankful every time his ship touches the dirt.

There’s a group gathered around ready to meet the heroes as they come home, and cheering and clapping breaks out as the first pilots emerge from their rigs, Poe being one of them. His smile is blinding as he climbs down the ladder, mechanics and medics racing over to do a once over, but he waves them away. You’ll have to make him go to medical later.

He pushes past the crowd in favor of you, all the way in the back, and gives you a grin. “Y/N. Happy to see me?”

“Always.” You smile back as he pulls you into a hug. You hug him back, not caring that he probably hasn’t showered in days. You quietly revel in the heat and comfort that is his arms as you melt into him. “Welcome home.”

“Good to be back.” His smile seems even brighter, if that’s possible, when he pulls away and holds you at arm’s length, studying you. “Get any good writing done?”

You laugh. “A bit. Here and there.” I loved you from the start…

“When are you gonna let me read these amazing musings of yours?”

“Hmm.” You pretend to think it over. “When you personally hand over Hux’s head on a platter, I may let you read the first page. Maybe.”

“It’s a deal.” You shake on it, this bizarre bargain between friends… or more than… that makes your breath catch in your chest. “Anything for my girl.”

His girl… swear you’re catching these feelings…

… The next time he sees you, he kisses you on the cheek, and your heart is so full and so broken you almost burst into tears right then and there. As it is, you stand up so fast you knock your bag onto the floor in your hurried attempt to get away from this damnable man.

“Oh, stars,” you mutter, picking things up and shoving them back into your bag as you try to make your way towards the door. Poe helps you, of course, because he’s a gentleman like that, but his help is the absolute last thing you want right now. “I’ll- I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Y/N- did I say something wrong?” But you’re already gone, through the door, trying to carry all the little bits of your heart through with you. He’s left standing there, wondering if it’s something he said, when something under the table catches his eye.

“Oh, shit. Y/N. Y/N!” He retrieves your journal from underneath the table where it apparently slid during your hasty departure. You hadn’t seen it in your rush out of the room. Carefully, he picks it up and smooths down the pages that got bent in the fall. He had no intention of reading it, swear on his life, but he couldn’t help but notice in that beautiful script of yours-

His name. Right at the very top of the page, which was obviously addressed to him. He can’t help himself- he begins to read.

Why you gotta hug me Like that every time you see me? Why you always making me laugh Swear you're catching feelings I loved you from the start So it breaks my heart When you say I'm just a friend to you 'Cause friends don't do the things we do Everybody knows you love me too Tryna be careful with the words I use I say it 'cause I'm dying to I'm so much more than just a friend to you

Wait… is this your writing? Is this… how you felt?

When there's other people around You never wanna kiss me You tell me it's too late to hang out Then you say you miss me And I loved you from the start So it breaks my heart When you say I'm just a friend to you 'Cause friends don't do the things we do Everybody knows you love me too Tryna be careful with the words I use I say it 'cause I'm dying to I'm so much more than just a friend to you …

There’s a knock on the door, and you shove the blankets off your legs and get out of bed to answer it. Poe is standing there, uncharacteristically quiet. “You dropped this on your way out last time.” He holds out the brown leather cover of your journal.

“Oh my god, thank you! I’ve been looking for this everywhere!” You take it from his hands and run your fingers over the spine, happy that it’s back in your reach again. “You can’t imagine how frantic I’ve been.”

“Yeah, I think I can.” He laughs nervously and rubs a hand behind his neck. “So, when you dropped it, it kind of fell open…”

“Fell open?” You rifle through the pages, checking for damage. “You didn’t read anything, did you?” you ask jokingly, but from the look that comes across Poe’s face, it’s very much not a joke. “Poe! Come on, this stuff is private!”

“I know, I know, I just… I saw that one of the pages was addressed to me…”

Oh, no. “You didn’t,” you say weakly. “Tell me you didn’t read it.”

“‘More than just a friend?’ Is that really how you think of me?”

All at once, you step back and let the door close in front of you, effectively cutting Poe off from seeing the tears beginning to work their way down your face. He read it. The most intensely personal, private thing in your entire journal, and he read it. And probably laughed at it too. You sink onto the bed, clutching your betrayed journal to your chest. This was a disaster.

“Y/N!” Poe bangs on the door, hard and loud. “Come on, Y/N, open up! We need to talk about this.”

“Go away!” you call.

“I’m not leaving, Y/N. Not this time.” There’s a change in his voice. Something softer, something almost regretful, maybe?

Slowly, you wipe the tears from your face with the heel of your hand and pad back over to the door, which opens with a swipe. He walks in without asking, hands running through his curly hair.

“I-”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell- tell you what?” Your voice trembles as you speak.

“That this is how you felt.” He points to the notebook still in your hands.

“Because it’s obvious you don’t feel the same way, Poe!” You explode, whirling on him and practically throwing the journal at his chest. “I lay it all out in there. The kisses on the cheek, the hugs, the invitations. Introducing me to all your friends. Hell, half the base thinks we’re together, and then I have to go and correct them and tell them that we’re not!” Another tear works its way down your cheek. “I just… I don’t understand why you would do all these things and not want to be with me.”

“Because I do.”

That stops you cold. Everything in the room seems to shift ten feet to the left, and you grab the bedpost for support. “You… what?”

“Y/N.” He steps close, and brushes a piece of hair back behind your ear, just like he’s done so many times before. “I’ve been in love with you since the start. I swear to stars I have. I never said anything because I figured you were just tolerating me like everyone else does.” He opens your notebook and flips through, presumably looking for his poem. “If I had known…”

“How could you possibly not have known?”

“Because you never kissed me back! You never- I don’t know, made a move. I was worried I was doing too much as it is.”

“I never returned anything because if I had, it would have broken my heart.” Your voice is thick with tears. “I never thought you wanted me to.”

“I only thought about it every day,” he says wryly. “If there would come a time when you would actually kiss me back.”

“Only in my dreams,” you whisper softly, and a pang of hurt shoots through Poe’s eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N. I-” His hand raises to your cheek, wiping away the tears that have fallen, and you lean into it, grateful for the warmth. What he does next surprises you so completely you don’t even reciprocate. He kisses you. Softly and slowly, he puts his lips to yours in the kiss you feel like you’ve been waiting for all your life.

When he pulls away, you’re breathless, speechless, and completely exhilarated. “Wow.”

His eyes are still fluttered closed and you can’t help but admire how vulnerable he looks. When they do open, brown eyes piercing yours, you know that this is the start of something beautiful.  

Song lyrics obviously not mine!

[sharixinsanity]

The Legend of Satan’s Thirst by  Shari X Insanity

The Legend of Satan's Thirst by Shari X Insanity

Author’s Note: Hello, all. I’m Shari X Insanity, and this is my Poetry Page. This is my first ever post here in this type of forum. I used to post in Facebook’s Notes Section, but that is now a defunct feature, so this brings me here, and you have all stumbled upon my poetry journal blog. I’m going to be posting here often, so please be on look out for more poems. These are all original poems, written from myself, please refrain from stealing, or copying, without my permission or consent. 

I will be posting here often for Poetober, Poetober is like an Inktober, but instead for artists, this is for poets, and there’s also no prompts, just a theme -- horror genre, Edgar Allan Poe style technique, Halloween, Spooky Season. Happy Poetober to all! 

Subscribe, like, comment, reshare onto other social media platforms, or follow, this tumblr account/blog/page, to check out more Shari X Insanity poetry in the future.

The first Poetober poem/Tumblr blog post is The Legend of Satan’s Thirst, you can either read along in the caption which I’ve copy & pasted my poem lyrics/verses, stanzas, or you can read the PDF/JPEG files which are attached. 

I’ll be posting every Friday/Saturday.

Enjoy! 

All poems are original poems written by the author, and all copyrights are reserved to the poet, artist, author, Shari X Insanity©.

The Legend of Satan’s Thirst 

By: Shari X Insanity

 There was once a drink,

That pours in red.

The color of blood,

And death.

No human, or mortal,

Could survive the sip.

One shlook, one gulp,

And you will drop.

So much to take in

‘By toxic, poisonous,

Mouthful.

 Off goes your head.

So much smoke.

That you need to hold yourself.

Before you choke.

 Because Satan is a demonic devil,

With a dark sense of humor,

Despite being a malevolent ruler, or King of Hell,

Constantly throwing the biggest, grand parties, and ordeals.

 The King of Hell is greatly entertained by his guests' pain.

Alas, Satan, the King of Hell, may dwell on the nine fiery pits’ delves.

And he sends his best regards, as he cordially invites one and all.

To a noisy, rowdy, raucous, wild, chaotic, unruly, frenzied, relve.

 Scallywags, scoundrels, and tricksters are in attendance alike,

Who have responded to the mass invites in bulk.

Who have arrived for the evil, devious, diabolical, wicked time.

For mischief, mayhem, havoc, and shenanigans.

Of all of the nine realms.

 Before the time, or hour befalls,

For the Grim Reaper, the ferryman, shall collect all of the souls.

The souls that will fall on the river of Styx,

When you hear the bell that has been rung.

 Satan truly hopes that this astonishing ball.

Will bring everyone altogether high, down, up, below, from near, or far.

That the attendees will reach an unlimited capacity, and near full.

That the bash will be not close to being dull.

 Only non-stop, crazy fun.

Even if you cannot leave when you are done.

Even if you cannot say your bid well, or farewell.

 Satan is feeling most prevalent and celebrant

To get everyone to dance in their cells, until they cannot anymore.

To dance, dance, dance—and dance,

Until their limbs fall off, and they can no longer go on any further

 To dance as if enchanted, spelled, or hexed,

From some unbreakable trance.

Satan smokes and drinks, but you cannot smell his burnt of ashes odor,

Only his chocolaty tint dipped with something sweet

The unfamiliar sweetened, sugary and spice, the scent is along with

Satan’s aftershave, perfume, or cologne.

 Maybe his scent or aura.

He is an exhumer and consumer of sorts.

A Jack of all trades and cohorts.

Cards falling or hidden, while tucked into his sleeves

He is very tight, very close with his imps, as thick as thieves.

Always talking super-fast when telling grand tales,

Getting his tongue caught into a knot, that he will have to unravel

His tongue, like a dagger and its sheath, wrapped in cloth.

 Always with a grin, smile, or smirk

Laughing at his subjects, minions, and impish jokes

Impish cackles, and laughs maniacally evilly.

 Not being able to contain himself,

As his stomach rumbles.

The drink is dripping down from his chin,

Down to his whiskers.

He is drinking the goblet of nightmare

With a bloody éclair.

 The drink spilling and spitting

Everywhere into the air.

Spilling, spitting, dripping in drink

As the foam and suds covers and drenches

His goatee and mustache

His laugh is infectious and contagious

Which spreads and reaches to every last one of his subjects.

Because he is sitting upon his throne, hand raised, about to make a toast.

 He drinks the bubbling, fizzing, tonic

Which can be scotch, vodka, or cognac,

That will make any living mortal’s blood vessels, to burst,

Mortals with a working pulse.

Because maybe Satan’s a maniac.

 This drink is only for the dead or undead

Not for the faintest of hearts.

 This is Satan’s preferred drink.

Preferably shaken and stirred.

With a decapitated finger,

Of a lost soul that has since been tortured

With mixing, stirring with just the tip.

 Using the keepsake, leftover finger as a teaspoon.

That Satan kept fondly in the pocket of his suit.

Alas, that poor buffoon.

Whomever that person t’was.

With a laugh, a smile, another chug

From his drink, and a shrug.

 Drip, drip, goes the drink,

The contents have dripped.

Down Satan’s chin.

 Sliced, diced, minced, spiced, on the rocks,

The ice cubes stained in blood, on the icicles,

Within the cup.

 Satan chugs the malice.

That’s within the cup.

This cup is a goblet, a chalice

Extravagant, and luxurious.

Lavish to a deathly fashion.

 Upon his throne

He sits high, tall, and almighty

Wearing a three-horned crown

Fire, flames gathering,

Surround his entombed throne.

 Screaming, piercing, cries of the tortured

Of the sinned and punished

Surrounds the chilled, dead silenced, air.

Begging out for mercy, if there’s any left,

Satan, the Hell’s king, is examining his clawed nails, apparently daft.

 He ignores the cries, shrieks, and screams.

He smiles from ear to ear.

Enjoying the sounds and what he hears.

Only fuelling his hellfire to grow.

Fuelling his hellfire to glow.

 His hellfire is bubbling in a nearby cauldron

The essence of the Outworld, the Otherworld, Underworld.

And everything that falls within the balance in-between the worlds.

 Satan wants to rule, to lead,

To dominate.

To conquer.

To be the only one true king.

 He wants to spread his dominance

Into heaven

To be a king there

Or unleash to earth

And spread his fire, whichever which way

On whatever perth

Fire leading behind a path.

 Satan has an unsatisfied appetite or desire

That’s left unquenched, and unextinguished

Hunger or thirst

Until snuffed or smothered

 That’s more than what is in the cup.

The unknown concoction of contents,

The mysterious alchemy of ingredients,

By one gulp, about to blow,

Once swallowed in the esophagus,

And the world as we know it

Would be toast, or cease to exist.

A burnt inferno left in crumbs.

 Satan with his red face

Drawn out eyebrows, cocked, arched, and raised.

His face was in a grim grimace.

A goatee at the chiseled chin, like a Roman myth statue

And an Italian pizzeria chef, with a catfish-looking mustache.

Horned by three at the top of his head.

His stare is deadly, eyes the color of crimson red.

 He wears the finest of tailored suits.

Pinstriped down the middle

Trousers to match, and complete the ensemble

A top hat sits at the top of his head

Hiding his three horns inside

And tucked in, is his long forked tail

That slips down his side.

 And sat in his hands is a timepiece

That always knows “the time”.

His bash is near the end and he takes out his pocket watch

To look upon the pocket watch’s front glass, the front face

To read the hour hands and minute hands, and know what time it is

Because in hell, time is simply fleeting, fleeing fast.

 The pocket watch is attached to a long chain

And is placed in his trousers’ pocket’s back belt loop, expectantly and indignantly.

As he is tapping on one of his leather buckled shoes, impatiently.

He stares at the pocket watch for merely a second,

And places the pocket watch away with a sway immediately.

With his drink set aside, he toys with a two-sided, double-sided coin.

 Satan always toys and plays with a coin.

A double-sided coin that’s neither heads nor tails

A coin that’s a bit of a shiny bronze,

A rusted fool’s gold that has since lost some luster and shine

However, that’s not what catches Satan’s red eyes

It’s the coin’s design

So obscure and arcane

 The coin slips back into Satan’s trouser pockets

Along with the pocket watch attached to the long silver chain

He chews on a flame’s match from a matchbox, instead.

As he lifts his goblet, to hold and juggle, masterfully both,

Balancing with both hands, the items, as balanced as the Fates’ scales.

With both hands.

 He chews on the match

And sometimes a cigar

That never blows out.

An endless, neverending smoke.

That never seems to ever end.

 And he doesn’t need a matchbox

To lit the flame

The flame on the end of the cigar is always lit.

By a snap of a finger

Sometimes getting zapped that he sucks on it.

Or a wave by the hand.

 Chewing on the end of the match

Doesn’t seem to stop the quench

That tug in his stomach or gut

The squelch, twinge, or pinch,

The smoke doesn’t even cough up his throat

Or even his lungs.

 His thirst is for something more

That cannot ever be explained

The thirst for power

A power that needs to be obtained,

But once obtained, the Seers and Fates have spoken and prophesied:

Nothing in this world will ever be the same,

And nothing could ever seize or stay.

 The hell, earth, and above

The storm, the fire, the black,

Even heaven will seize to exist

Plummet into an apocalypse

And explode.

 All because of one drink

That had Satan’s sip.

Everything that we have known

Everything that we’ve held dear

Would be left in remains.

 Satan will walk into this graveyard,

Of what the universe left behind it,

The harbinger of that apocalypse

Of omens, of how things end,

And all’s well, that ends well.

 Satan will bend down to a sitting crouch,

Both hands on his knees, in that squat,

Swept his fingers across the dust,

And be marveled of Satan’s thirst.

 Of what he created and made.

Of Satan’s wrath.

 As this story, this tale, this legend, draws to an abrupt close.

As fiery fireballs ablaze the path.

And be heard of in the distance are wings of bats,

Flying together as a family, in a colony, in a cauldron,

As they do fly into the night,

Across the dark sky’s clouds,

About to take flight.

– Fin –

[glittergummicandypeach]

What religion is Dylan now?

It has only been four days since the release of Bob Dylan's first album of original songs in eight years -- "Rough and Rowdy Ways."

In those few days, several of its songs -- most notably, "I Contain Multitudes" and "Mother of Muses" -- have become ear worms. They have taken up permanent residence within my brain.

That is how good this album is -- Dylan's 39th studio album, coming out right after his 79th birthday.

I shall let certified Dylanologists analyze the lyrics on the new Dylan album with the appropriate depth

I have only one question.

What religion is Dylan, now?

Speaking of his life, decades ago, Dylan said: "My past is so complicated you wouldn't believe it, man."

Not really. He was Robert Zimmerman, born in Duluth, Minnesota, and spending his childhood in Hibbing, Minnesota.

Bobby Zimmerman became bar mitzvah in Hibbing's small shul. His father, Abe, was the president of the local Bnai Brith lodge. His mother, Beatty, was the president of the local Hadassah chapter. He attended Camp Herzl. At the University of Minnesota, he was a member of Sigma Alpha Mu, a nominally Jewish fraternity. 

At certain points in his life, he all but denied being Jewish -- pretending to be Woody Guthrie; saying that he had been an itinerant blues singer.

But, dos pintele yid, that Jewish spark, just kept on coming back. He sang "Talkin' Havah Nagilah Blues," and said that it was a "foreign song I learned in Utah." He recorded numerous songs with Jewish references and biblical motifs -- all of which have been analyzed beyond imagination.

Dylan embraced evangelical Christianity, recording several albums of songs with Christian-influenced lyrics.

He returned to Judaism. Check out this video of Dylan, his son-in-law, musician and observant Jew, Peter Himmelman, and the late Harry Dean Stanton at a Chabad telethon!  He visited Israel on several occasions. He recorded "Neighborhood Bully," rock music's most Zionist song.

So, yes: for someone whose religious identity has been "like a rolling stone," it is fair to listen to the new album, and ask: What religion is Dylan, now?

Is Dylan, once again, a Christian?

Consider the macabre song "My Own Version of You," with references to Saint John, the author of the fourth Gospel, and, Jewishly-speaking, the most problematic; Saint Peter, one of the founders of Christianity,  and Saint Jerome, who translated the Bible into Latin.

I'm gon' make you play the piano like Leon Russell

Like Liberace, like St. John the Apostle

I'll play every number that I can play

I'll see you maybe on Judgment Day

After midnight, if you still wanna meet

I'll be in Black Horse Tavern on Armageddon Street

Two doors down, not that far a walk

I'll hear your footsteps, you won't have to knock

I'll bring someone to life, balance the scales

I'm not gonna get involved in any insignificant details...

You can bring it to St. Peter

You can bring it to Jerome

You can bring it all the way over

Bring it all the way home.

True: Leon Russell played a mean piano. So did Liberace.

But, Saint John the Apostle? Unless Dylan needed a rhyme for Russell? Judgement Day -- clearly Christian.

If I had the wings of a snow white dove

I'd preach the gospel, the gospel of love

A love so real, a love so true

I've made up my mind to give myself to you.

And finally, "Goodbye Jimmy Reed," which refers to the influential American blues musician and songwriter.

I live on a street named after a Saint

Women in the churches wear powder and paint

Where the Jews, and Catholics, and the Muslims all pray

I can tell they're Proddie from a mile away

Goodbye Jimmy Reed, Jimmy Reed indeed

Give me that old time religion, it's just what I need.

For thine is kingdom, the power, the glory

Go tell it on the mountain, go tell the real story

Tell it in that straightforward, puritanical tone

In the mystic hours when a person's alone

Goodbye Jimmy Reed, godspeed

Thump on the Bible, proclaim a creed.

Is Dylan back to Christianity? Or, is he just using Christian images, as he had done so often even before his born again phase? Recall "I Dreamed I Saw Saint Augustine": ...With a blanket underneath his arm and a coat of solid gold. Searching for the very souls whom already have been sold."

That street "where the Jews, and Catholics, and the Muslims all pray" -- is that a vision of a multi-faith America, or some point in the Old City in Jerusalem where such a prayer life would be possible?

Or, is Dylan flirting with ancient Greek religion?  Consider the hymn-like "Mother Of Muses:"

Mother of Muses sing for my heart

Sing of a love too soon to depart

Sing of the heroes who stood alone

Whose names are engraved on tablets of stone

Who struggled with pain so the world could go free

Mother of Muses sing for me...

Is "Mother of Muses" just an easier way of referring to Mary? Is she (oh, I am so going out on a limb here!) the Shechinah, the feminine presence of God?

I don't know, and as I said, let's leave the religious question to the "professionals."

Especially because when Dylan channels Walt Whitman in "I Contain Multitudes;" when he sings of all the identities that comprise him, who is among the ones that he cites? Along with Edgar Allan Poe, the Rolling Stones, Indiana Jones: "I'm just like Anne Frank..."

Dylan sees himself as a Jewish teenage girl, hiding in an attic with her family from the Nazis.

When all is said and done (and all is probably not said and done), at the very root of his existence: Dylan is Bobby Zimmerman, and there is no piece of him that can forget it.

"I'm a man of contradictions, I'm a man of many moods. I contain multitudes..."

There is no single popular artist -- no, there is no single American cultural hero -- who contains as many multitudes as does Bob Dylan.

Listen to the album. It will move you, profoundly -- and, as is always the case with Dylan, it will make you think.

This content was originally published here.

[donalsgirl]

Oscar Isaac’s Mom Died. Now He’s Working Out His Grief in ‘Hamlet.’

Oscar Isaac spent most of the fall and winter at a hospital in Florida, caring for his dying mother, Eugenia. As her condition deteriorated, he found himself reading aloud to her from “Hamlet.”

“I would just read the play all the time, do bits for her,” Mr. Isaac said.

An Elizabethan revenge tragedy with a substantial body count and heavy existential dread isn’t obvious bedside comfort. But Mr. Isaac, his mother and his sister were all Shakespeare obsessives. When he was growing up, they watched Franco Zeffirelli’s “Romeo and Juliet” over and over. “Me doing Shakespeare was her favorite thing,” Mr. Isaac said.

So reciting “Hamlet” to her at the hospital felt like the right thing. Sometimes it felt like the only thing. “I didn’t know how to process any of this, but this I knew how to do,” he said.

As her health declined, Shakespearean questions that had seemed abstract — What drives the dissolution of a family? How do you overcome crippling loss? — felt immediate and real, he said.

Continue reading the main story

“I know it happens to everybody, but it’d never happened to me,” he said. “I know people’s mothers have died, but this was mine.”

Mr. Isaac’s mother died in February, but “Hamlet” is still with him. For most of this heat-struck summer, he is performing as the tortured prince grieving the death of his father, six times a week for nearly four hours a throw at the Public Theater.

Mr. Isaac certainly has other ways to spend his days. For one, his first child, a son, was born in April. And his film career is booming. In a few short years, he’s graduated from indie artisan, with films like “Inside Llewyn Davis,” to bona fide star with roles in “X-Men: Apocalypse” and “Star Wars: The Force Awakens.” He can probably take whatever theater job he wants to or not take any theater job at all.

That said, “Hamlet” is a play that exerts a strange pull on a lot of movie and television stars (Benedict Cumberbatch, David Tennant, Jude Law, Ethan Hawke), and it’s a role just about any classically trained actor and plenty of actresses have dreamed of playing.

But it’s also a tragedy that asks Mr. Isaac to relive the anguished death of a parent at every performance. In Sam Gold’s rowdy, deconstructionist staging, every time Mr. Isaac mud-wrestles, or lofts a prop skull or performs a mad scene in just a T-shirt and briefs, he seems to be working through his own loss, transforming raw private grief into riveting public performance.

“It’s for my mom that I’m doing it,” he said. “It’s to honor her life, but also her death, which was so awful.”

ON A RECENT WEEKDAY, an hour before rehearsal, Mr. Isaac hunched in a booth at the back of the Library, the Public’s restaurant. Looking slighter in person than onscreen, he was sitting underneath a skull-bedizened poster for an earlier production of “Hamlet.” His black warm-up jacket was a modish update of Hamlet’s “inky cloak.” It wouldn’t have been a huge surprise if he had drawn a sword from underneath the table or spotted a ghost over by the bar.

This symbolic brazenness seemed like a joke; Mr. Isaac was probably in on it. He has a roguish sense of mischief that underlies even his more serious roles (“Ex Machina,” “A Most Violent Year”). And he’s one of the few actors of his generation who can combine the unrestrained volatility of a Method actor with pedigreed classical chops.

His Hamlet is antic, mercurial, unpredictable, but each line of verse comes across clearly, almost conversationally. As Oskar Eustis, the artistic director of the Public Theater — who helped cast a Juilliard-fresh Mr. Isaac in “Two Gentlemen of Verona” in 2005 and “Romeo and Juliet” two years later — said, “That combination, particularly in such a handsome man, it’s amazing.”

It’s that charisma that helped the “Star Wars” director J. J. Abrams decide not to kill off his character, Poe Dameron, who will reappear in the coming “Star Wars: The Last Jedi.” “The idea of Oscar Isaac as Poe coming back into the movie and being an ally to the cause got my blood pumping,” Mr. Abrams wrote in an email.

MR. ISAAC LOVED THEATER early. Born in Guatemala and raised by evangelical Christian parents in Miami, he had his first roles in religious plays. Even then, he played antiheroes. His first lead? The Devil. He devised an entrance from underneath the bleachers, scaring an adored teacher and exciting the interest of the popular girl he had a crush on.

“For that little moment, I thought, this is what I want to do,” he said.

Eventually he fell away from the church, and though his parents supported his acting ambitions, for a while he stopped that, too. He turned to music, migrating from soft rock to grunge rock to heavy metal, before landing in third-wave ska groups like the Worms and Blinking Underdogs, which attracted a local following.

Still, he never really shook theater. He studied it at community college and apprenticed at Area Stage Company in Miami. The artistic director got him reading Shakespeare again. “I didn’t really understand it,” Mr. Isaac said, “but I liked it a lot.”

He even developed an infatuation with the film soundtrack to the Zeffirelli “Hamlet.” On an impulse, he auditioned for Juilliard, using a monologue from Shakespeare’s “Henry IV” and arguing about its interpretation with the head of the drama division in the middle of his callback.

Richard Feldman, one of Mr. Isaac’s Juilliard teachers, remembered sensing in him “the best kind of artistic ambition,” adding: “I’m not talking about fame, I’m not talking about fortune. I’m talking about the hunger to be really good.”

At Juilliard, he met Mr. Gold, at the time a directing student. Mr. Gold was immediately struck by Mr. Isaac’s “easy energy and an easy relationship to his talent and having an incredible amount of talent” and a shared belief that “acting shouldn’t look hard,” Mr. Gold said.

The two of them fooled around with some comic scenes from “Hamlet,” making a pact to work together one day on the whole play. They both got “bit by it and obsessed by it,” Mr. Gold said, speaking by phone. Those talks continued, and two years ago, Mr. Isaac signed on, saying he felt he had to do it “before the knees give out.”

“You can only be so old and be upset that your mom remarried,” he said.

Once he’d agreed, Mr. Isaac began reading academic books, watching famous past performances, playing a recording of John Gielgud’s Hamlet “and just listening to the beauty of that man’s voice,” he said. After creative tensions with the production’s original home, Theater for a New Audience, “Hamlet” shifted to the Public Theater, where Mr. Isaac had made his post-Juilliard debut, and dates were set.

But then his mother got sick and his partner, the documentary filmmaker Elvira Lind, got pregnant, and suddenly “there were a lot of things that really connected on a very personal level,” he said. As Mr. Isaac explained, performing has always helped him come to terms with his emotions. “This is how I’m able to function,” he said. “The only way that I’m really able to process stuff is through reflecting it.”

Some of the visual language that he and Mr. Gold settled on — the syringes, the IVs, the PICC lines — make his memories and associations even more visceral. His Hamlet wears rumpled clothes and has a 5 o’clock shadow (if you’ve seen Mr. Isaac’s movies, you know his facial hair is a key to character) to approximate “the look and feel of spending long hours visiting a loved one at the hospital,” he said.

In the first days of rehearsal, Mr. Gold worried “that there would be things in this play that would be such deep triggers that he wouldn’t be able to make it through the show,” he said. But he watched Mr. Isaac use the play’s words “to contextualize what he was going through,” he said.

Mr. Isaac didn’t worry about making a timeworn speech like “To be or not to be” sound new. As soon as he says the words, he is instantly reminded of his personal loss and “the feeling that grief can just make you want to stop,” he said.

At the same time, he never really discussed that personal life in the rehearsal room. “It was always a very subtle thing hovering in the air, ” Mr. Gold said. Instead, he threw himself into experimenting with the role — physically, vocally — and worked on making his colleagues laugh.

Keegan-Michael Key, who plays Hamlet’s pal Horatio, noted that Mr. Isaac, who bought a Ping-Pong table for the rehearsal room, “likes to have fun.” Onstage he’ll often monkey with a pronunciation or arch an eyebrow just to get a rise out of a cast mate.

“He’ll do it on purpose just to keep everyone on their toes,” Mr. Key said. “The more alive it is, the more uncertain it is, the more dynamic it is.”

Mr. Isaac said that performing the play hasn’t felt especially dour. When he comes offstage after four hours he feels energized, he said.

That’s in part because the play isn’t only for his mother. When he acts, he’s also thinking of his 2-month-old son, Eugene, named after her. The baby has Eugenia’s lips, he said, and her hands.

He brought Eugene to the first run-through (“I think some of the more philosophical and theological aspects of the play were above his head,” Mr. Gold joked), and it’s Eugene he thinks of when reciting the “to be” part of the “to be or not to be” soliloquy.

As Mr. Isaac explains, the speech is about dying — that’s the “not to be” part — but it’s also about choosing to go on living. And Mr. Isaac has better reasons to go on than Hamlet does.

“You have a child,” he said, “and you must — you must for their sake — you must say yes to life.”

Source

[starwrite-er]

Poster Boy [Chapter 15] - Poe Dameron x Reader

A/N: wow, it's been a damn long time you guys. Thanks for sticking around, and not, the long awaited next chapter of Poster Boy! also sidenote: it's been a while so idk if u have time but maybe it'd be worth rereading the fic so far bc i know i've forgotten shit and im the damn author yknow

A/N: oh my god im out of practise

Tags: A NUMBER OF THESE WERE NOT WROKING SO THEY HAVE BEEN REMOVED. PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANT YOUR URL TO BE UPDATED HERE @plethora-of-things @britishteahater @umbrellabrass @purple-skeleton @winchesterandpie @the-creative-lie @i-alrightokaycool @definitely-nota-fangirl @krakenkitty

 I'd always assumed that, for me, routine would simply always consist of missions and training. It was what it was like for the longest time, yet here I am, the familiarity of such a routine fading oh so fast.

 When I haven't been checking on the construction of the new D'Qar village for the Parmarthens, or ignoring Snap's confidence with our bet, it seems I've been playing a constant game of hide and seek with Keipii. Fortunately enough for me, she's predictable enough for me to expect to find her near Poe at any given time.

 "You'll depart for Coruscant, accompanied by the medic-in-training Niyele, in three days. As usual, the mission specifics have been sent to your datapad. You're dismissed." I am instructed. I make a swift exit, making my way to where Poe has been training some new recruits the past couple of days. I know Keipii has been engrossed in watching the process.

 On my way to the training room, Niyele catches up with me. The primary reason for her coming with me was to get her accustomed to different planets and their cultures, seeing as she had never really left Pamarthe before the battle. Still, even in the short while she'd been at base, she's already showing great potential in her chosen profession, so having her with me in case of the mission going south was reassuring.

 "So, Coruscant, right? Anything I should know?" She questions, walking alongside me.

 "The deeper you go, the worse it gets," I put plainly. "We've staying in the mid-to-top area, in close proximity to where our target is staying. We should be fine, but it's still a rowdy place, and stormtroopers will be on patrol, so don't wander off. You don't have the training that I have."

 "Sounds good to me. We won't be travelling in the X-Wing though, will we?" Niyele asks. It's her first mission, so I suppose her curiosity is unsurprising.

 "Nah, it'd be a dead giveaway to our identity. We'd be dead before we got out of the ship." I tell her. She hums in response, taking a moment to think.

 "A few years ago, if you had told me I'd be going on a recon mission for the Resistance with you, I would have never believed it," Niyele laughs softly. "But here we are."

 "Yeah," I agree. "It's still surreal that you're here, to be honest."

 "Honestly, I'm still shocked that I plucked up the courage to actually do something," She pauses, mulling over her words. "I mean, we've been friends for so long. You were always so committed to the idea you'd join the Resistance and help save the galaxy, while I was committed to, well, just about the opposite of that."

 I laugh. "You were so terrified by just the idea of conflict. You still wanted to help people, though," I smile, thinking back to years past. "You've made the right choice. As a medic, you'll save lives, and in turn help us to save the lives of others across the galaxy." Our walk comes to a temporary stop. "It's nice to have you here. I'm proud of you." I tell her reassuringly.

 "Thanks. It really means a lot," Niyele returns my smile before checking her datapad. "Well, it looks like I've got places to be. I look forward to working with you, Commander."

 I grin back at her, waving goodbye to her as she jogs off down an adjoining corridor. With my close friend off doing other things, I continue my search for Keipii.

 As I continue my stroll down the halls of the base, I hear the laughter of the recruits before I even arrive at the room. I crack open the door, peering in curiously.

 "Well, I was gonna ask if Keipii was with you, but I think I have some different questions to ask now," I say, taking in the sight of a seemingly-flustered Poe Dameron. I raise a brow. "Seriously, what did I miss?"

 "Mom! Yeah, I'm here, is it dinner yet?" Keipii suddenly appears in front of me, speaking quickly, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet, cheeks red. She seems antsy, as though she'd just made a mistake, and I know it's not because she called me 'mom' - she's been doing that almost since we got back to D'Qar two weeks ago. I regard her with suspicion for a moment, but quickly brush it off.

 "Uh, yeah - hey, is that Poe's jacket?" I realise. The girl glances down at her attire, noticing the extra item of clothing.

 "I was cold and he said I could wear it." Kei defends herself, arms crossed and the sleeves of the much-too-large jacket rolled up to better suit her small stature. I roll my eyes, waving goodbye to the recruits as we take our leave.

 I'm stopped by Poe before I can even make it a few paces away from the door. "Hey! Uh, yeah, hey," It takes him a moment to meet my eye. Weird, he's never like this. "I've got a recon mission tomorrow, and I'm leaving early." He says, quickly snapping back to his usual self.

 "How early is early? And for how long?" I ask him, biting my cheek.

 "A-few-hours-before-dawn early. I won't see you for a couple days." He says. I frown. My mission is in just three days - our missions may overlap.

 "Promise us you'll make it back safe though, okay? I've got a recon mission of my own in three days. I'd rather not come back to find you in the medbay." I reply. He chuckles, agreeing.

 He grins at Keipii, kneeling down to her level. "That jacket looks good on you. Might need to do a bit more growing first, though," He says, to which the young girl smiles bashfully. He presses a kiss to the top of her head as he murmurs a quick goodbye. The small, sweet action triggers a feeling of happiness deep inside me as a smile. He stands, facing me again.

 "I'll see you both soon," He says, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "Okay?"

 The shock from his action renders me speechless as I nod in agreement. "See you soon, Poster Boy." I smile, finding my voice. He disappears back inside the training room, but my feet are rooted to the spot as I process what just happened.

 My face is flushed and my heart is fluttering, and I can't seem to stop the grin that's made it's way onto my face as Keipii drags me to the Dining Hall.

 I try to distract myself from my newly realised fondness by thinking about how Snap is going to react to someone who wasn't even in on the bet winning.

 The following morning, I find myself sitting in the hangar, leaning back against some crates with Keipii beside me as we wait for Poe to show up. Sure, sleep was sacrificed, but isn't it worth it?

 It's BB-8 who notices our presence and alerts us to Poe's arrival. A string of gleeful beeps and whirrs causes the man to spin around, wide-eyed at the sight of Keipii and I. My own droid chirps in conversation  with BB-8 while the little girl, despite her exhaustion, runs and leaps into Poe's arms. I smile at the scene as she happily chatters away to him and he reassures her that he'll quickly return. Keipii slips off the jacket she had taken from him yesterday, returning it for the time being before taking a step back.

 And so comes my turn to say goodbye. I walk into Poe's open arms, no words quite needed as we settle into a warm embrace.

 After a minute, I pull back a bit so to look Poe in the face. "You're the best pilot in the Resistance, so it's not like you need it but," I start, pausing my words to take a moment to kiss his cheek. "Good luck out there, Poster Boy."

 With that, Keipii and I stand to the side, BB-09 at our feet as we watch Poe leave the planet. We watch until we see his distant jump to hyperspace.

 As we return to our room, Keipii yawns before mumbling a confession to me. "I called him dad accidentally yesterday when he was training the recruits."

 I trip over both my words and my feet at this.

[mallsbiz]

Twixt Blu-ray

Val Kilmer and Elle Fanning star in this terrifying horror film written and directed by Academy Award(R) Winner Francis Ford Coppola. Kilmer plays Hall Baltimore, a writer on a book tour who uncovers a disturbing murder that could be source material for his next novel. But as Hall investigates the killing, he finds himself confronted by chilling nightmares, including the ghost of a young girl (Fanning). As he uncovers more horrifying revelations, Hall will discover that the story has more to do with his own life than he could ever have imagined. Though often visually arresting, Twixt is a deeply eccentric attempt by writer-director Francis Ford Coppola to spin a supernatural story with arthouse intentions. Val Kilmer is top-billed as a faded horror author whose book-signing excursion to a strange small town pulls him into the orbit of a boorish small-town sheriff (Bruce Dern) with his own literary intentions–specifically, a novel based on a string of unsolved child murders, with the victims buried under a local hotel that once gave refuge to Edgar Allan Poe. Kilmer’s investigation ping-pongs between his dreary reality, filled with squabbles with his ex-wife (Kilmer’s real-life ex, Joanne Whalley) and oceans of booze, and vivid visions of a mystery girl (Elle Fanning) and the death of his own daughter (echoing the loss of Coppola’s own son, Gio, who is credited as “creative associate”). Though the trappings of a chilly spook show are evident around the edges of Twixt, and the picture looks sumptuous thanks to Mihai Malaimare Jr. (The Master), it lapses too frequently into baffling bits of camp, most notably the appearance of Ben Chaplin as an addled Poe, a dreadfully silly biker gang that seems pulled from an Eisenhower-era effort by Coppola’s former employer, Roger Corman, and Kilmer poking sour fun at his own past by imitating Brando and evoking Jim Morrison. Though early word of Twixt, which saw Coppola reworking the picture in real time according to the reaction of preview audiences, was intriguing, the final product is neither odd enough to court a cult audience nor ambitious or interesting enough to appease fans of the filmmaker or the genre. The Blu-ray includes a making-of documentary directed by Coppola’s granddaughter, Gia, which reveals the film’s origin–a nightmare spawned by a rowdy evening in Istanbul. –Paul Gaita

from Products – www.Malls.biz https://malls.biz/product/twixt-blu-ray/