a/n: so, okay, I wrote this, and HATED it, but it got a decent response on Tumblr, so I decided to post it. NSFW.
Mouth
She heard him come in; heard the apartment door slam, heard the soft thumps as he kicked his boots off against the wall – she was fully aware of his presence, and yet she gave no indication that she'd seen him at all. He walked through the bedroom noisily; he got half-undressed with many theatrics, and even the way he brushed his teeth and killed the lights screamed for attention, but still she sat up against the headboard, her eyes trained with practiced nonchalance on the holopad balanced on her knees.
She didn't move even when he threw himself into bed at her side, shifting his head towards her, looking up at her with something between a consternated frown and a mischievous grin on his face. She had a gift for stoically ignoring things that irritated her, and it was a gift that alternately frustrated him and drove him wild.
In the charged silence, he cleared his throat.
"You still pissed at me?" he asked, rolling to his side and propping his head up on his palm.
She said nothing. She pointedly clicked through a page on her datapad, pursed her lips lightly, and treated him to utter silence.
He pushed himself up, looking at her intently.
"Leia," he growled softly – charmingly.
She did not take the bait. She simply clicked through another page and, after a moment, lifted her chin only slightly.
"I expected you to sleep on the Falcon," she said primly.
His return was a surprise; she had been sure their latest argument had driven him to the ship for good, at least for this evening. She had made it clear he was irritating her beyond belief, and a second longer in her presence was going to earn him more animosity than he could handle.
"You're not on the Falcon," he returned, as if that was supposed to make her swoon.
"Your observational skills astound me."
Han grinned, inching closer. He reached for her datapad, resting his hand over it, and caught her eye, his face close to hers. She flicked her eyes up casually, her expression cool.
"You don't think you're sleeping in here, do you?" she asked innocently. She clicked her tongue. "Privileges: revoked."
"We'll see about that."
"Ah, so you came to apologize?"
He lightly tugged the datapad away, and tossed it past her onto the bedside table, careless, but careful not to break it. She turned her head to see where it landed, and he leaned forward with a kiss to her jaw, a whisper in her ear:
"In a manner of speaking, Your Highness."
She turned her head slowly, her lips nearly brushing against his, and he smirked at her devilishly, running his hand over her knees. He yanked the sheets off of her, and kicked them down to the foot of the bed, executing a swift and arrogantly coordinated move that left him lying between her legs, his hands on the inside of her thighs, his teeth catching the hem of her panties.
She was unable to prevent the sharp intake of breath that followed just the barest touch of his tongue against her navel.
Her eyes narrowed to sharp, glittering points, and she ran her hand down the side of his face, lifting his chin up delicately.
"You're still in trouble," she advised him sharply.
He had the audacity to wink at her, fabric held lightly between his teeth. He opened his mouth, and the elastic sprang back against her skin with a soft snap.
"Hold that thought, Princess," he drawled, hooking his thumbs into her panties.
She tilted her head back, gritting her teeth, as he drew the garment downwards – up, over her knees, then down her legs again, until the lingerie was on the floor, and his lips were making landfall somewhere around her knee, inching playfully higher – if Han Solo thought he could get himself out of this one with the very mouth that had gotten him into it, he had another thing –
"Ah!"
In spite of herself, she gasped, closing her eyes tightly. She clutched at the sheets next to her, refusing to give him the satisfaction of shoving her fingers into his hair.
She parted her lips, tilting her head back – his hair brushed against her thighs, and she swore she felt him smirk - ooh, if her words weren't stuck somewhere in the back of her throat right now, she'd give him a piece of her mind –
He rested his hand on her abdomen, the light touch there to gauge his success; he pressed his fingertips into her and felt her muscles clench and jump with every movement of his tongue. She slid her leg over his shoulder, her toes curling against his back, and he flicked his tongue against her, thrust his tongue inside of her, used his mouth like a weapon until she did relent and slide her fingers into his hair.
"Han," she moaned, the word a throaty, breathy sort of beautiful, pleading and musical.
He slowed down slightly, and she clenched her fingers in protest.
"Don't stop," she gasped.
He renewed his efforts, wrapping one arm around her leg to hold her closer, concentrating on the tightness in her abdomen and the pitch of her breathing – he was attuned to the exact moment when she'd reach the edge, when she'd pull his hair so hard it hurt, but only in the best possible way.
She arched her back, a soft cry escaping her lips, and he drew his hand from her thigh, softening the strokes of his tongue, teasing her, teasing her – another insistent pull of his hair –
"Han, please," she begged softly.
He grinned and thrust two fingers into her, pressing his tongue against her hard; he felt a rush of satisfaction, hearing her sharp cry, feeling the tight clench of her abdomen under his hand. She loosened her grip on his hair, coming down easy, her skin still on fire, still shivering with aftershocks and – she pushed his head away gently; it was too good, or he was too good, when he went on like that, it was so good it almost hurt.
Han ran his hand over her leg and moved it off his shoulder, dropping it onto the bed. He shifted and crawled over her slowly, drawing his lips up her body until he reached her throat, her jaw, her ear. She placed her hand on his hip, squeezing gently, resting her head against his shoulder. He felt her short, quick breathing on his skin and collapsed next to her, satisfied enough with himself to give her a devilish smirk.
She turned towards him and pretended to swoon, landing on the pillows in front of him, curling up against his chest. He ran his hand over her arm and bent to kiss her temple, lazily throwing his arm over her waist.
"Still mad at me, Leia?" he asked smugly.
She laughed softly, still trying to catch her breath.
Then, of course, being Han Solo, an incapable of using his mouth right when he was using it to talk, he pushed his luck too far –
"Bet you can't even remember what you were mad about."
She was warm and pliable in his arms one moment, and face-to-face with him in the next, her expression cool and serene.
"You bet your ass I do, Flyboy," she retorted dangerously.
Her brow went up sharply, and she flicked her eyes over him, her gaze alighting back on his with a clear sense of triumph in them. His smirk faded, and he drew back warily.
She reached out and touched his jaw lightly.
"Your apology is accepted," she said demurely.
She smacked her palm against his cheek just as lightly, and drew her fingers over his mouth in a swift, seductive motion.
"Your punishment is a lack of reciprocation."
She slipped out of his grasp elegantly, running her fingers through her loosely braided hair.
He watched her saunter into the bathroom and shut the door, and fell back on the bed, contrite and consternated – he rested his hand on his stomach and swore under his breath – it seemed, then, that she'd been right earlier, when she shouted at him that his mouth was always two steps too far ahead of his brain.
i don't think what they were fighting about is important, is it?
at least you know i can write smut, though i have to say i consider this sub par compared to the utter filth i was producing in my old fandom.
-alexandra
#307