a/n: so, here's a thing.
setting: the night they've arrived on Bespin. ESB.

Delicate

Luxuriating in the feel of fleece and silk against her skin, Leia rested her head on her arm comfortably, relaxed on feather pillows and an exquisitely cushioned mattress and contemplatively watching Han sleep next to her.

She lay stretched out next to him gracefully, and she found the contrast between the way he slept and the way she slept amusing; he was flat on his stomach, one arm under his head, the other stretched out and half under her pillow; his legs took up more space than he needed – one of his knees bent and nudged into brushed her fingers through the loose hair near her temple, listening to his light breathing – he never quite snored, but he was what she'd call a loud sleeper, and in the past few weeks, she'd come to recognize that rhythmic sound as a protective lullaby, easing her mind in the night.

He seemed just as relieved to sleep in a real bed – an incredibly ostentations bed, at that – as she did. The Falcon wasn't necessarily uncomfortable, but Leia had become so accustomed to it on the long limp to Bespin that she'd forgotten how little room they actually had.

This bed – this room – that Lando Calrissian had placed them in – well, it reminded her of palaces she'd stayed in, and quietly, in the back of her mind, she relished a brief few days of comfort, and respite from the war, and a penthouse room with a gorgeous view where she felt like all that had happened on the Falcon could settle in her mind and her heart –

Han habitually went to sleep after they had sex, though it was usually a vague, shallow sort of sleep – tonight Leia was more restless; she watched him sleep with the intention of willing him awake – she'd been thinking, feeling herself out, feeling Han out – and she felt that now, her confidence in this new thing with Han, and the intimacy of it, was solidified enough that she could tell him –

"Han?"

She cleared her throat and called his name huskily, knowing it wouldn't take more than that, and a light nudge of her knee against his, to pull him out of his sleep.

He opened his eyes and blinked at her hazily a few times. He drew his hand out from under her pillow and ran it through his hair, doing more damage than good, and then ran it over his jaw, stifling a yawn.

"Hmm?" he mumbled.

She had no intention of engaging in small talk.

"You're too gentle with me," she ventured mildly, her expression soft and thoughtful.

He shifted his head onto his arm a little more and his brow furrowed. He blinked again, rubbing at an eye to snap himself into a more fully aware state – what?

He moved his hand away from his face, studying her curiously. He shifted his head back slightly, a little wary.

"What're you talkin' about?" he asked slowly. He gave her a look. "We about to have a fight?" he mumbled dryly, wondering if she'd been irritated by something while he was asleep – he'd been with women before who would wake him out of a dead sleep to inform him of something he did wrong two weeks ago.

Leia laughed, turning her nose and lips into her arm for a moment, shaking her head – poor, dashing smuggler, so conditioned to think he'd pissed her off. She lifted her chin, and pursed her lips, mulling over her word choice.

"No," she answered, arching a brow slightly. "What I mean is, you're too gentle with me," she repeated, adding specifics this time: "in bed."

Han blinked at her a few more times. He turned fully onto his side, attention piqued, and lifted both of his brows suggestively, interested.

"Gentle," he quoted slowly, gauging her expression. "I'm gentle?"

Leia lifted her eyes towards her lashes slightly, and laughed.

"I get the impression you're holding back," she clarified, flicking her eyes back on his, "that you're – being polite."

"Polite," Han repeated, nearly choking on the word. A smirk splashed across his face – and Leia laughed quietly again, her cheeks flushing a coquettish shade of pink. Han reached out and placed his hand on her hip, running his thumbs in circle – "Go on, Princess, keep talkin'."

She shifted closer at his touch, lifting her head and propping it up with her palm.

"Well," she murmured cautiously, "I'd always imagined there'd be more hair-pulling involved in – this," she ventured – sweetly, logically, almost, "more," she clicked her teeth together in a feather-like movement, "biting," she whispered, and then pressed her other hand to Han's chest, nails against skin, "nails."

Han watched her intently, a muscle in his jaw twitching silently. He seemed transfixed.

"I don't know what you're like with other women, but I doubt there's any reservation," she murmured.

"You're not other women," Han retorted, unexpectedly defensive.

"I'm not insulting your performance," Leia said, a wry grin flashing across her face. She ran her thumb across his lip swiftly and tilted her head, laughing a little: "You're only competing with yourself in that respect," she quipped.

"Leia, I'm not gonna do you the way I'd do just any other woman," he said – and Leia blushed a little brighter at the slang.

"What I mean is – there's no need to treat me like a Princess in bed," she said softly, looking at him intently. "I won't be scandalized if you," she shrugged a bit, reaching out to touch his chest again, compressing her lips, "ah, I'm not delicate," she decided.

Han shifted again. He looked up at the ceiling for a moment, tilting his head, and then looked back at her, running a hand over his jaw – he had been holding back, he was just impressed – unnerved, even – that she'd identified it in spite of her lack of experience. There was just – no point in overwhelming her, he figured, and he'd always kind of figured – that, ah, acrobatics were involved to mask the fact that emotions were not, and for him at least, with Leia, the emotions were there.

"Hmm," he grunted to himself, meeting her eyes again. "What do you want?" he asked, a husky edge to his voice.

She drew her hand back to herself, resting it between her breasts lightly. She pursed her lips for a moment.

"Maybe I want to be on my hands and knees," she said.

Han struggled to keep his jaw from falling open – he wasn't shocked, per se, it was just – she said it without a blush, or without breaking eye contact; he hadn't expected her to be so immediately…up for anything?

He covered his reaction by merely arching one brow.

"Maybe?" he quoted.

Leia moved closer, eliminating the space between them.

"I want you to take me on my hands and knees," she amended softly.

Han gave her a cautiously delighted look. She breathed in slowly, laying her head down and looking up at him through her lashes.

"Against a wall," she added in a murmur, "or…on the Dejarik table – hmm, over the back of that couch, in there," she gestured to the antechamber of the bedroom – she went on, thinking out loud: "I think I could get a leg over your shoulder," she murmured – "on the floor of your bunkroom – oh," her eyes flicked up to his again, brightening, "the cockpit," she suggested. "Han, are you listening to me?" she asked faintly.

Staring at her, mesmerized, he nodded slowly.

"Yes," he answered huskily.

"You look distracted."

"I am, Leia," he answered, a pained expression on his face – she was casually giving details like that, and she wanted him to just take it in thoughtfully, with consideration? He was visualizing it!

She tilted her head fetchingly.

"I want you to be rougher with me in general," she breathed. "I think you want to," she challenged.

Han shifted closer, leaning over her, one hand braced on the other side of her shoulder. He studied her reverently – admiration, and disbelief, and caution etched on his face, and he faltered for a moment, halting his fantasies.

"Leia, I thought," he started, shrugging a little uncomfortably. "You said you hadn't been with anyone," he said, wincing at how awkward it sounded.

She shrugged, turning onto her back and looking up at him honestly.

"I hadn't," she answered.

"Didn't want to thrust you into the deep in, Sweetheart," he retorted, arching a brow wryly.

"I hate that you made that pun," she scowled primly, rolling her eyes – he laughed, and she said: "I was a virgin; I'm not a prude."

"What in nine hells were you readin' back in the palace, Princess?" Han teased gruffly.

"Filth."

Han laughed loudly, leaning in to kiss her jawline up to her ear.

"Next you're gonna tell me you want me to talk dirty to you," he growled.

She lifted her chin confidently.

"I'd rather tell you I don't like it than never try it."

He bowed his head to her shoulder for a moment, mouthing a silent prayer to whatever deity felt he deserved to be blessed with her. He lay on his side next to her a moment, pressed alongside her, and rested his head on her pillow, taking a hesitant breath.

"What about the Death Star?" he asked finally, his voice low.

Leia was silent for a long beat; her head shifting edgily as she narrowed her eyes, closed them, and then turned to look at him fiercely.

"I don't think about that when I'm with you," she asserted sharply. "I wouldn't be in bed with you if I wasn't ready."

"Okay," he said softly, reaching out to rest a soothing hand on her neck. He hadn't wanted to bring it up, or upset her he'd just – it hadn't been so much her royal upbringing that quailed his intensity as much as it had been knowing what she'd been treated to on that battle station.

She lifted her head and leaned forward to kiss him, her hand running over his jaw.

"I want you to do everything to me," she whispered, kissing him between words, "everything you can think of. I want to know what it's like to be wild."

He nodded aggressively, deepening a possessive kiss. He slid his arms around her, and then rolled to the side, pulling her atop him. He pushed her hair back, clutching at it tightly, and finally, hurting for air, broke away. Leia rested her arms on his chest, straddling him, her knees pressing lightly into his hips.

He pulled her closer for a moment, curving his palm around her shoulder, pressing his lips to her collarbone.

"Leia," he breathed gruffly. "I – you know I'm, that I – love you," he ground out. "Damn," he swore – it wasn't the first time he'd said it to her, but it was an effort all the same, and she was sure that it was only because he knew how hard it was to admit that he forgave her for her silence in response, every time.

Her throat would just – lock up. She had such an ability to be honest about so many things, but those words choked her.

"I can't, Han," she managed, lowering her lashes.

He ran his hand through her hair several times.

"Yeah, it's hard," he agreed hoarsely. "You got to tell me sometime, I figure."

She moved her hips against his in response – words had always come naturally to her, and yet in this, touching was easier; less vulnerable, in the strangest of ways.

Han moved his hands through her hair, down her sides, then around to her stomach, until they wandered between her legs. She closed her eyes, and lowered her forehead to his shoulder with a soft sigh, pulling her lower lip between her teeth.

"What do you want, Leia?" he drawled in a low voice, repeating his earlier question.

She moaned quietly, distracted by his fingers.

"You tell me," she answered suggestively.

He was quiet for a moment, and then tilted his head back, and delivered a mild smack to her upper thigh before gripping it in his hand. He loosened her leg a little, and nodded his head to the side.

"Get on your knees, then," he decided seriously, his eyes heavy with desire.

She moved off of him to do so, her hair messy around her shoulders.

"Only my knees?" she clarified, cocking her head.

Han nodded, sitting up, and nodding his head to the side again.

"Yeah," he confirmed, leaning in to kiss her behind the ear. "Hold on to the headboard."

Leia ran her palms over the edge of it, knuckles curling around in a firm grip. Behind her, Han aligned his body with hers and lowered his head to kiss her shoulder, gripping her hips with a promising, exhilarating sort of comfortable roughness.

- Han said it first, you can't tell me otherwise.

I'm out here on a mission to destroy the Madonna/Whore social dichotomy defining women.

-Alexandra
story #319