Chapter Text
“Bo shuda, murishani, niuta, be cotma!”
“<Greetings, bounty hunter, please, come in!>”
The protocol droid who stands between Dream and the booming voice ushers him forward with one stiff arm, positioning the hunter over a large grate rusted into the sandy floor before the monster’s throne. Upon closer look, Dream observes a thin trail of wires curling into the base of the massive slab throne. A control panel sits within arms reach of the mighty slug who slumbers like a king, ready to drop an unsuspecting victim into darkness below.
“De wanna wanga. Chuba inkabunga chik youngee.”
“<The Mighty Jabba welcomes you into his palace and thanks you for returning the holo-diary.>”
“No problem, Mighty Jabba.”
Dream entertains a quick bow, eyes still set on the luxuries staffing the room. Jabba The Hutt is meant to be the centerpiece, surrounded by a treasure trove of life long accomplishments. Literally- Hutts can be thousands of years old when given the chance. Dream really didn’t want to know how old this particular nasty worm was.
There are a few guests housed in the semblance, ones of high rank in the criminal underworld accompanied by the most skilled bounty hunters and mercenaries the Galaxy has to offer. Jabba The Hutt only surrounds himself with the best and the most wealthy- casually in an expected Hutt manner. Any other persons present who don’t fit in those two groups are deemed as lower life forms, like the Twi’lek performers, who wouldn’t even be considered dancing slaves in his eyes. No, their status’s are merely pets for the mighty Hutt to ogle at. A show of his power and influence, if you will.
When Dream entered the room, Papa’s acquaintances stood and clapped, and the Bith band stationed behind his throne played a short tune on the announcement of Dream’s arrival.
“Gi Shatta Gasha! Ohta su marvalic plesodoro!”
“<The Mighty Jabba exclaims a phrase of exultation and praise to you, bounty hunter. He exclaims to the attendees- let them marvel at our splendor! Inviting you to join in on a celebration catered towards you,>” the protocol droid waves a stiff hand at the elevated seating next to the slug’s slab throne.
Dream takes his seat, immediately sealing the air shafts in his beskar helmet. The slug absolutely reeked and the Mandalorian had no idea how anyone could stand existing within five feet of its vicinity. If it wasn’t for the constant, eye-watering steam hissing out of the pipes, he would have thought the blanket of smog was leeching from the Hutt himself.
He almost feels bad for the slave chained to its fatty side.
Dream does a double take.
He missed him before- the man was hiding in the shadows of the beast’s worm-like tail before being dragged into the yellow spotlight by a silver chain. It was painful to watch him claw at the band clasped around his neck, coughing when the metal links went taut.
“Beeogola Nechaska,” the Hutt grumbled, Dream understanding the comment to be an insult to the man.
When the slave tugged on the chain in revolt, the Hutt choked him down until he was laying numbly on the decorative pillows, face red while his eyelids slipped closed. His pale skin shone in the yellow light; Dream couldn’t tear his eyes away from the beauty of his asphyxiated state.
He was indeed gorgeous sprawled out over the mounds of pillows and scarves, bare chest gently rising and falling as the redness recedes from his soft face. His lips slowly fall slack as air circulates in his body again, lashes fluttering ever so gently.
Dream is hooked.
“<A prize The Might Jabba won a while back. This slave is feisty, and a bit lazy>,” the protocol droid remarks, translating Papa’s booming voice in real time.
“<Now! Time to feast!>”
A large hover-table is pushed forward, its surface laden with steaming plates and cauldrons of exotic food. An ornate tank is also lifted onto Jabba’s throne- a spherical orb filled halfway with dark green water sloshes in a curved base. Tiny, frog-like creatures dance around in the murky liquid, and Dream internally gags.
“Hutts can eat almost anything in the galaxy. That’s how they used to win wars,” Sapnap’s fact regurgitates in his mind while he watches the slug plunge his meaty fist into the tank full of frogs.
Feasting with a Hutt is the last thing he’s ever wanted to do, and that’s saying something considering his vast, horrible experiences in the Galaxy.
Being a bounty hunter for twenty-three years certainly was something- most don’t even live long enough to retire in the respected profession. He is a legend in cantinas and waterholes, idolized on backwater planets and underground organizations. That is why Jabba The Hutt pursued his skill and awarded him greatly when Dream apprehended his holo-diary in a one-off mission. To be showered in formalities and riches by a Hutt is a high honor in a hellhole like this.
“Obita!” The fat slug yells, and the Bith band in the back begins playing their wild instruments while Max Reebo keys a tune on his wicked board.
Dream pays no mind to the investors and mob bosses trying to catch his attention; he isn’t even listening to half of Jabba’s insistent blabber. The protocol droid becomes static in the back of his mind as his eyes return to the sleeping man, pupils training over his bare skin and curved hips. Silky blue pants hang low around his flush waist, almost in a gesture which taunts unwarranted imagination. Dream is imagining alright.
“Murishani!”
Dream jumps in his chair, a jolt of fear running up his spine. Having a Hutt address you directly with displeasure in their voice could literally have you thrown in a sarlacc pit if you weren’t careful.
“Sa da ree beskar?”
“<The Might Jabba asks, is that real beskar?>”
Both the droid and the Hutt motion to Dream’s jet black armor, and the bounty hunter nods in response.
“Stuka Crispo?”
“<The Mighty Jabba asks if you are apart of the Mandalorian faction known as ‘Death Watch.’>”
“Yep,” he swallows thickly, body practically jittering in place. No matter how strong beskar plating was against Jedi lightsabers, it could not protect him for what a Hutt had in store to torture those he didn’t like. And Dream had no idea if one of his fellow Watch members pissed the mighty Hutt off well before he even took the holo-diary quest.
“U kulle rah doe kankee kung.”
“<The Mighty Jabba affectionately states you are his kind of scum.>”
The spectacle goes on for a little bit longer. Dream feels like he’s been sitting there for hours, ass numb from the position and stomach grumbling as he refuses to touch anything on the table before him. Pipes continuously hiss yellow steam, which chokes the enclosed atmosphere and somehow makes its way through the seals of Dream’s helmet to sting his eyes and nose. He doesn’t know how to respond to Jabba’s “affectionate” words, and hopes he never becomes an object of desire for the Hutt to exploit.
His attention wanders back to the slave, whom at some point gained consciousness and now picked at his nails from the nest of pillows surrounding Jabba’s worm-like tail. A black plateau of dark brown hair cascades over his face, which Dream finds himself analyzing intently, seeing the man is distracted by his bleeding nail beds.
Jabba is known to only take females as slaves, but this man seemed to be an exception. His features were overly feminine- round cheeks, curved nose, pretty, pink lips set in a Cupid’s bow, and big brown eyes with fluttering eyelashes that gave him this pure, innocent look.
And he was looking directly at Dream with this look.
Timid, sure, but still seductive in a way that throws Dream for a loop.
So pretty, god, he is so pretty.
The man sinks back into the pillows, rolling his eyes as a massive green hand lands on his shoulder.
“Bukee,” the Hutt mumbles, but the man only shrugs him off in response. He wraps his arms around himself, scooting as far away as possible from Jabba’s swollen belly.
Dream can’t stop his staring. He doesn’t tear his eyes away from the man even as the second encore plays and a whole party of half-naked Twi’lek’s dance around the grate on the floor. They shake their asses wildly in hopes of catching the Mandalorian’s attention, but he never draws his eyes far from the slave lazily stretched out on the throne.
Though he avoided advances and conversation with Jabba, the man seemed pretty content with where he was at. Now laying down with his head propped up on a stack of pillows, he watched the dancers in boredom while blindly picking portions from the dining table in front of them. A couple times his brown eyes slide over to Dream, quickly flitting away when he thought the Mandalorian caught him.
He doesn’t utter a single word until the silver chain is suddenly pulled taut around his neck. He is yanked up from his comfortable confines directly into the slobbering face of the nasty Hutt, who sticks his tongue out to lick the poor man’s cheek in what Dream can only conclude as “seductively.” It’s almost enough to make the Mandalorian throw up.
“Stoopa chik shag bukee. U wamma wonka.”
The protocol droid doesn’t bother translating for Dream, for Jabba’s words anre obviously only meant to be heard by the man chained to him. He’s grabbed by the collar around his neck, then harshly thrown to the edge of the slab as Jabba laughs his deep, booming chuckle.
“Banda!”
The Bith’s jump right into action, cuing up a third encore. Jabba pulls on the chain and Max Reebo slams a tune over his keyboard, and the whole room lights up in red and purples. The man is pulled up from his fall by the chain, a disgruntled look on his face, but he stands quickly and shoots a scowl at the slug before falling right into dance.
Dream thinks he’s even more elegant than the Twi’leks performing earlier.
He outshines the room in a matter of minutes, twirling expertly around with the chain between his nimble fingers. He looks like he lives to dance, flourishing under the muddy yellow spotlight which follows him around the room. Many of the funky aliens species cheer from the sideline, hoisting drinks in the air as he makes his way around the perimeter. A few throw credits in his path, but he doesn’t swoop down to retrieve them.
As the Bith band rakes the high notes of their song, and at the climax the slave drops to his knees and performs a split, eyes landing directly on Dream’s visor. He smirks, running a hand up his inner thigh before leaping to his feet to make his way to Jabba’s throne.
He doesn’t spare Dream another glance as climbs back into his nest of pillows, lounging seductively over the plush fabrics. Dream can’t take his eyes off his covered legs.
“<The Great Jabba The Hutt has invited you to stay overnight in his palace, courtesy of your work in retrieving his holo-diary.>”
Oh. That’s the last thing Dream wants to do.
“How much for a room?” He asks bitterly.
“<No cost!>”
“Bargon u noa-a-uyat. Dobrah gusha tu trawbbio grandio, mendeeya.”
“<The Mighty Jabba says your services will be rewarded, and it would be of great honor if you took them.>”
“And what about my payment? When can I expect that?”
“Hunka be.”
“<Tonight.>”