SWpromptsandask

Din’s body speaks about battle, about violence and hurt.

Of survival where he shouldn’t have, cauterized wounds that should have killed him.

It speaks about skills that must have been honed and yet here he still stands, standing slightly behind Boba on a leash as the man has left the throne for once, ‘Princess’ wearing scanty clothes that some would not think a warrior should wear.

Its comforting though and Din likes to be pretty for Boba, just as he would have fetched Boba a drink if that was all he really wanted.

Din however knows that Boba just wanted to stretch his legs in all actuality.

He’s listened to the man complain about how little comfort the stone throne brought him, the stiff legs and sore back and yet still the man rejected the idea of pillows in the throne.

Grumbled about wearing his armor and how little the pillows would do for the rigidness of his armor.

Something Din knew was shit and he was going to get pillows into that throne, he knew what kind of pillows worked well when wearing armor, giving padding and support..

The beskar chain in Boba’s hand hangs in a loose loop as Din eyed people, jingling lightly when Boba’s hand moves but the noise and the chatter of people is not enough to distract Din from an unsettled feeling as he stood at Boba’s back.

Shand was out, dealing with an underground deal with her own captain and underlings.

And ever since Din had nuzzled his face into Boba’s neck, he had an uneasy feeling in his stomach, a feeling that grew even as he remained cuddled into Boba. Maybe a bit more clingy than usual, Boba had given him a look through the helmet visor but not questioned him.

It wasn’t something Din could put his finger on though.

But he has learned not to disregard that feeling, the feeling of wrong.

It practically aches through his body, his old scars aching.

Someone has forgotten those scars, the history that lays plain on Din’s skin with the sheer silks and gossamer thin fabrics.

Because the focus suddenly narrows as someone, a pudgy gamorran, raises a blaster at Boba’s back.

At his buir’ika back.

An assassination attempt, right in front of Din and his focus narrows as it would in a hunt.

To Boba, to himself, to the people around him, to the gamorran and the others clearly in cahoots and to the potential weapons around him.

Din counts three, three perps.

Three idiots thinking they could kill the King of Tatooine.

Without his helmet, his snarl cuts through the air as he grabs a polished serving tray off the serving bar, raising it enough to deflect the blast and then he chucks it with all his might. Like a discus, it sings through the air, the edges sharp enough that it buries itself in the chest of the gamorrean.

He squeals like a pig for slaughter, chest spurting blood.

The sound is piercing and the wet, warm blood splashing him is uncomfortable, especially without his helmet but Din is angry and therefore does not care too much. Someone is trying to kill Boba.

His Boba.

Yanking his chain out of Boba’s thankfully gloved hands, Din wraps it around his own to a manageable length and lashes out to the human moving forward with a sword, ignoring the screaming of the court trying to flee.

Instead he moves forward and snaps the delicate beskar chain forward, wrapping it around the neck of the man and pulling him forward. He hits the floor, and his own sword, with a cry of pain.

But still alive.

Din can’t have that as he steps forward, out of his sandals, and places his bare foot on the humans neck, pressing down with his heel and twisting.

A sickening crack fills the air as the act of breaking the man’s neck also pushes him down on the blade, blood splashing up Din’s leg but Din’s focus already shifted on the last would be assassin.

A woman, two slim daggers in her hands, her wide eyed focus on Din as he snarls again in challenge, standing in front of Boba, the chain swinging almost lazily as he tries to decide if he is to kill her or not.

She is a threat, but she may have answers if she was hired. But she was going to harm Boba, Din does not suffer threats to what he loves ide-

A warm hand, gloved hand drops to his shoulder, thumb rubbing lightly at the juncture of neck and shoulder. “Easy Princess,” Boba’s voice is a steady drawl, the vocoder crackling slightly. “I want this one alive. I want answers.” He murmured, both pride and anger in his voice.

Decision taken form Din, even as he snarls angrily, taking a step forward towards the assassin only to pause when she falls on her knees, throwing her blades away, begging for mercy from Boba.

Din snorts in disgust but waits for Boba to call him off, his body trembling in leftover adrenaline, anger and so much fear, even as he gingerly presses the end of the somewhat bloody chain into Boba’s hand.

It feels better, when Boba has the end of his chain, the comforting weight of the beskar now so familiar to Din.

He rests his head on the shorter man’s shoulder, body trembling easing slowly as Boba’s other hand finds the base of his spine and starts stroking. But he doesn’t take his eyes of the brown haired woman kneeling on the ground as she continues pleading with Boba asking short but pointed questions.

Questions that will determined her future.

Several courtiers are slowly coming back out of their hiding, the bartender behind the bar watching warily.

After Din’s head got smashed in, people seemed to forget that Princess must have been a warrior, for all the lace and silk he wears, bared to everyone’s gaze.

They won’t forget any time soon now, as a human and a gamorrean starts twitching in death spasms and a third begs for her life, watching ‘Princess’ with more fear than Boba.

Din’s body is a patchwork of battle and survival.

He still fights, he’s fit.

And he is a vicious protector when what is his has become threatened.

People will think twice before they aim for Fett’s back once more.