#he would DIE for boba fr fr

[ayyy-pee]

i feel like Satoru is the type to like dogs, but not wanna adopt one. especially a puppy. he doesn't want any more responsibility in his life than he already has. puppies need attention, affection and time that he just can't give to anyone but you these days...

...but he literally can't say no to you so he lets you anyway. and you adopt this cutie pie little puppy with big, round brown eyes that stare up at you and she's just so cute you can't breathe.

you name her boba, and she loves Satoru

and Satoru loves to pretend he couldn't care less about "the dog" as he refers to her. but over time, you start to find little things around the house that say otherwise.

a new toy here and there, squeaking loudly when it's only you and boba home (you find out they were hidden on Satoru's side of your shared closet) you confront Satoru about it and he vehemently denies getting "the dog" anything.

then there's very specific and very expensive treats that show up on the kitchen counter one day. and after having just a taste, boba is hooked and will no longer accept any other treats but those. Satoru shrugs when you ask about it then changes the subject.

there's the lavender colored collar that shows up around boba's neck one morning with a new heart shaped name tag and charm attached that jingles when she trots around the house. and apparently nobody knows where that came from either.

but the cherry on top is the day you come home late from work and find Satoru curled up on the couch, sleeping peacefully with the dog he never wanted snuggled tightly in his arms 💕

[calixcem]

Some post Tsc thoughts! spoilers under the cut :)

I have so many annotations in this book. (668 to be exact), so im just grazing the surface of everything with this one sooo part 1 perhaps?

-Kevin and jean. Jeans unrequited crush on kevin. I need to know more about this and I hope Nora delves into the semantics in the next book.

-Also how this relates to Kevin day famously saying it was easier to be straight. I figured this was a common thought among the ravens or at least Riko’s court,but Jean doesn't mention it once throughout the entire book. He brings up his attraction towards men multiple times ,and there was never any denying it. It was just something he accepted, so how did Kevin get the idea that it was easier to be straight and Jean didn't? Did Jean ever think this way and eventually changed it down the line or what?

-Im a sucker for found family and Nora really delivered with this one. Laila,Cat, and Jeremy are making it known to Jean that they’ll always be there and genuinely want to help him. The dynamic between all of them is so tender and I think it’ll be so healing for Jean. 

-Also I hope we see more of the floozy squad in the next book! 

-I need them to convince Jean to try boba at some point, and i really hope his relationship with food gets better. I really love that he’s cooking with cat and I really hope it develops into one of his hobbies outside of Exy. Let this boy live a little!

-speaking of hobbies: Cat teaching Jean how to ride a motorcycle?? I just feel like it would be beneficial(not to Jeremy’s heart but thats ok) 

-This specific moment with cat and jean 

she ran down to the tide to rinse it off with childish glee. Jean obediently inspected it when she brought it back, and she tucked it into his breast pocket with a cheerful “For you!”

Small things like this just really show how much they care about him.

- What’s up with Jeremy's family?? I really want to know what happened to where Jeremy “tore them apart” like what was the scandal his freshman year??? It was mentioned briefly but then Jeremy just decided it wasn't worth mentioning again considering all that was going on? The biggest “im fine” in history fr. Also when Cat is telling Jean about everyone’s siblings she mentions how when you go over 4 kids there's bound to be one asshole, but she only listed 4. So did one of his siblings die?? I might be reading too far into this but! Or it could be that one of them cut off all ties to the family after something happened? I don't know but I’m excited to read more about it in the next book!

Jeremy has—three. One sister, two brothers. The older brother’s an absolute tool, but there’s bound to be a jerk or two once you pass four kids.” Jean idly wondered what she’d changed at the last minute and why,

- The constant touches everyone gives Jean to ground him and make him feel loved just makes me so happy. 

- also jean constantly touching jeremy’s chin to get his attention??? Hello? 

A hand on his chin startled him into looking up. When he met Jean’s eyes, Jean only said, “Focus on what’s important.” “I am,” Jeremy said. Jean opened his mouth, closed it again, and let go of Jeremy without a word. Jeremy snagged his arm when he started to turn away. “Who did this to you?”

This line in particular really hit me.

-just jerejean in general honestly. The way Jeremy genuinely cares about him and wanting to help him heal 

You are going to be my success story: Jean Moreau the person, not Jean Moreau of the perfect Court.

“Will you help me?” he asked. “Anything you need.” “A blank check is a dangerous thing to offer.” “Try me,” Jeremy said. “I can afford it.”

-neil. Bro was just being a menace and seeing him from an outsiders pov makes me realize just how unhinged he seems to everyone. But him ordering that hit on Grayson without a second thought? Iconic. As everyone else is saying he dropped by to serve cunt and then left. 

-Jean dropping the most poetic line about Neil and Andrew’s relationship and then just not thinking about it ever again is so wild lmao.

Jean noticed how Andrew and Neil moved like they were caught in each other’s gravity, in each other’s space more than they were out of it, cigarette smoke and matching armbands and lingering looks when one fell out of orbit for too long.

-The parallels between Jean and Neil and how they dealt with things. I don't know if you can really call some of them parallels but they are connected in my head bro. 

-JEANS SISTER. Oh this shit hurts from the faint memory we get to the end when we find out that she's dead??? Nora you're paying for my therapy oh my god. And when Jean is mourning her the snippet of the memory of stitching up her dress that she’d get caught in the blackberry bushes???? He genuinely loved her and just when he’d be getting to a point to where he’d feel safe enough to try to get in contact with her again to find out his parents sold her off and she died because of it???? Yeah bitch burn your family to the ground. I hope we get more memories with her in them. 

[miyagi-hokarate]

(Shows up late with boba tea) WHAT A SEASON AMIRITE FELLAS?

Random assortment of season 6 part 1 thoughts:

(tl;dr: not a lot of satisfaction with this season for me. Lots of spoilers and sarcasm under the cut ahfksjfjdkg. )

we still haven't gotten that goddamn fun Lawrusso spar 😩

Okay jokes aside, I'm...not a fan of this season :/

A lot of things felt off, like the characters (more on that specifically later) to the plot progression

Of the things I liked, Sam and Tory's developing relationship — especially them having a dialogue together — was incredibly refreshing and felt good to see grow!

Tory's character in general surprised me and it felt much stronger than in previous seasons!!! Of all the potential flashbacks, a Tory-centered one was serendipitous

I also liked that Robby won the role of being team leader!! Much of his character had been centered on guidance, both receiving and giving it, and it makes the most sense narratively to give him that ultimate chance to prove himself as a leader, being one who is meant to be one half to represent the skill and prowess of his dojo

As FRUSTRATING as some things were; Daniel and Johnny butting heads, Devon doing everything in her power to earn her spot in the Sekai Taikai (even resorting to cheating), Tory lashing out after the loss of her mother; these were all to me understandable conflicts that didn't feel forced or like pulling teeth (especially Tory. I'm so sorry girl 🫂)

RETURN OF SHAWWWWN

DUTCH MENTION!!!!!!

AISHA MENTION!!!!!!

Okay...hater moment fr now...

A lot of everything else I have some problem with or feel strongly indifferent to; the Sekai Taikai (but there's no stopping that, so I'm just :/ whatever), Mr. Miyagi's secret, Daniel and Johnny butting heads (yes, I know, repeating myself...), Johnny in general, everything about the fucking baby, everything about Sensei Kim and her students. Arhagrggagrggfhgh

AS I FEARED, I'm not a fan of the contents and fallout of Mr. Miyagi's secret box. Oh great, Mr. Miyagi's dark secret was that he committed crimes and was involved with the Sekai Taikai or something. What shock. I can't believe Mr. Miyagi hurt people and hide that from Daniel. Can you hear my thick and heavy sarcasm.

I don't know if the rest of the fandom had learned to love the Big Twist or whatever, but I still don't see that box as anything more than a cheap plot twist. Its existence is practically pointless with what we, the audience, and Daniel know about Mr. Miyagi; we KNOW he's already hurt people in his dark and mysterious past, even people who may not have deserved it. He was drafted into war by the US army because the country would rather Mr. Miyagi would die as a soldier than live as an American for god's sake. Mr. Miyagi is already weighed by the horrors of his actions — actions Daniel himself had learned that didn't make Mr. Miyagi a villain, or a hero, or a tale of woe; they were all done by a man who was human, who made mistakes and who felt regret in his actions. Am I shocked that Mr. Miyagi could have committed crimes in the interim years between internment and The Karate Kid? No, but it feels transparent that the purpose of Mr. Miyagi's box has more to do with the twist of him participating in the Sekai Taikai than anything as profound as what has already been Mr. Miyagi's backstory introduced in The Karate Kid

What is there to say about Daniel and Johnny that hasn't been said already. This is like their hundredth karate divorce. Pick another method of foreplay it's getting old

There were parts that I actually commend Johnny for reacting maturely for; cooperating with Daniel and Chozen about the dojo name; keeping his temper in check when the realtor insults him; but MAN does no one fumble the ball as hard as Johnny does otherwise. Not all of it is painfully incomprehensible, but Jesus what was up with him this season. You have a baby (💀) coming your way. Act like it

Speaking of the baby 😒 I still don't like it. It just...it's still such a disappointing way to try and progress the characters of Johnny, Carmen, Miguel, Robby, etc. That opening shot of that fucking onesie was despicable. It's watching Miguel and Robby smile and laugh through this wackass development still. It's watching Johnny seemingly preparing for a growing family in spite of the countless evidence to everything that would make him ill-prepared. It's the fact Carmen is stuck being Mom of Miguel, Love Interest of Johnny, and now Mom of this new kid. Carmen ESPECIALLY gets the short end of the goddamn stick in terms of characterization regarding this, because she barely has any 😩😩 I know it's too late to be complaining about this baby but AUGH. I hate this

Another thing I hate is how WEIRD Cobra Kai is with its Asian characters — with Sensei Kim, Master Kim, their students, and (I can't believe I'm saying this) Kyler in particular. The show has always had this problem, with the double standards of Kyler stuck as a static bully character while others are allowed to grow nuance and development and abusive Dragon Lady Sensei Kim, but the introduction of Korean Fu Manchu in the form of Master Kim and a mass of intimidating and equally nameless karate students training ruthlessly in the blue-tinted woods of South Korea really hammer in the odd racial subtext

In a similar topic, did anyone else find it incredibly weird how Kyler was made to eat off the floor by those frat bros? I don't know if I'm reading too much into it, but it felt uncomfortable on such a different level than any other method of bullying shown in the show. It's never said why the frat bros target Kyler so much, and the only difference I could really make of is how Kyler easily defers to follow if in the face of aggressive leadership. And that he's Asian

I fucking hate that US flag mohawk and I am so mad that Eli is allowed to represent Miyagi-Do Karate in that goddawful thing I am being so serious right now

I'm sure I have other thoughts floating in my head that I can't recall, but here these are ahfjakdhjajd. I wish I could say I'm excited for part 2 arriving this November, but in much of the same way, the strongest emotion I feel is Dread

[handspunyarns]

You Were Marked: Day Fourteen (Din).

pairing: din djarin x fem!O/C 

word count: 6.8K 

chapter summary: Grogu teaches Din a game, Din requires privacy, and the Armorer has words with Din. 

warnings:  angst, sexual situations, male masturbation and fantasizing, mention of suicide ideation, stomach illness, Mando'a and English cursing 

***Please feel free to comment, kvetch, or otherwise speak your mind about my work. ***    

You Were Marked: Masterlist 

<- You Were Marked: Previous Chapter 

Din appropriated his jetpack back from Boba so he and Grogu would not have to ride the rattletrap speeder back to Peli’s.  Boba was satisfied that Din had recovered enough from his concussion that he was no longer a menace to the skies.  He touched down in Peli’s yard without stumbling — for once – and walked alongside his old ship, the Crest, trailing a hand along the fuselage.  A pit droid crossed his path and he fought the urge to kick it sideways.  The pit droid, already knowledgeable of the opinion of the irascible Mandalorian, skittered away quickly. 

“Well, if it isn’t Mando and my favorite little tadpole!”  Peli was walking towards him, shielding her eyes from the rising twin suns.  Grogu cooed at the bushy-headed woman.  “Going somewhere?” she asked. 

“Heading to Nevarro for a couple days.” 

“Your lady friend doing better?”  Din did not answer, but set the side ramp of the Crest to open. “Well, does she have a name at least?” 

Before Din could answer, Grogu piped up, shouting, “Mahr! Mahr! Mahr!”  

Peli grinned.  “So Mahr is the lady friend, huh?” 

“Patu Mahr!” Grogu squealed. 

Din blushed under his helmet.  “She’s not my … lady fr ...” 

“Mahr Patu!” 

“Dank ferrik, Grogu …” 

Peli laughed.  “Well, Little Bug has an opinion on that, it seems.   Go on, get outta here; the sooner you leave, the sooner you get back to your Mahr.” 

“It’s … ah … Marathel.  Her name is Marathel,” Din stammered before he rushed up the ramp with Grogu. 

Peli stepped back out of range and watched the ship take off and head out into the atmosphere.  She chuckled, and said to herself, “Not my lady friend, my fat ass.” 

Din got the Crest off Tatooine without out a hitch; his muscle memory and smooth handling was back under control.  As he was setting coordinates for Nevarro, he looked over his shoulder at Grogu, sitting in the aft chair with a smug look on his little wrinkled face.  Din sighed.  “Seriously?  Patu Mahr?”  Grogu squealed with glee.  Din shook his head and turned back to the console.  Not that the idea of Patu Mahr was a bad one, but … how could that even work?  He — and now Grogu by extension — flew all over the damn galaxy, and Marathel could only thrive outdoors in the sunshine and fresh air.  Even having a closed door frightened her.  Locking her up in a metal box in the vacuum of space?  Impossible.  

She’s not even well yet, you osi’kovid.  And you’re also assuming she will have anything to do with you, considering what’s been done to her. 

He had to admire her, though; she’d managed to survive, even with all the odds stacked against her.  The medical practices the rest of the galaxy used had little to no effect on her, yet she still lived.   Although … he’d heard her tell Fennec that she didn’t want to. 

Would you want to, after what she endured? 

But she went in willingly, knowing fully what she faced.   

And you know what that means … She was prepared to die before she walked through that gate.  She’s wanted to die possibly for longer than you’ve known her. 

Now that made Din pause.  He knew he walked a fine line between life and death most days and had mentally prepared for his end since before he took the helmet.  He’d stood beside his brothers and sisters, pledging to die alongside them with honor when that moment came.  The very notion of being so far down in mental misery that death was preferable to living was beyond his comprehension.  He thought back to what she’d told Grogu — he could hear perfectly what she’d told him; his helmet was excessively useful when it worked. 

She told Grogu to grow up to be kind.  And to take care of me, for I needed Grogu more than he needed me.   

Din watched the striations of the stars in hyperspace.  He thought back to when she and Grogu were digging out clams.  Day Six. It had started out terribly with the nightmares and simply got worse. 

‘I will be nowhere.’ 

Din realized with a start that she didn’t mean the planet Unmanarall, the Oldtalk word for Nowhere.  She meant gone from this existence. 

She told Fennec that she would rather live as a Belwhyn for one day and die, than live as a Whyn. 

Haar’chak, what do those words mean? 

Din sighed.  He could hear Grogu climbing down from the aft chair with a little grunt.  Out of the corner of his visor he saw two little hands reaching up towards the console.  Without looking, Din dropped the throttle knob into Grogu’s waiting hands, and followed it up with one of the better ration bars.  Grogu pouted — he was already missing Marathel’s cooking just as much as Din — but he took the bar anyway, and hefted himself back into the aft chair, munching away as he looked out the view screen.  Din put his feet up on the console, relaxed, happy to be back in space.  Din’s sleep schedule — such as it was — was still off, and since he was still recovering from his concussions, he nodded off quite quickly.  Almost immediately, he began to dream.  And of course, he dreamed of Marathel.   

It was just a gentle dream of her, sitting still, outside somewhere, the sun illuminating her from behind, and her hair was caught in the wind, billowing across her face, obscuring her features.  Her eyes would slowly shift up to look at him, but right before their eyes would lock on each other, her position would change, as if her image was on a stuttering holo-disk message, and her eyes would be far away again.  Her face looked serene early in his dream, but looked more and more distressed as the dream went on.  The last image he caught of her, she was hunched over as she sat, her arms crossed over her chest, her hands clutching her shoulders, her knees tightly held together.  Her head raised up to look at him, and he could see tears on her cheeks, but the image stuttered again, and Din suddenly woke up.  He caught his breath, hoping that the dream was not a portent of doom, that Marathel was all right, then deciding that Fennec or Cobb would contact him if something was wrong. 

Checking the console, Din saw that he had been asleep for a good couple hours.  He wondered if Grogu had been awake and alone that whole time.  The idea concerned Din; he’d rather be awake when the boy was to at least be interacting with him.  Din wondered idly if a nanny wouldn’t be a good idea, and then wondered why he should engage a nanny when he had Marathel.  He then reminded himself he in no way had Marathel; her recovery was still in the early days yet.  And then beyond her recovery … 

One kriffing thing at a kriffing time, remember? 

Din got up from his chair, stretching.  He turned to see if Grogu was still in the cockpit; he wasn’t.  Din could hear squeaks down in the main part of the ship, so he climbed down the ladder and saw Grogu running in circles.  Grogu looked up and squealed at Din’s presence.  Grogu ran up to Din, jumped up and down, and then took off, running away.  Din stood still and watched him go.  Grogu stopped and looked at Din expectantly.  Din tilted his helmet.  Grogu looked down with a harumph, and then ran back to Din, jumped again, and took off again. Din watched, confused.  “What is it you want me to do, kid?”  Grogu stopped running, and looked back at Din, frowning.  “I don’t get it,” said Din. Grogu grunted and stomped all the way back to Din.  Glaring at Din’s helmet, Grogu jumped up and down.  “Okay,” said Din.  Grogu turned away but looked over his shoulder.  “Uh-huh,” said Din.  Grogu lifted his leg, as if he were going to start running again.  “Did you want me to chase you?” 

Grogu threw up his little hands.  “Mee-YAH!” he shouted, and he began to run.  Okay, then, thought Din, and he gave chase. The two ran back and forth, up and down the corridor, Din laughing in spite of himself, and then Grogu suddenly sat down.  Din slid to a stop, looking down at Grogu.  Grogu looked back up at him.  The two males stared at each other for some time.  Finally, Din sat down as well, and Grogu sighed with the beginnings of an eye roll.  Din pulled his chin back, surprised.  Grogu’s facial vocabulary had been expanding quite a lot over the past couple of weeks, and he felt that Marathel had a lot to do with it.  It wasn’t as if Grogu could learn expressions from him; not with the helmet obscuring his face.  Din shrugged.  “So now what, kid?”  Grogu pointed at him.  Din pointed at himself.  “Me?  I don’t get you.”  Grogu kept pointing at Din.  “Are we playing that running game of yours and Marathel’s?  I don’t understand the rules, kid!  We were just running, and now you’re sitting down, pointing at me, like I’m supposed to know what comes next!” Grogu tilted his head at Din, much like Din often did towards the boy.  Then Grogu pointed at Din again.  “I still don’t understand, boy.  You had us running, and now you’re pointing at me …” It finally dawned on Din.  “You’re telling me … it’s my turn?  I have to say what we’re doing next?” Grogu squeaked at Din.  “That’s it?  You do something for a while, and then the next person comes up with the next thing to do?”  Grogu squeaked again.  “But that’s … that’s ridiculous!  What kind of game do you play where you make up the rules as you go along?”  Grogu looked expectantly at Din, who realized that it was exactly the kind of game Marathel would teach the boy to play.  Imagination was more important than rules to a child.   

“So … my turn, huh? All right, then … uh …” Din stood up.  “Time to jump backwards, then.”  Din jumped back about a foot, feet together, swinging his arms.  Grogu looked at Din, frowning.  “Are you playing or not, kid?  Otherwise, I’m looking stupid, jumping backwards like this.”  Din jumped back twice more before Grogu hopped up and copied Din’s jump.  Din jumped again, and Grogu followed suit.  “Okay, then, let’s do this,” Din said with a grin, jumping backwards until he reached the wall, Grogu jumping alongside.  Around and around they went, until Grogu decided that spinning in circles was a better move.  After a while, after they both got incredibly dizzy, Din tried skipping, feeling even more ridiculous, skipping in full armor and weapons.  Grogu thought it was great fun, though, and the skipping went on for quite some time, making Din mutter, “C’mon kid, give me a break here.”  Grogu finally stopped skipping, opting to do a most silly walk wherein he stood with one leg out behind him, and then slowly rotated the upraised leg to the front, then stepped down on the upraised foot, repeating the process on the other leg.  “You’re kidding me,” said Din, but he complied for a short while, half-wishing he’d gotten this whole escapade on holo, just to show Marathel and make her laugh.  Finally, Din decided to pull Marathel’s signature move, pretending that he had no bones, dropping to the floor like a rock.  Grogu chattered and pulled at Din’s arm in vain, while Din said, “No good, kid, gravity has doubled today,” before grabbing Grogu and tickling him mercilessly.  Grogu squealed and shrieked before climbing on top of Din, jumping on his chest.  “Ugh! You win, kid, you have me pinned!”  Grogu giggled and flopped on his belly, grabbing at Din’s helmet.  Din laughed and rubbed the child’s back.  “That was fun.  Maybe we can play with Mahr when we get back.”  Grogu cooed in affirmation, then yawned.  Din continued to rub the boy’s back and thought about that tune Marathel hummed to Grogu.  Din remembered the melody well, but he despised the words, probably as much as Marathel did.  He vaguely remembered a Mando’a lullaby, now that he thought about it.   How did it go?  Din finally caught the tune in his head, and he quietly sang: 

“Nuhoy, ad'ika  Gar ner cyar'ika  Ni ja'haili'gar  Akay vaar'tur 

Nuhoy, ad'ika  Gar ner cyar'ika  Ni laarari'gar  Akay vaar'tur 

Nuhoy, ad'ika  Gar ner cyar'ika  Ni cabuor gar  Akay vaar'tur…” 

Surprised that he remembered the lullaby, Din lifted his head to see that it actually worked: Grogu was out like a light, despite his lack of singing ability.  He’d have to tell Marathel.  Din carefully stood and carried Grogu to his little hammock in Din’s sleeping quarters.  Grogu snuggled down immediately, with only one ear outside the soft blanket.  Din tucked the soft frog stuffie under the edge of the blanket just in case.  On impulse, Din lifted his helmet enough to kiss Grogu’s fuzzy head, which brought a smile to his face.  There was something to be said for this physical affection stuff, he thought. 

Din noticed that he had forgotten to get a new bed roll, and he groaned.  This meant he’d have to sleep in his captain’s chair.  It was comfortable enough, but it would inevitably put a crick in his back.  First thing on Nevarro, buying a new damn bedroll.  A good one this time, too.  He turned off the light in the small room and dimmed the lights in the corridor.  Din climbed up into the cockpit and lowered the lights there as well.  He put his feet back on the console, interlaced his fingers, and sighed. 

His thoughts went almost immediately to Marathel.  After almost a fortnight of intense closeness to her, he felt the loss of her presence.  He hoped she was doing well.  He thought about sending a holotext but he’d only been gone for a few hours, and he didn’t want to seem lonely and desperate.  He could cover it up by saying Grogu needed her, but the kid was sleeping, and anyway, Grogu was excited by the journey back to Nevarro and did not seem to be pining for his Mahr at all.  When we get to Nevarro, maybe then we can let her know we’re safe.  

Din wished he knew what to do about her.  Technically, she had been correct: she knew nothing about how the galaxy worked. Her limited experience must make everything terrifying to her.  The one place she seemed at home was in the kitchen.  Din was not strict on gender roles in any way, but he believed in playing to one’s strengths … and that bread making skill of hers was one hell of an asset.  Her skill in textiles was another.  All those women and girls on that planet of hers …they were uneducated but seemed smart as whips and were fiercely protective of each other, just as he would expect from any warrior.  And that Lorica, spitting on his boot like that.  If he hadn’t been wearing a helmet, he supposed she would have spit right in his eye, and it would have stung. 

Could anything be done for those women? 

He didn’t know.  The planet was so far off the radar of the Empire and the Republic alike; there was absolutely no sign of either faction there at all.  It was as if the Hold had dropped out of the sky, fully formed with the Round Building looming over the courtyard.  But there was no forge, so where did the weapons come from?  They all looked ceremonial in nature apart from the beskar hammer.  Where in shab did that come from? The Aurodium coins?  It made no sense. 

Din did have one idea, though, and he coded it into a holo-text to Greef Karga.  He would be seeing him tomorrow, and hopefully he would have an answer for him by then. Hopefully. 

Din briefly wished he were heading back to Unmanarall to face that Captain, the Bishop, to get some answers and give a serious beat-down to all the men who’d laid a hand on his Marathel.   

He wished Marathel to be with him while he meted out his justice in her name and tell him precisely how she wanted each one to die. 

He wished he had been able to bring himself out of his hut’tuun frozen state and just pulled her out of that hellhole. 

He wished he had kissed her when he had the chance, not just when she was unconscious and on the brink of death. 

He wished he had fully undressed her — her warm, soft, soft body — when she allowed him to touch her, and allowed her to touch him back, to feel her hands on his body and surrender himself to the touch of another person … something he continually denied himself. 

He wished he had removed his helmet for her, made love with her, fully undressed rather than just removing enough clothing necessary for the sex act, reveling in her skin with his own, oh, her beautiful skin, to kiss all that fabulous skin, to nuzzle against it, to get her scent and exchange it with his own by moving his cheek and lips over her voluptuous body as she had his, to lift her soft, heavy breasts with the palms of his bare hands, to feel the different skin textures from her pebbly areolas to the hard nubs of her nipples with his thumbs, to suckle at those nipples and savor them with his tongue, to kiss her rounded belly and curve his hands over the swells of her hips and her buttocks, to move his mouth down her abdomen to between her supple thighs, to let his tongue open her delicate nether lips and dance on the bud of her clitoris with his nose sweeping through the soft thatch of silver curls, grasping the sweet globes of her magnificent ass in his hands, breathing in the sweet scent of her cream that he had once been privileged to smell off her fingertips, her hands, her hands, such strong gentle fingers touching his hair as he lingered at the apex of her legs, and him kissing the tip of each finger before returning to the chalice of her sex, sipping at her opening before lathering his tongue over her entire inner area, so warm and soft and wet, her taste so sweet and just slightly musky, and then he realized he was palming his erection through his pants, exposed out here in the cockpit when Grogu could wake up and find him in here like this.  He’d never had to concern himself with privacy before the kid arrived, and it galled him to some degree he had to think about it, but he had to do something right damn now.   

Din hopped down the ladder and headed straight for the shower cubicle, locking himself inside.  He flipped on the water option, wasteful, yes, but sonic was not the way to go right now.  Liquid oxygen would be preferable.  Stripping himself as quickly as possible, he stepped under the cool spray and took himself in hand, stroking as slowly and gently as he could manage.  Even with the water, the friction was still too uncomfortable, but he didn’t think he had any kind of lubricant in the shower, just in the bin closest to his bed roll, and wait, was that bin locked against a curious toddler? And dank ferrik, man, why was he thinking about that now?  He tore open the storage bin inside the shower, knocking bottles aside and on the floor, discarding the soap and shampoo, he’d tried that once, just once, and never again, thank you very much, but at the very back was a small bottle of lubricant he’d forgotten about, and relieved, he filled his palm with the pleasant-smelling lubricant, and finally set himself back to stroking, picturing the naked Marathel lying beneath him on the wooden floor of her hut, those creamy breasts of hers heaving, then her on top of him, his cock in her mouth, breathing on him, only breathing, wishing she had used her tongue, her lips on him, wishing he had let her pleasure him as they’d pleasured her together, those full lips of hers, how soft, haar’chak, that pussy of hers, so hot, always so damn wet, she’d always been ready for him, a perfect fit for his cock, so tight and yet yielding at the same damn time, clenching down on him when he was inside her, and she always came so hard, so hard he wondered if the other women he’d been with had been faking it the whole damn time, he was not a practiced lover by any means, just functional at the sex act, he didn’t even know how to kiss properly, Cobb had to teach him how, but he knew if he could just get back to Marathel, if Marathel would come back to him, perhaps they could both learn together, and it would be so damn good, so much better than fisting himself in this fucking shower, and his strokes got faster and harder as he pressed his forehead against the wall, and he was just about there, and he thought of her face and how it looked when she came, her cries of pleasure, the odd tear leaking from her eyes, her long strong legs flexing their muscles and going rigid, the quiver of her body, particularly her pussy clenching even harder on him, and he finally came himself, grunting loudly and spattering the shower wall with ejaculate, twice, three times, and a weak fourth time before finally feeling spent, and he rested against the shower wall, breathing hard, wondering to himself when was the last time he’d masturbated to a fantasy rather than just getting the job done, as it were, and he couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing. 

Din puffed his cheeks out as he exhaled. He washed his hair and finished cleaning himself, since he was in there anyway, giving the shower itself a bit of a clean at the same time.  After turning off the water, Din realized a couple of things: there were no towels in here, and in his haste to get undressed he had left all his clothes on the floor, and they were now all wet.   

Haar’chak. 

Din pulled on his flight pants, which were uncomfortably wet and cold on his bare skin and placed the helmet on his head.  Catching his reflection in the durasteel mirror, he thought, yup, I’m a dumbass and then dripped his way back to his quarters, leaning inside to grab towels from the bin closest to the door.  Grogu was quietly snoring.  He also found a fresh set of thermals and padded back to the shower cubicle, kicking the wet clothing and armor out into the corridor before shutting himself inside again.   

Din roughly rubbed his hair with the towel, leaving it unruly and sticking up in all directions as he considered his face in the mirror.  He didn’t know handsome from a hole in the ground, and he had his father’s hooked nose and the lines between his brows, but his mother seemed to think his father handsome, so he guessed if he resembled his father that would be good enough.  His mother, of course, was beautiful, as dark as Marathel was fair, and his father was forever touching her cheek, holding her hand, rubbing her back.  Once he had woken up in the night, hearing his parents’ laughter in the kitchen, and he snuck out to see for himself, and peered through the cracked-open door.  His father was on his knees on the floor, and he was washing her feet.  Her feet always hurt, and she stood practically all day, and here was his father, gently soaping and massaging his wife’s sore feet as they laughed and talked about their day.  Young Din went back to bed, thinking that if you were willing to wash someone’s feet, it had to be love. 

Din smiled at the memory.  Feet, indeed.  He combed his hair, dressed in his fresh thermals, replaced his helmet, and hung up his wet flight suit to dry.  He set out his armor in the corridor so that he could clean and polish it after getting a couple hours’ sleep.  He checked on Grogu, grabbed a pair of Marathel’s socks, and went back into the cockpit for a long nap, thinking about Marathel’s feet, and wondering if she’d let him wash them for her.   

It was early evening on Nevarro when he landed on the edge of his covert.  Din had cleaned and polished his armor, even the damaged helmet, and had fully dressed himself in armor and weaponry, including the Darksaber, and hooking the marchwyl on his belt.  He hated the Darksaber, and the marchwyl even more than that, but he figured he could at least get rid of one of them on this trip … that is, if the Armorer would deign to see him, an apostate.   

Din stepped forward with Grogu on his arm.  The youngsters came running forward, happy to see their little green friend again. Din set Grogu on the sand, and he immediately ran off to join the others.  Some adults nodded at Din in greeting while others looked at him with a only a motionless gaze. Din stepped up to the opening into the catacombs and was met by the imposing figure of Paz Visla.  “Paz.” 

“Apostate.” 

So that’s how it’s going to be. “I wish to speak to Armorer.” 

“No.” 

“My helmet is badly damaged, and I bring bounties for the good of the covert.” 

“Have you bathed in the sacred waters of Mandalore?” 

Din bit his lip before he said something he regretted.  “I have not.” 

“Perhaps you should do that first,” sneered Paz. 

“I believe a compromised helmet would be a barrier to Din Djarin redeeming himself,” called the Armorer from deep inside the entrance tunnel.  “Show me your helmet, Din Djarin.” Din obediently turned to show the Armorer the deep divot.  “What caused this?” 

“This beskar hammer,” replied Din, turning back to face the Armorer, and removing the hammer from his belt.  “It is called the marchwyl.  I bring it, as well as a valuable bounty, from the planet Unmanarall.”  

“You have a habit of finding beskar weapons where there should be none.  I take it your helmet no longer has any capabilities?” 

“It does not.” 

“Well, then, follow close behind me. Let’s discuss this more.” Din, as always, resisted to urge to roll his eyes as he walked by Paz as they entered the catacombs.  “I thought you were on your way to Mandalore.” 

“I had this opportunity come up.  I couldn’t pass up what they offered.” 

“And what was that?” 

“Old Republic Ossum Aurodium coins.” 

“Who is this person who commands such an exorbitant price?” 

“A woman.”  Din did not want to expand on that at the moment.  He could just see the Armorer slowly look over her shoulder and then turn back. 

“I see.”  When they reached the forge, Din presented the beskar hammer to her.  “What did you call this again?” 

“The marchwyl.” 

“Where did you come by it?” 

“A planet called Unmanarall, out on the very far edge of the galaxy.” 

The Armorer wasn’t sure if she was bemused or annoyed by Din’s truncated answers, but she carried on her questions as she lit the forge.  “How did you come by it?” 

“The woman, she … she sacrificed herself for me to get the coins. Her kinswomen brought me the hammer.” 

“You carry much guilt about these women.” 

Din took a breath.  “I do.” 

The Armorer assessed the weapon in her hands.  “Whose blood is this?” she asked. 

Din knew that the Armorer knew the answer to her question but was forcing the answer from him.  Finally, he said, just loud enough to be heard over the forge, “Hers.” 

“Did she suffer?” 

“Yes.” 

“Was her suffering a dishonorable thing?” 

“Yes.”  He could not have been more emphatic. 

“Did you fight on her behalf?” 

Din swallowed twice before he was able to answer. “No.” 

The Armorer’s voice never changed its cadence, was not judgmental, as she asked, “Why not?” 

And Din felt his soul shrivel; how could he reveal this most childish of reasons for not protecting someone so vulnerable?  Yet he had to in order to remain on a path to absolution.  “She told me not to.” 

The Armorer gazed at him, silently, for an uncomfortably interminable time before she said, “Show me your helmet.”  Din turned.  He felt her hands examine the damaged area.  “And this hammer caused this much damage?” 

“Yes.” 

“You were injured?” 

“Yes.” 

She stood silently behind him for a while, and then turned to the forge.  “Go to the lower level and enter a meditation chamber.  Leave your helmet in the doorway and wait.  Think.” 

“You will use the marchwyl …?” 

“If what has caused damage becomes part of the repair, does it redeem itself?”  

Din couldn’t answer that.  “Grogu?” 

“With Paz’s family.”  Din nodded.  “This is the way.” 

“This is the way.”  Din turned and made his way down to a sub-level.  It was cool down there due to natural wind tunnels in the cave system.  He chose a dark doorway, entered, and removed his helmet, leaving it in the doorway as told.  The chamber was long and narrow, and there was no door.  Anyone who entered was in darkness, and no one went out into the lighted corridor without a helmet.  Din made his way to the far end, trailing his fingers along both walls, for the chamber was so narrow it was less wide than the span of his arms.  At the far end was a narrow cot, and no creature comforts.  Perfect for meditation without distraction. He sat down where the floor met the far wall and gazed towards the open doorway.  Someone came and took his helmet away, while Din thought about how he would now be carrying Marathel’s blood on his helmet for the rest of his life. 

Din had no knowledge of how long he sat in darkness.  He did have the opportunity to think about many things several times over.  Some of his answers depended on a certain woman. Some depended on the existence of the sacred waters of Mandalore.   He lifted his eyes when he heard echoing footsteps.  A silhouette placed a helmet in the open doorway.  Din waited until the footsteps were gone.  Coming forward, he saw the dark visor, in a field of gleaming beskar, look back at him.   He tried to consider the point of view of a frightened woman upon seeing this helmet for the first time.  Of having to interact with only this beskar face, a suit of armor, gloved hands, when she only knew men by the pain and degradation they caused her.  And then to have this blank face deny her and tell her that any affection he held for her was less than his devotion to his Creed — something she couldn’t possibly begin to understand — and then still demand her affection towards him. 

He placed the helmet on his head and turned it on with the controls on his vambrace.  All the screens flared to life, going through all the options and calibrating before returning to Din’s standard options.  He felt the back of the helmet, feeling only seamless metal, with no tactile evidence of a repair.  He stepped out of the cell and made his way back to the forge. 

“Is the helmet back to proper working condition?” the Armorer asked without turning from her forge. 

“Yes.  It is.” 

“Let us discuss the bounty you received for this woman.”  Din silently handed the Armorer the cloth bag, and she spread some of the coins out on the table.  “For what reason was the bounty placed?” 

“The woman was the … intended of one of the Elders of her people.  She had been living for some time without fulfilling that expectation.” 

“So, you completed this mission?” 

“Yes.” 

“So, the woman is with her intended.” 

Din shifted slightly. “No.” 

The Armorer looked up in surprise.  “No?” 

“She … she is on Tatooine, receiving medical care.” 

“So, you … completed the mission on one hand, and not on the other?” 

“She suffered …” 

“Does she have a name?” asked the Armorer, and Din could swear she stood three inches taller. 

“Her name is Marathel.”  The Armorer stood motionless, waiting for Din to continue.  “Marathel suffered greatly for me to collect those coins.  She condemned herself to death for my benefit, for the benefit of this covert.” Din took a breath.  “I failed to help her.  Ni cuy’ osi’yaim.  Ni cuy’ hut’uun.” 

The Armorer stood still, letting Din’s confession of his inaction and his cowardice hang in the sweltering air of the forge.  “Was Marathel deserving of this death?” 

“No one is deserving of what she endured.” 

“Marathel compelled you to not take up your weapons?” 

“She compelled me to remove my weapons altogether, and to be still.” Din dropped his head.  “Marathel was a victim of exceptional cruelty and nearly died due to my cowardice.” 

“And what is it you seek here?” 

“Absolution.  And the knowledge that Marathel did not suffer in vain.” 

The Armorer looked down at the coins, which reflected the fire’s glow.  “This bounty is not yours.  The covert will not accept it.” 

Din was struck silent for several seconds.  “What?” 

The Armorer put all the coins back in the bag and tied it shut.  “This bounty was not yours to receive.  It is stained with the blood and suffering of the innocent Marathel.  The bounty is hers.”  She placed the bag in front of Din.  “These must go to their rightful owner.  This is the way.” 

Din automatically began, “This is the …” He looked down at the bag.  “Then it was pointless after all.”  He looked back at the Armorer.  “How am I to tell her?  How can I look her in the eyes and tell her that her sacrifice meant nothing?  She will … this will destroy what is left of her!” 

The Armorer gazed coolly at Din.  “You have salvaged your honor by returning the stolen beskar to us.  To keep the coins would be dishonorable.  Go now, Apostate Din Djarin.  Find your path and follow it to find your absolution. This is the way.” 

For the first time since he entered this covert as a child, Din refused to respond to the call of his people.  He took the bag of coins, shoved it behind his cuirass, and left the forge without a word. 

The Armorer sat and considered what Din said of himself: Ni cuy’ osi’yaim — I am a despicable person.  Ni cuy’ hut’uun — I am a coward.  He was always his own worst detractor, she thought.  Every failure, every misstep, was taken so deeply into Din’s heart that he wore shame like he wore his cape.  If there is anyone who is deserving of She Cin Vhetin — a clean slate, a new beginning — it is Din Djarin. As she went back to her forge, the Armorer then considered this Marathel, an aruetii — an outsider, who was willing to lay down her life for a Mandalorian.  The Armorer, certain of her decision to not accept the bounty, wished her well. 

Din stalked out of the deep catacombs and into one of the larger common areas.  Scanning over the group, he did not see Grogu or Paz among them.  Din remembered where Paz quartered so he headed in that direction.  Before he knocked on the door, Din swore he heard laughter behind it.  Laughing?  Din knocked and the laughter ceased immediately.  After a moment, the door slid open, and the imposing figure of Paz filled it.  The two men looked at each other briefly before Paz stepped back to allow Din to enter.  Ragnar, Paz’s young son, was seated on a large cushion, and he was concentrating on throwing a sour berry in Grogu’s direction.  Ragnar tossed the berry high above Grogu’s head, but Grogu stopped the berry mid-air, allowing it to then drop directly into his open mouth.  Grogu grinned at Din with berry-stained teeth and mouth, juice drips down his shirt.  Din put his hands on his hips and sighed inwardly; now he had to potentially deal with the kid having a major case of the trots, depending on how many berries he’d eaten.  

“Your helmet is now repaired?” 

Din nodded. “Thank you for watching Grogu.”  Paz grunted, and Ragnar threw another berry.  “Ragnar has grown into a fine lad.” 

“Your green child is spoiled.” 

“He is good at bending people to his will.  Come, Grogu.”  Grogu hopped up and ran to Din’s feet.  Din lifted the boy and set him on his arm, wiping his mouth with the edge of his cape. 

Paz grunted again, then said in possibly the kindest tone Din had ever heard from the larger man, “I hope you are able to redeem yourself on Mandalore.  I hope the waters are still there.”  Din looked at Paz in surprise.  Paz reached out to his son.  “Come, Ragnar, it is time to sleep.” 

“Jate ca, Paz, gedet'ye,” said Din. 

“Naas wadaas.” 

Din left the catacombs, and returned to the ship, not because he didn’t have a place to sleep at the covert — he did; there was always room for another in the covert — but he thought it would be better in case Grogu did end up with the trots from eating all those berries … and unfortunately he was right.  He got to spend a good part of the night sitting on a crate, holding Grogu over the vac tube. Thanks, Paz.  Grogu had a stomach of beskar for spicy food and amphibians, but too much fresh fruit ran right through the kid with disastrous results.  Marathel would probably have a pithy Oldtalk phrase about this situation — like shit through a gochgoch or something equally as ridiculous — and make a mug of her stomach tea.  Din missed sitting on her steps, missed her mugs of tea.  He missed her. He had no idea how he was going to tell her that the covert wouldn’t accept the Aurodium … or if he should tell her. 

“You empty yet, kid?”  Grogu’s stomach grumbled in response.   “That sounds a lot like your hungry noise, but I’m not trusting your stomach while your back end is acting like that.”  Din heard a beep noise from the cockpit that sounded like an incoming message.  He grabbed the old towel at his feet and wrapped the naked boy’s bottom with it, hoping for a respite from the diarrhea.  It’s always something, thought Din.  He climbed up the ladder one-handed and punched the button for the message. 

BF: Marathel wants to know if Grogu is okay 

Din smiled, happy to know she was worried about them.  He tapped out a message. 

DD:  Grogu has an upset stomach  BF:  Marathel asked what happened to his stomach of beskar  DD: compromised by fruit  BF: Marathel wishes you the best of luck  

Din frowned, wondering why Boba was transcribing Marathel’s message instead of her doing it herself.  

DD:  Thank you Marathel 

There was a long pause, so long that Din believed that the conversation was over.  He took Grogu — now apparently over his Tatooine two-step — back down out of the cockpit to get him bathed.  Din had just distracted Grogu with a cracker so he could dress the boy when he heard the beep from the cockpit again.  He got Grogu settled back into his little hammock and whispered Mando’a into the boy’s ear.  After setting the lights on the lower level, Din climbed into the cockpit and checked the message. 

BF: The Modifier’s contact came through; treatment seems to be working 

Din took a breath.  She’ll live. 

Next Chapter ->

Translation for Din’s lullaby: 

Sleep, little one You are my sweetheart  I will watch over you  Until morning  Sleep, little one  You are my sweetheart  I will sing to you  Until morning  Sleep, little one  You are my sweetheart  I will protect you  Until morning 

Lullaby written by  @themischiefoftad on Tumblr 

  

[stars-and-birds]

a specific color that gives you the ick?

mythical creature you think/believe is real?

favorite form of potato?

do you use a watch?

what animal do you look forward to seeing when you visit an aquarium?

do you change into specific clothes for the house when you get home?

do you have a skincare routine (and how many steps is it)?

anything from your childhood you’ve held on to?

first thing you’re doing in the purge?

thoughts on mint chocolate chip?

an anxious compulsion you do everyday?

your boba/tea order?

do you wear jewelry?

would you say you have good taste in music?

how’s your spice tolerance?

what’s your favorite or go-to outfit?

preferred pasta noodle?

ask me anything ! : Favorite toh, amphibia, and gravity falls character?

alr let’s go

garbage green

nessie if i had to pick one

friessss

i used to have an apple watch but i don’t wear it anymore because my school doesn’t let me

seals!!

no lol, too lazy

kinda? only when i break out really, and it’s like three steps. but i wash my face every night if that counts

everything

robbing the nearest bookstore

MY ONE TRUE LOVE!! MINT CHOCOLATE CHIP MY BELOVED

msut shake leg…. and worry. lots of that

plain old milk tea i’m boring like that

yea, earrings most days and a ring on each finger. also a chain around my neck with another ring that doesn’t fit on any one my fingers

*i* have good taste it’s everyone else that’s weird

mid. i pretend to handle more than i can heh. like takis, for example. i’ll eat a whole bag and be like haha im fine and then Die

anything + baggy jeans really

rigatoni

good question!

hunter or luz (fuck u for making me choose tho!!!!) it used to be marcy but i love sash too dipper he’s just like me fr fr

thanks for the ask!!

[candyredmusings]

“Another One Of Those ‘Things My Discord Said’ Sentence Starters.

Things taken from DMs and a few group chats from Discord. CW: NSFT Change / Edit as necessary !

i am literally tom cruise

cum is cool.

[NAME]  is fucked up cus he is straight man

[NAME]  show me your fuckin tits

[NAME], you better not be standing catatonic in your room wearing your handmade jigsaw robe again.

its like they creampied me but instead of cum it was new music

like what about my pussy-area makes u think sea cucumber

the mind is weak. but the body is funky

so im reading that fanfic where 1d like, buys your soul or whatever and im shook

well tom servo is a sex god

and then i freaked it

FUCK YOU APPLE JACK FUCK

ILL SLURP WITH YOU

LEMME SHOW U DICK

ITS A SIDE QUEST YOU SILLY BITCH

I’m a zombie the law can’t stop me

LEAVE YOUR GOLDEN UNCRUSTABLES OUT OF MY HOME I WILL NOT FALL VICTIM TO THY TRICKERY

you, telling me to ignore a twink with side swept brown hair? foolish.

Hes so hot i briefly started texting like a straight person

and because I’m god and I’ve decided that. No. In fact. I’m not done.

MY DUMB BOTTOM BRAIN FOLLOWS COMMANDS TOO WELL

[NAME], I know you love bloopy reggae jams. Now is not the time

OH THATS WHAT I THOUGHT YOUD SAY YOU STUPID ACCIDENTAL HIMBO DEMON

man i rlly am attracted to paul mccartney.

its not that kennedy was gay af sleeping w jackies fat ass out, he just has a better one-

jealous of my massive honkeers

YOU BRAINCELLED BITCH

this forced open my third eye and i saw the devil--

oh me seeming romantically interested in u is making u uncomfortable?? noted

the only pussy this party city shake out wig looking mother fucker is getting

[NAME]  expose your teeth right fucking now

IN THE DEPARTMENT OF OLD MAN FUCKING, WEVE GOT YOU BEAT

What if we kissed while one of us got called racist and we are both boys

i just jacked it to minecraft piss porn

I will pop a huge tentacle boner

i hate females fr fr

we left u to die to play minecraft

IM GONNA FRICKLE-FRACK YOUR WIFE

CAN I KARATE CHOP IT LIKE IN SPONGEBOB

DWIGHT FROM THE OFFICE IS NOT MY SKRUNKLY

she would never ever take away one of these stupid fucking hats

My brother in Christ you’re being haunted

i want to wring you like a wet towel and slap u against a wall

Yeah you'll come to learn I just have a thing for milk

Piss ur pants harder pls I wanna watch

I'm gonna corn on the kill myself

good morning to parappa and his stans. everyone else..... hi ig

lol look at this clown with no slurs

God has abandoned his children but unfortunately for you I pay child support and I will smite thee.

this is how I reveal myself to be homophobic

I have no sluts

idk what it is abt it but boba makes me become like an actual whore

im homophobic suddenly

he was like ‘You're so big”.... and i just started crying

anyones penis can be hard hes not special

for the love of god please help me

i can talk about piss for hours

im sorry i havent recognized mickey mouse clubhouse ost as the cultural landmark that it is

I ASKED IF WE WOULD RP AFTER FUCKING BIBLE STUDY OR WHATEVER

the benefits of being a yandere is that i dont have to forgive OR forget and I am a living breathing PVP zone so Fuck with me white boy.

When toxic by ashnikko comes on I enter the gaslight gatekeep phases of my girlbosshood

im like a child in line for the newest fucked up disney ride

[NAME] is just all fucking Sorts of fucked up

im clownfaking

why are we here? to suffer? every other day i get messages from a whore

always thinking abt when my friend called me a "white boy whore"

you gotta PUMP the errand girl with cocaine

im beyond shame bc i love all cock try again

people have fetishes.

They really do crucify anyone these days huh

u may have never hungered for cock but you have hungered for a sub sandwich and honestly? theyre basically the same thing-

hi im drawing hentai

[NAME] idk why but that really. makes me want to stab you

“Don't have sex FOMO, [NAME], no! “

“TRY AND NUKE THIS, BITCH.”

“There's a group of golden skeletons behind you hitting the griddy “

“GRANDPA’S ASHES SUCKED MY COCK AND TOOK ME TO ARBYS.”

“You’re lanky with no gender and silly goofy with the rizz it works.”

“You can’t just tell me I could be a Tumblr sexy man to my face at 4:30 PM.”

"I have strong opinions about the soviet union"

“CALL THAT PUSSY THE MATRIX CAUSE IM IN THIS BITCH AND I CANT GET OUT “

“dont cry. 8000 types of reptiles on the planet, okay?”

[NAME] lives his life like he’s an RPG character but picks only the rude dialogue options.”

“I need to beat off to this before God destroys California.”

"No amount of pussy could get me on a rollercoaster with three loops"

"I love your senior citizen pussy"

"Gerber is pretty reliable .. I mean .. The Gerber baby didn't die .... did it?"

“you are white i assume”

"I hate you terrorist, and you may quote me on that"

"I love watching you play minecraft. It's like watching a baby fawn."

"I've never seen old men who fuck harder."

"i don't need him to KILL i need him to FUCK ME"

"well maybe if you just dicked down your wife she wouldn't have gone on a murderous slut rampage"

"why cant these BIG titty bimbos stop HANGING around me"

[reluctant-mandalore]

3, 10 and 22

3. screenshot or description of the worst take you've seen on tumblr

oh no that's so hard to choose bc I feel like I've seen a lot of terrible takes on here lol, especially in relation to star wars. I think the worst that I've come across though was "the empire was actually the good guys the entire time". Where someone quite literally came into the defense of the empire and tried to argue they were the best thing to ever happen to the galaxy. It was a fucking terrible take.

Another one that I always consider to be a really bad take is that the jedi deserved to all die or that it was their fault what happened. Like??? You really out here blaming them for their own genocide??? Like fr??????? wtf is wrong with yall

10. worst part of fanon

A lot of the fanon surrounding the clones I think is pretty bad and I would consider it to be some of the worst fanon in the fandom. A lot of it stems from fetishization and just blatant racism. Like insisting fives is stupid and always horny even though we've seen the opposite, the clones not knowing anything about sex, making some of them animalistic and aggressive even though there is nothing that indicates that about their character (wolffe in particular comes to mind for this one), and etc etc.

22. your favorite part of canon that everyone else ignores

I don't really know tbh. I was gonna say Boba's pet eel he had as a kid but than I remembered that I'm pretty sure that's just legends now lol. ( Eel you'll always be canon in my heart 😔)

I guess I think its funny that Jazz is called Jizz in sw canon but the entire fandom has just chosen to ignore that. Like Im sorry yall, but one day you will just have to accept that Jizz is a genre of music in star wars- SJFKNSD

So I'm gonna go with that. I think its funny that Jizz being Jazz in the sw universe is canon and I think everyone just needs to accept it.

[et-cant-phone-home-no-signal]

The Book of Boba Fett - Episode 3 thoughts

heyo here's me back with the ramblings! please accept my humble offerings of thoughts and analysis for this episode, for funsies only <3 no arguments, spoilers beneath the cut

i love the difference between fennec and boba - he'll listen and take a petition with no appointment, she's ready to shoot and dismiss immediately 😂 it's so interesting because you'd almost think it would be the other way around but nah, he's chill and she's paranoid <3 (i don't know if other media shows this more, i haven't watched the bad batch which i know fennec appears in, and i haven't read any of the comics with boba in it)

i genuinely love how sincere boba is about being daimyo like, he keeps going "i am the daimyo and i will bring order" and he's being so serious but no one is used to that do they think he's being silly because ??? why are you walking around like that dude

also obsessed with sophie thatcher appearing in this (i love prospect so much and i'm happy to see her in such a different role compared to that)

you can feel the love boba has for his dad in the kamino flashbacks and it breaks my heart fr

the music <3

i never thought about how it would make boba feel to see all the storm trooper heads on the sticks. i know that at the later stages of the empire it was mostly conscripts but surely it would invoke memories of the clones? idk it made me think about it and now i'm sad

NO NOT THE FUCKING TUSKEN CAMP FUCK nononono the music too stop it this is so sad fuck that nikto gang (though was it them??? i have a funny feeling it could be more cause would the tuskens really lose to a gang like that?? or is it just slightly bad writing idk)

the kids stick too i'm actually in tears this is so fucking upsetting why does everyone have to die all the time

there's something so nasty about attacking a person when they're in the middle of something medical, cause let's face it, the bacta tank is medical and krssantan straight up decked boba in his underwear jesus man

gotta respect the mods for still coming in to help (yeah it's their job but again, they could've said nope and left him to it) - also why is this dude so obsessed with biting people lmao

fennec's disapproving little shake of head lmaoo she's giving older sister vibes

poor rancor- is that danny trejo??????

i love how genuinely confused krssantan is to be let go - boba is way too kind and i can feel fennec's disapproval through the screen

boba immediately falling in love with the rancor and wanting to train and ride it and giving it loving scratches <3 totally obsessed with this man he's so fascinating

"excuse me, lord fett" "not now i'm busy" is such a pet owners response when they're giving or receiving love from their baby oh my god

i genuinely have tears in my eyes from how funny it is that these mods have the equivalent of space vespas because i was expecting the equivalent of harley davidsons if i'm honest and it's so disappointing they got these shiny ass candy looking speeders instead 💀 i cannot take them seriously when they're on the vehicles sorry the hardcore punk aesthetic clashes so hard with the bright primary colour ass mopeds

mr moustache receptionist at the mayor's office is once again sending me into orbit because his stare could kill this fucking majordomo in an instant if he was force sensitive and i am so amused - this extra deserves so much more attention man, who is he and why isn't he in a major role

dude this is the least satisfying chase scene ever sorry but they're going like 30mph max??? i can't take them seriously this looks ridiculous and it's probably the worst scene in the show so far

thanks for reading!! people seem to be enjoying my star wars posts which is nice, i don't talk about it that often but i've started playing SWTOR and i'm enjoying it!! created a new jedi character for it and i'm getting attached so might write up a character sheet for her soon :)

[dreamyheizou]

genshin boys as types of pet cats

includes: ayato, childe, heizou, itto, kazuha, scaramouche, xiao, and zhongli

genre: fluff, crack (?)

warnings: brief mention of vomit (in ayato's section)

ayato

- a siamese cat (with blue eyes ofc)

- a proper cat ☝🏻

- sits with his two front paws crossed over each other

- loves getting his fur brushed daily

- doesn't fuss when getting his nails trimmed 💅🏻

- refuses to eat dry food!!

- ayato ONLY eats organic food

- vomits if he drinks tap water

- also, DO NOT leave food out on the counter

- he WILL climb onto the kitchen counter and drink your doordash boba tea 🧋

- refuses to go in the litter box if it's dirty

- gives u a dirty look whenever you don't change his litter right after he takes a dump

- acts like the king of the castle 👑

- spoiled kitty fr

childe

- childe would be an orange tabby with blue eyes

- he gives off huge orange tabby vibes

- chaotic and loud ‼️🤪

- steps on your chest when you are sleeping

- meows loudly in your face at exactly 5am in the morning every dingle day to demand food

- shits outside of his litter box if you do something he doesn't like

- has mastered The Head Tilt™️

- begs for treats all the time

- and you can't help but give in

- everything has to go his way

- now, childe LOVES to play with just about anything

- shoelaces, teaser wands, soft plushies, hairbands, your $300 dollar necklace.....

- starts fights with other cats for fun 🤣

- loves annoying scaramouche especially

heizou

- he would be a brown tabby with green eyes

- but has the tortie sass

- sly mf

- constantly has this expression on his face that looks like he knows something you don't 😈

- which honestly is probably the case

- learns tricks very quickly bc he's a smart boy

- but doesn't perform them on purpose whenever you're trying to show your friends 😀

- just to spite you hehe

- like childe, heizou would be a very talkative cat so he'd never shut up

- swats at random things

- you know heizou is judging you whenever he gives you the side glance 👁

itto

- itto would be a maine coon

- a Large boy

- but despite being physically larger in size than most cats

- he is a big babie

- comes running for you whenever he gets startled by the smallest things :(

- not very bright but super sweet

- you know that trend where you hold a cat up against the wall and see if they're smart enough to stop themselves?

- yeah, itto doesn't pass that one

- his face just goes s m a s h into the wall 💥

- when he loafs, he doesn't just look like a loaf of bread 🍞🙅🏻‍♀️

- he looks like a whole ass bakery

kazuha

- kazu would be a white cat with reddish-orange eyes

- you know how some cats have very dilated pupils all the time?

- that's kazuha as a cat

- this feature just makes him look even cuter than he already is

- goes CRAZY over catnip 🍃

- definitely a lap cat

- just wants to cuddle and be held

- purrs a lot and makes biscuits on your lap

- jumps on your bed at night bc he wants to be closer to you 🥰

- loves giving head bonks too 🥹

- likes to sit by the windowsill and watch birds fly around in the backyard 🪟

scaramouche

- i can see scara as a grey tabby

- definitely used to be a stray cat, so he has his left ear tipped

- which gives him a menacing kinda look

- he is a little menace, after all

- hisses at everyone and everything

- people, dogs, squirrels, other cats, etc.

- likes to catch small bugs and spiders and torture them until they die 😼

- will not hesitate to scratch your eyes out with his murden mittens

- bites and clings onto your hand whenever you try to pet him

- and acts all innocent after you retract your hand??? 😇

- one day you decide to risk your life and start scratching under his chin

- at first, scara started clawing at your arm, but then after a few seconds you start to see his eyes kinda close

- as if he was saying, "hey this kinda feels nice......"

- scara eventually gives in and learns to love chin scratches 🤭

xiao

- black cat with golden eyes

- looks like a lil void

- especially when he's hiding in the dark and you see nothing but two big golden eyes staring back

- shy shy shy

- hides from strangers at first

- but warms up after he gets to know them better

- brings back dead animals he caught and drops them in front of you as a gift ❤️

- barely sleeps at night but keeps quiet so he doesn't disturb you

- in fact, he watches over you to make sure you're safe from any danger

- loves to sit in boxes 📦

- it gives him a sense of calm and security

zhongli

- i can see zhongli as a tuxedo cat

- he'd be a super senior cat

- since he is old asf 💯

- every time you take him to the vet, everyone there is amazed at how he is still alive

- his fur is kinda scruffy ngl

- and whiskers are crinkly

- but he is still a handsome kitty regardless 😌

- spends most of his time sleeping due to his age :(

- cleans himself pretty well 🧼🧽

- poosy clean poosy tight poosy fresh

- gets along with other cats, including childe surprsingly

[happytroopers]

Boba Fett season finale shit post

Spoilers below. Obviously.

Rip hot twilek your 6 minutes of screen time will be duly forgotten

WAIT THEY KILLED MAX REBO

Fuck the Pykes man

I can tolerate space drug trade but I draw the line at killing renowned jizz musicians

God Fennec Boba and Din in one shot now there’s a sandwich I wanna be in

Many thoughts and yet none at all just sin

Not them trying to redeem the mayor

“I have an idea to draw Fett out.” I’m sending g that there’s the inspo for a new WAVE of self insert fanfic

XWINF

Luke coming to help his boy toy???

The child????

YEP

That’s artooie:)))

THE BABY

Wait can he drive

Me and PELI are on the same page

HES SO TINY

BRIGHT EYES

R2 s like we’re on a SCHEDULE

ME TOO PELI ITS A TERRILBE NAME

WAIT DID BE CHOOSE THE SRMOR

Is he dropping out of Jedi school

If so I’m gonna have to start kinning baby Yoda

Goth Wookiee :)

Someone’s gonna sneak up on them

Din stop being so sexy

God boba in his armor is so sexy

This is the showdown we wanted in clone wars

Star Wars-issficstion of southern idioms

Ok but two of them are wearing beskar and u are not

Boba said “no 💖🖕”

Why do I feel like fennec is gonna take the brunt of this

Fennec being the sexy voice of reason as always

“Ur going soft in ur old age” as if Bane isn’t fucking ancient

I love my little beuqacratic wiggler

Yep just as I fucking thought

NOT GOTH WOOKIE

I don’t appreciate them ripping my found family trope to pieces

So that augmented eye is very helpful to his aim huh

Not the water waste

God I love her

SHES SO SEXY

Lil punk said lesbian panic!!!

The only woman I would call Mommy

The last time Din got trapped in a blown out bar, it didn’t go well

We love a loyal bestie

More self insert inspo “I’m with you til we both fall”

WIGGLER SAYS I DONT WANNA DIE HERE

NOT THE EDUCATION ELITISM

He said I’m not afraid to pathetic

Is he not gonna read that first

What if it just said “fuck u losers”

Yay space slurs!!!!

Pls be inappropriate

“Nothing 💖”

Creative writing king! He wrote that so fast

Jet pack hotties

INLOVE THE KNEE BLASTERS

THE SLUT TURN DIN J LOVE U

Overkill a lil boys???

DIN WHY ARE TOUSING HR UNARMORED HANDS RO GAUARD UR BESKAR HELMETED HEAD

Awww yay :)

Can y’all imagine like living in this part of town??? Just like, trying to get brunch, and this shit happening.

No the moped!!!!

YES CITY FOLK COUNTRY FOLK FISCORS

Disapproved dad says save it

GOTH WOOKIE

Din’s thighs :)

Oh no

Hey maybe we should start shooting now

Yes start shooting now that they put their RAY SHIELDS up

Ahhhh clone wars nostalgia

Goth WOOKIE said show off

Well that was a waste of a missile

Quick mafs

“You’ve run out of friends” me too boba

God I love this man

Both of them actually

Hey maybe let’s not just run in a mobbed straight line guys????

There is one droid chasing you and approx 60 of y’all

Slutty lil spin there

Din is so fast ????

FHE HAMMER TBDKW

Bonk !!!

She’s gonna show that baby and dins gonna be like “YOU BROUGHT MY SON INTO A BATTLE ZONE????”

I fight usually leads to dying

They’re in love

THE IMMEDJATE FARHER PANJC

FBE HUG ONG Y’ALL IM CRYING

HES SK HAPLY TENDER AND SOFT I LOVE HIM

Fave dilf

HE CAUGHT HIM

Not the tooth!!!

YES YES YES YES YES

Zillow beast vibes

Boba lemme sit on ur lap while you ride

NO NO NO

ok that was hot

Remisnent if genonosis Kenobi

YES BABY DO UR THINK PROTECT HR DAD

ARE U OK

Boba u are so hot

They’re in LOVE

But fr fr city x country makes the best pairing

Imagine if that was ur house

Boba I demand reparations

Who is the lil pretty boy we keep seeing

NO BO NO NO NO

Not mysmotinal support space beast!!!!

They’re gonna date!!!!

Wiggler x PELI!!!!

YES INWAS WAITJNF DOR ONE OF THEM TO GET EATEN

I doubt they’ll kill off Bane. But liek…. What if they did

Also that’s ANOTHER problem for the city

HOODLUMS

HEY YO

Mmmm Jango ment

Just grab his little face tubes

YES STICK STUCK STUCK

Oh maybe they will kill him

Makes since tho he’s like OLD OLD

He’s wAs old in Clone Wars

Oh nvm he’s def not dead

STOP SOOTING HIM

Ok now for a King Kong parallel

NO NOT THE BALL

ok that was hot Din

NO NO NO NO

KID

HIM LITTLE WADDLE

HIS EARS

HIS EYES

How to train ur dragon parrlell

CLONE WARS KENOBJ PARALLELL

HIM LITTLE HANDS

NAP BUDDIES

Found my new screen saver

Yay decaptiated heads are back!!!

They should hire a tourism director

YES FENNEC FUCK IT UP

So sneaky :)

NOT THE REN FAIR MUSIC

Rip to the ham guards

THE TAPS

truly encapsulated what having a toddler is like

I LOVE THEM

Is there an end credit scene

Just realized that in the choral grunting they’re saying Fett- I’m an idiot

Yep end credit scene

I swear if it’s bane

COBBY BOY

Boba quit modifying ppl without their consent!!!

[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​

[trueartbasement-blog]

I know, another Star Wars poster, sorry about I really like this saga. I made a poster about one of the most popular bounty hunter in the history of cinema, Boba Fett, wich weirdly enough, is not a character that appears often in the movies. It's a good thing his past was explained in the prequels because I really love him, especially within the Legends books, he actually survives his encounter with the, hum... Thing that has a big mouth with teeth. First of all, this cosplay was done by Fable Studios, here's the source of it : http://fablephotos.deviantart.com/art/Boba-Fett-cosplay-2-615163232 Personnally, I really like the design of his armor, it's simple but I really do like it. Also, his past is pretty metal, seeing his father die in front of him and taking his head was... Pretty metal. Also, he's pretty much one of the only reason why I would choose the bounty hunter class in Star Wars : The Old Republic. Also, I really think it's bullshit that Disney made the Legends non cannon, he was so freaking badass in those, you even fight him in the game Star Wars Jedi Knight : Jedi Academy, (he's a pain in the ass). By the way, I just bought the Star Wars : Anthology DVD set, pretty cool. Anyway, if you liked this, please favourite it and watch me if you like my art in general. My Social Medias : Pixiv : http://www.pixiv.net/member.php?id=17492079 Tumblr : https://trueartbasement.tumblr.com/ Facebook : https://www.facebook.com/artbasementofficial/ Twitter : https://twitter.com/TrueArtBasement Instagram : https://www.instagram.com/artbasementofficial/?hl=fr Gmail : ArtBasementOfficial@gmail.com