Author's Note: "..."
Disclaimer: George Lucas owns Star Wars. And as for Boba Fett...well, he's just yummy.
He felt it - the mindless intrusion and unyieldingly hot prickling of needles in his mind, picking apart motives and desires, dissecting them in the open air. A simple exhalation would clear that up just nicely, another notch in his belt as the wasted figure fell to the floor in a crumpled heap less than ten feet from the bar's back exit. No one looked back, no head turned to investigate the scuffle - not that anyone would have noticed over the glitzy bar's main staple, yet another outrageously tasteless septet hailing from the Outer Rim. Hundreds of bedizened patrons - each with a different poison to sell, torrid stories bubbling against their lips - mingled avidly, the roar of their detached voices perfectly serving his intents and purposes.
Routinely returning his blaster to its holster, he approached her sprawled form, tediously sidestepping the blood that had begun to pool from beneath her. Slowly, deliberately he reached out, fingers hooking under her chin, the pallid overhead lighting igniting shadows. A slow trickle of blood appeared in the corners of her waxy lips while the rest of the vicious fluid continued to collect around her, lifeless amber orbs staring latently through him as he aversely pulled the glove from his right hand.
Sitting back on his heels, he stole a quick glance around the room before reaching for her saber, knuckles brushing against the delicate press of her robes, an exceptionally pleasant play on the traditional Jedi attire that subtly accentuated the guarded curves underneath. He reached for her again, calloused digits sweeping over sharp brow in one absolute, uninhibited movement, smoothing over cheekbones in a steep line down her exposed neck, the strong column of milky flesh strained at an awkward angle as his fingers coasted further. The breath in his chest ceased, automatic in the way he moved to cradle her head in his large hands, running his thumb over full parted lips.
Death had a curious effect on the living, yet even more so on those who chose to lie in bed with it.
Frustrated, he stilled, the rapid undulation of his heart filling his ears as he stared at the dark curls draped across his wrists, burying his fingers in the silken tresses and fighting the itching urge to abandon the cold cell of his helmet in exchange for the sensation of skin against skin. His soundness of mind had long since vanished, eloping with a detached sense of morality and propriety - it felt neither right nor wrong.
Sighing, he relinquished hold of her mane, trembling fingers connecting with the helmet's strap as he respectfully laid the armor beside him. The clement gesture disconnected the rest, short-circuiting his senses and dulled emotions as he registered the prospect. He chuckled wistfully then, finding it ironic that only the dead had ever been able to look upon his face. The evanescent vagary, however, never it made it that far as his lips pressed gently to her cold flesh, a thoughtful touch to her cheek, the corner of her lips even as he urged some part of his malformed psyche to find this repulsive.
Nerves bristled at the base of his spine as an obtrusive sound filled his ears, a harshly beeping ruckus emanating from somewhere behind him on the floor...that stupid comlink.
"Is it done?"
No..."Yes, My Lord."
"Good," the comlink hummed and crackled between his words, "You know what to do. Do not disappoint me again, Fett."
The device bleeped once before falling silent, creeping regret tainting the silence Fett so treasured in the darkness. Exceedingly frustrated and even feeling a bit denied, he wretchedly replaced his glove and helmet, the cold kiss welcomed to combat the fever he now harbored over this feeling - his loss of control and the festering shame that followed.
It wasn't as if it mattered, he reasoned, evacuating the images of what ifs and maybes and realizing that only her price tag mattered anymore.