#do queue permit it?

[groff-me-up]

shameless plug of my own fic here. and before anyone comes for me, i wrote this pre-publication of rwarb

[konaharts]

He's been on my mind ,,,

[melpomeneprose]

@dynastymuses said: ❝congrats babe❞ she lifted her glass ❝to another job well done❞ ivy smirked taking a sip.

The clink of a glass and a boisterous laugh from the blonde formerly known as H.arleen Q.uinzel, she need not introduce herself. H.arley as it were now, and her Miss Poison Ivy were plenty well acquainted beyond the dubious c.riminal stuff, but hey, at least they were doing better than t.he J.oker Mr. 'commit crime to prove a false ethics point.' Finally, the blonde woman spoke, "I quite agree, and the and... the filth--- the c.ops didn't catch us, at least we're self aware, that comes in many forms, my dear, we're 'bad guys' allegedly that is our job."

[dwellerinroots]

5 songs

Tagged by @dirty-bosmer to share 5 songs that remind me of my WIP/characters. Since I wasn't sure if there was a specific WIP in question, I went with Flesh & Metal because it's what I'm most likely to be pouring my consumable blood into for the foreseeable future. Anyway, Lil' Blocky Freak reporting in! Let's do this!..

1. Heroes - David Bowie/Philip Glass/Aphex Twin (Orchestral/Experimental Pop)

So, Flesh & Metal is a story where Life on Mars would be cheating, right? But in truth, this is actually much, much more relevant to stuff. We're starting with a song about - heroism. Let's call it that. But this rendition breaks down, it's experimental, it's weird, the sound tears and glitches; I think that serves as a perfect flyover for a place, built by people, who are flawed and ensnared by their own works, which they've made by their own hands. And the story is about that; the distrust and difficulty in surviving when you can't say you care for or trust anyone you know, not even a little. The song, however, isn't about heroism - just an act of it, in regards to two lovers. Maybe that'll be important, too. In the fading dreams of the cover, someone wants to be a hero; and if they can do that, then, perhaps... 2. 2 HAL 9000 - lasah/sasakure.UK (Electronic Pop)

A conceit I'd make is this: Villains are those characters in our fiction who are not human, and who deprive us of human joy. All other things - justice, kindness, moral good, all of that is irrelevant. What matters to readers, to viewers, to people is - 'is this thing human, does it look like me, and if not, does it give me all the joy I want from it?' And if the answer is no, it's a villain. I might be a bit misanthropic, but perhaps I'm selling that short, here. Maybe I'm even more misanthropic. Anyway, regardless of how I feel about villains and AI (actual), this is a pretty relevant piece. Maybe I'll do a character study where a certain character is listening to this on their period-inaccurate ipod nano. (I love stupid bits like that, and I've no shame!) 3. Crimson and Clover - Tommy James & The Shondells (Psychadelic Rock) I love Joan Jett, don't get me wrong, but this is the one. Personally, I think juxtaposing hard science fiction with psych rock/pop is one of the greatest things I'll do. I can pass on now, my time is done... Come to think of it, if I had to pick one (1) song to be the 2010 AMV trailer for my corpus, it'd be this. Just - roll over completely fields of swaying strands, fine and red, whispering in a world without breeze, flowing like tiny bladegrass on the inside of an artery, with the corpse of the sun leering down... Also, it's a classic. Unbeatable. 4. The Damned - The Day We Died (Djent Metal/'Argent' Metal)

The main difference I wanted to have in my first two works was, one has a protagonist who prefers anything but direct confrontation, and the second - might also prefer other methods, but does not believe they are even a possibility. Sometimes you just wake up really angry, and if you aren't dyed in infernal hell-ichor, what's even the point.

5. Comme Si L'Amour - Shine (Melancholic Pop)

'le coeur vert fait siennes quand il cherche, a tout prix à croire à tous les contes de fée de l'enfance'

Every story I write, on some level, is a romance. Maybe not a romance between people, or even a romance that is reciprocal; I think the distant romance of separated friends, or the unknowable romance of an insurmountable plateau are as beautiful as all other loves, in all the world. But everything else is irrelevant; it's what I come back to. And I wanted to write a story about someone trying very hard to believe they're the person they want to be, seizing on a once-in-a-life-time chance, perhaps, to be a hero - just for one day... Even if they were never accepted for that small desire, is it so wrong to try..? And what if they were, and are..? Bonus: Realm of Darkness - Mili (Experimental Electronic) oh it was POINTLESS

I really just wanted to pump this one, it's been on repeat since I first heard it. Ah, that lovely moment when a song makes your hands twitch, your palms hesitate against the air... May or may not count as spoilers. We'lllllllll seee... I could do one of these for everything I've ever written, I love this one, I hope you lot had as much fun as I did! Might even self-reblob it later for other pieces... Not gonna tag this one because I don't wanna miss you, and I feel like I've over-tagged people as of late. If you do wanna do it, do it? Tag me?! I wanna hear your SONGS nerds, gimme 'em...

[someone-will-remember-us]

In the four years after she discovered her husband had been drugging her and inviting strangers into their home to rape her, Gisèle Pelicot liked to walk to clear her head.

Striding through the countryside alone, she would throw the questions that tormented her to the wind: “Dominique, how could you have done it? Why did you do it? How did we get here?” Asked what she was doing when she was ­disappearing for hours, she would tell her three children: “I am talking to your father.”

From his prison cell, Dominique Pelicot, who has admitted orchestrating the rapes at the couple’s home in the Provençal town of Mazan, could not answer. Nor would he when facing his former wife across a crowded courtroom, except to say: “I am a ­rapist … like the ­others in this room.”

The 50 men who appeared alongside him, charged with aggravated rape and sexual abuse, have also failed to explain their actions.

Why, when confronted with the inert body of a drugged and unconscious woman, did these “ordinary men”, as they were described in court, with ordinary names – Laurent, Nicolas, Philippe, Christian, Hassan – not leave? Why did not one of them go to the police and put an end to the decade-long abuse of a woman that could have killed her?

“The question is not why you went there, but why you stayed,” one of Gisèle Pelicot’s lawyers, Antoine Camus, told the court.

Camus cannot imagine why the men, who he says represent a “­kaleidoscope of French society”, did so except for a lack of empathy towards their victim, who he says was treated as “less than nothing”.

As the trial enters its final days this week, the accused will be ­permitted a last word on Monday before the president of the court and five judges known as “assessors” withdraw to consider their verdicts and sentences. The public prosecutor has demanded a maximum prison term of 20 years for Pelicot and sentences of between four and 18 years for the 50 others.

Then, Gisèle Pelicot will walk out of court for the last time, flanked by her two lawyers, Camus and Stéphane Babonneau, who have protected her like praetorian guards every day. There will be a last round of applause and cheers from the crowd – mostly women – who have arrived at dawn to queue for hours outside the courthouse for a place in the hearing, and who have presented her with gifts and shouted “Merci, Gisèle!” as she left each evening.

A criminal trial aims to answer questions. During this three-and-a-half-month hearing, the accused have produced excuses but few answers.

Sitting in court, we listened to the men arguing that Pelicot had given his consent for them to rape his wife; that they had not “intended” to rape her; that what they had done was not rape; that they did not have the profile of a rapist and therefore were not one. That they believed Gisèle Pelicot was only pretending to be asleep. That they had too much testosterone – that it was their body, not their brain, acting. That they too were victims of her manipulative, perverse husband.

With Gisèle Pelicot unconscious and unaware of what was being done to her, the videos her husband recorded of the assaults were, as the public prosecutor pointed out, “worth a thousand words”. In them, we saw Pelicot directing his ­personal pornographic scenes, ­moving his unconscious wife – dressed in lingerie that was not hers and with crude messages written on her buttocks – into positions, holding her mouth open, whispering to his cast of naked strangers to “get on with it”, to do this, do that, or to get out if she so much as twitched. Defence lawyers tried to have those recordings struck out as evidence.

“It is evident that Mme Pelicot was not in a normal conscious state,” public prosecutor Laure Chabaud said.

“She was in a state of torpor closer to a coma than sleep. [This] didn’t seem to dissuade the participants, none of whom spoke to Gisèle Pelicot or sought her consent.”

Several of the accused did admit there was something bizarre about the scenario, as Pelicot instructed them to get undressed and warm their hands on the radiator because his wife was “sensitive to the cold”. But they stayed anyway. A few realised their “mistake” and were sorry. Others were almost defiant, shocked they were in court. Most deny rape.

Those facing the gravest ­accusations, of up to six counts of rape, sat in a second glass box on the left of the courtroom, stroking their chins, fiddling with their beards, bowing their heads or complaining to their guards that journalists were “looking at them meanly”. Those on bail and free to come and go went in and out of the courthouse with ­collars pulled up, hats pulled down and masks hiding their faces.

Giving evidence, the Pelicots’ younger son, Florian, dismissed the men as “not la creme de la creme”, but they looked ­ordinary enough in their jeans and leather jackets, anoraks, trainers and ­hoodies. Their backgrounds were varied and in other ­circumstances might have provoked sympathy – broken homes, childhood abuse, drug and alcohol problems – but there was no common thread. Many had no previous criminal record, although some were charged with possession of child abuse or ­bestiality images. They were all functioning adults, most with jobs, children and ­partners.

For Camus, their excuses are ­evidence of French society’s “­culture of rape” being played out in real time. “These absurd suggestions, prejudices, hypotheses, ­preconceived ideas … all deployed before our very eyes, and all at the expense of Gisèle Pelicot,” he says.

In court, she would stare at them or the ceiling, listen to their excuses, dismiss their ­apologies, her face impassive. “She is ­disgusted, appalled and indignant … but not surprised,” Camus adds. Her ­reaction was the same as it had been when she had first seen the videos in the run-up to the trial: how could they? “She was waiting for the explanations, some kind of exchange, and she has not had that.”

The depravity of what the world has seen and heard will not be ­easily erased from the memory.

“We thought we knew ­everything men were capable of inflicting on women but never imagined a ­husband drugging his wife and offering her up to dozens of predators for 10 years,” said one woman who has been attending court to support Gisèle Pelicot.

The case has also raised broader questions over the toxic ­masculinity riddling French society, how the police, courts and society treat rape victims, the use of drugs in rape, and, of course, consent, or the absence of the concept in French law. In France, rape is defined as “sexual penetration, ­committed against another person by violence, constraint, threat or surprise”. The Mazan rapes have been shoehorned into the “surprise” category – but feminist groups are divided over whether adding consent to the law would be a good thing or simply place undue focus on the victims.

Statistics from the Institut des Politiques Publiques in France ­suggest that over a 10-year period there were more than 400,000 cases of sexual violence in France, 86% of which resulted in no action and only 13% in conviction. There are about 700,000 cases of domestic abuse each year, only 27% ­ending in ­conviction. Campaigners are ­hoping the Pelicot trial will signal a ­watershed in a country where the #MeToo movement has struggled to maintain much impetus.

The case has been shocking because of its scale and ­perversity, but we have been here before. In 2018, as French women began to open up about sexual abuse in the wake of the Harvey Weinstein ­scandal, a collective of 100 women, including the grande dame of French cinema, Catherine Deneuve, wrote an open letter saying it had all gone too far and was stifling men’s ability to seduce.

Blandine Deverlanges, a teacher and founder of the local feminist group Amazons of Avignon, says the Pelicot trial is already encouraging other rape and sexual assault victims to speak out. “Gisèle Pelicot has offered us her story and it is our story. She has held her head high and in doing so encouraged other women hesitating over whether to report rapes to come forward.”

The Avignon trial lies on a ­continuum that began in France in 1974, in Aix-en-Provence, when another Gisèle, feminist lawyer Gisèle Halimi, represented Anne Tonglet and Araceli Castellano, two Belgian women who had been raped by three men while camping.

Like Pelicot, they also waived their anonymity and refused a closed-door hearing at a time when rape was treated as a public indecency misdemeanour under laws that dated back to the Napoleonic era. Halimi said at the time: “You must convict these three men, because otherwise you will condemn women to never again be believed.” The men were convicted and the trial led to a rewriting of France’s criminal code.

Agnès Fichot, a ­lawyer who worked with the late Halimi on the case, says attitudes have changed in the past 50 years, but there is “still a long way to go”.

Fichot argues the law does need a “consent” clause but that the ­burden of proof should be inverted. “It should not be for the victim of rape to prove she consented, but for the man to prove he had her express and clear consent,” she says.

Fichot has attended the trial and is astonished that none of the men recruited by Pelicot had considered reporting him. She is dismayed by their refusal to take responsibility for their actions. “Not one of them came out of that house and thought of going to the police to say there was a woman in danger, to tell of the horrors her husband was inflicting, so she could be saved.”

The videos ruled out ­suspicions, fostered by some defence ­lawyers, that Gisèle Pelicot had been ­complicit in the abuse. Still, they questioned her about her sex life – whether she was a swinger, an exhibitionist, an alcoholic, a manipulated and subjugated wife. One asked why she had not appeared angrier with her former husband, and why she had not cried more in court. As more videos were shown, the questions seemed as obscene as the images we were watching.

“I went to court hoping the [defence] arguments would be changed since the 1970s but they had not,” says Fichot. “The testosterone excuse was the absolute worst. It was the archaic argument that males, who have all the privileges and domination over women, have this weakness and we cannot blame them for it because they are male and have uncontrollable urges.”

It took four years after Pelicot, a retired electrician, was arrested in November 2020 for the case to come to trial. Until she walked into court in September this year, Gisèle Pelicot had not seen the man she once ­considered a “perfect, ­loving, ­attentive and caring” husband, father and grandfather, who she had been married to for 50 years, since he had been taken into custody.

On 2 November 2020, the couple left their neat home with a swimming pool, where they had intended to spend their retirement, to drive to the police prefecture in Carpentras. Six weeks earlier, Dominique Pelicot had been arrested for filming up the skirts of four women in the Leclerc supermarket. He had made a ­tearful confession to his wife, promised not to do it again and to seek medical help. He told her on this occasion they would be home by lunchtime.

But at the police station, a senior officer showed Gisèle Pelicot some photographs and told her what her husband had been doing to her for almost a decade. After the shock came the indignation that prompted the decision to waive her anonymity and insist that the trial – including appalling videos described by Roger Arata, the president of the court, as “particularly offensive to human dignity” – be held in public so that “shame changes sides”.

It was a decision that made the 73-year-old grandmother internationally recognised and gave feminists a new slogan.

“We warned her holding the trial in public would cause a storm, but it meant the outside world could look in and see exactly what had ­happened,” Camus says.

His fellow lawyer Babonneau says Pelicot’s determination that this should not happen to another woman is her driving motivation. “Normal people need to read about it to be aware it can happen. She was an ordinary woman, a pensioner living in the south of France … what could she expect from life: no trauma, no dramatics, a nice house in a nice village and she thought this would be her life for ever.”

Babonneau and Camus are struck not just by her former husband’s manipulation but his cynicism. The drugs he had been giving her had caused blackouts and memory loss. She had inexplicable gynaecological problems, and was convinced she had a brain tumour or degenerative neurological disease.

Her children had persuaded her to see specialists. She was ­accompanied by her husband, who did not once try to ease her fears.

“When she was tired, when she said she had gynaecological problems, Dominique would joke: ‘Gisèle, what are you doing at night?’ It is beyond belief. Disgusting,” Camus says.

He likens her betrayal to that of the moment in The Truman Show when the film’s main character discovers his existence has been a reality television programme. “He discovers that everything he believed was real is false … For Gisèle, it has been the same, except it was a pornographic film and the director was her husband.”

The trial will indelibly mark all those who spent time at it. Reporters who jostled for a seat in the small courtroom ­listened to Arata read the list of alleged crimes for each accused in a monotone, as if repeating a weekly shopping list: digital penetration, ­vaginal ­penetration, oral penetration, anal penetration, sexual touching. We would hear the most ­appalling ­evidence, see the most appalling videos and think nothing could be worse. Except the next day it often was.

Marion Dubreuil, court correspondent for the French radio station RMC, was there almost every day, live-tweeting and sketching those in the courtroom. “What saved me was documenting it,” she said. “I found sense in my work.

“I tell myself: this trial will change things. Rape is the most ­absolute crime; the most banal and the most common. Now we are ­speaking about it, people realise it is ­happening all the time. I see this in those around me. The trial has made them think.”

The public prosecutor, Jean-Marie Huet, who had originally wanted the case to be held behind closed doors, admitted to Gisèle Pelicot he had been wrong. “I salute your courage, madame, and your ­dignity ­throughout these proceedings,” he said. “We asked for a closed-door hearing without knowing the force of your character.

“In an incredible burst of resilience, you asked for a public hearing, and you were right, madame.”

Sitting in a local cafe, Camus taps the table irritably when reminded of the defence lawyers who have attacked Gisèle Pelicot.

“When people say she is not ­feeling enough hate, that she doesn’t cry enough … I ask, what do people want of her?” he says. “What do they expect her to do? Kill herself? That she is still standing is a testament to her amazing resilience.

“My preoccupation, my ­obsession since the beginning of this trial, is that she does not come out of it more damaged than when she went in and, in fact, I have the impression she has come out of it strengthened. She went into it very fragile with her head held high and she has come out of it … with a sort of pride.

“People will ­remember Gisèle Pelicot because there are many lessons to be learned from her and this trial. She is a monument, she raised her head, she lives, she refuses to be swallowed by the ­shadows or by hate.”

It is the job of courts to ask ­questions and dig out the answers. Reporters, too. In this instance, we have both failed. The question of how so many men were able to dehumanise Gisèle Pelicot will take psychologists and social anthropologists some time to unravel.

(archive)

[1hoverman0k]

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[literaryvein-reblogs]

How to write a character’s dialogue where they make jokes a lot but have suicidal thoughts?

Philosophers such as Plato and Aristotle have been trying to explain humor since ancient times. Recent scholars have proposed several theories explaining the underlying mechanisms of humor:

Release Theory of Humor - the theory that people laugh out of a need to release pent-up psychic energy. In Sigmund Freud’s version of this theory, humor permits the expression of normally taboo impulses, and the energy it releases is that normally used in keeping such impulses out of consciousness.

Relief Theory - focuses primarily on the motivational mechanisms of interpersonal needs, positing that humor provides relief of tension. The authors describe this as akin to a hydraulic engine, with laughter serving the function of a steam pipe pressure valve. In this way, pent-up pressure is relieved through laughter. More specifically, the muscular and respiratory processes involved in laugher serve the important role of releasing pent-up nervous energy (Martin & Ford, 2018).

Incongruity Theory - believed to be the most influential humor theory, with some proposing that “incongruity is at the core of all humor” (Zhan, 2012, p. 95). This theory is intuitive, as a joke with an expected or obvious punchline is simply not funny. Instead, laughter occurs in response to unexpected punchlines or those that go against usual patterns (Wilkins & Eisenbraun, 2009).

The "Sad Clown" Trope - This character trope is the wisecracking funnyman who copes with his hopeless position with humor — usually of the groan-inducing kind.

He is totally insecure at heart and keeps on running his mouth to fool himself into thinking he's confident or to get people to like him.

In the most tragic cases though, people do actually find them genuinely charming and likeable because of their humor and like being around them.

This is usually of little comfort to the Sad Clowns, whose insecurities cause them to fear that people only really like the "Clown" part of them, and so they do their damnedest to always be the "Clown" in public, but bury and suppress the "Sad" side of them as deeply as possible, because they are afraid that people would like them less if they were to find out about it.

Often put in more serious series to add some comic relief, while at the same time secretly revealing to the audience that the character is a simmering pot of hidden insecurities and angst, just like everyone else in the cast.

Very commonly tragic Truth in Television, as it's actually very common for people afflicted with mental illnesses (especially Bipolar Disorder, anxiety, depression, schizophrenia, Personality Disorders, and Obsessive-Compulsive Disorders for example) to actually have a great sense of humor.

It sounds contradictory, but mental illness isn't all sadness and darkness. One thing that is common to many people with mental illnesses is severe self-doubt about their value as a person.

Cracking jokes and making people laugh can help temporarily ease some of those feelings. Not to mention that humor is a very effective coping mechanism.

Examples: "Sad Clown" Trope

East of Eden offers this exchange about the stereotype of the Irish. Lee: "But the Irish are said to be a happy people, full of jokes." Samuel Hamilton: "There's y our pidgin and your queue. They are not. They are a dark people with a gift for suffering way past their deserving. It's said that without whisky to soak and soften the world, they'd kill themselves. But they tell jokes because it's expected of them."

Hector from Coco seems like a carefree, charming con-artist who just wants to go to the Land of the Living like everyone else on the holiday. Then it's revealed that he is a deeply tragic character who has been unjustly hated and separated from his family for decades, and all that energetic silliness was a front to cover up a lot of sadness and shame.

Homer Simpson is a pretty good example of this trope. Though he's usually fairly exuberant, he's attempted suicide at least three times in the series, and during the early seasons, was often shown to be insecure about the way he looks, not to mention the stress related to his job. In the modern episodes, Homer's childhood was revealed with his parents constantly fighting and his father taking out his frustration on him, bringing about Homer's constant eating habits.

Sources: 1 2 3 ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

Considering some theories on humour, like those mentioned above, and studying the dialogue of characters that exhibit the "sad clown" trope (and other similar ones) might be used as inspiration for your character. You can read more examples here that I wasn't able to include in this post. Hope this helps with your writing!

[cherry-flavoured-thot]

Hi hi! I got a nsfw request for Levi! I was wondering could I ask for a female dom s/o with a breeding kink and uh, dominates Levi with the amazon position??? 😳 It's okay if you don't want to though <3

i come back, i write us banging 2d pixels, i leave

Look Levi won't lie, when he first saw this position online, he did spend the next three days thinking about you doing it to him. But thinking about you doing it to him, and asking you too, were two different things. He'd been building up the courage to bring it up, when you had wandered in and asked if he was interested in trying a new sex position.

It felt all too familiar as he laid down and held his legs up on either side of you while you lowered down on his dick. Mind racing about how you''d even come across what he was looking at. "You know Levi, you should really be more careful about what you leave on your browser." He starts to stutter, swearing he never left it on his monitors, but it's incoherent rambling, that turns into babbles when you start bouncing on his cock. "How long did you think about me doing this to you?" He really shouldn't be as embarrassed as he is, especially when you've got him plunging in and out of your walls.

"D-days," but still all he can manage is a single word stuttered out between whimpers. All it does is goad you on, picking up the pace of your rocking hips.

"And what else did you think about me doing?" When he doesn't answer, you slow to a halt. Causing him to whine. "Use you words Levi," his dick twitches inside you, and you know he must be thinking about the rest of his fantasy.

"Letting me cum inside." As a reward for his answer you move your hips again, sliding his cock in and out of you with a similar pace to before.

"Good boy," you praise and it makes him whimper. "Do you want to cum inside me?" You question, noticing the way his body began to quiver as your pace picks up.

"Yes, yes please."

"Do you want me to make you a Daddy Levi?" You feel his member twitch inside you again, his legs starting to shake the second those words fell out of your lips.

"Yes!" He cries. "Please, please," he starts to chant waiting for you to give him approval. You draw it out for a bit longer, seeing how long he could hold out before going over the edge. Eventually you give into his pleas, sinking yourself all the way down on his cock.

"Go ahead." You permit, and almost on queue he finds himself shooting his load inside you.

[konaharts]

smol and stabby

[oscconfessions]

Hi guys! From this point forth, we will be removing ANY confessions deemed to be “low effort.” (The TL;DR is anything written in bold. I provided further in depth explanation to hopefully answer any potential questions if any section confuses you.)

What we will consider low effort:

>Anything less than a sentence, such as just stating just a character name or just a ship name.

>Confessions that contain a similar premise to another confession submitted in quick succession. Such as “Bot ii is my favorite character” followed shortly by “I love Bot ii”. That being said, confessions expressing the same viewpoint but proposing different ideas will NOT be considered the same confession. If a confession submitted after another echoes a similar opinion, mods may choose to screenshot or copy and paste the second confession and attach it to the original confession. (Note that this may only occur if the secondary confession is submitted off anon or uses an anon tag; any anonymous repetitive asks without any identification will simply be deleted.)

>General spam confessions will also be deleted, such as if the same user/anon submits the same ask over and over (such as “I love bot ii!” followed by “bot ii is so me!” followed by “bot ii yay” etc. or if they just spam the inbox with the same exact confession over and over.) If your post does not break the rules, it will eventually be posted. Be patient, please do not submit the same/similar confession every day thinking that will speed up the process.

>Non-confessions. Shitposts or images that are not confessions may be deleted. This depends more on the moderator queueing, but if the content is considered to be irrelevant it may be removed. Similarly, posts that are one sentence followed by a long and irrelevant copypasta that floods the feed may be deleted. We do still permit posts that may just be asking for recommendations/asking questions/etc. but we may become a bit stricter with what actually queues. If it’s a question that can be answered via a simple google search it may be considered spam.

>Finally, we encourage you to compile any similar thoughts into one confession. Rather than confessing “I love bot ii” and then submitting another confession stating “I love four bfdi”, you can combine these into one confession regarding favorite characters.

The definition of “low effort” varies from mod to mod, there is no concrete definition, however if your confession falls under one of the above categories it will more likely than not be deleted.

These rules will be implemented to help reduce spam and allow us to keep the ask box open more frequently, as the queue hopefully will not get as long! Unfortunately we can only post a maximum of 50 posts per day (with automatic queue), so once the queue exceeds high volumes (it’s at like 300 right now 😭) we get a really bad backup of confessions, and it takes even longer to have confessions post.

If you want to submit a confession, we do encourage you to refrain from submitting redundant asks (i.e., if you agree with a confession, commenting rather than submitting an entire confession in agreement or reiterating the posted ask is preferred.) We also encourage not submitting asks considered ‘popular opinions,’ or that are just repeating confirmed canon. This definition, of course, is different for everyone, and asks considered ‘popular opinions’ won’t always be removed, however reducing confessions that simply repeat a sentiment shared by pretty much everyone or that are just stating canon fact (such as ‘i hate proshippers’ or ‘two tpot is an algebralien.’) will allow more thought-provoking and interesting (or discourse-y) content a chance to be posted.

If you believe your confession falls under any of the above categories, it’s strongly preferred you do not submit it so that mods can focus more on queueing rather than deleting spam.

Thanks for your cooperation :]! If you have any questions, feel free to leave a comment!

also sorry for picking on bot for this entire post 💔

-📻

[utilitycaster]

Queueing this after seeing a post in the tag about how criticism of Critical Role is not a thing to be feared or pushed away or waved off with "well it's their show" (true) but with the defense that it's a company making tons of money on their shows and other IP and it's like. I criticize indie podcasts that are begging for Patreon subscriptions too. If you put a creative work out into the world there will be people who do not like it, and they are permitted to say "yeah I didn't like that."

Like, personally, I think people who get extremely picky about D&D minutiae or the mere use of Rule of Cool are joyless and irritating and should probably stop watching. But I think the "it's THEIR show and they can do what they want and you can't have negative opinions on it" people are just as obnoxious. And, most crucially, and the reason I couldn't reblog that post despite otherwise liking it, was that I do not think the creators of a work of fiction owe you anything [other than like, the common decency of not harassing you if you say something they don't like but that isn't hateful or an attack] and it seemed to imply they did. They don't. I'm allowed to say "I didn't like this creative choice" and on the off chance the creator sees that they are allowed to say to themself "too bad, I liked it and I'd do it again." Literally that is it. When I say a character does not work for me that doesn't mean Critical Role needs to scrap them and make a better one, nor does it mean that I need to shut up and gratefully accept what I'm given without a word otherwise, and I feel this weird mentality that I should is especially a problem in Actual Play compared to scripted shows when it really isn't any different.

[hermit-permits]

About This Blog:

Welcome to the Tumblr Hermit Permit Office! This is a gimmick blog is centered around handing out permits for different posts, such as cataloging crimes or selling virtual flowers!

It is important to understand that this blog is distinct from the Hermitcraft Hermit Permit Office and should not be held to the same standards. We do not currently employ Permit Office Enforcement (AKA POE-POE) and strive for only the best experiences while issuing permits, unlike that sister location.

Please note that your permit may include additional comments by the Permit Maker (i.e. the runner of this blog) concerning the contents or caveats of the permit.

Like many things, all permits given on this blog are in the name of good fun. No permit excludes others from posting similar content.

This post will be updated as the Permit Maker irons out the specifics of this blog! Bear in mind that this is the first gimmick blog that the Permit Maker has run, so things may be a bit bumpy as we get this show on the road.

And yes, I have a permit for this.

FAQ and taglist under the cut.

FAQ

Who runs this blog, and what are their pronouns?

Hello! I am the Permit Maker, the sole runner of this establishment of the Hermit Permit Office. You may refer to me using she/her. I may refer to myself in first-person plural (we/us); this is to mimic actual corporations using first-person plural in reference to themselves.

What is a permit, anyway?

A hermit permit is a concept introduced in the tenth season of popular Minecraft YouTube series Hermitcraft. The owner of the permit is able to sell whatever is permitted by the permits they own. On the server, these permits are categorized into three ranks--diamond, gold, and iron--based on demand of the item permitted.

Here at the Tumblr Hermit Permit Office, things are run a little differently. Permits are still ranked from iron to diamond, though in this case it's far more subjective, based on the Permit Maker's perception of its "demand" and general vibes. At the end of the day, iron permits just tend to be more specific than diamond permits. Additionally, permits that are collective are usually owned by gimmick blogs (e.g. the Where-Is collective, the fanblog collective) and contain similar permits to each other.

What do you tag each permit with?

Besides the general #hermit permits tag, each permit is tagged with its rank, whether it is part of a collective, the owner of the permit (at the time), an extremely brief summary of the permit in question (<5 words, usually), and whether the permit was requested or not.

Where do I go if I want to request a permit?

Please send all permit requests through the askbox! Requests are open at any time. Additionally, please add a link to the post you'd like reblogged if it is not pinned on your profile or if it is not a permit that is relatively unconnected to your account (e.g. selling virtual flowers). If you do not add this information, your request will be kept in the inbox until you submit a post link.

When are permits posted, and what is your time zone?

The time zone of the Tumblr Hermit Permit Office is EST/EDT. Please assume all times given are in this time zone. Permits are posted every day at roughly 10 AM. This is different from previous bouts of the Permit Office, wherein the queue ran for two or three times a day--hopefully, under this new schedule, we'll be able to stay active longer.

Why are you so inactive?

The Permit Maker is only one person, and running this blog can sometimes take a toll on her mental health. She will sometimes go dormant whenever submissions run out, so do not fret if this happens.

Where's your Where-Is blog masterlist?

While in the past this has been linked under every Where-Is permit, each permit will instead direct the viewer to this pinned post. This does not have every Where-Is blog, but it contains a good deal of them. Deleted blogs will be pruned as necessary.

Tags Used:

#hermit permits for permits given. All permits will be tagged with their category, owner, and rank.

#not a permit for posts that are not giving a permit.

#answered for asks.

#requested for requested permits.

#sister location for anything pertaining to the other Hermitblr Permit Office, @permitoffice.

#nsfw for nsfw permits.

Tags will be updated as needed.

[meyousing]

𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐠

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: when being thrust back into society and the public eye after being isolated for so long... there could be no way that you blow it, right? you, of all people, would never betray the love of your life. 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: unnamed yandere x reader, i had chrollo in mind but it doesn't matter. sfw! just a short drabble to get back into the swing of things!

“Come on, now.” 

His hand was extended, fingers twitching slightly as he beckoned you to his side. You could see this in your periphery and almost feel his culminating impatience.

The cashier’s grin was so radiant; so full of life. Perhaps it was all just for show, the obligatory kindness, similar to her sugary, high-pitched tone of voice as she wished you a good day. Maybe she hated her job, though. How could you know what was really going on in her mind? Perhaps she despised working in a quaint grocery store that must have had more grumpy customers than kind on a regular basis; that tended to be the case in small towns like this. You wished that she knew what was really going on in your mind.

“Y/N.”

His tone was firm.

Her smile widened, eyes squinting a little as her cheeks pushed up against them; her expression was so warm.

Then her smile faltered for a moment, her irises becoming a little more visible now as she mirrored the face you had been making throughout this entire interaction. You had been so busy analyzing how cheerful she seemed, you hadn’t even noticed that her initial smile was also one she gave the first and only time she looked at you since walking through her register queue. 

Her eyes opened up large, her eyebrows furrowed inward until her now paling skin wrinkled in the middle; she had gone from upbeat to concerned and borderline terrified within seconds, maybe even less.

Just like you.

“Y/N, let’s go.”

“Please.”

You hadn’t actually spoken–your voice was gone. It wasn’t even really there to begin with, though. Your throat had gone dry as soon as you entered the public space, forced to stay hand in hand with your captor, so shocked that he had finally allowed you to reemerge into society so soon. Well, maybe not reemerge, but at least you were able to walk around somewhere other than the same little room that became your residence for the last few months. Or maybe… years? How long has it been now?

Please is what your expression would have said if it could, and how you wished it could. For now, all you were able to do was nearly push your eyes out of their sockets in a silent, desperate plea for rescue. Would the cashier understand? Had you stared at her in enough of an uncanny way to unnerve her soul, in the deepest pit of it; to communicate that you were not just some happy camper who was here with your boyfriend on a quick grocery stock-up, then maybe a cute little coffee run? 

She glanced between you and your captor–who you were too petrified to face since you knew now that you had been staring away from him for a little too long, too hyper-focused on communicating speechlessly with the once luminant woman who now looked as reduced by fear as you did. 

Cold fingers wrapped around your wrist.

Eyes shifted away.

“Have a good day!” she repeated her previous words that you had momentarily forgotten; momentarily, had they not been a complete repeat of the last thing you heard her say. As if her speech had been cut, copied, and pasted.

Her body turned away. You had been turned away.

Her figure grew smaller, more distant as you were pulled along then, the grip on your wrist slid up to clutch your forearm and keep you as close as possible while your torso brushed against his with every near-trip of a step that you were forced to take. 

“What a shame, I misread you Y/N. We’ll try another outing again in a few months.” 

The subtly condescending mention of such an extended range of time between now and the next occasion where you were permitted to breathe fresh air could have made you cry if your gaze wasn’t still fixed behind your back; cramping your neck and shoulder, your mind still utterly convinced that keeping another person in your viewpoint would surely get them to notice you and understand your situation just by looking. But as new twists and turns through the store’s exit and into the parking lot drew you further away from civilization; returned you to the vehicle that you knew would chauffeur you back to the makeshift prison you’d been forced to call home–that small flame of hope in your thoughts began to dim into nothing. 

The irritable slam of the car’s back door shutting you out managed to quell that flame instantaneously. 

[trulybetty]

dec' x 20 - coming home

Prompt: coming home Pairing: frankie x reader Word Count: 1,253 Warnings: cold weather, homecomings, mentions of Frankie's curls, general fluff and we're un-beta'd here, all mistakes are my own. Summary: Frankie returns home after his first deployment of your relationship. AO3: Linked

x. masterlist

A/N: I figured since I had this one ready to go I'd post it. Might queue up what I have done and circle back to the days that need completing before the month is out. If I tried to write now, I think it would be a series of gif's and gibberish in hope I got my story across lol

The air was cold and sharp and stung at his eyes. He reached up to pull his cap down out of habit, forgetting he’d left it on the bedside table two minutes too late when he’d left over three weeks ago. The ground was a mix of slushy snow and ice mixed with the grit of salt. The salt trucks had come around the base early that morning but would do little once the night's colder temperatures came in to freeze it over. 

He hadn’t been permitted to fly into base. Part of the process of post-deployment and debriefing, but he had heard the pilots discussing the weather. The mass snowstorm that had hit Colorado had eased enough for them to be flown in, allowing them to come home as planned. 

Home. 

Frankie thought it to be such a novel concept suddenly. He’d never referred to returning to base home in the past. But with you there now, the word had slipped from his tongue more than once.  

Communication was cut off during reconnaissance. As it usually was standard, but this time all personal communication devices had been sequestered and he’d had no chance to send you a message that he was on his way back. A part of him, something that he hadn’t allowed himself to indulge in before you, had imagined seeing you on the tarmac, at the parking lot. 

He’d never had anyone waiting for him before. 

He’d watched all the other guys at some point in their lives come home to waiting arms eager to have them home. Heck, even Santiago had someone there waiting for him at homecoming on more than one occasion. It wasn’t like there hadn’t been anyone, there had been several relationships before you - but none had existed to run the gauntlet of that first deployment, tapping out before things could get serious or unable to cope with the trappings of military life.

Things between the two of you were still so new. Yes, there had been the whirlwind year playing fast and loose with the notion of it just being ‘fun’ and ‘friends with benefits’. But you had jumped into the deep end with him without the preamble of a typical relationship. 

Within two weeks of saying yes, your apartment was packed, a new remote position was signed and all his belongings on base were already packed and making their way to Colorado. 

As part of their cover, their return was coordinated to coincide with the homecoming of a troop from Afghanistan. The tarmac was heaving with emotions and bodies, families and friends creating a sea of faces, each one searching for their own loved one. Frankie and his Delta team, always adept at slipping in unnoticed, used this chaos to their advantage. But Frankie's eyes were solely focused on one thing – finding you in the crowd.

Will, standing beside him, nudged his arm. “She gonna be here, man?” His voice was barely audible over the commotion.

Frankie shrugged, a tightness in his chest. “Don't know,” he admitted, the uncertainty was gnawing at him. What if you weren’t here? What if you didn’t know? He hadn't been able to get a message to you, to tell you he was coming back. You still didn’t know anyone on the base and he wondered if anyone had reached out to let you know.

Then, like a scene from a movie, the crowd parted, and there you were. Lost amongst the sea of people, pulling your coat tighter around you, seemingly too thin against the Colorado winter, your eyes scanning the area, a look of hopeful anticipation across on your face.

Frankie's breath caught in his throat. It had only been three weeks since he'd seen you last, but in that moment, it felt too long. The way the cold air made your eyes brighter, the way your breath formed clouds in the frosty air, the way you bit your lip in concentration – it was like seeing you for the first time all over again.

He hadn’t even realized he was moving until he was halfway through the crowd, his focus solely on you. The noise around him faded to a dull roar, the cold, the discomfort, the fatigue from his deployment, all of it disappeared. All that mattered was the few feet of distance that still separated you from him.

Will called out something behind him, but Frankie didn’t hear it. His entire world had narrowed down to the space where you stood.

As you finally noticed him, your eyes widened in surprise, then filled with unmistakable joy. A smile broke across your face, a smile that reached your eyes and lit up your entire being. Frankie felt a warmth spread through him that had nothing to do with the temperature.

You started towards him, a little hesitant at first, as if you couldn’t believe he was really there. Then, as if suddenly realizing it was indeed him, you broke into a run.

Frankie met you halfway, and when you threw your arms around him, all the pent-up emotions, the fears, the loneliness, seemed to melt away. He held you tightly against him, breathing in the scent of your hair, feeling the realness of your presence. This was what he had missed the most – the simple yet profound comfort of holding you.

You didn’t dare let go, didn’t dare blink for fear he would no longer be standing before you. You wanted to touch his face, feel his lips beneath your fingertips. You wanted to leave with him in hand as much as you wanted to stay in that moment and ignore the fact that this was to be one of many times when he’d be taken away from you at a moment's notice.

“I’m sorry I missed Christmas,” he said, finally breaking the quiet between you.

You gave him a half smile, “I kept the lights up for you.”

“I would’ve called if I could,” Frankie said, his voice thick with emotion. “I missed you so much.”

You pulled back slightly, looking up at him with eyes shining with tears. “I missed you too.”

You were tied to him now, you weren’t going anywhere. Anywhere he went you knew you’d follow. Whatever plans you’d made for your future were gone on the promise of forever. If he said jump you would say how high. 

You curled your finger around a curl at the nape of his neck, his forehead pressed against yours. You wanted it all with him and then some. You didn’t know then the cost that would take. But for that moment, it was just the two of you.

“Let’s go home,” you whispered, the word ‘home’ feeling more real and comforting than ever.

“I need to do something first,” he said softly.

Before you could ask what, he dipped his head capturing your lips with his, soft and gentle at first, as if getting familiar with one another for the first time again. Before the overwhelming need to make up for lost time urged him to deepen the kiss. Frankie's hands held your face gently but firmly, his thumbs stroking your cheeks as if he couldn't bear to let go.

You didn't know how much time had passed when Frankie pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours once more and you blinked to regain your focus.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said, his voice a whisper. 

You smiled, your heart feeling full. “Wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,” you assured him.

[madeinmobius]

Cast Your Votes For September's Feature!

Hello everyone - it’s once again time to nominate the next Feature!

This will be a short submission period due to me being super busy and not noticing the post didn't leave Queue as normal T_T

As always, you can submit up to three characters for consideration. You are permitted to nominate one of your own characters, but there’s a catch - it must be accompanied by a nomination for someone else’s character! (After all, this is about uplifting each others’ characters as much as showcasing your own.)

So:

You can nominate one, two, or three characters who don’t belong to you, OR

You can nominate one of your own AND one or two belonging to other people.

Additional Rules:

Nominated characters do not need to have art on the blog, but they do need to have a colored full body image available.

Nominated characters should have a name and species decided on.

There MUST be a link to the creator - commissioned or request images that do not link back to the character’s owner cannot be used for nomination.

Creators can win more than once - but no character can win twice, and creators cannot win two months in a row.

Winning creators must respond within 24 hours of being contacted; otherwise, the feature will go to the runner up.

To nominate a character you can reply to this post or send a submission with links to the characters you’re nominating - anonymous submissions allowed!

A gallery of previous features can be seen here.

Nominations will be open until 11:59PM Eastern US Time on Thursday, August 29; voting will take place on Friday, with the new Feature announced on September 1!

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

The Moon's Lies (2)

Summary: Kylo Ren x named!Reader. It was never going to be black or white, Light or Dark, friend or foe. Who wouldn't let the galaxy burn to keep their loved ones safe?

Warnings: 18+, unspoken threat of bodily harm, twisted morals, Kylo Ren being himself, vehicle wreck

Masterlist

Canon Divergence Notes: There is no Rey. Finn is the destined Jedi, and he leaves the scar on Ren’s face during the climactic fight on Starkiller Base. The only original canon kept after TFA is the destined Jedi (Finn) leaving to find Luke and Snoke pushing Kylo Ren to the breaking point, continuing the student-kills-the-master cycle. Summary: No Rey. Finn is training to be a Jedi. Kylo Ren takes the throne from Snoke.

A/N: All hail the new alpha/beta reader! Three cheers for @aralezinspace! And thank you all for the support so far. <3 You make my galaxy spin.

2.

Years ticked by with battles fought, secrets found, and the rise of a new Supreme Leader to the throne of the First Order. Matters of life and death. To some.

Dyrrine judged the political upheaval like the weather. Rarely dangerous, but often an inconvenience. She couldn’t control it, and she worried more about sheltering her family from the rain than forming opinions about it.

At the moment, however, as mud sucked her boots down to the ankle and cold drops rode the wind to blast under her hood, she felt a lot of ways about the rain. Literally and figuratively.

Of course her responsibilities took her to Dantooine during the rainy season. And, of course, the First Order had no interest in accommodating the long line waiting for permits and passes.

Most of the year, Dantooine was lovely. Dry. Fairly temperate. Dyrrine would’ve enjoyed being off the ship and soaking in some sunshine while the rusty wheels of bureaucracy slowly groaned along. Instead, she dreamed of hot cups of tea and kept her hands stuffed deep in her wide sleeves as the queue inched forward, bowing under the storm’s onslaught. There were so many people still ahead of her, and she could barely see the service window through the downpour.

Good thing she’d reserved a seat on the next morning’s shuttle. She’d never make the evening flight. If things didn’t pick up, she might not reach the end of the line before the offices closed. Then she could do this all again at ass’o’clock in the morning, standing in a fresh downpour in day-old clothes without even the marginal warmth of the sun. What fun.

Off to the right, the depot’s primary doors slid open, spilling light into the miserable, sludgy afternoon. Stormtroopers in gleaming white armor stomped out, far too many for a patrol, and the eyes of every civilian turned their way. No one dared watch openly, but they peeped, and shrank, and waited. The ‘troopers formed two lines, facing each other to create a kind of path between the depot and the small collection of shuttles and TIEs left outside the hangar.

No wonder the administration was doing such a spectacular job that day. They had a VIP to entertain.

Dyrrine looked down at her feet, trying to work them free of the muck as the Adarian in front of her inched forward by half a pace. She had her priorities; keeping her place in line without losing a shoe was higher on her list than some First Order crony with extra polish on his boots.

One foot popped free with a noise like a belch, confirming Dyrrine’s belief the planet was trying to eat her. The second foot came loose by inches, and she was so consumed with keeping her balance she didn’t register the growing chill until the source stood in the open doorway.

Foot free, a step forward, and sinking into a new swatch of muck, she felt the menacing aura of a wildly powerful Force user. One didn’t need to be Force sensitive necessarily for animal instincts to register a threat, especially when said threat just loved to make a scene, to infect the very air with fear so every lesser creature would stay bowed low – where they belonged. She glanced back to the main entrance as the towering figure in black started down the ‘trooper-lined path, and her blood turned to ice.

She didn’t know his face – not this one, anyway. Last time they’d met, he’d hidden behind a chrome scowl, but his lightsaber was unmistakable, and kriffing hell if she didn’t remember that. It swung from his belt, bulky cross guard hilt on full display. The faint burn it once left along her neck took a week to heal, and this time there was no one to call him away before he introduced her to the blade properly. He was no one’s attack dog anymore. He’d slipped the chain and brutalized the fool holding the leash.

Kylo Ren. The new Supreme Leader.

The downpour suddenly didn’t feel like enough. Blinking away drops clinging to her lashes, she prayed for a flood, for the water to fall in sheets to curtain her from view, for the mud to gulp her down whole. Her gaze snapped back to the ground, hoping as she studied the trembling puddles that her spike of anxiety blended into the frightened crowd. What was one more terrified civilian in a sea of faces?

She resisted the urge to tug her hood lower. That would draw attention, tell anyone looking that she wanted to avoid being seen very, very badly. It took far too much attention to breathe, and she fought to release the mote of panic burning bright in her chest. No need to snuff it out. Just let it free. Like a firefly – still very real, but out and away from her thoughts. Drifting farther and farther, leaving a quiet void in its wake.

She was still. She was silent. She was invisible.

“I remember you.”

She was so kriffing screwed.

Drawn by the voice she would never have recognized without the helmet’s modulator, she looked between the shoulders of the nearest Stormtroopers to meet the Supreme Leader’s gaze. He towered over them, a wall of shadow behind their white armor. And there was no doubt he was speaking to her. He stepped forward, and the ‘troopers parted.

Too late to hide.

His presence crashed down like a wave, suffocating. Crushing.

She turned fully, facing him head-on as she reached deep to grasp the calm assurance that helped her through so many dangerous scrapes in the past.

“We never finished our conversation.” A playful edge sharpened his words, and she hunted through the flickers of expression that slipped past his guard. He wasn’t quite the same beast she met before. This time he was all confidence, secure in his position as the head of the First Order, free to stop, to take the time to pull her apart just for fun. His eyes traced her from dripping head to sodden feet, coming to stop on her pendant. “And you’re still wearing your protection charm. I thought you were going to leave it behind next time.”

With a dim smile that was entirely polite and not at all pleased, she repeated the short bow she’d offered on their first meeting, eyes dipping with her knees as she proved her respect. But she didn’t try to cower. When she rose, she resumed eye contact, letting her expression go placid in the face of her worst nightmare.

“Apologies.” Her voice came strong and steady. It didn’t even shake from the chill. “But as you said, we never finished our conversation, and I never heard whether it was offensive or just surprising.”

Humility, sometimes seasoned with feigned stupidity, could get a civilian far with the First Order. Sometimes officers appreciated the break from the usual hysterics of oppressed locals fighting for rights they no longer possessed. Sometimes a neutral attitude just made her forgettable, which was always the best outcome.

Unfortunately, she’d made a much deeper impression than she’d realized in this case, and she knew he wouldn’t let her fade into the mist like a ghost a second time. Even in the dreary weather, his eyes practically sparkled.

“We should fix that.”

She bowed again – quickly – and without looking away.

“It would be an honor, but I wouldn’t dare take any more of your valuable time, Supreme Leader.”

It was as close to begging as someone could get without yielding, and she knew she’d failed by the quirk of his lips.

“Then you can honor me aboard my shuttle.” He moved on, not in the least encumbered by the mud holding the rest of the planet hostage. “Bring her.”

Two ‘troopers who’d been following in his wake stepped up, but she moved. Springing forward as lithely as she could given her footing, she passed into the hall of white armored bodies of her own volition. It flummoxed the guards, and she offered a simple nod and smile as she continued after their leader. He hadn’t said to arrest her. Or bind her. Not even seize her. She still had some room to work, and so long as the ‘troopers didn’t know whether or not she was a prisoner, she could keep dancing.

So, she kept just ahead of the guards and well back from Kylo Ren, wading through Dantooine’s hateful sendoff to the waiting command shuttle.

The Supreme Leader’s thunderous steps echoed back down the ramp as she entered the hollow of the ship, following muddy tracks across the pristine floors. It felt like sacrilege. Like truth. The honest filth of the First Order’s dominion, and the inevitable tide beyond all illusions of control. Beneath her careful tranquility, a smug spark of emotion kindled. Not even the great First Order could stay polished in the face of a good storm.

But the spark faded as the Stormtroopers marched up after her, and the ramp groaned shut.

The ship was cold. A dead cold. Black with flashes of white and red lights that chilled her worse than the rain. She wondered if anyone in the Order – voluntarily or compelled – ever really saw their ships and bases as home. Something always seemed to draw them back, but she was willing to bet it was the blaster in the arms of the soldier beside them over duty or desire.

The passenger compartment opened directly into the cockpit, where four flight staff were prepping the shuttle for takeoff. There was only one other chair she could spy, and she knew better than to claim it. Guest or prisoner, she shouldn’t sit until her host offered, and she seriously doubted he would.

Leaning over the pilot and copilot, the Supreme Leader rattled off orders, checking his people’s work before it was even complete.

Was he a pilot, too? She knew that flavor of backseat driving. It was why they banned so many temporary residents from the Kuma Lisa’s cockpit. Once you’d had a ship’s controls in hand, most people struggled to accept them in someone else’s.

Ren’s low voice carried through the small space, disinterested in keeping secrets from the damned. “Set course for Ord Trasi. We’ll rendezvous as planned with the Steadfast.”

She closed her eyes and took a beat to breathe through the bubble of panic at the planet’s name. None of this was planned. He didn’t know she’d been on her way back for a rendezvous of her own. If she was careful, she’d remain the only one in danger. They’d know something was wrong when she didn’t return in the morning…

And right now, she needed to open her eyes and play the game. Or she’d never get to wade through a muddy queue ever again. She’d never touch solid ground, feel the rain on her face, or swear at a too-hot sun if she met her end on a damned star destroyer. Or on this shuttle, for that matter.

She got a reign on her fear and looked back to the cockpit just as Ren turned. His black ensemble maintained his regal air even with wet hair sticking to his forehead and ten inches of mud climbing his boots. His cape was no less ominous for the messy streaks on its hem as it flowed behind his long, determined stride. She doubted she’d weathered the rain so well. But that might work in her favor. Anything, given the right approach, could work in one’s favor. It was just a matter of strategy.

The ship lifted off from the mud, hard rain streaking down the viewport like it could drive them back to ground, and Kylo Ren left his flight staff to handle the voyage. While the craft was spacious for a shuttle, it was far from a cruiser, and he closed the distance like shadows rushing in after a light switched off. She held her ground. Waited like a good little subject until his boots came within inches of hers.

She knew this tactic.

Men like him loomed over their prey for one of two reasons. He wanted a fight, or he wanted a trembling victim to torture. He was waiting to see which she’d offer.

She’d deny him both. If it came back to bite her in the ass, at least she’d die satisfied with her decision.

He’d kill her in a heartbeat if she tried to fight – unarmed, trapped on his ship, surrounded by his lackeys. If she served up the fear he craved, he’d wring it out of her until she ran dry, and then she’d be just as dead and twice as grateful to expire.

With the board set against her, she must change the rules.

The ship’s low rumbling beneath her feet reminded her she was already in the belly of the beast, and she must be very clever to climb back out again.

“Who are you?” For all his casual intimidation, he didn’t hide the curiosity in his voice, and his anger didn’t singe the air like it did once upon a time on a planet far, far away.

He recognized a game when he saw one, and the moment he was humoring her. Or at least humoring himself.

She didn’t bow, though she dipped her eyes for the fraction of a second it took her to gather air for an answer. There was a fine line between a silly little stranger and an annoying fool. Too much bobbing would look anxious, anyway. But she held his eyes as she replied.

“Dyrrine Bairdne, sir.”

“And you’re from Lethe.” His eyes traced the strands of beads around her neck, the rings on her fingers, and bracelets on her wrists.

Slowly, mindful of the many guns and deadlier things on display, she raised her hands and lifted her hood. The Supreme Leader’s attention swung to the ornaments woven through her hair, and he scoffed.

“I see you’ve added more armor.” He stared her dead in the eye, daring her. “Expecting to meet a monster?”

She let her nebulous serenity grow warm. A blast from a cheap, old heater on a bitter winter night. Hardly the sun’s rays. But it wasn’t like he wanted that.

“Not at all, Supreme Leader.” She touched the longest strand of beads, keeping his focus on the Selenubis. “I’m training to be the next Naine of my family. Carrier of a thousand wishes, which is what these – ” She lifted a handful of necklaces, letting them rattle to draw both eye and ear. “ – represent.”

He plucked one from her grip, and his eyebrows furrowed. A frown bent his mouth as he rolled the smooth grey stones between gloved fingertips. He studied them like they had a secret script he might decipher in the fluid lines weaving over the face of each sphere.

“Take them off.”

She blinked, masking a busy mind with a face full of surprise. “Sir? They are offensive, then.”

“They’re a nuisance.” Though he didn’t let go of her jewelry, he did return his attention to her face. The amusement had waned. He wanted through her defenses.

Twisting his grip, he dragged her off-balance, and she jerked half a step forward.

Lips by her ear, he repeated, “Take them off.”

With his hulking shoulders out of the way, she could see through the viewport again. At some point, as she bantered for her life, they’d jumped to hyperspace. If he ran her through, right here, at least she’d have a familiar view.

The instant she pulled the faintest comfort from the thought, the ship was spat out of hyperspace, and a planet filled the view.

“Sir,” the flight officer called. “We’ve reached Ord Trasi. On route to rendezvous with the Steadfast now.”

The ship must be hiding on the far side of the planet, away from the hyperspace lanes.

Ren shoved her away, and the two ‘troopers stepped up to flank her. While his intentions were still far from clear, she wasn’t the honored kind of guest. She caught herself before her guards had an excuse to put hands on her, and as the Supreme Leader stomped back to oversee the last leg of their journey, she folded her shaking hands back inside her wet sleeves.

She seized the opportunity to breathe. Still alive. Still in one piece. And another distraction had bought her another precious few minutes. What she’d do with that time she had no idea, but she had it anyway.

Three TIE fighters wheeled into view, streaking past in perfect formation. The first sign of a larger First Order presence.

“I didn’t order an honor guard,” the Supreme Leader snapped. “Order them back to the ship.”

Oh, he was definitely a pilot. He was practically twitching. Too much protection must insult his ego, especially when he wasn’t behind the controls.

The flight officer leaned into the comms and relayed the command, but the TIEs did not disperse. They roared past again, moving behind the shuttle, and she swore she could feel Kylo Ren’s oppressive attention physically lift from her to this new problem.

Doubtless, Ren had something to say. More orders. A good threat or three. But before he could express his wrath beyond the creaking of his glove around his fist, a series of blasts rocked the transport.

Alarms wailed, and the flight crew began shouting updates and alerts as every standing passenger – apart from Ren – lurched into the wall. Beyond the racket from the cockpit, she could hear the wheeze of a dying engine somewhere below.

Kriff.

“Where are our shields?” Ren demanded.

Frantically switching toggles, the pilot shouted over the cacophony. “The readout shows they’re online, sir, but the damage suggests – ”

“Sabotage.” The Supreme Leader all but spat the word.

Shrieking by for another pass, the TIEs sent a hail of green laser fire over the shuttle, and she listened to the hull groan. The wall under her face was warm, and she carefully worked her way to a line of emergency grip points above. She clung on for dear life, looping her arm through and preparing for the worst.

She would not go down with the ship.

And the ship was definitely going down. Hazy clouds blurred the stars, the dark of space fading into atmospheric blue as they lost altitude.

“Sir, we’ve lost too much power. The planet’s gravity is – ”

“Supreme Leader, they’re coming about! Brace for - !”

The side of the shuttle exploded.

The angle of the blast sent debris spearing into the cockpit, and from the corner of her eye she saw an arc of wet crimson splash across the view screen. Now entirely out of control, the ship rolled, and the two stormtroopers tumbled boots-over-helmet through the hole that used to be the other half of the passenger compartment. Their voice modulators warped their screams as they fell.

She screamed, too, lifted off her feet, thrown into wall-ceiling-floor in a dizzying cycle. Her belly leapt into her throat as the engine heaved its last breath and the craft dropped into freefall.

Smoke and sparks filled the air. She couldn’t see what had happened to the flight crew or their dread leader, but no one was doing anything to slow their descent. If there was sabotage though, who was to say the shields were the only system affected? Even if they were conscious, Ren was the only one with the power to do anything at this point.

Well. Not only Ren.

Moving from grip to grip, she worked her way closer to the damaged half of the ship. She needed perspective. She had to see what she was doing.

A blur of green and brown appeared between flashes of blue, and she cursed. All her wonderful protective charms kept flying up to smack in her face, tangle in her hair, and obscure her view. She had a choice to make, and she needed to make it quickly.

Regardless of whether or not Kylo Ren survived, she wasn’t ready to die, certainly not like this. So she’d just have to take her chances.

Letting go of her precious handhold with one hand, she set to work, tugging and tearing the necklaces from her throat. She ripped the rings off with her teeth, and half the bracelets snapped as she jerked them free.

Her senses blossomed, expanding beyond her skin, beyond her sight. She felt the distance between the ship and the planet below, teaming with life, and another dim pulse somewhere onboard. Another survivor. She’d worry about that later. She’d save herself first.

Reaching into the flow of energy and motion that kept the galaxy turning, she pulled. Just as she’d found the grip inside the ship to keep stable, she grappled with air currents, gravity, and space to stabilize the shattered craft’s descent.  

It had been a long, long time since she’d tried anything on this scale, and it tore through her the way too much exercise ripped fragile muscles. Something wet dripped down her neck as the spinning slowed. They were still dropping too fast, and she pushed down at the planet until her ears rang with the effort.

Gradually, painfully, she took control of the fall.

This wouldn’t be a pretty landing.

But they just might survive it.