#the second in command to marshal charge himself

[sidesteppostinghours]

feeling some rather intense thoughts and emotions over steps that arent mine, about an au that i did not create.

@/idlenight if you see this im sorry but i had to borrow your boy because it was all i could think about after seeing aurries tags

[alittlegiraffe]

Title: What You Started

Part 2

The studio was alive with energy—beats thumping through the speakers, voices overlapping as everyone worked to bring Marshall’s latest track to life. You sat quietly on the worn leather couch in the back, watching him in his element. He was completely in control, commanding the room with that sharp tongue and relentless perfectionism. Every time he rapped a verse, it sent a shiver down your spine.

You’d always been the quiet one, especially around his team, but today, something about watching him like this made a fire spark low in your stomach. He looked so damn good—his hoodie pushed back, veins in his hands standing out as he gripped the mic, his intense focus making your breath hitch.

Your fingers hovered over your phone before you typed out a simple message.

I want you.

You swallowed hard as you sent it, watching him through your lashes. His phone vibrated in his pocket, and he pulled it out, glancing at the screen. You saw it the second his expression changed—that flicker of dark hunger sliding into his gaze, his jaw tightening as he looked up, locking eyes with you across the room.

Your heart stuttered.

Without a word, he handed his headphones off and stepped away from the mic. His stride was purposeful, heavy boots thudding against the floor as he made his way straight to you. Before you could react, his hands were on you, and with a swift motion, he tossed you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing. A surprised gasp left your lips, but the warmth pooling in your stomach only intensified as his arm locked around your thighs.

"We're done for the day, guys," he said over his shoulder, completely unfazed by the stunned silence that followed.

A chorus of laughs and knowing mutters broke out behind him, but he didn’t give a damn.

You felt the vibration of his low chuckle against your stomach as he carried you straight out the door, past the sound booth, past everyone still staring, and straight toward the car waiting outside.

He tossed you into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut before rounding the hood. When he slid into the driver’s seat, his fingers gripped the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turned white. His jaw clenched as he stared straight ahead, breathing slow and measured like he was barely holding himself together.

Then, he turned to you.

“You got any idea what you just started?” His voice was low, dangerous, thick with promise.

Your breath caught. You did. And you had no regrets.

The ride home was thick with tension, the kind that made the air feel charged, like a live wire sparking between you. Marshall’s hands gripped the wheel tight, his jaw locked as he stared straight ahead, barely saying a word. But you could feel it—his energy, his hunger, the way his knee bounced slightly like he was trying to keep himself in check.

You swallowed, shifting slightly in your seat, thighs pressing together as anticipation coiled low in your belly. You knew exactly what you’d started. And now, sitting next to him in the confined space of the car, you felt the weight of it—his restraint, the storm building behind his eyes.

The second he pulled into the driveway, he killed the engine, hands still gripping the wheel. For a long moment, he just sat there, breathing heavy. Then, slowly, he turned to you, his gaze dark, intense.

"You feel real bold today, huh?" His voice was rough, edged with something dangerous.

You didn’t answer—not with words, anyway. Instead, you bit your lip, your own body betraying your impatience. His eyes flicked down, catching the motion, and something snapped.

In an instant, he was out of the car, slamming the door shut. Your heart pounded as he came around, yanking your door open before you could even reach for the handle. His hand wrapped around your wrist, and then you were moving, barely keeping up as he dragged you inside, straight through the house, past the living room, down the hall—

And then, suddenly, your back was against the bedroom door, his body pressed against yours, his breath hot against your ear.

"You think you can just sit there all quiet, all innocent—" His fingers trailed down your side, a sharp contrast to the roughness in his voice. "And then send me shit like that? In front of everybody?"

You shivered, your breath catching as he tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"You know what happens now, right?" His thumb brushed your lower lip, his other hand already sliding around your waist, pulling you closer.

Oh, you knew. And you weren’t about to stop him, you would however toy with him.

Your breath was shallow, your body caged between the door and him, heat radiating from his chest as he pressed close. His fingers traced slow, deliberate patterns along your waist, sending a shiver up your spine. The weight of his gaze pinned you in place, dark and hungry, like he was waiting for you to break.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you tilted your head up, looking at him through wide, innocent eyes—knowing damn well what you were doing.

"What comes next?"

His whole body tensed. A slow, sharp breath left his lips as his fingers flexed against your waist, gripping you tighter.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, like he was fighting to keep himself in check. But then his lips curled into something dangerous, something wicked. "You really wanna play that game with me?"

You swallowed, your pulse hammering against your ribs, but you held his gaze.

He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice a low, rasping growl.

"You wanna act all sweet now? After the shit you pulled back there?" His teeth grazed your jaw, making your breath hitch. "You knew exactly what you were doing the second you sent that text. And now you're gonna sit here and pretend you don't know what's next?"

His hands slid lower, gripping your hips, pulling you flush against him.

"Say it again," he murmured, his lips barely touching yours. "Look at me with those big, innocent eyes and ask me again."

You felt the way he was barely holding himself together, how much he wanted you to push him just a little further over the edge. And maybe that was exactly what you wanted.

So you met his gaze, let your lashes flutter just slightly, and whispered—

"What comes next?"

A low curse left his lips, and then everything snapped.

The next thing you knew, his hands were on you, lifting you, pressing you harder against the door as his mouth crashed against yours. The restraint he’d been holding onto all night? Gone.

And you had no plans of stopping him.

His lips crashed against yours, all heat and desperation, like he’d been starving for you all damn day. His hands gripped your thighs, hoisting you up until your legs wrapped around his waist, pressing you harder against the door. You barely had time to gasp before his mouth was on your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

"You wanted my attention, baby?" His voice was rough, teasing, but there was something darker underneath—something wrecked. "You got it."

Your fingers tangled in his hoodie, trying to pull him closer, but he wasn’t having it. He pinned your wrists above your head with one hand, his other gripping your waist so tight you knew you’d feel it later. The control, the intensity in his eyes—it had your pulse hammering, had you melting against him.

"You think you can just sit there all quiet, lookin’ so damn good, and I ain’t gonna notice?" His nose brushed against yours, his lips hovering just out of reach. "That I ain't gonna do something about it?"

Your breath hitched as he rocked his hips forward just enough to make you whimper.

"Marshall," you breathed, and that was it—his last bit of patience snapped.

He pushed off the door, carrying you across the room like you weighed nothing. The next thing you knew, you were on the bed, and he was on top of you, his hands everywhere, his lips leaving a trail of fire down your skin.

"You started this," he murmured, his voice sending a shiver down your spine. "Now you’re gonna see exactly what comes next."

And with the way he was looking at you—like he was about to ruin you—you knew he meant every word.

You looked up at him, wide-eyed, biting your lip just enough to make his gaze darken further. His weight pinned you to the bed, his hands gripping the sheets on either side of you like he was barely holding himself back.

"Don’t look at me like that," he muttered, his voice rough, strained.

"Like what?" you asked softly, blinking up at him, your voice laced with feigned innocence.

His jaw clenched, his breath coming out heavy as he stared down at you, eyes roaming over every inch of your face like he was searching for cracks in the sweet, doe-eyed act you were playing. He already thought you were too pure, too good—something untouchable, even after all these years. But when he was like this? When you pushed him just enough?

He wanted to ruin you.

"You know what," he growled, his fingers trailing down your side, slow, deliberate. "You do this shit on purpose, don’t you?"

"I don’t know what you mean," you whispered, voice soft, breathy, shifting just enough beneath him that you could feel the way his muscles tensed.

His eyes flashed.

"Yeah?" His grip tightened at your hip, like he needed something to anchor him before he lost all control. "You wanna play innocent now?"

You nodded, lashes fluttering, lips parting just slightly—just enough to make his restraint snap even further.

"Fuck," he exhaled, dropping his forehead against yours for half a second, like he needed a moment to collect himself. But then he was looking at you again, and his expression was something dark, something wrecked, something desperate.

"You don’t wanna do that, baby," he murmured, his nose grazing yours. "Not when I already wanna ruin you so bad."

His fingers slid up, tracing along your jaw, tilting your face up to him.

"Not when I wanna see how much of that sweet little act you can keep up when I’m done with you."

His lips hovered over yours, not quite touching, making you ache for him.

"Still wanna pretend you don’t know what comes next?"

Your breath caught, heart pounding, body already burning.

Maybe you did. Maybe you wanted to see just how far you could push him.

So you blinked up at him again, eyes wide, voice barely above a whisper as you said—

"I don’t know… maybe you should show me?"

His breath left him in a sharp exhale. Then, before you could even process it, he was flipping you, pressing you into the mattress, his hands gripping your hips, his mouth at your ear, voice low, dangerous.

"Oh, baby," he murmured, his lips brushing against your skin. "You have no idea what you just asked for."

A sharp, low chuckle vibrated against your skin, his breath hot against your ear. You felt the way his fingers flexed against your hips, how his body tensed like he was barely keeping himself in check.

"You wanna keep up this sweet little act?" he murmured, dragging his lips down the side of your neck, his voice rough, thick with something dark. "Pretend you don’t know what’s coming?"

You shivered, pressing your palms against the sheets, but didn’t answer. Not with words. Just that same wide-eyed, breathless look you knew made him weak—except right now, it was making him anything but.

His grip tightened.

"You have no idea what it does to me, do you?" he muttered, almost like he was talking to himself. "You already drive me fuckin’ crazy, and then you go and do this shit."

He sat back slightly, hands trailing down your spine before sliding back up, slow, deliberate. You felt the heat of his gaze burning into you, like he was drinking in the sight of you beneath him, so willing, so trusting—so his.

"You’re too good," he murmured, almost like it pained him. "Too sweet. Too fuckin’ perfect."

You bit your lip, tilting your head slightly to look back at him, playing the role just a little longer.

"You really think that?" you asked, voice soft, laced with something innocent—too innocent.

His jaw clenched, his fingers pressing into your skin like he was barely holding himself together.

"You know I do," he muttered, shaking his head slightly, like he couldn’t believe you were still pretending, still pushing. His lips ghosted over your shoulder, his hands skimming up your sides, slow, teasing.

"And I know you love it," you whispered, just barely.

That was it. The last bit of control he had snapped like a thread pulled too tight.

"Yeah?" he growled, flipping you beneath him effortlessly, his body pressing into yours, his lips hovering just over yours. His eyes were dark, pupils blown, every ounce of restraint gone.

"You wanna see just how much I love it?"

Your breath caught, heart racing, heat curling low in your stomach.

You did.

And from the look in his eyes, he was about to show you exactly what happened when you played this game with him.

His lips hovered over yours, close enough that you could feel the heat of his breath but not close enough to give you what you wanted. His hands roamed your body, slow, deliberate, teasing in a way that had frustration curling in your stomach.

"You love playin’ this game, don’t you?" His voice was low, taunting, his fingers just barely tracing along your waist before pulling away. "All sweet and shy—until you want something."

You swallowed hard, meeting his gaze, keeping your act perfectly intact.

"I don’t know what you mean," you whispered, wide-eyed, breath hitching as his thumb brushed over your hipbone before retreating.

Marshall huffed out a quiet, humorless laugh, shaking his head. "You’re somethin’ else, you know that?" His voice was rough, wrecked, like he was unraveling by the second.

Still, he held back, hovering just out of reach, making you squirm beneath him, making you ache for him. You could see it in his eyes—how much he wanted to break you first. To watch you beg.

So you gave him exactly what he needed.

You let out a soft, breathy whimper, your hands gripping at his hoodie as you whispered—

"Please."

It was small. Sweet. Innocent. But it wrecked him.

Marshall cursed under his breath, something breaking in him as his fingers dug into your hips. His body tensed, his jaw locking tight as his control shattered completely.

"You," he muttered, almost like he was angry at himself, at you, at everything. "You fuckin’—"

And then he was on you.

His lips crashed into yours, hard, desperate, all that teasing long forgotten as he finally gave in. His hands gripped you tight, no more hesitation, no more restraint. You felt the weight of his need, the way he’d been holding back, the way you’d driven him to this point.

"You wanted everything, huh?" he muttered against your lips, his voice raw, breathless. "You got it, baby. You fuckin’ got it."

And from the way he was touching you now, you knew—you’d won the game. But the real prize?

Was what he was about to do to you next.

Marshall wasn’t teasing anymore. The second that soft little please left your lips, he snapped, and now he was all heat and hunger, pressing you into the mattress like he couldn’t get close enough. His hands weren’t just teasing anymore—they were gripping, pulling, holding, claiming.

"You knew exactly what you were doing," he muttered against your skin, his lips trailing down your jaw, his breath hot and uneven. "Sittin’ there all quiet, watchin’ me work, lookin’ like that." His fingers slid up your side, pushing fabric out of the way, his touch rough, desperate. "Acting like you didn’t know you were driving me fuckin’ crazy."

You gasped as he bit at your neck—not too hard, but enough to make you whimper again, enough to make his grip tighten.

"You like pushin’ me, huh?" His voice was wrecked now, raw, like he could barely force the words out. "Like playin’ this little game, makin’ me work for it?"

You met his gaze, still playing innocent, still wide-eyed even as your body betrayed you.

"I don’t—"

"Don’t," he cut you off, shaking his head, his fingers gripping your chin, forcing you to look at him. "Don’t even try it, baby. You won already. No takin’ it back now."

You swallowed hard, your pulse hammering.

"You really wanted everything, huh?" His thumb brushed over your lower lip, his eyes dark, unreadable. "All of it?"

You nodded, barely able to breathe, and that was it.

"Good."

Then he was kissing you again—harder this time, deeper, like he was pouring every ounce of restraint he’d lost into you, like he was making up for every second he’d held back.

"You asked for this," he murmured between kisses, his hands gripping your thighs, dragging you closer. "So now you're gonna get it."

And with the way he was looking at you, the way his body pressed into yours, you knew—

You were about to lose yourself in him completely.

Marshall had barely even started, and you were already unraveling beneath him, breathless and aching. His hands, his mouth, the way he touched you—like he was making up for every second he’d ever held back—had your body burning.

But then, just as you thought he’d finally give you everything, he pulled back, his chest rising and falling as he stared down at you, like he needed a second to regain some sense of control.

His fingers curled under the hem of his hoodie, dragging it up, revealing the lean muscle underneath, the way his body tensed with every movement. Your lips parted slightly, your gaze dragging over him, and before you even realized you were doing it—

You bit your bottom lip.

It was instinctual, unconscious, a natural reaction to seeing him like this—to the fire still smoldering in his eyes, to the way he looked like he was about to ruin you all over again.

And then you heard it—

A low, rough growl that rumbled from deep in his chest.

Your breath hitched as his hoodie hit the floor, his hands flexing at his sides like he was physically restraining himself from pouncing on you right then and there.

"Baby," he exhaled, shaking his head, his voice wrecked. "You really don’t know what you fuckin’ do to me, do you?"

His fingers twitched like he wanted to grab you, but he was holding himself back—barely.

Your lips parted, but before you could say anything, he was on you again, his body pressing into yours, his lips brushing over your ear as he whispered, voice thick with something dark, something desperate—

"You keep doin’ that, and I ain’t gonna be gentle."

And from the way his hands were already gripping your hips, from the sheer intensity in his voice, you knew—

He meant every word.

Marshall froze for half a second, his breath coming out sharp against your skin. You could feel the way his body tensed, how his fingers dug into your hips like he was barely holding himself back.

And then, with the same wide, innocent eyes that had been driving him insane all night, you looked up at him and whispered—

"Doing what?"

His jaw clenched, his nostrils flaring as he stared down at you, his pupils blown so wide his eyes looked almost black.

"You—" He cut himself off with a rough breath, like he couldn’t even find the words, like his brain had short-circuited just from you existing like this beneath him.

Then, suddenly, his hands were on either side of your head, gripping the sheets, his body caging you in completely.

"You really wanna play this game with me, huh?" His voice was low, rough, dangerous.

You swallowed, blinking up at him, playing the part just a little longer, just to see how far you could push him.

"I don’t know what you mean," you murmured, voice soft, breathy.

A muscle ticked in his jaw.

"Baby," he warned, his fingers tightening in the sheets, his self-control hanging by a thread. "You really wanna test me right now?"

You let your lashes flutter, tilting your head just slightly.

"I’m not testing you," you whispered.

Marshall exhaled a slow, shuddering breath, his head dropping for a second, his forehead nearly pressing into yours. Then, when he lifted his gaze again, his expression was something dark, something wrecked, something feral.

"Alright," he muttered, mostly to himself, like he’d just made a decision that neither of you could come back from.

Then he gripped your chin, tilting your face up, forcing you to hold his gaze.

"You wanna keep up this sweet little act?" His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, his voice dropping even lower. "Fine. But when I’m done with you?"

His eyes burned into yours, his lips hovering just over yours, close enough to steal your breath.

"Let’s see if you’re still playin’ innocent then."

A shiver ran down your spine at the way he said it, that rough, low promise that sent heat pooling deep in your stomach.

Marshall didn’t move right away. He just stayed there, hovering over you, his grip firm on your chin, his thumb still brushing your bottom lip, watching you like he was memorizing every tiny reaction, every twitch, every breath.

Then, slowly, so slowly it was agonizing, he dragged his thumb down, pressing lightly against your lower lip until your mouth parted for him.

"That’s what I thought," he murmured, almost like he was talking to himself. His eyes flicked up to yours again, dark and unreadable. "Not so innocent now, huh?"

You swallowed, breath shaky, heart hammering. But still, you didn’t drop the act completely—not yet.

"I don’t know what you mean," you whispered again, soft, wide-eyed.

That was it. That was the final straw.

Marshall let out a sharp breath—somewhere between a laugh and a curse—before his lips crashed into yours, his control shattering completely.

"You love pushing me, don’t you?" he muttered against your mouth, his hands sliding down to grip your hips, pulling you flush against him. "You love seein’ how far you can take it before I snap."

You whimpered softly, your fingers gripping at his arms, and that sound? That little breathy sound? It undid him.

"That’s it," he exhaled, his voice low, wrecked. "You wanted this, baby? You got it."

And from the way he was touching you now—desperate, relentless, absolutely possessive—you knew there was no turning back.

The game was over.

And he had won.

Marshall didn’t hesitate. The second his control snapped, he was all over you—gripping, claiming, giving you everything you had been pushing for and more.

"You wanted this, baby?" His voice was rough, raw, shaking with the weight of his need as he pinned you down, his breath hot against your skin. "Wanted to see what happens when you push me too far?"

You barely had time to nod before he gave it to you.

He wasn’t teasing anymore. Wasn’t playing. He was relentless, his hands gripping your hips tight, his lips dragging over your skin, leaving marks like he needed to remind you exactly who you belonged to.

And you? You took it.

You clung to him, your body arching under his, nails digging into his arms, gasping his name over and over like a prayer. But he wasn’t done—not until he had you completely wrecked, trembling, dazed, unable to think of anything but him.

"That’s it, baby," he murmured against your lips, his voice dark, dripping with satisfaction. "Knew you could take it."

By the time he was finally done, finally satisfied, you were completely spent—breathless, trembling, utterly ruined in the best possible way.

Marshall collapsed beside you, his chest rising and falling hard, his skin damp with sweat. But the second he tried to move, to roll away even a little, you whined softly and latched onto him, pressing yourself into his side, nuzzling into the crook of his neck like you couldn’t stand to be even an inch away.

"Shit," he muttered, his voice wrecked but softer now, his arms instinctively wrapping around you, pulling you against him. "You okay, baby?"

You nodded against his chest, sighing contentedly as you pressed lazy kisses to his skin. "Mhm," you murmured sleepily. "Just wanna be close to you."

Marshall let out a quiet breath, his fingers trailing up and down your spine, soothing now, his touch the opposite of what it had been moments ago.

"Yeah?" His voice was warm now, affectionate, his lips brushing against your temple. "Not so bratty anymore, huh?"

You pouted, nuzzling deeper into him. "Wasn’t bratty," you mumbled.

Marshall huffed out a laugh, his arms tightening around you. "Yeah, okay," he murmured, amusement laced in his exhausted voice.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke, just tangled together, your body draped over his, his fingers still tracing soft, absentminded patterns against your skin.

Then, quietly, he pressed a kiss to the top of your head and muttered, "You really are somethin’ else, you know that?"

You only hummed in response, already half-asleep in his arms.

And Marshall just held you closer, his lips ghosting over your forehead as he whispered,

"Mine."

Marshall tried to move—just a little, just enough to shift into a more comfortable position—but the second he did, you let out a soft whine and burrowed even closer, your arms tightening around him like a koala clinging to a tree.

He huffed out a quiet laugh, his chest vibrating beneath your cheek. "Baby, I gotta—"

You whined again, nuzzling into his neck, pressing a lazy kiss to his skin. "No," you mumbled, voice soft, still heavy with sleep. "Stay."

Marshall exhaled sharply, his fingers flexing against your waist. "You’re somethin’ else," he muttered, but he didn’t try to move again. Instead, he just let you drape yourself over him, his hands smoothing up and down your back, grounding himself in the feeling of you.

Every time he so much as shifted, you’d make another tiny, sleepy sound of protest, clinging tighter, refusing to let him go.

And he loved it.

Even when he had to move—when the distant sound of the front door signaled that your daughters were home—you still didn’t want to let him go.

"Baby," he murmured, brushing his lips against your temple, "gotta get up."

You groaned, reluctantly lifting your head, your arms still looped around his neck. "Fine," you sighed dramatically. Then, before he could say anything else, you grabbed his hand and dragged him with you.

Marshall arched a brow as you pulled him out of bed, but he didn’t fight it. "You really ain’t lettin’ me go, huh?"

You shot him a soft smile, lacing your fingers with his. "Nope."

And you didn’t.

As soon as you reached the kitchen, your girls came running in, greeting you both with the usual chaos of home life. You answered questions, helped with homework, and started on dinner—but never once let go of him.

Everywhere you went, Marshall was right there with you—because you made sure of it.

You held his hand while checking the fridge, leaned against him while stirring something on the stove, tugged him close whenever he tried to step away. If he so much as shifted, your fingers were back on him in an instant.

At one point, he smirked down at you, amusement dancing in his tired blue eyes. "You this clingy ‘cause you missed me or ‘cause I wrecked you so good you forgot how to function?"

You shot him a look, but it lacked any real heat. "Shut up and chop those onions."

He snickered, grabbing a knife, but even as he started helping, you reached out and rested a hand on his arm, like you just needed the connection.

And Marshall?

Yeah, he wasn’t complaining.

Dinner was loud and full of laughter, the usual chaos of home filling the kitchen. Your daughters talked over each other, telling you and Marshall about their day, arguing about the music playing from the speaker, sneaking bites of food before it hit the table. It was normal. It was home.

But even through it all, you never let Marshall stray too far.

When he sat down, you dropped into the chair right beside him, pressing your knee against his. When he reached for something across the table, you caught his hand on the way back, absentmindedly tracing circles over his palm.

At one point, when he leaned back in his chair, stretching with a yawn, you reached out—without thinking—and smoothed your hand over his chest, like you were grounding yourself in his presence.

Marshall smirked down at you, voice low enough that only you could hear. "You ain’t let go of me once since we got outta bed, you know that?"

You blinked up at him, lips twitching. "And?"

His smirk softened just a little. "Nothin’," he murmured, lacing his fingers with yours under the table. "Just makin’ sure you know."

The night carried on with that same quiet affection woven through it.

After dinner, you helped the girls clean up—with Marshall, of course, because you still weren’t letting him out of your sight. When the dishes were done, you pulled him to the couch, curling up against his side while the girls put on some ridiculous show none of you were really watching.

Marshall barely moved the entire time, just let you lean into him, let you rest your head on his shoulder, let his fingers drift lazily up and down your arm.

Eventually, when the night wound down and the kids were off to bed, you stretched with a soft yawn, nuzzling against him one last time before standing. "C’mon," you murmured, grabbing his hand. "Time for bed."

Marshall arched a brow, lips twitching. "Back to bein’ clingy, huh?"

You shot him a look, tugging him toward the stairs. "I never stopped."

And as he followed you, his fingers squeezing yours, his voice softened.

"Yeah," he murmured. "I know."

Marshall followed you up the stairs without a word, his grip firm around your hand, like maybe he was the one who didn’t want to let go now.

The second you stepped into the bedroom, you turned to face him, looping your arms around his neck, pressing yourself against him like you hadn’t just spent the entire evening stuck to his side.

Marshall let out a quiet chuckle, his hands instinctively sliding to your waist. "Damn, baby," he murmured, amused. "You really tryna set a new record for how long you can keep your hands on me?"

You hummed, resting your head against his chest, letting his warmth sink into you. "Maybe."

His chest rumbled under your cheek as he sighed, his hands roaming up and down your back in slow, lazy strokes. "Not that I’m complainin’ or nothin’," he murmured, lips brushing against your hair, "but you good? You’re bein’ extra soft tonight."

You tilted your head up, meeting his gaze, your fingers playing with the ends of his hoodie. "Just missed you today."

Marshall blinked, like he wasn’t expecting that answer. His hands tightened on your waist. "I was with you all day."

You shrugged, giving him a small, knowing smile. "Still missed you."

Something in his expression shifted—something softer, something unguarded. He exhaled quietly, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it, and then his lips were on your forehead, lingering.

"Yeah," he murmured against your skin. "Missed you too, baby."

You sighed contently, letting yourself melt into him.

And Marshall?

Yeah, he wasn’t going anywhere.

---

You woke up to the soft glow of early morning light filtering through the curtains—warm sheets, the lingering scent of him on the pillow beside you… but no Marshall.

A small frown tugged at your lips as you blinked sleepily, reaching out instinctively, only to find cool sheets where his warmth should’ve been.

He left?

Pouting to yourself, you stretched and pushed out of bed, wrapping one of his hoodies around you as you padded barefoot through the house. It didn’t take long to figure out where he’d gone.

The faint thump of bass led you straight to the basement studio.

Of course.

You took the stairs slowly, rubbing sleep from your eyes as you reached the bottom, stepping into the space that was so him—dim lighting, notebooks scattered everywhere, beat looping over and over as he scribbled furiously.

Marshall was in the zone, hoodie pulled up over his head, one hand tapping absently against the desk, the other holding a pen as he muttered lyrics under his breath.

You should’ve been used to it by now—watching him work, getting lost in it—but this morning? You weren’t feeling patient.

You were feeling pouty.

And when he finally glanced up, catching sight of you standing in the doorway in his hoodie, all sleep-soft and bleary-eyed, something in his expression immediately shifted. His pen stilled, lips twitching.

"Morning, baby," he murmured, voice still rough from sleep, motioning for you to come in. "C’mon."

Normally, you would’ve curled up on the couch, watching quietly, letting him work—but not today.

You wanted him.

So, without a word, you walked straight over, climbed into his lap, and curled yourself against his chest, completely ignoring the chair, the desk, his entire workspace.

Marshall huffed out a small laugh, automatically steadying you with his hands. "Shit, okay," he muttered, amusement laced in his tone. "Guess you ain't tryna let me work, huh?"

You buried your face in his neck, letting your weight settle against him. "Woke up alone," you mumbled, like that explained everything.

Marshall sighed, but it was warm, fond. His fingers traced slow circles on your thigh, his other hand still resting on the desk like he was trying to decide if he was actually gonna keep working with you draped all over him.

"Baby," he murmured, dropping his head to press a lazy kiss to your temple. "You really gonna make me write like this?"

You hummed, completely unbothered. "Mhm."

He exhaled a laugh, shaking his head. "You’re lucky you’re cute," he muttered, wrapping his arm tighter around you, shifting slightly so he could still reach his notepad.

You just nuzzled deeper into him, completely content.

And Marshall?

Yeah, he worked around you.

Marshall tried to focus. Really, he did.

You weren’t making it easy.

You were small enough that you barely took up any space in his lap, curled up comfortably against his chest, tucked beneath his chin like you belonged there. And honestly? He could work around you. His notebook was still within reach, his laptop open in front of him, his hands free to scribble down whatever lyrics came to mind.

But you—you were the distraction.

Every time he started forming a line in his head, your fingers would trace absentminded patterns over his chest, your nails dragging lightly against the fabric of his hoodie.

Every time he reached for his pen, you’d shift just slightly, your weight pressing into him in a way that sent heat curling in his stomach.

And then there was the worst part—the tiny, sleepy sighs you kept letting out, content little hums against his neck, like you were completely comfortable, like there was nowhere else you’d rather be.

"You know you ain't slick, right?" he muttered, still trying to write, his voice tinged with amusement.

You blinked up at him, feigning innocence, the same wide-eyed look that always drove him insane. "I don’t know what you mean."

Marshall huffed out a laugh, dropping his pen to rest his hand on your thigh instead, his fingers kneading absently. "Uh-huh."

You yawned, stretching just a little, making yourself even smaller in his lap, like you were settling in for the long haul.

"Mm, ‘s not my fault I fit here so well," you murmured sleepily, nuzzling into his neck.

Marshall groaned, tilting his head back against the chair, squeezing your thigh. "You’re ridiculous," he muttered.

You only hummed in response, tracing your fingers up his chest again, slow and lazy.

Marshall sighed, shaking his head, but didn’t push you off.

Yeah, this song was gonna take a while.

At first, you were content just being close, curled up in his lap, letting his warmth seep into you. But after a while, your focus started to shift.

Or rather… it started to fixate.

On his hands.

The way they moved, strong and sure, as he scribbled in his notebook. The way his fingers flexed when he tapped absently against the desk, the slight curl of them as he thought through a line.

The way his other hand rested so easily on your thigh, absentmindedly squeezing, his thumb stroking slow, lazy circles against your skin like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

Heat curled low in your stomach, creeping through you, setting every nerve on edge.

You wanted him.

And you knew exactly how to get him.

Slowly, deliberately, you shifted in his lap, stretching just enough to make him notice, sighing softly like you weren’t trying to get his attention—like you weren’t fully aware of how it would feel.

Marshall let out a sharp breath, his grip on your thigh tightening instinctively before he caught himself.

You hid a small smile, pressing your face into his neck, letting your lips graze his skin just barely.

"Baby," he warned, his voice already lower.

"Hmm?" you murmured innocently, your fingers tracing along the back of his hand now, trailing up to his wrist, feeling the way the tendons flexed as he gripped his pen a little tighter.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, but didn’t pull away.

You turned slightly, shifting again, this time making sure you pressed against him just right.

His breath hitched. His grip on your thigh tightened.

You bit your lip, trailing your fingers up his arm now, slowly, deliberately, like you were studying every inch of him.

"Baby," he growled this time, low and rough, setting his pen down.

You blinked up at him, all wide, innocent eyes. "What?"

His jaw clenched.

And then his hand was sliding higher, gripping, possessive.

"You know what," he muttered.

Your smile was slow, teasing, as you nuzzled into his neck again, lips brushing against his skin. "Mmm. Maybe."

Marshall exhaled hard, muttering a curse under his breath before gripping your chin, tilting your face up to meet his.

"You really don’t like lettin’ me work, do you?" he murmured, eyes dark.

You grinned. "Nope."

And the moment his gaze flicked to your lips, you knew.

You won.

Marshall exhaled hard, dragging a hand down his face, like he was trying to find some last shred of patience.

"You know what?" he muttered, gripping your waist and lifting you like you weighed nothing. "Go sit on the couch."

You gasped in mock offense as he set you down, away from him, away from his lap, away from his warmth. "Marshall!"

He just shook his head, grabbing his pen again. "Go."

You pouted, crossing your arms. "But—"

"Baby." His voice had that warning edge now, low and rough, the way it got when he was trying to be firm with you. He pointed his pen at you. "Behave."

You huffed dramatically, flopping back onto the couch. "Fine," you muttered, turning onto your side, back facing him.

For a few minutes, you stayed quiet, letting him work.

But you weren’t behaving.

You were plotting.

Because if he thought putting you over here was gonna stop you from getting what you wanted? Yeah, he had another thing coming.

Slowly, deliberately, you shifted, letting your legs fall apart just slightly. Your fingers trailed absently over your thigh, light, teasing, just enough to make yourself sigh softly, just loud enough for him to hear.

There was a pause in his writing.

You smirked.

Dragging your nails up your skin, you let your touch wander, your breath hitching just a little—just enough to make a sound.

Marshall groaned, the sound low and frustrated. "Baby."

"Hmm?" you murmured innocently, trailing your fingers higher.

His chair creaked. A sharp exhale. "What the fuck are you doin’?"

You let out a small whimper, arching slightly, not even looking at him. "Making up for what my husband won’t give me," you sighed dramatically.

A sharp curse. The chair scraped back.

You barely had time to react before he was on you, yanking your wrist away, hovering over you on the couch, his breathing heavy, his grip firm.

"You wanna play that fuckin’ game?" he growled, eyes dark, jaw tight.

You blinked up at him, all wide-eyed innocence. "What game?"

Marshall clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around your wrist before he exhaled hard through his nose, shaking his head. "Oh, baby."* You really fucked up now.*"

Marshall’s grip on your wrist was tight, his fingers wrapping around it like he was trying to sear the feeling into your skin. His breathing was heavy, his jaw tight, and his eyes—dark, burning with something possessive, something dangerous.

"You really don’t fuckin’ listen, do you?" he muttered, voice rough, his other hand pressing down on your thigh, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

You swallowed, lips parting, heart pounding, but you weren’t sorry. Not even a little.

Marshall let out a sharp breath, shaking his head, his fingers flexing around your wrist before he pinned it above your head. "I touch you," he muttered, voice low and firm. "Not you. Not anybody else. Fuckin’ ever."

Heat pooled low in your stomach at the possessiveness in his tone, at the way his grip tightened like he needed you to understand.

You bit your lip, watching him through heavy-lidded eyes, pretending like you didn’t love it. "But you were busy," you murmured, your voice just a little breathless, just enough to make his grip tighten.

Marshall’s nostrils flared. "Baby."

You blinked up at him, innocent, taunting. "What was I supposed to do?"

He let out a rough, humorless chuckle, his hand leaving your thigh only to grip your chin, tilting your face up so you couldn’t look anywhere else but at him.

"You wanna know what you’re supposed to do?" he murmured, his lips barely brushing yours, teasing, taunting you right back.

Your breath caught. "Mhm."

Marshall smirked, slow and dark.

"You’re supposed to wait for me."

Marshall didn’t waste another second.

One moment, you were pinned beneath him, drowning in the weight of his gaze—the next, he was on you.

His mouth crashed against yours, all heat and dominance, taking exactly what he wanted. His grip on your wrist didn’t loosen, keeping your hand above your head like he was still making a point, like he wanted you to remember who was in control.

His other hand, though?

It was everywhere.

Dragging down your side, gripping your waist, pressing into the softness of your thigh before gripping, pulling you closer, like there was still space between you that he refused to tolerate.

"You drive me fuckin’ crazy," he muttered against your lips, his voice rough, wrecked.

You whimpered, arching into him, your body already so willing, so needy, and it only spurred him on.

"You need me to remind you?" he growled, nipping at your jaw, your throat, leaving his mark. "Need me to show you who fuckin’ owns you?"

You whimpered, nodding frantically, completely at his mercy.

Marshall smirked darkly. "That’s what I thought."

And then?

He ruined you.

Hours later, you were nothing more than a melted, boneless mess against him, your body completely spent, your mind hazy, barely clinging to reality.

Marshall had wrecked you—thoroughly, just like he promised.

You were draped across his chest, tucked beneath his chin, his arm wrapped tightly around your waist like he still wasn’t ready to let go. His other hand ran slow, soothing strokes down your spine, grounding you, keeping you pressed against him.

You sighed contentedly, nuzzling into the warmth of his neck, your limbs tangled with his, unwilling to move an inch.

Marshall smirked against your hair. "You still missin’ my hands, baby?"

You let out a soft, sleepy whimper, pressing even closer, barely managing to lift your head to look at him. "Mm… no."

His fingers trailed lower, teasing, making you shiver. "You sure? ‘Cause I could keep goin’."

You whined, burying your face in his chest, making him chuckle.

"That’s what I thought."

You sighed, completely content, completely his.

And Marshall?

Yeah, he wasn’t done with you yet.

The world was a blur of heat and pleasure, your body already trembling beneath Marshall’s relentless touch. He was kneeling between your thighs, his strong hands gripping your hips, holding you exactly where he wanted you—where he needed you.

And fuck, he wasn’t stopping.

Your fingers clutched at the sheets, breathless, overstimulated, trying to keep quiet, but then—

The sound of footsteps upstairs.

Your eyes snapped open.

"Marsh," you hissed, your voice urgent, barely above a whisper. "The girls."

Marshall didn’t even pause.

Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t care.

He only glanced up at you, his smirk slow, dark, infuriatingly smug.

"Guess you better cum quickly then, baby."

Your breath hitched, eyes going wide. "Marshall—"

"*Shh,**" he murmured, pressing his mouth against your thigh, sending another wave of heat rolling through you. "Better be quiet, too."

And then?

He kept going.

Like he had all the time in the world.

Panic and pleasure warred inside you, twisting tight in your stomach. The footsteps upstairs grew louder, the familiar sounds of the girls moving around getting ready for the day.

"Marsh," you hissed again, squirming, but his grip on your hips tightened—warning you.

His smirk was pure sin. "What, baby?" he murmured, his voice low, teasing, like he wasn’t currently ruining you. "You worried?"

You were—you really were. But at the same time, heat coiled low in your belly, that dark thrill winding its way through you, the idea of getting caught making everything so much worse.

Marshall could see it, too. Could feel it.

"Knew it," he muttered, voice rough with satisfaction. "You fuckin’ love this, don’t you?"

You whimpered, biting your lip hard, your fingers twisting in the sheets as his grip tightened, his smirk darkening.

"Then be good for me, baby," he murmured, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss against your skin. "And cum. Right. Fucking. Now."

And with the way he said it, the way he commanded it?

You didn’t stand a chance.

The whole damn day, you were stuck to Marshall.

After yesterday’s relentless afternoon and then what he pulled this morning—leaving you breathless, wrecked, and completely at his mercy—you were feeling extra soft. Extra needy.

And Marshall?

He was loving it.

You followed him around the house, never more than a step away, constantly reaching for him, touching him in some way—his hand, his arm, the hem of his hoodie. You curled into his side on the couch, climbed into his lap at the kitchen table, wrapped yourself around him in bed while he halfheartedly tried to watch TV.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew what was happening.

And he was eating it up.

"You good, baby?" he teased, his voice low, amused, as you pressed even closer into him, your face buried in his neck, your fingers gripping the fabric of his hoodie.

"Mhm," you murmured, not moving.

Marshall smirked. "You sure? ‘Cause you been all over me all day."

You whined, hiding further against him. "Don’t wanna talk about it."

His chuckle was deep, satisfied, his arm tightening around you, like he had no plans to let you go. "Nah, I think we should," he murmured, dragging his fingers down your back. "Think we should talk about how my girl can’t get enough of me."

You groaned, swatting weakly at his chest. "Shut up."

Marshall just laughed, tilting your chin up so you had to look at him. "You love it," he murmured, smirking.

You pouted. "Maybe."

His expression softened, his thumb tracing over your bottom lip before he leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss against your forehead.

"Good," he murmured against your skin. "‘Cause I ain’t lettin’ you go anyway."*

---

The past day had been bliss. Just you and Marshall, wrapped up in each other, with nowhere to be and nothing else to do but exist in this little bubble where you belonged to him completely.

You’d been so soft for him, so submissive in the way you clung to him, let him take care of you, let him have you—and it had brought out that side of him, that possessive, dominant streak that had only gotten worse with each passing hour.

So when the guys came over to watch football, and you tried to shake off the past few days and be a good host?

Marshall fucking hated it.

At first, he just watched. Watched as you got up to grab beers, as you made sure everyone was comfortable, as you existed outside of the space you’d been in with him.

His jaw tightened.

His fingers tapped against his knee, his eyes following you, tracking you.

He wasn’t paying attention to the game. Wasn’t laughing at the dumb shit the guys were saying.

No—he was seething.

Because you were supposed to be his. You were supposed to be curled up next to him, soft and warm and pliant, not running around playing hostess like the past two days hadn’t happened.

You should’ve felt his stare burning into you.

And maybe you did, because eventually, after way too fucking long, you finally sat down on the couch beside him, settling into your spot.

Marshall’s arm immediately draped around you, pulling you closer, his fingers gripping your hip tight, like he was making a point.

But just when he thought he had you back—

"Hey, Mom? Can you grab me a water?" Hailie asked from the other side of the room.

You gave her a warm smile, already pushing up from the couch. "Of course, baby—"

Before you could take one step, Marshall’s arm snapped out, grabbing your wrist and yanking you straight into his lap.

You gasped, hands landing on his chest, his hold firm, his body solid and unmoving beneath you. "Marsh!"

He didn’t even look at you.

His gaze was locked on Hailie, his expression flat, his voice firm.

"Hailie, you’re old enough to get your own water."

The room went silent.

Then—

"Damn," Denaun muttered, smirking as he took a sip of his beer. "Somebody’s possessive today."

Marshall ignored him, his grip tightening around you, his hand sliding to your thigh, his fingers pressing firm into your skin.

You swallowed hard, your breath catching.

You knew that look.

You knew what it meant.

This wasn’t over.

You tried. Really, you tried.

Despite the way Marshall’s grip on you never loosened, despite the way his fingers stayed firm against your thigh, despite the way his entire body was coiled, possessive, territorial—you still kept trying to get up.

Because you had company. Because you had responsibilities.

And because, deep down, some part of you wanted to push him. Wanted to see how far he’d let you go before he snapped.

You shifted in his lap, placing your hands on his chest, about to push yourself up—

But before you could even try, his arms tightened, locking you against him, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he growled,

"Baby, the only one who needs you right now is me."

A shiver ran straight through you, heat curling low in your stomach, your breath catching.

"Marsh—"

"Nah," he interrupted, his voice low, dark, dangerous. "I’m done fuckin’ sharing."*

Your heart pounded.

You shifted again, testing, just to see—

His grip tightened.

His nose brushed along your jaw, his breath warm against your skin as he hissed,

"Try to get up and see what happens."*

You froze.

The warning was clear.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie, your body stilling completely, your breath coming out just a little shaky.

Marshall smirked against your skin. "That’s my girl."*

The moment Denaun spoke, Marshall’s grip tightened.

"Hey, can I grab another beer?" Denaun asked, leaning back against the couch, looking at you expectantly.

And Marshall?

He didn’t say a damn thing.

Didn’t move, didn’t react—except for the way his fingers dug into your thigh, his hold just a little too firm, his entire body locked down around you.

A silent warning.

Like he was daring you to defy him.

Your breath caught.

You hesitated—just slightly—your eyes flicking to Marshall for help. For some kind of out.

But he just smirked.

Smug. Expectant.

You swallowed, turning back to Denaun, forcing a smile, your voice coming out softer than usual. "You know where the kitchen is, sweetheart. Help yourself."

No one else thought anything of it.

Denaun just grinned, pushing up from the couch. "‘Preciate it, Mama."

But Marshall?

His entire body went rigid.

That smirk vanished.

And then, without a word, his teeth grazed your neck—slow, deliberate, just enough for you to notice.

Your breath hitched.

Because you knew.

He wasn’t thinking about the beer. Wasn’t thinking about the game.

No—he was thinking about the way you’d just called another man sweetheart.

A name you’d used a thousand times. On Denaun. On Proof. On anyone you felt affection for.

But today?

Today, it made something dark coil inside of him.

And you felt it.

In the way his teeth pressed just a little harder. In the way his hand slid just a little higher up your thigh.

In the way he was already planning exactly how he was going to remind you who you belonged to.

[fansids]

Shadow of the King Au Art Dump

Since I very rarely get past the sketching phase any presentable art is rare, but I managed to find some for ya'll

Warning for some old ass art:

1. The Stalwart Generals

I spent an ungodly amount of time figuring out the designs, dynamics, and personalities of all of these monkies so I'll be damned if I don't show them first.

The Generals take care of anything SWK is unable to. They are in charge of FFM when he's not present.

Marshal Ma - While technically all the generals are the same rank, Marshal Ma is considered SWK's unofficial second in command. She's calm in every crisis with a very low bs tolerance and is 75% of the reason why the island doesn't fall to chaos every time SWK leaves. She's highly respected by all the inhabitants and can and will break your spine Bane style if the situation calls for it.

Marshal Liu - Mean bisexual. Marshal Ma's sister and the bane of her existence. On duty she takes her role very seriously. Off duty she likes to keep Ma on her toes with her dumbassery. She's easy going, hates clothes, and loves to fight. She has a slightly concerning amount of knives on her person at all times. She is big gay for General Beng.

General Beng - Meaner lesbian. A siamang and the largest and tallest of the generals. She enjoys dressing up, tea (both kinds), and a good party. She has a very short fuse. While her size and strength alone would generally deter anyone from testing her temper, there are always idiots. She can fight, but she knows her Liu would enjoy it more.

General Ba - The youngest of the generals. While she's not shy, she is very quiet. She does not waste her words. But, when she speaks, the others will stop whatever they're doing to listen. She likes to spend her free time in the libraries. Get her in the right mood and she'll argue with you for hours about the most random subjects.

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2. Macaque face evolution

Was trying to get a feel for Macaque's face and how it changes throughout the au. Top right is the youngest, bottom right is the oldest. Bro gets all sorts of messed up from the whole died and resurrection thing and very much looks wrong afterwards.

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3. New fit

Macaque and SWK have the whole cape thing going on, I figured SWK gave Mac one of his own when he was still training under him. I like to think it holds a lot of sentimental value to him since he still wears it in present day but he would rather get his head smashed in again than admit it.

.

4. I'm sure this won't come back to bite anyone later

Eeesh. Imagine spending your whole life training to receive and keep the Sun Wukong's attention only for him to casually give it to some random human boy thousands of years later. I mean, Macaque did betray him and everything, but it's the principle.

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5. The Tongbi Gibbon Concepts

One of the four world-wrecking/celestial monkies. My brain was very focused on the whole pulling celestial bodies out of the sky part of her abilities that I made her based around that line.

Don't know if this fit is still canon as she and the Horse Monkey had a large role to play in Shadow of the King, and I'm considering if I should take them out

.

Bonus:

I consider the Tongbi gibbon and the Horse Monkey to be older than both Sun Wukong and Macaque in Shadow of the King. The Horse Monkey is the eldest, but the Tongbi's age is nothing to sniff at.

That being said, that does not mean she can't be bought.

Takes place after all the traumatizing shit in SotK

Panel 1

Tongbi: Child, I am an ancient being. I hold the power of gods within me. I was witness to the birth of the Great Sage himself. I have seen nations and empires rise and fall. I have gathered and spent innumerable wealth. Yet you think you can bribe me with 20 yuan?

Panel 2

The host: ...how 'bout 30?

Panel 3

Off-panel (Horse Monkey): TONGBI!!

MK: I thought the nimbus made you airsick

Red Son: Not helping, Noodle Boy

Tongbi: BOTH OF YOU SHUT UP!

[saltsprite]

"36. …to give up control." for Kotallo/Erend if you feel like it? :33

(kiss ask meme)

ngl this one had me stumped -- nothing was really vibing in my noggin until i thought of "giving up control" as "letting go of the leash" and then i liked it A Lot 8) i hope you do too~

Of all the damn luck, Erend gripes under his breath for what must be the sixth time, and still Kotallo can't find it in himself to disagree.

There were rumors of an advanced machine, Aloy said. Erend and Kotallo were the only ones within range capable of handling such a beast, Aloy said. She wouldn't ask if it weren't important, Aloy said.

It'll be a good bonding activity, Erend said.

They're bonded as the Ten now, all right -- crowded tight in a rocky alcove just barely outside the sensor range of the Specter that remains after they took down a first. It was no easy feat, either; of the two of them, Erend is the only one with experience fighting these demons, and even then he was support for Aloy. He'd fought beautifully alongside Kotallo to take the first unit down, responding to Kotallo's directions amidst steel cleaving ceramic Zenith armor without the barest of hesitation, but they'd been lured into a trap where the other laid in wait. They'd made it out, yes, but only after one of the Specters coiled a nanobot stream around Kotallo's knee to fling him into a boulder. And now, they are being tracked. Knee locked, and completely useless from a distance, Kotallo cannot finish this fight. Kotallo cannot run.

"Erend," Kotallo starts, but Erend curls his lip and shakes his head.

"Whatever you're about to say, don't. I don't wanna hear it." Erend chokes his grip higher and tighter on the shaft of his hammer. "I'll-- I'll figure something out, okay? Just--" He huffs, but it's strained. Shaky. "I'll think of something."

"You're going to have to--"

"No," Erend insists, "I do not have to. I promised Aloy I'd get you back in one piece, and that is exactly what I'm gonna do whether you like it or not."

Kotallo bristles with the static charge of pent-up violence. "Then you'll need to fight. It's fast, but you hit harder. You can take it."

But Erend will not be swayed. "I'm not leaving you on your own," he says, far too soft for what the moment calls for. "You can't ask me that."

"You're right." Clearly startled by Kotallo's admission, Erend stares at him. "But it's necessary."

There's a specific heartbreak Erend wears to hear it said aloud; one that Kotallo wears for himself. He doesn't have to enjoy this plan to know it's the best chance they've got -- they're hidden for now but they've seconds of cover left, at most, with a nigh-indefensible position. He can only trust in Erend.

So Kotallo allows himself a selfishness that later can be waved away as battle-fever if need be, grabbing a handful of Erend's collar to haul him in for a deep, harsh kiss, commanding him: "Kill it. Whatever it takes."

Catching his breath, Erend taps Kotallo's breastplate. "We are gonna talk about that later."

"So give me a later," Kotallo says. "Smash that Zenith scrap to hell."

At last, there it is: there's the forge-blaze in Erend that Kotallo wants, the explosive molten iron to fuel his fury-- a demon, in his own right. Erend unleashes himself on the Specter, screaming HEY SCRAP-ASS to draw its attention.

Steel hits space alloy, and Kotallo knows he made the best choice.

(Later, when Erend staggers back with one of their lost charger mounts, he insists that Kotallo should ride -- much to Kotallo's dismay. He never needed such coddling in Sky Clan, or as a Marshal, and he has no intent to start now; all complaints that Erend weathers in stride, only to say, "You trusted me with all that, and this is what you're fighting me on?"

-- which shuts Kotallo up right quick.

A little too proud of himself, Erend hunts a softer kiss. "If you're gonna make me take charge," he says quietly, "then let me take charge."

"Not sure what a hammer-smitten Oseram knows of leading," Kotallo grumbles, even as Erend helps him onto the charger.

Grinning, Erend just grabs the reins to lead the mount, and start their march home.)

[elbiotipo]

I think it would be funny if neo-feudalism happened and military ranks (marshall, general, colonel, major, captain, lieutenant) acquire the same meaning at peerage titles (prince, duke, margrave, count/earl, viscount, baron, baronet).

Alternatively: sea neo-feudalism. Admiral (prince), Commodore(duke), Captain(margrave), Commander(count), Lieutenant (viscount), Mate (baron)

Me when hearing mate: 🧉

This happens in Traveler Interstellar Wars (a GURPS version of Traveler). After the United Nations of Earth conquers the Vilani Imperium (a human empire but with humans from another world), they have to rule an empire that dwarfs them in size something like 60 to 1, so they put officers from the UN fleet in charge of the imperial bureaucracy, and they're so short staffed that lieutenants and ensigns get in charge of whole worlds.

This leads to the Second Imperium after a fleet commanders declares himself emperor, which collapses very quickly (the parallel is Alexander's empire, and then the Third Imperium which is Traveler's main setting.

[manorpunk]

[Setup: it's act III, and the major characters on both sides are marshaling their forces and preparing for battle. Jacob Martin Rider has been sent to the front lines and charged with organizing and supplying the war effort]

This must have been Jacob’s office, not due to any features of the building itself, but because there was a pink-haired Slavic twink standing outside the door, wearing a maid uniform and cradling an assault rifle. He had sunken eyes, and his sharp scowl seemed to be the only facial expression he was capable of making.

“State your business,” the twink said.

“Johnny Newsroom. I’ve been here since the beginning, I figured I might be able to help fill Jacob in on what’s going on.”

The twink looked up at him with bored, sullen incredulity. “We got the report you sent. He can read.”

Johnny crossed his arms. “I was second in command until this morning, I think that’s reason enough for me to see him.”

The twink gave him one more sullen look, then stepped away from the door.

“Fine. Have at it.”

“Thanks.” Johnny opened the door and started to walk inside, then paused and looked back. “What’s your name?”

“Anton Smolenski.”

“Anton, would you believe that this is the second time I’ve been unduly sassed by a short, expressionless, heavily-armed Slavic androgene?”

“Yeah. You mentioned Lieutenant Rina Pskovski in your report. Again, we try to read things before driving into an active combat zone.”

“I should try that sometime,” Johnny sighed.

“In transit? In fucking transit?” screamed a voice, hopefully Jacob’s, from the building.

Johnny hurriedly stepped in and closed the door behind him. Inside the office was Jacob Martin Rider, wearing a modern officer’s coat for once, though it had clearly been well-tailored, medals and stripes carefully arranged, and his black boots and gloves had been polished to a shine. Jacob didn’t notice him at first, since he was busy screaming into a phone in his right hand while his left hand held a can of beans with a bulging lid.

“What do you mean this might have happened in transit? Did you ship them through a fucking wormhole? This thing is bulging with god knows what. No. Listen. That doesn’t happen in a couple days. That doesn’t happen in a couple years, not unless the canning facilities are contaminated, which would mean your whole operation is fucked from top to bottom. There’s so much mold in this fucking can they’ve developed their own civilization by now. Yeah, I fucking understand it was a big order, you’re supplying a fucking military operation. Are you just figuring that out now? If you’re having trouble filling it, maybe you shouldn’t have taken the fucking contract. I don’t care if you go over budget! That’s your fucking fault! Listen to - listen to me. I don’t give a shit if your company goes bankrupt and you lose your job and start sucking dicks in an alley. That’s your own fault for taking orders you can’t fill. Listen to me. You’re going to hold up your end the fucking contact. This is not a discussion. This is not a negotiation. This is me yelling at you. If you try to pull this shit again, I’m going to come to your office and shove this can up your ass. This is not hyperbole. I will personally come to your office, bend you over your stupid fucking desk, take off your pants, and shove this can up your…”

Jacob raised the can as if he was preparing to hurl it into the ground, then caught himself and stopped. “Jesus Washington Christ, I almost spiked this thing. It would’ve gone off like a goddamn chemical bomb. I’d be dead before I hit the ground. This thing is a chemical weapon. It violates the fucking Geneva convention. Point being, if you send me any more expired food I’ll have you put on trial for sabotaging the Usonian war effort and it will be a kangaroo court. Do you understand? I asked you a fucking question, do you understand? You’re goddamn right you do. I’ll be personally inspecting the next delivery. Bye.”

Jacob hung up the phone and turned to Johnny. “One second,” he said before Johnny could even inhale, then reached into his pocket and took a small plastic bag of a white powder that was technically unidentified but was absolutely definitely cocaine, and the past few minutes made a lot more sense.

“You aren’t quite what I expected, given your reputation,” Johnny said as he watched Jacob take a key bump.

“Yeah, well, I’m on the clock and off the cock,” Jacob said between sniffs. “You know why I can get away with all this shit? Because I’m good at what I do. You see this?” He held up the bulging can of kidney beans, “your average supply guy wouldn’t give a shit. The average supply guy would probably call the distributor and say ‘hey, how about you send us more moldy shit to save money and we’ll split the difference.’ Not me. A good general is like a father to his troops, you understand? No more of these fucking company men. You ever heard the saying that blood is thicker than water? The full version is that the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb. The bonds of war transcend even family. Anyway, hi. Johnny Newsroom, right? Can I get you anything? Coffee? Whiskey? Cocaine? Hopefully without any fucking mold.”

“I’ll-“

“I hope Anton didn’t give you too much trouble. He’s the only maid I brought with me. It pained me to part with the rest of them but I had to set an example. Kick out the servants and camp followers, that’s what any good general does. That’s what the Romans did, kicked out the servants and family members and hangers-on. That’s one of the reasons our army was so shit in the late imperial period. All the fucking commissaries and base exchanges, our military installations were just fucking malls. Not on my goddamn watch. Did you need something? Because I have about thirty more suppliers to threaten.”

Jacob was vibrating with energy, a rubber band pulled taut and just waiting to be launched, an attack dog straining against its leash. He seemed like at any moment he might burst into a hundred mini-Jacobs, each one scurrying off to its own task.

[josefavomjaaga]

Elie Baudus about Murat's departure in Posen, 1813

Once more Elie Baudus, former aide-de-camp to Marshal Bessières, in the second volume of his "Etudes sur Napoléon". (Another snippet is here.) This time it’s about Murat deserting leaving the army at Posen in January 1813. I was wondering how Bessières and his staff reacted to this news, especially as Elie makes it sound as if they were there at the time.

Headquarters left Elbing on 11 January to take up residence in Posen. When it reached that town, the King of Naples immediately announced that he was leaving the army on account of his health, either because he was really ill or because his indisposition was due solely to his anxiety about what might happen in his states, during his absence, in the political situation in which Europe was about to find itself. All that could be said to him about the impropriety of taking such a step without the emperor's consent could do nothing to change his mind; he handed over command to the viceroy and left for his capital.

What Elie possibly does not know or at least does not write: Murat had asked for permission to leave the army at least twice, admitting himself that the task was beyond him, and apparently had never even received a reply from Napoleon. And of course it would be interesting to know if Bessières was among those who tried to talk Murat out of his idea and to make him stay on his post, and how Murat reacted to these attempts.

Napoleon's departure had been applauded because the inflexible necessity which forced him to it was understood; [...]

That may be a bit of an exaggeration or generalisation. I understand there was quite some grumbling in the army (Oh, look, he’s pulling another Egyptian exit on us, etc.). Even Elie himself admits that the last remnants of military discipline broke down as soon as Napoleon was gone. There must have been a reason for that.

[…] Murat's departure, on the contrary, aroused strong indignation; this abandonment, in the situation in which the army found itself, was not noble, and it took no less than the great actions which he carried out a few months later at Dresden and Leipsick to weaken the irritation which this conduct had aroused against him in all ranks. Nothing can excuse such a mistake, for even if we consider it only from a political point of view it was enormous. If this prince feared for the preservation of his crown, should he not have considered that it was only within the French army that he could work effectively to consolidate it on his head? That was the key to the vault; if it was missing, it was obvious that all the stones of the edifice would crumble.

The talents and the firmness of character that Prince Eugène had recently displayed in this campaign had already won him the confidence and the attachment of the army; so there was more anger than regret at the news of the change in our general-in-chief. Marshal Bessières was happier than anyone else when it was announced that the emperor was definitively entrusting the viceroy with the power of which he had only been temporarily invested upon the departure of the king of Naples. What, for the Duke of Istria, was both the result of a long-standing attachment rooted in paternal feelings and deeply felt esteem, was dictated to the other chiefs by the latter motive. They all did their best to prove it to this young prince, and we will never forget the interesting spectacle offered by his salons in Posen in this respect. There was something touching about the marks of deference with which all these old glories of France surrounded him.

[Insert image of dozens of decorated army generals surrounding an 8-year-old: "You’ll get us out of this shit, right, little one?" - Eugène nodding very seriously: "Uh-huh."]

I would also like to point out that the young prince at the time was 31 years old, balding and loosing his teeth… But it’s nice to see Bessières’ reaction to his "apprentice" being in charge now.

The viceroy must have been delighted; [...]

… yeah… guessing from the letters he wrote to Auguste … not really all that much ...

[…] it was a fine reward for all the great things he had already done; it was a powerful encouragement to persevere on the straight and honourable path he had adopted; so he did not deviate from it for a single moment until the last catastrophe of the great man who called him his son.

Uhm, Elie? I think Marmont and d’Anthouard would like to have a word with you.

Posterity will do him this justice, that his entire conduct completely justified the special attachment Napoleon always had for him; a true attachment, animating Napoleon's words, whenever he had to express himself officially on the subject of his adopted son, with an affectionate feeling never shown in favour of any other member of the imperial family.

The keyword in this passage is "officially". And the fact Elie adds it makes me wonder if he (or rather Bessières - or possibly Elie's father through Murat?) may have known about some of the private correspondence Napoleon sent to Eugène, and that treated his stepson quite differently.

It was not only with regard to Napoleon that the Viceroy's conduct was noble and worthy of admiration; even after the Restoration we saw him know how, without failing in the duties of filial piety, to satisfy at the same time those of a good Frenchman; for having come to Paris in 1814, when all the events had taken place, he soon realised that they were trying to abuse the attachment that the army had for him in order to disturb his homeland. He did not hesitate for a moment to make this cruel and painful sacrifice, so that his name would not be mixed up in the intrigues that have so tarnished the glory of some of his comrades in arms.

That’s the same thing Napoleon was disappointed about on Saint Helena, I presume, when he did not see anybody to lead the army and cause another uprising in his own favour.

[thecourtscorkboard]

Rise From the Ashes (1-5: PART TWO)

Part One can be found here.

A black spot on Lana's record.

Lana isn't surprised to see us. She says she understands the risks: and she is surprised to hear that Ema talked to us about SL-9. We ask her to fill in on the details; especially on her rather peculiar change of career.

The trial wasn't very fair. Ema is incredibly disappointed in her sister: Lana tells us that she always planned to become a prosecutor, but became a detective to learn crime scene investigation to use it in court. We dig in a little more about their investigation. She was second-in-command after Gant. Apparently, they shared the same office and investigations. They were in charge in some of the best detectives on the entire force: Goodman, Jake Marshall, and Starr. There was no doubt that Darke was the killer, and when they called him in for questioning... well, that's when he tried to kill Ema. The first person to come across what happened was Lana.

Gant and Neil were questioning Darke. When they let their guards down, Darke fled the room towards the Gant and Lana's office. Lana says that she panicked; picking up Ema, walking out of the room, and holding her. She's not telling us about the evidence she fabricated at all. Lana tries to play off everybody being involved in SL-9 as a coincidence: but Phoenix isn't buying it at all. There's something deeper here. That 'case', he says, might not be over yet. He has the bright idea of investigating Gant's office himself!

We go over to the Police Department and meet Jake in front of the building. He's going to the Prosecutor's Office for interrogation; guess he's gonna be put under arrest. We talk to him about SL-9. He says that everybody on the force thought that something was wrong about the SL-9 trial; the facts were inconsistent with the evidence. The murder weapon was Darke's knife, but the blade wasn't a match with the wound Neil sustained. So the knife wasn't the murder weapon? We also get to know about his brother. Neil was apparently one of the best prosecutors in the city; SL-9 was their first case together, even. He was even given the King of Prosecutors trophy the day he died. We also learn something incredibly interesting: it was the day of evidence transferal. Just like this case...

Jake is convinced something was going on behind the scene. Every single detective besides Goodman was somehow taken care of. Angel was fired, Jake was demoted, Lana was made a prosecutor, and Gant was made Chief of Police. The people behind the SL-9's fishiness, he thinks, were Gant and Lana. We already know that Lana forged evidence, so what did Gant have to do with it? Apparently he arranged her transfer to the Prosecutor Office. Jake knows that she's changed, but he's not sure how or why she changed: something happened two years ago. Before he leaves, Jake says that Edgeworth isn't his enemy, as somebody gave him in the forged evidence without his knowledge.

The pieces are falling into place...

We move on to the Criminal Affairs Department and get permission to go into the Chief's office. There's a big fuckoff organ in the middle: guess we know where his music comes from. Ema tries to play it and this raises Gant's attention: he was in here the whole time! He draws attention to a picture on the wall of Gant, Lana, and Neil on the day he was awarded the King of Prosecutors trophy. We try to investigate, but Gant politely tells us to get out. When that fails, he gets a bit more assertive. He's definitely behind... something involving SL-9. He kicks us out of the entire Police Department: now Phoenix is absolutely convinced he's behind the forged evidence.

We walk out of his office and go into the Criminal Affairs Department and meet with Gumshoe! Gumshoe takes the time to tell us about Darke. He was 42 years old during the SL-9 Incident and an independent businessman. One day, he hit somebody with his car while on the way home and started killing witnesses; he killed a man who saw the accident, a woman who saw him kill the man, a child who saw him kill the woman, and then a jogger that saw him burying the bodies. After all that, he turned himself in: during his interrogation, he ran away and killed Neil Marshall. There was no evidence that he committed any of the crimes; the only evidence he left behind was after he killed Neil. We show Gumshoe Darke's knife: that jogs his memory on what the evidence was. It was the tip of Darke's knife, found broken off in Neil's body! We get Neil's autopsy report: he was killed after he was stabbed in the back. The wound punctured his lung and heart.

Before we leave, we ask Gumshoe if he can help us get into Gant's office to investigate SL-9 on our own time. He says that any detective's ID card can unlock the door, but they can't use his: he'll get fired. We could try Goodman's right? No dice. His data was deleted the day he died, unfortunately. Oh, well. Maybe we could find a way to change his mind later.

Gumshoe seemed pretty worried about Edgeworth: maybe we should go check in on him. Edgeworth is writing something when we come in, hastily crumbling it up and throwing it on the floor when we see him. We try to distract him, but he sees Ema down there anyways, picking up the paper.

The DL-6 reminiscence theme starts playing here, which is really cool.

Edgeworth is planning to resign from the Prosecutor's Office! He says that something inside of him has died now that he knows he's presented forged evidence; he's openly considering himself unforgivable now. We take the letter: maybe this would change Gumshoe's mind. The idea that he's used forged evidence gnaws away at Edgeworth tremendously—the bond of trust between him and the Police Department has been irreversibly broken, and as the prosecutor in charge of SL-9 the responsibility has subsequently fallen on his shoulders. Edgeworth is still showing up for trial tomorrow; it's too late to change prosecutors. He pulls out the list of evidence for SL-9, telling us it's too short. Most lists run twice as long. Does he also know that some sort of shadowy stuff was going on behind the scenes with SL-9?

We show Edgeworth the photo from Gant's office. Neil and Edgeworth's trophies are different: where'd the little sword go? He tells us the story behind its design. It's based off of the Chinese word for "contradiction", which is written with two characters—'halberd' and 'spear'. As the folk story goes, a merchant from the kingdom of Chu approached his king with two items: a spear that could break any shield and a shield that could defend against any attack. When asked what would happen if the two hit each other, however, he could not answer, and the word for contradiction was born.

We get this awesome ink-style drawing for this scene. Incidentally, this reminds me of a Nixon quote: to paraphrase, "the Chinese people write 'crisis' with two characters: 'danger' and 'opportunity'". It's also total nonsense, but it came from Nixon, so...

Wonder why they took the knife out. Apparently, it's something we'll have to ask Gant: he asked for it to be taken out himself. We run into Angel in the parking lot and she reminds us that she still saw what she saw. We get more information about the SL-9 case from her. They chased after him for half a year; when the case came to its conclusion, Jake became obsessed with SL-9. Angel says that only made Lana even more edgy. Angel says that she's know the evidence was forged ever since SL-9's end. Items that her team never discovered were suddenly found; items that her team found were kept secret. Angel gives us a unique idea: that Lana was transferred to the Prosecutor's Office not as a promotion that she wanted, but because Gant wanted to use her as a pawn in the prosecution.

Apparently, there were rumors about his forging evidence even back when he was still just a detective. Which is... weird. Lana teamed up with him, even though Lana despised crooked cops: she was a role model for all detectives. Apparently, she and Neil were very close. When Neil died, Lana felt like she lost her own brother. Angel's anger towards Lana isn't just a hatred for prosecutors; it's incredibly personal. She and Jake are close, after all. It seems that Lana's becoming cold has affected everybody... except for Gant.

It was Gant's plan all along...

We go back to the Police Department and show Gumshoe the letter of resignation. He immediately tells us that he'll let us into Gant's office: job be damned! He even comes with us. We finally have time to look into Gant's dirty secrets. First and foremost? That piece of paper he stuffed in his desk when we first came by. It's an evidence list: from SL-9. Normally lists are twice as long... this is the second half of Edgeworth's list! There's a drawing on the back. Remember how Ema said she had to draw what she had seen because she was so shaken? This must be it.

Secondly, there's a safe on top of a small bookshelf. It's locked behind a code, but Phoenix has a pretty good idea of what the number is:

7777777.

Bingo. It's now pretty undeniable that Gant is our murderer. Inside of the safe are two things: a big shard from a jar and a piece of leather cloth. This is from the jar that we found in the evidence room! There's a handprint on the cloth: could we pull fingerprints from it?

First things first, the jar. Now that it's all put together, there's some... weird stuff on it. Red stuff. Dried blood, maybe? It looks like it might've been a design of some sort, with the last piece not having the blood wiped off. Weird. We use the fingerprint powder on the leather and check our database. It's...

Ema's...?

Why are Ema's fingerprints on this cloth and why was it in Gant's safe? Every time we answer a question, two more pop up! Gumshoe pulls us aside, equally as confused. We agree to keep that information between the two of us, with Gumshoe giving us the cloth to keep. We compliment Gumshoe on his good work; without his ID, we wouldn't have been able to get in here.

GAH!

It's G-G-G-G-G-Gant! Shit, we've been found out! Gumshoe is immediately fired and Gant asks Ema to stay behind for some reason. Gant forces us out and we run back to the Detention Center to talk to Lana. She remains adamant that she stabbed Detective Goodman: and she doesn't seem to be lying about it. She also tells us that Mia did a good job mentoring us. Even Edgeworth complimented us towards her; saying that once we're convinced we know something we can't be swayed otherwise. "Thick-headed." I'd personally use "stubborn".

Anyways, we get to talking with Lana about SL-9 now that we have a very good idea on what's going on. She was confessing not because there was evidence, but because she wasn't able to tell the truth. Why? Because she's afraid of Gant. "Assuming he is respectable" (DAMN Phoenix!), Phoenix asks a simple question: why would he try to cover his crimes? Edgeworth and Lana are both going to be facing inquiry committees for forging evidence. So why isn't Gant? After all, we found both the jar shard and the evidence list in his office. We finally corner her; she can't tell us why she's taking the fall, but she does tell us that she was taking orders from Gant during Goodman's murder. She was told by Gant to dispose of Goodman's body; she was taking his body out of Edgeworth's car and that's when she found the murder weapon. Not Edgeworth's knife, but Darke's!

Unable to keep the SL-9 knife in his body, she took it out and replaced it with Edgeworth's. This is what Angel saw: what the Parking Lot Murder really was. Lana hid Darke's knife to prevent SL-9 from being re-opened. But why? She doesn't say. She does say that Ema knows about what happened with the knives; and she also called Jake before going to dispose of Goodman's body. She trusted Jake, but after she told him he went into the Evidence Room... disguised as Bruce Goodman.

Lana tells us not to pursue this any further in court. We don't have a choice. The final, and my favorite, day of investigation comes to a close.

Trial, Day Four

Before trial starts, Edgeworth comes to talk to us: it seems that we've both figured out that Gant is our murderer. He also says that once doubt is removed from the ID list he can call for a verdict: which is why he came, to hear what we have to say. We tell Edgeworth that everything hinges on SL-9—and it's his responsibility to dig up the truth.

Court opens up and we're met by none other than Gant. He's here on Lana's behalf to let her give a statement to the court. Lana asks for the trial to immediately be ended!

Gant pulls another set of strings.

Lana confesses to the murder of Bruce Goodman in the parking lot. Phoenix tries to get her to stop, but when we try to keep our Not Guilty plea she straight-up fires us! Oh, man! It's over, isn't it!

Well, not if Edgeworth has anything to say about it! He doesn't like the lack of proof; he doesn't want another strange verdict on his hands, especially one that he knows is unjust. Gant tells Edgeworth to be a good boy and keep his mouth shut: and Edgeworth, for the first time in this case, rises to the challenge and tells Gant to be quiet. He rejects Lana's confession and calls a new first witness: Ema Skye! Gant is sent into a silent rage, telling Edgeworth he will regret this.

Ema takes the stand. Edgeworth asks her about SL-9; it's time to finally bring it out in the open. She testifies about what she saw, seeing Darke stab Neil in the chest and after pressing her a bit more, that she drew a picture of it. Well, we've got our first thing to present: Ema's drawing on the back of the Evidence List. Edgeworth never got this list. Why? Because Gant had it. This is the second half of Edgeworth's list! The list was ripped in half. Is there more of Ema's drawing on the back of Edgeworth's? He turns it over, and there is! It's... the Blue Badger? Wait, but didn't the Chief of Detectives make him up? Ema testifies again, saying this is exactly what she saw. But that's impossible. After all, the object in the stabber's hand is rather blunt. It's not sharp; wouldn't a kid draw a triangle or something instead of a square? The knife was broken already? No. That's impossible, since the tip was in Neil's body. There was another broken knife; the one from the King of Prosecutors trophy. Neil didn't have a gun, so when he attacked Darke when saving Ema, he raised the knife, and...

...and Darke was on the ground. These two men are opposites! She didn't push away Joe Darke: she pushed away Neil Marshall. He knocked that jar off of the shelf (resulting in an infuriating minigame where you have to angle the jar just right), which is what Ema saw that looked like the Blue Badger. Before Ema can say this, however, Lana shouts and rises up from her seat. She demands that court comes to an end: she's already confessed to the crime on trial, Bruce Goodman's murder!

Edgeworth, and indeed His Honor, do not care. So, what does this mean? The jar was on Gant's shelf. This, of course, means that they were fighting on the other side of the office; on Gant's side. Neil stumbled after his being pushed. On Gant's side of the office is a suit of armor holding a very sharp spear. There's only one logical conclusion.

Ema Skye accidentally killed Neil Marshall.

You lose all sense and push him into the armor.

Ema faints due to the shock. This must be what Gant was blackmailing Lana about and why she wanted to confess to Goodman's murder. Lana, in a fit of desperation, demands us to produce evidence. The red marks on the jar form a set of dots; if Marshall didn't die instantly, then he could've written something on the jar that was later wiped away. The red streak on the jar makes something that looks almost like an M: we can spell out the name "EMA" on here.

It's undeniable now. Ema really did accidentally kill Neil.

Gant interrupts proceedings again. The truth has come to light; Edgeworth has absolutely, positively, undeniably used fabricated evidence to convict a man of a murder he didn't commit. Darke was executed for all six murders based on only one piece of evidence from a single murder that he didn't commit.

The courtroom erupts in a furor of anger and confusion. His Honor tries to quiet the courtroom down, but it doesn't work; for the second time in this case, His Honor is forced to declare a recess.

Gumshoe comes by again to drop of some more evidence on Lana's behalf for us (rehashing his exact dialogue from earlier in the case). It's a book on Evidence Law. Apparently this is our big break. Once the trial reconvenes, Edgeworth gives up his right to call witnesses... and there's only one person we can call.

The stage is set.

Gant calls us "either very brave or very foolish" before testifying. After all, he can refuse to give testimony. Apparently, he can waive the right to testify at all: not just pleading the fifth, but making it impossible to force him to. Gant testifies that Lana had already arranged the crime scene when he caught up to her and that he has nothing to do with the forgery.

We know this is a lie, though. After all, we found the evidence list and the jar fragments inside of his safe! Gant fires back. He is accusing us of forging evidence! Edgeworth rushes to our defense, stating that Gumshoe was there, but Gant says that he is going to be punished with the full extent of the law. His Honor is convinced by Edgeworth's claim, however, and asks Gant to testify again.

Gant says that we can't prove when the evidence was "discovered". A bit more pressing, and he says that he would never be anybody's accomplice if there was nothing in it for him; but that's not what happened. He wasn't anybody's accomplice. Lana was his. The person who arranged Lana becoming a prosecutor, after all, was Gant himself: he gained authority over every single investigation in both the Police Department, as Chief, and in the Prosecutor's Office, through controlling Lana as a chief prosecutor.

That's just conjecture, though. Gant (kind of rightly, honestly) points out that we have no proof. Lana won't testify, to protect Ema, but... SL-9 isn't the case on trial. The murder of Bruce Goodman is. We know straight from her mouth! His Honor is shocked, alongside the rest of the courtroom. We are now publicly accusing Damon Gant of Bruce Goodman's murder alongside blackmailing Lana. We have good evidence for this, too: the ID card record. After all, the code for his safe was 7777777!

Gant's rot, out in the open.

Pursuit blares as Gant starts to crack. He tries to defend himself because Phoenix's investigation was against regulations; but Edgeworth covers for us, saying that he'll make sure we face punishment (hey!). Right now, though, the court wants an explanation for why he went into the evidence room! He is the Chief of Police; he can go wherever he wants in the station, and further states that he was alone when he went into the Evidence Room.

When we ask if Goodman was with him, he stammers; the first time he stutters in this entire case. He says he hadn't seen Goodman in days: and overplays his hand. Remember, all the way back at the beginning, that Goodman had lost his ID card? It was stolen by Jake, after all. A lost item report can only be submitted to the Chief themselves! He needed to get into the Evidence Room for evidence transferal. Desperately, Gant tries to say that he might've lent his card to Goodman; but this is impossible. If he did, then Gant's ID would've been found on Goodman's body!

The coolest damage animation in the entire franchise. Sorry-not-sorry.

The murder that Gant committed was likely spontaneous. Nobody would choose the Police Department to commit a murder, after all. He then called Lana to have her dispose of Goodman's body. How did it get to the Prosecutor's Office? Easy. Edgeworth moved it for him. After all, Edgeworth was asked to move a screwdriver during the evidence transferal. He was in the Police Department for the King of Prosecutors ceremony, after all! Damon Gant broke open Edgeworth's trunk and dumped Goodman's body in there.

Gant is asked to testify more by His Honor. He doesn't. As Chief of Police, he can waive his right to testify! He can no longer be asked, forced, or try to give testimony. We're asked if we have any evidence that can prove Gant murdered Goodman, but we don't. He leaves and we're penalized; the trial seems to be over.

Until Edgeworth remembers that we still have to hear one person's testimony. A certain lady's: Lana Skye's. While she's getting ready, the court will take a 15 minute recess. Court is adjourned... until Gant barges back in, reminding Lana that if she accepts our claim Ema will be found guilty for Neil's murder.

Court is adjourned for recess. During this recess, we're approached by Edgeworth, Gumshoe... and Ema, who's taking our side again. Ema says that she actually feels rather relieved about the truth of Neil's murder being out there: and she'll stand by us, no matter what happens. Court reconvenes.

This poor girl...

Lana takes the stand and testifies. She says that her forgery had nothing to do with Ema; denying our "blackmail theory". The only reason she forged the evidence was to get Darke convicted. We drill Lana as hard as we can, pressing statement after statement after statement. We get Lana to tell us what happened when she found the scene. Ema, Darke, and Neil... with the King of Prosecutor award's knife sticking out of Neil's back. After all of this, she's still denying that Ema killed him. She broke off the tip of Darke's knife and planted it in Marshall before moving the body, moving it across the room because of the broken jar.

There it is.

It's a simple thing, really. She wiped away the blood off the jar. This is true. However! For the message to be written on the jar, it must've still been intact before he died! Edgeworth says that we may be missing something critical here. Lana testifies again, saying that she's sure she got all of the pieces. We know for a fact she didn't, though! The piece of the jar in Gant's safe wasn't erased. Lana is shocked; she was detained after her outburst before the recess and didn't know that the jar was in his safe! This means only one thing. Gant was there first! But why did he hide the fact that he arrived at the scene first?

It's simple. Damon Gant broke the jar and hid the pieces in his safe. This is a crime: fabrication of evidence. Lana entered the room after Gant and believed Ema killed Neil; asking for Gant's help covering it up! Lana bites her thumb open, banging on the stand over and over as she continues to maintain that Ema is innocent. She's so adamant about this, though!

A thought bubbles up in Phoenix's head. If Gant hid the fact that he arrived first... was it really just to hide that he was fabricating evidence? After all, he basically got away with it before Lana gave her second testimony. What if...

A gambit exposed!

If Gant fabricated evidence after the fact... what if he also fabricated the murder? With Edgeworth's help in realizing she has nothing left to lose, Lana finally sees where we're coming from, agreeing to tell the truth. Neil was impaled on the suit of armor's spear (even though they call it a sword...) and both Ema and Darke were unconscious. Gant and Lana removed Neil's body from the armor and moved it across the room. She says we've even got proof: she gave it to us! Opening up the book we were given on evidence law, we find a picture of Neil Marshall's body in the back. Eugh. It's impaled on the spear; nobody else saw the body like this at all. He's even had a piece of his vest cut out: the piece we found in Gant's safe.

Before we can cross-examine her, though...

Motherfucker!

Gant interrupts the proceedings one last time. He's being made out to be the murderer and has realized it; he wants to testify in his defense. He can't, though! He gave up his right to testify. There is absolutely nothing Gant can do anymore.

One of my favorite bits of dialogue ever written.

Oh, well, Gant says. He doesn't have to do anything. We do. He asks us to finally cough up our last final piece of evidence; he knows that the cloth will prove who the real murderer is. But the fingerprints on that cloth... they're Ema's!

Gant thinks he has us in a trap: either we present the evidence and make out Ema as the murderer or don't present it and be stripped of our badge while Gant walks free, without any proof that he killed Neil. If we present the cloth here, as we can do, then Ema is found guilty of Neil's murder and Lana is found guilty of Bruce's murder.

But we know better. We refuse to present the cloth. He calls us a liar, saying that he knows for a fact we took what was inside of his safe. Gant knows why we're hiding it: we know whose fingerprints are on it!

Gant points out the picture that Lana gave us and points out the piece of Neil's vest that has been cut out. The court goes into a fury; Gant has undeniably concealed evidence! He admits the 'truth'. He was the first to arrive on the scene and used it to control Lana. He kept the cloth and jar pieces in his safe as insurance; they proved that Ema killed Neil, after all. Gant hid them before Lana caught up to him. We ask Gant if he cut off that piece of cloth and hid it in his safe. He says that he did; and to finally present it.

And so we do.

We just want to confirm, one more time, that Gant cut it off and hid it in his safe. He says he did, and is more than ready to have our badge taken away. We confirm that the fingerprints are Ema's, and she is distraught: it seems that she really did kill Neil Marshall. Lana calls us a monster. Phoenix tells her that this trial isn't over, though. Phoenix is ready to have his badge stripped, but he says that he needs to clear up one last thing.

At long last...

We admit that this cloth proves who killed Neil Marshall: there's a very vital contradiction in the cloth. It's a rather simple one, too. Neil Marshall's lungs and heart were punctured. Blood poured onto his shirt... including the area under the place his vest was cut! At the same time, there's no blood on the cloth we have at all. His vest was cut off before he died! Ema didn't push him to his death. She pushed him to the ground and knocked him out! Who showed up to the scene, by his own admission, before anybody else? Only one person. Damon Gant. Gant then picked up his body and skewered him on the armor!

Gant seems defeated, but out of desperation claims that the cloth is illegal evidence. We admit that we did not have approval from the Police Department. We didn't fulfill the first rule; but we did fulfill the second. After all, before Gant admitted the cloth was cut off by showing the court the photo... it had absolutely nothing to do with the case! It wasn't that we didn't present it; it's that we couldn't! Gant's own attempted trap is his downfall.

Finally defeated, with nowhere else to go... Gant admits to the murders of Neil Marshall and Bruce Goodman.

The longest 2D case finally comes to a close.

In his confession, Gant tells us why he killed Goodman; because he was planning to open the SL-9 investigation again. If he did that, then it would only be a matter of time before they found out the truth: and it would give Lana a means of escape.

The trial is over, but Lana is still under arrest for fabricating evidence. She and Ema give each other a tearful goodbye, as well as giving us her first smile of the entire case.

With that... Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney comes to its glorious end!

It's been a long journey... but it's finally over.

What Really Happened?

Everything began in 2014. Joe Darke, a businessman, accidentally hit a person with his car. The person he hit died, and Darke snapped: going on a murder spree and killing everybody who witnessed his crimes. First, he killed a man who witnessed the accident, then a woman who witnessed him killing that man, then a child who witnessed him killing the woman, and then a jogger who discovered him burying the bodies. The investigation into these murders—the so-called SL-9 Incident—lasted half a year. A team was established to investigate the murders, made up of detectives Jake Marshall and Angel Starr, overseen by Prosecutor Neil Marshall, lead detective Bruce Goodman, and led by detective Lana Skye and Deputy Chief of Police Damon Gant.

Darke eventually confessed to the murders and brought himself in, but during questioning escaped and ran to Gant and Lana's office. Neil got there first, but not before Joe could take Ema, who was waiting for her sister, hostage: the two got into a fight, with Ema seeing both an unstable jar on a shelf falling onto the ground and Neil raising the King of Prosecutors trophy's knife in an attempt to stab Darke. Ema pushed Neil out of the way, believing him to be Darke: all three fell unconscious, at which point Gant caught up to Neil. Seeing an opportunity to blackmail Lana and control the Prosecutor's Office (and therefore every investigation in the district), he cut off a piece of Neil's vest which Ema had left her handprint on and impaled him on a suit of armor. He then wrote Ema's name on the vase that fell in Neil's blood and broke it, putting the largest piece and the cloth inside of his safe.

When Lana arrived on the scene, she believed that Ema had pushed Neil into the suit of armor. Gant "agreed with her interpretation". Lana begged Gant to help her cover it up, and he agreed; on the condition that Lana would do whatever he asked, forcing her to become his puppet. If she didn't, then he'd tell the "truth": that Ema pushed Neil into the suit of armor and killed him. They set up the scene by moving Neil's body to the other side of the room, taking Joe Darke's knife, breaking off the tip, and planting it in Neil's body: this completed the illusion, making it seem that Darke had murdered Neil. Darke was sentenced to death for all six murders, with Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth presiding over the case. Everybody who was involved with the SL-9 Incident was somehow taken out of the rank-and-file police force: Jake and Angel were demoted and fired respectively, Lana was made a prosecutor, and Gant became Chief of Police. The only one kept on duty so as to not arouse too much suspicion was Goodman.

Two years after the SL-9 Incident, Goodman was approached by Jake Marshall. Jake wanted his help in re-opening SL-9, which he had been investigating in secret along with Angel. Jake wanted to re-open it because once two years goes by the evidence for a case is transferred to the County Sheriff's Department: in other words, a solved case can't be opened again after two years! Goodman refused. In response, Jake stole his identity card, but wavered on his plan of disguising as Goodman. Goodman reported his ID as missing and went into the Evidence Room with Gant, who used his own ID to get in. In the room, he changed his mind and took the SL-9 evidence, stating that he was going to give it all to Jake to re-open the investigation.

Panicking that everything was going to fall apart—that the truth about SL-9 would come to light, ruining his career and his power over the law and Lana—a power-hungry and paranoid Gant took Darke's broken knife and stabbed Goodman in the chest. He then called Lana, telling her about Goodman's death and instructing her to stab his body in the Prosecutor's Lobby parking lot; he then took Goodman's body and dumped it in Edgeworth's trunk before giving Edgeworth a mission to transfer some evidence from a case that was solved during evidence transferal. A little bit after Goodman's murder by Gant, Meekins moved the Blue Badger into the Evidence Room, conveniently covering up a bloody handprint that Gant had left.

Lana called Jake Marshall. Jake, now knowing he had no other choice, used Goodman's ID and Goodman's spare set of clothes to go into the Evidence Room: as the guard, he could easily get in or out. When he opened Goodman's locker, however, the SL-9 evidence was gone! Gant took it after killing Goodman. Meekins then approached Jake and demanded to see his ID. The picture on it would prove that he wasn't Goodman, though. Panicking, Jake cut his hand open and got in a fight with him, beating him unconscious and running out: but not before stuffing his disguise into his locker, as it was covered in blood from the fight. A bit after this, Edgeworth unwittingly moved Goodman's body to the parking lot, where Lana stabbed it in the chest. This created the illusion that Lana had killed Goodman, which Angel Starr witnessed. She then apprehended Lana, who proceeded to try and pin the crime on herself to protect Ema: if she told the truth, then Gant would tell everybody that Ema murdered Neil Marshall.

THOUGHTS

I have a lot to say about 1-5, so this is gonna be a loooong section for the longest 2D case.

Let's just get to the point: 1-5 is my favorite case in the entire franchise. It's one of the best mysteries I've ever read or watched, sharing a place in my heart alongside The Bye Bye Sky-High IQ Murder Case (from Columbo) and is easily the best case the entire franchise has to offer. It is a masterpiece: Shu Takumi at his absolute best. He really full-throttles all of his mystery writing potential here: while he's struggled in the past and will struggle in the future, 1-5 is certainly not one of those times. It is an absolutely captivating mystery wrapped in some of the best characterization in the entire series: Phoenix, Ema, Lana, Gant, and Edgeworth are all massive standouts in this regard, and I'm of the very firm opinion that this case has no bad characters. Even Meekins is a fun side character! This is a sentiment that I think can only really be shared with 1-4 in terms of PW:AA, and 1-4 doesn't have the huge roster of main characters that 1-5 has. For a very long time, about a decade, 1-5 was the longest case in the entire franchise: this record wouldn't broken until the release of 6-5 with Spirit of Justice.

PW:AA somehow manages to do a feat which would never really be recreated in having three absolutely fantastic cases back-to-back-to-back: 1-3, 1-4, and 1-5 are all among my favorite cases in the entire series, with 1-4 and 1-5 being my #3 and #1 (at the time of writing) respectively. And how could we not talk about this case's absolutely fantastic music? From Damon Gant's incredibly intimidating yet charming Swimming, Anyone? to Jake Marshall's hilariously Western The Detective From the Wild West to Ema Skye's upbeat remix of Turnabout Sisters, there's not a single wasted bit of music: one comment says that Ema's theme sounds like somebody who's eager to learn, which is a great description! The tragic SL-9 Reminiscence theme is one of my favorite in the entire series, and as the first piece of music we hear in this case sets the tone perfectly.

Speaking of tone, this case knows how to set it damn near perfectly. This is a case of tragedy and loss, but it's also one of an impossible crime. The stakes and craziness get higher and higher with each day, going from a defendant confessing to a murder in two places at once to investigating a serial killing solved two years ago! It takes all three of these concepts and meshes them together perfectly into one awesome package (which makes sense given the time this case came out, but we're not gonna talk about that for a few months, probably). This tone manages to mix the lightheartedness of Ema's everyday activities, the general lighthearted tone of Ace Attorney as a whole, and some really funny moments with incredibly tragic storytelling to make a compelling package.

We've got no shortage of incredible characters, as well. Phoenix, Edgeworth, and His Honor are all at peak characterization for this case, with newcomers like Gant, Jake, and Ema really taking the spotlight. The only weak link I can think of is Gumshoe, but he doesn't show up too much in this case and he isn't too flanderized. Ema and Gant are within my top 5 characters in the entire series, with Ema being my favorite character: and this case is a huge point as to why. She's fun! She's incredibly spunky, upbeat, and passionate about what she likes to do: but she still feels like a teenager, getting sidetracked in conversations and worrying about school. I think her little crush on Edgeworth is adorable, and her relationship with Lana is one of the best things about this case. For his part, Gant absolutely steals the spotlight as one of the series's best villains. He's a great mix of goofy and intimidating: it almost feels like Gant from the first half and Gant from the second half are entirely different characters, but this isn't a bad thing in the slightest. His position as a masterful manipulator, abuser, and slimy cockroach who cares solely about power is incredibly well articulated. He puts on a couple different faces in this case, from a goofy old grandpa figure to a menacing and strict Chief of Police to a downright threatening manipulator and power player. It makes his takedown immensely satisfying.

Phoenix and Edgeworth are at their best writing so far here. Edgeworth comes across as who he always was deep down: someone who despises criminals and believes that the defendant is guilty, but someone who also despises criminals more than the defendant. He cares about the truth more in this case than in any other aside from 1-4, and it shows that 1-4 has really changed him: he even argues on our side from time to time! The revelation that he convicted Joe Darke due to faulty evidence destroys him. He's written excellently, and so is Phoenix. Phoenix finally comes into his own here, taking down this case nearly entirely by himself. He's effectively portrayed as an incredibly smart person who can connect dots nobody else can see, even if he doesn't know exactly where those dots lead themselves. His plan to trap Gant is absolutely amazing and we see this repeated later on: this battens down Phoenix's characterization as an incredibly effective, if somewhat manipulative, seeker of the truth.

Finally, this is a minor detail, but it's one I love a lot. 1-5 is a mirror image of 1-2. Two sisters, the elder of whom is a lawyer, are involved in a murder case involving another murder years ago that involved Miles Edgeworth. One of the key pieces of evidence is the "killer's" name being written in blood on something by the real killer, who is an incredibly powerful man who influences the case from behind the scenes. Mia in particular is brought up a lot, which is really cool. There's only one line to support it, but Mia and Lana were very very very gay and Ema/Maya is a good ship as well. That is all.

Anyways, I see no other rating to give this than a perfect score. I don't think there are any major or even any really minor flaws with this case outside of the jar sequence, but even that's not too bad. 1-5 is just downright incredible.

Next time, we'll be giving PW:AA as a whole a review and retrospective before moving on to a new game and a new case! See you then!

Overall Rating: 10/10

FAVORITE LINES

"Just sit back, relax... and enjoy the sound of the noose tightening around your own neck." - Miles Edgeworth, after Gant attempts (and fails) to testify again

"Too bad I won't be around to work with you... after you become a real scientific investigator." - Jake Marshall, to Ema Skye before he goes in for interrogation

"There are only three people I look out for: Me, Myself, and I." - Damon Gant, after he's accused of being Lana's accomplice

"You certainly are the curious sort, aren't you? Kind of like the first person who sucked a cow's nipple to discover milk." - Angel Starr, when she sees Phoenix on Day Four Investigation

(It should be okay now. Everything's proceeding as predicted.) - Phoenix Wright, as Gant falls into his trap

"No, I... it's just, I got confused..." "And this is news?" - Phoenix Wright and Miles Edgeworth, after Gant tells us Goodman's ID number

"At that trial two years ago... I sold my soul." - Lana Skye, to Ema

CASE RANKINGS

Rise From the Ashes (10/10)

Turnabout Goodbyes (9/10)

Turnabout Samurai (8/10)

The First Turnabout (6/10)

Turnabout Sisters (5/10)

[elsgone]

Bly/Keeli "you gave me peace in a lifetime of war"

Bly knew what it was like to be tired. Being a Marshal Commander came with the feeling constantly. He had finally managed to get some peace and quiet from the last few days. General Secura had gone with General Di off-world to deal with democracy issues within the Jedi Council and had left Bly and Keeli in charge of managing things on the planet.

Bly had sent Keeli away, saying he had everything handled and he deserved rest. Keeli had tried to argue he was fine but Bly had insisted and in the end, the long yawn Keeli had let out won him over. Bly had gone around to all the troops and ensured they had everything needed for the night shift and made sure the ones that were being sent to bed were all alright.

He checked in with medical, talking with the troopers there and telling them that it was all going to be okay. He knew that he himself was definitely tired as several people asked him if he was okay, to which he assured them he was fine. He had to be the one in charge now as neither General was here to be in command.

He walked over to where the relief supplies were being loaded to be delivered to the locals the next morning in order to talk to his lieutenant, Tonks, who was his second in command when Keeli wasn't around.

"Hey, Tonks!" Bly called, taking his helmet to make sure his voice carried over the sounds of heavy machinery.

The man turned his head over his shoulder and walked over to Bly with the ease of a practiced soldier, stopping right in front to give a lazy salute.

"Sir?" He asked in his bored, monotone voice that Bly had come to associate with his just natural demeanor. He chuckled lightly.

"At ease soldier, just wanting to check how everything was going over here."

"All on schedule sir. Should be done in about 30 minutes. Took a bit longer for the supplies to actually arrive than to load ‘em.” “Wonderful. Mind taking over for a bit while I check up on something?"

"Of course sir. Anything you need help with? I could spare a few shines."

"No need. That desperate to get rid of the rookies are we?"

"Sir with all due respect, these kids are going to make me split my skull open. I swear they don't train 'em like they used to."

Bly could relate to that. He can't count the amount of times he's had to tell someone how to man a rocket launcher.

"Well, just try not to break them on their first few days. We want them to stay."

Tonks tsked at that and though Bly couldn't see his face he figured he was making some kind of scowl and that in itself was an accomplishment. Tonks had always been very hard to break to make any kind of expression and Bly had fought tooth and nail to make him break even a bit.

He patted Tonks on the shoulder and told him to take care, walking away. He had some other pressing matters to attend to.

He walked a while, through different work zones and houses and buildings looking for the place where the nice residents of the planet had allowed them to stay. Granted it was on the very outskirts of town, which is why it would take several hours for the supplies to be delivered, but it was better than the tents they had brought with them. He finally made it to the building that most of the troopers were staying in. Due to the size of the building, there were a limited number of rooms forcing soldiers to room up. This wasn't a big deal seeing as mostly every clone has shared a room and even a bed at some point in their lives. Bly and Keeli had immediately chosen to room together.

They had claimed it had been out of strategic purposes, the two second-in-commands to the Generals rooming together didn't seem too suspicious, however, most of the men in both groups knew about the two of them. They have called them out numerous times on standing too close, "checking" each other for injuries. They've even caught them kissing a time or two so, safe to say, they weren't as subtle as they thought.

He made it up the stairs and past some rather unsightly activities. (he's going to need to teach Draca how to handle radioactive chemicals one day)

He made it to the door of the room he and Keeli shared. He knocked a few times and when no response came he opened the door, surprised to find it unlocked but not surprised by the sight that greeted him.

Keeli was tucked, very comfortably, under the blankets on the double bed that they had been very lucky to have. (some vode didn't get so lucky) His armor had been very neatly placed by the side of the bed and he had shut the blinds so that almost no light came in but the little that did framed his face in a beautiful white light. Bly stood there for a minute taking in his beauty. He couldn't believe he had gotten so incredibly lucky.

The first time he'd met Keeli was in training and they instantly clicked. They always sparred together, always trained and Keeli was the first person Bly had told about his promotion to Marshal Commander. Keeli always supported Bly through everything and was always there for him at the end of hard days. Now looking at him he was just so happy he met him.

He gently closed the door behind him and walked over, careful to make his steps as soft as possible in order not to wake him. He made it to the edge of the bed and cautiously lowered himself to sit on the soft cushioning. Keeli shifted slightly and opened his eyes just enough to see that it was Bly who was there and not some random person.

"Hey there cyar'ika," Bly said, reaching out to gently trace the lines of Keeli's face.

Keeli sighed and his drifted shut again. Bly grinned took his hand away from Keeli's face and gently adjusted the blanket so it lay more snuggly around his body. He sighed deeply and just let himself live in the moment for a minute. He knew that there was a whole, big war going on outside of these walls and that he was a soldier whether he liked it or not but for just a few minutes, he could sit here and pretend he didn't have to go out there and fight for a cause he didn't know the whole truth about. Like he wasn't a Marshal Commander and the only thing he had to worry about was loving the person right in front of him.

He wondered if he were to run away, desert the Republic. Would anyone care? Would anyone come looking for him? Rex would, Cody probably not far behind. Keeli would look to. He had people he cared about here and he didn't want to leave them behind but sometimes he wished he could. Wished he could just go and leave all of this behind. But that would mean leaving his men. That would mean leaving his General. Leaving Cody and Rex. That would mean leaving Keeli. And he couldn't do that. He doesn't think he could live in a world where he left behind the one person he cared about the most in the galaxy. The one person he could always count on.

For right now thought he could imagine he was far away from the war. Far away from any kind of conflict. He could pretend to just be with the love of his life for a time and then, when he eventually had to go out and face the big, bad, ugly world, he could look to the memories of simpler times and remember exactly what he was fighting for.

[lovebugmusings]

how would cody / rex react if they saw you hurt?

for both of these, i'm going to say that you're a field medic, working with the 212th or 501st respectively. which means you, my dear, were injured in battle

cody

look, both cody and rex are in positions of authority within their battalions, but cody is the marshal commander. he has the highest rank a clone could possibly have. so for cody, everyone is his responsibility. does this mean he's constantly a little stressed? yes.

he wasn't all that happy about having a nat-born as a field medic when you first joined the 212th, but you proved yourself many times over, so cody trusted you with his men's lives, and with your ability to hold your own on the field

until one day you couldn't. until one day you were injured. and boy cody has never moved so fast

it was a poorly timed grenade throw mixed with superbattle droid blaster fire which resulted in an explosion that threw you against the wall of the cliff the republic army were using for cover

the commander shot his blaster with one hand while he used the other to vault himself over rocks to get to you

he'd never have admitted that he cared more for you than he should, more than a commander to a medic, more than friends. but in that moment, where your body is slumped against the wall unconscious, cody wanted nothing more than for you to know just how much he cared for you

could cody have gotten another clone to scoop you up in his arms and carried you away, behind the general who was cutting down droids? yes. but all he wanted was to get you safe, this man was tunnel visioned on you

he doesn't leave your side when you're back on the negotiator, even when Bench (hi yes i have a 212th clone medic OC and his name is bench and yes i know how he got the name. i love him) tells cody to rest, because you'll be sedated for a few more hours

when you wake up, cody is slouched in a chair clearly dragged from another section of the cruiser. your head is pounding and there is a slight ache in your side, but you were more worried about the terrible sleeping position of your commander

cody wakes up to you calling his name, and he's immediately out of the seat and sitting on the side of your cot, hand going to reach for yours but he decides against it (you take his hand)

rex

alright so rex and anakin and basically all of the 501st are definitely the type for dramatics, so you probably get shot, let's be honest

you keep working despite the blaster-wound in your arm and rex just heart-eyes at you for a moment before realising "oh my maker y/n was shot"

you're already in a relationship with rex (this is the best friend and right hand man of a jedi who is married to a senator. he does not care lmao) so he's so stressed. not only is he the captain, in charge of his men and all those who are apart of the 501st and are generally on board the resolute, but also you're his partner. he cares about you so damn much

as soon as he reaches you, he orders kix to tend to your wound, but you brush him off, saying that you will be deal with yourself once you are back on board the cruiser. the man currently dealing with broken armour in his side was your priority

rex holds you to that. the second you are back on board the resolute, rex is walking you to the medical wing - honestly he would carry you if he had to

the entire time kix is patching you up (literally just a bacta patch), rex is asking if you're okay, telling you off for being reckless and not being in complete cover, apologising for not protecting you better. all the while you're telling rex that it's your job and that he was doing his, and that he wouldn't be if he was hovering by you

he definitely has you share his bunk with him that night because he was so worried about you

[sidesteppostinghours]

feeling some rather intense thoughts and emotions over steps that arent mine, about an au that i did not create.

@/idlenight if you see this im sorry but i had to borrow your boy because it was all i could think about after seeing aurries tags

[moodymisty]

« How does one tempt a Marshall Commander? »

Author's Note: This was stuck in stasis for so long I almost dumped it. I hope it was worth the effort lol

Summary: What would it take for Cody to stop being such a stickler for the rules?

Relationships: Commander Cody/Fem!Reader

Warnings: NSFW, Lingerie, Oral(Female receiving), Teasing, A bit of a strip tease, Foreplay, Biting, Hickies

Word count: 7056

Ao3 Link

You almost never get to see Cody.

And in the rare times you do it feels like a split second; Rushed and frantic trying to get as much as you could before he was torn away from you again.

You'd just hauled him in here for a kiss, which had turned from being a sweet peck to reddened and swollen lips.

You brush your hair from your face, giving a breathy laugh as Cody leaves a trail of soft kisses up your neck. The room was small, just enough room for some desks and the both of you; The air sticky and stuffy. The cooling unit for this one must be turned off, since no ones seemed to have used it for a decent while. You remember something he’d said and bring it up once more, as his lips tease your skin.

"You’re really not able to?"

You could feel his head shake against your neck. He’s already scolding himself for doing this, he can’t slack off anymore. His hands are trailing up and down your spine just underneath your top and it almost makes you shiver; The way his gloves feel against your skin.

"They changed my orders. There's new squads that need training and I'm in charge of it all."

Maybe it was a bit presumptuous of you to think you’d be able to sneak another moment of his time, but you couldn't help it. You just wish they wouldn't constantly work him to the bone and when he finished it, pile on more until you feared his back would break under it all. Though it wasn't like he would ever complain, he almost seemed to enjoy it; Taking it in stride.

When he hears you groan, Cody has to resist rolling his eyes.

"I can’t shirk my duties. Though I’m sure you could convince one of my men to.” He sighs as if disappointed. “They all like you too much." He wasn't wrong; It was cute, how Ghost Company had just adopted you in not long after meeting Cody, now treating you as a close friend and attempting to defend you from even minor inconveniences. Quickly the shinies had learned to back off, when they see a clone in orange painted armor close to you.

Especially, if that clone was Commander Cody.

"They like me because I help them avoid getting into trouble with you when they do dumb stuff." Cody's hands tighten around your waist, drifting downwards until they rest comfortably against the tops of your hips.

"They like you because I do. You might as well be part of 212th with them." He gives one more kiss to your cheek before pulling away, hands slipping from underneath your top. You adjust it after, watching a corner of his mouth crook upward just a tad.

"What exactly did you mean by 'dumb stuff'?" The sound of you smacking his shoulder echoes in the small room, as Cody looses his smile and straightens back up. He’s already getting ready to leave, you can tell.

"I have to get back. I'm sure they're already wondering where I am."

Knowing it was true, you still can’t help but sigh. It was more than lucky you'd even gotten this moment but greed is insatiable. You needed to get back too, before your own messes started piling up even higher. Managing to steal one more kiss from him before he pulls his body fully away from yours, Cody adjusts any bit of armor that seems even minutely out of place and fixes his hair.

Back to clean cut, by the books Commander Cody.

He quickly leaves the room you'd hauled him into and knows exactly where he was needed, even if he didn’t want to leave you either. You stay in here by yourself for a moment to adjust your own clothes, before leaving as well. He was probably halfway across the base by now; Always walking like he was right next to a fire. You have to make the same path, through bland grey colored hallways.

It wasn't an excited walk to say the least, blowing a disgruntled raspberry.

You felt almost like a small child, asking for just five more minutes. You don’t even want to begin to think about what you’d do if he gets stationed on another planet, and you couldn’t follow.

You didn't encounter many people on the way back, trying to slip back into where you should actually be without anyone noticing you were late. Only one person did, though thankfully they didn't comment other than raising their eyebrows at how quickly you were scurrying around. It wasn't like they'd have any incentive to do so anyways.

The few non-clones on the base were hires or volunteers, and going through the lengthy process of writing someone up and getting them disciplined was far to much trouble than it was worth most of the time; Unless they were really being a pest or you just really hated them.

But even as you were waist deep in your own thoughts the computer screen almost started blurring your vision, with absolutely nothing of interest happening.

You were almost wishing for technical errors or injuries to at least distract you, and keep you from almost sinking into the ground. Then again catching a moment with Cody somewhere always seemed to do this; You’d get a taste of the good stuff and then it would be torn away from you, mulling over everything you wished you’d had time to do.

It felt like years before the torture was over, and you could lament over the fact that you swore you could still feel his touch on your lower back at home instead. Finally this day was over. At least you could leave this place, the clones had to stay.

Even with the mess hall serving food it was a struggle yet to get through the halls, having to pass through group after group of soldiers. But you tug your coat tighter, only after what felt like miles of walking manage to get out of the clone base and out into the city. It was just on the borders, stationed just close enough by that it was easy for supply drops and moving large amounts of troops. Surely from a trooper's point of view it was nice to have the city and it's bars close by, but that was never the reasoning for the base when it'd first been built.

This time of night most taxis would be busy and you weren't in the mood to take a dirty one home, even if it was just a short trip. You'd just walk, staying close to the side and out of the way of speeders and larger groups of people.

You wondered what Cody was doing at this hour; Because he surely wasn't resting.

You swore he wouldn't sleep for days at times, mulling over a million different things at once. His dedication was admirable, but it can only get you so far. Even so it was a deeply ingrained part of him; You just wished he'd take care of himself a little more.

Tugging the edges of your coat tighter the night is surprisingly cold this time, and you'd neglected to bundle up. Though that didn't stop the leagues of friends bar hopping or hanging around, as the street was packed with late night crowds. Many were already drunk and stumbling around looking for the next bar or a cab home, having to step to the side to avoid slamming right into someone.

You might've been tempted to get a drink as well, if you had someone with you. It was never as much fun to drink alone, and you'd become quite partial to the clone bars anyway.

Passing by another restaurant they began to fade away into shops instead, though most were closed. These were nice ones as well, filled with more and more expensive goods.

You didn't have much interest in shopping at first, passing by multiple stores that would more than likely be far out of your own price range. But just as you perished the idea and continued your path home however, hands deep in your pockets, you noticed something through the transparent door of a random store.

The color was what had caught the corner of your eye first, and it felt like no time at all before you'd pushed open the door and rushed in, almost instantly scurrying to stand in front of what you'd spotted. It was almost to nerve-wracking to touch it, as if it would disappear if you did so.

This was it!

You'd been searching for something like this for ages; In the exact shade of 212th orange.

A lingerie set made almost entirely of delicate lace; With an incredibly deep neckline and garter straps for holding up a matching pair of stockings. It was almost exactly what you'd been hoping to find, but never quite been able to. They were always the wrong shade, wrong size, or just all in all didn't work out. Unsurprisingly when you’re looking for something so incredibly specific, it’s quite a bit harder to find. It also didn’t help that there was a few times you’d thought maybe he wouldn’t like it, and you’d almost given up.

Though you’d persisted, and its finally paid off.

Snatching your newfound prize you'd deal with the price when you got there; Even forgoing so much fresh street food to cover the expense, paying while you pursed your lips.

They even put it in a little box, which was absolutely perfect for what you had in mind for it. After leaving you'd never rushed home so fast, trying to hold back the smile on your face as you held it close to your chest. It stayed there the entire way until you were safely back in your apartment, and you sat it on the kitchen table where you knew it wouldn’t get forgotten. Given how much you'd been looking for the final piece in this scenario it was the last thing you'd want to do, even writing a note on your hand so you remembered.

After doing so you decided to get ready for bed, going through the same ritual as every night. It was later than usual, and you'd end up getting an hour or so less sleep; But given what you'd managed to get, you'd judge it all worthwhile.

The feeling of sinking into the bed wasn't something you'd take for granted however even if you'd get a bit less of it. You just wished Cody was here with you. He didn't often get to, though you'd count your blessing considering not too long ago, he didn't even have the ability to leave the clone bases at all.

After rolling around for a bit you end up falling to sleep while thinking about how he'd react to everything, hoping it would be as good as you expected it to be.

The next day, after a long bunch of hours staring at a screen and getting largely zilch done you hold the ‘gift’ in your hands, fingers absentmindedly feeling the corners. You’d brought it with you in hopes of giving it to him, but hadn’t managed to yet.

Cody was always in a different location, so your hopes of tracking him down wasn't incredibly high. The barracks would be your best bet. You wanted him to have something to look forward to; And even if it took awhile, he'd have this as a bit of a 'come back soon' gift.

Sure, maybe you also got a bit of devious enjoyment from the idea of teasing him so blatantly when he’s stuck commanding various squads, but who wouldn't.

Not having the place drawn in memory you walked through hallway after hallway before managing to find it; The 212th barracks. You didn't have the code for it, so you knocked hoping one of them was inside. Someone was, as the door slid open almost instantly.

"Fancy seeing you here."

It was Waxer, leaning against the wall looking at you. You decide to not beat around the bush and just ask outright.

"Is Commander Cody here?" He shook his head, pulling off his helmet and tucking it in the crook of his elbow.

"No. He's at a briefing for the next hour or so." You pulled the small box from your bag and held it outward, deciding to entrust it to one of Cody's men. The likelihood of you managing to catch Cody somewhere was slim, and he'd be more likely to end up crossing one of his men.

"Can you give something to him when he comes back then?" He hesitates for a moment, before taking it from your hands and looking over it curiously. It’s quite light he notices, shifting it around in his hand. His face changes into a more curious one, with raised eyebrows and looking at you as the small box gets tossed around in the air.

"What's inside?" You smile and shake your head.

"Not telling." Waxer groans, his shoulders raising as he pleaded with you. "Well now I really wanna know!" You shake your head again, adjusting the collar of your top. You should’ve expected he would be curious about it the second you said not to look.

"Well, you'll just have to live with that now, now won't you?" Waxer looked about to speak up but you knew what he was about to stay and pointed a finger at him, cutting him off before he had the chance to do so.

"And if Cody tells me it was already opened, you all won't go unpunished." He over-dramatically rolls his eyes. Of course you’d use being Cody’s ‘favorite’ as he puts it, against him. He relents, but you can hazard a good guess that the matter is far from over. But you still leave it with him anyways; It’s not as if you have the ability to run around the base for hours or have any idea on where to start. You walk off and decide to head home, already tired from today’s chaos.

Waxer watches you leave, before instantly deciding to go on a headhunt. He knows this particular base like the back of his hand, and Cody was surely around somewhere; He always was. It would just be a matter of catching him before he was already racing to the next thing he needed to do.

Which was exactly what Waxer caught him doing; Moving down the hall with that same authoritative, determined walk.

The only thing that stopped him was a small item getting shoved directly in his line of sight, as one of his men comes to start walking beside him. He stops walking and turns to look at Waxer, confused. His helmet is off and tucked in the crook of his elbow.

"A box?" Cody seems a little confused, and Waxer tilts his head.

"Oh you know, me and the boys really apprec-" Cody sighs and shuts the fake speech down before it gets too out of hand.

"She couldn't find you, said to give it to you once I had the chance. She really didn't want anyone but you to look inside." He holds out a hand and gestures towards himself once he knows it’s from you, Waxer putting the box in his hands. Cody glances down at it, before back to him. His face is that same stern look, with just a hint of curiosity.

"Did you?" Waxer gives a contemplative look before shaking his head.

"Considered x-raying it; Decided not to." Cody has to resist rolling his eyes. He thanks Waxer for delivering your gift to him 'un-tampered', before shooing the soldier back to whatever duties he should actually be doing. Meanwhile, Cody decides that since no one at the moment is instantly demanding his presence, that he could take this back to his barracks. Curiosity was an insatiable beast; One that lead him to sitting on his temporary bunk, he never thought he’d end up missing the ones on Kamino, and opening it.

Instantly Cody notices its cloth; Softly bunched up with even a little note on top. He decides to look at it first, almost having to squint to read it with how bad the light in the barracks is.

'Come back soon, Commander.'

He's confused for a moment, until he pulls on the cloth just enough that it begins to show its shape and he realizes.

He knows what type of clothing this is, the context of it.

Cody ended up almost cursing you, before quickly shoving the box under his bunk's mattress. You'd absolutely done this on purpose; Wanting to distract him. It works of course, as he's instantly picturing what it would look like on you, while you had the satisfied smirk of someone who knew their plan had worked. He wonders if you’d already put it on, or if you’d just known him well enough to know that this would get him to stop thinking with his brain.

Cody ends up storming out of his barracks almost angry, and every soldier in sight knows to get out of his way.

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

It's a week and two days days later that Cody manages enough free time to end up at your apartment; Knocking on the door holding the edge of his helmet in his left hand. You open the door and see him standing there, stepping to the side to let him in before closing the door behind him.

He’s stiff, shoulders squared as he comes inside.

"Waxer gave me your gift."

When you glance down at his other hand you see he's holding it; Decently tight in his grip. Any tighter and the box might crumple.

"And did you like it?" You smile while watching Cody come further into the apartment. He turns to you and his eyes are stern, and now you know your idea worked.

"So now you don't even wait until we're in the same room to start teasing me now?"

Cody loosened his grip and let his helmet fall onto the chair, it bouncing once before laying still visor side up. You walk closer to him while he's turned around, ignoring the way he says your name with a disapproving tone as you chuckle and move in.

“Is it so wrong to have a little fun?” Cody hums when he feels your chest press against his back, fingers reaching for the buckles keeping his chestplate tight. Attempting to undo them once you find them, Cody turns around to face you. His face is stern and looking almost as if he’s going to reprimand you, hand wrapping around your bicep tight stopping the way your hands attempt to snake up his chest and into the hair at the nape of his neck.

They feel good; And he wants to let himself relax but he's on a mission now, looking at you.

“It is when you’re trying to keep a GAR Commander from doing his job.”

You pull his face closer, trying to bring him to your level. His lips are so close, just barely dusting across your own while you speak. You’d been a little nervous wondering if he’d enjoy it, pursing your lips as you look at him.

“I was just trying to give you a gift.” Cody's nose presses against yours, his eyes darting around your face. He tugs you even closer at your response, while he stares you down. His hands are tight, holding you firmly in place.

“I know you’re lying. I had to have this on my mind through briefings and four different training drills. I could barely keep everything straight because you had to be a naughty little tease.”

He never had much spare time, and the moment he'd gotten leave, the commander's required work was finished and he was gone within seconds. It wasn't something he normally did; Many times he'd neglected leave and worked day through night, training and battle plans and supply line routing. You were the first thing that had managed to make him think of something else. He’d spent more than a few of those recent nights thinking of you, and fuming over the way his bodyglove would get so tight and he’d have to do something about it.

"Should I apologize, then?" His face moved so he could brush his lips against your own.

“I know you won’t actually mean it.”

He’s not wrong; You’re more than pleased at the way he seems irritated that you’d gotten so deep under his skin.

"Then what do you want?" Cody's hand tightens around your arm. It’s firm, keeping you in place even though you had no intentions of moving away.

"What I want, is for you to put on my gift. Now." He's still holding it in his other hand, before moving to shove it into your own.

"Ok, Commander."

Cody lets out a disapproving hum.

"You're already playing with fire girl, don't push it."

Slowly peeling away from him he reluctantly lets go, and you take the opened box from his hand before turning to leave. But he follows you, all the way into your bedroom and stands with the back of his legs against the side of your bed. You can feel the way his eyes trail down your body in a way that makes you nervous again, having him stare like this. He’s peeling off pieces of plastoid armor until he’s only in his flightsuit, meanwhile you’re still just standing there. When he looks at you expectantly, you can’t help but say something.

"Quit being so impatient." You dare to say, and Cody lets out a scoff as you nervously fiddle with the hem of your top.

"You decide to be a naughty little slut and tease me with something like that, then expect me to be patient? You’re lucky I’m waiting for you and didn’t just throw you over the table."

The mental image that sentence conjures sends a jolt straight to your cunt, before you finally gather the gusto to pull your shirt fully off.

Piece by piece you peel your clothes away slowly while Cody watches, in a way that you could only describe as hungry.

That hunger only grows stronger as you slowly slip on the orange lace you paid so much for, and you barely have it fully over your shoulders before he’s walking towards you. His eyes graze over your body as he corrals you inward towards the bed, your legs hitting the side.

“Lay down.”

When you don’t listen instantly he presses a hand against your shoulder and pushes; Making you tumble and fall backward onto the mattress.

Shortly thereafter Cody follows, one knee slipping between your thighs as he kneels onto the bed. It’s just barely away from your cunt, and you try to subtly move closer to it. He moves it back away form you, noticing your attempt, and gives you one small smack against the side of your ass. The little yelp you let out sends a jolt straight down to his cock, seeing you writhe underneath him. One hand supports himself by your shoulder, while the other bushes against the lace laying on your side. He won’t satisfy your greediness just yet, not after you’d tortured him with this for so long.

"I didn't think it'd be over a week till you could come by,"

You say, it the first excuse in your head. Not that you needed one, as he leans down and steals a firm kiss. His nose presses against your own, skin feeling almost boiling hot. He groans as you nip at his bottom lip, tightening your arms around his neck as his tongue slips into your mouth. He pulls back and a firm hand pulls your hips closer to him, knee finally pressing against your cunt. It makes you let out a sudden breathy gasp as he speaks with that stern, on duty voice while he feels your wet pussy grind against his leg.

“That wasn’t part of your little plan the whole time? I find it hard to believe.”

There's a hand sliding up your side, rough skin against patches of skin not covered by burnt orange lingerie. It stays against your ribcage for a moment, feeling your breath underneath his palm. But soon his fingertips move upward, slipping underneath the lace to wrap around your breast; Firm but not too rough. He kneads it as you wiggle underneath him, nipple against his rough palm legs kicking nothing but air. His lips only pull away from yours so he can pull you fully onto the bed, while he takes the moment to peel the top of his body glove off.

“You talk like I’m constantly teasing you.” He slaps your ass again.

“You do.”

The bed dips under his weight as he crawls over you, caging your body as his lips press against your jaw. Once again slips to wrap against your breast, rubbing and gripping sensitive skin. Gasping as he kissed and nipped at the skin just under your jaw he’s surely leaving little bite marks and hickies; Your fingers scratching against his shoulders. His hand is partly obscured by orange lace, sliding around underneath it as your nipple hardens underneath his palm. One of your hands moves to the fabric on your shoulder, considering being rid of it. After all it’s served it’s purpose, you think.

"Do you want me to take it off?"

Cody however, seems to have a completely different thought on it. His lips are pressed against your neck, and he can barely manage to pull away enough to mumble:

"No. Keep it on. You wanted me to see it so badly, you can wear it while I fuck you."

The way he says that sends a massive jolt right down to your cunt, feeling the way you throb surely leaking against your lingerie. His lips move downward; Over your collarbone, between your breasts, down between the deep V-neck to where the lace just begins to finally cover your stomach. Every bit he halts just long enough to leave small bites against your hot skin, glancing up over your body.

He loves this view, seeing you look down at him from between your thighs. Even if you’ve decided to be a little tease.

The way his brown eyes look so full of fire almost make you stop breathing entirely. Your body tenses as he moves downward even more, watching as his hands drift over your knees. His fingers feel warm against your skin, firm as they slide over seemingly every little part of your thighs. Once they reach the thickest part, he grabs tight and yanks you closer in one quick, hard jerk.

His touch keeps lingering as are his eyes and when completely stills for a moment you giggle, biting your lip.

"Frozen?" Cody lets his hands trail across your skin again and drifts a hand over your stomach. He adjusts his own posture until he's laying on the bed now, unable to see his erection straining against his flightsuit. When his hand trails over the soft lace, you speak up when there’s a fear he’s going to get rough with it.

"Don’t ruin it; I want to wear it again."

You whisper as his mouth leaves little bites that trail down your inner thigh, feeling the first beginnings of stubble against his jaw. But in the early morning it would be gone again, as Cody was ever the picture of military excellence. Though now could be an exception, as you feel his hot breath on your skin. He hand pulls back and lightly smacks at your pussy, watching you gasp and writhe.

"Don't go getting anymore ideas. You’re already in trouble for this."

He almost moans just from the feeling of your thighs parting wider underneath his hands, lips brushing over the lace barely covering your cunt. He wastes little time in hooking a finger around it and pulling it to the side, intentionally slipping between your folds for a moment in the process. It makes your knees twitch inward, but his hands keep them spread wide while watching his mouth press against your cunt.

“Doesn’t feel like I am,”

Your voice is breathless, even more so when he softly bites one or your outer lips just to remind you that you’re still on shaky ground.

The response is instant; Your hips twitch upward even as he holds you firmly in place, trying to keep you from wiggling away from his mouth.

His tongue slips between your folds and drifts upward until it grazes against your clit, following as you writhe underneath his tongue. With each suck and nip and lick he teases while you bite your bottom lip, desperately not trying to cry out leaning up on one forearm.

“Maker, Cody; Don’t stop,”

He didn’t have any plans to, even if it was tempting to tease you and leave you struggling underneath him. As punishment for teasing him, though he’ll never get over the way he’s weaker for the sounds of you praising him when he pleases you so well. The knots in your lower stomach and psudo-heartbeat in your cunt only get worse while he sucks on your folds; Stomach tensed, the blankets bunch below you as your body leans forward.

Your hands dig into his hair like it's a lifeline, forming what was a neat military cut into a curly, frazzled mess.

The way Cody was moving felt almost like he was a man starved; Feeding off the sounds your wet pussy makes. Even if he was never a very talkative sort he was largely silent, to busy sucking and biting and licking while his fingers leave red little marks on your thighs. His face must be soaked, with the way he’s pressing it against you with no hesitation; Your juices and his spit dripping from his chin to your ass and to the blankets.

“Right there, I- Fuck, Cody!”

He hears you sing his name so many times it mushes together into an almost incomprehensible plea. His firm grip is the only thing keeping your body against the bed, hips twitching as that hot tightness in your stomach finally gives way.

He only decides to slow his tongue against your clit when he feels you cum, body laying limp against the blankets as he feels your pussy twitch against his mouth. Giving a few more licks and instantly relishing in the way your body instantly reacts in over-sensitivity, he pulls back wipes his face with the back of his hand, while your chest is still heaving.

His hands now only dare to leave your body to pull away the only piece of clothing he has on; The bottom half of his black flight suit. In largely the same fashion he'd done to the top it gets peeled away and thrown to the side, revealing his hard, weeping cock. He’s been on the verge of cumming for awhile now, just from the way you were like putty underneath him as he now lays over your body.

You swear you can almost taste yourself on his lips as he leans down to kiss you, chest almost against your own as his hand slips to cradle the back of your neck.

His cock is rubbing against you, sliding between your folds and quickly becoming slick; Before a hand slips between your bodies and adjusts himself to slowly press into you. It's a dull, consistent stretch that has you grasping at his shoulder, while another hand grasps at your own chest. When your legs press against his hips keeping him close he moves faster, hips slapping against your thighs. It's salacious; The noise. The way it drowns out everything else in the room, part from your heated breathes and mumbles.

"Fuck, Cody you feel so good,"

He'll never get tired of hearing his name on your lips, no matter what way you're saying it. You mumble it again, nipping at his bottom lip and feeling your tongue brush against his own.

He only dares to pull away when he wants to see it again; His colors against your skin.

It makes you whine as he pulls away and leans back, hands moving from beside your shoulders to grasp at your waist. He keeps pulling you to him, feeling your effort to do the same. You want him closer, skin touching skin.

Looking down on you he saw the way the two main parts of lace against your chest, separated by a large v cut, slid to the sides unable to stay in the right spots. It only gets worse as he thrusts into you, body pushing against the blankets as you moan and grasp them.

It was his favorite sight; To see you undone like this, hair messy and body laid out underneath him.

His hand brushes over your breast and the displaced lace, moving it correctly over your chest again.

'What a gift', he thinks; Part of him wonders what else you could find that would make him this irrational. You seemed to have developed a knack for it, and no matter how much he ‘punishes’ you, you always come back for more. Your hands grip the blankets wrinkled underneath you, as your head leans back and exposes your neck.

"Someone likes it,"

Your laugh is breathy and hot, eyes hooded and threatening to close as his fingers brush over your nipple. Teeth scraping softly across your own bottom lip his eyes drift over you, any attempts of staying put together completely undone.

But even it's a beautiful sight he leans down anyways, pressing his lips to your for a quick kiss before your lips press against his neck, legs wrapped tight around his hips almost slowing him down.

“You, are going to be the death of me.” He mumbles under his breath.

His teeth grit to try and stop a moan as you suck against the skin of his neck, little nips against the skin just below his ear.

Your hands are wrapped in his hair, tugging at the nape of his neck before one moves away. It slips down between your bodies to touch yourself, for a second feeling the way he slips out only to bury himself in you again. It makes the air around you hot, stuffy as you suck on the bruised skin of his neck. You know he likes those marks, even if he always grumbles at you over having to cover them up. You catch his eyes for a moment, own fingers brushing against your clit and before you know it your cumming around him; Thighs pressing against him as your arms tighten around him.

Your body is tight around him like a vice forcing him to slowly, your nails digging into the skin of his shoulders. It hurts and it feels incredible to him and Cody's face is hot against your ear, barely holding on.

"Where," Knowing it would affect him your nails drag further up his shoulders and even against his neck, teetering into pain.

"Inside. Don't want to ruin your gift."

Part of him did. Wanted to see what you'd look like with strings of cum along your chest and stomach. But you'd almost trapped him against you, your legs around his hips as he falters, cumming inside you. His forehead against your temple he can barely stop the way his moan almost shakes, hips slow before he finally stills.

Your cunt feels soaked, thighs and his cock wet even more as he slowly pulls from you and his cum leaks from you and trails downward.

While you'd expected him to be a little riled after so long and your honestly cruel tease, part of you hadn't really been prepared for how tired you'd be after the fact.

A thumb brushes across your lips when he barely pulls away from you, that stern expression he’d originally worn when he’d arrived having long since been thrown away.

"Do you need anything?" He kisses the little marks he'd left on your neck, a palm brushing over your forehead.

"Just need to clean up. And to put this away so I don't ruin it." You gesture to the lingerie against your stomach. After all it was expensive, and you'd like to at least get a few more uses out of it before it somehow gets ruined. You have more plans for it, and surely one would end up with him ripping it to some degree; Either on purpose or accident.

Legs limp and your chest finally not heaving the room feels a more normal temp, smiling as you feel him pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. You don't want to get up; You want to bask in an afterglow while Cody is right here with you, for the first time in days. In weeks, if you don't count tiny interactions in hallways and empty rooms.

But eventually you do tear yourself away, feeling his hand drop from your side as you slip from the bed and walk across the floor. The lingerie almost has to be peeled from you with the soft sheen of sweat on your skin, and you feel far less sexy than you had putting it on. It gets folded and you make a note to wash it with whatever special needs it requires, sitting it on the counter to do tomorrow. Or whenever you remember to do so, more likely.

You return from the refresher and Cody is in the same place, his hair hilariously frazzled compared to how neat it usually is. Walking over you flop on the bed and try and pull yourself underneath the covers as he walks to where you'd returned from, managing to find the bottoms of his bodyglove somewhere on the floor.

When he's slipping into the bed behind you he has those bottoms back on though only halfway, while he tugs you closer so you rest against him. You're laying partly on your side, while Cody lays on his stomach fully spread out. The bed is huge, compared to the bunks he was used to. Raking the hair from his face you looked over him, before up at the bathroom door.

"You can use my shower if you want," Cody leans up and over, party shadowing your body.

"Trying to imply something?" You shook your head and dragged your hand against the side of his head.

"No, just want to make sure you to feel at home."

Cody tries to pull you even closer, as if he wants every inch of his body touching yours. He mumbles that he loves you into the pillow, feeling your hand against his bare back. You say it back, fingers trailing over the knocks of his spine.

Cody shoves his face deeper into the pillow and sighs, tightening his arm around your waist. He swore he'd never felt so comfortable and at peace in his entire life, and almost instantly fell dead asleep soon after.

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

A gloved hand picking at a small piece of chipped paint, Boil laments that he'd have to touch up his armor soon. He glances up at the door again. It was still closed, pursing his lips under his helmet.

"He's late?"

Mumbling to himself and getting another clone's casual 'guess so' hum in response, Boil looked at the time; And it hadn't changed since the last time he'd looked.

07:21.

The briefing was supposed to start and 07:00 exactly, as Cody would always demand impeccable timing.

As he himself was never late; Cody would always be the first one, crossing his arms and waiting for the rest as they slowly trickled in. If you were even a minute late, you were reprimanded. Ten minutes late, you were written up.

But now everyone’s all here and waiting, with the commander nowhere in sight. The clone that had responded to his original query leaned into his side and whispered, looking around the room and seeing other clones also visibly confused.

"Want to go hit the mess hall? Since this is a bu-"

Everyone suddenly jolted upright having been promptly startled out of their wits as the door suddenly opened, sounding like it could've damaged something in the process. Every soldier in the room turns to the doorway and in stomps Commander Cody, helmet tucked in his arm as he tries to subtly buckle the side of his belt.

"Alright men, to start w-" Cody could barely even finish his sentence, having only just gotten to the holotable before one of the clones dares to speak up.

"Sleep in late Commander?"

In response that clone gets a glare that could cut durasteel, while Boil notices that one shoulder strap of Cody’s chestplate was tighter than the other.

"Cut the chatter, soldier." The clone listens, though everyone could see the satisfied look on his face. Cody places his helmet on the edge of the holotable, while also taking the movement to try and quickly adjust a piece of armor on his thigh.

"Boil. Come up here and help." Quickly Boil comes to round the holotable, while Cody starts pulling up the map and pinning siege points. Boil takes the moment to lean inward, into the Commander's personal space and speaking low enough that hopefully no one else could hear over soft chatter and the rattling of the cooling unit for the room. He’d just noticed something.

"You might want to cover up your neck, Commander." Cody looks up from the map and turns to him, brow furrowed.

"Why would I-" Boil had his lips pursed as tight as possible, but he still couldn't avoid cracking slightly.

"Everyone can see why you were late."

Boil swore he saw Cody loose three shades to his skin almost instantly, before he tugged the neck of his flightsuit up higher. He harshly swallowed and instantly started the briefing, one hand trying to slick his hair back and make sure it’s neat. When he turns at the waist he has to resist his face twinging; As the back of his chestplate presses against his sore, scratched shoulderblades.

You weren’t going to hear the end of this from him, no doubt about it.

[terzos-edibles]

Silver Linings

1. Gotta Keep On, Keepin' On

Summary: No kid, no tribe, and avoiding his responsibilities, Din Djarin has gone back to bounty hunting and mercenary work under the watchful eye of Boba Fett. After a job on Ibaar goes very wrong in more ways than Din would like to count, he is forced to flee with a very peculiar New Republic doctor. He is determined to get enough credits and fuel to drop the doctor off on her home planet and be done with it. But will he be able to part ways with her after she finds all the right and wrong ways to push his buttons?

Words: 1.8k

Rated Mature: language, canonical violence, depression, mentions of suicidal behavior.

“I don't know if I'm scared of dying But I'm scared of living too fast, too slow Regret, remorse, hold on, oh no I've got to go There’s no starting over No new beginnings time races on.” - My Silver Lining, First Aid Kit

Ibaar-

The fist of the Empire reached far, sweeping across the farthest reaches of the Galaxy; the deepest corners seemed to have felt its influences. Even the smallest, poorest planets had Stormtroopers deployed to them - a formality to further oppress the planets’ occupants and show their might - and dissuade any sort of rebellion from sparking. The destruction of the second Death Star and subsequent death of Emperor Palpatine at the hands of the Rebellion had shown that plan hadn’t, well, panned out. Still, in the five years or so after the fall of the Empire, the New Republic was just now starting to finally make its way into the Outer Rim Territories after ensuring that the more strategically essential planets were well taken care of. Remnants of the Empire still clung to those planets, holding out hope that the Empire would somehow revive itself and their loyalty would be rewarded. Many felt that the New Republic had abandoned them, that things hadn’t gotten any better since the Empire had fallen. It would be the same as it had always been. The Outer Rim would continue to be forgotten, continued to be terrorized by Remnant Stormtroopers, continued to be terrorized by pirates, and continued to be terrorized by gangsters. People had given up hope once again.

But, aid was coming. Slowly, but it was coming. New Republic troops were starting to make their way back out towards planets that needed them, bringing with them much-needed supplies and rations. Marshals were installed in the major cities and villages to help keep the peace and bring a sense of law to an otherwise lawless territory. Medical teams were dispatched to provide much-needed tautology assistance to planets that were unable to get the care they needed.

Doctor Gertrude Ásketill was the first in line to sign up for those peace operations. She was coming hot off of her time as a rebel medic. She was bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and full of hope as they deployed her to the first assignment. She had an entire team - plenty of assistants and droids to ensure that everyone got the proper care they needed. They were able to start a proper clinic, train the locals, and establish a line to the core planets to ensure they could get all the medicine and vaccines they would need. Trudy felt good when she left that planet for the second.

The second planet saw fewer supplies and resources. She thought maybe it might have been a mistake. This planet had a bigger population than the last. Perhaps they didn't realize they needed to send more supplies, but then the third and fourth planets came. Supplies and resources were stripped as funding got cut, and slowly her team was redistributed to other projects.

And that left Trudy on the fifth planet - Ibaar.

It was just her and a few other doctors spread across the Outer Rim that was left of the program. She was sure that they would be recalled back to Chandrila - the capital of the Republic, but that had been almost a year ago. She had been on Ibaar for about as long. She was alone; at least, it felt that way. The only other two in her clinic with her was an older model R4-7 droid named A9-C that had been reprogrammed to help in the medical field. The humanoid-shaped, bug-eyed droid was built in the early days of the Empire and complained more than he assisted. The other was a teenager named Max, who had taken an interest in medicine. Whether it was because he liked Trudy or wanted to become a medic was to be answered. He was a good assistant and listened.

The only other Republic representative on Ibaar with Trudy was the Marshal: Baxley Morgan. How that man ever got the job of Republic Marshal was beyond her. It was probably why he ended up out here. He had a good heart, but the boy was dumb as a brick, and while she was no fighter - she could at least shoot a blaster well enough to hit whatever she was pointing at. It might not have been where she wanted it to go, but at least it’d hit its target.

The Empire had put blockades up to punish the Ibaarians for being sympathetic to the rebel cause. The aid that had been promised to the Ibaarians had finally come, and it was a little lackluster. The locals were friendly enough, but they felt a little betrayed. Trudy couldn’t blame them.

Trudy had become jaded herself; things were back to the status quo. There weren’t any more Imperial blockades, but with the lack of resources and supplies coming in - there might as well have been.

Ibaar, all-in-all, wasn’t a bad planet. It was a mountainous, temperate planet. The capital village, and the one that Trudy was in, was nestled in a valley - built into the side of the mountain while the rest of the land in the valley was used for farming. The natural cliffs that reached their stony fingertips to the sky provided a natural defense for the village, and the hundreds of waterfalls that cascaded down their sides gave the village and farms much-needed water. On a clear day, you could see for miles around. Though for all of Ibaar’s beauty, the weather was the worst. They could be lucky to see the sun one, maybe twice, per month. The rest of the month was plagued with overcast clouds, fog, daily rain, and nightly thunderstorms. It took some getting used to, and Trudy had ordered extra vitamins to help with the lack of sun.

Despite being the capital village of Ibaar, Laakso Village didn’t even have its own docking bay within the village’s boundaries, especially - making already scarce supplies harder to get. Luckily speeders made that journey a bit less complicated, though it was still rough going. A local warlord and his gang - a former Imperial commander and his troopers - had taken it upon themselves to decide that the Ibaarian Mountains were a great place to hide and run their smuggling business out of, using the old rebel tunnels from the war.

It made things dangerous.

Unsuspecting travelers going to and from the port or any of the other smaller villages in the mountains would be ambushed. Those lucky to survive had their property stolen. The bandits would look for anything from blasters, food, credits, various forms of technology they could get their hands on, and medical supplies. Trudy didn’t know how many villagers and travelers she had patched up in her time there, injured by ambushes. While the gang kept the locals terrified, they still hadn’t been bold enough to make their way into Laasko Village, choosing instead to raid the smaller outer villages - ones not protected by a marshal.

Baxley was having a hell of a time dealing with it himself and had brought up hiring some extra help. Trudy had nipped that in the bud; hiding behind hired mercenaries wasn’t going to do anyone any good - that he really needed to call in support from the Republic. The conversation tapered off after that, and the emergency seemed to have died down. However, as it always did, there was no downtime. The newest crisis cropped up - the report of the flu on a neighboring planet in the same system. A planet Ibaar happened to trade with. Which meant Trudy had to work to get vaccines to Ibaar before everyone was sick. She had ordered them about a month ago. Thank the stars someone was on her side, and the vaccines only took a month to get to her. Someone had made the shipment hastily, and they were currently waiting for someone to pick them up. Trudy couldn’t pull her boots on fast enough when the docking attendant called her to report they had been dropped off. Within fifteen minutes, she was in a speeder with a blaster and Max in the passenger seat. They would get there by nightfall - if they were lucky. Trudy just hoped to the stars above that nothing happened on their way.

----

It seemed as though Trudy’s silent prayers were answered. She pulled the speeder around to the docking bay and left it idling as Max hopped out of it, striding up to the attendant’s office and rapping his knuckles on the glass. He had grown like a sprout since Trudy had been there, now easily towering over her - though that wasn’t exactly hard to do. Brownish red shaggy hair constantly fell into his eyes, much to his mother’s dismay, and he was a lot less intimidating than he liked to think he was, especially with those freckles. Trudy waited as they exchanged words, waving a hand as the attendant poked his head out of his office and motioned to where the vaccines were - clearly annoyed he had been interrupted from his dinner and whatever wrestling match was on the holo. Trudy moved towards the vaccines, scanning them in with the datapad she pulled from her pack and happy to see that they didn’t have to quite rush back with them. Their cooling system had enough charge to allow them to rest a little bit - though they would still have to make the trip back by night. Max helped her load the crates into the back of the speeder and went out front to buy them both some roasted tip-yip and drinks from the food cart out front. Trudy turned around, eyeing the gunship docked in the bay the vaccines had been stored in. Annoyance twisted in her stomach that the valuable vaccines were stored where some random visitor to the planet could just poke through them. Though, the presence of the gunship made her raise an eyebrow. Not many ships like this made their way out here; either the owner was here for a quick refuel, or they were up to something no good. She scowled at it as Max returned with the tip-yip on a stick and a couple of cool bottles of water. “We didn’t get harassed today,” Max observed as he sat down on the roof of the speeder, and Trudy took a seat inside. “You think somethin’ is goin’ on?”

She nibbled at the meat on the stick and offered a shrug, turning to look back at the gunship. “Who knows. I just hope they keep whatever they’ve got going on out of the village. I want to sleep peacefully when we get back.”

You know the phrase famous last words? Those were Trudy’s.

--- Miles away, a Mandalorian clad in beskar armor was about to attempt to take down a stronghold of bandits and remnant stormtroopers all on his own. Maybe Fennec Shand was right. Maybe he was suicidal. ** Chapter 2: But I Ain't Dead Yet Taglist: @novemberrain221, @blackdogdesignuk, @mistyfur5, @thepoisonofgod

[e350tb]

Monty’s Men: The British Army and the Liberation of Europe by John Buckley

I don’t think you can review a book largely about Field Marshal Bernard Law Montgomery - the clue is in the name - without first stating your opinion on the man himself. Perhaps no other general of the Second World War is so polarising - British opinions tend to vary from praise to biting criticism, whereas American opinions run the range from biting criticism to believing that he was significantly worse than Hitler. My opinion is that, while he was deeply flawed, he was for the most part a supremely competent commander, and that he generally got less men killed than most of his counterparts. It must be remembered, too, that he was commanding an army that was nearing the limit of its potential manpower - he couldn’t afford to expend men in the same way that the Soviets or the Americans could. His chief problem, of course, was his vanity, his unerring ability to place his foot directly in his mouth, and his total inability to work well in a coalition. Basically, there’s certainly a lot to criticise, but calling him ‘tHe WoRsT gEnErAl Of WoRlD WaR tWo’ is having a bit of a laugh.

Much of the Monty bashing, Buckley posits, has been shifted onto the British Army itself, which has been cast as a plodding, unimaginative and incompetent force since 1945 by the likes of, in order, Liddell Hart, ex-German General, Cornelius Ryan and Max Hastings, Hollywood, and video games. This is true to an extent, especially in Liddell Hart’s case as he was trying to prove that his prewar ideas would have won the war. Yet I feel like these charges are generally levelled against the Allies as a whole, largely due to the continuing fetish for the forces of Nazi Germany. Still, there’s enough there in the popular imagination for Buckley to counter, and he does a pretty effective job.

Buckley puts postwar criticism of the British Army into context, particularly in Normandy. There, the British and Canadians faced the lion’s share of German armour, while still evolving their doctrines for cooperation between infantry and armour, and while dealing with ground that heavily suited the defence. As the campaign progressed, the British Second Army improved, while the concentration of German forces eventually allowed the Americans to start the breakout in Operation Cobra. The British then managed to advance from the Seine to the Dutch border with a speed quite at odds with the idea that they were a plodding morass, and proved quite capable of handling the Germans while reducing their pocket on the Waal in the autumn of 1944. They proved the capability of their combined arms operations in the Reichwald and while crossing the Rhine. The Second Army, it seems, proved especially proficient in the set-piece battle. The importance of the infantry, rather than simply blasting through Europe with artillery, was made clear by their casualties - 70% of total British losses in Northwest Europe, which eventually necessitated the breaking up of units to keep others going.

Buckley is not without criticisms, however, and none of them seem particularly unfair. Market Garden is rightly derided as a frankly poor plan, as was the failure to start clearing the Scheldt Estuary early, which led to a campaign that was longer and bloodier than it needed to be. Goodwood was a bit messy, and Montgomery absolutely should not have told Eisenhower it was going to be a breakthrough operation. (It wasn’t. He knew it wasn’t. It still baffles me that he told Ike it was.) At times, he says, Montgomery’s forces could be operationally inflexible, which might have lost opportunities to exploit successes on the battlefield. The British didn’t really have a standard doctrine at the start of the Normandy campaign and had to learn a lot of things on the fly, particularly as a lot of what worked in the desert and Italy didn’t translate well to Western Europe. Ultimately, however, these were comparatively minor flaws, especially when compared to the state of the Germans opposite by 1944.

I do have one criticism of this book, and that’s in the title - ‘Monty’s Men.’ It’s somewhat tempered by the subtitle, but if someone just saw ‘Monty’s Men’ on its own, they’d quite reasonably assume that it would cover the British and the Canadians. It doesn’t - this is mostly just about the British, which the activities of the First Canadian Army covered from the perspective of the attached British corps (of which there was usually at least one.) Apart from Crerar and Simonds, there aren’t really any Canadian protagonists here. Keep that in mind if you were hoping for a broader history of the 21st Army Group. On a lesser note, there does seem to be a slight bias towards the 11th Armoured Division, but that’s more about my very specific opinions about British armoured divisions, and I don’t think his opinions about the 11th (vs the Guards and the 7th) are too egregious or unwarranted.

Overall, I enjoyed my time with Monty’s Men. I don’t know if it’ll change anyone’s mind on Monty - most people with an interest in the subject have probably made up their minds by now - but even if you hate him, it’s worth a look just to see how the British Army fought in Europe.

[josefavomjaaga]

Soult about Masséna

This is from Soult’s memoirs about the peninsular war. After describing the occupation of Andalusia, he comments on the next French attempt to conquer Portugal.

While the three army corps that had conquered Andalusia were employed in guarding it, the great military operations shifted to another theatre. The Emperor had recognised, by two attempts, that in order to conquer Portugal and force the English army into its last entrenchments, other means were needed than those he had employed up to that time.

Now, Soult obviously does not want to stress the point too much but this is surprisingly humble coming from Soult, considering that the “means employed up to that time” had very much included his person, and that one of the two failed attempts alluded to had been his own.

But no more of that – now it’s time for the big guns! And who would that be?

This time he neglected nothing to ensure the success of this great enterprise. Marshal Masséna was put in charge of it; his glory, ranking second only to that of the Emperor himself, designated him for such a mission. His keen eye […]

[…] would probably have noticed British forces crossing the Duero under his nose? Unlike a certain marshal Soult?

[…] and the vigour of his command were to give the impulse to a numerous and beautiful army, chosen with care. The authority of his name guaranteed obedience to his orders, a condition of success that too often had been lacking in Spain!

To which Ney probably commented, with regards to obeying Masséna: Hold my beer!

But I am somewhat astonished about Soult’s praise for Masséna here. I had had the impression that the two of them were not on the friendliest of terms ever since the siege of Genoa. But by the time Soult wrote this, Masséna was of course already dead. As a matter of fact, he had died while Soult was in exile. Maybe Soult regretted he had never had the chance to reconcile with him. Or their estrangement had never been that serious in the first place.

[historyman101]

Prince of the Empire Joachim Murat, King of Naples (1767-1815)

With the Poniatowski saga officially in the works, I figure I should talk about some of the key characters and figures that will be prominent in my story. First up is not Napoleon himself, but one of his right-hand men, Marshal Murat.

He is, of course, Poniatowski’s closest friend in the Grande Armee, and it’s not hard to see why. The two men are very similar to each other and both lived very colorful lives that ended in a similar tragedy.

I realize that @joachimnapoleon is more knowledgeable about Murat than I am, so no doubt I will get some things wrong in my assessments of him. Take all of my opinions on the guy as you will.

Murat fascinates me because his rise and fall mirrors that of Napoleon’s. He came from humble origins (an innkeeper’s son), rose not only to be one of the senior-most Marshals in the empire, but a king. However, he was also a man of contradictions. Exceptionally brave, but ultimately looking out for himself. One of Napoleon’s trusted friends, but ultimately betrayed him (I know about Marshal Marmont, but Marmont isn’t in this story). A superb horseman, but showed a lack of concern for his horses (especially in 1812). A renowned ladies’ man, but happily married with children. An ardent republican, but was made a king.

Before Murat became a legend in military history, he was destined to be a clergyman, but dropped out of college and ran away from home to join the cavalry. He was stuck on the sidelines for much of the Revolutionary Wars until his fateful meeting with Napoleon Bonaparte during the 13 Vendemaire Uprising. Then a captain, he was charged with fetching the cannon that allowed Napoleon to mow down the Royalist mob.

He faithfully served Napoleon in Italy and Egypt, earning a reputation as a courageous leader of cavalry and a dashing beau sabreur. Murat always tried to make a splash and draw as much attention as possible, usually through his extravagant uniforms, and the tiger pelt on his horse’s back. 

As an officer, he had keen tactical instinct. Aggressive, fearless, and charismatic, he was the perfect cavalry commander on the battlefield. He often put himself at great personal risk, such as when he rode into battle at Jena with only his riding crop. His finest moment was probably at Eylau, where his massed cavalry charge saved Napoleon’s army and turned what looked to be a bloody defeat into a bloody draw. 

On the battlefield, he was peerless. But as an administrator, he struggled. Nowhere is this better demonstrated in Spain, where his only answer to every problem was to call out the troops and order firing squads. When you’re a hammer, everything else looks like a nail. 

Spain brings me to what I think is when things began to go downhill for Murat: when he received the throne of the Kingdom of Naples. I’ll probably get some flak for saying this, but I think Napoleon making him a king was perceived as a slight, as I can’t imagine Murat not wanting the throne of Spain. For someone with a big head like his, Naples was seen as second prize, and I don’t think he ever forgave Napoleon for it.

Not to say I don’t understand where he was coming from, but it strikes me as very petty and ungrateful. The guy was a college dropout who had risen to be not only one of the most senior marshals in the empire but also became Napoleon’s brother-in-law. Count your blessings, Prince, and consider yourself fortunate to even be made king. 

However, Murat, from what I’ve read, was well-liked in Naples. He reformed the army and the government, tried his best to limit French influence, and even turned a blind eye to smuggling, which, naturally, hurt his friendship with Napoleon.

He was still trusted enough to lead the cavalry in the Russian campaign, but as in Spain, he showed his limitations as a commander. He drove his men and his horses hard in Russia, and that had disastrous consequences for the French army. Not only did horses die from exhaustion and lack of fodder, but even failed to distribute proper horseshoes. He had no sense of strategy and only knew how to fight, as he did with great skill at the Battle of Borodino and during the retreat from Moscow.

By 1813, Murat was no longer concerned with aiding Napoleon, but hanging on to his kingdom, and thus entered secret negotiations with the Allies to keep his throne. Even as he did so, he still proved an adept leader of cavalry at Dresden and Leipzig, and even came close to turning the tide at the latter. 

But after Leipzig ended in defeat, he switched sides and joined the Coalition. But even on the winning side, he failed to engage the French in a decisive battle and when Napoleon abdicated in 1814, his troops had seen no real fighting. When it became obvious to him that he would lose his kingdom, he tried in vain to ally himself with Napoleon, who refused to give him refgue in France. When his kingdom was overthrown, and he was tried and found guilty by the Neapolitan court, he met his death with courage befitting of Europe’s greatest horseman. 

His last words to his firing squad were, “aim for the heart, but spare my face.”

Murat reminds me a lot of a Greek tragic hero or a French George Armstrong Custer. Courageous and charismatic, but brought down by his own pride and arrogance. He was at his best when facing the enemy on the field, but he never had a mind for strategy or planning. His planning always essentially boiled down to “Let’s get ‘em!” When he tasted power, he became more interested in holding onto it rather than supporting who had given him that power in the first place. He was ultimately self-interested and forgot what allowed him to become royalty to begin with, and that proved his downfall.

Marshal Berthier said it better than I ever could: “You are only a king by the grace of Napoleon and French blood. It’s black ingratitude that’s blinding you.”