#I got a commando

[engagemythrusters]

“The Bad Batch” ???!!!!!!

Delta squad ran—OMEGA SQUAD SPRINTED—so that show could fucking amble.

But anyway now I have a clone commando teehee >:D

[tarancho]

the first episode reminded me how sick fire looks

[moonsickness-posts]

Hear me out...

lol anyways the burns might be worth it 😜

[thyhauntedmansion]

She just… wanted to belong…

“You’re a human with gills.”

“The world does not see it this way!”

“But you’re a monster, like us.”

“You’re the biggest freak of us all.”

MY SHAYLAAAAAAA

[fanged-fanfics]

Ummm…… Weasel x child turned weasel reader?

Hear me out…

An alternative universe where the Weasel managed save one of the kid and evade custody, but he accidentally bite the kid and the kid transformed into a weasel-creature like him

☆ Two Of A Kind — Weasel & Child! Gn Reader HCs ☆

Genres: Platonic, Fluff || they/them pronouns for reader || Warnings for mild angst

──────.𖥔 ݁ ˖˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ──────

ᯓᡣ𐭩 From the very millisecond you got dropped off at the jail and entered his sight, Weasel didn't let you out of his vision. He could tell who you were by your scent, and he didn't leave your side since that first flicker of recognition entering his damaged mind

ᯓᡣ𐭩 He did everything with you— walking, playing, eating, anything he could do to stick by your side. If you wandered off he'd gently nudge you with his head or snout in the right direction, or simply pick you up by your scruff

ᯓᡣ𐭩 He can't really comprehend that he's what caused this to happen to you, but he knows you're different now. In occasional moments of clarity he may gently nudge at you while whining, trying to communicate worry and remorse

ᯓᡣ𐭩 The wardens have tried to separate you two before, but Weasel nearly took a whole hand off of someone's arm before that could happen. Not even the other monsters could pry him back. You were his kit, and you weren't going anywhere

ᯓᡣ𐭩 He'd occasionally drag you over to the other Commandos to get them to pay attention to you in a 'look! Look at my kit! This one's my kid!' kind of way

ᯓᡣ𐭩 You started seeing the same therapist as him, and you soon began having some sessions together since you seemed to give him some mental clarity, more than any picture or scrap of newspaper had

ᯓᡣ𐭩 He shares everything with you. Every bit of food, item, anything. You immediately become the center of his world, no matter how small or disorienting that perspective may be

ᯓᡣ𐭩 You tried to occasionally engage in play with him, the typical friendly roughhousing. You were confused when he didn't seem to reciprocate and would instead nudge you off or disengage entirely. Really it was more that he kept having flashes of memories to back then, when this all started, when you were just a friendly face that wanted to welcome a monster. He can't bear to feel like he's making the same mistakes

ᯓᡣ𐭩 He always sleeps curled around you, or he tries to. He usually ends up in some insane twisted napping shape eventually, but he never strays far from your side regardless

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Any dangerous situation he senses, you're the first one he's picking up to safety. Sure he's mauled people in front of you before, but he still makes sure when he can think properly that your safety is top priority. Be expected to be grabbed by the scruff immediately

[bonemeal12]

I can’t even finish this after the latest episode I’m sorry I can’t I can’t do this this is too much I-

[verpineshatterrifle]

Republic Commando: 501st About Order 66

"Only a civvie would have thought of Order 66 in simple terms of either unflinching loyalty or cruel betrayal. It was neither. It was complicated. It was the sort of complicated you could only truly grasp if you were standing there with a rifle in your hands, if all your buddies were dead, if you understood exactly why orders weren't optional. And it was the sort of complicated you just didn't have time to debate and second-guess in the middle of a crisis.

That was why you drilled. That was why you had orders. It was to make sure situations- and soldiers- didn't fall apart when things got tough."

-----

"There were clones who likes their Jedi officers, or hated them, or didn't know them well enough to have an opinions, and there were clones who felt the Jedi had simply used up troopers' lives in their plan to overthrow the government. But most of them carries out the order, and for one reason- lawful orders couldn't be ignored when you felt like it. The army was there to do the bidding of elected governments, not to decide policy for itself. Orders came from those who had the bigger picture when you didn't."

[morethanmemory]

Imagine being his right hand while he's still a mob boss and he helps you put on the skeleton paint <3

They'd probably get to choose the colors of the paint, too, as he'd want his right hand to be easily distinguishable from the rest of the goons

Pairing: Doctor Phosphorus/Reader

Warnings: None; Some suggestive touching heheh ;)

Notes: anon this is lowkey so cute !! i'm a lil obsessed so a short blurb about it for you >:3c dragon reader makes a comeback in this au!

---

"You're kidding, right? I'll look like a walking Halloween decoration," you deadpan, fiddling with the lid of the neon green face paint as a frown tugs at your lips.

He scoffs as he takes the jar of glow-in-the dark paint from your fingers and unscrews the top.

"You already look like a Renaissance fair prop, so what's the big deal?" he retorts, tittering as he gestures at the sturdy horns atop your head. Your eyes narrow as you fix him with an unamused glower, but undeterred, he strides forward. As he takes another step closer, Phosphorus dips his fingers into the paint jar before waggling them at your face. The luminescent paint glitters on his fingertips under the dim lights of his office, sizzling against his fiery skin as the sparkling rivulets roll down his palm. Another step and he's leaning over you, pressing you up against the cool glass of the floor-to-ceiling windows behind his desk.

"C'mon," he urges gently. The simple plea rumbles in the back of his throat, deep and warm, and briefly, you're tempted to give in to his stupid, gaudy idea and let him paint you his. The soft purr of his voice makes your knees weak, and the sharp scent of radiation has your head spinning with its own stupid idea. The thought's crossed your mind more than once. Fleeting moments of curiosity when you've wondered what it'd be like to taste him. You could do it now if you wanted to. It'd be easy. Get on the tips of your toes, close the little space left between the two of you. But it's a bad idea—Phosphorus and you. He's as brash as he is flashy; you're hotheaded and stubborn to a fault. You'd both be playing with fire, and when neither of you can burn beneath the flames, you'll be stuck in hell forever.

In a poor attempt to bury the nagging desire to yank him down by his tie and kiss him stupid, you bat his hand away, but he's faster. With a swift swipe of his thumb, Phosphorus smudges the tip of your nose with a dab of paint, snickering as you scrunch up your face.

For a split second, he feels whatever is left of his heart stutter in his chest as you splutter and scowl. The twitch of your nose, the pinch of your brow, the pout of your lips, the shimmer of your scales—you're surprisingly adorable for a beast with hellfire in your veins. Despite himself, Phosphorus reaches up to brush his knuckles along your cheek, smearing green paint along the sharp scutes. In the silence of his office, with you silhouetted by Gotham's skyline and the stars above as his only witness, Phosphorus lets himself pretend—even if just for a moment—that this is something else, something more.

But your fingers wrap around his wrist, tugging his hand away, and he's dragged back into the world of endless, empty parties and drugs that never really numb the pain. Shallow and vapid is the life he leads now, but, at least, there's you at the end of every day.

And that means more to him than he'd like to admit.

His hand drops to his side, and Phosphorus chuckles quietly, praying his nerves don't bleed into his words. "What, not a fan of the brand?"

You shrug as your hands slide up to his chest with the crumbling intent to push him away. Your touch lingers a little longer than it should just to feel the warmth of his radiation seep into your palms through the fine wools of his dark suit.

"Sorry, boss," you apologize, half-hearted at most. Gently, you pat his chest. "Neon green's not really my color."

You haven't pulled away; he hasn't stepped back.

"Then," he begins coyly, grinning even if (or, perhaps, because) you can't see it, "what is?"

You don't expect him to take your answer seriously, to take you seriously—not for something as frivolous as this anyway. Sure, as his right hand, there are matters he takes your word for in a heartbeat. Phosphorus doesn't forget the faces of the rats you've sniffed out in his ranks. Still, you didn't think he'd ever actually remember your favorite color.

But, the next night, there it is, just sitting in his hand—a small jar of phosphorescent paint in the shade you love most.

"Do I have to?" you whine, arms crossed as you slouch against the back of the leather couch. The frown tugging your lips downward belies the fluttering butterflies in your stomach. He remembered your favorite color. The logical part of your mind (the part that's hopelessly in denial) says it means nothing, but your heart knows otherwise—and it's screaming in protest.

He reaches toward you, and you turn your head, sticking up your nose. You don't trust yourself to look at him when the lines between the two of you start blurring. It happens more often than not these days.

"Uh, yeah," he smirks, shuffling closer. "I didn't break into an arts and crafts store for no reason."

The cushions sag under the sudden shift of his weight, and you can feel his soft breaths tickle the back of your neck, making your scales rustle. You laugh under your breath, eyes trained on the intricate wooden molding trimming the ceiling of his office, and you try desperately to snuff out the simmering warmth in the pit of your belly.

"Oh, so that was you?" You spare him a quick glance over your shoulder. "The Carol's Crafts arson on the Upper East Side?"

"Actually, it was Gary."

You can't stop the bright laughter that bubbles up past your lips. Trust Gary, of all of Phosphorus's dim-witted lackeys, to be the one to set a store ablaze all for a few cans of glow-in-the-dark paint.

"Well, then, send him my thanks," you tell Phosphorus as a small smile curls your lips. You're turning back to face him before you can stop yourself, and you don't say a word when he moves close enough for your knees to touch.

"I'll make sure to get him a gift basket."

Phosphorus inches nearer, his thigh pressing against yours, and he holds up the jar between the two of you.

"Now, I don't know about you," he drawls, low and larky, "but—me, personally—I wouldn't want all of Gary's hard work to be in vain."

With a roll of your eyes, you reluctantly take the paint from his hand and unscrew the cap.

"Just so you know," you scoff, smiling despite the hint of annoyance lacing your words, "I'm only doing this for Gary."

A whispery laugh leaves him as he dips his fingers into the paint.

"Whatever you say."

The embers of something you'd long forgotten smolder to life in your chest, and you don't even realize you're holding your breath until it escapes you in a sharp gasp as cold paint and warm fingertips touch your cheek.

He chuckles, leaning in and crowding you against the couch. "Relax."

Phosphorus is walking death, but when he cups your jaw in his hand and strokes your silver scales with his thumb, you think you'd welcome the end with open arms. Your eyes flutter shut. You don't see how his hand trembles.

He's never told you this—and he probably never will—but every single time he touches you just a little too long, he's terrified. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner of his office echoes through the room in a taunting, torturous melody as his fingers slowly glide over the planes of your face. Tick. The radiation should have seared your skin. Tock. By now, it should have ripped through your flesh. The clock strikes the quarter-hour with crystalline chimes; every single cell in your body should have been incinerated. He waits for the horrified shrieks of unimaginable pain each time. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. They never come.

Instead, your soft sighs and quiet giggles tinkle through the air as you squirm away from his ticklish touch.

"Stay still," he grunts, dragging his finger down the bridge of your nose.

But you can't stop laughing, shoulders shaking, as the contrasting sensations of cool paint and scorching skin make your scales tingle. "This paint smells like shit."

The pad of his index finger swirls over the button of your nose, and he bites back a smile when you wrinkle it. If he squints just right, Phosphorus thinks he can see something real through all the cheap thrills of this hollow life, and it's there in the twinkle of your eyes.

ACHOO!

Dragon fire skitters down his hand when you sneeze, and he flinches away, streaking the colorful paint across your face and up one scaly ear.

"Seriously?!" he cries shrilly, but there's no real bite to his words. "Did you just sneeze all over me?"

"S-Sorry, sorry!" you stammer between wheezing laughs, handing him a tissue. "I c-couldn't help it!"

You can't make out much of his indignant muttering as he wipes his hand clean before flinging the soiled tissue into the waste bin behind him, but you're certain he's not singing your praises. You're about to apologize again, but the words die on the tip of your tongue when his fingers gently grab your jaw, tilting your head back until your eyes meet his hollow sockets.

You wait for his usual scathing sarcasm, but he stays silent. Without a word, Phosphorus takes another tissue from the box and gently dabs at the paint in your hair. His tender affection is unexpected, unfamiliar, and yet, you lean into his touch anyway. "I can do this myself, y'know," you murmur in poor protest. It's not very convincing when you do nothing to stop him.

"I know." He brushes away the flecks of paint that litter the shell of your ear. "But..."

Whatever he's about to say catches in his throat.

You peer up at him through your lashes. "But?"

You can't see it, but you swear he's smiling. Really smiling.

"Nothing," he mutters. "Just don't want you fucking up my handiwork again."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," you apologize dramatically. "I had no idea Picasso had blessed me with his presence."

He groans, cringing. "Don't compare me to him."

"Why not? You hate Cubism or something?"

"The whack job was an asshole," Phosphorus bristles. For a moment, you think you catch a glimpse of the old him. Alexander Sartorius isn't a man you know very well, but he's always there just beneath the radiation. Sometimes, he breaks through the deadly flames, humming along to Bach or quoting Dante's Inferno (usually at your expense). You tuck away the tidbit that Alexander hates Picasso in the back of your mind.

"And you're not?" you shoot back with an impish smirk. He pinches your cheek.

"You are aware that I can always fire you, right?" he threatens lightly, wiping up the last stray splotches of paint from your temple.

"Doesn't mean you will," you reply with a simple shrug—stubborn and smug as always. He shouldn't like it as much as he does. Phosphorus brushes off your little, uppity remark with a click of his tongue before reaching for the paint once more.

This time, Phosphorus works with precision. Yet, despite his newfound determination, his touches remain oddly tender. He evens out the curves of the skeletal face, superimposed on your own, with the smallest scratch of his fingertips around the apples of your cheeks. His digits slide gently down your jaw to fill in the missing pieces of the mandible. He traces the Cupid's bow of your lips with his thumb in a stroke so slow that a shiver runs down your spine. He prays you can't hear the thundering of his old heart.

Phosphorus mumbles a flimsy excuse that you—too lost in the feeling of his free hand running down the arch of your back—don't really hear. You're too far away. You're moving too much. He needs you to come closer.

You let him pull you into his lap, fighting down a soft sigh. He lets your thighs straddle his hips, biting back a quiet moan. So, this is what it's like to hold a fallen star.

He drags his paint-tipped fingers down and over your lips. The finishing touch.

And yet.

He tucks a finger under your chin.

Your name falls from his lips in a wisp of a breath, and you know, without a doubt, that the battle your mind wages against your heart is a losing one with every tick of the grandfather clock.

His lips brush against yours in a ghost of a touch.

The heavy wooden doors to his office slam open, followed by a cacophony of hollering cronies, and your quiet world of stolen touches and words unspoken shatters like glass. A sea of bright green skeletal faces flood into the room just as the two of you jump apart. Their words all blend together as you try to orient yourself, but as the haze in your head clears, you manage to make out enough. Ice Lounge. A big party, an important party. Phosphorus is late.

So, you let them usher both of you out and into the elevator. Phosphorus berates the idiots for not knocking. Gary compliments you on the hue of the skull painted over your scales (you thank him for the arson).

The few centimeters between Phosphorus and you might as well be a chasm. Still, your eyes meet across the distance. Neon green, you think, is growing on you.

[robingivesmemagic]

i drew the weasel from memory

[sillydinoisme]

Somehow, I blame my undertale phase for my sudden attraction to Dr. Phosphorus. Like yes, I placed this brick nine years ago??

I mean you CAN'T just give a skeleton a blue hoodie!! You're basically asking me to fuck the skeleton!!

[redbean-nom]

some designs for tusken era boba :)

unarmored/pre krayt hunt armored/post krayt hunt

alternative lighting style and flat colors

[haxo-wolfie]

one again, THESE 2 MAKE ME ILLLL

[tarancho]

i don't know if anyone else sees my vision but the bride and dr. phosphorous are roommates who are co-parenting a dog they found on the side of a road (weasel). please tell me you get what i'm saying. propaganda under the cut (spoilers for ep. 3)

[deeply-unserious-fellow]

The Weasel has the same backstory as Shadow the Hedgehog kinda. Send post.

[alabyte]

«Let it be your lesson. It's wise to learn from other's mistakes.»

Commando training wasn't just about meeting Kaminoan expectations. For the would-be soldiers, it was a test of strength - and if their instructors thought they weren't giving their best, they got punished. Some clones knew better than others that sometimes physical punishment was not just a test of endurance, but a showcase for the entire group of cadets.

"Good" was never enough. Carud had remembered that very well.

[kurlyfrii]

i’m gonna lose my mind the next time someone says “there was a clone who married a padawan” NO!!!!!!! ETAIN WAS A KNIGHT!!!! i’m so serious rn i’m gonna start biting