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Shot in the Dark

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Luke Skywalker’s magical shot into the heart of darkness is what changes everything.

Han was feigning indifference, before that. Sure, Luke was pretty and Han could tell he was into him but he was too busy dodging blaster fire and rescuing princesses and running around imperial bases in disguise as a means to not get shot to devote any serious consideration to where that was going. If Han lived, then maybe he would deal with how blue Luke’s eyes were, how blatantly they crawled all over his neck and chest even when they were both in mortal peril or covered in garbage water. If he didn’t live, then, well. He’d never know what he was missing.

But then, Luke blows up the Death Star, and suddenly, Han believes in The Force. And his heart leaps up into his throat and his stomach turns and the idle, irritation-diluted want he’s feeling on and off since Tattooine suddenly crystallizes into a genuine, undeniable desire. Plus, they survived, they won, they thwarted the bad guys. Han and Luke, a good-for-nothing smuggler and some pretty-boy from the Outer Rim, and Han’s never been the superstitious type, but then he’s never been the heroic type, either. This whole thing feels like fate. It feels meant to happen, force-willing and force-willed. So, as Han races towards Luke at the base and pulls his thrumming, sweaty body close and smells the adrenaline spiked heat of his breath as they talk over each other and smile too wide to hear the words, he decides he’s going to fuck Luke Skywalker.

—-

Han doesn’t know shit about Luke, not really. Just that he thinks he’s a pilot, thinks he’s a Jedi, and happens to be about as stupid as he is brave which lends itself well to being a rebellion hero, apparently. Han knows fuck all about his past, his history, which is fine, really. That can’t matter as much as the things he does know, though. The things he’s catalogued in spite of himself, like how pretty and plush Luke’s lips are, how shrill his voice gets when he’s scared, how admirably reckless he is, how mortifyingly vulnerable, how every emotion plays out on his boyish, delicate features in rapid-fire real time. Han knows Luke is game, too, which is encouraging. He’s made it terribly, obviously clear how bad he wants Han, and that’s exactly the soft of boost Han he needs to transform his own self-defensive bravado into actual action.

Once he decides he’s gonna do it, it’s all he can think about. He just wants him, wants to push his hands through that soft-looking gold hair, he wants to push him up against the nearest wall and suck a ring of marks into his neck. He wants to feel that desperate, slutty-slick mouth. He knows Luke is gonna be so goddamned eager for everything, he can just tell by the way his body is always canting into Han’s space, the way he’s constantly ogling him with his eyes all half-lidded and obvious.

Unfortunately, they’re being shuffled around the base to brief every resistance general about the mission in extreme detail, and haven’t had a chance to be alone together since that first charged embrace after the Death Star. Normally, Han would be eating up the attention, the enthusiasm, the praise. He'd be thrilled to hear Leia tell them there was a ceremony in their honor. He’d be impressed by the nice leather trousers and brand new jacket and holster they presented him with in exchange for his duty to the rebellion. Instead, he just wants it all to be over so he can find out what Luke’s sweat tastes like, how hot the length of hi cock feels in his hand. God. By the time the ceremony actually happens, he’s crawling out of his skin.

It doesn’t help that Luke cleans up so good it makes Han dizzy, fuck. He’s wearing this nice yellow bomber jacket that clings to his shoulders, and his hair is brushed out and shiny, and he’s positively glowing, so goddamned happy and proud to get a medal and hear everyone clap for him, this is probably the goddamned highlight of his life. Han would think it was annoying if he wasn’t also reeling from the whirlwind of the last few days, the rush of almost dying and living and almost dying again just because an old man and some gorgeous boy from the desert offered him a lot of money. What if he had turned that offer down? What if they hadn’t gotten stuck in the tractor beam at the base? What if Luke hadn’t been perfect and magical and connected to the universe or whatever, and missed that shot? So many what ifs, leading them here an it’s crazy, every bit of it. So to be honest, Han is probably glowing, too.

At some point during the festivities after the ceremony, Luke reaches out and brushes the bone of Han’s wrist with his index and middle fingers, eyes hooded, cheeks pink from whatever boot-leg liquor they’re serving at the base. “Can’t believe you came back,” he says gently, chewing his lower lip, all but batting his goddamned lashes because Luke Skywalker is an irresistible fucking flirt and Han’s gonna die if he doesn’t get to kiss him soon. “I keep almost forgetting. Ben’s gone, but you—you’re right there.”

“M’not going anywhere, kid,” Han tells him. He’s tipsy but more than that he’s high on winning a boss fight, on getting an award and a hefty payment, on the blue of Luke’s gaze, the lickable cords in his neck, the way he still smells like sun and sand even though they’re lightyears away from the wastelands of the Outer Rim. He can’t fucking take it anymore, he just can’t, so Han pulls away from Luke’s touch in favor of closing his hand over the medal hanging around his neck, and drags him in by it so the soft shape of his own mouth is pressed to the shell of Luke ear. “Unless you’re going with me,” he offers, feeling Luke waver. “What do you say, how about we ditch this party? There’s a bed in the Falcon. I’ve been wanting to see you in it since Tattooine.”

Luke shudders, scoffs. “Wha—what do you mean?” he asks, flushing deep, gaze flashing and sticking on Han’s jawline before dropping hungrily and predictably to his chest.

Han slides his hand up the medal, so his knuckles brush against Luke’s fluttering pulse point. He wonders if he’s bring flirty or if he’s actually that stupid, before he decides he doesn’t care. “What do you think I mean?” he mumbles, tilting back just enough to hold Luke’s gaze, stomach twisting up, clenching around the smell of his breath, that stunning, improbable, desert-sky blue.

Luke’s eyes get dark and his throat bobs as he swallows. Han has never wanted to put his mouth somewhere so bad in his life, but he holds back, feeling the celebration bustling about around them, the smell of gunpowder and fireworks and home brewed brandy in the air. Luke sways closer, murmurs, “I thought—what about Leia?”

Han shrugs. “What about her?”

“You’re not in love with her?” Luke asks, voice soft with naiveté, and goddamnit does that make Han just want him more. This stupid boy made the shot of a lifetime, saved the galaxy, and made him believe in the force, and here he is, looking at Han’s mouth like it’s an impossible thing. He has no fucking idea Han is low hanging fruit, has no idea how easy it would be to pluck him from a branch, to make him fall in love.

Han decides to save him the trouble. He’s drunk and even if it’s not true now it will be eventually so he says, “No. M’in love with you, Luke. God, you’re stupid.”

Luke laughs breathlessly, leans in like he’s about to kiss him right here are this party and finally, fucking finally Han’s gonna get what he wants. He steps away to save them both, presses his face into Luke’s clean, soft hair and inhales. “Not here, kid. Don’t think General Ackbar wants to see what m’gonna do to you.”

“Ok, right, yeah. The Falcon,” Luke mumbles, even as he’s pressing his face to Han’s chest, scouring those plush pouting lips on the stubble over his throat, hand coming to rest with an awe-struck sort of tenderness on Han’s pectoral, over the thud of his heart.

Fuck, Luke is so hot, mostly because he’s so sweet, so uncertain. Han learned everything he knows about how to please a man from Lando, who was an expert. It’s nice to be the one in that position this time, to have power to wield, to somehow have already convinced Luke that he’s the lucky one. It gives him the confidence to grab Luke by the shoulders, spin him around and say, “Lead the way, junior,” like he could take this or leave this, like he’s not shaking and dry-mouthed with longing.

—-

As soon as they’re both up the ladder and the hatch is shut, Han turns to him, heart thundering, hardly believing they’re finally, finally fucking alone. Luke just stands there like a deer in the headlights, eyes wide and blue and mouth parted ever so slightly like he wants a kiss but hasn’t quite decided if this is a joke or not. Han just looks at him for a moment, lets him wait, falter. It feels good to know he’s actually capable of resisting Luke Skywalker, if only for a moment. That this isn’t some weird force magic.

“What are we doing here?” Luke says quietly as the silence yawns on in a tense parade, his weight shifting nervously. “If I misunderstood—“

“No,” Han tells him, stepping in, putting him out of his misery. He cups Luke’s hot face between his palms, backs him into the curved metal siding of the ship to press their brows together, inhaling Luke’s terrified breath. It tastes so fucking good. “I get the feeling you’ve never done this before, kid,” he murmurs, thumbing over Luke’s lips. He licks them right after, and Han’s stomach plummets at that wet flash of pink. “You gonna be ok?”

Luke doesn't answer. He rolls up onto the balls of his feet and presses his mouth flush to Han’s, clumsy and rushed like he couldn’t wait another second, like he’s just as drunk on Han’s exhalations as Han is drunk on his. Something about it breaks Han: the admirable recklessness, the mortifying vulnerability. Regardless, his heart fractures and his stomach drops and his cock twitches and before he even realizes it, he’s licking Luke’s lips apart, he’s fucking the sweet, slick plush of his mouth with his tongue.

Luke stills, trembles, groans into the muffled subduction. For a split second Han is worried he’s gonna pull away, that he’s got some reservation about something with the way he’s wavering there like the earth between a quake and an aftershock, but then, he softens. His mouth opens up, and his needy hands push between them to spread wide over Han’s chest and thank god his hunger at least outweighs his fear. His kisses are messy, inexpert, but what they lack in finesse they make up for in desperation. Han’s heart pounds at the way Luke is sucking on his tongue in pulses, the way he’s shifting his hips and rolling his spine, seeking contact. When Han pushes his his thigh between Luke’s legs to feel him out, Luke cries out into his mouth and fuck, he needs him in bed, he needs his skin.

“Bed, remember that bed, kid?” he grinds out between kisses, between rough roving palms all over Luke’s waist, his ribcage, his arms, once he pushes that terrible jacket off. Luke doesn’t seem built, really, but his arms are so strong from farm labor, lifting scrap metal and repairing transports. Han wants to hold those toned arms over his head, he wants to lick into the golden hair in his pits, mat it down, get him wet everywhere he can. “C’mon,” he manages, working hard to push himself off the trembling solidity of Likes body and steer him down the tunneled hall. “My quarters.”

—-

It’s surreal, finally getting to touch Luke, to feel the unsteady rise and fall of his chest against Han’s own, to hear his wild, strangled breath. Han might have been employing hyperbole in suggesting he was in love, just riding the wave of adrenaline that comes from saving the world, but now that he has him here, under his mouth, between his braced knees, he’s not so sure it was hyberbole at all. It feels like love, the way Luke is kissing him, bitting his lips, carding his hands through his hair, moaning so pretty into his mouth. It feels like love, the way he’s so fucking hard in his new leather pants he hurts if he's not grinding slow and steady into Luke’s parted legs. It feels like everything.

At some point Luke tentatively works a hand between them to rub over Han’s erection, breath catching in his throat. “You—can I feel it? Under your clothes?”

“Well- yeah. M’not here to wrestle with you,” Han chokes out, rutting into Luke’s touch. “God, your lips are so swollen.”

He licks that ruined mouth, eyes half lidded as he works open Han’s button and flies to push underneath. “M-sorry,” he mumbles, eyes fluttering closed as he finally touches him, like the heat of a hard cock in his hand feels just as good as his hand feels to Han. His grip is firm and hungry at the same time it’s uncertain, and Han wonders if he’s ever touched a man before, or if his experience is limited to tossing off alone, awkward kisses with farm girls out in the moisture fields or whatever.

“Have you ever done this before?” Han asks, sitting back on his heels so he can really watch Luke touch him, his strong, slender wrist disappearing into leather, clumsily smoothing up and down his shaft. It feels so fucking good, just to be stroked, Luke’s clumsy fingers working his length slow and reverent. It probably wouldn’t feel good if it wasn’t Luke, if he didn’t want him so bad, but it is Luke, so the messiness of it doesn’t matter. It’s heaven.

“No,” Luke says defensively, thumbing over the crown of Han’s cock where it’s wet and slippery,. Han bites back a gasp, palms over Luke’s thighs, trying to show him he doesn’t care how inexperienced he is, he wants this in an irreversible, pathetic sort of way. “Is that a problem?”

Han pitches forward again, kissing Luke with teeth, with spit, hard enough it knocks him back into the dirty sheets. “Not by me. M’gonna make you feel so good,” he decides, thumbing up to where Luke’s hard in his own pants, tenting them obscenely, mouth wateringly.

“And show me how to make you feel good?” Luke asks, fisting more deeply into Han’s pant to cup his balls, roll them experimentally in his palm. “I want—I don’t really know what to do. I just know I want it so bad. Whatever you can show me.”

“I’ll show you anything you want, kid,” Han promises, skating his mouth down Luke’s throat, kissing and sucking as he goes, leaving a shining trail of spit on that sweet golden skin. “What do you know? M’not your first kiss, am I?” he jokes, thumbing teasingly over the bulge of Luke’s cock. He’s not serious, but Luke is quiet, squirming under him, so he sits back again, takes his chin between thumb and forefinger to force their gazes to meet. “Am I?”

“Yeah, sorry, I—I grew up in the middle of nowhere,” Luke confesses, cheeks somehow flushing even deeper. “Am I bad at it?” he asks, chewing his absurdly puffy lower lip, eyes the clearest, most maddening blue.

Han feels like he’s free-falling, an engine failure sending him plummeting earth-ward to crash. It shouldn't be hot, it should not fucking be hot, knowing Luke has never been kissed save for tonight, pushed up against the siding of the Falcon, lips fucked open, parting for Han and Han only. It is hot though; it just makes Han want him more, makes him even dizzier, more desperate. He curses, shakes his head, and panic spreads across Luke’s face like spilled blood. “Please, I want this, don’t stop, you can teach me, I’ll learn and —”

Luke,” Han groans, thumbing over his lips before shutting him up, pushing two fingers past the slack ring of them and into his mouth, where he’s slippery and panting. Luke loses focus at this point, hand going limp in Han’s pants, flexing mindlessly before it falls to his own stomach. “You think I care?” Han asks, stunned he can ruin a boy so easily, that Luke is so inexperienced and so desperate this is enough to have him broken apart into bits. Luke can’t answer because he’s so naturally, instinctively sucking, lips sin-soft and terrible around Han’s knuckles. “No one’s ever kissed that pretty mouth but me, huh?” Han asks smugly as he withdraws, dragging a froth of drool down Luke’s chin while he squeezes his cock with his other hand, stunned at the way he's writhing and bucking, opening like some lush, night blooming flower.

“No one,” Luke murmurs earnestly, eyes searching and shy and so goddamned pretty Han has to swallow the flood in his mouth. “Just you.”

“So no one’s fucked you either? I’m the first one to have you at all?” he asks, just to make sure, pressing his mouth right up against Luke’s ear, so thrilled by how easy it is to make him shiver. Luke groans, twists, bucks his hips.

“Yours, only yours, since I saw you. I thought I was stupid and hopeless, right up until a little while ago. Thought you wanted Leia, not me,” He confesses, arching his back so he can grind his cock into Han’s thigh.

“Well you’re wrong,” Han Tells him, unbuckling his pants, tugging them low enough he can see the trail of blonde hair under his navel, the pale juts of his hip bones. “We both just wanted you. Were fighting over you this whole time, you were too busy getting a perfect shot at the base to even notice,” he lies. He’s lying because he wants Luke soft and wanting and certain of this thing, so he thinks that makes it ok. “You don’t even know how fucking perfect you are, do you?” he tacks on as he works Luke’s pants down to his thighs, freeing his cock. It’s not very big but it’s definitely delectable, curved and pink and dripping beads of fluid into a gold thatch of pubic hair.

“No—fuck,” Luke bites out, abdominals flexing and softening as Han licks his way down his body, from his smooth sternum to his soft stomach to the humid, yearning place between his thighs. Han can hardly think past the next few seconds, so he's left without a plan, a seduction. All he wants is to taste Luke, lick him all over, dissolve him to tears, get his fingers up inside the maddening heat of his body. He wants it so bad he doesn’t even think as he drops his face between Luke’s thighs, rubbing his cheek up against his shaft, feeling the hungry twitch against him. “Please—do whatever you want,” Luke begs. “Whatever it is, I want it too.”

Han doesn’t waste time. Now that he’s here and he can smell Luke, he’s got to taste him too. he needs the spice, the salt, and even as he swallows Luke’s pretty little cock down until it chokes him, it’s not enough. He licks up the shaft, sucks the slickness of the tip, shuts his eyes and just drowns for a moment, Luke’s thighs around his ears, his hungry, broken sounds ricocheting off the wall. Han pulls off in a mouthful of spit, rubbing his lips all over Luke’s cock as it thuds back down onto his stomach. “You’re loud,” he observes, voice coming out so hoarse it doesn't even sound like me.

“I’m sorry,” Luke prays, eyes shut, hips pumping wantonly.

“Don’t be. My ego loves stroking, wanna hear you,” Han promises, kissing the underside of his cock, loving the desperate flex against his lips. “You’re gonna look so pretty with my cock in you. You want that? Want to feel it stretching you?”

Luke laughs brokenly. “Fuck, yes. Think about it all the time,” he admits, back hollowing out again, pushing his needy cock towards Han. “I just—I didn’t know it was possible.”

“Of course it’s possible,” Han promises, licking sweet, messy circles all over the head of Luke’s cock. He tastes so fucking good it’s got him rutting against the bed, humping the bunched sheets between Luke’s splayed legs. With his mouth full and his mind swimming, it occurs to him Luke might actually not know how men fuck properly. And Maybe Han should have stopped a long time ago, maybe he should have backed out when he found out the boy he wants split and panting under him hadn’t even been kissed before, but he's never claimed to be a good man, in the whole of his life. Just a hungry man, an opportunist. Couple that with he very real possibility he accidentally fell in love with Luke Skywalker in three days, and he’s unstoppable. He’s a force of goddamned nature. “Do you know how? Need me to show you?” he asks, smoothing his palms up Luke’s hips before sliding them between the bed and his ass to cup the pert, muscular curves there. Luke doesn't say anything, but he nods, teeth grit.

Tentatively Han shifts one hand towards the crease of Luke’s ass, letting two fingers sink into his core, where he’s tight and furled and so, so fucking warm. “Here,” he says, rubbing over his hole, watching in awed slow motion as Luke tenses before opening up, slackening against his fingers, letting his head fall back.

“Really?” Luke breathes, bearing down the slightest bit, gasping as Han’s fingers breach him ever so slightly. “There? How—will you fit?”

“Let me show you how—Luke, god,” Han groans, shaking his head because fuck, he needs him, he needs to know what he feels like inside, how much wetter and sloppier his kisses get when there’s a cock in his ass. “Let me fuck you. I’ll do it so good, make you feel so perfect.”

Luke sobs, his cock pulses against Han’s lips. “Yes, god, fuck me, please, just—show me how to do it right,” he says. “Put me where you want me.”

Han does not need to be told twice. “Flip over, on your stomach. And grab one of those pillows. Stick it under your hips.”

Luke blushes as he sets himself up, head bent, sweaty blonde hair sticking to his brow. He looks like he doesn’t think he's the prettiest thing Han’s ever seen, so Han makes sure to set him straight. “Fucking make my mouth water, kid, look at you,” he praises, hands wandering all over him.

“Really?” he murmurs, making his spine a concave, pushing his ass out. “You want to fuck me?” he adds the past bit quietly, lashes fluttering.

Han absolutely wants to fuck him, so much so he’s dizzy, he’s aching as he shucks his pants, fisting his own cock as he gazes down on the display of Luke’s skin: the sweat-dewy curve of his back, the musculature flexing invitingly, so Han’s teeth itch with the urge to bite. “What do you think?” he breathes, thumbing Luke’s ass apart, the crease of him dusky rose and sweat-spicy. He has to swallow his spit once, but he doesn’t make that mistake a second time. “Gotta get you wet. Get you ready for me,” he breathes, cock twitching as he pulls Luke apart, dips closer, drools onto him. “Hold yourself split.”

And without any further explanation, he licks right into a puckered heat of Luke’s hole. He keens, gasps, tightens, but Han anticipated as much. He grips his hips and pulls him back, and before Luke can twist his way out of Han’s hands again, he’s collapsing onto his elbows, gasping as Han licks his hole in wide, hungry strokes, driving deep and hungry. “Fuck,” he yelps, gritting his teeth, wavering between wrenching away and pushing back into the heat. “What are you—why?”

“Gotta get you wet. Wet and soft enough to take me. And fuck, you taste so good, that’s why,” Han grinds out, rubbing the rough stubble of his jaw right over where Luke’s tenderest. “How does it feel?”

Luke is shaking, whining as his hole flutters and twitches under every sweet, rough kiss. “Like—like m’yours. Every part of me.”

“Are you?” Han asks before spitting right into Luke’s center before rubbing it in, making him twitch and flex open under the pressure. “Open up for me, baby. Lemme feel inside.”

Luke must really want to be his baby, because that single, loaded word does the trick. He fractures and spreads, adjusting his thighs wider, bending like a reed in the wind as Han fucks his tongue into him. “Yes, all yours. Fuck me, fuck me”,” he whimpers, rocking back into Han’s face, clumsy and tremulous. “Put it in me.”

Han pulls back gasping, Luke musky and bitter and delicious on his tongue. “My what? You shouldn’t let me fuck you if you can’t say it, kid. Lemme hear you beg.” It’s a hollow threat, really. He’s gonna fuck Luke to tears no matter what, he's gonna fill him up, split him open, paint his insides.

There’s no coming back from this, but still, it hears so good to hear Luke gasp and bite his lips and moan, “Han, fuck me. Fuck my ass,” voice thick with shame, with longing. “Want your cock.”

“That’s it,” Han mumbles, pretending he knows what he’s doing, pretending he has an ounce of knowledge and experience where this particular act is concerned. He’s done it, that’s for sure. But always half-inebriated at least, always while Lando directed his every move, chastised him, praised him, petted his hair like he were a dog. Luke thinks he knows how to do this right, so he’d better. He’d got to convince Luke, he’s got to fuck him perfect. “You ready, baby?”

“Yes,” Luke promises, gritting his teeth as Han gives him one last sloppy lick and shifts his weight back and into position, cock aching as he unbuttons his pants and rolls them down his hips to kick off. “Please. Pease, god, Han. M’yours. Love you,” he adds, cheek red and pressed flush to the sheets.

It shouldn’t twist up in Han’s gut in the guilty way it does, because he’s pretty sure he loves Luke back, if love is something they’re talking about, if love is something he feels. At the same time, he knows he only confessed that first to get Luke here in bed with him, and that doesn’t sit as right as he wants it to. It really drives home that he’s a smuggler, that Luke is the galaxy’s golden boy, the savior.

Still, he bends his head to bite the muscle framing Luke’s spine, marking him, claiming him, building himself up in the process. “Spit,” he orders, cupping Luke’s face in his hand to receive the messy mouthful of froth. The saliva lands with a filthy sound, and he collects it so that he can smear it thick and messy into Luke’s crack, over his winking hole. “You have to tell me,” he demands, pushing two finger in so Luke bucks, gasps. “If it hurts, Or if you don’t like it. I’ll pull back out and just suck you. Teach you how to suck me.”

Luke makes a sound, sobs so wet he drools into Han’s pillow. “I’d suck you. I—I dream of sucking you. I thought I invented it.”

“Invented it—god, you—you don’t know anything, do you?” Han huffs out, fingering Luke hard and deep, crooking to feel him out, to stretch him. He’s tight but he’s willing and that’s what matters, how this is gonna end up good for both of them.

“No,” Luke admits, pushing his ass out, begging for it. “Just that I love you and want you however I can get you.”

Han cups his Adam’s apple in a sweat slick hand and kisses the back of his neck as he aligns himself with the other hand, Luke’s hole wet, sucking, hungry at the crown of his cock. He buries his lips in the downy, sweat-crusted curls at the back of his neck. “You ready for it, baby?”

“Yes, please,” Luke groans, back arching as he peels back, and Han starts to sink in. Inch by inch, Luke’s body so stunningly hot his vision whites out with each successive shift. Luke whines the whole time, pretty and high and desperate. Han would think he was in pain if he wasn’t so clearly eating it up, grinding into him, dropping down onto his elbows, drooling on the sheets. “That good?” he manages to ask, smoothing a shaky hand up Luke’s spine, voice punched out of him between staccato breaths.

“God. So much better than I dreamed. Hurts so fucking good,” he begs, fucking himself along Han’s cock, backing his ass up in rhythmless, messy, desperate thrusts. Han can hardly keep up, so he grabs Luke’s hips to steady them both, rubbing his face into the ditch between his scapulae.

“Hey. Slow down, let me give it to you,” he demands, pushing Luke down my the back of his neck, pinning him to the sheets. “ I haven’t—god. Think about you like this so much. Bent in half, begging for me.”

Luke arches deeper, crying out at the shift in depth, eyes watering. “I want you to come in me,” he says, reaching between his own thigh to messily fist his cock, which is dripping all over Han’s bed. Han knocks his hands way so he can do it. He wants to touch, he wants to feel Luke come apart in his palms, all over his sweat-slick chest. “Please.”

Han kisses up his spine, each notch of it, each desperate ditch as he curls and moans. “No,” he chokes out, ceasing the clumsy pistoning of his hips so that he can hold off just a bit longer. He doesn't usually come this fast, but he also usually doesn’t believe in magic or love or anything else. Saving the world in a three day whirlwind really changes things, he’s figured out. “Want you to come first. Right here, come on my cock, baby.”

Luke takes the order in earnest. He fucks himself hard, wincing and gasping and tensing so much Han can’t stand it, can’t watch him hurt or perform or feel anything less than amazing, so he pins him by his neck again and seals himself against his back and murmurs, “Just let me fuck you, kid. Let me take care of you.”

With some resistance and difficulty, Luke begins to cede, begins to listen. He softens through his joints and melts into the bed, lets Han thrust into him deep and slow while he jacks him off, forearm flexing against the sweet pink blush of his thighs. And fuck, Han really might love this stupid pretty boy. Or maybe that’s the force talking. Convincing him that the universe wants him to have something so soft-hard and beautiful in his arms, around his cock, pulsing and shooting off in his hand. It doesn't matter, really, he has Luke here all the same. Perfect and fractured and gasping, searing white spilling out of him, his ass tightening and fluttering and milking Han so hard he can’t hold on a second longer. As Luke collapses in his sheets he finishes inside his ass, gasping so rough his throat hurts, vision whiting out in static.

He shudders limp onto his back moments after, pulling out messily, come all over Luke’s legs, the tight cheeks of his ass, his stolen, fucked hole. Han remembers what it feels like to be emptied so sudden like that, so as he fits himself around Luke’s frame he eases his fingers back inside, crooking them sweetly. “Hey,” he murmurs, kissing Luke’s neck, his ear, the flushed- red, tear-slicked side of his face. “Did I hurt you? Why are you crying?”

“Because—because you’re everything I ever fucking—I don’t know,” Luke sniffles, rolling over to press himself tight into Han’s arms, smearing tears into his chest hair. “It’s like you read my mind. You did everything I’ve ever wanted done to me.”

Han kisses his brow, his hairline, his temples, fingers still working inside him gently, smearing his own come, fucking it deeper into his hole. Luke winces, clearly to sensitive to take it, so he reluctantly pulls out, opting instead to lick the salt from his own lips and palm over his spent cock reflexively. “I just—I did what I wanted to do to you.”

“Why was it so perfect?” Luke murmurs, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. His tears smell sharp and salty and Han wants to lick them up, but his core is weak from coming, from getting exactly what he’d been craving for days, so, he can hardly move without effort. He settles for sagging into Luke, filling his remaining vacancies. “You—I really, honestly thought I invented that stuff. Putting your mouth on it, sucking it. Wanting to be fucked by a man.”

Han scoffs, pressing his lips into Luke’s hair to muffle his laugh because he doesn't want him to think he’s mocking him. “You thought you were the first virgin farm boy on the history of the world to want to suck a cock?”

“It sounds stupid, now,” Luke admits. “But yeah.”

Han rolls over to kiss him flush on the mouth. “I thought maybe I’d quit thinking I loved, if I got you like this. If I got to come in you. But turns out I just love you more,” he admits. Admirably reckless, mortifyingly vulnerable. Because Luke might be using the force on him to make all his fantasies come true, and he doesn't even care. He still wants him so bad it feels like dying.

Luke sucks his lips, bites them with the graceless enthusiasm of a boy who learned how to kiss only hours ago. Han forgives him ten times over, can’t wait to show him how to streamline and soften and perfect things. How to open up, how to suck with his pretty mouth, how to arch his back just right. “Because I’m a war hero?” he asks, lashes fluttering, spun gold against flushed skin.

Han brushes his lips against the curve of them. “Nah,” he says, thumbs bitting into his lips. “Because you made a lucky shot.”