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#owen lars – @tenderjock on Tumblr

@tenderjock / tenderjock.tumblr.com

call me sarge; any pronouns are okay; multifandom af. ao3 is also tenderjock. if you are so inclined, please buy me a coffee.
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okay say what you will about Owen Lars (bc I know no one is talking smack about Saint and Saviour Beru Lars), but that 'Anakin was a smuggler' line is genius.

Like, Luke your father was a drug smuggler and so we don't talk about him. Your father was a drug runner and he crossed the line from Good Person to criminal and drug peddler and brought shame on our family. Luke, your father was a drug dealer and he was involved in shady things and it really hasn't been that long and people are probably after him to this day and we have to keep our heads down and stay safe. Luke, your father made it so that we have to pay the consequences of his actions. Made it so that you, Luke Skywalker, can't sing with the stars that call your name because of what he did whilst racing among them.

Luke, your father was a bad man who did bad things, but they were choices, and you can make different ones. You share his last name but you don't share his greed. Luke, addiction is genetic but your father wasn't a drug addict. He was a drug smuggler. He chose to became part of a system that exploits pain and fear, but his decision isn't running through your bones. Luke, you're kind and good and have reached nineteen, on a planet made to break things, whole and gentle.

Luke, my love, you're better than him.

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are ye happy? / no: art thou?

something that never happened.

.

When Stormtroopers kick down the door of their little homestead, Owen spares a fraction of a second to be thankful that Beru and Luke both got caught on the other side of a sandstorm last night and -

He cuts his thought off there. It’s dangerous to think too much, around these sorts of folk. Owen raises the shotblaster, instead.

The first bolt goes wide, even though his aim is true, hands steady and heart steeled. The second shot splutters in the barrel, doesn’t even make it to the dry air. Owen swears, pops out the clip and reloads the chamber. The Stormtroopers get the rest of the door busted open and take up position on either side of the entrance.

Owen doesn’t bother wondering who chooses to visit him like this. He doesn’t have to. He knows, after all.

Darth Vader’s breath rattles in his throat. Owen aims the barrel of the blaster deadeye on his mask. He doesn’t fire. He’s not sure that he can.

“You going to kill me, Anakin?” he asks. A bead of sweat drips down his back, although he feels very cold. 

“The boy,” Vader says, voice like the desert winter wind. “Where is he.”

Owen’s finger twitches on the trigger. “I’m not giving him to you.”

Vader raises a hand, and the shotblaster wrenches itself out of Owen’s hands. “The boy,” he says, and it would sound commanding if Owen didn’t intimately know this feral desert child that he once called his brother. “You will tell me where he is.”

He closes his eyes. He will, is the thing. Owen doesn’t understand much about Jedi and Sith and all that kark, but he knows they have ways of making a person talk even when they don’t want to. He thinks of Luke, tiny, sweet, smart, beautiful Luke.

Owen knows what he has to do. There’s a boning knife that Beru left on the kitchen table, and even space-grade plastoid has hinges.

Darth Vader is quick. Owen, in his moment of desperation, is quicker.

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