Learning To Spin On A Drop Spindle: A Beginner’s Lengthy Yet Comprehensive Guide

for the first of my new audios, @reparo-live-soul​ sent me this comic by @dakt37​, from an AU where Obi-wan has somehow been de-aged to younger than he was in TPM

keep the requests coming! I wouldn’t want these new audios to be in short supply!

A magpie doing his part to save the planet

“One time my Nanny and the Gardener were having a heated argument in the car and he took her Queen tape out of the player and threw it out the window with rage and she looked him dead in the eyes and pulled out a second copy of that same tape and put it back in the player.”

— Warlock, probably

After months of research and development and market testing and perfecting the first item I feel confident selling online, I have realized... that it is an incredibly niche item that only a specific subset of absolute nerds would want to buy, and I will have to do a ton of explaining the basic idea over and over again before people generally get what it is I'm even selling. RIP me

Dragon Comic - Table of Contents

I've noticed that a lot of people started following me for the dragon comic, so here's a sort of landing page (pinned post) where I'll keep all the parts if and when I update the story!

pt 1, pt 2, pt 3, pt 4

“Then you will not strike Ser Jinn while under contract with the Naboo, and if I had my way, I’d extend the order past that.”

Scoffing, Jango picks up his helmet from where he’d abandoned it in his chair and grabs Obi-Wan’s dropped datapad as he goes. “We’ll see how long I last in close quarters with him,” he mutters, not looking sorry at all even under Obi-Wan’s glare.

edited this at 4:30am! i love y’all thank you for waiting! wear a fucking mask and stay safe!

and remember to support artists and creators by reblogging instead of liking ( ˘ ³˘)

Can you imagine how many people. Jedi and Vode, who'd be drawing up plans to hunt down Dark Woman if Jon got de-aged (sans older memories, at least at first)? Like, this tiny terrified 8-10 (tiny for his age of course) year old who ALREADY HAS SOME OF HIS WORSE SCARS and /flinches/ but tries to puff himself up like a cornered kitten, and he doesn't kno who any of these people are and there's Jedi but they aren't anything like his Master and people keep slipping him bits of food?

“Cody,” Obi-Wan says, and there's a note of contained panic in his voice that has never boded well for Cody's steady increase in grey hairs. “How far out are you?”

Kriff. There’s no good reason for that question, especially when Obi-Wan was just supposed to be on an exploratory mission in the forest here. Something about the Force, and resonance, and Ventress vanishing into this place and not being seen since, but—Cody will admit some of the more Force-related things went right over his head when Anakin and Obi-Wan were talking about it.

“Five minutes, sir,” he promises, and jerks his head at Waxer. With a grimace, Waxer waves the rest of the squad on faster, then gets on the comm, probably to Anakin or Rex.

“Oh, good.” Obi-Wan sounds exhausted, and worry prickles down Cody's spine. “If I could ask it of you, Commander, try not to look…alarming when you approach.”

Well, Cody thinks with a sinking feeling. He’s probably being held hostage. Or he tripped over some previously undiscovered natives and is trying to broker a peace deal with them despite a language barrier and having grievously offended their queen. That’s just about how this day—how Obi-Wan’s life—is going.

“Sir?” Waxer asks, and Cody makes a couple of rapid calculations and tips his head.

“You're with me,” he says, because Waxer is one of the nicest people he knows, and that carries through in his mannerisms. And…well. Cody doesn’t particularly want to include Shank, but if Obi-Wan is hurt, they’ll need him. “Grab Shank. And Boil.” Because Boil at least won't let anything happen to Waxer, and Shank can take care of himself, which leaves Cody to protect Obi-Wan if things go south. When things go south.

“Oh no,” Waxer says, with rather more good humor than Cody is capable of. “What did the general get himself into now?”

What hasn’t the general gotten himself into, Cody thinks is the better question. He sighs a little, and Waxer laughs at him, then gestures for the rest of the unit to hang back as they approach a moss-covered bank. A moment later, Boil and Shank are both pushing through the ranks, falling in behind them, and Cody pauses just long enough to give them both a look.

“General said to come in as non-threatening as we can,” he warns. Shank probably makes a face at him. He knows Boil rolls his eyes, because Waxer elbows him like he’s a shiny and not Cody's second-in-command. But—that’s their dynamic. Cody's keeping his nose out of it.

“Come on,” he says, resigned, and shoulders his blaster, climbing up the soft bank and over the lip of it. Narrow, leaning trees form a natural arch, and Cody steps through it, then down a rough, green-filmed set of stone steps into a small hollow. He catches sight of his general immediately; Obi-Wan is seated on a fallen log that’s sprouting ferns, facing away from them. His head is ducked, and Cody can hear his voice, pitched low and soothing. A new pathetic lifeform acquired, to paraphrase Anakin, Cody assumes with a flicker of relief that bleeds into amusement.

“General Kenobi?” he asks, and Obi-Wan lifts his head. Glances back, his own relief filling his face, and then rises to his feet with far more care than normal. Cody can practically hear Shank come to attention, but before he can bull his way forward and demand to see to the general’s health, Obi-Wan turns.

There's a child with him.

Cody doesn’t quite falter, but it’s a near thing. The general has a little boy with him, Human or near-Human, with dark hair and pale eyes and a wide scar across one cheek. He’s wrapped in a robe that’s too dark to be Obi-Wan’s, and he’s small. Cody's got a skewed sense of ages, given how quickly the clones age, but this kid can't be more than eight.

He’s also not clinging to Obi-Wan, which is strange. Any other kid, seeing four big, armed men in faceless armor approaching, would hide behind the nearest familiar adult. This one doesn’t, though; his eyes dart to them, widen, but he holds himself stock-still, one polite step away from Obi-Wan, without even trying to touch.

“Cody,” Obi-Wan says, and he’s more relieved to see Cody now than he usually is in the middle of a firefight. Cody raises a brow, but comes to a halt and nods.

“General,” he says. “Having fun, sir?”

The curl of Obi-Wan’s mouth is rueful. “Always, Cody. But I believe I figured out what happened to Ventress, given that it almost happened to me.”

“Sir?” Cody asks, alarmed, and Obi-Wan quickly raises his hands. The kid flinches, immediate and instinctive, and then freezes, and Obi-Wan does too. He eyes the kid sidelong, then takes a strained breath, lowers his hands, and gives Cody a strained smile.

“I'm fine,” he says, and unlike in most cases, Cody is almost inclined to believe him this time. “Master Antilles saved me before the—the beings here could take exception to my poking around.”

Cody blinks. He wasn’t aware of any other Jedi in the area, and that’s generally the kind of information that crosses his desk. “Antilles?” he asks. If there's a general by that name, he’s never encountered a reference to them before.

With a faint grimace, Obi-Wan takes a step back, then slowly, deliberately drops a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “Jedi Master Jon Antilles,” he says formally, and then his mouth twists. “Or, well. He was. I believe this is the initiate version.”

“Padawan,” the kid says, so soft it’s hardly even audible. When Obi-Wan glances at him, he ducks his head and says, “Sorry, Master.”

“That’s quite all right, Jon,” Obi-Wan says gently, though Cody can see a trace of something in his face that means things are wrong here and he doesn’t like them. “Thank you for correcting me.”

Jon doesn’t so much as lift his head. If anything, he ducks it further, practically sinking into his massively oversized robe, and doesn’t say anything.

There's a look on his face, though, something Cody recognizes. Just a flicker of it, but—

It’s strange, to see a brother’s expression of a Jedi.

Slowly, deliberately, Cody sinks down to one knee in front of the kid, reaching up to catch his helmet. He pulls it off, then rests it on the ground beside him, and gives the boy his best smile. “Hey,” he says. “I'm Cody. Jon's not your name, is it?”

Quickly, the kid shakes his head, and Cody can hear Obi-Wan’s breath catch in alarm. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t waver, just watches the kid’s eyes trace over his own scar, his armor, his lax hand where it rests on his knee.

“No, sir,” the kid finally says. “I don’t have a name. If I had one, I’d own myself, and Jedi don’t own anything.”

Obi-Wan is a good diplomat, with hardly any tells, but over the months of the war Cody has learned to read him. He can see the faint tensing of his shoulders, can hear the indrawn breath, the way his fingers twitch with barely-contained anger. Not a normal Jedi thing, then.

“That makes sense,” Cody says evenly, and it does, in a terrible kind of way. It’s looking at names the way a clone does, but denying a sense of self rather than embracing it. “Is it all right if we call you Jon, though?”

The kid pauses, like he’s weighing his response, and then nods solemnly. Cody smiles at him, holding out a hand like he would with another clone, and when Jon gives it a curious glance, Cody says, “It’s a Mandalorian greeting. You clasp my wrist, and I clasp yours, and that means we’re allies.”

“Oh,” Jon says, and carefully, tentatively slides a hand out of the pile of robe around him. There are more scars on his arm, pale but not yet faded, and Cody breathes in, keeps his emotions as steady as possible and buries the flicker of rage deep down. He takes Jon's hand instead, gripping his thin wrist, and then rises to his feet.

“It’s a long walk back to the camp,” he says, and when Jon looks up at him, ghost-pale eyes in the gloom, he gives him a grin. “Want to hitch a ride with me, Jon?”

Jon's gaze flickers from Cody to Obi-Wan and then over to Waxer, Boil, and Shank, still waiting at the top of the hill. “I can walk,” he says carefully.

“I know,” Cody says without hesitation. “But I’d like to carry you, if you're okay with that.”

It takes another moment of consideration, another wary glance, but Jon finally nods. Cody leans down, and says, “Thank you. All right, put your arms around my neck.”

Jon does so, still cautious, and Cody gently wraps an arm around his thighs, hauls him up, and he’s small and light and completely swallowed by the robe he must have worn as an adult. As soon as Cody has a solid grip on him, he buries his face in Cody's neck, and there's a fine tremor running through him, a whispered mantra that Cody can only just hear. A Jedi mantra, and his heart kicks behind his ribs as he curls a hand over Jon's back, holding him firmly.

“Hey,” he says softly. “It’s okay. We’re allies now, right? Nothing will happen to you with us. General Kenobi looks out for the people around him.”

There's a long pause, and then a breath. “Master says I need to not be afraid,” Jon says miserably.

“Jon,” Obi-Wan says, then picks up Cody's helmet and steps around him to face Jon squarely. There's a smile on his face, and he reaches out, tugs the oversized hood up and over Jon's head. “Your Master is a well-respected woman, but she is in seclusion right now, so I’ll be taking over your training. At least for the time being. Is that all right?”

There's no sound, no visible reaction, but Cody can feel something like relief ease through Jon. “Okay, Master Kenobi,” he whispers. “Thank you.”

“No, Jon. Thank you,” Obi-Wan says, and puts a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You may not remember it, but you saved my life.”

Jon ducks his head again, hiding under his hood, but this seems like it’s more embarrassment than uncertainty, so Cody chuckles. He hitches Jon up a little higher, then says, “Ready to head back when you are, sir.”

“Thank you, Cody.” The truth of it is in Obi-Wan’s eyes, relief and chagrin. “I believe I need to comm the council as soon as we return. This place is…certainly unique. And they’ll need to know that the reports of Jon Antilles’s death was incorrect. Again.”

There’s definitely a story there. Cody snorts, but trails his general up the hill, to where Shank is practically vibrating and Waxer is speaking into his comm, every line of his body looking deeply concerned.

“Waxer?” Cody asks, that sinking sensation deciding to reassert itself.

“Sorry, sir,” Waxer says, chagrined. “But…Captain Rex says General Agen Kolar just showed up at camp with Ventress. But she’s a padawan. A Jedi padawan.”

Oh.

Cody slants a glance at Obi-Wan, who looks very, very tired. “I will most definitely comm the council,” he says ruefully. “All right, off we go.”

The head resting against his throat turns, just a little, and Cody breathes out, presses a hand to his back. “Just a little further,” he tells Jon, and tips his head at Shank. Shank’s not exactly good with kids, but he’ll figure out what to do. “Then we’ll get you checked over and find some clothes that fit you, all right, Jon?”

“Okay,” Jon says quietly, and small fingers curl against Cody's armor. “Can—can I call you Cody?”

“Of course you can,” Cody says firmly, and follows his general out of the hollow, Jedi padawan on his hip.

[On AO3]

Sneak Peek

Sneak Peek of something I’ve kept a very tight lid on. To those that might know what it’s from, please continue to keep it quiet.

Enjoy. :)

——————————

“Jason!” 

The twelve-year-old turned towards the unfamiliar voice only to have a toddler shoved into his arms before he can do more than blink. He looked down. Pretty green eyes stared back at him out of a round cherubic face under a mop of black hair. Unwillingly, he bounced the boy and cooed. 

“Hello! Who are you? You are so cute!” He’d always liked kids. He’d helped some of the women in the apartment building he and his mom lived in with theirs when he was younger. Usually in exchange for a meal or a place to hide out when Willis was out of prison.

“His name is Damian. He likes you.” 

Jason looked up, a wide grin stretched across his face, to see Talia Al Ghul standing in front of him. He could have sworn he heard a record scratch somewhere. The fuck?!

Her stance was relaxed, hands in the pockets of her jeans as she looked at them with a soft smile on her face. When he’d met her father a couple of months previous he didn’t realize it was setting a damned precedent. 

“I - uh - Miss Al Ghul -” He stuttered, surprised but respectful. She could slice him in two if he remembered her files right. Which he did, because he’d been reading up on the League pretty fanatically since that night. There hadn’t been any mention of a baby, though.

“Call me Talia.” Voice warm with amusement. “Come along, we don’t have all day. Only a few hours before I have to have you at the manor.”

“I don’t understand.” Jason admitted, shifting Damian automatically to his hip when he fussed. 

Talia reached out and ruffled his hair, a strange look in her eyes. “Happy Birthday, Jason.”

“My birthday was last week.” He blurted, baffled.

A flare of sadness flashed across her face, almost too quick to see, “I know. A little belated but we do what we can considering…”

“Considering what?” He asked, curious but beginning to resign himself to never getting answers from the Al Ghuls.

“One day you will understand, habibi. Until then, come along.” She herded him toward a smart looking car, deftly clipping Damian into a car seat before sliding into the driver’s seat herself.

Jason paused at the door and weighed his options. He should probably call Bruce - He was kind of being kidnapped by an Al Ghul - but she had a baby… a baby that looked rather suspiciously like some of those baby pictures Alfred had strategically placed around the family rooms. She had also mentioned dropping him off at the Manor in a few hours, and she had picked him up at school.

He was curious as hell and that, at the very least, meant he was more than willing to at least see where this was going. 

Talia smiled a small genuine smile at him as he sat next to her and buckled his seatbelt. Safety first, he thought ironically. 

You know those anime meta posts along the lines of “I was born with pink hair. The doctors told my parents I was a Main Character and ever since my life has not known peace from demons/spirits/sports competitions/harems who find me”

Well I see that, and I raise you this:

An anime boy whose appearance is, by absolutely anyone’s account, completely and utterly average. Mundane hair. Mundane eyes. Not even glasses to set him the tiniest bit apart. A simple, unmemorable, unrecognizable civilian among a backdrop of millions.

And he has a lot of passions, and a lot of ambitions, which he hones every chance he gets. He’s dabbled in sports and archery and cooking and just about anything you could wrap a competition around. And he’s competed in many of these. Every chance he gets. With all of his passion and all of his might.

He’s crushed by the competition every single time.

Until one day–one day something clicks for him. Something that should have seemed obvious from the start and yet never was–as though everyone, including himself, was unwittingly blind to it. It clicks, when he realizes every kid who’s beaten him in competition, every kid who’s gone on to fame and glory and acclaim, has been some candy-haired gel-spiked ridiculously-dressed fucker. 

There’s some trend there that this Main Character boy can’t explain and can’t understand but he decides, this one time, fuck it. He’ll play along too. He’s got a model train competition in four days, and he’s got nothing more to lose. He hits up the department store, buys the pinkest, noxious-est, fruitiest hair dye he can find, the spikiest hair gel available, and the gaudiest clothes on the thrift rack. He enters the model train competition looking like a bubble gum gijinka.

And he wins.

Suddenly, the other candy-haired contestants notice him. They talk to him. They pledge rivalries. Girls notice him. Judges applaud him. Acclaimed model train aficionados offer him internships across the world. He’s hit on something. 

The main cast expands to cover just about every candy-hair cliche in the book: from the mostly-normal-looking demure school girl with the blue hair to the Naruto-est, yelling-est boy with the red-and-green spiked hair. The cool megane senpais, the purple haired tsunderes, suddenly everyone is interested in him. They’re prodigies and upstarts and underdogs and they truly believe that this main character boy is one of them.

So the main character boy maintains his ruse. He touches up his roots at dawn every morning and carefully attends to his gelled spikes and tells absolutely no one about this great, uncanny, unfathomable secret he’s stumbled upon. He wins his competitions left and right. He racks up the acclaim. He’s hailed as a prodigy of all trades, just now bursting onto the scene, and boils to the top of all his candy-haired peers.

He’s rising up, his every dream within his grasp. Until one day he gets a note under his door, taped to an old picture of his Normal Boring self from middle school, that says “You don’t belong”

I’m both pro herbal medicine and pro vaccination because you can treat burns with aloe vera juice and sore throats with lavender infused honey but you can’t rid a country of polio with plants.