Work Text:
"you look beautiful.
you should wear girl's clothes all the time."
- Han Solo to Leia Organa, deleted ESB scene
Girl's Clothes
Leia stood before the mirror; her attention fixed on her reflection. She used her smallest finger to curl two strands of loose hair right by her ears, shorter front hairs that fell in soft curlicues. She moved her pinky down to her mouth and traced the outline of faint, buttery lipstick, a color that enhanced the natural color of her own lips rather than adding anything new.
She tilted her chin up, studying her face in the light, examining the soft, enhanced-natural make-up look she’d done on herself. Lush, bright black mascara, an earthy, nude blend of shimmer over her eyes.
She popped her lips softly, satisfied, and stood back, stepping away from the vanity and up to the floor length mirror. Hidden in her walk-in closet, she listened for Han. He never came in here unless bidden, but she knew he was home, and she knew he was looking for her. She’d heard him come home while she was fixing her hair, and now she surveyed the whole look.
She did not need reassurance over her hair, her face; she knew her hair was beautiful – it was one thing she’d never been insecure about – and she hadn’t ever been too hard on herself about her face, other than a vague thought as a teenager that her cheeks were too round, and her eyes too big. She was called attractive enough by others that she leaned to objectively believe at least half of it, and Han reassured the other half.
Looks – she was satisfied with. The outfit – if one could call it that – well, it wasn’t often she purchased lingerie for the express purpose of aesthetic titillation. Scratch that; this was the first time she had ever gone looking deliberately for lingerie that was designed not for functionality or personal appeal but for a man’s explicit appreciation.
And she was expecting to be explicitly appreciated when Han saw her.
Still, she had to see herself in the getup first; inure herself to it. Lace and ribbons and similar confections sewn into skimpy scraps of underthings seemed superfluous to a relationship as maturely achieved as theirs, yet it was an idea that had always appealed to her – after all the grime, and grit, and ice, and dirt, and carbon, and sand, and dust, and blood of the trenches, she wanted to look pretty, and she wanted to look pretty for Han.
More so because Han had, as far as she could tell, always found her attractive even covered in grime, and grit, and ice, and dirt, and carbon, and sand, and dust, and blood, and when she wore no make-up, and when she wore traditionally male attire, and when she was preoccupied and cerebral and intensely uptight, the furthest thing from sexy.
She had managed to come out of the depths of the war with a man who had fallen in love with her at her worst, gods help him, and because he’d never done anything as stupid as buy her underwear for her own birthday, and because he’d never do anything as unnerving as ask her to dress for him, she wanted to.
She wanted to see the look on his face.
She’d chosen white; a tease, as he’d always poked a little fun of the purity of the white. The lingerie was white, a delicately knit composite of lace and silk, little gossamer flowers that bloomed just so over all the right places. The requisite thigh-high stockings accompanied the look, fine silver glitter detailing around the edges. There were some pearl buttons, some little snaps, or buckles, but she had opted for simplicity over complexity.
She didn’t want Han to struggling taking anything off when he was done looking. She didn’t want it ripped or snagged, either; this foray into intimate apparel was as much an exercise in self-confidence, possession of her own sexuality in a more liberated world, as it was a peep show for him.
“Leia?” Han called. “Where are you?”
She cocked her head at her reflection, smoothed her hand over her bare stomach. She lifted the edges of the bottoms, arching them over her hips fetchingly to accentuate the high cut.
“Vanity room,” she answered.
She heard his footsteps, saw his shadow in the slightly propped door. He scratched his knuckles on it faintly.
“C’n I come in?”
“No,” she murmured blithely. “I’m still getting ready.”
“Are we going somewhere?” Han asked. A whine edged into his voice. “I thought you were free tonight.”
Leia compressed her lips, overcome with a rush of affection for him. When he said that, she knew he meant – I thought I had you all to myself.
“I am,” she answered. “Wait outside.”
“In the bedroom?”
“In the hall.”
Han poked at the door, obediently leaving it as it was. She heard him muttering to himself, suspicious of her motives – what’s gotten into you, sweetheart?
Leia plucked the sheer, floral lace adorned kimono that went with the ensemble off the back of her vanity stool and slipped it on, flexing her bare feet into the carpet. She had opted out of strappy, provocative footwear, as she wanted this to reflect her, and she often wore high heels as armor rather than an extension of her own taste.
She slipped out of the closet and made her way across their bedroom to the ‘fresher, where she picked up a small vial of rose oil and tapped it sparingly behind her ears, on her wrists, and at the tops of her thighs and breasts.
She gave herself one additional appraising look. A rush of pink flooded her face, accentuating, but involuntary; she wasn’t used to presenting herself like this – it thrilled, and it struck her with a bolt of heart-pounding anxiety, as well, as the bizarre thought occurred to her that he might very well think the lingerie so unlike her, so risqué, that she looked ridiculous, vice enticing.
Quelling that thought, she flicked the light in the ‘fresher, and returned to the bedroom, idling by the foot of the bed, her fingers curling around the carved oak post.
“Are you out there?” she ventured, eyes on the half-open bedroom door.
“I’m – “
His voice was loud, and she exclaimed – “Not yet; don’t come in!”
“—right here,” he finished, obviously directly outside the door. He paused, and she sensed his bewilderment. When she said nothing else, he cleared his throat dramatically. “You afraid I might see you naked?” he quipped.
Leia leaned her head against the bedpost.
“I’ve been thinking about something you said once,” she began.
To her amusement, Han made a vague, wary, groaning noise.
“That can’t be good,” he grumbled. “Once?” he quoted.
Once he’d said lots of things. Once he’d pissed her off every time he’d opened his mouth, no matter how hard he tried not to. Once could mean anything.
“Mhhmm.”
“What something?” he asked, taking the bait.
Leia let him hang for a moment.
“That I should wear girl's clothes all the time.”
Han was silent for a beat.
“When did I say that?” he asked.
“You don’t remember?”
“Well,” he muttered, “I’m kinda hopin’ I didn’t say it during a fight.”
Leia laughed under her breath, keeping her amusement to herself.
“Bespin,” she prompted.
“Ahhh.”
Han’s hand wrapped around the edge of the door, but he stayed where he was when she made a warning noise.
“Hadn’t seen anything but that damn snowsuit in months,” he said. “I was jokin’. You can wear whatever you want – “
“Han, you’re not in trouble, I’m flirting with you,” she informed him, rolling her eyes.
“Oh.”
He wriggled the door a little suggestively.
“In that case, sure, I only said you should wear girly clothes more often to be polite,” he said, changing his tune, voice relaxing into a sultry drawl, “what I really wanted was to see you naked.”
Leia gave the door, and his hand, a funny look.
“You had seen me naked multiple times when you said that,” she reminded him.
“Yeah, I know, I mean – I’m flirtin’ with you!” he said, exasperated.
She could very well feel him glaring through the door.
“Are you naked right now?” he demanded. “Is that where this is going?”
“Perhaps.”
“Perhaps?” he repeated, his full emphasis falling on the last syllable like a hammer, like it was the most offensive swear word he’d ever heard. “Leia, I will kick open this door – “
“I thought I would take your advice,” she interrupted, raising her voice. “What with luxury goods ubiquitous now, and civilian attire becoming more commonplace – “ increased control of the galaxy by the New Republic allowed for a more normal sense of dress and governance.
“Yeah?”
“Wear more girls’ clothes,” she said.
He pondered that. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, threaded with a hint of anticipation, like he’d figured something out –
“You wore a dress to work this mornin’,” he noted. “What’s…more girly?”
“Oh, that I’d like your opinion on,” Leia said airily, touching her hair to make sure it was loose and falling over her shoulders just right – just enough, as half of it was done up in an intricate knot braid atop her head.
“Yeah?” he said again.
“I think you should come in and take a look.”
Han’s hand disappeared, he thrust his foot at the bottom of the door and really did kick it open, if gently, not hard enough to bang it against the wall. He stood in the doorway, eyes searching, and narrowed his gaze to her there by the bed.
He blinked. His pupils dilated; eyes went smoky. Leia wasn’t sure she had ever seen someone’s jaw physically drop, but his did, and to top it off in a rather cinematic cliché for her, he thrust one arm out and grabbed the door frame. Like he was unsteady, like he’d just gone weak at the knees.
Leia savored the look on his face. He was astonished, but it wasn’t the shock that got her, it was the way he dragged his eyes over her like a man dehydrated and finding water. It was a comfort to see his awe banished so immediately, replaced with barely bridled lust; the instant he eyed her with desire, and not uncertainty, she was relieved of any anxiety that this exercise might come off as silly, rather than confident.
Invigorated, she played the coquette, and let her hands fall to her hips, displaying the outfit. She traced the outline of the kimono, fingering it, and looked at him, feigning sincerity.
“I couldn’t decide what was more feminine,” she sighed, shrugging the kimono off her shoulders in a fluid movement, letting it rest for a moment, “with the duster?” she rolled her shoulders, let it fall to her feet, “or without?”
She made a show of touching the hem of the bottoms, posed on her hip bones, then letting her fingertips drift over the lace floral detailing, up her stomach, and to her breasts, examining herself, before she looked at him, and bit her lip, fixing an earnest interest on her face.
“What do you think?”
She twitched her lashes, tilting her head.
Han braced his arm against the doorframe, every muscle standing out along his bicep. He stared at her, speechless, and then turned his head, eyes closed. With his other hand, he reached over and ran his hand over his mouth, massaging his jaw.
He looked back at her, grinned wolfishly.
He pushed away from the doorway, striding forward – stumbling forward. He dropped down on one knee, then lowered the other, taking her hips in his hands. He gripped firmly, eyes running over the stockings, the lace, up over her abdomen to her breasts. He pressed his nose to her ribs and drew his face down her body until he reached the fabric slung over her hip.
He bit it between his teeth, and let it snap back against her skin.
Leia shrieked, grabbed his hair, giggled.
“Well?” she demanded.
Han rocked back on his heels and looked up at her, dazzled. He smirked.
“You gonna wear this for the next resolution vote?”
Leia arched her back slightly, shifting her hips closer. Han pressed his nose to her stomach, his hands drifting around to her lower back and then moving over the lace covering her ass. He squeezed, and Leia shivered. He drew himself up abruptly, standing, and then lifting her – no, nearly tossing her – into the air in front of him.
“Han!” she gasped.
He caught her at his waist, and she wrapped her legs around him. He moved one hand between them to slide between her legs and rest it there, and she was thrilled to find he could hold her snug around the waist with one arm.
He let his eyes wander again, consuming her, visually stimulated like he hadn’t been in years. The juxtaposition was striking, Leia, his controlled, demure, circumspect princess, Leia his vixen, only in private, clad in this lingerie he was conditioned to think of as slutty, indecent, cheaply arousing. Striking, in that it struck him like lightening, elegant and savory and explicit because it wasn’t just visual: every other sense in his repertoire was attached to it and linked to his emotional desire for her.
Leia looked down at him, edges of her hair tangled and falling to his shoulders.
“Oh, I can’t tell if you like it,” she purred, facetious.
Han rubbed his palm against the lace, sending her heels scraping against his back. He flicked his eyes down and back up, the scratch of her stockings against his hips getting him going.
“Your Worship,” he growled, biting his next words out deliberately: “I am going to eat you alive.”
He didn’t want to rip it right off, though; he didn’t want to just glimpse it, bare all her skin, and fuck her. He wanted to see her in it, behold her; he was deriving unbelievable stimulation just by looking, and the next fantasy was to see how all the white looked against her skin when he’d touched her and touched her until she came.
He moaned, low in the back of his throat.
“’M going to toss you on the bed,” he warned.
She consented to the treatment with a nod, and he did so, stepping up to place his hands on her raised knees and lean over her, looking, looking, looking. He tilted his head up and caught her eye, holding her gaze.
“You look incredible,” he praised. “You’re indecent,” he muttered, but the word was a compliment, sweet and holy on this tongue.
Leia stretched her arms far over her head, exposing herself to him with a graceful arch of her back.
Han bit his lip.
“So,” Leia murmured, her soft voice a smug susurration, “girls’ clothes more often?”
He made her hot all over, looking at her like that.
Han raked his hands down her thighs and to her hips again, his thumbs dipping under the sides of her bottoms. He left her up to admire her, bent closer to blow on her skin.
“If you want,” he said, looking up at her through his lashes with eyes that told her just how much this appealed to him, this vision, dream.
He smiled wildly – handsome bastard, she thought, less visual than him; more taken with his face than anything else.
He took a deep breath, his heart stuttering – he could look at like this forever; she was a work of art – he’d heard it said men were significantly more visually aroused than women, and he intended to spend the night trying to convey to her in a touch what the sight of her – in this, yes, but in anything, truly – did to him.