#starboundanon

“Are you really giving me the silent treatment right now, when you were so loud a minute ago?” Anakin’s flesh hand strokes down Din's naked flank, and Din has to sink his teeth into his bottom lip to stay silent, to fight the urge to press up and back into large, rough palms scored by a constellation of burns and scars and a lifetime of war. A war they shared on opposite ends of the galaxy, in different lifetimes, yet their bodies bear the same burdens. Din tries to remember them all: the curdled whorl of a blaster burn on his right shoulder blade sustained by friendly fire; the delicate vibroblade cross-hatching the inside of his bicep, courtesy of the Death Watch instructor who despised the boy from Aq Vetina for his soft voice and angry eyes; the keloid thunderbolts cupping his ribcage, a parting gift from an airdrop gone wrong.

For his entire life, Din believed he was nothing more than bone and scar tissue held together by vengeance masquerading as duty. That there was no softness in him, no tenderness, no joy.

And then Anakin took him in, made him his padawan, stripped him of the armor that is his true face, reached behind his ribs and buried himself to the hilt in the pulsing wet heat of his body, and subsequently warped him into this: a needful creature with his heart in his mouth, as desperate to be touched as he is terrified.

Mandalorians do not cry. Jedi do not want. Yet Din's eyes burn and his cock throbs in equal measure, red-hot and pathetic, when Anakin — his enemy, his friend, his master, his mentor, his everything — leans over him and licks a long, wet stripe up the boiling river of Din’s throat, his boyish chuckle darkening into a moan at Din’s startled flinch. 

“Pretty,” Anakin mumbles, lazily licking down into the valley between throat and shoulder, and through the ebbing haze of orgasm Din wonders what he tastes like — salt, maybe, and skin, and heat, and pure metal, and enough shame to hold it all together. “You’re so kriffing pretty, you know that? I used to hate that helmet,” Anakin snorts, rubbing his thumb in slow circles against the swell of bone before drifting down to trace the divot between thigh and pelvis, “But now I’m thankful. No one knows how pretty and soft you are under all that beskar, but I do.” Something rumbles deep in Anakin’s chest and his grip tightens, digging into tender tan skin just this side of bruising, “Say it. Say I’m the only one.”

Din’s jaw clenches. He shouldn’t say it. But he wants to say it — because want is what brought them to this moment, this cavalcade of shame and desire: Anakin needs to be needed, Din needs a purpose, and they both hunger for proof that every terrible thing that they’ve done and will still yet do was for a reason, even if that reason is an ill-advised first fuck while on medical leave. But Din knows his master, too — knows that under Anakin’s fragile skin and golden curls lurks a predator with fangs and claws and a taste for destroying the fragile things it loves, and Din may be young, but he is old enough to understand that he is but a fledgling in the mouth of the beast, pretending these teeth are a gilded cage. This is a matter of survival.

(But there's more to it than that, isn't there? Din is a hunter, unafraid of the wild and excited by the untamed, but when they're together the roles reverse and suddenly he is the prey, and though the clenching teeth caged around him promise death, the fact of the matter is that when he is alone with Anakin, Din finally feels alive.)

So he says, “You are the only one,” and tries not to hate himself for the quiet animal sounds he makes when Anakin’s hand slides between his legs and squeezes around him in reward.

Cold durasteel skitters across his jaw. Din jerks away from the touch, so cold and unnatural like a droid’s, but synthetic fingers click-lock into place and hold him steady. When Din’s eyes snap open, devastating blues stare back. “Again.” Anakin strokes the back of his durasteel hand against Din’s jaw, eyes crinkling with amusement at his scowl, then desire when Din obeys the silent command and does not fight his grip. “But say it right this time.”

“You are the only one… master,” he murmurs into Anakin’s palm. When Anakin smiles, his teeth cut the light like a blade, and the shame in Din’s belly sinks straight into his cock. A Mandalorian would not submit. A Jedi would not give in. But the twining of their bodies has stripped both identities from him, leaving him to cling to the only thing he has left.