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

Her breath catches at the back of her throat as he runs a hand over her newly exposed flesh. Han wears an expression she can't entirely read; she sees intensity in it, and care, and more than anything, something like wonder. Maybe there's newness in this for him, too, if only in the fact of her body here with his.

That little noise that comes from him is intoxicating, the perfect way to encourage her. The fact that so small a touch does so much to him makes her want to see just what else she can manage.

But maybe in a moment or two. First, she hears the unspoken question in his voice and nods her answer. Reaching out, she catches him by the wrist and draws his hand down to the juncture of her legs, until his fingers are brushing against a thatch of dark curls and her heart is fluttering in her chest.

It's unfamiliar, how significant this feels. It's been such a long time coming (and for such a long time it seemed like this would never happen at all). He'd just about made up his mind to go, because he couldn't stay, because unless there was something to come back to he'd be better off trying to forget the last three years.

But here they are, with nothing in their way.

He grins broadly as she guides his hand, and for a long moment he concentrates on fanning that spark of interest into a proper flame. Whatever may come, he's certain she won't forget tonight, and that's a victory that spurs him on.

Slowing the movement of his fingers but not pulling his hand away, he pushes himself up on his other elbow. It wasn't quite what he was getting at.

"Will you let your hair out?" he asks, barely more than a whisper beside her ear.

Yeah.

He's good at that, enough so that she has to tell herself not to think of where he learned to stroke his fingers between a woman's legs with such expertise. (Admittedly, just about anything pleasurable would seem expert to her.) For once, it's not difficult to let go of thinking in favour of feeling. Once he really gets going, she doesn't even try exploring him further, just spreads her thighs a little further, holds tight to his hip and makes tiny, breathy noises that in any other context would embarrass the hell out of her.

And then he pauses and speaks, and it takes her a moment to process the words over the beat of her heart.

"I--" She blinks at him, dazed enough by his touch that his request seems to come out of nowhere. Her hair? It's just going to get in the way if she pulls it out of its braided crown, it'll take time away from everything they're doing right now, and unbinding it means risking getting it pulled in the middle of...well, this. More of this. "If you want...all right."

There's a little pause, though, during which she doesn't do more than shift slightly, stretching as languorously as their current quarters allow for. It's just enough space that she can start plucking pins out of her hair, dropping them on the floor behind her one by one. (She might regret that eventually, but right now, it's the only convenient option.) Once her braids have fallen into ropes on either side of her head, she starts pulling the braids out, watching his face the whole time.

Look, you can't help wanting the things you want. Everything from that firstmoment in the cockpit til now has been testament to that. Three years of putting off leaving, too. Maybe it's a little bit symbolic; Leia tends to be so controlled, tying herself into neat knots for the sake of duty. He wants to unravel her wholly. Letting her hair down literally as well as figuratively. Or maybe it's simpler than that, maybe he's just been wondering for too long what it would be like. Leia wearing nothing but the dark waterfall of her hair and a smile.

He's mercifully still (or maybe cruelly, considering how much she was enjoying this) as she undoes it, rapt and wondering, not taking his eyes off her. It's a silly thing to be so focused on, with the heat of her against him, the expanse of her bare body, but he loves the sight of it, long locks tumbling out of their plaits.

"Perfect," he murmurs, his voice husky and low with desire, and then he leans up to kiss her again, greedy and eager, picking up where he left off between her thighs.

If her hands weren't busy, she might mind the way he watches her without the slightest bit of movement. Balancing on her side at the edge of a bunk while unbraiding her hair is enough to keep her thoughts away from the fact that his fingers are just resting there, a little pressure and nothing more.

It's not exactly pretty when she finally shakes it all out--it would need brushing before it became a dark waterfall instead of a few wavy rivulets--but it's long and thick, and she lets it fall in the scant space between them.

And Han calls it perfect anyway, and it sounds so sweet on his tongue that she doesn't care if it's kindness or ignorance that makes him say it. (It can be prettier, that's the problem--I'll show him sometime.) She nips at his lip, and this time, she does reach down for his cock, her fingers wrapping around the base of it as her hips rock into his hand.

Neither kindness nor ignorance have a thing to do with it, he's being utterly earnest. And, as it turns out, he's wrong, because this is absolutely perfect. He's a little bit biased, he can admit that, but he loves this-- her unbound hair trailing over the both of them, the soft sounds she's making as he moves.

(He doesn't think he's ever been anyone's first before. He's never thought about it before this, but there's something heady about the thought that maybe no one's ever touched her like this. It's a gesture he wants to be worthy of, which surprises him a little. Or it would have, before he knew her. Before he fell in--

This is the wrong time to complicate things with that word. Even if it's probably true. Even if it's obvious.)

Shifting up eagerly into her hand in an uneven counterpoint, he twines a long lock of her hair around the fingers of his other hand, groaning softly against her mouth.

Leia strokes him slowly, blindly, her hand artless but as earnest as anything else between them. He has her squirming at his touch, and she wants nothing less than to return the favour. If he groans while he's kissing her again, so much the better--it arouses a smug sort of pride in her to realize she made him make that sound.

(This is about anything but that--she's certain of that much. Han is a good leader and a good man at heart, and she's grown fond of him. She'd have to care for him, to be here. But that's all this can be. There's too much at stake to let things move beyond what they have here and now.

That desire--to keep things simple, not to get attached--seems so Han to her that she can't believe he'd let himself do otherwise, even inadvertently.)

They're at a point where they could easily continue this way until they're both satisfied, she suspects, but she doesn't want to stop here. Her fingers slow, encircling the head of his cock idly, and she tilts her head down just enough to break the kiss. Her nose brushes against his.

There should be a polite way of saying this is all very nice, but I want you to fuck me, considering the myriad uses it would probably have among the upper echelons of the galaxy. There isn't one, however, and Leia would rather mask what nervousness remains than admit to an inexperience she suspects they're both already aware of anyway.

"So," she says, affecting a sort of lazy nonchalance that isn't really affectation when it gets down to it, "are we going to get to the main event, or are you going to keep teasing me?"

Practice and skill, in this case, are not essential when you've got this much enthusiasm, plus the anticipation they've been building all this time. Han has no complaints at all. He only pulls away from kissing her to watch her face, the color on her cheeks and the darkness of her eyes, and then comes back with a fierce energy, catching her lip in his teeth.

He could be content if they didn't get any further than this, but when she pauses to ask that it makes his eyes crinkle in a grin, which he follows up with one last, slow draw of his fingers. As far as polite ways to ask go, that's pretty good. (The upper echelons of the galaxy are, Han imagines, probably much more vulgar in private, for the most part, than that.)

"I like teasing you," he points out lazily, but he's more than willing to take the lead again. He shifts so he's got a grasp on her shoulder and her hip, tries to wriggle them into turning. It seems like this might be easier if she's on her back.

"I like it, too," she admits in a low little voice, pecking him once more on the mouth. Another night, this would be more than enough--but she's thought of future encounters too much already. The further they go, the more she wants to do with him. The more she wants him, and not solely to find out how else they can take pleasure in each other's presence.

Wanting a wanted man isn't the smartest thing she's done, but when it comes down to it, she's wanted, too. And it's a concern for another moment, when when she's not scooting over in the space he's made for her.

"You need larger bunks in here," she tells him, grinning up from where she's newly stretched out under him, her hair a mess beneath her. Leia reaches up to stroke his cheek, and then his hair. "And a galley."

From a certain point of view Leia's more of a criminal than he is. Han is oddly offended when people call him small-time; meanwhile Leia is a real threat to the Empire. A wanted woman, which honestly doesn't hurt his wanting her a bit. And he does. It's something he's just come to admit because there's no other fix for it, he can't just get her out of his system. Maybe this fling, the quiet space they're carving out for themselves between here and Cloud City, will be enough. He doesn't think so. He kind of hopes it won't be enough, honestly, even if he still has to go.

"I'll make a list," he promises, taking a moment to admire the sight before he bends to press a handful of aimless kisses to her collarbone, her breast, back to her mouth, stroking her thigh as he settles himself between her legs. (Whatever this is, this fling, this affair between them, perhaps they can stretch it out long enough to share a proper bed at least once. She's not wrong about the surroundings, as much as he loves his ship.)

Savoring the kiss for a long moment, he pulls away to guide them together and then sets his mouth on her throat instead, eager to hear her respond.

Considering the fight he puts up over the Falcon's honour as a general rule, Leia thinks of I'll make a list as a victory. A small one, maybe, but what a difference it would make to the ship's livability if someone (Chewie, probably) could cook actual meals, instead of being stocked to the gills with rations and freeze-dried ready-meals.

But as soon as he dips his head to kiss her, it's neither here nor there. She makes room for him between her thighs, one hand straying to the span of skin and muscle between his shoulder blades, and kisses him back hungrily when his mouth meets hers.

It doesn't really hurt when he enters her--so much for Aunt Rouge's scaremongering on that front--but it's nowhere as enjoyable as what came before. Her muscles tense a little as she adjusts to the sensation, but for the most part, she's quiet and still beneath him. Not much of a response. It's a pity she doesn't know he's waiting for one.

Asking Chewie to cook would probably be the smart move. Han would, hypothetically, be willing to cook for her, but there's no guarantee it would be much better than what they've got in storage. He has a great many skills, and will claim even more than he's got, but a gourmet he definitely isn't. (Still, he'll admit, this is no way to woo a princess. Somehow it's worked out in spite of that.)

He's being slow and gentle as he can, but that... well, is not the sort of reaction he's aiming for, obviously. Though he supposes it could go worse. Still, they can do better than that. He nips idly at the corner of her jaw, shifts a little to aim for a better angle, and moves again, being a little less tentative about it.

He is gentle, she'll grant him that. Frankly, at the moment, she'll grant him plenty of compliments: gentleness, a tender smile, soft hair, good taste in wine, an uncanny ability to make her draw in a sharp breath when he kisses her jaw, and many more beyond.

She's fond of him, that's what it comes down to. That's as far as it goes.

After a few moments, the sensation of him filling her is no longer a strange novelty but a simple fact. And when he moves with a little more purpose, it's not at all unpleasant--which might sound like damning with faint praise, but it comes with the twitch of her own hips and a faint little noise as she runs her fingers through his hair.

He's got his moments, she said it herself.

That's a start, at least, and for the moment he resolves to do a little less worrying, relaxing against her, letting his hand roam along her leg, kissing his way down her throat, slow and aimless. He's fond of her, too, and more than that, but he figures she must know that.

And it doesn't matter, not right now. He doesn't hesitate or let up; anything she seems to like he'll try again, eager to learn how to please her.

He really does. She eases into it, slowly finding a rhythm that suits them both. Between the steady movement of his body and the warmth of his lips on her throat, the initial strangeness is transformed into something else. Something genuinely enjoyable, as much for the company as the sensation itself.

"Next time," Leia mumbles, her hand clenching in his hair when he angles his hips just right, "you're on your back."

What a tantalizing thought, that: there being a next time, one where their faces are shrouded from the rest of the galaxy by her dark hair. On a real bed, she'd consider pushing him over and trying it right now, but given the circumstances, she'd rather see this through.

There's a sharper jerk of his hips as he considers that thought. A next time is a lovely prospect, even if he's mostly grounded in this moment, the way she feels against and around him, sharp breaths and the tangle of her hand in his hair. Somewhere along the way he's curled his fingers in hers, and the idea of having her in his lap, her hair tumbling over the both of them... He leans up and pulls her into a kiss.

"We could go back to the cockpit."

He's joking. (But not necessarily.)

"That, too," she breathes, the words forming against his mouth. It was distinctly cozy without feeling precarious, and she doesn't doubt that the fact that it's his favourite part of the Falcon plays into his interest.

Somehow, she finds that charming, even if it's a little on the eccentric end of things. Before just about everything else, even before he's a criminal, Han's a pilot; sharing him with his ship, she suspects, comes with the territory. "You can keep me awake on my next--oh--shift."

The rhythm of their bodies is starting to get them--or her, at least--somewhere. She kisses him, arching up a little against his body, as if to say back to the here and now.

(Look, it'll just be easier if the ladies in his life get along. The Falcon is good about sharing.)

That little hitch in her voice is supremely encouraging, making him grin into her kiss, letting his hand skim up her side to rest on the curve of her breast. He isn't selfish in bed-- if nothing else it hardly suits his ego to leave a partner wanting-- and the more she warms to it, the more he finds himself enjoying this, too.

"Absolutely, your--"

Whatever ludicrously formal title he's planning on is swallowed by a sharp little moan. The here and now is pretty compelling.

(Some things come in pairs, whether you like it or not, and luckily, Leia minds the Falcon less and less as time goes on. Either she's starting to see its charms, helped along by its owner, or she's been trapped on it so long, she doesn't remember what a decent ship is like.)

"Don't you--" she starts, even before he manages to come up with a Worshipfulness or Highnessness or whatever mess of a title he'd reach for in his current state. But he doesn't continue, and she doesn't, either; she'd much rather hear what he thinks of earthier matters than titles.

She lets her hand slide down his back as far as she can reach, her fingernails rising and falling over the knobs of his spine. Her other hand drifts towards the short hairs at the back of his neck, her hips rising to meet his. Small touches, light caresses, all in the vague pursuit of drawing more sound from him.

(It's definitely not the latter. Probably. The Falcon is an excellent ship.)

If that's what she's after, Han is happy to oblige. He laughs softly at her abandoned indignation, barely a huff of breath, and curls in to press his mouth to the curve of her shoulder with a low, appreciative hum. Teasing her nipple with his thumb, he doesn't let up anywhere, though the roll of his hips slows a little as he drags his teeth over the line of her collarbone.

He murmurs something sweet and wholly unintelligible, low and a little growling, as he lines himself up again to kiss her, stretching luxuriously beneath her touch.

"Han--" she breathes, nails digging into the small of his back as he kisses her again. The sensations building inside her have been a little slow coming, but they're beginning to grow from flickers to an ache that begs for release.

Leia reaches for his hand and drags it down her body until it's at her hip, then over until his fingertips are between her legs once more. What they have is good, but combining it with the way he'd teased her earlier sounds even better.

All things being equal, this is a night she'll remember for the rest of her life no matter what happens next. Still, it'd be nice if next involved coming, and as pleasurable as his thrusts have become, she's not sure they're enough on their own. And who knows how long he can hold out, waiting for her, anyway?

It suits him just fine that she's not shy about wanting what she wants. Not that he'd expect anything less from Leia. (Maybe it's a wonder that she isn't more bossy. Or perhaps that's a question of experience, here.) He pulls away just enough to flash her a lazy grin.

It gives him a little more space to move, so he does, his other hand on her shoulder, his gaze intent and locked on her face. This isn't something either of them are likely to forget. He starts slow, not hesitant but gently teasing, leaning in to press a fleeting, light kiss to her lips as he ups the pace, eager to give her everything she's looking for. He can hold out, but that's not what's on his mind. Maybe this is just for a little while, but he's sentimental enough to want her to look back on it more than just a little bit fondly, egotistical enough to hope he comes up favorably if she compares him to others.

Once she knows what she's doing, she'll be the bossiest possible partner. These fleeting moments in which she's sure he knows better than her are just that: fleeting. But what's to come will, hopefully, be as enjoyable as this.

And this is plenty enjoyable, especially with Han in charge of things--he's an inveterate tease, but he makes good on every promise of a caress, and then some. She cups his face between her hands, dragging him back to her for a kiss when she's breathless and straining under his touch.

When she does come, it's with a shameless moan and hands clinging to his neck and shoulders, her body arching into a taut line beneath his. She groans his name again as her toes curl in against the mattress.

As much as he's enjoying the advantage he has right now, he'll enjoy being told what to do (and probably arguing) just as much. Is that strange? It feels like it should be strange, how much he values the contentious way their conversations generally go. But if this were simple, if they always agreed, it wouldn't be the same. (He'd be able to walk away from that, maybe, like he can't walk away from her.)

And that, the way she clings and cries out, is exactly what he's been looking for. He kisses back fiercely when she pulls him close, stilling so he can commit every moment of this to memory.

But... well. After a moment of watching her with a little bit of well-earned smugness, he has to interrupt her basking. He can't hold out indefinitely, as it turns out.

"Would you rather I..." You know. He jerks his shoulder back vaguely, hoping that's illustrative enough.

For a few pleasant moments, she lets herself relax more than she has in...well, it's probably better not to think about how long it's been since she last felt this satisfied by anything. And then Han speaks. It's not unpleasant to hear his voice, but it'd probably be nicer if he was saying something else.

She stares up at him, uncomprehending. Maybe if he'd asked a few moments earlier, she'd have gotten the gist of it--but even then, a vague gesture and an embarrassed half-sentence isn't enough to convey much.

"Try it again in Basic," she suggests dryly, lifting a too-heavy arm to brush a lock of his hair back from his face.

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