a/n: sigh. our intrepid couple is having too much fun (or trying to).
Kashyyyk
His hands tightened on her hips.
"Leia," he mumbled, blinking at her hazily – she looked all soft and blurry, silhouetted in the moonlight that crept through the woven tree-home roof.
She pouted at him, her lips parting impatiently.
"It's like trying to get the Falcon through hyperspace down here," she whined, trying to keep a stern face for a moment, and failing miserably – too delighted with her own jibe.
She giggled drunkenly and fell forward on his chest, pressing her lips to his shoulder with a dramatic sigh.
Han grumbled something incoherently. She rolled off of him and ran her hands down his chest to his groin languidly, hand twisting around him. Han shifted and hooked his hands under her arms, pulling her back on top of him insistently, his eyes raking over her body. She leaned forward to kiss him, her palm still moving over him with determination.
He tasted like bonfire smoke and whiskey-spiked native tea, and there was a liberating privacy in their secluded Kashyyyk vacation, all hidden among the trees and leaves and surrounded by simplicity and fine, warm furs.
They were both drunk—falling down drunk, wasted, trashed, deliriously drunk, and it had something to do with their complete lack of responsibility here, and the absence of public scrutiny—and something about losing track of how many shots of whiskey were in the root tea, and abandoning the tea for the straight liquor halfway through the night.
"Always the same," Leia teased, stumbling through her slurred words, "you talk the talk like a big man, oh your ship is so nice, and so fast, and then," Leia dipped her head and kissed his stomach, and then looked up at him, cocking her brow, "your thrusters fail."
Han snorted with laugher, and she burst into giggles again, leaning back up a little and kissing his neck. He ran his hands down her back, over her thighs, and then between them, fumbling with her hands.
"You're gonna take the skin off," he growled dangerously, his voice thick with alcohol and deliciously lazy – he squeezed her fingers, pushing them into her abdomen, tickling her, and she wrestled with him, laughing, her head bowed down.
"Want me to slick it up with the rest of that whiskey?" she asked, stumbling over the words and wrinkling her nose cutely as a blush danced across her cheeks – whiskey sounded like whiissshhh-kee, and she shifted her hips, smirking at him.
"Nah," Han answered wryly. "Spit works fine."
Leia shrieked and covered her face, bursting into laughter, and he spun her onto her back, pulling her under him and grabbing her knees. He ran hands over her legs before he reached between them and maneuvered himself back inside her with more concentration than it would have soberly taken.
She tilted her head back and sighed, biting her lip.
"Oh, you fixed the hyperdrive," she sang mockingly.
He kissed her to shut her up, and she started laughing again.
He was that drunk—that kind of completely plastered that sort of—impaired—his ability—to—
"Shhh," he hissed.
"You shhh," she fired back, alternately trying to escape from the kisses, and compete in giving them.
Leia ran a hand back through her tangled, loose hair, laughing again.
"Han," she yelled, half-moaning, half-yelping with amusement.
He touched her lips with his and snickered.
"Shhh," he growled. "You'll wake the whole planet up."
She mimicked his shushing again, and then burst into quieter giggles – yes, but they were on Kashyyyk and Wookiees were so far from puritanical about this –
Leia grabbed his face in her hands and tapped his jaw, arching her brows.
"How long have we been doing this?" she whispered conspiratorially.
He furrowed his brow, slowing in his movements. She wrapped her leg around him and pushed her palms hard against his chest, leveraging her hips and flipping him onto his back. She lowered her mouth to his chest, and her hips slowly.
He grabbed onto them, yanking on her insistently.
"Put your back into it," he demanded playfully.
She pinched him, mustering a stern look.
"It might malfunction again! I don't want to scare it!"
He didn't remember how long they'd been at it – or were trying to be at it, as it stood. In other circumstances, that would be good—a testament to his stamina, but right now it was more due to the fact that they kept having to—
He groaned in frustration and caught her hips again, thumbs drawing circles against her bones.
She let out an adorable whine of protest.
"Again?'
-they kept having to stop and assess his technical difficulties.
She tumbled off him again and then cuddled up to his side, hanging on him seductively and warmly, her intoxicated eyes meeting his. She bit her lip and gave him a wicked look, her lips puckering.
"Your," she broke off, and pointed between his legs, exaggeratedly mouthing a slang word at him, as if she were too proper to say it, "is drunk," she informed him. "It's as drunk as you are."
"It's being a gentleman," he defended, mildly resentful of the reminder that he wasn't exactly performing.
She gasped in mock outrage.
"Well, I came here to fuck a smuggler, not a soft, meek, excuse of a man – I've been had!" she lamented, flinging the back of her hand against her forehead in a mock swoon.
He growled and wrapped his arms around her tightly, rolling over in bed with her until she was lying on his chest again, her hair falling over her shoulders onto him.
"You makin' fun of me, Princess?" he drawled. "You want to be had?"
She laughed, fluttering her lashes fetchingly.
"If you're up to it, Captain Solo," she simpered wryly. Her words were coming out slurred, and it wasn't helping that she was giggling madly again.
"It seems as if you can't quite rise to the occasion—" she broke off with a shriek as he pulled her under him again, having gotten off enough on the friction of rolling around with her to perk him up.
She slid her fingers into his hair and moaned at him noisily, raising her eyebrows.
"Ohhhh, I can almost see stars," she encouraged, her lashes fluttering. "This is taking longer than the entire trip to Bespin," she whispered wickedly.
He kissed her, his eyes boring into hers with a glare, and she laughed, her nose crinkling.
"Han," she purred, touching his chin with her fingers and puckering her lips prettily. He pressed her down into the fur blankets, completely half-assing his efforts.
She touched her lips to his ear.
"You can pretend I'm the Kessel Run," she teased, stifling laughter against his neck.
He smirked at her slurring the s's, and reached down to lift her knee, placing her leg over his shoulder.
"Hmm," she hummed, throwing her hands above her head lazily. "This is very ambitious," more prim little slurs, and she closed her eyes lightly –
"I took the Kessel Run fast, Leia," he reminded her, focusing really hard on pronouncing it like he wasn't drunk off his ass – "Fast – good in spice running, bad in bed."
She yawned.
"Will you find some plateau between sub-light speed and breakneck?" she teased, peeking out of one eye. She waved her hand, placing it on his chest, wriggling her knee on his shoulder – she looked at him hazily, tilting her hand back and forth to indicate a balance: "Not Bespin, not Kessel."
He shook his head at her, grinning.
"You should hear yourself," he said. "You're all tongue-tied and speechless."
"I'm speaking."
"If you can call it that."
"I'm verrrry 'loquent. 'quacious. El-o-quacious."
Han smirked.
"Say 'Kashyyyk' – "
Leia moved her lips, then gave a dignified frown. She arched her knee back a little and pointed her toes threateningly at his ear –
"I'll kick you out."
"Out of the treehouse, or you?"
"Oh," Leia feigned a wide-eyed look of innocence, "are you still in there?"
He gave her the most insulted look she'd ever seen, and she covered her mouth, bursting into laughter. He lunged forward to nip at her throat, and she squealed out a plea for mercy, while he made her quite aware that he was, in fact, still there – and holding his own against the side effects of intoxication, for the moment.
"Mmmm," Leia breathed, closing her eyes. She bit down on her index finger for a moment. "I recant, I recant," she moaned. "You're so – manly, and endowed and all that pornographic breathiness you want to hear."
He started laughing –
"You're too drunk to try to talk dirty to me, Leia," he teased smugly.
He bent to kiss her, and she laughed, turning her head so he hit the corner of her mouth instead.
"I'm too drunk to talk," she drawled, "you're to drunk to," she fluttered her hand, trying to find something extremely vulgar and shocking to say, but she waded through a fog of alcohol and fell short – "take me," she decided dramatically.
"Take you where?" Han asked, feigning confusion.
"Hmm, hyperspace," she danced back to the previous euphemism.
"Ah," he noted, pressing his lips to hers in a real kiss and reaching up to hold on to her knee – "That's all in the calculations, you just have to – hit it a couple of – shit," he swore – no hyperdrive, again; and Leia almost broke her neck tilting it back and howling with affectionate laughter –
He sat back on his heels, running a hand through his hair, and instead of letting her leg fall off of his shoulder, she lifted the other one and rested it there on his other side, kneading her heels lightly against his collarbone.
He crawled forward and rested his head on her stomach, collapsing, admitting defeat, and she reached down to ruffle her fingers through his hair.
"It's okay," she soothed, trying to catch her breath, lowering her voice conspiratorially, "I was going to fake it anyway."
whiskey dick, in space!
-alexandra
story #334