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    Summary

    The senator finishes the makeshift stitches on Asajj’s side, and then she steps back, surveying her work with a critical eye. Her gaze does not have the warm compassion of a healer’s. Instead, it burns from the fever of her need to fix, to mend, to save—from the fever of her conviction. A keen and flensing touch. Asajj settles her hands on Amidala’s hips, slipping her fingertips just beneath the waistband of her pants. In counter to the sharp heat of her gaze, her skin is cool.

    They'll fuck on a bed tonight. Instead of the cramped back alleys and cantina ‘freshers where they usually steal a moment of time away from their crew, Asajj will get to lay Amidala out on a bed and take all the time she wants.

    “C’mere,” Asajj murmurs, tugging her close again.

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