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thirsty-boba-fett-posts · 1 year ago

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“Twice wasn’t enough, ad’ika? Going to come again?” You can hear the grin in his words. How it’s an inevitability, with the way he moves in you.

I AM NOT OKAY Y’ALL.

— JUST A TASTE

[bleed for me masterlist] | [fic preview]

vampire!boba fett x f!reader

rated e - 8k

tags: vampire!au, blood/blood drinking, vampirism, longing and pining, biting, masturbation, chosen mates (instead of fated mates), teasing, fingering, brief edging, mind-meld, implied aphrodisiacs, piv, marking

a/n: I thought it would be fun to write a halloween one-shot for Boba, in the same world as bleed for me. This is with a different Reader, so there are some references to the series, but you don't have to read to enjoy!

When Fennec Shand appears in town with her new red eyes, everyone knows it’s only a matter of time before the Daimyo will be seeking a new Companion.

Luckily, you think you know just how to make sure he picks you.

Heat still lingers in your neck, your cheeks, as you slip from your tiny cottage to rush to the town square.

Cursing yourself for almost being late to the ceremony - a long table already in place within the old tavern, moved to the middle of the room. The old wood and stone ceiling blocking out the setting sun, making it safe.

He’s there. Your eyes find him right away - all that green against the shades of brown and grey.

The Daimyo.

Positioned at the head of the table, that helmet fixed in place. Looking like a ruler with the way he sits - so strong and straight-backed in the velvet chair, brought out just for him. It sends a shiver up your spine as you slip to the back, to give your own offering.

A small goblet, brought from home. The carvings in the wood smooth, burnished from the press of your fingers over the years. Curving petals worn down at the edges - traced over with your thumb, again and again.

It’s dull, next to all the gold and glass. The candles glinting off the gifts that line the long table - an ache still throbbing in the crook of your elbow, as yours joins the flight of others.

It's warm, in the tavern. Fuller than you've ever seen - bodies packed together. Your back presses against the thick wooden wall, standing on tip-toe to see over the pair in front of you.

Wanting to watch when that helmet lifts.

The tanned skin beneath, those red eyes that flicker in the candlelight. It's a rarity to see him this bare. Something precious that you tuck away, as your eyes rove over every detail.

You think he must be starving, from the dark shadows under his eyes. You can count back two months as to when Lady Shand had stopped walking through the marketplace in the day. Appearing again in her oil-blackened armor - a new, deadly quiet about her.

Everyone had known she would turn.

It had only been a matter of time.

Secrets were hard to keep, in a town as small as this.

You still had some. Others had theirs. Most you did not care about, but when it came to the coven of vampires, in their looming castle at the top of the tall hill - it had always been a fascination.

How beautiful - how benevolent - they are.

A hush settles over the crowd, as the first cup is lifted. Restraint shown in the tip of the glass, the single bobbing swallow of his throat as he drinks.

He could gorge. He could swallow every drop, but there's a carefulness in the way he moves.

Continuing the old tradition of the town - one that the Mand'alor had not followed. But after hearing of his searching - the path that had been so set for him - none of you could begrudge his choice.

The first goblet is placed back down.

His methods are unknown - he had arrived at the castle with Lady Shand by his side, already his Companion.

Would taste from each one?

Or stop, if one is pleasing to him?

Your odds are not in your favor, with the amount of offerings. Nothing stands out about your goblet - you had no gold, no bronze. Only an heirloom and yourself.

Fifth from the end, of a line of people who all had their own reasons to want to uproot their lives. Fortune. Pleasure. Running to something, or running from.

But did any of them see him for who he was? Like you did?

You don’t really care that he was a Daimyo, not really.

He could be anyone - a lesser lord. A commoner, like yourself.

Your wishes would stay the same.

It was what he had done, that had made Boba Fett a fixture in your mind.

To him, perhaps it had been a small thing.

Not worth remembering, in the life of someone who has lived for so long, with such experiences. Barely a blip, compared to the stories you'd heard.

Bounty Hunting and Rancors and Sarlaacs.

But to you, it had meant everything.

He had saved you.

Not in such a way as the Mand'alor had done for his Queen. That sort of saving would be written in song or word, someday, with the way the story was whispered in the streets.

There had been no witches, no fated meetings. No burned towns for Lord Fett to pull you from, to whisk you away to safety. No enemies torn apart, in revenge.

But it had been no less chivalrous.

It had been early in the day, and luckily so. Mid-morning and he would not have been out, not with what he was.

A few weeks into Spring, when your little stall in the market should have been blooming with your home-grown flowers, baskets of vegetables from your leased garden.

A late frost and a family of hungry rabbits had you far behind. On goods to sell and your payment for your use of the space. The few coins you had from the week before clutched in your fist as Lord Gorian Shard had loomed over you, demanding more than what you could spare.

Cutting down your promises to pay him back, if you could just have another week - a day, even. Deaf to your pleas.

You knew what you owed, but it hadn't been fair. Everyone knew he charged far too much for his stalls. But you had been desperate then, almost as much as you had been now.

A shadow had loomed, as every last silver and copper had been shaken from your coin purse. Tucked away into deep pockets, the pitiful amount added to what he already carried.

"Is there an issue here, Shard?"

The voice had cut through the morning haze was one you thought of often, the low timber. Slicing, like a knife.

You're sure you looked pathetic. Shard's hand gripping your forearm, pinching. The half-filled stall, the dust covering your tunic - swiped across your forehead from the back of your hand, while setting up.

But, the grip had loosened. And for the first time, the Merchant had lost some of his aloof, elitist air. A flash of worry crossing his features, as a Mandalorian had approached from the shadows.

His face had been covered, since dawn had broken - but there had been no mistaking him.

Boba Fett.

"No issue, my lord." Gorian Shard had smiled, his voice changing from the sharp tone he had used with you, "Just business, I assure you. Far too small for someone as busy as yourself, I'm sure."

There was a rough buzz from the helmet, the sound of a hum.

"How much more is owed?"

It became clear he had been listening. You hadn't looked to the shadows, and your heart had sunk. Embarrassment creeping around you, tightening like vines around your ribs.

“Fifty more gold." Shard had sniffed, making a show of checking his pockets.

Another hum, "A little early to be collecting payments, isn't? The quarter isn't for another month."

Shard had frowned, "I collect monthly, thank you."

Silence lingered then, for a moment too long. That worn green helmet flicked you way - your eyes only able to hold it for a moment, before they dropped. Examining the worn toes of your boots, wondering what he must think of you.

"Give us a moment."

You had thought he meant you - getting ready to step away, to give them some space.

Not expecting the helmet to snap towards the Merchant, as another order was growled out, "Did you not hear me, Shard?"

He had been too happy to oblige, quickly finding another debtor three stalls over.

You had also not expected the soft pouch of leather to be held out, pressed into your hands from Lord Fett's own belt.

Far heavier than your own, and you had immediately found the strength to meet his gaze again - to hand the gift back.

"I can't accept this." You had protested, "It is far too much, I can't pay this back."

He had considered you, for a long moment. You had wished you could see his face - your own reflected back at you. Pinched and worried and tired.

Pivoting gracefully, as he turned to look at your stall, "If you will not accept my help, then I wish to purchase your stock. Everything you have."

It's an out, for you. Another gift, a way to accept with what little dignity you had left intact.

Even if you were both aware that he had no use for your ware. That vampires did not dine on the food of humans. That the kitchens within the castle were already stocked with the finest goods available.

The gold had been offered, again. His voice low - almost gentle.

"Please do me this honor, my lady."

This bit of kindness, his voice, his honorifics - as if your presence had meant something, as if he truly considered this a favor to him - had stunned you. Enough that you had allowed him to press the pouch into your hand.

Enough that you had allowed the woman that had stepped to his side to pack up the flowers, the vegetables. Every single piece until your stall was as empty as it was, when you had arrived that morning.

Shard had watched, with narrowed eyes.

But - your debt had been paid. This month, and then the next. And then the next.

You began to look forward to his visits. Not for the gold, of course, but for him. The snippets of conversation - the solemn way he checked on you, the low timbre of his voice.

“Have you been treated well?”

“Is this enough?”

You’re sure you had looked foolish. Ankles crossing as you leaned across the booth. Trying to hide your smile but failing, as you protested. A game, you had played.

Always the same questions, the same answers.

“I can’t stop you from buying my wares… but I don’t want a copper more, my Lord.”

His fingers tapping twice on the wooden stall, before his reply.

“As you wish.”

Boba's kindness had changed your life.

The coin used to buy better seeds. Your little, rented home slowly filling out with warm bedding and good food and sturdy clothes - things you had always scrambled to find. Luxuries, before now.

And for a while, you had entertained the thought of leaving town. Saving up every gold piece, starting a new life.

You almost had enough.

But that had been before Lady Shand had turned. Before the rumors had spread that Boba Fett would be seeking a new Companion.

Your heart had twisted, with the news.

Jealousy. Longing.

It could be you.

He had become a fixture in your mind. Your evenings filled with daydreams. Keeping you company as you worked, dirt caking under your fingernails, as you imagined another life.

You could pay him back, in a ways. Show him how grateful you were, offering your blood - yourself - in exchange. You never would have dared hope before but this… this was worth trying, wasn’t it?

So, you did something risky.

Hoping it would pay off.

Hoping that perhaps… your feelings were not so singular.

It feels like you're holding your breath, as Boba moves down the table. Those cups handed over so carefully. That same, single taste from each one.

There's a tick of his jaw, at some. A pink peek of tongue dragging over a lower lip. No tells in his expression, no indication on where his mind leads.

And then, finally - he's at yours.

The wooden goblet hefted in his hand, his thumb brushing unconsciously over the etchings, like yours always did. Your fingernails biting into your palms, your heart pounding in your ears, an ache settling low in your belly - much like the one before, as you had been preparing.

And with the tip of a hand, he drinks.

The goblet lowers, as he swallows. A waver of his hand, as makes to set it back down to rejoin the others.

But then.... he pauses.

A lift of his brow, a slow tilt back - as he indulges in a second.

Before his eyes are sweeping across the room. Halting, when they find yours. The smallest lift of his lips, with his look of knowing.

Your cheeks burn, as he chooses you.

Everything happens so quickly.

Before you know it, you’re hoisted into a horse - whisked off to the castle that looms at the top of the hill. A promise to bring your things to you, though you’re sure it would take less than a wagonful.

Barely able to glance down the long halls, the ornate, stained glass windows, before there’s a hand at your elbow, guiding you.

A woman, younger than you. Quelling some of the unease at being in a new place with her gentle tone, as she takes you deep into the castle - up a wide stone staircase, through an ornate wooden door, and into a room.

It doesn’t appear to be his room, and you don’t know if you’re relieved or disappointed.

Bathed in shades of green and red and gold. Dark velvet curtains against the closed windows, blocking out the last rays of the sun.

Your guide parts from you here, a murmur that the ceremony will begin at sundown - that she will be back then to help you get ready.

Leaving you on your own to explore the space, until then.

A tall bed takes up the middle of the back wall, the frame a dark, carved wood. Thick blankets in tones of ivory and a rich forest green, lit candles on the wooden tables on either side.

There’s long wardrobe against the wall, the mirror glinting in the light. A ceramic vase painted with swirls of copper, roses and wildflowers spilling over the brim.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think that some of the flowers almost looked familiar.

A door is half-opened to the left, next to the fireplace, the velvet chaise sitting in front of it. Already a thought lingers about how cozy the space will be in the winter, as you pad over to glance into the next room.

It’s all ceramic tile inside, opening up to a bathroom, The claw-foot copper tub filling with steaming water, and you long to slip into it, to wash the morning’s dirt from your knees.

And so, you do.

Your stripped clothes lie in a pile on the floor. A pleased hiss as you step into the water, the temperature tipping towards too hot. Sinking deep, up to your chin, as your head tips back against the rim.

It gives you time to think, as you all but float in the water.

Giddy, at the replay of the afternoon. That it had worked.

The way he had gone back, an indulgence. He had liked it - the taste of you - and that thought was thrilling.

A warmth settling in your bones, that had nothing to do with the water.

Picking apart the look in his eyes, where you felt certain he had been searching for you. It leaves you confident that your feelings had not changed.

The water is cold and you’re scrubbed clean by the time you leave. Lotions found on the countertop smoothed into your skin, the tired joints of your knuckles.

Fingers trace over the rack of robes you find next to the door. Soft silks and thick cotton and gauzy, see-through chiffon. Your cheeks burn at the thought, as you pull one out to hold it against you.

Imaging the red fabric against your skin. How little of you it would hide, in spite of it swishing around your ankles.

Eventually, you settle on something between the two - modest enough that you won’t be embarrassed to see your guide again.

Intentionally choosing something that reminds you of him - shades of green with thin, gold trim. The tie knotted carefully around your waist, skimming your thighs. The sleeves gathered at your forearms, the silky feeling luxurious against your scrubbed skin.

By the time you make it back to the bedroom, the edges around the curtains are dark - the sun long set. The blankets soft - the mattress dipping as you sit down on the edge, still taking in the room.

A knock comes, soon after. The gentle rapping of knuckles against the door - heavy as you pull it open.

Something flipping low in your belly, when you see your visitor.

Not the pleasant girl, who had chattered as she guided you up the steps. Smiling, as she bid you farewell.

It’s him.

Boba lingers outside your door, so unlike you’ve ever seen before. Clothed in black robes, his Beskar chest plate fitted on top. Your eyes follow down, seeing gloves and gauntlets, but no helmet - before you realize you’re staring. Your gaze quickly snapping up to his, already caught.

There’s a twitch of his lips. His own eyes wandering, though you missed them in your own exploration.

His voice low, amused as he asks, “May I come in?”

Heat licks at your skin as you nod - nerves skittering down your spine, at this unexpected development. Stepping back to allow him inside.

Ending up at the end of the bed again, your palms pressing into the bedspread to keep you from fidgeting.

“Is this room to your liking?” Boba asks, conversationally.

So casually, so pleasantly, that you’re frowning. Confused at his appearance. Assuming that he had come to feed - that he’d grown tired of waiting, his patience now thin.

“It’s beautiful,” You answer, honestly. Far finer than any room you’d seen before. The bath already feels like a dream, even though the perfume still lingers in your skin, “You are again too generous.”

“It is my pleasure.” His voice is low, his hands bracing against the chaise he stands behind, “By far the least I can do.”

A nod to your new situation. This new connection, binding you together. You knew about the ritual in the tavern, from the whispers from the Companions that visited your stall.

Flowers woven into their hair as they gossiped, your eager ears picking up everything you could.

But this, now, was unknown to you.

Was he just getting to know you? Or was there another step you were missing?

“Thank you, Lord Fett,” You smile. Fingers pinching at the blanket, gathering your nerves. A breath, before you can ask, “Are we… are we to begin now? I was told there would another ceremony.”

“Just Boba, please.” He clarifies, after a beat of silence - those dark eyes still fixed on you. That eye contact still holding, as his head tilts, “And yes, there is a ritual. When conducted, it takes place in front of the coven.”

It’s not an unpleasant thought. There’s something primal about such a ritual - the thought of him claiming you in front of his friends and peers.

Images leap to your mind, unbidden. Your imagining of the throne room, filled to the brim. Gathered up in his arms, the expanse of your neck appears as he dips you. Baring legs, baring arms, baring throat.

The flash of teeth, as they sink into your skin-

It takes another second, before you can gather your thoughts. Clearing your throat, as you ask, “Is that what you wish?”

“That would depend.” His steps are slow, as he rounds the chaise. Hands clasped behind his back, the green armor accentuating his broad chest.

“On?”

There’s the flash of teeth as he smiles, “On if you’re planning on changing.”

Heat flares in your cheeks, at the thought of your appearance. Acutely aware of the single layer that covers you, just a loose knot keeping the robe in place.

Is Boba Fett flirting with me?

Before you can answer, his head turns, “This ritual is more symbolic than binding. Any true decisions are made behind doors. We can continue here, if you’d like.”

You nod slowly. The thought of having him to yourself appealing, especially for the first night. A twinge of worry about the feeding - the crook of your arm still tender from where you were pricked to fill the goblet.

Not wanting to appear weak. Not wanting your desires to be laid out, exposed in front of everyone.

“I would not mind that.” You confess, “What kind of decisions do you mean?”

“There are many we can discuss.” His look turns thoughtful, “For one, your stall. If it is gold that brought you here, I would purchase it from Shard for you. You need not do this.”

That makes you blink - the offer kind. An unexpected, altruistic turn.

“No. That’s not why.” Your head shakes, “I’m here on my own. I wanted to-”

Your words cut off, afraid to say too much. A breath, before you add, “I have little other ties here. It was not the stall that brought me to the tavern."

Something in his face changes, a softening to that ever-steady mark between his brows. Those hands still clasped, as if stilling them, as he moves closer, “Are you not bound to another, ad’ika?”

“Do you mean a soulmate?” The question makes you blink - a little frown forming.

There were no marks on your skin. No ties to another, painted where their body had first touched yours.

You could find out. You want to joke, but it stays trapped on your tongue. A moment, before you shake your head.

“No.” A small breath, as you steel yourself, “I don’t believe in them.”

His expression flickers now - you’ve caught him off guard.

“You don’t believe? The Mand’alor has often walked the town streets with his. Do you doubt their connection?”

Curiosity tinges his words, and your head shakes again, “They were lucky, I think. And I think fate works for some. Just… not me.”

It’s as honest as you’ve ever been. Maybe he’ll laugh at you… but just maybe - he’ll understand.

Perhaps it had been luck that morning, when he found you. But fate hadn’t made him kind.

That had been all him.

And perhaps luck had also turned Lady Shand before you left - but it was you who had gone to the Tavern, goblet in hand. You who had leaned into his visits, tucking away each one.

“I’d like to think that I make my own decisions. That my own choices determine my path.”

“And is that what you’ve done?” He rasps, his eyes dark, “Made your choice?”

Your breath hitches at his tone, smooth and low. Managing a short, little nod in answer - not trusting ability to keep your voice level.

“Not all bonding is mates, little one.” He’s closer now. Enough that you can see the fine weave of his robes - the chips in his armor where a sword had peeled away the paint, “You know that, right?”

Your heart pounds in your ears - ignoring his question, as you manage to ask your own, “What do you want?”

His head cocks, the candlelight catching his eyes. That burgundy shimmer darkening. You find yourself holding your breath as you wait for his answer. Watching the way his lips pull in a smile, revealing the sharp points of his teeth.

“Oh, what do I want?” He repeats, slowly, softly. “I want you to show me what you did to make your blood so sweet.”

His voice drops then, as he moves closer, “And then I want to taste you for myself.”

Your breath comes in a ragged gasp. He knew?

The whispered rumor about making your blood near irresistible had been trusted, but you never thought he’s be able to tell.

His laugh is soft, “Are you getting shy on me now, sarad?”

Heat licks at you, embarrassment and desire swirling together into a heady combo. Your thoughts slipping between your teeth on their own, “How did you…”

Boba clucks his tongue, “It’s been a while, little one. But not that long.”

That snags in your mind, your attention shifting. You frown, fingers twisting around the silk ties of your robe, “What do you mean?”

His eyebrow lifts.

There were rumors that Lord Fett and the now Lady Shand were not romantically linked. But it had never been confirmed, and part of you had worried you were going to end up in a precarious position.

Not that you minded sharing.

“You’re stalling.” He chides again, “If I misunderstood, then-”

“You didn’t.” You’re quick to correct, the band of silk pinching around your fingers, “I’m just surprised, that’s all.”

His lips quirk at your answer, your boldness. An arm braces on the foot post of the canopy bed, close enough that your thigh brushes his hip.

“It has been a decade since I’ve drank from the throat of a creature as lovely as you.” His hand lifts, the back of his knuckle brushing against your neck.

No mark blooms under his touch, but you can’t bring yourself to care. You don’t need one to want him, or to love him. All you need is your heart - beating so fiercely, as that knuckle drags down to the hollow of your throat.

His fingers unfurling until the tips drag against your sternum, as your heart drops to beat between your thighs.

In a moment of bravery, your fingers tug on the tie. The knot loosing, and then pooling around your hips as the edges of your robe part, falling open.

His eyes follow, tracing your curves as they come into view. The rich fabric like a caress against your bare skin as you shift further back on the bed. Legs uncrossing as he steps between them - forcing them to nudge wider.

Heat pools in your belly, with his proximity. The knowledge that he truly intends to watch - close enough that his fingers could brush your skin, with how he bends - pressing his palms against the mattress.

Framing your thighs, as you lower yourself to your elbows. Nearly on display, the fabric still bunching at your waist, keeping you hidden.

If you hadn’t thought about him so often, perhaps you’d be a little more shy. But there was something so intoxicating about this. So honest and earnest in his tone - making you believe that because he said it so, he truly wanted to see you.

And you wouldn’t deny your Lord of anything.

Your eyes flip up to his, watching how he waits. Those hands still pressed flush, as his eyes rake over your form - an attempt to keep his hands from wandering.

But yours are not to tied down. Yours drift - trailing along the soft green hem. Down, towards the valley between your breasts.

It has you wondering if he can hear the way your heart kicks up a notch. At your touch, your intentions.

You think he must, with the way he shifts between your thighs, waiting.

The silky fabric pebbles at the tight peaks of your breasts. Soft as your fingertips run across them - a creak of his leather gloves with your soft sigh, as his fingers curl into the bedspread.

His eyes darker still, as you let your robe part further. Knuckles pinching, dragging over bare skin before drifting towards your navel. An urge to press your thighs together, an ache at the thought of things to come. At his words, already given.

There’s a rough noise, something gritted out that you miss, when the robe parts fully. When Boba can see you fully, his eyes dropping to where you’re slick already. Swollen and soft and warm, a pink tongue peeking out between sharp teeth at the sight.

A half-formed thought to tease - fingers parting yourself open. Your strokes slow, to dip slowly into your heat.

But it feels impossible to do so, with him watching. The second you slip against your skin, you’re sighing - quick to press and circle, your hips jolting into your touch.

He knows it’s for him. You can’t even pretend you’re still wet from before - those hours and that long, warm bath passing between then and now.

No, it’s his words. His voice, those suggestions.

Him.

From this angle he can surely see how you shine already. Knees pressing into his hips as your muscles clench, toes curling.

Can he see how your pulse thuds? How your blood races down, to where you ache?

The press of your fingers makes you whine, eyes taking in the expanse of his chest. Flicking down to where his hand rotates, gloved fingers touching down on the bed - moving to press against the curve of your thigh.

He watches your fingers, the way they press. Memorizing what makes your muscles clench, the soft sounds of your sighs.

You want his hands on you - to feel the strength of them for yourself. Molding you into his image, to touch you however he wishes.

To take you, as he tastes you.

It has your leg pressing into his touch, teeth biting into your tongue to keep you from begging.

“You want something.” His voice is soft, his eyes unreadable, “I can feel it, radiating from you.”

The air hisses through your teeth, sparks of pleasure pulsing where your fingers press. Slowing and stuttering at his words.

“You,” The word is sighed out, your eyes meeting his dark ones, “I want you.”

He smiles then, and it’s almost cruel. Teasing.

His hands curving around your thighs, moving slowly against your skin. Up until his thumbs are brushing against your inner thighs, nudging them wider apart.

“You managed just fine, before.” There’s a lilt to his voice, the raise of an eyebrow, “Or did you have some help?”

Your fingers slow as your brows knit, distracted by his question. How his fingers bump against yours, so close to where you burn - but still not touching.

“No,” Your head shakes, “I didn’t.”

I just thought of you, you want to tell him. I thought about this.

“Good.” He husks, and his hands leave you. A little whine slipping past your lips as he brings a hand to his mouth - using his teeth to rip the gloves from his fingers, “I only want your blood singing for me.”

It makes you clench, lips parting just in him for him to arch over you - a bare hand flattening against the bed near your ear. The other dipping between your lips when they part for him, sliding past blunt teeth.

You groan around him, cool and solid as they slip across your tongue. His eyes growing darker as your lips close around to suck, his thumb stroking the underside of your chin.

It’s bliss. Your mouth so beautifully full and busy as your fingers work, aiding your steady ascent towards euphoria.

All too soon they slide from you, leaving your lips glossy. Trailing down your chin, before dropping to fit between your thighs.

He didn’t need to, you’re already so wet. The tip of index finger slipping beneath yours, teasing at your opening. Sliding into you easily as you arch into his touch, feeling the fullness of having him in you. Already a bit of a stretch, and you squirm at the thought of more.

“So warm and wet.” His tone is almost reverent, his eyes dropping to your mouth, “I’d almost forgotten.”

Watching how you pant as his finger plunges deep, the pull of your brow as he slips from you, only to fit two inside with his next thrust.

Angling his wrist so he can curl them inside you, stroking against slick walls - finding a place that had your breath coming in a ragged gasp.

You’re close already. It had been easy, with him so close. Looking at you so hungrily, as you brought yourself closer. The feel of his fingers, filling and stroking you, teasing against that spot, has your muscles winding tight.

Boba shifts, leaning back. The hand pressing against the bed moves to wrap around your wrist, halting the needy circle of your fingers.

Your mounting pleasure plateaus, a frustrated sound in your throat. His fingers still fucking you, but that sharp edge slips from your grasp.

“Slower.” He rasps, pinning your hand down. Only allowing the tips of your fingers to each, “Need to get you ready for me. Is that what you want?”

“Yes.” You moan - automatically, without thought.

The thought makes you tighten around his, squeezing his fingers. His smile pulls to show sharp teeth, the slick slap of his fingers loud where they press into your pussy.

“Gods, I can feel you. Do you want it that bad, ad’ika?”

Your mind swirls, the weight of your tongue making it impossible to answer. Even with the tiny flick of your fingers, you can feel the pleasure in your belly start to crackle and burn.

That pressure increasing, each breath no more than a high gasp. Your vision starting to grow blurry, eyes heavy with lust, all of your concentration focused on the sweet spot between your thighs.

His name is torn from your throat, as you come when three fingers fit inside you. Crooking and stroking against your walls as you bear down around them, as he can feel how you pulse.

It drowns out your pleasure from before - hurried movements in the privacy of your home. You’re alight now - basking in the low hum of his words. Blurring at the edges, slipping through your fingers.

Fuck, that’s it.

My sarad, bloom for me.

Can’t wait to taste you.

The hand lets go to press against your hip, pinning you down. Making you take the steady pump of his fingers, as he draws it out.

“You can. Can taste me-” You gasp, your own fingers now still. A twinge that tips towards too much, as you grasp at his wrist. His hand staying buried in you, as his other curls around the back of your neck.

You brace for the bite, as your head tilts to offer your throat. Know it was coming from the start - eager to offer yourself in every way you could.

Not expecting the way he leans over you again. The ghost of warm breath before the press of his mouth against your pulse. Inhaling your scent as your heart flutters in your throat, the haze of your orgasm settling over you.

A rough sound as you moan, as he moves higher. Teeth nipping at your jaw. Realization swirling as there’s the hungry press of his mouth against yours - your own hands scraping across armor, grasping at his robes.

Curling around his shoulder to hold him to you, as you melt further. His lips are soft - yours are already parted, welcoming the dip of his tongue. Your legs hitching around his waist as his weight presses into you.

It’s comforting. It’s enveloping - your sigh swallowed as his hand slips from you. Pulling back from your mouth, as your head rising to chase after him.

Meeting those fingers instead - slick with your release, pressing against your lower lip. His own tongue swirling against one, as you share the others.

Your teeth graze, bite down on his fingers. His groan low as mouths meet again - with your taste on his tongue, with his hips pressing down against yours. Grinding himself against your bare skin, where you can feel the hard curve of his arousal.

“See how good you taste?” He rasps, lips brushing your cheek. “Fuck, can’t get enough.”

His arm curls around your waist, slick fingers shoving between mattress and your back. Lifting you like you’re nothing, with his enhanced strength. A flip in your belly and a little yelp, before you’re set back down.

Boba’s back rests against the ornate headboard. Your thighs spread wide around his waist, straddling him. The soft robe you wear dips down across your back, the fabric nestled in the crook of your elbows.

Hands splay across his chest, cool skin and hard muscle beneath. His eyes on the expanse of your skin - the slope from your neck, to your bare breasts beneath. That hand anchoring the back of your neck again, thumb sweeping the soft spot beneath your ear.

His eyes burn. Glittering embers in their depth, the sharp points of his teeth showing between parted lips. Something inside you stirs - know deep down that he truly means to taste you now.

To drink from you, as your head tilts back to offer the soft skin of your throat.

“It will hurt, a little.” He warns, voice low. Rough, as if he’s holding himself back, “But I’ll make you feel good. I promise, mesh’la.”

Your fingers twist in his robes. Eyes fluttering shut, as you wait for it to come.

But he has one last request, an edge to his voice that that fixes your attention.

“Keep your eyes open for me.”

It’s your last warning, before he’s leaning forward. The soft brush of his lips against your jugular, before he’s biting down.

There’s twin pinches, as your skin gives beneath his teeth. A burning throb as you gasp - unable to help the way you flinch, stiffening in his arms.

He groans against your neck as you flood his tongue, and there’s the sensation of pulling, the soft suck of his mouth.

But the pain does not linger. It soon bleeds into something more, that sharp edge twisting and transforming. That thudding in your neck tipping downwards. Past your chest, past your belly.

Nestling between your thighs with a very different kind of ache. One that has you shifting against him, the roll of your hips as he keeps you pinned with his teeth.

The robes he wears are thin. Not one they go beneath his armor during the day, or to travel. Soft and fine as your fingers curl into the fabric at his shoulders.

Not at all concealing his need for you, something that stretches deeper than the urge to drink. Boba is stiff beneath you, his hardness trapped beneath the layers of cloth and your bare cunt.

Each squirm presses him against you. Something flickering in your mind, a sort of mirror to your pleasure. It feels like it strings out, wrapping around your limbs, tethering you together.

His teeth unlatch, when you reach down. A desire from deep inside to touch him, fingers sliding against fabric. Dampened from you, from the slide of your hips, the way you feel like you will burst, if he’s not inside you.

“Taste so godsdamn sweet.” He groans, tongue tracing over the marks on your neck. Where the blood still beads out, sweetened by your orgasm, “Knew it was yours, the moment it touched my tongue.”

Pulling back, to bring his mouth to yours again. He tastes like iron, like you - as your hand curls around him. Achingly hard under your touch, as your fingers trace down the curve of him, finding the edge of his robes.

“Fuck. You can have it, ad’ika. It’s yours if you want it.” His eyes are brighter, those shadows under his eyes less defined.

Hips lifting so you can draw him out, so smooth and heavy in your hand. On another day you’d want to stroke it yourself, feel the weight of it on your tongue. But you’re too desperate now. Already rising up on your knees, the robe parting like curtains at your hips.

The kiss breaks and there’s a soft protest as you line yourself up. Not for you to stop, for you to slow - merely for to take your time.

Though there is no desire to. The time you’ve already taken feels far too long, in this moment.

His hands move - sliding down to your hips. Resting there as you take him, the sharp stretch has the thick head parts you, as you slip down onto his cock. Even with the stretch of his fingers, it still feels like too much. A ragged gasp as your nails sink into his skin, though the fabric of his robes.

It twines with the pulse in your throat. Your fluttering heartbeat, the way you make room for him to fit inside you. His thick fingers flexing against bare skin as he bottoms out, as your thighs finally rest against his.

“Gods, you feel so good-” You keen - as you go still, for a long moment.

Breath caught in your throat, eyes widened as he watches. He shifts beneath you, the flexing of his legs as they stretch out beneath you. It moves him - a shallow thrust deep in your belly. That pleasure sparking, blending with the buzzing of your blood in your veins. Another roll of your hips, and then another.

Hands unfurling, slipping up to brace on his shoulders. Using them to aid your movements - the slow lift and drop that speeds up, as you get used to the feeling of him inside you. The way each stroke sends him against your walls.

His eyes are hazy - blood-drunk off you. Muscles strung tight as he lets you set the pace. Bouncing on his cock until you tire yourself out, until you beg for him to help you. Holding himself back, as your blood lingers on his tongue.

Your thighs burn with the effort. Head dipping down to see where he watches, the lounge of his shoulders against the headboard. How pretty you look, stretch around him. Something so fitting about how bare you are, against his layers - the edge of his armor, that bites into your wrists.

His fingers drift down from your hip, around the curve of your thigh. The pad of his thumb pressing against your clit again.

Following the rise and fall of your hips, circling against you the way he had watched yours move.

You swear you feel him throb in you, when his eyes raise. Lingering on your chest, the sticky smear of crimson against your skin - an errant drop from his eager drinking.

It’s then, that the scales tip. His body moving against yours - a hand wrapping around your back. The shift of his hips as he lurches forward, until it’s you that is pinned beneath him, back pressed against the mattress.

He’s deeper like this. Hips snapping into yours, as you cry out. Head dipping down, his tongue dragging against your clavicle. Down, to lap the trail blood from your skin as he groans.

You back arching into his touch as he presses open-mouthed kisses against your breast, a soft cry as his fingers find the other, trapping the tight bud between his knuckles.

“Could feel how much you wanted this.” His voice is a low rasp. Your thighs wrapping around him as he ruts into you. A circle of his hips grinding against your clit, slick and swollen from your connection.

Feeding off him, in your own way. Something sweet and heavy slipping through your veins. Your skin feels too sensitive - all your nerves alight under his touch. Head tilting back against the blankets as his weight settles over you.

As that feeling builds up again, faster this time. Racing, with the stretch of his cock. The way his hips roll back. Leaving you to clench around the tip, before plowing back in.

You’d never considered your morality before, but it flickers in your mind now. Just how delicate you feel. A true vampire lord, able to crush you if he wanted.

Instead, he touches you gently - as his hand finds your wrist, his fingers curling around. A swipe of his thumb against your skin as he reaches to pin it against the bed. The other tucking beneath you, cupping the back of your neck again.

It sends another wave of heat between your thighs. The pound of his cock even louder than the press of his fingers, your slick arousal audible - layering with your cries.

There’s a warning on the tip of your tongue - the words coming out slurred instead. A soft, panting groan. Your heels digging into his lower back, eyes fluttering shut as he grinds himself against the spot he had found with his fingers.

“Twice wasn’t enough, ad’ika? Going to come again?” You can hear the grin in his words How it’s an inevitability, with the way he moves in you.

Unable to look away, with the way he holds you. Not that you’d want you, you think - even if you could. The fix of his gaze feels like a gift, bestowed upon you.

Captivating, with the way he soaks in every minute movement. The sweep of his eyes as he watches you start to fall apart beneath him.

You want to feel him again. That pounding surge inside your veins, that sensation of feeling even more connected than you already are.

So, you beg him for it. Eyes heavy-lidded where they find his. Your words punctuated with the hitching of your breath as you guide him down to your throat, with eager hands.

“Bite me. You can, I’m yours-”

Your pleas are impossible to resist, when his own pleasure thrumming in his belly.

He bites higher, this time. In a spot that even your tallest collar won’t hide, teeth pricking skin. Your cry turns into a groan as the rapture courses through you, seeping into your veins. Flooding his tongue, as he drinks again.

You shatter. Caught in his grip, unable to squirm with his teeth in your neck. His weight pinning you down as you pulse around his cock, your cry high and broken in the castle room.

He groans into your skin. The suck of blood over teeth, tasting how it turns sweet. Flushed with your ecstasy, an endless loop between his teeth and the tight clench of your cunt as you come.

For a moment, your eyes flutter closed. Images flicker behind your eyelids - shown as if you were outside yourself.

Red petals against green. Your perception darkened, as if behind a visor. Visions of you, leaning over your stall. Surrounded in a wreath of flowers, hand-picked from your garden.

A throb in your chest, one that blooms - skittering down your spine, settling low in your belly. Almost like butterflies, with how their wings feel like they flutter.

The sensation disappears too fast to make sense of - breaking, as he lets go.

Red smeared across his lips as the steady thrusts become short, messy. Fingers biting into your skin with the slap of his hips, the harsh grunt that turns into a ragged groan.

Hovering over you, as he notches himself deep, one last time. The column of his throat lengthening as his head tips back - it takes everything to resist the urge to make your own mark, as he spills messily inside you.

Throbbing, chasing the high with the grind of his hips.

His eyes losing that sharp edge, when his head tips down. Soft and warm, a sunrise welcoming a summers day.

Everything moves slowly, after. The lazy relaxing of muscles. The tilt of his lips when you whine, when he slips from you. His fingers slow, sweeping - as they dip down. Teasing where he drips from you, as your mouth finds his again.

Tender, as the robe is fully stripped from you. Boba’s words coaxing and patient, as he shows you the strap of his armor. How to take him apart, until you match - a perfect pair.

The aches that linger in your muscles are soon soaked away in the bath he draws. Your second today - a true luxury. The ceramic tub large enough for your back to cradle against his front.

You don’t think you ever want to leave.

Drowsy and content, his cool fingers welcome against your neck. A salve smeared carefully over the marks from his teeth. A promise that your skin will heal by morning, soft and smooth again - unmarried by his touch.

You think next time… you’ll ask if they can stay.

You’re warm against him.

Boba hasn’t been warm in years. Too used to his skin, carved from stone. Forever unchanging.

But you - you’re supple. Soft in his hands, molding yourself to fit the curve of his chest, where you cheek nestles. A thigh splaying over his waist, fingers splayed out against his stomach.

There’s much he should be doing. The sun has set some hours ago, and there’s a long list of things that need his attention.

But for now, for this moment, he will stay. Just a little longer, before he’ll slide out from beneath you, slipping away like a shadow.

You stretch against him, calf pressing into his thigh. Words heavy with sleep and exhaustion, so soft in the night air.

“‘m glad you picked me.”

There’s a stirring, in his chest. Where he thought he was long-dead, his palm pressing down where it rests against your back.

The briefest moment before he’s answering, an idle threat as a deflection.

Hushing you instead, his voice low, “Sleep, little one. You’re mistaken if you think I’ve had had my fill.”

You can’t help the smile, even as your teeth bite into your lip to stifle it. Squirming against him, the press of your center against the curve of his hip.

A low hum of amusement in his chest, as the arm that stretches beside you curls up - tucking around your ribs, nestling you a little closer.

He listens, as your breathing grows slower. Until you’re drifting off to a dreamless sleep.

Only then, does he let his mind wander. Back to the place where it had been earlier that evening. When he teeth were bared, that moment where his armor had been so thin.

“Don’t close your eyes.”

If you had, you would have seen.

Peeling back his memories, discovering just how often he had strayed down to the marketplace, after your first meeting. Not for gold or for payment. Only to catch a glimpse at the girl that had burrowed under his skin.

Somewhere along the way, changing from a casual observation - making sure Shard kept away - to something far more intimate.

Something akin to longing, if a man like Boba Fett could feel that way.

You would have felt - when the goblet raised to his lips for the second time…

Just how much he had hoped it was yours.

ad'ika - little one | sarad - flower | mesh’la - beautiful

If you made it this far, thank you so much for reading! 🥺💕 I wanted to explore some of the same themes but in a new way for Boba (rejection of fate, the intentional in the way they seek each other out, instead of the pull of soulmates) - I just thought that would be so fun. I hope you liked this! 💖

tagging some pals!: @margofiore, @marieg, @wingofshadow, @reaperofmen, @bobaprint, @phoenixhalliwell, @csboz, @imarvelatthestars

#vampire!boba fett #boba fett x reader #boba fett x you #boba fett x female reader #boba fett x f!reader #boba fett imagine #boba fett smut #boba fett thots #the book of boba fett #boba fett #boba “this man fucks” fett 🤝 daddy daimyo boba #daddy daimyo

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