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In certain seedy sections of the Galactic Alliance, you can find sex-droids on the black market made up to look like Grand Admiral Thrawn. The bodies are guaranteed to be accurate — they're based off the 'snuff' film taken at Honoghr just after the Battle of Bilbringi. Before the Noghri moved in and started their execution — before the torture and rape — there was a tiny portion of the video, just a minute or two, where the executioners cut off Thrawn's uniform and revealed the naked body underneath. He's muscular, and the droids are, too: their bodies are athletic, firm, a little scarred from battle. Their hair is sleek and black; they look like a warrior in his prime, or maybe just a little past, but still attractive, still strong.
That's not what Leia's into.
She was there that day; the Noghri provided a chair for her, and she sat just behind the recording rod with her legs crossed and her hands folded in her lap. She watched as they cut Thrawn's clothes from his body; he was still unconscious then, but starting to stir. And she could see the appeal of him like that: asleep and vulnerable, his wrists and ankles tied to the posts, his body hanging limp: no idea what was happening to him, or what he would suffer. But the sex-droids aren't like that, of course: they're alert, they have agency to some degree, they're programmed to charm and dominate according to the user's tastes.
Thrawn didn't have those things on Honoghr. Dominance, charm, alertness, agency. His eyes, when he opened them, were clouded from drugs. His silver tongue was blocked by a gag. He couldn't move; he couldn't fight; he couldn't speak.
He could only lie there and take what the Noghri gave to him. Their cocks, long and barbed like a cat's. Their teeth, as sharp as needles sinking into his skin. Their claws carving muscle from his bones, leaving his body open and bleeding him out. Their branding irons cauterized his wounds; their knives dug into his thighs, his cock, left a line of dark blood spraying into the poisoned dirt.
A sex-droid like that would do. Or even better:
A sex-droid like Thrawn is now, a year later. His wounds patched together with synthiflesh. His body gaunt from self-imposed starvation; his bones poking through tight skin. His hair turned white by trauma; his hands shaking as he tries to light a cigarra; his eyes a flat, dull red, his body scarred.
She pictures him trembling beneath her. She pictures him rocking against her body against his will. She pictures his hands untied, but unmoving; his mouth ungagged, but silent; no drugs, no executioners, no leather ties.
And still he doesn't fight her.
And still he can't.
There's no sex-droid that can give Leia that experience.
She needs the real thing.