An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
The flight back from Jabba's Palace leads Han and Leia right where they needed to be, in each other's arms.
“Han, I’m not going to slip through your fingers.” She whispered, hesitant to disrupt the gentle moment between them, but in spite of her words, her fingers closed around his forearm, just to feel his pulse humming beneath the skin. “Han, you’re staring right through me.”
She could see the fight he was having behind his eyes, and she was about to speak up to try to pull him out of it until he finally broke his silence. “Don’t go.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
“Have you already worn yourself out over there?" She had almost forgotten about the different cycles between them. Had his schedule fallen that far off from hers? "What time is it where you are?”
Han gave a shrug, genuinely clueless on that information. He knew he’d been working at least thirty hours only because her last call was at the start of his previous flight. “Who’s to say? It was nightfall when I landed, and I guess I am due to sleep, but I couldn’t miss your morning call.”
A short look into how Han and Leia deal with being a long distance couple.
Now it's like snow at the beach
Weird, but fuckin' beautiful
“What are you wearing?”
When Leia stopped, laughing lightly into her hand, Han looked down confused, pinching his shirt away from his chest as he looked down at the singes on his collar and charred stains on his pants. “What’s wrong with it? I’m not showing off for anybody.” He shrugged as the fabric fell back into place. “What are you wearing?” He flashed that crooked grin as he stepped into her, reaching up to bat one of the gems dangling from her headpiece.
With a roll of her eyes, Leia reached up to his chest, properly adjusting his shirt into its place, her smile not leaving her just yet. “It came from the dinner party. It’s ceremonial. It was a gift from the royal family we were hosting.”
“You didn’t tell me there was a dinner. I might have cleaned up for it.” He reached for her hand to stop her from picking any further at his good work shirt. Sure, it didn’t look pretty, but it was one of the few with functioning buttons not melted together.
“I didn’t want anyone to tell me there was a dinner. If I was going to be bored, I know you would have been.”
Leia was content to have her hand resting in his and their bodies stood together, but Han didn’t want to settle for such little contact. He kept her hand tucked in his against his chest and used his free arm to wrap around her waist and tug her fully toward him.
He grinned as it earned him a quick gasp from her. “You’re going to stain this dress. You’ve been under these floorboards for hours, Han. You are covered in grease and soot.” Her tone was only half stern as she made no effort to leave his arms.
This only encouraged Han to wrap his other arm around her, securely locking her against his chest. “Well then, I’m just going to be cleaning this dress later, won’t I?” He ducked down to kiss the smile creeping back up on her lips.
“You are still such a scoundrel.” She shook her head and slipped her arms around his neck. Her fingers toyed with the curls at his nape as she stared almost dreamily up at the man. They’d done this a hundred times before. It was more expected than not that when Leia returned from whatever debate she’d been having, Han would pop up from whatever location of the ship he was fixing that day to welcome her home. It wasn’t always that he was wearing the Falcon’s dirt on his chest, but when he was, it was his responsibility to clean the garments he’d soiled. It was their own little routine, however odd it looked. Her, in her dresses or suits perfectly pressed and spotless, and him, in his worn out work shirts smeared with his last job. “We must make one hell of a picture together now.”
Han laughed, sure that the welding goggles on his head didn’t match the crown on hers, but he couldn’t think of one thing he would change about them. Never could he have imagined he’d be standing there with the woman who seemed to have walked out of his dreams. If it was still one, he never wanted to wake up from it. “Yeah, we do. A beautiful one.”
Flying in a dream
Stars by the pocketful
You wanting me
Tonight feels impossible
“How dare you. How are you going to sit there and treat me like a child?” She spat, reaching for the clip on the headpiece only to simply yank it from her hair when it didn’t come easily enough.
“You’re looking at this problem like one and being entirely unreasonable. You’re not considering the impact of this proposal to our neighbors-”
“Now you’re going to talk politics to me instead of my manners? Where was this in the meeting among our peers? Can you not take me seriously in a room with anyone else? I am the leader of this world. I was elected by our people, and until my time is gone, I will use my voice to speak for them, and you will use yours to carry a unified platform to the rest of the galaxy. I have appointed you as a courtesy to our people, not as a courtesy to you. How much of that is unclear?” Leia was seething as she stared back at her mother, realizing only then that they’d reached the same eye level. If it weren’t for their shoes, maybe she would have even surpassed her mother’s height. Maybe she would still be smaller. It didn’t matter. Their heights didn’t change their ranking. Growing up without her mother around would have happened regardless of her variety of headwear.
Padmé looked scandalized by her daughter’s words. Never had they fallen so far out of sync, even with the distance between them. “I do still remember a queen’s duties. I was once one, however long ago you think that was. I am only preparing you for the pushback you will receive if you should take this to the Senate floor, your majesty.” The title sounded silly from her mouth, like a teasing nickname. It boiled Leia’s blood to hear that she was still being treated like a child, as if her office were a cute costume for her to put on.
“No. Say it,” Leia jerked back. “Say it properly. Because within these walls, I am not your daughter. I am your queen. I cannot and I will not stand to be treated this way by the one person who is supposed to understand the way this works. We are meant to be allies. We are equals here. More than that, on this world, I am your superior. I am not asking you to bow to me. I’m asking you to respect what I have to say.”
Somewhere amidst her lecture, Padmé had moved closer to her daughter, reaching up to smooth a hair that had come askew when Leia had pulled out her headpiece. The air was tense and silent for too long before she finally spoke. “I don’t know how I missed seeing you grow into a woman.”
“You seem very certain about that, Anakin,” he noted.
“Yeah, but rumours are usually pretty specific about details like that,” Anakin shrugged. “It’s a rumour in the Senate, right? So it’s a rumour about a Senator, too.”
Palpatine began to object, then paused.
“Well, yes, but not specifically-” he began.
“Are there rumours about a Senator whose judgement has been impaired because she’s sleeping with a Jedi?” Anakin went on. “Because if there is then we just line them up and that explains who it is. Or who it’s supposed to be.”
He frowned, minutely. “My money’s on Mon Mothma, honestly. Or Bail Organa. Are we sure the rumour said female?”
Palpatine raised a hand.
“Well-” he began, but Anakin was already standing up.
“Actually, I’m going to ask someone else about this,” he said. “See you later, Chancellor!”
“Anakin, I’m trying to-” Palpatine said, but he was talking to an empty office.
“Really?” Padme asked, then shook her head. “No, that’s not one I’ve heard.”
“You’re sure it’s not one that’s passed you by?” Anakin asked. “I don’t know how much Senators talk to one another.”
“We do it a lot,” Padme told him dryly. “It’s the main thing we have time to do. Are you sure the rumour said female? Because I’m getting a lot of my information from Bail Organa, and he’d be my first guess.”
“He was my second,” Anakin told his wife. “But, no, Palpatine was sure it was a female senator.”
“Then I’m out of ideas,” Padme said. “I’d have thought Mon Mothma, but she’s happily married to Perrin Fertha and he looks more like Qui-Gon Jinn than Obi-Wan.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Anakin said. “And, honestly, I don’t really believe it myself… he didn’t shack up with Satine even when it would have been a net benefit to the Order and the Galaxy and stuff.”
He frowned. “Unless…”
“Unless?” Padme asked. “That sounds like you’ve had an idea, Ani.”
“What about if the rumour was trying to throw me off?” Anakin asked. “I heard it from the Chancellor, but maybe he has another reason to say it. He is a politician… maybe Obi-Wan is seeing Palpatine, and the female senator bit was to throw me off?”
Padme blinked.
“I’m fairly sure they don’t like one another very much?” she tried.
“That’s just what they want us to think, right?” Anakin asked. “Think about it! That’s actually a way better way to disguise a relationship than what we’ve been doing.”
He glanced at Padme. “What have we been doing to disguise our relationship, actually? I’m sure there’s something.”
“We don’t tell anyone that we’re married?” Padme said. “It’s worked so far.”
Padme smiled, then her smile turned into a frown. “Now I think about it, I can’t remember a time when Palpatine was interested in women – as a Senator or as a Chancellor. So it’s not immediately wrong… I just can’t think of a time he was interested in men either.”
Anakin looked thoughtful. “I think… I’m trying to think of a time he’s looked at Obi-Wan that way, but the only person I can think of he looked at that way is me…”
Obi-Wan’s commlink rang, and he nearly crashed his starfighter into the raw matter of hyperspace itself.
“What is it?” he asked, picking up the commlink in one hand.
“Master!” Anakin said. “I think Palpatine is just using you to get to me!”
Obi-Wan, who had no context whatsoever, just sort of stared for several seconds.
“What?” he said, then noticed that the nav computer was giving him urgent warnings and yanked back on the hyperdrive lever. His Actis fighter dropped out of hyperspace, and he disengaged from the hyperspace ring with the practised motion of someone who had become very, very good at a thing they fundamentally didn’t like doing very much.
“I thought about how he’s been looking at me,” Anakin explained. “Whatever he’s told you, I don’t think it’s real.”
“Anakin, what are you-” Obi-Wan began, then paused. “Actually… wait.”
“What?” Anakin asked. “You don’t believe me?”
“I am trying to think,” Obi-Wan answered. “And fly a ship, as well. I have a job to do before Cody gets here.”
“All right, Master, I’ll wait,” Anakin said. “But this is important. I don’t want your heart to be broken.”
“My – no, this is important, Anakin,” Obi-Wan replied. “You killed Dooku, correct?”
“This seems completely irrelevant, but yes,” Anakin answered. “Why?”
“I was thinking about something Dooku told me once,” Obi-Wan told Anakin. “He said that Darth Sidious had control of a lot of Senators.”
“Still not seeing the connection, unless you think those Senators have been seducing you,” Anakin replied.
“I think the Chancellor is Sidious,” Obi-Wan declared. “And, Anakin, you’re going to have to tell the Council and get help sorting it out, I am landing in less than two minutes.”
Anakin was silent for several seconds of those less than two minutes.
“If you want to break up with him, Master, you don’t need the whole Jedi Council to do it for you,” he said. “And if you think he’s hideous, why did you start sleeping with him in the first place?”
“Put Padme on the line,” Obi-Wan suggested. “No, wait.”
“Waiting, Master,” Anakin replied.
Obi-Wan took a deep, calming breath.
“Put your wife on the line,” he resumed. “Or, if she’s not there, tell her that I’m fairly sure Chancellor Palpatine is the other Sith we’ve been looking for. And get her to call a vote of no confidence, she’s good at those.”
Satisfied that that would buy him the time he needed, he began making his final landing approach.
It was only a shame he wouldn’t get to see their faces, really. But desperate times called for desperate measures.
“Leia, do you remember your mother? Your real mother?”
“Just a little bit. She died when I was very young.”
“What do you remember?”
“Just images, really. Feelings.”
“She was very beautiful, kind...but sad.”
From this
Through the years, there were many duties Tsabin took up as Padmè’s second. She’d sacrificed anything if her queen only asked. Her career, her identity, her life if it were necessary, and all too often, it was only luck she got to keep it. It was bittersweet when it ended. Her life may have been safer, but it left her lost and confused. What purpose did she have? Who was she without Padmè? She’d been Sabè for so long that she had to remind herself of her name every morning. Sabè was a role they created, a life lived and now gone. Tsabin was the woman she was left with, a life she abandoned at sixteen.
They had been so close that it stung to hear of her passing through a hurried commlink. Of all people, it came from Bail Organa, and of course, it came with a request. One last mission for her queen, but not one that could be discussed in the open. She needed to make it to Alderaan to find what it entailed. A baby. A little girl named Leia, she learned. Padmè’s daughter.
Bail was hesitant to separate from her, but they couldn’t keep her at the palace. The family needed to draw up an official adoption, which meant they needed a mother to adopt from, as well as someone to care for the child until they were cleared. The girl couldn’t just appear out of nowhere, even if they were the ruling members of their world. It was one thing she knew endeared Padmè to her friends on Alderaan. The royal couple remained incredibly humble and transparent, which gained them such loyalty from their people, but created a terrible problem when they got into a mess like this one. Tsabin was troubled by the idea, but she had sworn loyalty to Padmè, and even if her queen was gone, this was when Padmè most needed her. And so, Leia traded arms, and Tsabin became her mother.
It was perhaps her most difficult mission for Padmè, which was fitting that it would be her last. She hadn’t much experience with children, let alone newborns, but she learned quickly, mostly from necessity. Leia depended on her for everything, and Tsabin only enjoyed being needed. She was sure there were better caretakers the royal family of Alderaan could find, but Leia’s history required discretion. She wasn’t told why in exact words, but she didn’t question it when the funeral pronounced her and her child dead. Notably absent was any mention of her husband. It was all suspicious. Padmè was healthy and young. Childbirth couldn’t have killed her. For it all to happen the day the Empire came to power and her Jedi husband went missing was most damning of all.
But, Tsabin didn’t have time to raise questions of political conspiracy or murder. She had a baby to raise. Leia was growing faster everyday, and she could see so much of her mother in her little face. Both Breha and Bail would visit regularly, of course, always between meetings or travel plans, sometimes for minutes and sometimes for hours, though never together. They took care of any need either of them had. Leia was well cared-for and always well-dressed for as small as she was. The parents hadn’t even spent a full day with the girl, and she was already living like a princess. It made her smile as she toddled around the apartment in a frilly white dress, tinted pink at the collar from her berry-filled lunch, inspecting various items until she found one worthy to bring to the woman. Tsabin took the candle from the tiny hand while Leia struggled over her “m”s, working out a babble of “mba-amamaa…mam-ma”.
“Mama?” She repeated, putting the little candle on a shelf above her chair with a dozen more items Leia had done this with. “I’m only ‘mama’ for a little while, sweet girl. Your mama should be coming to see you soon. Maybe the forms will finally be ready for you to go home with her.” She tucked a little curl off her forehead. When the little girl’s arms stretched up, Tsabin pulled her into her lap with a soft smile that didn’t make it to her eyes. “You know, you have quite a few mamas who love you so very much that you don’t even know yet. I wish I could tell you.”
Leia hadn’t yet made a full year, and already, Tsabin could see her mother’s obstinance, her curiosity, her passion. If she became anything like Padmè, she was sure to do well in politics, especially thinking of what Breha and Bail would teach her. She wondered if they would ever tell her of her birth mother, how much she longed to meet her child, how hard she worked to create a better world for her to be born into, or how deeply she believed in the good of all people. Padmè was an idealist to her core, and maybe that was what killed her because it would have been too strong a lesson to pass to future generations. She always had hope, and so Tsabin had to hold onto it for little Leia. Hope that she will continue her mother’s journey. Hope that her future will be brighter than their present. Hope that she will know the women who loved her.
Tears pricked her eyes and she blinked them away, not needing to start this again after all the months she’d spent with her baby girl. Instead she pressed a kiss to the girl’s forehead, feeling a tiny hand reach for her cheek, and a much more assertive voice reached her ears, calling her “Mammma.. Ma.. mamma.”
This time, she let a tear fall. “Mama,” she repeated softly.
~*~
“Leia, do you remember your mother? Your real mother?”
The question startled her as she looked over the man, whose questions only concerned her more and more. Still, it was Luke, and as much as he’d grown, he was still that sweet farmboy who rescued her simply because he wanted to help. He only ever wanted to help. She trusted that much about him. “Just a little bit. She died when I was very young.”
“What do you remember?” He pressed, and she sighed, finally giving in.
“Just images, really. Feelings.” She tried to dig back into her memories for the woman who raised her before her parents. She was a vague, fuzzy picture that only popped up when she would find an old dress or rifle through archived documents. Leia never could pin down a face. Each time she tried to picture her mother, her jaw was less sharp or her eyebrows too round or her nose more narrow. Her face always changed, but she knew a few things. She could feel them through the scattered images. “She was very beautiful, kind… but sad.”
Tips for writing those gala scenes, from someone who goes to them occasionally:
Generally you unbutton and re-button a suit coat when you sit down and stand up.
You’re supposed to hold wine or champagne glasses by the stem to avoid warming up the liquid inside. A character out of their depth might hold the glass around the sides instead.
When rich/important people forget your name and they’re drunk, they usually just tell you that they don’t remember or completely skip over any opportunity to use your name so they don’t look silly.
A good way to indicate you don’t want to shake someone’s hand at an event is to hold a drink in your right hand (and if you’re a woman, a purse in the other so you definitely can’t shift the glass to another hand and then shake)
Americans who still kiss cheeks as a welcome generally don’t press lips to cheeks, it’s more of a touch of cheek to cheek or even a hover (these days, mostly to avoid smudging a woman’s makeup)
The distinctions between dress codes (black tie, cocktail, etc) are very intricate but obvious to those who know how to look. If you wear a short skirt to a black tie event for example, people would clock that instantly even if the dress itself was very formal. Same thing goes for certain articles of men’s clothing.
Open bars / cash bars at events usually carry limited options. They’re meant to serve lots of people very quickly, so nobody is getting a cosmo or a Manhattan etc.
Members of the press generally aren’t allowed to freely circulate at nicer galas/events without a very good reason. When they do, they need to identify themselves before talking with someone.
As someone who spent over a decade catering luxury events, let me add some back of house info:
These events are almost always open bar. They're not trying to make their money back on alcohol. They want you to drink and eat and donate generously.
If there are cocktails, there will be at most two on offer, pre-made in large tubs. You cannot order a different version, it is what it is.
There are two types of events: cocktail style or seated. The first includes roaming hors d'oeuvres or a fancy buffet with tiny plates called a grazing station. For a long night, the roaming food will get a little bigger throughout the evening and have a 'main' at some point based around a protein.
A seated event will usually be more structured and may include multiple courses. Silver service is not in vogue anymore. You are likely to get either alternating meals brought to you like at a wedding, or served banquet style. A good caterer can get a plate to everyone in a 300 person event in about three minutes.
Drunk people are the same no matter how expensive their suits. They still laugh too loud, spill their drinks and slip on the dance floor. They are usually less embarrassed about doing coke in the bathrooms.
A full scale event that starts at 6pm will have staff arriving at noon to begin setup. Earlier if there's a light show or pyrotechnics. Typically venues don't just have 30 tables and three hundred chairs lying around, let alone table cloths, chair covers, etc. It's all rented and brought in on the day. Bands and DJs will be running audio tests in the background throughout.
Most heritage buildings that host these things, like museums and manor houses, aren't really designed for them. They might put down mats so you're not walking in stilettos over two hundred year old wooden floors, the kitchens are weirdly far away, and there are not enough taps. There is never anywhere for staff to sit, so if you open the wrong door you might find half a dozen waiters sitting on upturned milk crates in a room full of million dollar paintings, eating the left over bread.
Really old buildings don't have enough bathrooms, which means the staff will be sharing with the guests.
Clean up starts the second the event ends, if not sooner. Unattended glasses will start to disappear first, then table decorations. When the timer ticks over, the lights come back on and exhausted staff strip the tables, pack up dirty glasses and unopened wine bottles and have to Tetris it all into the back of a van. The venue is booked for that day only, so everything has to be gone before anyone can go home. A large event that finishes at midnight might take until 3am to be cleared away.
These are very long and physically demanding nights for anyone working them. The staff all get to know each other, and will absolutely notice someone trying to sneak in wearing a borrowed uniform. They are not being paid enough to care.
I know this nose art is for the Bad Batch, but I can’t help but imagine another Clone Unit with a stronger claim on the Senator as a mascot. (And how much Anakin would FLIP THE FUCK OUT)
— Morale Booster
“REX!”
… And it looks like the paneling repair will have to wait, as his General’s boots appear next to his head beside the transport’s landing gear. He pushes himself out from under the machine on a dolly, flat on his back.
“Sir?”
“What is THAT?!” his fearless leader yelps, pointing dramatically, emphatically upwards and towards the nose.
He scoots out farther, past General Skywalker’s legs, and props himself up on his elbows to take in the three-quarters-finished pinup Hardcase has been taking such pains with for the last four hours.
“Morale booster, sir. Couldn’t do something clever like the 104th and their Plo’s Bros or anything, so–”
“So you chose SENATOR AMIDALA?!” Did his voice just crack? It did.
He shrugs. “Sure. She’s been through enough hell and high water with us.”
“She’s a SENATOR!”
“And she’s a keen eye with that blaster,” he reasons, jerking his head up to the painting, and the flawlessly detailed replica of the Senator’s favored sidearm, primed to fire and held at a jaunty, confident angle. He even got the chipped paint over the trigger guard right.
“Got the looks for it too!” Hardcase yells down from where he’s shading in a long bare stretch of thigh, pausing to vigorously shake his can of spray paint. “We might finally be able to give the 327th a run for their money, with General Secura and all.”
“GENERAL SECURA is half naked on the nose of a transport?!”
“What? No!” Of course not, that’s just tasteless.
There’s a clatter from up above as Hardcase puts his paints down and leans over the scaffolding, a hand wobbling skeptically. “Well… Technically…”
“She’s in her usual outfit, y’know, with the–” Rex explains, and zig-zags a finger down from his head, mimicking the General’s lekku straps. “–and the leather pants.”
“It’s just a little leg, Anakin, I don’t see what you’re so upset about.”
Oh thank all the stars and little planets. Backup. General Kenobi steps up beside his former Padawan to admire the paint job himself. “Excellent work on her hair, Hardcase,” Kenobi continues, tilting his head.
“Thank you, sir. Run a probe with some white and a little metallic gold through the wet paint, gets it to streak so the shine looks real.”
General Skywalker is starting to do that thing where he puffs up like an angry coppi lizard and splutters furiously while he tries to think of something else to be upset about. He can hear Fives rolling his eyes from the opposite side of the transport. General. Honestly. If you’re trying to keep a relationship secret, openly displaying your klik-wide jealous streak is not how you do it.
“The 212’s is worse, anyway,” Kenobi muses idly, as Hardcase carefully adds the supposedly “very distinctive” freckle high on the Senator’s hip, just below the split in her modified favorite Council dress. Skywalker starts to go wide-eyed at that, because his sabacc face out of genuine combat is complete sleenshit, and startles when his master continues.
“She’s on the 212th transport too?!”
“Of course not, don’t be ridiculous. We can’t have duplicates, that defeats the purpose,” Kenobi says, in that too-reasonable tone he takes on when he’s deliberately fucking with his former Padawan.
“'Cept Master Ti,” Echo yells, from somewhere inside the paneling he and Rex had been working on.
“Except Master Ti, yes,” Kenobi agrees, and shrugs. “But that’s to be expected. Rather like how so many people have that arm tattoo of a heart with the ribbon that says ‘Mom’.”
Rex personally knew of at least eight other clones that had that exact tattoo, though the ribbon was usually striped like Master Ti’s headtails, and nods agreeably. That seems to have sufficiently diverted Skywalker, or at least confused him.
“Then how is it worse?” Skywalker asks, a little desperately, then his face lights up completely with slightly malicious anticipation. “Is it the Duchess?!”
Oh boy. Rex looks up at Hardcase, who is biting down on his paint-splattered fist to keep from laughing, as General Kenobi gets that look.
“Certainly not,” Kenobi says sternly, and waits a full beat to drop his bombshell. “It’s me.”
Skywalker just stares.
“Though I’m reasonably certain Duchess Kryze had something to do with it, given the way I’m half falling out of my robes.”
Now he looks vaguely green.
“Or it’s some perverse joke of Master Windu’s. It seems his style. Cody refuses to tell me.”
And before Skywalker can come up with anything else to protest, Kenobi adds:
“Besides, Senator Amidala loves it. Hers, I mean. I haven’t asked her about mine.”
Apparently even Jedi can choke on air when sufficiently surprised. But really, where did he think they’d gotten the preliminary sketches from?
Looking through my wips, I found this snippet I wrote about that comic where Leia tells Kes Dameron about the time Han and Chewie risked their lives to save Echo Base. I put it on the Hungry Hearts doc, but I still don't know if it'll end up being a chapter or an entirely separate thing:
Here’s what she didn’t tell Kes.
She looked down at the unforgivable whiteness of Hoth, illuminated by countless lights, from the Falcon’s cockpit until her eyes watered from the glare. When she heard Han’s voice, the vice grip squeezing her heart relaxed, and her hands began to shake, which she thought was illogical—they were all right, they were alive. There was nothing to worry about anymore.
Nien Nunb and her took the Falcon down to the hangar again, ahead of the rest of the ships. Even from the entrance, they could see the black smoke coming out from the corridors. That gave Leia pause. She’d heard the noise from whatever had exploded. She’d heard Han coughing. She wondered if he hadn’t been bluffing. If maybe he hadn’t really made it out.
Her heavy boots slammed against the deckplates as she sprinted through the freighter, down the ramp, the noise turning into soft thuds as she hit the snow. The air stank, but it was breathable. Han and Chewie were sitting down by one of the exits, their backs against the wall, catching their breath. Han’s hat and goggles lay discarded at his side.
When he spotted her coming, his mouth quirked up on one side.
‘Hey Princess, what did I tell ya?’ he told her, after which he coughed a little. ‘Can you give me a hand?’
Leia took the gloved hand he was holding out and tugged. When he was firmly planted on his feet, without thinking, she threw her arms around his torso and hugged him. His clothes smelled so strongly of fuel, she had to choke back a cough. She also smelled singed hair, or fur, possibly both; she had barely stopped to look at them. Even so, she pressed her cheek against his heavy padded parka, eyes shut tight.
Han stiffened at first, too surprised to react, she thought. Leia wasn’t prone to displays of affection like that, least of all in public. Or with him. But, after a beat, she felt his arms wrapping around her, holding her close.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
I just finished reading this one yesterday and had to share. It simply has one of the best plots of any Spirk fic I’ve ever read! A story of struggling for survival on an alien world, battling mysteries, alien threats, it’s truly one of the best written, most complex and compelling stories I’ve encountered. And woven throughout is a subtly building and utterly thrilling slow burn love story between our two favourite boys. Enjoy!! 🥰
In the spirit of encouraging people to comment on fanfics while also making it easier to do so, I feel obliged to share a browser extension for ao3 that has quite literally revolutionized the comment game for me.
I present to you: the floating ao3 comment box!
From what I've seen, a big problem for many people is that once you reach the comments at the bottom of a fic, your memory of it miraculously disappears. Anything you wanted to say is stuck ten paragraphs ago, and you barely remember what you thought while reading. This fixes that!
I'll give a little explanation on the features and how it works, but if you want to skip all that, here's the link.
The extension is visible as a small blue box in the upper left corner.
(Side note: The green colouring is not from the extension, that's me.)
If you click on it, you open a comment box window at the bottom of your screen but not at the bottom of the fic. I opened my own fic for demonstrative purposes.
The website also gives explanations on how exactly it functions, but I'll summarize regardless.
insert selection -> if you highlight a sentence in the fic it will be added in italics to the comment box
add to comment box -> once you're done writing your comment, you click this button and the entire thing will automatically copied to the ao3 comment box
delete -> self explanatory
on mulitchapter fics, you will be given the option to either add the comment to just the current chapter or the entire fic
The best part? You can simply close the window the same way you opened it and your progress will automatically be saved. So you can open it, comment on a paragraph, and then close it and keep reading without having the box in your face.
Comments are what keep writers going, and as both a writer and a reader, I think it's such an easy way of showing support and enthusiasm.
Horrible idea time: Leia stays captured at fortress inquisitor, Vader raises her as an inquisitor with zero awareness of her being his daughter (while Reva subversively recruits her to her own cause?)
PADMÉ AMIDALA can't help herself. She's truly tried. Known as a pillar of resolution and patience, she cannot deny her desires any longer. As her husband, ANAKIN SKYWALKER, softly snores in the sanctity of their bed. He trusts her, trusts her enough to share his most intimate secrets, and most sacred body parts whenever she so pleases to have them.
Much to his dismay, she constantly refuses the offer, as if she would be taking advantage of him while he's unconscious, instead of seeing it how it is. He's given her permission to freely use him, no matter the time or place. The ache between her legs is too great, and she scales her mental obstacle. Nimble fingers graze his hot skin, watching him shudder as the night air hits him while his covers slide down his form. Hiking up her nightgown, she mounts him, gently rocking her naked sex over the mound in his thin black pants. Flaccid and at the ready to bend to her whims, it hardens quick from her recognizable ministrations.
A delicate crease appears on his strong brows, and it urges her to kiss them out of endearment. When his hips instinctively lift to meet hers, she seizes the opportunity to free him from the confines of his pants. His eager length springing out, enthusiastically greeting her, brings a kind smile to her face. Her hand comes to cradle it, sweetly massaging his swollen head until his parted lips release breathy and stuttering noises, intensifying when she invites herself onto him. Her wet heat slides down every inch, enveloping him in pleasurable comfort so deep he stirs from his slumber. It's not often he sleeps through anything, and his wife's quiet prowess to keep him complacent as she maneuvered him into appropriate positioning surprises him.
"You've got a certain spark about you that's changed since we last spoke." Her features are soft, but her eyes flash him a knowing look.
"I'm not sure I know what you mean." Obiwan closes his eyes as he takes a drink of his beverage, ignoring that look in her eye.
"Of course you do, my dear. Someone has caught your eye, it's written all over your face."
Obi-wan wills away the heat rising to his face. "I assure you that you're imagining things."
"I know for sure that I am not. I haven't seen that light in your eye since we were young. It's how you used to look at me…but this time I know that it is not aimed my way. So tell me, as your friend, who has your heart?"
Obiwan ignores her for a moment, not sure what to say. He can't lie to her, she knows him too well and he knew that she would see through any lie he could come up with in the next few seconds. But admitting it out loud is just as terrifying.
As if on cue, Cody walks through the doors. "Sorry to intrude General. But you are needed back on the Negotiator"
"Is everything alright?" Obi-wan's full attention is on his commander, even with Cody wearing his helmet Obi-wan looks into his eyes.
"Yes, but it is important." Which was just code for 'the troopers are being ridiculous and I need backup'.
Obi-wan let out a soft chuckle. "Is it Boil and Waxer again?"
The commander just gave a defeated nod as his shoulders slumped slightly. His professionalism dropped for just a moment, but returned just as quick because Satine was still in the room.
The Jedi gave him a soft smile, "I'll be right there Cody."
Cody nodded, much more professional this time, and stepped out of the room.
Obi-wan stood and turned back to the duchess to bid his goodbyes, when he was met with an all too knowing smile that rested on her lips. He wanted to ask what she was smiling about, but deep down he already knew the answer. Almost no one knew him better than Satine. The heat from earlier had returned to his cheeks as he turned his gaze away.
"Does he make you happy?"
The question caught him off guard. He returned his eyes to look into hers, trying to will himself to admit to all of his thoughts and feelings. His mind was screaming 'yes yes he does, force does he make me happy'. But he couldn’t seem to form the words. He gave Satine a small pitiful smile before glancing at the door, a wishful glint to his eye. Which told her all she needed to know.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
“Married and you don’t even know his name,” Owen growled as Luke stepped back out into the hallway, ruined poncho in hand. Beru grimaced as she looked between them. She more often than not was the mediator of their fights.
“There wasn’t a lot of time for discussion,” Luke grumbled and leaned back against his door. He’d saved a man’s life and Uncle Owen still wasn’t happy with him.
“Just like his kriffing father!” Owen let out a heavy groan, running a hand over his face, “Bringing home strange people and inviting all kinds of trouble.”
“Owen, calm-” Beru started, but her husband barreled on.
“And a Mandalorian, no less!”
“Is that what he is?” Luke perked up, garnering long sighs from both Beru and Owen.
—
In a split-second decision, Luke gets married in the middle of the desert at eighteen. The consequences play out on a galactic scale.
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