Boba liked to keep an eye on you when you were in seedy cantinas like this one. But as you waited for your drink at the counter, someone stepped right in front of Boba’s line of sight and blocked you from his protective gaze. You always knew how to take care of yourself, but that didn’t mean Boba was any less protective of you. He preferred watching over you when you weren’t right by his side — especially since mostly everyone knew you were Boba’s lover, and for that reason, there was always the chance that there was a price on your head.

Glaring at the person blocking his view, Boba clenched his jaw as he waited for the small crowd to disperse a bit so that he could make sure you were alright. His patience wore thin, and he was about to leave his booth to push through the bodies moving to the beat of the music. Before he could get up in frustration, a small gap formed in the crowd, and Boba could see you once again. He relaxed a bit, glad to see that you were unharmed and that no one tried to approach you. But he cursed under his breath when he realized he spoke too soon.

A Rodian stopped beside you at the bar and didn’t waste a second before trying to grope your ass. Boba stiffened and immediately reached for his blaster, but in an instant, you grabbed the Rodian’s wrist and twisted their arm before pressing their body against the countertop. People dancing nearby stopped in their tracks and watched in horror as you wrenched the Rodian’s arm from behind their back, pressed it down against the countertop, and ran your vibroblade through it in one swift move. The Rodian let out a bloodcurdling scream, and now the entire cantina had their eyes on you. If you were anyone else, you would have probably been shot down by the Rodian’s friends — but no one else was foolish enough to mess with Boba’s lover. Still, Boba kept one hand on his blaster as a precaution but watched you with a proud grin hidden beneath his helmet.

You pulled out your blaster and held the barrel to the back of the Rodian’s head. Rolling your eyes in annoyance, you waited for them to stop whimpering before loudly announcing, “Touch anyone like that again, and I will personally make sure you get a blaster bolt to the head.”

Boba almost shivered at the sight of you standing your ground like that, and he watched with sick satisfaction as you holstered your blaster and pulled the blade from the Rodian’s hand. Their cries of pain blended into the background noise of the cantina as everyone quickly returned to what they were doing. You took your drink from the nervous bartender and made your way back to your booth, the crowd parting for you without hesitation.

Boba finally relaxed in his seat, relieved that you were able to deal with the slimy Rodian on your own. But as he tried to get comfortable, he recognized the familiar tightness of his pants. He knew it shouldn’t have been such a turn on, but dank farrik, that was the hottest thing he’d ever seen. An obvious bulge grew beneath his robes, and he felt himself throb as he saw the innocent smile on your face — as if the whole cantina hadn’t witnessed the little scene and as if the Rodian wasn’t still stifling their whimpers behind you.

You didn’t say a word as you sat down beside Boba, and he chuckled under his breath as he watched you nonchalantly take a sip from your drink. He stiffened when you laid a hand on his thigh, dangerously close to the hard-on between his legs. Your fingers seemed to dance around where he wanted to feel you most, and Boba watched impatiently as you sipped your drink far too slowly for his liking. Growling softly in frustration, he placed his hand on top of yours and dragged your palm to the bulge in his pants. You smirked and gently squeezed him through the heavy fabric of his robes before downing the rest of your drink, understanding what he was trying to tell you. Giving him one last squeeze, you slid out of the booth and Boba hastily followed you. Under normal circumstances, he was a relatively patient man, but this time, he couldn’t wait to take you somewhere private and bend you over the nearest surface.

The cantina fell silent as both of you made your way to the exit, and you walked ahead of Boba, eager to see what he had in store for you. But Boba stayed behind for a moment, slowly approaching the Rodian who was still nursing their wound in front of the bar. They looked up and trembled with fright as the intimidating bounty hunter stopped in front of them, and Boba could have sworn his cock twitched at the sight of the Rodian’s fear. He leaned closer to them, smirking when he noticed the way they flinched in response. Boba glanced at the pool of green blood on the counter and the trail that had dripped onto the floor. Looking up with a slight tilt of his helmet, he acknowledged the equally-scared bartender who was practically hiding in the corner.

Throwing a handful of credits on the counter for the bartender, he muttered, “For the mess.”

Satisfied with the damage done to the Rodian, Boba turned to leave the cantina with his hand wrapped possessively around your body and a plan to show you exactly how much you had turned him on.

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Being a rebel wasn't as glamorous as you thought. You weren't conducting high-level espionage or anything of the like. Instead, your penchant for sniping was homed in on, making you one of, if not the best in the entire squad. The only flaw you had, was arrogance. Never have you let a target walk away, never have you allowed yourself into a tight spot. 

You were always ahead of the enemy, so when your general gave you the order to kill Boba Fett. You assumed it would be an easy in and out job, perhaps he would've posed a threat to other members of your squad. But to you it would be simple, right? Unfortunately not. 

This is your third attempt at some kind of ambush, luring him into a perfect position. Mandalorian armor had few weak points, meaning you had to meticulously spend hours figuring out where would land a good, clean blow. His neck. If angled correctly, one tilt of his helmet and it would be over. Right through the jugular, no more bounty hunter. Another imperial dog to add to your list. 

If he would just turn his head, a little more to the right. Sweat beads on your forehead, eyes focused down the scope. Being a good assassin was all about your ability to linger, to wait. You're positioned on a balcony, a blind spot to the restaurant below. Your associate kept him talking under the guise of being an Imperial Commander, negotiating pay for the next rebel target. Boba Fett sits across from him, drink untouched. If you could see his face you'd swear he seemed bored. His legs wide open, leaning back nonchalantly. 

Fingers clenching on the trigger, you close your left eye. It wasn't like you enjoyed your job, when this war was over you'd swore to never lift a weapon again. The Empire made you, molding you like clay into a perfect killer. A painful truth, a driving force. Your parents. Both were medical professionals, caught smuggling medication to the galaxy's poorest. Promptly executed and then you, an orphan. A street urchin, nothing more. 

It wasn't long into your teens that you heard of the resistance, your heart burned with a want of revenge. So you got stronger, learned how to use a blaster, pilot and any skills that would make you useful to their cause. But you weren't a rebel, not really. You didn't care for politics, didn't even bother listening to the speeches about restoring the Republic. It didn't matter to you, but what did matter was taking out as many Imperials as you could before you die in battle or finally become numb to the anger. 

Self-preservation was no concern of yours, and that made you dangerous. A loose cannon, hot-tempered, and scarily a woman. You were used to being underestimated by your peers on gender, height, birth planet…. and you were the one who gets the high-profile missions. You were the one who has the highest accuracy, years of practice which left your trigger finger calloused, and every other emotion muted. 

Boba Fett had become a real thorn in your side. Threatening your record, career and possibly your sanity. His uncanny talent for escaping situations, even if all cards were against him, was exasperating. You would be lying if you didn't have some modicum of respect for him though, you were somewhat alike. Respect, no matter how great, does not destroy a death warrant. 

Someday soon his luck would run out, and it would be you at the other end of the blaster. That day was today. Lips twitching into a smirk, you watch his neck turn. Bingo. You steady your rifle, pulse pounding in your ears. At last, this mission would be over. You'd become a legend, the woman who killed Boba Fett. 

Bang. You take the shot, accurate as ever. A hum leaves your lips, watching him fall to the ground. Your calculations were correct, there was a weak point. Every armor has one, even Mandalorian. It was like a drug, the puzzle pieces clicking together with every fragility you discovered. 

The restaurant below descends into chaos, even the bartender is panicking. All guests rushing from their tables, abandoning their meals as your associate checks the man's pulse. You stare down your scope, watching the ordeal. He gives a thumbs-up, definitely dead. A buzz in your ear alerts you to a comlink.

"He's dead. But I think you'll want to come down here." Orda replies through static. Your brow creases, what the hell could've gone wrong. Muscles twitching with irritation, you make your way through the currently uninhabited building. You were ordered to avoid collateral damage by all means necessary, a false fire alarm did the job well. 

Your feet tap against the stairs as you make quick work of assessing your surroundings— if something is wrong, then it's always better safe than sorry. It seemed to be all clear, so you proceeded out the door and onto the street. This area of Mos Eisley was pretty habitable, aside from the abundance of criminal undertakings. Dust kicks as you march into the restaurant, pushing through various guests who were piling out at lightspeed. 

With a gruff, you finally make it to the rooftop, an exclusive VIP spot which proved difficult to doctor identity necessary to enter. You're about to start asking what the hell could've been so important that he dragged you down here, but your eyes meet Orda's now slumped body, face down with all color residing. A frustrated sigh leaves you, he was a good man. Even worse, he was a great rebel. His heart was in it, unlike yours. He shouldn't have been the casualty here. You reach down, pulling out his identichip and stashing it in your pocket. An action that you've taken with far too many of your comrades. 

Painfully you pull yourself from Orda's body, standing upright. Lingering would be a deathwish, whoever killed Orda was skilled. An impressive marksman, obviously one of Boba's accomplices who mistakenly thought he was the one that shot him. You could go over what-ifs later, right now you were going to finish the fucking job. 

The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in crimson constellations as the wind settled. Inspecting Boba's body was your primary concern, whatever Orda discovered, it cost him his life. You were determined to find out what exactly it was, from a glance it seemed like Boba Fett. With a grimace, you move his drooping head around. Concerningly heavier than expected, beskar is light and durable. 

You hook your fingertips under the helmet, pulling it off and coming face to face with…. not your target. Fuck. You'd be deceived, spectacularly. Knuckles white, feeling bile in your throat threatening to explode in a cocktail of frustration and admiration. The crudely made edges of the helmet abrasive against your palm, a reminder of your failure. 

Without a second thought, your balled fist comes into contact with the wall, encasing the helmet and sending tendrils of pain, a shock wave through your arm as you verbalize your confliction with a strangled scream. Orda died for nothing, you were a joke. Everything you had built, buried and locked away was floating to the surface. 

But you haven't felt this alive in years. Being outsmarted, so cunningly sent a morbid thrill up your spine. You could almost laugh, had you not heard footsteps approaching. Impulsively your hand fell to your blaster, making a mental note to thank your teacher for always carrying more than one. 

"Surely you didn't believe it was that easy to kill me." Before he can finish you turn, firing your blaster in his direction. Of course, his armor deflects it with ease. "I must admit, I'm impressed. Not everyone could distinguish beskar through weight alone." A snort leaves him at your feeble attempt to hold ground, looking over your pathetic secondary weapon that could barely injure an Ewok. 

"Go thing I'm not everyone then." You stand, keeping your right arm extended, blaster aimed at his inner thigh. It wouldn't kill him, however it would allow ample time for escape. "You killed my friend." He's circling you now. "Who's your Intel? How did you know I'd be here?" 

"You are hardly in the position to be making demands, little rebel." Another chuckle, you'd heard of him toying with his advisories before, but this was different. A teacher disciplining a student. 

"You're going to kill me anyway, what's the harm." You huff, shrugging. He stops pacing, chewing over your words. 

"Killing you would be a waste." That bastard. "Of my time and resources." He adds matter-of-factly. 

"Orda wasn't?" You spit, voice cracking in frustration. Figuring out what made others tick was your specialty, but the lack of motivation and reason within Boba's actions is what baffled you. 

"That was a favor." He sounds like you should be grateful, almost insulted that you hadn't figured it out yet even with him practically dangling the answer in front of you. Perhaps you weren't as clever as he thought. 

"A—favor? How would killing my comrade benefit me!" You reply astounded, cheeks burning red, hand shaking on your blaster. 

You think for a second, taking your eyes off him. Why did it take until after the kill for Orda to realize what was wrong with the body… He isn't… wouldn't…could've of… you've been double-crossed. "He wouldn't— I've spent months with him—" 

"And every little thing you did, he told me." His admission is calm, you look over Orda's body, no longer do you feel remorse. Just shame. You couldn't even see betrayal under your nose. 

You walk closer to him, the barrel of your blaster getting dangerously close. Nothing could stop you from finishing your mission right now, but he's letting you. Knowledge is far more appealing than rewards in the resistance. 

With your grip around the handle tight, you slam it down across his helmet, your knee reaching his groin. "You're very easy to fool." A smirk replaces the look of misery on your face, it was a dangerous game to pretend to let your guard down. Your risk paid off, managing to get a shot at his thigh. 

Swiftly, you press all your weight on him, knocking him back just enough to make a run for the edge of the balcony. He groans in pain, you're so close to the edge, escape almost in your grasp— when a grappling hook wraps around your ankle. 

You struggle against the cold floor, doing anything you can to wriggle free from his grasp.

It's fruitless, as soon as he's in reach you're kicking him, hurtling all kinds of abuse. Your attempts to wrestle him are almost comical and in a frenzy, you grip the only thing that seems viable. His Helmet. You manage to free it, your fingers hooking under and pulling it off his head, sending it on the floor beside you. For a moment you're the one stunned, not him. 

Dark curls frame his face, a beautiful border to tanned skin. His nose is prominent but compliments his features. Scars pepper his face, but he's young. Younger than you thought. You watch as his forehead crinkles in anger, hands pinning yours beside your head. 

Wasting no time, you bring your head to crack his, sending him back with a kick to the stomach. Your nose pours from impact, dripping onto the floor as you clamber to your feet. 

"This isn't over." You hear his voice, unmodified. You rush to the edge, peering over and assessing if you can land in one of the speeders below. He stands, trying to rush over to stop you. "Don't!" 

With a wink, you throw yourself over the side. In seconds you're hurtling onto the street, watching a bare-faced Boba Fett grow smaller with each passing second. His eyes are widened in either admiration or shock for your bravery.