Chapter Text
"Why kill a wild thing
when you can take it home and tie it down?"
-Danabelle Gutierrez
Din frowns as he walks off his ship, greeted by the sight of a lone figure waiting for him. It's not that he expected a welcoming party; he didn't expect anyone at all. When Fett told him that he was trying to organize a truce, a treaty with the who's who in the outer realm, Din agreed foremost because he considered Fett his friend. It also seemed like something he should do as Mand'alor (even Bo-Katan gave her dubious endorsement of the venture). Din still feels unease with his unwanted title, but he's trying to settle into the role as best he can, given the circumstances.
When Fett explained that every diplomat would have an assigned escort during the visit, he laughed. He knew the threat of the Hutts and the like still lingered, but Din wasn't exactly in need of protection. He agreed to land a safe distance from Fett's palace - that part was reasonable - safer not to have everyone's means of escape within battleship range. When he was advised transport would be provided to make his trip to the palace easier, he didn't realize his vehicle came with stipulations.
He thought Fett had enough respect to know that a glorified welcoming committee was unnecessary, especially since this wasn't his first time touching ground on Tatooine. The closer Din gets to the modified BARC speeder with an attached side seat, the more his stomach sinks.
The man walking up to meet him is all loose limbs and breeze-swept hair, eyes squinting in the harsh suns, an air of unconcerned indifference in the swagger of his hips where a HF-94 heavy blaster pistol sits holstered against a lean thigh.
Din can't help how his blood boils under his armor the closer the figure gets. He thought Fett's mention of a guard was a tease; he failed to realize his friend had been serious.
The stranger in front of him opens his mouth but before he can greet Din with what he assumes is probably some bullshit welcome speech, he growls.
"No." He snarls.
"No?" The other man's eyebrows raise, and he gives a contemptuous chuckle as if he knew his presence would be resisted. Fett had apparently anticipated this exchange and forewarned him, which just enrages Din more. "With all due respect, partner, you don't have much choice in the matter."
"Is this Fett's idea of a joke? I am a Mandalorian," Din says. "A bounty hunter. There is no need for me to have," Din gestures at the man and continues with disdain, "a bodyguard."
"The name's Cobb Vanth," the stranger drawls; his bright eyes glow with a savage inner fire that almost steals Din's breath. It suits him, Din thinks. The curl of Cobb’s smile promises everything but compliance; the rebellious red of his scarf and maroon shirt make him the walking embodiment of an inferno on an equally scorching planet. If this was another timeline, another life, Din knows he could easily be swept up in this man's blaze, begging to be burned to ash, but not today, not this life. Right now, Din is angry. He knows it's selfish, but he's tired of being followed around, he's tired of responsibility, and he had to go through great lengths to get here alone, and now he's going to be tailed by one of Fett's little watchdogs.
"Considerin' the circumstances of this visit," Cobb continues, "the Daimyo thought it would be best that all guests have extra protection. Especially since you came alone without any guards, your Majesty."
"Mand'alor." Din corrects him with a voice of authority. "I don't need someone following me around like a lost massiff. You'll just slow me down."
Cobb gives a rude snort and hooks his thumbs -one flesh, one metal- into his belt, hips cocked as he eyes Din up and down. "Is that so? Are you sure that fancy armor won't slow you down? I'm almost afraid you're gonna sink into the sand."
Din takes an aggressive step forward, but Cobb doesn't flinch; his expression is a canvas of aloof boredom.
"It is an honor to wear beskar'gam, something I doubt you understand," Din says and tilts his head appraisingly. "Can you even handle a blaster with that," he asks, nodding toward Cobb's mechno-arm.
A muscle flicks angrily in Cobb's jaw, and he glances down at his boots with a thoughtful hum, brows slanted in a frown. There's a soft sigh, and when Cobb looks up, a wicked grin spreads across his face, as he takes a few steps forward.
"You're fortunate I owe Fett a debt, Mando," Cobb mocks, "how bout you let me do my job and don't worry your pretty little head about my ability to handle a blaster. I've got enough skill for the both of us."
"I don't need security. This," Din seethes, "is an insult."
"This is part of the karking treaty, Mand'alor." Cobb hisses and takes a step closer, nose almost touching Din's helmet, "not acceptin' its terms is a bigger insult than what your pride may feel."
A low growl rumbles from behind the beskar chest plate, and Cobb smiles, all teeth "don't worry, Big Guy, I know how to keep a nice tight grip on my pistol, and I have plenty of stamina. You are in very experienced hands."
He winks; the lively twinkle in his eyes only incenses Din more. Cobb turns his back, walking towards the waiting speeder. Din watches the swagger of Cobb's hips and something white-hot burns in Din's chest as his fingers curls into fists.
Cobb whistles, "come along, your Highness. Your chariot awaits."
+++++
Cobb watches the throne room with a critical squint, his back to the small bar in the corner, elbows resting on the smooth surface as he surveys the room. The fluorescent blue liquid beside him remains full despite his show of occasionally holding it and swirling the fluid around. He knows Fett only keeps it in stock for him and a few others; most of his guests have a refined palate, opting for delicate wine or whiskey over the briny burn of Spotchka. Tonight, he decides to forgo his usual drink, something about his charge sets his teeth on edge, and he doesn't want to dull any of his senses.
He narrows his eyes and runs his tongue over his dry upper lip as he watches Fett converse with the Mand'alor. The contrast between the two could not be any more obvious. The Daimyo's helmet is gone, his face animated, posture relaxed as he talks with his friend. The Mand'alor, on the other hand, is covered head to toe in gleaming beskar; his pristine fur-lined cloak hugs his broad shoulders. The obsidian fabric drapes behind him like the darkness of space, menacing and dangerous. His body is rigid and unnervingly still, ready to strike as if prepared for battle at any moment.
Cobb scoffs at the other man's constant vigilance. While many have quarrels with Fett, few are stupid enough to take up arms. The fact the great Mandalore King is on edge stings, an insult Cobb feels on Fett's behalf.
Fett motions with his shoulder and arm, pulling the Mand'alor further from the center of the throne room towards the bar for privacy, conveniently bringing them closer to Cobb. Close enough that Cobb can make out their hushed conversation.
"It's a formality, Vod. I can see your scowl beneath your helmet."
The Mand'alor gives a rude grunt, disdain dripping from his vocoder, "I don't need a nursemaid."
Cobb fights back a scowl as Fett laughs, "I know you don't, but what message would it send if you got special treatment, Din? This treaty is supposed to look neutral from all sides. It wouldn't do well to treat you differently from the rest of the guests."
Cobbs's ear perks up at the Mand'alors name, and he hears a begrudging sigh crackle through the vocoder.
"Besides," Fett practically purrs, his dark eyes briefly flick over to Cobb, and Cobb quickly averts his own as if he was caught red-handed sneaking a Keshian spice roll from the kitchen.
"I thought you would appreciate my choice in your...companion."
Din huffs and Fett raises an eyebrow, "It's not an insult, Din. Vanth is the best, and I would not have assigned him to you if I did not feel he was proficient. It helps that he's pretty to look at as well."
Cobb's cheeks flush as if he's been drinking the full glass near his elbow. Warmth pools in his stomach at Fett's praise despite the annoyance at the situation. It doesn't bother him, Fett's assumption that Din would find him appealing. Living on the outer rim was dangerous, and there was no shame in finding pleasure where you could, even if it was brief and fleeting. While he was pleased by the compliment, he is slightly embarrassed that Fett knows he is a sucker for a man in armor, even if he is a karkin asshole. Cobb is torn between wanting to fuck Din, to bend the arrogant King under his will, make him beg, and wanting to beat the shit out of him.
"I know you have a preference for beautiful feral things with teeth," Fett continues.
If the Mand'alor has any thoughts about Fett's implications, he doesn't show it. The slight tilt of his head and short pause before speaking tells Cobb that Din might know Cobb is listening.
"He's got a smart mouth," Din quips, "but I doubt a small town Marshal would know how to handle a blaster during a shootout, let alone protect someone efficiently."
Cobb bristles, teeth grinding together. The slight movement of the shiny pauldrons and another head tilt, ever so slightly towards Cobb, confirms that Din knows he can hear them. He breathes a harsh breath through his nose. Rather than give into the urge to march up and press his chest against beskar and demand a full-out duel, he retreats. If they get attacked tonight, then the mighty Mand'alor can fend for himself.
The last thing Cobb hears is Fett's deep, scolding baritone.
"I would watch what you say, friend," Fett warns, "many creatures on Tattoine won't hesitate to bite, especially when provoked."
+++++
Cobb's blood is boiling hotter than the twin suns combined as he rounds the corner into Hanger 3-5 and sees Din talking to Peli Motto. What was supposed to be an easy trip to Mos Eisley turned into a ridiculous chase of loth-cat and womp rat. Din had given him the slip three times, much to Cobb's annoyance. This last time, it took Cobb over an hour to track him down; in hindsight, he should have gone to Peli's first.
He was only doing this stunt as a favor to Fett. He wasn't in the mood to deal with the Mand'alor's petulant, bratty behavior. The only benefit from this arrangement was the slightest chance of getting to the man under the armor, and even that was starting to feel not worth it.
"Really, Boba? I'm pretty? Are you an Shand playin' matchmaker now?"
Fett hummed, "I thought you two would enjoy each other's company."
"Yeah, it's going fuckin' great." Cobb replies sarcastically, "he's wound tighter than a galven coil."
"Are you saying you're not up for the challenge, Marshal Vanth?"
"Oh, I am, even if I have to tie him down."
Fett laughs, "how very bounty hunter of you, but something tells me if you employ the right techniques, that won't be necessary."
Peli glances over as Cobb stalks towards them, her eyes going wide. "Geez, Mando, your bodyguard is the Marshal?"
Din turns his head towards him and sighs, "unfortunately."
"I don't know what you're complaining about. I would give my best sublight engine to have hot and lanky watch over me. Good afternoon, Cobb," she says with a wink.
Cobb can't help the laugh that breaks through his sour mood, "Greetings, Peli."
"It's about time you showed up," Din says with a nod, "I was worried you were lost."
Cobb bites back the insult that sits on the tip of his tongue. Snarking back didn't seem to work with Din; the man was unmovable. Cobb had plenty of time earlier while he stomped through Mos Eisley's alleyways to devise a plan and devise a change of tactics. If he couldn't knock down the man of armor with force, he would have to slowly chip away at his defensives the best way he knew how.
"Mand'alor," Cobb purrs dangerously, "and here I thought you didn't think about me at all."
Din grunts, "Aren't you supposed to be the one keeping up with me? Didn't know I needed to hold your hand."
Cobb takes a step towards Din, "Is that all you want to hold?"
"Wow," Peli says, looking back and forth between them, "the sexual tension is thicker than a bantha fart." She shakes her head, "As much I would watch this go down, believe me, I would, I have work to do, so if you are not here in need of my services-" she waves them away with both hands, "get."
Din grumbles something Cobb can't make out, and he laughs. They say their goodbyes, and Din pauses as Cobb heads the opposite way once they step out.
"Where are you going?" Din demands.
Cobb's stride doesn't falter, "To the cantina. Someone had me chasing them all over town, and I need to get a drink. Come with me or not."
Cobb bites his bottom lips and smiles when he hears Din following him. Good boy.
+++++
It happens so fast, and while Din wants to blame Cobb for the distraction, he knows it comes down to his own arrogance. The group is the first thing Din notices when they walk into the cantina: three Klatoonians, four Trandoshans, and two Aqualish. All armed and not very subtle. They are spaced out among the tables, going for exaggerated disinterest, and it's honestly such a rookie mistake on their part that Din almost laughs. Everybody always stares.
A prickling itch starts under Din's skin, and he also notices Cobb giving them a calculating glance. While Din acknowledges the warning signs, he doesn't think the wayward group will do anything, confident in his reputation.
Cobb orders water and mumbles under his breath about chasing after kriffing toddlers, and Din almost feels bad. Almost. Cobb tilts his head back as he guzzles down the water in substantial greedy gulps. Droplets run down his chin and exposed neck, leaving lines in the dust on his skin and collecting in the hollow of his throat.
Din pretends to look past Cobb while his eyes hungrily take in the bob of Cobb's adam's apple as he drinks, how wet his lips are, and how the satisfied sigh he releases when he puts the empty cup down goes straight to Din's cock. Din's fingers twitch, and he's never wanted to touch someone as bad as he wants to touch the insufferable Marshal. He wants to tear his gloves off and feels the grainy sand that has collected on Cobb's neck from the wind; smear the spilled moisture on his skin around, feel his pulse jump under his thumb; shove his fingers in Cobb's mouth, and see if he sucks on them with the same ravenous need as he did the water.
It's while Din is foolish enough to ignore his surroundings when it happens. By the time Din even sees the explosion of movement, the flurry of blaster shooting, his HUD lighting up with warning alarms, Cobb has spun around and shot three of their attackers, their bodies falling with heavy thuds to the floor. One of the Klatoonians rushes straight for Din, a modified E-11 blaster rifle in his hands, and gets close enough that when it hits Din's chest plate, it briefly knocks the wind out of him. Din grabs the rifle, and when the Kaltoonian refuses to let go, yanks him forward as he slams his head into the other's face. Twice. Another down.
The brawl continues with fists and blaster bolts rebounding off beskar and exploding glass as patrons flee. For a moment, he worries about Cobb when a Trandoshan grabs him by the throat, slamming him against the wall.
Cobb's grin is wild and savage with blood on his teeth, and he coos, "at least buy me dinner first, sweetheart."
There's a flash of silver, and the Trandoshan is stumbling back, a dagger embedded in its neck.
Din misses what happens next as he has to sidestep a charging Aqualish, huffing at its graceless stumble and a cruel-looking blade in its hand. Din realizes the distraction a second too late as he feels the fibercord whip wrap around his right ankle and pulls his leg out from under him.
"Dank farrik," Din hisses as he goes down but not before shooting the Aqualish with the blaster, only for the assassin to fall on his arm, trapping it and the pistol underneath.
He reaches for the Darksaber with his other hand to cut the fibercord, but the other attacker laughs, blasting the spot right next to his hip, forcing Din to snatch his fingers away.
The man is human but surprisingly giant. Din doesn't remember seeing him before. He's unsure if he's part of the initial group or just taking advantage of the opportunity presented. Another shot is fired at Din, hitting his helmet, the bolt catching on the rim.
Din goes to roll; to try and free his arm, heave himself off the floor, but something hard and solid slams into his face, and his hud flickers. He's hit again and again. There's ringing in his ears, and Din struggles to recover as the power hammer is smashed into him again.
He sees the blade slide out of the top of the man's boot a second too late as it comes for the tender spot between his helmet and chest plate.
Din knows he's too slow as he raises his free arm to try to block the blow; maybe if he twists, he can negate some of the damage.
The blade never comes.
Instead, the man stumbles, dropping to his knees before slumping forward, dead. Din shoves the man away and rips his arm out from under the dead body to his right, scrambling up to see Cobb lowering his blaster as he stands over the last Aqualish, his boot pressing its throat with ruthless force. The rest of the group dusted.
"Who sent you?" Cobb sneers.
The Aqualish garbles a swear at him and reaches for his dropped pistol centimeters away, but Cobb points his blaster at him, aim steady as he presses down mercilessly with his boot.
"Think it through," he warns.
The warning is ignored, and just as the Aqualish's fingers graze his weapon, Cobb tsks, "aw hell," before putting a plasma bolt between his top pair of eyes.
There's silence in the cantina except for their combined ragged breathing. Din's heart is racing, adrenaline surging through his veins, and when Cobb looks up at him, a victorious smile emerges on his face.
Ten. Ten assassins and Din managed to take out two compared to Cobb's eight. Cobb shoves his pistol back into its holster and brushes his hair back from his face as he saunters over to Din. Cobb's sweating and a bruise is forming under the mole along his left cheekbone. He has a split bottom lip, and the back of his left glove is damp with blood; the dark liquid gleams on the metal fingers of his right. He's gorgeous in his lethality, and Din blames how he sways on the blows to his head rather than the need coursing through him.
I know you have a preference for beautiful feral things with teeth.
"Well. That was fun," Cobb says.
Din laughs, "Yeah." He shifts uncomfortably, taking in the damage around him as the controlled destruction left in Cobb's wake. He clears his throat, "Thank you."
Cobb whips to look at him, surprise on his face before he smugly grins, "Just doing my job, your Highness."
+++++
Cobb's told his presence is requested by the Man'alor the next day. He can't help but quirk an eyebrow when he knocks on the door to Din's private quarters. He thought they would meet in the throne room, not here, in an intimate setting.
The door opens, and Cobb steps through. The Mand'alor is standing in the middle of the room wearing his armor that is once again pristinely cleaned. His weapons are on a small table to the side, along with his cloak.
The door closes behind Cobb, and suddenly the air feels heavy.
"You saved my life."
Cobb shrugs, "you probably would have survived."
"Not if that blade went into my neck," Din replies and stalks forward, pushing into Cobb's space. Cobb grunts as he's backed up against the wall, and his pulse quickens.
"I owe you a boon," Din says.
Cobb blinks, "a what?"
"A gift to repay the debt of saving my life," Din explains. "This is the way."
A delicious shudder runs through Cobb, "what kinda gift?"
"Anything."
"Anything?" Cobb ask.
Din's husky reply curls around Cobb like spice smoke, "anything."
Cobb's mouth waters as he takes in the shining armor in front of him. Unlike Fett's painted beskar, Din's armor is untouched, an ethereal, luminous presence, and Cobb almost staggers with the urge to defile it. He wants to pin down the legend before him and own him, come all over that pretty armor so Din will think about him each time he cleans it, each time he polishes the alloy, he will remember that Cobb had been there, had laid claim to the King of Mandalore.
So he tells him.
"I want you to fuck my throat, and then I want to pin you down and paint your armor with my come."
An ordinary man would take the weighted silence that follows in shame as the Mand'alors helmeted gaze stares at him, body still and unmoving, but Cobb just waits for his request to process. Deep down, he knows he won't be denied, that even if Din wanted to pass this off as a boon owed, something in him wants to submit for Cobb. They've been playing this game since the beginning.
"Where do you want me?" Din finally asks, and Cobb grins wickedly.
"In your place, your Majesty," he purrs, "beneath me."