#weaponized writing

Dad told Ahsoka I used to sniff her panties after training. Not in a gotcha way. Not even as a joke. He said it like he was reading off a maintenance report:

“Yeah, he used to shove his face in ‘em like a stormtrooper checking for carbon scoring.”

Then sipped his coffee. Like nothing was said. Like he didn’t just out me as the galaxy’s most emotionally constipated pervert in front of my crush, my mentor, and the woman I’ve been mentally undressing since I was 15 and stupid with Force hormones.

And she just sat there. Didn’t even raise a lekku. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t laugh. Just looked me dead in the soul with judgment and said:

“Was that before or after you started jizzing into my socks?”

I choked on my caf. Spit on my muffin. Dad said nothing. Just nodded.

But I could tell he had his usual shit-eating grin.

Like a man who knows what betrayal tastes like. Like this was his revenge for the Death Star.

And yeah-- fuck that guy. Not just for saying it. But for being right.

Because I did. I still do. And she knew. Because Jedi laundry doesn’t just vanish. She left them folded. Pressed. Still warm. Still moist.

Like a dare. Like bait. Like... revenge.

And now I gotta sit here in this goddamn brunch booth, my dick basically performing Order 69 in my pants, while Vader sips from a travel thermos like he didn’t just narrate my origin story as the galaxy’s most pathetic panty-sniffing Force user to the woman I still literally dream about pinning me to a training mat and saying:

“Call me Master while you beg.”

This is for those who've ever had a crush that could murder you with a single thought…

Yeah.

Had brunch with my father.

Tried to get slick. Tried to roast him. Mistake.

He clinks his mug — like we’re about to recite a war prayer — turns to the entire buffet crowd and says, at full volume:

“My son creamed his tunic when his sister gave him a love peck.”

Then he raises his cup. Toasts the omelet station. And just goes back to sipping like he didn’t verbally decapitate me in front of strangers and scrambled eggs.

No one laughed. No one stopped him. The waffle machine beeped in approval. The Force abandoned me.

Had breakfast with Dad, again. He told the waitress my pancakes looked like “emotionally unstable nipples.” Then asked if my hair was a “Wookiee pube tribute or just a cry for help.”

I wasn’t hungry after that. Just... pissed.

Thanks, dad.

He said “it’s called strategy, son.”

I asked if brunch was always this tense.

He said, “It’s brunch with your father, not a f***ing picnic.”-

Then told the thirsty waitresses hovering over him, that I “Get emotional when eggs look back at him.”

Mid-bite, he goes: “Your mom used to make pancakes too. But hers weren’t filled with disappointment.” Then he said Order 67 and stared at me like it was real. It’s not. I checked.

Now I flinch when the toaster pops.

Thanks for that dad.

I should have just went to the gym.

Dad told me he once shoved an ice cream cone up a Jedi’s asshole so far that it created a vergence in the Force.

Said the Jedi didn’t scream. Didn’t flinch. Just whispered, "I see the light now."

Said the sprinkles realigned his midichlorian count.

Thanks dad. Lost my appetite, now.

We toasted. I said “To healing.” Dad said “To domination.” Then he told the waitress the Jedi Temple had a wine cellar. I asked, “How do you know that?”

He said, “Because it was under the nursery, dummy.”

Thanks, dad.