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

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.

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.

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