I am way too here for this and I have lost all control of my life, clearly. Sorry this part is all just setup!
The Princess declined to join them even though they'd sent Luke (far and away the most polite member of their motley little crew) trekking out across the Falcon to invite her to their party, but Han's not going to let that get to him. If Her Worship would rather spend all night cooped up in her quarters than spare a few hours to partake of the newly opened bottle of Corellian brandy that he definitely hadn't dug up and uncorked specifically to impress her, then that's her royal prerogative.
The three of them make it through the expensive stuff in an hour without her help anyway, and through two more bottles of some offensively cheap swill probably best used to peel the paint off starship hulls after that, which is the excuse that Han is going to cling to for the rest of his natural life for what they got up to in the Captain's cabin that night.
Luke starts it, which, of course the kid does. Han is in the middle of translating one of Chewie's favorite tales of their adventures (that he retells wrong every time: Han has never in his life lost a game of sabacc to a Mon Calamari, thank you very much) when the blonde starts slipping off to the side and almost falls off of his perch on the edge of Han's bed before Chewie puts his arm out to steady him. The cheeky brat doesn't even re-seat himself, he just leans further against the proffered limb for support and then reaches up with both hands to feel around the width of one furry bicep.
Chewie clearly doesn't know what to do with that, and Han thinks it has to be a testament to how drunk his notoriously temperamental copilot is (or maybe how insidiously Luke grows on everybody, like some kind of bright, sunny fungus) that he doesn't immediately drop the kid for getting handsy. He warbles questioningly instead, looking to Han in askance, like this is one of your lot, got an explanation?
"Hey," Luke slurs before either of them can ask any perfectly reasonable questions. He's bright-eyed and uncoordinated, but clearly very interested in the powerful arm he's got in his clumsy grip. Han's not blind: he knows that the Tatooine farmboy has been eyeing him with considerably less subtlety than he undoubtedly thinks since way back in Mos Eisley, but apparently with enough alcohol in his system, all the shy insecurity and testosterone-fueled defensiveness that colored the attention before has been washed away. The kid has been openly entranced all night, staring at Han's mouth whenever he talks and the deep dip in his neckline when he leans a certain way to put himself on display, leaving the poor kid alternating between biting at his lip and smiling dazedly while not busy being endearingly awestruck by even the lamest of Han's smuggling stories. It's been so good for Han's ego that he's all but forgotten about the princess up in her room, more interested in her datapads than in his - their, he means, than in their - company, so he can't say that this change of pace doesn't suddenly make him feel a touch less special. Especially after Luke pitches his voice lower and asks: "Just how big are wookies, anyway?" In case that had been a shade too subtle, he follows his question up with a glance right down at Chebacca's crotch, practically vibrating with interest. "You know, um. In the dick."
"Kid-" Han chokes out, more scandalized than he'll willingly cop to later.
Luke looks back to Chewbacca's face, eager confidence in every line of his expression. It's a far cry from anything resembling seductive, but hell if there isn't an appeal to be found in an approach so blunt that a battering ram would blush. "Because I can fit my whole fist in my mouth."
Well, shit.
There's a split second where it's so silent that they might have heard a rat fart if the Millennium Falcon wasn't too beautiful and perfect to be infested with vermin, and then it's shattered by Chewie's growl, low and heated and far more interested than Han thought it'd be. But that's... fair, he can (perhaps a bit more grudgingly than is strictly necessary) admit that much to himself. It's not often they have passengers, and when they do they're almost always human: not a lot of humans are brave enough to take such a blatant interest in a wookie. It's not like Chewie doesn't have more or less the same basic needs as everybody else making such long treks through deep space, so he can't reasonably expect his copilot to pass this up. He'd just been... well. He'd just been warming up to the kid, lately. Sure, he was annoying and needy, and so stupidly idealistic and brave that sometimes the smuggler wanted to take him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him, but it turns out that he hadn't been lying when he'd boasted about being a decent pilot, he's pretty useful on the turret, and Han had seen him do some downright clever things with his hands once set loose on anything mechanical and mostly broken. He's got a nice mouth too, when he's not running it (and sometimes even when he is), and now he can't get his mind off what it would look like pried open and wet and stretched around--
Han stands up abruptly, and then immediately sits back down as the whiskey spins take over his whole world for a few seconds. "Alright," he says in what is absolutely not a petulant tone, because Han Solo does not sulk over farmboys or princesses or the prospect of spending a night alone with his hand, "I can take a hint. I'll let you two have your fun." He stands again, slower this time.
Luke almost falls off of where he's been trying to inch his way into Chewbacca's lap, but he's steadied for a second time by a comparatively huge hand at the small of his back. "No, you can't!" There is a pants-tightening amount of naked want in the kid's voice, and casts those baby blues furtively back and forth between the two of them like he doesn't know where to start but he knows he'd like a shot at all of it. It's exactly as audacious as Han should have expected, having known Luke for longer than thirty minutes. "I want you- I want you to stay, too."
Han catches Chewie's eye and sinks back down onto the chair, more dazed than he'd like to admit. Hell, as long as his friend doesn't mind...
And he certainly doesn't, if the rumbling noise Chewbacca makes deep in his throat is any indication. "He's right, kid," Han says, pulling himself together and leaning back in his seat in the way that has been making Luke practically salivate all night, reaching to smooth a palm down the front of his pants to encourage the burgeoning interest stirring there, "why don't you take off your clothes, huh? Give Chewie a reason to show you how big wookies can get."
FILL: Chewbacca/Luke/Han, size of the boat 1/??
The three of them make it through the expensive stuff in an hour without her help anyway, and through two more bottles of some offensively cheap swill probably best used to peel the paint off starship hulls after that, which is the excuse that Han is going to cling to for the rest of his natural life for what they got up to in the Captain's cabin that night.
Luke starts it, which, of course the kid does. Han is in the middle of translating one of Chewie's favorite tales of their adventures (that he retells wrong every time: Han has never in his life lost a game of sabacc to a Mon Calamari, thank you very much) when the blonde starts slipping off to the side and almost falls off of his perch on the edge of Han's bed before Chewie puts his arm out to steady him. The cheeky brat doesn't even re-seat himself, he just leans further against the proffered limb for support and then reaches up with both hands to feel around the width of one furry bicep.
Chewie clearly doesn't know what to do with that, and Han thinks it has to be a testament to how drunk his notoriously temperamental copilot is (or maybe how insidiously Luke grows on everybody, like some kind of bright, sunny fungus) that he doesn't immediately drop the kid for getting handsy. He warbles questioningly instead, looking to Han in askance, like this is one of your lot, got an explanation?
"Hey," Luke slurs before either of them can ask any perfectly reasonable questions. He's bright-eyed and uncoordinated, but clearly very interested in the powerful arm he's got in his clumsy grip. Han's not blind: he knows that the Tatooine farmboy has been eyeing him with considerably less subtlety than he undoubtedly thinks since way back in Mos Eisley, but apparently with enough alcohol in his system, all the shy insecurity and testosterone-fueled defensiveness that colored the attention before has been washed away. The kid has been openly entranced all night, staring at Han's mouth whenever he talks and the deep dip in his neckline when he leans a certain way to put himself on display, leaving the poor kid alternating between biting at his lip and smiling dazedly while not busy being endearingly awestruck by even the lamest of Han's smuggling stories. It's been so good for Han's ego that he's all but forgotten about the princess up in her room, more interested in her datapads than in his - their, he means, than in their - company, so he can't say that this change of pace doesn't suddenly make him feel a touch less special. Especially after Luke pitches his voice lower and asks: "Just how big are wookies, anyway?" In case that had been a shade too subtle, he follows his question up with a glance right down at Chebacca's crotch, practically vibrating with interest. "You know, um. In the dick."
"Kid-" Han chokes out, more scandalized than he'll willingly cop to later.
Luke looks back to Chewbacca's face, eager confidence in every line of his expression. It's a far cry from anything resembling seductive, but hell if there isn't an appeal to be found in an approach so blunt that a battering ram would blush. "Because I can fit my whole fist in my mouth."
Well, shit.
There's a split second where it's so silent that they might have heard a rat fart if the Millennium Falcon wasn't too beautiful and perfect to be infested with vermin, and then it's shattered by Chewie's growl, low and heated and far more interested than Han thought it'd be. But that's... fair, he can (perhaps a bit more grudgingly than is strictly necessary) admit that much to himself. It's not often they have passengers, and when they do they're almost always human: not a lot of humans are brave enough to take such a blatant interest in a wookie. It's not like Chewie doesn't have more or less the same basic needs as everybody else making such long treks through deep space, so he can't reasonably expect his copilot to pass this up. He'd just been... well. He'd just been warming up to the kid, lately. Sure, he was annoying and needy, and so stupidly idealistic and brave that sometimes the smuggler wanted to take him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him, but it turns out that he hadn't been lying when he'd boasted about being a decent pilot, he's pretty useful on the turret, and Han had seen him do some downright clever things with his hands once set loose on anything mechanical and mostly broken. He's got a nice mouth too, when he's not running it (and sometimes even when he is), and now he can't get his mind off what it would look like pried open and wet and stretched around--
Han stands up abruptly, and then immediately sits back down as the whiskey spins take over his whole world for a few seconds. "Alright," he says in what is absolutely not a petulant tone, because Han Solo does not sulk over farmboys or princesses or the prospect of spending a night alone with his hand, "I can take a hint. I'll let you two have your fun." He stands again, slower this time.
Luke almost falls off of where he's been trying to inch his way into Chewbacca's lap, but he's steadied for a second time by a comparatively huge hand at the small of his back. "No, you can't!" There is a pants-tightening amount of naked want in the kid's voice, and casts those baby blues furtively back and forth between the two of them like he doesn't know where to start but he knows he'd like a shot at all of it. It's exactly as audacious as Han should have expected, having known Luke for longer than thirty minutes. "I want you- I want you to stay, too."
Han catches Chewie's eye and sinks back down onto the chair, more dazed than he'd like to admit. Hell, as long as his friend doesn't mind...
And he certainly doesn't, if the rumbling noise Chewbacca makes deep in his throat is any indication. "He's right, kid," Han says, pulling himself together and leaning back in his seat in the way that has been making Luke practically salivate all night, reaching to smooth a palm down the front of his pants to encourage the burgeoning interest stirring there, "why don't you take off your clothes, huh? Give Chewie a reason to show you how big wookies can get."