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Din's last thought as he's pushed into the water by the traitorous Quarren for the third time, is an absurd wish for a sonic powered jetpack; he’s not even sure if that’s a real thing, but he wants it, and he’d be willing to barter with the Armourer for it.
He should've known it was too good to be true, Mandalorians on Trask. He'd been used as a taxi, almost seen a species end by way of his snacking child, and found out the hard way that beskar when struck reverberates more underwater.
Din claws his way to the surface again, fighting the burning in his lungs and the spots in his vision. His mind is turning fuzzy at the corners and his strength is flagging. He can't give up, he has to save his kid. He pushes his arms upwards, feels like he's dragging an anchor against the tumultuous waves. His nerves are shot, and muscles he didn't even know he had are aching. His HUD flashes warnings, searing his failing into his straining eyes.
He blinks rapidly, pushing the memory of the last time he’d seen red flashing sirens and heard klaxons ringing far into the night. Thoughts of the Purge are always accompanied by a chill flooding through his veins, frying nerves and thoughts until his muscles are locked and his lungs can’t take in any air. He’d never gotten over it, didn’t think any Mandalorian ever would. Being forced to flee their burning home, set loose on the galaxy like a pack of rats scavenging for every scrap of food and work. Kark, but now is not the time for this.
Din hooks trembling fingers into the grille above him, visor barely clearing the churning sea-face, and winces at the sunlight reflecting sharply off the pole the Quarren had lifted again. He watches it move towards him in slow motion, sees the grotesque smile that twists his would-be murder's face, and whispers an impassioned prayer for Manda to preserve the kid's soul. He trains his wavering gaze straight up, facing his death with all the pride that he has left, refusing to betray even the smallest flinch-
And the Quarren disappears in a swoop of smoke and gleaming beskar.
The grille is suddenly lifted, and Din's fingers lose purchase. He's plunged into the depths again, until a strong arm bands around his chest and heaves him onboard. He crashes onto the deck, and slides across the floor until his back slams into a pile of crates. He falls onto his hands and knees, scrabbling to catch his breath. He hasn't looked up yet, doesn't know who his rescuer is, but they have to know- they have to “get the kid, my kid," he wheezes, dribbling salty water and grit.
He senses more than sees the large booted feet stopping in front of him, and hears a rough voice bark, “Go!” The figure before him crouches, and a hand lands heavy on his shoulder to steady him, as another palm rubs his back as he forces the rest of the water out of his airways. He breathes heavily and shakes his head, forgetting for one moment the futility of trying to dry his hair with a helmet in place, and then looks up.
He doesn’t know who it is.
Din is not sure what the pang of disappointment stinging sharply in his chest is for. He’d found other Mandalorians, hadn’t he? But the one before him isn’t the one he’d been subconsciously hoping for; even if he is wearing blue armour. Din exhales a sharp ‘thank you’ before grabbing onto the offered hand and lifting himself up.
His head spins, and he braces himself against the shoulder that’s closer to him that he’d thought. If he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend it’s another broad blue-plated pauldron that’s holding him up. He doesn’t know what’s come over him; he hadn’t thought of Paz for years, not even a fleeting thought after the Purge, until they’d run into each other on a hunt. And then they’d come together in the same covert, but even then, it hadn’t moved past hard-won respect and stolen moments of physical satisfaction.
And then Gideon had happened and all he could think about was this facet of his life he’d never get to see again.. If Din had had anything to eat at all, he’d be heaving it all over this poor man’s feet.
The sudden whoosh of a jetpack followed by the thump of a landing on the deck catches Din’s attention. He barely takes a cursory look at the new Mandalorians before grabbing the kid’s carrier and opening it. He doesn’t bother hiding the trembling in his fingers, or the relief dissolving the tension in his frame as he peers at that wrinkled green face. He lifts the kid up, and lets him find comfort in the crook of Din’s neck. He soothingly runs his fingers over those floppy ears, letting the kid take as long as he needs.
Din can feel the gazes of the others on him, the abject silence that fills the air now that the fighting has ceased.
"Thank you," Din says, lifting his head to face them; three Mandalorians, beskar-clad and armed. The child snuffles. The Mandalorian in the lead inclines his head in acknowledgement. "This is the way," he responds, and Din echoes his words.
"I came here looking for answers," Din continues. "I am looking for-"
"We know who you are, beroya." He is cut-off by one of the others. "You and the child will come with us."
"What." He’s hesitating now , after everything. But he’s hardly the type to be recognized without any introduction.
The other Mandalorians exchange glances, and two of them lift off. The third, blue one looks at Din again. "Come with us, we will talk somewhere more secure." His tone brooks no arguments. He is giving Din no choice.
Din's jaw clenches, but he agrees. It is logical, he rationalises, and fervently extinguishes the part of him that still hopes to find the survivors of his own covert.
He secures the child tighter against his chest, not willing to relinquish him to the sealed carrier just yet, and activates his jetpack.
He follows the other Mandalorian towards land, and flies close as he's guided through narrow winding paths. They land in a small street corner, hidden from the rest of the town by towering piles of crates and fishing nets. The Mandalorian moves towards the far end, and Din catches sight of a door blending neatly into the wall. It slides open with a barely audible hiss, and the Mandalorian beckons Din forward before disappearing past the threshold.
Din stares at the empty doorway, and the long corridor beyond it. Another covert. Another haven he’s bringing trouble to . He looks down at the kid in his arms, and exhales shakily. “This is for you, ad'ika,” he whispers, and sees those guileless eyes blink slowly. Foundlings are the future, and Mandalorians would do anything to secure their safety; his own covert had paid the price. Din is ardently wishing this one won’t have to.
He takes one step forward into the dimly lit space, then another, and feels the phantom crunch of scattered shards of armour and bones. He continues onward, with shaky inhales and an unrelenting grip on his precious cargo.
The way before him merges with the harrowing sights of the months past, spectral figures floating at the edges of his vision. Din swears as he takes a turn that the figure in the other hallway is someone he’s seen before. He clenches his eyes shut and counts to ten in his head. The breath rattles in his lungs like the tepid breeze that flowed through the sunken wreckage at Nevarro.
He forces himself back to the present, lets his gaze land squarely on the back of the Mandalorian leading him inwards. He thinks he hears someone call out for him, say ‘ beroya’ in a cadence that transports him to a moment of peace after a long hunt, of sitting down amidst the pitter-patter of small feet and the frenzied shrieks of children. Din doesn’t look up.
He trudges forward, cursing this place and his fickle grasp on reality, and enters a room. It’s torch-lit and circular, with several entrances leading out of it. There are shelves along the wall, most empty, but others bearing the beginnings of a weapons cache. Din is surprised he can swallow past the bits of glass and ash lining his throat.
At the centre of the room is a dias, and on it, with her back facing them, stands a woman. She’s tall, and armoured, and has a presence that demands obedience. Din visibly falters. He stops where he is, probably squeezes the kid too tight if the irritated squawk is anything to go by, and gapes. It can't be . But the headdress, the frame, and the sound of her voice when she turns around and says, "Din." It's the Armourer.
"Din," she says again, and he jolts forward on coltish limbs. He doesn’t notice the Mandalorian that led him here leave, or the other man entering. His gaze is tunneled on the impossibility before him, renewed hope snuffing out every other sense.
“How?” Din whispers, voice breathless in disbelief. He’s not choking up, he isn’t.
“It took an entire Imperial army and months of siege to take Mandalore away from us. Moff Gideon and his platoon hardly did the amount of damage we made it seem like.”
The Armourer’s words fill his head like white noise.
“Who-” Din clears his throat, and manages to clumsily wrap his leaden tongue around a semblance of a sentence. “Who survived? Did all the children?”
“See for yourself.” The Armourer sweeps her arm forward in a rather dramatic arc, and one of the doors behind her thud open.
Half a dozen cackling and chattering bodies fall through the doorway, and make a beeline towards Din. He can feel the kid perk up in his arms, reaching out towards the children who have now almost surrounded them. But Din’s gaze is riveted on the shadowy figure that’s leaning against the doorframe.
“Dramatic enough for you?” The Armourer’s voice rings out, addressing the shadow. It grunts, and steps forward into the light. Din feels a fine tremble begin beneath his skin.
“It wasn’t my idea. The kids wanted to do it.” That voice. Din feels hot and like he’s been plunged into a pool of ice all at once. He knows that voice, thought he’d heard the last of it back on Nevarro.
“Din,” the voice rumbles, a tapestry of memory and emotion imbued in that one syllable. “Beroya, welcome back.”
His brain stutters, and takes a minute to visibly reboot itself. The child, either reacting to his distress, or to the excitement of the children around them, is squirming in his arms. His ears are buzzing with static. He can see his child’s lips moving, knows the children around him are making their loud demands, but finds himself in the eye of a storm, and not a word permeates.
Paz is walking closer to him, body radiating concern. The Armourer is one step behind Paz. Din snaps out of it when they enter his space, a large palm on his cuirass, and smaller hands reaching for the child.
“Go with Paz, Din,” the Armourer says. “I will look after the ad’ika.” Her tone is more soothing than he’s ever heard it. “Give him here, Din,” she says again with a little more steel in her voice when all he does is stare blankly.
Almost mechanically, he finds himself placing the child in her secure hold. His ad'ika is endlessly fascinated by her helmet, and the myriad of little hands and voices around him. To his credit, he does spare Din a toothless smile and an adorable coo. Din pats the kid on the head, whispers “Be good, I’ll be back soon,” and waves at the gaggle of children now completely enveloping the Armourer.
Paz takes a hold of his hand and tugs, and Din follows.
Time seems to be moving faster now, and less linear. Din is still shaking, mind hyperfocusing on the feel of Paz’s hand in his and the thud of Paz’s tread, ignoring the blurry corridors warping around them. One second he's in the room, and the next he's narrowly avoiding crashing into Paz's and taking too many turns.
Din stumbles along in Paz’s wake, that strong grip on his wrist the only reason he manages to keep himself from falling to the floor. The roaring in his ears hasn’t subsided, the constant thrum of Paz, Paz is here, he’s really here . His throat aches with suppressed apologies, skin roiling with guilt. He had left this man, his covert, to fend for themselves. He had abandoned them as surely as they had abandoned Mandalore after the Purge . He doesn’t feel worthy to walk these unfamiliar halls, feel his footfalls beat in time with those of his surviving brothers, echo their joyous greetings with his own relieved undertones. He doesn’t deserve to be here, to belong here, and he can’t understand why Paz has allowed him in.
They reach the communal showers, and Paz leads them in, then reaches behind Din to lock the door once he’s made sure that they are alone. Din stands frozen where Paz had let go of his wrist, shoulders hunched and gaze resting unfocused on his muddied boot-prints that mar the pristine floor.
“Din,” Paz says, voice uncharacteristically soft. Except, that isn’t true, is it? Din remembers a Paz from long ago, with kind eyes and a warm smile for every foundling that had walked through the doors. “Din,” Paz says again, stepping closer when Din doesn’t so much as lift his head in response. Paz’s arms extend slowly, reminiscent of the way he’d treated that terrified tooka they’d found outside their class one day, and land gently on Din’s pauldrons. Din's thoughts riot, emotions crash against the durasteel of his control. He can feel himself cracking, feel the rising tide threaten to overflow. He bites his lip hard. “Hey,” Paz is whispering now, gruff and concerned. “Are you hurt? Vod , talk to me.”
At ‘vod’, Din breaks. He sucks in a wet breath and dislodges Paz’s grounding grasp. “ Don’t ." His voice is raw. "Call me that. I’m not your brother , I don’t-” He breaks off. “I can’t be here. I can’t- why did you bring me here Paz?” He lifts his head to face the man in front of him, unable to take the confusion bearing down on him.
“What?” Paz sounds bewildered. He tries to move closer, but Din takes a step back, hands raising defensively. Paz halts, then raises his own hands placatingly, palms outspread. “What do you mean, Din? Why can’t you be here?” He keeps his voice level, belying none of the concern burning cold in his gut.
“What do I mean?” Din is aware of how hysterical he’s starting to sound. He can’t bring himself to care. “Paz, you can’t be serious.” He’s shaking his head, hands clenching and unclenching intermittently. “But I am , Din,” Paz interrupts, “I don’t understand.”
Din lets out an incredulous scoff. “Look around you, Paz. Look at where we are, at how many we are.” His hand cuts a sharp arc through the air, gesturing at the white-brown walls around them, cracked and teeming with water-damage. “This, this squalor, having to hide on a planet full of demagolka ”, he spits, “just waiting to steal our beskar, not having enough work, or food for the children, not-” He's working himself up, voice high and breathless.
“Din!” Paz yells to break through his tirade. “Din, we’ve lived like this since the karking Empire started the Purge. You know this, you’ve borne it for years, why is it tormenting you now?”
“Because then , it wasn’t because of me!” Din roars, his condemning words reverberating in the small room. His arms gesticulate forcefully as he recounts. “ I did this to us! I took that stupid contract with the Imperial, hunted down a child and gave him up to be tortured, experimented on,” he sounds stricken, and Paz’s heart falls, shatters at the bottom of his stomach. “You got him back, Din,” Paz soothes. “You did the right thing, and you saved him.”
But Din is in no frame of mind to listen. He shakes his head vehemently, almost violently, as he continues. “I got him back, but at the price of the covert. I lost us our home, our brothers, and for what? To pander to the whims of some Imperial .” His voice is laden with self-recrimination, frame practically folded in on itself as he rushes to assure Paz of his heinous actions.
Paz is the one frozen now, watching Din descend into a spiral of self-loathing, his arms lifting as if to clench in his hair before encountering his helmet and dropping in frustration. In all his years of knowing the younger man, he has never heard him string together so many syllables. It aches something fierce that the most expressive he's seen Din be is when he's flaying himself open with his vicious words.
"-the helmets," Din is saying, voice tremulous. "There were so many helmets, and vambraces. So much needless death." He gazes right at Paz now, bracing as if expecting a blow. His voice holds none of the fire, the defiance it did the last they'd met, or indeed, for as long as Paz had known Din. "On Nevarro, when I returned, you called me a coward and pulled your blade on me. You were right. The Armourer never should have-"
And Paz moves. He's across the floor and standing right in Din's space before the last of that damning statement can leave his mouth. "Don't," he hisses. "Don't you dare finish that sentence." He can't explain the frision of fear that slithers through him, sharp and infecting everything in its wake. How could Din possibly think he deserved that? How could he think Paz would do it to him? Bile crawls up his throat at the unpleasant reminder of their last meeting, and what might've happened if the Armourer had not intervened. He feels small and helpless in the face of Din's despair and he hates it.
"Din, you can't possibly believe that, you can't ." Paz squeezes Din's shoulders, feels the metal creak beneath his desperate clench. He wants to shake some sense into the man. He wants to go back in time and stop himself from saying those words. He slides a hand up to the back of Din's neck instead and gently presses down. Paz deliberately softens his tone. "It wasn't all your fault, Din. We knew what we were getting into, when we came to your aid. This is the way, defending family is our creed. Tell me you understand that."
The silence is oppressive. Paz uses his grip on the nape of Din's neck to yank him forward until their foreheads touch, a rough keldabe kiss. Din is made of stone beneath his hand, and Paz can feel his own racing heartbeat in the wrist that presses against Din's neck. Paz is sweating under the helm, gloved palms clammy. He has to see this through.
"You are important, Din; to me, and to the clan. I have known you for many years. I have watched you grow from the runt that used to follow me around into the proud, accomplished hunter you are today." Paz's eyes are locked into the blank visage of the visor pressed up against his. He hopes Din is listening to this. He has never meant anything more in his life.
"You are no more a coward than I am. I was wrong, you hear me?" He half-shakes Din by the scruff, a facsimile of a long abandoned practice. "I'm only going to say this once, so you better be paying attention." His tone is stern now, one well practiced at corralling troublesome ad'ike and soldiers alike. "I was wrong, to say and do what I did. You are mandokarla Din, and you are not to blame for what happened. That aruetii Moff got what was coming to him. It's over now, you and your ad'ika are safe. You can rest now, and let me, let us help you."
He falls silent, letting Din process everything he'd said. Din is quiet, but just as Paz's worry begins to rise again, he exhales loudly and let's his shoulders fall out of their defensive hunch by his ears. Din straightens out of their keldabe kiss, and clears his throat.
"I'm not a runt. Anymore."
Paz feels his lips twitch at that inane statement, a cocktail of giddiness and relief bubbling in his chest. "No," he replies. "But you still follow me around."
Din snorts; and just like that, the tension evaporates. Their stances relax, knees unlocking and arms loosening at their sides.
Paz scuffs Din by the neck again and squeezes him around the shoulder for a long moment. Din soaks in the offered comfort.
“Now that that’s out the way,” Paz says, detaching his arm from Din, “how about a shower?” He doesn’t bother waiting for a response. Din feels his eyebrows fly past his hairline. So they’re going to revisit that aspect of their relationship?
Paz walks over to the bench by the wall and fiddles with the catch on his vambrace. There’s a different kind of anticipation swirling in the air now, heady and slowly filling Din’s entire being.
Din watches as he slowly works one off, and then the other, before bending down to remove his boots. Paz works his way through his entire set of armour, stripping down to his blacks before stopping and looking at Din again.
He moves forward almost on auto-pilot when Paz calls to him, stopping scant inches away from that breath-taking expanse of chest clad in a tight undersuit. Din’s eyes are riveted, even if this is a sight he’s seen many times before. But not like this, his traitorous mind whispers , not alone, and not this close. Their usual trysts are unplanned and happen in dark closets with little time to waste on things like undressing. His hand reaches forward almost without his permission, and hovers over the exposed seam of Paz’s blacks. It’s swallowed by Paz’s warm palm as he tugs Din’s hand closer and rests it over his heart.
Din swears he can feel that steady ‘thump-thump’ down to his bones.
“I’m here, Din,” Paz says, deep voice steady as a metronome. “Let me help you.”
Din is powerless to do anything by acquiesce.
“Okay,” he whispers, and lets Paz push him down until he’s seated on the bench and leaning back. He spreads his legs wide to accommodate Paz’s bulk as the man drops to his knees, his hands making their way to the catches on Din’s armour.
Time slows down as Paz undresses him. Din leans back until his helmet thunks against the wall and lets his eyes drift shit. The room is quiet, bar the even sounds of their breaths and the rhythmic clink of beskar.
Din sets his thoughts afloat, mind steering blissfully away from the present. He can’t think of the last time someone had treated him with such tenderness; before the fall of Mandalore, perhaps? Or has it been even longer?
He sifts through the moments he’s shared with Paz, their long and twisted history unfolding behind his closed eyes. For all that Paz had fought with him and hurt him in their childhood, he’d also been the one who’d helped Din the most. Even now, even after -his gut clenches- Nevarro , there is no one he trusts more than the man kneeling before him.
He lifts his legs obediently when Paz nudges at them, and feels his boots being unlaced, and his socks rolled off tired feet. He shivers when his bare toes touch the cold tiled floor and instantly lifts them back up. Paz snorts, then chuckles as he grabs one of them and massages the sole between warm palms. “Like a tooka, you are,” Paz says between bouts of mirth. Din would argue, but it’s been too long since he last heard this particular laugh of Paz’s. He lets him have this moment, but makes a mental note to bring it up later. A tooka, honestly.
He lets himself sink into the warmth seeping into his whole body just from Paz massaging his feet. His ears echo with the fading sounds of Paz’s mirth, and he adds it to his mental repertoire of Paz-laughs; the ones caused directly by something Din had said or done held a special place. Paz had always been so serious, even as a child, and Din had done everything he could to see those eyes light up with joy. Even after Paz had cut ties with him in a strange bid to please his father and uphold the name of Clan Vizsla, Din couldn’t help but notice how sombre his once-friend had become, and fight down the vicious blend of worry and satisfaction coiling in his belly.
Din still remembers the first laugh he’d managed to pull out of Paz when they’d finally reunited after the fall. He’d said something stupid, right in front of the armourer too, and there’d been dead silence, until Paz had let out a chuckle. He’d smothered it instantly of course, but even with their helmets on, Din knew the smile that had to have been residing on Paz’s face; he’d recognize that particular sound anywhere.
Paz is done with his feet now, and shuffles forward so Din can comfortably rest his tingling soles on Paz’s thighs. There’s a lull in his movements. They’re both clad only in their undersuits. Din swallows, and his breathing stutters out of suddenly parted lips. Paz’s hands loosely circle his ankles. They haven’t turned the showers on yet, but Din's vision turns hazy, like he's looking through steam.
Din’s eyes are drawn to the firm muscle of Paz’s thighs, evident even through the cloth covering them, and the heavy cock nestled between them. Paz isn’t hard yet, Din can tell, but stars if his mouth isn’t watering already.
Paz slides his hands up Din’s legs, his hold slowly tightening as they rise higher, until they’re firmly encircling the tops of Din’s thighs. Din nearly bites his tongue when he notices how small they look in Paz’s grasp. It should not be as arousing as it is. He can feel his own dick start to stir in interest, this close to that devastating grip.
Paz lifts one hand to undo the ties of his trousers, while the other levies a punishing hold on his hip, just above his waistband. A moan is startled out of Din’s throat when Paz manages to tilt his lower body off the bench with that single arm, using the other to work his pants off, letting them pool around his ankles. Paz freezes, visor riveted on Din.
Din’s cheeks burn in mortification at how obvious his reaction to that fantastic display of strength is, his cock stretching his underwear tight, and tip teasing the taut waistband. “Mesh’la,” Paz whispers, and Din seriously begins to wonder if the heat emanating from his cheeks is enough to fog up his visor from the inside. If Paz so much as breathes on him, Din is karked. It’s been months of loneliness, preceded by years of furtive paid encounters, and Din has no control left to speak of.
Paz does nothing more though, and his hand comes to hover over the top of Din’s shirt. “Are you going to do any of the work tonight, or...”Paz asks him after a moment of nothing happening. Din is mute for a second, his mind straining to make sense of the question, and then feels his blush crawl down his neck. Stars, how can his cock still stay erect, when even his ears feel warm! He slaps Paz’s hands away, and the gunner raises them palms up. “Udesii, Din’ika, I was only teasing.” Din can hear the smirk in his voice. He doesn’t relent. “I can take my shirt off myself,” Din snaps, refusing to give Paz one more moment of his embarrassment.
“Alright,” Paz says back, only sounding the slightest bit like the condescending Vizsla Din remembers from the later days of their youth. “I was only making sure.” He moves away, and stands up to take his own clothes off.
Din forces his face downward and deliberately does not look at Paz undressing. His fingers fumble around a button anyway when he sees Paz’s undershirt flutter to the ground. How did he get it off so quickly? Din hurriedly undoes the rest of the buttons and ties, staunchly ignoring the sound of falling trousers, and slips his shirt off.
He spies Paz’s bare legs walking into his field of vision, but still doesn’t look up. He’s not sure what he’s waiting for, but he’s definitely not going to make it too easy for Paz.
Paz clears his throat and holds his hand out. Din raises his eyes, sarcastic quip at the tip of tongue, and stops short at the sight of the narrow strip of cloth lying innocuously in Paz’s opan palm.
He stiffens. “Paz, what is this?”
"Well, it used to be a wetsuit, once upon a time. You can even see the original stit-"
"Paz," Din says lowly, voice terse. A strange pressure begins to press behind his temple. His jaw aches as his teeth clench, and a familiar twitch rises high in his cheek.
Paz is appropriately sober in his response. "A blindfold, Din'ika. And one designed for a communal shower. They use it here, with too many people and too little space." He sounds reluctantly impressed.
Din falls silent as he parses slowly over Paz's words.
A click echoes unduly loud in the interlude; the mechanism to Paz's helmet. Din holds his breath and his eyes close involuntarily in the confines of his helmet, habit overriding thought. There's a hiss of the latch releasing, and a shuffle as Paz's sturdy feet pad to the bench and he lays down his helmet with the devastatingly familiar clang of Beskar.
Din's heartbeat thunders in his ears, over his closed lids, in his throat. His mouth is wrung dry, larynx robbed of words. He feels itchy in his skin, gooseflesh rising like the tide over every exposed inch. He would be removing his helmet in another man’s presence. Anticipation coils heavy in his gut.
He lifts his hands to the catches on his helmet, and is strangely grateful for the fact that his fingers do not tremble. With another click and a hiss, his own helmet slides off and he places it to the side. Din keeps his eyes firmly shut, and knows with absolute certainty that Paz is doing the same as well. He reaches forward blindly, and finds the blindfold in Paz’s palm that he’d extended again. He slips it on, and secures it tightly.
Din feels, well, he can’t name what he’s feeling. He’s nervous, and on the edge of reaching for the comfort of his helmet, but he also feels secure in the knowledge that he’s finally come this far with Paz. He decides to trust in the man one more time, and clears his throat. “Well Paz,” he says, smirk nearly audible despite the tremulous start. “You’ve got me naked and blindfolded. What’s next?”
Paz sucks in a breath and chokes. Din snorts, partly in relief, and amusement. To Paz’s credit, it takes him merely a moment to recover. He steps forward and drops his hands onto Din’s shoulders. “Well, if I’d known you were this eager Din, this conversation could’ve happened a lot earlier. I was just here innocently hoping for a kiss.”
Just like that, Din’s nerves make a reappearance. A kiss . He licks his lips. How long had it been since he’d kissed anyone? Din is determined not to let Paz feel his trepidation. “If a kiss is all you’re looking for,” Din says, imbuing false confidence into his words, “what are you waiting for?”
There’s a moment every hunter knows, when the prey realises it’s been baited. There’s adrenaline thrumming through veins, tension tightly coiled like a spring, and every sensation hanging right at the edge of a precipice; a single breath could change the entire game. Din feels the very same sensations wash over him now, as he issues Paz the challenge. The air around them is electric, and Din can feel his hair stand on end.
Paz moves like a predator, immense strength coupled with fluid grace. His fingers tighten on Din’s shoulders, and he hauls the man up, right against his chest. He can feel Din’s surprised exhale against the hollow of his throat, and his soft hair tickles the underside of Paz’s chin.
There’s a part of Paz that rages for him to lift Din higher, plunder those undoubtedly plush lips. But there’s another part that wants to take it slow, do this right. He lets his hands slide up supple skin, leaves one cupping a strong jaw, and the other traces feather-light strokes over the tip of a moustache, the curve of Din’s cheek. His skin is warm to the touch and unmarred, atleast up here. The hand cupping Din’s jaw flexes, fingers stretching to slide into soft curls, and thumb pressing under his chin.
Din’s hands are doing their own exploration of Paz's features. The bit of brain that didn’t melt out of his ears when Paz delicately cradled his face is cataloguing every inch his hands trace over. Paz’s jaw is broad, and his face feels rounder than Din’s. He’s got coarse stubble as well as a bristly moustache. The similarity to his own fills him with amusement. His fingers smooth over soft cheeks and find a small narrow scar beneath the outer angle of Paz’s left eye. “Was this when-” Din starts. “Yeah,” Paz affirms, interrupting. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think it would scar.” “What, a pinecone to the face? I don’t think anyone thought it would.” “You deserved it though,” Din justifies, “You were being such an ass.” Paz deigns to hum in reply.
They’ve moved impossibly closer, noses touching and foreheads scant centimeters apart. Din’s thumb finds Paz’s bottom lip- plump where his is thin- and applies the gentlest pressure. They part, and Paz’s wicked tongue flicks the tip of his thumb. Din flattens the digit, fully intending to take what Paz was offering, but is thoroughly distracted by the bit of hair he can feel just beneath the centre of Paz’s bottom lip.
“Is that, uh, do you usually sport an anchor beard? Have time to style your facial hair while doing your job?” Paz’s mouth shuts with the click of teeth. “Din.” he growls, sounding thoroughly unimpressed. “Kiss. Me. Now.”
“Well alright then-” Paz cuts him off with his lips.
The kiss is nicer than Din thought it’d be. Paz’s lips are slightly chapped, and his tongue is extremely dexterous. Din can barely keep up. Paz tilts Din’s chin, angling the kiss better. His tongue is everywhere at once, running over Din’s teeth, stroking his sensitive upper palate, pressing against Din’s own tongue. Din shudders and slides his hands into Paz’s hair. It’s short, much too short to pull, but just rough enough to feel great between his thighs. Din’s eyes roll beneath his closed lids when Paz’s pulls away to bite at his lower lip. He tugs briefly, then moves to nip at Din’s earlobe, the angle of his jaw, and finally settles above his pulse. Din squirms in Paz’s grasp as his teeth and tongue work on a bruise Din is sure will last days.
“Paz,” he gasps, “Paz more.”
They walk into the shower stall, Din still attached to Paz’s front, and Paz alternating between laving his neck and kissing Din on the lips. Din feels his back hit cold tile, and Paz blindly gropes for the tap, grunting in success when warm water falls over them. Din breaks away for air, and Paz hefts him up by the waist, forcing Din’s legs to wrap high around his hips.
Paz ducks his head and begins sucking kisses down his clavicles and chest. Din writhes when Paz’s flicks his tongue over his nipples. His cock is hard and smearing precome over Paz’s belly. Fuck, it’s been too long since he’d been this worked up. “Stop teasing, Paz. Get on with it.” Paz huffs against his nipple, and moves away after one more firm lick. “In a hurry, are you?” But Paz lowers him to his feet anyway, and steps away. Din can hear something clatter and Paz curses. Din stifles a sigh. “Did you lose the lube? Why is it even in here?” “Shut up, Din,” Paz snaps. “I know it’s somewhere here.” Another bottle falls over, then Din hears the snap of a tube being opened. Paz grunts in satisfaction and steps back under the water, bracketing Din against the wall.
“How do you want to do this?” Paz asks him. “Why don’t I lift my-” “Hmm yeah, do that, Din. A little higher, oh there, perfect.” It takes them a bit of shuffling and coordinating their limbs before they find a position that works. Of course it ends up with both of them nearly out of the water flow.
Din stands with one leg wrapped around Paz’s hip, and the other braced on the ground. His upper back is pressed into the wall and his waist is tilted towards Paz. He’s got one hand in Paz’s hair, and the other is holding the tube of lube. Paz ducks down and kisses him as he circles one slick finger around Din’s rim.
The stretch is exquisite, as Paz adds one and then two fingers, scissoring them, thrusting them in and out. Din keens when Paz adds in a third finger and clenches his eyes shut. He’s panting, his skin feels flushed and overheated, and the water is doing him no favours. He grinds into Paz’s fingers, choking on a moan when they nudge his prostate. “Now,” he gasps out, “I need you in me now.”
Paz slips his fingers out and Din drops his leg down. He slicks his palm with lube and wraps it around Paz’s cock. The sound of the tube clattering to the floor is covered by Paz’s drawn out groan. He drops his face into the crook of Din’s neck as Din continues stroking his erection, squeezing intermittently. His whole body is tingling with awareness centered around Din’s hand on his cock. He feels a quiver low in his belly.
“Enough,” Paz snarls and turns Din around. Din shivers in anticipation and braces his palms against the wall. Paz grabs onto Din’s ass with his large palms and squeezes them, then nudges them apart, exposing Din’s quivering hole. “Fuck,” Paz hisses as he lines himself up. “You’re so kriffing hot, Din’ika.” Din swallows, ears burning and mind turning to mush. Paz is an imposing girth, and as the blunt head presses against his rim, Din has half a second to worry that he isn’t going to fit. And then with a jerk of Paz’s hips, he slides in. Paz doesn’t allow Din a second’s respite. He sets a steady rhythm, interspersing his quick thrusts with a sensuous grind.
Din moans, breath hitching high in his throat. He feels split open around that big cock, and his hands scrabble for purchase on the wet tiles in front of him. His chest is heaving and knees threaten to buckle. Paz’s fingers digging bruises into his hips are the only things holding him up. “Hold on, Din’ika,” Paz whispers, and begins thrusting with a slow rhythm. He gives Din a few moments to adjust, changes his grip on slippery skin, and then really gets going. Din’s eyes roll to the back of his head and his mouth drops open on a long whine. Paz pulls out until the head stretches Din’s rim, and then slams back inside, over and over.
Din claps a hand over his mouth to muffle the obscene noises he’s making at the exquisite pleasure. His other elbow nearly buckles under the strength of Paz’s thrusts. Then he feels Paz’s hands leave his hips, but before he can catch his breath to ask why, Paz’s arm closes like a band around his waist and hauls him up tight against Paz’s broad chest. Paz’s other hand snakes down to loosely circle Din’s cock. Din’s back arches until his head rests on Paz’s meaty shoulder, one of his hands grasping Paz’s around him and the other flailing as it’s lifted off the wall.
The shift in the angle is excruciatingly pleasurable and he keens, high and unimpeded. Paz growls low in his ear, teeth nipping his lobe. “That’s it, Din’ika, let me hear you. I want to hear all your beautiful sounds.”
Din writhes in Paz’s grip, nearly going cross-eyed with the next few thrusts. He’s so close, he’s almost there , but he needs something more, he needs- “Paz, Paz,” he pants, “I need-” “What do you need, Din’ika?” Paz’s voice is a deep rasp. “Like last time,” Din whines, “Last time, do you remember?” “What do you- oh. Oh. ” Paz’s hand releases Din’s cock. “Elek, Din’ika, I’ve got you. Just like last time.”
Paz’s hand migrates to Din’s throat. He doesn’t do anything at first, simply caresses the skin there, lets his fingertips trace the lurid bruise he’d left. Din feels lightheaded already. And then Paz says, “Tsikala, Din? You still with me?”. Din wheezes out a desperate “Elek,” and Paz’s hand tightens just the slightest bit around his throat. Din’s vision starts to white out at the edges. He reaches his hand up and hooks it around Paz’s neck, fingernails digging into the curve between neck and shoulder.
The hand squeezes a little more, and this time, Din can feel his airflow begin to cut-off. He gasps, wet and broken, and Paz groans heavily above him. He’s so close, so close. He babbles as much, a constant stream of ‘‘yes, and please, so good, Paz’. “Come for me, Din,” the voice seems wrenched from Paz’s throat, “show me how much you like this.”
Din shudders, riding out one thrust, then two, and he's coming. Paz's careful grip loosens, and Din gulps in lung-fulls of air. Breath has never tasted sweeter. His mind is floating high on a rush of endorphins and oxygen, leaving his sated body impaled on Paz's cock.
Paz gives him a moment of respite to revel in his world-shattering orgasm, before grinding forward. Din whines, low and thready, as Paz's thrusts move his loose-limbed body like a ragdoll between a barrel chest and an unmoving arm cushioning him from the wall. Paz's hips move like pistons, unerringly nailing his prostate at every turn, drawing out every bit of come left in his spent balls. Din's cock twitches against his thigh in a valiant attempt, as Paz's relentless pace has him riding the crest of pleasure-pain.
"Paz," he stutters out, the feelings almost becoming too much. He is a dichotomy of sensation; made at once of the water sluicing down their bodies and swirling into the drain, and also of tender skin, nerve-endings lighting up for every drop of water that lands on him. Paz, ever his lodestone, is tethering him to the world with movements like a metronome steadily increasing in tempo and half-growls huffed into Din's ears.
Din clenches down around Paz's length, and feels him falter. He does it again, and again, until the thrusts turn to desperate grinds and Paz's mouth is lax and his breath stutters. Paz comes silently, with his arm tightening around Din's torso and his teeth clamping into the curve of Din's shoulder. Din jerks with him, riding the aftershock.
The water flowing is still luke-warm, but unpleasant now as it washes them clean of sweat and spend. Din straightens slowly as Paz slips out of him, legs unsteady as a newborn foal. He feels bereft as Paz steps away, presumably only to grab some soap, but Din yearns anyway. He turns and reaches out, blindly parting the humid air until his hand hits warm flesh. "Paz," Din croaks, and he's wordlessly enfolded in a secure embrace.
Din shudders, nosing into the crook of Paz’s neck as those strong arms wrap around him, binding him to Paz’s warmth. He feels himself relax involuntarily, melting into those corded muscles, beskar-strong and clad in a soft pad of fat.
Din has never once felt delicate in his life; but right here, trapped between biceps rivaling the size of his head, and thighs nearly the width of his torso, Din feels small. And safe. Like he did all those years ago, on his first day of training as a Child of Mandalore, when he’d been sore, bruised, and so beaten down, and this tall boy had stood in front of his fallen form and offered him a hand.
He can feel the phantom ache of that small-Paz’s fingers coiling tight around his and yanking him out of the dirt. “I’m Paz,” that voice had whispered, still high and childlike, but so so reassuring. “I’m Paz of house Vizsla, and I’m going to help you.” Din’s lips twitch in fond remembrance. Even then, Paz had never asked, only ordered.
Of course, the one time Paz had asked, Din had agreed anyway, and the two teenagers had ended up facing a tribunal of furious warriors, covered in soot and standing in the debris of what was once a brand new weapons storage unit.
Din nuzzles into Paz's neck, and lifts his head, seeking a kiss. His lips land on a rounded chin, then trail upwards, until they land on Paz's parted ones. They still, breathing each other in for a moment, and their lips move in a tender caress. It's soft , is all Din can describe it as, soft and unhurried.
They separate, and Paz lathers soap across their bodies, his touch light and almost reverent. They wash each other off, pausing intermittently to kiss. Din stays in Paz's orbit as he turns off the shower and picks up a towel. Din snorts as he runs the towel and then his hand over Paz's bare head, drumming a jaunty beat. Paz retaliates by vigorously rubbing his towel over Din's hair, deliberately tugging on a few strands. They tussle, free-falling into their teenaged personas, and their laughs echo across the lightening air.
They come to a stop with their eyes closed and foreheads pressed together. " Mesh'la," Paz whispers, lets the endearment hover in the space between their breaths. Din can stay in this moment forever.
A discontent rumble shatters their peace. Din snorts and places a hand on Paz's belly. "Shut up," Paz says, even before Din has a chance to open his mouth. Din continues anyway, tone laden with mirth. "How is it that I'm the one returning from months in space, and you're still the hungry one?" Din can feel Paz puffing up like a ruffled bird, and takes a step back.
“Enough, Din.” Paz’s mutter is punctuated by another loud rumble. Paz stomps over to their dry clothes, and Din follows with a hastily smothered chuckle. He feels light, like there are clouds cushioning his feet and extra hands bearing the load that threatened to bow his back. They undo their blindfolds first, backs to each other, and put on their helmets.
It’s a close call between continuing to get dressed, or falling into another brawl. Fortunately, Din’s hungry stomach chimes in in camaraderie with Paz’s next beastly growl, and their tussle is tabled, for now.
They leave the shower room, Din anchored firmly to Paz’s side by the heavy army throws over his shoulders. Their pace is sedate, and nods easy as they greet other members of the covert they pass in the corridors. Din’s mind is settled. He’s going to collect his kid now, then eat a hearty meal and rest. The future and all of its potential troubles can wait. His family is here now, and all will be well.