Actually I Think It Would Be Really Funny If Thrawn Makes Contact With The CDEF And It’s Fucking Roscu

This is a far cry from my usual works, but I must try and feel this poem out.

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New is this pain that graces my lips

The thought of ecstasy at a simple brush of your hips

The tingle of static across skin

Caressing swoop of wings against the soft mounds of flesh

The flutter underneath your chest

Feeling antennae up your graceful legs

Probing proboscis to your sweet heat

Licking away the rose pink blush

I brush soft love across your being

As wings as soft as butterflies descend across supple skin

Tarsus prickling to a melodious gasp

Produced by my simple kiss

dancing in the dark

The afterlife is very sacred to the Chiss. They live their entire lives in service to the Acendancy with the hope that they will be returned to the snow and ice that made them and return to watch over those who they set on the same path. Their students and prodigies.

Thrawn wouldn't pretend to have believed in the idea that after his death his spirit would be magically transported to land where everyone he had ever loved was, where he could watch his people grow, and be at peace. But he also wouldn't deny that he felt a need to protect the Acendancy and that he felt a deep connection to the cold snowy worlds. If he was a spiritual man he would say his soul longed for them. But Thrawn was never a spiritual man, instead he focused his days on protecting his people, his friends; teaching others so that they could do the same; and bettering himself. And in the final days he focused on making sure that his death wasn't in vain. That it meant something. And that final note didn't fall flat.

Thrawn didn't know what would come of him. An eternity burning as some humans believed, would certainly be torture for the Chiss. Wondering forever and ever on planes of ice alone with his thoughts, he couldn't say he would particularly enjoy that. He hoped for eternal darkness, the kind of rest you only get when you enter a deep dreamless sleep. He didn't expect the stories to be true.

He didn't expect to open his eyes and be greeted by soft white light.

Thrawn sat up, his arms coming to rest beside him, none of the sluggishness he had expected was there. There were no burn marks, no shrapnel, none of the telltale signs of the explosion that had taken his life. Or was it the assassin? The purrgil? He couldn't differentiate one moment of the past from another, it all slammed into one jumbled ball. Compared to the stark calm around him, it felt like a blizzard was tearing through his skull.

He held his head in his hands, rocking back and forth, muttering to himself in his mother's tongue, trying to calm himself with the luxury he so rarely allowed. The blizzard was getting stronger. Where am I? Where was I? Who was I? Who am I? What am I? The storm continued to grow and twist and turn. Wrapping him in it's embrace as he slowly began to sink into the soft snow beneath him. A hand reached out and touched his shoulder, and it all came to a stop. The wind was frozen. And his head was empty, for what seemed the first time ever. Looking up at the one who saved him, the face of a Chiss woman stood above. Some 50 odd years younger than she should have been, her bluish black hair slicked back, and an uncharacteristically soft expression on her face stood Ar'alani.

"Mitth'raw'nuruodo..." she whispered, stroking his shoulder. "Come," she held out her hand for him to take.

And he did.

Rising to his feet with her help, he could feel the years sliding off of him, the age, the horrors, until nothing was left except the man he had been years before. With no worries except for the safety of his family. As he rose, he began to see them around him.

The laughing figure of a woman ran past, followed by a gaggle of young girls.

"Vurika!" She passed by.

Ar'alani pulled him forward, to the feet of a middle aged Chiss. He had crinkles around his eyes, but a smile on his face.

"My boy."

"General Ba'kif," Thrawn whispered, hardly recognizing this version of his commander. The older man smiled and slipped an arm around Thrawn's shoulders.

"No status here, simply Ba'kif," Thrawn smiled, a sense of warmth blossoming in his chest. He began to look around, counting off the faces he recognized. Rik'ardok, Mak'ro, In'daro, Ali'astov, even Urf'ianico. There were non-Chiss there as well, though none that he could make out. He saw a man with brown hair and a crooked smile and began his way, before Ba'kif's hand pulled him back with a small bittersweet smile on his face.

"Wha..."

Ar'alani stepped forward "He's not here yet Raw," She explained before once again taking him in her arms and pulling him forward.

"Where are you taking me?" The two Chiss stayed silent, smiles on the both of their faces as they traveled through the comforting cold, surrounded by the voices of the dead. Then standing before them a stadium, an exact replica of the chamber where so many times he was called to explain his actions to the Aristocra, they stopped. He looked around with confusion, wondering what this was. Before the images began. Eli, Faro, Che'ri, every living prodigy of his sprung to live before them. Living out their dreams, and fulfilling their duties to protect their Acendancy. A smile on his lips, the young Raw turned from the spools of colour only to find another man in front of him, a wry smile on his lips. A grin broke out on his own usually stoic face.

"Hello Thrass."

Oh no spoil, I'm not there yet 😆

He would be a stern father but will totally become soft touch with his grand childrens ! The most indulgent person you'll ever met, at the Great dam of his own children. He will spoil them rotten !

Oh totally! More soft with a daughter than a son. But he raised them to survive with the Aristocra. His kids are shocked when they hear him baby talking his grandbabies.

I'm glad I could be of service.

I just finished watching Transformers Prime (haven't watch the movie yet) and...when Bumblebee killed Megatron my heart just dropped, and I think that Optimus's did too. When it just panned over to him with his wide optics as he watched the light go out of Megatron's...I saw a glimpse of Orion there.

And with all honesty, I don't believe that he will be able to live without him. Megatron was his mission, in the beginning the war, before it was even a war, Megatronus was there, they fought together, they were brothers. Then the betrayal came and it became about saving his friend and his planet. Eventually Optimus started to just seek revenge, for his brother and for his home. But at the end, I think that Optimus still had hope that he could save him. He wanted to save Megatron. And that chance was taken away from him.

And for the past 4 million years! Optimus' every waking moment has been consumed by Megatron. How would he live once the mission was over? Who would he be? I don't think he's ready to find the answer to that, and I don't think he'll survive to find out. I don't think he can.

OKAY OkAy BUT a fanfic about cheri stealing a cedf ship after being enlisted and finding thrawn with Ezra and what's left of the Chimera and then Ezra teachers her to be a jedi and omg she gets conflicted about her idol thrawn because he's SO different. He like BIG BAD now. EZRA is talking mad crap saying how thrawn bombed lothal and totally let a guy EXPLODE. And Thrawns all like "but it's for the good of the Ascendancy che'ri. Empire lesser evil bleh blew bleh" and Che'ri is all like "dood wtf you literally saved a species from extinction. And Ar'alani definitely told me about that morse code shit that one time in the Greater Good Book) and she re- sensitzes thrawn (that's not even a word be like you know what I mean). OMG I should learn to be a story teller. God dayum im on a ROLL

Somebody with talent steal my ideas. Make them your own. Make them 💫sparkle💫

Suddenly remembered that Thrawn went from cadet to Grand Admiral in 12 years in a alien hating society. Icon.

Star Wars fic idea

Instead of Anakin and his Jedi attachments going back in time,

It's post-Vader-Anakin and Vader's closest.

Anakin wakes up after dying and one of the unused droids/pieces of droid perks up and complains that all it's gun turrets are gone - The Executor.

The two of them get a transmitter working in hopes of anyone else who knows those as of yet non-existent comm codes will respond.

They get hits from:

~ Axxila (Firmus Piett - he's fine. He's fine. Everything's fine. It's fine)

~ Denon (Max Veers - his wife doesn't know him, his son doesn't exist)

~ Rentor (Thrawn, newly no longer Vurawn, does not know why the force dragged him into this but oh no he's the oldest, isn't he?)

~ Kamino (a very freaked out five year old Chelli Lona Aphra, newly decanted from "malfunctioning" Kamino tech that the Force coopted to grow her into existence nearly a decade early and a significantly less freaked out Boba Fett, squirming in his blankets and using a children's word sound toy to emphasize his displeasure with the situation ...also a very confused and alarmed Jango Fett who is pretty sure newborns aren't supposed to act like this and is very concerned about the daughter-shaped-thing a confused droid delivered to his rooms).

How is a nine year old slave supposed to respond to "what's the plan" when the plan is "turn on everything we worked toward and kill the emperor"? Or: that one where a former-murder-cyborg, his murder ship's AI, an admiral, a general, a double agent, a mad scientist, a crime lord, and a very confused bounty hunter make history. What could possibly go wrong?

Interesting point again: pussy eating, is Thurfian good at it ? Does he licks them like a champ ? Or is meh, or terrible or outright refuses to go down on you ?

I don't think it's his favorite. Like he can do it, especially when he reaches his older years he'll go down every once in a while, when he's younger it's probably a no go though. It's definitely a treat but nothing to write home about.

Thrawn Dances

The Mitth are cold, stoic, and calm. They exude power and control, as emotionless as the ice flats of Csilla. They are stark uniforms, and blazing suns. Intense and they demand perfection. They are from the heart of the Acendancy, and often they consider themselves to be it's center. As one of the Nine they groom their young since birth, or adoption, to be the perfect example of what a Chiss should be: powerful, fearless, an unmovable pillar in the storm. And they certainly don't dance. Not unless the occasion permitted a sharp two step, two persons, arms poised to the side, one two three four, one two three four. It was controlled, it was routine.

The Kivu were different. Further from the core, the family hadn't even existed during the days of old. Small and humble, many would overlook the family. Rentor, a backwater planet, incapable of producing anything of cultural significance. Or so the greater families thought. And true, they were small and humble, living their lives away in small farming areas, preferring not to get mixed up in the political slights of the larger families. And to the outside world they would appear just as any other Chiss family might. But they danced.

Oh, they danced. And not the stiff steps of the higher Mitth, no it was light and jovial, underneath their planet's moon, their arms raised above them, swaying with the wind. Necklaces and bracelets of scales rattled on their bodies, and shook as they thumped their bare feet against the ground. Long skirts and dresses flared out as their wearers twirled and jumped. Streaks and flashes of colour, from scarves and hats, jewelry and shoes came from every direction. Men and women, children and adults, all joined in in the dance. Shaking their instruments and rattling their jewels. Each to their own beat, each expressing their own story and song. Each making their own art.

You could learn a lot about someone from watching them make art.

Their dance was embeded in their hearts, even years after being conditioned into the ways of the higher families, it would remain. Small scars on one's ears, lips, nose. One's steps a bit too light, a rhythm to their run, twirling batons with grace, treating the dojo as a dance floor.

Who would say anything if they saw through the cracks in a warships' doors, a young man swaying to his own song?