wingedfighter-archive

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Hey everyone! Consider this blog (wingedfighter) archived! My rebooted Poe blog can now be found at flightlegacy! x

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“Devasted at this monumental loss, how lucky we all are to have known her, and how awful that we have to say goodbye.”

Daisy Ridley

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We're all the best. One on one, no first order pilot can come close to us. Bang bang, boom boom. We win.

Poe Dameron (2016-) #4

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this teeny screenshot has made my day, my week, my month.

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Star Wars moodboard: Poe Dameron & Muran

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#1 RESISTANCE HEART THROB for the color palette meme

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saturn // sleeping at last

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#oscar isaac mood board

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Poe has heard his name in a hundred languages, a thousand voices, spoken in fury and delight and pride and annoyance and despair and triumph. And then, after Takodana, Finn shouts it from across the tarmac, wonderstruck, already running. Poe! Poe Dameron! Finn, who was dead and then wasn’t. Finn, the savior, the traitor. Finn, who needed a pilot. Finn, a crack shot and a big heart, a liar, innocent and brave and earnest and terrified. Finn, who kept the jacket Poe lost and the name Poe gave him. Finn says his name, and Poe’s never heard anything like it.

Names for the Stars ║ cheesethesecond (tumblr)

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talk me down // troye sivan

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[ ziinariya: ]

⎡ TEXT MESSAGE: P. D ⎦okay i’m offended tbh ⎡ TEXT MESSAGE: P. D ⎦these two incidents are nothing alike ⎡ TEXT MESSAGE: P. D ⎦i’m stone cold sober this time

⎡ TEXT MESSAGE: P. D ⎦i just… got distracted

[ TEXT: FINN ] can’t help it. i saw hells kitchen tonight and thought of you. [ TEXT: FINN ] who’s on the chopping block?

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[ bigdeal-2187: ]

FN-2187 was, for the first time, glad that his fellow troopers rarely took notice of him. Most days he longed for their recognition, a nod as they passed in the halls or an invitation to join a platoon during survival training, but today the nameless trooper stood in the front corner of the dark transport, trembling with fear and revulsion. If he’d glimpsed down at his hands he would have been embarrassed by the visible shaking, but he couldn’t even bear a quick look, the knowledge that Slip’s blood had no doubt stained his armor averting his eyes for the time being. It wasn’t just Slip’s blood, either. The sand had been soaked with the villager’s (he couldn’t stand to call it a mess, but that’s what Captain Phasma had called it, disgust permeating her usually stoic tone) blood, the viscous liquid causing clumps of red earth to stick to his boots. He’d been acutely aware of the stain as he’d walked into the hanger, but the bright lights in the hanger revealed that every trooper who had survived bore the same stain, and Eight-Seven hadn’t been able to calculate the amount of life that had to be shed to produce enough blood to cover the large area they’d occupied, even though he’d witnessed it with his own eyes. The memories assaulted him, leaving only one devastating thought in their wake: I have to get out of here.

It had been surprisingly easy to slip away, back into the unmanned transport; Eight-Seven wasn’t in the mental state to be stealthy. He was hardly ever spoken to by his unit, even though they had to notice him - his scores were far too high for him to be completely ignored - but when they spoke of troopers in his unit sometimes joked that he’d been born in armor, bred from birth to be a soldier for the First Order. Eight-Seven knew it couldn’t be true, that once he’d been someone’s – he’d never meet them, it didn’t matter (something told him it did but he wasn’t sure why, just like he wasn’t sure why he’d been able to feel Slip’s last breath escape his lungs or smell the villager’s fear or feel the thump of their target’s bodies hit the sand). It didn’t matter. Escape mattered, and he’d have to fly this transport by himself. He needed a pilot, but he’d never find one in time.

With his panicked breaths coming quicker and quicker, Eight-Seven had been forced to ripped off his helmet, the white plastoid too oppressive to think in. It was easier to breathe, easier to plan with it off. He’d need to find a manual, there was always a manual, or even if he blew the damn thing up death would still count as escape or maybe he could – freeze, because a voice had come out of nowhere. The trooper slowly turned, still shaking, unable to control the fear on his face after a lifetime of being hidden.

“Not being able to breathe is riskier, sir.” Eight-Seven’s shaking hands gripped the helmet tightly, slipping on the still-wet trails of blood.

            Helmet off, and they bleed the same. His eyes fall to the copper liquid streaked across the once gleaming white armor. The trooper is smudged and dirty from his mission. The First Order had prided themselves on efficiency and orderliness, of regulation procedures to ensure optimal functioning, something this trooper currently failed systemically on all accounts. It had been a good long while since he’d spotted such a raw display of emotion. Elevated breathing rate, cold sweat, trembling fingers – all signs of a man on the verge of a panic attack. 

          Unspoken, he tries to recall his own first mission and feels some surprise to draw an irrefutable blank. Each one had blurred into the next, the mission and the target ( mission accomplished, General Dameron ). He’d been his parent’s child; a prodigal child in service to their mission, one that passed from the age of the Empire into the one of the First Order. Unlike these troopers, he’d been born on a Destroyer, and was groomed to be the best of them. They had taken his parent’s achievements and tripled the expectation laid upon him till he breathed and bled their cause, and proven it time and again. Loyalty was something they could work with, but fear was the wild card. He'd always hated those regulation reconfigs, even if the system sanctioned the need for it. Casting a glance towards the outside of the ship, he takes a step deeper into its depths, closer to the stormtrooper, but still maintaining a degree of detached distance.

         ❝ I will require a report on what happened during the mission, ❞ he instructs, his tone even but almost inquisitive. He wanted to know what could’ve caused one of their own to waver, and, perhaps, how they may avoid it in the future.   ❝ And what is your name? ❞

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[ wrxckage: ]

             He should have recognised the black X-Wing, if not the uncanny precision with which it dipped and wove around him, the way nearly every shot registered, struck and scorched its target. He likes to think he gave the Resistance’s star pilot a memorable chase, considering he was flying a ship about as aerodynamic as a bathtub. The dull ache behind his eyes earned from his brow smashing into the console numbs the feat of survival slightly. He squints, blood stings his eye. Data. He must wipe the data. But first…he must send it.He groans as his stretched fingers tap a sequence of buttons designed to override the ship’s logs and memory…just as soon as the information transmits back to the supreme leader. His side….Kriff, his side…He glances downwards to where pitch robes are matted against torn, bleeding skin. The bowcaster scar is an omen determined to take damage and bring him down. The ship whirrs, hums…the transmission was successful. A smirk as the console crackles and sparks, information flees like a murderer from a crime scene.              “Dameron—” he still manages a sneer, the pain only makes it easier to contort his features. He recognises the strong features that peer at him through the shattered transparisteel and smoke.  “You look much better than the last time I saw you.”            Perhaps he pushes his luck off a cliff, a weight tied to his ankle intent to drag him over the edge, to drown him in a waiting, swirling sea. But his little reconnaissance mission could not be discovered, a second purge of force users was imminent. Unless Snoke desired new recruits. The Resistance could not discover his intentions. He is confident they will not. They have no one with the strength enough to break his mind, unless the Scavenger is still among them. But she was flighty, he sensed that much when he last fought her…           “How’s your head?”

It doesn’t take long for their past encounter to be dragged to the fore, and he tries not to flinch at the reference, even if a shiver runs down his back and numbness spreads to his fingers. He stifles any other reaction by reining his emotions towards the matter at hand. He navigates close to the wreckage, his boots finding steady ground before moving forward, shifting in an attempt to observe the cockpit. Bitterness and frustration fill his mouth at the smoking console; the straggling wires a pitiful symbolism of his efforts to get ahead of the first order thus far. The pilot’s gaze darts back to the fallen Knight of Ren, and to the crimson blood that bleeds over white skin and dark fabric. For the first time since they’d met, this is the first he’s seen him so weakened.

          ❝ Doing as fine as ever. ❞ Tart iciness echoes familiar flashes: anger, hatred, and disgust. There’s nothing that would have been Kylo Ren’s saving grace, for his existence was an emblem of tyranny that everything his parents had fought against. He remembers Lor San Tekka and the others on Jakku, struck down on his whim. He remembers Han Solo, a Rebel General that had served with his dad many years ago.

          But if this was it, then he blithely wonders if it was too easy. Against those who had the Force on their side, he was powerless; he was a weapon Poe could not guard against, and it’s too late to call in reinforcements. He hadn’t anticipated he’d find the golden boy himself laying in the ruins, and without a guard at his side. Whatever they’re planning at where his ship had come from, it screamed of secrets and power. 

            Why should I keep him alive? The thought rises, unbidden. To take him out would remove a powerful figure from the war, force the First Order’s hand. He had no qualms against first order ships and TIE fighters, and his time in the resistance had sent many of them flashing out of the skies to the ground; he’d taken out stormtroopers who were attacking the villagers on Jakku; all these he had done, and he’d done in a heartbeat – would this be different? His grip shifts on his blaster. 

         ❝ Tell me, is there more reason to keep you alive or dead? ❞

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[ scavengered: ]

 ✧･ﾟ * ｡ﾟ.*   @wingedfighter  »  continued from

           The young woman STARTLED from the sudden reaction the man opposite from her had given off, and for a long few seconds she appeared to be frozen until Rey felt how his hand gently pushed hers away from his throat. It had never been her intention to scare him, and the pain of it reflected in her hazel eyes.

           ❝                       Why does Research wound, but not kill ?  Won’t your marks retaliate ?  Or allow something disastrous to happen to humanity, or to the world ?     ❞

           As Rey spoke, not hiding the fact that she was incapable of understanding why Research operated like they did, she returned to her starting position and her long tanned fingers, with extra care, placed the Swiss Army knife on the palm of her opponent’s hand.

          ❝ we try to avoid casualties unless it’s a matter of self-defense or an exigent situation. ❞ his fingers gently fold the knife back into the casing, before placing it on the nearest table, all the while trying not to imagine what constituted as normal in the agency that had taken her in.   he paused, before taking it a step further in elaborating his point, 

           ❝ plus, when they die, we’re quite literally looking at a dead end, and that doesn’t help us at all, given that we operate on information. then after we get what we need, the system will decide what to do with them, not us. i will do it if I have to, but otherwise no, we’ll avoid it. ❞

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[ cneofakind: ]

her optic follows his every move, the subtle action accompanied only by the occasional soft     whrr     of concern. he doesn’t really think the fact that such bruising is normal will keep her from worrying, does he? bb rolls to the foot of his bunk && tilts her head up to look at him before speaking.

       woobeepboopvwaawhrrblip woop weeoopvwoo wiipboo        << you should still let a medic examine them. >>

     his lips curls slightly at the concern. their conversations on the matter had numbered so many that he soon gave up keeping track of it all.  ❝ a good night’s sleep and a cup of caf in the morning and i’ll be ready to wrestle a bantha, bb. ❞ he tugs a clean shirt over his head, being careful to avoid some of the more tender spots on his skin. exhaustion has already begun to exert its familiar pull, and he’s certain that it’s lights out for him the moment he lays his head down.

        ❝ and if i were to need a medic, i’ll look for one in the morning before i fly, promise. ❞

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[ dxrkforce: ]

          “Don’t worry about her,” Ren said, stalking around the pilot with his shoulders hunched. Rey still had some value to the First Order, even if she didn’t have the map anymore. She had the information in her mind, and now they knew her destiny. They knew what she was going to become if they couldn’t gain control over her soon. 

          “The girl is safe. She has a purpose.” 

          He knew the pilot probably didn’t feel safe. He wasn’t in the sky, miles away from his problems. He was planted, in the grass, feet away from the enemy. 

           “You, on the other hand… What can you do other than cry and scream?”

@wingedfighter liked for a starter 

          heavy hands and heavy hearts; on the ground, his field of vision was reduced to what was right in front of him, a grand view narrowed to smallest scope imaginable. he was vulnerable, yes, but he would be damned if that was the thing that made him weak. the heels of his boots dug into the ground; unwilling, even now, to sacrifice the fire of the resistance that burned bright in his eyes still.  

              it was too late to flee, against an opponent he could not defeat by flight or force.

       ❝ those are some very big taunts, coming from a man chasing a ghost. you forget, i’m more than one person, and where the first order exists, there will always be those who fight your tyranny. ❞