a/n: This was not actually meant to be an Identity story, but I changed my mind and worked it into that 'verse: so, it's a "pre-Identity" story that gives more insight into the period before Bail / before Leia & Han moved in together (i.e., like 'Black Lace Stockings' except less snarky) - this story is very explicit.
Sunrise
The entire evening, he felt like he was suffocating – suffocating, and just balancing on the edge of driven mad with desire; miserable. It was brutal enough that he returned from an unbelievable military victory in the Outer Rim to a Coruscant that was painfully devoid of Leia – when had she gone to Chandrila again, and hadn't she said she'd be back before he returned? – but it was a curse in the most malicious sense that when she did return, he was tied up in drills and briefings all day, right up until the victory celebration he was on orders to attend – and thus, the first sight he had of her in months, months, was in a public venue – and oh, it was so breathtakingly unfair.
She wasn't even the guest of honor, for once; technically, that was his military cadre, basking in the glory of an era-defining battle; Warlord Zsinj dead, Han's unit home, grounded to Coruscant for a long respite – and still, the only high-ranking figure he cared about was her; her arms were the only medal of merit he wanted draped around his neck.
He hadn't seen her in months, and here he'd come back to hushed rumors that the leadership wanted her married to – had asked her to consider the hand of – and Han had felt a prickling of daunted fear in his gut at the mere whispered mention, until he laid eyes on her at the celebration, and everything in her face, demure and composed as it was, reminded him the leadership didn't own her.
She'd spoken to him as an old friend, comfortable and sweet, though reserved and diplomatic, and it reminded him, with amusement, that there were so few people who had caught on to all this – the Emperor had fallen, they'd taken their moment of peace on Corellia, and then the struggle to consolidate power had begun, and they'd fought the good fight in different arenas, on different planets, for most of it.
There was too much danger, fire, and bloodshed consuming the minds of the masses for anyone to notice, yet, that Han Solo and Leia Organa were consumed by each other.
"General," Leia said, in her even, warm voice, pressing her palms to the military ribbons on his shoulders, then touching his lapels forwardly and returning her hands to a reticent position near her abdomen. "Welcome home."
He grinned, flashed a wink at her, and lowered his head.
"I haven't seen anything that looks as good as you in a while, Sweetheart," he said, snapping his teeth at her subtly.
She grinned, dipping her head – she knew she'd finally lay eyes on him again here, and she'd chosen her attire accordingly; deep, rich violet gown that fastened over one shoulder, skin-tight to the waist, and a waterfall-like skirt that both swirled around, and hugged, her legs – he couldn't see her shoes, but he guessed heels, given her extra height.
He pulled back.
"I hear you're getting married," he quipped.
A small smile touched her lips – painted a neat shade of dark red, gothic, in the candle-like light of the venue.
"So I've been told," she remarked wryly, lifting a brow.
Ahh – yes, the evening was torture; agonizing torture; bland music and stuffy politicians, and Leia, always standing close, but not close enough – arms' length, but untouchable in public, and sending him looks over the tip of her champagne glass that promised a lengthy, satisfying personal reunion the moment they were alone –
"How long do we have to stay?" he asked, during a gruesome, glorified recount of his last battle, his lips brushing dangerously close to her shoulder as he pretended he was brushing something out of her hair for her.
Leia lifted her chin a little, waving her fingers at someone who smiled a greeting at her from across the room.
"If you find your way into the entrance hall, I'll find my way to you," she murmured, her lips moving so minutely, it looked as if she hadn't spoken at all.
It was a relief to escape from the air of sophistication; to scuff his boot against a marble column out in the entrance hall and wait for her to say her goodbyes – he went through fantasies in his head, everything he'd dreamed of doing to her – missed doing to her – while he was away challenging Zsinj for control; he thought of hearing Leia moaning and whispering his name in his hear, instead of imagining it, her hands on him instead of his own –
She held her gown in one hand delicately, lifting it out of the way of her heels clicking coolly on the expensive floors; he caught her in the shadows of the column by the back entrance to the venue, hands on her sides, her hips, lips on hers before she could speak.
"No, not here," she murmured, her breath hitching.
She slid her hands to his neck anyway, pressing herself into him.
"Han," she whispered huskily. "I feel like I'm on fire."
He pressed his lips to her throat, to her cheek, fingers running over the silk purple hiding her skin from him – he considered pressing her against a pillar; he could be quick, he knew she could be quiet – legs around his waist, his thumb in her mouth, that could hold them over –
She tugged on his hair as if she knew what he was thinking; shook her head with a bite of her bottom lip and a blushing smile.
"Well," he asked, feeling out of breath, though he wasn't, yet – "Your apartment, the Falcon...?"
"Is the Falcon close?" she whispered.
Han made a frustrated humming noise, and shook his head.
"Your place, at the palace?"
Leia bit her lip softly.
"My quarters are still next to Mon's."
Han nudged her back a little, until her shoulders touched the pillar they were hidden behind, and he gave her a look – I'll do it, Leia; right here, and it'll be good.
She laughed, stifling it huskily in his shoulder. She rested her chin on him, shaking her head –
"There's a hotel across the elevated walkway," she whispered.
"You kiddin', Princess?"
She shook her head, drawing back almost excitedly.
"It's almost like we're having an affair," she murmured, flicking her lashes at him demurely.
It was easy to acquiesce to that sort of coy flirtation – not that it would have taken him much convincing to get him to find the closest room with a lock on the door, anyway – the sight of her after so long was enough to drive him mad, but in that dress, with those perfect dark lashes and that impeccable lipstick – well it was promising a welcome home that damn well better stain his neck and sheets and anywhere else she put that mouth.
Han leaned against the concierge desk while they waited for a coded card, his hands to himself, for the moment, brows raised –
"You'll get recognized," he pointed out, glancing around – the lobby was fairly empty; but the desk manager had already done a double take.
Leia flicked her wrist carelessly, her lips pursed.
"I haven't been hiding this," she said flippantly. She shook her head, fingers drumming on the desk – "It's pure dumb luck, and preoccupation with violence, that keeps eyes off us – perhaps no one cares."
"They'll care."
She leaned in, touching his lapel suggestively.
"Perhaps this young man thinks you're whisking my upstairs and stealing off with my virginity," she whispered.
"Headline news," Han drawled, snorting quietly.
She winked.
"Your access key, Princess – " the concierge broke off when Leia tilted her head and gave him a look, and he bowed his head, shaking it rapidly – "My apologies; Miss – Winter," he corrected.
Lea inclined her head gratefully, taking the object; hiding things or not, she valued her privacy while she still had it, and often gave a false name, futile as it was – the concierge gave a small bow, and Han wasted no time in discerning the floor and room number they'd been assigned – idle conversation fell by the wayside, and they stood at opposite corners in the elevator on the ride to the simpler floors on the mid-level, anticipating touch, rather than igniting it too soon.
Off the elevator, the hallways were soundless and empty; Leia took a deep breath and sighed; they were alone, and getting more alone, still. She started towards down the row of rooms, but at the corner of the hallway, Han took her arm and spun her around. He pulled her close and pressed a kiss to her lips, holding her lightly against the angled corner for a moment. She leaned back into the sharp point of it, hands at her lower back to cushion her recline, and let him kiss her.
His hands remained chastely around her shoulders for a moment, and then he let them wander—down her spine, to the fastener on the shoulder of the dress that, when released, would loosen the top, and let him work it down the rest of her. She gripped the edge of the wall behind her and leaned into him, savoring the kiss.
He shifted towards her; she could feel the cold metal clasps of his belt through the thin material of her dress; the press of his blaster against her hip. She moved her hands to his waistband and slid her fingers into his belt, plucking at the material underneath.
She didn't speak, but she disentangled herself and gave him a tug, coaxing him the rest of the way down the hall, to the room they'd been given. She eyed the door with confusion for a moment, distracted, as if she'd forgotten how to work something so simple, and he held out the key with a gallant flourish, unlocking and opening it – gesturing her in as if he were a royal herald. It brought a laugh to her lips, and she inclined her head primly.
He shut the door behind her, spun her against him, and pressed her into it.
His body connected with hers solidly, fitting into her, smothering her with warmth and closeness. She breathed him in and put her palms against his chest, her hand traveling until she could feel his heartbeat. It stuttered rapidly under her fingers, and she curled her hand in as if she could hold it in her palm, keep it close to her.
Men reacted just like women did, physically, when it came to arousal, the deeply intimate kind. He could be turned on and vulnerable and emotional, but more often than not it was all trapped beneath that thick skin. She lunged forward and captured his lips again.
He pressed her back into the door gently. Her hips arched into him, and his hands went to the fastener on her dress. He fumbled with the clasp and loosened it, disentangling the gathered ribbon-like material and letting the front of the bodice come away from the back. He looked at her a moment, taking it in, admiring it, and let it be loose, cascading down without revealing anything but the hint of what he wanted to see.
He didn't remove the dress just yet —his hands travelled inside it, stroking her skin, pressing into her hips, and teasing the edge of her panties. She gasped, opening her mouth against his lips, and his tongue moved between her teeth.
She gripped his lapels, wrinkling them in her tight fingers. Her lashes fluttered against his cheek and she moaned softly. He worked his fingers through her hair, pulling down her intricate knot of braids, loosening the tight plait and tangling her hair; and then he drew his down over her and tugged the dress off her middle, letting it fall unceremoniously to the floor. It pooled at her feet, and he took a step back, his eyes raking over her.
Tousled hair fell over one shoulder, her skin was flushed—and it highlighted the demure snow white of the lingerie underneath – strapless lace-embroidered set, pure scraps of fabric that clothed secrets only he was privy to.
She tilted her head back against the bedroom door, exposing her neck like a silent request, and he grappled with a fierce desire to mark her there—Leia had more faded bruises than any woman should, though, and he was often wary of leaving any himself, even if they were affectionate.
His hands fell to her hips and he held tightly, fingertips digging into her.
"Have you always looked this good?" he joked hoarsely, breathless.
"Oh, you're sexually dehydrated," she muttered, laughing anxiously. "It's only me."
Her skin flushed, scrutinized and admired, and he shook his head, running his hands up and down her torso, negating her self-deprecating statement.
"Damn," he swore appreciatively.
She wrinkled her nose, biting her lip.
He drew his thumb along her jaw.
"I missed you," he said gruffly, leaning forward to kiss her. He kissed her lips and her jaw, her temple, her throat, hands pulling lightly at the band of her bra – "You're one of a fuckin' kind, Princess."
Leia buried her face in his hair for a moment; Han's flattery was the sincerest she'd ever experienced, the most casually given and frankly honest, and she adored it, she enjoyed it – it never made her feel like she owed him a polite response, and an equivalent compliment; he made her feel powerful.
She stepped out of the violet dress, closer to him, and he nudged it to the side with his foot, holding her against him, and then pushing her back against the door again, her lower back firmly acquainted with the decorative carvings in the faux wood.
His lips travelled over her neck, kissing hard and biting gently, and he reached for the lace cups of her bra reverently, dipping his fingers under the edge. She reached behind her and unclasped the hooks. His fingers clutched the material as it loosened, and when she moved her hands back to his shoulders, he pulled the bra off, flicking it down to their feet carelessly. She raked her nails down his shirt and lifted it up at the hem, pulling it up over his head and dropping it with her bra and her dress.
His hands covered her breasts, his thumbs sliding over her nipples in a way that made her breath hitch in her throat. He bowed his head to look at her, eyes and hands moving simultaneously; he kissed the dip between her shoulder and her collarbone and she tightened her grip on him.
"Han," she moaned softly, arching her back.
She drew in a deep breath and bit her lip. His mouth moved lower and his hands mimicked the movement, until his thumbs were drawing circles on her hips and his mouth was at her breast. She pressed her hands heavily into his shoulders.
He took her hand from his shoulder and moved his mouth to her knuckles, kissing the creases in her fingers. He pressed his forehead into her stomach, teeth nipping at her abdomen, making her muscles clench. His tongue traced the edge of her panties, the dips around her hipbones, and his other hand slipped between her legs, teasing her over the filmy material of the lingerie.
"Han, there's a perfectly good bed, there, behind you," she whispered, losing her voice quickly – her words came out like a heartbeat, skipping to the pounding in her blood.
He kissed the back of her hand, glancing up briefly.
"No one has affairs in beds, Leia."
She tilted her head back against the door, rolling her eyes up to the ceiling.
"No?"
"On my word, Sweetheart."
"Show me how it's done, then, Flyboy."
She squeezed his hand. He shifted to his knees and her hand slid into his hair. His fingers slipped against her and he made an approving noise in his throat. His teeth took the edge of her panties, and he pulled them down, helping them past her thighs and knees with his hands.
"Ohhhh—oh! Han," she moaned hoarsely, as his lips lingered on the inside of her thigh, his fingers still stroking her. Her head spun. She pulled at his hair a little. "Han, please, oh, please," there was hopeful anticipation hitching in her voice. He reached down to her ankle and drew his hand up her leg, holding her knee tightly and lifting her leg up.
He rested it over his shoulder and looked up at her.
Her head was tilted back and Gods, she looked so good, so damn good. He turned his lips to her thigh and kissed her, his tongue moving over her skin possessively. She felt weak—she felt as if he were hero-worshiping her, there on his knees. His lips travelled higher, and he gripped the knee over his shoulder tightly.
"Yes," she gasped, when his lips took the place of his fingers. "Han-!" She arched her hips into his mouth. She lifted her hand shakily to knot it into her own hair, biting her lip as she turned her head back and forth. She leaned heavily against the door—this usually went the other way, she was the one on her knees – she tightened her muscles, and tried not to collapse.
She moaned, her breath catching in her throat. His tongue moved over every part of her, kissing, stroking, tasting—he was so – so talented. Han dug his nails into her knee, and slid his other hand up the back of her thigh to her lower back. His hands were as warm and teasing as his mouth.
She threw her head back hard, her knuckles turning white as she gripped his hair.
"Gods," she whimpered. "Han, Han, Han. I want—I want—"
His hand tapped gently against her thigh, smugly, silently demanding she clarify—tell me, Princess; talk to me.
"I want you—I need you inside of me," she panted, her stomach tightening unbearably.
Her muscles felt as if they would break if she didn't get her release—she wanted to shatter; she wanted him on top of her, his sweat and skin on hers—fuck, fuck, she'd missed him so much -
He ignored her—he curled his tongue, pulled her a little closer. He held her leg against his neck and then slid his tongue inside her.
Leia nearly lost her footing, nearly collapsed, and Han held onto her tightly, holding her up; she bit out a small, breathy shriek. She hadn't meant – it was good enough, it was delicious, perfect; her entire world was his tongue, and she felt the tension in her crack like a whip. She tried to catch her breath, swallowing hard, her shoulders shaking.
"Han," she cried desperately. "I'm—I'm going to—"
She couldn't finish her sentence. He didn't need her to. He knew she was coming; he could feel her muscles clench. He eased up on her a little and pushed two fingers into her where his tongue had been, transferring his kisses to her thighs.
She pulled his hair hard, her heel digging into his back, and she slid her hand from her own hair down her abdomen, her nails clutching at her stomach. She cried out again, his name tumbling from her lips in an appreciative mumble. She came so hard her vision was pure white, galaxies lit on fire in her stomach, and she doubled over, reaching blindly for his jaw, legs trembling.
He dragged his lips over her hips and stood up slowly, his hands running over her ribs and her breasts. He wrapped is arms around her, holding her close again, and he laughed in a smug, proud manner. She leaned into him, her lips against his neck.
"God," she murmured.
"No, only me," he corrected huskily.
He moved his head and kissed her possessively. She could taste herself on his lips and tongue, and she gasped, never able to decide if she liked that or not. She was naked and he was still in his military trousers; he was hard against her thighs, she could feel it even through the dense material. She undid his belt and worked it out of the loops rapidly, pushing the pants down with his boxers, yanking her foot back in a little skip when the handle of his blaster smacked her ankle on the way down.
He groaned when her fingers stroked over him, slamming a hand against the door just behind her head. She pressed open-mouthed kisses to his shoulders and his chest, still breathing hard. She pushed him back towards the bed and he spun her around, executing a smooth move that had them tumbling down onto it.
She arched her back, gasping. She thought of all the empty, cold nights she'd spent without him here while he fought and she negotiated, her slim fingers no match for what she was missing when it was him inside her– it amplified her desire; he was heavy on her, but comfortable and familiar, and he smelled so damn good.
She shuddered, her body still throbbing with aftershocks. He kissed her hard, his hips settling over hers, and she moaned, her thighs sliding against his. She reached between them, her hand stroking his abdomen and finding his cock.
"Easy," she warned hoarsely. She was still sensitive; she wasn't sure she could handle him taking her hard, not right away. "Take it slow, Han," she requested - the way she said his name was throaty, her voice sounded like whiskey and fresh honey and he groaned, exercising extreme self-control not to lose it.
Her palm slid against him maddeningly as she guided him into her in a slow stroke, and she drew her hand back over herself. Her stomach clenched and she moaned softly, biting down on her lower lip, arching her back. His lips captured hers for a moment, and she pressed her thighs into him, gasping his name.
"Leia," he growled huskily, breathing out in relief, pressing his lips to hers - he closed his eyes heavily, trying not to think too much, trying to ignore the words that flew through his head - tight, wet- - LeialeiaLeia - he moved slowly, excruciatingly slowly.
She grasped at his hips, lifting her knees, pushing her hips up; she kissed him in soft, eager bursts, her body tense, then relaxed again; unraveling under him, as if the feel of him there inside her was enough, all she needed.
Leia parted her lips and threw her head back; he watched the colour spill through her cheeks again, watched it all happen again, and he lunged forward with a growl, thrusting deep. She cried out hoarsely, her eyes closed. Her stomach clenched against him again and he still watched her; it was an unbelievable turn on to watch her come—and he hadn't gotten to see it moments ago; he'd only felt it.
She pulled his lips to hers again and kissed him violently, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps.
"Damn," she swore weakly. "I'm okay, I'm fine," she murmured huskily, running her palms over his neck. She kissed him, speaking almost incoherently against his lips – "Hard, do it really h-h-hard." She sucked in her breath. "Han," she murmured to him breathily, "fuck me."
Leia was the only woman he'd been with who wanted it rougher after she'd been satisfied. He had more than taken care of her, and that gave him a right to selfishness, the abandon to focus completely on him self. He drew his lips over her jaw, his hand sliding down to her thigh, pulling it around his waist. She squeezed her thighs around him and he groaned.
"Leia," he gasped, burying his face in her neck.
Her hand ran over his neck, threading into his hair. He could easily find a rhythm that was the right combination of aggressive and comfortable, and he was lost in her, breathing harder with every thrust. She arched into him, giving him a mind-numbing angle, and he slammed into her a final time. He might have shouted something into her skin; he yanked at the sheets under them and held her thigh harder than meant too, and he knew it would bruise.
She whispered his name to him, kissing his temple, running her hand through his hair.
"Leia," he groaned desperately, shoulders shuddering. "Sweetheart," he whispered, his lips and teeth moved against her throat silently; his final thrusts were erratic and slower, coming down slowly from a white-knuckled climax.
She tilted her head back and breathed out quietly, relaxing slowly. She held on to him while he settled, still threading her fingers though his hair soothingly. He rested on top of her for a moment, until she took a deep breath and squeezed his shoulder - she could always tell Han wanted to stay that close to her for as long as possible afterwards, but she didn't like being pinned down for very long.
He nodded in understanding, and eased out of her gently, his tongue soothing the bite marks he'd left on throat. He collapsed on his back and she rolled towards him, wrapping herself around him – head on his shoulder, leg woven between his. Han immediately combed his fingers through her hair and pulled her closer.
Leia gave a sigh that was really more of a quiet moan of satisfaction, and he shifted his head to look at her, massaging her shoulder lazily.
His expression was raw and open; she savored it for a moment. Then he kissed her again, and their eyes were closed—and there was nothing to see. Her heart still beat wildly in her chest, and she bit her lip. Her eyes were stinging; she threaded her fingers into his hair.
"I can breathe again," she whispered honestly, her voice shaking. She swallowed hard. "Every time they called me down to military headquarters, I was afraid I'd lost you."
He shook his head, smirking.
"You can't get rid of me," he growled gently.
She nodded, laughing under her breath. She lay next to him for a moment, and then shifted, throwing one of her legs over his hip and moving over top of him. She stretched out over his chest, resting her elbow lightly against his shoulder and propping her chin up with her palm.
He looked up at her lazily. She touched his lips with her index finger.
"I don't want to," she murmured.
She blinked, looking up and around at this hotel room they'd stolen off to – she wondered if they had been missed yet, from the celebration, and if someone would catch her returning to her temporary quarters at the old Imperial Palace tomorrow, wearing her wrinkled violet evening gown.
"Han," she said quietly. "I want to live with you."
He cocked his head at her.
"On the Falcon?" he quipped.
He knew how she felt about him staying the night at her quarters – she didn't allow it, because of her proximity to Mon Mothma and the relative thinness of the walls around her.
She shook her head though, and touched her forehead to his, nose-to-nose, eye-to-eye.
"Can we find some place together?" she murmured. "Something permanent."
Han nodded. He tilted his head up and started kissing her, possessive and intimate, like she was the cure to all the heartache he'd ever suffered in his life. She slid her hands under his shoulders and held on to him tightly – Han, I love you, honey.
"This war is finally on its deathbed," she said softly.
Han put his hand on the back of her head.
"Are you going to be okay?" he asked quietly, and the question gave her pause – was she?
The war was her only distraction – and she'd already warned him, on Corellia so many months ago, that this was all going to be so hard.
She drew back to look at him.
"Will you be there?" she asked.
"Mmhm," he answered immediately. He reached up and tangled his fingers in her loose hair. "Yes, Leia."
She took a deep breath, and brushed his hair back, her hand on his forehead delicately – and she nodded. Yes; she would be okay – she would start by resolving to be okay, with the sunrise of the New Republic, and with any luck, Han could help her navigate when okay seemed impossible.
*I feel like I need to admit that I took a smut framework from my old NCIS stuff - but that is frankly, the best filth I've ever written. English teachers say you /can/ plagiarize yourself, but this ain't for a grade.
-alexandra
story #332