Trigger fingers (DonkeyCon 2014) av Joel Svensson

Han Solo (Star Wars) & Damian Wayne/Robin (DC Universe)

Han Solo knew the boy was trouble the moment he saw him enter the Cantina. As the most notorious smuggler in the galaxy, Han had seen his fair share of weirdos, rubes and maniacs. But he had never seen a man dumb or suicidal enough to walk into a bar full of drunken criminals and tentacle aliens wearing nothing but a cape, a half-mask, a shortsleeved shirt and tight briefs that left nothing to the imagination. Well, except in certain alternative life style bars. But Han only went to those when Chewie needed a wingman for Bear-nights. Or so he claimed.

Anyway, the boy had inevitably run into trouble with some other patrons, and would’ve probably been dead right now in Han hadn’t stepped in with a few quick lies and an even quicker trigger finger. And now the flamboyantly clad young man sat on the other side of the table, nervously sipping a fruity space drink with a glittery space umbrella.

Han Solo decided it was time to break the awkward silence.
“So… what did your name was again, kid?”
“Robin, sir!” the younger man replied eagerly, apparently already a bit tipsy after Just a couple of space drinks.
“Robin, huh? Strange name to me. You’re not from around this system, are you?” Han said, Pouring himself another glowing green space whiskey. He started to feel hot, but wasn’t sure it was the booze or the strange boys mysterious presence.
Robin looked down into his glass with a sigh.
“You could say that… I’m a crime fighter, or a sidekick really, and Ba- my friend and I was fighting this mad scientist, when he suddenly fired off this dimension bomb and bla bla bla”
Han Solo wasn’t listening anymore. The urges had grown stronger, and there was only one thing he wanted now.
And it was inside a pair of tight briefs.
“And now the bat communicator needs the correct dimension coordinates or I’ll never- HOLY HANDJOBS, Batman!”
Robin was suddenly aware of a manly, rugged hand on his crotch. He quickly peeked under the table, and saw that the handy had put one hand on Robins combat staff, and in his other hand he was stroking his own throbbing meatblaster. His shock was soon replaced by pleasure as the older, handsome smuggler smirked and started to jerk both of them off under the table. Robin moaned quietly but continued talking, fully aware that they were in a fully crowded bar. He’s almost as good at handjobs as Batman, Robin thought to himself. As Han steadily increased the pace, the pleasure became too much, and suddenly he gave out a grunt Robin felt a warm fluid on his bare legs just moments before succumbing and spraying his own load, wet and smelly like the innards of a still warm Taun-Taun carcass. As Solo discretely left to wash his hands. Robin laid slumped over the table, breathing heavily.
“Ho… holy undertable service, stranger!”
Han gave his winning, trademark smirk.
“The name’s Han Solo, kid. And remember; I shot first.”

The end

Skriven 5 juli 2014