In Fics, People Often Use The Quenya For Adult Male/female: 'the Nér Did This' Or 'the Nís Said That'

Notes on chapter 6: oh whoops this fic looks like it'll turn out a bit longer than i intended... ah well, just three more chapters Total number of chapters: 45

clone wars era update

oh boba... they grow up so fast :_) ⋆˚✿˖° 𐙚 ₊ ⊹ ♡

The Fetts as bizarre t shirts

you and me both, boba. you and me both

Padme's handmaidens as bizarre t shirts

the squad is not impressed by anakin

Obi-Wan is Cal's father this, Obi-Wan is Korkie's father that, blah blah blah -

Hot Take: Cal and Korkie are twins.

I feel like it's not addressed enough that Obi-Wan was so not ready for Anakin at the end of TPM. He wasn't quite ready to be a Knight, let alone take a Padawan, let alone Anakin.

Like, imagine you're 25 years old, already dealing with plenty of issues from your shitshow of a teen-to-young-adult experience when your Master - your father, your friend, your teacher, your guardian of 12 years, who you didn't always have the best relationship with but goddamn it you tried so hard and overcame so much to get to where you are - is literally murdered in front of you by a fucking demon, the ancient bogeymen of all your childhood stories who are suddenly very real and killing the people you love. Everyone looks at you now with so much awe and fear because, in a haze of grief and panic, you managed to become the first to kill a demon in a millennium - which is somehow that's enough of a qualification to immediately graduate your apprenticeship with full honours even though you never actually got the chance to finish it. Five minutes of pure terror turned your life upside down, and now you have to shoulder the burdens of a knighthood that you know you're not ready for, and find some way to live with the crushing expectations that come with your newfound, accidental and very unwanted semi-legendary status. And, if that wasn't enough already, within 24 hours of all this going down, you're also legally responsibly for raising a hyperactive 9 year old ex-slave Child of Prophesy with crippling CPTSD and more power than god. You somehow, somehow have to raise this boy to be both a good Knight - which you haven't had a chance to figure out how to be yourself yet - and a functional person - which was never and easy thing for you to be but is getting harder by the day. You desperately want to do right by your new Padawan and honour your Master's dying wish but you're not ready for any of this, you didn't ask for it, and you're trying so hard to not repeat Qui-Gon's mistakes whilst also being painfully aware that you can never live up to what he could have been. Then there's homework and missions and nightmares and you worry that Anakin isn't making friends and you haven't slept more than 3 hours a night in weeks and the President of the Galaxy is pressuring you for some Private Alone Time with your child -

How the fuck is anyone supposed to handle that?

@frenchkey gave me the prompt 'getting the blood out' last night and I turned it into CodyWan angst

He shouldn't have taken it. It wasn't his to take, and had been abandoned as unimportant. It was just cloth, after all; empty and useless and bloodstained.

Bloodstained. Because Obi... Because General Kenobi had helped a wounded soldier to their transport before the Sith had attacked, and the General had discarded his cloak in order to give chase. There was no reason for Cody to have retrieved it, and less reason to have kept it, rather than returning it to its rightful owner.

The bloodstains bothered him, though. It seemed... rude to return the cloak in its dirtied state. So he'd kept it.

The fabric was soft under his fingers, well worn and thick enough to provide protection from the elements for a wide range of human and near-human species.

For a wild moment, Cody felt the urge to slide the garment over his shoulders and feel the weight of it falling into place, to feel a sensation that was so familiar to his General. He gave himself a mental kick in the shebs to move on from the urge, rather than do something so ridiculous as try on a Jedi's robes.

Instead, he moved to the 'fresher, glad that, as Marshall Commander, he was afforded his own berth with attached cleaning facilities. He had everything needed at hand to remove blood from clothing, though he usually sent his blacks to the laundry rather than washing them himself, regardless of their state. It wasn't as though his blacks were any different from anyone else's, so he was hardly worried about them getting mixed up in the wash.

The cloak held onto the dried-in blood more stubbornly than Cody's blacks ever had, crafted more with the intent to be sturdy and long lasting than with consideration for the number of bodily fluids likely to soil the fabric. Still, Cody was patient, refusing to devolve into frustrated scrubbing and risk damaging the cloak.

It felt almost soothing to work the flakes of blood out of the weave, and while the harsh scent of chemicals stung at Cody's nose, he found great satisfaction in the results of his work.

He hung the garment up to dry, resolving to bring it to General Kenobi in the morning.

His berth seemed cold when he finally made it back, though Cody was sure that the cause was entirely emotional.

They'd been betrayed. The Jedi had turned on the Republic; tried to murder the Chancellor. He couldn't understand what would drive them to such an act. Obi-Wan had always spoken of a desire for peace, for an end to the war and senseless killing. Why would the Jedi - why would Obi-Wan - then try to undermine the Republic in such a way? Had it all been a lie from the start?

Who would fight for the clones, now that the Jedi had turned traitor? They'd been among the few to treat the clones as anything more than droids made of flesh and bone, and that made the betrayal sting deeper. How could Obi-Wan abandon them like that? How could he leave them to face a galaxy that saw them as unthinking, unfeeling tools? How could he leave Cody?

Buried at the very bottom of his footlocker, under his spare blacks and his dress greys, Cody withdrew a bundle of brown fabric, worn soft and still smelling faintly of tea and cleaning chemicals. He'd never had a chance to return the cloak, having been thrown into an ambush before the ship's night cycle was over, and then running from one engagement to the next until it had seemed far too awkward to reveal he'd had the cloak the entire time, and Obi-Wan had soon requisitioned a replacement, leaving Cody to hide the original away.

He should have thrown it away long ago. There was no good reason to have kept it at all, and yet...

The fabric felt warm as it settled around his shoulders, the scent of Obi-Wan's favourite tea mingling with the ozone smell off blasters and lightsabers. Cody's eyes began to burn, and he lowered himself to his cot, wrapping the voluminous folds of the cloak around himself like a youngling in a blanket, swaddled safely by a parent.

Obi-Wan was gone.

Cody had killed him.

Traitor or not, Cody had killed the first and only natborn to call him a friend. Obi-Wan was his friend, and he'd betrayed everything they had fought for, everything they had sacrificed and bled for, and so Cody had been made to do the unthinkable.

Lifting one overlong sleeve to his mouth to muffle his sobs, Cody fell apart, tears soaking the fabric in a matter of moments as he shook with the force of his grief. Obi-Wan was dead, and Cody had killed him, and now he would never have a chance to beg for answers, never know why Obi-Wan had chosen to betray the Republic.

He fell asleep still wrapped in the cloak, unable to bring himself to forgo the comfort of one last embrace from the man he'd called his friend.

Grandma: oh sasha, why do you dress like that? You look like a dyke!

Me, a dyke: . .

...I'm not sure you get how this works...

So I made a snickers cheesecake. Except there's no snickers or cheese, and it's not a cake.

And this happened -

My flatmate: Goose, this is great! How did you get the filling so creamy?

Me, recalling the metric fuck ton of cream that went into this diabetic daydream: funny you ask, actually...

Yo the language of the fans is getting advanced