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Din can't say when, exactly, his fascination with Luke Skywalker turned into something deeper, something that keeps him awake at night staring at the ceiling of his borrowed sleeping quarters. It isn't love—not yet, though the word hovers at the edges of his consciousness like a ship waiting to jump to hyperspace. It isn't just lust, either, though that is undoubtedly part of it. It’s something in between, something undefined and overwhelming that took root in his chest and refuses to let go.
And it started long before he even realized it was happening.
First, there was Luke's fighting prowess.
Din has seen many warriors in his life. He's fought beside Mandalorians, traded blows with guild hunters, and watched Clone War veterans move through combat with deadly precision. But none of them are like Luke Skywalker. The way he moves—it’s something else entirely. There’s an efficiency to his strikes that speaks of years of training, a calm control that should be impossible in the chaos of combat. No wasted motion. No unnecessary flourish. Every movement has a purpose.
Luke is trained for battle, honed like a blade, and yet there’s a serenity to him that Din can't quite reconcile. Jedi or not, he’s deadly. And Din respects that in a way he respects few things.
There’s also Luke’s intelligence—his tactical mind.
It didn’t take long for Din to notice that Luke isn't just powerful; he’s smart. Strategic. He knows when to fight and when to retreat, when to push forward and when to pull back. He can read a battlefield like Din can read a bounty puck, seeing patterns and possibilities that others miss. He’s an analytical planner, and Din finds himself drawn to that mind, to the way Luke analyzes situations with those too-bright eyes, the way he thinks five moves ahead while everyone else is still processing the current moment.
But then there’s his softness.
His ridiculous, unfathomable ability to be gentle despite everything he's survived, everything he has seen. Din witnesses it firsthand in the way Luke handles Grogu—patient and encouraging, murmuring explanations about the Force in that steady voice, praising small victories with genuine warmth. A warrior like that has no business being so kind. Someone who can cut through a platoon of Dark Troopers shouldn't know how to cradle a child with such tenderness.
And yet, he does.
And that makes something in Din's gut tighten, makes his throat close up when he watches Luke crouch down to Grogu's level, one hand gentle on the kid's head, speaking soft reassurances that Din himself should be able to give but somehow can't find the words for.
Of course, there’s the banter—and his dumb, smart mouth.
Din didn’t expect Jedi Master Luke Skywalker to be funny. The holovids made the Rebellion heroes seem so serious, so consumed by their cause. How could anyone predict the dry wit, or well-timed sarcasm, or playful teasing that makes Din's carefully maintained composure crack at the edges?
"You know," Luke said once, watching Din meticulously clean his weapons for the third time that week, "I'm starting to think you have an intimate relationship with that rifle."
Din froze. "It's practical to maintain your equipment."
"Oh, I agree completely." Luke's voice was perfectly neutral, but when Din glanced up, there was that smirk. That insufferable, knowing smirk. "I'm just saying, some people might consider three times a week a bit... excessive."
"Some people don't rely on their equipment to stay alive."
"Mm. And some people use 'equipment maintenance' as an excuse to avoid meditation exercises with Grogu."
Din had no response to that, mainly because it was true. Luke laughed—actually laughed—and the sound did something strange to Din's insides.
He hadn't expected to find himself looking forward to those moments, to the times when Luke would throw some ridiculous quip his way and wait, expectant, for Din's response. It throws him off-balance. And Din isn't used to being off-balance.
Finally, there’s Luke himself. Physically.
At first, Din only notices in passing. Professional observation, nothing more. The sharpness of his features. The curve of his jaw. The way his mouth purses slightly when he’s concentrating on some problem, his brow furrowing in thought.
But once Din allows himself to truly see it—truly look—he can't stop.
The way Luke moves, light on his feet despite the weight of a lightsaber at his belt and the weight of the galaxy's expectations on his shoulders. Each step measured in his ridiculous black boots, but effortless, like he’s always half-dancing with the Force itself. The way his robes shift just enough to give hints of the body beneath—lean muscle, the kind built from years of training. His hands, capable and calloused from both battle and craft, from wielding a saber and mending starships and a hundred other tasks.
And his eyes.
Too keen. Too knowing. Too enthralling.
They see through Din in a way that should be uncomfortable, past the beskar, past the silence, and the helmet and all the armor built around him. Right into something Din isn't ready to name. And yet, he keeps looking, keeps searching for those moments when Luke's gaze lingers on him just a fraction longer than necessary, when those blue eyes track Din's movements across a room with an attention that feels like a physical touch.
In a way he can't adequately describe, can't put into words even in the privacy of his own mind, Din craves Luke's attention. He wants Luke to look at him and no one else. He wants to hoard every word, every laugh, every smile—to take everything Luke has to give and lock it away where only Din can access it. To keep Luke on this quiet planet, in this remote setting, away from the rest of the galaxy and all its demands.
But how could one possibly possess such a powerful individual? How could you keep someone who can move objects with his mind, who can sense your feelings before you even understand them yourself?
The answer, when it comes to him, feels almost too simple.
And so, somewhere along the way, Din begins to create an exchange of services between them.
—
The first time is innocent.
"Din, you're back!" Luke calls out, wiping grease from his hands onto an already-stained cloth as Din's N-1 descends into the field near the school. Grogu is perched on Luke's shoulder, cooing excitedly at the sight of his father's ship.
Din has been gone for three days—a quick bounty for a runaway at a nearby planet, nothing dramatic. But when he jumps down the ladder from the cockpit, he finds Luke standing there with several stacked containers hovering beside him.
"What's all this?" Din asks, helmet tilting toward the supplies.
"Oh." Luke shrugs, almost sheepishly. "A while ago, I remembered you mentioned needing new couplings for the hyperdrive, so I asked Han to add them to the last supply drop. He came by the day after you left, and—"
"Luke." Din's voice comes out more forcefully than intended.
Luke stops mid-sentence, looking up at him.
"How much do I owe you?"
"What? Nothing, it was just—"
"Luke." Din pulls up his vambrace, already bringing up the transfer screen. "How much?"
"Din, seriously, it's fine. Han was already coming, and it wasn't expensive. Consider it—"
"I'm not accepting charity." The words come out harsher than he’d like. He takes a breath, softening his tone. "You're running a Jedi academy. You're planning to train Force-sensitive children with barely any support from the New Republic. Every credit counts."
Luke opens his mouth, clearly ready to argue, then seems to think better of it. His shoulders drop slightly. "The couplings were two hundred credits. The regulator was three twenty-five. The coils were one fifty."
"Six hundred and seventy-five total."
"Yes, but Din—"
The transfer goes through before Luke can finish his sentence. Din watches as Luke's comm chirps with the notification, watches as the Jedi pulls it from his belt, and stares at the screen.
"You didn't have to do that," Luke says quietly.
"Yes, I did."
There’s something in the way Luke looks at him then—something Din can't quite parse. Not quite gratitude, not quite confusion. Something else. Something that makes Din's pulse quicken beneath his armor.
"Well," Luke says, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Thank you. This will help."
Din nods. Luke floats the containers over to the N-1 beneath its hull until Din can deal with them later. He tries to ignore the strange satisfaction that settles in his chest. The feeling that something has shifted, however slightly.
That night, alone in his borrowed quarters at the school—Grogu’s safely snoring in a little hammock across the hall in his own room—Din finds himself replaying the interaction. The way Luke hesitated before taking the credits. The way he looked at Din afterward. It felt... good. Right. Like the proper order of things was maintained.
Services rendered. Payment given. Balance achieved.
He tells himself it’s just practicality. Nothing more.
—
The second time, it’s a test. However, Din won't admit that to himself until much later.
It starts three weeks after the supply incident. Luke discovers some ancient Jedi text in the ruins of an old temple—one of dozens scattered across a distant backwater planet. Din makes the mistake of saying, “That’s nice,” in response to Luke’s mention of it over dinner one night.
That’s all the invitation Luke needs.
"So the fascinating thing about this particular text," Luke begins, gesturing enthusiastically with his fork, "is that it predates the Old Republic's formalization of the Jedi Order. We're talking about Force philosophy from before there was even a distinction between 'light' and 'dark' sides. The author—and we don't actually know who wrote it, the name's lost to time—but they describe the Force as more of a spectrum, which contradicts pretty much everything the modern Order taught…”
Din sighs annoyedly. He didn’t ask for a complete rundown. He had arrived late that afternoon on Ossus, tired and bruised from a less-than-spectacular bounty chase. Normally, he wouldn’t mind Luke carrying on and on about Jetii osik, but he’s really not fit company at the moment. But he’s trying to be present for the kid, even if Din doesn’t take off his helmet to eat with them.
“And there are these meditation techniques that I've been trying with Grogu, focusing on emotional acceptance rather than suppression, and I think it's actually helping him process some of his trauma from the Empire. Of course, that raises questions about how much of traditional Jedi training was actually helpful versus how much was just dogmatic repetition of practices that lost their original meaning over millennia. Like, did you know that the original Jedi didn't even use lightsabers? They were just—"
Din brings his gloved fist down on the wooden table with perhaps more force than necessary.
Luke pauses mid-sentence, blinking. "What?"
"I'll pay you fifty credits to stop talking for the rest of the night."
Silence falls over the small kitchen. Grogu, who was contentedly slurping up his bone broth, looks between them with curious eyes.
"What?"
Din crosses his arms, leaning back in his chair. "You heard me."
"You're..." Luke's mouth quirks up at one corner. "You're joking."
"Do I sound like I'm joking?"
"Din, I was just sharing something interesting that I thought you might—"
"Eighty credits."
Luke's eyebrows raise. "Eighty credits for me to stop talking? Until bed?"
"Yes."
A strange expression crosses Luke's face—something between amusement and challenge. He leans forward, elbows on the table, and when he speaks, his voice takes on a playful edge that makes Din's stomach flip.
"One hundred."
The words are out before Din can think them through. "Done."
He pulls up his vambrace. Makes the transfer. The chirp of confirmation seems unnaturally loud.
Luke checks his comm, and when he looks up, there is something in his eyes that Din can't quite name. That same unreadable expression from the supply incident, but deeper now. More knowing.
"Well," Luke says softly. "A deal's a deal."
And he doesn't say another word for the rest of the night.
Din tries to focus on Grogu finishing his food, but he’s acutely aware of every movement Luke makes. The way he eats in silence, occasionally glancing at Din from beneath his lashes. The way he helps Grogu clean up without his usual running commentary. The way he moves around the kitchen afterward, washing dishes, putting things away, all without a single word.
It should be peaceful. Relaxing, even.
Instead, Din feels like his skin is too tight. Like something hot and insistent and demanding is taking hold beneath his kute. He watches Luke move through the space—his space, this cozy school—and something about the Jedi's silence feels different than it had before.
Before, Luke's silence was comfortable. Companionable.
This feels like…compliance. Obedience.
And Din likes it far more than he should.
Long after he puts Grogu to bed and the two adults sit in silence, one reading, one cleaning weapons, Luke stands up without a word, gives him a nod, and heads to his own quarters. But Din swears that Luke’s eyes linger on him for just a moment too long, making Din's breath catch in his throat.
That night, Din can't sleep. His mind keeps returning to the interaction, to the strange thrill that ran through him when Luke accepted the credits. When Luke stopped talking because Din paid him to.
All it took was credits to silence the Jedi Master.
To control him, if only for an evening.
The thought should disgust him. Should make him feel like the kind of person he's spent his life hunting. But instead, it just makes that coiled heat in his chest wind tighter.
—
The third time is deliberate. Calculated.
Din stands beside the N-1, running diagnostics he doesn't really need to run, thinking about problems that don't really exist. The ship is fine. It runs like a dream, especially after replacing the hyperdrive parts Luke provided. But he stares at the readouts anyway, looking for something—anything—that might need attention.
Luke walks by, carrying a box of spare parts to the shed near his X-wing’s landing area, and Din makes his decision.
He clears his throat, a rough crackle emitting through his helmet’s modulator. "The N-1 could use some tuning," he says, trying to sound neutral.
Luke stops, setting down the box. "Yeah? What's wrong with it?"
"Nothing major. Just some minor calibrations. The repulsor balance is slightly off in atmo, and the power distribution could be more efficient."
"Huh." Luke moves closer, peering at the ship with obvious interest. "Mind if I take a look?"
"That's why I'm mentioning it."
Luke is already moving toward the access panels, that focused expression Din has come to recognize settling over his features. "I mean, I'd do it for free obviously, but if you want to—"
"I'll pay you for your time."
Luke's hands are still on the panel release. He turns slowly to look at Din, and there’s something sharp in his gaze.
"You don't have to do that."
"I know." Din pulls out his datapad. "Eight hundred credits. For a full diagnostic and tune-up."
"Din—"
"One thousand if you can have it done by tomorrow."
Luke doesn't move for a long moment. Just stands there, studying Din's helmet like he can see through the beskar to the expression beneath. And maybe he can. Perhaps the Force gives him that ability, lets him sense the complicated tangle of want and need and something darker that Din can't name.
"Okay," Luke says. Too softly. Too…agreeable. "Deal."
The credit transfer goes through. Luke's comm chirps.
"I'll get started now," Luke says, but he doesn't move toward the tools. He just keeps staring at Din, head tilted slightly as if puzzling over something, and Din has the uncomfortable feeling of being dissected. Analyzed. Understood in a way he's never wanted to be.
Then Luke quietly turns to the N-1.
Din watches him work for longer than he should. Watches the way Luke's hands move over the ship's systems with practiced confidence, the way he bites his lower lip in concentration, the way his shoulders flex as he removes his outer robes so he can lean into the engine compartment more easily.
And when Din finally forces himself to walk away, that heat in his chest has become an inferno.
—
It becomes a pattern. A problem.
Din starts looking for excuses. Small things at first, tasks that seem reasonable, that won't raise too many questions.
"Luke, I need you to stop whistling for the day. Twenty credits."
Luke is in the middle of organizing power cells, whistling some jaunty tune that Din doesn't recognize. He stops mid-note, turns to look at Din, eyes narrowed. He flaps his hand to indicate for Din to make the payment.
The credits transfer. The whistling stops. And Din feels that thrill again.
"Could you organize my weapons cache? It's a mess. Fifty credits."
Luke doesn't even question it, just nods and sets to work arranging blasters and rifles and various other instruments of destruction with the same care he uses when handling ancient Jedi texts.
"I need a drink of water. Ten credits."
"Din, I'm literally right here, I can just—"
"Ten credits, Luke."
A pause. Then: "Fifteen."
Din's breath catches. "Done."
Luke fetches the water. Hands it to him with a look Din can’t decipher. Accepts the credits without comment.
And every single time, Din feels…powerful. He begins to covet it. Crave this power. This command and attention.
He should feel ashamed. Should recognize what he’s doing, what this is turning into. Like he’s treating Luke as some kind of servant, reducing a powerful Jedi Master to a series of trivial tasks performed for pocket change. He doesn’t see Luke as, well, a slave. He knows Luke’s family history. First free-born Skywalker.
But it isn't like that.
Was it?
It’s a fair exchange. Credits paid. Services rendered. Both parties agree to the terms. Luke can say no at any time. Can refuse the money, refuse the tasks, tell Din to kriff off and find someone else to run his strange errands.
But he doesn't.
He never does.
And that’s almost the most intoxicating part of all.
—
Din isn't dumb (mostly). He knows Luke would have done any of these things for free.
If he just asked outright—really asked, without the credits, without the transaction—Luke would tune up the N-1 without hesitation. Would track down replacement parts, remember Din's favorite caf blend, organize weapons, fetch water, and do a hundred other small kindnesses because that’s just who Luke Skywalker is.
Generous to a fault. Helpful almost to the point of self-sacrifice. The kind of person who sees someone struggling and immediately offers assistance, no payment required, no expectations attached.
But something about the exchange makes it easier for Din to breathe.
Maybe it’s how he's always operated. The galaxy, in Din's experience, doesn't give without taking. Every job has a price. Every favor carries debt. Relationships—friendships, partnerships, anything deeper—they’re all built on balance. Effort and reward. Service and compensation. It’s cleaner that way. Safer. You know where you stand.
Din spent his entire life in transactions. Bounties captured, credits paid. Protection offered, loyalty earned. Nothing is free in the galaxy he knows. And maybe that’s why this feels right, even when part of him whispers that it’s wrong.
But this doesn't feel clean.
It feels like something else entirely. And Din suspects Luke knows that, too.
He can see it in the way Luke tilts his head when Din offers another handful of credits for something small. That subtle smirk, the one that says, “I know what you're doing, and I'm letting you do it.”
Din can hire anyone when he’s off-world. Droids. Freelancers. A plethora of sentients who would jump at the chance to earn credits doing basic maintenance and fetch quests. Even Grogu is better suited to some of these tasks, with his Force abilities and small size.
But instead, Din keeps turning to Luke.
On this quiet, empty planet. This quiet outpost far from crowded trade routes and bustling ports. No distractions. No other demands on either of their time. Just him and the man he can't stop orbiting, circling closer and closer like a moon caught in an inevitable gravity well.
So why does he keep doing it?
Because…he reasons…it’s a way to keep Luke close. Because he doesn't know how to say, “I want you here” without making it a transaction. Because paying Luke makes it real in a way words can't. A contract, even if unspoken. A tether binding them together through accumulated credits and completed tasks.
Maybe it’s more than that.
In his mind, each exchange of credits feels like a claim. Physical, tangible proof that Luke agreed to something—performed a task, completed a job, fulfilled a request—and Din paid for it. Not in an impersonal, uncaring way, but in a way that said: “You're mine for this moment.”
You're doing this because I asked.
Because I provided something you needed.
Because we have an arrangement.
He won’t admit it aloud, not even to himself. But it’s there, dark and insistent. The pull. The need. And underneath it all, the strangest part: Din doesn't realize he’s doing all this because he’s harboring something amorous. Hasn't figured out that this isn't just about proximity or trust or mutual respect.
It’s desire. Want. The kind that roots in Din’s bones and refuses to leave, that makes him hyperaware of every moment Luke is in the room, that has him lying awake at night cataloguing every interaction like precious data.
Din isn't used to spending time with people outside his covert unless a mission is involved. A bounty to track. Cargo to deliver. A child to protect. There’s always been a reason. Purpose gives him structure, gives him a framework to understand his place in the galaxy.
Luke doesn't fit into any of that.
There’s no mission here. No bounty. Grogu is safe, training, thriving under Luke's patient instruction. Din comes and goes, returns to guild work, to the hunt, but he constantly comes back. Lingers. His presence here serves no practical purpose.
So he makes up reasons. Pays for tasks. Builds a scaffolding out of credits and odd jobs just to justify seeing Luke again and again, being in his orbit, existing in the same space.
It becomes his crutch—the only way he knows how to be close to someone he can't touch, can't name, can't have.
And Luke—Manda help him—seems to welcome it.
He never looks annoyed when Din approaches with another trivial request. Never declines the credits. And he doesn't hesitate to accept another job, even if it is as menial as reading aloud to Grogu or cooking a meal he already planned to make.
There is a lightness to him when he accepts these tasks. Like he understands the game Din is playing and has decided to play along. Never mind that Din himself doesn’t know the rules. As if it’s all some elaborate dance they’re performing, steps and counter-steps, advance and retreat, neither willing to name what is actually happening between them.
It isn't just about provision, either. Though that’s part of it—Din's need to provide, to be useful, to have value beyond his skills with a blaster.
Din provides. Luke responds. Submission in return for stability. That rhythm soothes something deep and base in Din's chest, something primal that he's never really examined before.
He doesn't know how to love. Doesn't know how to say the things people are supposed to say, make the gestures people are supposed to make. Doesn't know how to be soft, vulnerable, or open.
But Din knows how to provide. How to pay. How to create structure and balance and fairness.
And if that’s the only way Din can express this thing growing inside him—this desperate, consuming need to keep Luke close—then that's what he’ll do.
Din isn't sure how it will end. If Luke will grow tired of it. If the game will lose its appeal, if one day Luke will refuse the credits and ask what they’re really doing here, what this is really about.
But for now, Luke seems content to let it unfold.
And it ‘s the only way Din knows how to ask Luke to let him stay near.
It’s only a matter of time before that need—raw and unfiltered and undeniable—will spill over.
Until Din finds himself alone in his room late at night, hand wrapped around his cock, stroking himself while his mind fills with images. Luke on his knees, looking up at Din with those knowing blue eyes. Luke's hands, capable and careful, doing exactly what Din pays him to do. Luke saying yes to every request, every demand, every unspoken need.
I'm yours. I belong to you.
Din comes with those phantom words echoing in his mind, spilling into his hand with a gasp he’s grateful no one can hear.
Afterward, lying in the dark with his heart still racing, he knows the truth he's avoiding: This can't continue as it was. Something will have to give. The tension will have to break.
The question is: Which one of them will be brave enough—or desperate enough—to make it happen?
—
It happens on a rainy day. Not that the weather matters, but Din will remember it later—the sounds of the rain pattering on the roof of the school. The way Grogu is already asleep in his room, worn out from a day of training. The way Luke has been lounging on the worn couch in the common area, datapad forgotten on the cushion beside him, just... existing in Din's space like he belongs there.
They've been talking. About nothing important. About everything. Din is polishing a blade. Luke has been telling some story about his sister, about something ridiculous Leia said during a Senate session, and Din has been watching the way Luke's mouth moves when he talks, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles.
"You're not even listening," Luke says, but there's no heat in it. Just amusement.
"I'm listening."
"Oh really? What did I just say?"
Din tilts his helmet. "Something about your sister and the Senate."
"That was five minutes ago." Luke laughs, shaking his head. "You've been staring at me for the past three minutes without saying a word. It's kind of creepy, Mando."
"Can't help it if you talk too much."
"I could stop. For a price." Luke's voice takes on that teasing edge, the one that makes Din's stomach flip. "What's the going rate these days for Jedi silence? I think we're up to one-fifty per hour now, aren't we?"
"One hundred," Din corrects. "And that was a one-time, okay, maybe three-time thing."
"Was it?" Luke shifts on the couch, stretching his legs out in front of him. He's wearing simple training clothes—soft pants and a loose shirt that keeps slipping off one shoulder. "Because from where I'm sitting, this has become a very regular thing."
Din's hands clench at his sides, gently placing his blade aside on the table. "You could refuse."
"I could," Luke agrees easily. "But I don't want to."
The words hang in the air between them, heavy with meaning that neither of them has been willing to name. Until now. Until this moment, with rain pouring down in steady sheets outside the window—the white noise still not filling the space between them, nothing between them but truth.
"Why?" Din hears himself ask.
Luke's smile goes soft. Knowing. "You know why."
"Luke—"
"We've been dancing around this for weeks, Din." Luke sits up straighter, pinning Din with his gaze. "You think I don't know what you're doing? What this is really about?"
Din's heart is hammering against his ribs. "I don't know what you mean."
"Liar." But Luke says it gently, without accusation. "You want something from me. Something you don't know how to ask for without making it a transaction."
"That's not—"
"Isn't it?"
Din can't answer. Can't speak past the tightness in his throat, the want that's threatening to choke him.
Luke stands, moving closer. Not quite touching, but close enough that Din can feel the heat of him, can imagine that he smells whatever soap he uses and something underneath that's just Luke. “It's okay, you know. To want things. To want... people."
"I don't—" Din tries, but his voice cracks on the words.
"Don't you?" Luke's hand comes up, hovering near Din's helmet like he wants to touch but isn't sure if he's allowed. "Because I think you do. I think you want a lot of things. And I think you've been trying to buy them because that's the only language you know how to speak."
Din feels like he's coming apart. Like every careful wall he's built is crumbling, and he doesn't know how to stop it. The words rise in his throat, desperate and raw and completely insane, but he can't stop them:
"I'll pay you if I can fuck you."
The silence that follows is deafening.
Din freezes. Luke freezes. Time stutters to a halt as the words echo in the space between them.
No. No, no, no—
He's just said that. Out loud. To Luke kriffing Skywalker, Jedi Master, hero of the Rebellion, the most powerful being in the galaxy. He's just propositioned him like he's some—
Din opens his mouth to take it back, to apologize, to say literally anything that might salvage this disaster, but Luke speaks first.
"Yeah?" His voice has gone low, rough in a way Din has never heard before. "How much will you pay me?"
Din's brain malfunctions like a cheap pre-Empire droid. "What?"
"You heard me." Luke's eyes are dark now, pupils blown wide, and there's color high on his cheekbones. "How much, Din?"
This is insane. This is—they shouldn't—
But Din's hands are already moving to his vambrace, pulling up his account balance with fingers that shake so badly he almost can't work the controls. He does some quick mental math, calculating, re-calculating, then throws in more because it isn't enough, it will never be enough for what he wants, what he needs—
He holds out his arm, displaying the number for Luke to see.
Luke's eyes go wide. "Din. Din..." He sounds desperate. Confused. Maybe a little awed. "That's—"
"Is it enough?" There’s a lump in his throat. If Luke says no, if he laughs, if he walks away, Din doesn't—he just won't be able to deal with it. Dank farrik, he's ruined everything, he's—
"It's too much," Luke says, and Din's heart seizes in his chest. "I can't take this from you, Din. I mean, stars, I'd do it for free."
The words hit Din like a physical blow, punching the air from his lungs. He makes a sound—sharp and wounded—and Luke's expression softens into something that looks almost like compassion.
"But it's not about that for you, is it?" Luke asks quietly.
Din shakes his head, not trusting his voice.
"Not... entirely about that," he manages to rasp out, desperately trying to think of a way not to fuck this up, not when it's so close, not when Luke is standing right here and looking at him like that. "You know I've got this thing. We've got this thing."
Luke smiles, small and secret. "You wanna pay me. Right, Din?" His voice has dropped even lower, taken on an edge that makes heat pool in Din's gut. "You want to own me?"
Din nods, feels ready to whimper.
"Say it," Luke whispers.
"I want—" Din's voice breaks. He tries again. "I want you. So much. Want to have you, want to—to own you, want to do all the things I've imagined. Want to hear you say the words."
"What words?"
"That you're mine. That you belong to me." Din is shaking now, his whole body trembling with need and fear and pitiful hope. "I want to love you. Want to have your love. Want it all, Luke. I want everything."
Luke stares at him, lips parted and cheeks flushed, and Din feels suspended in that moment, caught between terror and desire.
Then Luke smiles—coy and knowing and devastating. "Okay."
Just like that. Like it's nothing. Like it's easy.
"Okay?" Din repeats stupidly.
"Okay." Luke shrugs one shoulder, and the casual gesture is so at odds with the heat in his eyes that Din almost can't process it. "Transfer the credits, and I'm yours."
Din swallows hard, letting the lust rise up and overtake him, letting himself finally believe this is happening. His fingers work the vambrace controls, and he hears himself say, "I'll triple it."
Luke's breath catches audibly. “What?”
"Triple it," Din repeats, his voice rough, even through the modulator. "And you stay mine."
Trembling, Din pulls off a glove and reaches up, fingers finding the edge of Luke's jaw. Luke's skin is warm, impossibly soft, and Din traces his thumb along the curve of his cheekbone before pressing it against the corner of his mouth. Then harder, pushing into the middle of his bottom lip, pressing it against his teeth.
"Is that what you want?" Din asks.
Luke's reply is immediate and sure, eyes locked on Din's visor. "Transfer the credits, Mando."
Din's fingers quiver as he confirms the transaction. The credits disappear from his account—more than he's ever spent on anything, more than the N-1 cost, more than seems reasonable or sane—and a quiet, innocuous beep emits from Luke's datapad in the corner of the room, signaling the transfer is received.
For a moment, neither of them moves. The weight of what they've just done settling over them.
Then Luke steps back. Walks back to the couch. Sits down and leans against the cushions, letting his thighs fall open in clear invitation. He raises an eyebrow, and even though he doesn't say a word, the message is clear:
I’m all yours.
Something in Din snaps.
This is it. This is what he's wanted for weeks—months, maybe, longer than he can admit even to himself. All those credits transferred, all those small tasks and trivial requests, all of it has been leading to this moment. To Luke spread out on the couch, looking up at Din with heat in his eyes and that small, knowing smile on his lips.
And it's happening. Right now, it's happening.
Din moves before he can think, crossing the space between them in two strides. His hands go to his helmet because he needs—he needs to kiss Luke, needs to taste him, needs this to be real in a way it can't be with beskar between them.
The helmet comes off with a hiss of released pressure.
Luke's eyes go wide, his lips parting on an inhale that might be Din's name. Because this is—Din doesn't do this. Doesn't remove his helmet for anyone except Grogu, except— Except—
"Din," Luke breathes, and the way he says it—reverent and awed and hungry—makes something in Din's chest crack open.
"You're mine," Din says, and it comes out rough, possessive, dark with want. "Say it."
"I'm yours." Luke's voice is steady, certain. No hesitation. "I belong to you."
The words hit Din like slap to the face, and he surges forward, capturing Luke's mouth in a kiss that's more desperation than skill. Luke makes a sound—surprised and pleased—and opens for him immediately, hands coming up to fist in Din's tattered cape, pulling him closer.
Din has imagined this. Late at night, alone in his bed, hand wrapped around his cock. But the reality is so much better than anything his imagination could have conjured. Luke tastes like the tea he's been drinking earlier, sweet and warm, and he kisses like he does everything else—with complete focus and enthusiasm that makes Din's head spin.
"Bed," Din manages to gasp out between kisses. "We should—"
"Here," Luke counters, already working at the fastenings of Din's armor. "Right here. Can't wait."
And Din realizes he can't either. Can't wait another second to have Luke, to claim what he's paid for, what Luke has agreed to give him.
His armor comes off piece by piece, Luke's clever fingers finding every catch and release with surprising efficiency. "How do you know how to—"
"Spent a lot of time thinking about this," Luke admits, cheeks flushed. "Studying you. About getting you out of this armor."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." Luke's hands slide under Din's kute, finding bare skin, and Din shudders at the contact. "Been thinking about a lot of things."
"Tell me," Din demands, even as his own hands find the hem of Luke's shirt, tugging it up and over his head. He marvels at Luke’s tapestry of scars. His lean, tapered muscles. "Tell me what you've been thinking about."
Luke's laugh is breathless, giddy. "About this. About you. About what it would feel like to be yours."
Din can’t stop himself from moaning, just a little, into Luke’s open mouth. His head is spinning, because Luke’s lips feel even better than he’d thought they would—like, how is that possible, how can anything about Luke be this amazing? But they’re soft and plush and wet, so full, like they’re about to burst against Din’s tongue.
He kisses Luke harder, wants to say "mine," wants to wrap his hands around Luke’s wrists and squeeze until they bruise, wants to sink his teeth into the skin over his heart until Luke cries out his name... He deepens the kiss more and more and tries to say everything he needs to without words. Hopefully, Luke already knows. Hopefully, the way Luke’s responding to the kiss is his way of saying “Me too.”
Din pulls away, dragging his teeth lightly over Luke’s bottom lip as he goes. He pauses for a minute, breathing hard, to assess Luke’s face.
“Are you,” he pauses, clears his throat, tries to shake the lustful fog from his head. “You’re sure?”
“You’re such an idiot,” Luke groans, leaning up to kiss him again, fast and hard. “How can you—how can I make it any clearer?” His fingers are digging hard into Din’s side now, but Din lets them, staring stupidly into Luke’s flushed face.
“I’ve been waiting for this,” Luke says. “Kriff, I’ve done everything you wanted, I’ve been so good for you, haven’t I?” He’s kind of glaring now, but still pressing kisses to Din’s face—lips, jaw, cheekbone.
“I had to be sure,” he says, gripping Luke’s face and holding him still. “I had to know. Okay?”
“I wanted it. You wanted it, too. I knew it,” Luke says, stubbornly. “But I didn’t....” he breaks off, buries his face in Din’s neck. “I didn’t know if you knew.”
“It took me a while,” Din admits. “Fuck, Luke, I got there in the end.”
“You’re here now.” Luke bites at him gently, then looks back up into his face.
Din closes his eyes. He doesn’t know how to deal with the intensity of this, the enormity. It’s so big, and it’s so...it’s perfect.
"You are mine." Din presses him back into the couch, covering Luke's body with his own. "Bought and paid for."
"Yes," Luke agrees, and he sounds wrecked already, pupils blown wide with want. "Yours, Din. However you want me."
The words send heat surging through Din's veins. He's never wanted anything as much as he wants this—wants Luke spread out beneath him, wanting him back, agreeing to everything with those devastating words.
Din's hands map Luke's chest, calloused fingers sliding around pert nipples, skin that's softer than he imagined. Luke arches into the touch, his own hands busy with the fastenings of Din's flight suit, stripping him down until there's almost nothing between them but skin and want and the credits that have made this possible.
"I've got you," Din murmurs against Luke's throat, feeling his pulse jump beneath his lips. "I've got you, and I'm not letting go."
"Good," Luke gasps out. "Don't want you to."
And when Din finally—finally—gets Luke's pants off, gets his hands on him properly, Luke's head falls back against the couch with a moan that makes Din's cock throb with need.
"Din, please—"
"I know." Din growls. "I know what you need."
"Then give it to me." Luke's eyes lock on his, challenging and desperate and so perfect it hurts. "You paid for it. Take what's yours."
Luke’s looking at him impatiently, shifting his hips up against him a little, licking his lips like he does when he’s nervous or unsure. And if Din’s positive about anything, it’s that he’ll do whatever he can to make that uncertainty go away. Din can feel Luke’s pulse pounding under the delicate skin of his throat. “So what are you gonna do with me,” Luke asks, “Now you’ve got me?”
“Just this, to start with,” Din says, and kisses him again, deep and hard, keeping it up until Luke has one leg hooked over Din’s waist, hard cock pressing insistently against his abdomen. There’s no more hesitation in the kiss, just a sweet, fevered urgency. They lick into each other’s mouths, opening each other up, making it dirty.
Eventually though, as good as it is, they break apart again, faces hot and red and damp from breathing each other’s air. Din’s so hard he thinks he might be on the verge of passing out. He pushes closer, shoves his hips against Luke’s, trying for a bit of friction, trying to gauge where Luke’s at with all this.
“So,” Luke says, interrupting Din’s thoughts. “Are you going to fuck me?”
“You—you wanna get fucked?” Din asks eagerly, lips sliding across Luke’s cheek.
Luke laughs softly. “I want whatever you want, Din. If I remember right, you asked for exactly this.”
Din presses his face to Luke’s. “Maker… Fuck, Luke, the things I want to do to you...”
Abruptly, Luke wiggles out from underneath him, slipping off the couch. “Come on, then,” he says. “Let’s get down to business. I’m yours. I’ll say it as many times as you need to hear it.”
Din sits up slowly. “Say it again,” he demands, and watches Luke’s body shiver in response, watches his tongue come out and wet his red lips.
“I’m yours, Din,” he repeats.
And it’s still as mind-blowingly intoxicating as Din always suspected it would be.
He stands up, grabs Luke’s wrist and starts tugging him towards Luke’s bedroom.
Part of Din wants to be slow and careful, wants to ease Luke into it and make it something… special, maybe. But Luke is impatient, mouthy. He tumbles them down onto the bed and kisses Din like they’re fighting, tugs at his hair, squeezes him too hard, won’t keep still under Din’s touch.
It takes Din a little while to realize what he’s trying to do. He catches both of Luke’s wrists, twists them behind his back. “Keep pushing,” he says softly in Luke’s ear. “I’m not going to snap.”
“Oh, stars,” Luke replies. He’s panting, laying half on top of Din and melting into the way Din’s trapped him, not fighting it anymore. His cock is durasteel hard against Din’s thigh, and he’s grinding down a little, unconsciously.
“Behave,” Din says, feeling a little ridiculous until Luke grunts at the word, hips jerking down a little harder. “I’ll get you there.”
“Want it,” Luke mumbles into Din’s neck. “C’mon.”
“Yeah.”
Din’s in charge, though, so he takes his time getting out from underneath Luke, stretching Luke out on his stomach the way he wants him. He can’t stop himself from running his hands over Luke’s scarred skin, pulling his palms down his smooth and textured hard sides and over his hips, then skipping to his calves, up to his thighs, warm and soft. He loves that it’s finally right, exactly what he wants, no more denial, no more fantasy, just hard truth, lying here in front of him.
“Let me?” he says, voice raspy, when his fingers reach Luke’s ass, thumbs resting lightly in the crease of his thigh.
Luke’s voice is muffled and breathless when he replies, “You don’t have to ask.” He presses into Din’s touch. “I’ve done it to myself, imagining you doing it. There’s oil in the side table.”
Resting his forehead against Luke’s hip for a second and letting himself picture it, Din groans. Visions of Luke opening himself up, fucking himself on his fingers like that, longing for him... Yeah, it’s the push he needs to keep things moving.
Din scrambles to the side table to procure the oil, and he pauses once to kiss Luke’s spine sweetly before settling back between his spread thighs. He runs one hand over Luke’s ass then grips him hard, opening him up.
“Say it again,” he says, running a slick-wet finger over Luke’s hole, smiling at the way Luke whimpers a little. “Say you’re mine.”
Luke sounds like he’s close to crying. “I’m yours, okay, you bought me, you own me, and I belong to you, just do it, please—” He breaks off on a gasp as Din presses his finger in, his body going stiff and tense.
“Come on,” Din says, pressing an open kiss to the back of Luke’s supple thigh. He wants so desperately to be good at this, to make it good for Luke. “Keep talking.”
“I—kriff, Din, fuck. You’re inside me because I’m yours and you can, okay? You can do whatever you want. Just don’t stop.”
“Yeah?” Din fucks him with one finger a few times, a little overwhelmed at how good it is, and then pulls out and carefully tips the vial of oil right over Luke’s ass, watching it drip down slowly where he’s all pink and trembling.
“I told you I would do this for free. Kriff, I’d pay you, Din.” Luke’s voice is rough. He has one knee pushed up, and he’s grinding into the mattress as he alternates between burying his face in the pillow and looking over his shoulder at Din. He looks—utterly amazing. A fuckable dream. Din drinks him in, his flushed cheeks, his bitten red lips.
“That’s how yours I am,” Luke goes on. “Don’t you get that? This is exactly what I want.”
“Yeah, I think I do, Luke,” Din says helplessly, and then he’s got two fingers in, thrusting a little harder than he probably should. But Luke is obviously into it, bucking back, trying to fuck himself on Din’s hand.
“You like it,” Din says, wonderingly, in awe. He’s not going to be able to draw this out for as long as he’d planned.
“No kidding, nerfherder,” Luke whines, and Din has to laugh, twisting his fingers.
“Now that’s not nice, Luke,” he says, amused, giving a sharp smack to Luke’s ass. Din can’t resist giving his cock a few strokes, as he watches his fingers disappearing inside Luke’s hole, watches the way Luke is straining for it, getting desperate. The arch of Luke’s back is a beautiful thing.
“Ugh, I’ve done this to myself enough times thinking about you, just—”
“Dank farrik, I’m gonna fuck you,” Din interrupts, as if it’s only just occurred to him that that’s what’s coming next. He pulls his fingers out and replaces them with his thumb, hooking it into the rim, stretching, unable to tear his eyes away.
“Good, yes, finally,” Luke says, voice wrecked. “Do it, Din.”
“Shut up now, Luke,” Din says absently. He dribbles oil on his dick, staring in fascination at the way Luke’s open and flexing for him.
“Shut up? How much will you give me?” Luke breaks off with a strangled moan as Din presses the head of his cock against his ass, just barely nudging it in.
“Don’t have to give you anything,” Din grits out. “I paid for this, it’s mine now. So if I tell you to shut up and take it...” He pushes in a little further, going as slow as he can make himself. “You’ll be quiet and take it.”
Nothing but harsh, panting breaths from Luke for a moment, and then, “...I think I’m going to come.”
Din goes still, body taut where he’s holding himself above Luke, cock still only halfway in.
“Really?”
“Maybe,” Luke admits, sounding a little apologetic. His cheek is pressed into the pillow, eyes squeezed shut, blond hair beginning to curl with sweat at his nape, and his mouth is so wet that Din wonders if he’s been literally drooling for it.
His cock twitches. Din wants in, wants to make this happen. He leans down into Luke and whispers in his ear.
“Not. Yet.”
It’s not actually like Din is some kind of everlasting sex god, though. He will be—with plenty of subsequent practice runs. But tonight isn't about that, anyway. It’s about Luke, about having Luke, about finally getting what he wants. What they both want.
It’s still pretty fucking wizard.
Luke ends up on his knees, because it’s easier, face squashed down into the pillow. Din still wants to touch him all over, catalogue every inch of his body, but after about ninety seconds of actual fucking, it’s all he can do to grip Luke’s hips and hang on for the ride. He lets his eyes roam instead, lets his gaze sweep over Luke’s back, his shoulders, the way his sweaty wisps of hair stick to his neck. It’s amazing, it’s more than amazing. He doesn’t know why he ever bothered denying this, because it’s so obvious now that this is what he’s wanted for what feels like forever.
“Fuck, Luke,” he says, trailing his eyes down Luke’s spine to the swell of his ass. “You drive me insane.”
“You’re already insane,” Luke mumbles back. “Let me come, you son of a bantha.”
“Shut it, I’m having a moment.” Din almost laughs again, because aside from everything else, sex with Luke is just as ridiculous as he should have known it’d be.
“Kriff your moment, Din, I’ve waited long enough to come on your cock so give it to me, give it—”
“Shut up,” Din grunts, and yeah, the moment’s gone, but that’s okay, because he thinks another, better one is coming.
He leans over Luke’s back and fists one hand in his hair, feels his unsteady rhythm get worse as he gets closer to the edge. Luke groans at the sharp tug on the back of his head.
“Fine, shut up and come, then,” Din demands. “Jerk yourself off and come for me.”
Luke drops to one shoulder as he reaches for his cock, face red and desperate.
“Din,” he gasps, “Din, Din, fuck, I’m going to—”
“Are you not listening, Skywalker? I said you could.”
And then Luke is coming, his whole body jerking and shuddering, teeth sinking hard into his bottom lip. Din can feel it, in Luke’s muscles, in Luke’s ass, the way it clenches tight around Din’s cock. It’s too good. It’s too much.
“Oh, fuck,” Din gasps, and then he’s gone, shoving in as hard as he can one last time before going still, letting his orgasm rip through him. He’s never felt anything like it in his life, and Luke, Luke’s right there with him, beneath him, surrounding him. Owning Din just as much as Din owns him.
“Kriff, Din,” Luke groans as Din collapses forward onto his back, bearing him down into the bed. “That was…wow. You’re amazing, that was—”
“Quiet, Luke,” Din says, covering his lover’s mouth with a large hand. He grinds his slowly softening cock into Luke’s wet, open hole, feeling his spend trickle out in rivulets. Eventually, Din slips fully out. He settles onto his side and wraps his arms possessively around Luke’s waist. “Just shut up and enjoy it.”
“Yeah, okay,” Luke says with a smile, and if it’s kind of indulgent, who cares. Din figures he can ignore that for now. “Whatever you say, Mando.”
“Whatever you want, Luke,” Din says back sleepily, maybe kind of nonsensically. But Luke seems to get it.
“We’re going be good for each other,” Luke says, shifting around in Din’s arms to get comfortable. “I always thought so.”
“Always?” Din mostly wants to fall asleep, but he tries to keep the thread for a little longer. “How long?”
Luke shrugs and hides his face a little in Din’s arm. “A while, I guess. Doesn’t matter.”
Din’s heart skips at the idea of Luke wanting him for that long. It’s incredible and unbelievable and ridiculous all at once.
“Lucky I finally got with the program then.” He knows he sounds stupid; words really aren’t his strength, but he feels like he has to make an effort.
Luke rolls his eyes and snorts. “You’ve been into me for ages, too. My Jedi senses don’t lie.”
There’s a lot of bravado there, but Din knows how it feels to think “maybe” and not be sure. As Din said, they got there in the end.
“Alright, fine,” he mumbles. “I’ve been subconsciously into your tight ass since you cut down a platoon of Dark Troopers.”
Luke smiles smugly, still with his face buried in Din’s arm. “Good to hear.”
“Luke?” Din slides a hand over Luke’s cheek and into his damp hair.
“Yeah, Din?”
“Shut up.”
And Luke laughs, and does as he’s told.
—
Later—much later—the rain has tapered off. The sun hasn’t quite started to rise. They lie tangled together beneath the sheets of Luke’s bed, sated and quiet. Din hasn’t slept much. His fingers trace idle patterns on Luke's skin, still not quite believing this is real, that he's allowed to touch like this. He marvels at the dry flakes stuck to both of them—evidence of their activities. Luke stirs slowly beside him.
"I meant it, you know," Luke says softly. "What I said before. I would have done this for free."
Din's hand stills. "I know."
"But you needed the…transaction." It isn't a question.
"Yeah." Din presses his face against Luke's shoulder. "I don't—I'm not good at this. At wanting things. People. I needed the structure."
"I know." Luke's hand comes up to card through Din's unruly curls, gentle and soothing. "It's okay."
"Is it?"
"Din." Luke shifts until he can look him in the eye. "I'm not going anywhere. Whether you pay me or not. You know that, right?"
Din swallows hard. "Even though the credits—"
"The credits were for you. Not me." Luke smiles, soft and knowing. "You needed permission. A framework. Something that made sense in a galaxy that taught you everything has a price." His thumb traces Din's cheekbone, trails down across his mustache. "But this? Us? This doesn't have to be a transaction."
"What if that's the only way I know how?" Din asks, and hates how small his voice sounds.
"Then we'll figure it out together." Luke pulls him closer. "But Din? I'm already yours. The credits just made you brave enough to claim what was already being offered."
Din kisses him then, slow and deep, trying to pour everything he can't say into the press of lips and tongue. Luke kisses back just as thoroughly, and when they finally break apart, they're both smiling.
"Though I have to say," Luke adds, his tone going playful, "that was an obscene amount of credits. I could probably build the entire east wing of the academy with that."
Din huffs a laugh. "Consider it an investment."
"In what?"
"In this. In us. In keeping you here where I can—" Din stops, suddenly uncertain.
"Where you can keep me?" Luke finishes, and there's no judgment in his voice. Just understanding. "Where you can have me whenever you want?"
"Is that wrong? What about…attachments?"
"Well…" Luke's hand finds his, fingers intertwining. "Attachments are difficult for a Jedi. Because with you, I want to be kept. Want to be yours. But there may come a day when I have to place responsibilities before you. Before Grogu. You understand that?”
Reluctantly, Din nods.
Luke continues. “And if credits make you feel secure enough to let yourself feel more connected and grounded with me, then I'll take every payment you offer."
"Even though you don't need them?"
"Even then." Luke's smile turns wicked. "Besides, there might be other things I'd be willing to do."
Heat sparks in Din's gut. "Yeah?"
"Mmhm. I'm sure we can negotiate terms." Luke's hand slides down Din's chest, lower, teasing. "I can be very accommodating. For a price."
Din groans, his morning erection making itself known. "You're going to bankrupt me."
"Probably," Luke agrees cheerfully. "But think of it as an investment in your happiness."
And as Luke's hand wraps around him and that knowing smirk crosses his face, Din decides that some investments are absolutely worth it.
No matter the cost.