Originally written for sw_1sentence over at Livejournal. Posted here for my dearest LASOS, who this is a present for :)
Warning: this is rated "M" for sexy time.
When Lights Go Out
The first thing she does is insult you, and though the (your) rules state that you're obligated to reply in kind, you
shatter the statutes by shutting her up, snaking your tongue in between her parted lips, and gods that was a stupid thing to do, stupidstupidstupid --
until you realise that it's you she's kissing, and that she's kissing you back, and that (gods forbid) you might even like it.
(And you wonder, briefly, if royal protocol and all means that you're now an item, but damn, Solo, now's not the time.)
Neither of you is quite willing to break the embrace, willing to face reality and admit
6] do not want
that what you're doing is unfeasible, that it's impossible, that a princess and a guy like you could ever --
(But it is, and you are, and you press her against the wall and fumble with her shirt, because, fuck authority, you deserve her.)
And even though you've traded more insults than sweet nothings, you can't deny that you love her, can't stop yourself from wanting
this, this uncharted territory of soft, untouched (leia's) skin, and you
realise suddenlysuddenly that you want to do this, like this, because you love her, because
she's an irreplaceable friend as well as a lover, one that you never quite want to let go (though you'd rather jettison yourself out of the airlock at this point than admit it).
(And you don't know when her lips became quite that exact shade of crimson, and it's really quite disconcerting that you can think of nothing else.)
You take her in your arms like a porcelain statue, fingers sssshaking
because it feels, honest to gods, like she'd break in your grasp, even though you know that she's as tough as transparisteel beneath those white clothes, and
you (naively) thought at the start that she was frigid, a veritable Ice Queen,
but you're discovering those mythical hidden fires as you bend your head lower, searching, tasting
and you're doing this now, tracing her curves with your hands, touching, feeling
as her razor-sharp tongue glides softly against your lips, warm, pressing down as you
whisper her name, muffled against her tits, and it sounds so exotic: leia, leia.
She's gasping now, harder, and you feel yourself responding, feel yourself fingering her as she pulls at your blouse
(and this, this would be the point where she'd assert her virginity and pull herself away, but oh, she's giving in, she's giving in --)
and you know, know that you're ready for this, this: her tiny hands fumbling inexpertly with your cock as she comes.
It's a new-strange feeling, you find, loving her,
and you realise that despite your vast array of knowledge in such matters, that you're unprepared for this, for a commitment, for falling in love --
but, you realise, that it's all about learning, about understanding, about
(fuck, you think, mid-sentence, if she's a princess, would that make you a prince?)
accepting that some things might not be meant to be, because she's a princess, damn it, and you're
not supposed to be thinking about marriage, because you're Han Solo, and Han Solo doesn't get married.
(He falls in love with fairy-tale princesses instead, and wonders if it's normal to feel almost fifteen.)
And you're tempted to frame it, the place on your neck where her lips had been, but you reason that they will be there again, and there is nothing transient enough left to frame.