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Wasn’t sure if you’d like me to wait to reply to my rescuers before you went or not. But I’m content either way.
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is sexualizing Pokemon a variation of bestiality?
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lol. lmao
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JOHN TABLE!
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hearing rumors that rebornfan is storming the US capitol, looking for whoever's responsible for everyone ghosting his RPs
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you got a fat ass and a bright future ahead of you. keep it up champ
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The titan fell, it's carcass of wrought steel falling away as it's pilot ejected from the lifeless mass. That thundering of distant artillery mixed with the gargling fry of comms chatter like coffee and cream. With the dust clearing, Han finally found time to process everything that had just happened. It was a brief flash in the pan. All over before he could truly realize it.
This was not war as Han knew it.
His wars were controlled. Regimented. Though there was the occasion bump or bruise, Han never felt like he was in any danger back in the Nagelring; expect, perhaps, when his Lyran peers cornered him in the locker room. But he could always rely on the instructors during training. There was a safety net present, just out of sight.
Sitting in the cockpit of that Wolfhound, his head pounding and blood sticking to his gloves, Han was vividly aware that someone had taken the net away.
"Scheisse." He muttered, his chest rising and falling like the boots of a cadet in march-step. Though the immediate area had been cleared of threats, tension was still running through every muscle, tendon and joint. Try as he might, Han couldn't relax. Was he panicking? Is this what a panic attack felt like?
'Preposterous.' The boy growled in the depths of his mind. 'Bjornsons. Don't. Panic.'
Plebeians panicked. Cowards and greenhorns panicked. Civilians and the unworthy.
Noblemen did not panic. They were better than that- better than their baser fears. Han didn't hear fear in Captain Hart's voice over the comms link. Even the other cadets of the lance appeared to be holding their cool better than he. It was unbecoming of him. Unbecoming of a man of his status.
It was a fucking embarrassment to his very name.
Han squeezed his controls tight enough to threaten the circulation in his hands. He deliberately cut off his own breath, fighting to gain control over his own flesh and blood. He wouldn't succumb to this. Han carried the weight of his House's defamed name on his very shoulders, and he would not take part in dragging it through the mud. Han would not be like his father.
Willpower and time allowed him to wrestle control back. His breathing slowed, steady and rhythmic. Air filled his lungs and exited to the regimented count of one, two, three- one, two three. Each had to be delivered deliberately. Han let his fingers drop away from the throttle and sidestick, rubbing at the corners of his eyes with his sweat-soaked gloves. Children cried. He was no child. This was unacceptable.
"Ich-" He began over the radio, his voice catching. His tongue had slipped, falling back into his more familiar German in the moment. Just one more of a dozen mistakes Han had made in a matter of minutes.
"Pardon. I'll lead the push to the dropship, if you'd have me, captain." The boy's voice lacked the usual overwhelming confidence his lancemates might've become accustomed to over their short time together. It couldn't quite be described as shaky, but it was getting there.
His teeth sinking into his lower lip, Bjornson pushed down on the throttle, allowing his Wolfhound to begin it's advance toward the dropship. It loomed high above even the Olympic figure of the mech, marking it as truly colossal in size. "My probe is...offline. I would not put full trust in your instruments without it's protection in place." Han warned, the shame on his face thankfully hidden from view.
This had not been the glorious introduction to combat that Han had so often dreamed of.
This was not war as Han knew it.
His wars were controlled. Regimented. Though there was the occasion bump or bruise, Han never felt like he was in any danger back in the Nagelring; expect, perhaps, when his Lyran peers cornered him in the locker room. But he could always rely on the instructors during training. There was a safety net present, just out of sight.
Sitting in the cockpit of that Wolfhound, his head pounding and blood sticking to his gloves, Han was vividly aware that someone had taken the net away.
"Scheisse." He muttered, his chest rising and falling like the boots of a cadet in march-step. Though the immediate area had been cleared of threats, tension was still running through every muscle, tendon and joint. Try as he might, Han couldn't relax. Was he panicking? Is this what a panic attack felt like?
'Preposterous.' The boy growled in the depths of his mind. 'Bjornsons. Don't. Panic.'
Plebeians panicked. Cowards and greenhorns panicked. Civilians and the unworthy.
Noblemen did not panic. They were better than that- better than their baser fears. Han didn't hear fear in Captain Hart's voice over the comms link. Even the other cadets of the lance appeared to be holding their cool better than he. It was unbecoming of him. Unbecoming of a man of his status.
It was a fucking embarrassment to his very name.
Han squeezed his controls tight enough to threaten the circulation in his hands. He deliberately cut off his own breath, fighting to gain control over his own flesh and blood. He wouldn't succumb to this. Han carried the weight of his House's defamed name on his very shoulders, and he would not take part in dragging it through the mud. Han would not be like his father.
Willpower and time allowed him to wrestle control back. His breathing slowed, steady and rhythmic. Air filled his lungs and exited to the regimented count of one, two, three- one, two three. Each had to be delivered deliberately. Han let his fingers drop away from the throttle and sidestick, rubbing at the corners of his eyes with his sweat-soaked gloves. Children cried. He was no child. This was unacceptable.
"Ich-" He began over the radio, his voice catching. His tongue had slipped, falling back into his more familiar German in the moment. Just one more of a dozen mistakes Han had made in a matter of minutes.
"Pardon. I'll lead the push to the dropship, if you'd have me, captain." The boy's voice lacked the usual overwhelming confidence his lancemates might've become accustomed to over their short time together. It couldn't quite be described as shaky, but it was getting there.
His teeth sinking into his lower lip, Bjornson pushed down on the throttle, allowing his Wolfhound to begin it's advance toward the dropship. It loomed high above even the Olympic figure of the mech, marking it as truly colossal in size. "My probe is...offline. I would not put full trust in your instruments without it's protection in place." Han warned, the shame on his face thankfully hidden from view.
This had not been the glorious introduction to combat that Han had so often dreamed of.
The titan fell, it's carcass of wrought steel falling away as it's pilot ejected from the lifeless mass. That thundering of distant artillery mixed with the gargling fry of comms chatter like coffee and cream. With the dust clearing, Han finally found time to process everything that had just happened. It was a brief flash in the pan. All over before he could truly realize it.
This was not war as Han knew it.
His wars were controlled. Regimented. Though there was the occasion bump or bruise, Han never felt like he was in any danger back in the Nagelring; expect, perhaps, when his Lyran peers cornered him in the locker room. But he could always rely on the instructors during training. There was a safety net present, just out of sight.
Sitting in the cockpit of that Wolfhound, his head pounding and blood sticking to his gloves, Han was vividly aware that someone had taken the net away.
"Scheisse." He muttered, his chest rising and falling like the boots of a cadet in march-step. Though the immediate area had been cleared of threats, tension was still running through every muscle, tendon and joint. Try as he might, Han couldn't relax. Was he panicking? Is this what a panic attack felt like?
'Preposterous.' The boy growled in the depths of his mind. 'Bjornsons. Don't. Panic.'
Plebeians panicked. Cowards and greenhorns panicked. Civilians and the unworthy.
Noblemen did not panic. They were better than that- better than their baser fears. Han didn't hear fear in Captain Hart's voice over the comms link. Even the other cadets of the lance appeared to be holding their cool better than he. It was unbecoming of him. Unbecoming of a man of his status.
It was a fucking embarrassment to his very name.
Han squeezed his controls tight enough to threaten the circulation in his hands. He deliberately cut off his own breath, fighting to gain control over his own flesh and blood. He wouldn't succumb to this. Han carried the weight of his House's defamed name on his very shoulders, and he would not take part in dragging it through the mud. Han would not be like his father.
Willpower and time allowed him to wrestle control back. His breathing slowed, steady and rhythmic. Air filled his lungs and exited to the regimented count of one, two, three- one, two three. Each had to be delivered deliberately. Han let his fingers drop away from the throttle and sidestick, rubbing at the corners of his eyes with his sweat-soaked gloves. Children cried. He was no child. This was unacceptable.
"Ich-" He began over the radio, his voice catching. His tongue had slipped, falling back into his more familiar German in the moment. Just one more of a dozen mistakes Han had made in a matter of minutes.
"Pardon. I'll lead the push to the dropship, if you'd have me, captain." The boy's voice lacked the usual overwhelming confidence his lancemates might've become accustomed to over their short time together. It couldn't quite be described as shaky, but it was getting there.
His teeth sinking into his lower lip, Bjornson pushed down on the throttle, allowing his Wolfhound to begin it's advance toward the dropship. It loomed high above even the Olympic figure of the mech, marking it as truly colossal in size. "My probe is...offline. I would not put full trust in your instruments without it's protection in place." Han warned, the shame on his face thankfully hidden from view.
This had not been the glorious introduction to combat that Han had so often dreamed of.
This was not war as Han knew it.
His wars were controlled. Regimented. Though there was the occasion bump or bruise, Han never felt like he was in any danger back in the Nagelring; expect, perhaps, when his Lyran peers cornered him in the locker room. But he could always rely on the instructors during training. There was a safety net present, just out of sight.
Sitting in the cockpit of that Wolfhound, his head pounding and blood sticking to his gloves, Han was vividly aware that someone had taken the net away.
"Scheisse." He muttered, his chest rising and falling like the boots of a cadet in march-step. Though the immediate area had been cleared of threats, tension was still running through every muscle, tendon and joint. Try as he might, Han couldn't relax. Was he panicking? Is this what a panic attack felt like?
'Preposterous.' The boy growled in the depths of his mind. 'Bjornsons. Don't. Panic.'
Plebeians panicked. Cowards and greenhorns panicked. Civilians and the unworthy.
Noblemen did not panic. They were better than that- better than their baser fears. Han didn't hear fear in Captain Hart's voice over the comms link. Even the other cadets of the lance appeared to be holding their cool better than he. It was unbecoming of him. Unbecoming of a man of his status.
It was a fucking embarrassment to his very name.
Han squeezed his controls tight enough to threaten the circulation in his hands. He deliberately cut off his own breath, fighting to gain control over his own flesh and blood. He wouldn't succumb to this. Han carried the weight of his House's defamed name on his very shoulders, and he would not take part in dragging it through the mud. Han would not be like his father.
Willpower and time allowed him to wrestle control back. His breathing slowed, steady and rhythmic. Air filled his lungs and exited to the regimented count of one, two, three- one, two three. Each had to be delivered deliberately. Han let his fingers drop away from the throttle and sidestick, rubbing at the corners of his eyes with his sweat-soaked gloves. Children cried. He was no child. This was unacceptable.
"Ich-" He began over the radio, his voice catching. His tongue had slipped, falling back into his more familiar German in the moment. Just one more of a dozen mistakes Han had made in a matter of minutes.
"Pardon. I'll lead the push to the dropship, if you'd have me, captain." The boy's voice lacked the usual overwhelming confidence his lancemates might've become accustomed to over their short time together. It couldn't quite be described as shaky, but it was getting there.
His teeth sinking into his lower lip, Bjornson pushed down on the throttle, allowing his Wolfhound to begin it's advance toward the dropship. It loomed high above even the Olympic figure of the mech, marking it as truly colossal in size. "My probe is...offline. I would not put full trust in your instruments without it's protection in place." Han warned, the shame on his face thankfully hidden from view.
This had not been the glorious introduction to combat that Han had so often dreamed of.
Just a heads up: I'll be on vacation for the next week or so. Won't be able to reply until I'm back; apologies for the inconvenience.
Just a heads up: I'll be on vacation for the next week or so. Won't be able to reply until I'm back; apologies for the inconvenience.
Just a heads up: I'll be on vacation for the next week or so. Won't be able to reply until I'm back; apologies for the inconvenience.
Nothing. Is. Moving.
Granted, you’re now gorgeous, but the only one who notices you changed or cares is you.
I wish for a puppy.
I wish for a puppy.
Granted, but you experience sleep paralysis every moment you're asleep.
I wish to die.
I wish to die.
Lucius Marco was a card shark, plain and simple.
He made his devil's money conning gamblers out of their hard-earned Thrones at any table he could squeeze in on. He robbed them all blind and then made a quick getaway before anyone figured out Marco was a dirty, stinking cheater.
It wasn't a profitable business, Lucius had to admit. He'd make thrice as much if he put down the cards and used that mind of his for more legitimate work.
Card sharking was incredibly dangerous work too. More than one cartel in Novem Mundos wanted Marco's head delivered to them on a platter for stealing from them. Lucius had gotten into more fistfights, shootouts and chases than he could count- an impressive thing, considering how good Marco'd gotten at counting in his years.
Yet for all of it's faults, Lucius would never, ever do anything else. There was no feeling in the world like the rush he got sticking someone else's Thrones in his pocket. Nothing could compare to that exhilaration that came with robbing criminals, barons and drunkards with nothing more than some sleight of hand.
He felt that same rush now as he slapped his hand of cards down on the butcher's cart in front of him. Lucius grinned his terrible grin, showing off his shark's fangs to the other eight men seated around the cart. A chorus of curses sounded, followed by several other hands slamming down on the rickety wagon in disgust.
"Thanks for playing, lads." Marco chuckled, reaching into the cooking pot to take his hard-earned Throne Gelts. He stuffed them into the pockets of his dust-covered flight jacket, his gaze slipping over his victims as they began to disperse. Only, not all of them were leaving.
Two men sat side-by-side remained, whispering to one another. Though Lucius couldn't tell what either man was saying, he could see the malice dripping from their faces. 'Uh oh.' The Shark thought, his grin growing ever wider as he started to step away from the cart.
"Fare thee well!" He waved, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he backpedaled away. He hoped he could get a fair distance away before those two finished their conversation. Before he could get too far, he heard both of the men's chairs screech against the ground as they rose up to their feet. 'Throne be damned.' The Gambler groaned, spinning around as he quickened his pace. Maybe he could disappear into the Square's crowds and lose those two.
"Oi!" One of the men barked, prancing around the cart with surprising grace given his size. "Get back 'ere!" His partner in crime was shorter, but even fast, quickly gaining on Lucius.
Any chance of escaping this without a busted lip and emptied pockets dropped away when Marco broke into a sprint in one last bid to escape. His pursuers gave quick chase, throwing themselves after Lucius. The Shark pushed and shoved his way through the square, weaving through volunteer soldier and mercenary alike.
The chase was brought to a quick end when Lucius took a wrong turn and found himself stopped by a solid wall. "Shit!" He shouted, spinning around just in time to see the two other men breaking from the crowd.
"You fookin' cheated!" The bigger, more outspoken of the pair spat, an accusatory finger thrown toward Lucius as he began to walk forward. The Gambler retreated, his back smacking up against the wall behind him as he searched for some way to talk himself out of this mess.
"Hey, man, just- just calm down." Lucius held his hands up in front of him, trying to dissuade the giant farmer with a neck twice the size of Lucius's from beating him into a pulp. "I didn't cheat, I swear. I swear by the Emperor."
That didn't seem to convince the fellow as he got right up in front of Marco, his big, meaty hands shoving him back against the wall. Pain shot up the man's back as he let out a near-silent groan. "Come on, we're on the same side! Soldiers of the Imperium! We shouldn't be fighting each oth-"
Before he could get the words out, a fist filled his mouth.
The card shark went down, his hands hitting the grass as blood poured down from his lip onto his scruff-covered chin. "We're doing this, then. Nice." Marco grumbled, wiping his face with his sleeve as his other hand reached down into his pants. For a brief moment, he considered going for the auto-pistol tucked into his pants. But after deciding against it he chose to slide his hand over until he felt the familiar leather-wrapped hilt of his long knife.
It came screaming out of the sheathe like a bat out of hell, Lucius swinging it wildly toward the farmer's belly. He caught his shirt, tearing it and leaving behind a thin line of blood as the big guy lurched backward to avoid being gutted. "You little shit!" He roared, sending his boot forward to crash against the downed gambler's ribs.
Marco slashed the extended leg, forcing it backward so he could scramble up to his feet. By this time, the second unhappy customer was moving forward with his own fists raised. "Two against one, lads? I'm touched you care so much." Bringing his own fists up, the lanky man started bouncing between his feet to keep himself on his toes.
'Alright, Emperor, now's about the time you send one'a those guardian angels of yours to keep me from getting my ass beat.'
He made his devil's money conning gamblers out of their hard-earned Thrones at any table he could squeeze in on. He robbed them all blind and then made a quick getaway before anyone figured out Marco was a dirty, stinking cheater.
It wasn't a profitable business, Lucius had to admit. He'd make thrice as much if he put down the cards and used that mind of his for more legitimate work.
Card sharking was incredibly dangerous work too. More than one cartel in Novem Mundos wanted Marco's head delivered to them on a platter for stealing from them. Lucius had gotten into more fistfights, shootouts and chases than he could count- an impressive thing, considering how good Marco'd gotten at counting in his years.
Yet for all of it's faults, Lucius would never, ever do anything else. There was no feeling in the world like the rush he got sticking someone else's Thrones in his pocket. Nothing could compare to that exhilaration that came with robbing criminals, barons and drunkards with nothing more than some sleight of hand.
He felt that same rush now as he slapped his hand of cards down on the butcher's cart in front of him. Lucius grinned his terrible grin, showing off his shark's fangs to the other eight men seated around the cart. A chorus of curses sounded, followed by several other hands slamming down on the rickety wagon in disgust.
"Thanks for playing, lads." Marco chuckled, reaching into the cooking pot to take his hard-earned Throne Gelts. He stuffed them into the pockets of his dust-covered flight jacket, his gaze slipping over his victims as they began to disperse. Only, not all of them were leaving.
Two men sat side-by-side remained, whispering to one another. Though Lucius couldn't tell what either man was saying, he could see the malice dripping from their faces. 'Uh oh.' The Shark thought, his grin growing ever wider as he started to step away from the cart.
"Fare thee well!" He waved, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he backpedaled away. He hoped he could get a fair distance away before those two finished their conversation. Before he could get too far, he heard both of the men's chairs screech against the ground as they rose up to their feet. 'Throne be damned.' The Gambler groaned, spinning around as he quickened his pace. Maybe he could disappear into the Square's crowds and lose those two.
"Oi!" One of the men barked, prancing around the cart with surprising grace given his size. "Get back 'ere!" His partner in crime was shorter, but even fast, quickly gaining on Lucius.
Any chance of escaping this without a busted lip and emptied pockets dropped away when Marco broke into a sprint in one last bid to escape. His pursuers gave quick chase, throwing themselves after Lucius. The Shark pushed and shoved his way through the square, weaving through volunteer soldier and mercenary alike.
The chase was brought to a quick end when Lucius took a wrong turn and found himself stopped by a solid wall. "Shit!" He shouted, spinning around just in time to see the two other men breaking from the crowd.
"You fookin' cheated!" The bigger, more outspoken of the pair spat, an accusatory finger thrown toward Lucius as he began to walk forward. The Gambler retreated, his back smacking up against the wall behind him as he searched for some way to talk himself out of this mess.
"Hey, man, just- just calm down." Lucius held his hands up in front of him, trying to dissuade the giant farmer with a neck twice the size of Lucius's from beating him into a pulp. "I didn't cheat, I swear. I swear by the Emperor."
That didn't seem to convince the fellow as he got right up in front of Marco, his big, meaty hands shoving him back against the wall. Pain shot up the man's back as he let out a near-silent groan. "Come on, we're on the same side! Soldiers of the Imperium! We shouldn't be fighting each oth-"
Before he could get the words out, a fist filled his mouth.
The card shark went down, his hands hitting the grass as blood poured down from his lip onto his scruff-covered chin. "We're doing this, then. Nice." Marco grumbled, wiping his face with his sleeve as his other hand reached down into his pants. For a brief moment, he considered going for the auto-pistol tucked into his pants. But after deciding against it he chose to slide his hand over until he felt the familiar leather-wrapped hilt of his long knife.
It came screaming out of the sheathe like a bat out of hell, Lucius swinging it wildly toward the farmer's belly. He caught his shirt, tearing it and leaving behind a thin line of blood as the big guy lurched backward to avoid being gutted. "You little shit!" He roared, sending his boot forward to crash against the downed gambler's ribs.
Marco slashed the extended leg, forcing it backward so he could scramble up to his feet. By this time, the second unhappy customer was moving forward with his own fists raised. "Two against one, lads? I'm touched you care so much." Bringing his own fists up, the lanky man started bouncing between his feet to keep himself on his toes.
'Alright, Emperor, now's about the time you send one'a those guardian angels of yours to keep me from getting my ass beat.'
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