Unhealthy Obsessions

Din knows little of Tatooine's people other than the majority are downtrodden in many ways, displaced and forced together, but the harsh environment has been known to breed harsh creatures.

"Are you asking for something?" Din says, attempting to keep his voice low, cold, impassable.

"I might be." The man sets a hand on his hip as he leans against the door frame. " i got a lot of things I can give."

From the cut of his figure and the slip of skin exposed at his waist, din can rightly guess what this man has to offer.

He crosses the street. "How much?"

"Depends on what you ask for." The man's eyes wander over Din's body, likely assessing the value of what he carries. The only pure beskar he has is his helm and any who has dared try touching it never lived to tell the tale. "Depends on how much time an important person like you has."

He stretches out his hand as if to caress Din's breastplate, but Din takes a step back, and the man's hand falls, but his gaze, sharp and undettered, remains.

Hunts are long and lonely, Din's discovered. There's a difference between the intimacy he receives at the Covert with those of the Creed and the type this man is offering.

"I don't have much time," Din says, thinking he might talk himself out of it.

"Strike you a deal then. Half price." The man winks.

"I have a . . . lot of stipulations."

"Good for me I'm a great listener." There's all those teeth again.

A part of him wants to know how sharp this man is. If he's as much of a predator as he seems.

"You seem like you bite."

There's a flash of incisors as the man chuckles. "Now what gives you that impression? Tell you what, hunter, I'll suck you off for half, hm? How does that sound."

He stretches out his hand again and Din lets a solitary finger drift along his bandolier. He then sinks it into an empty slot, and Din allows himself to be pulled into the single room dwelling.

It is sparse, functional, and no perceivable threat as Din toggles the settings on his helmet to scan the walls for any hidden mass. He finds none.

"You like what you see?" the man says as his hands trail to Din's waist, seeking out buckles to relieve and release. He nearly gets a hand on Din's holster and Din grabs his wrist.

"Not that."

"Anything for you." He watches the man sink to his knees and peel apart layers to remove Din's codpiece, freeing his soft cock.

"No teeth," Din says.

"I'll take your cock into my mouth and slip two fingers into your ass to get you ready for me."

Din moans on the other end, a breathy little thing that Cobb eagerly swallows.

"I'd have to get you off at least once before you're even ready for my cock. Get you all relaxed and soft. And after you've come down my throat, I'd get your legs around my hips and--"

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

"Shit," Cobb swears.

"What?" Din says, breathless. "What is it?"

Cobb can only imagine what the Mandalorian looks like now. His flushed skin, warm as his heart pumps more voraciously to fill his cock. Talking over comms only enables so much during moments of intimacy as Cobb hurriedly sets his feet on the ground to slip back into his work denim, sans briefs.

The knock continues, and in Mos Pelgo, most don't bother him off the clock, so it must be an emergency.

"Someone's at the door," he says. "I'll have to bail early."

He hears Din sigh heavily on his ends and Cobb can feel his disappointment.

They both click off, and Cobb, with his rapidly flagging erection, pulls on a shirt that hands low on his thighs to cover what remains of his arousal. And good thing, too, because when he opens the door, he finds his deputy, Jo, on the other side of it. As part of her training, she takes the graveyard shifts until two in the morning before heading in for the night. They have better boundary alarms now than they used to, but a bit of time is needed to ensure people make it home safely.

"What is it?" he asks.

Job's brow wrinkles in a sign of distaste. "Did I catch you at a bad time?"