If you follow me on Tumblr, where I post under the same username, none of these are new – just posting here for other folks to check out.

Vaguely inspired by a snippet I think I saw of Mark talking about dancing in his trailer with Harrison.

Rebel Girls

"A song"

By the time Leia had stalked back to her quarters and slammed the door behind her, she was practically out of breath. She threw her satchel on the table and, after some consideration, yanked off her flats and chucked one, then the other, directly at the wall. Damn it! Damn it all!

She raked fingers through her hair, fuming. Then, suddenly furious at the elaborate style she'd so diligently mastered to fit with local custom, she began to savagely yank out the small army of pins pasting it all together, leaving an enormous ratty mess of curls and tangles framing her face. This diplomatic trip was a disaster, a waste of resources, a waste of everyone's time, all because of her. She could still hear the governor's sneer, feel his unimpressed eyes raking over her: So this is what this alleged New Republic thinks of our potential contribution? They've sent us a little girl as their ambassador?

Damn it all!

And too: how his attendant had held open the door and bowed his head at her assistant, greeting him with "It is an honor, ambassador" – her assistant! Max was competent, sure, but also awkward and gangly and very obviously walking two paces behind her. "It is an honor, ambassador." Damn it all to hell! She who was wearing a white gown on the advice of the provisional council because it was "recognizable," who had spent an hour doing her hair in this stupid elaborate "modest" style to fit local custom, who consented to not walking unaccompanied by a man while planetside, who had dutifully slipped on a stand-in ring even though she and Han were only engaged – all this, to guarantee the successful negotiation of the planet's entry in the New Republic, only to be sneered at.

To be asked, "Oh – where did your husband get off to?"

To be told, "I won't negotiate with a barely-grown girl."

Leia had been raised to value cultural competency and empathy and understanding but if one more person refused to take her seriously just because she was slight and young and female she was going to erupt into flames. She felt her face grow sharp and said aloud to the empty room, her voice nasty, "You didn't mind that I was a young woman when I was risking my life for our cause, did you?"

Maybe it wouldn't have stung so much if so much of it wasn't coming from inside the Alliance now, too. Ever since Han had accidentally spilled the news of her pregnancy – had that hideous briefing only been last week? – suddenly everything she said was silly, everyone listening merely humoring her, every response to her ideas a sympathetic nod and a "Now, Princess…" She had been so proud of how she'd stormed into Mon's office and demanded that she not be taken off this mission – or any further ones – just because of her "condition." Said she'd been carrying things out for four months now while pregnant perfectly well – better than well. And for what?

This was it. No matter how hard she tried, she would always be tiny, naive, virginal, a symbol of tragedy or hope depending, a little girl rather than a serious political player. And soon people would be reaching out to touch her and jokingly calling her Mommy and interrupting her briefings to ask if she needed a chair. Damn it! Damn it! Damn it all to hell!

At least she had Han, she thought as she felt the sting of hot, angry tears on her cheeks. Han who wasn't babying her, who retorted with a sharp "The fuck makes you think that's my decision?" when asked "Gee, Solo, you're letting join you on this mission?", who told her he loved seeing her in serious and in charge, that it was gorgeous and sexy, that it was why he wanted her in the first place.

Still fuming, she paced around the small unit they'd been assigned. Han was planetside too, doing somewhat related intel and really only seeing her when they both flopped into bed exhausted at night. A pair of his boots were splayed unceremoniously across the floor – she wanted to wear boots, it wasn't fair.

She was getting ready to begin a session of punching pillows when her datapad beeped. She glared and snatched it up, ready to defend herself against the council's frustration with how things had gone so poorly so fast. To her surprise, though, it was a holonet link and message from Luke, saying only "Did you see this?"

Leia wrote back immediately: I don't keep track of every article calling me a disgusting slut, sorry.

To which he replied: Do you know Bikini Blast?

Leia rolled her eyes. Is that some kind of "blasters, but for women!" crap?

Haha, very funny. They're a punk band. Just click, trust me.

Leia gritted her teeth. Typical Luke – here she was screaming inwardly about her place in the universe, and he was listening to music. Leia never had had much interest in it – she knew classical Alderaanian works, of course, but faddish contemporary things had never interested her – why listen to music when she could listen to a news broadcast of current events? It seemed like a waste of time.

Turn the volume way up, Luke added.

Half curious, half still hideously angry, Leia amped up the volume on the datapad and followed the link. Punk band. Great. Just what she needed to end her day – a slew of misogynistic shrieks from a group of unwashed men.

The song loaded up, and, to her surprise, the picture attached showed a group of women – young, mostly humans, wearing short skirts and running shoes and looking pissed as hell. And – was the lead singer actually wearing those stupid double buns? Was she from Alderaan – that wasn't possible – was she mimicking Leia? She found herself smiling confusedly, what had Luke sent her this time?, and then felt her face break into an enormous, unexpected grin when she saw the title of the song.

And then it started: a hard procession of drums and then guitar, loud and low and angry. And the lead singer's voice – something like mouthing off, angry and annoyed: That girl thinks she's the queen of the neighborhood! She's got the hottest trike in town!

She wasn't even singing, Leia thought, amused and entertained, just ranting, coy and pissed and still decidedly feminine – "That girl, she holds her head up so high!"

And then a chorus, loud and angry and aggressive and not fucking around: "Rebel girl! Rebel girl! Rebel girl you are the queen of my world! Rebel girl! Rebel girl! I think I wanna take you home – I wanna try on your clothes – uh!"

Fuck that governor, fuck I don't negotiate with little girls, fuck her assistant as the ambassador – suddenly she was up, throwing her monstrous mess of hair back at forth, her eyes squeezed shut. Damn it all – she was more qualified than anyone she knew, she could run this whole goddamn operation herself if people would just let her––

"When she talks, I hear the revolution! In her hips, there's revolution!"

Fuck every man who'd said her voice was too shrill, or else too low and rough – fuck the speechwriter who'd said it would help her to "mention her unborn child" in her next address – fuck every communications creep who'd said as though she wasn't even in the room that a bit more cleavage would make her seem more "approachable," and would she please let down some of her hair!

It wasn't dancing, what she was doing now – more like throbbing. Jumping, flailing, unsexy, uncaring, making noise as her feet thumped against the floor again and again – making a fucking racket, and who would stop her? She whipped her head back and forth, letting the angry tears fly off her face, staining the white dress with sweat, not giving a shit – fuck every one of them, the raised eyebrows at Han, the gossiped lies that she'd bedded her way through the Rebellion's ranks––

"That girl thinks she's the queen of the neighborhood! I got news for you – she is! They say she's a slut, but I know – she is – my best friend – yeah!"

She was so busy not giving a shit that she didn't notice when the door slid open, and as she whipped around a few seconds later during an instrumental break she almost staggered backwards when she noticed him there, leaning in the doorway, watching her and grinning amusedly. This was probably the most un-Han, un-Leia thing she'd ever done, she was sure – they never flailed, they never were outrageous or unironic, they never made fools of themselves or allowed themselves to seem goofy, they never were loud––

She threw out her arms as if to say this is happening, it just is sort of happening and said breathlessly, "I had – such a shit day and then – someone – some punk bad – wrote a song for me – about me – I think about me at least – about a girl being – just – just fucking unstoppable." She shook her head, "I'm sorry, I just––"

But then when the lyrics came back in, he was suddenly beside her, jumping up and down and rocking out.

She felt gasping laughter tumble out of her as she went back to jamming herself – "Rebel girl you are the queen of my world!" – his dance moves were unbelievably absurd, so dorky, so unabashed, so not Han – Han who was suave and cool and masculine, who talked dirty unironically, who smoldered – who did not thrash his head like that and croak out lyrics like "I wanna be her best friend!" with some lady punk singer––

Han who would always support her, who was always there for her – who liked her because she was unstoppable – who told her you used to scare the crap out of me as an awestruck compliment, who moaned when she pushed him onto his back in bed – she felt herself grab his hands and yank them back and forth, laughing, maybe still crying, still jumping, still whipping her hair around, Han who was singing to her, outrageous and absurd, "Rebel girl – you are the queen of my world!"––

As the song closed out, he grabbed her and kissed her forcefully. She could still feel the shape of a laugh in his lips, and she laughed too, raking her fingers through his hair as aggressively as she dared as he moved to kissing her neck. As he lifted her up to haul her to the bedroom, he grunted, "You're fucking unbelievable, sweetheart. Never, ever change."

She tilted her head back, feeling the weight of all that heavy hair, spraying out in every which way, outrageous and untamable, and beamed. "Never ever," she swore, and with it renounced demure as a mother speeches, dresses that give us a better sense of your shape, missions wherein we don't want to strain you, dear, nations that wouldn't negotiate with bright, serious, unstoppable girls. "I won't."

Apparently Bikini Kill exists in a galaxy far, far away.