Thou Shalt be Punished
by Mish

Once upon a time, a long time ago, albeit in a galaxy not-so-very-far away, there lived a young, beautiful, innocent - okay perhaps not so innocent - and blue-eyed girl.

Her name was, for the sake of argument, was Boris. Perhaps not a particularly girly name, you might think, and considering all the options, this is an astute opinion, but her parents were not in the correct state of mind when they named her.

Boris spent her time largely on the internet, although she had to take rest-breaks to stop things like excessive pilot!lust, but mainly because she needed to excrete, eat, socialise and kill small furry creatures from Alpha Centuri.

She came across a website whilst she was roaming the murky recesses of the deepest, darkest pits of hell you might ever come across - that is, the slashy potential of certain X-Wing pilots, namely Runt and Kell - that is to amend, Wedge and Wes.

The name of this website, I hear thou ask? Maybe not all of you at once, but maybe individually, stretched over a long period of time. Or maybe some in the back row could stop daydreaming to pay attention and then they might begin to wonder. You in the front, stop chewing!


The name of this website was...

But wait.

Before the name of this glorious object can be sought, it should be described, in glorious nitty bitty detail.


For lo, verily, a group of respectable and educated ladies once decided, after much debate, that the God-King Lucas' creation, namely one Wedge Antilles (a name which should inspire fear into every Ewok- loving Imperial scum ever to walk the Extended Universe, and a name to inspire warm fuzzy feelings into every female ever to glimpse the floofy quality of His hair.) should be revered and worshipped for He was truly the One, True Leader of Rogue Squadron and Wraith Squadron, sending as He did, Farmboy limping home to Yavin IV to become a whiney Jedi brat.

The respectable and educated group of ladies gradually styled a dashingly black-and-starry website, upon which to lavish page of HTML after page of HTML of luscious pilot!lust and other assorted nonsense. Lo, it was found that some members of the respectable and educated group of ladies preferred pilots besides Wedge. This came as a shock to some of the group, who looked upon all other pilots as Inferior to Wedge. Acceptance was luckily a strong asset to the group, and so verily the others were allowed to stay, and write of Tycho, Wes, Face and Ton to name but a few (although those who wrote fics of Corran and Whiney Farmboy were looked upon with a little distaste or bemusement on occasion, no flamewars were induced.)

It was, indeed, this website which Boris came across.

Although do not take that out of context.

"Lo," spake Boris, apparently caught up in the style of the previous few paragraphs, "Verily this is where I belong!"

And so Boris got down to the business of writing fic for this Society of esteemed and intellectual ladies.

Some time later, after considerable typing of woes, humour, and slash, something Terrible and Awful happened.

Boris forgot to read the Bylaws of WAAS.

She neglected to read of Crime 1, stated in the Bylaws as the rule which spake that "All posts must contain something random and OT. Failure to observe this law will result in the application of Punishment One."

Punishment One was harsh and most unfair.

Sighing deeply, and with great and heartfelt regret, Boris was punished.

A poem drifted through the pearly, although perhaps a little too glittery to be entirely considered normal, gates, and it was thus;

Better than the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our Whyren's Reserve-washed, sunset gates shall stand
Mighty women with torches, whose flame
Is the fires of lust, and their names
Goddesses of WAAS. From their beacon-hands
Glows world-wide welcome; their sparkling eyes command
The X-Wing hangar that the galaxy adores.
"Keep, judgmental site-lords, your bloated pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your naughty, your persecuted,
Your smut-minded masses yearning to write free,
Those thrust from RP.c, refused the shelter of your teeming shore.
Send these, the slashers, the lust-inspired to us,
We lift our lamps beside the golden door!"

Boris raised a delicately manicured eyebrow and this obviously- lynched-from-elsewhere poem.

She entered through the gates and was at once assaulted with the strong, masculine odour of freshly-washed and just-aftershaved male. Which is most unlike hot sweaty just-come-back-from-football male, which is frankly disgusting. Her nostrils jumped in response to this odour, and her lips pursed at the though of what she could do to wipe the freshly-showered scent from those males.

Her ears heard what could not be described as pearly laughter coming from a reasonably deep male voice. She raised her eyebrow higher still, and thought it sounded quite like Wes Janson, that most villainous of Ewok-loving pilots, and trickster of Rogue Squadron. A female voice giggled after his, and Boris' eyes narrowed, her eyebrow thunked back down to its intended spot on her forehead.

She moved onwards, ever onwards, into the Depths of this Strange and Terrible place.

Out of the corner of her eye she spotted a toga'd toned male figure carrying a pretty youthful girl into what could only be described as a fountain of Whyren's Reserve, where he then proceeded to kiss her passionately, although gently, without drowning her in the drink of Wedge. He was, she noted in her sideways glimpse, brown haired and goateed, and looked younger than many of the X-Wing pilots. Could he have been The Other Darklighter, lusted after by many a level-headed intellectual beautiful young lady, although he sought after only one, the Queen of Sweet Smut herself?

She noticed bitterly that she had no pilots chasing her, or attempting to drown her in Whyren's Reserve water fountains.

Over to oneside, seated along a bench, two blonde haired intellectual ladies of distinction were arguing heatedly, and a dashing dark- haired green-eyed pilot with a faint scar running across his cheeks was attempting to quell the two. Either that or he was attempting to bag both of them for himself, whichever he achieved first. Could that be The Face Loran? Who, out of the ladies of extreme beauty and intellect, would be arguing, and what about, and why was he, out of all the pilots, attempting to stop them?

Boris sighed, and sat heavily upon a white floofy cloud to contemplate her Dire Circumstance.

A butterfly floated past at a leisurely rate, and fluttered to a stop on Boris' right hand. It was purple, and sparkly. Apparently someone had been sparkling and glittering a little too much around here, then. Another butterfly joined the next, and the weight of these Super Glittery butterflies weighed her down so much that Boris felt she was making her white floofy cloud fall lower and lower into the ground. And lo, with a whoosh Boris fell kersplat down, down, down, Labyrinth style, into the circling hole. At the bottom of the rabbithole Alic-- Boris bounced once, twice, thrice, and landed atop a comfortable cushion.

"Ooof!" Spake the comfortable cushion.

"What?" Answered Boris, understandably shaken from her experience. Tens and millions of diamond-encrusted butterflies flew up, up, and away, out of the dark tunnel.

A man, short and magnificent, revealed himself.

He was light skinned, brown eyed and dark floofy haired.

"Wes? What did you do NOW?!" He spake angrily, as Boris jumped backwards away from The Apparition before her.

Boris waved uncertainly, "I'm not Wes." she muttered in awe.

Wedge Antilles blinked. "Oh." He continued, and smiled a winning smile.

Boris considered the situation:

Immediate and irreversible exile to Fic-land, where the fountains flow with Whyren's Reserve and the pilots lounge about in togas and loincloths.


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