A Man Of His Word.on Twitter

a man of his word. on twitter

The more I know about Qui-Gon Jinn the more I realise he didn’t just annoy the Jedi Council, he was quite literally the bane of their existence

He was a master diplomat to the point that Obi-Wan spent more of his padawan years off-planet jumping wars and disputes with Qui-Gon than most other padawans, but at the same time, Qui-Gon apparently “looks like a bantha and smells like a Rodian.”

So let’s say a smushy Core planet puts in a request for Jedi presence at their planetary elections, and instead of a well-groomed, masterly Jedi (were they expecting something like 30-year-old Obi-Wan Kenobi? They probably were) they get a 1.93 metre giant with uncombed hair hanging down to his waist, wearing tunics that seem to be clean but don’t seem to be at the same time, smelling like he just climbed out of an outer-rim catina, who bows perfectly and then starts cracking their governmental system open one flaw at a time, like a - well - bantha in a china shop-

-with a perfectly-groomed, not-one-hair-out-of-place tiny padawan by his side. Said padawan’s dimples solve nearly as many problems as his master’s diplomatic skills do.

But we only wanted someone to oversee our elections! They cry. We didn’t ask for this!

Could we have sent someone else, the Council deliberates.

Then we would have to have kept the Jinn-Kenobi pair here, someone points out.

Oh, good point, Mace Windu says. Everything’s perfect the way it is.

I would just like to take a second to thank every single fanfiction writer who’s ever published a fic. In the last 3 weeks, I’ve read over 890,000 words of fanfiction while in quarantine. I know legally, fanfiction writers are not considered “essential” but let me tell you: they are essential to me. Essential to my sanity, my wellbeing, my happiness. Fic gives me so much joy and such a love for the world and the people in it, and fic writers don’t ask for anything in return, except occasional engagement. So from the bottom of my heart: thank you fic writers. Thank you for keeping me company during this time of isolation. Thank you for writing stories that give me hope and take my mind off of my anxiety. Thank you for making me laugh even when I don’t think it’s possible. Thank you for giving me something to be excited about when it feels like the world is falling apart around me. Thank you, thank you, thank you. 

Shelter created hilarious profiles for their cats to help them find forever homes

Can you imagine Pirate King Elizabeth killing people on the high seas and her final words to them are ‘Say hello to my husband’

Bathrobes and Misdirections

Written as a gift for @blackkatmagic. Your writing has sustained me for years, and so I’d like to apologize in advance for all of this. Clones in a bathrobe was too good to pass up. Ignoring the fact that Vader killed Fox because that’s bullshit and I need his snark to live.

Edit: oh god oh jesus I forgot a title

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“I didn’t know Commander Fox was a tailor,” Boost said, not looking up from where he was fiddling with the comm terminal.


“I’m not, but you lot can’t tell muslin from linen,” Fox’s voice crackled over the holoprojector. “For all his flaws, Vader isn’t an idiot. He’ll know if something looks off.”

Cody brought him in to inspect the “Emperor” more closely. “How’s it looking, vod?”

Fox leaned in with a thoughtful hum, squinting. “Pull the cowl down, I still see your eyes, Neyo. Good job covering the tattoo. And less aggressive on the billowing! Think breeze, not typhoon.”

“I’m doing the best I can,” Boil said, muffled from beneath the bottom half of the robes, but the the frantic fluttering settled into something more subtle. “Better?”

“Much.”

“Remind me again why I’m the Emperor, again?”

“Your impression is the best, and you’ll sell it better. You were assigned bastard at decanting.”

There was a scuffle beneath the robes as Neyo snarled, kicking at Boil. “Piss off! You don’t need your teeth to move a robe.”

“Focus! We’re almost out of time,” Cody snapped. “Is the connection secure, Boost?”

“All set, Commander.”

“Go live on my mark.” Cody waited a moment, giving Neyo a moment to compose himself.

Everyone froze as the holotable flickered to life. Even kneeling, submitting himself in the presence of the “Emperor,” Vader’s hologram loomed over the room. The blue light cast deep shadows across his brothers’ faces, and Cody swallowed down a sudden pang of fear at the sound of mechanical breathing. This was insanity.

“What is your bidding, my master?”

Too late for second-guesses.

“There has been a new development. One that will help us crush what remains of the Jedi for good. I sense victory is at hand,” Neyo hissed in an uncanny imitation of Palpatine, and he was definitely the brother for the job. “I am transmitting a list of components we require for this magic. Only a Sith Lord may gather them, and only as instructed. We must be cautious, Lord Vader. Move too quickly, and others will know of our plans. You will not fail me in this.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Vader replied. It was almost depressing how agreeable he was being. He didn’t even have the excuse of a chip. Everything he’d done was his own choice, and how could he possibly have chosen–

Later, Cody promised himself. He would break down later.

“Rise, my apprentice,” Neyo spat, “and do as I have bid you.”

Vader stood slowly, cloak billowing dramatically behind him. “It will be done, my master.”

With a signal from Cody, the transmission ended. Boost slumped over the comm terminal, a sigh catching in his throat and turning into a half-laugh, half-sob. “I can’t believe that worked!”

“Operation Blue Milk Run is officially a go,” Cody said. He couldn’t believe it, either. It was absolutely absurd. Two clones in a bathrobe had just made a step towards putting a wrench in the Emperor’s plans.

“I’m sure this plan is flawless,” Fox drawled, “but what’s going to happen when the Emperor finds out that his favorite pet is kriffing off to parts unknown?”

The cold pit in Cody’s stomach grew a little more, but he pushed it back again. “We’re working on it. Besides,” he continued, a little wry, “it couldn’t possibly be our fault. Clones? We’re not independent thinkers.”

The chorus of “roger roger” left most of them snickering manically, high on the adrenaline of lying to a Sith Lord’s face. He had missed this, Cody realized, watching his brothers laugh and feel. There was no guarantee that this plan would work, but he’d be damned if he let them go back to where they were before. They had nothing to lose but themselves, and each other, and that had already happened.

Though he was loathe to ruin the mood, their time had run out. “Alright, we can’t be missed for much longer. Back to your posts, troopers, double time.”

It was harder to go back. With no small amount of reluctance, buckets were replaced, and personalities were tucked away. It was unsettling how quickly they settled into unmarked armor and synchronous footsteps, filing out of the room with the discipline of droids. Soon only Cody was left, the still-flickering hologram of Fox resting in his palm.

“You think we can do this.” It wasn’t a question.

Cody didn’t know what he thought.

“We’re going to win,” he said finally, “because there’s no other option. Stay safe in your Outer Rim adventures.”

“I’ll do what I can.” Fox reached to shut off his comm when he hesitated. “There’s…something left in him that knows what he’s doing, and I’m gonna find it. And I’m gonna kick his shebs.”

“Godspeed, Fox,” Cody said, smiling a little at the grumble of acknowledgement before the connection was terminated. There was something different in the air, and he breathed it in, let it settle in his chest and bleed through his veins.

It felt like hope.