#cooking through the gffa

[heyclickadee]

Next up, Devaronian Soufflé, from the Galaxy’s Edge cookbook:

(Yes, I was terrified they were going to deflate the second I took them out of the oven. Why do you ask?)

So, I was kind of excited to try this one, because I’ve never had or even come across a soufflé and had no idea what I was supposed to expect besides “fluffy.” And, well, it was. Very fluffy.

Flavor-wise, it’s…interesting. It’s rich and evenly straddles the line between sweet and savory. (Sweevory?) If I had to describe it as anything, it sort of tastes like if a lemon cheesecake had a baby with a deviled egg. I’m still trying to decide if I like that or not.

I think I do.

(Not cropping the description because it’s actually pretty funny.)

[tennessoui]

For the prompt list, nanny/single parent obikin would be amazing!!

(from this prompt list)

(the first time I answered this prompt two years ago, the nanny anakin au was born)

so to do something different, here's some gffa widowed anakin, nanny (sort of) obi-wan!

(2.5k)

It is hard to find time to grieve. There are too many things to do. Too many appointments to make, too many decisions Anakin isn’t sure he’s qualified for. Some decisions are easier than others. For example, the funeral will be on Naboo. There will be two services: a public one to honor Padmé’s public service, and a private one to honor who she was as a person. The casket will be closed, because his wife died when her cruiser exploded. There isn’t much left to bury anyway.

But some decisions are harder. Which flowers should go on her casket. What songs would she want sung and who should sing them? Would she prefer her grave closer to her ancestral home or the home she created in her adulthood?

If she told anyone the answers to these questions, it wasn’t Anakin. But then, the people who knew her best, who loved her most, died with her. Sabé, Rabé, Saché, Yané, all of her handmaidens—an assassination such broad strokes that it was impossible for it to fail.

So Anakin chooses Yali lilies, because Leia’s eyes linger on them the longest. He chooses a small Nabooian folk band to play after her service because their music is the first thing to make Luke lift his head from his coloring books in days. He formally requests that her body be buried among her ancestors, and the Nabierres agree immediately.

And he keeps telling himself that he will grieve, but there is so much to do. 

And then—then there’s after the funeral. Then there’s the rest of his life, sprawling out before him in a long, hazy road. 

There are more decisions to be made.

There are people who have opinions on them now, people who sat back and let Anakin muddle through flower arrangements and kriffing seating charts, who now step in to peer over his shoulder, monitor his every breath.

Should he really move the children back to Coruscant? Does he truly plan to continue to work as a mechanic in the Mid-Levels? Should he not think of the children, their needs? How can he support them on the thin amount of credits he makes? Would it not be better for the children to live on Naboo in the care of their grandparents and their extended family?

It would be what Padmé would have wanted.

Anakin cannot care about what Padmé would have wanted, because she isn’t here. Not to argue with him, not to make her wants known. She is dead. She doesn’t get to haunt him in the waking world too.

“What do you want?” he asks plainly, sitting down across the table from his two children. The twins blink back at him. Leia has finished her cereal. Luke has barely touched his.

“Bacon,” Luke says.

Anakin hadn’t meant for breakfast, but he figures it’s as good of a start as any. “Alright,” he agrees.

He stands once more and goes to the kitchen. It’s not exactly his domain. It was never Padmé’s either. The way Padmé grew up, food was made once you requested it—by droid, by cooking staff. Not by the hand of a Nabierre.

The way Anakin grew up, food was cobbled together carefully, sparingly no matter how much you requested it. And no matter how you cooked it, it always tasted a little like dust, which took the joy out of experimentation.

But the serving staff have been dismissed for the past two weeks to give the family time and space to grieve in private. 

(Padmé’s parents have been given a schedule for visiting hours for that exact reason.)

Anakin locates the pan; then, he locates the package of bacon strips.

When he glances up, both twins are watching him over the edge of their barstools, tiny faces showing both skepticism and incredulity.

“I want to know what you want to do,” Anakin says, raising his voice as he places the pot over the heating plate, the meat in a moment later. “Do you want to stay here with your grandmother and grandfather? Do you want to go back to Coruscant?”

The twins are quiet. Anakin twists his neck to look at them again, and they’re looking at each other, silently communicating the way only twins can.

“Where will you be?” Leia finally asks, looking at him with narrowed, suspicious eyes, bottom lip already jutting out.

Anakin blinks. “Wherever you are,” he answers.

“You won’t leave too?” Luke asks rather tremulously.

Anakin takes the pan off the heated plate and turns it off with a decisive flick of his wrist. “Of course not,” he says. “Come here.” He crouches down and barely has enough time to open his arms before the twins are there, pressing in as close as they can get to him. He holds them back just as tightly in return.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promises into Leia’s hair. “Not without you two.”

—-----------------

It becomes apparent fairly quickly that this is, by necessity, a lie.

The twins don’t want to stay on Naboo, which Anakin is secretly incredibly grateful for. He doesn’t want to either, but he knows he’d just be called selfish should he express the opinion.

But the twins don’t want to go back to Coruscant either. This makes sense as well. It would be incredibly jarring for them to go back to living in the quarters they shared with their mother, her Upper Coruscanti apartments in the nicest district of the planet, without her there.

Anakin wishes it were as simple as sticking a pin on a planet and deciding to uproot the entirety of his family to live there. 

But it’s not.

Perhaps if he were still young, nineteen, newly free and in love with the taste of that freedom, it would be.

But he’s a widower now. He has his children to think about, their futures. Any planet he chooses must have what they need as well. 

And they are four year olds who have just lost their mother. Their needs are numerous.

What makes the decision for him in the end is that his boss knows a man from Stewjon, who is willing to hire him. Who is willing to pay a premium for his expertise with mechanics.

Anakin doesn’t know the first thing about Stewjon, other than that it’s an ocean planet in the Inner Core and his dead wife always said the Senators from Stewjon were so frigid and tight-lipped because they spent the first few days of each visit trying not to be seasick on the Senate floor.

Anakin isn’t sure why this is the very first thing he tells the man—his potential boss—he meets behind the counter in the mech-shop on Stewjon.

He’s left the children with their grandparents for the week—long enough to fly from Naboo to Stewjon, meet with his potential employer, interview, apply his work practically, and fly back out.

He’d explained to both twins why they had to stay on Naboo. He’d explained many times. That hadn’t changed the betrayed look Leia had worn as she saw him off. It hadn’t wiped the tears from Luke’s eyes.

“Ah, well, I can’t say I’ve heard that one before,” the mechanic says. He sounds amused, and Anakin is incredibly shocked to hear a Coruscanti accent. Everyone he’s spoken to since arriving planetside has had such a heavy brogue that he’d honestly struggled to understand their directions to the shop—Kenobi & Sons.

Anakin lets himself look again at the man behind the counter. He’s rather clean for a mechanic, he decides. His beard is red, a common factor around these parts apparently, but his beard is short and neat, trimmed to accentuate the strong lines of his jaw. His eyes are a stormy blue, the kind of blue that matches the Stewjoni ocean.

“Between you and me though,” the man smirks and leans onto the counter with his elbow. His tunic is dark gray, white starchy fabric peeking out beneath the v-necked collar. “I’ve never been a fan of Stewjoni politicians anyway.”

“Oh?” Anakin asks, sidling a step closer to the counter. The man has the beginnings of gray at his temples, and his eyes are lined with wrinkles. They don’t make him look old though, Anakin decides. They make him look…well-lived.

“I’ve not a head for politics much at all,” his future employer shakes his head slightly with a small smile. His eyes flick up and down Anakin’s face, lingering on his lips and then lingering longer on the scar over his brow. Anakin feels rather flushed under the inspection, and he shifts his weight forward until he’s leaning up against the counter too.

There’s something about this man that’s rather…magnetic. It pulls him in. It makes him want to linger.

Good characteristic for a shopkeeper to have, though Anakin privately decides that the man before him has a face that’s wasted on mechanics, buried under some ship’s underbelly in a backroom.

“Me neither,” he admits, a moment too late to sound anything but highly distracted. It makes the man smile again though, a flash of straight white teeth.

“Is there anything you do have a head for then?” he asks. His tone is light, airy, rather teasing.

This is the strangest interview Anakin has ever had.

“Um,” he says. “Well. There’s mechanics.”

“Oh?” The man’s eyebrow lifts at an elegant angle. He props his chin on the palm of his hand and looks up at Anakin through his eyelashes. “Then why come here to us then?”

“Um,” Anakin says, and not because the man looks rather unfairly flattering like this, amber eyelashes in sharp relief against the blue of his eyes.

They’re interrupted by the sounds of clattering in the backroom, stomping and cursing. The man before him straightens with a slight sigh and picks up the closest flimsipad. “And what brings you in here today, sir?” he asks rather loudly, pitching his voice back to the other room of the shop pointedly. “Problem with your speeder? Serving droid? Cruiser? If it’s your astromech droid, I regret to inform you that I’ll have to refuse you service on account of the fact that I don’t particularly care for them.”

Anakin thinks he splutters, but whatever noise he makes is definitely drowned out by the rather irritated shout of Obi-Wan! that comes from the back.

A moment later, a man storms through the door, looking annoyed. "We will service an astomech if that's what's broken, Obi-Wan."

Now this is a man that Anakin can believe is a mechanic. His nails are blackened with oil, and his bare, burly arms carry smudges of the stuff. He’s much broader than the man—Obi-Wan—that Anakin had been talking to. He’s bald with a reddened scalp and a rather large red beard that’s the antithesis of the other man’s in every way. His clothes are dirty, loose, and the color of ash. He looks older too—whereas Obi-Wan could easily be in his thirties, this man must be pushing fifty.

He snaps at Obi-Wan in a language that Anakin doesn’t understand. Obi-Wan shrugs and hands over the flimsi pad without argument.

“Um, actually,” Anakin says, feeling incredibly wrong-footed. “Which one of you is Kenobi?”

“I am,” both of them say. Obi-Wan’s smirking slightly. The other man’s voice is louder, carrying that Stewjoni accent so obviously lacking in Obi-Wan’s speech.

The older man closes his eyes as if he’s praying for patience. “We both are,” he says. “Though if your ship’s malfunctioned, sir, I’m the Kenobi you want to see. This one’s good for naught but magic tricks.”

“I have been told I’m rather good at other things,” Obi-Wan turns his smirk full-force at Anakin, dropping his eyes to Anakin’s lips once more.

“My name is Anakin Skywalker,” he says very quickly in a very normal tone of voice that is most definitely not a squeak. “I’m here to interview for a position. As another mechanic.”

“Oh,” the older Kenobi says.

“Oh,” the younger Kenobi says in a much different tone.

The older Kenobi pinches at his nose for a moment before turning around the counter and offering his hand. “Ben,” he says. “Ben Kenobi.”

Anakin takes his hand and shakes it, eyes traveling back to Obi-Wan. Is he supposed to shake his hand too?

“I’m the Son in the sign,” Ben says gruffly as if that answers his question.

“I’m the reason it’s plural,” Obi-Wan adds, busying himself with the contents of the counter. From what Anakin can tell, the man is just messing up the carefully organized piles of receipts. 

He decides that he would rather not get the job than point this out to Ben.

Ben huffs out something in Stewjoni that sounds downright insulting, but that doesn’t stop Obi-Wan from smiling sunnily up at Anakin. “My brother enjoys bitching and moaning that I came back home when I was seventeen, but he’s awfully quick to foist his children off on me when he’s called to shift at the rig offshore and Marci’s off-planet too.”

Anakin blinks. He feels like that’s the safest answer.

“Only thing good that blasted Jedi Order ever taught you was how to handle younglings,” Ben says, and then spits on the ground as if the words themselves have left a bad taste in his mouth.

Anakin blinks and wonders if he should say something to remind the brothers that he’s here. For an interview. “And my magic tricks,” Obi-Wan rolls his eyes slightly before catching Anakin’s eye and winking. With a wave of his hand, a flimsi-sheet flies over the counter and into Anakin’s chest. He catches it unthinkingly. “Would you like to sign in, sir?” “Get out of here,” Ben barks, snatching the flimsi from Anakin’s hand and pushing it back to the counter. “Like I said, the only one’s impressed with that is the younglings.”

“I don’t know, your man looks impressed,” Obi-Wan says slyly, even as he pushes himself away from the counter and around the edge of it.

Anakin isn’t sure what he looks like. He doesn’t think impressed is the word he’d use though.

When Obi-Wan brushes past him, the static electricity in the air jumps between their shoulders. Anakin feels as if he’s been shocked.

Obi-Wan must feel it too because he stops only a few inches away and looks at Anakin. For the first time, his expression is open. Curious. Considering.

“Get!” His brother insists, and Obi-Wan obeys, throwing one last look over his shoulder at Anakin before he slips out the door.

The shop feels somehow much bigger now that the other man has left. Ben sighs and rubs a hand down his face. He looks older now. More worn. “So that was my brother,” he tells Anakin wearily. “Who you would most likely see frequently if you were to take this job. I would understand completely if you would like to start by talking compensation.”

[ladylucksrogue]

For the character headcanon asks:

Wolffe 🎻👻🧦

Ooh, thank you for these!

HCs for Wolffe:

🎻Music: Wolffe is a metalhead. He loves anything heavy and angry, finds it soothing, much to the annoyance of some of his batallion probably. If he has to sit there doing reports for hours, he's going to crank something loud up and be in his zone. He also does this when he works out. Like he'll be so in his element during an intense work out, he just loses himself to the music.

👻Fears:

I HC that Wolffe has a pretty severe case of anxiety. He seems calm and collected on the surface, competant but really, he's a mess under the surface. I think there are a lot of reasons for that. I rather like the HC that Wolffe was the feral wild little cadet once upon a time. I think Wolffe was one of those kids that just acted on his emotions, was super impulsive, etc (think the ADHD kid) lots of big emotions, which given the right set of circumstances isn't a bad thing. Given the strict military enviroment of Kamino, he had to learn to literally color inside the boxes so to speak and act a certain way. Which means there was always a whole lot of restless energy under the surface, the fear that if he acted one way or another that there would be consequences. That never went away and turned into a full anxiety disorder at some point. He's the kind of person who can come up with a catastrophe scenario (or several) for every mundane thing. It makes him a fantastic strategist but it also makes him overthink mundane things. After the start of the war, specifically Abregado, that messed with him. Because it was something out of his hands that he could have in no way predicted. But he feels like he should have. He has a fear of not being able to protect his men. I also like to play around with the idea of what went down in that pod, that he has nightmares of not being able to breath. You know, because I like writing angsty stuff...

🧦 Domestic: Wolffe is a neat freak through and through. He is super organized to a fault in the sense that everything has its place and system even if it only makes sense to him. If someone moves something, he's going to need several minutes to sort himself and find it. He's very particular about it all. That said, he'll leave his stuff all over. A datapad or a caf cup. He'll usually remember at some point. His armor and uniforms are always meticulous and he expects that of others. He holds himself to a high standard as far as grooming goes as well (regulation hair cut, shaving, etc).

He can sort of throw something edible together if he needs to, but he doesn't have the patience to actually cook. Like, he'd literally rather eat a ration bar out of convienance than cook himself something. Or take the easy way of heating some water for soup, or throw something in a microwave (they have those in the GFFA right? of course they do 😆). Also if food is readily available, at a party, a buffet, that sort of thing, he is a grazer, he will go back for little tidbits. Like can't walk past without eating a bit of this or that. Given the chance he'd also have a snack stash.

[mosylufanfic]

Thanksgiving with Maarva + rebel captain + brixo & whoever Ferrix close friend you want to imagine.

Given that the GFFA doesn't have what we'd call Thanksgiving (although just about everywhere has some kind of harvest festival/let's eat party) this would be a modern AU.

Maarva announces that it's going to be at her house. This is fine. Because god knows if that ramshackle girl Cassian is hooked up with right now even knows how to cook. This is not fine. Jyn knows how to cook. Also it doesn't matter if Jyn knows how to cook because Cassian prefers to do all the cooking anyway.

ALSO. MAARVA. They are married, not HOOKED UP. Well, Maarva wasn't there, so you can forgive her for forgetting that pertinent fact. Yeah? Well, you can forgive THEM for not waking her up in the middle of the night and asking her to fly to Vegas because she'd be bitching about that instead of how they called her first thing in the morning. FIRST THING, Maarva.

Can . . . can we not? Can we not. Please pass the mashed potatoes, Brass? How's the garage doing? There follows a loud and determined discussion of the garage business because Brasso would honestly prefer to eat his mashed potatoes without blood as well. Bix breaks out the second bottle of wine early. (Look, Bix has every sympathy because she too was once Cassian's girlfriend and she knows how Maarva Can Be. But in her opinion Jyn is really Not Helping.)

Kay is Not Helping either. Especially when he tells Maarva that at her advanced age, she really should watch her blood pressure. This is an actual worry that Maarva has not told Cassian about so that discussion takes them clear through to dessert. Bix opens more wine. She notices Jyn doesn't drink any. She keeps her trap shut because she actually does like Jyn.

Cassian has his head in his hands, wondering why he loves a bunch of blunt, hard-headed idiots so much. Maarva does compliment Jyn's pie, though. So. There's that.

Epilogue: please god nobody TELL Maarva that Jyn made that pie.

[bookwormstarwarsfan]

There is this kind of agreement in the fandom that Leia is a terrible cook, and I always love to read hilarious fics mentioning that, but I always had a little bit different ideas.

I don't know why, but I felt that Leia would hang out in the palace kitchen through her childhood, because she is just this friendly, extrovert child who loves being with all kinds of people, but also finds the work there fascinating (it is!). And I decided that the royal chef is this goofy, loveable guy, who doesn't care that this girl is the crown princess, daughter of his bosses, and he will make his serious job to teach her how to cook, like her life depends on it.

So Leia knows everything about cooking from the royal chef with a GFFA-equivalent Michelin Star, but since she only watched and listened to him, her actual method is disasterous, she will cook a pefect Alderaanian soup when she decides to show it the boys, but the Falcon's kitchen will burn behind her.

(I'm getting the disaster stories, but she also has a cute background story and can cook, I love cooking okay?! The only thing I allow myself to project on Leia lol)

And then I saw this fantastic introduction to young Leia and how her parents handle her, and when Breha said that she is highly likely in the kitchen, I was YES, SHE OFTEN HANGS IN THE KITCHEN FOR REAL (they probably meant that she is stealing some candy, but I don't care)

“She’s either in the cellar, in the kitchen… or in the woods.”

[friskynotebook]

All the Wasted Time Ch. 8

An Obidala GFFA AU slow-burn romance ❤️

CW: age gap, food, bed-sharing, hurt/comfort, grief, death of a loved one, caretaking, handkerchief use, pining, crying, funeral, wake, love confession

Summary: Obi-Wan says goodbye to his mentor and finds new love.

The morning of the funeral service, Obi-Wan woke early, his head feeling like it was filled with cement.

Remind me to never have a crying jag before falling asleep.

He rolled over and fumbled for the handkerchief he discarded the night before, blowing his nose until his head felt somewhat clear and normal.

Once he was through, Obi-Wan groaned and rolled back over, expecting to find Padme still resting beside him. Instead, her side of the bed was cold.

He frowned. That’s odd. He got up and dressed himself, curiously listening to the voices downstairs and the pots and pans banging about.

As he made his way downstairs, the voices became more clear.

“Now you’re going to want to use more saffron here, dear,” his mother said. 

“How much?” Padme asked. Obi-Wan pictured her brow furrowing in concentration and he smiled to himself.

“Just a pinch.”

“Like a literal pinch?” This time, Obi-Wan pictured her nose scrunching, and his heart fluttered.

“Yes, lass,” his mum laughed. “Just like this.”

“Oh,” Padme said. “And that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“That stew was easier than I thought!” Padme exclaimed. Obi-Wan’s chest grew warm as he pictured her and his mother cooking together, laughing over silly memories.

“Maybe you can make it for Obi when you’re back on Coruscant,” Duran teased.

Before Padme was forced to reply, Obi-Wan walked into the kitchen, where he saw what his mother and Padme had been making—higartha brain stew, one of his favorites.

“Something smells delicious,” he said, smiling at Padme.

She beamed. “Good morning, Obi-Wan.”

“Morning, dear. Did you sleep alright?” his mother fussed.

He caught Padme’s concerned gazed and blushed. “As well as I could have.”

Jemmila kissed her teeth. “Make sure you have some strong caf—don’t give me that look, Obi—and a good breakfast. Your father made eggs.”

Obi-Wan perked up. “Really? Stewjoni eggs are marvelous, Padme. You should have some—”

“I already did,” she giggled. “And you’re right, they’re fabulous.”

##

Obi-Wan ran his hands over his formal robes—black for mourning. Qui-Gon’s passing may have been sudden, but a part of him had been preparing to lose his master since they began their training. He wasn’t exactly anticipating his master to die—he just knew that if the cycle of life worked the way it was supposed to, Qui-Gon would naturally join the Force before himself.

Still, despite all of his mental preparation, he found himself caught off guard when Anakin told him the news. He tried to hold it together for the sake of his padawan and grandpadawan, but inside, his heart was shattering into a thousand pieces.

His parents were happy, healthy, and alive—yet part of him still felt like an orphan.

A soft knock on the shed door startled him from his thoughts. “Come in.”

Padme opened the door, dressed in her own mourning gown. “Interesting place you’ve chosen to hide in.”

He smiled softly. “I’m not hiding, I’m preparing—I needed some space alone to . . . process.”

“Oh! I’m sorry, I’ll get out—”

“No, Padme, please stay. You . . . ground me.”

She smiled, stepping closer. “Are you alright, Obi-Wan?”

He sighed. “Honestly? No, but I’ll be fine. As fine as I can be.”

“Oh, Obi-Wan,” she murmured, pulling him into her arms. She stroked his back, listening to him breathe in and out. “I’ll be right behind you with your family.”

“I know,” he rumbled, speaking into her shoulder.

“You can do this,” she whispered. “You’re the strongest person I know. I . . . believe in you, Obi-Wan.”

Padme held him for a few more moments, then Obi-Wan pulled away and took her hands in his. “Thank you, dear one. For everything. Not just today, but this entire week.”

She let go of one of his hands and rested her palm against his cheek, rubbing her thumb over his beard bristle. “You never have to thank me for this, Obi-Wan.”

He gave her a small smile. “I suppose it’s time to go?”

Padme nodded.

With a final squeeze of her hand, he let go and left the shed, walking towards Qui-Gon’s basic wooden coffin, which was loaded on wooden slats for the procession through the village. 

Obi-Wan approached the other pallbearers—Duran, Anakin, Quinlan, Mace, Count Dooku, Yoda, and Plo Kloon—and stepped towards his place at the head of the coffin.

“Ready?” he asked.

##

The weight of Qui-Gon’s coffin sat heavy on his shoulder.

Obi-Wan adjusted his grip as the bagpipes droned around him. You always loved the bagpipes, master. Now they’re playing for you.

He blinked back more tears and pressed a kiss to the side of the coffin as he marched on.

##

The pallbearers stepped into the chapel, filled to the brim with the galaxy’s finest. Not a bad turnout, huh, master?

In the pews, Obi-Wan could spot Bail and Breha sitting with Mon and Carlist, Ahsoka sitting with Cody and Rex. The tight grip on his heart loosened just a little bit at seeing them with their sad eyes and small, patient smiles.

As the pallbearers laid the coffin down in front of the altar, Obi-Wan pressed another kiss on the coffin, then took his seat directly in front of Padme.

##

Obi-Wan carefully stepped up to the podium, his boots echoing in the near-silent chapel. 

His nerves threatened to overtake him—sweat started gathering along his brow and he had to hold his hands together to prevent them from visibly shaking. His heart threatened to pound out of his chest—he was pretty sure at least the front row of the chapel could hear it from their seats.

Obi-Wan swallowed hard, his eyes scanning the mourners. He tried to prepare something for his eulogy—it should have been relatively easy for the Jedi Order’s Great Negotiator, but every time he tried to write something, anything, down, tears would sting his eyes, and his chest would feel so tight he couldn’t breathe.

The only thing he could do was step away from the flimsi and walk away. Now, though, he wished he had the courage to keep going.

He cleared his throat, and he made eye contact with Padme. Her warm brown eyes comforted him, and she nodded at him, encouraging him.

He stood a little straighter.

“Qui-Gon Jinn was the most difficult man I ever had the pleasure of knowing.”

A light chuckle rolled over the crowd.

“Throughout my entire apprenticeship, I was constantly baffled by his choices, frustrated by his motivations. I often believed he acted without thinking, especially when it came to matters regarding the Council.” He chuckled. “One time I told him he would have a much easier time with the Council if he wouldn’t be so difficult.”

Mace cackled.

“He was a maverick—an unorthodox Jedi, yet he was brave and wise, and a marvelous warrior. He had a commanding presence, but never lost his compassion for all life forms. Qui-Gon would go to the ends of the galaxy if it meant a being would be safe. He was endlessly kind and good, yet never wavered when faced with a challenge. He was a formidable opponent in a duel—without his training, I would certainly not be the Jedi, the man I am today.”

He paused, swallowing his tears.

“What I will miss the most is his wisdom. After his injury on Naboo forced him to step down from more active duty, I was responsible for training Anakin. I felt lost and alone and terrified—but Qui-Gon never abandoned me. He was always available to listen and advise me—even if what he had to say was not what I wanted to hear.”

“I have a tendency to focus on the worst outcome, worrying about what could happen rather than what was happening. Yet without fail, he would always remind me to focus on the present, the moment I was living in. Don't center on your anxieties, Obi-Wan. Keep your concentration here and now, where it belongs. I hope that’s a lesson I can remember without him with me.”

He stopped trying to hold back his tears.

“Qui-Gon Jinn was one of the most difficult men I had ever known, but he was also one of the best. The galaxy is a smaller place without his presence in it. I will always love him, and I will always miss him.”

Obi-Wan stepped down from the podium, sinking into his seat as the adrenaline left his body.

The only thing he could focus on was Padme’s warm hand on his shoulder.

##

After the service, the mourners filed out of the chapel and moved to the pyre for the ceremonial burning.

As the flames swallowed Qui-Gon’s body, Obi-Wan held Padme’s hand, squeezing it tightly, unable to tear his eyes away.

While most of the other mourners had moved back to the Kenobi home for the wake, he stayed with Padme and Dooku until the very last ember had burned out. 

He couldn’t bring himself to leave his master.

After Dooku had taken his leave, Obi-Wan closed his eyes.

Goodbye, master.

As he turned to walk back to the house, still holding Padme’s hand, he swore he could hear a faint voice in the distance:

May the Force be with you, padawan.

##

The mood at the Kenobi house was much lighter than at the chapel.

It was a true celebration of Qui-Gon’s life—a party he very much would have been at the center of had he been there.

Wasn’t he there, though?

Obi-Wan laughed at Yoda’s retelling of Qui-Gon trying to save a colony of baby mythosaurs without Dooku finding out.

“It would have worked if I didn’t need to shave that day,” Dooku smiled. “He had their nest in my shaving kit.”

Obi-Wan and Mace lost it at that point, laughing until tears came out of their eyes.

Obi-Wan stood to get another drink when he heard a soft call of his name. 

He turned, surprised to see Beru and Owen Lars to his left.

“Beru, Owen,” he greeted, hugging Beru and shaking Owen’s hand. “Thank you both for coming. I know it’s a long journey from Tatooine.”

“Of course,” Beru replied. “We had to be here, especially with all you’ve done for Anakin.”

“I know Qui-Gon would have appreciated it,” Obi-Wan nodded.

Owen and Beru shared a look.

“We didn’t just come here for Qui-Gon,” Owen said.

Obi-Wan raised a brow. “Oh?”

“We’re here for you too.”

Obi-Wan was taken aback. “Me? Whatever for?”

Beru shot Owen an I told you so look. “You need support too . . . On Tatooine, we believe funerals are for the living, not the dead. Qui-Gon is always with us, wherever we go. But we came all this way to see the ones still living—you.”

Obi-Wan didn’t say anything, his throat tight.

Owen cleared his throat. “Look, I know we—I,” he amended after another look from his wife, “am not good at opening up to people. Something we both have in common.” He crossed his arms. “But you should know . . . you and Qui-Gon trained Anakin, raised Anakin, gave him what he needed. And you didn’t cut him off from us.” He looked over at Anakin chatting with Shmi and Cliegg. “Everything you’ve done for him, for us, makes you family. And we show up for our family. Like it or not.” Owen had a playful glint in his eye.

“Thank you, Owen,” he choked. “That. . . means a lot.”

Owen nodded, then looked at Beru. “Did you want more of those wraps?”

As the Lars’ left, Padme came up to Obi-Wan’s other side. “Well, that was something.”

“I’m still shocked.”

“What was so shocking? The fact that you have friends who love you?” she teased.

He chuckled and looked down, not ready to acknowledge the partial truth. “The fact that Owen was the one to tell me.”

##

The next day, Padme and Obi-Wan arrived back at the Coruscant landing pad. Secretly, Obi-Wan had been dreading this moment—not just because he’d be saying goodbye to his family, but because he’d be saying goodbye to Padme.

She set her things down, using her comm to call a hovercab.

“Thank you so much, Padme. For everything,” he said, standing beside her.

“Obi-Wan, for the thousandth time, you don’t have to thank me for anything,” she replied, her eyes twinkling. “I’d do it again tomorrow. Though preferably after a full night’s sleep in my own bed.”

He laughed. “All the same. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

“Yes you could have. But I’m glad I was there with you.”

He waited with Padme, dread filling his belly at the thought of being apart from her. They didn’t spend every moment on Stewjon together, but he could still feel her presence around him.

And that brought him more comfort than he can say.

“Padme?” he asked as the hovercab got closer.

“Yes?”

He swallowed. “Would you be interested in having tea tomorrow night?” He’s certain he’ll have to purchase more of her favorite blend, which would not be ideal considering everything he should be catching up on, but somehow it was absolutely imperative that he see Padme again as soon as possible.

She beamed, stepping into the hovercab. “I would love that.”

##

Obi-Wan returned to the Temple and settled back into his quarters. He needed to keep himself busy—both to forget about the aching loss that filled his bones and to keep his mind off missing Padme.

But after tidying his already-clean apartment and preparing himself for bed, he settled under the covers and closed his eyes.

And didn’t fall asleep.

He tossed and turned for what felt like hours. He tried meditating. He tried pretending to meditate like a restless youngling, hoping to trick his body into actually sleeping.

He even tried counting banthas.

Obi-Wan sighed, letting his mind wander—and he inevitably started thinking about Padme. 

He always thought she was an effortless beauty, with charm and wit and intelligence in spades. For years after the blockade, they maintained a correspondence, meeting up whenever they were on the same planet. He always felt like he could confide in her in ways he couldn’t confide in Anakin or Quinlan or even Qui-Gon.

She never failed to offer him advice or a laugh whenever he needed it. And he was deeply grateful for her.

If he stopped to think about it, he wouldn’t know how he would have coped without her presence, especially this past week. She comforted him and supported him and made him feel safe when his world was falling apart.

Padme dropped her entire life, her Senate work, to be there for him—that couldn’t have been easy, especially with her latest bill protecting the rights of galactic sex workers. Bail worked on it in her absence, but he knew she was incredibly passionate about it—and how much she was giving up by choosing to be with him.

To him, Padme Amidala was endlessly brilliant and dedicated and compassionate—it was why he loved her.

Wait.

What.

He sat up straight, his brow furrowed. Did he love Padme? 

The butterflies when she was around. The way she brightened his day when he was blessed with her company. His admiration for her brilliance on the Senate floor. The way he always valued her safety, even if it came at the expense of his own.

He loved Padme.

His first instinct was pure panic. How could Padme love him? His life was full of danger and uncertainty—even with the modifications to the attachment rule, he surely can’t be everything she needed. 

How could she want an older Jedi dedicated to throwing himself towards the first signs of trouble?

But, he had to admit to himself that his life had been so much better since she became part of it—especially these past few weeks since the gala. Her friendship balanced him and his anxieties—he believed he was a better man and, perhaps more importantly, a better Jedi with her presence.

Obi-Wan closed his eyes and reached out to the Force. Is this the Force’s will? Is this what is meant to be? 

His entire being filled with acceptance and love, the Force around him singing with approval at their love.

If only she felt the same way.

Before he could think about what he was doing, he got up from bed and dressed as quickly as he could. He knew it was late and he knew every sane being in Coruscant would be asleep but he knew he wasn’t getting back to sleep and his heart was burning with the desire to tell her about his love that very minute.

Perhaps Anakin still had that speeder from their first gala . . .

##

Obi-Wan raced to her door, preparing to knock—but he stopped himself at the last minute.

She’s likely asleep.

Perhaps I should have called.

No time like the present.

He pulled out his comm and before he could overthink it, he dialed her number.

She answered on the second ring. “Obi-Wan?”

He sighed. “Padme, hello. I’m so sorry to bother you so late—”

“You aren’t bothering me—I was already awake,” she reassured him. “What’s wrong?”

He swallowed, running a hand through his hair. “I, uh, I can’t sleep.”

“Oh, Obi-Wan,” she cooed. “I’m so sorry . . . Why don’t I try singing to you? There’s this Nubian lullaby my mother used to sing to us.”

“Actually, Padme, I don’t think that will work.” He chewed on his lower lip.

“What can I do?” she asked.

Now or never. “Open your door?”

“What?” she gasped. Obi-Wan could hear rustling and shuffling on the other end of the comm. “Where are you? I’m coming to get you.”

“Not far,” he replied. “Not far at all.” He sighed. “Padme, the reason I can’t sleep is because I miss you. I cannot sleep without you because you’ve become an integral part of my life and my heart and I cannot bear to be separated from you when we’re both so close.”

Obi-Wan swallowed, not wanting to lose his nerve. “I know this is not the best time, and I’m sure you were just being nice when you said you were still awake, and I’m not certain you feel the same way, but I simply had to let you know and I could not wait another moment to tell you how I felt—”

Padme’s front door opened and she pulled him inside. “Get in here, you silly, ridiculous man.”

She threw her arms around him, pulling him impossibly close. “Obi-Wan,” she murmured.

He pulled back slightly, enough for him to look into her eyes. “I love you, Padme. I love you so much.”

“Obi-Wan,” she choked. “I love you too. Of course I love you. I have been in love with you for so long.”

He smiled, tears filling his eyes. “I believe I have as well, darling, though it seems we’ve both been too stubborn to realize it.”

Tears were already pouring from her eyes, and Obi-Wan cupped her face, delicately wiping them away with his thumbs. Padme leaned in, ready to kiss him, really kiss him, for the first time—only for Obi-Wan to hesitate.

“What is it?” She frowned.

He took a shuddering breath. “I can’t mess this up, Padme.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re my best friend, my dearest one. I don’t want to ruin that. I don’t want to lose my best friend—”

“Don’t you understand, Obi-Wan?” Padme whispered. “You’re my best friend, too. This means everything to me.”

He leaned in, his lips crashing together with hers. 

It was better than anything he could have ever imagined, even as their noses smashed against each other as they deepened the kiss, their teeth clacking. All they wanted was to be together, so close they couldn’t tell where Obi-Wan ended and Padme began.

When they finally had to break for air, Padme pulled back, taking his hand.

“Love?” he asked.

“Let’s go to bed, Obi-Wan.”

And together, hand in hand, they went to Padme’s bedroom.

Thank you all for joining me on this journey! I'll be taking a few days off to rest and enjoy my break and then I'll be back with my Obidala Hallmark Christmas movie rewrite, You Make it Feel Like Christmas!

Merry Christmas, everyone ❤️🎄

No-pressure tags: @wickedscribbles @obiknights @labyrinth-runner @your-dose-of-obidala @mxster-jocale @cypanache @celestial-alignment @written-musings @alabama-metal-man

[yubsie]

I actually had a lot of fun with the various holiday traditions in We Need a Little... so I’m going to take a moment to babble about where various things come from. A big thing I wanted to do with this one was write a Star Wars holiday fic rather than a Christmas fic.

Problem: Star Wars worldbuilding is a bit uneven and one of the things it tends to lack if cultural details. So while I dug into some DEEP lore, I also made a lot of stuff up.

Life Day: Okay, we all know about this one. It’s canon, it’s the go to holiday for winter holiday fics, but given the timeframe and the fact that it’s a Wookiee holiday, it wasn’t going to play a big role. Orga root grows on the surface of Kashyyyk, is quite perilous to harvest and is traditionally served on LIfe Day.

Solstice Tide: This was a lucky find! My husband had already suggested that the Coruscant holiday should be a commercial nightmare that Kanan hated it. Then I found out that the LIfe Day Treasury had a story set during the High Republic era where the Jedi would invite people into the Temple to share in abundance and it being a corrupted Jedi holiday? Perfect.

Sutuu pouches: Also canon! My husband patiently tromped through the book store with me looking for the LIfe Day Treasury when I realized online one of the illustrations was a Twi’lek and it might have something useful for me! The tradition they’re tied to is from Aaloth and it involves bonfires that burned longer than they should have when fighting off the Sith. So they assemble these little tinder pouches. The story in the book involved a rebel finding magnesium rich moss and throwing it at a stormtrooper at a key moment.

Sinya ek Sinya: The holiday didn’t have a name but hey I found a dictionary of Twi’leki terms! The thing about conlangs largely built from RPG supplements is they lack key grammatical features. LIke conjunctions. Though I did eventually find a word for “of”. I wanted to name the holiday Night of NIghts but there was no word for night so it translates to Dark of Dark. Eleni making sure they marked this holiday was a big part of the genesis of the entire rest of the story, and the sutuu pouches gave me a nice specific thing for her to do.

Ryshcate: This is mostly a throwaway reference because they didn’t have the ingredients, but it’s a traditional cake used to mark special occasions (birthdays, really missing Corellia, apologizing to your fellow Corellian). It is, of course, a boozy dessert. This originates from Legends but was canonized by... a cookbook, sure.

Catabar bread: Catabar is one of the few canonical cooking spices that have been established in the GFFA, and it fit the niche of sweet baking spice.

Unnamed Mandalorian Holiday: Does it actually involve fireworks, or does Sabine just want to blow something up and no one else knows enough about Mandalorian culture to argue? The galaxy may never know.

Tanaab Festival of Lights: Oh, did I ever make this one up. More specifically, I made this up for a holiday fic about Wes Janson that I wrote in high school. It is possible the fic is still findable on TF.N but I will not be doing so because I am sure I’d find it painful to read something I wrote that long ago. I did remember the candle tradition though, and thought it fit this story really well. Oddly, this is probably the most directly Christmas inspired custom in the entire story. Or rather, it was inspired by Advent with the specific coloured candles symbolizing specific things.

Night of Frozen Sand: My husband named this one. No, I have no idea what the significance of the light up bantha horns

Twenty-Eight Glimmers: This one was [Raltiir Holiday] for the first draft. I wanted to build an actual custom around ugly sweaters after reading a hilarious Twitter thread about “Your Christian students will be celebrating Yom Christmas soon” that mentioned them and I liked the idea of an ugly sweater explicitly bringing good luck. A custom about luck seemed like a good fit for Hobbie (who still managed to get injured in the fluffy holiday fic, bless him). So then I started researching Raltiir to find something I could build a holiday around. ANd it turns out that most of what we know about Raltiir involves... banking. But! It has 28 moons and while I have several questions about how big these moons are if a terrestrial planet only slightly larger than Earth has that many, it seemed obvious that the winter light based holiday had to incorporate them. You don’t just go around having TWENTY-EIGHT MOONS in your sky and not develop customs about them. (ALso the tides on Raltiir must be a freaking nightmare to predict)

Long Night: And then fairly late in the process I realized I had somehow overlooked Lothal even though that’s the most obvious holiday for the Ghost crew to mark. I’d already did a couple variations on lighting fires, so I went more sound based for driving away the night. Which had the bonus of Kanan musing about just always putting bells on the baby (a thing blind parents do in fact do!)

Tinsel: This does not tie to a specific planet, I just wanted to put tinsel on Chopper.

[chaoswithinharmony]

Some Anakin and Obi-Wan headcanons

Here’s a few headcanons I’ve been thinking up for awhile.

Favorite color

Anakin: 

Please. It’s black. Well, at least when it comes to clothes. 

As for in general, well, if he has to pick, he’d choose a calm forest green. Because it’s lush, and so different from Tatooine. More like Naboo, which blew his mind away the first time he saw actual nature. Like “whoa, I’ve never seen so much flora at once”. And since every single living thing has at least a tiny, tiny, tiny piece of the force within it, Anakin feels that, in a way, a forest is way more alive than a barren dessert. And not only because forests have more animals which inhabits them, but the earth, the grass, the trees, the rivers and the lakes, the mountains and the caves, and the animals — the force sings and glows around them all much louder and brighter than any dessert ever could. And that’s beautiful.

He also thinks Obi-Wan’s hair is a pretty shade of red. And when the sun hits it, it gets this golden shade, gently framing Obi-Wan’s face, and sometimes Anakin just wanna run his hands through it so bad. Probably smells nice too, “damn it, why does he has to be so handsome, give me a break”, Anakin thinks. 

Obi-Wan: 

Blue. Like the sky and the ocean. And Anakin’s eyes. It’s calming, and he could stare at it for awhile when being lost in thoughts. Both the sky and the ocean, and yes, Anakin’s eyes too. The last one, he has to contain himself; staring at people is rude. Though once he do end up together with Anakin, he gladly, openly admires them. 

Now, for clothes, he likes neutral tones of beige and blue. Simple and stylish. 

Sleeping habits

Anakin:

He sleeps on his back, but tends to move around a lot. It takes some time for him to wind down. And if he’s sharing a bed with someone he’s in love with, he sometimes ends up sleeping on his side, wrapping an arm around his lover in his sleep with his face buried in their hair. 

Neither Obi-Wan or Anakin snores. Well, Anakin sometimes breathes a little soundly, and may make small whining noises subconsciously, and tighten his grip, if the person he has his arm wrapped around tries to untangle themselves from him. It’s understandable if they did try to; Anakin is warm, and tend to get hot while hugging someone while sleeping. Poor Obi-Wan has no chance but to accept his fate being glued to a human radiator to his back, or his front, which is even worse, trying to not get his face squished into Anakin’s neck or chest. But he doesn’t want to wake Anakin up — poor Anakin needs sleep to be able to handle the stress and anxiety of fighting in the war — so Obi-Wan wiggles a little to get room for his face to he can breathe properly, and goes back to sleep.

Obi-Wan:

Obi-Wan sleeps either on his back or on the side. It depends on the firmness of the mattress. If it’s too firm, which is often the case in the sleeping bunkers on ships, and the groundsheets in tents when on missions, he sleeps on his back.

Otherwise he sleeps in either position. Though whenever he sleeps next to Anakin, it’s his side, cause he knows it’s easier that way because of Anakin’s tendency to cling on to him while sleeping. He doesn’t want to wake up with Anakin splayed out on top of him. Damn it Anakin, just give Obi-Wan a night of uninterrupted rest, please.

Favorite foods/drinks

Anakin: 

MEAT. If it’s done good. But he eats a varied diet of vegetables and fruits too. And if he cooks his own meal, he likes to experiment with different spices.

Chips is a nice snack while on missions too, and a can of energy drink, or a cup of caf, cause force have mercy the war can be rather draining on your energy. Tea is alright, though he’s not as much of a tea fan as Obi-Wan.

If Anakin had a chance to try drinks from our universe, he’d like cola and orange flavored sodas that are not too sweet, and served cold.

Obi-Wan:

He also eats a varied diet, although a little more vegetables than Anakin. He’s not as experimental with spices when cooking his own meals; he keeps it simple, but well made, with not too much flavors hitting you at all once. Not bland though. Just don’t overdo it!

Obi-Wan is not much into having a snack in between meals. He likes to eat when he’s hungry, and would rather read a book or meditate to let time pass by. With exception to tea. It’s warm, soothing, and calms his nerves, and there’s many exotic teas in the galaxy he’d like to try out. If he has some spare change, and happens to walk by a market while on mission, he may buy a small bag of different teas. 

No sugar, and not too much milk — if the tea is better with milk in it. Again, he thinks sugar would take away the taste of the tea itself and be too distracting.

If the same teas we have in our universe existed in GFFA, he’d like earl gray and chai.

Preferred book/movie genres

Anakin: 

Action and adventure. An engaging story with high tempo which keeps you at the edge of the seat, eagerly wondering what will happen next. Anakin prefers movies over books. There’s so much going on in his head all the time that reading is often too much work to put his focus into it, unless the book has an interesting plot right from the start.

Obi-Wan:

Drama and mystery. A little romance too, if it’s not too sappy. Obi-Wan is more patient when it comes to plots starting slow, and building up. He likes plots with nuanced perspectives, that makes you think about beliefs and morals, right and wrong, truths and falsehoods.

 And there’s already enough action and adventure in Obi-Wan’s life that he feels no need to watch/read much about it. 

Obi-Wan prefer books. With literature, you can take your time reflecting over the plot and take breaks to ponder over what you’ve read, whereas with movies you don’t get much time to think as scenes pass by one after another like a ride. Another plus is that you can take books with you on missions too.

Eventually, he ends up watching movies more often as his relationship with Anakin develops, and they have movie nights together, on the few occasions they get some free time to spare. Anakin is often the one to pick out the movie, and Obi-Wan doesn’t mind. It’s rather cozy, Anakin cuddling up next to him, wrapping them both in a big blanket, and resting his head on his shoulder, happy and content.

And there you have it. Hope it was good.

[hanasnx]

considering his crash and burn re-intro to the love of his life in aotc i’d say it’s regular old gffa anakin rather than “nerdy!” ppl just prefer to write him smooth bcos that’s easier or more appealing. rots era might be more hardened and he’s not charismatic but he’s more secure in awkward situations. i wrote u something even if it’s a little too similar to the anidala situation, i wanted an excuse to write a certain joke i cooked up:

“… and this is General Anakin Skywalker.” The voice of his former Master Obi-Wan Kenobi had been drowned out by his own thoughts, swimming in them at the sight of you. The silence jars him, and he blinks the glaze from his eyes, finally breaking his streak of staring directly at you to glance at his expectant Master and then to you again who appeared just as expectant and a little concerned. Obi-Wan, out of brief embarrassment, changes the subject so as to not exacerbate the situation further. He tucks his hands under the sleeves of his robe over his chest. “We’ll be looking into the case of your sister’s disappearance. We have reason to believe Separatist forces are at work. Let me take a look around, and Anakin,” At the sound of his name, Anakin meets Obi’s gaze, a gentle hand cradling the back of his shoulder, “why don’t you get acquainted with the Priestess, and see if you can’t deduce any clues?”

Anakin nods, and clears his throat as Obi-Wan takes his leave. Without saying a word, he gestures towards your seating area, signaling you to take one as he takes the other. There’s a part of him that feels small, scrutinized, and unconsciously he bunches up the sides of his robes to tuck into his lap. You tilt your head at how uncharacteristically endearing that is for a General.

He opens his mouth to speak, but closes it. You catch the minute shake of his head as if scolding himself and starting again; a crease in your brow deepens. At this point you’re unsure who should speak first, and an uncomfortable time passes before you begin to say something— only to speak over him.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Please,” you cut yourself off, and gesture to him to continue, but the marginal widen in his eyes tells you he’s mortified he’s interrupted you, and resists the urge to enact the exact same courtesy you gave to him. He takes the invitation to speak first.

“Can you describe the qualities of her kidnapper?”

“What?” You’re taken aback by the lack of pleasantries, entirely skipped. No condolences, no introductions. You’re not used to being treated like this.

“The victim’s perpetrator. What did they look like?”

“Um…” Your gaze shifts to your lap as if to sift through your bewilderment and search for the answers there. “Taller than my sister, so about six feet. Human, a glimpse of brown hair.” It’s not entirely clear what he wants to hear, and his enduring eye contact scrutinizes you, nodding along to your words as you find it difficult to speak. “Sex?” you imply the gender or sex of the individual as a means of asking if that’s a fact he needs to know, but you’re immediately embarrassed by the way he looks at you. Perhaps that was a politically incorrect way to describe someone, and your lips part to come to your defense.

His features, albeit handsome, twist into finite puzzlement. “Here?”

Your eyes widen. “Excuse me?”

“Hm? Apologies. Let’s begin again.”

this silly little app needs more nerdy!anakin fics. like i need him to be awkward and shy and just an overall dork.

[fandomtrumpshate]

Fan Labor Roundup (so far)

As of noon EST on January 25th – with 534 total fanworks offered so far, and just under a week left to sign up – we have exactly fifty fan labor offerings. As part of our efforts this year to boost fan labor, we thought it would be interesting to give everyone a snapshot of what, exactly, is being offered so far. Buckle up, it’s seriously kind of mind-blowing.

---

Almost all 50 of our fan labor offers so far include the offer of beta work; this can include anything from final polishing of spelling and grammar (SPAG) all the way back to early brainstorming and story development. Most of our beta readers are also willing to offer advice on characterization in the fandoms they know.

But wait, there’s more! So, so so much more.

if you want really high-level or in-depth spelling and grammar feedback, we have not one, not two, but three fan laborers who currently work as professional editors; we also have a former English teacher and a former newspaper copy-editor, and someone with extensive experience helping non-native speakers of English with English language writing.

We have several offers for Brit-picking (checking for British English and cultural details), and a couple of offers for America-picking (including an all-fandom offer that labels itself “Yank-picking.”) We have a Jewish reader willing to culture-pick for Ashkenazi Judaism. We’ve also got someone offering a “gffa-pick” for Star Wars slang and technology.

We have a couple of translation offers: one offer for Russian-to-English translation for any fandom, or for M/M original fic; another offer for MCU, Harry Potter or Star Wars from someone willing to translate between German and English, in either direction; another reader who will translate English-to-German and will beta read in either language; and another who will translate form Spanish to English.

There are several readers offering first-hand experience of different cities and countries – Los Angeles, New York City, London, Oxford, the American South, and rural Alaska, among others.

For writers who want to get the details of their characters’ professions right, we have a reader who has worked as both a professional assistant and a library assistant, and another who was/is a sex worker. We also have two professors who can advise about the inner workings of college and university life.

We also have a couple of fan laborers offering sensitivity reading. One offer –  for Sherlock, Star Wars and Kingsman – can read for bipolar disorder, depression, anxiety, ASD, and ADHD. We have another all-fandom offer from someone who identifies themselves as fat, non-binary, and chronically ill. There are also a number of readers willing to advise on LGBTQIA+ issues and experiences.

In addition to these things, our fan laborers are willing to help you out by sharing their expertise on guns, Bible School, medical issues, poly relationships, farming and the care of farm animals, religion and mythology, calligraphy, cooking and baking, service dogs, dancing, family law, ancient Greece and Rome, riot grrl culture, goth culture, disaster services, and fiber crafts. We have several beta readers with personal experience in BDSM, including one who has spent more than a decade volunteering as a trained dungeon monitor. We have a Sherlock reader who has played violin for many years. As varied and extensive as this list is, it’s only partial -- and, we hope, still growing.

More than thirty-five of these amazingly talented fan laborers have also volunteered to join the newly-formed Regiment of Fan Laborers (ROFL), which means that anyone who offers a fic through FTH this year will be able to call on them for help. Read more about ROFL here.

We’re going to do another roundup shortly before the auction opens, when we have a complete list of signups – but we’re doing this now in the hopes that the complete list grows a lot between now and next Friday. Almost everyone out there has something they know a lot about which some creator out there doesn’t know about, but wants to.

Are you interested in offering fan labor (or fic, or fan art, or a podfic, or a vid) in this year’s auction? Sign up here.

[melissagt]

All the gluttony ones for Raz! :D

gluttony

🥐 - are they able to cook?

🌭 - what’s the biggest meal they had recently?

🍙 - do they enjoy foreign food?

🌶️ - can they handle spicy food?

🍎 - is their diet balanced or tend to skip meals/overeat often?

Are they able to cook? *makes snorting noise* Well, if you can count the GFFA version of hot dogs and ramen. Thankfully for Raz, she’s never really had the need. It’s either eating out, eating on the fly, rations, the commissary, or eating home-grown meals prepared by someone else. 

What’s the biggest meal they had recently? As a functional member of the very unlikely family that grew into the Alliance inner circle, Raz frequently enjoys a regular version of a typical Sunday Dinner. Andronikos, another member of the inner circle and husband of the Commander, does love to cook, and can cook well. Through food, he gets the family together as often as he can to sit down and relax...and just be. 

Most often the group consists of Raz and her husband, Scourge, Kira (Raz’s twin sister) and her husband, Pierce, as well as Lelu (the Commander) and her two better halves, Andronikos and Theron. Theron is also Raz’s best friend from childhood, so it really is a big mish-mashed rag-tag family. As time passes, Raz also tries to include her brother, Arcann from time to time, however the group has yet to fully let their guard down around him and the overall fellowship in the room can sometimes feel forced when he’s around. 

Do they enjoy foreign food? On such a galactic level, where so many cultures intertwine and mix and mingle, it’s tough to say what would be considered “foreign” to someone like Raz. She was born on Ryloth, but was largely raised on Coruscant where she was exposed to fare from an untold number of origins��from simple Jedi rations to back-alley hot pots to commercialized fast food. Her husband is a Pureblood Sith, and she discovered that culturally, Twi’lieki and Sith tastes are very similar.

Can they handle spicy food? Raz will try anything once, but a lot of cuisine can come off as rather tasteless and bland for her Twi’leki taste buds. By default, her food is spicy to levels beyond human tolerance. 

Is their diet balanced or tend to skip meals/overeat often? As much of Raz’s life is in flux with missions, deployment and combat situations, I would say that she has about as balanced a diet as she can. She’s not one to skip meals on purpose. 

Thanks for asking! Now I want to go eat lunch, haha. 

[heyclickadee]

Aaaaand next up, and back to the run of recipes I like, topato soup, again from the galaxy’s edge cookbook:

I’m just gonna take a minute to appreciate the star warsiness of naming something by swapping two letters around and calling it a day.

Anyway, this is a blended potato and spinach stew with a very mild kick from green salsa, and it’s fairly fast and easy to make. The worst part is blending it, because I don’t have an immersion blender and end up putting it through a food processor in batches, but that’s really it. Very smooth, very creamy, and you can make it spicier by using hotter salsa. It’d probably go great with a slice of toasted munchfungus loaf (haven’t tried it together), and it’s definitely good with crusty bread or grilled cheese.

Once last thing: this is actually one I’ve made a number of times, and after the first time I’ve always doubled the recipe. I made it for just my brother and I one time as a single recipe, and “serves four” turned out to be a lie. Though I’m sure it depends on which four you’re serving.

[tennessoui]

au where anakin runs a cooking youtube channel and obi-wan runs a baking one and they’re both hugely successful and have many recipe books and a few restaurants/bakeries between them---for obi-wan, the youtube/tiktok videos are a lark, something one of his more social media savvy agents suggested. for anakin, that’s how he got his start so he still religiously uploads a few videos per month.

their fans want them to do a collab video---they both cook dinner and then they both make dessert. their agents love the idea, and they’re put in contact with one another to work out the kinks and figure out what to make.

anakin is thrilled because he loves obi-wan’s videos and routinely watched them during culinary school as a sort of calming meditation technique. obi-wan is thrilled because he’s always wanted to try one of Anakin’s meals, as they look so amazing.

so for a few weeks they’re like high key flirting over DMs and texts, both becoming more and more excited to meet in person......

only for their cooking styles to completely not mesh. they’re both ready to strangle the other man halfway through making dinner. 

(“roughly chopped” is fine in baking, ah-na-kin, are you really seriously trying to throw out all this onion? oh, perfect. you’re just passively aggressively cutting it smaller. lovely.)

(yes, i know the recipe called for 2 cloves of garlic, obi-wan, i can read. but we’re going to add four and cook them in butter instead of oil because the flavor is better. can’t you just trust me???)

[kyberled]

SWEET MUNDAY MEME

@hxdrostorm​ asked:

★ What fandom do you consider welcoming? ☆ What are some the perks with the fandom you’re currently in? ☉ What fandom do you believe needs improvement? What could you do to do that?

★ What fandom do you consider welcoming? 

This one! Star Wars is so much fun. It’s the one I always come back to eventually, no matter where I go or for how long I dip out. I don’t really know what it is. Maybe it’s the friends I’ve made, maybe it’s the memories, maybe it’s my child. Maybe I just lucked out and fell into a good corner of the GFFA. I dunno. I just really like it here. It’s been a lot of fun for like, seven years now. I’m not going anywhere any time soon. 

☆ What are some the perks with the fandom you’re currently in?

It’s a huge fandom with a lot of lore. There’s always things to talk about and people to talk about it with. And you can get the answer to any question! There’s so much information about the galaxy. I once googled what colour Rodians bleed for an art piece, and guess what? It’s green. There’s an answer for that. There are different kinds of teas in canon, with some having pictures and even descriptions of how they taste or smell, what species can drink them, and where they’re popular. Do you know how useful it is when you’re writing a tea snob like my son? At the same time, there’s enough room for us to play with things and make up our own headcanons and stories. It’s awesome! I also love that we’re still getting new content. Forty years of Star Wars. Hopefully, many more - and in so many mediums, too! At this point, it’s like, pick your poison. Do you like books? Okay, novels, graphic novels, light novels, in universe guide books, out of character guide books, art books, behind the scenes books, zoology, sociology, action, adventure… Or how about games? MMORPG, single-player RPG, or the Lego masterpieces where Yoda can drive an ATV through Dagobah? Arts and crafts? We got ‘em. Cooking and baking? Got em. Makeup? Sword fighting? Cosplay communities so strong there are multiple officially recognized cosplay organisations for different galactic factions? Movies, shows, biopics, animations, live action displays, interactive experiences… There’s just so much Star Wars and it’s so cool. We really are spoiled. I’ve also - and not to get too sappy here - met so many long-term friends in this fandom. People I’ve known for closing in on a decade who I still speak to either daily or near-daily that I love to bits. That’s the best perk of them all. 

☉ What fandom do you believe needs improvement? What could you do to do that? 

Oh boy. This is a tough one. Not because every fandom I’ve been in is perfect - far from it - but because I can’t really improve some of the problems. I dunno how to solve racism, guys. I also can’t solve whatever was going on with the Homestuck fandom. I dropped off around act 6, I don’t know what to tell you. By and large, I just try to keep myself in line. Be polite, be positive, be welcoming. Be the kind of person I’d want to meet and write with. Welcome new fans and learn from the old ones. Respect the stars and creators and support their work without being weird about it. Look out for each other and enjoy the thing we’re here to enjoy. I figure that’s the best we can all do.

[ashlynncoy-blog]

Wading In

A pointless piece of fluff. This story features the GFFA equivalent of French fries, a game that’s basically 3D shuffleboard/curling without ice, Leia wearing shorts, and Han being Han.

You’ve been warned.

When Luke had come bounding up to the Falcon and informed Han Solo that some of the pilots were having a party, and that he ought to come join, Solo had not hesitated to agree. The last time these rebels had thrown anything they’d referred to as a party (as opposed to a reception which had been as stuffy and buttoned-up as it sounded) had been the night after their victory over the Death Star. It had been a raucous and jovial gathering, and Solo had enjoyed himself immensely. If the same pilots responsible for that night (he’d been informed that Gold Squadron always won the after party) were in charge of whatever was going on today, then he was more than happy to join in the reveling.

Luke led him out the west exit of the old Massassi temple and through a brief tangle of trees to a clearing that had until recently been home to a lookout tower. As the base was being deconstructed in advance of the impending evacuation, the clearing, halfway between the temple and the nearest friendly patch fresh water, looked to have been adopted as a social gathering place.

Most of the pilots of Han’s acquaintance were casually hanging about. They were lounging on a few canvas camp chairs and a number of munitions and supply crates that had been repurposed as seating. There was a game of hoversnap in progress, the field taking up the center of the semi-circle they’d arranged themselves in. Dressed in civilian clothes to the man—half of them shirtless and a few barefoot to boot—they might have been a bunch of university buddies on holiday rather than a bunch of battle-hardened fighter pilots eking out a bit of down time. It didn’t look so much like a party as just a few guys making the most of an afternoon off, but it still beat sitting around the hangar waiting for his next cargo.

Especially since his buddies from the flight line were hardly the most interesting thing to Solo’s eyes. It was the unexpected presence of Princess Leia that had his attention. She’d run off almost immediately after the ceremony where she’d hung the Medal of Heroes around his neck and he hadn’t heard yet of her return to base.

She wasn’t dressed like herself, either. The cut-off trousers she wore were only barely decent, hanging onto her hips only thanks to a length of rope she had tied through the belt loops, and rolled up at the cuff to show more leg than Han ever imagined he’d see of her. She had a short-sleeve uniform blouse unbuttoned and tied up at her waist, her ivory camisole was visible, as was a strip of bare skin between its tail and her shorts. She had her hair braided around the top of her head, and a look like she hadn’t a care in the galaxy as she stood behind what looked to be a makeshift work station.

“I didn’t know you were back!” Han said to the princess as he and Luke joined the group.

“Just this morning,” Leia answered. “these guys accosted me almost the moment I landed. But I had heard that you were sticking around. Glad to hear it.”

“Yeah,” Han said back, “your Commander Willard took me aside—told me you all’d be evacuating this base. Said he could use good pilots with fast ships to get through the blockade. Told me I could name my price. So here I am.”

“How noble.”

“We can’t all be heroes, Princess.”

“Didn’t you just get a medal for heroism?” Wedge teased from his seat just to Leia’s left.

“Yeah, well,” Han said with a shrug, “we can’t all be heroes all the time.”

“I suppose,” Leia groaned, “Here,” she said, pointing to a plate of golden-brown something at the far end of the table where she stood, “have a handful, we have plenty. Luke, you too.”

“What is all this?” Luke asked, not hesitating to pick up one of the long, thin pieces and have a taste.

“These are Alderaanian salt tubers,” Wedge replied, “Tycho grew them.”

“Her highness brought me the starts four… five trips home ago,” Celchu piped up from his seat nearby. One of the few pilots with a shirt on, he also wore a hat and sunglasses. Solo wondered if he was concerned about possible sunburn.

“Help yourself,” Leia encouraged, “there’s plenty.”

“And If we need to do another batch, we can,” Wedge added, “Get Leia to cut them, she does it better than the rest of us.”

“But whatever you do,” Tycho added, “don’t let her highness touch the fryer.”

“It was an accident!” Leia challenged.

“How’s your hand, by the way?” Janson asked. He was standing at the edge of the hoversnap field, scoping out his next throw, and looking a little ridiculous in a pair of too-tight shorts and a faded old shirt in a very loud print, which he wore open over an otherwise bare chest.

“It’s getting a pretty nice blister,” she replied, holding up the back of her left hand for inspection.

“Yeah, it is,” Han affirmed. He’d seen burns like that plenty of times on his own hands when he’d gotten a little too careless working on his old speeder before allowing the manifold proper time to cool. It was an oil burn, and it was liable to hurt—a lot. He was kind of surprised she seemed so nonplussed by it. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his commlink, waiting to hear Chewie’s characteristic warble on the other end before speaking again. “Hey pal, listen,” he said, “I’m out in the clearing off the west end of the building with a bunch of the guys. Do me a favor, will ya? We got a coupla cold cases under the deck plates—pull one out and bring it back here. And grab a medpac while you’re at it. “

“I don’t need a medpac,” Leia insisted, “it’s not that bad.”

“You’re right, it’s not,” Han agreed, putting his commlink back into his pocket. “Put a little burn cream and some firm wrap on it to keep it from gettin’ infected and it’ll stay that way.” Leia rolled her eyes and went back to slicing tubers.

“These are really good,” Luke said, his mouth full of fried tuber as he reached for another handful.

“They’re my favorite,” Tycho said back, lining up at the edge of the hoversnap field to aim his next throw.

“I still can’t believe they took to the soil,” Hobbie said.

“I’m not surprised,” Tycho replied. He tossed the sphere into the field and balled his hands into fists as it hit Janson’s last sphere, knocking it into a lower scoring range. “They’re pretty hearty,” he added, turning around and flashing a grin at Wes, who was shaking his head as he stepped back to the throwing line.

“But they won’t grow in space,” Wedge added, crossing to stand beside Leia and beginning to scoop the newly-sliced tubers into the fryer basket.

“Just about the only thing that kills them is artificial light,” Tycho explained, making his way over to the platter and snagging another few fried tubers for himself. “So we’ve got to eat ‘em before we evacuate. Wedge built the fryer,” he said to Skywalker, who was still hovering over the platter, helping himself to the bounty three at a time, “and Janson spent days rendering the lard and nicking pots of cooking oil from the galley to get the thing working.”

“Looks like I came back just in time,” Leia said, reaching around Wedge’s back to grab a bite for herself.

“Yeah you did,” Wedge replied, dropping the basket into the fryer. “We didn’t want to do this without you, but we were about to have to. This is our last day of stand-down before we’re airborne again. We won’t have another chance before we’re evacuated to hang out in our civvies eating tubers and playing hoversnap.”

“And drinking lager,” Han added.

“What?” Janson asked, turning his head to look at Solo so quickly it effected his throw. His sphere wound up outside the scoring field altogether, but he didn’t seem to care much. Solo was pointing into the jungle, toward the temple. Chewbacca was walking toward them, carrying a large rectangular case.

“Had some bottles in the Falcon’s stores,” Han replied. “Seemed like a good time to share.”

Chewie quickly closed the distance and set the cooler down between the fryer and the crates the pilots were using as seats. Solo snagged the medpac from the top of the case and raised his eyebrows at the princess. She rolled her eyes, but acquiesced, following him to sit on an unoccupied trunk so he could bandage her hand.

Yowling his objection to being out in the heat, Chewie bid the group adieu and headed back toward the air-conditioned ship.

“I don’t blame him,” Janson said, pulling open the cold case and examining its contents, “it’s hotter than blazes out here. But this is going to help,” he added, “thanks Solo.” Janson then took on the job of passing out libations, pulling out the tin bottles and passing them around to his friends.

“You’re welcome,” Han replied. “And there’s more where that came from, so drink up. I’m gonna need to cargo space t help you rebels evacuate.”

“None for me,” Hobbie said, “I have deck duty later.”

“If you’re only saying that for my benefit,” Leia said to him, turning her head so as not to watch Han tend to the burn on her hand. It looked gnarly enough without the addition of the viscous burn gel he was using. “Don’t worry about it. I can’t imagine one bottle of lager would be enough to cause problems. But if you want to make absolutely sure,” she added, “pass me one and I’ll let you know if I get buzzed. If it doesn’t affect me, you’ll know you’re safe.”

There were a few hoots and chortles at Leia’s assertion, and Janson hurried to put the next opened bottle into the princess’s un-burned hand. Han finished his ministrations on the other, coating the blister and the red skin around it with anesthetic and antibiotic and then sealing it up with self-firming bandages to keep it from infection. Leia took a pronounced swig of the lager, much to the delight of the others, as Wedge pulled the fryer basket back out of the oil and dumped the freshly-fried treats onto the platter beside him.

Luke was quick to snag another several.

“Han, you really should try these,” he said to his friend.

“If you want,” Wedge added, “I’ve got a jar of Mieriks mustard for dipping. It’s over on the far side of Hobbie—help yourself.”

Han stood up and moved toward the plate of fried tubers, snagging a lager out of his cold case on the way.

“Careful with the mustard,” Tycho said, “that stuff will take the paint off your X-wing. I don’t want to think about what it’ll do to your insides.”

“Solo’s a fellow Corellian,” Wedge reminded his friend, “our palates aren’t so delicate as our dear Alderaanian colleagues.”

“Watch who you’re calling ‘delicate’,” Leia challenged between gulps of lager, “I happen to like spicy food.”

“Yeah,” Hobbie chimed in, tossing his final sphere into the hoversnap field, “well, you’re tougher than the rest of us put together. So your opinion on spicy mustard doesn’t count.” The hoversnap field unit chimed then. All of the spheres fell from their places in space onto the dirt and the scores were projected in the place of the hover-field. “You want next game, Solo?” Hobbie asked then, “I’ve beaten all the rest of these chumps.”

“Nah,” Han said, taking his first bite of fried tuber and immediately reaching for another. “I’ve never been any good at hoversnap. But if any of you have got a deck of cards….”

“Do all pilots enjoy gambling?” Leia asked, as she got up from her seat and ducked around Solo to snag a fresh fried tuber slice off the top of the platter, “or just the ones I manage to attract?”

“I think it’s all of us,” Hobbie answered her, “except maybe Skywalker.”

“He’ll learn to like it once I teach him how to win,” Solo countered. Luke, his mouth still full of tubers, couldn’t help but laugh.

“Maybe,” he allowed, shrugging his shoulders and reaching for another bite.

“Don’t have a deck of cards,” Wedge replied to Han’s earlier question, “but you know what we could do—now that Hobbie’s affirmed his position as the undisputed hoversnap champion—?”

“What’s that?” Solo asked.

“Well, it’s hotter’n Centerpoint on meltdown,” he answered, “so I figure let’s all go jump in the river while we’ve got the chance.”

“Yessssssss!” Janson shouted, taking off at a flat run toward the narrow strip of trees that separated the clearing from the nearby river. There was a chorus of whoops and laughter as the rest of the pilots took off behind him, Luke bringing up the rear with a generous portion of freshly-claimed fried tubers clutched in his hand. Tycho was already out of his clothes and in the water, and Wes was tossing his loud-patterned shirt over a nearby tree branch.

Han headed off after them. Unlike the others, he was dressed in his everyday clothes, and it was far too hot to run—even toward the blissfully cool river. Leia seemed to be taking her time as well, following the others, but without any semblance of enthusiasm.

“I see you’re hangin’ back,” he said, “what’s the matter? Can’t swim?”

“Of course I can swim,” she snapped back, frowning up at him.

“Oh,” Han said then, “so what is it then? Don’t want the guys seein’ you in your skivvies?”

“No,” she replied. “It’s not that… I’m not modest.” Han felt a pit form in his stomach. Somehow he knew what the issue was. He lowered his voice as they moved closer to where the others were piling into the river.

“You’ve still got bruises,” he said. Leia’s eyes got wide as she looked back at him, and Han knew he’d hit the nail on the head. They’d never talked about what had happened to her on the Death Star. But he knew what the Empire was prone to do to prisoners they thought might have valuable information. He’d always approached her with the presumption she’d been tortured, or at least subjected to treatment he would classify as torture, and she’d never said a word to the contrary.

After the moment of surprise at Han’s assertion, Leia nodded subtly.

“Only a few,” she confided. “If they were fresh, I could pass them off, but it’s clear they’re not. I thought they’d be gone by now.”

“Yeah,” Han said, patting her on the shoulder as they slowed their approach even further, “Deep tissue bruises are a pill. I once had one on my leg from a speeder crash took more than six months to go away completely. It doesn’t hurt anymore, does it?”

“No,” she said promptly. “It’s just ugly and I don’t want to talk about it with the guys.”

Han patted her shoulder again before crossing his arms over his chest.

“I hate to be a party pooper, princess,” he said then, loudly enough that the guys in the water were likely able to hear, and surely audible to the few who were still undressing on the river bank. “But that firm wrap I used on your hand is kinda old. I don’t know if the seal is trustworthy—I’m not sure it’s suck a good idea for you to get in the water.”

Leia turned her head in surprise.

“Leave it to you to patch me up with substandard medical supplies,” she snarked back at similar volume, but Han could see the gratitude in her eyes for the out he’d just given her. “I’ll just take my boots off and wade in up to my knees,” she said then, “so I don’t get it wet.”

Han smiled over at her as he plopped down onto a downed tree branch and began tugging off his boots. “You okay with that?” he asked under his breath. Leia nodded.

“Thank you,” she said softly as she bent down and began unlacing her boots.

“Hey, no problem,” he said back, “we haven’t known each other all that long, but we’ve been through some stuff and I’ve got your back. You and the kid both,” he added, “as long as Chewie and me are around, we’re on your side.”

“Thank you,” she said again, “I appreciate that.” Leia slipped her feet out of her boots and yanked her socks off before standing up again and stepping to the edge of the river. Han was out of his boots as well; he rolled his trousers up at the cuff and waded into the water beside her. “You’re not getting in?” she asked. Han shook his head.

“I didn’t get dressed for swimmin’ this morning,” he said, “if you know what I mean.”

A flush rose to Leia’s cheeks.

“I’m glad we’re getting to know each other,” she said, wading farther out into the cool water, “but I didn’t need to know that.”

“I’m glad we’re gettin’ to know each other, too,” he said back. “And I fully intend to see you eat a spoonful of Mieriks mustard before I bug out of here for good, because I’m havin’ a real hard time imagining an Alderaanian princess likin’ that stuff.”

“So I just refuse to eat spicy mustard, and we get to keep you around?” she teased, grinning up at him as though she’d just beaten him at something, “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

[nofsky8]

Right ok so, obliviously vaccination would be insanely important and used when every possible, and theoretically in GFFA they have tech that can make a vaccine much more quickly than we can irl, plus, clones have effectively no legal rights and not really falling under republic law means their vaccines don't actually have to go through any sort of extensive testing (plus cuz their all identical as explained above, if it works on one vod w/little to no side effects it'll probably work on all the others) so vaccines would be available to deal with GAR-susceptible illnesses very quickly.

This leaves us to deal with non-vaccinable illnesses and that short time before a vaccine is ready/the disease is identified.

Right ok so how do diseases spread/how are the clones getting sick. Options: person to person contact, contaminated food/water, person to animal contact, person to contaminated object contact, and contaminated air. There might be others I'm forgetting but we're going with that for now. More specifically, viruses/bacteria/whatever-else-GFFA-has generally have to enter the body to cause havoc, and since skin's whole job is keeping those things out, viruses and such generally enter where you've got holes in your skin i.e. Mouth, nose, eyes, ears, butt, privates, and cuts. Since people tend to be pretty good about not putting bad things in their butts/privates typically you only worry about those with STDs/STIs. Ears are also often out bc their defense methods works pretty well and again we're pretty good about not sticking dirty/questionable stuff in our ears.

Luckily for clones, their helmets stop them from touching their mouth/nose/eyes a lot, reducing the spread of disease. More on helmets later.

Water/foodborne diseases can be pretty easy to deal with bc you can just avoid the contaminated food/water. Since clones eat rations most of the time (which appear to preserve very well even when stuffed in pockets and probably could last forever when properly stored) food contamination is only a major concern when they run out of rations and are unable to properly cook or otherwise prepare food safely (I know we all love writing clones catching and eating local fauna as ration-suppliments, but that practice would probably be very frowned upon/outright banned in the GAR for above reasons. Plus, that's how you introduce new visuses into a population.) water contamination is probably dealt with via purification systems, which are probably used largescale on ships and camps and smallscale out of a trooper's pocket on most missions. Due to the nature of war, these methods of protection are not gonna be available sometimes, but they are likely one of a quartermaster's biggest concerns, possibly even before armor/weapons.

Amor protects against animal bits, and cuts aren't typically the only method of spread in an outbreak.

This leaves airborne diseases. Clone armor only seals against the atmosphere if the clone tells it to, and they default to not sealing it.

The great thing about the clones being in an army is there's precedent for order and enforcing practices that limit the spread of disease. It's super easy to do and your only backlash will be minimal complaining. Additionally, bc the war is so spread out and troops are so comparatively few, your dealing with diseases only by battalion, corp, or battlefront.

So if there were an outbreak here's what GAR procedure would probably be (these steps are not in order and some should be happening simultaneously, and some restrictions will disapear as the cause of the outbreak is narrowed down): order all troops to stop eating non-ration food, check water purification systems and test both water sources and purified water stores for contamination, check rations for contamination, order troops to remove helmets only when eating and only briefly, order all medics and personnel in contact with the sick to seal their armor and breakout the rebrether systems, potentially order all troops to seal their helmets and breakout he rebreathers (probably only used if the disease looks airborne), order troops to only socialize with their companies/squads/bunkmates or such, identify your diease and start working on treatments/cures/vaccine, create (or activate) an area for treatment of the sick sepparate from treatment of the injured/other mild illnesses, seal vents and order troops to stay in there bunk rooms with a supply of food (assuming their on a ship/base and bthrooms attach to bunk rooms), order troopers to stay x meters away from eachother (or just x meters away from non-squadmates) depending on the severity of the outbreak, order troops to stop having contact sex and kissing (with the locals or with eachother depending on what you believe about clone opinions on sex w/other clones), don't take your helmet off to cough or sneeze whenever possible and sneeze/cough into your elbow while x meters away from others if it's not, dispose of vomit/diarrhea safely and tell your medic about it. There's probably more but that's all I can think of right now.

Yeah that'll probably stop any disease in its tracks. Clone troopers will be generally inclined to listen to these order and can be forced to via your usual military protocols. The issue comes about when the above procedures can't be fully implemented i.e. they're in the field and can't seal vents, hunted food is all they've got, water purification system is broke with no way to fix it at the moment, rebreathers and oxygen supplies are too limited for widespread helmet sealing, there's widespread armor damage, etc.

The GAR would have no issue stopping outbreaks when well-supplied and in a base or on a ship, but of course the GAR got less reliably supplied as the war went on, and there was no guarantee they'd be on a base or a ship.

Hey, who wants to play what if with me?

There’s a fungus called TR4 that infects the particular variety of banana we in the West commonly eat. It’s been spreading across banana farms with terrifying speed because the bananas are all genetically identical. If one is susceptible, all are. If a solution isn’t found - cross-breeding, genetic modification, some way to kill the fungus and decontaminate the soil - the Cavendish will end up going commercially extinct. No more bananas on the shelves.

One of George Washington’s greatest challenges with raising and maintaining an army was preventing the spread of smallpox. An army involves lots of close quarters and preoccupation with, you know, getting shot at leads to questionable standards of cleanliness, which is of course great for then getting sick. I think the rates of infection by smallpox ran something like 20% at times. A lot of people who had not previously been exposed ended up dying of disease instead of fighting. In the end, Washington ordered mandatory inoculation and quarantine of his troops.

So what do you do with an army of genetically identical men whom you intend to send into all varieties of new environments? Who will probably be hunting for food to supplement their rations, living in close quarters, and will almost definitely be exposed to literally-nobody-knows-what in the course of shuffling across the galaxy? Every immune system is in a constant arms race with the bugs that surround us; short of overhauling the basis of life, there’s not a way to make living things as we know them immune to infection. So we have our innate airstrike target markers and little Pac-Men that eat invaders and medicines that kill bugs and medicines that hold the line so the immune response can rally - but you still have that underlying flaw. If one is susceptible, all are.

And not only are they all genetically identical, large swaths of them are the same age. Age is also capable of modifying the immune response to infection. This is why, we hypothesize, the Spanish flu was so much more devastating in younger people than usual: it provoked the immune system to go nuclear. Nuclear blasts are not precision weapons. Younger people, with more robust immune systems, were more able to push the big red button, whereas older people had no nukes. So now we’re talking about a large group of young, healthy genetically identical people in great conditions for novel disease to take hold.

What do you do when someone gets sick? What do you do when they get sick with something you’ve never seen before? How do you balance your role as the battalion medic whom your sick and injured brothers look to for miracle cures with your role as the battalion medic responsible for keeping your healthy brothers healthy? Public health measures can feel restrictive, and are frequently dependent on public participation. How do you weigh the possibility of spreading an illness to the rest of the Legion, or the Corp, or the entire GAR against the well-being of brothers who aren’t ill yet?

What do you do when you’re the only guy on the frontlines?