The speeder got them about two-thousand twenty-five; it wasn’t ideal, but after the XP-38 mass release, Luke knew it was all they could expect. Ben assured him it would suffice, but it hadn’t done anything to calm his nerves. Suns knew their pilot might very well change the terms on them at any time, and then where would they be?
Uncle Owen had always warned him not to speak to outworlders, and spacers particularly were to be avoided – Chandra-fans were swindling parasites, Devaronians were brutes who might kill messily for the sheer amusement, and Corellians…
Corellians had simply tapped into Owen’s unshakeable dislike of any individual who lived fatly and free of obvious restraint, and the culture was essentially well known across the galaxy for their savage origins. The stories fluctuated, but many seemed to agree that the crimson marks that some wore were meant to serve as a prominent tally of kills they had made in the past – a line of blood for each corpse.
Luke had never taken the stories as much more than fantasy, but one look at Captain Solo could alter years of skepticism. He might be a swaggering, chauvinistic, infuriating lowlife, but the blaster strapped to his thigh was clearly not for decoration.
And the thought of it… twin stripes of red each stretching down a long leg, advertising the wearer’s skill at survival, each with it’s own story about a man who couldn’t be defeated…
He slammed down on that train of thought quickly, and focused on keeping Meré shielded against his chest as they scuttled through the back alleys towards the main port.
“If the ship’s as fast as he’s boasting, we ought to do well…” Ben muttered as they turned the final corner, and Luke swallowed around his dry throat.
The Wookiee was waiting for them at the entrance to the docking bay, and as soon as they’d been led down the internal stairs, all of Luke’s growing initial excitement at seeing a freighter up close evaporated on the spot.
The chunk of Jawa scrap sitting on the sand might have been generously called a ship roughly five decades earlier, but now sported so many obvious re-wirings and patch-jobs, it looked like a single power surge would send it flying into pieces. So this was that cocksure alpha’s miracle machine?
“What a piece of junk!” he exclaimed without thinking, his voice cracking in disappointment, just as the baby woke up on his shoulder with an unhappy bleat.
“She’ll make point five past light-speed.” a familiar voice gloated from somewhere under the ship’s belly, and Luke felt his breath catch.
The big Corellian obviously wasn’t used to desert climates; sweat glistened across his face, along shaggy, soft-looking dark hair, and down the line of his throat, leading straight to an open collar…
“ – might not look like much, but she’d got it where it counts kid; ‘made a lotta special modifications myself.”
He hadn’t quite finished his bragging, when Meré suddenly cooed and began stretching a chubby arm towards him, the drowsiness immediately gone from her dark eyes as they glowed with a delight that Luke hadn’t seen since… since they’d left home.
The Wookiee chuckled, and woofed something in his own language that Solo rolled his eyes at. Luke felt his face burning bright red as he clambered up the gangway, fighting to ignore the insistent fluttering in his belly; his body demanding shelter, protection, safety after the insanity of the last twelve hours.
Suns, he couldn’t even remember when he’d been able to so much as sit down and rest, and suddenly, when confronted by an alpha in his prime, every instinct buried inside him was screaming orders to attract and mate.
There were times when Luke truly hated his own biology, being a slave to the whims of physical nature when his mind obviously knew better.
Han Solo could have any beta, omega, or species in the known galaxy – and a deflowered boy with a post-birth body, still swollen with maternal milk, was hardly a prime bedmate.
[Fill] 4b/?: Han/Luke, a/b/o verse, past bullying, past mpreg, Luke has a baby
Uncle Owen had always warned him not to speak to outworlders, and spacers particularly were to be avoided – Chandra-fans were swindling parasites, Devaronians were brutes who might kill messily for the sheer amusement, and Corellians…
Corellians had simply tapped into Owen’s unshakeable dislike of any individual who lived fatly and free of obvious restraint, and the culture was essentially well known across the galaxy for their savage origins. The stories fluctuated, but many seemed to agree that the crimson marks that some wore were meant to serve as a prominent tally of kills they had made in the past – a line of blood for each corpse.
Luke had never taken the stories as much more than fantasy, but one look at Captain Solo could alter years of skepticism. He might be a swaggering, chauvinistic, infuriating lowlife, but the blaster strapped to his thigh was clearly not for decoration.
And the thought of it… twin stripes of red each stretching down a long leg, advertising the wearer’s skill at survival, each with it’s own story about a man who couldn’t be defeated…
He slammed down on that train of thought quickly, and focused on keeping Meré shielded against his chest as they scuttled through the back alleys towards the main port.
“If the ship’s as fast as he’s boasting, we ought to do well…” Ben muttered as they turned the final corner, and Luke swallowed around his dry throat.
The Wookiee was waiting for them at the entrance to the docking bay, and as soon as they’d been led down the internal stairs, all of Luke’s growing initial excitement at seeing a freighter up close evaporated on the spot.
The chunk of Jawa scrap sitting on the sand might have been generously called a ship roughly five decades earlier, but now sported so many obvious re-wirings and patch-jobs, it looked like a single power surge would send it flying into pieces.
So this was that cocksure alpha’s miracle machine?
“What a piece of junk!” he exclaimed without thinking, his voice cracking in disappointment, just as the baby woke up on his shoulder with an unhappy bleat.
“She’ll make point five past light-speed.” a familiar voice gloated from somewhere under the ship’s belly, and Luke felt his breath catch.
The big Corellian obviously wasn’t used to desert climates; sweat glistened across his face, along shaggy, soft-looking dark hair, and down the line of his throat, leading straight to an open collar…
“ – might not look like much, but she’d got it where it counts kid; ‘made a lotta special modifications myself.”
He hadn’t quite finished his bragging, when Meré suddenly cooed and began stretching a chubby arm towards him, the drowsiness immediately gone from her dark eyes as they glowed with a delight that Luke hadn’t seen since… since they’d left home.
The Wookiee chuckled, and woofed something in his own language that Solo rolled his eyes at.
Luke felt his face burning bright red as he clambered up the gangway, fighting to ignore the insistent fluttering in his belly; his body demanding shelter, protection, safety after the insanity of the last twelve hours.
Suns, he couldn’t even remember when he’d been able to so much as sit down and rest, and suddenly, when confronted by an alpha in his prime, every instinct buried inside him was screaming orders to attract and mate.
There were times when Luke truly hated his own biology, being a slave to the whims of physical nature when his mind obviously knew better.
Han Solo could have any beta, omega, or species in the known galaxy – and a deflowered boy with a post-birth body, still swollen with maternal milk, was hardly a prime bedmate.