No “Imperial entanglements.” Fine. No one had said a damn thing about a send-off from an armed storm-trooper battalion, outrunning several starcruisers, and – more than likely – a positive ID from the local Imp customs office.
The baby still ceaselessly squalling in the galley was just the proverbial glaze on the wastril bread.
“Oh for the love of – give her here.”
The kid was obviously exhausted to tears, and he’d been feeding her non-stop since they went to lightspeed – couldn’t be much left in there anyway.
Luke eyed him warily, but desperation and distress finally seemed to win out as he handed the baby over, though he fussed worse than that persnickety protocol droid.
“Don’t let her legs slide out too far – watch her head – don’t – head, watch the head-!”
Han was in no mood to be scolded, and wanted to snap that it wasn’t exactly like pinpointing a spice dump, but then a warm, squirming little weight was balanced in his arms, and oh sithfire, he was screwed…
Big, tear-glazed hazel eyes stared up imploringly, as she curled up into a little ball in the crook of his elbow and sniffled.
“’Guess she likes you.” Luke muttered – Han would have said the kid sounded bitter, if he weren’t so clearly at the end of his rope.
“Go get some sleep - you look like you’re gonna fall over.”
“But-“
“You’re doin’ nobody any good, go on.”
“But she’ll get hungry again, and -!”
“I’ll deal with it.”
Luke feigned a look of sarcastic surprise.
“Weird – wouldn’t have thought you had the ‘materials’, Solo.”
Han bit back something acidic, and marched over to the food synth in the corner – the programming specifics took a little reflection, but eventually the vent spat out some kind of whey-protein combo with a milky texture, bottled inside one of the rectangular, squirt-top receptacles he and Chewie normally used to keep circuitry lubricant warm.
The baby fought the teat for a moment or two – probably not used to a cube shape – but a few strokes to her lip with a thumb eventually got her mouth clamped on and her little throat working as she gulped down the meal.
Han glanced up to find Luke staring in confusion.
“Shut your mouth, kid – you look like a space slug.”
“I – but… I just – how –“ he spluttered, and Han shrugged with forced nonchalance.
“’Grew up around a lotta kids – some of ‘em were younger than others, and if we didn’t figure out how to feed ‘em, they’d starve.”
No need to tell him that the first time he’d done this, he’d been six years old, and Cadis had ended up starving anyway.
“Now scram.”
Luke glanced down at the deck plates, making a gawky effort to fold his shirt closed, and the sight dashed the Corellian straight through the chest like a Wookiee bow-lance. The kid might be a clumsy, inconvenient little kitkin, but he was just as fucking adorable…
With a faint pang that he would never have admitted to – not in six lifetimes - Han realized that the little girl suckling contentedly in his arms was solid proof that somebody else, somewhere, had obviously thought the same thing.
“O-okay, but I’m staying here.” Luke mumbled quietly.
“Fine. You can use the couch. Chewie, scoot over.”
The Wookiee growled, but obligingly freed up a space for the boy to rest his head, the mis-stitched poncho bunched up as a makeshift pillow. All it took was several minutes, and he was out.
* He’s not more than a nursling himself, Young One.* Chewbacca woofed softly, glittering eyes darting over the kid’s limp body as he slept like a rock.
“It happens when you’re young and careless.” Han muttered back, jiggling the bottle a little in the baby’s mouth and hoping to Hutt hells she’d choose to finish soon – he doubted he could remember the binary code for the meal, having made it up as he went along.
If memory served, small children could be extremely picky when it came to their eating habits – and if specific requests weren’t granted fast, there’d be a wailing and a screaming and a gnashing of shiny pink gums to wake the dead.
Chewie made a low-pitched chattering noise behind his teeth, which Han knew from vast experience indicated displeasure, but did his best to ignore the Wookiee and focus on finding a suitable place to eventually let the baby sleep – his arms were gonna start tingling soon if he didn’t put her down.
* That’s hardly fair – you don’t think the Old One -? * He drifted off with a slightly menacing snarl, glancing down towards the end of the corridor, where their other passenger had been catching some sleep himself.
“Couldn’t have, he’s the same strain – you didn’t catch that, even with a Wook nose? These two punch the babies out, they don’t make ‘em.”
* But if they are unable to plant the seed, would that not make them female? I always think I’ve begun to understand your kind, Hahnko, and then you invariably – *
“It don’t work like that, pal – don’t ask, it just don’t.” he sighed, as the two droids clanked and whirred in respectively, jarring the baby out of the dooze she’d finally started to manage. Her tiny face screwed into a grimace, any interest she might have felt in Han drying up with the realization that he was a poor substitute for her dam. Seconds later she let out a demanding yowl, waking Luke up with a jolt, and whatever duracrete chunks of a heart Han Solo had left crumbled a little at the look of pure, pathetic misery on the kid’s face as he sat up.
“What the -! What -?!” he babbled incoherently for a moment, before his blue eyes widened almost comically and he bolted over, snatching back the baby as if he expected Han to have taken a bite out of her belly.
“Hey! Watch it junior, I’m just tryna help!”
Luke refused to look at him, bouncing the baby gently against his chest until she settled down. With a roll of his eyes, Han turned back to the flashing lights of the engineering console, and the now cold container of synth-replicated Selonian pottage.
Fine then - omegas had a galactic rep for being clingy when it came to their offspring. If Luke was so desperate to keep his little girl safe from the big bad alpha male, Han knew better than to get in the way.
Typical two-faced little flirts, every single one.
[Fill] 5/?: Han/Luke, a/b/o verse, past bullying, past mpreg, Luke has a baby
No “Imperial entanglements.” Fine. No one had said a damn thing about a send-off from an armed storm-trooper battalion, outrunning several starcruisers, and – more than likely – a positive ID from the local Imp customs office.
The baby still ceaselessly squalling in the galley was just the proverbial glaze on the wastril bread.
“Oh for the love of – give her here.”
The kid was obviously exhausted to tears, and he’d been feeding her non-stop since they went to lightspeed – couldn’t be much left in there anyway.
Luke eyed him warily, but desperation and distress finally seemed to win out as he handed the baby over, though he fussed worse than that persnickety protocol droid.
“Don’t let her legs slide out too far – watch her head – don’t – head, watch the head-!”
Han was in no mood to be scolded, and wanted to snap that it wasn’t exactly like pinpointing a spice dump, but then a warm, squirming little weight was balanced in his arms, and oh sithfire, he was screwed…
Big, tear-glazed hazel eyes stared up imploringly, as she curled up into a little ball in the crook of his elbow and sniffled.
“’Guess she likes you.” Luke muttered – Han would have said the kid sounded bitter, if he weren’t so clearly at the end of his rope.
“Go get some sleep - you look like you’re gonna fall over.”
“But-“
“You’re doin’ nobody any good, go on.”
“But she’ll get hungry again, and -!”
“I’ll deal with it.”
Luke feigned a look of sarcastic surprise.
“Weird – wouldn’t have thought you had the ‘materials’, Solo.”
Han bit back something acidic, and marched over to the food synth in the corner – the programming specifics took a little reflection, but eventually the vent spat out some kind of whey-protein combo with a milky texture, bottled inside one of the rectangular, squirt-top receptacles he and Chewie normally used to keep circuitry lubricant warm.
The baby fought the teat for a moment or two – probably not used to a cube shape – but a few strokes to her lip with a thumb eventually got her mouth clamped on and her little throat working as she gulped down the meal.
Han glanced up to find Luke staring in confusion.
“Shut your mouth, kid – you look like a space slug.”
“I – but… I just – how –“ he spluttered, and Han shrugged with forced nonchalance.
“’Grew up around a lotta kids – some of ‘em were younger than others, and if we didn’t figure out how to feed ‘em, they’d starve.”
No need to tell him that the first time he’d done this, he’d been six years old, and Cadis had ended up starving anyway.
“Now scram.”
Luke glanced down at the deck plates, making a gawky effort to fold his shirt closed, and the sight dashed the Corellian straight through the chest like a Wookiee bow-lance. The kid might be a clumsy, inconvenient little kitkin, but he was just as fucking adorable…
With a faint pang that he would never have admitted to – not in six lifetimes - Han realized that the little girl suckling contentedly in his arms was solid proof that somebody else, somewhere, had obviously thought the same thing.
“O-okay, but I’m staying here.” Luke mumbled quietly.
“Fine. You can use the couch. Chewie, scoot over.”
The Wookiee growled, but obligingly freed up a space for the boy to rest his head, the mis-stitched poncho bunched up as a makeshift pillow. All it took was several minutes, and he was out.
* He’s not more than a nursling himself, Young One.* Chewbacca woofed softly, glittering eyes darting over the kid’s limp body as he slept like a rock.
“It happens when you’re young and careless.” Han muttered back, jiggling the bottle a little in the baby’s mouth and hoping to Hutt hells she’d choose to finish soon – he doubted he could remember the binary code for the meal, having made it up as he went along.
If memory served, small children could be extremely picky when it came to their eating habits – and if specific requests weren’t granted fast, there’d be a wailing and a screaming and a gnashing of shiny pink gums to wake the dead.
Chewie made a low-pitched chattering noise behind his teeth, which Han knew from vast experience indicated displeasure, but did his best to ignore the Wookiee and focus on finding a suitable place to eventually let the baby sleep – his arms were gonna start tingling soon if he didn’t put her down.
* That’s hardly fair – you don’t think the Old One -? * He drifted off with a slightly menacing snarl, glancing down towards the end of the corridor, where their other passenger had been catching some sleep himself.
“Couldn’t have, he’s the same strain – you didn’t catch that, even with a Wook nose? These two punch the babies out, they don’t make ‘em.”
* But if they are unable to plant the seed, would that not make them female? I always think I’ve begun to understand your kind, Hahnko, and then you invariably – *
“It don’t work like that, pal – don’t ask, it just don’t.” he sighed, as the two droids clanked and whirred in respectively, jarring the baby out of the dooze she’d finally started to manage.
Her tiny face screwed into a grimace, any interest she might have felt in Han drying up with the realization that he was a poor substitute for her dam. Seconds later she let out a demanding yowl, waking Luke up with a jolt, and whatever duracrete chunks of a heart Han Solo had left crumbled a little at the look of pure, pathetic misery on the kid’s face as he sat up.
“What the -! What -?!” he babbled incoherently for a moment, before his blue eyes widened almost comically and he bolted over, snatching back the baby as if he expected Han to have taken a bite out of her belly.
“Hey! Watch it junior, I’m just tryna help!”
Luke refused to look at him, bouncing the baby gently against his chest until she settled down.
With a roll of his eyes, Han turned back to the flashing lights of the engineering console, and the now cold container of synth-replicated Selonian pottage.
Fine then - omegas had a galactic rep for being clingy when it came to their offspring. If Luke was so desperate to keep his little girl safe from the big bad alpha male, Han knew better than to get in the way.
Typical two-faced little flirts, every single one.
You couldn’t live with them or without them.