fic: world enough, no time [han/leia, esb]
MERRY CHRISTMAS, FLIST!
Now that the jedi_mistletoe authors have been revealed, I decided to post my exchange fic here as a sort of general holiday gift to all you lovely people. Um, warning for badly written smut? (Yeah, me, writing smut. It kind of ... failed. Epically.)
In any case, Merry Christmas to all, and may you all get what you wished for!
Title: World Enough, No Time.
Author: Vader Kersfees/albumsontheside
Gift for: canceron_jedi
Rating: hard R/NC-17
Pairing: Han/Leia
Summary: The kiss is bitter, fittingly so, and it takes a minute to register, the fact that she is kissing Han Solo, that Han Solo is kissing her.
It is 3:09 in the morning, and Leia Organa is still awake. They arrive at Bespin tomorrow, or today, or in fifteen hours -- whichever comes first -- and she’s not even thinking about it, can’t bring herself to. Today is the day, she knows, the day when Alderaan was - when her world had - when it all crashed -
(And yesterday was the day when Han Solo had --)
He’s been avoiding her since the incident in the hold, both her and Threepio (even though he’s a droid, and not programmed to hold grudges), and it's a few minutes before she sees him, sitting on a box in the hold, legs crossed, studiously avoiding her.
“You’re up late, your Worship.”
“Couldn’t sleep.” She mutters, automatically, and takes a step closer. If he’s concerned by her proximity to him, he doesn’t show it.
“Yeah.” He nods, lost for words. “I figured.”
“It’s the nineteenth.”
“I know.”
“I’m twenty-one now.”
“I know.”
“Han -“ They’re almost touching. “I need -“
The kiss is bitter, fittingly so, and it takes a minute to register, the fact that she is kissing Han Solo, that Han Solo is kissing her. It takes less time than it did yesterday, though, less time than an eternity, and she inhales sharply as he breaks the kiss, lips moving against her neck, lower, searching. She shudders despite herself, neck heavy with sweat underneath her collar. "What are you -- I don't --"
He presses his hand against her mouth to shut her up, fumbles with her dress (who knew that Princesses didn't actually wear petticoats?) and presses her hard against the wall. "Leia.” He whispers, and reaches for her belt. "You do.”
It takes only a minute for her to make her decision. Her tongue laps lightly against the underside of his palm (bitter, bitter, like their kisses, the whole affair). It's all the permission he needs. There are no words.
He pushes her back, buoyed by a heady rush of adrenaline (dangerous and addictive, just like she is), and makes a grab for her underwear. She whines as he moves his hands lower, sliding a rough finger into her, then a second, his tongue flicking at her neck even as his thumb circles her clit. She's so high (on the stress more than anything) and it’s all so fast, so fastfastfast that she comes almost immediately, wet on his palm, their eyes meeting almost instinctively. Her breath comes in even shorter gasps. She reaches for his cock. Hyperventilates.
“Leia, don’t -“
“Shut up.” She hisses, and pushes her hand further. “Just, don’t speak, don’t -“
He doesn’t speak. He moans instead, quietly, gritting his teeth against the raw humiliation of it all, the moment. (Because, this, this is wrong, because she’s a Princess, she’s pure, and she shouldn’t be - not like this, anyway.) Time stops.
She looks away as soon as it’s over, the whole sorry affair. Wipes her sticky hands on her dress, and reaches for her pants. Swallows. “Nothing happened.”
“Leia -“
“Nothing happened.” She hisses, and takes a step back. “Han, if you tell -“
"If I tell what? C'mon, Your Worship." He laughs, and tries not to vomit the guilt in his stomach, finish himself off. "You’re making a big deal out of it. Nothing even happened."
"Right. Right." (And this, this is what she's going to keep telling herself on and on, that he didn't fuck her, didn't fuck her, didn't fuck her.) "Nothing happened."
He's too professional to feel remorse. He looks at her again, drops her white dress (or what's left of it) and pours himself a glass, fingers shaking on the bottle; doesn't give her one, so she drinks straight from it. What does it matter? She's a Princess and can damn well do whatever she pleases.
She isn't, isn't, isn't, fucked.