bedlamsbard | a star wars thing. (Reply)

A thing what I am writing: more genderfuck. But different genderfuck! Also, so far this one is in third-person omniscient, although it will switch to third-person limited later. I don't know, it's a thing, I wanted to do an outsider POV but I didn't actually have a POV in mind. Also because I wanted to perv on my mains:

The starship was one of those old, claptrap monstrosities from the days of the Stark Hyperspace War. Despite the fact that the lights flickered, the air filter rattled, and some kind of parasitic rodent squeaked in the dirty, shadowed corners, the ship was packed full of mismatched cargo grates and passengers of various origin and species. Two of these, both human, had made themselves a place in a corner blocked off by a precarious stack of crates held in place by fraying webbing. One was a tall young female whose dull black hair hung in greasy dreads around her shoulders, except for a single thin braid that extended from behind her right ear, resting against her shoulder. Whatever cheap dye she’d used on the rest of her hair evidently hadn’t taken as well here; patches of dirty gold could be made out in various places on the braid. She wore tight trousers of indeterminate color, but which revealed long, muscular legs that seemed to go on for miles. The cleavage hinted at beneath her faded blue shirt wasn’t nearly as impressive, but still promised a pleasant enough handful for anyone who succeeded in getting past her companion. He was a small man, handsome enough for a human but not the stunner his woman would have been if cleaned up, with red hair and a slightly raw look about his jaw, as if he’d only just shaved for the first time in a long time. He wore a shoulder holster beneath his leather jacket, from which the well-worn grip of a blaster protruded. Despite the racket in the cargo hold, he seemed to be asleep, folded into a lotus position with his hands resting on his knees.

The girl was sprawled on her back across one crate, reading on a datapad with a cracked screen. She sat up as a tinny voice came over the loudspeaker, announcing their imminent arrival at the deepspace den of iniquity known as the Wheel. She pulled her pack over to her, replacing the datapad, and nudged her companion’s knee with her booted foot. He unfolded from his painful-looking position without opening his eyes, his back popping as he stretched and finally opened his eyes.

(They're undercover, obvs. Weirdly, when I did my fantasy casting for a genderswapped Star Wars, I picked someone for lady!Anakin who has a different body shape than what I think of lady!Anakin as having -- very long and leggy, and a little awkward with it. More Keira Knightley or Adrianne Palicki than Margarita Levieva.)

Completely unrelated aside: Standing up on his saddle, maintaining perfect balance as his mount loped along beneath him, Obi-Wan proceeded to run through a series of stretching exercises. The two Padawans observed the demonstration admiringly. Anakin knew that if he were to try such a stunt, he'd be picking himself out of the grass within minutes. What Obi-Wan was doing demanded perfect coordination, complete confidence in his own abilities, and nerves of steel. But then, his teacher was well known for his mastery of the mysteries of the body's neuromuscular complexities. (Alan Dean Foster, Star Wars: The Approaching Storm, which is as a whole rather blah (NOT ENOUGH LULZ), but has some amusing parts. I dunno, the characterization's just slightly sideways for me.)