#services the outpost

[artbyblastweave]

Playing through Fallout:New Vegas for the first time in years. And I'm developing a newfound appreciation for the damage done to the intended pacing of the narrative with the addition of the Courier's Stash. I wake up in Goodsprings, and as part of the extended tutorial you have Ghosttown Gunfight, the fairly self-contained faction war between Goodsprings and the Powder Gangers. And the design intent, I think, is that this is probably supposed to be a pain in the ass, with only one or two avenues of support available to you given the low level at which you'll pick this one up. Six Powder Gangers, some in body-armor, would be a serious threat, and committing to fighting against that with your dinky 9mm and a varmint rifle seems like a rough time! An actual uphill battle, doing the right thing instead of the easy thing. Fortunately, Benny inexplicably left my handy 40mm grenade launcher in the grave with me, so I cleaned up.

I'm working my way south, and, you know, in a version of the game where Benny didn't inexplicably leave my handy 40mm grenade launcher in the grave with me, this would have been the knock-on effect of my "good" Karmic choice in defending Goodsprings; the road south is littered with powder gangers who'd have been neutral had I not kicked the hornet's nest. As it stands? Free experience. I hit Primm, and fighting through the cramped hallways of the Bison Steve I encounter an enemy armed with what was clearly supposed to be the first heavy weapon I'd encounter in the world. Tight Corridors. Inexplicable Grenade Launcher. I clean up. South I go to the Mojave outpost, Nipton, that whole thing. And clearly, clearly you aren't meant to take a swing at Vulpes here, right? You're supposed to take it in, get a sense for the legion. In the version of the game that shipped you're supposed to get bodied if you try to kick the beef gate here. There are allowances in the game for if you pull it off, sure, but I did try with just the service rifle, without the glorious first-strike capabilities afforded to me by the 40mm grenade launcher that Benny inexplicably left in the grave with me. It didn't go very well!

So now I'm dogged by Legion hit squads on my way to Novac, which I get the distinct impression was not the point in the game at which this was supposed to start happening to me, because I am gathering up some pretty expensive equipment, all sold for space. I punch through to Vegas, and at this stage, the clear developer intent is that you need to spend some time milling around Freeside or Camp McCarran in order to gain access to the Strip- do odd jobs to scrape up the money, buy the forgery from Mick and Ralphs, gain monorail access, get your science skill high enough to hack the robot. Get the lay of the land, get a feel for the people, send some time stewing in the human cost of House's walled garden before you head in and hear the pitch from the big man himself.

Except I've got 5000 caps from selling off all the legion killteam equipment. In I go!

And the fun thing is, right, the Courier's stash can't be diegetic, but it is having a very direct impact on the world here. A top legion guy just went down to my inexplicable 40mm grenade launcher. Whatever else I'm roleplaying as, I am roleplaying as a guy who woke up in the possession of an inexplicable 40mm grenade launcher, and neither I nor my character can plausibly ignore that fact given its terrible bloodstained utility. I play a man, a man who would be a good man, a man nonetheless bewitched by the terrible resolutory power of the grenade launcher. My best friend, the inexplicable 40mm grenade launcher! My worst enemy, the inexplicable 40mm grenade launcher!

#fallout #fallout new vegas #thoughts #meta

[lady-phasma]

To Serve

Feyd Rautha x Fremen!reader

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, rough foreplay, biting, no penetration, masochism, strange power dynamics, completely ridiculous premise that Feyd would even notice a Fremen servant, I don’t know - it’s fanfiction so let’s suspend disbelief together

Summary: You are a Fremen working in the Arrakeen palace after House Harkonnen has retaken Arrakis, watching and studying the Planetary Governor. 2k words (no beta because I was in a hurry to get this out of my head)

You were actually grateful to be allowed to continue to serve in the Arrakeen palace. When House Atreides had been slaughtered, so had most of the servants. The Harkonnen kept some of the Fremen to do menial labor. You spent your days much as you had when Duke Leto and his family resided here. You cleaned floors, helped in the kitchens from time to time, and occasionally cleaned the personal chambers of the Planetary Governor.

As the Harkonnens struggled to retaliate against the guerrilla Fremen and Muad’Dib you kept your head down, listening, never drawing attention to yourself. You had received instructions from your home sietch to observe and not act. However, you had promised yourself you would take advantage of the right opportunity.

Weeks passed with the na-Baron at the helm of the sadistic assaults on sietchs and Fremen outposts. Your anger grew, but so did your caution. At night you lay awake replaying the routines of the Harkonnen, as well as his peculiar desires. You only saw these from a distance but you listened to chatter among the palace staff, appalled at times, curious at others.

You were assigned to replace the person who regularly cleaned the na-Baron’s chambers, perhaps for an extended time. You were only allowed in when the room was empty. The Harpies spent much of their day in repose, eating, sleeping, always waiting on Feyd Rautha. There were occasions when he demanded their company elsewhere and you were then permitted entrance. The only task that was particularly unpleasant and unusual compared to the rest of the palace was cleaning their “nest.” The pile of pillows and fabric were never filthy but often stained and you did not envy the poor souls who had to launder them.

At least twice in the first week, the na-Baron himself had been leaving the room as you were lead down the hall by a guard. You had not seen him up close before, not this close. His pale skin looked as cold as the palace walls, but his eyes were bright and constantly assessing everything and everyone around him. He looked at you the first time you passed, deemed you unimportant, and looked away. The second time you crossed paths he didn’t look at you at all.

You had no plan, you were no assassin. You simply wanted to hurt him. Nothing you could do would stop the war or persuade the Harkonnens to call a truce. You weren’t ignorant. You just wanted him to feel some of what you felt. If he could feel similar emotions. You weren’t sure about that, but every living creature could feel pain.

You were always on guard in the palace unless you were in your bed. When you performed your duties you heard every footstep, every door opening or closing within your vicinity. These footsteps were so quiet that you hadn’t known anyone had walked in until you heard him speak. Your mouth went dry and your mind raced.

“Out,” Feyd commanded. You looked over your shoulder at him, turned, bowed your head slightly, then an impulse came over you.

“Lord na-Baron,” you spoke evenly, but quietly. “I was waiting for you. I was instructed to tend to you personally.”

He looked perplexed but still annoyed. He appraised you, looking into your blue eyes as you raised your head. He let out a derisive snort of laughter.

“What use could I have for a Fremen?”

“Well,” you swallowed, feigning embarrassment. “I was told, my Lord, you had certain appetites and I was required to be at your service. That you were…” You flashed your blue eyes at him. “Curious.”

Feyd licked his lips. You had no idea from his expression if he believed your lie. The way he raked his gaze over you, from head to foot, implied that it didn’t matter.

“Curious,” he mused, almost to himself. “Quite.”

You tried not to flinch as he stepped closer. You faced him, appearing less nervous than you actually were. He was a man rumored to have many odd desires from what you had learned. Perhaps your impulse was correct, perhaps he had never had a Fremen before. Hopefully you had used that to your advantage and not to his.

When he stroked your cheek with the back of his hand you nearly pulled away. His hand was surprisingly warm and the touch seemed deceptively gentle. You stared brazenly into his eyes, trying to decide your next move. You decided to try something you thought few people ever dared.

You grabbed Feyd’s wrist and held it away from your face. The look of surprise and dismay that appeared on his face was incredibly satisfying. You let yourself smile just a little at this, then quickly set your mouth into an impassive line as you let go of his wrist. You thought he brought his hand back to slap you but he merely dropped it to his side. His brows were furrowed and he looked as confused as he was impressed.

Feyd stepped forward so quickly that you could barely see him do it. His hand grasped your neck and held you still as he drew his face close to yours. He looked down at you, contemplating, eyes darting back and forth between yours. He leaned in as if to kiss you.

“Do you think I can’t break you?” He hissed. You narrowed your eyes, not hiding your defiance.

“I think you will want to try,” you whispered. “I think you will fail.” His hand loosened for an instant and you used his moment of shock to force your mouth on his. It was a rough crashing together of mouths but Feyd did not falter or pull back. He met your mouth, your ferocity, with his own. His hand was no longer on your neck but gripping your shoulder. You pushed your hands againsthis chest but found that, instead of pushing him away, you gripped the fabric of his shirt in your fists. A flickering heat pulsed in your belly and your chest was tight. This was not in your plans.

He pulled his head back and grinned. His black teeth were fearsome this close. Yet they didn’t frighten you exactly. You reached up and held his chin as you kissed him again, licking his teeth, finding his tongue. You wanted to hurt him but something had begun to mingle with that feeling, a different kind of want. He growled into your mouth and grabbed your hair at the back of your head. You let your hand fall from his face as he pulled your head back. He licked your throat, your jaw, scraping his teeth against your skin as he went.

In a nearly painful movement, Feyd turned you both to move toward the bed. What had begun as an impulse was now becoming a reality. You warred with yourself as he walked you backward, releasing your hair and sucking hungrily at your lips. You needed to make a decision and quickly. You slid your hands to the back of his head and caught his bottom lip in your teeth. If you were going to do this it would be on your terms. You didn’t bite him hard enough to draw blood. It was hard enough to make him push you against the bed. When you let him go he was grinning.

“If all Fremen are like this, I have missed many opportunities,” he sneered. The instinct to slap him was overridden by the feeling of his erection pressing into your lower belly. You slowly moved one hand from his neck, down his torso, and stroked him through the fabric of his pants. His sneer faded as his eyes almost closed.

Feyd didn’t push you onto the bed as you thought he might, but guided you by the shoulders and slid his thigh between your legs in one graceful movement. He raked his hands under your shirt and jerked it off you. He licked your stomach, your ribs, and as he moved upward he tried to pin your hands above your head. Before he could, you leveraged your position under him, you were no match for his strength, and used his imblanace to roll him onto his back. You threw one leg across him and straddled him.

There was a horribly wonderful glint in his eyes as he grinned up at you. His breathing was shallow and quick. You glanced at his chest rising and falling. You slid your hands under his shirt, his abdomen firm under your fingers. You shifted your hips against his. He must have felt the same ache you did because he groaned. You leaned forward to pull Feyd’s shirt over his head and heat radiated from your core. Even your own breathing had become shallow.

As you looked at him, laying beneath you, there was something magnificent about him. Yes, he was horrid, still your enemy, but he was beautiful in a way which was unlike anything on your desert planet. You leaned forward and placed your mouth on his chest, listening to his response. You felt his hands move to your thighs. You slid your hands up his bare shoulders and you bit his chest, hard.

Feyd’s hips jerked up into yours. His fingers dug into your thighs through your pants and he growled. You expected him to push you off, command you to stop but he didn’t. You moaned against him as his hips ground into yours. When you let go and sat up you saw his eyes were closed. His face looked almost peaceful. Even so, you had gotten a peculiar satisfaction out of that. You had wanted to hurt him but this… this was very unusual for you. Not only did he seem to enjoy it but you did as well.

He opened his eyes slightly and stared at you. You stroked his stomach. You glanced down at the red bite mark on his chest and you actually smiled. When you looked back at him he lifted his hips gently and you shuddered. You curled your fingers against his flesh, fingernails scratching him. His cock was hard against your core, through both of your pants. You shifted your weight forward slightly, a small rocking motion, and his eyes closed. His fingers still clung to your thighs.

You slowly leaned forward and lowered your mouth to his. You licked his lips, his chin, down his jaw and neck. You made your way to his chest and teased him with your teeth. His hips had begun a steady rhythm under you. As you bit down this time you didn’t hold back. You thought of the wrongs done to your planet, his cock against you, his malice, and his sculpted muscles. All of the images swirled together as you closed your eyes and enjoyed the sensation of him rocking beneath you.

You increased the pressure of your bite slightly and his hands flew to your ass, pulling you against him to get you as close as possible. He rutted and groaned. You released your bite and you felt the pleasure of it wrack his body. He tensed, cursed, and arched his back against you. His cum soaked his pants, then yours. You ground against him as he came down from his high. The overstimulation caused a nearly pained look to cross his face. He opened his eyes and scowled.

Your core throbbed and ached. You wanted a release but were satisfied with what you had been able to do to him. A smug grin grew on your lips. You had gotten far more than you had planned.

Without warning, taking advantage of the moment in which you had let down your guard, Feyd lifted you off him. Within a second he was on top of you, knee back between your thighs. Only this time you couldn’t help rubbing against him, desperate.

“Let’s see if I can’t break you after all,” Feyd growled as he pinned your hands above your head.

#feyd rautha #feyd x reader #feyd rautha harkonnen #feyd #feyd rautha fic #feyd fanfic #feyd x gn!reader #feyd rautha x gn!reader #feyd fic #feyd rautha fanfic #feyd x you #x reader #x gn reader #x gn!reader #feyd x fremen!reader #feyd rautha x fremen!reader #x poc reader #feyd x poc!reader #feyd rautha x you #austin butler

[bearhugsandshrugs]

Ayo it's Gortash-conspiracy time, gather around.

Because this note you'll find outside the Zhentarim outpost at Waukeen's Rest is INTERESTING and led me down a rabbit hole. Uktar wrote a report for Keene about the upstart arms dealer Gortash and how he took over and replaced the existing networks. This is juicy for two reasons.

First, the Knights of the Shield. I had no clue who they were so I googled them, and hey, no biggie, it's only an organization that's been around for a THOUSAND YEARS, with a secret service leadership commited to the tenth (yes, you read that right) archdevil Gargauth (who was one of his enemies? You guessed it: Bane).

They were information brokers and political agents with a merchant front. And Gortash just annexed them. Took over their operations. Replaced them. The mind of this man. It really is no joke when everyone in-game talks about what a genius he is, because that type of shit requires not only planning, but a delicate hand to execute. It requires leadership and running a tight ship, and boy, do I find this interesting.

But second, and we already knew this but it hits me once again, the Zhentarim. Their leaders were associated Bane at some point but turned over to Cyric over history as well, with worshippers of Bane and Cyric in general being claimed by the other each time one of them was dealt a destabilizing blow. In consequence, the Zhentarim are listed as amongst the enemies of Bane.

Now to the tinfoil hat section of this. Unfortunately we have no date to this report, so it's hard to judge when Gortash started this. But I find it interesting how this all leads back to Bane again and again, how Gortash seems to wipe out organizations affiliated with Bane's foes. And it leaves me wondering, yet again, when exactly he got recruited or devoted himself to Bane. Was it during that time, when he wiped out those enemies and Bane took an interest in him? Or was that merely a test he had to pass to become the edict of Bane?

But then I'm also confused by Gortash's methods. Bane seems more tyrannical to me, whereas Gortash supplanted the networks. A tyrant might have made them grovel before him. Might have sowed fear and doubt and hate. Here, instead, Gortash just spins up his own operation. And he keeps doing that: He postures as this underdog noble man who worked his way to the top, he has this front, this act of being the hero (he even says so to Ketheric!). Being a hero is hardly something associated with outright tyranny, which would be Bane's classic modus operandi. Don't forget that it's not only about tyranny, it's also about fear and hate. Would you fear or hate your hero, your savior?

Do you know, however, whose modus operandi it would be to pose as a hero, only to dominate in the end? To infiltrate his oldest foe's followers, pose as his chosen one, only to subjugate them?

Cyric's.

He was "the god of lies, trickery, and strife, having previously held dominion over tyranny, murder, lies, intrigue, and illusion." His beef with Bane goes way back, so much so, that Cyric claims to have killed Bane before (oh, and he also killed Bhaal). He ascended to godhood as an exception granted by Ao, and took on all followers of (get this) Bhaal, Myrkul, and Bane. Now I'm aware I am fully in crackpot theory land. But how sweet would it have been if Gortash had actually been a follower of Cyric, not Bane; using the Bane-worship as a front.

It would explain why he's so ready to share his power with Tav/Durge (a true tyrant would never share power so easily – which is why I also think that if Gortash was actually a follower of Bane, he was trying to use Bane to his own advantage, which didn't really work out for him).

And Bane seems to have been skeptical of Gortash as well: He doesn't come to his aid in the fight against Tav/Durge, not even against the Netherbrain. Which is particularly juicy because Bane had the power to protect his chosen ones from psionic powers. (Yes. lol. Really) So if you take Gortash to the Netherbrain and the brain kills him with a thought, Bane could have protected him. And chose not to. Motherfucker

I know, this theory with Cyric has more holes than a Swiss cheese though, I'm fully aware, and I'm still learning the lore, so feel free to correct me. But it's fun to think about.

Anyway. Someone please release me from the chokehold this man has one me.

#enver gortash #gortash #theory time #bg3 #bane #cyric #maybe i'm losing my mind #the amount of thoughts if have on this

[frail-and-freakish]

today, april 11th, is the anniversary of Mel Baggs' death. Mel Baggs was one of the early founders of the neurodiversity movement and believed that no one was too disabled for human rights, something that modern nd movements fail to understand to this day. sie was so instrumental to my understanding of literally everything. sie died from medical ableism and neglect during the beginning of the pandemic. we would be nowhere fucking near where we are now without hir. i've decided to make a masterlist of some of my favorite posts of hirs, organized into different categories.

(some of these are listed in more than one category because they overlap so much)

here are some of the "essentials" (what you might have already read by hir/should read first):

hir memorial site hosted by ASAN:

In My Language

the oak manifesto

There is ableism at the heart of your oppression, no matter what your oppression might be

Getting The Truth Out (many pages, parody of bad autism awareness campaign called "getting the word out")

the meaning of self-advocacy

what makes institutions bad

aspie supremacy can kill

here are some of hir beautiful writings on perceiving/communicating with hir environment as an autistic person, and on communication in general:

up in the clouds and down in the valley: my richness and yours

distance underthought

the naked mechanisms of echolalia

empty mirrors and redwoods

the fireworks are interesting

hir tumblr tag #sensing (@withasmoothroundstone)

on personhood and who has the authority to take it away:

being an unperson

what it means to be real

empty mirrors and redwoods

on institutions and the I/DD service system:

caregiver abuse takes many forms

"i don't know that person's program"

what my home means to me

dd service system tag

god help the critic of the dawn: glamour and its fallout

what makes institutions bad

post on the JRC

outposts in our heads

on online social justice communities/their inaccessibility:

Your politics have a problem when they contradict the real-life experiences of the people they're supposed to be about.

politics, ethics and mental widgets

hir tumblr tags #outside the wall and #little packages (@withasmoothroundstone)

misc:

The Bones My Family Gave Me

Please violate only one stereotype at a time

My sort of people, just as real as theirs.

Reviving the concept of cousins

gender tag

this is hir poems and creative works:

this is hir writing on autistics.org:

may hir memory be a blessing/revolution.

#mel baggs #z”l #autism #actually autistic #autism acceptance month #autism awareness #disability #disability rights #disability justice #mushroom.txt #actuallydd #autism acceptance #actuallyautistic #tagging this in All The Tags so people see it #autism awareness month #autistic #autistic spectrum #autistic things #asd #neurodivergent #neurodiversity #i/dd

[cryptotheism]

Amber skies question: I'm very interested in the postal service mouse folk in your setting! What sort of initation/training would someone need to go through to join the postal service? Also, in the rig cartalk show, they talked about the rigs used by the postal service, so I'm curious if there's rig-smiths within the postal service, or if it's a situation of them just having long running trade agreements and favored models of rig when trading?

Hope you're having a good one, love your work!

It's actually a rabbinical system. Becoming a posthand is an arduous process that involves a lot of memorizing philosophy around the importance of proper archive management and information flow, library sciences, and the importance of the preservation of history. You have to have a current posthand who acts as a sort of sponsor/mentor through the process, and you are eventually evaluated by a panel of higher ranking posthands.

It takes roughly four years of training to join as an initiate posthand, and then another four of active route service under a mentor before you become a full member. It's a dangerous job that many small communities rely upon. The standards are taken quite seriously.

Rigsmiths are generally part of a guild. Recently, the postal service contracts with a rig shop out of the Teykile, where they produce the ALBATROSS, PELICAN, and KINGFISHER model rigs, which are themselves pattered after 2nd era reframes of an old-world military shipping surplus rig, the EXO U4. The postal service custom-orders these models in bulk, and they we're designed to postal service specifications.

Generally they contract for new models every four to five years depending on need and price point. However, postal outposts generally have an on-site pit crew. (Usually one guy, who charges reasonable prices for civilians if you need a tune up.)

#amber skies

[muppetebbtide]

Has anyone ever made the observation that Aiglamene might be a reference to Rosemary Sutcliffe's Eagle of the Ninth? It's an old kid's book from the 1950s but I wouldn't put it past Tamsyn to know it, esp since Sutcliff did a bunch of Arthuriana stuff too and Tamsyn def knows about that. But like... Aiglamene's name literally means Eagle. She is the Eagle of the Ninth. And the summary of the Eagle of the Ninth:

Discharged because of a battle wound that has left him lame in one leg, a young Roman officer Marcus Flavius Aquila tries to discover the truth about the disappearance of his father's legion in northern Britain. Disguised as a Greek oculist and travelling beyond Hadrian's Wall with his freed ex-slave, the British native hunter Esca, Marcus finds that a demoralized and mutinous Ninth Legion was annihilated by a great rising of the northern tribes. In part, this disgrace was redeemed through a heroic last stand by a small remnant (including Marcus's father) around the legion's eagle standard. Marcus's hope of seeing the lost legion re-established is dashed, but he is able to bring back the gilded bronze eagle so that it can no longer serve as a symbol of Roman defeat – and thus will no longer be a danger to the frontier's security. Rewarded by Rome for his services, he decides to settle as a landowner and farmer in Britain with his British wife, Cottia, and his freed friend, Esca.

The leg wound detail has me side-eyeing it I can't lie, it's a little too specific given Aiglamene is missing a leg and then it was regrown badly, and this is mentioned a bunch... and the bits about being disguised and the original Ninth outpost being overthrown and mutinous and finally redeemed through some heroic final stand... I don't know if this could give us either some insight into Aiglamene's backstory, or what could happen with the Ninth in Alecto? I know people have speculated Aiglamene's probably not originally Ninth, or even that she could be a spy/working w BoE? Idk if I agree, but regardless this might make her originally being an outsider and having her own motivations for being on the Ninth hold water a bit more. Or I could totally be chatting shit and this has nothing to do with anything and everyone's going insane waiting for Alecto news. Something to chew on at any rate.

#the locked tomb #tlt #gideon the ninth #aiglamene tlt #aiglamene #the locked tomb theory #aiglamene the ninth #alecto the ninth #locked tomb theory #alecto the ninth theory #I have read TEOTN but it was an extremely long time ago and I don't remember details #I think this is probably batshit. never mind

[tomorrowusa]

California has gotten its first tropical storm watch ever. The last time a tropical storm hit California was in September of 1939 just after Hitler had started World War II. They didn't issue such watches in those days.

Major Hurricane Hilary in the Pacific is way stronger than low energy Hurricane Don in the Atlantic a few weeks ago; the latter spent only a few hours as a hurricane as it spun around aimlessly away from land.

Hilary will weaken from the current Category 4, but how much it will weaken is still not certain. If it maintains sustained winds of at least 74 MPH/119 KMH when it reaches California, then it will become California's first ever official hurricane.

Hurricane Hilary is expected to hit Southern California as a tropical storm, with a punch that could include flash flooding and significant amounts of rain, according to the National Hurricane Center.  A tropical storm watch for much of Southern California was issued Friday morning. The National Weather Service's San Diego outpost said this was the first time such an advisory had ever been issued for the region. 

As somebody who's been through half a dozen tropical cyclones on the East Coast, I would advise our California friends that rain is a bigger hazard than wind – in most cases. People in areas which have the potential for flooding should particularly remain on alert.

The 1939 storm, called El Cordonazo, became the first and only tropical storm to make landfall in the state in the 20th century, according to the National Weather Service. NWS says the storm, which was at one point a hurricane, originated off the southern coast of Central America before moving north and eventually coming ashore at San Pedro, California.  Resulting floods from the storm killed at least 45 people across the Southern California region and caused $2 million in damage to structures and crops, the weather service reports. Another 48 people were also killed at sea.

There were far fewer people in California in 1939 when El Cordonazo caused deadly flooding.

Here is the current forecast for rainfall potential.

Keep up with the track of Hurricane Hilary here. Southern California should begin to feel the effects of Hilary on Sunday afternoon. Monitor local emergency information and follow advisories.

And if you're wondering why this is happening...

Our oceans are the warmest in recorded history. This is why it's so concerning

#hurricane hilary #california #potential flooding #california's first tropical storm since 1939 #climate change #warming oceans #climate disasters

[trekkie-polls]

Yeah I couldn’t fit everything in, please make good use of “other in tags”!

#star trek #tos #tas #aos #tng #ds9 #voy #ent #disco #picard #ld #snw #prodigy #let’s be honest Guinan has it figured out #but joseph sisko is doing alright too #star trek the original series #star trek the animated series #star trek alternate original series #star trek the next generation #star trek deep space nine #star trek voyager #star trek enterprise #star trek discovery #star trek picard #star trek lower decks #star trek strange new worlds #star trek prodigy #trekkie polls #poll #star trek poll

[zvaigzdelasas]

Remember when Trump said "we're only in syria for the oil" good thing thats changed - now the Biden administration doesn’t say that out loud in public! [10 Feb 24]

#so rude to attack an oil field operated with the consent of the internationally recognized government of the country #that goes against the international rules based order #wait what do you mean

[split-spectrum]

Water and Rock

Chapter 11

Pairings: Obi Wan/FemReader

Warnings/Tags: slow burn, explicit content, SMUT

Chapter Length: 6K

Description: There are only so many excuses a master and padawan can make to kiss under "extenuating circumstances" before circumstances stop arising and start being created. You are an expert at your craft - a Jedi knight in service as a spy for the Republic. When your former master Obi Wan joins you on a mission, it's clear things aren't the same as they once were. The trials you face together may break your bond, or turn it into something else entirely.

☆☆☆

You stare at the door for a long time after it closes. 

When the shock starts to wear off, the regret seeps in. There's so much more you should have asked him; so much you should have told him. Instead of almost silently accepting the end of your friendship, why hadn't you tried to make him slow down and talk to you?

Your eyes drift downward as you feel the truth settle into the pit of your stomach: You'd known as well as he had, saying anything more would only have led to further pain.

As you turn away, your blank gaze slides from the door and falls to the small table nearby. On top of the table, you keep a little bowl with trinkets and a few scrap pieces for your speeder bike. Beside these items sits a heap of cloth, which you don't recognize. You draw nearer, noticing that it's wrapped neatly around a cylindrical object. Picking it up and pulling back the cloth, you're taken aback to see the hilt of a lightsaber. Your lightsaber. 

You slide it out of the fabric, feeling the weight of it in your hand for a moment, then place it delicately down on the tabletop just to stare at it. 

You'd been facing Dooku when you'd lost it, completely on the opposite side of the outpost from where you'd been rescued. He would have been the only one there to retrieve it. And yet, he'd told you at that time he'd believed you were dead. 

Your chest suddenly aches. 

You tell yourself not to think about him, fleeing for his own life, half-dead himself, but stopping to pick up the only remnant he'd thought he would have of your existence.

Facing away from the table, you shut your eyes and do the same thing you've been doing for the past two days - immersing yourself in the force with a fervent determination you've never known before.

Your eyes flutter open again. You look out the window. The snow whirls. 

Despite your better judgment - despite the fact that you know he'll feel it - you reach into the force and try to sense him. His speeder should be halfway back to base by now. You might not sense him at all. But you want to try.

To your immense surprise, you feel him instantly, his presence not halfway back to base as expected. In fact, he's not far away at all. 

Pacing back to the door as quickly as your legs can carry you, you pull the handle and wince as the spray of icy wind crashes against your face again. His figure emerges slowly from the white abyss, one of his arms upheld to break the lashes of snow whipping around him. He's only a few feet away, but it's still hard to make out the shape of him through the dense flakes of ice.

"I don't suppose," he shouts over the rising gusts, "I could trouble you for a ride back to the main base?"

You wrap one arm around yourself, shivering and leaning out of the doorway to wave him in. "Come inside!"

He finishes his trek, entering your house once again,  and you swiftly close the door behind him. After catching his breath, he lowers his hood again and sighs. 

"I'm sorry to impose. I didn't realize the storm would be so..." He gestures to the window to indicate the ferocity of the wind beating away at your home. "The speeder bike I rented can hardly lift off the ground."

You give a shake of your head. "You aren't imposing. I don't think anyone expected it to be this bad. But I can't give you a ride back to base. I loaned my ship to a friend off world." 

When he raises a brow, you shrug. "They needed a ship, and I didn't expect to be leaving anytime soon. My speeder is all I have at the moment."

Brushing a hand through the front of his snow-dusted hair, he sends a worried look off to the side. You stand, a bit stiffly, not quite knowing what to do or say. You try another solution. "I suppose you'll need to call someone at base for a pick up."

He doesn't answer for a few beats. Then he shrugs off his coat again, placing it gently on the bench. He seems to hesitate when looking downward, and you realize he must have noticed that you'd found your lightsaber. 

He flicks his gaze back up to you. "I would prefer not to. This trip wasn't exactly... above board."

You'd started to back toward the kettle you'd had boiling before his arrival, but that makes you stop in your tracks. "Oh?"

You pose it half as a question, half as a statement, not wanting to force an explanation. He clears his throat, though, correctly reading your tone as curious.

"I was meant to deliver a mission report on Coruscant, then return to the Gaulus sector for further duties. But I left my duties in the hands of Commander Cody for the time being, and I... took a short leave. For my health."

"I... see," you answer, turning away and walking to the stovetop, fiddling with the knobs while you process his words. His second lie of omission to the council. You consider this, not saying anything in return. 

He hovers at your home's entrance, and you both listen as the long-range holocomm goes off again, detailing the inclement weather. The storm is worsening. 

The kettle is warm again by the time the report ends, and when you turn back to him with a reheated cup of tea, he gratefully accepts it, taking a seat in your kitchen when you motion for him to do so.

"Isn't there a friend you could call?" you ask, sitting down across from him at the small table. "Someone you trust not to share your... change in plans?"

He strokes a hand down his chin just once, shaking his head. "Anakin is on assignment, several days away."

It's been a long time since you'd heard mention of Mace Windu's former padawan. The young war hero had very nearly become Obi Wan's padawan when they'd first met, but the council had seen the bond between the two following Qui Gon's untimely death and had thought it better not to encourage their closeness, placing him with Master Windu instead. An unlikely friendship had still unfolded, despite their efforts, and you'd often joked that the Skywalker boy had always been Obi Wan's second padawan.

You want to ask more about Anakin, but that sort of lighthearted talk doesn't seem relevant at the moment. Instead, you sip your tea and think. 

You try to keep your eyes locked onto the drink in your hand, instead of roaming across the lines in his face. His features are drawn down, stern and contemplative, and you want to paint over every inch of him, getting a second chance at your last encounter. 

Clearing your throat, you try to force nonchalance into your voice. "Well, these storms don't usually last long. A few hours, or a day at most. You're welcome to stay until-"

You quiet down on the word "until", both of you listening as the holocomm goes off again, this time with an even more severe warning. The storm is now expected to last nearly a full rotation. Neither of you makes a comment right away, though the shift in energy is palpable. Ilum's rotations are sixty-six hours. 

When the broadcast ends, Obi Wan's eyes flicker up to yours with a far-off look. They're a little dulled, his expression restrained and distant. It's the look he often holds when giving orders. The look that duty brushes over him.

"Perhaps I will make a call, after all."

Standing up, you start to make your way over to the holocomm to help him dial out, but you freeze in place when the lights cut out, and the low electronic hum throughout your home suddenly drops into silence. You look around the darkened room, then back at him, catching only the faintest outline of his expression in the soft light coming through the window.

"Don't worry," you assure him, once the initial jolt of susprise has worn off. "I have a generator."

"Oh," he answers, the shadow of his face peering around your dim surroundings. A few seconds later, he adds, "good."

A few seconds after that, he gives you a mildly concerned look that has you crossing the room to check the fuse panel. 

"Which definitely should have started up by now," you say, opening the cover. The normally illuminated buttons are completely dark. 

"Damn," you whisper to yourself. Then you turn back to Obi Wan, who's also now standing. 

"I'm sure it's just a loose connection somewhere," you tell him, reaching for your own jacket and pulling it over your robes. "I'll have it fixed in no time. Don't worry."

He gives you an uncertain look. It's the same one he always employs when you're failing to sell him a lie. But he doesn't argue as you finish dressing and head back to the door. 

After he's followed you into the small maintenance shack behind your home despite your insistence for him to stay inside, Obi Wan finally gives his opinion. 

"That does not look good."

You glance up at him from your kneeling position on the ground, flashlight fixed on the gnarled remnants of the main rotor. "No, it's-"

You're interrupted by the sound of skittering feet, and you jerk the light to follow the movement, catching the barest glimpse of grey flesh along with a flash of multiple eyes. Yelping at the sight, you tip back onto your feet to stand up. 

Before you can so much as bend your knees, a pulse of energy rips you backward, and the creature on the opposite side of the shed crashes into the wall with a dry slapping sound. Obi Wan lunges in front of you, lightsaber brandished, and you belatedly realize he's force-pushed you to the ground. 

"Obi Wan, it's a lisk!" you tell him, getting up to stand beside him. "It's just a lisk."

You've managed to pin the reptilian-looking thing under the light, finally, and you both watch as it drops from the wall and scrambles out of the maintenance shack, through a hole in the corner. The animals aren't dangerous, or at least, certainly not a threat to a Jedi. You find them creepy, but they aren't really more than a nuisance. 

Obi Wan would have - should have sensed this. But he hadn't responded to the danger. His response had been to your yelp of surprise. As you look at him, a loose lock of hair threatening to dip into his eyes, his teeth jutted in what you'd very nearly call a snarl, snd his body held in a distinct Ataru pose, the meaning of what he'd said earlier - about not working together - is suddenly ringing out to you with crystalline clarity.

And he knows it. He silences the hum of his weapon, deactivating it and clipping it back to his belt with one smooth, hurried movement. 

"I didn't realize it was- " He starts and stops, tenses his shoulders, then drops them. "I'm not familiar."

Neither of you addresses the fact that he'd thrown you to the ground. Neither of you says anything about his taking an offensive attack position that he hasn't used since before you'd met - since before the death of his master. 

You gather yourself, trying to move past the discomfort of the moment by looking back down at the torn mess of metal on the ground. "They're common, here, but not dangerous," you tell him. "Not unless you're a generator."

Obi Wan's gaze follows yours. "Evidently."

"They like the warmth, I think. But they've never caused this much damage." You back away from it, sighing. "I don't suppose you have a long-range commlink you've been keeping secret?"

He shakes his head. "I'm afraid not."

A particularly loud gust of wind wails through the small crack between the open doors of the shed, widening the opening with drifting snow. 

A full rotation. Sixty-six hours. 

"We'd better get back inside," you tell him, turning off your flashlight. "We'll need to keep all the warmth we have left."

--

First Hour

"And how much is left, exactly?"

You swiftly close the small door of the wood burning stove, having tossed in another log. "Enough to get through about two standard days, comfortably. Or four... uncomfortably."

"I take it we're rationing, then."

You stand up, brushing the splintered wood from your leggings. "To be safe, yes. I can't heat the whole house, either. We'll have to close off the two other rooms."

He nods, firelight flickering across his face. He seems to hesitate, and you've turned back to the stew hanging in an old-fashioned durasteel kettle above the fire before he speaks again. 

"I suppose it doesn't serve much purpose for me to mention it now, but, was it wise to keep such a small stock of emergency supplies?"

You stir the food, looking over at the paltry woodpile. "I don't, normally," you answer, mouth closing in an 'M' shape that nearly became the word 'Master'. Old habits die incredibly hard, it seems. Especially when he takes that tone with you, thinly veiling his judgment. 

"There was a storm recently before this one, and an outpost on the southern quadrant needed urgent resupply. I split my stockpile in half, and I meant to replace it. A few days later, I was called away to an emergency mission," you look at him pointedly. "Never got around to it."

"Yes, well," he absently runs the back of his knuckles down the side of his beard. "Your ship is loaned to one friend, your supplies to another... it's a shame I made my visit after you've run out of favors to give."

You smirk a little, dishing some of the stew into a bowl and handing it to him. "I don't know about that. Here."

He takes it with a curious look and follows you when you close the lid on the kettle, leaving the main room and heading back to the seating area in the kitchen. Sitting down across from him again, you invite him to eat with a gesture, while pouring two drinks. He's taking his first bite when you open your cupboard and take out a couple of small cakes, placing one down next to him and taking a bite of the other. 

He raises his brows in surprise. "Is that..." He bites into it, politely finishing his chewing before starting again. "Where in blazes did you find yalo cakes?"

You give a genuine smile. "Made them myself."

"Very impressive," he says, bringing warmth to your face with the compliment. "They're delicious. Where did you get the yalo root?"

"Picked it up on a supply run on-" You stop yourself, then look up at him. There's no point in not finishing the sentence. He knows where to get yalo root. It's his favorite. That's why, on some level, you'd wanted it on hand. It brought you back to those days in the temple, with him. "... on Coruscant."

There's a long silence and it's obvious he's deliberating on whether to say anything. But you both know what he would say, and you both know there's no point in posing any questions. Eventually, you say something anyway. 

"I would have visited, it's just-"

"Of course," he interrupts. "There's no need to explain. I would have likely been away on duty anyway."

You drop your gaze down to the table. You wish you could just... tell him. Seeing him would have only made things worse for you, and you dealt with it the only way you knew how. You want so badly to just tell him, so that he can understand. 

So you do.

"I wanted to see you more than anything," you say quietly, and his spoon clinks against the side of the bowl as he sets it down. You can't bear to raise your eyes yet. "But I thought if I did, it would make thinking about you... harder." 

You drag your gaze up to him, forcing yourself to look. "You know what's funny, though? I don't think it made any difference."

His blue eyes are set, wide, unflinching. His mouth is tightly closed, and his expression is indiscernible. 

You let the silence drag on, finally breaking it again when he doesn't say anything. "I'm... going to go shower. Before the water in the tank freezes."

He watches you go, not saying a word. 

 

Third Hour

You've both spent some time in the refresher, your hair still a bit damp as you begin to light a few candles. You don't have many, so you've rationed them as well, placing them together in the middle of the room, on a table. 

Obi Wan is sitting in a chair, holding a book, one leg crossed over the other. His hair is dark, the ends sparkling with water in the dim light when he shifts in his seat. You're both wrapped in tunics and full robes, thick socks bound high above your ankles, and yet, you can still feel the chill in the air. 

He'd asked your permission to borrow the book - a high fantasy novel set on the seas of a fictitious planet - and to your amusement, he seems rather engrossed. You sit down in the makeshift sleep roll you'd created out of blankets on the floor, looking up at him. "I didn't expect you to enjoy that one so much."

"Hm?" He glances over the page. "Oh. No, I- it's quite, uh, interesting, but..."

You raise your brows, imagining he's feeling caught out for enjoying something so childish, but he surprises you. 

"I'm having trouble seeing the pages, in this light."

"Oh," you say, understanding now why he'd been staring so intently. "Well, it's much better near the fire. Come sit down here."

He gives an uncertain look through the grated door on the wood stove, and then down to the floor, next to you. "It's alright. I can see well enough, thank you."

You bite your lip, then decide to let it be, picking up a book of your own.

Ninth Hour

"Before I had studied the ways of the Force, the mountains were mountains and the waters were waters. When my knowledge of the universe became more intimate, I saw that mountains were not mountains and waters not waters. But now I have come to know the truth and can be at peace. I see that mountains are mountains again and waters once again are waters."

You blink at the page of the copied Jedi text before you, eyes growing heavy. Obi Wan is lying above you, now, spread long and lean over one of your couches. Actually, it's more of a chaise lounge. He'd dragged it over, closer to the light of the fire, and you'd sat down in front of it.

You turn to look at him, finally looking a bit more relaxed, one arm behind his head as his eyes slide down the page. You're close enough to hold your book up for him to see. 

"Have you read this one?" you ask, indicating the first paragraph of the longer text. 

He turns his head a little, angling himself to see the page. "I think it's safe to say I've read all of them, young one. I was assigned to the archives more than most padawans." He finishes reading, then flicks his gaze to you. "And perhaps I should have assigned you there more often. That passage as well known as the 'empty cup'."

You're sorely tempted to roll your eyes. "I'm aware. Just trying to be polite. I just really like that one."

He's quiet for a beat. "It's a good passage."

"Yes, it is," you say absently, turning the page. "One of my favorites."

You go on reading for a while, then speak again without looking up from the page. "Perhaps you'd care to share one of your favorites?"

You turn back to look at him and he places the book he'd been reading down on his chest. "Alright," he says, reaching out as you hand him your book. "Which one is this?"

"Poetics IV, Farseeker," you tell him, handing it up. "...but I thought you might have known that, Master."

He lifts his brows just a bit at your smirk, then turns his attention back to to book, paging through it, skimming for a few minutes while you sink into the comfort of the blankets surrounding you. 

"Ah, here. I've always thought this one interesting," he says, and you feel him shifting on the chaise behind you to get into a better position. 

"A single bundle of thread is made up of innumerable strands..." he begins, voice a bit smoother and deeper than it had been before. "but, if they are joined in a rope and laid down on a plank, they can easily be cut with one stroke of a sharp blade..."

The rich lull of his voice pushes you deeper into the blankets, and soon your eyes fall shut. His softly spoken words interspersed with the crackling of the fire is almost melodic. 

"...as many as the threads may be, they can not resist the singular blade. So we come to the truth: the threads of selfishness, of mistrust, of passion, are cut by the diamond of wisdom..."

Fourteenth Hour

You stir, pressing your nose into the warmth of his robes. He makes a humming sound deep in his chest, breathing softly into your hair. The warmth of it tickles your neck, and makes you open your eyes.

You flinch, breath stuck in your throat as you pull back. 

You sit up, shivering in the darkness. The fire is almost out. You stand up to stoke the embers and feed a few logs back into the stove. The sound of the door closing makes Obi Wan roll over to his other side, his breathing soft and steady. 

You look down at the floor, realizing you'd had to cross over several feet to get into his bedding. 

You must have been very cold.

You drag your blankets a little further away, then crawl back into your makeshift bed. 

 

Thirty-Second Hour

It's pitch black outside, now. The day cycle has turned fully to night, and after spending the morning eating, talking, and cleaning out your kitchen, and the evening mediating, there's nothing left to do but read until you're tired enough for bed. Obi Wan is lying down on his back, in front of the fire. You light another candle, then join him. 

The smell of him mixed with the smoky scent of the fire is... making it difficult to concentrate on your book. You're starting the same paragraph for the fourth time when he clears his throat softly. 

"Perhaps tonight, we should take shifts, to watch the fire. It nearly went out last night."

You freeze. "That's a good idea."

He says nothing more, and you lie still while your heart races. If he'd known the fire was low, he'd been awake. How much had he been awake for? 

"You... noticed that."

"I did," he says slowly. "By the time I noticed it, though, you'd already gotten up to fix it."

You're certain he can hear the blood thrumming in your ears. "I'm sorry, I didn't know you were awake. I didn't mean to... to..." You start over, totally unsure what to say, but knowing you have to say something. "I was asleep when I must have rolled over, and...gotten into your bed."

He'd been watching you struggle to speak with a curious look, but finally, understanding seems to dawn on him. "Oh. I... had thought it was intentional."

The thoughts in your head run over a cliff. 

"It was cold," he offers. 

You have no idea what to say, blinking in embarrassment. "It wasn't intentional."

You'd found it difficult to concentrate on your book before, but now it's nearly impossible. You turn the pages a little longer, finally giving up and deciding to meditate instead. You close your eyes.

When you open them, you feel warm, and you feel safe, and once again, you realize you've curled into his arms. 

But you don't pull away this time. This time, you just... stay. You rest your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, shifting your fingers in his robes. Feeling the heat between your bodies. 

It doesn't matter, you tell yourself. None of this matters, because in two days he'll be gone from your life.  

What's the difference whether you dream of holding him like this, or if you simply let it happen? He'll plague your thoughts either way. 

You feel the rise and fall of his chest change its rhythm. He swallows, and you realize he's waking up. You lie still, then tilt your head up to look at him. 

"Cold again?" he asks, and it hangs between you. An open invitation for you to move away and pretend it's all been a misunderstanding. But you don't. 

"No."

The howling wind outside is the only sound, distant and ominous, as you stay motionless against his chest. Then he softly brings a hand to your face, gliding the back of his thumb down your jawline. 

You could cry, the way his skin meets yours with such tenderness, without hesitation. You can feel the tension in his force signature, bleeding through although he's suppressing it. 

"Go to sleep," he tells you. "We will get through this. It will be over soon."

"I know," you say immediately, his hand leaving your skin and making you give in to boldness. "And when it's over?"

"We've already discussed it," he says tightly, and you can feel the muscles of his arm behind you tense. He's not quite lying it down, not quite touching you. "We agreed, didn't we?"

"Yes, we did. After this, we won't see each other. So," you whisper into the thick fabric covering his undershirt. "I want to be honest. I don't want to lie to you anymore."

"Is this wise?" he asks, his words gentle but his gaze intense. 

"There is always wisdom in truth," you answer, knowing he'll recognize the words he's told you many times.

"I want you. It's terrible how much I want you. But I think it could be easier if I didn't have to pretend that I don't."

He doesn't say anything for a long time, but the shifting emotions in his eyes speak for him. "Then you should not pretend. Not for me."

You desperately want him to reach down and kiss you, but he stays still, as you knew he would. You let out a silent sigh, resting your ear to his chest. His signature is mostly hidden from you, but he can't disguise the rapid beating of his heart. "I think it's been more for me." 

"There is no need to hide your feelings," he murmurs. "But there is every need not to act on them."

You know he's right, but hearing him say it just makes it so much worse. And in some ways, it stokes the heat inside you even higher. Your leg is already nudging against him, and some depraved part of you is dying to lift your knee and hook it over him, to spread yourself open, to touch him in any way he'll allow it. 

But the larger part of you, the part that knows right from wrong, tells your body to roll onto your back, and you do. 

His arm lifts around you to let you separate, and you both stare upward, listening to the fire and the storm.

After so much time passes that you're not sure if he's asleep, you whisper one last thought that's been tormenting you for a very, very long time. "It's just a shame. For all we've been through, even the pleasure of breaking our vows... we didn't even get that." 

He stirs beside you, head turning slightly, but he doesn't answer. 

"If we had to break our vows, I'm just sorry we didn't even get to remember it."

Carefully, you turn to read his expression. His eyes are downcast. "I seem to remember much more than you do."

"I know," you whisper, a thrill that you know you shouldn't feel running through you. You're on edge, like you're trying not to frighten off a wild animal, with every word you shouldn't be saying. 

"If you wish," he says, voice forcedly calm, "I could show you."

The words hang in the air; low, heavy, dangerous. You part your lips with some effort. 

"Show me."

He rolls to his side, facing you, and wordlessly places a fingertip to your temple. It isn't necessary to form a bond through the force, but it helps.

Before he closes his eyes, and before you close yours, you feel it passing between you - an unspoken acknowledgement. What you're doing is precisely on the edge of sin and salvation, just teetering on the illicit line; a line which has been crossed and uncrossed so many times between you that you've lost count. 

You close your eyes anyway. 

The image is pristine. So real between sight and sound that you can hardly distinguish it from reality.

Your skin is on his skin. Sweaty, brazen, unashamed. You're lying naked on your back, and he's beneath you, pants unfastened, inside of you.

You squeeze your eyelids tight, overwhelmed and instantly aching between your legs.

He drags his cock slowly from you, one hand splayed across your stomach, holding you steady on top of him. Your body shudders involuntarily, imagining the pressure of his head moving from deep inside to pressing shallowly within you. 

"Tempted me for too long," the Obi Wan in the vision growls, voice surrounding both your ears as if he's speaking from everywhere at once. 

Then he pushes back in, hot and slick. "So tell me," he says, pulling out and sinking into you over and over, "Now. Tell me how you wanted this." 

"I wanted this," your voice comes - bare, powerless. Like you're clinging to him, adrift and keeping yourself afloat by saying anything he asks. 

He gives a long, tortured groan. "No, not just this." He drives into you, pulls out, coated and sliding so perfectly between your legs. "Say it."

"Oh, fuck," you moan, trembling against him, sounding too distracted to answer. 

"Young one," he warns, quickening the pace just slightly as he wraps one hand around your neck, tilting your chin upward as he spreads his fingers out, feeling your pulse skyrocket as he tightens. "Do as you're told."

"I wanted this, Obi Wan. Wanted you inside me. Wanted you to fuck me," you answer him, words spilling out of you without pause. "Wanted this forever."

The hand on your stomach has moved to your hip, now, gripping you to stop you from moving. He's writhing beneath you, and even from this perspective, from the catch in his breath, from the wet sounds in the room, you can tell he's gone from fucking you to pounding into you. 

"You've done this to me," he rasps, the muscles of his arm flexing between your breasts as he squeezes your neck tighter. "Do you understand that? You will answer for it."

You nod against him and he sinks his teeth into your neck, burying his moan in your skin. 

He's about to fucking cum, you realize.

Why had he started the vision here, of all places? Was he trying to make you lose your mind?

His thrusts are getting deeper, harder, staying buried longer, and, there- you hear it in the open-mouthed choke of his voice. You see it in the way he drives up into you and stays there. He's-

Obi Wan breaks the bond, bright and vivid imagery bursting into nothingness, fizzling right before you.

You blink, eyes falling open to meet his own. His lips are parted, his face as flushed as yours must be. You take in a breath, and it occurs to you how empty your lungs had been.

He straightens his shoulders, but he doesn't move away. His eyes dip down to your lips, then swiftly back up to your eyes. "I must tell you that what I said..." he pauses for far too long. "It wasn't true, of course."

"I know," your response is automatic. You're unsure precisely to what he's referring, but you want to reassure him.

"Shall I stop?" he asks the question softly, but his voice is too rough for him to feign innocence, now. "Or would you like to keep going?"

There's some shame in your breathless answer, and no doubt he hears it. No doubt he feels it, too. But it's outweighed by scraping, seething, agonizing want that's been buried for so long. 

"More," you tell him, never more certain of anything. "Don't stop."

There's conflict in his gaze, but the same animal you've been fighting wins out within him, too, and he closes his eyes once more. 

--

Tag List: @cosmicsierra @projectdreamwalker @guacam011y @thriving-n-jiving @reverieisaway @cursedfaechild @honeymoon7770 @hedvighedvig @cool-ontherun-world @ladytano420 @eddythewitch

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#obi wan x reader #star wars #obi wan kenobi #star wars fanfiction #fanfic #obi wan fanfiction #fanfiction

[schraubd]

The Looming(?) Haredi Draft

For many years, Israel has effectively exempted Haredi youth from the otherwise universal requirement (for Jews) of IDF service. This has been a serious source of tension and strife in Israeli society -- a rallying point for secular and moderate Jews who view the Haredim as failing to pull their weight, and an absolute bedrock priority for Orthodox parties for whom avoiding military service is their number one policy demand. The blockbuster decision out of the Israeli supreme court you might have read about doesn't quite compel the draft to start, but it does say that Haredim can no longer get their governmental stipends if they don't serve. In practice, the Haredi community is going to view it as the same thing -- an end to the system where they got paid to study Torah instead of serve in the army. I won't claim to be an expert on this issue -- this is where I comment as an "interested amateur" -- but here are some initial thoughts. One immediate way to identify a complete know-nothing hack is if you see anyone saying this ruling demonstrates that the Israeli government is starving for manpower or some other vulgar materialist explanation. The current government, which depends on the support of Orthodox parties for its majority, was and is absolutely dead-set against this ruling. That said, the current war and the strain it's placed on Israel's military capacities has certainly even further elevated this issue's salience amongst the opposition, and that may have helped create a further permission structure for the court to rule as it did. It is entirely possible that this ruling could bring down Bibi's government. The mercurial nature of the Orthodox parties is I think a bit overstated (people are so proud for knowing better than the naive story about the ultra-Orthodox being the primary drivers of Israeli right-wing extremism -- "they've joined left-wing governments before! Shas backed land for peace!" -- that they skip past the ways that this social cadre has genuinely shifted rightward in recent years). But this issue really is the sine qua for the ultra-Orthodox, and if the current government can't secure it, that's going to create a yawning fissure in an already creaky coalition. It might be weird to think of "more militarization" as helping bolster pro-peace impulses in Israel. But we might see some shift in that direction, for at least two reasons.  Number one, in general, if every social sector is sharing the burden of military service, that may put a damper on needless military adventurism. Parties that are happy to risk the bodies of other Israelis to defend settlement outposts may be less willing to do so once their bodies are on the line.  Number two, for the Haredi parties in particular, the only way they might plausibly get their exemptions back is in a world where Israel is less reliant on constant militarization. So that could create some possibility for working relationship with more liberal forces in the state; albeit an "alliance" that will always be on shaky footing. In any event, stay tuned -- this is a big deal. via The Debate Link https://ift.tt/qBKeDWI

#Israel #Jews #military #religion

[questforgalas]

Thank you for coming back

Notes: So once again, @zaana's incredible art lived rent free in my head until I put it down on paper. So here's a delightful AU where Crosshair doesn't get sent to Tantiss because guess who gets to him first? Chose to do a rescue from Barton IV because Cross is in his imperial armor in the art, and I thought "Hey, let's maybe give him a break and not make him go through torture before he's rescued?" Neat idea, right? Let's tell Jen and Brad

WC: 3K (lol this was going to be a drabble)

Characters: The Bad Batch (all of them!)

Tags: Wrecker POV (he deserves all the Crosshair reunion energy), angst at the end (Crosshair is going through it ok), hurt/comfort, giant family group hug, Crosshair and Wrecker cry, Hunter is emotional, canon typical violence, implied mistreatment by the Empire (did I mention Crosshair is going through it?), family reunion, all the family fluff I could fit into 3k words

Tay's Masterlist

Read on AO3

The sound of blaster fire was becoming permanent in Wrecker’s ears. Hunkered down behind a duracrete barrier, he kept his DC-17 trained on the Imps attempting to advance on his position, blaster bolts streaming past his head. 

“Seriously, who trained these guys to shoot,” he thought to himself, needing to only dodge a few bolts from the barrage while his targets fell with each pull of his trigger. 

The landing platform at the depot on Barton IV was looking more like a true battlefield and less like a remote outpost with every passing minute. Two T-4 shuttles lay in smoking ruins - the first thanks to Hunter’s skill on the Marauder’s rear gun and the second thanks to an excellent detonator throw by Wrecker - and stormtrooper bodies lay scattered across the duracrete ground. So far, Wrecker and Hunter were executing their part of the plan perfectly, but when it came to creating distractions, there wasn’t much guess work as to Wrecker’s success rate. 

The Batch’s intel told them that the depot, located on a desolate, frozen planet that rivaled Hoth’s  icy temperatures, normally operated as a blip on the Empire’s priority list. In fact, blip might have been giving it too much credit. The small clone trooper squad that was assigned to protection detail put in requests for equipment, supplies, and reinforcements throughout their year of service, and every request fell on deaf imperial ears. Gathered from the information Tech found during his hacking, Commander Mayday of the squad put in a request for reinforcements 40 rotations ago, citing that only five members of his squad remained alive at the time the request went in, but Tech couldn’t find any log of a response anywhere in the records. Complete silence from the Empire. 

Until 4 rotations ago. The call went out for a platoon of stormtroopers to ready for deployment to Barton IV with orders to transport cargo of high importance to the Empire from the depot to the military base on Coruscant. Prior to the platoon’s arrival, a small squad of clone troopers was sent to scout and ready the depot for the cargo transfer. The squad consisted of two standard troopers and one specialized. One prickly, stubborn, unyielding specialized trooper who Wrecker couldn’t wait to see again. 

When Tech caught chatter that a clone trooper shot a commanding imperial officer in broad daylight in front of an imperial depot, he initially intended to send the intel directly to Captain Rex, informing him of another defecting clone who would be in need of assistance, but after he scanned the information log, he didn’t register his datapad falling from his hands, thudding on the floor, only able to to focus on activating the comm on his vambrace, urging Hunter to get to the Marauder as quickly as possible. Because there in front of him, written across the Marauder’s main computer, was CT-9904: Defector. Charged with the murder of Lieutenant Nolan. In custody on Barton IV. Scheduled for armed transfer in two rotations. 

The discussion was short - Hunter the only one remaining cautious until Tech confirmed the lack of security at the depot, even with the stormtrooper platoon coming in - and the Batch set their course to Barton IV less than two hours after the message was intercepted. The plan was easy, one the Batch could nearly execute in their sleep, even with their newer blonde addition. Create a distraction to draw the majority of security out into the open which Hunter and Wrecker would engage while Omega provided cover from the Marauder. Meanwhile, Tech and Echo skirt along the edge of the chaos, slip into the depot undetected, locate Crosshair’s location, and extract him while neutralizing any remaining threats if necessary. 

Plans 5, 4, and 21. The Batch specialty. 

“Wrecker, incoming! Northwest!” Hunter’s smokey voice called over the commotion. 

The far gate of the depot opened, ten stormtroopers running out to join the fight. “Yeah, I see ‘em, Sarge,” Wrecker confirmed. “They look excited to see us.” 

Hunter took cover behind his barrier, and turned his head in Wrecker’s direction.

“How about you give our hosts a warm greeting?” Hunter suggested, cocking his head to the side. Wrecker could feel the smug smirk under that helmet.

“Gladly,” Wrecker responded gleefully. 

Reaching into the pack on his back, he grabbed two thermal detonators, clicked them live, and chucked. They arced into the air, curving in opposite directions, landing right in the middle of the oncoming troopers, and Wrecker watched as all ten stormtroopers disappeared into a beautiful burst of orange, red, and black. 

“Direct hit,” Wrecker yelled, pumping his DC-17 in triumph. 

Across the way, Hunter gave a quick thumbs up and popped his head above his barrier. Wrecker did the same, confirming that the landing platform was clear of imps for the moment, but they knew more troopers would arrive soon. They’d only taken out about 30 of them so far. 

“Agh, where are they,” Hunter wondered, helmet trained on the door they expected to see their brothers emerge from. 

“Give ‘em a few more minutes, Sarge. I doubt the Empire just left Crosshair in a set of binders on a crate.” 

“They’re dumb enough to,” Hunter said. A soft chuckle came through his modulator, “Wonder how long he’d humor them until he took them all out with his hands still bound.” 

“Knowing Crosshair? They wouldn’t even get the binders on him,” Wrecker laughed. 

Hunter went quiet, helmet still pointed at the door. Then his shoulders fell like he was bowing to a weight Wrecker couldn’t see. “We’ll have to be patient. He’s…” Hunter paused. “He’s probably not the Crosshair we remember. There are going to be some … invisible wounds.” 

Wrecker released his own shuttered breath. He looked down at the ground for a moment, and then looked back up to find Hunter looking back at him. “Doesn’t matter how long it takes. We’ll help patch those up too.” 

Hunter remained still for a breath and then nodded. 

The silence was interrupted by a chime on Hunter’s comm. “What’ve you got, Omega?” he asked as he activated the connection. 

“I’m picking up multiple heat signatures heading our way. Looks like our little break is over,” Omega’s voice chirped over the comm. 

“Copy that,” Hunter responded.

Wrecker brought his own comm up to his mouth. “What’s your count, kid?” he asked playfully. 

“I’m at 4,” Omega answered, a smug tone floating through. 

“Only 4? You’re falling behind. I’m at 18,” Wrecker said. 

“I don’t think the thermal detonators should count,” Hunter interjected. 

“What?! Did you see how perfectly those landed? Probably my best yet! Not even Tech could pull that off.” 

“It’s hardly fair when I’m all the way back here on the Marauder!” Omega argued. 

“Excuses excuses, kid,” Wrecker teased. Their debate came to a quick halt when the remaining hangar doors of the depot opened, revealing the last wave of the platoon. “Alright, break time’s over. Shoot good, kid.” 

The platform became engulfed in battle once again. Blaster bolts peppered the air. Thermal detonators flew. Line after line of stormtroopers tried to take the advantage on the two ground soldiers and their coverage, but Hunter, Wrecker, and Omega held them back with ease. Wrecker heard General Skywalker speaking to Hunter about something called meditation once - a staple Jedi practice of centering one’s mind and connecting with the force through quiet sitting - and while Wrecker wasn’t sure this would meet the Jedi standard, he imagined this was the closest to meditation he would ever come. Surrounded by the sounds of battle. Adrenaline pumping in his veins. He’d hit a point of focus that drowned everything else out, his mission the only thought in his mind. And he was dam good at it, too. 

His DC-17 sang, and he let out a jovial laugh as he took down another line of troopers. As he focused on the enemies in front of him, the squad’s comm channel chimed in his helmet, and the only thing in the galaxy that could divert his attention from the battle in front of him called through the speakers.

“Hunter. Wrecker. We’ve got him. We’re approaching the exit. What’s the status of the platform?” Echo’s voice came through. 

For a second, Wrecker and Hunter turned towards each other, both chests rising rapidly with fast breaths not caused by the battle in front of them, and Wrecker knew if he could see Hunter’s eyes, they’d reflect the same bottomless relief he was feeling. 

Wrecker forced himself back to the present and provided cover fire while Hunter responded. 

“You’re clear to exit. A few imps left but nothing we can’t handle. Wrecker and I will provide cover fire while you cross the platform. Go directly to the Marauder,” Hunter ordered. 

Wrecker’s breath caught in his throat when a low, raspy voice could be heard in the background. “No, we thought we’d take a hike in the mountains.”

A hitched breath came through, and in his peripheral, Wrecker noticed Hunter lean his helmet back against the duracrete barrier, shoulders shaking. 

“I never thought I’d miss his attitude,” Omega piped in. 

That broke the tension building in Wrecker’s head, and a laugh barreled out from his chest. Brain clear and ready to act again, he focused on the remaining stormtroopers trying to hold their ground. 

“Omega, get the engines running. We’re getting off this hunk of ice as soon as we’re all onboard,” Hunter finished relaying the orders. 

“One more thing,” Tech’s voice came through this time. “I did the scan. The inhibitor chip has indeed been removed, but only after the encounter on Bracca. Crosshair did remove it voluntarily unbeknownst to the Empire.”

“Tech kind of refused to leave the holding cells until he was able to confirm it all. Hacked records and everything here on the depot. That’s what took us so long,” Echo supplied.

“Thank the Maker for Tech, and his stubborn need for knowledge,” Hunter mumbled. He went back on the comm, “Glad to hear it. Now get out here.”

Hunter turned to Wrecker. “Let’s take out as many as we can before they get here. Once they emerge, you lay down cover fire, and I’ll take overwatch.” 

“Copy that,” Wrecker replied, and they went to work. 

Time that had been passing at light speed slowed to the flow of Mustafar lava. Only ten stormtroopers remained posted across the platform, and Wrecker was determined to clear as many as he could before his brothers emerged. 

Another minute passed. Another. Then another. Time was taunting him.  

A whoosh floated over the blasterfire. The blasted door to the depot finally opened, and there in the doorway were three bent over figures - two supporting the weight of the third in between them - hobbling onto the landing deck. Wrecker allowed himself one glance hoping it would calm his running mind. Echo took most of the middle figure’s weight, flesh arm wrapped around their waist and scomp arm securing the arm wrapped across Echo’s back dangling over his shoulder, while Tech kept one arm around the figure’s waist and kept his blaster at the ready in the other. 

As Wrecker glanced at them,  it wasn’t the figure’s distinct all black armor - the armor of the imperial special forces - that identified him to Wrecker. No, it was the tattoo around their right eye. The tattoo Wrecker sat and watched as Tech gave it to them when they were still just cadets. The tattoo that represented their pride in their skill. The tattoo that told everyone exactly which batch he belonged to, front and center for all to see. The crosshair. 

Flanking from behind, Tech easily took down three stormtroopers before they made their way down the stairs. The remaining seven stormtroopers barked out orders to fall back, trying to regroup due to the new arrivals, and Wrecker used their confusion to his advantage, taking out another three in one go. Realizing they were outnumbered and outmatched, the remaining four stormtroopers fell back to the hangar, shooting wildly at any target they could see. 

Slower than Wrecker would like, his three brothers made their way to his and Hunter’s position across the platform. As soon as they crossed the threshold of their barriers, Hunter stood from his coverage, falling in step to provide cover directly at their backs. 

“Alright, Wrecker. Let’s keep these guys pinned as we head to the ship,” Hunter said. 

Jumping into position, Wrecker kept a steady pace back to the Marauder without breaking his fire on the remaining stormtroopers. Hunter hit one more as they walked, and Wrecker had his finger on the trigger to take down another when a streak of pink flew over his head and directly into the helmet of his target. 

He glanced over his shoulder. 

“Final count: 12,” Omega beamed down at him from the top of the ramp into the Marauder. 

“Aha! Nice shot, kid! Now let’s get out of here,” Wrecker said, barreling up the ramp into the ship. 

The ramp closed up as the ship made its way into the air, and the energy within immediately went still. Tech sat in the cockpit, taking over the controls from Omega once on board, but Hunter, Wrecker, Echo, Omega, and Crosshair remained in the hold. 

Crosshair sat in the chair in front of the computer, slumped over, one hand on the armrest propping him while an elbow rested on a knee like that was all the energy he could muster. He was breathing heavy, chest rising and falling as if he’d just finished a training sprint back on Kamino. Wrecker quickly gave his body a once over. Crosshair had always been lithe, by far the smallest body mass of the Bad Batch, but there had been muscle underneath those long limbs that gave any regular clone trooper a run for his money. Now, Wrecker clocked only bones showing underneath the exposed areas his armor didn’t cover, and his cheekbones were sharp above the hollowness of his cheeks. Purple blotched under his eyes, and it was impossible not to notice the deep scar that covered the right side on the back of his head. The scar he received when he took the full heat of a Venator ion engine. 

The same engine he tried to trap his brothers in. 

“Thank you…for coming for me. I…I wouldn’t have blamed you if you didn’t,” Crosshair drawled, head bent down. Whether he was unable to lift it from lack of strength or not being able to face the current scene, Wrecker wasn’t sure. His own heart was thudding in his chest, threatening to burst out. He called on every ounce of discipline and self-restraint he learned in his years as a soldier and remained rooted in place, holding his breath. The rest of the Batch stood as still as statues, four sets of eyes on their silver-haired brother. 

“You can drop me off at the closest port. You can pick. Doesn’t matter to me,” Crosshair said to the floor. Still, no one else spoke. He raised his head, glancing at each of them. His gaze settled on Hunter. “I…I’d understand if that’s what you want to do. It’s what you should do.” 

The five of them felt the Marauder lurch into hyperspace, but still, Echo, Omega, Hunter, and Wrecker didn’t budge. Footsteps approached from the cockpit, and soon, Tech joined them, choosing to sit in the chair across from Crosshair. The silence grew, and Wrecked noticed the crease between the sniper’s eyebrows deepen while his eyes darted around the group.

“Well, aren’t any of you going to say something?” Crosshair asked, frustration creeping into his voice. He glanced around one more time, and finally stood up from the chair, a growl coming from his throat, back hunched like he was ready to pounce, and his gaze locked on Hunter, a finger pointed at the sergeant. “Listen, I didn’t ask you to come get me. I was ready to die on that platform after I shot the lieutenant, and I was ready to die in whatever maker-forsaken place they were going to send me. You hear me? I didn’t ask for this.” He gestured around the room, around the Batch. 

“So don’t make me a burden you don’t want. Drop me anywhere. Leave me. It’s what I deserve - oof!” 

Wrecker couldn’t take it anymore, and as he watched Crosshair teeter on the precipice of self-destruction, he took two strides towards his brother, and engulfed him in his arms. 

Crosshair stiffened, his arms frozen mid-gesture to the side. Wrecker stood there, arms firmly wrapped around Crosshair’s back and shoulders, head dipping to rest on top of Crosshair’s head, and he waited. Eventually, Crosshair’s arms fell to his sides, but his body remained stiff like he wasn’t actually registering what was happening. Then, after a few breaths, his arms slowly rose, one wrapping under Wrecker’s arm and the other circling over his shoulder. 

“Why did you come for me?” Wrecker heard muffled into his chestplate. 

“We don’t leave our own behind,” Wrecker answered simply. 

Wrecker felt the shaking first, then he heard the soft sobs. Tightening his arms, he held his once-lost brother as if challenging the galaxy to try and separate them again. When he felt Crosshair crumble into his chest, he released the grip he’d been holding on his own emotions, and the tears flowed freely. Tears of sorrow for what Crosshair endured. Tears of rage at the Empire. Tears of sweet relief at his family being whole again. 

Wrecker felt a pair of arms sneak between his waist and Crosshair’s chest, and when he looked up, he saw Hunter wrapped around Crosshair’s back, arms crushing the sniper into the sergeant’s chest. “We’ve got you, Cross,” Hunter murmured. 

One-by-one, Tech, Echo, and Omega joined in, the last squeezing herself into the middle, wrapping her arms around Crosshair’s leg, and even when the sobs quieted, they remained that way. There was a lot to talk about. A long road of trust to regain. They were about to navigate rough terrain. And the past will resurface, in old wounds, physical and not. But none of that mattered right now. In the middle of their home, a family reunited. Unsure what the future would bring them, but ready to face it all together.

#tay writes the bad batch #tay writes #divider by samspenandsword #the bad batch #star wars #hunter #wrecker #crosshair #tech #omega #echo #tbb wrecker #tbb hunter #tbb omega #tbb echo #tbb tech #tbb crosshair

[rory-multifandom-mess]

GRABS YOU

Gimme ur V headcanons now <3

You know who this is

you're GAAAY, YOU'RE GAAY, YOU LIKE KISSING GIRRRLLSSSS

ok anyway

V Headcanons

V can be very flirtatious when she likes someone (that isn't N) (Yes this is my Vhad brain speaking. shut up)

Huge tease and takes joy in scaring others

Ever since the pilot, she likes to sneak into Outpost 3 through the ventilation shafts

Gives lovebites to those she likes (I'm projecting a little here)

When she's bored and exhausted from putting up her badass sadistic woman front, she'll fly up to the roof of one of the taller buildings and stargaze. And just... think.

Random compliments will catch her off guard, but she always covers up her flusteredness by flirting back or just being sassy

Her sadism and mild insanity is actually a cover-up/coping mechanism. She doesn't take joy in hurting others, and a lot of her unnecessary killing is an emotional outlet, an attempt to feel something other than hatred and despair. (hence the "and yet? i still feel nothing!" line in the pilot)

Sometimes she'll also tell herself that killing worker drones is getting revenge on Cyn for ruining her and N's lives. She'll even somtimes imagine the worker drone she's slaughtering is Cyn

V is usually the first to wake between her, N, and J. She's made sure it stays that way, because then she can check and make sure they're still there; she does this to be sure Cyn doesn't rip them away from her again

She stays distant from N so they don't get too close again like they did in the mansion, because Solver hates love and thinks its gross, and it'll kill N in front of her face again if it has to, she's sure of it

Every time she wakes up, she looks around and checks her body to make sure Solver isn't experimenting with her again - to make sure she isn't being messed with

I think her love language would be acts of service. The moment she finds herself doing anything for anyone without them asking her to is the moment she starts to distance herself because no. nuh uh. that's just asking for solver to ruin everything again.

This is more of a general headcanon for all disassembly Drones, but I think they can switch between seeing through their 6 eyes on the top of their head and the regular 2 on their screens. That being said, V usually sticks with the 2 on her screen simply because that's what she was used to. She only switches to the 6 on her head when engaged in battle for that advantage, as opposed to N and J, who are usually using the 6 unless they need to scan an area (or N in episode 4. stupid fuck. love him)

AAGH I NEED MORE V HEADCANONS BUT I DON'T HAVE ANY MORE. Anyway hope you enjoy these! Most of them are angst oops

#ask box #ask answered #rory answers #rory rambles #murder drones #murder drones headcanons #serial designation v #serial designation n #serial designation j #murder drones v #murder drones n #murder drones j #n x v #kind of? #murder drones fandom #vhad #killingblond #kind of #just a little

[emilybeemartin]

Inktober Days 10-12

Day 10: "Fortune"

On the farthest-flung spit of the Florida Keys are a handful of islands bearing the second-oldest surviving European name in the US, recorded by Ponce de León for the abundance of sea turtles and the lack of fresh water (Florida’s name is considered the oldest). Shallow straits create a ship trap that has claimed hundreds of vessels from the age of sail, including loaded Spanish treasure galleons. Old lighthouses stand as memories to the effort to guide ships through lucrative but risky channels. Rising from Garden Key is a hexagonal fortress—Fort Jefferson, the largest all-brick fort in the US, which housed Union prisoners during the Civil War. Under the turquoise water are some of the most intact coral reefs in the continental US. The water teems with sea life, and in addition to several year-round seabird species, the islands serve as stopovers for migrating birds. It’s a treasure trove lousy with natural and historical abundance. A vast fortune of biodiversity and human history.

This message is not brought to you by Visit Dry Tortugas LLC—it’s brought to you by a too-romantic ranger who’s a sucker for lonely maritime outposts and would desperately like to visit this unusual little member of the National Park Service.

Day 11: "Wander"

Some parks more than others seem to invite visitors to wander. It’s the twists of a path, dipping in and out of the rises in a landscape. It’s the light filtering through dark forests, promising something new beyond the branches. It’s the shoulders of a massive mountain standing like a beacon, or its invisible summit covered in clouds. Mount Rainier, like so many other protected places, seems to beckon—come. Explore. Take it in.

But stay on the path—alpine habitats are fragile.

Day 12: "Spicy"

Olympic was the first park I fell in love with, and it was a twenty-year long-distance relationship. A National Geographic article I read in high school painted a picture of verdant rainforests dripping with moss, wild windy coastlines, and high snowy peaks. I desperately wanted to see these places myself, stand under the towering cedars and breathe in their spicy scent. My desire to visit was so strong that the summers I worked in Glacier and Yellowstone, I would constantly plot the drive west, hoping the travel time would somehow get shorter. It was eleven hours. I could do that in a long weekend, couldn’t I? Take one of my precious few days off and just blitz to the coast?

The plans never worked out, which is probably for the best. Instead, after two years of Covid-cancelled plans, my husband and I decided to make the trip together from the east coast. It was infinitely better than a snatched day and a half all alone. For a week, we explored the glaciated mountains, rocky beaches, and primordial rainforests. After two-thirds of my life spent pining after this park, it was everything I’d dreamed it would be and more.

#31 days of national parks #inktober #dry tortugas #mount rainier #olympic #inktober 2023

[talesfrommedinastation]

My redneck neighbor Doug watches 'The Bad Batch': Pabu

So, maybe it's because the Razorbacks are currently up over the Tigers, which makes Doug's LSU loving self extra fired up this evening, but I have made the mistake of asking him again about his opinion on the episode after 'The Outpost', which was 'Pabu'.

He called this both 'HR Goes to Daytona' and 'Did I miss an episode?'.

Doug: Make sure you put one of my Baton Rouge boys on the internet too right now. GEAUX TIGERS.

CW: Doug insults everyone, everything, and is generally a cantankerous old jerk in this one. His wife should have unplugged his internet. Lots of adult everything, ranging from language to...well, if you're under 18, please be warned.

Prepare thyself, especially if you're a TechxPhee fan. The amount of angry emojis I got in the text messages were pretty wild.

----

'Pabu' aka 'HR Goes to Daytona'

Oh it’s Church Lady and it’s Sunday service. Why is little orphan blondie in the bar with her? Daddy Rambo has his knife but you know the man was plowing vodka out of sight here. He’s tired.

I thought he hated Church Lady? Did I miss an episode?

Ah, now Ryan-from-Accounting is playing solitaire. Atta boy, get your mind off the bitch wife Laura. If he makes out with that garbage robot I’ll throw up. 

Time to skee-daddle. Woah! Church Lady just grabbed Ryan-from-Accounting. That man looks terrified, probably because he found a Youtube video of her taking down muggers behind Manning's after a Pelicans game. Bitch wife Laura gonna blow a gasket.

But such is the way of the Church Lady, I have known many in my day. “I groped the hot new usher in Jesus’s house, but it’s okay, The Lord forgives”.

(praise the Lord and pass the Tabasco)

No, seriously, did I miss an episode? I feel like I did.  

Houma-BBQ bitch is bitching, as is her wont. I wonder what sauce her tail would taste best with. Carolina Gold? I’d cook her brisket style. Oh, wait, back to the show. 

And now they’re on paradise! Daytona Beach! Who is this guy, he looks like he used to play hoops now he plays how much dessert he can eat at Golden Corral. Props to him, that lava cake is gold. Hope Rex and Toaster Strudel are there.

Where are Rex and Toaster Strudel.

No, really, where are Rex and Toaster Strudel.

I’m getting real mad here, where are Rex and Toaster Strudel. 

CHURCH LADY, GET BACK IN YOUR SPACE UBER AND GO FIND REX AND TOASTER STRUDEL. I DON’T CARE ABOUT YOUR MUSEUM OF SHIT YOU FOUND IN PEOPLE’S BACKYARDS AND THE DUMPSTER BEHIND THE KEY LARGO PUBLIX, GO GET REX AND TOASTER STRUDEL.

SHOVE RYAN-FROM-ACCOUNTING BACK INTO THE DRIVER’S SEAT, PAY FOR HIS GAS, AND GO GET REX AND TOASTER STRUDEL. 

“You have some competition”. From what, there’s gonna be a hot dog eating contest or something? Why does Ryan-from-Accounting look so upset? 

(“I think they’re trying to set him and Phee up, Doug.” “What, when did that happen? Did I miss an episode?”)

Ryan-from-Accounting looks either sad or excited and I’m so confused. Maybe it’s because I’ve been married since before the dinosaurs but why is he either frowning and freaked out by Church Lady or smiling at Church Lady? Is he having a breakdown like my nephew did after he lost his job? Does Bitch Wife Laura know about this? Does he like Church Lady or is he planning on pepper spraying her? Did I miss an episode? Is this how the children flirt on the Ticky-Tack? No wonder y’all aren’t getting married any more. 

(“Doug, you did not miss an episode. And it is called Tik-Tok.” “I MISSED AN EPISODE. I KNOW I DID, AND IT IS CALLED THE TICKY-TACK!!!”) 

Ya know who would solve these questions? REX AND MOTHER LOVING TOASTER STRUDEL, WHO AIN’T HERE. THEY NEED TO BE HERE. WHERE ARE YOU HIDING THEM CHURCH LADY. 

Oh lovely, Hoops forgot to make a reservation at BoneFish, so they’re having his gas station sushi. Not one shrimp or crab on that table? Y’all Hoops is failing so hard right now, as a boy from Louisiana I’m just offended. His momma raised that man WRONG. 

You know who would love sushi on the beach while watching the sun set? REX AND TOASTER STRUDEL, and Daddy Warcrimes and Sassy Park Ranger too. 

I MISS SASSY PARK RANGER ALREADY!!!!!!

But no, Rex and Toaster Strudel are busy at work saving the galaxy while Julio and the gang throw back cocktails and stare at the sun like they dropped cheap acid they bought in a sketchier part of Biloxi. Which is all of Biloxi, I guess. 

Oh, and Ryan-from-Accounting is awkward around Church Lady and stares at his phone lest that Bitch Wife Laura of his get a snap of them sitting together and Little Orphan Blondie pets a monkey. I hope they all get food poisoning. I’m so mad.

They need Toaster Strudel the way I need FSU to lose this weekend, I have money on that game too. WHY IS ARKANSAS STILL UP IN THE SECOND QUARTER.

Ah, Little Orphan Blondie’s on a boat with her new buddy, that’s nice. If she doesn’t find Rex and Toaster Strudel out in the ocean with James Cameron I hope–oh, shoot, I was in the navy. I know what that water means. Oh boy.

Well bless Ryan-from-Accounting, he watches Big Tuna and knows how to do a rescue. Church Lady looks happy. He finally touched her, it only took a natural disaster and a whole lot of nagging on her part. Oh, poor Church Lady, you need a guy who actually likes you back. 

Seriously, why does that man look like the subject of them shitty videos HR makes us watch once a year so we don’t get sued? I don’t know, but I’m starting to understand why his Bitch Wife Laura is the way she is. I can’t believe the episode they filmed in Daytona makes me feel for her, but it do. 

(“Doug, you’re making up Bitch Wife Laura in your head. She’s not in the show.” “Well, it’s clear that I missed some episodes, so maybe I missed the Bitch Wife Laura ones.” “No, you didn’t miss any, I promise.” “Are you SURE?!”)

Man, the tsunami got people running like it’s Black Friday Wal-Mart in Tampa. But they rescued an old guy and Daddy Rambo got the stolen work truck working to rescue the kids. Hooray, I guess. 

You know who would have done a better job? Of all of this?

REX AND MOTHER-LOVING TOASTER STRUDEL. But they ain’t here!

(Doug's love for them runs hard and it runs deep, for which I can empathize)

You know who should have been on a beach horking down Mai Tais and getting into Church Lady and her handsy hands?

POOR POOR SASSY PARK RANGER. BUT HE DIED BACK IN WYOMING.  I bet he’d love a back massage from Church Lady too! He’d sass her, she’d sass him back, and they’d make out on the beach while Daddy Warcrimes played the saxophone behind them or something. I support that. I’d like that. He’s got brown eyes.*

Make it work, Star Wars, damn it. 

(Doug has unlocked a new rarepair, I guess: Mayday and Phee? WTF?)

Well they’re hanging out here in Daytona for the time being, I guess. Julio passed out under a tree like a drunk uncle at a cookout. Everyone's smiling.

I’d be smiling too, knowing that REX AND TOASTER STRUDEL ARE ACTUALLY SAVING PEOPLE WHILE YOU CLOWNS STOMP AROUND FLORIDA. 

Stop smiling at Church Lady, Ryan-from-Accounting! Is it because you finally filed HR complaint paperwork or because you filed for divorce papers from Bitch Wife Laura? Why are you smiling?! Church Lady belongs to Sassy Park Ranger! 

(“Doug…Sassy Park Ranger’s dead. He and Church Lady never met. You need to stop.” “IF THEY CAN BRING PALPATINE BACK, THEY CAN BRING SASSY PARK RANGER BACK TOO!”) 

*=I NEED FAN ART OF THIS NOW, please @amalthiaph! Help me out!

#tbb #the bad batch #clone force 99 #doug talks star wars #redneck doug #thebadbatch #tech the bad batch #hunter the bad batch #omega the bad batch #doug the neighbor #tech x phee #phee genoa #shep the bad batch #pabu #lsu is somehow involved #if the tigers lose doug is going to lose it #mayday x phee #mayday x phee is a thing now i guess wtf #WTF #wrecker the bad batch #doug is amazing #doug why

[thewales]

This article about the Sussex is... they're toast. They are finished before they even start. If everything in this article is true... wow. They are far worse off than even the most pessimistic of us thought.

The WSJ:

The graveyard of video projects they hoped to make includes an animated children’s show called “Pearl” that was canceled by Netflix, as well as at least two TV ideas that the streaming service rejected within the past year, people familiar with Harry and Meghan’s projects said. Netflix is unlikely to renew the couple’s deal, which runs through 2025, the people said.

People who have worked with the pair say their Sussex-upon-Sunset outpost was undermined by their inexperience as producers and trouble finding material consistent with their brand, as well as problems beyond their control, including a retrenchment in the entertainment and podcasting businesses.

Archewell employees and associates say the company often lacks direction, and that its founders at times seem surprised by the work required to finish entertainment projects. Most potential initiatives, they said, follow a similar route: Big idea, subpar execution.

In May 2022, the head of communications at Archewell and the head of communications at the couple’s nonprofit foundation stepped down. In the following months, several others followed, including the company’s head of audio and Mandana Dayani, president of the entire operation.

In March, Ben Browning, the film producer hired to oversee Archewell’s content slate on the strength of such credits as the Oscar-winning “Promising Young Woman,” left the company to return to his prior job. Archewell’s head of marketing parted ways with the company, as did its head of scripted content.

Archewell employees felt the future of their Netflix deal hinged on the documentary’s success, and the project created tension inside the company. Harry and Meghan weighed in on edits, though at times were overruled, people involved in the project said.

Other proposed projects seemed designed to replicate successful shows already on Netflix, such as a sitcom described as “Emily in Paris,” but about a man, and a family-friendly TV show about gay characters that felt similar to the fan favorite “Heartstopper.” Netflix said no to both, people familiar with the matter said.

Executives at Netflix have groused about Archewell’s output, according to people familiar with the matter, and feel that the success of the “Harry & Meghan” documentary is all the company has to show for the deal.

Today, one Archewell project is nearing completion at Netflix: a documentary series on the Invictus Games, a tournament Harry founded for wounded veterans after serving two tours with the British Army in Afghanistan.

Harry and Meghan are also developing a TV show for Netflix called “Bad Manners” based on Miss Havisham, a Charles Dickens character from “Great Expectations.” The prequel would recast the lonely spinster as a strong woman living in a patriarchal society, though it is unclear whether the show will get a green light from Netflix.

Choosing the right kind of guest was often fraught. Meghan wrote Taylor Swift a personal letter asking her to come on the podcast. The pop star declined, through a representative.

Harry, in particular, struggled to land on an idea.

He explored a podcast on veterans but couldn’t find a compelling way to tackle the subject in podcast form. He tossed around subjects such as misinformation and his point of view as someone new to living in America, and at one point considered co-hosting a show with comedian Hasan Minhaj.

Given their distance from the crown, the sheen Harry and Meghan once lent show-business projects is dimming. It helped cost them what was intended to be their first project with Netflix, an animated show about powerful women of history called “Pearl.”

The children’s show was developed when Meghan was still a working royal. It was created with help from David Furnish, who knew the royal family through his husband, Elton John. When the couple left the Palace and signed their Netflix deal, “Pearl” was the first show announced.

#this is BAD for them #they really have no talent a apart for complaining about everything #and meghans talent of making expensive clothes look cheap #and ugly #they really have nothing #and Hollywood don’t really care anymore #this is BAD… For them. it’s extremely entertaining for me #the suxs