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Jabba’s palace always felt dirty. Despite the cleaning droids, attendants and servants that cleaned the place daily, there was always a slime around it that Han could never discern what made it so grimy and gross. Maybe it was the presence of the alpha himself, the one responsible for the aching on the left side of his nape, why he cried tears of shame when Jabba’s teeth initially bit down and claimed Han as his own. Perhaps it was the constant scents of fear and pain that were released on the daily.
Either way, the dark room, small and hidden in the farthest corner of Jabba’s palace, is the worst room of them all. Han sits in the corner, eyes automatically squinted at the lack of light within the room. He stares at the door, the handle carved out and the guard that prevents yet another jailbreak. Han shudders at what occurred last time. It is why whenever he walks, rarely does anymore, it is with a strained limp that brings pain from his hip to his achilles heel.
There is more at stake that he cannot leave behind, anyways. Next to him, he can tell through the shadows, the sounds of his daughter breathing, her chest rising and falling the only reason Han hadn’t used the pillowcase as a way out. By his feet, his son lays wrapped in a tattered blanket, snoring softly. Han clenches his fists, and counts to three internally.
It had been three years since Han had been trapped on the planet Tatooine. Since then, the sutures, hastily sewn and improperly healed, remain low and firmly in place on his midsection. His mating bite is deeply bitten and bruised. The new swell on his stomach is hideable, but Han knows that Jabba will find out, with disastrous consequences. It’ll be obvious as soon as his monthly heats stop.
Han hugs himself, thinking of the last time he’d heard Chewie’s voice. His body shakes in the small, huddled corner and he lets a small sob come out of his mouth before biting his cheek so hard, he tastes the silvery taste of blood.
—
Based on the total amount of daily guard rotations, Han gathers that it’s the first week of the new month. Typically, his body sweats, the middle of his core becomes inflamed, and his neck burns until Jabba comes due to doomed biology.
When Han awakes, having fallen asleep in a light doze, Jabba is nowhere to be found. It terrifies and relieves Han simultaneously. Jaina is asleep, but as soon as the next guard comes, relieved from night duty, she and her twin brother will be awake, and full of energy that Han can barely control.
Jacen is the first one to wake up. He whimpers, arms looking around for Han, who softly smiles in the darkness, and picks him up, wrapping him tightly in his arms.
“Will you go away again?” His son asks. Han goes stiff.
Going away meant escaping the hell-hole that was their home, through daydreams, or when Han was with Jabba and his eyes went hazy as he thought of literally anything else but the alpha and the throbbing of his nape. He couldn’t help it, sometimes didn’t notice until Jaina or Jacen would cry, scream and once, hit him to elicit a reaction.
“Not like yesterday, kiddo. You were brave to turn around when I told you and your sister to.” He whispers, because that was when Jabba’s knot was inside, when everything went dark and Han ignored the utter agony below, in between. He didn’t resist anymore, only clenched his teeth and stared at the wall, ignoring Jabba’s grunts, angry his children had to witness what guaranteed they got to eat that day.
“Don’t do that anymore,” he says, burying himself into Han’s stained and ripped shirt. “Hutt is scary.”
Han swallows a lump in his throat, gently rubbing Jacen’s back. It’s the only way Han knows how to soothe him, had been since he was a baby and Han had more plans for all of his children’s futures. Here, their only future was to grow up too fast and never see light.
He takes his other hand and tries to gently shake Jaina awake. When she doesn’t wake up, Han frowns and feels her forehead, it is boiling to the touch and Han realizes she’s shivering despite being covered in the warmest blanket they have.
He stands up, Jacen whines as he does so, and feels the familiar floor to the door in which Han usually ignores. He bangs on it.
“Hey!” He shouts, continually rapping on the door, but no one answers, not even the guard, who sees him through the small peephole and gives a look of sympathy, but does nothing otherwise to help him.
He shouts until his voice is raspy and his throat wants to quit, but the only reason Han stops is because of the two year old’s hands that wrap around his ankle, Jaina’s eyes red and puffy.
“Daddy, I’m fine, promise,” she hiccups, and it makes Han’s chest ache quietly within. Her nose is stuffy and her hands are hot to the touch. Han may not be a doctor, but he knows damned well when his kid is sick. He leans against the door, his back faced towards the newly shifted guard. He puts his face within his hands, counts to five, and smiles quietly at Jaina. It doesn’t reach the crease within the folds of his eyes.
“You don’t have to lie to me, Jaina.” He utters softly. “It’s not your fault you’re sick. Come here.” He extends his arms out, and is met with two toddlers in his arms. Han holds both of his children tightly. Jabba might’ve taken his life away, but he’ll be damned if anything happens to his kids. He lets the warmth of both of them spread through his body, the room they inhabit is always cold as well as dark. If his hands tremble knowing how Jaina is going to get medicine, Han doesn’t acknowledge it.
“Sick because of Hutt?” Jaina asks, bundled back in her blanket, leaning against Han’s torso.
“Something like that.”
—
Jabba doesn’t visit Han often. Usually it’s when he’s bored, wants something, or Han’s heat is so bad it’s distressing. The door under constant surveillance, the chip on Han’s back, where he cannot pick at it, ensures he stays.
The door clicks, and the scent of rage fills Han’s nose. A large man, dressed in fur, almost reminiscent of Chewie, except the pelt is stained and reeks of smoke, strides into the room. Jabba towers over Han, who shields his children in the corner, his arms raised and his head raised high. Despite the appearance, Han’s eyes are searching, analyzing with a frenzy that could be confused for a feral look. His midsection is curved and vulnerable, hidden by the oversized and stained tunic. His stance may look confident, but Jabba only gives a throaty and ugly laugh.
“Are we not done with the theatrics?” He growls, moving closer to Han’s face. “I think you know perfectly well what happens when you aren’t good to your alpha, hmm?”
Han’s face turns pale, gingerly moving the blanket over Jaina, who is sleeping next to her brother on the small cot, a gift. He knows it’s better when they’re covered. Maybe he could shield them longer. He says nothing back to the towering man over him, only grits his teeth and lowers his neck down.
“Much better,” Jabba snarls. He licks his upper lip, and bites the mark on the right side of Han’s nape. A scream erupts internally from his body. A forced mating bond will do that. His whole body quivers, goosebumps form from the top of Han’s arms down to his ankles.
The actual deed takes much longer. It leaves Han with bruised legs and a burning shame that doesn’t leave him for a long time. If there was anything good to come out of the actions from Jabba’s seed, at least he can shed a tear, knowing his daughter remains safe, for at least another day.
—
The guards never stay at the same post twice. It’s always someone new, three times a day. This system is the only way Han can tell what time of day it is and how much time has passed.
He stays huddled in the corner from the opposite side of the small room where his children sleep. The morning has not come because the night guard is still there. Han cannot bear to lay next to them, not when his scent reeks of slick and fear. He wants to crawl out of his body and find a new one, but that brings the question of who would care for his pups? The answer is no one. Han is all they have in the whole galaxy. Even the one that’s developing inside of him, depends on Han for survival.
It took one smuggling operation to go wrong, and a needle that was driven in the center of his upper back to ensure it remained that way. He was only nineteen and couldn’t afford suppressants, let alone food. Being a smuggler ensured security, no matter how unstable it was, that Han could hide his social status and eat something. The goal was to acquire a ship, eventually, once Han had figured out the whole food thing. Not to be ambushed by a group of alpha smugglers on Tatooine because he couldn't afford the latest batch of suppressants and had fallen into preheat. Then, because male omegas were hard to come by, taken into Jabba’s Palace. It’s been his prison sentence since.
And Han is determined to escape, and fly once and for all, his children in the cockpit with him.