a/n: this thunderstorm is x-rated.
Kink
Leia loved storms; she always had. She loved rain and thunder and lightening, the breathtaking crash and bang of it all, snarling and thrashing on black, ominous cloudy nights. The harsh sound of pouring rain was musical and cleansing, the bursts of lightening illuminated stars in the sky in a strange and mystical ways, and the bellow of thunder reminded her that nature was an amoral force more powerful than her, or any other being in the galaxy, good or evil.
She could sleep through them, the noise merely a comforting maelstrom shielding her from other interruptions and distractions, or she could lie awake and bask in the tempest, remembering storms past and all the times she'd survived them.
She loved them for their beauty and their unstoppable will; her affinity for storms was so much apart of her that she found it difficult to describe, and so she often kept it to herself, a private affection – she'd never once thought to refer to her predilection for them as a turn on, but then again, before Han, she'd considered herself to be fairly uninterested in her baser sexual instincts.
Lust seemed to constantly get her peers into irreversible trouble, or cause incontrovertible heartache, and a younger Leia had neither the time nor the patience for nuisances such as that.
A younger Leia; before Han.
That wasn't to say that Han Solo was singlehandedly responsibly for introducing her to physical pleasure, but he certainly did introduce her to the notion that letting someone else do the heavy lifting in such matters was – earth-shattering, to say the least.
The first time his hands had replaced her own in a search for release, she'd thought – Gods, trouble and heartache be damned, this is worth it, he's worth it, yes, yes yes - !
It was his hands, and then his mouth, and then – his whole body, and that was nothing more than raw desire, sex followed closely, ruthlessly by a whole different kind of desire, and when his heart and soul were part of the equation, when she could hold him close before and afterwards, and he would whisper things in her ear, things that were filthy and gentle all at once – he was a thunderstorm of a person, and the first time she woke him up during a storm to kiss him to the rhythm of the rain was like the first time all over again.
That's when she found the term to classify her penchant for storms: kink.
Han would pull her close when he saw the sky get dark, lean down to whisper in her ear when he heard the first threatening rumbles of a storm in the distance.
"There's your kink, Sweetheart."
She had to exert all of her control to keep her knees from buckling, and her eyes from rolling back into her head, thinking about what he'd to do her later, with all that rain and thunder in the background.
She liked to step out of her comfort zone in the midst of storms, like the time Han had bent her over the sofa in the living room, one arm wrapped around her waist, fingertips digging into her hips, one hand twisting into her hair, while she watched the storm through her lashes, until she had to close her eyes, lips parted, knuckles white – Han, Han, Han - !
Ah – or the time he hitched her up around his waist, when they were caught outside on vacation, escaping dangerous ocean waves and thick, drenched, sand as a storm started to rage, and he'd pressed her against the sleek, smooth wall of the private beach house and slid his thumb between her teeth as he thrust inside her, even though the crack of thunder would have drowned her out anyway – Han, I need – yes, honey; harder – ohhh, Han – biting so hard on his thumb that he bandaged it afterwards, but ran it over her lip admiringly went he bent to kiss her good morning.
It wasn't always rough, or a ravenous adventure; she was satisfied, too, if she could draw it out as long as the storms thundering outside, even if the lightening and rain had faded into nothing before she was finished with him, and he with her – slow nights tasted like aged whiskey and fine wine, so good it hurt in sharp spikes of pleasure, ending when he was gripping her hair, or her arm, or her thighs so tightly his hands were shaking, and she lost her voice into husky whispers, and mangled swears – fuck, Han – fuck! And he'd respond – Language, Your Highness, and hook her leg over his shoulder one more time.
Han had to be conditioned to it at this point; when it thundered he was looking for Leia – if he was asleep, he was accustomed to being woken up, her lips on his throat, hands roaming down her chest – or she'd be waiting for him when he got home, restless, posed on the sofa in something mouthwatering or submerged in a steamy bath – wet as the falling rain; looking at him in ways he used to only dream about.
He'd laugh at her sometimes, breathless, growling into her skin as he pulled fingers through her sweaty hair – you and the thunder, Leia; it's not a competition – she was so vocal in their private nights, he thought the storm itself was screaming for him. And, perhaps it was – she was a storm contained within a woman, bright and dangerous as lightening, with the potential to be as destructive as the wildest hurricane.
Yes,they aroused her at the core, somewhere primal: thunderstorms.
A younger Leia, before Han – she'd have curled up in her bed in the palace, eyes wide, contently listening to the whirlwind, fascinated with her own attraction to them –
She always thought of her innocence when she heard the first howl of thunder, and soundless scream of lightening, and swift, downpour of rain, because now it would strike a cord in her spine that she easily identified, and she'd roll over and slid her hand through Han's hair, tangling her fingers until he opened his eyes in a lazy, wolfish way –
"It's thundering," she whispered huskily.
He shrugged.
"So?" he drawled, provoking her.
She moved closer, running her lips over his jaw, teeth on his earlobe, voice soft and sotto –
"So," she purred. "I want you to fuck me."
Han leaned over her, feigning exasperation only for a moment, before that devilish, rogue look she loved so much would fall back into his eyes, and manifest itself in that devastating smirk of his.
"You've got a kink, Princess," he reminded her – words a slow, soulful drawl.
She nodded, head tilted back – he pulled sheets off of her, he kissed her navel – eyes closed lightly, breath held behind her teeth, she gasped when he thrust her leg over his shoulder – Han, oh, honey – and he kissed her from knee to thigh – thigh to – Han! – and she reflected on the fact that before Han, thunder was only a thing to be heard, loud and commanding – but when he had his hands on her, she swore to God she could see it.
you may think it requires some maturity to write this, but i was thinking of the term "thundercock" the entire time.
xoxo
-alexandra
story #318