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darthmaulification · 2 years

Note

Okay Request idea! On your NSFW alphabet for Boba (btw I loved it so much!!!) you say he has an innocence/virgin kink which caters exactly to me, so could you write something where Boba takes the readers virginity and she’s just a lil innocent angel? I would be forever in your debt my love!!!! 💘❤️‍🔥💕❤️

A/N: I FINISHED IT BITCHES 😳 y’all, this bitch is TWENTY SEVEN PAGES long on google docs.

first and foremost, anon, literally i am so sorry this took SO LONG 😭😭🙏 just absolutely humiliated lmao 😔😢 jk jk but fr tho i hope this makes up for the wait!! 😖

and one final thing, i can’t responsibly post this fic without addressing that virginity is a social construct! it is not innate to a person, there is no medical evidence of virginity, it is a human invention historically influenced by religious and philosophical expectations of what dictates a person’s “purity”! THUS, virginity doesn’t influence your worth as a human at all, regardless of whether you’ve “lost” it or not. 😊👍 boba just likes being people’s firsts, especially when they’re a flustered, shy sub. ✌😌

(also, weirdly enough, this was very therapeutic for me to write, so if any of y’all also struggle with sex aversion/repulsion, i hope this was at least comforting to you as it was to me.)

that being said, i hope you enjoy! 💗

content: angst, smut, SO MUCH set up 💀, grief and healing, fem!afab!reader, 🚨reader is an ex-slave so there is mentions of slavery/servitude🚨, age gap (mostly implied), dom boba, sub reader, loss of virginity, boba is SUCH a service top in this one tho, fingering (f receiving), p in v sex, use of a safeword (not out of pain), emotional sex 🥺, wine and dine bc boba is on some king shit 💯👑,

word count: 14,185

He arrived in the midst of the blistering afternoon suns, preceded by a round of blaster fire.

Your dearest friend Varduhi recounted that after the sharp-eyed, raven-haired woman blasted her chain and freed her, he simply walked straight to the throne and shot Bib Fortuna dead. Before she fled to you, Varduhi also said that he tossed Fortuna’s body to the floor, and usurped the throne.

Now, she is leaving for her home village on Ryloth, escaping this place and Tatooine (hopefully) forever. Varduhi would take you with her, but the measly credits she’s managed to steal over her years of servitude only covered enough for transport off-world for one, and the small dagger you urged her to buy. All you want is your friend’s safety, her freedom, and you resign yourself to surviving this Hell for a bit longer.

“I will miss you, my freykaa.” Varduhi whispers against your hair, her hands rubbing your back in circular, soothing motions. Her long lekku, a heavy, familiar weight, are slung over your shoulders, like a second pair of arms holding you just as tight. Hugging her tighter, you dig your face into the crook of her neck, where your tears had dampened the black cloth of her top. Both of you have been steadily weeping into each other’s skin since Varduhi finished packing all her belongings into a rucksack. Now, you stand at the door to your quarters, embracing your goodbyes.

“I’ll miss you, too.” You say just as quietly, kissing the lek closest to your lips, then her cheek. The older Twi’lek smiles, as gorgeous and as sad as always, but this time in her smile you can see the relief of freedom. It shows in her eyes too, the regret of leaving you here, but the joy at finally going home. Varduhi unlatches herself from you to place her slender cobalt hands on your cheeks. You sigh at her touch, pressing yourself into her palms as you grip her elbows.

She sets her forehead against yours, her skin smooth and soft, and you close your eyes, relishing in the warmth of her, her friendship, her love, the kinder memories you both share.

Varduhi and you had both been kidnapped from your homes at very young ages, sold to the Palace when it was still Jabba’s. She had been older than you, not by a lot, but she treated you as though you were her little sister from day one, her protective spirit strong.

She kept you safe from the horrors of the Palace; from the criminals, scum, and other vagrants that would’ve had their terrible way with your body, from the humiliation of dancing half-nude for a sneering audience, from the perversion and cruelty of Bib Fortuna, and earlier, from the wrath of Jabba and his horrible Rancor pit.

Varduhi sacrificed so much for you over your years together, took a lot for you. She went through Hell and back, time and time again, for you. If there’s anything that Varduhi has to her name, it would be her gallant bravery, something that no one— not the slave traders, or Jabba, or Bib Fortuna— ever took from her. And it’s that bravery that’s survived her long enough to see the death of her two of her oppressors.

“You deserve this, Varduhi.” You say, breaking that long stretch of silence that was threatening to make you both shiver with doubt and uncertainty. Varduhi nods, her lekku shifting on your shoulders, and as she pulls away from you, hesitant like two magnets being separated, she plants a kiss to your forehead, sealing you with her love. Your hands lock together, and she squeezes gently.

“I will remember you always, and I will love you forever.” She says, her eyes misty, and she concludes by saying your name, which makes your heart weep. Though no tears fall from your eyes, not as you stare at your friend, the beautiful, strong woman she is, all azure fire and survival.

“I love you too.” You whisper, and Varduhi’s lekku twitch in goodbye, and her hands leave yours, fingers trailing down your palms as she pulls from you like a wave receding. The moment her fingertips withdraw entirely from yours, that last physical connection broken, Varduhi pivots on her heel, her violet eyes sending one final look that says “I love you” and “I’m sorry”.

Then, she’s out of the door before you can blink, leaving behind a trace of her desert flower perfume, the musty dark room, all of the spaces that were once her empty, and you, alone. You stand in the same spot for a few minutes longer, until your legs start moving and you sit on your bed in the corner. The thin, cruddy mattress and scratchy blanket are familiar as you lie down, but the absence of Varduhi is not.

You weep again through the whole first night without her.

In the morning, when you wake up from a dreamless sleep and to the brilliantly melancholic dawn of Tatooine’s twin suns, you think of your new... Master. The man on the throne, once a renowned bounty hunter that Jabba employed, who was meant to be long dead in the Great Pit of Carkoon, whom whispers said survived by the skin of his teeth and probably a whole lot of luck too.

A walking dead man, the prodigal son of Tatooine:

Boba Fett.

It’s not until two weeks later, when you’re without Varduhi and still aching, does he call an assembly of all the slaves and other staff still at the Palace.

Standing in the throne room next to Batu, one of the gruff Gamorrean guards who is relatively nice to you, you keep as quiet as everyone else, awaiting the arrival of your Master. The woman who had retrieved you, who you assume is the same woman that freed Varduhi, leans against the throne’s backrest, arms crossed over her chest, a long rifle slung on her back. Her dark eyes roam the room, her face piqued with near-unreadable curiosity blanketed over amusement.

“You all are a quiet lot.” She says teasingly, her voice bouncing off the stone walls of the palace, and instinctively you look down. No one replies, all just half-hearted nods and barely there murmurs of affirmation. You learned very long ago that it’s always best if you say nothing and agree silently.

“Jeez. Liven up, people.” She speaks again, pushing herself off the throne, and no one responds again, both because you’ve all been taught that and because footsteps sound from the hall. You suck in a breath and hold it as the heavy footfalls followed shortly by the clink of metal grow closer. Eyes locked on your hands clasped in front of you, shoulders bowed, you shut your eyes the moment his shadow passes by your feet. You hear him sit down, then after a few seconds of silence, he speaks.

“You are all free to leave. None of you are tied to this place any longer.” Your eyes snap open when your brain processes the words, and you look up dumbfounded at the man on the throne. You’re met with the same green, red, and yellow armored man you had seen years ago, with Jabba, when you were a young girl. He’s as intimidating as you remember, the breadth of his armor and dark robes making him look imposing, even though he’s slumped almost lazily on the throne. But how could you forget that cold, lifeless black T-visored face, expressionless but radiating danger?

Boba Fett, in the flesh, and alive. The woman is still up on the dais, but she lurks in the shadows, like a watchful, trusted sentinel.

A murmur resounds throughout the crowd of slaves and servants, some sharing cautious glances, while two brave souls inch towards the exit. They flinch (and you do too, even though you haven’t moved at all) when Boba Fett’s head swivels to them, his gaze piercing despite being hidden beneath black glass. One of his hands raise to gesture half-heartedly to the door.

“Go on. Leave.” He commands, ushering the two Weequay servants with two flicks of his wrist, and the servants scram, bolting up the stairs and out. Boba Fett makes no move to go after them, doesn’t send his companion to chase them down, doesn’t drag them back kicking and screaming just to say it was all a cruel joke. No, there is no assertion of oppressive authority, no consequence, and it astounds you.

“Thank you.” Koro, another Gamorrean guard who you knew was serving a life sentence for stealing from Jabba, blurts from the crowd. He bows, tentatively, and also sprints from the room, presumably to the family he told you he had off world. You watch in awe as more and more slaves, some you’ve known for years, are allowed to run from the Palace, to leave.

It’s only when the crowd has dwindled to a mere handful does he speak again.

“The rest of you.” He starts, and you turn your eyes away again (force of habit), “I assume you have no home to return to, no funds to travel from this place.”

Fett doesn’t ask, he states, and somehow you think it’s because he just knows. A hushed murmur of assent answers him, and you glance around to count the four people you’re standing with. You recognize Inas and Yara, two Lethan Twi’lek dancers who’ve been here as long as you, Gongul, the Ugnaught Palace chef, and Panhssj, a Trandoshan former bounty hunter who lost zis freedom with a bad hand in Sabacc.

“The proposition I have for you all is simple: I will offer you payment for your services,” Boba Fett starts again, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his thighs, the metal of his armor clinking together, “But there will be no blood debts nor life sentences. The services you would provide would be voluntary, and at any point you will have the right to leave.”

It piques your interest, but truly you have no idea what to think. You’ve never done any work voluntarily in your entire life, have never been given credits for the chores you do around the Palace. Briefly, you meet Inas’ eyes and she looks just as unsure as you.

“I don’t...” She starts, but her voice falters when Fett looks her way, and immediately the crimson Twi’lek falls silent, subdued, fearful. You flinch internally, praying to the Maker that Boba Fett is kind to her, that he doesn’t dish out too harsh a consequence for speaking out of turn. The need to fiddle with the ends of your apron, a nervous coping mechanism, makes you gather handfuls of the fabric in your hands.

“Speak. You have the right to do so.” The tone of Fett’s voice shifts so drastically to one of a menacing figure to something that could be described as gentle. Still firm and gruff, of course, but the way he levels with Inas makes your pounding heart calm in your chest.

“I don’t want to dance anymore.” Inas says, barely above a whisper, but it’s so quiet that her words reverberate throughout the room.

“Then you won't.” Boba Fett replies simply, with a slight shrug, and for the first time in a long time, a smile splits across your face. Inas perks up, eyes bright, and she and Yara hug, chittering happily in relief to one another in their mother tongue of Ryl. They turn to you and Gongul, and Inas takes the gruff Ugnaught in her arms as Yara pulls you into hers.

“We don’t have to dance!” Yara weeps against your dress, and you hug her tight, knowing how the leers and unwanted touches destroyed her and Inas time and time again. You think of all the nights they cried silently, wishing that their lives were different, and you are stricken with the joy at how easily Boba Fett has done just that.

He’s given all of you a choice, and the liberty to do with it as you please. You’ve never had anyone do something so kind to you and your colleagues in your entire life. Yet here Fett is, giving you all the world at your disposal.

Yara parts from you to join back with her sister, and the smiles don’t fall from any of your faces, not even Gongul, who bears a tiny grin. It’s the happiest you’ve seen all of them, and you, and your heart soars at their shared expressions of joy. It’s all so much, just like that.

Boba Fett is different, you determine, he is kind.

Hesitantly, you step forward, and both occupants of the dais turn their attention to you. The sudden weight of both stares makes you falter in your step, this is so unlike you, but they’ve shown enough for you to know that you won't face any retaliation. Fingers wringing your apron, you catch sight of Fett’s dark visor before quickly averting your gaze.

“Thank you.” You tell him softly, dipping your chin in a polite nod. He doesn’t move a muscle at first, and you squirm slightly under his heavy stare, but then Fett nods in return. Only a single dip of his head, but it still makes you feel important, like you’re somebody.

“Of course, mesh’la.” His low, gravelly baritone sends a shiver down your spine, his voice both warm yet easily you can see how it can promise danger. Fett’s gaze lingers on you for a few moments longer, until he turns to the room at large.

“Go about whatever business you wish. Tomorrow, Fennec and I,” He gestures to the dark-clothed woman behind him, “Will have a preliminary plan for the future to discuss with you all.”

Boba Fett rises abruptly, his forest green armor clanking against the stone throne, suddenly looking even more foreboding standing. Strangely, he doesn’t scare you in the slightest, instead, Boba Fett fills you with a fluttery feeling deep in your belly. That, combined with the stare he let rest on you, begins to simmer something in your bones.

“Yesss, Massster.” Panhssj mutters, that sarcastic edge to zis tone more noticeable than it probably should be, considering zis predicament. Boba Fett’s head swivels to zim next, and Panhssj shrinks back upon falling under its weight.

“I am not your Master. Refer to me as Fett or Sir.” Boba says, something clipped about the way he says the word “Master”, like it’s a distasteful food he’s eaten. That makes a mild sense of surprise rise inside you once again— a new King on the throne of the Palace, one who doesn’t want the acquired honorific? That’s rare and humbling all the same.

Boba Fett and Fennec Shand exit the room not long after, citing the immense amount of changes they intend to make to the Palace and how its run. After they leave you with that, Gongul scoffs.

“This simply will not end well.” The elder Ugnaught shakes his head, his wispy mustache shaking, “I have spoken.”

He and Panhssj leave the room, leaving Inas, Yara, and you in the uncharacteristically empty throne room. As your Twi’lek companions excitedly talk amongst themselves, you can’t help but ponder how much evil the Palace has held, and most likely, will continue to hold. Doubt plants itself firm in your chest, especially when you glance over at the trap door, that terrible entrance to the now defunct Rancor Pit.

A shiver runs up your spine, and you exit the room to your quarters.

The next day, you wake again with the sunlight that leaks in from your tiny window, and briefly you expect Varduhi to jump on your bed, all smiles and teases.

But she doesn’t, and your heart breaks.

Getting up in the morning is an affair in itself, but you do it fast enough that when you’re out of your room, walking to the kitchens, there’s not a soul in sight. Of course, that’s because the suns have only just arisen, and because your... employer allowed a good 90% of the Palace’s occupants to leave just yesterday. It makes everything feel emptier, knowing that the true bustle won’t occur today, and it makes you simultaneously calmer and lonelier all at once.

“Good morning.” Gongul grunts at you when you enter the kitchen, and you dip your head in response. He offers you the mug of caf next to his, and you take it with a small smile and a thanks, sipping at the thick, hot liquid.

“Did you sleep well, Gongul?” You ask, thanking him again when he slides you a pastry as well. He grunts in response, hobbling with his caf to where he usually works in the morning at the butcher’s table. In turn, you settle yourself on the stool at the counter to enjoy a quiet breakfast.

“I trust him.” Gongul’s voice abruptly sounds minutes later when you’ve nearly finished your food, and you look at him, mildly surprised. Gongul is many things, but quick to trust isn’t one of them, he often keeps his heart of gold under lock and key— He told you once it was how he survives.

More so, you’re shocked due to the complete tonal shift from the day before, when he was quite unhappy with Fett’s rule. You go to say something about that to him, but the Ugnaught gives you a look that clearly says “Don’t question me” and you wisely settle on nodding instead.

Gongul isn’t trusting, nor is he dense— And it’s also early, and you know he isn’t a morning person either.

Your brain goes through several different words you could describe Fett with; like scary, intimidating, kind, handsome— Wait. Hoping Gongul doesn’t notice the slight color that’s arisen in your cheeks, you decide to say, “Mr. Fett is certainly different.”

Gongul grunts in response again, taking up his caf in one hand and a cleaver in the other. Then, which surprises you the most, Gongul says, “Be careful. I see the way he looks at you.”

The burn on your cheeks spreads like a wildfire all over you. All your thoughts fizzle out in your head and you gape like a fish. Gongul harrumphs, and downs his caf.

“I have spoken.”

And, Maker, did he.

Another week passes, and in that time Boba Fett and Fennec have a tentative grasp on the Palace, setting you and the others to work with schedules, breaks, and most importantly, pay. You actually earn for all the chores you do around the Palace, and the sight of all the credits Fennec gave you for your first pay day nearly made your eyes pop out of your head.

“Stars!— That’s so much. Th-Thank you!” You had exclaimed, holding a whole pouch full of hefty credits. You remember that Fennec had looked at you strangely, a mixture of amusement and confusion with something a little more melancholic thrown in, before she added, “That’s only half of what we owe you.”

Of what we owe you.

Those words rang in your head the entire day and then some.

Now, you happily work easy midday shifts, though you still always get up early to eat breakfast with Gongul. Mostly, you do the same as you’ve always done— general housekeeping and cleaning— but now Inas also helps which takes off a lot of the workload.

What’s more, Boba and presumably Fennec have a taste for better foods for everyone in the Palace, and now you’re currently carting off a large basket of exotic fruits to the kitchens where Gongul promised to make something delicious with them (that you could have too).

Humming to yourself, you zip around the corner, noticing too late that the “wall” seemed to extend out further than normal, and immediately slam full-force into a broad body covered head to toe in beskar.

A shriek passes your lips as you all but go flying to the floor, the basket in your hands landing with a thump like you.

“Osik!” That familiar, deep baritone hisses out a curse in a language you can’t place, both because you’ve never heard that tongue before, and because you’re a bit dazed, still sprawled on the sandstone floor. You look up, and just the most immense, powerful embarrassment fills you to the bone.

Kriff.

You just plowed into your employer. Into Boba Fett. Full force. And now here you are, on the floor, the basket of fruits you had been holding currently rolling away from you in the aftershock, sending all its contents everywhere. Somehow, it feels like the color both rises in your cheeks and falls, leaving you hot in the face and ashen. Kriff, kriff, fuck!

“I’m so sorry!”

“Are you okay?”

Fett speaks at the same time you do, and you suck in a breath to brace yourself for the reprimanding you just know you’re about to receive. Instead, Fett only chuckles low in his throat, the visor of his helmet tilted down at you, and extends a hand.

“Easy,” He says, a single word, but the swirl of emotion it sets off inside you makes you dizzy all over again, “Here.”

You look at his hand for a few seconds, cheeks positively burning and trying not to dwell on that voice of his, before you take it, hesitantly. The moment your hand is in his, Boba all but yanks you to your feet in one tug. The speed disorients you, and you lose balance, stumbling on your feet. For the second time, you find yourself against the hard breadth of his beskar chest and you almost choke when one of his hands grips your elbow, steadying you.

“Hello, sweet girl.” He purrs like a satisfied lion, his other hand finding your other elbow and essentially holding you to him. His armor is cool beneath your palms, and the thought of how flustered you must look crosses your mind, but then you become painfully aware of the situation and the shame sets in all over again. Pushing yourself away from him, you glance at all the fruits on the floor and frown, making a noise in your throat.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you, and then I ran into you, and now everything’s on the floor! Oh, Mr. Fett, I’m so—” The rambling escaping your lips gets cut off when Boba places a finger over your lips and hushes you. Staring at him, eyes blown wide, your heart all but flutters at the contact of his gloved finger on your lips.

“Enough. I don’t require your apology.” He says, and when he pulls his hand away from you, the loss of it is like a band-aid ripped from skin. To your pleasant surprise, Boba bends with a grunt and picks up the fruits nearest his feet. When he holds them out to you, the action springs you into motion, and you rush for the basket.

“Moving too fast for your surroundings, hm?” Boba asks as he slowly places the two fruits inside, keeping his gaze steadily on yours as he does. The teasing lilt in his voice is palpable, even through the crackle caused by his helmet, and his stare, however hidden, is so locked on to you, you feel that he’ll be able to see every reaction you have to him. You catch your bottom lip between your teeth and nibble it nervously, only twice before the subtle tilt of Boba’s helmet stops you.

“Um... Yeah, I tend to work pretty fast.” Your answer comes out far more mousier and timid than you expected, but how can you speak when you're so overwhelmed by the armored man in front of you. Boba tilts his head to the side, almost curious but intrigued, and a low chuckle reverberates from his chest, staticky from his vocacorder.

“Such a meek little thing... I like that.” Boba’s comment sucks the breath from your lungs, as do the two fingers he hooks under your chin to lift your face to his. He’s so close you can make out your reflection in the black glass of the T visor, the face of a blushing woman juxtaposed by an intimidating, domineering man. The cliché of the situation isn’t lost on you, but you can’t help but enjoy it.

“Thank you.” You have no idea what else to say when your heart is pounding and butterflies are fluttering in your tummy. To stave off doing or saying anything else, you move to pick up more of the fruit. Boba’s stare follows you, sears into your skin as you bend over and pluck two jogan fruits from the ground. It makes your face positively burn.

“I have been watching you for a while now.” Boba says, obviously not referring to how he’s clearly taking glances at your ass now, and the comment makes you perk up. Adjusting the basket on your hip, you turn your attention to him, nervously fiddling with the wicker rim.

“Um... yeah? Have I not been up to par, sir?” You ask meekly, hoping that that isn’t the sole reason why Fett is conversing with you now. Thankfully, his reply is more than reassuring of that.

“Of course not. I have seen nothing but good work from you.” Boba steps closer, and you catch the scent of his cologne this time— a quick whiff of something sharp, earthy, like sea salt and pine. His head tilts and he places another fruit into the basket and says, “In fact, I’d like to see more of you.”

Time just stops. All of the thoughts running through your head go careening to a halt, and the breath is squeezed from your lungs from the shock of it. Boba takes in your wide-eyed state with another low, staticky chuckle, wrapping his gloved fingers around your elbow and reeling you in.

“I will be truthful, cyar’ika, you have caught my eye.” He continues and inwardly you marvel at how your trembling knees haven’t given out on you yet. Your grip on the basket tightens, and where Fett has his fingers firm on your elbow is where your skin burns for him. You can’t help but gape, moon-eyed and struggling to gather your thoughts.

“Stars! You want to see me?” You blurt out before you can rebound yourself enough to say something a bit more concise. Boba hums in affirmation, his hand leaving your arm and the emptiness almost makes a whine rise to your throat. You don’t want him to stop touching you, and judging by the dangerous tilt of his head, that black visor flashing, he notices.

“Will you meet me in my quarters tonight?” Boba asks and it takes everything in you to remind yourself that this is actually happening, and not some vivid dream. For the first time, you offer him a small, albeit nervous, smile. You nod and reply with a voice that nearly falters, “Yes.”

“Good. We will have dinner.” Boba announces, suddenly as untouchable as the King he is, as he straightens and parts from you. He rests his stare on you for a few seconds longer before he turns on his heel, walking down the hall, the beskar spurs on his boots clinking. His distancing broadness makes you want to reach out and reel him back in, even if that thought makes your belly flutter with nerves. The dim lamp light of the hallway hues his forest green beskar to something like bronze, earthy like his firm touch and piney scent. It feels like all the blood in your faces rushes down at the bolt of desire that Boba Fett strikes within you.

“I’ll see you then.” Your hasty, almost desperate, call makes Boba pause, and he turns his head to the side, not looking over his shoulder, but acknowledging you. He doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t have to— everything that he could say already is thick in the air. All he gives you is another low, dangerous chuckle that sends a shiver down your spine, and a dip of his head.

Then, like a phantom in the night, he turns the corner at the end of the hall and is gone.

You take a few minutes to focus on breathing and stop your racing heart before you even think about picking up the rest of the fruits. After everything’s back in the basket, and you’re at the kitchen having mindlessly walked there, the blush on your cheeks hasn’t dulled enough to escape Gongul’s notice. Thankfully, the Ugnaught doesn’t say anything, and simply shakes his head, but you’re not as lucky when Panhssj enters the room.

Damn that Trandoshan.

By the time your shift has ended, virtually everyone you work with knows your situation. Fortunately, they don’t subject you to much teasing (most comes courtesy of Panhssj) and instead they oddly focus on keeping you safe, of all things. When you had left the kitchen, Gongul had grabbed you by your arm, tight, a look in your eyes you’ve never seen before.

“If he harms you in any way, I will stop at nothing to end him.” Gongul had said with such conviction you believed he really could. Then, as if he remembered his kind temperament and inkling trust in Fett, he harrumphed and said, “I have spoken.”

Panhssj, despite all zis teasing and crude language, offered you much the same sentiment, albeit with more expletives and direct threats about poisoning Boba with zis blood, should your employer wrong you.

Now, as Yara brushes your hair and Inas files your nails, they give you much of the sentiment in their pep talk that’s both hyping you up for the night, and making you unbelievably nervous. Yara reaches a particularly stubborn tangle in your hair and yanks, but the slight jerk and sting don’t even phase you. Inas catches the faraway look in your eye and stops tending to your nails.

“Numa, are you okay?” She asks firmly, cupping your cheek with a slender crimson hand. You avert your gaze to avoid looking at her worried cornflower blue eyes and dismiss most of her concern with a slight shake of your head. It’s not that you aren’t touched by her consideration for your wellbeing, it’s only that most of it is not necessary. You give her a shaky smile.

“I’m not scared, if that’s what you’re asking.” You start, fumbling with the ratty end of your apron. Yara runs her fingers through your hair and the motion comforts you, “I’m just nervous, is all.”

Inas purses her lips in a sympathetic smile and puts her other hand on your cheek and squishes your face. It makes you giggle and the sisters laugh with you. Inas sigh, her full lips pulling into a more excited, sly grin.

“You’ll have fun.” She starts patting both of your cheeks at once. Then, she pulls away, and grabs the nail file again and beckons for your hand as she adds, “You’ll have to tell us how big his dick is.”

You sputter, a furious blush rising to your cheeks as Yara and Inas laugh, both of their eyes glinting mischievously. Yara stands up and retrieves a soft, aged dress the color of toffee from her dresser, shaking it to unfurl its linen skirts. She brings it over to you and places it in your arms.

“Wear this. It’ll suit you.” She smiles, baring her pointed canines as you trace the hem of it’s deep cut collar. It’s a simple thing, but it speaks volumes with it’s unabashedness, a type of mellow that does reflect your nature. You stand up from the cushion on the ground to give Yara a hug, and her lekku quiver with excitement and wrap around your neck.

“Thank you.” You say to both of them, beckoning for Inas to join on the hug, which she jumps up and promptly does. The Twi’leks nuzzle you all over, the three of you giggling with a shared anticipatory excitement about the evening, and presumably (hopefully) night, you’re about to have with the King of the Palace, Boba Fett himself.

By the time you’ve reached the door to Boba Fett’s quarters, that same excitement, though still tingling throughout your body, has morphed considerably to near overwhelming apprehension and nervousness. Your heart is doing flips inside you, belly so full of butterflies you have to release some of the anxiousness on the skirt of your dress, crumpling the fabric in your fists. Taking a deep breath, you hold it in as you raise a fist to knock on the imposing door.

The silence that follows your three delicate knocks almost has you wondering if you knocked too gently, in spite of the echoing thuds that had sounded. Biting your bottom lip, you go to knock again when Boba’s rich voice stops you.

“Come in.” The gravelly invitation is muffled by the thick door, but Maker does it feel as though you're signing a pact when you do as he says, and push open the door. Boba is standing by the sandstone wall at the far side of the room, besides a set table, helmetless. He places a wine glass on the table, and when he lifts his head, you suck in a breath.

Boba Fett, the most infamous bounty hunter in the galaxy, has the softest brown eyes you’ve seen. They meet yours and something flashes in them, a smirk curling his plush lips and scrunching the skin at the corners of his eyes. He’s older, a good chunk older than you, but his brown skin and wizened features only enhance how attractive you find him.

“Welcome, sweet girl. Come, sit.” His beckon is akin to the purr of a satisfied Loth cat, and he gestures to a seat at the table where a glass of wine and a plate is waiting for you. It takes a moment for you to gather your courage to even breathe, and when you finally walk forward you feel as though your legs may give out from under you. Boba also steps forward, rounding the table to greet you a few paces away from it.

“Hi.” You say shyly, blushing as Boba lifts a hand to perform that same hooked finger gesture beneath your chin, this time uninhibited by his gloves. His grin, though small and hard, is dazzling, and it’s up close you notice the scars on his face, ones that reach from the back of his scalp. He tilts your chin up, and by the way he leans forward your heart races at the expectation of a kiss, but it doesn’t happen. Instead, Boba drops his hand to grab yours.

“Let us eat.” He says, guiding you to the chair that he’s pulled out for you. Somewhat reeling from losing that potential kiss, you sit almost mechanically, still too smitten with Boba to think straight. The plate of food in front of you, a selection of easy items that look delectable, goes completely unnoticed by you. Boba sits in the chair adjacent to you with a soft grunt, and grabs the bottle of very expensive looking wine. He gestures at you and purrs, “Wine, sweet girl?��

You nod dumbly, blushing when you go to hand him your glass the same time he does, your fingers brushing against his gloveless hand. His stare only breaks from yours to pour the deep red liquid into your glass, and he finishes, tapping the neck of the wine bottle against the rim of your glass with a soft clink. He pours his, and takes the metal cup in his hand, holding it lazily— sitting in his chair with much the same unassuming, lackadaisical demeanor as he does his throne.

“So,” He carries the syllable like a King, “Has your day gone well?”

Boba sips his drink, honey eyes not once breaking from yours. It’s at this moment you snap back to reality, realizing both that your hands are clenched tight in your lap and that you haven’t even touched your drink. You pick it up with an almost unnoticeable shake to your hand, and take a small sip. Thankfully, it’s strength is tolerable, and the taste is actually quite sweet.

“I had a nice day, yes. Thank you.” You reply softly, more to the contents of your cup than the man sitting across from you. Boba hums and picks up his fork, stabbing through a piece of orange-colored fruit much more methodically than necessary, his gaze never leaving yours. It shouldn’t be as tantalizing as it is, so mouth watering, but you watch him with a hunger not satiated by food. Of course, Boba notices and so he guides the fruit to your lips.

“May I, mesh’la?” He asks, voice barely above a low murmur as the melon touches your bottom lip and it drops automatically. Cheeks pink and doe-eyed, you nod and open your mouth further to allow for Boba to slide the fruit in. He groans when your lips close around the melon and pulls the fork from your lips in one fluid motion, no resistance.

“It’s sweet.” You murmur after you’ve chewed and swallowed down the orange flesh, to which Boba smoothly replies, “Not as sweet as you.”

It bubbles nervousness to the surface again, everything done for you thus far— wine, fruit, feeding you— an introduction to the promise that Boba Fett is seemingly more than willing to uphold. You take another sip of the wine to try and alleviate the nerves, but you’re barely able to swallow it. Setting your cup down, Boba takes in your apprehension and places his hand on yours before it can leave the table.

“Am I making you nervous?” He asks, rubbing circles on your knuckles with the rough pad of his thumb. You marvel at the strength of his hand, his assured and practiced touch, the warmth and breadth of his fingers. Licking your suddenly very dry lips, you look back up at him and nod, answering honestly.

“Yes.” It’s meek and breathy, but it’s also true, and you can’t help the twinge of guilt that occurs when Boba’s eyes go downcast. He goes to pull his hand from yours, perhaps to pull his advancements, but you place your other one atop it. His touch is too warm to simply let go.

“It’s not necessarily you, sir.” You explain gently, and you go to continue but Boba raises his hand to stop you.

“To you I am Boba. No need for formalities.” He says firmly, and the leveling of the ground between you makes a smile light up your face. Then, at the sight of that smile, he adds, “I don’t wish to make you uncomfortable.”

“You haven’t,” You shake your head, gasping lightly when Boba’s free hand goes to cup your cheek, “With you I feel…”

Your eyes lock with Boba’s, the stare much more intense than any before it— the connection more meaningful, more poignant. Everything he’s shown you has been nothing but kindness, a type of assurance to all his actions that have been making you wanting more, wanting Boba closer. It both astounds you that you’re so willing to open yourself to a man that you hardly know, but what’s more surprising is how willing Boba is to give himself to you.

As if on cue, he leans forward in his seat, bringing you closer to him by lighting pulling the hand he has wrapped around yours. His face grows so close to yours you notice more tiny scars, particular wrinkles you hadn’t noticed when he was at a distance. Shifting in your seat to better see him, his thumb runs over your lips.

“Do you trust me?” And if the importance of the question wasn’t enough, Boba follows it by sealing it with your name. Not one of the many nicknames he uses for you, not the names given to you by your former masters when you were enslaved, but the name given to you at birth. You nod slightly, swallowing because it feels like your throat’s gone as dry as the deserts.

“Yes.” You squeak, and then his lips are on yours and you’re gone. You let out a muffled, shocked cry, but your eyes flutter shut so quickly that the shock wanes entirely. He all but pulls you from your chair onto his lap, the wine and meal left forgotten on the table. Boba’s lips encase yours, molding against you with a commanding fervor, engulfing you. You sigh happily into his mouth, lips parting to let in his prodding tongue as your arms subconsciously wrap around his shoulders to pull him closer. He claims you instantly, his domineering tongue overpowering yours in seconds.

You’ve kissed before, once with Varduhi (long story) and a couple shy, nervous ones with fumbling smuggler boys who fancied you, but they were never like this. This kiss isn’t anything like the ones before it, the ones that were quick, brief, and secretive. No, this kiss is unadulterated, uncontained— This is a kiss of a man.

You whimper, pressing against him, desperate for more. Boba hums in amusement, his arm around your waist pulling you flush against him. He pulls back to break the kiss, but you greedily nip at his bottom lip, attempting to guide him back to you. It doesn’t work, and Boba straightens up, looking down at you with a smirk on his face.

“A needy little thing aren’t you, sweet girl?” He rumbles and you look away, flustered. He chuckles and pulls you in for another kiss, one hand holding your chin so that there’s no way you can control the pace or turn your head from him. All over again, it makes fireworks light up inside you, and a whine nearly escapes your lips when he pulls away again. This time, he slides you off his lap and sets you down on shaky legs, getting up from his chair himself with one arm locked around your waist.

Boba looms over you, the broadness of him accentuated by his armor and ink black tunic. The dim lights outline him, shadowing his face all but his eyes that seem to burn.

“On the bed, cyar’ika.” Boba commands, voice so low it sends a shiver down your spine. You hesitantly pull away from him, walking towards the bed on wobbling legs. Boba’s stare burns into the back of your neck and the hair raises with excitement. He’s kissed you and held you, but you feel as though he’s only just seeing you. Glancing over your shoulder, Boba’s pulling his beskar from his body, shedding his armor and leaving himself vulnerable. It makes your stomach flutter, seeing him without the protection, in only his black robes and kama.

When you reach the end of his bed, you hesitate at the precipice of the dark, silken sheets, like the depths of an ocean threatening to swallow you whole. And I’ll let it, you decide as you sit on the bed, excitement tingling you to the bone when the cushion, soft and plush, sinks below you. It’s a better bed than yours, that’s for sure, so as you pull your legs up onto it after slipping off your shoes, you fall back against the sheets.

Sighing happily, you almost forget the fluttering in your belly, your nerves going wild, the wet ache accumulating between your legs... Almost. The sound of Boba’s vambraces clattering to the floor catches your attention, and you look up to see him striding towards the bed, towards you. His eyes, that pretty, honeyed hazel, are darkened, pupils wide and eclipsing his irises.

“For some time I’ve desired you. Thought of fucking you senseless since the day I saw you, mesh’la.” Boba says, and you feel your blush darken, driven wild by the looming and imposing, but so handsome and kind, man before you. You scoot back on the bed as Boba slowly joins you on it, the mattress dipping under his weight. You tremble when your back hits the pillows at the headboard, and when Boba settles himself above you with a soft groan.

“Cyar’ika, you look divine.” He says, and you briefly wonder how he can say that considering you’re wearing a rather plain tan dress and probably looking a mess, but the way Boba slides one thigh between your legs and traps you under him wipes the thought from your mind. One of his hands anchors itself next to your head, the other goes and strokes your cheek. Like before, your arms seemingly on autopilot go to rest around his shoulders, holding him.

“Boba, I—” You start, uneasy, and Boba immediately pulls back slightly, giving you space. Nipping at your bottom lip, you glance to the side and continue in a whisper, “I’ve never done this before.”

Boba’s completely silent, and for a moment you think you’ve gone and ruined everything, frowning at the tenseness of his hand next to your head. The stretch of quiet almost breaks when you go to apologize, but no words come out when Boba’s hand is on your cheek again, guiding your gaze to his.

“You’re a virgin?” He asks firmly, eyes hard, but the hand on your cheek is tender, his thumb rubbing circles into your skin. You smile slightly and nod when you realize he isn’t angry, not upset with you, and still desiring you. Something in Boba’s eyes lights up at the confirmation, and a lilted smirk splits across his face. He leans in until his nose brushes against yours, lips hovering far away enough that you aren’t able to kiss him.

“Well then...” He murmurs, his thumb swiping across your bottom lip and igniting every nerve in your body, making you tremble, “Will you have me, mesh’la?”

Boba’s lips smash against yours so fast it drowns the squeak of surprise that escapes you. The gentle moans that follow are swallowed by the indulgently greedy kiss, and you find yourself lost in his mouth, overwhelmed and subdued by the passion of the slick muscle of his tongue, the taste of him. Before you’re too far gone in the clouds, Boba pulls away and your lips make a wet pop! sound.

“Will you let me give you everything I have?” He hisses, his hand grabbing your chin almost roughly to all but force you to look at him. You nod best you can, desperate for more kissing, and everything else he’s promising. You’ve never wanted anything else so badly in your life.

“Yes.” You squeak and your eyes roll back when Boba’s lips are sucking at yours again, ensnaring you with his teeth he grazes against your bottom lip. This kiss makes the temperature of the room shift, and you suddenly feel so hot and heavy that it makes you feel faint. Boba shifts, and presses you into the bed, the firm breadth of his body boxing you in. He hums in contentment when you whimper, your arms tightening their grip and your hands grabbing his clothes.

“Boba!” You whimper when he presses closer, rolling your skirt up to your waist, and the swelled erection in his pants presses against your inner thigh. You’ve never felt the hardness of a man like this before, and it drives you as wild as it makes your stomach fill with nerves. Gasps leave your lips as Boba kisses your neck, sucking periodically as his hand travels down your waist, hip, and then to your thigh. Instinctively, you tense, and Boba stops his ministrations.

“Am I going too fast? Do you need me to slow down, ad’ika?” He asks, lips leaving tender kisses on the soft skin of your neck. Heart warmed by his consideration, you take a moment to shut your eyes and breathe. Focusing on how nice it’s all been thus far, how Boba has treated you so well, when you open your eyes, your heart’s stopped racing so bad and the nervousness is manageable.

“No, I’m okay.” You reply and giggle softly when Boba pecks your lips, then your cheek. His head dips again and he sighs against your neck, the hand on your thigh going below, and you squeal when Boba grabs your ass from under your dress, fingers kneading the plush flesh. He meets your eyes, a lustful yet determined and aware look on his face.

“I want you to be nothing but comfortable. If I’m ever too much, say ‘rancor’, and I will stop.” Boba tells you, his hand rubbing circles on the low of your back. The tenderness of his calloused, large hand makes you sigh, and you just want to melt.

“Okay.” You nod, nearly giggling hysterically when Boba guides one of your legs up to his hip where he beckons your heel to rest on the low of his back. It causes the fabric bunched at your waist to roll up further, revealing all of your bare thighs and thin panties to Boba. You’ve never felt more exposed.

This is happening, the excitement bubbles inside you to the point of making you tremble. You’re hyper-aware now, all of your senses on high alert and flooded with the man that is Boba Fett.

“What is your safeword, cyar’ika?” He rumbles between wet kisses on your neck, between the steady rock of his hips between your legs. Each impact has you gasping, the pleasure that his still clothed cock has against your still clothed pussy unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. It’s a more potent desire that has you aching for the main event: Boba nestled inside you, snug, tight, stretched.

“Mm... rancor.” You breathe before you lose yourself to your lust, any other words that were possibly on your tongue fizzling out like a dying star when Boba ruts against you, sudden and hard. It makes you squeal, that simple motion making a noticeable gush of slick dampen your inner thighs and panties. It’s seemingly an action that Boba found himself indulging in, as he pulls back with a growl and leaves you throbbing.

“You are too perfect, such a good girl.” The endearment makes you smile as bright as the stars, more so when Boba rasps, “My good girl.”

His lips meet yours again, this time tender and allowing you to suckle his bottom lip until he severs the connection. Honey brown eyes, heavy-lidded and lustful, meet yours and you’re lost in the dominance they hold. Truly, you’re beneath a King in his bed. Boba notices the star-struck look on your face and chuckles.

“Have you ever touched yourself, cyar’ika?” Boba murmurs huskily against the soft curve of your cheek, breath hot against your skin. Your entire body seems to flush, the question flooding your system with anticipation and embarrassment like a dam breaking. Bashfully, you dip your chin and avert your gaze, the answer on your tongue unreasonably mortifying.

Your entire life, you shared close quarters with people, sometimes many, sometimes few. There just hadn’t been the space nor privacy to do anything regarding sexual activity, personal or otherwise. Of course, others who were less inhibited than you did, but you were always too scared. The inexperience you feel is almost painful, and there’s that doubt inching to the surface again. Maybe I shouldn’t do this...

Evidently however, and what lifts your spirit from sinking to a very dark place, Boba seems to find this more than satisfactory. The hand he has on the flesh of your thigh tenses, his hips doing an almost involuntary jerk as he hisses a foreign curse. A look that can only be described as utterly ravaged settles on Boba’s face, something between desperate and horny.

“Sweet girl,” Boba rasps, supremely amused and something strained in there as well, “Is that a no?”

You nod slightly, and his hand moves from your chin, calloused fingers grazing your jaw, until his palm rests over your throat. Boba doesn’t put any pressure, but his hand is firm. You gasp when his thumb and pointer give your trachea a tentative, controlled squeeze and it compels you to bring your gaze back to his. Boba’s eyes lock with yours, his stare hard and appraising. Shockingly, you don’t find yourself bothered by the hand on your neck, not when it’s Boba, and all it does is send a delectable shiver straight to your core.

“Mesh’la. Use your words.” Boba isn’t asking, he’s commanding, and the gruff confidence in his voice makes your thighs clench together. You swallow, teeth pinching the inside of your cheek as you fumble for the words.

“Um... I— No, I haven’t.” Your reply pitches to a higher octave by the end of your sentence, and it feels like your face is burning with how embarrassed you feel. Boba notices and does away your self-inflicted shame by kissing your brow. When he meets your eyes again, there’s a soft look on his face, one that tells you words everyone should hear.

“There is no shame here, mesh’la. Allow me to show you.” His lips brush against your earlobe, then dip to your neck, then collar bone. He kisses at your burning skin, making goosebumps rise on your arms with each tender, important blessing of his lips. Boba isn’t lying, not as you sigh and moan beneath him, there truly is nothing to be embarrassed by.

What a wonderful teacher you’ve been given.

“Please, Boba.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, and you hold your breath when Boba’s hand smoothes over the top of your thigh, inching closer to your aching core. His fingertips reach where you have wet slick between your legs, and he smears it across your skin with a chuckle and a knowing look. Before you can respond in any sort of way, Boba cups your entire pussy with that hand so fast you jolt with a shriek. His fingers press against your folds, thick and warm, and his thumb hovers above your clit. Even through the fabric of your underwear, you feel every nerve ending get set ablaze.

“This,” Boba emphasizes by squeezing your mons Venus and pussy, making you moan, “Is the wet, sacred cunt I’ll be fucking tonight.”

Vulgarity aside, the possessiveness floors you and arouses you immensely, making the tense entrance of you flutter with need. You feel more of your juices seep out of your needy hole, needy for Boba, and you’re sure he feels it too. Boba does, and responds by rubbing his fingers on the wet blotch above your flowery lips, pressing harder to tease your entrance.

“Boba!~” His name passes your lips in a broken plea, and despite your arms being so tightly wound around the thick muscle of his neck, one of your hands shoots to grab his wrist. It’s all so overwhelming, you want to push the man away, and pull him in as far as he can go. You want those fingers to leave you, and you want them to make you cum again and again. Tears prick your eyes, and you’re not sure if it’s out of neediness and pleasure, or remnants of fear.

Boba rolls his fingers again, this time rolling the sensitive bud of your clit with his thumb, and the skyrocketing pleasure breaks you.

“Rancor!” The second the safeword leaves your lips is the second Boba’s hand yanks away from you as if he’s been burned. You squeeze your eyes shut to avoid looking him in the eye, at any look of disappointment or annoyance you think he may have. You’ve ruined the moment— the night— you just know it.

“I’m sorry!” You blubber, tears thick in your voice, “I don’t— There’s something wrong with me!”

A weeping shudder shakes you, makes you tremble beneath the man who’s silent above you. You hear him shift, the weight of him disappearing somewhat, and another round of gasping sobs consumes you as you think he leaves you until two strong hands roll you onto your side. Instinctively, you curl up on yourself, crying.

“Cyar’ika, breathe.” Boba’s comforting, sincere command comes alongside a firm hand rubbing down the length of your back, then up again. He brushes hair from off your face, tears off your cheeks, and the actions together ground you, pulling you from the dark place you fell into. Sniffling, you’re able to focus on Boba’s mass behind you, assuming he’s laying on his side just as you arm. Your balled up position loosens up, and a shaky sigh leaves you just as Boba places his arm on your waist.

Boba doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even implore you to open your eyes, just lets you gather your breath and holds you. The tenderness, the care, makes your aching heart swell.

“It was...” You whisper after the long moment of comfortable silence, “A lot. Too much.”

Boba hums, rubbing circles on your back with one hand and circles on your tummy with the other. He tentatively pulls you closer to him, and you let him, not wanting him to feel as though he caused this. You’re still not quite sure what it was, head a bit too frazzled by a lot of contributing factors, but it certainly wasn’t Boba.

“I’m sor—”

“No.” Boba cuts you off gruffly, his hands halting momentarily. You finally open your eyes, allowing them to adjust to the low lights before you hesitantly glance over your shoulder. Boba meets your gaze, his eyes the most expressive you’ve seen them. They say, above all else, “I’m sorry”. The sorrow in them makes you ache for him.

“You are at no fault. I overstepped— Went too far, did too much.” Boba goes to sit up and faster than you thought you could move, your hand reaches out to grab his wrist, the same one you had before. It stops Boba from moving any further, but he still keeps at a distance, like he doesn’t want to hurt you again.

“It was too much, but it wasn’t truly unwelcome.” You whisper, tugging a little on his arm to beckon him to you again. Boba has settled an ache at your core, a deep throb in your soul that was just so intense it reminded you of the one other person that had ever made you feel this deeply.

“I’ve only felt this... profoundly once before— With my dearest friend Varduhi. And now I feel it with you.” You explain, your heart soaring when Boba closes the gap between you, encompassing you with his warmth that he left you missing. He reaches up to cup your cheek and you smile, leaning into his rough palm. Boba’s other hand plants its weight on your hip, grounds you back to him. There’s no one else you’d want to be tethered to more.

“So it was your very runi that I touched?” Boba asks in that same low, husky tone he had when he asked you of your trust, the question so important he sealed it with your name. You’re not familiar with the foreign word, but you suppose it’s significance is correct judging by the way Boba leans in further, for a kiss that he doesn’t give— not yet, anyways.

“Yes.” You breathe, lips hovering just above his, doing that same dance Boba is. Perhaps there’s more here, not just some desire that he’s had for you or your painfully obvious attraction to him— but something else entirely. A teaching of not only sexuality and pleasure, but of intimacy and relationship— of learning to heal and love.

You wouldn’t want anyone else to guide you on this, so again, with truly no shame this time, you whisper, “Please, Boba.”

“My good girl.” Boba rumbles and then he’s on top of you, mouth molding to yours as he presses you into the pillows and the sheets. You moan into the deep, passionate kiss, the kindling flame within your core reignited into a blistering fire. Stars and fireworks and neurons alike all burst at the heat of Boba’s mouth, his tongue domineering yours which you accept gratefully.

Boba kisses with renewed fervor, greedily sucking at your lips and every gasp you release, teeth nipping when your tongue gets too presumptuous. When you pull away to breathe and blink back the stars in your vision, you smile, all glowy and hazy-eyed.

“I really like your kisses.” You say quietly, nimble hands gliding the length of his broad shoulders to rest your fingertips at the base of his squared jaw. Boba’s lips curl again into that smirk, the one that is all confidence and you begrudgingly accept that you’ve stroked his ego. He plants his lips to yours again, a deep open-mouth kiss that ends with a pop.

“Mesh’la,” He praises against your cheek as his hand once again slides up the skirt of your dress, and asks an implied question, “May I?”

Boba tugs gently at the fabrics, and you shiver, your hands leaving his shoulders to scramble for the lace tie holding your dress together. Your fingers find the bow and expertly undo the tie, your dress slackening on your body. Boba wastes no time in grabbing a fistful of your skirts and pulling, yanking the fabric off your shoulders. The bodice of your dress falls, baring your breasts to Boba, who stares so hungrily at them it makes you shiver.

“Sweet girl, you are more divine than all the deathless gods.” He rasps, his hand working at peeling your clothes further off your body as he leans in and kisses your sternum. Between the valley of your breasts, Boba sucks a mark into the soft skin, causing you to whimper. Never had you realized such attention would make you tingle with need, and when Boba pulls your dress from around your ankles, discarding it to the floor, the feeling grows tenfold.

Naked save for your panties, Boba leans back to ogle your body, an attention to it that suddenly makes you very self-conscious to how you look. Your hands back on his shoulders, you have half the mind to cover yourself, but before you can voice any apprehension, Boba pulls his black tunic off his torso.

The bronzed skin of his broad chest and beefy arms are smattered in scars that range from aged silver ones to newer pink ones. The largest of which, reminding you of tendrils, wrap around his torso, curling on his chest and thick belly in raised, lightning-esque lines. Your mouth goes dry, you want to kiss each scar, the slight speckling of his dark chest hair, both his nipples, and most importantly his barrel belly and the faint happy trail you can see.

“You’re gorgeous.” You whimper, almost sobbing when Boba kisses you again and you can feel his skin against yours, rough in some areas but incredibly warm. Feeling his flesh against yours in all its flaws smothers all of your doubts about yours.

No shame here, you think as you lose yourself in his taste, as his hand goes and cups one of your breasts, thick fingers catching your nipple between them.

“Boba!” You gasp his name when he rolls your tit in his palm, teasing your perk nipple with his fingers. He pinches it and you whine, arching your back into his body, hips brushing against his. Boba grunts when your core meets his half swollen erection, and he grabs your hips with one hand, holding it still. You whimper, wanting to seek out that pleasure from earlier, something promised if you were just allowed to move.

“Enough, little girl.” Boba teases upon watching you squirm under his immovable hold. He pushes your thighs apart with one knee, the hand he has on your breast still kneading its tender flesh. When the hand he has on your hip moves, and you gasp, he asks, “May I touch you, mesh’la?”

His fingertips ghost the plush of your mons Venus, teasing the crease where your inner thigh meets your hip. It’s where, before, the line had been crossed, where an emotional boundary had been tested. But you don’t think of that now, instead you remember the husky words Boba had said, the ones that claimed your … wet, sacred cunt… as his. You shiver at the memory.

“Yes.” You’ve spoken that word so many times tonight that the single syllable rolls off your tongue on an exhale. In an instant, Boba’s fingertips dip underneath the lace of your panties, glide through the coarse, damp hair of your sex, and brush along the wet lips of your cunt. You cry out, legs lifting when Boba eases his broad fingers between your folds, massaging them as he did earlier.

“So kriffing wet, mesh’la.” He groans, one finger stroking up and down the slit of your entrance and making you squeal. A flash of dirty pride crosses his face and he smirks, “And all for me.”

Boba takes initiative and rips your panties clean off your body, throwing the fabric to the floor and the second it’s out of his hand, his fingers are back on your cunt. You moan when Boba palms your flower, toes curling when two of his fingers focus on your quivering entrance. Combined with Boba’s working hand and the flush beneath your skin, the cradle of your hips is hot, steamy and wet like you never thought it could be.

“Yours!” You squeak, your hands trembling on his bare shoulders as Boba so carefully begins to push one finger into you. The stretch stings, brings tears to your eyes, but it's the wetness of your cunt and Boba’s consideration that eases the length of his entire finger into you. It has you almost weeping from pleasure, such a foreign feeling of having someone touch you like this.

“Easy,” Boba coos, that same, single word again— the one that makes your head spin, “I’ve got you, sweet girl.”

You cry out again, louder, when Boba curls his finger, rolls his knuckles against the tight, velvety walls of your cunt, and teases the part of you that makes a coil in your belly appear. He scissors his other fingers between your pussy lips as his thumb, once again, presses down on your clit. This time though, it’s even better, there’s no fabric to inhibit the rolling motion he does on that bundle of nerves. It all makes your hips jerk, you try to rut against his sturdy hand, but the firm hand on your chest moves to still your shaking hips.

“Look at you, cyar’ika, all desperate for this old man.” Boba states it like it's fact not opinion, and you’re in complete agreement. You nod, lips parted as airy moans pass them, and you can barely keep your eyes from rolling back as the coil grows tighter and tighter. Your thighs tense, calves on Boba’s waist stiffening. Desperately, you pull at him, wanting him closer, wanting more—

“Not so fast, mesh’la.” Boba pulls his hand from you and it feels like betrayal. You groan, upset at how close you were, how amazing it all felt until your impending orgasm was ripped from you like a rug from under your feet. Boba only chuckles at the pout on your face, lifting a hand to rub his thumb across your bottom lip. He pushes it into your mouth and you sigh, eyes fluttering as you swirl your tongue around it.

“Good girl,” Boba murmurs offhandedly when he pulls his thumb from your lips, “My good, sweet girl.”

His hand caresses your face then dips back to your breast and gives it a squeeze, making your body jolt. Boba’s eyes are near fully eclipsed by his pupils, blown so wide with so much hunger you feel as though you’re staring down a Loth Wolf as opposed to a man. He growls upon watching your back arch to his touch, and then he abruptly plunges two fingers straight into your cunt.

The intrusion and slight sting of the sudden stretch both have you shrieking, but no pain follows that would make you instinctively push away. Instead, knuckle deep inside your pussy, Boba’s fingers graze your clenching walls, each “Come hither” motion scraping his fingertips against the most sensitive parts of you. You cry out a garbled sound that is something like his name, legs spread wide, hips fighting against the hold Boba has on them, aching for more stimulation.

“Such a needy girl,” Boba tsks, hastening his fingers to give you what you want, and to loosen you for the main event as he mutters darkly, “I want you to cum on my fingers, girl.”

The gravelly command shakes you to your core, as does the third finger that’s slotted into your entrance, stretching you deliciously. Moans are escaping you at a near constant pace, leaving you breathy and slack-jawed, the coil in your belly being pulled tighter and tighter. The wet squelches that accompany Boba’s fast, skilled hand are so obnoxiously loud you think they echo off the room’s walls.

“Cum, now— Give it to me!” Boba growls through his teeth, the muscles of his jaw flexed and taut, and he doubles his pace, fingers pounding the spongy part of you that sings with pleasure each time they hit. You’re actively weeping his name, the two syllables like a prayer on your lips as more and more pressure mounts in your core. It’s as Boba’s thumb once again returns to your clit that the nerve endings ignite and you oblige to his command.

The noise that escapes you is something near animal, a primal squeal that lasts the duration of your orgasm. It strikes hard, tensing every muscle in your body until you’re quivering, each wave rippling an aftershock that clenches your cunt around Boba’s fingers— hard. He curses when a gush of your liquid sex glazes his hand in you, smearing on your inner thighs as he moves his hand to ride out your orgasm.

When the stars in your vision start to fade, all the endorphins leave you tingling with euphoria.

“Look at that, sweet girl,” Boba praises, lifting his glistening fingers to his face where he admires his, and yours, handiwork, “The ambrosia of your sopping cunt.”

He licks one of his fingers, and as he begins to slot his hips with yours, pushes them into your mouth so that you can lick him clean. Through the tears of pleasure and happiness, you close your lips delicately around his fingers and suck, humming at the tangy and dewy taste of your release. Boba makes a noise of approval as you swirl your tongue around his fingers, and pulls them away from your lips with a wet pop.

“Good girl,” He murmurs and you watch in rising anticipation as Boba finds the waistband of his pants, hooking his fingers beneath the fabric. He pulls down his pants and underwear together, revealing more and more of his skin, then the tuft of dark hair upon his mons pubis, then his cock.

Boba’s cock, swelled to a prominent erection, is the largest dick you’ve ever seen. It bobs when he pulls it fully free from its cloth prison and you watch the movement of its swollen, red head and fat shaft. Boba strokes his length once, hissing as he does, and you swallow at the twitch of the heady vein on its underside. You let out a gasping sigh when Boba rests the bulbous tip against the wet lips of your sex, not moving or attempting to push in, but letting you ogle at its girth.

“Tell me you want my cock, sweet girl.” Boba grips the sides of your thighs and rocks his hips, parting your lips with the shaft of his member and making you squeal at the sensation. The tip rubs against your swollen clit and you moan wantonly, nails biting into Boba’s neck as your grip tightens on him. He rocks his hips again and again, keeping a shallow, steady grind that won’t go any further until you answer him.

“I want—” Boba rocks harder and you choke, “— your cock!”

He grinds a bit harder at that, and you cry out when his cock catches on your soaked entrance, teasing your pussy before Boba simply grinds against the entirety of your flowery cunt again. He’s drawing out the worst and sweetest of tortures, making you squirm and beg beneath him until you crumble into a million pieces. Your head lolls back, eyes fluttering to prevent tears from leaking down your face.

It all feels so good, Boba’s large hands digging into the plush of your thighs, the firmness of his pelvis grinding his hard cock against your core, the softness of the mattress and sheets under you— It’s all so good.

“Please, please, Boba,” Your broken whimpers are accentuated by your hands pushing him back and pulling him forward, “I’m— I’m a good girl.”

He groans at that, capturing your lips in his for a passionate, wet kiss. His balmy mouth consumes yours, the round tip of his nose digging into your cheek with the force of it. Boba, still grinding steadily, pulls back to take you in and a tender look settles on his face. A drip of sweat rolls down his temple when he says, quiet and gentle, “My good girl.”

And then on the next grind Boba is pushing his cock into your wet heat, and the feeling of a man consumes you. You scream, not out of pain or surprise, but of the pure pleasure that accompanies the aching stretch of your pussy adjusting to Boba’s member. His thick girth fills you to the brim, the velvety walls of your sex quivering around him, and as bottoms out, the blunt end of his cock hits your cervix. You feel Boba in your lungs, especially when he draws out, slow and easy, and pushes right back in by aid of the mess of slick your pussy is drenched in.

“Osik, cyar’ika,” Boba groans and hisses, his head dipping to rest his face against your shoulder as he thrusts again, “You’re tight.”

He takes your unintelligible whimpers as a sign that despite your tightness, you’re feeling nothing but pleasure, that fire in your belly roaring. He starts to move his hips faster, and you moan louder, gripping him tighter. Boba’s practically splitting you in half, your pussy gaped around his fat cock like a second mouth. You begin to weep actively now, tears of pleasure streaming down your cheeks at Boba’s unforgiving, grinding thrusts. He turns his head from the crook of your neck to kiss your parted lips, swallowing a whining sob with his tongue.

“You like this old man’s cock, little girl? This dirty, fat cock?” Boba hisses and you can barely hear him over the loud, obscene sounds of the squelch of your cunt and the slap of his balls against your ass. It’s all so much and you writhe, back arching when Boba angles his hips and hits a new, much more exciting place inside you.

“Yes!” You sob, eyes snapping wide when Boba hits that deepest place inside you, the gummy nodes of your cervix. His pistoning hips hit that place over and over, driving you into the bed and closer to your impending release. Your pussy clenches and flutters around Boba’s thick cock, resulting in him groaning and picking up the pace. After a sliver of quiet filled by your wanton moans and Boba’s grunts, he speaks.

“Cum. Give it to me, sweet girl.” One of his hands moves so that as he’s pounding you into oblivion, his thumb can roll circles on your sensitive bud. You whine loudly, hips bucking and breaking the rhythm before Boba gains control again. The rough pad of his thumb presses down on your clit, sending shockwaves through your body. Boba kisses your crying lips, pulls at your bottom lip, and the pressure in your core raises insurmountably.

“Let go, cyar’ika,” He murmurs against your cheek, and you hyperfixate on his voice above all the other noises in the room— the wet slapping, your own moans—, “Easy.”

Then you cum so hard your vision and hearing cuts out, and all you can sense is your cunt gripping Boba’s cock in a vice. You choke on the poignancy of your orgasm, almost not comprehending Boba’s lips that come smashing down on yours. He groans into your mouth, your pussy fluttering and clenching around his cock as it gushes your release on him, your thighs, and the bed. It takes only one more flutter of your cunt and one more thrust that Boba seizes, his body lurching to lock his hips to yours, and his cock erupts within you.

The foreign feeling of Boba’s member twitching and releasing spurt after spurt of hot cum inside of you manages to pull you back and you sigh, kissing his gaping lips. Boba’s shoulders heave beneath your hands, rocking slightly with the shallow thrusts he does to prolong his orgasm and shoot out all the spend his tight balls gave. You pull him flush against your body, hands rubbing the tense muscles of his back as a few, final rolls of his hips later, Boba stills with a low groan.

“Oh, Stars, Boba…” You moan, blinking away the wetness in your eyes, forehead pressed against his. Boba swallows, his eyes closed, and plants a soft kiss to your lips, which you return by kissing his cheek. When his eyes open, the satiated, calm, and happy look in their honey brown makes your heart soar alongside the tingling buzz in your body. Boba kisses you again, presses closer just so that you can whimper at the feel of his cock softening inside you, still big enough to stretch your cunt.

“I do have the chip, but I should have pulled out.” Boba frowns after he breaks the kiss, glancing at the mess of his sticky cum as he pulls from your body. When you look down too, pearly white lines of his cum are steadily seeping from your swollen cunt, a mess of it on your thighs as well. You whimper at the loss of him, and shake your head, hands scrambling to pull him close again. Desperately, you kiss his neck in a forgiveness that he doesn’t truly need— he’s done nothing wrong.

“It’s okay.” You whisper, pressing your lips to his, “I like it. Feels nice.”

Boba hums in amusement, one hand ghosting over your pleasantly aching cunt, which has you gasping at the feather-light touches. His fingers toy with your flowery pussy lips, scooping up his and yours releases onto a single finger. You watch in awe as he brings the glistening mess to your lips, a possessiveness on his face that floors you.

“Open.” He demands and you submit immediately, parting your lips so that Boba can slide his finger past your bottom lip and stick the mess of cum directly on your tongue. You moan softly, sucking at the flavor of his salty, earthy release and your own unique tang. Boba stares at you the whole time you tiredly suck at his finger, eyelids drooped low.

“Good girl, very good girl.” He praises after you’ve licked his finger clean, going to kiss you for all your effort. This kiss is slow and thoughtful, tender in a way that makes the afterglow of sex all the more sleepy. Boba doesn’t look as tired as you, but he rubs a soothing hand on your hip that practically urges you to sleep. He lays next to you, the mattress sinking under his weight, and pulls you close.

The combination of the praise and endearment, his tender touches, the warmth of his body, and the ache and wetness between your legs all makes you want to cry with the emotion you feel. Evidently however, when Boba lifts one hand to caress your cheek, he wipes away tears with his thumb and you realize you have started to cry. He pulls you in so that your head rests on his chest, nearest where his beating heart thumps in a strong, steady rhythm.

“Sweet girl.” He says, and in the murmur you can hear the question of “What’s the matter?” and the reassurance of “It’s okay” and after a few moments, you sniffle. Blinking back tears, you kiss the pec under your head, the broad muscle soft with relaxation. You meet Boba’s stare and smile tenderly.

“I’m okay, just…” You trail off, unsure of what word to exactly use to describe the absolutely world changing experience you’ve just had. Boba doesn’t speak or try to offer you a word that only might fit, and instead smoothes his hand up and down the slope of your hip. You sigh, nuzzling your face into the soft part of Boba’s neck, not really wanting to think over the buzzing ache of your cunt.

“I feel really nice.” You murmur into his skin and Boba’s chest vibrates with a chuckle, which makes you blush with minor embarrassment. He scoops his arm under your waist, his broad fingers splaying over your back.

“I would hope so,” He replies, kissing you when you lift your face, “I didn’t intend for you to feel anything but.”

The determination and pride in Boba’s voice makes you shudder, that familiar tone making your ruined pussy flutter weakly, but you suppose you should probably stop him before his ego grows too big. You giggle, smiling against his lips which nip at yours to guide you into another kiss. As he claims your mouth again, the sudden revelation of losing your virginity takes over your thoughts.

You pull back from the kiss abruptly, a frown curling your lips downwards before you can prevent it. Immediately, Boba asks in that gruff firmness, “What’s wrong?”

The question shouldn’t necessarily shock you, but it does throw you a tad off-guard considering there technically is nothing wrong. But the slight sting and sinking feeling in your chest doesn’t ebate, especially when you ponder on the topic a tad longer.

“No, nothing’s wrong, I just...” You trail off, tracing one of the scars on Boba’s chest with your fingers. His skin is warm beneath your touch, and you find the heat to be a very good distraction. He silently urges you to continue by pressing his hand flat against your back. Sighing, you purse your lips into a tight frown and half shrug.

“I just— I don’t know— I’ve been a... virgin... and now I’m just... not.” You finish lamely, unable to meet Boba’s stare, so you settle on watching the rise and fall of his chest. Under the dim light, you just now realize a sheen of sweat veils his skin, making him appear dewy. You wonder if you look much the same, glossy from sex.

It’s not that you’re ashamed of losing your virginity— how could you be with the pleasant ache between your legs and nestled in the arms of a man— of Boba Fett, but the feeling is like losing a pet. They’re there and with you and you have them for years, and then in one day (or night, in this case) they’re just... gone. It’s all a lot to take in at once.

“Virginity is only a concept, sweet girl,” Boba kisses your forehead, his hand raising to swipe baby hairs from your face, “It has no true reign over you.”

You exhale against his chest and nuzzle your face into the soft part of his pec, thick with muscle and fat. Boba holds your hand atop his heart, plants it to him like he’s welded it to his body. Of course you know this, the label is as superfluous as it’s importance is deemed highly revered by most cultures. But here, in Boba’s safe and warm arms and bed, to Hell with society.

“Well… I had a very wonderful time.” You giggle sheepishly, looking back up at a very pleased looking Boba, who hums nonchalantly but his eyes express that proud, confident look in them. Ever so slightly, the corner of his lips twitches upwards in a genuine smile, not the smirks from earlier, but something warm that shows in his eyes.

“I should be thanking you, sweet girl.” Boba replies, lips hovering just above yours in a way that makes you wait with bated breath. There’s that tone of promise again, an inkling that teases a very familiar coil inside of you. Boba’s mouth is on yours, open kissing you and messy, but slow. He swallows every little noise you make, hurries his tongue and gnashing teeth when your legs entwine with his.

“Boba.” His name passes your lips, in that same broken plea from earlier when his hands, as they are beginning to do now, touched and caressed all of the places that made you sing. You’ll let him do it again and again. Legs spread, skin touches, hands explore— in a matter of moments Boba has you whimpering and whining again, all desperation and need.

“Good girl,” He coos to you as he rolls back on top of you, snug and hot and tight between your legs, for your ready core,

“My good girl.”

#star wars #star wars boba fett #boba fett #boba fett x reader #boba fett x you #anon #anon ask #request

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