straightouttacarbonite | a galaxy far, far away . . . .

If this is going to happen-- and needless to say, he very much wants that-- he's going to be serious about it. Not too serious, because there are some things too serious to be serious about, but if they're doing this, she has to know he means it as more than just a way to fill the time between here and Cloud City.

But he's never been particularly quiet about what he wants. Still.

Rather than answer he takes the bottle back and drinks, watching her mouth. Still not subtle, Solo.

This time when he leans in he's not reaching for his pocket, and he doesn't plan to disappoint her.

It's going to happen, because she decided it would when he showed up in her doorway--oh, so this is how we'll do things--and once Leia Organa's set her mind to something, it gets done. So far, tonight lacks a sense of the spontaneity of their last tryst, but she doesn't mind that. The fact that it all feels premeditated suits her.

It doesn't do anything to quell the vague, frustrating sense of self-consciousness, though, nor does her sudden realization that his attention has shifted down from her eyes. She bites down on her lower lip, which doubtless doesn't help anything. As much as she's used to having the attention of others, the open stare of one very desirable man is a sort she's still getting used to. It's those scant moments before their first kiss all over again.

She's relieved when he shifts his weight again, wasting no time in snaking an arm around his neck to pull him to her in a kiss. The flavour of the wine clings to his mouth, adds to the taste of him.

Half of him had been set on waiting for her to make the next move, but neither of them is a master of patience. Action suits them both better than contemplation or conversation, so here he is. Extremely premeditated, but only because he wants the space to be spontaneous without worrying about interruption.

The way she bites her lip is shy but not hesitant, and overwhelmingly charming. He kisses her greedily, far more interested in this than the wine, lifting his other hand to cup her cheek. It's good wine-- wouldn't be much use if it wasn't-- but (if he can be melodramatic and sappy for a moment in the space of his own mind) the taste doesn't compare to her lips.

"Leia."

He pulls away just enough to breathe her name, soft and fervent. She ought to know just what she does to him. If he could think of any fitting words, maybe he'd say them, but he just takes a moment to search her face like he needs to commit the moment to memory, and then he kisses her again.

The breath she draws in at the sound of her name is a shaky one; it sounds like something new when he murmurs it, looking at her like he might forget the shape of her face if he doesn't. She's doing the same, taking in the set of his mouth and the light in his pale eyes. It's a sort of staring she tolerates far more easily, this mutual admiration in the wake of a kiss.

The wine can wait when he's so interested in kissing her breathless. We can drink it after, she thinks, the idea as intoxicating as any liquor. There'll be an after, with wine or without, curled up with Han in this damnably small bunk.

One of Leia's hands disappears into his hair, her fingers splayed out over his scalp. As for the other...well, she might be shy, but she's also eager, once the spotlight isn't solely on her. And this part, at least, is familiar. She pulls blindly at the tails of his shirt, with none of the patience that befits a princess. As soon as a hand's breadth of hem is free, she reaches up it, pressing her palm flat against his stomach.

In its way this is as unusual for him as for her; Han has never pursued anyone quite like this, never been so willing to wait. How he's been patient enough is a mystery to him and probably everyone else. He can't pinpoint exactly when things shifted, when he started to find it endearing when she'd annoy him, when it turned from attraction to something more. Three years he's been making excuses, putting off leaving, saying just this once, just one more job, and somewhere along the way he's given her more of himself than he'd intended to ever give anyone.

The small, approving sound he makes is lost, muffled against her lips, his eyes falling shut. It's less of a surprise this time, how eager she is to have her hands on him, but no less welcome. For a long moment he just relaxes into that, thumb brushing her cheek, but finally he has to pull away, his heartbeat quickening already.

"I have to put this down," he murmurs, soft and a little sheepish, shaking the bottle slightly.

He'll want two hands to get her out of her shirt, after all.

"If you have to," she teases, with an affected little sigh, her hands falling back to her lap. The wine's role in the night's activities is receding, and that's probably for the best; it's a good vintage, one that's likely to go to her head if they get too far into the bottle. And as pleasant a thought as that could be under other circumstances, she'd like to have all her wits about her right now.

After--after--it'll be a nice thing to return to. She's certain of that much.

While he sets the wine down, one of her hands curls around the waistband of his trousers, her knuckles beneath the fabric, brushing against his hip. He might need both hands, but Leia's not letting him get too far away from her.

"I do." And isn't that a damn shame? You might even believe the rueful tone, if not for the lopsided grin that accompanies it. If she doesn't need the false confidence in that bottle that's all the better. It'll wait.

He has to twist a bit to be able to set it on the floor, far enough aside that it won't get kicked if one of them steps off the bunk, and while he's stretched out she does that. It shouldn't surprise him; after all, when she sets her mind to something Leia is fearless. Shifting luxuriously beneath her touch he pulls himself back upright, leaning forward to bump his nose against hers before reaching for the hem of her shirt.

She grins in return, nowhere near as crooked but still genuine. As a rule, Leia would rather not find herself beholden to the demands of liquor, however good. If she doesn't have the grit to do this on her own, then she shouldn't be here with him. It's that simple.

So it's a good thing that his return to her is something she's entirely in favour of. She pecks him on the mouth before letting him have his way with her shirt. Right back where I started when he knocked.

Well, she could've saved them both some time. Though if it had been anyone else at the door... well, Chewbacca wouldn't have much high ground considering his own habitual state of dress, and seeing Threepio flustered might be worth the embarrassment, eh?

It's good that he's too busy to say anything this dumb aloud.

And busy he is, pulling her shirt over her head and tossing it out of the way, only careful enough to ensure it doesn't go flying right to the bottle of wine, because the last thing they need is the distraction of a spill. There are much more pleasant distractions, like running his hands down her bare sides, leaning back to drag her half on top of him so he can kiss her again, stroking her breast with his thumb. Much better.

She certainly could have, but Leia's not in the habit of answering doors half-naked, and she's not about to start now. Besides, it's nicer to let Han do the honours. It's still incredibly pleasant to feel quite how precise his hands can be, how careful they seem when skimming over her skin. She shouldn't find it surprising to know that Han Solo's gentle beneath all that bluster--but it is, a little. Feeling it is different from knowing it.

Leia lets herself be pulled into his lap, meeting his mouth with a hungry kiss. She gets back to the very serious work of dragging his shirt from where it's still halfway tucked in to halfway up his chest. Along the way, her fingertips press into his skin, drawing decided lines over his musculature.

"Your turn," she murmurs against his mouth before drawing back just enough to do something about his clothes. It means pulling her hands away from his chest so she can push his jacket off his shoulders and pull off his shirt, but in the long run, it means a lot more of him is available to touch.

Hey, you don't fly the way he does without developing some dexterity. He's taking his time, gentle and thorough, because she deserves it and because he's been waiting so long, he's not going to squander the opportunity.

He could've saved them some time, too, if he'd shown up half-dressed, but that's not quite the impression he wanted to make. And it would've been a lot less comfortable if she'd turned him away like that.

Chuckling softly in return, he shifts and squirms to make it easier to get his clothes off. As soon as his hands are free of sleeves (and the shirt tossed off to join hers) they're back on her body and he's arching to kiss her again, greedy and open-mouthed.

The Millennium Falcon undoubtedly appreciates his light touch, and Leia's coming to do the same. (Just think, he's handling her with the sort of care he normally reserves for his ship. Don't say that one out loud, Han, it won't sound like a compliment.)

She kisses him back fervently, the tip of her tongue sliding against the side of his. Beneath her wandering fingers, his body is slowly gaining familiarity: bone and muscle, skin and coarse curls of hair, the sharp little nubs of his nipples, the way his body dips inwards just below his waist. The muscles lower down in his torso seem to suggest an arrow down towards parts of him still clothed. It's on his hips that her hands linger, over the cloth of his slacks, gripping him when she can't resist rocking in towards his touch.

Well, the Falcon has been the main lady in his life for a long, long while... Being enough to distract from his ship places Leia pretty damn high. Even if it doesn't exactly sound complimentary. Fortunately, he'd rather show his appreciation in other ways; the slow exploration of her body with hands and lips, the still slightly stunned look in his eyes here and there.

After a moment he does pull away, just a little bit, breathing raggedly and grinning widely. He's got a thumb hooked lazily into the waistband of her pants, his other hand splayed on her thigh. It takes some awkward curling but he manages to lean down to take her breast in his mouth, teasing lightly with his teeth, remembering the way she'd groaned when he put his mouth on her and hoping for a repeat performance.

If a repeat performance is what he wants, a repeat performance is what he's going to get. Her eyes slip shut as he bows his head, her body arching forward into his mouth, and a satisfied sound rolls low from her throat.

She lets him keep going for a long, delicious moment, her thumb digging into his hipbone, her other hand sliding over his back, up to his hair. Feeling the way he has to curve his spine just to reach her chest at this angle, however, she feels a vague pang of guilt. It's one of those rare moments when she regrets her small stature, and she murmurs, "If you keep this up, you're going to end up with a sore neck."

Which wouldn't be her problem, really, but she'd really like to get further than Han Solo throws out his back trying to show a princess a good time, all things considered. She takes his face between her hands and gently draws him back up for a kiss. A brief one, one she follows with a question that's hesitant but not at all uninterested. "What if we lay down?"

At the very least it'd be an entertaining injury to explain. Most of the blame, really, is on the cramped bunk. The Falcon wasn't really designed for comfort and these weren't really designed for two people. Not that it's going to stop them.

He's very willing to be led, shifting back up for that kiss eagerly, hands still warm on her skin. In answer she gets another little smile.

"We can do that,"

And, see, her size isn't a problem at all, because it means it's easy for him to reposition them both, shifting to stretch with his back pressed to the wall, tugging her alongside him. A little precarious given how narrow the mattress is, but this isn't the time to be shy.

It's hardly the most comfortable place they could be, but they don't have much in the way of alternatives. (When they get to Cloud City, though, Leia has every intention of taking advantage of whatever hospitality this Lando of Han's can provide.) The tight space has its advantages, anyway; when she lies down next to him, their bodies are pressed flush against each other.

While she gives him another long kiss, her hand finds its way between him and the wall, moving slowly down his back and over his trousers. If they're going to be on their sides, there's no reason not to palm his ass--it's right there in reach, he's not using it--but she still hesitates a moment before actually making the move.

The cockpit, in fairness, is not the worst option, if they get too tired of banging their elbows here before they reach Cloud City and whatever hospitality he might be able to scam out of Lando. But for now, it's got its charm, how close they have to be. Since that's exactly what he wants right now.

She's more than welcome to let her hands wander anywhere she likes. He leans into the touch, hips pressed against hers, tilting to kiss her neck and slipping his fingertips under the waistband of her pants.

With encouragement in the form of his mouth at her throat--nearly as nice as at her breast, frankly--she squeezes his ass. Every inch of him is finely wrought, slim and firm beneath her touch. It makes exploring his body a reward in itself, even with the added benefit of his kisses.

"I think," she eventually murmurs, when having his hips pressed hard against hers start to feel like it isn't enough of him, even with his fingers creeping down over her skin, "you're overdressed for this."

So is she, for that matter, but first things first. Her fingers seem clumsy suddenly, fumbling with the fastenings of his pants, but she does manage them after a moment, and with a glance at his face, starts pushing the cloth down his hips.

Why, your worshipfulness, so forward.

That particular task requires a fair amount of undignified wriggling. When she looks up at him he'll be grinning broadly. No mistake about it, Leia's a bit of a scoundrel herself. He leans back obligingly to give her more room to maneuver, lifting his hips and then his legs so she can tug and shove them away. Meanwhile he occupies himself with watching her, trailing the back of his hand aimlessly down from her shoulder.

And after a moment he props himself up halfway on his elbow, completely comfortable with his state of undress, waiting for his turn to catch her up.

Terribly forward, utterly inappropriately so. A proper Alderaanian princess would be blushing through this on her wedding night, no doubt, or at least lying on a slightly less worn mattress--her aunts gave conflicting advice on this point, all of which she's jettisoned in favour of bedding a smuggler on his busted ship.

She is, at least, blushing her way through it, damn her cheeks, though while she's trying to get his pants off of him, it's a little easier to ignore. It's when she's gaping wide-eyed at him, feeling painfully innocent and unscoundrel-like as he lounges there, soaking up her attention, that she can feel just how pink-faced she must be.

She's filled with a heady mix of desire and uncertainty, the hunger to say something and the knowledge that just about everything she could tell him would sound idiotic at best. Lacking any suitable outlet for everything swirling around in her chest, she leans in to press a kiss to his shoulder--then, on a whim, bites down.

It hasn't escaped his notice that this is probably not appropriate princess behavior, a fact he's trying not to make much of. Though he'd be lying if he said that wasn't a bit of a thrill, too. (He's a career criminal, breaking rules is just what he does. If it he'd wanted to be well-behaved he would've been a naval officer.) But she's not letting her presumed inexperience make her hesitate, and he likes that; Leia is never one to waver when her mind's made up. If she seemed unsure of this, regretful, he wouldn't feel as good about it.

The blushing, then, is more charming than alarming, and the smile he casts her way is scoundrelly enough for the both of them. He curls an arm around her as she bends near, fingers splayed over the nape of her neck, tilting his head so he can press his lips fleetingly to her jaw and then she bites him.

"Hey!"

Without meaning to he jerks sharply, though there's more of a laugh in his tone than anything, and it's fortunate he just got an arm around her because with as little space as there is his sudden movement is nearly enough to tumble them both out of the bunk. Judging by the way he's chuckling, a low huff of breath against her skin, he doesn't actually mind at all.

I'm sorry is on the tip of her tongue when she lifts her head, along with that was stupid and possibly I don't know what I was thinking. The last one is too much a lie, and one that suggests that she's not in control of her own faculties, so it's swiftly replaced with look, I was overwhelmed, which still sounds idiotic, but at least it's true.

But he seems more surprised than anything, and admittedly, she didn't bite him that hard. So she smiles, teeth digging into her lower lip, and looks down at his shoulder. The imprint of her mouth is still there, reddening, and she's not entirely surprised to realize just how much she likes the look of it. Mine, it says. Even if it's just for tonight.

Han still deserves some kind of explanation, and if she can find it in her to bite him, surely she can compliment the poor man. "You're beautiful." Her gaze travels down the long, supple lines of him, stomach and sides and legs and, admittedly, cock. Her hand lingers at his hip, brushing over his skin with butterfly-light touches. "I know men are supposed to be handsome, but you're--you're like a statue."

It is, she reflects after saying it, quite possibly even more stupid a comment than anything about being overwhelmed. Too late now. She'll have to live the rest of her life as The Woman Who Thought Han Solo Was Like Statuary. If he makes fun...

Eventually, he's probably going to tease her about it, at least a little bit. Right now isn't the moment for it. He just didn't expect that, though now he thinks perhaps he shouldn't be so shocked. Princess or not, Leia has her wonderfully rough edges. She's the sort of leader who lives in the front lines, not commanding from the distance. It makes sense.

And he's feeling pretty damn smug about being able to overwhelm her so thoroughly. If she wants to mark him, make no mistake-- for tonight (at least, and likely more than tonight), he's decidedly hers.

He sets his hand on top of hers, rubs an idle line with his thumb.

"You're one to talk." Teasing, but there's a reverence in his tone that makes it not a joke at all. This would be a perfect moment to tell her something lovely, but words have never been Han's strong point. So he hopes something of what he means is evident in his gaze when he meets her eyes, when he lets it sweep down the line of her body, softly curved but steel-strong.

"Your turn," he breathes, reaching confidently for the fastening to her clothes. Right now it's entirely unacceptable that there's skin he can't touch; he wants all of her. Simple. The complicated parts, the questions about the future-- those can wait until they get the ship fixed up. For now they can revel in this, being alternately generous and demanding with each other.

When her confidence is more than mere bravado, she won't mind teasing--but for now, his answer is the right one. For all her rough edges, for all her insistence on being treated like someone who can handle whatever's put before her, she's grateful for the tenderness in his manner. It's a fine line to walk, between care and cosseting, but Han does it.

He holds her like she's something precious--for herself, no less, not for anything she represents--and looks at her with those intent, hungry eyes. Under the weight of his gaze, everything beyond their embrace fades; hell, everything outside the spark of anticipation between her legs does.

She's about to kiss him when he speaks, reaching out for her, and for a moment she's too busy helping him get rid of her slacks to consider anything else. It's not much more dignified than his turn, and it's made all the more delicate an operation by the fact that there's no wall supporting her as she kicks the fabric onto the floor.

And then it's just the two of them, skin and silent appraisal. Leia doesn't expect to be found wanting, but that first moment or two is still one of held breaths. When she reaches out to run the backs of her fingers along the length of his cock, it's as much giving herself something to do as desire or curiosity.

Bravado will get you far in life, he can respect it. At the moment there are far more interesting ways to tease, anyway. But at some point he'll have to remember to make an innocent comment about statuary at the right wrong moment, because by then it will make the both of them smile.

(The thought is fleeting, which is good, because who knows what the future will hold. He still has to leave.)

He does his best to hold her steady as she wriggles out of her pants, eager and shameless in the way his eyes roam, and then there she is. Beautiful, not that he's saying it, but maybe she'll feel it in the way he trails a hand slowly down her side, along her thigh, or hear it in the soft sound he makes-- approving, desiring-- at her touch.

Nearly everything about this moment is perfect, cramped and hurried and precarious as it is, and he almost leaves it at that because the only thing wanting is so small-- but why be shy when she's so bold?

"Leia," he says softly, a question in his tone, running his tongue over his lower lip. He feels a bit silly asking.

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