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

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.

Even the worst-case scenario here, if she ends up regretting this and there never is a next time, those moments of seeing her so relaxed would be well worth it. She could use, now and then, to get to put aside the myriad concerns of the Rebellion, her fight against the Empire. (He won't say so, because she'd probably never talk to him again much less sleep with him, but that doesn't make it untrue.) Not for long. Just long enough to stay human.

He rolls his eyes, shifts a little to make the point that he hasn't moved. This seemed like it would be the gentlemanly thing to do, but he hasn't got a gentlemanly way to offer.

"I could finish myself off. If you want. I'm guessing you don't wanna end up pregnant."

That? That was definitely not the gentlemanly way.

"--Oh."

So much for relaxing. Han's explanation jolts her out of the comfortable haze she'd been floating through, as she realizes that through all of this, she never thought once about taking precautions. She'd let herself be swept up by Han's touch and all the desires she'd spent years telling herself to ignore. And it's gotten her here, trying frantically to figure out how likely conception would be right now without actually showing it on her face.

(The lesson here, kids, is never let go. All those thoughts of future trysts have fizzled into nothing--how can they even think of the possibility?)

"I think you'd better," she says, and despite her best efforts, her voice comes out a little grim. The last thing she needs in the middle of a war is a child.

Moment officially ruined. Which is not what he'd wanted, but it seemed like the less of two risks. (Usually, Han likes space travel. Usually he has time to prepare, to make sure the Falcon is well-stocked with everything he might need or want. Usually.)

Enough of her thoughts show on her face to make him feel like a real heel. This is not the evening he'd want her remembering. Maybe time will soften it and the rest will outshine it. He leans in, brushes his thumb over her cheek. If he felt a little less unsure he'd kiss her. (He'd like to kiss her.) One thing at a time. Trying not to make things worse by frowning, he pulls away and steps halfway onto the floor to find his abandoned shirt. Yep. Nothing awkward here.

"It'll be all right."

She'd rather take the risk of the night souring than the alternative, but as he pulls away, her chest feels like it could collapse in on itself.

This is no time for moping, she tells herself after a moment. The night's only ruined if you let it be. It's not strictly true, but she needs to believe in something besides the possibility of complications.

"Come here." As awkward as this might have turned, she's not going to lie here and worry while he deals with his erection. Sliding her legs out of the bunk, she sits up and scoots toward him. There's no reason he should have to finish himself off when she's perfectly capable of it.

The night doesn't have to be ruined, though it feels like it's tending that way.

He almost refuses, but he hasn't got any reason to. Even stubborn pride doesn't really make sense, so with a heavy breath that is only just not a sigh he turns around, shirt in hand. Thinking ahead might have saved them this awkwardness, but the truth is everything kind of took him by surprise, too, and now-- well, moping isn't going to do either of them any good.

So in the name of not ruining things, he leans in to kiss her. It's kind of like an apology. Actually apologizing seems like it would be the final word on this evening, and that's not what he wants.

Leia puts an arm around him, pulling him close as she kisses him. It's nothing like the easy rapport they'd found when he was inside her, but there's something intimate about curling a hand around his still-slick cock nonetheless. It's still something she can do for him, after everything he gave her earlier.

She breaks the kiss and turns her attention to his jaw, then his neck. The rest of him, she simply leans into, trying to let the warmth of his skin return some ease to her own limbs. She'd like to hide it, but stiff worry still keeps her from moving quite naturally.

Given the choice he'd rather not do things this way, but it's less of a risk. It's one thing for her to indulge here and now, in the privacy of his ship, the helpless span from here to Bespin, but he doesn't imagine that's anything like a commitment. Aside from the fact that they're in the midst of a war, he doesn't imagine he's the sort of man she'd choose in the long run. That doesn't mean this is meaningless (it isn't, at least for him), or that she doesn't care for him (she does, he can tell), but it's still not a solid foundation for that.

At least the consideration he's trying to show has kept her from running off, or throwing him out. Actually, this is nice too, in its way, and he relaxes against her, tipping his head to the side with a soft sigh, curling his fingers around her shoulder. The interruption has cooled him off a bit, but he's still close, and there's no question it's better having a hand (...hah) with things than doing it on your own.

He runs his fingers through her hair, chuckling softly as they tangle near her shoulder. Okay, okay. This isn't what he had in mind at all, but it could have gone much worse.

Leia doesn't have enough hands for everything she wants: holding him close, sliding her fingers along the length of his cock, running her fingers through his hair, stroking his cheeks and the sharp angle of his jaw. There's so much of him to touch and so many things she wants to convey through her fingertips. So many things she can begin to say, even if she hasn't figured out the words yet.

She contents herself with a hand on his back and one on his cock, her face buried in the crook of his neck as she returns him to the rhythm they'd found when she'd been on the verge of coming.

"It's a mess, isn't it," she murmurs, her voice a breath away from a laugh as Han's fingers get caught in her hair. She doesn't really need an answer--with the way it pulls, she knows it's started to tangle. "You can help me brush it out later."

Possibly he'll like that idea. He's been strangely--sweetly--enamoured of her hair all night so far, and she can't deny that she likes the thought of him running a brush through it with that serious intensity he's taken to using where she's concerned.

Fortunately he's inclined to hold himself pretty damn close, as best as he can without getting in the way of what she's doing. Shifting his hips into her grasp, he turns his head to press a lazy kiss to whatever part of her he can reach at the moment. Maybe this isn't ruined at all.

Honestly Han doesn't know how to feel about the prospect of brushing out her hair. It's a little strange, but it sounds surprisingly... well, intimate, for something so small and ordinary. If she likes the idea, he likes it. He definitely likes the idea of hanging around and playing with her hair, at least.

He doesn't answer, just slowly shakes his hand free of the loose knot of her hair, groaning low and shameless right beside her ear, clinging suddenly tighter as he comes.

a galaxy far, far away . . . .

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