My name is Shannon and I love Luke Skywalker ALMOST as much as Biggs Darklighter does. I'm a nonbinary, Dutch, ace lesbian 20 whatever who loves all things space.
Has anything actually gotten better, for all the work you talk about doing? Or is it just treading water in misery forever?
Anon, ten years ago gay people couldn't get married in large parts of the US. AIDS was an almost certain death sentence when I was in high school. I was looking at job boards the other day and found a part time gas station job that had health insurance as a benefit, which NEVER would have happened 15 years ago. When I was a kid, hitting your child was extremely normalized in the US and my parents were the weird ones for not doing it. There is a vaccine for chicken pox. I didn't meet anyone who had transitioned until my 20s because it was so uncommon to transition in the aughts, and now there are some states that protect your right to have gender affirming care provided by your health insurance. It's not all states, but it's better than the number of states that had it in 2010, which was zero. THERE ARE TENANTS UNIONS NOW. WE HAVE A VACCINE AGAINST CERVICAL CANCER.
And all of that has been the work of a lot of individuals and organizations and research teams and activists.
Do you know how bugfuck insane the words "Unionized Starbucks" would have sounded to someone in 2005? Baristas getting union-mandated breaks could have been a throwaway joke in part of the Scary Movie franchise as something ridiculous.
RALPH NADER WAS AGITATING FOR A FIFTEEN DOLLAR MINIMUM WAGE IN 2004 AND SHIT IS MOVING SLOWLY BUT MY STATE HAS A TWENTY DOLLAR MINIMUM WAGE FOR FAST FOOD WORKERS. WHEN I STARTED HIGH SCHOOL THE ONLY OPTION FOR AN ABORTION AFTER 7 WEEKS WAS SURGICAL AND NOW THERE'S A PILL.
FUCKING. ELECTRIC CARS. SO GODDAMNED MANY PEOPLE HAVE SOLAR PANELS ON THEIR HOUSES OR IN THEIR PARKING LOTS.
WE DON'T HAVE SMOG DAYS IN LOS ANGELES ANYMORE UNLESS THERE'S A FIRE AND IT'S BECAUSE OF CARB STANDARDS.
LITERALLY MILLIONS OF FUCKING PEOPLE TURNED OUT TO PROTEST POLICE BRUTALITY IN 2020 AND YOU CAN SAY "NOTHING HAPPENED" ALL YOU WANT BUT THE WAY PEOPLE TALK ABOUT IT NOW IS FUCKING DIFFERENT THAN THEY DID AFTER RODNEY KING AND NOW PEOPLE WILL STOP AND WATCH OUT FOR EACH OTHER INSTEAD OF GOING 'NOT MY BUSINESS'
THERE IS A MALARIA VACCINE THAT HAS BEEN GIVEN TO OVER A MILLION CHILDREN IN JUST THE LAST FIVE YEARS SINCE IT WAS APPROVED FOR USE OUTSIDE OF TRIALS
pairing: luke skywalker/biggs darklighter | wedge antilles | han solo
rating: mature, 18+
words: 3.4k
***
Every time Luke looks at him, it’s like the first time all over again.
Tall, solid, standing in a stark white jacket against the ever-rolling beige of the dunes. Handsome face gleaming in the light of the twin suns. Biggs is everything Luke wants to be, everything he dreams about, sturdy and funny and likable, friends with everyone and scared of nothing. Biggs would stand in the flightpath of a TIE fighter if it meant protecting the people he loves. Luke wants to think he’d do the same, but he’s not sure – he’s hardly sure of anything these days, besides the constant winds kicking up the sand like waves on a sea, and the yearly harvest that keeps him chained to this dry, barren rock like a bantha in a pen.
Luke feels lost among the grains of sand, more often than not. He tries to make friends and he thinks he’s succeeded a few times but he can never really tell. Luke is too loud, too eager, too young and green. Just another moisture farmer screwing in loose bolts and dreaming of something bigger. Something outside of himself.
But Biggs – Biggs likes Luke, and will throw one of his long, strong arms over the farm boy’s shoulders, ruffle his sandy hair and say something like, “You’re too funny, kid.” And it’s not a bad thing this time, being too -something with Biggs because Biggs is too -everything and look where it’s got him: flying off to see the stars, to pilot real ships, escaping the crushing gravity of Tatooine, finally. Biggs is too funny, too kind, too ready to fight, his smile is too big – gods, Luke thinks, his smile, a grin that lights up a room brighter than the binary noon suns, teeth peeking out from beneath his thick, dark mustache, the front two slightly crossed over each other just enough to make it this side of perfect, and for whatever reason that little imperfection makes Luke’s stomach do somersaults anytime Biggs turns that smile to him. There’s a cowlick on the back of Biggs’s head that makes his dark mop twist into a funny swirl. The little slice in his left eyebrow where hair won’t grow anymore after he took a tumble on his landspeeder, the result of a dare. This collection of small foibles reminds Luke that Biggs is real, here, right in front of him as he points across the buttes and salt flats toward Mos Eisley and says, “There, Luke – one day, you meet me there and we’ll fly outta here. Together.”
Luke squints in the harsh light. The township feels a million miles away. How will he ever get there?
And deep in his gut, Luke feels something twist and drop like maybe he’s swallowed a hot stone or had too many fermented star berries, drank too much Jet Juice. It’s not just the heat of the afternoon that’s got him sweating, and he suppresses a shiver as Biggs pulls him closer into his side. Luke can’t help but notice the crown of his head only comes up to the sharp jut of Biggs’s chin. He clenches his hands into fists at his sides to stop himself from doing something drastic – he doesn’t know what, but he knows he’d make a fool of himself.
Luke always feels like he’s making a fool of himself in front of Biggs. But his friend just smiles and laughs and shakes his head of dark hair so it falls in his eyes, and says “You’re a funny one, Luke.” Funny, always funny, always goofing off so that he can hear Biggs’s laugh just one more time. That loud, joyous laugh that booms from somewhere between Biggs’s ribs and caresses Luke in tickling warmth until it’s reverberating in his brain and making him dizzy. The embarrassment and delight marry in Luke’s stomach until it’s flip-flopping all about his body, and he can never hold Biggs’s gaze for longer than a few beats – his friend’s dark eyes are too heavy, too penetrating, and he’s sure Biggs can see right into his brain and will notice all the jaunting thoughts about him rattling around in Luke’s sandy-haired head.
Luke thinks Biggs keeps watching him for a second or two after he looks away, but he can never be sure.
Biggs is everything Luke dreams about, even after this friend leaves Tatooine. Tossing, turning in his bed, Luke’s eyes dancing behind his eyelids as his mind wanders to Biggs’s strong hands, long legs, sweet smile. Tangling in his scratchy sheets to the abstract whim of how those hands might feel on his body, on his sweat-slicked chest, traveling down to the waistband of his pants as the calluses on Biggs’s work-worn fingers catch on the fine hairs rising up Luke’s abdomen. Tatooine nights can get icy cold but Luke still wakes with a start, his sunny hair stuck to his damp forehead as he sits up in bed. He needs to stop being surprised when he looks down to see he’s reached full hardness in his sleep. And he needs to stop being mortified when he takes care of himself in a euphoric rush, a swift and fisted hand and Biggs’s name dripping from his lips in gentle whispers like fresh juice from a desert plum.
Both are easier said than done.
Luke wonders if he’ll ever know what it’s like to look at Biggs and not feel like the entire galaxy is falling in on them. So far, he’s still waiting.
***
Every time Luke feels him, he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
Hands, arms, tangled legs in a dark corner of whatever base they’re stationed at now. Fast and rough and glorious. Shirts pulled from the waistband of pants and hair knotted between fisted fingers. It has to be like this – like it’s their last hour on this planet, this moon, because it just might be and that’s an unbearable thought they’ve both learned to live with and in these moments of clashing teeth and bruised lips, they both need the reminder that they’re alive.
Wedge’s mouth seems to slot perfectly against Luke’s every time, even if he tastes like engine smoke and the bitter iron of adrenaline.
Survivors: that’s what they are. Pushed together by equal and opposite forces. Or maybe, one is drawn to the other like binary stars, orbiting each other closer and closer until they meet in a collision of galactic proportions. Sparks. Shards. That kind of stuff.
Luke and Wedge have beat the unbeatable, lived the unlivable, crawled through death and destruction on their hands and knees and made it out the other side, and there’s always an other other side they have to reach and they always do, somehow, some way. They’ve seen their friends go up in fire and smoke and shredded durasteel plating – some were in the middle of a joke, and order, a hope to see home again. And then: the absent space just occupied by Gold Five; the last syllable uttered by Red Twelve still echoing in Luke’s head, and he waits for the rest of the letters but they never come. Stars burned out like a snuffed flame. There, then not.
It’s nearly too much for Luke to wrap his mind around, how fleeting this all is – life, war, love, the feel of another’s body against his own. If he thinks too hard about it, tears spring to his eyes and drip from the corners before he can stop them, before he can rush away from Leia’s questioning gaze and to a secluded back hallway where no one can see him weep. He sucks in a stuttering breath and puts the palm of one sweaty, shaking hand against the cool wall and out of his memory comes Biggs’s jaunting laugh, crashing against his body like bitter winds until Luke doubles over and gags. His stomach looks to purge itself, but nothing comes up. Nothing but the tangled sound of a sob and a retch, and the shadows protect him from the worst of it but they cannot cover the echoes of his friends’ last screams.
This is Luke Skywalker: the new hope for the Jedi Order. The destroyer of the Death Star. A farm boy who has never known anything but dry heat and endless grains of sand, realizing for the first time that life is a fickle and careless thing.
And this is Wedge Antilles: a star fighter pilot who stares at Luke from the back hallway he thought was deserted, the tears in his brown eyes making them look like river stones.
Luke starts when he notices him, backing up against the stone wall, but even that doesn’t leave much of anywhere to go. Wedge has his scuffed helmet hanging loosely in his hand, and in the dim light Luke can see wet trails on his angled cheeks. He’s torn the top of his orange jumpsuit from his shoulders and stands there with the sleeves dragging the floor, white undershirt clinging to his slim, sweaty frame. They look at each other for a moment, a few inconsequential beats in spacetime that fade in and out of existence like a breath, until Luke mutters the only thing he can think to say.
In a thick, quiet voice: “I’m sorry.”
Then came the low mum of a reply, equally heavy, equally soft: “Me too.”
That’s how it started. And somehow it moved to an embrace, arms wrapped around torsos and hands clutching dirty linen like a lifeline, and Wedge’s hair is soft against Luke’s forehead as he tucks his face against the other man’s neck. Luke can smell the sweat on him, the oil and grease and smoke, and it’s acrid and burns his nose and Luke’s fingers drift to feel the heated skin of Wedge’s shoulder and like a strike of lightning he remembers he’s alive . Like the cruel cut of a knife, the feeling slices through him to the bone, to the crux of his very being until that limping sense of self-preservation finds a voice and says You’re alive, you’re alive, this is it, you’re alive . And those wandering hands find their way into Wedge’s dusky hair and both men pull back from each other at the same time, brown eyes staring into blue, swimming with unshed tears and unspoken words. And Luke realizes for a second time that day that life is a fickle and careless thing but death is lurking not far behind, and he’d rather have a fickle lover than no lover at all.
A kiss, wet and hot and tasting of salty tears. Luke isn’t sure who leans in first. But he does know it’s him who leans in for a second one, and a third. And he knows it’s Wedge who shoves him further down the narrow corridor until his back hits a solid wall hard enough for the wind to leave his lungs. And he knows it’s Wedge’s tongue that licks into his open mouth. And the pilots stumble their way through Is this okay ’s and More, please ’s until Luke is dizzy with life, absolutely reeling from Wedge’s skin against his own, Wedge’s lips against his own, Wedge’s hand against his —
Life is fickle, Luke thinks as Wedge sinks to his knees before him, tugging his uniform pants down around his knobby knees. Life is fickle, but life is here, now, in a shadowed corridor and in a supply closet a million light years away and in a pilot’s seat floating among the stars.
Life is sprawling forward for Wedge and Luke like the ever-expanding rim of the universe, and neither of them know when they will fall off the edge into oblivion. In the meantime, Luke thinks, the sweet sting of pleasure will keep him buoyed above the surface.
***
Every time Luke hears him, he doesn’t know whether he wants to kill him or kiss him.
He thinks he knows which Han would prefer.
It’s a common theme – he’s so infatuated with the smuggler, the pilot, the run-headfirst-into-danger Corellian that he wants to strangle the man, crumple him up into a little ball and keep him in his pocket.
But Han is too big, too loud to be kept in a back pocket. Han is a bright, hot comet scorching through the galaxy, leaving space dust sprinkled over the places he’s been and the people he’s seen. He’s uncontainable, unable to be boxed in by conventional methods and left hurtling from corner to corner of life like a ball in a game. He’ll burn you, if you’re not careful.
Han is unlike anyone Luke has ever met. And loathe he is to admit it, that’s exactly why Luke’s so spellbound.
Being around Han is intoxicating, like you’ve downed a full bottle of Corellian whiskey in one gulp and then spun around until your whole world is made of blurs and shadows except Han, that smug, easy smile a beacon in the night. “You alright, kid?” No , Luke wants to shout, No, I’m not okay. You’re too bright, Han, you’re too distracting. Stop smiling. Stop flipping your stupid, perfect hair out of your face, not boyish like mine but angled, older, so effortlessly handsome I want to see it destroyed. You’re all I want, Han. You’re everything.
But the words never come out that way.
“I don’t know, what do you think? A princess and a guy like me—“
“No.”
The single, round sound came so easily to him, chipped and tinged with the sour taste of jealousy. He had to hide his face, then – he felt if Han looked into his eyes a second longer the man would see the desperation spilling from his tear ducts.
Sometimes the word is just a “Yeah,” simple and meaningless and falling broken from his dry lips. Luke hates how Han makes him forget how to speak without yelling. He hates when Han’s in the room, he can’t bear to look away. It’s like watching a supernova – a stunning display of beauty and boldness and self-destruction put on for the masses. Luke sometimes wonders if one day he’ll reach out toward Han and his fingers will card through smoke; he’s so effervescent, so bound up in the beauties and brutalities this galaxy has to offer. That maybe one day Han Solo will fade from existence, proven to simply be a trick of the light, a fallacy, because something so bold and brash and breathtaking was just too impossible to exist on this plane of reality.
But then Han claps Luke on the back so hard he almost trips over his too-big feet, his body made up of long lines and sharp edges, and he’s being pulled into Han’s side, roughly, squeezed against this flesh and blood man whose body is warm and soft against his own, who tugs him in with a guffaw and a big, strong arm across his shoulders, fingers kneading him there. And Luke is helpless to stop it, this blasé gesture of camaraderie that now feels so intimate because he can feel the sharp jut of Han’s hip against his waist, even through the layers of linen.
How many times has he wondered what those hips might feel like pushed flush against his own? It’s impossible to enumerate the nights Luke has slept within walking distance of Han and still worked himself up to the thought of Han’s body, always at a bend, built of smooth, lax lines; or his hands, callused and rough and smelling of engine grease and carbon scoring; or his lips, so often upturned in an agonizing smirk that says I know more than you, I know what I’m all about and I could charm the pants off of you if I wanted to ; or maybe, his voice, that smooth timbre the consistency of amber liquor, dripping all over Luke with Hey, kid’s and Y’alright, kid ’s and C’mere, kid ’s until Luke is drowning in the sweet burn of that liquor, the same color as Han’s hair and twice as soft.
Han embodies everything Luke was aching for when he left Tatooine, and a few things he wasn’t, too. Like a collection of space rocks and ice and stars swirling around each other with such speed and force until it all becomes a hot pinprick of life – and then, eventually, explodes.
Luke doesn’t know whether to kill Han, or kiss him. And then, one day, after a hopeless battle only saved by the quick trigger finger of a Corellian scoundrel, Luke decides.
The dark, musty wall of the Yavin IV ziggurat slaps against Han’s back as Luke pushes him flush against it, shaky farm boy hands gripping the labels of Han’s popped-open collar. Before Han can get out a slurred wisecrack, before Luke himself can fall prey to the bubbling embarrassment and anxiety threatening to rise up his throat, Luke kisses Han, hard, with so much force that the thud of Han’s head on the brick wall echoes throughout the small, empty chamber they’ve found themselves in.
“Ow!” Han shouts into Luke’s mouth, hand coming up to cradle the crown of his head. Luke cracks open an eye to see Han’s pinched brow, his eyes closed still. Han’s lips move against Luke’s as he hisses an expletive like it’s hot on his tongue. “Fuck .”
The diversion only lasts a few beats because the second Luke starts to pull back, to ask if this is okay, I didn’t hurt you, did I? – Han yanks him closer by his collar and, with something of a growl, plants a hot, wet kiss on his chapped lips.
It’s all pliant lips and grazed teeth and nose against crooked nose, and Han tastes like blaster smoke and cinnamon, and Luke feels like he’s drowning again, always drowning, always such a small grain of sand in the vast ocean that is Han. Sweat and spit combine and it leaves Luke lightheaded, and he’s so hot and claustrophobic but it’s not just the humidity of this wet, soggy planet; no, it’s how Han kisses him like he’s been waiting for this, pulling Luke’s bottom lip between his teeth and swallowing all the breathy sounds Luke lets out. It’s so much, it’s overwhelming – it’s so very much Han that Luke shouldn’t even be surprised.
The beep of Luke’s com startles him and he jumps, gasps, and now Han wandering tongue is exploring the inside of Luke’s mouth, licking into him, and the gasp morphs into a stuttering, embarrassing moan in short order.
The part of Luke’s mind that is somehow still functioning on fumes muses that the message must be from Leia, wondering where he is, reminding him of the medal ceremony, asking if he’s seen Han or if the smuggler finally flew the coup.
A solid on his waist. Another cupping the back of his neck, caressing him there, making the hairs on his head stand on end. Luke shivers, tries to keep up with Han’s working lips, a dance to which he’s still learning the steps. And then, very suddenly and very real and very deliberate, a wide thigh, the one without the blaster holster, nestles itself up between his own, and the sound that escapes Luke’s lips is utterly pathetic.
“Hell,” Han mutters against the corner of his mouth, and his voice wraps around Luke like the thick, hot air of Yavin, suffocating him. Maybe he’s been launched out into the vacuum of space – he must have, he can hardly breathe. But Han is real, right here, not a trick of the light this time. Clear enough to feel and be felt by. True enough for Luke to sink his teeth into.
There’s that voice again, so heavenly and vexing, a voice that makes Luke question his judgment every time he hears it. But this time, it’s soft, rushed out between kisses as he tries to seemingly devour Luke whole; it’s spoken intermittently through him mouthing along Luke’s jaw, tongue darting out to taste the sweat on his skin. This time, Luke thinks, Han’s voice had led him to the right decision.
“Geez, kid,” Han mumbles against his skin, and Luke feels like he’s been burned. “Took ya long enough.”
***
This is who Luke Skywalker is, from moment to moment, from dream to dream, from chaste kiss to desperate grasp. Wars are won and lost and children are born and friends die and lovers are joined together and stars go nova and the Force outlasts everything, but this is who Luke Skywalker is, today, right now. Tomorrow is altogether unknowable.
This year we need more than ever to remember that Stonewall was a movement lead by black trans women to combat the police brutality seen in queer and other minority communities
Be proud, but never stop being angry. We were given rights because our ancestors gave them riots
To be neutral is to side with the oppressor. Black Lives Matter. Then, now, and forevermore. Be proud. Be angry. And fuck cops
[ID: A fully colored and shaded digital drawing that has “The first pride was a riot” written in rainbow lettering above and below the center. In the center, Black hands are cupping a bleeding block of concrete. Rainbow flowers are growing out of cracks in the middle. Hanging from their hands is a silver necklace with a trans symbol pendant. In the background is the Philadelphia pride flag. Behind that is a light pink background]
“Luke,” Biggs breathed, “I thought you were long dead.”
Luke wasn’t moving.
Leia stared at her brother, then back to the dark-haired man who’d just waltzed up to them on Ord Mantell, then back to Luke. His mouth was opening and closing like a gooberfish’s.
Then he surged forwards, with a ferocity Leia had never seen in him, and Biggs was laughing; they were hugging.
“You’re alive,” Luke was whispering, “you’re alive.”
Send me the first sentence of a fanfic and I’ll write you the next five!
“Luke,” Biggs breathed, “I thought you were long dead.”
Luke wasn’t moving.
Leia stared at her brother, then back to the dark-haired man who’d just waltzed up to them on Ord Mantell, then back to Luke. His mouth was opening and closing like a gooberfish’s.
Then he surged forwards, with a ferocity Leia had never seen in him, and Biggs was laughing; they were hugging.
“You’re alive,” Luke was whispering, “you’re alive.”
Send me the first sentence of a fanfic and I’ll write you the next five!
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