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Friends & Lovers

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Friends & Lovers

Lando was a virgin the first time Han slept with him, a fact he lets slip, confirming Han’s suspicions years after the fact, drunk on too much good Corellian ale and the lingering rush of victory rich on the smoke permeating the warm night air on Endor’s moon, blurring everything around them. A younger man at the time, still learning the ins and outs of the electric-hot darkness of the smuggling world, he’d been a handsome face and a smooth voice conveying a heady mix of natural talent and novice hesitation when Han slid into the stool beside him in some seedy pub in the middle of nowhere, drawing and holding his attention with little more than a crooked smile and a dose of swaggering confidence, Lando clearly flattered and surprised by the attention Han gave him. He’d welcomed Han back to his hideout after little more than half an hour of charged conversation and little touches, his breath warm with strong liquor as Han kissed him for the first time in what was little more than a tiny little shack on the outskirts of Mos Eisley, its cracks and poorly patched damage crusted over with the red sands of the little planet all but unheard-of to respectable members of society in the Outer Rim, both of them drunk on the cheap local moonshine and dizzy in the heat of the slow-coming evening.

“I knew you were,” Han says in answer to the slipped confession, tipping his head to the side as he speaks, taking in the furrow of his friend’s brow, watching as Lando’s famed sabacc-face falls apart, revealing embarrassment tinged with annoyance. “You fucked like one.”

Lando leans away, looking at him with exaggerated mock surprise. “I don’t recall hearing any complaints from you about it at the time,” he says.

“Ain’t hearin’ any now, either,” Han says. He grins at the memory of sloppy kisses and Lando’s teeth at his throat, his body shuddering in anticipation when he reached down and wrapped his hand around Lando’s cock for the first time, feeling the size of it, the heft in his hand. He’d pulled Lando over to the bed in the corner and showed him how to fuck a man, Lando’s cock slick between them even before Han covered it in oil, Lando’s struggle to last once he had Han stretched open around him one of Han’s favorite memories, enough to send a shiver down his spine, even years later.

“Your stamina got better with practice,” Han concedes. “You should thank me. I gave you the practice you needed.”

Lando barks a laugh and takes a long drag on his mug of ale, shaking his head. “I don’t remember it being much of a hardship for you.”

“Not at all. Paid dividends when you came by to help me celebrate winning the Falcon, if you recall.”

Lando makes a noise in his throat, a mix of pleasured memory and lingering annoyance. “That wasn’t for you,” he says. “That was me paying respects to my girl.”

“Several times over,” Han says. His cock twitches at the memory of it, Lando sliding into his lap when he took the captain’s flight seat for the first time, riding him with the force of a man trying desperately not to think too hard, the bitterness over his loss rising in sharp contrast to the lust of their coupling, his kisses sharp with anger after he’d come, his body tense and perfect when Han pushed him over the flight console and took his own pleasure, panting with the strain of it against the sweat-salty skin of Lando’s back.

“Chewbacca ever forgive you for the mess we made that night?” Lando says, breaking Han’s reminiscence, grinning like he knows what he’s doing, like he already knows the answer to his question, which is no and brings with it enough bad memories to put a damper on the thrill of arousal Han’s happy to feel winding through him, the temptation lingering at the back of his mind to pull his friend on board his ship one last time to relive the past.

“No, and he hasn’t forgiven you, either,” Han grumbles.

“He’s never mentioned it.”

“I’ll have him call you, next time it comes up.”

Lando laughs and pats Han on the thigh. “You do that, old buddy,” he says. “You do that.”

---

It’s late when Han pulls himself away from the warmth of the fireside, his eyes burning with fatigue and camp smoke, his gait clumsy as he makes his way back to the hastily constructed barracks they’ve all been calling home for half a week prior. His quarters are small and cramped and smell vaguely of mildew, courtesy the invasive damp of Endor’s moon, but his bunk’s big enough and has a mattress comfortable enough that he doesn’t hesitate to pull Leia into his quarters with him when he spots her in the corridor, careful of the wounds she’s still sporting from the battle still fresh in all their memories, one particularly nasty bruise stretching up her side and across her ribs, her body tense against his when he rests his hand over it, relaxing only when the heat of his hand seeps through the cotton of her tunic, warming the damaged skin beneath.

She was a virgin when she slept with him the first time, her body thrumming hot from their escape from Hoth, their escape from the asteroid field, their escape from the Imperial Star Destroyers. Hesitant in her lack of experience but not at all shy, her natural leadership at odds with her uncertainty, her unfamiliarity with Han’s body, her inquisitive touches and open, passionate response to Han touching her in return more distractingly arousing than anything Han had ever felt in bed before. He’d spent what felt like hours learning her body with his mouth and hands, his cock making a mess of his thigh by the time she was pulling at him, demanding breathlessly that he stop teasing and fuck her already, and he’d had to kiss her quiet to keep from making her first time memorable for the wrong reasons. He genuinely wanted her first time to be good, not just good enough for her to want to sleep with him again, but good enough for her to have no regrets after, and he’d succeeded, mostly, Leia joining him in his bunk almost every night after that for the duration of their journey to Bespin, murmuring praises to him every single time.

They tried to keep it going, after Bespin. After Jabba. Haven’t quite managed since, by unspoken mutual agreement, but Han holds out hope, sharing her bed whenever he can, pulling her into his to return the favor whenever she seems to be in an affectionate mood.

“How’s your side?” he says, nosing at her hair.

“Fine,” she says. “Your leg?”

“Fine. Didn’t even need a bacta patch after the second day.”

“Good.”

Silence settles between them, a comfort Han accepts with wary hesitation, far more familiar with the rush of battle and the tension of slipping unnoticed across the galaxy with the ever-growing forces sympathetic to their cause than he is with the quiet of Leia’s breathing, steady under his hand, the relative safety of their surviving comrades sleeping just a few thin walls away from them. He drags his hand up Leia’s side, rubbing gently at the tension she carries in her neck. Presses a kiss to her forehead when she moves to look up at him. Kisses her on the lips when she arches up to kiss him on the chin, her fingers gentle where she touches his cheek, affection and trust warm in her eyes when she pulls back to look at him.

“I do still love you, you know,” she says, as if she thinks he needs to be reassured.

Han turns to kiss her fingertips, a sappy, sentimental gesture he’s safe letting her see. “I know,” he says.

Leia looks at him for a long moment, unblinking, as if searching for something. She shakes her head when Han says what? and kisses him once more, then pushes herself away from him, out of his arms and out of his bunk, the air cool where she’d been pressed close to him.

“We could both use a good night’s rest,” she says when Han climbs out of bed as well and reaches for her, no resistance meeting him as he pulls her close and rests his chin atop her head, murmuring encouragement for her to stay with him, “and we both know we won’t get it if I’m here.”

She is, infuriatingly, not wrong. Han holds on to her anyway, kisses her hair before letting her go. His bunk feels oddly less comfortable when he returns to it alone, tired enough to give in without thinking too much or brooding too much, the mattress too thin and the air too stifling, sleep crawling over him with malicious persistence, sending him into a darkness scattered only sparsely with dreams.

---

He sleeps with Luke the first time half a week later and completely by accident, his jokes about Luke meditating as often as normal men masturbate somehow turning into a rather solid comeback about how often Luke suspects Han is left with nothing but his hand to keep him company, which somehow turns into a kiss that somehow turns into Luke’s hands down his pants, and that somehow then turns into Luke’s cock in Han’s mouth, and from there it’s not so much a mystery how he ends up in bed with Luke fucking him like a goddamn marathon runner, it’s more a mystery of why, because Luke’s been distant since he split from the group during the Battle of Hoth, focused with almost manic intent on becoming The Best Jedi Ever or something, most of his interactions with Han barely reaching a level of cool Han could still consider to be within the limits of friendship.

The sex distracts him well enough from thinking too hard about anything at all, has him panting and arching into Luke’s thrusts with genuine enthusiasm mere minutes after Luke’s pushed into him the first time, Han’s cock slick when Luke reaches around to fondle him, his attention splitting unpleasantly between the two tasks, enough so that Han pushes him away and wraps his hand around his own cock, shivering when Luke responds with a choked sound of pleasure and fucks him harder, his rhythm falling apart enough that Han expects him to come. He holds off impressively well, his breath harsh and hot against Han’s back, coming faster when Han tightens around him, reaching for orgasm. Warms into a groan that goes straight to Han’s groin when he starts to come, his cock pushed deep into Han’s body, angled just right to drag Han along with him into a shuddering, gut-wrenching orgasm of his own.

Not the performance of the virgin Han had naturally assumed Luke was, the virgin he was certain Luke was. It distracts him from the kiss Luke gives him after he’s pulled out and Han’s turned to kiss him, not at all the kind of kiss he’d expect to receive from a virgin after such a breathless bout of fucking. Bothers him as he cleans himself up in the ‘fresher, Luke stretched out on his bunk when he returns, the sheet under him clean, free of the wet-spot from Han’s orgasm, consideration that speaks of experience Han can’t resist asking Luke about.

“No, this wasn’t my first time,” Luke says, his irritating Jedi-calm attitude firmly in place as Han flops down next to him, legs still a little wobbly, the rest of his body aching pleasantly as he settles against Luke’s side.

“Huh. I just assumed you were a virgin,” Han says. He looks at Luke sidelong, finds the younger man’s face unreadable. “Anybody I know have the honors of your first time?”

Luke sighs. “Does it matter?”

“Nah. Just curious.” Han yawns, reaching out to curl his hand around Luke’s hip, a proprietary gesture that Luke doesn’t reject, much to Han’s sleepy delight. “He’s a lucky man, whoever he is.”

“Mmm.”

“Or ... lucky woman?”

“Han --”

Han waves it away, returning his hand to Luke’s hip when Luke sighs. “Doesn’t matter,” he says. “You were good.”

Luke laughs softly, the sound reverberating through the thin mattress beneath them, the muscles of his belly tensing rhythmically with it under the weight of Han’s arm. “Thanks,” he says, awkwardly, the barest hint of the virgin Han had assumed he’d be peeking through. “You were, too.”

---

Luke’s gone when Han wakes more than a few hours later, only the residual soreness in Han’s body and the clean, crisp sheet rumpled beneath him confirming that his memories are real, not just the remnants of a very vivid dream. He thinks about it as he dresses, his cock swelling at the memory of Luke’s body inside and against his own, the confidence and strength in Luke’s touch almost as arousing as his touch itself. He tucks his cock up into the waistband of his underwear before leaving his quarters and strolling down to the canteen, his stomach rumbling ominously at him, the smell of kaffin perking him up, residual sleep falling away at the promise of stimulants in his system.

Lando joins him just moments after he’s sat down with his breakfast, the grin threatening to split the man’s face giving Han pause as he reaches for his cup, dread winding cold tendrils up his spine.

“What’s that look for?” he says, taking a long pull of kaffin.

“Oh, I’m just trying to decide if I should congratulate you or punch you in the face,” Lando says, still grinning.

Han takes another drink, unconcerned with his friend’s casual threat of violence. “What for,” he says.

“For finally taking Luke to bed,” Lando says, shaking his head with a mockery of wistfulness passing over his face. “Took you long enough. Or him. We had bets going, but you two both took longer than we thought you would.”

Years of bluffing over sabacc saves Han from showing his surprise, but he feels it, dropping into his stomach like a bad jump to lightspeed. He shovels a bite of his breakfast into his mouth and chews, buying himself some time. Chases the bite with a drink of kaffin, the bitterness of the drink passing unnoted on his tongue. “I’m not one to push,” he says, finally, aiming for cool and achieving it. Mostly. “And since when’s Luke’s sex life any of your concern?”

“As the one who taught him everything he knows about the art of pleasuring a man in bed, I feel a certain obligation to make sure he’s in good hands,” Lando says, leaning right into Han’s personal space as he does, the grin on his face growing more punchable with every passing second. “Since it’s your hands he’s in, I understandably have my reservations.”

Nevermind that he was apparently gambling on the inevitability of Han getting his hands on Luke. Han lets that slide, tucks it away for complaints later, along with the fact that Luke apparently lost his virginity to none other than Lando fucking Calrissian. “Do I even want to know what makes you think we --”

“Oh I don’t think, I know,” Lando says. “That Threepio unit of Luke’s doesn’t have a filter or volume control. I’m sure you’ve noticed. He commented on Luke’s whereabouts and how he’d been in your bunk all night before Luke could shut him off. Right in front everyone.” He leans back. “You should’ve seen the look on Luke’s face. Priceless.”

Han’s imagination fills in the gaps for him well enough, his pity for Luke’s undoubted mortification at odds with his amusement at the thought of the younger man’s expression, horror and embarrassment shattering the calm he’s worn like a mask ever since rescuing Han from Jabba’s palace. “Never did like that ‘droid,” he says around the rim of his cup.

“No one has,” Lando says. He knocks the back of his hand against Han’s knee. “The princess was within earshot when it happened, by the way. In case you needed an excuse to disappear for a few cycles, give her the chance to cool off.”

“Nah, Leia and I are all right.”

Lando laughs at him. “Not what I meant, old buddy,” he says. “Dunno how happy she is about you sleepin’ with her knight.”

“Why would Leia care what Luke’s doin’ after dark?”

“She’s got as much invested in him as I do,” Lando says. “I taught him everything he knows about navigating a man’s pleasure, but Leia’s the one who took his innocence.” He pulls a face. “Thought you knew that.”

This time, Han fails to hide his surprise, his eyelids stretching painfully wide as Lando’s words sink in, the mental image they bring to the fore of his mind equal parts compelling and inappropriate. “Luke didn’t say,” he manages.

“Well then, that’s you owing me one,” Lando says. He claps Han on the shoulder and stands, still looking way more pleased with himself than he should. “Don’t forget it.”

Han snorts and sets about doing just that.

---

He’s mildly surprised when Luke comes to see him that evening, calm and collected and unreadable instead of awkward or embarrassed or babbling, right up to the moment the door closes behind him and he presses his mouth against Han’s, his breath washing across Han’s face in a contented sigh when Han kisses him back. He darts his tongue out, teasing it along the seam of Han’s lips, taking the kiss long when Han opens his mouth to him.

They fuck on the bed only because Han’s quarters are small enough for them to get to it without looking where they’re going, Han pushing Luke down and showing off his skills and experience as a lover before Luke can get any other ideas about how things should go, riding Luke until Luke comes apart under him, hands grasping desperately at the bar at the head of Han’s bunk, his body trembling as he spends himself inside Han’s body. He shows off his own skills after he’s come down from his orgasm, stroking Han to completion with a firm, knowing grip, drags his fingers through Han’s come afterwards where it’s striped up his chest and belly, his expression sleepy and sated and happy and sexy and better than anything Han’s ever seen.

So of course, Han ruins it, his mouth getting ahead of his brain as it usually does when he’s been fucked stupid and hasn’t fallen asleep immediately after. He drapes himself over Luke in the ‘fresher, watching the younger man’s reflection as Luke cleans himself up, giving in to the temptation to suck a bruise onto the pale skin of Luke’s shoulder, nosing at the shell of Luke’s ear when Luke shrugs him off the spot he’s chosen to mark as his, sighing with amiable annoyance so like his sister’s that it reminds Han of his breakfast conversation with Lando.

“So you and Lando and Leia, huh?” he murmurs into Luke’s hair, his mind presenting him with a hazy fantasy of the princess’s reaction to seeing the lovebite on Luke’s shoulder, knowing that Han was the one who put it there. The fantasy fades somewhat when he feels Luke tense against him, feels the temperature in the ‘fresher actually tumble, his skin prickling with it, the look Luke’s giving him in the reflector speaking volumes on its own.

“None’a my business,” he says.

“No, it isn’t.”

“Ain’t a bad thing,” Han tries. “Leia’s a beautiful woman.”

Luke sighs, giving him a withering look. “She’s my sister.”

Well. Han gestures weakly, his brain blanking on him.

“We didn’t know at the time,” Luke elaborates. “But she is my sister.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Han says. “Some places, it’s the way things are done.”

“We wouldn’t have, if we’d known.”

“Wouldn’t matter either way,” Han says. “Honestly, I’m more worried about you ‘n Lando. Thought you’d have higher standards than that.”

Luke’s expression darkens with the early hint of a glare, his arms crossed over his chest as he turns to face Han directly. “He was good enough for you,” he says.

“Barely,” Han says. He waves it away. “I’m teasin’ you, kid. Ain’t my business who you’re sleepin’ with. ‘Cept when it’s me. Then it’s my business.” He leans in, kisses the thin line of Luke’s lips, isn’t terribly surprised when Luke doesn’t kiss him back. “I’m not the jealous type.”

Luke snorts in response. But he does kiss back when Han presses their mouths together a second time, lets Han pull him back into bed. In the morning, he’s still there, curled up with his back to Han, warm and real and more relaxed than Han’s seen him in years.

---

“I thought you said you weren’t the jealous type,” Luke says, deadpan, when Han comes to him grumbling and prickling less than a month later when, upon returning from a reconnaissance mission, he discovers Lando giving Leia a kiss. It was nothing bawdy or raunchy, little more than a quick press of lips, but it’s a kiss nonetheless, full of the sort of comfort and familiarity that speaks nothing of newness.

“I’m not jealous,” Han says.

“Really.”

“Really. I just think we need to get out more, the lot of us. Meet some new people. Ain’t healthy for us to all be sleepin’ with each other.”

Luke chuckles softly, dropping his gaze as he does, a mannerism he picked up somewhere along the way that Han likes far more than he probably should.

“Just seems strange, when you put it that way,” he says when Han sits beside him and demands to know what’s funny. He looks at Han, eyes gone slate in the artificial light of the room, the subtle curve of his smile pushing at the faint scars stretched across his right cheek. “I was a virgin when I left home, all those years ago. And now ...”

He trails off, looking across the room as if he’s looking across the years. Might be, Han thinks, memory plucking at him of Luke mentioning seeing visions of the past and future whenever he reaches for the Force, or something. He wonders, vaguely, what those years might look like to Luke: years of fighting and surviving and suffering, peppered sparsely across with stolen moments of happiness, of love and touch and closeness and connection. Of the unexpected happy ending, the backwater farm boy safe and happy with his friends and lovers, all of them still close, all of them still so deeply fond of him, wanting him by their sides.

Han slings an arm around Luke’s shoulders, has to tug harder than he’s expecting to get Luke to lean against him. “Now you’ve tried the rest,” he says, “and ended with the best. I’d say that worked out pretty well for you.”

Luke laughs and elbows him in the ribs. “You’re impossible,” he says.

Han grins and kisses him in answer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oops I couldn’t pick a ship so I shipped them all. And don’t be confused, I ship this nonsense so hard it’s ridiculous, please send help.

Also, I’m pretty sure I’d punch Han Solo in the face after ten minutes of being around him. Great character to write, love him to bits, but dear god he would make me homicidal. How Leia doesn’t skin him alive before the end of A New Hope is beyond my comprehension.

Also-also how is everyone and their mom not sleeping with Lando in this universe? The man makes polyester bellbottoms look good. I just ... I can’t. I would be all over that man if I had half a chance.