Colour Or No Colour? Which Is Better?

the fellowship of the ring as bizarre t shirts

tag yourself I'm delululemon

I am in love with this how have i never seen it before???

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

Adar's perspective on Elrond and Gil-Galad's relationship

welp im too broke not to give it a go...

@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.

A short comic I made about my experiences as a seasonal worker, and the way places change you.

Prints & PDF

Y'all the worldbuilding is getting intense rn, I'm having so many thoughts, because Elrond is a mosaic of dozens of different people, so many facets and multitudes, and different people see different things in him. People see his starry grey eyes and dark hair and hear his Voice and think of Lúthien, think of Maglor. They see his braids and attribute it to Turgon’s preference for traditional styles rather than that well-known Fëanorian obsession. His gracious courtly manners are from Melian or Idril, though clearly taught by Maedhros, who learned from Finwë. His skills and wisdom and bearing are clearly passed down from any or all of the 20+ different kings, queens, lords and princesses he is associated with. He dances like Lúthien and Idril. He is as courageous as Fingon and Beren and Eärendil, as fierce in battle as Fingolfin and Maedhros and, Eru forbid, Fëanor. He speaks archaic Quenya, just like the Gondolindrim, if only one ignores the Fëanorian accent. His giggle is Elwing’s, birdlike and odd; his laugh is rich and merry like Finwë’s; that half-despairing chuckle is Beren’s; the endearingly awkward titter is Finarfin’s; the exhilarated whoop is Fingon’s; the manic mid-battle cackle is Fëanor through and through. He fights left-handed like Eärendil and Maedhros, plays the harp right-handed like Fingon and Finrod and Maglor; he can write with either hand, producing a spindly scrawl with his left (so like Maedhros, so like Elwing) and authoritative calligraphy with his right (so like Fëanor, so like Thingol). His eyes are the chasm of the heavens - he gets that from Melian - but did Maeglin not also inherit his piercing gaze from Aredhel? He has his father’s jaw and his mother’s hair, or was it Turgon’’s jaw and Finwë’s hair, or maybe those angular bones came from fair Nimloth and the little flick of a curl at his temple from Beren. In certain lights he’s the spitting image of Thingol - or was it Fingolfin? The tilt of his wrist is as bird-like and fragile as Dior’s, as graceful and deliberate as Idril’s. His cheeks dimple when he smiles, just like Fingon, and his eyes crease when his face softens with fondness, just like Tuor, who looks little like Haleth but in moments like this. When he’s concentrating, the furrow of his brow is Thingol’s and the lip between his teeth is Beren’s, who took after Bëor. That eyebrow raise brings to mind 15 different people, all of them dead. One may look at Elrond and see a lost loved one in his profile, until the light shifts just slightly and he becomes the one who killed them, before he turns his head just so and suddenly looks like a complete stranger. Elrond is a Silmaril of ghosts, each facet a memory, love and terror and awe and joy and grief reflected and refracted upon one another again and again, radiant, hypnotic, infinite.

perfection

501st as bizarre t shirts

tag yourself im little miss fully developed frontal lobe

Fellas I have committed an oopsie

I in my ignorance assumed

That the train on the right platform at the right time would be the right train

Wrong!

I got on board sat down for a nap and now I am in Oxford?????