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undermine-the-instinct · 10 months ago

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𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝑳𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝑮𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝑯𝒆𝒓𝒆 (Then I Intend)

Sesshoumaru x reader

Read on A03...

Notes: For @lorelune 's Spring fever '2024 a/b/o collab!

Masterlist.../ Next part....

Summary: The Lord Daiyokai often shuts you up in an inn, every few days of the month, for the demons that are attracted to your bloodscent. It is one of the few graces he allows. You would think its for your safety, and truly it is. Because not only do you seem to forget that he is a demon, but also a man.

Rumors of a bloodhungry demon arise, one that prowls the edges of this ghost town, devouring its residents under the shroud of moonless nights; Of which steadily approaches. Under the dark viel of a new moon, all desires will be brought to light.

NOTE: Rin and Sesshoumaru are so found-family core to me, so I absolutely DO NOT ship SessRin.

Content: Omegaverse, Alpha!Sesshomaru, HumanOmega!Reader, AFAB READER, FEM CODED READER, period mentions, era appropriate misogyny, servant/master dynamics.

Length: 8.9k

Part 1 out of 4

Listen, nine hundred and fifty years before jesus was a child shaking willow leaves out of his tangled curls, the author of the book of solomon wrote: behold, you are beautiful; your eyes are doves.

The inn that Sesshoumaru leads you to is weathered but sturdy, and most importantly, empty.

You’re surprised at the fact that the inn is a honjin, and not a cheap Kichin-yado, like the ones you've seen sparingly in other villages. This is a post town though, so it makes sense.

It is late, but beyond that the night is still, stale. The wind hardly moves, and you know the signs of a desolate town before the wariness in the residents' eyes can tell you. Scared perhaps, and desperate.

The woman who runs the inn is much like it, a bit old, but grounded, and elegant, as she stoops into a low bow and accepts the pouch Sesshoumaru hands with due reverence and trembling hands.

“Four days. Attend to their needs, whatever they may be. Your head depends on it.” You hand Rin to him, and he sets the child down on her feet with care that belies his stern brow. You take his hand next and hop down from A-Un, and he retracts his hand as soon as you are steady on your feet.

“Get inside now. It's late.”

“Yes, My Lord.” You usher Rin in behind the innkeeper, and for just a moment, you turn to look back at your Lord who doesn't follow.

“Will you be joining us?”

His eyes flash like lanterns in the darkness before he turns away. “...Just get settled in.” And he slips into the dark.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

It was hard adjusting.

Leaving the 21st century for 1500’s Japan was enough of a shock, but apparently, demons existed. Yeah. Actual Demons. You’ve tried to adjust and find shelter, and a way back home, with no luck. You've been kicked and chased out of villages as mad or an ill omen (For washing your hands so often???), and you've escaped death and harm so often you swear there is either a deity who favors you, or favors your eternal anxiety over this whole situation.

It was by complete chance that you stumbled upon the Lord, in which you listed your capabilities and usefulness with the frazzled energy of a court jester at threat of beheading, the first demon to not drool and try to devour you on sight.

He cut off your rambling with an odd head tilt and a ‘accompany me then,’ despite the furious squawking from the green imp you've come to know as Jaken. You just grinned, relieved at finally finding yourself secure in this foreign place, and followed along.

You’re fine doing chores, or calling him Lord, in return for protections and shelter. You've learned how to talk in a 'appropriate manner for a woman' as the Lord ordered, but sometimes you push your luck–but you can’t help it! That reckless attitude followed you from your first life to this one, and that silky pale hair was just sooo pretty not to touch, and the barely perceptible shock in his eyes when you call him by his given name, no honorifics, is worth being forced to walk on foot for a few (dozen) miles.

Perhaps he might have thought of killing you, a few times, the sniveling thing that you were, if you hadn't piqued his interest with your charming and witty banter...that he often rewarded by cutting your rations.

He’s gotten more lenient about it now when you ‘slip up’ and you think it's like an exposure therapy sort of thing. Except the exposure part is friendship, which you think he’s never had before. It is something the both of you have to adjust to, him, with your friendship! You, with the fact that you were most likely never going home and that demons exist, and probably, subsequently, Hell. Existential crises for everyone, yay...

Yet, another thing that was hard to adjust to was…your monthlies, Things were thrown out of wack when you landed here; Your circadian cycle, sense of appropriate social interaction, your menstration, etc, so it all took a few odd weeks to come back. Your period, that is you still don't know how to talk to people or wake up early. When that happened, Sesshoumaru had already been eyeing you strangely for days you swear, even if you never really caught him in the act.

It was only when he made himself scarce, did you recall how your friend's dogs could smell your stuffs before you even could, and you promptly wanted to cringe yourself out of existence. He’s an Inuu Youkai. Dog demon.

The blood stuff started, you freaked, and Sesshoumaru promptly disappeared far ahead, leaving you to the sneering and bemoaning of Jaken. You didn't have your preferred toiletries or heating pads or anything! It was never a fun time.

The only thing that hinted to Sesshoumaru’s continued presence was the corpses of demons left in his wake, drawn in by the heavy scent of your blood, the thick trail you had left behind. He started shutting you up in an inn somewhere whenever the time comes along now, even if he’s more often late than not, which was still… oddly considerate? Well, one time you all were too far inland so you had to huddle up in a cave and that was not a good time.

Futon and tatami mats might not be a duvet, comforter and down pillows, but it was much better than a cave.

As you’re thinking, Rin trots into the room, and you brighten, immediately waving her over. Joining the group the girl was a selective mute, speaking a few precious words here and there. Surprisingly, even with Sesshoumaru being the Leader of this group and you being her favorite (obviously), the one she spoke the most often to was Jaken. She trailed and played with him often, even if the imp would call it more tormenting.

Still, the girl has done wonders on brightening this dull little group, and you adore her more than you thought you would.

Rin’s eyes light up with familiarity, and she skips over, plopping in your lap. You let out an exaggerated huff.

“Woah, I think someone had a bit too much to eat at dinner…” She pouts, shakes her head.

“Really? Because it seems like you put on a few pounds already…” She shakes her head harder and kicks her feet, so naturally you reach to tickle her toes. She screeches in laughter as you hold her in place and count off the little stubs.

“This little piggy went to market, This little piggy stayed home. This little piggy got roast beef, This little piggy had none. And this little piggy cried, ‘Wee, wee, wee!’ all the way home!”

“What sort of nursery rhyme is that?” Jaken sneers as he trots inside.

“What kind of stank face is that?” you snap back. Rin gasps against you, trying to get her breath back, and flinches back in laughter as you fake-reach for her feet again.

Tiring her out and settling into bed is easy enough, and you regale Rin with one of the many tales of your world. You tell her about electricity and skyscrapers, blimps and airplanes and lakes within caves, caves with pink salt and love stories and anything that you can recall. Even Jaken doesn't interrupt, content to sit along and listen to your tales.

In no time at all, Rin droops against you, breathing evenly, eyes barely slitted open in that way that all young children fall asleep. Jaken snores in his corner, that creepy two headed staff in his arms, but you’ve all gotten used to that so you ignore him. Slowly, and carefully, you tuck Rin in, and move to blow out the oil lamp.

But Sesshoumaru is already there, staring down at the both of you, and you jump.

“...!!” Putting a fist over your pounding heart, you just manage not to scream, and you frown at the Lord.

“You almost scared me into a heart attack!’ You hiss. You can swear he rolls his eyes– but the motion is too swift.

“Humans and their weak organs.”

“And yet we’ve managed to survive this long, and longer yet.”

“Yes, like crickets. Or roaches.”

“Hey,” you frown. “A roach can survive nuclear fallout. You and I, however, cannot.” He rolls his eyes again, and you definitely catch it, and maybe this time you were meant to.

Rin snores gently, and his eyes are drawn. “These inane stories you tell the child are senseless and impractical.”

“She likes them, they ease her. You know she’s been having nightmares recently–that last batch of demons brought back some…bad memories.” Sesshoumaru had told you how he had come to keep the girl, after he brought her back to life with Tenseiga.

You know you’re not the only one who cares for her. Sometimes, if you’re keen enough, you would look over and catch the Lord looking over the child.

She’s be caught in some silly antic, like trying to braid flowers into A-un’s double mane, or refashion Jaken’s clothes to something more fashionable; And the Lord wouldn't smile or laugh no, the Demon is a practically made of marble, but there would be a fondness in his eyes. Then he'd catch you looking and that stony wall would slide back up.

But that did a lot to humanize him in your eyes (ha). He liked to gift both you and the girl new clothes in bright colors, and on especially good days, he would pretend to be asleep as she braids his hair. Jaken would critique her technique and flower placement, it was very found-family core.

You only caught that once though and you bemoan your loss of modern photography. You would’ve loved to get that on camera.

“The stories help get her mind off of that. And did you say ‘impractical’? I would say they’re inspiring–maybe she’ll reinvent planes and be the next Amelia Earheat, traveling the world.”

He cocks his head down at you. “And what exactly happened with this woman, did she live a fulfilling life?”

“Uh, no…whilst trying to become the first woman to complete a circumnavigational global flight, she and her navigator, Fred Noonan disappeared over the central Pacific Ocean.”

“Hence, why women should stay in the home.”

You scowl. “She didn't fail because she was a woman, she failed because she ran out of fuel for her plane. And if you must be misogynistic, she had a man with her!”

“Who let her take lead. Hence, their death.”

You click your tongue. “The inventions of women have revolutionized the world! Wireless transmission technology, central heating, kevlar fabric, the fire escape, mint ice cream; Women can be just as capable if given room to thrive.”

He waves your words away. ” I suppose then I shouldn't let you out of my sight, lest you recreate your lightning in a bottle again.”

“It's called electricity. I almost got the hang of it.”

“Hence.” He walks the length of the room, opens the sliding door to look outside of it. He stalks back in a moment later.

“There are no other guests in the inn, and I paid the old woman enough to keep it that way. After these four days we leave for the mountains.”

“Mountains…” You sigh, burying your face in the blankets.

“Can't we just fly over with A-un?”

“No. There are demon nests I must quell inside. We pass through.”

“Ugh,” You groan, flipping over. “Why? It's gonna be so hard…You know, this isn't how I imagined my life to go. So much hardship,” you whine. “If I wanted to climb mountains I would have joined a hiking group up Mount Everest or Fuji or Hiroshima or something…”

“How did you expect your life to be?” You stop your pouting, turning over to look at him, and the light from the oil lamp paints him in shades, a chiaroscuro of silver and gold.

“...What do you mean?”

“What did you expect out of life? Do you have dreams? Or did they die out when you came here?”

He waits, and you can't seem to muster up the words under the confusion you're under. Staring at him upside down, you wonder, ‘when did you ever want to know about me?’

He’s the one who breaks eye contact first, a harsh sigh pushing past his teeth. “Never mind.” He reaches inside the lamp and pinches the fire out. The room is enveloped in deepening shadows and cool tones; All moonlight and deep blues, softening into Dawn.

He turns, and his hair swishes, like a curtain of silver. A full moon, gleaming brighter here than the waning one in the lightening sky.

“Go to sleep.”

“...Goodnight, My Lord.”

“To sleep with you.”

_______________

Inu Yokai are more attuned to their senses than most demons.

It is their nature, as dog demons–their senses are what lend them their extra strength in battle, in the company of other demons–and He is a master of them all. He is a pure blooded Daiyōkai, Lord of the Western Lands. It is expected.

He has honed and sharpened and used them like any weapon, and they serve him just fine, as well as any tool or instinct.

He did not expect them to betray him like this.

The scent of your heat is a heavy, disorienting thing–but still weak compared to the true cycle of a female Inu Youkai. But where a female of his kind would enter estrus twice, maybe thrice a year, you enter it every month.

He caught the tell-tale ends of it, the day you stumbled onto his path. Faint and still unripe, rare, and no less precious for it-Omega. You wonder why so many demons chase and clamor after you, and that is why.

He found himself appalled, disgusted. But not surprised. Mortals are weak and slaves to their own biology. Such a rampant cycle must be their evolutionary way of ensuring that their population does not die out. Yet even he has to scoff at the luck you must have had to survive unblemished. A young, unclaimed, unattended Omega, even if they are human? How crass. How delightful. Like impure jade, saturated and cloudy. He keeps you anyway. He wants you anyway.

You fall into slumber easily, but fretfully, and he watches you alternate between a light and deep sleep. It is not pain or discomfort that ails you though, and he tries to tamp down the rumble in his chest at your drawn brow. He wants to soothe it. He wants to slip beside you and savor your heat.

Instead, he settles for brushing your hair back from your face, arranging it in a neat manner so that your neck stays cool, and the child won't step on it in her hurry. You’ll wake up late, more sluggish than the other two, but he’ll excuse you. Rin will rush out first, intent on cooking breakfast, which Jaken would take over, with the innkeeper's aid. You’ll wake up next, blurry eyed and guilty, intent on pulling your weight. He has instructed Jaken to make sure you rest, but recently you’ve cowed the imp into some leniency. He’ll have to check on you.

But he won't be staying in this inn, or around you long if he can help it. The scent of you before was irregular, heady and dark like blood and earth. It's a stroke for his ego (and what does that say about him) that being around an Alpha, a complimentary presentation, has helped you to…stabilize. You must have been surrounded by Betas, to have such a weak scent. But now that it's settled, your scent is something more floral now, mature, warm. ‘Like honeysuckle’, he compares.

Pungent, thick, slow, very particular. It could be mistaken for jasmine, or vanilla, but no, honeysuckle. The scent thickens now, in your estrus, trails behind you in wafts. Further fuelled by the blood residue of your menstruation. You smell like wounded animal. Maddening, enticing, frustrating. Lovely.

Blasted instincts. They demand he steps forth and assuage them, but you are human. However his urges, no matter this damn longing, you will never be on equal stance, despite your presentation. That is reason enough. It should be reason enough.

Humans like to pretend that they are better than animals, or mindless beasts, but your body relays those basic desires pretty clearly.

He wants to taste.

Four days. Four days until the worst of this passes, and he can continue on his journey. Perhaps he should have left you for dead, ages ago. Or killed you himself, to prevent anyone else the right. He wouldn't have to deal with this, and you’d still belong to him.

But he’s not going to kill you now. He’s come too far for that.

He exhales, and slides the door shut seamlessly. It is near dawn, you all arrived rather late, so he will leave you to your slumber. That dizzying scent of yours heckles at his nerves, raises his hackles just the slightest bit–lengthens his teeth and claws, he cannot meditate like this.

He stalks from the inn, irate. There were plenty of low class demons he saw on the way to this backwater village. He needs to shred something apart. He needs to put his claws in something.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

The next morning you wake up late, which is surprising, because usually Rin wakes you up by stepping on your hair rushing out. It lies neat around your face, and you’re left to wonder who did it for you, because it certainly wasn't you.

Rubbing the dredges of sleep from your eyes, you still as an image comes to mind; A dream, the glint of something sharp, like a whetted knife, and…something else, a soft rattle in the dark. A weight on top of you? But kinda nice, like a warm, weighted blanket in winter. Hm…White scales. The heck?

“Whatever…? Weird dream…” You would have looked up your zodiac sign for any clues in your era, but there are things to be done. The Lord doesn't shut you in an inn so you can idle about. Maybe you can find some chores to help out with.

You shake your head at the images, and get ready for the day. Jaken and Rin are nowhere to be seen, and your body aches sorely like you did a full cardio workout the night before.

You only just finish getting dressed when there's a knock, and the sliding door opens, revealing the innkeeper kneeling beyond it.

“Forgive me for intruding upon you, honored guest. Breakfast is ready in the common area. Or would you prefer to eat in your room?”

“Uh, no, I‘ll head down, thank you..” You follow her down the empty hallways, until you reach the common room. Rin and Jaken have already set up all the plates; Jaken huffs when he sees you, lifting his sleeve to his nose while Rin just beams. You decide to focus on her, Jaken has always had a sore spot with you.

“Good morning Rin! Did you help set this all up?” She nods, before gesturing wildly with her hands, your eyes flitting to catch it all, the odd few words spilling out. You can understand her easily, by now.

“Oh, and you helped cook too? Well why didn't you call me?! I feel horrible that I just slept in while you were working so hard!”

“It wasn’t hard; You would know if you weren't so incompetent. This is just something any person can do.” Jaken lifts his chin in the air, self vindicated, nose still covered. You are not impressed.

“Thank you for the snark, this early in the morning Jaken. Anything else you would like to add?”

He scoffs. “You should be taking my criticism with due gratitude! I mean, what sort of servant sleeps in and doesn’t even help cook breakfast?”

“I am no servant, I am a companion. And so what? Are you going to take breakfast away as my punishment, Jaken?” You smile and take the bowl of rice Rin hands you, lifting an eyebrow.

“Why, I should!”

“But you won't. Because you know the Lord wouldn't approve.” And with that, he shuts up, the click of his teeth snapping together audible. The innkeeper flinches, and draws back.

And, alright, you were only half bluffing; Sesshoumaru would be upset, but only because Jaken has no right to dole out punishments. That's his job.

You see the owner lady bow and start to head out, but you call to her before she could leave.

“Hey, have you eaten yet? You should sit with us.” She smiles politely, shaking her head, still bowing. She isn't that old actually, now that you look at her. Laugh lines and crow's feet, salt and pepper hair. Fifties, perhaps. Her eyes keep flickering towards Jaken, and she breathes shallowly.

“Esteemed guest, I am honored, but I could not dare to impose.”

“I’m asking you to impose. Don’t worry about Jaken, I can punt him like a football at any given opportunity.”

“No you can’t!” Before Rin can fill it, you take your empty teacup and beam it off his head. It lands with a satisfying crack and the imp falls with a sad cry.

“See? Also, the Lord is the esteemed guest here, not us. And, he’s not here. Please, sit and eat,” you tilt your head, peering just a bit closer at the woman.

“You look tired, actually. Are you alright?” Luckily, it doesn't take much more convincing before she sighs, and slides in the seat next to you, across Rin and Jaken.

“It is fine. There is much to do when you run an inn.”

“But you don't get many customers in this shack of a town, do you?” You glower at Jaken, who flinches back. You turn back to the innkeeper as he mutters something about “hormones and lady cycles’, in which Rin scolds him for you, and introduce yourself.

“And the little girl here is Rin.”

“H-Hello,” Rin stutters the word out, and bows. You watch the innkeeper for any sign of reproach, but she just smiles and bows back.

“I am pleased to be in such fine company. I am Numachi.” She smiles, and easily looks ten years younger.

“‘Numachi?’” Jaken always has to ruin things though.

“Odd choice for a family name.”

Her brow doesn't furrow, but she closes her eyes, inclines her head. “It was my late husband's name.”

“Well it's still–”

“ANYWAYS,” you cut in before he has another chance to be crude, “Not to validate Jaken, but it does seem you don't have many…patrons. So why do you look so tired?” She laugh-sighs, shoulders slumping, and the words spill from her, easily, like she's been waiting for someone to lend an ear.

“It was easier when I had my husband and two sons. But… after my husband passed, they left to travel to a more prosperous town, leaving me here…I run the errands by myself now.” You frown.

“They just left you alone when you needed them most?” She shakes her head. “Oh, no, they wanted to bring me along! But I’m much too attached to this place. It’s where I worked and stayed with my husband, after all. They are not far away anyways, they visit me every few months to check in. In fact, I received a letter at the beginning of this month that they would visit soon!” A smile paints her face, before consideration crawls over it; She lifts her sleeve and moves closer to you.

“Though, it's only after the new moon, and for that, I worry less. This post town used to be very prosperous, with many travelers and smaller inns. You can see the wreckage of them further into the town. But there's a demon, who's been eating all the residents for the past twenty years, under the veil of every new moon, and only then. The victims numbers keep increasing as time goes on, and soon…we will also be gone.”

Your mind quickly flashes to Sesshoumaru; The new moon will be soon, but for the next few nights at least, no one would be eaten, the demon wont get close unless they have a death wish. You think to tell her that but she goes on.

“Now we mostly trade amongst ourselves. It takes such a long time for me to finish all these chores, cleaning the rooms and the bathhouse, checking the hot springs and collecting my small wares to trade, or collecting the things I've traded in advance for.” Numachi-san looks at you, almost conspiratorially, though it's hard on such a soft face as hers.

“I…have traps further upstream the river than anybody goes. It's where you can catch the fattest fish, though I only catch a few every couple of days. It's very far upstream, so that nobody may stumble upon them and steal them, a little aways from the rice paddies Taiga-san owns. Though, I supposed the fish make their own way out of the traps, with how long it takes me to sneak up there.”

You pick at the fish on the table, seasoned with herbs and salt and vinegar, and take a mouthful of rice. Chew, swallow.

“There isn't much I am currently needed for, or need to do. I'd be happy to help with some chores. And please–” you cut her off, “don’t refuse because of hospitality. It would be kinder for the both of us if you received some help, and I find something to keep myself busy with.”

Rin immediately bounces up in her seat, rice grains stuck to her cheeks and waving her hand in the air. You laugh.

“And it seems like you have another eager helper too. Three, with Jaken.”

“I did not–” He withers under the blinding smile you shoot his way.

“So,” you grin back at Numachi-san. Please. what can we do first?”

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

The empty basket bumps against your hip as you rush into the village. Jaken had kicked up a fuss, had wanted you to stay inside, but Rin had wheezed past him, wiping the floor with a rag, and started chasing his feet. While he was distracted, you memorized the list of things you were supposed to get, and made your escape.

The village really was tiny, even in the midst of such a sunny day. In a time when the village should be bustling, people just kept their eyes forward and went about their business. Oh, there was of course the ladies in their tight knit groups, knitting and gossiping. There was the odd maiden who glanced longingly at some fellow or another, a couple cute village boys, all stereotypical bullshit, yeah yeah, but this town felt…hollow.

Or rather, drained. Like an old, cracked egg.

Numachi-san was right, you saw a few wrecked buildings as you made your way through town, following her instructions. They looked old and fragile, like houses made out of matchsticks. You hurried past these buildings, set on your way.

First, you had to get to the apothecary, for the bundle of herbs she owed the innkeeper, then, to old man Taiga for the rice. But the rice paddies were on the other side of town, where the streams ran from. You could get the rice and check on the traps tomorrow.

Apothecary and cleaning today, rice and fish and cooking tomorrow.

The apothecary was a small, but a long nook of a place, dimly lit and crowded with plants, hanging vines and drying bundles of other things. The woman who ran it was a frail old lady, white haired, who hardly spoke a word of greeting to you before she dropped an assortment of…things into your basket. You checked it over–expensive things. Honey and pears and mushrooms, spices–Parsley, chrysanthemum, kaiware, …some other plants you haven't been in this era long enough to identify.

You were just sorting the basket on your arm when the lady slipped a few extra stuffs into your basket.

“Oh, was that also–”

“Extra.”

“Extra? For wha-”

“You're bleeding aren’t ya.” A woman of few, but blunt words. All knowing and terrifying in that knowledge. You nod.

She inclined her head towards the basket. “Ginger and ginseng to revitalize and heal the body, make it into a tea. You’re gonna need it, with that Lord of yours.”

“...What about him?” She rolled her eyes, a strange dark oak.

“Don’t be dense girl. He shut you in that inn for a reason, right? Take advantage! He doesn’t seem the type to wanna go at it in a cave or some sort. “ And she leans in grinning, sharp and white toothed.

“You gotta watch out though, those types are the ones who pretend to be all dignified, but they’re the ones who go at it like beasts.” And yeah oookay you get what she means.

“Oh, no no no no nooo, we’re not here for that. I’m just a companion! And…my period just ended and I need rest, you know?” But she doesn't buy it.

“So you’re not his wife, or concubine?”

“No.”

She nods. “Not yet then. How ‘bout that little girl, she yours?”

“Rin, the child? No, no, we just took her in.”

“We?" You catch your slip of tongue a moment too late, and flush red. The old lady’s edged eyes seem to stare right through you, sharp and inscrutable, as she grinds and cuts her herbs.

“Having trouble carrying that Lord’s child then, are you? That why you adopted her–”

“Goodness, no! I said it’s not like that! She is just…part of the group.” Even that sounds weak to your ears, and you start to back out of the shop.

“‘A companion’...” She clicks her tongue. “How naive. He’s a high class demon and a man. You’re either a snack or a concubine, and with that sweet young scent and body, you might end up as both. Best take advantage before then."

"What?"

"If you're on or near off your bleeding, you're at your most fertile. If he hasnt already he's gonna try to pop a litter in ya." You make a sound of disgust and she rolls her eyes like a grandmother at an unruly child.

“Listen, I’m a part of this group. He's not that depraved to do that, you dont know what you’re talking about!” You're shocked at the volume of your voice, bouncing off the walls, and the most this lady offers you in a raised bow.

“Ah, I see. You like him but you’re scared–of what? Or is it a pride thing?”

“I don’t-”

“You're naive, but not clueless then. But pride is an easy price to pay for a good life. Make a move if you haven't already. Seems he already cares for ya, if he’s feeding ya and shutting you in an inn for your bleedings.”

“It's a two way street sort of thing. I get rest and he doesn't have to fight all the demons attracted to the blood.”

“Really? Well I bet he gets the days wrong, always shuts you up when the bleedings already ending. Leaves lots of bodies on the way too for ya, huh? It's like when my kitty brings me birds; It's about proving strength and showing he can provide. Demon and a man, remember?”

“You don't know him like I do. You don't know anything.”

“I know most women don't get a choice between comfort or a pleasant partnership; you got the chance for both and you’re not making any moves. If I was young as you I'd kill to take your place. Many women have.”

“So I should, on their behalf? He’s arrogant and aloof and looks down on humans,” you counter. “Why would he want me?”

“He’s sympathetic enough to take in a human woman and child and an imp, so maybe he’s not all that. Maybe you should ask why exactly he shuts you up. Or why you want him in the first place?” She resumes her chopping, the scent wafting up as bitter and sharp as her eyes. She pauses.

“If you live to make a decision, come back here. I got things to help you, whether you want to give him a baby or not.” She doesnt look up as you scoff, or run out the shop. You try to cast her words from your mind.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

It got your mind running though.

“Numachi-san,” The innkeeper elegantly turns her head towards you, prime and ready to serve. It kinda irks you, her effortless grace and subservience but you ignore that.

“Why do you think the Lord dropped us off here?”

“Hm?” She tilts her head. “Honored guest…I wouldn't dare to presume, it is not my place.”

“I'm asking you to presume. I won't hold any offense, so please.” Her eyes slowly slid over to Jaken, who was busy telling Rin off for the mess she was making. Rin just grins him away.

Numachi-san slides over to your side, lifting her sleeve to cover her mouth.

“Well, if I may be audacious…Are you not the Lord’s wife?” You would choke, if the apothecary had not shocked you with this presumption earlier.

She hesitantly went on as you remained silent.

“The Lord has demanded your comfort. You rode in on the back of a mule demon with the child, and you were…bleeding. I saw the spotting. Oh, honored guest, do I go too far?” You shake your head, waving your hand at the crease in her brow.

“No, it's a...reasonable idea to come to. But it is none of that, I assure you.”

“Oh? You are a…servant of the Lord then? How generous he is.” Generous is the last thing you would call him but you can't find the words to correct her.

Curiosity pokes at you. “Numachi-san, sorry if this is too much for you, but what was your husband like? Was he kind to you?”

She bursts into laughter, and the sound of it is so sudden and bitter, your eyes widen. She looks at you with something like pity, like you’re some young thing.

“Kindness is a rare thing in this world, honored guest. That's why we call it graciousness– because it always comes at a price. No, my husband was not kind, but he was gracious.” Her eyes seem so far away, and she sighs in ages past.

“He helped me with the hotsprings and the fish traps upstream. Getting firewood and supplying the inn with whatever we needed, rice, grain, barley, herbs, meat. My sons, when they were young, preferred to help me inside, at least until the younger twin started joining his father outside more often. They both didn't like people that much, busybodies. It was very crowded in those days so I understand.” And her eyes flick to the sides.

“But my husband…I cared for him, and he protected me. I’ve always been a frail thing, so I think he took it as ensuring my safety. I wasn’t madly in love with him as I was in my youth, but we enjoyed each other's company, which is more to be said then most marriages. Even so, after my sons were born…My duty as a mother overrode my duties as a wife. Not that it ever amounted to much, now that they all left me…” Another sigh, just pushing a small sob, her lipid eyes wet.

Wife. You’d never be a wife, in this era at least. Much less a willing mother. The chance of finding a decent partner that won't try and force you into domesticity is low, and lower still with the chances of Seshoumaru ever letting you go.

If you asked him, would he let you go? Maybe as you get older. Maybe if you ever found a way back to your world. But what about Rin? It's not like you could take her with you.

That night, after Rin has fallen asleep after another tale, you go wandering to the end of the hall, where the more opulent rooms lay. It's been unoccupied, but waiting a few minutes in the room yields results; Sesshoumaru appears as if he teleported, face forever calm and blank.

“What are you doing in my room?” The room you haven't been using? You want to snort, but rein that particular response in.

“Forgive me my Lord,” you incline your head. “I just had a bit of an…inquiry I wanted to bring to you.”

“And what ‘inquiry’ do you bring me?”

To your credit, you only hesitate for a second at the infliction in his voice. Almost a challenge, but with none of the wariness to suggest he expects any real threat from you. You press.

“Why do you send us to an inn during my bleedings?”

---------------

It's not a particularly shocking question, but he wonders why you asked it. And why his pulse spiked ever so slightly.

“The blood scent attracts demons.”

“...Forgive me my Lord, but you are strong enough to deal with them; The corpses you leave behind are plain evidence. And I suppose it's more than that…” So you noticed. You bite the nail of your thumb, already red and agitated like it's a habit, which it is. He wants to tell you to stop, you don't need to lose any more blood than you already have.

“It's just…We always stay at an inn towards the end of my period, always. If it's the blood that attracts predators, why not shut me up while I'm bleeding then? I know you…scout farther ahead but I bet you can tell when or before it starts, with your superior senses. We can plan better for this, y’know.”

How nonchalant, so self satisfied you seem with yourself that you meet his eyes head on. But as he stands there, holding your gaze like water in his palm, some shame finally finds you, its red flush crawling over your neck and ears and face.

How lovely. “You don't know, do you?” Your shame, that is.

“Huh?” Even now, honey wafts throughout the room. It's all he can smell–blood residue and earth, honeysuckle and moonlight. He inhales so slowly, so carefully, to not disturb it, lest it spreads throughout the room and stick to everything.

“I don't know…what?” He doesn't answer you. He looks about; certainly one of the better rooms, still paling in comparison for his tastes. The futon has not been brought out, good. He doesn't need any more temptations.

How clueless you are to his yearning, desire let sit to simmer for gods know how long.

Maybe from when you first stumbled onto his path, or how he noticed you never cowered near Jaken nor A-un, or even him; Cautious, but never fearful. Perhaps when your scent mellowed out with the addition of the child, or when you handed her flowers to braid in his hair. He wonders what the both of you would have done, had he dropped the farce of sleep, content to breathe in milk and honey. Would you jump back in shock, the child in your arms, or would you have grinned cheekily, teeth and all?

You're going to be the bane of his existence.

As he gazes about the room, he strides over to you in that way that makes you falter; Too swift and smooth to look like anything more than gliding, the illusion of being too fast to track as he stands before you; He tilts his head at the little squeak that leaves your lips as you stand eye to eye with his shoulder pauldron.

Everything about you screams acquiescence, submission, fertility. Your smell, the extra luster to your hair, the extra plump to your face and hips….

He sighs. He finds himself pressing the flat of his tongue against his fangs, the roof of his mouth, to catch that cloying fragrance. There is a sort of fondness he holds for you that he is not sure is wise, nor gentle; It's a kind of fondness that demands both your tears and your desperation.

“Attend to me.”

------------

“Attend to me.”

You mind blanks, before you spring into action. He walks over to the low table and seats himself, while you try to figure out how to take off his metal shoulder pad..thingy. It's attached by these red ropes, which are attached to that other black metal petal…thingy–wait, you should probably undo that yellow sash first. And that fluffy cape (it's sooo fluffy. But also literally alive? What is it?)

Sesshoumaru doesn't aid nor correct you, he hardly sighs as you fumble about, shutting his eyes as you work. He inhales deeply, once. He must be tired. Maybe that's why he’s entertaining you and not throwing you out the room. There's been a few close calls of that, so you know the warning signs- he emits none of them. He’s calm.

Finally, you get to that cherry blossom patterned Kimono, a crisp white and red pattern. Expensive. Hm. You wonder what his thread count is. Must be high. He lifts a hand as you hesitate for his undershirt; He just loosens the collar (and, skin!), and gestures towards the sake on the table that just suddenly appeared, a single cup to match.

As you pour it, a thought pops into your head.

“You can repair your armor and clothing with demonic energy, yes?” He actually raises an eyebrow, but only by a few millimeters. “Yes. And?”

So you couldn’t just like…Magic it all off?

You only shake your head and pour the alcohol into the flat sakazuki cups. He takes it from you and drains it immediately, and you refill it quickly. He drinks, and you look him over.

Your eyes trail down his form, not for pleasure, (because yeah, he’s beautiful, but he’s so beautiful it’s kinda scary, you know?), your eyes fall to the empty sleeve of his left arm, and you sober.

He had dropped you off in some village one day, where you stood for a few days. Jaken was the one to retrieve you, and you came back to a demon lord with one less arm and a tiny child with matted hair. You did your best, but you were only able to fix one of those.

He catches your gaze before you can tactfully retreat, and his eyes narrow, daring you.

You cringe back. “Okay, okay, no need for the death glare. Just…curious.”

His unspoken question prompts you to answer.

“Just…um…Does it feel any different?” It's stupid even before it leaves your mouth, and you see the growing irritation in the set of his mouth, You set down the sake to wave your hands.

“No, no, I mean…! Like, there's stories, from my era I mean, and other stories from before obviously, but amputees each recall their experience differently. One thing that's common though is this thing called Phantom limb; It's like…they have the feeling of still having their limb, even though it is not there. I was just curious if you had…experienced that…” Your voice trails off, meek.

When you look up, he’s looking at the loose sleeve. His hair covers whatever expression he wore before he turns back to the lowrise table.

“Oftentimes, I could swear my hand would be curled, but when I look it is still gone.” A clawed hand raises itself, and removes the shoulder of his undershirt, revealing the ragged scar marring the milkiest skin you ever saw.

“It aches, and not just the old wound. Phantom limb is accurate. I have to look and remind myself of what I lost.”

You try not to wince. “At least you have your life. I wouldn’t say you lost.” Nobody said anything of what happened to him, how he got so injured. You had to bribe Jaken with some rice cakes to even know it was another inu youkai, or hanyo, as Jaken sneered, so it's kinda scary to think there are demons stronger than the Lord in front of you, whose face and skin is smooth, but his eyes stony, like gilded marble.

“No, I lost that battle.” Sore loser then? You shrug.

“Well, I count it as a victory if I’m still alive at the end of it all.” And your impassive Lord actually snorts, closing his eyes.

“Spoken like a true loser then. Weakling.”

“Yes, and a coward. But alive still.” Silence threatens to fall, so you rush before it.

“Could you, possibly, regrow it?” He is a demon after all…

But his fist unclenches, settles back in his lap. His face is calm again, like a freshwater lake.

“There is something halting that.” And still, Silence falls like a dull knife.

This time, he takes the sake bottle and serves himself, quickly downing the drink and serving himself another. Are…demons impervious to the effects of human alcohol or…?

Maybe he’s just trying to get plastered???

Slowly, an idea forms in your head, so slowly, solidifying like fog. You act on it before you can lose the courage, opening your mouth to recite.

“Countless,

My Lord, are the years

That stretch before you;

In such an illustrious house,

A dewdrop is what I would be”

…People in this era are big on poetry, right? They’re not supposed to look at you like you just spoke in a dead language, right?

“That is Ise no Miyasudokoro. You know of her, in your modern era?” You ignore the snide.

“I was in college, working on getting my Master’s degree. One of my electives was a poetry course.” You shrug. “So yes, I know of her.”

He affords you a look, an actual look; He checks the planes of your face and the depths of your eyes, and you don't know what he's looking at exactly, but he responds,

“The everlasting (moon):

Growing in its midst

Is my home, so

In its light alone

Can I place my trust.”

Oh! You perked up at the mention of a moon, y'know, people here really like using it as a metaphor, another poem ready at your lips;

“As a general rule

I would not praise the moon

For it

Piles upon men

The burden of increasing age.”

“And now Ariwara no Narihira? Was he also part of your curriculum?” You notice it, the regard in his voice, like a drop of paint in a glass of water, settling.

“Anyone interested in literature can't skip over Ariwara. He’s a classic.” Again, bluffing a little; your teacher passed him over very briefly, and you hate leaving any stone unturned, so you did some research on your own. (And thank goodness)

“I know of him and his work, but he is far from my favorite. Do you, perhaps…hold any favor to a poem in particular?”

A nail, long and sharp, trails the flat rim of the sake glass. He seems to be contemplating, before he answers you in that impassive voice of his, even and toneless.

“In the summer mountains

From the treetop heights

Cuckoos’

Calls fill the sky

As does my love.”

Oh wow… “Ki no Turayuki? That's oddly…passionate.”

“Do you think I'm incapable?”

“Of passion?” What a loaded question. “No my Lord just…restrained.”

“I prefer…longanimous.” You laugh at that.

“What adversity do you face to show such restraint then, Lord Sesshoumaru? The world is already at the tips of your fingers.” He doesn't answer, but drinks. The silence that sails in is more weighted than you expected, and you regret your choice of words, already. Maybe he would have spoken of these ordeals. Was it the alcohol, or is the Lord being more…indulgent this night?

You turn your head, and notice the shoji door left ajar. So you stand, and draw it back, letting the night breeze filter throughout the room. It's nice. The perfect temperature, and the moon is just short of a perfect waning crescent. Soon there will be a new moon, and there will be no demons attacking this month. How lucky.

“Poems from the Sengoku era focus mostly on the tanka and renga format. In my era of modern technology, there is access to many forms of poetry, from all over the world. It's hard for me to pick a favorite.”

“Indecisive as always.”

“Oh, is that mirth I hear? I consider myself enamored with the written word. Even if I can only remember bits and pieces, from here and there.”

“Then what can you remember?”

“Bits and pieces,” you repeat, “lines and quotes. And if I must recite them rapid-fire I fear I’ll only prove redundant.”

“I want to hear you, nevertheless.” You have to calm yourself, otherwise you fear your heart will leap out instead of your words if you speak. You wrestle it back down your throat, but there's still a tremor in your voice.

“Bits and pieces, hm?...It is late now, I am a bit tired; the sky is irritated by stars. And I love you, I love you, I love you – and perhaps this is how the whole enormous world, shining all over, can be created – out of five vowels and three consonants’, by Vladirmir Nabokov. Nizar Qabbani, ‘Because my love for you reaches higher than words, I've decided to fall silent.’ Venetta Octavia, ‘I say your name and it feels like aching, feels like paradise’. Andrea gibson, ‘come teach me a kinder way to say my own name.’ ‘Will you remember that i existed, and that I stood next to you here like this?’”

“That last one was by Haruki Murakami,” you sigh. “...You can imagine, I got high grades for my poetry elective.” You try to laugh, to make light of this moment, but it feels stilted and awkward.

The cool air stings a little as you breathe, but you hold it in, and exhale. And when you look up, you jolt.

He finishes closing the last bit of distance, looks down at you from his imposing height. How old is he…? His face you wouldn't call youthful, despite its softness. It's those eyes- they’re too pointed.

“Do I displease you, my lord?”

“No, you do not.” A knuckle taps at your head. “But your denseness frustrates me.”

“You mean…?” He rolls his eyes, a soft snarl building in his throat.

“You are not one for subtlety, are you.” His nails, like razors hovering closer. You could shiver, and not from the cold. Not from fear. Even when that strange hesitancy of his melts beneath a scowl, and he reaches forward more assuredly, yes, but rougher too. You speak before he touches you.

“You don’t have to hurt me, y’know.” His eyes streak back to yours, breathless and bright at your own boldness.

“You don't have to hurt me to justify touching me. You can just…”

Slowly, you tip your face into the open plane of his palm, cool, like all the rest of him, you’d imagine. His fingers flex, his hands so large that his nails brush your hairline.

His hand isn’t smooth, it’s rough and calloused and cold, but the coolness feels nice. So you press your face closer and use your hands to hold it there.

You don't expect the sharp exhale, or for when he pulls you closer, and you jolt at the suddenness. A finger strokes at the hairs on the back of your neck and you shiver, again.

“I’m disciplined enough to restrain my desires, not curb them when they are released.” And just as quickly as he pulled you close, he let you go. “Tell me now. I won't have a tearful servant girl in my bed; You must be willing or not at all.” He almost sighs the words, continuous and melodious in that voice.

Is it taking advantage, if you give in? Lust was easy, easier to indulge.

You aren’t going to deny the butterflies you stomp down, in these quiet moments. And these moments aren’t infrequent– whether you continue to talk around a dying fire at a campsite, or taking shelter for a storm within a cave. It was a bit of a girl crush you had on the Lord, and you could give in, very willingly.

But should you? What would the ramifications be…?

“I…” And you pause, because you hear something. You perk up, turning back to the door you came from. You listen, both of you, and then you hear it again–muffled cries. Rin is having another nightmare.

“My Lord, Rin is…” You hesitate to go, the moment clinging to you like a mist, but then you hear your name.

You’re already detangling yourself from his hold and making your way towards the door when you remember yourself, and turn to bow towards your Lord.

“I’m sorry, I have to go make sure Rin is…” He waves you off, turns towards the open window where you can't see his face, see him gather himself.

“Yes. Go. See to her.”

You nod and step back, but a part of you feels off, leaving him like this. What timing.

“I’m sorry for taking up so much of your time, but I haven't told you my favorite poem yet, my Lord. I hope we can continue this conversation at another time.” You bow, one last time, before you hurry out.

------------

Sesshoumaru sighs, viscous longing in his chest like hunger pains.

How dense are you? Must he lay out each of his desires for you for you to understand? You speak words of affection so easily, that when he does the same they fall upon deaf ears. He is not one to be overt. You are horrible at looking in between the lines, though.

It is wrong to feel this way over a human. Weak things, inherently inferior, yes, but perhaps you are all the more enchanting for it. It would be more unnatural if he were to let you be, to not taste the salt of your skin or the honey that wafts from you. The hint of arousal he caught, when he towered over you. You are an Omega in heat. He is an Alpha. What else is there? You serve him anyways, should you not be rewarded so?

His skin crawls, where it has touched yours.

And still, that honeyscent sticks throughout the room.

A/N: Was the poetry a bit too on the nose? I feel like sesshoumaru isnt the type for grand dispalys of affection or confession, he's way more lowkey lol. But here are the poems I used in order.

Ise/ Ise/ Narihira/ Ki No Tsurayuki/

#my stuff #my writing #writing collab #spring fever #spring fever 2024 #inuyasha #sesshoumaru #sesshomaru #lord sesshoumaru #sesshoumaru x reader #reader insert #omegaverse #a/b/o dynamics #a/b/o #a/b/o verse #tw: a/b/o #a/b/o au #tw: omegaverse #inuyasha a feudal fairy tale

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jerzwriter · 7 months ago

Text

Thank you, Nonny, for this ask. This worked out perfectly because Ethan x Kaycee celebrated their first wedding anniversary - the "paper" anniversary. I hope you enjoy this little drabble!

Story: Open Heart (Post Series) Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x Kaycee MacClennan (F!MC) Rating: Teen Words: 845 Summary: Ethan doesn't get the logic behind the "paper" anniversary, but as they celebrate a special day, he may have something up his sleeve.

A/N: Participating in @julychallenge Pink: Romance & Love

Ethan groaned as the first beams of sunlight streamed through the window of their beach home; shifting under the covers, he reached around, searching the bed for his missing wife. Typically, he’d be the first one up, attempting to lure the love of his life out from under the covers with the aroma of her favorite breakfast cooking on the stove. A Herculean task, at best. But even when being coaxed with the things she loved most... him and delicious food... she'd beg for just a little more precious sleep. He had no doubt of Kaycee’s love for him, but if she were forced to choose between him and sleep? He wasn’t confident that he’d be the final victor.

That's what made today's narrative so unusual. Kaycee was already up and about, bustling with the energy of a morning person that they both knew she was not. He heard her climbing the stairs, humming a song he knew well enough to place as belonging to Taylor Swift but not well enough to determine the song. She lept into the room with a grin brighter than the morning sun.

“Good morning, gorgeous!” she chirped, leaning over to kiss his forehead.

“Good morning," he groggily replied. "Why are you so cheerful at the crack of dawn? While we’re on vacation, no less?”

Kaycee giggled and pulled the comforter down, tossing pink heart-shaped confetti over his bare torso with a playful giggle.

“Because it’s our anniversary!” She jumped onto the bed and threw her arms around him as he sat up."

“Mmmhhh,” he groaned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Can we spend the day here? In bed?” His fingers reached up and played with the hem of her shirt. "I know how to make it very fun.”

“I know for a fact that you do!” she smiled, placing another peck on his cheek. “And we’ll get to that, I promise! But we have other things to do first.”

“Like you throwing confetti at me?” he grinned.

“Paper confetti,” she emphasized. “Because it’s our paper anniversary.”

Ethan rolled his eyes, unable to hide his disdain. “Our paper anniversary. Who comes up with this nonsense? Hallmark? So they can sell more paper cards?"

"Maybe," she shrugged. "It's just a tradition, Ethan! It symbolizes a new beginning—the fragility of a new marriage. I think it’s sweet.”

“Well, first, I don't think of our marriage as fragile, and second, paper? Paper has no value. What’s next cardboard? Perhaps oak tag?”

“It’s not about the material, Ethan. It’s about what it represents. There are plenty of ways to make it special.”

“Like writing each other love notes?” he teased.

“As a matter of fact,” she said, rushing to the dresser and returning with a red envelope in hand. “An anniversary card for you!”

But this time, it was Ethan's turn to surprise her. Reaching into the drawer of his nightstand, he pulled out a small pink envelope of his own and a small bouquet of paper flowers. Kaycee gasped, kicking her feet with delight as he handed them to her.

“Ethan!” she beamed. “When did you... how.... this is adorable!”

“I’ve been working on it for weeks. Admittedly, I needed to call Sienan in for assistance after a miserable first attempt." He stopped to watch his wife, simply glowing as she gazed at the bouquet in her hand, lovingly tracing the edges of each flower and leaf with her fingers. “I know it looks like a third-grader made it, but without her help, I wouldn't have surpassed pre-school.”

“Stop it!” Kaycee insisted, leaning over for a kiss. “I love this! I can’t believe you made this for me.”

“I know I’m not normally a mushy guy...”

“No! You? Who is spreading such malicious lies!” Kaycee teased as Ethan raised an eyebrow.

“Are you done?”

Kaycee shrugged with a delicate smile on her lips. “Perhaps?”

Ethan cleared his throat and pulled her close under his arm. “I may not be a romantic at heart, but it’s our anniversary. I can't believe it's been one year since the second best day of my life.”

"Second best?" She frowned. "And what's the first?"

"Easy. The day you walked into Edenbrook's lobby and turned my world upside down - in the best possible way."

“Aww, Ethan!” Kaycee beamed.

“When I realized we’d be spending it here, the same place we said our vows a year ago, I knew you’d need a bouquet, so..."

“I would,” she smiled. “I mean, I love it, but why do I need it?"

Ethan glanced at the clock. “In nine hours, it will be exactly one year since we said our vows on this beach... and I thought we could repeat them later today, just the two of us. That is if you’re still willing to say them again after being saddled with me for a year!”

“Ethan,” she said, lovingly placing her paper bouquet to the side for protection before jumping on top of him and peppering him with dozens of little kisses. “Are you kidding me? I love you and want you more with each passing day. This is forever, hon!”

“Then it's a good thing our insurance has good mental health benefits,” he teased, rolling Kaycee onto her side. "I'm grateful you're a little crazy."

"Mmm-hmm. I'm crazy about you! Now, did you mention something about spending the morning in bed with me? Something about making it fun?"

"You better believe it," he grinned, pulling her t-shirt over her head and trailing soft kisses down her neck. "Challenge accepted. Happy Anniversary, Kaycee. I love you to the paper moon and back.”

A/N 2: I originally named this Paper Bouquet - but that gave too much away. But this is the way I imagine the bouquet to look:

@choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

Tagging others separately.

#open heart #open heart choices #choices open heart #open heart fanfic #ethan ramsey #ethan x kaycee #ethan ramsey x mc #choices the stories you play #playchoices #playchoices fanfic #choices #choices fanfic

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numberonetacostan · 2 months ago

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I'm coming here to say. Taco does NOT gaf about her health. I picture her getting shot someday for some reason and kicking and screaming when the others try to drag her to an hospital or medical room. She is huffy and stubbornly insist that she is fine and she does not need their foolish help. She would not relent until her body practically forces her to relent. I think pickle is like carrying her all panicking like ''WE NEED TO GET YOU MEDICAL ATTENTION NOW'' and taco despite everything being so angry and answering him with ''I'm sorry pickle...IS THIS OUR GUNSHOT WOUND?!?!'' because the man is like insanely worried for her and her health and is practically DRAGGING her, to get medical help. she is annoyed by the moment but when she is like on the hospital bed thinking she finds it sweet that he still didn't left her to die. Taco thinks lowly of herself so, I feel she does not truly understand pickle kindness when these stuff happens, she brings it up to him and pickle looks at her with the most concerned face ever because taco he may be bitter and resentful but he does not want you DEATH taco. I'd like to think this is a bit of the moment they slowly begin to find a bit of a more common ground. There is a lot to be understood they could never be friends again, but, they slowly begin to look out for each other more often. There is something I love and its pickle looking out for knife to find him trying to get a dissociated taco out of her room to eat something, its a bit of, looking at the vulnerability taco displays in post-canon that makes him frown and perhaps just put some pillows in the couch so she can rest more comfortably.

I feel, pickle is pretty scared or at least shaken up by earthquakes, so like after the finale if an earthquake hit taco would be worriedly pacing onto the woods and all her thoughts are pickle and if he's alright, and before she knows it she sneaks into the hotel and places some warm tea on his door. This ends up becoming an habit, everytime there is an earthquake, taco will sneak into the hotel the best of her abilities and place a cup of tea right under his door, and pickle finds out it was her in post-canon when an earthquake hit and she placed some tea on his table and he finally connects the dots (especially because the one leaving tea at his doorstep didn't left any, because she already gave him tea after all.) when questioned about it I imagine taco reluctantly confirms it and tries to leave but hears a quiet ''thank you.'' coming from behind. They may never be the same again but, that doesn't mean they have to hold onto that heartbreak and resentment forever. (as a fun fact I'd like to think they both would team up to mess with OJ and OJ fucking hates it.)

Hi Kiara!!!!^^ Welcome back, and thank you for submitting more hcs!!! :] I'm sorry this took so long to answer!!! I was going to respond to it with the others I went through last night but I quite literally fell asleep in the middle of typing. I was sleepy lol.

NO SHE DOES NOT INDEED

OMG insisting she's fine while she's horribly injured Taco, yes please!!!! Cuz she'd definitely do this before she tries to change and be more open/honest, but even after, if she's in a lot of pain and not thinking straight I can def see her falling back on hold habits, yeah? And she has such a high pain tolerance and is so good at ignoring her body's signals after her time in the woods that I can really really see her not giving in until she physically can't resist at all anymore!!!!! Might make her own injuries worse with her struggling, yeah? >:)

Please you can't send me things as funny as "'I'm sorry pickle...IS THIS OUR GUNSHOT WOUND?!?!" I will stop replying to asks because I will be too busy LAUGHING!!!! /lh /j /vpos!!!!^^ OUGH and it being Pickle who's carrying her!!^^ But Taco is putting on her angry and venomous persona because it's a high stress situation and she's falling back on what's familiar AAAA!!!

And she would find it so sweet after!!! AUGH girl is so very robbed for positive attention and self-loathes so hard she genuinely doesn't understand why anyone, especially Pickle of all people, would want to save her. Her being so honestly surprised when Pickle says he doesn't want her dead even if he's upset with her hurts my heart and you know what I think it would hurt his too even. He's a nice guy!! I am so on the Pickle not wanting to see Taco suffering or hurt train even if he doesn't want to be her friend again so hard. I am the conductor of the train!!!!!!!!!!!! >XD

And them finding more common ground!!! Yes please!!! He does not want to be friends with her again and she must and will respect and accept that!!! But there doesn't have to be vitriol, yeah? He. Would. Not. Enjoy. Her. Pain!!!! hdusihu he would get her help if he saw her dissociating!!! Convincing Taco to eat something!!! <3<3<3

Oh my god and if his fear of earthquakes is something he shared with Taco specifically while they were friends. No one else knows, at least until later. AUGH her giving him her tea as a LOVE LANGUAGE!!!! GAH!!!!^^ Giving tea is such a wonderful love language. (Projecting). And then in post-canon she gets the courage to give him the tea more directly!!! AAAAAA!!!!! AHUgghgh her admitting she's been thinking of him all these years even if she hadn't apologized yet. GUFAH. "They may never be the same again but, that doesn't mean they have to hold onto that heartbreak and resentment forever." YOURE SO RIGHT KIARA YOURE SO SO RIGHT. They may not be besties again but they don't have to have bitterness aaaaaaa!!! They can just. Peacefully exist in the same place!!!!!^^

#inanimate insanity #ii taco #taco ii #loomy's answers #inanimate insanity hc #pickle ii #ii pickle

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arthropodrespecter · 1 year ago

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2013 vs 2024

tbh, this is incredibly difficult for me. as a trans woman, there are certain expectations for posts like these. some gruff but sad looking man who was transformed into a happy beautiful girl via hormones. so you might think that nothing has changed. or perhaps i have gone backwards, gotten hairier, bigger, becoming even more of a man than i started off as.

this might be hard to read, so i'll put the rest under a read more. CW for homelessness, starvation, transmisogyny, and probably a few things i'm missing.

my transition has been messy. in some ways, you might say that i spent the first 25 years of my life transitioning. as a child i was efemminate, loved to play dress up and dolls, but my father was so against this that he filed a lawsuit against my mother, getting a court order forbidding her from "forcing me to crossdress." this set the tone for the rest of my childhood, which is a story i will not get into here because it is much worse than the story i'm trying to tell.

growing up in a christian fundamentalist home meant that it wasn't until much later, after my mother gained custody and i had gone on to experience even further ruination of my life, that i even learned that trans people exist. that this was a thing you could do, could be. a brief flash, something hiding behind my eyes, and i had locked it away. of course i wasn't trans. i was an athlete, a martial artist, a musician, why would i need to think about gender?

when i was 16, i joined tumblr. i saw a blooming transgender community, got to see the inner thoughts and conversations that trans people were having, couldn't avoid certain things any longer. i started to identify as nonbinary, eventually even coming out to my mother, who certainly TRIED to be supportive. it was exciting, made my heart race a little, made me scared. i had no idea what i was doing, or how my world was about to turn upside down and inside out.

the summer i turned 18, i was severely injured in a martial arts tournament. my right knee had caved in, the bone at the site of the joint crushed by a man i had thought was my friend. i didn't realize what had happened, and so didn't go to a doctor until two weeks later, at which point the damage was considered irreversible. everything i was disappeared. i lost all will to live. i stopped drawing, stopped playing music. i started drinking heavily. my family knew i was struggling but any efforts to fix the situation just made it worse. my mother and older brother had been putting more and more pressure on me to get a job and get out of the house, even though i could barely walk. my older brother told me that my mother was going to kick me out if i couldn't start contibuting. i still couldn't. i became homeless for the first time at the age of 19.

when you're homeless, it's like every single day is drawn out into countless hours, and you either have nothing to do, or far too much to do, and nothing in between. i had an online partner at the time, someone who turned out to be a chaser targeting suspiciously egg shaped men and nonbinary people, who spent the entire time getting more and more frustrated that i didn't have the time to be a fucktoy. i ended up insitutionalized for a month, after which i was kicked to the curb and left with nothing but a backpack and the clothes on my back. any journey of self discovery i may have been having was on hold until i wasn't fighting for survival.

my rescue came from a nonbinary lesbian who reached out to me. i was offered a room, a place to stay for no cost. they helped me break up with my partner. i found myself in a new sort of situationship, but at a confusing cost. why was this lesbian interested in me? was that even okay? eventually we had a conversation. they revealed to me that they had thought i was a trans woman. the fact that i had been seen as a woman hit me like a truck in a blindzone i didn't know i had.

after a difficult few days of arguing with myself, i couldn't hide from it. i was a woman. maybe i had always been a woman. a thought more terrifying than it had any right to be.

i grew my hair out. i started shaving. after a few months, i was even able to book my first HRT appointment (thank you state of washington trans healthcare laws). i came out to my mother a second time, and her reaction was much different this time. maybe due to the distance that had grown between us, the past hostility that left scars still bleeding, but i suspect it was because telling her that her firstborn son was actually a woman was much scarier to her than telling her that i didn't really care about gender.

this photo is from the day that i had my first HRT appointment. my soft chin, once a weakness, could be bared proudly, the ambiguity in my face becoming something that i cherished.

a year later, i had the longest hair of my life. if i shaved and wore makeup, and dressed right, i could get gendered correctly so long as i didn't speak. in that regard, i was truly getting the full experience of womanhood. my relationship with my partner was going strong. i thought that i had found my forever.

things got messy. you will probably hear me say this again. you won't find many better ways to describe my life, other than messy. my partner had always been polyamorous, but i was not, and had not ever pretended that this was not the case. so when one of my partners friends confessed her love to them, they went into panic mode. suddenly they were pushing everyone away, reverting to old bad habits and anxieties, and our relationship began to fall apart.

the friend, we'll call her A, pretended to move on, started dating someone else. my own friendship with A was strained by the situation, and her new partner, a butch lesbian named rowan, seemed to be suffering for it. i realized that the only way our relationships could survive was if we tried to work out an agreement to polyamory. in the end that wasn't enough, but i was desperate. i was starting to see the cracks, realizing that if this fell apart, i would be homeless again. my leg injury had already been so badly worsened from my first experience with homelessness, i knew that going through it again would be the end of me.

since my partner and A were now seeing each other, i began to get ignored. the only time either of them spent talking to me was talking about each other, either joyous or trying to fix some new problem. at this point, i started getting to know rowan. we had a lot in common, i had never talked to a butch before, let alone known one, and seeing the way that they navigated gender made me jealous. i didn't know why.

more and more, rowan and i were separated from the broader relationship, and as we talked more, something developed. i had already felt it the first time we spoke, on some level, but it had grown and grown, from respect, to admiration, to desire and love. we were in a polyamorous relationship after all, so it made sense to me. but shortly after, when i told my partner what i was feeling, they freaked out. this wasn't the agreement, they had only agreed to them being able to date other people, didn't think that it would need to be specified because i wasn't polyamorous.

the entire relationship falls apart and we go back to being two separate couples, and the end of that came swiftly after. they cheated on me with A, and when i found out, that was it. my now ex partner told me that i could stay at the apartment until the lease ran out, and they would move back in with their parents. they took all the furniture, i was left with an ancient computer, a blanket, some clothes, and two pillows. my depression came back with a vengeance, and i stopped eating. by the time the lease ran out, i had lost a dangerous amount of weight. i became homeless for the second time at age 22.

this time, after only six months, i found a thin sliver of hope. i was given a place to stay. a single-wide trailer that i would share with three other trans women and a hairy nonbinary lesbian. you've probably heard the stories of similar situations. it's impossible to have healthy boundaries in a space the size of a can of sardines. or healthy anything really. i got involved in an incredibly toxic relationship with one of the other trans women, who i found out was dating nearly a dozen other people.

the only thing i could do was try to feel wanted. desired. i began experimenting with my image.

i re-established contact with rowan, but there was so much there that i couldn't bring myself to face yet. as i began to experiment with more masculine presentation, those around me took a greater interest in me. i was an object of desire. it was the most worth i had felt i ever had.

i wasn't eating again. so my weight kept dropping. in the three-odd years since my first encounter with homelessness, i had lost 30% of my entire bodyweight. this only made my physical issues get worse and worse.

i wasn't done with experimentation though. what could i do with this newfound territory?

the time came. i couldn't stay anymore. the relationship had fallen apart, and my connection to the household had been sent away in exile. the irony of this is not lost on me. i was lucky enough to be able to couch surf for a few months this time.

i lost weight again.

and again.

my knee got worse and worse. my iliotibial band tore. my birthday came and went, nobody celebrated except for rowan, now my only friend.

a week after my birthday, a lesbian couple contacted me. told me that they had a spare bedroom, and that if i could cover the costs of my own food, could stay for as long as i liked.

i started HRT again. rowan and i had managed to work through all the shit and scum of our past and started a relationship anew. it felt like this could be real.

i started to look a lot like my mom. kind of uncomfortably like my mom. rowan was butch, so i had thought i should be a femme. i didn't understand what that meant, but whatever it was i attempted, it wavered dramatically.

i began to switch, every month or so, between masculine and feminine presentation. my chest had grown enough that it was visible now, and i experienced an equal amount of joy and fear when i was gendered correctly in public, having learned to fear people finding out that i was a trans woman.

the weight didn't come back. it was like my body had burned itself so far down that it could not regrow. i had no energy, and my physical condition continued to deteriorate. but i was allowed to be myself. and i was in love with a butch. maybe that would be enough.

i began to develop a fashion sense of my own. the butch label was starting to appeal to me. and my roommates seemed to agree, since they both shifted towards butchness and masculinity alongside me. but it wasn't to last. one of my roommates, a TME lesbian i'm gonna call M, suddenly went off on a transmisogynistic rant to me. M's partner was a trans woman, and hearing this caused me to suddenly re-evaluate everything. did this happen because M viewed me as more masculine now, a more acceptable target? would this happen to G, M's partner?

i hardcore shifted gears back to feminine presentation. it felt safer. i stopped eating again. things weren't okay, but they were bearable this way. but then, one day, we got locked out of our apartment. a stupid, played out thing that happens to everyone at least once. while my roommate G went to see if the apartment manager was in with a spare key, i attempted to climb our balcony and get in through the unlocked back door. when i was up on the railing of our balcony, it gave way, and i fell to the asphalt below, breaking my back. following a trend that i set half a decade ago, i didn't realize it had happened. my back hurt, but i thought it would go away. it did, replaced by a vast numbness through the middle of my back. i began to collapse any time i tried to exhert myself physically at all. i would only find out why years later. the fact that i couldn't contribute to chores anymore, and nobody knew why, made the situation with M deteriorate much faster.

at my lowest point in years. my relationship with rowan was the only thing that kept me from giving up, but after the third time M decided to spew vileness at me i just spent months locked away in my room, terrified that any time i saw M was going to be another lecture about how i was disrespectful, loud, obtrusive, intimidating, too quiet, too lazy, whatever incoherent train of thought i would have to face next.

it was too much to handle in combination with the events of 2020, the lockdowns, the illness, the forest fires, things ended up coming to a head. at age 25, i became homeless for the third time, during the pandemic and a wildfire that filled the air with plastic fumes so thick you couldn't see ten feet in front of you.

i got in contact with my mother and had her take my cat, because i knew i couldn't take care of her like this. that was the last time i saw my cat in person before she died. rowan was frantically trying anything and everything possible to help me. i thought that this might be the end.

three and a half years ago today i got the best news of my life. there was a way out. it would be a long and tricky road, involving moving my whole life to a new country. but we could do it. not only could we do it, but we actually did it. in a months time, i was in rowan's arms. for the first time in our years of knowing each other, there was nothing keeping us apart any longer.

i was finally able to rest. able to eat. i started to regain weight for the first time in nearly a decade. i felt my energy come back, slowly at first, and then more and more until i was capable of functioning, even if at a low level. it's around then that i find out the truth of what happened to my back. it still hasn't properly healed.

in my gratefullness for life and love, i briefly forgot my identity crisis. i was happy to just exist without fear and pain. it wasn't until about a year ago, when a miracle occurred, that this changed.

i woke up one morning, feeling more energetic than usual. i think to myself, maybe i can do some light exercise, for old times sake.

my knee doesn't hurt.

MY KNEE DOESN'T HURT.

a wound that i thought would dictate my life forever, given actual time to rest and food to fuel the process, had healed. everything that i had ever given up on came rushing back into my head, ideas about who i could be, what i could become, what other injuries i might be able to recover from if i treat them right and rebuild myself. ten months ago i began to work out consistently. my back is slowly healing. i am stronger than i ever was before.

i have had to rebuild myself so many times. did i ever discover the secret of butchness in the process? no, that's something that i think will take the rest of my life. for now, my butchness is an enduring pillar, the only part of myself that never fully burnt away. standing up for myself, being my own person, loving another butch, refusing to lose the kindness i so desperately clung to my whole life, refusing to limit myself and my dreams, this is who i am. i am friends with other butches. i am not alone anymore. for now, this is butch. this is me.

#transgender #transition timeline #trans woman #butch

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tabbyhoney · 1 year ago

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Gorgeous

Inspired by "Fear of you" written by @sleepwalkersqueen

Note: Hello! I am very new to all of this posting stuff on tumblr so I hope this will be received atleast okay. But considering how nice most people are here I think it is safe in a way(atleast I hope so). And my first little story is a fanfiction for a fanfiction. Since I still have an absolute brainrot from the story "Fear of you" from @sleepwalkersqueen and it kinda kicked me out of my writersblock that I had for... Like 5 years? So yeah that is hopefully ending now.

Disclaimer: mentions of torture, english is not my first language, mention of mutilating, mention of psychological abuse

Summary: Howashi Amayas first thoughts while meeting with Takami Shinyo back in Tartarus for the very first time.

The moment I walked into the tiny cell my breath stopped and it felt like it may never return again. Leaving my lungs hollow just like my heart felt since forever.

Not because the whites from the walls and ceiling that looked clearer than the clouds in the sky, with the harsh lights from the room that burned my eyes. It wasn't the smell of something rotting away aswell. Or even how tense the room felt when I stepped into it, a pair of eyes glaring at me.

It was the colour of the sun going down in the horizon. The sky that turned this golden orange making everything feel peaceful and free. The sun that held this ruby colour one could sink into. Like the most beautiful reddest strawberry one could eat.

A red richer than a rose but just as many thorns.

Sharp eyes that looked way too clear for being forced to stay here in the most high security prison in the world, Tartarus.

If it weren't for the eyebags forming under his eyes I would have thought he might aswell just be a doll, too perfect and pretty for a human.

His golden hair that looked a little too sticky to be clean still hold something so beautiful it reminded me of the fukuroda falls.

And yet all this thinking about how good he looks made this scene even more absurd.

The silvery metal that covered half of his face, like a biting dog that needed a muzzle. His hands tightly held by heavy chains. Strapped onto some weird chair that doesn't let you sit but instead forced you to stand. No comfort in being a prisoner.

The beautiful red that was behind his back were pierced with metal rods and more chains. I could smell the never ending blood that came out of the pierced parts of the rods. How rotten it smelled, like a bird at the side of the road that was hit one too many times with a car.

A caged bird. A caged dangerous bird that for some reason made the most dangerous villain in this facilty look like they are weaker than this kicked chicken. They were stronger than him.

Takami Shinyo, imprisoned for theft and taunting a hero on duty. Multiple tax evasions, smuggling and so much more I can't remember.On his file was written he killed people but that was never able to be proven, for now.

Since he was captured by the No. 2 hero Endeavour he behaved god right awful. He only ever gives snarky comments and made the most hilarious awful bird puns. He fighted off any guard at any given moment and he even bit someones finger off that later was never found and so the poor lad lost it forever. He refused to eat and drink properly resulting in having to force feed him, that also explained why he bit off the finger, the guards lost their humanity just like all the prisoners afterall.

But even if he would have behaved any better I can't even blame him. Being tortured and having to endure the panic of mock executions surely messes with ones head even if he did that since day one.

Now I even had to start questioning why I am here in the first place, why I agreed to be here.

Perhaps deep down it was because Endeavour has been trying really hard to get one of the people involved with Takami-San out of this floor and I felt pity. Him trying to find someone that would be a better person for the position in his eyes. Resulting in him interviewing the entire facilty staff before he saw me walking around at the higher floors and ultimately decided I was good enough, atleast in his words and with the few words we shared with each other. Even though I was not a guard but a therapist but that seemed to make him even more sure. Laughing and telling me how much of a lost course he is, still finding it a good opportunity to break his soul more, what a cruel hero.

And now here I was standing, staring at the chained man that I only saw once at another time. Flying in the sky like a free bird. Not caring what anyone might think about a mutant using their powers they have since birth. How admirable.

If I could go back to that moment, before everything else started to go down hill. How he escaped the highest security prison to ever exist and how he tortured Imawamashi maybe while escaping, what a man. I wouldn't go back.

Maybe I would allow him this freedom he deserves, because if I know one thing for sure that is that Shinyo is not a bad person, maybe a bad human sure but not bad.

But to relive this very moment? Me staring at him with wide eyes and the most professional phrase one could say to their new patient.

"You're so gorgeous"

#shinyo takami #fear of you #mha #oc #ocs #endeavor #mha endeavor #takami shinyo #thief takami #first post #foy

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indeedcaptain · 1 year ago

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Regulatory Relations, chapter 4: The Fiance

The length of this is going to spiral wildly out of my control but I think that's allowed. It's also going to be way longer than 12 chapters and potentially have a plot beyond Will They Kiss?, so that's fun bahaha

Also posted on AO3 here!

☆☆☆

When Kirk arrived, the mess hall was already crowded: he saw his alpha shift crewmates scavenging for breakfast and the recently relieved late night crew replicating post-work dinner before they headed to sleep. He scanned the assemblage of different departments, ranks, and groups, and thought, Perfect. This public forum was the ideal opportunity to kick-start their plan and also Enterprise’s unstoppable, 24-7-365 gossip train. Spock was already seated at their usual two-top in the corner, a plate of fruit and grain in front of him, with his concentration focused on a padd.

Kirk squared his shoulders and waded through his crew, smiling and greeting those who weren’t too focused on their meals to look up, making sure that his presence was known. Then he headed to the replicators to get his own meal and, in a stroke of what he might call genius, ordered a cup of Spock’s preferred tea as well. He loaded his meal onto a tray and turned to head back across the hall to his table. Maybe he would announce his arrival by grasping Spock’s shoulder, and start things off slow. That wasn’t out of the ordinary for him. But before he could weave his way through the crowd again, however, there was a warm hand against the small of his back and the tray was gently but inexorably pulled from his grasp.

“Allow me,” Spock said, and he left his hand where it was until he was forced to break contact to wend through the tables. Kirk allowed him to steer them through the mingling crewmembers, and he thought he heard at least one whisper break out behind him as Spock removed his hand from his back. Spock placed his tray in his customary spot and requisitioned the tea.

“Well done already, Mr. Spock,” Kirk said, surprised and impressed. “You know, I wasn’t sure if you had it in you.”

“I have spent my whole life in the company of at least one human being, captain. I do understand their rituals, however illogical they may be.”

“I’m telling Bones you said that next time you make him explain something to you,” he said, and dug into his breakfast. As Spock returned his attention to whatever he was reading on his padd, tea held aloft in one hand, Kirk kicked his feet forward, crossed beneath the table, to brush against Spock’s ankles. Spock raised one eyebrow, but did not look up from his padd.

“Good morning, captain,” Yeoman Rand said as she passed, her blonde beehive bobbing through the air. “Commander.” Kirk did not miss her quick appraisal of his encroachment into Spock’s space beneath the table, and he left his feet where they were.

“Good morning, yeoman,” Kirk said, smiling, and Spock nodded politely. She continued on her way to a table of other crew.

“She just turned to look back at us,” Spock said quietly, looking over Kirk’s shoulder. Kirk resisted the urge to turn as well.

“That’s great,” he said. “Uhura informed me once that she was a notorious gossip. I’m hoping that’s still true. What are you reading, anyway?”

The rest of their mealtime passed as Spock explained the intricacies of quantum--- or perhaps it was nonlinear--- physics, or maybe it was geometry. Kirk’s engineering abilities were far more applicable to the physical and technical, rather than the theoretical, but the way Spock explained the nature of the research question was more intuitive than he would have expected. When the bosun whistle of shift change rang out, Kirk loaded both his dishes and Spock’s onto his tray and bussed them to the recycler. Spock waited for him by the door and, not to be outdone, Kirk steered him out into the hallway with a hand to the shoulder blade. Spock radiated heat, even through the thick fabric of his science shirt. As the turbodoor slid shut behind them, he thought he heard a susurrus of curious whispers wash over the mess hall.

In the turbolift, on their way to the bridge, he bounced on the balls of his feet and said, “I think that went well, as a starting step.”

“Do you think that will be sufficient?”

Kirk laughed. “Absolutely not, Mr. Spock. One showing in the mess does not a relationship make, and unfortunately our reputations precede us. I think convincing the crew will be a layering, rather than a step-by-step process.”

“I see,” Spock said. The turbolift opened.

“Captain on the bridge,” Sulu called. As Spock broke away to claim his seat from his relief, Kirk squeezed his elbow, and he noticed as Uhura turned away from them with a smile. He settled into the captain’s chair and absorbed the hum of activity around him as alpha shift swept into full swing. They were en route to Starbase 27, out on the edges of Federation space, before venturing out into unclaimed territory. There were some distant mining colonies they had been instructed to check on, provide inoculations and resources where necessary, before they would be on their own to pursue first contact with warp-capable societies and study from afar those who weren’t ready for interstellar connection yet. Spock and his scientists would be delighted.

Kirk signed resource allotments and allocations until he heard Uhura make a tiny ‘tch’ of dislike in the back of her throat. He spun to look at her as she thrust a padd in his direction.

“Message from April for you, sir,” she said, and the little frown on her face told him all he needed to know. He tapped the padd open. The subject line of the message read ‘SPOCK?’ He thought he could guess where this was going. He opened the message.

Cpt. Kirk:

Hope you’re well. Pls send an update on Spock’s decision. Pls also inform him that I will come talk to him myself soon. Expect to pick up on SB27.

Adm. April

Kirk smothered a grin as he typed back:

Adm. April:

I’m working on it. Looking forward to rendezvous in 10 days. Will report any updates as they occur.

Cpt. Kirk

He stood and leaned over the bannister between his chair and the science station to tap Spock on the shoulder. Spock turned immediately, and Kirk handed him the padd with the messages. Spock scanned them, and the corners of his mouth turned down in the slightest hint of a frown.

“I didn’t tell him what I was working on,” Kirk said.

“Your powers of subterfuge are unmatched, captain,” Spock said drily, and Kirk laughed before reclaiming his seat.

The next few hours passed in a pleasant buzz of productivity and the white-line blur of stars passing by the viewscreen. Halfway through, Spock departed to attend to his duties in the laboratories, and passed by Kirk’s chair with one hand dropping lightly onto his shoulder in his wake. In front of him, he saw Sulu give Chekov some significant look, and he smothered a self-satisfied smile. Step one was already garnering the response he had wanted. He hoped the next few days would go just as smoothly.

☆☆☆

An hour before the end of his shift, Kirk received a ping on his padd from Lt. Commander Giotto, requesting a meeting. He sent back a confirmation and stood, stretching the post-lunch stiffness from his back.

“Sulu, you have the conn. I’m off to meet with security,” he said, and Sulu saluted as he departed. He took the turbolift down to Giotto’s office, nodding at the crew that he passed, until he stood at the turbodoor.

Kirk rang the bell, and the door swished open. Giotto’s office was, as always, somewhat akin to a crime scene after an explosive detonation. As head of security on the Starfleet flagship and chief mediator for on-ship disputes, he had his hands full: the Enterprise, on its five-year deep space exploration adventure, had both more dangerous away missions and more interpersonal drama than most ships. His desk was littered with padds labeled with different colored sticky notes according to some elaborate legend stuck to the wall, broken phasers and communicators were piled in the corners, and he had an impressive collection of indigenous weapons that he had compiled through his years as an officer labeled by quadrant, solar system, planet, and species. Giotto himself was halfway in the storage closet in the back of the room, digging around for something and mumbling to himself. As Kirk entered, the broad-shouldered man pulled himself from the closet and saluted.

“At ease, Giotto,” Kirk said, smiling, and perched himself on the arm of the least cluttered chair in the office, in front of the desk. “What can I do for you?”

“Thanks for coming, captain,” Giotto said, and slid himself into the chair behind the desk despite the presence of multiple uniform shirts in varying states of shredded draped over it. “I wanted to talk to you, and potentially First Officer Spock, about a weakness I’ve noticed in the security team.”

Kirk pressed his lips together to prevent himself from frowning outright. The security team had taken a beating--- a few beatings in a row, if he was being honest--- from various unfriendly planets recently. The casualty rate, while in the acceptable range for an exploratory vessel, was higher than Kirk liked, and he felt every death like it was his own responsibility. He was the one who signed off on those awful letters to their families, anyway.

“I’m listening,” Kirk said.

“I don’t like that we’re so reliant on technology for protection,” Giotto said. He pushed away from his desk and pulled a bin of broken tech from beneath it. He started lifting phasers out and reading the labels he’d tied to them. “This one stopped working because of an ion storm. This one refused to fire because of the makeup of the atmosphere. This one was melted on the inside by those telepaths on Narlen II. And these are just the weapons. The comms break down even more, and when they’re our only link back to the teleporter, we lose people more frequently than I’d like. Scotty’s been tinkering with them, but we haven’t been able to make any serious improvements yet.”

“I agree. I assume you bring this up because you have an idea for how to improve it, commander?

“I do, captain. That’s where you, and Mr. Spock, if he’s amenable, come in.” Giotto dumped the comms and phasers back into the bin, which Kirk could now see was labeled with a rather unprofessional sticky note. He ignored it. Giotto had earned the right to organize his office however he saw fit, many times over.

“I’ve seen you and the commander sparring in the gym,” Giotto said. “Am I correct in thinking he’s been teaching you sus manna?”

Kirk heard Spock saying, “Suus Mahna” in his head, but he said aloud, “That’s right.”

“The Academy doesn’t teach as much hand-to-hand as they used to, ever since they rolled out the new phasers as standard, and I’m afraid these kids are lacking. They’re expert marksmen, great shots all of them, but when the blasted thing doesn’t work… I thought it might be valuable to ask Mr. Spock and yourself to teach them the basics, get them thinking about combat differently. Especially as we head back out of Federation space.” Giotto folded his hands in front of him, waiting.

Immediately Kirk could feel the validity of the idea. He turned it over in his mind, considering the last few away missions he had been on. Proficiency in hand-to-hand combat wouldn’t have solved all of their problems, but it certainly would have helped. He had yet to find himself in a situation where more skills would be a detriment, especially defensive skills.

“I like it, commander,” he said, and Giotto nodded firmly. “I think it’s a good idea.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I’ll talk to Mr. Spock about a demonstration, maybe 1900 hours tonight, and then you and your team can figure out a schedule for training. Just talk to Rand about my schedule if you need to.”

“Yes, sir. Right away.” Giotto saluted again, the consummate professional, and Kirk nodded before turning to go. At the door, though, he hesitated and turned back to his head of security. In the harsh fluorescent lights of his office, the broken line of Giotto’s nose and both the wrinkles and the scars on his skin were thrown into harsh relief. He had lost as much as Kirk had over the past few months, and probably more. The security they had lost had been Kirk’s crew, and his responsibility as captain, but they had been Giotto’s officers.

“You’re a good chief, Sal,” Kirk said quietly. “You’re doing a great job. Thank you.”

Giotto straightened. “Thank you, captain. But we can always be better.”

Kirk nodded, and left.

☆☆☆

Spock’s laboratories were ensconced deep in the belly of the Enterprise, with nearly an entire deck dedicated to the pursuit of science. He technically had an office down there, as was his right as science officer, but he was very rarely in it. He was more likely to be found with his hands in whatever experiment his little cadre of mad scientists had cooked up. That was precisely where Kirk found him after leaving Giotto’s office.

Spock was bent over a computer console, reading something on the screen over the shoulder of one of his favorite scientists: a dark-haired human woman from the Indian subcontinent, whose brusque demeanor and passion for gravitational anomalies matched Spock’s own. Dr. Khan, no relation to the other Khan, was gesturing emphatically at the screen, and Spock’s eyes were following wherever she pointed. Kirk watched them through the clear panel in the turbodoor fondly for a moment. He liked Dr. Khan, enjoyed her dry sense of humor and straightforward conversation style, and he sometimes wondered if Spock ever thought the same.

Well. If he did, Kirk was sure that they could come to some sort of marital agreement about it. He thought that Dr. Khan would understand the logic of the situation. He pressed the button that indicated his presence and watched with amusement as Khan startled and Spock straightened like he’d been jabbed with a hypo. Spock turned, eyes meeting his through the door, and Kirk entered at the incline of his head.

“Good evening,” he said. “What have we got going on today?”

“Shifting gravitational pull while at warp,” they said in unison, and Khan smirked. She continued, “I noticed unusual measurements coming from a few of the shield plates yesterday, and wrote an algorithm to look for a pattern over time. We were just reviewing what I’ve found.”

“Anything of interest?” Kirk asked, and approached to peer at the screen. He recognized the report, having reviewed something similar with Scotty many times, but didn’t see anything that struck him as out of the ordinary.

“Not yet,” Khan said. “But there’s always tomorrow.” She shut down the computer program and stood from the chair, twisting her back to stretch it. “Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Spock. Good night, captain.”

“Good night,” Kirk said, and Khan smiled at them both as she left. “Spock, I just had an interesting conversation with Giotto.” He explained the crux of the matter as Spock listened, head cocked slightly to one side.

“An eminently logical idea, captain,” Spock said, and cleared off the desk that he had been working at. “I admit that I too do not believe the Academy to be adequately preparing the security officers for all possible scenarios.” Spock ordered the lights off and closed the laboratory behind them as they walked back down the hallway to the turbolift. “I would return first to my cabin to change and meditate, but I will meet you at the gymnasium for this demonstration.”

They passed a small pack of scientists chatting by the small replicator in the wall, including Dr. Khan, and Spock nodded at them as they broke off their conversation to greet their supervisor. Their easy banter floated down the hallway as Kirk and Spock continued to the turbolift. When they were a ways from the scientists but still well within their sight, Kirk rested his hand on Spock’s mid-back for a moment as they walked.

“Did you plan a hand-to-hand demonstration solely to further our mission, captain?” Spock asked quietly. Kirk laughed.

“No, but it does seem wonderfully convenient, doesn’t it?”

“Quite useful, sir,” Spock said, and stepped away from Kirk’s hand as the turbolift arrived.

☆☆☆

Kirk stood in his red workout pants in front of Giotto and a small group of security officers, listening as Spock explained the basic mechanics of Suus Mahna. “It is primarily a defensive art,” Spock started, and Kirk recognized the exact explanation that Spock had given him when he had started to learn. He tuned out the lecture in favor of reviewing what he knew of the sec team that Giotto had brought.

A pair of young-ish human twins, ensign rank, who went by One and Two, though he had never seen them separately and therefore did not know which was which; an older Andorian man named Crovath who was closer to Giotto’s age than the ensigns and who had been serving on the Enterprise by the time Kirk himself transferred on; and one Orion woman named Laila, the first Orion that Kirk knew of in Starfleet. The reasoning behind Giotto’s choices were unclear; or, if he had simply asked for volunteers, Kirk wasn’t sure why these four were the ones who turned up. But better four random individuals than no one at all.

“Captain Kirk and I will demonstrate how Suus Mahna can be used to protect oneself in an altercation, as well as provide opportunities for neutralization when necessary. Captain, if you would?”

Kirk stepped forward and faced Spock. Spock wore the same red leggings he did, but with a Vulcan-style red tunic, tied at the waist, over them. He could see the dark curls of Spock’s chest hair and remembered again, in an abstract sort of way, that Spock was going to be married to him in the very near future. Did that make Spock, technically, his fiance?

Spock raised an eyebrow and Kirk realized that was his cue. He bounced on the balls of his feet. He’d had the training, been through a thousand different combat courses, and had trained with Spock for years, but at heart, he was a barnyard brawler from Iowa and always would be. He swung.

Spock stepped neatly out of his way, not even bothering to unclasp his hands from behind his back. He raised his eyebrow in a way that said that he was unimpressed. Kirk struck again, faster, with less of an arc. Spock dodged, unclasping his hands to bring them up in a defensive posture by his chest. Kirk swung again, towards Spock’s center of gravity, where it would be harder to dodge, but Spock was lightning on his feet and twisted entirely out of the way. He circled Kirk. It forced him to turn, putting him on the defensive. Spock struck a hand towards the back of his neck. Kirk ducked under it, spinning to face him, and got his feet under him enough to kick out towards him. Spock dodged forward. He struck the back of Kirk’s knee with the blade of his hand, forcing it to bend. As Kirk fought to rebalance, calf tingling unpleasantly with the force of Spock’s blow, Spock swept up behind him.

Kirk brought his hands up, but it was too late. Spock had him in a headlock. Kirk struggled against the unyielding iron cage of Spock’s arms to no avail. Spock said, to the assembled crew, “From this position, you could incapacitate your assailant however necessary.” He released his left arm from the lock, keeping one around Kirk’s neck, pressing his back to Spock’s chest. The bastard wasn’t even breathing hard.

“I might use the pinch here,” he said, and tapped two fingers of his free hand against the crook of Kirk’s neck. “Or remove the ability to breath until he was no longer conscious,” he continued, and re-locked his arms. Kirk tried not to squirm. He didn’t mind losing to Spock, but there wasn’t usually an audience for it. He also didn’t frequently think about the height difference between him and Spock, but held like this he could feel the sharp edge of Spock’s jaw against the side of his head.

Spock released him. “Again,” he said. Jim swung his arms, limbering up, and struck again. His mind slowed as his heartbeat increased, until his conscious brain had gotten out of his way. There was no longer a translation period between his impulses and his actions; he read Spock’s movements as Spock acted, written in fast-twitch muscle fiber, and forced him backwards. They traded blow for blow. After years of sparring together, Spock’s style was as familiar to Kirk as choreography. Though Spock’s strength and reach were superior, Kirk had one advantage: the capacity for illogical thinking, and therefore unpredictability.

He faked a stumble, and Spock swept inward again to take advantage. His weight firmly on one foot, he hooked one leg around Spock’s as soon as he was close enough and used his momentum against him. They tumbled to the ground in a graceless pile.

Kirk landed, by some luck, on top. For a second, he thought that he had won, as he scrambled to his knees. But Spock got one foot against his hip and shoved upward, flipping him onto his back. The air in his lungs exited hastily. He wheezed. Spock rolled over him, kneeling on one leg as he applied his considerable weight to Kirk’s sternum via the other.

For a second, he flipped through different options for recovering his advantage. But his ribs hurt, and though he was a glutton for punishment this was intended to be an educational demonstration, not a cage match. He tapped Spock’s thigh twice.

Spock stood and, after a split-second’s hesitation, reached down. Kirk gratefully gripped his forearm and let Spock pull him to his feet. Giotto, and then the stunned security complement, and a handful of officers who had wandered over from the other areas of the gym, appreciatively applauded. Kirk took a theatrical bow as Spock turned to him and said, “Are you unharmed, captain?”

“Right as rain,” he said, and grinned at Spock before turning to talk to Giotto. “Did you get what you were looking for?”

“Definitely, captain,” Giotto said appreciatively. “I was right --- I think this might be an untapped resource for us. I’ll talk to Rand about setting something up regularly. Mr. Spock, would you care to participate?”

Spock was silent for a moment, and Kirk turned to him. “Spock, don’t leave the poor security team to just my instruction. They could benefit from your expertise.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, captain,” Spock said, but his eyes were warm with disguised mirth when they met Kirk’s. With a jolt, Kirk realized he had been set up and baited like a fish, and he had walked right into publicly praising Spock. “I will assist. I will instruct the team in Suus Mahna and you can instruct in winning a bar fight.”

“Hey,” Kirk complained, but he clapped his hands together. “Thanks, Giotto. We’ll look forward to it.”

“Thank you, captain,” Giotto said. “And commander.” He nodded to them both, eyes flicking between them, and rejoined the security team. Kirk reclaimed his abandoned water bottle, sweat towel, and t-shirt, and walked with Spock back to their quarters.

“See you in the morning for breakfast?” Kirk asked.

“Yes, captain,” Spock said, and turned to disengage his door lock.

“What did you call me?” Kirk sing-songed as he backed away to his own door. Spock looked up at him and frowned slightly.

“Cap…? Ah. Yes.”

“Goodnight, Spock,” Kirk said.

“Goodnight… Jim.” His name echoed down the hallway, and Kirk grinned before releasing his own door lock and stepping inside. He dropped his dirty clothes into the recycler and sat down at his desk to review his padd messages while Spock used the shared bathroom. Admiral April had simply sent a ‘received’ response to his earlier message about Spock, and he had some unread Starfleet-wide missives. All of it could wait.

When he heard only silence from the bathroom, he performed his own ablutions and slid into bed. He was pleasantly tired from sparring, even after only going two rounds, and they had another uneventful day of feeding the gossip machine ahead of them tomorrow.

He closed his eyes and slept.

#spirk #spock #kirk #my writing #k/s fan fic #kirk/spock fan fic #fake married #regulatory relations #spirk fan fic

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muertocountyprincess · 10 months ago

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The internet is cruel sometimes.

I’d really hoped this year would be different, and perhaps for once things wouldn’t spoil my entire birth month. May is already a hard month due to old traumas annually resurfacing in my mind, but this time my mental health has been suffering for more reasons than one.

I am still being stalked, harassed, and attacked for simply trying to shed light on an issue in a game that I love and focus all of my content on. And normally I’m strong; I’ve had to force myself to be in all other aspects of my life, but to finally think you’ve done something right and found solace in a community you love just to have it somewhat stripped away by someone who stirred up something that wasn’t even your fault to begin with…. hurts, a lot.

I don’t know who I can trust, and I hate that those feelings are coming back again. Any new follower, someone who joins my server, etc. I’m wary of because I’ve already found several accounts associated with my stalker who either followed me (probably in case I go private) or have interacted with hate posts about me.

I’m just… very uncomfortable.

And the fact that I was right about the game issue to the point of the devs reaching out for my video/more info makes it all laughable. Still concerning, but laughable.

I just want to be left alone. But no, instead I get accused of bait simply for interacting with accounts for a game I love and making posts about my interests/what I care about.

I hate going on about it, because I genuinely just want to do my own thing, but every week there’s some new concerning bullshit from them and I don’t know what else to do. I’m scared the people who support me and I care about will get tired of me yapping if they aren’t already and I’ll lose them too.

Maybe is a trauma neglect issue I’ve had before, but it’s polarizing when you want to be the bigger person and move on but it keeps consuming your happiness.

I’ve already found multiple of their fans/friends following me so they can talk shit but still see what I post.. such weird and teenager-like behavior from full grown adults… And then seeing that they lied about having an alt, so unless I go private (which I don’t want to do, I like interacting with the tcm and sims community), I will continue to be stalked relentlessly due to their anonymity. Going out of your way to screenshot what I post (especially when it has nothing to do with you), trying to have your “fans” get me kicked from other streamer’s spaces, mocking me, liking hateful replies against me… why am I living rent free in your head?

You people are grown adults with bully mentalities. Jealousy is one hell of a drug.

And now, I honestly feel scared to post anything in fear of backlash and more hate. I know I shouldn’t care, but I really does get to a person - especially when I’ve done nothing but try to make this a safe space for myself and others only to be called crazy… my bad for being neurodivergent and posting a lot/talking about the things I care about? Why the fuck do you even care? There’s mute/block buttons for a reason.

You don’t know me, all of this is parasocial. You don’t know a damn thing about me or the shit I’ve been through, the times where just managing to keep myself alive seemed like the greatest accomplishment. You don’t know my life, my situation, anything besides a username and whatever I happen to post.

People are just nasty, acting like middle school bullies hiding behind a screen with zero repercussions, and if they have any sort of following it’s only worse. I can’t even play my favorite game without being tunneled, having to constantly change my name, having to sort through hate comments/messages, all of that.

The one thing that’s genuinely brought me so much joy and has helped keep me alive has a community with so much loved but equally a lot of hate. The thoughts of no longer wanting to exist in this world are coming back.

I’m strong, but it starts getting to you after awhile.

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xiv-wolfram · 2 years ago

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Dragonlings - Comic Script

Heavensward - lvl 53

Wolf having fun playing with baby dragons.

Wolfram Saga Comics (Chronological)

This is the script for a future comic. Posting for those who don’t want to wait to get the story. Numbers indicate frame number.

At Anyx Trine. Wolfram, Alphinaud, and Ysayle standing around talking. Wolf turns his head towards a pack of baby dragons looking at the people with curiosity. Narrator - “Wolfram (the Warrior of Light) has been traveling with Alphinaud, Estinien, and Ysayle to find Hraesvelgr in the hopes of ending the war between Ishgard and Nidhogg's forces in Dravania. They’ve stopped in Anyx Trine for the night and will continue on to Sohm Al in the morning. Wolfram senses a few baby dragons in a playful mood and decides to entertain them.”

Wolf splashes the baby dragons (if a puddle around, if not then /deride)

Ysayle and Alphi talking. Wolf in the background laughing as they chase him spewing fire.

Ysayle glances over and beams - “I didn’t realize he was so…playful?” Thought - ‘It’s quite endearing.’

Alphi scoffs - “Aye, he’s quite the joker as well. You should see he and Thancred together. Normally fierce warriors and yet they behave as foolish children.”

Alphi looks away, pondering - “And with his friend General Aldynn he’s especially strange. I think Wolfram is the only man in Eorzea that could get away with speaking to him so disrespectfully. I must admit their sense of humor confuses me.”

Wolf running the other direction, being chased. Ysayle grins, still watching Wolf - “Yes, I’d imagine it would.” Alphi eyes her in confusion, thought - ‘What has she seen? Perhaps after the at Halatali when Wolf threatened to ‘kick his old crippled ass’ if he referred to himself that way again? I thought the General would be angry but he just laughed hysterically then apologized. So odd.’

Wolf peeking out behind a rock comically while the baby dragons are waiting excitedly, tails wagging, to resume their chase.

Ysayle, still watching Wolf, chuckles - “I suppose once you’ve known someone for that long propriety becomes less important. Though our friend does not appear to be overly concerned about such things regardless.” Alphi laughs - “You may be correct there.” Thought - ‘I believe this is the first time she’s smiled since we met. Interesting...’

Wolfram Saga Comics (Chronological)

#ffxiv wol #oc wolfram #ffxiv #ffxiv oc #hyur highlander #hyur #wolcomic #WolframSaga #WoLSayle

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vlxyrianclaws · 1 year ago

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mxc.

there came a set of skills, in knowing how best to get to people: to truly get under their skin, and result in them feeling a growing sense of anger and emptiness following the conversation, laced with regrets as to what else was not said. what else could have been said. elenda swann was of no particular importance to maximus celtigar, regardless of how much she attempted to adorn herself in the finery of the valyrian name of house velaryon and pretend to be something she so clearly was not. "and yet here you were, desperate to talk to a cad, and a brute."

she had none of the attitude of a valyrian woman, considering she appeared bored with her newlyfound status post marriage rather than content with having to do nothing. such was the reality when one married gods, and yet alas, it seemed as though some would forever want to continue playing in the mud or milking cows or whatever it was stormlanders did. she appeared continuously restless, often found wondering in the hallways of the red keep, attempting to find herself useful in some way or another, even if it were simply transporting archives and ledgers. no better than a maid.

anger would not work at making elenda swan feel degraded. no, considering it appeared she had much of a mouth on her: instead, it was the feeling of inferiority that she'd never be able to scrub off her. in a court full of valyrian women, knowing she would never be one, despite how much she drank or spent time with them. "of course you are, look at all the sophisticated vocabulary you are using." he spoke, his tone laced with scathing sarcasm as a cold, dismissive laugh came directly in her face.

and when her hand came to strike him, a rare insight to the wilderness that was the stormlanders and how they no doubt needed to be tamed, his laughter seemed to only continue as his hand moved to grab a hold of her wrist. "and so the animal can kick and claw, look at you." there had been an impact on his cheek, and yet, it were obvious the man had no qualms with using violence to restrain. he pulled her forward, using his force to yank her with force than to press down hard on her wrist itself. the last thing he needed to do was leave a bruise.

"do you truly believe i would not be willing to deal with the fall out of striking you happily in the face?" he asked, his tone switching: the scathing element remained, but there was not an inch of him that remained joking. there was no mirth on his fac,e even a cruel mirth. "only one of us is replaceable." and then he lowered his voice, releasing his hand from her wrist whilst maintaining a dark, chaotic gaze upon her. "you need to do something for me, ellie swann. you'll listen closely, and then you'll open your mouth and tell your brother the next time i see him may well be the last time he sees anything."

he noted how dark and stormy her own orbs were; more complicated than the naive, warm orbs of her brother. for a moment, there came another urge that swept over him: the urge to grab hold of her and feel her legs around him as they smashed into the wall behind them. he wanted to hear just how proper she could be, or whether she truly was just like all the others. perhaps there was also the sickening urge to get to wylliam swann in a way he felt as thoug he had been insulted. his sisters were not whores, but this woman? well. "you'll do that for me. i know of your good memory. ensure he remembers too."

the tendrils of loneliness had woven themselves deep within ellie's soul over the passage of months. her husband was not supposed to be gone this long and was supposed to be back at her side. yet he still felt like a stranger to her. he practically was in many sense and now word had completely stopped from him. despite the persistent uncertainty, the island of driftmark clung to their hope, their collective gaze tracing the ethereal line where the sea met the sky. but, a secondary yearning towards ellie—whispers echoed, hoping that the absent lord had bestowed upon ellie a child, a beacon of life amidst the shadows of absence.

maybe that loneliness was why she entertaining this conversation in the first place. was she desperately seeking something out? conversation? connection? something. there was something she craved, something missing, something she wanted. she could not explain it. could not understand what it was. and how in the hells was she supposed to find it in a man like max? the more he spoke down to her the more she regretted responding back to him. she was ready to leave and go back to her empty bedchambers

"yes, i am smart," the retort sprung from her lips, a swift riposte. the conversation's meaning seemed to disintegrate into the growing void of annoyance. it was a dance with no rhythm, a tune that had lost its melody. frustration simmered—fierce enough to provoke an almost primal urge to lash out, to grasp him by the collar and dig her nails into his neck. alas, the confines of ladyship, of courtly conventions, denied her that release. her battlefield was the arena of words, each phrase a finely honed weapon.

yet, it was elenda who bore the full brunt of max's brazen rhetoric. for a fleeting moment, the weight of his words paralyzed her—a frozen reverie beneath his judgment. a whore, he had dared to label her, those two syllables heavy with venom. his audacity, his quickness to deploy such derogatory language, struck her with the force of a slap. the fire of anger surged forth, quelling the momentary paralysis.

"lord celtigar, be wary of your tongue, for it flirts with the precipice of insolence," she surged up from her seat, the veneer of silence shattered. her voice, once tempered, had taken on a ferocious cadence, a stormlander refusing to cower. "i am lady velaryon—no common rose you can trample upon. my husband even in his absence is still cousin to the targaryens." a delicate tremor ran through her voice, an echo of suppressed rage, but the strength in her eyes resonated unyielding resolve.

his words, coarse and uncouth, clung to the air—a stain upon the grand tapestry of nobility. "how dare you!" her pent-up fury could no longer be restrained. all attempts at upholding her ladylike demeanor disintegrated, her anger claiming its throne. the wall of restraint crumbled—she was no porcelain doll to be trampled upon. his insults, an affront to her worth and dignity, sparked a ferocity that she could no longer suppress. "you are a cad and brute!" the words rushed forth, a proclamation of her judgment, a piercing indictment of his character. her open palm flew through the air—a strike aimed at his face, a physical testament to her refusal to be silenced, her yearning for respect, and the declaration that she was no easy prey to his barbed words.

#c: elenda #elenda 001 #oop #me: chaos #chaos at 10am

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pattysplaceofplaces · 2 years ago

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Intuition

Dash Haber x Gender Neutral reader

[Author’s Note: I really need to start doing y’all’s requests, I don’t know why but I just need to write this. This is roughly based on a new Carmen Sandiego oc I have that I have shipped with Dash Haber, I’ll post a drawing and bio for them soon!

P.S. Ivy x Gn reader headcanons coming soon!]

This was going to be a night to remember! An event that doubled as both an auction and a ball! Countess Cleo could enjoy an elegant evening with her associates and lover as well as obtain more money for VILE! It was a plus that Carmen Sandiego was nowhere to be found! Although those two things were just the icing on the cake. What was going to be so great about tonight? You were there!

Mx. Y/n had the most stylish of outfits, could name any piece of art or music sheet just by seeing the first line, they could detect a fake piece of art just by hearing someone talk about it! But what made you so different from the other rich snobs? When you weren’t attending fancy parties and participating in the criminal underworld you were lounging at home in your pajamas shoving pizza into your face while you played Animal Crossing and Splatoon 2. He had never met such an interesting creature, one full of surprises that couldn’t be defined by a single label.

With Countess Cleo and Dr. Bellum left to their own devices he talk to you. Usually the Countess kept him way too busy and all he could do was look and listen to what people had to say about you. He finally had his chance to talk to you in person! He had rehearsed this weeks before the party, planned everything in ahead so he would have free time to get to do this. There you were, idle at one of the outside balconies taking swigs of your soda in a crystal glass as you stargazed. Alcohol wasn’t your forte so juice, ciders, and sodas were supplied at these parties especially for you. Despite being judged behind your back VILE needed you and your income so you were treated like royalty whenever you were invited to an event.

He took several small steps forward then completely froze up. All the careful planning and rehearsing for this very moment had evaded him as his mind went blank. Dammit! What kind of cruel joke was this!?

“Mr. Haber? Care to join me?” You didn’t even need to turn around to know he was there! What an enchanting being you were!

Now he had no choice but spend time with you. Not that he minded of course. He was honestly surprised you knew his name since you two barely interacted. Maybe Cleo told you? Ah!! He needed to stop spacing out!

He took the space next to you, leaning on the balcony. “Please, you can call me Dash. But- If I may ask, how did you know it was me?” A smile graced your painted lips as eyes reflected the stars. “Intuition.” Were you trying to reel him in? There was no need for that! Dash was entranced the first moment he saw you! “Oh is that so?” He tried to sound confident and suave but he sounded so meek! Ugh he wanted to kick himself in the stomach for being such a loser! “Perhaps fate is on our side as well. I was told the stars would align in my favor tonight.” Were you…flirting with him!? He sheepishly chuckled and adjusted his collar. “I can’t help but agree, it’s hard to meet people here who like…video games?”

You audibly gasped and moved your head to face him. “Really? Which games have you been getting into?” He never understood video games or even tried to before he met you. It was embarrassing trying to learn about video games all on his own since he was too prideful to ask someone. Now what was that game called? The one with the good soundtrack? “Forgive me I am absent minded tonight but it’s the one with the robot enemies and the little blue guy.” You nodded. “Oh you mean Mega Man? Which one? There’s multiple in the series, you know.” He froze up trying to remember what the full title was. Ugh he looked like such a fool!

You chuckled and put your hand under his chin, forcing him to look you in the eyes. “You don’t have to try to impress me. I think you are very charming, Dash.” Despite being a stuttering tomato he grabbed your hand trying to regain his confidence. “Would you give me the privilege of this dance?” You placed your glass down on the balcony railing. “I would love to.”

#Carmen Sandiego #carmen sandeigo 2019 #Carmen Sandiego fan fiction #Dash Haber #Dash Haber x reader #countess cleo #Dr Bellum #Countess Cleo x Dr Bellum mention #X reader #x gender neutral reader #X gn reader #i am cringe but i am free

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jangofctts · 4 years ago

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Mirrored Heart (captain rex x fem!reader)

rated: 18+ explicit

word count: 5.6k

warnings: smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampies, fingering, blow jobs, clone space racism?

a/n: ANYWAY HERE IT IS. ive had this draft saved since like a year ago and just now finished it. anyway kwjrkejh here YALL GO. also thank you @jango-fettish FOR LETTING ME BORROW SYRENA

It's curious.

Well, you, as a whole are curious—completely outside the realm of what Rex considers normal. As far as senators go, that is.

You're grumpy for one—worse than Skywalker and far more snide than Kenobi—a near gargantuan task bordering impossible. Wit and cleverness come to you easier than breathing, but it's your unwavering kindness towards himself and his brothers that sticks out like a blaster burn against alabaster white walls.

He passed it off as a joke—some sort of mockery. Rex’s existence has been full of them. The past year it’s been made glaringly clear as to what the clones are to the people of the republic—tools. Mindless war machines dressed with flesh and bone, heart and sinew instead of durasteel and a circuitboard. Humanity has been skimmed over with excuses and debates over the hollow argument that clones were created for the sole purpose of war—nothing more. Ignorance is bliss when you are not the one fighting tooth and nail for petty skirmishes and the survival of your family.

Ithyea, your home monarchal planet, is a newer member of the Galatic Republic—one of the firsts to advocate for clone rights—cutting through each argument with the steel headed javelin of hope and determination. Controversial in the eyes of the galaxy but no less than true. Yet with controversy, comes chaos.

Wedged between Takodana and the Cerean Reach hyperspace lane—it’s an essential key to accessing more neutral space sectors without stepping on any toes. While the planet does mirror the size of a larger than average moon, there’s nothing but grandeur with the cutting edge advances in space travel and military innovations. An arts district too, one that’s presented multiple times for the Senate apparently. Rex has yet to see it. It’s an easy guess as to why Ithyea has gone under pointed attacks from the Separatists—it’d be foolish not to try.

And of course comes the intergalactic mess of politics. You are not Ithyea’s first senator. Or second…or third. Just in the last six months, three of your predecessors have been picked off—two disappearances and a suspicious poisoning sandwiched between them. Which sides these assassinations stem from is anybody’s guess—a mix of both perhaps—all to silence and stamp the voice of your people out.

Heavy are the shoulders that wear those abhorrent senatorial robes, and Maker did it take some convincing for another Ithyean to step to the chopping block. It’s just…no one thought it’d be you. The infamous captain of King Arrian Felian’s elite guard—trained in combat levels high enough to contend some of those within the ranks of the Jedi Order. When your name comes up in conversation, it certainly doesn’t scream diplomacy.

Rex is not surprised that you hold the current record of Ithyean senators for surviving the longest. Evading an astonishing two attempts on your life by the skin of your teeth. You were just downright lucky the third assassin missed their mark. Sure, the blade of Syrena Aster skimmed the right side of your cheek and left behind a nasty scar to remember her by, but kriff—even with your background and low levels of public presence, you’re a high priced target. Whoever placed an order with the Heretics, really wants to see you six feet under.

Rex hasn’t been given the full report on exactly who the Heretics are—a rag tag bunch of untrained Force users and skilled assassins from what he’s gathered—but regardless, this attack is just the beginning. Until the Senate and the Jedi are able to retract the price on your head, you’re stuck under protective custody. Usually ushered away into the Jedi Temple or tagging along with General Kenobi and Skywalker. Despondently, no matter the circumstances of your protection, it can’t shield you from the dreadful invitations to senatorial luncheons.

And yes, you tried to slip by for this one.

You don't brush elbows with other senator’s like many of the members in the Jedi Order and your own cohort do. In fact, you actively avoid even speaking to them unless necessary, let alone stand in the same room with seven of them. Odd for an elected official of diplomacy such as yourself to be so cold shouldered—Rex would think senators wanted to mingle.

It's curious because you're standing in plain sight and yet no one pays you any passing thought. General Kenobi and Skywalker hold the majority of their attentions, shoulders already taught with exasperation at keeping everyone from tearing out each other's throats for, kriffing five minutes. Yet you...you are completely at ease, leaning up against a stone pillar, observing the unfolding chaos from afar with a keen eye.

Before Rex realizes he's stepping towards your position, you glance over and dip your chin in greeting. The ghost of a smirk pulls at your normally grim facade—his heart skips. "Captain."

"Senator," he mimics, posting himself to your right. There’s still a thin, healing scab from the assassin’s blade that extends from the swell of your cheek to your ear. Ouch. “Enjoying the evening?"

You snort. "Hardly enjoying it, Rex."

Stars—you shouldn't be allowed to say his name. Your words are razor-sharp like a jagged vibroblade, meant to jab and pierce through armor—tear a person to pieces without having to lift a finger. Everything about you is rough, gritty, brutal, unbecoming of what a senator should be, but—

You mouth his name, purring out the singular syllable with such tenderness that it's like a punch to the gut.

It's hard to swallow and he needs to clear his throat—an embarrassing act on his part, but your attention has already returned back towards the meandering senators. "How d'you mean?"

"Well," you sigh, "let's just say smalltalk isn’t my strong suit."

"Aren't you senators s'pposed to like diplomacy n' such?"

Your thumb smoothes over your bottom lip in thought as you shrug. "Diplomacy? Sure. Politicians? Can’t say I like them. I just—"

You wave your hand around, gesturing vaguely to the crowd. "I just don't understand why they can't say what they mean. Telling someone to have a nice day shouldn't entail certain death, y'know?"

"Speaking from experience?" He teases, gently prying into that harder than beskar wall you've created for yourself. There's fissions in your foundation and he means to tear it down all for just a mere scrap of information.

Your eyes flick over, your lips curling into a vulpine grin. “Perhaps...Though, it was partially my fault, I have to admit.”

“You’ll have to tell me the story sometime, Senator.”

You nod. “Yes, one day—when there aren’t so many political ears jumping at the chance of gossip.”

A swell of laughter interrupts your chat, your attention gravitating to Obi-Wan—ever the charmer with the crowds. The end of your mouth pulls into a frown as you sigh and carefully scratch at your brow with the back of your thumb. Rex might be pulling at straws, but what he mistook as you being standoffish may just be your nerves. Socially awkward and flustered when speaking in such an intimate setting.

Rex’s first instinct is to reach out and place a hand over your shoulder in comfort, but he’s not sure how you’ll respond to the touch. Flip him over your shoulder probably—

Instead he forces himself to jumpstart the conversation—something to distract from your anxieties. “I hope you don’t mind me asking—“ His heart beat kicks up into a flurry of wild beats as you turn you head. “What uh..wh—did you want to become a senator?”

He likes it when you smile—like you’re letting him on some sort of coy secret. You shift your weight and shrug. “The king asked me personally. I’m flattered he thinks I’m clever enough—insulted he sends me to these abysmal gatherings like some sort of show pony.”

Rex chuckles. “Yeah, can’t say I like ‘em either.”

“Although…” Your thumb runs over your lip again, a sparkle of mischief igniting behind your eyes. “As a senator, I do get the occasional tidbit of gossip. Here, I’ll catch you up—“

The captain startles when you snatch his elbow and yank him closer. Maker he’s glad for his helmet because your lips brush against his earpiece as he leans down to reach your height.

“Look." You whisper, nodding casually in the direction of a particularly young senator with a shock of white hair. She's swathed in a pool of royal blue silk, much too large for her tiny frame, and all but hanging off Skywalker's arm with glittered nails filed into points. "That is Senator Ceci Paare of Corellia. She looks innocent, no?"

She does. Wide, crystalline green eyes stare up at the Jedi Knight as a pretty giggle escapes past her ruby painted lips. Skywalker grimaces.

"I quite like her," you continue with a sly grin. "Even if she does try to influence public opinion by an invitation to bed."

There's no time to process as you focus in on an older man. His hazy blue skin, ash white lips and vermillion green eyes cut an almost nightmarish profile, accentuated by mountains of black robes. Rex can’t recall what planet the senator represents. The senator holds his head stiffer than rebar to keep the ornate golden circlet from slipping off, his white lips curling in distaste as Orn Free Taa of Ryloth places a meaty hand over his slender shoulder.

"He is Lord Tal’en Sol Ra'ah. Cunning, but sympathetic to the pleasures of gambling."

It's a game to you—of perceptions and nuances only a trained eye can roll over. Rex expects nothing less. This sort of thing has been hammered into the very essence of your being since you were little—reading an enemy before they can strike. It works on politicians marvelously well.

Truth be told Rex should be paying more attention—but the closeness of your face to his helmet is maddening. His heart twists and coils as your bare hand skims along his gloved one—kriff. He’s not gonna make it before he bursts into a thousand little pieces.

Rex’s spell of lovesick yearning recedes as you swear under your breath. It was only a matter of time before someone approached your little corner.

"Oh, Maker save me," you hiss under your breath as a young Mirialan saunters over, the swatches of rich red and brilliant gold accentuate his violet skin like a bloody bruise. "Pretend you're speaking with me."

"I am speaking with you," Rex snorts.

Your hand waves in dismissal as your brows stitch together, hands balling into fists. Your jaw clenches as the senator in question puts on a dazzling smile. You look downright panicked. Rex has witnessed you face down numerous senators older than dirt and close to blowing away in the wind with plucky fervor, assassination attempts, being held captive, and you're frightened…by this?

This is too good.

Rex has half a mind to help you, wheel you away from your little predicament, but his intrigue with seeing your oh-so-solid resolve crumble is much too valuable and entertaining to pass up. He's going to remember this for years.

"Rex."

"Senator," he mimics, not at all frightened by your poisonous glare. "Some diplomacy might do you good."

You begin to snarl out a threat but are decidedly cut off by your object of horror planting himself before your hiding spot. You cower into the corner like a boxed in loth-cat. "Ah, my favorite Ithyean! I had begun to worry you would not make it, my dear friend."

"Senator Lin," you sigh. The smile you offer is tight and thin; a nervous one much in the same way one would be if presented with a box of toenails for a birthday gift. “How pleasant to see you."

Senator Lin’s deep violet lips part with an easy smile. He waves a hand in dismissal, his silver rings glinting in the warm lighting. "Please—call me Toluka. No need to bother with such formalities between companions."

Rex suddenly understands your trepidation with the Mirialan—he’s slimy. And, not to mention, not at all ashamed with the lecherous looks as his eyes sweep down your body. Rex clenches his teeth and folds his arms behind his back. He’s regretting not heeding your warning now…

Try as you might through brutal small talk and chilly answers, Senator Lin refuses to take the hint. A dark plume of venom green lashes through Rex’s chest as the Mirialan places a friendly hand over your shoulder. You grimace as Rex bristles and glares through the visor of his helmet.

Senator Lin’s lips pull into a gaudy smile as he glances at Rex and then at you.“My dear, don’t you know? It’s not worth wasting your time with a clone. After all, they’re all the same person. How boorish—come join us at the table.”

Your teeth bite into your cheek as your temper, like the silver of blade through the darkness, cuts through your steely irises. With poised nonchalance, you lift your hand and pinch Senator’s Lin’s fingers between your own and pry them off your shoulder. “Is that so?”

“Your campaign, valuable as it may be,” Lin continues, “is a useless endeavor. They are not our equals and never will be--you must know that."

Rex forces himself to remain calm—collected and certainly not imaging a thousand and one ways he’d like to see his fist breaking the fragile bones of the senator’s face.

"Fine buttons stitched upon your shoulders do not compel your worth, Senator,” the harshness of your words is a blow straight to Lin’s ego. His well-groomed brows furrow drastically as his tongue struggles to play catch up and find words to repair his shattered pride.

There’s no chance for Senator Lin to regain his footing as your snatch Rex’s wrist and sweep him out into the hall. Rex can feel your anger roll off of you in waves, frighting and holding the same caliber of roaring waves thundering against black, craggy rocks. It’s a miracle the night didn’t end with your hands wrapped around the senator’s throat or a blaster shot through the chest.

When you reach the lower halls of the cruise ship is when you release Rex’s wrist. You pinch the bridge of your nose between your fingers and release a long, dramatic sigh.

"You are worth far more than that pompous ass," you say with enough edge to slice through a droideka's shields. "He has no right to say those things to you."

“It’s alright,” Rex soothes, placing a hand over your bristling shoulder. “I’ve heard worse.”

Your features scrunch up into a wince. “That...that doesn’t mean you have to suffer through more of it, Rex.”

Sighing, you run a hand through your hair and loosen the heavy outer robes strung around your shoulders. You shrug out of them and fold the thick swaths of fabric over you arm—revealing the under layers of your uniform. You toss the bundle of fabric to the floor with a disgusted grimace and sit on the cargo crate closest to your left.

“Really—it’s ok.” Rex assures again. “I—“

You hold up a hand and shake your head. His mouth snaps shut. “I won’t hear it. To me you are nothing short of perfect and I refuse to argue about it. Maker knows I already do that for a kriffing living.”

There’s a fragile lull in the hollow space—the distant chatter of voices and strange music collecting in the corners. You stand once again, toe to toe with the Captain and there it is again, that elated pitter patter of his heart thrumming through his veins. The nerves of being so close to you—you sweet face and not being able to touch you.

“Let me see your face.”

His hands come up to the edges of his helmet without hesitation, a hiss of hair escaping the seal once he pries it off. You smile and take a step closer until the only thing separating you and him is his helmet.

Rex’s eyes flutter shut, leaning into your hand you gingerly place over his jaw. “I wish the entire galaxy could see you through my eyes,” you whisper, the warmth of your soft palm radiating out and warming his entire body.

It’s a matchstick to kerosene—his helmet clatters to the ground and there’s only a second to spare as both hands move to cup his cheeks, dragging him into a mouthwatering kiss.

He hasn’t kissed many people—save for those rare times at 79’s, head swimming under the haze of one too many shots of Corellian fire whiskeys where he could barely distinguish his ass from his hand. Those drunken make-outs were nothing like this.

No—this…this is what a kiss should be like.

He dreams about you all the time—so constantly ravenous that all he can feel some days is pure ache. Every and all words that spin around his head starts with you and finishes with his pounding heart close to bursting free from his ribcage. Not in the same way a flood rips through an unsuspecting village—more like the brilliance of a thousand doves, marble white plumage thrashing free from their gilded cage. Your lips taste like the core of a newborn star—scorching and yet still so sweet upon the tongue the same way caramelized sugar sticks to the roof your mouth. You are his first and last everything.

There’s a certain kind of tragedy hidden beneath your tongue, fragile promises and the eggshell thin shards of hope stapled to the roof of your mouth. Rex will take it—seize any threadbare strand and run with it—spool it into the palm of his hand until you’re wound so tightly together it’ll be impossible to untangle.

Just when the dizziness sets in from elation and not enough air, you part and leave a sticky trail of warm kisses up his jaw. Rex groans and hugs you closer, you humid breath blooming across his skin. “Let me take care of you.”

The words on his tongue crumble to ash once he nods in agreement. Your kisses dip lower, not even stopping when the reach the edge of his chest plate. Stars, you’re…he never entertained the idea that your lips could look so divine in contrast to the battered plastoid. When you fold onto your knees his heart leaps to his mouth, a flare of arousal flashing through his groin.

You rest your chin over his codpiece and smile. “Do you like seeing me on my knees, sir?”

Rex huffs and studies at the opposing wall—

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Your fingers find the claps over his codpiece. “Can I take this off?”

Rex jerks his head in a yes but grabs your wrist. Not a rough hold—a tentative one as hesitation swirls in his eyes. “Don’t—don’t have t’ do this for me—“

You quirk a brow. “I want to because I like you, Rexy.”

A rosy blush blooms over his sharp cheekbones. The captain nods again.

The codpiece clatters to the ground and immediately you move your hand to palm him through his blacks. He grunts and squeezes his eyes shut. There we go.

Biting your lip, you pull down his blacks as far as the plastoid plating allows, greeted with the hard length of his cock, beautiful and flushed a rosy brown. Fuck—he’s thicker than you thought. You wrap your fingers around the base, delighted by Rex’s airy gasp as he throbs in your palm. A bead of liquid shines at the tip and just the sight of it makes your mouth water.

Moons—you should’ve done this sooner.

With a stuttering inhale, Rex trails his forefinger along your cheek and tucks a stray hair behind your ear. The pads of his fingertips skim lower and lightly pinch your chin between his forefinger and thumb. Your eyes lift to meet his. “You—you sure?”

You answer with a kiss over the dip of his navel, the skin searing hot under your lips. Rex curses and rolls his head back onto his shoulders when your palm slides up the length of his cock and then back down. Your grip is firm and tight as Rex slumps onto the crate, goosebumps rushing up his exposed flesh. Stars, when’s the last time he’s gotten release like this?

You lean forward and lick a languid line from the velvety skin of his balls all the way up to the tip. Rex’s hips jolt. You purse your lips and suckle at the head, dipping your tongue over the slit then down to trace the ridge of his frenulum all the while your hand rolls up and down his shaft. Rex tangles his fingers into your hair with a hiss. You open your jaw a bit wider and take him down a few inches into the wet heat of your mouth, feeling your lips stretch around his cock. You you drag the flat of your tongue along the underside of his shaft to make the thickness easier to swallow down, but he's still only halfway into your mouth when he hits the back of your throat.

“Fuck—" Rex moans as his hips strain to remain still. “S’good—such a good girl.”

You glance up, eyes devouring the attractive length of his clean shaven throat and the underside of his chin. Rex swallows and let’s out another little sound. You whine softly in return and slip a hand into your pants, pressing your fingertips against your throbbing clit as you start to carefully bob your head up and down. Yeah—your jaw already aches just from holding his cock in in your mouth but fuck it—it’s worth it.

Rex's chest heaves with exertion as he mindfully rocks his hips up, pushing and rolling his cock deeper into your mouth until his shaft is nearly seated all the way in. Ditching your own pleasure entirely, you swallow around him, forcing down the urge to gag and simply hold him here. Allowing him a moment to just enjoy the soft warmth of your mouth before launching into the main event.

Rex murmurs your name and strokes his thumb over your cheek. “You’re beautiful—so pretty like—like this..ah—”

You pointedly hollow your cheeks and suck, his flattery warming your chest with pride. You swallow around him another time, squeeze his shaft, your fist following your mouth as you lift up then back down to the base. You grunt at the abrupt jolt of his hips. There’s no distinctive rhythm you can follow as you pull halfway up and let Rex rock his hips into your mouth—seeking out his pleasure without a coherent thought in sight. Just a cacophony of gasping breaths and rough moans of your name.

Soon enough he’s twitching in your mouth, his eyes fluttering shut as his head tips back onto his shoulders. The gloved hand sweetly cradling your cheek slips to the nape of your neck, tangling his fingers into you hair to anchor himself. He’s close—quiet gasps and broken curses tumbling out, hips unconsciously rocking into your mouth in search of release.

Rex whimpers your name, his leg jolting as you work your jaw wider and swallow him down, the dark curls tickling your nose once it brushes his groin. “Oh, fuck.”

You hum around him, delighting in the mumbled praises. Almost there…That’s it.

He’s dangling on the precipice—on tiny shove away from euphoria—

“Wait—“ Saliva dribbles down your chin when his cock pops out from your swollen lips, throbbing from the unintentional tease. “Maker—shit.”

If not for the gloves covering his hands, you’re sure they’d be turning white from how tightly he grips the edge of the crate. His eyes are squeezed shut, slightly bent forward as he falls away from the edge of his release. Rex sucks in a steadying breath, amber eyes meeting your confused ones.

“I don’t—can we—“ Rex’s eyes flit and focus on anything but you as he stutters and works up the courage to ask for what he wants. “Do we have time—“

You rolls your eyes and rest your cheek on his thigh. Silly man. “You wanna fuck me, Rexy?”

“Kriff, yes.”

You smile and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “I don’t think they’ll miss us."

Rex doesn’t complain when you take his hands and yank him onto the grubby floor and over your senatorial robes. He props his back against the crate as you shuck off everything below the waste and clamber into his lap. His hands, warm even through the leather, land over the swell of your hips and wrench you closer until your front presses up against his chest plate.

The rough prickle of his stubble is, in all sense of the word, addictive. He tilts his head to kiss you, the slick touch of his tongue on your bottom lip adding jet fuel to the fire low in your belly. Rex groans and cups your jaw, holding your mouth open to dance his tongue along the length of yours. You whine and shudder as he purses his lips and lightly sucks on your tongue before you both part.

Rex drags his teeth over your bottom lip as you both pant for precious air. His dark lashes sweep up his cheeks when he looks at you. This close you bare witness to the dazzling color of his eyes—crystalized pearls of amber over the crackled bark of pine tree in the midmorning sun. Muted gold threaded through the brown like fine lace and the slow shimmer of the sun dappled through water. To think such a man like him is dredged through the bloodied mud of war is despicable.

You blink away the swell of tears prickling at your eyes and kiss him once more. Sighing, you whisper down, mouthing soft nibbles and teasing kisses over his jaw and down his neck. Rex squirms and rock his hips up, your cunt clenching around nothing. You need him.

“Rex,” you groan. You slide your hand between your bodies and grab at his thick length. Rex gasps into your mouth, long fingers clamping onto your waist in a death grip. “I want you.”

“I’m yours.”

Your nibble at his earlobe as you grind your hips against his length, the folds of your cunt teasingly out of reach. “Touch me, Captain.”

Rex tears off his vambraces and gloves, hand wedging between your thighs, touching the very tips of his fingers to your throbbing clit. You whine and clench your jaw—the pleasure is raw—sizzling electricity that crackles with the deadly promises of your pleasure. It’s as if you’ve had the breath knocked out of your lungs the second he bears down a bit more on your clit, drawing tentative circles, each completion sending a shockwave of tightly spooled ecstasy through each and every nerve. You nearly sob as his fingers slip away.

“So wet already,” Rex moans as you tip your head back when two of his fingers begin circle your dripping cunt. They’re thick and long and perfect. Your hips stutter as your cunt easily accepts his fingers, the heel of his palm slotting perfectly against your pussy to stimulate your clit.

Maker you’re seeing stars as Rex rocks his hand into you—the bend of his fingers the perfect angle to catch all the right places that make you tremble. He kisses your cheek and moans your name into your ear, all low and gravelly—

Your body seizes up tight as you soar, plummeting off the edge only to tumble so fast and so hard that tears prick the corner of your eyes. Rex peppers kisses over your cheeks and runs his free hand through your hair, purring praise and adoration as you shudder—your mouth parted in a silent cry as you cum and dissolve into his hands.

When you suck in a steadying breath and open your eyes, Rex is gazing upon you with starstruck eyes—pure adoration that makes your cheeks flare hotter than the surface of two mini suns. Your teeth catch your bottom lip. You’re not sure you deserve to be looked at like this…

However, you’re impatient and running on stolen seconds. As much as you’d like to just simply stare at him—there’s not enough time. Rex wraps his fingers around the base of his cock and slides the tip of himself through your soaking folds. Each stroke against your still throbbing clit makes you buckle into yourself, but the angle that your knees are propped over his hips means you're stuck here.

Rex pauses and cups your cheek. His thumb scrapes over your cheekbone. “You want this?”

You place your hand over his and turn your head to mouth a kiss over the lines of his palm. Oh, fuck yeah. Kind of him to ask as if hadn’t just cum over his fingers but—no. “I need you to fuck me, Rex. That’s an order.”

Rex huffs out a low chuckle and bumps the crown of his forehead against yours. “As you wish, Senator.”

Rex runs the blunt head of his cock through your folds again, slicking himself up with your arousal. You mewl and dig your nails into the hard plastoid as the wide tip of him pushes into your entrance—he shudders as you clench and wiggle. It doesn’t hurt, but he’s in no small. You’ll feel him for days, you’re sure of it as your cunt swallows inch after inch.

You both groan as he finally bottoms out. His jaw his clenched tight as sweat beads at his blonde hairline—Stars above, he’s a sight, struggling not to loose control the second he’s buried inside of you. Desire tickles up your spine, tugging at the fabrics of your being until all you can focus on his how Rex isn’t moving. You shift your hips in tiny, almost imperceptible motions, and squeeze around him.

“Damn—“ A ragged moans slices through his words as your gentle rocking morphs into needy jolts. It’s easy to fuck yourself onto his cock like this, but the measly thrusts are meant to tempt him. “Fuck, cyare, you’re tight.”

You smirk and grab at his sculpted shoulders—it’s the push he needs. Rex snarls your name, cups his hands under the globes of your ass and pulls you off his cock nearly all the way out only to slam back in. There’s no time to adjust before Rex sets a pace, fevered and rabid All pent up energy collecting over the weeks you’ve known each other. Each roll of his hips borders erratic, taking his pleasure without thought—intent on reaching his own end after being denied for what feels like ages.

You squeal in surprise as Rex pushes you onto your back and hoists your legs around his hips. Rex buries his nose into the crook of your neck and moans your name like a sweet prayer wrapped in honeycomb. Rex shifts his weight, widening his knees to sink deeper into your cunt—his stubble tickling your throat as his staggered exhales burn hot over your skin.

You choke out a groan and feel your arousal begin to drip down your thighs—hear the thrusts of his cock into your cunt become shamefully wetter. Electric heat sears down each vertebrae in your spine, scorching through each and every veins with the catastrophic brilliance of an imploding star. Shit—

“So good t’me—so perfect,” he huffs into your ear. Rex turns his head and steals a kiss. “Feel fuckin’ good stretched around my cock."

You clench around him hard as Rex’s hand sneaks between your bodies and rubs tight, little circles over you swollen clit. There’s barely any build up to your orgasm—just a blinding surge of devastating warmth that sweeps through your body, from your aching center down to your toes. It steals away all the air left in your lungs and leaves your clutching his arm and shuddering for a hold in your own reality—the steady warmth of his body that’s unburdened by armor a much needed anchor for the madness that threatens to drown you.

His gentle, and pliant kisses morph into little pricks of his teeth over your neck and collar bone as his hips struggle to keep a definitive pattern. Rex’s curses string together and blur into nonsensical noises and loose tongue admittances that are comparable to moving inches from an imploding star.

“Where can—can I?”

You grab at his head and whine his name. “Anywhere—in me—you can cum in me.”

With a loving caress over back of his neck and a sweet whisper of his name, he reaches release. Rex’s moan is airy as his eyes slam shut and captures your mouth in a sizzling kiss. He’s twitching in your arms as his hips erratically jerk, hot spurts of his release coating your insides and beginning to leak over your robes you lay over. Whatever.

Rex nips at your skin as the last dregs of pleasure jolt up your spine. Neither of you say a word as Rex’s hips come to a slow. Time trickles through your fingers like sand through an hourglass half empty but instead of rushing to dress, you choose to lie on the ground—two halves of a mess someone’s been meaning to clean up for the better part of a long while. You feel at home here—content as your fingers run up and down the back of his head, a bit irked by the armor still covering his back. You’re terrified of the months to come—but at least you have each other. After all, gardens will bloom and flourish with fresh blooded love and wild mistakes sculpted from passion forever if you believe hard enough…wont they?

#we out here #yeehaw #my writing #captain rex x reader #captain rex x you #ct-7567 #captai rex #clone x reader #clone trooper x reader #the clone wars #tcw #anakin skywalker #obi wan kenobi #star wars #sw

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omgrachwrites · 4 years ago

Text

Her Prince - Prince Hal

Pairing: Reader x Prince Hal (The Hollow Crown)

Summary: The man that comes to visit you at your woodland cottage - the man that you’re falling in love with - is a mystery. When you discover what he’s hiding from you, it turns your whole world upside down.

Warnings: fluff, angst, ooc Hal probs, mentions of blood

Words: 2569

Disclaimer: So, I know that none of this would ever happen but I’m a hopeless romantic?? Characters will be ooc probably

A/N: I promise that I will be getting back to my usual fics but I had a really shitty day in work and I had to make my self feel better. The Hollow Crown was one of Tom’s superior looks! Hope you guys enjoy and please let me know what you think, I love you all! xxx

I've been living to see you Dying to see you, but it shouldn't be like this This was unexpected, what do I do now? Could we start again please?

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The day was swelteringly hot and you were in front of your woodland cottage, tending to your herb garden. You were the best healer in the village and the townspeople ventured out of the safe confines of their stone walls to come and seek an audience with you in your forest cottage. As you were tending to the thorned plants, your hand slipped and you near enough sliced your hand open.

You gasped out into the silent air as thick scarlet blood blossomed on your palm but before you could do much about it, you heard the gallop of horse hooves in the distance, getting closer with every breath you took. Then, he called out to you and your heart fluttered with anticipation.

“Good afternoon, Y/N,” he beamed as his horse came to a stop.

You blushed as you looked at Hal’s handsome face, he was handsome enough to be a Prince with his honey brown curls and sparkling blue eyes, “hello, Hal,” you smiled as you sat on your little stone wall, your legs hanging over the edge, “it’s nice to see that you’re not half dead this time,” you laughed, recalling the first time you met him. He’d been injured and if you’d waited longer to heal him then he’d be dead.

Hal sighed, teasingly as he dismounted from his horse, “must you always mention that every time I come to visit you?”

You laughed as you reached a leg out to lightly kick at his knee, “of course, I’m never going to let you forget it,” you smiled and he rolled his eyes. By the look of his flushed cheeks, he’d been riding a long way today and you thought that he might care for some refreshment, “would you like some water? Or milk and honey, perhaps, to cool you down?”

Hal smiled and opened his mouth to reply but he hesitated when he caught sight of your slashed palm. He tutted and reached out for your hand, running his gentle fingers over the cut, “you’re hurt,” he lifted his concerned eyes to meet yours and you bit your lip as your eyes dropped down to his lips for a split second.

“It’s alright,” you breathed, “it’s just a cut from some thorns.”

“Here,” Hal smiled as he reached into his satchel bag and pulled out some fresh smelling cloth, “I don’t think that my healing skills are quite up to the level of yours, but I always keep some with me, just in case,” he chuckled and wrapped your hand in the bandage.

It was so courteous of him that you couldn’t help but stare at him, flustered and searching for something – anything – to say, “I’ll go and fetch you that glass of water,” you laughed nervously as you turned away, grimacing when his pleasant laughter followed you into the cool interior of your cottage. It was such a relief to be out of that heat, if only for a couple of minutes.

Quickly, you poured him a tankard of water before walking out into the scorching sun again. Hal gave you a grateful smile as you handed him the water and he drained it in one swallow, gasping as he smacked his lips before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. You had to fight back a giggle.

“By God, I needed that, thank you, Y/N,” he smiled as he sat beside you on the small wall, his leg pressed against yours. Your cheeks flushed at his close proximity.

Over the few months that he had been coming to see you, you had grown to care for him, in fact you were falling in love with him. You wondered who he really was, “have you got an outing planned for tonight? I know that you prefer to collect your ingredients at night,” it was so nice that he’d remembered.

You bit your lip nervously as you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. You could hardly tell him that you were going to the Royal Palace, Hal had already expressed his distaste for King Henry and the Prince of Wales, you didn’t want him to think any less of you. The King had heard of your skills and he’d invited you to court to speak to you about taking the post of physician when his current one retired. You were very grateful that word of your skills had reached the King’s ears.

“No, no outings tonight,” you felt your cheeks grow hot and the lie tasted bitter on your tongue.

Hal sat on your stone wall with you, keeping you company for a little while longer, and when he took his leave, you sent him off with raspberry tartlets which you had drizzled with honey and baked golden brown. For as long as you lived, you would never forget the way he smiled at you so sweetly as he cupped your cheek, before he brushed his lips against yours, as gentle as a whisper.

When he pulled back to look at your reaction, your heart pounded so loudly in your chest that you were afraid that he’d heard it and you felt pleasant tingles all over your body. When he found no sign of hesitance – you would have to be a fool to reject him – he pulled you closer and kissed you deeper. You stood on your tiptoes to meet his kiss as you allowed your fingers to run through his curls as you kissed him in the peaceful little clearing. Long after Hal had left, your lips still tingled from the memory of his intoxicating kiss.

Later on that evening, you were being escorted down the never-ending hallways by a Palace guard – how people found their way around this castle, you had no idea – you were dressed finely for your audience with the King, a dress from green silk that you’d made yourself. You were so nervous and the guard must have sensed it because he gave you an encouraging smile.

“Everyone has is worrisome before meeting the King,” he chuckled, “the common folk prefer the Prince.”

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise, “they do? I have never met him; will he be at court today?” you asked with interest.

“I think not, he’s been in the tavern often, of late.”

You grimaced to yourself, spending time in the tavern was not wise for the future King but you kept your thoughts to yourself. As you entered the Throne Room and saw the old proud King on his Throne, you wanted to bolt out the way you came in but you forced yourself forwards until you were kneeling at his feet.

“Your Majesty, thank you for seeing me,” you kept your head bowed as was the custom.

“Please, rise my child,” with a small smile, you got to your feet and looked at the King, “Miss Y/N, I have heard great tales of your skills and accomplishments. I believe you’ve healed quite a few soldiers in my army?”

“Yes, Your Majesty, they often come by my cottage, it’s the quickest path to the castle.”

“Quite,” the King nodded, “I thank you for your service, my physician has grown old and his methods are not what they used to be. If you would, return three days from now and we can truly see what you can do.”

A slight sting of annoyance shot through your body but you would never let it show on your face, you would rather show him now but to argue with the King was to wish for death. Before you could accept, the door to the right of you opened and the King sighed as he shook his head, you were too nervous to see who it was.

“Finally, my son, you need to extend your apologies to our guest for being late.”

“My apologies,” a soft distracted voice came to the right of you, the King gave the Prince a sharp look and the Prince of Wales sighed as he walked in front of you, “please accept my apologies, my lady,” when he looked at you, his eyes faltered and his mouth opened in surprise.

Tears sprang to your eyes as you practically felt your heart crack as you stared at Hal – your Hal – he was the Prince? Words couldn’t describe how you felt but if you had to use one word, it would be ‘betrayed.’

Keeping your voice steady, you looked back at the King, “may I have your leave to go, Your Majesty.”

“Of course,” the King inclined his head.

As soon as the King replied, you bowed once more and escaped from the room as quickly as you could without actually running. You heard Hal say something to his father before you heard his quick footsteps follow you, “Y/N!” you shook your head and kept walking, refusing to look back at him, you wouldn’t let him see you cry, “please!” his voice broke and you couldn’t help yourself, you had to stop and look at him.

Well, you didn’t look at him, you kept your eyes on the floor, “Your Majesty,” you mumbled as you saw Hal’s feet walking closer to you.

You felt a warm gentle hand on your chin and you allowed yourself to look at his face, he looked so apologetic and his eyes almost looked wet, “we should talk.”

“As Your Majesty wishes.”

Hal looked sick as he rubbed his thumb against your cheek, “please don’t call me that, nothing’s changed between us.”

“Nothing’s changed?!” your sadness quickly turned to anger and you momentarily forgot where you were, “everything’s changed! Why didn’t you tell me? By God!” you gasped as you slapped a hand to your forehead, “I’ve been rude to you! And you’re the crowned Prince! I kissed you!”

Hal bit his lip as he rubbed the back of his neck nervously, “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to treat me any differently, and technically, I kissed you,” he chuckled.

“Why?” you asked, holding back the tears, “why would you kiss me? Was it for something to laugh about with your noble friends,” your eyes went blurry as a wave of sadness washed over you.

“No, Y/N! Angel, no, I kissed you because I love you!”

Your heart stopped in your chest but it wasn’t from happiness, it was from overwhelming sadness, you would have longed to hear that just a few hours ago but now, you would rather that he didn’t say anything, “you can’t say that,” you shook your head as you backed away from him and Hal’s face fell, causing you to look away as you felt a stab of pain shoot through your heart.

“It doesn’t make it any less true,” he mumbled.

“I have to go,” you sighed as tears slid down your cheeks and ran over your lips, “goodbye, Your Highness,” walking away from him was the hardest thing you had ever done – especially when he was calling after you in that broken voice – but you had no other choice. He was the future King.

A year later, you were in your chambers at the palace, you hadn’t seen Hal since you had said goodbye to him. He’d been staying at his castle in Wales, though it wasn’t far away enough to make you forget about him. It was a particularly rainy day when your apprentice came bursting through the door with a shocked look on his face.

“Y/N! Y/N! Have you heard the news?” he was out of breath from running and it made you laugh.

“Calm down! What news?”

“The Prince is back, he’s in the tavern in the village, the word is that he’s abdicated the Throne for a peasant girl.”

You were so shocked that you dropped the empty beaker you were holding, letting it shatter across the ground, “are you,” you cleared your throat as you tried to gather your thoughts, “are you sure?” when Arthur nodded, you gulped and looked at him nervously. He’d probably abdicated the Throne for a pretty girl that he’d met in Wales but he used to love you and there was a sliver of hope in your chest, you had to go and see for yourself, “can you keep an eye on things here?”

“Yes, but where are you going?” Arthur frowned at you as you grabbed your cloak but you shook your head without another word.

Your riding had got much better while you were staying at the castle and you got to the tavern in a surprisingly short amount of time. You hoped that Hal was still here. As you opened the door to the warm tavern a hushed silence fell over the patrons as they stared at the newcomer. You didn’t have to search far for Hal because he was in the middle of everyone with a pretty blonde woman perched on his lap. His eyes widened as he looked at you, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he swallowed. Hal had seemed to become even more beautiful in the year that he’d been away. He looked like an angel.

The woman sneered at you and you realised that he hadn’t abdicated the Throne for you at all, you were such a fool. Offering Hal, a sad smile with tears sparkling in your eyes, you turned to leave, walking out into the cold evening air again. You had barely mounted your horse before you felt a strong arm wrap around your waist from behind and a warm hand came to brush your tears away.

“Why are you crying petal?” he whispered.

You could feel the fissure in your heart widen and your knees almost buckled at the sound of his soft voice, “because you’re you a fool,” you sniffled as you turned to face him, “abdicating the Throne for that woman.”

Hal let out a surprised laugh as he shook his head, “I haven’t abdicated the Throne for her,” he jabbed his thumb in the direction of the tavern, “I’ve abdicated it for you.”

Your heart soared as you gasped, searching his face for any deceit, instead you found nothing but love, “me? Why?”

Hal grinned as he cupped your cheek, “isn’t it clear my dear? Because I love you, I would rather give up my future rule than lose you.”

Tears sprang to your eyes again but for a completely different reason and you rested your hands against Hal’s firm chest, “was your father angry?” you couldn’t believe that this brave handsome man had given up everything for you.

“Furious,” Hal rolled his eyes, “but I don’t want to live without you, I love you, Y/N. I would like nothing more than to live the rest of my days with you by my side.”

You smiled as your fingers curled through his hair as you gazed up at him, “I love you too,” you pulled him into a passionate kiss and at the first touch of his lips, you gasped, it felt like coming home, “I’m going to have to find a new post,” you laughed, you couldn’t go back to the palace now.

Hal only chuckled as he pulled you in for another kiss, for the first time in your life you had no idea what was coming next. However, you couldn’t find it in your heart to care, you had your Prince and that was all that mattered.

--------------------------

@smiithys

#prince hal #hal #the hollow crown #prince hal imagine #prince hal fanfiction #prince hal x reader #prince hal x reader insert #prince hal x y/n #prince hal x you #you x prince hal #hal x reader #hal x y/n #hal x you #you x hal #tom hiddleston #royalty au

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blackswaneuroparedux · 4 years ago

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ltdan2288 asked: As a fellow veteran of the Afghan Campaign, might I ask if you have any thoughts about the imminent end of Allied air support & combat-advisory operations over there? The fall of large swaths of the country to the Taliban is already underway, which can only be seen as an unspeakable tragedy for the people there. From a strategic perspective, there’s no reason to believe that we won’t have to return in some capacity of AQ or ISIS reestablish themselves under Taliban sponsorship. At the same time, it’s not clear to me that our presence did anything beyond kick the can down the road and delay this inevitable outcome. As someone with such a deep knowledge of military history, I’m curious if you have a different perspective.

I have been avoiding answering this post for a while now because Afghanistan dredges up so many conflicting emotions inside me. I wrestle with so many memories of my time there with my regiment to fight in a war that we all didn’t really understand what we were fighting for.

Deep breath.

Almost two decades of conflict in Afghanistan has cost British taxpayers £22.2billion, or $31.3 billion according to UK government figures. As British troops prepare to leave Afghanistan, the 20-year deployment bill could be even higher. As of May 2021, the total cost of Operation Herrick (codename for the deployment of British soldiers to Helmand province) is £22.2billion. There were 457 fatalities on, or subsequently due to, Op Herrick. Of which 403 were due to hostile action. During the operation between January 1, 2006 and November 30, 2014, there were 10,382 British service personnel casualties. Of these 5,705 were injuries and the remainder being illness or disease. The UK’s remaining 750 troops in Afghanistan, involved in training local forces, started exiting the war-devastated country in May. Most of them will return home by the end of July.

They, like every one of us who went to fight in Afghanistan, will ask the same questions, ‘Why did we go there?’ ‘What was the real purpose of the mission?’ ‘Was it worth it?’

Both my older brothers fought there with special distinction and I later fought there too. I have very mixed emotions when I think about my time in Afghanistan. For all its faults and tortured history, I love that country and love its many ethnic people. I even started to learn Pashtu as I already had a spoken command of Urdu because I had been raised partly in both Pakistan and India and it’s where many Afghan refugees living in the UN camps for over a generation had learned Urdu too.

It’s not just that my family has history in Afghanistan going back to the days of the East India Company but I had a sincere respect for its culture and history as one of the central hot spots for great civilisational achievements, but also as a stubborn and unruly country who proudly defied the Great Powers to bend the knee and turned it into a ‘graveyard of empires’. Most of all I think of the friendships I made there and how my perspective on life changed as a consequence of knowing such resilience and fortitude in the face of catastrophe and death.

I’m sure like everyone else I wasn’t too surprised by President Biden’s announcement that he was announcing the imminent withdrawal of all American troops in Afghanistan. He wanted to pivot to something else when asked about it. “I want to talk about happy things, man!” He said. Who could begrudge him given that America has been at war in Afghanistan for a better part of 20 years and has nothing to really show for it. Except of course the loss of its brave service men and women as well as the death of thousands of Afghan civilians. It spent more than $2 trillion to kill Osama bin Laden, the architect behind 9/11 attacks and failed to convincingly snuff out both murderous terror groups, Al Qaeda and ISIS.

When the Secretary General of Nato announced back in April 2021 all alliance troops were to be withdrawn from Afghanistan, it was made to look like a nice, clean, enunciation of a joint decision. The end date was set for 11 September, 2021 - 20 years after the terrorist attacks on New York and Washington - and it was in line with the oft-repeated alliance maxim: we went in together; we will come out together. Except that, on closer examination, it was all rather messier.

This was partly because the withdrawal from Afghanistan had actually been Trump’s policy, so here was Joe Biden, the anti-Trump, co-opting a policy from his predecessor (a policy Trump had been so keen on that he tried to accelerate the withdrawal after he lost the election). Biden then tried to detach it from Trump by slowing down the withdrawal date a little and expressing it in terms more comprehensible to the Washington establishment and to US allies.

Where Trump had essentially done a deal with the Taliban and set a withdrawal date of 1 May, Biden left the Taliban out of it and invoked the totemic date of 9/11. This does not mean, of course, that the withdrawal will not be completed a good deal sooner - once you announce a withdrawal, you might as well get on with it.

In fact, Biden had to make a decision one way or another, given the rapid approach of Trump’s 1 May withdrawal date. And, whether it came from Washington or Nato, it was pretty low key for an announcement that a 20-year military involvement that had cost 4,000 allied lives was ending. Indeed, many people beyond Washington and Afghanistan might not quite have registered the news, given the considerable noises from Nato’s simultaneous dire warnings about Russia massing troops on the Ukrainian border, the death of the Duke of Edinburgh in the UK, and the Covid pandemic everywhere.

And distractions were needed not just because Biden was implementing a Trump policy. It was also because he was ordering an unconditional withdrawal – which he justified, correctly, by saying that setting preconditions would mean that the troops could be there forever. It was a risk Biden knew all too well, given that Barack Obama had been persuaded by General David Petraeus – against his election pledges and his better judgement – that what Obama really wanted was not a withdrawal, but a ‘surge’ with conditions attached before a withdrawal could take place.

Distractions were also useful for London, where the timing was hardly ideal. Imagine you were in government in London, you had watched the dismal failure of the UK’s Herrick operations in Helmand Province between 2006 and 2014, you knew that your armed forces had suffered 456 deaths in 20 years, with many more severely injured, but you had hung on in there.

Your government had also just released a blueprint for foreign and security policy, setting future priorities even further from home, in the Indo-Pacific, and your Prime Minister was about to make a high-profile visit to India as part of his post-Brexit ‘Global Britain’ branding . In those circumstances, an announcement that the US had decided to leave Afghanistan, giving you no choice but to follow, was almost exactly what you did not need. Rather than showing the UK as a powerful, autonomous military actor and a valued ally, it showed the exact opposite.

It also reminded an unhappy British public about a costly conflict it had rather forgotten. And those who did more than bother to remember - like the families who lost loved ones on the battlefield - and who over the years have blamed successive governments for moving the goalposts and lacking an exit strategy (all true too).

All of which might explain why the UK’s Foreign and Defence Secretaries followed the US example by changing the subject to the iniquities of Russia and China, rather than issuing a joyous pronouncement to the effect of: hooray and thank goodness, our boys and girls are coming home.

The UK’s Chief of Defence Staff, General Sir Nick Carter gave a subdued, unenthusiastic response to Biden’s announcement. I cannot remember such open acknowledgement of UK-US military policy friction in recent decades - or such an abject admission by the UK of its defence dependence on the US. What Carter said was that the unconditional withdrawal was ‘not a decision we had hoped for, but we obviously respect it and it is clearly an acknowledgement of an evolving US strategic posture’. In other words, the UK had opposed Biden’s decision – or would have done, if asked (which is not clear). Also, that it was Washington’s ‘strategic posture’ that had ‘evolved’, not the UK’s. He suggested there was a real danger that progress made could be lost and that there could be a return to civil war, with the Taliban maybe returning to power - again, all true.

Given that the UK officially has only 750 troops in Afghanistan at present, and most of them are there in a training capacity, to dissent from the US position so openly would be considered decidedly rude in the Ministry of Defence. Perhaps to that end, General Carter played the dutiful soldier and had to - through gritted teeth - put a positive gloss on Afghanistan’s future, insisting that the objective in going into Afghanistan, ‘to prevent international terrorism emerging from the country’, had been achieved which was ‘great tribute to the work of British forces and their allies’.

He also said that Afghan forces were ‘much better trained than one might imagine’ and that the Taliban ‘is not the organisation it once was’, so that ‘a scenario could play out that is actually not quite as bad as perhaps some of the naysayers are predicting.’ Blah blah blah. He’s wrong, and I think he knows it but only in the sanctity of his gentlemen’s club might he truly admit it.

I know he’s wrong because the chatter amongst ex-veterans I know is that we’ve made a balls up of Afghanistan yet again - by ‘again’ I mean from the past 200 years of us Brits trying to bring order to chaos in Afghanistan and getting burned for our troubles.

Both my father and my older siblings tell me what their friends and ex-service peers (some very senior indeed) have been nattering over a drink at their gentlemen clubs where ex-veterans haunt the club bar. Many just shake their heads in sighed resignation before burying themselves in the Times crossword or drowning their sorrows with a beer or two at how lock in step we’ve become to the Americans at a time when the British army is re-branding itself as a more independent nimble hi-tech impact army (the creation of a new ranger regiment being but one example).

Still if President Biden wanted to tie a neat bow on U.S. involvement in Afghanistan - saying, as he had, that the logic for the war ended once al-Qaida was gutted and Osama bin Laden killed - then it reveals a stunning lack of introspection about the United States’ role in the conflict that will continue in Afghanistan long after the last American and British troops leave.

Less than three months after President Joe Biden declared that the last American troops would be out of Afghanistan by September 11th, the withdrawal is nearly complete. The departure from Bagram air base, an hour’s drive north of the capital, Kabul, in effect marked the end of America’s 20-year war. But that does not mean the end of the war in Afghanistan. If anything, it is only going to get worse.

It is true that the president had no good choice on Afghanistan, and that he inherited a bad deal from his predecessor. There are never good choices when it comes to Afghanistan: only bloody trade offs.

But in announcing an unconditional withdrawal, he made the situation worse by throwing out the minimal conditions U.S. Special Envoy Zalmay Khalilzad had negotiated under the Trump administration. U.S. envoy Zalmay Khalilzad has delivered to the Afghan government and Taliban a draft Afghanistan Peace Agreement - the central idea of which is replacing the elected Afghan government with a so-called transitional one that would include the Taliban and then negotiate among its members the future permanent system of government. Crucial blank spaces in the draft include the exact share of power for each of the warring sides and which side would control security institutions.

The refrain now from the Biden administration is that the United States is not abandoning Afghanistan, that it will aim to do right by Afghan women and girls, and that it will try to nudge the Taliban and Kabul toward a peace deal using a diplomatic tool kit.

But the narrative ignores much of the reality on the ground. It also ignores history.

In theory, the Taliban and the American-backed government had been negotiating a peace accord, whereby the insurgents lay down their arms and participate instead in a redesigned political system. In the best-case scenario, strong American support for the government, both financial and military (in the form of continuing air strikes on the Taliban), coupled with immense pressure on the insurgents’ friends, such as Pakistan, might succeed in producing some form of power-sharing agreement.

But even if that were to happen - and the chances are low - it would be a depressing spectacle. The Taliban would insist on moving backwards in the direction of the brutal theocracy they imposed during their previous stint in power, when they confined women to their homes, stopped girls from going to school and meted out harsh punishments for sins such as wearing the wrong clothes or listening to the wrong music.

More likely than any deal, however, is that the Taliban try to use their victories on the battlefield to topple the government by force. They have already overrun much of the countryside, with government units mostly restricted to cities and towns. Demoralised government troops are abandoning their posts. In the first week of July 2021, over 1,000 of them fled from the north-eastern province of Badakhshan to neighbouring Tajikistan. The Taliban have not yet managed to capture and hold any cities, and may lack the manpower to do so in lots of places at once. They may prefer to throttle the government slowly rather than attack it head on. But the momentum is clearly on their side.

America and its NATO allies have spent billions of dollars training and equipping Afghan security forces in the hope that they would one day be able to stand alone. Instead, they started buckling even before America left. Many districts are being taken not by force, but are simply handed over. Soldiers and policemen have surrendered in droves, leaving piles of American-purchased arms and ammunition and fleets of vehicles. Even as the last American troops were leaving Bagram over the weekend of July 3rd, more than 1,000 Afghan soldiers were busy fleeing across the border into neighbouring Tajikistan as they sought to escape a Taliban assault.

As the outlook for the army and for civilians looks increasingly desperate, so do the measures proposed by the government. Ashraf Ghani, the president, is trying to mobilise militias to shore up the flimsy army. He has turned for help to figures such as Atta Mohammad Noor, who rose to power as an anti-Soviet and anti-Taliban commander and is now a potentate and businessman in Balkh province. “No matter what, we will defend our cities and the dignity of our people,” said Mr Noor in his gilded reception hall in Mazar-i-Sharif, the key to holding the north (sounds like Game of Thrones). The thinking is that such a mobilisation would be a temporary measure to give the army breathing space and allow it to regroup and the new forces would co-ordinate with government troops to push back hard on the Taliban.

However this is Afghanistan. The prospect of unleashing warlords’ private armies fills many Afghans with dread, reminding them of the anarchy of the 1990s. Such militias, raised along ethnic lines, tended to turn on each other and the general population.

With America gone and Afghan forces melting away, the Taliban fancy their prospects. They show little sign of engaging in serious negotiations with Mr Ghani’s administration. Yet they control no major towns or cities. Sewing up the countryside puts pressure on the urban centres, but the Taliban may be in no hurry to force the issue. They generally lack heavy weapons. They may also lack the numbers to take a city against sustained resistance. On July 7th they failed to capture Qala-e-Naw, a small town. Besides, controlling a city would bring fresh headaches. They are not good at providing government services.

Perhaps the Taliban have learned their history lesson and might refrain from attacking Kabul this time around. Their best course may be to tighten the screws and wait for the government to buckle. American predictions of its fate are getting gloomier. Intelligence agencies think Mr Ghani’s government could collapse within six months, according to the Wall Street Journal. So clearly the momentum is on the side of the Taliban and they just need to chip away at Ghani’s forces one district after another until the inevitable and hateful surrender of the central Afghan government to their demands.

At the very least, the civil war is likely to intensify, as the Taliban press their advantage and the government fights for its life. Other countries - China, India, Iran, Russia and Pakistan - will seek to fill the vacuum left by America. Some will funnel money and weapons to friendly warlords. The result will be yet more bloodshed and destruction, in a country that has suffered constant warfare for more than 40 years. Those who worry about possible reprisals against the locals who worked as translators for the Americans are missing the big picture: America, Britain and other allies are abandoning an entire country of almost 40m people to a grisly fate.

Nothing exemplifies - at least in Afghan eyes - of all that has gone wrong with American involvement in Afghanistan than in the manner of their leaving.

The U.S. left Afghanistan's Bagram Airfield after nearly 20 years by shutting off the electricity and slipping away in the night without notifying the base's new Afghan commander, who discovered the Americans' departure more than two hours after they left in the middle of the night without raising any alarms.

They left behind 3.5 million items, including tens of thousands of bottles of water, energy drinks and military MRE's (Meals Ready to Eat ration packs to the uninitiated). Thousands of civilian vehicles were left, many without keys to start them, and hundreds of armoured vehicles. The Americans also left small weapons and ammunition, but the departing US troops took heavy weapons with them. Ammunition for weapons not left for the Afghan military was blown up.

Now that is some feat considering the logistics of this mass exodus without drawing any attention. You have obviously been to Bagram and so you will know just how big and sprawling it is. Bagram Airfield is the size of a small city, roadways weaving through barracks and past hangar-like buildings. There are two runways and more than 100 parking spots for fighter jets known as revetments. One of the two runways is 12,000 feet long and was built in 2006. There's a passenger lounge, a 50-bed hospital and giant hangar-size tents filled with furniture. And all those shops to remind Americans of home from familiar fast food restaurants and hairdressers and massage parlours to buying clothing and jewellery and buying a Harley Davidson motorbike (or so I’ve been told).

I’m guessing that the Afghans were certainly outside of the wire and probably had not been inside Bagram Airfield for months. So from the outset they would not have had any reason to think anything was going on until the generators probably ran out of fuel and it started to go a little too quiet. The inner gate was probably discretely left unlocked and when the US stopped answering the radio/phone and then they probably investigated.

Before the Afghan army could take control of the airfield about an hour's drive from the Afghan capital, Kabul, it was invaded by a small army of looters, who ransacked barrack after barrack and rummaged through giant storage tents before being evicted, according to Afghan troops. Afghan military leaders insist the Afghan National Security and Defense Force could hold on to the heavily fortified base despite a string of Taliban wins on the battlefield. The airfield includes a prison with about 5,000 prisoners, many of them allegedly Taliban members.

I’m pretty sure some bright spark in the US Pentagon public affairs dept convinced his military superiors that it was important to avoid the optics of Americans leaving in the same way they did in Vietnam in case it depresses the American public and the US military. Instead it demoralised its allies, the Afghan national army who are now the only line of defence against the Taliban. In one night, they lost all the goodwill of 20 years by leaving the way they did, in the night, without telling the Afghan soldiers who were outside patrolling the area. The manner in which the Americans left Bagram air base amounts to a resounding vote of no confidence in Afghanistan’s future. It just looks bad.

The U.S. choice came with costs attached to each decision. With staying, the cost was potential U.S. troop casualties and a fear that things would not change on the ground. With leaving comes the cost of a deeper conflict in Afghanistan and a backsliding of progress made there over the past two decades. In many ways, the costs of staying seem shorter-term and borne by the United States, while the costs of leaving will be predominantly borne by Afghans over a longer time horizon. Yet, even if those costs seem remote now, history tells us that they will be blamed on the United States.

Biden perhaps reflective of history of Americans getting into quagmires abroad didn’t want to be seen exerting time and energy for a losing cause. His decision also reflects his administration’s foreign policy for the American middle-class paradigm, which focuses on domestic considerations over international ones (and is this so different from Trump’s “America First”? No, it is not). The irony, though, is that the American middle class largely doesn’t care about Afghanistan - their ambivalence gave way to support for this decision once it was announced, but it wouldn’t be hard to visualise the public approving of a scenario that kept a couple thousand troops there for a while longer.

What’s perhaps most disturbing is the narrative the president has presented along with the rationale for withdrawal: that America went to Afghanistan to defeat al-Qaida after 9/11, that mission creep led America to stay on too long and, therefore, it is time to get out. This takes an incomplete view of U.S. agency in the war in Afghanistan. The narrative implies that the civil conflict in Afghanistan today did not originate with America - that this more than 40-year war began with the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan in 1979, preceded America’s interference in Afghanistan, and will follow our departure.

The fact of the matter is that, by beginning the campaign in Afghanistan in 2001 and overthrowing the Taliban, who were then engaged in their draconian rule, and installing a new government, we western allies began a new phase of the Afghan conflict — one that pitted the Kabul government and the United States/Britain/NATO against the Taliban insurgency. The Afghan people did not have a say in the matter. That we allied powers are leaving Afghan women, children, and youth better off in many ways after 20 years is due to us, and we should be proud of that. But that we are leaving them mired in a bloody conflict is also due to us, because we could not hold off the Taliban insurgency, and we must all reckon publicly with that.

I have to ask myself why did we fail?

I’m only speaking about us Brits now as I’m sure you have your own thoughts as an ex-Marine officer of what you thought of the American military effort. Yes, I’m copping out of really bashing the yanks because first, I have too much respect for those fantastic American service men and women I did have the privilege to fight alongside with; and second, we Brits have nothing to crow about as we fucked up in lots of ways too, and to make things worse, we should have known better given our imperial history with Afghanistan.

The seeds of our failure in Afghanistan lies in not learning from history. We didn’t have a mission that was properly defined nor did we have a strategy that was clear, coherent, and easily communicated to both its fighting men and women as well as to the British public.

Were we there to get our hands bloody and to root out and destroy extreme Islamist terrorists or were we there to indulge in state building out of some idealistic notions of liberal humanitarianism? This question was at heart of our failure within our government and also within the British army as well as our relations with America and our NATO allies and finally the Afghans themselves.

Although never colonised in the same manner as other central and south Asian countries, the modern Afghan state is very much a creation borne out of great power rivalry. A land occupied by a number of different ethnic, linguistic and religious groups, it is a country whose borders were defined by, and whose sense of national identity was forged in response to western great power competition. Its geopolitical position - landlocked, mountainous, and surrounded by past great powers and present regional rivals - lends Afghanistan a dual role of geographic obscurity and great strategic significance, and has as such frequently been treated as little more than a buffer state between empires and a proxy of local powers. Its shared historical border with Russia and British India made it an object of imperial intrigue and, by consequence, has been subject to five European military interventions in the last 175 years.

The first three interventions of these occurred during the era of ‘the Great Game’ in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, in which Britain and Russia (latterly the Soviet Union) competed for influence and control over Afghan politics in order to protect their respective imperial holdings in India and central Asia.

The fourth and fifth interventions, ranging from the late 1970s to the present day, similarly involved attempts by Soviets and then by an American-led international coalition to remove political leaders acting against their interests and to protect their favoured candidates.

The unifying feature of all these conflicts was the idea of Afghanistan as the site of potential threats to the interests and security of more powerful states.

Britain’s legacy in Afghanistan in particular set the tone for the country’s historical pattern of conflict and political contestation, fuelling both the intermittent emergence of Afghan national consciousness and a fractious political lineage that saw thirteen amirs in just eighty years. Interventions by the Empire during the Great Game set the conditions for the assassination of ostensibly national leaders by their compatriots (Shah Shuja Durrani in the First war) or their exile by the British (Shere Ali Khan and Ayub Khan in the Second).

Despite the British achieving their aim of protecting India in the second and third conflicts by maintaining Afghanistan as either a pro-British buffer state or as a neutral party, the Afghan narrative tends to emphasise successes such as the massacre of British forces retreating from Kabul to Jalalabad in 1842, the defeat of British and Indian forces at Maiwand in 1880, and the gaining of sovereignty in foreign affairs in 1919.

Soviet intervention in the late 1970s and 1980s further buttressed this identity of resistance, and the failure and ultimate overthrow of the Communist-backed Najibullah government, as well as the collapse of the Soviet Union shortly after their drawdown from Afghanistan, led to a sense amongst the victorious mujahidin of the country as the ‘graveyard of empires’.

Afghanistan’s modern history should thus be seen as inextricably linked to the ebbs and flows of great power politics. Each intervention exacerbated extant internal power struggles between rival elite individuals and groups vying for nominal control over the country. Foreign intervention in Afghanistan was met on each occasion with fierce resistance from tribal militias coalesced around religion; as has been remarked upon by one historian of the country, the threat of external domination has been one of the few means of uniting its disparate population around the concept of an Afghan ‘nation’, and in most cases this shared sense of identity cohered around religion, not nationalism.

Indeed, the presence of intervening powers and the development of the Afghan state may be seen as mutually supporting: whilst most Afghan leaders throughout the last two centuries have asserted their sovereignty over the country, the reality has in most circumstances been one of competing tribal chiefs and/or ‘warlords’ rather than a single dominant leader.

Where leaders have managed to cohere the disparate tribal and ethnic groupings of the country under one banner - most notably under the regime of Dost Mohamed Khan (1826-1839, 1845-1863) – this was due in large part to their diplomatic abilities of compromise and co-optation with Afghanistan’s regional power- brokers. In other cases, such as that of the reign of Abdurrahman (1880- 1901), power was maintained by an unflinching ‘internal imperialism’ and the use of punitive force against rebellious factions.

The challenges of maintaining and projecting centralised power in Afghanistan allow us to see the relationship of its leaders with world or regional powers in the last two centuries as one of mutual exploitation. Throughout the Great Game and the Cold War, whilst the British/Americans and Russians/Soviets would use threats and bribes (and occasionally force) to compel Afghan rulers to comply with their geopolitical needs, Afghan rulers themselves often deftly manipulated those powers to maintain and extend their own power.

The pattern followed by Afghan leaders from the nineteenth century to the present day is remarkably similar in the respect that most have relied upon a rentierist economic model, seeking external aid in order to sustain the cost of security and administration. The plan of modern rulers was to warm Afghanistan with the heat generated by the great power conflicts without getting drawn into them directly. Abdurrahman, for example, used British subsidies to fund his military campaigns against rebellious factions; the Musahiban rulers of the mid-twentieth century used American capital to develop its nascent economic infrastructure and Soviet finance to bolster its armed forces; and, following the overthrow of the last royal leader of Afghanistan, Mohamed Daoud, in 1978, the quasi-communist leadership of Babrak Karmal, Hafizullah Amin, Nur Muhammad Taraki, and Mohammad Najibullah during the late 1970s and 1980s relied in the main on Soviet money and military assistance in its ultimately failed attempt to implement socialist policies and put down the American, Saudi and Pakistani-backed mujahidin.

These trends continued into the post-Cold War period in respect to both the Taliban movement (essentially directed and funded by Pakistan), the Northern Alliance (funded largely by former Soviet central Asian states) and the regime of Hamid Karzai (maintained in economic and military terms by the American-led, NATO-operated International Security Assistance Force and the wider international community). In the former cases, occurring in the main in the period of civil war between 1992 and 2001, rentierism was limited to the maintenance of proxy parties and the continuation of conflict.

By contrast, the ISAF mission bore similarities with the Soviet-backed socialist regimes of the 1980s, insofar as it focused huge amounts of capital and military resources on stabilisation and state-building efforts. Both intervening parties made the error of ignoring Afghanistan’s political history and focused their efforts on bolstering the authority of a centralised state, both promoted policies that were deemed ‘universal’ in their application and were, unsurprisingly given such hubris, vulnerable to accusations by Afghan opposition to being alien and imperialistic ideologies, and both expended enormous amounts of blood and treasure in order to sustain the regimes they supported.

The UK’s struggle to locate a coherent strategy for Afghanistan should, therefore, be seen firstly in the light of the historical problematic of Afghan state-building. This is important in narrative terms because difficulties of defining strategy imply similar challenges in explaining strategy. As with its efforts to ‘think’ strategically, Britain’s ability to explain the strategy(ies) for the war in Afghanistan have been frequently criticised by various commentators. The most strategically debilitating aspect of the Afghan campaign has always been the incoherence of the mission’s purpose; indeed the question ‘‘why are we in Afghanistan?’’ has never really been settled in public consciousness. The international community massively underestimated the difficulties of state-building and greatly overstretched themselves in the commitments made to Afghanistan, and that they did so because ‘strategies’ for Afghanistan rested on assumptions of the universal applicability of liberal state-building.

The international community from the start (meaning from the Bonn Conference of late 2001) fundamentally misunderstood the nature of an Afghan society deeply ravaged by decades of conflict, and failed to foresee the malign effects state-building ventures would have on the country. Specifically, the Bonn Conference, which set out the parameters of the post-invasion Afghan state, implemented a centralised state system onto a state whose experience of such was limited, and where the success of such a system in extending its authority beyond the major cities was predicated on coercion and the use of force.

Historically this has rarely been a credible option for Afghan rulers or their international backers, and was even less so under the self-imposed restrictions of liberal war-fighting and state-building. Rather, re-creating a centralised state required Afghan and international actors to enter into the same methods of co-optation and compromise as those of the past; in necessitating these kind of measures – as opposed to implementing a looser, federal system of governance – the centralisation of the Afghan state paved the way for a reconstitution of a ruling order based on tribal elements and ‘strongmen’. This produced something of a paradox for state-builders, as the creation of a strong, central state capable of implementing liberal policies across Afghanistan came at the cost of entering into alliances with ‘warlords’ known for their illiberal and coercive political approaches and illicit economic activities.

Another unintended but unavoidable consequence of centralised state-building identified by scholars is the re-constitution of the rentier state in Afghanistan. Post-Bonn, Afghanistan returned to its historical norm of maintaining the state via the extraction of external security and development rents, without which it would almost certainly implode due to the ruinous state of its economy and taxation system. Studies have shown that his new rentierism differed from previous patronage systems at the state level insofar as it was fuelled by an unprecedented influx of capital and resources into the country. This had the effect of introducing regulated systems of ‘neo-patrimonalism’, where departments were to be distributed as rewards to the various factions that took part in the Bonn conference, and there had to be enough rewards to go around.

In other words, the structure of the post-invasion Afghan state was, to a great extent, defined not by the demands of good governance, the needs of the country or the demands of post-conflict stabilisation and reconstruction – the purposes for which the centralised model was chosen to promote – but rather by the first-order need to avoid the derailment of the centralised state by co-opting regional power brokers.

Because of the imperative of shoring up a nascent state by securing support from potential competitors, the gulf between the ends of liberal state-building and the illiberal means required to facilitate its functioning can therefore be seen to a certain extent as inevitable.

A major issue, however, was that the patrimonial linkages created by the state for its regional proxies was not comprehensive, as it did not extend to the Taliban’s Pashtun heartland and, as such, fuelled resentment and alienation as much as they placated and co- opted extra-state power brokers. Key players in the Northern Alliance - the primarily Tajik opposition to the Taliban - received prestigious posts within the state, whilst the predominantly Pashtun Taliban were themselves excluded from such arrangements. Because those rewarded by the state tended to be given ministerial or governorial roles in cities, the conflict dynamic tended to reflect an urban – rural divide similar to that of the Soviet occupation. Along this reading, the neo-Taliban insurgency was in many ways a product of the political miscalculations and deficiencies of post-invasion state- building activities.

Given this starting point, such a view concludes that the strategic problems encountered by the international community in Afghanistan were, to a large degree, problems created by (or at the very least exacerbated by) the state-builders themselves. They misread Afghan politics in a way that reflected their own philosophical assumptions about the state and society.

Strategy in Afghanistan suffered because the coalition effort, comprised of multiple national actors and the United Nations, rarely took on the form of a unified effort. Part of the reason for this was a divergence of opinion between actors as to the ultimate purpose – counter-terrorism or state-building – of the intervention.

In the first years of the Afghan campaign, the United States’ Bush Administration remained staunchly opposed to what it called ‘nation building’ and opted instead to pursue a policy of capture- or-kill missions against suspected terrorists. For the United Nations and most of the United States’ European NATO allies, however, state-building was considered a necessary element of any counter-terrorist strategy. This difference of opinion was manifest from the start by the creation of two parallel missions – the US-led, counter-terrorism-focused Operation Enduring Freedom (OEF) and the stabilisation missions of the European Union, United Nations (United Nations Assistance Mission in Afghanistan (UNAMA)) and NATO (International Security Assistance Force (ISAF)) – engaged in seemingly incompatible aims of military prosecution and peace building.

Opinion on the impact of this dual approach varies. Some scholars have noted, along lines similar to those critiquing the state-building efforts of the international community that the approach taken by the UN, EU and ISAF was too ambitious, naïve and unrealistic, and therefore bound to fall short of their liberal political and economic goals. Both Europe and these international agencies ignored the necessity of paring down the international community’s state-building efforts to core, security-centric capacity building within the Afghan National Security Forces. But of course one can make the counter argument, as many have of course, that on the contrary it was the insufficiencies of state-building approaches vis-à-vis OEF’s counter-terrorist approach that led to subsequent failures in UN and ISAF efforts; specifically, that a disproportionate focus on counter-terrorism missions meant that opportunities of peace- building were irreparably compromised.

Within NATO there was a division not just of opinions but also one of mission relating to different political perspectives about the purpose of the Afghan mission and its ultimate referent object – whether it was primarily about the interests of the coalition member states or concerned in the main with Afghanistan itself – and, from that, the methods to be employed in pursuit of one or another objective. This was not merely a debate bounded by strategic necessity, however; rather, such debates stemmed as much from institutional disagreements over who would or could do what in Afghanistan, which in turn arose from the differences in political constitutions and cultural attitudes towards counterinsurgency and counter- terrorism.

These ‘national caveats’ or ‘red cards’ of participation created significant problems for NATO in Afghanistan, both political, in terms of the relations between states and the abiding sense amongst some that others were ‘free-riding’ on the collective security system and, and strategic and operational, in the sense that command-and-control capabilities and cohesion between forces were limited by the engagement restrictions placed on certain armed forces. Indeed, the disproportionate burden placed on combat-oriented states like the United States, the United Kingdom, and several new member states in Eastern Europe led to political statements denouncing Europe’s perceived transgressors of collective security participation; former US Defence Secretary Robert Gates argued, for example, that NATO had effectively become a ‘two-tier alliance’ ‘between members who specialise in ‘soft’ humanitarian, development, peacekeeping and talking tasks and those conducting the ‘hard’ combat missions - between those willing and able to pay the price and bear the burdens of alliance commitments, and those who enjoy the benefits of NATO membership... but don’t want to share the risks and the costs’.

A lack of strategic unity was the natural consequence of a structural compromise that produced two distinct strategic authorities that were, in many ways, competing with one another. Along similar lines to the political arrangements between the Afghan state and its regional proxies, the NATO alliance structure can be seen (and evidently is seen by officials such as Gates) as patrimonial: states participated on the basis of fulfilling their own interests and along operational lines that were complementary to those interests, for the purposes of securing an alliance structure that accommodated all participants ahead of the imperative of creating a coherent strategy for stabilising Afghanistan. As with the neo-patrimonialism of the Karzai regime NATO’s efforts would be dictated by the limitations imposed upon it by circumstance.

Thus, in the cases of Afghanistan’s and the international community’s internal political dynamics, strategy was confined by the structure of the Afghan state and society, the structure of the international community and NATO, and the interplay between those structures. The implication here is that the agency required for the possibility of a workable strategy may have been illusory from the start.

Leaving Afghanistan was never going to be pretty, but the latest turn is uglier than expected.

No one quite expected the speed of collapse within the Afghan National Army to hold of attacks of the Taliban. I don’t think it’s do with the lack of training or their professional skills is lacking (though there may be some truth in it). A big driver in the collapse is the money for wages, food and medical care for troops is syphoned to Dubai, so the Afghans who want to fight, and there are quite a few who hate the Taliban, get less replenishment than the 6th army in the last weeks of Stalingrad. They have arms, ammo and boots for this season only and that is it. Both money and morale are in short supply for these soldiers.

If I was a trained soldier in the Afghan National Army I would desert. I would say to them abandon the fixed defences these ‘ferenghis’ (foreigners) have gifted you and move to the hills and seek refuge with your tribal clan, who will be glad of the arms and experience you bring. Or get over the border if you are lucky to be in the North, if in the West you hire yourself to the Narcos in the badlands on the Iran border. Most other places it is either a last stand or defection, your Government and their relatives have already got their planes fuelled up in Kabul ready to move to their villa complexes in the UAE.

I’m being a trifle cynical but for good reason. Everyone who has been to Afghanistan sees the veil lifted on the corruption of aid and how the elites protect themselves ahead of defending the masses who bear the brunt of the bloodshed.

The corruption has been endemic from the get go, but the international community ignored it all for 'progress'. Any Afghan politico you hear on the media complaining about the West abandoning Afghanistan has at least $30 million parked in Dubai that should have gone to the soldiers, teachers, doctors, builders etc.

As spectacular as the collapse of the Afghan National Army has been it’s been even more scarier seeing how swift the Taliban has been in taking over vital provincial areas through propaganda, civilian intimidation, and rapid attacks. One by one, the Taliban has been taking over areas in a number of provinces in northern Afghanistan in recent weeks. The Taliban says it has taken control of 90 districts across the country since the middle of May. Some were seized without a single shot fired.

The UN's special envoy on Afghanistan, Deborah Lyon put the figure lower, at 50 out of the nation's 370 districts, but feared the worst was yet to come. Most districts that have been taken surround provincial capitals, suggesting that the Taliban are positioning themselves to try and take these capitals once all foreign forces are fully withdrawn. On a map, it's easy to see the point Lyon is making. A stark example is Mazar-i-Sharif, the biggest city in the north and a significant power centre in its own right. It was the rock upon which the Northern Alliance fought against the Taliban.

It is significant the Taliban are kicking off this offensive in the north, not their heartland in the south and east. The north was the toughest part of the country for them to crack last time. Their expectation is if they have victory there, success will flow much easier in their traditional homelands further south.

The strategy of taming the north extends to emasculating and profiting from trade routes to neighbours. On Monday night they captured the important border town of Shir Khan Bandar, Afghanistan's main crossing into Tajikistan. Earlier in the day, top Tajik government officials had met to discuss concerns about the growing instability next door. There is no indication that the Taliban intend to take their fight north of the border, but in the past Tajikistan has been a vital conduit for supplies flowing to the militants' northern enemies.

The last time the Taliban controlled the city was 20 years ago, when they left hundreds of captives in steel trucking containers to suffocate and die in the scorching desert heat. Now, the militants are back at the city gates once again, as part of a lightning offensive against Afghan government forces that has set alarm bells ringing from Kabul to Washington. So it should worry us all where will all this lead to.

America's drawdown seems to be the game changer. The Taliban have been beaten back several times in recent years, notably from Kunduz in 2015. The Taliban captured it briefly before US airstrikes were called in. Civilian casualties were high but the militants were driven out. The militant group has never been able to withstand the heavy US and NATO air assaults backing Afghan ground forces, but now the US and NATO are leaving, so is much of the threat of sophisticated and sustained air power. And the Taliban are well aware of this.

It seems to me behind the choice of withdrawal by the Biden government lies a bigger assumption that drives that choice. That is the Taliban militants' perceived desire for international recognition. This has been the mantra underpinning the American exit. The logic of the American argument has been simple: The Taliban wouldn't renege on their agreements with the US because they crave international acceptance. The events of this past week and more appear to blow a hole in that assumption.

Another assumption that’s currently being blown out of the water is the US establishing some presence outside of Afghanistan so that if it needs to intervene again to combat terrorism or flush out militants then it can do so from the safety of a neighbouring country. But so far no country has come forward to reciprocate. And why would they? Like the Afghans, no one likes foreign troops with boots on the ground in their country. Only the central Asian republics and possibly Pakistan would come close to allowing that but there would be a political cost those governments would pay with their people. Moreover by welcoming the Americans in, they also allow the militants to target that country too.

Another assumption is the nature of the Taliban support and links to terrorist groups. The U.S. may not face any serious post-withdrawal Afghan support of extremist threats to the United States, even if the Taliban does take over. It is all too true that the Taliban continues to talk to the remnants of Al Qaeda, as do elements of the Pakistani military. It is unclear, however, that these remnants of Al Qaeda focus on attacks on the U.S., and the Taliban does seem to oppose ISIS. It is also unclear that the Taliban will host other extremist movements that focus on attacking the U.S. or states outside the region.

It is unclear that any key element of the Taliban has an interest in such attacks on the United States. Even Al Qaeda now focuses largely on objectives inside Islamic countries, and it is unclear that some other major extremist force will emerge in Afghanistan that do not focus on regional threats and on taking over vulnerable, largely Islamic states.

At the same time, one needs to be careful about the assumption that the U.S. can defeat any such threats by launching precision air and missile strikes against extremist targets. It is unclear that the forces in Afghanistan involved in any small covert attacks on the U.S. will be easy to target and cripple if they do emerge. The Taliban is unlikely to tolerate major training camps and facilities for extremist forces, and any such strikes will present major problems for the U.S. if the extremist threat consists of scattered small facilities and small expert cadres that shelter among the Afghan population.

It is also far from clear that more intense U.S. air attacks on Taliban forces from outside Afghanistan will have any decisive effects. The loss of limited numbers of Taliban fighters as well as some key Taliban leaders and facilities will not offset the pace of their victories in the countryside or enable the central government to survive. A continuing U.S. ability to target and kill some key Taliban leaders and fighters also does not mean that the risk of such strikes will deter future Taliban willingness to let small, extremist strike groups conduct well-focused, well-planned strikes on U.S. or allied territory, especially if such groups in Afghanistan sponsor attacks on the U.S. or it strategic partner by strike units or cadres based in other countries.

At the same time, it does seem more likely that the Taliban, and/or any independent extremist groups, will focus largely on Iran, Pakistan, Russia, China, and the other “-Stans.”

Going forward I think we need to re-evaluate many of our assumptions about the war in Afghanistan.

The objectives of the Authorised Use of Military Force approved by the US Congress in 2001 have long been accomplished. Once Osama bin Laden was killed in Operation Neptune Spear in 2011, the last element of the AUMF was met. The American and British mission in Afghanistan was complete. But America and Britain did not leave because we wanted to do a spot of state building to curb the spread of militant islamist terror. That was a mistake as it turned out.

Post-Neptune Spear, The American, the British, and their allies’ conventional mission should have been ended, adopting instead a laser focus on intelligence collection and offensive special operations to prevent al-Qaeda (or any terrorist organisation) from re-establishing safe havens and training areas.

What was needed for an acceptable ‘victory’ and a ‘saving face’ withdrawal was to embrace the use of Afghan Militia Forces the same way the Allies did for our initial entry way back in 2001.

In 2001, Western powers won the initial military engagement in 42 days using special operations forces with local and regional allies - we need to return to this format - and through a combination of special operations and specific information operations efforts, regaining the high ground and influence over ‘centres of gravity’. The issue is not the number of troops, but the mission of the forces there. Once the mission is defined, the number of forces needed would be clear.

It has never been about the number of troops - it’s been about the lack of an achievable mission assigned to our forces in Afghanistan.

The US engaged in ‘nation-building’ for the wrong reasons - and has seen bad results. We installed Hamid Karzai, served as his praetorian guard to protect the new central government and abandon our AMF allies and attempted to build a large, bulky, expensive and ineffective Afghan National Army - a force that is now evaporating before our eyes. It was folly.

Americans will never make the Afghan people more like them - nor will they be able to instil what my American colleagues used to fondly refer to as ‘a Jeffersonian democracy’ in Afghanistan. That day may come but only when the Afghan people wish it to be so. Lest it be forgotten Americans sought independence in 1776; the Afghan people seek self-reliance and independence from foreign influence. This is their defining historical DNA: escape from any outside control.

The Afghan people are not ungoverned, they are self-governed - with no tradition of central democracy and no desire for our version of democracy or ‘prosperity’. By pushing ‘prosperity’ we had become targets for both the Afghan government and the Taliban. This has ended, but we must draw a distinction between the end of nation-building and the continuation of our own interests in Afghanistan and the region.

It is time to adopt a practical policy based on what will work and is in our allied interests, rather than by funding the aspirations of progressive politicians who have no real understanding of Afghanistan.

First, we must establish a clear post-‘state-building’ strategy - with achievable objectives. We must return to the policy and operational format we know will work - cooperation with Afghan tribal leaders and militia. This type of force was used to achieve the initial victory in 2001. Empowered warlords and regional leaders were the force multiplier that worked as the Afghan Militia Forces - and can again, in partnership with our Special Operations Forces work now. Intelligence collection and limited military operations should be our focus.

There is no way around it. One has to play the Great Game. Think tribal rather than central. Afghan nationhood is a liberal Western wet dream.

The central government is weak and corrupt just like all the other rulers of the past. The Afghan National Army is not as strong as it is on paper. It can hardly prop itself up rather than any government. Most of the Afghan National Army troops have stronger tribal loyalties than to the concept of a nation. Since the tribal chiefs play both sides to hedge their bets, it's no wonder 'their' people do what they're told. The Taliban know this because that has always been the Afghan way, so the tribes go with them. Provided the Taliban honour their promises to the tribal chiefs, the Taliban can do what they want.

On one hand, the tribes won't now be too bothered by central government and have a large pool of Western-trained troops to prop them up. On the other hand, they now have to do business formally with the Taliban again. Largely in order to get their hands on Western-supplied aid that will surely follow after the Americans leave.

Second, we must accept the reality of Pakistani influence in Afghanistan - and work with the Pakistanis to counter al-Qaeda and the other militants now attacking Pakistani targets within Pakistan. Pakistan has made great advances in securing the tribal areas on the other side of the border and they have always been the de facto control of much of the Taliban force capacity, such as the Haqqani network. Working with Pakistan is the best option within the current circumstance.

‘Endless wars’ are not an American value. The use of the US military must only be used in response to genuine threats, when American interests are at stake or lives in danger. Withdrawal of conventional military forces and discontinuing nation building is in the US interest: leaving Afghanistan is not.

Third, make Afghanistan China’s problem. Afghanistan could easily become a hotbed for growing Islamic extremism, which would to some extent affect stability in Xinjiang.

It is not without reason that Afghanistan is known as the “graveyard of empires”. The ancient Greeks, the Mongols, the Mughals, the British, the Soviet Union and most recently the US have all launched vainglorious invasions that saw their ambitions and the blood of their soldiers drain into the sand. But after each imperial retreat, a new tournament of shadows begins. With the US pulling out of Afghanistan, China is casting an anxious gaze towards its western frontier and pursuing talks with an ascendant Taliban. The burning questions are not only whether the Taliban can fill the power vacuum created by the US withdrawal but also whether China - despite its longstanding policy of “non-interference” - may become the next superpower to try to write a chapter in Afghanistan’s history.

Beijing has held talks with the Taliban and although details of the discussions have been kept secret, government officials, diplomats and analysts from Afghanistan, India, China and the US said that crucial aspects of a broad strategy were taking shape. An Indian government official said China’s approach was to try to rebuild Afghanistan’s shattered infrastructure in co-operation with the Taliban by channelling funds through Pakistan, one of Beijing’s firmest allies in the region. China is Pakistan’s wallet.

It has been reported that Beijing has been insisting that the Taliban limit its ties with groups that it said were made up of Uyghur terrorists in return for such support. The groups, which Beijing refers to as the East Turkestan Islamic Movement, are an essential part of China’s security calculus in the region. The ETIM groups were estimated by the UN Security Council last year to number up to 3,500 fighters, some of whom were based in a part of Afghanistan that borders China. Both the UN and the US designated the ETIM as terrorists in 2002 but Washington dropped its classification last year. China has accused the ETIM of carrying out multiple acts of terrorism in Xinjiang, its north-western frontier region, where Beijing has kept an estimated 1m Uyghur and other minority peoples in internment camps.

In a clear indication of Beijing’s determination to counter the ETIM, Wang Yi, China’s foreign minister, exhorted counterparts from the central Asian states of Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan and Turkmenistan this year to co-operate to smash the group. “We should resolutely crack down on the ‘three evil forces’ [of extremism, terrorism and separatism] including the East Turkestan Islamic Movement,” Wang said in May according to Chinese news media which I follow.

The importance of this task derived in part from the need to protect large-scale activities and projects to create a safe Silk Road. Silk Road is one of the terms that Chinese officials use to refer to the Belt and Road Initiative, the signature foreign policy strategy of President Xi Jinping to build infrastructure and win influence overseas.

An important part of China’s motivation in seeking stability in Afghanistan is protecting existing BRI projects in Pakistan and the central Asian states while potentially opening Afghanistan to future investments. China would have to more actively support efforts to ensure political stability in Afghanistan. So make them work for it. Western powers need to leverage China’s problems in Xinjiang to be more active in Afghanistan.

International media outlets and intelligence agencies worldwide have been circulating reports pointing toward the creation of a Chinese military base in the Wakhan Corridor of Afghanistan’s Badakhshan province for a while now. Although China has not embarked on militarisation programs on foreign soil historically, and has profusely denied the rumours about building an Afghan “mountain brigade,” China’s first overseas military base in Djibouti provides an example of China’s newly adopted strategy of leveraging economic influence to further its strategic objectives. There’s even some chatter amongst Chinese officials that Beijing may entertain the idea of being part of a future UN international force should one be needed in Afghanistan (a bad idea but hey, let China find out first hand for itself).

The Afghan government was able to maintain a measure of stability largely because of the superiority of US air support. The drones, gunships, helicopters and heavy air artillery were unmatched by the Taliban. But when the US leaves, that advantage will evaporate. China’s imperative to create overland trade routes to Europe and the Middle East may draw it inevitably into Afghanistan’s domestic strife.

Of course China’s forward policy in the Wakhan Corridor needs to be assessed with a critical eye. Although on one level it seems to be motivated primarily by the threat of radicalisation, China’s interest in the region is also contingent on the strategic role that Afghanistan is capable of playing in the larger scheme of things. Despite China’s vehement denial, there seems to be sufficient evidence available indicating a definite military build up in the region, which provides China with an opportunity to showcase its ability to transform into a balancing force in the regional dynamics. I think that is a trade off that both America and Europe can afford to concede under the current circumstances.

In conclusion In the face of failure, there is an impulse to move on and not ask “what led to this?” But to avoid a reckoning with our follies is to risk their repetition, or worse.

it is probably too late to salvage either the civil or military situation in Afghanistan. It almost certainly is too late to salvage it with limited in-country U.S. forces, outside U.S. airpower and intelligence assets, and with no real peace agreement or functional peace process. Limited military measures are not the answer, and neither is simply reinforcing the past processes of failure. Tragic as it may be, withdrawal may not solve anything and may well make conditions worse for millions of Afghans, but reinforcing failure is not a meaningful strategy.

I do feel strongly that both the American and British governments must establish a clear path of redemption so that those who served and the families who sacrificed loved ones know that their loss was not wasted. At the same time our civilian governments must limit missions to intelligence collection and counter-terrorism missions that will prevent the metastasis of al-Qaeda or Isis in the region should the Afghan government fall. How we balance these two is going to be very interesting to follow in the next chapter in Afghanistan’s tortured history.

I apologise for the length of this post. This has been a hard post to write because of the subject matter and the many conflicted emotions and memories I have of my time in Afghanistan. I wish I had all the answers but I suppose the beginning of wisdom would be to know how to ask the right questions. Because we didn’t ask the right questions when we went in, we ended up making a real mess of it.

There is an understandable desire to bring all our allied troops home safe and that not another life is lost there. Yet I doubt this policy of withdrawing all troops will bring peace to anyone, not to us and most of all, the Afghanis themselves. As always in war it is the native population that will bear the real cost of war, in this case women, girls, and others brutalised under Taliban rule. What lies for them if the Taliban regain power to govern the country in their image is something I care not to imagine but retain a deep foreboding of their continued suffering. Ordinary Afghanis just want a respite from war and have a chance to live in peace, but without having us foreigners or the Taliban around. It is hard to imagine that happening at all. Our desire to save our soldiers’ lives set against ordinary Afghanis being left at the mercy of the Taliban is one of those humbling and brutalising trade offs that any war can only offer.

Near the end of his famed novel, The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald described two of his privileged characters, Tom and Daisy, as “careless people” who “smashed up things and creatures” and then “retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness” to “let other people clean up the mess they had made.”

That description applies to America as a whole but also to we Brits and other Europeans, especially when we tire of a misguided war. Americans and we Brits are a careless people. In both Iraq and Afghanistan, we smashed up things and human beings with abandon, only to retreat into our materialism. No scratch that, returning soldiers retreated into themselves struggling with PTSD whilst the rest of our citizenry carried on with their own material struggles and their insipid culture wars. The point is we always leave others to clean up the mess in a very bloody fashion that never troubles our conscience.

Count on us, probably sooner rather than later, doing precisely the same thing in Afghanistan. Again.

Thanks for your question

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