Running his bare fingers absently through Din’s soft hair, Boba quietly contemplated the farmer standing in front of him, nervously twisting her cap in her hands as she preformed her petition, wide eyed gaze staring up at Boba.

It shouldn’t really surprise him that those in a difficult situation would try to bargain with him.

Yet somehow he hadn’t expected moisture farmers coming to him in person, trying to negotiate a trade, a mutual benefit.

He had expected traders, guilds, mercenary, spies and even New Republicans considering he knew this was the homeworld of karking Luke Skywalker.

But not a single woman with a single, if large, moisture farm.

It was almost impressive, the woman had guts to come alone to him with her petition.

And a large moisture farm, even if her tools were were failing her and she needed to repair, were actually worth something. She could be generating a lot of water… if only her gear worked.

Unbidden, Boba’s covered eyes fell to Din, watching those long lashes resting against the others cheeks, the slight quiver of eyelids each time Boba’s blunt nails dragged gently at his scalp. Din was still so sensitive to touch, something Boba had no doubt came from his long years in armor.

Yet here he was, content, resting on his knees between Boba’s legs as he accepted the touches Boba knew could undo him if the man preforming them wanted to, trusting and accepting.

Likely feeling the gaze, Din opened his eyes and raised his head from the thigh, enough to blink up at Boba.

Din had of course been paying attention, for all that he had looked half a sleep, even as Princess, that awareness never truly left him.

Even now, with sleepy lidded eyes, he could see Din’s eyes abort from looking at the woman presenting her case to the king of Tatooine.

Din and his softness and his honor code, insisting he worked alone and yet somehow surrounding himself with people at the same time.

Din, who had stumbled up the ramp of Slave 1 with a scowling Bo-Katan following and her Nite Owl pet, darksaber and spear in hand, eyes empty as the vastness of space. “…Twenty percent,” Boba finally said, the woman shutting up as she stiffened, staring at Boba hopefully even as he kept looking down at Din. “Twenty percent of your overall water for two years, with ten percent of it going to food manufacturing. And I’ll give you the trade you want.” He gestured for one of his advisors.

The twi’lek stepped forward, even as the farmer bowed and scraped and stammered out a thanks.

Boba knew that Fennec would go over the report later, ensure Virla did her due and didn’t try to book something not in the deal.

Though, Virla was a former brothel slave, her loyalty, at least for now, was to Boba, of that he was certain.

But it never hurt to check of course.

Din’s lips twitched into a small, pleased smile at Boba’s deed, the sight warming the cold concave of Boba’s heart.

The deal was very good to the farmer as much as Boba and had he been Jabba, the water payment would have been a lot higher.

But Boba, running Tatooine with an iron fist and violence, would like things to actually function. If people died from starvation and dehydration, there be nothing left, his planet would crumble like the multitude of other hutt run worlds.

And it pleased him to see Din smile even so slightly, two flies, one smack.

Boba Fett was not a soft man, but he could be gentle in occasions, when the wretched he stepped in for needed it.

And for Din, his princess, who was so lost in his own head he seemed to loose himself in the maw of a too dark space, Boba could and would be gentle.

Din needed it, too used to the harshness of everyone else, even from himself, cauterized scars telling stories of the younger man’s life easily to someone experienced.

Slipping his hand out of the hair, ignoring Din’s little half whine, Boba instead slipped two fingers under the delicate beskar collar and gave a tug. “Up Princess.” He murmured, tapping his thigh with his gloved hand.

Brown eyes lit with interest and Din settled his hands on Boba’s thighs, pulling himself up as smoothly as possible and into the others lap, nuzzling his face into the neck between helmet and armor. “Buir’ika.” He sighed happily.

Resting his hand at the base of the others spine, Boba observed the gathered crowd, lips pulling up into a smirk as the regulars tried not to look and yet seemed unable not to. Pulled up in his lap, Din’s outfits had a tendency to crawl up his body, exposing more of him to wandering eyes, not that the other cared by this point.

But they knew what would happen if they were caught staring too long at Boba’s sweet Princess.

It amused Boba honestly, how no one seemed to connect Princess to Din or visa verse, despite never seeing them in the same room together. A smirking Fennec had informed him, finding a fresh bottle of booze, that the days Din was not visible in his armor, the court thought he was out hunting.

A fair assumption, Din did occasionally go out for a hunt for Boba, simply for the pleasure of it. His beroya would always be a hunter, skills honed to a knife edge, deadly and all the more beautiful for it in the older man’s eyes.

And the separation made the reunion all the sweeter when Din shed his armor and once more knelt for Boba, being such a good princess for him, pressing needily into his touch.

But at the moment he was not needy, only clingy, touch starved as always. “Princess, helmet.” Boba murmured, lips quirking at how eagerly Din obeyed the command, sitting back on Boba’s knee to ease the helmet off the others head.

It was settled to the side, safely out of the way on the left arm of the throne by Din and then he was back, burrowing his face into Boba’s neck more properly with the helmet out of the way. It almost made him chuckle, the feel of Din’s cold nose brushing against his warm neck. “Jate Princess, always so good for me.” He rumbled, feeling the other shiver against him, pressing closer.

For all the scars and dents Boba bore and bore without shame, it never failed to amaze him how much Din seemed to crave his praise.

Boba was no fool, he knew that in terms of attractiveness, there were many who’d balk at him after his stint in the sarlacc, the scars worn openly unsettling many eyes.

But it was harder to remember that when Din pressed so sweetly into his touch and looked at him with soft, wanting eyes. “Jate.” Boba repeated, simply for the pleasure of Din shivering once more.

Boba Fett was not a soft man, but yes, he could be gentle to the ones who deserved it.