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soaps-hoe-141 · 1 year

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Back Together

Part 17

Pairing: Soap x Ghost

WC: 6k

Synopsis: We putting furniture together and breaking it

Warnings: Imma just say a general NSFW 18+ warning, minors DNI

Pieces were scattered around the now empty room. They had thrown the boxes of clothes into the guest bedroom to get them out of the way while they were working but so far the most the two had done was argue about which pieces connected where. Ghost was holding the instructions in his hand, his ears red in anger and his knuckles white from the force of his grip on the thin paper, it was gonna tear apart soon if he kept holding on to it. Hazel eyes stared Soap down with a death glare unlike any other, and yet still didn't even faze the Scotsman. The dark haired man was looking at the picture on the box, pointing between one of the framing boards in the picture and to the one laying on the ground, "Ghost I'm telling ye. Ye attach the leg where the braces go on the other side. I mean look at the picture, are ye gonnae tell me that I'm wrong?"

The big man took in a deep breath, the frown on his face deepening before he dropped the instructions letting them fall to the floor, "Fine."

Soap gave a firm nod then and started attaching the pieces how he saw them in the picture, ignoring the instructions on the ground and Ghost’s unhelpful form standing idly. Finally the Scotsman shot him a glare, "You could at least hand me the bolts and the nuts." Ghost growled at his words but leaned down and picked up the bag and threw one of the bolts at him whenever he asked from his spot near the bathroom door. He put the drawers in the storage bed together painfully slowly by himself. It was hard to hold the torque wrench, the bolts, and the pieces he was putting together with only two hands. Soap’s hand threw up in the air, "Please Ghost would ye help me hold the feckin boards? I cannae do it meself. I dinnae have enough hands man!" His accent was coming out thick now, his voice near shouting at the unmasked Ghost.

Hazel eyes narrowed at him with a glare before he hobbled carefully towards him before shrugging, "Damn Johnny, seems I can't get over there with the crutches and all."

Soap's face was red in anger to match Ghost’s now as he dropped the boards, "Ye know what? Awa' n bile yer heid. I'm gonnae go eat lunch. I'll come back to this later when yer attitude is better." The Scotsman dropped the tools and headed for the door, marching down the hallway with tension in his shoulders, and furious curses escaping his lips. He opened the fridge, making himself a bowl of the stew from the night before, begrudgingly making a second bowl to give to the Brit. He was angry and frustrated, but he didn't want to keep the arguments alive, and everyone knew the easiest way to settle an argument between anyone, give the motherfucker food. He heated them both up, fingers tapping against the granite countertops as he ignored the feeling of eyes burning into his spine. Sure enough when he turned around Ghost was there, leaning on his crutches and watching him with an annoyed look. "Here ye go, I made ye one too." Soap sat the bowl down in front of one of the stools, shoving a spoon into it and returning to where his own bowl was sitting on the counter.

Ghost stared at it for a moment before he sat down, unable to resist the smell of the stew he had devoured the night before like a starving dog. Soap cast his eyes down to the floor before pushing himself up onto the counter and eating his own slowly. They both had been frustrated with one another, unsure why the other couldn't just listen and do what they were told. A break was exactly what they needed though, especially a lunch break. Soap had been on the grind all day, going for a run all the way to the base to pick up Ghost's truck. He had then drove it all the way to the Furniture Depot, loaded the boxes by himself, drove back to Ghost’s house, and then unloaded them all by himself as well. Not to mention he had unpacked the box on his own since Ghost couldn't do any heavy lifting, and he was sure watching Soap doing everything on his own was driving the Lieutenant mad. The man liked doing things and being active, watching the other man doing everything he wanted to be doing had to be frustrating, without a doubt. It didn’t mean that him being annoying and stubborn just for the hell of it was ok though.

They ate quietly, neither one wanting to be the one to light the spark to their arguing once again. Soap was the first to finish, pushing off the counter and putting his bowl in the sink, he could wash them later when he was done putting that damn bed together. Ghost stood up as Soap turned to leave the kitchen and the Scotsman stopped to watch as he tried to pick up the bowl and walk with the crutches. He felt his jaw clench and he let out a deep breath before taking a step back towards the bar. Soap took the bowl out of the other man’s hand with a shake of his head, “You’re gonna fall on your face if you try that.” He set the bowl down in the sink leaving Ghost to trail behind him back to the bedroom.

He was sitting on the ground holding the boards together as he tried to bolt them. The frustration was building as he screwed the bolts in slowly, holding in a breath as he tried to keep his head on straight without blowing another fuse. Soap didn’t even notice him until Ghost stepped up beside him, lowering himself to the ground with a grunt and one leg until they were sitting side-by-side. The Scotsman turned to look at him with a defeated look on his face until Ghost gave him a soft smile, “Let me have the torque wrench, I’ll tighten and you hold the boards.”

Soap immediately handed him the wrench with a sigh of relief, “Thank Christ, I couldn’t take that shite anymore.” He put the boards together and watched as Ghost tightened some of them together. “Couldn’t take being quiet either, I’m not built for awkward silences Lt.” Ghost gave him a huff of agreement they both knew Johnny couldn’t be quiet if his life depended on it, literally.

They bolted the boards together, until the frame stood up on its legs, the drawers sliding into their respective spaces on the side of the frame. Soap stood beside the bed looking down on what they had put together with a proud smile. He turned his gaze up to the Lieutenant, “I told you we could do it without those stupid instructions Ghost. You should listen to me more often.”

Ghost watched the frame skeptically before glancing sideways at him, “Is that right…Aren’t you forgetting something Johnny?” Soap’s eyebrows furrowed, thinking quietly to himself before shaking his head and adding a shrug for good measure. “The mattress,” the Lieutenant deadpanned at him.

Soap’s eyes lit up “Oh yeah!” The Scotsman held up a finger and then ran out the door past him and back down the hall to the first bedroom where Ghost had showed him the mattress he had brought with him from wherever he had lived before. Soap dragged the mattress back down the hall, pushing it through the door past Ghost and lifting it up so that as he let it down it fell backwards onto the frame. It slotted in nicely and Soap’s smile lit up the room again, “Now it’s done.” Ghost gave him a quiet nod, not meeting his eyes as he turned to the door and headed out. Soap followed him quietly back out to the living room, watching the man disappear into the kitchen. The Scot stopped by the wall outlet, looking back down to the power tools and the two batteries sitting on the ground before scooping them up and following Ghost to the laundry room.

He was stopped by Ghost’s chest blocking him from going inside the room. His nose pressed against his shirt for a moment before he took a step back looking up at the tall man. “You should put these away…far away.”

Ghost stared at the compact circular saw and batteries that the shorter man was holding out to him. Finally, the man took it from him and grumbled, “Fine.” The door shut once again and he heard him rustling around in the room for a moment before he reappeared holding a set of sheets now. Soap took a step back, taking the sheets from his outstretched hands, his finger running across the back of Ghost’s hand as he pulled away, both glancing up at one another before turning their eyes back down to the floor. Soap dropped a hand to the hem of his shirt, lifting it to wipe the sweat off his face before he let it drop again. Glancing over his shoulder at the other man whose face was clearly flushed in the light of the kitchen. Soap ducked his head and hurried out and back down the hall to go put the sheets on the bed.

He had just finished putting them on when he turned to find Ghost in the doorway, watching him, he was always watching and sneaking. Soap glanced down at the bed, “It’s ready to use now Lt." He gave the bed a firm pat with one hand and asked, "Ready to sleep in an actual bed for once?” Ghost looked past him and nodded in answer, returning a hard look to his face, silent at the most uncomfortable time he could be. Soap ignored it though, like he always did and slid by the big man heading for the guest bedroom to steal more clothes so he could shower.

He heard Ghost trailing him, stopping in the doorway as Soap rifled through the bins, watching as he grabbed more clothes for the both of them. "I call dibs on the shower Lt, I smell like a fuckin horse," Soap said over his shoulder as he headed down the hall, still avoiding the gaze of the big man following him. He didn't wait for an answer though, just closed the door into the room and hung both sets of clothes up on the towel rack that he just realized Ghost never actually used for towels. He stripped and hopped in, washing the sweat off his skin and letting the warm water untense his muscles, trying his best to forget the burning desire he was sure he had seen in those hazel eyes. And yet as sure as he was that he had seen it he knew that it couldn't be real because they had set the boundary, well Ghost had set the boundary anyway, and he had been right. Neither of them could afford to break it and open up a can of worms they had no idea how to reseal.

Soap groaned, his forehead leaning forward against the wall of the shower, smacking against it repetitively as he tried to forget, begging his mind to let it go. "Probably not the best idea, just got over the last one," he muttered to himself, nearly forgetting why he and Ghost had been left behind in the first place. The Sergeant looked down at himself, taking a couple deep breaths to calm and center himself before he turned the shower off and got out, drying and dressing himself again. Once more the short sleeve shirt was too big, though at least the sleeves weren't loose around his arms, his own biceps filling out the shirt nicely. The joggers he had grabbed for himself clung to his ankles and gathered at the bottom, if he had grabbed the man's sweatpants he would have been dragging the pants legs underfoot with every step. He smirked at the thought, shaking his head and heading for the door.

He opened it to step out and was once again met with the Lieutenant's chest, his face pressing against the fabric of his shirt and his nose breathing in the scent of pine. Soap furrowed his brow to look up at the man and with sarcasm dripping from his tone said, "You know if you keep doing this Ghost I'm gonna start thinking you like my head between your tits."

Ghost watched him with that same look from before, hazel eyes burning as he stared down at him and then shrugged, "Maybe I do." Soap looked away for barely a second and Ghost shouldered by him this time, leaning his crutches on the sink as he sat on the lowered toilet seat. Blue eyes watched quietly, looking up to inspect his face for a moment before he left the bathroom to get the plastic wrap and the duct tape so the big man could take a shower. And also to hide himself for a moment to process Ghost's words away from those staring eyes.

A war raged inside him, it felt almost like Ghost was taunting him. Like the man wanted Soap to do something now, to make a move he had already made and lost out on once. He was tempting him with burning stares that lit a flame in the Scotsman that he wasn't sure the Lieutenant could smother if he kept this up. He had told Soap no, he had said it as plain as day, so why would he ever try to entice him again? Why would he hold the fruit in front of him and tell him never to go near it? Or was Ghost playing the role of the snake and he Eve, driving him closer and closer to the one thing he couldn't have in hopes he would take it. Did Ghost want him to be the one to take the first bite? Would Ghost let him take that bite? Had his mind changed from the last time it had been brought up? Thoughts were running wild in his mind, he couldn't control them anymore. He had been trying so desperately to respect Ghost's wishes, to be only his friend, but had that made him blind to some change in the Lieutenant? Had he not considered that the stubborn man's mind could be changed?

Soap stopped in the doorway of the bathroom, Ghost glancing up at him from where he was sitting before returning to shimmying his shorts off as best as he could, his torso already bare and shirt laying on the ground. Blue eyes took in the view slowly, eyes sliding over the scarred skin, catching on every line made by a bullet or knife and tracing the black lines of the tattoos that decorated his pale form. Soap watched the muscles move underneath skin, just barely contained by his fleshy prison. The man turned his gaze back to him as the Scotsman kneeled, wrapping the cast slowly to protect it from the water. He was about to stand when he felt Ghost’s fingers graze over his cheek, before returning to where he had been bracing himself. That was no accident, a blatant touch, the snake's eyes were narrowed slightly and glued to his face, and his cheeks were as red as Soap's felt as he held the apple a bit closer for a bite.

He was agonizing over it, overthinking more than he even knew was possible. The Scot sat there, his limbs a dead weight as they watched each other. Soap's fingers tightened on the hard cast, before he leaned forward just slightly, half expecting Ghost to move away, to reject him again but he held firm. The tall man even went so far as to close his hazel eyes, eyebrows furrowing in consternation as he waited. It was Soap's decision now, his choice whether he took the plunge further into this and said fuck the consequences or pulled away and took the cowards way out. And if there was one thing he wasn't, it was a coward.

The Scot leaned forward, his lips landing lightly on the other man’s. They were a bit chapped but they still felt nice against his own, hell his were chapped too after going for a run and being up and about all day. They were both cautious at first, hesitant to take it further in case they scared the other one away. But as in all things Soap pushed past the boundaries and left his anxiety behind to press further, ignoring his worries to protect the other man’s peace of mind. He pushed himself up from his knees, lips driving the man back and his hands coming up to his cheeks, holding the scarred face between his palms reverently.

Ghost sighed at the contact and the intimacy between them, and his lips parted for just a moment. It was just long enough for Soap to press his advantage, tongue dipping into the other's mouth to taste what he had been aching for, for months now. Ghost didn't disappoint as his own hands found the Scot's sides running up before he reached his neck, holding him there as they explored one another’s mouths. Began to learn the many ways to draw out the little sighs of pleasure and the whines for more. Ghost was the first to break, a soft whine escaping his throat and his hips rolling forward as he searched for friction but found none as he couldn't move more than a few inches up. Soap was quick to answer the quiet plea for more though, his knee leaning in the space between his thighs and he couldn't help the grin that formed on his face at the hard length that pressed into his thigh nearly immediately, separated from his skin only by thin fabric.

The Scot relished in Ghost’s needy half thrusts, letting him grind his hardening member into his thigh. He felt his own body reacting, his own length hardening in the gray joggers, his own need rising painfully and begging for attention. Soap's fingers that had been tangling themselves into blonde locks pulled the man back with a firm tug as he too pulled back. Blue eyes stared down at the man that for once he was towering over, watching as the hazel eyes opened revealing the soft, needing gaze that was lit beneath those pale lids. "Johnny," his deep voice growled out, his strong hands trying to pull him back before he grabbed the thick forearm and pressed a feather light kiss against the inside of his wrist.

He rested his cheek against the outstretched palm and answered quietly, "Not here. I didn't just put a bed together to fuck you on a toilet seat Simon." The Scotsman smirked down at the blonde man who was grinning back. He leaned down, pulling the plastic wrap off in a few easy rips, before he helped the big man stand back up. Soap would have carried him to the bedroom but he was worried about the cast and possibly hurting him more, and that wasn't a chance he was willing to take, especially not when he was so close to getting what he had been pining after for months.

Soap unwound the arm from around his shoulders, watching Simon fall to the bed with a sigh of relief. His underwear barely kept him covered now, and the Scot just barely dragged his eyes away. The only thing that could get his attention was the calloused hand grabbing his wrist with that signature tug at his arm and the smiling eyes that looked up at him. Soap dove head first into the man again. This time more urgent, hungry, and wanting, no this was far past want and desire, this was need like a drowning man needed air or a starving man needed food. Ghost was his sustenance now, the thing holding his life force together.

His lips were no longer gentle, his teeth biting at the other man's already chapped lips and Ghost returned the same urgency tenfold. His hands ran under the hem of the thin t-shirt that he had stolen from the big man’s clothes. Thumbs traveled up the center of his abdomen, tracing the line of his abs in the center and then up his ribs before they circled around to his back trying to pull the Scot down on his lap. Or at the very least get the relief that his thigh had provided moments before. Soap upped his game though, moving his freehand down to palm at the hard erection held at bay by the thin fabric of Simon’s underwear. Again the big man let out a soft moan, his hips bucking up into his hand and Soap’s tongue went to work tasting his mouth, wanting to remember that delicious taste until the day he laid six feet under.

Nothing from his dream could have compared to the real thing. The heavy pants as Soap worked him expertly through the fabric, the hard scrape of his short stubble against his own, and the way Simon was desperately trying to rid the Scot of the t-shirt unsuccessfully wanting to see and touch what was under the fabric. His usually deft fingers couldn’t work while Soap was drowning every sense he had, overstimulating him as he crowded in on the bigger man, both needing more from one another. The Scot pressed him back into the bed before he broke the kiss, whispering over Ghost’s now kiss swollen lips, “Back up.” It didn’t even take a second before the big man pushed himself further up the bed until his legs no longer hung off the end. Soap hopped on then, chasing after him and the bed lurched sideways, an audible crack coming from underneath them as the once upright bed fell to rest level on the ground. Blue hues looked over the side of the bed with wide eyes before he turned to find familiar hazel hues watching him.

There was a smirk on Ghost’s face and Soap could see the ‘I told you’ coming but the other man never got the chance to get it out. Their lips reconnected for just a moment before the Scotsman’s mouth left his, moving slowly down to the hard line of his jaw, biting lightly at the thin skin before soothing the red mark he left with a light kiss. His mouth kept moving lower, lips sucking bright, red marks onto the thin skin all over the expanse of his neck. One hand holding him off the big man who was gasping at the light suckling and even more so at the hand that was traveling achingly slow down his torso. Soap’s fingers took their time to memorize the curve and lines of his muscles and scars until he found the waistband and slipped his long fingers underneath.

He took the weight of Simon’s erection in his hand, moving slowly over the sensitive skin until he felt the blonde man buck up into his firm grip. Soap smirked as he finished leaving a mark along Ghost’s collarbone, looking up at the man whose mouth was held open with quiet gasps stuck in his throat and his eyes shut tight as he tried not to come undone beneath his touch. He pressed light kisses down his chest slowly, leaving a trail to where he was headed. Lips touched against the hard line of the v at his hips and he sat up, both hands fingering the waistband of the boxers for a moment before he slid them down slowly to reveal the large cock he had been wanting to lay eyes on for so long now.

It was leaking and ached to find release, he could tell that easily enough. Soap leaned down, his nose flicking against it for just a moment before he looked up through dark lashes to see hazel eyes burning with desire as they looked back at him. A small smile found his lips then, his tongue flicking out and running from the base to the tip, flattening across the head and enjoying the salty taste that gathered on his tongue. The gasps that had been quiet for the most part up until then couldn’t be held back anymore. Simon groaned out, a strong hand grabbing at his shoulder and digging into the muscle as he tried to ground himself so he didn’t float away. The other hand was immediately tangled into his dark locks, pushing his head back down, nearly begging the Scot for more. And who was Soap to deny the man what he so desperately needed?

Soap picked his member up with one hand, tongue running across the tip again and eliciting another moan from the man beneath him. The Scotsman wrapped his lips around the head before he pushed himself down the length, humming with delight as he got what he had been dreaming about for so long. He hadn’t realized until then just how big the other man was, his mouth opening a bit too wide to compensate for the girth and feeling like his lips cracked at the corner. He felt the head hit the back of his throat and continue down, the length of it nearly choking him.

His nose touched Simon’s pelvis and he felt his throat tighten, wanting to gag before he pushed back the urge, relaxing the muscles only for Ghost to moan out loud at the sensation, the hand tangled in his hair forcing him even further down and holding him there. It took everything in him not to choke on the long cock shoved down his throat but he finally managed to pull himself off much to Ghost’s frustration. His hand took the place of his mouth as he fought to catch his breath and he heard the deep voice above him mutter, “Fuck, ‘m sorry Johnny. ‘M sorry. Fuckin hell I need-” he was cut off by a loud moan that seemed to bubble up from his chest while his hips bucked up into the firm grip around him.

“It’s ok Simon, I’ve got you. Tell me what you need, I’m here,” and Soap meant it. He would make sure the big man was taken care of before even himself, just as he did in all things. Soap felt the hand still holding the back of his head pull his eyes up to find the hazel staring hard at him.

“I need you, mmm fuck…I need you- I need to feel you,” his hands worked erratically now at the collar of the t-shirt the Scotsman was wearing. It only took a second for Soap to pull the fabric off over his head and throw it across the room to land in the beginnings of a pile with Ghost’s boxers. Callused hands ran across his chest, the light down of dark hairs there scratching both of their skin. The hand ranged lower, across the tight flesh of his abdomen before it caught in the waistband of the borrowed joggers. Hazel eyes turned down to look at the visible outline of his own arousal. A loud groan left the big man again and he bucked up into the still pumping hand, his eyelids closing to cover the burning desire. Soap lowered himself on an elbow beside the Lieutenant, pressing a light kiss to his shoulder before moving slowly towards his chest. His tongue flicked out, dragging over a nipple before he caught it in his teeth, working it with a deft tongue. He felt the man’s back arch into his touch and then his light whine at the stimulation that came from too many sides now.

Soap hummed again as he sucked, sending a shock through the man feeling one of his hands dig into the back of his hair. Then the fingers released again, moving slowly down his back to disappear beneath the waistband of the joggers, curling into the flesh there and holding on for what seemed like dear life. His own hips now rolled against Ghost’s thigh, aching for his own release as he continued to deny himself even a hand, too busy working the thick cock in his hand to worry about himself. He leaned across the pale, scarred chest and took hold of the other nipple, enjoying the taste of the sweat on the other man’s skin. Soap was lost in the dealing of pleasure now, wanting to see the man unravel at his touch and forgo his own ecstasy until Ghost pulled his face up with a hand on his jaw. Blue eyes searched hazel quietly, wondering why the man had stopped him with a hand on his face and another on his wrist until Ghost whispered quietly, “Your drawing, Johnny. I want you to do what you drew last night.”

Eyes widened in surprise, he certainly hadn’t expected to hear that from the big man currently losing himself under his touch. “Are you sure?” Ghost nodded his head without a thought, pressing himself into Soap’s hand harder. The Scotsman gave a quiet nod in answer as he pushed himself up, pulling his joggers off and throwing them with the other clothes onto the floor. He wrapped a hand around himself, pumping a couple times before spitting into his hand and repeating the motion. Soap climbed onto the bed on his knees, Ghost watching him with a lust filled gaze that made his hand pump faster and his grip tighten around himself. “Fuck, you keep looking at me like that Si, I’m not even gonna make it back over there.” A small grin found the big man’s face as Soap slid back over, laying himself between the other’s legs, holding himself up with one elbow while his other hand ghosted over a thick thigh, tracing the muscle he had often found himself staring at.

He pressed their lips together again, hips rutting into the other man’s. He felt the heavy press of the hard member against his lower stomach, both reveling in the friction they were sharing. Soap’s fingers slid down Ghost’s thighs, pressing against the tight ring of muscle before he pressed a finger inside. The chapped lips opened in a gasp, hazel eyes opening and his back arching up to press their bodies together. Soap pulled his mouth away, biting his lip as he watched Ghost’s face contort from a wince, to confusion, and then to relief before he gave a slow nod and whispered, “G-go.” His finger started to move, slowly at first to match the pace of his still rutting hips, his mouth having moved down to taste his neck again, soft lips scraping against the scruff that ran down his jaw.

“Fuck you taste so good,” he paused to suck another mark onto Ghost’s neck, and slide another finger inside. The Scotsman hummed against pale skin, fingers scissoring inside him and gasps escaped his mouth again. The big body beneath him squirming underneath the weight of the smaller man on top.

Their hips pressed hard together, his own aching erection growing tired of the teasing friction that was going nowhere. He was so distracted by Ghost’s quiet noises and their bodies moving against one another he didn’t realize when the big hand moved between them. He grabbed both of them at the same time, Soap gasping into the bruised neck as Ghost’s hand pumped them, sending shocks of pleasure through them both. “Johnny,” the deep voice paused waiting for an answer but Soap was lost in the haze of lust until the man stopped his hand, getting a slight whine from the man on top of him. “Johnny,” he paused again and this time he got a grunt of acknowledgement as the Scot bucked his hips up bringing a gasp out of them both before the Lieutenant continued, “I’m done waiting.”

Soap was drunk on Ghost’s scent but even so he heard that plain as day. He pulled his fingers out slowly before pushing himself up on both elbows, looking down at the man and using a hand to position himself. Ghost shifted underneath him at the light touch and Soap nuzzled his face against the crook of the big man’s neck before whispering, “Are you sure?” He got only a nod in response before he pressed slowly inside, holding himself still for a moment his heart pounding in his ears until he felt Ghost shifting against him, his head tilted back as he begged for Soap to move, the request falling on nearly deaf ears. The Scotsman nodded slowly, pressing further inside while his forehead tilted forward, laying against the chest below him. Ghost fingers grabbed at his back as he rocked slowly into him, his thrusts shallow while fingernails dug into his back, marring his freckled skin and creating constellations across his flesh. Soap heard the low grunts but he didn’t realize it was his own voice at first until he heard Ghost growl beneath him.

He picked his head up, studying the Lieutenant’s face as he rocked into him, his hips grinding hard against Ghost’s every time he bottomed out. Soap’s hand ran along the thick thigh again, pulling it up to hook around his hip as the deep voice growled out, “Faster.” He immediately complied, speeding up slowly at first, still grinding at the end of every thrust until the voice once again demanded more from him. Soap’s head hung as his hips pistoned into the man, listening to Simon’s groans now.

“Fuckin hell Simon,” Soap let out a low moan before continuing, “you’re so perfect. Fuck, I didn’t realize how much I need you, Si.” The tension in his body was growing tighter and he knew he was getting close. Simon had scratched fine art into his back and had moved on to his arms and sides, hips rising to meet every thrust as best he could. Soap reached his freehand between them, grabbing the hard cock that bounced on Simon’s stomach, stroking in time with every thrust. He couldn’t cum himself until he knew that Ghost had been satisfied.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Ghost panted out, trying to control his racing mind but with every movement from Soap it just drove something else out of his mouth, “Johnny, fuck, ‘m close. Don’t stop. Don’t-” a low moan fell out of his mouth when Soap hit something he had never felt before, and his mind started to go blank. The Scotsman hit it again and his moan was louder before he panted out, “There, Johnny.” He felt Soap nod against his chest, a hard thrust landing again and when a choked moan left his throat, he felt Ghost’s hips buck and stutter and then they halted mid thrust. Blue eyes looked down watching as cum painted his fist as he continued to fuck the man through his orgasm. Watching the beautiful sight scratched the itch he had needed, his own hips stuttered in their thrusts as he pushed inside a few more times before he stilled. His breath caught in his throat, his mind going blank for a few minutes as he held himself up.

When he felt Ghost’s hand slide up his side the arm holding him up gave out and he let himself relax into the man’s embrace. Laying down on top of him, his cheek pressing against Ghost’s chest while his eyes closed. He felt the callused hands run across his skin, soothing the scratches that he had created. Soap slowly pulled out, Ghost letting out a low groan before he wrapped his arms around the big man. Their sweaty skin seemed to melt together as both laid quietly, enjoying the haze they had created for themselves. Soap lifted himself for just a moment to reach down for the sheet he had put on the bed earlier and pull it over them. He felt Ghost’s chest rumble out a low laugh as he muttered, “If I had known this would shut you up I would have done this a long time ago.” Soap didn’t even let out a grunt, just tightened his arms around Ghost and closed his eyes, enjoying the peace his mind felt.

ATTENTION: This is the end of the chapter just wanted to make it clear I support switch!Ghost and switch!Soap. They will both be topping and bottoming in this fic.

#slow burn #soapxghost #soapghost #soap cod #soap #ghostxsoap #ghost cod #ghost #ghoap #passion project #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #gay #call of duty #modern warfare #modern warfare ii

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doctorbrown · 7 months

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DOCTOBER '23 ⸺ 「 17 / 31 * EINSTEIN 」

May 30, 1979

❝Let's run through this one more time, Einie,❞ Emmett says, crouched down behind a small assortment of simple tools whose heads are turned away from him to face outward. ❝Then we'll leave it there for today and go out for our nightly walk; I think we both could use the fresh air.❞

Einstein sniffs at the air, wise to his master's tricks; the scent of his favourite liver snacks wafts from the pocket of Emmett's lab coat and he knows that if he solves every one of these problems satisfactorily, he'll get a treat for each and every right answer. So he sits and looks at each of the tools on the ground and waits expectantly for the first test.

❝Alright boy, grab me the Phillips head!❞ Einstein looks between the five tools laid out before him and picks up the second one from the left, prompting a joyous reaction from Emmett. ❝Well done!❞ He pulls a single treat from his pocket and tosses it at Einstein, who catches it expertly.

While he crunches his treat, Emmett rearranges the tools into a different configuration and gestures to the new layout. Einstein takes a moment to look at the new arrangement.

❝Now how about the torque wrench?❞ Emmett has to remind himself not to give anything away as Einstein considers the options laid out before him, for it would defeat the entire purpose of the training exercise. He needed the extra pair of hands while he was working and Einstein's ability to correctly identify and bring him the necessary tools would be an invaluable help.

As his first large dog, this presented opportunities previously unavailable to him in the amount of help Einstein could offer.

Einstein first sniffs at the vise grip before turning and grabbing the one just to the right of it. Emmett beams, once again pleased, and takes the tool back.

❝Excellent work, Einie!❞ He tosses another treat at him and Einstein's jaws snap shut around it.

The tools are rearranged once again.

❝Let's try something a little more challenging; the crescent wrench!❞ Einstein deliberates for a moment before returning to the vise grip and holding it up expectantly. Emmett takes the tool out of his mouth and pats him on the head encouragingly.

❝Almost, Einie, almost.❞ He holds it up like a professor demonstrating something to his students. ❝This one is a vise grip. Invented in the mid 1920s, they have a locking mechanism unique to them that allows it to remain clamped around an object without sacrificing pressure applied if you have to remove your hands.❞

Einstein looks momentarily put-out that he will not be receiving a treat for his efforts, but Emmett offers a few more encouraging words and rearranges the tools for one final trial.

❝Last one for tonight; can you get me the needle-nose pliers?❞

Emmett places his hands on his aching knees as Einstein takes longer to look between the instruments this time. He's too old now to be holding this position for long—the same way his body tries to remind him he's too old to be throwing himself so completely into his projects to the point where he neglects his own physical needs—but another five minutes, if that, won't kill him.

Einstein chooses wrong again, this time bringing him the crescent wrench, and Emmett makes a mental note of Einie's problem areas—the pliers seem to be tricky for him; more attention and practise will have to be given to those—but this was still a successful training attempt and half right and half wrong is still a marked improvement from when they started.

❝That one was the crescent wrench,❞ he says, holding it up again. ❝But you did exceptionally!❞ Again, Einstein manages to look disappointed that he hasn't received a treat for his efforts and stares longingly at Emmett's pocket; he's had practise already with two other dogs to-date, but Einie has mastered the puppy-dog eyes in a way that shakes even his resolve.

Still, he manages to avoid giving Einstein a treat and instead focuses on scooping the assortment of tools up to toss on the nearby table. He groans as he stands, his knees aching.

They still have that walk to go on.

❝We still have some work to do, but once you can correctly identify all the tools, we'll work on sizing.❞ Emmett scratches lovingly behind Einstein's ears and even though he only correctly identified two out of the four tools, he is beyond proud of his canine companion. He'll make a fine assistant with just a little more training.

Emmett walks over to the door and grabs the lead off the hook. Einstein bounds after him, tail whipping a mile a minute and barking excitedly. We'll work on some leash training instead. He's done exceptionally well with it so far.

#doctober 2023 #PUPPY / BABY EINSTEIN MY BELOVED #i have so many images of my head of doc training his dogs over the years to help him out when he needs it #and he does it every time but this time einie was the first larger dog he ever had so he's also so excited to be able to train him #especially with sheepdogs being as intelligent as they are #&; a great idea can change the world 「 hc 」#&; i told queue it would work!

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starman-john-tracy · 7 months

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Just A Little EVA [RP with @asteria-star]

starman-john-tracy:

“It’s just a little EVA.” John’s reassuring smile is interrupted as he tugs his helmet on over his head, fastidiously checking the seal around his throat as he does. “It’s gonna be a quick out and in, I just need an extra pair of hands while I make the hatch repair.” He knows full well that she hates going outside the ship but he could really use someone to watch his back… and hand him the right tools. “Come on.” He slaps her helmet against her palms, “It’s time to put some of that training we’ve given you to use," a grin creeps onto his face, "Freeloader.”

asteria-star:

“What training,” Star grumbles under her breath, peering sulkily up at the taller man while jamming her own helmet over her head. “I don’t know if it counts as training if I just show up and figure it out as I go.” Training or not, she’s been outside of Thunderbird Five - in SPACE, which still makes her want to run away - more than a few times by now, and no matter how much she hates it, she is getting used to it. Rather than a heart-stopping plunge of terror it's mellowed out into a begrudging requirement, like going to the doctor or the dentist. Even the uniform is growing on her, though no one will ever hear those words pass her lips. “I’m glad you have confidence in my ability to identify tools, because I do not.” She said, and pats John firmly between the shoulder blades to let him know she’s joking. Kind of.

starman-john-tracy:

“I’ll have to start colour coding them.” John seems to pointedly ignore her comment about the training she’s received. He’s well aware she’s not a fan and if she’s taking all his little corrections and notes as something else, then that’s probably a good thing. Basic sims had been a compulsory minimum requirement of her placement on his Thunderbird, but John had got the impression from the one time she’d ever, scathingly, mentioned it, that he should have run them with her himself. The few weeks prior to their first meeting Star had been stuck in a GDF hyperbaric spacelab attempting to complete trials that, John gets the impression, essentially equated to trying out all the ways you could die. Auntie Casey had been thorough, and John’s not sure that getting yeeted out of a virtual airlock without a helmet is even his idea of a good time. No wonder Star had made a… surly first impression. Still, she’d come out of it with septicemia and a rudimentary space license, and John’s done his best to give her more practical, day to day training ever since. He had been surprised how necessary ‘please don’t open the airlock without cycling the other side’ had been though. Things change around quickly on his 'bird, between his and Brains’ tinkering, and keeping her knowledge fresh and up to date is important to him, however much she might grumble about it. Besides, there’s no way he’d have agreed to having her up here without making sure she’s got enough knowledge to keep herself safe. He’s been on the rescue end of too many uneducated astronauts to find such a thing acceptable here. The name Langstrom Fischler still brings him out in stress hives. “Torque wrench, pliers, spare wires, transistor, crocodile clips-” He’s made her up a little kit bag, with velcro tethers for all the tools, and it’s abundantly clear as he holds it out for her to take that he was never intending to go out alone. Space is always safer with a buddy to spot your six, after all. “It won’t be long, and then you can go back to that book you were reading. What’s it about anyway?” He hopes he isn’t going to regret his curiosity. He also hopes that his discomfort when thinking about her training doesn't show on his face. John’s well aware of her natural reluctance when it comes to life up here, and it’s always made him uncomfortable that the GDF’s idea of the perfect imprisonment for her had been his home. It worries him, sometimes, that his own attempt at her training might come across as torture too.

#JustALittleEVA #lemmie know if you want me to edit this bab it's ramblyyyyy

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bo-bo-bean · 2 years

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"How about a Fic with the Howling Aces?"

Missing Parts

Where is it!?"

Sammy, scoffing and looking over to her husband, saw Bently looking for something in his tool box. Growling, he kicked the box, but since it was so full of tools, he ended up stubbing his toe. With a yelp and a whine, Sammy went over and put her paws on his shoulders.

"Alright calm down," she instructed. He was about to argue, but when she gave a glare, he had no choice but to breathe in and out. Sammy breathed with him to make sure he did it right, then looked at the tool box. "Now what are ya lookin' for, Bert?"

"My lucky torque wrench," he grunted, crossing his arms. "It was in my box and now it's gone! It-It flew away, like a plane!"

"It didn't," she assured him. "Maybe ya just… Mm… misplaced it."

Bently sputtered like an empty plane.

"Wh-bwu-what!? MISplaced it!? I didn't build planes and fight in the Air Force for three years to come back and misplace a tool! It's idiotic! It's witless! It's asinine! It's-"

"It's the third time this week," Sam chuckled, tapping his nose. He only mumbled a response, turning red from not anger anymore, but being called out for being so ditsy.

Sammy searched around the plane, under it, in the garage, nearby shrubbery, in the tool box, all over. However, to her surprise, she couldn't find it either. She put a paw on her hip, another under her chin, and hummed out loud in thought. "Do ya remember where you last had it, hon?"

Bently began to think, looking at his shoe.

"Mmm… I think… aaugh I can't deal with the noise!"

Sammy lifted an ear, hearing birds chirping.

"Bently, you're getting bent up over birds…!" she huffed. He mumbled again, this time, Sammy taking a few deep breaths and going to his side, making him sit on an old airplane wing that was discarded years ago. They both sat in silence before Sammy spoke up. "Bently… it isn't the tool or the birds that are the issue, right?"

He sighed. There was no getting past Sammy. She was clever, witful, smart, everything that was the same with those words. It was one of the many reasons he married her.

"... I've had a tough week…" he admitted. Sammy opened an arm, allowing him to lean into her side, tail wagging slowly from the comfort.

"Wanna talk then?" she offered. He stayed silent before going off. He told her about his hard week, from the smallest thing of his favorite rum out of stock to huge issues like the horizontal stabilizer no longer able to get fixed. She listened to him, nodding when he asked "you know why this makes me angry, right?" to being sympathetic when needed, even squeezing tighter when he began to whimper. When he finished his spiel, she let him still lay on him before sighing. "I'm sorry ya had a tough week, love."

"It's not your fault…" he told her.

"And… sorry for being short fused."

"Are ya still a wee bit short of a fuse?"

Chuckling, he thought a bit more before nodding in defeat.

"Yeah," he fizzled out like a light. Smiling, she let him stay comfy for a few moments more before ever so carefully making two of her fingers raise like legs and walk on his side.

Bently, almost immediately, yelped and snorted out before looking at Sammy with wide eyes. "S-Sam not again!"

"Whaat? Ya need this, ya know it!"

Without any offer to let him talk more, she squeezed at his side, making him squeal out in a fit of snorts and laughter. He tried turning away, but that just left his other side vulnerable, asking for more squeezes. "I'm coming in from the left flank to the right side! Do ya copy, sir?" she teased gingerly. It made the whole tickling worse, Bently blushing greatly.

"Sahahahahaaam!! Stahaaahahahap!!"

"Aww why? Still not feeling right as rain yet? I'm doin' my best!"

"Nohohooo!! Stop tii-EEHEEHEEE!!!"

She had found a sweet spot!! Well she always knew it was there, she knew about it since their first date. But right under the chin was a bad spot for him because the only instinct he could do for that was to hug the one tickling him and that's what his arms did.

He pulled her closer by instinctively accident, making her able to blow a raspberry right under his chin. His roaring belly laughter in her ear made her smile like it was a new sun rise.

"AAAAAGYAAHAHAAHAAA!! S-SAAHAHAHAMMEEHEEHEEE!! NO MOHOHOOORE!!!"

"Why? Ya pulled me in! Must mean ya love this!"

Another raspberry was enough to send him over the edge. When he laughed out the final vibrations, he turned quickly, making her on the bottom now. She gasped… laughed and clapped with a smile. "Well played! Alright, I think I should-"

"Have your turn?" he sadistically smiled. She gasped and was about to convince her way out of it, as she did as most situations, but it was too late already. He dug his big fingers into her dainty ribs, making her squeak and yip away.

"Eeheeheehee!! Behehen-eeheeheehee!!"

She ended the plead with a short, though not as comically large as her husband's. Another reason why he fell in love with her; her adorable dainty snort. It made him swoon. But he had a mission to do first. Responding to her previous tea, he glided her jacket up by just a smidge.

"I copy, Mrs. Sammy…! Dropping the load now…!" he cackled. She screamed out before it even happened, and screamed again when it did. He blew a wet, sloppy, messy, huge raspberry over her belly, making it quiver and shake as she went berserk in snorts, laughter, and more yips.

"BENTLEEHEEHEEHEEHEEE!! I'M GOHOHOHONNAAHAHAHA GET YAHAHAHAHAHAA FOR THIHIHIHIHIIIS!!!"

"Oh yeah? How's you going to do that?" he inquired. "You gonna try to get me back? Is that right?"

He squeezed at her sides, making her squeal like he did, her legs kicking and flailing under him. Seeing that a tear started to trail down, he stopped, letting her go. She wheezed and coughed, but smiled nonetheless.. Bently put her on his lap to let her rest, which she greatly appreciated and wagged her tail in response. "I love you, Sammy…" She giggled at that and turned to face him.

"I love ya t-your torque wrench!!"

"... You love my torque wrench?" he asked, ears lowering.

"No, hon! It was in your back pocket!"

She reached behind and took it out, showing him. He looked stunned… then angry….then shocked… then happy.

"My torque wrench!! Oh thank go-..."

He stopped mid-sentence, looking at it.

"... Is it not your wrench?" she wondered.

"Nah," he shook his head. "I-I mean it is! Just… I'll fix the plane later."

He put it down, leaned to Sammy and kissed her forehead. "You're more important."

"Oh gummy bear…" she held his cheek and kissed his lips in return. This is why she married him back.

#cuphead #cuphead dlc #cuphead delicious last course #cuphead howling aces

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ddonovanrp · 1 year

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Beep Beep. Beep Beep. Beep Beep. 'Ugh' I knew that awful sound anywhere. The bedside alarm to ruin my sleep. My whole 3 hours I'd gotten. Turning over I smacked the metal square until it finally quit. Sighing with relief I turned back over and smiled to myself. The guys would let me sleep a little longer, right?

Knock knock knock. Wrong. "Donovan! Come on, you up yet?" A voice from the other side yelled. "Noo." I groaned the reply and covered my head with the thick black comforter.

The door flew open and footsteps approached until they stopped by my bed. "Wake up sleeping beauty" the blankets were pulled from my head and I glared into the dark. "I WILL kill you, you know?" I threatened before sitting up. I'd slept in boxers like always. Living in a compound, you'd think everyone would be more conservative. Nope. "Rhys.." I started before he cut me off. "Nope. Prez. won't hear it. Coffee in the kitchen." My best friend said before flipping the light on and throwing the first white shirt he seen my way. "Church in 10" he said and walked out leaving me to get myself together before meeting with the guys to plan the week. It was times like this I hated the fact that I'd stepped down from my office, former VP of the Iron Angels Mother Chapter, to become a regular Joe in another town's Chapter.

8 and a half minutes and the quickest cold shower ever later I was done, dressed and sipping on my first cup of coffee of the morning. "Fuck off Cowboy" I sneered as I passed by him and his buddy Hush. The guy was the jokester of the group. And frankly, I knew I was rough looking. I'd had a rough night for christ's sake. I didn't need anyone poking fun this early. I slouched down in my chair at the table next to Rhys and Viking. Viking, just as his name suggested was a big ginger who lived by a code. Live the life you love. And he loved the ladies. But when things got real, he was one I wanted in my corner. Him and AK. AK was an ex-marine sniper. And he retired not because lack of skill. The gavel banged, the start of the meeting.

Once the meeting was over, I stepped out of the office room and headed to the kitchen. Coffee was gone and it was time to eat! "Donovan, what's your plan for later?" One of the guys from a visiting chapter asked as they sat at the kitchen island. "Eh. I guess I'll go down to the shop. Check it all out, see how business is." I replied as I finished my sandwich. "Aw, all work and no play." The boyish looking Kidd said. "I don't know man. Nothing important happening for the next day or so, so I'll either be at the shop helping the guys down there or I'll check out the bar in town. Have a drink or two." "Now that's a good plan!" The two said in unison and headed out the door just as Rhys passed them heading in himself. "Heading down to the shop. Bull called and he's got a couple bikes in back that need checked out and someone just brought in a car for service. You coming with?" Already knowing the answer he turned to head out as I shoved the last bite of sandwich into my mouth and followed. The shop, then drinks. Two of favorite places be to.

Sitting on a stool, I twisted on the last lug nut with my fingers before reaching between my feet for the torque wrench to finish off the job. "Are you done over there D?" Bull, one of the oldest members of the club called from the other side. "Just about." I answered before wiping the grease off the rim and standing. "Done." I replied and playfully slapped the top of the car. "Now i'm definitely ready for a drink." I said as I washed the majority of the grease off of my hands and arms in the back of the shop. "Ditto. I'll buy the first round. You know I appreciate your help." Drying my hands off I chuckled and followed Bull and Ash out of the shop, flipping the light off before pulling the door shut.

Backing our bikes slowly against the curb until the back tire hit, I flipped the key off and looked over, watching the other 3 guys do the same. Night riding. My favorite time of day to ride. The air was cool, traffic was minimal and you could really get lost in the ride. Pushing the back door open you usually had to be careful not to snack someone. And just like usual, the bar was packed. My cousin Camille ran the bar for one of the clubs partners. She was rough around the edges but overall a sweetheart. She met my gaze over the heads of the other patrons and pointed to the back corner. Nodding I followed her direction. The Prez was there with his wife and a few others. "Hey guys." I said before bending down and kissing the cheek of the President's wife; Mae. That woman had really brought the whole club together as a whole. Buffed out our rough edges all with the class of a royal. "I believe the first round was on Bull." I said grinning as I turned to him and motioned to the bar. You could definitely tell the crowd that were regulars versus the local college kids and the people who dont come here much. Those people were more dressed up whereas people like me weren't here to impress, just drink. Dirty Jeans, a black t shirt I'd stuffed in my saddle bags, wind wipped hair down to my scuffed up boots I radiated dirty biker. And that was acceptable here.

I leaned over onto the bar and chatted with a few random people as I waited for Cami to slide me a beer. I didn't even have to order, another perk of being regular. She leaned against the other side of the bar and shook her head at me. "You know...i get tired of watching you leave with woman after woman Damian. One day you're going to have to pick one." "Not as long as I have you to run interference." I winked and chuckled as she rolled her eyes at me. I have to admit, she'd been in more than one cat fight over me. Not that I'd do that to her on purpose.

As If being overheard, a tall blonde walked over to me and Bull and did her best sexy look in my direction. I lifted my beer to Cami, chuckling as I pushed from the bar and let the blonde lead me onto the dance floor. I wasn't much of a dancer but nothing a few beers wouldn't take care of. ______________________________________________ ->4.7.2020 -> #IronAngelsMC-RP #Clubhouse #Damian #TristanRhys

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the-firebird69 · 2 years

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So I'm going to do that I'm going to convert my rebel and the conversion kits on the way now I have to order it but I want to convert the rebel and I got the kid I like and it says you just keep the parts but once you do you won't want to change back and it's not that much heavier it's like five times heavier overall and they do tell you it all the calculations are done so what are the kid I'm going to put it on and I'm going to do it on YouTube sensation video and I'll have hits on it and I'll get paid by advertisers and he says we'll probably advertise the conversion kit if it's a decent video which you probably will be there's no doubt it needs to decent worker, just a reminder he says the torque wrench is probably 100% required and I got one of those so it's no problem but he always says that you have to twerk it properly and follow the instructions and pretty much that's it and really he works good it's faster it's effective it looks slow but it is it's done right and you people don't know what it's like to in carpentry these guys work the butts off for me and I wish you could pay him more back then she's you know I had to undercut so much just to get anything any job at all and we understand that he poked in in the last sentence or two and it was a lot of work and very difficult practically nobody sympathized it was hell and people were trying to get him work the big bosses did said what's up with our people we told them okay and we find out what it is they're all stingy as hell don't want to do anything want to take money from the bosses it was how it was horrible we learned stuff the hard way

He says the rebel 250 is perfect for me sometimes I'm not bigger and I'm smaller I weigh like 135 1:30 and I have longer hair and it'll inspire females women and girls to convert the 250 or bike sitter similar size similar to CC and it is great and it really is a great bike at first it goes like 1:20 and you do the kid and it goes up to like 180 or 190 easily and it does too faster but I don't want to horrified people it's much safer the brakes are much better the tires so much better and the drive is much safer you won't cut yourself in half and mostly the rebel doesn't go fast and you're not going that fast but it handles the highway okay this is something that people don't understand either when you're driving one of these light cycles even the lighter ones that are 300 lb or less you're on the highway there's something has very large amount of centripetal force because the tire in the rim and you stay up I'm going to truck goes by you hardly feel it it's like you're on a 103 Harley literally that's what it feels like so he says I should start out with a conversion and then he'd like to see me do like a riding commercial even with friends for the conversion kit and he might put it up on the conversion company website and try and get it on television and I'm up for that too and we could do it like a commercial as to what life cycle riders do and like you know a couple excerpts of where we go you know like to work and to the pub and make some jokes say like I'm here already it's not real far but you know it's kind of the it's kind of the humor that goes along with it but really it's great for girls and and women it is terrific for kids too who are old enough to drive and have a license for a motorcycle and I'm all for getting scooter licenses going too there's a ton of motorcycle driver license companies out they need some here in Florida this place is just a dog it's terrible nobody cares okay DC can jam it tons of people say it whether your gifted or not we're not what a wonderful day it's a great day is trying to help me out and really it's it's just a lot of money I mean the numbers are huge I don't even know what to do it said you could buy some stuff and you can buy other things tons of people about some tons of people drove same motorcycles out into the desert we saw them do that too I'm going to get going on this and thanking him he says well thank you when it's you know it's done and the deal's closed and you got your stuff coming cuz not that it's not going to happen but boy it's a great idea and you probably need a little help to do it and women might actually help you like the Queen Elizabeth there she says it's done plenty but really he's a famous guy and for him to do it and to sponsor it is special and it's a newer rebel it's a 2019 so it's going to look really nice shiny and pretty and everything the colors match and the kit it's very slick it's very fast done very well and he said it's done by a giant but there we call them that he says like will and Bill but he's a different family we know the family too they're around sometimes and it's not Ajax

Ron

This is fantastic it's like a one-arm one-man it's like a gigantic one man marketing campaign I've got calls all over the place asking for videos from Lori's shop where women have done it and she's going to put a few up and they're famous women but really putting the guy up there is better but having them both is superb he can't get any better than that and he's like Tom Cruise okay this is just a real a real famous famous moment for me it says it feels real good and it's a nice activity during the day and it's for for us as well and it's for safety but really this is a great idea because women need it and people who are not huge and younger people really need something they can do and this size bike is perfect too we sound a lot of smaller bikes that are light cycles 250cc works real good and the Chinese pump out tons of those even though you have to get like a 300 it's a little bit better motor because you don't want to be going 120 you want to be going be able to go a little faster cuz sometimes the traffic really starts moving but boy and a motorcycle these days you'll be feeling a lot safer I'm really excited this is an amazing day I mean I'm getting a lot of calls just put a couple up and she says she's getting a headache this too many people calling you have to go and schedule it online she said she couldn't do that because people don't understand the instructions she's got a call center now so it's a shops even the old Sears places she's taking over she says this one right there at the Town center Mall he thinks and there is so she's going to look into it cuz I'm all might rent it out I don't see why you can't have a wide tire motorcycle they do custom shop stuff what is that custom shop stuff in town do it how the guys want it and he'll make a lot of money so we're going to look into both and try and help them out but she might do it she said she's going to do it right now and she probably will and we're talking to Sears a lot of thoughts by the way and they're barking at some stuff and not at others please says why not do a sampling of stores and we can try and work the kinks out we have it like 90% there before other department stores and other Walmarts and stuff pick up on it so he's excited he wants to do it and we're going ahead with it and Thor Freya taught him that one and Hera helps with it all the time and she knows how to do that too but really that's who they learned it from we're going ahead with this idea too I'm posting these up there and try and do it commercial for the conversion

Zig Zag

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catchingthoughtstheblog · 2 years

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“A Hard Head Makes A Soft....”

As you can tell by the title, this has been a long time coming! As men, we tend to inherit and pass down certain tools to our loved ones that aren’t always a blessing. Sometimes those very tools that are meant to cause a project to be done rather smoothly and efficiently, can be a pure nightmare! That’s been the case for the last three to four years for me. I’ve been working with two pieces of equipment that in all honesty, I’ve done my uncle more shame than good by continuing to work on them. Making the decision wasn’t easy but when I did, I turned to the great people over at Brownells to make sure I was up to date on the proper tools needed to move forward.

First up, I’d like to talk about the new Shop Fox Gunsmith Vise made by Woodstock International. We can’t talk about this awesomeness without paying respect to the dead. My passed down Craftsman 3 1/2 came with one of the mounting holes broken and it had already been welded twice before I got it. Now we’ve spent many nights doing work over and over due to it leaning, not holding support or me having to wedge it to remove a muzzle device. Those days are gone, praise God! With the new Shop Fox Gunsmith Vise, not only does it swivel a full 360 degrees but the set up and flexibility of this vice is simply stunning. One of the major features of this vice that I’m excited about is the modular holes in the walls of the vice. On each side you have two holes that can be used to accommodate a wide variety of custom wooden designs, making it great for gun stock or even luthiery work. This vice is going to be something special and will give my son or daughter something to be happy to inherit, lol.

Next up, is the Wheeler Delta Series AR15 Combo Tool! Now if you’ve done any work on rifles in a vice that actually worked, you now how important these tools are. From removing a muzzle break, to tightening a castle nut or even torquing down a barrel nut to the right specs. To a novice, all these things should be made important but the seasoned builder, you know that your job just got sent to a GunSmith if you didn’t have these tools. The previous wrench I used had teeth that had been worn down from attempted to apply pressure. This Wheeler Combo Tool is so versatile! This tool features hardened barrel nut pins and profiles that fit the buffer tube lock nut and flash hider. I went with this one particular because it also has the cut out for a ½" drive and allows the use with ratchet driver or the included torque wrench. Bit driver and bit holder with six common bits help you work on most parts of the AR-15. Included beam-style torque wrench helps achieve correct torque on AR-15 barrel nut to maximize accuracy potential. This tool was the completion of my upgraded workbench and I couldn't be more excited!

If you're considering doing any upgrades to your workbench, I strongly urge that you consider picking up one of both of these tools. I had someone older share with me once before, “Gammage, all jobs are cut in half with the correct tool. That same job can be said to have a 99% chance of you not having to do it again if you have the correct tools. Now you factor the other side of those numbers and add up how much money you’re losing.” I’m sharing with you guys today that sometimes a hard head makes a soft..... (fill in the blank). Thanks for stopping by!

#tools #brownellsinc #brownells #workbench #gunsmith #gammage #gammunition #squaddrills

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throneanger22 · 2 years

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Wheel Lug Nut Torque Sequences

Similar to the mag seat is the flat seat lug which also was made to bond to a flat surface. Now that you know what kind of lug nut you need, find out how to torque them down properly. Commonly found in racing applications or when wheel spacers and extended wheel studs are used. If your car is vibrating, we recommend inspecting the tires first. Tires will rotate on the wheel over a period of time and will wear funny, hence rebalance. The tech may not have torqued the wheels correctly, and warped the brake rotors too.

A wheel lug nut is a component that helps secure a wheel to its hub.

In this case, go with a good, clean hand torque wrench.

A socket used for a new lug dice (3/4 or 19mm) was one same like stock - lug dice.

In fact, this happens so often, it’s a good idea to re-tighten your wheel lugs yourself or have it done by a professional when you purchase new tires.

There are two main materials used to manufacture lug nuts - steel and aluminum. Aluminum lug nuts weigh half as much as steel lug nuts. Thus, they are good options for light duty applications. Both metals are corrosion resistant and rust proof. However, aluminum has a tendency to corrode faster than steel. Your spare tire requires the use of factory lug nuts. https://bestreviews.tips/wheel-tire-lug-nuts_25550/ After running the vehicle for a short distance, check the nuts for tightness. Parts will usually seat naturally and torque on nuts will drop. I put a pipe on the handle of the standard wrench and jumped on it. Putting the lug nuts on properly and ensuring that you have the right lug nuts for the job will ensure your safety. Apply a dab of anti-seize lubricant in the center hole if necessary, but do not apply to the wheel studs or lug nuts. Use a wire brush to clean the wheel stud and lug nut threads, and then dry them. Corrosion, thread damage and oil or grease can skew torque application and affect clamping force. A technician putting the wheels back on your car using an air impact wrench. You see, these air impact wrenches have grown in power over the years. Back in the day, many many years ago, if they produced 150 ft-lbs, it was a powerful wrench. Well today, some of these are 12 or 13 hundred ft-lbs, and the average is eight to nine hundred ft-lbs of torque. Failure to use the proper lugs nuts may cause your vehicle to vibrate and could cause the lug nuts to loosen over time. At Town Fair Tire we take the worry out of aftermarket wheels. Purchase a set of wheels from us and we will include the proper lug nuts at no additional charge.

Lug Bolts Low Profile 12x1 5 Chrome Conical Stud Bolt 24mm Shank

How much to loosen lug nuts before lifting the car. But it’s a precision instrument; using it for blunt force can throw off the calibration and render it inaccurate. The whole point of a torque wrench is that it can let you know exactly when you’ve put enough force on a nut.

Wheel Packages

If you're upgrading your wheels, then a new set of lugnuts is exactly what you need to round out the package. BrandSport has lug nuts for sale for every application, whether you need just one nut or a whole set. Well, a full set of wheel nuts is necessary to maintain proper torque and safety. If one lug is missing, then you can order one to replace it. Be sure to order the correct type of nuts, as they come in different sizes and applications. More than the required torque can damage threads and even warp the brake rotors. Ball – Ball-style lug nuts are essentially round rather than cone-shaped. If there’s one thing tire techs deal with more than tires, it’s lug nuts. The factory was opened lug die and the fake chrome spent. A 'spent' is exited one or two of them after the week or two, and installed the with the ratchet and wrench of torsion. When I have had my wheels have substituted, of the discharges are exited of ten or eleven more, probably because of a gun of impact. I have attacked one the majority to rest was with the small nylon hammer I use for gunsmithing.

#wheel tire lug nuts

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applesontheground · 2 years

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Okay so there's this thing that people do that just absolutely melts me and it's when someone tips your chin up and makes you look at them and I was wondering if you could do a little blurb/scenario of that with Bo??

awoooo i love that! my bf actually did this to me recently and by god anon if i didn’t understand then, i do now. also, this is absolutely inspired by my dream date with mr. sinclair: holding the flashlight while he says literally every curse word under the hood of a car 😌❤

helping haphazard 🕯️

SFW | Word Count: 734 | Bo Sinclair x GN Reader

contains: brief implication of murder

“Hey, I said paws off that.”

“What? You tell me to come help in the garage and now I can’t touch anything?”

Whenever Bo asked you to “come help with something”, it always devolved from actually getting your hands dirty with him to just standing and watching, filling the time with appearing preoccupied while he managed it all in the way he had to have it. For someone who complained about you needing to help out all the time, he was so quick to slap your hands away from something whenever you did accompany him, saying you didn’t know how to do it.

He would notice how frustrating it all was in the way you stared with a hand on the counter and a wrinkled forehead, only watching the car he was fiddling with or the bloody tools that he was washing off. After that tugged at his heart strings enough, he’d humor you and give you some kind of trivial task. Replace bolt caps on a clunker sitting outside, hold the flashlight for him, make sure the hose worked before he started power-washing the sidewalk...

Today was a day you couldn’t stand the demotion any more, and the second he had turned his back you were crouching near the car’s tire, wrench driven into the lug nuts that still needed to be removed. It took unscrewing two of them before you heard the familiar thumping of his boots, noticing the absence out the corner of his eye before the distant ambiance track from town had its chance to loop around once.

“Looks like you’re havin’ fun, but-” He approached from behind, shadow sliding over your back as you set down the second nut and looked over your shoulder, “You sure you know how to do that?” He tipped his head a little and gave you a sharp nod, “The right way?”

The scoff bubbled out as you started applying pressure to the next nut, cranking the wrench as you spoke. “Come on, do I know how to unscrew a lug nut? What do I lo-“ In a tight motion, your hand slipped, pulling back from the torque you had been applying and shooting right into your face.

With the slap, your entire body jolted back in response, the wrench clattering to the ground. “Fuck-!” The shock was ringing in your head first, then a grip of pain wrapped around the bridge of your nose. Finally, there came Bo’s voice, a familiar pattern as you doubled back over, hanging your head to hold the space between your eyebrows.

You could hear slight amusement under the scolding tone, “Well, shit. What’d I tell you, [Y/N]? Shouldn’t have been careless with it, there’s oil on the damn thing-” Although he spoke of the tire, the first thing he took hold of was you.

The weathered skin of his thumb against your chin was what brought you out of the agony, your eyes opening again to watch as he tipped your head up to face him. He was hard to see past a silhouette in the sun that was crawling behind the trees, and you blinked as his other hand came up, rubbing at a lingering smudge where the impact had happened with a gentle rub along your brow.

“Didn’t leave a mark or nothin’. Just a little oil.” When you focused your eyes, he was looking from you to where you had remained on your knees on the floor; dark blues mulling, and not harsh but keen to see you finally start to huff in embarrassment. When you only stared back with your hands settled on your lap, he let himself slowly come down to his haunches, hand never leaving your chin.

“Well,” He tilted his head at you, “Think you learned your lesson?” You tried to nod, but soon felt his thumb press to your chin to make the motion himself, puppeting you with an up and down tug of his hand. You grumbled under your breath, rolling your eyes but the corners of your mouth curling up regardless. Bo then asked, “You gonna be fuckin’ around any more if I leave you alone?” He flashed his teeth as he shook your head for you again, and you smirked back and huffed, “No.”

He let go, still grinning as he carefully leaned himself forward to kiss right on the spot you had whacked yourself. “Good.”

#bo sinclair x reader #bo sinclair x y/n #slasher x reader #slasher x y/n #slasher requests #requests #✏️#🕯️#if you like your readers kinda dumb but well meaning you would love meeting me irl

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wild-karrde · 2 years

Text

One Step at a Time - Part 3

Master List | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

A/N: We are OFF AND RUNNING WITH THIS ONE! As always, thank you to the truly outstanding @teletraan-meets-jarvis for beta-reading this for me! :)

Chapter Rating: G

Warnings: none

Word Count: 6.8k words

“Arni, can you hand me the wrench with the ten mil head on it?”

Chuckles felt the cool metal of a tool press into his palm from where it was extended outside of the maintenance access panel he was wedged in. Bringing the wrench up to his face, he sighed. “This is the five millimeter, kid. I need the ten.”

“The ten is going to be too big.”

Chuckles wiggled so that he could peer between his feet where the Twi’lek was crouched, eyes locked on a datapad that was displaying the ship’s schematics.

“Ten mil is standard for these types of bolts,” he huffed. “Now can I get the wrench I need please?”

“Ten mil would be standard if this was a Republic freighter. Corellian ships tend to have smaller bolts.”

Chuckles narrowed his eyes at the Twi’lek, whose gaze was still diverted down to their datapad, clearly considering the matter resolved. Sighing, Chuck popped the penlight he was using back between his teeth to illuminate the small space, reaching up for the bolt he was trying to loosen. The head of the wrench slotted over it perfectly, and he gave it an experimental twist, feeling the bolt break its torque.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he muttered around the penlight clamped between his teeth. He didn’t miss the small smile that pulled at the corner of Arni’s mouth from where they were crouched. They still didn’t look up at him though.

At least the kid’s not gonna rub it in my face, I guess.

Sweat dribbled down his temple, and he wiped his forehead as the panel he was finally working on came loose, showering him in dust. He spluttered, wiping at his face more. “Alright kid, you got the hook-ups I need?” Arni pressed a cable into his hand as he repositioned the penlight between his teeth.

“You’re looking for a port labeled ‘FLT CPU DATA C’,” Arni called out. “That should give me access to the board where the ship’s identifying information is stored.”

Chuckles easily found the port, plugging the cable’s connector into place. “You’re all set,” he said, laying the penlight down next to his head and folding his hands on his chest as he waited for Arni to find what they were looking for. “They teach you all this at the temple?” he asked.

Arni looked up from the datapad finally, their brows furrowed. “No.”

“Well, where’d you learn it?”

“The archives. Spent a lot of time reading in there. Then talked to the mechanics in the garage a lot or the pilots if I could find them. There was this one trooper that flew a modified Omicron-class attack shuttle, and he loved to talk to me about the ship, telling me all the mods he’d done. He originally showed me how to do this, and most ships are pretty similar when you get down to their guts, so we should be able to do the same for this freighter.”

“You like all that tech stuff?”

“I like seeing how things work, and then making them work better if I can,” Arni said quietly, punching away at the datapad. “Even invented a few things during the war.”

“Like what?”

“A mega-popper. Could take out any clankers within a quarter-klick radius. Just had to make sure troopers were shielded when it went off.”

Chuckles’s eyes widened, and he let out a low whistle. “I’m almost sad I never saw you around my hangar. I would have let you go to work on my fighter.”

“What did you fly?”

“A Z-95.”

Arni wrinkled their nose, and Chuckles furrowed his brow. “What’s that look about?”

“Nothing.”

Chuckles propped himself up on his elbows, making sure to not smack his head on the strut in front of him. “No, you made a face about my ship.”

Arni’s eyes flicked up to meet his before they shrugged, focusing back down on the datapad. “They’re just a little…dated is all.”

“Hey, that ship saved my ass multiple times and is an outstanding piece of engineering.”

“So outstanding they didn’t even put a spot for an astromech in,” Arni muttered under their breath.

“OI! I heard that.”

“It’s true though.”

“Listen kid, I don’t need a droid to help tell me how to fly my kriffin’ ship. And as a matter of fact-“

“All done,” Arni interrupted him. “You’re good to disconnect now.”

“We’re not done with this conversation,” Chuckles grumbled, lowering back onto his shoulder blades and replacing the penlight between his teeth as he disconnected Arni’s cable and replaced the panel that covered the access to the ship’s flight computer. As he wriggled back out, Nita looked up from where she was seated, munching on some more of her fried snacks, giggling at Chuckles. “Your face is a mess,” she teased.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Chuckles snarked back before lifting the hem of his shirt and wiping his face on it.

“What’s your tattoo of?” Arni asked from behind him, staring at the skin where Chuck’s shirt had ridden up as he’d wiped his face.

The clone pilot sighed. “If I tell you, you’re not allowed to make fun of it.”

“I won’t.”

Chuckles cast a skeptical look over his shoulder at the Twi’lek, who stared back at him innocently. Sighing, he pulled his shirt up and over his shoulders, exposing his entire back. “It’s the circuit board layout of the flight computer of my Z-95.”

Arni leaned forward, studying the black markings that wove across the left side of his back, tracking over his shoulder blade and tracing his spine. The tattoo only took up one half of his back, but it had been a real pain to sit for. He’d been a stupid cadet, half drunk at the time and certain this was a good idea, which had only been fueled by some of his batchmates’ enthusiastic insistence. He’d clamped his teeth together so hard he thought he’d crack them as the needle had buzzed across each rib, but he was no quitter. A few hours later, he’d made it, hustling back to the barracks before he violently vomited, although he couldn’t be sure whether it was due to the booze in his system or sitting for the tattoo. Over time, he’d come to appreciate it more, and he felt a certain protectiveness over its significance as Nita walked around behind him to scrutinize it with Arni.

He felt a thin finger poke along one trace. “This layout is much better than the original Z-95 flight computer boards. There’s a lot more redundancy built into the system’s circuits.” The finger poked between two ribs, and he jumped, pulling his shirt back down.

“Alright, that’s enough of that. Are we done critiquing the design of my ship?”

Arni shrugged. “I said this version was better.”

Chuck’s eyes narrowed. “I suppose I’ll take that.”

“Are you ticklish?” Nita asked, reaching up to poke him between the same two ribs Arni had. Chuckles leapt backwards instinctively, and the little Pantoran’s eyes glittered with mischief. “YOU ARE!”

“Am not! I just don’t like getting poked in my internal organs, like any other being,” Chuck fibbed, dancing out of reach of Nita’s tiny blue fingers. “Alright, that’s enough.” Tucking his shirt back in his pants, he scooped Nita up and dangled her out in front of him by her ankles as she swung back and forth squealing with laughter. “Arni, are we good with the ship’s signature now?”

The Twi’lek was working to suppress a smile as they watched their tiny counterpart dangle from Chuckles’s hands. “Should be. You can check it on the main display. I’ve got the original recorded to compare.”

Chuckles held Nita up so her face was even with his. “Alright, if I put you down, no more poking. Deal?”

She grinned at him, her silver hair hanging loosely towards the floor.

“Nita… “

“Ok fine. No more poking.”

Releasing one of her ankles, he extended a pinky with his free hand, which the little girl pouted at for a moment, crossing her arms. “You want down or not?” Chuckles asked.

Nita huffed in defeat, accepting the terms of the pinky promise reluctantly. Chuck nodded, righting her and settling her on one hip as he strode to the flight console. He pressed a few buttons to bring up the ship’s main status readout, eyes searching for the signature on the display. Arni held out the datapad with the original signature for comparison.

“That looks successfully scrambled to me,” Chuck said approvingly. “Well done, kid.” He held out a palm to Arni, who hesitantly slapped it after a few seconds.

“Now what?” the young Twi’lek asked.

Chuck slid into the pilot seat, balancing Nita on one knee as Arni hopped into the seat next to him. “Now, we find a place to restock.” He punched up the planetary coordinate system, bringing the display of nearby planets up. He had the sudden realization that he’d never really looked at where these coordinates were in relation to other worlds. He had always known that this place was somewhere in the mid-rim, but really nothing more than that. Punching a few buttons, he brought up a list of worlds within a rotation’s proximity with a hyperdrive.

Shouldn’t do a Republic world since those are definitely under the Empire's control now. Nothing Separatist either since I’m pretty sure a clone will stand out there. Somewhere off the beaten path where the Empire won’t be rushing to drop troops in…

His fingers flicked past world after world until they paused over NaJedha. Arni’s brows furrowed.

“Isn’t that just a crystalline world? I didn’t think it had much of a settlement.”

Chuckles grinned, bringing up a small holo of the planet and expanding it. “You’re right, it doesn’t. Its moon does though.” He tapped the small orbiting satellite, bringing it up. “Jedha’s got a few small settlements, but the best one is in Jedha City. That’s got a pretty nice market from what I hear. A few of the pilots from my wing would hit that place up on the way back to Coruscant because there’s supposedly a few shops there that sell fantastic jogan sticky buns. Always heard it wasn’t exactly a booming metropolis, and not a lot of its hyperspace lanes are in use anymore. That’s just what we need.”

“But we don’t have any credits.”

“We don’t. But I’m sure there’s a barter system. This freighter pilot had a few things worth trading that I dug up last night. He’s got some jewelry and spare parts that we could probably trade for food. And if not, I could always take a temp job as a pilot until we’ve got enough credits to stock up and get out of here.”

“What if they don’t need any pilots?” Arni pressed.

“There’s always someone that needs a pilot,” Chuckles joked with more confidence than he actually had. At least I hope so, because I’m not really good at much else. “We’ll figure it out, kid. No worries.”

Chuckles’s words did little to unfurl the wrinkle between Arni’s brow as they sat back in the co-pilot seat, but they didn’t say anything. Chuckles glanced between the two of them. “Alright, now we need to find you two something to wear that will help you blend in. Can either of you sew?”

They both stared at him blankly.

“Ponchos it is then.”

---

A few hours later, the freighter hopped out of hyperspace near Jedha’s gravity well. Chuckles and Arni immediately scanned the area, and Chuckles breathed a sigh of relief to see only a handful of freighters and transports in orbit around the planet rather than a full naval armada. Let’s hope our luck holds for now.

“Alright, you kids get dressed.”

Arni nodded, hopping out of their seat and heading towards the rear of the ship. Chuckles had been impressed with his own sewing, managing to fashion a rudimentary tunic for Arni to go under one of the ponchos he’d made and stitching a very ill-fitting shirt for Nita to wear under hers in place of her silver Jedi tunic. Arni helped Nita dress before changing themselves as Chuckles piloted the ship down to the outskirts of Jedha City. As they drifted over the desert, Chuck paused over what appeared to be a statue poking out of the dust.

Is that… a Jedi?

A cloaked figure wielding what was unmistakably a lightsaber lay on its side in the dust, half buried by the wind and sands over time. Chuckles’s brow furrowed. “Arni, is that a Jedi statue down there in the sand?”

Arni leaned over his shoulder, peering down. “Yeah. This is a holy place and is thought to be the spiritual home of the Jedi Order. Didn’t you know that?”

“Does it sound like I knew that, Arni?”

“The moon is literally called Jedha, and Jedha City is also known as the Holy City.”

Chuckles glowered at the Twi’lek, who was staring at him as if he had forgotten how to count to five without his fingers and toes. “Alright, oh Fount of Knowledge, go get Nita strapped in and then come up here and buckle up so you can keep telling me what an idiot I am while I land this bucket of bolts.”

Arni shrugged, heading back to strap Nita in before returning to the co-pilot seat and pulling the flight harness over their thin torso. The Twi’lek’s shoulders sagged slightly under the belts, their head drooping as they picked quietly at their fingernails. Chuckles felt a twinge of remorse.

“Hey,” he said quietly

Arni looked up at him.

“Here’s the thing. When they were training us to be soldiers, the long-necks weren’t really concerned with us knowing things other than how to kill stuff efficiently, and in my case fly. I know military tactics and how to maintain a blaster and how long it takes my internal organs to shut down if I get spaced, but not a lot else. So from now on, if there’s an important piece of information, just assume I don’t know it. Even if I do, I could use a reminder. So, you tell me everything you know, and I’ll get better at asking if you know stuff when I need information. Deal?”

Arni nodded wordlessly.

“Arni, look at me.”

Brown eyes met his amber ones, still filled with an uncertainty that he couldn’t source.

“We’re figuring out how to work as a team still, so there are going to be bumps. You didn’t do anything wrong. I just got snippy. So from now on, I’ll ask questions, and you tell me things, and we’ll be better for it, yeah?”

“Yeah ok.”

He reached over, placing his large hand between Arni’s lekku and giving their head a gentle wiggle. “Alright. Good. Now let’s set her down over there by those buildings. They should shelter this thing from the sand and wind a bit.”

The ship set down with a loud thud that jolted the three of them, and the engines roared like a dying bantha as Arni and Chuckles powered everything down. Chuckles unstrapped himself before standing from his seat and going to the back to unbuckle Nita. She hopped out of her seat, pulling her hood up over the neat set of twin buns that sat on her head. Chuckles had struggled with her hair and the ribbons for about fifteen minutes before admitting defeat and handing them off to Arni to do. To the Twi’lek’s credit, the buns were neat and even, and the silver ribbons were tied firmly but beautifully, dangling down the side of Nita’s head and framing her face.

I’m gonna need to learn how to do that at some point. Can’t ask Arni to keep doing everything I can’t.

Chuckles slipped on the blue scarf and dark grey cloak he’d found, pulling up his hood before reaching down and taking Nita’s small hand. “Alright, we stick together. No running off or wandering away. Once we get commlinks for everyone, it’ll be a little bit less pressure, but for now, we stick close. If you see anything that seems off, you squeeze my hand.”

“What might be off?” Nita asked, looking up at him with wide golden eyes.

“Anyone that’s watching us too carefully or if we’re being followed.”

Nita’s eyes widened impossibly further, looking slightly alarmed.

“It’s unlikely to happen, “Arni reassured her. “But better safe than sorry.”

Nita nodded, appearing to accept the explanation. Chuckles gave Arni a grateful grin before reaching up and slapping the button to open the hatch. The chill of Jedha’s air immediately slammed into them, the wind whipping and tugging at their ponchos. Chuckles shuddered at the cold, pulling the scarf around his neck up and over his nose, covering the bottom half of his face. He slid the satchel of tradeable items he’d found in the freighter over his shoulder, taking a deep breath to release some of the tension he could feel accruing in his shoulders.

One step at a time.

The three of them made their way quickly inside the city’s outer walls, walking down quiet avenues that had a few people out and about but were mostly deserted as the evening approached. Chuckles wove his way towards the city’s center, keeping his eyes peeled for anyone carrying shopping bags or making their way home with parcels of purchases. After about ten minutes of walking, he started to hear voices and the bustle of a crowd. Got to be getting close. Soon, the twinkle of street lights began to warm the walkway and the smell of spices and fried food wafted towards them, and Chuck felt his mouth water at the smells. He’d hardly eaten that day, not even thinking to find time between scrambling the ship’s signature, piloting, and sewing, and now his stomach was doing an excellent job of reminding him of its neglect. Chuckles guided the two younglings towards the source of the smells, hoping he’d find what they needed.

He'd been in busy market places before, but what struck him the most about the one they found in the center of Jedha City was how quiet the place was. Sure, there was the normal bustle and echo of human voices bartering or exchanging information, but it was all muted. The cheeriness that he’d been accustomed to in the markets he’d visited had seemingly evaporated in this one, replaced by an apprehension, and as he turned his head, he immediately identified the reason. A patrol of clone troopers was walking the perimeter of the market, their helmets swiveling back and forth as they passed each stall gripping E-11 blasters in their hands.

Not clone troopers. Stormtroopers.

Chuck’s grip on Nita tightened, and he dipped his head, pulling his hood down a little lower as they passed, his mind racing.

We shouldn’t have come here. We should go.

He took a deep steadying breath before stooping and picking up Nita, who tucked her face against his cheek inside his hood. She was shaking against him.

“Shhhh…I’ve got you honey. Don’t cry. It’s alright,” he soothed, rubbing her back with his gloved hand. “Don’t cry. They haven’t seen us. We’re alright. Just need to blend in.”

“There’s only one patrol,” Arni whispered to him. “I think we can do it.”

He kept his head down but met the Twi’lek’s gaze. Arni’s jaw was set determinedly, but he could see some of the fear starting to creep back in.

We don’t have a choice. We don’t have enough food to make it to another planet. It has to be here. We can make it another rotation at most with the food we have, but that’s it.

“We can do this, Chuckles,” Arni repeated, and he glanced at the youngling again, who nodded. He reached out, taking Arni’s hand with his free one.

“Alright. Eyes peeled kid.”

Arni nodded again, and the two of them quickly made their way into the market, eyes scanning the stalls for supplies. Eventually, the Twi’lek pulled him towards a more secluded corner of the market with smaller stalls. The prices were a little steeper since the vendors were smaller, but they were out of the way of the stormtrooper patrol. It also got them closer to a loudspeaker that had been blaring. Until that point, Chuckles hadn’t been able to discern what it was saying, but now, the words were clear as the message repeated.

“Citizens of the New Galactic Empire. Ensure you stop by an Imperial security station to receive your chain codes and trade your Republic credits for Imperial ones.”

“Pain in my ass, that,” grumbled a female Weequay at the stall Chuckles was standing in front of.

“Yeah?” Chuckles asked, trying to keep any waver out of his voice. “What’s all that about?”

“Control. What else?” the Weequay muttered. “They want to be able to track us. Can’t scratch your ass without one. And frankly, this whole credit swap has made things more of a mess.”

“I’ll bet,” Chuckles agreed, trying to be amicable. “Would you be open to barter instead?”

The Weequay looked at him, narrowing her eyes for a moment before scoffing. “Didn’t you just hear? Everything’s in Imperial credits now. Unless you’ve got those, I can’t help you, pal.”

Chuckles sighed, shifting Nita on his hip. “Don’t have any credits, so we’re making do. Know anyone that might be open to trading?”

“You born yesterday? We all need money to survive.”

Nita turned her face to look at the woman, and the Weequay’s gnarled features softened slightly at the sight of the little girl. Her eyes darted down to Arni, who was standing quietly next to Chuckles, their eyes scanning the area before meeting the Weequay’s and giving her a small smile. The woman sighed.

“If you head towards the east side of town, there are some religious folk there that might be able to help you, but I’m afraid you’ll have no luck here without credits. We’re all scrambling to make our way in this new world order.” She sighed again. “I’m sorry.”

Chuckles bowed his head. “I understand, and I appreciate the direction. It’s better than nothing.” Nita tapped his shoulder, and he nodded, setting her down and taking her hand again. Nita waved goodbye at the woman before turning to go.

“Wait.”

Chuck paused, turning back to find the woman rummaging in a crate sitting next to her that contained miscellaneous items. After a few moments, she seemed to find what she was looking for, leaning over the counter and holding out a small doll to Nita. Chuck’s heart stuttered as he realized it was a clone trooper doll.

“Take this sweetie. One of the legs is a bit bent, so I can’t sell it.”

Nita shrank back at the sight of the doll, but the woman came around from behind her booth, crouching down to eye level with the little girl and leaning in to speak quietly to her. “I know they seem scary when you see them now, love. But I promise those men are heroes. They were different before the Empire. They fought to preserve the Republic, protecting towns like the one I lived in before coming here, and I’d like to think there’s still good in them, even now. One of my good friends during the war was a captain in the 28th Combat Wing, Crater. He’d stop through for jogan fruit sticky buns on his way back to base. He was a good soldier, and a better man.”

Nita reached out hesitantly, before finally taking the doll. Chuckles’s heart was slamming against his ribcage at the mention of his wing and his former commanding officer. She knew Crater? As the woman straightened, giving him a smile, he searched frantically for any hint of recognition in her eyes, fearful she’d realized what he was, but found none. Does she know he died? That he was a hero to the end? Or does she think he’s one of them now?

Nita cradled the doll against her chest, oblivious to Chuckles’s internal turmoil. “Thank you,” she said softly.

“I hope you and your father and sibling are able to find what you need.” She leveled her piercing gaze at Chuckles again. “East end. You’ll see them.”

He nodded wordlessly, trying to keep himself steady as his mind raced, not even registering the parental title the woman had used. Crater knew her. I knew he’d come through here, but I’d never thought… I didn’t think I’d find someone that knew him, really knew him, not just his number, but by his name. His feet carried him forward automatically, his toes dragging in the dust as Nita and Arni kept pace with him. They managed to slip out of the market without bumping into the stormtroopers again, and Chuckles felt some of the tension in his chest ease with every step they put between themselves and the Imperials.

As they approached the east edge of town, foot traffic picked back up. Chuckles turned to whisper to Arni to keep their eyes open just as Nita slipped from his grasp.

“TOOKA!” she squealed, taking off towards where a striped tooka was staring at her from atop a crate. The creature saw her coming, and after issuing a hiss, darted off into the crowd with the tiny Pantoran hot on its heels.

“Nita! Hold up!” The little girl disappeared from view, and Chuckles felt his heart leap into his throat as he lost sight of her. “NITA!” Reaching down, he gripped Arni’s hand tightly as he wove his way through the crowd, desperately looking for a flash of silver hair or golden eyes. He heard a high pitched squeal and broke into a sprint, pulling Arni along behind him. The two of them tore around a corner, skidding to a halt.

They’d entered a small square that was less crowded than the main street they’d just been on. To their right, a small group was gathering, and there, in front of them, sitting on her rear was Nita with the tooka nowhere in sight. A figure carrying a walking stick was crouching down to her level, reaching out towards her face. Chuckles’s heart stuttered.

“NITA!”

She turned to look at him, her expression panicked, and he tore over to her, reaching for the blaster at his hip. His scarf had fallen down, revealing his face, but he could hardly be bothered to care as he raced towards Nita. “Get away from her!”

The figure stood, meeting his gaze, and Chuckles was immediately stilled at the sight of the man’s milky eyes. He’s blind. He paused, taking in the man’s black and red robes, clearly religious garb, although from what denomination, Chuckles couldn’t be certain. Must be the religious folk that vendor was talking about. The man gave him a small smile.

“I’m sorry, my friend. I got in the little one’s way.”

“It’s my fault,” Nita said, her eyes casting downwards. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“I’d argue I never look where I’m going,” the blind monk teased before leaning down and extending a thin hand out to Nita. “Come, young one. There’s no reason to be sad. It was an accident.” Nita was studying the monk, her head tilted at an angle, and Chuckles noted the monk mirrored her for a moment, before his smile widened. “Nita was it?”

A tingle worked its way up Chuckles’s spine as Nita wrapped her small hand around the monk’s, allowing herself to be pulled to her feet. Gently, the monk pulled her doll from the dirt, brushing dust from it before placing it back in her arms.The man turned back to them, his unseeing gaze seeming to focus on Arni. “And who might you be?”

“Arni,” the Twi’lek replied quietly. Chuckles felt their grip tighten on his hand, and he squeezed back reassuringly.

“And I’m Chuckles,” he said, stepping in between the two of them, extending a hand out. The monk didn’t reach back, instead, slightly bowing his head in acknowledgement. “It’s nice to meet you, travelers. My name is Chirrut Îmwe. What brings you to our city?”

“Just passing through. Heard we might find some folks able to help us get some food and supplies. We don’t have any credits, but I have items to barter, or I’m a pilot if there’s one needed around,” Chuckles said quickly, and the monk tilted his head at him, appraising him despite not being able to see him. The tingle up his spine increased.

“Well, I’m certain we can come up with something.” He paused, his gaze seeming to soften. “You certainly sound weary, Chuckles. Might I offer you some respite in our temple?”

“We’re not religious,” Chuckles replied. “I wouldn’t want to…uh…intrude.”

Chirrut grinned. “Our temple is open to all, my friend.”

“And what sort of temple is this?”

“The Temple of the Kyber.”

Chuckles heard Arni gasp next to him, and he tilted his head down to look at the youngling with a questioning look. Arni’s eyes darted from the monk to Chuckles before they spoke quietly. “Kyber crystals are what we-I-I mean…the Jedi use in their lightsabers.”

“The young one is well studied,” Chirrut said gently, his smile widening. “We study the will of the Force and do our best to interpret it. It’s not an easy task.”

“Is that allowed still?” Chuckles asked. “Since the Jedi were traitors to the Republic?” he tried to keep his voice neutral, but just saying the words almost made his stomach revolt.

The monk gave him a knowing look. “The Empire has not stopped our practice as of yet. They have barely even left forces to patrol, but we’re hardly causing as many problems for them as some of our neighboring worlds. We are not warriors or even Force sensitive, at least not in the same ways that the Jedi were, so I think they consider us less of a threat. For now.” He squatted down again, turning his head back and forth as if he could see the younglings. Chuckles slipped his hands protectively over their shoulders. “Not all of us are blessed to possess such gifts as the Jedi,” the monk said quietly, extending his hands out to Arni and Nita. In each palm, he held a small jogan candy that he had seemingly pulled out of thin air. The two kids looked up at Chuckles, asking wordlessly for permission. Chirrut’s eyes tilted up to meet his gaze. “I mean you and the younglings no harm, Chuckles. Only to ensure your safe passage and sanctuary should you require it.”

Chuckles didn’t respond, instead nodding at the two children. They both stepped forward, taking the candy from Chirrut’s hands and mumbling their thanks. He smiled at both of them before standing. “Why don’t you come with me? Only for a little while so that you may rest while we see what we can do about getting you those supplies,” he said. Sensing Chuckles’s hesitation, he stepped forward so that no one else would hear his words. “You’ll be safe here tonight. You have my word.”

Glancing down at the two younglings watching him intently, Chuckles could see the wear of the journey on their faces. He considered it for another few seconds, his eyes darting to the monk’s face one more time.

There are so few we can trust right now, but he seems to be one of them. And Maker knows, we need someone like that.

His fingers drifted away from the scarf around his neck, letting it rest below his chin and leaving his face exposed. “Alright.”

Chirrut grinned before reaching down and taking Nita’s hand. “Excellent. Come with me.” As they passed through the square, Arni paused, turning to look at the crowd that was gathering near a fountain at the far end.

“What’s going on over there?”

“Would you like to see?” Chirrut asked. Arni nodded, and somehow, the monk seemed to know, turning and leading them towards where the crowd had gathered. As they approached, Chuckles could see a soft, flickering light being reflected on the sandstone wall. The crowd was ebbing and flowing, some people arriving as others left. A rather large group departed at once, and Chuckles could see through the gap that they left that the fountain was lined with small candles that were flickering in the evening light. A human woman dressed in similar garb to Chirrut was handing out candles to people, lighting them for them, and speaking to them before guiding them towards the fountain.

“What is this, Chirrut?” Chuckles asked quietly.

“A memorial to honor those lost in the war.”

“Isn’t this dangerous?” the clone pilot asked under his breath.

“Those that come do not leave specific messages. The candle is the only evidence of their presence. We hope that remembering those that we lost will help ease their passing and our progression without them. It’s a humble memorial, but it’s better than nothing.” Looking down, the monk addressed the two younglings. “Would you like to light a candle?” Arni and Nita both nodded. Chirrut carefully took Nita’s hand, guiding her towards the other monk, who smiled down at her, handing her a candle and lighting it for her. “May you find what you seek and honor those you love as they take their place in the Force,” she said quietly. Nita nodded at her and waited patiently as Arni received a candle as well. Arni looked back at Chuckles, who gave them a reassuring smile. Taking that as permission, Arni led Nita to the fountain, and the two of them knelt down, placing their candles. Nita clutched her doll to her chest as Arni slipped their hand into her unoccupied one.

Remembrance by @ninjigma

Chirrut stood back with Chuckles watching them. “It saddens me that those so young have experienced such loss, but I sense they also have gained something in having you in their lives, Chuckles.”

Chuckles huffed. “Hardly. I have no idea what I’m doing.” He lowered his voice. “And somehow, I think you know what they see every time they look at my face.”

Chirrut hummed quietly. “There are many faces like yours Chuckles, and yet none at all. I doubt they see you in that way.”

“I hope not.”

They stood in silence for a few moments before Chuckles broke the silence. “So is this memorial for Republic soldiers that enlisted? I doubt anyone’s here mourning clones.”

Chirrut shrugged, resting his hands on the butt of his walking stick. “We do not ask who they come to mourn or what side they were on.”

“Some were on the wrong side though,” Chuckles muttered. “Killing innocents and terrorizing the galaxy.” He huffed. “I suppose none of it matters now anyway. It was all for nothing.”

Chirrut turned to him with a sad smile. “Everyone thinks they’re on the right side in a war, that their reasoning is the most righteous. Even if they’re wrong, their lives mean something to someone, and that’s why people come here. To mourn, to speak with their loved ones, to seek guidance in some cases. Which are you, Chuckles?”

The question took Chuckles aback. “I suppose a little of everything,” he replied after a few moments. “I mourn my brothers that I lost throughout the war, the ones that were forced to turn against the ones they served with. And now, with the galaxy in the state it is, I’d love for someone to point me in the right direction.” He turned to look at the monk. “You wouldn’t happen to have any of that sort of advice, would you, Preacher?”

Chirrut chuckled quietly. “I’m afraid there’s no advice I can give to set you on a specific path, my friend. You are correct that everything is shifting right now. It’s apparent in the Force to those that study it, but such is life, to always be in flux.”

“It feels more like a bomb went off and everyone’s ears are still ringing,” Chuckles muttered.

“So we all get through it together,” Chirrut replied, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “You’re a soldier. What would you do in such a scenario?”

Chuckles thought for a moment. “Search for survivors. Take stock of the situation. Determine the best path forward for everyone, prioritizing those most vulnerable.”

“I’d say that’s a widely applicable strategy.”

The clone pondered what he said, his eyes resting back on the two younglings kneeling before the fountain. “Maybe. But they’re so…I don’t know. Fragile? No, that’s not the right word.”

“You feel an obligation to them,” Chirrut offered.

“I do. They weren’t meant to fight in the war, and yet it found its way to them. And now, they…they’re not safe. And I don’t know how to keep them from harm.”

“You’re already doing it. They’re here rather than among the dead on Coruscant.”

Chuckles looked at him again, but the monk was watching the two younglings, the candlelight reflecting off of his milky irises.

“Would they be safe here?” Chuckles asked quietly. “If they were to stay in the temple? It’s not…it’s not the same, but it’d be a place where they’d be closer to their own people.”

Chirrut sighed heavily. “As much as I wish I could tell you they would be, I don’t think it’s true. The Empire hasn’t reached into our temple yet, but I have to believe it’s only a matter of time. Once the more resistant worlds are subjugated, I imagine we’ll have more stormtroopers on our streets. And we’re not their people.” He turned, poking a finger in the middle of Chuck’s chest. “You are.”

“I’m…I’m just a pilot.”

“You’re their pilot. I can feel the way they look to you for guidance and the way you care for them. Right now, those relationships should be treasured above everything, similarities be damned.” He smiled, turning back to the younglings. “No, I think they’ve found their people, Chuckles, and so have you. They’re your family, and you know what’s best for them, whether you believe that or not.”

Chuckles sighed, his eyes drifting back to the kids. “I guess I’ll just have to figure it out then.”

“One step at a time,” the monk replied quietly. Chuckles’s head snapped up at the repeated phrase, but Chirrut didn’t meet his gaze. “Would you like to light a candle, my friend? I’m sure you have plenty to speak to.”

Chuckles watched Arni and Nita rise together, bowing their heads as the candlelight illuminated their silhouettes. “No, I talk to those I’ve lost plenty. But I think the two of them needed this. So thank you.”

The monk bowed his head as Nita and Arni returned to them.

“Chirrut.”

Chuckles turned to find a man standing behind him. He was a few inches shorter than Chuckles, but the armor he wore over his black and red garments combined with how he carried himself made him seem larger and more imposing. Despite wearing garb similar to Chirrut and the other monks, it was clear that he was different in how he observed his beliefs. His face was scarred and his long, dark hair hung loosely about his shoulders with braids interspersed throughout. His beard was beginning to grey, but his dark eyes gave no hint of his age, piercing and sharp as they took in Chuckles. He brandished a massive weapon that was connected to a large canister on his back. Must be a repeater cannon of some sorts. Never seen one of those up close before.

The man glanced at Chuckles before addressing the monk again. “A new ship of refugees just arrived on the outskirts of town. There’s a few dozen. They’re looking for shelter for the evening. Can we house them?”

Chirrut nodded. “We should be able to accommodate that many.”

“I thought you said you weren’t warriors,” Chuckles said, staring at the large man. Chirrut laughed.

“Baze is a warrior so that the rest of us don’t have to be. Trust me, he only looks scary.”

“Someone has to look scary enough to keep you out of trouble,” Baze replied gruffly. “Besides, the weapon is more for refugee escorts right now. You’d be surprised how many are looking to take advantage of those that have been displaced.” Looking down, he nodded at both children. Arni was staring at the gun he was brandishing, their fingers twitching at their side eagerly as their eyes practically glowed with interest.

“What kind of gun is that?” the Twi’lek asked.

Baze’s eyebrow rocketed up, and he stepped forward towards Arni, holding the weapon out for them to get a better look. “MWC-35c repeating cannon,” he replied.

Arni leaned forward, inspecting the barrel. “I’ve never seen a weapon like this before.”

“I’d certainly hope not,” Baze said. “It’s not a thing that should be around children.”

Chirrut gently placed a hand on Baze’s arm. “I suspect our friends here have seen more than they should in general.”

Baze paused, his eyes finally focusing on Chuckles’s face. The tingle in Chuckles’s spine returned as the man studied his features, his eyes darting across Chuckles’s face before widening slightly in recognition. Chuck resisted the urge to turn away, instead jutting his chin out defiantly.

“I suspect you’re right,” Baze agreed quietly after a few moments. “Far too much.”

“Our friends are looking to re-supply after they rest a while. Once we get the refugees settled in and they’ve had time to rest, do you think you can escort them to the market district and ensure they get what they need?” Chirrut asked.

Baze glanced at Chuckles again before nodding. “I will.”

The clone nodded gratefully. “I don’t suppose either of you know how refugees might get some of those chain codes that I keep hearing so much about. Seems that you need them to do anything right now.”

The larger monk looked at his blind counterpart, some sort of warning in his gaze that Chirrut, whether due to his lack of sight or just out of habit chose to disregard. “We can help with that. I suspect it might be hard for someone with your face to get one without having problems.”

Chuckles rubbed the back of his neck, ducking his head. “I don’t want to cause you any additional trouble. You and I know just speaking with us is dangerous right now.”

Chirrut leaned forward, a wide grin spreading across his features. “In my experience, sometimes, trouble is worth getting into.” He reached over, slapping Baze on his shoulder bell. “Plus, I have the muscle to back me up when I get in over my head.”

Baze huffed an exasperated sigh. “One day, I’m going to leave and then you’ll really be in trouble.”

Chirrut turned on his heel, reaching down for Arni’s hand. “Well then I’d better take advantage of having you around while I can. Come on, let’s head to the temple.” He glanced back at Chuckles. “You may want to cover your face again while you’re there. None of the monks would report you, but I cannot speak for all of the refugees that might be staying with us.”

Chuckles nodded, pulling the scarf back up over the bottom of his face before leaning down to scoop up Nita. She wrapped her arms around his neck, still clutching her clone trooper doll tightly.

“You like that doll, huh?” Chuckles asked.

“Can we paint him pink and grey like your armor?” she whispered, and Chuckles huffed a laugh.

“If we can find some paints, then yeah, I suppose we can.” Nita wriggled excitedly.

As they stepped past Baze, the little Pantoran smiled at the larger monk from her perch against Chuckles’s shoulder. “I like your braids.”

“And I like your buns.”

She smiled wider. “Thanks! Arni and Chuckles helped me do them!”

Baze raised an eyebrow skeptically at that, but said nothing as he fell into step next to the two of them.

I really gotta get Arni to teach me how to do the buns, Chuckles thought as they followed the two monks.

Tag List: @seriowan @rosmariner @misogirl828 @ellichonkasaurusrex @zoeykallus @the-sith-in-the-sky-with-diamond @moonstrider9904 @partoftheeternalsoul

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wordstrings · 3 years

Text

Cross-Examination

Critical Role (Vox Machina) – if the beginnings of the Briarwood confrontation in C1E24/25 had gone slightly differently…

Words: 2,000. Warnings: interrogation, dubcon/noncon tickling. Prompted and ruthlessly encouraged by the likes of @spritewrites, @sapphicquill, and others of the critickle gang in the spirit of spooky scaries and such.

(Tickletober day 28: trapped)

—

“You look… delicious.”

Lord Briarwood’s deep voice curls into Vax’s ear like a prowling cat. Something like sharp claws pricks at the edge of his consciousness, asking to be let in. Vax shakes it off with a mental shudder.

“I’m– I’m really not supposed to be in the rooms while the guests are here,” Vax says, still trying to lean into his lie. Like a mime, if he gestures hitting a wall enough times, it’ll appear real. And he’s been around enough bad characters to know when he really, really needs that wall to be solid. “I only needed to check that the windows–”

“I’m much more interested in who you are than who you aren’t,” Lady Delilah Briarwood articulates as she steps forward into his space. Her eyes are hooded with alluring interest, beauty disguising lethal venom.

Vax tries to backpedal further, but Sylas Briarwood is right behind him, with worryingly strong hands on his shoulders. That dark, bassy voice slips along the shell of his ear again:

“We’d hate for you to leave us in ignorance. We insist that you stay and tell us about yourself.”

“Everything about yourself,” Delilah says. She lays a delicate few fingertips on Vax’s cheek. They’re tipped with elegant long nails the color of cooling blood. “Starting with whether you perhaps have a twin?”

Vax chills at the mention of his sister from the mouth of this cold, beautiful woman – until he realizes she means the dinner guests, the way Percy had been disguised into Vax’s likeness. Still, not much better. The lies will clearly fall flat from here on out. Well then. This is the part where the mime goes still.

When his silence stretches past another beat, Delilah’s fingers drift from a caress to an ominous hold on his jaw.

“I offer you this one, single warning,” she says, then hisses a phrase he doesn’t understand.

The room goes black.

Not just the blackness of cut light, but a preternatural blackness Vax can feel weighing over his sight.

He’s blind.

“Now,” Delilah says lowly, “who... are... you?”

There’s breath on his neck, a pulse of air as Sylas inhales his scent, a brush of nose against the edge of his ear – and Vax mewls a helplessly high-pitched sound at the sensation that strums on his taut nerves.

Delilah hums in interest. Her hand takes up its caress again, this time down the side of his throat.

Vax’s recoil is instinctual; his twist to slip out from between them in a disengagement is practiced skill.

Shit, Sylas is strong. And abnormally fast.

The blindness fetters Vax’s reactions and he fails to wrench away when Sylas seizes his wrists and hauls him in a direction Vax knows is away from the door. He’s dragged deeper into the den of these two sleek predators who, he’s now realizing, he drastically underestimated.

He’s not getting out of this. Not on his own.

“Jenga,” he whispers urgently.

Hope is a robust shield; he’ll lean on its strength as heavily as he needs to until the help comes. Meanwhile, he’s being torqued off-balance and pulled by incredible force and something is winding tightly around his wrists. His arms suddenly get yanked upwards instead of being pinned to his body. He might be disoriented and disadvantaged in his private darkness, but he capitalizes on the momentum and swings his legs as he pulls against the upward resistance. The kick whiffs off the side of whatever is in front of him, harmless. He hears Sylas tut in disapproval.

“One warning was given. Darling?”

Delilah’s voice murmurs again, and Vax’s body begins to seize up. He’s got a sudden choice between fighting off the panic or the spell effect; he chooses the spell, but it grabs at him with just as much force as Sylas had, and the panic only heightens as his focus slips and his limbs go numb. He droops unwillingly limp from the high-hoisted point of his bound wrists.

“Much better,” Delilah croons.

Her hands are back on his face. He wants to bite them. He wants to run. He–

Fingernails trace the shape of his ears, from point to lobe, and Vax titters involuntarily.

“Who are you?” Delilah asks again, sweetly this time. “Are you working with that pest Assum?”

Holy hell, she’s tickling, the kind that makes him shudder horribly and shake his head away but fuck, he can’t actually move… And he can’t speak, either, he discovers, as he tries to blindly spit a curse into her face. He can gurgle his way through something like laughter, though. Which he does. Humiliatingly.

Delilah acknowledges his struggle with a condescending coo. “The paralysis will wear off in a moment, kitten. I suggest you use this time to consider your answer, and how you probably shouldn’t attempt violence again. I’d prefer a civilized discussion.”

She doesn’t stop tickling his ears, though. The light scrape of her nails along the contours of his points is fucking unbearable, forcing high and unintelligible noises from his throat. He hasn’t been teased like this in ages – not since that one tipsy night with the Clasp, which… fuck, he does not need to be thinking about right now… her tongue, and his inescapable hands, and–

A deep masculine hum buzzes through the hair at his nape. It crawls straight up the primed path into the pleasure center of his brain.

Vax realizes then that the blindness is fading, as his lashes flutter over vision that may be blurred by the residual spell, or maybe by the way his body is suddenly prioritizing functions other than eyesight.

Sylas is pressing up behind him, svelte and studying. He brushes Vax’s long hair from where it’s trapped between neck and upstretched shoulder, and Vax can’t tip his head to allow – disallow, disallow! – further access. Fuck.

Allowance or not, Sylas nuzzles in from behind, whiffing indulgent drags off Vax’s skin. He reaches around the front of Vax’s chest and unclasps his cloak. It falls from his shoulders, baring the crook of his neck – then Sylas’ mouth is there, holy shit–!

It feels… sharp.

Two knife points scrape the spot that makes his knees wobble (though they’re already liquid, along with the rest of his listless joints). It sends explosive bursts of tingles down his spine. Vax would be shivering, if he could.

It’s much too late when his addled senses recognize this is a threat.

“Do tell us what you intended by following us,” Sylas purrs, “and I might even let you enjoy it before you drain empty.”

The reality of this peril snaps back into place. Vax is strung up with two very dangerous people who have every advantage on him, whether spells or strength or speed. And at least one of them is… gods, is a vampire scenting his blood.

Vax is fucked. And not in the fun way.

(Well, they are two very attractive dangerous people…)

Delilah is looking at him with dark, expectant eyes. “My love asked you a question. And you’re able to answer now, I believe.”

Vax fumbles through consciously putting weight on his legs again instead of dangling listlessly from the rafters. It’s mortifying that he’s not really sure how long it’s been since he could have done that unprompted. But he stands. And he says nothing.

He leans on hope.

Delilah sighs. Vax stiffens when her hands go to his belt. Sylas follows suit – but the buckles he works are the ones along Vax’s sides holding his leather armor together.

Vax’s breath shortens. This is a wildly confusing interrogation.

It’s cold when the hardened panels fall away from his front and back, leaving his tunic the only thing covering his vulnerable torso.

“Who are you, little cub?” Delilah asks for the third time.

She slides her hands up under his tunic. She tips her head curiously to one side. And she begins tickling his stretched ribcage.

Vax folds. Or, he would, but his arms go nowhere and his knees collapse again. He squeals with sudden, helpless laughter. He’s a cat toy, twisting on the end of a string for their amusement. It sends a thrill – of fright? of titillation? – through his body. Delilah is elegant and polished before him. Sylas is magnetic and powerful behind him.

Sylas’s hands are skimming around his flanks to his belly now.

And they’re cold. Vax gasps and rocks backward in a reflexive attempt to escape them. Those fingertips drag the chill of the undead along his blush-warm skin, which only makes the sensation exponentially worse when Sylas starts spidering them low across his abdomen.

“I don’t usually play with my food,” Sylas murmurs at his ear. “But your worry and want are a delectable blend, and these sounds of yours…”

Sylas is firm as a wall against Vax’s back; there’s nowhere to go but into him, whether body or hands. Delilah slips further up Vax’s ribs until she’s dancing her nails in his wide-open underarms. Vax cackles afresh, squirming violently under the twofold tickling on his belly and armpits, from hind and front, delicate and seductive and wicked.

“Were those your friends at dinner? What do they know of us?”

“Are you working alone?”

“Tell us who you are.”

A pointed tooth nibbles the edge of his ear and Vax kicks out with a convulsive cry of laughter. “Brant, no,” he shrieks before his conscious mind catches up. No, wait, this isn’t–

“Oh, with the kicking again,” Delilah sighs. Her hands abandon his armpits for a moment while she reaches for a pouch on her hip. The reprieve is short-lived, as Vax recognizes her muttered words just as his body begins locking up again.

“No, no,” he cries out in panic, but a cold finger wriggles into his navel and dissolves any resistance he could have mustered. His eruptive laugh chokes into a burbling stutter of sound as his muscles go leaden once more.

Delilah smiles sweetly at him. She directs to Sylas, “I tire of his resistance. I think your skill is required, my dear. Care to dance with me?”

She holds her arms forward. Sylas’ large hands stroke their way off Vax’s form and reach for her. Vax plays the part of a frozen spindle that the two of them pivot around, their arms encircling his body. He can’t turn his head to watch Delilah rounding to his back, but Sylas’ imposing figure is more than enough distraction coming around front.

Oh god, his eyes. They’re dark, and heated, and unbearably inviting.

“Don’t you want to be good for us?” Sylas asks, deeply, enticingly.

Cat-claws knead alluringly at the back of Vax’s mind again. A helpless yes forms in his throat in response to the calling desire for them to take him apart and carefully reassemble him before doing it all over again… But no, he can’t, he mustn’t! He mentally pushes the temptation away, as painful as that is.

Sylas’ eyes harden.

The encircling arms release each other. Four brutal, tickling hands assault Vax’s incapacitated body. They’re under his shirt, up in his armpits, clawing his ribs and scritching his stomach. A gurgling wail is all Vax can respond with. It’s terrible and thrilling to be so powerless beneath this tickle-torture onslaught.

It doesn’t stop this time when the prickling claws reach for his mind again. Vax’s vision is blurred with tears but Sylas’ eyes burn into him just as intensely. …No! He can’t look away, and it takes everything he has, but no!

Delilah’s nails are lithe and insufferable, but no!

Sylas’ teeth are gentle and nibbling, but no!

Movement suddenly comes to him again as Delilah’s spell wanes. Vax slams his eyes shut against Sylas’ charm and writhes his body under their hands, but nothing gets more tolerable. He shrieks with loosed laughter, weakened and defenseless. His will won’t hold out forever.

But he leans on hope.

#tickletober2021 #samstickletober2021 #tickling #tickle fic #Critical Role #Vox Machina #Vax'ildan #Delilah Briarwood #Sylas Briarwood #ticklish!Vax #stringswork

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whatanoof · 3 years

Text

Of Angels and Promises

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Boba Fett x Reader

Word Count: ~12.2k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stop struggling immediately, “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m assuming that you know how to.”

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

“My armor.”

“What color is it?”

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You got your armor back.”

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

“Watch it angel--”

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

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

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

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

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

“I wasn’t the one getting executed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No violence?”

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

“Steep price.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know your name either.”

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

He considers it briefly, “First names only.”

You grin. That’ll do nicely. “Deal.”

“Boba.”

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

---

“Why are you back?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ang--”

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

“Do you want me to be?”

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

“Angel--”

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

“Why are you so angry, angel?”

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

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

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

“What do you know of Jango Fett?”

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

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

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

“But he kept you anyway.”

You shrug, “He lived by a code.”

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

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

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

“You could have!”

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fett! Boba Fett!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now Boba responds, “I don’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

“You broke your promise that last day.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Up.”

You blink, “Excuse me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“--I’d rather taste you first.”

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

Taglist: @alliterative-albatross

#boba fett #boba fett x reader #smut #fluff #violence #daddy boba #could rail me anyday and I would THANK him #sir #just a crumb of cock please

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