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can’t believe revenge of the sith takes place over four days. worst week of obi wan’s life. worst week of padme’s life. worst week of yoda’s life. somewhere in the bottom 50 for anakin

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look as an Imperial Assault veteran. as a Connoisseur. the words "turn-based" and "star wars" excite me unreasonably (hello CT-3301 Trick welcome to the collection. do you know my friend Wildfire)

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Trying that Oyelowo Kallus

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Young Mitth'raw'nuru at the Taharim Academy of Naporar (inspired by Jacques Onfroy de Bréville's Young Napoleon Bonaparte at the Royal Military School of Brienne)

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actually bouncing off this post:

alternate scenario where the rebels continue to think the whole thing is a wacky coincidence and that Darth Vader has mistaken Luke for his actual long-lost son

decide this is too good an opportunity to pass up, send Luke in as an undercover agent

Luke ''''pretending'''' to be Darth Vader's son and faking going along w Vader's attempts to turn him to the dark side like yeah i love anger & hate let's do this. can you show me how you do that move where you throw people in the air with your brain.

he is secretly feeding information back to the rebellion all the time constantly

a number of Vader's underlings are pretty sure Luke is a rebel spy but everyone is too afraid of Vader to argue with him on it

Vader meanwhile is desperately trying to train Luke while keeping Palpatine from finding out his son is still alive. Luke wanders in while he's mid imperial conference call and gets tackled to the ground.

after a couple of months Vader decides Luke has had enough training for the 'we should kill the emperor and rule the galaxy together' speech

Luke (who has in a weird way kind of got to like Vader at this point) radioing the rebellion like guys call me crazy but i think we might be able to get this guy on side

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and i tried to safe a life

with those diamonds hands of mine

but they're sharper than a knife

i'm aimed to kill

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Eli Vanto posting! + the Silly for dear @miorccia (minor nsfw saying on the t-shirt under the spoiler)

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i do think almost constantly about the no-force au in which obi-wan studies galactic semiotics and wears space tweed and maul is an extremely bitter dancer for a high-brow coruscanti company with a slightly toxic culture. they meet at a gala. they're both trying to prove something. it's a trainwreck. there are such a wonderful variety of things that "bad decision" can mean

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one of the weird things i noticed watching the phantom menace yesterday is that when he first meets and fights darth maul, qui-gon and obi-wan both use it/its pronouns for maul. not sure what was going on there

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girl help why is animation

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the best character development in the show

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(also: did i record 45 seconds of running around ISB officers' quarters just for future reference? i did. happy to share with any Kallus - Dedra - Sinjir weirdos who might need it.)

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kiss meme: thranto, 17 "to distract"

#17, "to distract": send me a number and i'll write you a snip!

It's just as the sun is setting, just as the apparently never-ending banquet of honours seems at last to be moving towards a close—the king, his four transparent wings waving, is making a speech, the gathered crowd applauding almost constantly in the way that seems to be their custom—that it happens:

"Forgive me," Thrawn says, precise and elegant, and then he leans over, presses his cool hand to Eli's jaw, and kisses him. 

In the minutes after, the intent is clear: the king lets out an ecstatic cheer and the banquet's attendees rise into the air in celebration; in the chaos, the assassin misses his shot, and the palace guards subdue him quickly—but for a moment, none of it lands. Thrawn's mouth is cool, and his skin has the texture of frosted glass; up close the faint glow from his eyes tints everything, reflects, even from under the shade of his lashes. It's a dream, for that instant: incoherent, inexplicable. Perfect. "Forgive me," Thrawn says again, quiet, when he pulls away.

Afterwards, starside, he explains in clipped tones the symbolism he had noted the frescos of the banquet-hall, the lip-to-lip kiss as a contractual promise: wedding or engagement; the necessity of instantaneous action, the lack of another appropriate  distraction immediately at hand. The poison of that first apology is slow-acting, comes into full effect now only with the administration of the second dose: its sincerity, the knowledge it implies. Somehow Eli had thought, ridiculously, that this was something he could hide, this wanting: but of course Thrawn knows. It should hurt, but instead it's just exhausting.

"You don't have to apologize," Eli says, as the explanation drags on: details of art criticism, the construction of emphasis in bas-relief, looped through the holes in Thrawn's lace of basic, supplemented implausibly in Minisat. "It's fine. I understand." 

The stream of narration cuts off. Thrawn clears his throat. They stand in silence for a moment, in the dim light of Thrawn's quarters: little window showing nothing but starscape, mostly darkness.

"How long," Thrawn says. Eli flicks him a glance. "How long have you," Thrawn says, with the barest pause—emphasis, non-standard use, that particular rhythm of his diction—"understood."

It seems a cruel question, but with Thrawn questions never are. 

Eli scrubs a hand through his hair: squeezes his eyes shut and then opens them. "Uh, a while," he says. Then, with a wince: "Since the academy." 

Thrawn makes a little sound: amusement, maybe. Something bitterer. "A while," he says. Eli bites his tongue. Then: "I'd thought I was subtler."

It takes a moment to filter through, just as the kiss had: then some process comes to completion, some equation resolves in Eli's head. "Wait," he says. "Wait." 

A step from him Thrawn tilts his head, just slightly. 

"What are we understanding," Eli says, though he already knows: can hear it in his pulse, in the the hum of the engines decks away; can see it in the way Thrawn's eyes widen slightly, the way his mouth begins to open. They look at each other. Eli somehow doesn't laugh.

The second kiss is equally distracting, though not so fiercely applauded.

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wrong sideblog altogether, but #13 kiss and Thranto? (or the Thrawn ship of your choice)

thank youuuuuu, i need to be writing them, this was so helpful !!

(#13, "discreetly": send me a number and i'll write you a snip!)

Task force briefing adjourned, ISD Indomitable, 1400hrs. To resume at 1500.

"Collar," Eli says. 

Thrawn doesn't even look at him: still flipping through documents on his pad almost haphazardly, back and forth and back again, pausing to zoom in on some detail of ship design then flicking it away with one of those tight, fluid little gestures. Not quite frustration: focus, concentration, the look he gets when he's pacing at the edge of the canyon of not-knowing, about to step across like it's a crack in the duracrete. Eli looks at his hands—elegant, expressive, unadorned—and swallows.

The room is nearly empty, now: an ISB agent and a nameless adjutant in hushed discussion in a corner, bribes or intelligence or liaisons of some other nature. Indomitable is old, and the hum of her ill-maintained life-support mutes their speaking: still their backs are turned, the agent's hand on the officer's shoulder open in consolation or threat. Both of them facing the wall. 

"Collar," Eli says again, and then "Hey, here," because Thrawn, of course, doesn't care: as Eli reaches across him to adjust it, straighten the awkward fold, he shifts minutely away, nearly avoidant: and then blinks. Clears his throat as Eli's thumb slides against it, not quite accidentally. 

"Sorry to interrupt," Eli says, nearly meaning it. His hand still hovering, centimetres from anything.

Thrawn's eyes narrow slightly. Then something, some spark, some neuron hyperdrive firing across the gap: he dips his head, only barely, and his lip brushes against Eli's thumb. 

Dim burn of his eyes under the shadow of his brow. Dead wash of the fluorescents to make him look tired and unlovely. Angle and breadth of his shoulders. Slick black-oil gloss of his cut-short hair, curling slightly at the ends in the humid death-rattle of an aging star destroyer's failing climate control. Tendon in his neck. All of it, all of it. 

Are you playing with me, Eli thinks, and there's such a rush to it, inexplicably potent, almost impossible: as there is every time the balance shifts, every time Thrawn shifts the balance. Like gravity failing. 

"No apology is required, Lieutenant," Thrawn says. His breath against Eli's hand is no warmer than the air. "I believe I've reached a conclusion."

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yeah thrawn i’m sure she’ll never forget this 🙄

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occasionally some of the lights on the bridge of the Chimaera flicker off, though the Admiral and his aide don’t seem to mind when it happens

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I got really busy but here he finally is... angry boy