#ppcupride

Javier Peña was the one to convince him to go out. A DEA agent in town who was part of Rockford's new task force, Javier had a natural way with the ladies, out with a different one every night. Within a few weeks his exploits had become legendary among the rest of Tim's team. Now he's sitting across from the man, gritting his teeth as he glowers at Javier's perpetual smirk, his dark tousled hair, the aviators hanging on the front of his shirt which is already unbuttoned more than Tim would ever do. He can see the man's chest hair for crying out loud.

The woman sitting next to Javier is friends with the woman sitting next to Tim. You'd think they were sisters. Both blonde and bubbly, wearing too much lip gloss and too much hair product and way too much perfume. Tim has never known such flammable women.

"Rockford is the man in charge. Locally, at least," Peña says, raising his beer to the detective. "He's the hardass keeping us all in line."

"I hope not only his ass is hard," Tim's date giggles, her pink-taloned hands squeezing his bicep through his long-sleeve work shirt. He still has his suspenders on, despite Javier telling him to ditch them before they left the station.

Despite himself, Tim is more annoyed than intrigued. He shifts around in his seat, glancing around at the other bar-goers. His date pouts a little, looking to Javi as if he holds the answer. "It's okay, chiquita," he says softly, his thumb stroking her wrist. "Why don't you two angels go powder your noses?" he suggests, and he and Tim get out of their seats to let the women out.

Javi winks and waves at them before they disappear out of sight beneath the neon restrooms sign before his smile drops and his gaze hardens on Tim, still sulking in the booth across from him. "What the hell is your problem?" he hisses.

Tim snaps his head up, eyes narrowed and steely. "What the fuck are you talking about, Peña?"

"You! You're such a goddamn stick in the mud, acting like a pendejo when this beautiful woman is all over you, practically begging to ride your cock. What, you're not into women?"

"Fuck you." Tim's glare is lethal.

Javi mutters something like you wish and leans back in his seat. "Fine. If you want, I'll take them both home with me. Wouldn't be the first time. Just thought I'd share the wealth since you can't get any pussy on your own."

"I can get pussy any time I want," Tim counters, hands on the table as if he's getting ready to fight.

"Okay, man," Javi shrugs, calmly lighting up a cigarette, unaffected by his partner's ire, giving the ladies a smile as they return. "All prettied up for us, huh, dolls? How about another round of cherry margaritas?" He motions to the bartender.

"Gotta take a piss," Tim mutters, giving his date a tired smile as he gets up and heads towards the restrooms at the back.

He doesn't actually have to pee. He just splashes some water on his face, doing a mental countdown of how long he can get away with being in here. He leans over the sink, splashing more water onto the back of his neck, cooling his skin. He doesn't know how he started getting so hot.

Peña comes in, casting a casual glance over at the detective. "You good, man?" he asks, settling in front of a urinal and unzipping his jeans.

"Yeah," Rockford grunts, adding some soap and washing his hands. In the mirror he eyes the younger man, head bowed down as he stands at the urinal. Tim eyes up the man, checking out his broad shoulders, his narrow waist, and he swears he sees Peña's ass clench and unclench-

Shaking his head, Rockford turns off the faucet and heads for the motion-sensored hand dryer, which is taking longer to activate.

"You look pretty worked up," Peña says, washing his hands at the sink. "I could suck your cock for you."

Rockford hears the last part as if he's underwater. His mouth goes dry, heart pumping wildly. "What?"

Peña shrugs, finishing up at the sink and moving towards Rockford at the dryer. "If I suck your cock it might calm you down a bit." He gives the dryer a solid slap and it starts up.

"I'm not- I'm really not-" Tim backs away.

"Not what? Hard? Look down, my friend. You've been hard since I walked in."

Tim groans, not needing to look below his belt to know he's bricked up.

"It's just an offer," Peña says coolly. "I had a feeling you weren't digging that chica by your side tonight. Is that the reason you don't want to be here?" He walks Tim backward until he meets the wall and is effectively trapped. The younger man's smirk grows to a smile. "You were checking out my ass in the mirror, weren't you? And all night you've been eyeing me instead of the sweet piece of ass next to you. You think I don't know what kind of thoughts you have in mind?"

Rockford is speechless, staring at Peña's lips, licking his own as he imagines how they'd feel wrapped around his cock.

"You can tell me to leave," Peña offers. "Tell me to fuck off and I'll go, and we'll forget this ever happened."

This is a way out, a proposition to go back and just be work buddies again.

Instead, Rockford locks the door. "On your knees, agent," he says gruffly.

Peña's mouth fills with saliva as he eagerly unzips Rockford's pants and undoes the button, slowly revealing the detective's boxers: white with red hearts. "Just like the cartoons, eh?" Pena smirks.

"Shut.... up," he moans as the younger man palms him through the material.

"Dios mio," Peña mutters. "I thought I was pretty hung, but you're huge."

"Think you can take it all?" Rockford rasps.

"I guess we'll find out." Peña peels down the underwear and lets Tim's cock free, his girthy length bobbing up, the tip flushed red and already leaking precum. Javi's tongue laps up the pearly bead and grins when he hears Tim groan. "Ever had your cock sucked by another man?" he asks.

"None of your business," Tim grunts. "Put your mouth to work."

Peña complies, giving the crown a languorous lick and enjoying the detective's needy groan. He spits on Tim's rod, using his hand to stroke it to full hardness before descending his lips on Rockford again. Tim sighs, placing his hand on the back of Javi's head and Javi fondles his balls, looking up to see Rockford react. They're already big and swollen. Javi's sure to get a good, thick load out of them.

He spits on it, giving Tim's dick a few tugs, feeling him pulse and twitch in his hand. Javi's tongue caresses the length of it, from base to tip, tongue circling the crown again, teasing, wiggling his tongue into the slit at the top. Rockford groans, his blood on fire as he urges the younger man forward. His breath catches in his throat when Javi's lips wrap around him, taking him into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks.

"Just like that," Tim rasps. "Didn't know you were such a pro.."

"You ain't seen nothin' yet," Peña wears a shit-eating grin as he gives the older man's balls a light squeeze before taking him into his throat, all the way back deep, and Tim nearly blows his load when Javi gags on it. Though his eyes water, he holds onto Tim's thighs, covering his cock in thick saliva. He gives a pitiful moan as Tim's large hand presses on the back of his head, keeping him there.

Peña takes a big gulp of air when Tim finally releases him. His eyes are lust-glazed and dark as he meets the detective's similarly lecherous gaze. "I bet you don't have it in you to fuck me.."

Rockford bends Peña over the sink, turning the agent's head to give a sloppy kiss as he shoves the younger man's jeans down. He raises his brow when he sees that Javi goes commando.

"I don't like restriction," Peña says coolly. Tim grabs a handful of his bare asscheek and smacks it. "I think you just wanted to make it easier for me," he huffs in his ear.

"Grab the condom, it's in my front pocket," Javi tells him, and Rockford finds it, places it on the sink edge. He lubes up his fingers with spit and traces the rim of Peña's ass, watching the agent's face in the mirror. "Damn, you're tight.. and hot," he mutters.

"More," Peña moans, bracing the sink, biceps bulging with the effort. Tim obliges him, stuffing a second thick finger into Javi's anus. Javi bites his lip, letting out a sighing grunt.

"Need more than this?" Rockford mutters, nipping Peña's earlobe with his teeth.

"I can handle it.. can you?" The agent smirks at him in the mirror. In return Rockford pistons his hand, fingering him harder. "I'll give you more, god damn it."

He grabs the condom and rips it open, sheathes his cock with it before teasing it at Javi's ass. Javi's already spitting into his palm and jerking off, his face pink with exertion and anticipation. Tim lands another glob of spit right on Peña's ass and nudges in smoothly, pressing his forearm down on Javi's back as he bottoms out. They both gasp in relief and pleasure.

He moves slow at first, savoring the way Peña's hole tightens around him, sucking him in. "It's what you wanted, isn't it?" Javi's telling him, jaw hung open as he gets stuffed. "You've been thinking about it the past few weeks."

"Jesus. Anyone ever tell you you're a mouthy bottom?" Tim grunts, grabbing hold of Peña's hips and thrusting in deep, smirking when the younger man loses his words, just moans, gripping the sink harder.

The sound of Tim's balls thwacking against the backs of Javi's thighs is resounding in the small room, punctuated by their groans and sighs and muttered curses. Javi's stroking himself in time with Tim's thrusts, ready to spill.

Tim pulls Javi close as he comes, hips stuttering then stilling. Javi wastes no time as soon as Tim disengages, getting rid of the condom. "My turn, detective," he says, and Rockford goes on his knees to finish him off.

It's sloppy work, nothing like the precise and thoughtful steps he takes in his work. Rockford is all tongue and spit, barely intelligible, begging for Peña's come. Peña grabs his hair, pulling him roughly against him. His pubic hairs tickle Tim's nose as he keeps him there, a small taste of his own medicine from earlier. He thrusts in roughly a few times, throat fucking him until he comes, his hot white spend shooting into the detective's mouth.

"Oh shit, they're gone." Javi states the obvious as they emerge from the men's room, cleaned up but still a little disheveled.

"Oh no." Tim's voice is flat, relief flooding his veins.

"Think we should find out where they went?"

"Nah.. badge bunnies come and badge bunnies go." Peña leans against the bar, lighting a cigarette as he settles the bill. "Wanna come back to my place?"

"What do you think?" Tim grants him a quick wink before they leave.

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Tatoo-1 is at its zenith, its twin only starting to rise above the dunes, heralding the hottest hours of the day. 

“What happened?” Din’s words thankfully carry above the comm’s feedback, the rumbling engines and the disharmony of his thoughts.

A pause – a few heartbeats too long for comfort – follows, before Boba’s voice comes through. Gritty and, dare he says, ruffled. “Cad Bane attacked Freetown. There are casualties.” 

Guilt blooms, pooling from Din’s heart to his veins, scarily similar to an acid lizard bite. “Who called?”

“Nearby Tusken tribe saw fumes and tipped us off.”

“I already dispatched a team from Bestine,” Fennec chimes in, and it feels dissonant to hear her while looking at her back. Din didn’t use to rely on people’s faces to carry a conversation out – this life has weakened him. “They’ll touch down shortly before us.”

“We tried reaching out to anyone in Freetown?”

“No one’s picking up. Yet,” Fennec comments, but it doesn’t soften the blow.

Despite the insulation his beskar’gam provides, Din feels sick, the heat weighing on him while his mind plays the worst outcomes over and over like a damaged holo. He grips the handlebars of his speeder bike with every ounce of strength, fighting to keep it from crashing.

Boba interjects, “We make a stop in Freetown to evaluate the situation. The Tuskens said Bane’s making his way to Mos Espa, most likely to break the news to the Syndicate. We’ll track him down there, just as planned.” 

A very matter-of-fact, data-driven part of Din’s brain recognises that they do stand a chance against the Pykes, who, while currently benefitting from the favours of the most unsavoury citizens in the Outer Rim, have nothing on the Hutts. Boba’s endeavour embodies fairness, and he carries himself with an alor’s confidence, steady yet tenacious. For all that he refuses to assume the name, he makes a better example of the mandokar than Din. Even now, sunlight glinting on the scuff marks of his conspicuous green buy’ce, his legitimacy as a leader remains beyond question

Din wonders if Boba’s more incensed that Bane disregarded his law or that he dared threaten the villagers under his protection. He can’t stop thinking about them, the former slaves and the miners and all the hard-working people struggling to survive in a harsh environment. Can’t prevent his mind from picturing their bodies, wounds bleeding under the relentless suns. Can’t escape the flashes of fleeing his home world to stay a lonesome Mandalorian until he almost died in the process. Can’t quit wondering about the one man he’d trust with his son.

Din is used to death. But that doesn’t mean he has the slightest inkling of what he’ll do if Cobb Vanth – someone he’s grown so fond of, someone he swore he’d protect like he’s clan – is beyond saving.

Still, they make good time and, upon crossing the eastern border of the settlement formerly known as Mos Pelgo, Din mentally reaches, deep down into his viscera, and pulls. His breath wheezes and his womb twitches like a phantom limb until a cold efficiency replaces the guilt and the hurt and the sheer worry. Feeling his hard-honed awareness of their surroundings come back online, as bright as an imperial vessel on the Crest’s radar screen, tastes sweeter than anything he could find on a market stall.

This is the Way.

The town stands quiet, like the prelude to a sandstorm. No Tuskens selling wares, no children playing in the streets, no Marshall hailing passersby from the city hall porch. Din is grateful for the clarity of his thoughts and the steadiness of his heartbeat in this unusual atmosphere.

Finally, they notice two beings guarding the entrance of the cantina; an orange-skinned Twi’lek and a blue-eyed Pantoran, both wearing an identical set of light-brown leather armour with green accents – Boba’s colours – and heavy weaponry.

Din watches keenly as the Twi’lek talks in hushed tones, lekku punctuating her words in a way that Din has yet to master, despite his affinity with various sign languages. Fennec likely understands, though, because the next instant she shoves Din back and Boba, sans helmet, looks in their direction, something complicated passing through his dark pupils.

“What’s happening?” Din demands, clipped.

“We’re not coming in,” Boba says, steely and final. 

Din bristles and tries to fight back against Fennec, but she has the element of surprise on her side. All he manages is to make the dry sand swirl around them, the same colour as the scarf covering her head. “Why?”

“People have been hurt, and I know you care about them. Personally,” Boba explains, maintaining an alor’s composure, confident he’ll be obeyed. “You must stay focused. We need to locate Bane and end this bloodshed.”

Din wishes he could find a compelling reason to challenge him, but his rational, efficient state won’t allow it. Boba is right, factually so. They must burn the Syndicate down, and Din can’t do that if his thoughts are plagued with sticky guilt and the faces of the innocent townsfolk, whom he rallied to their cause.

So, Din nods, and Fennec’s hold on him loosens a fraction. Boba remains vigilant, but his stance conveys approval. He turns back to the guards, issuing instructions that Din filters out except for the fact that the wounded will travel to the palace by aircraft.

They depart on their speeders not five minutes later, heading straight south to Mos Entha where they gather more troops, then north-west to Mos Espa.

(...)

Cad Bane is holed up somewhere when they show up, but there are plenty of Pykes to decimate in the meantime. Din enters a flow state, battling with a focus and efficiency of movement that would surely please his former masters of arms. He barely registers the deafening sound level, lost in the ceaseless counting of breaths as fighters on both sides fall left and right in a flurry of red blaster shots.

Din pours his training, his self-loathing and his despair in the swift strikes of his spear, warm and heavy in his slightly singed gloved hands. It’s a dance, hypnotising and deadly, one he knows how to play.

As a brief pause allows Din to regroup, he assumes that Cobb will be among the casualties. The Marshall has always protected his town fiercely, and Din can’t picture a world where he would let anyone get away with the murder of innocent people.

It’s almost enough to make the guilt rear its ugly head again. Cobb had alerted him that spice dealers didn’t take too kindly to revolutionaries, and while Din believes in the wisdom of experience, he neglected to consider that their well-informed enemies might attack Freetown as a warning.

And if he’s right, if Cobb took the brunt of the assault to spare the townsfolk, Din doesn’t reckon he can forgive himself. Forget the mandokar; he’s certain that no culture can absolve a fault like his. 

As the fight picks up after their main target’s arrival, Din lets his thoughts dissolve once again. He is a well-oiled gear in their militia, a cog in the machine, focused on the collective goal. His spear in one hand, a modified blaster in the other, he joins the mêlée.

In the end, Boba’s ornate gaderffii brings an end to the conflict, leaving Din proud to stand beside him. While he doubts that he’ll one day kneel to another alor, this is close enough to rebalance his world.

In the end, Cad Bane dies before Din learns the extent of what he has to atone for.

In the end, the blood seeps into the sand, and the victors go home to bury their dead and rest until the circle of violence calls them back.

(...)

Upon their return to the palace around the twenty-sixth hour, Din is enrolled in damage control – which Senator Organa, bless her terrifying efficiency, calls image management. It’s early morning on Chandrila, the sky a pale yellow through the screen, but her and Chancellor Mothma, impeccably dressed, take turns advising them. Both politicians agree that showcasing that Fett won’t tolerate dissidents in his sector is a sensible course of action, as he has more to earn than to lose, especially now that he’s been reminded to protect his vassals better.

Fett will convey an impressive warning to whoever thought they could revive Jabba the Hutt’s legacy.

(Witnessing Organa’s disgusted scowl when the name comes up, Din assumes than her grudge goes beyond her senatorial duties, and he regrets, once again, not knowing more about galactic history.)

Din has been on his feet just short of a full day when he finally thanks them for their assistance.

“Go to bed, Djarin,” Organa orders him, something almost tender lurking in her expression. She’s a mother, only he’s not a boy any more. “Fett can count himself lucky to have such a dedicated ally, but even heroes need rest.” 

It’s all he can do not to scoff before he vacates the chair to let another guard relay him.

After making sure that the patrols have been doubled and that there’s no one in need of help in the throne room, Din has to face the inevitable and starts walking towards the med bay, two floors up in the secondary tower.

Nothing prepared him for the sight of Cobb’s body, a trickle of dried blood on his left temple and sweat-soaked hair plastered to his forehead, despite the relative cool air of the chamber. If not for his mangled limb, bound to his chest and covered with a sheet, he’d appear unharmed. Din finds this unmoving version of him deeply unsettling, and realises that he never even spotted the man with his eyes closed. 

A med droid recounts Cobb’s injuries from across the room, though most of the jargon flows right over Din’s head. What few words he understands – shattered; torn; concussion; blood loss – paint a sombre recovery.

Din learned first aid along his age mates in the Covert. He knows how to set a dislocated shoulder up and dress a wound. He can fashion a splint or a crutch out of anything, and he can pick up plants and powders to hinder or enhance fertility and to help with fever, infection, cramps and water contamination on the market stalls of various planets. The Armourer also taught him how to brew synthetic testosterone, for which Din is inordinately grateful now that he’s dar’manda and estranged from them.

Despite these skills, he’s pretty much useless for Cobb now. Worse, he caused his current predicament. Din persuaded Cobb to join Boba’s war against the spice dealers, and Cobb chose to trust Din rather than following the number of townsfolk who disagreed. 

All of a sudden, Skywalker’s decision to conceal the whereabouts of his Jedi Academy becomes clear. Din’s heart bangs against his ribcage at the thought of a gummy smile and bright eyes. His ad’ika. Safe, somewhere in the galaxy. 

Fennec interrupts his spiral with a kick to the shin. “We need to wake him up and talk him through his options,” she says, one brow cocked, daring him to contradict her. 

(He won’t. More than thirty percent of her body is fashioned out of bionic parts because he left her in the desert to die. He has no ground to stand on in this matter.)

Cobb is wide-eyed and dazed like a spooked bantha when the epinephrine pumped into his bloodstream brings him back to consciousness. His tightly bound arm doesn’t prevent him from thrashing around, his memory jumping straight back into the duel. The heart monitor emits a series of increasingly distressed sounds that just serves to agitate him further.

Din is at his side instantly, touching his wrist and talking to him. “Vanth. You’re in Fett’s palace.” You’re hurt.”

The unbridled despair in Cobb’s eyes is unlike anything Din has seen before. 

“Come on,” Din says, disregarding the unravelling threads of his soul. “Breathe.” He rubs Cobb’s sternum with his bare hand, noticing that he must have shed his singed gloves earlier. It makes his fingers tingle.

Laboured breath by laboured breath, Cobb’s agitation subsides. Din continues to speak and gently massage his chest and left arm.

“Cad Bane set an ambush in town. He shot you in the shoulder.”

Cobb’s body seems to sink deeper onto the cot as the words reach him. He remains silent until his eyes fall on the cloth binding his injured limb.

“How bad?”

Fennec steps in and states, “The extent of the nerve damage in your joint is too severe for the bacta to be sufficient. We’re concerned about a significant loss of the range of motion.”

Din figures that her bluntness is likely the most effective in this situation. He is grateful for her, as his mind feels as muddled as a krill pool after a rainstorm.

“So what?” Cobb asks, raising his head at last to meet Din’s gaze straight on, uncanny through the helmet. It chills him to the bones when it used to light his insides ablaze. “I either lose my arm, or get a new one. A hell of a bargain, isn’t it, partner?”

He finally inches away from Din, who takes a step back, quietly inhaling through his nostrils.

Din says, “I’m sorry,” because what else is there to do?

“Guess you’re gonna have to cut it, since there’s no way I got enough credits for a fancy gizmo.” Though Cobb’s one-sided shrug is well practised in its apparent carefreeness, Din is struck by the steely resolve in Cobb’s eyes. Despite his current predicament, he’s someone who stared at Death and came back to tell the tale, more than once. 

Din would like to believe they’re the same, but he’s not so certain Cobb would gladly take the comparison.

“Fett will fund it, whatever your decision ends up to be,” Fennec elaborates, shooting Din a chastising glance, who’s well aware he’s not contributing much. “A Mod is coming. I trust them.” Her emphasis works: Cobb gets her meaning, because he’s smart like that. 

“How’s recovery?” He asks, choosing to meet her gaze.

She has taken her veil off, and she looks fierce even with a messy braid and tendrils of black hair stuck to her forehead. “A bitch,” she says, the slightest ghost of amusement on her face.

Din watches Cobb shake his head, but his expression has less edge than earlier. “Figures. Well. Fett’s offering, so it would be mighty dumb to turn it down now. I can always sell the arm to hire m’self a militia if things get dire in the future.”

It pierces through Din’s ribcage like a spear, and he chokes, grateful for the way the helmet muffles the humiliating sound of his breakdown. Fennec furrows her brow, but Cobb doesn’t even gaze in his direction. 

“Scott’s dead, isn’t he?” he asks, lower jaw tightening.

“He is,” Din grits out instead of an apology, after a pointed look from Fennec.

Cobb sighs, forlorn and serious, his responsibility weighing on him like a full beskar’gam. Then: “I trust you’ve dealt with the Syndicate?”

Din twists one wrist behind his back until the pain helps him focus enough to form sentences. “We have. Mos Espa is clear, and we’ve sent warnings to others who might entertain the same delusions of grandeur.”

“Copy that,” Cobb hums, the lines on his forehead deepening as his heartbeat picks up, the unnatural sound of the monitor echoing between them. “Get this over with, then.” He gestures around himself with his left arm. “So me an’ my people can go home for good.”

Din has to unclench his jaw through sheer force of will. He feels brittle; ready to explode. His wrist aches, but not enough. “We will look after them,” he vows. He won’t fail again, no matter the cost. This is the Way.

Cobb’s answering smile is joyless; dry like the desert soil during a winter drought.

Din leaves the room shortly after Cobb’s breathing and heartbeat deepen as he’s brought back under. 

He avoids looking at Fennec, and she makes no effort to stop him.

(...)

Din keeps his head down and his stance threatening as he makes for his quarters, three flights of stairs under the throne room, in a secluded, dimly lit corridor. The air is cooler, this far underground, and Din appreciates the tranquillity. The place offers simple fare – a bed catering for his larger frame and a locking cabinet for his weapons, with the exception of the darksabre, hidden among the riches in Boba’s stores. There’s a shared fresher nearby, clean enough, since most of Boba’s private guards accepted better accommodations in the watch tower, while the guests are hosted in the secondary building. 

His spear and armour end up piled on the bed, the quilt smelling faintly of molo shrub flowers muffling the crystalline noise of beskar. Din glowers into the buy’ce’s visor, and his distorted reflection stares back until he can’t stand the introspection any more. 

Clad in only his kute, Din tiptoes to the fresher with his head down. He locks the door, sheds his remaining garment without looking down, and steps into the sonic shower, letting the rhythmic sound wash over him in lieu of water.

While he’s not a proper strategist like Bo-Katan Kryze, he has survived until now, and mostly on his own. He has decades of capture techniques, hiding places and weapon blueprints stocked into the hardware that makes up the mind of a successful hunter. He can’t prevent them from churning, as the pulse vibrations remove a day’s worth of dirt, blood and sweat from his scarred body. The multiple escape routes blend with the faces of his bounties in-between flashes of Moff Gideon on Nevarro, all bathed in the acrid smell of black melon.

Once Din starts heaving, it’s not long until he’s throwing up bile down the drain, some of it splashing on his feet. Afterwards, he uses the meagre trickle from the sink to rinse his mouth of the bitter taste, grateful for the luxury of running water.

After that, he goes through the motions in a daze, ignoring the cramping of his insides. He retrieves a half-empty tin of expired bacta and applies most of it to a particularly nasty gash along his thighbone. He hadn’t even noticed that his kute was torn, nor had the pain stopped him. The wound closes before his eyes, and the angry red of the skin lightens to a pale pink until a mottled line appears, similar to a few days old scar. He rubs the rest of it on various cuts and bruises, unwilling to revive that time Fennec herself dragged him to the med bay to subject him to a droid.

He makes himself drink water and clean his beskar’gam before sitting on the bed in fresh clothes.

His internal clock tells him that Tatoo-1 is only a couple of hours away from rising, the night sky adorned with Ghomrassen and Chenini’s twin shapes. 

(He sleeps and dreams of his foundling, gummy smile closing around an unfortunate frog that has Skywalker’s hair and a Mythosaur face.)

(...)

Din keeps himself busy the next few days, dragging his body around to lend his help to whoever needs it, since Boba won’t give him official missions. For some reason, the Tusken woman who made the kitchen her responsibility takes a shine to him. Her bright waist sash and the number of teeth stitched onto the fabric like beads – some of which, he guesses, being human canines – mark her as an elder and a respected member of her nomadic community. Din quickly learns that she’s a widow, thrice over, and that her last husband was chieftain; she signs with efficient gestures, over giant pots of whatever grains they have to accompany the bantha meat and spicy stews favoured by the desert tribes. 

After she sees him licking his pepper-stained fingers, having forgone the helmet some time before, she tells him to call her grandmother – knocking her left fist on top of the right, then tapping the three middle fingers of her left hand against her right palm twice. It’s an honour, and Din treats it as such, although he did nothing to deserve it. He’s just lucky the Tuskens and the Mandalorians have a similar taste for dishes that make the eyes water.

He helps her cook for their added guests, more and more of them daily, as news of their victory reaches further lands, and tribes and hunters and farmers feel safe to travel again, or, more likely, wanting information they can trade in the Outer Rim. 

His mind calms when he’s working; it has something to focus on, and Ushib won’t tolerate distractions. Food is too precious to be wasted on this planet. At night, though, it won’t settle. Din paces the lower levels corridors, cleans his weapons until they shine like the pools on Sorga and takes shifts in the watch tower for so long he can see the horizon line with his eyes closed.

(Cobb spends five days in the bacta tank. Din can’t bring himself to visit him.)

(...)

“Eat,” Boba orders, setting a full plate of grains, charred meat and sauce in front of Din, who looks up from the ancient plans of the palace he’s annotating, unimpressed. They’re in the comm room, and the idea of Boba carrying it all the way from the kitchen would be funny if Din were in the mood to entertain levity.

“I’m working,” he comments instead of a more sincere, “I thought you were off world.”

“Don’t make me force you, Djarin,” Boba sighs, rubbing a scarred hand down his face. “Ushib said it’s bad manners not to try the food you cooked.”

“There’s no such concept in her language,” Din scoffs – and while he suspects the woman understands more Basic than she lets on, that’s neither here nor there.

Boba stares at Din longer than warranted, but Din doesn’t flinch. As piercing as Boba’s gaze can be, Din’s Alor could make even the fiercest warrior confess their sins with their voice alone, and he’s not an anooba cub any more.

Boba pushes the plate closer to Din until red sauce threatens to spill on the brittle flimsi of the plans. “My point stands. You’re not gonna be of any use to me if you don’t fuel your body.”

Din wants to keep fighting, but he’s never seen Boba look so weary, not since he got his armour back. Exhaustion lines his eyes, and his shoulders are slumped under the cover of his pauldrons.

“It’s penitence,” Din caves at last, because he can’t make himself pick up the spoon, nor show the closest thing he has to a brother any rudeness. Crossing his arms over his chest, he dares meet Boba’s gaze, which has turned intrigued rather than irritated. 

Information is Daimyo Fett’s currency, and soon, all of Tatooine will be aware of that change.

“Explain.”

“I am beroya,” Din says, shrugging, as if it’s no big deal, as if he didn’t fight his whole life for this honour. (As if he didn’t lose Paz over the title.) “I protect the covert. They always come first. I have the freedom – so my needs don’t matter. Medicine, shelter, food; if I can’t supply those for my tribe, then I don’t deserve to enjoy them either.”

Boba opens his mouth, then closes it. Din’s insides twist. It feels vulnerable to share this, especially given Boba’s lack of care for the mandokar.

“That’s stupid,” Boba proves him right, eventually. “If you die, who will provide for them?”

Din sighs. It’s surreal to discuss this with the son of a true Mandalorian, yet someone his covert wouldn’t call theirs. Someone who shows their face, who follows their rules and bends them as needed. Someone whose mando’a words sound holy. Together, perhaps they make one, whole. “If I die, then I didn’t deserve to be beroya, not completely. And they appoint another warrior.”

“That’s it?” Boba is goading him on; Din recognises the fighter’s glint in his eyes.

“That’s it,” He confirms, feeling the beginning of a headache coming. Between them, the steam from the plate is waning.

“You know, that’s probably why people consider Death Watch a cult.”

Din’s whole frame tenses, and he’s grateful he hasn’t eaten yet because the smell only makes him want to throw up again. He resents his body’s novel inability to cope with anything, deeply.

“If you’re trying to convince me, you’re wasting your time.”

They’re both silent for a moment. Contemplating. Fennec once hinted that the younger Boba had none of the older one’s patience. Din figures that getting digested alive by a sarlacc would at least give you that, if you made it out of its entrails – a feat nobody but Boba had achieved, in hearsay.

“I have more to say. You mentioned penitence,” Boba nods, and it looks almost appropriately respectful. He’s shifting gears, then; trying to outsmart Din in that infuriating, calculating way of his. “However, that’s not all. You threw yourself on the sword for your people, but you’ve changed lately,” Boba hand waves, “since you’ve started declaring you’re dar’manda”. Though the word is brutal, the harshest anyone like him can hear, Din finds some twisted comfort in the sacred language. “You’re punishing yourself on another level. Regaining control of the situation? I don’t believe you to be out of control. No, I think you can’t handle the guilt.”

Din feels stricken, raw, seen like the first he removed his helmet and people actually met his gaze. Not a Mando’ in shiny armour, just a human. Fragile flesh and bones in a shell of beskar, lines on his face, grey in his hair.

He needs to claw his way out; it’s blocking his windpipes, making him lightheaded. He can’t escape, though. Not his emotions, and not this situation. Fennec had let him go, but that was days ago.

“Stop,” he says, quiet and low. Please.

But of course, Boba doesn’t listen. He’s not scared of Din and worse, he’s confident he has a valid point to make. He starts quoting a proverb in mando’a, and it takes a few seconds for Din’s brain to retrieve its Basic equivalent. The last word sticks with him; manda’yaim; the homeworld of his forebears, before the Empire glassed it and made it inhospitable, scattering its surviving inhabitants all over the galaxy.

“Regard your people as your beloved children, and they will follow you to Mandalore,” Din grits out, reverent yet resenting Boba’s scheme. 

“My point is,” Boba adds, ignoring Din’s darkening mood, “you’re you, so of course you would. But leaders can’t let guilt overwhelm them if their people get hurt in the pursuit of a shared goal.” The fact that you’re blaming yourself for endangering Vanth, that you wish you hadn’t involved him? You’re effectively implying that you know better and that you don’t respect his decision. He opted to side with us; and yes;” he adds when Din, incensed beyond measure, attempts to interrupt; “You went there on my behalf, which should tell you to fault me, instead of yourself.”

“I do,” Din mutters, mulishly.

Boba barks out a laugh.

“Good. You presented him with facts, and, despite many of his people trying to lead him towards caution – self-preservation, actually – Vanth still followed you. Because he had faith in your venture. Look at it this way; would you imagine me feeling guilt over you not meeting your foundling near enough?”

Din frowns, confusion interspersed with frustration. “My son is at school on another planet. I chose to be by your side.”

“Exactly,” Boba says. “Vanth might not be happy with us at the moment. Who would blame him after getting shot and losing his people? But he’ll grieve and we’ll find a path to repair the relationship in the future. You need to work on your guilt before it poisons you, vod.”

It’s the fact that Boba’s voice turns pleading – and perhaps the term of endearment – that does it. Din yields. He sighs, most of his frustration escaping his body with the exhale. It’s replaced with bone-deep weariness, the likes of which he can see on Boba’s face. “How’s Vanth doing?” he inquires.

“He’s been out of the tank since yesterday night,” Boba remarks.

Din knows. Ushib is not above gossip, and he has ears. The palace resembles a beehive these days, with noise travelling even through the sturdy sandstone walls.

“Not what I asked.”

Boba raises a hairless eyebrow, then glances at the plate pointedly.

“Eat.”

It is no more appetising than it was before, but Din likes Ushib’s cooking, and perhaps the spice will melt the nausea. Throwing one last dark look at the man who calls himself his brother, Din takes the spoon and digs in.

--

It takes him two more days to muster the nerve to visit Cobb in the med bay. While his own injuries have all resorbed, he’s not sure he can say the same about the Marshall’s. He’s heard the Mod has left, meaning the prosthesis must be suitable.

Din eats, but he doesn’t sleep. The talk with Boba relieved some of his guilt, but more feelings emerged in its wake: anger, shame, and longing. Coming to the conclusion that he couldn’t have prevented the carnage doesn’t help in the least. Ushib whacking him over the head with a serving tray hasn’t, either, so before knocking on Cobb’s door, Din goes through the familiar process and pulls into his entrails, tearing through vessels and soft tissues with his mind until he can bury his emotional burden there. 

(He can taste blood. It’s easier that way.)

A voice comes from the inside, and Din enters.

The room is fuller than Din ever witnessed in the med bay, a testament to Cobb’s importance for the townsfolk. A folding table has been brought to display an assortment of treats and dried desert flowers – an unthinkable luxury. A handwoven shawl in blue shades covers the cot, its design hard to make out from a distance. And of course, there’s its occupant himself, standing tall and vaguely puzzled, wearing a short, sleeveless shirt and linen pants in muted colours.

Din doesn’t intend to look, but it’s hard not to. Cobb’s prosthetic arm is white and metallic, gleaming like beskar under the fluorescent light. It’s fastened to what remains of his shoulder, fading red lines disappearing below the fabric. 

“Vanth,” Din speaks, standing as he would before his Alor, awaiting punishment. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

The man regards him closely for a moment, his gaze searching. Their eyes meet, except this time Din isn’t wearing his buy’ce. Even at a distance from his feelings, the prolonged contact burns through his veins.

“Not my house,” Cobb says eventually, casual as anything. “What brings you here, Mando?”

“I wanted to apologise. Properly, this time.”

Cobb looks at him again, and Din gets the sense that he has, somehow, answered wrong. Cobb does an admirable job of disguising any reaction beyond that, though, “Go on, then.”

Din blinks, unnerved by the nonchalant compliance. “I am sorry we didn’t honour our part of the bargain. I am so sorry we let harm befall you and your people by negligence. While it couldn’t compare to your loss, name your price and I will pay it.”

“You have no idea what Fett offered, have you?”

Shaking his head, Din declares, “It doesn’t matter. This debt – it’s between you and me. I asked you to join our fight.”

“That you did, Mando. And you know what? I wouldn’t have agreed had it been anyone else but you.”

Din embraces the blow; he meant it when he said he’d meet Cobb’s price. “I understand.”

Cobb’s expression does something unbearable before he speaks again. “I’ll accept your apology if you can show me the same level of dedication you offer Fett.”

Din stiffens noticeably. “How so?” Has Boba approved of handing his loyalty over to the Marshall?

“Keep me and mine safe,” Cobb shrugs, as if he’s not twisting a knife in Din’s scabbed wounds. “Help me train until I can do that by myself. Then we’ll be even.”

Casting his eyes downward to escape his increasingly circular thoughts, Din figures he can’t ask whether that’s all without diminishing the townsfolk’s lives. Nor can he tell Cobb that he should want Din on the other side of the galaxy, instead of close enough to hurt him again.

In his peripheral vision, he notices fresh tattoos; fine lines in black ink wrapping around both of Cobb’s bare ankles. 

Broken chains.

Din chokes, this time without the helmet to muffle the sound. Cobb’s eyes soften, impossibly. Shame makes Din take a step back, and he grits out, “If those are your terms, I’ll follow them. This is the Way.” And then, because the pressure of the gaze on him is too great, he nods and leaves.

(...)

Despite Din’s ungainly escape, he knocks on Cobb’s door the following day, and the one after that, which slowly turns into weeks. He still patrols at night and seeks solace in his silent room when the palace’s commotion becomes overwhelming. More often than not, he can be found in the med bay, where Cobb elected to remain even though he doesn’t require around-the-clock medical care any more. He says he likes the view of the dunes through the windows because the houses in Freetown are mostly underground, and who is Din to begrudge him such a small comfort?

The phantom pain strikes hard at first. Accustomed to stay active, Cobb relies on isometric exercise every other hour, which has the added benefit of maintaining his range of motion. At night, when all he can do is lie on his cot, he swallows serotonin pills, which alter pain perception without weakening the strength of his residual limb, an outcome he’s terrified of.

In between learning how to don and doff the prosthesis, Cobb goes through a loop of complicated feelings, a process understood as the stages of grief – Skywalker, of all beings, explains it to Din at the end of a parent child comm call that sees Din looking wistfully at the pixelated face of his beaming son. 

(Din also discovers that Skywalker is Senator Organa’s twin brother and realises that people in the palace bet on him not knowing things. It makes Cobb’s eyes shine with unrestrained mirth, which causes Din’s stomach to swoop.)

Sometimes Cobb’s angry enough to want Din out of his sight, despite Din’s promise to help. Sometimes he’s devastated, staring into the distance and refusing to look at either of his arms. Sometimes he throws himself desperately in his physical training, unwilling to accept less of his abilities.

In every instance, Din is present, whether wearing his buy’ce, bareheaded, clad in mundane clothes like Cobb or impersonating an avenging spirit, all polished beskar and leather straps.

At some point, they start eating together, and Ushib stops finding more creative ways to hit Din over the head. Cobb gains control over his prosthetic arm, flexing and positioning the elbow, supinating and pronating the wrist until he can lace his shirt, style his hair and hold Din’s spear.

Sitting so close their legs are almost touching, they get to know each other. Despite it being the lingua franca among traders and pilots in numerous planetary systems, Cobb’s Bocce is more practised than Din’s, but Din can read Aurebesh and High Galactic scripts. They both understand Huttese, though they wish they didn’t.

About his ankle tattoos, Cobb reveals, “It felt good to control the pain, for once. I could have said stop at any time. Didn’t realise how much I needed that before I went and did it.”

In return, Din tells him about his perception of his body and how it has evolved since he was a child. He confesses that no Mandalorian ever questioned his gender, but that he’s less confident in the company of others, especially now that he’s foregoing his beskar’gam more and more. 

Lying side by side on the blue quilt, they speak about the people they’ve loved and the ones they’ve lost. 

Somewhere along the way, Cobb starts smiling again, and it’s the brightest thing.  

Somewhere along the way, Din realises his guilt deserves to be laid to rest.

Somewhere along the way, Cobb says, “I’d choose this, if you let me.”

a/n: the main story is done for now but I have over 3k of smut that needs to be reread with a clear head + more ideas for these two. thanks so much for reading!!!

Din does.

sources: cobb's prosthesis, feudalism, shoulder amputation, mando'a glossary

credits: Ushib's name belongs to Iridan's a simple thing (imo the best tatooine lore in the fandom), and Boba's quote is a personal take on "Treat your men as you would your own beloved son, and they will follow you to the deepest valley," from Sun Tzu in his Art of War.

the first time you met him, he was on edge, he couldn’t keep his eyes focused for a second. there’s only one reason you come to this section of town, he knows it, everyone else knows, and most importantly he knows that everyone else knows. 

he flicked his eyes up at you, his scuffed shoes making the most noise on the street. you tilted your head and smiled at him. he rubbed his shaved head, showing you his body in his wife beater and tight jeans. he slipped a wad of cash out of his back packet, subtly pointing it in your direction. you walked up next to him and took the cash from him. 

“¿dónde?” you asked. 

“mi casa,” all his words were let out in a groan, “sígueme.” you followed him slightly out of town in to a quaint suburban area. he brought you up the steps into his small house. he turned around finally to look at you, his brown eyes glinting in the darkness. you could tell how desperate he was to touch you. he slowly brought his hands to your waist, watching to check if you were okay with him touching you. he was soft through the whole experience, only ever tugging on your hair when you asked for it. it was clearly his first time doing this kind of thing. 

the next times he saw you he was a lot more confident. he’d call you over from across the street, calling you “chico” and he’d fuck you like you’ve never been fucked in your life. he was rough, a brutal fuck to be honest, but he had his moments of sensuality and softness. his flirtiness, his roughness, his softness, and his insistence on never kissing confused the hell out of you. he only let you stay for the morning the first time you had sex, every other time he kicked you out as soon as you finished. 

you’re not sure if he hates you, he does keep coming back, three times a week, but you’re almost certain he doesn’t like you. outside of your sexual interactions he’s completely cold to you, he won’t even look at you. 

tonight is like most nights. rather slow, the occasional guy asking how much for a blowjob, but that’s about it. you see two guys walk up to you. you can tell immediately they aren’t customers, nobody comes to you in pairs. 

“ay faggot,” one of the guys calls, “why don’t you fuck off, we don’t want you here.” you ignore them. you’re not unfamiliar with bigots. 

“oi, maricón,” the other guy snaps, “we told you to get out of here.” they’re closer to you now, about a metre. that’s about the distance where you start to back off. 

“hey, fuckheads,” you hear a voice yelling behind the men before you see one of the guys drop to the ground. in his place you see the man you’ve been fucking for the past months. the other guy freaks out, grabbing his unconscious friend and scurrying away. 

the man stands in front of you, tall and handsome with his wife beater and jeans and his buzzcut. his eyes shine in the darkness the way they shone the first time you met. 

“why?” you ask, softly. 

“why?” the man scoffs, “because i don’t want you to get hurt, that’s why.” he stares at you like you’re stupid.

“lo siento, wey,” you scoff, “i don’t even know your name and you expect me to think you care about me?” his frown melts into shame. 

“paulino,” you tilt your head at him, “mi nombre.” you smile.

“okay… paulino.”.ll.

“do you…uh,” paulino drops his head, “wanna come back to my place? w–we don’t have to do anything, i just wanna make sure you’re okay.” you nod. you follow him to the same house you go to every other day, at the same hours. 

he flops back onto his bed, patting the spot next to him. you fall down next to him, turning your head to face him. you feel his hand slip into yours and you squeeze it gently.

“this is probably the most intimate interaction i’ve had in a while,” you laugh. paulino pushes up, turning to hover over you. he lowers himself down on you gently, running a hand through your hair. you catch his gentle eyes, wanting so badly to kiss him but knowing his rules. he drops his head down into your neck, breathing deeply. 

“you smelling me, paulito?” you chuckle, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. 

“mhmm,” he mumbles into your neck, “¿hay problema?” 

“no,” you smile. he slips his arms under your torso, slipping his legs under yours. you wrap your legs around his. his hug is tight but comfortable. you haven’t felt so close to someone in years. you’re sure paulino hasn’t either. his head nuzzles softly against yours. you feel his crotch push against you as he lets out a whimper.

“¿quieres?” you ask, softly. paulino shakes his head. 

“no esta noche,” he mutters, “i just wanna hold you. i’ve wanted to for so long.” you pat the back of his head. he lifts his head from your neck and leans towards your lips. he waits a moment to see if you’ll pull away before kissing you. you immediately kiss back. finally you get to kiss the man you’ve been sleeping with for months. his tongue licks at your lips as he hums gently. you open your mouth and let him flick his tongue inside. you make out for a little while. it’s soft and comforting, all your senses are full of only paulino; his body pressed tight against yours, his lips on yours with his tongue in your mouth, and his soft groans being the only noise to be heard. 

you both pull away from the kiss and paulino rolls off you. he slips his hand back into yours and noses at your cheek. you stay there staring at the ceiling with paulino’s head touching yours. 

“that was nice,” you say, “this is nice, gracias.” 

“i wish we’d done it sooner,” he sighs.

“why didn’t we?” 

“well…” he mutters, “i was scared. i didn’t wanna be the maricón that i mocked as a child– and as an adult. i thought… if i was rough, if i didn’t let you stay, if i didn’t kiss you–”

“tú no serías el maricón,” you say, squeezing gently at his hand. 

“yeah…” paulino sighs deeply, turning to kiss you on the cheek, “i want to let myself be happy.” he turns over, pushing himself up to hover over you. “i would like to treat you right– date you if you would like.” you reach up and kiss him, running your fingers through the bottom of his shaved hair. 

“i would like that,” you smile, pecking him on the nose. he flushes, dropping his forehead against yours. 

“¿eres mi novio?” he whispers. 

Before you could process it, he had you up and straddling his lap, waking Ellaria up in the process. He pulled you down to kiss you as she stretched, watching the two of you contentedly. You whimpered into the kiss as his tongue slid into your mouth immediately, his hands roaming your ample curves before coming to rest on your hips. Ellaria sat up, silk sheets falling down to reveal her breasts; she moved to start kissing your neck, causing you to gasp into the kiss. You pulled away from Oberyn, moaning as Ellaria nipped at your neck before tugging your face to hers, pressing her lips to yours. Oberyn kept a firm grip on your hips, watching you both with a smirk. 

Ellaria began trailing kisses down your neck onto your shoulder as Oberyn sucked one of your nipples into his mouth. You carded your hand through his hair, moaning and tugging lightly as he ran his teeth over the bud. Then, Ellaria kissed her way to your other nipple, sucking and biting your breast harshly. Your other hand flew to her shoulder, needing to ground yourself as they ravished you. Your hips bucked against Oberyn's as you felt his cock harden beneath you. He groaned against you, sucking a bruise onto the soft skin of your breast. Your head tilted back as you started grinding down on him in earnest, hips moving back and forth erratically. 

“Gods, little dove. Eager this morning are we?”, he smirked against your skin as you nodded, eyes closed in pleasure as you continued to grind. Oberyn’s head tipped back onto the pillows and Ellaria took the opportunity to bite into his neck, causing him to groan. She grinned before looking down at him; there was silent communication, and then you were unceremoniously dumped off of him. You squeaked as you fell back onto the plush bed, but watched as the sheets were pushed down and his cock, now fully hard, was revealed. Ellaria pulled you back up and over Oberyn's cock, guiding you to sink down onto him. Your jaw dropped open slightly at the stretch as he bottomed out, both of you moaning at the feeling. 

She shifted up to his head, thighs on either side, before sinking down onto his face. His hands found her thighs instantly, pulling her down onto him harder. Her face contorted in pleasure as he began to lick into her cunt. You began to move, alternating between grinding and moving up and down his cock, causing him to groan into her as he continued to eat her out. Ellaria reached for you, pulling you forward until you had to rest your hands on his chest to steady yourself. She licked into your mouth, sucking your tongue into her mouth with a whimper. You moaned into her as you moved your hips faster, chasing that euphoric feeling. Breaking the kiss, Ellaria started to grind her pussy onto Oberyn's mouth, whimpering as he started sucking on her clit. She reached down and started rubbing your clit in tight, fast circles. 

You bounced up and down on his cock until she placed both hands on your hips, forcing you to stop. You whined her name, pleading with her to let you finish what you'd started. “Not yet.”, she panted, her hips rotating against Oberyn. You were forced to watch as she came, hard, all over his mouth and chin. You clenched around his cock and felt a groan rumble through his chest as he worked Ellaria through her orgasm. Finally she whimpered, pushing off of him and falling to the side of the bed, panting heavily. 

Oberyn grinned up at you, his mouth shiny with slick as he placed his hands on your hips. Without warning, he thrust up into you, causing pleasure to jolt through your entire body. You cried out as he set a quick pace, fucking up into you with a ferocity that made you see stars. Then, Ellaria was behind you, pressing her breasts to your back and winding her arms around you, pinning your top half against her. Between her and Oberyn, you were pinned between them and forced to just take everything he was giving you, unable to move. Your moans became higher and breathier as Ellaria reached down to rub at your clit in time with Oberyn's thrusts, kissing and sucking at your neck as she did so. “Gods, Oberyn, Ellaria, please, I'm so close!” You weren't even sure what you were asking for, but luckily, they knew. Oberyn picked up speed, lifting your hips up a bit to hit a devastating angle that had you crying out their names, body shuddering against them as you came. You clenching around his cock had him groaning and spilling into you, hips stuttering as he worked you both through your orgasms. 

Ellaria let you go and you collapsed onto Oberyn's chest, exhausted and breathing heavily. He stroked your back, chest rising and falling slowly. Ellaria came up to you, pulling you from his grasp into her arms; you hissed at the loss of Oberyn's cock inside you. He got up as she kissed you gently; you were so lost in her lips that when Oberyn came back with a rag and began cleaning you up, you flinched. “Shhh, easy little dove.”, he murmured, fingers stroking up your spine as he finished with you and moved onto Ellaria.