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For all of his adult life, Din Djarin has prided himself on never doing foolish things.
That wasn’t to say that he’d never made a mistake, nor an error in judgment—he was only human, after all. He had turned Grogu’s bounty in, for one—he had worked his damn hardest to rectify that one, but still. Din Djarin is not a stranger to bad decisions. Yet, he tries to measure his options, to think long and hard before acting, to listen when his gut warns him of danger.
The curling feeling in his gut—and his chest—is back with a vengeance recently. He catches himself feeling more and more like he’s edging close to another bad decision, another dangerous decision, but can’t bring himself to stop. Not when the Jedi looks at him like that, blue eyes glinting, that serene smile on his face belying his stubborn attitude and surprising sense of humor.
It’s for Grogu, he reminds himself. So Grogu can learn. Otherwise, I’d leave.
It’s hot on Ossus. Almost as hot as Tatooine, and maybe worse off, with the way the moisture hangs in the air.
The Jedi—Luke—has been on his case, ever since Grogu pointed at Luke’s laser sword with a stubborn grunt and conveyed something through their magical Force osik that made Luke look up, eyebrows shooting up, and say, “You have a lightsaber?”
“It’s not mine,” Din had swiftly rebutted. “I’m just… holding onto it.”
Luke, the perceptive jetii bastard that he was, had gone and researched it, somehow—had come back with the full history of the Darksaber. Din wouldn’t have been surprised if Luke knew more about it than he did.
“You should learn to use it,” Luke tells him. The sound of his voice and the blue of his eyes and the way his light-colored hair curls at the base of his neck make Din feel dangerously like he would do anything the Jedi asked him to.
But, Din is not foolish. Letting the Jedi in would be dangerous—for both of them. There was no closeness to be had, no matter how badly the weak part of his chest craved it—no matter how sharply he longed for Luke to move closer to him, to reach beneath his armor and touch his skin—
No. Din had to be better.
Only—he isn’t better. He’s weak, impulsive, desperate—all the things he’d tried for so many years not to be. It’s as if Grogu opened up a door in his armor, letting out all the squishy and frightening feelings he’d worked so hard to keep inside.
He allows himself to indulge, sometimes. His helmet is good for that. He can sit silently to the side and watch as Luke and Grogu train, and Luke is none the wiser to Din’s eyes on him.
Well. He hopes Luke is none the wiser. He always seems to have a way of knowing things.
“Steady, young one,” Luke murmurs as Grogu lifts a rock into the air. The child focuses, squeezing his big brown eyes closed, and lifts a small, clawed hand. The rock hovers a few inches off the ground, wobbling, before it drops, clattering on the cobblestones.
Grogu’s ears droop as he makes a frustrated noise. Luke chuckles, unbothered.
“You worked very hard for that, Grogu,” he says, leaning towards Grogu and brushing the corner of his ear with a finger. Din crosses his arms over his chest to keep his affection from bursting out. “I know you’re frustrated, but—”
Luke pauses as Grogu stands on little feet, making a small grunting noise, conveying some sort of message through the Force that Din can’t follow. Luke laughs, brightly, and lights up like the sun.
“Oh, it’s too hot to train?” he says, hiding a giggle behind his hand. “Surely not!”
“He’s not wrong,” mutters Din. His undershirt is nearly soaked through with sweat, trapped beneath his armor.
He wants to take his armor off. It’s a very disconcerting thought.
“It does appear I’m outnumbered,” says Luke, still grinning. He stands, gracefully—everything he does is graceful—and scoops Grogu into his arms. Grogu goes gladly, squealing with delight and patting his hands on Luke’s face.
Grogu isn’t caught up on things the way Din is. He shows affection freely and unabashedly. Din wants to put his hands on Luke’s face—on the rest of him, too—on his muscled shoulders and long neck and narrow waist and—
Udesii, beroya, he scolds himself. There’s no sense in dwelling on things he cannot have.
In front of him, Grogu yawns widely, and Luke’s face crinkles with affection.
“Oh, tired now, are we?” he says, lifting Grogu higher in his arms. “Looks like it’s naptime, then, my little friend. That is, as long as buir agrees.”
Din grunts through his vocoder—hopefully a noise of vague agreement and not one of overwhelming affection. He had nearly tripped over his own feet and went tumbling the first time he heard the word buir fall from Luke’s lips, unconcerned, as if he didn’t just turn Din’s world up on its head. Luke’s hasty explanation that buir was merely what Grogu called him in his mind had only served to bring Din fully to tears under his helmet. He still isn’t used to it.
“A real nap this time,” he says, trying to sound stern and uncompromising. Grogu beams at him, blinking slowly. “You escape your crib and go exploring again and that’s no cookies for at least a week.”
He wags a gloved finger near Grogu’s face. The child is unconcerned, grasping his finger in a surprisingly tight grip and bringing it up to his mouth to chew on.
“Hey now,” says Luke with a light laugh. “Don’t chew on your dad. It’s not very nice.”
Grogu makes a gurgling noise, unconcerned. He looks at Din, and at Luke, and back at Din, before sighing contentedly, snuggling against Luke’s chest.
“Aw,” says Luke, tone unbearably soft. “He’s a happy kid.”
“Yeah,” says Din. It comes out a little strangled. He hadn’t realized how close he had stepped to Luke until their shoulders were brushing, black fabric against silver beskar. It feels… parental. It feels dangerous.
Din takes a large step back, clearing his throat. “Um. I can put him to bed. If you’d like.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” says Luke with a soft smile, one hand resting gently—protectively—against the back of Grogu’s head as he nods off in Luke’s arms. “He’s my most favorite student, after all.”
The rest of the joke—he’s my only student—goes unspoken. Luke’s made it before, and it always gets a genuine chuckle out of Din. This time is no exception—he snorts, taken off his guard, and Luke grins at him, shooting him a wink.
Din’s stomach does something funny as Luke and Grogu walk away from him. He’d follow if he could, but he seems to have forgotten how to walk.
He wants to run away—he also wants to stay forever. He wants to take his armor off, and wants to leave it on until he dies. He wants to touch Luke, and be touched in return, and feel Luke’s hands against his bare skin. He wants to watch Luke watch Grogu grow.
He doesn’t know what he wants, and he really doesn’t know what to do about it. He hovers in the courtyard, paralyzed by indecision, until Luke returns from putting Grogu down for his nap.
“Hi, Din,” he murmurs as he approaches. Din twitches at the sound of his own name.
“...Skywalker,” he says, and Luke smiles at him. Din’s heart pounds a rhythm against his chestplate, so intense that he’s sure it’s hammering new patterns into the beskar there.
“Well, my afternoon’s free now,” he says, tone light, shifting forward on the balls of his feet. “I think the heat has worn Grogu out. He was fast asleep when I put him in his crib. Doubt he’ll wake until dinnertime.”
Din grunts noncommittally. Luke’s got something on his mind—he can tell. Luke tilts his head, regarding him with that clear blue gaze that always makes Din feel like he can see right through his beskar.
“Sit with me,” says Luke, settling down on a low stone bench and patting the spot next to him. Din cannot disobey. He sits, and the back of his glove brushes against Luke’s thigh for a half of a second. He pulls his hand back quickly.
It’s hot. Din can feel a line of sweat trickle down his temple. He wonders if the breeze would be cool against his face, if he took his helmet off. He wonders if Luke’s hands would be cool against his face.
“I was doing some research on beskar,” Luke says. It’s unexpected, so Din turns to look at him—but really, with Luke, the unexpected should be what he knows to expect by now.
“What about it?” says Din, feeling a little defensive.
“Did you know beskar is one of few natural Force-repellents?” he says, looking at Din’s helmet.
Din doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just shrugs.
“It makes sense,” continues Luke thoughtfully. “I always wondered why you’re so hard to read. The other Mandos I’ve met, too. Sabine Wren—fought with her in the Rebellion. It was so odd—when we were on missions together, she’d be so bright in the Force, so easy to read and communicate with, until she put her helmet on—then she was harder to keep an eye on. Kind of… slippery.”
“Slippery?” says Din, amused.
Luke wrinkles his nose. “I can’t think of a better word for it. It’s like you’re… a cold spot in the Force.”
“Is that…” asks Din cautiously. “...a bad thing?”
Luke’s eyes widen. “Not at all! You’re not a cold spot in the Force. No, not at all. I’ve felt you—well. Um. Without the helmet.”
He ducks his head, blushing slightly. Din doesn’t know what to say. Luke never should have seen him without the helmet. Din thought it would be a one-time thing.
He can’t bring himself to feel the regret the moment deserves.
“But, um, all of that to say,” says Luke quickly, cheeks pink. “The Force seems to skirt around your beskar. Like… water off a quadduck’s back. I can’t sense you well in the Force. And I imagine if I were to wear beskar, it would be the same thing—it would be much harder for me to feel and use the Force.”
“So?” asks Din, unsure where Luke is taking this.
“So, using a lightsaber is about using the Force,” Luke says, resting a hand on his chin thoughtfully. “Whether actively or passively, the kyber in a lightsaber—yes, including yours—is drawing on the Force for strength and connection.”
“But I can’t use the Force,” Din says, like it’s obvious, because it is. Luke merely gives him a Jedi-ish smile.
“It’s not about whether you can use the Force,” he says. “The Force is in all of us. It shapes us—it surrounds us and penetrates us, is what my old master used to say. Even if you can’t use it—which, I believe anyone could use the Force, if open to it, but that’s a conversation for another day—it still flows through your blood and the water and the air we breathe. Part of every living thing.”
Din waits as Luke gets to his point. He’s fascinated—Luke’s eyes are bright, his hands gesturing wildly as he explains, his face open and interested. He was born to be a teacher, Din thinks.
“So. I know you’ve been having trouble with the Darksaber—like it’s fighting back against you. Like when it gets too heavy to lift.”
“You think it’s because of my beskar?” Din asks.
“I mean. Maybe?” Luke shrugs. “It’s not like I have any Jedi around to consult with. Yoda already said he didn’t know. Then he said ‘ask Master Kenobi, you should, well-acquainted with Mandalorians, he is,’ and then just giggled for the next five minutes. And Ben ignored me when I tried to ask him. So, yeah. I dunno.”
“Huh,” says Din.
“So I thought—” Here, Luke seems to lose his nerve, swallowing the rest of his sentence with a gulp. “I mean, it’s totally up to you. Your decision, not mine. I just—thought maybe—”
“Luke,” says Din, and Luke’s meandering sentence grinds to a halt. “It’s okay. Say what you’re thinking.”
Luke makes a quiet squeaking noise as his cheeks go pink, but he straightens up. “I think we should try lightsaber sparring with your armor off.”
Din twitches reflexively as his instincts scream at him. “That’s… dangerous,” he manages. “And the Creed states—”
“Yes, the Creed,” says Luke quickly. “Well. Hold on, first things first, it’s not dangerous. I wouldn’t hurt you. I’d disengage my lightsaber long before it neared you. And the Creed—well, I just figured, you can remove your armor as long as no one sees, right? And we’re alone here on Ossus so there’s no chance of any strangers stumbling on us. And as for me—”
Din watches, speechless, as Luke whips a thin strip of dark fabric out of his pocket.
“A blindfold,” says Luke, and his voice is trembling slightly. “I can wear it. So I can still help you, but I won’t see you.”
Thoughts swirl like a whirlpool in Din’s mind. Luke’s lightsaber near my unarmored skin. Luke’s hands near my unarmored skin. He’s already seen me. I’ve already broken the Creed with him. He’d wear a blindfold to keep me comfortable. He keeps trying to help me. Why?
“...How are you supposed to fight blindfolded?” is what manages to escape his muddled brain.
Luke laughs at this. “The Force is my ally. I don’t need sight to hold my own in a battle.”
Din shakes his head. “Dini’la jetii,” he mutters, and Luke grins wide.
“You have your night vision settings, don’t you?” he says, tapping a finger lightly on the side of Din’s helmet. “Well, I do too, but mine is the Force.”
“Hrm,” says Din intelligently, momentarily distracted by the gentle slide of Luke’s fingers against his beskar.
“It’s not about me,” Luke explains. “Don’t worry about me. I only proposed it because I want you to feel more comfortable with the Darksaber, and I think that trying it sans armor might prove useful for you to connect with the kyber some more. If you don’t feel comfortable—”
“It’s fine,” says Din, too quickly, and Luke’s eyes widen. He winces beneath his helmet—he didn’t mean to agree so immediately. “It’s a sound strategy. One thing Mandalorians always say is that if you don’t know your weapons, you’re doomed to lose.”
“Very wise,” says Luke, lowering his eyes. “Um. Do you want… to do it now? While Grogu’s asleep?”
Din nods jerkily, and Luke gives him a slightly nervous-looking smile. Luke squares his shoulders, lifting the fabric to rest against his eyes.
“Um,” he says, turning his back to Din. “I figured—you should probably knot the blindfold. So you feel most comfortable, and so you know it won’t slip.”
Din exhales slowly as the tangled mess of his emotions rockets through his veins, starting in his head and racing down to his feet, leaving his skin tingling. Luke’s back is broad beneath his tight black shirt, narrowing at his waist, and his arms are muscular behind his head as he holds the fabric in place.
“Okay,” Din manages, hoping it sounds normal. He steps forward, and one of his knees bumps the back of Luke’s thigh. Luke makes a quiet noise, swaying slightly. Din’s heart is pounding so loudly that he can hear it in his helmet, but he musters all his bravery.
He shucks his gloves off first, tossing them to lay on the stone bench, and lifts his hands, trembling slightly, to take the cloth from Luke. Din keeps his breath as steady as possible as he loops the fabric, tying it in a quick but sturdy knot.
It’s almost too much for him, and they haven’t even started yet. Din tightens the knot, and his bare fingers brush against the strands of Luke’s hair. It’s soft, slightly wavy, the color of the sand on Tatooine. Din feels desperate from it—he very nearly buries his fingers in that perfect, tempting hair—but he yanks his hands back at the last second. The blindfold is tied tightly in place.
“There you go,” he says, like it’s nothing. “Does that feel alright? Doesn’t pinch or anything?”
“It’s perfect,” murmurs Luke, turning back around. His sky-blue eyes are hidden now behind the black strip of fabric, but he still tilts his head in Din’s general direction like he knows exactly where he is.
“Great,” he mutters, pulling the Darksaber off the clip on his belt. “Um—I guess I—take my armor off now?”
“Whenever you’re comfortable,” Luke says. Din swallows hard.
Just do it, he orders himself, and lifts his hands to pull his helmet off in one swift motion.
He was right—the breeze does feel nice on his face. Still hot out—no doubt of that—but better, now that he isn’t sweltering under the helmet. And Luke—
Din has to bite down hard on his lip to keep himself from making a noise that Luke would undoubtedly hear without the vocoder in between them. Luke looks like a golden god in the sunlight, his colors bright without the faded view through his visor. His cheeks are pink—Din can hardly bear it, the way that lovely dusty color brushes over the apples of his cheeks. He wants to reach out and touch it.
He snaps his head away. He has work to do, after all—this is a sparring match, not an ogling session. His vambraces come off, settling next to his helmet on the bench, followed by his pauldrons—he brushes his thumb over the mudhorn signet, as he always does—and his chestplate, backplate, and cape. He glances over his shoulder instinctively to see if Luke is watching him through the blindfold—but of course he isn’t, his face turned respectfully towards the middle distance. He unstraps his thigh plates, belt, and ammo canisters, and then he’s beskar-free.
He steps back, regarding his armor on the bench, and feels wildly uncertain. It’s beyond rare for him to remove every piece at once—if someone had told six-months-ago Din that he’d be stripped down to his flightsuit, outside, in front of someone, he would have called them a liar.
Luke makes him do foolish things.
He clears his throat. “All set.”
Luke nods. “Excellent. A quick stretch, then, before we start?”
Din scoffs, and Luke chuckles. He knows full well how Din feels about stretching.
“You can’t see if I skip the stretches, anyway,” Din says, delighted when Luke laughs.
“I can sense it,” he says serenely, raising his hands over his head and leaning forward, bending nearly in half as he touches his toes. Din looks—he can’t resist.
“You’re making that up,” says Din, sweat pooling beneath his flight suit.
“Serious!” says Luke, extending a leg behind him and twisting his arm over his head. “I know you’re not stretching right now. A body in motion feels different in the Force than a body at rest.”
“Sure,” says Din, but he does make a valiant effort to reach his toes. He doesn’t quite make it, straightening and trying not to feel foolish and uncoordinated next to Luke’s lithe body.
He counts himself very lucky that Luke can’t see him at all. His figure is not what it used to be—his eating habits have gone way up and his workout habits gone way down since he took Grogu in, and his once flatly muscled stomach and arms have softened somewhat as he approaches 40. Nothing like Luke’s gorgeous figure, almost 10 years his junior. His face, too, leaves much to be desired—he flushes at the unfamiliar feeling of self-consciousness, of having his crooked nose and patchy beard and mud-brown eyes exposed to the world, even if “the world” consists of one overly kind Jedi wearing a blindfold.
It’s for the best, he reminds himself, swallowing a sudden wave of self-consciousness. Luke wouldn’t like what he saw anyway.
Luke tilts his head. “You alright?”
Din startles, reining in his thoughts. “You… can sense me more without the armor.”
Luke ducks his head. “Well, yes. I try not to pry. I can just feel that you’re worried.”
“I…” tries Din. A believable lie—that’s what he needs. “I’m… concerned that one of us will be injured if I can’t block with my beskar.”
“No need to worry,” says Luke with a faint smile. “I have the utmost faith in you. And I’ll be able to sense if you miss a step, so I’ll just turn my lightsaber off before it reaches you. Easy.”
“Yeah,” says Din. “Easy.”
Luke hesitates for a moment. “Is… it alright if I take a layer off?” he asks, and Din nearly swallows his tongue. “It’s almost Tatooine-hot today.”
“Whatever you want,” says Din, sounding a little strangled. Gods, did he want that. Luke offers him a nervous smile beneath his blindfold, turning to fidget with the zipper on his sleek black shirt.
Din watches—foolishly. He bites down hard on his tongue, nearly drawing blood, as Luke slips the shirt off to leave him in just his tank undershirt. Miles of golden skin are revealed as he tosses the black fabric to the side, lithely toned muscles shot through with odd, light-colored branching scars. He leaves his right glove on—his prosthetic hand, Din knows, though he still doesn’t know the full story of how he got it.
After a moment’s hesitation, Din fingers the zipper on his flight suit, pulling the top down and tying the sleeves around his waist. His arms are out, on display in his short-sleeved undershirt—nobody’s seen his arms in almost thirty years.
Still true, he reassures himself. Luke can’t see me. He runs a finger slightly self-consciously over one of the many gnarled scars that decorate his skin.
He takes a deep breath, head feeling light. At what point did this become too much foolishness for one day? If he does one more unwise thing, Din thinks he might snap and sprint off into the forest, hiding his face in a tree so nobody could ever see him again.
Luke shows no sign of concern at Din’s internal panic. He finishes stretching, letting out a contented hum at the sun on his skin as he returns to standing. He looks so beautiful that it aches at the back of Din’s molars.
“Alright,” Luke says. He reaches out, effortless as always, and the Darksaber flies into his hand, followed by his own saber, silvery and slightly scratched. “You ready?”
“Not really,” Din admits, and Luke smiles at him. It’s slightly disconcerting, how Luke can turn his head directly at Din, even with the blindfold over his face.
One of the tail ends of the blindfold is caught on Luke’s shoulder, dragging as he turns his head. Din moves without thinking, plucking the fabric and tucking it behind Luke’s head. Luke inhales slightly, his chest moving beneath his light tank top. Din snags the Darksaber from Luke’s hand before he can do anything else stupid.
“Y-you’ll be fine,” Luke says, nodding with confidence Din doesn’t quite share. “No different than all our other spars with the Darksaber. If anything, it’ll be easier.”
“Mm,” says Din noncommittally. He steps towards the center of the courtyard. It’s not their first spar, but it’s easily the most nervous he’s been. His quiet fear the first time he faced Luke, face-to-face with the reality that this unarmored, unassuming man could tear him in half without blinking, pales in comparison to the pounding of his heart today.
Luke walks with graceful steps to his opening position, raising his lightsaber and igniting it. The green glows against his skin.
“Anytime you need a break, just say so,” he says. His shoulders are the best shoulders Din’s ever seen. He didn’t know shoulders could even be attractive before this moment.
He holds the Darksaber in front of him, lifting his elbows and chest the way Luke had taught him, and ignores the heat on his skin. He wishes Luke would come over and adjust his form. Luke would stand behind him, crowd up next to him, his hands on Din’s elbows and his chest pressed to Din’s back.
“Are you ready?” asks Luke.
There’s thunder in the distance—or maybe it’s the sound of his own heart. He can’t tell the difference anymore.
“Ready,” Din murmurs. He ignites the saber. The blade, made of crackling darkness, extends in front of him. He inhales—haar’chaak, Luke was right. There’s something energizing about holding the saber. It sends zips of interest up his arms towards his heart.
Luke smirks beneath his blindfold, the corner of his mouth turning up. He barely gives Din a moment to respond before he’s darting forward, green blade raised.
Din pulls the Darksaber up to block, half on instinct. Luke’s saber clashes against his, the noise discordant.
“Good,” says Luke. His lips curl up, and Din is sure that sans blindfold, his eyes would be sparkling. “That was a quick reaction time.”
“I guess,” says Din. He counters backwards, sending the Darksaber in a low swing towards Luke, slowing his motion so as not to take him off-guard with his lack of vision.
Luke backsteps without a moment’s hesitation, and the Darksaber swings harmlessly in front of him. Luke’s smile grows, and Din begins to realize he’s enjoying this. He lurches forward with another swing, and Luke blocks with an upward motion from his lightsaber.
“Too slow,” he says. “But better.”
Din grunts, tensing his muscles to swing the Darksaber towards Luke’s midriff, before his arms twitch at the last moment and his nerves take over. His swipe of the blade weakens before it can reach Luke, and Luke gives him a grin just on this side of feral.
“Don’t go easy on me, now, Mando,” he breathes, crowding towards Din’s chest, and Din’s breath and feet stutter.
Din stumbles backwards, nearly tripping over himself, and Luke laughs, spinning away. He’s unbearably graceful at this. Din feels like a bantha in comparison, crude and stomping.
“Come on,” Luke encourages, sidestepping behind Din as he struggles to keep up. Thunder rumbles across the darkening sky. “Give it to me—you know I can take it.”
Din wonders if he might cry. He feels a little like it, his chest heaving and eyes stinging as he tightens his fingers around the blade. He growls, low in his chest, and Luke smirks.
He’s tired of pulling back. He’s sick of weakening at the last moment, yanking himself away because he’s too frightened. Din surges forward, the Darksaber moving with him, an extension of his arms. Luke meets him blow for blow, unencumbered by his blindfold, his green blade slicing cleanly through the air.
Each clash of their blades sends reverberations down Din’s arms. He stays in motion—the breeze sends his hair whipping, the skin of his arms tingling. Is this what life feels like without the armor? Constant feeling?
Din allows himself to believe for a faint second that he has the upper hand. He’s pressing towards Luke, advancing uncompromisingly, his saber bearing down on Luke’s. He has the Jedi on the defensive, forced to block the Darksaber’s heavy blows.
He’s foolish, though. Luke gives him a quicksilver smile, and he realizes in half a second that he’s never been the one in charge—not for a moment.
Luke leaps into the air, lifted by the Force, and flips himself off the stone wall Din has driven him towards. Din gasps, the air leaving his lungs as Luke’s knee meets his chest—he’s stumbling backwards, toppling off-balance as the Darksaber flies from his hand and into Luke’s.
His vision goes spinning—he can see the dark, heavy clouds in the sky above him for a long moment before his back hits the cobblestones, the breath going out of him in a rush, and his vision is encompassed by the horrible, wonderful, vexing Jedi who has stolen his every waking thought.
Luke lands gracefully, one knee pinning Din’s chest to the ground, his green lightsaber in his right hand and the Darksaber in his left, both blades crackling on either side of Din’s unhelmeted head. He smiles savagely, the tail ends of his blindfold falling around his face, and it’s like looking at the sun.
Din lets out a noise somewhere between a gasp and a moan, arching into Luke’s touch. He’s overcome—the blood rushes in his ears, drowning out the sound of the storm closing in above them.
“Din,” says Luke, like a prayer.
Din can’t bear it. His willpower collapses. He reaches out, wrapping desperate arms around Luke’s chest, and flips them. Luke’s back hits the ground, and the lightsabers clatter out of his hands.
“Luke,” says Din, half-sobbing. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, and he doesn’t know how to stop himself, but Luke’s hands wrap around his shoulders and his skin erupts with crazy, euphoric tingles.
Luke should push him off. Din’s much larger than he is, and he’s got Luke pinned against the ground, their legs tangled. Luke isn’t pushing him off—Luke is pulling him closer. The sky is dark above them, or maybe it’s Din’s eyesight going dim from the sheer desperation he feels.
He buries his face in Luke’s neck. Fuck, he’s never felt something better than the soft, golden skin hidden there. His mustache scrapes against Luke’s skin, his hot breath dangerously close to Luke’s neck.
Luke is shivering, Din realizes, his breath and body trembling. Adrenaline—and enjoyment.
“Oh, gods, Din,” he breathes, and Din would do anything to keep hearing him speak like that, his voice shaky and a little bit hoarse.
Din can’t form words. He’s half-hard in his flightsuit, his arousal progressing quickly as Luke’s fingers dig into the meat of his shoulders and Luke’s stomach presses against his and Luke’s thigh brushes between his legs and Luke’s breath skates sweetly over the shell of his ear.
“Yes,” whines Luke, and Din’s whole body flames. “More.”
He can’t touch enough of Luke. A hand slips down, unbidden, and rucks Luke’s tank top up. His skin is hot beneath Din’s fingers, toned muscles heaving as he clutches at Luke’s bare waist.
“Touch me.” He grinds out the request, an unbearable thing, an unbelievable thing. He has never needed this before—or, maybe, he’s always needed this, but never realized before this moment. Perhaps this has been building up inside of him for thirty years, since the hands of his parents last brushed against a frightened child’s cheeks.
If it’s a foolish request, Luke indulges him all the same. Luke’s flesh hand rests on the back of his neck, holding his face tight against Luke’s throat. Din can feel Luke’s gloved fingers sliding into his hair, lacing there and pulling. Din moans. His scalp comes alive, the pleasant tingling going straight towards his uncomfortably-tight pants.
“Fuck, you feel good,” Luke breathes, and rocks his hips up to meet Din’s. Din whimpers, fully involuntarily, and presses his hips down. Thunder cracks above them.
“I can feel you,” he gasps. Luke’s hard, too—gods, how? Why? Is it even real that Din Djarin could get so blessedly, wonderfully lucky as to make Luke Skywalker harden in his pants at his touch?
He feels wildly out of control—or, more accurately, he feels like he’s handed all his control to Luke on a silver platter, and Luke now holds it delicately in his hands. He ruts his hips down, grinding desperately. He’s sure he’s pushing Luke uncomfortably into the cobblestones, but Luke just hooks a leg around his hips, driving Din’s hips tighter against his.
Din presses his mouth to Luke’s throat, trying to muffle his moans. Luke’s lips are pressing against his temple, his hairline, his forehead, and it’s suddenly not enough. Din surges upwards, one hand finding Luke’s chin, and presses their mouths together sloppily.
He’s never done this before. He doesn’t know if he’s doing it right, but by all the hells, it does feel good. Luke makes a desperate noise, opening his mouth against Din’s—if lips sliding against lips feels good, Luke’s tongue slipping into his mouth feels heavenly.
Every part of Din is being touched. Luke’s foot nudges against the back of his thighs, his hips pressed flush to Din’s. Their torsos rut against each other—Din’s hand is creeping up Luke’s ribcage, and he prays to every deity available as his thumb brushes against the stiff peak of a nipple. Luke’s got one hand laced in Din’s hair, the other clutching his bicep, fingers trailing up and down the sensitive, untouched skin of his arms. He can’t believe he’s lived without this until this moment. His mouth is against Luke’s as Luke seals their lips together, using his grip in Din’s hair to tilt Din exactly where he wants him.
I’ll give him everything, Din thinks, hypnotized. Everything that’s mine is his. We will raise warriors.
His hips have reached a desperate pace, his aching hardness pressing against the bulge in Luke’s pants. Even through layers of fabric, it’s overwhelming. Luke’s hips are bucking up to meet his, just as needy, and Din realizes with a bolt of lightning that they could do this again. That he could see Luke, laid out in front of him, not a scrap of clothing on him—that Luke could touch his whole body, could take him in hand. He realizes that he could press inside of Luke, sink into him, nothing between them at all—he moans against Luke’s mouth, his skin tingling as his climax approaches.
He wants more. He wants to find a way to crawl inside Luke’s ribcage and make a home in there. He wants everything from Luke. He wants.
A massive clap of thunder breaks the sky open above them. Din tumbles over the edge with a shout as the rain starts, the cool water hitting his overheated skin. He’s beyond noticing. He bucks forward into Luke’s touch, making desperate noises against Luke’s mouth as he spills in his pants. Luke shudders, seizing up beneath him, his legs tightening around Din’s hips. His head falls back, hitting the cobblestones beneath them as he cries out with pleasure, his eyes blocked by the strip of black fabric. He pulls hard at Din’s hair, and the pleasure washes over him so hard that his vision goes white.
He lays still for a long moment as the pleasure radiates through his body. His mind is quiet, for once, his fingers and toes pleasantly numb.
“Fuck,” breathes Luke beneath him. The rain taps at Din’s back, but he can’t move. “That was—”
“Good,” mumbles Din, and Luke laughs breathlessly.
“Yeah,” he says. He opens his mouth to say something else, but is distracted as the rain falls harder, soaking the two of them to the bone. “Oh, fuck—”
“Dank farrick,” Din says, eyes shooting open in realization. “My armor—”
He scrambles to his feet, his shaky legs almost sending him toppling. Sure, the armor is waterproof, but it’s about the respect of it. No Mando worth his paak would leave his beskar’gam abandoned in the rain like that. Luke stands too, pushing his rain-darkened hair away from his blindfold. He’s giggling, open and unassuming, but his laughter turns into a shriek as another gust of wind slams more raindrops against their skin.
Din’s laughing too—he can’t help it. He scoops his armor desperately into his arms, tilting his head back to catch the raindrops on his overheated skin, and can’t feel upset about any of it.
“Come on, come on, come on,” says Luke, bouncing from foot to foot. The rain seems to have broken the heat—it’s cold now, and they’re both severely underdressed for this new weather.
“Inside,” commands Din, shoving an assortment of armor—he thinks he sees a thigh plate, a pauldron, and a cape in there—into Luke’s arms. Luke takes them easily, undeterred by his lack of vision as they sprint towards the door out of the courtyard.
Their mad dash towards the door nearly ends with Din bowling Luke fully over, nearly tripping over him in their urgency to get out of the rain. Luke’s laughing still, a bright sound, and the joy on his face is readable even with his blindfold still firmly in place.
“Oh, Force,” says Luke, tossing his head back and laughing as Din slams the door controls behind them. “Oh, kriffing hell, that was—”
“You’re soaked,” Din realizes, shifting his armor into one hand and trying in vain to brush some of the dripping wetness off of Luke’s face and shoulders.
“So are you,” Luke giggles, swaying towards his touch.
“Couldn’t make the rainstorm turn another direction?” Din asks, chuckling. “The great Jedi can’t wave his hand and send the clouds off towards the south?”
Din’s fairly certain that Luke rolls his eyes behind the blindfold. “Pardon me for not being at my peak performance moments after having my brain scrambled from the best orgasm I’ve had in—”
“Oh,” says Din, flushing red. “You—it was—you—you liked that?”
Luke’s smile softens as he turns his head in Din’s direction, patiently waiting out his stuttering.
“Yes,” he says softly. “I loved every second, Din Djarin, and I sure as hell hope you did, too.”
“More than,” Din manages softly. “It was—”
He struggles for words for a moment. How can he express to Luke how deeply he feels about what just happened? How can he say that something inside of him flipped, like an armor piece sliding perfectly into place?
The words don’t come, so he leans forward, pressing his lips to Luke’s. He hopes desperately that Luke can feel the emotions radiating off of him, that he can drink Din in through the Force and hear everything that Din’s not saying.
He pulls back after a long moment, gazing at Luke’s blindfold, just where his eyes would be.
“I’m…” says Din. “...very damp.”
Luke giggles, leaning forward and resting his forehead against Din’s shoulder.
“Okay, Mando,” he says, affection clear in his tone. “Let’s get dried off.”
He retreats towards his quarters, and Din watches him go, no thoughts left in his mind besides the unbelievable curve of Luke’s body.
Luke glances back over his shoulder, the tail ends of his blindfold draping across one bare shoulder. “You coming?”
Foolish—perhaps. The Din Djarin from a year ago would never have dreamed of doing something so exposed, so vulnerable, so unwise as following a Jedi anywhere, much less unarmed and unarmored.
If I’m foolish, Din thinks, then so be it.
He follows Luke, a small and hopeful smile spreading on his face, and the door slides shut behind them.