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Title: Him
Author: heartofslash
Fandom: Star Wars, post-Return of the Jedi
Characters: Princess Leia Organa. Obi-Wan Kenobi. Bail Organa. Han Solo.
Warning: A little of everything – het, slash, self-love. You name it. Also, Leia is a young woman when she is fantasizing and first experimenting with sex – about 18 years old. Also, rampant Obi-Wan worship. Like that surprises anyone on my f-list.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I know nothing. Forgive me, father. I am but a worm. (Oh, wait, that’s from Highlander…)
The beta harem: salixbabylon, lionflame, and second_banana
There are seemingly small, fleeting moments that can become more than
just meaningful events. They can shape our personalities and sexualities
for the rest of our lives.
Him
One of her clearest and earliest memories is of dancing blue-grey eyes and neat white teeth. He was laughing. Out loud. She must have done something extraordinarily silly to make him laugh like that. He was always so serious, but not in a harsh way; in a gentle, yet sombre fashion.
In the memory (which she replays with some frequency) he lifts her little body high over his head and they twirl together in the sunlight. His hair is a beautiful copper, shining and soft when her pudgy hand grasps it. He lowers her gently and sits with her on his lap, lets her play with his hair and run her fingers over his beard, which is supple yet wiry at the same time. He pretends to bite her hand, and his mouth is very warm, his lips moist on her thumb.
Now she wishes she’d felt his tongue.
Later memories aren’t as clear. Perhaps that’s because he wasn’t, either. His visits grew further apart, and more furtive. He lost some of his sharpness. Lines appeared, softening him. The copper faded to grey and white. His eyes lost some, but never all, of their sparkle.
She was never allowed to tell anyone of his presence. She understood the why of that better once she grew up and became part of the rebellion herself, but that air of mystery was a part of him from the very beginning. When she was a little girl, he was a secret she kept to herself as religiously as she hid her excitement whenever he was on Alderaan. She never even said his name when others might hear.
As he was growing more tired and grey, she was blossoming. She had become a woman in most ways, and was anxious to experience the rest of them. For one, brief summer, after she’d grown up enough to understand a little of how things are but before her involvement in the rebellion, she had the luxury of time to herself - time to play and dream and desire. She wanted to find someone just like him. Or rather, she wanted to find someone like her memory of him from before.
She had seen him, from time to time, in the innermost courtyard, performing his morning exercises. Private and secretive, like him. Also powerful and graceful, like him. These movements were, she understood, part of times gone by. Forbidden. Ancient. But carried on his limbs, executed by his body, they were vibrant and alive. They spoke of a better future, not a dim past. His posture emanated power; his form was perfection.
She could, and often did, imagine him wielding a light saber against countless enemies, cutting them down elegantly but without cruelty. She’d never seen a real light saber; they were forbidden. But her father had once shown her holovid of him demonstrating a particular technique, and it had been easy to understand the lethal force of such a weapon in his hands. She held that memory dear, of her father taking her to his room, drawing the curtains and playing the forbidden recording. Her father’s eyes glowed with excitement. He loved to remember the old days.
The next time he visited after she’d watched the holovid, she made a point of looking at his hands. Gnarled by age and the elements, they were still strong. Knowing.
That night, she imagined them on her body, not as they were at the time but as they used to be, when he had been young and dashing with flame-coloured hair and that blinding smile. She moved her own hands over her young flesh, imagined calluses and a much larger grip, imagined his hot mouth following his fingers, and the slight scratch of beard… no, she remembered that. When he had played at biting her thumb, there had been the rasp of the ends of his hair, his moustache, on the back of her hand. She imagined that on more tender skin.
She wished she could give herself to him.
She would tease herself at night, in the dark, under the covers. Touch her firm breasts. Trail her fingers down over her belly. Trace the ridges of her hipbones, touch between spreading thighs, tease herself because she was not sure of what she was looking for, only that she wanted him to find it.
And then she found it on her own. But always with his help.
“Obi-Wan,” she would whisper as her fingers found their way around wet folds and warm crevices. She soon learned that if she drank a cup of the tea he favoured she could go to bed with the taste of him on her lips. After teasing herself long enough, she found that if she touched herself in just the right way with her thighs now pressed close together, sliding her fingers down and up and down again, picturing his hands on her skin, his beard on her thighs, his hair in her hands, his lips sucking at her clit, pretending to bite…
Her first orgasm was accompanied by his whispered name.
And many more followed.
As it turned out, there was no one to take his place - no dashing young knight to steal her heart; there was the son of a visiting diplomat, a callow man who merely looked the part.
But he did not spend hours touching every part of her, sliding his fingers in and out, licking and sucking at her breasts and between her thighs. He did not rub his beard against her belly and breathe tea-scented air across her heated flesh. He did not spread her legs reverently and slide into her oh-so-gracefully, taking her virginity with all the sombre dignity and love one would expect from a Jedi. And after that tender, emotionally-satisfying entrance, he did not draw on years of physical training to tightly control his movements, to thrust into her, slowly gaining in speed and intensity, building the pleasure gradually, cradling her against his strong body, breath coming faster, harsher, his hands gripping her tighter, holding her against him until they exploded together, their lips joined in a soulful kiss that would linger until well after the last deep throb of pleasure faded.
No. The diplomat's son rolled atop her and rutted like an animal. His beard was not sensuous and supple; he sported the bristles of an Ugnaught. His hair was not shimmering strands of spun copper silk; it was the rough mat of a Wookiee. His skin was not velvety smooth and firm; it was tough and a little greasy and smelled of ale. He did not caress, but clung like a mynock. And what should have been sensual moans were more akin to the grunts of a Gamorrean.
Obi-Wan would never have left her like that, dishevelled and confused and profoundly unsatisfied.
She had stumbled to her rooms and filled the tub with warm water and a handful of tea leaves (his favourite tea, the kind he always drank when he visited) and brought herself to a blissful, solitary peak with a wash cloth, some bath oil, and the memory of those petal-soft lips on her thumb.
She felt the stab of guilt during his next visit to her father. His final visit, as it turned out. It was wrong. It somehow tainted this noble, sad old man, to use the memory of his younger self to sate her base desires.
He was, as always, kind to her and to her father, whom she knew had suffered much at the death of her mother. He took her hands in his, and she felt every wrinkle and flaw in them, although the strength was undeniable. He looked her in the eye, and she tried to focus on the wrinkles around his, the white in his brows, the lines of his face, but the blue-grey sparkled once more. She tried to commit the broad grey streaks of his beard to memory, but the copper was not far from the surface.
Obi-Wan smiled. “You’ve grown so beautiful, Leia. I sense a very important future for you. But for now, you simply give an old man such joy.” Cultured, rich voice. Same even white teeth and soft lips. The smile was sad, but it always had been, except for that one, shining moment in the distant past. The lips were still as soft on her cheek when he said his farewell. The hairs of his moustache the same.
Late that night she felt dirty when she thrust three fingers inside herself. She was taut with need. She tried to touch herself and think of someone else, or think of no one in particular, but the need grew. She could find no other release. The trembling deep desire would not abate until she imagined the young Jedi curving his hands on her hips and pulling her down onto his hard cock.
“Help me, Obi-Wan,” she mewled. And he did. He scraped his beard on her shoulder and sucked the skin of her neck and filled her to completion.
She promised herself she would never, ever, do it again. And she did not. The very next day she was called to attend a secret conference on Dantooine. A conference that would change her life forever. Then she began her life of importance. Also of unspeakable danger. And nigh unbearable loneliness. But with a goal. A purpose.
She no longer had time to spend alone, teasing and pleasuring herself with a pretend lover. She was learning about the real world.
One of her main discoveries was that her dream lover had been just that. A dream. Too perfect to actually exist. She also learned that real heroes are ordinary people who find themselves in extraordinary circumstances. As the true, evil nature of the empire became more apparent to her, she almost forgot her foolish dreams.
And then, in the midst of a battle, she found herself turning to her oldest source of comfort.
“Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi,” she said. “You’re my only hope.”
And he did help. It was her memories of him, that connection she felt to him, that helped her resist the mind probes of the enemy. In that little cell, sure she was soon to die, she let herself retreat to a time when strong arms and a glorious smile were enough to fulfill her dreams.
She did not think of him in a sexual way. She could not risk tarnishing him. Would not allow the enemy to see any hint of her youthful flights of fancy. But she did find, to her astonishment, that one joyful memory of a noble Jedi playing with a delighted child could keep the Dark at bay. Such was that power of the Light in Obi-Wan Kenobi.
Years later, during a lull in yet another battle, she took a well-earned rest. She huddled in a cargo hold, wrapped in old furs to ward off the cold of space. The scratch of the pelt against her cheek reminded her of her adolescent fantasies. She allowed her mind, and hands, to drift. Oh, her dream Obi-Wan had been a implausible lover, to be sure. He had always known when to stroke lightly and when to press hard, when to bite and when to soothe, when to moan in her ear, that rich cultured moan she imagined she knew so well.
And then another memory struck. One long buried, almost forgotten. One she could not place at first. One she had not replayed a thousand times.
She was young – older than when he’d lifted her so high in the air but not old enough to understand everything – and she had been wandering. It was night, and the air was cool, almost cold. Her very favourite friend was visiting, and she wanted to see him. She knew he liked to be outside, in the gardens, among living things, so she went to the courtyard and slipped outside.
Everything was painted in shades of blue. The moon, the trees, the stone walls, even Obi-Wan’s hair, which fell loose around his shoulders. Her father stood very close to him, with his arms around Obi-Wan’s waist. Obi-Wan had one hand on her father’s shoulder, the other cupping his chin.
“It is right to grieve, but do not abandon yourself to your sorrow. You must release your feelings. It will do the child no good to have her father fall apart after losing her mother.”
Her mother. (Whom she would later learn was not, in fact, her mother.) Yes, her mother had gone away. Forever. Her father (not really her father, but what did that matter now?) was sad, even though he told her that mother had gone somewhere better, and that Leia should be happy for her.
“You are worth too much,” Obi-Wan continued, “even to an old Jedi like me. Let me ease your pain.”
She remembered watching their lips meet, softly at first, parting as the intensity rose. There was a moan, helpless and soft, and Obi-Wan’s hands trailed down her father’s body the same way they had been following the lines of her body, at night, under the covers, for all these years. Strong, knowing hands. They gripped his hips the same way they’d cupped her and held her close while she shuddered to her completion.
The next moan was from Obi-Wan, deep and rich (and tea-flavoured, she was sure.) The moan she thought she’d imagined. The moan she knew so well. Such need. Such power. And yet so controlled. Those hands moved, firmly, decisively, without hesitation. The same hands that gave Leia her first taste of pleasure.
Looking back on this memory was dizzying, almost frightening. How had he known to move his hands that way? This distant, long-ago Obi-Wan touched her father the same way his memory touched her.
A gasp broke the silence.
She couldn’t help it.
And Obi-Wan’s eyes met hers.
Panic in her father’s eyes.
Obi-Wan’s calm, clear voice. “Don’t be afraid, child. Sleep, and you’ll forget you ever saw this.”
Heavy, dull pressure, not uncomfortable, inside her head, urging her to forget, and the warmth of Obi-Wan, tea-scented and strong, carrying her back to her bed. Tender lips on her forehead.
“Sleep, little one. Sleep and forget.”
The battles rage on, seeming never to end, although the Rebel Alliance now holds the bulk of the power. Leia has tried to make sense of her memories, and can only assume that powerful as the Force suggestion was, it had not been enough to entirely erase Obi-Wan’s grace and skill as a lover. Transferring that love to her own body had been a natural response.
After all, a young woman needs some something to desire and aspire to. As dream lovers go, he had been perfection. But she no longer has need of the fantasy. Real life might not seem as good on the surface, but it is real and it is here and it is what she enjoys.
A very real body presses against her now. Large, strong hands mould to her hips. She arches against a broad shoulder. Hot breath and a wet tongue snake down her neck. Lips suckle her breasts, nip below her ribs (where she is ticklish, and he knows it) and trace past the curve of her hip to nuzzle dark hair.
“Mmmmm.” His voice rumbles between her legs, sending frissons of electricity down her legs, persuading them to open for a hungry mouth.
A distressingly smooth cheek rubs against her inner thigh.
“Han.”
“Hmmm?”
“Have you ever considered growing a beard?”
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