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Cobb Vanth does not need.
In the camps, in his youth, need killed you. It flayed you open, made you bare for all the galaxy to see. Made you weak. Made you vulnerable. So: Cobb did not need. He did not want. He took all that was dealt him, and stockpiled it up until it was great enough to become his weapon for freedom.
As a free man, he continued in this way. Kept him sane and strong enough for the mines, hadn’t it, and the thing he learned in his new freedom was that captivity might have been hell, but it was… simple. Out in the greater world Cobb saw good people driven to depravity by need, and by greed, for flesh and vice and clink. No reason for him to follow suit.
So what if it kept him from a lover’s arms? Cobb’s hands worked fine.
Made it out Mos Pelgo way, quickly ingratiating himself as a voice of reason. He helped where he could, giving counsel and leading in his own way — which was to say, at arm’s length. On the best day of their lives, the destruction of the second Death Star, he was perfectly content to sit on his own at Taanti’s bar while the others gathered close and fervent.
He almost hated that his caution served him again, saving both his life and Taanti’s by allowing him to slip out the back with that stolen camtono.
The Mandalorian comes and goes, and something within Cobb shifts.
Doesn’t notice it, not at first. He feels an itch between his shoulder blades that he tells himself is just sweat-salt irritating his skin — despite it surviving multiple cleansings. He scrubs harder, and harder, until the irritation burrows deep his tendons and sinew, each movement now bruising. He smokes more, to ease it. It doesn’t take. Every day, now, he makes his rounds and smiles from a distance, feeling for all the galaxy that his broke-open ribs are as much of an eyesore to the rest of town as to him.
Not until he wakes in the middle of the night sticky with sweat and release does he understand.
Begrudgingly, he gets it. He does. He’s not thrilled, but he has… urges. Always has. Just a matter of beating them back down where they belong. If he can beat his meat to do it, he supposes he should be happy it’s such an easy fix. Fuck his fist, wash his hands, go to sleep and be done with it.
Thing about a fire, though, is it grows when you feed it. Had Cobb known that the shards embedded in his muscle strands were embers waiting to be fanned, he’d never have touched himself again. But he does — again and again and again and again until he’s cold and clammy all over but for the molten scald of his own spend in his hand.
He should have known better.
Thinks he does know better, when Mando rolls back into town needing a place to lay low. Thinks this is how he stays ahead of the blaze, by inviting Mando to bunk at his. There, he figures. He’s solved this torturous puzzle. Cobb has slotted that weaselly missing piece into its place, and now he can dust himself off and continue on.
Except.
Except.
Except he doesn’t know better at all, not in the slightest. Having Mando-turned-Din so close is exactly the fanning the coals in his belly needed to work their dark magic and decimate him. Cobb is eaten away at, bit by bit. Can’t stomach being in the same room as Din, not for more than a few minutes. Can’t look at him, either, and see his own warped reflection staring back. Any time Din says Cobb’s name in that gentle rasp of his, Cobb wants to weep and rip his own skin off.
In the dark of deepest night, Cobb lies awake all by his lonesome, knowing the truth of himself as he drags a shameful hand up and down his cock.
He needs.
Worse yet — he wants.
The thought chokes him like the bitter caf he chugs down in the mornings, aiming to leave the house before Din wakes. He thought he’d made it, somehow; thought he’d done his body good, not letting anyone else dig their claws into it. He understands, now, how people lose themselves to this shit.
Might just be him, but a knife wedged under his nail sounds easier to deal with.
“Do you want me to leave?”
The question is hurled at Cobb just as the day’s fever starts to think about maybe breaking, ornery thing. He’d come inside to escape it. Accusatory in his posture, Din stands across the house from him. How’s that old saying go, out of the frying pan—?
“No,” Cobb croaks. Peeling the kerchief from his neck, he swipes it across his face and hair to dry off before wrenching his boots off.
Din doesn’t cross his arms, but Cobb watches his hands twitch. Doesn’t say anything, either. Just stands there. Observing. Give him something to observe, Cobb figures, crossing to his puny excuse of a kitchen to pour himself a drink. Whiskey’s too young, but it’ll do. Stings like he needs it to.
“I don’t understand you,” Din says, after Cobb has measured out a second finger.
Cobb snorts. “Not much to get, I’m afraid.” He kisses his teeth on the tail end of his next swallow, gesturing at himself. “Jackass is as jackass does.”
“You’re not.” He’s so serious, Din is. Earnest, like.
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“Stop that.” Hunched over his drink, Cobb does not dare look towards Din as he stomps closer.
“Stop what?”
“This isn’t who I met.” Just from the sound of it, Din is too close. Cobb’s throat tries to close up entirely. “This isn’t who I came back for.”
Cobb’s nail beds ache with how hard he digs them into the counter. “Who’s that, then?”
“Someone better than this.”
Scowling, Cobb risks a glare at Din. He stands there, immovable, impassive, foreboding in all the ways that set Cobb down this wretched path to begin with.
He snaps.
Lurching, Cobb shoves Din against the nearest wall, fighting both Din’s mass and his own white-hot self-contempt. “Can’t fucking stand you,” he bites, even as he tucks his face against a beskar chest. “What you do to me."
“Which is?” Kindness, softness, sweetness gentle and temper Din’s voice. Makes Cobb’s gut curdle.
“I don’t know.”
“You do.”
“My bones don’t fit, you out there like that,” Cobb grinds out, just barely scruffing the words in his molars to keep them from tumbling out into a sob. “Think of you and it’s like prying my own nails off.”
“And now that I'm here?” Awful, that Din should cup Cobb’s elbows so tenderly. Cobb is the one with Din in a hold; no reason to feel so helpless as he does.
Opening his mouth to speak, Cobb’s dry tongue separates from his palate with a tacky click. “It’s worse. It's worse, and I like it. Shit’ll kill a man.”
Grip tightening to just this side of painful, Din hisses, “You think you’re the only one?” When Cobb stays quiet, Din shakes him a little. “Why do you think I came back, Cobb?”
Hearing his name like that, all short and crisp in anger, that’s what pulls Cobb’s head up by the hair. “I don’t fucking know!” he barks, baring his canines.
“You do.”
Horrified, defiant, Cobb stares as Din pulls his helmet off one-handed. Cobb’s only tether planet-side is the deathgrip he has in Din’s cloak as Din rakes through sweat-damp and flattened hair. It sticks up every which way; Cobb is slapped with the urge to bite into his strong nose. He wants to give those sad eyes something to really cry about. He wants Din to hold him.
Bunching his fist up, Cobb rears back and smacks it right into Din’s mouth hard enough to feel the divide between his front teeth along his second knuckle. Ever himself, Din hurtles straight into danger. He worms his nose down Cobb’s fist until he can rest his lips against the too-fast pulse hammering in Cobb’s wrist. His lashes lower, and he brands a hot kiss to the spot.
“Stop it,” Cobb wheezes, chest constricting.
One of these days, Cobb will learn to stop underestimating this man. He hears Cobb; truly hears him, what he wants. What he needs. Still holding his helmet in one hand, Din sets Cobb’s fist down against his chest plate. Then he walks. Step, step, until the hard edge of the kitchen counter digs into Cobb’s ass. He sets his helmet down behind Cobb. He strips his gloves off, sets those down too. Bare hands to Cobb’s hips, Din leans in, touching his forehead to Cobb’s. If he could breathe, Cobb would laugh at them both going a bit cross-eyed just to see each other.
He hasn’t been this hard since the first time he dreamed about Din.
They stand there, just like that, Din so stoic and Cobb all foalish. The humid heat of Cobb’s breath bounces back on him from where it hits Din’s cheek. When the realization hits him, Cobb’s knees threaten to buckle.
Din is waiting.
Clutching hard at Din’s cape, Cobb squeezes his eyes shut — and nods.
If Cobb were a bantha, he’d want Din to own him. Thinks maybe Din already does own him, how confidently he moves his hands across Cobb’s body. He brushes his knuckles against where Cobb is straining in his trousers. Unbidden, Cobb gasps, wet as his smalls already are. Din traces surgical fingertips around the shape of him, and Cobb bites his lips shut. Even through sturdy canvas, Din’s palm blazes against his cock.
Trembling, Cobb rocks his hips into Din’s hand. “Fuck you,” he breathes, unsure who he means.
Din squeezes him, nuzzling the curved bridge of his nose into Cobb’s when he lets out a whimper. His eyelashes flutter against Cobb’s skin as he makes blissfully short work of belt buckles and zippers. He cups Cobb again through his smalls; Cobb mewls, pitiful. When Din snakes his hand inside, gets them skin to skin, Cobb groans rough and mournful and blows his load on the spot.
Din makes to pull back, but Cobb clamps his hand over his through soaked fabric. “Don’t,” he begs.
“Okay,” Din soothes, kissing the scar on Cobb’s temple, “okay.” Stroking in earnest now, Din hooks a finger into the waistband of Cobb’s shorts and pulls them down just under his balls. Fondles those too for good measure, silent chuckle blowing across Cobb’s cheek when he whines from the touch. Having Din’s hands on him, spent but still hard, it’s the best kind of pain; best ache he’s ever felt.
“Fuck you,” Cobb sobs after a wicked downstroke. He throws his arms around Din’s neck, clinging tight. “Fuck you.”
He can’t stay upright, not for much longer. Nearly cries for real when Din lets go of him, instead hooking his arms under Cobb’s. In his uncanny wisdom, Din sweeps Cobb’s ankle out from under him, collapsing his frame to take him down to the floor. On his knees between Cobb’s legs, Din hastily rips open as much of his suit as he needs to draw himself out, and the slide of their dicks together has Cobb nearly wailing, crying out debauchedly, desperately.
Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. It’s all he knows how to say anymore.
It’s okay, Din whispers right back. He’s propped up on one elbow next to Cobb’s head, palm smoothing Cobb’s hair back. Other hand pumps both of their cocks together. You’re okay. He drops sweet kisses on Cobb’s forehead, his hair, his cheeks, his jaw. Fuck you, too. You’re okay.
With Din’s steady hands and patient loving, Cobb is rattled just right to make the jagged, mismatched pieces inside him grind off their edges on each other and settle into a more stable formation.
When the dust settles, Din tucks himself neatly back away before fetching Cobb’s discarded kerchief. Got to be a little crusty by now from salt, but Din daubs canteen water onto it. Wordless, he makes a futile attempt to wipe down Cobb’s belly where his shirt had rucked up and he’s drenched with both of their come. Peeking up through his lashes, Din smiles at him. At least, Cobb thinks it’s a smile. It’s mostly in his eyes.
Cobb pulls his own pants back up, wincing at the stickiness. He rolls over onto his side; Din parks himself on the floor behind him, close enough for one of his hands to drift over to Cobb’s nape. Din pets him there, with his thumb.
“It always like that?” Cobb asks.
“I don’t know,” Din answers. Sounds a little miserable about it. The thumb on the back of his neck jerks to a stop.
Feels like he’s pressing the meat of his palm onto a knife point, but he can’t help it. Not with Din. “Could it?”
He hears Din breathe deep. “Maybe,” he says, eventually. “If we let it.”
If we let it. If Cobb tears open his own torso, and lets Din play with his soft, wet secrets.
Quiet, Cobb chews the inside of his bottom lip. “Might could.”
Din’s hand at his nape slides into his hair; blunt nails scratch light against his scalp. Cobb shivers, not unpleasantly. “You don’t sound very sure,” Din tells him.
It’s an uneasy sigh that Cobb heaves. “I need— time. Not used to… any of this.”
“We’ll go slow.” Din’s fingers drift down to stroke at his cheek, into his beard, grunting a surprised note when Cobb lifts his chin into the touch.
“What counts as slow?”
“Waiting for me to wake up before guzzling down that rubber sludge you call caf, for one.”
Guilty, Cobb grimaces to himself, but dissolves into a soft chuckle when Din pinches his cheek for it. “Think I can manage.”
“Good.”
And it might just be, Cobb thinks, as he scoots back to put the weight and warmth of Din’s thigh along his spine and pulls Din’s palm over his nose and mouth, nuzzling.
For once, it might just be.