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Cobb Vanth realises early on in their relationship that Din Djarin struggles to let others care for him. He is tempted to believe it stems from their agreement, but after chatting with some influent people in the palace, he reckons that it’s just who Din is; self-effacing and always putting the galaxy’s needs before his own.
(Fett says that Din would have no idea he even has needs, if not for them constantly hunting him down to eat or rest his eyes for a few hours.)
Unsurprisingly, when the smoke clears in the aftermath of the battle in Mos Espa, Din is suddenly everywhere. In the Palace, managing the power vacuum left by the annihilation of the Pyke Syndicate. But also in Freetown, making sure Cobb’s interim is taken care of, looking pretty in his shining armour, sniper rifle casually slung on his back like an intimidating afterthought. Then he’s helping the townsfolk build more houses to host the guards Fett dispatched and he’s spending time in the Tuskens camp on the edge of the settlement. Finally, he’s by Cobb’s side, massaging away the phantom pain in his residual limb, letting him hurl things at the walls and scream himself hoarse when it’s all Cobb can do to stay sane.
Din is sturdy, reliable, infallible. Atoning for the fact that people died under his protection. Cobb can see the weight of it on his face, in the capillary-like lines around his eyes and the deeper furrows of his forehead. Yet Din won’t let him offer the same services and comfort; only initiating touch when necessary. He allows Cobb to run his prosthetic fingers through his hair, providing feedback on the pressure and ignoring that his deep, relaxed breaths as he falls asleep are worth a million credits more to Cobb than the mastery of his new arm. More often than not, Din winds up curled up around Cobb’s long limbs during the night, but he never comments on it, and it only occurs under the cover of night.
In the end, Cobb decides to bide his time until Din does something for him; a gesture too significant not to reciprocate in kind.
That opportunity comes unbidden, on the morning of the first public hearing since the battle. They’ve just left Cobb’s quarters to head to the main building when Din stops in his tracks. “Wait,” he says, softly.
“If you’re suggesting we go back to bed, I’m all for it,” Cobb says lightly, knowing that his yawns and the bluish hue under his eyes belie his tone.
There was no keeping his aversion to morning, perhaps his most private secret, from Din, given that they took to share a room – the easiest way to ensure Din got enough sleep.
“Afraid we can’t,” Din remarks, sounding properly apologetic through the vocoder.
Fett wants them, and there’s a rumour that the new mayor of Mos Espa will be there, but Din isn’t tense enough for it to be true. Still, Cobb knows he’ll be on the lookout for any shenanigans.
“Then what is it?”
In lieu of an answer, Din raises his hand under his chin to unfasten the clasp of his cloak. Cobb stares, one eyebrow cocked, turning from confused to amused as Din struggles to shrug the garment off, one lapel caught under the edge of his pauldron.
At last, Din passes it to him. “Take it.”
Frowning, Cobb closes his fingers around the weathered fabric. “Am I underdressed?” he ends up asking. He’s wearing sturdy boots, trousers and a shirt in muted colours with a DC-17 blaster pistol tucked under his belt. Pretty much the same uniform since coming out of the tank; serviceable and inconspicuous. His prosthetis is flashier, white plastoid composite reflecting the corridor lights.
“You aren’t, but you seem uncomfortable without something around your neck.”
Cobb is too busy swooning before he can bark out a raspy, delighted peal of laughter. “Darlin’, listen, I don’t think you’re quite ready to get into my choking kink right now.”
There’s a long, pregnant bit of silence, but Din doesn’t flinch, which counts as a victory. “Dank farrik,” he swears at last. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Blushing under that helmet yet, Djarin?” Cobb can’t resist teasing him, a delightful sensation rolling through his gut.
Din mumbles a string of words that sound like Bocce, which, as a trading tongue, would be an appropriate choice for expletives. Then, as Cobb has come to expect, Din opts to ignore the flirting entirely. “The armour did more than protect you from bandits. It made you feel safe, and now you’ve lost the shawl as well.”
While Cobb isn’t particularly self-conscious about his residual limb, especially now that the area has shrunk and evolved from an angry red to an acceptable skin colour, he’s yet to get over the scars from his enslavement. He didn’t even bring them up, but Din must have seen the star-shaped brand near his shoulder blade and reached his own conclusion.
“I regret not thinking of it sooner so I could grab something fancier,” Din apologises, waving his gloved hand.
A genuine grin spreads across Cobb’s face at the ludicrous but tempting prospect of Din buying him things. He slips the cloak on. The charcoal grey boiled wool wraps his shoulders in a warm embrace, and while admittedly in poor shape, frayed at the hem from too many close calls with the business end of firearms, its comforting weight causes something hard and heavy to unclench in his chest.
“Sorry I teased you, darling,” Cobb responds, straining to meet Din’s eyes through his gleaming visor. “This is very thoughtful, I appreciate it. More than you know.” He stresses the words, and even without looking at Din’s face, can instantly feel the atmosphere shifting.
In that moment, Cobb decides that the precious gift he’s just been offered has to be reciprocated. He only needs to convince the man.
“Come here,” he says.
Without missing a beat, Din reduces the distance between them. Delight rolls in Cobb’s gut and he breathes through his nose to keep his composure.
“Closer,” Cobb whispers, and Din complies, once more. This time, they’re so near that Cobb believes he’d hear Din’s heart thumping against his chest plate if his eardrums weren’t so fucked.
“I’m all for positive reinforcement, darlin’,” Cobb offers, all warm voice and drawling desert accent. “And you’ve done real good, thinking about my feelings and doing something for me. So, what if I did a little thing for you, uh? Would you like that?”
Din’s sigh is a mixture of resignation and determination. “We’ll miss the hearing.”
“I can make it quick.”
Din takes his time to scan their surroundings, a gesture born of habit more than real necessity, as this corner of the palace is all but deserted. Then he hums, still loud enough for the vocoder to pick it up.
“That a yes?”
They’ve been over this, the whole concept of bodily autonomy and enthusiastic consent, but Din assumes that Cobb enjoys seeing him fumble with his words, and he’s not entirely wrong.
“Yes,” Din says at last.
Cobb grins, then licks his lips. In the next move, he’s got Din pushed against the nearest wall, amazed at how pliant he goes. Cobb can’t stay calm at the sight; the patchy beard peeking out from under Din’s helmet, the expanse of his throat begging for mouth-shaped bruises.
He always acknowledged that he has a possessive streak with lovers – it doesn’t take a psych droid to know why, when you haven’t been allowed to own anything in your first thirty years of life – but this brown-eyed, impossibly clever Mandalorian in his shiny armour awakens something ferocious in him. A hunger fitting of a Tatooine born-and-raised that demands to be sated.
His human thumb fits so perfectly under the cut of Din’s jaw, the meat of his hand pressing against the side of his neck. Softened by Din’s warmth even through the fabric of his glove, the scar tissue on his palm doesn’t feel so painful any more – electromagnetic resonance applied to wound healing.
Following the pulsing outline of Din’s carotid with the tip of a cybernetic finger, Cobb’s arousal grows slow and steady. “May I put my mouth on you?”
Din makes a keening noise that goes straight to Cobb’s dick, causing him to instinctively thrust against Din’s armoured thigh to relieve a bit of the pressure.
“Please,” Din says, having learnt his lesson.
Cobb muffles a groan in Din’s neck. It’s warm under his dry lips, so much that he’s not even disturbed by the lack of sensory input under his right hand. He’s quick to map the expanse of skin, breathing against the protruding part until he can hear Din’s heartbeat pick up. Then it’s with his tongue that he explores. Din taste clean, definitely manly, and Cobb can’t get enough of it.
“Good?” he enquires.
Din’s hands come up and circle Cobb’s wrists to pull them forward, fingers digging into his flesh in a language they both speak.
“Don’t stop,” he hisses.
Cobb delights in hearing his frustration. It takes a lot of effort to ruffle the stoic Mandalorian. He lets Din guide his hands, one pressing against the vulnerable skin of his throat and the other cupping the side of his head, and not for the first time, Cobb regrets that he can’t feel the texture of Din’s hair.
He chooses to leave marks because, again, he’s possessive, and at least this way, if Din spirals for a bit, Cobb will have a tangible reminder that they did, in fact, come that close.
Din’s hands tighten reflexively until Cobb’s whispered “easy” helps him uncoil. Drunk on his taste and his breathy noises, Cobb contemplates his work: three bites forming a triangle on the left portion of Din’s neck , already dark in the soft light. He lowers his hands and Din releases his grip.
While Cobb would love to view Din’s undoubtedly flustered face, the gleaming visor of the helmet is a head rush all of its own. Because Cobb’s seen him without, it no longer makes Din seem invulnerable or unreachable.
Din uses Cobb’s distraction to grip his dick through his trousers and Cobb throws his head back with a grunt, exhaling through his teeth when Din has the audacity to chuckle. Once he’s regained some control, Cobb’s quick to bat Din’s hand away and urge his thighs apart.
“Oh, I’m not done with you, doll. I gotta put my hands on you now, don’t I?”
It’s Din’s turn to make a strangled noise, but no protest arises. Cobb reaches out to pat his groin, feeling the bottom of the chest piece and the seams of his flight suit, fumbling with the zipper until Din’s slightly trembling hand comes to the rescue.
“Always wondered if that thing was truly practical,” Cobb muses, casting a look upwards. Din’s head is thrown back, body all but slumped between Cobb and the wall. Perfect. Cobb slips his left hand inside Din’s trousers, meeting impossibly hot skin. Din clings to Cobb’s hip to brace himself as Cobb starts touching him in earnest, where he’s wet and quivering. The angle is a bit awkward, but Cobb wouldn’t have it any other way.
He’s gentle at first, for both their sake, taking his sweet time, revelling in the sensations and the sounds Din makes, trying to ignore his own pressing arousal.
“More,” Din bites back a moan. “Need your fingers inside.”
A violent, scorching feeling zings through Cobb’s chest and groin before he can answer. “Anything you want, darlin’,” he breathes, hurrying to obey. Din is slick from his arousal, and they both moan when Cobb’s first finger slips inside easily. Din arches in his hold, making him sink deeper.
They move in tandem, a push and pull not unlike how they fight together. When Din starts rutting against Cobb’s hand, he adds a second finger, angling his wrist as best he can with their position.
“Dank farrik,” Din swears, knees buckling, voice rough and breathy, so close to Cobb’s ear despite the helmet.”Just like that. Please, don’t stop.”
“Oh, I won’t,” Cobb promises, and he means it. He thrusts his fingers in and out rhythmically, his prosthetic fingers digging into the meat of Din’s shoulder, while Din’s hand has found its way under Cobb’s shirt, nails raking the skin around his hipbone.
“I’m close,” Din mutters, his visor fixed on Cobb.
“I got you, doll.”
Din then press their foreheads together, cool beskar a balm on Cobb’s overheated skin. Cobb keeps the pressure steady and starts rubbing gentle circles on his dick until his orgasm hits him like a punch to the gut. Din cries out and shakes, inner walls tightening around Cobb’s fingers before he finally goes limp in his arms in a mess of sweaty limbs and rumpled clothes.
They stay like that for a while, listening to each other breathe, hands roaming over the exposed parts their bodies, Cobb nuzzling into Din’s neck for another taste.
“Looking good,” Din says, giving Cobb a long stare once they eventually manage to put some space between them.
Cobb is a little taller than him, and the cloak seems to fall nicely to the back of his legs, tattered hem and all. The wool was much too heavy for their current activity, but Cobb feels more equipped to deal with politics now that he has it.
“Have you been thinking about me wearing your clothes?” he whispers.
“I have,” Din answers, voice steady and tender. The line of his shoulder is relaxed, and though he is no less impressive than he was before, Cobb is possibly even more infatuated. It’s a good thing that their room isn’t far.
Well, perhaps they’ll miss that hearing. As a treat.