#battalion change of command

[mformarsala]

LOOK HOW FUCKING COOL THIS IS

[flashthescalesian-art]

ALSO ONE OF THE CLONE PRISONERS FREAKIN LOOKED LIKE MY BOY COMMANDER JAX MINUS HIS SCARS AND I AM SCREAMING.

If y’all remember how I usually draw Jax’s hair, you might know which clone prisoner I’m talking about. Don’t have a screenshot of him otherwise I’d just show you.

[varpusvaras]

Can you imagine how the clones' speech patterns change once they are out of Kamino? Not just the slang they use, but in general how they speak. At some point you can start to differ the different battalions based on their speech. This is even more notable when it comes to the Commanders or other clones who deal more closely with their generals. Rex is distraught when he realises that he sounds like a teenager. Cody just proceeds to sound even more like a wisened old Commander despite being the middle child. Fox sounds like a tired retail manager trying to calm down a Karen.

[ducksido]

I’ve been obsessed with child soldier!Yuu (kind of like Violet Evergarden) where they joined the army when they were young and battles and fighting and war is all they know - they were like this emotionless killing machine and nothing else - and have no idea how to be a normal kid so when they go to Twisted Wonderland they have no idea how to socialise (but since they are super obedient to authority, they make for the perfect slave for Crowley).

And Lilia figures out Yuu’s past and acts like a father to them and tries to heal their scars of being treated like a weapon and shows them how to actually live instead of survive.

I just love war veteran dad lilia and child soldier yuu who has no family and has never been given love before

Yuu wakes at 4:30 sharp.

They fold the blanket into a tight square, make their bed with military precision, and stand at attention in front of the mirror—expression flat, eyes dead, back straight.

Just like always.

Crowley had quickly learned they were the perfect servant. No backtalk. No disobedience. No complaints. The headmaster asked, and Yuu executed without hesitation—laundry, monster wrangling, even scrubbing magical blast residue from the walls after an alchemy mishap. He joked once that they were like a loyal little soldier.

Yuu didn’t laugh. They didn’t know how.

They were a soldier. Not a little. Not loyal. Just forged in battle. Sharpened into a blade.

And now? Here, in this world with smiling idiots and floating candles?

They had no mission. No commanding officer. No unit. Only orders.

They didn’t understand this place. Didn’t understand Grim, who was loud and warm. Didn’t understand Deuce, who fought for justice. Didn’t understand Ace, who smiled when angry.

They didn’t understand Lilia Vanrouge.

Lilia had been watching them.

That sharp, ancient gaze hidden behind giggles and fangs.

It was during PE that he figured it out. Yuu moved too perfectly. Not like a student dodging a spell—but like a soldier evading live bullets. Not flashy, not dramatic—efficient. Trained.

So after class, he pulled them aside.

“Where did you learn that?”

“Learn what, sir?” they asked, monotone.

“That… maneuver. The way you moved.”

Yuu tilted their head. “I was taught in the 103rd Recon Battalion, sir. Evasive maneuvering and counter-sniping are part of my standard protocol.”

Silence.

Lilia’s smile dropped. Just a little. And in that second, the playful fangs faded, and the ancient war general stirred.

“…How old were you?”

“Five. I was operational by six.” They blinked, like reciting from memory. “I was promoted at ten after surviving the siege of Oskirein. At eleven, I—”

“Enough.”

His voice was quiet. Final.

Yuu didn’t understand. He was an authority figure. Why stop them?

“…Sir?” they asked, more uncertain than usual.

Lilia looked at them—really looked at them. Not like Crowley did. Not like a useful tool. But like something breakable.

“You’re a child,” he said, voice trembling with an emotion they didn’t recognize. “You should never have held a weapon.”

From that day, everything changed.

Lilia started showing up. Not just for magic lessons or combat drills. He made them tea. Brought them sweet buns. Taught them lullabies. Once, he handed them a plush bat and said, “For your nightmares.”

Yuu held it awkwardly. “I don’t sleep enough to dream, sir.”

“Then I’ll keep it for you until you can.”

They didn’t know how to respond. No one ever saved anything for them before.

Weeks passed.

Grim noticed they flinched less. Ace smiled as Yuu now said “No” when ordered around. Deuce grinned when Yuu accepted a high five—awkwardly, stiffly—but accepted it.

And Lilia?

Lilia called them his little soldier—but never like Crowley did. He said it with pride, but never expectation. With love, but never demand.

He started tucking them in, brushing their hair, sitting beside them in silence when the screaming in their mind got too loud. Sometimes he sang an old lullaby in a language they didn’t know, until the tightness in their chest eased.

Once, Yuu whispered:

“…Do you think I’m still a weapon?”

Lilia looked at them with eyes full of eternity and heartbreak.

“No, little one,” he whispered. “You are a child. And now… you’re mine to protect.”

Bonus:

Crowley tried ordering Yuu to clean all the bathrooms one day. Yuu blinked. “I’m under General Vanrouge’s command now, sir. Please submit all orders through him.”

Crowley sputtered, “G-General?!”

Lilia smiled innocently from behind Yuu.

“Oh, did I forget to mention? I’ve adopted them.”

Yuu didn’t smile. But they stood just a little straighter.

And for once… not like a soldier.

But like a child with a father standing behind them.

[guiltygearwiki]

The crusades are a major part of Guilty Gear’s story, and yet I feel like we know next to nothing about them.

So what is everything we know about the crusades? Is there enough content to form a decently sized timeline of the events during the crusades?

It is kind of ironic that we know so little about the Crusades despite how important they are to the world of Guilty Gear. I did my best to put together a timeline for the crusades, followed by some fun facts about them:

2074: Justice destroyed Japan, which is what is considered the start of the Crusades. Very shortly after the destruction, Justice controls an army of Gears and declares war on humanity. 

The UN formed the Sacred Order of Holy Knights the same year.

2103: Sol saves Kliff from a Gear. While both are affiliated with the Holy Order, it is an event we know happens in the Crusades. Kliff was 6 years old at the time

2115: Kliff was made the Commander of the Holy Order, we know this was not long after he joined, but we do not have an exact time for when he joined.

2127: Testament joined the Holy order against Kliff’s wishes. We know they were adopted sometime before this but are never given a year.

2128: Testament dies. They are taken by some organization (it's not very clear which) and turned into a Gear.

21XX: During an unknown year, Kliff single handedly battles the Hydra in London, severing three of its heads and four of its limbs before the Order sealed it. The Hydra never died and simply stayed sealed outside of London until the events of Lightning the Argent.

2161-2162: Ky’s mother is Killed by Gear. (I did the math for this one.) He meets Kliff and insists on joining the fight. Kliff tells him to survive for five years and then he can join.

2167: Ky joins the Holy Order at the ripe age of 10.

2172: Kliff convinces Sol to join the Holy Order and he is placed under Ky’s command. Sol joined to gain more information on Gears. Sometime during this year Ky challenges Sol to a duel, which Ky loses. 

Sol earns the nickname “God of War” during this time

2173: The Battle of Rome occurs. It was considered one of the deadliest battles in all of the Crusades.

Ky’s battalion (if that is the correct word) originally was called in as support.

Weird timeline stuff happens here that I will go into more in fun facts.

There's some conflicting information on some bits of it between the Xrd Short Story and the CD Drama, but we know for a fact both Sol and Ky were involved in the battle at one point or another.

Later in 2173:  Sol steals the Fireseal and leaves the Holy Order. He defeats Ky who tried to stop him, and later talks to Kliff, who allows him to take the weapon, saying he was going to give it to him anyways.

Even later in 2173: Ky is promoted to commander of the Holy Order and given the Thunderseal. He was 16.

2175: Sol fights Justice, leading the rest of the Order able to seal her in a dimensional prison, ending the Crusades. The order is disbanded.

Important note: Kliff fought Justice multiple times. It can be assumed in many places in the timeline.

Now for some fun facts!

It was tradition for Holy Order soldiers to carve words that are important into their belts. The ones we see are “Hope”, “Free”, and “Sacrifice.”

Ghost stories were apparently told by soldiers.

The Fireseal and The Thunderseal specifically were treasured by the Order and held in its HQ.

The HQ was in Paris.

 Saint George the Dragon Slayer was popular with Order soldiers. He was a real saint!. (LTA)

Order soldiers wore pendants used for communication and information storage. (LTA)

Members of the Holy Order were divided into platoons based on ability. (LTA)

The Magic Support Platoon we know was for recovery and Defense

Playable characters who were in the Holy Order include: Sol, Ky, Leo, Kliff, and Testament.

Soldiers could claim pensions after the war. (LTA)

Ky originally died at the Battle of Rome before I-No and Asuka changed the timeline

I-No was at the battle of Rome but Key doesn't remember. It's unknown if Sol does.

This lead to a timeline where Sol lead the Holy Order

If you want to read any of the stories outside of the games that elaborate on the Crusades they can be found here:

Guilty Gear XX Drama CD Red Script

Guilty Gear XX Drama CD Black Script

Guilty Gear Xrd Special Episode: A Brief Respite

Guilty Gear Series Story Digest Comics

Unfortunately… Guilty Gear Xtra

-Dunium

[kitcat22]

Ok i’ve read a few codywan fics of sad desert hermit obi wan going back in time and trying to fix things but what i really wanna read is longish haired teenage obi wan going to the future where all his friends are dead and supposedly he is too.

Obi wan only lasts a few weeks before he ends up imprisoned by inquisitors, because good as he is, obi wan hasn’t a clue whats going on.

The food is rubbish and the torture isn’t great but at least he gets to meet a nice torguta lady during his escape.

Is ahsoka freaked out at having her grandmaster alive and now younger than her? Yes, yes she is but she ends up taking him back to the rebel base where a lot of very surprised people are waiting including one completely devastated commander Cody.

Having Obi wan back would be a dream come true for him normally but there is a difference between adult Obi wan who Cody was completely in love with and teenage Obi Wan who is forced to live with the knowledge that he is the survivor of a genocide.

Cody is almost happy that his Obi Wan is dead because he doesn’t think he could ever have looked him in the eye again.

Obviously nothing can happen between the two of them since Obi wan is like 16 and Cody is physically and mentally like 60 but theres a lot of guilt and regret on Cody’s part and a lot of confused pining on Obi Wan’s.

He has no clue why his romantic interests have changed from passionate blonde teenage girl to a depressed elderly man who tries to avoid him while also maintaining strangely long eye contact and honestly he’s not sure he wants to know.

There is a lot of guilt involved in trying to send Obi Wan back in time. Because they have to do it. Obi Wan Kenobi is an important historical figure and taking him out of the time stream could have disastrous consequences. They hope that he can change the past for the better, knowing what he knows now but there is a chance he won’t remember any of it and they are sending him back in time just for his own battalion to murder him.

Meanwhile Sad Desert Hermit Obi wan is getting really weird vibes from the force.

[komsomolka]

In Donetsk and Lugansk, the people took to the streets and began seizing government buildings in opposition to the coup. What happened in Eastern Ukraine was “the mirror image of what took place in Kiev” a few months earlier, when armed protesters on Maidan seized control over government buildings and demanded changes to the constitution (Milne, 2014). However, the framing by the Western political-media establishment was diametrically opposite. The armed protesters at Maidan were hailed as freedom fighters and the government was condemned for the crackdown. In Eastern Ukraine, the uprising was denounced by the West as a Russian hybrid war, a framing that deprived the Eastern Ukrainians of agency. Subsequently, the US supported Kiev’s “anti-terrorist operation” launched against its own population. Western states also undermine the agency of Donbas by referring to the rebels as “pro-Russian” fighters as opposed to “anti-Maidan” fighters. By comparison, Yugoslav republics were not referred to as “pro-Western secessionists” as it would place the West at the centre of the conflict. Donetsk and Lugansk organised referendums in May 2014 to establish republics, although Moscow did not recognise the referendums and also refrained from sending its regular military into the breakaway republics.

Kiev sent military units to Donbas that were often reluctant to use force against the locals, and desertions became common. Similarly, following the referendum in Crimea, approximately 75 per cent of Ukraine’s naval personnel defected to Russia or quit the Ukrainian navy (Greer & Shtekel, 2020). Consequently, the new authorities in Kiev relied on fascist militias that further empowered the ethno-nationalists. The Right Sector was integrated into the national guard, and the neo-Nazi Azov battalion represent a minority of Ukrainians, although their central role in the coup and against Donbas have given them an outsized political influence. As both President Poroshenko and President Zelensky, their ability to engage with Donbas and Russia was impeded by the threat of far-right groups marching on Kiev. In November 2021, the former leader of Right Sector, Dmytro Yarosh, was appointed as an advisor to the Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces of Ukraine.

Russophobia: Propaganda in International Politics by Glenn Diesen.

[isa-beenme]

Whispers of Secrets and Starlight

Welcome to part 2 of Whispers of Secrets and Starlight 🥳🥳🥳

I was praying for times I could use this song

Btw if anyone is wondering, idk why but this is what I imagine the daily outfits our future high lady wears: all of this or this other too, and a lot of other kpop outfits actually, the concepts are soooo good

Also... my bff who lives with me helped me write the smut, I'm too shy to do everything by myself so if you feel the writing is a bit off it probably wasn't just me in the document lol

Warnings: Use of Y/N, ACOTAR rewrite, female main character, Tamlin knows how to do politics 😔, 10% book following and it's gonna get worse, mentions of SA, PTSD, smut so... beware minors, mentions of war, Rhysand 🤤

Whispers of Secrets and Starlight - Masterlist

Chapter 9: Heart On The Window

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its glow casting flickering golden light across the maps and reports strewn across your desk. A cup of untouched tea sat beside them, long gone cold. You didn’t even notice when Rhysand stepped into your study until his voice curled around you.

"You’re working too hard, darling."

Your lips twitched, but you didn’t look up from the report in your hands. "Pot, meet kettle."

Rhysand let out a soft huff of laughter as he crossed the room. The moment he reached you, he leaned against your desk, one hand braced beside your papers, the other offering a sealed letter.

Your brows rose as you took it. "What’s this?"

"News from Cassian."

That caught your full attention.

You set the report down and broke the seal, eyes scanning the contents. Your heart thrummed as you read. Rhys watched you carefully, his own report still in hand.

"The first female Illyrian battalion," you murmured. "That’s… that’s never been done before."

"One of the many changes I’ve been making these past centuries," Rhysand said softly.

You lifted your gaze to his, and for a moment, all you could do was look at him. This High Lord who had spent centuries fighting against deep-seated traditions, against Illyrian warlords who would rather see their females clipped than ever give them a sword — or freedom. A male who had been changing Prythian long before anyone had even noticed.

"You’re making history," you said, voice quiet.

A shadow of a smile ghosted over his lips. "We’re making history. They only accepted after Cassian told them a female would be commanding their moves. You."

The words settled deep in your chest but before you could say more, you glanced down at the rest of the letter. Cassian had intensified the training of the Illyrians, preparing them for war, making sure they were ready for what was to come.

"Az is extending his spy network, I don't know if you already read his report today" you murmured. "He's been trying to find more information about Hybern’s allies. Do we know if they’ve been securing more partnerships in the last few years?"

Rhysand’s jaw tightened. "Not officially. But Amren believes they will be showing themselves soon."

You sighed, setting the letter down. "Lucien said Tamlin has a map of the Cauldron’s pieces," you reminded him. "And now we know that the temples marked on it have been robbed recently. Hybern is gathering the pieces."

"I know, Amren told me you both figured it out two days ago."

You swallowed, looking back at him. "She thinks we won’t have to worry, though. The temple in our territory is being heavily guarded now, and I warned Helion. I mean, you technically warned Helion. The Day Court is prepared in case they are attacked too."

Rhysand nodded. "That’s the one thing keeping her from completely losing her mind over this. She's been surprisingly calm, judging the situation."

A smirk tugged at your lips. "And you?"

He hummed. "I suppose it helps me sleep at night."

"You don’t sleep."

A slow, wicked smile curved his mouth. "Maybe I would, if someone warmed my bed more often."

Your breath caught. But before he could push his advantage, you rolled your eyes and turned back to the reports.

"We still don’t know how far Tamlin is willing to go with all this," you said, attempting to steer the conversation back on track.

Rhysand let out a mocking sigh, but he nodded. "Lucien’s been doing what he can from within," he said, "but Tamlin is wary of him. He won’t let him get close to the real plans."

Your nails tapped against the desk. "If Lucien can’t get close enough, then we need another plan."

Rhysand leaned in, his voice a velvet promise. "Don’t worry, darling. I already have one."

You narrowed your eyes. "Do I even want to know?"

His grin was pure trouble. "You’ll find out soon enough if we need to use it. If not, I won't stress you with it."

You sighed. "You're impossible."

"And yet, you adore me." You did. Gods help you, you did.

Rhysand leaned back on the desk, rolling his shoulders, exhaustion from war planning still evident in the sharp lines of his face. But when he looked at you, his violet eyes softened, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"And how is Feyre's reading coming along?" he asked, the shift in topic intentional. He knew you needed a break from discussing battle strategies, and nothing made you more at peace than talking about your cousin’s progress.

You smiled, stepping closer to him. “She’s doing so well. You’d be proud of her.” A hint of pride laced your voice as you continued. “She’s becoming more confident, and even asks me to sit with her while she reads out loud. She still struggles sometimes, but she doesn’t hesitate to ask for help anymore. And she already thanked the priestess who's been guiding her more times than Iris can tell her it's not needed.”

Rhys hummed in satisfaction. “She also reached out to me, asking to restart her physical training.”

Your brows lifted in surprise. “Really?”

He nodded, reaching for your hand, tracing lazy circles against your palm. “I set up one of our trainers to work with her. She’s determined.”

You exhaled, warmth filling your chest. “That’s all I ever wanted for her, so she will feel strong again.”

Rhysand tugged you forward, his arms wrapping around your waist as you instinctively circled yours around his neck. He let out a pleased sigh, nuzzling your temple.

“You’re happy she’s trusting you,” you whispered.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. “Of course, I am. I need your family to like me, don’t I? Especially if we pretend to get married.”

The way he said 'pretend’ made your stomach flutter. Your cheeks burned as you averted your gaze, and Rhys, ever the predator, caught the reaction immediately.

A slow, wicked grin spread across his face. “What’s that look for?” You tried to pull away, but his grip tightened just enough to keep you there. His voice was softer this time, almost unsure. “Do you want to marry me?”

Your breath hitched. “Rhys.”

“I mean it,” he murmured. “Do you want to officially be my High Lady one day?”

You stared at him, at the sincerity in his expression, at the slight vulnerability peeking through his usual confidence. Your heart clenched, and you wondered how long he’d been holding onto that question, too afraid to ask.

“Of course, you insane male,” you whispered, brushing your lips against his. “It’s been a process to love you, but every day, I feel like I’m falling even more.”

Rhys let out a shaky breath before sealing his lips over yours. The kiss was slow, reverent as if he were committing this moment to memory. But then his hands skimmed down your back, tugging at the hem of your shirt.

You pulled away just enough to chuckle. “See? This is exactly why I asked for separate studies.” But you didn't made a move to stop him from taking your shirt off.

Rhys grinned, voice husky. “Are you complaining?”

You leaned in, lips grazing his ear. “If you prove to me that you’re my good boy,” you purred, “I might be willing to warm your bed for a while.”

A growl rumbled in his chest as he swiftly lifted you onto the desk, pushing aside the endless war papers without a second thought. “Oh, darling,” he murmured, kissing down your throat, hands already roaming. “You’ll never have to ask twice.”

And Mother above, did he prove himself.

War papers sprawled across the polished wooden surface, their edges curling slightly as if mocking the chaos they represented. Yet, amidst the tension of impending battles and political strife, you and Rhysand found yourselves locked in a different kind of conflict, one of desire, power, and unspoken promises.

Rhysand stood tall, his broad shoulders filling the space as he leaned over you, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that was both tender and voracious. It was a kiss that spoke of reverence, of a man committing every detail of the moment to memory. But as his hands slid down your back, his fingers catching on the top that holds your breasts, the tenderness gave way to something wilder. He tugged the fabric upward, a silent demand that left no room for misinterpretation.

You knew Rhysand’s tendencies, his inability to keep his hands — or his lips — to himself when you were near. It was a game you both have been playing for a while, a dance of power and submission that neither was willing to abandon.

A primal growl rumbled in his chest, deep and resonant. With deliberate slowness, Rhysand dipped his head, his mouth closing over your breast. His tongue swirled lazily, a hungry exploration that made you arch into him, his breath hitching in your chest. His hands gripped your hips, holding you steady as he suckled, his teeth scratching tour skin in a way that only heightened the pleasure. It was a sensation that was both tender and rough, a perfect blend of his duality, the gentle lover and the dominant High Lord.

“Rhys,” you gasped, fingers tangling in his hair as you tilted your head back, exposing your neck to his roaming lips. His name was a plea, a surrender to the sensations overwhelming you.

He hummed against your skin, a vibration that sent shivers down your spine, before pulling away just enough to meet your gaze. His eyes were dark with desire, his pupils dilated as he drank in the sight of you. “You taste like heaven everytime I try you again,” he murmured, his voice thick with longing.

But he wasn’t done yet.

With a wicked grin, he slid lower, his lips and tongue mapping every inch of you again, committing it to memory. His breath was hot and eager as he buried his face between your thighs, his hands spreading your legs wider to grant him better access. You were wet, your arousal evident, and he wasted no time in devouring you with a ferocity that left you trembling and gasping for breath.

His tongue was relentless, tracing patterns that made you squirm and moan. He lapped at you eagerly, his teeth scratching your sensitive skin in a way that only added to the pleasure. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you open as he explored every inch of you again, his mouth a tempest of sensation.

“Rhysand,” you cried out, voice breaking as your climax built, threatening to consume you. Your fingers dug into the desk, nails scraping against the wood as you fought to anchor herself to reality. The wood almost cracked under the force you were holding it.

He growled against you, a sound of satisfaction and possession, before pulling away just enough to look up at your eyes. His lips were glistening, your essence coating them, and the sight was enough to send a fresh wave of desire crashing over you. “Not yet,” he murmured, his voice a command. “I’m not done with you.”

You shivered at his words, your body aching for release, but you nodded, trusting him implicitly. This was your dance, after all, a delicate balance of power and surrender.

With a smirk, he rose to his knees, his eyes never leaving yours as he unbuckled his belt. His pants fell to the floor, revealing his erection, thick and throbbing, a testament to his desire for you. He didn’t rush, taking his time to savor the moment, to let your anticipation build.

“You’re mine,” he stated, his voice a low rumble that sent a thrill through you. It wasn’t a question, but a declaration, a reminder of the rummaging bond between you.

“Yours,” you breathed, voice soft but unwavering. You were his, and in that moment, you wanted nothing more than to be claimed by him again.

He leaned over you, his hands gripping the edge of the desk as he positioned himself at your entrance. His eyes locked with yours, he thrust forward, filling you in one slow, deliberate motion. You gasped, nails digging into the wood as you adjusted to his size, your body welcoming him with a tightness that made him groan.

“So fucking perfect,” he muttered, his voice strained as he began to move, his hips snapping in a rhythm that was both urgent and controlled. The desk creaked beneath you, the papers long forgotten as you become lost in the moment.

Your legs wrapped around his waist, your thighs rasping on his jacked as you met his thrusts, your body moving in sync with his. The power exchange was palpable, his dominance evident in every stroke, yet you were no passive participant. You were his equal, your desire matching his own as you surrendered to the pleasure he wrought.

“Harder,” you asked — never demanded, your voice breathless as you tilted your hips, seeking deeper penetration. You wanted nothing more than to carve your nails in his back, hold him closer to you, but you held yourself back. In the future, you promised yourself.

He obliged, his thrusts becoming more forceful, the desk groaning under the pressure of your passion. His hands gripped your hips, bruising in their intensity, as he pounded into you, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

“You like that, don’t you?” he growled, his lips brushing your ear as he nipped at your lobe. “My good girl, taking my cock like you were made for it.”

“Yes,” you moaned, your head falling back as you surrendered to the pleasure. “Because I was made for you, Rhys. Always for you.”

His thrusts quickened, his control slipping as he neared the edge. “Come for me,” he commanded, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Let me feel you fall apart around me.”

Your climax hit you like a wave, crashing over you with an intensity that left you breathless. You cried out, your walls clenching around him as you shattered, body trembling with the force of your release.

He followed moments later, his growl of satisfaction filling the room as he spilled himself deep within you. His body stilled, his forehead resting against yours as you both struggled to catch your breath.

For a long moment, you remained like that, hearts pounding in unison, the only sound the crackling of the fire. Then, with a soft chuckle, Rhysand pulled back, his lips brushing yours in a tender kiss.

“I believe I’ve proven myself,” he murmured, his voice laced with satisfaction.

You smiled, your fingers tracing the lines of his face as you leaned into him. “You have,” you agreed, tone playful. “Though I suppose I’ll have to keep testing you, just to be sure.”

He grinned, a wicked glint in his eyes. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, darling.”

And as you leaned into each other, the world outside — with its wars and worries — faded into insignificance. In that moment, there was only you, your desire, and the unspoken promise of more to come.

He took himself out of your warmth and winnowed both of you to his bathroom, where the bath started to fill itself under his silent command.

☆

The warm water calmed over both of you as steam curled around the marble walls. Rhys sat between your legs, his back resting against your chest, his wings slightly spread as he let you run a washcloth gently over his shoulders. His head leaned back against your collarbone, eyes closed, breathing deep.

You knew he wasn’t just relaxing, he was listening. Feeling. Memorizing every little touch, every caress, every drop of water sliding between you both. Your fingers traced soft circles on his arms before dipping lower, washing away the sweat and heat from earlier. You were always cautious during those moments, always careful with what you said and did.

Because you knew. You knew how Amarantha had broken him in ways no one else could see. How she had forced him into submission, twisted pleasure into something sickening. How, even now, the wrong words — hell, sometimes even the wrong tone — could bring back the shadows of those fifty years under her claws.

He never hid anything from you. When you started experimenting with your bodies, he had laid his boundaries out, not because he was ashamed or scared, but because he trusted you. And so you were careful every time. Not cautious in a way that made him feel fragile, but careful in a way that let him know he was safe.

Your hands drifted up to his hair, gently massaging his scalp. “You were perfect,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to his temple.

His lips quirked up. “I always am.”

You let out a soft laugh, rubbing circles into his chest. “I mean it.”

His breath hitched slightly, as if he hadn’t expected the words. As if, even after all this time, he still didn’t know what to do with your gentle appreciation for all of his effort into your pleasure.

So you continued, voice low, steady. “You’re always so good to me, Rhys. Always so careful, even when you don’t have to be.”

One of his hands came up to cover yours, gripping it tightly against his chest. Your other hand dipped into the water, trailing down his spine. No scratches. No harsh touches. Just warmth. Just you.

When you reached for the soap, Rhys shifted slightly, making room as you lathered it between your hands and ran it along his skin. But when you started to reach for his neck, he stilled. You knew why.

There had been a time — just a few months ago — when he would scrub his own skin raw after being with Amarantha. When he had tried to erase every last trace of her, even if it meant bruising himself in the process. And so now, every time you bathed together, you made sure to leave your scent on him somehow. To remind him it was you touching him. Only you. For the rest of your lives, if he wanted.

So instead of washing the soap away completely, you leaned down, kissing the spot down his ear. Your scent lingered there, mixing with his own.

“You're mine,” you whispered. Not as a claim. But as a reassurance.

Rhys exhaled, tension melting from his body as he turned in your arms, cupping your face with wet hands.

His forehead pressed against yours. “Yours,” he murmured back.

He kissed you then, slow, deep, and reverent. As if you were something sacred. And when he pulled you tighter against him, when his wings curled protectively around your back, you knew this wasn’t just about washing away the past.

This was about building something new. Something better. Something that could be yours.

As the bathwater cooled and the steam in the room began to fade, Rhys pressed one last lingering kiss to your shoulder before exhaling a slow, steady breath.

You both moved in unspoken sync, toweling off, dressing in soft nightclothes, the weight of the day and the amount of hours laying down war plans slowly pressing down on your limbs. But just as you turned to head for your own chambers, Rhys caught your wrist.

“Stay with me tonight,” he murmured.

You blinked up at him, searching his face. He had been the one to ask for separate rooms in the first place, not because he didn’t want you near, but because of his nightmares. He hadn’t wanted to wake you up in the middle of the night — even if sometimes he couldn't control his emotions from slipping through the bond —, hadn’t wanted to steal any of your attention away from Feyre when she was still adjusting to Velaris, to being free from Tamlin, to her new life.

You swallowed, brushing your thumb over the back of his hand. “Are you sure?”

Rhys hesitated. Just for a moment. Then he nodded. “The nightmares haven’t really stopped,” he admitted, voice quiet. “But…” His fingers tightened slightly around yours. “When you’re with me, I—” He exhaled, running a hand through his damp hair. “I always feel calmer. And sometimes when I wake up in the middle of the night, all I want is to know that you’re here. That you’re safe. That you’re with me.”

Your chest ached at the raw honesty in his voice. So you stepped closer, reaching up to cradle his jaw in your hands. “Of course, Rhys,” you whispered. “I’ll always be with you.”

Something flickered in his eyes, something deep and reverent and yours. He kissed you, soft and slow, before taking your hand and leading you to his bed. And as you curled up together beneath the covers, as his arms wrapped securely around you, as he buried his face against your neck and breathed you in, you knew. Tonight, if the nightmares came, he wouldn’t have to face them alone.

☆

The next morning, you made your way to Feyre’s room, knocking lightly before stepping inside. She was already seated at her desk, a broad smile lighting up her face as she eagerly gestured for you to come closer.

“Look at this,” she said, practically buzzing with excitement. She slid a sheet of parchment across the desk, her calligraphy significantly neater than it had been before. “It’s getting better, right?”

You picked up the paper, tilting your head as you examined her careful strokes. The improvement was obvious, her letters were more even, her spacing more consistent. You looked back at her and grinned. “It’s amazing, Feyre. I’m so proud of you.”

A pleased blush dusted her cheeks. “Thanks. I actually enjoy it now, learning how to read and write. And not just that, I'm getting better at learning how to use my fae senses, how to listen to my instincts, to my body. It feels… good.”

Your chest swelled with pride. She had come so far from the girl who had once flinched at every single loud sound or every bright light. Now, she was embracing it. Embracing herself.

Before you could say more, a knock sounded at the door. A servant entered, holding out a sealed letter. “A letter from the Spring Court,” they said, before bowing and leaving.

Feyre turned the letter over in her hands, fingers running over the seal. “It’s from Lucien,” she murmured before breaking the seal and making an effort to read the first words. You couldn't contain your smile seeing her focused face. “You read it. It’s about the war, you’ll understand it better.”

You nodded, unfolding the delicate parchment that smelled too much like flowers. Lucien’s handwriting was precise but rushed, as if he’d been careful yet eager to write this.

Things are progressing. One of the warlords — curiously one of Beron’s youngest sons — has been particularly talkative, and I’ve managed to pry a lot of information out of him — he also let slip that Beron has been called to participate in the planning but didn't agree to it (yet). He’s been boasting about Tamlin’s plans to allow Hybern’s forces to use the Spring Court as a staging ground. It’s worse than we thought. Hybern isn’t just moving forces into Spring. They’re planning to use it as a funnel to invade Summer and Autumn next — if Beron doesn't agree. But here’s the interesting part: Tamlin is still keeping secrets from Hybern. He’s hesitant about giving them full access to the wards through the Wall, and I think I can use that. I’ve been planting doubt, making it seem like Hybern might betray him. He’s starting to trust me again, which means I’m getting closer to seeing what else he’s hiding.

Your grip on the letter tightened. Tamlin. That spineless, arrogant coward. Even after everything, he was still helping Hybern. You kept reading.

We’ve also been feeding him false information about the Night Court’s movements. He thinks they have mapped out a move to retrieve you from Night, and he’s been working with Hybern to prepare an extraction plan. But the map he has is the one Azriel altered. When the time comes, they’ll be walking straight into their own ambush. If this works, we’ll cripple their forces before the war even begins.

A sharp smile tugged at your lips. Good. Everything was going according to the plan.You were about to hand the letter back to Feyre when you caught the last few lines.

Tell your cousin I hope she’s doing well. I know this must be difficult for her, but she’s strong. She always has been. And I miss our talks. I miss you. When I come back I'll teach you how to make that tea we were talking about last week. Yours truly, Lucien V.

Your brows lifted slightly as you glanced at Feyre, who was trying very hard to pretend she wasn’t eagerly waiting to hear the contents of the letter.

You cleared your throat, folding the parchment. “The war news is good. Lucien’s getting Tamlin to trust him again, and they’re feeding him false plans to lure Hybern’s forces into a trap.”

Feyre exhaled in relief. “That’s great.”

You hesitated, watching her carefully. “And… Lucien wrote something else. Something personal to you. I'm sorry that I glanced at it for too long.”

Feyre’s face immediately turned red. “Oh?”

“He misses you.” You smirked, handing her the letter. “Wanna talk about it?”

She swallowed, fingers tightening on the parchment as she read his words. Then she sighed, rubbing a hand over her face.

“My feelings for Lucien are… complicated,” she admitted. “I’m not certain about anything, but I think I like him. A lot.” She bit her lip, eyes flicking down to the letter again. “He’s been really sweet. And he's been so patient with me. He never pushes, never expects anything. Never make fun of the words I get wrong or my bad calligraphy. And never complains about how much time it takes me to answer his letters when his comes in less than a few hours. He just… listens. He makes me feel safe.”

Your heart warmed at her confession. “I’m happy for you,” you said softly. Then, with a mock-serious expression, you added, “But if he ever says or does anything to hurt you, I will personally send him to the same hell I’m sending Ianthe and Tamlin to.”

Feyre snorted, shaking her head. “Duly noted. I'll tell him that in the next letter. And for the first time in a long time, you saw hope glimmer in her eyes. And felt it growing in your heart.

Taglist: @rcarbo1 @raisam @itsinherited @romantic1stories @nebarious @mystirica-18 @willowpains @xelladarlingx @lucilia9teen @lifetobeareader @hjgdhghoe @carmenadkins78 @ireadsstuff @oiolabomdia

[tesalicious2]

Command Clone Currency

The clones are unpaid and therefore broke. They can’t really pay each other to do things since they have no money so they go for a new currency: favors

Now, the CTs don’t really do it the same as the Commanders because they have to be specific. They can’t return a favor between battalions quickly, due to fighting/locations/schedule. They’re at the whim of the war and pick and choose their repayment time.

The Comanders are different. They trade and barter like crazy. It’s favors with a few cases of alcohol. They can trade favors they are owed to others all the time, so anyone can cash it. They can pull the strings to get their payment quick.

For example, Cody needed a save from a small squad. He knew Delta was on planet doing some mission and he needed a detour but he had no connection or favor. However, Fox (for some reason) did. Cody offered a case of spotchka and a favor Monnk owed in return for having Delta do the detour. Delta owed fox one less favor, Cody owed no favors (which is the best outcome, since Fox WILL cash it) and Fox got something on Monnk and free (very expensive) spotchka.

Few CTs knew they did it this way, and the CT captains such as Rex and Keeli had to quickly adapt to this way of thinking. Rex made the mistake of owing Bacara before anyone told him. Keeli was lucky enough to meet the SpecOps CC Blackout, who clued him in on the difference but left him high and dry when it came to implementing his knowledge. (Keeli ended up owing Blackout two mini guns for his ‘friendly advice’)

Though, when times are tough and there is little time to barter, it is common to put off the payment until after the act is completed. Though many hate doing this as the trading can become unfair. What often happens is the party in need already has a deal prepared and states their need and their payment, it is hardly ever contested (however the helper may tack on another fee which is accepted or denied).

For example, Doom needed backup from Jet’s flame troopers. He quickly called, stated his need, and his payment of a case of charges. Jet had found the payment (though correct in price, unpractical for his squad) and changed it to half a case of fuel (easier for Doom to get a hold of and just as useful as charges to a Demolition team). Doom accepted the terms and Jet’s squad arrived right on time.

Though the bartering is mostly physical, many deal in the intangible. Perfect examples are all of the Coruscant Guard and the Special Operations teams. These are the only two groups who has everyone (including CT shinies) in on this system. They have the least to offer when it comes to normal ops, after all what GAR commander needs to know where a random Senator is going to be at what time or who slept with who. However, this trading info is perfect for the Guard who constantly works with/against (yay embezzlement and blackmail) these same Senators and for the SpecOps who need to know political climates and interpersonal relationships for recon and assassinations.

Most trading goes on between those two, and their prices are often higher since the missions are higher stake. Often Commando Squads are up for bids (who doesn’t want a four man 100% mission completion rate squad in their pocket), blackmail on natborn officers, republic secrets, senators schedules, crime syndicates favor and areas of interest, etc.

For the Guard, their trading goes further. They work with crime syndicates to keep it off the streets while keeping profit up. Those who do not work with them, go down. They’ve gain control of the lower 2000 levels through this and those who do not conform are forced to by the Guard or the citizens of the lower levels who don’t want to deal with the Guard, (peer pressure and bullying at its finest.)

The commanders learned this from watching the Cuy’val Dar, who would often trade on Kamino. The Alphas picked it up and used it but the CCs truly made it valuable beyond belief. The trainers traded for free shifts and booze, the CCs traded for mission successes and heavy artillery.

Many CTs attempt to learn how this system works. However, as few know it’s different, even fewer see the affects; those that do, know well enough to leave it be.

Despite there being no real difference in intelligence between the CCs and CTs, witnessing the speed and weight of the trades, makes even the Jedi’s head spin.

The Padawans are one of the few outsiders to see it in action. They do not really like it, but many pick it up for lesser trades (help with this paper or answers for this homework). Cal Kestis surprisingly picks it up the best. He’s the youngest so very impressionable, eager to learn, his CC Commander Steel, is very good at it, and Steel is possibly the only one to teach their General’s Padawan.

Steel sees that Cal isn’t going to be on the field much (Steel agrees with this and makes sure he stays on the Venator). So, if Cal ever needs help, he knows how to get it. Steel has made him be present for several trades and even made him come up with theoretical ones. Cal becomes very good at it, but is unable to flex his skills much due to the other Padawans unable to match his speed or skill. They are several years older, see it as in-Jedi like or are bad at it (or their Captains are bad at it and can’t teach them well), their concept of value is off (Jedi don’t often put a price on things and those that do have a habit of underselling due to being nice), and/or they do not know the range of what can be traded.

It’s very personal, with different Commanders wanting different things. Knowing who wants what can often make the payment cheaper for the offering party.

For example, the Marines often need heavy snow gear and blankets. So, offering a box of heating blankets in return for a case of bacta and blaster packs. This is a much better deal than offering a case of mini guns for the bacta and blaster packs. In the second case, Bacara may say no the mini guns or want a case of something else along with the mini guns.

[qiu-yan]

slave morality

imagine for a moment that, during the sunshot campaign, there is this random wen soldier. he isn't super high up on the chain of command or anything; he's just some guy. our guy and his family are all cultivators, so most of his family members are wen soldiers as well. and they're in wen chao's battalion, so they play some role in the destruction of lotus pier.

the sunshot campaign happens. pretty much all of our guy's family members get killed by wei wuxian, as vengeance for the fall of lotus pier.

our guy, however, manages to survive the sunshot campaign. since he's a wen, he ends up in the jin labor camp at qiongqi pass. then, as described in canon, wen qing begs wei wuxian for help, and wei wuxian busts all of the wens at the qiongqi pass labor camp out, including our guy. wei wuxian's memory is quite bad, so he doesn't remember our dude as one of the wen soldiers from lotus pier; furthermore, due to the war's trauma, our guy's physical appearance has changed quite a bit, in no small part due to a major facial scar he obtained near the end of the war.

wei wuxian flees with the wemnants (lol), including our guy, to the burial mounds, where they try to make life. obviously, the only reason why any of the wemnants are still alive is because of wei wuxian; his necromancy is the only thing keeping the cultivation world from coming in and killing the remaining wen. including our guy.

at first, our guy is pretty miserable, because he's living with the guy who killed all of his immediate family members. wei wuxian killed our guy's father, his mother, and all of his brothers; wei wuxian also killed all of our guy's sons. wei wuxian then killed our guy's wife, who was the single most powerful cultivator in our guy's immediate orbit, by controlling the corpses of all of our guy's sons with his necromancy and compelling them to literally tear her apart, all while she was too horrified to raise a hand against the corpses of her own children. our guy only survived because, though the corpses of one of his sons stabbed him, he survived the stabbing and the subsequent slaughter by playing dead while his wife was getting torn to shreds mere paces away from him.

now, in the burial mounds, whenever our guy sees wei wuxian, he sees this imagery. it plays again and again in his head, seared into his vision. and yet, our guy also knows that he and his family did terrible things to wei wuxian's family as well, because they were there at lotus pier during the fall of yunmeng jiang.

so, logically, the hatred should go both ways. it would not be incorrect to say that our guy hates wei wuxian - the souls of his slaughtered wife and children should be screaming at him to avenge their deaths by killing wei wuxian, and in his nightmares our guy can hear them. and, from the point of view of our guy, it should also not be incorrect to say that wei wuxian hates the wen as well. by all means, the souls of all those slaughtered yunmeng jiang disciples should be screaming for vengeance, for the blood of the wen remnants, as well.

and yet, now here is none other than wei wuxian himself, risking his everything to protect the wen remnants.

our guy does not understand why wei wuxian is sticking his neck out for his former enemies now. why would wei wuxian leave everything he had to protect people with the surname "wen," when in the past he killed so many of them? when he has such a good reason to hate them? when all of the conventions surrounding honor and vengeance in their society dictate that he should be killing them instead?

so, one day, our guy just directly asks wei wuxian.

wei wuxian replies that he wants to break the cycle. wei wuxian says that, during the war, he committed atrocities in the name of vengeance. but in hindsight, even though he did those things in the name of avenging his loved ones, that didn't make what he did right. wei wuxian's actions introduced more suffering into the world. it's highly likely that, as a result of his actions, there's now a kid out there seething with the exact same rage wei wuxian once felt - because wei wuxian did to his family what the wens did to wei wuxian's family. if the kid then exacted vengeance, and the kid's victims then exacted their vengeance, wouldn't the cycle of violence just continue forever? wouldn't the world remain broken forever?

the way out, says wei wuxian, is through forgiveness. by recognizing that all lives have value and that harm is wrong, even if the target is someone who once harmed you. only then can society move forwards.

previously, our guy had been tormented by the fact that he was living with - and in fact relying on - the man who had slaughtered his entire family, when by all rights he should be trying to get revenge. now, though, our guy listens to this and thinks this is a pretty good philosophy. if this is the philosophy that can lead wei wuxian out of a life of anguish, then maybe it has merit.

so our guy adopts this line of thinking for himself as well. he does his best to live a life of radical forgiveness and mercy, to love all of life as inherently precious, even if said life has harmed him before. even if wei wuxian harmed our guy's loved ones in the past, it would still be wrong for our guy to try and enact revenge. even if wei wuxian murdered all of our guy's family members, that would still not make it morally right for our guy to now kill wei wuxian. even if, as he stared down at the splattered entrails of his slaughtered wife that day, our guy put his sword to his own neck only to find himself too cowardly to actually slit his throat, our guy in the present still should choose to forgive. to accept the past and move on. to let go of hatred, of vengeance, of the endless cycle of bloodshed and despair - and, in doing so, choose to live.

after adopting this outlook on life, our guy's mood rapidly improves, and he begins to feel at peace.

until, that is, one day he shares his philosophy with a friend - a fellow wen remnant - and the friend starts laughing at him.

the friend laughs because wei wuxian's mercy and our guy's mercy are nothing alike. wei wuxian is powerful. he does not have to be here in the burial mounds digging for radishes or whatever else with a bunch of escaped war prisoners. if wei wuxian wished so, he could easily kill all of them and then go crawling back to lotus pier, in which case jiang wanyin would probably let him back in. he would be fine.

therefore, wei wuxian "forgiving" these wens and choosing to coexist with them is fully a choice that wei wuxian has made freely. and it is only because wei wuxian has made this choice of his own free will, because he had the choice to act otherwise and refused to do so, that this decision of his is a positive statement about his moral character.

but the situation with our guys is entirely different. because our guy has no choice.

what would happen if our guy killed wei wuxian? first, our guy is incredibly weak right now, so wei wuxian would probably just kill him instead. but if he succeeded? then what? then the wens are defenseless, then they will be killed, either by the burial mounds or by the cultivation world. then our guy would die. our guy has exactly two choices: live with wei wuxian, or die.

our guy did not choose to forgive wei wuxian. our guy had no choice except to forgive wei wuxian. our guy was forced to accept the fact that he would never be able to avenge his family's deaths, and there was nothing he could do about it. in fact, to avenge the deaths of your immediate family by killing the person who murdered all of your family is an incredibly normal human desire. but our guy, with no possible way to achieve this, and with no choices except to live with and depend on the very person who killed his family, cannot act on this desire. the path to do so is unavailable to him.

so what does our guy do? he takes this ordinary human desire and relabels it as unethical. then he takes the forgiveness he was forced into, pretends he chose it of his own free will, and labels it as ethical. as just. as moral and righteous. in this way, he can hold the people with more power than him in contempt: sure, they might be able to achieve the vengeance they want, but in doing so they become unrighteous and cruel, so it's actually okay that our guy can't get vengeance! in fact, not pursuing vengeance and choosing forgiveness instead is the correct thing to do! our guy isn't powerless and impotent, he's actually morally righteous!

because you are weak, you have no choice except to "forgive," says the friend, and now you comfort yourself by pretending that you chose to do so freely. when you say that your choice to forgive is righteous, you are deluding yourself.

[vodika-vibes]

Hello Vodika!

I don't know if you accept requests, but I would like to make one request. Could I have a request regarding our Commanders (Cody, Wolffe, Fox, Bly, Ponds, Gree, Neyo and Bacara) where they will seen their S/O in 79's dressed in their battalion colors? I wonder how the boys will react to this. 😉😏

I greet you warmly and wish you all the best in your life! ❤

His Colors

Pairings: Commander Cody x Reader, Commander Wolffe x Reader, Commander Fox x Reader, Commander Bly x Reader, Commander Neyo x Reader

Word Count: 2041 in total

Warnings: Some suggestive comments and actions

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni @imabeautifulbutterfly

A/N: hi there! I do always accept requests, so thank you very much for yours! I made the choice to only pick five Commanders of the ones you listed since I felt like it was going to get repetitive (and I don't know Ponds or Gree all that well).

Commander Cody x Reader - Orange at 79s

Cody’s mouth goes dry when he sees her.

She’s clad in a tight dress. It's tight enough that Cody’s not actually sure how she’s breathing, let alone walking. 

And it’s orange.

The same shade of orange that decorates the front of his armor. 

She sees him, and a blinding smile crosses her face, as she waves at him. He watches her say something to her friend, and then she hurries over to him and flings herself into his arms, “Cody!”

“Cyare,” His voice is slightly hoarse, “You look—” He trails off, not having the right words to describe her look.

Her smile brightens, “You like?”

Cody’s hands settle, tightly, on her hips, pulling her flush against him. He’s still dressed in his armor and, for the first time, he wishes he had something a little more casual to wear.

Her smile, somehow, brightens even more. “Good. I bought it for you to enjoy.”

“Yeah?”

She leans in so her painted lips hover over his ear, “My lingerie matches.” She whispers.

Cody is pretty sure that her comment just broke something in his brain, because the only thing he can think of, now, is pale orange lingerie against her pretty skin.

“Why would you tell me that?” He asks, “Now I can’t think of anything else,”

She laughs, and Cody’s heart swells, “Good. Now I’m sure I’ll be able to keep your attention.”

Commander Wolffe x GN!Reader - Grey at the Park

You’re late. You’re very late. 

It’s not your fault that there was an accident right outside your work, and you were stuck waiting for the traffic police to clean up the mess before you could leave.

But you’re still late.

You didn’t even have time to change. You’re still wearing your boring, grey scrubs. You went and bought a very nice outfit for your date with Wolffe.

And now you aren’t even going to be able to wear it.

It’s enough to make you want to cry.

Hopefully, Wolffe will still be waiting for you. He said he would, but you were supposed to meet an hour ago.

You wouldn’t blame him in the slightest for leaving.

You hurry into the park, heading straight for the meeting point. The meeting point is the bench near the fountain, the bench where you met him for the first time.

And he’s still there. A datapad in his hand, his gaze locked on the small device. You slow from your quick walk as you approach him. He really is so handsome.

He must have a sixth sense devoted to noticing people staring at him, though, because he lifts his gaze and meets yours. You watch as his gaze flickers down to your outfit, and you feel a surge of self-consciousness. 

Scrubs aren’t designed to look flattering on anyone, after all.

You nervously smooth your hand down the front of your scrubs as he stands and walks over to you, an unusual smile on his handsome face. “I’m so sorry I’m late,” You start, “I didn’t even have time to go home and change. I bought an outfit that’s more attractive than—”

You stop when his hand presses against your cheek, and he leans in to catch your lips with his.

He breaks the kiss and you stare up at him in confusion. And then you realize that your scrubs are the same color as the grey on his armor.

“You look really good in my colors, cyar’ika.” He murmurs, “How about, instead of going to dinner, we go back to your place, and I show you just how good I think you look.”

And your face burns with flustered embarrassment.

You suppose he likes it.

Commander Fox x GN!Reader - Red in the Senate Archives

Fox sighs as he folds his arms as he scans the archives.

It’s empty. Of course, it is. No one comes to the archives unless they need something.

He impatiently drums his fingers on his vambrace, seriously considering leaving. He has work to do, he shouldn’t have to wait for them to show up to do their job.

“Sorry, sorry! I’m here!” Fox turns when he hears a familiar voice and the, even more, familiar sound of heavy boots on the tiled floor. He’s not able to smother his smile when they come to a stop in front of him.

“You’re late, little bird.” Fox chides, though there’s no heat in his voice as he looks them over. They ran here from the lifts, obviously, there’s sweat on their brow and their short hair is plastered to their forehead.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. The Chancellor needed me to deliver something to Senator Organa,” They gasp out, pressing their hand over their heart. 

“You need to work out more.”

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

They scowl at him, and then unzip their jacket and toss it over the back of a chair, “I’m in perfect health, thank you.”

Fox’s breath catches in his throat when he sees the shirt that they’re wearing. It’s silky, and sheer in some places. And the same color as his armor.

His little bird is wearing his colors.

Fox steps closer to them, absently tossing his gloves on the table as well, before he lightly catches the hem of the, surprisingly delicate, shirt. “What’s this?” He breathes out.

They turn so they’re facing Fox, “I bought a new shirt at lunchtime.” Their smile becomes playfully innocent, “Do you like it?”

Fox steps closer to them, his free hand sliding to the back of their neck, “Where’s the archivist?”

“Went home. It’s after closing time,” They reply.

Fox hums thoughtfully, and the hand that was lightly gripping the hem of their shirt moves to the topmost button, unfastening it. And then it slowly moves down the front of their shirt.

“Fox—”

“Well, since we’re alone,” Fox murmurs, as he leans in to hover his lips over theirs and slowly continues to unbutton their shirt, “How about you sing me a song, little bird?”

His comment is rewarded with a delighted giggle, and Fox leans in to seal his lips over theirs. 

His little bird wearing red is just not fair, really.

Commander Bly x F!Reader - Yellow at sunset

Bly’s not sure what he did to deserve the attention of someone as amazing as her. Especially since everyone and their cousin seems to think that he has a thing for his general.

Hell, even his girl thought that he had a thing for his general.

It had been a hassle trying to convince her differently. Luckily, General Secura had been more than happy to talk to her. And tell her all about her amazing girlfriend.

In any event, the conversation had been enough that she said yes when Bly asked her out. And the rest, as they say, is history.

Doesn’t mean that he understands why she wants him, of all men. But he’s not going to question it.

“Bly?”

Her voice, soft and musical, causes him to whip his head around, a broad smile already crossing his face.

And there she is.

Standing several feet away from him, her pretty hair pulled into a loose braid over one of her shoulders, her painted lips spread into a warm smile.

And clad in a dress in his colors.

That, and the way that the setting sun paints her in golds and oranges, Bly finds himself at a loss for words. 

Well, not really.

Only his words are all things like, “Marry me,” and “I love you”. Silly little comments like that.

Absently she plays with her braid, “Well, how do I look?” She asks shyly, “I know I don’t usually wear yellow—”

“You could wear a trash bag and still be the most stunning woman on any planet,” Bly says, once he manages to find his tongue.

She giggles, her hand coming up to cover her mouth.

If Bly ever has the displeasure of meeting the person who told her that her smile is weird-looking, he’s going to introduce them to his hunting knife. But he quickly shoves the thought to the side so he’s able to hurry to her side.

She smiles up at him as he stops in front of her, “You really like it?”

“I love it. You look amazing in my colors, you should wear them more often.” Bly lightly takes her hand in his and twirls her, pulling a startled laugh from her lips.

“Bly!”

“I just need to see from all angles,” He teases, as he twirls her again, the hem of her skirt flaring out, and twisting around her legs. “Yeah,” Bly breathes out, “You look perfect.”

“Thank you.”

He sets his free hand on her hip, “Dance with me?”

She averts her gaze, shyly. But there’s a smile on her lips as she nods. “As if you have to ask?”

Commander Neyo x F!Reader - Burgundy at the Winery

You smile politely at the sommelier as he approaches you. You offer him Neyo’s name and mention that he should already be here, and the older man smiles kindly, “He’s sitting in the back. Follow me.”

This isn’t your first date with Neyo, you’ve been dating for well over a year at this point, but he’s been deployed for the last six months, and this is your first proper date since the war ended.

As much as you’d like him to move in with you, Neyo refuses. Claiming that you’ve only been dating for six months and that more time is needed to determine if the pair of you are a good fit.

He’s not wrong, of course.

But he’s been your pick since the first day you met him. It’s disheartening to think that he doesn’t feel the same way.

You take a deep breath and smooth the velvety material of your burgundy dress. It’s new, and it might, very well, be the most expensive thing that you own. You had it specially made to match the burgundy of Neyo’s armor.

Hopefully, he’ll like it.

Hopefully, he still likes you.

You see Neyo before he sees you. He’s wearing a dark burgundy button-up shirt and some nice slacks. If you had to guess, the top two buttons probably aren’t buttoned, because that’s the kind of man he is.

He’s nursing a glass of wine.

You feel your heart clench. You really do love him more than life itself. You hope he knows that.

You can tell when Neyo sees you.

While your handsome Commander would never slouch, he was sitting casually. And the moment he sees you, he straightens in his seat. As you approach, you see his gaze dart down your body, and you see his severe mein fade into something more welcoming.

Well, welcoming for him, at least.

Neyo stands as you stop by his table, “Cyare,” He lightly takes your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles. Now that you’re closer you can see just how much he appreciates how you look right now. “You look beautiful,”

You smile at him, all warmth and affection, and you watch as something soft creeps into his gaze, “Well, I wasn’t trying to match with you, but we do make quite a striking pair, I think.”

He chuckles and brushes the backs of his fingers against your cheek, “Well, we certainly look better than some of the people here,” He agrees, and then his gaze sweeps down your body again, and something like hunger slides into his gaze, “I’ll just have to behave myself until we’re alone.”

You tilt your head, questioningly.

“Ah, cyar’ika,” Heat runs down your spine at the molten way he says his pet name for you, “You’re wearing my colors. You didn’t expect me to not react, did you?”

A small smile lifts your lips, “Well, that’s something to look forward to, isn’t it?”

Neyo’s grin is small and secretive, but he lightly releases your hand and pulls out the chair next to him, “Your chair, cyare.”

“Well, thank you, Commander.” You sink into the seat and have to muffle your giggle as he sweeps your hair off your neck to press a lingering kiss against your neck. Tonight is going to be fun.

[blackkatmagic]

For the ask game: Agen Kolar

“I expected you to be an earthbender,” Faie says, flat. “Since your personality is…like that. Sir.”

It is, Agen reflects, likely an improvement, given that Faie wouldn’t have said anything at all a few months ago. Agen taking over the battalion from Krell managed to change that much, at least.

The sir tacked to the end of whatever bit of insubordination Faie decides to test on him is always amusing, at least.

“Earthbenders being stubborn is a vast oversimplification of a large group of people who are all individuals,” he says, guiding a thin tendril of metal back into the heat with a gesture. “Whatever one’s personality is, there is no proof it is linked to the element they control.”

Faie gives him a flat and deeply unimpressed look from across the makeshift forge, though his gaze doesn’t leave the whirling curl of metal for long, flickers back almost immediately. “You’ve met Bly,” he says blandly, and then, like he can’t stop himself for even a moment longer, “You don’t bend like he does.”

Maybe that’s the reason for his attention. Or maybe it’s the secret, vicious joy the clones take in their own bending, their hunger for any information, any new skill they weren’t allowed or provided with on Kamino. Faie isn't any type of earthbender, but he’s been watching Agen's bending since the moment they were first deployed together, like Agen's metal holds secrets that will feed his firebending.

“The metal can move like water. Moving it like stone seems a waste,” Agen says, and draws the glowing strands back, sweeps them up and back down, reaches for his hammer. When he brings it down, the metal solidifying just before the ringing blow strikes, Faie's breath catches, and the sparks whirl in his dark eyes, a spray of molten light in the darkness.

The parts are meant to repair several of the walkers, but—

There will be pieces left over, when Agen is done. Enough to make a pair of vambraces, a few patches for worn places on Faie's armor. He may not accept them, but offering feels right, when he’s so caught by the act of forging.

“Hotter, if you can manage, Commander,” Agen says, and Faie breathes in, breathes out, and the fire leaps higher.

[songofsewerrats]

wrote a codywan fic and i am proud of it. started small, grew legs and now it’s a behemoth of a thing. i am biased but i think it’s pretty neat. it even comes with a playlist and shit

Someone, Evermore (Sunshine, Evermore)

Designation CC-2224, Marshal Commander Kote ‘Cody’, had always been a particularly good judge of character.

So, when he met his General for the 212th Attack Battalion, who immediately asked for his brother’s name not designation, he knew he would be a good General.

The General felt like a lake. Calm and painfully blue, but equally deep, and if Cody was one for dramatics, maybe a little mysterious.

However, Cody could also feel that the General was a liar. Intelligent and manipulative, caring but vicious, overt yet sly. He almost seemed like a politician. Cody reckoned he’d be pretty good at it.

Or, Cody is a Force sensitive empath and it changes the course of history.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62754613

80,478 words + completed

[gatheringbones]

[“Though in the light of hindsight much of the NLF training program must seem to be little more than a thoroughgoing civics course, there was one aspect of it that went beyond all the boundaries which Westerners customarily draw around the concept “education.” This was the institution of khiem thao, “criticism” or “self-criticism” (the words mean “to verify” and “to discuss”).

Used previously by the Chinese Communists and the Viet Minh, khiem thao was a “truth game” in which every member of the organization from the lowliest soldier to the highest cadre had to participate. In the “criticism sessions,” held on a regular basis as a part of the daily activities, each NLF member had to admit his own failings and given his honest opinion about the conduct of all the other members of the group. Within the sessions he did not have to fear punishment for his own errors other than the most devastating one of concerted group criticism. Only if he refused to participate would he incur the final penalty of expulsion by the group.

Khiem thao was a game in which the rules of life were suspended, but it was a game designed to reach back into life and change its players. When the NLF recruits came into the army or the administration, they arrived almost totally insulated from their fellow men by their masks of “politeness.” Suspicious of both their commanders and their peers, they remained attentistes, always watching for a sign of trouble, always on the point of defection. The khiem thao sessions forced them to participate, forced them to break down all the defenses which they had built up around them in childhood.

For the newcomer “criticism” was a terrifying experience. “When they were being criticized,” reported one squad leader, “their manner was correct and humble, but when the khiem thao was over, some would leave the unit to go home or to rally to the GVN, while others would swear and then forget all about it. We lost a lost of men because of those criticism sessions. After all, every man has his self-respect, and when his short-comings were brought up publically, he was hurt.”

But to the extent that khiem thao was painful, so it was perhaps necessary to the functioning of the entire organization. If the recruits could not strip themselves of their anxieties about each other and the power of the group, they could not begin to work together or to commit themselves to a common cause. Without a real psychological readjustment, their loyalties to any organization, other than that of their own families, would remain only surface deep. Given the newcomer’s ambivalence between fear of the group and desire to belong to it, the cadres had to strike a delicate balance in their disciplinary measures. As one Party manual warned:

The criticism must be made in a spirit of mutual, comradely affection, helping each other to reform. But criticism in a hostile spirit does harm, causes loss of face, goes too far, etc. Criticism of this kind really causes divisions and prejudices in the Party. It is not useful for helping each other to correct defects, in a spirit of compassion, to advance together.

In practice the Party cadres attempted to restrain the low-level guerrilla fighters from discussing more than the details of the day-to-day work. (Burchett, for instance, observed several of these tactical khiem thao sessions going on in the intervals between the practice attacks on the GVN blockhouse.) Discussion of more profound and difficult matters was reserved for those who had already developed strong attachments to the Front — and was used primarily as a corrective. If a supply system broke down or a battalion performed badly in a fight, not only the top-ranking officers, but the entire group of cadres who bore some responsibility for the operation would meet for a period of perhaps two or three weeks to discuss their technical errors and the obstacles in their communication with each other.

No one but the NLF cadres themselves know what went on at these sessions, and thus it is possible only to imagine the process in a rather distant and abstract manner. Given a safe forum in which to express his own grievances, the cadre came to see that he did not depend directly on any one member of the group. He could put his case on the table with some assurance that it would be judged on its own merits rather than on a personal basis. When, as must frequently have happened, two members quarreled, the group would not dissolve itself until the matter was settled by mutual agreement. With some experience at khiem thao the cadre would grow less and less afraid to disagree with another member, for he would realize that by initiating a verbal conflict he did not risk his entire career in the Front, or indeed his life. By the same token, he would come to understand that when others criticized him for mishandling a situation, they were not doing it from motives other than that of desire to get the job done better the next time. The knowledge came as a revelation — though one perhaps gradually arrived at; and if he allowed it to, that revelation could change his life. What mattered now was not the maintenance of “face,” but the competence to deal with the “objective” problems that confronted the entire group.

By forcing the cadres into conflict and limiting the damage done by it, the khiem thao sessions opened up entirely new channels of communication within the NLF. From the outside it is impossible to match cause exactly with result. But it takes only a small stretch of the imagination to see that in melting down the whole hierarchical structure of relationships the khiem thao gave the NLF a strength that could be measured in battalions. If, for instance, a number of soldiers from one company died or deserted, the local Front commander would have an excellent chance of hearing about his losses and taking measures to deal with them. His counterpart in the ARVN, by contrast, rarely knew how many men he commanded. The ARVN company, battalion, and regimental commanders made it a general practice to conceal their losses in the hopes of disguising their own failures or of collecting the pay due to the missing men.”]

frances fitzgerald, from fire in the lake: the vietnamese and the americans in vietnam, 1972

[twinterrors29]

Goa'uld Clones AU

the Kaminoans, upon receiving an order for a massive army, quickly realized that their ability to produce bodies far exceeded their limited ability to train soldiers, even with the hired bounty hunters brought in for the job

so they decided to take a different tactic for fulfilling this order

they would create a more limited number of high-quality, highly-trained symbiotic brain worms, and then mass-produce interchangeable empty human bodies, grown at more than 10x normal speed to adulthood, for those worms to inhabit and control

this way, if a host body got hurt, it would be simple to switch the symbiote into a new one so their investment in that highly trained soldier wouldn't be lost

the host body could even be killed, and the symbiote conveniently retrieved if it exited in time and concealed within the fallen body's helmet for ease of return to their flagship or Kamino for a new empty host, and it only takes a week of training to adjust to the new body, rather than the months for treatment and physical therapy, or Force forbid the years to grow and train a whole new soldier from scratch!

this is of course not what the Jedi ordered, so they cannot be aware of this change in plans; the main contact, however, is informed, as it impacts their contingency plans with the control chips

but since the Jedi cannot find out about this, troopers who don't interact too closely with Jedi are not permitted to personalize their host body's appearance or armor to allow for easy replacement

the commanders and other troopers who do get to personalize themselves because of their close relationship with a Jedi treat that as a badge of honor and work harder than normal to keep their host body alive and intact, because if they have to switch bodies they also have to be transferred to a new battalion as a new shiny, as far from the Jedi who might notice the change as possible

Order 66, however, comes with an especially nasty twist: the clone commander is ordered to fake some sort of health issue requiring resuscitation from their Jedi, and uses that proximity to jump through the mouth to assume control of their traitorous commanding officer's body

which places the new Emperor in charge of the army and the bodies of the Jedi, including use of their powers and knowledge to support his regime change