Archive of Our Own

He gets you with the whipcord, the corded wire wrapping right around your shins. He'd timed it just right, a buzz of satisfaction (and relief) coursing through him as you tumble— Shrieking with something halfway between terror and joy— into a bed of soft moss and velvety flowers. He never wants to harm you, never wants even a scratch to mar your flesh, least of all the luscious skin of your inviting, bare legs...

Boba recognizes he isn't fully paying attention, one of his shoulders clipping a tree as he approaches his snared "bounty". His vambrace clanks loudly against his armored torso, his pauldron catching just enough on the bark. He grunts, stumbling slightly as he frees himself, a curse passing his lips. If this were any normal hunt, he'd be reduced to a laughingstock of a bounty hunter. And dead, too.

Too clumsy, too loud...

Boba is pulled from his thoughts at the sound of your bright, lilting giggles. Even though he has you on the ground, bound by a cord you have no chance at untying, you still laugh at him. When his visored stare finds your face, there's something wild and untamed in your dewy eyes. He can practically see how hot your skin is, and Boba wants to lick down the length of your neck, suck on the flushed skin of your chest...

"Nice job, Mando." You jibe, shrieking again when he lunges for you, having regained his footing and crossing the short distance to you in milliseconds. Boba is on you like a fly to honey, straddling your legs he's caught between his thighs, his armored knees digging into the soil. You squirm, hands sporadic as you push at him in a half-hearted attempt to get him off. Boba merely catches your wrists, though it does take him a few tries. The thought of incapacitating you with binders crosses his mind, but he truly doesn't think he's sober enough to get them to work.

But the bounty hunter is sober enough to do the next best thing.

"Caught you." Boba croons, voice staticky from the modulator in his buy'ce. To your credit, it had taken him longer than expected to catch up to you; apparently a few drinks made you oddly quicker. Boba decides to let the simmering remnants of alcohol and adrenaline in his veins cloud his judgment for a brief moment. He ruts you like a dog, your laughter choking into whiny, breathy moans he wants to hear more of— But he stops, despite his aching cock beneath his codpiece.

Five thrusts, that's all he gives you. You're his little prey, and he won't give you what you want too soon, even if the desire is really strong. Boba forces himself to not think about your tight, hot little cunt too much either...

"T-Take your helmet off, Boba." You whine, grabbing at him like he's your lifeline. Your fingers grip at his sleeves, tugging the gray fabric in that sweet, desperate way he loves so much. Boba bristles, shaking off your hold and you practically sob, back arching as you try and undulate your hips against him. He presses a single palm down on the soft curve of your lower belly, stilling your movements. His thumb is low enough to feel the heat from your cunt and the wetness that has soaked your panties.

Boba groans, cursing again— Mostly at himself for starting the hunt when you didn't even have pants on. He'd almost ordered you to put on a skirt, but the tihaar did most of the decision making, and it made the concept of a half-naked woman running through the wilderness incredibly sexy. That, and your pussy always looks good in a pair of dainty lace underwear... No hiding that fat cunt with mere threads. Boba breathes deep.

Kark it all, he can also smell it.

"What was that?" Boba seethes, ignoring the throb of need that twitches his cock, and grabbing the collar of your shirt. His grip is tight as iron binds, nearly suffocating as he gathers the soft, wispy material in his fist. You whimper when the bounty hunters hauls up your upper half, your arms dangling limp at your sides. Boba gives you an impatient shake, the motion springing you into enough action to grab at his wrists, "Don't make me ask twice, girl."

"Mm... Boba, please—" You yelp when he shakes you again, this time ripping your shirt and freeing your breasts. Immediately, Boba's hand finds one of your tits and palms the ample flesh until your nipple is hard. You writhe, pressing against his pushing, head lolling back between your shoulder blades. Boba traps the stiff peak between his fingers, tweaking it more harshly than he usually would.

Boba releases your frayed collar, letting you fall back into the soft earth. Your chest rises and falls, and he doesn't need the UI in his helmet to tell him your heart is fluttering like a trapped senaar. He eyes your heaving bosom, licking his lips and trying to stave off images of sucking on your pert nipples until you come undone beneath him. Boba shifts, his other hand moving from your belly to glide up your side, squeezing your plush fat. His gloved fingers leave marks where he gropes, and by the gods, you don't even notice.

"Watch your next words close." Boba leans in until he's sure you can see your reflection in the dark glass of his visor, putting on his I-mean-business voice— Something he knows you love. He smirks when you shiver, gasping and moaning as if he'd thrust two fingers into your core. Your stare is glassy, lips wet and face hot and flushed, your breaths coming out shaky and barely contained. Fear flashes in your eyes, immediately brushed away by a dopey, soft look of desire and adoration.

Boba bites back another groan, his kneading hands stiffening. You're too expressive for your own good, too soft and sweet, and Boba is too tipsy to steel himself against your charms. Dank farrik.

"Boba..." You sob his name— Not the title you're supposed to call him during this game— and Boba finally wonders if you may be too far gone. Alcohol loosens your inhibitions quite well, hence your eagerness to play chase, but it's always been a fine line between just enough and too much; He'd never take you if you'd crossed that line.

"What's our word, cyar'ika?" Boba asks, voice uncharacteristically quiet as you push yourself up, hands gripping the crooks of his elbows. You begin to kiss where you can reach, craning your neck to brush your lips on his biceps, the hard, cool planes of his beskar, trying to travel higher and higher. Boba grabs the back of your head, gloved fingers lacing in your hair, and stilling you. He says your name in warning, needing an answer, "Cyar'ika..."

"Sarlacc." You reply neatly, barely audible and eyes half-closed. Boba hums, releasing your hair and letting you kiss and rub on him like a working girl. You continue leaving delicate pecks all over him, paying special attention to each ding in his chest plate, gliding your lips over them as you would the scars on his skin. You look up at him like he's near-divine, your hooded stare reverent. Boba pulls you in close, the vambrace of his arm digging into your back as he does.

"Are you using our word?" He rasps, and if you hadn't been able to answer or given him any indication of being too drunk, he'd scoop you up and carry you back to Slave I.

"No." You pout, expression surprisingly clear when you meet his gaze, and slipping your smooth arms around his neck like a scarf made of the finest Nabooian silk. Boba could cum on the spot. Usually, you're able to keep yourself in the headspace quite well, but perhaps the alcohol has loosened your resolve. Not that he's complaining: He has his riduur writhing and needy and all sweet in his arms, his perfect, soft little riduur.

"Just want you." You confess in a sigh, burrowing your face beneath his chin. You pepper the lip of his helmet with tiny Loth kitten kisses, very obviously trying to nudge your nose past the airlock seal, "Jus' wanna kiss you."

The tone of your voice is so honest, so heartfelt, Boba's heart practically stops. The air in his lungs catches deep in his chest, and he blames it all— the warmth in his chest, the dizzy, weak feeling in his mind— on the alcohol. Boba vows never to drink again. He can't let himself feel this way.

"Okay." He cedes. He always does. How can he say no to you? Stars, by the time he's forty, he'll be soft enough to eat. Boba swallows, voice husky, "As you wish."

Boba Fett tosses his helmet aside.