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insomniamamma · 3 years ago

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Blue Morning: Fennec Shand x F!Twi’lek Reader

A/n: for Writer Wednesday. Don't @ me about canon this second dose of the covid shot is kicking my ass. Thinking of that blue Twi'lek chained to Bib Fortuna's throne in the sneak peak we got of The Book of Boba Fett. I’m not sure who to tag so @autumnleaves1991-blog, and @clydesducktape, and @flightlessangelwings. Also, this is my first time writing fxf fic so please be gentle. ‘Spotchka froths’ are mentioned. Picture a neon blue Sno-Cone with booze.

Warnings: Mentions of enslavement, cannon typical violence, Fennec Shand in formal wear is her own warning, mentions of death in a mythical context. Food mentionsl Alcohol consumption.

“Kiss me again, like you mean it.” (i botched the prompt a little)

You scrunch your eyes shut, expecting the blaster-shot to be the last thing you ever hear, chain still gripped in your hands, as if you haven't tried this every day since being sold to Bib Fortuna. You tug the chain in your sleep sometimes, curled on the rough-hewn stone, wake yourself up doing it, Fortuna and his cronies laughing at you. You open your eyes and you are somehow not dead. The gunslinger stares at you, her mouth slightly upturned, jerks her head towards the tunnels, telling you to run. And so you do.

Your bare feet slap over the cool, damp stone of the tunnels, carrying you to your quarters without any thought. You have to go. Blaster fire echoes above. The door to your chambers slides open and you close it behind you. You can't lock it. Slave quarters have no locks. "Kriff." Your tiny closet holds only the filmy costumes you are permitted to wear. You can't make it across the desert in any of this. You have nothing to your name but these ribbons and silks. You don't even have proper boots, just dainty slippers meant for nothing except looking pretty in. Part of you thinks to just run. Just grab what you can and bolt, twin suns be damned. No, think, Blue, you've got to play it smart. There's speeders in the bay. Swoop bikes, you make it there and none of the rest of it will matter. Get a speeder and you can be to Mos Eisley before the suns have time to cook you, you think you know the way, stole glimpses through the half-shuttered windows of the hover-barge that brought you and the other unfortunates here. You grab a few things out of your quarters, the slippers, a few pieces of gaudy jewelry, probably fake, but might net you a handful of credits. Kark. The suns are going to cook you. You yank the threadbare sheet off your cot and wrap it around yourself in a makeshift robe. Now or never. You creep your way towards the bay. The vast doors are open, why wouldn't they be? The palace has plenty of speeder traffic, though you don't see anyone moving, maybe the raiders found what they wanted and cleared out, maybe-- "Going somewhere?" Dank farrik. Your skin prickles from the ends of your lekku to the tips of your toes. You raise your hands instinctively. The gunslinger. The one who shot through your chain and not your skull. “You told me to run," "And I assumed you weren't stupid," she says, "You got a pickup waiting? If not, you'll be dead in half a day." "You're going to give me back to him," "Who?" "Bib Fortuna." "Bib Fortuna is dead," she says. A ghost of a smile touches her lips, "But you are not. What's your next move? You got any contacts in Mos Eisley?" You shake your head. "Fennec? Sitrep." You hear the crackle of her comms. "Found a straggler," says Fennec, "Non-hostile." "Bring them up."

Fennec grips you arm lightly, leads you back up through the tunnels to the throne-room. Your insides quiver. Nothing good has ever happened to you in this room. The only thing that came close was when Fortuna would have one of his lackeys bring you the beautiful old Nabooan hallikset to play for a spell. He kept it displayed on the wall, just beyond the reach allowed by your chain, but when you were allowed to play, the room would grow quiet, the lackeys and scumbags and hangers on would stop their chatter and just listen, and there would be something like peace for however long Fortuna would grant it. He'd flick a hand at one of the guards who'd take the hallikset from your hands, and then he'd wrap an arm around you in a sideways hug, and sing your praises as if you were his talented daughter and not his property. And now he's dead, lying in a heap in front of his own throne. You eye the corpse. His eyes are wide open and clouded, obviously dead, but still-- "What have you brought me, Fen?" You look up at the man on the throne. Oh, Maker, a Mandalorian. You've never met one, but you've heard tales. They are feared for their efficiency and brutality in battle. And yet some of the stories paint them as honorable. "Found her in the vehicle bay," says Fennec. "Come here," he says, "Let me get a proper look at you." Fennec nudges you, her hand on the small of your back in a gentle push. "Go on," she murmurs, soft so only you can hear. You step around Bib Fortuna's cooling corpse like it might still try to reach out and grab you. The absurdity of the situation hits you. The man on the throne will decide your fate one way or another, a blaster shot through the heart or he'll send you packing or he'll keep you here, just another Bib Fortuna, maybe better and maybe worse and here you are, wrapped in a bedsheet. "Show me your hands," he says. The dark of his visor reveals nothing, but he offers his own gloved hands, palms up, so you do the same. The Mandalorian examines your hands. “So you have worked with your hands." “Yes, sir." "Good." You feel something loosen in your chest. If he was going to shoot you, he would have done it by now. He brushes your fingertips. "You play an instrument," he says. Your eyes flick to the wall where the hallikset hangs. "Yes," you say, "I was an apprentice--" Here you struggle, to translate what you were supposed to be into Basic, "Tale-singer?" Kriff, it sounds stupid in Basic. Before you were taken, you were tasked with knowing the stories, the songs of Ryloth, but also given the responsibility of finding new tales to tell, not all of them truthful. Utter fabrications and harsh truth are both equally dull, your mentor had told you, lie enough that the tale has interest, but keep truth enough that the message comes across. "Bard. I guess." "Show me." His helmet jerks towards the wall where the hallikset hangs. The collar is still around your neck, the stub of the chain thumps against your spine, but, for the first time since you were brought here, you go and get it by yourself, cradling it to your chest like a baby. You sit yourself at the foot of the throne and play like you have so many times before, the first song you learned, a lullaby old as Ryloth itself, the three moons racing across the sky as bothers, big brother and middle brother get in a fight, and the youngest wins the race. You sing in Ryl. You end the song. No one speaks. "I'm sorry. I'm rusty. It's been some time." The dark visor gives you nothing. You gingerly lean the hallikset against the throne and back up, careful not to tread on Fortuna's robes. You back into Fennec, who grips your arms gently. "What is your name, girl?" You give your name in Ryl. "But everyone just calls me Blue," you say. "I am Boba Fett." He says, "My associate is Fennec Shand. You work for us now. We will discuss the exact terms later. Take that collar off her, Fen. Find her some proper clothing." "You should have seen your face," Fennec grins at you. "Are you out of you suns-stroked mind?" You mean to yell, but it comes out more like a choked-off laugh "Why didn't you warn me?" You stab your arm back towards the throne room, "That's Boba karking Fett! If I'd've looked at him wrong he could've SHOT ME!" Fennec laughs, a brief baring of teeth. "He wouldn't have hurt you," she says, "He's Mandalorian." "What does that have to do with anything?" "Mandos have a habit of adopting people," says Fennec, "You are part of clan Fett now, like as not." No one touches you. No one makes you dance wearing leather and ribbons. For the first time since being abducted from Ryloth you are treated with dignity and respect. They pay you. It's not always much, but it's something, your own money, your own room with proper locks on the doors. Sometimes you play court musician, sometimes scribe, sometimes bartender, sometimes majordomo. Whatever role is required, your instructions are the same, eyes and ears. You are a soft thing in a crowd of hunters and hustlers, people have told you the most incredible things, thinking you are too naive, too stupid to understand, all happily spilled to Boba and Fennec over spotchka shots once the audience chamber clears out. And when Boba doesn't need you? You and Fennec are free to explore. The palace complex is huge, full of tunnels and chambers that the two of you are slowly mapping, marking the doorways and passages you've explored with bright paint. The B'omarr monks who built the palace still skitter through the passages. The first time you the two of you ran across one, Fennec drew her rifle. "No," you said and stepped between her and the stiffly walking spider droid, the brain inside it's housing bobbing gently in the cloudy liquid, "They have no weapons. They can't hurt us." You place your arm over hers and gently lower the rifle. "So you just let them wander around?" "They don't do anything. There's no point in hurting them." "Huh."

"Maker and stars," you mutter, "All this was down here the whole time?" The room looks like a Canto Bight rummage sale. All manner of art objects, furniture and rolled tapestries in stacks. Plast-sheeted clothing on racks. Paintings leaned haphazardly against the walls and each other. "You tell me," says Fennec, "This is your stomping ground." "Yeah, but I've never been this far down." You run a finger along one of the ornate frames, greasy with thick dust. "You think the boss will want any of this?" "Perhaps some of the art," says Fennec, "A lot of this is very old. Could fetch us some credits." You wander over to a rack of clothing, colorful dresses and robes in all lengths and cuts, some plain and some gaudy with pearls and lace. You lift the sheeting and stroke fabric that's softer than anything you've ever worn. "You might as well pick out a couple," says Fennec, "It'll all end up in market stall or a burn-pit anyway." "A couple? I'm taking this whole karking rack. Help me shove." "Stupid," she chides, "Let's call the mule-droid." "You know, this one with the dewflowers on it would look really nice on you." Fennec gives you that barely there smile, though her eyes glitter with merriment. “Never. In. Your. Life." You twitch your lekku in the equivalent of a shrug. "Fennec Shand, you are no fun." She raises an eyebrow. "I'm fun," she says, "I'm tons of fun." “Threatening to murder people does not count as fun." Fennec grins. "Don't knock it till you've tried it, Blue."

Slave One streaks up into the bright sky. Boba has to go off world for a handful of days, some sort of personal business to attend to. I expect to see this place still standing on my return, he'd said, try not to get yourselves arrested. "Who, us?" Said Fennec. "You end up in the drunk tank it comes out of your pay." "Noted."

"There's a festival in town tomorrow," you say, moving the cards in your hands. You and Fennec are playing Sabacc, a friendly game, no stakes, just to hone your skills and learn each other's tells so you can hustle in the cantinas. Not because you need to but because it's fun. "Yeah? An official one?" "No," you say, "Just a local thing." The Republic and the Empire both had sanctioned holidays, but in the Outer Rim that doesn't mean much. "The festival of the Twin Suns," you say, "It's about love. About being in love." You feel heat creeping from the tips of your lekku and over your face. You shake your head. "I don't know the whole story. Something about star-crossed lovers with a bad ending," you say. “You've never been," says Fennec. "No," you say, "But I always wanted to. They dance in the street. Everyone wears bright colors. Fortuna had after parties some times. Everyone seemed so happy." "We should go," says Fennec. "Really?" "Why not? Unless you just want to hang out and lose at Sabacc."

"Holy-karking-hell--" You mutter under your breath. Fennec wears a long, double-breasted jacket that looks straight out of some Old Republic holodrama, a tie the exact same blue as your skin tied at her throat, her traditional braid exchanged for something less severe, blue ribbon threaded through instead of the usual red. "Close you mouth before something flies in," she says. "Fen...wow," You clean up nice too. Let's go."

The Twin Suns Festival is every bit as loud and colorful as you imagined, brightly colored flags hang from every building, rainbow pennants and lanterns strung over the streets. Treaded crawlers drag mobile stages through the thronging streets, laden with musicians and dancers. Every so often, the sky explodes in a riot of fireworks. You and Fennec walk arm in arm so not to lose each other in the swelling crowd. You find a row of food stalls and share bantha kabobs so spicy your gums try to peel back from your teeth, followed by chilled spotchka froths to kill the burn. You share syrup smeared haroun bread and smile sticky smiles. In the streets, people hug, people kiss, people dance, all kinds of people, humans and Weequay and Twi'leks, a pair of Gamoreans lurk in a doorway and rub noses. A pair of Trandoshans point up at the starbursts of light splitting the night, their child laughing, gripping their parent's head ridges, a Bothan leans doubled over in laughter at something his Rodian friend just said. But not everything at the festival is happy chaos, as two of you wind your way towards the Great Square, things become more subdued. Rainbow colors still fly, but now the sills and doorways are lined with low burning lanterns and small candles. Small make-shift altars line the streets, again and again a portrait of two women, one in the simple garb of a moisture farmer, the other in a gown and headdress befitting a queen. Some iterations are crude, stick drawings pressed into tiles of sun-baked clay, others are ornate, woven tapestries threaded through with gold, bright pigments painted on stretched, scraped bantha hide. “This is them," you say, "The lovers. The twin suns." A pavilion stands in the center of the Great Square, draped in gauzy white fabric and lit with small hanging lanterns. Fennec takes your hand and tugs you towards it. "It's a shadow-play," she says, "I've never seen one." "Me neither." The Rodian at the tent entrance greets you warmly, presses printed flimsy flyers into your palms, a playbill of sorts, the names of the puppeteers and voice actors in bleared ink. You toss a few credits in the basket marked "donations" and make your way inside. You and Fennec seat yourselves towards the back. Children and smaller species sit on cushions right in front of the parchment screen. The screen is framed with heavy fabric on all sides to block the light.A few more patrons drift in and then they hood the lanterns. Delicately cut and articulated paper puppets tell the tale. The voices and narration are done in Basic and Huttese, one following the other, but the story is simple. A princess and the daughter of a moisture farmer fall in love. They keep the affair a secret until the princess is betrothed to an Outworld royal to cement a political alliance. The shadow-puppets dance behind the screen, backlit by flickering lanterns. A dance as old as the galaxy. A princess ensconced in a tower, pining for her true love. A clever pauper who scales the tower and frees her princess in the moonlight. Lovers who ran across the wastes and were swallowed up by the sands. "Searchers spread for days," says the narrator, "But the great dunes had drunk everything down. The hot winds erased every footprint." On the flickering screen two cut-paper women hold each other and slowly sink beneath swaying ripples of sand and then the line of the screen itself. "The shifting stands of our world are unforgiving," says the narrator. The light behind the stage changes color to the pinks and violets of dawn, "But it is said that the love the farmer and the princess had for each other was so powerful that the old gods of rock and wind and dune rejected their deaths." The shadowed dunes shift and sway and the lovers rise from beneath them, the ornate puppets replaced by simpler shapes, no crown for the princess, no dusty robes for the farmer just two mirror images facing each other. "Their souls rose from beneath the dunes and were carried on the currents of the Force--" They rise, paper girls floating in an imaginary sky "--to the suns that shine upon our world--" And with this the paper women flash into red flame, a collective oooh from the audience, and two stars appear, the greater and lesser Suns, cut from some red material that the light shines through, filling the white tent with ruddy light, the color of blood, but also of life "--The Suns of Tatooine burn hot, because, even through ages long lost and forgotten, their love for each other remains strong. The warmth you feel after the long cold night, that is their warmth, their gift to you, and to all of us."

There is a beat of silence and then applause erupts. Your cheeks are wet with tears. The puppeteers and narrators emerge from behind the dark curtains and bow. You paw at your face, hoping Fennec doesn't notice, which is futile. Fennec notices everything. She puts her arm around you and squeezes, her eyes seeking yours. "You ok, Blue?" She asks, but she's not teasing at all this time, her face gives nothing but concern. "Yeah, I'm good," you say, "I never knew the whole story. It's really kriffing sad. I kinda knew what to expect, but still--" Fennec tugs you to your feet. You were so engrossed in the shadow-play that you didn't realize you were still holding her hand. "C'mon," says Fennec. Her eyes shine in the low light, but that little smile creeps across her face, "Let's get a couple more of those spotchka froths so we can cry into them." You snort laughter. "That sounds like a plan."

"Oh, kriff," Fennec's expletive snaps you back to reality. You'd been lost in the music, grooving out to the horns, dancing because you wanted to and not because some sleemo holding the end of your chain expected it, moving your body in the way it wants to move. Fennec sounds scared and you are instantly a shade more sober. "Oh, kriff what?" "Kanjiklub," she says, and jerks her head towards the other side of the street, a trio of armed roughs argue loudly with a vendor, "They've got a price on my head. They see me, I'm dead." She pulls you into a shadowed doorway, "Quick, kiss me like you mean it!" You press your mouth to hers, flick at her lower lip with your tongue and she opens for you. The kiss is slow and languid, the gentle slide of your tongues, the plush heat of her mouth, the soft sounds she makes in the back of her throat. You cup her cheek, the pad of your thumb stroking the faint scars there. Her fingers brush the length of a lek, the faintest of touches but enough to light you up. You push her into the wall and kiss her harder. When you break the kiss, the two of you stand, foreheads pressed together, arms wound around each other, your chests heaving in tandem. "Hey Fen?" You breathe against her lips. "Yeah, Blue?" "I think..." you press your lips to hers again, a chaste kiss that she smiles into, "I think I meant it." "I think I meant it too," says Fennec, "How about we go home and do something about it?" "Yeah, let's go home. Just keep any eye out for those Kanjiklub goons." "What Kanjiklub goons?" She smirks and you huff. "Menace." "Your menace."

@honestly-shite , @draper-bobbie, @artemiseamoon

#writer wednesday #fennec shand x f!reader #fennec shand x f!twi'lek reader

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fett-djarin · 4 years ago

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Anything

this bitch done YEET

anyway this is Boba Fett x f!Reader! I had this idea kicking around for awhile and shit finally came together and i was able to get it done!

Rating: 18+

Length: 4.1k

Warnings/Tags: SMUT, canon-typical violence (not in the smut), PiV intercourse, unprotected sex, fingering, riding, throne sex come get yalls juice, multiple orgasms, creampie, spanking, slight cockwarming?, pet names, swearing

NSFW BELOW THE CUT!

Boba Fett was an enigma. He intimidated you, intrigued you--but he didn’t scare you. Boba could be violent, occasionally cruel, but only to those who had earned his ire. You had nothing to fear.

You still remember the day he stormed into Jabba’s palace, a wrathful spectre on a mission. You had been afraid you would be caught in the crossfire, an exchange of possession through violence. But then your chains were blasted apart, scum of men dying around you instead of finding your own demise. Instead of fleeing like the other girls, you dove towards a dropped blaster and levelled it at one of the smugglers putting up a fight. This particular one had been a thorn in your side for a long time. You’d be lying if you said you felt no satisfaction watching him fall lifeless from your well-placed blaster bolt.

“Nice shot,” the woman--Fennec, you had come to learn--commented. You had turned in a panic, pointing the blaster in her direction, her own rifle coming up in an instant, aimed squarely at your head.

“Easy, girl,” the Mandalorian--Boba--had said. “We have no interest in fighting you.”

“If you mean to sell me again,” you spat, “it would be easier to kill me now.” Your fingers flexed on the blaster, and you tried to steady your shaking hands. Fennec’s aim hadn’t faltered.

“Stand down, Shand,” Fett directed the sharpshooter, who immediately lowered her weapon. He then addressed you again. “I don’t deal in flesh.” You slowly dropped your arm. “What’s your name, girl?”

That had been...a few standard months ago, now. Boba ran his syndicate under a tight fist. He had no use for slaves, and had told you you were free, even offered you credits to return home. Some of the others took his offer. You had opted to stay--your birth planet had nothing to offer you, and you did not want to try your luck as a newly freed woman with nothing to your name on Tatooine. You didn’t even have a name, really. You were called something different each time you moved; your birthname was no longer you. That person had died long ago.

“Call me anything,” you had told Boba. “I don’t mind.”

He thought for a minute, and then decided. “Mayen.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of you. The gruff, seemingly serious man had a sense of humor. Mayen--Mando’a for ‘anything.’ His lips quirked in a sly smirk. You liked it. Mayen it was.

“You know Mando’a?” He had asked.

“I’ve picked up things here and there,” you smiled in return.

He later on told you that you could pick your own name, you had no obligation to go by the silly pun he called you. But you had a sense of humor, and actually liked how it sounded. It was a new beginning. You decided you would keep it.

You knew quite a few languages, or bits and pieces you heard over the years. Boba had hired you as a translator, and you accompanied him to meetings with traders, smugglers, and pirates. He didn’t allow any of them to harass you. If they so much as leered in your direction, they tended to lose a few fingers or teeth, either by your hand or his. At Boba’s insistence, you now carried a blaster and a vibroblade. Fennec had been showing you how to properly aim and shoot so you could better protect yourself. He had gifted you the vibroblade as part of your payment.

Yes, Boba Fett was a hard man, but you appreciated his kindness.

His scars added to his imposing figure, and you often found yourself wondering about their origin. What he must have gone through for his skin to be marked so. You also wondered about how stupid some people could be--Mandalorians were legendary warriors, and Boba Fett had some infamy connected to his name, yet fools still picked fights they were destined to lose. His armor impressed you--and the dark stare of the T-visor when he looked your way always had something low and warm stirring in your belly.

It didn’t help that sometimes he would watch while you practiced with your blade. Your heart thundered in your ears the first time he came up behind you, chest to your back, and moved your arms into the correct defensive position. His boot also nudged your stance wider, centering your weight. It’s part of training, you told yourself. You prayed he didn’t notice the heat in your face or the way you refused to look at him. Stars, if you turned your head you could kiss him--

What could you say? He was a handsome man.

Occasionally he offered to spar with you, which was laughable. The first time you had outright refused. “I don’t want to die, thanks,” you said.

“You’re gonna have to face people bigger and stronger than you sometimes, princess,” he said the endearment mockingly.

“Most people aren’t Boba Fett.”

“You’re right about that. Still, come on, show me what you’ve learned.”

Your first fight ended miserably in about three seconds. You gave him a pointed look that said I-told-you-so, and he just shrugged. “Not bad for your first time.” Sparring became regular.

“You’re quicker than me. Use that to your advantage, stay out of my reach. Strike and retreat.”

“Arms up, but keep ‘em close--protect your body.”

“Stagger your stance, distribute your weight. Make it harder for people to knock you down.”

“Move with confidence--this is not the time to falter.”

His words of advice came with each session and stuck. After a few weeks, you could hold your own for a minute against Fett. Then five minutes. Then your sparring was like a coordinated, aggressive dance, blades flashing and deflected, ducking, dodging, weaving, spinning around each other. Once, you had even managed to disarm him, knocking the blade from his hand--you both froze in stunned surprise before Boba recovered and had you pinned to the floor in an instant.

“Very good.” He said from his place atop your legs, pride curling darkly through his voice. “But next time, press the advantage. You freeze, you die.” Now you froze for an entirely different reason--his weight on top of you caused something hot and wanting to smolder in you, his thumb gently stroking the hollow of your throat making your breath hitch. And then he was off you, pulling you back to your feet with ease.

You still couldn’t beat him--you don’t think you would ever be capable of that. The best bounty hunter in the galaxy against you? You much prefer being on his good side.

Boba had just returned from a recent bounty hunt alongside a fellow Mandalorian, having left you and Fennec at the palace. You had been helping her sort through the datalogs and contraband left behind from the previous occupants when he appeared, moving surprisingly silent for such a broad, imposing man.

“Mayen,” he called you, and you looked at him over your shoulder, having been preoccupied cataloguing the contents of the crate in front of you. He was still in his armor, adding to his bulk. The green-painted beskar gave nothing away. “I’ve got a meeting. You’ll be needed. Fennec, I sent you scouting information on the next bounty.”

You nodded, and with your acknowledgment, he turned and strode back towards the throne room. Fennec stood, brushing sand off her pants. “Careful,” Fennec warned. “Keep your blaster close. You never know how these meetings will turn out.” She patted you on the shoulder.

“Got it,” you said, adjusting your tunic so she could see the holster on your hip. It would be the first time she wasn’t there alongside you while Boba arranged deals with crime lords. Sometimes Boba would go in alone, or the both of you would attend. “Trained by the best.”

She cracked a smile at that. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to track down our next target.” She exited the storage room opposite of the way Boba went.

You gathered yourself, then followed after Boba. Entering the throne room was daunting, as the traders he was meeting with were already there and turned to stare. A few of them openly looked you up and down. Your eyes were fixed solely on Boba lounging on the throne, legs spread, seemingly completely at ease and exuding power. You strode past the group of men come to bargain, refusing to look away from the void of Boba's visor that tracked your movement. One of them muttered something as you passed that you couldn't make out, but it had not sounded pleasant. You took your place at Boba's side.

"Boba Fett, the legendary bounty hunter back from the dead," a wiry human man stepped forward, rubbing his hands together. His grin was more of a baring of teeth. "Now that you run this joint, I have a few propositions to consider--"

Since he was speaking Basic, you have to admit, you tuned out. You watched the two Twi’leks that had accompanied him, who kept throwing glances your way, murmuring to themselves. Something about them put you on edge. Of course, you never trusted the people who came to do business with Boba, but you liked this group even less.

You translated for a Rodian bounty hunter when it was his turn to speak. You noticed the Twi'leks and the first human had been getting antsy, shifting from foot to foot and continuing to eye you and Boba. The Twi'leks had never come forward. They spelled trouble. You were tense the entire time, but they reached an agreement and left without trouble.

Boba on the throne was a sight. Your mind wandered, wondering what it would be like to sit on his lap, straddle his strong thighs. You shook your head to clear it as Boba cleared his throat, drawing your attention.

"Go get some rest, little one." And with that, you were dismissed.

You touched yourself thinking of him that night. Imagining it was his fingers instead of yours bringing you to your peak. You bit your fist as you came, muffling your moans and preventing you from calling his name out into the night.

The next day, he had gone out once again. When he returned, you noted his armor had some new scratches, some of the fresh green paint chipped away. He beckoned you forward with a wave, following him to the throne room. He sat with a heavy sigh. You stood before him, waiting for his direction, when he removed his helmet and set it aside. There was a new cut on his cheek, dried blood sticking to his skin.

"You're hurt," you said, stepping forward. Boba grunted noncommittally in response, reaching into a pouch on his belt and pulling out a small container of bacta.

"Use this," his voice was gravelly and he tossed the container to you. He...wanted you to put the bacta on him? Your pulse kicked up. But you would do as he asked.

You unscrewed the lid, swiping your finger through the gel. "What happened?" You asked as you spread it as gently as you could over the cut.

"Those hunters from yesterday," he sighed. "Thought they could catch me unaware out in the dunes. Their last mistake." He chuckled. "This was really the only hit I took," he gestured to the cut along his cheek. You had finished spreading the bacta, but your hand still lingered. You were entranced, being this close to him. Your thumb mindlessly caressed his cheekbone.

"Mayen," he said your name. You met his eyes, the heat in his gaze taking you by surprise. He always had fire and fight in him, but this wasn't like that. It was wanting. Boba grasped your wrist of the hand that still held his face, his other coming up to cup the back of your head.

Then you were kissing him.

You don't know if you leaned down or if he pulled you down or if he leaned up or if it even mattered, all you cared about was his rough lips against yours. When you gasped into it, he took the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth. Boba's kisses were all consuming, overwhelming--he demanded all of you, and wouldn't accept any less.

He leaned back, bringing you with him so you had no choice but to straddle his lap or be pulled off-balance. You settled along his thighs, sighing as you could now grind your center against his stiffening member. He nipped your bottom lip, breaking away to press kisses down your throat.

“Tell me, sweetheart…” he murmured, worrying a mark into the delicate skin of your neck.

You whined, rolling your hips against his. His hands clamped down like durasteel around your hips, stilling you. “Tell me. We stop if you say so.”

“I want you, Boba,” you gasped, and he rewarded you with another hickey sucked into your neck. He guided your hips back into a slow grind, thrusting up against you. The layers of clothes between you dulled the sensation, but warm waves of pleasure still radiated through you. You cradled his jaw, bringing his lips back to yours, before trailing your palms down his chest. You pawed at his chestplate and robes, making him chuckle.

“Eager, aren’t we?” he teased you lightly. You squeaked when he pinched your ass. “Take this off, princess.” His hands slid up under your tunic, running up and down your sides before caressing your breasts.

You lifted your arms, helping him slide your shirt over your head. Instinctively, your arms came down to cover yourself, but Boba tutted at you. “Don’t get shy on me now, mesh’la. Let me see you.” He murmured in your ear before lightly nipping the lobe, sending shivers down your spine. He encouraged you to put your hands back on his chest. You whined against him, need building in your core as he undid your bindings and continued to guide your hips in a deep grind.

Boba’s fingers crept along the waistband of your pants before diving inside. You moaned as they landed on your clit. “This wet already? Someone’s a needy little thing.” You felt your face heat at his teasing accompanied by his rough fingers circling your clit built you up even more. You hid your face in his shoulder, grinding against his hand for more of that raw pleasure. Boba suddenly pressed hard against your clit in a tight circle, making you cry out loudly and grip his robes for dear life.

“Boba, please,” you whined, lips tracing his throat, his jaw, wherever you could reach. You brought your own hand down to cup him through his pants, running your hand along his bulge. He cursed lightly in your ear as you gently squeezed him.

“Up,” he said, patting your ass. You stood, taking the opportunity to shimmy out of your pants and panties. He lounged back against the throne, taking in your form. You didn’t cover yourself this time. “Good girl. Come here.” You stepped between his spread knees and he took you by the elbow, pulling you down and turning you so your back was pressed to his chest and your legs were spread by his own. His touch returned to your clit, sliding through your slick folds to tease your entrance. You pressed your ass back against his hardness and he groaned.

His arm banded around your waist as he finally slid a finger into your dripping entrance. You gasped, head falling back to rest on his shoulder. When he introduced a second one, you began to squirm. The stretch was so good as his fingers slid within you, curling and pressing into that perfect spot that sent you soaring. You were practically riding his hand, your hips circling as his fingers moved faster and faster.

“Oh,” you gasped as he added a third, legs trembling. Your hand shot to his where it was locked around your middle, holding you against him, while your other curled up and back, turning his head so you could kiss him. Boba found that spot in you that made you clench tight around him and zeroed in with deadly precision. You felt him grin smugly against your lips as your breathing stuttered. “Boba!”

“Look at you, so desperate for my fingers. Squeezin’ me so tight, sweetheart, can’t wait to feel you around my cock.”

You found yourself teetering at the edge of release. You turned your head, burying your nose in Boba’s neck. “Please, Boba, g’nna cum, please--” you gasped out. It was a good thing he held you to him, else you would have been bucking off his lap.

“Cum on my fingers, cyar’ika.”

Your mouth opened in a silent moan as you tipped over the edge of orgasm, cumming hard around Boba’s fingers. Your cunt flooded with wetness, the lewd sound of his fingers thrusting into you becoming even wetter. If he hadn’t been holding you to his chest you would have doubled over with the devastating pulses of pleasure rocking through you from your center. He continued working you through it until you whined, pushing at his hand that still moved between your thighs, need building up in you again.

Boba brought his fingers up to his mouth and you moaned at the sight of him sucking and licking them clean of your arousal. “Taste so sweet,” he said. “Open.” You opened your mouth, and he slid his fingers inside. Obediently, you sucked on them, swirling your tongue around his fingers like you would his cock. Boba groaned. "Dirty girl."

He withdrew his fingers from your mouth and you begged. "Want your cock, please, Boba--please fuck me, please--"

"Hush, needy pet. You'll get what you want." He bit your neck, the sharp pinpricks fading into a warm buzz that made you squirm, wiggling your hips on his lap. Boba reached down between you two and shifted himself out of his robes, sliding his cock against your soaked folds. You looked down and Maker, he was thick. You were suddenly glad he made you take three fingers--you hoped you would be able to take his cock.

He rutted against you, his cock sliding through your folds and pulling breathless little gasps from you each time his head nudged your clit. Each slick drag of him against your lips coated his cock in your wetness. Boba evidently grew tired of teasing you, because he urged you up and took hold of the base of his cock, guiding it to your dripping entrance. You moaned at the feeling of his thick tip splitting you open, sinking down the first inch.

Boba's hand came around to rub little circles on your clit, making you jerk against him, his other hand caging you in by your hip. Slowly, he encouraged you to sit back on his lap, the thick drag and push of his cock working inch-by-inch deeper into you. Stars, you felt him in your fucking guts. Your thighs trembled, and when your ass touched his lap you nearly sobbed from how full you felt.

"Look at that," he murmured into your hair. "Takin' me so well, princess. Feels fucking good, doesn't it?" You clenched around him at his words, making him choke off a moan. He rubbed your clit a tick faster just to feel you spasm around him again and he laughed at your high gasp of pleasure.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, it was too good--that ache, the raw sparks shooting down your legs and up your spine. Shifting the slightest bit pushed him right up something devastating inside you and you couldn't stop the wrecked moan that tore from your throat. Boba gave an experimental thrust and you nearly shrieked and lurched off of him, if he hadn't grabbed a hold of your hips and held you on his lap. You babbled senselessly, too overwhelmed as every ridge of his cock pressed your walls just right. "B-Boba, Boba, move, please--"

His big hand slapped your inner thigh and this time you did wail, the hot sting fading into a pleasant, buzzing warmth. His fingers dug in to the soft flesh hard enough that you knew there would be bruises in the shape of his fingers come morning. Then he lifted you slightly off him, cock sliding only a few inches out, before pulling you down in time with a thrust upwards, burying himself in you with a deep grind. You let out a choked moan, stars bursting behind your eyelids.

"Ride," he demanded. Your breath hitched as you scrambled for purchase, hands going to his strong thighs for support. It was sort of an awkward position, your feet barely touching the floor, requiring you to go on your tiptoes to pull a few inches off his cock. Boba's thick fingers cupped your pussy in a V shape, so every time you rose and fell they rolled against your clit. You couldn't tell if you wanted to push your hips back away or forward for more stimulation.

He slapped your other thigh this time, rubbing to soothe the sting, encouraging you to bounce on his cock faster. Your breath was coming in high, moaning pants as each drop of your hips buried him deep inside you, reaching places you never had and lighting up your nerves like a star gone supernova. Paired with his touch teasing your clit with every thrust, you weren't going to last long.

Boba's hands on your hips guided you faster, rougher--each downstroke hitting deep and holding you there for a second just to feel how full, how stuffed your pussy was of him. His thrusts up as you dropped down allowed his cock to hit your g-spot dead on, over and over. You felt yourself rhythmically clenching around him, heard his groans as your cunt strangled his cock, and you were so close to cumming again. The feeling coiled up at the base of your spine, the pleasure winding tighter and higher and ready to burst.

And then--then Boba hooked his hands under your knees, pulling your legs up so all your weight rested on where he was buried in you, and he slipped another inch further inside. You couldn't stop the sob of pleasure as he held you like this, open for him to take, and he set a punishing pace. The dull slap of skin-on-skin paired with the wet gush of your arousal around him, dripping down his balls and onto the throne, made your head tip back onto his shoulder and wrenched moan after moan out of you.

You were talking, babbling nonsense--begging, pleading for him to make you cum again. Boba tilted his hips just right and you keened as it pushed his cock right against the soft spot along your walls. Each thrust shoved you closer to the edge right until that coil inside you snapped. Your legs shook and your pussy clamped down so hard around Boba's cock that it stunted him to short, shallow thrusts as you rode it out. You distantly heard him groaning, praising you, telling you good girl, good fuckin' girl--you were spasming around him, each jolt of pleasure like a white-hot knife radiating from your core to your toes. Boba kept fucking you through it and you nearly begged him to stop--it was too much, the bite of overstimulation burning your nerves--when he pulled you down, fucking into you as deep as he could and he came with a groan of your name, cock throbbing as his release coated your walls.

Somehow, you ended up turned, face buried in his neck and legs wrapped around his waist as you trembled and caught your breath. His hands trailed up and down your spine and thighs in soothing motions as you came back down. You sighed and cuddled closer to him, the hard beskar plating cold against your bare skin, but it felt good on your overheated body.

"Made quite a mess on me, sweetheart," he said, deep voice rumbling in his chest under your ear. You just mmm'd and clung closer to him while he chuckled. It was true. Your arousal coated your thighs, dripped down onto the throne, soaked Boba's cock where it was still buried in you. Boba pulled his robe around you and stood, supporting you with his hands under your thighs. "Come on, little one, let's go to bed." You closed your eyes as he made his way out of the throne room and through the palace. He didn't drop you off in your bedroom, instead taking you to his and laying you in the spacious bed before stripping off his armor and joining you.

#boba fett x reader #boba x reader #star wars fanfic #star wars fanfiction #star wars #fanfic #fanfiction #the mandalorian #reader insert #no y/n #boba fett x you #boba x you #my writing

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