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“You keep starin’ at me like that, I’ll think you want somethin’.”
Instantly, Din’s head snaps up to Vanth’s face embarrassingly quickly. He’s met with the hint of a sly grin, Vanth’s clever eyes trained on his visor. Both of them are cleaning out their blasters, tuning them in anticipation of trouble. Up until Vanth’s comment, they’d been sitting in a comfortable silence, the only sounds between them being the clink and scrape of tools in the guts of their blasters.
That, and the lopsided rhythm that Vanth was beating out with the heel of his boot against the floor.
It’s been three days since Din returned to Mos Pelgo (now Freetown). Three days since he and Boba Fett agreed that Din should stay there for the time being, to help protect the town against any other spice runners that wanted to cause trouble. Three days, since Din saw again the lengths that Marshal Cobb Vanth would go to in order to keep his people safe; three days since Din had helped Marshal Vanth put a group of forward scouts for the Syndicate down.
Three days, since Din watched Vanth crush a Pyke’s chest under his boot. Three days, since the Marshal – transcendent and dazzling in his simmering wrath – ground that Pyke’s face into the sand with that same boot.
It’s been three days since Din wished, foolishly, fervently, that it were him under Vanth’s boot.
He’s rerun the memory over and over and over again. He can’t get it out of his head. Every time he closes his eyes he sees the movement begin in Vanth’s hips, imagines the power behind the motion setting off a chain reaction in muscles hidden underneath sturdy canvas that terminates at the solid heel of his boot. It leaves him short of breath each time, the buzzing of his need under his skin like a nest of hornets, growing and growing until it’s the only thing he can feel anymore.
Unseen, Din licks his lips. “I’m not staring.”
Vanth smirks, unconvinced. He slides the corner of his bottom lip against his canines. “Think you’re so sneaky, don’t you. Get to hide your face inside your armor, and think you’re safe from people readin’ you. Makes it all the more poetic, that you wear your heart out on your sleeve like you do.”
“Sure.” Din ducks his head down, intending to work at his blaster again.
“Question is,” Vanth drawls, “what exactly you’ve been starin’ at.” From the motion at the edge of Din’s vision, it seems Vanth has also returned to his tinkering. After a few moments, Vanth stretches his arms over his head, and though Din dies a little imagining how it pushes his chest out, he manages not to look.
But then Vanth hits his heel against the floor again, and on instinct, Din turns to see. Immediately, Din knows he’s been made.
Vanth’s wild eyes gleam. “Didn’t figure you for that kinda guy, Mando.”
“I’m not.” Din swallows, willing his heart to go back to its home between his ribs. “Usually.”
Huffing a little chuckle, Vanth shows his teeth. “Just me, then? Flatterer.” He sets his dismantled blaster down, crossing his arms over his chest. “What’re we gonna do with you, huh?”
The question slams Din in the chest like a blaster bolt. He needs two deep breaths before he’s confident that he can answer without his voice wavering. “Who says ‘we’ need to do anything?”
“I s’pose, strictly speakin’, ‘we’ don’t.” Lacing his fingers together behind his head, Vanth reclines back, kicking his feet out to cross at the ankles. He taps the toes of his boots together. From this angle, it’s impossible for Din’s eyes not to wander up the lanes of Vanth’s body, lean and lithe; the way his legs are positioned, the natural “V” of his groin is accentuated as well, bringing the nice soft bulge under his Marshal’s stripes into relief. Din shifts in his seat.
“But seein’ as you’re starin’ again,” Vanth continues, smug as hell, “I think I want to.” He stands, and stalks his way across the room. His boots thud against the floor appealingly with each step, until he comes to a stop before Din and leans over him. “What’ll it be?”
Breathless, Din tilts his chin up so that he can look Vanth in the eye. The buzzing under his skin hits its crescendo; Din thinks he hears it under Vanth’s skin, too. He has to work his throat a few times in order to rasp out, “Whatever you want.”
Vanth snorts, and narrows his eyes at Din. He straightens, and his next words come out as a command. “Get on the ground.”
A shiver rolls through Din. But he does as he’s told, scooting his chair back to make enough room to get up from it and sit down on the floor instead.
“On your back,” Vanth tells him, sending another pleasing tingle down Din’s spine. “That’s it.” Once Din is stretched out along the floor, Vanth paces next to him for a silent moment. Din is compelled to watch, couldn’t tear his eyes away even if he’d wanted to.
Then Vanth comes to a stop beside Din’s shoulder, and plants a boot right on the diamond in the center of his chest.
“This what you want?” Vanth’s voice is pitched low, quiet as the rough whisper of wind skimming off the top of a dune. When Din doesn’t respond, he pushes in just a hair, just enough to make Din feel the weight on his ribs. “Answer me.” His lip is curled into a snarl.
He’s just as beautiful as Din thought he’d be, standing over him like this. “Yes, Marshal,” he pants. “I wanted this.”
Din is rewarded for his honesty with a hard, slow press down into the middle of his chest. He grunts as the air is pushed out from him. Laying a hand along the side of Vanth’s boot, Din strokes at his ankle and calf.
Vanth lets up. “Like that?”
Din nods, helmet scraping against the stone floor. “Yes, thank you.”
“Or, maybe…” Sliding his foot up, Vanth stops when the boot toe is hovering over where Din’s throat is covered by his cloak. “You’d like it here?”
In response, Din wraps his fingers across the top of Vanth’s boot, pulls it towards him. Vanth presses down with his toes like Din’s windpipe is a touchy acceleration pedal: Give it too much gas and you’re headed nowhere good and fast – but coax it down, and you’re in for a hell of a ride. The squeeze on Din’s throat is exquisite, turned absolutely divine when he glances up to see Vanth regarding him with the same disdain that he’d given that Pyke. The way his lips are half-pursed frames his nose prettily; Din feels a little stupid as he’s slapped with the urge to pull his helmet off and kiss it.
Vanth holds his toes down until Din’s breathing is nice and ragged, his hips rolling up into the air in time with his choked exhales. He releases Din, and Din is flooded with endorphins and adrenaline as air is allowed back in his lungs. Making his way down to Din’s feet, Vanth steps in between his legs, coming to a stop at where Din’s erection is straining against the pants of his flightsuit. He traces the outline of Din’s dick with the very tip of his boot’s toe.
“Marshal,” Din groans.
Vanth hums in his throat, looks down at him with something like bloodthirst darkening his eyes. “Think my name’d sound better.”
“Vanth,” he pleads. His breath hitches in his chest. Din’s skin is burning with need, so hard now that it hurts.
Tutting, Vanth sneers and eases up on what little pressure he had been exerting. “Last chance.”
“Cobb,” Din gasps, and Vanth’s taunt gives way to sweetness as he presses his boot down firmly on Din’s aching dick. A filthy moan is wrenched from his throat. His hips jerk up against the sole of Vanth’s boot, and Din feels nearly delirious with the relief of it all.
“There you go,” Vanth soothes. “Get after it, now.”
Eyes just about rolling back in his head, Din grinds his hips up against Vanth’s boot, feeding his lust. As he flicks his gaze up to Vanth, a debauched thrill runs straight to his rigid dick to see Vanth fondling himself through his trousers, lips parted, eyes heavily lidded. When he pulls his hand away, his cock is easily visible; Din whimpers with want, mouth flooding. He wants to keep staring at Vanth’s hard-on jutting out, but when Din looks at his face again Vanth is greedily taking him in and licking at his bottom lip, and it’s all Din can do to whine as those heated eyes pin him in place.
Din is so close now – can Vanth feel how fast and hard his cock is throbbing now, even through the thick leather sole separating them? He thinks he knows the answer by how Vanth’s breath is quickened now, how he squeezes at himself with a tight fist through his clothes.
“Cobb, please,” he begs. “More, please.”
“Shh, shh,” Vanth murmurs. “You’re okay, I got you.”
He pushes in with his boot one final time, twisting it around as he does, and it’s the last thing Din needs to hurtle over the edge sobbing a mix of fuck and thank you. Slowly easing off, Vanth gently rubs along Din’s softening dick to help him eke out the last of his pleasure. Din stays right where he is, until his legs have stopped trembling and he finds his breath again.
Offering him a hand, Vanth hauls him to his feet. “Better?”
“Yeah. Uh.” Din clears his throat. “Thank you.”
He’s treated to a quiet smile that’s genuine and affectionate – nothing like the Marshal he’s just seen, and the contrast almost puts him down on the floor again. “There’s worse ways to spend an afternoon. Now go.” Vanth smacks him on the ass. “To the ‘fresher with you.”
Din stumbles forward with the force of it. “What–?” He swings around to look at Vanth, and is stopped cold in his tracks by the sharp, wicked gleam in his eyes as he grins, baring his teeth. He’s already undoing his shirt.
“You didn’t think I was gonna let you get off that easy, did you?”