A few years prior to the events of A New Hope, a young woman named Mara Jade, under the guise of a unimportant Imperial recruit, leads an special operation to Tatooine to hunt down any remaining Jedi that may be hiding on the planet.
While there, she meets and befriends a young man her age named Luke, who sparks the first seed of change in Mara's loyalty towards the Empire.
--
Aka if I were to ever write a Mara Jade centered fic that takes place in the new canon,, where Mara is masquerading as your average child solder on Tatooine, but secretly the leader of her squad/operation, and Luke is the '"dorky farm boy" (her words) who is "kinda cute" (Again, her words) that she befriends and kinda falls for,,
More to story than just that lol, and it would take place both when Luke and Mara are around 15/16 or so, and then the story would pick up again later after the events of the Return of the Jedi :)
Hey bb 🤗 for your Blorbo Body Parts challenge (and man was it tough to choose between all these lol), may I ask for thighs + Poe? pretty please with sugar on top 🙏❤️
Sit Down on It - Poe + Thigh
⋆*:⋆*kinktober ⋆*:⋆* blorbo body parts masterlist | poe masterlist | main masterlist
Poe Dameron x f!reader | cw: it's thighs, so grinding/thigh riding, dirty talk, public sex acts | wc: 1.5k
See last year's In Service of the General for more Poe + thigh adventures. This is a prompt I was HAPPY to revisit!
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Lights flashed, music thumped, the tang of alcohol filled the air.
You sat, reluctantly, body tucked close to Commander Dameron, undercover as his...arm candy, you supposed.
Infuriating.
Your team demanded you trade your Resistance gear and even your blend-into-this-world plainclothes for a scandalously tight, fitted, short dress.
The Commander's eyes lit up when he saw you, blowing wide with genuine surprise. The shock only lasted for a moment before his mouth did that thing: corner turning up in what you considered a condescending smirk, but what most people in the Resistance called his "sexy smile."
Ughh.
The whorish attire wasn't just for you. Your team dressed Poe in a black silk shirt, open in the front, the cut dipping past his sternum, almost to his stomach. Tight, matching pants hugged his ass and thighs and his high cut riding boots accentuated his legs even more.
You laughed out when you saw him. Was this a holodrama? Was he playing the role of a sexy space pirate? You'd encountered a few real space pirates. They dressed in found and stolen armor from head to toe, but in holos, pirates always had these huge slits and dips in their clothing, revealing copious amounts of skin.
"Shut up," he grumbled, his confidence taking a hit at the way you dismissed him.
So the two of you, scantily clad, undercover, ordered drinks and pretended to be obsessed with one another - Poe's idea. Damn him.
"You need to relax," he murmured against your bare neck. "So stiff, sweetheart. Have a drink."
"I am on a mission," you hissed. "I'm dressed like a whore. I'm following orders - your orders. I don't have to like it."
The way you said that - about following his orders - went straight to his crotch. He shifted uncomfortably. The pants were apparently the current fashion of this planet, but damn if they weren't tight. And rather smooth against his skin.
"Come on, we're gonna be here for a while. You couldn't look any less convincing," He murmured on your ear. "Sit on my lap. Act like you don't hate me for one mission. I'll get Leia to reassign you next time."
Your skin flared with heat at the invitation to sit on his lap, and he was already moving you there before you could protest.
But your heart sank at the thought of getting assigned to a new team. As infuriating as your Commander was, you loved your team and you were good at what you did. You all truly helped the Resistance.
"There, that's a little better," he told you, and, for once, you didn't detect condescension in his tone.
He'd hauled about half your body onto his, facing him. Your thigh was slung across his lap, breasts mashed against his half bare chest. This forced your already tiny skirt to ride up, placing your crotch against the thick meat of his thigh. Nearly.
No, you wouldn't do that. You swallowed thickly, using the strength of your core and your opposite knee, digging into the bench seat beside him, to hold your center up off his thigh.
He didn't seem to notice. One hand folded you close, mindlessly rubbing up and down the bare curve of your back, while the other reached for his drink. He downed it in one gulp, then raised two fingers at a passing server and tipped his head up to order another.
The server ogled him, and then you, smiling seductively, before scampering off to do their job.
"See, now we look convincing," he breathed against your cheek, holding his hand firmly in place, despite the temptation to slide down and squeeze your delicious ass.
"Fine. Good. I'll take that drink now." You sighed irritably.
The server returned a moment later, and you downed your drink, desperate for the liquid courage. You were already weary from holding your body up off of his, but you couldn't sit down, not like this.
If you did, he would feel your soaked panties. You were convinced by now, that you were so wet your desire would drench through his flimsy pants and then he would know.
And could not know.
Everybody wanted the Commander. You couldn't be just another one of them. He respected you. Requested you for missions. Trusted you.
So, no, you could not be on this whorish mission with him, dressed in this, and liking it. You would pass out from holding yourself up before you let him feel how wet you were.
Poe sipped his drink, eyes scanning the room carefully. You dutifully scanned behind him, noting people and groups. And weapons.
"I won't ask you to do this again," he said apologetically. "You could have said no. You're my best undercover. That's why I asked. Don't make me beg you to sit the fuck down."
That sobered you. "S-sorry. I thought this position was okay."
You were apologizing? Never happened. He expected a, "Fuck off, Dameron."
"You're so tense," he went on, setting his drink down and brushing his fingers up and down your bare arm. "You can kick my ass later. I'll probably even enjoy it, but -"
"Fine, dammit," you hissed, allowing your body to sink down on his, your drenched panties squelching as your core met his thick thigh. Fortunately the music boomed all around you, drowning out your soft moan.
He shifted to plant his boot more firmly and hold you up better. The motion pushed his thigh muscle hard against your barely covered cunt. You gasped out, reacting on instinct. Your hips canted forward, meeting his motion and the pressure was so...delicious.
"There we go." His hands gripped your hips now, heated breath teasing your ear. "Get comfortable. I won't bite. Not unless you're into that."
You predictably groaned in annoyance, which made him smile against your skin. "You're beautiful. I know you'll beat my ass for it, but I had to say it. Just this once, Lou."
You were his Lieutenant. So he called you Lou.
"D-don't say that. We're working. I can't...I can't." You couldn't concentrate. You had failed to scan your surroundings for the last few minutes.
"No, you're right. Sorry." He eased back, remembering to pay attention and do his duty. But he was distracted by how good you smelled, how you felt against him. And he could have sworn he heard a moan rumble from your chest to his.
The hot center of you rested on his thigh, driving him to distraction. Almost subconsciously, he shifted his leg again. You rocked your hips in response, your eyes fluttering closed.
Oh.
Oh.
His grip on your hips tightened. He cleared his throat. "Possible target on your six. Don't look." He subtly dragged you forward, pushing his thigh deliberately into your cunt.
"O-okay," you panted, barely rolling your hips in response. "Should I -"
"Just...stay." He dragged you forward again, pushing his leg up into you with less subtlety and more force. "Let me watch. Stay right here for me."
You hummed an agreement, eyes fluttering closed again as your back-and-forth tease crept closer and closer to outright scandal.
By now, Poe's fingertips dug into your flesh as he worked you back and forth on his thigh at a medium tempo. That's when he really felt it.
You were soaked. Wetness seeped through the fabric of his pants, hot and slippery. He groaned, deep and hot against your throat.
Your arms wrapped all the way around his neck and you started to grind.
He couldn't believe it. You, of all people. You couldn't stand him.
And now your panties were soaked?
"Just like that. That's good."
You slightly bristled at the sound of his voice. But he forced you down, helping you work yourself faster and harder, little gasps of pleasure passing your lips.
"I want you to stay right here. Can you do that for me?" He kissed your neck before breathing hotly on your ear. "You're fucking soaked. Using me so good. Don't stop, okay?"
"Poe," you gasped, fucking yourself faster, the friction of your panties rubbing your clit deliciously as the meat of his thigh pushed your lips apart. Your whole body flexed as you worked yourself eagerly down, chasing your release. "We should...w-we -"
"Don't stop. That's an order." His mouth found yours in the dark of the club. He sucked on your lips, growling as his tongue slipped in and tasted the alcohol on your breath.
You wanted to punch his lights out for giving you a fake order at a time like this, but it was wise of him to silence you with a kiss. On and on it went, wild and frantic and wet. The lace of your panties strained against your clit and pleasure surged through your body.
You seized in his arms, moaning loudly against his mouth, gushing wet and hot all over his pants. One strong forearm flexed along the curve of your back, supporting you as you collapsed against his chest.
Your thigh brushed his swollen, stiff cock and he hissed. You'd heard rumors, but to be the one to get this reaction out of him, was like an instant drug.
"Time for you to follow my orders, Commander," you lowly growled against his ear, climbing all the way across him. Straddling his lap, you rocked your hips against his erection, licking back into his mouth.
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blorbo body parts masterlist | poe masterlist | main masterlist
star wars au where obi wan dies fighting maul and anakin is trained by qui gon, forever haunted by the memory of his master's former padawan who was the first to kill a sith in a thousand years by sacrificing himself. Anakin would NOT handle that shadow of comparison well. give it to me.
you could even have obi wan have secretly, barely survived, and been brainwashed and twisted and tortured into losing all his former memories to become the new sith apprentice for extra angst :)
The bounty hunter after your heart brings you treats.
A/N: You didn't say which Mandalorian...
ao3 // main masterlist
Mando’a Translation:
cyar’ika – darling/beloved
“Should close up shop.”
The familiar, modulated voice caresses over your shoulders and ensnares your senses. A small shiver creeps through your body, insignificant in its physicality but electric in your bones. It is the voice of the man that won’t leave you alone, that rains you with attention, that seeks you out constantly.
A bounty hunter. A warrior. A contract killer under Jabba’s employ.
Boba Fett.
The man you pretend to not care about, that you push away at times because the life he leads is dangerous, and a loss like that could crush you. Not that you dislike him. Far from it. Boba’s softness for you stirs a yearning in your chest that has long sat dormant.
You slowly turn, coming face-to-face with Mandalorian armor. It is faded in places where flecks of green paint have worn away revealing the beskar underneath. Specks of sand cling to the metal, giving the beskar a dusty quality. The armor is loved and cared for. Knowing what you do about Mandalorians, at least from the stories, the armor is passed from warrior to warrior. Perhaps Boba’s came from someone close to him.
“You’re in need of a shower,” you reply, blatantly giving him a once-over.
Boba chuckles. Reaching up, he grasps the sides of his helmet. A hiss follows, indicating the release of the oxygen seal. Then the helmet is off his head, coming to a rest on the countertop.
“Close up shop,” he reiterates, “and join me.”
A sudden whoosh washes over you, electrifying all your limbs. The offer is tantalizing but you’ve never taken this beyond what it already is. Endless flirting is fun. It is fine, but the physical must remain separate. You need to find yourself a nice moisture farmer and live the rest of your life in ignorant bliss. Boba is danger and excitement and a promise of adventure. But a life like that is precarious. It’s not always certain.
“You’d be bathing alone,” you counter, adding a teasing tone to your voice. Leaning forward, you rest your elbows on the counter. “That bother you?”
Boba smirks and your stomach flips. It’s unfair that he’s handsome underneath that metal. You could easily spurn him then.
“Not at all,” he replies, mimicking your movements. “Just want to know that you’re close.”
Your stomach flips again and this time you retreat, pushing off from the counter to fiddle with the items you’ve yet to put on shelves. The shop is severely disorganized but that’s the way on Tatooine. Every shop sells everything and there is no thought to presentation.
“Shouldn’t you be with Jabba?” you ask over your shoulder.
“No. I’ve been dismissed.” Boba’s boots lightly tap against the floor. He comes around the corner of the counter, stopping near you yet not moving closer. “Until he needs me again.”
You lick your lips, pretending not to notice how he steps closer…and closer…and closer. “And how will you spend your freedom?”
It is his touch that draws you in. That pulls your attention in his direction.
“Thought I’d spend it with you.”
“With me?” you nearly laugh. When Boba’s face remains passive, you realize the intent. “You’re serious.”
“As a sarlacc.”
You step away, but Boba is right there, matching each one. Reaching out, he pins you against the counter, a hand resting on either side of you. There is no escape, but it’s not like you’d flee. Closeness is sweet no matter how much you attempt to push him away. The man remains steadfast in his loyalty to you, in pursuit of you, and while you know his reputation, it’s nice to be admired.
To be wanted.
“Please,” he continues, voice lowering to a husky timbre. “Close up shop. Spend the rest of the day with me.”
You ask, “And do what?”
There is victory in Boba’s smile but also joy. He wants this, and you’ve given it to him.
Pushing off from the counter, he returns to where he was standing moments ago. Bending down, he grabs a large canvas tote bag. “I bought a few things from the market,” he says excitedly. “Thought you could taste test.”
“Me?” you laugh. “And what if it’s poisoned?”
“Then I’d save you,” he croons.
You consider your options and quickly squash any rising dissent. Boba is sweet on you, and why not indulge him?
“Fine,” you agree. “I can close up shop for the day.”
Boba slaps the counter and bolts toward the door, engaging the locking mechanism and shutting the mechanical blinds. You giggle into your hand at how fast he moves, the eagerness radiating off him.
From a pocket, Boba removes a strip of fabric. “For your eyes,” he says and you surrender, allowing him to place it over your eyes and secure it behind your head.
All you have are your other senses, but Boba doesn’t allow you to flounder. “This way. With me,” he urges, taking your hands in his, guiding you carefully from out and around the counter.
“The blindfold isn’t reassuring,” you mutter.
Boba clucks his tongue. “You’re about to like me less.”
Before you can form a retort, another strip of fabric wraps around your wrists.
“Boba!”
“Relax. I’m not kidnapping you.”
You exhale through your nostrils. “Says the bounty hunter.”
Boba’s voice lowers to a sultry purr. “Would you like that?”
“Like what?”
“If you were my bounty? If I kidnapped you?”
Everything in you stills but there is no cold—no fear. Warmth lingers, slowly unfurling at the idea of him stealing you away, keeping you somewhere only he knows.
“And if my answer is ‘yes?’”
The reply is not with words but with a tightening of the fabric around your wrists. You hear shuffling, of the tote bag being opened, of something soft landing on the countertop. It is followed by a crinkle, and then distraction as Boba’s thumb caresses the pulse point in your wrist.
“Open,” he instructs, and you follow with perfect submission.
A sticky, sweet substance lands on your tongue. It clings to his fingers, and you close your lips around them, sucking them clean. Boba groans and you shiver.
“What is it?” he asks, so softly you curl in on yourself, flustered at the blooming arousal.
“I don’t know,” you whisper. “But I liked it.”
“More?”
“Please.”
Boba offers you another bite, this one more solid than the last. It must be some sort of cake, but the texture and flavor are unique. It’s not from Tatooine.
“Ready for the next?”
You nod with eagerness, awaiting the next sweet thing to pass your lips. But you wait, and it does not come. You linger. Then ask.
“Boba?”
His name is nearly extinguished on your lips. You expect his voice or something new to try, but it is neither. It is his lips connecting with yours. Not tentative or unsure but fierce and hungry. A claiming. A mark of ownership. It steals all breath and sends you melting like ice under Tatooine’s twin suns.
Physicality is broken. The boundary you told yourself you’d hold on to has fractured, ruptured into tiny particles of sand, blown away to be lost in the endless dusty desert. He tastes like the sweet, sticky cake you just ate, and you dive in for more, accepting each kiss he gives you like it’s the last.
Boba murmurs a word between kisses. The same one. Repeat repeat repeat until it too plays in your head.
Cyar’ika.
Cyar’ika.
Cyar’ika.
“Boba?”
“Hm?” he muses, slowing his attention to subtle, soft touches.
“That word,” you murmur. “What does it mean?”
With the blindfold, you’re unable to discern what he might be thinking. You desperately want to remove it, to gaze into his eyes, and find the truth.
You feel his fingers then, tracing your jaw, tilting your chin up a bit before coming in for another kiss. This one is deafening, sealing your fate and his. There is no going back. You cannot let this man go.
Things I learned about Qui-Gon after reading Master and Apprentice
I recently read this book and I'm so obsessed. Here are some specific, niche things I learned about Qui-Gons character, for those who write him or simply love him. I love the details. Spoiler warnings for the book!!
Qui has two hobbies, ancient languages and ancient prophecies (pg, 50). He was showed the archives by Rael, but Dooku helped foster this knowledge and interest in him, despite initially being wary of the dangers of propechies.
Qui constantly, and I mean constantly throughout the book, felt like he was failing Obi-Wan and that he wasn't doing enough for him. He rarely viewed Obi-Wans fault as his own, but rather a result of his failure to teach him. There's so many quotes of this but these kill me "As always during those moments, Qui-Gon felt a pang of guilt. Obi-Wan had such potential, such promise. He deserved a Master who could bring it out of him" (pg 21). "How do I fix this? Can I? Obi-Wan deserves no less" (pg 22). "How can I presume to do well on the council when I am failing as a Master?" (pg 69). "i've been feeling as though I were - not poison to Ibi-Wan, but completely incapable of helping him" (pg 159). "I have failed Obi-Wan" (167). AND THIS IS THE WORST ONE OH MY GOD. Obi-Wan tells Qui-Gon to save himself, essentially trying to sacrifice himself. Which Qui-Gon thinks to himself, " This is the boy who believed I found him unworthy as an apprentice. The one I failed to tell about the most significant change in my life, and maybe his. I don't deserve him. I never have" (pg 2312). Good FORCE my friends that quote made me cry.
He was frightened of losing Obi-Wan, having seen Masters lose their padawans before. "After four years of training Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon could understand that losing a padawan would be one of the most intensely painful things a Master could endure" (83.) He sort of blamed Rael for his padawan Nim's death, saying "Bad enough to be recklesss with your own life, but criminal to be reckless with anothers. Worst of all to be reckless with your padawans" (pg 88). This shows Qui-Gon had a strong sense of responsibility for life other than his own, particularly Obi-Wans life.
Most Jedi Masters rooms are bare, but Qui likes to collect a little trinket or item from each of his missions and put them on display in his room. His quarters were described as "individual in a way few things in the temple are" (pg 52). Which I think perfectly describes Qui as a character. I think part of this, is his own lil way of rebelling against councils notion of attachment. He says later in the novel, when asked why he holds onto physical things, that he likes to remember and that in the end memories are the only thing left (pg 299). However in the end, he gives a diamond given to him by a lost friend (maybe lover??) to Rahara, thinking that "he didn't need the diamond to preserve that within his heart. In the end, the memories were what mattered" (pg 422).
He was in love. When he caught Rael in bed with a woman, he waited until the woman left than basically scolded Rael, asking if he had forgotten himself. Rael began to say, as if you have never, then Qui said "There is a difference, between falling in love and simply giving oneself liscence to do as one pleases" (pg 156). Rael replies that thats actually worse, and brings up that what Qui did on Felucia was way more against the code. Then "Qui-Gon tensed. Those words cut deep- or at least the memories did" (pg 156). Rael notices the pain and doesn't bring up names, switching the subject. This implies he was in love on Felucia, and somehow this love ended or person may have passed.
Qui was practically an empath lol. "That was another thing Obi-Wan had always respected about Qui-Gon: his compassion. Obi-Wan wasn't uncaring, at least he hoped not, but sometimes it took him longer to see when someone was hurting, or what they might truly need. Qui-Gon seemed to instinctively know these things" (pg 111).
He admits his fault easily and this is something Obi-Wan admires. "Qui-Gon had always been quick to admit his own faults and errors, a kind of humility rarer among the jedi than it should have been" (pg 87).
His favourite place to meditate is the Jedi temple gardens. Oh this man loves his plants. "Qui-Gon, however, felt steadiest when anchored to life (as opposed to other masters who meditate in the meditation chambers or training rooms). So he'd gone to the Temple gardens" (pg 61). I love this because is shows how connected he is to the LIVING force
When he's frustrated with the council he thinks he should have been one of the jedi temple gardeners instead lol. "I ought to have been one of the temple gardeners" (pg 62).
He loves questions that are challenging, and he doesn't pretend to know all the answers. "There were few things Qui-Gon loved more than a good question. Sometimes Obi-Wan thought that if he just never stopped asking questions, his whole apprenticeship would've gone much more smoothly" (pg 52).
Putting his hands on his belt is a sort of defensive body language for him. "Qui-gon put his hands on his broad belt, the way he did when he was beginning to withdraw into himself" (pg 75).
He meditates while fighting. This is hinted at in this quote but discussed more in detail later as Obi-Wan finally succeeds at it, something Qui is very proud of. "His robe and hair spun with every move he made, and when Obi-Wan glimpsed his face, he saw only serenity. Complete calm" (pg 320).
He's an idealist, who sees the good in everyone. Rael says to him "You always had a weakness for seeing what you wanted to see, Qui-Gon. Always were a soft touch for a sad story" (pg 267). This is meant as in insult in the context, but there's likely truth to it.
Slavery especially troubled Qui-Gon and this is likely why he believed in Anakin so much. He'd encountered slavery before, but the mission on Pijal made him more passionate about this. He questioned why the Jedi didn't do more for the vulnerable, especially those enslaved. He argued with the council about the cruelty of the slavery on Pijal, saying " If we don't stand for the right , what do we do? Why do we exist?". "(on pijal) he first began arguing that the Jedi should push the Republic harder on combating slavery. Never had Qui-Gon stopped arguing this to anyone who would listen" (431).
The only time Qui-Gon ever slightly raised his voice in the whole book is when Obi-Wan accused or suggested that his strong belief in the prophecy might lead him to the dark side. "'I'm not turning to the dark side" Qui Gon snapped. "Not every disagreement with Jedi orthodoxy turns you into a Sith lord overnight" (pg 301).
The propechies weren't dangerous to him because he didn't seek to change fate, he just wanted to understand the force. When denying his offer to sit on the council, Qui-Gon states he wants further time to meditate and focus on the living force and prophecies. "That in the end was why the propechies weren't dangerous to him, not ion the same way they'd been to others who'd been led to darkness. The danger came in thinking that knowing the future became a form of control over it. Finally, Qui Gon knew it was the exact opposite. \knowing the future meant surrendering to fate. Surrendering to the ebb and flow of life. Only throw that surrender could the Force be truly known" (pg 426).
Indirect facts about him
Obi-Wan was protective of Qui-Gon despite often disagreeing with him. He was offended that Yoda voted against Qui being on the council. "Yoda voted against my master? Obi-Wan felt the rejection as sharply as though he had been the one found wanting, not Qui-Gon. The divide between them had somehow made Obi-Wan treasure his Master more, not less" (pg 307). This also hurt Qui-Gon when he learned it, as he described it as a kick in the gut (pg 85).
Dooku used to invite Qui-Gon to formal dinners in his private quarters and wear his best robes. ;') "It had always been nice when he was invited to eat dinner with his Master. Dooku had made a formal occassion out of it.... As usual the table was set with good glasses and dishes, and Dooku wore one of his better robes" (pg 379).
Rael Aveross trusted him more than anyone, referring to him as the "sharpest jedi (he's) ever worked with" (pg 78).
I could make so many of these, half the book is covered in green highlighter.
where it truly lies. | a star wars tale
chapter xvii - sense
he looks in the eyes of someone he had once failed.
full work
[Anakin Skywalker x Reader]
The doors of the briefing room hissed as they parted.
The sterile recycled air of the hallway hit your face in whiplash as you exited the room shortly after the formal dismissal. The more walls you passed, the more they became cold and unforgiving, and they felt no different than a cage - and, much like the confinements of a cage, all you wanted to do was go elsewhere.
Anywhere but the vicinity of the unknown, of the one variable that, no matter how hard you had tried to ignore, the Force always found a way to put right back into the equation.
Unknown was something you had stopped being afraid of a long time ago, for not many choices had been presented to you - not knowing if your belly would have been full into the night, or if your ship could have withered one more hit through the ion storms, had trained your mind enough to develop the courage to dive headfirst, regardless of the consequences.
It was survival, after all - that never changed, whether you found yourself on a daunting warship or the leveled moon, and it did not listen to your excuses stemming from fear or hesitation alike.
It demanded motion, movement, action, for they were the only answers it had ever accepted, and every fiber of your informal training obeyed, much against the heartbeat in your ribs that kept calling a name you could never forget.
The question of where answered itself in the frantic thoughts of your mind that threatened to match your motions, as you had very limited choices before facing the wrong end of a blaster.
The ship.
Your ship, the one that carried you across worlds, the one with the damaged starboard panel, the one holding your trusted droid safely occupied. The one that seemed like the only familiar place to run to, the only constant that you could name, as the halls were foreign, the overhead lights were too bright, and the air suddenly felt too dry to breathe in.
The heat that had burnt enough to scar within your sternum grew colder with each step treaded.
The boots that had seen the grime of the Outer Rim hit too hard against the polished durasteel, too fast, in a hurry that they had not been in a while, with intention in mind, your memory not failing you yet to map the turns you had walked through a mere hour ago.
They kept up.
They did their job of lining up your feet, one after the other, keeping you as stable as they could when your gait threatened to falter at any given moment, holding up the slight buckle of your knees with the shock running through your limbs.
Yet, they could not be fast enough, for you did not make it far before a heavier, louder stride made the steel echo, with a frequency you could never mistake for anyone elses.
The low static in your mind that had hummed since the first step onto the warship, now erupted, spreading across all your senses, your limbs, and took over your thoughts in the only way it knew how to.
Instinct, the honed edge just under your skin that had kept you alive, that had managed to extract you out of impossible situations in one piece, was left defenseless against the mere proximity after a decade of distance, and the sheer possibility of an exchange after a decade of silence.
Of all moments, across the stars and the space and through the days spent wishing, it chose this one to break resolve - when a voice you had lost all hope in rang through metal with a certain plea.
“Wait.”
------------------
“Wait.”
In the moment that your body moved to turn, an otherwise instant motion that stretched reality this time, etching itself very well into his mind - Anakin Skywalker could swear he felt the galaxy fall, right through his fingers, star and planet alike disappearing into oblivion the moment his eyes locked into yours.
War, he could prepare for.
He could train endlessly in the salles, swing and push until he was drenched in sweat, obliterate any obstacle to perfect his form. He could review approach plans till the rotations slowed and blue of the holotable became one with his vision. He could read maps and create tactics in the hopes of surviving a siege in a clever way, bending the rules just a little when he needed to.
War, at least, was something from which he could come out victorious.
The fastening heartbeat that echoed against his ribcage reminded him, almost instantly that, from this, there was no parting with a win.
It was a ripple within the Force so strong it dragged deep cracks across the surface as if the very fabric of the universe was mortal durasteel. It was the clash of many truths he had once attempted to sweep aside, by his own hand, finally landing to show face.
This, no rule he had ever come to know could contain. There was nothing, nothing in the whole wide galaxy, that could have prepared him for just how this would feel.
Nothing would ever account for the collapse of all that held him whole, from the very instant he had felt your signature in the thread of the universe, to this moment where his feet had dragged him towards you, without permission, without a second thought.
The corridor, the standard sleek design of the Republic’s finest warship, that often bore the coldness he had gotten used to way too quickly, now pulsed with the warmth of the thread that refused to be tamed.
His pulse had found a new tempo, a new rhythm that the war had not yet taught him, one that lived in the marrow of a boy who had once pressed his cheek to a viewport in a ship that would fail to keep promises.
What lived beneath the walls he had once built with bloodstained hands, the very emotion he had refused to name even in the privacy of his own mind, had never disappeared through the years that, unknowingly, inevitably, all led to a singular point in spacetime - and, they tugged onto the pull that lived in his sternum to awaken it.
They did not have to try for long, for the thread was no longer a dormant, silent being once filtered out by his own doing, for no wall, no mind trick could ever contain scorching warmth.
Following the pull, his reflexes moving against the will of his mind, the movement of his eyes betrayed the difference of rank that hung in the air.
And, at this moment, perhaps with a hint of shame, he allowed himself to take you in, for the war did not afford the recognition often, for the weight of long lost years demanded it so.
The dreams that had often woken him up in sweat and gasps, the faint visuals that rendered him unable to fall back into slumber could not do justice to what the galaxy had carved out of the girl in the desert.
Innocence was a long lost feature that no longer coated your face, as fate and decision alike had rendered it infeasible to stay. Your flight suit, a dark synleather number he had noticed you zip up with haste prior to leaving, spoke of a thousand runs, of rattled seats and metal that pierced through on a hit taken too hard, yet, above all, of all the hits that you had survived.
The lines of your figure had gotten sharper, leaner, taller than the girl who had once fit under a workbench. The faint traces of definition along your limbs were molded by a life spent from one cockpit to another, a life of survival that he had been too afraid, too occupied to witness.
It all added onto the tender tragedy of your face, one he had not been ready to read, one he thought he had memorized every letter of in his mind once, yet, still, the inscription was of a language he had forgotten how to speak.
It was a face that would haunt his living and breathing moments, one that had stolen the air in his chest before he could protest, one forged in fire and molded by pain, one the galaxy had no right to make this beautiful.
And, Maker, your eyes. Those eyes that had shone with the fire of building, of winning, those familiar irises that overlaid themselves to the expanse of his dreams, of his conscience, of the memories that threatened to resurface regardless of the many tactics the Jedi had taught him.
From the day you had pranced into the junk shop, ever since the formation of that unforgettable memory he etched onto his heart long ago - Anakin had known those eyes would be the death of him.
And now, they were, unapologetically, staring right into his, making him wonder just what you were seeing, and what exactly mirrored the defiance in your gaze in the depths of your soul.
The general, hardened by the weight of decisions he had to make, scarred by fire and ash alike, was reduced to a little boy on the desert with sand in his hair and the suns blinding his eyes.
It was no longer the warrior that stood in the spotless halls, but rather the little boy who had also once stood in a shop, and believed, with all the certainty of childhood, that there would never be a force strong enough to take you away from him.
He was, with all that was left of him, at that moment when the ship stood still, the boy that had promised you the stars.
The strength that often came natural to him, dwindled as it decided to let fate take over - and it was evidenced by words finally finding voice, finally dragging themselves from his dry throat, low, unbelieving, and raw.
“It’s you. You - you are alive.”
As the admission left his mouth with a tremble in his voice, nothing seemed to matter.
Suddenly, the war disappeared from his thoughts. Voices that belonged to the routine of the ship quieted, the distant murmur of clones and officers moving through the belly of the vessel no more than residual noise.
There was nothing but the resurrected pulse within his chest, echoing the vibrations in your signature, screaming, kicking, yet silent.
There was nothing but the very reflection of all he had once held close to his heart, standing on a pair of dusted boots, shining with the blinding light of the suns that the galaxy could not succeed in dimming.
His gaze flickered across your face with a helplessness he despised in himself, in an attempt of attaching memory to a face, of digging what he had buried with his own hands.
He hoped, in the depths of his heart, that the child from the desert was in there somewhere, whose laughter was subdued for survival, who was forced to grow up too soon. It was in the almost defiant way you held his stare and did not flinch under recognition, in the faint tension along your jaw that spoke of secrets than aggression, as they all materialized into the sharp silhouette that the lowest places in the galaxy carved out of you.
Then came your voice, dry but purposeful, and it proved to be enough to rip the galaxy apart in the depths of his conscience.
“It seems that I am, General Skywalker.”
The title, uttered from voice he had only heard in dreams finally finding tone, struck him like a blaster bolt, making his jaw twitch.
It did not carry the warmth of the nickname you once had for him, one you never dropped from your tongue when he had to rewire, one that you had screamed across the stars at his rising ship. It was pure ice, for it sounded wrong coming out of your mouth, after all these years. It was too clean, too deliberate, shaped by a restraint that made the thread ache between his ribs.
It awakened something in him, born out of the ashes of recognizing yet always falling short - a certain melancholic denial that he was told, countless times, to let go as a Padawan.
The words left him before his discipline could stop them, his training falling short yet another time, as shame could not act fast enough to drag them behind his teeth where they belonged.
“That is what you are calling me?”
The simple question hung in the sterile air, followed by the slight breathy chuckle that carried the disbelief of a man who had heard his own rank spoken to him thousands of times across the war, across each rotation, and had never once felt it tear open a wound up until that moment.
However, you seemingly did not care to share his disbelief, as your gaze remained on his with a stillness that, at first glance, could have passed for indifference. Yet, the burning feeling beneath his ribs had another thought as it tightened in a way that made the empty space between your bodies some uncharted territory no voice dared to cross.
“It is your rank.”
The obvious truth sounded nonchalant as it spilled from your mouth, yet the rank did not belong to your voice, not to him, for there was once a shorter name you had for him that had carried a different melody in the warm air.
Anakin, with the stubbornness that had won him battles, made it his unspoken mission to uncover what the decade had eroded whatever was left of the sparks that once erupted in your eyes when they had landed on him, whether the name you had for him still rang close to your heart or if it had been swallowed along with many words that never came to the tongue.
“You know that is not what I meant.”
Your hands went back to clasp themselves, assessing, in the same way they did when you had been inspecting his wiring under the panels, when you had watched him attach servomotors to half-finished droids, with a certain maturity carved by sand that many children had not possessed that young.
To an outside observer, to the passerby clone heading to his post, to any other pilot or soldier, it would be seen as a harmless, natural gesture of a lower-ranking officer when faced with the general of a legion.
To him, it was a blade, rough along the edges, lodged into his skin deeper with each beat of recognition - yet the memory managed to outweigh the pain as it earned a softening in his electric blues, for your hands, beneath the icy enigma of your stance, still spoke the same language, even when your mouth refused to.
“I am afraid you are going to have to be more clear, sir.”
He did not know what he had wanted or what he had expected, for he had imagined all the possible scenarios seeing you would bring, over the years, often in the darkness of his bunk or in the corners of the training salles. He had imagined this a hundred different ways, often times with a gentle hug, or an angry outburst, a sobbing yet smiling face, if the Force had given him the blessing of sparing your life enough to meet again.
It had, and along with the light, it had also given him the dark.
The guise of recognition that the heat in his sternum denied viciously, the relaxed body language that you never broke as if it was strict formation, the words that concealed their true meaning under formality, the closeness of a mere three meters yet all the distance that came with it - brought out what he had often forgotten about.
It brought back, in the flesh, the boy in the desert, the relentlessly stubborn yet kind demeanor, with the childish anger stemming hot and anew, the one his masters and their doctrines had attempted to bury under the sand, yet could only hope to succeed.
His gloved hand flew to the back of his neck, a restless, frustrated motion of a body that refused to stand still in front of a ghost from the past, in front of the one, singular, constant truth that the galaxy had never succeeded in taking away from his soul.
“Don’t.”
That earned him a slight tilt of your head, your eyes relentless in their calm hue as they kept contact with his, a slightly confused expression settling into your gaze.
“Don't stand here and act like - don't talk to me like you don't know me."
His breathing shifted into something more urgent, the rhythm of it slowly losing its resolve, following the tightening of his jaw, yielding to him even before the implications of the words could fully take a shape. Hints of frustration, something no Jedi should have ever housed within, crossed his face more evidently now, turning more unguarded by the second.
He was a man who could command armies with precision, yet could not command a single sentence right there in that corridor, against the patient voice of a woman who, seemingly, had all night, and had no intention of giving anything away.
"I know who you are, General. Everyone on this ship knows who you are. Half the Outer Rim has heard your name by now."
And, before the silence could engulf the air, before the meaning could land in his mind and soul, your voice carried on its steady pursuit which showed no mercy to the fire in his ribs.
“I also know where we stand.”
Something behind his eyes shifted, the light in them dimmed as if the flame that kept his protest alive got extinguished. His shoulders, broad and tense beneath the robes that had always, somehow, seemed to belong to someone older, someone steadier, dropped into the quiet stance that spoke of defeat.
It was a surrender for a battle he had not been given a chance to negotiate through, for he had already done so, when he had boarded that ship in the middle of the dunes, when he had sealed your name into the void with bloody hands in the desert.
Words rose, still, like ash swirling in the wind to make it to the skies. All the sentences he had silently screamed, all the apologies, the regrets and explanations that came with them, all ten years’ worth of utterances, yet none of them felt worthy against what the years had carved out of you, and none of them felt sufficient to cover what he had owed.
He wondered if they ever could.
They did not make it past his teeth before your voice rang in the sterilized air again, sending his heart into a frenzy.
“Now, unless there is anything I can help with, General,” you spoke, voice cold, dry in a way that could never reveal any emotion underneath, “ - I have a mission to prepare for.”
And, once again, in his troubled blue eyes, he carried the look of the nine-year old boy under the suns, watching your parting figure disappear into a sandstorm - only this time, the sand was durasteel, and the storm was one of his own making.
The thread, the one he had buried alongside every promise he had broken, every plea he had failed and every vow he had made, stretched taut between as you turned the corner without awaiting formal dismissal - and it did not grow cold.
It only shone brighter - and, he knew, through echoes of his destiny etched onto his very bones, through the pulsing pull of the thread, that it would burn him whole one day.
