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again and again and again

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There’s only one person who knows how to use that comm frequency, and that’s the only reason he’s here, he tells himself repeatedly as he walks down the hall. The only reason he’s here. The bartender nods at him, and he waves two fingers in response. There’s not really any time to stop for a drink, a hello, any of the old shit-shooting he’d normally partake in. This is too… Important doesn’t quite fit. Stupid. Foolish. Suicidal, even.

But, then, how do you describe something like this, he wonders, just in case he has to later. Because Leia’s not going to be happy that he’s been gone so long. Even with an ample cushion left in the ten hours he was allotted, he’s still going to be in hot water. She’s going to know the trade was made hours ago. She probably already knows. She’s probably comming the Falcon right now.

She always figures out everything, like she’s got spies just about everywhere.

Of course she does. This is war, he reminds himself. This is war, and he’s about to face the enemy.

The room is dark, only a little grubby, which means there were a hefty amount of credits shelled out just for this.. well, that or they know who the renter is, and they don’t want their planet to be the next to fall. He wonders if he can really do this, considering everything, if he can really let himself fall into the same hole as always, but then there’s movement stirring in the corner, and oh, oh, there Luke is.

Han Solo swallows hard, facing the newest Sith Lord on the block, and realizes it’s not a question. Yes, he can. Yes, he will. Just like he always has.

“Han,” and the familiarity in Luke’s voice wounds him. It’s relief, it’s familiarity. His voice sounds like the same old Luke, just with something a little darker lurking just behind his voice, his eyes. Han grimaces. This was a mistake, but at least he’s going to enjoy himself, he tries to tell himself coldly.

“Hey hey, farmboy,” but Han just can’t get that fake optimism to stick, and it falls flat, sounding more scared than anything.

Luke fixes him with a somewhat distraught but otherwise emotionless stare, trying to read Han. If the smuggler tried thinking about it, he could probably feel invisible fingers carding through his thoughts, so he doesn’t. “I didn’t think you’d come,” Luke says eventually, cocking his head. “I’m still surprised you walked in. I wasn’t going to wait much longer.”

“I had to make a deal first,” Han replies, which is true, and he’s sure Luke already knows. He swallows as Luke steps slowly across the room, standing in front of him. There’s a short pause, and Luke reaches up, drags his fingertips ever so slightly down the sides of Han’s neck, pulling himself into a tight hug against Han’s body, hands working into Han’s hair. Carefully, hesitantly, Han slides his arms around Luke’s ribs, squeezing once before letting his hands rest at Luke’s hips.

Luke hums a short, disappointed noise into his hair, sighing. “I know. Rebel business, I’m assuming,” and he pulls away, smiling up at Han. “I’m not worried about it. Tomorrow’s problem..”

“Great,” Han mutters, but Luke’s smile just gets wider.

“Leia must be okay, then,” he mutters, trailing his fingers down Han’s shoulders. “I was worried after that last base got destroyed. I told them to make contact first, but I guess it went sour anyways.”

Han says nothing. He feels the intense need to run. His legs are seizing under him, ready to gallop away.

“Don’t be so nervous,” Luke coos in response, gently pushing against Han’s chest. He acquiesces and steps back, letting Luke push him towards the bed. It’s a chair he falls into, instead; a large, just this side of ratty chair that is surprisingly comfortable, considering the place they’re in. Han swallows again, looking up at the cold face of the man he used to call his friend, his lover. “It’s okay,” and it almost sounds like an order. A threat.

“It’s okay,” Han repeats, his tone clearly not as convinced.

“That’s right,” Luke purrs, sliding his legs against Han’s to get settled on his lap. “It’ll alllll be okay.” He runs his nails over Han’s scalp, leans close to press little kisses against his jawline and neck. “Everything will be fine.

They both know he’s lying. Han wonders suddenly how long it’ll be before he’s bleeding out, surrounded by bodies, at the hands of Luke Skywalker. How long until he sees that pale green glow down the hall, searching for him. How long until that stupid magic power Luke wields is wrapped around his throat. How long until Leia’s struck down too. Luke seems to hear the thoughts, because he responds with a soft “shh shh shh” and runs his palms down Han’s face.

“Thought I told you not to go looking in my head,” Han says, voice shaking.

“Don’t be so loud, then,” Luke whispers, and Han closes his eyes.

The feeling of Luke’s hands on his body is deceptively familiar; it’s easy to sink into the sensation of soft, warm fingers (ignoring those callouses on his palms that could only come from a lightsaber, that could only be the result of the weapon of choice of someone who cuts through his enemies like paper, and then he has to ignore the idea of Luke murdering everyone again, ignore Leia’s dead eyes, ignore his own life disappearing) tracing up and down his body with the ease of someone who knows it well. Soft lips, warm breath, and that wicked tongue of Luke’s tracing against what little exposed skin there is all bring back warm, happy memories. His palms run up Han’s sides and it tingles; Luke’s mouth presses against his jawbone and Han sighs.

It’s harder to ignore the knowledge that tomorrow might be his last day at these very hands with every flash of a stolen kiss on Hoth, every wry smirk at their tiny victories against the Empire, when it was still the Empire.

For a Sith Lord, he’s pretty temperate, Han reminds himself. He always tries to reason with the Rebels, right? He always tries to strike a deal? He’d warn Han before he got angry, wouldn’t he?

“Luke,” Han groans, opening his eyes. Luke raises an eyebrow.

“Don’t,” he replies softly, with an unspoken please hanging in his breath. “Not now.”

They stare at each other for a long few seconds, searching the other’s face. Luke’s eyes are sad, almost. Han’s eyes are terribly so. Slowly, Luke leans in closer and kisses him, softly at first but harder, more desperately once Han begins to reciprocate. Luke nips at Han’s lips, moans softly as Han sucks his bottom lip to bruising.

Han’s hands find something to do in the meantime, almost of their own accord; they wrap around Luke’s hips, pushing fingernails in deep enough to leave a mark, before sliding around to Luke’s ass. Han lifts the Sith Lord as best he can, getting enough leverage to spread his legs as his pants starts to get achingly tight. Luke keeps kissing him, keeps the intense pace until very suddenly breaking away. Luke stands, pacing the room once, Han panting and watching with a confused stare.

“Luke?” Han rasps, but Luke shakes his head, tearing his shirt off over his head and throwing it across the room.

“I need you,” Luke replies. Han can practically taste the desperation in his voice. “To stop talking.”

So he does, going silent, merely watching. Luke strips before him, toeing out of his boots and throwing his pants across the room, revealing the same gorgeous body as before (albeit sporting some brand new scars. Han tries not to think about them. He tries not to wonder who hit Luke Skywalker and why. He tries not to listen to the quiet voice in his head reminding him they’re likely dead now). Luke pads back to the chair and leans over Han, unbuttoning his pants and kissing him again, deeply, still desperate, still achingly familiar. Something moves out of the corner of Han’s eye and then Luke’s palming his cock, fingers slick with lube and teasing him to a full erection.

“Luke,” Han gasps, but Luke coyly presses a finger to his own lips.

“Shhshh,” and he nips at Han’s jawbone, sliding back onto Han’s lap.

Now Han understands why they’re in this cooped-up stupid chair. Luke’s body is so close to his and the heat’s driving him insane. His vest is pushed aside, his shirt torn open, and then he can feel Luke’s skin on his, feel Luke’s cock rub pre-cum against his abs. That sensation alone could drive him to the brink, but he’s lucky that Luke’s not the kind of person to torture him like that.

(He hopes, anyways. Luke didn’t used to be-)

“Relax,” and Luke sighs the frustration out of his voice, leaning up almost entirely against Han’s body, one hand wrapped in Han’s hair, the other steadying Han’s cock. “Relax,” almost sing-song, “I’m not that different,” and Han sighs in response, hands desperately grabbing at hips, at somehow still perfect ass cheeks.

All that taking over the galaxy shit must keep him in shape.

Han helps Luke slide slowly down onto his cock, a disgustingly slutty moan leaving Luke’s open lips as he takes Han to the hilt. He watches Luke twitch and gasp, letting his body get used to the feeling of Han inside him again, leaning back to roll his hips ever so slightly. The feeling is incredible, and for the first time since coming here Han actually does forget the rest of the world, eyes glued to the glorious body before him.

“Oh,” Luke whispers, and Han couldn’t agree more.

Luke’s hips roll gently once more before he slowly begins to rise up, testing how far he can go, and Han gasps when Luke takes all of him again in one swift motion. This slow pace builds, Luke getting used to the rhythm with more and more confidence, his fingers digging into Han’s shoulders.

“Oh,” Luke says again, “oh,” and the pace gets faster, “oh,” and he laughs, a little giggle that knocks out what little bit of air’s still in Han’s lungs. Everything about Luke is stunning: those bright pink lips of his, half-open, gasping, sporting a wicked little smile; his head back, blonde hair sweaty and bouncing; his body, flushed and glowing. He rolls his head down, gives Han quite possibly the dirtiest look he’s ever seen, and smiles even wider.

“Luke,” Han whispers, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

“Tighter,” Luke whispers back, pulling Han’s hands to his hips, and Han obeys, Luke’s hipbones fitting perfectly in his palms. “That’s it. Hold- hold onto me.” Luke’s fingers dig deeper into Han’s shoulders, scratching into them every time he slides down on Han’s cock. It doesn’t take long before his skin starts to prickle in response, layers of skin coming off under Luke’s nails. It takes even less time for words to start falling from Luke’s lips, breathless and needy, and the more he talks the whinier he gets, which just makes Han’s cock ache more.

“Yes,” Luke breathes, and then again, louder: “Yes, yes, please.”

“Please,” Han responds (just like he always would, all those years ago in the Falcon, on Hoth), nipping up at Luke’s chest, neck, chin. “Please what.”

“Please, please, don’t stop,” as if he’s not the one running the show, as if he’s not the one completely in control, bucking harder and faster on Han with each passing second, his voice rising and sharp moans punctuating his words. “Yes, please, harder, oh-

“Oh,” Han repeats, because honestly he can’t believe this is happening. Minutes ago he was afraid something horrible would happen, and now it really is like they’re back on the Falcon, Luke’s hands against the consoles and his voice filling the space. Like he never left, like he never turned. Like they’re not in some grubby hotel in the middle of nowhere. He grips Luke’s hips tighter and wishes Luke hadn’t, wishes Luke would come back.

Luke doesn’t seem to notice this revelation of Han’s, busy as he is riding the man to oblivion. His voice has reached that familiar fevered pitch of ecstasy and Han’s practiced ears know he’s close. He keeps repeating the same phrases over and over; “yes, please, fuck, oh, Han, harder, please, oh, oh” and he cums suddenly across Han’s chest, crying out and bucking once before his body goes rigid and he rides the wave, breathless.

For a moment, Han’s worried Luke’ll just leave, slide off of him and leave without helping him there. He’s not finished yet, and this is their first time together in a long time- maybe Luke’s become some kind of wicked tease after all- maybe it’s some kind of twisted payback for saying no when Luke asked him to follow-

But Luke, blessed spent evil angel that he is, doesn’t leave Han to such a terrible fate; before Luke can even breathe again he’s rocking his hips, shuddering around Han’s cock. His pace isn’t as smooth or as fast as before, but it’s enough- combined with the cooling cum on his abs, the shattered voice Luke keeps moaning with and the look on his face, those open lips.. it’s enough to push Han over the edge. He thrusts up, once, twice as he gets closer, and comes hard, a quiet cry cut off as his head is gathered up in Luke’s arms.

They stay there for a long moment, both panting and sweaty and quiet, until Luke pulls himself off Han and pads to the bathroom, giving Han just enough time to notice the fabric burns on Luke’s thighs. There’s the soft sound of water, and moments later Luke reappears, his clothing lifting off the floor all across the room and into his hands. He dresses in silence, not once looking over at Han, who pants his way back to a normal heart rate and tries not to feel so drained.

“I missed you,” Luke whispers once he’s slipped his boots back on, leaning down over Han and carding his fingers through Han’s hair once more. “We’ll have to see each other again. Soon.”

“Come with me,” Han says, desperately, his voice breathless. “Come back. We can end this, here and now. You come back home with me, we’ll sort all this out. We can all be together again, like it was before.”

“Oh, dearest,” Luke sighs against his neck, leaning back up with a wicked smile, “you know I can’t,” and he leaves, his footsteps hardly making a sound even with those boots of his.

“I know,” Han murmurs ever so slightly, minutes after the door’s slid shut. Without another word he stands and walks quietly to the bathroom to clean up.