#do space bounty hunters have to pay taxes??

[ohfugecannada]

I saw the perchance headcanon generator and decided to jump on the bandwagon with Groot.

[whatanoof]

Of Angels and Promises

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Boba Fett x Reader

Word Count: ~12.2k

Warnings: fluff, smut, violence, swearing, sexual tension, rough sex, daddy boba is a warning all on his own, implied throne fucking

Summary: Promises are bad. They imply attachment and accountability, both  very hard to come by in the maker-forsaken deserts of Tatooine. Falling in love inspires promises that one isn’t able to keep, and you let your guard down with him.

You saw the ship. It soared through the sky, slicing through the air like an arrow. It was the same one that he had drawn for you on the rough sketching paper in your mechanic’s workshop, and it was even more beautiful in person. It was a cloudless day, and the green paint contrasted the sky perfectly. You could track every movement across the blue expanse and expected to watch the ship set down directly by your hut. But it didn’t. It continued, stretching farther away in the direction of the palace with every passing second that you stood, frozen in space and time. 

So you do what every other abandoned lover would. You ignore it and tell yourself that you were mistaken. It’s easy to pretend you’d imagined it. Because if Boba ever came back, he would come back to you, right?

A gentle knock on the doorframe rouses you from the depths of overthinking, and you accidentally slam your head on the shelf in surprise. “Shit! Motherkriffing, dank fucking farri-”

Your first name echoes through the building and cuts through your vicious curses like a bell, and you stop in shock. No one out here calls anyone by name. Your hand drops to your workbench and grasps a heavy wrench. You slowly approach the door and slide to one side of the frame to prepare an ambush. The voice calls your name again, and this time you register that it’s female, low-pitched and soothing. An arm appears through the doorway, and you swing the wrench with all of your might.

You expect at the very least to graze the limb appearing through the doorway of your workshop, but you’re sorely disappointed when you miss entirely. You stumble forward, off-balance from the misplaced strike. A hand seizes your wrist, torquing it violently to one side and forcing you to drop the makeshift weapon. Before you can blink, you’re pinned against the wall with your arm twisted behind your back.

“Let me go!” You struggle against the grip, but it’s too strong, and you grunt at the strain in your joints. “Please, I have water, maybe a handful of credits in the house.”

She doesn’t release you and your name is muttered sharply again. “Is that you?”

“You found me. If you’re going to kill me,” You turn your head enough to spit on the ground, “Tell Bib that I’ll come back to haunt him and shove it where the suns don’t shine.”

“I don’t come on Fortuna’s orders.” She spits the Twi'lek name like a curse. Now you’ve pissed her off. If you weren’t going to die before, you would now. “I come on Boba Fett’s.”

You stop struggling immediately, “What?”

“Boba Fett sent me to bring you to him.” You inhale sharply at the confirmation. 

Betrayal flashes through you like lightning. “Let me go.” The words are an angry hiss, reminiscent of a desert serpent ready to spit venom.

She does so and you turn, rubbing your shoulder. The woman is deceptively small, with dark hair in a long braid down her back. A form fitting leather tunic and coat accents her slim waist and fit body.  She’s wearing a helmet, though you can see dark eyes through the visor, and a long rifle rides on her back.

“Who are you? Are you a bounty hunter?” 

“I am.” You wait for her to reach for her rifle, “But that is not why I am here.” She disengages her helmet lock and pulls it off. She’s too pretty to be a hunter. You wish that wasn’t your first thought, because now you can’t help but stare. You’re vaguely aware that you probably look stupid, but you’re too busy gaping at her smooth skin and fine features. The only indicator of her profession is the stern set of her mouth and perfectly shaped eyebrows, okay you need to stop.

Because you weren’t mistaken earlier. Boba is back on Tatooine, and you’re not sure how to handle that after so much time.

---

“Come on, don’t do this to me right now. No, no no no no n--” A puff of smoke drifts from the comm unit, and you drop the screwdriver with a defeated sigh. Kriffing hell. Weeks of searching for the right parts, the blazing hope within you that you might be able to finally get off this ball of sand when you saw the Imperial signal boosting unit, all ending in a smoking and sparking mess in your hands. Anger flashes hot through your veins, and your hand flies up and whacks the communicator hard, hard enough that the stinging impact chases away the anger momentarily. Then the fury returns, doubling in intensity, and the sheer injustice almost makes your vision white out. 

The distant grinding of the sandcrawler shakes you out of your fervor, and you haul yourself to your feet with a sigh. Trading days always... intensify you. But you can’t afford to get hung up on one comm unit. It has been years of fried comm units. Even if you managed to patch together a working one on your limited knowledge, who would you call? A single name flits across your mind, but you veto it instantly. Even if he was in range, he wouldn’t come to get you.

So, back to the original plan. The long plan, the one that has stranded you on this planet for solar cycles. You busy yourself with the various scavenged parts that you’d collected over the past month, polishing and dusting the pieces until they glint like gems in the late afternoon suns. Every small scratch garners another twelve minutes of debate over whether the rebuilt astromech viewport would be worth the trade for the polished transparisteel, or the additional inhibitor units.

The first thing that’s off is the Jawas themselves. They seem… tense. No, that’s underselling it. They’re always high strung, running around and worrying about different bargains and barters. But today, they’re absolutely freaked out. Dual sun-stroked. High on their anxiety. Which is good for you; they’ll be distracted and maybe they won’t try to barter for your spare vapor consolidator again this time.

So you naturally pay it no mind while setting up your line of wares. You had a good haul this week, enough to make the water taxes this month.

The Jawas crowd out of the sandcrawler deck, and you greet them as you recognize them. A flurry of Jawaese flies around your head as they run about, laying out the wares for you to examine.  One scurries to your offerings this week: random parts and a series of old mouse droids that you had reprogrammed. They examine the small droids while speaking to each other too quickly for you to follow. Finally, they come back with two of the small droids, nodding to each other as they present the desired pieces to you.

“Got any working EC processors lying around in there to trade?”

They look at each other, and one says a single phrase that you translate roughly to, ‘Bring him out.’

“Bring what out?” But you’re too late and the Jawas are already inside, hauling a mass covered in sackcloth down the ramp. “Is that a patch-in droid? Where the hell did you scavenge a whole one fr…”

The second thing that’s off is the human body. They rip the sackcloth off of the form, and you trail off. “What in the kriffing hell is that?” After further examination you confirm that it is probably a he. His eyes are closed, and he’s lying in the sun too limply to be healthy. There are bruises and cuts on the skin that you can see, but he’s draped in dark clothing that has to be sweltering hot in the Tatooine suns. A Tusken gaffi stick lies pinned underneath his body. 

The Jawas erupt in a storm of chattering, waving their arms around their heads as you try to keep up your limited Jawaese. You crouch by the man. He’s breathing shallowly, and you don’t see any visible injuries, but dammit, you don’t know much about first aid. “Slow down, please!”

They don’t slow down, and you’re left scrambling trying to remember the difference between preterite verb forms while continuing to try to check on the man’s health. “He broke into the sandcrawler, killed your warriors, and took a nap?”

More unpleased Jawaese flies around your head, “He broke in, killed your warriors, and didn’t try to escape, just sat down and tried to interrogate you. And then you knocked him out and broke his legs.” The Jawas cheer gleefully in affirmation, and you sigh. A second glance at the man reveals the sunken skin around his eyes and the unnaturally pale color of his skin. There are white scars over his face that look like acid burns. “Maker, how long has he been in there?” The Jawas keep talking, but you’re not paying attention. He won’t last another day without attention, and that is coming from an inexperienced mechanic. You may not know medicine, but you can’t leave him in good conscience.

“I’ll take him off of your hands. Keep the mouse droids.” 

It’s a kriffing miracle that you manage to get him back inside your hut and onto the cot without pulling a muscle. You don’t even know if he’s going to wake up. He just lies there, and the weight of the situation slams down on you in a single crushing moment. “What the hell did I just do?” You rake your fingers through your hair, “Take in a dying stranger, why don’t you? Sign away half of your supplies, half of your food, half of your water, half of the credits meant to get you out of this damned place? Dumbass.”

He groans, and you start. He’s awake. With a heavy sigh, you face the newest burden in your life. “Here, drink some water.” You grab the half-empty jug from the table and kneel beside the cot. “You’re lucky that the Jawas decided to meet me today. If they had gone to Tokonu’s farm, you might not have lived through the next few hours.” You reach to prop his head up.

In retrospect, you shouldn’t have tried to touch him. There’s an explosion of movement, and you suddenly find yourself pinned to the ground, arms locked painfully behind your back. Maker, he’s half-dead, and you barely saw him move. “Where am I?” The growl is so deep that you can feel it in your toes, though the roughness of his voice suggests that it hasn’t been used in a while.

You look over your shoulder, and you see dark eyes piercing into you. A shudder runs the length of your spine at the predatory gaze, and you’re feeling less like an unlikely caretaker and more like trapped prey. This is a dangerous man, no matter the state of his health. Then he curses and the weight on your back lifts as he falls to the side and you remember the broken legs.

You shakily roll to the side and sit up, studying the man next to you on the floor, who’s clutching his legs and muttering rude phrases about Jawas and thieves that you’d rather not repeat. He’s older, with creased skin and a dark scowl contorting his features. Scars run the length of his face, adding to the aged appearance. His dark clothing masks most of his body, though you’re sure that the rest of his skin bears similar scars to the ones slicing through his features. 

“You done staring?” The rasping voice makes you jump and look away hurriedly, cheeks flaming red in embarrassment. 

You stand. You have to find a way to splint his legs. “I don’t see many other Terrans out here.” He grunts, and you hurry to your workshop. You need wood, or metal, or something straight. Fuck you’ve never set a broken bone before, but you grab the bacta from the back cabinet. Your gaze lands on the ladder in the corner of the room.

“Hey.” His head lifts when you re-enter the room, lugging the ladder through the door frame. You dump it on the floor in front of him, and he looks up at you with a raised eyebrow.

“Angel, I’m not going to be climbing anywhere anytime soon.”

You ignore the endearment and the sass, “I’ve never set a broken leg before. I need your help if you ever want to walk normally again.”

“You’re going to set my legs?” He asks.

“I’m assuming that you know how to.”

He doesn't confirm your theory, instead tilting his head and looking at you more seriously, “Big assumptions.”

“If you know how to break an arm, you know how to set one.” 

He just leans back and laughs, “You have a tongue on you.” You won’t dignify that with an answer, and his smile only grows. “Break the ladder. I need two straight planks.”

---

The massive palace is dank and cold, the polar opposite of the planet outside. It’s a new world compared to the heatwaves and sand dunes. The silence amplifies your quiet footsteps as Fennec leads you through the hallways. Speaking of which, she is absolutely silent. Her footsteps are nonexistent even on the cold metal floor. She put her helmet back on when you entered the palace, so you can’t even hear her breathing. The only sounds are the ones made by you, and the walls seem to amplify them to the point where you’re sure that wherever you’re going, you will be expected.

You can’t help but feel like you’re walking to an execution, though you haven’t decided if it’s your own yet. It could be. You don’t know if he’s changed. It’s been years. You’ve changed, that’s for sure. Actually, scratch that. You know that he’s changed, because he didn’t come straight to you.

You frown. There’s a piece of the puzzle missing, though you can’t place your finger directly on it just yet. After years of being tied to no one, of being perfectly free and independent, why would he come back to Tatooine?  What is tethering him to this desert of a planet besides his own suffering? 

Out of nowhere, a staircase yawns in front of you, and you hesitate slightly before following after Fennec. The arched ceiling opens into a large room that prominently displays a raised dais, though it all falls away when you see who is seated on the throne. 

It’s been a long time since you’d seen him, and you’d never seen his armor in color, only a sketch. The smooth green and red accents are color combinations that are in short supply on Tatooine, he cuts a menacing figure against the dark throne. He’s splayed out on a throne built for a Hutt thrice his size, legs spread and arms resting on the sides. It might be intimidating if it were a stranger, but you keep telling yourself that he’s not a stranger. It’s easy to imagine that he is, due to the blatant showmanship and armor. It’s been so long since you’ve seen him, but this suit of armor isn’t the Boba that you knew.

---

“What’s that?” You’re sitting at the workbench while he’s in a kitchen chair that was dragged into the workshop so that he could have a place to rest. He’s recently become mobile, though he’s only allowed to move under your sharp eye, making sure that he doesn’t try anything stupid that will leave him bedridden for another month. That would be another seven weeks of extreme food rationing and existing on supplies only meant for one. That being said, he mentioned that he was willing to lend an extra pair of hands in your workshop, and you’re not one to deny free help, so long as he promised to not push himself too hard. Your measurement tools were left on the table, and to your surprise, he picked up the stubby pencil and began sketching with it. The rough parchment now shows evidence of a human-like figure.

“My armor.” 

“What color is it?”

“Green.” Another purposeful sketch on the paper and there’s a prominent blemish in the helmet. “And red.” Stars, it’s like pulling teeth.

“Did you lose it?” Maybe you’re intruding, but you’ve been taking care of him for the past month, so you’ll excuse yourself from this one.

“Yes. These--” He waves a hand around his face, indicating the pale scars, “--are from a Sarlaac. When I fell in, I lost consciousness. Woke up without the armor. I need to find it.”

The Sarlaac pit is an execution site for those who oppose the Tatooine crime syndicate. You’ve never heard of anyone surviving either the wrath of the Hutts or the Sarlaac. “It’s important to you.” “The armor belonged to my father.” It’s hard to imagine the toughened man in front of you ever being dependent upon someone else. Though, you suppose that everyone comes from somewhere. You wonder not for the first time where this man came from. “It’s part of who I am.”

---

“Boba?” The name is a quiet whisper that echoes emptily through the chamber.

He says your name in return, but his deep baritone makes it sound so much more full than his did floating in the air. “Just as beautiful as the last time I saw you.”

“Can’t say that I can make the same observation.” You shift nervously. It’s too empty and cold in here, the absolute antithesis of the world you made your own. You can feel the dampness leeching the energy from the air. 

“That’s fair.” There’s a beat of silence.

“How have you been?” It’s a passive question, nothing more than something to say to break the silence.

“Good. And you?” The conversation is stunted and awkward, though it only used to be stunted. Now, you’re looking at this man and you don’t know him anymore. Even before, he was your friend above all else. Now you’re stuck making basic observations about him.

“You got your armor back.”

The helmet inclines once, barely an acknowledgement of a statement that you feel should receive so much more. “Found it through a friend.”

“Some friend. Am I going to get that story?”

“Later.” It’s infuriating, the distinct lack of personalization. For solar cycles, you had Boba. Then, nothing. Now you have Boba Fett, the bounty hunter.

---

“What’s your name?” You can’t believe it’s taken you this long to ask, though in all fairness, there’s not much need for names when there are only two people around for leagues. You simply speak, and he assumes you’re talking to him. He rarely speaks, so when he does, he’s always talking to you.

He doesn’t answer at first, only continuing to hold the sheet of metal in place so that you can continue welding it shut over the gap in the droid’s body. You don’t mind. If he wants to answer, he’ll answer. Though it would be nice to have a name to place to the stoic face. It would also be nice to have a name to whisper when you touch yourself at night. 

You hadn’t meant for it to end up like this, but you can’t help but admit that you had been setting yourself up to fail. Living with a man, especially one so tall, strong, so… kriffing dominant in how he carries himself? You’re just surprised that it took the dreams half a solar cycle to start up. But now you can’t stop thinking about how it would feel for him to back you up against a wall and pin you to the rough stone with just one of those wonderfully strong hands. 

“Watch it angel--”

You snap back to the present just in time to see your torch drifting dangerously close to your hand. You yank it away, but the damage is done and your glove is burning. He curses, bare hands immediately flying to the thick cloth and yanking your arm forward. A few rough pats later, and your glove is smoldering. Shit. That had been your last good pair. You sigh, pulling the glove off and getting up to find another. You snag a mismatched glove from the bottom compartment of your storage unit and settle back down to finish the job.

You’re two inches into the welding line when he speaks. “If I had known you’d be so distracted by silence I would have spoken.” The tone is dry and sardonic, and your gaze darts up to meet his deadpan one before flicking back down to your work in time to keep the welder from drifting again.

“No you wouldn’t have.” It’s the truth, based on how he doesn’t seem to have a snappy answer.

Finally, he sighs,  “My name is tied to my past. I’ve done some bad things.” This time, you know better than to look away from your work. 

You raise an eyebrow at the sheet metal, “I know.” You finish and click off your torch, settling it carefully down on the work station beside you. “No one ends up in a Sarlaac pit by following the law.” Air puffs out of him a little more forcefully than normal, and you squint. Was that a laugh?

“I wasn’t the one getting executed.”

“Didn’t take you for a clumsy person.” He doesn’t dignify the jab with a response, and you suppose that you deserve that. You examine the weld before pulling the torch back out. It’s a little sloppy. “Do you regret those things?”

“No. The sum of a person’s lifetime is found in his actions. Regrets or none, they are who I am.” That… is shockingly poetic considering that you’d only asked for a name. 

“You’ve killed people.” It’s not a question, there is no doubt in your mind of the answer, but you want to hear it from him.

“Yes.” A beat of silence. “Is that going to be a problem?”

“Depends.” You inhale slowly, trying to figure out how to phrase this, “I… understand that you don’t have an easy past.” He snorts at that, and you glower at him before continuing. “Tatooine doesn’t need more war.”

“You’re scared.” It’s a pointed statement, blunt and uncaring about the blatant assumption.

“No.” No, a million times no. You had not cowered in fear during the Clone Wars, you had picked yourself up and survived. But ever since Bib Fortuna took over the syndicate, violence had been minimal. You do not need more. “As long as you live here, I do not want you to be the one who brings it back.” You’re on shaky ground here, considering that you really don’t have much control over him or his choices. But this is the only request you have made of him so far.

He grunts in response, a thoughtful silence settling over the workshop. “You really care for this planet?”

“No. I fucking hate deserts. I’m blowing this joint as soon as I can.” You yank the glove off with more force than perhaps you needed. Whatever, it got the job done. You squint down at your calloused hands, “I just don’t want to be the reason that more innocent people get hurt around here. Bib does enough on his own.”

Bib Fortuna. The Twi-lek that currently commands the most powerful force planet-side on Tatooine: the crime syndicate that was left leaderless after Jabba the Hutt died in mysterious circumstances involving a Jedi and a Sarlaac execution. Wait a minute...

 “No violence?”

You shake your head, chasing away the puzzle pieces that just began to slot together. “Only self-defense.” You’re not unreasonable, Tatooine may be more peaceful than during the war, but lowlifes still exist. “And if you get a chance to get off-world, take me with you.”

“Steep price.”

You raise an eyebrow, “I saved your life. You may as well return the favor.”

“Fair enough. You have my word as a…” He slaps a hand over his chest, but trails off before finishing the sentence, as if only realizing then that his armor is not there. He amends, “You have my word as a man.”

An awkward silence settles over the shop again, though there is no logical reason why it should be awkward, giving you the moment to remember the seed of the conversation. “A man with a name?” It’s a fumbling and clumsy attempt to turn the conversation back towards your objective, and you can tell that he picked up on it. 

He looks at you with amusement, “Persistent.” There’s a half-beat of silence as he considers you. “You may recognize my name.”

“I live in the middle of nowhere.” You counter. “Who would I tell?”

“That’s not why I don’t want to tell you.” 

Oh. You can’t really think of a response to that, so you stand and begin cleaning your station. Rusty bits of scrap go into that bin, useful parts go into that one over there so you can tinker late at night when you can’t sleep. 

“I don’t know your name either.”

You turn a prop a hand on your hip, dramatically lowering your voice, “My name is tied to my past. I’ve done some bad things.” There! Another huff of breath, and a halfway crooked smirk from the usually grim-faced and unreadable man. You smile back, “Trade?”

He considers it briefly, “First names only.”

You grin. That’ll do nicely. “Deal.”

“Boba.”

You introduce yourself, “Nice to meet you, Boba.”

---

“Why are you back?”

“Are you not happy to see me?” He sounds amused.

“I am.” You shift back and forth on your feet. “Why am I here? Why are you here?”

“Because I wanted to see you. To know that you’re alive and healthy.” He’s avoiding answering. 

“That’s only half of my question.” Your voice becomes small, “Why didn’t you come home?”

“If I had come to the farm, Bib would have sent hunters out again. You know how that ended last time. You have to cut the krayt’s head off, or it will just keep coming.” You don’t miss how he’s avoiding calling the farm his home. 

“You don’t have to pretend, Boba. You have your armor and your ship, you don’t need me anymore. If you came back to take over the syndicate, I won’t be angry.” Even if it means that he’s throwing you away and not looking back. Your heart would heal.

“I--” He hesitates to finish the sentence, and your stomach drops as you expect him to confirm your suspicions. “I didn’t only come back for the throne. I still wanted to see you.”

 “If that were true, you would have come yourself.”

“Ang--”

“Stop making excuses.” Your gaze narrows onto the visor blade, meeting his cloaked eyes, “If you really wanted to see me, you would have come to the farm, not sent your lackey.  You have your armor and your ship. Why are you back?”

---

It’s all he talks about anymore. And it’s not like he talked that much before, so now ninety-nine percent of the conversations that you have with him are about the nearest pawn stalls, or the Jawa trading route, or the ship scrap yards scattered around the planet. He’s been moving about independently for the past two months, each day venturing out further into the sand hills in search of his armor. 

The jug of water is disgustingly lukewarm, but refreshing all the same. You swipe a hand over your forehead as you pace around, propping open all of the windows and shoving the door open. You don’t want to work anymore, it’s too hot for this shit. Late afternoon is the worst, hanging the promise of sunset overhead while continually beating the world into submission with the heat that makes it feel like you’re dragging fire into your lungs. With nothing better to do, you slowly sweep the floor of the house, brushing sand outside just as it continues to blow inward.

The moisture vaporator is functioning passably, your supplies were restocked two days ago, and you made decent headway in your workshop. Nothing is urgent enough to spur you into action. All there is to do is wait for Boba to come home. That’s the brightest point of your day; seeing his figure appear in the shimmering heat waves as he treks through the sand towards you.

He still doesn’t talk much. Neither do you, but there is a comfortable sense of companionship every night when you set the meal down and eat together. If conversation is needed, then it’s needed. But until then, you’re content to sit with him. He’s my friend. The stark realization nearly makes you stop in your tracks. You’re friends with the gruff man who you took in with two broken legs and who leaves you alone for the better part of the day. The man who you imagine on the rough nights when you long for a body beside you.

Finally, finally it’s sunset. You climb to the top of a nearby dune. He’s there in the distance, he always is. You watch the suns sink beneath the horizon and turn to head inside. 

You don’t hear him come in, though to be fair, you never do. You expect him to sit at the table. Instead he appears at your elbow, silent as a wraith but as large and solid as any human. You nearly jump out of your skin, “Stars, Boba, you kriffing scared m--” You turn, but are stopped short because he’s right there, crowding you against the counter and there’s something feral in his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

He’s breathing heavily through his nose, face hovering an inch away from yours and gaze fixed on your lips. Your eyes are glued to his almost black ones. His flick up to meet yours. You can smell him, something spicy and musky that’s drawing you in. Stars, you want to fuck him. 

Your eyes flicker down to his lips and the tension shatters. He shoves past you, planting his hands on the counter. He hasn’t changed out of his gear, and the gaffi stick sways threateningly on his back. The tip is darkened and shines in the dim light of the lantern. 

Dread pokes your heart. “Boba, are you hurt?” You try to look over the rest of his body for hints of injury, but his baggy clothing masks his body. He seems to be moving fine.

There’s a strained silence before he rips himself away from the counter and stalks away with a terse, “I need to change.” He halfway out of the door when he stops, and you watch him carefully as his head turns back halfway. “Meet me in the bedroom.” The ‘fresher door bangs in the distance, and you nearly collapse against the counter. 

You’re not sure how you make it to the room. You’re a trembling ball of nerves, anxious and fidgeting as you stare at the corner of the room. He killed someone. Someone is dead, because of him, and he doesn’t seem to be torn up about it. Only… tense. Like he’s more concerned about the consequences on you than him. You remember his promise.

He’s standing there now, dressed in clean clothes and looking at you like you’re the most complex problem in the room. He seems calmer, though he’s in this mode that you can’t describe with a single word, though you had witnessed it before when you first brought him into your home. There’s a feral intensity about him, almost primal. You don’t know what to say, so you keep your mouth shut.

Finally, he speaks, “I would never hurt you, angel.”

You nod. There’s a shared understanding of this, though it had never been verbalized. He has your back, and you have his. A mutual survival and benefit exists between you two. 

“Will you come here?” There’s an underlying question to read in the rasped question. Will you go to him? There’s also a warning. He’s not a safe man, but you’re willing to ignore your fears about that if it means you'll have him. You stand and walk towards him purposefully, each step sealing your choice. You stand in front of him, barely allowing yourself to breath as he scrutinizes you. A hand comes up and tilts your chin upwards carefully.

And then he’s kissing you, more like absolutely devouring you with how far his tongue is down your throat. It’s sensory overload, because all at once he’s so close and so there right in front of you, pressing against your front so closely that you can feel him hardening against your thigh. His hand comes up to tangle in your hair, and you gasp as he yanks your head back. 

“I don’t know if I can be gentle, angel.” His pupils are blown, dark eyes even blacker with desire and boring into yours. You can see the restrained lust in his eyes, and you shiver at the silent promise in them.

You grin, only barely aware that it’s slightly feral, “No one asked you to be.”

His own responding smile is nothing short of primal. “Maker, you’re fucking perfect.” His hand roughly smooths over your hair, and you melt into his touch. “Now strip.”

You can’t yank your shirt off quickly enough, but he stops you as soon as the offending fabric flutters to the ground. A hand traces over your collarbone, the rough calluses scraping over the crisp outline of the ink. “What’s this?”

You hesitate before answering, “It’s, uh, it’s artistic.” He makes his skeptical face at you, and you step in closer to him, pressing your body against his more clothed one, “I saw the design in a shop and liked it.”

The distraction seems to work, because he crushes his mouth to yours again, his hands removing the rest of your clothes so that you stand completely bare before his piercing gaze. You fight the urge to cover yourself. He has this way of making you feel like an open book even when you’re clothed, and now you feel that he can look into your soul without any other barriers.

“Beautiful.” The compliment is growled into the tension filled air. Blood rushes to your face, and you duck your head shyly. A hand tilts your chin back upwards to meet his eyes, “Get on the bed.”

He pushes you backwards gently so that you land on the mattress, bouncing slightly as you watch him remove his coverings. With every delicious inch of skin revealed, you feel another shot of heat between your legs. You hadn’t seen much of his body since that first day, and it’s like watching a gift unwrapped in front of you. When he pulls the last of it off, your eyes unavoidably drift between his legs, and your heart stutters at the sight. Stars he’s thicker than you’d expected. 

You don’t get anymore time to overthink because then Boba is caging you to the mattress with his body. Your breasts heave, nipples brushing against his chest with every inhale. One thick finger slides through your folds, and you almost cry at the contact. Maker, you’ve wanted this for so long. He pushes into your heat and you swear your body seizes at the sensation. 

Boba grunts, “Angel, you’re so tight.” His hips jerk seemingly of their own volition against your leg, his erection sliding over your skin. “Want to be inside of you. But--” He adds another finger, scissoring his fingers to stretch you out more, “--I think I’d break you.” 

The heel of his hand grinds into your clit, “Boba. Please, fuck. Told you not--” He curls his fingers against your g-spot and you gasp, “--not to be gentle.”

He pulls his fingers out with a growl and flips you around to your hands and knees. You shiver in anticipation as you glance over your shoulder while he aligns his hips to yours. He barely gives you any time to prep before he sinks into your heat. 

Oh shit.

He is so much thicker than you expected. The stretch burns so good, and-- you spare another glance over your shoulder as it just keeps coming. Your arms give and you collapse to your elbows with a whine. Your teeth clench as you focus on taking him, and your hand slaps the mattress as you tense. He stops behind you, “Angel, you need to relax.”

You exhale shakily. Fuck, you can’t relax, it’s too much. He’s going to split you in two. You’d told him to be rough, but you hadn’t been prepared for this. So you crouch on the bed, trying to breathe enough to allow yourself to form words. 

“I can stop.” His cock inches marginally out of you, and you panic. 

“No! Fu-- keep--keep going. I can do it.” He’s holding himself back. You can tell in the tiny quiver of his hips as he inches further into you. All you can focus on is the feeling of him rubbing against the inside of your cunt. His fingers rub your clit, and a garbled moan escapes your throat as your hips press backwards into him. The pain mixes with pleasure, a bone-deep one that you feel through your entire body as it arches against the bedsheets.

When his hips finally fit to yours, you let out a breathy moan. But he doesn’t continue. He just rests there, which is ridiculous considering how every nerve ending in that region of your body is firing with pleasure and how is he staying so still when this feels like fucking paradise? You might go insane just lying here with him bottomed out so deep inside of you that you can feel it in the back of your throat. His hand leaves your clit to grasp your waist. He eases out of you, the satisfying fullness retreating until the head of his cock hovers at your entrance, just barely inside of you. He’s teetering on a cliff, all of that potential energy built up behind his body as he hovers there, waiting for something. He’s trembling, Boba is trembling as he waits for something that he never asked you for. There’s molten lust creeping through your veins, you need him to move, to fuck you nine ways to next week. “Move. Please. Need--need it.”

He rolls his hips forward and you swear the world implodes behind your eyelids. He doesn’t stop this time, just yanks you closer on the bed and fucking wrecks you. The pace is unforgiving and rough, and the obscene slapping sound of skin on skin echoes through the small home, making you ever more grateful that there are no neighbors for miles.

A whine escapes your throat before you can help it, and you clap a hand over your mouth. He chuckles as he pushes back into your dripping pussy, “Oh, you like that angel?” His hand seizes your hair and drags your back flush against his body, “Ah ah ah. Take it off your mouth.” You do so, your hand trembling, “I want to hear every.” Thrust. “Beautiful.” Thrust. “Noise.” Thrust. You could almost feel him in the back of your throat with that last one, and a strangled cry is ripped from you. “Understand?”

You whimper and nod at the velvety purr against your throat and he hums in satisfaction. “Good.” He shoves you back down onto the sheets, one hand pinning you to the cot by your neck, the other curling around your waist. Without your hand to muffle the noises, your sounds come without you intending; choppy moans that are only broken by the force of his thrusts. He’s anything but quiet himself, a series of soft grunts and curses coming from the general vicinity of his head as he continues to slam into your body.

Your orgasm peaks without warning, ripping through your body before you can think to prepare yourself for it. The climax ripples outwards from your center, white flashes appearing behind your eyelids as you keen high in the back of your throat. Your floor muscles clamp down on Boba, and his rhythm stutters.

“Angel--” With a curse, he rips himself out of you, painting your ass with his release. You’re in a daze of pleasure as you come down from your high, the sheets smooth beneath your cheek and his cum warm on your back. He pulls the sheet, and you whine in protest as he yanks the comfortable bedding from underneath you. He cleans you up with the cloth, tossing it to the side into a random corner of the room.

It’s dark now. The only light in the room comes from the flickering lamp in the corner. Boba pulls blankets over your cock-dumb body, and you snuggle down into your bed, fully expecting him to leave. He doesn’t sleep much, but when he does, he naps on the floor with a blanket or two. You don’t expect him to climb into bed behind you, arms wrapping firmly around your waist and pulling you close to him. You drift before finally surrendering to peaceful sleep.

You wake when he moves behind you. The sunrise glints through the window, spraying warm light around the room. You’d have to get up soon, but not yet. He doesn’t have to go. You turn and look at him.

Your voice is raspy with sleep, but it cuts decidedly through the silence of early morning. “I trust you. You know that, right?” You don’t wait for an answer, because if you don’t say it now, you probably won’t have the courage to do it later, “It’s not hard to earn my trust. It’s hard to keep it, and even harder to regain it.” He’s quiet, and you can feel his deep, even breaths against your front and how his arms tighten fractionally around your waist.

He rolls over, and you feel the mattress dip as he stands. “I need to cover another sector by tonight.”

You turn on your side so that you can’t see the door. Best not to get attached anyway.

---

“Should I be calling you a title or something?” You’re hesitant to refer to him as anything in your mind. He’s just Boba. Not your boyfriend, or your lover, because you only name things you expect to endure. If you find a super cute loth cat, but you can’t keep it, you don’t name it, that's just a rule of life. Don’t label it if you don’t want to keep it. Don’t get attached to something that will not stay. “Lord Boba? King Boba? Master?”

He snorts, “Not necessary, Angel. Though I wouldn’t mind that last one.” You blink at the old nickname, the familiarity of the endearment stirring up emotions that you’d thought had long since been buried. “I’m still me.”

“Are you?” The question slips out before you can think to restrain yourself, the tone more accusatory than you expected. 

“Do you want me to be?”

Now you’re the one caught off guard. You had thought about it, in the empty silence while he was gone, when the bed was too cold and empty after so much time adjusting to his weight on the other side of the mattress. No decision had been made. But once, in the darkest hours of the morning, right after you’d made yourself cum on your own fingers that couldn’t hope to measure up to him, you’d wished. You had wished that you had labelled it when you had the chance. Because maybe you had wanted the relationship to stay. 

---

“Why do you call me that?” The words are whispered into the darkness of another early morning. He’s curled around you, the heat of his body keeping you warm despite the freezing cold desert night. You need to start thinking about getting up soon. It’s a new day, a fresh start, a time to restart. Chores are waiting, like they always are. But you can’t seem to bring yourself to want to move when he’s at your back.

He shifts, breathing in the scent of your hair, “Call you what?” His arms tighten around your midsection and you wiggle slightly in his grip, your hips pressing back against his half-hard length. “Ohhhh, angel you’re going to start something that you won’t be able to finish.” 

You turn so that you’re facing him in the darkness, his features just a ghost of an outline against the early dawn rays glowing faintly through the doorway. “That. Angel. Why do you call me that?” He grinds against you, and you stifle a whimper at his heavy erection against your thigh. “Stop distracting me.” 

He sighs heavily, but he does stop and allow you to regain your focus,  “I call you angel because of that first day. Do you remember?”

You roll your hips against his, “Hard to forget.”

“Yes.” His teeth sink into the bare flesh of your shoulder, licking and sucking until you’re sure that there’s a mark. “I was in that sandcrawler for days, it’s a haze in my memory. Just blinking in and out, hoping that the sound would stop, that the world would stop moving, that those damn creatures would stop jeering at me for just a few minutes.” Your hand slips down and grasps his erection, and he inhales sharply, “And--and then. They’re grabbing me and dragging me out of that hell. And you’re there, standing above me, framed by the suns. And my first thought was that you--” He grunts as he thrusts up into your fist. His cock is leaking profusely over your hand, and you swipe your thumb over his head, “-- you must be an angel. How could you be anything else? You saved my life.”

“Bold of you to think that I’m from heaven.” With a wicked smile, your other hand drops to fondle his balls, massaging the flesh in your hand as you continue to slowly jerk him off. He snarls quietly, hand anchoring in your hair and tugging your head back so that he has access to the bare flesh of your neck and shoulder. 

“Now, you’ve become more of a devil in my bed, my angel of death.” His teeth sink into the juncture of your shoulder, no doubt leaving a mark. You were prepared for the pain, but you weren’t ready for his hand zeroing in on your sensitive clit, rubbing with the exact amount of pressure that could cause you to come in seconds, and you have other plans. 

You roll on top of him, swinging your leg over his hips and positioning his head at your entrance, “So you try to break the arm of every angel you encounter?”

“That was your fault.” You can hear the smirk in his voice as his hands reach to grasp you around the waist. “For pushing me, like you are doing now.” His hips roll up, and your eyes roll back. The day can wait.

---

The surge of emotions only serves to make you more frustrated, and that’s not going to help matters. You may have a long fuse, but once your anger ignites, it burns hot and long. He knows this, and yet he continues to push you. “I came down here because I owe you one, for saving my ass. So you better talk if you’re going to keep me here.”

“I saved your beautiful ass twice in return.” He’s amused, and that only serves to make you angrier. “So you owe me two, one for coming and one for staying while I explain.”

Hell no, he doesn’t get out of this by throwing in a shabby compliment, though you furiously fight the rising embarrassment all the same, “No, the first one repaid me for dragging your dying carcass out of the sandcrawler. And the welding incident hardly counts, so you’re on thin fucking ice right now.”

“Angel--”

“No, you are going to stop with this pretentious bullshit and tell me what the fuck you think you’re doing.” Your arms are waving in the air, you’re on the verge of hyperventilating, your voice is rising in pitch and you’re vaguely aware that you shouldn’t be working yourself up like this, but you can’t seem to bring yourself to care, because he’s there. And you’re here, at the foot of the throne.

“Why are you so angry, angel?”

A laugh explodes out of you so forcefully that your throat stings, “Your fucking audacity, is pissing me off. You leave without explaining. You come back, and don’t think to come to find me yourself. You send your incredibly attractive, what are you, his sidekick?” Fennec raises her chin in response, though you don’t know if that’s a confirmation or not. “You drag me down here where I find out that you’ve killed Bib Fortuna and become Tatooine’s newest crime lord. And yet, you still haven’t shown the basic decency of telling me why I’m here. Do you have to kill me because of some new fucked up bounty hunter code? Because you know that I won’t go down easy, whether you have me two to one or not.” You’re scarily aware of Fennec’s gaze boring into the back of your neck.

Silence screams into the empty air as Boba freezes on the throne. “You know.”

“That you’re a bounty hunter? I’m not an idiot. It was smart to not give me your last name that first time I asked. As soon as the hunters told me, I knew. Jango Fett was your father.” The name drops a bombshell in the center of the throne room.

“What do you know of Jango Fett?”

“Not much. Only what Hondo told me.” Hondo Ohnaka. The pirate, the outlaw, the man who had morals enough to take in a starving child rather than leaving her to die.

“Hondo Ohnaka.” He leans forward, clearly interested once he recognizes the name. “But you’re not Weequay.”

“Fortunately, the man cared for children. He wouldn’t abandon one in need. He fed me, essentially raised me.” You’d been caught picking his pocket. Instead of killing you, Hondo took you in. You feel the corner of your mouth quirking up at the memory of the old pirate and the small-time smuggling jobs he’d allowed you to help out on, with your small size and quick fingers. “He’d always remind me that he used to be a feared outlaw throughout the galaxy, and that he wouldn’t be as soft the next day.”

“But he kept you anyway.” 

You shrug, “He lived by a code.”

“The pirate code?” There’s skepticism in his voice, and you don’t blame him.

“Hondo… didn’t exist by societies’ laws. He was honorable, but never good. Told me to be the same.” The advice was the best that you’d ever gotten. It allowed you to move on from guilt, to live isolated from the chaos of the galaxy. It taught you to live on your own and to be independent, to not feel for the suffering of the collective galaxy. But it also commanded you by the morals that saved your life. Don’t steal from the poor, but the rich won’t miss a handful of credits. Don’t hurt a sick child who’s just trying to eat. Don’t kill a helpless enemy, even if he hijacked your ship and crashed it onto a desert planet in the middle of nowhere. Leave him to die in the sand instead. 

“I was stranded on Tatooine a few years ago. I had no money, and no ship. I found the abandoned farm, and put together something so that I could save enough to escape one day.” No communicator either, and you’d only just struck out on your own too. Hondo was lightyears away by the time you’d thought to try to comm him, and none of the technology was current enough to reach that far. You’re pretty sure he wouldn’t have come to pick you up anyway. “Whe--” Your voice breaks, and you curse your emotionally sensitive vocal cords. You clear your throat, “When you left--” “You think that I could have taken you with me.”

“You could have!”

“It was dangerous, angel. I hated that I had to leave the way that I did, but--”

“You smeared bacta on me and disappeared. Was I supposed to feel happy?”

---

The day he left started the same as any other. The moisture filter needed replacing, but you didn’t have the credits yet. So you had a date with an ancient filter and your multitool. You look up, flicking hair out of your face when you hear the footsteps behind you. “Hey.”

He doesn’t answer, as per usual, but he nods and rubs your hair with a gloved hand. “I’m scouting towards the flats today. Only a day trip, I’ll be home before dark.”

“Sounds good. See you.” You turn back to your multitool. You’re too focused on tweaking the settings to allow for a greater flow rate to see him smile, a rare one-sided grin before he turns to leave. His path takes him south, so he doesn’t see the three dark shapes in the heat waves approaching from the north.

The vaporator beeps loudly, protesting the absence of the filter and loudly proclaiming that it needs the filter to harvest water from the atmosphere. You tune out the obnoxious sound. After a ten minute struggle, you snap the filter’s frame out of place, exposing the internal wiring. You’re going to need a smaller drill point to reach the last resistor knob. You walk towards the workshop, wiping the sweat out of your eyes, fiddling with the screen as you do so. You’re too distracted by the tech in your hands to notice the figure slipping around the outside wall of your hut.

You grab the smaller bit and unlatch the last knob, absentmindedly walking outside to get better light into the inner workings. Despite the heat, Tatooine’s afternoons were perfect for mechanics, with the twin suns illuminating all but the tiniest crevices. Unfortunately, with your attention elsewhere, it doesn’t reveal the crime syndicate members waiting outside your door. 

The air rushes out of you as something slams into your midsection, effectively knocking you onto your ass on the sand. The filter flies out of your hands, but you’re focused instead on the helmeted figure standing over you, vibroblade levelled at your throat. “Where is he?”

Your hands are shaking as you raise them in the air, attention fixated on the masked figure. Adrenaline surges through your veins, and you almost don’t notice the second one hanging back near the wall. A third, the only unhelmeted one, stands beyond the first, smiling nastily. The blade grazes your throat, and you whimper at the cool metal against your skin. “I said. Where is he?”

“Who? Maker, please, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Fett! Boba Fett!”

Your stomach drops at the surname. The hunter curses viciously, holstering the weapon and grabbing you by the front of your shirt. You’re yanked to your feet, “Intel said that he’s here, so I’m guessing that you’re his little pretty piece on the side.” An arm presses over your throat, and you gasp as your airway is almost cut off. “Where is he?” The question is purred into your ear silkily. 

He must be insane if he thinks that you’re giving him that information. “I don’t know, he said he’s going towards the Dune Sea today. I swear, he’s gone. Left an hour ago.” You inhale sharply as the blade stops against your jaw.

“You’re pretty.” Your stomach turns at the sneer, and you fight the urge to bite him. Better to bide your time. “But an awful liar.” The angle changes so that the point is pressing into your skin and you cringe in anticipation of the cut.

A sharp command rings through the air and your captor stops. You exhale shakily, but don’t allow yourself to feel any hope. Boba’s gone and will be all day. They’re going to kill you, or use you as leverage when he returns. Or both. You’re not getting out of this alive, but you’re not going to lay down and die. Your eyes fix on the knife in front of you, but you’re visualizing where the hunter’s holster is.

Blaster fire explodes behind you, and you duck as sparks shower down onto you and your captor slumps to the ground. You don’t waste a second, ducking to rifle through the hunter’s pockets, snatching the blaster. Boba is there, features contorted in rage. He’s standing over a body, blaster in one hand and his staff in the other. Your eyes lock, and for a moment, you can almost hear him asking if you’re okay. You nod your head almost imperceptibly, but he gets the message.

A laugh rings through the air, and the moment shatters. There is a single hunter left, the one who was hanging by the hut while the other one threatened you. The cocksure swagger tells that this is the one in charge, the one who gave the command to keep you alive. And yet, the favor doesn’t hold any value to you as the helmet tilts up at Boba, “Boba Fett. You’re a hard man to find.” Boba doesn’t answer, instead jerking his head and you move towards him, “Bib Fortuna wants to talk.”

Now Boba responds, “I don’t.”

“150,000 credits to me says that you will.” Another blaster(fucking blasters) points at you, and you stop in your tracks, fighting to keep your breathing steady. He’s only a few meters away, a dead shot if he decides to let his finger slip.“Because he may want you alive, but not her. And she lied to me. Drop the blasters, or I shoot her now.”

You slowly lay the weapon down, eyes fixed on the barrel. Boba does the same, his hands raising placatingly as the shiny metal plops into the sand, “She’s nothing to me.” 

“You can try to tell Bib Fortuna that, but he’ll believe it even less than I do. I’ll cut you a deal. You come with me, I get my credits, she gets to live.” You focus on Boba’s face, trying to steal some of his stony calm. 

Boba smirks, “You’re even stupider than you look.” Then he’s moving, eating up the meters between them faster than you can blink. The staff arcs up, the wicked point glinting in the sun before smashing into the hunter’s helmet, crushing the metal with stunning ease. Your mouth is still hanging open when white-hot pain flares through your shoulder. Fucking blasters. You drop to the sand, curling in on yourself as your entire body seems to throb in agony. There’s no blood on your hand when you pull it away, but the smell of burnt flesh almost makes you vomit. The suns are too bright and you blink rapidly, trying to get rid of the spots dancing in your vision.

A form crouches over you, blocking out the light. Someone is saying your name repeatedly, slapping your face gently as they support your head and neck, “Wake up, stay with me. Gotta get bacta on that shoulder.”

You blink blearily. The world is swimming before your eyes and nothing is focusing correctly. It’s a struggle to stay awake, never mind focusing on what Boba is saying to you. The sand is so warm. Sleep would be nice. You wouldn’t have to stay awake and focus on the implications of what just went down. You wouldn’t need to feel the hole burned in your shoulder. Fuck, Boba had been shot before? How did he bear it?

He turns away, but he’s instantly back, gloved hands ripping apart your shirt at the shoulder. You mutter, “Leave it. Self cauterizes. Best way to get hurt.” The suns blend into twin slurs of light across the sky. ‘Meteors,’ you think, ‘They look like meteors. Or shooting stars.’ People make wishes on those, right?

Boba snorts, “Bantha shit.” He smears the bacta on the wound, and you shudder as the pain lessens marginally. He starts talking as he works, though it’s a struggle to understand anything when you’re so distracted by the world spinning beneath you. “Angel, I have to leave. They’ll be coming for me. I can’t stay here with you. Do you understand? Tell me you understand.” 

Okay. Okay, you tell yourself it’s okay. You’ve been expecting this day for some time. He’s a dangerous man, it was right to assume that he’s wanted by someone, you just didn’t expect the someone to be the resident crime lord of the planet he is kriffing living on. It’s hard to stay in one place for some time, but he did. For you. And now it’s your turn to let him go, to sacrifice for him because he sacrificed for you. But you can’t seem to bring yourself to say it. You have to settle for a shaky breath and a tiny nod. 

He lifts you and carries you inside, arranging you on the bed. He brushes a strand of hair out of your face, a second of tranquility before he turns and begins gathering supplies. You fight against the encroaching sleep, resolving yourself to watch and savor these last moments. He won’t be coming back, not while Bib Fortuna holds the bounty on him, and Bib has a long memory. 

So you commit every detail of him to memory. His grim and stoic face and the deadpan sarcastic humor that you’ve grown to love. His broad shoulders remind you of the first time you met him. It was absolute hell fitting his massive frame through the small doorway of your home, only for him to flatten you to the ground when you moved wrong. His careful and smooth gait that you observed every time he walked out into the dunes and away from you. His lips, which sometimes wear that devastatingly attractive sideways smirk that promises trouble, but more rarely wear a genuine smile that you’ve only seen once or twice. His powerful legs that pinned you to the mattress more than a few times. And you wish on the twin meteors outside that this wouldn’t be your last memory of him.

You try to summon words to your dry throat, but they come out as a raspy cough on your first attempt. “Boba.” 

He’s by your side instantly, so quickly that you would do a double take if you had any strength to do so. “Here.” He offers the water jug to you and you sip, remembering the first day that you met him.

But there’s no time to reminisce, “I know that you have to go. I know that I probably won’t se--” Your voice breaks, but there’s no need to finish the sentence. “But I’ll be here. If you ever come back.”

---

“You broke your promise that last day.” 

“It was self-defense.” A huff of air echoes through the modulator, and he sits back on the throne, “Angel, everytime I kill, I kill for a reason. It’s not senseless.” No, that’s not what you’re talking about.

“You broke your promise when you left Tatooine without me.” You took a chance on him. You trusted him to hold to his word. And he’d betrayed that trust.

“I was trying to protect you. You couldn’t come with me, it would have been too dangerous. You have an entire life ahead of you. Coming with me off-world would have thrown it all away.”

You laugh scornfully, “So what, you just made that promise without ever intending to keep it? Is that all your word as a man is worth?”

“I made the promise intending to keep it.” His voice is stiff, mirroring his posture as he regards you with all of the bearing of a king lording over his subject. You hate it. “But my loyalties changed, angel.” You open your mouth to continue, but he cuts you off, “I couldn’t bring you into my life within good conscience. I promised to save you in any opportunity promised. My way of saving you was leaving you here.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me.”

“Angel, if you had come with me, I would have been violating both aspects of the promise. You would have seen killing, pointless and meaningless death. And it would have destroyed you, whatever good hope for the universe you had left.”

You scoff, “I am not a good person. I have flaws, Boba, you just refuse to see them.” You tear your collar open, revealing the tattoo inked into your skin. You’d told him that it was artistic, and it was the most beautiful reminder of your old life that you had. It’s the mark of a thief on your home planet, curling into your skin and reminding you everyday of what you had run from. “I lied and cheated and stole my way through life. I am not too naive to hear the real reasons for you coming back.” Because that’s why he didn’t tell you. He thought you were too pure to know about his job. He thinks you’re too innocent to know why he’s back. Well, you're done with him handling you with kid gloves.

“If you ever cared about me, you’ll explain why you’re here now. Because I won’t stay.” You stare down the emotionless visor, knowing that you can’t hold your ground. Your anger is still burning white hot, but it’s beginning to subside for lack of fuel. You’re exhausted, and you have no power here. You inhale, ready to continue to ream him out except the breath catches in the back of your throat and comes out a strangled half-sob. You continue to stare at him, but all you can manage is a little, “You promised.”

The suit of armor staring back at you holds the power, and he could kick you out in an instant without a backwards look. What’s a few solar cycles compared to a lifetime of independence? But someone is going to have to give ground here, and you’re almost convinced that it’s going to be you when he speaks. 

“Fennec.” Without a single word, she turns and leaves. You watch her retreating back, not knowing if you should feel relieved or trapped. “Do you want to know why I came back today? Or that day?”

A rebellious tear slips down your cheek, and you scrub it away angrily. “Pick one first.”

He’s silent again for several heart breaking moments, and you’re terrified that you’re going to have to leave, “I didn’t break my promise at first. I didn’t leave Tatooine that day.”

“What?” The tears have stopped, and that’s one little victory you won’t have to fight for here.

“The day that I left.” His hand rubs against the visor of his helmet, and you can almost imagine that he’s rubbing the visor of his helmet, right over the bridge of his nose the same way he always used to when he was stressed. “I went to Bib and bargained. A year of my service to leave you alone. I had no choice, it was the only way I could try to protect you after they came after me.”

Your heart drops and rises in your chest simultaneously, making you feel both like you’re plummeting off of a cliff while bound to a torn parachute. Puzzle pieces click into place too quickly, laying out a picture that’s still unfinished, but one that you understand primitively. The next command from Boba is unexpected, slicing through your problem solving.

“Up.” 

You blink, “Excuse me?”

“Come here.” You stand and walk to him. “Give me your hands.” His grip is gentle, guiding your fingertips under the lip of the green painted beskar. His hands stay on your wrists as you carefully lift the helmet, inch by inch, and it’s a good thing that they did because without his support your hands might have been shaking too hard to get the damn thing off. 

He looks the same as when he left all that time ago. Same strong chin, stern mouth, and scarred skin. But you look at his eyes, and you know that he did change in the time away. There’s a soft look in his eye that you had never seen before. 

“What happened to you?” Your hand grazes over his skin, and he leans into your touch.

“I fell into a Sarlaac pit.” The familiar sardonic smirk appears, but you don’t smile along with him. It vanishes, “I--” He breaks eye contact with you, looking down and licking his lips as if he’s trying to gather the words to explain, “I met a man. And a child.” He looks back up, and you almost melt at the muted shine in his eyes, “They reminded me of what is important. I came back.”

You gently set the helmet on the ground and raise your hands to cup his face. “Boba--”

“I came back that last day because I realized that I loved you. I turned around and came back to tell you, and it’s a good thing I did.” His hands come up to cover yours, and there’s the wicked spark of humor in his eye. “I wanted to stay, angel. I wanted to stay so bad, but you were safer if I didn’t.” Your eyes slip closed as you lean down and graze your forehead against his, the way that he taught you. His hand leaves yours to plant on the back of your neck and holds you there. “We couldn't be together until Bib was dead. I was wrong, to come here first and to send Fennec for you. But I needed time to… prepare.”

He had to prepare for the possibility that the bargain didn’t work, or that you had moved on. He hadn’t needed to worry, because you promised that you’d be here. You slip onto his lap, straddling his thigh without moving your head away from his. “I’m here.” 

“Are you still upset?” A hand comes up and ghosts over your hair. You lean into the touch almost subconsciously. 

“I’m working through it.” You pull back and fix him with a stern gaze. “This isn’t resolved.”

���But?”

“We’ll work through it.” He nods, his mouth hanging slightly open in a look of contemplation.

“I won’t stay.” What? You freeze, dread spiking through your chest. He must feel the tension in your body because he rushes to clarify, “I-- uh I, ah shit that was a bad way to put it.” He pulls away and meets your eyes, “I will leave this. I’ll be Boba. Not Boba Fett. Not king of the crime underworld. I’ll be anything for you. We’ll escape off-world together or some shit. We can go find Hondo, if he’s still alive.”

You snort, “That old man is too tough to die.” You tap his nose with your fingertip, “Like one other that I know.”

He snaps his teeth playfully at your finger, and you squeal happily. “My point is--” He looks up at you with such peace in his eyes that you want to curl up against his chest and never leave, “We can do whatever you want. Just the two of us. But I want to stay with you, this time around. That past life is all done. We’ll find something else to do, besides hunting bounties.”

Your eyes track towards the doorway that Fennec disappeared through, and his gaze follows. “Fennec will be fine. I’ll release her from my service. Hell--” He chuckles dryly, “Maybe I’ll leave the throne to her.”

That’s a terrifying thought that you’re not quite ready to consider just yet. “You’d give this all up for me?”

“Angel, that’s what love is. Sacrifice. I just didn’t learn it soon enough.”

You kiss him, a real one this time, melting into his lips, “Love can be compromise. And this is a point I’m willing to give on.” 

“What?”

“I’ll admit,” You tilt your head, a mischievous grin sliding across your face, “Queen of the crime underworld has a nice ring to it after being a moisture farmer for several years.”

He smiles, the real one this time, “I like the title on you.” His hands attach to your hips, holding you down on the hard ridge of his thigh as he grinds the leg up into your cunt. “Makes me wanna act out, Your Majesty.”

You gasp at the surge of wetness between your legs. Stars, it’s been so long that you almost forgot how much you loved the feeling of his body beneath you. “Boba--”

“Ah ah, is that any way to address your king?” So this is how he wants to play? Fine.

“No, Your Royalness.” Wrong answer. One hand comes down hard on your ass, and there’s going to be a mark for sure. “Your Excellency?” Nope, and another spank burns on your butt. “My king?” You brace yourself for another, but the hand stays. 

“Hmmm, I like that one.” His grip tightens, and you know that you’re going to have finger shaped bruises on the pillowy flesh. He captures your lips against his, and you roll your hips downwards onto his thigh. His erection rests heavy against the inside of your thigh, and you purposefully angle your hips to create more friction against it. “Angel, I want nothing more than to take you now, but--” He stands with a grunt, easily hoisting you into the air with his hands supporting your butt. 

“--I’d rather taste you first.”

A/N: Okay wow this took me so long. This project has literally been in the works for months, and I found a way to finish it finally! I’m not sure if the Boba Fett craze has passed yet, but either way here we have Boba. Some throne-fucking for those of you who would care for it. 

Taglist: @alliterative-albatross​

[dragonwitch77]

Swindle Week Day 1: Cash Money

Nothing comes to you free.

That was his old caretaker’s saying back then when he was just a sparkling. Nice femm, not the best caretaker out there, but still good enough to care for him and several other orphaned young bots while running a rundown building that served as their home. He honestly didn’t know how she did it back then. Rising young rambunctious bots while getting enough to pay the fee.

He was always quite a bit nosy at times, any being a curious bot he was, he found some things he shouldn’t have. Back then, he didn’t know anything about taxes or fees or energy bills, and looking back on the amount of numbers on them, he almost fainted when he realized how high those numbers were. Primus, all those zeros! He felt sick just thinking about them!

Of course he had been too young to know what it all meant back then, and his caretaker certainly wasn’t happy that he went snooping through something he shouldn’t have. But after that, he began noticing things. Things like the house, the food, his orphaned friends, and all the stuff they had. He noticed how run down and broken their home was.

Rust spots on nearly every wall and ceiling, holes and drafts, metal sheets bending in awkward angles. The shortage of food and how more portions were giving to the younger bots. How every toy and play thing they had was either broken, dirty, hardly working, or on its last limbs. The more he looked, the more he noticed how bad their living space was.

It made him sick with worry. The caretaker reassured him that everything was fine and that he didn’t need to worry, but worry he did. In fact, he worried so much that he used to sneak out during the night to do an odd job or two. It was nearly impossible being at a young age and all, but bots were willing to lend him a small side job if he acted cute enough.

When his storage unit came online, he had an easier time getting more side jobs and helping out with the orphanage. His caretaker didn’t really approve of his sneakiness, but she never stopped him. Any scruple they could get their servos on helped pay the bills. Eventually he managed to convince his best friend to help out with the side jobs and then eventually landed a job at repairing old guns and weapons for bots when he was old enough.

But it still wasn’t enough.

No matter how much he worked, it just wasn’t enough to pay for everything and give the home he ever knew a break from its dark dilemma. Even after stellar cycles passed, new problems arose and there wasn’t enough scruples to pay for it all. He though he would never see any hope for the place.

Until his friend decided to join the army.

His friend begged him to join, telling him of the benefits they could have if they joined the army together. Sure he heard there were some… wealthy income if they joined, but only if they got into the good high ranks. He wasn’t much of a fighter or had any special powers aside from his personal storage unit, but his friend persisted and begged till he finally caved and agreed to join.

He wasn’t going to lie, he was a little nervous when he stepped into that training ground, but he knew it was for the best. As long as he was getting the scruples to pay for the orphanage’s fees, he would do anything…

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Honestly Swindle, yer a crook.”

Swindle smiled, tilting his helm a little. “Now where would you get such an idea?” He nearly chuckled as Lockdown snorted, inspecting the gun in his servo.

“The damn price yer asking ta sell this gun for.” The bounty hunter looked at every angle of the barrel, checking the systems and ammo. Swindle weaved his digits together, settling his chin on top them with a smirk on his face plate.

“Now there’s no need to be stingy. It’s a fair price for a gun such as this one.” Lockdown rolled his optics but said nothing. After a few moments of inspection, he nodded.

“Looks good enough.” His optics narrowed at Swindle. “Even if the price is fragged.”

Swindle’s grin grew. “There’s nothing wrong with a little overprice~.”

[vagrantblvrd]

@rogueghost​ Tumblr’s still acting weird for me so I had to do the old DIY reply to your ask, but here you go. :D?

Oh, friend! There’s so much lore to Destiny that I haven’t kept up with myself because ~lazy. The AUs I’ve written are a mishmash of Destiny universe and ~artistic liberties on my part, so yeah.

(There’s an amazing video here about the lore thus far that I hope to watch One Day? But, again, lazy and lack of time to sit down to properly absorb it.)

Quick background on the games/Ghosts for those who don’t play the game/want to see me ramble on about A Thing:

The game tells us is the Traveler (giant white space orb/messiah/McGuffin showed up in our solar system which resulted in what’s called the Golden Age where human technology advanced like whoa. (But surprise, surprise, the Traveler was being pursued by an enemy referred to as the Darkness and things got messy for humanity, something that happened to several races that happened to run into the Traveler before us.)

There was an extinction level event several centuries before the events of the Destiny games called The Collapse when the Darkness caught up to it. The Traveler “died”, creating the Ghosts as it did to seek out Guardians...who tend to be dead at the time (they get better) who then join the ranks of the Guardians (who for the most part) fight to save humanity/the universe and/or engage in shenanigans such as flinging themselves off the Tower for funsies and the whatnot. (Guardians have no common sense, btw. Also, lunatics.)

BUT.

Back to your amazing prompt???

It would be this entire Thing on its own because I want to set it before the games back in the days before there was a Vanguard, which from what I gather from the lore I have read was not unlike ye olden medieval days/wild west with sci-fi twist, because yes. (Also, it was referred to as the Dark Ages, so yeah.)

Geoff and Jack are among the first Lightbearers that are referred to as Risen in various bits of game lore, right? Before the Iron Lords and the whole “Guardian” business with the Vanguard and the Tower and all that good stuff.

Back in the days where there were some like them who abused their powers over those who weren’t like them. Grabbing land and wealth for themselves and gaining followers through fear and the whatnot?

They spend a long, long time trying to figure out what the hell is going on because no memories of their past lives and this hellish world they’ve been brought back to with Fallen and God knows what else wandering the lands.

Just these little glowing balls of Light and sass nagging them about finding shelter and armor and weapons,  getting them into hiding when Fallen patrols or other bandits go past.

Abilities before there were proper classes and sub-classes and all that.

Geoff and Jack both lean more towards the floofy jumps and glides of Warlocks. (not that they know what a Warlock even is at that point, of course.)

Jack’s abilities and whatnot lean more towards a support role, but he’s not defenseless, oh no. He learns to use his Light as a weapon and that goes for Geoff too.

They carry guns and knives and in a pinch whatever is at hand.

Run into each other in a little settlement somewhere and at first it’s this Thing where they’re keeping their Ghosts out of sight – Warlords and so on who flaunt their little Ghost friends and the way people have learned to react to them. (And also? Just smart not to go about advertising the fact you’re harder to kill than most, that if they don’t know you have a Ghost you won’t stay down once someone tries to put you in the ground.)

There’s an attack, Fallen or human bandits or some Warlord’s goon squad trying to terrorize the settlement into rolling over for them. Pay a tax or whatever they’d call it back then to “protect” them from the roving bands of Fallen and other enemies.

Can’t do much without giving themselves away – and why would they? They don’t owe these people anything, and that old woman scooping her wares off the ground where her booth’s been knocked down tried to shortchange Geoff less than an hour ago.

The asshole with the weapons parts Jack needed is – okay, he’s kind of dead now, but he lied to Jack’s face about not having them in stock. Said he’d have to ask around, and wouldn’t you know it that would cost more. (Jack can see the parts he was after spilling from a box hidden at the back of the guy’s booth and into the grass, blood all over them and what a mess.)

Still.

Jack quietly takes the parts he needs and leaves the money he would have paid fairly for them and a little more with the boy crouched beside the booth. (His mother’s a settlement over, said she’d be a bit before joining his father with the parts she was bartering for there.)

Sighs as he looks down the road the goons left on and starts after them. Geoff’s munching on an apple he got of a nearby tree and watches him go, all thoughtful about it because there are people mourning here and they don’t owe them a damn thing, and what does that idiot think he’s going to do about it?

So of course he follows, just to see.

The end up killing everyone at the Warlord’s little castle, wherever he’s holed up because none of them will listen to reason and the man’s a blowhard. Full of himself because he’s clearly been chosen for a reason, and what else could it be than to rule over the weaker, lesser people in this section of the world?

And Geoff, God, Geoff.

Died several times getting to this asshole, right? Snipers and assholes with knives and other melee weapons and he was in dire need up upgrading his armor before he waded into this fight, but he’s got his trusty Ghost buddy and this stubbornness that just won’t quit. Smiles because this pathetic weasel playing king and is just like, “Oh, buddy, have I got news for you.” and behind him Jack pops his super, Radiance lighting up the Warlord’s pitiful little throne room.

Geoff lets that sink in for a moment before he fricking nova bombs the Warlord in the face.

It kind of hurts a little, when they see the asshole’s Ghost hiding in a corner of the room waiting for the right moment to resurrect the bastard, because their own Ghosts and the bonds they’ve built with them, you know?

But the little Ghost floats out to the center of the room, looks down at the body of its chosen and sighs because it knew a long time ago it chose poorly. (Maybe the Warlord could have done great things with this second chance, but he chose to do terrible things instead.)

They could kill the Ghost, make sure the Warlord didn’t come back, but -

There’s no point to it now. The Ghost is surprised at their decision, maybe disappointed. (Easier for things to end and not have to consider everything that went wrong because of its choice of course. Having to go on however long with that hanging over it? Nothing like mercy, is it?)

So.

They leave the Ghost behind, and all the dead in the halls and rooms where they fell. Find the path that leads away from the settlement and that small little Warlord and keep walking. (Swear they see a light in the woods along the castle grounds following them for a distance, but they leave it be and eventually it vanishes, wandering as aimlessly as them.)

And then!

They kind of fall in together after that, aren't really friends but there aren’t that many directions to go in, you know? And sometimes the Fallen patrols and whatnot are tricky for one Risen to deal with alone and it’s just.

Convenient.

They’re not bad guys, really, certainly no villains, but wouldn’t you know it? There are a lot of people out there who claim they are?

All these warlords with their bounties and other thieves and grifters with grudges to bear against them. Settlements who aren’t sure what to make of them and are wary of strangers because it pays to be paranoid.

And sometimes they kind of do bad things, pilfer some goods off a settlement where the leader’s an asshole and it’s doing well enough for they won’t miss just a little and so on and so forth. (Ignore the fact they maybe stop ‘round a poorer settlement or homestead kind of place to barter their stolen goods for a place with a roof over their heads for the night and so on. Because unimportant and definitely not a Good Deed or anything.)

Eventually they happen on this little asshole of a Hunter, a kid, really. (Well, no. Just. Young.)

Skittish, almost, the way he acts around them and after they win his trust by sheer dint of doing nothing he joins them beside the campfire they’ve set up.

Well, not nothing. Just. Something?

They set up camp in a clearing of the forest they’ve found themselves in this time. Tired after crossing a snowy mountain rage and it’s warm enough where they are they won’t freeze to death at night. (Once was enough, thanks.)

Hunt and fish and forage for food and leave the Hunter they spot lurking about alone when they realize he’s no threat to them.

Eventually Gavin gets curious enough, or maybe something else because he comes to their campfire with tidbits of food of his own. Treats and delicacies he’s made himself or bought or traded for somewhere else to supplement whatever Geoff and Jack caught/foraged for themselves.

They share stories, mostly Geoff and Jack about their adventures up to then. Little ones, because they’d hate to spook Gavin, scare him back into the forest and probably gone off somewhere they don’t stand a chance of finding him again.

After a while Gavin offers up some of his? Mostly advice for the area around them, dangers to look out for like Fallen patrols and the like.

Geoff asks after this human bandit encampment he heard about from a settlement nearby and Gavin goes quiet. Shifts uncomfortably before he tells them it won’t be a problem anymore and leaves it at that.

They don’t ask because they have stories of their own that end like that and it would just be rude after the goodies Gavin shared with them, so they don’t press.

The three of them wander around the forest for a few days, a week. Headed the same direction to another settlement nearby and it’s pretty nice having someone else around for a change, you know?

But once they reach the settlement Gavin vanishes on them and knowing how skittish he is, they don’t go looking for him.

A few years – twenty, thirty, maybe more – go by before they run into Gavin again.

They’ve left Earth a few times since then, gone wandering in these Jumpships that fell apart on them before too long and they ended back up on Earth.

By that time there’s a new group of Risen calling themselves the Iron something or others, and they’re out there giving the Warlords a time of it to hear the stories.

(A few from this shady guy who owns a bar in this little settlement that grew up to be a tiny town. Tells them about this lady named Efrideet responsible for the hole in the ceiling of his fine establishment, but he doesn’t seem too annoyed about it, so it’s probably fine.)

Run across this kid in a town somewhere, angry as hell and taking on some Warlord’s stooges with just his fists. Seems weapons would just slow him down because he’s doing just fine resolving whatever argument or debate he’s engaged in by punching the shit out of his opponents.

When it’s over they buy him a drink because it saves them the trouble of handling things themselves – picked up a bounty not too far away the kid took care of for them – and they offer to split the reward money since he did all the work.

And Michael, okay.

Squints at them because he sure as hell doesn’t know them, but who is he to turn down a free drink?

He agrees to taking a quarter of the reward because it seems they won’t accept anything less, but whatever. He would have have kicked the shit out of those assholes anyway for trying to bully the people here and this way he’ll have a little extra money in his pockets. (Whatevers.)

They part ways there, but he tells them if they need a hand they’re welcome to in touch with them.

Geoff and Jack wander a little more. Hear about these Iron Lords or whatever they’re calling themselves these days and are understandably concerned because the warlords business and who says these idiots are going to be any better?

(Say they’re out to protect people and all that, but entire settlements, towns, have gotten caught in the crossfire between them and the warlords and the only ones to walk out of it are these Iron Lords. So. Yeah. They’ve got some trouble thinking anyone’s a good guy in that scenario.)

More time goes by and they’re at some little outpost somewhere when Gavin pops up out of nowhere.

Strained look on his face and eyeing Michael who’s with them warily.

Says, “I could use your help,” which is a first because whenever they run into him he’s the one helping them out.

Hell of a sniper and no one better they’ve met when stealth is needed and anyway, anyway, they say yes because of course they do.

Like this little idiot who creeps around the wilds like it’s second nature, goes delving into Darkness Zones looking for God knows what. All kinds of trouble he gets up to and no one watching his back and just.

They worry, okay? They do.

More so with the way he’s all wound up about something. Won’t even tell them what it is until they’re out of the outpost and miles into the woods. Ghosts telling them no one’s around to listen in and even then he’s nervous.

Michael, who’s been quiet through all this loses his temper, snaps at Gavin to get on with with it already, fuck’s sake.

Jack goes to rein him in because Gavin and skittish and just, not what they need right now?

Only as it turns out, it kind of is because Gavin just.

Spills this story about coming across a crashed Fallen ketch in the mountains nearby. Too deep into Fallen territory – and treacherous terrain besides – for anyone to have reason to go up there.

But because Gavin’s an idiot and his Ghost is just as much of one, they went up there anyway.

Snuck past Fallen patrols and the whatnot to get into the ketch and found a Ghost in an odd little device that kept it from transmatting somewhere safe. Little thing begging them to find its chosen because the Fallen had caught them by surprise.

Overwhelmed them in an ambush and caught the Ghost in the cage it’s stuck in, kept its chosen because they thought he had answers they wanted.

Gavin glosses over the interrogations the Ghost told them about, how they’d torture its chosen to the point of death and have it resurrect him to do it all over again and the worst part is its chosen honestly didn’t have the answers to the questions they kept asking him? Resurrected a year ago a most when they were captured and wandering through the area by chance and just bad luck all around.

Anyway, anyway, he knows they don’t know this poor bastard, but Gavin can’t just leave him there, okay? He can’t get the guy out himself, but if they don’t want to help that’s fine, he understands, he’ll find a way -

Geoff and Jack are just like, no, you little idiot no, we’ll help. Just. Don’t do anything stupid okay?

Gavin is like “...okay?” because he didn’t know if they’d say yes – none of their business and sure, they’ve been pretty vocal about not getting involved things that don’t involve them, but that’s all just talk.

(They’ve been getting into trouble that didn’t concern them for a long damn time before now, and hey, Gavin’s kind of their business because they like him okay?)

Michael doesn’t know what Gavin’s deal is, but he’s always up for a fight and nothing better to do and when Geoff and Jack ask if he wants to go along he’s just like, sure, why not?

Gavin isn’t sure about him because Michael is a stranger to him? But he doesn’t seem too bad and Geoff and Jack like him and anyway, the more the merrier?

Thy follow Gavin up to the Fallen ketch, take out Fallen patrols and whatever else in their way headed there. Gavin has to sneak in ahead of them because there are traps and security measures the others would trample their way into and just.

“Be back in a moment,” and goes invisible because he’s got all them Hunter abilities and the whatnot.

There’s this uncomfortably long bit of time where the others are in hiding to avoid being detected and wondering if Gavin got caught by the Fallen. This whole argument about having to break in and save him too, which is when Gavin reappears, all “Took longer than I expected, but it’s all clear now,” and scares the bejesus out of them because Hunter and stealth and where the hell did he come from?

Gavin shrugging and totally not laughing at them as he takes the lead.

They get pretty far in before they’re noticed, and then it’s all fighting and shooting and maybe dying once or twice to be resurrected by their Ghost or picked up by a teammate.

Gavin makes for the trapped Ghost first, figures they might need it by the time they reach this captured Risen which, yikes? (But also smart, and also it’s easier to get and on the way and just. It works out.)

The Ghost they rescue sticks close to Gavin and his Ghost, nervous little thing after all it’s gone through and then there’s more fighting and the whatnot to get to this idiot who got himself caught.

Dicey moments and definitely some dying on their parts because there’s a Fallen tank in the ketch - naturally - and all these Vandals with their fricking wire rifles they don’t see until it’s too late, and anyway.

It’s a hell of a fight to get the guy.

Have to deal with a Kell, because of course they do, but four Lightbearers deal with him better than one or two would have and then they get to rescue the poor bastard.

His Ghost tutting and fussing and Ryan – because of course it’s Ryan – is just like, I’m alright, stop worrying and also?

Suspicious of his rescuers because he’s never seen them and four Lightbearers? Makes him Concerned, okay.

Things aren’t as bad as they were before the Iron Lords or whoever showed up, but it’s still.

He’s not very trusting, is the thing.

Grateful for the rescue and all, but not super friendly. (Which, understandable considering his recent experience.)

The group sticks together for a few days after they get out of the mountains and back down to a nearby settlement. Aren’t surprised when Ryan goes his own way – tells them he owes them one and goes off with his Ghost for more adventures or what have you.

No one is surprised when Gavin follows him all stealthy-like.

Well. Not as stealthy as he could be, because he doesn’t want to make Ryan jumpy about feeling like he’s being watched? But Gavin kind of bonded with Ryan’s Ghost a bit when he first ventured into the Ketch. Couldn’t sneak out right away and ended up living inside it avoiding Fallen for a few days. Crept down to see Ryan, talk to him when he could to tell him he’d find a way to get him out of there, you know?

(Hiding out in some little corner somewhere in the Ketch – too risky to sleep or too paranoid and there’s one or two Fallen watching Ryan he can sneak around to see him. Think about how it’d feel if he was the one in Ryan’s position and how easily that could happen to a lone Lightbearer and how awful it is that Ryan’s been there all that time and no one knew and just. He’s attached now, alright?)

Ryan too out of it most of the time to know about it, but his Ghost tells him about the idiot who went snooping where he really shouldn’t have been. Lurking about the Ketch even after he could have gotten out to make sure he had the layout and patrols memorized before going for help and just.

Everything.

So he’s not worried when the same idiot follows him when he goes on his own way, getting more bold or just bored/curious when he stops pretending he’s not following Ryan and walks into the little camp he makes somewhere.

The two of them traveling around together for a while, a few years, maybe more before they get a call from Geoff and Jack because Michael’s in a situation thanks to this asshole he fell in with somewhere.

Nothing too dire, just need the extra firepower and they help get Michael and his buddy Jeremy out of a Cabal base somewhere.

And then they go somewhere to celebrate and just. Stick together for a while?

Nothing more pressing to deal with – the Iron Lords have things pretty well in hand and all, warlords mostly gone and a semblance of order to things.

But there are still baddies out there, places the Iron Lords don’t have resources to protect just yet and they make a living out there.

Bloody, ugly living sometimes because baddies who were born that way and no one else to handle things and they’re not the bad guys here, but they’re not good either.

The SIVA clusterfuck happens and there’s this...chaos, panic for while. Things get hectic, threaten to go back to the way they were before the Iron Lords and it’s awful right?

This little group of Lightbearers out there doing what they can to keep things from getting too bad even if it means liberating goods and supplies from people hoarding them, refusing to share with those in need. Stopping the more aggressive assholes from trying for power grabs and the lot.

Maybe a few of them think twice about forming the kind of bonds they have when they see what happened to the Iron Lords because they’re not invincible even with their little Ghost buddies, you know?

But they keep on keepin’ on and watch as more and more Lightbearers show up, the City grows and Titans built its walls and the Vanguard come into being. Lightbearers start calling themselves Guardians, of all things.

And that gets derisive snort from Geoff because pretentious much? But the Guardians grow in number, fight against the Fallen and whoever – whatever – else threatens humanity. (Their City.)

Put out patrol beacons and organize strikes and all that nonsense and all these freshly resurrected Guardians going out and doing good things with their second chance. (Some driven by the desire to help mankind and all that, others by the promise of loot and prestige, and those with nothing better to do and a Ghost nudging them in the direction of being helpful.)

Still they hold out for a while, not wholly trusting in the staying power of the Vanguard and what they’re doing in that City of theirs or their Tower after seeing what happened before them.

Eventually though, they get curious.

Or maybe the Vanguard’s heard about them and they got curious.

Whichever one it is, they end up running a few strike together. Do some patrols on the side because guaranteed glimmer for some menial task they would have done for free. (Would have gotten parts and supplies anyway, handful of glimmer, but now? Better pay and earning trust in the bargain.)

Stop having to scavenge for the stuff they need and – this is bonus in Gavin’s mind at least because he’s never forgotten what happened to Ryan – someone besides one of them who’ll notice if they’re in trouble or go missing.

Who will send others to look for them (how many times have they done the same for the Vanguard already? Asked to find some wayward Guardian who bit off more than they could chew) and mourn them if they can’t be saved.

To be honest, Geoff and Jack are all about that side of things with the idiots they’ve joined up with, you know? Michael and Jeremy are one thing, get into trouble for the hell of it sometimes, but Ryan and Gavin?

Those two get up to trouble because they’re too damn stupid. Go off on their own into Dead Zones and everything else all the damn time, wander the wilds for weeks on end where communications are spotty and they won’t know they’re in trouble until long after the fact.

Ray’s even worse, but he’s one of the most capable Lightbearers any of them have met so it’s. Bad, but the whole trust thing?

(And anyway, there won’t be a time they aren’t worrying about any of their idiots, so. Yes.)

Maybe this Guardian business isn’t such a bad thing after all.

Still takes a while before they decide to throw their lot in with them, move to the Tower, but eventually they do.

Have this hidden base of sorts in the wilds all nice and locked down in case something goes wrong – Cabal attacking the city and cutting off their link to their Light, for example – and other hidey spots and boltholes all over the system because.

Paranoia for good reasons and being prepared, and anyway, anyway.

They have this little section of the Tower for their group, little clan, if you will. Pick up new Guardians every so often. Freshly resurrected or ones they hit it off with when the Vanguard sends them on strikes and the whatnot.

Lindsay and Trevor and this whole slew of new idiots Geoff and Jack watch over in their own way.

Gavin is thrilled at not being the only Hunter in the bunch when they find Alfredo. (Or maybe he finds them???)

Anyway, there’s this feeling of safety, security they have now they didn’t before being part of something bigger than themselves. (Not perfect, because the Vanguard can be horrifically shortsighted at times, but they’re doing their best.)

Also?

Loot.

Lots of loot and glimmer and that’s the important thing.

Really.

[ganymedesclock]

I’m biting the bullet and posting my generals’ backstory headcanons before s6 because I can’t lose, either s6 has a bunch of juicy backstory details that contradict me or there’s not much backstory and my headcanons are fine.

Acxa

Sibling theory, she’s older than Keith so she got to have a good childhood growing up close to both her parents, thinks of herself as a human and a galra, doesn’t talk about the non-galra side of her heritage much so this strong-held perception can be a bit of a surprise. After all barely anyone in the empire even knows what a human is and lately they’ve mostly been brought up in terms of “those rebel people who are most of Voltron” so this hasn’t been encouraging her to open up to, say, Haggar. 

Most people pretty much don’t care about what else she is besides “not pure galra”. Even Lotor and the other Generals don’t know she’s human- not that she didn’t trust them, she just doesn’t talk about it. 

There’s a standing draft on galra, including mixed race galra as long as you’re “galra enough”, to go to military academy. It’s somewhat loosely enforced- more or less the discretion of individual commanders who will often use it specifically as a punishment for “tax evasion”, I.E. having kids you don’t tell the government about. Acxa was more or less kidnapped and declared a ward of the state and there wasn’t much Krolia could do about it.

That wound her up in military academy- she started off incredibly scrappy / picked fights with anybody who so much as looked at her crosswise because she didn’t want to be here and everybody was gonna hear about it, but given her mixed race status she was disproportionately punished.

She effectively came out the other side as a perfectionist- buckle down and keep everything under wraps, perfect grades, perfect grooming, perfect record of behavior. The idea of “I’m a disliked minority but if I’m literally perfect, no one can hold it against me.” Which... predictably didn’t work out quite as hoped but it did get her considered for a higher position than a mixed race galra would normally be allowed for with a commander planning on snapping her up as a lieutenant as soon as she graduated.

Incidentally Lotor was sniffing around the academy at that point- he’d gotten himself nicely established resource-wise and had an opening for skilled manpower. As much as Acxa had “cleaned up” in the empire’s eyes, she was still raised by a Blade and Krolia’s rebel sentiment and Acxa’s love for her father, plus the harsh reception she had at the hands of the empire were basically all kindling for a pretty intense revolutionary sentiment- she hated what the empire stood for.

Lotor hit it off with her very strongly in terms of ideals, and his selling point to her heavily was the opportunity to change the empire, this bright future he believed in. Acxa was pretty starstruck by what he proposed and came out of that kind of... considering herself closer to Lotor because she felt like she had a keener sense of what he believed in.

The commander that had wanted her as a lieutenant gave her a relatively intimidating talk about how disappointing it was that she’d “settle for less” but she wasn’t about to be deterred.

Zethrid

Galra soldier mom, kythran dad. They met under... not ideal circumstances, he was technically breaking the law as a smuggler but she had sympathy for his cause (he was trying to protect people back home by getting needed resources to them) and pulled what strings she could to cover him / became his contact within the empire. That partnership became love, they had Zethrid, and kept her hidden.

Zethrid wasn’t found- her mom wasn’t suspected, being a “good soldier”, but her father was caught and executed by the empire, and mom couldn’t save them. That was a pretty hard blow to her emotionally, leaving her feeling like she couldn’t take care of Zethrid and that Zethrid was better off as far away from the empire as possible. She left Zethrid on Kythra with her partner’s relatives and then went back to the empire, cutting off contact entirely.

Zethrid grew up on Kythra raised by her paternal grandmother. She was pretty immersed in Kythran culture- “Zethrid” is a galra anglicization of a kythran name. Huge kythran pride- her granny was a tribal leader and a sweet-faced, stoop-backed woman who uses a cane to get around. The cane is actually a pretty high-powered rifle, as a couple of would-be bandits have found out the hard way. Everybody loves Am-Hal. Nobody messes with Am-Hal. Zethrid metamorphoses into the most well-mannered young lady you have ever seen around Am-Hal because she loves her gran. On the flipside she has high standards for respecting anybody else because if you’re in her esteem, you have to share that category with her gran and not just anybody gets to be mentioned in the same breath as gran.

Of the generals, Zethrid actually had a pretty happy childhood. Learned to shoot on Kythra, thanks to her galra genes she grew tall quickly and got pretty darn strong which in a closed community where the chores are everybody’s problem that was more of an asset than a liability. Really not too cut up about the separation from her mother- doesn’t hold the woman any enmity, but she kinda precluded having a relationship and Zethrid doesn’t really care to go hunting for that. 

Kythra had a history of being a “problem child” for the colonizing empire- they actually did a darn good job fighting back and their lack of permanent settlements and ability to navigate the environment / guerrilla warfare meant the local commander had resorted to different tactics and basically was trying to starve them out with a heavy embargo on resources. This was what had motivated Zethrid’s dad to become a smuggler.

This was what gave Zethrid the idea of going to military academy and becoming a soldier- it’d be good pay and if she could get a position in the occupying fleet she could open up more ways for resources to get to Kythra. In her wildest dreams maybe she could even take out the commander, give ‘em what’s coming to ‘em.

She basically had to pay out of pocket to get to the military academy, and quickly established herself as not somebody to be crossed but if you left her alone she’d do the same. (Most galra cadets think twice about crossing a large intimidating girl who’s very proud of her Kythran heritage and will drop you in the next hand-to-hand drill without hesitation). Easily the most disappointing thing for her was that compared to the ancestral craft of kythran gunsmiths, the standard imperial rifle did not measure up. “Where’s the kick? It feels like I’m shooting a piece of driftwood, not a gun.”

She and Acxa were classmates but didn’t know each other that well. Lotor was interested in securing a potential alliance with Kythra- since it’s technically an imperial colony that wouldn’t raise any eyebrows but they’d proved pretty darn willing to mess the empire up. Between the offer to disrupt the embargo / play some politics around Kythra, and the potential resources he had to offer, he was bidding significantly higher than any other job offer Zethrid had, so she took him up on it.

Ezor

Grew up on a crowded metropolitan planet with a similar population to the Space Mall, so not only was her non-galra heritage one of multiple races present, but she was hardly the only mixed race galra. As a result, she doesn’t have a super strong tie to either her father or her mother’s people- she characterizes herself more as “I’m just some punk kid from Talor.”

Her galra father was technically AWOL who ran away from the fleet to be with his sweetheart, but since there was a price on his head as a deserter, he was limited in the work he could take and with mostly mom supporting the family, it was a struggle to make ends meet. Ezor was the oldest of five children, and pretty early on, got involved doing whatever she could to make money and support her family. Grade school Ezor was a pretty good pickpocket.

Once she got old enough, she held down a lot of different jobs- largely service and hospitality. She developed her particular saccharine attitude holding those jobs, in particular being overlooked and underappreciated- on the surface she acted very conciliatory and eager-to-please because she needed this job but she started assembling a lot of resentment under the surface.

Things got worse when her father was caught by bounty hunters and chose to go quietly rather than potentially draw their attention back to his family. Ezor’s mom wasn’t quite... the same, after that, and started going through the motions for her kid’s benefit but broke down big time. Ezor basically became head of the household, especially when her mother not taking good care of herself led to her getting pretty sick.

At some point, quietly behind Ezor’s back, her mom took out a life insurance policy, so that when she died, the family suddenly received more money than they were expecting. While it wouldn’t last, it would be enough to put Ezor through military school- even grunt soldier pay was a lot better than anything she could get on the civilian side, so she went with it.

Military academy was basically just another job she hated but she was versed in jobs she hated, especially when she could find some common ground and vent her frustrations with Zethrid.

Lotor recruiting her went pretty much like this:

(It wasn’t exclusively about money, like... if you take someone who did customer service for years and offer them assassin training and a position where they can threaten people for talking badly to them, the “and I can easily outbid anyone else offering you a job at this point” was just icing)

Narti

Narti’s the only one of the generals who didn’t go to military school and is, in fact, not recognized as a legal citizen of the empire. She’s also the only general who’s less than half galra. Effectively she was a lab-grown chimera synthesized from multiple donors in an attempt to create a biological superweapon that was funded by a commander who’d formerly been in Haggar’s circle but had gotten kicked to the fringes and was bitter about it and trying to show them all!

Which, not that he had bad ideas, per se, but he was effectively trying to keep this base hidden by putting it in orbit around an unstable star... and there’s a reason nobody would want to go near that real estate. The base started collapsing before the project was, in his opinion, viable, so he abandoned the research and its one living specimen to be destroyed by the sun.

That didn’t happen, because Lotor caught wind of the base being abandoned and some research that its commander didn’t want getting into the wrong hands, and rallied his three new generals for a salvage operation.

Finding a someone, rather than a something, was not what they were expected, but none of them in good conscience really wanted to leave her there- she was mistaken for a prisoner rather than a specimen and rescued. She wasn’t about to clarify otherwise, not really used to the idea of being spoken to and expected to carry a conversation, or acknowledged as a person even. Ezor was the one who gave her the name “Narti”.

The revelation afterwards that she was very strong and had a host of powerful abilities was not one they were all prepared for, and Lotor in particular was deeply uneasy around her for a long time.

Their relationship kind of progressed from “the more I know about you the less easily I sleep at night” to “I, for one, am very glad she’s on our side because I’ve seen what happens to her enemies” to by the time we see them in s3 Lotor’s near-totally numb to it. Just. “Lotor, what the hell is your fourth general” “an associate of mine who does excellent work.”

She was pretty used to operating blind before Kova became her personal helper / eye buddy, but that made her able to read and learn to be a pilot. The more time she spent with the team the more she was developing... some inclination to voice her opinions one way or another, but for the most part she just enjoyed being acknowledged and feeling part of the conversation, even without speaking.

[distant-rose-archive-blog]

CS AU Week 2017: Day 4 - Favorite Tropes AU

Emma Swan is a crusty twice divorced bailsbond person who is a lone wolf by nature, excluding the company of her seven-year old son, of course. Her occasional companion of choice is a Seattle detective who is also a divorcee and an ex-military guy who got his hand blown off on some super secret Black Op mission in Afghanistan. Killian Jones is nearly as crusty as Emma and a closet sci-fi nerd who never fails to help Emma with a difficult skip or babysit her son last minute. There’s always been an unspoken attraction between them that’s held back by their memory of their failed marriages.

Tropes Included: partners-in-crime, bedsharing, UST, friends to lovers, living in the same building, wearing each other’s clothes and drunk kissing in the goddamn rain

As a general rule Emma Swan was a lone wolf, but whether she felt the need for assistance or human companionship, she often turned to Killian Jones. As a plain clothes detective in the Seattle Police Department with a military background, Killian made a natural ally considering Emma’s work as a bounty hunter; often contributing to the capture and pick up of the human trash Emma dealt with on a daily basis. It didn’t hurt that he also lived three doors down from her apartment, was a decent drinking buddy and was generally pleasant to look at. (Emma would neither confirm or deny that she made a sport of looking at his ass when he wasn’t looking. If the man didn’t want to be ogled, he shouldn’t wear such tight jeans.)

So, when Emma was handed a file of a skip with a profile that would have reasonably been used to describe the Incredible Hulk and a habit hiding out with his sister in Bandon, she didn’t think twice before asking Killian to participate in a weekend road trip/stakeout.

“If you wanted to go on a date, Swan, there are better ways to go about it,” he teased when she asked, taking a bite out of the double meat Italian sub she had bought him for lunch as a thinly veiled form of bribery.

“Please, that is never going to happen,” Emma scoffed, pushing his paperwork over onto his keyboard so she could sit on top of his desk.

“Famous last words,” he smirked, blue eyes dancing with mischief.

“Nope. Never. I couldn’t date you. You’re a pretty boy and you know it. I couldn’t stand living with that ego. I can barely handle it over three beers,” she replied with a roll of her eyes.

“That’s a lie and you know it,” Killian shot back. “You’ve lasted five beers and a Lord of the Rings marathon. No point in denying it, Swan. There’s still video evidence on my phone.”

Emma couldn’t help it, she let out a laugh. She always had fun with Killian, particularly because they had a good banter going. Killian seemed to have the same dry wit and dark humor as her. Their rapport had a bit of flirtatious element to it, but it was relatively harmless. It never went beyond a few lines and mock confessions of love, but Emma would be lying if she said she hadn’t thought about it. You would have to be dead not to.

“Okay, okay. I can last five beers and four hours as long as there’s Orlando Bloom making weird faces in the background to distract me,” Emma scoffed, lifting her hands up in exasperation. “But for real, I’ve sworn off men. And women. I’ve decided that I’m going to be a crazy dog lady.”

“When did you decide this, love?” Killian asked, eyebrows raised in amusement.

“When I got divorced for the second time,” she replied casually.

Killian nodded as if he understood, which wasn’t surprising because she knew he did. Like herself, Killian was a divorcee; his former wife Milah had left him while he was still doing military service, not long before his hand had been blown off on some mission in Afghanistan. It was one of the things that bonded them aside from their love for fantasy and science fiction movies.

“Divorce has a tendency to do that. I would sing about losing that loving feeling Righteous Brothers style, but I’ve seen the amount of damage you can do when with just a hot cup of coffee,” Killian chuckled.

“Damn right, buster,” Emma smirked, bringing the aforementioned cup of coffee to her lips.

He had said it jokingly, but there was an incident in their past where Emma had used her coffee as a weapon when she had been unexpectedly surprised by a skip at a Starbucks. It had been surprisingly effective, however neither the police department nor the skip’s publicly appointed lawyer were impressed with the second-degree burns she had left behind. Though the incident had led to Killian complimenting her Macgyver-like tendencies of trying mundane daily life things into weapons.

Killian shook his head, leaning back in his seat and appraising her. “And I suppose there are worse things in the world to be than a crazy dog lady. You could be a crazy cat lady.”

“Yeah, no thank you,” Emma replied, making a small gagging noise. “I would die if I lived in a house that smelled of cat piss.”

“Quite right, Swan,” Killian laughed.

A comfortable silence fell between them as Killian dug into his sub and Emma sipped on her coffee. One of the things she loved about Killian was that he never felt the need to fill the quiet with unnecessary chatter.

“You’re a lucky woman, Swan,” Killian said as he finished the rest of the Italian sub. “I do have the weekend off, so I do have time to help you with your hunt for…the Incredible Hulk?”

“Just wait until you see the file then you won’t be questioning the nickname,” Emma replied, somewhat defensively. “The asshole looks like Lou Ferrigno.”

“Oh, you’re talking old school Hulk,” Killian nodded in realization. “I was thinking about the new one.”

Emma gave him a look like he had grown three heads.

“I wouldn’t be bothering you if he looked like Mark Ruffalo,” she scoffed. “Besides, if he looked like that, he wouldn’t have been able to put a cop through a window let alone attempt to lift an entirely filled safe out of a jewelry store.”

“For real? And Regina paid for his bail!?” Killian asked in disbelief.

Emma shrugged.

“I don’t make the decisions. I just pick up the trash regardless of how big. He might be big, but he’s a fucking idiot. Besides, this guy is like worth like $2,000 and Mama needs to pay rent and pay for some car repairs.”

“Maybe you should just buy a new car,” Killian replied with an arch of his eyebrow.

Emma scowled at him. He was constantly dissing her yellow bug. She loved that thing. It refused to die.

“I’m not responding to that slanderous suggestion,” Emma said, crossing arms in front of her chest.

“You kinda just did, love,” Killian snorted.

“That was an acknowledgement, not a response,” she argued.

“Whatever you say, counselor. I didn’t realize I was dealing with a lawyer, instead of a bailsbonds agent,” he chuckled.

Emma gave him a half-hearted swat as she hopped off his desk. Killian feigned injury, letting out an exaggerated “ouch” as she smacked him but his huge grin made it more than clear that he wasn’t really hurt.

“Quit being a baby,” she scolded. “I’ll see you Friday night. Seven sound good?”

“Eight might be best, love. I get off at seven and I’ll need a mo to shower, shit and shave,” Killian responded, chuckling.

Emma pulled a face.

“That’s more than I needed to know,” she responded, fishing out the keys to the bug.

“I’ve picked up your kid’s vomit, Swan, I can say whatever I want.”

The next time Emma saw Killian that week, it was to pick him up from his apartment. He came out the door before she even had the chance to knock. It’s fairly obvious that Killian’s just showered; his hair was still wet, dark strands plastered against his forehead while his black jeans and shirt clung to him in a fashion that told Emma he barely had time to towel off. (She wasn’t complaining.) He carried only an army duffle over his shoulder.

They made idle chatter as they walked towards Emma’s car.

“Where’s Henry this weekend?” he asked casually.

“With my brother and resenting every second of it,” Emma replied with a sigh.

“I thought David and Henry got on,” Killian frowned.

“They do, but everything is all about the baby lately so as you can imagine, my seven-year old isn’t so interested. Plus, he was really intent on joining me this weekend on this stake out. He doesn’t seem to get that my job isn’t as glamorous as the TV makes it out to be,” Emma sighed.

“Maybe you should let him ride along at least once, so he realizes that,” Killian advised.

Emma glared at him.

“I’m not taking my son with me when I’m taking down possible rapists, murderers and scumbags, Killian. It’s dangerous.”

“I’m not suggesting you do,” he responded with a roll of his eyes. “I meant taking him on the more boring ones, you know, like your tax evaders and absentee dads that don’t pay child support.”

Emma continued to glare him, not bothering to respond. She climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the key. The last example hit a little too close to home, bringing to mind her first husband Neal, who originally identified himself as an antique collector when they first met. The descriptor wasn’t necessarily a lie, but Neal’s choice of collection was a little less than legal and he had tried to take her down with him in hopes of a lesser prison sentence towards the end of their marriage. The three months after he got out of prison, he went AWOL and currently owed Emma $12,850 in child support; not that she expected to ever see a cent of it.

Their four-hour drive to Bandon was less tense as they move to lighter conversations like their disappointment in Peter Jackson’s adaptation of The Hobbit and whether or not they considered Deep Space Nine to be a rip off of Babylon Five or not. Despite their easy rapport, they’re bone tired by the time they reach their destination and roll into the nearest motel they could find with a vacancy sign. Emma was dead on her feet when she went to the reception desk. Killian was even worn out, leaning against Emma’s side as she approached the desk.

“Two doubles,” she asked, stifling a yawn.

The moment the old woman behind the desk gave her a sympathetic look, Emma knew something was wrong.

“I’m sorry, young lady, but all I have left is a room and that’s with a single queen. It’s wedding season, you see, and I’m nearly all booked up,” she informed her.

“Wedding season,” Emma repeated, blinking.

“Wedding season,” she affirmed. “All those young kids don’t want to get married in a church anymore. They all want seashore weddings. So, like I said, I’ve got a room with just a queen and I’m willing to give you a discount. Ten percent for the inconvenience.”

Emma glanced in Killian’s direction. His eyelids were drooping and he didn’t seem to be understanding what the old woman was saying, not that Emma blamed him. He just got off a long shift, which was followed by a long drive no matter how entertaining the company was.

“What are you thinking, Kil?” she asked gently.

“That I just want to sleep, Swan and it’s one in the morning and I don’t care if I have to bunk on the floor. Slept in worse conditions, remember?” he muttered against her shoulder.

Emma sighed. She wasn’t necessarily comfortable with the idea of Killian sleeping on the floor, especially since he was doing her a favor. However, she was exhausted and didn’t feel like driving any more if she didn’t have to.

“We’ll take it,” Emma replied.

The room they get was tired and in desperate need of a remodel. The bed didn’t look too terrible but the rug was positively disgusting, patched with suspicious dark stains. There was no way that Emma could let him sleep on the floor in good conscience. She didn’t care if he was used to sleeping in dirt holes from his time in the Middle East, he was now back in the States and deserved to sleep in a bed.

“No,” she said aloud in a firm tone.

Killian looked at her in bleary eyed confusion.

“No?” he echoed questioningly.

“There is no way I’m letting you sleep on that floor, Killian Brennan Jones,” Emma stated, placing her hands on her hips.

“You’re not sleeping on the floor, Emma,” Killian replied, irritation in his tone.

“Better me than you,” she replied.

“Emma, you paid for the room and I know you hate the argument, but I’m a gentleman, love, and there’s no way I’m letting a lady sleep on the floor,” he argued.

“I’m hardly a lady and Killian, it’s your weekend off and you’re spending it with me,” Emma shot back, frustration coloring her tone.

“I was going to spend it with you anyway,” he scoffed. “But the point still stands that I refuse to let you sleep on the floor.”

“Then we’ll just have to share then,” she snapped without thinking.

Killian looked her in bewilderment, jaw dropping slightly.

“Share?” he repeated. “Do you think that’s wise?”

“It’s a queen size bed so it’s not like we’d be on top of each other,” Emma reasoned. “I mean, we’re both adults here. What? You think just because I’m sharing a bed with you that it will automatically lead to sex? News flash, Jones, you might be attractive, but you’re not so attractive that I’m just going to start molesting you the second we hit the sheets. Get over yourself.”

Killian’s jaw clenched and Emma watched as a muscle jumped. He was as pissed off as a man could be when he was bone tired. She knew in any other situation that this would have blown into a fight of epic proportions, but neither of them had the energy to put the effort in.

“Fine,” he replied tightly, grabbing his pack and heading towards the bathroom. Emma nearly jumped when the door slammed angrily behind him.

Emma took advantage of his absence, changing into a pair of candy cane stripped pajama bottoms and an Army shirt that had once been Killian’s, but had long since been pilfered by Emma and become a permanent resident in her closet. She hopped on the bed, choosing the side closest to the nightstand rather than the door. Killian emerged from the bathroom not to long after, wearing only a pair of boxer briefs and a shirt advertising Mills’ Bailbonds. Emma quirked an eyebrow at him.

“Nice t-shirt there, Jones,” she replied, biting her lip to hide her smirk.

Killian blinked before glancing down at his shirt as if just realizing which one he was wearing. He gave a shrug then realized that Emma was wearing something of his own collection.

“Same to you, Swan,” he nodded, all the fire and frustration from before erased.

He hopped onto his side of the bed without further comment, immediately seeking refuge under the covers and turning with his back facing her. Emma understood the sentiment and unfolded her own side, ready to go to sleep herself.

“Mind turning down the light, Swan?” Killian asked gently.

“Sure,” Emma replied, leaning up to turn off all the lights before snuggling into the sheets. There’s a reasonable amount of room between them without her feeling she’s hanging to the edge of the bed.

“Night, Swan,” Killian muttered so quietly that Emma almost didn’t hear him.

“Night Kil,” she murmured back, nuzzling her pillow.

Emma was tired enough that she didn’t remember falling asleep. She would, however, never forget waking up. Somehow over the course of the night, they both had gravitated towards the middle of the bed. Emma awoke the next morning, warm despite the fact both she and Killian had kicked the sheets to the bottom of the bed. Killian had molded himself against her back, seeking the warmth of her body underneath her shirt. She was somewhat mortified to note that his hands on curled itself around her breast and both of their legs were tangled together. Killian was still asleep, his even breaths puffing against the base of her neck, causing a shiver to run down her spine.

She immediately removed herself from the situation as carefully as she could, ignoring the hammering of her heart. Killian let out a small whine of protest, but didn’t wake. Feeling slightly bad, she gathered the neglected sheets and covered him, in hopes of keeping him asleep just awhile longer. He deserved it.

Emma gave the ancient alarm clock a quick glance. It was roughly eight in the morning and she wanted to stake out the sister’s house by nine-thirty. She could take a shower and get dressed at her leisure. If Killian was sleeping when she was done, she would give him a jostle and some space while she got some coffee. Satisfied with her plan, Emma went to work and tried to ignore the events of the morning.

As she predicted, Killian was still asleep when she was done getting dressed. He wasn’t particularly pleased to be woken up, but she had mollified him with the promise of coffee. There was a Starbucks not too far from where their motel, located on Virginia Ave. She ordered herself a large iced caramel macchiato and a large dark roast coffee with a shot of espresso for Killian. After a near three years of friendship, she knew his coffee order by heart, not that it was a particularly hard one to remember.

When she arrived back at the hotel, Killian was dressed albeit still on the sleepy side. He had a tendency to be barely coherent and irritable without his coffee, so before he even said a word she shoved his dark roast in his hands without comment. He raised the to-go cup in silent thanks before taking a sip.

The majority of their day was rather uneventful. They sat in Emma’s yellow bug two blocks from her skip’s sister’s house the entire morning and mid-afternoon without so much of a hint of movement. When it came around to four-thirty, they got a bit testy with each other.

“We haven’t seen a lick of anyone. You sure, they’re home, Swan?” Killian asked, drumming his fingers against the dashboard.

“Her car is parked in the driveway,” she replied flatly.

“Doesn’t mean she’s home or he’s here,” he responded, raising his eyebrows.

“I know, but I have a feeling in my gut.”

If it were possible, Killian’s eyebrows would have risen past his hairline.

“We’ve been sitting here for the past six hours based on a feeling in your gut?” he asked incredulously.

Emma gave him an annoyed look.

“You’ve always trusted my gut before,” she snapped, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

“Yeah, but before now, your gut hadn’t gotten me leg cramps from being awkwardly folded up in your small ass car.”

“Don’t insult my bug,” Emma snapped, pointing a finger in his face.

“Your bug is an old rust bucket in dire need of being replaced, love,” Killian replied matter-of-factly.

Emma was about to yell at him when she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. As if he had sensed their argument, Emma’s skip of the week emerged from the barely there raised ranch, tossing a pair of keys leisurely into the air.

“Son of a bitch,” Killian muttered, pulling out his gun.

“I told you he was here,” Emma replied smugly as she pulled out her taser.

Killian gave no verbal reply, but rolled his eyes as he stepped out of the car. Emma followed in suit, quietly snickering to herself. As could be imagined, Emma’s skip was not happy to see them and immediately tried to bolt, only pausing when Killian fired a warning shot. When the asshole thought it was a cute idea to try and charge them, Emma hit him with her taser. It took two jolts to take him down, but all in all it wasn’t the worst take down in Emma’s experience. The only thing that royally sucked about it was that it took nearly two hours to fill out all the necessary paper work in order for Emma’s bounty to be processed properly. By the time, they left the station, it was nearly eight-thirty at night and neither was in the mood for a long drive.

“Want to find a new hotel so you can have your own bed?” Emma asked lightly.

Killian made a noncommittal grunt.

“That wasn’t answer,” Emma said, raising her eyebrow.

“I don’t see the point. We’re not paying that much at the place we’re at now and it’s not like last night was a complete disaster. Like you said, Swan, it’s not like you molested me once we hit the sheets.”

Emma bit back the snarky reply about him molesting her in his sleep that was laying on the tip of her tongue. She refrained however because she was pretty sure Killian wasn’t aware of what had happened and she didn’t feel like hashing out that can of worms.

“Come on, Swan,” Killian replied, clapping her on the back. “I’ll buy you a drink.”

They ended up at a small bar across the street from the motel they were staying at. As with how things usually were with Killian and Emma, they stayed for more than a drink. They drained three beers each and shared a plate of onion rings. Killian insisted on paying the bill since Emma was paying for the motel room, but she refused to let him pay the tip and threw ten dollars on the table while ignoring the disapproval in his gaze. Emma couldn’t bring herself to care too much however, she was feeling slightly buzzed and giggly.

They were halfway to the motel when the heavens decided to open up and a heavy rain fell. Emma let out a loud shriek of surprise and immediately jumped to Killian’s side for warmth. He grumbled in irritation, taking off his leather jacket and hauling over their bodies in a haphazard way of shielding them from the sudden shower.

“Get a little closer, love, or you’re going to get drenched,” Killian grumbled, pulling her towards him.

Emma let out a shuddered breath as his fingers unknowingly brushed against her breast, bringing back thoughts of this morning. He immediately caught the sound however as his eyes zeroed in on her lips and held their gaze there longer than was entirely appropriate for platonic friends; not that Emma had much of a leg to stand on, she had been unabashedly checking him out for the past three years.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, his hold growing tighter.

When he spoke, she couldn’t help but focus on his mouth. It was only fair that she got to look as well. Unconsciously, she licked the corner of lips and despite her near hyper focus on the lower half of his face, she caught his eyes zeroing in on the action.

What happened next was an impulsive decision on Emma’s part that was no doubt fueled by a combination of liquid courage and her long-held desire to resolve the sexual tension that had been lingering between them ever since she found him teaching her son how to play air hockey. She grabbed the collar of his shirt and immediately tugged him down for a hard and unyielding kiss. Their teeth clashed together, the angle was more than a little awkward and Emma was pretty sure her lip was split from the roughness of her actions, but that didn’t seem to matter. Killian immediately dropped his jacket, letting it plop wetly onto the cement as his arms curled around her back in a vice grip to pull her closer.

She broke a way for a moment to take a quick breath before diving back in for another kiss. Killian let out a pleased noise from the back of his throat that Emma was pretty sure she wanted to hear on repeat for the rest of her life. She awarded him with affectionate nip of his lower lip before deepening the kiss. If she had been soberer, she would have been a bit mortified with how liberal she was being with her hands.

Emma made a noise that sounded embarrassingly like a whine when he pulled away. However, embarrassment soon turned to pride when she realized how heavy he was breathing.

“Emma…” he whispered. “Please tell me you’re not drunk.”

“I had only three beers,” she scoffed. “You know as well as I do that it takes more than three beers to knock me on my ass.”

“Yeah,” he chuckled, though the sound was a bit strangled. “I…I just don’t want this to be a mistake.”

“This isn’t a mistake,” she whispered. “This…this is long overdue.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she laughed.

Killian laughed as well before hauling her over his shoulder and marching determinedly back to their hotel room, leaving his leather jacket behind in the rain without much thought as he made his single-minded trek. Emma let out a peel of laughter, pounding her fists against his back half-heartedly.

“What are you doing!? Put me down!” Her demands lost held no heat as she couldn’t stop giggling.

“Doing something I should have done a long time ago,” Killian replied. “And I’m not wasting any more time than I already have.”

When they finally got to their room, he immediately pressed her against the door and lifted her drenched shirt over her head, flipping it across the room without much thought. After such a caveman-like display, Emma had expected him to be rough but she was surprised by the softness of the kiss he placed on her lips.

“This is okay, right?” he murmured quietly.

“It’s more than okay,” she said, her hands absently soothing over his back as she rose on her toes to silence him with a kiss.

The next morning, she awoke in the same fashion she had the previous one with Killian pressed up against her back, his breath curling on the base of her neck and his hand on her breast. However, incident was a bit as it also involved a lot less clothing than the day before and there was a pleasant ache between her thighs and more than a few love bites on Killian’s neck. Instead of removing herself from the situation, she merely cuddled closer and went back to sleep.

[origami-goblin]

Starfinder Theme Focus - Ace Pilots and Bounty Hunters

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This week I’m going back to the scene of the crime to revisit the themes in Starfinder and offer some possible avenues down which you can direct your creative character-building energies. In case you’re completely in the dark on this topic, Starfinder introduces the concept of themes that you can use as a small puzzle piece in sculpting your character. In addition to providing some RP definition, each theme will give your character a boost to a specific stat and bonuses at 1st, 6th, 12th, and 18th level. As an aside, Paizo’s choice to have the theme progression remain identical throughout the possible selections helps to limit the min-maxing a bit, by ensuring that players aren’t choosing themes based on whichever ones grant them bonuses the soonest. Of course, the bonuses that each theme provides inherently enable some level of power-gaming, but that is going to be the case with nearly any pen-and-paper PRG. 

Last time, as a part of my deeper dive into themes, I specifically touched on the Icon and listed several examples of character concepts that a player could use when creating a Startfinder character kissed by the Icon theme. The point of the post was to show that themes aren’t meant to limit creativity; they foster it. Just as there’s no wrong way to eat a Reese’s, there are countless interpretations to each theme and the characters that can be molded into existence. Today, I’ll be firing up my brain engine to offer some different charger ideas for the Ace Pilot and Bounty Hunter themes. Buckle up, we’re making the jump!

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Ace Pilot Character Concepts

“You are most comfortable at the controls of a vehicle, whether it’s a starship racing through the inky void of space or a ground vehicle zooming between trees, around boulders, and across dusty badlands. You might be a member of an elite military force, the recipient of intense courses of training. Alternatively, you might be a total amateur with innate skills that make you a much-admired hotshot.” – Starfinder CRB

Cargo Transport Pilot – You’ve been on the open road…er…space your whole life. Maybe you enjoy the solitude that comes with transporting outrageous quantities of goods across planets or star systems. These goods could be anything – weapons, construction materials, medical devices. Or maybe it’s a grab bag and half of the excitement stems from wondering what the next shipment will contain. The many laws governing tariffs & import/export taxes come second-nature, and your expertise in maneuvering an unruly behemoth transport ship is unrivaled. I’m sure you have some fantastic stories about the characters that you’ve met at depots and docks along the way. Have you operated with a crew or are you more of a lone wolf? Are you ‘by the book’ or are you known to bend the rules when regulations aren’t being followed? And hey, I’m not going to judge if you smuggle something every now and again – that’s completely up to you.

 Mining Rig Operator – A specialist when it comes to operating heavy machinery, and someone who’s not afraid to get their hands dirty. Whether it be a massive drill, asteroid borer, front-end loader, or excavator, you have the honed precision required of someone who could easily level a structure or cause a fatality with a minor slip of the controls. You might harbor a deep love of geology, wealth, or the smell of space-diesel. If you’ve seen Disney’s Atlantis, Gaetan ‘The Mole’ comes to mind here, in all his grimy glory. Has mining been in your family for generations, or were you trying to make some credits in whatever profession was available? Have you pocketed any of your unearthed materials and sold them on the sly? What sort of role would you have on a starship that isn’t a dedicated mining vessel?

Stunt Driver – Inhabitants of the Pact Worlds crave entertainment, and you know how to deliver. From hologram tapes to over-capacity arenas, the lengths you go to appease your audiences is unmatched. How do you prepare yourself mentally to be fearless? Is there any stunt that you won’t do? Huge flames, steep jumps, free-falling acrobatics – you’ve done it all! Have you become an adventurer to satisfy a new craving that’s suddenly emerged deep inside? Are you an adrenaline junky with no care for your personal safety? Or are you THAT confident in your abilities that you simply must show them off at every opportunity?  

 Military Training Pilot – You’ve risen through the ranks of a military sect, but you figured that you’re done with combat missions. Instead, you are now responsible for grooming the fresh batch of hot-heads in the Academy to ensure that engagements end favorably at the minimal loss of life and equipment. You could be highly decorated and revered by all, or maybe you’ve never actually seen combat but have a brilliant mind for tactics and strategy. Did you develop a sophisticated training module for recruits? Are you a master of physics and can perform complex equations regarding acceleration, drag, and gravity on the fly? Maybe you’re not pleased about being given a non-combative assignment and yearn to be back in the fight, wherever that might be.

 Getaway Driver – You’ll ‘wait in the car.’ You know the best nooks and crannies to hide in after a successful operation, be it a heist or a GTA. Apart from having nerves of steel, your ability to handle any vehicle makes you highly coveted in the high-stakes game of evading the authorities. Perhaps you have a catchy pseudonym, like “Leadfoot” or “Afterburner” that adds an edge of mystery to your growing legend. Are you available for hire depending on the highest bidder, or are you loyal to a dedicated group of criminals? Or maybe you’re not a criminal at all, and you’re an undercover agent networking to root out the top dogs of the criminal world. What drives you (pun intended) and keeps your foot on the accelerator? I haven’t seen Baby Driver, but I imagine that he would make for a fun Starfinder character.

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Bounty Hunter Character Concepts

“You track people down for money. It is a dangerous profession, as most of your targets understandably don’t wish to be caught. You wouldn’t have it any other way. You might have a code of ethics, never taking jobs that, say, target children or members of your own race. You might hunt down only escaped criminals. Or you might be completely amoral, taking any job that comes along—for the right price.” – Starfinder CRB

 Great Mouse Detective – Maybe I’m getting a little ahead of myself on this one, but a Ysoki Detective? Come on! Okay, we can drop the ‘mouse’ portion of this to generalize it a bit, but a detective makes for a great Bounty Hunter. Searching for clues? Check. Interrogating witnesses? Check. An independent free-lancer? Check, check, check. Now all we need is a mahogany pipe that functions while wearing an airtight, pressurized helmet. Are you a Private Investigator, helping people track down lost relatives? Do you offer your services on a contract basis, assisting the local authorities when your services are required? Maybe you’re exceptional at finding clues, or adept at making accurate deductions based on the information on-hand. Or perhaps your forte involves the canvassing of a crime scene to gather the word on the street, or you could be skilled at poring over historical documents and ancestry lineages.

 Gung-Ho Repo-Man – It’s time to pay the piper. Whether it be collecting vehicles or ships that have defaulted loans, or shaking down debtors who are skipping town without paying back the credits owed, there are plenty of avenues to venture down as a repo-man (or woman). Are you employed by a roving band of outlaws or by a seedy brand of space mafia? Do you find honor in returning to others what is rightfully theirs? You can be cold and calculated, or a wild child with a smoking gun. Do you believe in using violence to get the job done, by obtaining the required items by whatever means necessary? Or do you have a strict code of conduct and will only resort to fighting if it is absolutely necessary and all other accessible routes have been exhausted? Either way, you get the job done and collect that paycheck, because if someone is going to get paid, it might as well be you.  

 Corporate Headhunter – Everybody’s looking for that perfect candidate to fill the shoes and help their company prosper. Sure, you’re a bounty hunter, but you aren’t collecting the reward on some beat-up Toyota Star-is or trying to bring in a fugitive; you are trying to find the right people and put them in the right seats. Corporations pay you top dollar (after six months) when you track down someone with the appropriate skillset and convince them to accept a position at their firms. You have an absurd eye for noticing talent, even when it isn’t a skill that people recognize themselves as having. These aren’t rush jobs; you know that the only way to scout ability is to dig in beyond the resume and get to know the person behind the paper. Whittling down long lists of candidates to a select few and engaging them in social situations is your true calling, and you truly want them to succeed. If they’re not a fit, it’s on to the next one until you find that diamond in the rough.

 Pre-Gap Antiquarian – Not much is known about the Gap (that’s why it’s called ‘the Gap’), but you recognize that there is much to be learned about the past, and that the key to unlocking the secrets of what we’ve collectively forgotten lies in the relics that remain. You seek out machinery, trinkets, baubles, clothing – any odds and ends whose origins have long since been forgotten. Perhaps you scour through old histories and manuscripts, trying to locate legendary items of extraordinary power. Do you have magic at your disposal to aid you in your search, ala a dowsing rod? Do you gravitate towards items of a certain kind, like ancient weapons? What draws you to these items in the first place? Maybe there have been stories passed down through your family and you became attached to them, bringing nostalgia into the mix. Or maybe you believe that the way technology is progressing leaves people disconnected with nature or causes us to lack the stronger bond that comes in a slower-moving culture. You probably hoard some of your treasures and keep an exceptionally special item on your person. You could be a hoarder, or run a shop that deals in the sale and acquisition of oddities and antiques.

 Zealous Proselytizer – Instead of being driven by the promise of gold or riches, you seek out the good fortune that comes from your deity looking favorably upon you. Whether it be Talavet, Weydan or any deity in between, you seek out others in attempt to show them the enlightenment that comes with becoming a follower. In a way, you are a bounty hunter of souls. Maybe you preach openly in front of large crowds and then try to personally recruit the ones who come up to your afterwards who show interest and promise. Or perhaps you spend more time watching and listening, following people whose dispositions align best with your deity’s tenets. You don’t necessarily have to be pushy, but you certainly could get aggressive if you become frustrated with your efforts. What if they don’t see the world as you see it? You might not be terribly high on the totem pole, either; you could be passing out leaflets in hopes that you ascend the ranks if you make your quota. Do you have a quota? If so, is it more of a personal goal or an appointed goal? What if you’re not aligned with a deity at all, but you hop between them depending on the one that grants the most benefits? After all, nobody’s perfect.

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And there you have it! Since I’ve already done the Icon in a previous post, our next stop will be the Mercenary and Outlaw themes. I’m really looking forward to these two, as they both have a negative connotation and I want to see if we can’t shrug off those predispositions and put a positive spin on them! The main problem I have with posts like these is that I want to start putting together a bunch of characters, most of which will never see the light of day. So, please - create! I shall live through your characters!

 Until next time – the stars aren’t the limit; they’re only the beginning.

[coruscantholonet]

Corellian News Briefs (8/21/19) ▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂

Governor of Keral arrested 

System; Corellian Sector, Keral system

The Governor of Keral was arrested few days ago on many counts, including alleged attempt of murder of some mine workers and many counts of corruption and embezzlement.

News from the system is that the Governor Lor Fuzz was attempting to seize control of one the new founds mine of firegem in the northern part of Keral. Firegem are valuable in the black market, but also very dangerous as they have been known for it adverse reaction when placed near a hyperdrive reactor. 

Governor Fuzz was hiring miners from the outer rim, Kasshhyk and Corellia, and later refused to pay them. “A riot broke out, and he hired some pirates to come kill everyone, the little frizz ball. Had it not been for the Jedi, we all would have been killed.” explained one of the workers. Explaining that a group of Jedi showed up to aid, as one of the pirate blow himself up with the firegem. The man is now recovering in the local Keral local hospital.

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Mysteries on Felucia ?

Locals on Felucia have made complaints about outsiders disturbing their way of life.  They have not provided many details other than a few holos . Looks like a dangerous place to be disturbing though!

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Arkania dealing with an attack?

The Navigational Bouy for Arkania went dark several days ago as dozens of warships dropped out of hyperspace. Imperial Warlord Atrius Jax, one of the local administrators for the world, has gone missing. Three resurgent class star destroyers broke through Warlord Jax's lines, obliterating five Pelleaon class star destroyers and two raider class vessels. The death toll is in the millions, as flaming ships and debris rains from Arkania's orbit. All news and information from this world has suffered a blackout., and a travel advisory is in effect.

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Vreni Island hostage crisis continues..

Nec’ron Sk’ar is said to be growing impatient with the slow resolution and set an example by executing twenty hostages, it’s also rumored that up to seventy more from the pool of hostages have joined the Scourge leaving the total number of hostages on the Island somewhere above 1200. 

Furthermore our inside source has informed us that around twenty of the scientists held there have been sent off-world.  To what destination and for what ends?  Who knows, but Sk’ar has proclaimed that more hostages will be executed daily until resolution.

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Protests continue in Coronet..

Several weeks ago the Bounty Hunter’s Guild raided a ship to obtain their target in holo actress and former political candidate Vesha Syphex.  Several were killed in the raid including socialites Madame Le’ni and Lady Nira, and the Captain of the ship Dugo.  Galaxy famous guru to the stars Ming was also left comatose from an Ax to the head and the Duchess of Nyemari was left paralyzed.

Citizens have been protesting various aspects of the chain of events.  Some have protested Vesha Syphex being held while more are protesting the Bounty Hunter Guild, the Mandalorians and CorSec as well as the Confederation at large for the handling of the case. The lack of arrests made has been the point that seems to have aggravated the civilians the most, even members of CorSec are openly questioning the special treatment the Mandalorians seem to be getting. One officer was quoted as saying “What? Joining a club and wearing special armor makes you above the law,it’s bullshit and we shouldn’t be pandering to them.  They should be held to the same standards as everyone else.”

There is still much in the air about the case.  We’ll keep you updated.

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Prime Minister sends several propositions through the Council..

Prime Minister Victoria made several propositions, most of them seem to have passed without objection with the exception of one.. they include..

- Lowered taxes on businesses in an effort to increase investment in Corellia and Job opportunities.

- Continued development of health care programs, as well as efforts to provide Government Housing for the impoverished.

- Funding part of the costs of a new shipyard to be build in the Alderaan System.  Improved trade, business deals with New Alderaan.

- Increased funding to CorSec.

Those have all passed, what the Council seems to be vetoing was a proposal to make certain Hutt properties considered Hutt Space.  Councilor Snarj was quick to call for a veto claiming this could lead to backdoor slavery.  Councilor’s Zwee and Turq also spoke out against it so it is likely a dead proposal.

There is also a proposition on the floor which seems likely to pass with further deals made with the Fel Empire which involves some additional funding from the Fels as well as some shipyard use and advertising for several corporations they are in business with.

There was also one other element but it was classified so we do not have the details on it.