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Hunting For Love (Killing For Pleasure)

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Din had healed beautifully, and it was only because of his husband’s careful, annoying habit of making him rest. Those six weeks spent cooped up inside, stuck to the halls of Boba’s castle and only occasionally leaving had done a number on Din. On his nerves more like, so the first chance he gets he grabs Boba by the wrist, shoulders near shaking in anticipation, and had bit out a hard, “We’re going hunting.” 

 

Boba’s amusement colored the hum that Din got in response, but Din didn’t let himself think too hard about it. He only commanded that Boba fly them to Nevarro, where he could get a bounty- one, two, three, four Din didn’t care- all he cared about was stretching his muscles, strengthening them again until his body was once again the easy, honed blade he remembered. Until he could run laps around Boba on a bad day without his side aching something fierce. 

 

Karga is relieved to see him, as is Cara, the latter of which claps him on his left shoulder hard enough for Boba to shift beside him. It’s a minute movement, nothing threatening in the gesture, but Cara’s gaze flicks over to him at the same time that Din reaches up to give Cara’s hand an awkward but friendly pat. 

 

The tension breaks as easily as it grew, and Cara’s face is visibly relieved when Din tilts his head. “Did I miss anything good?”

 

“Nothing worth your time.” Din laughs, just a quiet little chuckle, head tilting further when three pucks are pressed into his hands. Cara winks, dark eyes mischievous, and when Din glances at Karga through his limited periphery the older guild master is pretending not to see their exchange. “Kept the best for when you came back.”

 

“High profile?”

 

“Tough.” 

 

Din’s grin is hidden by his helmet, but Boba hums beside him, a soft noise, and Din knows that he’s been seen. 

 

“Perfect.” 

 

--

 

Din takes all three of them, staring at the faces in the pucks and listening to the dull beeping of the tracking fob. There’s not much that Din can do with Boba piloting the ship toward the first destination- some kind of credit skimmer, wanted by the Guild and the Republic and privately. It meant that Din was going to get to barter for his payment, depending on who wanted him the worst, and Din is already giddy, pacing the length of the cargo bay while Boba fiddles somewhere in the cockpit above him. He should join him, should go up and keep him company, but instead he finds the gun that Boba had lent him to take back the Hutt castle on Tatooine, and begins carefully disassembling the weapon to be cleaned.

 

He works in easy silence for a while, comfortable in the press of beskar and humming a wordless song that he knew from long, long ago. It dredges up faint images, little flashes of dark hair, a kind smile and a sweep of soft, gentle fingers through his hair. It’s a comfort, a weight against him as he methodically wipes down the parts, inspecting them for damage and setting them off to the side when done. Each part gets its own moment, its own careful inspection, and Din’s song has repeated three times over by the time he begins snapping the pieces back into place, twisting and tightening each with careful precision. 

 

He’s just gotten the gun back into place, safety on and his helmet tipped to look down the sights when the quiet scrape of a boot alerts him to his companion’s presence. He doesn’t look up from his task, instead dropping the gun from his shoulder and turning it in his hands to inspect the seams. 

 

“You take good care of it.” 

 

Din’s head jerks up, surprise and something warm shocking through him, and he stares at the way Boba’s head tilts, eyes dark under the fluorescents of the ship. “You took care of it before me.” He says weakly, trying his best to deflect. Boba doesn’t seem affected by it, brows twitching slightly before he’s nodding his head.

 

“We’re almost there.” 

 

“Good.” 

 

--

 

The bounty turns out to be an entire firefight-- they barely touch down in the shitty wayside field that the city calls a port when shots are ringing off the side of the Slave I

 

Din slaps the release for the bay and shoves one of Boba’s supply crates down it, following it down with his body curled protectively behind it while shots ping off his hiding spot. Someone behind him yells- Boba, Din recognizes, but he’s too busy popping up, gun held steady in his hand and body absorbing the hard, energetic kick of the gun against his shoulder. Already his left arm burns with the weight and strain of steadying the gun, but Din pushes through the weakness, grinning beneath his helmet as red-orange heat signatures bleed across his vision. 

 

Din counts his shots, scans the silhouette of each person he aims at with paranoid consideration before his finger squeezes down on the trigger, firing off a shot that lands between eyes, buried into someone’s chest, someone’s throat, anywhere that puts them down and keeps them down. His blood sings in his veins as another set of shots ring out, as the hard brush of durasteel scrapes against his back as Boba joins him, and together, braced back against one another, they make quick work of the ambush in the port. 

 

Only once the fighting has died down, Din’s blaster warm in hand, does he stop to think about where his bounty might be- he isn’t here, or else Din would have noticed his considerably colder body temperature, and he’s still thinking about it when Boba’s voice crackles through his modulator, hot and breathless. 

 

Good shot, Din. That one on the roof? Perfection.” 

 

Din’s whole body locks up at the words, eyes widening, but Boba is rising to his feet and Din quickly steadies himself against the crate so that he doesn’t fall backwards. Perfection. Boba thinks his shot was perfection . The warmth of Boba’s voice, of his compliment shouldn’t heat Din’s skin the way that it does, and Din is confused and happy and hopped up on adrenaline when he shoves the banged up crate back up the ramp and follows Boba with silent footsteps into the city. 

 

The streets are quiet, eerily so, and Din sweeps through them like a ghost, blaster held loose in his hands and tracker beeping in his hand. The red light at the tip begins to flash faster and faster as they round a corner, and the edge of a cloak whispers by, the rich scrap of blue silk like a flame in Din’s eyes. He gravitates toward it the way a moth would to a flame, but Boba touches his arm, tilting his head and gesturing. Din pauses, trying to parse what he wants, and the pleased noise that rumbles from him is animal. 

 

Boba and Din split up. 

 

Din leaves the tracker in the middle of the street, as if dropped in a hurry near a puddle, and Din’s jetpack is quiet as he swoops over the rooftops, keeping an eye out for blue and blue and blue. The color is a vivid slash of light in Din’s mind, as bright as a star a parsec over, and it’s all he can think about when he spots Boba, stalking through the streets with the fluid grace of a trained predator. A few paces ahead of him, turning a corner with faster and faster intent is his target- The want for Din to capture him, to end it is so strong that he can’t deny himself for much longer. Boba herds the bounty into an alleyway, where one should never corner prey, but Din’s landing is silent as he settles atop the back wall of the alley, crouched down with the blaster across his thighs and head tilted. 

 

Boba doesn’t even acknowledge his presence, not even as the man in front of them begs for his life- with words at first, then on his knees, hands clasped before him and false tears coloring his cheeks in a kaleidoscope of color from the lights of the city around him winking off his pale skin.

 

“Please, please I can pay triple what they’re offering!”

 

“Now?” Boba asks, voice gruff and filled with carefully faked curiosity. 

 

“Yes, yes let me just-” The man pulls out a credit chip, holding it out with shaking hands. "Take it, take it all just- let me go."

 

Boba regards him for a moment, and Din watches, breath held, as Boba walks forward, gloved hand snatching the credit chip up and holding it up to the light of the street. "How much?"

 

"Almost half a mill- it's all I have, I swear!"

 

Boba grunts, as if displeased, but that much money held on that chip has Din's mind racing at the possibilities. "Fine."

 

The man visibly sags in relief, bowing his head in thanks and rising to his feet. He edges uneasily around Boba, turning to watch him and freezing momentarily when he spots Din atop the wall. Din peers at him, head tilted, beskar washed in shades of orange from the streetlamps as the man whimpers. "W-we have a deal, right?"

 

"I didn't say anything about him." Boba replies, voice casual as he looks over the chip with pointed interest.

 

"That's all I have! Please!"

 

"Run fast." Boba says, back to the man as he takes off again. Din gives him two seconds before vaulting off the wall with a laugh- when did he enjoy the chase this much? When did this become a game?

 

Din doesn't think much about it until he's panting, breaths ragged in his throat and knee digging into his prey's back. The man is a sobbing, pleading mess underneath him but all he can think about is the way that Boba finds them, leaning back against the wall and murmuring a quiet, "Beautiful chase." 

 

Din preens under the compliment, slapping cuffs onto his bounty and hauling him to his feet. "Too bad you don't have a carbonite bay." 

 

"Plenty of cells." Is all that Din gets in return, and Din doesn't let his quarry go for a second, not until the bay of the ship is closed and the bounty locked away in one of the immobilizing bunks down in the hold. Only then, when Din can let himself stop for a moment does he go to find Boba in the main hold of the ship, waiting near the ladder up into the cockpit. Din doesn't bother with words, doesn't bother with much of anything besides undoing the seal of his helmet and yanking it up and off, leaving it discarded on a seat while Boba turns to him. His helmet is already off, skin warm and flushed in the light, and Din takes two pointed steps into his space, hand coming up to cup Boba's neck, thumb pressing into the edge of his jaw as Din slots their lips together.

 

There's no finesse to the kiss, just messy, heated energy, but Boba leans up into it like a man starved, laughing low in his throat when Din leans more of his weight forward. "You're a force of nature." Din breathes, not missing the slight tremor that goes through Boba at the compliment. 

 

"No more than you are. Do you have any idea how you look?"

 

"How do I look?"

 

"Like a nightmare." The other man whispers, voice reverent as Din brushes their lips together. One of Boba's gloved hands finds Din's hip, pulling them flush together until Din is dizzy with the heat radiating off of him. "Beautiful and deadly."

 

Din wants so badly to kiss him, to strip him of his armor to get at the soft, strong skin he knows is beneath, but they're still sitting in the port of a skeevy town and Din has two others to hunt down. So instead of indulging himself, instead of trying to seek out new ways to drive them both wild he huffs softly, leaving a lingering, searing kiss on Boba's lips and taking a step back. Boba looks momentarily disoriented at the space, and Din's lips twitch up into a smirk. "There's two more pucks."

 

" Adenn ." Boba murmurs, an approving gleam in his eyes as the word punches through Din.

 

Merciless.

 

And Din is- he doesn't stop for more than the few hours it takes to travel from the port to the next city, to the new streets that he stalks, disappearing into shadows, haunting like a wraith intent on destruction. Din has singular focus now, with his child gone and Boba watching his back, mind and body and soul crying out for a purpose .

 

The bounties aren't even about the money, not really- Boba is more than willing to provide, insists upon it almost, and Din has never truly been able to say no when Boba would give him a firm, understanding look and murmur anything you need. 

 

This was what Din needed- the air of three separate planets on his face, adrenaline rushing his veins and chest aching with his breaths. Not because of his injuries but instead because of the anticipation that stole Din's breath, that crawled over his skin and pushed him to run faster, to be more. To see just how long Boba could keep up before he lagged behind. His next target is disappointing- there's no chase, hardly a fight, and Din walks back to the ship, dragging his quarry with what could only be described as a pout written across his shoulders. Boba seems pleased at the ease of this hunt, though, strolling behind Din with hardly a word other than a quiet, goading, "That's all?"

 

That's all indeed. The bounty waits until they're on the Slave to put up a fight, but Din already has him halfway in the immobilizing bunk and a swift crack of Din's beskar helmet against the man's nose reels him back the rest of the way, and Din locks him away. 

 

"Red looks good on you." Boba compliments, amused at the small smear of blood that marks the otherwise pristine silver of Din's helmet. Din's skin tingles with his low, sonorous voice, and he reaches up to roughly wipe at his helmet, smearing red against the metal until Boba steps up to help. "You handled him well."

 

"That was nothing- Grogu could have-" The reminder of his son momentarily stuns him, but Boba wipes at Din's helmet, a fond edge creeping into his voice. 

 

"Wiped the floor with him, just like his buir."

 

"Yeah." 

 

Boba hums knowingly, and leads Din up to the cockpit, telling him to fly while the other man sleeps. Being trusted with the Slave sends Din's heart racing, and he spends a few anxious minutes staring at the controls before lifting them up and away, hands tight on the yolks and stomach in his throat. Din gets a few good hours of practice in with flying the ship, and by the time Boba comes to take over Din is reluctant to let him: he hasn't flown anything since Tython, and even though the Slave I doesn't belong to him, Din can't help but feel possessive over the pleasure of flying it. Boba, surprisingly, doesn't press him, making that same knowing sound before bumping their foreheads and saying, 

 

"You're a better pilot anyway." 

 

Din very pointedly ignores the shiver that makes his hands shake at the compliment. 

 

--

 

Din’s third bounty is supposed to be his hardest, and most rewarding one yet. A hardened fighter, intent on living, makes for an interesting chase, and Din wants to take his time. And he would, if he could, but when his bounty tries to flee the planet and Din catches him snooping around the Slave, he's a bit disappointed. Their fight on the landing pad is good, better than Din could hope for, and his left side aches, ribs sore and arm exhausted, but Din is only mildly roughed up and practically overflowing with pent up adrenaline. 

 

Boba hasn’t moved from his spot by the back of the ship through the entire fight, not even when Din was on his back, laughing while the bounty tried to get a grip on his neck and failed with all the fabric and gorget in the way. Din had let the man panic, had let him see just how useless it was to try and find a way to injure him, to incapacitate him. Almost useless at least, because he gets his hands around Din’s helmet and slams his head back once before Din jerks his head forward, helmet catching the man’s chin as he wraps a leg around the man’s thigh and flips them in one swift movement. 

 

Din’s fingers have no problem finding purchase on the man’s throat, and he pins him by the neck, head tilting as he stares down at him in contemplation. 

 

“You’re a bounty hunter?” The man spits at him, or tries to, but Din’s fingers dig in, cutting off his air, and the man chokes. “Pity.” 

 

“You’re playing with him, Beroya .” Boba calls from the ship, boredom dripping from him in waves. Din snorts, leaning a bit more of his weight onto his hand. The twi’lek underneath him squirms.

 

“I know.” 

 

“Hurry up. I do have things to do on Tatooine.” Din snorts again, knowing Boba doesn’t have anything for the next month at least . But he asked…. Somewhat nicely, so Din shifts, going up into a crouch and then onto his feet as he hauls the bounty up to his feet by his neck. The man wheezes pitifully, near passing out, and Din grants him a brief reprieve while he twists him around to slap cuffs around his wrists. 

 

Something in Din feels that his treatment is needlessly cruel, but seeing as he knows what this bounty hunter does, both from reputation and the information Din had spent time collecting, he doesn't feel particularly bad. Tracking freed slaves and dragging them back screaming is enough for Din to consider taking a pay decrease just to kill him and get it over with. 

 

“Impatient.” Din says, marching the man up the ramp and down into the bowels of the ship. He’s sealed away in one of the bunks, the hold half full, and Din hardly lets the glass fog over before he’s tugging at his helmet, wandering up while rubbing the back of his head. His ears are ringing faintly, vision blurry, and he only slightly regrets dragging out the man’s desperate attempt at disabling him. 

 

He meets Boba up in the cockpit, slumping into the copilot’s chair and resting his helmet on his thigh while Boba maneuvers them out of the port and into open space. Din closes his eyes against the too bright flashes of the stars and doesn't open them again until they're in hyperspace and Boba's hand is in his hair, combing through his curls and mussing his helmet hair. 

 

He leans into the touch, murmuring quietly. "Back to Nevarro?"

 

"Hm. You dragged that one out."

 

"He was supposed to be hard to find." Din mutters, Boba chuckling quietly as his fingers carefully probe at the back of Din's head. Din keeps himself still, letting Boba fuss, and tries not to arch up when Boba deems Din satisfactory and tugs on his hair fondly. 

 

"You knew where he was already." Din hums, conceding the point, but Boba isn't finished, and Din tips his head slightly as Boba's lips find his, soft and searching. He doesn't think either of them will ever, ever get used to this. "I can see where the reputation comes from."

 

"I was the only-"

 

"There were others." Boba cuts in, as if knowing where Din is going. Din can feel his cheeks heating when he opens his eyes to find Boba watching him. "But you stood out. Gar’re eyn verd ."

 

" Beroya.

 

"More than that." Boba reiterates, and Din feels like his skin is on fire at the heavy, sincere way that Boba says it. " Verd, buir, beroya- "

 

Din makes a noise in his throat, just a little noise he remembers his foster parents making when they were being needlessly buttered up, but Din notices the spark of recognition that goes through Boba. He's trying not to let his cheeks darken, but Boba's eyes sweep over him, taking him in, and Din feels like he could burst into flames just by the way that Boba's voice caresses against his skin, saying such pretty, sweet nothings.

 

"Why do you compliment me?"

 

Boba seems startled by the question- something fleeting and curious crosses his face, but then his eyes go dark, half lidded in a distinctly pleased way. Din, impossibly, heats further. "You like it."

 

"Wha- I-" Din tries to stutter out some response, some excuse or denial, but finds he can't come up with anything. The only thing that he can come up with is an embarrassingly strangled noise when Boba smiles, slow and sensual. 

 

"I won't tell anyone." 

 

--

 

Din doesn't doubt that Boba won't tell anyone, and he's careful not to do it around anyone else while on Nevarro. Din feels hyper aware of every word that comes from Boba, of everything that he says and doesn't say. He's so aware of Boba that something curious happens- they're sat together in the captain's quarters, cleaning off their armor with shoulders bumping and Din talking about nothing in particular when he murmurs, "Green looks good on you."

 

And Boba freezes. 

 

It's barely noticeable, there and gone again, and Din is careful to hide his reaction as he scrubs at a stain in the groove of his chestplate. He sits there for a few more minutes, contemplating, before trying again, voice soft and far huskier than he means it to be. 

 

"Yellow looks good, too." 

 

Boba shudders, and Din hums this time, alerting Boba to his little game. Only it isn't a game- it's something more, Din's heart racing as Boba carefully sets his armor down and turns, eyes searching his face. Din doesn't look up, stubbornly continuing his charade, and Din almost jumps when Boba's hand lands heavy on his thigh, warm and calloused. 

 

"Color would suit you." Boba says, instead of anything else that Din expects. Din only huffs out a laugh, finally turning his head up to look at the faint redness still staining Boba's cheeks. 

 

"Green?" 

 

Boba laughs. "Gold."

 

--

 

Their return to Tatooine is without fanfare, and Din is glad for it. He’s spent the last two weeks hunting and letting himself be seen, working out all the pent up energy he had, and now…. Now he wanted to settle down again, to give himself a moment to breathe. Din wonders not for the first time when he started being so contradictory- maybe it was once he found his child, once he’d adopted Grogu on his own and given him over to someone who would care for him far better than he could.

 

Maybe he’d always been this way, doing what he wanted without a care for what made sense past doing his job and getting the next one to support his covert. It’s a thought that haunts him somewhat as he follows Boba down the ramp of the Slave I and down into the sprawling expanse of the Hutt palace. Though, maybe after everything, it should be the Fett palace now. Boba hasn’t done anything to adopt the mantle of Hutt, and seems wholly disinterested in anything even related to what the previous king had done. 

 

He’s still mulling it over when Boba goes to sit on his throne, thighs spread wide and Fennec perched on the arm to tell him about what happened in the time that Boba was gone. Numbers and deals and petty rivalries that Din is glad he doesn't have to deal with- Boba had offered to share it with him once, and Din had maintained that he never wanted a crown. He maintains it now, dipping his head in a nod before disappearing from the throne room, heading toward their shared suite with the intent to take the longest, hottest shower that he can and then not get dressed for the next day.

 

He strips out of his armor with careful precision, setting each piece on top of the dresser, pausing to make sure none of it will fall before he finally goes for his helmet. Some old fear jitters through him when the seal releases, as if there’s someone waiting in the refresher, or in the closet, ready to look upon his face and take from him what Din has already lost once. When no one jumps out, as the logical part of Din’s brain knows, he finally slips the helmet up and off, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjust to the light of the room without his visor to adjust. 

 

Once he can see without his eyes watering he does as he intends: he takes a shower so hot that his skin is red and flushed from the heat, and hardly bothers drying off before tucking himself under the sheets. Din is eternally grateful that Boba seems to adore the extravagant, the softest of sheets and the biggest supply of water (though Din feels needlessly indulgent after his shower is done.) The feeling of the sheets brushing against his skin, sliding over his thighs, his ribs, his chest, makes his body hypersensitive to every minute shift in the air.

 

Or maybe that’s just him-- so used to being in the armor that when he isn’t covered, when he’s laid bare and exposed, Din doesn’t know what to do with himself. How to react when he rolls onto his stomach, clutching Boba’s pillow under his chin and breathing in the faint scent of whatever soap or cologne that reminds him so much of his husband. Din can feel himself grinning just thinking the word, and his thoughts quickly drift toward Boba, as they’re prone to do when he’s left alone with no one to see the way that he reacts. 

 

He thinks about how Boba had looked, outlined in the orange lights, green and red armor cast in different warring shades. How he’d never once shamed him for the way that he felt, the way that he’d laughed and delighted in the chase of getting his bounty. Din knew that it might be fucked up, but Boba looked at him with such care, such pride that it took Din’s breath away sometimes to think about. 

 

But mostly, and embarrassingly enough, Din thinks about Boba’s words. The way that Boba’s voice, low and rough from whatever the sarlacc pit had done to him, had smoothed over the easy, sincere compliments. Din can still hear Boba’s voice in his ear, breathless and excited, the more than he thinks about it, murmuring perfection in such a way that Din’s skin heated again just at the memory. It’s- embarrassing almost, the way that thinking about Boba’s words has heat licking down his spine, curling in his belly and warming him from the inside out. 

 

Boba, leaning against the wall, calling him beautiful while he’d been breathless and edged in sweat from running. How he’d been covered head to toe, but the other man had looked at him as if there was nothing between then at all. Like he could see the happy, eager flush to Din’s cheeks, could hear the pounding of Din’s heart. Din buries his face in Boba’s pillow, breathing in that same heady mix of Boba on the sheets, and gasps at the first unconscious roll of his hips. It should be shameful, thinking about Boba’s compliments this way- each one of them innocent entirely, just appreciation that Din didn’t know what to do with.

 

It should be, but it isn’t. 

 

He doesn’t let the shame latch on, drain away the heat in his veins- he rolls his hips again, whining, and lifts his chest up off the bed, back bowing as his hips press further into the bed. He braces himself in this position with his right arm, keeping Boba’s pillow clutched to his chest, one edge mangled in his fist as he grips it tight just to have something to hold on to. He thinks again about Boba, about his husband, and almost stops himself entirely when the door to the room pings before sliding open on near silent tracks. He lifts his head, hips stuttering, and takes in the sight of Boba in the doorway, helmet clasped under one arm and face painted with shock. 

 

Din reaches for him with his left hand, moaning something- his name, a plea, Din isn’t sure- he’s only aware of the way that Boba jerks forward, helmet left on the armor stand near the door and eyes wide. “How long-”

 

“Not long, not-” His breath catches in his throat when he grinds down again, chasing the friction that he craves and shuddering when he hears Boba’s sharp inhale. “Armor off, Cyar’ika.

 

Boba scrambles to comply as if burned, and Din huffs out something like a laugh, rolling onto his back and kicking at the sheets. The heat of Tatooine’s sun and his own arousal is enough to keep him warm, even bared to the air the way he is, and he watches, eyes hazy, as Boba methodically strips out of his armor, Din palming the hard line of his cock idly. It sends little jitters of pleasure up into Din’s stomach, mingling with the rest of his arousal, and Din considers taking himself fully in hand- it would be so, so easy to do, to let himself touch, and he wants it more and more the longer that Boba takes. 

 

He decides, when Boba fumbles with getting a boot off, that he’s been patient enough, and he moans, perhaps a bit louder than necessary when he wraps a hand around himself, thumb smearing over the head and spots dancing behind his lids. Din doesn't know when he closed his eyes, only really knows the slow, indulgent drag of his own hand, the small arch of his back when he rubs over the head again. He’s faintly aware, as he is with everything, of Boba moving through the room, but it isn’t until the bed dips beside him, until Boba’s lips are on his neck, the warm length of his body pressed to Din’s side that Din is truly aware of him.

 

Boba fits against him easily, tucking up between Din’s arm and his ribs as Din wraps his arm around Boba as best he can, blunt nails pressing into the scarred expanse of Boba’s back. 

 

Din arches his neck more to the side when Boba nuzzles, voice affectionate even as his teeth drag over the heated skin of Din’s throat. “You look so gorgeous like this.”

 

“Boba-”

 

“You’re so good for me, Din.” He can feel his own breath hitching in his throat, hand stilling, and the weak, wanton noise that escapes him is loud in the quiet of the room. Boba shudders against his side, biting lightly at the side of Din’s neck and spending a moment sucking a red-purple mark into his skin while he drops a hand to take over what Din began. Din arches up into the first touch, free hand twitching uselessly on his thigh when Boba squeezes lightly at the base before dragging up, thumbing at the head and smearing the bead of precum that gathers at the tip. Boba pulls back, shifting, and Din opens his eyes just enough to see the other man watching him, brown eyes fond. “How did I get so lucky? To have a beautiful, talented husband?”

 

“Mm- don’t know if it’s luck-” Din murmurs, laughing when Boba clicks his tongue and tightens his grip as if that’s a reprimand. Din instead bucks into the tight warmth of Boba’s hand, other hand coming up to grip loosely at Boba’s bicep.

 

“I am lucky.” Boba murmurs, moving to press his forehead against Din’s as he pants, little whines and moans slipping past his lips when his concentration slips. “To have you. To watch the way you hunt- all the grace of a lothcat, the way you fight, strong and sure-”

 

Din chokes on a cry of Boba’s name, fingers digging hard into the muscle of his back as heat sears down his spine, threatening to undo him completely at the sound of Boba’s voice, at the words he’s saying. Already he’s a mess, ready to fall apart, chest heaving as Boba’s hand slows, allowing Din to fuck messily up into his hand, whining the entire time. “Please-”

 

“What do you want?”

 

“You- please-” Din doesn’t know how to articulate anything with Boba’s hand wrapped around him, but Boba hums, drawing away completely and leaving Din reeling, hips moving of their own accord as his eyes snap open, searching. 

 

“What way?”

 

“Any- Cyar’ika - don’t make me beg.” Boba hums, curious, and Din is beginning to get a grip on himself, hips drooping back into the bed as he calms somewhat. His arousal presses against the base of his skull, insistent and aching, but Din pushes it back when a small bottle is pressed into his hands with careful intent. Din slicks his fingers immediately, well practiced, but instead of moving toward himself Boba guides him, turning him onto his side as one of Boba’s thighs hitches up over his hip. “Fuck- fuck, really?”

 

“You said any.” Boba teases, though the vulnerability on his face is far too sincere for the joking tone. Din presses them chest to chest, as close as he can as he drapes an arm over the soft curve of Boba’s side, fingers dipping to messily slide over Boba’s rim. Boba’s eyes go half lidded at the first touch, their foreheads bumping together as Din watches, one finger pressing in slowly. He watches each minute twitch of Boba’s face, each pinch of his brow or tremble of his lips when Din pauses, allowing him a moment. There’s some kind of base appeal to this, to watching the way that Boba’s lips part as his hips rock down onto Din’s finger, spurring him on further as Din begins to move. 

 

Despite Din’s initial hesitance, he doesn't pause again, working his finger until Boba’s thigh hitches a bit higher, a faintly annoyed look on his face that Din kisses away. He delights in the way that Boba gasps against his mouth on some instinct that Din can’t name as Din slips another finger inside of him, fucking him slowly with his fingers as Boba moves between rocking back and rocking forward, grinding up against Din’s belly. 

 

“You open for me so beautifully.” He whispers, mostly because he can and because he wants Boba to know. He’s achingly beautiful like this, neck and chest flushed and scars highlighting every angle and curve of his body. Another night, another day, Din is going to follow those scars, trace over them with teeth and tongue and worship Boba the way that he deserves- for now he twists his wrist a bit, curling his fingers and grinning when Boba’s head falls back, hips jerking between the sensation of grinding up against Din and sinking into the feeling of Din rubbing firmly up inside him with trained precision. “There we go- feel good?”

 

“Don’t- be an ass.” Boba chides, hips jerking when Din presses a third finger inside, spreading him further. “I’m ready-”

 

“I’m not.” Din murmurs, placing kisses over the slope of Boba’s shoulder and curling his fingers again. “Could feel you this way forever.”

 

“Don’t want to feel me another way?” 

 

“More than I want to breathe.” Din admits, never slowing his fingers even as Boba whines in warning, whole body trembling. “How do you want this?”

 

“Don’t care, just hurry up-” Din snickers, pulling his fingers out and drawing away from Boba. Boba gasps, in outrage or surprise Din doesn’t know, but Din is too busy settling himself among the pillows, propped up against the headboard and snagging the bottle of lube. Boba doesn’t move from his spot on the bed for a moment, as stunned, and Din breathes in sharply when he takes himself in hand again, slicking the length of his cock and trying to focus more on the cold shock of the lube than the way that Boba slowly rolls up and onto his knees, eyes dark. 

 

“C’mere,” Din whispers, breath punching out of him as Boba wastes no time in climbing into his lap. Din holds himself steady as Boba’s hips bear down, not giving Din a moment to waver, to think as the hot, slick heat of Boba’s body wraps around him. Din is only distantly aware of Boba’s fingers digging into his shoulders, thumb pressing hard into the ridge of his left collarbone. He feels some faint kind of discomfort, but it only fuels the inferno burning in Din’s core, and he digs his heels into the bed to keep from dragging Boba down or snapping his hips up. He brings one hand up, smoothing his palm over Boba’s hip as the other man pauses, eyes squeezed shut and chest rising and falling unevenly. “Hey. Hey, breathe.”

 

“I am .” 

 

“Breathe better .” Din shoots back, smiling when Boba huffs out a laugh and peeks an eye open to halfheartedly glare at him. “Can I?” 

 

Din tugs lightly at Boba’s hip, asking, and Boba nods his head as Din’s other hand comes up to steady Boba further. Din watches Boba’s face carefully for any sign of discomfort, not wanting to hurt him as he slowly rolls his hips up. He just stays there for a while, rocking shallowly up into Boba and staring at the way that Boba slowly relaxes, brows smoothing out and eyes opening as he begins to rock his hips down to meet Din as he rocks up. It slowly drives Din deeper, this rhythm, and when Boba is pressed into his lap, thighs snug around him Din’s head cracks almost too hard against the headboard at the overwhelming heat of him. At the weight of Boba in his lap, enveloping him so completely as Boba grinds his hips down. 

 

This time it’s Boba’s turn to be smug, to lean forward and kiss at the line of Din’s jaw, lifting off until Din is scrabbling at his hip and then dropping back down in one achingly smooth movement. “You feel so good.” 

 

“S-should say the same.” Din chokes out, hips bucking up of their own accord when Boba grinds down, laughing against the curve of Din’s neck, the sound petering off into a more sincere moan. “You’ll drive me insane.” 

 

“Close already?” Boba’s voice is teasing, but Din takes it as the challenge that he knows Boba means it to be. He means for them to stay like this, Boba in his lap, but Din gets a hand on Boba’s thigh, the other shoving against the bed as Din’s muscles flex. He flips the two of them in one smooth movement, feet scrambling against the bed as he bears down, hips snapping as Boba’s back hits the bed. Boba chokes on a laugh, a moan, and Din’s head hangs, hair wild and shoulder’s shaking as he holds Boba’s hip in one hand and braces himself with the other. “That’s it- just like that Din, just like that-”

 

Heat washes over Din in such a startlingly dizzying way that Din almost loses the hard, snapping rhythm he’s adopted, and he hears himself whine when Boba tightens around him. Boba’s legs wrap around his hips, heels digging into the backs of his thighs, his ass when Din drops his hand from Boba’s hip to hitch him higher, to change the angle just enough to have Boba’s back arching up off the bed. “Like that?”

 

“Yes- yes -” Din grins, can’t help it, and he leans down, almost folding Boba in half in the effort to get close enough to kiss him. Boba’s arm comes up around his shoulders, keeping him close as Din laps into Boba’s mouth, tasting the sighs and moans that punch out of him at the new angle that they’ve settled into. 

 

Din can feel his own release rapidly approaching him, has felt it lingering and simmering like an ache at the base of his skull all this time, and Din can hardly think as he moves to take Boba in hand, stroking Boba in time with his hips and shivering when Boba’s thighs squeeze around him, whine eeking from his throat. He almost mourns that this is going to be over so soon, that he can’t spend more time feeling Boba squirm underneath him, panting and spread out and delightfully lewd. He doesn't think he’s going to be able to look at Boba’s thighs without thinking of the way that they wrap around his hips, the way they tense and shake as he gets close, as Din rolls his hips up, pressing against that spot and sending him careening over the edge.

 

Boba spills between them with a groan, fingers digging into Din’s shoulder blades as his hips rock insistently, drawing his own pleasure out longer and longer as Din fucks into the tight heat of him. “M’close- you’re so tight, so warm- my husband, Cyar’ika-

 

“Sap.” Boba murmurs, voice shaking and whole body twitching with overstimulation as Din chases his release. A hand finds its way into Din’s hair, holding tight as Boba presses their foreheads together, and Din wishes he could keep his eyes open to see that adoring look on Boba’s face. “You’re my husband, my Beroya . My Din.” 

 

“Yeah- yeah I am- please-”

 

Boba cants his hips up, allows Din to slide just a bit deeper, and Din gasps, hips jumping for a moment before he goes still, pressing deep and shaking apart as he comes, filling Boba with warmth. Boba locks his ankles and keeps Din close just to feel him for a little longer, humming. Din has stopped moving, overwhelmed, but Boba rolls his hips, working him through the aftershocks of his orgasm until finally Din grabs at his hips, begging without words for Boba to grant him mercy.

 

Boba obliges him without a thought, pulling him down for a messy, breathless kiss as his hands wander up and down Din’s sides, petting at his hips and tickling over his ribs as Din sags against him. Din comes down slowly, stomach sticky and whole body boneless as he pulls out, not getting very far before Boba’s thighs trap him again. 

 

“I’m trying not to crush you.” Din murmurs against his husband's lips, huffing when Boba’s legs only tense, as if ready for Din to try and pull away. 

 

“As if you could crush me.” Boba teases, Din scoffing and trying to hide the smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth. He’s not very good at controlling his expression, because when he cracks an eye open Boba is grinning, entirely too smug and brow raised. Din scoffs again, leaning back, and Boba’s fingers catch in his hair, tugging against the snarl before Boba smooths his hand against Din’s scalp in apology. “Don’t start without me next time.”

 

“Stop being king.” Din shoots back, grinning when Boba laughs, low and pleased. “You’re neglecting your poor husband.”

 

“I highly doubt that.”

 

“Here I was, lonely in our bed, naked as the sun-”

 

Boba flips them over.

 

Din lands on his back this time, snickering when Boba shoves to get between his legs and bear his own weight down, effectively pinning Din into the bed as he dips to slowly kiss over Din’s chest. Din hums appreciatively at the attention, a hand coming up to lightly touch the back of Boba’s head. 

 

“Next time you can join me on the throne.”

 

“Yeah? In front of Fennec?” Din is teasing, he knows that Boba can tell, but Boba just shrugs, murmuring against Din’s skin as he settles between Din’s legs, hands drifting over Din’s thighs. 

 

“She wouldn’t stay, you know that.”

 

“Mh.” Din doesn’t comment for a second, letting the heat of the thought wash over him. “You just want me on the throne.”

 

“Is that so bad? To want to see my husband where he belongs?”

 

Din huffs out a warm laugh, fond. “I don’t belong, not like you. Your lap would do just fine though.” Boba’s returning swear at the thought is enough for Din to laugh outright, and he’s still laughing when Boba dips down to kiss the sound from his lips.