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The thing is, Din knows what being touch starved looks like.
After a childhood spent torn from everything he ever knew and learning how to follow the creed that rescued him on top of that, so desperate for touch and connection that he eventually forgot what it felt like to want, he knows. Intimately.
He’s familiar with what that starvation feels like from his own point of view—a crawling sensation on skin when touched. Sensitivity so honed it actively hurt, feeling like his bones were about to leap from his body. Wanting it so badly—to touch, be touched, to feel—but simultaneously wanting nothing less.
Adding on the complexities of his relationship with his covert, his armor, the breadth and depth of his devotion to a code shared only by a select few, made Din and any sort of casual touch not from fighting, sparring, or bounty hunting extremely unlikely bedfellows.
Took ages for him to feel comfortable being touched after Grogu’s bounty, his own kid still making him flinch even a year or two into taking care of him.
It’s easier now, thankfully. With practice. Repetition. Grogu needs it and Din is emotionally mature enough to admit that he needs it too.
Paz touches him occasionally these days, the clear tinkling of their respective beskar sounding at the touch. A hand on his back, a slap of worn gloves to his shoulder. Elbows and shoulders and knees prodded and poked into the gaps of armor, because they’re still scrappy little shithead kids at heart.
The Armorer doesn’t touch him often, but he doesn’t expect her to.
Bo-Katan would wrap her hands around his neck if given half the chance, but Din isn’t too concerned about her touching him in any way that matters.
And Boba—Boba forced his way alongside the few people in his life who have ever touched him kindly with sheer, unmitigated determination and his sly, blink and you miss it attitude. Also the fact that Din was completely, utterly enamored with him the second he pulled off his helmet and showed Din his face as if that was something Mandalorians just did.
Witnessing touch starvation from Boba’s point of view is different—there was no forcing himself to tolerate being touched the way Din did initially. No practicing, no slow descent into a cold pool before a full submergence. Just inserting himself into any physicality he could manage from anyone he deemed worthy enough the second he could.
He might not touch a lot of people—Din, Grogu, Fennec, a few others—but when he touches them he means it.
So Din knows. He understands.
He’s seen the wanting and the desire and the not knowing how to ask to be touched in a variety of different ways at this point.
Which is why it cleaves his fragile, hesitantly beating heart right in half to watch Luke Skywalker yearn.
Luke—odd, dichotomous, intelligent, weird Luke—isn’t like he and Boba. He has never repelled touch like a magnet. Never waited stubbornly for the right person to come along, to be worthy.
He soaks it all up.
Every touch, every brush. Every casual bit of connection.
Like a plant in the desert, Luke bends open at the smallest kindness. Cracks wide and lets the sheer need shine through, even when Din is sure he doesn’t want that expressed so clearly on his face.
Din knows about Luke’s childhood, his backstory, the reasons why he is the way he is. The rapid fluctuation between happy go lucky backwater hick and sedate, calm, no-nonsense Jedi master. The crackling, expansive lightning scars across his torso up to his neck, down his shoulders. The forearm so neatly cauterized, the mechanical, whirring skeleton underneath his glove.
Who his father was. Who Luke is afraid that he might be.
They painstakingly chipped their histories from one another over long evenings after even longer days spent attempting to rebuild Mandalore. Exhaustion and fear and grueling manual labor causing them to reveal things to each other they’ve never spoken aloud, especially to someone known for such a short time, over spotchka that glowed blue in the night.
So, he knows that Luke had an aunt and uncle who loved him as best they could for as long as they were able. A sister who is his twin star, who he sees as often as he can bear. A brother in law, lost and found mentors, determined and caring people from the resistance spread across the universe.
He is not short on those who care about him.
Luke has known kind touch. He has also known hurt and pain on a scale that Din can barely comprehend.
So it makes sense, that in the long stretch of days after he and Din met, when Luke is trying to to rebuild something so fundamentally lost right alongside Din, that he seeks touch wherever he can.
Like getting wailed on for hours by Bo-Katan in the training rooms. Herding children without even the barest hint of Force sensitivity along the city streets simply because he enjoys their presence. Sitting in tiny groups of the older Mandalorians who begrudgingly tolerate his presence, asking questions and listening to gripes and concerns and gossip.
Din watches him bump shoulders with the younger crew in the palace, hold the hands of small children, Mandalorian and unclaimed orphans alike. They crawl all over him like ants, delighted cackling ringing out when he plucks them from his person with his space magic and tilts them upside down and wiggles them until the childhood paraphernalia hidden in their pockets shakes to the ground.
He has spent hours watching Luke soak up the attention Grogu so readily gives him—first as a precautionary measure, a way to ensure Grogu’s continued safety and to vet Luke’s supposed intentions, then as something that brought him simple, pure pleasure—Grogu curled in his arms or perched on his shoulder, a clawed hand in the fine gold of his hair.
Luke babies Grogu, if Din is being honest. More than Din or Boba do, at least. When he isn’t learning, isn’t being taught to wield the fine yet vast control he has over the Force, Luke spoils him rotten.
Din doesn’t fuss. Grogu deserves it, deserves light and happiness and kisses on his weird prickly head and more soft, easy comfort than he knows what to do with, curled up with his teacher and all the more willing to learn for it.
Doesn’t mean Din doesnt notice, though.
All these touches, these kind gestures, the easy physicality. And how Luke still so visibly wants.
*
Din has cared for Boba since the beginning. From the moment they exchanged their first greeting and Mando’a met his ears instead of Basic.
Boba cracked him from his shell as Din went through the hardest time of his life—deconstructing his thoughts and feelings and beliefs about the creed he lived by, raising a child, inheriting the unwanted respect and responsibility of an entire forgotten, glassed planet by virtue of what felt like an unknowing chance accident.
Boba was there. Next to him, behind him. Steady and sturdy and without a single shred of tolerance for any sort of bullshit.
Some days, he misses Boba so fiercely that it aches.
He karking hates Tatooine, with its dry heat and its legion of deadbeats and slave traders that Boba rules over with a beskar thumb.
Din knows if he goes to Boba with a problem, half the time the solution he receives will be killing whoever is pissing him off. The other half of the time, Boba suggests Din fuck off and leave the ruling to the suckers who wanted it to begin with and bring Grogu with him to live on the disgustingly dry dustball he calls home.
Even with the time he spends on Tatooine, the time away from Din and Grogu and the odd pace of their new lives, Boba is a surety. His touch is a balm on every bit of stress and rage and fear that circles Din like a predator.
If Din fucks this up, if he drives Mandalore into the ground in his misguided attempts at unity and reconciliation, Boba will still be there. Will wait for them to come home to him.
It took him longer to care for Luke. It wasn’t a hardship, not in the least bit, especially when he didn’t try to abscond with Din’s karking kid the way all the stories and murmuring and stereotypes said that he would. But it wasn’t instantaneous either.
Weeks passed of Grogu and Luke training, establishing a bond, whatever the hell that meant to them, before Din even considered asking him to follow them to Mandalore.
But Luke came, despite his own misgivings and their people’s shared history and the active dislike of multiple highly ranking Mandalorians. He came.
He’s here.
And he orbits Din and Boba like a glowing moon.
Boba is steady, solid. Unmoving and grounded and confident in himself after the life he’s lived. Luke is all white light, casting shadows with how bright he glows.
While he and Boba are already so intertwined, their souls made from the same celestial thing, he’s sure that Luke is made of something complimentary. Different enough to wind and weave between their rough edges, their broken and repaired creeds.
Din wants him so badly his teeth ache with it sometimes.
He’s sure Boba does too, even if he won’t say it. Won't make himself vulnerable and admit it.
Din isn’t fucking blind, he can see the way they circle each other—watches how Luke will dance a few steps forward, as close to Boba as he dares with their past stretched between them like a live wire, then flit back whenever Boba moves to advance.
It’s a delicate dance they’re doing, filled with too much snark and barbed comments sharp and glittering like broken transparisteel, apologetic glances that neither of them will let the other see.
But Din sees. He knows. And he wants.
Boba will be easier to convince to move forward, to push past Luke’s retreat and meet him where Din knows he wants to be met. Touch him how he knows Luke wants to be touched.
A great many things have fallen to Din in the last handful of years. Things that have been incredible, unexpected boons, like his kid and his friends and the family he’s manage to make and keep. Other things have been distressingly pushed upon him at a cost he isn’t willing to examine yet.
This one is an challenge he’ll happily undertake. He isn’t upset that he’s the one to orchestrate them getting Luke into their bed.
It’s a task he’ll willingly place on his own shoulders simply because the reward of having Luke between them will outweigh any bit of effort it takes getting him there.
*
Din knows that Boba and Luke must’ve talked about their shared history at some point over the last standard year. Must have ironed out their many differences in order to tolerate their shared proximity to Din and his child. Just not near him. Or with him afterwards.
He distinctly recalls Boba spending a great deal of time antagonizing Luke from the balconies of the sparring gym, jeering and cajoling and puffing Luke up into a red faced, sweaty mess.
He vividly remembers Luke baiting Boba into a spar, watching as they threw themselves at each other and connected in a way that Din knows Luke equates to coveted touch the same way he likes a palm on his shoulder or a knee pressed against his.
Grogu and he had watched from the sidelines, making empathetic grunts at particularly hard hits and excited coos at flashy moves.
When they’d finished, both covered in sweat and mussed up beyond belief, Boba steered Luke over to the two of them with a gloved palm on the back of his neck. Soft, yet firm, his thumb just under the hinge of Luke’s jaw, the splayed fingers of his hand tucked into white-blond fluff.
Strung so tightly after a fight with a man who had both assisted in attempting to kill him and who he had assisted in almost killing in return, Luke relaxed at the proprietary touch. Sinking backwards into the weight of Boba’s hand, all of his strings cut, face slack with what Din could only guess was relief.
He didn’t protest at all when Boba used that same hand on the back of his neck to push him into a seated position next to Din on the bench. Kept his hand there when Grogu scrabbled across Din, claws tinkling against beskar, to get into Luke’s lap.
Leaned back into the grip when it tightened, Boba snarking something unimpressed about Luke not wanting lunch, not being hungry. Fluttered his eyelids and sighed when Boba, after successfully conning Luke into eating lunch with them after rinsing off, stroked his gloved thumb under the soft, sensitive skin behind Luke’s ear.
They’re comfortable enough with each other now, is what Din means to say. Even if their version of comfortable is beating the shit out of each other, bantering in a not-so-lighthearted way until they’re trading real, hurtful insults, pinging off into different directions to lick their wounds, then gravitating back to each other a day or so later.
Din doesn’t mind. It keeps things interesting, if he’s being honest.
And neither of them have ever been called easy in any sense of the word, himself included.
Boba needs a challenge that Din isn’t always capable of providing and Luke needs to be pushed. To be shoved out of his routines and his beliefs and the tiny, suffocating box of his expected persona that he sometimes places himself in.
Especially when he knows that Boba mostly means well and that Din will always be behind him, willing and waiting.
*
Din gets Luke into their bedroom with a straightforward statement, the simple act of taking his helmet off so Luke can see his face, and a bare palm on his lower back. Gloves purposefully removed, to cup Luke’s face in his hands and feel his cheeks heat with the flush Din has spent weeks cataloging.
He notes the way Luke’s eyes go wide in disbelief when Din tells him, straight up, that he and Boba would like him in their bed. Want him in between them.
Now, later, and for as long as he’s willing.
It doesn’t take much, if any, convincing. Din presses his forehead to Luke’s, cradles his skull in his hands, murmurs about how long he’s wanted it, wanted Luke. How he adores the way he cares about Grogu, about the other kids, about his school he’s trying so hard to start here on Mandalore.
Steadies him when he stumbles forward, weak in the knees, gripping at Din’s pauldrons like they’re the only thing keeping him standing.
All the touches make Luke pliant, distracting him from his obviously whirring thoughts and his notable ability to backbend out of almost any situation he doesn’t want to be in. And even some that he does.
Luke is twitchy about Boba, unsure and off kilter. Doesn’t believe that Boba wants him, that he’d “let” Din make this overture, can’t conceptualize them wanting or needing anything more than each other and Grogu.
Din says nothing yet, confident that Boba himself will be all the convincing he needs.
“Are you sure?” Luke asks, pupils blown so wide the blue of his eyes is barely visible. His bottom lip is pink, swollen from him biting at it. Din wants to make it worse.
“Pretty karking sure, yeah,” Din mumbles, nudging Luke with his shoulder as he heads out the door. Blessedly, Luke follows, reaching out cautious and careful to curl his fingers around Din’s. “Positive, actually.”
He tightens his grip, drags his thumb along the soft skin between Luke’s own thumb and pointer finger.
They traipse up to Din’s bedroom, the one he shares with Boba when he’s on planet. The one he hopes Luke will share with them whenever he’s comfortable enough.
Luke’s organic hand is calloused, likely from both lightsaber wielding and all the shooting he did throughout his childhood and his years in the resistance. It feels nice in Din’s palm, square and long-fingered and soft where it’s not rough.
He prods open the bedroom door with little fanfare, poking Luke to get him to follow.
“Skywalker,” Boba says, all lothcat got the canary smug, from where he’s leaned against the desk in their bedroom, unfortunately cool and suave looking. He’s godsdamned annoying sometimes.
The rasp of his voice makes Luke legitimately shiver.
Luke blinks owlishly, still holding onto Din’s hand.
“C’mere,” Boba murmurs, expression softening.
He looks back to Din, not asking for permission necessarily but checking in, and when Din nods, Luke unwinds their fingers. Boba watches, eyes dark, as Luke makes his way across the room.
He beckons him close with an arm stretched out and Luke goes, winds himself close to Boba, light hair and dark tunics against the black of Boba’s flight suit.
Din watches, absolutely entranced, as Boba gets a hand in Luke’s hair and tilts his head back. Easier to kiss him, to press his mouth against Luke’s with a tenacity that Din feels in his bones.
At the sweetness, the devotion, Luke melts. Hands scrabbling against Boba’s shoulders, reaching up to tentatively smooth across his scarred face and head.
It’s a thing to watch. Beautiful, for them to come together.
Makes something hot and liquid curl in Din’s stomach.
“Wanted to get you between us for ages,” Boba murmurs, pulling away from Luke’s mouth to trail kisses down his jawline and neck. Subtly, he begins to unravel the austere closures of Luke’s robes, fingers deft.
“Wasn’t sure,” Luke sighs, leaning into every point of contact, every bit of touch he can reach, “couldn’t tell.”
Din scoffs a little laugh, starting on divesting himself of his armor.
Boba catches the movement, makes heated eye contact with Din across the room. He knows that look, knows what comes after. Moving quicker, he shucks his pauldrons and his gauntlets.
Din loses track of things for a bit, focused on latches and closures that are so often repeated they’re second nature. When he zones back in, Boba is murmuring something into Luke’s ear, quiet and slow. Luke nods, cheeks pink and eyes glazed.
Boba leans back and inhales and the sound makes Luke full body twitch.
Grabbing the hinge of his jaw, Boba forces his mouth open although there’s absolutely no convincing required. Luke’s lips part with no hesitation, the soft shlicking sound like sweet candy left for too long in the sun.
He full body twitches when Boba leans over, still holding him so firmly, and spits in his mouth. Gentle and romantic with it.
Din isn’t a fan of that usually. Boba tried it on him once and when he flinched away, Boba chuckled something deep and rumbly and said, “Hm, not for you then.” and never tried it again. Which Din admittedly appreciated.
Luke very clearly is into it, judging by the way his eyes roll back and he moans, high pitched and sweet.
“Oh,” Boba croons, almost mocking, making eye contact with Din and raising his eyebrows. “For him, then.”
Luke, pink cheeked and messy haired, nods, almost frantically.
“Better him than me,” Din says back, shucking his own flight suit and throwing himself back onto their bed, fit carefully against the headboard. “Luke.”
Like he’s on a tether, strung up between them, Luke instantly snaps his gaze to Din. When he beckons him closer with a curl of his fingers, Luke hums, kisses Boba again, then crawls up the bed to get closer to Din.
Without a shred of hesitation, he throws a leg over Din’s lap, leaning close to press their chests together. Din is practically naked, Luke with his tunic untied and pushed halfway off his shoulders.
He’s warm where they touch. Pink across his shoulders and down his chest exactly like Din has imagined for the last standard year and change.
Sweetly but with an edge of neediness to it, Luke ducks down and kisses Din, a firm brush of his mouth. He hums, almost a huff of laughter, when Din’s mustache tickles at his face.
Mouth soft, hands spread across his chest, Luke kisses him with a single minded tenacity—an end goal of touching and little else. Din knows that feeling, he’s experienced it first hand over and over and over until only recently.
And fuckin’ kark, is Luke good at it. Evident from how he kissed Boba, even more obvious with how he slides a careful swipe of his tongue across Din’s lower lip and waits until he exhales before dipping inside.
The warm, swirling thing in Din’s belly crests like a wave and he grips Luke’s hipbones tight in both palms and rocks him in a steady grind.
Luke sighs, a dreamy little sound, then reups his energy and focus, attempting to lick the back of Din’s teeth.
While Luke legitimately sucks on his tongue, Boba drops onto the bed on both knees, shuffling up and prodding a scarred finger against Din’s ankles until he spreads them wide. Once close enough, he leans against Luke’s back hard enough for Din to feel the pressure at all of the points they touch.
Being who he is, Boba casually tosses the little bottle of lube that lives in one of their drawers onto the sheets next to them without a word. At the sight, Luke pulls away from Din’s mouth and moans, head leaned back against Boba’s shoulder.
It’s easy work to get the rest of their clothes off after that—hands overlapping, tugging and pawing and undoing ties and clasps and zips. Luke keeps making these tiny little noises that have Boba growling, biting down hard on the newly revealed slope of his neck down to his shoulder.
It’s even easier work for Boba to wrap his hands around Din’s on Luke’s hipbones, to tug him backwards until he’s nestled between Din’s thighs on his belly. Ungainly and off-balance but still trusting, Luke goes, his shoulders pressing into the muscle of Din's legs.
The second it clicks for Luke, he’s moaning, nuzzling his face into Din’s hipbones like a particularly needy lothcat. “Please, please, please, lemme do it, please.”
“Relax, Skywalker,” Boba says, with a chuckle so dark it feels like deep space. “Nobody’s gonna take it from you.”
“Only what you want,” Din says, the good cop to Boba’s horny one. “Never gonna force you into anything.”
Dragging his mouth across the tops of Din’s thighs and worming his hands up to circle loosely Din’s cock, he mumbles, “Want this. I’ve wanted this for ages.”
Luke strokes upwards once, calluses catching. It makes Din’s entire body jump, hips rolling into his grasp.
When he lolls his tongue out to lick up the entirety of Din’s dick, his mouth is so soft and slick and warm that Din has to bite back a gasp.
As gentle as he can, he cards his fingers into the white blond fluff of Luke’s hair, sweeping it away from his face so he can watch Luke’s expression as he flicks his tongue at the wet already smearing the head of Din’s cock. With a raspy inhale and fluttering eyelids, he delicately sinks down onto Din as deep as he can go.
It’s fuckin’ impressive, which Boba has no shame in saying out loud.
The praise makes Luke hum, the vibrations causing Din to twitch and clench the hand fisted into Luke’s hair.
Boba, moving like a large cat, all grace and power and sensuality, leans across the bed and snags up the lube. Settling behind Luke, he slicks up his fingers and his hand disappears between his legs. Luke twitches, rocking forward until his nose brushes Din’s pelvis, causing them both to groan.
Boba works him open, intent and focused, with particularly determined movements that Din is extremely familiar with from their half-viewed cadence and rhythm alone. He hitches Luke’s hips back and up until his spine is curved, pale and dotted with scars, squeezing tightly at one of Luke’s muscled thighs.
Din keeps one hand tangled into his hair, slips the other across his shoulder blades in broad, firm strokes.
The dual ended pleasure, the touch from every angle, has Luke’s eyes rolling back into his head.
Boba continues his ministrations, slipping Luke two more fingers. Riding that line, they move together in unorchestrated waves until Luke slaps frantically slaps at Boba’s thigh. The sound is stark, sharp in the midst of their sighs and bitten off groans.
With an absolutely obscene slurp, Luke pulls off of Din’s cock to slur, “Good, I’m good. Go ahead.”
He can’t see Boba’s expression from his face down ass up angle, but Din can. Gets to watch as it curls, wholeheartedly and completely satisfied with their current conditions.
“You sure are, mesh’la,” he rumbles, curving over Luke to bite at his shoulder. “Good.”
The words have Luke biting off a whimper. He squirms closer to Boba, grinding back, then pendulum swings back to Din, taking him back into his throat.
Boba slides forward with a controlled, slow press, until his hips meet Luke’s ass. Then he jerks forward a bit with no warning, like an absolutely dickhead.
Luke loses focus the further in Boba pushes, moaning high and reedy. He relaxes only once he realizes Boba's stopped moving, then, because he's also a bit of a dickhead, pushes himself even harder. Din slides even further into the slick warmth of his throat.
With a dismissive little noise, Boba rocks forward, hand splayed on Luke’s lower back.
It’s a beautiful thing to witness—a feedback loop of pleasure for all three of them. Tears start to drip down Luke’s face, past his spit wet chin. Din wants to steal him away, wants to blanket him in soft, caring touches for the rest of their days. He also wants to fuck into his mouth, wants to grip his hair tighter, maneuver him however he pleases.
Instead, he pets gently at Luke throughout. Nudges his rough fingertips over Luke’s cheeks, his swollen lips. Slides both hands through his hair, cups the curve of his skull like he’s something sacred, because he is. The muffled sounds of his moaning only egg Boba on, his pace staying steady but his thrusts sending Luke mouth first onto Din’s dick.
Rattling on the bedside table draws both of their attention away from the man between them, bits and bobs of their lives beginning to levitate and hover.
That’s what does it for Din. That blatant, obvious lapse in control. The Force coming unwound from Luke’s careful, constant hold on it, sending the minutiae of he and Boba’s lives into the space above their bed to float around them like stars. The impact of it, that sparkling white nothingness that has his vision wavering, sparks out from low in his belly and he groans, gripping at Luke as tightly as he can without hurting.
Luke swallows, greedy.
Boba keeps going, doesn’t stop even when Luke pulls off of Din and takes a heaving breath to center himself. Continues even when he presses his wet face into the crook of Din’s thigh and sobs.
Din holds him through it, hands entwined.
He watches Boba, his beloved partner in all things. In life, in raising the kid, in rebuilding their ancestral homeland. In convincing this perfect, righteous, odd bastion of a forgotten order into their bed and into the fabric of their lives.
Strong and steady and fuckin’ mean with it, Boba fucks Luke in long strokes broken up with occasional grinds. A rhythm Din knows as well as his own breathing, punctuated by whatever sharp and bright feelings he has for Luke.
Luke is keening by the end of it, hitching little breaths and tiny sounds that poke at the embers low in Din's belly. Even after literally just getting off.
Boba’s eyes close tight when he comes, a groan from deep in his chest rising into the space between them.
He shoves forward hard one last time, Luke slipping up the bed in between his thighs and moaning brokenly at the feeling.
There’s barely a few seconds of silence, of stillness, Boba leaned forward with his head between Luke’s shoulder blades, before he’s back in motion, pulling out and ignoring Luke’s aggrieved noises, flipping him over like he weighs barely anything.
Luke groans, eyes welled up and face pink. When Din leans close and presses a kiss to his temple, his hair is damp with sweater, darker at the roots. He wants to lick at it, so he does.
Splayed between them, Luke’s perfect cock is hard and wet, his lightning scarred chest heaving. He gets one good look at Boba’s face, the heat and the adoration and the wanting so clearly written there in the darkness of his eyes and starts begging.
“Please, please, please,” he mumbles, sounding like a damn holonet porn star. “Kark, fuck. Please.”
Boba, usually one to tease and draw things out and make his partners weep, does no such thing. He swipes his fingers against Luke’s hole, gathering his own come and leftover slick, and gives him three fingers easy as anything.
Hips jumping, Luke sighs out a breathy, “Oh,” when he’s full again.
Din drags careful hands up and down his chest when Boba lies down flat with one large hand to Luke’s lower belly and swallows him entirely.
Luke practically arches off the bed, mewling. And dank farrik, he wants to save that sound, desperately wishes he had his HUD cameras going, for posterity.
All it takes is a few pulls of Boba’s sinful, wicked mouth before Luke comes, body tight like a bow string.
Din reels him closer with an arm around his chest, Luke slumped between his legs. It’s all he can do to kiss him all over, ridiculous hair all mussed and fluffy from Din’s hands, his nose and wet cheeks, his perfect mouth.
Boba is unbearably smug between his legs, head resting on his belly. Looking up at them, his eyes glow with what Din knows is happiness covered up with self-satisfaction.
He loses all sense of that layered emotion, it disappearing completely, when Din pulls away to rest his chin on Luke’s shoulder and Luke reaches for Boba, all grabby hands and pleading face.
Boba rises up onto his knees as quick as his body allows, dipping in immediately with a hand on Luke’s jaw to kiss him even more senseless.
With a sigh like the weight of the world has finally dropped from his shoulders, Luke melts into the kiss, head practically lolling in Boba’s grip.
Din watches as Luke licks the taste of himself out of Boba’s mouth. Then, as sated and pleased as can be, hums happily when Boba turns to him and kisses him with Luke still on his tongue.
When they part, Luke is still slumped between them. Stars in his eyes as they kiss above him, flush still covering most of his body.
“Better get used to the view, sweet thing,” Boba says, sly as always. “You’re not going anywhere.”
Luke chuffs out a surprised laugh from below them.
Those whip quick reflexes come in handy when he snaps his arms out, servos in his arm whirring, and loops them around Boba’s waist. With a tug, he sends Boba falling down on top of both of them, a mess of flailing, sweat-sticky limbs.
Sandwiched between the two of them, Luke sighs happily and mutters something about not taking beautiful sights for granted.
Din, barely dodging a rogue elbow to the temple, gives himself a minute to stare happily at the ceiling before starting the arduous process of getting the three of them cleaned up and ready for bed.
He's got time.