Ok, i know it might sound crazy but i think Maz Kanata is Supreme Leader Snoke.
THESE ARE THE THEORIES I AM HERE FOR

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Ok, i know it might sound crazy but i think Maz Kanata is Supreme Leader Snoke.
THESE ARE THE THEORIES I AM HERE FOR

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“bruises?”
send me “bruises?” for my muse’s reaction to yours catching them secretly tending to their wounds. || ACCEPTING
it happens unexpectedly, a slight jump given at the looming voice. robes have been discarded after training, a pull on the wounds that have yet to fully heal. bacta can only go so far something the droid ( the one he hadn’t crushed as pain became inescapable, fists curling together as power surged without his control ) had mentioned in passing. once he had been subdued, however, and taken to wherever the supreme leader had demanded ( he is still unsure, still unaware, truly, of this place and what it holds ) the ache from his failings had lessened to a dull throb. yet skin pulls and resurfacing scars cause a hiss, hand going to side and face in an attempt to stifle such insubordination of his own body. ‘ apologies, supreme leader. this will pass soon enough. ‘he wills it to. he cannot seem weak in the face of his mentor.
» ║ @snokc ( starter call. )
how do traitors smell? do they smell of smoke, of fear, of desperation? do they smell of sand, of water, of fire? do their shoulders hang when they speak? this one has a mind like a mantra, waves which crash ‘gainst the hollows of her mind relentlessly: why am i here, why am i here, why am i here? it beats even as she narrows her eyes && glares towards the dark floor. she will not tremble before him. she has chosen better. “ … no. i won’t. ”
@snokc
❛ if you’re going to kill me; just do it. i won’t tell you anything i know. ❜
@snokc
‘ supreme leader ‘ he starts but does not finish, scar still burning, singeing, the skin of his face. it is a reminder, forever etched into his being, of the failure he had committed. he stands before the other with slight trepidation, one he tries to squash before it can grow. there is a rage in him that shakes gloved palms, sinews and muscles straining against the fabric. breathing echoes the beat of his heart as he awaits judgement, awaits strength. he needs more from him to succeed. more power, more rage. he has taken his lessons to heart but it is not enough. it will never be enough in terms of the girl. he must crush her beneath his palm before she rises too far to the wrong side. ‘ the girl she is not as we expected. ‘

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❛ there is no conflict. ❜
❛ oh, really? is that not what this is? ❜ dulcet tones nought polite & thick with unshed laughter. she is trapped in a lion’s den & like a wounded animal, she snarls. a wildfire flares & flickers against her marble bones. all consuming — she is built from flames, a phoenix stark against barren ash. nebulae dripping like ichor from the pores of ivory skin, she is a galaxy manifestation. untouched by time, old as the stardust within her ferrous veins & still vivid as moonglow. she, a hurricane song & saltwater tragedy. her CRUMBLING FLESH pieced together with broken fingers. a beckoning abyss; calling forth with crooked fingers & gentle hymns ( do not go gentle into that good night ) ❛ this universe is protected by the doctor, & if you’ve heard anything about me then you should know you’re in a lot of trouble. ❜
star wars sentences.
( HC + Fear. )
Send me “HC” + a word and I’ll write a headcanon about it. (accepting)
She told me survival is a talent—
▌▏Ŧ-И ▕▐
They have no use for fear. Fear is paralyzing, Fear is feeling. The First Order has no use for the feelings of their [child soldiers]. You have to remember this because forgetting means pain and punishment and though they don’t want your fear, they WILL use it against you.
( You are a shell. A weapon. You are human and malleable. )
When you sleep, you dream of the void, the nothingness that should exist inside of you but sometimes, sometimes you smell smoke. You hear the cries of a mother cut short interspersed with marching maneuvers, the left right left right of heavy footsteps they’re only just teaching you. The inhuman feel of cold armor against a skin unused to such restraints. You wake up heaving for breath and you’re not the only one. Some of the boys cry, trying to hide tears in a thin pillow.
( You say nothing, you pretend. Secretly, you’re glad for the morning that chases away the cloying scent of terror. )