Story Challenge EXTRA #3: 15th July 2005
Create a piece of fanart showing Luke in Han's clothes, which then will be the inspiration for fanfics on the same theme.

Covers
A SW fic by Morgan D.

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I can't just forget you.

Why, why did Han have to say that? It had meant nothing, of course. Or rather, it hadn't meant what Luke, in his selfish, hopeless fantasies, wished it meant. Just words, kind words, inspired simply by friendship — or worse, by let's-be-friends feelings. Nothing more.

Nevertheless, for a split second, Luke had stared into Han's eyes and seen the coveted meaning shimmering in the hazel irises... He had come so very close to betraying the vow he had made to stay away from Han's mind, just to check if there was more in there than his own wishful thinking... Thankfully, he had stopped himself in time. He knew what he would have sensed: Leia as the centre of Han's thoughts, as his concerns were now on how to make up to her after missing her birthday. It would have been just like last time, when Leia had freed Han from that carbonite block. He wouldn't make himself go through that again.

Luke had some vague notion that his feet were taking him to his own quarters, although all he had in mind was the urge to put some physical distance between him and the elevator car he had just left, between him and the beloved Corellian whose casual words could hurt him more than burning steel on naked flesh. He wished he were wearing his Jedi cloak, so he could shrink inside it, pull the hood over his head, hide his flawed heart in the image of the disciplined Knight. The green jacket that Wasbereth had given him for his birthday felt heavy on his shoulders, too tight around his throat, too loose around his chest, even though it was, in concrete terms, a perfect fit.

"General Solo! General Solo, wait please!"

The urgent call, in an unfamiliar and oddly resonant voice, almost caused Luke to start running. If someone was running after him and calling for Han, then Han had not remained in the elevator after all? Was his friend following him, trying to resume the discussion? Luke couldn't stand the thought of facing Han right now. He went on walking, hoping that Han would stop to answer to whomever was looking for him.

"General Solo, I beg you, don't make me run after you. Human legs are too long."

It was so typical of Han, to make people run after him. How many times had Luke caught himself jogging after his friend just to keep a conversation? It was part of his you-can't-tie-me-down-to-anything routine, Luke suspected, but so deeply imbued that even now, after assuming a commitment with the Rebel Alliance and a serious relationship with Leia, the habit survived. What if Han didn't stop at all?

"General, if you don't want your clothes now, tell me where I should leave them please!"

The plea had the effect of painting the image of a naked Han walking after Luke through the corridor, which was obviously absurd. Automatically, Luke reached out with his senses, not in search of Han's feelings — never, never again — but of Han's presence...

...and found him. But not behind him, not even in that corridor, not even in that floor. Far. And moving away.

Perplexed, he stopped and turned towards the figure running in his direction. It was a Yiolirg, a three-armed, stocky-legged being with a single multifaceted eye on the top of the head, and big, supple ears whose square shape identified her as a female. She carried a large white bag in her arms, and breathed heavily through a small lipless mouth. "By the rings of Vndeffato, I was thinking you would never stop, General," she panted. "You didn't hear me call?"

"I heard you. But I'm not General Solo."

The Yiolirg's ears curled in what seemed to be a sign of consternation. "Not?"

"No. I'm Commander Luke Skywalker." But the confusion was not that surprising. Although very effective in the intricate complex of underground cities of Vndeffato, where all the little light they had was provided by torches placed inside orange lechatelierite lamps, the Yiorligs' sight would be considered impaired pretty much anywhere else. Furthermore, Luke had never seen that particular Yiorlig before.

"Then I apologise," she said. "You can go on running please. Don't let me delay you."

"It's okay." Luke frowned at the bag, curious. "Did you say you have the General's clothes?"

"Yes. He asked for special task. It's done, and I was told to give them back. But elevator car wasn't working."

"I see." The elevator car had been working just fine, of course. Apparently, the Yiorlig had bought Han's little lie.

"When doors opened, I saw two humans, and someone said General Solo was there. I never met him. I wasn't the one he talked to when he asked for special task. So I asked, 'which one?' And person said, 'the handsome one'. So I followed you. I take handsome one was the other one?"

"Uh, yes." Han was the handsome one, all right. Only one who was vision-impaired would think differently. "But thank you anyway. What's your name?"

"Aadeyr. Corporal."

"Thank you, Corporal Aadeyr. You are very kind."

"I delay you for no reason," she snorted. "You can be angry."

"I'm not," he soothed her. "You're not delaying me." In fact, he was free for the next three hours, when he would have to attend a meeting at General Rieekan's office.

"Not? Humans always run like that?"

"Er. Long legs, you know." Thank goodness Han hadn't been there to see him fleeing from the very mention of his name...

"Commander Skywalker, you know where General Solo went?" Aadeyr asked hopefully.

"No, I'm sorry." He had only a vague notion of the direction Han was taking. It was likely that he was going to wherever it was that he had stowed the Falcon, but Luke wasn't sure where that was either. "Would you like me to deliver the bag to him?"

Once the words were out, Luke could hardly believe he had said them. He had almost embarrassed himself running away from Han just a minute ago, and now he was volunteering to meet him again?

Aadeyr's ears flapped in surprise. "You would do that, sir? It isn't a problem?"

"No problem," Luke assured her, wishing he could assure himself of the same. "I'll be meeting him later." Would he?

The Yiorlig hesitated. "You won't forget? General Solo asked for very special task. He can be angry if clothes aren't returned."

What had Han asked her? To clean his leather G-strings?

Did Han have leather G-strings?

How many leather G-strings would fit the large bag Aadeyr was carrying?

Could the sight of a Yiorlig detect when someone was blushing like a burning fire?

"I won't forget, you have my word," Luke promised her. "General Solo won't be angry."

Still she seemed unsure. "General's legs are more long than yours?"

"Hmm, yes. A little." Why did everyone keep reminding him of his short height?

Aadeyr still pondered the situation for a quiet moment before handing Luke the bag. "Give General his clothes please. Tell him Aadeyr did her best, but Nocerrasa juice is really hard to come off."

Nocerrasa juice? "I will."

Luke turned and resumed his walk towards his quarters, with a much calmer pace now, and feeling oddly victorious.

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"So what's in the bag?"

"Uh? Oh, nothing. Just clothes."

"Any reason why you feel they might run away on their own if you don't keep an eye on them?"

"What?"

"Luke, you've been staring at that bag for the last ten minutes. I was beginning to think it was a bomb you were trying to deactivate with your mind or something."

"It's just clothes, Wedge." Although they were a bomb, in a way.

"And the reason behind all the worried staring...?"

"I'm trying to decide what to do with them."

"It might be an old-fashioned concept, but perhaps you might, I don't know, wear them?"

Luke turned to the other man, who was leaning lazily on his bunk with a forgotten datapad on his belly. It was good to be on talking terms with Wedge again, but sometimes his company felt a little... intrusive. "They're not mine."

"Ah, naughty," Wedge smirked. "Whose, then?"

"Han's."

"You're back together?!"

"We were never together," Luke said coldly. "How many times do I have to tell you...?"

Wedge dismissed the nth repetition of that explanation with a wave of his hand. "Then what are you doing with his clothes?"

"Remember the mission on Daranmik?"

"Do I remember being received with a shower of gooey, stinky fruit thrown by an enraged crowd? Yeah, I'm afraid I do."

"What did you do with your clothes?"

"Threw them away," Wedge shrugged. "They came back from the laundry just as filthy and smelly as they went."

"So did mine. Even the guys working at disposal complained when I left my uniform there, and incinerated it right away. But apparently Han asked for a special cleaning job on his."

"Oooh, pulling rank on the laundry folks?" Wedge laughed. "I should know Solo would put the General insignia to good use."

"We don't know if he pulled rank. Trading favours is more his style." Not that Aadeyr had mentioned any reward for the 'special task'. Maybe she got her part in advance? That was not Han's style, though.

"Either way, he must really love those clothes. I don't remember what he was wearing, do you?"

Of course he did. Not because Han had been wearing anything remarkable that day, but precisely because he hadn't. It was so rare to catch Han in anything but his usual shirt-and-vest attire — except for the cold days when he replaced the vest with the greyish-blue jacket — that Luke could easily number all the occasions he had seen him wear something else. So maybe Wedge's suggestion that those clothes could run away on their own were not that ridiculous after all...

Three times Luke had asked Han about his reluctance to diversify his wardrobe. The first was shortly after the Battle of Yavin, when Han had insisted on wearing those clothes to the medal-awarding ceremony; the Corellian had answered that those were all the clothes he had and that he wouldn't be caught dead in a Rebel uniform. The second was when they had had sex in the Falcon's cargo bay for the first time and Luke had found a considerable amount of clothes of all sorts stored in a case, which gave away the previous lie; Han had answered that this way people would recognise him readily from his clothes, making it possible for him to go unnoticed just by putting on some of those different garments. The third time was during the celebration on Endor, when Luke had mocked Han for sneaking into an Imperial facility wearing the trademark outfit; Han had answered, "This is what I am, kid. The only way I can be more myself is if I strip all my clothes off."

Luke had judged wise not to ask a fourth time.

"How did his clothes end up with you anyway?" asked Wedge in a teasing tone.

"The one that ended up with the job mistook me for him... long story. I offered to do the delivery, that's all."

"So what's your big existential doubt about the clothes? You have to hand them to Solo."

"I know that. I was just trying to figure out when."

"And that is the reason why you've been staring at that bag as if it was about to explode in your face?"

On second thought, maybe the reason why Luke found Wedge's company intrusive sometimes was because his insights were a little too accurate for Luke's taste.

"Hey, don't look at me like that!" Wedge chuckled, tossing the datapad away and standing up. "I'll tell you what, I'm going to the mess, see if there's still some talpoela cake left, and leave you to your deep meditations over Solo's boxers, alright?"

"You know I'll remember this conversation next time you need the room for yourself and whoever you're dating now, don't you?"

Wedge laughed and waved and closed the door after him, apparently unimpressed by Luke's threat. Probably knowing Luke would never act on it anyway.

Those damn Corellians. Their flamboyant self-confidence could be annoying as hell, and it got only worse when they were also right.

There was another thing about which Wedge was quite correct: staring indefinitely at that bag would do him no good. He had three hours to spare, so maybe he should take a nap; between his schedule's odd hours and his own concerns, he hadn't slept all that much in the past few weeks.

He took off the green jacket and dropped it unceremoniously on his bed. As he continued to undress, he wondered if Wasbereth would be too upset if he never wore it again. He would keep it, of course, and make sure she saw it hanging in his closet, well cared for, anytime she came into his quarters. But something about it really bothered him. Furthermore, Han had said the jacket was 'not very manly'. Whatever that meant. Luke wished he weren't that sensitive to Han's opinion. He had been making that same wish since the day they had met actually, but apparently some things never really changed.

The air in the room felt suddenly cold, and with a start he realised that, while his mind drifted away with considerations about the infamous green jacket, his hands had moved automatically to undress him to his bare skin. He hadn't really meant to; it was not his habit to sleep naked.

But when his hands moved to open the bag and extract Han's clothes from inside, he couldn't fool himself. That was deliberate.

Everything Han had been wearing in the Daranmik mission seemed to be there, down to his boots, belt and holster. At a first glance, Luke couldn't spot any Nocerrasa fruit stains left, leading him to wonder why Aadeyr had been worried about Han's reaction. But when he held the shirt up, he noticed that the cream colour was uneven now, whiter on the collar and sections of the front, greyer on the back and on the sleeves. The texture was rougher than he remembered too.

And yes, he remembered the feel of it very well. He remembered his nails digging into the fabric while he thrust inside Han, wishing he could remove all the obstacles between them and feel his skin instead. He never dared to, though. He would sneak his hands inside when their position allowed, but that would be all, unless Han gave a verbal command to undress him. How many times had they both been completely naked while having sex? About a dozen, it couldn't be more than that. At first Luke had thought that Han simply preferred it that way — and the thought of it being so hot that there wasn't time to undress properly was sexy as hell —, but later he realised it was probably part of the Corellian's tacit warnings not to hope for true intimacy. In all likelihood, Han and Leia made love completely naked every single time.

Not an image Luke wanted in his mind right now. He fought it off by putting Han's shirt on.

Of course, now this weird, instinctive move brought along all kinds of disturbing images. Memories. Dreams. Unfulfilled fantasies. The touch of the damaged fabric on his bare skin electrified him, like the teasing caress of callused hands. His hands disappeared inside the too long sleeves, and Luke tried to pull the collar up to fix the problem; the best result he got was a normal-sized sleeve around one arm, and folds and folds of excess fabric around the other. He fished the vest from the bag and donned it over the shirt, hoping it would keep everything in place.

The hem of the shirt reached the base of his buttocks, and naughtily brushed his cock. Luke grabbed Han's trousers at once and put them on, fluffing the shirt so the hem would be just below the waistline — and away from sensitive areas. On the other hand, now his body was almost entirely wrapped in Han's clothes.

They didn't smell like Han. Whatever Aadeyr had done to clean them, it had exorcised all traces of their owner's scent along with the sickening stench of Nocerrasa fruit. Herbal soap, that was the only odour left now.

His toes were barely visible now, the black fabric of the trousers falling in folds to cover the rest of his feet — a testament that Han had indeed longer legs. As much as Luke tried, he couldn't remember the shape of Han's toes, whether there was any similarity to his own or not. The thought caused a mild revolt among the contents of his stomach: there was a rather unflattering proverb in Tatooine about a whore that agreed to be fucked without her customers bothering to remove their shoes.

He shouldn't think that way. He might never have been Han's lover, in all the glory of the word, but he had been more than a cheap fuck too. They were friends, dammit. That should count for something.

Upset by the dark alleys where his traitorous mind was taking him, Luke reached for Han's boots and put them on quickly. Being two sizes smaller, his feet slid in without any difficulty. Walking would be another matter entirely, though. He decided not to try.

Luke picked up the belt, clipped the holster to it, but didn't adjust the waist length. When he put it on, it hung loose on his hips, doing nothing to keep the trousers in place. The buckle fell heavy over his groin.

He probably looked ridiculous.

He was sure he hadn't felt this good in his own skin in a long, long time.

Not that he was exactly in his own skin right now. Anyone who opened the door and happened to find him dressed like that would see someone else trying to wear Han's, and doing a terrible job at it. But Luke hadn't put them on to play pretend, or to try to feel how it was to be Han; merely wearing the man's clothes would never be enough to give him that kind of insight.

Of course, it would be so much better if Luke could figure out why in blazes he had decided to put those clothes on. Just because it had been deliberate it didn't mean he had a clue about what he wanted with them. They didn't fit. If he tried to take one step, the trousers would in all likelihood fall, along with the belt and holster, if he didn't trip on his own feet and tumble on his face first. The fabric of both trousers and shirt, abused by the fierce cleaning, was scratchy and kept pulling at his body hair and causing his skin to itch in delicate places.

Still, he wished he never had to take them off.

For a moment Luke contemplated "forgetting" to return the outfit and keeping it for himself. Han might not even notice it; he had six other shirts and three other trousers exactly like those — Luke tried to ignore the urgent tone with which Aadeyr had said 'special task'. The big problem would be the vest. For all its ordinary looks, Han had only one and would certainly miss it.

Luke particularly loved the vest, with all those pockets and pockets inside pockets; he had tried to find one just like it for himself for many years, to no avail. He put his hand in the pocket right over his heart, to measure its size and capacity.

And felt a static shock spreading through every nerve in his body when his fingers touched his nipple, despite the two layers of coarse fabric separating them. With a moan, Luke realised it wasn't really the sensitivity of his skin that had triggered the reaction, but the memory of Han sneaking up on him and embracing him from behind, one hand reaching instantly for Luke's nipple, mouth whispering delicious obscenities in Luke's ear.

That had been Han's favourite approach with Luke: direct, quick, volcanic.

Almost as if with a will of his own, Luke's other hand closed around the belt buckle, pressing it hard against his cock. It hurt, and he found himself whimpering at the pain.

He also found himself getting hard really, really fast.

Later he would think about it and freak out. Later he would remember who he was, who he was supposed to be, and be dead appalled by his behaviour. Later he would wonder about his sanity and meditate on the absurdity of what he was doing. Right now, he just wanted to feel.

He pressed the buckle harder against his groin, clenching his teeth to bite back a painful yelp. The room whirled around him, and he fell on his back on the bed, his head banging against the wall. So much for the graceful moves of a Jedi Knight. Good riddance to the grace of a Jedi anyway. Han didn't like the Jedi in him; for such a great sabacc player, the Corellian was amazingly bad at disguising it. It was all in his face, in his eyes, in the way his lips twitched and his brow wrinkled whenever Luke's skills or ascendancy were mentioned. Another reason why Luke made a point of staying away from Han's mind: seeing the rejection was depressing enough, he didn't have to sense it.

As the pain in his skull receded, Luke pulled himself completely onto the bed, careful not to lose any of the loose boots in the process. The fingers of his left hand, still inside the vest's pocket, tried to close around his nipple, but the numerous layers prevented a good grip. So he sneaked the hand under the vest instead, pinching the tiny nub repeatedly with bruising strength.

"You like this," he breathed. He took most of the actual phonemes off the words, leaving only a husky hiss that would have been unrecognisable as his own voice. "Admit it, you... like... this."

With his other hand, Luke pushed down the belt until he could rub the hexagonal buckle against and around his balls. The metallic points weren't sharp, but they weren't merciful to the tender region either. It hurt. A lot.

He raised his head for a moment to see his cock tenting the black trousers. "You want this badly, don't you?" he asked in the same raspy whisper. "Don't you?"

The collar of the shirt came down almost to the centre of his chest, so Luke made a point of closing it around his neck as best as he could so his left hand didn't run the risk of brushing his own skin. Only then did he reach for his other nipple, giving it the same brutal treatment.

He tasted the sweat that coated his upper lip now. Sour. "Should make you beg for it," he gasped, the words barely audible to his own ears. "So easy... to make you beg."

Planting the soles of his booted feet on the bed, Luke manoeuvred the belt around his waist until the holster was between his legs. He used the hard leather to scratch the inner side of his thighs. His entire body tingled in reaction to the harsh caress.

"Spread out for me..." He let his legs fall open. "Let me see what you have..."

He grabbed a handful of cloth from the front of the trousers and... pulled. Hard. The fabric invaded his cleft, and he swayed his hips to increase the friction.

He choked on his own breath.

"Inside you." He was burning the skin of his hole raw, and it felt wonderful. "Gonna come inside you... kid."

Suppressing a growl, he let go of his nipple to clutch his cock, making sure it was firmly enveloped not only in Han's trousers but also in the hem of Han's shirt. And then he was jerking off... fast... furiously... resolutely ignoring the aching tension in his arm... diving into the blessed agony he was putting his own body through.

"I can't..." He would not last. Stars were already exploding behind his eyelids. "I can't..." He was shivering so violently he could barely control his muscles. "I can't just..."

He came. And shattered.

"...forget you!"

His seed was still spurting from his shaft when the reality of what he had done hit him. Apparently, the conscience of a Jedi was just too uptight to let him enjoy the afterglow.

Luke felt uncomfortably hot — not Tatooine hot but rainforest hot, ever warm and distressingly humid. Every inch of his skin was covered in sweat, and Han's clothes seemed to have glued themselves to the epidermis.

He wished they had merged with his soul instead.

It took a long time until his cock fully softened, still wrapped in its cage of warm, wet cloth, and Luke used that time to calm his breathing and take a lazy look around him. He found his green jacket crumpled on the floor; obviously, at some point during the... exercise, he had kicked Wasbereth's gift to him off the bed. Now if that wasn't symbolic...

Luke strongly suspected he had given himself some pretty nasty bruises, judging by the way his groin hurt. Was he going crazy? He knew that there were those who found pain arousing, and he had no trouble with that as long as no one was hurting someone who didn't wish to be hurt. To each their torture method of choice, as Han once had said. But pain had never been in his sex fantasies. It still wasn't. Whatever that was that he had just done... it was not about pain.

Perfect. Now he was giving himself a headache.

He probably should undress as quickly as possible, before the clothes became permanently pasted to his skin and he had to cut them off with a knife. Or with his lightsaber. He wondered if that would hurt more or less than having his hand chopped off.

More, he decided. Definitely more.

Twenty minutes later, he still had to move a muscle.

He fancied returning the clothes to Han just like that, soiled by his sweat and seed. He smiled at the thought of Han walking around in them, smelling of Luke's desire for him.

He wished he were able to believe, for only one second, that he might actually have the guts to do it. Or that it was the Jedi in him that kept him from doing it. No, he had always been... a nice kid. A boring, nice kid. No wonder Han eventually lost interest in him.

Okay, so where could he find Aadeyr? And how the hell was he going to explain this to her?

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