#Fortuna strikes again

[omorinintendoswitchedition]

hi this is the post where i talk about ghostgil and ghost dante from these posts. buckle up cause theres a lot.

Ghost Vergil (No Dante)

-timeline flows along as normal. Vergil falls into hell, gets his shit rocked by Mundus, becomes Nelo Angelo, Dante fights him, except in this timeline Vergil ends up dying for real this time, so he becomes a ghost who wanders around hell in search for his precious Yamato

-his main weapon becomes Mirage Edge/his summoned swords during this time period

-his ghost takes the form of his devil trigger. this will be thematically important.

-eventually is able to escape hell and begins looking for Yamato in the Human World

-this leads him to Fortuna and eventually Nero

-Vergil feels like he is somehow connected to this kid, but since he is a stupid dumbass doesn’t even consider that Nero is his kid

-Vergil voice wow I wonder why this kid who has white hair and a demonic arm feels like someone I am connected to. I better stalk him to find out why

-For months when Nero is out alone he’ll catch a glimpse of a blue shadowy figure behind him, but when he turns around its gone. Doesn’t tell anyone about this and he thinks he’s going crazy

-The events of dmc4 happen. Dante shows up kills Sanctus and Nero is forced to chase after him, only this time when he is alone outside the city there is a certain blue shadowy figure following him

-Mitis Forest ‘what the hell is this?’ cutscene has Dante drop down into the woods below before ghost Vergil tears him apart with his teeth and hands. Its the first time Nero can actually get a good look at his stalker before it disappears again.

-Game continues on as normal up until Agnus’s lab, where Vergil finally finds his precious Yamato. He’s devastated to see it still broken and then Nero activates his devil trigger and fixes it.

-Vergil sees the potential for great power in this kid and this is the moment the possession begins

-It doesn’t start doppelgänger style at first, it starts as Vergil straight up taking control of Nero’s body. in DMC5 it’ll evolve into more of a doppelgänger style

-After defeating the demons/escaping the lab Nero finally frees himself from mind control. and now he has even more questions for The Order

-The Credo boss fight would be even more of a disaster because not only does Kyrie find out hes a demon Vergil will also take back control to win against Credo, which will make her even more afraid of Nero.

-So yeah the Nero and Vergil dynamic starts off even rockier than in canon

-Dante boss fight would change too. Dante knows that Vergil is the one controlling the kid, he knows what his brother acts, looks and sounds like. Nero is possessed the entire fight against Dante cause yknow. Its Dante’s fault he’s dead in the first place.

-Game proceeds on to the Saviour fight, and the scene where Nero is getting absorbed into the Saviour is where Vergil looses his shit. He is not getting imprisoned inside of a demon again, not to mention Yamato was taken from him. Vergil escapes Nero’s body and attacks Sanctus, stealing Yamato back and running off.

-Dante chases down his brother cause he needs Yamato to defeat the Saviour. Dante vs Vergil fight again.

-Dante wins and strikes a deal with Vergil. You can keep Yamato but you gotta help out. Vergil agrees.

-brotherly somewhat bonding in this situation

-Vergil would definitely try to possess his brother but Dante fends him off

-The Saviour fight would go down as a tag team between two brothers.

-Vergil is able to hit the heart of the Saviour with Yamato and free Nero. He once again possesses Nero and they go to defeat Sanctus and save Kyrie.

-An Agnus boss fight would also happen here due to there not being one in the Opera House.

-Sanctus is defeated Kyrie is saved the game ends and Nero asks if Dante wants Yamato back.

-Both Dante and Vergil will say no to this. Dante will also tell Vergil to go easy on Nero and also not to go on his little power hungry adventures

-Vergil will get himself absorbed into Nero’s Devil Bringer at the end of the game along with Yamato.

-I don’t really know how dmc5 would unfold in this timeline since Vergil caused the events of that. But I do have the idea that as the game progresses Vergil’s ghost slowly reverts back into its human form to show him becoming more in touch with humanity

Ghost Vergil and Ghost Dante

-haven’t really fleshed this one out yet as much as the just ghost Vergil.

-as stated an idea for a Dante death in this timeline is Vergil accidentally kills him during dmc3

-Mundus is still the reason Vergil dies in this timeline but this time instead of being enslaved he dies in combat. Maybe commits seppuku in order to avoud enslavement.

-another Dante death idea is have him killed by Mundus too and make it a revenge story where Nero must avenge the family he never knew

-yet another way this could unfold is they both die of old age and Nero is born wayyyy later, kind of like a legacy thing.

-maybe in the death of old age version a young Nero finds Devil Sword Dante + Yamato and thats when the possession happens for him.

Thats all I got so far. I’m very open for ideas on this so go ahead and shoot me and ask

[ghostykai]

Overlord!Kaire: Fortuna

In this version, Kaire arrived in the middle of Alastor's absence and did not know about the Hotel.

Check out other works about Kaire: Kaire info, Kaire pt. 2, oneshot 1

(My Ask Box is open! So if you want to ask anything, ask away!)

When Kaire arrives in Hell, they immediately know they are fucked if they don't find a way to get above the rest

Stealing a tarot deck from the old demon that runs the antique store was easier than they liked to admit, their giant hands coming in clutch

"Readings! Find out your Fortune for just Five bucks! Best tarot readings in all of pentagram city!"

Thus, Fortuna was born

A few months in they found that setting up near casinos was where real money was made, filled with people willing to give anything to know the winning numbers or when to bet

Soon they made a reputation and they started asking for more: "I take 5% of all your earnings" "One favour for a reading"

From a little stand to a proper store, from 5% of earning to 10%, 15%, 20%, they grew and grew until one day:

"Welcome, what can I do for you," Fortuna asked when their heard the bell at the door ring. The small room was dimly lit and filled with the smell of ash and something woody. Fortuna leaned back in their plush seat, yellow eyes seemingly glowing, rifling and shuffling through their cards.

The demon that had just walked in sat down opposite to them, eyeing Fortuna wearily, "Yer the demon that can tell the future are ya not? Ya can tell folks' secrets and shit, right?"

Fortuna smiled, leaning closer to the table, interested, "For the right price, yes," they chuckled, it weirdly echoed in the room, "I can tell you anything you want: past, present or future, known and unknown."

"Whatever ya say," the demon replied gruffly, "I got someone I gotta get rid of, competition ya might call it. Tell me how to get ahead, take em out of the game."

"Oooh I see, rivalry," Fortuna's smile spread wider, "And what are you willing to give up for this knowledge, sir?"

"Anthin ya want"

The room was now clearer, illuminated by the yellow glow of Fortuna's eyes, not only the ones on their face, other nine had appeared like a crown, floating around their head. The demon gulped at the sight, the eyes seemingly all laughing down at him.

"Anything?" Fortuna asked in a sing song voice.

"Yes, anythin, I want that fucker gone!"

"What about..." In the blink of an eye (or 9) Fortuna was gone. The demon all but shrieked when he felt a hand on his shoulder, "your soul"

He turned but Fortuna wasn't there, once again sitting at their usual place, playing around with their cards, smile as big as it had ever been.

That was the first soul. The demon did in fact beat his enemy, but at what cost

After that, striking deals for soul became much more usual as word spread of just how good Fortuna's divinations were

Fortuna didn't really know when they became an overlord, but one time as they were strolling around the city, they heard people whisper: "The Fortune demon" "the overlord of fate"

Obviously, due to their occupation Fortuna did know a lot about Hell, but not many details about the other Overlords, they really didn't care for that

Fortuna also didn't quite care about their status as an overlord, all they wanted was to be financially stable and not be bothered

Carmilla was obviously the one to reach out, calling Fortuna for a meeting that honestly was a waste of time. They discussed what Fortuna's territory is, mostly having carved out a place near the gambling houses and what they planned to do with it

The second overlord to approach them was Vox. Asking if Fortuna wished to ally with him and the other Vees. That created a tentative cooperation, mostly consisting of Fortuna saying what the next successful trends would be and the Vees offering enough money to not make Fortuna regret their decision

Fortuna doesn't really use the souls under their possession much. Here and there they may ask for a favour or some Intel one of them might have, but for the rest, they leave them be

When they find out about the Hazbin Hotel and the Radio demon Alastor, they are quick to check in with their cards

Fortuna is extremely opportunistic in this version so when they find out it's convenient for them to join the princess of Hell, it doesn't take long for them to be knocking at the Hotel door

But the rest is for another time since this is getting long. Hope ya liked it, more is coming!

[calystathebear]

The Weight We Bear

All of us carry some kind of weight, some more than others. The weight of our choices, the weight of our words, or even weight brought on by other people. There's some who choose to carry weight for others, who want to bear burdens so others don't have to, and some even succeed in that. But, the reality is, most people can't keep that up for long. I don't even think we're built to carry that weight in the first place, I think we're supposed to share it. I think Fortuna has it right, at least somewhat in that regard. Lifting together, the way it should be. But, what happens when we wind up divided? Or, when tragedy or uncertainty strikes and you're left to carry the weight on your own? Reality is, when tragedy or uncertainty strikes, you're gonna carry some weight if you make it through. And, it most likely won't be only your own. You're going to bear the weight of everyone lost, everything lost, the weight of decisions made, the sacrifices you or others had to make to get out alive... To get as many others out alive as you could. Remember Rell? You were always taught that a clear head prevails, or you at least had it pounded in to your skull over and over again. But, the thing they never tell you? Your head won't be clear in the heat of the moment. You can lie, and you can act like it, but come on: we've all been there before. You can focus on a goal, narrow down a path to that goal, and pursue it. But, don't act like your head is really clear. The panic is there, the uncertainty, the little feeling scratching at the back of your head... The feeling of, you might actually not make it this time. You might not be able to save the day. You might fail. The only clarity there will be, is when you understand reality, and when you come to terms with the lack of clarity itself. So tell me, Tenno; Drifters; whoever's listening. What did you do not to fail? What corner did you cut? What did you give up? Who did you give up? Just what did you sacrifice... Whether it be for the sake of yourself, or the others? Or, maybe you were just following orders? What weight do you carry? Do you use it to push yourself forward? Do you use it to hold yourself down? Do you use it to grow stronger? Do you use it to justify your actions? Do you use as an excuse for inaction? Or, do you just... Push it down? Further, and further... Trying to ignore it until the cracks finally start to surface? Don't worry, I won't tell anyone. But, I will tell you the weight that I carry: "It's never quite been the same since I lost you. I try and fill the void by doing what you would've wanted me to do, by being who you said I could be. But, some days... I only see red. And, I'm afraid that some day, that's all I'll ever see again. I hope that doesn't disappoint you."

[addaxus]

The next section of the timeline is up and ready. Enjoy it!

Beginning (and End) of El Brujo

1871-1877 (Age 15-21)

By the age of 15, the triplets' responsibilities considerably increase. The locals continue to dread and detest Bruno for his Gift, blaming their misfortunes on him rather than doing anything to change or prepare for it. He also struggles to live up to Alma's expectations of him. Expectations based on his mother's idealized recollection of Pedro. She hasn't told her children about the more shameful details of their lives before Encanto.

In an attempt to assist her son, Alma requests that he perform a vision for their Familia. This attempt fails when all it reveals is a future of destruction for Encanto, with an unknown spectacled girl standing in front of a broken Casita.

Alma's relationship with Bruno suffers as a result of the vision experience. He seeks sanctuary within the walls of Casita, where he creates his own private haven. There he finds camaraderie with the rats through their mutual ostracization by everyone else in Encanto.

Julieta discovers and discloses Bruno's secret hiding location to her mother out of worry for his well-being. This escalated to an argument in which Alma physically strikes Bruno before demanding that the hideaway be sealed. Bruno yells angrily at his sisters to leave, then trashes the place in a fit of rage.

Later, a minor tremor occurs, opening a small path through the mountains. Bruno, distraught and emotional, claws his way through the tunnel, the entrance falling behind him. Alma, Julieta, and Pepa soon learn Bruno has gone missing.

Bruno struggles to survive in the Wild West. His ability to predict the future turns out to be an essential survival tool in this hostile and lawless world. After a period of barely scraping by, a dejected and disheveled Bruno wanders into the declining town of Nueva Fortuna (New Fortune) where he enters a saloon owned by former mercenary and killer Clarence LeRoy. Old LeRoy takes the young Madrigal boy in.

After a few weeks of working in the saloon, Bruno gets into a fight with two cowboys, Mucci and Campbell. Mucci, who is inebriated, accuses Bruno of stealing and physically beats him, with Campbell assisting in the assault. During the altercation, Bruno inadvertently stabs Campbell in the gut, fatally wounding the cowboy, who dies a slow, agonizing death asking for his mama. The young man is obviously upset by this situation. Mucci swears vengeance before Clarence dispatches him.

Mucci returns with four other cowboys on a dark and stormy night. Clarence fights them off as best he can, but the assailants do manage to set the saloon on fire with molotov cocktails. A wounded Mucci flees to the town outhouse, where he is discovered by Bruno, who shoots him three times with the cowboys own firearm, Memento. Bruno, feeling horrible and unwilling to burden Clarence any further, leaves him, but has a sensation (vision) that they will meet again in the future.

Clarence and Bruno cross paths several times throughout the next five years. Every time, Clarence is typically in the midst of a new business endeavor. Clarence notices Bruno's decline with each meeting, which he attributes to adolescent behavior exacerbated by the harshness of the Wild West.

Simultaneously, rumor spreads about a teenage gunfighter with the devil's eyes and disposition. Even when appearing caught by surprise, he is quick on the draw. Nobody knows who he is or where he comes from. More superstitious people believe his mother was a witch who slept with the devil to conceive him. As a result, he is dubbed El Brujo (The Witch).

Pieces of information about El Brujo's deeds are carried on unnatural winds to Encanto. Alma, Julieta, and Pepa are shaken by the outlaws' fanciful but sparse accounts because they sound suspiciously similar to someone they know all too well.

Cattleman Samuel McGraw hires Clarence as a hired hand to accompany him, his wife Audrey, and their daughter May on a cross-country trip through a dangerous region. Cattle rustlers ambush the group halfway through their journey. Samuel is killed, while Old LeRoy is wounded. Bruno is revealed to be one of the rustlers. Upon seeing Clarence’s injured state, Bruno turns on his gang and executes them all with cold frightening ease before personally slaying the head rustler.

Bruno resolves to assist Clarence, Audrey, and May in completing their journey. His seemingly innate capacity to predict danger makes him crucial to their survival. Everyone is oblivious of his Gift and the suffering it brings him. He copes with his pain by occasionally sipping booze.

When they arrive at their location, Bruno invites Clarence to the bar for drinks. When Old LeRoy insists on the Madrigal lad returning home, what appears to be a typical night of companionship between them devolves into an argument. Bruno bitterly refuses and attempts to retire for the evening. Unfortunately, May, who considers Bruno responsible for her father's murder, dares him to a duel, which he accepts once she provokes him. Knowing May will not win, Clarence knocks Bruno out with a bottle of whiskey before handing him over to the law. This "betrayal" stings Bruno. Bruno escapes custody one night, killing two deputies on his way out. Clarence aims to shoot the youngster with his rifle as he rides away, but realizes he lacks the nerve to do so.

Clarence settled down as a rancher in Arizona by 1877. Sutherland, Phillips, Sheen, Mulroney, and Siemaszko, his hired workers, look up to him as a mentor figure. Rosemary, his estranged sister, brings her son Emilio Agustin Estevez Jr. to work for him in an attempt to straighten him out. Emilio Senior, the boy's father, was a jerk who left a long time ago.

El Brujo's behavior has become increasingly erratic and violent in the meantime. He's amassed a $1000 bounty on his head, attracting all manner of people eager for a quick buck.

Agustin is initially at odds with the other hired hands due to his near-sightedness and refusal to wear spectacles, messing up more than one job. The boys do eventually bond over their mutual interest in Wild West Tall Tales. When a terrible drought strikes Old LeRoy's ranch, the boys advise going after El Brujo, who is said to have departed New Mexico for Texas. Clarence quickly refuses such an undertaking upon hearing the name El Brujo, albeit he does not explain why.

The boys decide to pursue El Brujo on their own. They buy a bunch of guns (on Clarence's tab) before riding off to Texas. On the way, they choose to call themselves the Young Guns. They arrive at Perdition and spend the night drinking, boasting, and celebrating their future prosperity. An inebriated El Brujo turns up and slaughters the novice Yourng Guns, killing Sutherland, Phillips, Sheen, Mulroney, and Siemaszko with eyes flashing a horrible green. Only Agustin remains.

Clarence arrives just as El Brujo is about to execute Agustin. Their interaction reveals El Brujo is actually Bruno. Old LeRoy sees his boys dead and what the young Madrigal kid has become. Both draw on the other, with El Brujo coming out on top. Bruno, visibly distressed by what he has done, retreats into the night, leaving Agustin with Clarence, who gives some final words of wisdom as he dies.

Agustin buries his uncle and pals in Perdition. Rosemary, bereaved, disowns him. Josef Egger, the town undertaker, takes pity on the youngster and directs him to find his fresh new start somewhere around the Rio Grande. Young Estevez follows the undertaker's advice, pays his respects, and makes his way to the Rio Grande.

El Brujo vents his grief over Clarence's death elsewhere. He's hiding away among rats and empty booze bottles on a run-down ranch. Instead of acknowledging his faults and taking responsibility, El Brujo stubbornly believes the old guy never truly cared about him.

Three riders arrive at the ranch. El Brujo gears himself for a fight, but no warning vision appears. Instead, the newcomers ask to ride along with him. El Brujo implements his brutal initiation approach here, resulting in the lead gunfighter being shot by his buddies. To demonstrate their allegiance and subordination, the two remaining riders dump their fallen comrade in the ranch house before setting it ablaze. They then ride away together while the ranch burns behind them.

Agustin is led into Encanto by a golden butterfly. He’s taken aback by everything around him. So amazed, in fact, that he becomes sidetracked and has an accident, injuring his leg. Julieta heals him, displaying their magic. She offers to assist Agustin in becoming acquainted with the town, which he accepts. Alma eventually meets and talks with Agustin about his circumstances, considering the fact that he arrived alone. Agustin gives Alma the bare bones of what happened before his arrival. Hearing that the youngster has lost his uncle and friends as a result of an unlawful slaughter is enough for the Madrigal Matriarch. She greets him as a new member of the community.

[rosecreates]

God installing mods was both the best and worst decision ever because now I am sitting on 7 fucking playthroughs

Here's the list:

Nimue (Durge; High Elf; White Draconic Bloodline Sorcerer) - Romancing Astarion

Raven (Lolth-Sworn Drow; Swords College Bard) - Probably romancing Minthara

Ez'ria (Githyanki; Great Old Ones Warlock) - Romancing Lae'zel

Bea (Half-Drow; Necromancy Wizard) - Romancing Gale

Lusine (Mephistopheles Tiefling; Paladin of Selune) - Romancing Shadowheart

Fortuna (Fairy {Modded Race}; Lore College Bard) - Undecided, maybe Astarion

Elrayne (Seldarine Drow; Light Cleric of Eilistraee) - Romancing Karlach

My preference for white-haired women strikes again woops (also my preference for Elves/Elf adjacent specially Drow. 5/7 (I count Fortuna cause...Fey) of these ladies are Elven just different flavors kjfgbjkgb)

I won't make them all into OCs no matter how much I kinda wanna because handling this many would be insanity.

Besides Raven and Nimue some have a bit more defined backstory than others though.

Bea is just a goofy necromancer lady who is maybe a little bit of bimbo and also trying so hard to ignore the way everyone stares at her with suspicion all the time. Also her friends are skeletons. She has no actual friends. She's an orphan and she just went ":D here's my skeleton undead friends-" cue some woman screaming in horror and she's just confused because she just wanted to show her friends :(

Fortuna left the Feywild many years ago to become a Tymora-worshipping (because Fortuna went 'You're Lady Luck? Obv Imma worship you! I vibe with you so hard!') bard in Baldur's Gate who is living her best life and is uh. EXTREMELY pissed about being implanted with a Mind Flayer tadpole. You know how Dolly Thrice throws a fit when you don't free her? Yeah. Yeah Fortuna is basically like that.

Elrayne was born on the surface and highly sheltered in a Eilistraean enclave so she didn't really understand the reality of how Drow are viewed and what other Drow have done until she hit maybe like 50 years old and she was kidnapped and tortured for being a Drow before being rescued, which is where she got the scars she has currnely (mind you she is at least 200, I hear that its only in the last century treatment towards Drow has gotten a LITTLE better, but apparently during BG2 Viconia was literally gonna be burnt at the stake for being a Drow so UH). And later on when she went on her first undercover mission in the Underdark when she was 100 and got found out and its where her eyes were damaged and the mask she wears is basically a magic artifact that lets her see better. She's not totally blind but its really hard to see without the mask. She hasn't gone on any undercover missions since but she HAS still traversed the Underdark many times to help Drow who do want to be better. She's basically in a really bad position where she tries really hard to show others Drow aren't evil and is just trying to do good but when so many of her race give a horrible rep to them and she faces all sorts of discrimination she's having doubts in Eilistraee's goal and wondering if its really worth all the suffering as even whilst she redeems one or two Drow every so often there are thousands of other Drow. And just a few bad apples can spoil the bunch you know? And changing the surface's mind isn't easy.

[elder-dragon-93]

Headcanon Theatre: Minicanons

Hello everybody, welcome to the Hoard.

We got two headcanons for the price of one today. One that I don’t think is actually all that likely but amuses me to think about in a comedy setting, and the other is just straight up canon, no “head” about it, but also greatly amuses me.

First,

Dante and Nero Having Ideological Differences Over American vs. Italian Pizza

Now, I don’t really think this is likely, mostly because Dante strikes me as the kind of guy that loves all pizza, regardless of region, as long as it doesn’t have olives on it, and I highly doubt that Nero had ever even eaten pizza before the Fortuna Incident, and probably wouldn’t have that strong an opinion on the matter, but the idea of them getting into petty arguments over it while Vergil is off to side, voicing agreement with Nero because siding with his son over his brother is his jam, but internally being highly confused over why it matters, It just hits that ever so slightly dysfunction family dynamic niche that I love so much.

Second,

The Sparda Boys Having a Single Braincell Between Them

Again, this is just straight up canon. It’s also canon that the Braincell is usually with Nero, because Vergil can quote Blake all he likes, but he’s just as much of an idiot as Dante, and while Nero is also an idiot he’s also been gifted the loin’s share of the emotional maturity, as little as it is. And, again, this fits into the lowkey dysfunctional family dynamics.

[troutfur]

I bring Lynxkit, a mottled black and red molly with striking blue eyes flecked with amber(I think that’s how your supposed to do this)

Lynxkit's chart:

[Image ID: Under the header “What will Lynxkit’s life be like? (02/19/2023)” 16 rows of tally marks crossed out two by two until there is only 1 or 2 left uncrossed. To the left, a shield chart at the top with the following geomantic figures: Albus as the first mother, Coniunctio as the second mother, Cauda Draconis as the third mother, Amissio as the fourth mother, Fortuna Maior as the first daughter, Coniunctio as the second daughter, Via as the third daughter, Populus as the fourth daughter, Rubeus as the first niece, Rubeus as the second niece, Acquisitio as the third niece, Via as the fourth niece, Populus as the right witness, Amissio as the left witness, Amissio as the judge, and Laetitia as the sentence. Below the shield chart, an astrological house chart with the first twelve geomantic figures above mentioned assigned to houses 1 to 12 in the order mentioned above. /end ID]

Interpretation under the cut:

The judge here is Amissio, loss, usually a bad figure but considering the sentence is Laetitia, joy, it seems it will ultimately work out. Whatever it's lost, Lynxkit will be glad to have lost it. The right witness is Populus, passivity and stillness, representing she isn't a particularly active player in this whole thing, and the left witness is Amissio, giving the idea of passivity in the face of this loss.

The first figure of the house chart, Albus, suggests we've got another candidate for elder in our hands and tells us a bit more of about why their reaction to loss was inaction. In addition to being the figure of wisdom and of the old, Albus is the figure of apathy. Let's inquire into the other houses to see why that is, shall we?

In the second house, Coniunctio, communication and connections. The house of wealth and material posessions is a constant struggle for me but I've taken to associating it with food and prey when doing these randomly generated bios, so this suggests to me a pretty particular character quirk for Lynxkit: being a pretty capable negotiator, able to talk other characters into hunting her favorite types of prey in exchange for her doing the same. I don't know what exactly in her desert environment she could be really good at hunting and what food she likes so much she's willing to trade her catches for something else she might not be able to hunt for herself. But there goes an idea.

In the third house, Cauda Draconis, endings and foregone conclusions. WELP! I don't know exactly what happens between her and her littermates/close platonic relationships but this doesn't bode well for her relationships and particularly in relation too...

In the fourth house, Amissio, loss. We see this repeated from the court and while I could make this the loss the court figures refer to, killing off a parent or mentor figure and her reaction being nothing doesn't mesh for me? Like, this should be a more significant side effect. I'll put this down for an initial loss that dulls the pain of a subsequent loss. (Which may be why Cauda Draconis in the last house popped up, could she be perceived as heartless for that reaction leading to close platonic relations forsaking her...?)

In the fifth house, Fortuna Maior, independent success! Good old friend! I always love having this one in either this or the seventh house because this means an excuse to add in singles. In this case a single mother. Good for her, love me some strong independent women.

In the sixth house, Coniunctio yet again. I'm choosing to interpret this in light of the second house and say that she's a very health conscious type of gal. Cats obviously don't know much of anything about nutrition, but I like to imagine in wanting to keep a varied diet with all her food trading, she is cultivating a balanced diet. Good for her. Good for her.

In the seventh house we have Via, motion and change. This probably contributes to her singleness. She moves on fast from a partner, can't settle down, single parenthood was the best move because ultimately she couldn't stay with a single cat. Bodes for a bit of a messy love life but she doesn't strike me as the type to be too torn up about it.

In the eight house, Populus. Precisely as we knew already, the reaction of stillness towards death is related to a death. And since the narrative of SandClan has already involved many a volatile and aggressive deputy, one of which even died by her own hand, I don't see being too torn up about it. Which of couse, may alienate her from her littermates or a close platonic relationship as seen all the way back in the third house. Another factor we established as part of our narrative already is the aggressive faction of SandClan so, members of that?

In the ninth house have Rubeus, anger and uncontrolled aggression. This doesn't seem to refer to herself, really, and it is the house of long journeys. It could be considered an obstacle within a journey, though with how generally chill Lynx is shaping up to be I don't know exactly what. Unless perhaps it is just in general the journey of life in case which, Rubeus was also the significator that gave me the idea of making an aggressive faction a strong presence in SandClan...

In the tenth house, Rubeus again. This reinforces my thoughts about Lynx being in a position where people dislike how callous, even joyful, she seems to be towards a death. If figures of authority are mad at her, that is pretty notable.

In the eleventh house we have Acquisitio, gain. And yet! She is not standing alone! She will gain allies that will back up her inaction. She doesn't seem to be in bad company at all.

And in the twelfth house we have Via, change. If change is an antangonistic force this jives very well with her characterization so far as someoe steadfast, who stands her ground in the face of opposition. This will, of couse, also lead to an entrenched attitude into her old age, pointing us futher to the idea of the elder character.

Putting it all together:

Lynxkit will face loss for the first time early in her life, when a parent or mentor leaves the world for StarClan's hunting grounds. Coming to accept death early, she will take on a largely passive attitude towards life, taking what she can get. Though she is conscious of her health and delights in simple pleasures such as tasting the varieities of prey of the desert, she isn't too torn up about her time coming. Always on the move, she is unable to settle with a partner, but is successful raising kittens on her own. She is very much unfavorable to the growing aggressive faction of SandClan and as a result during one battle she lets the deputy, a figurehead of that group, die by her inaction. Her littermates, themselves sympathizers, feeling extremly betrayed, denounce her and cut her off. She remains steadfast on nothing being her fault though, and though facing anger from many, she also finds support in her stance. Ever steadfast, she carries this attitude into the elders' den, now too fragile too really fight the turn towards aggression in SandClan but still being stubborn in voicing her displeasure.

Warrior name I'm thinking Lynxpelt.

[fortuna-stella]

As all of you know by now, I've won 50-50 with Tartaglia, and 11 pulls after him, I got cons 1 Zhongli. I've won 50-50 two times in a row. So I thought, maybe I'll finally lose to the gacha and get cons 2 Qiqi, because I WANT cons 2 Qiqi. First pull in the new version, this is what I got...

I wasn't even saving up for her.... 😭

And yes, Fischl and Oz are still my main dps.

[poptartmochi]

hehehe tonight, i am thinking of Fortuna Tuna 😈

[ltwilliammowett]

The anchor as symbol

Both the ship and the anchor are full of symbolism. Here, however, it is only about the anchor, the ship itself comes when it comes to death at sea. In the concrete maritime sense, the anchor itself stands for securing life or rescue, in the figurative religious or metaphysical sense for faith and hope.

Reverse painted “Hope” locket, c. 1860 (x)

Anchors fix the floating ship at a certain point. But only those places are suitable for anchoring where the anchors are held in tension with the ship. If not in the harbour, then the ship anchors in the transition zone from land to sea, that mythical place that signifies the threshold between life and death. Here man is at the mercy of the powers of nature and the gods. Only those who have their sights set on the next anchorage can weigh anchor. The time between setting out and landing is determined by the eternal principle of hope. In antiquity, a pair of eyes averting disaster adorned the bow of the ship in place of the two main anchors. If these and the secondary anchors do not hold or are lost, then the last and heaviest anchor is set, which in antiquity was called the sacred anchor (ancora sacra). This reserve anchor was only thrown when it was a matter of life and death. In the imagination, the dolphin, man's friend, can rush to the anchor's aid, which is why the sacred anchor was also called delphis and bore inscriptions appealing to Fortuna. If sacred anchors lie at the bottom of the sea, they indicate distress or shipwreck. If the sacred anchor was thrown from above onto the enemy ship during a sea battle, this was a sign of military triumph. It was regarded as the final authority and the highest authority. Homer, in whose Iliad and Odyssey no word is used more frequently than ship, was therefore considered sacra ancora by the poets.

In religion, the anchor was regarded as a point connecting water and earth. And thus also the earthly with the supernatural. Even among the early Christians, the anchor was a frequently used symbol.

Faith, hope and charity pendant, c.1890 (x)

Often found among Protestants in the form of an anchor, cross and heart (hope, faith and charity), it became an attribute of the theological virtue of faith and of Pope Clement I, the third successor of Peter. His martyrdom was cruel: Emperor Trajan had him sunk in the Black Sea tied to an anchor. His commemoration day on 23 November is therefore also called "Anchor Day". Saint Clement is considered the patron saint of the Trinity and protector of lighthouses and lightships, while Saint Nicholas of Bari is responsible for those in distress at sea.

Hope, mezzotint with etching, 16 September 1797 (x)

The anchor is the piece that secured the ship on the high seas and is thus symbolically the last hope to which all on board clung. But this idea of hope in the form of an anchor also derives from a Bible verse that describes the feeling of hope as an anchor for the soul. And in incongraphy, this hope is a woman with an anchor in her hand. She was also the symbol for the hope of a sailor to find his way home again. Or for the loved one on land, that the Lord would bring him safely back home. However, if this did not happen and he stayed up, Hope was also worn in the early 1800s as a sign of mourning. It was to ensure that the loved one was now safely in paradise.

Since the anchor secured the ship and thus entered into a firm connection with it, the anchor is also a popular symbol of love and marriage. Anchors are also often seen in harbour towns as a symbol of security. They indicate to the sailor that he was safe here. And when disaster strikes, anchors are often placed as memorials, the last evidence of a shipwreck. If a sailor had this tattoo, it could mean three things: firstly, the bearer had hope, secondly, he crossed the Atlantic or thirdly, he belonged to the merchant navy. 

So as you can see, the anchor is more than just a device that holds a ship in place.

[polarisbibliotheque]

Hi there! I just wanna say i really love your dmc fanfics hehe! Can we have an hc where vergil's s/o is motherly towards nero?

Hello, you lovely being!! Thank you so much to take a little time to tell me how much you like my work, it always puts a smile on my face ^^

I hope you are still around to read what I've worked on! It took me some time, but this was such an entretaining idea, I have even a small scenario I'll post after this hc answered ask. I do hope you like it!!

My headcanons for Vergil's s/o acting motherly towards Nero

Ok, ok. So, Nero isn’t used to someone acting motherly towards him – even though he had an adoptive mother, given how he used to be treated in Fortuna for being different and all his Angry Kid™ antics, he saw her more like “she is the woman who was kind enough to take me in and I should have some respect” then like a loving mother figure;

That being said, he would be completely and utterly lost with Vergil’s s/o behaving like an actual mother;

Nero is going out? “Hey, kiddo, don’t forget your coat.” “Nah, that’s ok, I’m not…” “You might get sick, I’ll be worried. Humor me, please?” And there you go, Vergil’s s/o hands him the coat and Nero is there, just staring at them, with the phrase “they will worry about me” running like a headless chicken around his brain;

“Nero, when you get there, give me a call? Or at least send me a message.” “Why do you guys have to be so controlling, I can take care of myself…!” “I just want to know you got there ok, that’s all. I trust you, kiddo.” And Nero is almost thrown on the floor, crying his eyes out;

200% doesn’t know how to act when someone cares about him;

I mean, he has Kyrie and we all know that woman is an angel on Earth, sent down to cherish his angry cinnamon bun heart and make him know he is loved, but motherly love and lover love are two different things;

And even though Kyrie cares so much about him and does worry about him, Nero experiences first-hand what is like to have a feral creature ready to take someone’s head off if someone messes with their son;

“You sorry excuse of a demon, you will regret the day you thought you could lay your filthy hands on my kid.”

Cue in Nero and Vergil completely flabbergasted, not knowing if they will explode of pride, cry, scream, hug them or do all of that, exactly in that order;

Nero will get annoyed at first, though, because as I put before, he will probably mistake all that care with them not trusting his power (deadweight syndrome strikes again);

And it will take him time to notice they are doing it out of love and protection, not because they don’t believe he can take care of himself. It’s such a foreign feeling, the kid has no clue on how to react;

Read: Nero’s cheeks will get all red, the tip of his ears will tingle, he will put on that “oh, welp” smile of his and start scratching the back of his head because he won’t know what to do with his hands;

“Hmmm… Yeah… I’ll call ya, ‘kay?” He’s almost kicking nothing on the floor to have somewhere to fix his eyes on, the poor boy;

Once he gets used to it, though, expect random displays of affection – such as them kissing the top of his head while he is having breakfast or Nero kissing the top of their head before going out; them asking Nero to run errands and him coming back home all covered in blood and “Hey, are those the eggs you asked?”, things like that.

And with that, I’ll leave you with the scenario on the next post, because I went overboard with it! Hahahaha it’s such a great prompt, so I hope you like it!

Thank you so much for suggesting and for reading my works!!

[much-obliged-timothy]

Whumptober #1

Devil May Cry - #1 - Bound

*

Vergil didn’t let his emotions show on his face.

He kept himself composed, pretending like this was a normal situation. Like there was nothing at stake for him here.

Nero looked at him with those expressive eyes of his- in this case, angry and impatient. He wanted this business done with just as much as Vergil did. He was embarrassed, no doubt. Anyone in his position would be.

He probably would’ve been cursing out his captors, but the gag in his mouth kept him uncharacteristically silent. Vergil didn’t think he’d ever gone this long without hearing the boy yell at him.

But vengeful members of the Order of the Sword, or what was left of it, gripped his shoulders. He would’ve fought back, no doubt, but he was securely bound and thoroughly disarmed.

“Come on,” one, a man, said. “The kid’s life for your sword. That’s all we ask, son of Sparda.”

Vergil simply stared at him with a cold expression, making no moves to turn over his sword. The man tightened his hold on Nero and pushed him forward a little more. Nero tried to dig his knees into the ground to stop from being dragged any closer to the edge, but he failed.

He was now one or two shoves away from being thrown into the lake.

“Even one with Sparda’s blood can’t survive underwater for long,” the other one, a woman, said. “The sword. Now.”

Nero shook his head furiously, struggling against them. The man struck a blow to Nero’s head, where a cut was already bleeding alarmingly. They’d lured him in using one of the orphans they’d all but indoctrinated after the death of the child’s parents in Fortuna. Distracted by the youth, they’d been able to strike Nero in the head hard enough to knock him out and bind him.

Vergil thought it was foolish. Both that Nero had allowed himself to be caught so easily, and that his captors had bothered wasting time bragging about how exactly they’d lured him in and caught him. 

Nero suddenly jerked away from his captors. He was just about to slam into the man when the woman caught him by his hair and aimed a hard punch to his head wound. Nero swayed dangerously, kept upright only by the grip on his hair.

Something about the red blood staining Nero’s white hair made Vergil stiffen. Nero’s eyes were unfocused, and at this point Vergil wasn’t sure if it was because he was about to lose consciousness or because he was concussed from the blows. 

Those unfocused eyes struggled to find Vergil’s gaze. Nero dragged his gaze to the water and gave the faintest nod.

Even about to lose consciousness, the boy could make a terrible, reckless plan. Vergil had the inexplicable urge to smile, but he kept his expression blank. 

“Kill the boy,” he said, his voice cold. “The sword stays with me.”

“Don’t think we won’t,” the woman snarled, dragging Nero right up to the edge of the lake. From this angle, Vergil could see the cinder block they’d chained to Nero’s ankle to weigh him down with. “Last chance, son of Sparda. The sword, or the boy.”

“The sword. It’s much less of a headache,” Vergil said.

The woman glanced at her companion, who steeled himself and nodded. Doing this meant giving up their only leverage, but both seemed to realize that Vergil wasn’t budging.

“Very well. It’s about time the boy suffered his karma,” she said simply, and shoved Nero over the edge.

The moment Vergil heard the splash, he sprang into action. Damn fools; they actually thought they’d get to walk away from this.

He’d cut the man down before either had a chance to flee. The woman scrambled away, aiming a gun at him.

He jerked back as the bullet struck his shoulder, but shook it off and advanced at her. She fired again, missing this time. Vergil’s lip curled at the patheticness of humans. Couldn’t even hit a target right in front of them.

He knocked the gun from her hand and held the Yamato to her throat. “You did ask for it.”

“The b-boy,” she said, trying and failing to look stoic in her final moments. 

“Will live,” Vergil. “I will see to that myself.” He pressed the blade so a thin line of blood appeared and she shuddered. “You mentioned karma. Here’s yours for threatening my son.”

He slit her throat just as his own words registered in his mind. No time to reflect on that- Nero was in the lake.

Vergil dove into the water, swimming down as fast as he could. The water was dark and murky, but he could make out Nero’s hair. His body was just starting to sink towards the block chained to his ankle.

Vergil reached out, devil trigger power coursing through him as he snapped the chain from Nero’s ankle with a sharp twist of his hand. He caught Nero around the chest and increased the pressure of his arm as he tried to swim upwards faster.

They broke the surface and Nero coughed weakly, which was a relief. He’d seemed unconscious when Vergil had snagged him.

Vergil dragged him onto the shore and rested him on his side as he coughed up water and gasped in air. Vergil gripped his shoulder to hold him in place as sliced through the bindings, then examined the head wound. They’d have to clean that fast. No telling what kind of infection he’d get from being thrown in that filthy water.

“You’re a reckless fool,” Vergil said.

“Plan worked,” Nero said, voice hoarse. He coughed up a bit more water and swiped his hand across his mouth. “They dead?”

“Obviously,” Vergil said. He let Nero rest a bit before urging him up. “Your wound needs to be cleaned.”

Nero staggered and caught himself against Vergil’s shoulder. “Shit. Concussed. Kyrie is going to be pissed when she sees me.”

“It was a simple trap. You should’ve seen it coming,” Vergil said. 

“You’re right. Next time I’ll just shoot the helpless orphan and save myself the trouble,” Nero said. He rubbed at his arms, and Vergil realized they were badly bruised from how tight the bindings had been. “Let’s just go. You can bitch at me later. It won’t hold any effect. You just proved you don’t hate me as much as you pretend to.”

He staggered away with that, leaving Vergil to glare after him. But there was no retort he could offer, because Nero was right.

Vergil kicked the bindings at the two corpses before following Nero, speeding up a little to walk beside him. He glanced at Nero’s cut head and bruised arms and grit his teeth.

Foolish. Nero, for letting himself get captured. Vergil, for caring so much what happened to him.

They walked on in silence. But Vergil caught Nero whenever he lost his balance, careful of his bruised arms and swearing to himself to kill anyone who dared bind and threaten him like some helpless prisoner again.

[logo-comics]

Fortune Lover Spinoff: Fire Emblem-Esque turn-based strategy game where you recruit. Every. Single. Character. That has ever appeared in a DLC. (Not the different versions of the main ensemble though.)

(This one might take a lot of compiling, so I understand if you don’t want to do it.)

Due to the sheer length of this one, I put everything after the intro under the cut.

Maria Campbell, you have been chosen!

Welcome to the Time Crash! The Multiverse of Sorcier is scrambled, and, in order to restore balance, you must work alongside a counterpart of each of the nobles you normally interact with and battle and recruit allies among the various characters from the Fortune Lover Multiverse! Recruit the teams through strategic team battles to get to the big bad in this turn-based strategy game!

The Pre-Set Allies:

Flaming Sword Geordo Stuart (Fortune Lover’s Witcher’s Path DLC) - "I'm familiar with how to deal with monsters that are all too human" Trick blades have their place, and fire can harm many things. The Third Prince knows this and is one of the best to be trained at the Witcher Academy, despite his proclivity towards drawing out the deaths of certain monsters.

Combat Bard Alan Stuart (Fortune Lover’s Princess Among Commoner’s DLC) - "Above all else, always put on a good show." Training under a master bard, he is more focused on his art than combat, but make no mistakes: he is his parents’ son, and knows how to defend himself!

K'ith of Clase (Fortune Lover’s It’s Far Beyond The Stars DLC) - "I'm perfectly happy with going home to my people, but I will miss your pretty face when we part..." Heir to the noble known as the Duke of Clase in the Sorcier Star System, he is a maker of automatons and is never seen outside of his bulky power armor, as is tradition with all inhabitants of the wild lands of Clase. An incorrigible flirt, he can be useful in a situation that requires brute force or a softer touch.

Nicol Ascart: Captain Natalia Petra Campbell (Fortune Lover’s Back Again DLC) - "I miss when the strangest thing I had to deal with was an island that disappeared when the sun set" The original captain of the O Fortuna and Martin’s mentor in “Martin Campbell: Gentleman Pirate” and possessing the body of her reincarnation, she was decisive and pragmatic in battle, even in death, and provides quite the stark contrast with the quiet, stoic Nicol.

Rogue of Darkness Raphael Walt (Fortune Lover Adventures) - "This may sting a bit..." Cursed with the spirit of a dark mage bound to his soul, he is able to cause psychic damage to enemy spellcasters in combat.

Quartermaster Sophia (Fortune Lover’s Lost Sorcier DLC) - “Provisions are as follows...” The logistical mind of a Quartermaster, she ensures that things are running smoothly in her home world, and keeps track of equipment and stats, as well as progress here.

Lady Garden: Mary Hunt (Fortune Lover’s Super Romance DLC) - "Good manners and overwhelming force can hold back most anything." A refined gentlewoman who can control plant life, she is the definition of grace and poise even in a world of superheroes, even as she strikes down her foes with enchanted vines.

And, of course, it wouldn't be a Fortune Lover game without:

Captain Katarina Claes (Pirate’s Promise DLC/Darkest Depths DLC) - "You may not be the Maria I know, but you have her spark." A pirate captain traveling in a long-decommissioned Sorcier Naval uniform, she can get anywhere with enough time, and is surprisingly willing to work with Maria for someone who is Katarina Claes.

And she comes with two immediate followers of her own:

Bonny Anne (Pirate’s Promise DLC/Darkest Depths DLC) - "As you say, My Lady" Katarina’s personal maid, who left Sorcier with Katarina when she had been exiled due to her own personal loyalty to the then-villainess

Sienna Nelson (Fortune Lover’s Academy of Heroes DLC) - "Just because it's not that strong doesn't mean it's not versatile." Daughter of the somewhat obscure heroes North Wind and Windstorm, she inherited a much weaker version of her parents’ abilities, but she more than makes up for it in determination!

The Pirates (Pirate’s Promise DLC/Darkest Depths DLC):

John Seacook - "Prove yourselves, and I'll join your endeavor." A handsome youth with a wooden leg who works the kitchens and dotes on his younger brother Jim, he normally sails with Katarina’s crew more out of convenience than loyalty, and is currently maintaining the crew to the best of his abilities.

Jim Seacook - "Show me how determined you are to complete this adventure, first." A young man with a heart for adventure who was practically raised by his brother John since they were younger, he sails with Katarina’s crew because John does.

Marie Teach - "Give me a heading and an interesting cause, and I'll travel with you." A sailor that knows many things that others do not, she sails with Katarina’s crew for the novelty of it all.

The Animal Handler (Fortune Lover's Pets and Familiars DLC/Fortune Lover's Love and Horses DLC):

Peter Talbot - I need to know you lot can hold your own in a fight." The junior gameskeeper at Sorcier Academy and the leader of this groups, he's a friendly young man who walks around with a wolfhound tailing behind him like a pup, though it very clearly knows how to follow orders...

Cassandra Hawkins - "If you can evade Tobias and catch him, then I'll listen." A young lesser noble whose family is known to confer with their pet birds of prey, she and her hawk are perfect for espionage

Henry Pots - "Unless you can intercept my friend, I don't see much of a chance..." another lesser noble who is passionately looking into the secret of familiars, presumably in order to communicate with his pet owl.

Lyra Parry - "Talk me into it." A traveling merchant’s daughter that Maria knew when she was younger who has an eerily close bond with her pine marten and knows how to talk rings around others.

Gabrielle Cavalry - "Prove yourself." The horse trainer who seems to almost hold conversations with the horses at times. She is useful in securing quick means of travel

Thomas Brush - "You can tell a lot about a person by how they tend to their horse..." The horse groomer who is always meticulous about the horse’s appearance. He is the best at ensuring the horses are well cared for.

The Bladesmasters (Club Activities DLC):

Penelope Blancarosa - "Draw steel and I shall know if you are worth following!" A wealthy Baron’s daughter from up north, she is an exceptional duelist with her sword and the leader of the group.

Artemis Thursday - "Convince me with your skill." Daughter of an obscure Marquis, she has a preference for her short sword and mighty hammer.

Cole Soledrago - "Pay attention, if you wish to win the day." Wielder of twin folding swords that double as punch daggers, he is loyal to his half-sister Penelope.

The Alchemist (Mad Alchemist DLC):

Caroline Spark - "Prove it." A popular minor character from Fortune Lover’s Mad Alchemist DLC, this cackling madwoman is easily one of the most brilliant inventors of non-magical machines in her Sorcier and the leader of this pack!

Inga Fritz - "Convince me to let you talk to her, first." Caroline's personal assistant, she is always ready with whatever her employer needs when she needs it and will not let just anyone interrupt her work.

Heidi Victorian - "Data! More data!" An innovator in medical sciences, she has been her own test subject more than once.

Eve Victorian - "Let's talk." Heidi's "sister," she is extremely strong and aids Heidi in her experiments.

The Strategists (Club Activities DLC):

Monika Shakespeare -"There's a reason they say the pen is mightier than the sword..." President of the Literature Club, she's more capable of plotting than one would initially assume and successfully keeps her club mates in order.

Mirasol Christie - "Why don't we discuss this?" VP of the club, she's an excellent mediator.

Dawn Carroll - "This isn't time for fun and games. Tell me what you've seen out there." Fond of illuminated texts, she is skilled at getting to the heart of things.

Lily King - "Give me a precedent, and we'll talk." A passionate reader of various genres of writing, she is an exceptional researcher.

Michael Collins - “What have you heard?” The quietest member, he knows how to blend into a crowd.

Once you've gathered your team, you can move on to battling the true opponent:

Darkened Heart Katarina's Darkness (Fortune Lover’s Darkened Heart DLC) - "Once, I had grown inside of the girl's soul, consuming that which I pleased, but your light stopped that..." A darkness that uses the appearance of its former host as it tries to snuff out all light in the universe, it has captured almost all the alternate versions of the main Fortune Lover cast and is keeping them in a Tower of Darkness.

Can you defeat this Darkness? Can you save the Fortune Lover Multiverse? Find out in Fortune Lover: Time Crash!

[whatanoof]

Of Angels and Promises

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Boba Fett x Reader

Word Count: ~12.2k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stop struggling immediately, “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m assuming that you know how to.”

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

“My armor.” 

“What color is it?”

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You got your armor back.”

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

“Watch it angel--”

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

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

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

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

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

“I wasn’t the one getting executed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “No violence?”

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

“Steep price.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know your name either.”

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

He considers it briefly, “First names only.”

You grin. That’ll do nicely. “Deal.”

“Boba.”

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

---

“Why are you back?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ang--”

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

“Do you want me to be?”

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

“Angel--”

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

“Why are you so angry, angel?”

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

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

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

“What do you know of Jango Fett?”

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

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

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

“But he kept you anyway.” 

You shrug, “He lived by a code.”

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

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

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

“You could have!”

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fett! Boba Fett!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now Boba responds, “I don’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

“You broke your promise that last day.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Up.” 

You blink, “Excuse me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“--I’d rather taste you first.”

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

Taglist: @alliterative-albatross​

[sellyoursoulforagoodfic]

Could/Should/Did: Boba Fett--Could

Boba Fett x reader

Word Count: 630

How it could have gone

Content Warning: Non-graphic Character Death (reader)

“You are dancer now,” he declared in that hissing voice of his. “Entertain his majesty.”

It was predictable in the face of that sort of order, but your heart--and the world around you--stopped in that moment. “Excuse me?”

Panic gripped every fiber of your being as you blinked owlishly at the pair on the dais.

Jabba complained at your stillness.

“Dance,” Fortuna ordered.

Your eyes darted over to Boba, pleading for him to back you up before you said, “I’m no dancer, your liege. My skills in battle don’t transfer well to matters of sensuality.”

“Dance!” the demand was repeated as a shout, causing you to flinch.

Your gloves creaked as your fists clenched. “Sir, I--”

The Huttese that followed was a sentence that you always suspected (and dreaded) would be directed at you: a barked command for the rancor’s trapdoor to be opened so you could be fed to it for Jabba’s entertainment. It wasn’t put in that many words, of course, but you knew the outcome. It was inevitable. 

Again, your eyes lanced over to Boba. “Anything to say about this, Fett?” you asked with an incredibly forced chuckle. It was a thin hope, something as wispy as spider’s web, but maybe Jabba’s favorite bounty hunter could say something that would convince him to spare you.

Jabba waved at his ‘advisor,’ and Bib fucking Fortuna leaned over towards Boba to mutter something that you couldn’t hear.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” that modulated voice only sounded the slightest bit regretful, “job’s worth more than a good lay.”

You wondered what Jabba had offered that meant more than the years you’d already spent together. It had to be something beyond imagining. Then again, the name Boba Fett didn’t strike fear into the hearts of most anyone in the galaxy for nothing. Maybe you’d finally outlived his use for you.

Jaw clenched, you straightened your shoulders. You gave a sharp nod. “Alright.” At the very least, you were going to face your death with dignity. You had no false beliefs that a human like you stood much of a chance of killing a rancor alone, so there was only one way this could go. You removed your helmet and tossed it at the Mandalorian. “No use wasting good beskar,” was all you said before drawing your vibrosword and sliding down the ramp revealed by the trapdoor.

Though you were resigned to death, you still fought hard as those in the throne room cheered (for you or for the rancor, you didn’t know or care). You managed to land a few good hits,  but it wasn’t long before it managed to swipe at you successfully and throw you against the wall. Once you were off your feet, it was all over.

Above you, Boba bowed his head, fingers clenched tightly around your helmet as he fought himself to keep from reacting.

~

Many years and countless lightyears later, that silver-clad Mandalorian was killing time while in hyperspace by wandering around exploring Slave 1 when he found a strange object: a helmet of an archaic style with a dramatic, aged plume of scarlet red arching over its surface. The fact that it was clearly made of beskar only made it more confusing since Fett didn’t seem the type of man to hold onto something this valuable without reason.

“Hey, Fett!” he called once he neared the cockpit. He didn’t touch the helmet; instinct told him that there was a strong possibility that it would be the last mistake he’d have the chance to make if he did.

“What?” came the gruff, accented voice.

“What’s with the helmet you’ve got back there? I don’t recognize the style. War trophy?”

The man’s jaw clenched. The only reason he didn’t rise and give the man the more violent version of a keldabe kiss was because he knew this line of questioning and poking around was his way of distracting himself from worrying about his son. “It’s a reminder,” Boba said eventually, voice tight.

“Of what?”

“A mistake.”

[butcherknives]

Headcanon: Interpreting Nero

This will be a mini series in which I break down the DMC dudes to try to root around their heads to give them some semblance of humanity. Motivations, thought processes, et cetera. What makes them, them.

Do I think their characterizations are this deep in canon? Not really. Do I think I know better than anyone else? Also no. But I have thoughts, so my goal is to get them down on this blog.

Some of this information is built from headcanons that fill small gaps in the lore. None of them should be much of a stretch, so hopefully this is alright.

Please enjoy. Read Vergil here Read Dante here

In the small religious village of Fortuna, not even the smallest misgiving can go unnoticed by the community.

When a drifter who’d claimed to come only seeking answers in their church, suspicion had been instant, and when a once-respected member fell prey to the vagabond’s seduction, it was a mark of shame on them all.

Her bastard son would bear the cross.

The whispers at Nero’s expense were insidious. The adults had passed along their judgement to their children, who would tease and mock Nero for being the son of a whore, a term which none of them truly knew the meaning. They shunned him, excluded him, and made sure that he knew he wasn’t wanted because he was different from them. He was impure.

But he didn’t understand. What had he done so wrong? Was his existence such a smudge on the community’s illusionary perfection?

With time, he learned that rotten mistakes – mistakes like Nero – are swept under the rug and left to fester unseen. How else could they continue such a dazzling show?

Rage is a driving theme for Nero, seen in his highly reactive personality primarily in the 4th game, and referenced repeatedly in Devil Trigger. Yet anger is a secondary emotion; it’s a caustic reaction to an open wound, not the wound itself. It’s safe, then, to assume that Nero’s first instinct to his treatment had been pain.

The asphyxiating loneliness had stitched grief through the eye of a searing needle deep, deep into his flesh, and that taut bite cauterized into a terrible, blistered rage.

When you live inside of that ever-ruminating anger, it becomes second nature – it’s as easy as breathing. Inhale hurt, exhale fury. And it strikes deep because it calcifies a genuinely soft heart who wants to be useful, who wants to help. Who wants to prove how worthwhile he truly is.

Although he is a far cry from devout, he joins the Order of the Holy Knights at a young age, likely with Credo’s assistance, where his explosive strength can be put to use. And despite being notoriously hard to work with – resistant to direct orders; prone to disregarding consequence; unable to hold his tongue – he proves his value.

Anything Nero finds worth doing, he gives his entire soul.

During his time in the Order, likely close to the beginning of DMC4, Nero sustains a grievous injury to his right arm. With his (then unknown) demonic power, it heals, yet it isn’t his skin that grows back.

Aside: It can be inferred that Agnus had a theory about this. As the one who told Sanctus that Nero is of Sparda’s bloodline without evidence given during the game, I’m making the call that he was able to deduce a few things about the vagabond who’d come through years prior; not a terribly hard connection to make, what with Vergil poking around to specifically find more information on Mundus and, ultimately, how to exact his revenge. Unable to prove it at the time, Agnus must have kept this information to himself until the cards fell into place.

Aside to the aside: It seems most likely that Vergil went to Agnus for information, as the resident demonologist. Theory here that this is how Agnus learned what the Yamato was capable of – although that’s only a headcanon.

Nero hides his arm in a sling. It’s supposed to still be injured, as it should have been for any normal human; no one would notice anything strange, and it seems, for the most part, no one does end up noticing. Not even Kyrie.

So let’s backtrack. Why does Nero show his emotions as anger? The most probable answer is lack of an outlet. When there’s no one to comfort your sadness, or when you’re desperately trying to seem strong, independent, or older than you are, you learn methods of concealment. Nero, whose heart dictates the majority his actions and morality, thus becomes a time bomb.

It’s worth noting that if Kyrie had died in 4, it’s incredibly likely that Nero would have followed in Vergil’s footsteps. With his entire family gone, there would have been nothing preventing him from drowning in that all-consuming rage. The guilt of “allowing” it to happen, of believing he was too weak to protect what mattered to him would have as similarly fueled him as it had his father. Would he have grown to desire power for the sake of it? What lengths would he have gone to raze Fortuna in his fury? Would he have piled the blame onto Dante?

And how would it have been for Dante to become once again locked in a battle with his own kin? A more chaotic, less methodical version of his own twin brother?

Fortunately, that isn’t the route we end up taking.

What we find instead is that with the help of Kyrie and the children they take in, Nero learns patience. His temper evens, although sparks of it still crackle just beneath the surface.

Always brewing and always ready.