#alderaanian culture

[ceapa-mica]

The First Date 💌 - a Thrawn headcanon

I got so many views for my NSFW alphabet, I couldn't keep myself from writing another Thrawn headcanon! 🤗

This one is SFW, there's no mention of Reader's gender.

When Thrawn tells you he would like to get to know you better and asks if you want to spend the evening with him you agree without having to think twice.

Later you find a box on your bed containing a beautiful dress. Somehow it's exactly the right size and in your favorite color. You never told Thrawn either and are not sure how he could have known.

There are two places where a date with Thrawn could take place. One being his quarters on the Chimera and the other a not very well known city on a backwater planet.

Let's start with the scenario on the Chimera.

Your dress turns some heads on your way to Thrawns quarters. It's not regulation after all and the entire 7th fleet will gossip by the time your date is over.

Thrawn wants his private life to remain private. Unfortunately for you, that means lots of secrecy. He won't share words of love and affection in public, no physical touch beyond what is considered ‘professional’ either. You keep a strictly professional relationship during working hours.

Tbh either way, your relationship will be the biggest open secret aboard.

Thrawn assumed the dress would suit you well, but when he sees you wearing it in the flesh his heart skips a beat.

He ordered the good food, none of this mess hall mush, and a large portion too! It's the best food you've eaten since you joined the Imperial Navy. Along with that a bottle of fine Alderaanian wine he kept for special occassions - the expensive one!

Thrawn is suave af, and sincerely interested in you. When he said he wanted to get to know you better he meant it.

You are the first human he ever dated. It's a new experience for him and it fascinates him how different it is from dating a Chiss. Humans are just so much more expressive with their emotions. While this could be seen as a weakness by others of his kind, he admires it. He admires you.

You tell him about your life away from duty. Your family, your hobbies, your dreams and aspirations.

When, in return, you ask him about his life he starts talking about art. His favorite artists, art of cultures he admires etc. You're a little bit disappointed he leaves questions about his family and general heritage unanswered and skillfully turns the conversation back to your interests or his interest in art and warfare.

This is your first date, what did you expect? Thrawn has a mysterious aura for a reason. For him to tell you about his home you need to establish a relationship first.

It was a pleasant evening. He insists on taking you back to your quarters.

When you arrive at your door and make sure it's just the two of you, he leans in for a sweet kiss.

His lips are softer than you imagined. He tastes like the dinner you just ate and like something that's so distinctively him.

Being so close to him, you notice for the first time that under the scent of standard issue Imperial soap™ and aftershave lies his very own musky scent. He smells different from humans, somehow crisp like a winter breeze.

That moment of closeness passed too quickly for your liking. You wish each other a good night and he leaves you alone in your quarters.

Let's say you won't be able to sleep for a while, his kiss being the only thing on your mind for the rest of the night and the days after.

Now let's look at the other option - going out with Thrawn - a date away from the Chimera.

You meet at a small shuttle at the Chimera’s hangar. You notice it's the first time you see him unaccompanied by his death troopers outside his office.

You blink in astonishment at his attire. Instead of his pristine white Imperial uniform he wears a black civilian suit without the chest candy indicating his rank.

He refuses to tell you where he wants to take you. It's a surprise, but a welcome one.

The city he visits with you is only a short hyperspace travel away. The planet is relatively unknown, but it's rich with culture.

Before you leave the shuttle he takes out a pair of green shaded sunglasses. It takes everything in you not to laugh at his appearance.

He explains that he wears it for safety reasons. Leaving the safety of his fleet puts a target on his back, and being seen in public with you puts one on your back as well.

He takes you to a picturesque part of town to a small restaurant where you sit in a dimly lit corner.

You chat about basically everything I have already named above.

The food served in the restaurant is exotic, unlike anything you've ever tried before. You and Thrawn choose anything that sounds delicious from the menu. The food is better than anything the kitchen droids on the Chimera could ever cook.

Thrawn tells you he heard of this place’s excellent cuisine last time he visited the planet incognito to attend an art exhibition.

Slow jizz music plays in the background and it feels like time has stopped completely, at this moment it's just the two of you, you've only got eyes for each other. (He took off his shades since the corner where you eat is quite secluded) Thrawn feels the same and it intrigues him.

You're a little tipsy from the wine by the time you leave the restaurant. The date night is far from over though.

He takes you to a historic building that houses an art gallery.

It's the middle of the night, but Thrawn notified the owner, who he knows due to his past visits, and they let you in. You have the entire gallery for yourself with no prying eyes.

He explains different art styles and points out details you wouldn't have noticed without him.

You eventually come across a painting by an artist you've never heard of. You love the style, the image itself and how the colors compliment each other. It speaks to you in a way you can't explain.

Of course Thrawn knows all about said painting and answers all your questions.

You wonder why he has become a Grand Admiral and not an art critic.

You tell him how much you appreciate spending time with him. For once not occupied with destroying rebel cells, you get a glimpse of the man behind the stoic facade.

Your words mean so much to him. There's a romantic tension in the air, so thick you could cut it with a knife.

Once the chance presents itself, he pulls you into a dark corner behind one of the large curtains, your faces are close, his gaze wanders from your lips to your eyes for consent.

As soon as you nod, his warm soft lips are on yours, the kiss gentle, but it quickly turns passionate as he deepens it, his tongue begging for entrance.

His hands start roaming your body. It feels like he's everywhere all at once, his unique scent surrounding you and his taste on your tongue. He's respectful though, keeping his hands away from intimate areas. It's your first date and you're still in public, remember?

During your little makeout session you lose your sense of time.

Tbh you wish this moment would never end.

Once you separate for air, he caresses your cheek. For a fleeting moment there is a softness in his scarlet eyes you've never seen before.

From that moment on he calls you 'ch’eo ch’acah' when you're alone with him. You don't know what it means at first. One day he will tell you, and it might be just the first of many Cheunh phrases you will learn from him. (it means 'my darling/beloved')

The evening went by way too fast for your liking. You both agree though that you enjoyed yourselves and want to go on another date in the future.

You return to the Chimera and he drops you off at your quarters before heading to his own.

You don't know where this blossoming relationship is going, but it definitely feels right.

Please keep in mind that Thrawn keeps your relationship secret to keep you safe from harm. Only at the point where your relationship is serious enough (like engagement) will he admit to it to others.

One more thing: A few days after your first date in the city you receive a package. It contains an exact replica of the painting you liked so much. It comes without a note, but you don't need one to know that your feelings for the Grand Admiral are in no way unrequited.

Let's visit a Thrawn relationship headcanon next time! This was only the first date.

Feel free to add to this headcanon! ❤️

[eglerieth]

All these posts going around saying that by Din’s logic, the Darksaber belongs to Sidious, here’s my take

the Mandalorians are all gathered together in some cave somewhere. Someone realizes that ownership of the Darksaber was decided on the second Death Star. Din summons Luke because someone mentioned that he was the last person to see Sheev alive.

Luke: yes?

Din: Emperor Palpatine was the last person to own an heirloom that makes a person the leader of my people.

Luke: Um… I don’t know much about your people, but… given that you live in this galaxy, I’m assuming the Empire hurt you in some major way. I’m guessing you are averse to his possessing this heirloom.

Mandalorians: *nodding

Luke: also, he was a Sith Lord, so, again, not an ideal king

those scattered Mandalorians that actually know what a dar’jettii is: 😳🤯😳🤯- no wait that makes sense

some random Mandalorian: also, he’s dead, right?

Luke: yup, definitely dead. I watched him get thrown a reactor shaft myself.

Armorer: by whom? The darksaber is won in combat, so whoever killed him gets it

Luke: Darth Vader

Mandalorians: yeah, that’s not much better. And he’s ALSO dead, right? Who killed HIM?

Luke: …The Emperor

Mandalorians:

Din: if the Emperor killed him, how did he manage to kill the Emperor?

Luke: the Emperor electrocuted him, and then he threw the Emperor down the reactor shaft, and meanwhile the electricity from a few seconds ago was shorting out his life support suit, and then he died in my arms. It was actually very emotional.

Everyone, who thought Luke had managed to walk out of the throne room because he somehow killed the two most powerful people in the galaxy:

Luke: yeah, no, I basically just stood there and got provoked and then electrocuted. I’d be dead if Vader hadn’t died to save me.

Paz: why would he do that?

Luke: because he’s my father.

Mandalorians: 😲

Luke: I don’t let on about it because people might have some things to say about the hero of the Rebellion being the son of the Empire’s worst enforcer.

Armorer: It does not matter who your father is, only what kind of father you will be. This is the Way.

Mandalorians: This is the Way.

Luke: Thanks. I like that.

Paz, who is a Viszla, the House that held the Darksaber for centuries: The Darksaber can also be inherited. Wait- does this make you Mand’alor?!

Luke, with even more horror than Din had in that position: no no no no no. I’m not even Mandalorian, and even if I was, I have enough to do with rebuilding the Jedi order, which isn’t going so great, thanks for asking. The last thing I want is to get involved in any kind of political stuff. That’s my sister’s job.

Mandalorians: you have a sister?

Luke: yeah, Leia Organa

Mandalorians: the Hutt Slayer?!

Luke: I- yeah, the Hutt slayer. Not how she’s usually introduced…

Mandalorians: *agreeing that the renowned Hutt Slayer would be a much better Mand’alor than this jetii twink*

Bo-Katan, who actually knows something about the New Republic: But isn’t Senator Organa a leading member of the New Republic? We don’t want Mandalore to be part of the New Republic.

Luke: Leia is one hundred percent Alderaanian. Her allegiance may be to the New Republic, but her culture and beliefs are her own.

some random Mando: if you’re her brother, are you from Alderaan too?

Luke: no, doofus. I’m from Tatooine.

Din, trying to improve his small talk: I have a friend on Tatooine. Boba Fett? He’s the leader now.

Luke, choking: BOBA FETT’S ALIVE?!

Din: you know him?

Luke: he captured my brother-in-law, froze him in carbonite, and sold him to Jabba. We had to spend a year away from the war effort to rescue him!

Din: *awkward*

Armorer, trying to steer the focus back to the Darksaber: Are you the firstborn, or your sister? The Darksaber passes to the oldest child.

Luke: I don’t actually know. We’re twins, and have no idea who was at our birth who can tell us. Maybe my father would know? I’ll ask him now.

Mandalorians: isn’t he dead?

Luke: yeah, but I can talk to his ghost.

Mandalorians:

Luke summons Anakin. Grogu whimpers and hides behind Din. To everyone else, Luke is talking to thin air.

Luke: hello father, do you know if me or Leia is older?

Anakin: of course not, idiot. I didn’t even know either of you existed until a few years ago!

Luke: oh, right.

Anakin: Obi-Wan would know. He was the one who stole you from me.

Luke: really, father, we’ve gotta work on your tact.

Anakin: why? Obi-Wan was the kriffing Negotiator, not me.

Luke: he was called the Negotiator?

Bo-Katan, wincing at a million memories and knowing exactly who they’re talking about despite only hearing one side of the conversation: I could never get my sister to shut up about Kenobi. Insufferable jetii, always hanging off her arm.

Luke: Ben was a Mandalorian’s escort?!

Armorer: Ben is a Mandalorian name. Was he Mandalorian?

Luke: 😲

Luke: I don’t think so…?

Bo-Katan, reminiscing: I’m pretty sure my sister gave him that name.

Luke: My nephew was named after him. I can’t believe my nephew has a Mandalorian name.

Mandalorians: nephew?

Luke: yeah, he’s adorable. Here, I have pictures. *starts showing pictures of baby Ben Solo*

The Mandalorians, being Mandalorians, are utterly won over by the smallest Skywalker. The idea of Leia is a leader is growing more popular. Luke summons Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan: hello there, Luke. What the hell are you doing in a cave with a gajillion Mandalorians?

Luke: Hi, Ben, we just wanted to know, was I or Leia born first?

Obi-Wan: You. I’ll never forget it. You were both such beautiful babies.

Luke: …right…

Paz, staring at the wall where he thinks Obi-Wan is but is actually Anakin’s elbow: What did he say?

Luke: I’m older -

Luke: Oh.

Luke: Kriff

Din: Dank Farrik

Everyone else: *thinking the same thing but to polite to say it*

Bo-Katan: although…it could still be won in combat.

Luke, ringing up Leia on his comm: Good evening, dear sister. Would you mind flying out to the location on my transponder and kicking my ^*s?

Leia, all blue and wavy on the comm: I never mind kicking your %#s, Luke, but why?

Luke: if you do that, you can be king of Mandalore!

Luke: 😀

Leia:

Leia: Are you kriffing kidding me?! Do you know how hard it is to keep the New Republic from collapsing? And raise a force sensitive baby with shady idols? And save my husband’s skin from every criminal he runs afoul of every other day? I most certainly will not become the monarch of some random nation I’ve never been apart of!

Mandalorians: 🙁

Han, over Leia’s shoulder: so we’re not fighting the kid? I was looking forward to that!

Chewbacca, towering over Leia’s head: *wookie noises of agreement *

Armorer: Actually only the challenger would be fight- *comm cuts out*

*a few minutes later

The Falcon is heard overhead. Han, on comms: We came anyway, kid. I was bored today.

Chewie leaps out and tackles Luke with a bear hug, almost breaking his ribs.

Luke: can’t- breathe- chewie-

Chewie releasing him and patting him on the head: *hello in wookie noises*

Mandalorians:

Chewie, in Shriwook: *what?*

Mandalorians:

Din silently unclips the Darksaber from his belt and hands it to Chewie.

And that’s the story of how Chewbacca became Mand’alor.

[canonmisogynyvictimstournament]

PROPAGANDA

IRENE ADLER (BBC SHERLOCK) (CW: Lesbophobia)

1.) Ooh, she's a woman, so she got to be sexy seductive sultry sexy lady! And in love with the male protagonist even though she's gay. She got so nerfed compared to her short story version! She doesn't outwit Holmes like she does in the book, she gets saved by him and she's gotta be in looooove.

2.) awesome woman who outsmarts Sherlock holmes in the books turned into a lesbian dominatrix that mysteriously falls in love with Sherlock and gets outsmarted then rescued by him

3.) I don’t mind the sex worker thing; it’s a reasonable cultural translation decision in my book. But the character’s defining trait in the original story is that she beats Sherlock Holmes, and the BBC Sherlock creators were plainly too in love with their genius to let that pass. And the way she loses? She lets her emotions get the better of her in the end while he’s too rational to show such a womanly human weakness. Barf.

LEIA ORGANA (STAR WARS)

1.) In A New Hope, her main purpose is to be rescued by Han and Luke and then to comfort Luke over Obi-Wan's death even though her entire planet had been destroyed literally the day before. The sequels mostly see her as an extension of Luke. She names her son Ben despite (when the movie was written) having no established relationship with Obi-Wan and calling him "Obi-Wan" the only times she'd ever said his name on screen. Ben was the name Luke knew him by. His last name is Solo even though Alderaan is canonically a matriarchal society and she'd have good reasons to want to pass on her last name as the last living member of her family and one of the few Alderaanian survivors of a genocide. Her lightsaber was also buried with Luke's on Tatooine because that was where Luke grew up and where his family history was, even though the only time she personally was on Tatooine was when she was enslaved there (in a golden bikini), and the canon books made it clear that Leia didn't have or want any connection to Anakin. Rey takes the last name Skywalker when Leia was the one who trained her and whom she had a connection with, and again, Leia's last name was Organa. In TROS, Luke says that Leia stopped training as a Jedi because she had a force vision about her son (not yet even conceived), even though there was already an existing canon reason that made sense for her and had nothing to do with needing to stop training to be a mother.

2.) metal bikini. that’s it. (jk there’s so much more. the way she’s sexualized is just so icky and she just HAS to have a love interest apparently. she’s more competent than most of the other characters but she never really gets her own chance to shine. in the main media her character is never explored outside of her relationships with men)

3.) Leia is more than a piece of meat. In my opinion, she is a badass bitch who needs more screentime and story. I really loved her more over her brother Luke and her lover Hans.

[magnetarbeam]

Hearing "Mara Skywalker" or "Leia Solo" or "Mirax Horn" or "Tyria Tainer" or "Iella Antilles" always annoys me because I wish Star Wars had developed more unique marriage customs for the different cultures.

I know it works differently for Mandos, but I want to know specifically what a Corellian or an Alderaanian wedding looks like, for example, and, you know, create something actually unique and appropriate instead of copy-and-pasting from our primitive planet.

[hashtagloveloses]

So. Leia Organa Skywalker.

Her parents are a jedi and an elected official. The elected official is a queen, but shes elected. It wouldn't automatically make her offspring royalty. Joe Bidens kid isnt automatically vice president kinda thing.

Her adoptive parents are an elected senator and a woman we know absolutely nothing about.

Why is she a princess?

And after answering this question; why is her brothet not a prince?

so Breha Organa (her adoptive mother) is the queen of Alderaan by birth. Bail Organa (her adoptive father) is the queen’s consort but also the elected senator representing Alderaan in the Republic and then the Imperial Senate. so Leia is a princess through family lineage through the Organas. the only planet that does “elected royalty” is Naboo, her birth mother Padmé’s planet, and she had Leia after her term as queen, and when she was the Republic senator for Naboo.

suggested reading for Leia:

- Leia: Princess of Alderaan (YA novel)

- Princess Leia (Marvel comic mini series)

- Bloodline (adult novel)

- The Princess and the Scoundrel (adult novel)

Breha shows up all over the place in canon other than briefly in ROTS and in the Obi-Wan series, like in the Padmé book trilogy for instance, as well.

the reason Luke isn’t a prince is because he was not adopted by royalty (Breha and her husband Bail).

this is also why it pisses me off that Leia didn’t name her son Ben ORGANA, considering she is the last of a long and now completely deceased royal house of Alderaan. ESPECIALLY since now the canonical reason for Han’s name is literally being assigned by the Empire (from the Solo movie).

this is also why i HATE when people call her Skywalker because she 1) hates her connection to her birth father in canon 2) we can acknowledge her place as A SKYWALKER without giving her a name she never had nor wants to have 3) in canon she spends a ton of her time and energy even as a rebel leader on the run preserving and protecting Alderaanian survivors and culture and her family and house influenced her as a person heavily.

[kylosbreedingkink]

Let's make the name Kylo an Alderaan name, maybe some knight in their myths who does heroic deeds.

Exactly the type of thing a kid would name themselves after when they hear the bedtime stories.

It's cute, it's cool, and it gives us some fun cultural stuff to work with.

And it fits with the fact that his ship was named Grimtaash after an Alderaanian mythological figure.

[sophieakatz]

Thursday Thoughts: Playing the Best Version of Myself

I’m not intending to permanently turn this blog series into a “Sophie listens to podcasts and talks about the Starcruiser” thing, but… this week I found myself once again listening to a podcast episode about Star Wars: Galactic Starcruiser. It was The No Proscenium Podcast this time, and the episode was titled “Last Call at the Sublight Lounge.” One of the panelists, Kathryn, said the following about Halcyon passengers:

“I believe that a lot of the people on the ship were roleplaying that idealized version of themselves… Maybe you’re braver, bolder, more confident, more willing to stand up for what you believe in. Maybe it’s a version of yourself that you want to wish into being, but you’ve never had a chance to articulate it before.”

Funnily enough, this wasn’t the first time I’ve heard someone express this idea about the Starcruiser. On the final night of the show, I met up with a bunch of the performers after closing time. Emotions were running high, understandably, but a lot of those emotions were positive. There was so much love and gratitude in that space – for each other, and for what we had created and accomplished. Everyone kept talking about how much we’d grown because of the Starcruiser. Late in the evening, one of the performers attributed that growth to how we’d created a space where everyone who participated, everyone who came to play, could come be “the best version of yourself” – and playing as the best version of yourself changes you forever.

It gave me pause, when that performer said it, and I’m thinking about it further after hearing Kathryn bring it up again – because when I entered the Starcruiser as a guest, I didn’t think I was playing the best or idealized version of myself. I fully intended to not be myself. Sophie Katz knew too much about the Halcyon and its characters. I spent six months running around that ship, making sure that everyone else knew everything they needed to know about where to be, why they were there, and what to do while they were there. The beats of the whole two-day show are imprinted on my brain. So I thought that in order to have fun, and to avoid ruining anyone else’s fun with metagaming, I had to separate my guest-self from my writer-self.

Shira Alderaani Khesed was a character I made up almost two years ago. I wrote a poem about the destruction of Alderaan in Star Wars, and afterwards I fleshed out the character behind that first-person perspective. She was a woman without a homeworld, the daughter of Alderaanians who just happened to be off planet on their honeymoon when the Empire destroyed their lives. And as far as I could tell before my voyage, playing Shira would be about as far from acting as my real self as I could get without outright sacrificing my morals. Shira was a mechanic; she’d never had the good fortune to be able to pursue art as a career. She was cynical and cowardly, weighed down by the trauma she’d inherited and unable to imagine a better future – in direct contrast to my real-world optimism. She didn’t have a family or community to support her; her late parents kept her intentionally ignorant of her culture, believing that would protect her from her people’s genocide – unlike my real-life parents, wonderful and alive, who raised me to take pride in my culture. I wouldn’t have called Shira my ideal self; I certainly wouldn’t wish to be her or live her life!

I thought I’d successfully separated my real self from my Starcruiser-self.

But the performers on my voyage were quick to prove me wrong.

I mentioned last week that some of the performers dropped hints that they knew me. Gaya said I looked familiar. Raithe said he knew I understood what was going on better than anyone. Lenka outright added a bit to my backstory, saying she remembered how I helped repair the ship before this voyage.

There’s another example of this that I should mention now.

Captain Keevan’s path did not cross much with mine, but at one point late on the first day, I was standing with a friend in the lower concourse when the captain came out of the dining room. She approached us and asked how we were doing, mentioning she’d heard that I’d had some issues with Sammie the mechanic. I responded in character, explaining that Sammie had asked me to do something that I wasn’t comfortable with (lying to First Order Stormtroopers, which from Shira’s cautious-and-cynical point of view was a good way to get killed).

The captain told me that I shouldn’t have to do anything that made me feel uncomfortable or unsafe. Half joking, I looked at my friend and said, “Does that mean telling my friends to not sing anti-First Order fight songs?” (Which, yes, is another thing that happened. Video evidence here. Sophie loved that scene; Shira did not.)

“Well,” said Captain Keevan, “something like that could be a useful distraction, at times. I find that some people work well on the front lines, and their actions make it possible for others to do the important work they need to do in the background.”

“I do well in the background,” I said.

And she smiled and replied, “And I know you’re good at keeping things on schedule.”

As she walked away, I realized something about Shira. I’d thought that by making her a mechanic, I was making her unlike me. I’m not a hands-on hard-science building-things sort of person. I’d even been a bit nervous that someone might ask me something technical that I wouldn’t be able to answer.

But as Lenka had pointed out, as a mechanic, Shira was someone who had helped prepare the ship for this voyage. And as Captain Keevan had pointed out, Shira was someone who worked well in the background, supporting the people who were visible on the front lines.

In other words, Shira was the me I aspire to be, as a professional creative writer – not the person in the spotlight, but the person who makes it possible for other people to do well in the spotlight. The person who builds the world, who takes care of the details in the background, and who, if I’m doing my job right, goes unnoticed. You don’t notice a mechanic unless something breaks; when things go smoothly, you praise the captain. Similarly, you don’t notice a writer unless the dialogue is bad; when shows make you laugh and cry, you praise the actors and directors. That’s how it is. That’s the space I work well in and take pride in. Sure, I want people to know what I can do, and I want to get credit when I do a good job – so that I can continue to do this work that I love and make a living with it. I don’t dream about being a big flashy hero with crowds chanting my name. I want to be quietly essential.

I realized that Shira had an opportunity here – to learn to be that quiet, essential background player.

And as the show progressed, moments kept coming up that developed her story in that direction. When Lt. Croy ordered that a restraining bolt be put on beloved droid SK-620, Shira whispered to Sammie that he needed to go through it, despite the boos of the crowd, to keep the ship safe. The next day, Shira helped lure Lt. Croy and the stormtroopers downstairs to give Lenka and Saja Fen a chance to rescue SK. During the heist, Shira didn’t get one of the many “noisy distraction” jobs; instead, Raithe secretly passed Shira the gem, and she stood far away from the action, quietly keeping it safe while Captain Keevan ordered Raithe to turn out his pockets. Moment by moment, act by act, decision by decision, Shira was learning how much of an impact she could have on the galaxy from the background, even if – perhaps even because – most people didn’t know she was there doing the work that needed to be done.

Everything culminated in a scene that caught me off guard just as much in reality as in character. Shira wound up in the middle of the atrium, with a whole crowd of people’s eyes on her, telling Lt. Croy a series of objectively terrible lies.

It would be impossible for me to exaggerate how uncomfortable I am with improv. I’m fine with public speaking – I’m honestly pretty good at it – but I always prepare a lot in advance. If you’ve ever heard me say something cool, it’s because I spent at least ten minutes beforehand planning it out. I did not plan for this moment. And so, in that moment, even though I objectively knew that no real-world harm would come to me, my fear and Shira’s were one and the same. All I wanted to do was run away.

But I didn’t run away. I kept talking – babbling, really – because I had to keep Croy’s attention on me, so he wouldn’t turn around and see Raithe sneaking up to the mezzanine to steal the coaxium. Because that’s what Shira would have done, after everything she’d been through on that ship. She would play her part. She would make it possible for other people to do the more obviously important and visible job. And, as soon as the job was done and it was safe to do so, she would run away… straight towards Raithe, who promptly handed her the suitcase of coaxium. He knew he could trust her with it.

And me? I want to be trusted. I want to be someone that people can rely on. I may not literally want to be Shira Alderaani Khesed, but I want to have the kind of impact she had on the story unfolding around her, just by being me, hard at work in the background. Building worlds, preparing experiences, and keeping everyone around me on schedule. Relied on and appreciated by the people who matter most. Quietly essential to a life-changing experience, and given the chance to be so again, and again, and again. That’s the best version of me.

You wanna know the best part? Those two days I spent as Shira was not the only chance I had to be that best version of me. I now understand that the role that Shira played on the Halcyon was the role I played with Star Wars: Galactic Starcruiser. I see it now more clearly than ever before. We don’t often get the chance to see ourselves so clearly, and I am so grateful to this cast for helping me see. They gave me such a gift. They gave everyone who set foot on that ship the gift of getting to be – and to learn that we are – our best selves.

I know what I can do for others – for a creative team, for an audience, for the world. I want nothing more than to do it again, and again, and again.

Let’s do it again, together.

[davnittbraes]

The Second Step - Chapter Ten

Part of The World Is Light, Embodied.

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 5500 (a little much, I know, but it was either that or cut it off on a cliffhanger and I decided I’m torturing you guys enough with this ridiculously slow burn)

Warnings etc: anxiety, violence, descriptions of combat, mentions of slavery, two morons fumbling their way through a relationship, I’m playing fast and loose with Mando’a but it’s a fictional language spoken by a fictional culture in a fictional galaxy, how about we just roll with it

Notes: I’m posting this in a Covid fog so please let me know if I missed any warnings/tags and I’ll add them ASAP.

Please check out the Series Masterlist page for more info.

Nevarro is beautiful, in a barren sort of way.

Volcanic rocks are scattered across a wasteland that stretches as far as you can see, the ground a dark grey stone streaked with smooth waves of old magma trails. The sky is a tired, faded blue, horizon a sharp line broken by distant mountains. With the lack of greenery it should feel desolate, but you catch tiny movements out on the plains, creatures who have found a way to thrive in a world that barely provides for them.

The kid chirps happily from his pod, floating beside you. He’s been excited ever since Nevarro came into view through the transparisteel, ears perked and eyes bright. Obviously he’s been here before, maybe even knows the contacts Mando mentioned.

Mando.

Your stomach roils.

The last few hours had been full of nothing but blunt directions and strained silence. He had stopped at Dennogra, an uninhabited dwarf planet just off the hyperlane on the way from Junkfort Station to Nevarro. The two of you had worked together and tossed the bodies, then there was the jump back into hyperspace and the thorough cleaning of the hold to rid it of any evidence of the fight.

You had thrown yourself into each task, grateful for the distraction, the excuse that relieved the pressure to talk to him.

Because you have no idea what to say.

There’s too much in your head. It’s all a tangle of emotion, knotted thick and ever-turning, tendrils constantly slipping away before you can examine them.

How do you talk to him? Where do you even start?

Sorry for wreaking havoc on your ship and drawing attention you probably don’t want.

Oh hey, so about that time I had a complete mental breakdown and you had to talk me out of it like a child throwing a tantrum. Sorry about that.

Kinda weird that I tried to blame you for my own choice to follow you, huh? I don’t know what came over me.

Yeah. None of those options - even all of those - are quite enough.

Now there’s no more time to figure it out as he leads you down the ramp, toward the two people waiting on the ground.

One is an older human male with a kind smile but shrewd gaze. Interesting combination. He’s dressed like some sort of official or noble, a robe of heavy fabric with fine embroidery sweeping the rock beneath his boots.

The other is a woman, dark hair and fierce features, muscular build. Her gaze takes you in with practiced calculation, assessing. A soldier, must be.

The man steps forward. “Mando, good to see you again.” A quick, perfunctory shake then he’s moving around Mando to the pod, lifting the kid into his arms. “There’s my little guy, how are you? Has your dad been taking good care of you?” The kid babbles cheerfully, tips of his ears flicking, obviously excited to see the man. He glances at you, gaze curious. “I didn’t realize you had another addition to your crew.”

Mando introduces you, using your Bakuran name. He gestures to the man. “This is Greef Karga, Magistrate of Nevarro. And Cara Dune, Marshal.”

Karga offers you a quick smile, clearly more focused on the kid, a fact which both seem content with.

You accept Dune’s outstretched hand, glimpsing the small tattoo on her cheek - the Rebel Alliance symbol, just under the left eye.

An Alderaan tear.

A soldier and an Alderaanian - a deadly combination.

Take someone with combat training and blow up their entire planet until there’s nothing left of it but dust and rubble floating through empty space? You get a person like the woman currently strangling your hand in a ridiculously strong grip while pinning you in place with a gaze that says she’s faced worse than anything you could throw at her. And won.

Dune releases your hand, mouth curling up at the corner. “Anyone who can stand to travel with this buckethead is someone I’d like to get to know.”

Her easygoing tone soothes that raw ache in your muscles that you’ve been trying to ignore, calms the queasiness in your stomach. Yes, you can do this, you can pretend that the last few hours didn’t happen.

You make an effort to slip a gentle teasing lilt into your voice after hours of silence. “I’m looking forward to the break, honestly. Some days he talks so much I can barely get a word in.”

Dune chuckles, throwing a glance at the Mandalorian. “Quite the gossip, isn’t he?” She nods toward the city in the near distance. “Come on, we’ll head to Greef’s office and get caught up on Mando’s adventures.”

It’s a smallish city, the streets aren’t bustling with people even though it looks to be early in the planet’s day cycle by the position of the sun. There are a few groups and the odd straggler moving about, but there’s a general air of quiet hanging over the city, like sounds are being intentionally hushed. Some of the buildings seem to be under heavy repair - is that carbon scoring?

Oh. That explains things, a bit.

That thick silence, the lack of people in the streets - this is a city still dealing with the aftermath of a significant attack, it’s physical scars only a glimpse of the depth of damage done to its society.

Rumours of an attack on the Bounty Hunter’s Guild must be true.

You pass by an open door and catch the sound of children chattering, a few of them repeating number sequences as if by rote.

A school. Interesting.

Well, whatever happened, the people are returning to normal life, or at least trying to.

Karga leads you to an official-looking building, guiding you through the front door and into a room toward the back - an office, his own, most likely.

He hands the kid to Mando and takes a seat at the desk, motioning toward a nearby table and chairs. “Sit, sit, let’s catch up and then I have something to discuss with you, Mando, since you’re here.”

Dune takes one chair, leaving you and Mando the two right next to each other. Kriff. A strange, anxious energy is crawling through your body. You’re not sure if you want to be as close to him or as far away from him as possible.

No choice in the matter, not if you don’t want to seem rude to these people who are not-so-subtly watching you with curiosity.

Sliding into the empty seat, you sit back, appearing relaxed, even as your heartbeat ramps up when Mando sits next to you. The kid coos quietly, trying to squirm out of Mando’s arms, his tiny hands outstretched toward you. With a practiced coordination that comes from doing the same thing countless times, Mando passes the kid over to you.

A twinge of relief skitters along your thoughts, though it’s quickly swallowed up by that knot of frantic emotions. Some things haven’t changed between you, at least. He still trusts you with the kid.

“So how long have you two been together?”

Dune’s question literally startles you, the kid grunting as you squeeze him reflexively. Offering an apology pat on the back, you stumble over an answer. “Oh, we - we’re not - I’m -”

Mando’s soft, modulated words interrupt your embarrassing flounder. “The hyperdrive blew on the Crest. It’s patched, but it needs a full overhaul. The lock on the crew door has been tampered with and needs recoding. Can your mechanics handle it?”

Right, good idea, let’s just ignore the question altogether.

Karga shakes his head, smiling. “Always straight to business with you, Mando. Haven’t slowed down since you dropped bounty hunting, eh? Yes, I’m sure they can take it on. It will leave you grounded for a couple days, though.”

There’s a glint in his gaze - you don’t know him, but you’re pretty sure that look says he’s got plans for those couple days.

Mando obviously sees it too. “What have you got for me?”

“Well, since you’re here, I was hoping you could help us out with a little… pest problem.” Karga nods at Dune, who takes that as a cue, leaning her elbows on the table.

“Aqualish vagrants have set up in your old home in the sewers, using the tunnels as checkpoints to raid warehouses throughout the city. They’re amassing a decent stockpile of weapons and goods, my guess is they’re planning a coup to bring the city under their control. I’ve counted about thirty, though it’s been difficult to verify - they seem to have found entrances and passageways that aren’t on any map we have.”

You manage to keep your expression neutral. Mando lived here? Wait - Mando lived here in the sewers?

Mando’s finger taps thoughtfully on the table. “There are hidden rooms and corridors that were built by the covert.”

Karga sits back in his chair, eyebrows raised in mild surprise. “Do you think you could modify our maps to show them?”

“Yes. But once we clear out the Aqualish, I want claim to any Mandalorian property that might still be there.”

“Of course, I wouldn’t have thought otherwise.” Karga chuckles at the skeptical tilt of Mando’s helmet. “I mean if there’s something of value, I would be more than happy to handle the auction on your behalf.”

“For a fee.”

“Well, yes, what kind of businessman do you take me for?”

Dune rolls her eyes. “Let’s talk about the plan of attack and leave negotiations until later. Once Mando makes the map modifications, we’ll have a better foundation for strategy. I’ve got a dozen new recruits who could probably guard the exits, but they’re too green to rely on in combat. Greef has to stay here to manage any blowback on the city, so it will probably just be you and me, Mando.”

She looks pointedly down at your blaster strapped to your thigh, one dark eyebrow quirked. “Unless you know how to use that blaster.”

You open your mouth to reply but Mando cuts you off.

“No.”

The sharp tone of the modulated voice drives right into that tangle of emotions you’re trying to ignore. Unspent energy makes your legs twitch under the table, and you take a deep breath, focus on trying to settle yourself before meeting the black visor’s gaze. “You’ll be significantly outnumbered. It doesn’t make sense for me to stay here when I can -”

“I said no.” His gloved hands curl into fists on the table as a dangerous stillness runs through his frame.

Anger unravels from the tangle in your thoughts and you don’t even bother to stop it. “You can ‘say’ whatever you want. This isn’t your mission. You don’t make the call on whether I’m in or not.”

Dune raises her hands, avoiding looking at either of you. Ok, no help from that angle. No problem. You can handle him on your own.

Mando shakes his head once. “We’ll talk about this later.”

You fire back. “I’ll insist on helping later, then.”

A thick chill settles over the room, pulls goosebumps down your arms. But you’re not giving in, you’re not letting him push you to the background, you are more than capable of doing this job and -

“Fine.” He stands abruptly, turning to Karga. “Show me the maps. I’ll make the modifications now and then we’ll move in.”

The space beside you is suddenly empty, Mando striding toward Karga’s desk where the magistrate is pulling up holos of what must be maps of the sewers.

Sighing, you look down at the kid, still nestled in your arms, big ears drooping just a bit at the tips. Yeah, I know kid. I didn’t like any of that either.

You got your way. So why does it feel like you lost a battle you didn’t even know you were fighting?

*****

The streets in this part of the city are empty, Dune’s recruits having cleared civilians just before you moved in. Two recruits are behind you, armed with blaster rifles and an obvious vague sense of duty to their people mixed with the need to prove themselves. Mando and Dune are in front, shoulders back and blasters at ready - as is yours, the grip warm in your hand.

That same hand the kid had held tight to when you had passed him over to Karga just an hour before, putting him under the magistrate’s watchful care for the time being.

The other recruits are scattered throughout the city, guarding sewer entrances and the hidden exits that Mando had marked on the maps. Blasters are all set to stun - no killing, if at all possible. The New Republic and Karga’s fair judgment intends to send the Aqualish to trial and likely imprisonment.

Dune crouches by the sewer entrance, pausing to listen for movement. After a minute she looks to you and Mando, and you both nod in acknowledgment.

Anticipation buzzes in your veins, pulling at some of that anxious energy. It feels good, doing something, focusing on something other than…

Mando steps past you without a glance, pulls the grate off the entrance and slips inside.

Frustration and hurt and a thousand other emotions flit through your mind, triggered by that one simple motion.

Your hand grips the blaster tight. Yeah. You need this.

Dune follows Mando and you move in close behind, ducking into a shadowy corridor. A faint voice coming from your left pricks at your ears, and you peer down the corridor in the direction it came from - there. A figure, walking away, it’s odd-shaped outline declaring it decidedly not human.

Dune sees it too, motioning for you to go left while she cocks her head to the right. During the strategy planning, you’d pitched splitting up, you and Dune together and Mando alone, sweeping through the sewers with a pincer movement to trap the Aqualish between you, ensuring none escaped.

You had played it off like Mando’s combat proficiency was worth both yours and Dune’s. It hurt less than waiting for him to suggest it.

As you follow Dune and feel the air move with a swirl of Mando’s cloak, indicating he’s striding away from you, your stomach turns at the memory of how he hadn’t even protested splitting up.

He doesn’t even want to be near me.

Pfassk, stop it.

Gritting your teeth, you focus on Dune’s form in front of you.

The two of you move quietly, muscles tensed to create as little noise as possible. The figure you’d seen disappears around a corner, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t more, and the further into the sewers you get before you’re discovered, the better.

A sound echoes down the corridor from just ahead.

You and Dune freeze, blasters raised.

An Aqualish steps into the corridor, bulbous gaze instantly landing on you at the same time you train your blaster’s sight on it.

You squeeze the trigger and its body drops with a thud.

A group of voices cries out in alarm, garbled sounds of the Aqualish language bouncing off the stone walls.

Dune throws you a crooked smile. “Good shot.”

Something about her casual good humour is catching, and you match her smile. “You can get the next one.”

There’s a flurry of movement and four Aqualish round the corner, blasters raised.

Dune’s smile grows, dark gaze glittering. “I think there’ll be plenty to go around.”

*****

The mission takes about half an hour, not as long as you thought it would, all things considered. The Aqualish were obviously unprepared, scrambled to get together some kind of defense effort and failed miserably. Thanks to Mando’s map revisions, you and Dune found the hidden rooms and corridors easily, rooting out every last Aqualish with no issues - except for one.

“It’s fine, honestly. Barely even hurts.” You tug your jacket tighter to your body, turning your back away from Dune. “That last one snuck up on me, good thing he only had a knife and not a blaster. I’m more pissed about the hole in my favourite jacket.”

She clicks her tongue, letting her hand fall back to her side. “Should still get it checked out, we’ve got a decent medic among our recruits.”

Your lungs are tight, so tight it hurts to breathe, your heart pounds against your ribcage like it’s trying to break free.

It’s ok, she’s not going to touch you. 

Calm. Focus. Control.

Fixing a grateful smile on your face, you nod. “Thanks, but I’ll -”

“You’re hurt.”

The modulated voice cuts right through your attempt to stop the panic rising in the back of your throat. Mando is suddenly there, too close, a gloved hand reaching toward the wound on your back.

That tangle of emotion you’ve had since Junkfort Station unravels completely.

Adrenaline floods your system, ignites that unspent energy still vibrating through your body.

You snap.

“Don’t touch me.”

Your words fly out at him. In a split second you see his reaction, how his hand abruptly stops its journey across the space between you. How the tension that’s been visibly tight across his shoulders sharpens even more, as if your words had landed a physical blow across them.

Dank farrik. When will you stop hurting him?

No wonder he doesn’t want to be around me.

Guilt and shame bloom bitter on your tongue, burn in your throat, turn your stomach.

I can’t do this right now.

Spinning on your heel, you stride away without another word.

Get out of here. Off this planet. Away from -

The sound of bootsteps right behind you.

No. I can’t -

Your feet immediately pick up into a run.

Too late.

A gloved hand wraps around your arm and pulls, forcing you sideways, and you stumble into an empty room off the main corridor. Mando releases you as quickly as he grabbed you.

You whip around to face him, glaring anger and panic. “I said -”

“If you’re injured, you’re getting medical treatment.”

His voice is low with anger, a tone you’ve never heard before. It’s unsettling, shifting the chaotic swirl of emotion once again, and tears sting behind your eyes but you refuse to acknowledge them. “You can’t force me to see a medic.”

“Let me look at it.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why are you being so stubborn about this?”

You roll your eyes, not caring that it’s a childish gesture. “Why are you?”

“Because I care about you.”

Oh.

The chaos of emotion shudders.

He’d never… there were moments sure but… 

He’d never said it before.

You blink through tears of confusion and guilt. “Why would you say that?”

He stills, entire frame tense. “What?”

He’s going to make you say it. Ok, you can do this. Then you can leave. “It’s fine, you don’t have to keep pretending. You don’t want me around anymore, after what happened.”

There’s pause, heavy silence, thick.

Then a sound of frustration through the modulator shatters it.

“Don’t want you... you’re the one who wanted to split up and go with Dune.” He takes a step toward you now, hand cutting through the air sharply, back toward the corridor. “You need to process what happened, I understand that, I’ve been giving you space. But you’re the one who insisted on joining this mission when you should have taken time to clear your mind.”

That comment stokes your anger, edges your voice with heat. “What in the crikking hells are you talking about?”

He’s suddenly right in front of you, filling your gaze, radiating that power and danger you’ve seen before and your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth, a quiver of uncertainty running down your spine, and something else sparking between your thighs.

Not the time.

His voice hisses through the modulator. “You were compromised on Junkfort Station, you lost your focus. You don’t push through something like that. You have to take time to let your mind understand it. If you don’t, you risk making decisions that could get you hurt.” He takes another step forward, intent, moving into your space. “Which you did, and don’t think I’ve forgotten about it. You need to let someone look at it -”

Panic jolts you into action and you try to step around him but he swiftly blocks the entrance - damn those broad shoulders. “Get out of my way.”

“Stop.”

That one word blasts through your already-brittle resolve.

Realization so poignant it hurts steals the rest of the air from your lungs, grinds everything to a halt.

It’s not anger, in his voice.

It’s frustration, helplessness…

Despair.

With that one word, he’s pleading with you. Begging for you to just. Stop.

Stop trying to run from him. Stop shutting him out.

You look at him, a blur of silver, voice barely above a whisper, straining. “I can’t.”

A pause. “Why not?”

Pfassk.

It would be so much easier to just go, squeeze past him and get away, run and find somewhere new and start over.

Go back to the life you had before you met him and the kid.

And what life was that, exactly?

A life without companionship, without moments of laughter and quiet conversation and shared silence.

A life without little gestures of affection, without tiny clawed hands squeezing your fingers and large gloved ones smoothing over your skin.

A life without warmth, only the cold dark of memories that haunt your every step.

I don’t want to run from them anymore.

“From who?”

The question throws you off for a moment, until you realize you’d spoken out loud.

Panic skitters down your spine.

Hush, it’s ok. It’s just him.

Calm. Focus. Control.

Deep breath, blink back tears.

And move forward.

Lifting your gaze slowly, you stop at the black visor. “My secrets.”

The words hover between you, stretched thin.

He nods, once, slowly, a flash of silver in the dim light. “Then don’t.”

Laughter bursts out of your chest, bitter-tasting and dissonant. “You make it sound so easy.”

“I know it’s not.”

His tone is firm but reassuring. He’s telling the truth, you know that.

He’ll understand. He’s got secrets of his own.

Not secrets like this.

That swarm of anxiety - fear - grips tight to your heart, stops up your words, but you push them out anyway. “But what if you… I’m… pfassk, the things I’ve said to you, I was… I was cruel. I shouldn’t have said what happened on Junkfort Station was your fault, I chose to stay with you. It’s not your fault I… I was too scared to tell you why I can’t be seen there.”

The helmet tilts. “You don’t have to be afraid to tell me anything.”

“Kriff. You say that but...” Your gaze drifts over anything but him. “This is really hard.”

There’s a soft shuffle of movement and then a hand appears in your line of vision - broad palm and long fingers and skin touched with the glow of sunlight despite it being so often encased in leather.

He doesn’t say anything, just waits. Hand outstretched in the space between you.

Before you can think about it, over-analyze and second-guess, you’re reaching up and sliding your fingers over his.

It’s instant, the flush of relief and reassurance. It seeps into those frayed edges and soothes the ache in your chest, releases the pull of emotion so you can breathe again.

His hand holds yours gently. Steady. Patient.

Your words come easier now. “I… trust you,”

Fingers squeeze lightly. “Thank you, tionas.”

Your heart flutters at the word, said with such genuine affection it morphs into an endearment.

No one spoke to you like that, before him.

And that’s why this is ok.

That’s why you’ll be ok.

Slipping your hand from his, you shrug your jacket off your shoulders, letting it gather at your elbows. The movement shifts the fabric of your shirt, and your skin stings in a stripe across your shoulderblade - it did cut you, not very deep from what you can tell.

But he can see for himself.

He wants to.

Because he cares about you.

Your breath is surprisingly steady as you start to unbutton your shirt, turning your back to him. A pause, a moment that last less than a heartbeat that you hold onto, not out of fear but out of recognition of its significance.

Then you pull the edges of your open shirt back over your shoulders, letting it pool loosely with your jacket.

The air swirls against your bare skin, cool, unfamiliar.

A movement behind you, his presence drawing into you.

Fingertips gently press the skin around the cut, checking how clean the cut is, how deep. The touch is no-nonsense, efficient.

They pause, linger, and you close your eyes, letting yourself feel it, those small points of warmth. Something you’ve so rarely felt in your lifetime, a tender touch, there.

Then they glide slowly down the curve of your shoulderblade, tracing one of the dozens of faint silvery lines crisscrossing your back haphazardly.

The slavers never laid their whips in any particular pattern.

Punishments were quick, bacta slapped on if they cut too deep - not from any sort of care for your well-being, just to keep their investment alive and free of infection.

You were never obedient enough to be a pleasure slave, so your physical appearance wasn’t a priority. They didn’t care if they marked you up.

They only cared of you got your work done.

If you were useful.

You startle as the fingers suddenly splay, curving over your shoulder, palm pressing against your skin. It’s warm and heavy and it feels so good tears flood your vision again and you squeeze your eyes shut against them -

Then he’s there, right behind you, framing your body, his free arm wrapping around your waist and holding you so tight his fingers dig into the softness just under your ribs, and the helmet dips down to rest on your other shoulder, cool and smooth, a sharp contrast to the warmth of his hand.

You should be anxious, worried about what he’s thinking, what he’s going to say. 

You should be afraid of what comes next.

But you’re not. There’s no room for any of that, in the space between your bodies.

It’s gone. That tangle of anger and fear and uncertainty, the unsettled energy coursing through your limbs. Squeezed out of you by the gentle pressure of his hand, resting over your deepest secret.

“It’s ok.” You say it so softly, letting your voice fall only around the two of you. “It’s ok, now. I don’t want to hide this from you anymore, and that’s ok.”

A tremor runs through him and you shush it away, lifting a hand to twine your fingers through the ones on your shoulder. They clutch at you, almost desperate.

He needs to hear this as much as you need to tell him.

So you do.

“I’ve hid it from everyone. I had to, I’m not legally freed. I escaped. That’s why I couldn’t be seen on Junkfort Station, it’s too close to the major slave markets and frequented by people who might recognize my face.” You huff a little humourless laugh. “I’ve been lucky, really, being able to avoid them as I have for so many years. Even my escape was pure luck - an equipment malfunction caused an explosion in the mine, sent everyone within a ten metre radius flying and I landed on a rock. Cracked my skull, right over where the tracking implant was. I hid during the chaos of the aftermath, dug the implant out and tossed it down a mine shaft. Then I disappeared.”

He’s so still behind you, unmoving, silent. You keep talking.

“I stowed away on a transport, got off-world, then another, then another. Eventually landed on some planet and figured out how to survive. Laid low until I fell in with Bril’s crew - you know that part already. Learned it was best to avoid making friends, too easy to track a single identity, so I just became different people, whatever suited where I was living. It wasn’t hard, I don’t know my birth name - if I even had one - and usually got a new name when I changed owners so I was used to it, anyway.”

A soft smile curves your lips. “But now I get to choose my name. Choose who I am. And I’m not a slave, born without freedom. I’m not some angry, self-destructive teenager sent to the Kessel mines because her owner couldn’t handle her anymore. I’m not a foolish, lost young woman trying to figure out what to do with a life she never thought she’d get. I’m me. Myself. Whoever that might be, I get to decide. No one else.”

It’s so quiet in the room. There’s no sounds even in the corridor - maybe Dune instructed the recruits to stay away from here while they retrieved the unconscious Aqualish. Should thank her regardless, she’s kept her distance, obviously knowing you and Mando have something to work out.

And how is that going, exactly?

He hasn’t spoken, hasn’t moved since you started talking. His hand still holds yours tightly on your shoulder, though its grip isn’t as desperate.

But there’s no anger or frustration - or disgust, something you were afraid of - in the way he holds you. If anything, he’s clinging to you like he needs it, like he’ll crumble if he lets you go.

Slowly, you tilt your head toward his helmet and press your cheek to the cool metal, words whispering over its curve. “I’ve never told anyone, ever. Just you. Because I trust you. And… I care about you, too.”

He moves then, shoulders hitching with a strangled breath. A single word rasps through the modulator.

“Ne’kotir.”

It’s an unfamiliar word - must be from the Mandalorian language. “What does it mean?”

His thumb strokes over the skin of your shoulder. “Undefeated.”

Your eyelids drift open - you forgot you had closed them in the first place - and you stare at the opposite wall.

Undefeated.

There were moments in your life where you certainly didn’t feel that way.

Even less than a day cycle ago, you’d looked at the proof of what you thought was your failure on the floor of the Razor Crest.

But it wasn’t.

It was evidence of your ability to survive.

Proof of your strength. That your past is not stronger than you.

Your little hum of surprise dusts across the surface of his helmet. “Yes. Ne’kotir.”

His arm on your waist squeezes tight, a deep breath shuddering through his frame. Then he’s stepping back, hands moving to pull your shirt and jacket up over your shoulders.

You catch the sound of footsteps coming toward you - oh, that’s why he started helping you dress again.

Dune appears in the doorway just as you finish straightening your jacket and Mando pulls on his gloves. Her gaze runs over you both but her expression remains neutral. “We’ve cleared out most of the bodies. And one of the recruits found a cache in a hidden room - it has some Mandalorian items.”

Mando shifts closer to you. “I’ll look at them later.”

Your heart flutters at his obvious desire to stay with you, and you’re tempted - the knowledge of what you just did is quickly catching up to you and there’s a tender spot in the centre of your chest, like you’d felt too much at once. But you know how much those items mean to him, and after the moment you just shared, the compassion he showed, you want to do the same for him.

Show him you care about him, too.

Smiling reassuringly, you gesture toward Dune. “Go. I’m fine, I’ll head back to the kid.” The black visor turns to you, and even though you can’t see his face you can sense the argument building. “Honestly. I could use some… time to process things.”

The helmet tilts in a way that says he knows exactly what you’re doing but he can’t argue with his own advice. Your smile turns playful despite yourself and he sighs.

“Fine. Get a room for the night. Rest.” He digs into one of his belt pouches and pulls out a comlink. Stepping close, he takes one of your hands and presses it into your palm. “I’ll come to you immediately.”

Nodding, you slip the comlink into your jacket pocket and open your mouth to say goodbye when he suddenly cups the back of your neck with a gloved hand and leans in, lightly tapping his forehead against yours.

He gently squeezes your neck, thumb curling along your nape. “Rest.”

You meet that hidden gaze behind the black visor. “I will, I promise. I’ll see you later.”

Another moment of black and silver filling your world and then he’s turning away, following Dune back into the corridor.

Taking a deep breath, you let it out slowly. That tender spot in your chest is growing, your muscles starting to ache with physical and emotional strain.

Rest, he said. Well, that actually sounds like a kriffing great idea.

*****

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[burnwater13]

Grogu had no idea why the Mandalorian wanted him to spit out a perfectly good frog that day on Arvala-7. He really liked frogs and they had been a good part of his diet for years. Grogu could understand a human like a Mandalorian bounty hunter who wears a helmet all the time not eating a frog whole, but not eating them at all? That didn’t make sense.

Next thing, the Mandalorian would say 'spit it out' over would be something like dung worms or toasted crickets. (If the crickets aren’t toasted they can taste a little bitter. The cooking process really improves their flavor and paletteuabilty.) It’s like Din Djarin had never eaten anything other than a ration pack.

Kuiil, on the other hand, hadn’t been bothered at all by Grogu’s personal choices. He’d commented that Grogu appeared to be highly evolved. Grogu took that as a compliment even though Kuiil had also said that Grogu was ugly and that was a tell tale for the evolution thing. Of course, since Kuiil was an Ugnaught, his definition of beauty was based on different standards. At that same meal he had noted that Cara Dune looked like a clone because she was pretty. Go figure.

Grogu wondered what other aspects of one culture, like preferred cuisine, ended up being the antithesis of another culture’s preferences? For example, Cara had tattoos on her arms and face and potentially elsewhere. But as far as Grogu could tell, Kuiil had no tattoos. The few times he’s seen Din Djarin’s bare skin, on his arm, leg, and other areas that were hurt and needed healing, Grogu hadn’t noticed any tattoos there either. So, Cara had them, but no one else? Was that a drop trooper thing or an Alderaanian thing? Grogu had no idea.

Then there was the whole, who wears what type of clothing thing. Grogu wore very simple things. His first layer and then his coverall. They were in dull, Jedi colors, but on the plus side his coverall had hidden pockets that allowed him to travel with snacks and other necessities. Din Djarin seemed like a pretty typical Mandalorian. Sturdy under-layer, armor components, bandolier, belts, holsters, and of course his shiny helmet. The one way the Mandalorian didn’t quite match the other Mandos Grogu had met was only that his armor was just shiny. Not painted or decorated or colorful at all. Sure his vambraces had a little of color on them and that silly triangle that told you which way to point your arm when you were using the weapons, but that was it. 

But the Twi’leks that Grogu had met, few though there were, always seemed to be wearing clothing that actually didn’t cover very much of them. Always bare arms. He didn’t really understand that. Warm, cold, wet, very sunny, a Twi’lek would have their arms exposed to the weather. He supposed they never went to cold planets.

And what was the deal with Gamoreans? Were they always some sort of fighter? They always seemed to wear the bare minimum of clothing. Didn’t they get cold? Didn’t they need armor if they were fighters like his dad? Grogu started giggling. He suddenly imagined his dad dressed like a Gamorrean fighter and it was just too funny. As bulky as the undercut and armor pieces made his dad look, Grogu knew that humans were generally a lot less bulky than Gamorreans.  

So that little skirt thing that partially covered their lower half would be falling off his dad. The Mandalorian would have  to wear a sturdy belt and hope that no one messed with it. Then wearing all those leather straps. Grogu had no idea what they were for but he didn’t think his dad would enjoy them either. Finally, Gamorreans always wore thick soled sandals. Not boots. Not shoes. Sandals. Grogu couldn’t imagine how distracting that would be to his dad. How did you polish sandals? Did you wear socks with them? Or did you only wear them while you were working if you were a Gamorrean? Mandalorians worked all the time. Did that mean he’d wear that diaper outfit all the time? 

Grogu laughed so hard at that he fell over and began slapping the floor. 

“Buddy, are you okay? What’s so funny?”

His dad was standing there all shiny and Mandalorian looking and Grogu just laughed harder. How could he tell his dad that he’d just imagined him holding a frog in his mouth, with Grogu telling him, “Hey, spit that out!”

[shrinkthisviolet]

Tell me about the symbolism of any fic you want to talk about the symbolism of

Gladly anon 🥰 I'm gonna focus on this fic!

So hair is of course a very symbolic thing generally, including across cultures. And here, hair represents something else too: different forms of expressing various feelings.

It started when I found this post about how Leia would 100% cut her hair if raised on Tatooine, and I realized Lucy absolutely would too. And it gave me the chance to draw parallels between her and Anakin...and her and Padmé. But let's start with Anakin.

Anakin was given the Padawan braid as a symbol: marking him as a Jedi Padawan, and that means something. He's made a commitment to the Jedi and learning their way of life and abilities. It's symbolic in its own way. However, he chafes at this symbol and tries to cut it off. This was likely the subject of many arguments between him and Obi-Wan, especially since Anakin didn't quite appreciate the gravity of the symbolic braid.

Lucy's situation is a little different. She wants to cut her hair for practical reasons—it's hot, and her hair is long and dark, and short styles are all the rage right now anyway. Obi-Wan refuses, because of the person he most sees in her: Padmé, in Lucy's lovely long braid.

See, for Obi-Wan, that braid is a symbol of his dead friend. And Lucy is her daughter. Perhaps Obi-Wan wants to keep a part of her alive in Lucy—sweet, brave Padmé who always fought against injustice.

(And who was so brutally harmed by Vader shortly before dying, but Obi-Wan doesn't think about that.)

So Lucy proposes cutting her hair, over and over. Obi-Wan refuses. The more she insists, the more he hears Anakin in her voice. Beru gives her some perspective about Obi-Wan possibly being from a place where hair is culturally significant, like Naboo or Alderaan (which is partially incorrect—hair is significant to the Jedi, but not like it is for Nabooians and Alderaanians, and that's not the reason for Obi-Wan's reluctance)...but even then, Obi-Wan doesn't budge.

The argument reaches a fever pitch when Lucy finally gets frustrated and cuts the braid with her lightsaber. Obi-Wan won't speak to her after that, seeing more of Anakin than Padmé in her and hurt that yet again, his advice went unheard. Little does he know that Lucy feels likewise.

Beru fixes her hair—in this way, she's the first to validate Lucy's self-expression. There's a reason Lucy cares so much for her and calls her "aunt", after all 🥰

Eventually, Lucy confronts him. They argue again, and then Obi-Wan calls her "Anakin". And there it is. She has parts of both her parents in her, but more often in her moments of arguing or defiance, she reminds Obi-Wan of Anakin.

They're in no emotional state to talk then, but they do later. Obi-Wan lays it all out, corrects her misconceptions, and validates her by saying she's lovely no matter what (validating her self-expression like Beru did earlier, but in his own way). The symbol, carried through, has opened Obi-Wan's eyes yet again to Lucy being her own person.

Taglist (send an ask or DM to be added or removed):

@ocappreciationtag @arrthurpendragon @vexic929 @raith-way @ironverseocs @thechaoticfanartist @goldheartedchaoticdisaster @negative-speedforce

[thelesbianthespianposts]

Luke skywalker would not perform Nabooian rituals

Leia Organa would not perform Nabooian rituals

neither of them were born on naboo. Neither of them were raised with Nabooian culture. Why is it so hard to see people representing their upbringing as it was.

Show Luke making a recipe he learned from Beru, or Leia knowing a lot about alderaanian history. Something like that

[anghraine]

For no particular reason: a grab-bag of answers to questions I've gotten, usually more than once, on my SW fics. Austen ones later!

Lucy Skywalker:

1— Why did you use "Lucy" for your female Luke Skywalker instead of something more space-like/Star Wars-y?

Because "Luke" itself isn't that kind of name. It's the perfectly common English form of a real, old, familiar name. I was looking for something analogous—a name with a common English form, something that's been around for a very long time, ideally with a similar appearance to "Luke." I stand by my opinion that "Lucy" is the closest fit, not something "spacier."

2— Why are Lucy and Leia seventeen c. ANH instead of the canonical nineteen?

Because Star Wars "canon" is a shape-shifting void beast and I stick firmly to the films and sometimes scripts. The movies don't give Luke and Leia's ages at any point in the OT, but the ANH script says Luke is eighteen and Leia is about sixteen. For the Lucyverse, I averaged them out to seventeen.

3— Why is the wampa episode different, with Wedge Antilles captured first?

The pervasive misogyny of most GFFA societies in the Lucy fics led to Lucy being ultimately accepted into Rogue Squadron but not as leader; Wedge occupies Luke's role as commander and even gets his shifts. Consequently, he's the one in place to get mauled by the wampa, but he has less options for escape and would have died if not for Lucy and Han's impromptu rescue mission.

The other reason is that the changes to the sequence made it more interesting to write about than just ... novelization-style with a pronoun switch, which I'd already done through much of the first fic.

4— Speaking of the pervasive misogyny of the GFFA in the Lucy fics, why is that a thing?

When I look at the roles of women in the prequels and then at the near-total dearth of them in the OT, the difference is very glaring. Maybe this is just a relic of the respective times in which they were made, but idk, it feels like the domination of white human men during the Emperor's reign has a certain resonance with Imperial era politics. That includes the fact that (as depicted in the OT) the military arm of the Alliance is scarcely better in this regard. It genuinely feels to me like there's been real, in-world, large-scale change from the PT era.

And I generally prefer to lean into fucked-up aspects of a canon and underscore what's wrong with them rather than to headcanon them away. So that's what I was doing there.

And the idea that the particular misogyny of the Empire flows down from Palpatine and this minefield changes Anakin/Vader's approach to Lucy (and hers to him) was far more interesting to write about than "everything is basically the same, lala what systematic misogyny." The events of The Jedi and the Sith Lord were always part of my plan for the fic and one of the main things that made it interesting to work towards.

SW: Rogue One

1— The idea of Cassian being from Alderaan is, um, interesting, but according to the Expanded Universe—

The extent to which I do not care about the SWEU can hardly be overstated. Please feel free to stop correcting my fanfic with SWEU/TV show factoids.

(Sidenote: I only wrote Alderaanian!Cassian in the ad astra verse, though he speaks Alderaanian in all of them.)

2— Will you ever finish per ardua ad astra?

Yes. I'm sorry it's taking so long, but I will if it kills me.

3— You've talked about Leia/Jyn/Cassian, but ...

I do actually have two fic ideas for it. I've written some of one, but not the other (and of course, I prefer the scenario I haven't written). I do hope to write some, someday.

4— Will you ever finish the Persuasion fusion with Wentworth!Jyn and Anne!Cassian?

Probably not. ;_;

SW: Other

1— Your Skywalker headcanons about Tatooine slave culture are interesting. Are you going to do more with those?

My Skywalker headcanons are not Tatooine slave culture headcanons. The enslavement of Shmi and her surviving people happened in her young adulthood in nearly all my fics.

I will do more with my headcanons about the Alsarai, though!

2— Will you ever write the sequel to Revenge of the Jedi?

Probably not. I had it planned and outlined, but a lot of the ideas got absorbed into other fics, and I'm not feeling it these days.

3— Will you ever continue the one-shot fic where Vader defects with Luke in ROTJ?

Yes and no. I can't really say more.

4— Is Anakin really Leia's stepfather in Redemption?

Yes.

[kaleidoscope1967eyes]

10 and 25 for the ask game :)

10. What fact do they excitedly tell everyone about at every opportunity?

Oooh, good question... This is a piece of lore specific to my canon and not actual canon, but Luna's favorite fact is that the Jedi Code wasn't actually written in Basic--it's been translated from the original language (now near-untranslatable) to High Galactic to Tionese to countless other languages, and finally into Basic. Much of the text's original meaning has been adapted and distorted over time, often with unique interpretations across different cultures and time periods--and, in the process, absorbing the philosophies and traditions of other religions. The modern (pre-Empire) version, known in the academic world as "High Republic Standard," is the most recent (and most strict) iteration of the code. Basically, the importance of all this that Luna likes to emphasize is the fact that the Code is a living document, constantly evolving to fit the circumstances the Jedi face.

25. What subject / topic do they know a lot about that’s completely useless to the direct plot?

Aside from being a scholar in the usual sense, Luna is a very accomplished artist and musician, both in terms of knowledge and in terms of skill. She's always shown that spark of creativity, spending much of her childhood drawing or singing to the animals her family herded. During the days of her "cultural reeducation" in the Empire, part of how they molded her into a proper, refined young woman was by teaching her of the 'artistic superiority' of the Core Worlds. Aside from merely learning details meant to be memorized and tested, she also learned theory and technique, picking up multiple instruments and art styles. She favors the Alderaanian arts--and, once the planet has been destroyed, she's one of the few people left who can preserve them.

OC ask game!

[looseleafteeaves]

Facing the Krayt Dragon

Note that this will be majorly AU, and also contain a ton of fanon/headcanon ideas. Rule of thumb? If you recognize it, probably not mine. You will see… Alderaanian culture stuff, force sensitive ideas, jedi stuff, amavikka stuff(aka Tatooine Slave Culture from various fandom writers, though one of the largest is @fialleril ), and maybe a touch of naboo culture stuff. Nothing will be Jedi critical.

Leia had followed Han to Tatooine for several reasons.

The mountains of Alderaan echoed in her bones but the waters of Naboo sung through her blood and the sands of the desert made up her soul.

One reason was Han’s capture.

One was the call she felt to the place her rebel brother called home.

One was to see the ghost of Obi-wan’s last years of life.

One was that she had heard a voice roaring for her to come home. To walk the blood soaked sands. To wake the dragon.

Yes, Leia had many reasons to walk beneath the twin burning suns.

Her war braids entwinned with mourning white ribbons as she approaches Mos Eisley. She knew she could handle herself.

Even if she felt adrift without her twin sun to orbit.

Leia was not prepared. Jabba the Hutt, sniveling worm that he was, had decided that she was pretty. Luke had nothing good to say about the place, and even less about the few times his family had to work off a debt to Jabba in the dry years. Leia knew she would be in for months, if not years of struggle. Luke’s advice still rang in her head like the mountain top cathedral bells. “If you must go to Tatooine, hide yourself first. You are foreign, pretty, young, and obviously fierce. They will think you are worth the risk of hunting to sell.”

Leia had not stayed hidden. And by the time several months had passed? She could feel the call to the desert growing stronger, and the urge to resist growing weaker.

“Child.”

Leia looked up immediately. An older weequay, named Shirsu Terramitta was approaching.

“Yes, Shirsu?”

The old weequay smiled. “Come to my rooms tonight. It is a time of joy. I would like to invite you to partake.”

A voice, unfamiliar but kind, spoke. “She will never be a jedi.”

“No. She will be someone else. Can you not hear the Force proclaiming such, as loud an a chorus sung across the mountains of Alderaan?”

Leia thinks long and hard, but nods. “I will be there Shirsu.”

“I will be waiting, Sister.”

Something stirs. That name is familiar, in the way that a favored bedtime story half-remembered is. Yes. I am Sister.

—

Jabba releases his dancers early. Rumors of a sickness tearing through his pets makes him wary of keeping them too close. All of his dancers move to Shirsu’s room.

“Leia, you are coming to Grandmother today?”

Leia pauses, nodding. The human, Itza, smiles. “Then I am glad to walk beside you.”

Leia remains quiet. The air feels like the moment before a sandstorm hits.

Anticipation. Danger. Survival.

Hope.

———

Shirsu welcomes everyone is, and says “My people, one has joined us. She looks towards the desert each day. She is Called. We now must bring her into our family. She must have her Name.”

Leia felt something building, something charging the air. A cool sensation like morning dew on Alderaan surrounded the quartet.

“Leia, we name you kin. You have been a slave, you will always remember that. You are one of us. I tell you this story to save your life.”

Shirsu- Grandmother- tells her the story of the stealing of Ar-Amu’s children. Of her promise. Of Depur and Ekkreth. Of Akar Hinil, Tena, Ebra, Mitta, the Twins who carried the suns.

Of Leia and Lukka. Of how the Krayt chases the sandstorm, and the sandstorm the krayt. Forever orbiting each other.

Leia learns about the piece of herself that never fit. She grows. She learns. And one day, many months after Bentu Depurak, Jabba is displeased with his senator toy. She had tried to poison him. He decided to send her into the desert for face the storm.

Leia, the call of the desert like a deafening scream, keeps her smile small and secret.

She knew the poison would come in handy

[axiswrites]

wide awake (monster of my dreams)

In her thoughts, she is Kylo Ren's prisoner, stuck in some cold and sterile First Order dungeon. Or worse, she is his empress, wrapped in fine black and gold cloth, sitting demurely at the new Supreme Leader's feet. Sometimes she is bound, collar tight around her neck. But Rey is always, always, his prize, won by right of conquest and paraded in front of his underlings and the galaxy. or: Rey contemplates the fantasy of Kylo Ren and the reality of Ben Solo.

rated E | post-canon fix-it | ao3

Whenever Rey of Jakku thought of sharing Kylo Ren's bed, in the aftermath of the Battle of Crait, (and she thought of it often, even if she wouldn't admit it to a single soul, living and Force Ghost alike) she was always by herself. Alone, in her quarters at night, or in the Falcon's bunkers during her travels. But always alone.

In her thoughts, she is Kylo Ren's prisoner. Stuck in some cold and sterile First Order dungeon. Or worse, she is his empress, wrapped in fine black and gold cloth, sitting demurely at the new Supreme Leader's feet. Sometimes she is bound, collar tight around her neck. But Rey is always, always, his prize, won by right of conquest and paraded in front of his underlings and the galaxy.

At the Command bridge he feeds her indulgent delicacies by hand, like a distracted owner might with an amusing pet. When they're alone, either in his bed or his throne, his gloved hands are mean and greedy, scorching her body and leaving bruises in their wake. Her breasts are pinched sore and her cunt breached by uncaring fingers. Sweat and chills drip along her skin; wetness along her folds.

Kylo Ren forces his way through her mind. In his deep voice, the cultured tones of a once-prince, he mocks her needs and her loneliness, taunting Rey with things she will never have and feeding wants she never desired to satisfy, instead. He seeks revenge for the scar he bears, and finds it in the noises that escape her lips. Moans and pleas she's not strong enough to hide, wickedly accepting of his rule and his seed.

He takes whatever he wants. He brings pain and tears to her eyes, his cock wielded much like his saber, delivering punishment to those weaker than him. Kylo Ren fucks her with single minded determination, whispering filthy threats in Rey's ear, speaking of shame and ruin while she gasps and comes, her weak body beyond her own control.

In those nightmarish thoughts, Rey of Jakku belongs to Kylo Ren, and there's nothing she can do about it.

*

In the aftermath of the Battle of Exegol, once Rey is assured her friends are alive and well, and the fate of Ben Solo, First Order traitor and her savior, is decided, the monster in her dreams is brought to light by the reality of their bed.

In it, she's not the prisoner, but free to come and go from Naboo as she pleases. A privilege denied to Ben Solo in his exile. It seems to her she thinks of sharing his bed just as often as before, but now it's the desire to keep something sacred, not shame, that keeps her lips shut when with friends.

Their home is not cold or sterile, but filled with the exotic plants and flowers she brings from faraway planets. The ones not eaten by the porgs, that is. Ben and Rey eat modestly, the food tasty but simple, courtesy of the New Republic taking Ben's funds, and Leia's, as restitution for the First Order's lesser crimes.

The furniture consists of found things restored to the best of their abilities, and Rey fears the place must be quaint by royal standards, both Alderaanian and Galactic. When she voices those concerns, Ben, with his big, tender hands cradling her face, reassures her their home is the most beautiful place he's seen, and the first one that's ever been his.

Her clothing, and his too, are light and humble, in various shades of grey and beige. At the bottom of their salvaged wardrobe a few black pieces are kept: a holed tunic, a cape, mask and gloves. The first, for comfort; the rest as shameful reproach and breathless performance both.

She is frequently on her knees. Though she is neither slave nor empress they play at both, his liquid approval salty sweet on her tongue. His worshipping of her is even more frequent. Short, midnight hair wrapped around her fingers and soft, plump mouth wrapped around her lips. In those moments, when Ben Solo wears Rey of Jakku's pleasure on his face, he whispers he will treasure her for as long as he lives, for as long as she'll have him.

His bare fingers still scorch and bruise her skin, but now she is the greedy one, begging for new marks and thankful for the imprint of his digits when they're galaxies apart. When sore, her nipples are soothed by cold fruit and an expert tongue, her body's openings stretched by patient hands. The sensations set each nerve alight and the Force preens with their pleasure, their home echoing with her moans and his grunts.

They share their fantasies of their own volition. Requests to try toys, certain words, scavenger clothes, the Upstanding Tauntaun, and the eventual Force nullifying handcuffs, met with understanding and enthusiasm. He does raise a brow at her delighted gasp when she learns of the difference in their age, and Ben's deep voice is relentless in its teasing later that night. Rey spends the next morning smiling so wide it scares the porgs.

Her healing has erased his body of the scars she, and many others, had given him. There's no cruelty to his touch or to his thrusts, and his unforgiving cock, in reality, brings proud moans and pleas to her lips. Sometimes, after a particularly vicious plunge, Rey keens her mourning for the scar that marked him as hers, gripping his pulsing length with her cunt. Ben swears she can mark him again if she so wishes. (She softly declines his offer, but eagerly accepts his seed and his love instead).

There are nights when pain still makes itself present in their home. He remembers his family with incapacitating regret; she thinks of hers with impotent rage. They truly are a dyad, a miasma of anger and sorrow coursing through their veins.

Those nights are banished with murmured reassurances delivered by loving arms.

In the solitude of their small piece of Nabooian territory, overlooking the Solleu River and fenced in by New Republic surveillance, they are safe in the certainty of their bond. But Ben and Rey make no vows that can't come true. They know a politician's decision is a fickle thing, and Rey promises to fight for Ben's life with everything she has: her Force abilities, her Jedi diplomacy, her own sand-rat soul. Ben listens, tears in his eyes, and begs her to lower her many weapons if – when – the executioner comes.

But she knows, in her heart of hearts, she won't. Rey of Jakku belongs with Ben Solo. And Ben Solo with her. May the Force have mercy on anyone who opposes that.

[ooops-i-arted]

Jedi AU Cara Dune, because why not.

I pictured her surviving Order 66 and the destruction of Alderaan and so, so full of angst over losing not one but two homes/cultures/people. But she fights on to help the Rebellion, willing to do almost anything to stop the Empire. I could see her doing her best to help Luke, but doesn't really feel like she would succeed as a teacher and mostly does so as a service to Princess Leia.

I picture a Jedi Cara being very combat focused; she was never the one she sent to deal with dumb Senators as non-aggressive negotiations are not her skill set. So her outfit is close-fitting, taking elements from Jedi garb and her original costume. She has no shocktrooper tattoo since she never joined the group and instead I added arm bands similar to those worn by some muay thai practitioners (because if a certain actress didn't get herself fired I would love to see her stuntwork take on an AU like this; Jedi Cara may have a lightsaber but definitely isn't afraid of a brawl).

Her lightsaber has a teal crystal and the hilt was originally crafted on Alderaan out of Alderaanian materials and is her only relic from her homeworld. The design was inspired by some in SWTOR.