#he wants hot warfare; a ground war

[buttertheflame]

I’m very surprised there is an “Okafor is for the resistance” theory circulating in the fandom. ‘He is fomenting a soft coup within the military to peacefully give power to the Civic Republic once the time comes.’ I’m hearing this going, what? I feel like the odd one out! What am I seeing differently?

Maybe it’s my interpretation of his vision: “Monsters that kill the monsters—that’ll be over soon.”

Okafor speaks well and is charismatic but that’s the trick. He doesn’t care about anyone’s freedom, including Rick’s or even his own. He’s a villain—someone to test our two heros’ limits and their beliefs, not support them. Well, if he and Beale were on the same path of destruction and control when they ‘recruited’ Rick and gassed Omaha, then they only disagreed on the tactics of the CRM’s coup of the Civic Republic. They split on something more subtle; Okafor wanted a soft coup but Beale wants a hard coup.

What does that make our heroes, Rick and Michonne? I think for Rick the question will be, to inherent the Lieutenant Colonel’s vision and change it, at risk of losing everything to Major General Beale—or to abandon the Civic Republic’s fight for the safety and comfort of family if he can? I think 1x02 will bring Michonne’s years gone by and her inner conflict into play. As always, she will lead Rick to make the right choice, which will affect a lot of people. ❤️

Even if I’m wrong, at some point I’m gonna argue why we should dislike Okafor and appreciate him as a villain. Think I’ll make it part of a 1x01 analysis thread: Rick, Pearl and Donald: CRM’s Alliance of Three.

[importantstudentbusinessspy-blog]

Cold-hearted wolf

Masterlist

Pairing: Cregan Stark × Martell reader

Tags: arranged marriage, cregan starts out mean in this, enemies to lovers cus he's grumpy and has no time for feelings,

Chapter 3: the way he's obsessed with you, can't stop thinking impure thoughts while he's away, the calm before the sex... pick your favorite.

Note: I made up a war with Highgarden subplot that's not Canon. Ahem, for the plot, so bare with me.

Cregan Stark sat inside a tent with his face twisted in a mix of pain and discomfort. The maester carefully worked to stitch up a nasty gash that ran from his neck to his lower abdomen, courtesy of an enemy soldier's sword. He had little pity for the other man when he cut him clean through the heart with his own blade. The wound was a battle scar from the successful siege, a strategic victory that had his soldiers celebrating and chearing outside.

One of Cregan's knights entered the tent, bearing two pints. He handed one to his injured ruler. "This ale should ease the pain, my lord."

Cregan took the offered drink. "Bring more. This stitching feels personal."

The old man, still focused on his task, dismissed Cregan's jest. "Your Highness, if you'd stop squirming, it would help."

Cregan held still as the maester continued his work. "How many casualties did we suffer?"

The knight looked thoughtful for a moment. "Surprisingly low, my lord. The plan was exceptional."

Cregan's gaze shifted to the ground, and a sense of guilt crept over him. The plan that had proven so effective during the battle was one that you had worked on together. Right before he rudely discarded you. Your tactical insights and knowledge of warfare had been instrumental to saving his and his men's lives today. "I should have listened to her sooner.”

“My lord?”

“Lady y/n.” Cregan specified.

The knight nodded in understanding.

The maester stitching spoke up. “It takes time to see the wisdom in others, my lord. We can only strive to make amends."

Cregan hated being proven wrong. He kept his mouth shut.

As the stitching neared completion, the knight spoke up, "You've fought well today.”

Cregan shook his head with a satisfied smile. "I can't take all the credit. Tyrell's sword was his own downfall.” His enemy's weapon, though notoriously giant, was unwieldy, and Cregan, younger, more agile, and more practiced with his weapon, found his opening.

With the gash stitched and the pain somewhat subsiding, Cregan took another sip of ale. He couldn't help but feel a need to have you close. To celebrate with you, and thank you for your strategy, which was invaluable to his cause. He wanted you beside him in the next council meeting.

But you were far off, warm, and safe in Winterfell. No doubt giving his sister an earful about what an awful husband he's been if the letters he's received from her were any indication.

I like her very much, Cregan. And if you open your mind you would come to like her too. Also, it would help if you'd stop behaving like an ass.

The thought of you two getting along made him smile. Even if it was at his expense.

He was ashamed to admit there was truth to your accusation that night. No, he had not seen you as an equal. How could he?

What could you possibly know of the plight of living in the harsh and unforgiving environment of the North. Of its values and way of life. He'd read about Dornish life in his studies. Sunspear was warmth, music, dancing, and hedonism, literally the opposite of Winterfell. This showed to be true the moment you stepped foot on his grounds. You, with your carefree attitude and enticing dresses, perhaps accepted in your culture, but downright scandalous in his.

He remembered his anger in the hot springs when he heard the men going on about your wardrobe.

“I'd like to see if the Dornish sun forgot a few places.”

They were only jesting. Men, especially soldiers, made vulgar jokes all the time. But the fact that his men spoke about you in such a way made his blood boil hotter than the springs underneath the palace grounds.

All it took was a look from Cregan, and the man shut his mouth, swallowing nervously. But Cregan's anger didn't subside so easily.

He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, remembering taking his frustration out in your bedroom that same day he heard the vulgar comment, and the two more times that evening, and once more the next morning. His hands gripped his chair, mimicking the possessive way he'd held you with every thrust.

He wondered if you questioned why he was so upset. Although even if you did, judging by your whimpers and moans, you didn't seem to mind.

Visions of you flooded his mind. Walking around with a high brow, flaunting your skin freely with seductive silks for his court to admire. Looking elegant and graceful while flipping him onto his back in the training yard. Unknowingly offering up a fantasy of an exotic warrior princess from the far south to hungry and repressed northern eyes… all just so you could prove a point.

He laughed. Maybe his sister was right. Stubbornness was something you two definitely had in common.

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

War was a lonely ordeal. And despite the women from the neighboring towns being more than happy to keep his men company, Cregan’s mind kept finding flaws in each of them.

Their lack of quiet defiance made them too agreeable, he decided. Although, no, not only that. It was also the missing fire in their eyes, the missing pride. They also had the wrong color hair and the wrong length, too. And on top of that, their clothing was also too... cold, yes. Too modest.

The gods help him. He was fucked.

Amidst the noise of his tent, he sat at a table surrounded by his men who were drinking and celebrating. The soft glow of candlelight cast a warm ambiance in the night. A raven's message had arrived, and he quickly sloppily unfurled the parchment, his eyes scanning the words eagerly.

The letter was from you, recounting the events of the day. "In an attempt to offer you a change of scenery, I will try to paint an image of how things are back home.” Your handwriting said. “Winterfell is alight with celebration of your victory. The town square was full of life. The common folks greeted me with glee and danced and sang. I even tried deer meat at an inn. It was… chewey."

A corner of his mouth lifted as he red the letter in your voice.

"You are well loved and admired, my lord. And missed. Also, please pet Grey for me as he is dearly missed as well."

A chuckle escaped Cregan's lips as he reached over to scratch his loyal dog behind the ear before continuing to read. "I even showed one boy how to use my Dornish blade. My favorite one."

Your willingness to connect with his people - your people, he corrected himself, was quite marvelous. A smile tugged at the corners of Cregan's lips as he pictured you among the celebrating townsfolk. He felt a painful pull at his chest, his hands itching for your skin.

He wondered, not for the first time, how he could remedy his actions of your last night together before he marched off. Regretfully recalling the fire and hurt in your eyes.

It would take more than a letter to make up for it. Cregan was neither poet nor a man of many words. He took action. He needed to fix this the only way he knew how.

The next day, he helped his squires and men pack the Stark army camp. With victory secured, they would be marching back to Winterfell.

Cregan was coming home.

@malfoycassimalfoy @leahnicole1219 @literishdegree99

[novasintheroom]

014. Tear

♡ Pairing - Vash x Reader

♡ Word count - 0.8k

♡ Warnings - none

♡ Description: You've had a bad day. Vash is there to comfort you.

Part of the 150 Bullets drabble series on AO3

A no-good rotten day. That’s what this is.

You trudge up a long ramp, sticking to the shadows where you can. It’s hot. Dry. The winds are blowing sand through the columned metal buildings of the town. Your eyes sting from it. Your bag is empty, your back hurts, and the scrapes on your knees and hands are bleeding freely.

Stolen from. Again.

You knuckle your eyes. Third time this month. You’d tried, you’d really tried. But those thieves were quick; practiced in guerilla warfare. Took you out at the knees and the books right from your bag. Cut the straps of your coin purse and played tug-of-war with it before just snatching everything inside. Now you only have a broken bag and bruised ego to your name.

What’s worse is that the townspeople just watched it all happen. No one stepped in. Cowards, you think bitterly. You decide to sit on a stoop near a row of wall-to-wall houses. No where else to go or do now.

That’s not true. You could go to the sheriff's office. Town’s big enough for one; you’re pretty sure you passed by it on your way in. But would they do anything? From the looks of this town, everything is run-down. You could make your way back to headquarters in Octovern…again. With the same sorry story, the same tale of how you lost both your month’s wages and the precious few books you’d been entrusted with. Tayli’s gonna demote me, you think miserably. You should have gotten that gun or a knife at the last pawn shop. None of the other librarians have been nearly as accosted as you’ve been. But then, they were in safer countrysides.

Your head bends with regret under the awning. You’d so hoped this town would work out. That people would want to read, to better themselves. But no one cared. Not even when someone gets robbed right in front of them. You feel the sting of tears and sigh furiously. None of that. No crying over spilled milk. The tears still sheen over your eyes, though, and you look up to try and blink them away.

That’s when you see him. Through the blur of tears, you recognize that bright red coat. He’s standing in front of you, his spiked blond hair as bright as the suns. You’re surprised. How did you not see or hear him come up?

“______?” Vash asks hesitantly. Then he steps forward quickly and kneels before you. He’s grasping your hands and looking at the wounds. “What happened? Are you alright?”

Your lips wibble, and a few tears leak down. Where did he come from? How is he here, when you’re at your lowest? You want to deny everything, to say it’s all fine, you just tripped. But all you can manage is a small, “Vash…” before you wrap your arms around him and start sobbing.

Vash tenses under your embrace before relaxing. His own arms come up to nestle you further into him. “Hey, it’s okay,” he hushes you, hand running up and down your back, “it’s gonna be okay.”

Maybe it will, maybe it won’t. But he lets you cry out your frustration and embarrassment until you’re satisfied. Each hiccup rocks him back on his heels, and soon he’s sitting with you on the ground. He never stops holding you. Never stops rubbing your back. Even when others come and go on the road, he only shields you further from their sight, letting everything come out without protest.

After time has passed, you finally pull away and sniffle, rubbing at your eyes and nose. You’re wildly embarrassed at losing control, and ask, “What are you even doing here?”

Vash looks at your puffy eyes, your still-wibbling lips. “Doing the same thing I always do: looking for people to help.”

A watery laugh escapes. He’d certainly found you. “I’m sorry. I think I ruined your coat.”

“What, this old thing?” He lifts a side and smiles. “It’s been through worse. It’ll survive a tear or two.”

“Or a hundred.” You swallow thickly, shifting your broken bag to your lap now.

Vash looks at it curiously but doesn’t ask. “Hey, wanna go get some food?” At your blank look, he continues. “Food always helps when you’re down in the dumps. I’ll pay; my treat.”

And Vash would do more than that. He would feed you, dress your wounds, and keep you company until you were better. In the morning, you’d find him gone, but somehow, miraculously, your books returned to the door of your inn room, along with a few double dollars and coins – what Vash could spare. You’d cry again, out of gratitude this time, and swear the next time you saw him, you’d repay him for his kindness.

But all of that would come later. For now, you sigh. “Yeah,” you say, taking his hand to stand up, “that would be nice.”

[frikatilhi]

Karkki tai kepponen 😈

This is based on the fact that you recommended the book Osuma by Petter Sandelin to me and it was the first book in literal months that I finished. Highly recommend!

It reminded me how back in molemates days I completely lost my mind over marli's soldier boys and wanted to write something similar, but during the Continuance War and trench warfare. And I wrote a little piece which may or may not have been heavily influenced by The Unknown Soldier.

And yes, Bojan's name is Taisto Kukkanen, sue me.

Also I did some research, here are a few snippets from a study "Seven queer brothers : narratives of forbidden male same-sex desires from modernizing Finland 1894-1971" (source)

A Finnish war veteran recalled in 1972: “There were also some homosexuals among us. […] These manlovers played their games in secret. Once, somebody had even seen two guards having sex in the guard post.” --- Indeed, the sources studied for this research in many ways speak about soldier love in the same way as the studies of Juvonen and Mustola. For instance, in a court record from post-war Lahti, a man was reported to the police by his wife. In the interrogations the man confessed how at the beginning of the war he had found another man from the military, with whom he had had a war-long relationship. Because of this, the man said, he could not stay away from male sexual relations even after the war, which had annoyed the wife. In the end, the man was relieved that the secret came out. However his loyalty towards the war-time lover was strong and he refused to give any information about the man to the police. A medical article, too, which treated war-caused mental disturbances, discussed the case of a man who was deeply traumatized because he had seen his lover dying in a battle at the front.

So here's a snippet of Jeremias and Taisto:

When May turned into June, their second summer in trench warfare was beginning, and everyone was counting days until Field Marshall Mannerheim’s birthday. On that day, it was promised that every soldier would get a little cupful of cut brandy, something they hadn’t seen in a long time.

The third company’s second platoon had even more to look forward to. For weeks now, a little pot of moonshine had been bubbling, carefully hidden amidst their gear, and it had been decided that the birthday celebrations would be a perfect opportunity to get a taste.

Pöyhönen had been the orchestrating force behind the idea. Taisto had watched in awe as he had produced the necessities to make the project happen. Bit by bit, the pot, the yeast, the carefully saved sugar and bread had appeared, no-one outside their team none the wiser.

And as the night fell, and the officers had all disappeared to celebrate amongst themselves, the pot was carried out with loud cheers, everyone ready to fill their cups.

“Don’t drink any,” Pöyhönen whispered to Taisto’s ear as the others were rejoicing around them. Taisto nodded, realising what he had in mind. If everyone else was drunk off their ass, then…

As the night went on and the pot emptied, things got a bit rowdy. The soldiers were leaning against each other, confessing their adoration and love in slurred words. They were singing lewd songs and dancing cheek to cheek, swaying together to the one and only record they had for the gramophone.

And so no-one paid any mind when Pöyhönen grabbed Kukkanen and pulled him to his side, head against his chest. Or when he took his hand and joined the others in an awkward waltz around the ground, hand on his waist, bending him over his arm when the song ended.

No-one also paid them no mind when later, as the others were in various stages of passing out, half on top of each other on the ground, only the luckier ones having made it all the way to their bunks, Jeremias lead Taisto away from them, further into the forest, carrying a blanket. 

The summer night was still warm after a scorching hot day. The nights were rapidly getting lighter, but still, outside the glowing circle of the fire, they had to fumble for each other, feel their way around.

There, on the blanket thrown over the endless bilberry shrubs, too far for anyone to hear them, they finally found a moment of solace, a place just for them. There, Jeremias’ fingers found their way inside Taisto, slick from vaseline from the rations, drawing sounds that got lost amongst the trees, somewhere in between the chirps of crickets.

[sunsetconcert]

this is a fic that i would LIKE to write, but unfortunately, the actual details of writing it drive me up the fucking wall. so i am posting the general framework here, just to get it out of my system. so:

CONCEPT: Sonic Forces Metamy Political Marriage.

four months into the war. the resistance is losing ground, they only control about 10% of the planet. and rather than just crushing them outright, eggman comes up with psychological warfare - he starts to torment them with terms of surrender. in particular, he targets amy by saying stuff like "You can save everyone, Amy! The war will be over, and everyone gets to go back home! You can save everyone, right now, if you just stop caring about your principles and surrender."

the terms of surrender are actually pretty good, but they're also pretty visibly designed to inflict maximum psychic damage on the resistance. the most IMPORTANT part, though, is that the terms of surrender require a binding ceremony between the resistance and the eggman empire. it's framed as a political marriage thing.

however - eggman never intended the terms of surrender to be accepted. it was purely a psych-out tactic. he never actually expected that the terms of surrender would be ACCEPTED. and by amy rose, of all people??? so eggman basically weasels out of it by saying now amy and metal sonic have to get married. amy and metal hate it immensely but begrudgingly accept it.

amy and metal manage to peacefully coexist for all of sixteen hours before they have their first screaming match, followed by a deeply personal conversation regarding their feelings about being engaged to each other. metal basically says "Nobody will ever love me. Nobody will ever love me, so just let me pretend otherwise until this farce is over with." and amy still hates him, but like... she's not going to be a bitch about that sort of statement. eventually they agree to have a big dumb lovey-dovey pretend wedding as a coping mechanism for their respective situations, and go back to hating each other afterwards.

(spoiler: they do not go back to hating each other.)

they then proceed to get WAY too invested in the wedding. like, unhealthily so. the argument over the flower arrangements go into the history books. when the time comes for the actual wedding, amy and metal sonic both decide to go big or go home. it is the biggest, gaudiest, ugliest wedding you have ever seen. everything is either hot pink or goth black and there is NO inbetween. the cake is like sixteen layers tall, the chapel is filled with so many flowers that it makes a few people sick, everything. MAXIMALIST WEDDING. eggman is just along for the ride at this point.

the bride and groom wear the ugliest fucking wedding dresses you've ever seen. amy looks like she's from a 1980s barbie commercial and metal sonic looks like a hot topic got their shipments mixed up with a bridal goods store. they are very pleased with themselves and they are also so fucking insufferable that basically all the guests heckle them most of the way through the ceremony.

halfway through the ceremony, infinite tries to crash because he's obsessed with attention and can't stand not being the most important person in the room. unfortunately for him, in the chaos of the wedding planning, eggman is SO DONE with this loser and promptly cuts all power to the phantom ruby prototype infinite is using. the gathered guests promptly kick his ass and toss him into a dumpster outside.

at some point sonic shows up for the sole purpose of leaving a gag gift at the wedding reception. like a toolbox just in case amy wants to inspect any of metal sonic's parts. sonic does NOT know the tools will be used for foreplay and would be fucking horrified to find out.

at some indeterminate point sonic and his very canonical bestie ian jr both break out of the death egg and tear down the eggman empire's stranglehold on the world while everyone else is obsessed with the wedding. the rest of the cast find this out like three weeks after the wedding goes down.

[mariacallous]

On the Lebanese side of the border with Israel, only a few villages remain intact, and vast neighborhoods in the towns that remain standing, like Marwaheen, are entirely destroyed. When night falls and darkness envelops the area, the only distant light visible is from nearly 30 kilometers away—the glowing Bahai Gardens in Haifa, Israel’s largest northern city, home to around 280,000 people.

What’s between Marwaheen and Haifa are Israeli communities and military positions that come daily under Hezbollah’s fire. Over the past eight months, more than 150,000 people on both sides of the border have deserted their towns and villages due to the continuing war of attrition that has left around 400 people killed on the Lebanese side and around 30 on the Israeli.

For eight months, the border area has been a hot spot of mutual attritional violence between Hezbollah and Israel—violence that has recently intensified and prompted calls in Israel for an expanded war. But, contrary to appearances, there’s little reason to think Israel’s confrontation with Lebanon will escalate into outright war.

Hezbollah entered the conflict with Israel following Hamas’s Oct. 7 attacks. Although Hezbollah’s leaders have stated they were unaware of the attacks in advance, this does not imply disapproval. Hezbollah leader Hassan Nasrallah has consistently expressed strong support for the actions of the Izz ad-Din al-Qassam Brigades and Hamas’s leader in Gaza, Yahya Sinwar, whom he described as a “great, courageous leader.”

But the broader conflict between Hezbollah and Israel did not start after Oct. 7. It has taken various forms since groups of Shiite fighters in southern Lebanon formed the Islamic Resistance in Lebanon in 1982, following an Israeli invasion that summer. The most significant confrontation occurred in 2006, when Hezbollah kidnapped two Israeli soldiers from the border area, aiming to exchange them for its prisoners in Israeli jails. Israel responded with a destructive war in July and August of that year, aiming to eliminate Hezbollah—an objective similar to Israel’s goals in its current war against Hamas.

One of the ways that today’s confrontation differs from earlier iterations is that it suggests Hezbollah has accumulated enough capabilities over the past decade to now pose a strategic threat to Israel. An official in Iran’s Quds Force overseeing Hezbollah and other Iranian-linked factions in the Middle East told FP that Hezbollah now possesses more than 1 million rockets of various types, including precision-guided missiles and modified Katyusha rockets for increased accuracy, as well as anti-tank missiles.

Hezbollah’s arsenal, as revealed during the long attrition warfare, also includes suicide drones and other UAVs equipped with Russian-made missiles that enable air-launched attacks from inside Israeli territory, along with a type of Iranian missile called “Almas” equipped with a camera, inspired by the Israeli “Spike” missile, which is a “fire and forget” type. This gear changes the game because it makes fighters less vulnerable to Israeli attacks on launch sites.

Israel has a far larger arsenal of air-to-ground missiles launched from various warplanes and armed drones. The exchange of fire has displaced more than 150,000 people on both sides of the border, turning Lebanese border towns into mini-Gaza-like areas. The destruction is gradually spreading to northern Israeli towns, whose residents are increasingly demanding that the Israeli state take practical steps to return them to their homes. Last month, I toured the devastated villages and towns of southern Lebanon, including Naqoura, where the local U.N. peacekeeping headquarters is located, and whose center was destroyed by Israeli airstrikes; Marwaheen, which is almost entirely destroyed; and Aita al-Shaab, which could be described as south Lebanon’s ground zero. These and other villages and towns now host only a few residents who prefer to die in their homes rather than flee to schools and other shelters in safer cities.

Notably, both sides are largely confining their warfare to military targets, as evidenced by the precise daily announcements of military activities. Israel’s attacks have been mainly in border areas to a depth of 15 kilometers. There are exceptions, though, such as when the Israeli Air Force has targeted deeper regions in Lebanon’s Beqaa and, on one occasion, in Beirut’s southern suburbs. In contrast, Hezbollah has expanded its strikes horizontally, not vertically, to include the Golan Heights, Syrian territory occupied and later effectively annexed by Israel. Few attacks were recorded in recent months targeting military bases in Safed, near Nahariya, and Haifa, mostly carried out by suicide drones. After the assassinations of deputy Hamas leader Saleh al-Arouri and senior Hezbollah commander Wissam al-Tawil, Hezbollah targeted the strategic Meron base, which is described as an air traffic control base.

So far, Hezbollah and Israel are trying to avoid civilian casualties as much as possible, exchanging messages through the U.N. Interim Force in Lebanon whenever civilians are affected and explaining the reasons. They are engaging in a different kind of war, focusing more on strategic targets than territorial control. For Israel, the goal is to pressure Hezbollah to reveal its strategic installations or retreat to less fortified positions. The 2006 war had adverse results for Israel, because it allowed Hezbollah not only to increase its arsenal in the aftermath but also to draw lessons from the fighting to update its tactics to match the capabilities of the Israeli army.

After almost eight months of regular battles, it is now clear that both Hezbollah and Israel understand that any full-scale war between them would be devastating. Hezbollah knows that Lebanon would be destroyed, with thousands of casualties. But Israel is also aware that what it faced in Gaza over these past months, without achieving its full objectives, would be nothing compared to a war with Hezbollah.

Israel has a large list of targets in Lebanon and has targeted many of Hezbollah’s launch and storage points in recent months. At the same time, Hezbollah has targeted Israeli reconnaissance, surveillance, and communication equipment at border outposts and has also struck military installations to push Israeli soldiers into less fortified new positions in open areas or border towns. The organization has appeared more focused on studying Israel’s air defenses, including the Iron Dome system, with Hezbollah releasing footage it claims shows direct targeting of the system. Hezbollah may have also learned from Iran’s attack on Israel in April about how to intensify its rocket launches. Given the proximity between Israel and Lebanon compared to Iran and Israel, the potential for Hezbollah to significantly destroy Israeli cities is high.

So far, both sides, especially amid the war in Gaza, prefer to keep the conflict within the current framework. Hezbollah, despite being an Islamic organization that mobilizes its fighters through martyrdom rhetoric, has never shown suicidal tendencies. It is likely to take the rational escalation approach Iran adopted following the assassination of Quds Force commander Qassem Suleimani, keeping actions below the level of full-scale war.

The escalation might increase or decrease, with broader operational and targeting scopes, but without crossing the threshold that expands the fighting beyond military targets. Anything beyond this could ignite a war with widespread consequences beyond Lebanon and Israel, potentially leading to more interventions by combat forces like the Houthis in Yemen; Iraqi militias; and a larger role for forces linked to the Iran-led axis in Syria, such as the Imam Hussein Brigade, comprising Iranians, Iraqis, Pakistanis, Afghans, Lebanese, Syrians, and Palestinians. Neither Israel nor Lebanon (nor their sponsors, the United States and Iran) is likely to desire for the situation to spiral out of control in that way across the region.

Under the current circumstances, while Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu might wish to prolong the Gaza conflict, at least through the U.S. elections, it does not necessarily indicate an intent to initiate an all-out war in Lebanon. Netanyahu may push the situation to the brink to increase pressure on Hezbollah both domestically and internationally. However, Hezbollah has been countering Israeli escalation with reciprocal measures, aiming to establish its deterrence. It is clear that, for now, the threat of war remains a strategic maneuver rather than an imminent reality.

[universallychaoticpan]

Beauty's servant

aot god au because why the hell not; I actually love this a lot and I hope you do as well; I have a few more ideas for this fic (expansions on these characters, a separate piece for the vets/warriors,) so if you enjoyed this let me know. :) These can be read all together, or on their own. Asks and requests are always open and welcome. <33

gn! reader; meant to portrayed as Hedone, the embodiment of joy.

Your glory was never meant to be so great as it became; you were content with your long youth, your quiet step, the slight elevation of yourself above men. You never sought more than was your place among the gods; and yet it was this humility that sent them after you. Perhaps no more than a grace, a being born of such beauties as love and laughter, the bubbling blessings of allure; jewel bright eyes and faces that were perfect even in their slight 'imperfections.' You'd race, bare, through the trees, miraculous and fleet, skimming the ground below you as petals sprung from under your soles and the wind chased the ends of your hair, laurel crowns laying across your brow as you served your mistress, the dome of stars growing bright just above you.

You were never meant to be such a bright star in a pantheon so full; but you shone within yourself, with a light so bewitching it sent the eyes of gods after you. Not a plaything of the gods by any means: you taught them all your ways of loving and night songs, your choruses of sighs and laughter that rippled through you like light;

you gave each one reason to remember you; to make sure your name never left their lips. You sought love; you wanted to feel it, have it guide you and teach you, straight and sure as a true arrow. And among the gods, you found no shortage of either.

/

Eren

The first of such loves was young and foolish as it was so full of youthful passions: Eren, god of just and unjust wars, lord of shifting goodness, the blood of mortals, friends and enemies, sent up as prayers on pyres glowing red in the night. He found you captivating in your opposition; in the way your warfares were so unlike his own: battles won of beauty and bedroom eyes against his world of blades and battalions. Your era was bright, one of eclipses and steam rising from gentle rains flinging themselves upon embers and flames. His kiss would sear through you to the bones, cutting through you with an arrow's sharpened sting, poised to kill and to destroy you while he drew you closer, nearer to him. You ached to feel all of it; every burning, red hot second.

None had felt his gaze the way you had; he had never looked upon a soul, mortal or otherwise, the way he had done to you. His green eyes grew brighter upon the sight of your lovely face, the soft gracing of your hand on his skin, soothing and igniting him as you pressed your kisses to his flesh. It was unpracticed and messy and beautiful, burning and burning away to ashes swept away by the winds of time that plagued all the world.

You're unlike anything I know, he'd say; you knew what he meant.

His world had changed somehow, by knowing you.

/

Mikasa

Later, later, was the the grey eyed one: the lady of justice and victories, tempted by your sweet wiles when she first found you praying at her altar. Mikasa was coaxed into your love, tentative and wary as she felt herself falling open to your charms. This time, you took your place at the head of love; guiding her hands to press against your own under sweet summers and silver-leaved trees. And when you kissed her, soft and kind and warmer than spring, she could feel the way the world responded to your joys: the dulcet exhale of wind in the groves around you; slipping through your silk curtains as she rested beside your sleeping form, simply admiring you while the constellations passed and she felt herself lulled by the simple curves of your face as it lost the burdens of your days. All the world walked in tandem with beauty; this was your subtle power.

She'd find you, still within those trees, eyes closed and birds perched on the branches, bright eyes and twittering voices surrounding you, your eyes fluttering open to see hers when she lifted your chin up, her hand firm but sweet against your jaw; the lines of your neck so prettily cast in the light, your mouth curled into a gentle smile as she let you pull her into a kiss. Giving and taking, rolling to and fro, you seizes and relinquished control as easily as rainfall; your years came and went much the same way.

She'd tell you, don't make me regret loosing to you.

The look in her eyes then had you vowing you never would.

/

Armin

A gentle god would follow: one of medicine and music, of the sunrise and of poets. His eyes, blue and inviting as river currents, would find your across the feasting halls of the gods, picking you out from your siblings as you would return his gentle stare. He was curious; you refused to lie and say he did not cast the same spell upon you.

You would meet him in miraculous places; palaces of clouds soft as a doves wing rolling under your feet as he took you to watched the dawn, summer green forests in far off lands bursting with color and life; he took you among mortals, disguised and joyful as he led you by your hand through the world of men. Armin taught you the ways of the string and lyre; you taught him dance. He gave you stories of the world beyond your reach; you entranced and beguiled him when your voice spilled from your mouth like honey, shadows flying on the walls of your chambers as you laughed and loved through the night. It was soft, and sure it it's sweetness, your love. It was fragile and lovely as a butterfly's wing, opening itself to the world and causing hurricanes with every beat. It was learned and evolved, growing, shifting, like tides, a thousand sapphire hues sifting through your fingers.

I'll find a thousand horizons by your side, he whispered once.

I've seen all but one and found each in you.

/

Sasha

You found yourself a companion of the huntress, your adventures in love far from over; each one had been a lesson, and it seemed the goddess of wild places, of moon and guidance through child bearing would be the same. Sasha introduced you to the wildest places of her world, the copses and groves of trees where men had never set foot, the rivers and streams so clear running with water so pure it stung your throat down to your stomach. She found the quiet places inside you, coaxing out the cunning of a fox and the warble of songbirds from your lips, reminding you of your place as something wild.

She wandered with you, through these quiet places, hours meaning nothing by her side while she lead you by a gentle hand. She called fauns out to meet you, marveled at your smile, your joy, when the springtime flowers began to appear and the air was thick with the smell of life once more. She thought of you like spring: loveliness emerging from winter's cloaks, the ferocity and wonder of life following in your wake with every breath, every beat of your heart under the splendor of your skin.

Never had she seen a creature such as you before.

/

Connie

The messenger sought you out next; bright eyes and wide smile, mischief promised on every word he spoke as he pressed his playful mouth to your hand upon your meeting. He was as much a friend as he was a lover; lighthearted as he was caring. Connie would ride the horses of the wind, you by his side with your head high in the currents. He liked to see you that way; laughing playfully where your duties held you in check. He liked to make you laugh; he loved your smile, the brightness in it, the life that burst from you when the restraints of the world fell away. With him, you lazed about in the trees and the roadsides, two nameless nomads wandering along with dreamy smiles. Like the huntress, he preferred the wild places; both in the world and in you. He celebrated your chaos when it came through, your rising voice; he celebrated your anger. Every rolling emotion was one he cherished, the joy and the sadness, fury and a million shades of love.

He wanted every color, every variation and shade there was to you; he yearned to see the facets of your mirrored being reflected back to him, the ghosts and mirages you could conjure with those lips.

Tell me your stories, love; I'll make you legend.

/

Jean

Next, there fell upon you the rush of wine stained lips, of hands open to the sky in insane bliss; flashes of gold and violet in your eyes and a love so heady it made your head spin with it's weight. The god of wine, of pleasure, of worship in different forms. He took your hand and led you through his sacred places; places that would make a priestess blush scarlet. When he was with you, however, you could see the beauty in touch, in the human ache to feel another. Beside him, you began to understand the prayer that love could be; the vows that fell of lips so stolen and bitten by lust, sacred sensuality burning away as an offering. He was sweet to you, admiring and warm; Jean crowned you with ivy, kissed the places you so longed to hide, sang with you under the moon with the voices of night birds.

You became a muse, art in his eyes; he touched you as though you were everything good in the world, in the universe, like the stars had fallen into your eyes and the sun itself burned away in your chest. And though you were art, he was never distant; never cold, leaving you as something pretty and alone. He made you feel every bit as lovely as he assured you you were; hands in yours, the soft whisper of your clothes when they fell to the floor, his gaze full of adoration when you slept in his arms.

This next moment, they seemed to say. This moment is all we know; all I know is you, here with me.

And every moment was more beautiful than the last.

/

In this way, by your perfected art of touch and love, you taught the gods of the world. You, who were sweeter than spring and strong as oak; who was passion and soothing combined in a being so divine they transcended the simple words of god and man. You were energy, vibrant and warm, in all its forms, and you were ever present: in the simple moments during which love bloomed. You were no god; but you didn't need to be. Your power was the loyalty of a friend; the comfort of a mother; the wisdom of an old lover and the joy of a new one. So yes, you kept yourself in their minds; the union of soul and passion creating someone miraculous enough to entrance a pantheon. They promised you time and riches to rival even them, kingdoms and crowns; godhood was yours to ask for. And each time they would ask, as you departed from them back to the halls you called yours, you'd smile a sad, sweet smile that had each and every god following you further into love.

Allow me to love, you'd say. That is enough for me.

[queen-susans-revenge]

Okay it is a very, very small gripe in the grand scheme of Things, but what is Tumblr for if not pointless griping?

Truly boggled by the people I never would have put in the "moralistic pursed-mouth attempts to police other people's erotic imaginations" camp (Cliff Pervocracy???) trying to scold us into not finding Zelenskyy hot.

Excuse me this man is embodying pretty much all the masculine virtues right now, and yes I include dancing in leather pants and high heels/playing the piano with his balls among those virtues, combined as it is in a seamless package with the conviction and the courage and the charisma to rally a nation. He is smoking hot. Yelling at people not to notice the hotness is ridiculous, and it is also Bad, because

a) getting horny is a perfectly honorable response to the looming threat of global thermonuclear warfare, we are only doing as Prince taught us so long ago

and b) Putin WISHES he could get this kind of a response--what's all that shirtless horseback riding for otherwise? Freedom-loving thirsters fawning over Zelenskyy instead are Doing Our Bit in the propaganda war. Putin wants to claim the mantle of badass macho leader and he CAN'T because we are out here flooding the zone ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) by pointing out what a mmmmmMan Zelenskyy is and how unattractive and isolated and despicable Putin is.

So yes the war I personally am fighting is my right to fap to thoughts of President Zelenskyy and lemme tell you, we shall not flag or fail. We shall go on to the end. We shall fap in France, we shall fap on the seas and oceans, we shall fap with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our fantasies, whatever the cost may be. We shall fap on the beaches, we shall fap on the landing grounds, we shall fap in the fields and in the streets, we shall fap in the hills; we shall never surrender

[phoenixyfriend]

Thoughts on “Auntie Soka and Little Leia” now that I’ve actually got it posted:

Call it a director’s cut! The process of actually writing the thing, and also jokes made along the way. Link to the actual fic.

Unfortunately, I don’t have the energy for image descriptions, even the text screenshots. Might come back that later. Most of this was DMs with @atagotiak​.

This was an entire thing before I even started writing:

Before I decided on ages and stuff Ahsoka, to Jango, who has had zero contact with Kaminoans: Okay I know I'm a Jedi kid so you hate me but this toddler is your clone from the future. Jango, tired: What the FUCK are you talking about. Rex, barely able to talk: Don't you dare leave me with him, Commander! Ahsoka: I'm not going to leave you I just--I'm so tired I'm so fucking tired I haven't slept in five days and someone tried to kidnap Leia two days ago I am so fucking tired I need help

Ben: [twenty years of depression followed by a 'now I'm safe' breakdown over the course of weeks] Sokari: [whatever the FUCK this mess is]

When Ahsoka mentions there only being three other Jedi at the time of her death,  I was thinking Kanan, Yoda, and Obi-Wan (Leia told her about the latter two living past her). She's not counting anyone that received training after the Temple fell, and she didn’t know about Cal.

When Leia says  “I was adopted and raised by one of the founders of the rebellion, a movement built on the desire to instate freedom and democracy in a galaxy that had lost even the pretense.”

Depa: I'm no therapist but I diagnose you with "incredibly fucked up." Ahsoka: yeah, that’s fair

"Why did you pick Depa for--" She's pretty and I'm gay. Also because of the Kanan thing But mostly I'm gay "It's not a visual medi--" GAY

Empty of context beyond general post-fic AU: "Hey Sokari, we need to engage in psychological warfare against this individual and--" "I'm going to break into his office and leave a threatening note on his desk and leave no other sign that I was there. He'll see that his security is nothing and the only reason he isn't dead is because I'm too nice to kill him." "...okay, not what we were planning, but that works. Why is that your first choice?" "I really like breaking and entering, it's soothing." Ben just standing there with a bland smile like This Is Normal.

"We need someone to infiltrate a highly guarded facility in hostile territory." "So we're sending the Torrent kids?" [sigh] "We're sending the Torrent kids."

Rex and Sokari insist on both going by "Torrent" even though Rex could be a Fett. Jango really wants him to be a Fett. Rex has too many grudges to agree to being a Fett for... a while.

I really hope it's blatantly obvious that Ahsoka's not a reliable narrator for some things Ahsoka: Fett could care less if I died Jango: jfc even if you are older than me I can see you're fucked up. Drink your hot chocolate. Hells. She's got good reason to expect him to hate her as a Jedi! BUT. THAT IS NOT REFLECTIVE OF REALITY

We don’t get a lot of actual characterization for Jango, but the way I played him out here is he has never really parsed that Jedi are people before all this. It's a lot harder to treat them as a monolith when the traumatized former child soldier is having regular breakdowns in your shitty little kitchen

Fett: I respect you Ahsoka: No, don't do that

Ahsoka’s vigilantism is something that, in my mind, she's associating heavily with Zygerria and then the clones.

I figured that she never bothered to learn Quinlan’s teacher’s name but in the process of looking up some basic facts (whether he had a surname), I found that Wookiepedia was forced to give us a VERY wide range of possible death in Legends.

Please take a moment to imagine Quinlan's FACE when Ahsoka initially dismisses him. Quinlan has put a lot of effort into being rogueishly charming! It's very useful for his line of work! He knows to expect either irritation or a return flirtation when he acts like this with people his own age! Ahsoka is not flustered OR rolling her eyes and insulting him, she's just ignoring him and it's a bit of a blow to the ego

This just makes me really happy:

This was the initial comment I made, as a joke What if Maul is just. There. On one of the planets they make a pitstop at. What if Maul exists as the walking problem he is, but fifteen, and Ahsoka immediately tries to kick his ass and drag him back to Coruscant. I do not have room for this plot but What If

Despite not having room for this plot, I proceeded to write this plot.

Maul is kidnapped and it’s the best thing that ever happened to him HE'S FIFTEEN HE'S DUMB AS SHIT AND HAS A BAD ATTITUDE AND YEAH HE'S A DARKSIDER BUT HE'S FIFTEEN

Ahsoka: I sense... Maul [takes off sprinting] Rex: [immediately takes Jango's blaster and runs after her] Jango: Wait who Tholme: Who Quinlan: Who Jango: [looks at Leia] Leia: I don't know who that is either! Ahsoka, already wrestling a teenager to the ground: Oh no, you're a child, REX STUN HIM AND GRAB THE CUFFS, I'M SURE FETT OR THOLME HAS SOME

Fighting him isn't even legal, they have NO evidence of criminal wrongdoing, so first she needs to yell until he admits to something she can fight him about

Ahsoka: When I see Maul, it's on SIGHT Maul: WHO ARE YOU

Ahsoka: The Force didn't give me hands just to NOT throw them when I run into That Crafty Son Of A Bitch

Ben, when they arrive, after the tearful reunion: You... you brought Maul. Ahsoka: Well, yeah, he's fifteen and kinda dumb. I figured we could drag him here and force him into therapy, see what happens. Ben: I can't quite tell through the gag, but I think he's threatening to feed you your own spleen. Ahsoka: Lol, yeah.

Ben is absolutely on team "get Maul therapy" and will fight the Council on rehabilitating the baby Sith But also it's like. Here's your daughter! And your niece! And your daughter's QPP! Also your best friend, but baby, and his teacher, and the biological origin of a number of people you cared for deeply! AND ALSO THE GUY WHO SPENT LITERAL DECADES CRAVING YOUR DEATH, FOR SOME REASON

I just really want Ahsoka lovingly bullying Maul She gives him noogies and the horns don't protect him because girl has reinforced gloves

Maul's only allowed a low-power training saber and his fights with Sokari involve Much Taunting by her and Eventual Screaming by him, and everyone pops by to see: 1. Sokari doing the most absurd flips, for fun. 2. The bullshit that is ataru-shien reverse-grip jar'kai in the hands of someone who makes it work 3. What a Sith lightsaber form looks like 4. Just the general nonsense that is the way these two fight

Tia said “Wrt ridiculous flips. I'm remembering that time she beheaded four Kryst'ad at once.” and I just Rex brings up the quadruple beheading at one point to get someone to stop asking questions and the awkward, horrified silence almost makes him regret it. And then Sokari just snorts and makes a joke about how Rex once speared a slaver point-blank and everyone's just like hello??? "are you two okay" "no"

Maul absolutely starts crushing on Sokari after a 'sword under chin' moment and she's just very "Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh you're fifteen, bye" GO MAKE PUPPY EYES AT OBI-WAN OR SOMETHING

The crushes are the worst part of everything, really, she's an attractive young woman that can kick a lot of ass, and a lot of people are into that! Unfortunately, most of those people are a decade younger than she is, mentally, because all the people her actual age look at her and see a child on account of the 17yo body.

It’s almost a good thing she’s in no place mentally for a relationship.

I just want Ahsoka to wear beskar.... I think that would be Nice........

This AU is also what caused this post.

I'm deeply enamored by the idea that Ahsoka can win fights against "older" padawans pretty much unilaterally, even when they team up 2v1 And then she offers to fight 5v1 "But only if I have permission to fight dirty." Ben approves it, a horror show full of "I fought many wars and will scream in your face or kick you in the balls if that's what it takes" follows She wins. There are no permanent injuries, but her reputation certainly gets weirder. Nobody under the rank of Knight agrees to let her fight dirty again. She just lets that stand because, well, she's not actually a padawan, she's thirty-three.

I’m not going to write this but my brain was EVIL and suggested it:

IT WOULD BE REALLY SAD IDK maybe 9yo Anakin has nightmares about what's happening to baby Ahsoka because bullshit about time-traveling force bonds IDK ANYWAY he cries to Sokari about the nightmares and she's like "oh shit" and it's time to go rescue herself from motherfucker unlimited

It's either that or she's like, expecting to welcome mini-me aaaany day now, for like, several months, before she realizes Something Went Wrong. Anakin’s dreams could even start right as she’s starting to realize something’s off.

Obi-Wan has never had a padawan that doesn't at some point bite Even Luke will, when pushed

OH also once the twins get Baby's First Lightsaber (training sabers, not real kyber), Sokari begs to borrow them for a dumb joke and tells Rex to get on her shoulders for a "Grievous Greeting" and they do The Thing

Jango and Ahsoka wrt Quinlan is just “Do I need to beat him up for you” “You realize I’ve beaten up sith lords before?”

JANGO'S TRYING He's just. "Can we be friends? Can I--can I be the guy that just noticeably gets in the way of a creep on the subway so you can be more comfortable without someone making a scene? I'm fucking trying here, give me a hint."

We didn’t actually figure out Jango’s age until this point. The only reason Fett's age matters is for Quinlan making a Wild Oats quip after Jango says he didn't know about Rex until a few weeks ago, and Fett going "How old do you think I am? And how old do you think the kid is?" and Quinlan getting Very Awkward as he does the math. Rex overhears and lets Quinlan sweat for a bit before saying "I'm a genetically-modified clone someone grew in a tube, he didn't know or have reason to know until he saw me with Sokari." Which is like. Eight additional layers of WTF, obviously, but at least Jango gets to avoid awkward wild oats jokes

Like, you’d expect the rebuttal to be ‘he’s my brother just with a biiig age gap’ or ‘he’s my nephew’

I find it very unfortunate for Quinlan that I've decided his defining characteristic in this context is going to be repeatedly putting his foot in his mouth

He’s trying so hard but "That sounds like a cool thing, maybe I'll ask ab--and it's another fucking trauma."

I'm doing Ahsoka&Jango t w i c e (there’s another fic where I’m doing it)

It’s just a fun dynamic! So much resentful respect.

Like she's twenty seconds away from calling him a bitch at any given time and he's just there like "I don't like you but I do see you move like you're about to tell an entire building to get on their knees with their hands in the air and I can respect that" Also she's probably much less judgmental about using blasters than Obi-Wan is The Maul subplot actually started with me daydreaming about Ahsoka grabbing a blaster for Reasons

I like the idea of Jango just deciding the most Useful thing he can do is help teach the Smol how to fight. He's AWKWARD around Rex and Soka because he doesn't know if there's anything he CAN teach them.

I didn’t actually plan for Tholme to figure out the age thing, he just SAID it and I had to sit there like Wait.

Ahsoka, Rex & Leia: ahhh, children Tholme: you say that like you aren’t children

I liked getting to write Rex's little "I have worked with all of them, and they're all Terrible" He loves them But They once got stranded on a planet that didn’t exist and Ahsoka died and Anakin killed a god.

There was research and discussion as to whether Ahsoka could win against Tholme but seeing as she held her own against Vader, and fought Grievous at that physical age without dying, etc.... yeah, the only thing holding her back was her body not being what she was used to, and she’s had a few weeks go adjust.

“I miss being able to just jump off skyscrapers” is such a jedi thing

Jango: I'll take the gun back if he tries to leave, they can't get far before--WHAT THE FUCK He knows Jedi are scary but he’s still not really used to just how over the top ridiculous they are He knows how to deal with Jedi in battle, not Whatever The Fuck These People Are Doing

Rex isn't even a Jedi, he's just so used to working with them. “Oh yes time for free-falling without a parachute again, same shit as always.”

Tia: I’m imagining Jango freaking out and Quinlan and Tholme being like. Concerned but mostly exasperated Clearly if they’re jumping off buildings it must be serious? But jfc they could’ve maybe communicated a bit more?

Leia: I want to finish my juice Tholme: Quin, stay with her while we go figure out what those two are doing. Quinlan: Wait what

Jango: Oh now he’s jumping off a building too??? Tholme: Sokari, you are not registered! You can't legally jump out windows yet! Jango: What the hell is going on? Is this normal?

We don’t necessarily know how often Ahsoka and Maul ran into each other after Mandalore. There was the later thing on Malachor, but other than that I'm just going with the idea that they ran into each other every year or two and just went for the eyes like feral cats

Ahsoka: I need to kick ass and you're coming with me. Rex: Yeah, okay. [several minutes later] Rex: Whose ass are we kicking?

Ahsoka and Rex

Neloms aren’t a SW fruit to the best of my knowledge, I just wanted to mess around with lemons/melons

Jango: you didn’t think any of this through, did you? Rex: you were there, you know we didn’t "When the Jedi says to jump out a window, I jump out a window."

Tholme’s real composed about stalking the ancient nigh-mythical enemy of his people, very “Life is already so goddamn weird”

This fic has been so heavy on the trauma but then I introduce Maul and suddenly it's the worst kind of comedy Nobody is competent, everyone's a little dumb, the bad guy is just grocery shopping

My propensity for banter has turned this into a six-person buddy cop comedy about Maul buying grapes They spend a significant amount to time ineffectually stalking Maul before Quin suggests the sensible option Quinlan just "You remember this is my literal job and specialty right"

Ahsoka sees Maul and all her brain cells go out the window except "Fight good" Usually she doesn’t need to worry about doing things legally. Maybe she needs to worry about someone seeing her do illegal things but she spent the past 15 yrs in a place where her existing was illegal

I feel like he’s also maybe kinda wanting to reassert that yes he is competent. Bc like. Ahsoka’s been kinda condescending this whole time and also can beat everyone up so. It's not his fault that he's actually the youngest person there, but.

Jango is finding this whole being friendly to Jedi thing a lot more overwhelming than he thought it would be. And overwhelming in different ways.

Maul usually signifies things getting worse and more horrifyingly tragic but he's just a dumb teen that they needed to arrest for his own good.

Quinlan: Look, I'm useful! Ahsoka: I've been through hell, wanna hear? Quinlan: NO. I DON'T. WHY.

Quinlan: I understand the concept of joking about your traumas, I do it sometimes myself! But sith hells that’s a lot of trauma.

Quinlan just wanted her to treat him as a Competent Individual, and here she is whipping out stories about Dying and Gods and the Force insists it's the truth and he just???? And apparently emo darksider over there is a Sith. And just, sure. Why not

A lot of people’s interactions with the time travelling disaster lineage is just

Tholme and Fett arguing and  Ahsoka's just waiting for a moment to pop in with "Hey, when's the last time either of you worked with the other's culture before this mess? Yeah, that's what I thought."

Much like Leia and Ahsoka hurting each other earlier, and Tholme figuring out the de-aging, we ALSO have Fett’s confrontation with Ahsoka being something the characters just did, rather than something I planned.

FTR the only time I managed to trigger myself while writing this fic was the “your behavior isn’t actually acceptable and we’ve all been trying really hard to give you room to recover but you have to at least make an effort to not be a bitch”

Writing about people having PTSD and symptoms of such: Yay! Writing about people having PTSD and engaging in toxic behavior to cope: Shit Ahsoka had... basically my exact reaction. It's "remind yourself that you're in the wrong, that they have a point, and then be overly formal in the apology because fuck if you accidentally make them feel sorry for you when they're the injured party"

Quinlan: Can we be friends? I mean, you're an asshole, but you're really cool. Let's be friends. (He MIGHT be nursing a crush) (Neat mysterious girl who can beat him up.)

Also he realises she's probably nicer when not having a slow-motion breakdown He's like "Huh, you'll probably be less of an asshole once you've gotten therapy."

...also, she pretty and got Nice Biceps

I love writing a good mental breakdown

I was so close to including a "he tried to kill me" just early enough for Jango to wildly misinterpret as her thinking Quinlan tried to kill her. He'd have been very confused, considering Quinlan's the one that called them down in a panic and currently has Ahsoka having her massive breakdown in his lap But

Tia:  I could see Jango interpreting it as idk, Quin resembling someone or for a moment acting like someone who tried to kill her and she had a flashback or something like that

There's absolutely room for a couple reasonable interpretations there And "trapped in a flashback about someone who tried to kill her" is absolutely what's happening! Just. You know. For a different reason. Jango probably wouldn’t assume Quin would hurt her, for one thing he seems to like her, for another even if he did he’s smart enough to pick a way that wouldn’t be so likely to get him caught

I had to step back and actually say “Also I'm just. Wow. I'm really just shoveling QPP Rex&Ahsoka at full speed”

Me, a few weeks ago, joking: Two halves of the same idiot black ops specialist Me, now, entirely seriously: Two halves of the same idiot black ops specialist

Me, belatedly: Oh, Ahsoka being joyfully mean to people was a form of mania she was unconsciously using to build a barrier between herself and her impending meltdown

She went from "just died" to "in charge of Rex and Leia" in like. Two minutes.

Confession: I've been delighting in the mental image of this whole Mess leading Jango to try to retake Mandalore, and Ahsoka loans him a saber for a 1v1 to get the darksaber.

“Can’t I just fight him barehanded? That’s how I did it on Galidraan.” "But the drama, Fett!"

Probably Rex has learned how to use a saber as well, because you never know when you have to borrow a weapon

I later changed my mind to Jango asking her to help, rather than her just sneak-teaching him, but it was funny.

Background nonsense to all this is Ahsoka and Rex, despite Rex being as force-sensitive as a lump of coal, having developed a process where she can extend her sensitivity to him mind-to-mind for weird symbiotic battle trance that scares everyone around them. It’s very similar to Battle meditation.

CONTEXT FOR LEIA BEING WORRIED ABOUT THOLME HIDING THINGS: Tholme is hiding the fact that the Council reached out and told him that the people he picked up might be connected to Ben and Luke, who showed up after the Depa thing but a solid week and change before Jango's ship makes it to the Temple. They asked that he not share that information to avoid getting anyone's hopes up in case the two situations aren't related. Ben and Luke haven't shared enough information for anyone to really be sure if the other three are connected Because the info Tholme has isn't quite the info Jango has, etc. And they can't just say Ben is a future Obi-Wan over comms

I just have a lot of feelings about people trying to do something right and just. Nobody's at fault! Not really! It's just complicated!

Tia: I like how when Ahsoka isn’t doing maladaptive trauma response stuff she’s very mature. And of course she’s had to be but it’s a good like, contrast. Where when she slows down to think about things she’s very sensible

Jango just spends most of this story lowkey wanting Ahsoka to Be His Friend but there's too much baggage that he's only metaphysically responsible for

Local aroace(?) has a squish

Ahsoka: He just wants to get on my good side because of Rex. Jango: I'm pretty sure you could kill an entire army without trying but you wouldn't because you have actual morals and stuff... and when I met you it was because you were killing yourself trying to keep (what appeared to be) children safe... you seem cool please be my friend.......

Ahsoka’s #1 weakness: mountains of trauma Ahsoka’s #2 weakness: she just doesn’t get why so many people think she’s cool and want her to be their (girl)friend

Jango, a 27yo massacre survivor who's killed Jedi masters with his bare hands: [gets lectured on various government structures by a tiny girl that's missing several teeth and needs to sit on books to see the table properly]

Ahsoka was raised in a religious meritocracy but developed all her opinions during a galactic war and then became a vigilante spy, Rex comes from a military cult, Leia is from an inherited monarchy that participates in democracy, Quinlan was originally from what appears to be a dynastic dictatorship, and IDK about Tholme other than that he is also from the religious meritocracy. And in legends Quinlan came to the religious meritocracy after his aunt sacrificed his parents to a vampire cult and then forced him to experience the psychometric echoes of that. There's just. A lot going on.

Leia at least has knowledge about structure and admin in theory that isn't based in either the military or populations under 10k

Jango: I want to be your friend. Ahsoka: Sounds fake.

I am unfairly fond of "Rex destroys a conversation by bringing up his own horrifying childhood and calling it a cult"

"Why does Sokari call you 'Rex'ika'?" "Because she's older than me." "...can I--?" "No."

Nickname privileges are extended ONLY to Ahsoka and older clones. There are no more older clones, so it's just Ahsoka.

Me joking about Star Wars AUs: Would you like a crackship? Me writing actual Star Wars fic: My favorite character type is apparently “too traumatized to have a relationship” so this is at least 90% gen.

I had to pull a scene opening at one point because Ahsoka's skill with not getting shot is actually much less useful than Tholme's clearance levels.

Now I really want a team-up of Ahsoka, Rex, and Jango where they do have to get in a dogfight of the "she flies, we shoot" variety and Fett just has to scream because the speeder thing to catch Maul was one thing, but this....

Ahsoka, before TCW: I know all the traffic rules but I'm not that great at flying! Ahsoka, after TCW: I'm great at flying but if you let me behind the wheel we are absolutely getting arrested.

She went from "knows the rules but doesn't have the skills" to "has the skills but primarily in the form of not getting shot" which! Is delightful! "Bet I can get us through that alley--" "DO NOT"

Jango and Ahsoka are both just very "Is this friendship? Is this camaraderie? My heart's been fried on platonic love by so many murders that I'm not sure anymore." "I've lost a lot of friends. I kind of forgot how to make those."

I have no idea if "hasn't been closer than Alderaan except that one trip to Chandrila" is canon-compliant but ehhhhhhhh It feels plausible enough?

Belatedly realized that I could just explain my optimal Rex&Ahsoka dynamic as just... drift compatible. It's vague enough on the specifics while still digging into the meat of what they mean to each other and how they work together. The terminology is already in existence. I can just use it.

Romantic? Platonic? Familial? Doesn't matter! They're drift compatible.

They are important to each other and that is what matters

I really like the Leia&Quinlan thing. He's just like "This small child needs a friend that isn't super depressed," and decided he's going to be her friend. I keep trying to toss in "Quinlan volunteers to 'baby'sit." She's not much older and she has a Baby Brain, it works out

There's a running bet as to whether Leia will leave the Order the second she turns thirteen, or if she'll let Sokari "train" her for a few years first. And... that’s how I came up with Leia Antilles, Senator of Serenno.

They'll be bullshitting Ben as her new master to "finish out the padawanship" since they can't tell everyone she's really in her thirties and he's conveniently there and already knows everything and was half her master anyway. Like Ben was planning on taking on Luke, but Luke is "six" and even he can't swing that as old enough to be a Padawan, and it's not like Sokari will take more than a handful of years to justify knighthood, sooooooooo

[magic-missle-blog]

Ghost division 2 – The belly of the beast

2nd story in what will hopefully be a series. Roughly 6k words. Hope you enjoy

:readmore:

Four missiles streaked through the darkness of space from the canadation destroyer as it smashed through the human battle group.

The warship TDF Glasgow rocked as a missile impacted the hull. Point defence had taken out three others but the fourth slammed into the starboard side.

“Damage report!” the captain shouted as he swivelled his command chair to face the tactical officer.

“The hull plating is scorched and buckled, but no internal damage. We were lucky.” The tactical officer replied, shouting to be heard over the various alarms and beeps in the small bridge.

“We cant rely on luck. If we get hit again its your head!” The captain growled. His hair was cut close to his scalp and a sheen of sweat reflected in the bright yellow light on his dark skin.

Tactical officer Rotchford nodded. Her brow furrowed as she quickly typed into her console. “don’t worry I’m on it, I’ve analysed the firing pattern and I can probably take out most of the missiles, its those fucking fighters and energy weapons I cant do a thing about.”

Just as she finished speaking a swarm of small locust shaped fighters buzzed passed the ship, pelting the armour with energy weapons.

Turrets tracked the fighters, spitting hypersonic tungsten shells. One of the Canidation fighters exploded, the rest of the group took evasive action and continued on the attack run through the human fleet.

The ship rocked again and various alarms clamoured for attention. Lights on the bridge flickered.

Captain Conroy nodded and straightened his uniform. He brought up a tactical display on the console built into his chair.

Five Canidation warships had engaged the fleet of seven Terran defence force destroyers and the humans were loosing badly. The Canidations had the firepower and faster ships. Fighters swarmed over the fleet firing kinetic weapons and lasers, some with great effect.

He watched as another of the fleet exploded. That was the second ship they had lost. The battle had been raging for what felt like hours but in reality it was only 30 minutes. The Canidations had dropped out of hyperspace in this remote system to ambush a Human supply run. The freighters had escaped unharmed but the escort fleet couldn’t leave, not without leaving this Canidation battle group free reign to attack other convoys.

“Shit. That was the Newcastle!” the first officer said “Fleet captain Broadie…he was a good man”

The computer screamed out a proximity warning as another salvo of missiles streaked towards them, but true to her word the tactical officers new point defence programme took them all out. She returned fire with the main cannon as the destroyer elegantly swung around, scoring a direct hit to the Canidations engines. The insectoid ship vented atmosphere and appeared to lose power as running lights flickered out and the ship drifted

The other enemy ships moved towards the remaining fleet.

“Scan that ship, is it dead?” Conroy commanded the science officer as the warship rocked under more impacts

“yeah it appears… Fuck” the science officer said as his console went dark and the lights cut out.

A few moments later the ships emergency power kicked in and the lights came back on, but dull red colour. His console lit up. “ yeah its dead. I think. Scans are all over the place.”

Conroy nodded, as the most senior officer left in the tattered fleet he assumed command.. “signal the fleet. Lets get the fuck out of here...but slowly, I want to draw them away from that damaged ship.” He plotted a course that would take them deep into the Oort cloud of this system.

The remaining ships of the Terran defence force broke off the engagement and retreated. Caught by surprise at the sudden change in tactics, The Canidations stopped dead, recalled the fighters then followed, slowly gaining ground on the slower terran warships.

Glancing at his command console captain Conroy opened fleet wide comms. Signalling the other commanders he said “Listen up people. Once we are in that cloud drop sensor decoys try to buy me some time . I’m going to double back and capture that ship.”

The crew looked at him in astonishment

“Damn” said the first officer. “And I thought today was going to be a quiet day.”

************************************

The war against the Canidations had been raging for 3 months, and the Terran empire was losing.

The Canidations ships were more advanced, and they had the numbers. The only saving grace is that the Canidations were fighting two other larger empires. Humanity, as a relatively new race to the galactic stage, hadn’t been seen as a concern. Almost an afterthought.

No one knew why the war started. Canidations were a reclusive species. They had no trade with the wider galactic community, no embassies, no contact at all. No one really even knew if “Canidation” was their species name. They stayed in their home systems, A group of a dozen or so stars a few light years around the Canadathon, their home world.

A decade ago the Canidations has blasted out of their home system with an over powering military force and attacked a neighbouring world without warning. Everything was a viable target to them and they didn’t take prisoners…or at least they didn’t keep them alive for long.

For ten long years they attacked and destroyed any neighbouring species, expanding their empire. The first races, unused to galactic warfare on such a scale had fallen quickly. Other species had tried to build up their own military force but simply didn’t have the infrastructure in place and couldn’t come close to the Canidations speed of production. It seemed like for every Canidation ship that fell two more would take its place.

The Canidations were an insectoid race, they looked like an unholy amalgamation of a spiders body with a praying mantis torso, like an insect centaur. They didn’t seem to capture any world they won, they destroyed it. Left it a lifeless husk, took any easily accessible resources then moved on like locusts. Maybe they would be back to terraform it later, maybe not. No one knew.

The destruction on such a scale seemed senseless, and completely alien. Not even the best human generals, phycologists or philosophers could come up with a reason for this carnage.

What was known was they had a lot of ships. More than every other military in this region of space combined. They had been building up for decades and it seemed like now was the time to unleash their might.

******************************

The Glasgow had ducked behind a dwarf planet in the Oort cloud and waiting while the remaining fleet had drawn the Canidations away, then used a risky in system jump to get back quickly to the battlefield. They had scanned for survivors of the destroyed Terran ships but unfortunately found plenty of debris but no life signs.

TDF Glasgow slowly drew up alongside the crippled Canidation vessel, comms jammers at full power blocking any communication from the hulk. It had been few hours since the shot had crippled the Bug ship, but it was still drifting without any main power, its engines dark and cooling.

It looked like reserve power had kicked in and there was several Canidations on the main hull close to the breach in what looked like dark space suits, although it could have been their flesh. Conroy didn’t know enough about the species to tell. It was obvious the Canidations were trying to repair the damage.

The insectoid ship was large, at least half again as big as the Glasgow and followed an unorthodox design. It was nothing like the sleek Terran ships, whose lines were reminiscent of the war planes that fought in earth’s skies in the 20th century. Human ships were long and sleek, with swept back retractable wings protruding from the mid section to allow atmosphere flight when fully extended. Canidation was bulky, and looked like a flattened pinecone and close range scans showed it be highly modular.

The bridge appeared to be at on top of the bulky front section. Conroy guessed below this would be weapons, crew quarters and the like. Engineering and the ships drive core, and sub light engines must be located in the tapering end. Cannons clustered around the front with turrets in two rows along the top and bottom of the ship.

Conroy assumed there would be about 60 or so crew on board. Terran destroyers had a crew of 30 plus 10 marines. Not good odds Conroy thought.

“Easy to build, quick to swap different sections out if needed” Science officer McCallum said as he looked over the data.

Conroy nodded to Commander Paulson, the first office. “Pauly, get a boarding party ready. Find any intel you can get your hands on but don’t take any stupid risks. Focus on engineering, medical, ship deployments, shit we can find to kill these things.” Looking at McCallum “what do they need?”

McCallum brought up all the information he had on Canidations, which wasn’t a lot.

“Scans show gravity and life support is still active and the ship has atmosphere, although I use the term loosely. Their air is made up of 30% oxygen, 15% Co2, 10% Hydrogen sulphide, the rest is nitrogen, water vapour and trace gasses. Average temperature is roughly 30 degrees Celsius and humidity is close to 70%. Gravity is low, roughly 0.6G. So basically your walking into a hot sweaty hellhole that’ll smell like Satan’s ass. Enjoy” he finished with a laugh.

Paulson looked at the captain “Gee thanks Boss, you give me all the best jobs. Breathing units all round then.” He saluted as he left the bridge.

“Mac…what killed this ship? Did we get a lucky shot?”

McCallum looked over his reading for a few moments. “Yeah, very lucky. Looks like there is a weakness around the main engine core on this ship. Plasma exhaust has weakened the hull armour in a small area right above the main power linkage, its little better than paper. Must be a design flaw…if that shot had hit even a few meters on either side it wouldn’t have made a dent.”

Rotchford laughed. “luck had nothing to do with it. It’s pure skill.”

She grinned

Conroy rolled his eyes.

“Yeah yeah if you say so” he said grinning. Conroy didn’t mind a bit of banter with the bridge crew. He felt it build camaraderie and they all worked better as a result.

Turning to Macallum he said

“Deep scan this bitch, I see what else you can find, anything that’ll give us an edge.”

From over the other side of the bridge the tactical offer said “Captain, I think I’ve found something too. The missiles on the ship are armed.”

Conroy looked over “So?”

Rotchford brushing her brown bangs that had escaped from the severe bun on her head said “Our missiles auto arm a second after launch to prevent any accidents, these appear to pre arm before launch, Probably as soon as they find a hostile ship. Once direct hit could detonate the entire missile battery. The armour is thick but the launch tubes are vulnerable . “

“Comms” Conroy said excitedly “Tight beam the rest of the fleet and let them know what we’ve found…might give them an edge.”

Turning back to tactical

“Why would they do that?”

Rotchford shrugged. “not sure. It does mean the missiles can be fired much closer then we can shoot. Out missiles travel so fast that by the time they arm they’re a couple of hundred kilometres away, makes them useless for close engagements. By pre-arming them they get around that problem. Makes it almost impossible to shoot them down when the bugs get in close.”

Minutes passed slowly. Soon the boarding party was on board a small ship to ship shuttle and on route to dock with the crippled ship.

The shuttle did a quick fly over the damaged section and fired small arms at the Canidations working on the damaged hull, Killing the repair team. The aliens magnetic grips kept the bodies stuck to the hull like bugs splattered by a windscreen.

McCallum looked up “I’ve found something else captain, it wont help us now but I think we can take advantage of it.”

He put his display on the main screen, All eyes turned to it.

“I thought about using some kind of plasma weapon to weaken the armour of the whole ship, and that’ll probably work, we don’t use plasma tech, but I’m sure the weapons experts back home can build something.” He took a breath “Anyway, that got me thinking, Plasma is basically really hot ionized gas. Its expelled as exhausts right away as too much heat inside the ship it bad. As you know its almost impossible to loose heat in space, so we use active cooling systems to…”

Conroy interrupted before McCallum could go into a lecture on the finer points of starship heat management. “Get to the point”

Mccallum looked sheepish “Sorry sir, anyway, the Canidations seem to use radiator panels, they’re well armoured but vulnerable to excessive heat. A focussed laser beam could overload them. If they cant loose heat they’ll cook inside the ships.”

“Well done Mac, get everything we’ve found so far and bundle the data ready for transmission back to HQ”

Minutes dragged as Mccallum compiled the data.

Everyone was on eggshells, watching the boarding shuttle latch on to the Canidation hull and begin cutting through. Tactical constantly scanning for any Canidation ships that might be inbound. Conroy wondered how the rest of the fleet was fairing. The TDF ships were more manoeuvrable than the larger Canidation warships, so as long as they kept in a dense part of the Oort cloud, dodging comets and dwarf planets then the TDF ships should have an advantage.

*****************************

Inside the shuttle the atmosphere was tense. Paulson looked over the assembled combat team. All had breathing units over their lower faces. The units would filter out the harmful gasses and reduce the oxygen pressure to something breathable, but as they weren’t full space suits or fully sealed Paulson knew the stench would get through, he grinned inwardly he hadn’t told the team what the Canidation air was like, he wanted to see the reactions.

The ten member boarding team all had dark grey combat armour, and each carried a small side arm and a combat knife. Eight also carried an assault rifle with enough ammo to take on a small army, the other two combat engineers carried various tools and computer equipment. Their mission was to hack into any systems they could find and mine it for data.

The shuttle bumped into the hull and latched on. A magnetic tube made an air tight seal around the hatch. It opened to show a sold hull. The engineers immediately started cutting to gain access. It was slow going. Armour that can withstand heavy ship weapons wont easily fail to small plasma torches.

Sargent Waltham stepped up next to Paulson. “We’re ready to go” She said coolly.

Paulson nodded. “Get in and secure the area. Set up fire lines kill anything that’s got more than two legs.” He said to Waltham.

She was tall, blonde, very pretty in hard way. People, especially men, tended to underestimate her due to her looks, thinking she was just a made up barbie doll. Paulson had thought the same thing once, until she kicked his ass in hand to hand training. The first round he went easy on her and he was flat on his back in 5 seconds. The second round he went all out, and to his credit, he managed to last a full 7 seconds before she had him pined, face pressed against the floor and his left arm twisted up his back. Waltham, like all the other,s had earned her place in the combat team, but unlike the men she had to continually prove she deserved to be there. This constant striving for perfection had made her one of the best solders Paulson had ever worked with.

The thick hull armour fell inwards with a heavy thunk. The sound echoed around the shuttle. The stench of rotten eggs filler the small enclosed space and everyone wrinkled their noses.

“For fucks sake… is this ship full of farts?” Jones, the lead combat engineer said.

Paulson grinned. “Ok move out. Slow and steady, I don’t want any fuck ups.”

The team moved slowly into the alien vessel. The interior was dark, smelly and hot, lighting was a deep red that cast odd shadows. Paulson didn’t know if this was normal or if it was due to low power.

Waltham took her place first in line as the engineers cleared the hull and opened a portal to the interior of the ship. She directed one of her team , Ramerez, a young marine on his first away mission , hang back and guard the shuttle just encase they needed to make a quick exit.

Ramerez took position just inside the the shuttle door, he pulled a couple of boxes containing emergency supplies across the entrance and dug in.

The rest of the team followed her lead, with Paulson acting as rear guard, scanning the corridor behind him with a quick practiced eye.

One of the marines whispered in a low voice “damn, this is weird.”

“what is? Looks like a normal ship corridor to me” Paulson said

“sir...that’s what I mean. I expected...well dirt..or tunnels like that old movie ‘Aliens’. You know, the one where the dildo bursts out of some guys chest and all these Marines hunt it down? I mean they’re bugs for Christ’s sake..but this just looks normal.”

Paulson shook his head.“Lay off the old horror flicks. Keep it together”.

Looking at a handheld scanner Jones said “looks like there might be a room down the corridor to the right, I’m reading power spikes, it could be a place I can hack into there systems.”

The team crept inward, the low gravity giving them a bounce to their steps. They were searching for a room with a computer access, but all the could see were long featureless corridors. The came to a junction and as they passed a blast of plasma energy almost took Walthams head off. She Pulled back just in time, lightning quick reflexes saving her life. As it was the plasma shot singed her combat helmet.

Risking another blast, Waltham popped her head around then quickly pulled it back. Three Canidations waited around the corner, plasma rifles at the ready for another shot.

Pulling a flashbang from her belt she leaned out and expertly tossed he weapon into the centre of the group, a second later a loud BANG and a FLASH of bright light lit up the corridor. She could hear a smattering of legs as the Canidations fell back. Her and two of her team ran around keeping low and opened fire. The sound of the assault rifles sounded odd in the dense air. the Canidations tried to return fire but there shots went wide, scorching the metal bulkheads, obviously still blinded by the light. The skirmish was over quickly.

The team crept up slowly to the dead aliens. One in the was headless. Its body twitched, a dark yellow fluid pumping from its neck. The other two were still. Red faceted eyes that took up most of the head were dull and lifeless. Mandibles closed tighter than a vice.

Bullets had ripped the skinny top part of one in half, and the others larger thorax between the spiders-like legs was riddled and leaking the same yellow fluid.

The team looked at the corpses, they were…creepy. They unnerved the humans just looking at them. Jones knelt down and pointed something out. “Look, this one has a couple of cybernetic legs. That one has a cybernetic head…That’s so weird. Gives me the creeps.”

Paulson looked. “Why weird?”

“Think of what this means. They use medical tech to repair wounds. Replace missing limbs like we do. You don’t think of bugs caring for individuals I guess. I assumed they would be like a hive, like ants or termites just mindless soldier’s, disposable and replaceable. Maybe they’re more than that.“

One of the other marines, Patel a tall solid build man with a cold gaze said in a whisper “They’re like spiders, I fucking hate spiders. Normal spiders are bad enough but these are super sized fuckers with guns. “

He shivered as a cold chill ran down his spine. Taking one last place at the dead Canadation he walked slowly past, rifle ready for another attack.

As the team moved on one of the corpses stood up with a clatter. It swiped at a passing trooper with its upper limbs, razor sharp claws sliced across his face and chest, cutting flesh and the scoring deep cuts on his combat armour. He fell back shocked. The headless alien thrashed about, seemingly attracted to the noise the shocked humans made. It tried to reach for another one but a burst of fire from Waltham’s rifle tore through its thorax . the alien twitched again then fell back. She crept up, gun ready and kicked the corpse. No reaction. It was truly dead.

Patel looked a mess, his face had been cut to the bone, but he’d live. Two others helped bandage him up.

“fucking fuckitty fucking spiders! “ he shouted and kicked the corpse, holding his wounded face and blood soaked bandages.

“get back to the shuttle” Waltham commanded him.

He nodded, his face screwed up in pain, The bandages soaking with blood. He got to his feet and headed back the way he came.

Paulson looked at jones “What the fuck?”

Jones shrugged “I’m no medical expert, but I guess a head shot wont kill them. Maybe they keep their brains in there ass or something, I guess the head is just for eating and seeing.” Pointing to the Canidation with the cybernetic head “Maybe loosing the head for them is just like loosing an eye for us? Or maybe they’re like cockroaches. We should drag these things back to the shuttle. Medical back at HQ would have a field day.”

Paulson nodded “team, forget headshots, aim for the centre mass.” He directed a couple of team member to take the most intact body back to the shuttle “Keep it under guard…just in case”

The diminished team made there way deeper into the ship. Paulson was aware of the time he was taking, he knew The Glasgow couldn’t wait forever, but he wanted more than a few dead bugs. Soon they came across an empty room. The door was closed but a kick and a shove and it slid back into the wall. The team entered. Looking around, there was a lot of electronics that Paulson couldn’t guess the function off. Jones quickly set up his scanner. Pulling open a panel he found circuit boards. After quick scan he attached a lead from his scanner to one of the chips.

“If i can hack this, this should give me access” he worked quickly The rest of the team took up positions around the door. Paulson moved to the back of the room and signalled Waltham.

“thoughts? He said after she walked over

Waltham shrugged “they don’t seem too tough. Decent weapons though.“ she pointed to the plasma rifle she’d captured.

“hows things between you two?” he nodded to Jones

Relationships were against regulations but as long as it was discreet no one really minded. It could be lonely in deep space.

Waltham smiled. “he’s sweet, like a puppy. Always eager to please. But utterly fearless too. He could be a great soilder, but likes his gizmos too much.”

“Yeah jones is a good one.” Paulson agreed. He’s been friends with jones for years. They grew up in the same town went to the same high school, and went through training together.

Minutes ticked by. Jones had attached a large data cube to his scanner. He came over to the pair while the data downloaded “. I can copy the full ships hard drive. Shouldn’t take long. There’s not a lot of data, mainly seems to be the ships opperating system. Seems pretty basic. I did find something interesting though, I found ship schematic. We’re not far from a path to fire control. Its down the end of that corridor out there. “

Paulson thought for a second. “no, we have enough we need to get back”

Just as he said that his communicator beeped. It was the shuttle “Sir, get back here we need to go! A Canidation warship is on approach, ETA 7 minutes!”

“Ok people pack your shit up, we need to get out of here! Double time!”

The team grabbed there gear and quickly made there way back into the corridor. Several canidations ran down the steel hallway, the hack had triggered some kind of security protocol. These Canidations didn t have weapons but they moved so fast in the lower gravity that the quickly closed the distance, soon it was a melee, claw against fist.

****************

Alarms cried out for attention on the bridge of the Glasgow. A Canidation warship was closing in.

“eta?” asked Conroy. His calm voice a counterpoint to the frantic activity on the bridge.

“roughly 7 minutes until weapons range. I’ve contacted the shuttle”. maccalum replied.

Conroy nodded. Looking at the helmsman her said “keep that bug ship in between us. We’re smaller and so keep us in its shadow and hopefully they won’t get a weapons lock.”

Nodding, through helmsman fired up the thrusters.

“’ll try time get a target lock on the missile batteries.” Rotchford reported as she programmed the ships turrets.

Captain Conroy starred at the main screen, his fingers tapping a rhythm on the arm of his command seat.

Paulson tried to get a clear shot as a canidaton reared up on its four rear legs. It brought its full weight down on Waltham. Its mandibles opened and snapped closed right over her head. Only her quick thinking and combat helmet saved her from decapitation. She ducked her head and trusting the hardened carbon nanotube and ceramic construction she head-butted the bug right in its open mouth. Mandibles crunched against the helm. The force of through blow and the weight of the bug staggered her for a second, but years of hand to hand training came to her and with a twist and a flick she grabbed the alien and slammed it against the bulkhead. The lower gravity and adrenaline giving her almost superhuman strength.

Her combat knife flashed on the low light as she stabbed the mantis like torso. There was resistance then with a crunch she forced the blade through the carapace. The bug shuddered and wrenched. Flailing its limbs then it was still.

The skirmish was over as quickly as it started. Looking around Paulson shouted “sound off”

A chorus of voices said “here” or “i’m good”

A few troopers took minor injuries but no fatalities.

They sprinted down the corridor. The sound of gunfire brought them up short. The bugs were trying to capture the shuttle. Paulson knew if they lost that they were dead.

A scream echoed down the steel corridor. One of his men had fallen. Canidations pressed on.

“We need a distraction” Paulson shouted to Waltham over the blaring alarms.

“i have an idea. Hold here for a few seconds”

With that she sprinted back the way she came. Moments later an explosion rocked the ship. The lights and gravity cut out, then seconds later they came back on. The unprepared soilders hit the ground but were quickly back on there feet, the Canidations were not as lucky, they were a tangle of legs and claws further down the corridor.

Seizing his chance, Paulson shouting a battle cry and his boarding party fell in the bugs from behind. The battle was short and brutal but they pushed through just as Waltham returned. Her hair was burned and armour scorched.

“What the fuck did you do?” shouted Paulson

“I overloaded that plasma rifle and tossed it in the fire control room. I think we need to get out of here, that room is burning and it’s right next to the missiles”

Once everyone was on board the hatch slammed shut and the shuttle detached then raced back to the Glasgow, just as another explosion ripped through the Canidation warship. A series of smaller explosion’s rocked the ship them with a blast like a supernova the power core blew up. The shuttle was caught in the fireball but escaped with minor damage.

Paulson looked at his and bruised team as the shuttle pilot plotted a course back to the Glasgow.

Paulson pushed one of the Canidation corpses to the side, making down room in the small shuttle. He sat next to the body of a young man, almost a boy. Ramerez. It was his first tour, he was 18 and fresh out of boot camp. Ramerez had taken a plasma blast to the chest. His armour was burned through. Mercifully he had been killed instantly.

************

Conroy watched as the Canidation ship exploded. The shuttle streaked towards the hanger.

“well... shit” he said “get the shuttle on board and get ready to bug out”

calls of “aye” and “yessir” Echoed around the bridge..

The Canidation warship closed in, spitting fire and death at the Glasgow. Point defence destroyed the incoming missiles but the ship rocked from impacts

The Glasgow returned fire, turrets pounded the underside of the Canidation ship as it passed overhead passing through the expanding could of gas and debris.

The helmsman kept a steady course until the shuttle was back in then started evasive manoeuvres, he would have to hold the ship steady for a few moments to allow the hyperdrive to spin up, but the Canidation ship was not making it easy.

“Shuttle is on board. Prepare for Jump in 3...2...1...”

The ship lurched to the side and spun almost 90 degrees, crew members were thrown around the bridge like sticks caught in a hurricane. Alarms blared.

The main lights were down, red emergency lamps cast an eerie glow. Groans came from the crew

Rochford pulled herself back into her seat. Blood running from a head wound. She checked her console “sir..the hyperdrive core has been hit. We’re venting plasma and atmosphere...main power is down. Weapons down....the Canidations are coming around for another pass...”

Before Conroy could respond an explosion tore through the bridge as a missile impacted the armour surrounding the command center.

A ceiling panel that had been knocked loose earlier in the fight fell with a resounding crash pinning Conroy to his command chair and knocking him unconscious. Bones snapped under the force of the impact.

Rochford as the most senior officer left standing opened ship wide Comms “all hands. This is commander rochford. The captain is incapacitated abandon ship. I repeat abandon ship”

She moved as quickly as she could to try to help Conroy, Macallum was at his side trying to move the panel. “mac..leave him. We need to go...” she grabbed his arm “come on...move it soldier” macallum looked at the damaged viewscreen. The Canidation ship was baring down. Any second now it’s main cannons would finish the job. They were out of time.

White hot plasma blasts leaped from the Canidation vessel tearing across the cold black darkness. Promising death to the Glasgow.

A flash and a massive lurch pulled maccalum and Rotchford off their feet, but it wasn’t a weapon impact. It was the lurch of a gravity field forming a few miles away as a ship dropped out of hyperdrive.

A dangerous and potentially fatal move – a single miscalculation could have dropped the new ship right on top of them - but it saved the Glasgow. The rest of the fleet, the few ships that remained had jumped back to help. The TDF New York had jumped In front of the plasma blasts. Taking the hit that would have finished the Glasgow off. It opened up with its main cannons, rail guns blasting the armour above the Canidations missile batteries. Another Terran defence force ship TDF Cardiff jumped in behind and opened up on the bugs with everything it had. The Canidation vessel was powerful, but it couldn’t withstand the combined firepower of the vengeful human warships.

Explosion and explosion, hit after hit. The Canidations withered under the combined firepower and with a final flash it vanished as it’s fusion plant exploded.

The TDF Glasgows communication system beeped for attention. Maccalum moved slowly across

“This is captain Yoshimoyo on the New York. Prepare to receive medic and engineering teams. Your information won us the day Glasgow. All Canidation vessels have been destroyed. This is the first human victory in this war...”

“This is science officer McCallum. “thanks for the help. That was a risky move I owe your helmsman a beer. Captain Conroy has been injured. We don’t know how bad, the ship has taken heavy damage.

*****************

Weeks later Captain Conroy stood in front of admiral Wong.

Conroy had spent most of the time unconscious. His injuries sever, but with advanced medical skill, talented doctors and a dash of luck he had made a full recovery.

“Captain” the admiral began “I’m glad to see you’re back on your feet. I’ve out an official commendation for yourself and your entire crew. The information you fought so hard for will prove invaluable in this conflict”

Wong continued “The data contained ship specifications, technical manuals, training documents and recent fleet movements. With that information we’ve managed to push the Canidations back in a number of theatres , you and your crew have saved thousands of human lives. We all owe you a debt captain.”

“Thank you sir...i'm eager to get back to the Glasgow sir, to get back in the fight.”

The admiral shook his head

“I’m afraid not Conroy. The Glasgow was heavily damaged and will require months of repairs and refit. We can’t have a seasoned crew out of action for so long. You and your crew are being reassigned.”

Wong passed a pad to the captain

“Our newest, most powerful warship. The TDF Lucifer. You’ll be part of a task force – the ghost division. The Canidations are throwing more and more ships against us, and while we’ve slowed the advance to a crawl we are still loosing. You’ll go behind enemy lines and fight a guerrilla war. Do everything you can to bring the bugs down. Everything is a viable target, including the Canidation homeworld. Teach them to fear the wraith of Earth.”

End

[xmint-conditionx]

《the emperor’s dagger》 ch1 | myg

❦ pairing: emperor!yoongi x concubine!reader ❦ w/c: 4.5k ❦ summary: you recall the first night that you began to love your emperor more than your job required. you find yourself in a dangerous situation that surely means death if mistakes are made. being careful is your first priority, but it’s easy to forget where and who you are when you lock eyes with him. ❦ tags/cw: 18+ please, smut, the tiniest bit of fluff you ever saw, brief blood/gore descriptions, derogatory names but not in the way you think, fingering, slight begging, slight nibbling, “be quiet or people could hear” trope, a little adorable aftercare yoongi is here uwu ❦ a/n: guys get fuckin PUMPED okay. i am so so so excited to bring you this crazy story. as far as i have planned, there are 15 chapters. this has (kind of obviously) been in the works since daechwita dropped, so i’m sure you won’t have any trouble picturing our lovely king. this is a complete fantasy setting, so please do know that i am not trying to emulate any particular culture or time period. 

also, please note that this is a repost of my work from a previous blog, so if it looks familiar to you, that’s probably why lmao

anyway, thanks luv, enjoy!

- minty

Blood stains your blade, glistening bright crimson in the hot sun. You’re surrounded by anguish, pain, the sounds of final breaths and final cries. The dead soldier that lies on the dirty brick in front of you, who had been alive and trying to claim your life only moments before is staring lifelessly into the middle distance. You fight the urge to close his eyes; you two could have been friends, after all. You probably have even crossed paths before. A shudder runs through you at the thought. How many of these men that will meet their end at your sword will you have known? How many of your people will have to die? Are they still even your people? You don’t want to know the answer to these questions.

What had he called you? What had he said before his sword clashed with yours?

That’s right.

“Whore.”

You never anticipated being in this situation. You had never wanted to have to fight; you only had wanted to look as beautiful as he had wielding a sword. Fighting was always something that was necessary for your people, but it was never something you would have to be doing yourself. You’d heard palace guards talking about some distant battle and thought it might be a fun adventure-- going off to war. You were wrong. You were naive. About a lot of things, it turns out.

That was a different time, when your only adventure came in the form of a secret romance. When the riskiest thing you did was love an emperor. Your emperor. Your Yoongi.

Where is he?

You look back to where you had last seen him on the battlefield. His long blonde hair shines like gold in the midday sun, only rivaling the sheen of his trusted blade. He cuts down his opponent with a decisive swing, the sick squelching sound of innards falling onto the hot stone as the man cries out. You watch as he expertly scans his surroundings, looking for anyone else that would dare challenge his skill in the chaos. He’s missing an earring, you realize. Both of you are heaving under the stress of battle. This is more than you’d ever prepared for. You don’t know if you’ll make it. 

Your hesitant eyes meet his assured ones, and for an instant, sword in hand, it’s like the first night you’d snuck up to meet him in his chambers.

The dark wooden floorboards of the upper palace creaks, and you scold yourself for not being more quiet. Being caught will at the least result in a very long and extensive round of questioning by the royal guard. Trouble is the last thing you want to stir up. 

Emperor Min had specifically requested you come to his private room in secret tonight, and that is a little strange to you. He has the power to have any of his women whenever he wishes, and he has asked for you to come to him under the cloak of night. Why must this time be a secret? He has had you many times before, so why must this time be hidden?

In his handwritten note that he had slipped to you earlier in the day, he instructs for you to wait until all the other concubines are asleep before you leave your wing. If you are careful, you can take a shortcut through the North Wing Tearoom and pass the guards who only patrol the center hallway. So that’s what you do. 

You see that they’re far enough down the corridor that they won’t be able to detect your movements, and so you silently slip through the large ornate wooden doors. You’ve been in this room many times before, but it feels like your first time here. Everything looks so different without the familiar warm glow of lantern light. The moon’s shadows are cold and sharply cast, and a chill runs up your spine. You don’t have to even look to feel his presence. To feel his eyes on you.

He’s waiting for you, sitting at the bottom edge of his large, low bed, chin perched delicately on his folded hands. The cool metal of his many rings shine in the moonlight, and past those adorned hands, he is staring right at you. His stare is one that is unreadable to most. Nobody is ever really able to know what is going on in his head. Nobody could ever know what emotion lies behind the stare. You wonder how much time he spends in thought. 

“Come,” he says, motioning in his direction.

You obey your king, stepping forward a few paces. Something on his bed catches and glints in the moonlight. A sword? You stop, only halfway to him. You could already be in trouble. If he had heard your conversation with another concubine a few days ago, heavy questioning by the easily fooled palace guards will be the least of your worries. They won’t ask questions before they kill you.

“Your Majesty,” you say to the ground, too demure to look him in the eye as you speak, fearing what he might say and do, “why have you invited me here like this?”

Emperor Min stands and almost silently completes the distance over to where you stand. His calloused palm gently grazes your jaw, thumb on your cheekbone as his fingers wind through your hair. His touch calms your racing heart, and fills your belly with strength and boldness. You finally find the courage to look up.

“I have a surprise for you, my dove,” the emperor says, and you think you see a hint of excitement in his dark brown eyes. 

He quickly spins around and guides you over to where he had been sitting moments before. He picks up the hilt of the sword that was laying next to him and places it delicately into your palm, enclosing his hand around yours. You had expected him to pick up the sword, but to put it in your hands? Impossible.

“I heard you say you wanted to learn to sword fight,” he says, smiling gently down at you.

Your mouth drops; your worst fear has been realized. He had heard your hushed conversation. Surely, you were about to die. Maybe if you groveled and flattered him enough, he would spare you.

“Your Grace, it was only a passing comment. I was only in awe of how skillfully you were practicing out in the gardens. I did not mean for anyone to hear; I was simply awe-struck by your deftness. I do not truly wish to learn. It was a foolish slip of the tongue. Please, forgive me.”

Please, don’t kill me.

“My dear, are you worried about your life?” he asks.

“Yes, Your Majesty. I am,” you say, looking to the floor again. Hoping to pull out any sympathy he may have.

“I do not want you to lose your life. I want you to learn how to properly wield a sword,” he says so quietly it’s almost silent-- as if he’s afraid to even say it himself, “if that is what you want. And I would like to be the one to teach you.”

Women aren’t supposed to learn anything related to warfare, especially not something as dangerous as sword fighting. A single mistake could mean the loss of a limb, but being discovered in practice could mean the loss of a life. Even teaching was punishable by death, although you’re sure the Emperor himself would be able to keep his life intact if discovered. If anyone else had heard your words to another concubine, even if you were able to convince them it was an innocent mistake, you would likely be thrown out of the palace immediately. 

Concubines don’t snitch on the little things, but if any of them had reported you sneaking out tonight, your head would surely be on the chopping block first thing in the morning. You’re all allowed so much. You live in luxury, you’re able to roam most of the palace grounds as you please, you’re dressed in some of the finest fabrics, given plenty to eat, gifted spending money, and on top of it all, you get to lay with the king. Anyone fortunate enough to be chosen for this position doesn’t do anything to risk it. 

The emperor must sense your unease, because he puts his hand on your shoulder and gives it a light squeeze. 

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” he says quietly. 

What has to be hours later, you flop down on his bed; your labored breaths are the only thing that can be heard in the broad expanse of his room. You haven’t even crossed blades with him, and you’re exhausted. He only taught you how to hold it properly, how to angle a strike, and how to move, but your body pounds with soreness. Your arms and your legs are heavy with fatigue, and the cool plush comforter is a welcome sensation to your aching body. As you lay, you look up to the ornate ceiling trimmed with gold and you begin to settle your breathing. You lay the sword down between you and the side of the bed; at the beginning of your lesson it felt light as a feather, but as you were instructed to keep it up, it now feels as if it were made of lead. 

He delicately sits down by your side, barely disturbing the fabric; you lock eyes with him and have to hold back a laugh. For some reason, you feel silly. You have never truly imagined that you would be in this place or situation. A woman? Sword fighting? Not just a woman, but a concubine? And with the king himself? If you had been told as a young girl that this would happen, you’d laugh so hard that you’d wet yourself. It was simply impossible! Or so you had thought. 

You and many other concubines had watched Emperor Min practice his sword fighting out in the royal gardens countless times, and all of you were consumed with the grace and proficiency he could demonstrate. You were the only one, however, who ever wanted to be down there with him, taking part in the mysterious dance he was so fond of. You were the only one who had dared to speak your hidden desires, and it seems that you lucked out. You certainly served a gracious emperor.

His eyes turn into crescent moons as he beams down at you, showing off his gummy smile. You wonder why he rarely displays it; he’s always so serious when he’s in the public eye. The only other time you’ve seen as much as a smirk is when he bests his opponents in practice, his pretty lips curling into a snarl as he holds them at the point of his blade. You’ve only seen him smile when doing what he loves.

The way you look lying on his sheets, your heaving chest covered in little more than your underclothing and moonlight. Your hair spilling out in shining pools around your delicate face, which is flushed from exertion. The way you look up at him with pure bliss in your eyes. Perhaps he smiles because he likes what he sees, He licks his lips as he lets his hand wander across your decollete, which has collected a thin layer of sweat. 

“I hope you haven’t tired yourself out completely,” he says, leaning in closer to you, so close that you can smell his naturally musky scent, “You’re a quick learner. You are quite good with your hands, my dear.” You flush further at his words, deep with insinuation. You would be lying if you weren’t thinking of other activities you could be doing with him, too.

“I am good at a lot of things, My King,” you return, tone laced with venom as you look up at him through heavy lashes. The chemistry between you both had always been electric. What one would put down, the other would pick up. Flirty banter was as easy for you two as  breathing. Innate. Inherent. Natural. As if you were born to do it.

His hand travels down your chest and curls around your waist, giving your lax form a gentle tug upwards, so that your lips can meet his. He had only begun to kiss you recently, and as far as you can tell from the stories from the other concubines, you were the only one. You aren’t sure exactly what that means, but you also aren’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Or question why you’re the only one who gets to kiss the Emperor. The way he kisses you is nearly indescribable. He always starts off delicately, as if to test the waters, or as if to tease you. You haven’t decided which one it is yet, so you relish in how his lips play with yours. But you want more.

You push yourself upwards and deepen the kiss, and he responds in kind, sucking in your bottom lip to coax you into opening up for him. He has never been pushy; he has never pressured you - or any other that you knew of - into doing something you didn’t want. He has always been respectful of you and the others, which is the last thing you had expected. After all, you are just a glorified whore. And he is a king.

You part your lips and allow his tongue to dance with yours, each silently fighting for dominance. You let him win, and he takes the opportunity to climb over your frame. Noticing the sword by your side, he tosses it onto the floor. It hits the rug with a soft thud, as it has done many times that night when you had dropped it. He continues to deepen the kiss, and you can feel yourself beginning to get damp. Feeling that familiar tingling sensation run up your spine, you feel the need to reach under his silk robe and run your hands up his chest, which sends him moaning into you. He involuntarily pushes his hips against you, and you can feel how hard he is behind his night robe. It’s not like him to take his time, like this. Usually, he would have already put you in his desired position and… well, gotten on with it already. He might need some inspiration. You break the kiss by tilting your head up, and he begins kissing down your exposed neck, and fuck does that feel good. 

“Your Majesty,” you whine, fist full of his soft blonde hair, “How would you like me tonight?”

He speaks in between kisses.

“What… ever could you… mean?” he says warmly against your neck.

“Would you like me on my stomach tonight? I know you’re fond of the view,” you say, playfully wiggling your hips. He pauses for a beat, and pulls back to look at you. He chuckles a little.

“I’m quite fond of this view, too,” he says, showing off his gummy smile again and leaning in to cup your breasts as he trails kisses down into your cleavage. He begins to nibble softly at your flesh as he pulls the fabric down, exposing your nipples to the night. He pinches one roughly, making you pull on his hair a little harder, both of you having to stifle a moan. How dangerous to be doing this at the risk of guards hearing! His hand wanders down your frame and then up into your underskirts, cupping your heat gently as you open your legs for him. 

His fingers graze against your clit, and you feel the cool metal of his rings slide against your damp folds as he teases your entrance. You bite your lip and hold back a moan. You wish you could just tell him to hurry. 

As if answering a prayer, he slides his finger into your waiting slit, coaxing more of your wetness out of you. He adds another finger, curling them up gently and pushing up against that spongy spot that drives you wild. You buck up your hips in response, and you feel him smirk into your chest. He continues to gently bite around your areolas, never quite reaching your peaks as he sets an agonizingly slow pace with his fingers. The sensations that spark through your body at his ministrations are dizzying, but they’re also incredibly frustrating. He’s keeping you just on the edge of satisfaction. What does he want you to do? Beg? You’ve never felt like you could do such a thing, but this evening has made you bold. And his touch has turned you needy.

“Your Grace, pl-please,” you plead quietly into the night.

He looks up to your face scrunched in desperation. “Oh, are you suggesting your king hurry?” he asks with a smirk, “What if he wishes to take his time?”

“Hi-His Highness may have me any way he wishes, of course,” you reply, biting the inside of your cheek to distract you from the torture, “But are the tales of your generosity false? Are you a merciless ruler, set to torture those who would only want to bring you pleasure?”

His eyes on you darken, and he pokes his tongue in the side of his cheek. 

“Hm,” he considers, “I suppose I can afford to be kind tonight. After all, you’ve worked so hard already, haven’t you?”

He wastes no time in pulling his fingers out, and you clench at the loss, another groan almost leaving your lips before you’re able to swallow it. He lines his head up with your aching slit, using your wetness to coat his cock. The delicious friction against your clit makes you whine ever so gently into the space between you both, another small beg for him to fill you. He presses into you, the familiar stretch making you dizzy with lust, and buries himself in your neck once more. He quickly sets a brisk pace knowing that you both are eager, and it’s not long until you can hear how wet he makes you. The obscene wet slaps sound like bombs going off in the quiet, and your cunt drips with your slick. You briefly wonder who is the unfortunate servant who will have to clean these bed linens, because you always leave them completely ruined. The way he fucks into you makes you fall apart every time, fitting together like a lock and key.

The king’s lips find yours again, his kisses hungry and wild. You remove your hands from his hair that’s now cascading around you, falling in golden waves onto your shoulders. He’s more ferocious now, biting your bottom lip and then nibbling up your jaw where he sucks your bejeweled lobe between his lips. His hands grasp tightly around your jaw as you take him, every thrust making you more putty in his hands. His free hand curves around and cups your ass, hoisting you up and changing the angle of your hips. With every thrust, his tip grazes against your sweet spot, causing a loud moan to escape your lips, echoing in the large space. Your moan dies as soon as you register it; you shamefully tighten your mouth so that no more noise may escape, but it’s too late. You’ve already been too loud. He looks back towards his bedroom doors, and then back to you. 

Something in his expression changes, and his eyes are churning with something devilish. He swiftly covers your mouth with his palm, making sure it’s firmly fastened there before speaking. 

“Scream for me, little dove.”

You try to hold back as best as you can, but a particularly hard thrust breaks your resolve. Once you let out that little yelp, it opens the floodgates. Your voice is muffled by his hand as he fucks into you harder and harder, almost painfully. His tip is pounding against your cervix, and dark spots flash in your vision. You continue to lose yourself in him, eagerly meeting his thrusts with ones of your own. His other hand that was once cupping your ass, now finds your wrist and hoists it above your head, as he continues his unrelenting pace. You scream into his hand, and clench around him to bring you right up to the edge. 

He leans down to your freshly-nibbled ear, and in a gravelly voice says, “Come. Come around my cock.”

As soon as his hand lets go of your wrist and makes contact with your sensitive clit, you come undone. You scream completely unhinged into his palm which is placed firmly over your mouth, and he too groans as he finishes inside of you, riding through both orgasms until you’re both exhausted. And you thought you were tired before. His heavy breaths meet yours, and you float back down from your high to find yourself resting on his comforter. He gives your jaw a final nibble, and hoists himself off of you.

You hear his soft footsteps padding on the floor as you look up at the ceiling again. The beautiful gold trim you had noted before is a large dragon, spiraled around an inset in the ceiling. He brings back a damp cloth for you to clean yourself with, and he gathers your night clothes from the floor where you had discarded them some time ago. Sword fighting in a dress is not easy, and besides, you look much better in your undergarments. He starts putting your sleepwear back on you, gingerly helping your arms through the holes. He doesn’t have to be doing this. He has never helped you get dressed before; that was a task left to each woman on their own. They had a separate and luxurious bath suite dedicated to their self-care, so why would he bother?. Sometimes the concubine mother would help if things got… interesting, but you scarcely needed help with this. Tonight was surely a night of firsts.

“Uh, thank you, Your Majesty. You didn’t have to help me dress after you finish,” you say, a little flushed from how delicately he treats you after how thoroughly he had just fucked you. 

“Yes, I’m aware,” he says, hoisting you up off the bed and leading you towards his doors, “We can’t have you cleaning yourself in your wing’s washroom. You’d probably be dripping all the way back. We can’t have that now, can we?” he asks as he runs his hand down your arm, smirking lightly and raising his eyebrows, “Especially if you’d like to have another lesson.”

You gasp.

“Another? Your Highness, are you certain? Why do you risk getting caught doing this for me?” you ask, not concerned with your own safety, but of his. Even if his life isn’t at risk, the public humiliation that would surround him would be too great. Especially not now. Not in the middle of a war. The subjects of the kingdom are already on edge as it is. The trust in their Emperor cannot falter. Not now.

“Ah, come now. Don’t worry. As long as you stay light on your feet and I ensure that the worst guards in the command are at my post, we are as safe as my blade is sharp. Plus,” he adds, kissing gently against your fingers,  “getting to see your beautiful skin glisten with sweat, and then getting to have you all to myself is reward enough for me. It’s definitely worth the risk.” 

“My King, you can always have me all to yourself in whatever way you desire,” you say, “There’s no limit to what I can do for you. You know that.”

“Yes, dove,” he says, “I do know that, but there is one thing your king is not allowed. Something that nobody may know of. Your king is not allowed a favorite.”

You know this already. It is why the concubines exist, why you’re able to be here with him at all. You know that it is dangerous to have a favorite. Emperors in your kingdom are unable to wed, and it has always been that way. Spouses are a vulnerability, something an enemy can easily exploit. The concubines exist, like the guard, to protect the emperor in their own way. By allowing him freedom of sexual expression, he is less likely to feel the need to have a romantic partner. Having a person be treasured by the emperor only makes them a weakness. Especially now.

“Nobody can know that you are important to me. Nobody can know that it is you who holds the king’s favor; that is why we must meet mostly in secret going in forward. You’ll be removed from the palace if the officials get a notion of my fondness for you,” he says, holding both of your hands in his, “and I never want you to be missing from me, my dove.” 

You understand. You have to. It’s part of the job. You knew all of this going in and you were okay knowing that you would be one of many. You didn’t come to the palace with only the clothes on your back to find a chance at love. You’re smarter than that. You’d be lying if you said being treasured by the king didn’t light a small fire inside of you, though.

You nod and give his beautiful, calloused hands a squeeze. 

“I cannot keep you any longer,” he whispers, “you deserve your beauty sleep, especially after all the… exertion you’ve just done. You think you can keep quiet on your way back?”

“I think I can manage, but,” you say, “if I may be so bold, next time, I don’t want to be able to sneak back to my room. I don’t want to be able to even walk after the next time you’re done with me.”

“You’re going to be the death of me, woman,” he says, hiding a soft smile, “but even then, I would welcome it if it came from you.” 

You think of the risk you’re both taking, and the consequences of being found out.

“Let's hope it doesn’t come to that, yeah?” you delicately ask, eyes asking a question you’re afraid to give voice to.

“My dove,” he says, “as long as I can help it, no harm will ever come to you. Now, get on to bed.”

You didn’t want to leave, but you know you needed to. The emperor opens the door a crack and nods at you, a silent confirmation that the guards were at the other end of the hall. A silent nod that said it was time. 

You ease yourself through the small crack in the door and slowly pad toward your Northern Tearoom shortcut. You look back once more, and you see him mouth “goodnight” with a smirk before shutting the door.

Your return trip to your wing of the palace is much quieter than your first trip, and for that you are thankful. You sneak back into your room where the rest of the concubines lie fast asleep in their own beds, some of them quietly snoring. As you curl up into your bedsheets, you drift asleep thinking about how sweet his smile is. He never shows it to anyone, so why are you the one who gets to see it? After all, you’re just a whore. The emperor’s favorite whore.

[just-a-real-human]

A tale of war.(Humans are space orcs)

SO! i decided to do something different, i won’t be exactly sticking to a single writing style forever, some stories will be Kr’Kn’s lectures(or maybe adventures of his? maybe), others will be more standard stories and yet others, like these, will be large scale battles with dramatic storytelling. ALSO! the comments are fixed now! so i can ACTUALLY get constructive critisism. I found two links for laser sound effect which are used in this story, OR you can imagine them yourself c: (P.S i don’t own any of the sounds)

https://youtu.be/whLbGbpt-E4 for the smaller laser effect. yes. SMALLER

https://youtu.be/o_Lv5GXYYvA for the BIG BOY. You’ll know when to use it. NOW ON WITH THE STORY

The Dr’achs attack on humanity was not exactly unexpected...but it was a surprise they’d do it so soon. They were a warfaring species, a succesfull one at that, taking homes, destroying planets by taking their recources, even bringing many species to extinction...we all assumed this would be the end of humanity, they never did have much military might. Don’t get me wrong!, their military was powerful, but there wasn’t much of it...at least that’s what we thought...oh how wrong we were.

The Dr’achs attack was swift, powerful, unexpected. The human homeworld (Earth or Terra, depends who you ask) Was utterly decimated, many cities fell, including every major capital. They killed every town, city or village they came across. The Dr’achs ordered the surrender of humanity, but their representitive, Grand Admiral Yeshua Ezekiel Alastair replied with but one simple sentence. “Psalm chapter 97″. Nobody knew what it meant, but the Dr’achs soon came to know it’s meaning first hand...

A mere three months after the devestating attack on Earth, a fleet had assembled, one of sizes inconcievable to anyone who saw it...millions, no, BILLIONS of humans had gathered around their pride and joy, their flagship, their capital...i cannot describe it’s power, it’s size...it’s might...

It was so immense we could see it pass our star clearly like an eclipse, blotting out the sun with it’s size and power...I must say, am i happy we did not attack humanity when we thought they were weak.

At the planet, many aliens had joined the fleet, be that to provide geniune support, to sate their curiosity, to record the happenings for the universe to see, or to simply see the might of the Deus ex machina. I don’t blame anyone who did, a small part of me joined the battle for that exact reason, of course i was mostly there to record the happenings, but still...that ship is incomprihensibly big, i could probably destroy a city simply by entering atmosphere above it!

At the home planet of the Dr’achs, Dr’ach’raz, Humanity gave one warning, telling the Dr’achs to surrender, giving them one chance to surrender. They naturally refused, and so, in reaction, Grand Admiral Yeshua simply smiled, saying “May the Lord have mercy on your soul, but i doubt hell will be pleasant.”

Ships flew all across the planet, engulfing it like a dyson sphere does a star, millions of ships flying to every city, village or remote bunker, having no mercy, they spared no man, woman or child. Every ship firing it’s devastating lasers at them, and at their capital, which humanity attacked last, the Dr’achs had put of an admirable defense, their turrets did most of the work, shooting down a ship every now and then, they sent thousands upon thousands in infantry, but the human ships simply fired on them with their heavy laser beams, their booming, horrible sound being a testament to their strength. Those ships tore down evey building they hit, like a hot blade through butter, cutting through ground, battering through bunkers and disintegrating infantry and  civilians alike. Military had hidden in bunkers so deep underground even their heavy lasers couldn’t break through, but that was their last mistake...

From within the bunkers, the surviving Dr’achs sat with shaking knees, regretting everything they had ever done, desperately attempting to open communications with humanity. Eventually, Alastair picked up, a thin smile on his face and raised eyebrow. “I had expected you dead, what seems to be the problem?” The Dr’achs looked at him, abject horror on his face. “Human! Turn back your ships at once! we-we surrender!” All Yeshua did...was laugh. He shook his head, still chuckling. “What makes you think we had the intention of accepting surrender? If we wanted your surrender, all we would have done is decloak our capital and show you!” The Dr’achs eyes went wide, his mouth agape as it looked at the screen showing what was happening above ground...

There it was, high above, darkening everything on the planet, was the human flagship, their new capital...The Deus ex machina, The God from the machine.

Above the bunker, the remaining ground troops gasped, looking up at the darkened sky. Many tried to flee, others tried to shoot it, yet others collapsed, fainted or dead from fear. None of it mattered anyways, for the many ships pulled back, returning to their God...and then everything went silent, as if all sound was pulled away, and then There was a horrible sound, Thunder was sounding all around the planet, made by all the disturbance the gravity of this massive ship was making and the dust and debris rubbing together... and suddenly a massive surface the size of a dwarf planet on the God’s belly started glowing a brilliant white-green colour, a horrible, a rising hum sounding all around, deafening all who heard it without protection. Then, the most horrifying thing i have ever observed...the gigantic laser fired, it’s brilliant white blinding me temporarily it cored through the planet like it was nothing, the sound returning in my dreams even to this very day. It blasted through the planet, going deeper and deeper, destroying the bunker like paper...but it did not stop...

It continued, not stopping untill...it hit the core. The planet started to glow from the inside out with the green hue of this massive beam,but this lasted all but a few seconds before it blasted apart. everything on that planet was dead...destintegrated, killed by the shockwave, or maybe, JUST maybe, some poor alien on the other side of the planet was alive long enough to see it’s home split...or maybe it was removed by the laser coming out the other side...

Humans were victorious, and every creature in the galaxy knew that humans were amazing at hiding their might...but not afraid to show it.

Human death count was maybe 5000, their victory was absolute, they remain a powerful force, and even a dozen of their heavy cruisers could have been sent to deal with this...but no, they wanted revenge...they NEEDED revenge, they needed to honour the dead by wiping those disgusting creatures away from the universe...and so they did, and the only ones remaining are on planets far away, praying everyday a human doesn’t come and end their existence...

Dr Kr’Kn on the destruction of Dr’ach’raz.

SO! that was a story displaying the fact that humans are not to be fucked with! i really hope you enjoyed and don’t be shy to post constructive critisism c:

Do keep in mind CONSTRUCTIVE, i want to improve, so please also tell me how to write better. Have a VERY nice day, and untill next time!

[the-last-kenobi]

With anyone from the disaster trio or duo! (sorry I realized I didn’t say characters in the last ask!)

@badthingshappenbingo

Tripwire

(TW for panic attacks and minor and unintentional emotional abuse. This is emotional crisis in the middle of a war. Nobody in this story is at their best.)

••

Ahsoka sometimes thought that her Master never had rough days.

Oh, he had days when his temper was high - and those days were more frequent as the war went on and on and on - and days when he was more tired, more sad.

But he never seemed to have days where he just wanted to sit in a small, dark space like the far corner of his room or the dusty storage cabinet near the engines and hold himself together with his own two hands and just cry himself to exhaustion.

She tried to ask him, once, on a day when he seemed brighter and calmer.

“Master?” she began.

Then she stopped. Tilted her head to one side, listening with her montrals to the happy rhythm of his heart.

“Yeah?” he asked. “Snips?”

He was glowing with happiness, so excited just from his phone call home. She wasn’t stupid. Like the rest of the 501st - and 212th - and hells, maybe even the entire Order - she knew that her Master and Senator Amidala were... a thing.

Whatever that was, exactly.

Maybe, she contemplated, not noticing that she had begun to hunch in on herself a little, shoulders drawing in, maybe that’s what Anakin had that was different. Rex had Cody and the rest of his brothers, Anakin had Senator Amidala.

Ahsoka was just by herself.

“Hey,” Anakin said, sounding a little concerned. “Ahsoka? What’s up?”

The togruta shrugged, casually sliding back into her normal relaxed and confident self, the bravado she’d created years ago when she first began to suspect that nobody would choose her as a Padawan, and then built up again when she was assigned and dropped into the middle of open warfare.

And now again, struggling always with that urge to flee somewhere warm and small and safe.

“Nothing, Master. Sheesh. I was just wondering about the next class rotation. I really don’t want to retake Galactic History level 240 just yet...”

They moved on to other subjects.

••

She tried again, a few months later, shaken after a crushing campaign that stripped the 501st of some of their best and very, very many of their newest. The shiniest shinies.

Ahsoka searched the encampment they had pitched on the darkened moor, but she could sense Anakin from a mile off.

It was just harder for her, the closer she got to that epicenter of muted rage she could sense coming off him like heatwaves off sand.

But... they could help each other.

He didn’t have Padmé Amidala here today.

Today, right now, they had each other.

Ahsoka crept up to the dimming fire, set several meters away from the outer circle of tents, and saw the dark silhouette of Anakin Skywalker sitting on a low outcropping of rock, gazing into the flames. The red glow outlined him in faintest fire, sharpening the edges that darkness had softened into shadow.

“...Master?”

He didn’t seem to hear.

“Master... Anakin?” Ahsoka stepped a little nearer.

His head turned very slightly.

She froze, suddenly a little frightened, suddenly wishing she’d found her own warm safe place to be — because the ember-lit outline of Anakin’s face were neither safe nor warm.

He looked enraged.

“Anakin?” she whispered.

“Now isn’t the best time, Ahsoka,” he said slowly. Holding back. For her.

Giving her a chance to run.

From him.

She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Not Anakin. “But, Anakin... I think...” she took a deep breath and closed the distance between them, crouching down to place one of her hands gently on his arm. He trembled. “I think we should be together right now. Help each other.”

He shook.

There was a long pause.

Then: “Go away, Ahsoka.”

Her heart fell like a stone.

What was she supposed to do? Fleeing to a dark corner felt so wrong, so un-Jedi like, so weak — and now, to abandon her Master when he was so hurt? It felt like a double sin. She couldn’t do it. It would be wrong (but it was so tempting—)

“Master...”

“Go, Padawan! Now!” He turned to face her fully, his teeth bared in a predatory sneer that made her own sharpened fangs and hunters blood quail. A wall of blunt rage slammed into her like a blast of hot wind and Ahsoka fell back, catching herself on her palms in the cold grass.

A flash of something like guilt crossed his face, not much older than her own, but then hardened again.

“Jedi do not feel these things, Ahsoka,” he lectured. “Much less act on them. Go eat your meal and then get some sleep. Wallowing won’t help.”

Do as I say and not as I do?

Ahsoka sprang to her feet and gave in to the wild pounding of her heart and the icy fear clawing at her lungs — and she fled.

••

Ahsoka felt like she was falling.

She could feel her feet thudding against the dewy ground, could feel her montrals trembling as they picked up noises all around her, but all she could see was darkness and it felt like she was running in midair, held up by nothing.

Shadows rushed past her and her breaths came rapid and out of control.

She was dying.

She had to be.

This felt awful, terrible, there was no control —

She was just going to lose her breath and lose her senses until she died here - wherever here was -

Was she crying?

Maybe.

She couldn’t tell. Couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t find her way in the dark.

Ahsoka crashed.

Blindly she crawled her way into what she could sense was some sort of corner.

It was warm here.

Dark.

Safe.

The feeling of walls and a floor and some sort of low ceiling pressing in all around her small form made her feel better, not worse. She could feel where she began and the shadows ended.

Slowly... slowly... slowly, Ahsoka Tano felt her soul begin to settle back in her flesh.

She could understand her surroundings better now.

She had shoved herself under cot in somebody’s tent. It really was warm here. Soft. It smelled familiar, the smell of the armor-polish-stale-soap-homemade-brew-standard-woolen-blankets and that something other that was just their men. Their boys.

Ahsoka could feel now how tightly she was curled up, how hard she was gripping her own limbs, still shaking.

Her throat felt raw.

Had she screamed? Cried? Or just gasped too much for air that hadn’t been coming?

She didn’t know.

She didn’t know a lot right now.

Does this make me a bad Jedi?

Or just a bad solider?

Which one am I, anyway?

“Padawan?”

I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t —

“Ahsoka?”

She took a shuddering gasp, then another.

She just wanted some answers.

For once, some answers.

No “do or do not,” no cultural languages she couldn’t understand, no envy of what Anakin had in his Senator, the forbidden things she didn’t understand and didn’t know she really even wanted.

She just wanted to know if she was wrong for this.

She had to be.

No real Jedi cried in a corner because someone reminded them they needed to be strong.

“Ahsoka.”

Finally she looked up.

“Master?”

It was Anakin she longed to see - the Master who hadn’t wanted her but had taken her anyways, the friend she’d always needed, the teacher she could never have dreamed of.

But it wasn’t Anakin.

It was Obi-Wan.

He looked down at her, and his eyes were so compassionate that she felt her own begin to well with tears again and her throat close up painfully.

Angrily, she swiped away a tear and hid her face in her arms.

There were soft sounds that told her that Obi-Wan was kneeling in front of her now.

He didn’t do anything.

Didn’t encroach, didn’t speak.

He just breathed.

And breathed.

And breathed.

Steadily in and out, and unconsciously Ahsoka began to mirror him, taking calm and even breaths.

Eventually it was just the two of them breathing together, the Master kneeling, the Padawan still hiding from the world.

“...Master Obi-Wan?” Ahsoka asked in a small voice. She lifted her head, and was struck again by how sad and tender her grandmaster’s blue eyes were. He looked so soft and comfortable, contrasted in her head with the memory of Anakin and his fiery outline and clenched jaw.

“Anakin...” she struggled to say. “I thought he... I hoped... why...” her voice broke again.

Unable to help it, Ahsoka pitched forward, sobbing again. She had already cried so much that her throat burned in protest, but cry she did, and this time she found herself wrapped in Obi-Wan’s arms.

She had never pictured this. He had always seemed so... aloof. What Jedi were meant to be. What she was not. What Anakin was not.

“I know,” he said slowly, his voice rumbling against her striped montrals. “Our teachers are not always what we want or need them to be. But we love them anyway, Ahsoka. Don’t we.”

She nodded as she cried, letting him hold her.

“I — thought — I — how am — does — d-does this — am I a — am...” it was utter nonsense coming out, but somehow he seemed to understand.

“You,” he said, “are a student. A very young student, despite how tall you may feel some days. War is hard on everyone, Ahsoka. You deserve better. It’s all right to have times like these.”

“You... you don’t,” she sobbed.

“Oh,” he said, sounding a little surprised. “Oh. Yes I do. Of course I do. I work my way through with meditation and tea. Anakin needs to be alone, and then he needs to vent. Normally he vents to me, or to — others. But it’s not your job to handle his outbursts. When you’re hurting, you go where you need to go.”

“Even if it’s a dark corner?” Ahsoka mumbled into his tunics.

She felt him chuckle slightly. “Even then. Especially then. We’re all dealing, Padawan. I’m sorry we didn’t talk to you about this, before this happened.”

“It’s okay,” Ahsoka muttered.

What she meant was: isn’t it my Master’s job to guide me? Isn’t it Anakin’s job? Am I too weak for him?

“We’ll do better,” Obi-Wan promised.

She had a feeling he meant: I’ll try to make Anakin do better. And when he doesn’t, I will.

And there was an overwhelming flood of emotions with that.

Thank the Force for Obi-Wan. But why not Anakin? Was this forever? Was this why her Master and Master Kenobi didn’t always get along? Because they were emotionally different? Would they shun her eventually too, if she turned out different from them both?

...But for the moment, Ahsoka took comfort.

Anakin would be back to normal in the morning.

And Obi-Wan’s arms were warm, and dark, and safe.

fin

[prvtbugsbuggins]

28 - Little Round Mirrors

For @whumptober2021

Chapter link -> Here

Chapter 28: Little Round Mirrors

Trigger warning for: (Temporary) character deaths in nightmares, drinking, and warfare. Nightmares are fucked up yo.

Prompt: Nightmares

Summary: Tucker's insecurities get the better of him while he sleeps, and he's not the only one to have that problem in Blue base.

—

The grass blew gently in the wind, sending little insects flying off into the warm air. Clouds drifted by in wide stretches of blue, the sun shining and casting a warm glow over everything. Earth, at least, he believed it to be Earth, a pale blue dot, home. Something warm and bright that lived in the back of his memories, still there after all this time away from his home planet.

With him was his son, still small like he was not too long after he was born. Everyone had called him an abomination, but there was more to him than what was on the outside. For once, Tucker had found a reason to exist beyond himself. Junior wasn’t exactly consensual, but in the end Tucker never regretted having him around. Junior was fucking awesome, and Tucker made sure that everyone knew it.

Soon, they would both have to go off to Sanghelios, him to be an ambassador, and Junior to learn how to be a Sangheili. For now however, they could just be father and son on this lovely day, without worry about the stupid war they were in.

Tucker watched Junior roll around with a basketball, toothy maw open as he squealed in pure, innocent joy. He wasn’t quite big enough to really bounce it yet, but he sure did like wrapping himself around it and rolling down the hills. Once he hit the bottom, it would bounce him up in the air and throw him into the bushes. It was absolutely hilarious, and Tucker figured that he got up to worse thing when he was his age, so there was nothing to worry about.

Crack

Junior hit the ground with a spray of blue blood, basketball popping and shattering into pieces.

Everything went cold, his heart ice, when Tucker saw that his son was no longer moving.

“JUNIOR!” He shrieked and took off running down the hill, reaching his arms out to grab up his son. In his heart, he knew it was too late, but he wanted to hold him. He wanted to try something. Anything.

But no matter how fast he ran, it was like the ground was stretching ahead and taking his son further and further away. His legs and lungs burned as he threw all his energy into trying to close the impossible distance, but to no avail. He tripped, stumbling as he rolled down and down and-

-directly into a battle zone. Fellow Soldiers screamed and died around him as hot plasma rained down from the once blue sky, now red with fire and death. He quickly threw himself into a trench as the men standing behind him vaporized into mere atoms from incoming fire. He hit the ground hard, sinking into mud stained red, struggling to get back up again.

“JUNIOR!” He shouted, but the words were stolen away by the shriek of aircraft flying overhead, only the shatter and burn as they were struck with artillery. Pieces fell down around the battlefield, causing the screaming to hit a higher pitch as whole regiments were wiped out in an instant. No matter where he looked, there was death.

He looked up at the sky in horror, as the Covenant warship, massive in scale, began to glow. The plasma lanced from the ship, heading right for him. Tucker could do nothing but watch as the world faded into white and -

- he was in Blood Gulch again, but it was still. Empty. Familiar suits of armor lay scattered about, scorched by gunfire. The only thing left inside them were skeletons, still smoking and burned clean, mouths open with their last screams. Grif and Simmons reaching for each other for the last time, their phalanges an inch away from touching. Close, yet so far away. Church slumped over the blue armor of Caboose, trying to shield him from the worst of it all, but failed. Tex laid next to Church, still and silent. Sarge sitting up against a rock, shotgun fused to his hand bones as he made his last stand. Donut in pieces, scattered so far away that he could never be put back together again. Sister, yellow armor burned black, partially fused to the roof of the base. Lopez and Sheila, smashed and sparking as the power within them died.

He was alone.

So very alone.

Standing in the middle of the canyon was Junior, with his back to him. Tucker ran, screaming his name, only for Junior to turn around and look right at him.

Half of Junior’s face was missing, burnt into ashes that swirled around the bare bones and charred meat. “Papa, why did you let us die?” He asked, voice rasping and full of pain.

“No...no I didn’t! I-” Tucker fell to his knees, sending a scattering of embers into the air, still glowing hot as they swirled about. “I didn’t, I didn’t-”

“You were supposed to protect us.” rasped the grinning skull of Sister, struggling to free herself from the slag that melted her to the base. Her bones creaked as she rose from the melted metal, still glowing with heat.

“You were supposed to lead us.” Haunting voices rose out from the ground itself, like mist with fingers. It rose up and grabbed his arms and legs, and started to pull. Tucker thrashed, trying to free himself as the fingers jammed hard into his armor.

“I’m sorry!” He screamed, “I’m sorry!”

“Not enough NOT ENOUGH NoT eNoUgH not enough NOT ENOUGH”

“YOU LET US DOWN.”

He shouted as he was pulled under ground, dirt rising up to cover his shoulders. He coughed, spitting out clumps of ash laden dirt as he began to feel suffocated. He couldn’t scream, he couldn’t breathe. He closed his eyes and took in one last breath, and -

“Hello!” A familiar voice practically hollered right next to his ear. Tucker opened his eyes again, prepared to see nothing but dirt, but was surprised to see that everything had stopped. Standing in front of him, was blue armor, the occupant inside alive and whole.

“Tucker, you are being lazy again.” Caboose tsked, putting his hands on his hips and tapping a foot. “You are supposed to help me make cookies! I’m not allowed to use the oven by myself!”

“I...what?” Tucker blinked. He looked over to what he believed was Caboose before, and saw the burned armor and skeleton where he had last seen them. He looked back at this Caboose, vibrant like always. He huffed as he looked down at Tucker, eyes a bit mischievous, but friendly.

“Gosh, you are always getting into trouble, stupid Tucker.” Caboose snorted as he reached down. “Do not worry, I am the best at helping!” He took the top of his head in his hands, and pulled upwards, and then -

and then-

and then-

Tucker awoke with a gasp, flinging his covers off himself as he struggled to rein in his breathing. He shook, dreads stuck to his face with the amount of cold sweat that bloomed from his distress. He frantically looked around the room. There was no dirt, no skeletons, but he had to be sure. He quickly grabbed up his data pad, turning it on and stinging his eyes with the sudden brightness. He typed quickly-

>Tucker: Hey Jun, how ya doing?

>Tucker: Just checking up on you.

He put the pad down and brought the heels of his palms up to his eyes, pressing them in as he took a few gasping breaths. He waited, just focusing on his breathing, still shuddering from the sheer force of the nightmare. A few beeps brought his hands away from his eyes, and he looked back to the pad.

>Junior: LOL dad I’m fine.

>Junior: It’s early, are you alright?

He sighed in relief, the tension leaving his shoulders.

>Tucker: Can’t a dad check up on his kid?

>Tucker: Or are you too big now for that?

>Tucker: ;_;

>Junior: You are so weird.

>Junior: LOL

>Junior: STFU and go to sleep old man.

>Tucker: Fine, just know that I love you <3

>Junior: Okay ILU2 now LOG OFF.

Relieved, Tucker did just that, tossing the data pad to the side. Despite that, he needed a drink, something to chase away the nerves that still made him shake. He got out of bed, throwing on a shirt and some shorts, and headed off to the kitchen.

To his surprise, someone was already occupying it.

“Oh, hey Boose.” Tucker eyed his friend, knowing that him being up early like this was never a good sign. Usually, it was the prelude to one of his episodes where he thought he was somewhere else entirely. “You okay, man?”

Caboose looked up from his mug of hot cocoa and shot Tucker a tired smile. “Hi Tucker. I guess I’m okay.”

Good, so he knew who he was, so Tucker relaxed a bit, heading to one of the cabinets. He rooted around inside before he pulled out a bottle of whiskey, a little number he managed to get from Sarge in exchange for some spare circuits he had sitting around. He grabbed a tumbler and took a seat across from Caboose, pouring himself a shot.

Caboose wrinkled his nose at the smell. “Gross.” He huffed, and took a dainty sip of his cocoa.

“That’s fine, more for me.” Tucker took a sip, wincing at the burn as it went down his throat. Once it hit his stomach, a warmth spread that chased away the lingering chills from his body. He sighed, already feeling a little better. “What has you up so early, ‘Boose?”

“I had a bad dream.” he simply said, staring down at the melting marshmallows in his cocoa. “I don’t like bad dreams.”

“I actually had one too,” Tucker admitted after another sip. “Did you want to talk about it?”

Caboose shook his head no. “Do you?”

“Not really,” Tucker admitted. “It’s nice to know it wasn’t real though. It was a doozy. Funny thing was...that you were in my dream.”

Caboose perked up. “Really?” His fingers tapped along the sides of his mug. “Good or bad?”

“Good actually, you helped me by waking me up.” Tucker grinned and took another sip. He was getting used to the burn again and could start to appreciate the underlying flavors. If anything, Sarge has a great taste in alcohol.

“Oh! So I was helping?” Caboose looked less depressed and more like his bouncy self, smiling widely. “I’m glad I could help. You are my friend!”

Tucker smiled. “Yeah, we are aren’t we? We’ve been through a lot together. Seen some crazy shit too.”

“Yeah.” Caboose took a sip of his own drink, sighing at the obvious warmth that it gave him. Tucker had the urge to reach over and hug him, unable to really say how much it truly helped him. He had no idea why Caboose showed up in his dream like he did, but Tucker was never great at talking about feelings, so he decided to just keep smiling.

He was about to say something else, when the haggard form of Washington stumbled into the kitchen. The bags under his eyes were heavy and he peered at the world through eyes barely open. He look at both Tucker and Caboose, and sighed loudly.

“Nightmares?” He asked, receiving two nods in return. “Fucking hell…” He grabbed himself a glass and sat down heavily at the table. He slid the glass over, which Tucker helpfully filled. Wash downed the glass in one gulp and slumped over the table, head resting on his arms. “I just want to sleep…”

“Well, we could have a sleepover.” Caboose suggested. “I always sleep better when there is a cuddle pile.”

“You want us, to cuddle?” Tucker asked, eyeing Wash and Wash eyed him right back. “Like, Cuddle Cuddle?”

“Not your weird kind of cuddles, Tucker,” the Spartan scoffed. “But actual cuddles. The nice kind where you are warm and you have nice dreams. Those are proper cuddles.”

Wash poured himself another glass without asking Tucker, ignoring the glare the shorter soldier was giving him. “You know what, at this rate, I’m ready to try just about anything.”

“Are you serious!?” Tucker grabbed his bottle back, peering into the bottle to see how much precious liquid was left. “We’re gonna cuddle...together?”

“Stop getting so worked up over your hyper masculinity bullshit, Tucker. A cuddle is just a cuddle.” Wash rubbed his eyes tiredly. “As your C.O, I’m ordering a cuddle pile, and that’s final.”

“Whatever.” Tucker poured himself another shot and gulped it down. The alcohol he hoped would make things a little easier and make his brain calm the fuck down. Thankfully, by the time everyone finished their drinks, he was warming up to the idea. The idea of having to go back to bed, all alone, didn't sit right with him tonight.

Being the expert, Caboose was the one to take everyone to his room, since he had extras of everything from being so damn big. It took some maneuvering, but eventually everyone was comfortable, cuddled up under a mountain of blankets and warm drinks in their systems. Wash was the first to fall asleep, curled up on one side of Tucker. Caboose was the next, breathing steady and slow. Tucker in the middle eventually drifted off, feeling oddly safe for once.

Tucker would never admit it to anyone, but it was the best sleep of his life.

—

I have chronic nightmares, and let me tell you, they can mess you up. Tucker has so many insecurities and worries that tend to come out when he is most vulnerable. Once you hit REM sleep, it comes out in full force. The only way to really treat it is therapy and learning something called 'ejection techniques', where you lucid dream a thing that lets you know for sure it is a dream, or a safe port within it.

Tucker and Caboose have been friends for so long that Caboose ended up being Tucker's ejection point during nightmares.

Lets be real, all of them have nightmares. Just what is up to each individual person. After all some people dream without sound or colors, but for unlucky folks like Tucker, who dream with sound, touch, and color, things get fucked up real fast.

[pixelpaladin24]

Can you tell us some more about Jotun Loki. I love learning more about him *sits down to listen*

//Okay here goes a few useless headcanons I have on my mind right now:

- He had a really good relationship with his father (yeah I went full against every possible canon 🤣). He had been taught everything he has to know about warfare and history, thus, he knows a battle's value. He rather thinks his tongue is sharper than any blade, this way, once Laufey is gone, he does everything he can to avoid a war. Once Odin dies, he and Thor settles all disagreements between the realms.

- Jötunheim's ice is special and unique, most flora and fauna lives underground because the surface is too cold. But what if there's a really hot summer on another realm? If the rivers and lakes run dry? Just complain to Loki and he sends enough ice to keep your realm hydrated. He's really valued as water is life on every realm.

- When Thanos attacks Midgard with the Chitauri (sends another warrior to enchant whoever they can with the scepter), he goes to defend it with Thor. He has the Casket of Ancient Winters, which comes in handy when he has to stall the army up in the air and on the ground.

- This way he's also on good terms with the Avengers and Tony makes sure to have connection with Jötunheim so if any time they need aid with anything in the future, he can call Loki to come and help.

- He is, just as my 'main' Loki, a genderfluid panromantic pansexual.

- He really likes jewelery. That's one of his weaknesses. (And Thor spoils him good for all the help he provides.)

- Some didn't agree with his methods and he let them go. Those Jötuns went North to live further away underground, establishing their own society. Should any of them want to return, Loki would let them.

- He hoards books and has a massive collection of them. He collects all sorts of books from every realm about everything.

- He sleeps naked with a few selected soft fluffy furs, and usually purrs himself to sleep because those furs feel good against his sensitive horns.

- He asks Thor and Tony to help him build an observatory on his realm because most of the time Jötunheim is dark and the stars always fascinated him.

- His council wants him to marry someone with high status but he just waves them off laughing. He thinks he's too small for a Frost Giant spouse, and looks too strange for a humanoid one. Despite people like him in general, he knows his appearance scares most of them off. So he just remains humble and kind - and sometimes, a flirty little troublemaker who loves to play around with others. 😏

[sailorgreywolf-legacy]

Legacy - Chapter 64

The sound of cannon fire broke through the silence. It came with a flare of light from the Spanish forces in the fortress. The last holdout of the Spanish army on his land. 

Mexico let out a breath that he hadn’t realized he had been holding. It had begun, just as the morning light broke. He hated the time that came before a battle, and the first shot came as a comfort. The preparations had set him on edge. Working with Santa Ana to shore up the defenses had served a purpose, but it had felt like waiting for the inevitable. 

Cuba’s warning had given them enough warning to prepare, and the Dutch aid had freed up enough of his ships to mount a defense of the harbor. It had surprised him at first to read how few Spain had been able to muster for his reconquest. In his nightmares Mexico had seen the armada of old looming on the horizon. But, an empire crippled by a decade of war could not field the power that he once could. As the Netherlands had told him, Spain was weaker than he had been in a very long time. He had known that it would be a smaller force than Spain in his glory days, but it had done little to make him feel calmer. 

Even with Santa Anna’s cool confidence in himself and the defenses, he couldn’t stop himself from dreading the silence before battle. In the nights before he had tried to listen to his intuition, which seemed to have an uncanny ability to predict the outcome of battle. If he felt dread, then Spain may succeed. But even his gut had felt frustratingly uncertain and undecided. But if there was anything that Mexico was certain of, it was that when he could fight he could have a part in ensuring a victory. 

As the canon shot from the fortress raised splashed in the low light of dawn, Mexico tightened his hand on his sword. Though there was no one to fight yet, it felt right. The moment that a Spaniard dared to set foot aboard he would be ready to cut them down. 

He knew little about sea warfare, but he could judge that there was not a danger from the batteries yet. The shots, clearly meant to be frightening, were landing in the water of the bay. Though the splashes were impressive, they were harmless. Mexico guessed that the cannons of his own forces were not firing because the shot and gunpowder were expensive and limited. It seemed that Santa Anna was capable of some restraint, though everything about the man said otherwise.

The captain joined Mexico at the railing and said, “Calm yourself. Patience determines victory at sea.” 

Mexico nodded and tried to release some of the tension in his shoulders. This was not a battle on land, and combat with swords would not come as quickly. He asked, “Why are they firing when we are out of range?” 

He knew it was something of an obvious question to a sailor, but the captain already understood that he was a soldier. He saw the smallest suggestion of a smile on the mortal’s face, which reassured him that his interest was appreciated. He answered, “They’re trying to draw us out of position so that we can’t counter their ships as well. I expect that we will see their fleet any moment.” 

Mexico nodded; he could understand the strategy at play. It was bait, and it was not being taken. The captain raised his spyglass and said, “And there they are.” 

Mexico glanced at the horizon and saw that the Spanish fleet was appearing at the mouth of the bay. It was not the mass of sails he had imagined, though he had known the numbers. When they were spread out across the surface of the water, it did not seem quite as frightening. Mexico realized how much he had allowed himself to fear Spain in a way that was unwarranted.

 As the ships got closer, the guns at Mexico’s back began to fire. The cacophony of the dueling cannons seemed like a prelude to the fight that was coming the moment that the ships were in range of each other. 

The captain confirmed it by turning to Mexico and saying, “I must go. Hold on when you need to. Things are about to get bumpy.” 

Mexico was certain that if he could hold himself steady enough to shoot on a galloping horse, then a heaving ship would prove little challenge. He had never fought at sea before, but he had faith in himself. 

There was a moment of silence, which he took to steady himself, and fix his gaze on the imperial flag flying from the Spanish flagship. If Spain was leading the offensive, then that would be where he was. And if Mexico could just reach him, he could take back the mercy that he had offered in the last battle. There was no way to secure the peace other than to defeat Spain soundly again, and leave him incapable of continuing to fight. This time Mexico was prepared to not stop short when he had the chance to end it. 

He felt the wind fall quiet. As he glanced behind him, he saw the sail fall flat. For a moment, it felt like the world held its breath. The air smelled like gunpowder and salt. 

Then the quiet was broken by a shouted order from the helm. It was followed by a flurry of activity. As if nature itself was following the command, the wind returned pushing from behind. For the little he knew of naval tactics, he knew that it was a favorable wind. 

The ship jerked forward beneath him, and Mexico had to put a hand on the rail to steady himself. He hadn’t anticipated how unnerving it felt for the ground beneath his feet to shift so suddenly, but he righted himself quickly enough. The movement of the ships was difficult to follow as the fleets seemed to merge into each other. From what he could tell, their target was the Spanish flag ship, while the smaller ships were busy with each other. 

This was the reason Mexico had chosen to put himself on the largest ship; it gave him the ability to get close to Spain. Though he wanted a victory for the safety of his fledgling empire, his personal goal was to get close to Spain again. 

He put his hand on his sword again and waited with bated breath for a moment. Mexico felt the ship shake again as the cannons let out a series of bellowing shots. There was a crash of wood as a few of the shots found their target. The spray of seawater and the smoke from the guns made it difficult to tell if they had done any damage. 

Mexico leaned forward on the rail, trying to assess what had happened. He could see places on the side of the ship where the shots had impacted, but it hardly seemed enough to cause significant damage. 

He caught a flare of orange in his peripheral vision, and realized a moment too late that he should not be standing so close when the Spanish ship fired back. The awareness came too late, but someone grabbed him from behind and dragged him away from the railings. The force of the pull unsteadied him enough for him to lose his footing and fall. As he lost his footing he pulled his rescuer down on top of him. 

A shot hit where he had been standing, sending a shower of splinters and hot sparks over the deck. Mexico drew in a breath of thick air, and tried to comprehend what had just happened. The smoke clouded his vision and made his eyes burn. 

He turned his gaze to his rescuer. The man had been knocked unconscious, though there was blood seeping into his hairline on one side of his head that made Mexico suspect that it may be something worse. He put his hand to the man’s neck to feel if he was still alive. He felt a pulse, though the man’s heart rate was slow. 

Mexico gently pushed the weight of the man’s body off of himself. He didn’t want to hurt the man, but he had to get himself free. 

As he got to his feet, less gracefully than he’d hoped, he felt the ship shudder again as another broadside was loosed directly into the Spanish ship. He assumed that it had done significant damage, though naval battle was still a mystery.

Mexico could barely make out what was happening through the smoke, and the cacophony. But, he could tell that sailors were massing at the side of the deck. It seemed that they did not expect another broadside from the Spanish ship, so it was safe enough to stand close to the edge. He assumed that their last shots had done enough to delay the enemy guns to silence them. 

He felt like he was beginning to understand how battle between two ships was fought. He also felt like he was also starting to find his feet on the swaying surface. For all of his grace, trying to keep himself sure of his footing on deck was proving difficult. 

Once he was certain of himself again, he moved to join the other sailors waiting to see what came next. He heard a bellow that he assumed came from the captain, “Boarding!” 

He was not certain whether it was an order or a warning. But it did not matter to him either way, since it meant a fight was coming. It was the kind of fight that he understood, one with swords and pistols. 

Before diving into the fray, he drew his pistol. He had loaded a shot into each before the battle had begun, so he needed only to aim and shoot. 

The sailors were throwing grappling hooks across the gap, pulling the gunnel of the Spanish ship closer. A symmetrical series of grappling hooks flew from the enemy, creating a firm netting between the two, and pulling the two ships close enough that a man could jump from one to the other. 

The Spanish sailors were gathered on the other side, just as he had anticipated. In the moment, the battle would become the same as any other. With the hulls practically touching it would be impossible to effectively fire cannons into the other ship. It also seemed that the gun crews had taken to the deck with weapons in hand. 

This was the moment that Mexico had been waiting for. He leveled his pistol and waited to choose a target. His hand was steady, though his footing was not as sure as it would be on solid ground. 

An enemy sailor attempted to cross the gap, and Mexico fired with well honed muscle memory. The bullet found its mark, and the mortal fell into the gap between the ships. Mexico heard the splash as the body hit the water. 

With that, all restraint broke. Sailors from either side cleared the gap, and there was the sound of sabers colliding and a series of shots. Mexico tucked his second pistol into his belt. In the smoke and chaos he could not be certain who he would hit if he fired into the crowd. He didn’t dare take the risk of hitting any of his own men. 

The blade was certain though. An enemy landed right in front of him, and Mexico acted on instinct. He cut the man down easily. 

It almost felt like there was little challenge in anticipating that more men would pour across the gap, and taking them out as soon as they landed. It would also do little to end the battle. The average sailors were not driving this attempt at reconquest. 

He had to find Spain, and he had to end him. That was why he had decided to be on this ship, and it was the only thing that mattered. He tried to see through the mass of bodies to see if he could catch a glance of Spain through it. He knew what to look for, the scarlet coat and the glare of his eyes. Mexico couldn’t see him, but he continued to look because he knew that Spain must be on the other ship somewhere. 

He didn’t realize how intently focused he was until he felt a sharp pain in his side. He broke his gaze away from the crowd and looked down at the source of the pain. A sailor who he had failed to notice had managed to stab him. But it seemed that he had not found quite the right stance, and the stab had only managed to touch his side. 

He gritted his teeth, turned, and hit the man with the pommel of his sword. The mortal stumbled backwards and fell into the gap, disappearing into the water.

 Mexico put his free hand to the wound. It didn’t feel deep, but his hand was stained with blood when he pulled it away. He was used to the sight of his own blood after all of the years of war. He wiped it on his own jacket, and tried to focus on Spain. Being injured meant it was even more important to find him, since he could not afford another lapse of judgement. 

He glanced around. His eyes fell on the upper deck, and he smiled. That would be the best place to get an elevated view of the deck. It looked as though a couple shots had hit the upper deck and shattered the railings. But, the stairs had little damage, and that would give him the advantage that he needed. 

He looked around to make sure that there was no one who was about to stab him again the moment that he turned his back. He did not see anyone who seemed poised to attack him, so he took the moment to make a break. He took quick steps up the stairs, and then turned to face the battle. From above he could get a better sense of what was happening, and from his perspective it seemed to be a perfectly even battle. 

He scanned the men, looking for Spain. After his moment, his eyes landed on him. As he caught sight of Spain, the man turned and met his gaze. He saw the way that Spain’s lips curled into a smile, like he had been looking for Mexico too. 

Mexico knew that he had to take advantage of his position and the distance between them. It would not last, because he was aware that Spain would get closer. He wanted a decisive fight as badly as Mexico did.

He drew his pistol. A single shot could do enough to remove the other man from the war. Mexico leveled the gun and took aim. He couldn’t squander the shot, so he was hesitant to pull the trigger. He could feel the enormity of the moment on his shoulders. 

He lined up the shot, and took a breath to steady his hands. But, before he could fire, Spain moved into the fray. Mexico couldn’t fire without possibly hitting someone else. He would not waste his one shot on that. 

Instead he tracked Spain’s movement through the fray between the two ships. Mexico put his finger on the trigger, waiting for the first moment that he could get a clear line of sight. He waited, and was uncomfortably aware of the swaying of the boat beneath him. It seemed somehow less predictable than a galloping horse. 

He saw Spain emerge, and he fired immediately. He felt the way that the ship heaved again as soon as he fired, but he could not take it back and hope for a better shot. 

Spain staggered, and Mexico thought that the bullet had found its mark. He could not see the other clearly enough to tell where it had hit. But, as Spain straightened up, he felt his heart drop. Spain had his hand pressed against his left shoulder. 

It wasn’t even his dominant arm. 

Mexico put the pistol back into his belt, saying as he did so, “God fucking damnit!” 

He could have made that shot easily on land, and he knew it. It was enraging when Spain met his eyes again and raised an eyebrow like he had expected better. Mexico clenched his teeth, and decided that he would finish the job with his swords. He drew both, and waited. 

Spain reached the stairs and said, barely even sounding winded from the rush to reach Mexico’s position, “Shall we dance again, my dear?” 

Mexico loathed how confident he sounded, like he didn’t have blood soaking into his jacket around the bullet wound. He took a step closer to make it clear that Spain did not intimidate him and responded, “That didn’t go very well for you last time. Are you sure you want to try again?” 

He was amazed that the stab wound from their last battle had already healed. He would have to do it again. Spain smirked, “You won’t get that lucky again.” 

Without further warning, he lunged. Mexico caught his blade with his own. The force of the blow caught him slightly off balance. To regain his footing he took a step backwards up the stairs. He said, as he parried Spain’s second blow, “What are you trying to do? I will not surrender.” 

Spain was making a point of attacking aggressively, and Mexico chose to play the defense for the moment. When he got on the level ground of the deck it would be easier to push back. Spain responded, “I’m taking back what is mine. If you think I will not fight to my last breath for you, then you underestimate me.” 

Mexico felt his foot hit the flat of the upper deck and prepared himself to push back. He spat back, “You are being pathetic. I am never going to accept a monster like you.” 

He deflected Spain's next strike and countered with one of his own that Spain managed to dodge. Mexico retreated enough to find his footing. Spain took the opportunity to keep talking, “You call me a monster, but I heard what you did to Tlaxcala. I kept that useless old man alive for centuries, and you killed him without a second thought. I didn’t think you were capable of it.” 

Mexico felt like Spain had knocked the air out of his lungs. He hadn’t realized there was anyone who could have heard that conversation and told Spain. The mere implication that it was anything like Spain’s crimes made him see red. He said, through clenched teeth, “You could not possibly understand.” 

Before Spain had a chance to make another comment, he aimed a slash at Spain’s side. The other caught it and parried, then transitioned smoothly to an attack of his own. Mexico saw it coming and caught it. 

Spain leaned forward over the crossed swords, “You’re just like me now. You have blood on your hands.” Mexico felt the rage in the pit of his stomach. He pushed Spain away as hard as he could. He said, barely containing his own rage, “I am nothing like you.” 

The way that Spain continued to look mildly amused made him even angrier. He threw another blow, intent on causing damage. Spain caught it and said, with a sickening smirk, “Just admit that we are meant for each other.” 

Mexico could feel Spain pushing him backwards, but he refused to break the guard yet. He shifted his grip enough to get the right angle, and then pushed against Spain’s sword enough that it slipped out of his hand. The sword clattered on the deck, and Mexico took it as a sign that he had Spain where he wanted him. 

He stepped back and raised his sword, and said, “I have you again. When will you understand that you’re beaten?” 

Spain met his gaze unflinchingly. He didn’t seem to understand that he was unarmed and at Mexico’s mercy. He said, “You have so much to learn about naval battles. First, you need to learn to pay attention to your surroundings.” 

Mexico had no idea what he was talking about, and quickly glanced around to figure out what he had missed. In the momentary distraction, Spain charged him. He felt Spain’s shoulder hit his chest. Suddenly the ground disappeared under his feet. 

He was falling for a long moment, and then he hit the deck hard. There was an immediate splitting pain in his head where it had impacted the wood. 

His thoughts felt fuzzy as he slowly opened his eyes. He couldn’t figure out how long his eyes had been closed. As he looked up, he realized what had happened. He was looking up at the break in the railing on the upper deck where Spain must have pushed him off.

The next thing he was aware of was that Spain was no longer on top of him. He was standing, dusting off his own jacket. Once he had pulled himself together, he said, “Now I am going to take you home.” 

He sounded very far away, and there was a ringing in Mexico’s ears that nearly drowned him out. Mexico felt strange, but he knew that he would not let Spain touch him. He drew a small knife from within his jacket. 

As gracefully as he could, he sat up and jammed the knife into Spain’s stomach. He saw the look of shock on Spain’s face at the injury.

The Spaniard growled and responded by headbutting him, which sent a new spike of pain through Mexico’s aching head. Mexico’s eyes watered at the pain, but he refused to look away from Spain. He would not concede, not for a moment. 

Spain pulled the knife out of his abdomen and tossed it across the deck. Then he said in a voice that sounded like he was trying very hard to hide how angry he was, “It’s over. Come with me, now.” 

He leaned down and reached for Mexico’s jacket. Mexico wished that he had another knife, but he had used his only one, and could not figure out where his sword had gone. So, he reached up, pretending for a moment that he was reciprocating the gesture. 

But it was only to get close enough that he could seize Spain by the shoulders. Once his hands were firmly in place, he responded, “Damn you, bastard.” 

And then he drove his thumb into the bullet wound on his shoulder. He could tell that Spain was surprised by the way he reacted to the pain.He grimaced and his knees seemed to buckle. Mexico knew that he had him off balance, and he pushed hard enough to get Spain away from him. He made sure to put particular pressure on the wound, so that he’d have more leverage. Spain lost his footing and fell.  

Once he had made distance, Mexico managed to scramble to his feet. Standing up made him feel dizzy, but he would not allow himself to show it. For the moment, he had the advantage.

He caught sight of his swords, which had not flown too far when he fell. He wouldn’t have time to retrieve them before facing Spain again, but he was glad that they had not ended up in the bay. 

He turned to face Spain again, and raised his fists to defend himself. Spain did the same, though Mexico could see that his left hand had a slight tremor. That shoulder must hurt terribly. 

Mexico was about to strike when he heard the sound of a gun being cocked next to him. He turned to see the captain with a pistol in hand, with it trained on Spain. 

Spain glanced from the mortal to Mexico and seemed to decide that he was outmatched. He gave Mexico one more withering look before turning and fleeing back to his own ship. 

Mexico let out a long breath. Once the adrenaline of facing Spain started to wear off he realized that the ringing in his ears had not completely stopped. He also felt a very uncomfortable awareness of the boat’s movement in his stomach. 

He bent to recover his swords. As he bent down, he realized how dizzy he really felt. He staggered as he straightened up, and the captain said to him, “Are you alright?” 

Mexico wasn’t sure how to answer the question. He could feel his side bleeding, and he was sure that the shirt was ruined. His head was painful, and it took some focus to keep the world from blurring at the edges. 

He countered with the more important question, “You should have just shot him. Did we win?” 

The captain nodded, but something about the look on his face said that he was still concerned about his unanswered question. Mexico nodded, and said, “Good. I’m going to bandage my wounds. Tell me when we reach dry land again.”

Once he was alone in his cabin he tried to center himself. The pain in his head had faded, but he still felt strangely disoriented. He could have taken the moment to lay down and rest, but he refused to. He had too much to think about, and too much that he needed to deal with. 

The wound to his side was the first priority. He retrieved a roll of bandages. As he moved he felt the ship move, and lost his footing again, and had to put his hand out to steady himself. He breathed deeply and tried to orient himself again. 

Once he felt centered, he pulled up his shirt and began to wrap the bandages as tightly as he could on his own. It was not perfect, but it would stop the bleeding long enough for it to heal. 

As he worked, his mind slipped back to what Spain had said during their clash. He should have guessed that the spy who had told Spain about Guerrero would also have told him about Tlaxcala. 

He did not think he had done anything to equal Spain’s brutality. He had not cut down the man where he stood, though the thought had crossed his mind. Spain would have never hesitated; he would have killed the man on the spot. 

He finished wrapping the bandages and tucked the end in so that it would hold. With that dealt with, he turned to his hands. When he looked at them he realized that they were caked with blood. It did not surprise him after such a brutal battle. He knew that he had touched his own bleeding wound, and made Spain bleed as well.

He poured water into a basin, which he knew had been provided because of his status as an officer. He dipped his hands in the water and watched as the red began to float off. He couldn’t put his mind completely at rest as he looked at his hands. 

It was his own blood, and it was Spain’s and his own, but he also could not help but think that it was also Tlaxcala’s blood. He had condemned an old man to a slow death. It was a cruel decision, and not one he would have made if he had taken a moment to consider it logically.

Perhaps the man had remorse for his role in the conquest that he had never had the chance to express. Mexico rubbed his hands together, trying to get the blood off. The water quickly turned murky and red. He realized, with a sinking sense of guilt, that Spain had lied to Tlaxcala too. He had used everything that he could to secure his victory. 

Mexico pulled his hands out of the water and began to wipe them off. He could see that there was still blood under his nails, and he began to work at cleaning under them with the edge of the cloth. 

He felt like a fool for not knowing better. He had more experience with Spain’s charm and his ability to lie than anyone. He should have been the first one to give the man a chance to speak. His heart felt heavy as he had the thought. He should not have done what he did, but there was no way to turn it back. He had already severed the man’s connection to immortality, and had no power to give it back. 

As he put aside the cloth, he thought about what he could do to set things right, something that Spain would never do. He had to see Tlaxcala before he died, and express his regret to him. He could not let the man think that he was numb to what he had done. He had to make it clear that he felt regret, and for his own future he had to face the consequences of his actions, so that he never acted so quickly out of anger again. With the decision made, he let himself slowly sink onto his bunk, so he could rest until they reached the docks.

Mexico changed into riding clothing and paused only briefly to check the bandages on his torso. They seemed to be holding, so he decided he didn’t need to change them before he left. With that, he intended to go straight to the stables and take his horse to see Tlaxcala. 

But, as he crossed the hall he heard a familiar voice, “Are you going somewhere?” Santa Anna was striding across the floor towards him. Mexico had hoped to sneak away without an explanation, but the man’s presence made that impossible. Santa Anna continued, “I hope you are not. I was planning to celebrate the victory with you.” 

Mexico appreciated his enthusiasm, but he did not feel like celebrating at all. The feeling of guilt was far too strong for him to put it aside for the night. His heart was set on making everything right as much as he could. He replied, “I must. I have something that I have left unfinished.” 

He didn’t feel like he owed the man any other explanation, and he hoped that Santa Anna would not ask for more. All the mortal asked was, “Does it have to be tonight?” 

Mexico nodded, “I’m afraid so. It cannot wait.” 

Santa Anna shook his head like he was deeply disappointed, but his answer was, “Very well. I trust you to do what you must.” 

He paused for a moment before adding, “And come back soon. I’ll miss you while you’re gone.” 

Mexico couldn’t help but smile as he replied, “I will.”

It was a long ride to Tlaxcala, but it gave him time to think through what he was going to say. It would be strange to walk into the home of a man who was dying because of him, but it was better than ignoring the problem. He knew that the last words to the man had been callous, and he wanted to end things on a better note. 

Perhaps it would be no better if he expressed himself, and he would be thrown out immediately. But, even that would feel better because it would give him the chance to express himself. It would also give Tlaxcala the chance to express anger that was very well deserved. 

Mexico ignored the way that the movement of the horse made his head ache again. The blurring in his peripheral vision had faded, but he could still feel the dull ache in the back of his head. He tightened his hands on the reins as he felt another wave of rage at the thought of Spain. 

If not for the underhanded push, he would not be in pain. Spain was dishonorable, and he should have expected as much. But the unfamiliar environment had been enough to catch him off guard. If the fall had succeeded in knocking him unconscious, the consequences would have been terrible. Being at Spain’s mercy could have had dire consequences, but he had recovered fast enough. 

It made him deeply angry, but he tried to repress the feeling. For the night, he had to focus on the guilt festering in his gut. He gritted his teeth and hoped that the anger would fade before he got to Tlaxcala. Anger was the emotion that had gotten him into this trouble, and he refused to walk into the conversation angry. 

As the sun began to sink towards the horizon, he began to realize how long the ride would be. He had no desire to rest for the night, since he was certain that the feeling of guilt would only worsen when he closed his eyes. If he slept at all, it would have been uneasy and troubled. He had no desire to do that in some unfamiliar room in an unfamiliar place. If he rode through the night, he would reach his destination by morning.

He decided that it would be best to get there as soon as possible. He leaned forward and patted the horse on the neck, and said, “I’m sorry that I’m going to do this. But we’re going to keep going.” He set his gaze on the horizon as the sky darkened and continued.

The sun was rising as he reached the house in Tlaxcala. As he had entered the city he had realized that he did not know exactly where he was going. He had decided that he would trust his gut and what he knew about his kind. Countries often chose to live in the heart of their capital, and it wasn’t difficult to find. 

Mexico also trusted his gut to tell him that he was in the right place. It was not logical, but it was usually right. 

As he stopped his horse outside of the courtyard, he wondered if this had all been a terrible idea. Had it been worth it to ride through the night to be told that he was hated and thrown out? 

He pinched the bridge of his nose. If the dull ache would go away, then he could think clearly about what he was doing. His heart told him that it was right, and that it would soothe the feeling of guilt either way. If he turned away from the uncomfortable feelings, then he was no better than Spain. He needed to know at least that he was better than Spain, otherwise the feeling would haunt him.

He took a deep breath and prepared himself for whatever was about to happen. Then, feeling as centered as he possibly could, he turned his horse and entered the courtyard. As he dismounted, he still felt slightly off balance. It must have been some lingering effect from spending time on a swaying ship. 

He gave the horse a few loving pets to the mane, because he knew that he had ridden the poor creature harder than he should have. He said, quietly enough that someone wouldn’t hear unless they were very close, “You did very well. You can rest now.” 

He wasn’t certain whether he would be back quickly, since it depended on Tlaxcala. But, he hoped that his horse had the chance to rest. 

As he turned, he realized that the door had already opened. In the early morning, the sound of hooves must have been quite noticeable. He took it as an invitation that Tlaxcala had not immediately closed the door and locked him out. If he had not wanted to see Mexico, then it would be easy enough to keep him out. Mexico hoped that he had drawn the right conclusion from the gesture. 

As he walked closer, he realized that the person standing in the doorway was not the old man he had spoken to before. There was a woman looking at him, and he couldn’t read her expression. Perhaps he had come to the wrong house after all, though his heart told him that it was not. 

He also could not shake the feeling that he had met the woman somewhere before. Her face felt so familiar, but he could not think of a reason why. 

He pushed all the thoughts away and tried to focus on the reason he was there. He said, trying to sound polite, “I’m sorry to bother you. I am looking for Tlaxcala.” 

He spoke in Nahuatl, though he hadn’t made the conscious choice about the language. It came naturally to him, and he chose not to question it. Her eyes widened slightly when he started speaking, and for a moment he thought she would not understand him.

But, that worry was assuaged when she responded, “My husband? He is here, but he is asleep.” 

She sounded shocked, but Mexico was too focused on the word. He didn’t know the man was married. He felt even worse knowing that he had killed a man who had a spouse who would mourn him. If they had children, his guilt would be even more terrible. He knew what it was to lose a parent.

He tried not to betray the thought as he said, “I would like to speak to him if he is well enough to see me.” 

He did not know what state Tlaxcala would be in, since he didn’t know how long it took an immortal to die. It felt far too forward to ask whether he was still capable of carrying on a conversation. It had felt like his father had faded very quickly based on his limited memories, so the same may happen to Tlaxcala. He also wanted to give her a reason to politely decline him if his presence was too uncomfortable.

The woman nodded and answered him, “You can see him, if you would like. He won’t be expecting you.” 

Mexico could not help but wonder if she knew who he was, because it felt like an understatement. He expected Tlaxacala to neither be expecting him nor be happy to see him. He could not think of a single person who would be happy to see his killer.

She stepped aside and said with a slight smile, “Please come in.” 

It felt strange to step over the threshold. He felt like an incredibly unwelcome guest. He didn’t know why she would look at him so warmly, unless she had no idea what he had done. It made him feel like she would notice at any moment and throw him out, as she had every right to. Perhaps it would happen once she spoke to Tlaxcala and he made the whole situation clearer. 

She led him to a comfortable kitchen, and then said, “You should sit, and I will wake him.” 

Mexico found the welcome entirely too warm, but he was not going to question it. He made himself as comfortable as he could at her kitchen table. Much to his surprise, she placed a cup of coffee in front of him, and gave him another smile. He found it hard to smile back while being so aware of his own guilt. 

After the long ride and the sleepless night, coffee seemed very welcome. But, he felt like he could not take a drink of it, because it would be taking something from a dead man. To drink the coffee would be to accept the hospitality, and he could not do that. 

He put his hands around the cup and felt the warmth, but he would not allow himself even a sip. She left the room, and he was left alone with his thoughts and a coffee that he didn’t feel he deserved. He stared at the surface of the coffee, and tried to collect his thoughts. 

He had not thought through what he was going to say to Tlaxcala. The important part was that he said he was sorry, and Tlaxcala could react to it however he wanted. He was uncomfortably aware of how long the woman had been gone, and he began to wonder if they were trying to decide to tell him to leave. 

He tapped his finger on the table, trying to force himself to be patient. He could feel the nervous energy building up in his body. Remaining sitting felt too uncomfortable. He felt far too nervous to be alone with his thoughts. 

He pushed the cup to the side and stood up. He intended to pace, to do something with his nervous energy. He would have thought that the night would have exhausted him, but he still felt awake and anxious. 

He began to pace, thinking about the words he wanted to say if he got the opportunity. He wanted to sincerely express that he was trying to learn, though he knew that was little consolation to a dying man. It was all he could think of to say, and he was not certain that he would remember any of it when he was faced with the conversation. 

He paused by the door when he realized that he could hear voices on the other side. He knew that should not listen to Tlaxcala speaking to his wife out of respect to both of them. But, he could not resist the temptation of knowing if he was about to get anger from either of them. 

He leaned close enough that he could hear the voices. All he could make out was Tlaxcala’s voice saying, “You should tell him. He’ll feel better if you do.” 

He didn’t hear the answer. He had no idea what they could be talking about. He dared not push the door open to hear better. Instead, he turned away, feeling ashamed of himself for even listening. He heard the sound of her footsteps returning, and decided to sit again so that she did not know he had been wandering. 

She returned and said, “He’s ready to talk to you.” 

Mexico swallowed his nerves and responded, “Thank you. You’ve been so kind.” 

He felt like he should say it in case he was about to get castigated and have to leave in a hurry. If Tlaxcala threw him out, he wouldn’t have a chance to thank her, and she did deserve thanks for all her hospitality.

Tlaxcala was laying in bed with the curtains drawn so that it was bright enough for Mexico to see him clearly. He looked like he was ill. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he looked older than he had the last time Mexico had seen him. He had very distant memories of his father looking faded when he died, and Tlaxcala looked much the same. 

He had thought of so many words to say, but he wasn’t sure what to say to start the conversation. To his relief, Tlaxcala met his eyes and said, “You are a surprising guest.” Mexico replied, “And I am sure that I am not a welcome one.” 

He felt like it was better to open the door for Tlaxcala to tell him exactly how he felt. It felt better to allow the possibility of rejection, so that it did not feel like such a blow when it came. 

But, the old man didn’t have any anger in his face as he answered, “That depends on why you are here. If you want to gloat, then I will ask you to leave. But, judging by your face, I do not think you are.” 

Mexico settled into a chair at his bedside, because he felt like he had just gotten the permission to stay and talk. He replied, trying to say what he had been thinking about, “I am not. I wanted to speak to you because I am sorry for what I did.” 

The words felt heavy in the air, like they could never be enough. He watched Tlaxcala’s face as he spoke, and tried to judge the reaction. The man’s eyes widened in surprise, but he didn’t look upset. Mexico couldn’t help but continue to voice his thoughts, “I was angry about so many things, and I took it all out on you. But, I should not have hurt you for what Antonio did.” 

He could think of more words to say about how he had taken his pain out on the person he could hurt, instead of the one who was threatening him. But, it was better to hold his tongue and give Tlaxcala a chance to respond. 

The old man took a moment of quiet before he said, “It makes me glad to see that you have reflected on it.”

He adjusted himself in bed with a groan, so he was sitting up and looking directly at Mexico. He finished his thought, “I want you to look at me, and remember this. Your actions have consequences. You have more power now than you ever have, and you must be more careful with your temper.” 

Mexico felt like this was an oddly measured lecture for what they were discussing. He leaned forward and said, trying to make himself clear, “You do not have to forgive me. I do not expect you to.” 

He felt particularly uneasy with the idea, and wanted harsh condemnation. To his great surprise, Tlaxcala leaned forward and took his hands in his own. Tlaxcala sounded like he was speaking patiently to a child when he said, “Listen to me. I know that I do not have to, but I never wanted to be your enemy. These old grudges have to end. This cycle of conquest and revenge and pain has to end with you.” 

Mexico felt like he was a foolish child, and he didn’t know what to say. He simply nodded, hoping it was clear enough that he understood. He could not quite comprehend how someone could not resort to anger, but it felt like a skill that he should learn. 

He felt absurdly like he might cry, because the relief was too strong and he could hear compassion in the old man’s tone that he had not earned. Tlaxcala held his hands a little tighter, and said, “I knew from the moment you were born that you would represent something bigger than any of us. I want you to take this as a lesson. Be a better ruler than your mother. Be better than Spain.” 

Mexico found his voice again and said, “I am so sorry. If I can do anything to make you more comfortable, please ask.” 

He could feel moisture welling in his eyes, but it felt wrong to cry when he was the guilty one. Tlaxcala gave him a pained smile, and said, “You’ve already given me peace by coming here. Now I would like some rest.” 

Mexico nodded. He understood that this conversation had been everything he could have asked for already. He said, “Thank you for hearing me out.” 

He was holding back tears as he left the room. He could not understand how someone could be so understanding. He leaned against a wall and felt a new wave of guilt and uncertainty. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to collect himself. 

He felt like he was losing someone he had never known, but who could have supported him. The strange grief and guilt mixed to feel like something somehow worse. 

He felt the soft touch on his arm. He opened his eyes to see Tlaxcala’s wife standing in front of him, looking oddly concerned for him. For the briefest moment, he thought that she looked like his mother if Aztec had ever been able to grow old. It made him feel even stranger. 

She said, “Are you alright?” 

It was the same question that the captain had asked him, and he still did not know how to answer. He said, “He was very kind. I am just tired.” 

It was the best answer he could give to avoid discussing the turmoil in the chest, and the ever present ache in his head. She said, “You were in a battle, weren’t you? At sea, I would guess.” He had no idea how she could have made such an accurate guess. He replied, too quickly to be fully polite, “How do you know that?” 

He had changed out of his uniform, so it could not possibly be that obvious. She put a hand to his forehead and said, “I saw this.” 

With that, she pulled something out of a spot near his hairline. He winced at the pain, and was utterly confused until she held up a long, bloody splinter. She said, “You brought part of the ship with you.” 

It must have happened during the broadsides, but he had no memory of it. He felt a droplet of blood forming where the splinter had been. She pulled out a kerchief and offered it to him, saying, “Press on it and it’ll stop bleeding.” 

He took it and followed her instructions, but he was confused. He voiced the thought, “I am very grateful. But I do not understand. I am causing your grief. Why would you want to help me?” 

He pressed the cloth to the spot that was bleeding, and began to wonder if his side had also started to bleed again. In these strange circumstances, he was not sure what he would do with an answer. 

She took a deep breath and answered, “You are young, and you made a mistake. I’m not going to punish you for that. If you learn to do better, then that is all any of us can hope for.” 

He wished that someone would just be angry at him. It felt like the kindness was unwarranted and unearned. She made it worse by saying, “You can sleep here. We have extra rooms, and you seem quite tired.” 

Mexico stared at her for a moment, trying to comprehend. The whole day felt utterly strange and he found himself wondering if he had slept after the battle and this was all a very lucid dream. People were usually only so kind in his dreams. But, given the pain he was still feeling, that was impossible. 

He answered, “I could not possibly do that. You have both been incredibly kind, and I have asked for enough.” 

He was absolutely certain that he would not sleep in the same house as a man who was dying because of him. He guessed that offer was what Tlaxcala had urged her to tell him, to let him know that he was welcome to stay. But the idea made him feel no better. Even the thought of laying down and attempting to sleep brought another wave of hideous guilt. 

He shook his head, and added, “I think I have been here long enough, and I should go back to Veracruz.” He felt deeply uncomfortable with how long he had been in Tlaxcala’s house, even if no one was being unkind to him. His own deep awareness of what he had done felt like it was wearing on him. 

She looked like she wanted to say something else, and he hoped that she would not. He said, hoping to stop the conversation, “Thank you for everything. If either of you need anything, please do not hesitate to write.”

He was back on his horse and riding away as quickly as he could, despite his fatigue. His racing thoughts and volatile emotions were enough to keep him awake through the night. No matter how much he thought about it he could not make sense of the whole series of interactions. It had violated all of his expectations about people, and he could not decide how to react. 

Even as he returned to Veracruz, he could only think that he should take Tlaxcala’s words to heart and keep closer control of his temper. 

It was late afternoon when he returned to his own room in Veracruz. He needed time to sleep and think through what had happened, since he could feel the way that the exhaustion was starting to set in. As soon as he reached his room he flung himself onto the bed, fully determined to sleep. 

But, his hand hit a note that had been left on his pillow. As soon as he saw Victoria’s handwriting, his heart sank. He could already guess that it was an invitation to a meeting. When he opened it and saw the word “tonight” he groaned at the prospect of yet another night with little sleep. 

He could not possibly choose not to go. If he wanted to keep his word to Victoria about supporting the republic then he would need to accept secret meetings when they happened. He read through the rest, because he would need the details. 

The words blurred as he tried to read them, and it took substantial effort to focus. It was all very straightforward, and he was very glad that Victoria had opted for little poetic language. For a man who had trained in law, he was surprisingly talented with brevity. 

The end of the letter intrigued him the most though. It said with ample mystery, “It would be best if you were there. There will be something you will not want to miss.” In normal circumstances, he would find that undeniably tempting, but he couldn’t help but feel like a chore. He groaned again, rolled over, and got out of bed to pull himself together to leave again.

It was not difficult to find the beautiful mansion, and as he looked at it he wondered if Victoria owned it, or if it was the home of someone who was sympathetic to the rebellion. Victoria never seemed to have a shortage of friends. He also had the passing thought that it was not very subtle, but he knew better than to question someone who had been so effective at organizing rebellion. 

Mexico found the man waiting for him in the foyer, looking very pleased to see him. Mexico saw his face slightly fall when he got closer, and he could only assume that the lack of sleep was obvious on his face. The past day was beginning to blur in his mind, and he was certain that he must look exhausted too. 

But, Victoria hardly hinted at it when he said, “I am glad that you are here.” Mexico smiled and responded, “Your letter was interesting. It seems like you have a surprise for me.” 

He had assumed it was something very exciting, like a clear idea how to topple Iturbide. The sparkle of intrigue in Victoria’s eyes didn’t particularly worry him. He was certain that anything that Victoria would play would be for his benefit, because the man was sincere in his patriotic convictions. 

Victoria responded, “I do. Come with me. I have something I think you should see.” Mexico wasn’t certain why he was feeling the slightest sense of foreboding, but he blamed it on his exhaustion. He followed Victoria as he led him to one of the many rooms, and paused in front of the door. Victoria turned to him, with a look of intrigue, and said, “I think you should go in by yourself. It will be better.” 

Mexico was very tempted to ask what was worth all the secrecy, but he trusted him well enough to not question him. He pushed open the door. And his heart dropped the moment he laid eyes on the man who was sitting at the table. 

Vicente Guerrero looked up and met his eyes. 

Mexico felt goosebumps bloom on his skin. He had no idea what to say to the man, or even if he wanted to speak to him. He heard Guerreo start to say, “Ale-” 

But before he could finish what he wanted to say, Mexico turned and left the room. His heart was racing, and he couldn’t collect his thoughts. He stepped to the side outside the room and tried to collect himself. 

He heard Victoria approaching him, and he said, “You set me up! You both conspired to do this.” He wished he could sound angier, but he didn’t have the energy. The sleepless night had rendered it impossible.

Victoria shook his head, and said firmly, “No, he didn’t know either. I invited both of you without telling either of you.” 

Mexico gave him the best glare he could muster. He could not put into words how much it felt like a betrayal to be suddenly faced with Guerrero in the flesh again. He asked, “Why would you do this without telling me?” 

Victoria seemed to have far too much confidence in himself as he said, “Because you would not have come if I told you, and neither would Vicente. And I need you both to talk. I cannot effectively lead with you two avoiding each other.” 

Mexico’s head was swimming, but he was certain that he was frustrated. He responded, “I am supposed to decide when that happens.” 

He felt another spike of pain in his head, and he put his hand to his head. He couldn’t sustain the anger enough to yell at Victoria, not while he was tired. He winced at the pain and said, “I cannot have that conversation tonight. I’m not ready.” 

He wanted nothing more than to go home and sleep, but fleeing completely would make him look like a coward. He had no idea what to do, since every option would bring confrontation. Victoria sighed like he was deeply frustrated and said, “You cannot run from this for your whole life.”

Mexico’s voice was quiet as he closed his eyes and said, “Please leave me alone. I need to think.” He knew he was just pleading for time, but it was all that he could do. Victoria said, “Very well.”

The sound of retreating footsteps brought him some peace, though he knew it was temporary. He wished that the ache in his head would fade enough so that he could think clearly. If they could be alone, he might be able to express his feelings to Guerrero, but his mind was blank when he tried to think of what to say. He pressed his palm firmly against his forehead, trying to force himself to focus. It hurt far more than he expected it to. He had forgotten that Spain had headbutted him exactly where he was pressing.

He thought he was alone until he heard a familiar voice, “Alejandro, we need to talk.” Mexico opened his eyes and saw Guerrero. He must have followed him out of the room. He was annoyingly persistent, as he always had been. Mexico knew he should have expected it.

 His heart beat skipped several beats as he realized that this conversation could not be avoided. Without a response from Mexico, the mortal launched into a prepared speech, “I know that I disappointed you, but I need you to give me a chance to explain myself. I need you to know that -” 

Mexico interrupted him by saying as firmly as he could, “I cannot do this right now, Vicente.” 

It was all that he could think of to say that would stop a deeper conversation. If Guerrero said anything too intimate, he felt like he would either cry or rage, and he could not handle either. 

He saw Guerrero’s face change immediately as he heard the tone of his voice, and he abandoned whatever he had planned to say. He asked, “Are you alright?” That damned question. 

Mexico replied, without thinking about what he was saying, “Why does everyone keep asking me that?” 

He still had no answer to it, especially not for Guerrero. The other man answered the rhetorical question, “Because you look like you’ve been through hell.” 

Mexico scoffed. It could not possibly be as bad as that, and he hoped his reaction would convince the man that it wasn’t. But, Guerrero’s eyes widened and he said, “And you’re bleeding.” 

Mexico assumed that the splinter wound had started to bleed again. He put his hand to his forehead to stop it, only to find that it was dry. Guerrero said shortly, “Not there.” 

Mexico then put his hand to his side, and it came away red. He said, “Damn it.” He had forgotten to check his bandages before he had left to meet Victoria. 

He glanced back up at Guerrero and was struck by how concerned he looked. The man had curled both of his hands into fists, like he was holding himself back from doing something with them. Guerrero spoke, and Mexico could tell his jaw was clenched from the stiffness of his voice, “May I touch you?”

The question puzzled him for a moment, and then he remembered that he had told Guerrero emphatically not to when they had last seen each other. The man looked like he was hardly holding back the urge to embrace him. 

The fact that Guerrero asked was enough to soften Mexico’s defenses. He answered, “You can.” 

With permission granted, Guerrero used one hand to gently brush Mexico’s hair off of his face. Mexico heard him draw in a sharp breath through his teeth before he said, “That looks painful.” Mexico guessed that he was looking at the bruise from where Spain had headbutted him.

He said, trying to remedy the worry, “I am fine. It’s just some blood.” Guerrero met his eyes and said, “You are not fine. Come with me.” 

He slipped his arm around Mexico’s waist and pulled him close enough to support him. Mexico was certain that he should push him away, and maintain his anger about the lie. But in the moment, it felt good to have someone hold him. There was something about being so close that felt achingly familiar, like his heart had been craving it.

He said, trying to make it clear that nothing was forgiven, “I am still mad at you.” It didn’t sound particularly convincing, and Guerrero responded, “Right now I don’t really care. You need rest. You can be mad at me tomorrow.” 

He let Guerrero lead him back into the room, and said, with a gentle firmness that Mexico had sincerely missed, “Sit down.” 

Without thinking, he obeyed. In the back of his mind he wondered where Victoria had gone, but he assumed that it was a choice to give him time alone with Guerrero. This conversation had been the point of this whole charade.

He wasn’t certain how he felt about any of this, but he could not muster any anger at his former general. Guerrero kneeled in front of him so that he could look him in the eyes while he was sitting. He asked, gently, “Ale, when was the last time you slept?” 

The question felt like it struck too close to home, and Mexico glanced away. He answered, feeling ashamed of himself for being too careless, “Two days ago. Before the battle.” 

Guerrero took one of his hands in his own. It was incredibly comforting, in a way that Mexico had not anticipated. He had not had someone touch him so gently in quite some time. He felt his eyes start to sting. He had not realized how deeply he had missed this. 

Guerrero asked, “What happened?” 

Mexico could not remember the battle well enough to tell him what happened. After the fall, his fight with Spain got terribly blurry. The memories of the battle were a jumble that it would take too much effort to untangle. 

But, he guessed that the question was about what had kept him awake all night. He tried to provide an answer, “Antonio said something and I had to make amends to someone I hurt. I couldn’t live with myself if I was like him.” 

It was hard to explain without saying what he did to Tlaxcala, but he did not want to admit to that yet, not to someone he held in such high regard. He hoped that Guerrero would understand. 

The mortal seized upon the name, “Antonio? Spain was there? Is he the one who did this?” 

To make it clear what he was talking about, Guerrero softly brushed the bruise on his forehead with his thumb. Mexico knew he could not avoid the question, so he answered with a wry smile, “You should see what I did to him.” 

Guerrero was immune to his attempt at humor. He said, “Right now I am looking at you, and you look like you were in trouble. How close did he get?” 

Mexico bit his lower lip, uncertain of how he should respond. In truth, he did not know how close it had been. Guerrero seemed to understand his silence, and his grip tightened on his hand. He said, with a dangerous edge of anger, “I cannot believe that anyone let him get that close to you.” 

Mexico finally decided that he needed to clarify how he ended up in battle. He said, “It isn’t anyone’s fault. I insisted that I wanted to fight. It was my fault, and I got unlucky.” 

Guerrero’s hand touched his cheek softly, and he felt his heart thundering. He had missed this touch so dearly. The mortal said, “Ale, my dearest, you always insist. You are too noble to let anyone fight in your place. But, you need to be protected. Did you have guards?” 

Mexico hadn’t even thought about it, though it had been normal when Guerrero was his commander. He shook his head. He could see the way that Guerrero’s expression darkened. He was angry, and Mexico knew it; he had seen that expression enough to know. 

Guerrero drew in a breath through his nose, like he was trying and failing to keep himself calm. He said, “That’s how this happened. I am going to kill him.” Mexico said, with an attempt at levity, “I tried to kill Tony. It’s difficult.” 

But, Guerrero was not amused and said, “Not him. I am going to kill Agustin. I promised you that if he hurt you, I would kill him.” 

Mexico remembered it clearly. He had never thought that it would come true in this way. Guerrero continued, “If something had happened, we could have lost you. And if that had happened…” 

He stopped himself before he finished the thought. His hand slipped off of Mexico’s and he curled it into a fist. He repeated, with his voice filled with righteous anger, “I will kill him.”  He was looking away like he could not stand to show how enraged he really was, and it spoke volumes. 

Mexico’s anger at him evaporated, because the display of concern was too sincere. He could feel the tears forming in his eyes from the days of stress and sleeplessness. 

He craved Guerrero’s touch, and with the man so close it was exquisitely painful. He could handle dreams of his general’s comfort. But, it was too hard to deny the affection when it was so close. He knew what his heart wanted.

He said, “Chente, please.” 

Guerrero looked up at him again, tenderly this time. Mexico extended his arms, hoping it was clear what he wanted. Guerrero immediately understood and pulled him into an embrace. He spoke softly in Mexico’s ear, “I’m here now. I will make this right. I promise you I will.” 

He caressed Mexico’s hair softly. Mexico let himself close his eyes and put his head against the man’s chest. It felt so familiar and comforting. It felt like home. He said, his voice almost shaking, “Why did you lie to me? I’ve missed you so much. Chente, you don’t know how alone I’ve been.” 

He held firmly onto the back of the man’s jacket with both hands. The physical presence was so comforting; it made it all real. Guerrero gently cradled his head against his chest and said, “I promise we will talk about that tomorrow. I’m so sorry. I should have never left you alone with these people. They don’t understand how important you are.” 

Mexico wished he could spend the rest of his night with his head against Guerrero’s chest. If only he could stay and sleep assured of the protection of his general. 

The same thought seemed to occur to Guerrero. He took Mexico’s face firmly between his hands and said, “Stay here. Take some rest, and we can discuss everything when you feel better.” 

Mexico wanted to accept the invitation with every fiber of his being. But, he thought of Santa Anna, and what the man may tell Iturbide if he did not return soon. It could put everything in danger if he stayed. Though he was not sure if Santa Anna even knew he had returned from Tlaxcala. It was possible that it would not matter, but he could not take the risk.

He swallowed his emotions and said, “I cannot stay. The commander will notice. I have to be back tonight.” Guerrero said, unwavering, “I cannot let you leave in this state.” 

Mexico shook his head. He was emotional and tired, but he was not incapable of riding. He said, “I will be fine. I can still ride.” To make his point, he stood up again. 

He realized a second too late that it was a mistake. His vision went black, and he felt his knees buckle. For a moment he felt himself falling, until arms caught him.

 Before his consciousness faded out he heard, “Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”