Rating: E
Warnings: Top!Boba, Bottom!Din, Smut
For @bobadinweek | Feb 11: First Time
READ ON AO3
“As pretty as an angel, baby, pink lips and red cheeks,” Boba purrs. “Pretty boy with a pretty cock, ‘course people would think you’re an angel, hm? Had me fooled the first time too, didn’t you?”
AKA the one where Din is just adorably shy and Boba makes it his mission to drag every noise out of him in bed.
Boba remembers a time when Din was shy.
A time when Din couldn’t look him in the eye, couldn’t take a murmured, “Mesh’la” without flushing down to his chest, a time when Boba left love notes on Din’s body, from his neck to his chest, just to drag out the breathy gasps and moans that escaped Din’s restraint.
Boba remembers a time when he thought Din was a sweet thing, a little standoffish and awkward, maybe, but still sweet—there was no other word for it. Boba remembers a time when he thought Din was innocent, an angel from a moon far away, something he could take and mould in his hands.
And Din was that, Din was all of those things, sweet and pretty and kind and made for him, for Boba, but he wasn’t innocent, not anymore.
Boba remembers a time when his hands were roaming, exploring, claiming, remembers how he stroked a thumb over the bone of Din’s hip, kneaded his tense muscles until he was melting in his hands, remembers bending down to gently press his lips to his shoulder, ghosting over his skin. It had never failed to drag a shuddered gasp from Din, and it had never failed to provoke him into nipping possessively, unable to help himself, only fuelled on by the moan Din let out at the sharp scrape of his teeth.
And Din had wanted more, had begged, so Boba had provided.
Boba remembers flipping him over, hands on his hips gripping hard enough to bruise, and remembers the glassy-eyed look Din had given him, full of nothing but need and want. He remembers the first time Din had gasped, “Please!”
A cry, not for mercy, but for more.
The cries that spill from Din’s lips right now are all too familiar to Boba’s ears, jarring him back to the memory of their first time.
The time he’d snapped his hips forward, jostling Din’s entire body and dragging out small, “Ungh, ungh, ungh’s” from his body, making him beg, making him cry, making him spill.
It urges Boba on right now, too, the same feral red taking over his vision, just like that first time.
“Please,” Din whimpers underneath him, his eyes squeezed tight as his thighs tremble from where they’re hooked around Boba’s hips.
Boba places a large, flat hand on Din’s stomach, pressing lightly as he murmurs, “You need something, cyar’ika?”
Din’s eyelashes flutter as his breath hitches in his chest, and Boba smiles indulgently before pressing closer, slotting their lips together. Swallowing Din’s little noises, Boba murmurs, “None of that, now. Let me see you.”
“You are,” Din whimpers, turning his head in protest as his cheeks redden.
Sometimes, Din is still shy.
Boba noses at his jaw, pressing flush against him, letting his hips slow as they roll into him. “Eyes. I want them open. Can you do that for me, Din’ika?”
Din goes even redder.
Boba remembers the first time he’d called him Din’ika, the way the name had rolled off of his tongue so easily, without even a second thought, nearly surprising him just as much as it had surprised Din.
Din still blushes the same way at the name, their name, special to them both.
He remembers the question Din had thrown at him after they’d both collapsed on the bed, utterly spent and exhausted—why did you call me that?—and remembers the look on Din’s face, an expression of raw vulnerability etched across his features.
Because you are my Din’ika, Boba had responded, and Din had easily taken it for an answer, moving closer to shyly press his lips to Boba’s.
Now, Boba dusts kisses along Din’s jawline before he nips at the same time that he cracks a hand down on Din’s ass, making him yelp. Before Din can wriggle away, he rakes his nails down over the flushed mark, painting four white rivers across the red, and snakes a hand up to card through Din’s damp curls.
“Eyes, Din’ika,” he says one last time, voice low and rough, and his tone must make it clear that he won’t take ‘no’ for an answer, because Din’s eyes snap open. “Good,” Boba breathes, hungrily drinking in the sight of Din looking at him with nothing but desperation. “Good boy.” And he lets his hips snap forward again, and Din’s eyelashes flutter as he rolls his hips up, lips parting in a silent moan.
“Please,” Din says, and he sounds ruined. “Gedet’ye.”
The word makes Boba shudder, and he stills for a moment to let it sink into his gut, hot and fiery and everything he needs right now.
Din makes another noise at the back of his throat, and his hands strain from where Boba’s tied them down to the head of the bed. His fingers twitch, and Boba drags his gaze down to his leaking cock, red and angry and untouched.
“You poor thing,” Boba murmurs, false pity coloring his tone. “You need it that badly, Din’ika?”
Din keens, cheeks picking up their color again at Boba’s words. Boba doesn’t let him recover, fisting a hand in his curls, making it burn oh-so-good. Then, he lets it fall slack, his fingertips pulling back to ghost over the head of Din’s cock instead.
It makes Din’s face twist in agony, and he begs, “Please.”
Boba can see tears beginning to well up in his eyes, dampening his eyelashes, and he purrs, “Oh, din’ika. Your riduur is so cruel to you, isn’t he?” Din whimpers, floundering, clearly unsure what the right answer is, and it makes Boba grin. “That’s okay, cyare. You let those crocodile tears go, let them spill, let me see them.”
A choked gasp is ripped from Din’s throat as Boba rests both hands on his hips again before picking up the pace, the sound of skin on skin echoing in the room, and when he cracks a hand down on Din’s hip again, he feels Din clench as he lets out a dry sob.
“Mesh’la,” he breathes, squeezing his hip. “I could do this all day, Din’ika.”
“Please,” Din groans, shaking in Boba’s hands as his cock strains, drooling onto his stomach. “B-Boba—”
“Looking like a karkin’ angel,” Boba growls, unable to help himself. He finally takes Din’s cock in his hand, but he doesn’t give him any relief, just squeezes and makes Din blather incoherently. “Lemme hear it, all of it.”
“Boba.” Din shudders under his hand, and Boba rewards him by thumbing the tip of his cock, drawing out another aborted movement from him.
“As pretty as an angel, baby, pink lips and red cheeks,” Boba purrs. “Pretty boy with a pretty cock, ‘course people would think you’re an angel, hm? Had me fooled the first time too, didn’t you?”
“Pl—”
“Sing for me,” Boba grits out. “Don’t hold back, cyar’ika. No shame in it, I know you’re not an angel now.”
“I— I—”
“You think an angel can have an ass this karking needy?” Boba interrupts, and Din keens, really keens, and Boba can tell he’s quickly reaching his tipping point. He expects Din to burst into pleas, to beg, to cry, to squeeze his eyes shut to hide his wet eyes, but he doesn’t. He turns his head and looks at Boba, eyes glassy and blurry with nothing but pure adoration, giving it all to Boba.
It’s enough for Boba.
Boba swears and feels a furl of heat pulse in his gut as he comes, spilling inside Din, and Din groans, straining against the restraints like he’s desperate to touch Boba, to press closer to him and never let him go.
Boba pants, stills his hips, and then strokes Din’s cock, once, twice, and then Din is coming, strings of white splattering over them both. Boba takes him through it, hand slowing only when Din starts to make pained little noises.
Din quickly melts after that, all of his limbs pliant and loose. He mumbles nonsensically as Boba yanks the silk restraints off of him, tossing it carelessly to the floor before wrapping him up in his arms.
“Mesh’la,” Boba breathes one last time, and Din makes a soft, happy noise, burrowing into his chest.
