Chapters: 1/1
Word Count: 533
Fandoms: The Mandalorian
Rating: Explicit (MDNI)
Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Pairing: Din Djarin/Cobb Vanth
Tags: Trapped in a Desert, Fuck Or Die, Rough Oral Sex, First Time Blow Jobs, Top Din Djarin, Bottom Cobb Vanth, PWP, Short.
Summary:
Din and Cobb are trapped in a desert, it seems there’s only one way out of here…
Ao3 Link Here
Cobb and Din have been traveling this desert for hours, it seems like there really isn’t a way out at times.
“This is impossible.” Din says.
“Nothing about this seems possible, friend.” Cobb sarcastically remarks.
“Yeah I could seriously do without any quips right now, I’m trying to save our asses here.” Din says cold and dismissively.
“You? I’ve been working too y’know.” Cobb says, kicking up sand in annoyance at Don’s rude comment.
“We don’t have the time for this, let’s keep moving.” Din says coldly.
Cobb lets out a groan of dissatisfaction with how their short argument ended.
He and Din continue along the desert, still no end in sight, suddenly, they come across of wall full of texts. Din rushes over to it to see if he can read them.
“What do they say?” Cobb asks, leaning down to try and read with Din.
“I can’t really tell but I can make out some parts…it says “Do each holes or die pathetically” apparently.” Din responds calmly.
“Do each holes? What holes?? There’s nothing but goddamn sand everywhere!” Cobb yells out angrily.
“I think…it means sex.” Din retorts professionally.
“Hu- Excuse?” Cobb inquires rather surprisedly.
“I think it means we need to fuck.” Din says as he takes off his armor pants.
“Woah hey now let’s not!-“ Cobb tries to calm Din down, but pauses once he notices how long his dick is, it…arouses him.
“D-Din…” Cobb blurts out as Din shoves him to the ground.
“How do you wanna do this?” Din asks Cobb gently and softly, knowing how uncomfortable he is with this.
“I…I wanna suck it.” Cobb requests rather desperately.
“Ok.” Din says, putting his dick into Cobb’s mouth.
Cobb proceeds to suck Din off rather fiercely, Din is liking it, he’s always been a fan of rough sex.
“Y’know, this is my first time I’ve given someone a blowjob.” Cobb says, stroking Din’s penis with his free hand.
“Y-yeah?…” Din moans out, feeling like he’s about to cum.
“Yeah, I’m happy it got to be with you.” Cobb says with a smile before putting Din’s dick back into his mouth again.
Cobb proceeds to continue sucking him off, reeling in his cock as deeply as he can muster, before releasing it back out into the desert wind.
Din moans something fierce as he finally climaxes all over Cobb’s face. Cobb simply licks it up as Din sprays it onto his face and lips.
Suddenly, they’re back in the bar, everyone there looks at them with shock and horror. Din and Cobb look at each other embarrassedly, until Cobb coughs.
“Well that was certainly a trip.” Cobb says standing up. “We got lots of Mayo stuck on us indeed.” Cobb says, trying to lie through his teeth to save his reputation.
“Well it mostly got on you.” Din says, pulling up his pants quickly so no one will notice.
“Yep! Alright have a nice day partner!” Cobb says pushing Din out the bar.
“Yep! You too!” Din says as he willingly gets shoved out.
Cobb breathes intensely as he looks at everyone at the bar’s confused facial expressions.
In the middle of bum-fuck nowhere was one hell of a place for Cobb’s pa to set up an ice cream parlour.
It was never meant to be something profitable, something Cobb only learnt when he was older, already three degrees of silver in his hair and beard and sitting at a sticky table with a stack of insurance forms for the building and none for the man who ran it. He’d gotten a note instead of a visit, plain old lined paper folded once and tucked into the envelope alongside the newspaper clipping announcing his father’s death and another that marked his release from county jail for money laundering.
Cobb had known pieces here and there; a child left to be tended by the wilderness and a mother who tried her best all the same would do that to a boy. He’d always pictured his father dressed like his Mama on laundry days, his shirt-sleeves rolled up past his elbows and a rag tied over the dark crest of his curls, an apron slung around his hips and knotted twice. He’d pictured his daddy leaning over the sink and slinging bills onto the line fresh from the wash, pegging them up next to each other until they’d rustle in the breeze; polishing pennies and nickels until they shone and set them in careful stacks on the sideboard. Clean money. Legit money.
Cobb sits in the husk of his father’s life work, the gentle hum of empty freezers infecting the spaces between his thoughts, a couple of cans of petrol rusting next to his legs, and he lifts up another smoke, breathing in the ash without tasting it.
“One helluva fresh start,” Cobb murmurs, tipping his head back to the neon sign above the counter. The pink light washes over the planes of his face and it isn’t a sunrise, not even the benediction of stained glass, but it’s something all the same.
⁂
The delivery is running late.
Haemorrhaging across the sky is a wash of pinks and oranges, competing with the lurid neon tones of the sign washing over every crack and kicked stone in the parking lot. Cobb hadn’t bothered paving it, tamping down the ground enough that it wouldn’t shift easily and spending an agonising week every winter remarking the bays where the bigger trucks can spend the night. The earth is flat here, sky and earth blurring at the horizon until Cobb fancies he could just walk far enough that he’d reach the distant uncaring stars and get to cut his knuckles on their edges.
It’s that self-same horizon he’s watching while lying to himself that he isn’t.
The cloth wrapped around his fingers is damp, a few drops of cleaning solution falling onto the toe of his boot and darkening the leather. Chewing the flat of his tongue, Cobb lifts the cloth, a tributary beginning to slide down his arm before he throws it into the bucket. It slaps against the side dully, the scent of lemon disinfectant beginning to seep into the stitches of his clothes along with the everpresent aroma of sugar that had been an unexpected side effect of his decision.
There’s a chill in the air, the night just beginning to put out questioning fingers and the final freezer door propped open behind him. The hair on the back of his neck prickles, the sensation crawling down his spine and the slope of his arms. He should have closed the shop by now, called it all a lost cause and have himself two drinks deep in a radio show by now, but something keeps him tethered to this spot. If Cobb had any shades of a religious man left in him, he would have called it blind faith in some higher power, but he doesn’t anymore. Living had a way of grinding down some parts of a man into powder that blows away with a breeze, hollowing out others until something new can put down roots and grow in the space left behind.
It’s not a crush.
Cobb’s a man grown and gone silver several times over by now. Crushes are for the sweet young things that make the trip out on the weekends to sit, knees knocking together, giggling over a shared cone then swapping strawberry flavoured kisses in the small pool of shade in the back corner of the parking lot. Crushes are for better men than he could ever be with bright futures laid out in front of them instead of already ground into the dirt. Cobb isn’t ashamed of his past, proud of what he’s accomplished despite the deck being balanced against him, but it still stains him in some indescribable way.
He doesn’t have a crush on his missing delivery man. Instead, Cobb is hopelessly and completely in love with him.
“Now, this ain’t no way to behave,” Cobb murmurs, trying to convince the universe just as much as himself. He scrubs the flat of his palm, still damp from the cloth, over the stubble just beginning to itch along his jaw, and turns away from his vigil. His gaze lands squarely on the bowl sitting just inside the humming freezer.
It’s nothing special, one scoop of regular chocolate, another of strawberry, and one randomly selected blueberry cheesecake scoop. Then, on top, hot fudge sauce, chocolate chips, and peanuts. Specific but not at the same time, technically forgettable amongst the steady stream of others an oddity like Vanth’s Parlour coaxes in through the doors, but Cobb remembers. He remembers because he can’t do anything but. He had made it up a few hours ago, his normal delivery time, and moved it to the freezer when the spoon had begun to sag against the side of the bowl. Stupid treacherous heart.
He can’t even bring himself to eat it, sweetness turned sickly in his nose, the cloying congealed mess of flavours running together turning his stomach. He should throw it away, but he doesn’t dare move away from the horizon to do so. If he does, he’ll have to admit the dull smudge in the distance might be nothing more than his imagination, just his mind playing tricks on him to prolong his instance of agony.
Cobb blinks once more, opening his eyes wide enough for the night to peek inside to his soul. The smudge might have gotten bigger, might even be considered a haze now, some wavering formless thing springing into life along the winding black asphalt that tears through the landscape like a sewn wound. Cobb’s teeth catch against the jagged edge of his nail and he tears himself free, blood beading dark and insistent. Not just a haze, but a figure. On foot and pushing the husk of his motorbike next to him, occasionally skipping a step or two to keep up with the gentle decline.
Moving deeper into the parlour, Cobb picks up the bowl from the freezer, shoving the door closed. The spoon knocks against the edge as he turns, catching the front door before the bell overhead can chime, and he holds the bowl up once he’s sure Din is close enough to make it out.
“Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s rude to keep a lady waiting?” Cobb calls, unable to keep the grin from his face. It aches, pulling at the corners of his mouth, his nose crinkling beneath the sheer weight of it.
Din looks up at the sound of Cobb’s voice. He’s still wearing his helmet, the visor pushed back to reveal deeply mournful eyes that brighten when he focuses on Cobb standing in the doorway. His curls would be flattened to his head with sweat, several shades darker than they would be in half an hour, and his leathers are pale with dust and grime. It strikes a strange chord in Cobb’s mind, almost as if in another life he’d be standing in the doorway of their shared home, watching Din make his way up the garden path, white picket fence just behind him, Cobb in pink pinstripes with rollers in his hair, the seam of his stockings straight enough to make up for the fact he isn’t.
“Sorry ma’am,” Din answers, closer now, gentler. He blinks up at Cobb from beneath a sweep of dark lashes. “I’ll try to break down in your parking lot in future.”
“See that you do,” Cobb answers, his grin cracking through the facade of prim and proper he’s fighting to keep balanced on his face. “Now, come on in, you can rest your bike in the little shed round back once you’ve sat a stretch. Can’t imagine there’d be anyone wandering past who’d steal it but better safe than sorry.”
He can taste the ghost of his parent’s when he speaks sometimes but can’t string the memory together well enough to know if it’s the petrol-ash of his daddy’s words or the lemon cut with sugar of his mother’s. Cobb steps back on legs that feel like they’re going to buckle beneath him, unsteady in the familiar territory he’s been haunting all these years, and Din moves in tandem with him, settling his bike onto the ground and hefting a holdall further up onto his back. He catches the door that slips from Cobb’s fingers, his hand leaving a heavy smudge against the paler wood inside.
Din colours at the sight of it, the door dropping from numb fingers. The flush settles high over the bridge of his nose, descending low over the stripe of skin Cobb can make out at the junction of his helmet and shirt. Din doesn’t fidget, making to pull his helmet off and strip his gloves at the same time, but Cobb stops him with a wave of his hand, herding Din towards one of the booths. “Sit, eat. I’ll sort the rest, don’t you worry.”
Cobb presses his hand into the small of Din’s back, sliding the bowl of ice cream in front of him. After a moment of consideration, he heads back to the counter, leaning over the top to grab one of the clean glasses from behind. The drink machines had been disconnected and cleaned, the nozzles bobbing about in a bowl of solution, but water would be better after a trek halfway through the desert. The pipes rattle, a heavy distant sound that echoes in the empty space of his bones, some fragment of memory putting down a handful more of thread-wide white roots, and he turns back to Din before he can stumble after it.
On the table, facing away to stare out of the window, Din’s helmet sits. There’s a faded sticker over the nape of its neck, something that had once been green before time got to it. Some of Din’s curls are still askew from his long walk and Cobb reaches for them as he slides into the seat opposite Din. His feet knock against Din’s boots, sand gritty beneath his soles, but it doesn’t matter as Din leans into his touch.
There’s sweat, the everpresent tang of sugar in the air, and Cobb’s heart stutters into a delicate start. This could be something, something he could have. Din grins up at him, a smudge of ice cream on his lower lip, and he nudges the bowl towards Cobb. “Share with me?”
